How to catch a sparrow

‘When I was little my Nan told me that if you could drop salt onto a sparrow tail you could catch it.' Walter talked without losing focus on the road. 'I spent hours stalking birds in her back yard trying to sprinkle salt on their tails, hoping to immobilise them.’

‘Oh my god!' Chancy shot up from where she had been slumped in the passenger seat. 'That reminds me, last week my sisters and I had this meeting to go to and as we stood around waiting outside, this giant seagull swooped down, caught a sparrow and ate it! I totally just remembered that.’

‘No shit!'  That’s so weird ‘cause I was at the Parnell baths last weekend and someone told me they’d seen the same thing except the seagull, it was one of those mollyhawke things, used a chip as bait and waited ‘til a sparrow went after the chip.’

‘No shit!’

‘Weird.’

‘I reckon. Animals can be so brutal y’know’.

Laurel woke up and discovered her arse had gone to sleep. She pushed down on one leg and lifted a buttock of the seat, flexing trying to get blood back into the area.

‘Argh!

Walter impulsively took his foot off the accelerator and slammed on the brake. At the same time he turned to the back to see what was wrong with Laurel.

‘What’s wrong?’ His voice was feathered with emotion. Horn blaring a BMW swung around his Corolla as it pulled over to the grass verge.

‘Pins and needles’ Laurel's voice was still thick with sleep.

‘Jesus! I thought something was really wrong. Don’t do that.’

Chancy gave a little nervous giggle. The three occupants of the car had slipped into the trance of a road trip. Just before Hamilton, Laurel had dropped off.

Walter accelerated into traffic again. They’d been on the road for two hours already and still had another seven to go before they would get to Wellington.

Chancy cleared her throat.

‘Would you eat dog? I mean if you were in China or something and you knew you could have a puppy kebab, would you?’

‘Nah,’ Walter replied. ‘But last year I was in this restaurant in Prague and there was bear on the menu. The guy I was with reckoned that he’d had bear steak.’

‘Was it wild or farmed’

‘Dunno, I didn't ask.’ A nonplussed cow lifted its head and glanced as the car sped past.

‘That was a classic night, on the walk home this guy called me over and said Hey you want prostitute? I said no. Dwarf? You want dwarf? He said Drugs? Cocaine, Ecstasy? No. Gun? No. Monkey?.’

Walter paused for dramatic effect and let the last word climb to the top of the canopy.

‘So I said “A monkey? Shit yeah! I’ll buy a monkey.” I took it back to the hotel and set it free in the lobby’.

Chancey looked out the window at the tall kahikatea trees. No monkeys there. Maybe some possums. She turned to Walter.

‘So how much do monkeys go for these days?’

‘I got mine for thirty euro.’

The green hills in the distance moved slowly and expensive horse fences near the road blurred as the car sped past. In the south dark clouds added a high contrast to the sunlit green hills.

The three travellers were being drawn south for group show the mid winter Wellington Outsider Art Fair. The boot of the car was loaded with oversized embroideries, cast latex ugly monsters and stencil artworks on charity shop paintings. The three artists were hoping to make a killing. 

Between Tokora and Taupo the rain started in earnest. The sky hung close to the ground and the horizon disappeared in a grey transition. Shadows deepened in the endless pine tree plantations and the Christmas tree shapes melted into each other, forming an endless dark green wall on either side of the road.

Walter slowed the car and turned on the headlights. The rain got heavier. The noise of the rain overpowered the car stereo.

'Typical,' grunted Walter. 'Road works signs and no one to be seen. Mind you I wouldn’t stand around in this weather either.'

The car slowed again as it crossed from the sealed pavement onto the exposed gravel. The rain got heavier.

'Walter. Do you think we should stop the car and wait until this rain lets off?'

'I dunno Chance. This is the Waikato and it's been raining here since 1973. I reckon we keep truckin.'

Although it was only four o'clock it was dark enough to think that night had fallen.

'Turn on the headlights Walt.'

'I have Laurel.  The rain is so thick that the lights aren't having any effect. I think it's foggy too, it's kind of hard to tell.

Chancy dialled up some Vampire Weekend on her i-Pod, Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa rolled out of the sound system. ‘Hey, did you ever see that Calvin and Hobbes strip where Calvin is an artist?’

‘Probably not,’ Walter replied. ‘I read graphic novels not comics.’

‘Don’t lie Walter,’ chided Laurel. ‘You’ll read anything low brow, you’re such a pop culture whore. You can totally see the influence comics have had on you in those op-shop paintings you do. As for myself I haven't read comics since I was a kid. I only read serious literature.’

‘Right...’ Bitchy slag, thought Chancy to herself.  ‘Well anyway Calvin tells Hobbes that art is a coded language for those in the know who understand and that art helps them to think they’re superior to all the other plebs in the world.’

Walter briefly looks across to Chancy, ‘Were the original Calvin and Hobbes philosophers?’

‘Yeah, something like that eh? So, then he gives Hobbes this artist statement...’

‘Hang on,’ pipes up Laurel. ‘Which one was the boy and which one is the tiger?’

‘Calvin is the boy' deep breath. 'So he gives Hobbes this artist statement and says something about it being impossible to understand and therefore really important. It’s classic.’

'Yeah' sounding chided Laurel looked out the window, 'Well you don’t need an artist statement for good outsider art, but I always have one anyway. I think it gives me a chance to explain myself more thoroughly.'

The comment sat in the silence and brooded. All three of them knew she had attended art school and they all knew the insider art versus outsider art debate.

In the quiet the rain seemed heavier and the road seemed worse. The car had to weave to avoid puddles.

To the right of the road the trees thinned and across the field lights shone from a large turn of the century country villa. Dozens of cars parked in the driveway and the house lights threw shadows onto the curtains.

'Wow someone’s having a party'. With his attention on the house Walter missed the large pool of muddy water that stretched across the road. Even though they were already travelling slowly the car quickly lost traction and steam quickly exploded from under the hood. Without saying anything the three travellers sat in the car and looked out the window at the house in the distance. The rain stopped.

Stepping out of the car all three were immediately up to their knees in mud.

Walter walked to the rear of the car. 'I'm taking my stuff with me, we might end up at the house for a while and I don’t want to lose my paintings.'

Chancey hauled herself onto the verge, slipping once and covering the knees of her tight grey jeans in mud. ‘My stuff can stay here, I don’t want it to get wet. Besides no one's going to want to steal a bunch of weird embroidery.”

‘I'm taking my monsters, you never know what will happen.’  Laurel threw her black, red and yellow tube bag over her shoulder. ‘Might even sell a piece, down here in deepest darkest Waikato they'll have never seen anything as cutting edge as my wee critters.'

Struggling through the dark field took them longer than they’d anticipated and by the time they stepped onto the driveway of the estate each person had slipped or fallen at least three times.

They looked out of place. Cars kept arriving into the driveway and the passengers looked as if they were dressed for a banquet. Feeling out of place, underdressed and scruffy the three artists stood in silence on the edge of the driveway. Finally, Walter managed a few words 'All these cars are classic. They are totally collectable. This must be the party of the year for this part of the country.'

The driveway was full of people milling around.

'Oh you poor dears,’ an elderly couple in formal dinner attire approached the three young people. ‘You look like you've been dragged through a wet hedge backwards.'

‘Our car is stranded in a small lake on the other side of that field' Laurel pointed off into the darkness.

'Well that is a pity, I'm sure that the host will be able to make all of your problems disappear. Please, come inside with us.’

The man turned to Walter 'That is a very cumbersome package you are carrying there young man, may I enquire off the contents.’

‘These are my paintings, I didn’t want to leave them in the car.’

‘Oh you are an artist?’

'We are all artists, and we're going to a group sale in Wellington.'

'And then your car broke down. Shame. Well oddly enough you've landed yourself in the middle of a sculpture auction. Stick around and play your cards right and you could find a patron of the arts whole likes your form. There are some of the most influential art buyers of the world here tonight.'

All three of the aspiring artists exchanged glances. 'I'm going back to the car to get my stuff.' Without another comment Chancy turned on her heel and walked off into the darkness.

At the front door Laurel, Walter and the well dressed couple were greeted by a tall lithe man in his 60s. He was also dressed in a suit and tails, he bowed as they arrived.  'My lord. Your Ladyship. I see you have bought guests to the auction. '

'Maestro, so good to see you again. We always so look forward to these occasions. May I present two lost travellers, who, as chance may have it, are also artists.'

'Well, welcome one and all.' The Maestro gave a knowing wink to Walter and Laurel. ‘My name is Pierre LeBon. I am also an artiste and the host tonight. Believe me when I say I am overwhelmed with pleasure to have you here. Please come inside and freshen up. I'm sure you'll find that there is much to learn about the art world here.'

Walter and Laurel knew that the artist must be a substantial figure in the art world, yet neither of them had heard of Pierre LeBon. Walter stopped on the doorstep before entering.  'Thanks for your offer of hospitality. I have to ask, what sort of art do you do?’

'The art is ultra-real multimedia sculpture that attempts to capture the lifelike characteristics of the subject. I actually have a technical team to help me achieve the product, they are the artisans, I merely have the vision.'

'Please take one of these’. Pierre reached for a small booklet on a table in the hallway. ‘This is my artist statement and as a conceit I have used a piece of classic literature. It says exactly what I need to say.’

Returning to the house Chancy walks up the front steps. The party noise had reduced, although from the shadows she thought there were still people in the front room.

The hall was sparse and long. It seemed to run the length of the whole house. Other than a threadbare carpet the only thing to see was and umbrella stand that looked like an elephant’s foot.

Chancy stepped across the threshold. She could see into the front room. The music was louder here. On the wall in the hallway under the lamp was a small collection of very small books “An artist's statement in another’s words: The Triumphs of a Taxidermist by H.G. Wells.” She picked up the top copy and flicked to the first page:

“Here are some of the secrets of taxidermy. They were told me by the taxi dermist in a mood of elation. He told me them in the time between the first glass of whisky and the fourth, when a man is no longer cautious and yet not drunk. We sat in his den together; his library it was, his sitting and his eating-room--separated by a bead curtain, so far as the sense of sight went, from the noisome den where he plied his trade.”

She scanned further into the booklet, her eyes flicking and settling on another passage:

“Thus his discourse ran: "There never was a man who could stuff like me, Bellows, never. I have stuffed elephants and I have stuffed moths, and the things have looked all the livelier and better for it. And I have stuffed human beings--chiefly amateur ornithologists.” 

Reading with her finger she quickly scanned the page.

"Unpleasant? I don't see it. Seems to me taxidermy is a promising third course to burial or cremation. You could keep all your dear ones by you. Bric-à-brac of that sort stuck about the house would be as good as most company, and much less expensive. You might have them fitted up with clockwork to do things.”

Putting the book back down she stuck her head through the doorway to say hello and came up short. There was no one in the room, instead she stared slack jawed at the tableau. It seemed to be some sort of museum exhibition. The dancers in the window were automated mannequins, they wore period costume and moved to the repetitions of a pianola. 

A simple newsprint poster on the wall opposite read “In the early 1800s hunters began to have their trophies stuffed with rags in upholstery shops. This was the birth of the art form today known as taxidermy”.

Directly underneath the poster a spotlight fell on a large table which was set as if it were a sitting room in a large dollhouse. Sitting in miniature chairs were five kittens, one leaning forward to pour tea, one drinking from its cup while holding a saucer to catch any drips. Two of the other kittens were caught in a conversation one whispering to the behind a raised paw, the other leaning closer to catch the details. The final kitten stared out at Chancy. It seemed to have its head cocked on an angle as if to say, ‘Why are you here?’

Chancy was drawn to the scene as she walked closer, she noticed the kittens wore jewellery, and that the teacups were porcelain, decorated with tiny flowers. The details drew her closer. The kittens looked real, they had claws retracted in their paws, downy hair inside their ears. Looking underneath the small table they sat around she noticed one of the felines had on frilly knickers.

A small plaque on the front edge of the display said “Anthropomorphic Diorama”.

Chancy backed out of the room. She couldn't take her eyes of the macabre setting.

Back in the hallway she turned to the opposite door. She’d missed it on her way in, but now it seemed inescapable. It seemed the opposite of the Victorian whimsy in the first room. The decorator had made every effort to make this room seem modern and yet had missed the mark. The lighting was a garish wash of fluorescent blue and red and Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells emanated from invisible speakers. There was no furniture instead there was a monstrous scene that seemed straight out of a 70’s Star Trek episode. A griffin, half eagle, half lion lunged from a perch on the ceiling, trying to gauge the eyes from a unicorn that had reared onto its hind legs, its mouth open in a soundless equine scream.

She felt weird, her senses screamed run. Instead of walking down the hallway Chancy retreated her steps and back outside. Passing the expensive cars she skirted her was around the building. The grounds to the house were large and sprawling. Shadows loomed in the darkness, in stark contrast with the lit fountains and sculptures sprinkled across the lawns.  

Towards at the back of the house the sound of clapping drifted on the breeze. Turning a corner, she found a wing of the house that was occupied with all of the people that had initially been on the driveway. Staying in the shadows she peered into the room through an open window. After a couple of minutes there was clapping and a gap cleared. Chancy could see her friends in the centre of the room.

Laurel and Walter seem posed like shop mannequins. Peirre LeBon was shaking hands with a bespectacled man in suit and tails. ‘Of course, the pieces will be finished and cured before we ship them to you.’

Beside Laurel and Walter was a plaque “Laurel with one of her ugly monsters” and “Walter painting a character from one of his op-shop paintings”. There were red dots on each plaque.

The blood rushed from Chancy's face, she felt cold and faint. Time seemed to slow, and there was a low-pitched humming her ears.

She turned to leave, urging her leaden feet to move.

Run.