PodCastle 873: The Third Time I Saw a Fox
* Author : Cécile Cristofari * Narrator : Wilson Fowlie * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Devin Martin * Discuss on Forums Previously published by Interzone Content warning for dementia Rated PG The Third Time I Saw a Fox by Cécile Cristofari “You know what I think, the world is going bonkers,”’ the circus man says. I nod, draw a gulp of burning coffee from my thermos flask. A decent night watch needs to start with a little bitterness on the tongue, the first drink just a little too hot before the next cups fade to lukewarm. It’s the only excitement I’m afforded, after all. No one ever breaks into natural history museums. “Who needs the world when we have this?” I say, encompassing the anatomy exhibits with a wave of the hand. “And the two of us, of course.” The circus man nods, sagely. Even though I’m not looking at him, I can hear it from the creaking of his vertebrae, grinding against the copper wire that holds them together. My shift always starts after the cleaning crews have left, and I always take my first walk alone around the quiet halls, as the ghost of another crowded day fades into the night. Some say I’m too old to be working night shifts, but I say I’m too old to stand by as hordes of school children squeal over dinosaur bones. Fake dinosaur bones at that, though children don’t realise they’re standing in front of casts. It’s easier to tell real skeletons apart when night falls. “Hello there,” the minke whale yawns. It stretches its big head left and right and sighs, a whisper of wind through polished jaws that snap uselessly, as if attempting to trap shoals of ghost fish in imaginary baleen. It must feel lonely here, hanging above the ground, floating in a make-believe sea. I pat its bony knuckle and walk on. In the zoology gallery, discreet sounds emerge upon my entrance. Sawdust rustles from inside stuffed bodies, glass eyes whirr in their sockets. Their old bones move even more awkwardly than mine, but they acknowledge me nonetheless. They don’t make new stuffed specimens for natural history museums anymore. Resin models may look glossy and sprightly forever, but the night shows just how dead they are, in their perfection of plastic. All my friends here, posing on their mahogany stands, tired but still proud under their bald patches and protruding wires, are from another time. Just like me. The thought makes me grin, sometimes. In their glass cabinets, ancient enough that the glass bends in places, the birds stretch the tips of their wings. Some of them groan the way I do when I wake up with stiff limbs on a cold morning. An albatross sways on the thread that holds it up, gliding in the same spot, day after day. I wave, nod, ask about their health. They tell me the same things every night, but I can tell they’re still pleased that I asked. They need distractions, just like all of us, and they have no one else to talk to. Farther on, the leopard stretches its paw, lazily hanging from a fake branch, and rests it on my shoulder as I walk by. “Nice evening, isn’t it?” I say, petting its front leg. “A little damp for me,” it replies. “I feel bloated.” Of course. All that sawdust stuffing won’t do well in damp weather. I turn down the humidifiers at once. The leopard nods its thanks. I don’t know how long this nightly ritual has been going on.