Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(72)

A. C. WISE



THE SECRET OF FLIGHT

WRITTEN BY OWEN COVINGTON

DIRECTED BY RAYMOND BARROW



PROLOGUE

ACT 1

SCENE 1


SETTING: The stage is bare except for backdrop screen showing the distant manor house.

The lights should start at 1/8 and rising to 3/4 luminance as the scene progresses.

AT RISE: The corpse of a man lies CENTER STAGE. POLICEMAN enters STAGE RIGHT, led by a YOUNG BOY carrying garden shears. The boy’s cheek is smeared with dirt. The boy points with shears and tugs the policeman’s hand. POLICEMAN crosses to CENTER STAGE and kneels beside the corpse. BOY exits STAGE RIGHT.

POLICEMAN puts his ear to the dead man’s chest to listen for breath or a pulse. His expression grows puzzled. POLICEMAN straightens and unbuttons the dead man’s shirt. He reaches into the corpse’s chest cavity and withdraws his hands, holding a starling (Director’s note: use C’s, already trained). POLICEMAN holds starling out toward audience, as though asking for help. Starling appears dead but after a moment stirs and takes flight, passing over the audience before vanishing. (Director’s note: C assures me this is possible. C concealed somewhere to collect the bird?). POLICEMAN startles and falls back. (BLACKOUT)


LEADING LADY VANISHES!

Herald Star

October 21, 1955

Betsy Trimingham, Arts & Culture

Last night’s opening of The Secret of Flight at the Victory Theater will surely go down as one of the most memorable and most bizarre in history. Not for the play itself, but for the dramatic disappearance of leading lady Clara Hill during the play’s final scene.

As regular readers of this column know, The Secret of Flight was already fraught with rumor before the curtain ever rose. Until last night, virtually nothing was known of The Secret of Flight save the title, the name of its director, Raymond Barrow, and of course, the name of its playwright, Owen Covington.

Raymond Barrow kept the play shrouded in mystery, refusing to release the names of the cast, their roles, or a hint of the story. He did not even allow the play to run in previews for the press. Speculation ran rampant. Was it a clever tactic to build interest, or was it a simple lack of confidence after the critical and financial failure of Barrow’s last two plays?

Whatever Barrow’s reasoning, it is now inconsequential. All that is on anyone’s lips is the indisputable fact that at the culmination of the play, before the eyes of 743 witnesses, myself included, Clara Hill vanished into thin air.

For those not in attendance, allow me to set the scene. Clara Hill, in the role of Vivian Westwood, was alone on stage. The painted screen behind Hill was lit faintly, so as to suggest a window just before dawn. As the light rose slowly behind the false glass, Hill turned to face the audience. It appeared as though she might deliver a final soliloquy, but instead, she slowly raised her arms. As her arms neared their full extension above her head, she collapsed, folding in upon herself and disappearing.

Her heavy beaded dress was left on the stage. In her place, a column of birds—starlings, I believe—boiled upward. Their numbers seemed endless. They spread across the theater’s painted ceiling, then all at once, they pulled together into a tight, black ribbon twisting over the heads of the theater patrons. You can well imagine the chaos that ensued. Women lifted their purses to protect their heads, men ineffectually swatted at the birds with their theater programs. There were screams. Then there was silence. The birds were gone. Vanished like Clara Hill.

Was it all a grand trick, a part of the show? The stage lights snapped off, the curtain fell abruptly, and we were ushered out of the theater, still dazed by what we had seen.

As of the writing of this column, neither Barrow nor any other member of the cast or crew has come forward to offer comment. Dear readers, as you know, I have been covering the theater scene for more years than I care to name. In that time, I have seen every trick in the book: Pepper’s Ghost, hidden trap doors, smoke and mirrors, misdirection. I can assure you, none of those were in evidence last night. What we witnessed was a true, I hesitate to use the word miracle, so I will say phenomenon.

Prior to last night, no one save those directly involved with The Secret of Flight had ever heard the name Clara Hill. Last night, she vanished. Her name will remain, known for the mystery surrounding it, but I do not think the woman herself will ever be seen again.


Personal Correspondence





Raymond Barrow


December 18, 2012

Dear Will,

I know it’s absurd, writing you a letter. But a man my age is allowed his eccentricities. 88 years old, Will. Can you imagine it? I certainly never intended to be this old. The young have a vague notion they will live forever, but have any of them thought about what that really means? To live this long, to outlive family and friends. Well, since I have lived this long, I will indulge myself and write to you, even though it’s old fashioned, and there’s no hope of a response. Forgive an old fool. Lord knows I feel in need of forgiveness sometimes.

It’s been 57 years since Clara disappeared. Aside from you, she was my only friend. I wish you could have met her, Will. I think you would have got along—comrades in your infernal secrecy, your refusal to let anyone else in, but somehow always willing to listen to me go on about my problems.

I’m all alone now. The only one left besides the goddamn bird, the one Clara left me. It’s still alive. Can you fucking believe it? Starlings are only supposed to live 15, 20 years at the most. I looked it up.