The Ice Age [antikvár]

On a Wednesday in the second half of November, a pheasant, flying over Anthony Keating's pond, died of a heart attack, as birds sometimes do: it thudded down and fell into the water, where he discovered it some hours later. Anthony Keating, who had not died of his heart attack, stared at the dead bird, first with surprise - what was it doing there, floating in the duckweed? -and then with sympathy, as he guessed the cause of its death. There it floated, its fine winter plumage still iridescent, not unlike a duck's in brilliance but, nevertheless, unlike a duck's, quite out of place in the water. It gave rise to some solemn reflections, as most objects, with less cause, seemed to do, these solitary and inactive days. He fished the bird out of the pond with a garden fork, and stared at it with interest. It was large, exotic, and dead, a member of a species artificially preserved. It had the pleasure, at least, of dying a natural death. Anthony's hand, in his pocket, closed over the letter from Kitty Friedmann, which had thudded onto his doormat that morning. He had opened it, over his cholesterol-free breakfast, but had been unable to make himself read more than the first sentence. He would have to read it soon, but not now. Now, he would bury the pheasant : that would postpone Kitty for a while. And digging a grave would be good exercise. He was supposed to take a certain amount of exercise. There were, at least, plenty of places one could bury a pheasant in, on the new Keating estate: indeed, one could easily have buried a large dog or even a sheep. At his London home, there had been few comers suitable for burials, and those that were suitable had been well stacked, over the years, with the small bones of mice and fish and jerbils. The sour London soil had been thick with bones and plastic beads and indestructible nuggets of silver paper. On the other hand, in London, pheasants did not fall from the air onto one's property. 9