The Dinosaur Feather(25)

Chapter 4




Clive Freeman lived in Canada and was professor of Palaeoornithology at the department of Bird Evolution, Palaeobiology, and Systematics at the University of British Columbia—where he had worked for almost thirty years. He lived on Vancouver Island, not far from campus, and he specialized in bird evolution.

It was generally accepted that birds descended from a primitive reptile, the thecodont, and the most likely candidate for the role of the ancestor of all birds was the archosaur Longisquama. Most scientists—people whom Freeman respected—argued that modern birds were living dinosaurs. Professor Freeman disagreed.

Clive had grown up in the far north of Canada, the only child of the famous behavioral biologist David Freeman, one of Canada’s most important wolf experts in the latter half of the twentieth century. David taught his son all there was to know about the woods; the life cycle of trees, the forest floor, and the flora and fauna. There was never any doubt that Clive would grow up to be a biologist.

When Clive turned twelve, he made up his mind to specialize in birds. Birds were the most advanced animals on the planet. The primitive reptile they descended from was also believed to be the ancestor of turtles and crocodiles. A bird skeleton was streamlined, its bones were hollow and filled with air and provided the bird with superior movements, its plumage was perfect, and its egg-laying process was second to none. People never thought about that when sparrows pecked their lawns or pigeons soiled the windshields of their cars. This appealed to Clive. It was as if he alone had spotted the ruby in the dust.

Clive’s father didn’t care for birds.

“It’s actually shocking how little you know about the local wolves, given that your father is a world-famous expert,” the elder Freeman remarked one day. He had tested Clive on the subject of mammalian teeth over dinner, and Clive hadn’t been very successful. He could remember molars and premolars. “And eye-teeth,” he had added. Clive’s father gave him a long, hard stare.

“Eye-teeth are premolars, you moron,” he said after a lengthy pause, then he got up and went to his study. Clive had been on the verge of telling him something about bills. The structure of the bill was unique, evolved, and adapted to such an extent that Clive could barely believe it. Long, thin bills, short, stubby, curled bills. Herbivore, omnivore, or carnivore, there was a bill for every imaginable purpose. Clive’s heart was set on birds, and he didn’t mind that they weren’t mammals.

Clive was offered a place to study biology at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver when he was twenty and knew all there was to know about birds. He ran to the mailbox the day the letter arrived and tore it open. When he learned that he had been accepted—something he had been expecting—he looked back at his childhood home. Somewhere inside it, his father was clinging desperately to his books. Clive never wanted to end up like him. There was more to life than academia. The sun warmed Clive’s forehead, and he closed his eyes. As a child, he had worshipped and feared his father—he still did, as a matter of fact. However, as Clive’s knowledge of natural science had expanded, it had become impossible to believe everything his father told him. Besides, natural science was changing with new methods, modern behavioral research, and a world of technology that Clive believed to be the future, but that David Freeman had very little time for. In recent years their discussions had become so heated that Clive’s mother would sometimes take her plate to the kitchen to eat in peace.

In a few weeks he would put his childhood behind him. Perhaps this would improve their relationship? Perhaps David would visit him in Vancouver, proud that his son was following in his footsteps?

That evening, he told his parents about the offer and informed them he would be leaving home soon.

“The gait of birds is clumsy and ridiculous,” David Freeman observed, and carried on eating.

Clive’s mother said: “Stop it, both of you.”

Clive visualized himself leaving the table, casting a patronizing glance at his father’s bald patch, and taking his plate to the kitchen before going to his room to read. But instead he turned to his father and remarked calmly that even if one accepted birds didn’t walk with much elegance, it followed it was even more impressive that many of them still used their feet for walking, given their highly evolved ability to fly. After all, wolves could only walk. They didn’t master an alternative form of movement.

David said he couldn’t hear what Clive had said. Clive repeated his words, louder than strictly necessary.

David responded by firing off Latin terms for bones, but he messed up describing the wolf’s leg, whose construction he regarded as superior to that of a bird’s in every respect. Clive’s mother passed the potatoes and poured water into glasses. She shot Clive a quick, pleading look.