Andrew Windershins had failed at everything he tried. Even as an infant, he was a total disappointment. While other mothers bragged of babies sleeping through the night and gobbling their mush, poor Mrs. Windershins could only wring her hands and bite her lip. Andrew caterwauled from dusk to dawn and tried to snort his gruel. Violet asked her sister, “Do you think there’s something wrong?” but the sanguine Polly said, “He simply hasn’t found his talent.”
Mrs. Windershins was patient. But Andrew didn’t find his talent in the nursery where he jumbled all the crayons and spilled the paint, or in kindergarten where he consistently confused the letter B with 7s and tried to eat the blocks. First grade was no improvement. In fact, his entire elementary education was a mulligan of missives from exasperated teachers and clocks that somehow sprung their gears whenever Andrew was around. “It’s an unmitigated ruin,” said Mrs. Windershins. “Don’t exaggerate,” was Polly’s answer. “Wait until he finds his talent.”
After high school — a hash of nettled girls, botched chemistry experiments, and rank humiliation — Andrew tried to join the gypsies. They wouldn’t take him. “Our insurance premiums are through the roof. We can’t adopt a proven menace.” Luckily, the circus was less inclined to wade through public records. Beneath the big striped tent, Andrew tried — and failed — at acrobatics, clowning, and elephant waste removal. Finally, in a fit of desperation, the ringmaster tossed a bucket full of balls at him. Imagine his astonishment when Andrew — Hopeless Andrew! — started juggling like a pro.
“I told you so,” Aunt Polly murmured. He was twenty-one and an overnight sensation. Headlining every show in far-flung, exotic cities, Andrew juggled not just balls, but tangerines and lollipops, wicker chairs and ottomans, Hummel figurines and tightly-swaddled children. No object was too difficult for his gobsmacking pitch and twirl.
By thirty, Andrew Windershins was bored. “After the cactus and the armadillo, what’s the point?” he complained to his mother and his aunt. “Blather,” said Polly, “you just haven’t found your bête noire.” Andrew shrugged while juggling his lunch, taking bites of Shepherd’s Pie at every pass.
When the circus reached the Mirrored City, Andrew found his beast. In a metropolis built entirely of reflections, the population is not easily impressed. Andrew lobbed fire balls and scimitars before a bored and blasé crowd. He tossed sea urchins and hedgehogs, priceless violins and pythons — to polite, restrained applause.
It was nursery school all over, but without the blocks and paint. When they failed to marvel at a brace of beehives spun in tandem with forked lightening, Andrew set his talent loose upon the Mirrored City. Slowly, colonnades and cornices began to rise and spin. They were joined by fountains, gates, and stairways, and the audience in their seats. Andrew Windershins juggled up the City, swirling in his hands.
“Now, he’s got it,” Polly said, and beside her, old Ma Windershins smiled from ear to ear.
Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here