A Man Melting

by Craig Cliff

  The rain was still falling heavily as he walked across the town square, so he was surprised by the industry going on around him. Steve and his family were sandbagging the pharmacy. Bully Jacobs bounced past in a Bobcat, with Snowy Kerr and Damian Driscoll jogging in its wake carrying trenching trowels and hessian sacks. Everyone was wearing waders. Kissick looked down at his dress pants. The waterline was just below his knees.

  The rain kept falling during his interview. ‘I really am proud of this community,’ he told the reporter, a young man with short hair which had curled tightly in the rain. ‘This is the Rainbow Gorge spirit. We’re more than just a fishing spot, we’re a lifestyle.’ A gust of rain-heavy wind blew Kissick off balance and he stumbled backwards, but was saved by a pile of sandbags waiting to be arranged.

  ‘As you can see,’ the reporter said, the camera now back on him, ‘Rainbow Gorge is a town under siege. With water levels rising, and outside help slow to arrive, this may be the one that got away. Back to you, Russell and Jacqui, in the studio.’

  After the interview, Kissick sloshed around town, offering his services, but no one wanted his help. He felt as if they were blaming him for the rain, too. He realised the closest thing he had to a friend in town was off with the fishes.

  Just as Kissick was considering wading back to his office to check his emails, a large blue chilly bin floated past, followed by a branch from a fallen macrocarpa. He grabbed the branch and used it to hook the chilly bin. Kissick looked around and in that moment — surrounded by people but utterly alone — he knew where he was supposed to be.

  For a moment the rain eased and the sun could be seen through a thin layer of cloud like a twenty-cent coin in a pencil rubbing. The townsfolk straightened their backs, leant on their shovels and waratahs, and watched as Mayor Noah ‘Rusty’ Kissick floated by in a large blue chilly bin.

  As he neared the creek, his macrocarpa branch could no longer push off the bottom and was jettisoned in favour of two ice-cream containers, which had presumably floated out of someone’s toppled fridge-freezer. Kissick poured the melted ice cream into the murky brown floodwaters and scooped his way slowly towards Heavy’s Bend.

  He knew he was close when, over the sound of the lightly falling rain and the flowing c, he could hear the ghostly whour-irr-ooh-irr of Fortitude’s koauau. Shortly thereafter, he saw the khaki-clad MAF consultant standing on a small, shrinking island of grass.

  Fortitude lowered the instrument from his nose. ‘I never thought I’d be glad to see you,’ he shouted.

  ‘I want to help the fish,’ Kissick puffed.

  ‘You really are a driven but limited man, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Here, grab this.’ Fortitude held out the pool cue he had plucked from the waters and hauled the mayor onto his island. The patch of green was just big enough for Kissick to turn the chilly bin upside down and take a seat. He edged over so Fortitude could perch there also.

  The MAF consultant sighed and began pulling the leaves off a branch of mahoe. ‘So, where’s your cellphone?’ he asked.

  ‘Back in the office.’

  ‘You don’t have a plan, do you?’

  ‘I just wanted someone to talk to.’

  Fortitude threw the bare branch into the water and they both watched as it was whisked away.

  The rain became heavier again. Kissick pulled the hood of his yellow raincoat over his head.

  ‘I’ve seen a couple,’ Fortitude said.

  ‘Raincoats?’

  ‘Rainbow trout. I think they’re coming from upstream.’

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’

  ‘I don’t mind being wet.’

  The water had begun to lap at their toes.

  ‘How long do you think we have?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘The current’s picking up. Might be less.’

  ‘Should I go back and get help?’

  ‘You’d never make it in time. Not in this thing,’ Fortitude kicked the chilly bin with his heel. ‘You’d be tipped out, anyway, in water this swift.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s all right. When the island goes, we can just float on our backs until we hit land.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t float.’

  ‘Not with these on,’ Fortitude said and tugged Kissick’s mayoral chains.

  ‘But —’

  ‘Here,’ Fortitude said and lifted the chains off the mayor. He righted the chilly bin, placed the chains inside and launched it into the water.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Kissick said, pretending the rain running down his cheeks was tears.

  When Fortitude demonstrated the starfish floating technique, it made Kissick hyperventilate.

  ‘It’s nothing to be worried about. Look, we can still see where the banks of the creek are.’ He pointed to a densely rippled area. ‘And there’s the clock tower in the distance. This flood is nothing like the Tinui flood of 1991.’

  ‘Or the Pahiatua flood of ’53?’

  ‘I don’t know about that one.’

  They both looked down. The water was now covering their feet.

  ‘That was quicker than expected,’ Fortitude said, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Maybe we should just shove off now?’

  ‘No. Please. Let’s wait.’

  ‘Why don’t we just wade out a little bit? Get you used to the water, before it gets too deep.’

  Even though Kissick could no longer see the island on which they stood, at least he knew it existed, which was more than he could say for what lay below the surface just a few steps away. And besides, he didn’t want to get his crotch wet.

  Fortitude had waded further out, up to his waist. He leant into the current, trying not to show the strain on his face. ‘Come on.’ He extended a hand.

  The gesture filled Kissick with fraternal gratitude. He reached out and clasped his friend’s hand.

  ‘Hey,’ said Fortitude, ‘a mature female.’ He pointed with his free hand. Between them, a pink-streaked trout, the size of a dog roll, slithered still against the current.

  ‘She’s beautiful.’

  Just then, a Four Square shopping trolley, unseen by both of them, slammed into Barclay Fortitude and knocked him off his feet, pulling Kissick with him. The mayor swallowed a mouthful of water — it tasted like the morning-after remnants in a beer bottle — and his hand slipped from Fortitude’s.

  ‘Just relax,’ Fortitude shouted, clasping the shopping trolley as a buoyancy aid as he was whisked downstream much faster than the mayor.

  Kissick rolled onto his back and tried his best starfish, but his feet kept sinking. He frantically kicked off his shoes and tried to doggy-paddle, but the current bobbed him up and down too much and he swallowed more beery water.

  As he was swept past the impromptu stopbank Bully Jacobs and his crew had erected to protect the primary school, he held his right hand as high in the air as he could, like he had seen on one of those surf lifesaving shows on television. Everyone waved politely back at the mayor, and he continued on downstream.

  A short time later, he saw what appeared to be a balled-up pair of business socks floating ahead of him. He could have sworn they were his. As he splashed about, trying to reach them, a golden retriever swam past. He tried calling out, but the dog did not turn back and save him. Kissick was forced to admire the creature’s stroke.

  He thought of Tilly Thompson, the radiant mayor of Whangamanu. He wished he had been bolder. Kissed her that time at the bar after the mayoral conference. Insisted she stayed the night at his house after talking with his council. Sent her flowers instead of hilarious chain emails. He imagined this new river was taking him all the way to Whangamanu — to Tilly — even though he knew it was geographically implausible.

  In time, he began to feel more comfortable in the water. He managed to spin around to face backwards so he might react more quickly than he had when he saw the golden retriever. Wha
t he saw were hundreds of smooth, round objects floating towards him like a swarm of bees. When the first of these objects passed him, he realised they were potatoes. The floodwaters must have washed the soil from the potato fields and let the crop loose upon the world. It was beautiful, in a way, seeing these nearly-white tubers bobbing on the surface of the Milo-coloured water, but they were no help to him. It seemed to Kissick the final damning word against the visual arts.

  He was exhausted by now, and felt the town was at least a kilometre away. Hope was disappearing just like Fortitude’s island had. This water will swallow everything, he thought.

  His limbs became limp.

  His torso felt as if it was full of concrete.

  He began to sink.

  He opened his eyes underwater, but it was too cloudy to see anything.

  He thought of Fortitude’s ‘rich organic matter’.

  Of the rainbow trout who were afraid to go to the surface.

  Of perhaps finding his mayoral regalia lying on the stony bottom.

  Tilly Thompson received a call from the mayor of Blenheim that evening informing her of Mayor Kissick’s passing, and was asked to pass it on to the mayor of Taihape. This longstanding method of mass communication amongst the League of Mayors was notoriously unreliable. Once, the re-election of the mayor of Havelock North was Chinese-whispered into ‘The mayor of Gore has erectile dysfunction’ by the time it reached Tilly’s ears. But on this occasion she was early in the chain, and the internet verified the tragic, tragic news.

  She had only just returned to her office after an all-day meeting with the planning committee for the new Whangamanu landfill. She waved the cursor over her computer screen, trying to decide how to react to such news, and noticed the little envelope icon at the bottom of her screen indicating she had unopened email. When her inbox opened, Tilly Thompson was surprised to find — amongst parish newsletters and invites to school prizegivings — a message from the late Mayor Kissick, sent that morning, with the subject line ‘The Designs of My Heart’.

  The Sceptic’s Kid

  I didn’t want to go to Uncle Roger’s. We were supposed to pick up my sister, Melanie, from a birthday party on the way. ‘It’s all arranged,’ Mum said. ‘And we haven’t been for over a month.’

  I told her it was okay because she had been really busy with all the hoaxes, and that it would be better if she rested.

  ‘Jamie,’ she said, ‘we are going to Uncle Roger’s.’

  ‘But I don’t like him.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Jamie.’

  ‘I don’t like the way he touches me. He’s not even our real uncle.’ This was the first time I had said this, even though I had figured it out ages ago. I knew he wasn’t one of Mum’s brothers, and if he was related to my dad, who I don’t remember, how come he never talked about him? If Melanie died I would talk about her all the time, even if she is annoying. She’s only six and still believes that you can grow up to be a ballerina.

  ‘How does he touch you?’ Mum asked.

  I was surprised the touching was more important to Mum than the fact I’d figured out her lie about him being our uncle, especially since she’s so obsessed with telling the truth.

  ‘Men aren’t supposed to touch boys,’ I said. ‘They tell us in school.’

  ‘What sort of touching, Jamie?’

  I was starting to think having an argument was worse than just going to Uncle Roger’s. At least me and Melanie could play outside and leave Mum to deal with the weirdo.

  Mum was still staring at me, waiting for my answer. ‘Just on the shoulders,’ I said.

  ‘Get your shoes on, Jamie, because we’re going.’

  Uncle Roger lives in one of those boxes that they have at building sites. Normally builders have three or four of these boxes connected together to make an office, but Uncle Roger just has the one, stuck on the side of a hill out past Papakura. There are no other houses around and no fences, which means you can go anywhere in the bush you want, but also that it’s easy to get lost.

  Uncle Roger says he is a writer, but I’ve also heard him called a hermit. According to dictionary.com, a hermit is either 1. A person who has withdrawn from society and lives a solitary existence or 2. A spiced cookie made with molasses, raisins and nuts. It would be much better if he was number 2, but he isn’t. He doesn’t have a TV, or a computer, or a radio. Nothing except dusty old books.

  The last time we visited I’d asked him why he didn’t have a TV. I’d asked this before, a hundred times probably, but the answer never seemed to stick in my head.

  He said, ‘I don’t find it an enticing proposition.’

  ‘You don’t want one?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘But what about cooking shows?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘What about the news? Isn’t that important?’

  ‘Not really. Not to me.’

  This was before all the reappearances started and watching the news got interesting, but I still knew that something wasn’t right with Uncle Roger.

  As soon as we got there I wanted to go outside, but Melanie had eaten too many lollies at her party and just started talking and talking to Uncle Roger.

  ‘First there was a big eagle,’ she said. ‘It was on the news. Then there were all these people saying they had seen a moa.’

  Melanie was interrupted by the sound of ‘My Favourite Things’ from The Sound Of Music, which is the ringtone I helped Mum download. Mum went outside to take the call, and I couldn’t very well let Melanie mess up the story, even if it was Uncle Roger’s own fault for not having a TV or computer.

  ‘One man,’ I said, ‘claimed to have seen a whole family of moa, but it was hard to believe him because he looked like he had never had a haircut in his whole life.’

  Uncle Roger smiled. On top of everything, he doesn’t read newspapers, so this was all news to him. If Mum didn’t make us visit, he’d probably still think it was 1991.

  ‘And then it wasn’t just hawks or moas,’ Melanie said.

  ‘Moa,’ I corrected.

  ‘There was a dodo.’

  ‘In Mauritius.’

  ‘And the tiger.’

  ‘Tasmanian tiger, in Australia.’

  ‘Sounds positively biblical,’ Uncle Roger said. I wasn’t sure if he believed us.

  ‘People had photos and videos,’ Melanie continued, ‘but they were fuzzy. They showed them on the news and then they would get people to argue about them.’

  ‘A debate,’ I said. ‘They had a debate between people who believed the sightings were real and people who didn’t believe. Underneath the names of the people who didn’t believe they always put the word “sceptic”.’

  ‘I was going to say that,’ Melanie said.

  ‘No you weren’t,’ I said.

  Uncle Roger looked over to where Mum was outside, but she was still on the phone.

  ‘Then they caught the really big eagle,’ Melanie said, yanking his hand to make him pay attention. ‘I think it was the government.’ I nodded. ‘They tried shooting it with darts to put the eagle to sleep, but it was so big they had to shoot a lot of darts into it, and when it finally went to sleep it didn’t wake up again. The scientists did tests on it and said it was a Fast Eagle —’

  ‘She means Haast’s eagle.’

  ‘— which everyone thought was extinct!’

  ‘And suddenly,’ I said, ‘the people claiming to have seen moa didn’t seem so crazy. They were men with good haircuts and women with sharp-looking glasses. And last night there was only one person willing to go on the news with the word “sceptic” below their name.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Uncle Roger, and put on a deep voice: ‘Diana Shepherd, Sceptic.’

  Melanie giggled and pointed over by the doorway. There was Mum, looking in at the three of us in Uncle Roger’s tiny lounge. She gave a little bow.

  At first the kids at school thought it was cool to have a mum on TV, which made me a little bit cool
for the first time in my life. Only Matthew Morgan, the pain of my existence, teased me about it. He called me Sceptic’s Kid, but it didn’t hurt my feelings because it was the truth, and because I am used to him calling me names. But when all the other sceptics began to chicken out and Mum was the only one prepared to supply the voice of reason, as she put it, the other kids started calling me Sceptic’s Kid, too. Even though I knew that being a sceptic was a good thing, the name bothered me when it was everyone saying it. It bothered me so much I ended up in the principal’s office.

  ‘Now, Jamie,’ said Mrs Oe, and folded her laptop lid shut.

  ‘They were calling me names,’ I said.

  Mrs Oe is an Asian New Zealander. That is what our old principal, Mr Shanklin, said when he introduced her at the final assembly last year. I think she is Japanese, because she looks a little like one of the guest judges off Iron Chef, which is a Japanese show on FoodTV.

  ‘Name-calling is no excuse, Jamie,’ she said. ‘Especially not to push a girl.’

  I was confused. This was the first time I had ever spoken to Mrs Oe, but she was talking like she had known me all my life. It was actually the first time I had seen her up close, because the Year Six kids all sit up the back in assemblies. I had never noticed how skinny Mrs Oe’s fingers were. I thought of Joanna, my piano teacher, who does not have skinny fingers. Joanna is always looking at her hands and sighing.

  Mrs Oe called Laurel into her office and made me apologise for pushing her over.

  ‘Sorry for pushing you over, Laurel,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, Jamie. But I’m still going to have to call your mother.’

  ‘But —’

  Laurel gave me a look that made me want to push her over again.

  ‘She’s a busy woman, I know,’ said Mrs Oe, ‘but she needs to know what’s going on in your life.’

  That night Mum was on the news again. Melanie and I sat on the couch and watched as usual. A man in Pahiatua had caught a huia, which is a black bird with orange things on either side of its face. According to the news, no one had seen a living huia since 1907.