by Des Hunt
By then my anger was spent and I began to think sensibly again. I’d saved her from the water, but that was as far as I could go. I knew nothing about first aid other than to lay her on her side to drain the water. I certainly couldn’t get her up the cliff. That would have to be left to others.
I looked up and saw that there were now several torches moving on the slope. It looked like the rescue teams were already on their way. All I had to do was find a more comfortable spot and wait.
I found it back against the cliff. Thousands of years of sea erosion had formed small, rounded depressions, which were almost like armchairs carved into the rock. I dragged Brio across and propped her up in one of them. At a glance you would have thought she was having a quiet rest. I took another space almost directly opposite her.
In our prehistoric lounge, we were sheltered from the main glare of the spotlight. The lighting was almost intimate — perfect for telling a story. So that’s what I did. I told her the story of Murph, Harriet and me.
I went right back to the beginning, to when I was just a kid who was scared of this skinny old man who always looked grumpy and made huge cigarettes that caused him to cough and splutter so much. I told her about the bike crash and how I met Harriet for the first time, and eventually came to know Murph as a person. Finally, I told her about the events of the past two weeks, ending up with the deaths of Harriet and Murph.
All the time I was talking I watched her face, looking for some sort of reaction. I saw none. Not until the very end after I’d told her that Murph had died.
She opened her mouth to say something. She formed two words, but no sound would come. Then she began to cry. Streams of tears poured down her cheeks, and for a moment I thought I was witnessing true remorse.
That was until I worked out what she’d being trying to say. It was: ‘Who cares?’ And I’m sure that if her larynx had worked, I would have heard her little-girl voice. And then I knew that the tears were not for Murph at all. The words ‘who cares’ summed it all up. Everyone cared except for her. She was crying for herself, not for Murph or Harriet. Everything she’d done right from the start had been all about her. Why would I expect her tears to be any different?
CHAPTER 32
The rescue of Nick and Brio took many hours. Nick had to be lifted up to the colony, and Brio stretchered off the rocks by boat. It would have been a lot quicker if there had not been a major argument between the medical team and Cathy. Dad told me about it later.
Apparently there was a long-standing agreement that helicopters would not fly over Taiaroa Head. Apart from the stress caused to the birds, there was a high probability of collisions between animal and machine. However, on that night the paramedic team wanted to bend the rule and use the rescue helicopter to extract Brio, saying that time was important for the well-being of their patient.
The Albatross Centre staff said no, and that’s when things got a little ugly. The paramedics accused them of putting the welfare of birds ahead of people’s lives; that they were treating the albatross as more important than humans.
Cathy Andrews jumped in, to say that some humans were of lesser importance than the birds.
‘That woman has shown no respect for any of the birds on the peninsula,’ she said. ‘Why should we make them suffer more just so she can have a speedy rescue?’
‘They’re going to suffer anyway!’ responded the leader of the team. ‘Those albatrosses are already as good as dead, aren’t they?’
According to Dad, Cathy then became very still. She glared at the paramedic, and quietly said, ‘No! They are not going to die. I will do everything within my power to keep them alive, which begins now by making sure no helicopter flies anywhere near them tonight.’
And with that, the argument ended.
Fortunately, a team had already got Nick onto a stretcher, and it was not long before he was in an ambulance on his way to Dunedin Hospital.
Brio was not so lucky, which meant neither was I, because I had to wait down there with her. At first I did think of climbing back up the cliff and leaving her by herself. But something deep within me wouldn’t let it happen. So I stayed.
After Murph’s story, we waited in silence. Not that she seemed to have any choice about that. On a couple of occasions she tried to make a sound, without success. However, she did manage to start moving her fingers, then her hands, and by the time the medical team arrived, she could move her arms a little.
The sky was beginning to lighten by then, and I welcomed them and the new dawn with relief. Unfortunately, that feeling of relief did not last long. Straight away the leader started picking on me. Later, Dad explained that it was just the backlash from the argument over the helicopter, but at the time the comments hurt.
‘She should not have been moved,’ said the leader, glaring at me. ‘Don’t you know anything about first aid?’
‘She was drowning: I had to move her or she would have died.’
‘You should have just kept her head out of the water,’ he said. ‘By lifting her out and then dragging her over the rocks, you’ve probably added to her injuries.’
‘I thought I was doing the right thing,’ I defended myself.
‘Well, you weren’t!’
All of this happened well away from where Brio was being strapped to a stretcher. She might not have been able to hear what was being said, but she could see. When the leader had finished, I looked over and saw her staring at me with a gloating smirk on her face. I shook my head in disbelief. There she was, lying on a stretcher, probably crippled for life, and yet she still was acting as though she had won. And the sad fact was that if any albatross died, there’d be little doubt that she had.
The battle to save the big birds began soon after I’d been rescued, although I didn’t know about it until later as I spent most of the day sleeping. When I finally emerged just after three, Colin Saxton and a policeman were interviewing Dad in the lounge. I scarcely had a chance to get some food before it was my turn. They took me through the events of the night without providing anything back in return. So it wasn’t until Cathy arrived for dinner that I caught up with what had been happening.
The albatrosses had been inspected, and the news was not good. All except five had traces of the sticky egg mix on their bodies. Brio might have had only half an hour before Nick and I interrupted her, but in that time she’d covered most of the colony. Little wonder that she’d acted as though she’d won.
After discovering the size of the problem, centre and BIRT staff had swabbed the birds. That had taken the rest of the day. So far no birds had abandoned their nests, but that was always going to be a major worry if further treatment was required. Whether that would be necessary would not be known until the results of the swabs were back sometime in the next few days.
Of course, NetNews that night was full of the story: film of the rescues, interviews, old footage of both Brio and Nick, and a lot of speculation about what would happen next. There was talk of using antivirals — drugs that could kill viruses. The problem was that the World Health Organization — the WHO — had banned their use on animals. The WHO feared that viruses would quickly become resistant to the drugs if they were commonly used in zoos and farms. An application had been made to the WHO for the ban to be lifted for the royal albatross, but that, too, could take several days.
Nick came out of hospital on the second day of the year. The broken leg had been set without the need for any metal plates, and he was expected to get back full use of his leg when the plaster was removed in six weeks’ time. He was highly excited about his time in hospital. I got the impression that he’d been treated as some sort of hero who, by himself, had saved the albatrosses from even more harm.
The swab results came through, and almost all were positive. By then some of the albatrosses were showing signs of sickness. The worst was Milly, the mother who had raised sixteen chicks in her half-century of life. It was thought that old age might explain why she was more affected than oth
ers. She was already the most famous of the birds, having been photographed by countless tourists over the years. Now she became a major celebrity with interest coming from all over the world; everyone wanted to know the story of how she became ill.
Brio’s actions had always been for publicity, and now she got it — heaps of it. But not quite in the way she had sought. She instantly became a ‘most hated person’. In New Zealand, she was shifted to a secret location because of threats against her life. In Scotland, her photographs were removed from galleries, and in some cases publicly burned. Elsewhere she was the subject of hate-filled messages on social networking and blogging websites.
Originally, Brio had been protesting against the inhumane battery farming of chooks. But somehow she’d lost the plot, and along with it any sympathy her cause might have received. In fact, it worked the other way. Bryce Shreeves took great pleasure in telling anyone who would listen that it was not battery farming that had killed his chooks, but the actions of a terrorist. Animal-rights groups were quick to issue statements distancing themselves from what she had done. If there were people out there still supporting her, then they were keeping it to themselves.
Murph’s funeral was on the fourth day of the New Year. It was a small affair with the chapel at the crematorium mostly empty. Apart from our family, there were a few locals from Portobello, and some others who turned up just because it was linked to the albatross disaster. The media mostly gave it a miss. By then the story was beginning to wane as people became more interested in enjoying their summer holidays. The funeral of an old man was never going to make new headlines.
Harriet was there in the form of the pendant I’d carved just a week before. She was resting on Murph’s chest close to his heart, keeping him company as she had for much of his life. As Murph had said when I gave him the pendant, she would now be with him forever.
While Murph’s funeral barely raised a ripple in the media, the death of Milly the following day certainly did. Once again the plight of the albatrosses was front-page news. People worldwide clamoured for action before the whole colony was lost.
The WHO responded by allowing the use of an antiviral drug. That same day, all of the birds currently on land were injected. The press releases from the BIRT team were upbeat: expectations were high that this miracle drug would save the birds.
It didn’t. It seemed to have no effect. Two more birds died.
Now, even those albatrosses that had been at sea during the spraying were showing signs of infection. If the disease continued at this rate, the colony would be gone within a week. There were all sorts of suggestions about how to save them: herbal infusions, magnetic fields, colour therapy … whatever. Some people prayed for a miracle, but most simply gave up all hope.
However, unknown to all except a few, a miracle was on its way, and by that stage it was just around the corner.
CHAPTER 33
We were on the road to Portobello when the news of a serum for the albatrosses was first released.
Nick was riding an old electric-powered mobility scooter which Dad had scavenged from the dump. I was alongside on my bike. Dad had boosted the scooter so that it had a decent top speed. Nick loved the thing, zooming all over the place whenever he got the chance. In fact we all liked it, as it got Nick mobile again. He’d been near-impossible to live with when his crutches had restricted him to the house or wherever we took him in a car. Now he was almost as independent as before the injury.
Sometimes a little too independent. Twice he’d flattened the battery by trying to go too far. That’s why I was with him on this trip. We were going for drinks and ice creams in Portobello, which was at the extreme range of the batteries. If they failed on the way back, I would have to tow him the rest of the way.
We were at the outskirts of the township when Nick’s phone chimed. It was a text from Cathy.
Turn on TV. Gr8 news on albatrosses.
We rushed to the pub where we convinced the barman to switch his television from a cricket match to the NetNews channel. On the screen were three men sitting behind a desk that was covered in microphones. The only person I recognized was Colin Saxton. He was part-way through reading a statement.
‘… was injected into all the birds yesterday. Within eight hours, we were seeing results. Birds with mild symptoms appeared almost fully recovered. Those with advanced illness showed more interest in life and accepted being fed for the first time in days. This morning, twenty-four hours after the serum was injected, forty-seven albatrosses are showing few signs of the illness. Another twelve are still recovering. There are still some birds at sea that haven’t been treated. We can only hope that they are not overcome by the virus before they return. Of course, they will be treated immediately when and if they come back.’
As Saxton paused for a breath, voices began firing questions at him. He held up his hand and resumed his statement: ‘While all of this is good news, the incident is by no means over. Of greatest concern is the welfare of the developing chicks. The incubation temperature may have fluctuated or the eggs may not have been turned at the right times. Centre staff will check all eggs over the coming days. However, some will need more immediate attention. These are the eggs of pairs where one parent is now deceased. Intervention will be required, something that Centre staff have dealt with before and already have standard procedures in place.’
Again, when he took a breather, the reporters started bombarding Saxton with questions. But he wasn’t finished just yet.
‘From the beginning, this has been a difficult incident to control. Biological terrorism is almost unheard of in New Zealand. However, we have had plans to deal with such an emergency for many years. I’m pleased to say that those plans have today yielded success. It has been a team effort, of which every member of my department can be justifiably proud. It is also one that we hope never has to be repeated in the future.’
Saxton gave a self-satisfied smile as he leaned back in his chair, indicating that now was the time for the audience to applaud his performance.
None of the reporters obliged. Instead, they repeated their earlier barrage of questions. These continued until one voice managed to cut above the others.
‘Why wasn’t the serum used earlier?’ asked the female voice.
Saxton leaned forward. ‘Because one wasn’t available. Not until a suitable donor bird was found. As part of our investigation into the original Peco incident, I found such a bird and handed it over to Dr Matthews here.’ He opened his hand to the man next to him. ‘Perhaps he’s the best person to say what happened next.’
Dr Matthews sat up straight at the mention of his name. ‘Um,’ he said moving his head closer to the microphones. ‘Where to begin? Ah, probably at the beginning I suppose.’ He gave a little nervous laugh. ‘As Colin said, we received a bird that had been identified as a suitable antibody donor. It was a red-crowned parakeet that had been exposed to the virus and survived. The virus still existed in her body, making her the perfect donor.’
‘Was that Murph’s bird?’ asked the barman, who, like others in the bar, had joined us to watch the announcement.
I nodded.
‘Harriet,’ said Nick, his face glowing with excitement. ‘She’s going to be a hero.’
‘Heroine,’ corrected the barman, but by then all eyes were back on the screen where Dr Matthews was holding up a large diagram showing how the serum had been developed.
‘… tissue from the spleen is exposed to myeloma cancerous cells to form a hybrid.’ He then went on to explain the whole process, talking about hybridomas and monoclonal antibodies. On and on he went.
Eventually one of the reporters had the courage to interrupt.
‘Dr Matthews, could you tell us more about the parakeet? Your diagram shows a dead bird as a donor. Was she dead when she arrived or did you kill her?’
Dr Matthews winced at the use of the word ‘kill’. ‘No she was not dead, and yes it is common practice to euthanize an animal before rem
oving the spleen tissue—’
‘So,’ interrupted the questioner again, ‘would you say she gave her body so that other birds might live?’
The doctor thought about that. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’ Then, after some more thinking, he added, ‘Partly.’
‘What do you mean, “Partly”?’
‘Well, she gave part of her body.’
‘But she is dead now?’ the reporter persisted.
‘Ah, um, actually no.’
‘She’s alive?’
‘Ah, yes.’
I’m sure my heart missed several beats at that news. Then, as if to make up, it started pumping wildly. Alongside me Nick was repeating ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ over and over.
On the screen, Saxton’s reaction was something to watch. He looked shocked, almost as if he’d been let down by the news. I’m sure that up until that moment he had no idea that Harriet was still alive.
The reaction of the reporters was similar to ours. They were excited. There was now a live heroine, one they could use to grab the interest of their readers and viewers. Again the questions came fast and furious.
Dr Matthews took the gist of what they wanted to know and answered that.
‘She was saved because she is a rather endearing animal. Her name is Harriet, and she can talk. In fact, she has quite a wide vocabulary. The general feeling around the lab was that it didn’t seem right to euthanize an animal like that if we could avoid it. So we developed a surgical procedure that would give us a suitable spleen sample. Because the method was so successful, we’ll definitely use it again in the future.’
‘What will happen to her now?’
‘At the moment, we’re using her to get a fix on the dosage of antiviral drug needed to kill this strain of H6N3 virus in birds. You will recall that the dosage used on the albatrosses didn’t work. Harriet will give us a better idea of the amount of drug needed. If we’re successful, she’ll no longer be a carrier.’ He turned to the man alongside him. ‘Arthur here is in charge of the research animals. Dr Arthur Gilmore. What do you think her future is, Arthur?’
