Storm Boy
Page 2
BEFORE LONG THE THREE PELICANS were big and strong. Their white necks curved up cleanly, their creels grew, and their upper beaks shone like pink pearl shell. Every morning they spread their great white wings with the bold black edges and flew three or four times round the humpy and the beach nearby to make sure that everything was in order for the new day. By then they thought it was time for breakfast, so they landed heavily beside the humpy, took a few dignified steps forward, and lined up at the back door. If Hide-Away and Storm Boy were still in bed, the three birds stood politely for a little while waiting for some sign of movement or greeting. But if nothing happened Mr Proud and Mr Ponder began to get impatient after five or ten minutes and started rattling their beaks in disapproval—a snippery-snappery, snickery-snackery sort of sound like dry reeds crackling—until someone woke up.
‘All right! All right!’ Storm Boy would say sleepily. ‘I can hear you, Mr Proud!’
He would sit up and look at the three gentlemen standing there on parade.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Ponder. Time for respectable people to be up.’
‘Time for respectable pelicans to get their own breakfast,’ Hide-Away grumbled, ‘instead of begging from their friends.’
And as time went on, he really meant what he said. At last Hide-Away spoke sternly to Storm Boy.
‘Mr Proud, Mr Ponder, and Mr Percival will have to go back to the sanctuary where they came from. We just can’t afford to feed them any more.’
Storm Boy was sad but he always knew when his father had made up his mind. ‘Yes, Dad,’ he said.
‘We’ll put them in the big fish baskets,’ said Hide-Away, ‘and take them in the boat.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ said Storm Boy, hanging his head.
So they caught Mr Proud first, and then Mr Ponder, held their wings against their sides, and put them firmly in the fish baskets. Neither Mr Proud nor Mr Ponder thought much of the idea. They snackered noisily at Hide-Away, raked their ruffled feathers crossly, and glared out through the wickerwork with their yellow eyes.
‘Huh!’ Hide-Away laughed. ‘We’ve offended the two gentlemen. Never mind, it’s all for their own good.’ And he bowed first to Mr Proud and then to Mr Ponder.
But when it came to Mr Percival’s turn, Storm Boy couldn’t bear to see him shut up too. Ever since the miracle of Mr Percival’s rescue, he had been Storm Boy’s favourite. He was always quieter, more gentle, and more trusting than his two brothers. Storm Boy picked him up, smoothed his wings, and held him close. ‘Poor Mr Percival,’ he said gently. He looked up at his father. ‘I’ll hold Mr Percival,’ he said. ‘Can I, Dad?’
‘Oh, all right,’ Hide-Away said, taking up the two baskets. ‘Come on, it’s time we started.’
Hide-Away sailed for five miles up the sanctuary before he stopped the boat.
‘Here we are,’ he said at last.
Then he opened the two baskets and took out Mr Proud and Mr Ponder.
‘Off you go,’ he said. ‘Now you’ll have to look after yourselves.’ Then he pushed them off. They flew away in a high, wide arc and made for the shore.
‘Now Mr Percival,’ he said.
Storm Boy pressed his head against Mr Percival’s and gave his friend a last soft squeeze. ‘Goodbye, Mr Percival,’ he said. He had to pause for a second to clear his throat. ‘Be a…be a good pelican, Mr Percival, and look after yourself.’
He lifted him over the side of the boat and put him down on the water as if he were a big rubber duck. Mr Percival looked surprised and pained for a minute and floated up and down on the ripples. Then he lifted his big wings, pedalled strongly, and rose slowly up over the water.
Storm Boy brushed at his eye with his knuckles and looked away. He didn’t want to let his father see his face.
HIDE-AWAY AND Storm Boy spent the day fishing. It was fine and sunny, but somehow it seemed cold. Most of the time they just sat in the bobbing boat without talking, but Storm Boy knew that his father knew what he was thinking. Sometimes Hide-Away looked at him strangely, and once he even cleared his throat carefully, gazed out across the water, and said in an unhappy gay voice:
‘Well, I wonder how the three Mr P’s are feeling. As happy as Larry, I’ll bet!’ He looked rather miserably at Storm Boy and went on with his fishing.
‘Yes, I’ll bet,’ Storm Boy said, and also went on sadly with his fishing.
Towards evening they packed up and set off for home.
The sun was flinging a million golden mirrors in a lane across the water. It glowed on the bare patches of the sandhills and lit up the bushes and tussocks till every stem and twig shone with rosy fire. The little boat came gliding in to shore through the chuckle of the ripples.
Suddenly Storm Boy looked up.
‘Look, Dad! Look!’ he shouted.
Hide-Away beached the boat and looked up to where Storm Boy was pointing. ‘What?’
‘Look! Look!’ cried Storm Boy.
High against the sky on the big sandhill stood the tall Lookout Post that Hide-Away and Fingerbone had put up years before. And right on top of the post was a big shape. It was quite still; a statue on a column; a bird of stone.
Then, as if hearing Storm Boy’s startled voice, it suddenly spread out two big wings and launched itself into the air. As it banked against the western sun its beak and big black-tipped wings glowed in the shooting beams of light. For an instant it looked like a magic bird. Storm Boy ran ahead, craning upwards, yelling and waving.
‘Mr Percival! It’s Mr Percival! Mr Percival has come back home!’
It was a happy reunion that night. Even Hide-Away seemed secretly glad that Mr Percival had come back.
‘Yes, I suppose he can stay,’ he said, ‘as long as Mr Proud and Mr Ponder don’t come back too. One pelican’s appetite is bad enough; we can’t cope with three.’
And although Storm Boy loved Mr Proud and Mr Ponder too, he found himself hoping very much that they would stay away.
And they did. As the days went by they sometimes swept overhead, or even landed on the beach for a while, but in the end they always returned to the sanctuary.
But not Mr Percival. He refused even to leave Storm Boy’s side.
WHEREVER Storm Boy went, Mr Percival followed. If he collected shells along the beach, Mr Percival went with him, either waddling importantly along at his heels or flying slowly above him in wide circles. If Storm Boy went swimming, or sliding down the sandhills, or playing on the sand, Mr Percival found a good spot nearby and perched there heavily to watch and wait until it was over. If Storm Boy went fishing or rowing on the Coorong, Mr Percival cruised joyously round him with his neck bent back and his chest thrust forward like a dragon ship sailing calmly in a sea of air. Whenever he saw Storm Boy anchor the boat he came gliding in with a long, skimming splash, shook his wings into place, and bobbed serenely on the ripples a few yards away.
‘Oh, you’re a grand old gentleman, Mr Percival,’ Hide-Away said, laughing. ‘You ought to be wearing a top hat, or maybe a back-to-front collar and a pair of spectacles. Then perhaps you could give the sermon or take the Sunday school lessons.’
But Mr Percival merely held his head on one side and waited for Hide-Away to throw him a piece of fish—or two or three whole fish to pop into his creel.
Fingerbone and Hide-Away were both glad that Storm Boy had found Mr Percival.
‘Better than a watchdog even,’ Fingerbone said. ‘Can’t run much, but can fly.’
‘Can even chase after things like a dog,’ said Hide-Away. ‘You watch!’
It was true. They first learnt what a good catcher Mr Percival was when Storm Boy was playing ball on the beach. It was a red and yellow ball that Hide-Away had brought back from Goolwa. Once when Storm Boy threw it hard it went bouncing off towards Mr Percival.
‘Look out!’ Storm Boy shouted.
But Mr Percival didn’t look out. Instead he took two or three quick steps and snapped up the ball in his creel. Storm Boy was horrified. He rus
hed up to Mr Percival, panting.
‘You can’t eat a ball,’ he yelled. ‘It’s rubber, it’s not a fish! Don’t swallow it; you’ll choke!’
Mr Percival listened to him very seriously for a minute, with his head held a bit more to one side than usual and his big beak parted in a sly smile. Then he stepped forward and dropped the ball at Storm Boy’s feet, just like a retriever.
After that, Storm Boy often had fun on the beach with Mr Percival. Whenever he threw the ball, or a smooth pebble, or a sea urchin, or an old fishing reel, Mr Percival snapped it up and brought it back. Sometimes he threw things into the water. Mr Percival watched carefully with his bright eyes; then he flew out, landed on the right spot, and fished the prize out of the water. Then Storm Boy would laugh and clap his hands and rub his fingers up and down the back of Mr Percival’s neck. Mr Percival always liked this very much; the only thing he liked better was a good meal of fish.
One day as Hide-Away was watching them play he had an idea.
‘If he can bring things back to you, perhaps he can carry things away too,’ he said. He gave Mr Percival a sinker and a bit of fishing line. ‘Now, take it to Storm Boy,’ he said; ‘that’s the fellow.’
At first Mr Percival didn’t understand, but at last, after many tries, he dropped the sinker at Storm Boy’s feet. Both Hide-Away and Storm Boy clapped, and rubbed the back of Mr Percival’s neck, and gave him a piece of fish. Mr Percival looked very pleased and proud.
After that Hide-Away asked Storm Boy to stand out in the shallow water, and they played the game again. Before long Mr Percival could take a sinker and a small fishing line, fly out to Storm Boy, and drop it beside him. But he always expected a piece of fish after each try.
They played the game for many weeks, sometimes with Storm Boy in the water and sometimes with Hide-Away, until Mr Percival could carry a fishing line and drop it into the sea without any trouble. Then, when there was an offshore wind from the north and the great seas flattened out sullenly, Hide-Away went far out from shore and Mr Percival practised carrying a long, long line to him.
‘It’s wonderful,’ Hide-Away said, laughing and clapping when he came back. ‘Now Mr Percival can help me with my fishing. He can carry out my mulloway lines for me.’ And he scratched Mr Percival’s neck and gave him an extra piece of fish. ‘Mr Percival, you’re as clever as a Chinese fishing bird,’ he said. And then he laughed, and so did Storm Boy; and Mr Percival was so pleased with himself that he snickered and snackered happily for the rest of the day.
As time went by people began to talk about Storm Boy and Mr Percival. Picnickers and game inspectors and passing fishermen saw them and began to spread the story.
‘Follows him round like a dog,’ said old Sammy Scales in Goolwa. ‘Crazy, I tell you.’
‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ the postmaster said, ‘if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.’
And by and by many people did see it with their own eyes. For when Hide-Away and Storm Boy set off on their trips to Goolwa, Mr Percival couldn’t understand what was happening. He flew around and behind and ahead of them all the way, until they began to get near the town; then he landed and waited patiently on the river, until he saw the boat starting off for home again.
People used to hear about it and come to watch.
‘Just like a dog,’ said Sammy Scales. ‘Crazy, I tell you. Some day the whole world will hear about this.’
And then something happened that proved he was right.
It was the year of the great storms. They began in May, even before the winter had started. Shrieking and raging out of the south, the Antarctic winds seemed to have lost themselves and come up howling in a frenzy to find the way.
In June they flattened the sedge, rooted out some of the bushes that had crouched on top of the sand-hills for years, and blew out one of the iron sheets from the humpy. Hide-Away tied wires to the walls and weighed down the roof with driftwood and stones.
In July the winds lost their senses. Three great storms swept out of the south, the third one so terrible that it gathered up the sea in mountains, mashed it into foam, and hurled it against the shore. The waves came in like rolling railway embankments right up to the sandhills where Hide-Away and Storm Boy lived. They lashed and tore at them as if they wanted to carry them away. The boobyalla bushes bent and broke. The humpy shivered and shook. Even Mr Percival had to go right inside or risk being blown away.
As night came on, Hide-Away battened up the doorway and spread extra clothing on the bunks.
‘Better sleep now if you can,’ he said to Storm Boy. ‘By morning the humpy might be blowing along on the other side of the Coorong.’
In the darkness of early morning Storm Boy suddenly woke with Hide-Away’s voice in his ears.
‘Quick, Storm Boy,’ he said.
Storm Boy jumped up. ‘Is the humpy blowing away?’
‘No, it’s a wreck!’ Hide-Away said. ‘A shipwreck on the shore.’
Storm Boy put on two of his father’s coats and followed him out to the top of the sandhill. Daybreak was coming like a milky stain in the east, but the world in front was just a white roar. Hide-Away put his mouth close to Storm Boy’s ear and pointed.
‘Look!’ he yelled. ‘Out there!’
Storm Boy looked hard. There was a black shape in the white. Fingerbone was standing on top of the sandhill holding on to the Lookout Post.
‘Tugboat,’ he shouted.
‘Aground!’ yelled Hide-Away.
Fingerbone nodded. ‘Storm too wild,’ he bellowed. ‘Poor fellows on tugboat…’ He shook his head. ‘Poor fellows!’
When morning came over the world at last they could see the tugboat clearly, lying like a wounded whale, with huge waves leaping and crashing over it, throwing up white hands of spray in a devil-dance.
‘They can never swim it or launch a boat,’ said Hide-Away. ‘Their only hope is a line to the shore.’
‘No-one get line out,’ Fingerbone said. ‘Not today.’
‘No,’ said Hide-Away sadly. ‘And by tomorrow it will be too late.’ Sometimes in a lull between the waves they could see three or four men clinging to the tug-boat, waving their hands for help.
‘Look at them,’ Storm Boy yelled. ‘We must help them! They’ll be drowned.’
‘How can we help?’ said his father. ‘We can’t throw a line; it’s too far.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Too far. Two or three hundred yards at least.’
‘No blackfellow throw spear so far,’ said Fingerbone. ‘Not even half so far.’
‘Especially not with a line attached. We’d need a harpoon gun.
‘Then I couldn’t throw a stone a quarter of the way,’ Storm Boy said. He picked up a pebble and hurled it towards the sea. It fell near the shore. ‘See,’ he said.
Suddenly there was a swish of big wings past them and Mr Percival sailed out over the spot where the pebble had fallen. He looked at the foam of the waves for a minute as if playing the old game of fetch-the-pebble-back; then he changed his mind, turned, and landed back on the beach.
Storm Boy gave a great shout and ran towards him. ‘Mr Percival! Mr Percival is the one to do it! He can fly!’
Hide-Away saw what he meant. He raced back to the humpy and found two or three long fishing lines, as thin as thread. He tied them together and coiled them very carefully and lightly on a hard patch of clean sand. Then he took a light sinker, tied it to one end, and gave it to Mr Percival.
‘Out to the ship,’ he said, pointing and flapping, ‘Take it out to the ship.’
Mr Percival looked puzzled and alarmed at the idea of fishing on such a wild day, but he beat his wings and rose up heavily over the sea.
‘Out to the boat! Out to the boat!’ they all shouted. But Mr Percival didn’t understand. He flew too far to one side, dropped the line in the sea, and turned back.
‘Missed,’ said Hide-Away, disappointed.
‘But it was a good try,’ Storm Boy said,
as Mr Percival landed. He gave him a piece of fish and scratched his neck. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Good boy, Mr Percival. In a minute we’ll have another try.’
But they missed again. This time Mr Percival flew straight towards the boat but didn’t go out quite far enough. ‘Never mind,’ said Storm Boy. ‘You’re a good pelican for trying.’ He held Mr Percival like a big duck and gave him another piece of fish.
Again and again they tried, and again and again they missed. At first the men on the boat couldn’t understand what was going on, but they soon guessed, and watched every try hopefully and breathlessly.
Storm Boy and Hide-Away were disappointed but they didn’t give up. Neither did Mr Percival. He flew out and back, out and back, until at last, on the tenth try, he did it. A great gust of wind suddenly lifted him up and flung him sideways. He threw up his big wing and, just as he banked sharply over the tugboat, dropped the line. It fell right across the drowning ship.
‘You’ve done it! You’ve done it!’ Storm Boy, Hide-Away and Fingerbone shouted together as Mr Percival landed on the beach. ‘You’re a good, brave, clever pelican.’ And they patted him, and fed him, and danced round him so much that poor Mr Percival couldn’t quite understand what he’d done that was so wonderful. He kept snickering and snackering excitedly, opening his beak in a kind of grin, and eating more fish than he’d ever had before.
But the struggle to save the men on the tugboat was only just beginning. The captain seized the fishing line as it fell, waited for the next big wave to roll past, and then fastened the line to the end of a long coil of thin rope. Gently, very gently, he lowered it into the sea and waved to Hide-Away and Fingerbone to start pulling. They had to be very careful; if the line snagged, or if they pulled too sharply, the line might break and they would have to start all over again.
But they were lucky. At last the rope came lifting and flopping slowly out of the backwash. Fingerbone ran down to grab it. He danced and waved excitedly. Now the captain of the tug tied a heavy line to the thin rope, and the crew kept paying them out together, holding on desperately as the big waves and spray kept smashing over their ship.