Where Cuckoos Call

by Des Hunt

  For two years Dad had suffered from depression, tiredness and sore eyes. At the same time Mum and I had had to endure his quick changes in mood and very short temper. This form of the disease is called PHL, which stands for Persistent Human Leptospirosis.

  PHL can change people’s personalities. That’s what happened to Dad. It was as if the bacteria had come in and taken over, and he now had the personality of the bacteria—nasty, slimy and horrible. I know it’s not a nice thing to say about your dad, yet that’s what he was like a lot of the time. Then, every now and again, my real dad came back, and for an hour or so he’d seem fine. Sadly, it never lasted for long before the bacteria took over again.

  Even though I knew a lot about PHL and understood that Dad had a disease, it didn’t make it any easier to take. At first I thought he was blaming me for not killing the possum. I now know that wasn’t so. However, it doesn’t stop me blaming myself. If I had shot the possum dead, or even missed, it would never have happened and Dad would still be OK.

  Talk about consequences…

  After dinner I made a home for Bigmouth. That’s the name I gave to the cuckoo, because whenever I disturbed her a mouth double the size of the body would open and start waving around.

  Her house was an old warbler’s nest, placed in a box which sat under a lamp. That nest was from my collection of twenty-three nests. All of them were disused when collected, as I don’t steal nests when they’re still being used.

  The other task was to feed her, and this was where I was likely to run into trouble. Yet when I went into the kitchen Dad was dozing in his chair and Mum was watching TV. She glanced across as I opened a cupboard. She shook her head sadly and mouthed a single word before turning back to TV. The word was ‘consequences’, and I chose to ignore it.

  Bigmouth’s dinner was a mix of hard-boiled eggs and crushed biscuits. I fed her with an old cake-decorating syringe.

  I’d never had any success raising a chick. Often they were too weak to eat, and those that did eat would be all right for a while and then just die. However, despite my failures, I had hopes that Bigmouth was going to be my first success. She certainly knew how to eat. She scoffed down the mix until her little crop bulged like a balloon ready to burst.

  Later—when I’d gone to bed—I looked back on my birthday. I gave it a six out of ten. That was a lot higher than the previous two. The bikers took away three points and Dad’s reaction to Bigmouth took away another one. As I had done hundreds of nights before, I went to sleep wondering how I could help him get better. I wanted to kill those slimy bacteria and bring Real Dad back again.

  Chapter 3

  Bigmouth was very much alive in the morning, squawking and begging as if she’d never had a feed in her life.

  I took her out of the nest and fed her. Again, she gulped down more food than I would have thought possible. Then she pointed her bum at me and ejected a bag of droppings. She turned and looked at me as if to say, ‘C’mon. Take it away. Don’t you know that’s your job?’ So I became the mother that cleans up the cuckoo do—although I didn’t carry it in my mouth the way a mother bird would.

  This messy chore made me think about the tiny grey warblers raising such a big chick. When she left the nest she would have been three times their size. I admired the warbler for its determination, and hated the cuckoo for being such a bludger. Of course, that didn’t apply to Bigmouth—I was starting to like the squawking, little greedy-guts.

  Nobody was up when I had breakfast. Dad hardly ever got out of bed before ten, and Mum usually soaked in the bath for an hour or so.

  My mornings are almost always the same: breakfast and then feeding the animals before walking to the sand spit to check on the birds. The animals are two pigs, about twenty chooks (plus one rooster), and two dogs. Dad used to look after the pigs and dogs, but I took over when he kept forgetting and one of the pigs almost died. It’s not a job I like. I don’t mind feeding them; it’s cleaning out the pen that I hate. It’s a filthy, stinky job and it’s not as if we do anything with the pigs. Before Dad was ill, he would kill one every Christmas and then we’d get a replacement. The current ones were fully grown and probably too old to eat.

  The chooks were OK, except, just like with the pigs, I didn’t like cleaning out their house. Every now and then I would kill the old ones and cook them up for pig food. The rooster made sure that we got replacements every spring.

  The dogs were Peg and Jake. Peg was a fourteen-year-old huntaway, and well past doing any work. She was a wonderful dog and a great companion—I loved her heaps. Jake was much younger. He was a header and used to be good at it, but we didn’t have any work for him anymore. Headers have to be aggressive to do their job properly, but without work Jake’s aggression had turned to violence and I no longer trusted him.

  That morning when I opened Peg’s cage she stayed in her box. This happened sometimes, and it just meant her joints were stiffer than usual. She was the best judge of her health, so I left her there and set off by myself.

  The sand spit separates the estuary from the sea. It’s about a kilometre from the house. The first part of the spit grows cabbage trees, pohutukawa and scrub. There are two big trees, one—a kahikatea—near the mouth of the stream and the other—a puriri—halfway along, where the sand begins.

  That puriri is hundreds of years old—it’s a huge tree. About four metres up it is my tree hut. This is not just any old tree hut built out of scraps of iron and rotten wood. This is more like a house, with opening windows, a lockable door, multiple levels, carpets and a waterproof roof. My dad and I had built it back before the illness. I’d made some changes since, but basically it is the same structure we had built three years back. It’s designed to affect the tree in the least possible way. It is so well done that most people don’t even know it’s there.

  My mum named it Treetops after a famous hotel in a tree in Africa. From that one you can watch elephants and giraffes drinking at a water hole; mine is designed to watch birds.

  Entry to my Treetops is via a ladder. Inside it’s always a big mess. The problem is that I’m a collector. I collect all sorts of things. I’ve already mentioned birds’ nests, but I also collect eggshells, seashells, bones, and just about everything else. Some of my things are quite rare, like the spiny murex and carrier shells. Others are probably valuable: I have two ancient stone adzes and some round bone ornaments called reels. These should really be handed to a museum, but I just haven’t got around to it.

  A set of stairs leads from the middle of the hut up to the lookout. That’s where I view the birds. Every person I’ve taken up there has been amazed by the view. Even though I’ve been up there hundreds of times, I still get thrilled by it.

  That morning the view was at its best. The tide was full and the estuary was covered by a thin mist. The sea was calm, with the waves lazily turning over as if it was hardly worth the effort. A short distance offshore, Lizard Island was glowing orange in the sunrise.

  For me the most interesting part is the sand spit and its birds. Each day I have many things to check and record, like counting the godwits that come here from Alaska. This can be done only at high tide when they roost on the sand. At low tide, they spread onto the mud flats and sandbanks to feed.

  That day I counted fifty-six, eight more than the day before. The numbers would slowly increase until summer when there would be about a hundred godwits. They do nothing but feed, as their breeding season is in the northern hemisphere during our winter.

  The breeding birds were the terns, dotterels and oystercatchers. There were four dotterel nests and six others. The dotterels are the most important as they are in danger of becoming extinct. My job is to keep an eye on the nests, record any changes, and try to keep them safe.

  I scanned the sand with my binoculars, looking for nests, making notes and thinking about things. This lookout was the last thing Dad and I had built. I remember the day when we finished. We were sitting down having a drink of orange, feeling good
about our work…

  ‘So what are you going to call it?’ asked Dad.

  ‘I dunno. Something boring like The Tree Hut, I suppose.’

  ‘Nah. It has to be better than that. How about Ben’s Arboreal Residence?’

  ‘Shouldn’t it mention birds somehow?’

  ‘All right. What about Ben’s Avian Haven?’

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘No, it’s too hard to say.’

  Then Dad chuckled. ‘Hey. You remember those girls that came to the beach and went skinny-dipping? We could call it Ben’s Boob Watch.’

  ‘More like Dad’s Boob Watch,’ I said. ‘You’re the one who’s always talking about them. You even went looking for the binoculars.’

  ‘Oh yeah? You were staring at them too.’ Then he laughed. ‘I know what we’ll call it. From now on this tree hut will be known as Titty Towers.’ And for a while it was, until Mum got sick of hearing the name and made us change it to Treetops.

  Back then, we were always playing fun games like that.

  Those pleasant thoughts were rudely interrupted by the noisy approach of a helicopter. We get these every now and then. They’re people from Auckland sightseeing as they fly to and from their holiday homes further down the coast. I don’t like them because they scare the birds off the nests.

  This one sounded louder than usual. Suddenly it appeared over the ridge to the north, barely missing the trees. It swooped down into the estuary, banked and did a circuit, skimming close to the water. Then it flew straight at the sand spit.

  ‘Get out of there!’ I screamed. Already the godwits were in the air and in the path of the helicopter. On the ground, terrified birds were running in all directions, their nests abandoned in the panic to get away from the noise. I watched in shock as the blades tore into the flock of godwits, scattering feathers and birds everywhere. At least three bodies dropped to the ground. Others continued flying but were losing height. Those that escaped headed out to sea.

  It was all over in a few seconds. The helicopter banked and moved slowly along the beach, preparing to land. At the end it turned and slowly dropped onto the sand. The motor stopped and the rotors circled to a halt. Once again silence had returned to Mansfield Bay.

  The sand spit was empty of movement except for some feathers slowly fluttering to the ground. All the birds had either flown away or ducked for cover. Hopefully, some might return to their nests—if they weren’t disturbed again.

  I was fuming. I climbed out of Treetops and stormed along the beach towards the two men who were standing around admiring the view. Then Dad stepped out of the trees. I slowed a little and began thinking. This was no random landing to look at the beach. These people were expected, perhaps invited.

  There were two men: one wearing a business suit, the other more casually dressed. Dad was wearing his town clothes. They had finished shaking hands by the time I arrived, and were discussing some feature of the stream. Dad looked surprised to see me.

  When there was a pause in the conversation, he said, ‘This is my son, Ben. Ben, this is Mr Wiltshire. He and I are doing some business together.’

  Wiltshire was a short, tubby man with glasses and a funny hairstyle. His handshake was firm and he looked me in the eye as he said, ‘Hello, Ben. I saw you in the tree as we came in.’ I just nodded.

  ‘And this is Dave, the pilot.’

  ‘You coming up for a look around the bay?’ Dave asked as he shook my hand.

  I stared at him. ‘You’re not going up again, are you?’

  Wiltshire answered. ‘Yes. We need to get a feel for the place. Do a couple of circuits or so. Work out where things will go.’

  ‘What about the birds?’ I cried.

  ‘Oh, they won’t cause us trouble this time,’ said Dave. ‘They’ve already flown away. We hit a couple of them. But unless they go in the air intake, they don’t cause any problems.’

  ‘What about the nesting birds?’ I yelled. ‘They’ll never go back to their nests.’

  ‘What nesting birds?’ asked Wiltshire.

  I was starting to answer when Dad butted in. ‘Ben’s got a thing about birds. He likes to think he looks after the birds around here. It’s nothing to worry about. They’ll be all right.’

  ‘No, they won’t!’ I shouted.

  Dad shot me daggers. ‘Yes they will, Ben. Leave it.’

  Dave looked embarrassed by our argument. Wiltshire shrugged, ‘Then, I gather you’re not coming. Anyway, it would be a bit of a squeeze.’ He turned towards the machine. ‘We’d better do it now. I’ve got a meeting back in Auckland at two.’

  As Dad moved past me, he said, ‘You go back to the house. We’ll talk about this later.’ Even though he sounded friendly, I could sense the anger below. I did as he said. It would do no good to annoy him further.

  All the way back home I heard the helicopter doing circles of the bay. They must have gone around four or five times. I knew what that would do to the birds. While there was more time left in the breeding season, some would decide to try somewhere else. Yet I also knew that there were few safe places left for them to go—Mansfield Bay was one of the last. Somehow, I felt that was about to change. A person like Wiltshire was not here to see the scenery. He was here to make money, lots of it, and it would be the wildlife that would pay.

  Chapter 4

  I spent the rest of the day in my room feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t forget what Dad had said. He likes to think he looks after the birds…He’d ridiculed me. It was a put-down and he had never done that before.

  In the past he’d always encouraged my interest in birds. He was the one who had started it all. ‘It’s part of being a Mansfield,’ he’d said. ‘You have to look after the birds. My father did it first. Then I did when I was a boy, and now it’s your turn.’

  Looking after the birds was more than just counting them and locating nests. The hardest part was protecting them from predators. Dad’d taught me how to set the Fenn traps to kill the weasels, stoats and rats, where to put the traps, and how to remove the dead animals without hurting myself.

  In summertime, he’d always helped put up the fence to keep visitors out. He’d intervened when I’d gotten into arguments with stupid people who laughed at their dogs chasing the birds. Twice, he had even shot dogs that had strayed onto our property.

  I had always thought of him as someone who cared about the environment. Yet now…I didn’t know what to think.

  Lunchtime came and went. I would’ve had something to eat, except the men were having their lunch. There was a lot of laughing and shouting, as if they were celebrating something.

  Instead of eating, I went onto the Internet. That’s how I go to school. I get lessons from a school that specialises in online learning. Mostly it’s assignments, but twice a week we have lessons where the teacher and a few kids are linked. I prefer this to the assignments. Not that I find schoolwork hard. I’m good at science, English and maths, reasonable at technology, and hopeless at the rest because they’re not interesting.

  A check of my emails found two from my teacher reminding me of overdue assignments; one from cousin Tyrone (with yet another photo of him clutching some girl), and one from Cole Smith. I read Cole’s email first.

  Kia ora Ben,

  Why did the chicken cross the road?

  What! You don’t know?

  It was to show the possum that it could be done.

  Ha! Ha! Ha!

  I haven’t heard from you for a while. I hope you’re OK. You still doing all that schoolwork? Not just the stuff you like.

  And remember The Goal. Always think of The Goal. Don’t know if you caught up with my news but I’m still on target. I’ve been selected for the Highlanders again next season. So, that’s great.

  How about sending me some of your news before I start thinking you’ve fallen off the planet?

  And keep looking after those birds.

  Ka kite,

  Cole

  I’d first met Cole Smith thro
ugh school. Every month we have a Digital Talk from somebody who has achieved things. We see the person just like our computers were TVs. They can’t see us, but we can ask them questions. The whole idea is to keep us motivated to do our schoolwork. Sometimes it works—it certainly did when we talked with Cole Smith.

  Cole is a rugby player, a very big one. TV commentators often call him the Gentle Giant. This is because he’s such a friendly player. He plays hard, but it’s usually with a smile. I’d never played sport and, up until I met Cole, I’d never watched rugby. However, I was so impressed by what he said to us and how he said it that now I’m a big fan.

  Cole wants to be an All Black. He’s had this idea ever since he was seven. When he was eleven, he started calling it The Goal. He’d told us that almost every day since then he has tried to do something towards The Goal. Some days he moves backwards, and that’s when he works out what he’s done wrong and tries not to repeat it. The important thing is not to give up.

  I know this sounds boring, but Cole certainly isn’t. He’s a fun guy. In the Digital Talk, he was always laughing and cracking stupid jokes. He made me feel good.

  At the end he’d asked us to send him an email with our Goal—so I did. Since then I had gotten an email from him at least every couple of weeks. There’d always be some stupid bird joke, something about him, and some words of encouragement. His emails always made me feel better. While this one didn’t clear away all my gloom, it did make me think of my Goal: that’s to be a scientist studying birds, hopefully at my own research institute here at Mansfield Bay.

  So, I thought, how will Mr Bill Wiltshire fit in with The Goal? Probably not very well, was my answer. Yet how could I know for sure? Perhaps the first thing was to find out more about the man.