by Des Hunt
I sat looking at her, thinking what a strange bird she was. Not in the way she looked, but in her lifestyle. According to the website, she has the strangest life of any migrating bird. In her breeding plumage she is more brightly coloured than the male, which is unusual in any bird species. She also makes the male sit on the eggs. When they hatch, she heads off to a warmer climate leaving him to look after the kids. Later, when the young can look after themselves, he too heads off.
They spend their non-breeding season almost entirely at sea, where they feed off tiny fish, shrimps and whatever else lives near the surface. They spin around in circles, sucking the food into their beaks. I hoped I would get the opportunity to see this before Tiny-M headed off again. That’s if she recovered, of course.
Chapter 9
Shortly after the storm, I got an email from Cole.
Kia ora Ben,
Hey, why do cuckoos fly north for the winter?
Because it’s too far to swim.
Ha! Ha!
As you have probably seen on the news, I didn’t make the All Blacks. Not this time anyway. But I have been selected for the New Zealand Maori team to play Australia later in the season. The Goal is still possible.
The other day I was getting some treatment from our team doctor, and we got to talking about mental illness. I mentioned your father and his problems – without giving any names. He said that it was probably easily cured using some of the new, restricted antibiotics. So, here’s another suggestion for you and/ or your mum: try to convince your father to go into a hospital, and get those bacteria killed once and for all.
I hope this is helpful. Keep in touch.
A family of cuckoos was getting ready to migrate. The mother cuckoo said, ‘My instincts say to go north.’ The father cuckoo said, ‘My instincts say to go south.’ The baby cuckoo said, ‘My end stinks too, but it doesn’t say which way to go!’
Ka kite,
Cole
Cole’s suggestion about a hospital was not a new one: Dad’s doctor had tried several times to get him into one. The problem was Dad just wouldn’t go. Still, when I got the chance, I mentioned Cole’s suggestion to Mum. She shrugged and said she would raise it with the doctor next time they went. Maybe this time they’d be able to convince Dad, but she didn’t sound very hopeful.
A week after the storm, Tiny-M had recovered. She was a fun bird to keep, almost as tame as the chooks. I suspect I was the first human she had ever seen. If you spend your life at sea or in the wilds of the Arctic Circle you would never see humans. She didn’t know that many of us are dangerous. To her, I was the one who provided food—what was there to be scared of?
On the eighth day I banded her ready for release. She was a migratory bird and it was well past her departure time. If she didn’t leave soon, she would have no breeding season.
Treetops seemed lifeless on that day, with few birds and even fewer bird calls. It made me feel lonely. Bigmouth had gone without the chance to say goodbye. Our last meeting had been when she had found Tiny-M. That was probably the last time I would see her. There was nothing in the books that said shining cuckoos returned to the same area. She would arrive up north sometime in September and then move further south. It was likely that she would follow other cuckoos, especially the males, because by then she would be ready to mate.
That’s if she returned to New Zealand at all. It was a long trip for such a small bird and, even if she did make it to some tropical island, she had to survive without my daily handout of grubs. Perhaps she would have had a better chance if I had ignored her once she had started feeding herself. Maybe I should’ve…
My attention was caught by a bright colour in amongst the logs on the spit. It looked like something was jammed there—a machine of some sort. I grabbed the binoculars and saw that it was a blue trail bike. It was school holidays and the bikers were back.
Quickly, I scrambled out of the tree and over to the logs. The bike was a mess, and not just from the crash: it was smeared with blood where the rider had been injured. I could see what had happened from the tracks. Blue had screamed up the dune, jumped off the top and crashed. Luckily, the other two had skidded to a halt at the top. They must have then taken Blue off for treatment, leaving the bike behind.
But I knew they wouldn’t leave it for ever. They could be back at any moment. I called Peg and headed for home. Unfortunately Peg was stiffer than usual that day, and I had hardly started when I heard a vehicle with a boom-box thumping down the drive. My only hope was to get back to Treetops and lock myself in.
They were already driving along the beach when I got back, although I was certain they hadn’t seen me. If we both got up the tree they might never know we were there. I heaved Peg over my shoulder and climbed the ladder one-handed. She was heavier than expected, and it seemed ages before we got into the hut. I slammed the door shut and locked it. Now we were safe, even if they did find us.
Their vehicle was a black ute. Surprisingly, they were still wearing helmets, and that scared me. It meant they were planning to meet me and didn’t want to be recognised. Blue Honda had an arm covered in bandages.
They soon had the bike on the back of the ute. Then they stood around talking. One of them turned and pointed at Treetops. A moment later the ute revved up, heading our way.
When they were directly below the tree, the motor stopped and the boom-box became silent.
‘Hey, Bird Boy. We’re going to get you.’
‘You could have killed me with that trap of yours.’
‘Now it’s your turn.’
It was time to do some pleading. ‘I didn’t set any trap.’
‘Crap! There weren’t any logs there until you shifted stuff around.’
‘The storm washed them there.’
‘More crap!’
I couldn’t think of anything else to say—they wanted to believe that I had done it. Next I heard one of them bashing at the door. They wouldn’t get in that way. For a while they talked amongst themselves.
‘Hey, Bird Boy. We’re going to kill your little birdie here, unless you come down.’
I moved to a window where I could see them. Two of them grabbed hold of the cage and began rocking it from side to side. I had built it to keep out small animals, not big oafs like them. It would soon collapse. Tiny-M sat in the middle looking frightened. For the first time she was seeing humans as an enemy.
‘You coming, Bird Boy, or do we kill the little birdie?’
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to protect Tiny-M but I didn’t want a bashing. If only I’d brought Jake with me. What should I do?
In the end, they made the decision for me. I think they wanted to kill Tiny-M anyway.
‘OK, Bird Boy. Say goodbye to your little birdie.’ Then they really set to rocking the cage. In a moment, it was toppled. Tiny-M had flattened herself in the grass. Blue moved towards her, lifting his foot, getting ready to stomp on her.
‘No!’ I yelled.
He turned and gave me the fingers. That was his mistake. Suddenly, Tiny-M was up and away, scampering as fast as her little legs would go. When she was clear of the tree, she launched herself into the air and flew gracefully off across the estuary. I could have cheered with relief.
But my relief did not last long, for now they turned on me with more venom than before. Yamaha moved to the ute, returning with newspaper. The others started pulling branches off the manuka. The intention was plain: they were going to set fire to the tree.
‘You coming out now?’ yelled Red. ‘Or do we smoke you out?’
‘No!’ I yelled. ‘I’m not coming out.’ I said it with more confidence than I felt. But I was fairly certain that they’d have trouble setting fire to anything other than the paper, as everything was so green and moist.
‘Then you’re going to suffer,’ sneered Yamaha.
However, it didn’t turn out that way. In fact, they hardly created enough smoke to make my eyes water. When it was clear that it wouldn’t work, I sta
rted to enjoy watching their silly efforts. Even if the manuka had been dry, they wouldn’t have been able to set fire to it—they had no idea of what to do.
Eventually they got bored and climbed back into the ute. As I watched them driving down the beach, I felt the joy of victory. This was my second win. Perhaps now they would leave me and the birds alone? Yet a tiny voice inside said, ‘Yeah right! Whatever! You just keep on dreaming, Mansfield. Those bikers will have you for breakfast.’
Chapter 10
With the cuckoos and godwits gone, and Tiny-M free, I found myself with little to do except schoolwork. I was working on a social studies assignment one afternoon when there was the chime of an email landing in my inbox. It was a welcome distraction.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject:
Give the name of a bird that might know this email address and I will send a message.
With rising excitement, I sent ‘shining cuckoo’ and waited. And waited, and waited. Nothing came until the following day, when I got:
Hi.
Here it is called the Shining Bronze-Cuckoo, but I guess it’s the same bird.
I am on an island called Lopevi in Vanuatu and I have one of those cuckoos begging food from my table. It has your email address on its leg. Would you care to elucidate?
I got out of my chair and danced around the room, laughing with joy. I was so thrilled. Bigmouth had made it and already she’d found someone to feed her! I went out and told Mum and Dad. Mum was almost as excited as I was. Even Dad showed enough interest to drag out an atlas to locate the island. It took some finding: a tiny speck, south of the equator, and just to the left of a straight line north of New Zealand. Whatever methods Bigmouth had used to get there, she’d got it right. A little more to one side and she would’ve still been flying.
Before I replied to [email protected], I had to look up ‘elucidate’: it means ‘to make clear’, so that’s what I did. I decided to start by giving my name, where we lived and my age. I always inflate my age on the Internet so that I’m not treated as a kid. This time, I gave my age as fifteen. Finally, I gave all the details about Bigmouth: where I found her, how she got her name, what I fed her, and the date she had left Mansfield Bay.
Again there was no immediate reply. While I waited I researched Lopevi Island, and what a place it proved to be. The island is an active volcano, only seven kilometres in diameter, yet it reaches a height of fifteen hundred metres. It is always active, but some times more so than others. When it’s in full eruption the lava flows all the way to the sea. The photos I downloaded showed parts of the island totally without plants and looking like a burnt-out moonscape. Back in the 1970s, it was considered so dangerous that the islanders were shifted away.
So why was [email protected] there? And why had Bigmouth chosen Lopevi? There were plenty of other islands nearby. Many of them had active volcanoes, too, but at least people lived on them.
The following morning I got some of the answers.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Bigmouth
What an appropriate name. Wow can she eat.
I first saw her here three days after she left your place. At first she was shy and hid in the bushes. Slowly she got used to us and now demands a feed almost every day. I didn’t know what to feed her at first. She didn’t like Mom’s cooking!!!! I eventually found some worms that live on the wild taro and she loves them.
I have discussed with Mom whether I should give you any personal details and she decided that it was probably safe. She hadn’t heard of any paedophiles who used migrating cuckoos to make contacts and it’s not like we can just go out and meet somewhere, is it? So I’m assuming you are who you say you are.
My name is Sarah-Lee Petersen, aged 14, of New London, Connecticut, USA. My Mom and Dad are archaeologists doing a dig here on Lopevi looking for evidence of Lapita people. I’m on summer vacation from school.
If you send me some photos of your place, you and Bigmouth, I’ll do the same.
I won’t be able to reply immediately because we use a satellite phone for our Internet connection and it costs zillions of dollars. I’m only allowed on once a day so it will be 24 hours before you get a reply.
See ya,
Sarah-Lee
I thought about the photos a lot before deciding to do something. There was no problem with the photos of Bigmouth and the bay, they were easy. It was the photo of me that I worried about. Somehow I was going to have to look fifteen. I took a photo of myself, but it just didn’t look right. I then tried a little computer modification. I changed the hair, altered the shape of the nose, put some bristles on my chin, and even added some pimples that were ready to burst. Nothing worked—I still looked like an overweight twelve-year-old. Then I had a brain wave. I didn’t have to send a photo of myself at all—it could be somebody else. Sarah-Lee would never know the difference.
My cousin Tyrone is fifteen and he’s always sending me photos of himself with some girl attached. It’s always a different girl and they’re all good-lookers. That’s because Ty isn’t a bad-looker himself. A few minutes on the computer and I had erased the latest girl from a photo and had something I was proud of: something that a fourteen-year-old girl would be very happy to get.
Shortly afterwards, my package was on its way, ready for Sarah-Lee to admire the following day.
Her next email took ages to download. There was very little text but a heap of photos. I got a much closer view of Mount Lopevi gushing steam and ash, views of other islands taken from Lopevi, shots of a very rugged coastline, and even one of some sharks circling close inshore. It was certainly not my idea of a tropical paradise—still, it would be a fantastic place to visit.
Then there were photos of the archaeological dig. These showed posts with squares of strings, and people on their hands and knees with trowels and brushes. A label on one pointed out Sarah-Lee’s parents. Both had golden hair, very brown skin, light clothes, and big, happy smiles. They looked like people who really enjoyed their work.
And then came the photo of Sarah-Lee herself. It filled the whole screen. I stared at it for a moment and then jumped out of my chair, clapping my hands and shouting. I had struck gold. This girl was gorgeous. She looked like an all-American beauty. She had the same features as her parents, with the smooth complexion of women in beauty ads. She was also particularly well developed for a fourteen-year-old.
I gaped at the photo for ages. I had never exchanged emails with a girl before, and to strike one like this…Suddenly I was nervous, as if she was in the room. What would I say to her? What would she think of me? And then I remembered: to her I was not a gawky, fat kid—I was a cool-looking teenager. My cousin Ty would have no problems with a girl like this. He would be chatting her up, fast as. And that’s what I would do, just relax and act as if I was somebody else.
Over the next few weeks, Sarah-Lee and I communicated almost every day. We found that we had many things in common: a love of birds, an interest in all natural things, and a deep concern for the environment. As I got to know her, I overcame my stupid reaction to her photo and acted like myself. Our email conversations became natural and sincere; at least I know mine were.
Towards the end of this time, my Mum started acting strangely. First, she began to take a great interest in the mail, even going to the gate to collect it herself. Next she made me shift the computer out of my room and into an alcove in the hall. Her reason was to learn how to use the Internet and, in particular, email.
I had some problems with this: while I don’t mess around on the Internet, I have some things I would prefer nobody saw. I overcame this by installing a new operating system so that both of us could use the computer without seeing each other’s stuff.
For a couple of days I showed her how to access sites and send emails. She learnt quickly. From then on, I would often hear the keyboard clicking away late at night after I had gone to bed. I still had no idea w
hat she was doing.
Then we took photos of herself and Dad, followed by one of me, and I showed her how to edit them and print them at the size she wanted. After that, things settled down a bit, except she seemed to be smiling a lot more than usual.
A week or so later, I asked her again about getting Dad into hospital. She looked at me with a silly, happy look and said, ‘It’s all under control, Ben. Just be patient and everything will be revealed.’ That’s when I worked out what all the Internet stuff had been about—she had been arranging something for Dad. I could see why she would be happy about it. I’m sure she wanted her old husband back as much as I wanted Real Dad.
Down at the estuary, Tiny-M was still around. By then it was almost winter and she should have been thousands of kilometres to the north. It didn’t seem to worry her, though. She spent her days poking around the estuary or, if the tide was in, swimming in circles after fish. She would be swimming gracefully along and then suddenly she would tear around in circles with her beak in the water. The stuff that she caught must have been small to fit in her mouth.
Nothing much else was happening around the place except that the trees down the drive lost their leaves, the seas got rougher, the temperature got colder, and I discovered fantasy fiction.
I had always borrowed library books through school—mainly kids’ books—but few of them had really grabbed my attention. Then we had a Digital Talk with a hip-hop singer who had just won some music award. As a kid he’d lived in a remote area just like us. When things started getting him down, he’d read fantasy. He reckoned that a big, thick fantasy book would solve even the worst of problems. I had written down some of the authors he mentioned, and ordered a couple of their books. He was right. The first one I’d read had nine hundred and thirty-six pages. I’d sat in Treetops and finished it in four days. I’d become so engrossed in wizards, dragons, beautiful maidens and wonderful heroes that I never once thought of the problems with Dad and the bay. Plus, in the books there was always some miracle that would make things right in the end. That gave me hope that we might have a miracle sometime: Dad would be cured, the bay would be saved, and the birds would live in peace for ever.
