Song of the Sound

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘What dolphins?’ It was one of the others: she recognized an American accent.

  ‘Why were you steaming flat out up the sound like that?’ Libby looked at Pole again. ‘Showing off to your clients? You can’t just blast up and down the sound. You know I’m conducting research here.’

  Colour smudged Pole’s face at the cheekbones. ‘Look, I’m….’

  ‘Forget it, the damage is done.’ Libby indicated the laptop. ‘You see this? I was monitoring the resident pod echolocating for food.’ She tapped the screen with a stiff finger. ‘They’re not there any more.’

  Pole had gathered himself now and shook his head. ‘There is no resident pod in Dusky.’

  ‘Oh, give me a break. Of course there is. You know there is. It’s why I’m here, remember — to prove it.’

  ‘Maybe, but until you do there isn’t one. How long is it going to take you — two, three years?’

  Libby stared at him. ‘Oh, so that’s how it is,’ she said. ‘At least I know now. I tell you what, Ned, I’d put my reputation on the line today if that’s what it takes.’

  Pole stared at her for a long moment, his face scarlet now. The three clients looked uncomfortable, one of them sucking at a can of beer. Pole started the engine and put his boat astern, touching his hat as he went. ‘Sorry if we disturbed you.’ He spun round again and the wash rocked Libby’s boat, then he headed back up the channel. In the distance Libby could hear the rotors of a chopper coming in to lift out the deer.

  She sat down, blew out her cheeks and waited for her heart rate to settle before she looked once more at her computer. She didn’t yet know if Pole had made the pod move on or not. She didn’t know what pitch or frequency his engine was working on, but the dolphins were gone and something told her it was more than mere coincidence.

  Nehemiah Pole steamed back up the sound, his clients silent around him. He slowed the launch down as they entered Cook Channel. His mind was working overtime. The scientist had guessed right, he was showing these guests the site for the first hotel. They were big-time hunters from one of the largest US gun clubs and he had been guiding them into the bush after deer. He showed them his favourite haunts. He told them tales of the old days, how the choppers took over the area: how he would leap from the skis with a net and wrestle the deer to the ground when it was more profitable to trap rather than shoot them. He tracked red deer into the bush, and they all bagged one. Up until just now they had been as happy as Larry and so was he. But that scientist could be much more trouble than he had first thought. He needed action and he needed it now, before DoC really got their claws into the council and forced some kind of moratorium.

  The hunters sensed the change in his mood. Gone was the affable backwoods hunter; in his place a brooding businessman who could sense the best opportunity of his life beginning to slip away.

  ‘You OK there, Ned?’ one of them said to him. ‘Looks like a great spot for a lodge.’

  ‘What?’ Pole glanced round at him. ‘Oh yeah. I’m sorry I couldn’t show you properly.’

  ‘Going to happen though, is it?’ The man with the beer leaned on the stern. ‘I’ve got clients aplenty, Ned, but not if it’s not going to happen.’

  Pole shot him a stiff glance. ‘It’ll happen, mate. No worries.’

  ‘I can count on that, can I? Print my literature?’

  ‘You bet your life you can.’ Pole lifted the satellite phone from where it lay under the dash and punched his wife’s number at home.

  ‘Jane, it’s me. Has the company been in touch yet?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  Pole was quiet, biting his lip and thinking.

  ‘Why, Ned? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I just wanted to know, that’s all.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Still in Dusky: we’re flying a couple of deer out. I just bumped into that scientist and I think she might be more trouble than I first reckoned.’

  For a moment his wife was silent. ‘Don’t worry about her, Ned, worry about Gibbs. She’s one researcher. Even with the university behind her she’s nothing, she can’t prove the existence of anything in the time scale she’s been given, certainly not whether dolphins are affected by noise. Gibbs is the thorn in our side. Get rid of him and we’ll win.’

  Libby was driven back to Supper Cove by the rain, which showed no sign of abating. The wind was lifting, coming in as a westerly, and the sea roughened into salted grey flakes out by the peninsula. She had trawled around for a bit longer and picked up the dolphins talking to one another between Five Fingers Peninsula and Parrot Island. She watched them for a while, thought about diving then decided to go back to base and cook something hot to eat.

  She dried off in the hut and made some soup, which she sipped while separating the information created on the computer. The radio suddenly crackled and a voice came over the airways.

  ‘Wave Dancer, Wave Dancer, this is the fishing boat Huckleberry on channel 66. Do you copy?’

  Libby picked up the transmitter. ‘Huckleberry, this is Dr Bass. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Greg Charles here, the skipper. Look, we’re a fishing boat and we’ve just landed a hell of a catch in our nets.’

  ‘What kind of a catch?’

  ‘What I think is a bottlenose dolphin.’

  Libby pulled on wet gear and gumboots and stepped out into the rain, which was sheeting harder than ever now and silting the estuary from the river. She untied the boat, started the engine then backed out into Supper Cove. She switched on the radio.

  ‘Huckleberry, Huckleberry: this is Wave Dancer. Where exactly are you?’

  ‘We’re taking shelter in Cascade Cove,’ the skipper came back. ‘It’s blowing a hooley out there. Wind’s up to forty knots.’

  ‘OK. I’ll be there in half an hour.’ Libby eased the throttle higher and the wake lifted behind her.

  The waters of the fiord slapped into the bows as she headed back down Cook Channel. The westerly was still blowing and the wind speed that the Huckleberry skipper had talked about was coming straight at her. No wonder they’d sought Cascade Cove as shelter; it was an all-weather mooring and they needed one in this. She had caught the weather forecast as she headed out and the wind was increasing to storm force and would not blow itself out until morning. She looked at her watch: nearly six now and the sky was black overhead though darkness would not officially fall till much later. She hit the scan button on the VHF and called the Korimako base.

  ‘Is Bree with you, Alex?’

  ‘No, Libby. She’s not.’

  Libby was disappointed. She had missed her daughter last night because of bad atmospherics and now she had got through, Bree wasn’t there. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In Te Anau with John-Cody: we’ve got a Doubtful trip over the weekend and she’s gone to get stores with him.’

  ‘Oh, OK. How is she, all right? I tried to get through last night but couldn’t.’ The radio crackled with static rain and Libby did not hear Alex reply. The wind was driving the rain right into her face now and the clouds licked so low about the mountains they almost formed part of the forest. For the first time since she had been out here, she thought about putting on her life jacket. She pressed the transmitter once more. ‘Alex, tell Bree to try me later, if she can before fisherman’s radio.’ Libby hoped Alex had heard her and hung the handset up. The fiord was dark and brooding now, mountain and water and no glimpse of the sky, just chipped and angry cloud. All at once she felt alone.

  The wind died as she entered Cascade Cove and she was glad of it. She knew she was no great shakes at the wheel of a boat and this was as rough as she had seen it. She saw the Huckleberry through sheets of falling water, the deck lit up with the work lights as she came alongside to port. A crewman in yellow oilskins threw her a line. She tied off at the bow and climbed the ladder that overhung the gunwales. Her booted feet slipped on wet metal rungs and the crewman helped her up and over the side. She could see the dead dolphin, un
tangled from the nets now, beyond the twin and rusting winches set in the stern. The crewman nodded to the bridge where an older man stood in the doorway smoking a pipe. ‘That’s Glen, the skipper.’ Libby made her way over and Glen stepped aside for her.

  The boat was like the Korimako in that bridge and galley and saloon all occupied the same squared space. Libby could smell fried fish and saw the remains of their meal still clinging to plates that cluttered the table.

  ‘DoC told us to report any dead dolphins to you,’ the skipper explained.

  ‘That’s right. Thanks for doing it.’ Libby stripped the hood from her head and shook loose her hair. ‘What happened?’

  The skipper shrugged. ‘We were coming into the sound between the peninsula and Seal Islands. The storm blew in on a westerly and we thought we’d best lay up till the morning. I don’t know where we got the dolphin, but I’d say fairly close to the mouth of the sound.’

  ‘Can I look?’

  He smiled at her, showing one missing tooth. ‘That’s what we called you for.’

  She went out into the rain, the deck awash with water, translucent and shimmering in the bright glare of the lights. The dolphin was male, lying on his side with his beak slightly apart. Libby looked for distinguishing marks, fearing she might know him. The dorsal was not one she recognized though, and she dropped to one knee, pulling on rubber gloves and looking up and down his flanks. He was light grey in colour and his back was littered with dots like his smaller spotted cousins. He had several large bite marks in his flesh. The skipper stood alongside her. ‘I reckon that was a white pointer or mako.’

  ‘Have you measured the bite radius?’

  He shook his head.

  Libby took a tape measure from her pocket and did so. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘A mako or a small great white.’ She glanced at the skipper. ‘Close to the Seal Islands, you say?’

  He made a face. ‘Not close, but you know how it goes — where there’s seals there’s sharks.’

  Libby set about working on her report. She measured the dolphin from snout to fluke and dorsal fin and she recorded the maximum girth. She photographed the dorsal and the flukes from both sides then she took a sample of blubber. Opening her knife she rested an elbow on her thigh. ‘This is going to take me a while,’ she said. ‘Is that OK with you?’

  ‘Whatever.’ The skipper looked down at her then. ‘Have you got good lights on your boat? You’re going to need them later.’

  Libby nodded and wiped the rain from her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I’ve got to pretty much disembowel this fellow. There’s some plastic containers in my boat, do you think one of your lads could get them for me?’

  ‘No worries.’ The skipper sent someone to get the containers and Libby looked at the head of the dolphin. Carefully she cut into the gums of both jaws, taking out four teeth which she placed in separate zip-lock polythene bags. She went through the rest of the measurements she needed, then extracted the dolphin’s stomach and liver and placed them in separate containers. When she finally stood up, the deck reeked of death and she stepped back from the carcass. Two crewmen, more used to it than she was, grinned as she turned away.

  ‘Can we ditch him for you now?’

  Libby nodded, gagged a little then fitted the lids on her containers. She went into the wheelhouse and accepted a cup of coffee from the skipper. She glanced at the dashboard and the single-sideband radio and a thought struck her. ‘Can I use that?’ she asked.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Libby put down the coffee cup and picked up the handset. John-Cody had a single-side-band in the house as well as the office and she called up the Kori-base, as the rain continued to batter the wheelhouse. Her boat would be waterlogged and she thought she would have to remove the plug and empty it before she ventured very far. She looked at her watch: nearly nine o’clock, she shouldn’t interfere too much with the fisherman’s radio now. John-Cody answered and she was pleased to hear his voice.

  ‘How you going?’ he asked her.

  ‘OK, I think.’ She told him about the dead dolphin.

  ‘It happens sometimes, Lib. Was it male or female?’

  ‘Male. A young adult male.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Eight two from snout to fluke.’

  ‘What kind of a shark?’

  ‘I thought maybe a mako, but the skipper here thinks great white.’

  ‘Either way big enough to kill a lone male dolphin. The crew has no idea what happened?’

  Libby told him that it had been dragged up in their nets and they knew no more than that. She was about to tell him about Pole, then remembered it was an open line so she said simply, ‘I had a visit from our mutual friend today: interesting graphics from the hydra-phone. Or at least I think there were. I’ve not had time to extrapolate the information fully yet.’ She sighed then. ‘Look, I’m tired and I want to see Bree. Can you get a floatplane to come for me tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll wait at the hut. Tell the pilot to land as far into Supper Cove as the wind will allow because I still can’t figure what effect the planes have on the pod. I tell you, John-Cody, two years is not enough: it’s going to take at least two PhDs to create an acoustic model. Things change on a daily basis. Can I speak to Bree, please?’

  Bree came on the line and Libby suddenly realized just how much she missed her.

  ‘How are you, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m OK, Mum. Is it raining there? There’s a real storm here.’

  ‘It’s here too. I’m on a fishing boat at Cascade Cove.’ Libby told her about the dolphin and Bree said she should be careful driving the boat back to the hut.

  ‘When are you coming home?’ she asked.

  Libby brightened then. ‘I’ve just told John-Cody. He’s sending a plane tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh great. I really miss you, Mum.’

  Libby could hear the need in her voice and she had to force down a sob that lifted in her throat. ‘I miss you too, darling. But I’ll be there when you get home tomorrow. I’ve got to go now, the weather’s foul and I’ve still to get back to the hut.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry. I love you, Bree.’

  ‘Love you too, Mum.’

  Libby hung up the handset, glad that John-Cody was with Bree on a wild night like this. She looked at the captain who cocked his head to one side. ‘You know we’ve got spare bunks on board.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ve still got masses of work to do.’

  The skipper watched her from the bridge while a crewman shone a torch down into her boat as she climbed aboard. The rainwater had not settled in the bottom as much as she had feared and she had no desire to fiddle with the bung in this weather. The crew handed the containers of stomach, teeth and liver down to her and she stowed them in the tiny locker, then started the engine.

  ‘Go careful,’ the skipper called and she nodded, switched on the powerful headlights and turned back up Cascade Cove.

  The wind hit her up the stern as soon as she left the cove. The waves were swollen as if they were out at sea, and the water slapped the side of the fiord, sending phosphorescent spray up the walls before rolling back to create an alternative swell. It shuddered into the bows as she headed towards Supper Cove and shelter. Libby wanted to get home; the darkness was total now and the wind howled in her ears, plucking at her oilskins and working the hood down over her face. She sat at the wheel and steered into the darkness, mindful to keep mid-channel and well away from the cliffs. Distance was distorted in the dark and especially in weather as bad as this with a westerly blowing the storm right into the heart of the fiord. She piloted the boat carefully, forsaking her urgency for caution. She thought back to the time she had spent looking at the chart and tried to remember if there were any hidden rocks in Cook Channel.

  There weren’t and she made it through Nine Fathoms Passage unscathed. Ahead t
he sound ended in twin forks, with Supper Cove to the north. She gave the final island a wide berth and the estuary lay before her. The water was calm here, the heat taken out of the wind by the heights of Cooper Island. The Wave Dancer’s lights illuminated the cove and she eased well back on the revs as she approached the little jetty.

  Back on dry land she wished she had left lamps burning in the hut. The building was darker than the shadowy bush that surrounded it and the patter of rain on tree and roof and water gave rise to all kinds of other inexplicable sounds. Libby was not one to be spooked easily, but this was as wild a night as she had seen and both the dead dolphin and Pole’s appearance had disturbed her. The loneliness crept up on her as she made her way to the door. Inside she took off the wet-weather gear and the glow of the fire in the pot-bellied stove was very welcoming. Kneeling down, she opened the lid with the poker and fed more wood. Instantly it crackled and hissed and the sound was a pleasing distraction from the drumming of rain on the roof. Libby rocked back on her heels, watching the shadows cast along the walls. She took a cigarette from her pack and she sat there with it unlit, letting the warmth from the stove seep into her muscles. She was glad she had spoken to Bree and glad she had spoken to John-Cody. She’d call up in the morning if the atmospherics were better and find out when the plane was coming. She could synthesize the computer findings at home in comfort and with some company. With that in mind, she took her sleeping bag from the bunk and fell asleep by the fire, the sound of the rain rattling in her ears.

  TWELVE

  JOHN-CODY WAS THERE to pick Libby up from lake Te Anau when the floatplane came in. She could see his truck parked on Lake Front Drive as the pilot glided gently down to the surface and landed with barely a judder through the fuselage. The plane had been at Supper Cove by nine thirty, when Libby was packed and ready with the boat moored securely at the jetty. John-Cody wore blue jeans and a sweatshirt and he leaned on the bonnet of his truck waiting for her. Libby was suddenly very pleased to see him and his craggy face creased into a smile as she walked up the gangplank. She carried her bag of dirty laundry and her laptop slung over her shoulder. John-Cody lifted the bag into the back of the truck and she climbed into the passenger seat. ‘You want to head straight back or have a flat white in the Olive Tree?’