by Breton Dukes
Bird North
Victoria University of Wellington
PO Box 600 Wellington
http://www.victoria.ac.nz/vup
Copyright © Breton Dukes 2011
First published 2011
This book is copyright. Apart from
any fair dealing for the purpose of private study,
research, criticism or review, as permitted under the
Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any
process without the permission of
the publishers
National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Dukes, Breton.
Bird North : and other stories / Breton Dukes.
ISBN 978-0-86473-757-1
I. Title.
NZ823.3—dc 22
Published with the assistance of a grant from
Ebook production by meBooks
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the following. Fergus Barrowman and Damien Wilkins. My family, especially Mum and Dad. My friends, notably Kath Dunn and Darryl Short. My 2009 classmates. And – for supporting me with love, rent and critique – Elizabeth.
To Elizabeth, and to my family
Shark’s Tooth Rock
Ross wound down the window and looked out to Shark’s Tooth rock. Beside him, in the driver’s seat, Greg took a pouch of tobacco from his pocket. The only other vehicle in the parking area was a campervan. An Asian couple were in the front pointing at the sea.
‘Looks good eh?’ said Greg.
‘There’ll be a current,’ said Ross.
‘Which one’s Shark’s Tooth?’
‘There,’ said Ross.
A long point stuck straight out from the carpark. On the south side of the point the water was sheltered by the steep hills that rose up from the coast road. On the northern side, two hundred metres out and fronted by a long, deep bay, was the triangular rock. A wave crashed over it. If it hadn’t been for Greg there was no way Ross would be going out.
‘And you’re sure there’s fish?’ said Greg.
‘Yeah, but it was a lot calmer last weekend.’ Ross wound up the window and went to get out of the car.
‘What’s the hurry mate?’ said Greg. ‘Let a man have a smoke. If there were fish last week there’ll be fish now.’
Ross took his hand off the door handle and looked at his watch. A seagull dropped out of the grey sky and landed on some rocks.
‘I ran one of them over last Christmas.’ Greg lit his cigarette with the car’s lighter, then pointing it at Ross, sighted down its edge. ‘Smacked it with a tent pole and its wing came off.’ The orange coil faded. Greg blew smoke into the windscreen.
Ross got out of the car. He’d been back for three weeks. The diving was the only thing keeping him together. At the pub in the weekend he’d seen Greg and told him about the butterfish he’d speared.
‘I’ll call you,’ Greg had said. ‘It’ll be just like the old days.’
They’d both been pissed. Ross hadn’t expected Greg to call.
Greg slammed the door and then slapped his hands on the roof of the car. ‘Okie fucking dokie,’ he said.
Ross carefully tucked his gloves and booties into the sleeves and legs of his wet-suit.
‘You sure you’re going to be warm enough? You don’t want a hot water bottle?’ Greg said.
Greg had the bare minimum: wet suit, fins, mask, and weight-belt. Ross had loaned him some booties and a snorkel.
‘It’ll be cold,’ said Ross.
Greg pulled Ross’s dive-knife out of its scabbard. He raised the knife and made the creaking sound from Psycho.
‘It’s for safety,’ muttered Ross.
‘Yes Sir, Mr Cousteau,’ Greg saluted, then picked up the spear and sat on the bonnet of the car.
Ross pulled on his hood and attached the knife to his lower leg. He put his clothes in the car and picked up his fins. The Asian couple were down by the shore. They were taking photos as a ferry passed behind them.
‘You know Japanese chicks don’t trim their pubes?’ said Greg.
‘Car keys?’ said Ross, holding out his hand.
‘When it gets long enough they plait it and tie it with little bows.’ Greg lobbed the keys into the air.
Ross caught the keys and put them behind the rear wheel. He stood up. The wind was stronger, and with the tide going out the water by Shark’s Tooth was moving like a river.
‘We might be safer out here,’ Ross said, gesturing at the calm water on the south side of the point. ‘I’ve seen moki.’
Greg was testing the tips of the spear’s tines. He shook his head. ‘No way mate, and guess who’s having first go with the spear?’
The Asian couple stopped their photographing and watched the men make their way over the point. The first man, without a hood and with bare hands, was carrying a spear. His long hair swept around his face. He wore a weight-belt over his shoulder like it held ammunition. The man behind him had a serious look on his face and he didn’t react when the taller man pointed at something and laughed. The Asian couple went back to their van. They could follow the men’s progress by the birds that flew up from the point.
‘Catch you out there,’ said Greg, before leaning forward into the water and kicking with his yellow fins.
Ross spat into his mask and worked the saliva around with his finger. Crossing the point, Greg had yahooed about in the rock pools trying to spear small fish. ‘You ever had a dose of these?’ he’d shouted, holding up a dead crab. Ross sat back in the shallows. There was a gentle swell and he bobbed up and down as he pulled his fins on. It was good to be in the water. At school he and Greg had listened to the same music and played basketball. But that was over four years ago.
Between the end of the point and Shark’s Tooth the water was too deep to fish. Without the spear Ross was able to swim it front crawl. The current was not as bad as he’d expected. Maybe the wind had made it look worse. He caught up to Greg, who’d surfaced from a duck dive. ‘Save your energy until we get to the rock,’ Ross said.
‘I just saw a trevally,’ said Greg, measuring a length along the body of the spear.
‘Trevally?’ said Ross. But Greg’s head was back in the water.
Ross swam on. The rock appeared. Its face was broad, deep, and bearded with kelp. Fish moved far below like ghost cars on a distant motorway. He duck dived and followed one towards a bus-sized rock formation. He held his nose and blew out. The pressure in his ears eased. Three moki, as plain as commuters, swam by. Ross went around the end of the rock formation. The butterfish was there. It was looking straight at him. Ross made a sound. The butterfish swam off. Ross kicked to the surface. The current had carried him away from the rock and he had to swim hard to get back. Once there he grabbed a piece of kelp and, when a swell came through, dragged himself up the rock. He took off his mask. The wind was cold on his nose and cheeks. He spat and held his hand over his eyes. Greg was swimming towards the rock. He looked awkward in the water, moving sideways as much as forward. Two crying gulls flew towards the coast. Ross sat down and pulled the mask over his face. The last low rays of the sun were shining between gaps in the cloud. A wave broke over the rock. He looked up, and for a moment the world was foam: milk-white and tinged with sunlight.
‘This spear of yours needs sharpening,’ shouted Greg, treading water and holding up the spear. ‘I had a huge fucker on.’ He was breathing hard. Ross took the spear and helped him onto the rock.
‘How’d you find the current?’ said Ross.
‘What current?’ said Greg, taking off his mask and blowing his nose. His fingers were red and cold looking.
More gull
s were flying towards land. On the coast road some of the cars had turned their lights on. Ross slid into the water with the spear. He had to kick to stay in the same place. He looked up at Greg.
‘I need to fix something on my flipper,’ said Greg. ‘You go. I’ll follow you.’
Ross let the current take him around the side of the rock. Deep beneath him a large fish swam over a strip of sand. He took a long breath, pulled hard with his free hand and, leading with the spear, went straight down. Small fish scattered like there’d been a bomb blast, and he blew the pressure out of his nose and kicked on. At a certain depth the buoyancy of your wetsuit and the air in your lungs are overwhelmed by the weight of the ocean, and you start to sink. In this way, gliding in with the current, just a car length behind, Ross drew level with the fish.
It stopped and turned. In profile its dorsal fin was a black breaking wave. It came towards him, curious and heavy. He reached out with the spear and let the sling go. There was penetration, and the fish tried to shake the tines from its face. Holding the spear like a hayfork and kicking hard, Ross forced the creature against the rock. The tines went deeper and there was a flush of blood. The fish continued to shudder but with less purpose. Ross needed air. He held the fish and the spear and went for the surface. Long, strong kicks: a trail of blood and bubbles. Dark lightened. The pressure released. He smiled around the snorkel’s bit, went through the surface, and took a breath.
‘Faarrrkkk!’
. . .
He held the fish out of the water. It was a green-flecked black and as wide as a tyre’s tread. He retrieved his knife then gripped the fish through its gills and, with the tines still embedded, screwed the blade through the roof of its head. Its eyes pressed, its mouth opened, and then it went still. He freed the fish from the spear and it drooped in his hands. Already the green sheen of its underbelly had faded. He dropped it into the catch-bag he wore like an apron around his waist. A gull called and then another. Further out, attached above the deck of a ferry, two lifeboats were bright and orange.
The current had taken him some distance, and it was a slow swim back to the rock. Greg looked up when Ross called out, but didn’t smile or say anything. He had his hands close to his mouth like he was eating a pie. ‘Might have that big buttie you saw,’ said Ross, grabbing hold of a strand of kelp.
Greg just nodded.
‘How you feeling?’ said Ross.
‘Fucking brilliant,’ said Greg, staring at the sea. It was a dark blue spaced with white-capped waves, and he looked at it like it was some awful thing coming through his bedroom window.
‘Is that flipper all right?’ said Ross.
‘Yeah,’ said Greg, and then less forcefully, ‘I’ve just finished fixing it.’
‘We’ll swim straight across,’ said Ross. ‘Once we get behind the point the current won’t be too bad.’
‘How’s the current?’ Greg said.
Ross shrugged. ‘If you start getting tired drop your weight-belt.’
‘Why would I get tired? Why don’t you drop your weight-belt?’
Ross didn’t say anything. The fish bumped around his knees.
‘Fucking diving,’ said Greg. He went into the water holding his head back like a five-year-old. He put his snorkel in, looked down, and then lifted his head up. ‘This snorkel’s leaking.’
‘Come on,’ said Ross. ‘Let’s get going.’
Greg flailed his arms and legs. Ross hadn’t realised he was such a bad swimmer. After a few minutes Greg swung around and spat out his snorkel. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he said. ‘Are we getting anywhere!’
‘We’re going good,’ said Ross. He aimed the spear at the place where they’d got into the water. ‘Aim there, and you have to go hard or we’ll end up ...’ Ross pointed over his shoulder and out to sea. A wave smacked into Greg who coughed and took a breath.
Greg started swimming. Though he had his snorkel in he was rotating his head with each stroke. It was no good. They were going out to sea. I could leave him, thought Ross. I could swim ashore and get help.
Greg stopped swimming. Again he looked around at where they’d come from and where they were going. His long hair made cold black curtains around his cheeks and chin. Behind his mask his eyes were wide. He reached two hands down to his waist and disappeared. Ross watched him under water. Greg shimmied like he was getting out of a tight skirt, and then his weight-belt went free. He bobbed up, spat out his snorkel, and gasped. His lips were blue. On the shore the lights of the cars made long lines around the coast. Ross kicked his long fins. He could see the back of the rock now. The tendrils of kelp were like hair in the ocean and the shore, the hills, and the mountains were curved and still like a dead body in a dark room.
‘Ross!’
Ross turned around. A court width separated them. The sea was a treadmill. Greg had his arms up. His shout was as feeble and distant as that of a child trapped in a roll of carpet. Ross dropped the spear, unbuckled his weight-belt, and swiftly swam the space between them.
If I leave him, thought Ross, he will die.
The Asian woman was in the back of the campervan eating cheese. The man had finished his meal and was standing out in the wind working his arms back and forward. ‘Their car is still here,’ he said.
The woman appeared in the van’s door. ‘What did you say?’ she said.
The man pointed to the car. The woman got out and looked.
‘Maybe they were swimming to an island,’ she said.
The man made a doubtful sound.
‘Who would we call?’ said the woman. ‘The fire brigade?’
Both men were on their backs. Greg was lying between Ross’s legs. The fish was squashed between them. With his hand under Greg’s chin, Ross had tried to get them back to the coast. He had kicked hard in one direction and then the other. He had shouted at Greg, ‘Kick, fucking kick.’ But it was no good. The current had them. ‘I can’t get us back,’ Ross said. ‘We’re better to stay close and save our energy.’
There was no moon and no stars. On the fuselage of an incoming plane a red light blinked red and then green.
Ross could feel Greg’s jaw chattering.
When they were still at school Ross used to pick Greg up before basketball practice. Greg would come down the steep steps from his house and stand at the driver’s window tapping the glass with a key or a coin. ‘You’re too careful,’ he’d say. ‘You drive like you’re already dead.’
It had happened like that today. Ross had been so surprised that he’d shifted straight across. A belt loop on his trousers had snared on the end of the handbrake and he’d had to wriggle to get free. Greg had been hooting when he got into the car. ‘Good one Ross, real good.’
The current was weaker now, and the sea was less choppy. Ross had lost feeling in his fingers and feet. ‘C’mon,’ he said to himself. ‘Concentrate.’
He still had Greg under the chin. Greg’s jaw had stopped chattering. ‘I feel warm now,’ Greg said.
Ross could see a finger of dark land and a lone light. He unclipped his catch-bag. It hung just below the surface, and before he started his long swim he used two hands to hold it under until it had disappeared.
Bird North
Sheryl followed a grey-haired man off the plane.
The hostess smiled and said, ‘Enjoy your day.’
Sheryl nodded and then tipped her head to get the hair off her face. Going up the tunnel she swapped her handbag from one shoulder to the other. Three men in overalls were waiting at the end of the air-bridge. The grey-haired man stopped in front of them and dropped a newspaper into a blue recycling bin. Sheryl went around him and off the air-bridge. There were life sized cut-outs of two muddy rugby players. One player was showing a credit card to the other player as if sending him to the sin bin. The passage opened onto a broader concourse. She passed a man pushing another man in a wheelchair. She’d phoned Marcus at the restaurant the afternoon before.
‘Who?’ the voice said.
�
��He does the dishes,’ said Sheryl.
The person went away and there was a sound as if the phone were swinging against a wall. There was laughter and then footsteps. They’d arranged to meet at the baggage claim. It was the only place he knew for sure.
Sheryl walked on, watching her shoes and the carpet’s turquoise squares. A man with tinted glasses and a wand stood at attention behind a metal detector.
‘We can have coffee,’ Marcus had said, in a strangely cheery voice.
There were more people and then a wide window with views over the runway and bay. A lime green plane descended in front of a hill. Sheryl checked the boarding pass in her bag and then, nowhere near the baggage claim, there he was. He had his hands in his pockets and was looking up at an arrivals and departures screen. There were tracks of woolly hair on the back of his neck and the label of his T-shirt stuck out. She touched his elbow and said his name.
He was smiling as he turned around. She shrugged and started crying.
‘Sis,’ he said, putting his arms around her. She felt his face in her neck. ‘Look at you,’ he murmured.
They pulled apart. ‘I’m only here for forty minutes,’ she said, and looked down. The carpet had become a straw colour.
‘That’s ages,’ he said, ‘a lifetime for your average white butterfly.’ He put his arm around her. ‘Been a long time,’ he said, as they started walking. The passageway rose and there were more windows, a long coffee bar, and five laughing pilots on stools. The music was like spoons on a roof. A barista with an Afro was shooting steam through milk.
‘Somewhere quieter?’ she said, and then, ‘How did you get here?’
‘Bus,’ he said, bending to pick up a used napkin. ‘A purple one.’ He dropped the napkin into a bin and then walked her beyond the pilots and to a window where a child had two hands on the glass. A plane took off and the child slapped the window like there was something out there to startle.
