by Hager, Mandy
The boat, an aluminium launch, powered down and slowed until it idled a few short metres from the yacht. A crowd of tourists gathered at its rail, chattering and pointing as Min continued with his tricks.
Will tacked again to draw Min off, but the orca was spy-hopping, vertical in the water with his head right out. Cameras clicked. Hands reached. When someone’s cap blew in the sea Min scooped it onto his nose and tossed it in the air to rapturous applause. Will groaned. His lonely mate had turned into a circus performer overnight.
He slipped away, chickening out of trying to lure Min with a song. If Min had cast his lot in with the tourists then Will could only hope they wouldn’t do him harm. His chest ached like the key to happiness had slipped between his hands.
When he neared the salmon farm at Whitlaw’s Bay, he saw Dean standing on the pontoon at the cage’s edge. This wasn’t where Dean usually worked. Will changed his tack and cruised over.
‘Dean!’ he called. ‘Hey man. Wassup?’
Dean’s jaw was tight. ‘It looks like your little mate came visiting last night.’
Fate punched Will in the gut. ‘What?’ Beyond Dean’s livid face the salmon cage was empty.
‘I told you that thing would do no good. There’s a metre-long tear in the mesh.’
‘That doesn’t mean he did it. It could just be a coincidence.’
‘Big bloody coincidence.’
Bruce Godsill stormed up the pontoon. Oh great. ‘You’ve found the tear?’ His tone was sharp. Discordant.
Dean glanced at Will then looked away. ‘Yeah. Hunter’s had a scout around — we can probably net a few but most are gone.’
‘Put everyone on overnight shifts. If there’s a greenie on the rampage I want them hung.’ He thundered back towards his boat, snapping out instructions to the other workers as he passed.
‘Is it still around?’ Dean shot at Will.
Will shrugged. As soon as The Daily Mail returned, the whole damn town would know. ‘He’s putting on a free show for the mail boat just off Buckley’s Head.’
‘Perfect. Now we’ll have bloody Fisheries sticking their nose in as well.’ Dean kneaded at the worry lines on his forehead. ‘Best you get the hell home, boy. When Bruce finds out he’s going to blow.’
‘Look, Dean, I didn’t mean—’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ He swatted the air between them. ‘Go on, bugger off.’ Dean kicked the Zeddie away and turned his back, scratching his head as he stared down at the empty cage.
WILL STOWED THE BOAT AND set to work weeding the garden. It was Dean’s pride and joy — what he lacked in housework skills he made up for here — they never had to buy in extra veggies and the fruit trees produced bumper crops. He worked his way along the potatoes, then threw the weeds in for the chickens and set to work thinning carrots and spring onions for brownie points. Though even weeding couldn’t take away the fact he’d be in knee-deep shit if Dean let slip. He felt stupid. Naive. Did he really think Min would ignore those poor imprisoned fish?
God, he wished he could speak to his mum; she was the only one who’d understand. She’d taught him not to walk away when someone — something — needed help. And he bet she’d do the same if she’d found Min. Anyway, how the hell was Min to know the salmon were farmed? Not that Will would eat them, even if he had the chance. He’d read enough about the crap they fed those frankenfish — but they were Dean’s livelihood and, with his parents’ wages funnelled straight into two mortgages, now Dean’s livelihood was his as well. Ka-boom.
An hour later, Will stretched his back. He picked basil, courgettes and ripe tomatoes to make a pasta sauce. He owed his cooking skills to his mum as well. Dean was always mellower once he’d had a decent feed.
But the clock still seemed to crawl. Will tried to get a head start on his next history assignment — something about the Treaty of Versailles — but until the bag came back from the Correspondence School with the course booklets there was stuff-all he could do. Besides, his mind kept sliding back to Min — and Bruce Godsill. He flicked back to Google and searched out orca sites.
It was hard to reconcile the term ‘killer whale’ with Min, although the other name he found, ‘wolves of the sea’, he kind of liked. It seemed they lived in family groups, ruled by the females of the line — some staying with their mother for their entire life. So what had happened to Min’s mum? His pod? There were stories of other orphaned orcas around the world, most of the poor little things killed by boats or rounded up and put in tanks. It sickened him. And clearly didn’t do the orcas any good: from what he could make out, the only times they’d ever attacked a human was in captivity — and who could blame them? Some tanks were so small the orcas could hardly move.
At five-forty-five Dean finally came home. He grunted once and locked himself into the bathroom. Will’s nerves were so on edge he barely registered the first few items on the TV news. He was picking at his thumbnail when the presenter said, ‘It was all smiles today in Pelorus Sound, when passengers on the local mail boat were treated to a close encounter with a small orca …’ There was Min, performing for the cameras like SeaWorld’s Shamu.
Behind him Dean snorted. ‘Smiles?’
Will nearly wet himself. How long had Dean been standing there?
‘… It seems the little visitor has already made at least one friend. Ron Allison, who’s with a party walking the Pelorus Track, sent in these mobile images, shot earlier …’
Will’s heart thudded. Please god, no. But there he was, frolicking with Min, half naked. The only consolation was that the footage had been shot from so far back Will’s features were blurred.
‘Jesus spare me!’ Dean slapped his forehead. ‘I thought I told you to keep the hell away? Bruce will go ballistic when he sees this. Shit!’
‘He’ll never guess it’s me. The picture’s—’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Will, there’s my bloody boat. Everyone will know it’s you.’
Will swallowed back a rising lump. Bloody small towns. He was still scrabbling for a new line of defence when the next bomb dropped.
‘… Fisheries spokesman for the Pelorus Sound area, Marine Mammal Officer Harley Andrews, spoke to us earlier …’ A middle-aged bald guy sporting an unruly moustache filled the screen. ‘It is against the law for anyone to approach a whale in the water at a distance less than 100 metres …’ Will’s washing-machine stomach cycled to spin. ‘… nor a vessel approach within 50 metres, unless authorised by the Director-General. Anyone not complying with this regulation is liable for a fine of up to ten thousand dollars for each offence …’
There was more, but Will couldn’t take it in. Twenty grand for comforting an abandoned baby? He was still trying to shake this number from his head when the phone rang. He glanced over at Dean, who rolled his eyes before picking up.
‘Yeah, what?’
Will watched Dean’s face. The lines between his eyes puckered then set into his usual Shar Pei frown. The voice on the other end was so loud it buzzed through the room.
‘I know, boss. I already—’ He stopped as the voice railed on. ‘Yeah, okay, okay. But you have to—’ Another barrage came down the phone. ‘Yeah, gotcha. Right.’ He slammed it down. Turned on his heel to confront Will.
‘No prizes for guessing who that was.’
‘Does he know it’s me?’ The words could barely make it past the barbed wire in his throat.
‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’ Dean collapsed into his favourite chair. ‘He’s gonna dob you in to Harley. Says that if we have more damage he’s gonna hold you personally responsible.’
‘But that’s not fair! I can’t be held responsible for what Min does. He’s wild.’
‘Min? You’ve even fucking named it?’ The incredulity on Dean’s face sent heat swarming up Will’s neck. Dean blew out a slow jerky breath. ‘You’re not in bloody Guatemala now, Dr Ropata.’
The old Shortland Street line, one of his father’s overused jokes, shocked Will into a tentative smil
e, even if it was Dean’s way of calling him a townie. ‘What happens when I can’t pay?’ That would turn into another nightmare fast.
‘Harley’s not going to do anything, mate. He’s a pretty reasonable guy — well, for now. We went to school together. He owes me big-time for some information way back when. But you’d better keep the hell away. So far as Fisheries is concerned there’s a “wall” that has to be maintained. Ask the Whale Watch guys at Kaikoura; they’ve been doing a balancing act around the protocols for years.’
‘But what about — the orca?’
‘Forget it, mate. Hopefully it’ll bugger off before it’s KOed by a boat prop — or someone shoots it on a cold dark night.’
‘But that’s ridiculous! It’s all alone! They have the same life span as human beings — it’s like he’s barely out of nappies.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Will. It’s a goddamned fish!’ Dean scooped up the remote and changed the channel. ‘I don’t make the rules, just try my best to live by them — and you should too.’ He turned up the sound. A clear full stop.
For the next two hours Will sat there, staring at the action on the TV screen, but took in nothing. His mind churned over all the stories he’d read online. If Min hung around, he’d end up dead, no argument with Dean on that. But how the hell could they force Min to go? That question did his head in.
Eventually he washed the dishes, just to do something, then went to bed. His book — an airport thriller of Dean’s — was so ridiculous it didn’t matter that he couldn’t properly take it in. At ten he finally turned off the light. He lay there in the dark and listened to Dean’s snoring rumble through the house — a nasal E breath in; a rolling lip-percussion out. And once he’d noticed this, his brain could not help trying to hum along. He had to get out of there. Walk off his frustration.
He snuck out the back door and walked down to the slipway where he’d sung to Min the night before. The moon lit up the ripples on the water as the tide came in, the sea’s steady in-and-out a background chorus to the night noises: the distant buzz of television sets, the slamming of a door, a souped-up car doing burn-outs somewhere over near the park, two barking dogs. He scooped up a handful of pebbles from the high-tide line and skimmed them out into the channel.
As his eyes adjusted he noticed the ripples were being stirred up by a dorsal fin. Min eased between the channel markers, the white patches behind his eyes glowing as he made his way towards the slip. He was calling, sounding desperate, and Will sent forth one tiny answering whistle back. Min’s head popped up, as though to verify it was Will. He splashed his tail, the noise loud in the night, and squealed in return.
Despite himself, Will’s spirits rose. He watched as Min approached; heard Dean’s lecture resounding in his head: forget it, mate — as if Min could be ignored. He kicked off his shoes and started rolling up his jeans. He’d just wade out and say goodnight, surely that couldn’t hurt?
A voice shot from the darkness. ‘Thought it was you!’
He jumped a mile as Gabby Taylor and two friends emerged from bushes near the walkway. Her cigarette trailed noxious smoke. He shrugged and turned to leave, praying they hadn’t noticed Min.
‘My uncle’s really pissed off with you.’ Gabby placed herself between Will and his escape route. ‘He says you bloody townies should be driven out.’
A skinny blonde girl chortled while the other, dark-skinned, maybe Māori, stood silent, arms crossed, guarded, staring like he was a specimen in a jar. Out in the water Min exhaled spume. All three girls spun around, mouths gaping as Min spy-hopped and cried out. His need, his loneliness, spiked at Will’s heart.
‘You gonna get your kit off again?’ Gabby snorted smoke as Will silently begged the darkness to mask his raging blush.
He pushed past her, hating to desert Min. His heart was thrumming, sweat prickling his temples, the smell of her cigarette summoning unwanted flashes of that other night. The clink of bottles as they came at him. The mad-eyed fury when he foolishly mouthed off. He could hear the schlick of the knife as it tore right through his coat, grazing his skin. Could almost taste the blood. Behind him Min continued calling over the girls’ rough laughter.
He raced up the unlit road, sure he heard those meth-heads running up behind. He glanced around. Had to. Jesus! There was a figure charging after him. He picked up speed, cursing his stupidity for leaving his shoes.
‘Hey wait!’ It was a girl’s voice, but not the drawl of Gabby Taylor.
Will forced himself to stop. He stood stock still, breathing hard as she caught up. It was the darker girl, clasping his shoes in her hand.
‘You left these.’ She thrust the trainers at him. Her voice was low, perhaps the G below middle C. Melodic. Nice.
‘Thanks.’ He took the shoes from her. Turned to leave.
‘What was it like?’ she said.
He swung back around. ‘Pardon?’
‘Te kera wēra. The little whale. What was it like to swim with it?’ Her head hung low, as if she didn’t want to meet his eye.
‘Amazing,’ he conceded. ‘He’s so smart.’
‘My nanny says it’s the return of our māhuri tōtara — my brother Kingi. He passed away in Afghanistan last year.’ She glanced up for a moment and the moonlight’s cool silver cast her pain quite clearly.
‘Maybe,’ he said, not sure how to respond. ‘I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he’s a boy.’ He’d heard about her brother’s death — Dean reckoned they were related to her family in some way. Turned out the guy had been killed in what the army had called ‘friendly’ fire. Sick irony. The whole town had been in mourning for months, Dean said.
‘Do you think—’
‘Pania!’ Gabby Taylor’s voice split the night, harsh as a gull. ‘We’re going now!’
The girl, Pania, shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I’d better go.’ She walked towards the slip.
‘Hey!’ Will waited until she looked back over her shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry about your brother.’
‘Thanks.’ She sniffed. ‘Did you know we’re second cousins?’
‘We are?’ He wasn’t very clear on how that worked.
‘Yeah.’ She walked away, all turned in on herself. Her loss made Will’s feel selfish. He’d always wished he had a sibling — now he figured the loss of one would hurt beyond belief. And then there was Min … To be so small and so alone; it got to him.
He stood in the empty street, the girls’ babble slowly fading into the night. As soon as he was sure they’d gone, he backtracked past the slip and out onto one of the fingers where the commercial boats were moored. A down-light threw long shadows as he walked right out. Here the water was deep enough for Min to swim. He checked over his shoulder before he whistled softly. Nothing.
He lay down on the wooden planks and leaned out over the dark water. Patted its surface with his hand. Somewhere close by he heard the spitting of Min’s blowhole. He whistled louder. Min emerged from the gloom like a piebald wraith.
Will reached out until his hand connected with Min’s dorsal fin. He ignored his noisy chat, instead patting his back in long firm strokes. His mother used to do this when he was small and woke up crying in the night. The stroking soothed him too. He pressed his growing calm down through his fingers to quieten Min.
After an uncomfortable ten or so minutes the orca stilled. Will could no longer see the light reflecting from its eyes. It slept, floating in the oily water, connected to Will by the comfort of his hand.
He stayed until his muscles screamed for him to stop. Then, with a new sense of resolve, he stumbled off to bed.
Young minds, my friends, they flit like lanternfish, never pausing in one place. One moment down, the next one up. From dark to light. And in those murky days my moods flip-flopped. I was either starved for solace or pulled to play.
It is sung, though it still tests me so to fathom it, that back before the landmass moved and split, there was a time our kin once strode the earth. We walked, we
fed, we drank from water which was fresh. But as the planets cycled, age on age, our ties to the great ocean kept us clinging to the coast. When we, at last, forsook all living on the land, we found freedom as we floated in the ocean’s outstretched arms.
But we never forgot our ache for air. Oh no, we live in a watery world while we crave the life force of our past. We yearn — I yearn — to take my last breath in the land’s sweet light. So hear me now! I have a natural need. Do not allow me to be swallowed by a sea-bound grave. Drowning is still our deepest fear.
Ah, you wonder why I sing of this? Dear friends, through the misplaced mercy of the Hungry Ones they first showed their hoard of hidden love. We would wash ashore, seeking an airy end, and the Hungry Ones came to comfort us — caressing, chiding, calming as our spark grew slight. Whole families flung themselves forward, yoked by love to share their fate.
And yet these Hungry Ones would choke upon our chosen early end. They laved us, loved us, mourned our loss, sang soothing songs into our ears. And, when the tide returned, they shook us free and shooed us back to sea. They could not understand our urge to die as One. We would return, they’d lead us out. Death lingering. Fellowship foundering.
But we learned from this how deeply they could feel. That, just as we can choose to curb our worst, so too the Hungry Ones can call their cruelty in. Take heed of this. It is a lesson for us all. A warning and a blessing, both.
All those years ago, on my own, I thought my mother called on me — was sure I heard her — chasing me to make a choice: hide away, for fear of being felled like her, or sharpen up my skills for sensing deep inside. I had to find a way to feel when the Hungry Ones were for me — or against.
Into the stiff silence of an early dawn, I awoke alone. I floated off in search of play and found an unknown boy, a broad and brooding boy, whose outbound breaths misted the air as he swung a water-stream towards the sides of a big silver boat. I swam to it, showered by spray, and sent this boy a song. Shock pulsed off him, but I saw goodness in his eager eyes. I sensed a shyness too. A wary wakefulness.
