by Hager, Mandy
He splattered me, fun flying off him as I gargled the sweet water. He splashed, I slapped. He threw the water-maker down; I took it in my teeth and soaked him in return. A great guffaw flew from his lips, a lively laugh. We played until the sun lit up the dawn-side hills.
But with the day came hordes of Hungry Ones, some among them steeped with spite. I shied away, sank in between the bobbing boats, and wallowed down below there, wishing for my friend. Water murky, seabed bleak, its skin oozed oil, weed slick with slime.
It shames me now to say but I grew bored and began bothering the fish below. Before I knew it I was breaking out beyond the boats, sightseers spying on my private play. Some came at me in crafts while others ogled, long lines of limbs leaning out, nosey, needy — yes, yes, I know — my pride puffed up. I broached, I breached, I bounced on cue. Their wonder worked to spur me on.
But when my first friend came again (bless him, yes he did) I sensed he saw my gaming as a grave mistake. He loaded up his boat, heaped it high, and called for me. Of course I went, and when we left behind the fuss he shed his sulk. Oh, how I calmed when he started to sing. Oh buoyant bliss! I thought that all was well within my world … but I was wrong.
Will hunched over his computer, cold and stiff, hardly able to keep his eyes open. He flicked through site after site, scanning down the lines of text to soak in every bit of useful information. Physical characteristics, scientific classifications, habitat, clan distinctions … so many facts he knew he’d hardly remember a third of them. But it was the stories that stayed with him: the beluga who made sounds like human conversation; the huge captive male orca who killed his trainer and injured others while the aquarium tried to cover it up. How the different clans or tribes all ate different things, communicated in different dialects, played different games, devised their own techniques to hunt. Dolphins saving people from sharks. Whales seeking to be freed from fishing lines by human hands. Orcas sweeping seals off ice floes, hunting them in clever, deadly packs.
He felt like an alien anthropologist; that the notes he was making could’ve been about the different tribes of human beings. Loving, emotional creatures, with an innate capacity for killing — or not. The most depressing part of all was the discovery that people were the only real threat to lone orca like Min — while, in return, an orca had never hurt a person in the wild. It pissed him off that even those whose job it was to protect them sometimes got it wrong — standing back, procrastinating, sticklers for protocols that could do more harm than good.
There’d been a little guy, Luna, found alone in Puget Sound, loved by the locals, protected, befriended. The clips on YouTube could’ve been of Min. The same playful nature; same desperate need. He’d got in the midst of all these rugged logger types and won them over with his games, pushing logs around for them like a seaborne lumberjack. If handed a hose he washed down boats; if a fender was thrown out the back he raced along after it like he was being towed. In one clip he could even be seen ‘talking’ to a dog aboard a boat! It was the humour and goodwill of the little guy that stayed with Will. He was just like Min.
And, freakily, the local First Nations tribe thought he was the reincarnation of their chief — exactly like that girl Pania had said of Min. When the authorities tried to net the little fella to transport him back to his pod, the tribe took to the water — not trusting a word the government had to say. They paddled their canoes into the path of the official boats, calm and dignified as they chanted and beat their drums. It was one of the most moving things Will had ever watched, all the drama of Madame Butterfly — the same heartbreaking beauty played out in Puget Sound.
It did no good though. By the time everyone had pissed around, arguing over who should take control of him, the poor little sod had been accidentally killed by the propeller of a boat. As the locals talked about their pain, how much they missed Luna, Will ached for them. He’d be gutted if Min died. Felt hollowed by the thought.
He shut down his computer and fell into bed, restless until a plan slowly began to hatch. When his alarm went off at six a.m., he staggered up to catch Dean before he left.
Dean was already downing his porridge.
‘Hey.’ Will drew out the chair opposite and sat down.
‘You’re up early, mate. On a mission?’
‘Kind of. I met this girl Pania yesterday — the one whose brother died. You know her, right?’
‘Sure do. Her mother Cathy is our cuz — mine and your mum’s. I guess that makes Pania your — your second cousin? Yeah, I think that’s right.’
‘How come you never mentioned they were Māori?’
Dean’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. ‘You got a problem with that?’
‘Hell no.’ Jesus, what did Dean take him for? ‘Would you introduce me to them?’
‘Why now, all of a sudden? When I suggested it last month you cut me dead.’
Dean’s suspicion hurt, even though it was deserved. But if he told Dean it was about Min he’d probably blow his stack. ‘They’re family, man. It seems rude not to say hello.’
Dean scooped up the last mouthful of porridge and swallowed it. ‘Okay. I’ll give Cathy a call tonight.’ He scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘Good to see you making an effort.’
‘Cool. Thanks.’ Perfect! ‘Oh — and I’m gonna camp out tonight.’
‘Eh?’
‘Tonight. Thought I’d stay up at Gleneden.’
Dean’s eyes narrowed as he scratched his chin. ‘This isn’t about that frickin’ orca is it?’
‘Jesus, Dean. You spend six weeks hassling me to get out more, and when I do, you go all weird?’
Dean’s eyebrow rose. He dropped his bowl into the sink and collected up his lunch. ‘Suit yourself. There’s camping gear in the shed. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?’
It was a relief to hear Dean leave. He’d got off lightly. When it came to fish and animals, Dean and all the other locals shared a completely different world view from Will. Min threatened Bruce Godsill’s bottom line, simple as that, and the success or failure of the fish farms touched everyone who lived down here. Min was a predator to them. To Dean. Full stop. Why couldn’t they see that some things had more value left alone?
Will threw together an overnight bag and grabbed the blankets from his bed. Filled a box with frozen sausages, apples and a loaf of bread, all of which he lugged, along with Dean’s tent and sleeping bag, down to the yacht. The marina was so lined with onlookers Will had to elbow through to see the fuss. Damn it. Min was at his circus tricks. He threw his gear into the Zeddie and quickly set the sail.
Once on the water he whistled and Min charged over, drawing the eye of every person in the crowd. As soon as they had cleared the channel, out of the public gaze, Will sang. He needed to distract Min while they passed Bruce Godsill’s floating farms.
They reached Brookes Bay just after ten. Twenty minutes further north, the entrance to Gleneden came into view, a tiny blip in the corner of Pitford Cove, one of the last stops before the ropey waters that split the two main islands. Will steered the yacht in through a natural arch of rock; inside, a perfect strip of beach unfolded, tūī and bellbirds flitting in the overhanging trees.
Will anchored right in the middle and tethered the yacht to a pōhutukawa tree each side. He lashed the boom, ready to support the fly of the tent when night fell. Somehow he was going to try to sleep there. If he was right, and Min behaved like Luna, then all he had to do was keep him occupied until he’d sounded out the tribe — or he was arrested by that guy from Fisheries.
He gave himself over to Min’s demands, singing till his vocal chords ached. As the heat of the day condensed, he lolled in the yacht, one hand sifting the water as Min pottered close. It was uncomfortable as hell, his body too long to fit between the seats, but he was so calm, so happy, he almost felt like he used to before his world went mad. Heat and birdsong lulled him into a fitful doze. He was dreaming of his mother flirting with the Fisheries guy when something bumpe
d the hull.
Will startled. Spun around. He came nose to nose with Hunter Godsill, whose overheated face clashed with the orange of his kayak and the ugly mottled bruising of one eye.
‘Gidday!’
Will scrabbled up and cast around. No Min. Good … and bad. ‘Gidday.’ Despite his friendly smile, the fact that Hunter was a Godsill put him firmly in the hostile camp. ‘Did you paddle all the way from Blythe?’
Hunter grinned. ‘Bugger off! I’ve been up since five! I got one of the farm boats to drop me off near Brookes Bay.’
He hooked his oar up onto the Zeddie’s side and slithered from the kayak straight into the water. Will sent a silent plea for Min to stay away.
Hunter dived under, no mean feat in a lifejacket, then bobbed back up. ‘Mind if I come aboard?’ When Will shrugged, he clambered up, dripping on the blankets.
‘Here.’ Will tossed a towel.
‘Ta.’ Hunter dried himself then sat down on the gunwale. ‘Hey, by the way, it’s out in Pitford Cove, if you were wondering.’
Will tensed. ‘What is?’
‘The orca. It’s out there stirring up a run of kahawai.’
‘Oh, right.’ What the hell was this about? A spy for his control-freak dad? Or Dean?
‘It played with me this morning. Sprayed me with the bloody hose!’ Hunter’s voice lifted by at least two tones. ‘I’ve never been so close to one.’
‘You’ve seen others in the Sound?’
‘Once, years ago. Dad reckons they come in every three years or so but that’s the only one I’ve seen. He’s paranoid about them.’ The scorn that tightened his face took Will by surprise.
‘I think it’s a male,’ Will said. ‘I googled it.’
‘Cool. Just us blokes then.’ His grin grew wider. ‘Anyway, I saw you on TV with him last night.’
Hunter was watching him so avidly that Will felt obliged to answer. ‘Yeah, it was pretty wild,’ he said. ‘He’s strong, and really smart.’
‘You think he’d swim with me?’
Ah ha — a test! ‘You heard the Fisheries guy. There’s a massive fine.’
Hunter’s grin twisted. ‘So?’
‘So, it’s against the law.’
‘What they don’t know won’t hurt — oh, look!’ Hunter pointed towards the arch as Min cruised in through the gap. ‘Far out!’ He nearly overturned the yacht by lunging to the other side. ‘He looks bigger this close up!’ Excitement radiated off him like a wave of heat.
Will clicked his fingers and Min edged over to bump his hand. What the hell. ‘Stroke him,’ he said. ‘Go on. Just do it real calm.’
Hunter reached out and brushed his hand along Min’s snout. Min started up a barrage of clicks.
‘He’s just getting the feel of you,’ Will said. ‘That’s how they sense things. Echolocation.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Yeah, I know. I didn’t expect it to be so loud.’ He leaned closer to Min, who rolled over to study him with one oily eye. ‘Come on, boy, I won’t hurt you.’
Min snorted mist.
Hunter laughed, glowing with pleasure, and the tension bled off him as he stroked Min’s exposed belly. It was this — Hunter’s rapt attention, his aura of amazement — that finally won Will over. He knew that feeling; was pleased to meet someone who shared his excitement. ‘Get in with him. He won’t hurt you.’
‘No shit? You sure it’s safe?’
Will hooked off his T-shirt. ‘Here, I’ll go first.’ He dived, shocked by the chill of the water after baking in the sun.
Min started sounding off, his Donald Duck impersonation sending Hunter into fits. He tore off his lifejacket and jumped in too. Min came right up and scanned as Hunter hung there in the water, an ecstatic giant.
Will dug out his empty water bottle and tossed it towards the arch. When Min had nosed it back over to the Zeddie, Will left the game to Hunter and clambered back on board the yacht. He lounged in the late afternoon sun, enjoying the wonder that lit Hunter’s face.
About twenty minutes later Hunter hauled himself aboard. ‘That was awesome!’
‘Just don’t tell Fisheries,’ Will said. ‘And, for god’s sake, please don’t tell your father.’
‘Are you kidding? I stopped telling him anything important years ago.’
Will’s gaze flitted to Hunter’s swollen eye. ‘You don’t get on with him?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘He’s a total prick.’
‘Fair enough.’ Will closed his eyes and tipped his face towards the sun. The light shone pink through his eyelids. Somewhere close by a pair of tūī sang a rough duet, accompanied by Min’s percussive blowhole.
Hunter’s voice broke through. ‘You gonna stay the night out here?’
Will opened one eye. Saw Hunter eyeing the tent and bedding. ‘Maybe.’
‘Don’t suppose you’d like some company? I haven’t camped out for months.’ There was a shyness there, and loneliness.
The old familiar tension boiled in Will’s gut. He’d grown accustomed to his own company. Preferred it. ‘I was thinking of sleeping in the yacht …’
‘So I could use Dean’s tent?’
‘You recognise it?’
‘He’s taken me camping a few times. He usually makes me put it up.’
‘How come?’
‘Whenever Dad has one of his psycho fits, we take off somewhere for a couple of days till he’s cooled off.’
‘O—kay.’ Good old Saint Dean, protector of underdogs and social misfits. Had he sent Hunter here to keep an eye on him? Bugger that. If Dean thought for one—but, hold on … What if Dean had sent Hunter to escape from Bruce?
‘How’d you get the shiner?’ he asked.
Hunter fingered the swelling. ‘Not fast enough.’ His face closed off.
It certainly wasn’t a stretch to believe Bruce Godsill beat his son. Even though Hunter was built like a brick shithouse, so was Bruce. Will cleared his throat. ‘Your dad must be pissed off about losing all those salmon.’
Hunter snorted. ‘He’ll screw some more out of the insurance.’ He reached over the side of the yacht and hooked a bag out of the kayak. Produced a can of beer. He popped the tab and took a swig. ‘You want one?’
‘If you’ve got one.’ Not that he liked it much — bourbon and Coke was his drink of choice — but it seemed unfriendly not to join him.
Hunter hooked out another can and tossed it over. They sat in silence, sipping away until both cans were empty, then drank another each as Min played acrobat with streamers of kelp. The heat was leaching from the day, sun sinking behind the western hills. Even if Hunter left straight away he’d end up kayaking in the dark.
‘Stay if you want,’ Will said at last. ‘I’ve got some snags to cook over a fire and heaps of bread.’
‘You sure?’
Hunter looked so goddamned pleased, relieved, what could Will say? ‘Yeah, no worries.’
‘Choice!’ Hunter’s grin switched to high-beam.
They ferried the tent and food ashore in the kayak, and set about scavenging wood to light a fire. When it built up enough heat they speared the sausages with sharpened sticks and cooked them over red-hot embers, then ate them between thick slices of gluey white bread.
After they’d demolished the lot, Will cleared his throat. ‘So, do you like working on the farms?’
Hunter grunted. ‘Only when Dad’s not there.’ He wandered over to the kayak and retrieved two more cans of beer from his stash of supplies.
Will swilled a mouthful to rinse the bread from his teeth. ‘Thanks.’
‘I bet you hate it here,’ said Hunter. ‘I do, and I was born here.’
‘I like Dean,’ Will said. ‘And the privacy.’
‘Yeah — Gabby showed me that YouTube thing. You sure as hell looked munted.’
Will tensed.
‘At least you had the guts to try. Me, I’d rather die than sing in front of other people.’ Hunter burped. ‘I guess you had lessons for that, huh?’
‘T
wice a week for the last three years.’ Until the plug was pulled. Too pricey.
‘Wow, that’s hardcore. I was in the school choir at primary school — quite liked it — but Dad said I sounded like a tomcat having its nuts ripped off.’
‘He’d be an expert, would he?’ It was out before Will could stop it. Sarky as hell.
Hunter’s snorting laugh dislodged a string of snot. He swiped it with his arm, leaving a silver snail’s trail across his cheek. ‘He’s the expert of bloody everything — or so he thinks.’ He wiped the trail away. ‘So, what’s it like living in Wellington?’
‘Better than Blythe,’ Will said. ‘Though it’s nice out here.’
‘Not bad, eh?’ Hunter gestured to encompass the cove. ‘Though I’d kiss it all goodbye to get out of that shithole town.’
‘Why?’
‘Are you kidding?’ He drew his neck in, until the double chins he’d made looked exactly like his dad’s. ‘There have been Godsills here since 1893,’ he said in Bruce’s bullish twang. ‘And you’re the biggest disappointment of them all.’ He sighed, shaking off his father’s mantle. ‘I’d go, except the fish farm is the only job I know.’
Will couldn’t help it, he was warming to the guy. There was a lot more to him than he presented to the world. ‘How long have you worked for him?’
‘All my holidays till I turned sixteen, then Dad made me quit school.’
‘When was that?’
‘Last year.’
So they were roughly the same age, though Hunter was twice his bulk. ‘You like working with salmon?’ He couldn’t think of anything worse.
‘What do you think?’ Hunter shook his head. ‘I wanted to go to uni — find more sustainable ways to manage the fish — but Dad said he wasn’t going to waste his hard-earned cash on someone like me.’
‘That’s harsh.’
‘Yeah, but probably true. I’m dyslexic. In Dad’s world that equals thick.’
‘That’s crap, man. My friend Tim, back home, he’s dyslexic and he’s bright as hell. Just needs some extra help for the exams.’
