Read Where Cuckoos Call Online
Authors: Des Hunt
Where Cuckoos Call
To the students and staff of Coromandel Area School
Thank you for letting me share a few of your many years of history
Up until seven minutes to four in the afternoon, my twelfth birthday had been the best ever. Even though I got only the one gift, it was the one thing I really wanted: an eight megapixel digital camera with 10x optical zoom and ultramacro. They just don’t come much better than that, especially if you want to photograph birds and other animals.
The other big thing had been the behaviour of my father. All day he had acted as if he was over the illness and back to being a normal person. It was just like the old days, with all three of us gathered around the table excited about me opening the present. It was soon obvious why Mum and Dad were excited: the camera was the most expensive gift they’d ever bought. Much more expensive than I thought we could afford, seeing as Dad couldn’t work any more. I didn’t question where the money came from, though—I was just happy to have a camera at last.
So, what happened at 3.53 p.m. that wrecked the best birthday ever? It was the sound of motorbikes—trail bikes to be more accurate—roaring through the bush that overlooks the back of our farm. This might not sound like anything to get too upset over, but to me it meant that the biker season had started again and I knew that that was sure to mean trouble.
I was climbing Table Rock, the hill that overlooks our farm and bay, to take a photo. It’s a tough climb to the top of the rock and I was taking a rest, partly to catch my breath, but mostly to enjoy the bush and its sounds. The musty smell of the rotting leaves, the whisper of the ferns in the gentle breeze, and the birds. That’s what I enjoyed most: the sounds of birds calling their mates or feeding their young. The peaceful sounds of my place in springtime.
But the birds were not the only things I heard that afternoon.
What began as a hum in the distance was soon loud enough to be plainly recognised as the sound of trail bikes.
I listened to them getting closer. There was a fork in the track below where I was resting, and I hoped they would take the other path, for I certainly didn’t want to meet them. None of them ever passed without stopping and teasing me, calling me fatso, and lard-ball, stuff like that. At other times they would buzz me with their bikes as if trying to run me down. The most frightening thing was that I could never see their faces: they always had helmets with the dark visors lowered. The only way I could tell them apart was from the colour and type of their bikes. None of the bikes ever had number plates.
Unfortunately, that day they didn’t take the fork to the forest—they continued coming my way. I scrambled off the path into the scrub until I was hidden by a grove of ponga. I made it just as three bikes came into view. They were not ones I had seen before. These bikes were glowing as if new out of the shop: a blue Honda, then a red one followed by a yellow Yamaha. The riders nursed their machines along the path as if they were unsure of the power beneath them. It looked like it was their first time out. I knew their behaviour would soon change. Next time, their bikes would be covered in mud and they would be screaming around like they’d been riding for years.
We had biker troubles every set of holidays. People would come from the cities to the holiday houses south of us and fire up their trail bikes. Day after day they would ride through the bush or on the beaches, leaving the scars of tyre tracks in the dirt and sand. Most of the time they were just a nuisance, but in November it was more than that. While it was not yet holiday time, students who had finished their exams would come and party, party, party. That’s when the problem got worse. They would ride in crazy places, at any time of day or night. Unfortunately, November is the bird-breeding season, and the
constant roar of the bikes would force birds from their nests in search of quieter places. Sadly, there are not too many quieter places left on the Coromandel Peninsula, and each year we were getting fewer birds.
I hid until the noise of the machines could no longer be heard. Slowly, the bird song returned, although not as loud as before. When I was sure that the bikes had gone, I resumed my climb. Table Rock was only a few minutes away.
The Coromandel Peninsula is one of the more beautiful parts of New Zealand, and there are often ‘For Sale’ signs claiming ‘million-dollar views’. If those views are worth a million dollars, then the one from Table Rock must be worth zillions, except that it’s not for sale. It is the view of my bay and my home. It is even named after me. I’m Ben Mansfield and the bay is called Mansfield Bay, the most beautiful place on the northeastern coast, and one of the few without holiday homes.
Table Rock is a volcanic plug, which means that it is the remains of the magma that once bubbled inside a crater. To reach the top, you have to leave the main track and climb over hard, slippery rocks. While it is a popular destination for trampers, the bikers usually don’t make the effort as they have to leave their bikes exposed on the track. That’s why I assumed that the three bikers I’d seen had left the area. I was mistaken: their bikes were blocking the track by the turn-off.
It was annoying, as it meant I couldn’t go up to the top. The summit is not very big and I wouldn’t want to be up there with the bikers, as it’s a long fall down if anyone gets stupid. There is, however, a ledge just below the top that has much the same view and is a lot less public. In fact, I might be the only person who knows it exists.
I pushed through the manuka and climbed up through a split in the rock. The last bit of the climb was tricky, as it required
crawling through a tunnel and I no longer fitted as well as I once did. Yet I made it, and there, laid out before me, was Mansfield Bay.
It would take pages and pages to describe the magic of that place. To say it has a beach, a sand spit, an estuary, and some paddocks really says nothing, because that’s just the layout of the place. The beauty of Mansfield Bay is its isolation and the wildlife that lives there. It is the blend of natural things that makes it so special, at least it does for me.
No sooner had I turned on the camera than I became aware of voices. It was the bikers. They were only a few metres above me.
‘…and look at all of that sand,’ one of them was saying. ‘Wouldn’t that be a fantastic ride?’
‘But how do you get there?’ asked another.
‘It must be that driveway we passed on the road in,’ said the third one. ‘You know, where that sign was.’
‘The one that said “Private Property”?’
‘Yeah. But the beach can’t be private property. Once we get onto it they can’t do anything to stop us.’
‘They’d never catch us anyway.’
‘So, who cares if they do?’
‘Yeah, what can they do? Tell us not to be naughty boys?’
‘But they won’t catch us. We’ll be too fast for anything
they’ve
got.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed the others.
‘Just let them try. We’ll smoke them easily.’
That was the end of the discussion, and some time later I heard the bikes start and drive away. While I felt relief that they had gone, I also felt fear. The ‘they’ who were going to try to stop them wasn’t a ‘they’ at all. It was only one person: me. And if the bikers did come to my bay, I would certainly try to stop them. Down there, in amongst all that sand, were some very
special creatures, and it was my job to protect them—no matter what.
Table Rock and its tracks are on Department of Conservation land. There is no fence separating it from our land and most of the time none is needed. You have to get off the walking tracks to cross over. I knew the place like the back of my hand and could tell exactly when I’d crossed the boundary. I always took a slightly different route so that I didn’t make a path. I left nothing that would encourage more trespassers onto our place.
That evening I took the route down the stream that flows from the ranges and out into the bay. There’s a spot where you get a view of our house and the flat land below. I paused for a while to enjoy the peace of the bush before returning home. The birds were in full song, staking out their territory before darkness came. Yet not all of them were singing joyfully. Nearby I could hear the high-pitched squeak of a chick in distress. It was a sound I could never ignore—I’m a sucker for any bird in distress.
I found it on the ground under a gorse bush: a baby bird, so small that I could easily have knelt on it and never known. There are times when I wonder what would have happened if I had done that. How different would things have been if I’d squashed the chick flat and then gone home?
But of course, I didn’t. I picked it up and began searching for its nest, which was in the gorse bush above. A scraggly nest made out of moss and lichen, fully enclosed with just a narrow opening—the nest of a grey warbler. This common bird is one of New Zealand’s smallest. Its song goes on and on, rising up and down, loud enough to give the impression of a much larger bird.
The nest was low and so I was able to reach into it. I balanced
the chick on two fingers and carefully pushed it into the opening. Straight away my fingers were attacked by something much bigger. At first I thought it was the mother bird that had nipped me, except that that didn’t seem right—she would not have stayed on the nest with me so near. ‘It must be another chick,’ I mumbled. ‘One that’s a whole lot bigger.’ But that didn’t seem right either. Then it dawned on me. It wasn’t a grey warbler chick at all—it was a shining cuckoo.
Cuckoos are parasites. They lay their eggs in another bird’s nest and fly away, leaving the host to do the rest. When the cuckoo chick hatches, it pushes the other chicks out of the nest so that it gets all the food. The thought of a big, greedy cuckoo killing a tiny warbler made me mad. It didn’t seem right that the parent warblers would have to feed something that would end up being much bigger than they were. Without really thinking, I put my fingers into the nest and pulled out the cuckoo. It was already double the size of the warbler chick. Only then did I realise that now I had to do something with the cuckoo. I had to put it back in the nest, kill it, or take it home. The choice was easy. I couldn’t kill a healthy chick, nor could I put it back, so I had to keep it. I tucked the wriggling creature deep into my pocket and set off for home.
My mum is big on consequences. She says that every action has some consequence that we have to face up to. Usually this is when I’ve done something wrong, and then she goes out of her way to create a consequence. But I now know she’s right: there are always consequences. In science it’s called the chaos theory, which says that small things can cause huge changes, sometimes as big as an ice age—that’s a real big consequence.
Taking the cuckoo home didn’t create an ice age, but it had consequences way beyond anything I could have imagined that birthday afternoon.
It was dinnertime when I arrived home. Dad was watching TV—that’s about all he does nowadays—with Mum in the kitchen mashing the potatoes.
‘It’s about time,’ said Dad. ‘What took you so long?’
Straight away I knew that his good mood from the morning had gone and the depression was back. Perhaps if I showed him the photo, that might help.
‘I’ve got a great photo of the bay.’ I turned on the camera and passed it to him.
He hardly glanced at it. ‘It’s blurry,’ he mumbled, handing it back.
‘And look what I’ve got here,’ I continued, carefully pulling the cuckoo chick out of my pocket. It was still very much alive, waving its head around with its mouth open wide. ‘It’s a cuckoo.’
That’s when he turned on me. ‘What the hell did you get that damned thing for? It’ll only die like all the others.’
Next Mum joined in. ‘It’s not going in the hot-water cupboard, Ben. The place still stinks from the last one.’ She had a point there. The last bird I’d tried to rear was a fantail I’d rescued from a nest that had blown out of a tree. Unfortunately it died and I forgot to take it out of the cupboard. Three days later the stink was so foul that Mum spewed all over the floor when she discovered it.
‘I’ll keep it in my room,’ I said quickly, heading in that direction.
‘No, you won’t!’ yelled Dad. ‘You’ll kill it now. You understand?’
Mum became the pacifier. ‘Just go wash your hands, Ben, and come to the table for dinner.’
In my room I grabbed a small box, stuffed it with socks and placed the chick in a hollow. After a quick wash I was seated at the table before Dad, hoping that if I didn’t anger him any more he would forget about the cuckoo.
Dinner was a silent meal. It always was. Mum and Dad watched the news on TV, and I knew not to talk while that was on. It was the usual mix of terrorist attacks (interesting in a very scary way), weather disasters (mildly interesting), and politics (of no interest whatsoever). When the ads came on before the sport, I asked to be excused. I was not. Instead, I got the lecture about dinner being a time when the family was together and no one should leave before the last member had finished. So we all sat silently until Dad had finished his coffee.
My parents are quite old. They were in their forties when I was born. Now, they’re almost as old as most kids’ grandparents. Dad was also an only child. He inherited the farm from his father many years ago. It has been in Mansfield hands since the late eighteen hundreds. My ancestors first made their living from felling the huge kauri trees that once covered the property. After that they farmed sheep and cattle. Now some of it is back into trees again—pine trees. They were planted two years back when Dad got leptospirosis.
I was only nine at the time. Back then, Dad and I were the best of mates. We did so many fun things together. One of the best was to go possum shooting on the quad bike. I would find the possums with a spotlight and Dad would shoot them with a twenty-two.
One night we were down by the stream when I spotted this huge, black buck in the kahikatea tree. Instead of Dad taking the shot, he said, ‘Here, you have a go at this one.’
This was a shock, as I’d never used the rifle before. I started shaking.
‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to harm you if you do it right.’
He pushed the rifle against my shoulder and adjusted my hands into position. ‘That’s right. Now, close one eye and look down the ‘scope with the other. Yeah, good. OK, I’m taking the safety catch off now, so don’t you point it anywhere except at that possum. Move it until you’ve got the crosshair on its head. Got it?’
‘Yes, but I can’t hold it still.’
‘Slow down your breathing, and when you’ve got it right just gently squeeze the trigger.’
The possum was looking right at me with its evil, shining eyes. Shooting them looked real easy when Dad did it. But I kept thinking I’d do something wrong. I took so long that the possum got bored and turned away. If I didn’t do it soon I’d miss the chance.
I fired. It turned its head to stare at me. I thought I’d missed, but then it slowly toppled forward and fell to the ground.
I was thrilled. ‘I got it!’ I shouted. ‘I got it!’
‘Yeah, you sure did.’ Dad was almost as excited as I was. ‘First time up and you got it. I had to have about ten goes before I first shot something.’
We moved in to see if it was really dead and found it lying on its back with its legs spread wide.
‘It’s dead,’ I said.
‘Let’s just make sure.’
As Dad leaned over to check, the thing let out a stream of urine, right into his face. The possum’s aim was perfect—he got it straight into Dad’s mouth. I cracked up and almost fell over with laughing. Dad spluttered and cursed as he ran to the stream to wash it out. When he returned, he finished the possum with a single shot to the head.
‘Why should it pee at
me
?’ he said, laughing. ‘You’re the
one that shot it. Next time you can be the one who checks to see if it’s dead.’
I giggled. ‘What does possum pee taste like, Dad?’
‘Yuk!’ he answered. ‘And it leaves a furry taste in the mouth.’
I laughed. ‘So, would porcupine pee taste prickly?’
‘Yeah, of course it would. And porpoise pee would taste salty.’
‘What about piranha pee?’
‘Aw, that has a real bite to it.’
‘And python pee squeezes your throat.’
‘Yeah, and panther pee…’
We carried on like that, laughing and giggling all the way home.
That was the last time I shot a possum. The last time I shot anything.
Ten days later Dad was in bed with what seemed like the flu: headaches, fever and vomiting. Then he came out in a rash and his gums started bleeding. Mum called the doctor who gave him antibiotics, yet the symptoms just got worse, especially the headaches. It was two weeks before the disease was diagnosed as leptospirosis and the most likely cause was the possum pee.
Leptospirosis interrogans
are bacteria that can infect most mammals. They are spread through urine. Many people end up with not much more than a bad cold; others get diseased kidneys and die. Still others get infected in organs like the eyes and brain where antibiotics can’t easily reach, and then they suffer for a long time.
For two years Dad had suffered from depression, tiredness and sore eyes. At the same time Mum and I had had to endure his quick changes in mood and very short temper. This form of the disease is called PHL, which stands for Persistent Human Leptospirosis.
PHL can change people’s personalities. That’s what happened to Dad. It was as if the bacteria had come in and taken over, and he now had the personality of the bacteria—nasty, slimy and horrible. I know it’s not a nice thing to say about your dad, yet that’s what he was like a lot of the time. Then, every now and again, my real dad came back, and for an hour or so he’d seem fine. Sadly, it never lasted for long before the bacteria took over again.
Even though I knew a lot about PHL and understood that Dad had a disease, it didn’t make it any easier to take. At first I thought he was blaming me for not killing the possum. I now know that wasn’t so. However, it doesn’t stop me blaming myself. If I had shot the possum dead, or even missed, it would never have happened and Dad would still be OK.
Talk about consequences…
After dinner I made a home for Bigmouth. That’s the name I gave to the cuckoo, because whenever I disturbed her a mouth double the size of the body would open and start waving around.
Her house was an old warbler’s nest, placed in a box which sat under a lamp. That nest was from my collection of twenty-three nests. All of them were disused when collected, as I don’t steal nests when they’re still being used.
The other task was to feed her, and this was where I was likely to run into trouble. Yet when I went into the kitchen Dad was dozing in his chair and Mum was watching TV. She glanced across as I opened a cupboard. She shook her head sadly and mouthed a single word before turning back to TV. The word was ‘consequences’, and I chose to ignore it.
Bigmouth’s dinner was a mix of hard-boiled eggs and crushed biscuits. I fed her with an old cake-decorating syringe.
I’d never had any success raising a chick. Often they were too weak to eat, and those that did eat would be all right for a while and then just die. However, despite my failures, I had hopes that Bigmouth was going to be my first success. She certainly knew how to eat. She scoffed down the mix until her little crop bulged like a balloon ready to burst.
Later—when I’d gone to bed—I looked back on my birthday. I gave it a six out of ten. That was a lot higher than the previous two. The bikers took away three points and Dad’s reaction to Bigmouth took away another one. As I had done hundreds of nights before, I went to sleep wondering how I could help him get better. I wanted to kill those slimy bacteria and bring Real Dad back again.