The Elusive Language of Ducks (31 page)

She was tucking the duvet around him on the damp grass when he opened his eyes wide and saw her there. I love you, Hannah, he murmured. The words shot through her. She squeezed his arm, and pulled the duvet up over his shoulder. You'll be OK, she whispered. But his eyes started to dart around, from the duvet, to her again, over the grass, at the duck, the
towels on the clothes line, the grubby grey sky.

Where are we? he gargled. Where are we? He yanked his head up, his neck straining. What are we doing here?

You had a fall.

A fall? Whaddaya mean I had a fall? I did no such thing. Why have I got this bloody blanket over me?

Sheila returned with Rosemary hanging under her arm. She squatted by her father's head, her hand on his chest.

Dad. The ambulance is on its way.

Don't be so bloody stupid. What do I need a bloody ambulance for? I'm fine. He shoved the duvet off his shoulders and painstakingly scrambled to his feet, wobbling towards another topple. Hannah, primed to watch for falls, sprang to clutch his arm. Sheila arrived on his other side.

I'm fine, I tell you. His face draining again, and he clutched Hannah's arm. Just a bit dizzy, that's all. Goddup a bit fast.

Come and sit for a moment, while you come right.

The two women steered him towards the bottom step of the deck and plonked him down. Rosemary toddled after them. The duck waddled after her, all a-quiver, tail motoring, his mouth ajar from the excitement. Eric dropped his face in his hands, his thick fingertips circling his closed eyes, before moving to rub his forehead, his head. Then he dropped his knuckles to the deck, hoisted himself up. Slowly this time, and elbowing off attempts to stop him as he shambled his way towards the hedge.

Sheila raised her eyebrows at Hannah. What shall I do about the ambulance?

Perhaps you should cancel it. But he definitely needs to go to a doctor. He's not himself.

The duck suddenly rushed across the lawn and made a dive for one of the pillows, his beak clasping a corner and digging in, the rest of his body bearing down upon the pillow, his tail swivelling this way and that. As was his wont.

Geddoff my pillow, you dirty filthy animal! Eric ripped a leafy branch from the hedge and whacked at the duck, who stopped, legs apart, neck stiff, whinnying a high-pitched scream. Get off, I tell you!

He stooped. Snatched the pillow from under the duck's feet. You filthy vulture.

The duck attached himself to the pillow, his beak and claws digging in, wings belting.

Get off, you bugger! Eric shook the pillow at the air, its cargo with it.

Get off, you goddamned monster!

Eric, stop it — calm down! You'll make him worse.

But he gave a last violent flick and the duck was rocketed across the section, landing in a tangle of wings and legs on the stones around the pond. Hannah rushed over, but he'd righted himself and was tearing back across the lawn, his beak now stabbing at Eric's legs, grabbing the cuff of his trousers.

Ow, you bugger! You bloody bugger! Eric kicked, hard, sent him flying, but the duck was back again at the jigging legs. And now the duck's knees were bending, bouncing for lift-off, and he had Eric's face in his sights, ready to fly up at him.

No no no!

Eric gathered his anger and pulled his foot back for a bullet kick, just as the duck launched his attack. Hannah hurled herself to rescue both the duck and Eric. Her arms enfolded the duck as Eric's foot whammed into her cheek, the force of contact shooting her to the ground once more. She spun over, cringing, fearful of another blow. The duck in her arms and she curled around it. She could feel the pulsation of wings batting in vain, feet clawing at her stomach, fighting to be free. She wouldn't let go. Her cheek burning and she could taste blood. The musky musty muddy smells. Absorbing every vibration of muscle beating at her being, and she would never let go.

Rosemary was howling. And then a man's voice. Hello hello hello hello, what's going on here?

A hand on her shoulder. Two sets of legs in black trousers. A black bag placed by her head.

And she lay there curled around the feathery maniac writhing to escape.

I will never ever let anyone hurt you, Ducko, she said, as the sky spun around her and through her and into her, the whole night sky flowing into her head with tinsel stars and there they were, just the two of them now, gliding so easily, so smoothly through the stars, so many stars, and so easy to fly, she couldn't believe how pleasant, how effortless, the weightlessness, just the two of them.

White. All around. Dazzling white. White light. Red. Red on white. Smudged. Blood. Blood. On the pillow. Crackling crisp icy white. Pain in eye, neck, teeth. Why was she in this room?

This was their bedroom, pristine and waiting for Simon's return, and here she was bleeding on the brand-new pillow. And she was still in her dirty muddy clothes, sullying the sheets. At least, she noted, her shoes were off.

She sat up. Her head hurt. And her neck. She touched her face, her swollen cheek. Her fingers explored the pain inside her mouth. Her gums, two aching teeth. If she pressed they moved, old rocks in sand. The inside of her cheek cut.

She reached over and pulled at the curtain. Night. And in the light from her room on the deck railing the phantom figure of the duck immediately jumping to his feet, his tail winding up for waggle, his neck taut, his eye swivelling to check the moving curtain.

Night. And the duck was not in bed.

She lifted her feet across the sheets and dropped them to the floor, stood up, plonked down on the side of the bed again, dropped her head between her knees as the room fizzed. Stood up again and made her way downstairs.

The radio was blaring. She turned the lights on in the kitchen and lounge area. Papers were still scattered by her computer across the table. A loaf of bread was open on the bench, Marmite and butter alongside. It was late. She pressed her aching cheek.

And just as the music stopped, and as she made her way to turn the radio off, she heard the calamitous tones of the announcer's voice. Breaking news. A massive earthquake in Japan. A tsunami heading for New Zealand. Warning. Keep away from the beaches.

More breaking news. The world had been kicked like a football and it was breaking up and she would be tossed alone into the firmament. Outside, the spectre of the agitated duck in the gloom, the duck connected, as ducks were to all things, quivering from the vibration that was shattering the Earth into pieces. The vibration that was splitting her head in two.

She drank a glass of water and sat at her computer. Christchurch, and now Japan. Earthquake. And there it was before her, happening from afar, videos of the massive surge of water swallowing everything in its path. Buildings, ships, whole villages, bridges. The water, black, on fire. Where were the people? There were no people. How could this be happening without people?

And over and over the voice on the radio announcing the breaking news, the tsunami alert. She couldn't stand it. She switched the radio off.

She stood up, sat down, stood up and went to the window and looked at the still-pacing duck, his milky form floating backwards and forwards along the railing, an albino football tethered to the night.

Pulled again to the computer, she watched the same horrendous images over and over. And then closed the computer. She wanted to smash it.

Where was Simon? It was ludicrous that they weren't together. She sent a text.
I can't stand this destruction. What is happening to us? Is this the end of everything we have ever known?

Then she went to her mother's bedroom, where she had been sleeping, and opened the wardrobe. No empty boxes, but she took out a cardboard box containing winter jerseys, and tipped them onto the bed. Back in the kitchen she lined the box with newspaper and a couple of old towels. She stuffed a bottle of water, a dish, and a bag of wheat into a supermarket bag.

What else? She had a quick shower. As she patted her face dry, she examined her puffy cheek in the mirror, the dark bruise from her temple and under her eye. She cleaned her teeth gingerly, swishing out a mouthful of bloodied water. She dressed in fresh clothes, grabbed the box and went out to the deck, to where the duck was huffing and houghing.

Ducko, here we go, she said with a forced jolly tone. This is it. She tucked her hand under his soft belly and he skipped as usual onto her arm, his claws pressing into her flesh.

This is it, Duckie, she repeated. She wanted to crush him to her chest, to rock him in her arms, she wanted to feel the burning rumpled skin of his face against her own burning cheek.

What time of night do you call this? he complained.

Ducko, she said. I'm sorry.

She let him down into the box at her feet on the deck. He started to
thrash about, silent now, his energy reserved for survival. Her betrayal was overwhelming. She could smell his earthy odour wafting from his feathers. His fat tail shuddering as she eased her hand away. His neck flailing, his claws gouging the side of the carton, his giant wings elbowing their way through the lid as she tried to close it. The whole box was rocking as she struggled to press down the four pathetically flimsy folds of the lid, his writhing neck forcing his head through this way and that, before she finally jammed each flap down.

Inside the house, she lowered the imprisoned duck to the kitchen floor, placing a chair over the top of the box. She darted from the room to find a couple of pantyhose to tie up the box. When she returned the chair was on the floor and he was out, whining and huffing.

Bugger, she said.

She plonked herself down on the sofa, leaned over to roll up the rug, which she then kicked to the end of the room. Already he had plopped on the wooden floor. It was one of the empty watery splats, void of substance. He was starving. He started to slap around the kitchen floor. Then over to her, sidling around her legs threateningly, his wings flattened as his neck and head swooped and scooped across the floor by her feet.

Ducko, she said.

Again that pitiful whining. Was he frightened of her?

Ducko, she said, I'm sorry. The world's falling apart. I need to be with my husband. I can't stand it here anymore by myself.

He didn't answer. It was after midnight. Her head was aching. Why didn't she take him down to his shed and think again in the morning? This was ridiculous.

Then she spotted a pair of her black socks rolled together on the floor. Brilliant. She stood up again and found a pair of scissors, slicing the toe from one of the socks. Turned off the kitchen light. Now just the hall light was shining through.

Ducko, she said quietly. Come here.

He hissed vigorously as she stepped up behind him, his nostrils shooting warm sharp gusts onto her arm as she positioned herself to pick him up again. She grabbed him and flopped onto the sofa, wrestling with him as she slid the sock band over his bucking head. The battle was over.
She doubled the blindfold over his eyes while making sure to leave his beak and nostrils clear. He dropped heavily into sock-darkened induced sleep, his warm red head sitting like a trophy in her hand. When she let it go, his neck curved back into his body, an S-bend pipe, his beak resting against his chest.

His fiery defiance stilled.

Well.

She sat there. Then she moved, preparing to carry his dead-duck weight to the box. He responded by shaking his head, a convulsive quiver. Then he was still again.

Perhaps it was death throes.

She snuck back the sock to check. His eyes blinked rapidly; she could feel them under her fingers. Then he whipped his neck from the blindfold. He was awake again. He forced himself from her lap, his wings thrashing the air.

And every wispy thing in the room lifted. All the dust, papers, dead moths and flies on the window sill, her hair — all lifted in a simultaneous dance as his wings pounded the air. She had a swift insight into the nature of earthquakes, tsunamis, grief. Displacement. Something moved and everything around it was relocated. A thing moving in mud, in air, in life had an impact on every particle around it. She was familiar with the phenomenon. It was editing. A word changing affected the whole piece, the whole poem. The rest had to be reassessed and reconstructed to make allowances for the lost object.

The duck was on the floor, his big timber legs solid, splayed. Facing her.

Ducko, was all she could say.

What's going on? What are you doing to me?

Ducko. It's time. Te Awamutu. I need to take you back.

Te Awamutu! Te Awamutu! What have I done wrong?

Nothing. Nothing. Duckie, I'm sorry. You haven't done anything.

Well, why would you take me back to that terrible place?

Ducko, the whole world is falling apart. Deep beneath the earth, under the sea, something has moved and the ocean is reacting in a tremendous way.

So? What's that got to do with Te Awamutu? With us? I thought we loved each other. I thought we were going to be together forever. You
know
what happened in Te Awamutu. You know. You know what happened to my mother. You're happy for me to be dumped there, to a similar fate? You have no idea. The blood, the teeth. My mother dragged away from me. Her head jerking from those teeth, those wet gums exposed, the grass flattening in the moonlight as she disappeared. And the next night, a hawk. Another one of us scooped away. We had nowhere to hide. My uncles finished off the rest. Held under the water. Drowned. I would have been next. Once your mother is gone, the whole world is out to get you.

He was panting, his whole body vibrating, his mouth open with his ribbon of pink tongue glistening.

Duckie. Sit on my knee. Just for a minute.

No.

Please.

He glanced at the box on its side, an avalanche of towels spilling onto the floor.

I don't trust you anymore.

Hannah sighed.

What can I do? he stammered. Anything. Let me out and I'll go to bed, by myself, down through the dark in the garden and I'll go to my new fancy shed you prepared for me and I won't even ask you to close the door. Except it would be nice if you did, but you don't have to if that's the problem. But, please — don't send me away.