Where Cuckoos Call (3 page)

Saturday was one of those fantastic days that we get on the Coromandel where the sun pours down out of a deep, blue sky. For me, Saturdays were just the same as any other day: I might do some schoolwork; I might do some reading; I might even have a swim. One thing was certain: I would go to Treetops and do my bird-watching.

Mum and Dad were still in bed when I got up. Judging by the number of empty bottles on the table, the celebration had continued long after I’d gone to bed. I would probably be lucky to see them at lunchtime.

My first job was to send an email to Cole, telling him everything I’d been doing and all about the planned development. While it was exciting to write about the millions of dollars, I began to express doubts. What would happen to the birds? Would they be better off? No, of course they wouldn’t. Humans and wildlife never fit together at the seaside.

Peg had recovered from her stiffness and was eager to come out of her cage. She took up her normal position trotting alongside my legs, just like she was still working, even though it’d been years since she had last worked. It’s only when we get to the beach that she ever goes off on her own.

The walk to the beach was pure joy. Around the house, the bird songs were finches, fantails and waxeyes. Out on the pastures, there were the skylarks, four of them. Each was hovering high over its territory, singing loudly. I once timed a skylark singing for sixteen minutes without stopping or even pausing for breath.

I had wondered how it could breathe and sing at the same time, and decided that it must be singing on both the inward and outward breaths. Later I looked it up on the Net and found
I was wrong: they take mini-breaths, as many as twenty per second—so fast that the sounds join up and seem unbroken. Scientists found this out by connecting machines to tiny sensors placed in the lungs of songbirds—that’s the sort of thing I’ll do at my institute, because the more we know about birds, the more we can help them.

I moved on, wondering if this would be the last season the skylarks could nest in our paddocks before the houses were built.

Next came the harrier’s nest in the swamp. Harrier hawks had nested there for as long as I could remember, almost always in the same place: a pile of rushes that formed a small island in the middle of the soggy marsh. I hoped to photograph the young being fed. I’d seen the eggs three weeks before, and they would have hatched by now. A few years ago I’d been watching when the male had flown in with his beak full of guts and stuff, probably from a dead possum. As the female moved out of the way, two furry balls had appeared with their mouths open, screeching loudly. They’d gone ape when the male had started feeding them, as if rotten possum guts was the yummiest stuff ever.

That day, the female was on the nest and I could see the male gliding in the sky over our road into the bay. He would be looking for rabbits, rats or even baby pukeko. I photographed the female on her nest. They, too, wouldn’t be back next year, as their nest was in the middle of the waterway.

I moved to the stream and the clay bank beneath the kahikatea. This was where I had found the adzes and bone reels. Stuff was always washing out of the bank and I dutifully collected it. Each piece was fully catalogued with the date and location. I always hoped that some day something important like a valuable piece of greenstone would appear, but nothing like that ever had.

From the bush on the bluff I heard the call of a shining cuckoo. The mating call is simple:
too-eee, too-eee, too-eee
at least six times, followed by two down-notes,
tseeoo, tseeoo
. At other times they only do the
tseeoo
part. They’re a secretive bird, often heard but rarely seen, and there are still a lot of things we don’t know about them. That’s something that the Mansfield Institute could work on. Maybe if Bigmouth was still around…but no, that was silly thinking—there wouldn’t be any cuckoos after the development.

The high-tide line was covered in small, brown, football-shaped things. These are the floats that keep the flapjack seaweed upright in the sea. They make a lovely popping sound as they get squashed. I danced along the beach, jumping from one to the next, trying to get the loudest pop.

Then I heard the sound of motorbikes and my heart sank. ‘Oh no! Not now!’ I cried, turning to see the bikes splashing through the stream, heading towards me. I took a quick look around to see where Peg was, and saw her amongst the bushes above the high-tide mark following some exciting smell. I hoped she’d stay there, because I knew that things could soon get ugly when I tried to keep the bikers off the spit.

It was the same three I had seen in the bush, only now they were a lot more confident on their bikes. As they approached, they slowed, and my hopes rose a little—perhaps they would listen to me.

‘Could you please keep off the spit at the end of the beach!’ I called out when they’d stopped beside me. ‘There are birds nesting there.’

‘Are there any chicks?’ asked Red Honda. The others found this hilarious: hooting and revving up the motors—
vroom, vroom, vroom
.

‘No, it’s too early yet. But they’ve got eggs.’ That caused even more hysterics and revving. Then I realised they were
talking about girls. ‘And there aren’t any girls either.’

‘Then let’s go make some scrambled eggs,’ said Blue Honda.

‘Yeah,’ added Red. ‘If you don’t kill a bird, you have to cook dinner tonight.’

‘No!’ I yelled. ‘Leave them alone.’

‘What’s with you, kid? Who cares if the birds die?’

‘I care, and if you weren’t so stupid, you’d care too.’

‘OK, you little, fat turd, that’s it,’ said Red Honda. He turned to the others: ‘Let’s give him the rock and roll.’

They turned their bikes and moved back towards the stream. For a moment I thought they were leaving. Then they skidded around, roaring the bikes into action, and aiming them directly at me. The first one whipped past, brushing my arm. The second went the other side. The third one turned at the last minute, spraying my face with sand. There was a pause while they regrouped, and then they were coming back at me.

This time I was hit by the first and bumped to one side, right into the path of the second. Something crashed into my thigh and I went down. The third drove over my feet, crushing them into the hard sand.

Again they regrouped. I scrambled to my hands and knees. If I didn’t get out of the way I’d be in real trouble. I’d got as far as the grass when they started coming back. Yamaha came first, powering through the loose sand. Then he hit the driftwood and rubbish at the top of the beach. His bike wobbled against a piece of wood and he almost came off. The others slowed and stopped. I didn’t hang around to see what happened, I crawled into the bushes and hid. A while later I heard them moving along the beach towards the spit. It was now the birds’ turn to get the ‘rock and roll’.

Only after it was finished did my body begin to hurt. My hip bone was the worst, and for a moment I wondered if it
was broken. My feet ached, yet when I took off my shoes there was no bleeding, so it wasn’t too bad. There seemed to be no permanent injuries. It looked like I’d been lucky. Then Peg found me and started licking my face. I gave her a big cuddle and instantly my injuries didn’t seem so painful. She’d been helping me like that ever since I’d first fallen out of my pushchair many years ago.

The bikes had gone by the time we left the bushes, and I dragged myself up into Treetops to view the damage. As usual, Peg curled up at the base of the tree where she would stay until I was ready to go home.

The sand was a disaster zone, with tyre tracks criss-crossing everywhere. I scanned for the nests. None of the ten nests had a bird sitting on it: two had tracks through them; the other eight had been abandoned. I suppose I should not have cared, as this would be their last season anyway. What was the point in hatching more birds if there was no place for them to live?

But I did care. I cared with all my being. My whole life had been spent recording and caring for these birds. I couldn’t understand why somebody would do such things.

I knew the bikers would be back. In other years I’d put up an orange plastic netting fence. It hadn’t stopped the bikers: they had just turned it into one of the hazards to jump over.

I needed something more permanent and I could see just what to use: driftwood—the spit was covered with it. Some of the logs were almost entire trees. They would make a great barrier, keeping out not only the bikes, but hopefully the boat visitors as well. It was a great idea, except I would need to use the tractor and that would require help from Dad—and I wasn’t sure whether that would happen or not.

Clearing the spit after a disaster is an unpleasant task. I have
to visit the nests, check that the eggs are cold, and remove them, otherwise they attract predators.

The first nest I found was an oystercatcher’s. It was just a scoop within the sand. There were three eggs packed tightly together, all of them cold, probably abandoned when the helicopter had flown over. I placed the eggs in a plastic bag. I repeated this action at another six nests—three of them were dotterels’. One of the nests had been run over by a trail bike. The chicks inside the eggs were almost fully developed, and would have hatched within a day. One was still alive, although there was nothing I could do about it. Unless they hatch naturally, they never survive.

While looking for the remaining nests, I discovered the first dead adult bird, a godwit. I couldn’t tell if it had been killed by a motorbike or by the helicopter. Then there was one that was still living—one leg and a wing were broken. Carefully, I tucked it under my arm and headed back to Treetops.

I have a large netting cage where sick birds can recover without being attacked by predators. I’ve had some successes, but I knew the godwit would not be one of them as I can’t fix broken wings. I placed it on the ground and stood preparing myself for what had to be done. When I had first started looking after birds, Dad would kill the badly injured ones. That stopped when he got sick. For a while I tried to save the no-hopers, only to watch them die a slow, horrible death. No animal should die like that. So I’d taught myself to kill them. It’s actually not physically hard to kill a bird. The problem is dealing with your emotions. Even after killing dozens of birds, I do not find it easy and hope I never will.

The decision for the godwit was obvious. Even if I’d got the best vets in the world, it would still never make it back to Alaska. In three months’ time it would start a thirteen thousand kilometre journey to its breeding grounds. Only fit
birds finished that journey. At some stage over the vast Pacific, the scars of a broken wing would fail, and the bird would drop into the sea and drown. So, with an aching heart and moist eyes, I did what I had to do—I killed it.

After burying six dead birds and twenty-seven eggs, I needed some good news. I checked my emails, hoping there might be a reply from Cole. There was.

Kia ora Ben,

Why do hummingbirds hum?

Because they don’t know the words.

Hee, hee.

Thanks for the email: you certainly have heaps happening in that wonderful bay of yours.

Yes, selling the land for five million does create a problem. But it’s one that I’m happy to help you with.

I’ll have a Porsche Carrera GT – that’ll take care of $800,000. A decent sort of boat will be another $500,000. Then I’ll need a car to tow it – something like a Rolls Royce Phantom at $700,000. That little trio should make a hole in the five million and help reduce some of your problems.

But seriously, you say you don’t know whether to oppose the sale or not. I don’t think you have a choice. The way I see it, your parents considered selling only because your father is ill. If he gets better over the next year, then they might change their minds. Therefore The Goal in the short term is to help him get better. Opposing him certainly won’t do that.

You sound as if you are against any development at Mansfield Bay, yet wouldn’t your research institute be a development? The way things are on the Coromandel, your bay is going to get developed sooner or later – why not work to get it developed in a way that doesn’t interfere with the birds? Just keep doing the things that you do, then, who knows, something good might come from it.

I hope this helps. Keep me informed.

That cuckoo of yours sounds great, but Ben, you really shouldn’t take that crap from it. Ha! Ha! Ha!

Say:

What’s invisible and smells like a worm?

A cuckoo’s fart.

Ka kite,

Cole

Once again Cole had cheered me up. He’d put into words things that I’d already been thinking: don’t upset Dad, keep looking after the birds, and hope that something would happen. Though what that could be, I had no idea.

Plus his stupid jokes gave me an idea that could solve another problem: how to feed Bigmouth as she got bigger. She would soon need more than the egg mix. The books said her favourite food should be woolly bear caterpillars, but I hadn’t been able to find any. I think that the other cuckoos—maybe her mum and dad—had got them all. I knew she didn’t like earthworms, but Cole’s mention of worms made me remember that Americans call caterpillars worms, and that made me think of mealworms.

One of our assignments for school had been to look after
some mealworms. These are the grub of a beetle that lives in bran and they are really easy to keep. The school had sent us ten mealworms. We’d had to measure and sketch them every two days. Eventually, I’d ended up with seven black beetles. The rest had died along the way.

I now wished I’d kept those beetles, because they would have laid eggs and given me an easy source of food for Bigmouth. However, there was a place in Auckland that sold mealworms and lots of other live creatures for people who kept tropical birds, fish or turtles.

Soon I was into their site, where I could buy mealworms, waxworms (whatever they were), blowfly maggots (no thank you), locusts (too big) and cockroaches (already got plenty of those in the pig pen). One thousand mealworms would cost me twenty-five dollars. I decided to order two thousand, as that would be enough until Bigmouth could feed herself. That’s when I ran into difficulties—I needed a credit card number and the only credit card was in Dad’s wallet. I could only buy them with his help and that was impossible—I would have to admit that the cuckoo was still alive.