by Rachael King
‘What, a girl can’t be nice and have tattoos?’
‘I don’t know. I always thought only biker chicks had them. You’ve got that sweet little haircut and that pretty face and tattoos. Seems strange to me.’
‘Not that strange. Plenty of girls have tattoos.’
‘Yeah, maybe one on their ankle or just above their arse, not all over their arms and chest.’
‘Well, you learn something new every day, don’t you, country boy?’
‘Yeah, all right. Got anything more to drink?’
‘Hang on a sec.’ I rose and crossed the room to Grandpa’s liquor cabinet. It held a healthy supply of gin and brandy, and there at the back, an old bottle of Chivas Regal.
‘This’ll do,’ I said. I unscrewed the lid and took a swig. It burned sweetly.
Sam moved back to sit beside me on the couch and took the bottle.
‘That magpie you’ve got there on your wrist. Can I see?’
I uncovered it for him.
‘Looks fresh. Which murder is that for?’ He touched it, a little too hard.
I didn’t say anything, but took my hand away. It throbbed lightly from his fingertip’s touch.
‘It’s your Grandpa, right? One for sorrow.’
‘You’re pretty perceptive, aren’t you?’
His face darkened and he drank from the bottle. ‘For a farmhand, you mean. Go on, say it.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘I’m not stupid, you know. I read books. Probably more than you with your fancy education. Go on, ask me how many I’ve read.’
I sighed. I didn’t want to be drawn into this.
‘Thousands,’ he said, and drank again.
I didn’t know how to respond without sounding patronising, so I said nothing. I took the bottle.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m getting drunk. Not far to drive home. Only three people I know have died driving pissed, anyway.’ He laughed.
‘Are you serious? Jesus.’
He was still laughing, as if the idea of losing his friends was the most hilarious thing in the world. His laughter had the manic edge of a mean drunk. He stopped when he saw I was actually shocked, which had probably been his intention. He wore the look I had seen on his face the day before, when he had stormed from the house.
‘You’ve got no fuckin’ idea what it’s like out here in the country. You and your prissy mates have got taxis in the city. You’ve got your pretty little theatres and art gallery openings. We’ve got the pub. Or parties. Which are usually miles away from home.’
I held tightly on to the bottle of whisky. ‘I’m sorry.’ I laid a calming hand on his arm and he stared at it.
‘You should ask Josh about it some time,’ he said. ‘Living out here for so long — what, twenty years? I’m sure it’s driven him mad. I think getting married and having kids might have saved him. It gets bloody lonely out here.’
I didn’t want to talk about Josh. ‘So you don’t think you’ll last much longer?’
‘I dunno. What else would I do?’
I relinquished the bottle and he took another swig and stared into the fire.
‘I do know what it’s like, you know,’ I said. ‘Losing people.’
‘Ah shit, sorry. Josh told me about … well, you know.’
‘Josh did?’ I wondered how much he had said, how much he had admitted to his employee. I didn’t feel like finding out.
‘Let’s play a game for a bit,’ he said. ‘Let’s play for one night that I’m not a drop-kick from the country and you’re not a stuck-up rich bitch from the city.’
I laughed. ‘What are we then?’
‘I don’t know. Equals.’
‘You don’t think we’re equals?’
‘You don’t.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Look, just play along, okay?’ He took my hand and, in a sweet gesture, raised my fingers to his lips.
The room was finally beginning to warm up. I shrugged the crocheted blanket off.
‘Will you do something for me?’ asked Sam.
‘Depends.’
‘Will you take off your clothes so I can look at you? At your tattoos?’
I suppose it was part of the game we were meant to be playing — at least, that’s what I told myself. I don’t think I really wanted to get naked in front of this man. But still at the back of my mind was the image of Hugh and his wife, and the moment I saw my ex-lover’s face, I knew what I was about to do.
I kicked off my shoes and slid out of my tights. I declined to make it a strip-tease for him. My skirt came down next, then, one by one, I loosened the buttons of my shirt, until I stood before him in my underwear.
I felt his gaze on my body as I revolved slowly in the firelight. I felt the warmth of the flames as I turned towards them, the coolness when my body fell into the shadow, like the earth rotating around the sun. The only sound was the bristling of the pine logs and our breathing. He read me, as I had been read before, laying myself bare for a near stranger. When he asked me for the story of each tattoo, I refused him. Finally, he stopped asking.
The house moaned and shook off the ghostly music playing through my dreams. A grey light fingered the edges of the curtains. The eiderdown had fallen to the floor in the night but I was warm: the body beside me burned like a furnace.
Hungover. Thirsty. I looked over at Sam, at the tattoo on his shoulder blade that he had proudly showed me the night before — his badge of honour, his connection to me. It was ugly and inexpertly done, a symbol he could neither translate for me or explain what it meant to him personally. The lines were already blurring, the black had faded to green, and he didn’t seem to care. He shrugged when I mentioned its colour and mangled shape and said he couldn’t see it anyway, so what did it matter?
At least the muscles beneath the skin were nice to look at, so unlike Hugh’s soft moonscape of a back. I felt sick. I missed that back. What was I doing?
I turned over and faced away from him. Something was nagging me about the situation I found myself in. Not deja vu exactly, but I knew I wasn’t the first of the Summers to take the ‘help’ to bed. It didn’t feel good. History was beginning to repeat itself in unexpected ways.
Sam stirred, reached for me and pulled my slight body into the pocket between his torso and raised knees. I may as well have been a hot water bottle.
‘What time is it?’ he murmured into my hair.
‘It’s seven.’
‘Shit.’ He released me and rolled out of bed. ‘I gotta go.’ He dressed speedily, then peered down at me.
‘You okay?’
‘Not well. Too much whisky.’
‘I’ll get you some water.’
He disappeared then came back with a large glass, which he set down on the bedside table. He sat beside me.
‘Drink up. You’ll feel better. I’ll come by later and see how you are.’
This was what I was afraid of. ‘No. Sam, don’t, okay? I’ll be fine.’
His body went rigid.
‘I get it.’ He stood up and turned in the doorway. ‘Thanks for the fuck, Lady fucking Chatterley.’ I heard his feet pounding down the stairs and the front door slam behind him.
He sends word to Mr Collins that he is to set off on a collecting expedition and will join him at his country house at a later date. The German, Schlau, has made the trip many times and will be his guide. Henry knows he has found the perfect travelling companion: Schlau barely speaks, seems almost incapable of human interaction, and yet appears to have a rapport with the natural life of the country. When he calls upon Schlau at the museum a few nights before they are due to leave, he finds the taxidermist on the floor of his workshop, his brow furrowed.
I am worried about what will become of my friends here when I am gone, says the German. I am thinking it may be time for extermination.
Henry moves closer. Schlau sits with his back to the wall as two large green parrots scratch at a pile of dirt on the floor, from which they
are extracting morsels of food. Their feathers are dusted with white as though sprinkled with snow, and a facial disc of whiskers gives them an owl-like appearance. They start when Henry comes closer, but after eyeing him warily, go back to their business.
What are they? asks Henry.
Kakapo is their name. They sleep here in the workshop during the day, over there, in the corner, with their heads beneath their wings. I caught them on my last trip, to observe them, but now I suppose I have found all I need to know. They will be more useful to me dead. They will fetch a good price.
But are you not attached to them at all? They are your pets.
Schlau shrugs. Not really. They are quite tame, I suppose, but they have never shown any particular attachment to me. I am just their food supply. They are not loyal, like my dog.
As if in answer, one of the birds suddenly leaps on the back of the other and scratches at its feathers; both birds let out a scream that is more like that of a hare than a bird. Schlau scrambles to his feet and stands well back, watching with relish. The victim has managed to shrug the other bird off and now they fight, making bounding leaps and tearing at each other with their substantial claws. Finally, one lies down on its back to try and fight off its aggressor, which soon loses interest and goes back to scratching in the dirt. The room is silent again.
Remarkable, says Henry. He feels privileged to witness the interaction of the birds, who seem quite at home in the darkened room.
You see I can’t just leave them here, says Schlau. They might kill each other anyhow and when I returned their carcasses would be quite useless to me. No, better that I kill them now and preserve them before we leave. Cover your ears, sir.
And with that, he picks up a gun and as if for treason, with no trial, he shoots his pets dead.
They set off on horseback, the town at their back as they cross the plains. As Henry expected, Schlau is silent, reserving all conversation for his dog, Brutus, a black Labrador that bounds happily along beside them. When they stop to rest and eat, Schlau cuddles the dog and whispers in its ear as they eat together. Henry wonders if he would coldly shoot the dog when it had outlived its usefulness; somehow, he thinks not. Schlau explains to Henry how many dogs he trialled, hounds that ate the very birds they were supposed to be retrieving, or ran off without ever being recalled. By all accounts Brutus had earnt his keep a thousand times over by rooting out specimens and retrieving them, and by defending his master against potential attackers. Henry is beginning to feel safer himself — he hadn’t considered the perils of their expedition. He knew that the country had no dangerous animals; he hadn’t considered the human population.
It is a fine way to travel, he thinks, ambling up the country on horseback. The saddle creaks and the horse is sure-footed, despite the weight it is carrying: a small tent, blankets and groundsheets, a spare pair of sturdy boots for climbing, and other equipment — compass, watch, barometer, knives and chemicals. Henry has packed extra warm clothing, for they will be travelling into high country, and snow caps the mountains. There is still room in his bags for the specimens he intends to collect; he will skin the birds and animals he finds on the spot, to keep their weight and bulk down. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and different gauges of shot rattle in the bag around his waist.
He loses himself in his thoughts as the sun begins to sink on the first day and the mountains rise about them. Away from civilisation he finally feels the excitement of a new country, in the sheer scale of the place, with the sky huge above him. Much of the land has been cleared for farming, but still sits empty of livestock, and the native bush clings to the base of the mountains. Waterfalls cascade into the dark lake beside them. Birdcalls he does not recognise rise up to greet them. Schlau points out a good camping spot and they turn the horses’ heads away from the track.
The night is so clear that, despite the chill, Henry opts to sleep without a tent. Schlau tells him he is mad, but this is the first time Henry has been in an exotic landscape with no fear of man-eating animals or poisonous insects and snakes. He lies on his groundsheet with nothing but a blanket for padding and another for warmth and drapes the canvas of the tent over his body. The fire sparks steadily beside him and he feels the air on his face as he stares up at the sky, at the cloudy constellations, their brightness broken only by the black expanse of the surrounding hills. Some of the stars are unfamiliar and this alone is enough to send him into an ecstatic sleep.
He awakes to a startling cacophony when the light has barely licked the horizon. His face is wet with dew and his muscles stiff. Schlau and Brutus have still not emerged from their shelter, but Henry decides it is time to rise and reignite the fire for a cup of tea and some warmth. He listens to the birdsong, the chiming and the warbling and even a rhythmic clacking. He tries to imagine the birds responsible and hopes that he will soon see them for himself. For some reason he thinks of Dora Collins, standing as he last saw her, upright and defiant, clutching her little petition. He finds he is looking forward to seeing her again.
As he sits drinking tea, a bird emerges from the bush and hops rapidly over the stones towards him. It is a soft grey colour, with an orange wattle and black eye mask, such as a robber might wear, and it eyes him curiously; probably, it has never seen a human being before. Soon it is joined by another, also hopping, but with lowered wings; its mate, thinks Henry, although they look almost identical. The second bird lets out a call, a flute-like sound, and Henry sits very still lest he scare them away.
An explosion makes him jump and spill his hot tea on his lap. He turns to see Schlau letting off his gun a second time and when he looks back at the birds they lie in a heap on the stones. Brutus bounds forward, picks up both birds in his jaws and carries them carefully back to his master.
Forgetting his burning thighs, Henry is gripped by the familiar tightening in his chest. He feels the blood pound in his face. His fists clench involuntarily and he strides towards Schlau, cursing at him. The dog has dropped the birds at the German’s feet and now turns on Henry, baring its teeth and crouching low, ready to pounce. A gravelly growl warns Henry not to come any closer.
Damn you, man. Henry’s voice is deflated by the dog’s warning.
Schlau places his hand on the dog’s collar and looks at Henry defiantly.
What is the problem, Mr Summers? We have come to collect specimens. You were just sitting there ogling the birds. Someone had to take action. The kokako is very rare, especially in the South Island, where their wattle is orange, you see? He shows the birds to Henry as if he hasn’t seen them already. The more common variety in the north has a blue wattle, Schlau continues. And now the pair is in my collection.
Henry can explain nothing to this man. His hands reach for the ground and scoop up a large river stone. Schlau stiffens and Brutus barks but stands his ground. Henry heaves the rock into the fire. Hot embers spray outwards and land on his bedding, which begins to smoulder. He swears again, sees once more the damage he has caused, and grabs the billy to pour water on the blankets, feeling foolish and impotent. Flames averted, he turns stiffly on his heel and strides to the lake’s edge. His thighs are smarting still from the hot tea. He strips off his clothes and throws himself into the icy lake to try and cool his skin and his temper. He stands waist-deep in the water and rubs at his body, runs his hands over the tattoos on his torso.
He had told McDonald that he gets tattooed to remember, and it is times like this that he needs to remember the past; to take himself away from this place for the moment. Why, here, on his arm, is the tiger that he caught himself and skinned; he is sure that Schlau has never handled such a beast. Instead the man makes do with little birds and common mammals such as stoats and weasels, or else he is employed merely as a taxidermist to mount the creatures that other men have risked their lives for. He is nothing, this man, this German. He has not felt the African sun on his back, or braved crocodiles and anacondas to collect the most delicate of butterflies in the rainforests of the Amazon. He is
merely a tradesman.
Henry’s skin is beginning to turn blue with cold, but he does not want to admit it. He turns to look at his guide. Schlau is sitting on a log, smoking a cigarette, watching him. He feels the man looking at his tattoos with curiosity — perhaps he has never seen an illustrated man before. Henry wades out of the water and turns his back, determined not to answer any questions. But the German says nothing, merely busies himself with preparing the skins of the two kokako, and feeding his wretched dog on their carcasses.
They continue their journey into the interior of the South Island but travel shorter distances than they did on that first day — the terrain is ever steeper, and the temperature drops further every night. The clouds descend on them and a fine mist turns overnight to torrential rain. After a shaky start Henry is able to begin his collection at last. He awakes one morning to find two kea, green mountain parrots, boldly tearing a hole in his tent to try and get at the food supplies within. He watches them a while before shooting them. He manages to kill a pair of parson birds — or tui as the natives call them — and a small green bellbird. At night he hears a kiwi calling but his blunders through the darkness yield nothing. He and Schlau barely speak to each other. Henry is irritated at the man’s lack of curiosity, yet Schlau stares openly at Henry’s body whenever he washes.
Is there something you would like to ask me? Henry demands one morning as Schlau sits cleaning his gun. About my tattoos?
Not really, says Schlau. I have seen more impressive tattoos.
Have you now?
Yes, on the Maoris. I have met great warriors with their faces fully tattooed with the moko. Women too, who tend to tattoo only their chins and lips. But it has more meaning to them. They are not just for adornment such as yours.
What do you know about why I have tattoos? What do you know of what I have suffered for them?
Schlau laughs. Suffered? A few little pricks with a needle? You wait until you see what these Maoris endure, the tools they use. Not needles but chisels. The patterns are carved into their faces as if they were wood. Now that is real pain.