by Judith White
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.
CHAOS
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 piec
e, 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.
Ducko, there’s nothing you’ve done wrong. It’s just a simple matter of not being able to cope any more.
What do you mean, can’t cope? Cope with what?
With you.
Hello? How do you have to cope with me? You don’t have to do anything.
You’re dependent on me.
Everyone is dependent on anybody who means anything to them. Don’t I mean anything to you anymore?
Ducko, I’m tired. Look at my face. Look at it. This happened because I was trying to save your life.
Both of them flopped somehow as the kick, the slam of the foot into her cheek, took its effect again. All their gumph once again booted out of them, deflating their posturing. They eyed each other, that invisible umbilical connection still throbbing.
Then, abruptly, he changed his woeful stance, and stood erect again, his eye now harbouring a mischievous glint.
I’ll eat the rest of your mother.
She’d mentioned it in passing, yes, but they hadn’t openly discussed the mixing of the ashes with his feed before. His blatant remark shocked her. And he knew it. He cocked his head triumphantly.
Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.
She was flummoxed. Ashamed.
I didn’t know immediately, I have to say. I detected something unusual . . . And then as each day passed I started to feel a presence within me. Her. She was furious. She felt encumbered by me. She was offended by me, by my ungainly unsightly appearance, as she worded it. Yes, that’s what she said! At night she entered my dreams. The battles, the wild battles we had. She was a reluctant parasite, growing into every part of my mind. The more of her I ingested, the more fierce the battles would be as she gained strength. She wanted her freedom and I was imprisoning her.
Hannah stared at him. She realised that she herself had never dreamt directly of her mother since her death.
I’m sorry, she said. I thought you’d take her flying. And, in the end, all you could manage was a bumpy ride to the bottom of the garden. She never was one for roller coasters. But as for flying, you . . . you hardly ventured beyond the fence. You are just as confined as she was, by your own perceived limitations. There’s nothing to stop you, just as there was nothing to stop her.
Boundaries are boundaries, said the duck. Where did you want me to go? I’ve been over the fence and through the hedge. Each time you rushed after me. Your friend Eric was far from welcoming when I wandered through the hole in the hedge one afternoon. Talk about a crazy devil. And I’ve looked across the terrain here from the magnolia tree. Backyards and backyards. Roads and cars. So, I ask you, where? Where did you want me to take your mother? Te Awamutu?
I imagined you were going to take off each day to a distant park . . . or over the sea . . . I thought you might fly and fly and fly over all this, like migrating geese do, until you found a shimmering lake set amongst softly rolling verdant hills, where other ducks of your kind greeted you enthusiastically. I would have taken you somewhere myself, but I was always afraid for you. Dogs. Cars. You seemed to know instinctively so much about duck life, and I thought you’d just do whatever your wild self directed you to do. And I imagined you’d take my mother with you . . . I can see now I was stupid.
Yes, your mother said you had a tendency to be interfering.
What? She talked to you? About me? What else did she say?
Never you mind. Though she did say that you couldn’t let things be. That you couldn’t leave well alone. And that there was craziness in your family and that she feared for you.
Oh! Did she now! What a lot of poppycock. Honestly. She was the crazy one, actually.
Dead people aren’t crazy. They know the truth of things. They’re back in their essential nature. They have the benefit of hindsight. They have an overview of life without the encumbrance of responsibility or reaction or repercussion. They have insight that they would have given their last feather for in their lifetime. Insight that, but for their own blundering self-centredness, was available to them in life. As your mother pointed out, the whole picture is painted and you can stand back and look at the finished work.
Hannah laughed resignedly.
Well. What else do you have tucked away in your fat little globule of brain?
At that moment the duck stiffened and whinnied, his neck a tall pipe, his focus on the window. The cats had arrived, their tails flicking, out on the deck pawing at the glass. They hadn’t been fed either. She got up and opened a tin, scraped the meat into their dishes, then let them in. She watched them as they devoured the food in whispering grumbling gulps, then nudged them outside again.
The cats. Who would feed the cats if she left now?
She leaned against the bench, her arms folded. The duck was still watching her, wary, his neck snaking tentatively.
Ducko, what I want to know is why you didn’t discuss this before. The special mash. My mother’s ashes?
She cringed as she spoke the words.
We can’t reveal all our cards at once, he said slyly. Anyway, I didn’t know how you’d react. It was obviously a secretive thing. Until I stopped, you never mentioned it. So I could ask you the same question. Why? So . . . now it’s all out in the open and I’ll stay here and eat the rest of her, OK? Deal. Then everyone will be happy. Well, your mother won’t, but . . . well, sometimes you’ve got to take a few prisoners along the way.
Put like that, it sounded so crass. And how many other shuffling cards were out there, unrevealed? How could the night be so still and silent and heavy while the earth was splitting apart so dramatically? For a moment she had forgotten. She resisted the temptation to turn the computer on again for more news. She was overwhelmed enough as it was.
OK, then, Duckie, she said. If we’re talking deals, let’s start from here. If you sit on my lap, without struggling, we won’t leave tonight. I know this sounds pathetic, but I just . . . I would like to hold you. It’s the next best thing to a reassuring h
ug. And then, in the morning, if we all still exist, we’ll review the situation.
The duck sighed then stretched, one leg extended behind his tail, then the other. He arched his neck and flapped his wings a couple of times, lifting on tiptoe before settling again.
Well, no stroking, he said. No patting my head or the back of my neck. No scratching under my feathers. Is that clear?
Yes, yes, yes, agreed Hannah. And then she had to add, But I always thought you liked that?
Well, you’re wrong. I’m a wild animal, you seem to forget.
You used to, she persisted.
Frogs and tadpoles. Caterpillars and butterflies, was all he said.
She stood up from the sofa again. His claws clattered nervously on the floor as he crab-walked away from her.
And there’s one more thing, he said.
Oh yes? Go on? What?
Did she see a sidelong smirk lurking about his beak?
I’m hungry.
Right. Of course. She went to the freezer, took out a bag of frozen corn, and tipped some of it into a bowl. Sprinkled it with water and heated it in the microwave.
Actually, Ducko, while we’re thinking along those lines, I have a request as well.
Here we go. What?
She placed a newspaper in front of him on the floor and, after testing the corn for temperature, she put the bowl on the paper.
When you sit on my knee, could I place a plastic bag over your tail? Er . . . just in case.
He plunged his beak into his meal, eating ravenously, corn kernels flying everywhere.
When he finally stopped, she prompted him.
Ducko?
What?
He was looking for water now. She went to the deck and brought in one of his dishes. He slurped into it, lifting his head as if for a gargle.
I was asking, if you wouldn’t mind, if I could place a plastic bag over your tail?
He looked at her, feigning indignation.
Oh all right, I suppose so.
She turned the light off from the hallway, fished a towel from the box, and grabbed a supermarket bag. He allowed her to scoop him up and carry him to the sofa, where she arranged the towel over her lap before sitting down, grappling awkwardly to organise his back end into the bag. He nipped her arm, tugging at a clump of flesh when she tried to cup her hand around his body.