Owl

by Joanna Orwin

  ≈ FOUR

  UP BEFORE DAWN, they met in the kitchen for the familiar ritual of tea and porridge. Fog lay against the sides of the hills and hoar frost had stiffened the clumps of tussock into surreal shapes. The hooded figures of the Seven Sentinels projected above the fog, sharply outlined against the flat sky by some trick of the light. They seemed closer than usual, forbidding and accusatory, as if they knew what he’d done. Hamish tried not to look at them. Overhead that layer of high cloud was forming again from the nor’west. He eyed it gloomily. More snow coming.

  While they ate, Kirsten told them what she wanted. ‘Owl and Tama, you take the home beat. Tod ’n’ me will check out the fan.’

  The most distant paddocks were on the far side of the vast alluvial fan that formed the boundary of the basin. They were tilted to the afternoon sun, and clumps of trees provided the lambing ewes with warmth and shelter. Kirsten had left most of the sheep there. Only the first-time mothers were in the home paddocks where they could be checked more often, as they were more likely to have trouble than the experienced ewes.

  ‘Shouldn’t take you too long,’ she said. ‘Not many of the first-timers have started yet. We’ll feed out on the way through with the bike.’

  Tama wasn’t speaking. The two boys crossed the yard in silence to release the dogs and collect shepherding crooks and a lambing kit. Hamish was getting fed up. Just when the guy seemed to be relaxing and starting to fit in, he went all sullen again. Tough, he wasn’t going to react. Shoulders hunched against the cold, they trudged down to the far end of their beat, not speaking.

  No one had shown much interest in what Hamish had been doing in the rock shelter. Jane MacIntyre had only asked about the camera and the photography, wanting to know whether it’d gone well. Her questions had been perfunctory. Tod and Kirsten hadn’t said more than to remind him he now owed them a favour. As for Tama, he hadn’t said a thing all last night. He’d even avoided meeting Hamish’s eye. Embarrassed about that show of superstition, no doubt.

  For once the lack of interest suited Hamish. He had woken during the night, his brain working overtime. Coming up with excuses about what he had done up there. It was so childish, letting his excitement get the better of him.

  It’d been too late to develop the films last night. His mother had a small darkroom in what had been the old outside dunny at the end of the back porch. It was unheated. Hamish told himself that was what had made him reluctant to leave the warmth of the living room fire. He’d tackle developing his photos this afternoon, after they’d finished the lambing beat.

  Much to his annoyance, the dog they had with them, Storm, was walking with her nose to Tama’s heel. She seemed to have taken a fancy to him. Hamish felt betrayed. Storm was his dog when he was home from boarding school. He clicked his fingers at her, but she merely wagged her tail and looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, showing the whites. Fickle, that’s what she was.

  When they reached the start of the beat, Hamish climbed a small knoll where he could get a view of the whole paddock. He took out his binoculars and started scanning the ewes. He decided to ignore Tama. Let him make the running.

  ‘What’re we looking for?’ Tama joined him, apparently not noticing his snub.

  ‘Ewes that might be in trouble.’

  ‘I know that. What do we look for?’

  Hamish relented. ‘Cast ewes. Lambs without mothers. Ewes on their feet, but with the lamb’s head hanging out and nothing much happening. That sort of thing.’

  ‘How do we deal with that – lambs hanging out?’

  ‘Stick your hand up the sheep’s bum and yank the lamb out.’ Hamish enjoyed the look of disbelief on Tama’s face.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He kept scanning the paddock, restored to a better humour now that he had the advantage over Tama. ‘There’s one lambing now. Over there, by the fence. You can see the lamb’s head.’ He gave the other boy the binoculars.

  ‘Is it in trouble?’ Tama trained the binoculars on the sheep.

  ‘Have to move closer before we can tell.’

  Walking slowly, with Storm close to heel so that the sheep weren’t overly disturbed, they worked their way closer to the ewe. Hamish stopped to check with the binoculars again, then handed them to Tama.

  ‘That looks gross,’ said Tama. ‘The head – it’s so big. Is it stuck?’

  ‘That’s the one. See, the feet aren’t showing. They’ve got turned back inside, so the ewe can’t push the lamb out. If we don’t help, the lamb will die.’

  Using Storm, they worked the ewe nearer the fence. Hamish left his crook and the lambing kit with Tama. A bit of style was called for, show the townie a thing or two.

  ‘Wait there. Use your crook to block her off.’ He whistled Storm to move in on the ewe. The animal, increasingly uneasy, tried to bolt. Hamish flung himself headlong in a spectacular rugby tackle and grabbed her round the neck. Triumphant, he knelt astride the struggling animal and yelled at Tama to bring the kit.

  The ewe lay panting, the lamb’s head protruding from her rear. Tama watched in silence while Hamish unrolled the lambing kit. He laid out everything he’d need, then poured disinfectant over his hands.

  ‘Give us a hand,’ he said briskly. ‘Straddle the sheep and hold her still for me.’

  Working quickly and efficiently, no longer showing off, Hamish gently pushed the lamb back inside the ewe until he could get his hand down the side of the swollen head. His probing fingers found the shoulder joint of one of the trapped legs. The hot tight birth canal squeezed his hand in a contraction. He winced at the pressure, then hooked his finger under the trapped leg. It flipped forward. He repeated the procedure for the other leg then withdrew his hand. Both legs now protruded on either side of the lamb’s head.

  ‘Should come easily now.’ Hamish cupped one hand over the lamb’s forehead, and grasped its legs in his other hand. At the next contraction he applied steady pressure. The lamb slithered out in a rush of liquid and mucus. He cleared the mucus from its nose and mouth and checked that its tongue was free.

  ‘Breathe, little one.’ The lamb’s legs jerked feebly, then it let out a faint bleat. ‘That’s the stuff.’ Hamish cut the cord and tied it, then swabbed the lamb’s navel with iodine. He dragged the lamb round to the ewe’s head and rubbed her nose on its wet yellow pelt. He wiped his hands and looked at Tama for the first time.

  The other boy knelt on the ground, ignoring the dampness soaking through his trousers. He stared transfixed at the ewe, now nuzzling at its lamb. Hamish could swear he had tears in his eyes. That was a turn up for the books.

  ‘Piece of cake, eh.’ He spoke gruffly. It always got to him too. He remembered Dad talking him patiently through his first delivery – years ago now, when he was ten. Ignoring the pricking of tears under his eyelids, he busied himself opening the tube of antibiotic and injected the sheep before looking at Tama again. ‘Precaution, ’cos of the handling,’ he explained, his voice back under control.

  ‘That was awesome,’ said Tama. He made no attempt to disguise his emotion. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before. It was just … awesome.’

  ‘The lamb dies sometimes.’ Hamish decided it was time to bring him back to earth. This was getting embarrassing.

  ‘What now?’ Tama was still watching the sheep. She was beginning to lick the yellow slime from the lamb.

  ‘They’ll be fine. We just need to check the lamb’s suckling before we leave the paddock.’ Hamish poured disinfectant over his hands and dried them before rolling up the lamb kit. ‘C’mon. We’ve got work to do.’

  They worked their way steadily through the rest of the paddock. As Kirsten had predicted, not many of the first-timers had yet produced lambs. In one corner, they had to foster-on a lamb, a weakling twin that was being excluded by its stronger sibling. At first Hamish thought they’d have to take it back to the house for rearing. Then he spotted a ewe whose lamb had been stillborn. She stood over it, the afterbir
th still hanging from her rear.

  ‘Great.’ He gave the shivering twin to Tama and took out the skinning knife.

  ‘Whaddaya going to do with that?’ Tama was disconcerted. He clutched the lamb to his chest.

  ‘Cool it!’ Hamish laughed. ‘I’m going to skin the dead lamb and use its pelt to fool the mother. She’ll think the foster lamb is hers.’

  ‘Oh … right.’ Tama grinned at him. ‘Had me spooked for a moment!’

  Hamish showed Tama how to drape the pelt over the foster lamb and fasten it. ‘Bring the lamb over once I’ve caught the ewe.’

  This time he used his crook to catch the ewe by the hind leg, not feeling any further need to perform. He straddled her and beckoned Tama. ‘C’mon. Stick the lamb on the teat. See if you can get it to feed.’

  Tama crouched over the lamb and struggled to attach it to the sheep’s teat. ‘It’s not drinking.’

  ‘Squirt some milk into its mouth.’

  Tama tried to get the milk flowing. Clumsy at first, he eventually got the hang of it. He directed a jet of milk into the lamb’s mouth. Before long it was suckling by itself.

  ‘Good one,’ said Hamish. He held the ewe until the lamb had had a decent drink, then tipped her back on her feet. ‘Bring the lamb round here and rub the old girl’s nose on the pelt.’

  While Tama did that, he banged a peg into the ground and tethered the ewe. ‘We’ll have to come back later and see whether the graft’s taken.’

  As they left the paddock, Hamish turned to check the pair. The ewe was sniffing the lamb. She wasn’t trying to butt it away, and while they watched, the lamb began suckling again. ‘Cool,’ Hamish said. ‘Looks like a goer. Right. I reckon we’ve earned some breakfast.’

  Tama looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. They had been out there for three hours. ‘Geez! I’d no idea it was so late!’ Face flushed with the cold, he was oblivious of his wet trousers and the smears of lamb slime and milk on his Swanndri.

  ‘Breakfast,’ repeated Hamish. ‘Let’s go!’ He was constantly being forced to revise his opinion of Tama. He was good with animals, for a townie. Might even end up liking the bugger after all. Might even forgive Storm for adopting him. Come to think of it, dogs were known to be good judges of people.

  Back at the house, the other two reported an uneventful morning. Things were going according to plan. Kirsten was fired up. ‘Fifteen sets of twins already, and we’ve only just started,’ she reported.

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Jane MacIntyre. Her voice was flat, belying her words.

  She doesn’t really care any more, thought Hamish. She’s given up on the farm already.

  His mother’s next words reinforced his impression. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Kirsten.’ She busied herself pouring them mugs of tea, deliberately avoiding Kirsten’s indignant gaze.

  Hamish knew what his sister was thinking. If the flock had a high lambing percentage, it might make keeping the farm a viable proposition. He hoped she was right. Something would work out. Kirsten wasn’t about to let some foreign tourist consortium take over.

  Once they’d eaten bacon and eggs followed by a batch of hot scones, Hamish excused himself. ‘Want to get these photos done before Miss Slave-driver here takes over completely.’

  ‘Go for it,’ said Kirsten. “I have two other slaves at my bidding.’

  ‘Not me, you don’t,’ said Tod. ‘Done my bit today.’

  His brother was heading for the Pass again. Planning another climb, no doubt. He didn’t spend much time at home any more. Left as much to Kirsten as he could get away with, the selfish sod, thought Hamish.

  Kirsten shrugged. ‘Just you and me, then, Tama. You can help me set up a feeder station in case we get any orphans we can’t foster.’ She took him off to the workshop.

  Leaving his mother to do the dishes, Hamish went to collect the film magazines from his room. As he was about to leave, he caught a glimpse of the Sentinels out of the corner of his eye. He hesitated, then went to his jersey drawer and took out a small package wrapped in a handkerchief. Sitting down on his bed, he slowly unwrapped the oval piece of stone he’d brought back with him the night before. It was the first time he’d looked at it properly. Last night his uneasy conscience had made him thrust the hastily wrapped object into his drawer, unexamined. Now curiosity got the better of him.

  It was nothing to get excited about. A few grooves had been scored across its surface, to represent eyes and mouth, he supposed. A talisman of some sort perhaps. The stone did sit comfortably in his palm, and he rubbed it automatically. Smooth nice feel to it. At some stage he’d have to put it back with the matting bag, but that could wait. He wrapped it up in the handkerchief and stuffed it into the bottom of his school soccer bag where no one was likely to look. He hung the bag back on its hook in his wardrobe and closed the door. Now for those photos.

  The darkroom was a bit cramped, but Jane MacIntyre had set it up with all the latest gear. Hamish was glad he’d decided to go with black and white film. It should give good contrasts between the charcoal markings of the drawings and the pale background surface of the rock. When he had placed everything he’d need in a logical sequence, he switched off the yellow safe light.

  Hamish liked the precision of developing film. Everything in sequence and to a set time, movements crisp and controlled as though he was a programmed machine. Sometimes he talked himself through the process out loud, using a distorted robot-like voice. But this was science. Once the film was safely in the developing tank, he switched the light back on and concentrated, counting through the steps in his head.

  The time ticked by steadily as he went through the separate processes of development, stopping, and fixing the film, with the clock set for each step. He was washing the film when his mother called him for lunch from the back door.

  ‘Nearly there!’ he yelled back. ‘Put mine in the oven please.’ He hung the film up to dry, then took a quick look at the negatives before he left the darkroom. They looked fine – good contrasts. So far so good.

  Everyone was sprawled around the table in the kitchen, again talking about the successful morning. Hamish sat down and joined in. ‘Tama’s a dab hand with a sheep’s teat. Makes you wonder where he got his experience.’

  ‘It’s all those brats,’ said Tama, unruffled. ‘Had to learn how to manage a teat. A real one ain’t much different.’

  ‘Make Hamish let you do a delivery next,’ said Kirsten.

  ‘Yeah? That’d be something else,’ said Tama, his eyes lighting up.

  ‘You’re on,’ said Hamish. ‘Next one’s yours.’ Helping a ewe in trouble would show what he was really made of.

  Kirsten was full of plans for the future. ‘We could lease the rough country to Phil,’ she said. ‘He’s asked about it often enough. I could manage just the stud flock. Maybe we could think about homestays or something too. Mum, you could help, cook and that. And I could take them out on the farm, show them real farming life. I wouldn’t mind that. Heaps better than fake set-ups for tourists.’

  She was unstoppable. Hamish could see his mother wasn’t too keen on the idea of homestays, but Kirsten would win her round.

  Back in the darkroom for the few hours before afternoon rounds, Hamish did some test prints. He used the negative that showed the best image of that first big birdman he’d photographed. There were others in the series, but he really liked this one. The original was about twenty centimetres tall. It seemed to provide a focal point to the set of drawings, and it had good clean outlines. By the time Kirsten banged on the door to tell him to hurry, he’d printed an enlargement he was happy with. He hung the print up to dry before switching off the yellow safe light and leaving the darkroom.

  Outside, he paused to check the weather. The sky had thickened again. That dull cloud had spread and the Seven Sentinels still stood out against the flat light, larger than life. A sure sign that snow was coming, all right. He sighed. A sharp wind was getting up from the nor’west. He pulled on h
is balaclava and told Tama to do the same.

  It was too cold to mess around. They worked their way through the paddock as fast as they could. The lamb they’d delivered was feeding well and looking strong. The one they’d grafted seemed okay too. It was tucked up against its new mother, sheltered from the wind.

  ‘Okay, that’s about it then.’ Hamish undid the tether. ‘Safer to let her off if it’s going to snow tonight – she’ll find better shelter.’

  A few more ewes had lambed. But much to Tama’s obvious disappointment, none of them needed his intervention.

  ‘No worries,’ said Hamish. ‘You’ll get your crisis soon enough.’

  The wind was blowing strongly now, and purple-black swathes of cloud obscured the mountains. They put their heads down and walked fast, the nor’west wind buffeting their backs. They were almost back to the yards when they heard the farm bike. Before it reached them, Hamish thought he heard Kirsten shouting. He stopped and turned around, something in her voice alerting him.

  She slewed to a halt beside them and flung herself off the bike. Tears were running down her face.

  ‘Hey – what’s up?’ Hamish was alarmed.

  ‘Dead lambs….’ she blurted, struggling for composure. ‘And ewes … mutilated. Three of them.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Hamish. The pleasure of the day vanished. He thought rapidly. ‘Dogs?’

  ‘Has to be, doesn’t it?’ Kirsten hesitated. ‘At first I thought it was keas. One of the ewes, her back was torn open, the kidneys exposed.’

  ‘Keas?’ Hamish’s head was reeling. It was years since anyone had reported kea damage. There weren’t many keas left around this area.