Owl

by Joanna Orwin

  The black shape burst out of the fog. It curved in a dive, straight towards them. ‘Stay put!’ Hamish shouted. ‘Don’t move until I tell you!’

  He aimed the rifle at the hurtling shape and made himself wait. When it filled the sights, he pulled the trigger. And again.

  The huge bird of prey continued its dive towards them as though nothing had happened. For a split second, Hamish stared at it in disbelief. He had missed. Then he yelled, ‘Get down!’ He shoved Tama hard. Both boys sprawled on the ground, arms instinctively over their heads for protection.

  Hamish felt the wind of the creature’s passage. Its talons brushed his head, but didn’t connect. Their attacker hadn’t been able to compensate for their last-minute change in position. It swung up and away from them. All they heard was the receding beat of its wings.

  Tama stood up slowly. ‘Jesus. That was close!’

  ‘Don’t lose sight of it,’ said Hamish urgently. ‘There! It’s coming again – from over there!’ He flung the unloaded rifle away from him and stood facing the direction the giant bird was coming from. Sweat broke out along his forehead and his mouth went dry. ‘Wait!’

  They waited for what seemed an eternity as the bird of prey began its dive towards them. Hamish could feel his legs trembling uncontrollably. He tightened the muscles, tried to stand tall, even though every instinct told him to burrow into the scant cover of the tussock. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tama, standing his ground beside him. The huge shape filled his vision before he yelled, ‘Now!’

  Again, they hurled themselves to the ground, seconds before the talons struck. Again the creature missed. As it wheeled away, they scrambled to their feet. Without a word, they scanned the fog layer, searching for its whereabouts. It was turning yet again, beginning its attack. Too frightened now to say anything, Hamish gritted his teeth and concentrated. Every fibre in his body was focused on survival. There was no time to think of anything else.

  Two, maybe three, more times, the malignant shape hurtled towards them. Each time they held their ground, flinging themselves down at the last second. Each time the talons brushed one of them.

  Then, at last, their attacker gave up. The giant bird of prey spiralled up into the fog. A long, bugle-like cry reached them, gradually dwindling into the distance.

  A thick silence enveloped them. For a long moment, neither boy said a thing. Hamish sat up slowly, drawing in deep shuddering breaths as he tried to calm his racing heart. All his senses were on alert in case the creature came back.

  At last Hamish heaved a sigh of relief. ‘It’s gone. We’re safe.’ He clambered unsteadily to his feet. He didn’t think he would be capable of reacting again. His legs could hardly hold him upright. Trying to suppress their shaking, he helped Tama up.

  Tama attempted a laugh. ‘Safe?’ he croaked. ‘You call this safe? That … thing … it could come back any time.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Hamish slowly. ‘At least not today. Listen.’ He gestured behind them, towards the start of their lambing beat. ‘It’s found easier prey.’

  Faintly, muffled by the fog, they could hear sheep bleating. A panic-stricken bleating that made Hamish feel sick.

  ‘That’s what was attacking the sheep,’ said Tama soberly. ‘Not a pack of dogs, that … thing.’

  There was no need for Hamish to answer. Helpless, they listened to the sounds of sheep in distress. When at last the sounds died away, they numbly gathered up their scattered belongings. Without a word, they set off on the long walk home.

  ≈ SIX

  THE WALK across the paddocks took forever. Hamish’s body felt as if the bones had been removed. He had no control over his muscles. It took all his willpower to keep walking. Tama followed close behind him, stumbling every now and then. Hamish knew that his bruises would be stiffening up. He could hear the other boy’s laboured breathing. Tama must be feeling even worse than he did.

  Thick strands of fog streamed and swirled past them. He couldn’t recognise any of his usual landmarks. Again and again, his heart lurched, only to painfully subside as an unfamiliar and threatening shape transformed itself into a rock outcrop or gnarled and twisted matagouri. They stumbled on through the landscape of nightmare.

  When at last the stockyards loomed out of the murk, Hamish almost cried with relief. Skirting the yards, they walked slowly towards the house as the last of their nervous energy drained away.

  Just before they reached the back door, Hamish stopped short. ‘We need to talk about this before we go inside,’ he said reluctantly. Talking was the last thing he felt like doing. That heavy stone had formed in the pit of his stomach again. He still felt sick.

  ‘What’s to talk about?’ said Tama belligerently. ‘We were attacked by some bloody ginormous thing with wings.’

  He was putting on a pretty good act, but Hamish could see his hands were trembling. The freckles stood out on his skin and his pupils were dilated.

  ‘Who’s going to believe that?’ asked Hamish. ‘Get real, Tama.’

  Tama gestured at his shredded Swanndri. ‘This is real enough for me, bro.’

  Hamish instinctively hunched his own shoulders against the thought of those talons. ‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘Attacked by a giant bird? If we just go in there and blurt that out, Tod would be so busy laughing he wouldn’t listen.’ He didn’t need to remind Tama that it had taken being attacked to convince him.

  ‘Whaddaya going to say then?’

  Hamish pulled him towards the wood shed. ‘That’s what we need to decide.’

  Inside the wood shed, Tama sat down abruptly on the chopping block. Hamish could see he was at the end of his endurance. He spoke hurriedly. ‘I should check some stuff out first, before we talk to anyone.’

  Tama fumbled to roll himself a cigarette. He didn’t say a word.

  Hamish stumbled on. ‘We might sound more convincing if I can identify for sure what attacked us.’

  ‘But you already know what it was,’ said Tama dully. ‘That giant eagle you told me about.’

  ‘I don’t know, as such,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ve got a suspicion, that’s all. Maybe it was just a large hawk. The fog could’ve distorted its size.’

  ‘Whaddaya mean – a hawk? You telling me a hawk could lift me off my feet, do this sort of damage?’ Tama tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a croak.

  ‘No, I guess not,’ said Hamish lamely. ‘We just need some facts, that’s all.’ He didn’t have the energy to face the unwelcome thought that was niggling in the back of his head. He was close to tears.

  For an endless moment longer, Tama stared at him, then he shrugged abruptly. ‘Okay, smart arse. Check it out then, do your ree-search.’ He drawled the word mockingly. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and walked out of the wood shed.

  Hamish called after him, ‘Hey! You can’t go inside looking like that! They’ll ask questions.’

  Tama stopped. He turned and came back. Without another word, he peeled off the tattered Swanndri and shirt, thrust them into Hamish’s arms. And then he had gone.

  Hamish stood there, the bundle of clothes clutched to his chest. The stone in his stomach grew heavier. He felt totally useless. With a sudden fierce longing, he wished his father was here. Alex MacIntyre would’ve known what to do. Before he could stop them, the tears spilled over. He gave way to a brief storm of grief.

  The tears stopped as suddenly as they had started. Gulping back a last sob, Hamish looked down at the bundled Swanndri. Being such a wuss wasn’t going to solve anything. He wiped his face on the damp wool, then stuffed the torn clothing into a corner, out of sight behind a pile of rusted dead machinery. Slowly, he made his own way back to the house.

  As soon as he could, Hamish retreated to his bedroom. It wouldn’t take much to make him cry again. That stone in his stomach seemed to have settled there permanently. They couldn’t delay telling the others about the attack for long. They could all be in danger. He spread out the books he had gath
ered from the living room. He needed more details than the bird field guide he’d already looked at. Maybe he would feel less helpless if he could name the bird. Find a description. He started to flick through his father’s books on prehistoric New Zealand.

  The first one said Haast’s eagle, an extinct giant bird found only in New Zealand, was the largest eagle ever known, with a three-metre wingspan. That was about right. He stretched his arms out to test. Three metres was maybe half as wide again. The width of his room, in fact. His heart started to thud. That was huge.

  He read on. The physical description seemed to fit, but not the rest of the information. According to this book, Haast’s eagle was a scavenger that fed on the carcases of dead moa and other large flightless birds. It sounded pretty passive, a great lump that sat around waiting for its prey to die. The thing that had attacked them had been a damn sight more aggressive than that. Those talons, black and horny, each as thick as a man’s thumb, each ending in a curved scimitar-like blade, ridged and translucent at the tip. Nothing passive about them. He closed the book and reached for another one.

  This was more like it. Hamish scanned the page quickly. The most powerful raptor in the world … Haast’s eagle weighed about thirteen kilograms – heavy for a bird with hollow bones – and flew at up to eighty kilometres an hour. That was fast. An image of the menacing dark shape of their attacker diving silently out of the fog flashed behind his eyes. He blocked the image out and turned the page. What he read there made his skin crawl.

  Harpagornis moorei, Haast’s eagle, could knock even the largest moa off its feet – bowl it like a skittle. Hamish had seen reconstructions of the largest moa, and they were massive, with heavy solid legs. Bigger than a man too … Taking a deep breath, he read on. Powerful leg muscles to cushion the impact of the high-speed dive … talons used to pierce and crush the neck and skull of its prey. And it had been capable of killing a human.

  Hamish went hot, then cold. He slammed the book shut and bolted downstairs, seeking company. Looking up more information had been no help at all. He kept seeing the printed words flashing – Haast’s eagle, capable of killing a human.

  What made it worse was the unwelcome thought that nagged again at the back of his mind. Why now? What had triggered the eagle’s appearance? Could it somehow be linked to what he had done up in the shelter? He swallowed, then dismissed the idea. He was losing the plot. It was just coincidence.

  Much more pressing was the need to warn the others. Danger waited out there, beyond the fog, waited to attack from the sky. But what could he tell them? The eagle had been extinct for five hundred years.

  He had no option but to try. Hammering led him to the workshop. Kirsten was more likely to listen than Tod. When he pushed the door open, she glanced up from the feeder station she was finishing, then put the hammer down.

  ‘What’s up? You look like something the cat dragged in.’

  ‘Well, everything, really,’ said Hamish. He couldn’t suppress the image that flashed across his brain. It wasn’t a cat doing the dragging. He gulped. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘It’s the pits all right,’ she said sympathetically. Then, when he didn’t say anything more, she added softly, ‘I miss him too.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Hamish. He couldn’t afford to think about Dad just now. ‘I don’t think it’s dogs attacking the sheep.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Kirsten.

  For some reason she didn’t sound particularly surprised. It gave Hamish the courage to continue.

  ‘Tama and me, we were….’ He stopped. No, he couldn’t go through this more than once. ‘I think Tod and Tama need to be here too.’

  ‘Well?’ said Tod once the four of them had found somewhere to sit in Hamish’s room. ‘What’s the big deal, Owl?’

  ‘Shut up and listen,’ said Tama unexpectedly. ‘Give the guy a break.’

  Taken aback, Tod closed his mouth. Hamish began by telling them about the giant bird and his theory about its identity.

  His brother and sister listened in silence. Tod looked increasingly sceptical, as he’d predicted. Hamish paused and waited nervously for them to respond. Even to him it sounded implausible.

  Kirsten spoke first. ‘Just hold your horses, Tod,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘Not you too!’ Tod gave an exaggerated groan. He subsided as Kirsten stared him down. ‘Okay, lay it on me.’

  ‘Don’t to be so quick to dismiss Owl’s story,’ she said. ‘It makes sense. A lot of sense.’

  Before Tod could scoff again, she elaborated. ‘Remember that first attack?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was keas – I said so at the time, because of the type of injuries.’

  ‘So?’ replied Tod. ‘We decided keas were out of the question, didn’t we. Anyway, it’s a long way short of what Owl’s expecting us to believe.’

  Tama acted before Kirsten could say anything more. ‘He hasn’t told you the half of it yet.’ He stripped to his waist. ‘Explain this away, bro. We were attacked by the thing. I’d know if it was a bloody dog that did this, eh?’

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Tod, staring at the ripening bruises, the dark congealed blood that outlined the scratches scarring Tama’s shoulders.

  Before he could think of anything more to say, Kirsten got to her feet, her face white with shock. ‘This is my fault.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I should’ve told you earlier, but I didn’t know what to make of it. Wait here.’

  She left the room. The others sat without speaking. When Kirsten returned, she was carrying something.

  ‘Have a look at this,’ she said, in control of her emotions once more. ‘I found it after that first attack – the next time we did our round.’ Kirsten addressed the last part of her sentence to Tod.

  In her hand was an enormous brown feather. A feather unlike anything any of them had seen before. A stiff flight feather, over forty centimetres long. It was far too large to belong to any kea, or any other familiar bird. They all stared at it, dumbfounded. Tangible evidence that a giant eagle was alive and present in their time, in their place.

  That stone in Hamish’s stomach lightened. He was not alone any more. What’s more, Kirsten was accepting some of the blame. He found his voice. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We can’t deal with this by ourselves,’ said Kirsten firmly. ‘Not saying anything has already caused enough trouble.’

  ‘Better tell Mum, then,’ said Hamish.

  ‘No way,’ said Kirsten. ‘Haven’t you noticed, Owl? She’s not coping very well as it is. This could tip her right over the edge.’

  While Hamish faced unwelcome confirmation of his mother’s state of mind, Tod said, ‘There’s this meeting tonight at Rod Jamieson’s. All the local guys will be there.’

  ‘I don’t think they’d listen to Owl,’ said Kirsten slowly. ‘He wouldn’t even get a hearing – look how long it took you to believe him, Tod.’

  ‘You do it then,’ said Tod. ‘I’ll back you up, and Tama can show his injuries if needed.’

  The overhead lights shone harshly, hurting Hamish’s eyes and blurring his vision. The crowded room was stuffy, and his nostrils filled with the sour smell of damp work clothes and cigarette smoke. The buzz of voices, animated at the prospect of action, assailed him. Like bloody kids on a school outing. And outside, that eagle, preparing to attack again. He’d never felt so useless. Kirsten would have a hard time making this lot listen. She was sitting nearby, with the others. They had agreed they would leave it to her to judge the right time to speak. Dreading the moment, Hamish tucked himself into a corner, wanting to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  ‘Right then,’ Rod Jamieson banged the table with the rolling pin he’d taken from the kitchen. ‘Sit down and shaddup. I’m calling this meeting to order.’

  ‘Don’t see any point in farting around. Not much to discuss is there?’ said Doug Armitage impatiently. ‘Who’s joining this posse?’ He stood propped against the wall, rolled balaclava pushed to th
e back of his head, hands thrust into the pockets of his ancient moleskin trousers.

  ‘Shaddup, Doug,’ said Rod Jamieson patiently. ‘I’m running this show. Won’t get anywhere if you jump the gun.’

  Snorted laughter at the appropriateness of his word choice. Everyone settled down. Only Doug Armitage, still glowering, muttered about wasting time.

  One by one, people reported how many of their sheep had been killed or injured, the timing and the circumstances being drawn out by Jamieson’s questions. The room grew quiet as the extent of their losses over the last three days became clear. A sudden draft stirred the curtains, and Hamish started. For a brief moment he thought he heard the distant beat of wings, a muffled bugle-cry. His heart lurched.

  Beside him, Kirsten was getting to her feet. But Rod Jamieson, not noticing her, had already signalled someone else to speak. She sank down again. Hamish let his breath out slowly.

  ‘I’ve seen the buggers. Three of’em.’ Armitage again. The big man leaned back against the wall, expectant.

  Seen them? Hamish wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Someone else had seen three of them? What was going on? He sat bolt upright and listened carefully. Armitage was now elaborating. He jabbed a stubby finger into his palm as he made each point, enjoying the attention.

  ‘The leader’s a big pale-coated bastard,’ he said. ‘Mastiff cross, I reckon. Rhodesian ridgeback or some such. The other two? Typical mongrel pig dog types.’

  Pig dogs? What was he talking about? For a moment Hamish was baffled, then he understood. Armitage hadn’t seen a thing. The man had jumped to conclusions, like Phil and Rod had. Assumed it had to be dogs. Armitage had just taken it one step further in claiming he’d actually seen them.

  One of the other men was nodding agreement. ‘Yeah. A mastiff cross sounds right. Need to be a big-jawed bugger.’

  And then someone else piped up. ‘I saw a big pale-coated dog up behind The Pinnacles, a week or two back. Sounds like the same dog.’