That night I turn over the possibilities. What if he’s dying? He’s not much of a father but I don’t want him to die. I know what the word pathology means but I grab my worn copy of the Macquarie Dictionary and check anyway. It has three definitions: Pathology. n. 1. the science of the origin, nature, and course of diseases. 2. the conditions and processes of a disease. 3. the study of morbid or abnormal mental or moral conditions.
My whole body freezes as I read number three. It’s not my father who’s sick – it’s me. I knew it. I’ve got an abnormal mental and moral condition. Dad knows. He knows I’m an insane person who gets murderous images flashing into his head. I take this knowledge to bed with me – all night my mind churns it over and over and refuses to allow me sleep.
I feel no better in the morning when I realise that my father will refer me to some specialist, a doctor or psychiatrist who’ll diagnose insanity. Dad’ll probably be glad to get rid of me. He seems more interested in birds anyway. I bet he goes off again today.
I’m not wrong. Straight after breakfast he says, ‘You’re in charge.’ He heads towards the yellow Ski-Doo which is spluttering impatiently outside the workshop door.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask, not sure if I can handle being on my own. Or maybe it’s safer if I am on my own.
‘Out,’ he says as he mounts the machine. It leaps forward and he disappears up the slope.
I turn back into the workshop and see that the sharpened icepick isn’t hanging in its place. Just like that, an image bites my brain – the icepick in my hand, sinking into Dad’s head. I moan. What’s wrong with me? Something bad’s going to happen. I can’t bear it anymore. I need to know what’s going on.
I grab a pinch bar and walk over to the desk where he keeps his mail and shove the end of it under the rolltop. There’s the sound of splintering and the lid springs up ripping white wounds into the brown wood. The carved wooden box is inside. I snatch it and put it on the floor, then lift the pinch bar in the air and smash it open, letting loose another snake bite inside my head. It flashes away as I see the letter lying next to the open box. I scan the pages. The letter isn’t signed. The last page is missing.
I skim over the formal stuff which consists of a whole lot of graphs and statistics. I read something about sample MG 1A and MG 2B. They seem to be a match.
What does this mean? I think I know. My father’s sent off a sample of my DNA – a fingernail clipping or a hair or saliva on a tissue – and they’ve tested it. I ought to know more about DNA testing, but I don’t. I’m probably missing a chromosome or something. The same chromosome that’s missing from other weirdos and maniacs who see horrific images.
It’s confirmed. I am mad.
Negative thoughts overwhelm me. I try to distract myself by thinking about my mother. I try to imagine her face and her smile but it’s no good. Why did she abandon me? Why? Why? Why? I have to get my mind off the misery that possesses me.
I’m going to follow him, confront him if I have to. I lock up the workshop, take down my skis and put on my parka and beanie. I have to hurry. There’s no time for emergency gear; I’m in too much of a frenzy anyway.
The brightest of cold blue skies lies behind and above the white peaks of the snowfields. One or two clouds threaten but they’re far off and anyway I’m beyond caring. I put on my cross-country skis and head uphill passing under the chairlift with its load of carefree skiers. An engineer is repairing a window in the shelter by the lower ramp. He’s rugged up against the freezing air in a thick snow suit and gloves. He fumbles with a tape measure and drops it in the snow. He seems to glower at me as he bends to pick it up. A lightning image hits me and I see myself plunge a knife straight into his chest. Where did this come from? The poor man’s totally innocent.
‘I will not kill Dad,’ I say to myself. ‘They’re just thoughts. They’re not real.’
Please let this be true.
A signpost with five fingers identifies various ski trails. Some of them lead up to the peaks and others down into the valley. It makes me think of a giant white hand showing the way to heaven. Or hell. I wince as another violent image flashes.
One of the signs reads: Finnegan’s Forest Walk 10 km. This is my route. The one that leads uphill along the bush trail to Old Baldy, then plummets down through thick stands of snow gums and past the lake before ending at Logan’s Refuge which is close to the mine.
As I turn onto the track I see a lone figure in a red parka watching my progress. The skier beckons to me. For a second I think it might be Charlie but she wouldn’t wave at me. I peer but can’t see who it is – maybe someone trying to indicate that I shouldn’t be setting out without a pack. I have no time for anyone. My mind’s in a black fog. The trees seem to have faces.
The narrow walking track is covered in about twenty centimetres of snow – nothing I can’t handle in this weather. The first signs of spring are making themselves known. Unseen streams gurgle beneath the surface and every now and then a bent branch releases its load with a heavy swoosh.
Soon I’m hot and my parka and beanie become burdens. Rivers of sweat run inside my T-shirt and boxers. I can’t stop thinking about the violent images that come from somewhere deep inside me. Will I act one out? How can I stop them? I know that struggling against them gives them strength so in the end I just let them buzz in and out of awareness. There’s nothing I can do. My fate is already written. It’s built into my DNA.
An hour passes and no sign of my father. My legs ache from the effort of sliding one ski in front of the other on the unforgiving slopes. I pass White Mountain Cemetery where the fifty or so tombstones in a clearing wear thin hats of snow that sparkle in the sunshine. Most of the headstones lean like frozen drunks. They’re green with moss and many have inscriptions worn away by the fierce mountain storms.
Now I’ve broken out of the trees and I’m heading up over the bare slopes of Old Baldy. For an instant I have an image of my father’s bare head but it’s driven away by the sight of black clouds racing towards the peak. I must hurry. I reach the summit after half an hour more and bend my shoulders into the wind which has sprung up. It begins to snow heavily. I zip my parka collar up over my mouth and pick up speed as I head downhill into Finnegan’s Forest trail. I wonder what I will find when I reach the old mineshaft.
Once again I’m surrounded by trees and am a little protected from the wind. I reach the shore of the lake. Thin, patchy ice covers the surface. Black streaks of water appear here and there like holes in a moth-eaten jumper. A bent tree is a solitary angler standing on a white shore. I drop onto the snow for a moment or two and realise how tired I am. I feel weak and my head is spinning. I’m not even sure what I’m doing here or what I expect to find.
Weird thoughts flit through my mind like frightened birds bursting from their hideouts. The snow is heavy and cold and wet on my face. I begin to shiver as I push on and soon leave the lake behind.
The sky overhead is dark and threatening. The wind has dropped and gentle snowflakes flurry about my head. I know that I shouldn’t be up here without a tent and a shovel and an icepick, but the turn-off to the mine where I hope to find my father isn’t far now. Without warning sleet and hail begin to lash my face. The last patches of warmth drain from my body. I have to get out of this or I will die. Stupid, stupid, stupid, coming up here without a backpack and supplies.
My goggles are now so covered in snow and ice that I can hardly see anything more than a dim whiteness but when I take them off the frozen sleet drives into my eyes and I still can’t see. I squint and vaguely make out a rectangular shape ahead of me. The refuge. Saved! I push myself against the ripping wind and reach the door. With a slight feeling of guilt I break the glass emergency lock so I can get in. I don’t know why I’m feeling guilty. An emergency like this is just what the hut’s here for.
I pull off my skis, stagger inside and look around in the gloom. There are no windows along the whitewashed walls and the snowstorm outside throws little
light through the flapping door. In the centre of the room I can just make out a strong wooden table with a kerosene lamp standing in the centre. Next to it is a flame gun used for lighting gas ovens. I memorise the layout with one quick glance and then fight to close the open door which has let the blizzard follow me into the room. Now I’m in total darkness. I grope around and grab the flame gun. I press the trigger and a lazy flame throws enough light for me to fire up the kerosene lamp. I see a fireplace set with kindling and wood and matches. There are rough cupboards and six bunks with blankets and sleeping-bags and towels neatly folded on the end of each. There’s even an old stuffed leather sofa in front of the fireplace. I open a cupboard and see tins of soup and stews and other food. There are enough provisions here for a handful of people to ride out the longest storm.
My feelings of panic begin to subside now that I’m safe. I hear the anger of the storm through the log walls and remember that Dad’s out there somewhere. I hope he’s found shelter. He has the icepick and he knows what he’s doing. When there’s a break in the storm he’ll head here for sure. I’ll give him until my clothes dry out – then I’ll have to go and look for him, no matter how bad the weather gets.
I squat down in front of the fireplace and click the flame gun which throws its tongue at the crumpled paper under the kindling. Nothing happens. Shit. The paper’s damp. I’m not worried because I know I can get it going but I’m cold and I want that fire started. Fast. I whirl around looking for paper and then remember that my manuscript’s inside my parka pocket. I pull out the plastic sleeve and crumple up the A4 sheets. It’s only eight pages but that’s enough to do the trick and flames are soon licking the kindling and drying the damp newspaper above it.
I feel apprehensive as I watch my story turn to smoke and curl up the chimney. I can always print out another copy so that’s not what’s gnawing at me. Maybe it’s the thought of the icepick but I don’t think so. It’s something to do with my mother and father. The flames seem to form dancing pictures of their faces yelling at each other. The fire is illustrating the very tale that it’s consuming. I get this crazy idea that the story about the birds holds the answer to the mystery of my mother’s whereabouts. This is mad because I wrote the story and made up everything that’s in it. It all came out of my own head so how can it hold the answer?
I remember my discussion with Mr Rogers about The Tree. I said, ‘It’s my story,’ meaning that I wrote it. He replied, ‘That’s interesting.’ His words had a double meaning – he was implying the story about the trees was autobiographical. But that can’t be right. The Birds came from nowhere. It doesn’t mean anything. I retrace the story about the birds in my mind, searching for a clue, but nothing occurs to me.
I think back to the conversation at Charlie’s house and remember how Russell said that animals do things without thinking. A dingo might go down to the waterhole where small animals drink in the evening. The dingo doesn’t say to itself, ‘The wallabies will be here tonight.’ The dingo knows without knowing that it knows. Can a person know something without knowing it?
The heat from the fire begins to take possession of the room. I take off my wet parka and dry myself with a towel. I pull on some warm clothes from the emergency supply and hang my wet gear in front of the fire. I’m hardly aware of the howling wind outside. I lie down on the old leather sofa. Exhaustion claims me and I’m soon asleep.
The Birds
Up in Queensland there was a young boy named Gordon who was mad about birds. He used to go watching them with binoculars in the forest. He had books about them. He took photographs. He drew birds – even in those days he had an interest in painting. He was a fanatic about saving their habitats.
Anyway, one day he learned about a pair of rare Restless Finches that were kept in a small cage by a shady character called Ratnally who lived on Mud Island in the middle of the estuary.
‘He’s a smuggler,’ says the boy. ‘He’ll put them in a sock or a small box and smuggle them overseas. Restless Finches are worth thousands. We have to save them.’
‘Don’t you go getting any ideas,’ says his mother.
‘It’s against the law,’ says the boy. ‘Those birds are protected. And it’s cruel. Most of them die before they reach their destination.’
‘You can’t prove a thing,’ says the boy’s mother. ‘It’s his island. Don’t you set foot there.’
‘They’ll be laying soon,’ says the boy. ‘The eggs won’t hatch in a small cage without a nest.’
‘Just don’t even think about letting them out,’ says his mother.
‘I can’t,’ says the boy. ‘Restless Finches aren’t from around here. They live in the mountains. They’ll die if you let them out in the wrong habitat.’
‘It’s not our problem,’ says his mother. ‘Just mind your own business.’
The boy doesn’t say anything because his mother is already mad at him for getting a weird haircut. She doesn’t like it so modern.
So he figures that what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. He decides that he will rescue the birds and take them back into the mountains where they come from. The only problem is, he doesn’t have a boat to get to the island.
But what he does have is an old bath that’s out in the backyard. It was once used as a horse trough. He gets the bath and glues a plug into the drain hole. Then he finds a small metal coffee table in their shed and plonks it in the bath.
‘In case it rains,’ he says to himself.
The boy also grabs a large plastic packet of birdseed and a bottle of water.
That night, around midnight, he sneaks down to the mangrove swamp, pulling the bath behind him on a little trailer.
It is wild and desolate country. Feral pigs, crocodiles, massive goannas – you name it. He has to be careful.
But it’s only a short distance to the island so thinks he will be okay. He uses two table-tennis bats to paddle the bath over the river at high tide when there’s no current running. When he gets to the island he drags the bath up the muddy beach to stop it floating away.
At that moment the moon comes out. Most of the island is wooded but he knows there is a clearing around the house which he’ll have to sneak across. If he gets seen it could be serious. Ratnally is a thug. And he has a shotgun.
The boy has seen a lot of movies so he knows what to do. He takes off all his clothes and covers himself with black mud. Now he’s camouflaged like a jungle fighter. But he is totally naked. He even takes off his shoes so that they don’t make a noise if he steps on a twig or something.
Anyway, he sneaks up to Ratnally’s bungalow like a black ghost in a coalmine. There are the two finches in a small cage just inside the window. The night is silent. The boy quietly takes off the fly-wire screen and gently lifts out the cage.
The birds begin to squawk.
‘Shhh …’ says the boy.
But it’s too late. A light goes on in a nearby room. The boy runs for it, belting across the clearing as fast as he can go.
‘Come back, you bastard,’ roars Ratnally. There’s a blast from a shotgun. Pellets fly overhead. One hits the poor boy in the bum.
Blam. Another blast. By this time the boy is into the trees and the pellets smash harmlessly into the bush off to one side.
The boy’s feet are bleeding and the cage is banging against his naked thigh and the finches are squawking like crazy. He belts down to the mudflats, puts the cage into the bath and pushes out into the stream leaving his clothes behind him on the muddy shore.
By this time the tide is running out. The boy paddles like a madman with his table-tennis bats but the rushing water’s too strong. In no time at all, the bath is heading out to sea. There’s no way the boy can fight against the current. It is hopeless. In the end he gives up paddling and falls back against the steel table, exhausted. He watches as the stars slowly circle in the sky above. Eventually he falls asleep.
When he awakes he sits up and looks around.
The sky above is b
lue. The ocean all around is blue. There is no sign of land. How long he’s been asleep he doesn’t know. Which way it is to the land he has no idea. The finches regard him silently.
There is not a breath of wind. The sea is totally flat. The bath rocks gently whenever he moves. He knows that if the wind gets up there will be waves. And if they are rough the bath will sink. He will die and the birds will die with him.
But on this score, for the time being, he need not worry. The sea is as flat as a concrete floor. He is becalmed.
He tips some water into the birds’ drinking container and gives them a little bit of seed. They look at him with beady eyes.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you home.’
But about this he is not so sure. He can’t let the birds out of the cage because if they fly off they might not reach the shore. And even if they do, it is a long way to the mountains where they come from.
A day passes. And then another. Still the sea is flat. Now his water is running out. By this time he is really worried.
But that night the rain starts to fall from the heavens. By morning the water in the bath is up to his ankles. He fills up the bottle and tops up the birds’ water. His head is bent low, just touching the edge of the cage. Suddenly he feels a little pain on the top of his head. And then another.
The finches. It’s the finches. They each hold a little tuft of his hair in their beak.
For a second or two he can’t take it in.
‘Oh, no,’ he says. ‘You’re nesting.’
He looks around the bath. There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing for them to make a nest out of. He knows at once that if eggs are laid on the tin floor of the bath they won’t hatch. The metal won’t retain enough heat. He looks at the plastic bag containing the birdseed. He could tear that up but there’d be nowhere to put the seed and it’d get wet in the bath. If he tips the seed onto the table and the wind gets up it could blow away. And anyway, a plastic bag wouldn’t provide enough insulation to incubate the eggs.
The Nest Page 10