The poor boy doesn’t know what to do. He can’t bear the thought of the eggs not hatching. He searches the horizon for a ship or a smudge of smoke or the top of a distant mountain. But there’s nothing. The bath is becalmed.
Words from a poem flit through his mind.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
He shares the birdseed with the finches, eating only a small amount for himself. In the heat of the sun he stretches out naked beneath the coffee table. He starts to grow weak. All he can think about is finding something for the birds to make into a nest.
He falls asleep with his head resting against the bars of the cage. Then he’s startled awake by a little pricking sensation on his head. Then another and another, one after the other. The birds are pecking out his hair.
The boy sits up and pats his head. Then he bends over and places his skull even closer to the bars. The birds peck some more. All day the birds pull out the boy’s hair. One hair at a time. It is painful but he lets them pluck away like crazy. Day after day. Hour after hour. Minute after minute. Second after second. They pluck and pluck and pluck.
A week passes. By this time the boy is totally bald and becoming delirious. The birds have pulled out every hair. And they have built a lovely nest out of it. The female lays four eggs and takes turns with her mate to sit on the eggs.
Finally the seed runs out. The wind gets up. Salt water starts to slop into the bath.
A voice says, ‘Hello there.’
The boy looks up. He is saved. Fishermen take him on board their boat and deliver him and the birds back to his mother who is overjoyed to see her son and does not tell him off even once. When the baby birds are fully grown he takes them all into the mountains and releases them.
And even though his hair never grows back, the boy is happy. He grows up to be a forest ranger who protects all the birds that fly free in the air.
THE NEST
6
The door flies open and a figure falling into the room amongst gusts of howling wind and a flurry of snow and sleet shocks me awake. A red blur rolls across the floor like a bundle falling off a truck. I race across the hut and fight the door back against the tempest. Then I turn.
‘Charlie,’ I shout.
She rises on her knees and I help her to her feet. She is totally soaked and shuddering uncontrollably. Her strength has been sucked out by the storm and I can see that she’s only just made it to the refuge. She can hardly move. She’s gone into shock. Frantically I start to take off her wet clothes. I have to get her dry and warm – nothing else matters. I wrap her in a blanket and sit her on the sofa in front of the fire.
‘Are you okay?’ I say anxiously.
She doesn’t have the energy to answer so I stoke the fire and wait. The best thing to do is let the heat of the fire and the blanket slowly warm her body and ease her mind. The flames light up the cabin walls with a million glowing sunsets. Neither of us speak as we surrender to the shelter’s embrace.
When we are both calm I stand and search the cupboards where I find several more sets of thick clothing. Charlie whispers her thanks and I can see that she’s recovering. I squat to one side of the fireplace and listen to the rustle of the dry clothes as she puts them on.
‘Robin, come and sit next to me,’ she says.
Now that she’s safe and warm I do as she says.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘What are you doing here?’
She takes my hand. Hers is still cold and she speaks in a soft, trembling voice. ‘Oh, Robin, I’m so sorry. I read your letter today – Dad talked me into it.’
‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘It’s okay.’
But her words tumble out. ‘I should have realised what was happening with the bird. It’s typical of me to jump to conclusions. I only had half the story. When I finished reading I rushed out. I had to find you and tell you that I believe in you. I saw you go up the track and I followed. I should’ve known you had a reason for breaking that little bird’s neck. You were ending its suffering.’
This is the Charlie I remember.
‘So bad of me,’ she says. ‘You couldn’t hurt a fly.’
I don’t know if that’s true but the real Charlie is here now, and I trust her. When the time comes I might be able to tell her about my father and my terri …
I gasp. ‘Dad,’ I yell. ‘He might still be out there in the storm. He’s been out all day. I have to go find him.’
How could I have forgotten? Selfish, selfish, selfish. He tells me this all the time and he’s right. I fell asleep and forgot about him. I rush over to the fire and start to put on my parka which is now almost dry.
‘What do you mean?’ cries Charlie, startled. ‘Where’s your father?’
‘He went birdwatching.’
‘Birdwatching!’ she cries. ‘Him? Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. He told Don Baker. Near the mineshaft. That’s where I was heading when the storm hit. He might be there.’
‘Might be! He’d have gone home when he saw the bad weather coming in, wouldn’t he? You can’t go out in this blizzard!’
‘I have to,’ I shout. ‘I’ll never forgive myself if I just leave him to die.’
‘Well, I’m coming too.’
‘No you’re not. You’re exhausted and anyway, you have to stay here in case something goes wrong. If I don’t return you’ll have to wait out the storm and then go for help, otherwise we could all die.’
Charlie doesn’t protest anymore. We both know that what I’ve said is true. We both know the rules. We’ve lived up here all our lives.
‘Don’t leave here until it’s safe,’ I say as I put on my skis.
I open the door and the wind hits me like a falling wall. I force my way out into the blinding storm and leave Charlie to fight the door closed from the inside. I am alone in the blizzard.
I trudge forward, mainly by guesswork, because visibility is only a few metres. I’ll never find my father unless the storm abates.
As if in answer to a prayer, the wind drops, the sleet stops and snow begins to fall gently. Now I can see the track which is heading downhill. So far so good. I keep a lookout for the narrow turn-off to the mine.
There it is. And there’s the Ski-Doo, already thick with snow. Dad must have left it here because the track to the mine is too narrow and rocky. The tight passage through the trees isn’t suitable for skiing either, so I slip my feet out of the toeholds and lean the skis against the dead machine.
Each footstep sinks deep into the fresh snow as I make my way clumsily along the track. I hardly notice the scratching branches and handfuls of ice dropped on my shoulders by the drooping trees. At last I break into the clearing and see the boarded-up mineshaft. And a figure working furiously. He’s just a black shadow but I know it’s my father.
Now he’s peering into the vertical shaft. Behind him is a pile of rotting boards and beside them I see the sharpened icepick and a coil of thin rope attached to its handle. He’s ripped a hole in the middle of the timber covering the shaft.
Some instinct tells him to look up. For a second he blinks, wipes the snow from his glasses and stares like someone who’s woken from a coma. ‘Robin?’ he says.
‘What are you doing?’ I say as I close the gap between us.
‘Swallows,’ he says, nodding at the black hole.
‘What? You won’t find them down there, Dad! Not at this time of year,’ I say, thinking he’s gone crazy too.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Why have you come?’
‘To find you! There was a blizzard. Why didn’t you go to the refuge?’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he says. ‘I’ve got all the right gear. Where’s yours? Whatever possessed you to come up here without a pack?’
His words remind me of my mission. I pull out the damp pathology report. ‘What does this mean? Why did you have
my DNA tested?’
He gives a coarse laugh. ‘It’s not yours, Robin.’
Oh, thank god. He doesn’t know I’m crazy. But whose DNA is it?
‘Does that mean you’re not my father?’
He laughs even louder. ‘No, you’re my son, for my sins.’ He reaches inside his parka and pulls out a thin plastic bag stuffed with straw. It’s the nest.
‘Has all this got something to do with Mum?’ I cry.
‘Mum,’ he shouts. The word infuriates him. ‘All these lonely years. She’d be here now if it wasn’t for you. She left me … If only you’d never been born. You, you … It’s all because of you.’ He stands with his back to the hole.
Rage, rage, rage fills my head. He’s still blaming me! Images flash, corks pop, snakes strike. His words turn the falling snowflakes black. My head is about to explode.
‘What is? What’s because of me?’ I rush forward.
Then darkness falls over me like a gift from the devil.
When I come to, I’m lying on my side. I’m covered in several centimetres of powdery snow. There’s no sign of my father. There are no tracks, no footprints, nothing. Nothing except the gaping black hole beside me which silently inhales the falling snowflakes.
I crawl to the edge and call out, ‘Dad? Dad?’
A voice calls back. My heart thumps. He’s still alive. I call again.
And hear myself. ‘Dad … Dad … Dad …’ My echo dies and leaves only silence.
It’s finally happened – what I’ve always feared. I’ve done it. Killed my own father. Not with the icepick – it still lies on the pile of planks with the coiled-up rope, and there’s no trace of blood on it. I must have pushed him to his death.
Maybe he’s not dead. What if he’s still alive? He could be at the bottom of the shaft unconscious or unable to speak. Oh, what have I done? What can I do? I could go to get help but in my heart I know that he’ll be frozen to death by the time I return. I stare into the void. There’s no way I can lower myself down there. Even inside gloves my hands are numb and the rope’s covered in ice. I’ll just fall and then there’ll be two bodies at the bottom of the shaft.
I know – I could try to snag a piece of his parka and pull him up.
I stagger to my feet, grab the icepick and thread it backwards through the thin rope, forming a giant hook. I lower it into the darkness. Soon there’s only three or four metres left. What if I don’t have enough? Just as this thought takes possession of me the line goes slack. The rope has reached the bottom. I jig it up and down.
My whole body is freezing and my back aches. Maybe he’s not there. This dim ray of hope illuminates my despair but only for a second.
The line resists my pull. I’ve snagged something.
Shit, it’s heavy. I pull on the rope with shaking arms. Cold sweat trickles down my forehead stinging my eyes. Whatever I’ve hooked is stuck fast. I heave again and there’s movement. Finally I take in about half a metre of rope but it’s too much for me. There’s no way I’ll get my burden to the top. Suddenly the line lets go and I fall over backwards and splat into the wet snow.
The line hasn’t broken, though. I can still feel that the icepick is attached to something, but it’s lighter – much lighter. I assess the weight like an angler working out the size of a struggling fish and then start to pull frantically, squinting down into the hole, trying to make sense of the blurred shape that’s coming towards me.
There it is.
It can’t be.
It’s not.
Oh, hell.
I hold up the rope and see my worst nightmare dangling from the end. I’ve pulled up the hand of my father and it’s swinging on the end of the line right in front of my face. The sharp end of the icepick has pierced his wrist and pulled the hand totally away from the arm. Oh, god.
Like an ancient fragment from a marble statue, my father’s snow-covered hand points at me. He always said it was all my fault. This is his final but lasting accusation. I’ll never be free from him.
This spectre rising from the bowels of the earth has returned to confront me and I know beyond doubt that I’m a killer. I shudder and the movement shakes the line. A glove of fresh snow falls from the hand. The icepick swivels slightly. The hand from hell now points over my shoulder. Time freezes.
I am not alone.
The hand isn’t pointing at me … It points to … I turn with a gasp and see … and see … I can’t take it in. Alive and panting is … my father! He holds the emergency pack from the bogged snowmobile. His face is contorted with fear. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t. Oh, thank god.
We both stare at the swinging hand. Some of the bones of the fingers are cemented with ice. There’s no skin. The hand must have been in the shaft for years. I hold it up like a fisherman displaying his catch. My father’s eyes move ever so slightly and begin to follow the hand which seems to beat time like the pendulum of a clock. Finally it’s almost still except for a slow swivelling motion. He’s transfixed. He drops the pack and gives a strangled cry as he staggers to the left. He runs to the right and again the hand swivels. The hand seems to follow him. He bends low as if under fire from a sniper and darts at an angle towards the shaft. He turns and shrieks as he sees that the hand has followed his flight.
‘No, Miranda,’ he shrieks.
Miranda. My mother! It’s her hand that I have pulled up from the pit. She’s dead and I’m holding up part of her body on the end of the line! I belch up despairing groans. For a moment all I can do is submit to these spasms of grief and rage. Finally I manage to choke out a few words.
‘You killed her.’
My father is still mesmerised by the hand. He’s terrified of its accusing silence. He suddenly takes a little backward run like a footballer lining up for a free kick and staggers over the pit. For a second he seems to be walking on air. He disappears into the hole with a scream. The swirling snowflakes follow him like tiny petals thrown into a grave. I stand a numb and frozen mourner at the edge.
A choking sound erupts. Is it from him? Or from me? I can no longer tell what’s real and what’s not and for an eternity there’s nothing. But then I hear moaning and the sound of rocks falling. I want to peer into the hole but I can’t.
I hear my father scrabbling for purchase on the frozen edge of the pit. His head emerges, glistening and wet.
‘Help me,’ he gurgles. ‘Please help me.’ He sees the icepick. ‘No,’ he screams. ‘No, no, no.’
I swing the line towards me and gasp as the bones of my mother’s hand fall in a shower, disappearing into the snow. Images of death pop into my consciousness. I grab the handle of the icepick, raise the needle-sharp point and …
…extend it to the helpless, hopeless man. He clutches the handle and I pull with all my strength. He’s too heavy. I can’t hold on for even a few seconds more. He’s going to fall. The handle of the icepick is slipping through his fingers. He’s going to die.
A red arm reaches past me to take some of the load. ‘I’ve got him too,’ says Charlie. ‘We can do this.’
‘Charlie, you’re here …’
Slowly we drag the desperate man out of the pit and collapse onto the snow. I roll over and stare into the abyss.
It is dark down there.
My father is an inert lump, wet and incoherent as he lies close to the mineshaft on his back with closed eyes.
‘We have to get him moving,’ Charlie says. ‘He could freeze to death otherwise.’
We grab one arm each and more or less drag the pathetic figure along the rocky track to the Ski-Doo. We lay my father to one side while we sweep off as much snow as we can, then help him on to the machine behind me. Charlie climbs onto the rear seat herself and holds him in place while I start the cold engine. I let out the clutch too quickly, sending the groggy passenger lurching to one side. Charlie just manages to prevent him dropping onto the icy snow.
‘We’ll never get him home,’ she shouts.
‘You’re right.’
Finally we reach the hut. My father awakes from his shivering coma, wipes his glasses and shakes his head furiously. ‘I’m not going in there,’ he yells.
What? What’s the matter with him? He must know we can’t possibly get home in this weather. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say as I switch off the motor.
Charlie and I grasp an arm each and start to lead him to the door but he resists like a dog being dragged to its death. He seems terrified of the place.
‘Alan, it’s safe inside,’ says Charlie.
‘No,’ he screams.
‘Yes,’ I say. He makes one desperate attempt to shrug us off and then slumps, slack and defeated, and allows us to lead him into the refuge.
We take off his outer clothes and the warmth of the fire which is still smouldering immediately begins to revive him. He peers around with a wild expression as if looking for ghosts that might somehow appear out of the walls and carry him off. Then, in an instant, he shrugs off his fear and walks straight to the closed cupboard where the emergency clothing is stored.
I try to help him with his wet clothes but he pushes me off. ‘I can do it.’
This is a relief because the thought of touching him revolts me. ‘Suit yourself,’ I say.
Charlie and I sit on the sofa holding hands. ‘What’s going on, Robin?’ she says.
My father hears her, even though the storm is howling outside. ‘He’s got it all wrong,’ he chokes out. ‘I know what he thinks …’
‘It’s not about thinking,’ I yell. ‘It’s about the tru–’
Charlie then squeezes my hand so tightly that my knuckles bunch together. She whispers loudly. ‘Let him speak. There’re always two sides to a story.’
The Nest Page 11