by Des Hunt
The weekend passed by much the same as they always did: Brandon resting up after working in the orchards all week, Tom watching TV or simply messing about. Not until Sunday afternoon did they do anything out of the ordinary.
After his lunchtime snooze, Brandon came into the living area where Tom was watching a movie. “C’mon you. We need to go and see Dave. I want to get the holiday arrangements sorted.”
Tom groaned. “Do I have to? Can’t I stay and watch this?”
“No,” said Brandon grabbing the remote. “You’re coming too.”
This time Tom’s groan was louder.
Dave Hughes’s bach was a short distance up the estuary. A dirt path between the two was wildly overgrown except where Brandon had pushed the weeds back on previous trips to see his neighbour. Only once before had Tom been with him.
Although the two baches had the same basic design, Dave’s looked more like a home than a hut. A mown patch of lawn stretched down to the estuary, flowering shrubs lined the front of the building, and its yellow and orange paint job glowed in the summer sun. A welcoming place, apart from a sign facing the estuary:
PRIVATE LAND
NO ENTRY
A dinghy leaning against the post, pointed towards a pathway of mud through the mangroves. Maybe he’ll let me use it, thought Tom, his mood brightening. Then he saw there was only one oar and his spirits sunk. That single oar in the stern was a reminder of why he’d avoided coming back after his first visit. Tom steeled himself for what he knew was coming.
His father knocked on the door.
At first glance the man who appeared seemed no different to most other men in their late fifties. There were the required number of wrinkles, enough to get an idea of his age. The greying hair hadn’t receded too much, and yes, his belly did protrude over his belt, but not grossly so. There was nothing there that would upset Tom. That was still hidden.
Not for long though. When Dave saw who it was, he opened the door widely, inviting them in. That’s when the deformity became visible. Dave’s left arm was missing. Not all of it. Most of the upper part remained, finishing in a rounded stump which Dave could waggle around like a motorized joystick. That was what caused Tom difficulties. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. Whenever he looked at Dave, his eyes would automatically drop to stare at the stump.
“Come in, come in,” said Dave. “I’ve just made a pot of tea.”
Tom hadn’t been inside before. While the design was the same as their place, it looked strikingly different. Yes, the furniture was better and everything was tidier, but it was the wall decorations that were most noticeable. On the back wall, three large photographs hung each side of a mounted animal head, a massive boar with long tusks curving up from an open jaw.
“Wow!” said Tom, his eyes wide.
Dave chuckled. “He always does that to people when they see him for the first time.”
“He looks so real.”
“Yeah, the taxidermist did a good job. Just as well, it cost me enough.”
“Did you kill it?”
A nod.
“Do you still go …,” began Tom, before realising what he was saying.
“No, I don’t hunt now,” said Dave, with a smile. He waggled the stump. “It’s a bit hard with only one arm.”
To hide his embarrassment, Tom said, “Those tusks are real sharp.”
“Yes. Rip your gut open if you’re not careful. An animal like that could kill you.”
That gave Tom a thought. “Could it kill a kiwi?”
“Mmm. Probably, but I don’t see why it would want to. Why do you ask?”
They sat down then while Tom and Brandon told the story of Miss Piggy, and finding the dead kiwi.
“Well, I can tell you two things,” said Dave, when they’d finished. “One, that kiwi wasn’t killed by a pig. If it had been, you’d only find feathers, nothing else. Anyway I’ve spent most of my life working in that forest. I’ve seen lots of pigs and I’ve seen lots of kiwi. A pig might eat a dead kiwi but I’ve not known them to kill one.” He paused. “And the other thing is I wouldn’t have returned that sow to the forest, not at the moment. Kiwi and pigs compete for food which must be getting short. When the rains come the pigs can recover quickly enough, but the kiwis can’t. One less pig might have saved a couple of kiwis.”
“What would you have done?” asked Tom.
“Eaten it. A young sow like that would be great eating. Too late now though.” He turned to Brandon. “Tell me, how’s your water supply holding out?”
Tom tuned out. He knew the water supply wasn’t great, because it was mentioned every time he took a shower. He’d offered to stop washing, which hadn’t gone down well. The drought didn’t worry him. As far as he was concerned, day after day of cloudless sunshine was how the weather ought to be.
After a while he got up to study the photos. The three on the left were about pig hunting. Right alongside the mounted head was a photo of the pig shortly after it had been shot. A younger, two-armed Dave Hughes was crouched beside it. The animal was a monster. A killer, thought Tom. The next photo had three pigs, and two people; one of them was Dave. The other guy was also in the next photo, along with Dave, a couple of dogs, and yet another pig.
The photos on the other side were all about logging: monstrous machines, tall trees, and workers in safety gear. One was a group photo. Tom tried to make out Dave, but they all looked much the same in their outfits. He already knew Dave had lost his arm in a logging accident and wondered if this might be the place where it happened. One thing was sure, he wasn’t going to ask the man. That stump troubled Tom enough already without starting a discussion about it.
These thoughts were broken by his father calling him.
“Hey Tom, come over here. Dave wants to lay down some ground rules.”
The rules were simple enough. Tom had to check in with Dave three times a day: after Brandon went to work, again at lunch time, and at five o’clock when he would hang around until Brandon picked him up. If he left the area at any time he had to tell Dave where he was going and what he was doing. When asked if he was prepared to abide by these rules, Tom shrugged and said, “Yeah, they’re okay,” thinking they left him more than enough time to do his own thing.
* * *
They went into town for pizza that night which was not surprising, it had become something of a Sunday night ritual. As usual Tom was dropped at the pizza place while Brandon went and ‘took care of some business’; stuff Tom wasn’t allowed to ask about.
After placing the usual order – a meat-lovers and a Hawaiian – Tom went to sit down. The only chair available had a free newspaper sitting on it, almost like it was reserved. He looked around and seeing no one, picked up the paper and sat. He was about to put the paper under the seat when a photo on the front page caught his eye – a dead kiwi looking exactly like the one they’d found by the pond. This one also had a wound along the leg. A heading above the photo read:
KIWI KILLER ATTACKS AT KERIKERI
The text said that four dead kiwis had been found on Inlet Road in the past two weeks. Department of Conservation (DoC) rangers had identified the wounds had been made by a dog. DoC were keen to hear of any other deaths. They were urging all dog owners to keep their dogs under control at all times. Everyone was reminded that kiwis had a peculiar smell that most dogs found attractive. They needed aversion training until they disliked the smell. Hunters were informed they were not allowed to take dogs into Northland forests unless they had a valid Aversion Training Certificate (ATC), and ATC’s needed renewing every three months. DoC were also considering taking DNA samples from all dogs along Inlet Road so that they might find a match with DNA taken from the wounds of the dead kiwis.
Tom was considering this when he heard his name being called. He stood thinking the pizzas were ready. They weren’t. It was Mike, the guy who had hogtied the pig.
“You having pizza for dinner as well?”
Tom nodded.
“Yeah, we do too, every Sunday,” said Mike. “Did you get that sow back to the forest?”
“Yes. She didn’t hang around for a drink, but. Ran off into the trees.”
“She’ll get back to it.”
“Yeah, there were trotter marks all through the mud,” said Tom. He thought for a moment before adding, “And kiwi tracks as well.” He held up the newspaper. “We found one of these there.”
Mike glanced at the paper and nodded as if he’d seen it already. “A dead kiwi in as far as the pond, eh? That’s a bit worrying. You need to tell DoC about that. Or,” he added, pointing to the paper, “Marika Greenwell. She’d pass it on.”
Tom looked away.
“Okay, okay,” said Mike. “I get it. Your dad won’t let you do that. Tell you what, I’ll do it for you. Will that be all right?”
It was.
“You know,” said Mike after a time, “we had another crop of killings a few years back on the same road. Well, Wharau Road which is an extension of Inlet Road. Seven were found dead that time.”
“Did they get the dog?”
“They put down three dogs that had been running free.”
“Did the killing stop?”
“Yeah.”
“Why did they put the dogs down? Why didn’t they use this aversion training?” asked Tom, stabbing his finger at the paper.
Mike shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t work on a dog once they start killing. The only way to stop it is to kill them. A bullet through the head does the job nicely. They don’t kill any more kiwis after that, do they?”
Tom had no answer for this, and the conversation died. Soon afterwards his name was called, this time it was for the pizzas. He collected them and moved outside to wait for his dad, knowing from past experience, he could be waiting for a long time.
Chapter 4
Brandon left for work at seven o’clock Monday morning, hoping to start picking while the temperature was cool. He woke Tom before he left.
“You don’t need to go over to Dave’s until nine. Let him have a sleep in. But make sure you do go over, right?”
Tom said he would, before rolling over, expecting to fall asleep. But that didn’t happen and in the end he decided to go for a run. It would help him plan his day.
Tom had been only seven years old when he’d first started running . His parents were still living together then, although no longer happily. They argued endlessly. At first Tom would hide away, covering his ears trying to shut out the loud, bickering voices. Then one day it got so bad that he ran outside, crying. And he kept on running. After a few minutes the crying had stopped. After quarter of an hour he was feeling much better. When he did return home, half an hour later, he found the fighting had ended. In his absence, their anger had turned into concern, not for each other, but for him. From then on, he always went running.
Nowadays he ran because he was good at it. A couple of weeks before, he had cleaned up his age-group races for 800 metre and 1,500 metre at the Mid-North Athletics Champs. Coming up soon were the cross-country champs, which he also hoped to win. Later in the year he was planning to do the junior triathlon if he could get his cycling and swimming up to standard. That’s if he still lived in Kerikeri which couldn’t be guaranteed.
Living next to the forest had helped his running a lot. Within a minute of leaving the house he could be on a track surrounded by tall trees. Some of the tracks were logging roads, others were firebreaks. Most of the surfaces were good enough for running, so long as you kept an eye on where you were putting your feet.
On this day Tom was more aware of his surroundings than usual. He chose the smoother roads so he could keep a lookout for anything that might be nearby in the forest. He couldn’t get the idea of a killer dog out of his head. He’d always been scared of dogs, especially when running, as many would rush at him, barking and snarling. While he’d never been bitten, that could easily change if there was a killer on the loose.
Of course, in this state of raised awareness, his imagination took over. A fallen log became a huge pig; a dark shrub turned into a black dog; every shadow was a hiding place.
“Don’t be so stupid,” he told himself. “There’s nothing there.” Which did little other than making the shadows more threatening.
The middle point for this run was a big open space where logging trucks could turn around. Cut logs had been arranged in the centre to form a roundabout, a place where he could sit and catch his breath. Today it had an added advantage: if there was an animal out there, it was at least 20 metres away.
As his breathing slowed, the sounds of the forest became more noticeable. Nearby were the chirps of small birds feeding in the ferns. From higher up came the songs of thrushes and blackbirds. Behind them all were distant noises of a logging operation in another part of the forest. Chainsaws, loaders, and the piercing air-horns they used to communicate with each other.
But there was also another sound, one Tom had not heard before. A whining, like that made by high-speed power tools.
“A dentist drill?” he asked himself, then chuckled at how stupid that was. “No Tom. They don’t have dentists out here.”
After that he couldn’t hear it for a while. When the sound did come back, it was louder. Now he was able to work out what it was. A dog. Not the noise a killer would make; the whine of an animal in pain.
What should he do? His instinct said to run, but his curiosity urged him to find out more.
Getting to his feet, he moved towards the edge of the circle in the direction of the sound. He paused to listen. It was coming from within a group of tree ferns, well off the track. This was the dangerous part. If the animal was vicious, then Tom was moving into a position where flight would be difficult. Regardless, he moved forward.
The whining stopped.
So too did Tom, his heart thumping.
When the sound resumed it was a brief, lower-pitched, pleading call.
“It’s all right,” he said softly.
This time he saw a movement between the lower fronds. Reaching out, he pulled a branch back to get a clearer look. Yes, it was a dog, staring at him with frightened eyes.
“It’s all right,” Tom repeated. “I’m here to help.”
The dog replied with more pleading whines.
Tom pushed between the fronds until he was just a few metres away. If the dog was going to attack it would do so now. Then he saw it couldn’t attack. It was tied to fallen pine branch. He took another step. No, the animal wasn’t tied, it was trapped by its collar.
The collar was thicker than most Tom had seen. Somehow, it had slipped over the broken end of the fallen branch, pinning the dog. In its struggles to get free, the dog had forced the collar over a twig, which then locked it in position, stopping any movement backwards and forwards. Unless Tom did something, the dog would stay there until it died.
The question was, would the dog let him set it free? There was only one way to find out. Tom took the last few steps until he was standing right by it. Now he could see the collar had a box attached, with a bit sticking up like an aerial. The two dogs in Dave’s photo had similar things. A green LED on the side of the box was glowing.
“You a pig-hunting dog?” said Tom, touching the dog’s head. “You get caught chasing a pig? Well let’s see if we can get you free.”
Tom’s first thought was to break off the twig and ease the dog backwards. But a closer look showed that would cause the dog immense pain. Already its neck and shoulder were raw and clotted from rubbing against the branch. Moving in either direction would be agony. Fortunately the buckle was on the side away from the branch. Release that and the dog would be free.
Except it wasn’t easy. The moment he put pressure on the collar, the dog yelped.
“Sorry fella,” he said stroking the dog’s back. “But I’ve got to do this.”
Maybe the dog understood or, more likely, it was close to passing out. Either way, Tom was able to unbuckle the lead without further yelpin
g. Only when he took it off did the dog make a noise, a loud yelp of pain as it slumped to the ground. Blood had clotted against the branch forming a bond that ripped apart as the dog fell. That and the collar had been all that had kept the exhausted animal upright. Fresh blood was now oozing from the wound.
The dog was free but it was clear to Tom it wasn’t going anywhere soon, if ever. It lay flat out, the only thing moving were its eyes tracking the boy. Even those closed at times. Something had to be done or the animal would die.
The first thing to do was to stop the bleeding. Tom took out the wad of toilet paper he always carried when running in the forest. Unfolded, it formed a bandage wide enough to cover the wound. A red patch formed immediately and grew a little before the flow stopped.
“Okay,” said Tom to himself. “Now I’ve got to go and get help.” Then to the dog, “You okay with that? I won’t be long. I’ll bring a man who knows about dogs. He’ll know what to do. His name’s Dave Hughes.” After a reassuring stroke of the head, he left.
* * *
Dave’s door was open when Tom arrived. Before he had a chance to knock, Dave called out. “Come in, Tom. I was expecting you a little earlier.”
“I got … caught … up,” said Tom, still panting after the high-speed run out of the forest. “I found a dog … in the forest.”
Dave looked up from the paper he was reading at the table. “And that’s its collar you’re holding, I gather? You’d better turn it off. There should be a switch alongside.”
There was. Tom flicked it and the LED went out.
“Okay,” said Dave, “now tell me about it.”
Tom did, trying to get across the urgency of the situation. Dave remained sitting until the story had finished. Then he stood. “Right we’d better get back there. You get some water. There’s an empty milk bottle in the sink. Fill that up. You should find a dog dish somewhere in the bottom cupboard. I’ll get the first-aid kit.” He took off into the bedroom.