Bird North and Other Stories

by Breton Dukes

  Marcus looked at the child and made his mouth and eyes surprised.

  ‘I’m a machine-gun,’ said the child.

  They kept walking. Marcus traced the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘You still doing that?’ she said, laughing.

  ‘?’

  She mimicked him, making her hand go faster and faster like she was trying to start a fire.

  ‘An oldie but a goodie,’ he said.

  They went past an outdoor clothing store and into the main concourse.

  ‘Over there?’ Marcus pointed at a counter. There were panini and pastries behind glass. ‘Or ...’ he opened his arms and tilted back as if holding the world. ‘Look at this. You could eat at a different place every day of the week.’

  She went behind him and sat down. ‘Mum wanted me to ask you home for Christmas.’

  There were crumbs on the table. He sat down and started rounding them up.

  ‘I wanted to ask you too.’

  He started transferring the crumbs to his hand.

  ‘We could have Christmas in Te Anau, then go to Queenstown or Alex? Ian’s there now. He called the other day wanting your address – he’s getting married. Can you believe that?’

  Old people were sitting at the next table. There were teapots and cups with saucers. ‘This is nice,’ said one of the men.

  ‘You reckon there’s a duckpond?’ said Marcus, holding up the crumbs.

  She took a breath and sighed. ‘What sort of coffee?’ she said.

  ‘A short black.’ He closed his hand into a fist, brought his other hand underneath, and made a swinging motion and a popping sound as if a golf ball had been struck. ‘I’ll tell you a story when you come back.’

  A small man whose forehead caught the bright lights served her.

  ‘Now we know where Tom Thumb works,’ said Marcus when she sat down.

  ‘What about Dunedin? Mum and I could meet you there. I’d get the motel.’ She sipped from her cup. There was a red loop where her mouth had been.

  In his big hand the cup looked ridiculous. He noticed her watching and, with his little finger off to the side, took a dainty sip. The skin on his hands was dry and sore looking.

  She leaned forward and put her cup down. ‘What is it Marcus? Something Mum did?’

  ‘Look,’ he said.

  Two toddlers were pulling plastic luggage on leashes. The word Luggagio was embossed in yellow on the side.

  ‘Crazy,’ she said, sitting back. ‘This whole thing is absolutely crazy.’

  He lifted her coffee cup and took the napkin. He made it into a tight ball and, looking at her in a sideways way and, holding the sleeve of his T-shirt up, he rolled the napkin down his hand, forearm, and elbow so it disappeared into his armpit.

  She laughed and put her hand under her nose. There were tears in her eyes again.

  ‘Eh?’ he said. ‘Who says I haven’t still got it?’

  Two security men in powder blue trousers walked past.

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go.’

  They hugged near the back of the queue to the metal detector. ‘Will you think about it?’ she said, backing away.

  He made a grand wave as if she were already at the rear window of a rapidly departing train.

  *

  Marcus watched out the window as they drove around the south shore of Lake Te Anau. Bird was driving and telling the story behind his nickname.

  ‘There were three of us in the chopper. I was in back with the rifle, while Bill Nevis spotted and helped truss the carcass. Shanksy would get me in as close as he could and I’d shoot them right out the door.’

  Marcus shifted in the seat. ‘Is Ian coming next weekend?’

  Bird finished drinking from a plastic bottle and lodged it back between his legs. ‘This one time the bloody rifle jammed. Now we’re talking a hundred and fifty dollars worth of animal. So what does a man do next?’

  Marcus shrugged, tracing his thumb and forefinger up the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I got John to bring me right in over her, and then ... ’ Bird jumped his hand off the steering wheel and onto the handbrake between them. ‘Right onto its back. Broke one of its forelegs and got ...’ He raised the leg of his running shorts. On his inside thigh there was a cheerio-red raised scar. ‘Antler took a wee nick. Missed all the good bits though.’

  Marcus felt the hard tip of Bird’s little finger press against his thigh. ‘I’ve been Bird ever since.’

  ‘Dad wants me home by three o’clock,’ said Marcus. ‘To do the lawns.’

  ‘5.6k to Brod Bay then 8.2 up to Luxmore Hut. They still teach maths at school or is it all that sex education these days?’ Bird put the car through a tight bend. Marcus held the door handle, pulling himself into the window. The road dropped down and then straight up. ‘Watch your guts,’ said Bird.

  On a grassy slope beside the lake there was a tent and a bike against a rubbish bin. A man was squatting in front of the tent brushing his teeth. ‘I’ll let Bill know when we get back,’ said Bird. ‘No. Camping. By. The. Lake.’

  The road led them away from the lake. A cow was on the wrong side of a fence. A smear of black fur broke the centre line where a possum had been crossing.

  ‘I’ve known Bill most of my life,’ said Bird after a while. They rounded a corner and Bird leaned across. Marcus felt Bird’s ear brush his shoulder. ‘Bill Nevis,’ whispered Bird, ‘our local ... pig.’ He puckered his lips and blew out the last word as if making a kiss.

  Ian had said that Bird knew his stuff, that he’d been a national champion. It’ll be hardcore, he’d said. It had sounded good to Marcus. But now bloody Ian had piked out and he was stuck with this old guy who wouldn’t shut up.

  ‘You got a nickname?’ said Bird.

  ‘Not really,’ said Marcus.

  ‘Hands, that’s what they should call you. Look at those mitts.’ Bird held up his left hand as if he were a traffic cop.

  Marcus made a small laugh and looked out the window. When he looked back he said, ‘27.6km return.’

  Bird didn’t say anything. The breath through his nose was firm. His hand was still there. Reluctantly, Marcus reached over.

  ‘There you go,’ smiled Bird, ‘you’ve got bigger hands than me.’

  Ahead, on the side of the road, there was an AA sign: Kepler Track.

  ‘In the glove compartment,’ said Bird, raising the indicator.

  Marcus opened the compartment. There were papers, a manual, a torch, and a jar of Vaseline.

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Bird, when Marcus traced his fingers over the blue label. He picked up the little container. The white lid had snared a greasy pubic hair. He dropped the container back in the glove box and wiped his fingers on his T-shirt.

  ‘What?’ said Bird, ‘you never heard of runner’s dick?’

  They turned onto a gravel road. In the wing-mirror Marcus could see a haze of dust and farther back, in a paddock, an abandoned tractor.

  ‘Looks like it’s just you and me,’ said Bird, as they pulled into the empty parking area. Bird spun the wheel hard and jerked up the handbrake. The car swung to a stop, causing a sheep to spring back and dash over a hill. It was good to be out of the car. There was a low fence marking the edge of the carpark. Marcus went to it and started stretching. When he turned around Bird was coming towards him, putting what looked like a sock into a small pack. ‘Which one’s yours?’ said Bird, gesturing across the lake.

  Marcus looked for a moment and then pointed. ‘The lime-green roof.’

  The houses were huddled down by the lake-front as if they’d been raked there.

  ‘How does a man come to be living in a house with a lime-green bloody roof?’

  Marcus shrugged.

  ‘The only lime-green roof in Te Anau. Has to be a woman’s doing.’

  ‘Ian said you won the national champs,’ said Marcus.

  ‘Vaseline,’ said Bird, holding out his hand.

  Marcus ha
d left it in the car. He shrugged again.

  ‘There something wrong with your neck?’ said Bird, bouncing his shoulders up to his ears.

  ‘It’s in the car,’ said Marcus, thinking of the pubic hair and feeling more comfortable out in the open.

  Bird went still. This time he held out his hand palm up. Marcus didn’t move. It didn’t feel right, but he didn’t know what to do. He went back to the car.

  ‘It’s probably the only lime-green roof between here and Auckland city,’ said Bird, scooping out a wad of the jelly. Marcus looked away and started stretching. He was aware of Bird’s arm moving in a milking motion. ‘Sure you don’t want some?’ said Bird. Marcus shook his head. ‘Right then,’ said Bird, zipping the Vaseline into his bag, ‘who’s setting the pace?’

  Marcus was nearly at the bottom of the mountain. He was knackered. A sharp pain had started behind his knee and the ends and tops of his toes felt smashed and blistered. He’d led out hoping that a fast pace would shut Bird up. But Bird – though he wasn’t much to look at with his belly and short arms – had stuck with him easily, keeping up the chatter all the way to Brod Bay. There the talk had stopped and at a small bridge, without a word, Bird had gone ahead. And he’d kept going ahead. When Marcus broke the bush line he’d seen Bird high up the mountain, gliding through the tussock and getting farther ahead the higher he climbed. Ian said Bird was a hard bastard and that he knew his stuff, and yeah, maybe he could run, but the only thing Marcus had learned was how to follow someone up and then down a mountain. Then there were all the questions and that thing with the Vaseline. He was going to kill Ian.

  He recognised a forked tree from the start of the climb. Then the turned-over wooden pest trap with its wire door and piece of carrot. There was a tight bend, the bridge, and then, thank god, the long decline back to the Brod Bay shelter and the lake shore. He saw movement in the shelter, and then a person came down the front steps: white T-shirt, purple polyprops. At the Luxmore Hut – there’d been cloud covering the mountain’s peak and two girls with red and white flags on their packs sharing a cigarette on the deck – Bird had told Marcus that he’d see him back at the car. ‘If you thought I was fast coming up ...’ But there he was, standing in front of the shelter. A drink bottle in one hand and something white in the other. Marcus waved, but Bird didn’t react. Probably can’t see me, thought Marcus. The stupid old bastard.

  ‘Look who decided to join us,’ said Bird, when Marcus got to the shelter.

  ‘I thought we were meeting at the car,’ said Marcus, between breaths. The light was dim and the air cool. It was good to have stopped. He put his hands behind his head.

  ‘I’m going to show you Marble Hole.’

  ‘I better get home,’ said Marcus. ‘For the lawns.’

  ‘It’s five minutes around the lake,’ said Bird. ‘C’mon.’ He started walking and then stopped and turned. ‘Did you want a ride? Or were you going to run home from the carpark?’

  The township and the farmland around the township and the high grey sky were all reflected in the lake. Bird threw a stone and then gave one to Marcus. ‘Cheer up boy,’ Bird said. ‘You did okay.’

  Marcus threw the stone. It went well beyond where Bird’s had landed.

  ‘What is it they say these days?’ said Bird, starting around the lake, ‘promise? You’ve got promise.’

  Marcus was slow over the rocks. His toes hurt and his legs were tired. He wanted to go home.

  Ahead, a fallen tree made a bridge between the lake and the bush. Beyond that the shore disappeared into the bank and the branches of the beech trees dropped their leaves on the lake’s surface. The white sock was tucked into the waistband of Bird’s shorts. Gross, thought Marcus, he must use it for sweat.

  A helicopter was landing on the other side of the lake. Bird climbed onto the log. ‘That’s what I’d be doing if I was your age,’ he said, pointing to the helicopter. Then on all fours, and still talking, he crawled under a low branch and back into the bush. ‘It’s a man’s job that is.’ He stood and went a few more metres into the bush and then stopped. ‘Marble Hole,’ he said.

  It was an effort for Marcus to get over the log and then onto his hands and knees. There was the last of the lake stones, a layer of leaves and rotten branches, and then a carpet of moss. It was soft under his hands and if Bird hadn’t been there he might have lain down and looked into the trees.

  ‘What did I tell you,’ said Bird, gesturing with a flick of his head.

  Marcus stood and went around a stump, past Bird, and to the edge. It wasn’t so much a hole as a crater. The floor and sides of it were lined with more moss. It was perfectly round and the right size for a merry-go-round. ‘It’s like a skateboard bowl,’ said Marcus, looking back at Bird, ‘or a bunker.’

  Bird had his hand behind his back as if there were an itch. A fantail was making an announcement. ‘What caused it?’ asked Marcus, watching the bird go off the branch, up, down, and over the crater.

  Bird didn’t answer. Marcus felt the moss shift and turned around. Bird was right there. The sock was a mitten over his hand and wrist. The blade of a knife stood through the sock’s toe.

  ‘It would be a lot better if I didn’t have to use this,’ said Bird.

  Marcus put his hands up. ‘Eh?’ he said.

  ‘Turn around,’ said Bird.

  Marcus didn’t move. He tried to smile.

  Bird made his eyes wide, and then raised his knife hand as if he had an axe.

  Marcus turned. He felt Bird’s hand on his back and then he was falling. The crater’s moss was wet and even denser. Marcus started to get up, but the knife pressed into the hard area behind his ear.

  ‘Stay on your knees, but turn around,’ said Bird.

  As he turned the knife point tracked under his ear and around his neck. He saw Bird’s old shoes with their duct tape and different coloured laces, and when he looked up there was the knife and Bird’s penis. It was pointing straight ahead, and as Bird wriggled his shorts below his knees it swayed side to side.

  ‘Eh?’ said Marcus again.

  Bird cleared his throat. ‘Most of the Vaseline would have rubbed off,’ he said. He spat and then moved forward.

  Marcus closed his mouth. It went into his top lip and then greasily up beside his nose. There was a strong smell.

  ‘Ooops,’ said Bird.

  The blade of the knife was flat on his cheek bone. It shifted so the sharp edge rested under the curve of his eyeball. ‘It wouldn’t take much out here,’ said Bird.

  Marcus opened his mouth. He felt Bird’s hand on his forehead.

  ‘Easy there,’ said Bird. ‘Bring your lips back.’

  *

  From her position on the lime-green roof Sheryl could see all the way to the end of the street. There was an old red car coming. She crossed her fingers. On the phone Marcus had said he was thinking of buying a car and getting the ferry after his shift, though he’d said something similar the Christmas before.

  ‘It’s a hell of a long drive,’ she’d said.

  ‘Piece of cake,’ he’d said.

  It was a beautiful Christmas Day. The sky’s only clouds were thin and high and tailing away above the peak of Mount Luxmore. Sheryl was sitting on the ridge of the roof with her elbows on her knees. It was hot and every now and then a drop of sweat dripped from the end of her nose and onto the corrugated iron. She wasn’t getting off until he arrived.

  The red car stopped five houses up. A woman got out and went to the back of the car. She brought out a box and two shiny balloons attached by long ribbon floated into the air. The woman was smiling as she closed the door. She turned and crossed the street. The balloons were long antennae over her head.

  Sheryl’s mum was inside. They’d eaten breakfast and then walked to the lake. There were new yellow kayaks and jetskis and children with boogie boards and another child screaming on the shore because a man couldn’t get a kite to fly. Sheryl and her mum had an argument about Marcus buying a car.
>
  ‘He better get something road-worthy.’

  ‘He’s a dishwasher.’

  ‘What if something happens on the way down?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Mum!’

  They’d walked home slowly after that, one after the other like mountaineers gapped by a length of rope.

  When Sheryl got back to the house her mum had opened two bottles of beer and they sat with the ranchslider open so they would hear his car. The kids next door were chanting and her mum got up and went onto the deck. ‘Lucky beggars,’ she said. ‘They’ve got a new trampoline.’

  Sheryl took her beer to the sink and looked over the driveway. She stood there for a long time. When she turned around her mum was asleep in a chair. She went out to the end of the drive and looked up the road, but she couldn’t see enough. That was when she’d put the ladder against the house and climbed onto the roof.

  An old man was driving down the footpath on a mobility scooter. As he got closer Sheryl could see there was mistletoe attached to the scooter’s front basket and that the man was wearing a fake beard and that he was in fact not old at all. He disappeared behind the neighbours’ hedge and then there he was, going past the end of their driveway, steering with one hand and holding a bottle of rum in the other. He went behind the house and she turned and waited for him to reappear. There was the electric whirr of that scooter, the far away buzzing of a jetski on the lake, the children on the trampoline counting in Maori and then all of a sudden what sounded like a helicopter. There was nothing in the air over the lake. The sound was coming from behind her. She turned around. A brown van – there was a giant plastic foot on its roof – was coming down the road.

  A block from the house the van’s rotoring engine died. With its beaten panels and its foot as a sail it resembled a strange marine craft coasting in to stop and block and be moored at the end of the drive. A man got out. It was Marcus. He smiled at the house and then walked around the van, running his hand down its flank as if re-assuring a horse. Sheryl stayed where she was. She wanted him to catch her up there. The van’s rear doors opened and then closed and then Marcus was carrying a suitcase down the driveway. Sheryl stood up but he didn’t see her. He was grinning at the garden and at whatever was on the deck and probably waiting for the windows to fill with whoever was inside. Just as he disappeared from view Sheryl said his name. She heard his feet stop, the sound of the suitcase settling on the drive, and then standing tall and making giant clown steps he re-appeared. He looked up at her and grinned. She started to cry. He pointed to the van. ‘She ran out of petrol.’