Storm Boy (2 page)

For Storm Boy was a storm boy.

Some distance from the place where Hide-Away and Fingerbone had built their humpies, the whole stretch of the Coorong and the land around it had been turned into a sanctuary. No-one was allowed to hurt the birds there. No shooters were allowed, no hunters with decoys or nets or wire traps, not even a dog.

And so the water and the shores rippled and flapped with wings. In the early morning the tall birds stood up and clapped and cheered the rising sun. Everywhere there was the sound of bathing—a happy splashing and sousing and swishing. It sounded as if the water had been turned into a bathroom five miles long, with thousands of busy fellows gargling and gurgling and blowing bubbles together. Some were above the water, some were on it, and some were under it; a few were half on it and half under. Some were just diving into it and some just climbing out of it. Some who wanted to fly were starting to take off, running across the water with big flat feet, flapping their wings furiously, and pedalling with all their might. Some were coming in to land, with their wings braking hard and their big webbed feet splayed out ready to ski over the water as soon as they landed.

Everywhere there were crisscrossing wakes of ripples and waves and splashes. Storm Boy felt the excitement and wonder of it; he often sat on the shore all day with his knees up and his chin cupped in his hands. Sometimes he wished he’d been born an ibis or a pelican.

B
UT SOMETIMES Storm Boy saw things that made him sad. In spite of the warnings and notices, people hurt the birds. In the open season, shooters came chasing wounded ducks up the Coorong; some sneaked into the sanctuary during the night, shot the birds at daybreak, and crept out again quickly and secretly. Visitors went trampling about, kicking the nests and breaking the eggs. And some men with rifles, who called themselves sportsmen, when unable to find anything else to shoot at, bet one another that they could hit an egret or a moorhen or a heron standing innocently by the shore. And so they used the birds for target practice. And when they hit one they laughed and said, ‘Good shot’, and then walked off, leaving it lying dead with the wind ruffling its feathers. Sometimes, if it wasn’t too far away, they walked up to it, turned it over with their feet and then just left it lying there on its back.

When Storm Boy ran back to tell his father about it, Hide-Away muttered angrily, and Fingerbone slapped his loaded blunderbuss and said, ‘By yimminy, I fill him with salt next time! If dem fellows come back, boom, I put salt on their tails.’

When Storm Boy laughed at that, Fingerbone flashed his white teeth and winked at Hide-Away. Neither of them liked seeing Storm Boy looking sad.

When Storm Boy went walking along the beach, or over the sandhills, or in the sanctuary, the birds were not afraid. They knew he was a friend. The pelicans sat in a row, like a lot of important old men with their heavy paunches sagging, and rattled their beaks drily in greeting; the moorhens fussed and chattered; the ibises cut the air into strips as they jerked their curved beaks up and down; and the blue crane stood in silent dignity like a tall, thin statue as Storm Boy went past.

But one morning Storm Boy found everything in uproar and confusion. Three or four young men had gone into the sanctuary. They had found some pelican nests—wide, rough nests of sticks, grass, and pelican feathers as big as turkey quills—and they had killed two of the big birds nesting there. After that they had scattered everything wildly with their boots, kicking and shouting and picking up the white eggs and throwing them about until they were all broken. Then they had gone off laughing.

Storm Boy crept forward in fear and anger. From behind a tussock he looked round sadly at the ruin and destruction. Then, just as he was about to run back to tell Fingerbone to fill his blunderbuss with salt, he heard a faint rustling and crying, and there under the sticks and grass of the broken nests were three tiny pelicans—still alive. Storm Boy picked them up carefully and hurried back to Hide-Away with them.

Two of the baby pelicans were fairly strong, but the third was desperately sick. He was bruised and hurt and helpless. He was so weak that he couldn’t even hold up his head to be fed; he just let it drop back flat on the ground as soon as Storm Boy or Hide-Away let go of it.

‘I don’t think he’ll live,’ said Hide-Away. ‘He’s too small and sick.’

Even old Fingerbone shook his head. ‘Dem bad fellows kill big pelican. Don’t think little fellow stay alive now.’

‘He mustn’t die,’ Storm Boy said desperately. ‘He mustn’t! He mustn’t!’

He wrapped up the tiny bruised body in one of Hide-Away’s scarves, and put it by the fire. All day long he watched it lying there, sometimes moving feebly or opening its beak to give a noiseless little cry. Every now and then he poured out a drop of cod-liver oil from the bottle that Hide-Away had once bought for him, and tried to trickle it down the baby bird’s throat.

Night came on, and still Storm Boy watched the sick little fellow hour after hour, until Hide-Away spoke firmly about bed and sleep. But Storm Boy couldn’t sleep. Again and again through the night he slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the dirt floor to the fireplace to make sure the baby pelican was warm enough.

And in the morning it was still living.

It was three days before the baby pelican was well enough to sit up and ask for food. By then his two brothers had their beaks open hungrily all the time, although of course they were still too young to have their creels or fishing baskets ready.

‘Anyone would think that I was Grandfather Pelican,’ said Hide-Away, ‘by the way they always turn to me for food.’

‘You’ll have to be,’ Storm Boy told him, ‘because their own father and mother are dead.’

‘Well, they needn’t think I can spend all my time catching fish for them. Look at that fellow sitting up as if he owns the place.’

‘Oh, that’s Mr Proud,’ said Storm Boy.

‘How do you do, Mr Proud.’ Hide-Away bowed and scratched the top of the pelican’s head. ‘And what’s your brother’s name?’

‘That’s Mr Ponder,’ Storm Boy said. ‘He’s very wise and serious.’

‘And what about the tiny fellow?’ asked Hide-Away. ‘Is he Mr Peep?’

‘No, he’s Mr Percival.’ Storm Boy picked up the bird gently in the scarf and held him on his lap. ‘He’s been very sick.’

‘Welcome,’ said Hide-Away. ‘And now Grandfather Pelican had better go and catch some fish or there won’t be any tea for the three Mr P’s.’ And he went off down to his boat.

And that was how Mr Proud, Mr Ponder, and Mr Percival came to live with Storm Boy.

B
EFORE LONG THE THREE PELICANS were big and strong. Their white necks curved up cleanly, their creels grew, and their upper beaks shone like pink pearl shell. Every morning they spread their great white wings with the bold black edges and flew three or four times round the humpy and the beach nearby to make sure that everything was in order for the new day. By then they thought it was time for breakfast, so they landed heavily beside the humpy, took a few dignified steps forward, and lined up at the back door. If Hide-Away and Storm Boy were still in bed, the three birds stood politely for a little while waiting for some sign of movement or greeting. But if nothing happened Mr Proud and Mr Ponder began to get impatient after five or ten minutes and started rattling their beaks in disapproval—a snippery-snappery, snickery-snackery sort of sound like dry reeds crackling—until someone woke up.

‘All right! All right!’ Storm Boy would say sleepily. ‘I can hear you, Mr Proud!’

He would sit up and look at the three gentlemen standing there on parade.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Ponder. Time for respectable people to be up.’

‘Time for respectable pelicans to get their own breakfast,’ Hide-Away grumbled, ‘instead of begging from their friends.’

And as time went on, he really meant what he said. At last Hide-Away spoke sternly to Storm Boy.

‘Mr Proud, Mr Ponder, and Mr Percival will have to go back to the sanctuary where they came from. We just can’t afford to feed them any more.’

Storm Boy was sad but he always knew when his father had made up his mind. ‘Yes, Dad,’ he said.

‘We’ll put them in the big fish baskets,’ said Hide-Away, ‘and take them in the boat.’

‘Yes, Dad,’ said Storm Boy, hanging his head.

So they caught Mr Proud first, and then Mr Ponder, held their wings against their sides, and put them firmly in the fish baskets. Neither Mr Proud nor Mr Ponder thought much of the idea. They snackered noisily at Hide-Away, raked their ruffled feathers crossly, and glared out through the wickerwork with their yellow eyes.

‘Huh!’ Hide-Away laughed. ‘We’ve offended the two gentlemen. Never mind, it’s all for their own good.’ And he bowed first to Mr Proud and then to Mr Ponder.

But when it came to Mr Percival’s turn, Storm Boy couldn’t bear to see him shut up too. Ever since the miracle of Mr Percival’s rescue, he had been Storm Boy’s favourite. He was always quieter, more gentle, and more trusting than his two brothers. Storm Boy picked him up, smoothed his wings, and held him close. ‘Poor Mr Percival,’ he said gently. He looked up at his father. ‘I’ll hold Mr Percival,’ he said. ‘Can I, Dad?’

‘Oh, all right,’ Hide-Away said, taking up the two baskets. ‘Come on, it’s time we started.’

Hide-Away sailed for five miles up the sanctuary before he stopped the boat.

‘Here we are,’ he said at last.

Then he opened the two baskets and took out Mr Proud and Mr Ponder.

‘Off you go,’ he said. ‘Now you’ll have to look after yourselves.’ Then he pushed them off. They flew away in a high, wide arc and made for the shore.

‘Now Mr Percival,’ he said.

Storm Boy pressed his head against Mr Percival’s and gave his friend a last soft squeeze. ‘Goodbye, Mr Percival,’ he said. He had to pause for a second to clear his throat. ‘Be a…be a good pelican, Mr Percival, and look after yourself.’

He lifted him over the side of the boat and put him down on the water as if he were a big rubber duck. Mr Percival looked surprised and pained for a minute and floated up and down on the ripples. Then he lifted his big wings, pedalled strongly, and rose slowly up over the water.

Storm Boy brushed at his eye with his knuckles and looked away. He didn’t want to let his father see his face.

H
IDE-AWAY AND Storm Boy spent the day fishing. It was fine and sunny, but somehow it seemed cold. Most of the time they just sat in the bobbing boat without talking, but Storm Boy knew that his father knew what he was thinking. Sometimes Hide-Away looked at him strangely, and once he even cleared his throat carefully, gazed out across the water, and said in an unhappy gay voice:

‘Well, I wonder how the three Mr P’s are feeling. As happy as Larry, I’ll bet!’ He looked rather miserably at Storm Boy and went on with his fishing.

‘Yes, I’ll bet,’ Storm Boy said, and also went on sadly with his fishing.

Towards evening they packed up and set off for home.

The sun was flinging a million golden mirrors in a lane across the water. It glowed on the bare patches of the sandhills and lit up the bushes and tussocks till every stem and twig shone with rosy fire. The little boat came gliding in to shore through the chuckle of the ripples.

Suddenly Storm Boy looked up.

‘Look, Dad! Look!’ he shouted.

Hide-Away beached the boat and looked up to where Storm Boy was pointing. ‘What?’

‘Look! Look!’ cried Storm Boy.

High against the sky on the big sandhill stood the tall Lookout Post that Hide-Away and Fingerbone had put up years before. And right on top of the post was a big shape. It was quite still; a statue on a column; a bird of stone.

Then, as if hearing Storm Boy’s startled voice, it suddenly spread out two big wings and launched itself into the air. As it banked against the western sun its beak and big black-tipped wings glowed in the shooting beams of light. For an instant it looked like a magic bird. Storm Boy ran ahead, craning upwards, yelling and waving.

‘Mr Percival! It’s Mr Percival! Mr Percival has come back home!’

It was a happy reunion that night. Even Hide-Away seemed secretly glad that Mr Percival had come back.

‘Yes, I suppose he can stay,’ he said, ‘as long as Mr Proud and Mr Ponder don’t come back too. One pelican’s appetite is bad enough; we can’t cope with three.’

And although Storm Boy loved Mr Proud and Mr Ponder too, he found himself hoping very much that they would stay away.

And they did. As the days went by they sometimes swept overhead, or even landed on the beach for a while, but in the end they always returned to the sanctuary.

But not Mr Percival. He refused even to leave Storm Boy’s side.

W
HEREVER Storm Boy went, Mr Percival followed. If he collected shells along the beach, Mr Percival went with him, either waddling importantly along at his heels or flying slowly above him in wide circles. If Storm Boy went swimming, or sliding down the sandhills, or playing on the sand, Mr Percival found a good spot nearby and perched there heavily to watch and wait until it was over. If Storm Boy went fishing or rowing on the Coorong, Mr Percival cruised joyously round him with his neck bent back and his chest thrust forward like a dragon ship sailing calmly in a sea of air. Whenever he saw Storm Boy anchor the boat he came gliding in with a long, skimming splash, shook his wings into place, and bobbed serenely on the ripples a few yards away.

‘Oh, you’re a grand old gentleman, Mr Percival,’ Hide-Away said, laughing. ‘You ought to be wearing a top hat, or maybe a back-to-front collar and a pair of spectacles. Then perhaps you could give the sermon or take the Sunday school lessons.’

But Mr Percival merely held his head on one side and waited for Hide-Away to throw him a piece of fish—or two or three whole fish to pop into his creel.

Fingerbone and Hide-Away were both glad that Storm Boy had found Mr Percival.