Where Cuckoos Call (8 page)

Those eight days of holiday were a wonderful break from the worries of Mansfield Bay, for both Mum and me. But they say good things can’t last forever, and that was certainly true of that holiday. Reality returned with a horrible crunch as soon as we got home.

The first thing was Dad greeting us when we climbed off the helicopter. He walked out of the house, smiling and waving, obviously pleased we were back. It was a surprise, as we’d expected him to still be in hospital.

‘What are you doing here?’ Mum asked in an unpleasant way. ‘You’re meant to be in hospital.’

Dad lowered his head a little. ‘I didn’t go.’

Mum’s eyes turned dark and her head tilted up. She was angry, real angry. ‘Why not?’

Dad raised his head and I could see he was losing it as well. ‘I didn’t want to. I don’t have to do things if I don’t want to.’

‘You didn’t want to!’ she screamed. ‘You didn’t want to. What about me? Do you think I like living with somebody who’s half out of their mind most of the time? Did you think of me? Did you think of Ben? Did you ever stop and think of anybody but yourself? Did you? Did you?’

I had never seen Mum like this—it was frightening. Plainly Dad hadn’t seen it before either. He stood with his mouth halfopen, unsure of whether to say anything or not.

He didn’t get the chance before Mum started yelling again. ‘No! Of course you didn’t. You never do. Well, if you think I’m going to hang around here looking after you, then you’ve got another think coming. Unless you do something to help yourself, I’m leaving. I mean it. I will go. And Ben will be going with me. So you had better think about that, the next
time you don’t want to do something.’ She glared at him for a while before bursting into tears and running into the house.

The rest of us stood in shock. What a welcome it was for Sarah-Lee. I had told her about Dad being ill. I had also said that things would be better when we got back. This wasn’t better—this was worse than it had ever been.

We were brought back to life by the pilot saying we needed to unload the bags so he could go. After installing Sarah-Lee in the spare room, I fired up my computer to check my emails, hoping that there might be one from Cole: if ever I needed one of his stupid jokes, this was the time. There were ten emails, but none were from Cole. Four of them were from school, with the rest from an assortment of hotmail addresses, none with subject lines. I opened the oldest.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject:

hi bird boy

gez wot only 6 daze 2 go

then we goin 2 get u

ull never set traps 4 us agen bird boy

c u in 6 daze

BIKIN IS 4EVA

I read the email three times before it fully sank in. It was from the bikers. They were coming back for the midyear school holidays, and they already had plans for my future. One by one I opened each of the other messages. They were all much the same, except each was sent from a different email address and the number of ‘daze’ got shorter. There had been none for the past two days.

In a way it was easier getting them all at once instead of spread over a week. I could imagine it would be horrible checking your mail each day knowing that one of them was there. This way I got the shock over in one go.

My first move was to reply to each with an explanation that I had not set a trap for them—that the logs were washed there by the sea. Almost immediately each of my replies bounced back, with the message that the email address didn’t exist. It didn’t really matter: I’d worked out that the messages had stopped because the school holidays had started, and the bikers probably didn’t have a computer at the holiday house.

I then started thinking about how they had got my email address. First, they would need to know my name. That wasn’t difficult as I’d foolishly put it on the signs by the spit. I went into Google and searched for ‘Ben Mansfield’. There were a few other Ben Mansfields in the world, but only one hit referred to me. It was my teacher’s homepage, containing a display of students’ work. Unfortunately, the email address on one of my drawings hadn’t been blacked-out. ‘Thank you, Ms Young,’ I said sarcastically. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful. I don’t think!’

Dinner was a frosty affair that night. Mum and Dad didn’t talk to each other, which was a slight improvement on the yelling. Both Sarah-Lee and I went to bed early, claiming that we were tired. I don’t know about her, but I lay awake for hours worrying about things. Somehow I had to do something to stop the bikers. Asking Dad for help would be next to useless, and the only other person I could think of was Cole—it was unlikely that he’d have the time to do anything.

It was something I had to sort out for myself, and quickly, because I suspected they’d be eager to get on with the job. I probably wouldn’t have worried so much if there had only
been me to look after. However, Sarah-Lee would be involved as well, and who knew what these thugs would do to her.

By morning I’d thought of two things I could do to protect myself and Sarah-Lee. Number one was to go everywhere using the tractor. It might not offer much protection, but it would give us a better chance of escaping from the bikers, and they’d have trouble giving the tractor the ‘rock and roll’. Number two was to take Jake as a bodyguard. Last time the bikers had been scared of him—maybe they still were.

Peg was funny when I turned up with Sarah-Lee. At first she greeted me as a long-lost friend. Then, when she saw I wasn’t alone, she gave a long, low growl. I think she was jealous—she wanted me to herself. When I let Jake out, she got really grumpy, snapping at him every time he got near.

I fixed the old calf pen to the back of the tractor and we set off for Treetops. Both Sarah-Lee and Peg were in the calf pen, Jake was screaming around everywhere, and I was in the driver’s seat—trying to make out I was the best tractor driver in the world. As soon as we reached the beach, I saw the bike tracks. The bikers had been here already. I was scared—it would be stupid not to admit it. They had already attacked me three times, and I could see no reason why they wouldn’t do it again; if not that day, then some day before the holidays finished.

At the puriri there was a note at the bottom of the ladder, weighted down with a stone. I picked the note up and read it.

‘What does it say?’ asked Sarah-Lee.

‘“Hi, Bird Boy. Sorry we missed you. Ha! Ha! But we left you a present in your hut. Hope you like it. We’ll be back later to finish the job.”’

With sinking heart, I climbed the ladder. The lock on the
door had been forced open. Inside was chaos. They had trashed the place. My collection was scattered everywhere. Some of it was smashed. It was a vile and vicious attack of vandalism.

‘Why would somebody do such a thing?’ asked Sarah-Lee.

‘They’re just animals,’ I answered. ‘They only like bikes. That and destroying things. They’re thugs.’

I was so upset, I was almost crying. I had looked forward to showing Treetops to Sarah-Lee. The place was my pride and joy—and now it was just a rubbish dump.

I turned and climbed up to the lookout, fearful of what I might find there. Yet the place seemed untouched. The only bad things were out on the spit: bike tracks everywhere, plus the logs had been burnt in a bonfire. Now there were only ashes where the bike had crashed.

The rest of the place looked much the same as usual. The bay was in its winter mode: lots of dotterels, oystercatchers and wrybills. Sadly, I could not see Tiny-M. She must have finally realised that she should be somewhere else, and flown north. Yet there was no chance of her being able to make it to the Arctic in time for breeding.

At least Sarah-Lee was impressed with the view. Most of the birds were new to her, and I had to identify each breed and give all of their details. It was something I enjoyed doing, and it helped me forget the chaos down below.

Over the next few days we tidied the mess. Sarah-Lee wanted everything classified: seashells had to be with seashells, bones with bones, and strange things with other strange things. I suppose it was the female touch—everything neat and tidy, and in the right place. Secretly, though, I would have preferred them all jumbled up as they usually were.

She showed particular interest in the adzes and reels, quizzing me in detail. Finally, just to shut her up, I took her to the clay bank where I’d found them. There, she turned into
the visiting expert. You would have sworn it was her mother talking. She’d spent so long around archaeological digs that she knew more than most teachers would.

‘See that brown mark?’ she pointed. ‘That’s from a piece of buried wood. It could have been a post hole to a house.’

‘What’s this white layer above it?’

She looked closely at it for a while. ‘Hey,’ she said, excitedly, ‘that’s the top of the Taupo ash layer. We saw that in a dig near Opotiki.’

‘What’s so special about that, Miss?’ I asked in a silly voice.

She smiled. ‘Lake Taupo last erupted in 186
AD
. It was the most violent eruption in the world for thousands of years. Ash was scattered all over New Zealand. So the importance of this layer is that we can date it at exactly 186
AD
.’

‘And how do we know it’s exactly that date?’

‘That’s a very good question, Ben. Good boy. It shows you’ve been paying attention.’

‘Thank you, Miss,’ I chuckled. ‘But don’t you know the answer?’

‘Of course I do. So much ash went into the air that it caused bright red sunsets and sunrises all over the world. It was so special that people wrote about it. That’s how we know it was 186
AD
.’

I stood staring at the clay bank for a while. Something was puzzling me. ‘What about that brown stain? Because it’s below the ash layer, does that mean it was dug before the eruption?’

‘I wish,’ she said. ‘It was probably dug through the ash layer.’

‘But there’s no brown above.’

‘Yeah and the bank isn’t straight up and down either, so we’re only seeing the bottom of the hole. I bet those things you found were from above the ash layer.’

‘They were lying in the stream after it had flooded, so I don’t know exactly where they came from.’

‘They’d be from above. Nobody was living here when Taupo—’

‘Shhh,’ I hushed. ‘What’s that noise?’ But I already knew what it was: the bikers were coming. ‘Quick, get into the calf pen.’ She must have heard the urgency in my voice for she hopped in without comment. After shunting Peg in, I slammed the door, climbed up into the seat, and started the tractor. I doubted that we could get away before they arrived, but at least they couldn’t run over us.

Yamaha was leading the way, followed by Blue and Red.

‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t Bird Boy,’ said Yamaha.

‘Yeah,’ added Red. ‘And the little fat slob has got a little fat girlfriend.’

‘We’ll be able to make them rock and roll together. They can do the roly-poly.’

‘Did you get our emails?’ asked Blue.

‘Yes, I did.’ My voice came out as a squeak.

‘You’re almost wetting yourself, aren’t you, Bird Boy?’ Red jeered. ‘You should never have made that trap.’

‘I’ve told you already that I didn’t make it. The sea did it.’

‘Oh yeah! But who shifted the logs around in the first place? Eh?’ asked Yamaha. There was nothing I could say to that. ‘So now you’ve got to pay for it.’ He put his bike on its stand and climbed off. The other two began to do the same.

As they moved towards us, I called, ‘Jake! Here!’

Nothing happened.

Red gave an evil laugh. ‘Trying to trick us were you, Bird Boy? Make us think your mongrel was around here.’

‘Yeah. We ain’t scared of your dog. Look she’s wetting herself.’ And she was: Peg was peeing in the calf pen. The three bikers thought this was a hell of a joke.

Once again, Jake’s timing was perfect. He flew out of the bushes, stopped, looked around for a moment, and then transformed into the vicious beast I’d seen last time. Red Honda was the closest. He panicked and kicked out at Jake. Instantly, Jake had his leg. Red yelled in pain.

‘Leave!’ I shouted. Jake let go, but he didn’t back off. He stood rocking back and forth, snarling and baring his teeth.

‘Jake! Sit!’ I ordered. He did and the snarling stopped. I turned to the bikers. ‘Now get out of here while you can.’

They remounted their bikes and gunned them into life. ‘You’ve made a big mistake, Bird Boy!’ shouted Yamaha over the sound of the bikes. ‘You might think you’ve won, but we’re still going to get you. That mongrel won’t be around all the time.’ Then they roared off, going back the way they’d come.

‘Yes, he will,’ I said, to myself as much as to Sarah-Lee. ‘From now on we don’t go anywhere without him.’

In the middle weekend of Sarah-Lee’s stay we watched a rugby match on TV. The New Zealand Maori were playing Australia in Sydney. All week the news had been about the game. Cole was playing and, according to the reporters, big things were expected of him.

Sarah-Lee knew less about rugby than I did, which is not saying much. Yet, you didn’t have to know the rules to get involved, and she was soon cheering and groaning as much as anyone. By the middle of the second half the Maori were ahead by thirteen points. Then came the disaster.

There was one of those things where lots of players are piled on top of each other. Something happened and suddenly there were players fighting everywhere, with the referees trying to sort it out. When things calmed down, one of the Australians was pointing to his eyes and screaming at the refs. The commentators were talking of eye-gouging, which was one of the worst things you could do in rugby.

After the refs had conferred, one of them called Cole over. We couldn’t hear what was said, except it was plain that Cole was being blamed. He was shaking his head and protesting. Eventually the ref put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a red card. Cole’s head slumped as he turned and walked slowly off the ground, still shaking his head. That’s when the crowd started booing. By the time he’d disappeared under the grandstand, the voices of the commentators were drowned by the booing from the huge crowd.

I was shocked. I just couldn’t believe that he had done such a thing. The Cole I knew would never have done that. In fact, when we had interviewed him at school, one of the kids had asked if he’d ever hit another player.

‘No, and I never will,’ he had replied.

‘Not even if they hit you first?’

‘No. What would be the point?’

‘To get even,’ said the kid.

‘What! And get sent off as well? No, that’s just stupid. If I don’t hit back, the other player will be sent off, and that gives me the advantage. Anyway,’ he’d added, ‘I’ll never make the All Blacks if I get a name for hitting people. I’d never reach The Goal.’

Now, it looked as if his chances of becoming an All Black were zero. Instead, it was more likely he would never play top rugby again.

I felt sick watching the rest of the game. I couldn’t stop thinking about the image of Cole walking off in disgrace. The booing was still ringing in my ears. To make it worse, the Australians scored two tries and won the game.

The following few days were horrible. Cole was blamed for everything. The only thing he said was at a news conference soon after the game. ‘I did not do anything in that ruck. My hands did not go anywhere near a player’s eyes, either accidentally or intentionally. I did nothing wrong.’ From then on he wouldn’t speak to reporters, and that just made things worse because they took that as a sign of guilt.

When things started to cool down, I sent him a long email telling him about Vanuatu: about Sarah-Lee and our first meeting, the snorkelling in amongst the dugong do, Bigmouth and the volcano—everything. I figured he probably needed something to divert his thoughts for a while. I did start to tell him about the bikers, but deleted it as I thought it might be too gloomy. At the end I told him I believed he didn’t do it and he shouldn’t give up his Goal.

His reply came almost immediately.

Kia ora Ben,

Thanks for your email. It was good to hear that you’ve been enjoying yourself.

As you know, things haven’t been too good with me. Yet I’m sure I’ll get over it eventually. No matter what the media might say, I know I did nothing wrong, and that’s the important thing. Plus the other team members have been very supportive. They all know that the same thing could happen to them at any time.

No, I have not given up on The Goal, though reaching it may now be a lot further into the future than I had hoped.

Thanks again for your support.

Cole

This email told me much more than what was said in words. It was the first he had ever sent without a joke, and that showed how much he was hurting. Just as well I hadn’t included the stuff about the bikers. He had enough to worry about without hearing my problems.

I wanted to show Sarah-Lee everything that Mansfield Bay had to offer. Unfortunately, with the bikers around, that was not possible. Several times I thought of taking her up to Table Rock, except it would have been too dangerous. We couldn’t take the dogs or the tractor, and the thought of being on top of the rock when Yamaha and the gang arrived scared me to death.

However, I was determined to show her the tuatara on Lizard Island, and we finally managed it on her last full day. I don’t
know who named Lizard Island, but they didn’t know much about reptiles. The reptiles are tuatara, which are nothing like lizards. Tuatara were around on this planet for a hundred million years before lizards evolved.

Before Coromandel became a big holiday place, most of the small islands had tuatara. Now, very few of them do. The combination of dogs, rats, and wildlife smugglers has removed most of them. Lizard Island is different. It is too small to show on most maps and is difficult to reach. The tide and sea have to be just right. Although I was unhappy with the conditions, we still decided to go—Sarah-Lee was so excited about seeing them.

I took the aluminium dinghy down to the spit in the calf pen. The trick to getting onto the island is to row across the mouth of the estuary and then approach the island from the north. It’s no good heading straight for it, as that side of the island is all rocks covered with a tangle of driftwood. It seems that anything that washes into the estuary ends up on Lizard Island.

On the north side there is a small beach about two metres wide, just enough for the dinghy to land—that’s if the sea is gentle. There was quite a swell coming in on that day. Rowing into it was easy, but when we turned to get to the beach the boat rocked wildly. If Sarah-Lee hadn’t been with me, I would have abandoned the trip. As it turned out, I managed to get onto the little beach with only a few scrapes with the rocks. None of them caused any great damage.

A sunny winter’s morning is a good time to view tuatara, as they like to sit in the sun, raising their temperature from the cold of the night. As we climbed to the top we heard them scampering back to their burrows. At the summit we sat and waited. Five, ten minutes passed before the first one reappeared to take its position on a small rock. One by one the others followed until there were about thirty of various
sizes soaking up the solar energy. There were more than I had ever seen before. They seemed to be thriving. Yet, it made me think of what might happen after the development. Lots of people would want to come to see them, and that was sure to cause problems.

The return trip was uneventful. When we were back in Treetops, Sarah-Lee went all serious on me. ‘Ben,’ she said sternly, ‘you have got to do something about all of this.’

‘What?’ I said in surprise. ‘Treetops? We’ve tidied it all and it looks great. What else is there to do?’

‘Not this,’ she said crossly. ‘The bay and the development. You have to do something about it.’

I shrugged and sighed. It was not a discussion I wanted to have on our last whole day together.

When Sarah-Lee saw my reaction, she got mad. ‘What is it with you New Zealanders? You have the most beautiful country in the world—all these wonderful creatures—and you don’t seem to care about what happens to it.’

‘
I
care,’ I said, starting to get angry.

‘Then why don’t you show it?’

‘I’m trying to. It’s just not easy with Dad being sick and all that.’

‘Then forget about trying to convince him. Do something else. Do something that will shock people. Do something that will make people listen.’

‘What?’

She thought for a while, choosing her words: ‘Have you heard of ecoterrorism?’

‘What!’

‘Ecoterrorism: committing a crime to save the environment.’

‘I know what it is,’ I said, angrily. ‘What are you suggesting?’

She saw my anger and softened her words. ‘I don’t know, but there must be something we can do. It doesn’t have to be a crime.’

I thought for a moment before replying. ‘The problem is that anything I do will hurt my parents. Would you want me to do that?’

She turned and stared out the window. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘But there has to be some way to stop it.’ Even though her voice was controlled, I could sense the anger beneath and her eyes glistened with tears. ‘They cannot wreck this place. It is too special.’ Then she turned and climbed from the tree. A while later I saw her striding along the beach, as if she had something to do. I stayed in Treetops, feeling annoyed and dejected. In my dreaming I had planned for quite a different ending to our holiday, but now…

I didn’t see her again until dinnertime and had no idea what she’d got up to in the meantime. The next day we parted, much the same as we had met: two kids with the same age and interests, and little else. Yet throughout it all, I had always hoped there might be something more.