Rather than seals, he's looking for green stones.
Kerewin said she had picked up a pendant along this beach. "An old one? Her, that's interesting." Joe had been enthusiastic. "Have you got it here? Can I see it?"
She had closed up. "It's at home," she had said cautiously. Joe had sighed. "That's one thing I've always wanted. Nana had an earring, but she left it to my grandfather. That was the only piece the family owned, eh." Kerewin had pursed her lips, as though wondering whether to say anything more. Finally, she had said, "There's a lot in my family's hands. The great grand fatherly progenitor was Ngati Poutini, and so was one of my grandfathers. They didn't exactly eat off pounamu plates, but they left quite a bit to us all. You'll have to come and look, help yourself to something when we get back, eh?" But that hadn't been what she had been going to say at all. Funny, thought Simon, and forgot it.
At the moment, he's got to decide which way to look. By the cliffs, or in the sea? He scans the beach.
Something flaps on the sand by the sea's edge.
Kerewin finishes the paper and makes herself a coffee. Then she drives to Hamdon, and buys more whisky. She stops at the tavern for a quick drink. It's just eleven, but there's a scattering of fishermen and farming folk having the alcoholic equivalent of smoko. She notices that the signs that used to be everywhere, warning minors and those on prohibition orders not to come in, have gone. The barman says goodbye civilly though she only has a single beer.
Must go for a decent session there, before we leave, she thinks, driving in a leisurely fashion back to Moerangi.
He can't see what it is.
It looks quite large.
He decides to go that way, looking for green stones on the way. He finds several, but none with the water look of Kerewin's rings. Maybe polished? thinks Simon, and edges closer to the shore.
The thing flaps again.
She makes a tumbler full of whisky toddy and takes it to Joe. She kneels by the bunk and blows a stream of whisky fumes at the huddle under the blankets.
"A kill or cure machine has arrived and is waiting for you."
"Gur?" "Whisssky." "O…thagyou."
"Sweet hell man, drink it quick. It sounds like the germs are winning." Snigger. "O?" says Joe, with considerable restraint.
What do I do? What do I do?
Get them.
It's a long way back.
The bird struggles again, the ruined wing beating sluggishly, the wounded body scuffling in the sand.
Its head tilts further to one side. The beak opens and darkish froth drips out.
A stone. I could throw it hard.
He readies one of the green pebbles in his hand.
I might miss, I might just hurt it.
He drops it.
Clare, do something, hugging himself in misery.
The beak opens and shuts soundlessly.
If I wait, it might die quickly.
The bird flops forward, wing drawn up convulsively, scrabbles again in the sand.
It is trying to get away from him.
She puts a leg of mutton on to roast, and prepares the vegetables ready in pots.
She helps herself to a whisky, clears away the morning dishes, and sweeps out the bach.
Positively domesticated we are, this morning.
Glancing at the clock,
this afternoon.
This afternoon? Where's the urchin?
She goes to the old bach.
"Hey Joe, wake up a minute."
He is woozy with cold and a septuple whisky, and he doesn't know which way Simon went.
"Doan worrym, he'll comg bag."
"Oath, it's an entire new dialect."
She grins. "I think I'll go look for him anyway. The sandhoppers might have nibbled away his toes, and he's hirpling back on his anklebones."
I can't leave it.
I can't watch it die like this.
He drops to his knees beside the bird, closes his eyes, the stone tight in his hand, and hits until he can hear nothing, feel nothing moving any more.
Smell of the sea and the smell of blood.
The bird is reddened. The one wing curves, moves in the air towards the earth. It comes to rest at an awkward upbent angle.
Simon puts his head on his drawn up knees. There is a singing in his head, and a bitter constriction in his throat. He tries to swallow and his gorge rises. He dry-retches repeatedly.
I can't cry.
Kerewin hunkers down so she can see all the footprints in the sand backlit as it were. There it is, the barefoot trail, heading south. Would you believe everyone else is shod?
He's not on the first beach round from the kaika. The footprint trail begins again after the rocks that mark the beginning of the south reef, and still heads purposefully south.
She follows, swinging the harpoon stick alongside.
Two youths on the clifftop wave to her. One carries a rifle. She waves back.
That's one of the nice things about being back in me old home. The natives aren't suspicious here.
One of them, both of them, may know her by sight, though they would have been children the last time she was here.
She rounds the corner of the beach called King and Queen. Two rock towers give it the name.
And there it is, one Gillayley gremlin, in a desolate-looking hunch on the sand.
What's the betting its feet have dropped off from frostbite?
She lays a large whisky to a lemon drink against it, grinning as she does.
After a time, he begins to shiver, with cold and shock. This place is getting too much.
He opens his eyes and looks at the mutilated dead thing at his feet.
It is quiet and still.
He digs a hole, scraping in the sand with his fingers so the thin bird blood is rubbed off.
He uses the stone to lever and roll the body into the hole. It was the kind of bird Kerewin called mollymawk, and Joe, toroa. Its brown eyes are still open. He drops sand on it, avoiding the eyes as much as he can. He searches for fine sand, then gravel, heaping it over Until there is no sign at all except the mound on the beach.
Then he sits back on his heels, keeping his mind dark, and sings to it.
It is a thin reedy sound at first, nasal and highpitched. It is the only sound he can make voluntarily, because even his laughter and screaming are not under his full control, and it is as secret as his name.
The singing rises and builds atonically.
To Kerewin, walking catfooted on the silent sand, it has the strange heady purity of a countertenor.
She squats down three yards behind him and waits, not moving a muscle. Not even breathing loudly.
God, if only I had my guitar with me-
A brilliant green-armoured blowfly zzzes onto the mound and picks its way across the wet sand. The singing stops.
The only sound is the pulse of the sea.
She hasn't moved but somehow he is suddenly aware she is there. His head snaps forward, and he cowers against the sand, his bowels loosening in his terror. She doesn't move. Nor does she speak.
She sits, rock steady Only her fingers grasping the harpoon stick have tightened until the pressure hurts.
Slowly, fighting against the horror, he drags himself upright again. His body is jerking spasmodically.
I do anything, talk, sing, touch him,'anything. I'll push him into convulsions. Wait it out, o soul. God, I'm sorry for you, child.
His mouth drawn down in a rictus of fear, he waits. For lightning, blows, the darkness. Nothing happens. The sea rolls in, the sea rolls out. A gull keens over the island. Kerewin sits unmoving, watching him. The green fly gives up its search and buzzes away. Nothing happens.