The White Gull

At dawn he stirred on his camp stretcher, and pressed up through blanketing layers of sleep to lie staring in contentment at the near canvas roof. In the half- dark he could hear the rustle of scrub and the waves breaking on a shelving beach below. The air was still chilly, and he lay without moving, ready to sleep again.

Yesterday near sunset they had come over a ridge in the old Ford truck and seen the lake spread suddenly below them. ‘That’s Ohau’, his father had said. ‘We’ll camp down there by the creek.’ And he had pointed to a clump of manuka scrub that grew close to the water’s edge about a mile from the rapid outlet. His mother, half-asleep, had lifted her head and smiled. ‘You’ll be glad to get a rest from the wheel, won’t you, Jack,’ she said. The boy, cramped between them on the narrow seat, shifted his legs and looked down at the lake. An oval of darkening silver caught in a fold of the arid ranges, two thousand feet in depth, fed by snow water from the distant glaciers, it seemed to him indescribably pure and remote, a place made for rest.

They came slowly down to the lakeshore, the truck straddling tussocks and small boulders, for the road had dwindled to wheel-ruts in shingle. They jolted over a ford, water splashing as high as the bonnet of the truck. From time to time the boy climbed out to open gates and close them again when the truck had gone through. When they finally came to a stop beside a scrub clearing he helped his father to unload the stores and cut props for a tent and fireplace. He was a little afraid of that lean-faced saturnine man – a farmer born and bred whom two wars had left powerless to take pleasure in natural growth and the small triumphs of farming. Yet he looked for his approval, driving the props deep into the stony ground, to stand firm against his testing. Before he went to bed that night, he walked out shivering to the edge of the lake and brushed his teeth there, spitting on the smooth stones and listening to the quiet sound of water. His senses seemed sharpened by thepage 35 dry air, and with this sharpening came an awareness of his own loneliness. The huge spaces and glittering stars were inhuman, even hostile. He ran back to the camp, his sandals stubbing on loose shingle as he went.

Waking now, he could hear his parents deeper in the tent – his mother’s steady breathing and an occasional snore from his father. A small green caterpillar fell cautiously from the roof, suspended on its invisible thread. From the scrub outside he could smell the exhalation of damp grass and flowering manuka. As he sat up his stretcher creaked loudly, but his parents did not stir. Stepping out to the newly trodden grass, he dressed quickly (slacks, sandals, shirt and jersey) and emerged rubbing his eyes to a sky bright with dawn. A fresh wind blew on his face as he crossed the clearing towards the truck. A tarpaulin had been drawn over it for the night. He untied a rope at the back, reached inside, and drew out his father’s rifle. It was a long- barrelled twenty-two, neat and well cared for, the wood on the stock polished with constant handling. He fumbled again till he found a box of bullets, which he slipped into his trouser pocket. Then he set off along the road, the rifle under his arm, its muzzle pointing to the ground an inch in front of his moving feet.

The feel of the rifle against his hand and elbow was exhilarating. If his father had been more ready to lend it, he would have spent all day shooting or pretending to shoot. More than desire to kill, it was the myth of the hunter that gripped him. Even now he trod warily, his muscles tense and his eyes glancing from side to side for the first scurry of brown fur. A hundred yards from the camp he left the road and clambered down a bank to the lakeshore. By now the sun showed an edge of molten steel above the mountains. Glittering tracks of light lay on the surface of the lake like the tracks of sea monsters. Overhead flew gulls, their harsh cries contrasting strangely with the splendour of their circling wings. He picked his way over banks of shingle and patches of moss where small grey insects ran like lice. There were no rabbits in sight. Nevertheless he opened the box of bullets and slipped one into the breech. Then he walked on along the edge of the lake where the stones had been worn to rough sand. The early morning sun now warmed the cloth on his shoulders. About a mile from the camp he came on a row of willow trees whose delicate light-green leaves sprang from twisted trunks half-buried in the shingle. Laying the rifle across his knees, he sat down on a log to rest. From under a matagouri bush a glinting object caught his eye. It was a condensed milk tin, not yet rusty, left there by campers. He picked it up gingerly, walked to the water’s edge, and threw it far out into the lake. There it rose and fell gently on the light waves. He sat down on the log again and took aim.

The first shot went wide, ricocheting from the lake surface and whining out of sound. With the second shot his hand was steadier, the butt firm against his shoulder. He aimed a little high and pressed the trigger slowly.

page 36

The crack of the rifle merged in the plonk of the bullet against the tin. It bubbled and sank. He rose from the log and walked back towards the camp, reloading the rifle as he went.

The gulls still swerved in wide arcs above his head. Mist rose from the upper reaches of the lake till he could see clearly the ridges on the mountain flanks that were ancient beaches where the lake had been. Beyond them lay further mountains, range behind range stretching to the cloudy buttresses of Mt Cook itself. For the first time that morning he felt hunger, and quickened his step. He wished that he had shot at least one rabbit – to show as an excuse for having borrowed the gun. His luck was out today. He would not be able to pose as the experienced hunter.

He came to where a point of shingle ran out into the lake, enclosing a basin of calm water at the outlet of a small creek. Just inside the point a gull rode lightly. It did not move as he came nearer, but preened its feathers and fixed him with a cold eye. He thought of scaring it with a stone, but the distance was too great. A strange anger rose in him against the bird. On an impulse he raised the rifle. I’ ll only scare it, he told himself. Yet, as he had done with the tin, he aimed a little high and pressed the trigger slowly. At the crack of the rifle the bird rose, and he felt a surge of relief. It fluttered two or three yards, then fell to the water again and lay with its wings outspread. Dropping the rifle on a patch of moss, he rushed forward and waded into the shallow water. He lifted it gently. The bird lay in his hand perfect and seemingly unharmed, no trace of blood on the snowy feathers. He wondered if it had perhaps only been stunned by the wind of the bullet. Then, pressing back the soft breast feathers, he saw where the lead had struck. The breast bone was smashed through, a tangle of flesh and sinew hidden by the close down. He turned the bird’s head towards him. The eye, still black and cold, had lost its living sharpness.

The whole shore seemed to watch him. The least flicker in his mind of self- justification was crushed by this open stare. Suddenly he felt sick and heavy. Scooping a hollow in the shingle, he laid down the gull, and piled stones above it till the accusing white was entirely hidden. Then he walked back to where he had left the rifle, water squelching from his sandals at every step. On the road to the camp he recovered a little of his self-assurance. It was a good shot anyway, he thought.

A plume of smoke was rising from the clearing. The smell of frying bacon drifted to his nostrils. His father was holding a pan over a fire of dry manuka sticks. Remembering the borrowed rifle, he felt his heart sink a trifle.

‘You been out shooting?’ said his father casually. His heart lifted again. ‘Yes, I didn’t have any luck.’ ‘You seem to have got yourself pretty wet.’

‘I couldn’t help it. There was a bit of bog I mistook for green grass. I had a few practice shots at a tin and sank it all right.’

‘Yes, I heard the shooting.’

page 37

‘I’ve worked up a hunger anyway.’ He walked over the short springy turf, and laid the rifle in the back of the truck. As he turned towards the tent, the light reflected from the lake dazzled his eyes.

1941-48? (30)