the curlew

Winner of the 2001 Byron Bay Nicholas Shand Short Story Competition

There’s a bird sitting on what is supposed to be Joe’s camp site. The overnight drive from Sydney is a bastard, and he feels like running it over.

‘Move you stupid bird.’ He leans on his horn.

But it only lays its head flat on the ground and squawks angrily at the car. It has wild grey streaks like it was attacked by a painter in a rage, and its eyes are bulging and opaque.
A couple of hippies sitting beside their Kombie eating porridge watch Joe’s arrival. ‘It’s a curlew,’ the girl says, ‘She’s protecting her eggs. We just squeezed in around so as not to disturb her. I can signal you in over there if you like.’

He can’t believe he has to give up his prime camp site for such a bloody hideous bird. Now he’ll be sleeping under the muffler.

He walks past the curlew to get his tent out of the boot. The curlew stands up, revealing a pair of over-long legs, with tight knobbles for knees. She tilts her glazed eyes in his direction. From the bushes, her mate appears. He makes the same guttoral screech and has the same too-long legs. He struts awkwardly, head bowed, then grunts something that sounds like a warning.

Joe pulls the tent out of the boot and slams it shut, setting the bird off again: ‘Wee-Aahh! We-AAHH!’. ‘Alright, Alright’ he responds. God, she’s worse than Helen: nag, nag, nag. That’s what I came here to get away from, all that: ‘Keep the noise down, you’ll wake the baby’ stuff. As soon as he thinks it, he feels guilty. Then reneges, why should he feel guilty? He could have gone straight to Maggie, and god knows he was tempted, but he didn’t.

Joe hasn’t been camping since he was in the boy scouts. He looks around at all the different temporary shelters people are using now: domes, teepes, buses, vans, and those funny tents that look like slugs. So many options. He looks at his triangle tent, sagging and dull green, and wishes it was one of those great little bright-red dome tents like the one the backpackers next to the shower block have: they put it up in about 30 seconds flat and it looks taut and fresh.

He gets out his Esky and starts getting lunch together. The sun is searing, making him sleepy and uncomfortable. He’s not used to being outdoors in the middle of the day.

His mobile phone rings, the display tells him it’s Maggie. Probably hoping he has left Helen; wondering where he is. He waits for it to ring out, then switches it off.

Sitting back against the tree, eating his sandwich, Joe glances towards the curlew again. She ignores him and stares straight ahead. She hasn’t moved an inch. Her mate pecks idly at the plastic discards of a cigarette packet. He hasn’t brought her any food or water. Aren’t they supposed to do things like that for their mate? All this guy does is wander around gurgling. Joe laughs at his utter redundancy.

He wonders how she perseveres. She won’t get any shade sitting where she is. He’s almost grateful she parked herself there now, she saved him from pitching his tent stupidly in the open sun.

And, despite himself, it reminds him of Helen again. Always so perfect, ‘putting herself out for others’, always doing the right thing, no matter what any one else does or says. No weakening, no being tempted. But is it a crime to be tempted, once?

The next day, the curlew still hasn’t moved. Her coat is turning a darker grey. Her stare refuses to unfocus; she is in a stupor of concentration and inactivity. The sun pelts her, and for a moment he thinks he sees her bulbous eyes slackening as she wilts a little deeper into her eggy throne, but it’s just his own eyes blinking into a sweaty sleep.

At dusk he looks again to see if she will break, just a little. She must be hungry. Eat something, he thinks, why don’t you just get up and get what you need for yourself? He digs in the ground near the tree, where the earth is looser. He has made a hole the size of his fist before he finds what he is looking for. A worm. Gently, he unplugs it from the ground. He moves towards the curlew, and her gaze flickers in the direction of his hand. He places the worm on the ground in front of her, just a few inches from her beak, just far enough that she would have to leave her nest to reach it. He waits for hunger to dampen her resolve.

In the middle of the night Joe wakes busting for a piss. Stumbling from his tent, he nearly tramples the curlew. She berates him shrilly, sending a shock of adrenalin through him. He shines his torch at her. She blinks, confused. He remembers the worm. He can’t see it at first. But as he moves closer and shines the beam where he left the worm, he sees that it’s still there, untouched but dead.

Back in his tent, he thrashes about, unable to get back to sleep. At dawn he packs up his awkward green tent. Forget going home. He’ll head for Brisbane instead. Stuff work, he can work in Brisbane as easily as Sydney. Maggie and Helen will keep.

He slams the car door, deliberately setting the curlew off one last time. He stares into her steely grey eyes and revs the engine. He spins the wheels as he takes off, spraying dirt over her greasy feathers. But she shows no fear. Instead, she seems to have gained strength from the night before. She stands above the dent in the earth she has made for her eggs, displaying her ugly legs again. She leans forward, screeches, and lays her neck flat on the ground, menacing.

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