Rain Birds Page 4

  ‘It’s like they always give you the wrong length,’ Tim said, jiggling one.

  ‘That’s what you get with cheap gear,’ she replied.

  There was a shakiness to her hands; they always got like that when she was anxious. She untangled her hair tie and redid her ponytail. Don’t pull at your hair.

  ‘Don’t worry, I know tents,’ he said. ‘We did a lot of camping as kids. Used to be a real family tradition.’

  She had always hated hearing about other people’s childhoods.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  ‘My family didn’t do a lot of camping.’

  Tim stopped feeding the pole through the fabric tab and straightened up. ‘Well, that explains a lot,’ he said, resuming work on the tent.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It just explains why you’re so gung-ho about staying out here when we could’ve asked Rod to pay for a hotel. I liked the idea of a proper bed.’

  ‘I’m not stopping you.’ She struggled to bend the tent poles into place.

  He walked over to help her. ‘What? And leave you to fend for yourself in the wilderness? I’m more of a gentleman than that.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  By lunchtime, the tents stood in one long line like grey, gauzy beetles. The birds would need to spend twenty-four hours inside the acclimatisation tents to adjust to the local environment. She and Tim got to work unpacking bags of woodchips, their climbing equipment, and ten nesting boxes – containers of rough-sawn, untreated pine that had been put together in the workshop back in Canberra. The boxes were long and skinny; one metre deep with an internal diameter of thirty centimetres; the top left open for the entrance. They’d nailed pointed pieces of timber around the gap and wire mesh to the inside walls to allow the cockatoos to climb in and out of the nest.

  ‘You don’t talk about your family much, do you?’ Tim remarked.

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  Her sister, Caro, had sometimes tried to discuss their childhood. The last time was when Arianna was in her first year of uni. Caro was repeating her final year of an Arts degree, although she seemed to be spending more time at her bar job than hitting her books. Arianna remembered how she regretted not moving to a different city from her sister.

  ‘You know,’ Caro had said, ‘what happened between them wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t either of ours.’

  They were sitting in the outside smoking area of Caro’s workplace. Arianna had never been a smoker; yet another thing that she didn’t do right. She watched the way her sister’s lips creased around the end of a cigarette, the hollows of her cheeks as she inhaled.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Caro asked.

  ‘I didn’t think it was my fault.’

  ‘Mum did the right thing.’ Her sister was squinting at her hard – she and her mother had always used that same look on her. ‘He used to just go crazy. His eyes would glaze over.’

  Arianna had sipped her beer.

  ‘I never knew that our house was any different until I went to friends’ places,’ Caro continued. ‘I thought it was so weird that they’d hug their dads. If I was in the same room as ours, I’d be thinking about how to get out.’

  They’d sat in silence for a long time after that, people drifting past, waving to Caro every now and then. After a while, once the bar began filling with patrons, her sister got up to start her shift, and she’d walked back to her student room with beer sitting heavily in her stomach and the smell of stale smoke clinging to her hair. Caro had always moved through the world as though nothing actually touched her. But Arianna had heard the stories; she knew that one time Caro had been seen passed out in a Hungry Jacks as dawn arrived and had later managed to just walk out of there, unmarked. That was the thing with Caro: no matter how much she fucked up, she never seemed affected by it. Why was she always the one who came through unscathed?

  ‘What do you mean there’s nothing to talk about?’ she realised Tim was asking, as he unrolled a bundle of cables and lined up his laptop and all the bits and pieces of his data collection system. ‘Everyone has some good memories.’

  She felt a burning, itching spread across the edge of her hairline.

  Tim set up her climbing line at the base of the first tree. She made a show of checking each attachment and carabiner that Tim had touched before she sat her weight back to test the harness. He smiled as he threw another line over a branch just above where they wanted to position the nesting box, hauled it up and clipped himself into her belay rope. Once she had ascended and was beside the box, she secured it to the tree using chains and a drill that were attached to a cord around her waist. Then she waited for Tim to haul up the bag of woodchips before she laid them in the base of the nest. The final task was positioning the camera trap in the branches outside the box to monitor the birds’ comings and goings.

  As she let herself back down the rope, she could sense that Tim was getting impatient on the forest floor.

  ‘Are you going to give me a go?’ he said as they walked to the second nest site.

  ‘No. We want them to actually stay in the trees.’

  At ground level, everything seemed heavy and close. But once she was up in the branches, there was nothing but the whoosh of wind and the buzzing of insects. She could gaze across the ocean of treetops surrounding them, could see the changes in colour as the wet sclerophyll forest turned to temperate rainforest on the slopes of Black Mountain, and its grey, weathered peak. In the second tree, she slung her lanyard around a nearby branch and sat there, legs dangling over nothing but air, eyes closed, breathing in the treetops. Home. If she ignored the harness cutting into the bottoms of her thighs, she felt weightless, suspended. It was the closest thing she had ever found to calm.

  It was a difficult state to maintain – calm. Arianna was well aware of the threats to a cockatoo chick: adverse weather, disease, inattentive and immature parents. Galahs and sulphur-crested cockatoos were prone to taking over erected nesting boxes. She had no guarantees that their captive-bred glossy blacks would adapt to the wilderness. In the first years of her appointment at the university, she had taken part in a reintroduction of bush stone-curlews at a sanctuary north of Canberra. Even though the sanctuary was ringed with four-metre-high fences to keep out predators, a few birds had been lost to foxes and wandering cats. That was the story all over the country for native wildlife.

  In the Murrungowar afternoon, she laid the woodchips in the bottom of the second nest and positioned the camera trap outside the entrance. Then, when they’d repeated the process for the other eight boxes, she stood on the forest floor and looked up at the treetops she’d just been sitting in. Small birds were chasing insects up that high; ripples of movement everywhere.

  You must have some good memories. Arianna wasn’t sure. When Caro finished high school, three years before her, she’d promptly moved to Canberra. Put a distance between them so quickly it was hard not to take it personally. She had been left to fend for herself, alone with her mother, through the pointy end of her adolescence. She’d been too young to recall much about the darkness of her father or, at least, she tried not to. He was no longer around by the time Arianna was seven. But there were some things she couldn’t forget. His shoulder, the scratch of his hands, the smell of petrol. Her mother lying on the hallway floor, hands around her neck. A bloodied towel in the laundry sink. The threat of detonation, everywhere. You won’t leave me. Where will you go, where will you go, where will you go?

  7

  TUESDAY CAME, AND the cockatoos were due to arrive. Arianna had been sticking small limbs of casuarina and eucalypts upright through the ground-sheets of the tents to give the birds something to sit on, nibble at, and to encourage them to get used to the wild food of the area. She was zipping up the last tent when the truck rumbled up the track and blared its horn in greeting. Their Parks Victoria liaison, who was scheduled to visit the release site that morning, had guided the truck do
wn the winding service roads in a white and green ute.

  ‘You blokes don’t make it easy,’ the truck driver said, swinging out of the cab door. ‘My GPS has been cutting in and out all the way here.’

  A long-limbed young man and a guy in his forties, both wearing green uniforms, got out of the Parks Vic ute and followed the truck driver.

  ‘My name’s Earl,’ the older man said, shaking first Tim’s hand and then hers. ‘This is Harley.’

  Harley looked more like a teenager close up, but with a man’s frame, bristly skin across his top lip and chin.

  ‘I saw you at the meeting out at Orbost,’ Earl said to Arianna. ‘Didn’t get a chance to introduce myself then.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘You had a tough crowd.’

  The bush suddenly seemed very full and noisy. Tim led Earl around the site, pointing out their equipment and the systems they’d set up. She walked around the back of the truck and stepped into its cool and quiet interior. The wooden travel crates were lined against the wall. She felt the familiar shakiness in her hands spread to her knees.

  ‘You want help?’

  Startled, she turned to see Harley. The sunlight behind him made the edges of his skin resemble golden syrup. He had a pearly scar that ran from his ear down beneath his collar.

  ‘Do you want help,’ he said again, ‘with them boxes?’

  One by one, they took the travel crates down into the central tent for marking and measurement of the birds. Arianna could make out their shapes through the slats. She loved how they looked even though the glossy black cockatoo was smaller than other subspecies of black cockatoos and lacked the striking crest of bigger, more common breeds. In bright sunlight they could appear more dark brown than black. She’d learnt to identify the males by the vivid red stripe of their tail feather, whereas the females had more mottled colouring and yellow flecks along their cheeks. Calyptorhynchus lathami.

  Once the others had left, she and Tim returned to the central tent. She lifted the cockatoos out into the sudden daylight as they tried to whip their heads around, to beat their wings against her grasp. They were strong, meaty birds. She could feel the muscles of their breasts beneath her fingers, the fluting of their ribcages. Their eyes roved as the riot of the bush sounded around them, loud and close.

  Tim and Arianna worked inside the tent together. Half the flock had been fitted with core radio transmitters, glued to their mantles at the lab to minimise stress before their transportation. The function of the transmitters was to track the birds’ whereabouts once released and to collect data: where they fed, how far they travelled, the areas they were attracted to.

  Each transmitter sat, sleek and shiny like a black beetle, between the shoulderblades of the cockatoos, a thin antenna pointing down along the line of their body. She knew the technology was too expensive to be used across the entire flock – they could only afford to tag half of them – but every bird had been fitted with several bands around their legs. A stainless steel one that listed the birds’ identification numbers – 210 26588 – and a number between zero and nine, to indicate which nesting pair they belonged to. Three coloured bands were also arranged in different combinations on each bird – so they would be able to identify the individuals within the flock from a distance. The code was stamped on the stainless steel bands, large enough for it to be read with binoculars, and included contact details of the university in case the birds were found injured or dead.

  She tried not to think about that as she held the male of the fifth mating pair, testing the radio receiver, double-checking that his transmitter was operational. His mate was already resting inside their acclimatisation tent.

  ‘It’s still working,’ Tim said, ‘just like it was two minutes ago.’

  Her hands remained a little shaky. She tucked her elbows into the sides of her body to steady them; mustn’t let him see. The walls of the tent fluttered in the midmorning breeze, flywire shimmering. Soft cockatoo clucks and insect chatter all around them. She sensed the proximity between her and Tim in the small tent; the heat of him prickled her skin when he drew closer to secure a bird or test one of the bands. She was glad for the heavy bird filling her hands.

  What makes you think you’ll be able to head up a successful program?

  She transferred the bird into its acclimatisation tent to join its mate, tested the radio receiver again to accurately pick up his transmitter. She could feel the itch in her fingers, the tingle of her scalp. Her hand was desperate to raise up to her head. She twisted the frequency more firmly; her fingertips locked so hard on the knob she was left with grooves pressed into her skin once she let go.

  The following morning, she felt as though the air was whirring. She hadn’t slept well overnight, had lain awake listening to the bush creatures crawl around outside her tent. Going over in her mind all the steps they’d taken the day before, all the things they were yet to do. Everything has to be perfect.

  Before they’d arrived in Murrungowar, she and Tim had invited Parks Victoria and a local group of birdwatchers to assist with the release of the birds but, after last weekend’s community meeting, Arianna was unsure how many others would show up.

  ‘Get the community involved,’ Rod had told her. ‘Get people onside with the project.’

  But the release would be a delicate occasion; noise and movement had to be minimised in order to limit the disturbance of the birds and the potential of them flying out of the desired range. It had to go without a hitch. She could feel every hair on her body.

  By ten o’clock, people began arriving at the site. The bird-watchers, Parks Victoria and some Boney Point residents – a couple of older people in ratty t-shirts and a class of ten-year-olds from the local school.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked a kid. He was pointing at Arianna’s hand-held VHF antenna that connected to the birds’ radio transmitters. She had been compulsively turning the receiver on and off, on and off, but now turned it off completely.

  ‘It’s an antenna,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  Did Caro realise that babies turned into children?

  A group of kids had now gathered near her. A round-faced parent helper smiled encouragingly at her.

  ‘To track the birds once they’re released,’ she said.

  ‘How?’

  She looked at the kid and saw that he knew exactly what he was doing.

  ‘Like your TV remote,’ she said. ‘It sends a code between our receiver and the bird’s transmitter.’

  ‘We don’t have a TV,’ the little arsehole said. ‘Watching TV encourages lazy attitudes to learning and promotes unhealthy stereotypes.’

  ‘If you’re going to be here for the release,’ she said loudly, now speaking to the group, ‘you have to remain behind this line at all times.’ She threw down a couple of long branches about twenty metres away from the tents. ‘It’s very important you don’t come any closer.’

  ‘Glad someone loves their job,’ called someone from the back.

  There were a few chuckles. Are you sure you’ve had enough time off? Rod’s voice was in her head. Are you sure you’re ready to come back to work? To take this on?

  She turned away from the school group and walked across the clearing to where a middle-aged man, wearing a shirt with tiny suns all over it, was setting up some recording equipment. He must be the local journalist. Their interview had been arranged weeks ago, before she’d left Canberra. The media and communications department of the university had made a great fuss about clearing it and preparing her properly.

  ‘Have three or four points you want to make ready to go.’

  ‘Wear what you’d normally wear – it’s only for radio.’

  ‘You feel confident with the facts, don’t you?’

  Are you sure you’re ready?

  ‘My name is Roger Jones.’ The journalist introduced himself. ‘This will be a radio segment, but I’ll probably do a write-up for The Boney Point Leader as well. I work for
both.’

  ‘Ok,’ she said.

  ‘If you’d like to get started and tell me why you’re out here.’

  ‘This program is a component of the national glossy black cockatoo recovery effort,’ she said. ‘But this is a captive release program that forms part of our ongoing regeneration work with the species.’

  ‘What’s your general aim?’

  ‘Right now, we’re just focusing on getting these birds settled into their new homes and making sure they are returning to their nesting hollows regularly. Breeding season occurs towards the end of the year with chicks usually hatching between January and June.’

  ‘What kind of risks are involved for the birds?’

  ‘Predators like gliders and feral cats have proved disastrous to previous nesting chicks across the country. The monitoring of this particular site allows for greater additional management measures such as predator control.’

  Roger peered around at the tents and the equipment. ‘Those things you’ve fastened to their backs, are they heavy or uncomfortable for the birds?’

  ‘The transmitters?’ She gritted her teeth. ‘No.’

  People were always critical of what they didn’t understand, she knew this, but there was still a sting in them inferring that she wasn’t caring for her birds.

  ‘But why Murrungowar?’ Roger asked.

  Over the journalist’s shoulder, she noticed a man, white-haired. His posture was incredibly straight. His bone structure indicated he had once been handsome, but his hands were listless and empty. Long fingers. A short woman, not quite as old, gripped his elbow from behind and whispered to him, angling him towards the action. He let himself be moved about like a piece of furniture.

  ‘Glossy black’s territory has always extended as far as Mallacoota,’ she said, ‘so there isn’t much difference in habitat. Unfortunately there is less and less land available with their specific requirements, given the extent of clear-felling and farming. Murrungowar ticks all the right boxes even though it’s not technically part of their original habitat range.’