Kakapo - a short story

The wreck of the Kakapo**

Kakapo, Kakapo…
The words drifted towards me on the breeze, wrapped themselves around my shoulders and breathed into my ears.
Kakapo…
I gazed along the vast expanse of white sand as it shimmered beneath the morning sun.
Kakapo… Come…
The pull was strong. I found myself irresistibly drawn to the rusted hulking outline of the old wreck buried in the sand.
I glanced over my shoulder before turning to gaze at the sea. Sunlight, like a broken necklace of diamonds, lay scattered over the rippling, undulating surface. Beyond the line of the breakers the surfers bobbed on the current. Josh and Sam were also out there somewhere, waiting for the perfect wave. They’d be there for hours, and today lying on the beach held little appeal.
Kakapo…
I turned my eyes back to the shimmering sand – the wreck was a twenty minute walk away. I started towards it.
Yes… Kakapo… Come to us…
The voices were dry and ancient, rustling like aged parchment tossed about by a restless wind. They pulled me ever closer, drawing my feet through the silk of the sand as it rolled between my toes.
I could feel them waiting for me, hovering around the wreck, their gauzy wraithlike forms just visible through half-closed eyes.
Don’t look at them, my instinct warned me, don’t become ensnared in their ancient dreams. They’ll hold you to them, lure you into their sandy grave.
Yes, come to us...
The voices sighed, filled with longing
I forgot where I was as trudged steadily towards them, the sky a vast expanse of blue above my head, the mountains surging upwards towards it. Surreal world. Who knew where reality ended and dreams began. I remembered how my father had warned me of quicksand on the beach, had terrified me of tales of being sucked into the earth to a watery grave. Yet I walked on, the sun warming my skin and bathing me in a golden glow that made me unaware of the chill breath that momentarily swept down from the dune scrub.
I drew closer to the wreck, trembling at the thought that I would soon be close enough to stroke its rusting flanks, to whisper words of comfort to the souls that lingered around it.
Kakapo…
“Hello gorgeous…”
The rough, guttural voice jerked me from my reverie.
A guy was sauntering towards me – not alone, several others followed in his wake, flowing from the bushes on the dunes.
My heart quickened and my palms grew moist. I glanced around. Not another living being for miles around – just the expanse of the beach stretching away towards the mountains, the ocean crashing against the shore. And the ghosts of a hundred departed souls waiting for me.
“Lovely lady…”
They drew closer, encircling me, hands in pockets. I saw the flash of steel. Felt the tremor of the chase ripple through them.
Kakapo…
The ghosts moaned, straining at their bonds.
She’s ours…
But the young men were oblivious to them. They had no truck with the forgotten world beyond the veil. Theirs was the time of now and the state of lustful hunger.
I drew myself up tall, turned back the way I had come and stalked through the circle of my tormentors.
“Walk with us.”
Come to us…
Save yourself.
The young men ebbed and flowed around me, a tide of man-eating crabs, waiting for a moment of weakness.
Don’t run.
I walked steadily, my head held high, bristling with projected indignation.
If we cannot have you, neither shall they…
The men closed in, joshing amongst themselves.
“Lekker chickie.”
“Nice legs.”
“Hey, sexy lady…”
I heard the groans of discontent rise up into a chorus and felt a sudden icy wind at my back. Spinning round I gasped as a black stallion sprung from the dunes and galloped towards me. Its mane streamed in the wind, nostrils flared, eyes burning.
The men scattered, shrieking obscenities, stumbling over one another to get away as the horse careered through them.
My heart pounded a primal drumbeat in my ears and my breath escaped in ragged gasps.
The stallion whirled, sand flying beneath his hooves. He reared up and leapt away , charging towards the wreck, veering right just short of it and plunging into the dune scrub from whence he had come.
I grabbed the moment of opportunity, spinning around and taking off, ignoring the call to glance over my shoulder. As my feet flew over the warm velvet of the sand I heard, in the distance, a pale cry.
Kakapo…


The story above is based, in part, on a real incident, in part, on another personal experience. You can read the actual story of the wreck of the Kakapo here and see pictures of it here.

These images are of the beach where the incident took place. If you enlarge the picture below, you may see a small "dot" in the middle distance, which is the wreck of the Kakapo.



** The picture at the top of the story is nicked from HelgaRainbow's photostream on Flickr and has been "doctored" by me.

Lovers of Delfhaven

Delfhaven

In a neighbouring suburb there used to be a coffee shop, a quaint place with huge windows and creaking wooden floors. A friend and I used to meet there occasionally to catch up and share news. Across the road is a jumbly old house filled with memories and ghosts. I recall sitting in the coffee shop waiting for Jane to turn up. I had my notebook out, as writers often do… It was then that I felt a presence. A woman, watching me, assessing me. I tuned in, susceptible as I am to these beings who’ve gone without going. She had a story to tell and as I listened and waited this is what flowed from my pen…

Daffodil yellow window frames, with matching awnings billowing on the wind. A yellow tin roof. Sash windows and potted geraniums and marigolds behind a bleached white picket fence. A house with a story to tell…
Fairy cakes on a refectory table. Autumnal chrysanthemums in a red enamel jug. Scrubbed wooden floor and tall airy windows. Illumination from a gleaming brass chandelier. A coffee shop now. Called Gryphons – with a story to tell…
There’s a ghost, I can feel her presence and her memories, drifting, watching, whispering with the breeze.
Smells of coffee linger on the air.
Empty soda bottles with violet blue statice stuffed in their necks.
I hear a rustle of old lace and a giggle – girlish yet cracked. She is amused, curious, shy and yet… She too has a story to tell.
He lived in the house opposite behind the daffodil yellow window frames. She is a ghost now, he was a ghost then but she loved him, even through his moods when the pots would fly and the shutters bang as he declared his frustration at being no longer fully alive.
The house with the yellow windows – Delfhaven…
The curtain in the upstairs room trembles, now as it did then. I think I see a pale hand, just as she thought she did.
Yes, I hear her whisper through the clatter of teacups.
“I did. I saw him watching me, felt his eyes upon me…”
The floorboard creaks. She knows I am here, am listening, like she listened to him. She edges closer, stepping through the waitress, who unseeing, moves on.
“We were lovers,” she whispers and across the road, I sense him sigh.

I never finished writing the story – never really started it – there were other things that came along, as there always are. But last week I drove past the house and as I waited in the traffic to make the crossing into the side road, I felt them again. Both of them, him and her, still waiting for their story to be told. They know I’m out here, I know they’re in there. The coffee shop has closed but I shall have to find a place sit nearby so I can listen to their story… For it seems to me they want it told to the world. But in the meanwhile the gryphons watch over them.

Watchful Gryphons