TURBINE | KAPOHAU

1

Tomorrow Johnnie will persuade her it’s a good idea to stand on the Arahura river
bank at 5 am as he makes mating calls for the whio; a high pitched wheezy whistle,
and she’ll be there, a cold mist coming off the water. She understands Johnnie’s an
environmentalist, same way she understands he’s a married man and meetings can
only be few and far between. But that doesn’t stop her mistaking it for the beginning
of something. What can go wrong when her heart is so full of love and she’s wearing
a fake ID on her shirt? And in between monitoring the duck calls they meet up under
the manukas, drag the quilt of a grey sky around them and forget how endangered this
thing is between them. Later she’ll write a report about her findings. Not a real report.
She’ll say in her diary, I love Johnnie. She’ll say, I’ve never felt this way before.
She’ll include a photo of the whio, the little blue duck whose numbers are dwindling.
In a world where everything is going horribly wrong Johnnie says the world can be
saved, one duck at a time. And she’s been educating herself about the duck. Wherever
that duck swims, it’s a sure indicator of water quality. She draws a halo around the
duck’s head. Underneath – All I want is something pure and good again.

2

They’re in Johnnie’s Ute, the floor scattered with water monitoring gear. Johnnie pulls
up his trousers, stares out the windscreen. Those whio are so watchful, he says. They
always see you , before you see them. She sits up, dries herself off with a hanky. If
they’re so watchful, she says, then how come the stoats are always killing them?
Johnnie frowns. I’m not talking about stoats, he says. Stoats is another matter. He
starts up the ute. She strokes his leg. His married leg. Johnnie looks down at his khaki
trousers as if a fly has landed there. In the silence she watches the sun coming over the
hill. What I’m saying, he says, is that they’re careful creatures.

3

Because they both get tattoos of the whio – Johnnie’s on his back and hers, a smaller
one on the left shoulder, Johnnie says they’re as good as married. His duck looks more
like a blue grey rock, head under the wing, whereas hers looks out from her shoulder
with round yellow eyes. Johnnie and her lie under a clump of toi tois at the back of his
property. Late summer, with the cicadas chirping overhead. She has her hand over his
chest and he’s twiddling with her fingers. It’s moult period for the lady duck, he says.
For a moment she thinks he’s talking about her. But he continues. Once the feathers have
gone, she can’t fly. Can’t defend herself. His voice wavers as he takes one of her fingers,
traces it under his throat. She sits up, alarmed. We’ll trap the stoats, she says. We’ll get rid
of the fuckin’ stoats. She starts to yell. Johnnie catches her arm, pulls her to his chest again.
It’s just nature, he says. That’s how it is. In the distance they hear his wife’s car, horn honking
as it comes up the long driveway.