Close Encounters of the Bird Kind

I’d gone to bed plugged into The Great Gaspy for as long as I could remember. Nathan had nicknamed my breathing machine that several years before he disappeared – mainly because he hated the wheezing sound it made when my mask wasn’t quite secure. Dad would usually just brush off his complaints and tell him just to ignore the noise. It helps me sleep, after all, and keeps my asthma at bay.

That wasn’t good enough for Nathan, though, and many was the time he’d sneak out of his top bunk and turn it off. I’d then wake up, gasping and wheezing, which would result in Nathan getting a pretty good telling off the next morning when dad saw what he’d done.

I never held it against him, though. Nathan and I were always the best of buddies, despite all our differences. He was mad keen on the stars and planets and stuff, yet I’ve always been more into wildlife – birds in particular. Fortunately, my bird posters mostly went on the walls, which left the ceiling free for Nathan’s collection of stick-on glowing stars. They’re still there, actually although, Nathan isn’t around to move the planets in accordance with his latest star chart. When he disappeared, I tried to keep up this daily ritual for when he came back, but, to be honest, I could never make sense of his charts, so I gave up after a week or so. And, of course, he never did come back, despite pretty much the whole town trawling through every square metre of forest, valley and creek for almost 6 weeks non-stop. I was convinced he’d made camp somewhere up in the mountains and was living off the land – catching fish and rabbits and foraging tawa berries and hen and chicken fern to survive. Dad dismissed this as fantasy, given his condition, but I knew that, despite everything, Nathan had always been resourceful and could use his one hand better than most people could use two. I’d seen him catch longfin eels single-handed, and we both knew there was some good eating on a fresh eel. Yep, if someone was going to survive out in the mountains, Nathan would have the knowledge, skills and determination to do so. I never gave up hope of finding him, but, after 2 months, the town had pretty much given up, and Dad’s optimism petered out pretty soon after.

When we were younger, we would signal each other by imitating the call of the morepork – our only surviving native owl – whose call is totally distinctive but still pretty rare in our part of the country. Dad hates me doing it, as he says it aggravates my condition, but for months after Nathan’s disappearance, I’d make the call most nights, hoping for a response, but it never came. Over two years on, I still make the call every now and then, but this is more from habit than in the expectation of a response.

It’s a warm night, tonight, with not much of a breeze, and the Great Gaspy is having to work overtime to keep my breathing regular. Despite this, I just can’t seem to get to sleep. I’ve tried all the usual tricks – counting Nathan’s ceiling stars, adjusting my breathing to the green flashing light and even – yeah, I know, this is one of my dad’s hopeless jokes - hanging on the edge of the mattress, hoping I’ll drop off. Nothing works. I’m wide awake, listing the birds of New Zealand in my head, hoping this will do the trick. I’m already up to the eastern bar-tailed godwit, and still, my brain is churning away, knowing full well that the fantail or pīwakawaka will be next on the list, and that sleep is nowhere in sight. I try, once again, to adjust my breathing to the light. In. Out. In. Out. And then, just like when Nathan was here, the light goes out. In a reflex, I gasp for breath, hoping to kick it back into life, but nothing comes. The light remains out and I’m going to suffocate. Weird. The hall light is on, so there’s no power cut – maybe I knocked a cable loose when I went to the toilet I feel around the socket and then I hear it. A single, two-pitched call.

“More Pork”. Three seconds, then again.

“More Pork”.

I’d know that call anywhere. The Morepork, or ruru in the native Māori. The call is said to be a good omen, but it is also the call that Nathan and I shared. I throw off my mask and rush to the open window, ignoring the fact that the BiPAP is supposed to be regulating my breathing.

“More Pork”, I echo, and the green flashing light is restored. It’s much brighter now – so much brighter than usual, flooding the whole room. I check the machine and it’s flashing, so its power must be back, and I really should get my mask back on before I run out of breath, but the light outside just keeps on intensifying, drawing me to the window.

The life-preserving light is not just inside now, it seems to be flooding in from outside too, flashing in sympathy. I lean over the sill and let a breeze wash over my face. It feels liberating, and, despite my excitement, my breath feels unforced and regular – the best it has been for months.

The cry of “More Pork” echoes through the valley again, and I lean out, straining to see an owl, or, even more unlikely, my missing brother.

“More Pork”, I yelp, effortlessly now, when suddenly two hands seize my face at the opening. I panic now. Who is grabbing me and what are they doing in our valley this late at night? I try to pull the hands off me, but they are too strong and are soon joined by an arm that has me in an inescapable headlock. I try to shout for help, but nothing escapes my throat, which is locked in fear.

“Calm down, Squirt”, says a familiar voice. I try to see who is holding me, but the grip is too tight. I know the voice though. And the insult. “Nathan?” I eventually squeak, more in surprise than fear.

“Of course, it’s bloody Nathan, Squirt. Who’d you think it was, the bloomin’ tooth fairy?”

“How am I supposed to know? It’s what, two o’clock in the morning and you’ve been gone for pver a year now. And suddenly you have two arms?”

“That’s why I’m here. To get you. They’ve grown me another one, and they say they can fix your lungs, but you have to come now, or the planets won’t be aligned for another thirty Earth years.”

“Wait. They’ve grown you another arm? Who the hell are “they”, and what do you mean about the planets?”

“Sorry, yeah, I realise this may all seem a bit of a shock, but it’s real, just like I always told you. There are other star systems out there, with intelligent life. Proper intelligent life. And they don’t want to take over our planet, eat us or even exploit our resources. They just want to help. They helped me. And they can help you.”

“Why help me?”

“You remember back when you were eight and you nursed that injured kiwi back to health? Why d’you do that?”

“Well, basically, I suppose, I like kiwis and saw no reason why it should suffer when I could help out.”

“So, I guess it’s the same for the people who helped me.”

“But surely they can’t be people – not if they’re from outer space?”

“They call themselves ‘people’. Just like pretty much every race on Earth. The word ‘Aztec’ basically means ‘people’ in their native language, as does ‘Inuit’. Even here, in New Zealand, Māori, basically means ‘normal’ or ‘ordinary’, and they even call themselves ‘tangata whenua’ or ‘people of the land’. It’s only when native peoples mixed that they gave strangers different names, which usually boils down to ‘other’ or ‘our enemy’. These space people have advanced beyond perceived differences and basically respect life in whatever form it comes.”

“You say ‘people’? Do they speak English then?”

“Not really - they don’t have to. They do have a language of their own, which I am picking up pretty quick by the way, but when one of them wants to communicate with me, I generally just get a feeling in my head, and pretty soon, I know what they mean to say. I guess you’d call it telepathy, or some crazy shit like that. Anyway, all this detail is wasting time we don’t have. The main ship leaves in about 15 minutes, so you’d better get a move on if you’re coming. You are coming, aren’t you?”

Nathan’s reappearance after all this time was a major shock, but the prospect of joining him to live with a group of weird telepathic space aliens was something else. I’d learned to live without him, just as I’d learned to live without mum. I’d learned to live with my dad, my friends, my school and my community, and hell, yeah, despite my condition, I’d made a pretty good fist of it. People liked me and, most of the time, it wasn’t because they felt sorry for me. I’d spent so many years in Nathan’s shadow, and now, as much as I missed him, I wanted to be able to bask in the glory of my own achievements, without being compared with my older brother.

“You know what, Nathan. I’m really glad that you’re happy out there among the stars, but, I reckon, if I really apply myself, I can crack this asthma nonsense by myself. Maybe I can invent my own cure, who knows? Then I can help others on this planet, rather than just taking advantage of a chance encounter with a space alien.”

I seem to recall that I kept along in this vein for quite a while, all the time coming up with reasons why I should stay on Earth with dad and possibly solve all of my problems on my own. I don’t know when Nathan slipped away during my ramblings but slip away he did. When I woke up the next morning, the green light on my BiPAP was flashing steadily, and, when I looked up at Nathan’s star map, the pattern seemed new, and an arrow had been added to point at one of the glowing dots.

It might have been Nathan’s handwriting, but, to be honest, it looked more like mine. It simply read

“YOU ARE HERE.”

I pulled my mask off, turned off the machine, got out of bed, loaded by biology textbook into my school bag and announced, to no-one in particular, “Right, there’s work to be done.”