Storm Boy (3 page)

‘Better than a watchdog even,’ Fingerbone said. ‘Can’t run much, but can fly.’

‘Can even chase after things like a dog,’ said Hide-Away. ‘You watch!’

It was true. They first learnt what a good catcher Mr Percival was when Storm Boy was playing ball on the beach. It was a red and yellow ball that Hide-Away had brought back from Goolwa. Once when Storm Boy threw it hard it went bouncing off towards Mr Percival.

‘Look out!’ Storm Boy shouted.

But Mr Percival didn’t look out. Instead he took two or three quick steps and snapped up the ball in his creel. Storm Boy was horrified. He rushed up to Mr Percival, panting.

‘You can’t eat a ball,’ he yelled. ‘It’s rubber, it’s not a fish! Don’t swallow it; you’ll choke!’

Mr Percival listened to him very seriously for a minute, with his head held a bit more to one side than usual and his big beak parted in a sly smile. Then he stepped forward and dropped the ball at Storm Boy’s feet, just like a retriever.

After that, Storm Boy often had fun on the beach with Mr Percival. Whenever he threw the ball, or a smooth pebble, or a sea urchin, or an old fishing reel, Mr Percival snapped it up and brought it back. Sometimes he threw things into the water. Mr Percival watched carefully with his bright eyes; then he flew out, landed on the right spot, and fished the prize out of the water. Then Storm Boy would laugh and clap his hands and rub his fingers up and down the back of Mr Percival’s neck. Mr Percival always liked this very much; the only thing he liked better was a good meal of fish.

One day as Hide-Away was watching them play he had an idea.

‘If he can bring things back to you, perhaps he can carry things away too,’ he said. He gave Mr Percival a sinker and a bit of fishing line. ‘Now, take it to Storm Boy,’ he said; ‘that’s the fellow.’

At first Mr Percival didn’t understand, but at last, after many tries, he dropped the sinker at Storm Boy’s feet. Both Hide-Away and Storm Boy clapped, and rubbed the back of Mr Percival’s neck, and gave him a piece of fish. Mr Percival looked very pleased and proud.

After that Hide-Away asked Storm Boy to stand out in the shallow water, and they played the game again. Before long Mr Percival could take a sinker and a small fishing line, fly out to Storm Boy, and drop it beside him. But he always expected a piece of fish after each try.

They played the game for many weeks, sometimes with Storm Boy in the water and sometimes with Hide-Away, until Mr Percival could carry a fishing line and drop it into the sea without any trouble. Then, when there was an offshore wind from the north and the great seas flattened out sullenly, Hide-Away went far out from shore and Mr Percival practised carrying a long, long line to him.

‘It’s wonderful,’ Hide-Away said, laughing and clapping when he came back. ‘Now Mr Percival can help me with my fishing. He can carry out my mulloway lines for me.’ And he scratched Mr Percival’s neck and gave him an extra piece of fish. ‘Mr Percival, you’re as clever as a Chinese fishing bird,’ he said. And then he laughed, and so did Storm Boy; and Mr Percival was so pleased with himself that he snickered and snackered happily for the rest of the day.

As time went by people began to talk about Storm Boy and Mr Percival. Picnickers and game inspectors and passing fishermen saw them and began to spread the story.

‘Follows him round like a dog,’ said old Sammy Scales in Goolwa. ‘Crazy, I tell you.’

‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ the postmaster said, ‘if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.’

And by and by many people did see it with their own eyes. For when Hide-Away and Storm Boy set off on their trips to Goolwa, Mr Percival couldn’t understand what was happening. He flew around and behind and ahead of them all the way, until they began to get near the town; then he landed and waited patiently on the river, until he saw the boat starting off for home again.

People used to hear about it and come to watch.

‘Just like a dog,’ said Sammy Scales. ‘Crazy, I tell you. Some day the whole world will hear about this.’

And then something happened that proved he was right.

It was the year of the great storms. They began in May, even before the winter had started. Shrieking and raging out of the south, the Antarctic winds seemed to have lost themselves and come up howling in a frenzy to find the way.

In June they flattened the sedge, rooted out some of the bushes that had crouched on top of the sand-hills for years, and blew out one of the iron sheets from the humpy. Hide-Away tied wires to the walls and weighed down the roof with driftwood and stones.

In July the winds lost their senses. Three great storms swept out of the south, the third one so terrible that it gathered up the sea in mountains, mashed it into foam, and hurled it against the shore. The waves came in like rolling railway embankments right up to the sandhills where Hide-Away and Storm Boy lived. They lashed and tore at them as if they wanted to carry them away. The boobyalla bushes bent and broke. The humpy shivered and shook. Even Mr Percival had to go right inside or risk being blown away.

As night came on, Hide-Away battened up the doorway and spread extra clothing on the bunks.

‘Better sleep now if you can,’ he said to Storm Boy. ‘By morning the humpy might be blowing along on the other side of the Coorong.’

In the darkness of early morning Storm Boy suddenly woke with Hide-Away’s voice in his ears.

‘Quick, Storm Boy,’ he said.

Storm Boy jumped up. ‘Is the humpy blowing away?’

‘No, it’s a wreck!’ Hide-Away said. ‘A shipwreck on the shore.’

Storm Boy put on two of his father’s coats and followed him out to the top of the sandhill. Daybreak was coming like a milky stain in the east, but the world in front was just a white roar. Hide-Away put his mouth close to Storm Boy’s ear and pointed.

‘Look!’ he yelled. ‘Out there!’

Storm Boy looked hard. There was a black shape in the white. Fingerbone was standing on top of the sandhill holding on to the Lookout Post.

‘Tugboat,’ he shouted.

‘Aground!’ yelled Hide-Away.

Fingerbone nodded. ‘Storm too wild,’ he bellowed. ‘Poor fellows on tugboat…’ He shook his head. ‘Poor fellows!’

When morning came over the world at last they could see the tugboat clearly, lying like a wounded whale, with huge waves leaping and crashing over it, throwing up white hands of spray in a devil-dance.

‘They can never swim it or launch a boat,’ said Hide-Away. ‘Their only hope is a line to the shore.’

‘No-one get line out,’ Fingerbone said. ‘Not today.’

‘No,’ said Hide-Away sadly. ‘And by tomorrow it will be too late.’ Sometimes in a lull between the waves they could see three or four men clinging to the tug-boat, waving their hands for help.

‘Look at them,’ Storm Boy yelled. ‘We must help them! They’ll be drowned.’

‘How can we help?’ said his father. ‘We can’t throw a line; it’s too far.’

‘How far is it?’

‘Too far. Two or three hundred yards at least.’

‘No blackfellow throw spear so far,’ said Fingerbone. ‘Not even half so far.’

‘Especially not with a line attached. We’d need a harpoon gun.

‘Then I couldn’t throw a stone a quarter of the way,’ Storm Boy said. He picked up a pebble and hurled it towards the sea. It fell near the shore. ‘See,’ he said.

Suddenly there was a swish of big wings past them and Mr Percival sailed out over the spot where the pebble had fallen. He looked at the foam of the waves for a minute as if playing the old game of fetch-the-pebble-back; then he changed his mind, turned, and landed back on the beach.

Storm Boy gave a great shout and ran towards him. ‘Mr Percival! Mr Percival is the one to do it! He can fly!’

Hide-Away saw what he meant. He raced back to the humpy and found two or three long fishing lines, as thin as thread. He tied them together and coiled them very carefully and lightly on a hard patch of clean sand. Then he took a light sinker, tied it to one end, and gave it to Mr Percival.

‘Out to the ship,’ he said, pointing and flapping, ‘Take it out to the ship.’

Mr Percival looked puzzled and alarmed at the idea of fishing on such a wild day, but he beat his wings and rose up heavily over the sea.

‘Out to the boat! Out to the boat!’ they all shouted. But Mr Percival didn’t understand. He flew too far to one side, dropped the line in the sea, and turned back.

‘Missed,’ said Hide-Away, disappointed.

‘But it was a good try,’ Storm Boy said, as Mr Percival landed. He gave him a piece of fish and scratched his neck. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Good boy, Mr Percival. In a minute we’ll have another try.’

But they missed again. This time Mr Percival flew straight towards the boat but didn’t go out quite far enough. ‘Never mind,’ said Storm Boy. ‘You’re a good pelican for trying.’ He held Mr Percival like a big duck and gave him another piece of fish.

Again and again they tried, and again and again they missed. At first the men on the boat couldn’t understand what was going on, but they soon guessed, and watched every try hopefully and breathlessly.

Storm Boy and Hide-Away were disappointed but they didn’t give up. Neither did Mr Percival. He flew out and back, out and back, until at last, on the tenth try, he did it. A great gust of wind suddenly lifted him up and flung him sideways. He threw up his big wing and, just as he banked sharply over the tugboat, dropped the line. It fell right across the drowning ship.

‘You’ve done it! You’ve done it!’ Storm Boy, Hide-Away and Fingerbone shouted together as Mr Percival landed on the beach. ‘You’re a good, brave, clever pelican.’ And they patted him, and fed him, and danced round him so much that poor Mr Percival couldn’t quite understand what he’d done that was so wonderful. He kept snickering and snackering excitedly, opening his beak in a kind of grin, and eating more fish than he’d ever had before.

But the struggle to save the men on the tugboat was only just beginning. The captain seized the fishing line as it fell, waited for the next big wave to roll past, and then fastened the line to the end of a long coil of thin rope. Gently, very gently, he lowered it into the sea and waved to Hide-Away and Fingerbone to start pulling. They had to be very careful; if the line snagged, or if they pulled too sharply, the line might break and they would have to start all over again.

But they were lucky. At last the rope came lifting and flopping slowly out of the backwash. Fingerbone ran down to grab it. He danced and waved excitedly. Now the captain of the tug tied a heavy line to the thin rope, and the crew kept paying them out together, holding on desperately as the big waves and spray kept smashing over their ship.

Before long, Storm Boy, Fingerbone and Hide-Away had hauled the end of the big rope ashore. Then they dragged it quickly up the sandhills to the Lookout Post, where Hide-Away wound it firmly round and round the butt. Meanwhile the crew had fastened their end and had hitched a rough kind of bosun’s chair to the rope. A man lashed himself in, and signalled to Hide-Away to start pulling on the thin rope. The rescue was ready to start.

The sea sprang and snatched at the man on the rope like a beast with white teeth. Sometimes, where the rope sagged lowest, the waves swept him right under. Storm Boy could feel the shock and shudder of the line as the water thundered round it. But the man managed to snatch a breath between waves and he always rose up safely again on the rope. Hide-Away and Fingerbone pulled until their feet dug deep into the sand, and the muscles that stood out on their arms looked like the rope they were pulling. And so at last they were able to haul the man through the thud and tug of the sea to the shore, where he unfastened himself and dropped down onto the sand of the beach. He was shivering and exhausted, but he was safe. Storm Boy ran down to help him up to the humpy.

Meanwhile the rest of the crew had hauled the rough bosun’s chair back to the ship and another man was ready to be pulled ashore. After him came a third, who staggered feebly up the beach.

‘Hurry!’ he said. ‘The boat’s breaking up and there are still three men on board.’

Hide-Away’s forehead was wet, and Fingerbone puffed as they dug their feet in the sand and hauled.

‘Hurry!’ they kept panting. ‘The boat’s breaking up.’

At last they had five men safely on shore and there was only the captain to come. Then he, too, left the ship and they hauled again. He was a big man who weighed down the rope, and Hide-Away and Fingerbone were almost exhausted. Suddenly the rope grew taut, shuddered, and slackened.

‘Quick!’ Hide-Away cried. ‘She’s shifting.’

Storm Boy seized the pulling rope and hauled.

‘Hurry!’ yelled the captain. ‘She’s going.’

One or two of the crewmen who could still walk grabbed the line and helped to pull. Between them all they slowly hauled the captain ashore and dragged him, pale and half-drowned, onto the beach.

‘Saved!’ he kept saying weakly. ‘Saved by a miracle and a pelican.’

Hide-Away and Storm Boy kept the captain and his five crewmen in the humpy for a day. They gave them hot food and dried out their clothes. Next morning the storm began to clear and the sun flashed across the Coorong, so Hide-Away began preparing to sail the six of them up to Goolwa.

Before they left, the captain took Hide-Away aside.

‘You saved our lives,’ he said, ‘you and your black friend, and especially the boy and the bird. We want to do something in return.’

Hide-Away was embarrassed. ‘No need to worry about that,’ he said.

‘But we’ve talked it over,’ said the captain, ‘and we’ve decided. We’d like to pay for the boy to go to school—to boarding school in Adelaide.’

Hide-Away was sad. ‘He’d be very lonely, and so would I. His heart would be sick for the wind and the waves, and especially for Mr Percival.’

‘No matter,’ the captain said. ‘He’s ten, or is it eleven? Soon he’ll be grown up, and yet he won’t be able to read or write. It’s not right to stop him.’

Hide-Away hung his head. ‘Yes, you’re right, he ought to go.’

But when they called Storm Boy and told him the captain’s plan, he wouldn’t go. ‘No!’ he said horrified. ‘I won’t leave Mr Percival! I won’t!’