SANCTUARY

New Zealand Listener, Volume 28, Issue 722, 15 May 1953, Page 15

SANCTUARY

By

S. I.

Coombs

HE grey light on the water was. too dull to reflect the somewhat drab bodies of the grey ducks as they busily preened their feathers. Now and again a shaft of sunlight would gleam from behind the leaden clouds, lighting up the trunks of the tall totaras and turning golden the muddy autumn leaves of the willows. Behind the long straggling grasses trailing in the water’s edge, and cut in two by the mountain stream, stood the wet forest, silent but for the occasional heavy flap of a wood pigeon and the squawk of the English invader, a blackbird. The path down the steep hillside taken by the sportsmen was almost five feet deep in places-worn down by the feet of countless sheep coming to the gorge stream to drink. The possibility of finding ducks on the stream and the necessity for keeping quiet were the only thoughts of the sportsmen*as they pushed aside the heavy wet bracken. They thought no more about the track and how it had been made than did the sheep when they sought the clear, cold water, or when they climbed up again to reach the juicy green grasses. At the foot of the hill, a fifty yards wide clearing of grass led to the stream over which had been built a floodgate, now in disrepair and piled up with branches, dead and living. It was late afternoon and already the sun was sinking behind the hills. On the floodgate sat a kingfisher, head hunched seeming asleep, but eyes alert, As the men approached, stepping through the bracken and grasses, it flew downstream, silently. Wading in their rubber boots the men crouched behind the floodgate and rubbish, facing up the gorge while a pair of inquisitive fantails flew so close they could hear the faint creaking of their feathers. Further upstream, the ducks began to feed, gradually moving down as they searched the overhanging, trailing grasses. Ever wary, they knew the sounds of the bush and although apparently heedless, translated their meaning as the noises reached their ears. The blundering of a goat in the undergrowth aroused them to momentary watchfulness, but the raucous cries of a magpie did not even merit the lifting of their heads. Waiting, as the gorge darkened, the men shivered and one of them puffed quickly upon the cold air to see the

little drops of moisture freeze into a silver cloud. He nudged his companion and pointed to his watch, indicating ten minutes further on the dial than the time recorded as if to say, "We'll give it a little longer." Everything in the bush and on the stream was vigilant. Everything waited. A sheep coming down the path stopped and snorted loudly. The men peered through the branches, straining in the fading light. Overhead, a solitary harrier, beating up slowly against the wind, hovered stationary for a moment, before turning abruptly to soar downwind. Quietly feeding, the ducks rounded a bend in the stream to find that boulders, almost meeting, had made a small swift rapid fall. In file they floated through the gap to a lower pool, buoyant like toy celluloid ducks, playthings of a child in a bath, ; At the sudden crashing of a branch dislodged from the floodgate, the scene, still as a painting, leapt into life. With a scatter of water, a.quick flapping of wings, the.ducks rose from the stream straight over the sportsmen and whirled down the bush-covered gorge to the cultivated valley below, their numbers one less. Flying strongly, they came to the convergence of the. stream and river, and passing over farms, misty in the dim light, fley into the path of the setting sun, silhouetted black against the pink clouds. On down the valley they flew, over tall yellowing poplars, over barking dogs driving in the cows for milking, over smoke arising from autumn fires, to a dam in a paddock close beside a main road. Here they circled twice and, holding their outstretched wings steady against the upsurge of air as they dropped, they came in to land. The water displaced, gurgled against the banks of the dam, rustling the dried raupo. Disturbed, a pukeko flirted its tail, the white glimmering as a- warning. The ducks’ period of peace was short. Along the main road came a farm tractor, noisy in the stillness, and again the raupo rustled as the grey ducks flung themselves skyward, searching for a haven. Following the river, they travelled south. Farm lands gave place to lupin-covered wastes, to sandhills and finally the beaches and ocean. Without hesitation, the ducks headed out to sea, towards the black mass of the island sanctuary, four miles away.

They knew the island well,’ and as they had done in previous years, they sought shelter in its large lagoon. The wind whistled in their feathers as, straining for rest, they reached the northern tip of land, seeing below the white of breaking waves, then the scrub behind the shore line and finally the familiar expanse of water, already harbouring hundreds of their kind. Spreading out their wings, bracing their legs and quacking nervously, so they came to rest on the quiet waters. And as the last feeble rays of the wintry sun died away, peace settled over the lagoon as the sleeping ducks rocked gently on the -ripples.