Six of them waddled ungainly on short bluish legs across the rocks, wings held out in balance. That was the fourth fish dropped in the bucket. The Session had decided two was reasonable and they were happy to share that much food with the fishermen. Percy gave a nod. The squadron took a few steps closer. Slowly. Unnoticed. The tension was palatable.
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The fisherman wound in his line, rod bending, the hook dragging weed. Deftly the line swung into his left hand, his right clearing the weed and reaching for another pilchard. Concentration showed as a slight frown while he reviewed his strategy to outwit the fish teasing him from below and getting fat on his bait.
Percy had chosen the time when the line was recast. Stumpy and Blackback had also noticed how the fisherman's balance moved to the front foot as the arms rose up and stretched out to ensure an accurate cast. A low hollow grunt spoke of this knowledge and of commitment to the cause. Six pink pouches vibrated slightly. Webbed feet shuffled forward in unison. Hearts and minds beat as one.
Six months earlier when the Old One had died of starvation years before his allotted time of twenty-five seasons they decided something must be done. Enough was enough. They had watched while their fish, once so plentiful, were diminished in number and size as the fishermen took away more than they needed. The Old One, once a proud bird, had been reduced to begging for heads and offal. It hadn't been enough. He spoke of a time when two fish had comfortably filled the stomach allowing time to sit companionably on the bank to gossip and preen. Now six small fish barely appeased the hunger. Even when they worked in unison dipping their beaks in a closing circle to entrap a meal it took too much energy for often meagre returns.
Would they have the strength and condition to ride the thermals to their breeding islands inland? It was a question pondered at length.
Old One's death had been the trigger for action. Will this be our future? Slow starvation? Not only younger self-centred hotheads like Blackback, but staid birds like Stumpy, surprised everyone by volunteering once a plan had been hatched. It said a lot that Stumpy was "in". If he was worried . . .
Twelve eyes followed the action.
Already four fish lay thrashing in the bucket, a slow death gasping in air. If he'd taken his fair share of just two fish they would not be here now. Two was fair. The other two needed to be left to breed and keep stocks healthy to provide food for everyone that lived here, not just men. Bird creed had them take the sick and slower fish first. It had been drummed into them as toddlers never to take all the fish from one spot, and never take more than needed.
The rules that had worked for generations had been broken by the new comers.
The fisherman glanced behind. Those pesky birds were always hanging around trying to steal his fish. Why were they sponging off him and his catch instead of chasing their own? Lazy ungainly horrid birds with their big yellow eyes, unblinking, watching. It unnerved him. A shiver ran through his body. It must be getting cold. A small twitch on the line and birds were forgotten. A slow wind in. Stop. Another nibble. It was following! Another slow wind. Now! The rod jerked up. Slackness mirrored disappointment and the hook was empty.
Light was fading as the sun slipped behind the cliff. He'd have one final try. There was always tomorrow and that fish wasn't going anywhere. The birds also watched the cliff to see the last dog walkers and joggers disappear. No witnesses tonight.
He reached for his last bait and almost trod on a webbed foot as a hooked beak tried to snatch the small fish. He shooed impatiently at the bird, his mind back on his quest. Percy readied his squadron. As soon as the man stretched forward Percy's six kilos slammed into the back of the hairy leg. Stumpy hit the head and other birds his chequered shirt and thighs in a coordinated attack. The rod was knocked from his hands as the fisherman spun around. Hooks on beaks ripped his arms and face. Webbed feet became raking daggers wielded on giant wings. Blood seeped from the rents in his skin as he fought off the attack. His foot slipped on the wet rock. Frantically he grabbed at skinny blue legs, anything, to stop his fall. Hands closed on air. His back, then head, struck the rocks below before the water closed over him. There was no pain. He could not move. Above him huge white wings flapped making a shroud to settle around him. Waves surged, the sky darkened and the last bubbles rose.
Percy and Stumpy looked over the sea. Behind them Blackback and three others each hooked a fish from the bucket. Pink pouches worked the food until it slid head first down the long neck into the empty stomach. For some this was reward enough. For others the mayhem wrought on this fisherman repaid all the slights and kicks, taunts and teases suffered at the hands of men. Thoughts of survival of the species only concerned the leaders like Percy and speakers in the Session.
Soon more men would come to this place, not to fish but to search. If a body was found, scratches were always blamed on the many rock barnacles and relentless wash of the waves. There could not be any other explanation, could there?
Percy gave a nod. A few flaps with the two and half metre wings turned the waddling, doddery killers into visions of black and white elegance, masters of the air and a beauty to behold as they skimmed the water home.
***
Betsy Watson, the author of this piece, is a finalist in the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition. Read the full list of finalists in this year's Herald Short Story Competition by visiting the Newcastle Herald website.
