The Gift of Song - A short story written by Berni Albrighton

 

                                                      

The Gift of Song.

The high pitched screech of the Pukeko told me if I didn’t get up soon I would miss the morning

chorus. I looked out to see a pair of them, one standing on the others back.

“Why do you do that?” I asked, half to myself and half to the long legged New Zealand Hen that I

found so entertaining.

“Anyway, you guys are going to have to wait until later, I need to get a move on.”

I pulled on some clothes, grabbed my back pack and made my way over to The Wattle Track.

It was 6.15am and soon the island would be alive with the sounds of birds singing in another day and

I was on a mission to find the Kokako.

A pair lived on The Wattle Track and I knew approximately which part, so I headed straight there,

resisting the urge to stop and take in the beauty of the Hauraki Gulf as it wrapped itself around the

island.

Sounds came rebounding through the air. A chime, a chirp, a church-bell echo. A few seconds later,

another, but richer and mellowed, more ethereal and haunting.

The man- made wooden boards that were covered in fallen leaves, made it difficult not to make any

noise and I was sure the sound of my heart pounding and the flutter of butterflies jumping in my

throat could be heard.

There wasn’t any point moving around. I could hear the Kokako and just hoped it would settle close

by and stay a while. I made my way over to the old, comfy log that I had sat on many times before.

The quick flapping of wings, the subtle rustling of leaves and the soft thuds as it hopped from branch

to branch, let me know it was getting closer. I looked up to see flashes of blue and grey plumage

appearing then disappearing between the foliage.

I moved slightly to get a better view and there, with the early morning sun streaming rays of light

onto its handsome slate grey feathers, was the Kokako I’d been waiting for.

A masquerade mask, black and glossy, folded across his eyes. The ghostly blue plumage, satin like,

led to a neat fan of brown feathers, reminding me of the elegant tail of a gentlemen’s jacket.

It stood tall, arching back into a stretch, spreading open both wings, giving itself up to the world.

As it lifted up its head, the blue wattles that tucked themselves under its’ beak, gleaned like shiny

plastic. The contrast of colour and texture, made it appear as though the wattles had been glued on

as an afterthought.

In my mind, I decided he was a male, a very dapper, and much sought after bachelor.

I imagined the female Kokako trying hard to catch his eye.

The thought endeared him to me even more and I watched as he energetically preened and cleaned

himself in between his vocal performance.

Dipping his body to one side, then the other, he twisted his head around to peck at his wings,

snacking on any unsuspecting insects, before returning to his broken melody.

Tones changed quickly. Some sounded like an echo through a bottle, the rebounding, swirling bass,

full of depth, carrying far across the island and drifting over the water.

Tantalising pauses would leave me wanting more. Harmonic, angelic tones erupted from its’ throat,

raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

No other bird had a chance. The morning chorus belonged to the handsome Kokako, he was in the

limelight, and was taking full advantage of it.

From high up in a tree, over to my left, another Kokako was responding, its replies getting closer.

After a few seconds it made its’ way through the network of branches, bounding and hopping until it

sat snugly next to the handsome stranger.

They made low buzzing and clucking noises in-between nuzzling at each other’s necks and pecking

gently around the wattles. Their songs would come. Slow, orchestral sounds of woodwind and string.

Deep and low, the soprano and bass, prolonged, ringing with richness. A faint cry or a “meow” led to

the finale, the shifting heart wrenching tones of the harmonica.

These were no strangers. This was a mating pair and on this beautiful New Zealand morning, love

was definitely in the air.

In the distance another Kokako called through the dense flora and the growing morning chorus of

birds competed to be heard. Too loud to ignore, an overwhelming ensemble of broken notes and

melodies, powered over the solo of the Kokako.

I allowed my senses to swim in the orchestra of the island and I was never happier.

I would remember this moment for the rest of my life.