Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday
‘Chirp-chirp-chirp. Cackle. Wheeze. Squawk.’ This is the opening line of Chapter 12 in Molten Mud Murder, my first Alexa Glock forensic mystery. Alexa muffles the dawn cacophony by burrowing under her pillow.
I heard a similar sequence of calls, followed by a chortle, chirp and a throat-clearing aaggggh the first morning my husband and I spent at Cooper’s Beach on the North Island of New Zealand. Unlike Alexa, I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. I was unable to find which bird sounded like a broken cuckoo clock and later asked the neighbor.
“That’s a tūī, luv,” he said. We stared up into the tall pōhutukawa tree. This time I spotted the glossy blue-green bird. It had a funny white pom pom at its throat. “Going after the nectar. They can be really scrappy bullies.” Then he crooned a folk song he remembered from primary school.
“When
the Tūī
sits in the Kowhai tree
and the sun tips the mountain tops with
gold
when the Rata blooms in the forest glade,
and the
hills glow with sunny tints untold.
I love to roam through bush
and fern
and hear the Bellbird sing
and feel the touch of
the wind on my face
while the joy in my heart does ring.”
I heard this amazing vocalist (the bird, not the nice neighbor) in many places over the next nine months. The widespread and endemic tūī can mimic human words. One legend proclaims the Māori kept them in cages and trained them to give welcome speeches. Tūī have the ability to sing two different notes simultaneously and discordantly. (Ouch!) The adorable white tufts under their chin are specialized feathers called a poi and are used to attract mates.
Other birds show up in Molten Mud Murder, which is set in the Rotorua area on the North Island. Alexa and recurring character Detective Inspector Bruce Horne share their first meal together at Alexa’s tiny rental cottage on the banks of the Kaituna River. (The final photo in today’s post is my husband and I rafting on the exuberant Kaituna!) They sit on the porch eating carrot cake (don’t get me started on the to-die-for carrot cake in New Zealand cafes) discussing the night sky of the Southern Hemisphere, which is unfamiliar to American Alexa. A high-pitched screech makes her drop her fork.
Horne laughs. “It’s a ruru.”
“A what what?” Alexa asks.
“Our only surviving native owl,” he said. “It’s a good one to hear. The Māori knew when they could hear a ruru that no enemy was approaching.”
Some Māori consider the ruru as a messenger between the physical world and the spiritual world. While I write, I listen to a New Zealand songwriter known for his work towards the revival of Māori culture. Hirini Melbourne’s short song entitled “Ruru,” sung in te reo Māori, is lovely and haunting. I could not find an English translation, but Melbourne introduced the song this way, “This is a song about birds...about owls. The owl is a bird that scares many Māori. The Pākehā knows this as an intelligent bird. To some Māori as well, it is the guardian of their families.”
I’ve written to my best ability when I make myself laugh or cry or feel afraid. The latter is what happened when I wrote the opening of Chapter 15 which introduces a third native New Zealand bird: There was a dead bird in the cottage, right in the entry, its wings spread in a feathered fan behind its little body, arranged just so.
Alexa knew there was no dead bird in her cottage before she left. It’s cold and stiff. Rigor mortis is maximum. Someone left it in the cottage while she ran an errand. She stiffens, like the bird, and searches the rest of the cottage. There’s a scary shower scene where she has to whip back the curtain. The police officer who later investigates the incident recognizes the bird.
Pīwakawaka,” he said. “Or tiwaiwaka. Māori have lots of different names for fantail.” He adds, “You know, in Māori culture, a fantail in the house is an omen of death.” Alexa has an uneasy night, long in tooth and full of Māori warriors and angry birds.
My husband and I met fantails on our many hikes. They are acrobatic fliers and use their fanned feathers to change direction quickly while hunting insects. They aren’t shy and sometimes approached us, ‘cheet cheet cheeting,’ landing a tree away and spreading their tail feathers. “Pick a card, any card,” they teased.
Alexa Glock uses forensics to solve crimes. In Molten Mud Murder she wonders if she can lift a fingerprint from the bird to identify the gift-giver. Her wondering is of course my wondering, and during the research for Molten Mud Murder I read a 2015 BBC science article entitlted “Fingerprints ‘breakthrough’ for wildlife crime investigators.”
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From the article: A team from Dundee (University of Abertay, in Dundee, Scotland) has been able to recover fingerprints from the feathers of birds of prey, which are under threat from illegal poisoning, shooting and trapping. If the birds have been handled, the incriminating marks could help police to identify the suspect.
Alexa, whose bedtime reading alternates between romances and scientific journals, geeks out over the article. It reveals that red and green magnetic fluorescent fingerprint powder was the key. She hightails it to the lab, the fantail – dubbed Fanny – riding shotgun. After dusting the bird’s small breast, she turns off the lights and turns on the UV lamp. You’ll have to read MMM to see what wonders are revealed.
The avifauna of New Zealand is vast and enchanting. Kiwi, robins, kaka, kererū and gannets help me tell stories in subsequent books. I’ll leave you with the lyrics of another Hirini Melbourne (photo below) song and in hopes that your May is fair and peaceful.
‘Riroriro’ by Hirini Melbourne (1949-2003)
Listen
to the chattering of the grey warbler, and go and plant your food
garden
The grey warbler makes her nest
If the entrance
faces to the north wind,
it is a sign the summer season
will be fair and peaceful
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Until next month, friends,
Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday
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