Death on Dangar Island

Caves and Birds

He found a sign to the caves and followed the narrow track to the end. ‘Caves’ was a generous term for a series of slightly deeper than usual crevices in the sandstone. The carvings were discernible, but only just. Israel could see why Dorothy was dismissive, but that didn’t mean he necessarily agreed with her point of view.

The marks on these cliffs were said to be thousands of years old. He’d read an article on his phone at breakfast claiming Dangar Island was a birthing place for the women of the Guringai nation; a ritual site, for women and infants only. In his mind’s eye, Israel imagined matronly elders as they inscribed the marks in the rock all those years ago. Were they tribal records? An ancient register of births, deaths and marriages? He enjoyed the fantasy despite having no idea whether it was true. The marks could have been a form of ancient graffiti for all he knew.

Standing in a small open space in the forest, he looked around. He was near the crest of the hill, completely surrounded by vegetation except for the small track that he’d arrived on. Trees towered above him creating pockets of dappled shade, and he could hear birds, plenty of them. As he wandered around the edge of the space, he discovered an overgrown path, covered with lantana vine, leading deeper into the forest. Taking great care to watch where his feet were landing, Israel started to push his way along the narrow space, twigs and branches brushing uncomfortably against him. Just as he began to feel the effort was unrewarding, he came across a gem.

A large flat rock sat among the trees, giving a clear view over Whistling Kite Point, a broad reach of the river below and the rocky, forested ridges on the opposite shore. In the river, in the middle of the channel, a lone rower sculled her way towards Brooklyn, her hair streaming in the wind. There was no wind here, though. The rock was made cave-like by the branches of surrounding gum trees and a thick Christmas bush to the rear. Perfect.

Despite what he’d told Dorothy, he wasn’t really here for the caves: he was here for the birds. As he took up a comfortable position on the rock, knees up at his chin, he observed his avian friends closely: a yellow-tufted honeyeater, a rufous whistler, the sound of a bellbird. When referred to as a birdwatcher, Israel would occasionally respond indignantly that he wasn’t deaf or stupid. He enjoyed watching birds, but preferred to observe them. Apart from simply watching the creatures, he liked to listen to their calls and consider their habits. Sometimes he was called a twitcher too. The British term ‘twitcher’ he understood to mean ‘the pursuer of a previously located rare bird’. Where he’d last lived in the USA, these individuals were also known as ‘chasers’. There was a competitive spirit to twitching which wasn’t quite compatible with his own motivations. While Israel did indulge in a spot of twitching every now and then, he was primarily a birder, perpetually involved in observing birds for his own personal enjoyment.

His other favourite activity was observing people. He had found over the years that the same qualities that helped him successfully observe avian life also helped him observe human life. He’d been solving crimes since he was a child in Africa. His academic work as a criminologist in England resulted in some notoriety and gave him a measure of credibility amongst official law enforcers, but his personal history was filled with instances where he’d volunteered his services to bring criminals to justice. People generally didn’t understand why he threw himself into these situations, unpaid and often unappreciated until the last – Sometimes he didn’t understand it himself. He was a defender of the innocent; a quiet avenger for those without the ability to avenge themselves. His disposition for closely observing human behaviour had helped him in these endeavours, but he found observing people complex and strenuous. Birding was different.

He checked his watch – eleven a.m. – plenty of time to immerse himself. He did not think about the girl. In a place like this, Israel liked to simply be ‘in the moment’ without reflecting on the past or planning for the future. It was an easy concept to grasp but a difficult one to practise, particularly for someone with a hyperactive, compulsive personality. The birds helped him switch off. The automatic registration of calls, sightings, nests, behaviours, and their neat categorisation in his encyclopaedic brain allowed for other processes deep below the surface.