Chasing Ezra

By Paul Harman

The 25-acre property in central New South Wales is Johnny Dedman's private retreat - where he goes to spend time alone, thinking, reading, immersed in nature, before returning to family, friends and his job as a driving instructor. And it's where he once watched in awe as a giant bird flew overhead. But without a photo or any other evidence to s

• Language: English
• Publisher: paul harman
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645190755

Paul Harman

Paul Harman is a writer and formal postal worker. He currently lives in regional New South Wales.

Book preview

Part 1

Summer 2015

Johnny

I’m at the farm, locking everything up, getting ready to head home. It takes a while. Because I’m always reluctant to leave, I drag my routines out, and it takes longer for me to pack up with each passing visit. I turn off the gas cylinders, take the key out of the pantry and disconnect the batteries from the solar panels. I turn off the water pump and the fan in the bathroom; lock the doors to the shower and toilet, and the front door of the cabin is the last thing I close. I could leave it all unlocked until my next visit, whether it be the next day or next year. There’s never been anything stolen in the three years we’ve had the land. Someone camped in our front paddock once — pig shooters, maybe. They left tyre tracks in the ground and a drum made from corrugated iron that they threw their empties into. It’s a fire pit now. Someone else rides their motorbike around the cabin once in a while, having a look around the property, the tread marks of their tyres dug deep into the dirt. Our land isn’t fenced; anyone can come, bash some doors down and take whatever they want. Take your pick. A hot water shower, pumps, copper piping, a barbecue, an outdoor heater or a pantry full of food. If they jimmied the door of the cabin, they could help themselves to a bed, a couch and a wood heater. In the amenities block is our most expensive purchase — a composting toilet. It can be easily pulled apart and is light enough to be carried over your shoulder. A slab of VB, ripe for the taking, has been sitting in its carton on top of the pantry for over a year. The weather has wilted the cardboard, but the beer remains, unwanted by me, pig shooters or trail-bike riders.

Then just as I’m about to hop in the car, I take one last look at the paddocks in front, the mountain ranges in the distance, the birds darting amongst the trees and the clouds that roll across the sky, casting shadowy trails on the ground. The strings of my heart are tugged; there is a yearning I can’t say no to. I unlock the cabin and pantry, turn the gas on for the kettle, sit at the table on the deck and sip one last cup of tea as I take in the scenery.

A habit that’s overtaken me — taking forever to leave the farm. A five-minute process of locking and storing everything away can stretch to well over an hour. Some of my friends ask me what I do out there on my own. I just enjoy the space, the quietness, I tell them. Yeah, yeah, but what do you really do? they ask again. Get drunk, pull out the nose candy, play your music loud? If I was in my twenties when I possessed the stamina of a bull, definitely maybe. Now I’m in my fifties, tea and biscuits are an adequate replacement. It seems easier to just shrug my shoulders, play dumb and explain that, besides the space and the quiet, there’s the simple pleasure of feeding mince to the birds that scavenge around the cabin. I watch the spiders spin their webs in the nooks around my deck. I listen to the night-time croaking of the frogs from the lagoon in the neighbour’s paddock as they search for a mate. I read in my hammocks or pace the boards of the deck, thinking of my next projects. I walk the kangaroo tracks amongst the Black Pine and Ironbark trees, gently exploring, looking for nothing in particular. I rest my cricket bat over my shoulder on my travels or use it to swat away the branches and thorns that get in my way. I listen to the trees that creak and groan when the wind pushes them against one another. When I get defensive and give my friends garbled replies, they tell me with some conviction that they would be bored senseless out in the middle of nowhere.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t invited you to come out, I think to myself. And I’m not exactly in the middle of nowhere. I’m twenty minutes from town, have neighbours on my left, and to their left are permanent residents that reside in the only purpose-built house this side of the road. The 25-acre plot I own is long and narrow. The Colorbond shed of my neighbours is only 150 metres away — 153 to be exact. One day, when I knew the owners weren’t on one of their visits, I set the odometer and drove my car from my front door to theirs to see exactly how far away it was. I hear generators and motorbikes on my weekend visits from owners I don’t know on properties I can’t see. Twenty-five acres seemed the size of a small country when I originally bought the land. Now, I’m jealous of any locals who tell me they have more.

It’s when I tip the dregs of my tea onto the ground and pull the key out of the front door of the cabin, I realise I’m not alone. I have company. There is a bird flying overhead. I see its shadow blanket the ground before it lands on the roof of the front deck with a thud. The cabin shakes and the roof vibrates with the heavy steps it takes. It pauses, directly above me. A piece of tin and planks of cheap pine are all that separate us. Then I hear a rush of steps and the heavy flapping of feathery wings. I shield my eyes from the sun and look skywards.

I see a giant of a bird, maybe ten metres in the air, not that high at all, flying in front of the cabin. It glides and circles. It’s huge; gigantic. The bird turns on its side, and the wings block the sun. I see an underbelly of dark blue, golden talons that could spill my intestines, and a grey beak as big as the palm of my hand. I see green feathers and bright orange streaks on the tips of its wings. Then, with a whoosh, it draws its wings to its body and is gone, soaring towards the mountain ranges. In thirty seconds, it’s a speck on the horizon, disappearing over the mountains. My doddering, my unwillingness to leave, presents me with my greatest gift — the sighting of a giant, ancient bird. My phone was in my hand the whole time, but I was so awestruck, I didn’t even think to hit ‘record’.

I walk to the car and, this time, and even though my hand is shaking, I turn the key, slip the car into gear, and without looking back, make my way over the bumpy dirt road that doubles as my boundary line. It’s not until I’m at the intersection of the Castlereagh Highway ten minutes later, that I realise my hands are still shaking. I wait there, for a moment, until I calm down, then turn onto the road.

The specialist

‘Mr Dedman, Mr Dedman. Johnny!’ The receptionist’s whisper quickly turns to a hiss. When she has caught my eye, she raises her eyebrows, jerks her head and motions me over. I rise from my chair in the waiting room, passing seated patients who have their heads down and are reading worn and curling magazines, and walk back to the front desk.

‘You were supposed to bring a support person with you to your appointment. It was explicitly stated in the letter,’ she tells me in a solemn tone. She is young and pretty. I don’t know what I’m more jealous of — her straight white teeth, her smooth olive skin, her earnestness or her youth. I decide I’m jealous of them all. Her blonde hair is held in a bun with what looks like a pair of ebony chopsticks. A spoon hangs out of a tub of low-fat yoghurt, sitting next to her mouse. Grey filing cabinets are lumped together behind her in a small alcove, and her black name tag reads: L Athens.

‘You were supposed to bring someone with you, Mr Dedman,’ Ms Athens repeats, her brown eyes staring at me.

‘No need. I have the emotional strength of ten henchmen,’ I tell her, shooting her a theatrical wink before I return to my chair.

I have two letters in my shoulder bag amongst my pens and scraps of paper filled with my random scribblings. The first letter is from the specialist confirming the time and date of my appointment to discuss my latest results — and, yes, the last paragraph did mention the strong suggestion to bring a support person.

The other letter is from the Australian Avian Society. To pass the time, I pull the letter out, unfold it. I’ve read and re-read it many times.

Mister Dedman,

Thank you for your continued correspondence over the last three weeks. We always welcome outside views and opinions. However, we would like to reiterate, as we have in our previous communications, that such a bird as you’ve described doesn’t exist. There has been no other sighting of such a bird and, frankly, we think, even with your crude, amateur drawings — it’s a ludicrous notion. A prehistoric bird in central New South Wales? Impossible. We wholeheartedly reject your claims.

And if such a bird was to exist, you just can’t name it after yourself. There are protocols to follow. But since this bird doesn’t exist, name it what you want. ‘Dedman dedmanus?’ That’s the best you can come up with?

We are an organisation that relies on the goodwill of our volunteers and our monthly birdwatching excursions to keep us afloat. We have no cash flow avenues to even contemplate financing your proposed study trip. And you want to lead it? Amazing.

You are wasting our time with your correspondence. Therefore, I hereby ask you to cease and desist from sending us any more of your fanciful letters.

We have no goodwill left for you.

Please stop bothering us.

Bob Bertrand,

President of Australian Avian Society.

The specialist opens his door and calls my name. I fold the letter, shove it into my shoulder bag and rise from my chair. The receptionist lowers her gaze as I pass. Has she glanced at my file? Is she thinking I’m a goner? How many times has she watched the condemned walk to their fate? Is this one of them?

The doctor is wearing a green striped tie and a dark-blue long-sleeved shirt and blue trousers. He is thin and tall, with cropped brown hair and a thin moustache. The expression on his face is as blank as his black, polished shoes. He gives nothing away as I slide past him. He shuts the door behind me. I sit in the chair opposite his desk. A second chair, pulled from the side, sits vacant next to me. I didn’t want anyone to come — not Liz, not the kids, not any of my friends. This is my news to face, no one else’s. No one knows of my recent tests, or my weeks of feeling unwell. I chew gum to mask my vomit-smelling breath. I work my bookings and clients around my appointments so it’s easy for me to slip away and head down to Penrith. I lean back in the chair and try to relax. My smiles and calm demeanour mask my terror. I’m petrified. My nerves jump in the bottom of my stomach like the embers of a slow-burning fire.

I stare out the window past the doctor’s large oak desk and his plush leather chair. Trees sway in the strong winds, grey clouds blow across the sky, and heavy drops of rain begin to fall onto the glass.

Back home, I handle the news like a champion. I crouch in the shower, chin on my knees, fully clothed, my hands gripping my ankles. Bullets of cold water lash my body. I feel none of them.

I lift my head to the heavens and wail like a baby.

I think of Liz. My wife carries herself with more grace and dignity than I could muster in two lifetimes. Through the duration of our marriage, she has put up with my borderline alcoholism, poverty, drug addiction, petty thievery and other unsavoury characteristics. Over the years, I’ve embarrassed and humiliated myself many times, hurt loved ones, and earned contempt and condescension from people I’ve wronged. She has stood by me through the decades. In this union, she is a petal on a rose bush and I’m the thorn. How am I going to tell her?

I hear movement in the house. Doors opening and closing. Footsteps. I snap out of my self-pity and step from the shower, peel off my drenched clothes. I stand naked and look into the mirror. I rub my belly and see ribs that I haven’t seen since I was in my twenties. There is one good thing to having a terminal illness. Finally, after decades of half-hearted attempts to reel in the kilograms, the weight is starting to come off. I study my face. I see thinning cheeks and a mouth that has a permanent frown. I see lines on my forehead forged from years of worry and a complexion forged from years of indulgence. Brown marbles of eyes stare back at me.

I know three things:

I’ve aged terribly.

I will be dead before the year is out.

The bird I saw at the farm was from an era when an asteroid rendered life extinct. I can’t get the sight of it flying above the cabin out of my head. I’ve never been more certain of what I saw. Ever.

Stay off the booze.

Smoke five or less a day.

Pay off the mortgage before I turn thirty.

Treat people how you would like to be treated.

Don’t lie.

Hide your emotional immaturity.

Some of the laughable vows I’ve made to myself over the years. Some lasted a day; most didn’t last an hour. Easily and miserably failed every one.

But it’s settled. In front of the mirror, I raise my hand. I make one more vow. My last. With the innocence and solemnity of a boy scout, I proclaim that I, John James Dedman, of sound mind but withering body, will round off a mostly useless life by finding and proving, without a doubt, the existence of this giant bird.

The eldest — Robby

‘What are you doing, Dad?’

‘Robby, I need your help.’ I am sitting at our main computer, which sits on a wooden desk in the kitchen by the pantry.

‘What is it?’ His voice is full of concern. ‘Why are you sitting in front of a computer? What are you doing with a USB stick?’

‘I want to write something.’ I jam the USB stick into the slot at the side. ‘I put it here, yes?’

‘You’re putting it in the wrong way. And that’s not where you insert a USB stick.’

‘It’s not?’

‘Dad, I’ll do it. You’re embarrassing me. Can you let me sit down?’

‘Okay.’

I shuffle out of the chair and Robby takes my place. Fingers move across the keyboard like a conductor leading his orchestra. I’m a man of many flaws. My ignorance of computer technology is one of them. I can do Google and an iPhone, but I’m more of an Ask Jeeves man.

‘It’s easy, Dad,’ he says as he types and moves the cursor. ‘You just do this.’

Click. Click. Click.

‘Got it?’

‘Got it,’ I reply. Lying to my son. I don’t discriminate. I’ve lied to practically everyone I’ve ever had a conversation with. It’s almost my second language. Why would my children be any different?

‘We create a folder and then a file. We need a title for the file.’

‘ Chasing Ezra. Call it Chasing Ezra.’

‘What?’

A shake of the head.

Son, I am standing behind you as you work your wizardry on the computer. I want to tell you how much I love you. I want to rub my fingers through your beautiful, lush hair. Be Samson. Find your Delilah. Find several. You’re working; you pay board. You do housework without being asked. We have our flare-ups from time to time, but you’re quiet, honest, your own person. I used to bark about you leaving your clothes all over the bedroom floor. Who cares? And I would have certainly made a crack about you taking forever to rack up the hours to get your driver’s licence. Fuck that. Catch a bus instead. Look out the windows as it travels its route. Stare. Daydream.

When you were born, they put you on your mother’s stomach. I watched you take your first breaths as your eyes darted around the room. Your eyes are your most distinctive feature. Sometimes they look as wide as an owl’s. Your face has changed as you’ve grown, but your eyes have remained the same as they were the first time you opened them. I see clarity and wisdom when I look into them. We were transferred from Penrith hospital to Katoomba four hours after you were born. I put you in the baby seat in the back of the car. Never