Twice upon a time part three: Musical TORs of Duty

(“Dawn of light lying between a silence and sold sources, chased amid fusions of wonder.
In moments hardly seen forgotten, coloured in pastures of chance dancing leaves cast spells of challenge amused but real in thought, we fled from the sea, whole!")

Petra had burnt over 100 songs onto her iPod, but only played a few on a regular basis. The rest were just space fillers. For her, Yes’s “Revealing Science of God/Dance of the Dawn” (from Tales of a Topographical Ocean), had a special significance. She liked how it began modestly then gradually increased in tempo and grandeur, like the birth of creation, or perhaps musings inspired by too many hallucinogenic drugs.

Curtis did not share her passion for progressive rock bands, his tastes leaned more towards Hip Hop, reggae and Rap. To him music was merely a rhythmic distraction from the violence and tension that seemed so rife within his present foster home.

It was raining again and they were now clad in matching Gore-Tex jackets. The steep incline of the track had taken its toll and neither felt much like making small-talk. Both were in deep thought: Petra dwelling on the past, Curtis contemplating his future.

(“Dawn of thought transferred through moments of days under searching earth, revealing corridors of time provoking memories. Disjointed but with purpose. Craving penetrations offer links with the self-instructors sharp and tender love, as we took to the air a picture of distance!”)

Navigation was reasonably straight forward as long as they followed the intermittent red markers that lined their route. She had appointed Curtis as “Chief Marker Spotter”. His task was to ensure they followed the markers properly. Such assignments were traditional whenever they ventured into the bush. She called them Tasks of Responsibility or TORs (sometimes TORs of Duty, just for fun) with the promise of treats for diligence and penalties for negligence.

TORs had proven easier to appoint than chores even though they were pretty much the same thing; only with subtle differences. Chores were obligations that he reluctantly did to avoid incurring her wrath, while TORs were designations he willingly accepted to prove his ability to perform responsible tasks.

(“Dawn of love sent within us colours of awakening among the many wont to follow. Only tunes of a different age, as the links span our endless caresses for the freedom of life-everlasting!")

Motivating her young cousin was easy, but as for organising herself? Well, that was a different story entirely, especially at work where her tardy timekeeping and lack of enthusiasm had already earned her two written warnings. Knowing how much her family would overreact she had kept this information secret so far, confiding only in Curtis. He had an abundance of tiny faults, but betrayal was not one of them.

Work for her mainly consisted of data entry a tediously repetitive job, far removed from a “TOR of Duty” by anyone’s stretch of the imagination. It paid well above the minimum wage, but still safe-guarded her from the higher tax bracket most of the Team Leaders contended with.

Her cubical was one of the few to face a window, though the scenery was far from panoramic; just a birds-eye view of power lines, traffic and the steady flow of pedestrians. Occasionally an emergency-service vehicle would speed passed with lights flashing; if she was very lucky a siren would accompany, otherwise it was just business as usual.

(“What happened to this song we once knew so well? Signed promise for moments caught within the spell. We must have waited all our lives for this moment…moment!")

The track’s gradient levelled but continued to twist and turn, with jutting roots obscured within mini swamp-like puddles waiting to trip the careless footfalls of weary wanderers. Prickly plants seemed eager to reach out and snare them as they passed, but Curtis kept a safe distance, his legs already ridden with biddy-bids from the Piripiri he had absently brushed against shortly after leaving the clearing.

Despite the advice of friends and whanau, he usually forsook over-trousers because they tended to sweat, making long-distances walks uncomfortable. This of course meant the rain would slide straight off the bottom of his jacket, saturating his track-pants or jeans. To overcome this dilemma he stuck to wearing shorts.

Born and bred in the West-coast of the South Island his legs were more than accustomed to frigid chills but not entirely immune to fatigue, especially when it came to trudging uphill laden with a backpack, which seemed to get heavier with each step. Television, DVDs, PlayStation, books and comics had preoccupied most of his free time, so he was not getting as much exercise as he should and was well on his way to becoming a “Soft Townie”, according to his Uncle Garry.

To quell the concerns of Curtis’s birth Mother, Petra had agreed to take him into the bush, every now and then, to burn off some of the pudginess from his stomach. She started off with brief nature hikes then as time progressed, their walks increased in length and before long they were doing overnight tramps and camping beneath the stars.

Their relationship had been a little rocky at first. Curtis never showed any real signs of hostility or reluctance to follow instructions, but seemed more content at the end of a walk than the start, as if freed from some loathsome inconvenience. Conversation was mostly a one way affair with her doing most of the talking though he did at times share his luckless encounters with school bullies.

Then one day after a tearful account of how e;d been subject to some fairly nasty teasing, she told him an amusing story she called “Ali Baa-baa and the Naughty Leaves” to lift his spirits. It regarded the struggle between a timid sheep and a gang of aggressive leaves. Although quite inane, it successfully engaged his interest far more than the surrounding bush and birdlife.

From then on he was never happy unless there was at least one story accompaniment on every bushwalk. It was just the sort of motivation an up and coming author like her needed. Sometimes she would use him as a sounding board for her own creations before sending them to various publishers, allowing him to critic them truthfully without fear of reprisal.

(“You seekers of truth accepting that reasons will relive and breathe and chase and love for you and you and you”)

Yes faded, then there was a brief silence before Pink Floyd’s “Set the Controls to the Heart of the Sun” took its place, but Petra felt the need of a little contemplation after such an epic piece of music so she turned off the iPod and removed the ear plugs. It was only now that she noticed Curtis’s laboured breathing and realised she had perhaps been pushing him a little too hard. After all, her legs were a lot longer than his and he would have no doubt been taking almost two strides to one of hers just to keep up.

“Take five, huh?” suggested Petra. “You look absolutely, positively pooped.”

Rain continued falling as they unhitched their packs and slumped down on the rotting truck of a long ago fallen Totara tree. Birds continued twittering their unchained melodies.

“I know a story about a birdie,” announced Curtis, once he had regained his breath.

“That’s nice, I‘d love to hear it.”

“There was once a sparrow from down South that wouldn’t listen to reason. One day his friends and family told him that winter was coming and everyone had to fly to Auckland where it was a lot warmer.

“One by one the birdies left for their long flight but the sparrow dawdled for too long and by the time he finally got round to departing it had already started to snow. The temperature got colder and colder and soon his little wingses got all iced over. Unable to fly he fell from the sky and crashed through the roof of a barn, landing in a haystack. There he lay all cold and shivering and unable to move his wings.

“Things turned from bad to worse when a moo-cow walked into the barn and pooped all over him. But don’t worry Pets the heat in the poop melted the snow and ice and stuff.

“Happy to be freed from certain death he flapped his wings and tweeted loudly. Unfortunately a tomcat heard all the noise and went into the barn to see what was going on. As soon as he saw the sparrow he did what all kitty-cats do, he jumped onto it and gobbled it up for lunch.

“This story has three morals, one: he who poops on you is not necessarily your enemy. Two he who gets you out of the poop is not necessarily your friend and three, if you are warm and content in a pile of poop keep your mouth shut.”

“That’s very good story, with some sound advice to boot,” said Petra, too polite to tell him she had already heard it. Lots of times, from many people, but what difference did it make? She liked the way he told it. Besides, it was a pleasant change to be the listener instead of the story teller. “You’re a real one and a half, Curtis.”

“Yeah, and you’re the other half, Pets.”