Janwillem De Wetering - Tumbleweed

"So where is he now?"

"He went back to Holland. Surely you know. Didn't you run into him when Maria got killed?"

"No."

"He is on Schiermonnikoog, 'The Eye of die Gray Monk. Funny name, that's why I remembered it. He gave up die sea but he had to stay close to it so he picked an island to live on. He became a ranger on a nature reserve. Always liked birds and plants."

"What's his name?" the commissaris asked.

"He has his father's first name and his mother's surname. Ramon Scheffer."

"Thank you," the commissaris said.

It was close to four o'clock and still dark. Adjutant Buisman had forced their small dinghy onto the muddy beach.

"This is as close as we can get," he said in a low voice. "You better take off your boots, they'll get stuck in the mud, it's easier if we walk barefoot."

Grijpstra stared at the inky water, de Gier had already pulled off his short boots.

"Ah well," Grijpstra said, more to himself than to anyone else. He found it hard to move in his oilcloth suit and the souwester had tipped into his eyes. With a grunt he managed to get out of his boots and he lowered one foot carefully. It looked very white in the dim early morning light.

The water was cold, about as cold as he had expected it to be.

"Anrgh," he said in a loud voice as his foot sank into the thick mud.

"Sssh," the adjutant whispered, "the birds. We don't want to disturb them."

"Birds," Grijpstra mumbled. He felt the mud ooze between his toes.

"Bah," he whispered to de Gier, "are you sure this is mud?"

"What else could it be?"

"Dogshit," Grijpstra said.

De Gier laughed politely. He was having his own troubles with the mud which sucked at his legs.

"Careful with the binoculars," the adjutant whispered to Grijpstra. "If we don't bring them back my sergeant will be very upset. He has only just got them."

"Yes, yes," Grijpstra said, and began to wade toward the shore. The dinghy appeared to be sitting on a small bank for the water continued for another fifty yards.

Grijpstra tried not to think as he waded, he only wanted to get to the shore. His foot struck an empty tin and he stumbled but succeeded in staying on his legs. He was the last to arrive.

"Wipe the mud off your feet," the adjutant said, offering Grijpstra a handful of grass. "What happened to your foot? It's bleeding."

De Gier sat down on his haunches and studied Grijpstra's foot. "A wound," he said.

Grijpstra looked down but all he could see was his wide oilcloth trousers.

"Let's go a little farther," de Gier said. "There's some dry sand over there. I've got a torch."

The wound was fairly deep and de Gier cleaned and bandaged it. "Bad luck. Try and walk on it."

Grijpstra could still walk. They put on their socks and shoes again.

"Aha," the adjutant said. "It's getting light now, this is the best time. Look!"

Grijpstra looked and saw a bird, followed by another.

"Plovers," the adjutant exclaimed, adjusting his field glasses.

Grijpstra obediently looked, lifting the heavy binoculars. He saw a blur and felt too cold and too tired to try to adjust the glasses. De Gier saw nothing, he hadn't taken the protecting caps off. The adjutant told him about it.

"Ah yes," de Gier said.

He saw the two small birds.

"Plovers," the adjutant said again. "There are quite a few of them here now, more than last year. Lovely birds. Graceful! Watch them run! They aren't afraid, if they were they would fly. This is a reserve, they know we won't harm them."

Grijpstra moved and his trousers squeaked.

"That's bad," the adjutant said, "can't you take them off? The squeak will irritate the birds. Look! A redshank."

"Where?" Grijpstra asked, feeling that he had to show interest.

"I don't know," de Gier said, "all I can see is a fat yellowshank."

The adjutant had moved away. Grijpstra suddenly turned around and de Gier, startled by Grijpstra's looming shadow, staggered back.

"Cut it out, will you. You got me these saffron monstrosities."

"But they are all right, aren't they? They are waterproof. It has begun to rain."

"So it has," Grijpstra said.

It drizzled but Buisman's enthusiasm increased. There were birds everywhere around them and he reeled off their names, telling his guests about the birds' habits.

"Oystercatchers! They can break open the thickest shell with those strong red beaks. Look."

Grijpstra and de Gier looked.

They looked for several hours, staggering about, too tired to lift up their binoculars, gazing dutifully at the busy shapes of seagulls and seemingly endless varieties of duck.

"Eggs," Buisman whispered every now and then. "Be careful! There are a lot of nests about."

"Fried eggs," Grijpstra whispered to de Gier, who had hidden behind a tree, trying to smoke and shielding his cigarette from the rain.

"Fried eggs, and bacon, and tomatoes, and toast."

"Coffee," de Gier said. "We should have brought a thermos flask. I always forget the most important things. Hot coffee!"

"Tell me," Grijpstra said confidentially, "why did we come? Tell me, de Gier, I have forgotten."

"I don't know. We are birdwatchers."

"But why?" Grijpstra insisted. "I don't like birds. Do you?"

"Yes. But not so many of them. This must be their house. They live here. What's that?"

A bird had flown at them and de Gier ducked. There was a rustle of wings and an angry aggressive squeak.

"A peewit," the adjutant, who had been looking for them, suddenly said at Grijpstra's elbow. "Very clever bird. He probably has a nest close by. Look at him now."

The peewit was running about in the grass, one wing dangling to the ground.

"He must have broken his wing on de Gier's head," Grijpstra said admiringly.

"No," Adjutant Buisman said, "he is only pretending. He wants us to go after him. He wants us to think that he is hurt and that he is an easy prey, but he'll fly off as soon as we get too close. His nest will be on the other side."

"Tricky bird, hey?" de Gier said.

Grijpstra didn't agree. If the bird runs on the left the nest is on the right. Easy to remember. He was feeling very hungry now.

"Peewit's eggs are supposed to be a delicacy," he said to Buisman.

"Not now, too late in the year. You should have been here about a month ago. The first peewit's egg was found here, we sent it to the queen."

They went on. Grijpstra's mind had sunk into a gray bog. It didn't register anymore. He moved mechanically without noticing that his feet were wet and that the wound on his right big toe was throbbing. He had forgotten his headache and even his hungry feeling had stopped. He no longer pretended any interest but hung behind. He had lost his souwester, the branch of a tree had lifted it off his head and it hung above the path, half a mile behind him, as a gay little flag in an endless wet green maze.

"This is a nice spot," Buisman said, and sat down on a log. He opened the gray canvas bag which was strapped to his back and produced a flask of coffee and some cheese rolls. The thermos wasn't big and they only had a sip each. Grijpstra chewed his roll. His bowels rumbled.

"There wouldn't be a toilet anywhere?" he asked.

"No," Buisman said merrily, "this is pure nature, we are quite a few miles from civilization. But go ahead, go behind those trees over there."

"Paper," Grijpstra mumbled, "I have no paper."

"Use some grass. Finest toilet paper in the world."

"Grass," Grijpstra said, and stumped off.

De Gier was grinning when Grijpstra came back.

"All right?"

"Wonderful," Grijpstra said. "There are a lot of birds behind that tree. Look like chickens. Got away from a farm, I guess. I was almost sitting on top of them but they didn't seem to notice. They were stamping around each other."