THE MISSING

She was beautiful. Beautiful in the Ancient Egyptian style: proud and graceful, she would appear in their artwork, most often in paintings (on papyrus or stone panels) in the formal and, to us now, strangely slightly abstract way of the time. Occasionally she would have been rendered in three dimensions as a painted wooden sculpture or carved from polished soapstone. In the practice of the time almost all artwork was the product of Pharoaic workshops and never intended for public display. Her long, strong neck and long legs were, all those centuries ago, reserved to be appreciated by the elite.

    Every afternoon, late, we would hear her voice calling, slightly hoarse, subdued. Most days he would appear and the two of them would go off together. Then one day she stopped calling; once or twice we may have caught sight of him, alone.

    A month later, at first light, (the time of day, a few minutes before the sun rises over the horizon to begin its journey across the heavens), we heard her voice again. Loud and urgent now. We both grabbed clothing: Ginette, a dressing gown, and me: I quickly wrapped a striped cotton Somali kikoi around my waist and together we ran outside. The wind had dropped during the night. For a few spectacular seconds the sky at the horizon was glazed cherry fading to rose and orange. Tequila Sunrise: actually it was virgin sunrise - without the alcohol: this was the time of the Covid lockdown local booze ban. And a cornflower blue sky.

    High on our neighbour’s wall is a large wooden box, an owl box, a barn owl box. She was standing on the grass below calling up to it. He was by her side. A ball of black and white fluff fell, bounced and rolled, then stood on skinny legs, shook a little; stretched. Egyptian Geese lay clutches of ten or more eggs, and after 28 to 30 days one chick will peck through his shell and gradually enlarge the hole until he can crack enough away to wriggle free. Eggs are packed tightly together and so the others, voice, the newborn chicks step from the nest and fall six meters to the ground. After maybe half an hour all ten chicks assembled themselves in a conga line and followed their parents across our lawn and along the path through the dense bush, below the koppie, to the beach and the sea. They were followed (slowly) by Troggs: the inquisitive feral tortoise who lives around the garden (unless you are into 60’s music his name will mean nothing to you). The passage from the bush to the sand disturbed a large flock of Hartlaubs Gulls, (a clumsy name for such dainty birds), who swooped, wheeled, and waited for a chance to get back to their breakfasting on the billions of kelp hoppers. Ginette and I were in time to see the new family swim out a little way towards rocks that would give some protection from the swell. I find it astonishing that some bird species hatch unfeathered and totally helpless yet these geese, just an hour or two old, are able to walk, swim, and forage for their own food. But, I thought, the new parents haven’t chosen the ideal bay to raise their family because spring tides cause the swell to come in fast and hard and break into surf.

    Later, the whole family came back the same way. To Pete’s pond. It’s not a large pond: one goose parent had to stay on the bank whilst ten downy babies drank fresh water and fed on tiny floating and swimming things (only when a few weeks old will they begin to eat seeds, grasses and plant stems). Next day there were eight chicks. Two were MIA. Many things can wrong for these babies. Perhaps predation – a sea otter may grab one from under in the ocean, or it could be taken by the mongoose that lives in the bush close to the beach path, or the genet that lives on the koppie. Maybe a passing kelp gull. Perhaps there had been a breaking swell that rolled and drowned them.

    But I don’t suppose the parent birds missed them. They can’t count to ten, nor even eight, and a gaggle of goslings is just that, (a gaggle - a line of tiny followers). Maybe it’s simply that mothers of large families of precocial chicks simply don’t have an opportunity to individually bond.

    On day three there were only five babies. The parents surely would now notice the missing.

    Business called us – we needed to go into the City for a few days. On our return, eager to see the new family, we sat overlooking the pond. In the late afternoon one goose and one gosling came to swim and drink. We waited a few minutes expecting to see the other goose leading the rest of their babies, but it wasn’t to be. The other parent arrived alone. Nine down, one to go. Geese can certainly count to one. One is no longer a gaggle. One cannot be a conga line. Previously, when there were enough babies to be a gosling gaggle, both parents would, together, lead and the gang would follow closely. The problem with that, of course, is that a hungry mongoose can step out from the bush and grab the last in line without anyone noticing. Now, too late, they have adopted a protection strategy. The little family cross the lawn and the path through the bush with one parent leading, the baby close behind, and the other parent bringing up the rear.

    Maybe they had this strategy whilst we were away, when, or if, the gaggle was down to three or four (by which time six or seven babies were MIA). I don’t know, I wasn’t around to see, but I don’t think so.

In the next small bay, separated from ours by a few calcareous boulders, is another goose family. A very strange family. Egyptian geese are relatively big birds, they take four months to grow their wing primary feathers and the young commonly stay with their family until they are eight months old – old enough to look after themselves. Well, this family is strange because there are two adults, three older “teens” (three or four months old), and two young “teens” (eight weeks old). The young teens weren’t born to the parent birds – adults have one clutch a year. Perhaps the two youngest birds were stolen from their birth parents. Or maybe all were stolen.

    To get to the point of my story. Yesterday, midday, on our walk to the penguin colony we passed the “strange family”. There are new additions - three fluffy babies that can only have come from our family. Were they stolen? Or did the babies themselves feel so insecure with their own failed parents that they chose to leave and adopt a new family. A family with bigger siblings for better security?