under cover goose on the Titanic

Part 1 - Uncle Dunc

Author's note:  An updated edition of this book is available on UNDERCOVER on the TITANIC.   (Book 1)

 It includes new material including several videos from the movie Titanic.

Later chapters of this book have been published in UNDERCOVER - WHITE OUT.

It was a great, gusty day and I was a full rigged ship scudding before the wind, my arms stuck out like topgallant yards and my parka billowing like a torn topsail. I could almost feel the heave of the swell as I steered half a point to starboard and accelerated downhill into the ravine.

As I jumped the curb and scooted across a side street, the wind ripped a blizzard of yellow leaves from thrashing branches. They danced about me, twisting and twirling around the hydro-poles as I zoomed downhill balanced on the edge of disaster. Life didn't get much better than this.

I was aiming for orbital velocity and if I hadn't hit that asphalt patch, I might have been the world's first skateboard pilot in space.

The goose was hunched amid the swirling leaves on a patch of grass, its beak pointing into the wind like a weathervane. I dragged a foot to slow down.

It's not unusual to see a solitary goose in September but this one was different. It was jerking its neck and stomping its webbed feet in an odd staccato rhythm. It was break dancing.

I screeched to a stop in astonishment. At first the goose ignored me but then it arched its long neck, blinked one beady eye and opened its beak slightly and asked, 'Would yeh no be Ziff Dion?'

'Huh?' I countered intelligently.

'Laddie, ah'm asking if yeh're Ziff Dion,' it repeated patiently.

For a moment I forgot that a Canada goose is not supposed to speak, still less with a Scottish accent.

'I . . . I don't understand,' I spluttered. 'How do you know my name?'

'It's ma job, laddie,' the goose said carefully.

I stared at him. 'What kind of a trick is this? Geese don't talk.'

'Ah'm not yehr average goose.' He looked both ways. 'Ah'm an undercover pole-eese agent and ah'm . . .'

'This is crazy,' I interrupted.

'Ziff! Are yeh no listening to what ah'm saying? Ah'm here to protect yeh.'

'Who are you? I mean who is talking?'

There was a slight hesitation as the goose contemplated my question. 'Ah'm talking to yeh. Ma name's Duncan MacPhun. An' tha's M-a-c, capital P-h-u-n . . . But, yeh can call me Dunc.'

Suddenly I was scared. 'But you're a goose!'   His head seemed a little larger than normal but otherwise he looked exactly like a Canada goose. I glanced around trying to look like I was not having a conversation with a deluded bird.

'Ah'm in disguise . . .'

'Disguise? You mean you're really a kangaroo?'

He cackled. 'Heh, heh. Ah mean yeh've no seen any geese aroond, acting oddly, 'ave yeh?'

'You mean apart from you?' I looked around warily wondering whether to run or laugh. There wasn't another goose in sight. There were no cameras, black cats or owls either, not even a pointy hat. There was no traffic turning into the Chinese shopping mall. In fact, the street was oddly silent and empty except for a rabbity looking little man gawking at us from the next intersection. He wore an old-fashioned, round hat with the narrow brim pulled down to his ears and a black jacket with too-short sleeves, Charlie Chaplin without the moustache.