by Joanna Orwin
‘I brought spare warm gear for us all. It’s in the Landrover.’ Kirsten, always the practical one. ‘I thought we might get cold, not….’ Her voice dies away.
‘Is there anywhere we can get cleaned up?’ Tama asks.
Hamish clears his throat. He speaks for the first time. ‘There’s a creek not far from here.’
They follow Hamish down the hill, through the stand of dying beech to the creek that flows in a narrow gully. There, they discard their outer clothing. The water is frigid, but without discussion, they strip completely. Scour their skin clean with handfuls of fine sand. And when they have done, they put the clean clothes on over their wet skin. Tod and Hamish gather up the pile of soiled clothing. They go back up through the beech trees to the hollow where the pyre they have built is waiting.
Tod pours the contents of the fuel can over the corpses, the soiled clothing, and the piled wood. Without a word, he hands a box of matches to Tama.
Without a word, Tama lights the pyre. They all retreat a step as the fire begins to roar. They watch as the flames consume the pyre. The heat dries their hair and warms their chilled bodies. As the flames gradually die, they draw closer together. Now nothing remains but a pile of hot coals, twisted steel, and bone-white ash.
Tama steps forward. He picks up a boulder and throws it onto the smoking pile. Hamish follows suit, then the others, singly in solemn ritual. Then they lever piles of shingle into the hollow. They work until the coals and ashes are covered.
For a long moment, they watch the last few wisps of smoke. While they stand there, a scatter of snowflakes spiral out of the sky. Then more, and more, until snow is falling in a dizzying maelstrom. Still they stand there, until the snow settles and the piled stones vanish under a thin white shroud.
≈ THIRTEEN
REFLECTED SNOW-LIGHT filled Hamish’s room and woke him soon after dawn. He’d slept without dreaming. He lay there for a moment, his eyes firmly closed, not wanting to face the day. But now he was awake his legs began to twitch, and he was forced to stretch. Groaning, he hauled himself upright. His whole body was sore. Shoulders stiff, hands blistered. A trace of dark blood was still caught under one fingernail. He stared at it. The day before came thrusting back. A kaleidoscope of unwelcome images began to whirl in his head, the nightmares he’d avoided in his sleep. He needed to move, block them out by activity.
Pulling the curtains back, he looked out onto a transformed scene, a new world. The basin and the surrounding mountains were covered with fresh snow. Above them a clear sky arched, achingly blue. The sun had just started to rise above the eastern ridge. As he watched, its rays struck sparks from the snow crystals in a swathe right across the basin. The last of the images whirling in his head faded and lost its force. His spirits started to lift. He felt different somehow. In a way he couldn’t define.
Hamish opened his window and leaned out. He breathed in the crisp dry air, ignoring the cold that tingled on his skin. High on the slope beyond the basin, the Seven Sentinels stood out sharply against the sky, drifts of snow around their feet. He could see every detail of the massive limestone columns in the clear light. Solid, unmoving, unchanged. But no longer threatening. They looked almost benign in the sunlight. He stretched gingerly and felt his stiff muscles crack then ease.
Doors were opening elsewhere in the house now, voices murmuring. Hamish dressed and made his way downstairs. He was ravenous. But outside the kitchen door, he hesitated, suddenly nervous about facing the others. Would they be changed too?
Kirsten was banging pots on the range. Hamish sniffed appreciatively. She had eggs and fried bread on the go as well as their usual porridge. Before he could say anything, she got in first. ‘Everyone slept in. We need to get cracking. More work to do with all this snow. It blew in the night – we may have to do some snow-raking.’
Hamish’s sense of elation drained away. Kirsten didn’t seem to have noticed that the fog had gone or that the sun was shining. He helped himself to porridge and sat down. Tod and Tama were already there, both of them moodily stirring sugar and milk into their bowls. Neither of them greeted him. The porridge was lumpy and stuck in his throat. He wished he’d stayed in bed. With the duvet firmly over his head.
‘Eat up, you lot. You’ll need the extra energy,’ said Kirsten, dumping plates of egg and fried bread in front of them. ‘We’ll have to pull finger if we’re to get through everything this morning.’
‘Don’t be so bloody bossy,’ grumbled Tod. ‘Geez, am I sick of being pushed around – do this, do that. If it’s not you, it’s Tama being macho. Strutting his stuff.’
Nobody else said anything. Tama didn’t react, kept his head down. Stolidly eating as if nothing untoward had been said.
Tod pushed his bowl away and picked up his knife and fork. Still belligerent, he said, ‘This better be an improvement on your porridge.’
‘Oh, get knotted, Tod,’ said Kirsten wearily. ‘You know what you can do….’
Everyone had reverted to type, thought Hamish. He forced the food down as fast as he could. Even snow-raking was preferable to sitting here, listening to Tod wind everyone up, Kirsten bang on about the farm. Watching Tama retreat into his old sullen self. The closeness they’d shared the day before had evaporated. Suddenly he had a sour taste in his mouth. It wasn’t like the legend at all, was it? They were meant to be heroes. He swallowed the last mouthful of greasy bread and stood up to make his escape.
‘Better take Tama to the workshop, grab some snow-rakes,’ said Tod, a glint in his eye.
‘Meet you there,’ said Hamish neutrally. He wasn’t about to interfere.
‘Make sure you wear boots.’ Kirsten, still being bossy, so focused she hadn’t heard what Tod said.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Tod. ‘We can see there’s snow out there. We know snow is wet and cold. Give us some credit.’
‘I was thinking of Tama, not you,’ said Kirsten, scraping half-eaten food from the plates.
As for Tama, he still said nothing. Hamish made a bolt for his room. He’d give anything to stay there. Somehow, he didn’t think the day was going to improve, despite the sun and the absence of Pouākai. Everything sucked.
When he reached the workshop, Tama was already there. Before Hamish could find anything to say, break the thick silence, Tod and Kirsten arrived with the trailer load of hay hitched to the bike.
‘Got your snow-rakes?’ Tod asked briskly.
‘What do they look like?’ said Tama. ‘I couldn’t find any rakes.’
‘Wooden, a metre-long head, stiff teeth,’ said Tod. ‘At the back there.’
It wasn’t long before Tama returned empty-handed. ‘You’re taking the piss, right?’ He looked levelly at Tod.
Tod laughed loudly. ‘Right. Trust a townie to fall for that one!’ He continued to laugh, exaggerated guffaws.
‘Put a sock in it, Tod,’ said Kirsten impatiently. ‘You’ve had your pathetic bit of fun.’ She turned to Tama. ‘One of those short-handled shovels is what you need, in case you have to dig any sheep out of snowdrifts.’
‘I’ll get them,’ said Hamish hastily as Tama looked close to losing his self-control.
Tod and Kirsten took off on the bike, leaving them to walk as usual. Their boots squeaked on the dry snow as they walked past the yards. Each post, white-capped, cast a pale-blue shadow on the unmarked snow. Hamish’s breath hovered in short-lived vapour clouds. Empty blue sky stretched as far as he could see. He should be feeling fantastic, but he wasn’t, was he? He sneaked a look at Tama. The other boy plodded beside him, lambing kit and shovel slung over his shoulder, eyes firmly on the ground in front of him. Hamish clenched his jaw. Concentrate on getting the morning’s work over and done with.
There was nothing to do in the first paddock, the closest to the house. It was sheltered from the wind so the snow hadn’t drifted, and the sheep were fine. Ewes with snow-dusted fleeces stood with their lambs, placidly munching the hay Kirsten and Tod had fed out on their way through. The boys
pushed on, walking in the tracks left by the bike.
At the far end of their lambing beat, on the exposed flank of the alluvial fan, snow had piled up against the fence. Near by, a group of sheep bunched together where they’d been driven before the wind during the night. Hamish stopped and took the shovel from his gear. ‘We’d better check along the fence line,’ he said. ‘Could be some ewes under that lot.’
‘How d’you tell?’ asked Tama warily.
‘Look for breathing holes,’ said Hamish.
‘Give over,’ said Tama, his tone steely. ‘I’m not falling for that one.’
‘I’m not kidding,’ said Hamish hastily. ‘Watch.’
He headed towards a likely looking drift against the fence where he knew there was a hollow. Without warning, his foot broke through the crusted surface and plunged him into soft thigh-deep snow. Floundering, he lost his balance and fell sideways. He heaved himself up and brushed snow from his Swanndri, took his glasses off and dried the wet splotches from the lenses. He studiously ignored the muffled snort of laughter from Tama. With a grunt of relief, he spotted the small crater where a sheep’s warm breath had melted the surrounding snow. He didn’t think he could bear to look even more foolish. Not in front of Tama. Not after yesterday.
‘Breathing hole,’ he said over his shoulder, and started to scrape the snow away with his shovel. The ewe wasn’t far below the surface. He abandoned the shovel, grabbed hold of her fleece, and heaved. She came free easily. Unprepared, he lost his balance again, sat down abruptly, the ewe on top of him. As she scrambled up, her sharp hooves connected with his sore thighs. Hamish yelped. He struggled to his feet, cursing. He was so goddamn clumsy. Couldn’t have put on a more inept performance if he’d tried.
Behind him, Tama was no longer making any attempt to hide his mirth. But there was no mockery in his laughter, and Hamish found himself grinning reluctantly. ‘Okay, smart arse,’ he said. ‘Your turn. There’ll be a lamb in there somewhere.’
While Tama fished in the snow for the lamb, Hamish started to trample a pathway out to where the other sheep were standing. The ewe hovered until Tama retrieved her lamb, then bunted it ahead of her along Hamish’s path.
‘Stay in there,’ said Hamish as Tama started to follow them. ‘There’ll be others most likely, further along the fence line.’ He tossed him the shovel. ‘Look for….’
‘… breathing holes,’ finished Tama. He stooped and picked up a handful of snow, moulded it, then hurled it at Hamish, who was quick to retaliate.
By the time they stopped for breath, both liberally spattered with snow, the last traces of Tama’s wariness had gone. Easy with each other once more, they worked side by side, freeing another two ewes and their lambs from the drifts.
‘Shouldn’t be too much more snow-raking,’ said Hamish as they moved on. ‘That sun’s quite warm now. This snow won’t lie for long.’ The matagouri bushes had lost their frosted toppings, and clumps of tussock were already showing through where the snow cover had been swept thin by the wind.
Continuing to check any drifts for trapped sheep, they worked their way steadily to the far end of the paddock. There, they found a spot in the sun where the snow had already melted. Tama retrieved his tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette, the first of the morning. Hamish beat the last of the snow from his clothes and stamped his boots clear. Propping himself against a convenient rock, he squinted into the distance, shading his eyes against the snow dazzle. He felt his muscles slacken as he started to relax for the first time in days.
‘Something moving about over there,’ said Tama lazily, pointing with his cigarette. ‘White, but too big for sheep, eh.’
Hamish looked, automatically on the alert again. Then he relaxed. ‘Whaddaya know, it’s our army mates, in white gear. Snow camouflage.’
They watched as the six white figures moved slowly and methodically through the matagouri scrub on Phil Coulter’s property, every now and then becoming lost against the white landscape. They watched until the figures disappeared in the distance.
‘Looks as if they were following something,’ said Tama. ‘Phantom dog tracks maybe?’
Hamish shrugged. ‘Probably. As long as it keeps them happy.’
Before he could stop them, nightmare images of killing Pouākai returned in full strength. The giant eagle had been no phantom. The images filled his mind. Black, white – red. Then other images took over. The eagle’s golden eye, the moment of empathy. Tama, his axe raised in homage, Tama cloaked in dignity. Before he could stop himself, he said, ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you, about yesterday.’
Tama stiffened noticeably, then flicked ash from his cigarette into the snow, studied, casual. ‘What?’
‘How did you know what to do? Not Pouākai – the other….’ Hamish’s voice died away. He couldn’t ask directly.
Tama was silent for a while, then he said slowly, ‘I dunno, do I?’
‘Forget it,’ said Hamish quickly. He cursed himself. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘No, it’s okay,’ said Tama. ‘It’s just … I really don’t know. Well,’ he thought a bit, trying to find the right words. ‘It was something like when we were looking at the photos and we could hear Tāua Gray’s voice.’ He stopped abruptly.
‘But it wasn’t her, was it?’ said Hamish, intuitively.
‘No,’ said Tama. ‘It was a guy’s voice.’
Hamish caught his breath. ‘D’you think it was Ruru?’
‘Maybe. Probably. It was more than just hearing a voice, but.’ Tama paused, then the words came in a rush. ‘It felt as if someone was right there, beside me, I mean. Telling me what to do. Giving me the right words and that.’
‘You were awesome,’ said Hamish, simply. Then he realised something. They’d both been helped. It hadn’t been his imagination. His father had been there for him. Just as Ruru had been there for Tama.
‘It was weird,’ Tama was saying. ‘As if I knew exactly what I had to do. Like I was possessed or something. It wasn’t me, eh.’
‘But it was you, standing up there,’ Hamish said. ‘You did all that, no one else.’
‘Yeah?’ Tama stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. ‘It didn’t feel like I had any option.’
Hamish shrugged, unconvinced. After a short silence he said, ‘Don’t take any notice of Tod, the way he was earlier. He was way out of line.’
‘Had his nose out of joint, that’s all,’ said Tama. ‘Guess he’s used to being in charge, eh, with his mountain climbing and that?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Hamish slowly.
‘No worries,’ said Tama. ‘Tod’s an okay sort of dude. Look, I don’t want to talk about it any more, any of it. Drop it, will you?’
Hamish nodded reluctantly. ‘Just one thing. What you did up there made all the other stuff bearable. Reckon you need to know that.’
Tama shrugged, dismissing what Hamish was saying. He pushed himself upright. ‘C’mon, let’s get moving. We’ve got an hour’s walk back, at least, and I’m hungry.’
Picking up his gear, Hamish followed him. He was glad he’d said something. Tama could play down what had happened all he liked. It didn’t make any difference. It was Tama who’d been the real hero.
Back at the house, Jane greeted them with the news that the phone had been running hot. But this time it was all good. ‘Rod says there’s been no sheep killings for over forty-eight hours, not since dawn the day before yesterday.’
‘Oh?’ said Tod. ‘A bit soon for results from the army isn’t it?’ He winked at Hamish, suddenly in better humour than he’d been first thing. ‘I thought they only got the official go-ahead yesterday.’
‘True,’ said Jane. ‘But as you know they’ve been out there anyway. That guy in charge, Captain Walsh, spoke to Phil this morning. Unofficially, of course.’
‘Saying what?’ asked Kirsten, curious.
‘Apparently they got a shot at the dogs at dawn yesterday,’ said Jane. ‘
He thinks they hit the leader, that big pale-coated brute.’
‘And?’ said Tod, all innocence. ‘Did they get him?’
‘They weren’t sure – because of the poor visibility,’ Jane explained. ‘The fog was really thick. But they did hear yelps.’
‘Hang on,’ said Hamish, playing along. ‘Surely they tracked them? They were practising following sign when we saw them a few days ago.’ He was starting to enjoy this. Dawn yesterday – that was when they’d killed Pouākai.
‘They did for a while,’ said Jane. ‘But apparently they lost the tracks in a patch of matagouri. So they blasted the whole patch with bullets. Saturation shooting, I think he called it. Something like that. Captain Walsh thinks it was successful, anyway. There was no sound or sign of movement afterwards.’
‘Not surprising,’ said Kirsten, trying to keep her face straight. ‘But they didn’t think to look for dead or wounded dogs?’
‘A bit strange, that,’ added Tod. ‘Unprofessional, I would’ve thought.’
‘He’s certainly being somewhat cagey on that one,’ said Jane. ‘Something about really rugged country, an impenetrable gully. But that’s why they haven’t said anything until now.’
‘And now, with no more sheep deaths, they think they’re safe to claim success.’ Tod let out a throttled bark of laughter. ‘With no real evidence that they’ve killed anything?’
‘Well, Rod thinks we should wait another day to be sure,’ said Jane. ‘But it’s looking promising.’
They could contain their mirth no longer. Pushing and shoving each other, they fled outside. Bursts of laughter escaped them. Jane was left staring after them, her face puzzled.
Down at the hay shed, out of earshot of the house, the four of them gave way to laughter, clutching at each other for support. Whenever they started to recover, one of them would repeat some of what the captain had claimed and set them off again.
‘Seriously, though,’ said Kirsten at last, wiping her eyes. ‘The timing’s spot on, eh!’