Weeping Waters

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  In memory of my parents, Jack and Mary

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Author’s note

  The Passenger

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s note

  On Christmas Eve 1953, shortly after 10 p.m., New Zealand’s largest overnight express steam train nose-dived into the swirling Whangaehu River at Tangiwai in the centre of the North Island. The train was packed and many of the 285 people on board were already asleep. Most of the passengers were families and young people at the start of their Christmas holiday. One hundred and fifty-one of them perished.

  A torrent of water, a lahar, had gushed out of the crater of the nearby sacred volcano Mount Ruapehu and swept down the valley. It took all in its path and, minutes before the train arrived, weakened the railway bridge.

  For the Maori tribes whose ancestors had populated the area for centuries such a tragedy was inevitable. The train track, they said, should never have been built across the path of the sacred mountain and Tangiwai, which means weeping waters, was named because it had always been a place of torrential flows and sometimes death.

  But for those who live in the spectacular World Heritage area half a century on, memories of one of the world’s worst train disasters drive them to look for ways to tame Ruapehu, where another lahar is building up in its crater.

  Weeping Waters is a fictional work set between 1953 and the present. The story is based on true events surrounding the Tangiwai disaster and the real conflict that exists today about Mount Ruapehu. The characters and incidents in the novel are invented but many of the 1953 survival and rescue stories are based on true events.

  AMN

  The Passenger

  I woke up drowning. Swirling black, cold water was enveloping me, filling my body and soul. In the liquid darkness I felt someone pulling my hair, pulling the long strands very hard, hurting me, connecting me again to life.

  Suddenly I realised I was still on the train and I started kicking myself free of my seat. I’d always been a strong swimmer and a diver and instinctively I held my breath when I hit the water. I tried to open my eyes, tried to make sense of the carriage, tried to see David. But I couldn’t see anything and the water hurt my eyes. I felt myself starting to panic as I flayed in the water trying to find my love. But the pulling was urgent and I succumbed to an invisible rescuer who was willing me away, clutching my hand, yanking me out of this watery grave. Somehow we found an open window of the carriage and one by one squeezed through. Together, we swam up into a swirling current.

  We rose to the top, desperately took our first breaths, gasping and choking on sickly sweet sulphur fumes and oily water. As the water swept us away from each other, I caught her eye in the moonlight, saw her look of despair until she bobbed out of sight, lost in a sea of tiny waves. The river was full of branches, pieces of the train, suitcases and something, maybe a body, nudged me.

  As I swam for the bank I could hear screams piercing through the roaring floodwaters. I think one of them was mine. I was gulping the foul freezing water and trying to force my way across the current. Feeling for the bottom, my toes touched sharp rocks beneath. I tried to grip them with my feet, realising for the first time my shoes and my jacket were gone. I was wearing the new dress I had finished sewing for the holiday only a day ago, on my birthday. The hem of the skirt had filled with river sand and formed a heavy hoop around me that was pulling me down. Slipping and retching, I scrambled painfully towards a large jagged object rising out of the edge of the river.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw it was the smashed and twisted steam engine that had been pulling our carriages. Steam was still rising from the wreckage where the red-hot fires that fuelled the engine had been doused by floodwaters. I heard a cry. Behind me I saw the woman who saved me was struggling in the water. I reached out to help her up and she fell over me, coughing and sobbing. I saw for the first time she was about my age.

  ‘My sister, my sister, I thought you were my sister. She’s still on the train.’

  I felt sick knowing I had been saved by mistake, a pretender. She had been searching for her sister who had long blonde hair just like mine.

  ‘Come with me. You can’t do anything.’ Now I was the rescuer, urging her out of the river, begging her not to go back into the icy torrent. I thought of my fiancé and prayed somehow David had escaped the train too. I grabbed her hand and, using all my strength, pulled her towards the engine. We both fell against its side and climbed up onto it. I was shocked to feel it was still hot and the metal burned my skin. My throat and eyes were stinging, full of grit and oil. I heaved myself up higher, away from the water.

  I didn’t feel afraid for myself but I saw the girl was shivering uncontrollably and I worried she would die of shock and exposure. I wrapped my arms around her and urged her to call for help. I started crying out in a voice that I barely recognised as mine. As soon as I did, I heard another fainter call. There was someone below, trapped in the engine.

  I heard more voices and soon I saw a group of men above us on the bank. ‘Stay there, we’ll get you off,’ one said out of the darkness. ‘There’s someone still alive in the engine!’ I called back.

  For the first time, I looked around. Strangely, the night was clear. I could see people floating away in the current, others struggling to come ashore. Some had already made it and were lying on both sides of the river. I strained to see if David was among them but could not make out any faces. I thought of all the people I had seen on the train, the children who had been running up and down so excitedly just an hour ago. Carriages were poking out of a wall of dirty yellow water, some with just their roofs showing, another pushed onto its side.

  Then I saw it. In the middle of the broken bridge, another carriage was dangling over the edge. In the seconds I watched, I could see it tilting slowly forwards. It lurched violently, and began falling, somersaulting into the river. Beyond it I saw for the first time the silhouette of the volcano.

  I had been sleeping in David’s arms when the train plummeted into the ri
ver. I never saw him again and his body was never found. My rescuer lost her sister. We were among only a handful out of fifty-six people in our carriage to survive. They never did find anyone alive in the engine. Both the driver and the fireman died.

  Beverley Corbett, 19, a survivor of the Tangiwai disaster, 1953

  CHAPTER ONE

  It is still early when Frances Nelson steps off the plane in Auckland. She jostles among hundreds of other dishevelled passengers at the baggage carousel, looking for the one large navy-blue suitcase that contains all her essentials for the year ahead. It bobs towards her, instantly recognisable with its scratches and a small tear on the front, scars of previous journeys. As she hauls it off onto its wheels, she feels it pull hard on her tired body.

  She adjusts her laptop computer bag on one shoulder, a small backpack on the other and attempts to walk away but a beagle blocks her way, brushing against her leg then sniffing her and her luggage. She knows it means business and resists a temptation to pat the dog as it lingers around the suitcase. Has it picked up a scent of the rocky wilderness she has left behind? Detecting no contraband, the animal quickly loses interest and pads towards a young woman with a Dutch emblem on her backpack.

  Frances passes easily through customs and passport checks, glad her work visa is in order. There is none of the tension she felt in American airports on her way over; no guards with machine guns, none of the endless frisking and questioning that has become part of travelling post-September 11. The people around her look more relaxed too, a blend of softer faces from the Pacific and a faraway British colonial past.

  After flying from Seattle to Los Angeles, she dozed intermittently on the flight to New Zealand, eating too many meals and downing a few too many glasses of wine as the plane moved through an endless day, a longer night and eventually into a fluorescent burnt-orange dawn. But as she walks through the terminal, Frances’ tiredness lifts and she decides to forgo a planned night in a motel and drive the five hours straight to the mountain.

  She finds a shower room at the airport and revives herself under the warm flow. Stretching her arms high into the air and standing on the tips of her toes, she lets the water cascade over her face, into her mouth and down her strong limbs that have been cramped for so long on the plane. She dries herself and combs her damp fair hair back off her face.

  Catching her reflection, she is pleased with her new layered haircut, glad she had several inches cut off her long locks before leaving. Dabbing on some expensive moisturiser cream she bought impulsively on the plane, she screws up her face to see if there are any new wrinkles. She sighs when she spots one and doubts the new wonder cream will do anything for a complexion tanned and punished by years of mountain climbing. She slips on a new cotton bra and pants, a fresh pair of jeans and a fitted light-blue shirt before squashing her dirty clothes into her suitcase.

  She has deliberately come a day early. On her way to join the investigations of the seismology team based in Taupo, she wants to fit in a visit to Mount Ruapehu alone. And there is a more compelling reason. As much as she fears it, she knows she has to go to Tangiwai as quickly as she can.

  ‘You won’t have any trouble this time of year,’ the funky young man at the airport car-rental booth assures her. He dresses between two worlds with a spiky gelled haircut, a nose stud and a carefully pressed conservative company blazer. ‘But give it another month or so and I’d have to make you take some chains for the car. Gets pretty icy up there.’

  She watches him carefully noting the details on her American passport: Frances Tui Nelson, British-born, aged 36, fair hair, green eyes. He looks her up and down. She’s used to that, especially when travelling alone. She waits for the inevitable question. ‘Here for a holiday and a bit of adventure, eh?’

  ‘Always like an adventure,’ she teases him, ‘but actually I’m here to work.’

  He smiles at her. ‘Tui’s a Maori name. Funny name for a Yank to have, isn’t it?’

  ‘My mother’s idea,’ she says. ‘What about Noah?’ She nods at the name badge pinned to his blazer. ‘Thought that was reserved for old men with beards and too many pets.’

  ‘Touché,’ he laughs. ‘Yeah, what would we do without parents like ours? Listen,’ he says, leaning towards her conspiratorially like a close friend, ‘there’s not a lot of traffic around there this time of year and we get a lot of tourists drifting over to the right-hand side of the road. We lost two Swiss people last year and two Germans this year. Cleaned up. Went home in boxes. They just forgot. So watch yourself, wouldn’t want to see that happen to you.’

  Heading south, Frances concentrates on driving on the left. The traffic is heavy but the roads are better than she expected and remind her of the trip she made so often south from Seattle down Highway No. 5 to Mount St Helens.

  That’s where she cut her teeth on this work. Triggered by an earthquake, the American volcano had erupted spectacularly in May 1980, setting off an almighty landslide. The landscape for miles around was still severely scarred when Frances joined a research team there a decade later. Acres of giant splinters were the only reminders of the once-mighty fir and cedar forests that had been felled in moments. Fifty people had died.

  By the time Frances joined them, the scientists were beginning to regain a confidence shattered as severely as the mountain. The size and suddenness of the disaster had shaken them out of a complacency that they could predict what volcanoes would do. Now they were beginning to believe it was only a matter of time before they would amass enough data and new technology to make seismology an exact science.

  This thought comforts her as she passes through Hamilton and continues south, following the route of the main trunk line. The traffic thins and the road narrows as it winds through small railway towns. The terrain changes too, from the damp green plains of the Waika to to the steep hilly sheep farms and forests of the King Country.

  Despite a stop for a rest and a coffee, the effects of the long plane trip start to creep up on her. She yawns and fidgets, sips from a water bottle, chews some mints and tries to listen to the radio. But the reception is poor. There is just an annoying scratchiness so she turns it off.

  The landscape changes again and there is emptiness all around. Frances feels a gnawing in her gut, her unwelcome companion for the last year. Then, suddenly, like a grand opera set revealed by a rising curtain, before her lies the volcanic plateau. It takes her breath away and sweeps aside her unspoken anxieties. She’s spinning through the spiritual heart of the North Island where human and natural forces have interacted for many hundreds of years. Right in front of her, a trio of powerful volcanoes rise out of the austere earth like giant sentries—cone-shaped Ngauruhoe, the rambling slopes of Tongariro and, dominating them both, the towering grandeur of Ruapehu. Frances knows the mountains’ pedigrees stretch back 250,000 years. To see them again, rising up and piercing the bluest of skies, reminds her why they have earned their place among the earth’s greatest heritage treasures.

  The road rises steeply and Frances accelerates, pleased she’s taken young Noah’s advice to hire a powerful six-cylinder car. As she draws closer to Ruapehu, catching little glimpses as she winds around the steep road, she feels the tug of the mountain. It excites her, making her feel like a space traveller finally arriving on a distant planet after months of training on earth.

  Just a week ago, in the comfort of her office on the other side of the world, she had watched live images of the mountain on her computer screen. The mountain had been puffing out huge clouds of acidic steam, ratcheting up the alert warnings. For the last five years Ruapehu had been playing up with momentous eruptions of lava and ash. Now it was threatening to expel a massive mudflow from the mysterious lake in its crater.

  Frances wishes her colleagues were with her to see it. She smiles as she remembers their ribbing.

  ‘So you’re leaving us to conquer Mount Doom,’ one said. Since part of The Lord of the Rings was shot here, vulcanologists often referred to Ruapehu by
its cinematic nom de plume.

  She rounds one more corner and the sudden sight of the mountain right in front of her is so powerful and overwhelming that she abruptly pulls over to the side of the road. Small plumes of steam drift over the summit in the late afternoon sun. Two decades have passed since she was here with her parents on their lonely pilgrimage. She feels compelled to get out of the car but shivers in the breeze as she remembers that time of grieving. The volcano’s stark stony beauty, yet to receive its first winter white cloak, draws her in, just as it did all that time ago.

  Although it is more than thirty-six hours since she has slept in a bed, the cool April crispness of the volcanic country sends a surge of energy through her. A month earlier, she had been working in her laboratory when she received the call to come here.

  ‘Don’t think this is going to be straightforward,’ New Zealand team leader Theo Rush told her during their last phone conversation as she was preparing to leave the United States. ‘A lot of people are terrified there’s going to be a giant lahar. There’s a big drive here to drain the crater lake to stop it happening. But the Maori people are pushing their belief that the sacred mana of the mountain is its unpredictability. They say nature should be allowed to take its course. So we’re piggy in the middle.’

  ‘So where does that leave me as an outsider?’

  ‘I’m tempted to say between a rock and a hard place but really I don’t want to scare you off before you get here. I’m just looking forward to some fresh thoughts from you and, don’t worry, you’ll get a warm Kiwi welcome!’

  Now, utterly alone on a back road to this strange mountain, for a moment Frances can’t believe she has come at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Frances is struck by the barrenness around her. It must have been twenty minutes or more since she has seen another car. The only sounds she hears as she approaches the Chateau are the crunching of the tyres on the gravel and her own breathing.