For the rest of the morning Sam shows Frances the readings and samples they’ve collected and briefs her on the computer system that processes signals received from the mountains.
She can tell instantly that in spite of his goading, Sam Hawks knows his turf well.
‘The levels in the crater have been up and down all year and we’ve been trying to find out if water is leaking out. At the moment it’s very high and we’re worried about another big lahar like the one in ‘53. Have you heard of Tangiwai?’
The question has come sooner than Frances anticipated and she feels her heart skip.
‘Yes, I’ve heard about the train crash,’ she says, grateful that Sam seems to have missed her voice wavering.
‘That accident might have happened a long time ago,’ he continues, ‘but it lives on here in everyone’s consciousness. I’m convinced that unless something’s done, the dam will collapse and we’ll see a lahar much bigger than Tangiwai. Maybe twice as big. You’d better get your head around this.’ He hands her a thick document. ‘It will bring you up to speed about what we’ve been doing here for the last year or so.’
Frances thumbs through the report, then settles back to read it in detail. After describing the erratic changes occurring in the Crater Lake, it sets out all solutions and the risks they entail. At the extreme end is the idea of bringing in the military to drop thirty high-precision laser-guided bombs to break up the tephra dam. Another is for a bulldozer to excavate a huge trench through the dam. Further options are to pump, sluice or siphon off the water or build a concrete weir in front of the dam the same as they did at a similar active crater lake in Eastern Java.
Everyone has had their say. Frances smiles as she reads the views of the district councils and the mayors and some commercial ski operators who are advocating maximum intervention ‘to remove lahar threat altogether’. Were it that easy, she thinks.
She flicks through to the section that details the Maori argument. She knew before she arrived that their position was important, but it’s only now that she’s seeing how much influence they wield. ‘We must honour the mana of the mountain.’ Frances traces her finger over the words. The mana. The power. She senses this will become a familiar mantra.
A railway logo catches her attention. It’s attached to a submission from the company that currently operates the trains. ‘No further action needed,’ it argues, clearly not wanting to contribute any funds. The company claims it has already done enough by installing a lahar warning gauge upstream from the Tangiwai Bridge which is monitored by railway staff. Frances makes a mental note to check the system and the staff’s ability to interpret the information.
The other threat outlined is to Lake Taupo itself. A large lahar could flow down several points of the mountain. Not only could it flood the Whangaehu River but also spill over into the Tongariro River and down into the lake. As well as jeopardising the lives of anglers, bush walkers, farmers and anyone else caught out there, the wave of volcanic water could destroy the habitat on which the fish and protected native birds depend. The precious colonies of trout could disappear for at least a decade. Frances remembers the picket line of fishers.
She reads Theo’s case for constructing a large stopbank to divert the swirling lahar back down the main river course to save Lake Taupo from pollution. But the local Maori are against even this minor intervention.
A grander scheme is described, though Frances thinks it is a contrivance and not a serious proposition: an elaborate series of earthen buttress dams across the streams and rivers where lahars would flow, to slow them down and reduce their severity.
Frances homes in on the favoured option: Theo’s support for the acoustic warning system she will be helping them install. Unlike the existing system, which can detect the after-effects of an eruption or earthquake, the new one can pick up soundwaves from the crater inside the volcano during an eruption. It will also give more time for people to evacuate—only minutes, but enough to save many lives.
Putting the report on her desk, she turns to Sam, who is loading some of the new data into the computer.
‘Where do you stand on all of this, Sam?’
‘Well, I’m not very popular around here for saying this but I think the Maori position is extreme and primitive,’ he says, swinging around on his office chair and leaning back to put his hands behind his head. ‘I mean we’re in the twenty-first century for heaven’s sake and all this carry-on about the gods in the volcano is a bit much, don’t you think? I reckon we have to do everything we can to protect human life and if that means treading on some toes, so be it.’
Suspecting another agenda, Frances hesitates, trying to assess whether Sam is attempting to back her into a corner.
‘Too early for me to have an opinion on that,’ she hedges. ‘But I agree you have to do everything to save human lives.’
‘Good, I’m glad you’re with me on that,’ Sam says too quickly. ‘At least someone else around here will have a bit of common sense. Just going to get some lunch—see you later.’
Thirty seconds later he is back in the office and leaning through the door. ‘You could come with me if you like,’ he teases her. ‘I know the best café and if you’re with me, they give us regulars specially good service.’
‘Sorry, I have to meet a real-estate agent.’ She smiles at him, surprised by his unexpected charm. ‘Maybe next time. Thanks anyway.’
Frances inhales deeply in the fresh breeze blowing off the lake as she walks across the road to the real-estate office. She’s looking forward to setting up house once more. Inside she shakes hands with Tammy Curtin, a plumpish blonde woman dressed in a cherry-coloured blazer and black skirt, who ushers her out through a rear entrance into the front seat of a new BMW.
They drive slightly too fast out of the driveway and into the traffic. Turning into a side street, Frances catches sight of Sam in the window seat of a café talking to a much larger man with grey hair and a pronounced double chin. Before she can see any more, Tammy accelerates, and they speed away from the town centre and into wide streets lined with row upon row of weatherboard and brick houses surrounded by gardens.
‘Taupo has plenty of empty places this time of year,’ Tammy says.
‘I’d prefer an apartment rather than a house,’ Frances replies. ‘I’m on my own and I don’t expect to be home much.’
‘Normally good ones are scarce as hen’s teeth,’ the agent says as she adjusts her sunglasses and checks her make-up in the car mirror. Her lip liner sits heavily around her mouth but the gloss inside has disappeared. She quickly purses her lips and applies a fresh coat of bright red lipstick before adding, ‘But it’s off season and I have just the place, darls.’
They pull up outside a small complex of white brick townhouses just one street back from the lake. ‘It’s fully furnished and you can have it for six months.’
It’s almost too easy, thinks Frances as she looks through what will be her new home. ‘No need to look any further,’ she tells Tammy, who is distracted by her constantly ringing mobile phone and seems to call everyone ‘darls’. ‘This will be fine. I’ll move in after work today.’
Theo doesn’t return until late in the day and looks wrung out as he flops down at his desk.
‘I think we’re in for a rough time with the politics of all this, but we’re going to have to keep a close eye on things up there. We can’t get the chopper for a few days. They’re down one at the moment—one in maintenance and the other caught up in some rescue exercises. I thought you might need a good walk after all that sitting around in planes, Frances, and I certainly would welcome the fresh air. We’ll walk up to the crater the day after tomorrow if you’re up to it.’
Driving back to the motel to pack her bag, Frances tunes into the local music station. ‘Four seasons in one day, lying in the depths of your imagination,’ sings Neil Finn. She hums along, deep in thought. Up to now the mountain has seemed enough of a challenge: now she sees that the competing choruse
s of those in its grip may test her much more.
CHAPTER NINE
Frances is still unpacking her suitcase when the doorbell rings. She opens her door to a barefooted woman in her late twenties wearing a tight-fitting pink blouse that exposes her taut midriff and a white short skirt that shows plenty of her well-shaped tanned legs.
‘Hi, I’m Shona Jackson. I live next door and thought I’d welcome you to the neighbourhood,’ she says, thrusting a bottle of white wine into Frances’ hand and tossing back long blonde tresses that look as though they are regularly subjected to peroxide.
Although she’s not feeling like company, Frances motions her visitor to the sofa.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Shona looks at her expectantly. ‘We may as well get to know each other seeing we live so close.’
While Frances unscrews the bottle and fishes around for a couple of glasses, Shona loses no time in telling her short life history, her taste in boyfriends, her current one being an army sergeant, and why she loves her job as a masseuse in one of the hot-pool complexes that thrive in the town.
‘You meet some good sorts around here and the money’s good. Beats my last jobs as a checkout chick and being a dogsbody in a timber company. You’re American, right? What do you do for a crust?’
Although a little taken aback by Shona’s upfront manner, Frances enjoys the lack of game-playing and thinks she could do worse for a neighbour. She explains what has brought her to Taupo, then turns the conversation back.
‘What’s it like being a masseuse? What got you into that?’
‘I used to think I’d like to be a nurse but I didn’t want to spend years training for that. And I didn’t want to wipe people’s arses. I just drifted from job to job and then thought if I was going to get anywhere I had to take a course. So when I saw the advertisement to learn massage, I thought it sounded like me,’ Shona says, twiddling the ring that is piercing her navel. ‘I love meeting new people and you certainly get to know them very quickly,’ she laughs. ‘Every bit of them! Don’t get me wrong. Lots of people think it’s about sex, but it’s not. Well, not mostly,’ she giggles. ‘I just love helping people relax and this is the quickest way and they pay you well for it.’
They manage to finish most of the wine and Frances makes her excuses. ‘I’ve got a very early start and a long day of climbing ahead so I’m going to bed early.’
‘That’s fine,’ Shona says as she gets up to leave. ‘Come by the pool when you get back. It’s the best way to relax your muscles. Everyone swears the water fixes all their complaints—arthritis and gout, broken bodies and even broken hearts. We’re open until ten.’ She winks, then sways out of the apartment.
CHAPTER TEN
Tori shakes the water from his hair as he rushes dripping out of the lake wearing only a pair of black shorts. For most people the swimming season is over but he likes to swim as late into the year as he can bear. The cool water clears his mind like nothing else and lately he has had a lot to think about. He shivers as he looks for his towel and finds it blown into the grass beside the path leading up to his cottage. He quickly rubs it over his body, then wraps it around his waist and goes inside.
The newspaper article has prompted a flood of phone calls. Journalists, politicians and no small number of the iwi have been on to him about the crater lake. It’s times like this when he begins to lament the loss of his old life, at least the fun parts of it. Strong and good-looking, Tori found it easy as a young man to get work as a labourer on building sites when he drifted north to Auckland. The money was good as well, although it slipped away too quickly on booze and dope. He met Cheryl at a pub and they made a wild couple, partying several nights a week, year in, year out. Even after they married and had a couple of kids, they thought the partying could last forever. But a decade of that took its toll on everyone.
On a trip home, the lake beckoned and Tori decided to return. He remembers the moment. He was paddling in the shallows where he had just been swimming, enjoying the feeling of the sand and mud squelching between his toes and the cold water lapping up to his knees. It suddenly hit him, as if the lake was telling him something. ‘Don’t be a fool, Tori, this is your home!’
The family settled into a small-town routine where the kids flourished with lots of family around to help and he took up fishing again, this time for a livelihood. But after a year Cheryl grew restless and moody and one day she simply wasn’t there any more. She had packed up and gone, leaving the kids with him and his mother. Tori thought of going after her but he was too proud, too scared of a second spurning.
It wasn’t long before Tori was reeled into new relationships. There was no shortage of parties in Taupo where singles and would-be singles lived it up. For a while he enjoyed the easy sex on offer, savouring the sudden intimacy of a one-night stand here and there that made him feel desired and wanted. But gradually, he became less sociable, less approachable. Now in his thirties and immersed in his business, he rarely goes to parties, preferring a few beers in the local pub and an early night.
His work makes him feel appreciated and he’s managing to save a few dollars. He’s often grateful that he took the advice of one of his old teachers he bumped into one day in the main street of Taupo. In his seventies, the man was long retired, leaving Tori struggling to recall how this gentle-looking soul had terrified him at high school.
‘I seem to remember you weren’t that great with maths at school, Tori. Might be a good idea to study bookkeeping if you’re going into business. I’ve seen a lot of dreamers around here go broke because they didn’t look after the money side of things.’
Tori followed through, spending hours each evening poring over basic accounting techniques and finding his way around computer business-software programs. His hard work and attention to detail paid off quickly and he attracted many clients happy to pay good money, usually a few hundred dollars each for the day, in the hope of catching the big one. But it isn’t without risks, with the weather often ruling out boating excursions for days at a time.
No, it isn’t the work that bothers him. It’s the pull on him by others that’s taking its toll. Many of his contemporaries who left their tribal home for the city have never returned. The elders, many of them in poor health and burnt out from previous campaigns for land and fishing rights, are increasingly relying on Tori to lead them through a maze of new challenges.
He switches his radio on to hear the news. The crater story is leading the bulletin and soon his own voice fills his small lounge room, condemning any move to interfere with the volcano. He barely recognises himself and cringes at the sound, hoping he comes across better to others listening.
He fills the electric jug with water and watches as it quickly boils. As he pours it into a cup and dunks a tea bag, he thinks about Cheryl, how once she used to make his tea or pour him a beer. He’s thought about her often lately since hearing she has moved in with another man in Auckland. It plays on his mind that maybe they had met when he and Cheryl were still together.
A yearning for her still visits him, usually in the quiet of the night when all he can hear is the soft repetitive rippling of the lake waters caressing the shore. He remembers her softness, her salty embrace. Feels the longing, the hurt, the loneliness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It is still dark when Frances hears a soft beep outside her apartment. A cool wind off the lake blows right through her as she dashes to Theo’s car. Sam is already in the front seat and barely acknowledges her as she climbs into the back. She tries to doze off again, resting her head against the door, but she is constantly jolted awake and soon gives up. She watches the unfolding of a magnificent dawn, a shining orb rising over the water from one direction with the last traces of the silvery moon still visible in the other.
It is a good two hours’ drive up past the Chateau to Whakapapa. Theo seems distracted as he parks the car, almost reversing into a large power pole. ‘Sorry, must have been the late night. Phone didn’t stop r
inging.’
They unload their backpacks and catch a chairlift to the upper reaches of the mountain. Downing instant coffee and toast at the last café, they make a thorough check of their equipment for the arduous walk ahead: mobile phones and pagers, gas masks, ice axes, crampons, survey equipment and temperature and gas recording instruments, bottles of water, dried fruit and nuts and sandwiches. Frances fingers two geophones, the small microphones that are the crux of the acoustic warning system she wants to install and start testing today. Dividing the load among them, they head up across the ridge.
‘It will take us about four hours to walk up and back and we need to spend a couple of hours at the summit. It keeps me from going to fat, something you and Sam don’t have to worry about.’ Theo pauses, his mood clearly lightening the further he is away from the office. ‘Well, not yet anyway,’ he jokes.
Frances smiles at him but Sam’s face shows no humour.
Sam leads the way up a rocky trail, followed by Frances and Theo. She is surprised to see the younger man wearing shorts but makes no comment.
‘Sam always likes to flash a bit of leg,’ Theo chuckles, as if reading her mind. ‘Don’t mind his manner. He’s a bit prickly sometimes, especially since his divorce. It was, how shall I say, messy.’
It has been several weeks since she has climbed and Frances quickly feels the decline in her fitness. Although the morning is cool and clear, it isn’t long before she warms up. She removes her parka and wraps it around her waist and puts on sunglasses to reduce the glare. The track rises sharply and within half an hour they reach the tree line.
As they scale a large group of rocks, Theo bends down to pick a small white daisy with woolly leaves and hands it to her. ‘That’s the only thing that grows up this high. We call it the North Island edelweiss. The botanists call it Leucogenes leontopodium.’
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