Phantom of Terawhiti

by Des Hunt

  Contents

  Cover

  Map

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Map

  Chapter One

  The ute bumped and squeaked as it hit another pothole. Zac felt the underside scrape against the ridge along the middle of the track. Much more of this and the thing would fall apart, which would be annoying, seeing as they’d bought it only three days before.

  He turned to his father in the driver’s seat. ‘You still think this thing was a good buy?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes!’ replied Crawford. ‘It’s perfect cover. Nobody would ever expect to see me driving something like this.’

  Zac smiled. ‘Dad! There’s no one else out here to see you, no matter what you’re driving.’

  His father gave him a quick glance. ‘Yeah, great isn’t it?’

  They lapsed back into silence as Crawford concentrated on keeping the ute on the narrow track. One mistake and they’d plummet down the steep, gorse-covered hillside. The potholes weren’t the only danger. Gusts of wind also hammered the ute, rocking it sideways. Fortunately, on this part of the track, it was blowing them into the hill, not off it — but that would change when they climbed onto the tops.

  Zac watched his father struggling with the wheel. He’d never seen him like this before. Everything about it was wrong: the heap of a vehicle; the op-shop clothes; the stubble that hadn’t seen a razor for days; the sweat-stained baseball cap; even the expression on his dad’s face, a mix of joy and determination. And yet, despite all of that, as a cover it didn’t work. Anybody looking at Crawford would not see a farmer — they’d see a man trying to look like one. They might not recognize him, but they’d know that this man spent more time in an office than he did in Wellington’s coastal wildlands.

  ‘Switch the radio on, Zac,’ said Crawford. ‘Must be time for the news.’

  Zac leaned forward and pushed the knob. There was no need to tune it, as his dad had already decided they would listen to the Keith and Sally Morning Show on Dub Dub FM. That, too, was different. At home the only station ever heard outside of the kids’ bedrooms was National Radio. For some reason, Crawford seemed to think that listening to the prattle of Keith and Sally would add to his cover. Or perhaps he thought that Dub Dub — which was short for Windy Wellington — fitted with the howling winds they were experiencing.

  ‘Turn it up, please.’

  Zac did. An advertisement was playing.

  ‘Darn,’ said Crawford, ‘we’ve missed the news. But at least we’ll get the weather forecast.’

  The screaming voice of the ad stopped and was replaced by Keith’s smooth, movie actor tones.

  Keith: Now to the weather. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s blowing a gale out there.

  Sally: Not quite, Keith. It’s force seven according to the people who know, which means that it is officially termed a near gale.

  Keith: All right! So how near to a gale is our near gale?

  Sally: Near enough. It was gale force overnight and still is in Cook Strait and on the southwest coast.

  Keith: All of which means that everyone should watch out for the wind today, both on the water and on the roads, and when walking along the footpath.

  Sally: And you better take a raincoat, as those umbrellas will be useless. Not that we’re expecting a downpour, but the southerly will bring in some squally showers.

  Keith: Is it ever going to get better, Sally?

  Sally: Later today the wind will veer to the west and drop to a strong breeze. The outlook for tomorrow, Tuesday, is for a lovely autumn day.

  Keith: And what’s in store for Wednesday and the rest of the week, Sally?

  Sally: A big anticyclone is moving in from the Tasman, so it’s fine weather for most.

  Keith: Could be the last before winter, so enjoy it while you can. Next, news and weather on the hour. You’re listening to Dub Dub on 86.6 FM.

  Another ad came on.

  ‘You sure we should be doing this?’ asked Zac. ‘That south west coast they’re talking about is here, isn’t it?’

  Crawford nodded. ‘We’ll cope.’ A pause. ‘We have to. I want to use weather like this in the book, so I’ve got to go to the tops of the hills and find out what it’s like.’

  The Book. Everything was The Book. Not only had Zac been exiled to the bleakest place in New Zealand, but he was also forced to listen to his father rave on about the novel he was going to write. The one that, apparently, he’d wanted to write all his life, although Zac had never heard about it before the recent troubles. Now it was brought up in almost every conversation. In Zac’s mind the book had quickly grown capital letters, in much the same way as people talked about The Napier Earthquake or The Wahine Disaster. Why couldn’t his father write The Book in silence, without having to share every piece of research and every snippet of information? Zac was beginning to think that The Book would drive both of them crazy before this exile was over.

  He was about to ask why strong winds were important when the ute rounded the corner at the top of the ridge, and there, in front of them, was a line of giant turbines. They’d reached the southern end of West Wind, a multi-megawatt wind farm.

  ‘Wow!’ said Zac. The sight was even more exhilarating than three days earlier when he’d seen it for the first time. That had been a calm day and the turbines had been pointing in all directions, scarcely turning. Today they were all facing south with their blades rotating under the full force of the wind.

  Crawford stopped the ute. Even before he wound down his window Zac could hear the whorsh, whorsh, whorsh of the nearest blades.

  ‘The sound of the wind being harnessed,’ said Crawford. ‘I like it.’

  ‘It kept me awake last night,’ said Zac.

  ‘What? These turbines?’

  ‘No. The wind. Something was banging outside.’

  ‘Probably a bit of loose iron,’ said Crawford.

  He wound up the window and moved on. Zac studied the turbines as they drove past. According to the pamphlet back at the house, these were just the first of the sixty-two turbines lined across Terawhiti Station and another farm to the north. Of those that he could see, only two weren’t turning. The rest, so the pamphlet said, were generating enough electricity to power Wellington city.

  Instead of following the line of the turbines, Crawford turned onto a track that headed back towards the coast. They were now sheltered from the wind, making the going easier and giving them the chance to study the landscape. The road cut across a steep hillside which dropped a hundred metres or so down to a stream. There were grassy patches at the bottom, but the rest of the hill was covered in gorse, easily identifi
ed by its bright yellow flowers. A few sheltered patches of ferns suggested that some native plants were managing to survive in among the exotics.

  There was no sign of native animals, though. In fact there were no animals visible at all. If there were birds around then they were staying out of the wind. Zac had seen sheep and cattle on other parts of the farm, but there were none here, probably because there was nothing decent to eat. Then, as if to prove him wrong, five goats raced across the track, quickly disappearing into the gorse on the other side.

  Not long afterwards, Crawford took another turn, this time onto a smaller track that wound further up the hill. They were now close to their destination.

  At 537 metres, Outlook Hill is the highest hill west of the city — the perfect place to experience Wellington’s gale-force winds. A southerly coming from deep in the Southern Ocean has nothing much to stop it until it gets to Outlook Hill. If Crawford wanted to experience wind for The Book, then he had certainly come to the right place.

  And yet it wasn’t the wind they first noticed on reaching the summit — it was the strange-looking structure adding another 20 metres to the summit’s height. Zac saw it and burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Crawford, turning the ute around so that it was facing back towards the track.

  ‘That thing,’ said Zac. ‘It looks like a soccer ball sitting on a roll of toilet paper.’

  Crawford killed the engine. ‘Yeah, I suppose it does a bit. It’s Wellington’s rain radar. That top bit detects rain over the middle of New Zealand.’

  ‘Doesn’t have much to do today,’ said Zac.

  ‘The anemometers have, though,’ said Crawford. ‘But not as much work as they did on Wahine Day.’

  Zac rolled his eyes. Here comes another lecture.

  Crawford pointed to a hill closer to Cook Strait. ‘On Wahine Day, a wind meter on that hill measured a gust of 270 kilometres per hour. It’s the strongest ever recorded in New Zealand. The wind was over 150 kilometres per hour for much of the morning. Also a record.’

  ‘What’s the speed today?’

  ‘Gale force is about 70.’

  ‘Would 270 blow us off the top?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘What about 70?’

  ‘No. It’ll be all right,’ said Crawford, stretching a hand to the door lever. He’d barely touched it when the door flew open, swinging forward until it slammed into the front panel with a crunch.

  Crawford swore.

  ‘Guess it’s too strong,’ said Zac, trying not to giggle.

  His father glared at him as he climbed out of the cab. ‘I shouldn’t have backed into the wind.’ He stood supporting himself with one hand on the cab roof while trying to pull the door closed with the other. It hardly budged.

  ‘Turn the ute so we’re heading into the wind,’ suggested Zac. ‘That should shut it.’

  Crawford nodded, but just as he went to climb back into the driver’s seat a gust threw him to the ground and out of view.

  ‘You all right?’ called Zac.

  If there was an answer, it was lost in the roar of the wind. Then Zac had other things to worry about: the ute was drifting forward, powered by the wind. As it picked up speed there was a thump from a back wheel running over something. It slowed the vehicle for a moment before another gust blasted in.

  Now it was rolling on steeper ground. If Zac didn’t do something soon he’d roll off the summit. And then there’d be no stopping the thing.

  The handbrake! He looked around for one but couldn’t see it — between the seats, under the dash, nothing.

  The steering wheel! He grabbed at it, hoping to turn away from the edge. It was locked in place.

  Get out! Get out!

  His hand was already on the door lever when another thought came. The gearshift! It was on the steering column. Zac grabbed the knob and forced it down, not caring what gear he selected. There was a noisy graunch as the cogs ground against each other. Then they slipped into place.

  The wheels locked, thrusting Zac’s body forward against the seat belt. The ute swung sideways as one wheel gripped better than the others. Now Zac’s side was facing downhill. Jumping was no longer an option. What else could he do?

  Scream and hope seemed the only answer, so that’s what he did.

  Later he would make jokes about which worked best, the screaming or the hoping. One of them must have, though, because the vehicle did stop. But not before one side lifted and, for a moment, looked like it would roll. Then it settled back onto its springs with a noise that said it, too, was relieved that the crisis was over.

  Zac stayed in the seat, letting his heart and emotions settle back to normal. The wind continued to blast in through the broken door.

  ‘Zac! Zac!’

  Zac looked up to see his father limping towards him. ‘What happened to you?’ he called back.

  ‘Back wheel ran over my leg.’

  So that was the thump. ‘Is it okay?’

  ‘Hurts a bit, but nothing’s broken. What about you?’

  Ignoring the question, Zac asked, ‘Doesn’t this thing have a handbrake?’

  ‘Yes. It’s on this side of the seat.’ Crawford leaned down and pulled at something. There was a ratcheting sound. ‘Looks like I forgot to put it on.’

  Zac shook his head in disbelief. This from a man who was trying to make out he was a farmer. It was never going to work. It was only the fourth day of their exile, with six months still to go. Earlier, Zac had thought that The Book might drive him crazy. Maybe it was worse than that. By the time the thing was finished, he’d be lucky if he was still alive.

  Chapter Two

  The ute was now parked facing the wind and as close to the southern edge of Outlook Hill as Crawford considered safe. They’d managed to close the damaged door, except now it wouldn’t open, and there was a gap at the top that let in a cold draught. It didn’t seem to worry Crawford, though. He was chatting away to a tiny MP3 recorder.

  ‘… whitecaps as far as the eye can see. It’s hard to make out the lines of bigger waves until they get closer to the shore. There, they’re very obvious, crashing onto the rocks, before racing up and over the track around the shore platform. It’s easy to see how so many ships came to grief on this patch of coast. This wind is coming from much the same direction as when the Wahine sank.’

  Zac was trying not to listen; he’d heard it all before. Yet in a way he could understand his father’s fascination — almost obsession — with shipwrecks on this coast. Crawford James Morris and his identical twin, Stanley Henry Morris, were born on the tenth of April 1968: the day when the interisland ferry Wahine foundered as it tried to enter Wellington Harbour. Fifty-one passengers died in the disaster. Zac’s grandmother was not on the ship; she was at home in the suburb of Kingston. She went into labour when the house lost its roof. With storm wreckage blocking most of the nearby streets, there was no way she could get to hospital. So, with the help of a couple of neighbours, Zac’s father and uncle were born in the basement garage of the house. Zac’s grandmother claimed that she never heard the first cries from her sons because of the roar of the storm outside.

  ‘I can’t see where the Wahine ran aground,’ continued Crawford. ‘But I can see where many other ships met their end. Thoms Rock and Tongue Point together have taken many over the years. Somewhere there is where the Penguin sank with the loss of seventy-five lives. That would be a good place to start my story. Maybe base it on the disappearance of the City of Dunedin. Perhaps have someone find the wreck whilst diving for paua. Could have some gold found. After all, the ship was taking people to the South Island goldfields …’

  Gold, thought Zac. Why would you want to have gold involved?

  It was gold that had exiled them to this godforsaken place. Stanley Morris, Crawford’s twin, was a dealer in gold. He’d had a company called Fort Morris that took money from investors and bought gold, which was then stored in vaults deep below the company’s headquarters. But whe
n things got tough and people asked for their gold to be changed back to money, it was discovered that more than two hundred million dollars was missing. By then dear Uncle Stanley had left the country and was living in his luxury mansion on an island he owned in the Caribbean. That’s when the troubles started for Zac’s family.

  With Stanley Morris out of reach, angry investors targeted his identical twin brother, Crawford. He looked the same as Stanley, carried the Morris name, and had been involved in setting up the company more than five years earlier. The annoying thing was, Crawford had invested a lot of money with his brother and had lost just as heavily as those who were attacking him.

  When someone said that Stanley had been seen in New Zealand, the media started pestering the rest of the family. Crawford decided it was time to get out. Zac’s mum, Emma, and his sister, Hayley, went to Europe where Hayley was studying ballet under a scholarship she had won before Fort Morris collapsed. Crawford and Zac moved from Auckland down to Terawhiti Station where they would stay until things settled and normal life could resume.

  ‘Hello! Is there anyone there?’ asked Crawford, tapping Zac on the shoulder.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, “Let’s get out so I can take some photos.” The gusts have eased now.’

  ‘You can. I’m staying here. Just make sure the handbrake’s on this time.’

  ‘I can’t get out unless you do. Remember, this door’s stuck.’

  Zac sighed deeply before cautiously opening his door. While it required some force to push it open against the wind, it didn’t seem too dangerous. He decided to get out and have a look around himself.

  The top of the hill was mostly tough grass and bare patches. In places, piles of round, black pellets indicated that the goats sometimes came up here, although they clearly had enough sense not to in a near gale or whatever it was now. Around the edges of the summit gorse bushes grew close to the ground, their tops neatly trimmed by the wind.

  ‘See that lighthouse on the rock down there,’ said Crawford, moving alongside Zac. ‘They started building that in 1913, four years after the Penguin sank.’

  Zac nodded. ‘But it doesn’t work now,’ he said in a know-it-all voice. ‘Because they’ve put one on the shore where it’s easier to service.’