by Des Hunt
There was no view around to Oteranga Bay; steep cliffs blocked the way. There was, however, a view down to the track that hugged the coastline. Thirty metres below the paddock was a shore platform with a gravel track winding among the rocks. It was in use: several four-wheel-drive vehicles were racing towards the bay. They had to be transporting those who couldn’t afford to hire a helicopter.
From his vantage point Zac could see that they, too, were going to be disappointed. The cliffs blocking the view would also block vehicle access. Huge waves were washing into them. The occupants would end up having to watch TV to find out what was happening — just like Zac and the rest of the country.
Crawford was cooking dinner by the time Zac got back. Or, to be more accurate, he was defrosting two of the many frozen meals they’d bought when they arrived in Wellington. In the freezer there were also sausages, steak and other stuff that would require more detailed preparation, but Crawford considered watching the news that night more important than cooking food. He wanted to see if they appeared in any of the shots and, if so, if it would blow their cover.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out: the wreck was the lead item.
It started with an aerial shot of the wreckage on the rocks and debris floating in the bay. Then it pulled back to show the shoreline, where Crawford’s ute could be seen. It was in shot for such a short length of time that nobody would really pay it any attention. Crawford gave a brief grunt of satisfaction.
Next came an interview with Will and Jess. From the way the interviewer asked the questions, it was obvious she thought it was they who had discovered the wreck. Neither of the McGonagalls said otherwise.
Footage of the rescued sailors followed. There were five of them, all men. Only one was interviewed and his English was so bad that it revealed little. All the interviewer could extract was that the yacht had been struck by a big wave and they abandoned ship. There was no mention of any dog being on board the Anastasia, or any other animal.
After an ad break an Australian correspondent came on live with Mikhail Popanov. In sharp contrast to the grunts of his crewman a few minutes earlier, Mikhail spoke fluently and with just a hint of an accent.
‘I am relieved,’ he said, ‘that the crew is safely ashore.’
The interviewer asked if there had been anything special on the yacht.
For a moment Mikhail seemed lost for words. His eyes moistened. ‘There were many things,’ he eventually said. ‘Anastasia was special. She was an important part of my life. I will miss her.’
‘Will you build another?’
‘I am not sure. It is too early to decide. I am still suffering her loss.’
Once more, there was nothing about an animal, which had Zac wondering whether he’d got it all wrong. Maybe there had been an animal called Tasha on board while the yacht had cruised around New Zealand. If it was Mikhail’s pet, then it could have gone with him to Australia on the jet. Perhaps Tasha had many different beds, toys and food bowls around the world.
The news bulletin moved on to other items, which Crawford would watch until it had finished. Zac went to his room. There he had his own personal entertainment system: a television, DVD player, game console and internet connection. When he’d first heard of his dad’s planned exile, Zac had insisted he wouldn’t go unless he had things to help fill in time. Crawford’s response had been to visit one of Wellington’s second-hand shops — shiny new gadgets had been off the shopping list ever since Stanley disappeared with the family’s savings.
Zac started a game, but soon abandoned it. He couldn’t concentrate. Something was niggling away at the back of his mind. He started watching a DVD, only to give up after half an hour. There was nothing worth watching on TV, so he went onto the internet and googled ‘Popanov pets’. There were thousands of hits, but the pets were all women — not the sort of pet that Zac had in mind at all.
He continued searching for links between the billionaire and animals. There was little enthusiasm to his search until he turned up a photo of animal tracks crisscrossing a snowfield. This was enough to release the information that had been niggling at the back of his mind.
‘Paw prints,’ he said out loud. ‘I saw paw prints!’
There had been an animal on the beach that morning. It might not have come off the yacht, but there was at least a chance that it had.
From then on Zac’s searches proved more successful. Among other things, Mikhail Popanov was an active campaigner for protecting wolves in Russia. It was not one of his more popular sponsorships, for in some parts of the country wolves were a problem. However, Mikhail claimed that if something wasn’t done to protect them, they might soon disappear. And that might cause another problem, for no one really knew what effect it would have on other wildlife living in the icy wildernesses of northern Russia.
Zac was staring at an image of the billionaire with a wolf cub when there was a knock on the door.
‘Can I come in?’ called Crawford.
Zac looked at the time on the computer. It was after ten: three-and-a-half hours had somehow disappeared. ‘Yeah,’ he replied.
‘What are you up to?’ asked Crawford, as he stepped into the room.
‘I’ve been thinking about that Roldee that Jess found. Wondering what sort of animal might have played with it.’
Crawford looked at the screen. ‘And you think it might be a wolf?’
Zac shrugged. ‘Could be a tame one.’
Crawford shook his head slowly. ‘No, Zac, your imagination is running wild again. If there was a dog on that yacht, more likely it would be a miniature dog. That’s the sort you’d find on billionaire yachts. Do a search for “Russian dog breeds”.’
Zac did, and found a miniature variety — a ridiculous-looking thing that had no right to be called a dog.
‘Those teeth marks on the Roldee were made by something bigger than that,’ he said.
‘Yeah, probably,’ said Crawford. ‘Scroll down and see what else there is.’
All the others were much bigger animals — hunting, fighting, shepherd or guard dogs. Most looked as if they had been bred from wolves.
‘Okay,’ said Crawford, sitting down on the bed. ‘Let’s assume that it is some sort of wolf dog, and that it has come ashore. If so, then it won’t be the first time something like this has happened.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Zac, even though he knew he could be letting himself in for another lecture on the history of Terawhiti.
‘Forty years back they had major dog problems around here. They were mostly strays from Wellington suburbs, such as Karori. Some would visit for a few nights to attack sheep and then return to their owners. Others made this area their home and started breeding. Some years hundreds of sheep were killed. Only a few of them were eaten. The dogs hunted the rest for sport; so many that the farm was losing money. Something had to be done.’ Crawford glanced at Zac, checking to see if he was listening — he was.
‘That something was to bring in deerstalkers to shoot them. They killed plenty, but the dogs that had been around for some time were too cunning. One dog in particular — a big Alsatian bitch — proved to be impossible to get. She was born on the property and had reverted to the wild.’ Crawford paused to point to the screen. ‘She would also have had wolf genes, and I guess it was those instincts that took over. She became a legend. The Terawhiti Ghost she was called. Somebody even wrote a poem about her. Over the years she killed more sheep than all the other dogs put together. The deerstalkers couldn’t get her, nor the police. Even some army guys tried. They failed too. In the end it was the wind that caused her downfall.’
This time his pause was long enough for Zac to think the story had finished. ‘How?’ he asked.
Crawford smiled. ‘Apparently it was a day just like this morning, with the wind howling in off the sea. The manager was going down the Karori Stream — that’s just to the east of here — when he saw the sheep behaving strangely. He went to investigate and heard barkin
g. Taking the rifle off his back he crept closer and caught the bitch feeding. He shot her before she was even aware of his presence. If it hadn’t been such a strong southerly, she would have caught his scent or heard him and been well gone before he got near enough to shoot. So, in a way, it was the wind that killed her, not the bullet. Either way you look at it, she was dead. The Terawhiti Ghost was no more. A death that I’m sure nobody on this property mourned.’
They were silent for a time before Zac said, ‘And you think it might happen all over again?’
Crawford shook his head. ‘No, not really. If there had been a dog on the yacht, the crew would surely have mentioned it. So don’t let your fantasies start running away with you. Believe me, there’s not going to be another Terawhiti Ghost.’
Chapter Five
Dub Dub FM made a feature of the wreck the next morning. Keith and Sally talked about it endlessly, although they added little to what Zac already knew. Except for one exchange.
Sally: Police are advising everyone to stay away from Oteranga Bay. Apparently Mikhail Popanov has signed an agreement for the salvage of the vessel. This means that taking things off the shore or fishing them out of the sea is illegal unless you’re working for the salvors.
Keith: What’s this all about? Is there something valuable out there?
Sally: Who knows? It’s probably just something to do with insurance.
Keith: Or there’s stuff on that boat they don’t want others to see.
Sally: Oh! Is this another one of your conspiracy theories?
Keith: Not necessarily. I just think it’s likely that a billionaire would have a few secrets hidden away on his luxury yacht.
Sally: Yes, maybe. But we’re not about to find out because security guards have been placed at the mouth of the Karori Stream and only authorized persons will be allowed past.
Keith: That doesn’t stop people going around by boat, though, does it?
Sally: No. But didn’t you say there’s still a sea running on the south coast?
Keith: Yes. Two-metre waves at Lyall Bay, which will have the surfies wondering whether they should go to work or take the day off.
Sally: Maybe just take the afternoon off, Keith, as it’s low tide this morning at three minutes past ten. The high this afternoon is at …
Crawford had been soaking his injured leg in the bath and had heard nothing about the ban, so he raised no objections when Zac said he was going to ride around to Oteranga Bay. He just warned him to be careful going around the cliffs beyond Cave Bay where the shore platform was narrow. He also suggested packing some lunch and a mobile phone.
The track down to the beach was closed by a padlocked gate. Zac could understand the need for a gate to keep the animals in their paddocks, but the padlock seemed a bit much, especially as he and his bike had to go over the top.
The lock began to make more sense when he got down to the shore. It was almost as if the place had been set up as a four-wheel-drive adventure park. Vehicle tracks covered every slope, bump and hollow. If the gate hadn’t been locked, they’d be all over the farm as well.
The towering waves of the previous day had lessened in the breeze, which was now blowing off the land. The mountains of the South Island were clearly visible, their tops white with new snow. Nearer to Zac, two interisland ferries were about to cross, travelling in opposite directions. Cook Strait was once again open for business.
The first obstacle on the way to Oteranga Bay was Waiariki Stream, which flowed out of a deep valley that divided the hills behind the homestead flats. Fortunately, the stream had split into many tributaries as it travelled over the beach, which made crossing it relatively easy. Zac noted that he was not the first to cross that morning: a wide vehicle had left wet tracks on the Oteranga side. Maybe the security guards had passed this way.
Although the track was well used, the heavy gravel made it tricky going, even on a mountain bike. It was worse still crossing Cave Bay, where waves had destroyed the track during the storm.
The cliffs that had blocked his view the day before marked the end of the bay. It was just on ten o’clock and, according to Sally on Dub Dub, the tide should be at its lowest. And yet some waves were still surging up to the cliffs, before flowing back in a rattle of gravel. The best Zac could do was hop off and carry his bike, rushing from rock to rock between waves.
The track resumed on the other side, although it was not as clear as before, suggesting that fewer vehicles made it this far. He crossed several streams coming down off Outlook Hill before reaching the southern end of Oteranga Bay. It had taken an hour and Zac was ready for a rest.
There was no sign of the vehicle that had come before him, or of the people in it. In fact, there was no sign of any life, which was disappointing. On his way around the rocks Zac had imagined finding a wolf. One which would come when he called the name Tasha.
It had been a stupid thought. Chances were there was no wolf, nor any other animal. More likely the pet who had eaten from the silver bowl was now dining out of a similar bowl in Sydney.
There was more wreckage on the beach than before, although, as yet, there was no indication that anyone was trying to salvage it. Maybe the salvors were behind the cable building, near where the bowl was hidden. A clearer view was required and the best place was further out on the headland.
Although scrambling over the rough rocks wasn’t easy, it yielded a much better view. Zac tried to stay low and hidden behind the bigger rocks, just in case somebody was looking his way. This required so much of his attention that he was only vaguely aware of a bad smell — until he put his hand on a pile of black slimy stuff. Then the stink of animal poo was overpowering.
‘Yuk!’ he cried, flicking his hand to get rid of the muck. ‘What’s that?’
Some of the stuff came off and splattered against the rocks, creating more of a stink, but plenty stayed stuck to his hand. He moved towards a rock platform where he thought there might be a pool tucked in among the rounded rocks, somewhere to wash his hands.
He never made it. As he climbed onto the platform, he was greeted by a deep growl — the sound of a large animal.
He ducked back down. Was this the animal from the yacht? It didn’t sound like any pet he’d heard before. Cautiously, he raised his head. Again the animal growled. But this time, instead of ducking, Zac looked around, searching for the creature. There was nothing.
Breathing deeply, he stood to get a clearer view. The growling got louder. Then a rock in front of him reared up. A mouth opened and the roar of a lion filled the air.
Except it wasn’t a lion; not any sort of cat. It was a seal. A large bull who didn’t like his morning snooze being disturbed by some puny human. Zac scrambled backwards, away from the creature.
This was a foolish move. He’d taken just two paces when his foot caught in a gap between two rocks, causing him to crash onto his back. For a moment the seal was out of view, although that didn’t stop the roaring which seemed to get louder as if the animal was almost on top of him. Zac struggled to free his foot, expecting an attack at any instant.
It never came. The roaring lessened to a growl. By the time Zac released his foot, the growling, too, had gone and been replaced by heavy breathing. He took a peek and saw that the seal had returned to being a rock. Except this time he could see the rise and fall of its body as it breathed. Leaving it to sleep, he moved away to find some water in a safer place.
The smell hadn’t been entirely washed away when Zac resumed his journey. Keeping an eye out for both humans and animals, he wheeled his bike along the gravel. For most of the way the cable buildings were hidden behind the cliffs. There was, however, a clear view of the rest of the bay. There was still nothing to indicate any human or animal activity. If the vehicle had contained security guards, then they weren’t doing much of a job.
By the time he made it to the ramp leading up to the cable compound, Zac was becoming increasingly nervous about the ghostly absence of life. The humming noise
coming from the buildings didn’t help. It made him think of alien movies where secret things happen in buildings far away from civilization — like something out of Area 51. Perhaps it was no accident that the yacht had come aground in this bay …
Finding the right gorse bush was not as easy as he’d thought it would be: there were dozens that all looked the same. In his urgency to hide the bowl, Zac hadn’t considered how he would recover the thing. Now he realized he’d have to climb above the road cutting and search them all.
Leaving his bike, Zac scrambled up the crumbling bank, feeling very exposed, sensing that eyes were everywhere. At the top he crawled to the nearest bush where, despite the prickles, he hid with a sigh of relief.
This feeling was short-lived. There was a movement in a nearby bush, followed by a loud, hissy growl and a flash of white as something shot away.
Zac’s heart stopped.
What was that?
He spun around, but all there was left to see was the swaying of the bushes where the thing had passed. His heart restarted, now thumping as if it wanted out of his chest.
Then there was a rustling from further up the hill.
‘Tasha!’ he called, softly.
The noise stopped. Slowly he rose to his feet. This time he called the name louder. ‘Tasha!’
Nothing.
He took a few steps up the slope before calling again. ‘Tasha!’
A bush moved, no more than ten metres away. ‘Tasha,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘It’s all right; I won’t hurt you.’ The movement stopped. He climbed a bit higher before he spoke again. ‘It’s okay, Tasha. I’m a friend.’ He stretched his hand towards the bush. ‘Come out and see me.’ He squatted down. ‘Come on, Tasha.’
There was a faint movement.
Yes! She’s coming.
But then a seagull chose that moment to let out its loud, raucous cry. Tasha exploded out from the other side of the bush, Zac getting just a glimpse of a spotted white body before it disappeared uphill.
He stood, hoping to see where she stopped. But this time she kept going, leaving a brief trail of swaying bushes. He saw her twice more as she darted between plants. Each time, just a flash of white. Then nothing.