Finding, p.8
Finding, page 8
‘Let’s see.’ I began edging towards it, bracing myself against the bank with both hands. The water only reached up to my ankles here, but it was so fast, so full of power, that it tugged me sideways. We stared at the dark wooden shape wedged on the ledge just ahead. I could see more details now: raised hands, legs astride, patterns like tree-trunks at the sides.
I sloshed forward another step. ‘Be careful,’ Tipene muttered.
‘It’s OK. The water’s shallow.’
My friend shook his head. ‘I don’t mean that.’ His eyes were fixed on the carving just three steps away; his lips were parted.
I gazed at the carving again, and a shiver ran through my body. The paua eyes seemed to glitter straight at me.
The river surged, and washed around my shins. I gripped the bank harder. Another step. I started to crouch, still bracing myself with one hand, reaching for the carving.
Then I paused. I straightened up and moved aside. I heard myself speaking to Tipene. ‘You — you take it.’
It must have sounded stupid, like I was scared or something. But my friend just nodded once. His eyes stayed on the carving. I thought I heard him murmur something in Maori, and words he’d taught me were in my head, too. He stooped and reached both hands forward, took hold of the little panel gently, easing it out of the crack just above the ledge, where the Waimoana had swept it. He stayed crouched for a few seconds, holding it. Then, very slowly, he rose to his feet.
The water frothed over our ankles. Just a couple of yards away, the river crashed past, gouging at the bank. But around us, everything seemed to have gone silent.
The carving … Whorls and diamond patterns. Rows of tiny teeth shapes, each one exactly the same size. One of the hands held a club, just like a picture Mr McDougall had shown us at school once. Even that was covered with tiny scrolls and circles. The other hand rested across the figure’s stomach. The wood was dark with water, but it seemed to glow golden under the grey sky. The silver-blue eyes glittered, and I realised Tipene’s hand was trembling.
He turned to gaze at me. Neither of us spoke, but I knew that even if I lived to be 200 (OK, not likely), I’d never forget this moment. And I felt so pleased we’d found it together.
My friend began to speak, swallowed, tried again. His fingers moved across the wood, following the winding patterns. It’s like the river, I realised: the shape of the river.
‘I — we’ll take it to Mum. To Nana Ahorangi. They’ll know what to do.’
I stared at him. Do what? Yet I already half-knew what he meant. This was so special. Special people had to decide about it.
My own hand was tracing the whorls and little diamond patterns. The current tugged harder at our feet, and I lurched slightly. Upstream, the Waimoana rumbled louder. Time we got out of here, before someone saw us and we got in deep trouble. Hell, we were going to get in trouble anyway; we’d have to explain how we got hold of this. Yet trouble didn’t seem to matter just now.
Tipene drew in a deep breath, grinned at me. ‘Incredible, eh? It’s just—’
Paaarrp! Paaarrp! From across the other side of the valley, a horn blared twice, loud and harsh. The two of us burst out laughing.
‘Yeah,’ Tipene agreed. ‘It’s just paarrp.’ As he spoke, the horn blew again, longer. Then once more. A traffic jam? Not in our valley: two trucks and a tractor going past is our idea of heavy traffic.
Tipene sighed. ‘We better get going.’ He turned to the bank we’d climbed down; nodded at a crack beside where the clay had come away in my grasp. ‘We can get up there, if you don’t wreck that handhold, too.’
‘Me?’ I pretended to be annoyed. ‘It was you swinging down like a mad gorilla that made it come loose.’
My friend grinned. He began to tuck the carving inside his shirt. ‘Typical Pakeha; making excuses.’ Now we both grinned. Yeah, I’d never forget this.
Paaarrp! Paaarrp! The car or whatever it was sounded closer now. ‘Aw, shut up!’ I called. What were they making so much fuss about?
Paaaaarrrrrp! ‘Stick a sock in it!’ yelled Tipene. I pushed my feet through the water and reached for the bank. ‘Yeah, I can fit my hand in—’
Then we went still.
My head swung to listen. A noise was growing upstream. A murmuring and sighing, like voices breathing out together. No, like an engine swelling louder. A train? Couldn’t be.
Paaarrp! Paaaaarrrrrpp! The horn blasted again. It was closer still, nearly at our place. Actually, it sounded like our truck.
The noise upriver changed. It became a roaring whoosh, a rumbling. It rose to a booming. The bank I leaned against began to shudder. We stood, staring; Tipene had one hand inside his shirt, where he’d tucked the carving. And we saw it.
It was the whole width of the Waimoana, charging towards us faster than a person could run. A foaming crest of brown and white, six feet high, smashing forward between the banks, flinging itself upwards in spouts as it came.
Those slips upstream. The dams they’d formed across the other rivers feeding into ours. One of them had broken, its water tearing into the Waimoana, a tidal wave just a few seconds away from us.
A tree flew into the air, flung by the rampaging crest, then crashed back down and vanished. The force of it! It would snatch us away; we couldn’t stand against it.
I spun around to the bank, trying to clutch at handholds, knowing I didn’t have time to pull myself up. But Tipene seized my shoulder, yelled into my ear. He was trying to go first?
No. ‘The ledge!’ he shouted. ‘Get onto the ledge!’
Next second, we were sloshing and scrambling onto the rocky lip where the carving had lain, squashing ourselves into the narrow cleft behind it. Stones scraped against my sides. I hunched my back, forcing myself further in, clutching at rocks jutting from the walls.
A monstrous booming filled the world. The light changed as a great sheet of muddy foam lifted above us. We braced our legs and hips against the sides. I screwed my eyes shut.
The wave slammed across the shelf where we’d been standing, and the solid stone trembled. Then we were underwater as it gushed into the gap where we huddled, shoving and ripping like some wild animal, ramming us against the walls. Sharp rock tore at my cheek.
Tipene lost his grip. I felt the river pluck at him; one arm slipped, and his body twisted sideways, out into the raging current. I snatched at him, so hard that my fingers sank into the flesh of his shoulder. He reeled back against the rocky wall of the crack; his head whacked into it. I held on, back jammed against the stony wall, hands locked onto my friend. We were still underwater. My lungs ached; the current yanked at me. Tipene sagged limply.
I had to breathe. I must. And right then, the water surged away as fast as it had covered us, and I crouched, dripping and gasping, half out of the gap. Tipene lolled in my grasp, slumping into the water that now churned around our knees.
I gulped, choked, managed to yell. ‘Hold on!’ My friend didn’t move. ‘Tipene!’ I saw blood sheeting down his face from the matted hair, remembered that impact of his head against the stone.
My teeth ground together in a snarl. I set my legs against the wall and heaved. Tipene half-slithered, half-slumped up into the gap beside me. Something hard scraped my ribs: the carving inside his shirt.
My heart thudded; my breath rasped. ‘Tipene! I bawled again. ‘Help!’ No movement. Blood poured down his cheek.
The river charged past. Just four steps away from where we hunched, it was still a thundering torrent, but around us it had dropped to shin-height once more. The wave from the burst dam or whatever it was had passed. But I couldn’t get up the bank; if I let go of my friend, he’d collapse onto the ledge, be swept off it into the current. We were trapped.
I shook him. ‘Tipene!’ He hung in my grip, a dead weight.
A new terror made me cry out loud. I stared at him, tried to hear any sound of breathing, see if his chest was moving. I shoved my mouth against his face. ‘Tipene! Wake up!’
He twitched and made a moaning sound. I sobbed with relief. But then his head flopped forward again. My arms and shoulders ached; I couldn’t keep holding him much longer.
I clenched my teeth, tightened my grip on my injured friend, tried to shut out the pain in my own body. What could I do? No use shouting for help: the roaring flood would drown me out. Even if anyone came along the path above, they’d never see us unless they stopped and looked down. Anyway, there was no knowing what the dam-burst had done as it tore down the valley. Animals might have been swept away; people would have their hands full. It could be hours before anyone started wondering where we were.
Tipene moaned again. I shook him, shouted at him. He stirred, then went limp once more. It was hopeless. My own body was shuddering with cold and strain.
Then I saw someone.
A figure stood in our paddock, near the hayshed. Grandad Duncan: I could see his walking stick. He seemed to be staring towards the rocks where Tipene and I were huddling.
‘Grandad!’ I yelled. He couldn’t possibly hear me. He didn’t move. Then someone else appeared, striding through the gate from our farmhouse. My father.
Had they seen us? They might just be watching the river; any second now, they’d turn and head off to check cows and fences in the lower paddocks. The two of them stood close together. My eyes were blurry with the strain of holding on to Tipene; I couldn’t even be sure they were looking our way.
I had one chance. I hauled the deepest breath I could into my lungs. I clutched a fistful of my friend’s soaked shirt, feeling the edge of the carving inside. I took one step out onto the ledge, and instantly, the water dragged and sucked at me. I braced myself as much as I could, then I lifted my right arm above my head, and waved it backwards and forwards in great sweeping arcs. Once … twice … three times. I groaned and whimpered with the effort.
The figures in the paddock moved. They seemed to jump, as if someone had yelled in their ears. My father’s own arm flew up, and he stabbed it in our direction. Then he was rushing for the stile onto the road. Grandad began limping after him; then he turned, headed for the farmhouse.
How long would it take them? How long could I hold on? I started edging back into the gap above the ledge. A splintering noise, and I froze as a big willow branch swept past in the current, crashing and grinding against the rocks. A foot closer, and it would have scraped us off into the torrent.
I jammed my shoulder into the crack, and snatched at Tipene’s belt. I was half-leaning, half-kneeling; it must have looked like I’d got him in some weird rugby tackle. He stirred once more, made a grunting sound.
‘Hang on!’ I panted. ‘Someone’s coming. Hang on!’ He seemed to hear, half-lifted a hand to grip me, then flopped again.
Dad had disappeared. He must be on the bridge now, rushing towards us. Or had the bridge been smashed by that flood surge ripping through? No, it mustn’t. It had to be there still, or else we’d — we’d die.
Movement in the paddock. Three more people hurrying through the farmhouse gate and across towards the stile. Mum and Auntie Whina. And Finola, swerving past the others. Grandad Duncan limped after them.
I shut my eyes; tried to hold Tipene even harder, began counting to myself. One … two. A swell of water burst onto us. Five … six. My arms and shoulders stabbed with agony. Ten … eleven. I couldn’t hold on any longer.
‘Alan!’ My father’s voice, right above me. ‘Alan!’ He crouched on the bank where we’d climbed down just ten minutes before, his face white and tense.
‘Tipene’s — hurt,’ I grunted. Dad didn’t move for a second, then he snatched at something beside him. Our oilskins. He began knotting the sleeve of mine onto one of Tipene’s ‘Hold on!’ He tore off his own coat, knotted it to my friend’s.
‘I’ll drop this down. Can you tie it into his belt?’
My jaw had begun to shudder so much, I couldn’t speak. I jerked my head. The crazy oilskin rope swung down, landed across my shoulders. Tipene shifted; mumbled something.
‘Dad’s here.’ My voice wobbled. ‘We’re going to pull you up.’
I seized the free end of the oilskins. Only my legs and body stopped Tipene from sliding into the water sweeping around my ankles. My numb fingers pushed at the stiff waterproof cloth, trying to stuff it under his belt. It wouldn’t go. I yelled ‘Come on!’, shoved so hard I almost lost my balance, and it slipped through. I fumbled and yanked; tied it into a double knot. My friend was starting to slide down; his legs made scrabbling movements.
Someone else had arrived on the bank. Finola, wet hair all over her face, mouth open. Just as well it’s one of her days off, eh? my mind told me, helpfully. She and Dad gripped the other end of the oilskin rope.
‘Hold — him!’ my father gasped, and began to heave. Tipene’s body lurched off the ledge and thudded into the bank. I clutched at him, teetered towards the river. Finola screamed.
Tipene saved me. My hands were locked onto his belt, and I fell forward against him, my face jammed against the knotted oilskin. It’ll break, I knew. It’ll tear apart.
It didn’t. I clutched at the bank, found a handhold, clung there. My friend’s hands moved, holding himself away from the crack. His body jerked upwards. I glimpsed Dad’s face — eyes slitted, teeth bared. Finola hauled beside him. Five seconds, and Tipene was sprawling safe on the grass, while my father tore at the knot around his waist.
I slumped against the bank, sucking in breaths. The current surged around my ankles; my heart thumped. Dad was still tugging at the oilskins fixed to my friend’s belt. ‘Hang on, son! Just a couple of seconds.’
‘Tipene!’ a new voice called. ‘Tipene!’ Auntie Whina had arrived. She dropped on all fours beside where he was sprawled. The little greenstone bat swung from her neck. Mum was there, too, hands clasped to her face, staring down at me. Silver glinted at her wrist.
Dad kept wrestling at the knot. ‘Alan!’ My mother gasped. ‘How—’
My neck hurt from gaping up at them. I tried to say something. Finola cut across us all. She’d half-risen to her feet, pointing upstream. ‘Look! Hurry, Uncle Matiu!’
At the same moment, I heard it. The same murmuring and sighing, swelling to a whooshing. Somewhere up the valley, water had burst through another slip. A second wave was coming.
Dad flicked a look, panted ‘God, no!’ He stopped wrenching at the oilskin around Tipene’s waist, begin ripping at the one further down. Another figure appeared beside him. Grandad Duncan, also panting, leaning on his axe-handle stick.
My body hunched. Could I cram myself back into the gap where my friend and I had huddled? I didn’t have any strength left. The wave would tear me away. The whooshing grew louder. Faces stared down at me.
Grandad Duncan fell. He collapsed face-down on the bank’s edge, arms hanging over. Mum called out; the others jerked towards him.
Then I realised. He was grasping one end of his axe handle, straining to push it towards me. It wasn’t long enough; a whole foot too high for me to reach.
Dad threw himself down beside my grandfather, while Mum shouted ‘Matiu!’ He gripped Grandad Duncan with one hand; his other stretched forward, seized the wooden shaft. My grandfather thrust his chest and arms over the bank, shoving the handle down further. I glimpsed Finola and the others clutching at the two men’s legs. A human ladder. The handle was almost within my reach.
The bank shook. Something huge rose in the river and thundered towards the rocks. My teeth clenched, my eyes bulged, and I hurled myself upwards.
At the same second, Dad and Grandad somehow made another lunge down. My hands seized the handle, and instantly they were yanking me up. My face rammed into the clay. The wave smashed across the rocks, swirled around my waist, plucking at me.
My hands began to slip from the wood. Then a hand snatched at my shirt, another grabbed my wrist, and I shot up over the edge of the bank like a hooked fish, thumping onto the wonderful, filthy grass.
They all had hold of me. Every one of them. My father and grandfather clutched my clothes; Mum and Auntie Whina pulled at my arms; Finola seized one hand, heaved so hard that I thought my fingers would pop out of their sockets. Even Tipene was trying to crawl towards me.
They stared at me as they knelt or sprawled on the grass. Their clothes were dirty and drenched. I stared back. Then I opened my mouth, and — and I burst into tears.
Yeah, I know. It’s pathetic. Guys don’t cry. But I lay there, water draining from me, body aching and shaking, face and chest coated with mud where they’d dragged me up the bank, and I blubbered like a little kid.
Mum crouched with her arms around me, murmuring ‘Alan … darling’ (that was pretty embarrassing, too) over and over. Auntie Whina held Tipene. An ugly gash ran from one eyebrow up into his hair; clotted blood covered half his face. He was watching me; struggling to speak. I managed a wobbly nod at him.
Finola sat beside her brother, crying even harder than I was. That made me feel better, for some reason. Dad and Grandad? They stood gazing down at us. Dad had one arm across my grandfather’s shoulders. When he saw me looking, Grandad Duncan lifted the axe handle he was leaning on once more, and grinned. ‘Told you I had plans for it.’
I turned towards Mum, gasped as every muscle in my neck and shoulders stabbed. ‘That horn. Did—’
She laid her hand against my cheek. ‘I was driving back from old Mrs Ross, and saw the flood wave charging downriver. All I could think of was to blast the truck horn, and try to warn people. I never thought you two—’ Her voice caught, and I saw she was nearly crying, too.
I tried to stand. My legs buckled and I nearly fell, but Dad had hold of me. ‘I should tan your backside,’ he went, then ruffled my hair. ‘What on earth were you doing down there?’
Tipene croaked something, struggled up until he was sitting on the muddy grass, while Auntie Whina still held him. ‘We saw — this.’ He fumbled inside his dripping shirt, and drew out the carving.
