Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “You shouldn’t have interfered, fellow. No harm would’ve come to you, or her. Now you’ve made a mess. I’m afraid in cleaning it up I’ll have to make a bigger one.”

  Coffin’s gaze never left the weaving knife as he continued backing up. “Get out. Get out now and we’ll call it done. You haven’t hurt anyone yet.”

  “Yet. Now that’s the key word, ain’t it?” He lunged suddenly, stabbing with the blade. Coffin jumped clear, feeling the bed against the back of his legs. He stepped up onto the mattress, still retreating. Halifax followed, readying the blade for another swipe.

  Suddenly he was fighting for balance. Valerie had kicked out strongly, catching the preoccupied kidnapper at the ankles. As he flailed wildly Coffin tackled him and the two men went down together.

  Halifax’s knife went sliding as they hit the floor hard with Coffin on top. Andrew tried to position one fist to deliver a solid blow, but it was like wrestling a bear. Halifax clung to him tightly. They rolled over several times, slamming into the door and knocking it shut. Meanwhile Valerie had struggled into a sitting position and was trying her best to scream through the tight gag.

  Halifax tried to break clear and make a dive for the knife where it lay gleaming against the carpet. Andrew hung on desperately, clawing at the other man’s waist and legs. Seeing what was taking place, Valerie swung her legs off the bed and hopped toward the door. Though bound at the ankles she managed a short, sharp kick with one foot. The deadly blade went skittering clear across the floor.

  The kidnapper bellowed a curse and kicked back at Andrew, catching the younger man in the nose. As Andrew’s hands went to his face Halifax scrambled toward the knife. Andrew recovered, leaped to land on Halifax’s back as the other man’s right hand closed on the handle of the knife. They fought like that, Halifax fighting to turn to bring the blade to bear, Andrew struggling to keep him on his stomach.

  Valerie had backed herself against the washstand. She felt with her fingers until they closed around the handle of the ceramic water pitcher. It was full of lukewarm water. Now she hopped toward the two men, positioned herself as best she was able, and released her grip. The pitcher landed heavily on Halifax’s skull. He uttered a surprisingly high-pitched yelp and then was still. Warm water spilled across the floor.

  Gasping for breath, Andrew rose from the unconscious kidnapper’s back. He took the skinning knife from the man’s limp fingers and began cutting Valerie’s bonds. When he had her wrists free she removed the gag as he went to work on her ankles.

  “What is going on? Who are these men? Why were they doing this to me?”

  “I wish I had some answers for you, love.” Andrew straightened. “Are you all right?”

  “Just scared. They didn’t try to hurt me.” Across the room the man with the broken jaw was starting to moan. “I was getting ready for bed when Tarawera started to blow up. Someone knocked on the door saying everyone had to leave the hotel. When I opened it these men rushed in on me. They wouldn’t even talk to me.” She started to shake as she pointed to the burlap sack. “I think they were going to put me in that. But why?” She shook her head, dazed and disbelieving. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

  “Neither do I, but we haven’t time to wonder about it now. We’ve got to get away from here.”

  “No.” She held onto his hand, holding him back. “This is the best place to stay, Andrew. The hotel is the strongest building in Te Wairoa.”

  He hesitated. “Father insisted we ride for Rotorua. I’m not sure he’s right, but when he’s that positive it’s usually a good idea to take his advice. Come on.”

  Still she held back, clutching the neckline of her night dress against her throat. “I can’t go like this.”

  “Get a coat then.”

  She nodded, pulled her one winter garment from the closet and followed him out of the room. How beautiful she was, he couldn’t help thinking, even in the dim light of the hotel with the heavy coat enclosing her completely.

  Descending the stairs they nearly fell as another quake rattled the building. They plunged out into the crowd on the front porch, ignoring the comments of those around them.

  Andrew’s horse was gone. Bolted or stolen, it didn’t matter now. He looked around wildly, wiping ash from his eyes.

  “This way!”

  The hotel stables were around back. He led Valerie that way, half pulling, half carrying her. The stables sheltered riding horses and the long-bed carriages used to convey tourists to the lake and boat landing. Lifting Valerie easily, he set her on the driver’s bench.

  “What are you doing?” She held her coat tight at the front.

  “We’re taking this one.” He ran to the first stalls and brought two frightened horses out, began hitching them up. They bucked and pawed the ground but allowed him to secure bits and tack.

  “Andrew, we can’t do this. It is.…”

  The rest of her words were obliterated by a colossal explosion from the mountain across the lake. Coffin didn’t look in that direction. He worked at the hitches with single-minded intensity.

  Then he was swinging himself up onto the seat next to her. He yelled and chucked the reins. The horses hesitated uneasily, then bolted. With a violent lurch forward the carriage burst clear of the stables. Andrew had thoughtfully put blinders on both animals.

  “Andrew,” Valerie shouted, “this is stealing!”

  “I’m not stealing, I’m borrowing. We’ll bring it back.”

  No one saw the carriage as it careened out the stables and swung wildly onto the road leading to Rotorua. With the blinders in place the horses concentrated on their running. It helped that they were racing away from the lightning and noise.

  Heavier rock and volcanic debris began to rain down atop the carriage. The rain lip which normally protected the driver kept the bulk of it off the two desperate refugees. The horses enjoyed no such protection but if anything the intensified ashfall spurred them to gallop faster.

  They were nearing the crest of the highest hill when Valerie happened to look back. She let out a cry in Maori. Holding the reins, Andrew turned also. As he did so a light so bright it hurt his eyes filled the entire lake basin.

  With a roar neither of them would forget for the rest of their lives the entire right side of Mount Tarawera split open as though blasted by a titanic axe. A crack twelve miles long appeared in the earth, running from the mountain along the far side of the lake. The ground wrenched beneath the carriage and the terrified horses somehow increased their pace. All along the vast fissure magma began to fountain into the sky.

  “The world is coming to an end!” Valerie moaned.

  “Just this part of it!” Andrew turned back to the road and shouted at the panicky horses, trying to give them the reassurance he could not enjoy himself.

  Tarawera and the town of Te Wairoa were miles behind them when something began to splatter on the top of the carriage. It was a wet, smacking sound, very different from the dry patter made by falling pumice. Valerie extended an arm, brought it back to gaze in amazement at what lay in her hand. She showed it to Andrew.

  “Mud. Ungwa.” Despite his mastery of the language, that was a word he didn’t know. She tried to explain.

  “It comes out of geysers sometimes. But there are no geysers on Tarawera.”

  “Nobody knew Tarawera was a volcano, either.” Grimly he urged the tiring horses on.

  They’d fled another half-mile when they first heard the sound. At first it was a soft whistling. It grew rapidly in volume and intensity. Coffin fought to slow the horses.

  “What the Devil is that?”

  “Wind,” Valerie murmured, “but it is all wrong. I have never heard the wind sound like that.”

  He rose and tried to penetrate the gloom that surrounded them, could see little but falling mud and ash. “I think we’d better try and find some shelter.”

  “But your father said we should go to Rotorua.”

  “I don’t think father anticipate
d anything like this. Besides, the horses are about done.”

  Squinting hard, he thought he could see a squarish shape in the center of the cornfield that bordered the road. Finding a spot where the fence was down, he urged the horses through.

  It was a storage barn, solidly fashioned of pine. The horses were relieved to be in out of the mud and ashfall. Outside, the eerie wind continued to rise.

  He tried to determine which end of the barn was sturdiest, tied the horses up nearby. Then he and Valerie walked to the open, far end and stared outside.

  As they stood gazing into the night it finally struck him what was so peculiar about the wind. He’d been through many storms, but never one like this.

  “It’s rushing toward the volcano,” he whispered to her. “Toward the lake, and Tarawera.” He put both arms around her and drew her close.

  As he did so the full force of the gale struck like a hammerblow. Valerie screamed as the hurricane hit. The wall blew inward, timbers splintering and planks flying apart, knocking them to the ground. Dazed, they crawled until they bumped up against something solid.

  Exhausted and aching, they fell asleep while the unnatural storm raged around them.

  10

  Andrew Coffin opened his eyes. As they slowly grew accustomed to the feeble light he made out posts and planks lying everywhere.

  He sat up, saw they had crawled into a corn crib. The sturdy walls still stood, though the ferocious storm had collapsed most of the barn.

  Valerie lay curled up in her coat next to him. He reached down to shake her. “Val. Valerie, wake up.”

  She let out a tired groan, rolled over and rubbed at her eyes. Her exquisite face was dirty with ash. “Andrew—what is it?”

  “Can’t you hear? It’s stopped.” Indeed, the horrible wind had subsided, though mud and ash continued to land on what remained of the roof. “Are you okay?”

  Slowly she sat up. “I think so. That was a great wind. The Devils were sucking the air back into the Earth.”

  “Something sure as Hell was.”

  He rose on shaky legs. Every muscle and bone in his body felt bruised. He staggered through the darkness toward where he’d tied the horses. They were still there, trembling and damp with nerve sweat. Patiently he talked to them, stroked and petted until they calmed down enough to be secured to the carriage.

  It felt as if he’d been asleep for days, though it was still dark as night outside. Rejoining Valerie, he removed his pocket watch and struck a match in front of it.

  “Ten o’clock.” He flipped the protective cover closed, looked out through the ruined wall. “In the morning. It’s the ash, the ash and the mud. There must be a huge cloud above us.” She nodded in agreement.

  He gave her a hand up. “We can’t stay here forever. We should try and make it to Rotorua—if Rotorua’s still there.”

  “No.” She threw her arms around him. “Andrew, I’m frightened. What if another wind comes?”

  “I don’t think it will, but if it does we’ll find shelter elsewhere. There isn’t much left here anyway. If we stay and this stuff keeps falling like this we’ll be buried alive. Come on now.”

  He helped her into the carriage. The horses refused to move and for the first time in his life he had to make use of a riding crop. Though it cut him inside he kept whipping them until they started forward. Blood showed on their hindquarters.

  What they could see of the cornfield in the darkness was gone. Where there had been neat rows and furrows and bound bundles of cornstalk there was now only mud and lumpy ash. Pumice continued to fall, striking the roof of the carriage as soon as they exited the barn.

  Memory more than sight led them back to the road. The numbed, dispirited horses would not move faster than a fast walk despite Andrew’s best efforts to encourage them. But at least they moved.

  It was still dark when they reached Rotorua. The town was quiet, the first panic having spent itself much earlier. Now people moved with purpose, employing a startling assortment of coverings to protect themselves from the gritty rain.

  Andrew and Valerie made for her father’s house. Neither Opotiki nor her mother were there, but a number of other relatives and friends were. Anxious discussion followed tears and hugs of greeting.

  No one else from Te Ariki, Te Wairoa, or the villages that lined the shores of Lake Tarawera, Lake Rotomahana, or the Blue and Green Lakes had arrived in town. They were the first, and so far the only refugees from the Tarawera District.

  “Don’t expect anyone else soon,” Andrew told his audience. “We got out fast, before the mud and ash really started coming down. At that point I don’t see how anyone could have made it up the road, but if the buildings held against the wind there should be plenty of survivors.”

  “It was Tarawera,” Valerie explained. “It blew up. All the ground around it blew up. The whole Earth was on fire.”

  “We could tell that something very bad was happening,” said old Makewe, one of Valerie’s uncles. “Geysers here that have been many years dead are now active again, and all of the hot pools and mud pots are bubbling violently.

  “Many wanted to flee from here to the sea, and some have. They worried the ground would open and swallow them up. But most of us were too afraid to go outside for fear of being suffocated by the ash and mud.”

  Andrew glanced outside. What the old man was saying was clearly true. Volcanic debris was falling as heavily here as it had been at Tarawera when they’d fled. Rotorua was ten miles from the lake, sixteen from the mountain itself. The volume of solid material being ejected from the volcano must be nothing short of incredible.

  What must it be like at the hotel now, he wondered?

  “We’ll stay here as long as the roof holds,” he told Valerie. “If the buildings start to go we’ll load the carriage and make a run for the coast.”

  “If the horses will go that far,” she reminded him. “They are worn out, and so am I.”

  Everyone agreed to remain unless the town became completely untenable. Andrew helped Valerie to one of the beds, knelt next to her. It was afternoon outside, but you still needed a lamp to see by. She’d washed her face. In the golden glow of the lamp she seemed to radiate her own inner light.

  “It’s going to be all right.”

  She smiled and reached up to caress his face with both hands. “The important thing is that we are together.”

  “Always.” He bent to kiss her. She began to laugh softly and he pulled away. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your face.” He had yet to wash and volcanic dust coated him from head to toe. “You look like a wild man. Like one of the old warriors.” One finger traced patterns in the dust. “There. Now you are properly tattooed.”

  “Until I bathe again.” He grinned. “Now try and get some rest.” She nodded, they kissed again, and then he rose to leave.

  He returned to the front part of the house where a group of Opotiki’s relatives had gathered. They were dressing in pakeha clothes. Andrew approached Makewe, who was wrestling with boots.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We are going to climb the big hill and try to see Tarawera. Do you want to come?”

  “My mother and father are still back there. I’ll come.”

  Makewe nodded solemnly. When the Maoris had dressed, Andrew followed them out, adding the light of his lamp to those of the others.

  “Look there,” one of the men in the lead said, pointing to his right where hot water could be both seen and heard as it fountained twenty feet high. “That geyser has been quiet for ten years.”

  “That is nothing,” said one of the others. “There is a hot spring in the middle of the big meeting house. It burst right through the floor where I was standing. I and those with me barely got out alive.”

  They struggled up the hill through the falling ash. At first nothing was visible in the direction of Tarawera. Then the wind must have shifted because the dark ash cloud parted enough to enable them to make out the distant glow si
xteen miles away. Lightning crawled across the sky as they stared in awe.

  As they watched, a tremendous blast echoed across the land, as if the biggest cannon in the world had gone off not far away. From the twelve-mile rift that snaked its way down the mountain a shaft of light climbed skyward. Then the dust cloud closed tight around them again.

  Something struck Andrew a sharp but light blow on the head. As he knelt to recover the cooling missile more of the pea-sized pebbles fell around the climbers. They could hear the volcano blasting away in the distance.

  “We are all going to die here,” one of the men muttered as he crossed his arms over his head to protect himself.

  “Shut up,” Makewe snapped. “The gods will decide that. Meanwhile we stay.” He turned and started back down the hill towards town.

  All through the afternoon and another terrible night the inhabitants of Rotorua and Ohinemutu cowered in their homes and places of business. Morning of the following day brought welcome if weak sunlight, and not a few cheers of relief.

  The whole village wore a blanket of ash and dust. The eruption had ceased and the dense black cloud which had lain over the district had dissipated. Life took on a semblance of normality. Those without immediate responsibilities began to form rescue parties. Riders left to carry word of the disaster to Tauranga on the coast since the telegraph lines were down all over the region.

  Andrew had joined one of the first rescue parties and was readying the horses when Valerie joined him.

  “I am going with you,” she told him.

  He shook his head. “No. It’s too dangerous. We don’t know what Tarawera’s going to do, or what it might still be doing. I have to go. I have to find out what’s happened to my parents.”

  “And what of my Aunt Merita? I am going also. If I have to I will walk.”

  “All right. I know that tone. Get aboard.” She climbed up onto the driver’s bench.

  Men were working frantically, hitching horses to wagons, loading everything that might be needed by the survivors at Te Ariki and the other villages. The hotel carriage which had carried Andrew and Valerie to safety was already loaded down with food and barrels of clean drinking water.