Blood Roots: Are the roots strong enough to save the pandemic survivors?

by Michael Green

  She consoled herself with the thought that perhaps the yacht had been beached and would be floated off on the next high tide. Then she swung the telescope to the south and focused on the huge jumble of debris trapped between Kotanui Island and the western shore of Hobbs Bay. Not a single vessel moored in Gulf Harbour had survived. Everything had been destroyed or swept away — the workshops, the painting sheds, the floating pontoons and every single mooring pile. She was clutching at straws.

  Despondent, she focused the telescope on the canal-side, searching the ruins — there was no movement. She turned her attention to their farm on the former golf course — the dogs were chasing a sheep, which they caught and ripped to pieces. Fresh fears enveloped her; even if the children had survived the tsunami, could they have survived the dogs?

  Despite knowing that the only footprints across the strip of mud were her own, she kept searching the hillside opposite for her family. She wanted to go back and bury Christopher but was terrified the dogs would attack her again — it was too risky. Eventually, three days later, she accepted that her children must have been swept away. She felt an invisible force drawing her to the grave of her husband Bruce, and left her sanctuary.

  It took her a month to reach Epsom. After struggling to survive for six weeks with only fruit and vegetables to sustain her, she became thin and weak and realised she needed to move back to the coast. She recalled wading out as a child from Cornwallis Beach on the shores of the Manukau Harbour at low tide, her fingers searching in the sand for pipis to cook on the barbecue. She also remembered the fishermen setting their nets in the shallows, and decided Cornwallis was where she should head.

  She searched for materials and painted and erected the plaques in remembrance of her lost family. Then, having promised Bruce she would return every second month to tend his grave, she began her journey.

  6

  Thin and weak, Jane struggled to pull the rusting supermarket trolley containing her precious supply of fruit and water along the roadway. Despite her labours, she felt a sudden compulsion to divert from the route to Cornwallis and visit her childhood home in Gothic Place, Lynfield.

  Her progress was slow, and it was mid-afternoon when, tired and perspiring, she reached the end of the drive leading to her parents’ house. Weeds and bushes had forced their way through the tarmac, making it impossible to drag the trolley further. She abandoned it and forced her way through the undergrowth. The front door stood ajar, jemmied open by looters. She pulled aside the thick mat of cobwebs and dead insects and pushed her way in.

  It was the first time she had entered the distinctive pine-planked house for more than six years. Apart from the cobwebs and the pine needles that had blown in onto the carpet, the interior looked as it had done when she had last visited. Her mother’s touch was everywhere — she almost expected her to walk out of the kitchen and greet her.

  She made her way through the house, each room bringing back memories. It had been her intention to call by for only a few minutes, in much the same way she and Bruce had often called by with the children on their way to the beach, but her legs ached, and her hands were sore from gripping the trolley. Her body was spent. She collected some fruit from the trolley, opened up the patio doors and slumped into a chair on the deck, staring out over the bush towards the Manukau Harbour.

  Jane had promised herself she would resume her journey at first light, but something held her back. What was the rush? She had enough food to last a couple of days. She again sat on the deck, enjoying the sun rising over the harbour. Rays of sunlight pierced the tree branches, the shadows dancing on the walls of the house.

  After breakfast she made her way down the narrow overgrown track to Wattle Bay. It was almost low tide and the shallows were alive with fish feeding, ripples radiating from where the fish broke the surface. She couldn’t resist kicking off her shoes and paddling in the chilly water. Feeling shells with her toes, she bent down. As she gathered pipis the waters of the bay erupted. A school of kahawai had cornered a shoal of sprats. She glanced down at the pipi shells in her hands. Why was she heading to Cornwallis? She had everything she needed in Wattle Bay.

  Being busy helped at first. She reorganised the house and cleared a track down the drive, and found nets and strung them across Wattle Bay to catch fish which she smoked and stored. But once she had overcome her immediate difficulties, a cloak of depression enveloped her. It was as acute as the depression she had suffered following her rape by Tom Barker when the round-the-world yachtsman had found her alone with her children at Gulf Harbour. That depression had finally lifted as she had grown to love the consequence of the rape — her beautiful daughter Audrey.

  But there was no cure for the source of her current depression — her unrelenting loneliness. She had lost her children, together with her uncle and cousins, in the tsunami, and was convinced her father and brother had been lost at sea. Despite her father’s conviction, she doubted whether any of her relatives had survived the pandemic in England.

  She became convinced she was totally alone — the last person left on earth. She would never again talk to or see another human being. As the weeks passed, she found herself increasingly questioning the point of carrying on. It became harder to motivate herself, to search for food, to wash or comb her hair. What did it matter what she looked like? There was no one to look at her. There was no man to hold her, no man to make love to her and care for her, and no one for her to care for either.

  Perhaps she should have moved on to Cornwallis. Perhaps the happy childhood memories in her parents’ house only made the loneliness worse. But now it was too late to make the journey. Depression had sapped her will and her strength.

  At the beginning of July, twenty months after arriving at Lynfield, Jane had made one last effort to visit Bruce’s grave. It had taken all her resolve and she knew she would not be able to make the journey again. Perhaps it made more sense to join him and her children in the next world than continue to be tormented by the strange voices and sounds she sometimes heard.

  Shivering, she drew closer to the fire. She hadn’t bothered to collect and dry pine cones for the fire as she used to do. The cones she’d picked up off the drive that morning were damp. There was no heat in the fire. What was the point in keeping the fire going if it didn’t throw out any heat? She looked at the large carving knife lying on the coffee table and remembered why she had brought it through from the kitchen three days previously.

  The noises in her head sounded like the pounding of horses’ hooves; they were driving her mad. She thought she could hear her father calling her name. God was tormenting her, playing tricks. He was punishing her for not going back and burying Uncle Christopher. She reached and picked up the knife.

  7

  With Mark leading the way, the six horses plodded head-down along Halsey Drive in light drizzle. When the party turned into Gothic Place, Mark saw a column of smoke. He cast his packhorse adrift and galloped. As his horse thundered up the driveway he began calling his daughter’s name. Sliding from his saddle, he ran up the front steps and pushed open the door.

  At first he didn’t recognise the bedraggled figure with the grimy face and mop of tangled hair staring at him from the other side of the lounge.

  ‘Jane?’

  Her eyes stared at him, wild and confused. She was backing away, slashing at the air with a large knife. ‘Go away, go away.’

  ‘It’s Dad.’

  ‘You’re a trick, go away.’

  He moved towards her. ‘Jane, it’s all right, you’re safe now. Put the knife down.’

  There was terror in her eyes. ‘Why are you tricking me?’ she shouted hysterically, jabbing the knife towards him.

  ‘Jane. It’s not a trick. It really is me. Please give me the knife.’

  He was very close now. He held out his hand. Incredibly, she turned the knife inwards to stab herself in the chest.

  ‘Mum!’

  The children bursting through the door distracted her.
Mark grabbed the knife and threw it on the carpet, then he cradled her in his arms. ‘It’s all right, Jane, you’re safe.’

  The children ran over and joined them. For what seemed an age, the four of them huddled together, sobbing with a mixture of joy and relief. When the crying subsided, Zach and Nicole burst out with a stream of questions which received no answer from their shocked mother. Mark suggested that Jane should rest and Zach help him prepare a meal. Jane nodded and Nicole tenderly led her shuffling mother from the lounge.

  When Mark and Zach took the soup they had made through to the bedroom, they found Jane in bed, propped up on grimy pillows. She’d washed her face, and Nicole had cut off most of her mother’s matted hair. What was left was damp and speckled grey. They all noticed how skeletally thin she was, her gaunt face accentuating her characteristic high Chatfield cheekbones. She was shivering.

  They watched as she slowly spooned the soup into her mouth. A little colour returned to her cheeks and she stopped shivering. When she had finished the soup, Zach hurried off to get more.

  When Jane’s hunger was satisfied she started to tell them her story, describing the horror of the tsunami sweeping up the canal towards her and her subsequent futile search for survivors.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Mark said thoughtfully, recalling Nicole’s account of how the children had crawled across the mud towards Marina Hill, ‘is why you didn’t see the children’s tracks in the mud and realise they had survived?’

  ‘There were no tracks.’ There was hurt and indignation in her voice.

  ‘There was another big wave after we got across the mud,’ Zach explained.

  Jane nodded. ‘I was unconscious for several hours. I assumed there was only one wave.’

  For the next hour Mark listened as Jane finished her story, then the children began telling theirs, excitedly interrupting one another as they vied to describe the next in the series of events.

  Nicole explained how they had been attacked by the pack of dogs and forced to flee to Shakespear Park at the end of the peninsula, and how they had been unable to get back to Gulf Harbour because of the dogs.

  ‘But weeks later we heard gunfire and decided to risk the journey anyway,’ Zach said.

  ‘But the dogs caught us again and Granddad and Uncle Steven and the others had to save us,’ Nicole interrupted.

  Jane turned to her father and asked, ‘Why isn’t Steven with you?’

  ‘He’s gone back to England,’ Zach said before his grandfather could answer.

  Alarm showed on Jane’s face. The furrows deepened as Nicole added, ‘And he’s taken Jessica, Allison, Luke, Tommy and baby David with him.’

  ‘And we’re going to England too,’ Zach chimed in. ‘We’ve found a yacht.’

  ‘I found a yacht,’ Nicole corrected him.

  Mark briefly filled Jane in on his own story, detailing his voyage to England with Steven, and how they had been imprisoned at Haver House by his cousin Nigel and eventually escaped with some of their relatives before sailing back to New Zealand.

  ‘What exactly is your relationship with Allison?’ Jane asked.

  Mark could sense the resentment in her voice. He had been careful with his words and felt he hadn’t dwelt on Allison more than other members of the escape party. Somehow his daughter’s intuition had prompted the question. He suddenly felt ill at ease. ‘We were … we are … close.’

  ‘She’s expecting a baby,’ Nicole added.

  Jane’s face betrayed her feelings.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ Mark heard himself saying. ‘Would you like to rest now? We’ll tell you the rest of the story later.’

  Jane nodded and pulled the blanket over her head. Mark led Zach and Nicole out of the room.

  Mark decided they should stay at Gothic Place for a further three days. The children helped him fish at Wattle Bay and forage nearby gardens for vegetables. Good food restored Jane’s strength, while Zach and Nicole’s high spirits restored her morale.

  There was so much news to exchange. Jane wanted to know every detail, particularly about her daughter Audrey. Despite the flood of information Allison was rarely mentioned, however.

  On the fourth morning, Mark and Jane gathered family portraits from the walls and after a final nostalgic wander through the house, pulled the door closed. They packed the photographs into a pannier, mounted their horses and headed down the drive to where Zach and Nicole were waiting for them.

  ‘So what exactly was your relationship with Allison?’ Jane asked her father again. Neither of them had felt comfortable pursuing the matter further in what had been the family home.

  ‘We were … we are … married … in as much as anyone can be married in the new world.’

  ‘And she’s having your baby?’

  He nodded. Zach and Nicole fell in beside them and took over the conversation, relaying, as they had done for the last three days, a myriad of facts and events they felt their mother would wish to know. However, when the two children hurriedly dismounted and rushed off in pursuit of a guinea pig, Mark turned towards his daughter.

  ‘Your mother’s been dead nearly six years now, Jane. I miss her terribly, but life has to go on. Apart from anything else the community needs to increase its population in order to survive.’

  ‘Is that the reason you want to head back to England again?’

  ‘Yes. We should have left with Steven. I don’t know why we didn’t.’

  Her smile broke the ice. ‘Was it your obstinate streak, perhaps?’

  ‘Just as well we didn’t leave with him. If we had, you’d have been left in New Zealand all alone.’

  Jane’s smile disappeared. ‘You’ve no idea what it feels like, believing you’re the last person left alive,’ she said softly. ‘I was sure you and Steven had been drowned. I believed the tsunami had killed my children and everyone else at Gulf Harbour and, as you know, I always had doubts about Uncle Paul or anyone else having survived in England.’

  ‘Well they did. The crucial gene which gave our blood line immunity to the disease protected them, in the same way it saved you and me, our relation Corky in Australia, and hopefully will also have protected our relatives in America.’

  She looked at him, perplexed.

  ‘Your great-aunt Margaret told me she had a brother living in America. We intend to visit the west coast of the States on our way back to England.’

  Zach and Nicole arrived back. ‘Dinner,’ Nicole announced, licking her lips and holding up the unfortunate guinea pig as she swung herself back into the saddle.

  ‘What do you think of our yacht, Mum?’ Zach asked proudly as he rowed the party out to AWOL.

  ‘My yacht,’ Nicole reminded him as she stroked her dinner.

  ‘AWOL looks great,’ Jane said as Zach rowed the dinghy alongside and Nicole scrambled aboard with the painter.

  ‘She’s just the ticket,’ Mark confirmed. ‘I only hope we can get her under the harbour bridge. We’ll sleep aboard tonight and head back to Gulf Harbour in the morning overland. I’ll come back with Fergus in a few days and we’ll sail her back to Gulf Harbour.’

  ‘I found the yacht,’ Nicole said indignantly. ‘I want to sail her back now.’

  ‘We have to get the horses back.’

  ‘I’ll take the horses back if you like,’ volunteered Zach as he helped his mother onto AWOL’s boarding platform. ‘Mum, Nicole and you can sail AWOL.’

  The guinea pig made one last bid for freedom, wriggling out of Nicole’s arms and running up the side deck.

  ‘So much for wanting to spend time with his mother,’ Jane breathed as her children scrambled in pursuit of their next meal.

  Mark smiled. ‘Your son’s grown up a lot since you last saw him. Truth is he’ll be galloping back to Gulf Harbour as fast as he can to tell Fergus and the others how he’s found the perfect yacht and how he found you.’

  Zach certainly seemed to be in a great hurry the following morning. The others accompanied him ashore and help
ed him saddle the horses. Mark handed him a rifle with the remaining nine rounds of ammunition, and gave him a route map just in case he had difficulty retracing the trail they had taken on the outward journey.

  ‘Remember, stick to this route, don’t push the horses and give them plenty of rest,’ Mark said as Zach mounted the lead horse and they watched him move off, five horses strung in a line behind.

  Jane felt a lump in her throat. Zach’s tall silhouette, sitting upright in the saddle, reminded her of Bruce. ‘One of us should have gone with him,’ she sighed, shaking her head.

  Mark put his arms around her shoulders. ‘He’ll be fine. He wants to show you — he wants to show us all — that he’s grown up.’

  ‘How long will it take him?’

  ‘If he rotates the horses wisely he’ll be home by nightfall, tomorrow morning at the latest.’

  Mark rowed Jane and Nicole back to AWOL and they commenced preparations for the voyage to Gulf Harbour. A foresail was retrieved from the sail locker and clipped to the forestay, ready for when a breeze came up.

  Late morning, low tide, and still no breeze, Mark climbed into the dinghy, and rowing hard managed to tow the yacht around the bridge support to free the anchor chain. Then they commenced hauling in the chain by hand. It was covered in weed and barnacles which they painstakingly scraped away as they went. Eventually they could raise the chain no further. The anchor was so firmly dug in it would not break free.

  ‘Why don’t we just cut the chain?’ Nicole suggested.

  Her grandfather shook his head. ‘I want this anchor. It’s a good one if it holds this well.’