Weeping Waters

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  ‘Hey, Tori, you don’t know that for sure. The kids liked her and they’re good judges.’

  Tori nods. ‘Maybe. I can’t tell.’

  They quickly reach the outskirts of Taupo and the ute’s headlights shine on a possum dashing across the highway.

  ‘Missed,’ Tori says under his breath.

  They pass the dark forests on one side of the road and the moonlit lake on the other.

  ‘So she’s coming back? Cheryl.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Tori. Just what I heard. She rang Mum the other day and said she was breaking up with that guy in Auckland. Says she’s coming soon to see Moana and Hemi. Mum wasn’t sure if she meant for a few days or for good.’ Mata pauses to study her brother’s face. ‘Do you still want her back?’

  ‘No. I mean I don’t think so.’ Tori can hear the emotion in his own voice.

  He pulls up outside a line of small houses set back from the road.

  ‘I’m moving on, remember?’ He grins at his sister as she gets out of the car. ‘I won’t come in. Just want to get home. See you tomorrow and we can get back to the family business.’

  He puts a favourite Dire Straits CD into the player and taps the steering wheel in time to the beat of ‘Brothers in Arms’ as he drives quickly towards his empty house. He feels rattled by Cheryl’s imminent arrival, but the image that stays in his mind is of Frances and Sam.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The usual,’ Frances tells the waitress at the café she frequents most days.

  ‘Sure, Frances. Won’t be long.’

  Sitting at an outside table, she flicks through the paper quickly then puts it aside, closes her eyes and feels the morning sun caress her face. Then, as she glances across the road by the lake she sees a familiar figure. Tori Maddison’s bulky silhouette is unmistakable and he is heading her way, weaving deftly through the traffic. He hasn’t seen her and at first she considers pulling up the collar of her jacket and hiding her face in her newspaper but instead she calls out to him.

  ‘Tori, over here.’

  He walks over without smiling, greets her briefly and begins to move away.

  ‘Would you like to join me?’ she says. ‘My shout.’

  He turns to face her, noticing how the sun catches her shining hair and eyes. ‘I’ve a lot to do…’

  ‘Please.’ She surprises herself with her insistence.

  He sits opposite her and orders a pot of tea.

  ‘Tori, I just wanted to apologise for the other night. It was out of my control. I was upset myself and I left just after you. Sam takes things too far.’

  At first he says nothing, then he points across to the lake. ‘The fish are on the move. All heading upstream to breed. Only the strongest will survive,’ he says.

  ‘Is that what you think this is all about?’ she asks. ‘That it’s the fighters among us who’ll win?’

  ‘Perhaps. I thought you might be different to the others. You say you’re sorry but you looked pretty comfortable with that group.’

  ‘You read too much into it. I met them for the first time that night. They’re friends of Sam’s and we just met them for a drink.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Frances, I hadn’t realised you and Sam…’

  ‘We’re not—we work together and that’s it. Sam just had a bit too much to drink and was being overfriendly.’

  He looks at her doubtfully.

  ‘Anyway, I guess I hadn’t realised you were involved with somebody yourself. Was that your wife?’

  For the first time he laughs. ‘My sister. My sister Mata. She was just up from Wellington for a few days. Family business.’

  ‘I guess there’s been misunderstanding on both sides.’

  ‘Yes, I should have remembered the advice I was given by my grandmother when I was a little kid. She said, “When it comes to gossip, believe nothing that you hear and half what you see.” I’ll have to remember that in future.’

  ‘We both will,’ Frances says. ‘I saw how important family is to you when we went up the mountain. And I envy you being able to go back generation after generation and have some connection to those people. I don’t have much family.’

  As he throws her a look of sympathy, she asks him about his wife. The question floors him, pain crossing his face. ‘I didn’t intend to be living alone,’ he says at last. ‘It wasn’t what I wanted but it’s what I accept.’

  He pauses and stares at the tea he’s swirling around in a large white cup. Eventually he turns to her with a question in his eyes.

  ‘Oh…well, I’m on my own now too. And it wasn’t what I planned either.’

  ‘So we’re a couple of dumpees?’ he says and they laugh together easily.

  He leans towards her. ‘I’m glad I’m on my own otherwise I mightn’t have given you a second glance,’ he says. ‘You remember we talked about the bund to save the fishing. I was wondering if you’d be interested in coming out on the river with me and some of my clients. Maybe you could catch one of those fish for yourself.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  When the alarm clock wakes her, Frances can’t believe it is already five in the morning. It feels like only minutes since her head hit the pillow. But she’s looking forward to the day. If the lahar happens and the dam on the river’s upper reaches isn’t in place, the river and lake will be severely polluted and the trout hatchery destroyed. She wants to see the area for herself.

  As she showers, her mind drifts back to Damon and their comfortable life together in Seattle. She still hasn’t replied to his emails. A new one has come in every few days and there’s a sort of pleading coming through his words now which gives her some pleasure. As the hot water pours over her body, she realises her anger has dissipated and her heartache eased. In fact, she hasn’t felt that gnawing in her stomach for a while. She considers letting him know about her new life. In her own good time.

  Although it’s only a few months since her fresh start in New Zealand, she feels sometimes that, in her heart and mind, she’s travelling on a fast-moving train across great distances.

  When she hears a vehicle pull up outside she quickly finishes dressing, grabs her parka and bag. Expecting to see the tourists, she is surprised to find that Tori is alone.

  ‘Hop in,’ he calls. ‘We’ll get the others on the way.’ His warm eyes and smile envelop her. She willingly returns his gaze.

  ‘This should be a good payday, and we should have a good time as well. Win–win, eh? I’ve brought some gear for you too, Frances. Thought you might like to test your wits against some of our wily trout.’

  The town is dark and still with little sign of life as they drive through the empty streets. Within ten minutes, they pull into the driveway of a luxury fishing lodge hidden among towering poplar trees. Dressed warmly in expensive outdoor clothing, the two men and a woman are already waiting outside, their breath punctuating the cool air.

  ‘Morning all. I’m Tori Maddison and this is your carriage.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ One of the men doffs his cap and, seeing Frances in the front, ushers the others into the back of the vehicle. They have brought some of their favourite rods and he helps Tori load them into the rear of the four-wheel-drive next to a large picnic basket.

  ‘We hear you’re the hottest guide in town. You know where all the big trophy fish are?’

  ‘I know where they’ve been,’ Tori laughs. ‘Can’t guarantee they’ll be still there though. We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  As they drive along a winding back road away from Lake Taupo where they glimpse fast-moving stretches of the Tongariro River between stands of trees, the newcomers talk excitedly about the day ahead.

  The men, Paul and Tom, in their mid-fifties, are lifelong friends, bonded since student days by a mutual love of fishing that has survived the comings and goings of more temporary relationships. The woman, Christine, is newly married to Paul. It’s the second pairing for both of them and when they gaze into each other’s eyes they reveal a passio
n still alive with sexual promise. Tom lost his wife to breast cancer two years earlier so for now there’s just the three of them. They have recently fished in Alaska and thrive in the tradition of fishermen the world over, swapping yarns about their best catches and the ones that invariably got away.

  Tori loves the chat and they joke and taunt each other for the rest of the ride.

  ‘Good, we’re first here, always pays to be first,’ Tori tells them as they pull off the road into a clearing carved out of the bush. ‘It’s just a few minutes’ walk to the river.’ They can hear the roar of the water as they push their way through damp bushes to the river’s edge carrying their rods and waders.

  Swift shallow water pours over large metal-grey stones, into deeper pools and around a bend at the spot Tori has chosen to start the day. A sunless dawn casts a misty pall over the river and a light rain starts to fall. Frances shivers in the early light, her hair still wet from the shower, and thinks longingly of her warm bed. But the high spirits of the others lift her and she joins in, drawing up the long rubber waders and pulling the hood of her jacket over her head.

  Tori helps each of them to assemble their rods and select a lure. The Americans have listened to his advice and brought light gear and small flies and nymphs so they can stalk the fish up and down the river.

  ‘Here, I’ve brought you one of my specials that Moana made,’ Tori says as he ties a small dark-coloured nymph onto the rod he has brought for Frances. ‘These are good for the river at this time of year. The fish think they’re the real thing, tasty little grubs.’

  He encourages her to walk out a couple of metres into the stream. Holding her waist from behind, he shows her how to cast the line in and out of the bubbling water. She practises a few times until he is satisfied. ‘If you get lucky, hold it firmly and call out if you need help!’

  Frances has never been interested in fishing before but she can see how the sport could seduce her. The river is so alive and she feels exhilarated as the water gushes around her legs and hips and she understands the joy of just being there. Catching a fish would be a bonus.

  She flicks the line in and out, in and out. Suddenly, she glimpses a long shape in a calmer patch of water to her left. It is deep down and cruising towards her. Then it turns away as if to swim back upstream. Frances pitches the fly right over the shape. Her aim is accurate and the nymph hits the water and drifts on the surface. The trout rises to the top and she sees it open its mouth and take the hidden hook. Instinctively, Frances raises the rod and feels a strong pull as the trout breaks away to try and escape upstream.

  ‘Tori, help! I’ve got one.’ She feels her knees wobble and her stomach tighten as she is gripped by fear and excitement. Her feet feel unstable on the rocks below the water as the pull on the line increases.

  ‘Just relax and try and keep steady.’ He calms her by holding her arm. ‘You’re doing well. Hold on tight. There’s going to be a fight.’

  For the first time in her life, Frances feels the thrill of the hunter. The fish is trying to bore its way into the white water upstream and her pulse quickens as she winds the line in. She has to hang on with all her might. Her hood slips off her head and she feels light rain drizzling down her nose and her cheeks, heightening her pleasure. The line is slender and she worries it will snap. The fish leaps into the air and crashes back into the water, shattering the surface into tiny splashes like thousands of shards of broken glass.

  The line holds fast and Tori whispers her encouragement, words that soothe her beating heart. He moves behind her in the stream, his strong arms holding hers, steadying her. Gradually she reels in the struggling fish. As it comes alongside, Tori takes the net from under his arm, bends over and captures the fish, making sure he keeps it in the water.

  A large rainbow, about 45 centimetres long, twists in its woven prison, the sight filling Frances with a mixture of pity and admiration.

  ‘Do you want to keep it or release it?’ Tori asks.

  ‘I think I’ll let it go,’ Frances says, not wanting to kill it on the spot.

  ‘Now that’s what I call beginner’s luck,’ he tells her flatteringly. ‘We’d better at least take some evidence home.’

  Tori beckons to Tom to bring the camera over, then turns to her. ‘Take hold of it gently in your hands and keep it in the water,’ he instructs her, ‘and I’ll show you how to release it safely.’

  Like a child anxious to please, she reaches into the cold water and struggles to still the wild, slippery fish writhing between her palms.

  She watches as Tori produces a pair of long-nosed pliers from his jacket pocket and, with a quick but careful twist, skilfully whisks the hook out of the trout’s gills. Taking his camera from the American, who is peering at the fish in astonishment, he steps back into the stream. ‘Hold it horizontally and point its nose upstream. Grip it firmly and smile. Show him who’s boss.’

  Frances laughs like a triumphant gladiator as Tori takes the photo and the other three cheer her on, envious of her victory.

  ‘OK, get ready to release it. Ease your grip and let the fish feel you let it go.’

  Frances feels a flush of relief fill her body as she lets go. The fish flicks its tail and shimmers away, swimming back up through the clear emerald-green water of the river.

  ‘I can’t believe you let it go,’ Tom says as they return to the riverbank.

  ‘It happens more and more now,’ Tori says. ‘A lot of fishermen are releasing at least part of their catches because they know that the ones you return to the river today will be the ones you may be able to catch tomorrow.’

  ‘Or someone else!’ Tom exclaims.

  ‘In the old days when I was growing up here, men would take out massive amounts of fish—maybe a dozen a day if they were good. If that kept up, there would be nothing left. Now you’re only allowed three a day each but many don’t even worry about that.’

  Feeling elated but drained, Frances tells Tori she is happy to leave the fishing to the others for a while. She watches as Tori helps to find Paul and Christine a promising place together, but then follows as he leads Tom along the now muddy bank, past weeping willows dipping their delicate leaves into the river, further upstream and around a bend.

  Tori helps Tom tie on a new nymph, then beckons him to follow and signals Frances to stay where she is. Tom finds a spot near a pool, standing thigh deep in the water. He flicks the line with a sure confidence, his brow creased in concentration, his jaw determined.

  Tori has returned to Frances when they all see one of the shapes move to the surface. The fish suddenly takes the nymph with tremendous speed and dives. It panics and looks to escape, boring upstream into the white water of the rapids. Tom slowly moves with it, but holding fast, ready for the contest.

  He plays the fish as it tries to get away. It leaps out and tries again to escape, pushing into the white-capped current. Beads of sweat mingle with raindrops on Tom’s tanned and smoothly shaved face. For twenty minutes, man and fish fight, one for glory, the other for life. The trout is tiring, coming out of the water. Tom hauls it into the shallows, wades over, his large feet dragging through the water, and flips it on its side. Marked with golden and speckled patterns, its body is big and shining. Fins quivering, its broad, perfectly shaped tail arches and splashes.

  ‘I’m keeping this one,’ Tom calls out and gives a thumbs-up sign to Tori, who goes to help with the final ritual.

  The men net the fish and carry it, still bucking, to a small island of stone and shingle in the river. While Tori holds it fast on some rocks, Tom raps it hard on the head. One strike and it’s dead. Frances feels sick, but Tom is laughing as he carries his trophy back to show the others. It’s large enough to mount: Tori will hand it to a taxidermist to prepare for its final resting place above some distant hearth.

  Paul and Christine have had no luck but share their friend’s excitement as Tori and Tom carefully wrap the trout and pack it into an ice bin.

  Christine pulls Fran
ces aside. ‘This is so good for Tom,’ she whispers in her soft accent. ‘He doesn’t laugh much since his wife died.’

  Now ravenous, they down coffee and sandwiches from the picnic basket. The rain has stopped and a few rays of sunshine warm them. Another four-wheel-drive pulls up but, spotting them, quickly leaves.

  Tori guides the others to places he has fished for years, generously sharing his knowledge. Frances hears laughter upstream. Tom is having a lucky day and catches another two large trout. One he releases; the other he will take back to the chef at their lodge to prepare for their evening meal.

  Leaving the others, Tori comes to sit with Frances, who is reading under a large willow. He looks dreamily along the stretch of river.

  ‘One of my uncles was one of the first Maori to use a rod,’ he tells her. ‘Some very rich Englishmen used to come here and fish about eighty years ago and my uncle used to take them around the rivers. They gave the rod as a gift and then more and more Maori started to fish the Pakeha way.’

  ‘How did you catch them before?’

  ‘We tickled them to death,’ he says, his face breaking into a grin as he sees Frances’ incredulous expression. ‘Just like this.’ He reaches under her arms and tickles her and they roll about laughing as she tries unsuccessfully to break the strength of his arms to tickle him back.

  A gust of wind interrupts their play, a shower of tiny leaves falling over them and blowing onto the clear waters.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to lose this, would you?’ she asks, resting against his shoulder. ‘You know if the lahar breaks through, you could lose this environment. All the research shows the path of the lahar could come right down the Tongariro River and into Taupo. The fish would die.’

  He looks at her and sighs. ‘Yeah, I’m trying to persuade the others we need to do something. It’s not always easy. There’s some jealousy too, I think. Some of them point to me and say I’m just acting for myself. I tell them they could do this too but they can’t be bothered.’