Weeping Waters

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  A strong cold wind buffets Sam as he strides along the ridge towards the bulldozers and he pulls his woollen hat further over his forehead. One of the men working on the mountain beckons him over.

  ‘The water level’s shot up a bit in the last couple of days,’ he says. ‘Look at that marker on the edge of the crater. That was right out of the water. Now it’s nearly in it.’

  Sam walks over to look at it more closely. He circles the rim of the crater, carefully noting the other markers and sees the water has crept closer to them too.

  ‘OK,’ he calls out, ‘let’s get on with it. Bring the dozers over towards the edge of the dam and we’ll continue digging the trench at the northern edge.’

  He doesn’t show it, but Sam is puzzled by what is happening in the Crater Lake. A week earlier he thought the pressure of the water would surely be relieved as the dozers managed to clear away some of the tephra that was building up and blocking the outlet. He’s hoping another week will be enough to create the trench that will let the water continue to drain out.

  The roaring of the bulldozers and the howling of the wind blend together in a cacophony that blocks out all other sounds, so it is the pungent smell of sulphur that first grabs Sam’s attention. Stepping back and listening hard, he thinks he can hear the sound of alarms ringing out below the summit. Instinctively he reaches into his pocket for his mobile phone, but it’s not there.

  Then he sees rocks tumbling off the crater’s edge into the water and a yellowish column of smoke rises up before him.

  ‘Run!’ he yells.

  The two drivers abandon the bulldozers and, with the two assistants, clamber up the ridge. Sam is ahead of them.

  ‘Run! Run for your lives!’ he shouts again, but a hellish boom drowns him out as the earth beneath them explodes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Frances hears it first. Two of the seismographs start to emit a small alarm as they detect an increase of vibrations inside the volcano. Then, simultaneously, the mobile phones connected to the alarm network start ringing. Frances has hers in her hand. On the next desk Sam’s also begins to ring.

  ‘My God, the volcano’s going off again,’ she calls to the other scientists in the next office. ‘The early warning system has been activated. And the seismographs are going berserk. Let’s get going.’

  Frances calls Luke Gallagher. ‘Sam, where is he?’ she barks, her voice urgent.

  ‘On the summit. I’m back in Taupo and I’m going back for him in an hour or so.’

  ‘It’s too late. The warning system’s gone off. I’m sure the mountain’s going to erupt or the crater’s burst. We won’t be able to land there. I’ll be at the pad in five minutes.’

  She throws extra batteries for her mobile phone into her backpack and rushes outside, banging into Tori as she does so. ‘Let’s go,’ she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him along the street to her car. ‘The mountain might be erupting again and Sam’s up there with some workers. It’s going crazy up there!’

  Sam comes to and tries to lift himself up. He’s lying face down on a bed of black ash that is burning into him. Blood from cuts to his forehead drips down his face. He can’t feel his legs and there is so much gas that he can barely breathe. The ground around him is shaking violently and he remembers where he is.

  Ahead of him one of the bulldozer drivers and the two labourers are lying on rocks that are glowing with heat and steam. Their limbs are placed in peculiarly odd postures and Sam realises they’re dead. He can see the bulldozers turned on their sides, like a pair of huge praying mantises.

  He tries to call out but can’t summon up his voice. Time seems to be standing still until he hears a roaring noise from the crater behind him. Although he feels desperately afraid, he can’t muster the strength to turn around.

  ‘Help,’ he whispers, slightly comforted by his own raspy voice. ‘Please help me.’

  At last he feels his feet and then his legs, but they’re burning and wet. He closes his eyes and succumbs to the mountain. As he exhales for the last time, a wave of water rises behind him. As it washes up over the rim of the crater, it picks Sam’s body up and hurls it down the side of Ruapehu.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The pale afternoon light dances on the rippling waters of Lake Taupo as Frances, Tori and Luke fly swiftly towards the trio of volcanoes on the horizon. Ruapehu is puffing plumes of black smoke spattered with what, from this distance, look like giant angry fireflies.

  ‘Sam…’ Frances begins. ‘If he’d taken his phone, maybe he could have got out.’ From the back seat Tori places his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I don’t think we can hold out any hope,’ Luke says. ‘They would have been right there when the volcano erupted. But I’ll try to get as close as I can.’

  She thinks of Theo, now home with Sue, and wishes he was here, with his calming confidence. She resists an urge to ring him about Sam. That will have to wait.

  ‘We can’t get too close to that smoke,’ Luke warns them. ‘The last thing we need is any ash getting on the chopper. It’s like concrete—if any flies into the engine it will wreck it in a couple of hours. But we should be able to get near enough to see the big picture.’

  They fly over the summits of Tongariro and Ngauruhoe, for now silent witnesses to their noisy neighbour. The smoke is dissipating to the east and Luke steers the helicopter to the western side of the volcano.

  Below them they can see lights shining from the Chateau and lodges dotted around the foothills. Higher up, they see a handful of people running from lodges sitting above the snowline. A line of cars is heading down the mountain: the warning system is working.

  Up here, Frances feels vulnerable and afraid. As they fly closer, she and Tori scan the crater with binoculars. There is no sign of Sam or the contractors.

  ‘Look, there!’ Tori yells suddenly. The silhouettes of the two bulldozers lying outside the rim of the crater appear briefly but disappear just as quickly as white fountains of steam arc out above the summit.

  ‘Luke, let’s get out of here fast!’ Frances’ voice is urgent. ‘It looks like it’s going to blow.’

  The pilot banks away sharply and flies them back above the Chateau where they can circle and observe in safety.

  Frances is talking on the phone to the scientists in the observation centre below when Tori shouts, ‘My God, look at that!’

  Jets of black ash are roaring out of the crater above them, followed by huge clouds of steam. Together they fill the sky, blocking out the sun. The helicopter shakes and quivers as a large explosion echoes down the mountain. Luke banks the chopper quickly and flies further away. ‘No point aggravating the beast,’ he says.

  Although they’re now several kilometres from the summit, the mountain’s furious fireworks continue before their eyes. Wave after wave of ash, rocks, water and flames shoot into the air. Like birth contractions, the loud explosions become more frequent as the volcano expels debris from its very core.

  Suddenly the explosions stop and the smoke rises high above them, blowing away on north-easterly winds. Then they see them: like twin black serpents sliding down the white pristine slopes, two mudflows are speeding down into the valley.

  ‘Can we get closer now, Luke?’

  With a slight nod, Luke takes them back above Ruapehu, carefully avoiding clouds of ash. The lahars have run right through the skifields. Three large metal pylons lie like felled trees in one valley, a string of chairlifts they used to support flung around like unwanted scrap metal in a wrecker’s yard. There’s no sign of life on the slopes.

  ‘Let’s check the western side. That’s what worries me the most,’ Frances says.

  They circle around until they can see the edge of the crater.

  ‘Fuck, look at that,’ Tori yells.

  A torrential mudslide is oozing out of the crater, pouring over the rim then crashing down the mountain. The bulldozers can no longer be seen.

  Frances starts to tremble and lets out a so
b.

  ‘He wouldn’t have had a chance, love,’ Luke says. ‘Do you think the bulldozing helped cause this?’

  ‘No…I don’t think so. It might have weakened the rock beneath the crater rim, but nothing would have stopped this. And it looks as though the rest of the tephra dam has been blasted by the eruption.’ She turns to Tori. ‘Aunty Tui was right—all the bulldozing in the world couldn’t have stopped this lahar.’

  A wave of dirty water full of blocks of ice and rocks gathers momentum as it races down through the Whangaehu Valley. They hover above as it rushes into the river, turning it into a wild, dangerous torrent.

  ‘I just hope and pray everyone has heard the warning,’ Frances says.

  She reaches for her phone and calls Cedric. There is no reply.

  ‘Damn,’ she curses. ‘I hope they’re not anywhere near the river. It’s headed straight for Tangiwai again. It will be there in less than two hours.’

  She rings back to base to check the early warning system has been fully activated.

  ‘Yes,’ the operator tells her. ‘As far as we can tell, everyone has been contacted. There won’t be any trains or other traffic crossing the bridges. There certainly won’t be another Tangiwai disaster.’

  Still, Frances feels uneasy about Cedric.

  The ash has darkened the sky, throwing a deathlike pall over the mountains and the valleys below. They all start shivering.

  ‘No wonder we’re cold,’ Luke says. ‘Look at the gauge, the temperature has plummeted. It’s dropped about ten degrees. We have to refuel soon. Shall we return to base?’

  ‘No, let’s pick up fuel down at the Chateau. I think we should stay around longer,’ Frances says. ‘And I’d like to fly over Tangiwai if we could.’

  On the ground, she tries Cedric again. This time he answers.

  ‘Don’t worry, I was telephoned hours ago. I was just out checking the animals were OK. We’ve pulled them back from the riverbanks. Looks like we’re better prepared this time.’

  ‘Thank God,’ she says.

  Back in the air, they see lines of cars along the main roads where people are taking photos of the mountain. There are several ambulances parked around the Chateau waiting for the dead and injured. They ascend rapidly and circle the crater once more.

  The constant eruptions have all but emptied the lake, its contents spewed down the mountain. Steaming fumaroles now exposed on the scarred rocky walls of the vent are puffing out clouds of gas. Bright yellow patches of sulphur stain the edges, stretching up to the rim that has been blasted out of shape.

  ‘They wouldn’t have had a chance against that,’ Tori says.

  The icy high slopes have escaped the lahars but are pockmarked by red-hot rocks that have rained down on them. A deep coating of ash covers the summit and nearly buries the Dome Shelter.

  ‘Let’s head down the valley,’ Frances says.

  They fly westwards, following the muddy trail of the lahar. Near where the bund was going to be built, a dirty tributary has forced its way down towards the Tongariro River. The normally blue-green transparent waters are grey and muddy and they watch as the heavy silt-laden current flows towards Lake Taupo. Flying swiftly, they catch the lahar as it powers further and further west towards Tangiwai. They pass it, soon reaching the Tangiwai bridge where they hover. Frances cannot help but think how different things would have been fifty years ago, if there had been guardian angels like them, keeping a watch over the mountain’s pulse.

  As they circle the area they see cars banked up, kept well back from the expected path of the lahar. Along the railway line they see a goods train stopped, waiting.

  ‘It’s worked, Frances, the system’s worked,’ Tori says.

  ‘Yes. I wish Theo was here to see it.’

  Although it’s noisy in the helicopter, they can hear the rumbling of the muddy torrent as it heads towards the bridge. The wave smashes through a small road bridge, scooping up the debris in its jaws and expelling it across the surrounding farmland. A giant electricity pylon that has been swept off its foundations is lying in a paddock.

  From the air the torrent looks like a dirty black tongue, licking up everything in its path. Now it is closing in on the Tangiwai railway bridge. Frances watches helplessly as it hits. At first, the current surfs under the bridge. Then the height of the wave submerges the railway line and, just as it has done dozens of other times over the centuries, gushes on, flooding around the bends of the river.

  The flow is already weakening, the river dropping. The helicopter doubles back. The bridge seems to be largely intact. Although its overhead frame has been smashed and bent, from the air it’s difficult to see if there is damage beneath.

  ‘They’ll have to get the engineers to go over that with a fine-tooth comb before any trains cross it,’ says Luke.

  Frances remembers the doubts of those who saw the bridge wrecked in 1953, those who thought a weakened pylon was to blame for all those deaths. No one will ever really know the answer to that. She also recalls Tui’s sardonic question that day they first met in the steamy mists on the mountain. ‘What are you expecting the volcano to do, stop being a volcano?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Holding her hand firmly, Tori leads Frances along a narrow winding track through the forest and on towards a hidden part of Lake Taupo. The night air is warm and still. A half-moon shines through the trees, flashing silvery glimpses of the lake and throwing a soft light onto the two figures as they move soundlessly together.

  They tread carefully to avoid tripping on rocks and tree roots protruding from the path. On either side, thick vine-covered trunks rise to the sky. From time to time, they hear the nocturnal call of the morepork from a hidden eyrie high in the branches silhouetted against the night sky.

  He carries a basket in his other hand, she the warm rug and towels he handed her as they left his car.

  ‘Just another few minutes,’ he murmurs.

  She starts when she hears rustling close to the track.

  Taking a torch from the basket, he puts his finger to his mouth to silence her. ‘I don’t think we’re alone,’ he whispers and, seeing her alarm, adds, ‘Nothing to worry about, just follow me.’

  Tori creeps a metre or two off the track, trying not to make a sound. Frances is hard on his heels. He shines the torch just ahead and the beam hits a ball of brown feathers with a very long curved beak pecking through the forest litter.

  ‘That’s a kiwi,’ he says, enjoying her surprised look. ‘They’re hard to find but there’s usually a few around here if you know where to look.’

  For a few seconds, the bird keeps shuffling through a pile of leaves until it appears to catch something in its beak and scurries away, safe in the darkness.

  Stepping lightly, they continue on the path until she can hear trickling water and her nostrils are filled with the faint smell of sulphur.

  ‘Very close now,’ Tori says, caressing the palm of her hand with his thumb.

  The trees thin and they meet a small swiftly flowing stream. Tiny wafts of steam rise from the water and they follow it to a clearing where it feeds into a large natural pool surrounded by ferns and ponga trees.

  Tori bows extravagantly in front of her. ‘Welcome to your own private baths, madam. This is the hot pool my family have swum in for generations. No admission fee and togs are optional.’

  Frances smiles, feeling safe and easy in his company. As she bends to test the temperature of the water, Tori spreads the rug on a smooth mossy patch alongside. He takes four large candles from the basket and, one by one, lights them and sets them by the pool so that their soft flames cast golden honey streaks of sparkling light across the water.

  Frances removes her shoes and dips her foot into the water. ‘It feels like a lovely hot bath.’

  Tori hands her a small bottle of cool water from the basket and she drinks deeply.

  She turns to see him sitting on the ground, staring at her, his deep brown eyes tempting her, pulling her
to him. She knows that, more than anything, she wants to be with this man. She goes to him and he pulls her down. Taking her hand, he lightly kisses the inside of her wrist, then traces a line there with his tongue.

  Their lips meet and their quick hands search each other, faces and bodies, as though they have been lost and finally reunited after a long, forced separation. But Tori slows them. Half lover, half protector, he encourages her to sit, strokes her face, smooths her hair. She responds with dozens of tiny butterfly kisses on his forehead, down to his nose, his chin and around his neck.

  ‘Do you want to go into the water?’ Tori asks softly. ‘I promise you we won’t be disturbed.’

  She smiles her agreement and they shed their clothes.

  As she stands naked in the forest, Frances’ skin shines like polished alabaster in the moonlight. Tori’s gaze travels from her eyes, which can no longer hide her desire, to the white hollow of her neck, down to the fullness of her breasts, the gentle contours of her stomach to the soft downy furrow between her legs.

  Her eyes, in turn, are drawn to his high cheekbones, his sculptured shoulders and thick muscular body. His firm brown skin glistens.

  He reaches out, pulls her close to him and kisses her deeply. As her body clings to his, she feels him harden against her.

  ‘You look spectacular,’ he says. ‘Remember when Mata sang the waiata aroha, the love song about the young chieftainess? That’s what you are to me—a princess of the forest, my puhi-wahine. And you should never have to wear clothes again.’ She laughs at him and spins around. ‘Or maybe just a few feathers here and there for when you go to town.’

  He takes her hand and helps her into the pool. They wade into the middle where the warm water surges around their bare bodies up to their necks. Frances feels so alive: her skin is tingling and as she runs her hand down from her breasts to her thighs, her skin feels like silk. She can feel large rocks on the bottom of the pool and when she totters on one, Tori grabs her hand to steady her.