by Stacy Gregg
“But when Mum finds out you’re gone she’ll be really angry,” Moana says.
“Say I changed my mind and went in the helicopter with my mum.”
“She won’t believe me.”
“Then make up another lie,” I say.
“Like what?”
I pick up my sleeping bag and the pup tent. And then I put them down again and I give Moana a hug. A really tight hug.
“I don’t know,” I say. “You’ll think of something.”
Moana frowns. “So you’re going to meet us on the other side?”
I nod.
“What if the roads are too bad and you can’t get through?”
“I’ll make it.”
“You’ll have to cross the Hundalees.”
“I know.”
Moana looks worried. “You shouldn’t do this.”
I look her in the eye. “If Gus was your horse, would you leave him behind?”
“No,” she says.
I pick up the sleeping bag and the tent. “Me neither.”
***
When my OCD was really at its worst, when the bees in my brain were driving me mad, before I ever told Mum what was wrong with me, I figured out that the only way I could stop the rituals was to do absolutely nothing. And so l’d lie in bed and not move. I’d shut my eyes, because that way the OCD couldn’t make me do anything. Only it turned out I couldn’t just stay in bed all day because, well, life forces you to do things.
I wish I could have done nothing but stay in Parnassus. I didn’t want to do this. But Gus is my best friend. And best friends do not leave each other. I made the choice to try and save Gus. But that’s the problem with choices – we never know until it’s too late if they’ve been right or wrong. If I hadn’t made the decision to make this journey, Moxy would still be alive right now. My decision, my fault. Everything is always my fault. I’ve been trying so hard not to cry about Moxy, but I look back at the spot on Gus’s rump where she should be sitting and I feel the hot tears stinging my cheeks and I wish I could talk to Willard Fox right now.
I thought we would be able to get through this way from Conway Flat to the Hundalees, but the hills in front of us are too steep and the scree on the surface is loose, so I worry that if we try to go straight up we’ll end up starting a rockslide. Or if there’s another aftershock when we are halfway up then we’ll get buried alive.
So I give up on the path we’ve taken and I go back the way we came along the riverbank until we’re at State Highway One again. It seems so quiet now without Moxy. She was a very loud cat. And even when she wasn’t talking her presence filled the space around you, like she had a way of making herself involved.
I should have brought a raincoat with me. I didn’t even think about that when I left. Now, just as we reach the highway again, the rain begins to fall and I hear the thunder from the clouds above us. Zeus is angry, Willard Fox. I can hear him.
By the time we’ve reached the signpost for the Hundalees, I’m soaked to the skin for the second time today. All my stuff is wet too and it’s getting dark.
As we round a corner, I see a one-eyed giant in the middle of the road looming up at me. I freeze and hope that I haven’t been seen, because this was the last thing I was expecting. How did I not hear it? The rumble of the thunder must have drowned it out, but now it’s too late. The glassy eye bears down on me and I have nowhere to escape to. I am in the path of the Cyclops.
CHAPTER 10
Helen of the Hundalees
The glassy-eyed Cyclops rumbles round the bend in the road in front of us. It’s a giant earthmover. I feel the tremors as it shakes the ground beneath us, as turbulent as an aftershock.
I think we’ve been seen and hold my breath, but then the Cyclops reverses and begins to go backwards, retreating along the same stretch of road. We need to get out of the way now, because next time we might not be so lucky!
“Gus!” He’s frozen with fear in front of the massive earthmover, but I give him a vigorous kick and that wakes him up. With Jock at his heels I ride to the shoulder of the road and straight off the edge, careening down the steep bank that leads into the trees beyond.
Hidden by the trees, sheltered from the rain, I pull Gus back round so that we’re facing the road and peering back out through the low-hanging branches. The earthmover really does look like a Cyclops, the gigantic glass bubble-eye cab containing the driver, like a tiny Lego man at the controls.
Behind the gigantic earthmover I can see the rest of the road crew – a couple of other smaller earthmovers and a ute and a landcruiser parked to one side, and half a dozen men in fluorescent vests calling each other on walkie-talkies and setting up road cones. They are moving away a mudslide that covers the whole of the highway and the Cyclops is working back and forth, shifting the mud and giant boulders.
I knew that eventually I would be bound to run into a road crew. I’ve thought about this moment, about how they would react. If State Highway One is closed to all cars, I figure it’s a pretty certain bet that they’re not going to make an exception for a twelve-year-old travelling on a pony – even if Gus is a better off-road vehicle than any of their four-wheel drives. If they see us, they’ll have no choice. They’ll make us turn round and escort us home.
I’m sure the man driving the Cyclops didn’t see me and Gus and Jock, or he’d already be telling the others and they’d be hunting for me. So I’m safe. They don’t know we’re here.
I stay there beneath the trees, bent down over Gus’s shoulder, and watch the Cyclops working back and forth, scooping the dirt away, piling it up in a great heap on the side of the road, then reversing and beginning the process all over again.
The rain is getting heavier now. Maybe the weather will make the men decide to pack up their things and leave. But I doubt it. They’re all in heavy raincoats and brimmed hats to keep off the weather. As the rain begins to fall even harder, I see the steam coming off the engines and I hear the roar of the diggers and I know I don’t have a choice. We can’t go back to the highway now, we must stick to the trees, stay in the woods where the ground is rough and hilly. It will take us twice as long to get through, but at least we’ll be safe here and they won’t find us and …
Jock!
What’s he doing? He’s back out on the road! He’s running towards the road crew.
“Jock!” I hiss at him from my hiding place in the trees.
Argh! That’s the problem with Border collies – they’re too friendly. Jock’s the sort of dog who likes to be everyone’s pal. I should have realised and kept an eye on him! He’s going to give us all away by racing up to the road workers and introducing himself, like he always does to strangers. He thinks he’s being friendly by offering himself up for pats. This time, though, his cheerful greeting is not harmless at all. If the road crew see him, he’s going to lead them straight to me and Gus!
“Jock!” He can’t hear my voice above the roar of the engines. “Jock!”
He’s in the middle of the road. Any minute now one of them is going to notice him.
“Jock!” I shout again, and when it doesn’t work this time I put my fingers in my mouth like my dad taught me to do and I give the farm dog whistle.
It’s loud and piercing, even through the roar of the engines, and it stops Jock dead in his tracks. He turns round and looks at me, and when I whistle again he begins to sprint back to me. I watch him run and I hold my breath, hoping that I got him in time, that he’ll make it to the trees before they turn and see him.
“Jock! Ohmygod!” I reach out and grab him back into the bushes. Did they see him? I hold my breath for a moment, clutching my dog to me.
I can’t believe we got away with it! Nobody saw him.
I can feel Jock straining at the collar even now, like he wants to run back out there again.
“No! Jock!” I speak firmly to him, because I know I need to be tough about this. “You have to stay with me,” I tell him. “Heel, Jock, heel. OK?” Backing me
up, Gus puts his ears back and shakes his head at Jock too, as if to say, Yeah, toe the line!
Jock stays at heel after that. Even on the steep bits of the hills where he would usually pick his own track and run across and down the banks, he stays close. I think he’s taking me literally. I had only planned to go off-road for long enough to circle around the road crew, but now that I’m in the trees I can see that there’s a gorge between me and the next ridge. If I’d stuck to the road, it would have cut through the hills, but now that I’m in the trees I have no choice but to detour round further away still and then up the other side where the conifers are dense on the mountains of the Hundalees. I’m pretty sure if I can get to the top of the ridge on that side then I’ll be able to ride back to the road again from there.
The rain is really heavy now, and it’s closing in with no sign of letting up for the night. The trees protect us from the worst of it, but I’m still getting wet. I think about unpacking the sleeping bag and wrapping myself in that, but it would be hard to ride wrapped up like a puffball so I leave it, and by the time we reach the ridge, I’m soaked to the skin.
There’s nowhere good here to pitch the tent, so even though it’s getting dark now I think I should just keep riding on. I’m kicking myself a little, because maybe if I’d just stayed crouched in the bushes and waited, the road crew would have packed up and gone home. I could have ridden straight through and I wouldn’t be stuck out here on this ridge. But then I think of the slip covering the road and how one good aftershock would probably send the whole cliff face tumbling down on top of the tarmac, and I think I would rather be here, high up in the hills with the trees to protect me, than on that road where another mudslide could swamp me alive.
At the top of the ridge I can see there’s a path that leads up through the forestry, further into the depths of the Hundalees, and I’m pretty sure if I take this path I will get to the other side of the mountains and rejoin the road eventually, so I press on.
It is getting so dark now, it’ll be hard to pitch the tent, but then again it’s too wet to sleep rough. I need shelter. I find a flat area beneath a conifer tree, reasonably dry too, and I’m just about to dismount and unpack my gear when Jock gives a deep, throaty growl and charges forward.
“Jock!” What is it this time?
I cluck Gus on and follow after him, afraid that as the night is falling, if we lose Jock now then we’ll never find him again. We crest the top of the ridge then head down the other side through trees, and then there’s a clearing up ahead. Jock is waiting there, on the doorstep of a house.
There is a house, here in the middle of nowhere. Black creosoted wood, and a green front door with faded, peeling paint. It almost blends in with the woods around it, the colours of the trees. It has two front windows and a door and a doorstep too, where Jock is now sitting and waiting for me, sheltered from the rain that is getting harder.
There are no lights on inside.
“Hello?” I call out.
Nothing. Jock runs back from the door to greet me as I dismount from Gus and lead him closer. There’s a tree with low-hanging branches so I tie the reins across a branch and walk up to the front of the house. The curtains on the windows are closed. I can’t see in. I walk up to the front door and knock hard.
“Hello?” I call out.
No reply. I try the handle. It opens and the door swings. But it stops and jams about halfway open and I can see why. The narrow hallway ahead of me has dark floorboards and gloomy wallpaper. It’s crammed with newspapers and magazines. They sit in piles stacked as high as my head, yellowed and dog-eared – the Kaikoura Star, ancient copies of Good Housekeeping and Fishing and Hunting magazine, and next to that, a mouldering pile of Horse & Pony. The piles are covered in dust so thick it looks like icing on cakes. I have to wind my way between the stacks, turning my body sideways just to fit up the hall.
“Hello?” I call again. Still nothing. “Is anyone home? Your door was open and I let myself in …”
Out of the corner of my eye I see a shadow flicker on the wall and I turn round, heart pounding, but it’s just the trees outside moving, their silhouettes reflected in the dying evening light. I keep walking down the hall, and now I can see what I think is the kitchen at the far end. As I walk, I catch glimpses through the open doorways that split off from the hall, and in all the rooms are more of the same: piles of dusty magazines and newspapers, and other items in teetering stacks of boxes. Cardboard cartons of empty bottles and dusty glass jars filled with strange liquids. Soft toys and suitcases overspilling with knitted jumpers. All of it is crammed into the usable space of the rooms so that the actual furniture – beaten-up old sofas, creaky beds and wooden tables and chairs – is virtually hidden from view.
It’s creepy here, but familiar too in a strange way, and as I walk I get this sudden flashback to my bedroom in Parnassus. This house is my room. On a grander scale, with a centuries-old, dense layer of dust, perhaps, but the matrix, the DNA is the same. The piles in the hallway are chaotic, but strictly organised too. This house didn’t end up like this by mistake. Somebody made it this way.
As I get closer to the kitchen, I’m struck by the stench of the place. The old newspapers and magazines have a dank, mildew smell to them, but it’s more than that. There’s the smell of grease and coal, the whiff of filth, and it grows more intense as I get nearer. When I enter the kitchen I gag a little, because it’s not just untidy in here – it’s gross! There are no windows, and I’m grateful for the lack of light because I can tell by the smell in here that it’s been a long time since somebody bothered to clean. There’s a small wooden table, again stacked with old magazines, and a single chair. In one corner there is an old coal range, the sort that they used to cook on in the olden days, stoking a fire inside it to cook the food on top, and it’s the coal range that really holds my attention now, because I’ve just realised something. It’s warm.
The door of the range is open and I can see the glowing embers of the coal inside it. Someone lives here! There’s a pot on top of the stove and I take the lid off. Whatever is in there smells kind of good in an overcooked way. I can make out vegetables and meat in a brownish sauce, all bubbling away. And now I’m looking around this crazy room, because I know someone has to be here. I can hear the fear in my voice when I call again and say, “Hello? I know you’re home. Hello?”
A scuttling noise, like a rat running across the rafters in the stables, comes from the hall. I see the hackles go up on the back of Jock’s neck and I feel the hairs rise up on my own. I’m not calling out any more, and I’m not moving any closer. I’m frozen to the spot, heart pounding. Someone else, or something else, is in this house.
The floorboards creak. Footsteps? Someone moving around? Beside me, Jock starts up with a low throaty growl, and I put my hand out to touch the ruff of his neck, more glad than ever that I have him with me.
Footsteps, coming closer, treading up the hall. Jock’s growl deepens and my heart is racing so hard now, I can’t breathe.
And then, in the kitchen doorway, the shadow emerges. The figure in front of me is so tiny, at first I think she’s a child, but then she steps into the kitchen and I see her face, the wrinkles and the grey hair, the hollowed, sunken eyes, and I realise she’s not young at all but very, very old.
“Is that an Arab outside?” she asks me.
I don’t know what she’s asking at first, and then I realise she means Gus.
“My pony?” I say. “Yeah, he’s an Arab.”
“Thought so.” She grunts with satisfaction.
She shuffles closer to me, the same tiny footsteps that I heard coming for me up the hall. She has a walking cane and she barely raises her feet as she moves. She seems to scuff across the floor instead. I think she’s coming towards me but she changes course and goes to the pot on top of the coal range.
“I’ve made stew,” she says. “It’s wood pigeon. Killed it myself.”
I nod, not sure what to say. I’m pr
etty sure wood pigeons are endangered, but this doesn’t seem like the right time to bring that up.
She doesn’t actually ask me if I want any, but she gets two bowls down off one of her filthy shelves, then digs around in a manky drawer. She pulls out a fork and a spoon and considers. She considers her options and eventually gives me the fork. It’s crusted with something yellow. Then she uses the spoon to dish us both up a bowlful of the stew and she gestures for me to take the sole seat at the table. She sits herself down on top of the only clear bit of bench space, next to a pile of old newspapers and some more dirty dishes that look like they last got washed a year ago.
“Who are your people?”
Her questions aren’t the sort normal people ask. I am Pakeha not Maori, so it’s not like I have a tribe or anything.
“My name is Evie. Evie Van Zwanenberg,” I say.
“Never heard of you,” she says, not bothering to stop eating as she speaks, scoffing down great mouthfuls of the stew.
The rest of our conversation is just as strange and by the end of it she still hasn’t given me her name. Although she has told me that I can stay the night, meticulously moving a mountain of newspapers off the sofa so that I can put my sleeping bag there. She will, incredibly, produce a bale of hay for Gus, and a curious-looking meat bone for Jock. She’ll stoke the fire in the coal range on a regular basis all the while, refusing to let the coals go out, and she’ll fuss about in the dark, lighting strategically located candles that make me think the whole place is going to go up in flames at any moment because the candles are right beside the endless stacks of newspapers, and what if a really big aftershock knocks one over? This place would be an inferno, a death trap. But I don’t say anything because I can see that the old woman has her routines. Her rituals. Only when I’m lying down on the sofa, thawing out beneath the warmth of my sleeping bag, and arranging the contents of my backpack – unzip-zip-unzip-zip – do I wonder if she might be crazy and murder me in my sleep, but I’m so exhausted and grateful for the softness of the cushions underneath me that I banish the thought and decide she’s just a bit loopy and not dangerous. I still don’t know her name, but she will tell me in the morning, when it is light and I can see just how filthy the sofa beneath me is, that it’s Helen. Helen of the Hundalees.
