Peninsula, page 17
I’ve been awake for a while, debating how much longer I can put off leaving my warm pit versus venturing outside for a cold but necessary pee. I’ve made it to the ground soundlessly, thanks to years of experience protecting the family from my early starts. I put my head torch on and then I’m seriously tempted to sneak outside in my bare feet and piss off the balcony, but for some reason, maybe because it’s been a long time since my last overnighter, I decide to be a masochist. I get the worst part over. Force my toasty feet into yesterday’s sodden socks without cursing aloud. It’s a truly horrible feeling putting on cold saturated socks. I’m doing a half-arsed lace of my still wet boots, enough so I won’t trip, but not the full nine yards, when I hear a scrabbling sound and light flicks at the window and the hut door flings open. A big chap stamps in. He’s carrying a rifle and a bad attitude. His scowl half fills the hut. The gun goes on the table. He shines his head torch into my eyes and beyond. I hear the others stirring.
‘Who youse?’
He stands still for a moment, dripping water into a puddle, then turns and slams the door shut. The hut shakes. I have a feeling my legs might be shaking a little bit.
‘We’re trampers,’ Greg calls from his bunk, somewhat unnecessarily.
‘Pardon us. We’re heading back down tomorrow, um, golly, I mean today,’ Kyle says.
His eyes narrow. ‘Youse been into my stuff?’ He strides over to the spare bunk, lifts the mattress and feels underneath. Whatever he’s stored under there must have remained untouched. He seems to relax slightly and turns back to the middle of the room.
I set about lighting the stove.
‘Um, good idea. It is chilly in here,’ Kyle says.
I can’t see Kyle but I can tell from his tone he’s offering his best smile.
‘We have tea bags if you’d like some, um, tea.’
‘Tea?’ The bloke spits the word out like he is telling us to fuck off.
He gives me a long smouldering look. His eyes remind me of embers, the ones you poke and underneath they are red. Good for toasting marshmallows. I turn and focus on the stove. It takes a bit for the kindling to catch. Greg is better at lighting it than me.
‘You guys want breakfast?’ I ask.
Ember Eyes yanks open the door and pulls a slimy pack inside. It’s one of those old external frame jobbies. It must have been uncomfortable, and at some stage it must have been green. Now it’s grey and even though it’s wet there are dark stains. Blood stains? Mud probably. I look at my watch, 4:30am, no wonder I’m awake, milking time.
‘It’s about breakfast time?’
‘Yeah.’ Greg is getting out of his sleeping bag slowly. I want him to hurry up, I’m not doing a flash job with the stove.
I can see now Ember Eyes is wearing a green swannie, the same shade as his beanie, City Mission or Army Surplus store fit-out. Canterbury Rugby shorts, cheap gumboots. I feel a little bit sorry for him, those gummies are useless, no drainage or ankle support, bugger all traction, no wonder his legs and bum are muddy. He watches as Greg and Kyle get up. I stuff my sleeping bag into my pack with the rest of my damp gear.
‘I’ll do it.’ Greg takes over the stove project.
I give a half-hearted nod as if this was my plan all along, which in fact it was. I want Ember Eyes to see it was my plan. He is watching me.
He points. ‘You. Youse were up when I come in eh.’
I nod.
‘We should have a cuppa. Are you sure you don’t fancy one?’ Kyle’s voice is squeaky.
Ember Eyes has seated himself on the stool nearest the door. He reaches into the pocket of his swannie and extracts a butcher’s knife. It’s the knife that belongs in the sheath on the bunk. And there are times in its history, I feel sure, when it has been cleaner.
‘Do you want your sheath?’ I realise instantly it isn’t a very smart thing to say.
He half rises. ‘Youse been going through my stuff!’
‘Um, nah mate, just happened to see the sheath when I climbed up there to get in the bunk. My bunk, not your bunk. Good-looking sheath that.’
Greg says, ‘Hot drink mate? Will warm you up.’
The billy of water is beginning to steam already. Greg sits beside me on the bench by the bunks.
Ember Eyes glares at the billy. For a moment I think he’s going to pick it up and throw it outside. He glances up at his bunk again, then back at the billy. The pupils in his eyes are so big. That’s what is making his eyes look black like embers, but also like possum eyes, a cornered possum. I would have preferred a cornered cow, or a small child, as I have some experience with those. I very much hope none of us say the wrong thing, even as I realise we have no idea what the wrong thing might be. The best course of action is probably to say as little as possible. I turn so he can’t see my face, but the others can, and press my index finger against my lips. Trouble is, Greg and Kyle can’t take their eyes off Ember Eyes.
Ember Eyes sits back down.
‘Just going out to water a tree,’ Kyle says.
Ember Eyes sticks a hand out towards the door.
‘Youse aren’t going nowhere.’
Kyle sits down on the edge of his bunk. I turn and do my finger over lip thing again. Kyle widens his eyes in response. I look at Greg. He nods without looking. We wait for the billy to boil and for Greg and Kyle to finish packing.
Ember Eyes picks up his gun off the table and sets it down against the door. He keeps his knife in his right hand. Right-handed.
‘You guys got your cups ready?’ Greg sounds matter-of-fact.
Greg has his cup. Somehow, he’s found the teabags. Kyle and I have packed our cups. We don’t want tea. Kyle and I open our packs to find our cups.
‘Want a barley sugar?’ Greg asks Ember Eyes.
‘Eh?’
Greg sets the soggy packet on the table where the gun used to be. Ember Eyes puts down his knife to pick the packet up. His hand shakes as he tips it upside down. Barley sugars rain onto the table. He swishes them about with his finger. His finger is stained. It’s blood on his finger, I’m sure.
He looks up at Greg. ‘Lollies?’ His tone is one of disbelief. ‘What youse playing at?’
‘Tramping,’ Kyle squeaks. ‘We’re expected back in a few hours.’
Ember Eyes ignores Kyle. The billy boils. Greg pours the water into our cups, watched over by Ember Eyes. There is confusion in his face. He doesn’t know what to do about us I suppose. I’m impressed Greg pours the water without any spillage. I really have to concentrate on keeping a steady hand as I offer my cup to Ember Eyes. He takes it and sets it down.
Then he points at my hand.
‘Where’s your finger?’
I look at my finger. I lost the tip years ago, another inch or so and I’d have lost a hand. The nail has grown back. Not many people notice, I hardly notice myself these days, though it was excruciatingly painful at the time. I blacked out. Weary of post rammers ever since.
‘Lost it in a fencing accident.’
A conspiratorial look of recognition passes over Ember Eyes.
‘Knew it. Think I seen youse before.’ He points his knife at me. ‘Who youse fencing for? Not the Mongrels.’
‘You know I can’t tell you,’ I improvise, ignoring Kyle’s gasp.
Ember Eyes keeps staring. I give him a gentle stare in return.
Ember Eyes lays his left hand flat on the table. His pinkie finger is missing. Kyle’s gasp is a bit louder this time. We’re not paying Kyle any attention.
‘Same thing happen to you?’ I ask. I can feel Greg stiffen beside me. I risk a quick look in Kyle’s direction. His lips move but no sound comes out. Later he will tell us he was praying.
‘What happens if ya don’t look after ya stuff.’
Ember Eyes glances again up to his bunk. Steam is rising off his swannie even as it rises off the hot drinks.
I gesture to the cup. ‘Made that tea especially for you.’
I turn to the other two.
‘Do we have biscuits? I have some muesli bars. Want some breakfast? It’s about that time. You can keep an eye on your stuff while having a feed and a drink.’
I slowly open the zip at the top of my pack and extract a snap lock containing muesli bars and dried apricots. I unlock the bag and lay it on the table between us.
‘Chocolate?’
Greg has dug into his pack too. He breaks up a few pieces, puts one piece in his mouth. I reach across and help myself, it looks better than dried apricots. I offer a piece to Ember Eyes. He still has those eyes locked on me but he wavers, flicks a glance at the chocolate. Takes the piece. He stares across at Greg while he finishes eating his square. I pop my bit in my mouth which is so dry I have difficulty getting the chocolate down.
Only when Greg and I have both chewed and swallowed our pieces does Ember Eyes move his square. He doesn’t put it into his mouth, he drops it into the mug of tea.
‘Want some more? You making hot chocolate?’ I ask.
Our eyes lock as he reaches across and breaks off a big chunk of chocolate and wedges it into the cup. He drops eye contact, looking around for something to stir the chocolate with. He picks up his knife. It won’t fit into the cup. Displaced liquid sloshes onto the table.
‘No worries, the chocolate will melt in no time,’ I say. At that moment I almost wish I had a cup of tea. As if he can read my mind, Kyle pushes his untouched mug past Greg towards me. I lift it up and take a sip. It’s an average cuppa, only lukewarm.
‘Good tea.’ I nod to Greg graciously, like I’m the Queen or something.
‘You going to try it?’ I ask Ember Eyes.
His eyes narrow again but he seems more at ease. We both drink from our cups. I think about the Heaphy River, tannin-stained, how the colour gets diluted when it reaches the Tasman.
Ember Eyes bites at his lump of chocolate where it hasn’t melted. He gets chocolate on his nose, and his lip.
‘What did you shoot?’ I have an idea, hope the others will catch on.
‘Goat.’
‘You sure? Need good skills to nab a goat round here.’
He studies me, takes another slug from the mug.
Without saying anything he rises, moves the gun and opens the door. I follow. I still have my torch on my head, as does he. We stand just outside the door adjusting our eyes to the darkness and the rain. We walk over to the edge of the bush where a small goat, not much bigger than a possum, lies on the ground. I bend down and shine my light on it. It’s dark brown, the colour of a beef animal. It doesn’t have much head left. The gun Ember Eyes is running around in the bush shooting things with is too powerful for the job.
‘Choice bro.’ I sound like Willy when I say that.
Behind me I can hear Greg and Kyle trying to quietly exit the hut. I hope they’ve had the nous to grab my pack. Ember Eyes doesn’t seem to notice. He bends down and touches the goat briefly. After he straightens up, he stares off into the bush. He might be reliving his killing spree, or perhaps he’s just lost focus.
‘Gotta piss.’ He moves off a little bit.
I turn and sprint down the track. I have never run so fast for my life.
When I catch up to the other two, I gasp, ‘We need to get off the track.’ As we keep jogging down the hill we scan the forest for entry points.
‘Animal track?’ I say.
We shine our torches into the bush. ‘Let’s go in here, hide for a bit and see if he comes.’
We plunge into the wet undergrowth for a few metres, then stop, kill our lights, and listen. We’re all shaking. All we can hear is our panting and the beating of our hearts. All we can see is little puffs of mist, our own breath. Puffballs of aliveness. After a few excruciating minutes Greg turns his head torch back on, directing the beam at the undergrowth. A lone korimako issues its pure call, and another answers, and another. I recognise tūī and the lilting call of a riroriro.
‘Can you remember Kyle if there are trapping lines or anything?’ Greg whispers.
Kyle looks like a ghost. ‘Yes, somewhere. Parallel to the track I think.’
‘I’ll scout, you guys stay here and keep quiet.’ Greg vanishes into the rain.
Kyle is still shaking. I reach out and set my old cap on his wet head.
‘Smells a bit but keeps the water off. We’ll be okay Kyle, dawn chorus,’ I whisper.
‘Pissed myself,’ Kyle whispers.
Greg must have been away only a few minutes but it feels like longer. Kyle and I are shivering and swaying like a pair of drunks.
‘I found some pink tape. Going to be tough to follow, the bush is thick.’
‘Did you move his gun?’
‘No, we took your pack and bolted.’
I nod. ‘Good plan. I don’t think he’d shoot us.’
‘He shot a goat!’ Kyle says.
‘You don’t go to prison for shooting a goat, Kyle.’
‘He’s under the influence of illicit substances,’ Kyle says.
‘Off his face,’ Greg agrees.
‘Possibly. He went for a slash. He might forget about us,’ I say.
‘Um, we left our cups and your Snaplock on the table,’ Greg says.
‘You did good. I reckon he’ll stay with his stuff. We should follow the tape for a bit,’ I say. ‘Kyle?’
‘Yes please.’
Greg leads the way. The dark has faded to a matte grey, enough so we don’t need our head torches, but gloomy. The bush acts like a shower nozzle controlling the rain pressure. Lucky for us the trapping line merges with the more established animal trails. Our four-legged explorers, having both a lower centre of gravity and free of the need to lug packs, tend to opt for direct downhill passage. We cling to branches for purchase, lest momentum take our feet out from under us. A couple of times I land on my bum. Start, slide, stop. We go for a few metres then strike an obstacle like treefall, bush lawyer or a pile of vines. The vines are fit for their purpose of catching everything and the lawyer takes its cuts where it can. Nature is a fine architect. At the back, my job becomes liberating Kyle from vines and prickles while ensuring I evade their overtures. Greg seems better at avoiding them. If he does tangle, Kyle is there to free him.
Elastic hula hoops, serrated edges, ties that bounce, wobble, rip and bind. There we are wrestling our way through the bush. Possibly we are saving each other’s lives. How dangerous Ember Eyes is, we can’t know.
I think about the farm, how it’s taken more than a fingertip. I doubt I’ll walk away. Leave it, leave them, not yet anyway. A bind, but an anchor too, a home base for family in need of attachment. Kyle and Greg have their research and their families. Even Ember Eyes seems bound to his stuff, whatever it is.
The trail we are following is very steep. The magnitude of which reveals itself when Greg drops off a cliff. We hear his yelp.
‘Sup?’
‘Nothing. Bit of a drop-off eh.’
Kyle and I lower our packs to Greg then slide down ourselves. All three of us covered in mud, like elephants.
‘Onwards?’ Greg asks.
‘May as well.’ There is no obvious way to remove the mud.
A few minutes later the bush thins. We stumble into a sizeable clearing. A new carpark with fresh green and yellow branded signs announces a reserve. Fifty metres away, on the other side of the gravel, a cluster of black and green umbrellas stand all quiet and serious like a grove of pongas. Under the umbrellas are officials, most decked out in tidy suits and leather shoes. They look like local dignitaries, iwi representatives, volunteer types, landowners perhaps.
Heads turn in our direction briefly then back to the speaker. The minister, I recognise her from television, is wrapping things up. Light applause follows. Kyle joins in. The spectators split into small groups. Heads turn our way again. We’re all out of hiding places, though we could have ventured towards the new toilet block if we’d seen it sooner. A middle-aged lady in a pink dress makes her way towards us and offers her umbrella.
‘Um, you probably need it more than us,’ Greg says.
‘Pardon us for intruding on your, um, opening?’ Kyle is blushing. He looks slightly better with a bit of colour on him.
‘Good to see the reserve getting used,’ she beams.
A man in Department of Conservation uniform comes up. He has a handful of track brochures. He offers them round. Greg accepts one on behalf of the three of us.
‘Oh look.’ The pink lady points east. A section of sky has let out a breath the colour of Kyle’s face, an offering of dusky roses fringed with grey. As we watch, the colour expands, pushing in front of the grey clouds, the way rainbows sometimes do, especially in winter. Pretty soon we’ll have to figure out a few things. Where Mozart is in relation to us springs to mind. But in this moment, standing filthy in the flash carpark, we settle for pushing our embarrassment to one side to gaze in silence at random beauty beyond our control.
Road
The silver handle squeaks as it turns but the door won’t open. It takes Rachel a moment to realise it’s locked. She tries again to make sure. It is not yet 7am. She was woken up first by Jack heading out to milk, then again by the chorus of cicadas. The cicadas were promptly drowned out by the rumble of quarry trucks. She figured she may as well walk down to her parents’ place. The trucks when fully laden are enormous, indestructible, like tanks. Yellow and green branded beasts, with long, swinging trailers and wheels the size of tractors. Rachel has felt their giants’ breath as they thunder past inches away. People who go on about earthquakes have no idea.
