Chapter XIV Rain and Flood
Edwin felt a cold shiver run over him as Lawford made this announcement.
“Something to tell me!” he exclaimed. “Oh, please speak out!”
“Do you see those spades?” replied Lawford, halting beside a tree, against which two spades were leaning. “Whero has sent them to you. He wants you to show me where he buried that bag of treasure. I am to dig it up and take it to Nga-Hepé. He means to use it now to buy food for the people about him. You know the place: it is between the two white pines by the roadside. As soon as Nga-Hepé has got his money, he will row down the river in his canoe and bring it back with a load of bacon and flour, and whatever he can get in the nearest township.”
This seemed so natural to Edwin he never doubted it was true. There were the spades, just like the two he had seen in the whare.
“Oh yes,” he answered, “I can find the place. I saw the trees only yesterday.”
“Nga-Hepé sent you a charge,” added Lawford, “to mind and keep a still tongue; for if it gets air whilst he’s gone for the food, there will be such a crowd waiting for the return of the canoe, it would be eaten up at a single meal, and his own children would be starving again.”
“I shall not speak,” retorted Edwin. “Nga-Hepé may safely trust me.”
They reached the road at last, and made their way along it as before, until they came to the two tall tapering trunks—not quite so easily identified now they had lost their foliage.
“This is the spot!” cried Edwin, slipping off the horse, and receiving a descent of mud upon his shoulders as he struck the dirt-laden tree.
Lawford gave him the spades he was carrying, and got down. They tied Beauty at a safe distance, and set to work. It was comparatively easy digging through the crust, but when they reached the soft mud beneath it, as soon as they cleared a hole it filled again.
Their task seemed endless. “I don’t believe we can get at the money,” said Edwin, in despair. “I must go on and see if Mr. Hirpington has returned, for I want to get back to father.”
“All right,” answered Lawford. “Leave me at the work. A boy like you soon tires. Take your horse and ride down to the ford; but mind you do not say anything about me.”
“You need not fear that,” repeated Edwin, as he extricated himself from the slime-pit they had opened, and mounted Beauty. It was not very far to the ford, but he found it as he had left it—desolate and deserted. No one had been near it since yesterday, when he visited it with Ottley. The good old forder neighed a welcome, and came trotting up from the river-bank to greet him. He pulled out more hay to feed both horses, and whilst they were eating he examined the house.
The river was swollen with last night’s rain. It had risen to the top of the boating-stairs. Once more the house was standing in a muddy swamp, from which the tall fuchsia trees looked down disconsolate on the buried garden. It was past anybody’s power to get at the store-room window. In short, the river had taken possession, and would effectually keep out all other intruders.
Edwin chose himself a seat among the ruins, and turned out his pockets in quest of a little bit of pipe-clay which once found a lodging amongst their heterogeneous contents. He wrote with the remaining corner, which he was happy enough to find had not yet crumbled to dust, “Lee, senior, waiting by lake, badly hurt, wants food and help.”
He had fixed upon the shutter of the hay-loft window for his tablet, and made his letters bold and big enough to strike the eye at a considerable distance. He tried to make them look as if some man had written them, thinking they would command more attention. Then he hunted about for the piece of loose board Hal had charged them to bring back.
Edwin wrenched it off from the front of the hayloft, and discovered a heap of mangel-wurzel in the corner. He snatched up one and began to eat it, as if he were a sheep, and then wondered if he had done right. But he felt sure Ottley would say yes.
He balanced the board on his head, but found it impossible to mount Beauty, and equally difficult to make him follow a master with head-gear of such an extraordinary size. So he had to drive Beauty on before him, and when he reached the white pines Lawford was gone.
“He ought to have waited for me,” thought Edwin, indignantly. “How can I get across the bush with this board? The men care nothing about me; they drive me along or they leave me behind to follow as I can, just as it happens. It is too bad, a great deal too bad!”
Beauty heard the despairing tone, and turning softly round, tilted the board backwards in spite of Edwin’s efforts to stop him.
There was no such thing as getting it into position again. All Edwin could do was to mark the spot and leave it lying on the ground. Then he jumped on Beauty and trotted off to the tent, for the rain which Hal had predicted was beginning fast. The sodden canvas flapped heavily in the storm-wind. The tent-poles were loosened in the softened mud, and seemed ready to fall with every gust, as Edwin rode up disheartened and weary, expecting to find Lawford had arrived before him. No such thing. Hal was worn out with waiting, and was very cross.
It is only the few who can stand through such days of repeated disaster with patience and temper unexhausted. There has been some schooling in adversity before men attain to that. Edwin was taking his lesson early in life, but he had not learned it yet.
Hal would have it Edwin had lost himself, and called him a young fool for not sticking close to his companion, who was no doubt looking for him.
He started off in high dudgeon to “coo” for Lawford, and bring on the board Edwin had left by the way.
Father and son were alone. The rain pouring through the tent seemed to rouse Mr. Lee to consciousness.
“I am hurt, Edwin,” he said; “yet not so much as they think. But is there not any place of shelter near we can crawl into? This rain will do me more harm than the fall of the tree. If this state of things continues, we shall be washed away into the mud.”
Edwin’s heart was aching sorely when Hal returned with the board. Mr. Lee looked up with eyes which told them plainly the clouded understanding was regaining its power.
The old man saw it with pleasure, He knew even better than Mr. Lee that the steady rain was changing the mud to swamp. They must lose no time in getting away, at least to firmer ground.
He was looking about him for the nearest hill. He had made his plan; but he wanted Lawford’s help to carry it out.
“He will come back soon,” said Edwin confidently, feeling pretty sure Lawford had gone across to the lake to give Nga-Hepé his bag.
Hal was more puzzled than ever at his mate’s disappearance, and again he wanted to know why the two had parted company. Edwin was so downhearted about his father, and so badgered by Hal’s questionings and upbraidings, he knew not what to say or do.
Hal wrapped Mr. Lee in the blanket, and with Edwin’s assistance laid him on the board. It was a little less wet than the sodden ground. He bound him to it with the cord which had tied up Beauty’s hay.
“There,” he said, as he pulled the last knot tight, “we can lift you now without upsetting my splints. They are but a bungling affair, master; but bad is the best with us.”
Try as Edwin would he was not strong enough to lift the board from the ground. The old man saw it too, and pushed him aside impatiently.
“See what you have brought on us all,” he said, or rather muttered.
“I could not help it,” repeated Edwin bitterly; “but I don’t mind anything you say to me, Hal, for you have stuck by father and cared for him, when he would have died but for you. Don’t despair; I’ll go and look for Lawford.”
“You!” returned Hal contemptuously; “you’ll lose yourself.”
But Edwin, who thought he could guess where Lawford was to be found, could not be turned from his purpose.
“Can’t I cross the bush once more, for father’s sake,” he asked, “whilst I have got my horse?” He called up Beauty and told him to go home. Edwin found the whare by the lake deserted. After his abrupt departure with Ottley, Nga-Hepé had roused himself to assist his father-in-law in making an equal distribution of the food; and then they gathered the men around the fire and held a council.
With two such leaders as Nga-Hepé and Kakiki, they reached the wise decision to seek a safer place beyond the anger of the gods, and build a temporary kainga, or unwalled village, where food was to be obtained, where the fern still curled above the ground, and the water gushed pure from the spring. The men of the pah yielded as they listened to the eloquent words of the aged chief; and though they passed the night in speechifying until the malcontents were overawed, the morning found them hard at work digging out their canoes.
As Edwin approached the lake he saw the little fleet cautiously steering its way through the mud-shoals and boulders towards the river.
The wind was moaning through the trees, and the unroofed whare was filling with the rains.
While Edwin surveyed the desolate scene, he perceived a small canoe coming swiftly towards his side of the lake. He watched it run aground amongst the bent and broken reeds, swaying hither and thither in the stormy wind. Suddenly he observed a small, slight figure wading knee-deep through the sticky slime. It was coming towards him.
A bird flew off from its shoulder, and the never-to-be-forgotten sound of “Hoké” rang through the air.
“Whero, Whero!” shouted Edwin joyfully; and turning Beauty’s head he went to meet him.
But Whero waved him back imperiously; for he knew the horse could find no foothold in the quagmire he was crossing. He was leaping now like a frog, as Edwin averred; but there are no frogs in New Zealand, so Whero could not understand the allusion as Edwin held out his hand to help him on. Then the kaka, shaking the water from his dripping wings, flew towards Edwin and settled on his wrist with a joyous cry of recognition.
“Take him,” gasped Whero; “keep him as you have kept my Beauty. The ungrateful pigs were to kill him—to kill and eat my precious redbreast; but he soared into the air at my call, and they could not catch him.”
Edwin’s boyish sympathies were all ablaze for his outraged friend. “Is that their Maori gratitude,” he exclaimed, “when it was your kaka which guided me to the spot?”
“When I told them so,” sobbed Whero, “they laughed, and said, ‘We will stick his feathers in our hair by way of remembrance.’ They shall not have him or his feathers. They shall eat me first. I will take him back to the hill which no man cares to climb. I will live with dead men’s bones and despise their tapu; but no man shall eat my kaka.”
During the outpouring of Whero’s wrath, Edwin had small chance of getting an answer to his anxious question. “Are not those your people rowing across the lake? Is Lawford with them? Did he bring the bag to your father all right?”
Whero looked at him incredulously. Edwin waved his hand, and the Maori boy leaped up for once behind him. He took the kaka from Edwin’s wrist and hugged it fondly whilst he listened to his explanations about Lawford.
“It was I,” interposed Whero, “who was staying behind to dig up the bag by the white pines. Did my father think I would not go when I ran off to call away my kaka? Where could he meet this pakeha and I not know, that he should trust him to look for his hoard? as if any one beside me or my mother could find it. Kito!” (lies.)
But the pelting rain cut short his wonder, as Edwin urged everything else must give way to the pressing necessity of finding some better shelter for Mr. Lee. It was useless to look for Lawford any longer.
“You will help me, Whero?” entreated Edwin earnestly, as they turned the horse’s head towards the small brown tent. It was lying flat, blown down by the wind in their absence. Hal had folded up the canvas, and was pacing up and down in a very dismal fashion.
“Father,” said Edwin, springing to the ground, “I can’t find Lawford; but this Maori boy was going to a sheltered place high up in the hills. Will you let us carry you there?”
“Anywhere, anywhere, out of this pond,” replied Mr. Lee.
“Have at it then!” cried Whero, seizing hold of the board; but Hal called out to them to stay a bit. By his direction they lifted Mr. Lee on his board and laid it along the stout canvas. Hal tied up the ends with the tent ropes, so that they could carry Mr. Lee between them, slung, as it were, in a hammock. Hal supported his head, and the two boys his feet.
It was a slow progression. Whero led them round to another part of the hill, where an ancient fissure in its rugged side offered a more gradual ascent. It was a stairway of nature’s making, between two walls of rock. Stones were lying about the foot, looking as if they might have been hurled from above on the head of some reckless invader in the old days of tribal violence.
Edwin had well named it an ogre’s castle. It was a mountain fastness in every sense, abandoned and decayed. As they gained the summit, Edwin could see how the hand of man had added to its natural strength. Piles of stones still guarded the stairway from above, narrowing it until two could scarcely walk abreast, and they lay there still, a ready heap of ammunition, piled by the warrior hands sleeping in Tarawera.
Whero sent his kaka on before him. “See,” he exclaimed to Edwin, “the bird flies fearless over the blighted ground, and you came back to me unharmed. I will conquer terror by your side, and take possession of my own. Who should live upon the hill of Hepé but his heir! Am I not lord and first-born? Count off the moons quickly when I shall carry the greenstone club, and make the name of Hepé famous among the tribes, as my mother said. This shall be my home, and my kaka shall live in it.”
They were trampling through the dry brown fern on the hill-top, and here Whero would willingly have bivouacked. But Hal, who knew nothing of the traditionary horrors which clung to the spot, pushed on to the shelter within the colonnade. No tent was needed here. They laid their helpless burden on the ground and stretched their cramped arms. Whero’s tall talk brought an odd twinkle of amusement into the corner of Hal’s gray eye as he glanced around him humorously. “It is my lord baron, as we say in England, then,” he answered, with a nod to Whero: “but it looks like my barren lord up here.” Whero did not understand the old man’s little joke, and Edwin busied himself with his father.
Whero descended the hill again and fetched up Beauty, who was as expert a climber as his former owner, and neighed with delight when he found himself once more amid the rustling fern. Dry and withered as Edwin had thought it, to Beauty it was associated with all the joys of early days, when he trotted a graceful foal by his mother’s side. Like Whero, he was in his native element.
The proud boy rolled a big stone across the end of the path by which they had climbed up, and then feeling himself secure, began to execute a kind of war-dance.
“Stop your antics,” said Hal, cowering against the gigantic trunk which was sheltering Mr. Lee from the keen winds, “and tell us what that means.” He pointed to a huge white thing towering high above his head, with open beak and outstretched claw—a giant, wingless bird, its dry bones rattling with every gust.
“It is a skeleton,” said Edwin, walking nearer to it to take off the creepy feeling it awakened.
“It is a moa,” said Whero, continuing his dance—“the big old bird which used to build among these hills until my forefathers ate him up. They had little to eat but the fern, the shark, and the moa, until the pakeha came with his pigs and his sheep. There may be one alive in the heights of Mount Cook, but we often find their skeletons in desolate places.” Then Whero went up close to the quivering bones, and cried out with exultation when he discovered the hole in its breast through which the spear of the Hepé had transfixed this ancient denizen of his fortress.
“It is an unked place,” muttered Hal, “but dry to the feet.”
He lit his pipe, and settled himself on the roots of the tree for a smoke and a sleep. He had been existing for so many days in the midst of the stifling clouds of volcanic dust and the choking vapours from the ground, through which chloride of iron gas was constantly escaping for a space of fifty-six miles, that the purer air to which they had ascended seemed like life, and robbed the place of its habitual gloom.
Even Whero, with the Maori’s reverential horror of a dead man’s bones, coiled himself to sleep in the rustling fern by Beauty’s side, his dream of future greatness undisturbed by the rattling bones of the moa, and the still more startling debris which whitened amidst the gnarled and twisted roots.
But it was not so with Edwin. He sat beside his father, feeding him with the undiluted bovril—for water failed them on the rocky height—and wondering how long the slender store would last. He refused himself the smallest taste, and bore his hunger without complaint, hiding the little jar with scrupulous care, for fear Whero should find it and be tempted to eat up the remainder of its contents. So he kept his silent vigil. The storm-clouds cleared, and the grandeur of the view upon which he gazed banished every other thought. He could look down upon the veil of mist which had hidden the sacred mountains, and Tarawera rose before him in all its grandeur. He saw the awful rent which had opened in the side of the central peak, and from which huge columns of smoke and steam were fitfully ascending. He watched the leaping tongues of flame dart up like rockets to the midnight sky, once more ablaze with starshine, and a feeling to which he could give no expression seemed to lift him beyond the present,—“Man does not live by bread alone.”