A Canoe In the Mist (7 page)

Although the whole scene was as bright as noon-day with the fiery glow, Joe McRae led the way with his lantern held high. Down on the flat a family group of Maoris were
coming up from the lake shore. ‘Come away inside,’ Joe hailed them in Maori. They hesitated and then followed.

In the chaos of sound and the continual shaking of the ground, the lamplight shone its welcome from the sturdy bulk of the Rotomahana Hotel.

I
nside the smoking room the fire burned cheerily. Lollop, who had crouched miserably beside Bridget all this while, whined with pleasure as he went to meet his master. The people filed in quite awed by what they had seen. Mattie ran to her mother, clasped her tight and burst into tears.

Up till now she had kept her imagination in check. She didn’t want those old fears to return, after she’d lost them at the White Terrace. When Mr McRae had knocked on her bedroom door and said it was an earthquake but he’d seen worse, and he’d like her to get dressed just in case, she’d taken him at his word. After they’d helped her mother downstairs, her father had talked about earthquakes the way he’d talked about hot springs and geysers, and how a very big shock wouldn’t last long. So this was only a small earthquake and she must put up with it. That was a
little easier when Lillian came. And then—the mountain! Who could have dreamed up a scene one half as grand as that? She hadn’t meant to cry. She didn’t know why she was crying now.

‘There, there now,’ Mrs Hensley comforted her. ‘Was it so terrible? The mountain looked quite marvellous from here. I envied you being up at the lookout.’

‘The mountain? Yes, that was marvellous—and awesome—and a long way off—but the earthquake, Mama, it threw us all in a heap and I was squashed under them all. Oh, if only the earthquake would
stop
!’

‘Mattie dear, we can’t make it stop, can we? So what about telling me what you saw. What was that last explosion? It sounded like all the cannon in the world going off at once.’

Mattie straightened up. ‘That was Tarawera. Mama, we have witnessed a volcano. A triple volcano.’

The immensity of it came to her as she said it, a sense of great wonder. She wanted to talk now and tell everything. The words came tumbling out, aided by bits from her father and Lillian and Mrs Perham, exciting, dramatic. Mattie hadn’t taken in the peril of the lakeside villages. It was the volcano itself that had gripped her.

But the Maori family, who had settled nearby on the floor, were straining their ears to listen. From their whare beside the lake they’d seen the flaming sky but not the mountain. They were six: two old men, one old woman,
a young mother with her baby on her back, and a seven-year-old boy, who knew more English than his elders. The worry deepened on their faces as the boy Tamati tried to interpret the tale he could only half understand himself.

Bridget went round pulling down the blinds to shut out the approaching storm, sure that nobody else would come. But now a shout came from the doorway. It was Willie Bird demanding, ‘Has anyone seen my wife and baby? I’ve looked all over the hotel.’

‘She’s never been here,’ replied Bridget.

‘Not at all?’

‘No, she hasn’t.’

‘We were on our way here when we left the house—’

‘And you left her and went up the hill with us,’ said his brother Johnny.

‘Happen she went back for napkins and stayed there,’ said the practical-minded Bridget.

‘I’ll go see,’ said Willie, all anxiety.

‘Be quick, Willie, we’re making hot cocoa,’ Joe McRae called after him. ‘Come with me to the kitchen, Bridget.’

But in the lean-to kitchen, amidst a litter of smashed crockery, George Baker was gazing despondently into a tiny glow. He looked up. ‘Master, the fire won’t heat the water,’ he complained.

‘That fire wouldn’t heat an egg-cup. Haven’t you got any wood in?’ Joe said sharply.

‘It’s all outside,’ said George.

‘Are you bothered by an earthquake?’ said Bridget scornfully. But Joe knew that when a man’s nerve fails it’s no use pushing him.

‘I’ll get you some wood,’ he said.

At that moment a clatter sounded on the roof. ‘Here’s the rain,’ said Bridget.

‘Sounds like hail,’ said George.

Joe’s thoughts took a quick turn. ‘We’ll not trouble ourselves with the stove,’ he said. ‘I’ll give them something stronger than cocoa. Get in there with the others, George, but allow me to do the honours. Bridget, get out a tin of crackers.’

When George had gone he opened the door to the yard and beckoned Bridget to see. It was neither rain nor hail. The sky was raining stones—mud and stones—stones as big as marbles.

‘Lord have mercy upon us! It’s rain from the bowels of the earth!’ cried Bridget.

‘Thank the good Lord you drew the blinds,’ said Joe. ‘I’d rather they didn’t see
that
till I’ve given them some stiffener. See to them, Bridget, while I watch out for Willie. We’ll have no panic in there.’

‘I understand, master. We’ll set a good example,’ said Bridget stoutly.

Joe doused the fire and paused a moment by the smokingroom door. The people were still in lively conversation about what they’d seen, and the clatter on the roof was
muffled by the upper storey. Then he waited by the outside door until Willie Bird came racing through the ugly shower.

‘My wife’s been back all right,’ panted Willie, ‘but she’s not there now. What’s going to happen, Joe? How can I find her in this?’

‘If you’ve got any brains you won’t even try,’ said Joe. ‘She won’t be out in it. She’ll have gone to her Maori friends no doubt, out of displeasure at you for preferring to see the sights.’

‘A man must look after his wife—’

‘And not do foolhardy things to make her a widow. Ah, but I’m glad indeed my own wife and lassies are well away from here. It’s raining stones, Willie, and who knows what’s to happen next? I’d rather they didn’t know in there, not yet. Let them think it’s hail. Tell them she left a note to say where she’s gone. Stand by me, Willie, make yourself useful and help me serve the drinks.’

‘You win, Joe,’ said Willie. ‘It goes against the grain but I’ll put on the best act I can. Just give me time to wash this mud off my hands. I think my knuckle’s bleeding.’

They entered the smoking room together. George was sunk in a corner, while Bridget was bustling about making people comfortable with cushions, and Edwin Bainbridge was sitting at the desk, writing.

‘Sorry, friends, the cocoa’s off,’ said Joe. ‘The cocoa jar took a tumble. Say what’ll you have, it’s all on the house.
Whisky? Brandy? Port? Lemon squash, raspberry and soda?’

‘It’ll taste of sulphur, whatever we have,’ said Mr Stubbs. ‘The smell’s all down my nose and throat.’

‘Lemon squash is the antidote,’ said Joe briskly. ‘This hailstorm brings the sulphur with it. Willie, pour some for the girls, and Bridget, give them some crackers.’

Over the top of her lemon squash, which banished the fumes in her mouth with its acid tang, Lillian saw the Maori group waiting patiently. ‘Can I take a drink to Tamati?’ she asked Willie Bird.

‘Who’s that?’

‘The boy there, Tamati. He goes to our school.’

‘Oh, him? He comes into the store with his Auntie Makuini there. Here you are then. Tell the others I’ll get them some beer.’

Tamati took his drink thirstily and followed it with four of Bridget’s biscuits. All his words had dried up and fear showed in his eyes. The old ones were talking and she heard the name of Moura. They must be thinking of their relations who lived there; all the Maoris had lots of relations. Those lights on the lake—they couldn’t have seen them and she couldn’t tell them that there was no way to escape from Moura. Lillian moved away quickly so as not to give way to helpless tears.

She mustn’t cry. They must all remain calm, following the example of Mr McRae, who knew the right thing to
do. She went back to Mattie.

‘Look at them all,’ said Mattie. ‘You’d think it was the custom to take whisky and crackers at three in the morning. It’s not
real
.’

‘That’s the way Mr McRae wants it, with nobody fussed,’ said Lillian. ‘He’s always like that. And we’re sort of used to the earthquake by now.’

‘I think he’s fussed himself, underneath. He’s gone out and come in again twice.’

‘He might want to look at the storm. It’s getting louder—
oh
!’

‘Oh
what
?’

‘Mattie, he said it’s hail. But would hail bring that sulphury smell? And I think it’s getting stronger, too!’

‘We can soon find out,’ said Mattie.

They went to the window and put their heads under the blind.

‘I can’t see a thing, it’s too dark. But it
sounds
different,’ said Lillian.

‘Look there, by the lantern over the door. It’s raining mud, mud and stones! It’s pouring down, pouring! And it’s piling up on the verandah floor.’

‘It’s the volcano,’ said Lillian in a small, shocked voice.

Their hands joined and gripped. What to say? What to do? They pressed their faces to the glass, watching in stunned silence. And then a fireball sailed over, making
a trail of red light through the murk, swiftly followed by another, and another. ‘Oh,
look
!’ Lillian screamed aloud—and with a jerk and a rattle, the blind went up to its roller.

Startled cries, a small stampede, all the blinds rattling up and every window with its horrified faces…

‘The devil’s rain,’ boomed Mr Humphreys. ‘Blythe was wrong. Tarawera’s not too far away to send us this.’

‘Ghastly!’ added Mrs Humphreys.

‘It’s the end for us,’ cried Mr Stubbs in a high shrill voice. After that it was all a hubbub of human voices mixed with the noise from outside, the earthquake rumble and the volcanic storm. Calmer words came through.

‘We’ll keep our heads and our hopes alive,’ said Joe McRae.

‘We are in the hands of the Lord,’ said Edwin Bainbridge.

The fireballs were falling steadily. A heavy crashing, followed by rolling and banging sounds, reverberated through the hotel. All faces now turned from the windows to the inner door. ‘Everyone stays here while I investigate,’ shouted Joe.

Some stood like statues, others flopped into chairs, waiting. Edwin Bainbridge went back to the desk where he wrote in his diary: ‘At the foot of a volcano. We do not expect to live through the night.’ Mrs Perham took hold of Lillian’s hand, Mr Hensley of Mattie’s, leading them to where Mrs Hensley sat. They gave each other small smiles, and said nothing that mattered.

Joe McRae reappeared. ‘The kitchen has gone,’ he said bluntly. ‘Fallen in with the weight of mud upon it. A good thing the fire was out. No one is to leave this room until we’ve inspected the rest of the house. The kitchen was only a poor structure added on, but the rest should stand up to anything.’

‘Can I give you a hand?’ said Mr Humphreys. ‘Those fireballs might mean trouble.’

‘Aye, you can that,’ said Joe. ‘Willie, Johnny, you stay here. Two’s enough.’

‘We’ll have those blinds down again,’ said Bridget firmly as they left the room. ‘We don’t want to look at
that
.’

The people settled down quietly. The Maoris in their corner were singing in low, droning voices what might have been Maori hymns. The floor gave a jolt that shifted the tables and chairs, and one of the lamps went out. A sudden fierce wind whistled down the chimney and set the windows rattling. Nobody stoked the dying fire. Time went slowly by. They were all aware now of the danger.

‘What are you thinking, Mumma?’ said Lillian, after hearing her sigh.

‘About your father. It’s such a short time since we lost him.’

‘Do you want to be with him in Heaven?’

‘No, no! I want to be with you, to watch you growing up.’

‘Quite right,’ said Mr Hensley. ‘Where there’s life there’s hope.’

‘Papa,’ said Mattie, ‘when we saw the ruins of Pompeii, you told me about a book—’

‘Pompeii?’ interrupted Lillian.

‘It’s in Italy, under Mount Vesuvius. The city was buried for hundreds of years. When they dug down into it they found the bones of people still in their houses, and brave centurions keeping guard, because they hadn’t had orders to go.’

‘Where could they go to?’ asked Lillian.

‘There was the sea,’ said Mr Hensley. ‘That book,
The Last Days of Pompeii
, took the story from Roman writers who were there. The eruption eased off at times, like showers do, and many of the people ran away. The hero and heroine escaped on a ship.’

‘And those who didn’t run away were smothered,’ said Mattie calmly, ‘and if it happens to us we’ll be like those centurions and die bravely.’

‘Aren’t you
scared
?’ said Lillian, amazed.

‘It’s different somehow,’ said Mattie. ‘Scared is how you feel when things might be awful and you don’t know what to do if they happen. This is real and it’s happening and I’m sort of ready for what comes next.’

‘Like an animal in a trap,’ said Mr Hensley. ‘All senses alert. If there’s a way out we must find it. Perhaps all we have to do is stay here. The eruption could stop at any time.’

‘We’ll all keep together, the five of us, like one family,’
said Mrs Hensley. ‘And put up a stiff resistance, shall we, Lillian?’

‘Count on me!’ said Lillian, and her voice was suddenly loud, as if she were shouting defiance.

Edwin Bainbridge now closed his diary, asked Bridget to find him a Bible, and stood forward in front of everyone.

‘Fellow Christians!’ he said in a strong clear voice. ‘We are duty-bound to preserve, if we can, the life that God has given us. But we know that we are in peril. For myself, I have not the slightest doubt that before this night has ended I will stand before my Maker. Will you join me in prayer?’

A murmur went round the room. Most of them had already been praying silently and even desperately. It would feel better to pray together. They bowed their heads as Edwin prayed: ‘Oh Lord our God, we call to thee in what may be the last hour of our lives. If it be that we are delivered into thy presence, we thank thee for our lives on this earth, for our joys and our blessings and thy loving care in times of trouble. We ask thee to bless our loved ones and ease their burden of sorrow. And if it be that any among us are saved from this peril, let it be a turning point in our lives, to lead us to thee. Our Father which art in Heaven…’

Other voices joined him, the Maoris loudest of all: ‘E to m
tou matua i te rangi…’