Into the Mist: Taine McKenna Adventures, #2

1

Te Urewera National Park, late March.

What do you say we take a break? Terry called hopefully, pushing up his hat and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. There was a hotspot on the ball of his foot that’d turn into a big-arsed blister if it didn’t get looked at soon. In front, partially obscured by the undergrowth, Cam fended off an aggressive tree fern. He didn’t turn.

Cam! Terry called, louder this time. Give us a breather, will ya?

Cam halted, one arm holding back the fanning branches. What was that?

Break!

Nah. Reckon we should push on a bit. The hut can’t be far off. We’ll call it a day when we find it.

Cam released the bough as he passed underneath it. Suddenly free, the branch whipped back in his wake, whacking Terry in the face.

Ow!

Sorry.

Already, Cam was on the move again, the swish and whish of his movement trailing him like a reptile’s tail. Groaning, Terry grabbed the straps of his pack, hoisting the weight up on his shoulders.

Maybe he should’ve thought twice before agreeing to another of Cam’s crazy schemes. But he and Cam have been mates forever – since school – and one thing about Cam, Terry always felt alive when they were together. Probably because Cam was always trying to get them killed. Tramping was the latest in a long line of Cam’s must-do challenges. At least this time they were on terra firma. Terry had nearly pissed himself the time they’d gone tandem skydiving. He had pissed himself black water rafting, but thankfully the water and the wetsuit had saved his dignity.

Their first hiking trip had been a one-day walk in Abel Tasman National Park, a rolling coastal track of sandy beaches, timber footbridges and leafy bush trails. Terry and Cam had set out early, covering the 34 kilometres in just under six hours. Their second trip was longer – a four-day hike out of Te Anau on the famous Kepler Track. A half a day in, Mount Luxmore had loomed 1490m overhead, prompting oohs and aahs from the overseas tourists on the trail. But Cam had bitched every time he saw a yellow trail marker. For him, even loaded up with gear, the traverse had been too fucking tame. He’d kept going on about how a girl scout could’ve done it, and in a double-decker bus.

That was their last holiday, six months back. Since then, Cam hadn’t stopped telling Terry they ought to step it up a bit. Get out of their comfort zone. That’s when Cam had come up with the plan to do this two-week hike in the Urewera forest ranges.

It’ll be great, Cam had said. Something decent to get our teeth into. None of this namby-pamby touristy stuff.

Terry had agreed in a wink. A no-brainer really. At work, the company had been going through a restructure, and the atmosphere in the office was shitty. Terry figured if his job wasn’t there when he got back, then fuck it, he’d go on the dole while he looked for something else. Terry’s olds had bitched about it, but they could get fucked.

He was twenty-eight.

Ultra fucking responsible. This trip, he and Cam had checked the long-range forecasts, got themselves kitted up with borrowed gear, even given Cam’s sister their proposed route. And everything had gone fine too, until today, when Cam decided they should venture off the trail – not too far, maybe just a kilometre or two – and do some bushwhacking. It had been great fun, a real adrenalin rush. Cam was like a dog pulling at the leash, keen to get to the next ridge, through the next valley, and around the next corner. He had the pair of them pushing through the foliage, clambering through thickets and stumbling across deep ferny valleys that looked as if they’d never seen a human footprint. Terry loved it. At first. Now, his patience, and his feet were wearing thin.

Hey look at this! Cam shouted. He pointed out some oddly spherical rocks protruding from a clay bank. Reckon those could be fossilised moa eggs, probably uncovered when this bank came away. Looks recent, too. Probably came down in that big earthquake last August. Think about it, Terry, we could be the only people on Earth to see these eggs.

If they’re eggs, Terry said, dubious. He stepped up to the bank for a closer look.

Course they are. What else could they be?

Rocks?

Cam laughed, clapped him on the back. No fucking imagination, Terry. That’s your problem.

Terry shrugged. Buried in the bank, the rocks did look like a clutch of eggs. Cam’s hypothesis was as good as any given that all this area had been swamp way-back-when. Maybe a moa had left her clutch here once upon a time. Should we make a note of the location, let the park ranger know? Terry asked, warming to the moa-egg theme.

Cam shook his head. They’ve been hidden here all these years, what’s another thousand going to matter? Let’s just leave ‘em.

They kept hiking, the hotspot on Terry’s foot niggling as the afternoon wore on. But even more uncomfortable than his foot was Terry’s growing suspicion that they’d managed to get lost. This little glade looked like one they’d passed through earlier. They should’ve reached the hut by now. More likely they’d shot by within metres of the shelter without realising it. Easy mistake. In places, this forest was as dense as mattress stuffing. The area was hardly swarming with people. Terry and Cam had only seen one pair of trampers – an old guy and what might’ve been his son – and that was two days ago.

The afternoon sun was weakening when Cam stopped and pulled the map from the side-pocket of his pack. Bracing his foot against a flat rock, he studied it.

Where the hell are we? Terry said, coming alongside to peer over Cam’s shoulder.

God only knows, said Cam. He indicated an area the size of a small coin with a grubby index finger. Somewhere here. We must’ve missed the hut. Probably deviated off course when we went through that ravine.

When you charged off the track, you mean.

Did you try your cell phone? We might still be in range. Terry was careful to keep his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

What’re we going to say? Boohoo, come get us? We’ve got enough food for a few more days, and plenty of warm gear. Let’s just see if we can get ourselves out of this mess before we go crying for help, eh?

So what do you suggest? Terry said.

For today, Cam said, folding the map more or less into pleats, I vote we find a place to set up camp, get some tucker in us, and rest. Tomorrow, we’ll have a bit of a recce, and push on when we’ve got our bearings. My money’s on finding the track before lunch.

They pitched the tent on an elevated site above a small creek, and soon a fiery pyramid crackled in the small clearing. While Cam got the tea brewed, Terry sat on a flat rock, took his boot off and examined the turgid bubble on the ball of his foot.

Bugger, that’s going to hurt tomorrow.

The light softened to grey, and he fossicked around in his pack for his first aid kit to deal with the wound. He’d just finished repacking the kit, when Cam passed him a mug of hot tea.

Get that down ya, mate.

Taking the mug, Terry wrapped his hands around its warmth and breathed in the steamy vapour. The fire popped, the cheerful sound of a soft-drink tab being pulled, its Fanta-coloured flames lighting the campsite. Mesmerised, Terry sipped the hot liquid and decided this wasn’t so grim after all. They weren’t really lost, just temporarily misplaced. Cam was right. All they needed was some decent kip. Everything’d be sorted in the morning.

Terry woke, aware the space beside him was empty. Fumbling with his watch, he checked the time: 12:23am. Cam must’ve gone for a leak. Terry could hear him stomping around outside the tent. Geez, Cam, how hard is it to find a spot to piss? Lifting himself up on one elbow, Terry gave his pillow – a bag of dirty clothes – a good whump, encouraging it into a more comfortable shape, then shifted his hips to avoid whatever’d been digging into him through the groundsheet. That done, he burrowed into his sleeping bag, pulling the fabric close to his chin. He was almost back in the land of Nod when Cam’s yell filled the night.

Jesus, Cam! Terry scrambled free of his sleeping bag and charged out of the tent. He pulled up. Outside, the campsite was a patchwork of shadows, the fire long since extinguished.

Cam?

Nothing. Miles from civilisation, the silence was eerie, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

Cam, Terry said. Quit fooling around, will ya? You’re freaking me out.

The air was strangely heavy. At the base of his neck, Terry’s skin prickled.

Cam, you okay mate? he said, reaching backwards under the flysheet for his boots. He strained his ears, just catching a faint rustle. Not bothering to do up the laces, he slipped his boots on, wincing when the blister touched home. Then, he crossed the campsite in the direction of the noise. He felt his way with caution, checking the stability of the ground before placing his feet. Cam had been making a bit of a racket earlier, stomping around out here. Could he have tripped on a hidden hollow and knocked himself out? Or maybe he’d wandered away from the campsite and couldn’t find his way back? Except if that were the case, he would’ve called out. Terry figured Cam must’ve hurt himself. What possessed Cam to go off on a Tiki-tour in the dark? Not everything had to be a frickin’ cross-country adventure. Why couldn’t he just piss into the bushes behind the tent? Terry bashed his knee on a rock.

Fuck!

Hang on. Another sound. Possibly a whimper...

Cam? Can you hear me? Terry stopped still, listened for his mate and pushed back the panic that’d gripped his intestines. Dead silence. Cam must be out cold. Terry hoped it wasn’t too serious. He increased his pace, trying to navigate his way in the murk, but his thoughts were way ahead of him. How were they going to get out of the bush if Cam was injured? Nothing else for it, they’d just have to pull their heads in and phone Search and Rescue. That was if they could get a signal. And even if they got through to someone, Terry didn’t have a clue where they were. The forest park covered more than two thousand square kilometres. It could take days for anyone to get to them.

Terry shook his head, annoyed his imagination had run away with him. First thing he needed to do was find Cam. As far as getting him out of the bush, they’d deal with that later.

At the edge of the campsite, Terry stumbled on a fallen tree limb, bruising his shin and sprawling headfirst into some spongy bracken. Stunned and gormless, Terry picked himself up, casting around in the dark for the obstacle so as not to trip a second time. His fingers found a boot. Terry felt a rush of relief. Looked like Cam had tripped over the same branch.

Cam, he said jovially. S’okay mate, I’ve found you. Everything’s gonna be fine now.

Cam didn’t answer, confirming Terry’s suspicions. The duffer’d gone and knocked himself out on a rock or a stump or something. Concussed. Patting his way up Cam’s legs to his trunk, Terry was pleased to note that at least there were no broken bones.

What the fuck?!

Terry shook violently, his body already grasping what his mind hadn’t yet understood. Bringing his fingers to his face Terry sniffed at the wetness there. Metallic. It wasn’t dew. Terry jerked his hands away in horror. Cam’s upper body was missing.

Sweet Jesus!

He’d been severed in half. Gulping air, Terry scrambled to his feet, backpedalling, using bloody hands to scrabble away, a low wail welling up from his stomach. How did this happen? He wasn’t stopping to find out. He had to get the hell away from here. Turning his back on what was left of Cam, Terry charged toward the tent, plunging headlong through the dark, ignoring the branches that stabbed at his face and arms. He was half way across the clearing when the moon peeked through the forest canopy illuminating the campsite, and Terry knew getting out of the bush was the least of his worries.

2

Maungapōhatu, Te Urewera Forest, late March

Rawiri Temera sat on a fold-out beach chair on the back porch of the farmhouse smoking a cigarette and listening to the familiar chatter of the morepork and weka. Some nights, from this spot, Temera could see the needle of Te Maunga thrusting its twisted silhouette against the darkened sky, the final spike of the Huia-rau mountain range in the Urewera forest. Tonight though, the mist maiden Hine-pūkohu-rangi had wrapped the mountain in her grey cloak, her earthy perfume overwhelmed by the scent of Temera’s tobacco.

How many more nights would he spend on this porch? Not many – his great-nephew Wayne reckoned – if Temera insisted on smoking. He ignored his nephew’s counsel; a man was entitled to one vice. At eighty-three, there was little enough pleasure in life. Even the journey in and out of the valley was misery these days, the ride in the truck jolting his bones and rattling his teeth. Perhaps, after all, this would be his last summer visit to kāinga tipu, his isolated ancestral home.

Flicking ash into the yard, Temera exhaled, lips pursed like a clarinet player as he stretched out his legs. From far away came what sounded like an engine, but he wasn’t expecting anyone. Maungapōhatu was too far off the beaten track for visitors to pop in for tea and gingernuts. It was hardly a tourist destination, just a handful of hardy farmers, mostly rugged Tūhoe men, and fewer women. The lost and the lonesome. The year before last, the Search and Rescue helicopter had hovered around the settlement for close to an hour searching for some fool hunter who’d got himself separated from his party while chasing down an injured stag. It was the biggest fuss they’d seen in these parts since old war chief Murakareke rolled over in his sleep and singed his family jewels in a fire. Squashing his cigarette out in an old scallop shell, Temera leaned back in his beach chair and closed his eyes…

The morepork called; the owl’s hoot far off and melancholy. Out of the darkened mass of the forest, a shape emerged, slowly growing, as if the mountain had broken off and plunged into the valley. The shifting form advanced until it was just metres from the house, its shadow stretching across the yard.

 A taniwha, a monster of legend.

Temera knew that for the taniwha to appear he had to be dreaming. He’d never seen a taniwha before, but he’d heard enough to recognise one when he saw one, darkness or no. Here in Kupe’s adopted home, every child knew of the taniwha – vengeful monsters that slaughtered warriors, kidnapped maidens and ate babies whole. Gruesome tales told and retold to children at the knees of their grandmothers. But taniwha could be protective as well as predatory, standing guard over rivers and mountains, and keeping the people of a tribe from harm. Warning them of coming danger.

And this taniwha? Was it friend or foe?

At last, Temera remembered what he should do. Quietly letting out his breath, he uttered soft, respectful words – a karakia-prayer in honour of his visitor.

3

Landsafe Laboratories, Hamilton, early June

At the whump of the doors, Jules pushed back from her computer and looked down the length of the lab. It was Richard, her boss, the heavy double doors swinging closed behind him as he made his way towards her, a disposable coffee cup in each hand. Mousy-brown hair flopping over his face, he smiled. With his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum, Richard hardly resembled the CEO of Crown Research Institute. He was more your salesman type, or a council contractor, or even a comedian, although the only stand-up he did was at scientific symposia – about four annually. He was a seriously good scientist with a PhD from Canterbury, post-doctoral stints at Texas and Cambridge universities, membership on some prestigious scientific committees, as well as ecological field-work experience on three continents.

And he was in love with her.

Not that Jules had done anything to encourage it – well, nothing more than your usual office banter. She just didn’t feel that way about Richard. Although, if she was honest, she could do a lot worse. Richard was a good friend, but those Jake Gyllenhaal movies Hollywood kept churning out had her holding out for something more. Something special.

Richard passed her a coffee. Milk, no sugar, right?

Accepting the cup, Jules gave him what she hoped was a professional smile. She took a sip; the contents were still hot. Richard must have run all the way from the canteen.

Okay, what’s up? she demanded, one hand on her hip.

Richard combed his fringe out of his face with his fingers. Up? Why should something be up?

Jules raised her coffee cup, and her eyebrows.

It’s not against the law to bring a staff member coffee, Dr Asher.

Jules drummed her fingers on the bench. Did you get Mal one?

Hey, I’ve only got two hands, Richard protested.

Over the rim of her cup, Jules gave him a penetrating stare, and took another sip.

Rolling chair castors thrummed on the linoleum, and Richard sat down beside her, coffee in his hands and his elbows resting on the worn knees of his cords. Okay, I’ll come clean. I’ve just got off the phone with the Conservation Minister.

The minister. Jules leaned back. Should I be terrified or intrigued?

Don’t panic. As far as I can tell there are no plans to sell off Landsafe. He threw her a wry smile. At least, not this week. No, it’s that gold uncovered in Te Urewera National Park. Did you see the news report?

The pair of Aussie geologists here on holiday? Jules said.

Richard nodded.

I read it online. Didn’t that seem weird to you, them finding that nugget smack in the middle of the trail?

Richard shifted his weight and rolled a little closer. Actually, that’s not so weird. The Aussies were crossing a riverbed when they found the nugget. Plenty of gold turns up in riverbeds. What’s weird is that they handed it over to the authorities.

It wasn’t theirs to take, Jules said with a shrug. Did you know that if you uncover a vein of silver in your vege patch, it belongs to the Crown? I expect the government can swoop in and confiscate your carrots, too.

Yeah, but that nugget was the size of an iPhone: 1600 grams and close to pure. Fifty-four troy ounces, the minister said. At today’s spot price, that’s close to 100,000 US dollars. Imagine what you could do with that kind of money.

For one nugget? Wow. I don’t suppose the minister was calling to offer us a share.

Richard pulled a face. I wish! He wants to know if there’s more where this came from.

Biting at the edge of the paper cup, Jules waited for Richard to continue.

So the ministers have overridden the Schedule 4 protection on the parkland. Granted a special prospecting licence. They’re proposing sending in a Task Force to investigate the potential quantity of ore, and how it might be extracted. We’ve been charged with evaluating the impact to the environment.

Jules’ pulse quickened. Of course Landsafe would be involved. Any eventual extraction would have to comply with the Conservation Act.

I’m surprised at the Tūhoe, though, Richard said, flicking away the hair that always fell forward over his face. As co-guardians, I thought they’d have something to say about a bunch of strangers traipsing through their tribal lands, poking holes. But the tribe’s elders have given it the go-ahead.

Jules wrapped her fingers around her cup. I guess they’re thinking of the economics of it. She managed to keep her tone even.

Probably, Richard agreed. There isn’t much work up that way. But like you said, the government doesn’t have to ask the landowner’s permission.

Here it comes.

Jules held her breath.

This Task Force. I want you to go, Jules.

Her heart sank. Aw come on, Richard, she said, hating the whine in her voice. I’m up to my eyeballs in this project. She waved at her computer screen. What about Mal? Can’t he go?

No, he can’t, Jules. His wife is due next week and there’s no way I’m getting on the wrong side of Gabby – she scares the hell out of me. He pulled an awkward grin.

I can be scary, Jules whispered.

Richard laughed.

Jules dropped her chin, looking out at Richard from under her lashes. What if I promise to wash all the laboratory glassware for a week? Every last Erlenmeyer flask.

Leaning in, Richard placed a hand on her shoulder. Jules, I’ve done my best to keep you out of the parks, but it’s been two years.

I can’t go. Sarah needs me to look in on her.

It’s only for a few days. And Sarah has other people who can visit her.

Yes, but I’m her best friend.

She’ll understand.

What if she doesn’t?

Jules…

Richard, I can’t. It’s too soon.

Richard’s face was impassive. "Jules… there is no one else."

Dropping the crumpled coffee cup into the bin, Jules scrubbed her hands over her face, holding back her tears. It was bound to happen. She was going to have to face it sometime. Richard couldn’t protect her forever.

She dropped her forearms onto the bench. When is it?

You leave tomorrow. From Rotorua.

Tomorrow! You said it was only a proposal.

That’s the official line.

But it’s the Ureweras. It’ll be freezing.

Richard brushed his fringe out of his eyes again. I agree, it could be bracing, he said, throwing his coffee cup in the bin.

Dinsdale, Hamilton City, same day

Jules stepped through the back door into the kitchen. At the laminate counter, a woman in her fifties stepped back from a pile of chopped vegetables, her voluminous bosom wobbling.

Hello, Dr Asher.

Jules raised an eyebrow, tilting her head.

I mean, Jules.

Jules gave her a warm smile. Hello, Carol-Ann. How was she today?

The caregiver wiped her hands on a chequered tea-towel. Not bad, overall. We had a lovely lunch. Drove the van through to Rotorua to the Blue Lake and had a picnic on the beach.

Bit cold for that, wasn’t it? Jules slipped her handbag into the space between the chair back and the table.

We wrapped up warm. Sarah likes it there, near the water and the bush. Carol-Ann lowered her voice to a whisper. She’s a bit melancholy tonight, though.

Her parents?

Carol-Ann nodded. They left half an hour ago. Upset her, as usual. You go through, honey. She’ll be pleased to see you. Give me a tick to get the dinner on and I’ll bring you through a cuppa.

Jules headed to the lounge, the sound of the television greeting her.

’...Archie. Chris Tarrant on the line. I’ve got Phil here with me in the studio. He’s doing very well, but he needs your help to win £16,000...’

On the battered leather sofa, a spot of spittle on her chin, Sarah’s face was a picture of concentration. Jules’ heart clenched, reminded of another evening her friend had sat on this same battered sofa. Back then Sarah had been wearing cut-off Levis, her long legs tucked under her, eating Indian takeout from a foil container, and nattering between mouthfuls about the pair of them partnering up for karaoke night.

Hey, sweetie. Jules dropped a kiss on Sarah’s forehead. Her friend looked up, blue eyes full of warmth. When rescue teams had pulled her out of the gully still alive, Jules had been overwhelmed with relief. Always a battler, Sarah had spent seven months in Burwood Hospital recovering from severe trauma to her frontal lobe.

Do you mind if I turn this off? Jules said, pointing to the television.

Sarah looked puzzled, so Jules picked up the remote and switched the television off. Poor Sarah. It wasn’t just the partial paralysis of her legs. Where before she used to run marathons