Blood Roots: Are the roots strong enough to save the pandemic survivors? (5 page)

Jane took the binoculars and scanned the shoreline as they approached. There was one person missing. But before she could voice her concerns, a salvo of questions bombarded the dinghy.

‘Where did you find the yacht?’

‘Who’s the lady?’

‘Where’s Zach?’

Zach felt ten feet tall as he rode his horse along the highway away from his mother, grandfather and sister. As soon as he was out of sight he urged his mount on. After several false starts the string of horses broke into a trot. He was determined to arrive at Gulf Harbour before
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. A sensitive boy, he wanted everything to be just right for his mother’s return. He had planned for her homecoming during the night: the fresh sheets, the flowers and the ‘welcome home’ card for her bedside table. And he wanted a special welcome-home present too, something just from him. As he rode he wondered what he could give her.

After less than a kilometre, two of the horses began to tire. He considered ditching them, but he knew he would be in trouble with his grandfather. The trot petered out and the journey was reduced to the pace of the old mare bringing up the rear. Every so often he would check the route map. He was following the outward route in reverse so not only were the barricades familiar, but he also
remembered the easiest ways round them.

The road sign after he left the motorway at the Silverdale turnoff, however, confused him. The large green sign beside the highway indicated that Silverdale and the Whangaparaoa Peninsula lay along the straight road leading directly ahead, yet his grandfather’s map indicated he should turn onto the road to the left. He remembered passing a house on the outwards journey that looked like the one a little way up the road the map indicated he should take. But surely the sign pointing to the road ahead indicated the shortest route?

The light was beginning to fail. He was desperate to make the safety of the peninsula before dark. As he debated with himself which route to take, he noticed a faded advertisement hoarding in a nearby field: ‘Silverdale Attractions — Pioneer Village and Factory Shop Outlets’. It too pointed down the long, straight road ahead. The traffic islands and large garden centre on the right looked familiar. Surely it was the road they had taken when they had fled to Gulf Harbour six years earlier?

He decided to ignore his grandfather’s route map and continue straight ahead, gaining in confidence as he recognised the bridge across the Wade River. Yes, he had definitely come this way before. His mother would always stop at the lingerie factory outlet shop.

That was the answer! He would surely find a welcome-home present for her in one of the factory shops.

At the foot of the hill he turned left into Silverdale township. Two shops had burnt down. The food outlets and hardware stores had been looted, but the other shops had survived. He dismounted, hitched the string of horses to a playground slide in the middle of a large patch of grass and left them to feed as he hurried off on foot.

The first shop he came to sold surfing clothing and accessories. Smiling to himself, he imagined his mother trying to stand on a surfboard. He pressed on. It was becoming so dark that he was finding it difficult to read the faded signs on the shop fronts. He made out the words ‘Bendon Lingerie Seconds Shop’ on a grimy window. It was the shop his mother always visited.

He heard dogs barking in the distance, and it immediately occurred to him that his grandfather had taken the alternative road to avoid the pack of dogs they had heard on their outward journey. Despite the fact the dogs were some way off, he was nervous and wished he hadn’t left the rifle slung in the case on his horse’s saddle.

Groping his way into the darkness of the shop, he stumbled into racks of clothes, tripped and tumbled into the darkness.

Mark and Jane clambered out of the dinghy in the gathering gloom, alarm etched on their faces. Nicole, following them, sensed the gravity of the situation. The adults all talked at once. The smaller children, Gina and Holly, stared open-mouthed at the strange lady who had picked up Audrey and was crying. The four-year-old cried too, distressed that she was being held by a stranger. She struggled to reach the safety of her grandfather. Jessica, who had seen Mark’s photographs of Jane, tried her best to comfort the woman she realised was her cousin.

All were concerned at Zach’s nonappearance. Mark spoke quickly to Fergus, who rushed off while Mark attempted to calm everyone down. He barely had time to outline his plans before Fergus roared down Marina Hill on an ancient Harley Davidson motorbike. He screeched to a halt and Mark jumped on the pillion seat.

‘Take it easy,’ Mark yelled in Fergus’s ear as they sped up Gulf Harbour Drive. ‘Remember you’ve got less than four litres of fuel.’ Fergus eased off the throttle.

He knew Mark was right. Fergus had been elated when he’d found the old bike, hidden away in the basement of a house in Army Bay. He’d told no one of his find and worked secretly to get the bike going, hunting the peninsula for tires and a new clutch cable. He’d only ridden the bike once before — the day he surprised everyone by riding it up Marina Hill. The smaller children, who had never seen or heard a motorbike before, had been frightened. Jessica, who remembered Fergus’s passion for motorbikes in England, had been impressed. Steven had been envious.

Mark had simply flagged him down, checked the fuel gauge and
requisitioned the bike for use in emergencies, promising Fergus he could have it back and use it when and if he found more fuel. Despite many hours of searching, Fergus had not been able to use his pride and joy again. In the desperate fight for survival following the pandemic even lawnmowers had been siphoned of their fuel.

Mark stood up on the pillion-seat pedals, gripping Fergus’s shoulders as they continued along the main road of the peninsula. In the gathering dusk he scanned both ahead and down the roads that led off to either side, even though he knew there was little likelihood Zach would have left the main road.

The light had gone completely by the time they reached the end of the peninsula. The Harley’s piercing beam cut through the darkness as Fergus zigzagged his way down the centre of the highway, attempting to illuminate as much of the overgrown roadway and verges as he could. Mark sat behind him, directing him along the route they had taken to Greenhithe, searching as best he could. He knew that if Zach had left the highway to graze the horses in adjacent fields it would be impossible to see him in the darkness, but he guessed the boy would hear the motorbike and felt sure he’d make the roadway in time to catch their attention, or at least fire the rifle.

As the journey progressed with still no sign of his grandson, he became increasingly concerned. Surely if one of the horses had become lame Zach would have abandoned it? Mark knew he had always impressed upon everyone how precious the horses were. A lame horse would stand little chance against a marauding dog pack, but Zach could have found a barn and stabled it till they were able to return and rescue it.

In was gone midnight when Mark and Fergus arrived at the Greenhithe Bridge. Mark’s final hope was that Zach had encountered a problem early in his journey and had made his way back to the bridge in the hope
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had not yet sailed. But he was clutching at straws. It had taken them several hours to extricate
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from the bridge support and surely he would have returned in that time.

‘What now?’ Fergus asked when Mark stopped and let out a
huge sigh, signifying the end of their journey. ‘Half a dozen horses can’t just disappear into thin air.’

‘He must be off to the side of the road somewhere. We’ll have to wait till morning. There’s a shed just up the road where we camped a few nights ago. We’ll sleep there and set off again at first light.’

Neither Mark nor Fergus slept. They were both too cold and too worried. As soon as dawn broke they returned to the bridge for another search of the banks of the upper harbour. Finding no indication Zach had returned, they raced back across the bridge and commenced the journey back towards Gulf Harbour, Mark again standing on the pedals of the pillion position, scanning the surrounding countryside.

‘Stop!’ he shouted suddenly.

‘What have you seen?’

‘Horse shit.’

‘Horse shit?’

‘Yes, I want a closer look.’

Fergus watched as Mark scrambled off the bike, grabbed a stick and prodded the dung.

‘Learn anything?’ Fergus asked. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Not yet,’ Mark said, studying the tip of his stick. ‘Let’s get going. I’ll scan the fields, you keep your eyes open for more horse shit.’

‘Why do I get all the good jobs?’ Fergus mumbled. Despite the gravity of the situation he managed a wry smile. ‘Be careful where you prod that stick,’ he added.

They continued along the road a further five kilometres. Still there was no sign of Zach or the horses.

‘Horse shit on the starboard bow,’ Fergus called as they neared the onramp to State Highway One at Sunnynook.

Mark had jumped off before Fergus had brought the motorbike to a halt and was soon prodding the dung with his stick.

‘Yes,’ he yelled, his voice revealing his excitement. Fergus looked at him, perplexed. ‘It’s fresher than the horse shit we found earlier,’
Mark explained. ‘He’s somewhere between here and the Whangaparaoa Peninsula.’

A large pile of fresh dung beside an advertising hoarding on the outskirts of Silverdale brought fresh elation. The search area was getting smaller. Fergus set off again.

‘Turn around,’ Mark yelled, poking Fergus in the back. ‘Not this way, go back and down that side road. Don’t you remember the way we came last night?’

‘It was dark last night,’ complained a tired, hungry and irritable Fergus. ‘I’m just following the road signs.’

They continued around the loop road through the outskirts of Silverdale and reached the road that led back to the peninsula.

‘I bet the little so-and-so holed up in a house on the peninsula last night and walked into Gulf Harbour this morning, while we’ve been living rough and freezing to death,’ Fergus speculated.

But just as Fergus thought things could get no worse, they did. The Harley spluttered to a stop. He kicked-started her back to life, but the engine coughed and failed again seconds later. They were still five kilometres from Gulf Harbour.

They had no alternative but to proceed on foot. ‘I hope there’s some breakfast going,’ Fergus grumbled. Mark did not reply. The single clump of dung he had encountered since the Silverdale turnoff had been old. He broke into a jog, and Fergus fell in behind him.

They knew from the posture of the cluster of figures they saw rushing towards them as they approached Marina Hill that Zach had not returned.

‘What now?’ Fergus asked between gulps of water.

Mark passed him some of the bread and cheese that had been prepared, awaiting their arrival. ‘He’s got to be somewhere between here and the Silverdale turnoff. I want you to take everyone and search the side roads from Gulf Harbour to the end of the peninsula. I’m going to grab a bike and search the section of road between the peninsula and the Silverdale turnoff.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ Jane announced to her father. ‘Where do you keep the bikes?’

‘This way,’ Nicole shouted. ‘I’m coming with you too, Granddad.’

It took over an hour to pedal to the base of the peninsula. Once they reached the loop road Mark organised a search, sending Jane and Nicole up side roads while he searched the grounds of properties on the loop road itself. But they found no sign of Zach or the horses, and continued to the motorway turnoff, finally coming to a halt beneath the large green road sign.

‘He’s got to be somewhere between here and Marina Hill,’ Mark said as he kicked the pile of dung in frustration.

‘Was the bridge over the Wade River washed away by the tsunami?’ Jane asked as they all stood looking dejectedly at the horse dung.

‘No.’

‘Then why did you take the loop road?’

‘We could hear dogs barking in the village,’ Mark replied, acutely aware that in their hurry to leave Gulf Harbour, he had forgotten to bring a rifle.

The possibility that Zach had ignored the route map occurred to the three of them in the same instant. Soon they were freewheeling down the hill towards the Wade Bridge.

‘Horses!’ Nicole yelled as she turned into Silverdale village.

Yells of ‘Zach!’ reverberated from the shop fronts. There was no reply.

‘He’s got to be here somewhere,’ Mark said, his voice wracked with concern. ‘You two search the other side of the street, I’ll do this side.’

As he frantically searched the third shop in the block, Mark heard Nicole’s voice call, ‘Mum, Granddad — he’s over here.’

They found Zach lying in the basement of the shop. He was very weak. The pain of his shattered leg, broken as he fell through the open trapdoor, was excruciating. He was badly dehydrated, so after giving him water and food, they applied splints to his leg, located an ancient stretcher in the Pioneer Village Museum and carefully manoeuvred him up the narrow basement ladder. He was in too much pain to ride, so they took it in turns carrying the stretcher up Silverdale Hill and along the peninsula, with the third person leading the string of horses. They were exhausted by the time they met Gina near the turnoff to Red Beach. Gradually the other searchers returned from the side roads and with great feelings of relief the whole party wound its way back to Gulf Harbour.

Zach’s accident was another reminder to Mark of just how fragile their small community was. His leg healed but with no anaesthetic to quell her son’s screams, Jane had made a poor job of aligning the shattered bones. When Zach was finally able to walk, he moved
with a limp and it was clear from the grimace on his face that he was in constant pain. Mark once again rued the day Allison had left — she was a trained nurse, and had she remained in Gulf Harbour, she would surely have reset the leg properly. Over the following weeks his longing for her became transformed into anger that she had left.

For a third time the Gulf Harbour community set about preparing a yacht for a trip halfway round the world. For Mark, teaching Fergus, Jessica and Jane the skills of navigation alternated with provisioning and refitting
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. They needed to learn to take sights and become competent navigators without the aid of GPS positioning in case anything happened to Mark.

Refitting the yacht proved difficult as the Gulf Harbour Marina’s facilities had been destroyed by the tsunami. Fortunately Commander Ball had provisioned his yacht well, and some further essential fittings and equipment were scavenged from home yacht-construction projects. Fergus managed to coax the engine back to life, but years of lying idle had taken its toll. It sounded rough. Mark had located a new engine in a factory near Albany, but decided the fuel available was so meagre that a new engine would be of little benefit.

New batteries were commissioned from the stocks of battery cases and acid carboys held on Marina Hill, and
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’s wind generation and solar panels linked up. Mark was pleased to find that the electrics had survived their years of idleness. Even the impressive array of radio equipment was working.

The children watched, fascinated, as he twiddled the dials and spoke into the microphone. ‘This is the vessel
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, Alpha, Whiskey, Oscar, Lima, location Hobbs Bay, Whangaparaoa, Auckland, New Zealand — does anyone receive?’

As he anticipated, the question went unanswered. He considered removing the equipment and installing another bookcase in the space, but his growing list of essential tasks and concern that he might disturb essential wiring in the process caused him to leave it in place.

Commander Ball had assembled an impressive library, containing not only the cruising sailor’s Bible — Jimmy Cornell’s
World Cruising
Routes
— but a full set of weather guides and tide tables. There was also a complete collection of charts,
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’s professionally kept log and travel guides for all the countries and islands the Ball family had visited — including the west coast of America.

Mark had decided to leave New Zealand in late March and expected to reach San Francisco before June. If he found no Chatfield survivors in there, he planned to spend the hurricane season hopping from port to port along the west coast of the United States and Mexico, concentrating on those ports beginning with the word San. They would then head south in time to round the Horn during December or January, the most favourable months to attempt the notoriously dangerous passage.

With so much to do, the months flew by. At the end of February they began loading food for the voyage. Their main provisions were smoked fish, dried meat, biscuits and a wide range of bottled food carefully packed into wooden boxes lined with straw. Also loaded, much to Mark’s displeasure, was a huge quantity of cat litter that the children had made from waste paper.

Generally, the community respected his wishes, but when it came to the old cat Misty he discovered he had a rebellion on his hands. His argument that the nineteen-year-old cat would be happier seeing out his remaining days in the familiar surroundings of Marina Hill fell on deaf ears. Nicole in particular was adamant that Misty was joining the voyage. She knew his hunting days were over and how reliant he was on the food she put in his dish each day. He was becoming thin and slow. Occasionally he would stumble and lose his balance.

And it was Nicole who, on the planned day of
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’s departure, refused point blank to join her grandfather in the dinghy when she discovered Misty was missing.

‘You see,’ Mark said, resting on the oars, ‘Misty wants to stay in Gulf Harbour.’ Gina, Zach, Audrey and Tommy were already seated in the dinghy; Jane, Jessica, the twins and Fergus had been ferried out to
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earlier. ‘Now come on, be a good girl and climb aboard.’

Not only did Nicole refuse to join him, but the other children clambered out of the dinghy to help her search. Mark was furious. ‘Come back,’ he shouted. ‘The breeze is coming up. I want to get away while we’ve still got a good wind.’

But he was too late. The children had scattered in all directions. Cries of ‘Misty!’ echoed off the empty buildings on Marina Hill. Mark’s anger grew. An hour later the cat had still not been found. He kept rounding up groups of children and telling them to stay put while he searched for the others, but each time when he had found the missing children he discovered the ones he had located previously had disappeared again.

The wind was building even faster than his anger. By the time Misty nonchalantly wandered out from a clump of bushes, a storm had developed. It was too dangerous to row the children out to
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. Aboard the yacht Fergus was frantically paying out every metre of chain he could. The ferocity of the wind became even greater than Mark recalled from Cyclone Bola that had struck decades before.

As Mark and the children cowered in a house on Marina Hill, listening to the windows rattling, Fergus and Jane realised the anchor was dragging and desperately dropped the spare — the anchor that had once been snagged on the Upper Harbour Bridge. Despite being in the lee of the Whangaparaoa Peninsula, the yacht was being carried across Hobbs Bay towards Kotanui Island.

Finally the second anchor held. Jane, soaking wet from spray, stumbled below to comfort Jessica, who was sitting on the bunk protectively cradling the twins. All three were terrified by the sound of the wind screaming through the rigging and the violent bucking motion as
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butted the steep chop that had built in the shallow waters. The two women held the babies close as they waited out the night.

The destruction that greeted Mark when he ventured out of the house the following morning left him in no doubt that had they got away at their planned time, they would almost certainly have been wrecked on Motutapu Island. He looked down at Misty,
affectionately winding his way between his legs, and silently thanked the cat for having gone missing.

It was early evening before the wind had dropped enough for Mark to lead the children down to the canal. The cyclone had blown away Mark’s sadness at leaving. The winds had destroyed the recently erected windmill, the plants in the gardens had been stripped of their leaves, and most of the trees in the orchard had toppled. Gulf Harbour was releasing him. His blood roots were summoning him home to England.

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had fared better in the cyclone than the buildings around Gulf Harbour. Its wind generation systems had automatically feathered and locked as the wind increased. The lashings Mark had checked, tightened and re-tightened had held.

Fergus had retrieved one anchor and shortened the chain on the other. ‘We’re ready for the off, as soon as you are,’ he said to Mark as the children scrambled aboard.

Mark handed up Misty. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ he said. Misty made his way slowly and unsteadily around the cockpit coamings, sniffed at the wind coming from Gulf Harbour, arched his back, yawned and settled down under the dodger. With a final sniff of the air, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.