"No, no," interposed Edwin. "He is set there as a sentinel to keep the
sheep from straying; he only did his duty."
"I," repeated Whero--"am I a sheep, to be made to fear? All the goblins
in Lake Taupo should not turn me back to-night. I heard men saying in
Tauranga streets the sacred three had shot forth the lightning that made
all faces pale last night and laid the tall trees low. Are not they the
men from whom I spring who are sleeping the death-sleep in their bosom?
Last night they awakened; they are angry. The thunder of their voices
is louder than the cannon of the pakeha. Why are they calling? I know
not; but I answer I am theirs. I leaped out of the window of my school,
and ran as the water runs to the sea. No one could catch me, for I
thought of my father and mother; and I said in my heart, 'Will the anger
of the majestic ones fall upon the son of Hepe, or upon those who have
despoiled him?'"
Edwin drew his arm within his dusky friend's. "It is not the dead men's
bones which are buried on Tarawera but the hidden fires which have burst
from the mountain which have done the mischief. Our house went down in
the shock of the earthquake, and we fled from it for our lives to the
sea."
"I took the coast-road," continued Whero, "for the coach was turned
back. Trees lay everywhere in its path; and no man knows more than I
have told you."
Edwin trembled for Whero, for he remembered how the men had said the low
whares of the natives were completely buried.
"Wait with us," he entreated; "wait for the daylight."
As he began to describe the strangeness of the disaster which had
overwhelmed the district, the ready tears of the Maori race poured down
in torrents from Whero's eyes.
Edwin led him into the hut; and finding Cuthbert and Effie fast asleep,
the two lowered their voices, and sitting side by side in the starlight,
went over again the startling story until voices grew dreamy, and Edwin
became suddenly aware that the eager listener reclining at his elbow was
lost in forgetfulness. Then he too laid down his head and gained a
respite from his cares and fears in the deep sweet sleep of healthy
boyhood.
Effie was the first to awaken. A solitary sunbeam had made its way
through the tiny window, and was dancing along the opposite wall. The
rest of the hut was in shadow. She did not see Edwin with Whero
nestling by his side, for the long fern fronds rose in heaps around her;
but she heard a sound from the road, and called joyously to Cuthbert,--
"Get up; there is somebody coming."
Cuth tumbled to his feet; Edwin started upright. They were rushing to
the door, when Whero lifted a black hand and commanded silence. His
quicker sense of hearing had already told him of men and horses near at
hand.
Effie eyed him in mute amazement. "Look," she whispered at last,
pointing to Whero's head, "there is a big boy-rat rustling in the
leaves."
"Hush! listen!" cried her brothers.
"Is it father?" she asked, in a flutter of fear and expectation.
The boys ran out, elate with a similar hope. But Edwin saw in a moment
there was only a party of shepherds returning for supplies. They
scarcely waited to listen to his eager questions.
"Can't stop," they shouted. "But the worst is over. All are going back
to their farms. You will have your own people coming to look you up
before long. You are safest where you are for the present."
Their words were intended to reassure the boys--Edwin was certain of
that; but their faces were so grave, they seemed to contradict the
comforting assertion that the worst was over.
"I must hear more," cried Edwin. "I'll run after them and ask if any
one has seen father."
The tired horses were walking slowly; one or two seemed to have fallen
lame, and all were covered with mud.
"We shall soon overtake them," thought Edwin; but Whero outstripped him
in the chase. The shepherds looked back. One amongst their number
halted, and shouted the inquiry, "What now?"
"Did you reach the lake in the hills? How is it there?" burst forth
Whero.
"Up among the natives?" answered the shepherd, not unkindly. "Nobody
knows. We did not get beyond the road, and we found enough to do. The
mud fell so thick every door and window was blocked in no time, and many
a roof fell in with the weight. Everything around the mountain lies
buried deep in mud."
The shriek, the howl in which poor Whero vented his alarm so startled
the shepherd's horse it galloped off at a mad rate towards the mansion,
just as Edwin came up, pale and panting. But Whero's English was
scattered. He could only reiterate the man's last words, "Deep in mud;
buried, all buried deep in mud," and then he ran on in Maori.
Edwin and Cuthbert looked at each other in despair. It was impossible to
understand what he was evidently trying to explain.
"You wooden boys!" he exclaimed at last, as he turned away in disgust,
and raced off like a hare towards the mansion.
Cuthbert was wild to follow, when a large merino ram bounded out of a
group of palm trees and knocked him over.
"Go back to Effie," urged Edwin, "and I'll watch by the roadside, for
somebody else may pass."
But Cuthbert could not find his way alone, and the brothers retraced
their steps. As they drew near the hut, the loud barking of the
boundary dog was again heard. Somebody might be coming by the
coast-road, somebody who could tell them more.
It was the boundary rider from the neighbouring run, waiting and
watching for the appearance of his neighbour, to ascertain if any
tidings had yet been received from the lonely mountain wilds. All knew
now some dread catastrophe had overwhelmed the hills. Confused rumours
and vague conjectures were flying through the district beyond the reach
of the muddy rain. Earth-slips and fallen trees blocked every road.
The adventurous few who had made their way to the scene of the disaster
had not yet returned.
Far as his eye could see across the grassy sweep not a shepherd was
moving. Feltham's sheep were straying by hundreds in his master's run.
Then the two boys came in sight, and arms were waved to attract
attention; and the burning anxiety on both sides found vent in the
question, "Any news from the hills?"
As Edwin poured forth the story of their flight, another horseman was
seen spurring across the open. It was a messenger Mr. Bowen had
despatched the day before, to inquire among the shepherd hermits in
Feltham's outlying huts, who might, who must know more than their
seaside neighbours. But the man had ridden on from hut to hut, all
alike empty and deserted. About nightfall, at the extreme end of the
run, he came upon a man who had been struck down by the awful lightning,
who told a rambling tale of sudden flight before the strange storm.
"So," said the shepherd, "I rested my horse, and determined to ride
round to the central station, or go on from farm to farm, to find out
all I could; but a trackless swamp stretched before me. Turning aside,
I fell in with a party of Feltham's men, who had made their way by the
river-bank as far as the government road. They were returning for a
cart to bring off one of their number, who had been knocked on the head
by a falling tree, trying to make his way through the bush."
"Who was it?" asked Edwin breathlessly, his brief colloquy with the
horsemen he had passed full in his mind. They were the same men, but
not a word as to the accident to one of the relief-party had crossed
their lips.
The significance of their silence flashed upon him.
"It is father!" he exclaimed, "and they would not tell us."
"No, Edwin, no," interposed little Cuth, with wide-eyed consternation.
"Why do you say it is father?"
"Why, indeed," repeated Mr. Bowen's man. "I tell you it was a near
neighbour of the fordmaster's, who had come across to his help before
the others got up. For Hirpington and his people were all blocked in by
the weight of mud jamming up windows and doors, and were almost
suffocated; but they got them out and into the boat when the others
came. One man rowed them off to the nearest place of refuge, and the
others went on to look for the roadmen in their solitary huts."
Every word the man let fall only deepened Edwin's conviction.
He grasped Cuth's hand. Was this what Whero had tried to tell him?
The doubt, the fear, the suspense was unbearable. Their first impulse
was to run after the shepherds, to hear all they had to tell. But the
Bowen men held them back; and whilst they questioned Edwin more closely,
Cuthbert sat down crying on the frosted grass. The boundary dog came up
and seated itself before him, making short barks for the bone that was
no longer to be had for the asking. The noise he made led the men to
walk their horses nearer to the hut, when the debris of the wreck,
scattered about the sands, met their eyes. That a coaster should have
gone down in the terrific storm was a casualty which the dwellers by the
sea-shore were well prepared to discover. They kicked over the
half-buried boots and broken spars, looking for something which might
identify the unfortunate vessel, and they brought Edwin into court once
again, and questioned him closely. He assured them the sailors were all
safe, and when they heard how they had borrowed his father's horse and
cart to take them across to the central station, they only blamed him
for his stupidity in not having asked the captain's name.
"Yes, it was stupid," Edwin owned, "but then I did not know what I was
doing."
The sound of their voices brought Effie to the door of the hut, and they
heard a little piping voice behind repeating, "Bowen, please sir; his
name was Bowen."
"What! the captain's?" they cried.
"No, the schoolboy's," she persisted, shrinking from the cold sea-breeze
blowing her hair into her eyes, and fluttering her scant blue skirt, and
banging at the door until it shut again, in spite of her utmost efforts
to keep it open.
Here was a discovery of far more importance in the estimation of Mr.
Bowen's men than all the rest.
"If that is our young master Arthur," they said, "coming up for the
holidays, we must find him, let alone everything else. We must be off
to the central station; and as for these children, better take them
along with us."
This was just what Edwin wanted. After a reassuring word to Effie anent
the black boy-rat, he set himself to work piling up the wreckage, with
the care of one about to leave the place.
He had not forgotten Hal's charge to stay where he left them.
"But better be lost than starved," said the men; and he agreed with
them. Even Audrey had failed to send them food to that far-off hut. It
was clear there was no one to bring it.
"You should have gone with the sailors," said the boundary rider. "You
must go with us."
He wrapped the flap of his coat over Effie as Edwin lifted her on to his
knee, and his comrade called to Cuthbert, who was hoisted up behind him;
and so they set forth, Edwin walking in the rear.
As the horses trotted onwards across the fern-covered downs, the
distance between them steadily increased, for the boy was tired. Once
or twice he flung himself down to rest, not much caring about losing
sight of his companions, as he knew the way.
Edwin had nearly reached the gate of the avenue, when he saw Whero
scampering over the grass on Beauty's back.
There was a mutual shout of recognition; and Whero turned the horse's
head, exclaiming,--
"Lee! Boy! Lee! Wanderer Lee! have you lost your horse? I went to
beg bread at the station, and he leaped over the stable-bar and followed
me. You must give him back, as you said you would, for how can I go to
the hills without him? I want him now."
"And so do I," answered Edwin; "I want to go back with the shepherds to
father."
"The men who spoke to us are gone. I saw them start," returned Whero.
"But jump up behind me, and we will soon overtake them."
For one brief moment Edwin looked around him doubtfully. But Erne and
Cuthbert were safe with Audrey by this time, and he was sure Mr. Bowen,
"the old identity," their kind-hearted travelling companion, would take
good care of all three as soon as he heard of their forlorn condition.
"His grandson will tell him how Cuth and I pulled him through the surf.
I had better ride back to the hills with Whero, and see if it is safe
for us to go home. They may have taken father there already, and then I
know he will want me." So Edwin reasoned as he sprang up behind the
Maori boy. "And if I don't go with him," he added, "we may lose our
horse, and then what would father say to that?"
*CHAPTER XI.*
*WIDESPREAD DESOLATION.*
As the boys rode onward a sharp and bracing wind blew in their faces.
The hoar still lay on the grass, and the many pools at which the sheep
were accustomed to drink were coated with ice. But the mysterious
darkness of the preceding day was over, and the sun shone forth once
more to gild a desolated world.
Whero and Edwin were alike anxious to avoid meeting any of Mr. Feltham's
shepherds who might have returned to their daily work, for fear they
should try to stop them.
Whero, with something of his father's skill, shot forward with a
reckless disregard for the safety of Edwin's neck. But the party they
were pursuing were long out of sight.
As they reached the confines of the sheep-run, an unnatural grayness
overspread the landscape. Yet on they went, encountering clouds of dust
with every breeze. The blades of grass beneath the horse's hoofs, the
leaves rustling on the boughs, were all alike loaded with it. But the
cattle were still grazing, and despite the clouds of dust constantly
rising, the atmosphere above was clear; and the sunshine cheered their
spirits.
"We will not turn back," said Edwin.
They knew, by what the shepherds had told them, the force of the
eruption had expended itself; that danger was over. When the boys
ascended higher ground and gained a wider view, they could distinguish
parties of men marching up in every direction, with their spades on
their shoulders. For now the personal danger was diminished, the
anxiety to ascertain the fate of the unfortunate people living near the
sacred heights of Tarawera predominated.
Above the range of hills there was a dense bank of steam, which rose
like a wall of snowy white, extending for miles. Whero shook with
terror at the sight, but Edwin urged him on. They had missed the
shepherds, but they could soon overtake the men now in sight. Yet the
longer they gazed at the huge mass of vapour, the more impenetrable it
seemed. It was drifting slowly northwards, where it merged in another
cloud, black and restless, like smoke. It was but the work of the
winds, stirring the vast deposit of dust covering hill and forest.
Changed as the face of the country appeared to be, Whero seemed able to
track his way with something of the unerring instinct of the hound.
Emboldened by Edwin's steadier courage, on he went, the gray, drab tint
of the volcanic debris deepening around them at every step, until it lay
nine inches deep on the ground, covering up all trace of vegetation.
The poor cattle wandering in the fields were here absolutely without
food, and the blue waters of the liquid rivulets were changed to a muddy
brown, thick and repulsive. Every footfall of the horse enveloped his
riders in so dense a cloud that eyes were stinging and voices choking,
until they began to exchange this dry deposit for the treacherous,
deadly mud which had preceded it.
This soon became so thick and sticky poor Beauty could scarcely drag his
legs out again, and their pace grew slower and slower. The time was
going fast; they had scarcely gained a mile in an hour. They dare not
turn aside to view the ruins of Edwin's home. As they went deeper and
deeper into the bush, the blue mud lay fifteen inches thick on all
around. The unrivalled beauty of the forest was gone. The boys could
see nothing but a mass of dirt-laden tree trunks, bending and falling
beneath the weight of their burden. Every leaf was stripped off, and
every branch was broken short. It was a scene of desolation so intense
Whero set up a wild wail of lamentation. All was taken from the Maori
when the wealth of the bush was gone.
They gained the road; the mud was two feet thick at least, and Beauty
sank knee-deep in the sulphurous, steaming slime. How they got him out
again they hardly knew. They backed him amongst the trees, seeking the
higher ground. Fresh mud-holes had opened in unexpected places, and old
ones had enlarged to boiling pools, and wide areas of smouldering ashes
marked the site of the many fires the lightning had kindled.
Could the boys have extricated themselves just then, they might have
been tempted to turn back in sheer dismay. They were forced from the
line which Whero had hitherto pursued with the directness which marks
the flight of the crow. The trees were quivering with an earthquake
shock. The hill was trembling visibly beneath their feet. Guided by a
break in the trees, they made their way to the open. Once more the bank
of cloud was visible, drifting slowly to the north; but Whero's eyes
were fastened on the distance, where he knew the lofty Tarawera reared
its threefold crest.
Had the mighty chieftains of renown arisen from their graves and built a
wall of luminous vapour around their sleeping-place? He quailed in
abject terror at the sight of the clouds, like ramparts rising into the
air for thousands of feet, and veined with wavy lines that glowed and
shimmered with the reflection of the flames they held enshrined.
"If the arrows of their lightnings burst forth upon us," shrieked Whero,
"how shall such as we escape? Better seek sleep in the cold waters of
the river than fall before the torture of their presence in the boiling
mud and scorching flame."
Edwin, too, was staggered by the strangeness of the sight. It was the
sense of unprecedented peril, the presence of dangers which no man could
fathom, which overwhelmed him. But he had enough clear-sighted common
sense to perceive the first thing to be guarded against was the frantic
terror of the wilful boy who was guiding him; for Whero, in his
excitement, was urging Beauty to a breakneck speed. But a change
awaited them in the open glade, for there the sun and wind had dried the
surface of the mud, and the clouds of dust settling down upon it had
formed a hard crust.
Edwin breathed more freely as Whero grew calmer. The horse seemed to
step along with ease at first; but his weight was too great. The crust
gave way beneath him, and they were soon all floundering in a quagmire.
Edwin was flung backwards on a portion of the broken crust, which, like
a floating island, was drifting him across the fissure. Whero clung
round the horse's neck, clutching wildly at his mane. Beauty, with the
intelligence of a fording-horse, pawed through the mud in quest of a
firmer foothold, and found it on the trunk of a buried tree.
On this vantage-ground, being lightened of half his load, he was
preparing for a spring. At the first movement Whero went over his head,
and Beauty, finding himself his own master, changed his mind. Under any
other circumstances it would have been fun to Edwin to see him feeling
his way along his unseen bridge until he reached the roots of the tree,
which, with the many tons of earth clinging in them, rose at least ten
feet into the air, a solitary hillock around which the mud was
consolidating. Here he took his stand. The boys could see him scraping
away the earth and nibbling at the young green shoots of budding fern
already forcing their way to the upper air.
Edwin tried to propel his floating island towards the point where Whero
was standing, like a heron, on one leg, trying to scrape the mud from
the other. He edged about this way and that, until at last the boys were
near enough to clasp hands. When he felt the sinewy gripe of his dusky
friend, Edwin took the meditated leap, and broke into the mud by Whero's
side. He went down upon his hands and knees; but Whero grasped the
collar of his jacket, and kept him from sinking. The crust in this
place was nearly a foot thick, and when Edwin regained his equilibrium
the two stepped lightly over it, walking like cats, holding each other's
hands, and balancing themselves as if they were treading on ice, until
they reached a precipitous crag, on which it was impossible for the mud
to rest. Whero began to climb the steep ascent, reaching down a hand to
drag up Edwin after him. They gained a ledge several feet above the
lower ground, and here they paused to recover themselves and look around
for Beauty. It was a pain, a grief to both the boys to abandon him to
his fate. But they dared not shout his name or attract his attention,
for fear he should attempt to cross the treacherous waste which lay
between them.
To dash the tears from their eyes, to speak as if they "would not care"
when their hearts felt bursting, was useless; and yet they did
it--risking their own necks in a mad desire to rush off where they could
no longer see him, and then returning for a last despairing glance,
until Whero had to own he had lost his way.
Another vast column of steam hung in mid air, and when it lifted they
could distinguish the gangs of men hard at work, marking the site of
more than one annihilated village. They watched them from afar digging
away the mud in hopes of finding some of the inhabitants alive beneath
it. A mill-sail turning in the wind just showed itself above the
blue-gray mass, and warned them that the depth of the deposit was
increasing steadily as they drew nearer and nearer to the sacred
mountains. That moving sail told Whero where he was. With one hand
shading his eyes he scanned the country round.
"The pakeha seeks out the pakeha, but no man turns to the Maori pah!" he
exclaimed, stretching his arms towards the wide waste of hateful blue,
and pointing to the foul remains of the crystal lake--the lake by which
he had been born. But where was the ancient whare? where was his home?
Edwin thought only of crossing to the nearest group of men, throwing
back the mud, right and left, with a desperate energy. He raised his
voice and tried to give the "coo" for help, in the fond hope it might
reach their ears. Whero joined in the outcry, and they stood still,
shouting. But the hollow echo was their sole reply.
They had wandered wide from the ford, for they were approaching the lake
from the opposite side.
They sat down on the rocky ledge, and looked at each other in silence.
A call from above startled them. It was a shrill but far-off voice that
was not human.
Whero, with all a Maori's belief in evil spirits, shook with terror, and
his howling shrieks filled the air and drowned the distant sound.
"Oh, hush!" entreated Edwin. "Shut up! do, and let us listen."
They heard it plainly once again--the long-drawn Maori word "Hoke"
(Return, return), followed, in quicker accents, by Whero's name. He
looked up terror-stricken, surveying the rocky steep above their heads,
and gasped out, almost fainting,--
"You know not where you are. This hill is tapu, and he who breaks tapu
is sure to die."
"Bosh!" retorted Edwin. "If you would only speak English I should know
what you mean."
His arms went round the poor boy, who seemed ready to die, as many a
Maori has died before, of pure fright at the thought of breaking
tapu--that is, touching anything the chief has made sacred. But Edwin
did not understand his dread.
"Don't be such a coward," he expostulated; "I'll stand by you."
"Hoke! hoke!" rang out the bird-like voice. "Whero, hoke!"
The lofty summit of the hill gave back the cry.
"Go up," urged Edwin. "Some of your people may have taken refuge here.
Whatever you mean by tapu, it can't scare me. You daren't go! then let
me try."
There was a rift in the scarped side of the hill, where human hands had
cut a foothold here and there, making the ascent possible. Whero crept
along the edge and swung himself over. Edwin crawled after him, and
climbed up with less difficulty than he expected. "Hoke" was piped
above their heads, and Whero's courage failed him once again. He sank
upon a stone, with every nerve quivering. The English boy climbed on,
and found himself at last upon a bit of table-land which from its height
seemed to have escaped the general devastation; for the ground was still
covered with the dried remains of summer vegetation. He passed between
the tree-like ferns until he came upon a spot, bare and dry, without a
sign of a scrap of undergrowth of any kind or at any time. It might
have been about three-quarters of an acre, and was completely arched
over by the inter-woven boughs of four or five gigantic trees, which
even the storm of mud could not penetrate. Edwin gazed at their
majestic trunks, full sixty feet in circumference, ranged around him
like the columns of one of nature's temples, with a kind of awe.
The ground on which he stood was hard and dusty, and yet he knew, by the
fern and the creeper through which he had reached it, this unusual
clearance was not the work of the eruption. It looked as if it might
have been thus barren for ages.
The roots of the trees had grown out of the ground, and were twisted and
coiled over and over like a group of mighty serpents transfixed and
fossilized by ancient sorcery. Among them lay the human relics of a
barbarous age. The very stones on which he trod had once been fashioned
by the hand of man. There were axe and spear heads, knives and chisels,
embedded in the fibrous coils; and were they human skulls and bones
which lay there whitening by their side? Edwin recoiled in horror. A
bird flew down from the leafy dome, and alighted near him, renewing its
wailing cry, "Hoke, hoke." Edwin saw by the crimson feathers of its
breast it was a species of macaw--an escaped pet from some of the buried
homes around him.
He called it a little nervously at first, as if it had dyed its plumage
in the blood of the murdered captives whose bones lay white at his feet.
The bird swooped round, beating the air with its outspread wings, and
darting forward as if it had half a mind to perch upon his outstretched
hand.
When were Edwin's pockets ever empty? He was feeling in them now for a
few dry crumbs wherewith to tempt the wailing bird.
It fluttered nearer at the welcome sight, for grain or insects were
nowhere to be found in that place of dearth. It came at last, and
nestled, as it had evidently been taught to nestle by its unknown
master, close against Edwin's cheek. He grasped it by the wings, and
gently smoothed its ruffled feathers.
"Whero," he shouted, running back with it to the brow of the hill,
"Whero, it is a bird."
The sound of his own voice seemed to break the spell of horror which had
fallen over him, and he rushed away from serpent root and blighted bough
with which nature herself had written on the hateful spot, "Accursed."
He no longer wondered that the Maori boy refused to go with him. The
slightest suspicion of impatience and contempt had vanished from his
tone when he spoke again.
"Look at it, Whero."
But Whero looked not at the bird, but at his friend.
"Did you go far?" he asked.
"Only to the top," answered Edwin.
"Not to the top," persisted Whero, lowering his voice and whispering
hoarsely. "There is a spot up there, a fatal spot, where the grass
never grows and the air breathes death. Ask me not for more. Come
away."
He seized Edwin's arm and drew him backwards. The desolate bird shook
itself free, and flew to him with a cry of joy.
"It is my kaka," he exclaimed, "my own dear redbreast, calling out,
'Return.'"
"Are you satisfied, Whero?" asked Edwin, in tones of heartfelt sympathy.
"Have we searched far enough? Shall we go back and try to make our way
to the ford or across to the diggers?"
"Not yet," answered Whero; "I would see the spot where the great hot
stone used to be."
"It is buried," Edwin went on, "too deep in the mud for us to find, I'm
afraid."
Whero flung himself on the ground, exclaiming wildly, "All lost! all
gone! why don't you tangi over me?"
"I would, if it would do you any good; but I don't know how," said
Edwin, bluntly. "We are not sure yet, Whero; your people may have
rushed away in the night as we did. We will hope to the last."
In his despair Whero had let the kaka fly, and Edwin watched it wheeling
over the space between them and the lake, until it settled down in what
appeared to him to be a hole in the all-pervading mud.
"He has found something," cried Edwin, hurrying down the steep descent
in a wave of excitement. Whero shrieked after him to stop him; so once
again the boys rested awhile, and ate up the remainder of the bread in
Whero's pockets. It was Edwin's last resource to revive the wild boy's
failing courage, and it partially succeeded.
"Edwin," he said, "am I alone in the world--the last of the proud race
who owned the fastness in this steep hill-top and the hot stone by
yonder lake? Have I nothing left to me but this awful place where my
grim forefathers held their victory-feast? Will you come and live with
me there?"
"In that ogre's castle!" exclaimed Edwin, with a shudder. "A moment ago
you dare not follow me to its threshold, and now--"
"I have been thinking," interrupted Whero, "I must not slight so strange
an omen as the kaka's call. Are the mighty dead using his voice to call
me back (for I should have fled the place); to remind me what I have now
become--a chief of the hills, who can make and unmake tapu as he
pleases? Let us go up and swear to be true to each other for ever and
ever and ever, as my forefathers used to swear on the eve of battle."
"I will stand by you," said Edwin, earnestly; "on the honour of an
Englishman I will. I'll go down to the lake with you. Better see what
the kaka has found than climb the hill again. Come."
He put his arm round Whero and began the dangerous descent. A fallen
tree bridged their path. The tremor of an earthquake was beginning.
They flung themselves at once on their faces, for fear they should be
rolled over down the treacherous steep. As Edwin lay resting his arms
against the fallen tree, he scanned once more the break in the muddy
crust round which the kaka was still wheeling.
What did he see, or what did he fancy he could see at such a distance?
Was it a blackened fragment of pumice-stone the bird was hovering over
with its wailing cry, or was it the quaint old carving on the pointed
roof of Nga-Hepe's whare? Whero's eye was fastened on the spot. Could
he too see it? They were afraid of losing their foothold, as the tree,
like everything else, was covered with the sticky slime, and crawled
along the trunk one after the other, Whero leading the way. It landed
them on the top of the mud-heap, and they walked across the dried crust,
as they had been able to do on the other side.
The stillness of the desert was around them. Little life of any kind
seemed to have escaped the widespread destruction. A lonely gull had
flown up with the morning breeze, and was pursuing the dead fish across
the lake, as they floated entangled in the drift of the wind-torn
foliage which strewed its surface.
On they walked, until Whero was satisfied that the dead level they were
crossing must cover the site of the Rota Pah. Even the strong wall
which defended it was buried. Yet it was a wall strong enough and high
enough to resist the attack of English assailants.
The wintry breezes sweeping over the lake had dried the mud more
thoroughly on this side of the hill. The crust beneath their feet was
thicker and firmer.
The boys ran lightly across the intervening space. As Whero drew near to
the hole, the bird alighted on his shoulder, and putting its beak to his
ear, exchanged its painful cries for a soft, low, warbling note.
Edwin was sure now they saw the ridge of the high-peaked roof of
Nga-Hepe's whare.
*CHAPTER XII.*
*EDWIN'S DISCOVERY.*
Edwin rubbed off the mud from the boss at the point of the gable, and
gazed upon the hideous face, which was neither bird's nor man's, but the
same, the very same, which had attracted his attention when he went with
Nga-Hepe to his home. Edwin looked up. The words upon his lips seemed
to die away in pity for the Maori boy. At last he whispered huskily,
"Whero, there is something here."
"My home! my home!" was the passionate response, as Whero flung himself
across the ridge and hugged the wooden face as if it were a living
thing.
Edwin was thinking of all Mr. Bowen's men had said: how the doors and
windows of the ford-house had been blocked by the mud with such rapidity
there was not time for Mr. Hirpington and his people to get away. He
recalled all he had ever heard or read of the frightful colliery
accidents when the miners had been entombed for days, and of cottages
buried beneath an avalanche of snow. A bitter and overwhelming feeling
of self-reproach rose in his heart. "Oh, why did we linger by the way
and follow the bird? We ought to have hurried here at once. O Whero, I
did not realize, I did not half understand. Help me," Edwin went on, for
Whero had begun to raise his howling dirge--"help me to make a hole
through the roof, for fear there should be anybody left inside."
"Have I come to the hot stone of my fathers to find it a place of
graves?" groaned Whero, pausing in his wail.
"Mr. Hirpington got away in his boat; your father may have taken to his
canoe," urged Edwin, clinging to hope to cheer his companion.
A bound, and Whero was up among the leafless boughs of the grand old
trees which had sheltered his home.
Were the canoes gone? His eye roved along the reedy swamp for each
familiar mooring-place, but all was changed. Mud-banks and shoals
surrounded the murky pool, and his landmarks were gone. Yet more than
one canoe was embedded in the new-made morass, and he cried out in
despair.
Meanwhile Edwin was tugging at the bulrush thatch with all his might.
As the hole increased with his efforts, he caught the echo of a feeble
sigh. He shouted to Whero, and tore away at the rushes with frantic
desperation. A knock made answer. The wintry day was darkening to its
close, and Edwin felt that the task was beyond him. He could not unroof
the well-built whare, with no fork to help him and single-handed.
"We must get across the bush somehow, and fetch the men we saw at work
on the other side of the hill."
But nothing which Edwin could urge could induce Whero to leave the spot.
He sat on the ridge of the roof with the fidelity of a dog, howling and
wailing, only pausing to bury his head in the thatch to listen to the
faint and feeble sounds within. Edwin watched him breathlessly for a
moment or two. They had let in the air through the hole he had made;
but the brief New Zealand twilight would soon be over, and what more
could they do in the darkness of night? He sprang to his feet. "I'm
off, Whero," he shouted. "Trust me, I'll never rest until I get you
better help than mine."
He ran across the mud. It was growing harder and harder in the keen
frosty air. He knew the wind was blowing from the lake, so that if he
were careful to turn his back to the breeze, he could not lose his way.
Edwin had almost reached the hill, when he heard a voice "cooing" in the
distance. It was not Whero's. But the swift transition with which night
comes on in New Zealand shrouded him in sudden darkness; and whilst he
waited for the rising of the stars, he heard the shouts drawing nearer,
and gave the answering "coo" with all his might. He could distinguish
the echo of a horse's hoofs on the hardening ground. There was no doubt
about it now, the rider was coming fast. He shouted with renewed
energy; and then the Southern Cross shone out in all its brilliancy, and
the horseman perceived the small dark figure waving both arms in the
air, and galloped towards him.
In another moment Edwin was grasping hands with his old friend the
coachman.
"What! you, my lad, up here?" exclaimed Ottley; and as Edwin answered,
the sight of the prancing horse that Ottley was riding shot a pain
through his heart. It was so like his own beloved Beauty, abandoned on
his little islet in that sea of mud.
The tears came rushing into Edwin's eyes, until he could see no more.
He tried to answer. The horse had turned its head to listen with quick,
impatient movements, until it fairly rubbed its nose against Edwin's
shoulder.
His arms went round its arching neck with a cry of delight. It was his
own, his own, own Beauty.
"Yes," said Ottley, "I knew him again. I supposed he had strayed, for I
came upon him standing shivering against such shelter as the roots of an
upturned tree could afford him. He was not difficult to catch, and he
has brought me on. I got my coach along some miles beyond Cambridge,
and found the way completely blocked, so I have left it there, and come
to give what help I could. I can spare the time it would have taken me
to reach the end of my route. I have been working with a party of
diggers at Te Wairoa. Then I determined to come across and see how it
fared with my old friend at the ford, and now I find you wandering
alone. Come, get up behind me. It is not the first time you and I have
crossed these wilds together."
"Oh no," answered Edwin; "and I want you worse than even then. You must
come with me at once to the help of the Maori chief. We have found him
buried alive, with his whole family, beneath this awful mud--but I think
not yet quite dead. I feel as if God had sent you here to save them."
Then Edwin poured out his story, and explained how he had encountered
Whero, and how they had come on together to find their fathers.
Whilst he was yet speaking Ottley alighted. "Take your horse, lad," he
said, "and ride as fast as you can; the mud will bear you now. As soon
as you get to the brow of that hill, you will see the camp-fire of the
diggers in the distance. Make that your guide. You will find them by
that in the night when you could not have found your way in the daylight
and the dust. Trust to Beauty to avoid the boiling jets; they are
opening everywhere. You can give this message from me to the first
party of diggers you come to. Tell them I want help badly, by the lake.
Be a brave lad, and remember that more lives than we can reckon are
depending on your speed."
Then Ottley took out his match-box, and sharing its contents with Edwin,
charged him, if he happened to lose his way or meet with any obstacle he
could not pass, to choose a dry tree and set it on fire. "The blaze
will be seen for miles through the leafless forest, and will be sure to
bring you help," he added, as he put the boy on the horse and set off at
a swinging pace towards the buried whare, over which the kaka was still
hovering.
The emergency was so great, Edwin felt himself beyond all personal fear,
which might have daunted him at any other time had he been obliged to
ride alone in the night through those desolate wilds. He patted
Beauty's neck, and heartened himself up with the thought of the eternal
presence of the Unseen, ever ready, ever near to help and guide, giving
strength in weakness and light in darkness. When will, desire, and
trust meet in one point, that point is faith, the strongest power within
the human breast. It upheld Edwin, worn and weary as he was, in that
lonely ride. He had cleared the rising ground. The camp-fire glimmered
in the distance; but Beauty, who had had neither food nor water since
the morning, began to flag. Then Edwin remembered Ottley's charge, and
looked about for a dry tree.
He found one smouldering still, in the midst of a scorched circle--the
dying remains of a bush fire, kindled by the lightning on the night of
the eruption.
He gathered up the charred branches fallen around it, and fanned the
glowing embers to a flame. One of the incessant earthquake shocks
scattered his fire just as he had got it to burn. He did his work over
again. The blaze roared up into the midnight sky. He tied Beauty to a
tree at a little distance, and sat down before his fire, thankful for
the momentary rest. He could have fallen asleep. He was afraid that he
might do so unawares, for he felt he was succumbing to the genial
warmth. The change was too great after being exposed for so many hours
to the chill of the night, and he fainted.
When Edwin came to himself he was lying under canvas. A cup was held to
his lips by some unknown hand, and as he tasted its warm contents, voice
came back to him. He asked feebly, "Where am I? I can't remember."
"Never mind then, my boy," said his rough nurse, in kindly tones which
were not altogether strange. "You are with those who will take care of
you to the last. There, sleep, and forget your troubles."
"Sleep!" repeated Edwin, starting up. "What business have I with sleep
when Mr. Ottley sent me with a message?"
"Ottley! who is Ottley?" asked another voice.
"The coachman fellow who helped us at Te Wairoa," answered the first
speaker.