Authors: Des Hunt
It was raining again by the time we went to school. I got some evil satisfaction out of that: I didn’t mind if it rained on Mason’s big event, and by then I no longer cared too much if the canyon got flooded. What did it matter if the whole thing got sunk?
First thing at school, Klink announced a special assembly before lunch. The main event was to be the presentation of Sam’s fossil to the museum in front of lots of reporters. I glanced over at Mason. He didn’t look happy about it. I wondered whether he was upset about handing it over, or about all the publicity it was getting. He looked like someone who had started a chain of events and had lost control of them. It made me wonder…
‘Sir,’ I called out, putting up my hand. ‘Other classes have had a close look at the fossil, but we haven’t. I think Sam should pass it around for us all to have a look.’
‘Good idea, Tim. Sam, can we have it for a while?’ Sam looked daggers at me before reluctantly standing and carrying the fossil to the front. After it had started its journey around the class, Klink got on with the lesson.
I paid no attention. I was closely watching the track of the fossil from one student to the next. Every now and then I got a glimpse of it. Increasingly I was having doubts about the thing. It looked too white. Of course, Mason could have bleached it, but…there was something else too. As it got
closer to me, I saw that the shape was wrong. Then it came to me. The shape was the same as I had drawn from my childhood memory in
The Quest
. The one that Mason had photocopied. It was not the shape of The Tooth I’d seen during the holidays.
Finally it was on my desk. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mason watching me closely. Several other students were also taking an interest, as if this was some sort of showdown.
I left it sitting on the desk for a moment, comparing it with the images I had in my mind. It fitted the childhood one, but not with the latest. Plus the sandstone didn’t look right—it was different from the rock we had seen.
Next I picked it up and instantly saw that something was really wrong. ‘Hey, sir,’ I said, politely. ‘I don’t think this is a dinosaur tooth.’
‘What would you know about it?’ asked Klink, plainly annoyed with me.
‘It’s got scratch marks from a file.’
‘That happened as I was taking it out of the rock,’ blurted Mason.
‘There you are, Tim,’ said Klink. ‘That’s your explanation. Now pass the thing along.’
‘But, sir,’ I cried, ‘it looks like it’s a horse’s tooth.’
Mason stood up. ‘You heard him,’ he shouted. ‘Pass it on!’
‘No!’ I shouted back. ‘It’s the horse’s tooth you got from that skull in the canyon.’
Instantly Mason was at my desk. He tried to grab the fossil, but I wasn’t letting go. With a snap, the wooden base pulled away leaving me holding the rock.
‘Sit down, Sam,’ ordered Klinkenstein. Mason moved slowly back to his desk.
I turned over the rock to find that the bottom was smooth and shiny. Then I burst out laughing. ‘It’s concrete,’ I said. ‘He made it out of a horse’s tooth and concrete.’
By then Klinkenstein was alongside my desk. ‘You’re making some pretty serious allegations here, Tim. I hope you can substantiate them.’
‘Look for yourself, sir.’ I held it up for him to see. ‘He made it in a margarine container. See, there’s a recycling symbol.’ And there it was, plain for anyone to see: the imprint of three arrows forming a triangle with the number five sitting in the middle.
Without a word Klinkenstein took the ‘rock’, moved to Mason’s desk and picked up the wooden base. He pointed to the whiteboard, ‘Class, get on with that work.’ Then he pointed to Mason. ‘You! Come with me. You’ve got a whole lot of explaining to do.’
As Sam moved past my desk I said, ‘Who’s in charge now, Mason?’ He kept walking, his eyes fixed on the door through which Klinkenstein had already disappeared.
I got the rest of the story from Karen as we drove to Pounamu. Dad and Mits were leading in the truck, followed by Karen and me in the van. It was a slow journey in the pouring rain.
Karen began her story as we pulled clear of the city. ‘I got a phone call at morning-tea break from the principal. She was very embarrassed. She said it was a hoax and that the event was cancelled. You can imagine how relieved I was.’
She concentrated on a tricky set of bends for a while. ‘I thought about it and decided to go along anyway, thinking that a man-made “fossil” might make a good little side display to our main one. So, I turned up at school and all the others were there, too. TV, newspaper, all the radio stations. I talked to one of the journalists and he reckoned a hoax story was better than a real fossil find.
‘Well, eventually the principal comes out to see us and she’s got this boy with her. He’s looking pretty sick. She starts by apologizing over and over. Then she makes the boy apologize which he sort of does. Finally, she asks are there any questions. Well, of course there are, but none of them are aimed at her. Everyone wants to ask the boy questions. Why did he do it? How did he do it? How was he being punished? Did he have any regrets? Was he planning to make any more? It went on for some time. And, you know, he answered everyone of them.’ She looked over at me. ‘I think he made it up as he went along. But by the time it finished, he was behaving as if he was some sort of hero. He reminded me of convicted criminals you see on TV, swaggering out of court as if they’ve won.’
I gave a little laugh. ‘Yeah, I bet that’ll be Sam Mason in a few years time.’
‘I agree. The principal was plainly annoyed by it. She’d put him in front of the reporters as a punishment and there he was turning it into a triumph. She ended up half-dragging him out of the room.’
After that we travelled in silence, each of us content with our own thoughts. I didn’t think of Sam Mason; instead, I thought of what it might be like when we finally announced our find. I wanted it to be a celebration, not a scramble by
reporters to get the biggest story. I was hoping that we could keep it quiet until The Tooth was mounted as a display. Then we could tell the world about it in a special event, which I hoped would also be a celebration of Mum’s life.
I studied the darkening countryside outside the window, feeling very relaxed about things. For the first time since the beginning, I now felt that it was really going to happen. All the bad things were over, and from now on everything would go according to plan.
That pleasant dream was shattered soon after we arrived at Pounamu. I could tell that something was wrong as soon as we walked inside: Grandad looked upset, and when Nanna hugged me, she squeezed tighter than normal. But it wasn’t until we’d started to eat the meal that Grandad broke the news.
‘We’ve had a bit of trouble since you were last here,’ he said grimly.
I looked up sharply. ‘What?’
‘We only found out this afternoon. Jim sent a couple of the lads to go shift some hoggets in case the creeks flooded with all this rain.’ He paused, as if the next bit would be painful. ‘That’s when one of them found that his horse was missing.’
My heart started racing. ‘Were there any others?’
Grandad nodded.
‘Phoebe?’
He didn’t have to say anything—his face said it all.
‘When?’ I asked.
‘We don’t know. After we found one was missing, we did
a check and found Phoebe’d gone too. I’m sorry, Timothy. There wasn’t anything we could do about it by then.’
I was too upset to speak.
‘They could’ve been gone for days,’ added Grandad. ‘It’s not as if we go out and count them all the time.’
Dad asked, ‘Was anything else stolen?’
‘Yeah, they cleaned out the tack shed as well. Six saddles have gone.’
Mits said, ‘It’ll be the Basinhead Gang.’
‘Are they the people living in Sarah and Fred’s old house?’ asked Nanna.
‘Yeah. They’ve had horses down in the canyon.’
‘That’s where Phoebe will be,’ I whispered.
‘Yes,’ agreed Grandad, ‘that’s very likely.’
I stood up. ‘Then we’ve got to go and get her.’
Nanna leaned over and touched my arm. ‘You can’t do anything now, Timothy. It’s too wet and it’s too dark. It’ll have to wait until morning.’
I stared at her, wanting to argue, yet also knowing that she was right. Instead, I turned and ran from the room, out into the rain and across to the bunkhouse. I threw myself onto a bed and buried my head in a pillow. Then I cried. Slowly at first, but, as the size of the loss sank in, my weeping changed to uncontrollable, body-shaking sobs.
That night seemed never-ending.
Eventually Mits and Dad came to the bunkhouse and convinced me to get into bed properly. It didn’t help me sleep. Every drop of rain hammering on the tin roof made me think of Phoebe. She was a wimp when it came to rain
and was certain to try to find shelter. Yet the only shelter in the canyon was ongaonga. My head filled with images I couldn’t expel. There was Phoebe, head bowed, trying to find refuge from the driving rain. There was Phoebe belly-deep in water, panicking as it got ever deeper. Then I saw her in the ongaonga screaming in pain. But the worst was as a swollen corpse, floating in the lake that had filled the canyon.
In the time since, I’ve thought a lot about that night. I now know that I was grieving for far more than the loss of a pet. To me, Phoebe was not a pet; she was a friend. I think anybody who has had a horse will know that they can be much more than a cat or a dog or a canary. You have to give more of yourself to a horse, and in return they give you more—friendship, company, and also their kind of love. Maybe not everybody feels that way, but that’s how it was between Phoebe and me.
Plus, Phoebe had once been my mother’s horse. I still don’t know how much I was crying for the loss of Phoebe or the loss of my mother all those years before. However, what I do know is that I changed during that night: I came out of it feeling a much stronger person than before.
At some unkown time in the early hours of the morning, I realized that I could now cope with whatever had happened to Phoebe. I had done the worrying; now it was time for action. As soon as it was light I would go to the canyon and find her, one way or the other. Then I would know for sure what had happened.
After that I slept.
The sky was beginning to lighten when I dressed and moved out of the bunkhouse. Although it was still raining, there were clear patches to the south suggesting that the day might be fine.
I made no attempt to quieten the quad bike as I drove out of Pounamu—if people wanted to follow me, they could.
The horse float showed that the Basinheads were back at Sarah and Fred’s house, although there was no sign of life. I rode past as quietly as possible—I certainly didn’t want that lot following me.
The track was a mess. Our tyre ruts from the week before had almost washed away, to be replaced by another set. It looked like the horse float had been in and out several times.
My first view of the canyon gave me a shock. It was now a lake of yellow-brown water. Only when I got to the edge did I see that it was still quite shallow. In places, the tops of weeds were visible. Unfortunately, I could see no horses.
I dismounted and walked around past the container to get a better look at the bottom of the opposite cliff. Still no sign of anything. I returned and walked in the other direction. That’s when I saw them: four horses standing some distance out from the track. And Phoebe was one of them.
My relief was so great that I had to sit down or I would have fallen over the edge. It was only then that I became
aware of how tense I had been. I sat for some time, thinking about what I should do. The obvious thing was to get them out of there. But how? I knew that Phoebe would come with me, but would the others?
As I climbed down the path, I realized there was another problem. At some stage during the rainfall, the path had been a stream of muddy water flowing down from the top. Now the water had gone, leaving a slimy coating of mud. It would be difficult for horse or human to get a sure footing.
I entered the knee-deep water and began wading around to the horses. Immediately, Phoebe lifted her head and looked at me. I gave my long, calling whistle, and her ears pricked up. Then I called her name. She took a couple of steps forward, before one of the other horses gave a short snort and she stopped. I called her name again. This time she took only one step forward, and after that I couldn’t move her.
If she wouldn’t come to me, then I would have to go to her. I walked slowly, trying not to make splashing sounds that might scare them. When I was twenty metres away, the horse that had snorted moved to the front so that it was facing me; that was the signal for the others to move back behind it. There was no doubting who was in charge. That’s when I noticed he was a stallion.
I stopped moving and studied the group in detail. Both Pounamu horses were mares. The other two were Kaimanawas, and they looked as if they were straight out of the wild. Before he arrived at the canyon, the stallion would already have had dominance over the wild mare; now he had added two more to his troop. He was the bond that held them together—the one who had kept them alive during the night. It would have been terrifying, with the water
always rising, the wind howling, and rain pouring down. Their natural instinct would have been to move to the higher ground and take shelter in the bushes—the ongaonga. Yet he had kept them together and well clear of the danger. I had him to thank for helping keep Phoebe safe. Now it was my turn to help him. If I could convince him to come with me, the others would follow.
When I first started working with horses, Grandad said that to get a horse to do something difficult you must make them think that they will gain from it. I knew that these horses already wanted to move out of the water; it was my job to show them how. I was hoping they’d remember coming down the path. If I could move them so that they could see the way out, then I would probably win.
I began singing ‘Kaimanawa Horses’, softly at first, and then increasingly louder. Straight away I had the stallion’s interest. His head turned to one side to watch me and listen. Behind him, I could see that the other horses were listening, too.
When I was sure that I had his full attention, I softened my voice so that he had to strain to hear. For a while I thought it wasn’t working, and then he took a step towards me. I smiled to myself. So far, so good. Then I slowly turned away from him, singing all the time. I took a few steps towards the path. After resisting for a moment, I heard the splash of him following. He wanted to keep on listening. More splashing and I knew the mares were moving. And so we continued, with me walking and singing, and the horses following.
When the path came into view, I turned back to see the stallion glancing towards the cliff. That’s when I knew I was going to win.
At the bottom of the path I moved to one side and stopped singing. He now had a clear choice: stay or leave. With a snort, he climbed up on the path, calling the mares to follow. When they were all on the path, I trailed in behind at a safe distance.
It was not an easy trip up that narrow path. Every one of the horses slipped at some stage, and I slipped more than anyone. Yet we continued to make progress until we were about halfway up, whereupon the stallion stopped and pricked his ears. Soon I could hear it, too—the sound of a truck coming.
I cursed: it was probably Dad, but his timing was terrible. I hoped he would see what was happening and back off. The stallion turned and looked back down the path. Then he made the decision to continue moving towards the top. I made encouraging noises and he moved faster.
When the top of the vehicle became visible, I saw that it wasn’t Dad’s truck at all—it was the Basinheads’ horse float. I cursed again, knowing that this was sure to cause problems. The motor stopped and doors slammed. A moment later, I heard the squeak of doors as the refrigeration container was opened. Up until then I’d been tense: now I was afraid. I knew we had to get to the top before they started coming down.
I started shouting. The stallion tried to go faster, but the slippery surface was too dangerous. Then two figures appeared at the top of the track. It was Sam Mason and one of the cousins. The man was carrying a coil of rope.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?’ yelled the man.
‘Saving the horses. Get out of the way.’
‘No! Those horses are mine.’
‘No, they’re not—you stole them.’
He swore at me. ‘If you let that stallion go free, I’ll never get him again.’
‘Good. He needs to be free.’
He swore at me again, then started moving down the path.
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘Let them go up.’
‘You better get out of the way, kid. Because I’m going to catch that stallion.’ I saw then that the rope was a lasso.
The stallion stopped and stared at the man. Again, he looked back at me. However, now he knew that escaping to the top was his only hope. He turned and continued towards the top. The man paused to throw the lasso. It fell short. For a moment the scene was frozen, with the man and the horse glaring at each other. The stallion recovered first, rearing back onto his hind legs and plunging forward. The man scrambled to get out of the way, but the surface was too slippery. His eyes went wild as the stallion’s front hooves caught him in the chest. He fell back and the horse ploughed over him, heading for the top.
But now the stallion was frightened. No longer was he carefully choosing each foothold—he was scrambling to get out of there as quickly as he could. A hind leg went sideways and over the edge. With pounding hooves, he struggled to pull it back. The other hind leg slipped and also went over. For a moment he was suspended by his belly with his forelegs scrambling to get a hold on the slippery rock. Then slowly at first, and finally in a rush, his body slipped over the edge. I heard his hooves thumping on the steep slope as he tried to break the fall. Finally, there came the most hideous scream as he plunged into the ongaonga.
The man was left lying against the cliff face, unconscious or dead. The mares stood in shock for a moment before deciding they wanted out of there. The wild one panicked and turned on me. I yelled at her waving my arms. If she decided to come at me, I would be in the same situation as the man. Then Phoebe gave a whinny. The wild mare stopped. Phoebe whinnied again. This time, the mare turned and followed Phoebe up the path.
But now Mason was heading down the path towards his cousin.
‘Get out of the way, Mason!’ I yelled.
He stopped. ‘You killed my cousin.’
‘Get out of the way and the horses will go up. They won’t hurt him if they aren’t panicked.’
Still he hesitated.
‘If you want him to live, get out of the way.’ This time something got through. He turned and moved back to the top.
Phoebe was magnificent. She called to the other two mares and led them quietly around the silent man and on towards the top. It made me think that she understood what was happening. When she got there, she stopped to let the others past, and then turned to look back at me. She tossed her head a couple of times before moving away out of view. Soon afterwards, the screaming from the stallion stopped, and silence, if not peace, returned to the canyon.