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CHAPTER 1
'You guys must be born optimists,' the man in the store had said. 'All you prospectors. What else would make you do that sort of thing other than belief – blind hope?'
He meant more than the words implied: that people like Evan were loners who lived off their own company, didn't need the stimulus of a partner or a wife to keep them going, didn't need the earthly chances that normal people relied on. But he was right in his way. You had to defy probabilities; you had to have hope.
The storeman had recognised him as soon as he walked in: a regular customer, even though his visits were a year apart.
Evan had called there on the way in, as he did every year, for a last cup of real coffee, to fill up with fuel, buy a few provisions that he'd forgotten to pack. After the long drive across the Canterbury Plains, the Alps shimmering in the distance, refusing to draw near, then the slow haul over Arthur's Pass down to the coast, Silverstone was the last place that might claim the title of civilisation, and it only just merited that. A scatter of houses, a store that served as a café and fuel-stop as well, a tiny white church offering services the third Sunday of every month. Beyond that there was nothing. No internet or phones or radio. No duties or demands. Just the mountains, the river, the bush. His claim, solitude. Escape.
Then the man had said: 'Maybe that's the secret really. Maybe you have to believe to have luck. That's where I've gone wrong, perhaps, not believing.'
At the time, Evan had laughed. 'Luck's luck,' he'd said. 'I guess we all get our share.'
But whatever it was, belief or hope or just unseeing chance, his seemed to have run out. When he arrived, all seemed to bode well. The cottage had welcomed him, with a creak of the door, the familiar smell of winter mould and dust, two ten-dollar notes neatly folded on the mat. A few days later, when he'd set out to his claim the auguries had stayed good. On the drive up to the saddle the land looked fresh-spruced by the winter rains and spring snowmelt, the sky stretched, the air soft. On the walk from the car park, the fantails danced for him, bums out, tails splayed, while tuis sang and clucked and burped from the bush. At the claim, the stream wove between the gravel bars, beckoning him with its gentler song.
He'd tidied up his camp, stowed his gear, and the next day started panning. He began as he always did, at his favourite spots, exploring the riffles and pools and pockets of sediment that had formed since his previous visit. At first, no gold appeared, yet he did not worry. It was there somewhere; he just had to be patient. He was simply glad to be back, alone and free. In Christchurch, loneliness could be a torment; here it was a salve. And even now, two years after Juliette had left, he still needed that: the solace of solitude. So he had extended his search, remained content, and on the third day his patience and endeavour had borne fruit. His first finds. Bright flecks amidst the black iron and tourmaline sand.
Two days ago, he'd picked a target, a bed of grit and gravel, caught in the curve of the stream thirty metres below the camp. He'd set up the dredge, got to work. Soon, gold was coming out. Nothing dramatic, but a little more every time he paused the pump, checked the trays. Enough to justify the optimism that the storeman had talked about, to promise a good summer ahead. All he needed now was favourable weather and time.
Time, he had. Another eleven weeks before he'd have to leave, go back to work. The weather, though, seemed less accommodating. There was a storm brewing, and it was going to be a ripper. When it arrived, there'd be no more dredging for a while – not until the rain had eased and the river had forgotten it, subsided again. By then, the deposit he was working would have been swept away, the gold dispersed and lost.
He'd seen the storm approaching several hours ago. White wisps of stratus pulled out like combed wool. The change in the sun, losing its brightness, becoming pale and curdled. Later, the pillows of cumulus growing above the ridgeline away to the west. He might have called a halt then, scuttled back to the cottage while he could. He was due to do so in the morning, anyway; it was time for a rest, to replenish his supplies. But he wanted to grab what he could while he had the chance. So he'd kept going, even though he knew the cost. A wild night under tarpaulin, out here in the bush. All the discomfort: the last dregs of his food, damp clothes in the morning, a soggy trip back to his truck.
But now it was time to stop. In the last hour the sky had soured, turned grey and liverish. The birds were silent. Only the mosquitoes were left, riding the heavy air.
He felt for the fuel line, switched off the generator. The thrum and throb of the pump, the rattle of stones on the sluice, ceased. All became still.
He looked around, whistled for the dog. He'd last seen her half an hour ago. Then, she'd been sniffing around in the undergrowth, absorbed in some trace only she could detect. She wouldn't have gone far. She was a good dog, knew her legal limits, would be listening for his call. He whistled again.
She should have been a collie, or a huntaway, that's what friends who claimed to know had told him. They were the dogs you needed in the hills, they said: they had stamina, were fast, could track and catch rabbit or pig or deer – whatever you needed. They were quick to learn as well, could live outside. Instead, he'd chosen a spaniel. A springer, black and white, small, sinuous, with a coat like silk. A rescue dog, though what she needed res- cuing from or why anyone would have failed to want her in their life he couldn't imagine, for she seemed to be everything a dog should be. Companion, friend, defender against unseen perils, source of constant amusement and affection. When he'd bought her from the SPCA, at fifteen months old, less than a week from being put down, she was called Molly. He didn't like the name; it was too girlish, too human. For days he tried out different names. Then, one evening, he told her: 'I'm giving you a life. You're going to help me with mine.' So he called her Viva – for life. And it was a private joke as well: Viva the Spaniel.
Once more he whistled, waited. Still she did not come.
In the distance, there was a flickering flash, lightning above the hills. In that same moment, he smelled the rain coming. A muskiness, an earthiness, fungal, hormonal, almost like the smell of sex. He'd misjudged; he had to be quick. Never mind the dog – the rain would bring her back. Right now, he needed to get the dredge and sluice to safety, his tarpaulin pegged down, everything under cover.
He worked feverishly. The water could rise almost as fast as you could move in a river like this. A half-hour respite while the canopy of the bush wetted, the trees soaked the rain up, and then the ground would start to darken, runnels would appear; they'd stretch, reach, join like fingers feeling for each other for comfort and strength. Runoff would drip, seep, surge into the channel. The stream would grow brown with silt; its whole tone would change. No longer a gurgle of laughter, a rippling song, but a thunder, a roar. The banks would sag and slump. Boulders would shift. Even twenty metres away you'd be able to feel the water's anger, its primaeval force.
He lifted the generator, heaved it up the bank on to the higher terrace, carried it across to his shelter and tucked it beneath his tarpaulin. He did the same with the dredge, hauling in the hose, coiling it up, stowing it in the hollow he'd dug under the trees. He broke up the header box and sluice, stacked the trays, tied up the struts and put them alongside. Then he paused, whistled again for the dog, listened.
For a moment, he thought he heard her – a quick yap – but though he strained his ears, it did not repeat. Just the sound of boughs creaking in the wind, or the wind in the boughs, or his own imagination.
Then the first drops of rain started, large, heavy. They beat on the ground, making craters in the silt, splashed on boulders and spat back at the air as if in spite. There was another lightning flash, a roll of thunder, only ten seconds apart. The storm closing in.
He looked around, checking that he hadn't missed anything, was leaving nothing to the elements. A spade stood, stuck into a sandy bar, in mid-stream. He cursed, waded out to it, grabbed it as the heavens opened.
He ran for the shelter. By the time he reached it, he was drenched.
He threw the spade down, pulled the flap of the tarpaulin behind him, tugged off his sodden shirt, slumped on to his bed.
Just the dog to come now. Where was she?
Half an hour later, and she'd still not returned. He started to worry about her. Had he credited her with too much intelligence, too much instinct? Might she be lost somewhere, out in the bush? Or trapped already by the stream? What if she was? Would she try to cross; would she manage it? Would she try to head home?
He crawled to the opening at the end of his shelter, peered out.
The world outside was dark. Not yet the darkness of night, but of something more threatening, more consuming – a world in turmoil. Pattern and shape had been destroyed. Mountains, sky, trees, stream were all as one, just a torn and torrid muddle. Colours had fused. What had been green, blue, white, ochre was all now grey and brown. The only relief from it all was when the lightning flashed. Then, for an instant, the old world would fizz and crackle again, and shape would emerge, a world in negative. He called again, but his voice was lost to the blustering wind.
The rain came in another burst, clattering on the tarpaulin, drowning out his thoughts. He ducked back inside, lay on his bed.
The shelter was rudimentary, just a tarpaulin strung in the shape of a tent from two branches, in the lee of a mossy bank. In still weather, it served well enough. It gave some warmth, protection from the morning dews, and he'd made a bed of twigs and moss, covered with his sleeping bag, had a log to sit on, had brought a lantern and gas stove. But in weather like this, it was hardly adequate. The wind whistled beneath the edges of the tarpaulin, around the flap that served as a door. Water seeped in from the bank, soaking the ground, threatening his makeshift bed. The rain pounded on the canvas, dripped heavily from the trees.
He made some food, a simple meal: a handful of rice, a sachet of dried vegetables, some spices to give it all taste. He ate it, squatting on his bed, a bottle of beer to swill it down. When he'd finished, he put the pans by the entrance, donned his spare pullover to keep himself warm, called once more for the dog. She did not come, and he curled up inside his sleeping bag, fretful, trying not to imagine life without her.
* * *
When he woke, it was dark. The true darkness of night. He reached for his head torch, switched it on, checked his watch. Gone ten. Still, no dog.
He crawled to the entrance, looked out. The storm had retreated now, settled amongst the mountains where it grumbled and glimmered with evil intent. Here, there was just the rain. It came steadily. The wind moaned in the trees. The river rumbled and roiled.
He whistled, called the dog by name: 'Viva. Viva.'
The thunder growled back.
'Viva. Here girl.'
He got up, took a few steps into the clearing, stood, listening.
At first, there was nothing. Just the instruments of the storm, in irritable disharmony. But then, amidst it, he heard a yap – or thought he did. It was faint, strangely distorted, as though the wind had grabbed it, ripped it apart, reassembled it again. Then the wind billowed, and the bark was picked up by the other sections of the night – trees flailing, a distant thunder clap, the snap of a guy-rope beside him – and he knew that he had just imagined it. He was too good at that. Hearing what he wanted to hear. He turned back.
It came again. Not once but repeated this time. High pitched, short. It was the bark she gave when she'd found something that she could not deal with, something that didn't play by the rules – a hedgehog that refused to uncurl, an injured bird that wouldn't fly, a possum that sneered at her from the safety of a tree.
He went out into the clearing, whistled, though knowing that it was pointless, for the wind caught the sound and tossed it behind him.
Another yap.
She must have found something out there, he guessed, be guarding it. A pig carcass perhaps, or a deer. He'd leave her to it. She'd come back in the morning, reeking with its smell, belly full, repentant.
Or lay injured, was calling for him.
He sighed, went back into the shelter, pulled on his coat, put the head torch on.
'Bloody dog.'
He crossed the clearing, down to the stream, started to work his way along it, heading for where he thought the sound had come from.
It wasn't easy. The main path was on the other bank. On this side there was no real trail, thick bush. In the humid air, his torch fogged, so that he could hardly see. The ground was slippery with rain, boulder-strewn. There were fallen trees, logs, patches of gorse and broom, long vines of supplejack blocking and tangling his way. Bush lawyer tore at him from the under- growth. Rain seeped into his coat, down his neck. His hands were scratched.
Again, he cursed the dog.
Once, he called, and thought he heard a brief, answering bark.
Slowly, stumblingly, he veered towards it. He splashed through a channel, knee deep. He squelched through mud. He ducked beneath a low branch, received a slap in the face. He found himself in a gully, called again.
The dog yapped. She was somewhere above him, up on the spur. He started to climb.
She barked again. Nearer now, the sound distinct, her tone urgent.
He reached a small clearing, paused for breath, moved his head slowly so that the beam made a sweep of the darkness.
Two pinpricks of light gleamed back. Just the reflection of raindrops? Or the dog's eyes?
They disappeared.
He shone the torch again, searching. All he could see was a tangle of shadows, shapeless and shifting in the relentless rain.
'Viva!'
As if in answer, the world was lit by another lightning flash, and in its aftermath he saw her, as if imprinted on to his eyes. She was standing next to a large boulder, head low, looking down.
'Viva,' he called again. 'Here girl.'
But instead of coming, she gave a whimper, then turned, disappeared. He ran in pursuit, still half-blinded by the lightning, felt the ground steepen beneath his feet. He slipped, tried to catch himself, and slithered, half fell down a dark and muddy defile. A rock jarred against his shoulder. He swore.
Then the ground levelled, and he came to an ungainly halt. He crouched there panting, scraping mud from his torch. As the light gathered itself again, the darkness shrank back to reveal a strange and ghostly scene. A wide slab of rock forming a flat bench, ridged and runnelled by weathering. Beyond, the pallid shapes of cliffs, looming above him. Black crevices, hunched trees.
In that instant he knew where he was: at the edge of the gorge, halfway down his claim. It was an area he rarely came to, for the stream here was deep and ran on bare rock, no place for fossicking. In the daylight, the area had a sense of portent and mystery; now, in the rain and the night, it seemed like the gateway to Hades itself.
He took off his torch, played it across the bench. Viva was standing ten metres away, her body rigid, nose extended, tail feathered. He shone the light past her, trying to see what might have drawn her to this place. What her game was, what prize she wanted to show him – what, in her canine view of the world, was worth all this disobedience and discomfort.
There was nothing. Just rock, boulders, the dark shape of flood debris piled against a low outcrop.
The dog wagged.
He got to his feet.
And the dark shape became a bundle of clothes. A human figure. A woman.
He stepped forward.
'Are you alright?'
The face stared back blankly, suddenly inhuman again. Just a mask, a scarecrow's turnip head. Or a hastily drawn charcoal hinting at what a woman might be: a small huddle of a body, a pale face, a hand; dark lines for cheeks and mouth, dark holes for eyes, long dark streaks of hair, the rest chalked in.
The dog nuzzled it, whimpered.
He leaned down, touched the woman's face. The skin was wet, doughy, cold.
'Who are you?'
He brushed the hair from her forehead, felt the roughness of a wound.
The head slumped.
He reached for her wrist, pushed back the sodden sleeve of her coat, tried to feel for a pulse. There was none.
He leaned closer, listening for the sound of her breath, for a muttered word, anything that might indicate life. Nothing.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Claim"
by .
Copyright © 2019 David Briggs.
Excerpted by permission of Red Door Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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