Last revised: September 21, 2006

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Time for a Cuppa!

The Magazine

For all the Family

Tale of a Taniwha

By
Kath O'Sullivan

Josh swung the wheel sharp right and pulled onto a strip of grass at the roadside.

“There it is,” he said, pointing to a tiny lake, which nestled like a teardrop caught in the bowl of a golden spoon. The clouds, blown hither and thither by a strong breeze, sent the sun's bright beams dancing across its glittering surface.

“It's perfect, simply perfect, Josh.”

“Not quite, remember what I told you?”

“You mean the monster? But that was a joke you know it was. I don't believe in monsters, and if I did, what sort of a monster would live in such a perfect place?”

He pulled her close. “No place on earth is perfect, Sara, at least none that I've seen. There's always a snag. Don't the Muslims say only Allah is perfect? As for my monster, you'd better call it a taniwha and start believing in it girl, or we're out of here. Next stop the scrap heap.”

Sara giggled. “Do you really think we can make a go of it?”

“Too damn right I do. It's just matter of publicity. Get enough of that and the tourists will flock to the place. Look at Loch Ness.”

“That's different, people have been seeing the monster there for hundreds of years, Josh.”

“OK, so ours is new by comparison, but wait till the news breaks and Paul Holmes hears about it, or better still, Sixty Minutes.”

He restarted the engine and drove slowly down the narrow road. The lower they went the more it seemed that the yellow broom, which covered the surrounding hillsides, had been set there deliberately to provide a jewelled backdrop for the tiny lake. Then, as if to prove Josh right, the beauty was marred by a ramshackle wooden building that looked more like a shearing shed than a bach.

Sara covered her eyes, “I don't believe it. Is this your inheritance? Are you sure it's safe? It looks as if a good gust of wind would blow it over.”

“It's stood here for nearly a hundred years, and I bet it'll still be here when we're pushing up the daisies. My great-granddaddy knew what he was doing when he build it”

Sara wrinkled her nose. “Well he certainly wasn't an architect.”

“It was his hideaway.”

“What was he hiding from, the tax man?” Sara had heard stories, about Josh's ancestors that suggested they were not the type of people to get their names in the hall of fame, or inscribed on a stained glass window in the local church.

“They'd call him an entrepreneur today. Started off in the goldfields and from there he went on to own a number of businesses. What's your mother been saying?”

“That he was a bit of a rogue. But that's only to be expected, if you're not descended from good Presbyterian stock you're worth nothing in her eyes. So bear that in mind, with a name like O'Driscoll you don't stand a chance,”

To her surprise the building wasn't too bad. The homemade furniture was strong and sturdy and the kitchen contained a sink with running water. She tried turning the tap but it was too stiff. Josh noticed her difficulty and reached over and twisted it. The water that shot out was clean and clear.

“Where does it come from?” she asked.

“Gravity feed, from those two corrugated iron tanks on a high stand out the back. There'll be plenty after all the spring rain. We never run short, when the tanks run dry there's always the lake.”

She unpacked their gear while Josh, pretending domesticity, swept the accumulation of dust and dead ants from the floor.

“You might give the mattress a shake,” she suggested, it's probably as hard as a rock. She was glad they'd brought the portable gas stove. She wouldn't have a clue how to cope with the old cast iron monstrosity in the kitchen. Thank goodness the power was connected. She pushed the switch but nothing happened.

“It's turned off at the mains, silly,” said Josh reaching into the box and pulling the switch. “And while I remember, there's a phone too. It's hidden in this cupboard, see?”

When the unpacking was finished and they'd enjoyed a cuppa made from pure rainwater, he suggested they go for a walk before dark.

“I'm dying to show you everything.” Everything appeared to be a little rickety jetty, which jutted out into the lake, and an overgrown track, which wound round the shore. They followed this until they came to a small pumice beach.

“It's known as Gabriel's Beach,” said Josh.

“Who was Gabriel?”

“My great grand-daddy, the man who built the bach. Come on, I'll show you where he's buried,” said Josh, taking her arm and pulling her off the track and through the undergrowth. He stopped when he came to a stone slab, which leant at a crazy angle. She could just make out that there were words carved across it. When she knelt to get a closer look Josh bent and wiped the stone with his hand in an attempt to remove the lichen that almost obliterated the letters.

“I can't read it. What does it say?”

Josh straightened up, threw back his head and recited,

“In memory of Gabriel O'Driscoll, who drowned in the lake18 December 1918. May God have mercy on his soul.”

The hairs on the back of Sara's neck bristled.

“He drowned here? How awful.”

“The local Maori swore it was the taniwha which got him. I think Great-grandmamma believed them for she never came back after his burial and the bach stayed empty till my grandad was grown. He loved the place and brought his family here every holiday. He said he never saw any taniwha, but his father was a devil for the whisky. He reckoned the old fellow had a skinful the night he drowned, forgot how cold the water could be, and overestimated his ability as a swimmer. Whatever, he drowned and there he lies.”

Sara shivered. “I don't fancy swimming in the lake.”

He hauled her to her feet. “Don't be stupid, it's a lovely place for a swim. You mustn't let something that happened years ago put you off. Come on, I'll race you back.”

After their dinner of sausage, bacon and baked beans it was time to get down to serious business. Josh plugged in the laptop and said, “We've got to do this so no one suspects it's a hoax. I think we could start the ball rolling if you send a few emails to your girl friends, sort of plant the first seeds. Just say hello and we're having a whale of a time. Then perhaps you could sneak in a fairly innocent remark about seeing something breaking the surface of the lake, and us wondering what it was. You know, just enough to get their attention. Make sure you include one to Debbie. She is one of our best contacts because I'm counting on her to mention it to that boyfriend of hers who works at the Herald. That should be enough for the first night. You can report another sighting tomorrow, and then perhaps you can mention the Maori legend of the taniwha.”

The next day they walked all the way around the lake arriving back tired and sweaty.

“I'm for a swim,” said Josh.

“You sure it's safe?” asked Sara. “There aren't any dangerous rips?”

“Rips. They're what you get off the west coast, not in a little bitty lake.”

“How deep is it?”

“Deep as the deepest hole in the ocean floor,” answered Josh in a voice reminiscent of the man on Ripley's television show, 'Believe It or Not'. “It was formed by an underwater explosion at the beginning of time, long before Taupo.”

“Stop it,” she laughed, “you're frightening me to death.”

The water was cool and refreshing. Josh, who was a strong swimmer, soon left Sara far behind.

“Hey, you're not being fair, wait for me,” she called treading water “Come on Josh, stop being stupid. Where are you? Stop it Josh, you're frightening me.”

She strained her ears for his reply, but heard only the soft slap of water against the timber piles. If she climbed out she would see him better she thought, so she turned towards the ladder, but before she could reach it she felt something brush against her leg. She screamed and reared out of the lake flailing her arms and legs before sinking deep, swallowing mouthfuls of water in her panic. The next moment Josh surfaced next to her.

“You pig, you pig, you frightened me to death,” she cried as she smacked out at him. She seized the rungs of the ladder and hauled herself up onto the jetty. “Get off me, leave me alone. I hate you for that.”

His apologies failed to soothe her and the rest of the afternoon was spent in an uneasy silence. Sara pretended to read a book while Josh rummaged through the cupboards trying to look busy. However, when he tasted the delicious meal she cooked that evening he knew he was forgiven.

After the dishes were washed they logged on to find that their email had succeeded in arousing the curiosity of Sara's friends. They all wanted to know more, so it was time to compose their second and most important message. In it Sara described a further sighting of the mysterious dark shape that rose ominously from the middle of the lake. She also recounted their version of the taniwha story, which Josh had learned as a child.

Josh read the message aloud before they sent it.

“Gee, it really scares me even though I know it's not true,” Sara said when he had finished.

After she hit the send key Josh said, “Let's hope Debbie takes the bait and tells her boyfriend. Publicity is what we need.”

Sara smiled, “I think that we've a winner whichever way you look. If this idea fails I think we could still make a fortune writing the story as a film script. Just imagine a horror story set in this beautiful valley, it would be a sell out at the box office. We might even be able to interest Peter Jackson in it.”

The next day they worked around the bach, chopping back the brush that threatened to over run the place. By two o'clock Josh was ready for another swim. Sara refused to join him.

“I've no intention of letting you scare me like you did yesterday, Josh. You swim if you want to. I'm going to read my book. If I get too hot I'll sit on the edge of the jetty and kick my feet in the water or go for a paddle along the shore.”

Afterwards she would remember hearing the splash as he dived in off the jetty, but the book was so engrossing that she didn't bother to watch him swim away. She lost herself in the story and did not surface until a cool puff of wind brought goose pimples to her arms. When she looked up it was almost evening and she saw that the previously calm surface of the lake was now ruffled with small waves. She could hear them slap slapping noisily against the jetty.

If he thinks he's going to frighten me a second time he has another think coming, she told herself as she gathered up her book and towel and headed for the bach. Josh's togs and towel were not on the wash line nor was he in the kitchen. Muttering threats about people who delighted in playing infantile practical jokes she tugged on her jeans and sweater, which were lying where she'd thrown them on the couch. Then she searched the bach. First she looked in the bedroom where she bent down and peered under the bed, just in case he was hiding. He wasn't curled up in the wardrobe nor hiding in the shower stall. She looked outside but he was nowhere to be seen. The dunny was empty, its door swinging in the wind and the toilet roll, which had taken wings, was draped around the pohutukawa tree like an early Christmas decoration.

She hurried back down to the jetty and called,” Josh, Josh, fair's fair. Come on now, show yourself.”

The breeze, which had now turned into a gale force wind, tore at her hair as if driven by some malevolent spirit, whilst surface of the lake rose and fell like the chest of a sleeping giant. Josh wasn't still swimming, he couldn't be. He must have climbed out when she was reading, or perhaps he'd come ashore at Gabriel's Beach and was hiding in the bush. Yes, that was it, it was all part of his taniwha plot. He was making her so scared she'd call the police.

The waves hitting the jetty threw spumes of spray across the deck, making it a cold and uncomfortable place to be, so she turned her back on the scene and scuttled off to the safety of the bach. If this was his idea of a joke she was not amused. Once inside she closed the door and turned on the light, but the sixty-watt bulb, which dangled from the ceiling, its shade grey with dust, did nothing to lift her spirits.

Remembering her mother's maxim, 'when there's trouble a cup of tea does wonders for the nerves' she turned on the tap and filled the kettle. When it boiled she dunked a tea bag in a mug and poured the boiling water over it. But what worked for her mother did little for her. What should she do? She picked up the phone then banged it down again. She'd look a right Charlie if she rang the police and he walked in laughing at her.

Her watch said nearly seven. It would be dark soon. Then I suppose he'll come creeping in through the door and frighten me out of my wits she fumed. I've a damn good mind to get in the car and drive away. That would teach him a lesson. It must be all of ten kilometres to the nearest settlement. She found herself pacing round the kitchen. This wasn't a joke it was downright rotten. She opened the cupboard and pulled out the bottle of Johnny Walker they'd brought with them. Not that they were drinkers, but he'd said it would be nice to drink a toast once they'd set up the taniwha story to his satisfaction. In other words, once the suckers bit. She twisted the cap on the bottle till the metal broke and she was able to unscrew it. Then she grabbed a mug and poured herself a generous tot. She gulped it down, grimacing in shock as it burned her throat. She felt much better when the warmth hit her stomach. I will ring the police she decided, but when she picked up the phone there was no signal. The storm had cut the line. Another drop of whisky would help she thought as she slopped more into the mug. An hour later the bottle was half empty and Sara lay slumped across the sofa, snoring her head off.

There are two gravestones now near Gabriel's Beach. There is the original one of Gabriel's from 1918 and a newer one,

“In memory of Josh O'Driscoll, great-grandson of Gabriel, who drowned in this lake 18 December 2001. Present mirth hath present laughter, what's to come is still unsure.”

Note: No part of any material on this and other pages can be reproduced in any way without any of the author's written permission. All rights remain with the author.

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Tale of a Taniwha By Kath O'Sullivan

Saturday Flicks By Kath O'Sullivan

Holiday of a lifetime By Mike Flack

Holiday of a lifetime (part two) By Mike Flack

Anna's Child By Marc Lensly

Stranger by Miriam Capps

Poem By Norbert (Doc Gater) Smith

My Day Out (Sylvia Lukeman)

*****

My novels can be seen at

http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/onetear1.htm