Environmentalists try to stop logging of an indigenous forest.
Vanessa Denton gave her life for Gaia and Mathews Bush despite a solemn promise from Mike Simmiss, President of the Save Our Forests Association (SOFA). The tragedy drives Mike to revive a flagging campaign against logging the forest. Time is running out, and the chance of success seems against the odds but, not compromising, Mike grasps every last opportunity. Will it be enough? SOFA goes up against big business, the new owner of the forest, Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd, contending with the company’s successful Managing Director, John Baron, and its unscrupulous board member and stroke survivor, Ed Somerville.
Excerpt
1
Mike Simmiss turned his car off the highway and, with darkness encroaching on either side, headed up the road through the Horowhenua countryside towards the hills. He had no idea what obstacles he might have to overcome but his resolve was set.
Several kilometres further on, the headlights picked up road-making machinery on the verge and, expecting works ahead, Mike braked to a slower speed. The roadway narrowed and started to climb and the surface under the wheels turned from asphalt to gravel.
Round the first bend, the roading contractor had begun widening the tight corners to enable access for logging trucks. The works had progressed almost half way up the gorge and, beyond that, the route through Maungakaramea Farm remained tortuous until it straightened out onto a plateau.
On reaching it, Mike increased speed towards the farm homestead, which was still out of view behind hedgerows and shelter-belts. He assumed the farm buildings would be being used by Jackson-Halberd as a base for its forestry operations; the Mathews family had moved out at the beginning of autumn.
Mike passed the small paddock where SOFA had held its last annual summer camp then slowed his car to a crawl, looking for a copse of native trees that ran down into a narrow gully at a right angle to the road. He braked to a halt when he came to the spot, got out and, by torchlight, located a place to park behind a row of frost-covered bushes. Switching off the motor then the lights, and repressing his emotions, he gathered up the urn from the passenger seat.
The night was starlit as he headed up the road on foot, his breath visible in ghostly clouds. He was glad he had worn gloves but it made the urn harder to hold so he tucked it under his arm.
Memory of a warm night during the SOFA camp, when he walked towards the homestead hand in hand with Justine Mathews, threatened to push itself forward but he did not want to feel or think; mental numbness seemed preferable.
Ahead, on his right, a light at the front door of the old homestead came into view but all the visible windows were dark.
In case a night-watchman had taken residence, Mike kept his eye on the buildings and took the precaution of turning off his torch and walking on the far road verge, off the gravel.
In the dark, in rough grass, his footing was less sure and he stumbled a few times but managed to keep a grip on the urn.
Further along, with the torch turned on again, he stepped back onto the carriageway. Stopping after a few paces, he listened for any sound behind him. The night was totally silent – eerie after the city noise he was more accustomed to. He shivered then continued walking.
The slope of the roadway gradually steepened and he came to the wooden gate he expected, but now it had a heavy chain and padlock and carried a sign that read: KEEP OUT Trespassers will be prosecuted. In one corner, the logo of Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd stood out in the torch beam. When the Mathews family had owned the property there had never been any need for such forbidding security.
Those forestry bastards have truly taken possession of the property, Mike thought sullenly.
Ignoring the message on the sign, he mounted the gate then jumped down and continued on his way.
The roadway petered out after a short distance, turning into a less well formed farm vehicle track that terminated on the far side of a low ridge. There, a stream separated rough grazing from the bush on the other side.
He paused on the near bank and listened to the rush of water over rocks and the murmur of leaves in the night breeze. For a moment his vision blurred with tears. He had camped alone at this spot just before the Mathews family moved out of Maungakaramea Farm; Justine had brought him the tragic news about Vanessa Denton. Grief-stricken, he had silently vowed to continue the fight that she had sacrificed her life for.
Mist still shrouded the canopy of native trees above Mike’s head but, by the time he was part way to the summit of Maungakaramea, dawn came and bird calls filled the forest around him.
Glad of daylight, and of being in the bush, he plodded on up the familiar walking trail. He would have enjoyed the climb if it had not been for the contents of the urn under his arm. In a way, Vanessa’s fate was cruelly ironic. She had committed suicide by fire and a crematorium had completed the destruction of her body. He was carrying all that remained.
A while later he reached the upper bush edge and, out of respect for Vanessa’s memory, followed the example she had always shown and took off his boots and socks. Even though winter snow had not yet accumulated on the peak, he faced a temperature near zero as he stepped out of the stunted trees into an open area of low native shrubs and grasses. Buffeted by wind, a thick mist swirling around him and obscuring any outlook, he felt as if he was in the clouds.
He considered carrying his boots across the alpine herb field then climbing to the rocky summit but the risk of hypothermia was too high. Besides, on her visits, Vanessa had always enjoyed lying in the native grass. It seemed more fitting as her final resting place.
Turning his back to the wind, he opened the urn, inclined it forward and tossed the contents into the air. The ashes scattered and disappeared.
He retreated quickly into the shelter of the trees and stood for a moment looking out onto the mountaintop.
Celebration of Vanessa’s final union with Mother Earth – Gaia, as she’d called it – seemed more appropriate than sorrow but his heart felt heavy and he could not stop tears welling up. He and Vanessa had once had a kind of relationship and he had loved her in the only way she would let him.
Mike had almost reached his parked car, his observances complete, when a ute coming up the road pulled alongside and stopped. The door of the vehicle bore the Jackson-Halberd logo. The driver wound his window down and leant an arm on the sill. “That your car back down the road?”
Mike felt aggressive. “What business is that of yours? I’m on a public road.”
“It’s a dead-end and runs through private property.” The driver appeared suspicious. “What are you doing here?”
Mike knew that, with his shoulder-length blonde hair and broad shoulders, he was not going to be recognised on sight as a conventional academic. He said, “Maybe I just like walking in the countryside.”
The other man glanced dubiously at the grey sky. “Not the sort of day I’d expect anyone to be doing that out here.”
Mike simply resumed walking, in no mood for further conversation. The driver leaned out of the cab, “Stay on the road. Trespassers will be prosecuted.”
Mike said over his shoulder laconically, “Yeah, I saw the sign.”
Lieutenant Fay Kincaid has plenty on her plate with being commander of the Rockland PD Support Division which included two of the most prestigious units there, SWAT and the Bomb Squad as well as CSU, SRO and Dispatch. Not only that, but she is the si
I have taken pride in writing this novel as so many people have the wrong impression on bikers because they dress in leather clothing which is to protect themselves in case of an accident. The majority of bikers are known Policemen, Firemen, Doctors,
