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Chapter IV
Nan, Tiny Pat, and David Mackay

We raced across the river-bed to the creek. Judgment Day was still going on, lightning rifting the clouds overhead, and great peals of thunder crashing through the mountains. Uncle John and Uncle Dan stowed the things in the buggy and the gig, with small thought for the safety of the cups, and Kathie, Jan, and I gathered rugs and scattered possessions. After he had thrown in a big basket, a little basket, and a medium-sized basket, Uncle Dan would have finished off with Pipi, but she resisted.

"I'm not going with you, Hezekiah," she said firmly.

There was no time for argument; the rain was already falling in heavy drops, with promise of deluge to come. Uncle reached out, and seized the first person he touched, and before he had time to protest Jock found himself stowed under the seat, like a bag of chaff. Uncle Dan and Kathie settled themselves on top of him and were ready to start.

"He'll keep dry there, anyway," Uncle said page 47with satisfaction. "We can squeeze in another if you like."

But Jan, Pipi, and I had already clambered into the buggy with Uncle John; we were not going to trust ourselves to Uncle Dan's tender mercies.

"I wonder what will happen if the seat gives way," Jan remarked solemnly, as the gig, with Uncle Dan and Kathie on the front seat and Jock underneath, disappeared up the slope, and set off at a fine pace down the road.

"Gee-up! Who-oa, Nellie! Gee-up!" Uncle John cried, taking the reins. The horses were inclined to be restive in the storm. "It's going to be a downpour, girls. Sit tight, Ngaire."

The buggy rocked up the slope, Uncle John shouting at us, trying to make himself heard above the thunder, and not forgetting to tell Jan to hold on to her hat when a sudden gust of wind blew surprisingly across the river-bed. All the world seemed dark and angry and lowering; the great scarred mountains took up the cry of the thunder, and held it in their depths; the river rushed like a frightened thing between its banks. Jan's eyes grew wide—she hates thunder—but I wanted to fling my arms out and cry "Hallelujah!" like an Army lassie. It was so big and inspiring and grand. It was just then that we saw Nan. She sprang suddenly from the page 48roadside, like a little brown creature of the tussocks, in her old yellow-brown jersey, with her hair flying. She was running, and I am sure she felt like a big hymn too, though she didn't say "Hallelujah," or even "Thank you," when Uncle John stopped the buggy and made her climb in.

"Well get you home in a twinkling," he said, and off we lumbered again, the rain pelting on top of us, running in rivulets down our necks, and threatening to sweep us away altogether. We were almost pulp when we arrived at Kinloch homestead, and Uncle looked grave as he raced the horses up the drive to deliver Nan at the door of her own home. Mrs Campbell came out to meet us, and Nan alighted from the buggy, but lingered uncertainly, a small, drenched figure, in the rear of the plump Bridget. Mrs Campbell wanted us to come in and rest.

"Sure, you won't go on in this rain," she cried, holding her apron over her head to shield herself. "At least you'll stop till it's over."

Uncle looked uncertain.

"We can put you all up," she urged.

"I must get back," Uncle said, "but I don't know about the children."

"They can bunk in corners," said Mrs Campbell, cheerfully."It will be company for Nan. At leasr you'll have a cup of tea, Mr Malcolm? The kettle's on the boil."

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But Uncle wouldn't. Since he had to get back to Kamahi he did not want to waste time; the storm showed signs of increasing. He was glad for Pipi and me to stay, however, and we unpacked ourselves as quickly as possible, and like little flowing streams followed Nan into the house. Jan went on with Uncle.

"It won't hurt me," she begged, "and I'm so soaking wet now that I couldn't be any wetter. Do let me, Uncle. It's such a long drive all by yourself."

They drove away, between the trees again, then out on to the road, with the rain pelting down on them, and the wind whirling round them in great, tearing gusts. Pipi and I followed Mrs Campbell into the living-room. A cheerful fire was burning, and we took off our wet things, and, wrapped in blankets, sat toasting ourselves before it, drinking cups of tea—rich, black, sugary tea, the sight of which would have made Uncle Stephen's hair stand straight on end. But we liked it. Soon Nan joined us, and sat on a low stool by the fire, and toasted with us. She looked at us a little shyly, but I think she was glad we had been nearly washed away, and forced to take shelter at her home. We were glad too.

Just before dinner two men came into the room—Mr Campbell, who spoke very seldom, and when he did, said nothing but "Oh, aye," page 50and an old man with the brightest, bluest eyes I have ever seen shining startlingly out of a wrinkled, weather-beaten face. Afterward we found that this was David Mackay, a prospector, who had come to Kinloch intending to cross the river that night, but who had been delayed by the storm. He carried a rough, brown dog in his arms, and held its drooping paw tenderly.

"I found this poor little beast lying by the roadside," he said. "He's been shot, but he'll soon be all right."

Suddenly Nan sprang to her feet, and her eyes blazed.

"He didn't," she cried, and turned hotly to Mr Campbell. "He didn't. Tiny Pat wouldn't kill a sheep. Would you, Tiny Pat?"

She bent lovingly over the dog, who licked her face gratefully.

"He didn't," Nan repeated. "Tiny Pat wouldn't kill a sheep. It was some other dog."

"Oh, aye," said Mr Campbell. I could see he hadn't a high opinion of Tiny Pat.

Tiny Pat, we found afterward, was Nan's own particular pet. He had been given to her over a year ago, and he was such a dear, cuddly little brown ball of a puppy that Nan bestowed the name of Tiny on him.

"He's a real house-dog," she told Bridget, and page 51Bridget agreed, and Tiny had his own saucer and a warm basket before the fire.

Despite the handicap of his name, however, he did not long remain a round, cuddly puppy. He began to grow. He grew upward, and downward, and lengthways and broadways—particularly broadways. 'Tiny' was absurd, so Nan added 'Pat,' after the brother in England, and even then the name hardly matched his size. Tiny Pat was not an attractive animal. He had a cannibalistic way of eyeing your calves and licking his lips, which was most disquieting. His only redeeming points were a pair of faithful, doggy eyes, and a tail which wagged persistently and cheerfully. Afterward we found that his character was not all that it might have been. He was suspected of doing the one thing a dog in the country must not do—worrying sheep—and Mr Campbell had threatened to shoot him if ever he found him at it.

"And he will," Nan told us. "He never says anything he doesn't mean, and even if Tiny Pat did get in the way of the guns to-day he wasn't worrying sheep. He wouldn't do it."

Soon after dinner Mr and Mrs Campbell left the room, Mrs Campbell to see to some churning, and Mr Campbell to look after the horses. Then began the most wonderful evening I have ever spent in my life. When I think of it now I can page 52hear the wash of the rain on the roof, and the moan of the wind sweeping round the house. I can see the warm blaze of the great logs on the open hearth, and Pipi curled up, like a mischievous pink and gold fairy, in a chair seven sizes too large for her. Nan was on the low stool, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes big and still; David Mackay occupied a chair opposite Pipi, and Tiny Pat crouched in slavish devotion at his feet, I lay on the hearthrug, near Nan, and as I listened I was taken far, far away, to strange enchanted regions.

All his life David had been a wanderer. He had come to New Zealand over fifty years ago, and worked on the goldfields, seeking the fortune he never found. Ever since then he had wandered over the mountains. He had been where no white man had ever been before; he had scaled the high peaks and the glaciers, and explored the lonely valleys. He told us of the alpine flowers that grow high up on the mountain-sides, flowers so pure that surely they must be the children of the snows around. He thrilled us with the story of a reef of pure gold hidden away somewhere in the mountains, a reef that no man might find. Fifty years he had been looking for it.

"And you haven't found it?" Pipi asked, sitting up interestedly. "After huntin' and huntin'!"

David smiled at her. "Never, lassie, and page 53maybe I never shall. But the gold is there, and some day some one will find it."

"I'd like to," Pipi said.

"I'd like to go into the mountains," I added.

At last he told us of a valley—a wonderful valley, lying hidden in the heart of the mountains. It seemed like the island to which Arthur sailed away—the

       island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly.

It lay to the sun, and a little stream, clear as crystal, went singing through the star-spangled grass. The rocks were of pure gold and shone in the sun; the flowers never faded, and the trees cast grateful shadows on the green earth. The birds were so tame they would eat from your hands; the deer stole down from the mountain heights to browse peacefully; and nothing that hurt or harmed entered there.

"It lies to the back of Jordan," he said, "over the McMillan Pass, and down the Little River till it cuts into the hills, and there is no track for the horses. There is a fairy well of water here, falling over a precipice fifty feet high."

"After that?" Nan asked, eagerly.

"After that you cross the hills again, through the bush—it is dense there—and down to the flat.

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Then up a little creek, which will take you right to the valley itself. Just two days' march from Jordan," he said.

He had been speaking like a man in a dream, but now he smiled round at us—at Pipi, nearly tumbling out of her chair; at Nan, her eyes wide, her cheeks burning. As for me—

"Look out! You're on fire," Pipi cried.

It was true. A spark from the logs had alighted on my blanket, and I was smouldering and had never noticed it. They put me out, and we settled again to hear of the valley.

"Are you going there now?" I asked. "Are you going to stay there, Mr Mackay?"

"A wee while, lassie," he answered. "I have a shelter there."

I was sorry when Mr Oh Aye and Bridget came back, and Bridget swept us off to bed.

"Sure, your eyes are so heavy with sleep that only the tales he's been telling you have propped them up," she said, hustling us away.

The night was calmer now; the rain fell like fairy patter on the roof. Pipi slept in a made-up bed in a corner, but I cuddled in with Nan. The door was open, and in the other room we could see the red glow of the fire, and hear the murmur of voices. It was very peaceful and still. I wondered if Uncle John and Jan had arrived safely at Kamahi, or whether they had been page 55washed away before they reached their journey's end. A sleepy voice came from Pipi's bed.

"Wonder—if—Jock's—squashed yet?"

Then silence again. Pipi was asleep. Nan cuddled close.

"I'm glad it rained," she said. "I like having you here. I like Pipi too."

"We like you—awfully," I answered, and squeezed her tight.

Right at that moment I adopted her as a sister, though I didn't know it at the time. I didn't only like her; I loved her.

Then I shut my eyes, and dreamed about the valley.