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Uncles Three

Chapter XVI — We set off for the Valley

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Chapter XVI
We set off for the Valley

And then, quite suddenly, trouble came. You remember Tiny Pat, the mongrel dog, whose name had to be lengthened to keep pace with his growth? It was when we were at Jordan that he was found worrying a poor, lonely sheep. He had long been suspected of this crime, and Mr Campbell had threatened to shoot him if ever he caught him at it. This time he escaped, for when Jimmy, the cowboy, fired Tiny Pat disappeared, leaving his poor mangled victim behind. Mr Campbell declared that when he put in an appearance he was to be shot.

"But it wasn't Tiny Pat. I'm sure it wasn't Tiny Pat," Nan argued frantically. "I'm certain Jimmy made a mistake. Ngaire, I'm going down to ask him. If I ask him, and ask him, and ask him, ever so hard, I know he'll say he made a mistake."

Nothing, however, not even Nan's entreaties, could move the cowboy. He had seen Tiny Pat, and knew he was the culprit.

"But it was nearly dark," Nan pleaded. "It was nearly dark, and you can't see properly in the dark, you know."

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"I'd know his ugly carcass at midnight, with no moon," Jimmy answered miserably. He was fond of Nan, as all the men on the station were, and I could see he wished that anyone else had discovered the dog at his deadly work. "Look here, Nan, I know a chap who's got the dandiest little collie pups—black and tan. He'd give you one if I asked him."

"I don't want another dog." Nan looked pitifully at the boy, and her lips quivered. "I'll never want another dog. But you shan't shoot Tiny Pat, Jimmy. You don't know where he is, and you can't get him."

"Hell come sneaking back directly. He's a bad lot, that dog," Jimmy said forcibly. Then he looked at Nan, and added, quite gently, "Have you asked the boss? Perhaps if you begged he'd let him off, seeing he's yours."

"I have." Nan's voice caught on a sob, and she turned away that we might not see her eyes. "I've asked Pat. I begged and begged and begged, but it wasn't any good."

"Oh, I don't mean him." Jimmy's voice was disparaging. "He don't count. I mean Campbell."

But Mr Campbell would not listen to Nan, when she made one more fight for the life of her pet. He grunted and smoked and said nothing at all, which was more ominous than many words. Pat, too, declared he was helpless.

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"I'm nothing but a cipher here, Nan," he said. "Campbell takes no more notice of me than he did when I was ten. And when a dog once takes to sheep-killing he's done for. I have forgotten most of my country training, but I remember that." He looked at Nan, almost shyly, and his voice softened. "Anyway, dear," he added, and I liked the way he spoke, "you've got a brother now. Perhaps I can take Tiny Pat's place. At least we have one thing in common—our name. Though he is Tiny Pat," he finished, smiling.

He held out his hand to her, but Nan turned away.

"I'd sooner have Tiny Pat," she said. "He's got sense."

"And I haven't. I'm sorry, Nan, but we will have to leave Tiny Pat to fate—and Mr Campbell."

I think if he had understood a little better he would not have dismissed the matter so lightly. Tiny Pat was only a dog—and not a very attractive animal at that—but he was the only companion Nan had known for years. And even if Tiny Pat's tail were long his eyes were brown and faithful, and, as Pipi said, his real self looked out of his eyes, not out of his tail.

Mrs Campbell was sorry for Nan; I could see that. She cooked what Pipi called "a very comfortin' tea," but only Pipi did justice to the omelet, the hot scones, and the cakes. Soon Nan page 190slipped outside, and sat in a hunched-up little heap on the green. I lay on the ground beside her. Pipi, her face very solemn, had gone off with Mr Somerset.

"We're just goin' up the hill, darlin'," she said to Nan. She spoke soothingly, and acted as if a funeral of near and dear relatives, on a somewhat extensive scale, was soon to take place. "We'll be back before dark."

They went up the hillside together, Pipi trotting along beside Nan's brother. Nan watched them out of sight, then arose.

"Where are you going?" I asked, running along beside her, though I knew without being told. We were bound for Tiny Pat's hiding-place.

We went over the stretch of green, and then, skirting the ngaio-trees, down the hill till we dropped into the gully at the side of the house. Here Mrs Campbell reared the turkeys which were the pride of her heart. To my surprise one of the coops—a large one—jumped up, and came to meet us, wagging its tail. It had a tail sticking out between two boards at the back.

"I've hidden Tiny Pat," said Nan. "They shan't find him. He came home this afternoon, and no one saw him 'cept me."

"But you can't leave him here," I urged, while the chicken-coop squatted on the ground and wagged its tail engagingly. "Fowl-houses page 191don't go walking round by themselves, and if Mrs Campbell sees that thing coming in at the kitchen door she'll wonder."

Nan looked worried.

"I only want to hide him till to-morrow. He'll be all right after that. To-morrow," she said, looking at me, "I'm going to take him up the mountains to David Mackay."

"To the valley," I cried. "Nan, I'll come with you."

I was thinking of Tiny Pat. Really I was. I wanted to save him, but I wanted to see the valley too. It was such a wonderful valley. I thought of the flowers which grew there, of the rocks of pure gold, of the little stream which went singing through the green grass. I thought of the birds, of the deer which stole down from the mountain heights. Nothing which hurt or harmed ever entered David's valley.

"We could shut him up in the wardrobe in our room," I suggested, looking at Tiny Pat, and measuring him with my eye. "I think he'd fit in."

Tiny Pat wagged his tail.

"It's getting dark," Nan agreed. "If only he'll come quietly. Sssssh! Oh, do be quiet, Tiny Pat."

As if sobered by a realization of his danger, Tiny Pat came willingly. We pushed him into the roomy old cupboard, and shut the door.

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"If only he doesn't wag his tail against the sides, and make a noise," Nan said. "He'll be all right if he doesn't wag his tail. It doesn't fit in anywhere—it sticks out so," she added, despairingly.

That night we made our preparations for the journey, and I felt like an explorer getting ready to slip off into the wilds—like Livingstone, or Captain Scott, or Mr Corfan. But Livingstone, Captain Scott, and Mr Corfan did not have to slip into bed half-dressed the night before they set out, and they were not haunted by the fear of discovery. Any moment Tiny Pat might wake, and, finding himself shut up, rouse the house with a howl for help.

"If only he keeps quiet," Nan sighed.

She slipped into bed, and cuddled down without another word, but at first I could not sleep. In one corner of the room lay the swag we had packed; in the wardrobe Tiny Pat snored alarmingly; and Pipi slept peacefully in the room adjoining ours. We had not told her of our plans; she would have insisted upon being a member of the party, and Pipi is only ten. It would be a long journey, and a hard one, Nan said.

I lay for a long time looking out of the window over the stretch of hillside all silvered by the moonlight. One little star, hanging over the dark page 193crest of Little Ararat, peeped right into our room, as if interested; occasionally the bark of a dog, or the bleat of a sheep, broke the silence. In the quietness a doubt crept into my mind, but I silenced it. Mother would want Tiny Pat to be saved.

At last I closed my eyes,. and almost before my lashes touched my cheeks I fell asleep. Then it was morning, and Nan was shaking me gently.

"Ngaire! Ngaire! Get up! It's four o'clock."

Morning, and we were off to the wonderful valley. Morning, and we were to ride up the river, and over the hill, in the beauty of a summer's day. We stole over the grass, and caught the horses—Nan's big black beast, and one, who rejoiced in the name of Joey, for me. Then we manæuvred Tiny Pat from his hiding-place, and as quietly as we could made our way out of the house and up the river-bed.

I do not think I shall ever enjoy anything quite as much as I enjoyed that first day on the hillside. I knew that Uncle John would be furious, and Uncle Stephen sorry, but I did not [gap — reason: damage]re. There was a glorious sense of adventure about it all. We were setting out by ourselves into the wild and unknown, just as David Mackay and all explorers set out. We wanted to cover the first part of the journey as quickly as possible, page 194and by nine o'clock had ridden far up the river-bed.

"We cross somewhere here," Nan said, drawing up, and pointing to the right. "Do you remember he said, 'Over the McMillan Pass, and down the Little River till it cuts into the hills'? This is the McMillan Pass."

We crossed the river without difficulty, since the water was low, and made our way over the hillside. The country was growing wilder and grander now; we were pressing right into the heart of the mountains. Soon we came upon a little river, which cut its way through the hills, and ran fiercely down a bushy valley. This was evidently David's Little River. Higher up we should find the Fairy Veil.

"Then we go over the hills, through the bush," Nan said. "We're on the right track. We'll be at the valley to-morrow. Be careful, Ngaire. It's rough going."

The valley was wild and jagged, the bush sloping right to the water's edge. We made our way slowly through the water, and had not gone very far when we came suddenly upon the Fairy Veil. It was a fairy veil. It came leaping down the hillside in a broken shower, and fell into a rocky, fern-enclosed basin at the bottom. We camped there, in the greenness, and ate our tea to the sound of splashing water. The river-bed had page 195narrowed to a fierce stream, and we could see it would soon be impossible to penetrate farther. We should have to do the rest of the journey on foot.

"But I'm sure we're right. We've come across the McMillan Pass, and up the Little River. He said we were to cross the hills now, and then down till we found the creek."

"It's getting late, but I believe we could get over the hill to-night," I suggested. "I can see the top. It isn't so very high."

"But there's another behind it, and then another, and another," Nan said. "We'll turn the horses loose now. They'll find their way home."

Soon after, we set off again, forcing our way through the bush. The lawyers tore our hands and our feet, and we slipped on the loose earth. Fortunately, the undergrowth was not very dense, otherwise I think we should still be scrambling there. It was late when we realized that we were at last going down hill. The bush was not so thick, and we could see that we had come out on what appeared to be a plain. There was wood about, so we made a fire, and curled up before it, glad of the warmth.

It was very, very quiet. You could almost feel the stillness about us. Our fire glowed red in the darkness, and Nan and I crept close to the blaze, as Jock, Pipi, and I had done, weeks ago, page 196when we camped by the river-bed. But this was real camping, and real adventures, not just make-believe ones. It was exciting and strange, but I was glad I had come. And there was comfort in Tiny Pat's proportions. I was glad his name had had to be lengthened to keep pace with his growth.

We cooked potatoes in the fire, just as we had cooked them at Kamahi, and this time I enjoyed them. Already our stock of provisions was running low. If we did not find the valley next day we should have to retrace our steps. I could easily have found room for more potatoes, and five extra pieces of cinder-dusted, half-baked damper. Why, I could have eaten sago!

Next morning we were hungrier still. I felt so light and airy that I wonder I didn't blow away. I thought of the breakfast at Kamahi; somehow I could think of nothing else. At this very moment Rob and Jan and Jock would be gorging —fried ham and eggs—crisp, crackly ham and puffy eggs—tomatoes, perhaps, toast and scones and marmalade. Fruit if they wanted it!

Mrs McPherson makes rolls, too. Beauties. We eat them hot with raspberry jam. They're scrummy.

Rather silently we arose, and set off once more on our journey. It seemed colder now, and the hill-tops were hidden by a heavy mist. But we page 197were not far from the valley. Soon we would find David Mackay.

"And he'll give us breakfast. I wonder what he has for breakfast?" Nan said.

We did not see it coming; we did not know it was near. Like a living thing it swept down from the hillside, wrapping us round. Perhaps the spirits of the mist laughed as they gathered us in, folding their mantles round us, blinding us with their greyness. Suddenly I felt afraid. Suppose we never found the valley. Suppose we just wandered on, stumbling, picking ourselves up, choked and frozen, on and on for ever and ever, world without end, amen. I tried to be brave, though I was shivering inside.

"The mist looks like the fairies you used to tell us about, Nan," I said. "All grey and soft and fleecy, like the robes they wear. You remember how you said they came stealing down the mountain-side, so softly that no one saw them till they were there."

Nan looked at me. The stories she had heard from Bridget and the shepherd were troubling her now.

"Old Timothy told me they were the children of the mountains," she answered. "He said the mountains always know their own. You might wander away, but you always returned, and the mountains claimed you in the end."

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We wandered on through the dense greyness. The cloaks of the mountain mists were cold as they brushed us, and we shivered. Strange shapes loomed up before us, resolving themselves into bush and tree, and low-growing shrub. Once I stumbled against an animal which seemed a cross between a lion and an elephant, and gasped with relief when the monster wagged a tail like a length of garden hose, and I realized that it was only Tiny Pat. He licked my hand, and his tongue felt warm and comforting.

"Do you think we're nearly there?" I asked. "The valley must be somewhere about here. We've been walking for ages and ages."

"I don't know." Nan's voice sounded choked and queer. "It can't be very far."

"David will be glad to see us," I said, trying to feign a courage I did not feel. "I think— I think——" and then my voice trailed off. I was feeling very tired, too; even talking was an effort. Nan did not speak again, either, and then I heard her crying softly. Nan realized better than I did how little hope there really was for us, and she had been very brave.

I do not like to think of the hours that followed. We were sick with hunger and fatigue, hardly conscious of what we were doing, or where we were. It seemed to me that we had to go on for ever and ever, that there was no beginning and no page 199end to our wanderings. All the time the memory of something Nan had told us the first time she met us haunted me. I was on the river-bed again, sitting in the sunlight, listening to her.

"There was once a little boy … a little boy … and he wandered out on the mountains alone … and the mist came down … the mist came down…."

We must go home; we must go home at once.

Our path wound upward now, and the mist was lifting at last. A little stream went rushing, like a gleam, over the stones; a solitary cabbage-tree stood, grimly sentinel, near by. It was here Nan fell; she put out her hands, and then, without a word, slipped to the ground. I sat down beside her, too tired to feel, too tired to care. Somehow my thoughts went wandering. I was at home, setting out for school with Jan in the morning; I was at Kinloch, sitting in the red glow of the fire, listening to David Mackay; I was at Kamahi, watching the river rush past in a sullen yellow flood.

When I opened my eyes the sun was shining in a watery way through the mist. Nan lay under a cabbage-tree, her head resting on her hands. She looked at me, and her eyes were very bright.

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"We shan't never reach the valley now, Ngaire," she said. "We can't find the way back.

It's too late now. There was once a little boy——"

So she remembered too.

Suddenly she smiled.

"Do you remember the day Jan cut my hair?" she asked, and though I tried to smile back at her my heart sank. All at once I knew that Nan was slipping away from me, that she was going out alone into the silence and the greyness around. Timothy was right—the mountains had claimed their own, the little maid who had come back to them. They would never let her go.

She lay so quietly now. "He was lying under a cabbage-tree … his head resting on his hands … they thought he was asleep."

The mountains held nothing of peace, only a great menace. I wanted Father, Mother, the uncles——

Oh, Mother! Mother! Mother!

When I opened my eyes the sun was sinking. The mist had lifted a little, and the sun shone through it, turning its fine greyness to powdered gold. It lay heaped in splendour on the hillside; here and there a rock, a tree, the outline of some low-growing shrub showed dimly, caught in a mesh of gold. Near by sounded the murmur of a little stream; the twittering of hundreds of birds broke the stillness.

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Then suddenly the sun shone right out, cutting a path through the mist. And as I looked on the glory of it, and heard the murmur of the water, and the song of the birds, I knew that I had reached the valley at last.