Free After the Fall by Charity Norman Page A

limestone cliffs.
    ‘Oh my God,’ gasped Sacha. ‘We’re all going to die.’
    I pictured our car slipping, sliding backwards down that rocky precipice. I could hear the screaming of the twins as we plunged into the cold water. Sweating now, I changed into first gear, revving the accelerator and letting out the clutch with a shaking foot.
    ‘Christ,’ breathed Kit beside me. It was a prayer rather than an oath. I’m fairly sure he crossed himself. He’s never a better Catholic than in times of peril. Useful trick, that: instant faith at the touch of a button, but no nagging guilt when life is going well.
    ‘I want a four-wheel drive,’ I whimpered. ‘Right now .’
    Abruptly, the ground levelled out and looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth. The drive—suddenly pretending to be regal and gracious— widened into an open space under the shade of a wise old tree before disappearing into the canopy of native bush on the far side. The house was waiting patiently, watching us from under heavy lids. I had an impression of cream weatherboard, of wide verandahs and magnolias. It reminded me, immediately and irrevocably, of Kit’s Great-Aunt Sibella.
    ‘I recognise this place!’ I cried happily, craning my neck for a better look. I’d seen it from my magic carpet as I floated in the dark. Perhaps, without realising it, I’d been looking for this very house ever since we came to Hawke’s Bay. Arriving was like sinking into one of those really comfortable sofas you can’t get out of gracefully.
    We passed a couple of sheds and pulled up next to Allan under that gnarled grandfather of a tree. It was a walnut, I later discovered, and it had seen a bit of life. Jubilant to be free, the boys leaped out and began to swing like gibbons on tyres that hung from the ancient boughs.
    ‘Look at that,’ said Kit, staring past the house and across an overgrown lawn to where the ground dropped sharply away. He reached for my hand. ‘Martha, will you look at that.’
    The house stood at the head of a valley which flowed down to the glimmering haze of the Pacific. One peak after another billowed away from us, sheep-grazed and bare. Inland, forest swayed and jostled to the edge of the drive.
    ‘Patupaiarehe Station,’ announced Allan.
    Kit blinked. ‘Who?’
    Allan said it again, more slowly. ‘Patu. Pay-a-ree-hee.’ He stressed the ree . ‘Probably pronouncing it wrong. That’s the name of this farm. It was a massive station originally but it got cut up into smaller blocks. Some of it’s in forestry now, and there’s a native bush reserve. You’re looking at the original homestead. It’s a Maori name, obviously.’
    We practised the word. It sounded mystical and melodic.
    ‘I know there’s a legend involved; blowed if I can remember the details.’ Allan slapped himself on the back of the hand. ‘Must do my homework next time.’
    ‘It’s so quiet ,’ whispered Sacha, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. We all listened. It was like no silence I’d heard before. There was, quite literally, not a man-made sound to be heard. None.
    Then a haunting little melody drifted out of the cathedral gloom of the bush. A pipe, you’d swear it. Answering music burbled from the branches above our heads, ending in a whistle, playful and mischievous. Leaves rustled.
    ‘Tui.’ Allan began fishing in a plant pot, pulling out keys. ‘There’s fantails, bellbirds, kereru—that’s our native wood pigeon. Morepork, which is a kind of owl. You’ll get them all up here. When your dog arrives, do keep it under control; they’re trying to introduce kiwis not far away.’
    ‘Muffin’s too old to chase anything,’ said Sacha. ‘She just sleeps.’
    ‘Best kind of dog. This opens into the kitchen.’ Allan unlocked a wood-and-glass door. ‘The front of the house faces northeast down the valley. Comes with eight hectares: pasture and a block of native bush.’
    ‘What’s that in English?’ asked