down the slope. ‘All right. We go down in traverses – that way first. This is a good slope for practising stem turns.’
Miller said, ‘It looks good.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said McGill sharply. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Charlie turned his head. ‘And why not, for Christ’s sake?’
‘It could be dangerous.’
‘Crossing the road can be dangerous,’ he said contemptuously. He jerked his head at Miller. ‘Let’s go.’
Miller pulled down his goggles. ‘Sure.’
‘Hold on,’ said Newman. He looked down at the penetrometer. ‘Maybe the guy’s got something there.’
‘The hell with him,’ said Charlie, and pushed off. Miller followed without another word. Newman looked at Ballard for a moment, then shrugged expressively before he followed them.
McGill and Ballard watched them go down. Charlie, in the lead, skied showily with a lot of unnecessary flair; Miller was sloppy and Newman neat and economical in his movements. They watched them all the way to the bottom.
Nothing happened.
‘Who’s the jerk?’ McGill asked.
‘Charlie Peterson. He’s set up as a ski instructor.’
‘He seems to know you.’ McGill glanced sideways. ‘And your family.’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard expressionlessly.
‘I keep forgetting you were brought up here.’ McGill scratched his cheek reflectively. ‘You know, you could be useful. I want to find someone in the valley who has lived here a long time, whose family has lived here a long time. I need information.’
Ballard thought for a moment and then smiled and pointed with his ski-stick. ‘See that rock down there? That’s Kamakamaru, and a man called Turi Buck lives in a house just on the other side. I should have seen him before now but I’ve been too bloody busy.’
McGill hung his backpack on a convenient post outside Turi Buck’s house. ‘Better not take that inside. The ice would melt.’
Ballard knocked on the door which was opened by a girl of about fourteen, a Maori girl with a cheerful smile. ‘I’m looking for Turi Buck.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she said and disappeared, and he heard her voice raised. ‘Grandpa, there’s someone to see you.’
Presently Turi appeared. Ballard was a little shocked at what he saw; Turi’s hair was a frizzled grey and his face was seamed and lined like a water-eroded hillside. There was no recognition in his brown eyes as he said, ‘Anything I can do for you?’
‘Not a great deal, Turi,’ said Ballard. ‘Don’t you remember me?’
Turi stepped forward, coming out of the doorway and into the light. He frowned and said uncertainly, ‘I don’t …, my eyesight’s not as good as … Ian?’
‘Your eyesight is not so bad,’ said Ballard.
‘Ian!’ said Turi in delight. ‘I heard you were back – you should have come to see me sooner. I thought you had forgotten.’
‘Work, Turi; the work comes first – you taught me that. This is my friend, Mike McGill.’
Turi beamed at them. ‘Well, come in; come in.’
He led them into the house and into a room familiar to Ballard. Over the great fieldstone fireplace was the wapiti head with its great spread of antlers, and a wood fire burned beneath it. On the walls were the wood carvings inlaid with paua shell shimmering iridescently. The greenstone mere – the Maori war axe – was still there and, in pride of place, Turi’s whakapapa stick, his most prized possession, very intricately carved and which gave his ancestry.
Ballard looked around. ‘Nothing has changed.’
‘Not here,’ said Turi.
Ballard nodded towards the window. ‘A lot of change out there, though, I didn’t recognize the valley.’
Turi sighed. ‘Too much change – too quickly. But where have you been, Ian?’
‘A lot of places. All over the world.’
‘Sit down,’ said Turi. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Tell me about yourself first. Did that beautiful young lady call you “Grandpa”?’
‘I am a grandfather five times now.’ Turi’s shoulders shook. ‘My sons are men and all married. Both my daughters are mothers.’
‘Tawhaki,’ said Ballard. ‘How is Tawhaki?’ He had been Ballard’s playmate as a child and a constant companion as he grew older.
‘He does well,’ said Turi. ‘He went to the University of Otago and took a good degree.’
‘In what?’
Turi laughed. ‘In economics. Imagine a Maori knowing about economics. He has a post in the Department of Finance in Auckland. I don’t see him often.’
‘You must give me his address. I’ll look him up when next I’m in Auckland.’ Ballard saw Turi regarding McGill with interest. ‘Mike, here, is very interested in snow. He’s so interested he’s going to Antarctica later in the year.’
Turi’s seamed face broke into a grim smile. ‘Then there’s something for you here, Mike. We have a lot of snow; more than I can remember since 1943.’
‘So I’ve seen.’
Ballard went to the window. On the other side of the valley the cedar branches drooped heavily under the weight of snow. He turned, and said, ‘What happened to the trees on the west slope, Turi?’
‘Above the mine?’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard. ‘That slope has been stripped.’
McGill became alert. ‘The slope used to be timbered?’
Turi nodded and then shrugged. ‘When they put in the mine they wanted props. Kahikatea make good mine props.’ He looked up. ‘The Petersons own that land; they made a good profit.’
‘I bet they did,’ said Ballard.
‘Your mother shouldn’t have sold it to them.’ Turi clasped his hands. ‘Then they blasted out the stumps and put the land down to grass for hay. They run cattle on the river flats; Herefords for beef and a few dairy cows. That’s also become profitable now the town has grown.’
Ballard said, ‘Didn’t anybody think of what would happen when the snow came?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Turi. ‘I did.’
‘Didn’t you say anything? Didn’t you object when they put up the mine building?
