Stepping Up

‘Be quicker underneath them,’ Ben said. ‘Shingle looks pretty solid there. Easier to walk on.’

They stood side by side, staring across the fifty . . . sixty metres of gravel and boulders that angled down­wards in front of them. On the far side of the slope, bush rose, tall and green and sheltering. They both huddled inside their parkas as another gust of wind moaned past.

When Pangonui last erupted nearly a thousand years ago, lava had come pouring down these slopes. Rocks the size of trucks had been flung from the crater; crashing and bounding downwards. Some had hurtled for hundreds of metres. Others remained sunk in the big black mountain’s shingly flanks, like the one Ben could see ahead of them.

Centuries of rain and frost had broken rocks down into the pebbles that covered the slopes. These pebbles were always moving, rolling, trickling across the track that Ben and his father were tramping now. Moving across these shingle slopes was a pain: slipping, sliding, with stones getting inside shoes. The less time you had to spend on them, the better.

The wind moaned again. Ben tucked his chin deeper into his parka collar. ‘Let’s get moving, Dad. It’s freezing here.’

Mr Coles kept standing, eyes scanning ahead. Ben sighed. ‘It’s freezing!’ he went again.

‘Follow where I go,’ his father replied. ‘Try to use my footmarks. It’ll be firmer.’

The man moved off, working across the slope, stamping his feet into the crumbly pebbles. Ben followed, using his dad’s footprints — yeah, it did make things easier — muttering to himself when Mr Coles paused to check the next few metres. The wind whined once more; seemed to slice straight through his parka. Couldn’t his father go any faster? This was snail speed.

He took an impatient stride forward. His foot missed the hollow his dad had stamped and sank into the shingle.

Next minute, his sneaker was full of pebbles. He muttered to himself again, shook his foot, tried to hook out the loose stuff. A couple of bits stayed wedged under his sock. He shook his foot harder, but they wouldn’t shift.

The pile of boulders was closer now. Maybe his father was moving at fit snail speed? Then Ben groaned as he saw his dad beginning to edge upwards on the slope, so that they would pass above the jumble of big rocks. That would take forever! And look: the ground right underneath the boulders was firm and almost level.

‘Hey, Dad!’ he called. ‘It’ll be much easier below the boulders. Quicker, too.’

His father paused, gazed at the jumble of grey- black slabs, shook his head. ‘We don’t know how stable that stuff is. We’re taking the safe route, OK?’

Ben huffed, and didn’t care if his dad heard. Those boulders looked like they hadn’t shifted in the thousand years they’d lain there. Their great shapes, big as cars, big as buses, even, lay half- buried in the shingle. No way were they going to move just because somebody was walking underneath them.

The wind whined once more. Dust lifted from the shingle and blew against Ben’s face, making him screw up his eyes. Five metres ahead, his father was labouring upwards. Ben glanced at him, glanced at the hard stretch of ground below the cram of huge stones. Next minute, he was turning away from his dad’s stamped footmarks, angling downwards to pass beneath the boulders, instead of above.

A dozen scrambling, half- sliding steps, and he was nearly level with his father, who still struggled slowly upwards on the slope above. Mr Coles must have glimpsed him; his head jerked around, and he stared. ‘What are you —?’

‘It’s all right!’ Ben called. ‘It’s safe — and faster!’ The man started to say something, but another gust of wind drowned him out.

Ten more sliding, crunching paces. Ben was almost down to the boulders now. Man, some of them were huge: as big as double- decker buses, nearly. Smaller ones, the size of fridges or microwaves, lay jammed among them.

The strip of ground under the pile was hard and almost level, just like he’d thought. There was hardly any loose shingle, either. He’d be past and heading for the shelter of the trees before his father had even got round the top of the pile.

He half- stepped, half- slid the last couple of metres, and grabbed the nearest boulder. It was chill and grey, pitted with holes where the volcano’s gases must have burst out, way back. He smacked it with his palm. Solid as . . . as a rock. Nothing would ever make this shift.

He was even protected from the wind down here. He grinned; stopped for a second to gaze down the flank of the maunga, where it plunged towards the plains below.

Pity Manu couldn’t see this. His best mate might be better at soccer than Ben (and at Maths and Science in their Year 10 class), but Ben was The Mountain Man (and better at English and Social Studies).

He took a last look down the steep, grey- black slope. Then he moved on, easily and steadily along the almost level ground beneath the bulking grey stones.

Twenty metres, and he’d nearly reached the end. The hard ground changed to shingle again; he gripped the boulder he was passing under, so he didn’t slide down and get another lot of annoying stones inside his sneakers.

One more boulder to get around. Two, actually, with a gap dividing them, table- sized chunks of rock jammed between. The ground had fallen away beneath these two; he’d have to hold on to them, and swing himself past. No problem: he’d still be miles ahead of his father.

Ben stretched for the corner of the far slab. It was just out of reach. He grunted; grasped one of the rocks jammed into the gap, began hauling himself forward. One swing, and he’d be —

The rock he was gripping made a graunching noise and shifted. He heard the grinding of stone on stone. He lurched, losing his balance, still clinging to the pitted black surface.

Another scraping and graunching. A shape the size of a refrigerator seemed to rise up on end above him, darkening the sky. Ben tried to throw himself forward, but his left foot skidded in the shingle. He fell sideways, leg doubled up beneath him. Next second, something slammed into his body, driving every bit of breath from him, smashing him face downwards onto the stony ground.