THE WRONG ROAD

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXX, Issue 21562, 5 August 1933, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE WRONG ROAD

A NEW EARTH

BY K. M. KNIGHT

It was all Horace's fault. He woke us too early. He set his alarm clock off at 3.) 10 a.m., and' the clock —a kerosene tin —came rattling down the stairs like one of tho'se dreadful nightmares when bells clang horribly and buildings fall in ruins through immense space. W 7 o woke unwisely and not too well, clambered into the car, and what with the mist from the sea, tho shining of the stars —sometimes in the sky and sometimes in the sea —we, like sheep, went astray. And once again, wo all agreed that it was Horace's fault.

Ho was back-seat driving, and when we came to a road that "turned at right angles sharply to tho right," wo went over it. We left tho smooth red road with all the yellow signs on, and decided to follow our sense of direction, over a bumpy, lumpy metal road that looked very suspicious. The Girl was 'sure it was tho wrong roadright from tho start But she also said that it paid to givo men their own way; that it was the only sure method of getting what you wanted. It was 4 a.m.. and almost midwinter. The starlight was cold and bleak; the sea was cold and bleak; the road was cold and dark. It wound round and round the cliffs, with mangroves growing right to the edge of tho metal. Sometimes it seemed almost as if the will-o'-the-wisps that dwelt there had a special fancy for our car for their new home, for the wheels went so very near to the edge. So that magic hour before dawn, when the earth is moro like a star than a world we know, was a trifle marred. The 1 mist got where our breakfast should have been, and chilled our bones, but Horace wanted to make a record drive of it, so we pulled the rugs a little tighter round us, and hummed a little song. And the road got a jittle narrower, a little stonier, and a little bumpier with every precious gallon that chugged through the exhaust. We had climbed about a thousand feet when we met Father Timo. Ho was driving a buggy and a thin horse. " Aren't you afraid the birds will build nests in your beard?" Horace, tho cheerful, greeted him. "Eh?"

Horace repeated the question, which sounded worse the second time than the first. " And tell us," he said, "if we are on the right road." The old Maori looked as if he felt as we did —that nothing was real under tho sun. He looked our smart little roadster over from end to end. Two hundred and fifty miles from civilisation at 4.30 in the morning, ho seemed to be saying to himself. Right rond? " Oh, yeah. You on the right road," ho grinned. " You go on till you stop." The Blind and Deaf Light %as coming in tho east. Looking back, we saw five fingers of mist stretched over the valleys, and a white wrist that was the sea. Beside it, we knew, was our little camp that had sheltered ns for three lovely days and nights. Ono does not think of these things; of going back homo again, of davs that will never return, of suns that have set; of all the little dishes waiting for the fresh fish to be fried over tho open fire, and eaten with a relish. Thoy must be put aside, or they cause tho footsteps to lag, and the eyes to be a little blind. Ono looks ahead, to tho hills that are meeting the east, sharply outlined against a brand-new dawning. Or looks to the sad winter's earth that lies on each side of the road, hugging it in desperation. " The road looks a bit wuss," one of the boys muttered. " Horaco, are you quite sure it was the right turning?" "It is tho , wrong road," the Girl said again. " Women should be seen and not heard," Horace retorted. But the Girl was not listening. She was hearing the calves calling, and the rattling of buckets, and tho chugging milkingmachines. She was watching the little lights going backwards and forwards from house to cow-yard, as mother went to see if baby was still asleep, and if the fire was burning and the breakfast not spoiling. And she thought, " Dear heaven, these people see the dawn come every day, and they see it not." And there rushed over her the terrible desire that she could never make anyone understand —to bring beauty to these people who wero without it, and whose lives were as bare and ugly as a winter earth. The New Earth

And as she looked, she thought that the summer had come to the land, and it lay heavy with harvest. The hills were golden under their weight of corn, and tiie sun beat down in all his glory. ! The scent of it drifted to her in great clouds of warmth, and she breathed deeply. There was a sound of bees, birds sang, and the sky was blue with white clouds \sailing high. The little camp" was with her, too. Nothing was lost to this new earth —the things that had been, the things that were to come; they were all with Ker, pressing about her, claiming her as their own. She felt magnified by their presence; big enough to take into her heart every silent and sorrowful creature; every small farm with its burden of poverty, every man, woman and child who had ears and he.trd not, eyes and saw not. The road was no longer cold and damp. It was dusty under the tyres, and blackberries ripening in the grass were sweet as honey. Bush scents were there, and bush voices. It was early morning and the tuis were awake; it was mid-day, and the larks sang; it was evening, and the thrushes poured all their rich joy over the land. Nothing is ever lost, she was thinking. It is all here, hidden in the heart of life. Every summer day that has ever shone 011 happy hearts; every starry night, every more-pork's voice through the stillness —nothing is lost or forgotten. And then the car pulled up suddenly. The Retreat It was Horace's voice that brought her to earth again. " Well, we've gone on till we stopped,'" he was saying. !' lather Time was right." The narrow road had ended—in a crcck. Beyond were hills, and not a road nor even a track traced its way across them. " Of all the . . Horace began. " Wait till I catch that old man. I'll swing on his beard." " Oh, but we're quite sure it s the right away," the Girl said. " It says so in the guide book.- Guido books are never wrong, oven when ono wants to try a short cut, and it is too dark to see, and there arc no sign posts." " You shut up," Horace warned her. " If you say ' I told you so,' you can Walk'home. And it's exactly two hundred and sixty-five miles to Auckland." So the Girl said nothing, and we retraced our hills and valleys, round every weary bend. Father Time was at tiie top of a hill when wo met him again, and Horace called to him: " Hi, you bearded old ghost—how long have you been in j'our tomb? Why didn't you tell us it was the wrong road?" ; , Ho pulled up the thin horse; the wheels rattled. "Eh?" he said. "Wrong road? How I know where you want to go?" And perhaps the old chap was wise. Who can presume to say when another pian's on the wrong road?