Sharing a Work in Progress
I want to give you a sneak preview of the opening of my next novel, as yet unpublished. The draft title is “Green Machinations”.
The novel is a sequel to “Green Expectations” (2013) and is set in the late 1990s. An environmental thriller, it dramatises the fate of a fictitious tract of privately-owned indigenous forest in New Zealand’s Horowhenua. The forest, while much-loved by some of the characters, is seen by others as a sustainable logging resource.
Comments would be welcome on this extract from the draft opening chapter:
Chapter 1
Mike Simmiss did not know what obstacles he would have to overcome when he turned his car off the highway and headed up towards the hills on a country road in the Horowhenua. He was just determined to achieve his objective.
The narrow road started climbing, the surface turning from asphalt to gravel just before the car headlights picked up road-making machinery on the verge. Expecting road-works ahead, he braked to a lower speed.
At the next bend he found, as expected, that contractors had begun widening the tight corners to enable logging trucks to operate. The works continued almost half way up the gorge. Driving became easier beyond that point, though the route that led to Maungakaramea Farm was still tortuous for a distance.
A short time later the road straightened out onto a plateau and he increased speed towards the farm homestead. Lit or not, he could not see it yet because of intervening shelter-belts of trees. He would have to keep following the road past it unless he walked across the intervening paddocks instead. He did not, however, want to face a climb over numerous fences in the dark, even though there might be a Jackson-Halberd night watchman at the homestead.
The Mathews family had moved out weeks ago and the company would be certain to be using it as a base for its forestry operations, though Mike had no idea how far the planting of exotic Pinus radiata had progressed on the abandoned farm land.
He passed the small paddock where the Save Our Forests Association had held its last annual summer camp then slowed the car to a crawl, looking for a copse of native trees that ran down into a narrow gully beside the road. He stopped when he came to the spot, got out, and used a torch to inspect the road verge. He found a place where he could drive behind some bushes that were covered in frost. The foliage would not totally conceal the car but make it less obvious.
Afterwards, he turned off the motor then the lights and, repressing his emotions, gathered up the urn from the passenger seat. He locked the doors then stuffed the car key into a pocket of his fleecy-lined jacket. He was glad he had worn woolen gloves, though it made the urn harder to hold. He tucked it under his arm.
The night was starlit as he headed up the road on foot. He could not help recalling how he had followed the same route hand in hand with Justine Mathews on the second night of the SOFA camp. But he did not want to feel or think. He preferred mental numbness to block the pain in his heart.
The homestead came into view. A light glowed at the front door but all the windows were dark. There were no vehicles outside, though there might have been round the back. In case a night watchman was in residence, or a guard dog patrolling the grounds, Mike took the precaution of turning off his torch and walking on the road verge rather than the gravel, keeping his eye on the buildings on his right. They remained quiet.
In the rough grass on the roadside, in the dark, his footing was less sure and he stumbled a few times. He had to concentrate hard on keeping the urn safely gripped and on not falling on his face. When he thought he was safe from detection, he stepped back onto the road, turned his torch on again then, after a few paces, stopped and listened for any sound behind him.
Stock had been taken off the farm and the night was totally silent – eerie after the city noise he was more accustomed to. He shivered then continued walking.
Seeing the homestead again brought back memory of the night he and Justine had disturbed an unknown intruder in Bridget Mathews’ veranda bedroom and saved her from being raped. Mike’s attempted heroics had resulted in a permanent scar on his shoulder. The knife-wielding intruder had gotten away and no arrest had been made.
The slope of the roadway gradually steepened and he came to a gate that had not previously been padlocked. There was a sign on it now. In one corner, the logo of Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd stood out in the torch beam. The sign read KEEP OUT Trespassers will be prosecuted.
It was the first indication of their intention of blocking public access to Mathews Bush and the summit of Maungakaramea. Mike had, however, expected they would, sooner or later. It was a public road but the local authority had probably colluded with the company in allowing the gate across it to be locked.
Those forestry bastards have truly taken possession of the property, he thought as he mounted the obstacle.
The roadway petered out after a short distance, turning into a less well formed farm vehicle track. Knowing it led first to a grassed ridge crest (now obscured in the dark) and then to the forest on the other side, he assumed for a moment that a logging road would have to be built in its place. Then he recalled provision in the forestry management plan (leaked to SOFA) for short-haul helicopters to be used. Avoiding earth movement in the bush had been an environmental protection measure. Mike thought it likely it was also intended to save the company the cost of new roading on steep terrain
When he reached the foot of the farm track on the far side of the ridge, and paused on the bank of the stream that ran beside the bush, his eyes blurred with tears for a moment. He had camped alone at the spot just before the Mathews family moved out. Justine had brought him the tragic news about Vanessa.
It was also the place where he had vowed to continue the fight that she had sacrificed her life for.
Mist shrouded the canopy of native trees above Mike’s head but it was daylight by the time he was half way to the summit of Maungakaramea. It was still too early for forestry workers to be on the mountain so he anticipated no interference.
He kept plodding up the familiar walking trail, glad it was no longer dark. If it had not been for what was in the urn under his arm he would have enjoyed being outdoors and in the bush again. In a way, Vanessa’s fate was cruelly ironic. She had committed suicide by fire and a crematorium had completed the process of destroying her body. He was carrying all that remained.
Awhile later, he reached the upper bush edge and, out of respect for Vanessa’s memory, followed the example she had always shown and took off his boots and socks. Even though winter snows had not yet accumulated on the peak, the temperature on his bare skin felt below zero as he stepped out of the stunted trees into an open area of low native shrubs and grasses. Buffeted by wind, a thick mist swirling around him and obscuring any outlook, he felt as if he was in the clouds.
He would have liked to climb to the rocky point that marked the summit but he decided the risk of hypothermia was too high. Besides, Vanessa had always enjoyed being in the herb field.
Only his partner, Justine, knew of his intention. He had considered inviting the other members of SOFA’s National Executive Committee but decided it was something he wanted to do alone.
Turning his back to the wind, he opened the urn, inclined it forward, and tossed Vanessa’s ashes into the air. They scattered and disappeared. He tried to feel no emotion, just relief at finishing his mission.
He moved back into the shelter of the native trees and stood for a moment looking out onto the mountaintop. Celebration of Vanessa’s final union with Mother Earth – Gaia – would be more appropriate than grief, he thought, though his heart felt heavy. Vanessa had given her life for a cause they both believed in and her final remains would now rest in one of her favourite natural places.
All the same, he could not stop tears welling in his eyes. He and Vanessa had once been in a kind of relationship and he had loved her in the only way she would let him.
The novel is a sequel to “Green Expectations” (2013) and is set in the late 1990s. An environmental thriller, it dramatises the fate of a fictitious tract of privately-owned indigenous forest in New Zealand’s Horowhenua. The forest, while much-loved by some of the characters, is seen by others as a sustainable logging resource.
Comments would be welcome on this extract from the draft opening chapter:
Chapter 1
Mike Simmiss did not know what obstacles he would have to overcome when he turned his car off the highway and headed up towards the hills on a country road in the Horowhenua. He was just determined to achieve his objective.
The narrow road started climbing, the surface turning from asphalt to gravel just before the car headlights picked up road-making machinery on the verge. Expecting road-works ahead, he braked to a lower speed.
At the next bend he found, as expected, that contractors had begun widening the tight corners to enable logging trucks to operate. The works continued almost half way up the gorge. Driving became easier beyond that point, though the route that led to Maungakaramea Farm was still tortuous for a distance.
A short time later the road straightened out onto a plateau and he increased speed towards the farm homestead. Lit or not, he could not see it yet because of intervening shelter-belts of trees. He would have to keep following the road past it unless he walked across the intervening paddocks instead. He did not, however, want to face a climb over numerous fences in the dark, even though there might be a Jackson-Halberd night watchman at the homestead.
The Mathews family had moved out weeks ago and the company would be certain to be using it as a base for its forestry operations, though Mike had no idea how far the planting of exotic Pinus radiata had progressed on the abandoned farm land.
He passed the small paddock where the Save Our Forests Association had held its last annual summer camp then slowed the car to a crawl, looking for a copse of native trees that ran down into a narrow gully beside the road. He stopped when he came to the spot, got out, and used a torch to inspect the road verge. He found a place where he could drive behind some bushes that were covered in frost. The foliage would not totally conceal the car but make it less obvious.
Afterwards, he turned off the motor then the lights and, repressing his emotions, gathered up the urn from the passenger seat. He locked the doors then stuffed the car key into a pocket of his fleecy-lined jacket. He was glad he had worn woolen gloves, though it made the urn harder to hold. He tucked it under his arm.
The night was starlit as he headed up the road on foot. He could not help recalling how he had followed the same route hand in hand with Justine Mathews on the second night of the SOFA camp. But he did not want to feel or think. He preferred mental numbness to block the pain in his heart.
The homestead came into view. A light glowed at the front door but all the windows were dark. There were no vehicles outside, though there might have been round the back. In case a night watchman was in residence, or a guard dog patrolling the grounds, Mike took the precaution of turning off his torch and walking on the road verge rather than the gravel, keeping his eye on the buildings on his right. They remained quiet.
In the rough grass on the roadside, in the dark, his footing was less sure and he stumbled a few times. He had to concentrate hard on keeping the urn safely gripped and on not falling on his face. When he thought he was safe from detection, he stepped back onto the road, turned his torch on again then, after a few paces, stopped and listened for any sound behind him.
Stock had been taken off the farm and the night was totally silent – eerie after the city noise he was more accustomed to. He shivered then continued walking.
Seeing the homestead again brought back memory of the night he and Justine had disturbed an unknown intruder in Bridget Mathews’ veranda bedroom and saved her from being raped. Mike’s attempted heroics had resulted in a permanent scar on his shoulder. The knife-wielding intruder had gotten away and no arrest had been made.
The slope of the roadway gradually steepened and he came to a gate that had not previously been padlocked. There was a sign on it now. In one corner, the logo of Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd stood out in the torch beam. The sign read KEEP OUT Trespassers will be prosecuted.
It was the first indication of their intention of blocking public access to Mathews Bush and the summit of Maungakaramea. Mike had, however, expected they would, sooner or later. It was a public road but the local authority had probably colluded with the company in allowing the gate across it to be locked.
Those forestry bastards have truly taken possession of the property, he thought as he mounted the obstacle.
The roadway petered out after a short distance, turning into a less well formed farm vehicle track. Knowing it led first to a grassed ridge crest (now obscured in the dark) and then to the forest on the other side, he assumed for a moment that a logging road would have to be built in its place. Then he recalled provision in the forestry management plan (leaked to SOFA) for short-haul helicopters to be used. Avoiding earth movement in the bush had been an environmental protection measure. Mike thought it likely it was also intended to save the company the cost of new roading on steep terrain
When he reached the foot of the farm track on the far side of the ridge, and paused on the bank of the stream that ran beside the bush, his eyes blurred with tears for a moment. He had camped alone at the spot just before the Mathews family moved out. Justine had brought him the tragic news about Vanessa.
It was also the place where he had vowed to continue the fight that she had sacrificed her life for.
Mist shrouded the canopy of native trees above Mike’s head but it was daylight by the time he was half way to the summit of Maungakaramea. It was still too early for forestry workers to be on the mountain so he anticipated no interference.
He kept plodding up the familiar walking trail, glad it was no longer dark. If it had not been for what was in the urn under his arm he would have enjoyed being outdoors and in the bush again. In a way, Vanessa’s fate was cruelly ironic. She had committed suicide by fire and a crematorium had completed the process of destroying her body. He was carrying all that remained.
Awhile later, he reached the upper bush edge and, out of respect for Vanessa’s memory, followed the example she had always shown and took off his boots and socks. Even though winter snows had not yet accumulated on the peak, the temperature on his bare skin felt below zero as he stepped out of the stunted trees into an open area of low native shrubs and grasses. Buffeted by wind, a thick mist swirling around him and obscuring any outlook, he felt as if he was in the clouds.
He would have liked to climb to the rocky point that marked the summit but he decided the risk of hypothermia was too high. Besides, Vanessa had always enjoyed being in the herb field.
Only his partner, Justine, knew of his intention. He had considered inviting the other members of SOFA’s National Executive Committee but decided it was something he wanted to do alone.
Turning his back to the wind, he opened the urn, inclined it forward, and tossed Vanessa’s ashes into the air. They scattered and disappeared. He tried to feel no emotion, just relief at finishing his mission.
He moved back into the shelter of the native trees and stood for a moment looking out onto the mountaintop. Celebration of Vanessa’s final union with Mother Earth – Gaia – would be more appropriate than grief, he thought, though his heart felt heavy. Vanessa had given her life for a cause they both believed in and her final remains would now rest in one of her favourite natural places.
All the same, he could not stop tears welling in his eyes. He and Vanessa had once been in a kind of relationship and he had loved her in the only way she would let him.
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