This short story was published in ‘AFTERMATH’, (stories of survival) an anthology published in 2022 by SpecficNZ, which supports and mentors writers of Sci.fi. and Fantasy.
THERMAL IMAGES
“Turn it down,” some grump bellowed over the music coming from the speakers on the stage.
“Don’t be such a spoil-sport,” I called out. “Come and join us.”
Heads were shaken, grumbles were heard, chairs pushed back and the last of the revellers left us to it. “What a lot of party poopers,” I commented and Paul nodded, looking like a wise man. His balding head with its stray wisps of hair looked in stark contrast to his white beard, immaculately trimmed, despite its bulk. The song selection finished, and I turned off the casting app on my phone. It appeared not everyone had enjoyed my taste in music.
Through the windows of the lounge, the moon walked its beam across the lake toward us. Like an inviting path it beckoned, broken only by the occasional ripple. A beautiful still evening hiding the plunder and heat buried below its surface.
“Hard to believe how the lake has crept inland, isn’t it?”
“Scary stuff,” Paul replied, “You never know what nature is going to throw at you.” After a few moments silence, he continued. “Did I ever tell you the story about my grandfather and what lurks in the geothermal area beneath this lake?” I shook my head. He told lot of stories, but I hadn’t heard that one.
“It went like this: years ago Granddad went to Geysercon, a gathering of Speculative Fiction fans. He shared a room with some guy called Hendrik who said he was from off-planet. It turned out he’d arrived on his pet quonk. He’d tethered the creature in the bushes behind the hotel and in the dead of night Granddad went with this guy to feed it. Never having seen a quonk he couldn’t resist the opportunity. They walked the creature to the Pohutu geyser, where it munched on the Sulphur rock, and pranced among the steaming vents. When Hendrik tried to recapture it the animal swallowed him whole, elongated itself into a narrow tube and slid down Pohutu’s vent. Grandad wondered if he’d hallucinated the whole thing until the geyser spat out Hendrik’s trainers. Apparently, quonks don’t eat shoes. He never told the authorities and was too scared to retrieve the shoes in case the quonk emerged and ate him too. Granddad always said if that animal bred with a taniwha then we’d be in all sorts of trouble.”
“Did he drink, your Granddad?”
“Nah, reckoned he was stone-cold sober at the time. But who would believe him? He reported his room-mate missing the next morning and the police found the shoes, but Granddad never breathed a word of what actually happened.”
“Do you reckon it’s a true story?” I said.
“Might explain why the geothermal area beneath the city has collapsed. Perhaps the quonk has eaten the cavern walls away,” Paul offered, his answer to the watery invasion.
And on that sobering thought we took the lift to the top story of the old hospital and went to bed. It was all very basic, but the previous hotel accommodation was no longer available.
The next morning I peered over the side of the boat into the waters of the enlarged lake. We floated above the ruins of Whakawerawera village. Beneath us the ridge of the marae’s meeting house roof pointed toward the surface. In the crystal waters it looked almost within touching distance and my hand hovered over the water, until commonsense made me pause. I had no idea of the water’s temperature. Burnt fingers weren’t in today’s plan. The boat drifted to where the scalding cooking pools once sat amongst the stones and concrete slabs, where bubbles now streamed as the springs continued to expel their hot breath into the water above.
Further over, Pohutu, the famous geyser was playing. Although submerged, it managed to puff and spout its boiling water and steam through the lake’s surface with a splendid display of suppressed energy. No longer as impressive as when it stood on its sulphur rock promontory it still did its best each day, as if to mimic the undefeated spirit of the drowned city.
The catastrophic collapse of the geothermal system on the lake’s edge, from Ohinemutu marae, over the central city to Whakawerawera, had left Rotorua hospital perched on its hill, an island of mercy in a sea of destruction. The catastrophic event had happened over the course of a few days, creeping ever southward as residents, shopkeepers, moteliers and government employees vacated premises and hospital patients were ferried away.
A few foolhardy souls lost their lives trying to retrieve personal possessions and valuables but the lake had no mercy. When the ground gave way the lake rushed in to level out its surface.
‘A National Disaster’ the papers screamed, as indeed it was. As the centre of a thriving tourist business the thermal area of Rotorua had provided heat and sustenance to its inhabitants and income to many. The city’s heart had been swallowed. Years previously, when the hot water levels dropped from excess withdrawal, all bores had been compulsory sealed. The thermal activity rebuilt to magnificent proportions until – boom, hiss, fizz – it had burst at the seams and the subterranean chambers had collapsed allowing the lake to fill the void.
That was the theory.
We’d been hired by the Rotorua Tourist Bureau to survey the area and find something, anything in fact, to attract tourist dollars. The outlying thermal fields still operated but the heart of the city, submerged and depressingly wet, continued to dampen the city’s soul.
The authorities were desperate…and Paul and I had a reputation for finding imaginative solutions to no-hope situations.
We were, this very morning, considering whether trips to view a submerged village would bring tourists in, but it was a uninspiring sight. Certainly not something you’d pay good dollars to view. I peered into the blue tinted depth; sure I’d seen movement and wondered if the trout population had already settled among these warmer waters. Trout springs were a bit passé. People said, ‘if you’ve seen one trout you’ve seen them all’. Wisps of steam drifted across my vision, blurring visibility.
Was that a gigantic trout? A fishy snout protruded from the entrance of the sunken meeting house. It looked like a crocodile’s nose, but we don’t have crocs in New Zealand. I waved my hand at Paul as he moved to start the outboard motor.
“Don’t,” I hissed, “there’s something down there. The motor might scare it. Have a look.”
He moved to stand beside me, tipping the small craft. I gripped the side and turned my head to whisper in his ear, “Look over the other side. The meeting house is beneath us. Watch the entrance.”
We sat in silence with only the slap of the water on the dinghy’s hull and the call of the birds in the high bluff above. Caught in an eddy, the boat turned and swung in a circle. The smell of sulphur drifted in the steam around us. The breeze dropped and the water’s surface mirrored the sun.
Thank goodness I had my sunglasses on or I’d have missed it. Yes, there it was again.
“Do you see it?” I whispered.
Paul inhaled, “My God, it’s huge.”
Floating out of the doorway below us, an ugly head protruded. It slid from the building followed by its slowly emerging length of scaly flesh. At least a metre wide the thing’s body seemed endless. It must have been curled tight inside the meeting house. But what was it?
Then I realised its possibilities – a taniwha! Supposedly mythical there were many versions of what they looked like, but the real thing below encompassed only some of the sketched traits. As I watched its tongue stretched out and circled, as if smelling the water. It stiffened, and then shot away to our left, out of sight.
“Am I hallucinating?” Paul asked. “That thing is metres long – ten, fifteen perhaps? Could it be an eel?”
“I don’t think they grow that big,” I said. “Let’s just sit quietly and hope it comes back. Get the camera ready.” It returned a while later, a fat trout protruding between its sharp teeth. Not a beast you’d want to bathe with; cancel ‘swimming with a taniwha’ as a tag line.
Paul passed me the underwater camera and I attached the control rod then slipped it over the side. I tried not to cause a disturbance as I aimed it in the direction of the meeting house. I shot a couple of stills but doubted I’d been in time to catch the beast’s tail before it retreated into its lair.
“Let’s hope it moves again. We need proof or no one will believe us.”
“If we’d had a sensible early night they might, but our noisy evening will not have gone unnoticed.” Regret tinged Paul’s voice. It’s not every day you see a taniwha.
An hour passed but neither of us was prepared to leave without solid evidence. We missed its exit but the split in the water’s surface and the rearing of the animal’s snout shocked us into action. I aimed the camera, Paul held up his phone and then with a splash it was gone. It streaked past the boat, turned in a circle and headed back toward us. Fear ached in my throat, my pulse thundered in my ears as I stood and faced it down in the rocking boat, positive it would ram us and equally determined someone would eventually find the camera and develop the shots to see how we’d died. All a bit over-dramatic really, because it stopped, nudged the boat a couple of times, then reared up to have a good look at us.
Its breath reeked of fish and sulphur. Its gaze caressed us. Its repulsive head with a double row of sharp teeth loomed above us. My heart stopped and I swear it was sizing up the taste of the boat. To our great relief it slid back into the water and swam around, turning on its back, inviting a tummy scratch. We declined, even though we had a set of oars available in case of the outboard breaking down and could have obliged. Honestly, it seemed quite friendly, as if it wanted to talk.
The camera ran out of digital space, as did Paul’s phone. Even the sound of the outboard motor didn’t chase it away. It followed us for a few hundred metres before turning, slapping the water with its tail and disappearing into deeper water.
“You know,” said Paul, breaking the strained silence, “that could be a quonk; or a taniwha crossed with a quonk. Seemed to be able to stretch itself into various lengths.”
“It might be the same quonk, and not a taniwha at all,” I offered.
“Could be, and probably is. The story of the quonk has been a family secret for so long, it’s a bit late now to try and convince people it actually happened. Who’s going to believe in an off-world visitor and his pet?”
“Point taken; we’ll stick to the taniwha label then.”
And that’s what we did.
Today you’ll find the old hospital building converted into a luxury tourist hotel. The daily taniwha tours that depart from the jetty, sustain the city. The commercial district is rebuilding around the edge of the lake and a taniwha has replaced the city’s previous logo of a geyser.
We are the envy of the world. The legend of the Loch Ness monster has faded into insignificance. Our ‘taniwha’, immense and visible, is the greatest attraction ever. It seems tame; rises and cavorts for visitors, but because I know the story of the quonk that disappeared down Pohutu’s vent, I never trust it. There could be more of them beneath the earth’s crust, waiting to emerge as the geothermal field collapses. This one stretches like a quonk, yet people believe it’s a taniwha. What do you think?
Our private tourist launch displays the sign:
“Feeding the Taniwha is forbidden. You could be its next meal.”
People laugh. They think it’s a joke, but you and I know the truth.
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The sequel to The Carbonite’s Daughter will be published in August 2024 and is called ‘Quake City.’ The Carbonite’s Daughter has been nominated for the Best Youth Novel published 2022 in this year’s Sir Julius Vogel Awards. Fingers crossed that she might win. Until next time, I hope your feet are dry and your hearts are warm in this wet, wet winter we are suffering Downunder.
Wonderful imagination, Deryn. Loved it.