Friday in Summer

James McKenzie and his dog forced their way through the storm. Even though it was January, summer this far south brought little warmth with it, even on the best of days. Biting gusts and horizontal rain streamed down from snow-tipped mountains. This was hostile, unforgiving terrain: tussock, hardy matagouri shrubs and small smooth rocks littered the river banks offering no shelter from the rain or wind. The border collie wreathed her way through obstacle after obstacle, her nose searching out faint scents of the lost. She lifted her black muzzle, ears flattened against the crown of her narrow black and white head. She looked up towards the man beside her.

He acknowledged the dog’s glance. ‘Good girl, Friday. Go on. He can’t be far off.’

The interaction had not stopped them. McKenzie hardly recognised the fact that a scant week ago he had become the first white man to set eyes on this inland plain. He knew that neither the land nor the wind was bothered with such a meaningless honour. He leaned into the wind and followed the dog weaving her way through the tussock on the bank of the swollen river. This was a country-man well used to living outside in the elements. A thatch of fiery red hair writhing in the wind provided the man with more head cover than any hat could have. His coat flapped against his rough-clad leg as the shepherd carefully tested the edge of the banks with his crook, searching out a safe path.

‘Mossman!’ the man boomed as he planted his feet, looking back across the river. Earlier in the day, McKenzie had told Mossman that his plan to find the source of the second river was foolhardy. Nevertheless when his friend failed to return to their camp before the storm hit, McKenzie and his dog did not hesitate to follow him across the wide plain. They crossed the first river then a wide expanse of swampy uneven ground, until the trail showed that Mossman had turned north. With the storm gusting around him, McKenzie had bent his head into the wind and followed the black and white dog into unknown country.

The buffeting wind pushed him around as he took in the wide fertile valley barely discernible through the driving rain. His roar of laughter could be heard above the storm, followed by words spoken in the thickest of Highland brogues: ‘Isn’t it grand, Friday.’ The dog lay at his feet on her stomach, glad to be out of the weather. The man recollected himself and yelled once more up the valley: ‘Mossman!’ Turning his face into the wind and, keeping the river on his right, he forced his way upstream.

The dog caught a scent and pressed on ahead. He could just make her out as she threw herself into the water and was instantly forced downstream. She struck out for the other shore angling against the current. The man loped towards the bank where she had leapt in. At this spot, the river broadened out into a thin blue/green lake. Waves crashed onto the rocky shore indicating the lake was much bigger than he could see. Something brown like torn tussock was caught in the branches of a submerged tree on the other bank. Leaving his coat, boots and shepherd’s crook under a patch of matagouri high above the level of the water, the shepherd lumbered into the water.

The torrent took him as swiftly as it had the dog. He gasped as the cold bit through his already wet jersey and workingman’s pants, but he continued towards the submerged tree. Exhausted and cold by the time he reached the man caught in the branches, he was nevertheless pleased that Mossman still breathed. He was acutely conscious of the dangers he faced as he disentangled Mossman from the branches of the submerged tree, whilst keeping his own legs free from the branches beneath the surface. After a short time, McKenzie forced his way through the water, holding the unresponsive, but still breathing body of Mossman. He made for the rocky shore of the island where Friday rested catching her breath.

He dragged Mossman behind him as he scrambled backwards out of the water. He didn’t see the obstacle behind him, and hardly felt the pain as a sharp stick poking up from a flimsy canoe of flax pierced his side as he fell onto the bank. With the last of his energy, he reached out and patted the dog’s head as she crawled into the shelter of his arm.

His next conscious thought was that Mossman was surely dead and so was he, when he saw an old woman bending over them both: ‘Poor man.’ she said. Her tears warmed the parts of his face where they fell.

‘Perhaps I am not dead,’ he thought. ‘It’d be warmer than this I’m sure.’ He might have laughed as he lapsed again into unconsciousness.

The rain eased. When McKenzie woke again, the weight of Mossman was no longer on him, but the warmth of Friday was still a comfort at his side. The woman’s face swam into view. She seemed younger than the last time he had woken as she spoke: ‘Come with me to a place of healing. You will have to carry your friend.’

She lifted the dog and walked away. McKenzie could think of no reason to stay where he was, so stood then bent to pick up Mossman. The woman looked over her shoulder as she walked towards a track leading uphill.

‘That had better be the road to heaven’, McKenzie thought as he strained to lift his friend, stumbling over the uneven rocks.
In stockinged feet, with his friend over his shoulder, James McKenzie, sheep-rustler, explorer and friend, followed the strange woman carrying the body of his dog. The rain and wind ceased to bother him. There was only the next step, and the next, up the slight slope til the track ended at a sheer rock face. She took his free hand, brought it to her face, then touched the same fingers to his sodden jersey where the blood flowed from his wounded side. Turning away from the river, she pressed both his palm and hers against the rock face beside them.