Shadow of the Mountain

  ‘I want to climb a mountain and I need a guide.’

  Geneva’s world has been blown apart by loss. Maybe that’s why her decisions are not always the sharpest. One thing she knows: there’s no way back to the person she once was.

  When Angus appears in her orbit it seems an omen that things are changing — but life is never that simple.

  In trying to find a way forward, Geneva risks her friendships, risks repeating the errors of the past, even risks her life. But maybe there’s no other way to find the person she can be.

  A superbly written, gripping and utterly absorbing novel.

  * * *

  Anna Mackenzie is also the author of acclaimed novel The Sea-wreck Stranger, joint winner of the 2008 Sir Julius Vogel Award and a finalist for the 2008 New Zealand Post Book Awards.

  * * *

  In memory of Anna Mary

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to Kirsty for sowing a seed, to Emma Neale for perceptive editing, to Saskia for her non-stop readathon, and to Hamish, Callum and Madeleine, for simply being there. Thanks also to Alex, for insights he’d rather not have provided.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About the Author

  Also by Anna Mackenzie:

  Copyright

  1.

  Geneva pushed herself away from the desk and stretched, feeling her spine click and straighten. It was after two and her belly was producing a rumbling chorus of demands.

  In the kitchen doorway she hesitated. Her mother stood at the sink, plate in one hand and dishcloth in the other, the perfect pose of domesticity — except that, despite the appearance of a task in hand, her mother was motionless, her eyes fixed on the mountain that rose in startling planes and angles beyond the smooth green waves of the paddocks.

  Ignoring her, Geneva advanced on the pantry. From the corner of her eye she saw her mother flinch and plunge her hands into the water.

  The bread Geneva pulled from a crumpled bag was stiff and speckled with mould. Shoving it back on the shelf, she turned to the fruit bowl. It was no more tempting. As she picked through it she glanced surreptitiously at her mother.

  ‘Time we did a run to the supermarket,’ she said.

  There was no answer. Geneva tossed a few moulding oranges into the chook bucket.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ she asked.

  Her mother’s head turned, her eyes not quite meeting Geneva’s before they wandered on around the kitchen.‘Risotto,’ she said, finally. ‘There’s a packet in the pantry.’

  Geneva compressed her lips. Her mother had once been an enthusiastic cook, both competent and creative. A year ago she’d have laughed if anyone had dared suggest she’d resort to a packet mix for anything.

  ‘Do you remember that dinner with Julia and Dan, after the twins were born?’ Geneva asked. ‘You made a risotto with prawns and scallops — celebration seafood you called it.’

  Her mother turned away.

  That was it, Geneva thought. Easier just to turn your back.

  Grabbing the least jaded apple from the bowl she stomped back to her room. She’d assured the school counsellor she’d spend the holidays catching up on overdue assignments — and she had been. She was halfway through the pile, her desk a mound of scribbled notes and half-read reference books.

  Ignoring the work she flopped onto the bed and crunched into the apple’s sadly soggy flesh. Dead apple. Her teeth rebelled against the texture but her stomach, less fussy, rumbled its gratitude. Her mother would once have told her off for eating lying down and the years of good messages were still there, implanted in her brain. She ignored them. Above her the angled ceiling held a 3D poster, a silver spiral that seemed to draw you inwards, luring you towards the mysterious promise of its depths. Abruptly she rolled over.

  When she’d first moved into the room she’d put the desk beneath the bi-fold windows but it was easier to concentrate away from the view — their million dollar view, her father had called it, when they’d begun remodelling the old farmhouse. The renovations had turned the place inside out, giving as many rooms as possible access to that view.

  Geneva thought briefly about the shout her father had given when the work had finally come to an end. They’d sat outside and toasted the view, the architect, the builders. There’d been a bit much toasting, to be honest. She’d been fourteen and she’d never drunk champagne before. Or since. Her father had interrupted his spiel to eyeball one of the builders who’d been coming on a bit strong. It had been more a compliment than a serious attempt to chat her up, and at the time it had flattered her.

  She shrugged the memory away. That girl, still a child, was gone — along with the family they’d been back then. Her eyes drifted to the window, to where the mountain stood unmasked after days of lying hidden by cloud whose frayed remnants now streaked the slopes in shifting patterns of shadow and light.

  Unwilling to be caught by its beauty, Geneva tugged her attention back to the room. The shelves beside her desk were filled with clutter, the residue of years. She should chuck it all out. Random daubs of colour — swimming certificates, ski posters, a local band gig — pocked the wall above her bed. With a sudden burst of anger she snatched them down, leaving torn corners under a stubble of drawing pins as she balled them into the rubbish bin.

  As she tore the last poster free a photo fluttered from behind it to the floor. She stooped to pick it up. Three climbers gazed out at her, the rock behind them in sharp relief against a cloud-tattered sky. Holding the two year old image cupped in her hands, Geneva sank down on the bed and stared at the familiar faces, one of them her own.

  2.

  The darkness inside the old warehouse took her by surprise. Geneva hesitated in the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

  She’d been here before, with Stephen, but she didn’t remember much. The roof was high, the cavernous space echoing with noise: squeaks and clanks and the occasional laugh or shriek. The space was broken up with freestanding walls that stretched to the ceiling, jutting at odd angles. A wooden counter stood to one side.

  As she took it in, she noticed someone moving towards her.

  ‘Hello there.’ Geneva watched for any flicker of recognition, but there was nothing. ‘First time here?’

  About thirty-five, she thought; tall, confident, easy smile. She nodded.

  ‘Want to give it a go?’ He gestured towards the colour-flecked walls. ‘I’m Keith.’

  She shook her head. ‘Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I want to climb a mountain and I need a guide.’

  ‘Well, sure. We do commissions. Usually team stuff, but we’re open to suggestion.’ He had a slight accent, either Scottish or Irish. ‘Have you a particular mountain in mind?’

  ‘Kaitiaki,’ she said.

  Keith sucked his lip, asse
ssing her in an impersonal way. His gaze made her stand straighter. She was tall and slim without being willowy — she’d always thought that sounded too airy, as if you’d be in danger of blowing away. Her fair hair and skin were contrasted by dark eyes. There was nothing outstanding about her looks, but then, she didn’t want there to be — and Keith looked more interested in her muscle tone. Geneva figured she’d do all right there.

  ‘Have you had any experience?’

  ‘Just bits and pieces.’

  There was a pause, and Geneva began to wish she hadn’t come. It was too much, too soon.

  ‘We’ve got a couple of groups that do weekend trips. We can team you up with one of them,’ Keith offered. ‘That’d get you started. After —’

  ‘I don’t want to take it up as a sport,’ she interrupted. ‘I just want to climb Kaitiaki.’

  Keith frowned. He was a hand span taller than her, broad shouldered, and stood poised on the balls of his feet as if he might at any moment spring into action. She noticed his shoes: old, well worn, good brand. She knew she was avoiding his eyes.

  ‘Uh huh.’ He dragged the syllables out. ‘Well, Kaitiaki’s not a mountain you just go out and climb. You’d need a good grounding.’

  His tone wasn’t dismissive or patronising but Geneva could feel her temper flare. ‘I do know a bit. I might not be technically perfect or anything but I’m fit.’ She thought about all the k’s she’d done on the road this year. ‘It’s just that I’d rather not do it alone.’

  His eyebrows went up in a sceptical curve.

  ‘Okay,’ she added. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘It’s no big deal, lass. We don’t support anyone taking risks they can’t handle. How about you show me what you can do.’ He nodded towards the nearest wall. ‘Then we’ll see.’

  Geneva’s first preference was to get out of there fast but something flickered in her belly; some need to impress. She shrugged as he reached behind the counter for a harness. ‘I’ll belay you,’ he announced as he handed it over, watching while she put it on — checking to see she knew what she was doing. Geneva lifted her chin.

  The wall Keith led her to was a grade above beginners’ and a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. Clipping herself swiftly onto the belay rope she stepped forward and fitted her fingers into the first of the broad multi-coloured brackets. Much easier than the real thing, she thought, stepping onto the wall. She’d climbed here a couple of times before; more often at the sports centre in Waimana. It was years ago now but she assured herself it was like riding a bike — you don’t forget.

  Stephen had early on shifted his preference to real climbing, real rock. Real challenges. He’d introduced her to the sport, but she’d never really taken to it the way he had. He’d started getting technical while she was more of an all-rounder. A bit of everything: that suited her.

  But she could handle this with her eyes closed.

  When she landed lightly back on the floor, Keith slackened the belay rope and gave her a nod of acknowledgement. ‘How about something a bit more challenging?’ he suggested. Geneva thought she could detect a hint of amusement in his tone.

  Halfway up the second wall, Geneva could feel sweat slipping down the small of her back and she knew the muscles in her arms, less accustomed than her legs to sustained effort, would be screaming at her tomorrow. Smart-arse, she thought. The wall he’d chosen was a lot more challenging.

  She came off two-thirds of the way up. Reluctance and defiance warred within her as Keith lowered her feet to the floor and she turned to meet his gaze.

  ‘That was a good effort,’ he acknowledged. ‘You were right about not being technical but you’ve obviously got a fair way without it.’

  Geneva shrugged, her mind running through what Stephen would have said.

  ‘Saturday,’ Keith announced, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Come and do Pinion Bluff. We’re meeting here at eight o’clock, gear supplied but bring your own lunch — plenty of it. It’ll be a full day.’

  ‘Okay.’ She didn’t know why she said that. She’d meant it when she said she didn’t want to take up climbing as a sport.

  Keith grinned.

  He thinks he’s got me hooked, Geneva thought. They’re all so bloody obsessive, acting as if climbing’s the only worthwhile pastime on the planet. Well, it wasn’t for her, and it never would be. She knew that, beyond any doubt. But she wanted to climb Kaitiaki.

  3.

  Geneva braked, frowning at the number of people milling outside RockZone. For a moment she considered gliding past and cycling back to Waimana but Keith had seen her coming.

  ‘Hi there,’ he called. ‘I wasn’t sure whether we were going to see you.’ His grin was welcoming but Geneva didn’t feel like returning it. He hadn’t said there’d be a busload.

  ‘You can leave your bike in the gear room out the back. It’ll be safer, and I’ll be unlocking anyway when we get back. Tink,’ he turned to a woman with spiked orange hair, ‘this is our latest recruit.’ He caught Geneva’s grimace. ‘A slightly reluctant one. I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Geneva.’

  ‘Like the city or the gin?’ Tink asked.

  ‘Combination of both, according to my parents.’

  Tink grinned. ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Tink’s our part-time instructor, full-time wildchild,’ Keith said. ‘I’ll let you introduce yourself to the others. We’re just waiting for one more then we’ll be off.’

  ‘Albie’s always off,’ one of the blokes at the back of the group quipped, setting off a scuffle.

  Geneva turned away, wondering why she’d come.

  ‘Every group has a joker, hey?’ Tink said. ‘C’mon, I’ll show you where to stash the bike and we’ll sort you some gear. They’re not all bad,’ she added as Geneva followed her inside. ‘About half the group are new this trip.’ She smiled, and the knots in Geneva’s stomach loosened a fraction.

  ‘Have you done much climbing?’ Tink asked, selecting a harness from the racks in a small storeroom behind the counter. She looked a few years older than Geneva and the arms displayed by her tight top showed solid muscle as well as a couple of tatts.

  ‘A while back. Nothing recently.’ She could make out a bullfrog sitting on a heart-shaped lily pad high on Tink’s shoulder.

  ‘You’ll be familiar with the gear then.’ There was a slight question in the statement and Geneva mumbled assent. Tink’s voice, soft, almost girly, seemed at odds with her appearance. ‘We’ll break into groups once we get there,’ she said. ‘I usually take the novices but you can stick with me for the morning if you want.’

  Geneva nodded. As they walked back to the minibus she scanned the rest of the group. There weren’t really that many. Four guys and a girl were chatting easily with Keith while a smaller group, two of them girls, stood to one side looking uncomfortable. Newbies, she thought, deciding to align herself with them for the trip.

  In the scramble to find seats, Geneva found herself wedged between a slender Asian guy with an unlikely head of dreds who spent the trip mouthing lyrics to his MP3 player, and a girl whose name she didn’t catch who seemed engrossed in biting her already non-existent fingernails. The conversation from the row behind was all about the technical details of a previous climb: BACAs, without a doubt.

  Geneva tipped her head back against the headrest and thought about Stephen. He’d coined the term BACA on the trip to Carter Ridge, the first time she’d met his climbing mates. It stood for ‘Brain Addled by Climbing Addiction’. Stephen had recognised early the slightly obsessive nature of the sport, but his awareness hadn’t saved him from falling into the same trap.

  Stephen had been sixteen when they did that trip. It had been a week before Geneva’s fifteenth birthday and her parents had initially said she was too young to go. Stephen had talked them round: school trip, guide supervision, birthday privilege — the works. He’d always been good at getting what he wanted.

  The climbing had been easy enough but G
eneva had found the wind-down afterwards a pain. They’d stopped at a pub on the way home — Stephen hadn’t mentioned that in his spiel — and the conversation had veered unpredictably between climbing technique and smut. One of the guys had tried to single her out for a bit of one on one. Stephen had responded to that fast enough.

  ‘Hey, are you with us?’

  The unfamiliar voice cut through Geneva’s thoughts. ‘Sorry?’ A guy in front was hanging over the back of the seat, watching her expectantly. The one who arrived late — Simon. Dark eyes, fair hair, deep tan. Classic ski bunny. ‘What?’

  He grinned, displaying a chipped front tooth. ‘We were just establishing the game plan. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Oh, um, whatever.’ Game plan, for chrissakes. It made it sound like a bloody hockey match. Geneva found herself longing for the peace and quiet of a day climbing with Stephen. Longing so much that tears pricked behind her eyes and she bent quickly to tie an already tied shoelace. Why on earth had she come on this stupid trip?

  ‘Have you done any climbing before? Doesn’t matter if you haven’t,’ Simon smiled — a shade too patronisingly for Geneva’s taste. ‘Keri’s new too.’

  The nail biter, Geneva remembered. ‘I’ve done a bit,’ she said, glancing at the girl beside her. Simon was still twisted in his seat, angling for encouragement. ‘I don’t know how you can travel like that,’ she added. ‘I’d get car sick.’ Meaning, turn around and leave me alone.

  Simon’s expression changed gear. ‘You do look a bit pale. Maybe you should sit up front.’

  With you? Geneva thought. Fat chance. ‘I’m okay,’ she said.

  Beside her Keri was looking even more nervous — probably worried she was about to be barfed on. Geneva fixed her eyes on the line of hills beyond the window. ‘Is that where we’re headed?’ she asked nobody in particular.