Another sound came, a rattling and booming. I twisted around again and stared upriver. Dad’s Bridge was bucking like a terrified animal. Its big wire cables shrieked. On the far bank, where my father had clawed his way up twenty years ago, a poplar tree ripped from the slope, dirt spraying from its roots. It smashed down into the Waimoana with a WHOOMPFF! that we could hear above the noise of the bridge.

Whina and I clung to each other. Her brown eyes were enormous. Another length of the river’s edge slumped, and the sugar-bag of plums vanished under sand and rocks.

Whina clutched my elbows. ‘We’ve got to get home! You come with—’

The ground punched up a second time. It dropped back, thrust up once more. We staggered in a circle, still holding each other, mouths open.

I saw the bridge twisting. Its cables screamed louder. The orchard trees kept thrashing. Branches snapped and fell; those plums would be squashed. On the far bank, another poplar went somersaulting into the water. Branches whipped backwards and forwards; trunks split open with a CRACK!

‘Come — on!’ We started struggling across the riverbed stones, towards the track leading up to the bridge. The ground shuddered and shifted. I banged against Whina; she clutched at my dress to stop me from falling.

At the top of the track, the little cottage behind the fence where a roadman lived had collapsed into splintered timber. The tall towers holding the bridge cables rocked. Dust flew from them. The cables thrummed and strained. Any second now they’d snap, and the whole bridge would plummet into the river. I had to cross it to reach home. How could I?

Whina’s hand tightened on my arm. ‘Look!’

Upriver, over the swamp, a haze hung in the air. It lay silvery-coloured, utterly unmoving while the rest of the world jerked and jolted. Above the mist, the hawk hovered, also motionless, wings outspread. Even as I stared, I realised how magical it looked.

‘The bridge!’ I panted. ‘I have to get—’

‘You can’t!’ Whina shook my arm. ‘Florence, it’ll fall. You’ll fall. Come with me. Mum and Dad’ll look after you. We’ll get across the river a different way.’

I stared back at the Waimoana. It wasn’t gurgling any longer. It stormed along, green and white fountains of water shooting upwards, bursting against the fallen poplars.

‘I have to!’ My voice sounded strange. ‘I have to find — parents. Little Angus.’

Whina stood still. Then she placed a hand on my forehead, and murmured something in Maori. Her cotton dress was old and faded, her feet were bare, but she looked … powerful, somehow.

‘Go, my friend. We will find each other.’

The ground had stopped shifting, but Dad’s Bridge still shuddered. Voices shouted from somewhere on the other side.