I stepped onto the wooden deck; nearly jumped straight back again as I felt the timbers trembling under my feet. The hand-rail shook, too. I looked straight ahead. Twenty, thirty yards to the far end. Eyes fixed on where the shingle road began again, I moved forward, one pace at a time. Three … four … five. I sensed Whina standing behind me.

Nine … ten … eleven. The distant yelling grew louder. I saw black smoke pouring upwards from further down the valley. A fire. Someone’s coal-range, I guessed, split open by the earthquake.

Fourteen … fifteen. I was almost halfway. I turned, clinging to the hand-rail. Whina stood motionless where I’d left her. She raised a hand. I faced the far end again; took another step. Seventeen … eighteen.

In the riverbed below, the pukeko stormed upwards once more. At the same moment, I felt it coming: a quivering through the bridge, a groaning as cables began to strain. The timber bucked. Just a dozen yards ahead, I saw the road and paddock surge as if a wave had run through them.

I clutched the hand-rail with all my strength. The whole deck lifted, hung in mid-air for half a second, then slammed down. My forehead thumped into the rail’s rough wood. I screamed. Three steps in front, a section of deck graunched, splintered, and toppled towards the river.

My body hunched in terror. Sweat slid down my face. I couldn’t move.

The far bank was scarred with slips where shrubs and trees had torn away. As I stared at it, I remembered my father fighting his way up there with his maimed leg, swinging the axe to help him. He’d kept going.

Away to one side, the silvery mist still hung over the swamp, and the hawk hovered. I took one hand off the rail, and reached forward again. One step. Two. The broken stretch of deck was right in front of me. It was forty feet straight down to the riverbed boulders. The Waimoana churned on; a big willow branch swung by on its surface, shredded where it had been torn from the bank.

I squeezed my feet into the gaps between the side supports and pulled myself along, yawning space below me. Grip. Step. Grip. Step. A voice grunted ‘Come on! Come on!’ Grip. Step.

My feet touched something different, and I gasped. I looked down, and I was standing on the deck. The broken section lay behind me.

I tried to sprint for the far end. My legs wouldn’t work properly, and I staggered instead, reeling forward over the creaking timbers. I glimpsed pines and willows swinging; realised it wasn’t just me.

I reached the road. My body sagged; I hunched, hands on knees. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. Sweat was sliding down one cheek; I swiped a hand over it, stared at the blotches of red on my palm, and remembered my forehead thumping into the rail.