An edited extract from After Dark by conservationist and ecologist Annette Lees
Every 24 hours, the Earth rolls into its own vast shadow and darkness floods across the land and sea. In a 1600km-long gliding plumb-line down the length of New Zealand, our beaches, towns, cities, farms, forests, lakes and mountains sink into shadow. The darkness seeps from the east to the west, quietening the day birds and stirring those of the night. Bats pour from their day roosts and speed into the gloaming, chasing down moths. Freshwater fish emerge from behind creek stones and underwater logs to feed in the dark water. Glow-worms light up damp banks. Waves washing along our shores begin to spark and glimmer with bioluminescing sea creatures. Under the sea, nocturnal fish – the night guild – shake off sleep and come out to graze or predate. On land, the night insects start up their chirrups and singing. Night-active skinks and geckos wake and scuttle through their shrub and tree homes, the predators among them catching arthropods, the others eating berries and licking nectar from flowers.
The last of the light fades away to the velvet-black of true night and then, in the cone of the Earth's shadow that extends 1.4 million kilometres above us deeply into space, we see the richly scattered marvels of our galaxy: the moon rising, a planet's steadfast shine, thousands of stars streaming and tilting as the night advances.
I have always loved the night, loved walking into its strange enchantment. In night, suspense, lawlessness, hazard, sensuousness and awe are evoked simply by stepping outside. Night air is fresh and damp, alive across the skin, suffused with scents of spice and salts. Our familiar landscapes are altered, mysterious and charged with potency.
I was primed to be familiar with night from a young age. Even inside our first family home the outdoors-night breathed over us. Built in the early 1900s, our Whakatāne house was constructed loosely, and during our occupancy of it we took it as it came, which was airy.
My mother's gentle elegance and my father's distracted delight in the natural world did not prepare either of them for house maintenance. Such things as wind-proofing the closed-in verandas that housed our bedrooms, or stopping up the wide gaps between the roof and ceiling where insulation was modestly absent, or getting the windows to fully close were impossibly practical matters. As a result, night flowed through the house like a river.