The Bone Tiki (5 page)

Pania frowned slightly, running her fingers through the gravel. ‘We could go back, cut inland and go around the inlet. But that’ll take hours. Or we could swim across.’

Mat reached out his fingers and laced them through the water. ‘It’s freezing—we can’t swim!’

‘I could—I’m a good swimmer.’

‘Well, I’m not…and all my clothes would get wet—how would I get my pack across dry?’

She thought for a moment, pulling at her hair. ‘I know—wait here,’ and then she was gone, slipping away toward the wharves.

Mat had waited for ten minutes, and was beginning to fidget. The wind was getting up, and the air was even colder. The man on the bridge had lit a cigarette, and it glowed like a red eye, just the length of a football field away. The noises from the bars and restaurants grew louder, music and shouting. A smell of dead fish and rotting seaweed hung about the water’s edge, like the smell of the warrior’s breath.

‘Hey, Mat,’ whispered Pania, from behind a trailer boat. Mat went over to her, shivering at the chilly air. She looked pleased with herself, showing him a small pile of shadowy objects. He picked up the top one—a grey plastic bag, big
enough to fit his kitbag. Underneath was a life-jacket, and a towel.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘I nicked them, dummy. Come on, get your jeans and coat off, and put them in the bag.’

He blushed, and she giggled.

‘Come on, silly. I’m going to have to do the same,’ and she pulled her jacket off, revealing a black crop-top T-shirt over the swell of her breasts, and then she bent to the button of her jeans. Mat felt himself colour, and he turned away quickly. He fumbled with the coat button, and then pulled it and his jeans off, and stuffed them into his kitbag. He heard Pania snicker behind him.

‘You ain’t got much tan for a Maori boy. You look like a skinny Pakeha.’

He felt his cheeks go hot.

She handed him a life-jacket, still chuckling. ‘You know how to fit one of these?’

‘Sure,’ he answered crossly. ‘Dad’s got friends who own a yacht.’

He snatched it from her and pulled it over his head, then pulled the straps tight around his chest. Pania began packing the kitbag into the plastic bag. ‘I’ll carry this,’ she said. ‘We’ll need to go back a bit, so the guy on the bridge can’t see us in the water. We’ll go back to where the wharves start.’

Mat nodded, unable to think of anything beyond how cold the water had felt, and the strangeness of what he was about to do. ‘Are you sure there’s no other way of doing this?’

‘Heaps,’ she answered. ‘But none we can do now. Coming?’ She turned and glided into the dark waters. Mat swallowed and scampered after her.

They entered the water where the wharfs began. Only a few metres away cars were pulling out of the car parks. The man on the bridge had been joined by another figure—slim, with blonde hair.
Donna,
Mat recognised with a small shudder.
She’s got a gun.
He clenched his fists, to stop his hands from shaking. Pania slipped out of the darkness, and into the rippling water. Her hair fell all the way to her waist, and she seemed to flow into the water like some elemental spirit, as if she were one of the Sea People of the legend. When she turned to see what he was waiting for, only her face caught the light, and the rippling of the water seemed to catch on her chin. Momentarily it seemed as if the moko he’d thought he’d seen when he first met her was there after all. He shook his head, trying to banish the strangeness that was swallowing everything he knew, and stepped into the water.

It was painfully cold, and got deep much quicker than he expected, and he nearly panicked when his feet lost the bottom, but Pania was beside him, with her hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s not far, Mat. Come on—don’t kick hard, and keep your feet under the water so you don’t splash. You’ll be fine.’

And he
was
fine. He felt a warm sense of trust course through him, and he lay backward, let the life-jacket support him, and gently kicked toward the far shore. The stars were out, but it was the dark of the moon. The water was inky,
and the surface rippled with the reflected lights from the streetlights and restaurants. He glanced to his right and could see the bridge and the two figures. Neither looked their way.

Pania flowed beside him, dragging the bag, which she was keeping almost entirely out of the water. Her face reflected no effort, only serenity and a sense of fun, as though this was a game and she was winning. ‘Not far,’ she whispered. ‘They’ve not seen us. Don’t look at them again. The blonde one has the
eye.’

Mat wondered briefly what she meant.

After the initial shock, the water wasn’t that cold, and the stars danced above. It seemed that if he stopped to listen, he would hear music—not the pounding beats from the bars on the wharfs, but something older, melodic, chanting…something not carried in the air, but rising from the sea. Something that called…He shuddered and kicked harder, making a ripple and a tiny splash. Pania frowned but said nothing, as she side-stroked alongside, towing the bag. Then suddenly they were clambering over slimy concrete blocks and onto the grass verge behind a fence. The wind rose again, frigid against wet cloth and skin, and they both shivered. Pania led them away to the right, toward the point, and a bush that grew beside the road in a horseshoe shape, almost a perfect changing-room. Hidden in the middle of the protecting screen of foliage, the bridge was out of sight, and Mat felt a sudden sense of relief.

‘Get your wet stuff off,’ whispered Pania. ‘Give it here.’ She pulled the kitbag from its plastic protection, and pulled
out dry clothes. ‘See, your stuff is all dry. Did you bring a towel? Yes! Here, dry yourself off.’

Mat grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his shoulders, then peeled his undies and T-shirt off, too cold and wet to feel self-conscious. The two pendants on his chest clicked together briefly. Oddly, both still felt warm. He towelled hard at his skin, then pulled the fresh clothes on. Pania wrung his wet gear out, then stuffed it in the front pocket of the kit. She was dripping wet, dressed only in a wet crop-top and underwear, but she wasn’t even shivering.

‘If you walk along the seashore, no one will see you. Don’t stop for anyone, and only cut in when you strike the river outlet. OK?’

Mat nodded, wishing she were coming with him. Once he’d finished getting dressed, they walked together down to the water at the south end of Westshore Beach. The bridge was out of sight, back around the point. There was sand and beyond the small breakers container ships waited offshore. To the south, Bluff Hill blocked the city while to the north, houses arced around the bay—Westshore, and then a gap, to where the houses of Bay View twinkled like earthbound stars in the distance, some eight kilometres away. Further still, lights near the pulp-mill at Whirinaki, and then darkness. The Esk River came out near there. About 10 kilometres away, maybe more. Starlight caught the foaming waves, all around the Bay, creating a white line that marked the edge of the land. He had to go north, away from the light and into the darkness. He checked his watch. It was nearly ten. He should start. But he felt awfully alone, and afraid.

Pania put an arm around his shoulder and pulled his face into her shoulder. She was about as tall as his mother, and his face pressed into the nape of her neck, where it fit perfectly. Her crop-top and hair were wet, but her skin was warm.

‘You’ll be OK,’ she whispered.

He nearly burst into tears, but gritted his teeth and fought the urge with all his strength, even though he was nearly paralysed with fear—for Riki, and for Aunty Hine. Fear of Puarata, Donna, and the warrior. Fear that his mother would never hold him again. And fear that his dad would never be his dad again.

He became conscious of Pania murmuring in his ear, whispering in Maori, words he didn’t know. He felt a sense of shame that he couldn’t speak his own language. He tried to speak, but Pania shushed him gently.

‘You’ll be OK. Just listen. You’ve been brave, and you will be again. Everything seems strange, because you’ve stepped into a world you didn’t know existed. But it was always here, waiting for you.
Aotearoa.
It’s light and magical, but it can be dark too. Just like your world. It’s like a river, and when you put one foot in, the current won’t let you go. You just have to swim. It would be better if you knew more of tikanga-Maori, your culture. But you will learn. You just have to be brave, and believe in yourself.’

‘What should I do?’

‘You can still go to Taupo, as you planned. But remember, they know where your mother lives, so you must be careful. Puarata is strong, and he won’t give up.’

Mat went still, those words echoing in his skull.
They know where your mother lives.
Of course they did! How could he be so stupid? Fear for his mother threatened to unleash another wave of tears, but he blinked them away, angry at himself. ‘But then…what can I do? Where can I go that’s safe?’

Pania stroked his head. ‘I don’t think you should go to your mother. They’ll be watching her. There’s a place in Waikato, a pa near Maungatautari, on a bend in the river. There is a man there, a tohunga, called Hakawau. He can help you. Go to him.’

Mat nodded, though when he thought of not seeing his mother, something inside him refused. He said nothing. Pania gave him another squeeze then stepped away from him, held both his shoulders. ‘If you hear the whispers again, don’t listen to them. Just take hold of the tiki, or even your koru, and say
‘Shhh’.
As if you were making a baby go to sleep. OK?’

Mat frowned slightly but nodded. After a night of such strangeness, this sounded like perfectly good advice.

‘One more thing. If you’re in trouble, take hold of the tiki, picture a Maori warrior in your mind, and call out for Toa to help you. OK?’

Toa?

Pania smiled. ‘This is important. You hold the tiki, picture a Maori warrior in your mind, and call out for Toa. He has dark curls, and is very handsome.’ She smiled at this, and stroked his cheek.

‘Is Toa his name?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It is what he is. It means warrior.’

‘Oh.’ The way she said it made this warrior seem frightening.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got to go now, Mat. But you’ll be fine, and maybe I’ll see you when you get back.’

A lump rose in his throat. ‘I…I’d like that,’ he managed, desperately wanting to hug her again. But she stepped away.

‘Off you go now,’ she said. ‘Good luck!’

She turned, and walked down to the water’s edge. When she turned, the moko on her chin was back.

‘Who are you?’ he asked her again.

She turned. Her skin caught the light, gleamed dully like bronze. She smiled coyly. ‘I’m Pania, of course. Silly!’

Then she turned and dived silently into the sea. It swallowed her like an open mouth, and from that mouth came that half-heard chanting again…Mat backed away, then turned and ran, along the wave line, where the beach was darkest.

For half an hour he felt bursting with energy, striding along the shore, almost feverish with his need to get away from the lights behind him. But around eleven the energy left him, and he felt the weight of tiredness, like a massive blanket on his shoulders. He began to stagger, and his eyelids began to drag him down. He left the dark houses behind, and walked the empty beach between Westshore and Bay View. Occasional cars roared unseen on his left, beyond the embankments, on the highway. He wondered if any contained Puarata and his accomplices. Or Dad. To his
right, the sea churned sullenly. Once a gull swooped above, as though it couldn’t sleep either, then disappeared out over the waves. The tiredness got worse, until he began to feel dizzy. Each step seemed to take more effort than the last. It was as though all that he’d seen and done was bleeding him of energy.

He remembered dimly that somewhere above him, on the embankment that protected the low-lying inland from the sea, and bore the railway north, there was an old gun emplacement—a rough and dirty concrete thing half-buried in the gravel. It had been made for the Second World War, when the threat of Japanese invasion had seemed real, and there’d been rumours of Japanese submarines in the waters of Hawke Bay. He’d looked at it once—its walls were covered in graffiti, and it stank of urine and rot. Maybe he could sleep inside? Just for a while…

He turned away from the shore, and began to clamber up toward the embankment. The gravel scrunched, loud in the darkness and silence. He looked up and froze. Nearly yelped in terror. There was a massive man-shape there, still as stone, with one red eye glowing from the middle of his head. He gasped and tried to back away, when the shape spoke.

‘Ullo? Someone there?’ A match flared, and Mat found himself staring at a stubbly, rough face, with a kindly smile. The red eye shrank to nothing more than a cigarette. He was a soldier, but not a modern soldier. He wore a khaki greatcoat and lemon-squeezer hat, and an old rifle over his shoulder. Mat stumbled backward, his brain refusing to take all this in, tripped, and fell backward.

‘Hey, Mike,’ he heard the soldier call. ‘There’s a lad out here.’

The soldier’s boot crunched closer, and he bent over Mat, who had no energy left to run. He held the lit match over Mat’s face. It lent the soldier’s face a ruddy glow.

‘Hey, lad, you OK?’ Another soldier appeared beside him, thinner, with a small moustache. He was also wearing an out-of-date uniform. Maybe they belonged to some military re-enactment society, Mat thought dazedly.

‘He looks dead-beat, Wally,’ the new man commented.

Mat felt a sense of panic as they both bent over, but as they touched him, he felt a strange welling of sound rise from the waves behind him. Entwined in the sound of the waves was a girl’s voice, singing, something like a lullaby. A wash of dizzying lassitude made his head spin. He barely felt the two soldiers as they carried him into the warm, and wrapped him in blankets that smelt of camphor and grease. He hardly tasted the steaming cocoa they poured down his throat, or heard the rough but soothing words. Instead he felt as if he was in a tumble-dryer, slowly spinning into a soothing cradle of comforting, all-embracing sleep.