The Wind City (20 page)

Cuba Street, clashing and colourful and loud, half a dozen different strains of busker music drifting through the air, coffee-smell joining it. Full of interesting little boutiques at the bottom, bars and cafés further up, then music shops and groceries and more cafés. The further up the gentle slope you go the older it gets, buildings with cramped external ladders leading to boarded-up windows. A lot of important things that happened in Wellington happened there; it’s where everyone is told to go, anyway, wander down beautiful Cuba Mall, the best place for pedestrians for shoppers for everyone, historic Cuba Street, absolutely positively Cuba.

Steffan figured it was a good place to start. He paused to recover and to buy some basic supplies, and once he had, Cuba Street was where he went.

Most of his research had turned up one thing: that the various spirits and mythical creatures of Māori foklore (‘atua’, collectively) were natural products of the land. The pale musical patupaiarehe (or tūrehu, or pakepakehā. Karitehe, korakorako, Tahurangi, heketoro. There was a wealth of names surrounding most everything, and he’d noted down each one.) inhabited the North Island and the maero (mohoao, maero, maeroero, or Te-aitanga-a-Hine-mate-ro) the harsher terrain of the South. There were spirits of places, or sometimes of important people or of no discernible origin at all, but – places, mainly, guardian taniwha of specific areas, multitudes of little fairy things that inhabited the woodland, so on so forth. They also often tended to be invisible (aringaro) and – he needed to stop thinking in so many layers. His mind was full enough of thoughts as it was.

They often tended to be only visible to humans when they wanted to be, whether through excellent camouflage or use of magic he didn’t know. A combination of the two, perhaps. They were unlike some mythological beings in other cultures in that they didn’t seem to have any antipathy to civilisation; certainly the patupaiarehe liked skulking in their mountains and mists, but there were plenty of beings that took human husbands or wives or sought humans out – primarily to eat them, admittedly, but still. It was a little ridiculous expecting to find them in the city, but he figured it could actually be the
best
place to look. The theme was very much one of atua being of the land, belonging to it. The city, Steff thought, would’ve made its own spirits by now, surely, or older ones would’ve adapted to it, much as Māori culture had been knocked back by the harmful effects of colonisation but was now vibrant and growing, adapting with the times and to an extent shaping them. Atua would probably be like that.

Also if he wanted to seek out forest,
real
forest thick with birds and such, he’d need to go to either Zealandia or the town belt, and he didn’t want to be that far from reliable wi-fi. Ridiculous, but there it was. He wondered if there were any internet spirits, and made a note to look into it.

The almost everyday nature of the accounts of atua implied that they’d still be around in the modern day. But the man drained of blood indicated patupaiarehe – they did drink blood, in some of the stories, almost more vampiric than fae in that respect – and that didn’t quite make sense. He wondered what would drive such solitary creatures to instead stalk the city streets, how they would adapt, how city atua would handle things like sunlight and crowds.

He wanted to know the answers to these questions, and he was confident that the atua would have them. He was just at a loss as to how to
find
them; what could he do? Wander up and down Cuba Street and other places, squinting at every stranger like they might be a creature in disguise? That was stupid, and stupid he wasn’t.

In the end he shouldn’t have worried. It’d be harder
not
to see them, now.

Atua were everywhere. Well, not everywhere, but maybe one in a hundred of the people he passed seemed to be. ‘Seemed to be’ because it was hard to distinguish them from humans, but even at a rough estimate… They were shadowy things lurking in the shade, mainly, not many seemed to like sunlight – but some
did
, and there were,
things
, walking the streets. It was disorienting and where could he even start? It should’ve been more disorienting than it was, though, which was the confusing part – how he’d never seen them before but at the same time felt instinctively like they belonged there. It was like something in the world or in his mind had shifted, like things had been turned on their head: yesterday there had only been humans here, and now there were atua as well. But at the same time it felt like they had always been there. It hurt his head.

Steffan jingled the spare change in his pocket. He had a place to start, at least.

He found the busker in the same place he’d been last time, but he had an elegant teapot for a head now, and was playing the guitar. Steffan stopped awkwardly in front of him, and as an afterthought tossed a couple more coins into the hat.

“
There’s nothing surer, the rich get rich and the poor get poorer
– cheers, mate –
in the meantime, in between time, ain’t we got fun
?” The creature stopped singing for the moment and deftly strummed chords, looking up at Steffan cheerfully. “Anything I can do for you? You got a request?”

“Not the kind you’re meaning,” Steffan said. He cleared his throat self-consciously. Nearby, a woman tugged a schoolchild along; a frail goth girl and brawny man sat talking, both in full-length skirts. There were shoppers and stoners and everything was so normal and human, and here he was talking to a man with a teapot for a head, and no one even noticed. “Ah. I. This is going to sound ridiculous, but. Might you perhaps be an… atua?”

The busker’s fingers paused on the strings. “Ahh,” he said knowingly, nodding. His head was really quite fascinating, Steff noted; it ought to have looked absurd, but it didn’t, somehow. “Yep.” He tilted his head – spout? –
head
quizzically. “Are you?”

“Oh – me? No. No? I – no, I’m not. Thoroughly human.”

“Thought so.” The busker played a major chord, pleasant and warm. “Not from New Zealand, though?”

Steffan blinked. “Ah… ”

“That
might
have something to do with you seeing me,” the busker mused to himself, “or, it might not.”

“So you are in disguise? I mean, I wasn’t sure, because, I did see you earlier, but I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Even though I… did? But only realised it when another thing happened? Does that make sense?”

“I weave a little spell of not-noticingness into my songs most of the time, that’s all. I… don’t usually hide, exactly – people just gloss over me in their minds. I don’t mind that you saw me, honest. I’m not in the least annoyed or offended. Especially,” he added, nudging his shoe against his hat, “as you’ve been so generous.”

Steffan scratched the back of his neck. “I was just… There’s. Um.” He fumbled in his wallet for more change, but he was all out.

The busker chuckled. “Nah, jokes. So what do you want?” He tilted his spout hopefully. “Beatles song? I know a lot of Beatles songs.”

“No, I… I want to ask you some things.”

The busker sighed, a whistling exhalation of breath. “All right then,” he said, and carefully placed his guitar in its case. He pulled on a tweed jacket that Steffan wouldn’t mind having in his own wardrobe, swept his hat onto his head somehow and stood. Steff had always rather liked that about the Cuba Mall buskers, how sometimes they’d just find a patch and play for a while and leave; there was a sort of casualness to it. As someone who had (much to his parents’ disappointment) never been able to master any musical instrument, he admired that, whatever it was in the human – or, uh, inhuman – soul that drove people to make music for strangers in exchange for just a few coins and the sheer joy of it, making strangers smile or pause or dance.

“I’m Steffan,” he said stiffly. “Or Steff, if you like.” The busker had more or less welcoming body language, standing with one hand in his jeans pocket and the other steadying his guitar. That helped a little.

“You can call me Cuba,” the busker said.

That sounded awfully evasive, the phrasing of it. “Is that your name?”

The busker looked blank. “I don’t really have one. I’m still young.”

“All… right then. Cuba. I want to ask you a question.”

Cuba looked at him almost indulgently. “What is it, then?” he said.

Steffan pulled out his notes. “What do you eat?” he said, picking one at random. “Or, if you don’t eat, from where do you derive your energy? You seem comfortable in sunlight; is that something all atua have adapted to gradually, or were you – born/made that way; also, how are atua made? I understand if you don’t want to answer that one. Might there be any atua living in New Zealand that aren’t from New Zealand stories – werewolves or demons or something ridiculous like that – or, actually, would there be those at
all
, because if this is a worldwide phenomenon then studying the wider ramifications could be fascinating. Exactly how many –”

“Wait, wait,” the busker said, holding up a hand. “Is that all you want?”

Steffan looked down at his list. “It’s quite a lot of information, to be fair,” he said.

Cuba rubbed at the bowl of the teapot, where a chin would be on a human face. “You don’t want to know about… magic charms to make people love you, or how to live forever, or ways to be wealthy? Or like… revenge?” The busker looked dumbfounded. “Or
anything
?”

Steffan was hugging his list close to himself almost protectively. He made himself relax and shrugged. “I just want to know things,” he said, which was all he could think of to say, because it was all there was to it.

“You what?” said Cuba, and he shook his head. He bent over a little with his hands on his waist and let out a long whistle of bewilderment. “Steffan, kid. You’re something
new
.”

“Saint always said that I dressed like an English professor from the forties,” Steff said, rather at a loss.

Cuba laughed, a big hearty laugh. Then he straightened and looked at Steffan for a while, all
appraising
. He said, “I’ve made enough for today, I guess – why don’t I introduce you to the gang? I know someone who will just eat you
up
!”

Steffan flinched. “I, I don’t… ” he said, because he was standing in the sunlight on a busy street and it had only just occurred to him that this shabby friendly man might also be something to be afraid of.

“Oh,” Cuba said, and patted hesitantly at Steff’s shoulder. “Bad choice of words? I’m sorry.”

He sounded honestly compassionate. Steffan knew from long experience that his first impressions of people could be a little naïve, but perhaps he could trust his instincts this time? It wasn’t every day an atua offered to introduce you to his friends; he’d hate to lose the opportunity.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Cuba continued, and Steff shook his head.

“No, I’d love to meet them, whoever you want. That, no, yes, that would be more or less ideal, thank you.”

Cuba tipped his hat at a jaunty angle, seeming relieved. “No problem,” he said, and walked a few metres then came to a stop near the Bucket Fountain, where he whistled again.

There was a nymph in the Bucket Fountain.

That, Steffan hadn’t been expecting. He…
supposed
it made sense, though. The colourful tipping splashing tower did end up on a lot of postcards and brochures, and everyone seemed to agree that the eyesore was pretty iconic; if it was the amount of energy that was focused on a place that gave a location resident spirits, then it was natural that the Bucket Fountain would have one.

The nymph stepped out of the pool – there really should not have been space for her in there, as the water was all of twenty centimetres deep – and threaded her arm through Cuba’s and laughed. She was colourful and clashy and loud, like you’d expect, with rainbow-painted nails and hair in bright streaks of red and blue and yellow. She looked almost human otherwise, like a number of girls Steff had seen, though her clothes – denim cutoff shorts and a halter top – were drenched. Already a damp patch was forming on Cuba’s jacket, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Cuuuba,” she said, hanging off his elbow. “Who’s this douchebag?” She wrinkled her nose, smiling so Steffan knew it wasn’t an insult.

“Foreign magistrate,” Cuba said seriously. “Agent for the FBI. Wandering paint salesman.” The girl elbowed him, laughing.

“I’m a student,” Steffan said, holding out his hand.

She took it and shook it with too much enthusiasm. “Nice to meetcha!” she chirped, and went back to hanging on Cuba’s arm.

Steffan asked, “Are you something akin to a ponaturi, more like a taniwha, or closer to the Greek concept of nymphs and naiads?”

The girl laughed. “He’s
weird
,” she said.

“I know, right?” Cuba said.

Steffan shifted from foot to foot and frowned a bit.

She took pity on him. “Aw, honey,” she said. “That’s
good
– it’s so
dull
being stuck in a pool all day.”

“You’re hardly stuck,” Cuba said, but fondly. He looked towards Steffan. “I’ll tell you what I can, kid, and I can take you to the Hikurangi, if you want to see some of the more traditional of our folk, which I guess you probably do. Apparently there’s a taniwha hanging about! Hasn’t been a taniwha of Wellington since old Whātaitai. That’ll be good for the Hikurangi crowd.” Cuba puffed up a bit. “Us newer ones tend to fend for ourselves.”

“It helps that we can actually go out in sunlight,” the girl said. They both sniggered.

“See, the older ones will be good for you to talk to. I can’t give you a, whatchamacallit, unbiased subject sample,” Cuba said, adding, “I took a few courses at Vic. Good place. Good people.”

That mental image was enough to leave Steffan completely speechless for most of their trip down the street. He settled for just tagging along behind the two of them, as the Bucket Fountain girl tugged at Cuba’s arm and talked. And talked. And talked.

“Why are you a teapot today?” she was saying, when he’d regained the ability to pay attention. “That’s booooring, and what does it even have to do with anything? You were so much prettier when you were a flowerpot, you should do that.”