Guardian of the Dead (32 page)

I could have avoided the whole sick-making ordeal by closing my eyes and turning away, but that struck me as somehow cowardly, and Mark had said I'd be able to control the vision eventually. I had some respite when we went over the strait that divided the two islands. But I stiffened as we reached the North Island, bumping my head against the weird side flaps of the headrest.

I'd known that Te Ika a M
ui drifted through his uneasy slumber, while the children of the maiden of the dawn walked blithely on his back. After the canoe, I'd even prepared to see him.

But I hadn't realised the scale. I couldn't see the whole of M
ui's fish, any more than I could see the whole island. Valleys and mountains were enormous slashes and humps in his skin, where the tools of M
ui's brothers had torn at him. And as we came in to land at Napier, the worst of his wounds showed itself to me. All the green-drenched winter landscape vanished, the vineyards and patches of paddocks, and beaches as familiar as my own face in the mirror. Instead I saw the festering flesh of the great fish's belly and the massive bone hook, yellow with age, that was the steep curve of the bay.

I pressed the bag to my mouth and clenched my eyes shut against the wave of terror at the sheer immensity of our task. Huddled around myself, I didn't stir until the plane roared and bumped beneath me.

The man beside me tapped my arm. ‘We are here now,' he said kindly, and pulled my handbag down from the luggage compartment. He had to go on tiptoe to do it, settling back on his heels with the bag cradled carefully in his hands. Guilt suddenly twisted in me. I wanted to tell him to go, to take the next flight back to Christchurch, where he might be safe.

But I couldn't warn them all.

Instead I took the bag, and smiled my thanks, and shuffled through the plane to the gate where Mark waited, hands stuffed in his pockets to prevent me from taking them.

Napier being what it was, I wasn't off the plane for more than ten minutes before I was hailed by a friend of my dead grandmother.

‘Eleanor, dear! Hello!'

I ran a quick search through my memory to confirm that I had no idea who this round, purple-haired woman was, and pushed extra enthusiasm into my voice to make up for it. ‘Good morning! How are you?'

She flicked a quick glance to my left, where Mark was standing awkwardly. ‘Fine, dear. Just fine. Holidays, is it? Home to visit your school friends?'

I made a vaguely affirmative noise and looked around.

‘Are you meeting someone here?'

She patted her curls. ‘Oh no. Fred and I are off to Sydney for a fortnight with the lawn bowls team. Oops, looks like we're off!' The octogenarians were laboriously collecting small suitcases on wheels. She patted my arm. ‘Lovely seeing you, dear. Say hello to your mother from me. Hope she's enjoying her trip!' She bustled off.

‘Who was that?' Mark asked.

I made sure she was out of earshot before I replied. ‘I have no idea.'

‘But she knew you.'

‘Well, yeah, this is my hometown. She was just one of those family friends.'

Mark looked slightly stunned. ‘Oh. Do you have a big family?'

I knew it was mean, but I couldn't stop myself. ‘Just the usual,' I said casually. ‘Two parents, four grandparents – three dead now – one sister in Australia. Some aunts and uncles and cousins. Nothing big.'

‘Oh.'

‘We had a dog, but he died. And about ten thousand guinea pigs, also dead.' I glanced at him and stopped, carefully avoiding touching him. ‘You have family too, you know.'

His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘My mother—'

‘Not her. The Waldgraves. I mean, not that they're perfect or anything. Kevin's great, but his brothers are kind of arseholes. His parents are okay, for High Country snobs.' I paused. ‘Actually, his dad is named after your dad.'

He looked stubborn. ‘I knew that.'

‘Okay.'

‘They're not – I couldn't tell them.'

‘Well, I'm telling Kevin everything when we get back. I promised.' I shrugged. ‘Just something to think about. He really is great.'

Mark looked thoughtful. ‘Do you, um, like him?'

‘Like him? Smooches-like-him? Primary-school-want-to-get-married-behind-the-bike-sheds-at-morning-teatime like him?'

He smiled. ‘I wouldn't know about that either.'

‘Boy, you missed out. No. He's my mate.'

He looked at me, then over my shoulder, blushing slightly, ‘Uh . . .'

To hell with it. ‘I like you, though,' I said casually, clutching my handbag to stop my hands from shaking.

‘Can we talk about it later?' he said quickly, staring over my shoulder.

I flinched at the rejection, and then, as the deep, pleasant voice came behind me, realised, once again, that the universe wasn't all about me.

‘So this is the little woman!' the voice said, and I twisted to face someone I already knew I wasn't going to like.

He was a short, stocky man, not more than chin-height on me, with skin dark and smooth as oil, and thin, sharp eyebrows. His face was wrinkle-free, and his tight, short curls had no white hairs, but I had the impression of agelessness, not youth. He wasn't patupaiarehe, but now that I knew to look for it, there was a similar sense of something completely out of place, like a Chinese opera aria in the middle of a rugby match. A hot, rich smell stung my nostrils, unlike any cologne I'd ever smelled before.

‘If you keep staring, my dear, your face might freeze that way.' His voice, with its precise British accent, was so dry that it took me a moment to realise it was a threat, not a joke. He shifted his attention to Mark while I was trying to form a response. ‘Delighted to see
you
, naturally.'

Mark's face was stone. ‘What are you doing here?'

The man splayed his fingers against his heart, looking shocked. ‘I live here, darling boy. Had you forgotten?'

Mark snarled, his eyes burning green.

Alarmed, I snatched the handbag open, but the little man seemed undismayed. ‘Oh, dear, shall we scuffle in the airport? Neutral territory, you know, terribly gauche.' He paused. ‘Or you could introduce me to your little friend.'

I was nearly a foot taller than him. ‘You can call me Ms Spencer,' I said, and thrust out my hand.

The fine arches of his brows lifted. ‘Clever girl,' he murmured, and reached to grasp my hand in his. ‘You may call me Mr Sand.' He raised his eyebrows again when I met the painful grip without flinching.

‘What are you doing here?' Mark repeated, but the intensity of his glare had calmed to ordinary human hatred.

Mr Sand spread his hands. ‘I'm an envoy, dear Mark, regarding this council of war you've inspired. There's been a tiny little problem regarding venue. I made it clear that all were welcome to meet at my humble abode, but for some reason not everyone views that as a palatable solution.'

Mark snorted. ‘They don't trust you. I'm shocked.'

Sand's eyes glittered. ‘Careful, boy. If you were to accuse me of breaking guest-right, I would rightly take offence.'

‘In an airport?' Mark said, shaking back his sleeve. His bracelet jingled.

‘Touché!' He looked Mark over. I didn't like the way he did it, like someone inspecting fresh apples in the supermarket produce department. ‘Goodness. What
have
you been up to? You're positively blooming.'

Mark's mouth was a tight line. ‘What do you want me to do about the situation?'

‘Tell them they can trust me,' Sand said.

‘No,' Mark said flatly. ‘They can't. And shouldn't.'

Sand looked mournful, an expression that appeared as staged as everything else about him. ‘I had hoped you'd have come to your senses on that little contretemps. You knew what I was when you asked me to teach you.'

Mark snorted, and Sand sighed. ‘We must confer in a
home
, Mark. Without the guarantee of guest-right, no one will come at all. And no one else lives here.'

‘I wonder why.'

Sand bowed mockingly. ‘Still. What solution do you propose?'

I eyed my gear bag going around the baggage carousel again, looking lonely on the black rubber. ‘I live here,' I said. ‘We can meet at my place.'

Sand lifted an eyebrow at me. ‘Really. And what would you know about the sacred obligation between guests and host?'

‘I got an A+ for my essay on Ancient Greek Culture,' I said, smiling sweetly. ‘Does that count?'

Sand waited a long, dangerous moment, then tipped his head back to expel a laugh like bubbles rising between his even white teeth. ‘Just so,' he gurgled. ‘Ms Spencer, I shall be delighted to accept your hospitality. The meeting is set for sundown.
Do
enjoy your day.' He reached as if to take my hand again, but spun away when I stiffened. He levelled one more wide smile at Mark, and then sauntered away, a small, dapper man who lifted the hairs on the back of my neck, even in retreat. The hot smell faded as he disappeared through the wide doors.

Mark was staring at me.

‘What?' I said, a great deal more insouciantly than I felt.