Taniwha's Tear (15 page)

A slender brown arm reached out and took the pouch. Lena joined Mat, her eyes round and curious. ‘What’s happening?’

Jones answered her question. ‘This is Mister Burns, a trader in these parts. There are problems in transmuting ammunition from one world to the next, as Master Mat may well know. Powder can become unstable, as can any other flammables. So here, we have to trade for it.’

‘Who do you trade with?’

‘Well, the British, mostly,’ Jones answered. ‘There are well-stocked garrisons here and abouts. Mister Burns has the contacts locally to keep men that need such items supplied.’ He lowered his tone, and muttered, ‘like Te Kooti and half the rebel tribes,’ in a dark voice. ‘He makes his money on both sides of his bread does our Mister Burns. A tricky fellow.’

Mat stared at the man. He seemed vaguely familiar. ‘Does he have a brother?’

‘No, but he has a son that trades in Turanga. If you’ve been over there, you might have seen him. Hori White, they call him.’ Jones’ voice was slightly scornful.

Mat remembered the beer-seller, and nodded slowly.
He watched as the back flaps of the canvas cover on the wagon were opened, and a long box lifted to the ground, followed by several small barrels. A soldier opened the long box with a crowbar, and began tossing muskets to his gathering comrades. They looked sniffily at the old weapons, but handled them expertly as they tried the lock and triggers under Burns’ watchful gaze.

Jones went back up to the trader, and said something quietly. The trader looked as if he’d just been reminded of something, and produced a small flask which he handed to Jones with a wink of the eye. More money changed hands. Then the trader shook hands once more with Jones. ‘Well then, me an’ my missus’ll be havin’ a wee sample of the local waters, afore we ’ead back, I’m thinkin’,’ the trader said. He reached into the wagon again, and helped down an imperious-looking Maori woman in a thick birdfeather cloak. She looked about her like a duchess, then stared at Lena with cold eyes. She said something in Maori, too low to catch, in Burns’ ear. Burns nodded and laughed. Mat felt Lena colour.

‘What did she say?’ she whispered to Mat, but he had no idea.

In a few minutes Taylor’s men had fully equipped and distributed powder from the barrels into flasks. They looked incongruous, these men in modern gear with antique-looking rifles. A couple were fitting electronic sights to the barrels. He watched Jones shift the pile of abandoned modern weapons back to the real world with a gesture. Then several more of the soldiers appeared
with strings of horses and the soldiers mounted. Jones went to Taylor.

‘You’ve a hard ride ahead of you, Captain. I expect you at Tuai in four hours. Are you up to it?’

‘We’ve a native guide, sir, and we have spare mounts. It’s a more direct route than yours we’ll be taking. An’ my boys rode with Jeb Stuart, sir. Best cav’ry in the whole goddamn Civil War. We’ll be there.’ He glanced at Burns, who was leading his Maori wife up the stairs. ‘I don’t trust the trader, sir. He’ll sell news of us to all comers quick as light.’

Jones glanced over his shoulder. ‘It’s of no moment. It’ll be all over today. He knows when to be silent, does Barnet Burns. Now go! And be there at three!’

‘Sir!’ The captain saluted, and then in a rumble of hooves, the men galloped away, towards the west as if in a race. The earth shook as they were swallowed up by the trees.

Jones looked back at Mat. ‘They will meet us at Tuai. Unfortunately, this was the closest Burns would come to our destination, and all was at short notice. Come, let us return to your world, and our vehicles.’

Within a few minutes, they were back under sunny skies, and after loading the pile of modern weaponry into the boot of the cars, Dwayne and the other driver had them speeding in convoy towards Wairoa.

R
iki and Damien lounged in Riki’s grandfather’s porch, pretending they cared about the one-day cricket game that was playing on the small TV. Every so often his grandfather grimaced then chuckled as the Kiwi batsmen played and missed, which was happening a lot. It was still only a few overs in after a late start through rain, but already it didn’t look good. Maybe it would rain and save the team. For some reason, the only city in New Zealand where it rained in summer was always the one hosting a cricket match, in this case Auckland.

Their minds were far away though. It was the morning of the thirty-first, and Mat and Lena were…well, they could be anywhere.

‘We could have told Mat’s folks, and got him grounded,’ Damien commented morosely in a low voice so Riki’s grandfather wouldn’t hear.

Riki shook his head. ‘Mat promised that old lady he’d help her daughter. That’s a solemn thing, I reckon,
especially in that world. Not doing it would be like breaking tapu. I wouldn’t do it. So I’m not sure he has much choice.’

‘I still don’t like it, man. He’s going to need help, if it’s dangerous, and we don’t know anything about this Jones character.’

‘He said Wiri recommends the guy, and Hoanga too. And he said they’ll have trained soldiers with guns and stuff, man. What’re you and I going to do but get in the way?’ Riki clenched his jaw. ‘He’s right. We’d just be a liability. We’d just be in the bloody way.’

Damien slowly crushed his empty Coke can, his face a study in emptiness. In Auckland at the cricket, it started to rain again.

‘Heh, heh, more rain,’ cackled Riki’s grandfather, getting up. ‘Like a rain dance, that cricket, eh? They should play it here, where we need a few drops.’ He chuckled as he headed for the kitchen.

Damien looked at Riki. ‘It’s eleven o’clock. They’re long gone. So what are we going to do?’

Riki shrugged, and tried not to think about where Mat might be. The clock seemed to be frozen on the wall, and outside the sun was weirdly bright and cheery as if nothing was wrong. Finally he sat up, looked at Damien and shook his head. ‘Nothing. There’s nothing we can do.’

Riki wasn’t used to thinking too hard about anything. Life was too easy to get hung up over much. He knew kids at school that stressed over exams or girls or sport or family, but he didn’t need any of that. ‘Life provides,’
his mum always said. His family was huge and they didn’t have a lot, but they got by. Life was full of small pleasures, if you knew where to find them—his dad’s liquor stash; a night at a mate’s place; someone with a PlayStation and cool games; girls that preferred laughs to looks; and more lately, the satisfaction of a well-done taiaha routine, or the adrenalin of a good run along the beach before school.

The latter had come from making friends with Mat and Damien. Both looked after themselves, and it was kind of infectious. Most of Riki’s mates at school were on the wild side, and so was he sometimes. They were a good laugh and didn’t get too out of hand. But he knew some were going to end up going the gang way, the prison and hoodlum way. He wanted to do better than that. It wasn’t his parents’ admonishments or the priests telling him to do right, it just made more sense to go straight. He wasn’t dumb; he could make the straight path work for him and make it pay. He had a grudging respect for Tama Douglas, a Maori who had standing in the world, even though Tama had punched him once. That was bygones. Grudges were a waste of time.

He knew that letting Mat go with Jones was the right thing, even if it felt wrong. It just didn’t make it easy. In the real world, you could let policemen and army men do the dangerous stuff, and know they were trained for it and got paid for it. Letting his schoolmate go off alone tasted bad in his mouth. But what was to be done?

Being friends with Mat and the passing proximity to
the weirdness in Mat’s life was a source of vicarious fun. It was like being friends with a CIA agent—you couldn’t tell anyone, but it gave you a secret thrill. He liked Mat’s seriousness, and the way he looked to Riki for guidance. He was like a little brother, even though they were the same age. Mat was an only child, sheltered and naive, while Riki had grown up fast, in his sprawling family with all the comings and goings that brought. So he was much more street-smart than a sheltered kid like Mat. But in Mat’s new world of tohunga and taniwha, it was Riki who was the newbie.

With Damien, it was a more equal friendship, and always had been. He didn’t really have many Pakeha friends in Napier, where peer pressure and prejudice worked on both sides. Up here in Gisborne on holiday, it was great to hang with someone who was completely unlike himself, and yet they always got on well. Sure, Dame could be a nerd at times, and he had no idea how to chat up a girl, but he was also pretty smart and without a trace of malice towards anyone. That made him Riki’s sort of friend.

‘What’s on at the movies, man?’ he finally drawled, as they watched the covers come on at the cricket. If they could just lock into a good Hollywood flick, maybe time would pass without them noticing, and then Mat would be back and there’d be nothing to worry about.

‘Sod all, just dumbass Hollywood blockbusters.’

‘I like dumbass blockbusters! What’s on?’

‘I dunno, but let me guess…a
Terminator
sequel, a
Transformers
sequel, a
Batman
sequel, a
Sequel
sequel, and the sequel to every other movie that came out and turned a profit. And probably a chick flick, of course.’

‘When did you become an art snob, bro?’

Damien snorted, then sagged listlessly again. ‘Maybe we should just head for the concert again?’

Riki nodded. ‘Yeah, let’s do that. They can text us when they’re back, an’ we can meet up an’ party in the New Year at the show.’

As they rose, there was a sudden bustle inside the house, and they heard Grandad guiding someone to the back porch. They stared as Cassandra poked her head out the screen door. ‘Uh, hi, guys. Is Lena here?’

Riki looked at Damien.
Uh-oh.
‘Ah, no, she’s off with Mat,’ he said. Cassandra coloured a little, the way she always did when someone said Mat’s name. Damien never noticed it, but Riki was good at reading people. ‘Didn’t Lena tell ya?’ he asked.

Cassandra flopped into Grandad’s wicker chair and peered at them. She was wearing her usual mishmash of bright colours, with wires for this or that gadget festooned about her, and a small headset in one ear. She had a mini-laptop tucked under her arm, and almost unconsciously opened it and typed as she looked at them both. ‘Lena told her dad she was going to be at my place, but she told me she was going to be with her dad. I just had to cover for her when her dad phoned about something. Her mobile is off.’ Her hand suddenly flew to her mouth. ‘Are she and Mat…you know…?’

Damien blushed the same colour as Cassandra, a deep scarlet. ‘No, they’re…’ He clammed up.

Cassandra didn’t miss his abrupt silence. ‘No, they’re…what?’ she asked sharply, while her hands blurred on the keyboard. ‘Is this something to do with that Kyle woman we saw attack those guys?’

Riki made up his mind quickly.
I kinda like her. And she deserves to know, but where do you start?
‘No. Nothing like that. They’ve had to go off with this Jones guy, the guy that’s going to tutor Mat and Lena. They’ll be back this evening.’ He looked at Damien for back-up.

‘Yeah,’ Damien nodded. ‘Some thing like that.’

‘Tutor them in what?’ the girl probed.

Riki looked at Damien.
If Lena’s not said anything to her…
‘Dunno.’

Cassandra hugged a knee. Her eyes behind the glasses were closed for a few seconds, and then she opened them again. ‘Come on, guys, what’s really going on? Whatever that Kyle woman did to those guys that night can’t be natural, right, unless she’s a martial arts expert or something, and then Lena blew all that rubbish around. How did she do that? I’ve heard her go on about how special she is and can make people do whatever she wants, and ever since she met Mat she’s been raving about it all. She can’t help herself. She’s been going on about “magic” and the “Ghost Worlds”. I mean, she’s a pathological liar, but this is extreme, even for her.’

Riki looked up. ‘What do you mean, “she’s a pathological liar”?’

‘Just that. She makes out like she’s special and happy and the centre of the world. You’d think she was the world’s most popular girl. But I’ve hung with her in Auckland while our parents did business, and I tell you, she’s got no friends—in fact, everyone treats her like she’s poison. I’ve seen girls and guys cross streets to avoid her, and she knows she’s being blanked. I reckon she’s made lots of enemies, for a teenager. I reckon she’s freaked people without even knowing she’s doing it, and now people avoid her like the plague. I’ve seen her pages on Facebook and MySpace, and she’s got less friends than I have.’

Riki looked at Damien, puzzled. The Lena they knew seemed like a guy magnet.

Cassandra looked at them both. ‘Okay, you don’t want to tell me something. Thanks, guys!’ she said sarcastically, far from happy. ‘So, whatcha doing?’

‘Movie, maybe?’ Ricki suggested. But he wasn’t really enthused. He just wanted the day to vanish, and to know Mat and Lena were back, safe. ‘Or back to the concert?’

‘Dull,’ Cassandra stated. ‘I’m kinda over that concert. I prefer sci-fi conventions and tech-expos.’

‘Really,’ Damien remarked. ‘I’m shocked.’

She poked her tongue at him. ‘I reckon we should—’

The porch door opened, and a stranger stepped through. They all stared, as the newcomer thanked Grandad and then turned and looked them up and down. He looked like he was fifty, with lank silver-grey hair, and a long, deeply tanned face, clean-shaven but not recently. He
was clad in a brown leather jacket that reached to his knee-length boots, and he smelt of horses. There was a sheepdog at his feet, just like the ‘Footrot Flats’ dog, that stared up at the three teens as intently as the man did.

The man cleared his throat with a rasping cough, and looked at Riki expectantly. ‘I’m looking for Matiu Douglas.’ His voice held a burr to it, an accent from the rural parts of the British Isles, perhaps.

Riki eyed the bulge beneath the man’s jacket, just where a gun might be holstered, and wondered which world this man was from. ‘There’s no Matiu Douglas here,’ he answered for all of them.

The man rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. ‘Damn. He’s out, his folks are out and his phone is dead. But Wiri gave me your address to try.’ He scratched his head, and looked thoughtfully at the dog. ‘It’s the twenty-first century. I thought communication was instant here,’ he grumbled.

‘You know Wiri?’ Riki asked.

The man looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Aye, that I do. Him that’s engaged to that Kelly. Never met him, but we’ve spoken on the telephone a few times of late.’

‘Mat’s gone off with his girlfriend, and this guy called Jones. I’ve not met him myself, but Wiri told Mat he’s a cranky old bastard.’

The man grimaced slightly. ‘Did he just?’ Then he scowled. ‘Did you say he is with Jones now?’

Riki nodded, looking at Damien blankly.

‘Who are you?’ interrupted Cassandra bluntly.

The man looked at her and smiled wryly. ‘Well, ma’am, seeing as you ask, I am Jones.’

Riki opened his mouth and said the first thing that came out. ‘No, you’re not.’

The man smiled, slightly patronisingly. ‘I’d like to think I’d know a small detail like my own name. Aethlyn Jones, once of Wales, at your service.’ He bowed mockingly. He indicated the dog. ‘This is Godfrey, but he prefers to be called “God”. He’s modest like that.’

‘But you can’t be Jones,’ Riki said uneasily.

The Welshman bit his lip, then crouched and ruffled the dog’s neck, staring at the ground. The dog stared at Riki in the same way Wiri’s dog, Fitzy, sometimes did…and Mat had once told Riki about what Fitzy really was…‘Can’t I just?’ the man murmured. The dog seemed to snigger.

But Riki felt no amusement at all, just a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Mat is with Jones now. And so is Lena.’
They better be…

To get some privacy, they all walked five minutes down to Anzac Park, a small grassy dell amidst old oaks and willows on the banks of the Waimate River, where families were playing on the children’s equipment. They went to the other side of the park where there was no one else, and sat on the grass and talked. The river burbled a few yards away, and rowing crews practised, rhythmically plying the waters. The dog crouched at Aethlyn Jones’
feet, peering at them in a way that made Riki nervous.

‘So none of you has met this supposed other “Jones”?’ Aethlyn Jones asked again.

They all shook their heads. ‘It was DJ Sassman that introduced them,’ Riki remembered. ‘Sassman is like, one of you…what do you call yourselves anyway? Wizards? Sorcerers?’

Cassandra turned to Riki as if he’d gone mad. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, but they all ignored her.

‘Any word will do. I prefer “adept”,’ Jones replied. ‘Who is DJ Sassman?’

‘A techno DJ at Rhythm and Vines,’ Cassandra replied distantly. She frowned as if a thought had just occurred to her, then returned to typing on her laptop, as she had been doing throughout the conversation, to Aethlyn Jones’ barely suppressed annoyance.

‘A what-what at what-and-what?’ Jones asked with a measure of exasperation.

‘He’s a musician, and he’s performing at a local festival here. And he’s what you call an adept,’ Damien responded, flexing his right hand. ‘But how do we know you’re Jones?’

‘Easy,’ put in Cassandra. ‘Wiri knows your voice, right?’ she said to Jones, who nodded. ‘Well then…’ She typed something into the laptop and suddenly a phoneline was ringing from her laptop. It was answered a few seconds later by a male voice.

‘Hello?’ Riki recognised Wiri’s voice.

‘Is that Mister Wiri?’ Cassandra said in a put-on adult voice.

Wiri’s voice was guarded. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘Oh. Er, I’m a friend of Mat Douglas. May I call you Wiri?’

‘Yes,’ Wiri answered guardedly. ‘Who is this?’ he asked again.

‘A friend of Mat Douglas,’ Cassandra repeated. ‘Could you identify this voice, please?’ She handed a tiny microphone attached to her laptop to the Welshman. ‘Say hello, but not your name,’ she invited, her voice uncharacteristically firm.