Coiled Snake (The Windstorm Series Book 2) (2 page)

When my eyes blink open, all I see is a yellow spot on a flaky beige backdrop. It takes me a moment to realize I’m looking at a stain on a cracked ceiling. I lie still and stare at the stain, trying very hard to decide where I am.

And then I remember.

Kava.
So much for my escape attempt. I couldn’t even make it out of Miri’s yard. And now I’m right back where I started.

As I look around the room, I’m surprised to see that everything is the same as it was before. I’m not chained to the bed. The sliding door is still unlocked. No one is guarding me. And drifting into my room is the smell of cooking fish.

My stomach growls.

Warily, I get out of bed and slip into the hallway. A light is coming from the kitchen. I walk slowly toward it, stopping when I get to the doorway. Miri is standing at the range, cooking the fish that’s flavoring the whole house. Her back is to me.

“You’re awake,” she says without turning around. When I don’t answer, she says, “Good job you drank some tea.”

Her words startle me into responding. “What do you mean?”

She points to a bag of herbs sitting next to the teapot. “Helps you sleep.”

“That’s why I passed out?” I gasp. “You drugged me?”

“If you’d made it out of the town boundaries, you’d have been shot dead,” she says, avoiding my question. I don’t say anything, and she looks at me over her shoulder. “Told you it was dangerous outside.”

“Is that why I can’t windwalk?” I ask. “Because of the tea?”

“No.” She scoops some vegetables onto a plate. “It’s because you’re wearing a staying stone.”

My hand goes to the rock around my neck. “This? Are you serious?”

Just then, there’s a knock on the front door.

“That’ll be Fiona and Jim,” Miri says. “They’re going to be keeping an eye on you while I’m doing my fishing, so I invited them to dinner. Go on, and let them in.”

I gawk at her, and when she realizes I haven’t moved, she looks at me again. “What’s wrong with you, girl? I said, let them in.”

Slowly, I turn and take the three steps required to reach the front door. When I open it, I find a middle-aged couple standing on the stoop, polar opposites to Miri: sandy blond hair, calm blue eyes, pale skin free of any ink.

“You must be Kitara,” the woman says, and I’m reminded that Miri somehow knows my name.

“Kit,” I correct her, forcing myself to accept her handshake.

“I’m Fiona Woolley,” she replies. “And this is Jim.”

“Don’t let us keep you standing here!” Jim says. “I understand you were in a bad car accident. You’ll want to be sitting down.”

A car accident … right.
But now I know these people aren’t Rangi. As we walk into the kitchen, I try to think of how I can communicate to them that I’m a prisoner. Maybe they can help me escape.

Miri seats us at the rickety table, and Jim says grace. Then the three of them exchange pleasantries, commenting on the weather, holiday plans, how well they expect their garden will do this summer.

“Jim and Fiona are kind enough to trade their vegetables and eggs with me for my fish,” Miri says to me, as if the two of us are old buds.

“Miri’s the best darn fisherwoman in town. Heck, probably the whole South Island,” Jim says.

“That’s nice,” I say, only because they’re looking at me as if they expect me to make a comment.

“Where are you from, dear?” Fiona asks. “Miri was vague on the details.”

“America.”

“Oh, isn’t that nice? What part of the States?”

“Minnesota.”

“Isn’t that nice,” she repeats, glancing at Miri for … confirmation? “And what did you do in Minnesota?”

I know I should be thinking of a way to hint that I’m being held here against my will, but I’m distracted by the way Fiona keeps looking at Miri. “I kayaked,” I say at last.

“Well, what do you know?” Fiona exclaims, sounding more natural. “We own the outfitter here in town. When you’re feeling up to it, you should come down to the store and take one of our rigs out to the lagoon. Choice bird watching over there. There are a number of rare ones in this area. The Kotuku and the Rowi. Oh, unless … ” She looks at Miri. “Maybe it’s not such a great idea.”

I whip my eyes toward Miri.
What’s going on?

“We’ll have to see what the doctor says,” Miri replies, “But it probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, my irritation surging. “Why do we need to talk to a doctor?”

“Don’t you remember, dear?” Miri says. “We talked about this. Because of your head?”

“My head is fine,” I snap.

“Our niece had amnesia too,” Jim says, his tone far more sincere than Miri’s. “I know how hard it can be.”

“Sometimes she doesn’t even remember who I am,” Miri whispers.

Amnesia?
You’ve got to be joking.
If I weren’t so furious, I’d be tempted to laugh. What are the odds that Miri would come up with the same excuse I gave to Rye? The irony is too much. Unfortunately, this means I won’t get any help from the Woolleys; they won’t believe anything I say. I dig my nails into my thighs.

I stay quiet for the rest of the meal, trying not to glare at Miri because it will only support her claim about my memory loss.

Finally, the Woolleys get up to leave, and Fiona tells me she’ll be stopping in each morning to check on me while Miri’s out.

“Amnesia,” I say to Miri when they’re gone.

Miri shrugs. “I can’t have you frightening the neighbors with your wild stories.”

“You mean you can’t have me getting away.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. As long as you’re wearing that stone, we’ll be able to find you. You get more than five miles outside of town, and you’ll be shot.” She carries a stack of dishes to the sink. “What I can’t have is your getting someone else shot with you. That would cause a heap of trouble for me.”

I grab the stone ring around my neck. For the first time, I realize it’s also a lock, holding the chain in place below my chin, too tight to fit over my head and too thick to be cut off without hurting me. No wonder Miri didn’t bother barring me inside the house.

I glare at her for several moments. “How do you know my name?” I finally ask.

“Don’t think I’m going to tell you that yet.”

“I know it has something to do with my necklace—the one your people stole from me.”

“Yes, but that’s not the reason I know who you are.”

“Well, what is the reason?” I’m squeezing my fist so hard my fingers are losing feeling.

“I think it’s time to be off to bed.”

Stifling a scream of frustration, I storm out of the kitchen—almost ignoring the pain it causes my legs—and return to my prison cell. I slam the door behind me and collapse on the bed. The weight of my situation crushes my chest, pinning me to the mattress. I’m not giving up on an escape plan, but I have to face the fact that the odds are stacked hopelessly against me.

How on earth do they know my name? What do they want with me?
They must think I know something because of the necklace. Why else would they be keeping me alive? All I have to do is convince them that I don’t, that this is all a mistake, and maybe they’ll let me go.

No
. They won’t let me go. When they realize I don’t know anything, they’ll just kill me.

I bury my face in the pillows, and as sleep continues to elude me, find myself wishing I had some of that tea.

When the morning sun wakes me, I try to go back to sleep. Even my most frightening nightmares are better than reality.

But then there’s a knock on my door, and a second later, it opens. Fiona pokes her head around the corner, ushering in the smell of eggs and bacon.

“Would you like some breakfast, dear?”

“Is Miri here?” I ask shortly.

“No, she’s out at sea.”

“All right.”

I say as little as possible while we eat, not trusting myself to keep my temper as Fiona struggles to pose questions she thinks I’ll be able to answer. After she leaves, I return to my room and lie on the bed. I flip through some of the books on the shelf, but it’s hard when I only have one arm. Besides, I can’t focus enough to read any of them: my leg hurts too much, and I keep thinking about how I’ll never get home to the twins. My thoughts also keep drifting to the final moments at the fortress, and to Rye. Maybe it’s because I know I’ll never see him again either that I can’t get him out of my head. I wish I could have the chance to tell him the truth, but I know he’ll go to his grave thinking I was a murderer and a spy. A Rangi.

The day is painfully long, and I find myself torn between dreading Miri’s return and looking forward to it, if only to break up my boredom. At last she arrives and throws the fish she caught on the stove. We don’t speak. After dinner, Miri empties her flask into her coffee and then checks my bandages. She applies some ointment to the burns while I bite my tongue and focus on not flinching away from her. Then we go to bed.

Each day is more of the same. Waking from my nightmares—sometimes to an empty house; sometimes to a breakfast prepared by Fiona. Attempting a civil conversation. Lying in bed. Thinking about Rye. Trying not to think about Rye. Wishing my body would heal faster so I could go outside. It’s November, late spring in New Zealand, and the view from my window is unbearably alluring. But Miri forbids me from going outside—so I can heal, she says; though she also takes the time to remind me that there are people ready to shoot me on sight if I leave the town limits. I still don’t surrender hope of escaping, but it’s hard to see a way to do it. I need time. Time to get better, and time to figure out a plan. So I lie in bed and think and wait.

Miri keeps to herself, never shows any sign that she’s going to hurt me, and eventually I stop recoiling every time she walks into the room. I still don’t know why they brought me to stay with her, what they’re waiting for, but I don’t ask again.

One evening, Miri surprises me by pronouncing that my leg has healed enough for me to start walking short distances.

“Are you saying I can go outside?” I ask carefully.

“Yes. But mind you stay close to the town. No more than a few miles down the beach, understand?”

I accept her terms gladly, and the next morning, I wake up eager and early, hurrying outside without pausing to eat anything.

The air is cool and briny as I head down the path toward the beach. I walk south along the shore, relishing the wind that’s playing with my hair, and pick my way carefully around the driftwood and large, flat stones that cover the sand. I move at a gentle pace, continuing on until the golden, sun-lit sand dunes transform into jungle cliffs that seem to rise straight out of the ocean, like enormous lumps of jade. The further I get from the house, the smoother the beach becomes until the sticks and rocks disappear entirely. The only sign of life is a narrow line of bird tracks in the slick, gray sand.

I lean against a colossal stone jutting out of the beach and look behind me at the hills smothered in bright vegetation. Then I look back at the ocean. The horizon is smeared with a hazy peach glow, the rest of the sky a calming blue, and beneath it all white waves froth up as they meet the land. I’ve never seen anything like it. I close my eyes, forgetting everything for a moment, just feeling the sun’s gentle rays slide under my lashes.

Before long, however, my legs are stinging, and I recognize I might be drawing near Miri’s limit. Reluctantly, I turn around and head back toward the house. Fiona is there, making breakfast.

“You should probably rest for the remainder of the day,” she says. “So you don’t overdo it. But tomorrow why don’t you walk into the village and come visit us at the shop? Jim would love to show you the kayaks.”

“I’ll ask Miri,” I say, biting into some toast and marmalade.

Miri surprises me again by granting her permission. The next day, the sky is gray and cloudy as I leave the house and walk down the narrow street toward the town. Large, spiky plants grow on either side of the road, along with stubby trees and small, yellow wildflowers.

I walk past old but well-kept blue and gray houses, with their little sheds and gardens, until I come to an intersection marked by a white monument on a grassy knoll. I stay on the road, which a signpost tells me is called the Strand, and go past more gardens and houses—newer and more colorful—and then a tiny motel and a little store with a sign saying it’s one of the oldest buildings on the West Coast. Finally, at the point where the street curves and changes its name, and where a flat stretch of land reveals the beach beyond, I reach the Woolley’s shop: a bright red store with a gravel parking lot advertising kayak rentals and nature tours.

I walk down the gravel lane toward the store. A bell hung on the door announces my arrival, and a second later Jim’s head pops up from behind a row of kayaks. His face crinkles into a smile. “Kit! I’m so glad you’ve come. Let me show you what we’ve got,” he says, gesturing excitedly toward the rack of rentals. “This here is a Contour 450.”

“I’ve never used a sea kayak before,” I say, eagerly running my hands along the shell.

Jim shows me around the kayak—how to remove the rudder, seal the stowage compartments, work the footrests. “Otherwise, it’s pretty straightforward,” he says. “Whenever you want to take it out, I can loan you a map of the lagoon and a spray skirt. Oh, and a dry bag, if you want to pack a lunch.”

“You’re going to let me use it?” I ask.

“Well, that’s if Miri thinks it’s okay.”

I don’t tell him that I think it unlikely, considering there are Rangi warriors waiting to kill me if I show any sign of running away, and he continues his tour of the shop.

Shortly after I return to the house, it starts to rain, and Miri comes back for lunch. “No chance of getting fish today,” she says. “A storm’s coming. I’m going to have to make a trip to Hokitika to get some food. It’s a 120-kilometer drive each way, so I won’t be back until this evening. Probably best if you stay in the house.”

When she leaves, I glance through some books and then take a nap. It’s still raining when I wake up and later when Miri returns. It’s still raining the next day too. And the next. Miri and I stay in the house, mostly avoiding each other. I read all of the books, and she knits socks in the kitchen while she listens to the radio. We eat our way through the groceries from Hokitika.

Finally, after three days, the rain stops.

“Jim told me he’s offered to loan you a kayak,” Miri says.

I rub my sore arm as I look at her.

“I’ve told him that’s fine.”

“Really?” I say skeptically.

“You’re still wearing the staying stone, and you can’t kayak across the ocean. As long as you stick to the coastline and lagoon, you’ll be fine.”

I eye her suspiciously, for the first time wondering if she actually
wants
me to get shot. Or maybe the guards don’t really exist at all. Why else would she keep granting me freedoms?

“Come with me to the wharf in the morning,” she says, “and I’ll see you off.”

When I get up, Miri has egg salad sandwiches prepared for us to take for lunch. We eat toast and coffee then Miri throws on her yellow scarf and we make the walk to Jim’s to pick up the kayak. One of Jim’s employees offers to carry it down to the beach for me. He’s tall and skinny with sandy hair that sticks out in all directions. I name him Scarecrow.

It takes us only a few minutes to reach the wharf, a rickety dock topped by a single wooden building that looks ready to collapse. A solitary boat is tied to the dock. It’s a trawler—a one-man sea vessel with two fishing nets hanging from poles on either side. A small wheelhouse is situated on deck, beneath the rigging. On the rusted hull in peeling letters is painted the name
Echidna
.

“There she is,” Miri says.

“Doesn’t anyone else fish?” I ask, looking around at the empty wharf.

“Not many,” she says. “Not like me. Most folks stick to inland. Sea fishing is rough around here.”

“How many people live in this town anyway?” I ask.

“About thirty,” Scarecrow answers.

Even fewer than back home
, I think.

“Can I help you get in?” he asks.

“No thanks,” I answer. “I’ll be fine.”

“All right then. Cheers!” He turns around to walk back to the store, and Miri and I both get in our boats.

“You have your map?” she asks.

I nod.

“Good. Remember not to go too far.”

She casts off and fires up her engine. The loud chugging echoes back to me even after she’s left the inlet and reached the open water.

I get in my kayak and wait until the
Echinda
’s wake has dissipated before following. I travel slowly, not wanting to overtax my arm. Luckily, the tide does most of the work for me, and I let the kayak carry me out into the ocean. Looking back at the shore, I’m surprised to see blue peaks looming up from behind the trees. I hadn’t realized there were mountains so close. Puffy clouds hover around the summits, hiding the peaks’ true height.

I open the map, and a bird-watching guide falls onto my lap. I set it on the bench beside me and, looking back at the map, guide my kayak along the coastline. When I reach the entrance to the lagoon, the water changes from an icy blue to a pale green. The spiky bushes are even thicker here, their long leaves dipping into the water. Trees of all sizes lean out over the lake, turning it into a covered sanctuary.

As I pass a flock of white birds, I glance down at the guide to see if I can figure out what they are. It doesn’t take me long to find the right picture.
Spoonbills.
Feeling oddly victorious, I lean back against the foam seat and let my body relax.

I spend the next hour exploring more of the lagoon and identifying more birds. Then I eat my lunch and decide it’s time to head back to shore so I don’t injure myself.

It’s harder to paddle against the tide. I have to stop frequently to rest my shoulder. The wind blows against my hair, and I exhale slowly. I remember my kayaking trip to the Yakone camp, remember Charity using the wind to move our kayaks, and I wish I could do the same. I close my eyes and visualize the breeze. Out of habit, I attempt to form
honga
, but the staying stone does its job.

Without the use of the wind, it takes me a fair amount of time to get back to shore. And when I land on the beach, my legs and arms are so sore, I have difficulty lifting myself out of the kayak. At last, I flop out of the boat and manage to drag it behind me up the dirt path to the rental shop where a cheerful Scarecrow returns it to its rack. Fiona, who’s there checking the books, gives me a ride to Miri’s house, and I crawl into bed and fall promptly asleep.

The next day, I go to the shop and offer to help with chores in exchange for continued use of the kayak. Jim agrees, and soon my daily schedule is set. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and on the weekends, I assist Scarecrow—whose real name I learn is John—and the other employees and then nap in the afternoon. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I take the kayak out in the morning and then, like every other day, I go home to nap.

I start to live for my morning kayak trips, for the quiet in the lagoon, the gentle slapping of the water against the thick plastic. I always take the bird guide, and before long, I’m able to identify most of the species I see.

As I continue to heal, I push aside the nagging thought that I’m only here temporarily. Soon the other Rangi will come for me—for what, I don’t know. But I can’t leave: I don’t have access to supplies, and I haven’t figured out how to take off the staying stone. In short, there’s nothing I can do, and I have to admit that after everything I’ve been through lately, doing nothing is rather nice. Or at least easy.

One Friday, Jim asks me to do a few chores in the morning and wait to go out until the afternoon. I’m feeling stronger, more confident that I’ll be able to do the chores as well as kayak, so I agree.

It’s three o’clock before a single-person craft is returned and I’m able to get to the lagoon. I paddle through the lush waterway, nodding at the other kayakers I pass. I stay out for a long time, hoping to extend my relaxation time as long as possible, not wanting to go back to the house where I’ll think about the twins or Rye, the worries always lurking in my mind. But at last, the setting sun forces me to head back.

When I get to the wharf, I discover some people have started a bonfire on the beach. From the noise they’re making, it sounds like they’re drinking. I keep my distance as I haul the kayak up the path, but it doesn’t matter that I’m ignoring them. Two large men stumble toward me, laughing, and stand in my way.
Lug and Clod
, I quickly name them.