The Bone Tiki (4 page)

M
at looked at his watch. It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening, and they were passing through Stortford Lodge, mingling with the northbound traffic on the fringe of Hastings, heading to Napier. There hadn’t been much to say since leaving Kahunui. The night was clear and the roads busy, but no black cars had appeared behind them. Mat had one eye on the rear vision, but mostly he just sat there, his mind in a dazed whirl. Images filled his mind—his father’s face, Puarata’s piercing eyes and the way he purred as he stroked Mat’s pendant—
There is power in your art, boy. I could teach you much
—the waxen face of Nanny Wai and the coldness of her skin—the warmth of the tiki and the way it pulsed—the huge warrior and his silvery eyes…He let it all slip away, gazing into the empty darkness, until it gave way to house lights and street lights.

They took the Pakowhai Road and rejoined the highway north of Clive, crossed bridges over the Ngaruroro and Tutaekuri Rivers, and surged onto the stretch of coastal road that became Marine Parade, the pines arrayed like sentinels watching the sea. Napier Hill sat squat in the distance to the north, studded with lights. On the seaward end the port lights beamed out across the water to the line of spray that marked the reef.

There was a legend about the reef, and a girl called Pania who had drowned there, lured out by the pipes of the sea-fairies. There was a statue of her in the gardens on the Parade. But long before they reached that part of the Parade they turned off into the ‘home patch’ as his father liked to call it, the southern Marine Parade, right on the main road.

They turned into the driveway, tyres crunching in the loose gravel. The house was dark, and empty. Mat looked up, swallowed, and as the car lurched to a halt, he sat a moment, almost bewildered by what he was doing. He shook himself.

‘Come on, we gotta hurry.’

‘OK, man.’

Mat got out unsteadily, stumbled to the front door and fished around for the emergency key in the garden. It was in one of those false garden stones that had been all the rage one Christmas. He turned the key, then punched the security alarm code into the panel beside the door. It bleeped three times and went silent. He turned on the foyer light.

‘Hey,’ said Riki, peering over his shoulder. ‘Cool joint.’
Mat realised with a slight start that Riki had never been here—Dad didn’t approve of Riki’s family.

‘Thanks—wait down here.’ He rushed upstairs to his room.

He turned on the lights, and gazed around numbly. It all seemed so comfortingly familiar—the smells, the pictures…‘Come on!’ he berated himself. He grabbed his kitbag, dumped his school books, and began to shovel in clothes.

‘Grab some food from the fridge,’ he shouted downstairs. ‘And a drink.’

‘Yo, man!’ Riki shouted back.

Pocket-knife…undies…sweat-top…bathroom stuff—he dropped his kitbag and ran to the bathroom, grabbed a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Seeing himself in the mirror reminded him he was still in a suit. He ran back to the bedroom and ripped it off, climbed into jeans and a T-shirt, then threw on a windbreaker and a beanie. Downstairs he heard Riki calling.

‘Got some ham and cheese and a couple of colas, dude. Want some chippies?’

The thought of food made him salivate. ‘Sure,’ he called back.

Back to packing—a torch…what about sleeping stuff? He had a sleeping bag, but it was stored in the garage. They could get it as they left. He couldn’t think of anything else. Hefting the bag, he started down the stairs, when the phone rang.

‘Don’t answer it,’ he yelled as he sprinted downstairs. Riki was coming out of the kitchen, carrying a shopping bag full of food and drink-cans.

‘Don’t answer it!’ Mat repeated.

‘Chill, man,’ Riki drawled back. ‘I ain’t gonna answer it.’

Mat ran into the office, where his father had a digital phone—a number showed up on the lit panel. ‘It’s Dad—he’s calling on his mobile.’ The phone ring echoed oddly in the silent room.

Riki had followed him in. ‘That ain’t good, dude. It means he’s missed you. Realises you ain’t around. That is not good! Hopefully he’s still back at the marae, though. I was thinkin’—if we rush, I think there’s a late bus to Taupo from the train station.’

The phone stopped ringing.

Mat looked at Riki, throat dry. ‘You won’t change your mind and drive me to Taupo?’

Riki hung his head. ‘Hey, I want to, man. But the car is nearly out of gas, and I ain’t got no money. And if my old man realises I’m gone, they’ll know I helped—if I hurry back, I’ll have only been gone an hour, and you’ll be away without a trace.’

Mat swallowed. It was fair—and better than anything he could think of.

‘OK. We better get going.’

Mat followed Riki out the door, dropped his kit and turned to lock up, dithering over whether he should go into the garage for his sleeping bag or not.
Nah, I’ll be sleeping at Mum’s tonight.
Then he heard the phone again, and jumped.
He put the key in the lock, when the low purr of a car engine made him turn, his heart in his mouth.

It was his father’s car, gleaming in the streetlights, the windows up and dark, full of menace as it glided to a halt across the driveway, blocking the way out. Riki had stopped beside the Ford, and the bag of food spilled from his hands to the concrete with a rustling thud. Mat gripped the doorway and stared.
He’s my dad. He’ll forgive me. I haven’t done anything. Not really…

The driver’s door opened near-side, and Tama Douglas stepped out, pocketing his cellphone, his face twisted. ‘Mat?’ he shouted at Mat. He strode forward, glaring now at Riki. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded. Riki backed away, hands lifting, surrendering.

‘Hey, man, be cool. I’m just helping my bro.’

Tama raised his fist as he closed the distance. Behind him, the back door of the car opened. Donna’s face was so pale it seemed to glow, her sunglasses still on her face and her mouth a violent streak of scarlet. From the passenger door, on the far side of the car, Puarata appeared, his silver mane of hair glowing in the streetlights, his lips curving over white teeth.

Mat opened his mouth and screeched ‘RIKI, RUN!’ and jerked the front door open again, his free hand snatching up his kitbag. ‘RUN!’

Over his shoulder he saw everyone pause momentarily, then everything blurred into violent action.

He saw Riki half-turn, his mouth open to yell something, when Tama’s fist swung in a huge arc that smashed into
the boy’s jaw. Riki collapsed, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he fell backward. Tama Douglas roared down at him then glared at Mat. Over his shoulder, Mat could see Donna beginning to flow toward them, her mouth opening and hand dipping to a slit in her dress. It was a gesture he’d seen on so many American cop-shows that his mind formed the word
gun
even as he staggered backward and clawed at the door.

Puarata called him, his voice low yet clear. ‘Wiremu…Wiremu…’ and the sound seemed to tug at him, like a web of sound that could snag him if he let it. The old man’s gaze was commanding, insistent, his words echoing inside Mat’s skull as if they originated from within his head. ‘Be still, boy,’ they commanded. The tiki in his pocket went hot, and a roar of blood in his ears drowned Puarata’s words. He staggered backward, and gripped the edge of the door. His father lunged toward him in slow-motion. He saw a flash of metal in Donna’s hand and felt a surge of fear.

‘WIREMU!’ shouted Puarata.

But I’m not Wiremu…that’s just what Dad calls me…I’m MAT
! He slammed the front door and pressed the lock. The door shuddered as Tama smashed into it a second later.

‘Mat! Open this door!’

Mat turned and ran…down the hall to the washroom, and out the back door. Behind him he heard another crash, and then a metallic rattle…
Dad’s got his keys
…and then he was out the back door and running hard, for the back fence, swinging the kitbag straps onto both shoulders and vaulting the fence in one movement, even as the back door
opened behind him. He stole a glance and saw his father—but the fury written on his features as he turned on the porch-light was something so alien Mat didn’t even think of stopping—he
ran.

Over the back fence was the neighbour’s vegetable garden—Mat ran through it, stumbling over rows of cabbages and carrots, past the wooden garage, and along the side of the house. Ahead a streetlight lit the pathway. He heard his father shouting and saw curtains open in houses on either side, glimpsed pale, wary faces as he sped by. Then he was on the street on the far side of the block. Left was south, right was north, ahead was inland. He hesitated for a second, then ran to the right, toward the centre of Napier, a few kilometres away.

He ran a block and chanced a glance back. The street seemed empty, and then he saw a dark shape step into the streetlight. It was Puarata, his hair still glowing with fox-fire, and his whisper reached across the distance between them effortlessly, as though he were murmuring in Mat’s ear.

‘
Mat…I know your name now…your real name…bring it back, Mat.’

Mat turned and ran, whipped along by his fear.

‘Mat. You can’t escape me…don’t make me hurt you, Mat…’

He ran on, shaking his head to get that horrible voice out of his head.

‘Mat…Mat…bring it back to me!’

A car went past, and a woman with a frightened face slowed, peered, then sped away. Mat ran across the road,
threw a look over his shoulder. Puarata hadn’t moved, but a blur further away caught his eye. His father’s car was turning a corner into the street.
Oh no
! He turned and ran harder, hearing the car slow and stop then speed closer.
It’s picked up Puarata…gotta get off the road…
He saw an alleyway on his left and spun into it, nearly slipping as he skidded in gravel, and then plunged into the dark. Behind him he heard the car pull to a halt, much closer than he’d thought, and a door opened then slammed again. He heard a slap of feet on stone, as if his pursuer were barefoot, and redoubled his pace, turning right between two houses, leapt a fence and careered down a driveway, onto another road. The footsteps seemed dreadfully close and when he glanced back, he saw a hulking shape emerge from the alley, hair flowing behind it.

The warrior, the monstrous figure he’d seen at the marae.

Where did he come from? He wasn’t in the car
!

The warrior’s breath sounded like massive bellows, like a bull snorting before it charged. Terror made Mat’s feet fly, his heart slamming against his chest. His breath began to steam in the cold night air. His vision blurred with tears, and he seemed to feel huge hands clawing out to grab him—he leapt a low garden fence onto someone’s lawn then hurdled onto a car and over another fence into another property, hearing shouts from the house and something huge slam into the car a heartbeat behind him. He couldn’t look back without falling so he went on, back to the street and then another side-street and into a school yard, and he could see
the lights of the railway station ahead. He heard footfalls behind him again—though no sound of breathing—and ran through the playground—pelting along as fast as he had ever run. His T-shirt clung, sodden with sweat, to his back and the kitbag bounced crazily…

A massive fist smashed into the back of his shoulder and he stumbled, flailed and fell. The world lurched, and the ground slammed into his face. He ploughed into the dirt and a burst of pain exploded around his nose and front teeth. He tasted sweet metallic blood and his nostrils filled up in a rush that choked him. His hands clawed the dirt as he tried to rise, and he heard a low chuckle above him. He gasped for breath and tried to jerk away, but another hand grabbed his shoulder and the world spun, until he was on his back, looking up through blurred vision at the shimmering stars. They were blocked by a massive head, streaked with light from the streetlamps.

Up close, the warrior stank like rotting meat, and his breath was cold and hideous. His teeth were yellowed and his eyes bulbous like a fish. His tattooed face split into a savage smile and he reached down. Thick fingers coiled about Mat’s throat, shockingly cold and brutally strong, and squeezed. The other hand pawed at Mat’s pockets. He growled something guttural, and laughed.

Mat opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn’t get enough air, could only gag and flail at the massive fist holding him. The warrior pushed his free hand into the jacket pocket, and pulled out the tiki and the koru together in a tangle of cords.

‘No…’ Mat choked on the blood streaming down the back of his throat.

Suddenly a girl’s voice yelled something from only metres away.

The warrior straightened at the first words, his eyes bulging and the smile melting from his face. His fists unclenched and he dropped Mat onto his back, the two pendants landing on his chest. Mat clutched them, and rolled away, his eyes piercing the gloom to see who had interrupted.

The warrior stared at a girl, a Maori girl, maybe sixteen, standing a few metres away, with flowing black hair, blazing eyes and a graceful moko on her chin. For a second the warrior stood, his brutish face made stupid by indecision, and then, unbelievably, he lurched backward. His hands went up as if protecting his eyes and he stumbled away as if she were the most terrifying thing he had ever seen, and as she raised her hand and opened her mouth again, he gave a sudden howl, and ran off into the darkness.

M
at scrambled up and turned, watching the girl, incredulous. She was barely taller than he was…
how could she…

‘Hi,’ she said, with a sudden smile.

He gaped at her, as blood dripped down his face.

Her face wore a smile beautifully. Her hair was a gorgeous flow of ebony, gilded silver by the streetlights. Mat blinked and shook his head—the moko he’d thought he’d seen on her chin wasn’t there after all.
I must be seeing things,
he thought. He found himself trembling after the shock of the chase, and its strange ending.

She stuck out her right hand, and for an instant the moko on her chin was back. He jerked away in fright.

‘Hey, just saying hi, kid. You OK? I don’t think your nose is broken, so press up here until the bleeding stops.’ She
indicated on her own nose where she meant.

He stared at her, then looked back over his shoulder. He nodded mutely, doing as she suggested, while at the same time he used his other hand to wipe away the smeared blood and dirt from his face.

‘C’mon,’ she said, after a few minutes, when his nose had stopped. ‘If you want to get away from that ugly brute, you better come with me.’

Mat looked at her, and then back into the dark, half-expecting the warrior to reappear. ‘But…but…how did you?’

The girl smiled. ‘He was always just a bully—as soon as someone stood up to him, he was off. But he might come back, so we better go.’

Mat’s head whirled. ‘But he…do you know him?’

She beckoned anxiously, a frown creasing her features. ‘He and I go way back. Come on, let’s go.’

He fell into step with her, and she led him through shadows into another alleyway. ‘Let’s take a short-cut,’ she said suddenly, looking at him with an enigmatic smile. She led him down another path he’d not noticed. Tree branches reached out of the night as they passed, and the lights of the city seemed dimmer. At one point he caught a glimpse inside a window, and was startled to see a woman in a long dress playing a piano by the light of a gas-lamp, while she gazed out the window. She seemed to see him momentarily, and then he lost sight of her. He heard the sea again, caught a waft of salt air.

He stopped, puzzled. Where was he?

The girl looked back at him and turned. ‘Come on, Mat. We have to hurry.’

It was weird, he didn’t know this alleyway…couldn’t even place exactly where they were…shouldn’t they have crossed another street by now?

‘Where are we?’

‘Not far from the Parade,’ answered the girl. ‘Come on!’ She took his cold hand in her warm one, and pulled him along. He followed, his panic subsiding into vague trust of this nice girl, who even knew his name.

They stepped out of the alley and found themselves on Marine Parade. Mat’s house was somewhere a couple of kilometres to his right, to the south. From the south, Napier starts as a line of houses, including Mat’s, and then motels, and on the seaward side, tourist attractions: the Aquarium, Marineland, fun-parks, a mini-putt, some gardens, all side by side right to the base of Bluff Hill. The parade itself was a four-lane road, two lanes on either side of a row of palms in the centre median, all hung with fairy lights as though every evening were Christmas.

A small knot of Friday-night revellers smelling of laughter and beer wafted by as Mat and the girl paused, waiting till they passed. The girl looked around and sniffed the air.

‘All clear,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

Mat took a deep breath, his nose finally clear again, and tried not to think of the terrifying warrior. Or the whispering Puarata. Or the horrible look on his dad’s face, as his fist smashed into Riki’s face…
Riki…
He pushed down his fear, and nodded slowly.

‘Good. Come on,’ she smiled, nodding. ‘They won’t catch you when you’re with me,’ she added seriously. ‘I know the safest paths.’

She led him through a break in the traffic to the palm trees on the median, then they darted over to the seaward side of the Parade, and found themselves in a playground.

They struck the Parade just to the south of the tourist attractions, went under an arch commemorating the turn of the millennium and down to the shoreline, where breakers crashed onto the shore, and hissed through the gravel. The beach was stony—small grey pieces of shingle worn smooth by the pounding waves scrunched underfoot. A chill wind blew off the water, redolent with salt and spray. Mat’s jacket became damp and stiff and his back began to sweat where the kitbag pressed against him. The girl walked alongside, her hair tousled by the sea breeze, her lips forming a wordless melody. He could see her teeth shining, reflecting the fairy lights of the Parade. Two boys throwing stones into the water stopped and gazed at her as they passed. Ahead the lights of the Soundshell gleamed, and beyond that, the port. Window and street lights on Bluff Hill loomed further back, like a huge burial mound.

‘Did you know that warrior guy?’ Mat asked, eventually.

The girl didn’t answer.

‘Because,’ said Mat, ‘it was weird, him running off like that, when he’d caught me and…’ He pulled out the tiki and waved it at the girl. ‘Have you seen this before?’

She stopped, reached out, but stopped short of touching it, and her soft brown eyes grew sad.

‘No. But I think it is very special…I think you should look after it carefully, Matiu Douglas.’

Mat flushed, and put the tiki around his neck, and knotted the cord, then slipped it beside his pendant inside his T-shirt. He looked at the girl curiously. ‘I don’t remember your name.’

She laughed, a tinkling sound. ‘That’s because I haven’t told you.’ She held out her right hand, just as she had after she’d scared the warrior away. This time, Mat took it in his. ‘My name is Pania.’

‘Pania…like the girl in the reef?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh…cool.’

She laughed. ‘Where are you going, Mat?’

‘I…um…I need to get to Taupo…but I don’t know how…I was heading for the station, but that’s too far away now. And these people are…’

‘Chasing you? Don’t worry, I’ll help.’ She seemed to consider. ‘They will have thought of the station by now. Your best chance is to go to friends.’

Mat tried to think of someone who would help, but anyone he could think of would probably tell his father where he was. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that Tama was everywhere, knew everyone he knew…

‘I don’t know anyone else I can go to.’

She grinned. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll find new friends you haven’t even met yet.’

Just then, a whispering began again in his head…
Mat…Mat…
a cold shiver rippled over his skin.

Pania frowned and hissed, ‘Shush,’ and the whispering stopped.

He stared at her. ‘How did you…’

She looked back at him. ‘How did I what?’

‘Errr, nothing.’ He tried to think some more, but it was hard. This girl was so…distracting.

‘Well,’ said Pania eventually, ‘if you can’t think of anyone, perhaps you should hitch-hike to Taupo tomorrow. As long as you’re careful, you’ll be OK.’

Perhaps if he slept on the beach, and then in the morning walked to the north side of town and got a ride…he could be in Taupo before midday. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

Pania looked thoughtful, while making circles in the gravel with her right shoe. Eventually she said, ‘I think if we walk round the port together, and you walk far enough tonight, come morning you can get a lift before they figure what you’re doing, and you’ll be ahead of them.’

He thought for a while. ‘I guess so. I could go round the port, and cross the bridge at the Iron Pot, then go out along Westshore Beach.’

Pania nodded. ‘If I were you, I’d go as far as the Esk River, then cut inland, and try and get a ride from in the Esk Valley. It’s probably further than they’ll think you can do, which is good. And you’ll be off the roads, where they’ll be looking for you.’

The walk around the Bluff Hill to the Iron Pot would take at least an hour, then it was about ten kilometres along the beach from Westshore to Bay View, and then a couple of
kilometres inland to the Esk Valley. ‘I don’t know if I can get that far in one night.’

‘You could, but you’d be dead on your feet come dawn. If you sleep somewhere along the way, you could walk most of it in the daylight and get a ride around mid-morning.’

‘Which makes it more likely they’ll spot me if they’re watching that far north…could I sleep at your place?’ He blushed as he asked.

Pania laughed. ‘Not possible, sorry. I don’t have a car either, before you ask.’

‘I guess it’s walking then,’ he sighed.

‘Yeah, I guess it is. Come on. When we get to the Soundshell, I’ll slip into town and get something for you to eat.’

They walked on, and once they were just past the Soundshell, Pania led Mat back up from the beach, and sat him in the glow of an illuminated fountain. Every few seconds the fountain’s pattern, and the colour of the lights, would change, sending a watery curtain of crystals dancing merrily into the air. Deep red, a luminescent green and a rich purple each played for half a minute then changed to another colour. Mat had been here many times before, with Mum and Dad, eating fish’n’chips and watching the water play. Pania led him to a seat beside a bronze statue of a beautiful, bare-breasted Maori girl, reclining on a rock. The statue of Pania of the Reef.

‘Wait here, and you’ll be safe,’ she smiled. ‘My namesake will guard you,’ she added with a laugh, then skipped away toward the city lights.

Mat’s eyes followed her until she was out of sight. There were couples wandering past, gazing at the fountain. A hundred metres south was the Soundshell, where kids on skateboards, who should have been home by now, were zooming around. The fairy lights in the pines waved in a gentle sea breeze. He looked at the statue. There was a plaque on the rock. He read it idly.

Pania of the Reef

An old Maori legend tells how Pania, lured by the siren voices of the sea people, swam out to meet them. When she endeavoured to return to her lover, she was transformed into the reef which now lies beyond Napier Breakwater.

To perpetuate the legend the thirty thousand club presented this statue to the city—1954.

He thought the girl looked a bit like the statue. For a moment he imagined that…
but, nah, she’ll go to Napier Girls High and watch dumb telly programmes like any other girl
…still, weird, though.

Pania returned with a burger and milkshake each. They took them down to the beach, and ate and slurped as they walked beside the waves.

‘What school do you go to? Girls High?’ he asked between mouthfuls.

Pania shook her head. ‘No. Do you go to Boys High?’

‘Yeah.’ He told her about school all the long trudge around the port lands—about art, and what he liked doing, and even about his parents. It felt odd, to be talking to someone about everyday things after such a strange day. He never got around to asking Pania about herself; she always seemed to
answer his questions with questions of her own. Behind the port, they had to return to the road, and cross the bottom of Bluff Hill. Empty seashore north of the port gave way to a park where teens still played on the swings and shouted to each other, though it was gone nine o’clock. The air was getting colder, and Mat was shivering.

‘You should change into a dry T-shirt,’ Pania advised, so they stopped at the toilets in the playground, and he went inside the Mens, went to the toilet and changed. When he emerged, Pania was talking to a tough-looking Maori man, but she said something that made him laugh, and he wandered off chuckling to himself. Then off they went again, past the Iron Pot shops, and around the fishing-boat docks.

The Iron Pot is an inlet area north of Napier Hill. Fishing boats come and go, and the yacht club marina is further along the channel. Warehouses line the south side of the channel, most renovated into pubs and restaurants looking out over the water. On the north side, around one hundred and forty metres away, stood well-lit waterfront properties at Perfume Point, at the south end of Westshore. Mat walked with Pania past the restaurants, with tables of laughing people. The smell of food and drink carried from the open windows.

Mat was feeling tired. He glanced at his watch—it was after nine o’clock, and he’d been walking or running since he fled home a couple of hours ago. Pania still stepped lightly as if at any moment she might break into a dance. They walked through the playground on the verge of the seashore,
where groups of teens huddled about the play equipment, smoking. They went around into the old port area, where the fishing boats still tied up, passed an old wooden building that had once been Napier’s Customhouse, and rounded a bend that took them right to the wharves. The sea gleamed darkly before them, one or two metres below. Across the water, maybe 90 metres, were houses; to their left, a marina, and beyond that, half a kilometre away, the bridge they had to cross.

Mat knew his way around this area fairly well. Once the inlet reached the marina, the water flowed under the bridge, and then broadened into a wide tidal estuary, behind Westshore and Pandora. The bridge carried the only road north, which then curled in behind Westshore, out to the airport, then Bay View. Beyond that, it forked, offering either the trek over the ranges to Taupo, or the twisting road up the East Cape to Wairoa and Gisborne.

They trudged on, with a tingle of apprehension. Anyone going north would cross the bridge—they had little choice—and if Puarata had guessed where he was bound, the bridge would be guarded.

By the time they were within a few hundred metres of the bridge, Mat could see his worst fears had been realised.

They stopped in the shadows. A black car was parked on the near side of the bridge, and a dark-haired man in a suit was pacing beside it, hunched a little, holding one hand to his head—as if he was talking on a cellphone. He finished, straightened, and stood on the corner of the bridge, staring at the cars that passed, heading north.

‘How am I going to get across? He’ll stop me, as soon as he sees me.’

Mat and Pania had slipped down to the water’s edge. Across the inlet, barely 90 metres away, was the north shore of the Iron Pot. But the man on the bridge had a complete view of the entire inlet and the bridge.