Coiled Snake (The Windstorm Series Book 2) (24 page)

I’m rescued when Julian and Sneeze sit down across from us. Hana mumbles something about not wanting to get in the way of the
ahia
and, scowling, leaves.

“What is her deal?” I ask Julian.

“She’s
rohamaka
,” he says. “What do you expect?”

After I finish eating, I go upstairs to get my equipment and weapons, all carefully packed in my rucksack. Using the only mirror in the room, I take a look at the bandages on my back to make sure they’re secure then swallow some more meds and slip into a drab t-shirt. Using some of the spare sewing materials near my bed, I create a crude pouch to wear around my neck. Inside, I place my passport, my
hiri
, and the metal disc. Then I sit down to wait.

When it’s time, I hoist the bag onto my shoulder and make my way down to the courtyard.

There are maybe a couple hundred people already there, all looking as ragged as I do. Many of the faces are young, the untested called to go to war two or three or even four years before their time. There are lots of gray heads too, grandparents pulled out of retirement to fight for their crippled
iwi
. Everyone is grouped according to their squad and
paratunu
or platoon—the young mixed with the old. I spot my
raiti
quickly and go to join them.

“Where are all of the other squads going?” I ask Julian, who’s standing next to me.

“Who knows?” he says. “Somewhere in Kaana territory.

“Underlings like us aren’t allowed to know all the details,” Hana sneers.

When Mafia and Junior arrive a few minutes later, completing our team, Mokai takes roll and turns the sheet in to one of the
maiha
. Before long, all of the warriors are assembled, the
kapa
standing in front of their
raiti.
There are nine
raiti
—three platoons—total. I blink in surprise when I see that our
wheteni
, who stands at the head,
is Stephen.
He must have been promoted.

The leader of the entire company, the
kapane
, stands at the front of the yard next to Paika. She has tattoos on both of her arms and a square, unattractive face and flat nose. I name her Squash.

Squash blows a whistle to get our attention. When everyone is silent, she nods at Paika. “The warriors are ready,
Matoa
,” she reports.

Paika raises his arm over the company. “I’m sorry we can’t see you off properly,” he says in his formal voice. “But know that our hearts are with you. You bring great honor to our
iwi.
”

“All right, then,” Squash says. “Two
raiti
per vehicle. Stay with your team. Everyone will be boarding the same boat, but arrival times will be staggered.
Paratunu
1 will leave first. Followed by 2 and 3.
E kore au e ngaro; he kākano i ruia mai i Rangiātea
.”

In unison, the assembled warriors shout,
“I will not be lost.”

“
Paratunu
1,” Stephen calls. “Follow me.”

He leads our three squads into the lot where several SUVs are parked. I’m assigned to a car with the other newbies—Julian, Rex, and Sneeze—and Hana, who looks unhappy to be grouped with us, though maybe she just always looks unhappy. We load our bags into the trunk (or boot, as Julian calls it) and climb inside. I lean forward slightly to keep my back from rubbing painfully against the seat.

When the SUV with the other half of our team pulls out of the lot, our driver falls in line behind it. I stare out the window at the sun nodding toward the watery horizon, trying hard to keep my thoughts from wandering into darkness.

“Ever seen a purse seiner?” Julian asks me.

I shrug.

“It’s bloody big,” he says, holding out his arms to demonstrate.

“Why do we go by boat?” I ask.

“How else can you transport an entire army without anyone knowing about it?” Julian replies. “We can’t very well use a military plane or windwalk across the Pacific. But we can take everything we need onto the tribe’s fishing boat, and no one’s the wiser.”

“But what about when we dock in Mexico?”

“We won’t dock,” Julian says. “That’s the beauty of it. We register the boat at Wellington Harbour and inform the blokes there that we’ll be returning with a catch of fish. They don’t much care where we go. Meanwhile, we travel up to Central America and drop anchor in international waters. Then once it’s dark, we can windwalk onto land. When everyone has completed their mission and returned to the boat, we come back.”

“Unless we miss it,” Rex adds.

“That’s why we’ve got passports,” Julian says dismissively. “And besides, the helicopter can always be sent out.”

It takes us about twenty minutes to reach Wellington Harbour. Our driver parks near the wharf, and we follow Mokai and the others toward three large purse seiners further down the dock. Even though Julian told me they were big, I wasn’t prepared for
how
big. The enormous fishing vessels are easily 200 feet long. The hulls are painted red, with a series of letters and numbers inscribed on the side in white. The multi-story superstructures are also white. And near the back of each ship, at the stern, sits a tall white tower.

“Which one belongs to the tribe?” I ask Julian.

“All of them,” he says. “One will go to the Pacific—that’s ours—the others to the Indian and Atlantic.”

“How many people do they hold?”

“A lot. But of course we don’t have as many as we used to … ”

We walk up the gangplank, and as I step on board, I’m immediately immersed in the overpowering stench of dead fish. I bite down hard on my tongue to keep from gagging.

When we’re all on deck, one of the ship’s crewmen takes us to the living quarters in the front of the boat and tells the new warriors to report back to the deck for an orientation. Hana and I are assigned to the same cabin.

“Where did you get that?” Hana asks as I’m storing my belongings.

“Where did I get what?”

She points to the jade knife
just visible inside my unzipped rucksack.

“From Paika,” I say then immediately wish I hadn’t.

Hana’s eyes grow wide, and she says, “The
Matoa
gave that to you? Blimey, you’re closer than I thought.”

“He was best friends with my mom,” I say quickly. “He’s like my uncle.” I think about telling her the knife was a gift from my mom to begin with, but that feels too personal to share. Especially with her.

Hana doesn’t say anything, just watches me with shrewd eyes.

“Have to go report,” I mumble, pushing past her.

The crewman, whom I name Flotsam—his clothes are mismatched and smell terrible—distributes hard hats, gloves, and slickers to each of us then begins our tour. “Now remember,” he says, “what we do on this vessel don’t just feed you and provide your cover. It also supports the
iwi
. Seining is hard work so git prepared to pitch in.”

We walk down the deck, past a skiff, a speedboat, and a helicopter. “Need these to find and scare up the tuna,” Flotsam says. “And sometimes to find you lot. And no,” he adds, “none of you’s gonna get to fly the chopper.”

Then he shows us the net, telling us it’s a “bleedin’” 2,000 meters long and 200 meters deep. He shows us the floatline at the top of the net and the leadline at the bottom and explains that the large winch mounted on the deck will cinch the net together like a purse. Then the power block—attached to the boom and hanging above the deck—will reel in the catch. He next shows us the hold where the tuna will be dumped into brine tanks and frozen at -20 degrees Celsius. Our ship is able to hold up to 2,000 metric tons of tuna total. He explains that we will work shifts according to our squad and gives an overview of what tasks to expect: repairing nets, cleaning equipment, standing wheel-watch, etc.

Flotsam ends the tour by showing us the galley, the engine room, and the “cleaning cupboard.”

“Now, there’s some seaweed and seagull poop that needs scrubbing off,” he says, opening the cleaning cupboard and handing out mops. “You lot tackle the deck, and you lot clean the fish trays. I’ve got to git ready for the next tour.”

I take the mop I’m given and find a corner of the deck to clean. The work is uncomfortable, and I stop often to rest my back and watch the rest of the company arrive. When Stephen climbs on board, we briefly make eye contact before he disappears in the captain’s quarters.

When the entire
tanga
is on board and our preparations for departure are complete, the ship sounds its horn, and I return my mop to the cleaning cupboard. It’s high tide.

We’re on our way.

As we pull out of the harbor, I lean over the railing and look back at the capital city and the island’s green hills. Then I turn around to face the open ocean.

When a cold front overtakes a warm front, a composite boundary is formed and the warm air is separated from the cyclone’s center. The cyclone couples with the upper level trough, growing increasingly colder, and the storm begins to spin down.

For thousands of years, the people of Mesoamerica worshiped Ehactl, god of the winds. In his human form, Ehactl was a tall warrior who wore a pendant made of jade. This pendant, the “wind jewel,” allowed him to control the skies.

In his natural form, Ehactl appeared as a giant snake with wings and was known as Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent.

Over the next several days, we settle into a routine. The
maiha
keep us busy, assigning us chores and making us run drills. My squad has the first shift. We wake up early, eat a brief breakfast, and, on the days we cast our net, help with the first set—the process of laying out and retrieving the enormous purse seine. When a school of tuna is detected from the giant crow’s nest or the helicopter, we release the skiff from the stern of the ship so the skiffman can position the net. Then we assist the crewmen as our vessel circles the school and the powerboat confuses the fish. When they close the net and haul it on board, we help stack the net and pitch escaping fish into the hold. Then we hose down the work area to clear off jellyfish and slime and other nasty things dredged up from the sea.

I hate this part of the day, and not just because it makes me think of Miri. The smell is revolting, and combined with the rocking motion of the waves, I come close to losing my breakfast more than once. Luckily, I only have to participate in one set a day, and sometimes none at all.

After a quick break, Stephen runs us through training exercises for about an hour. The workouts strain my back, making me want to scream. But I’m grateful for them. They keep me from thinking too much.

When we’ve finished with cardio, we break into our platoons to practice with small arms. Stephen gives us training on everything—rifle, handgun,
patu
,
toa
, grenade, and combat knife. As we practice, the
maiha
assess us. Since many of the warriors are new, they haven’t yet been assigned an area of expertise, and we’re soon sorted into groups. Stephen assigns me to advanced work with the
patu
, but he also puts me in the group that’s learning to scope for marksmen.

“There’s not time to train you as snipers,” he says. “But scoping is a good place to start. At least you’ll be able to assist our shooters and, if necessary, set up your own shot.”

As I learn how to use the panel built into the sleeve of my armor to calculate the range, I can’t help but look around at the clumsy recruits next to me fumbling with their instrument panels. I don’t want to imagine what the outcome might be for an army that has to be trained on its way to battle.

Because Hana is one of the snipers, I’m forced to work with her during our trainings and listen to her comments about the “bloody
ahia
.” I’m surprised to learn that she’s also our
raiti
’s medic, and I hope fervently that I won’t have to rely on her mercy if I’m wounded.

After Stephen’s done with us, around mid-afternoon, we break into our squads, and Kai runs us through what to expect when we reach Mexico.

“We’ll windwalk inland as far as we can,” he tells us. “I’m hoping we can make about two hundred kilometers before the sun comes up. We’ll probably land in a tomo—it will be our only chance to break through the treeline—so be ready to grab onto a vine.”

“What’s a tomo?” I ask.

“A sinkhole. A crater full of water. They don’t have many rivers in the Mexican jungle. Just these holes that connect underground.

“So,” he continues, “Once we land, we’ll hike the rest of the way to avoid being seen. It will take us about a day and a half to get to the prison.”

Next, he goes over basic procedure—flying and landing formations, hand signals, camping protocol, safety measures—and, finally, what we’ll do when we actually reach the prison camp. Afterward, it’s more chores and then dinner.

Our only free time is after the last meal has been eaten and the dishes cleared away. Most people sit for an hour or two on the sundeck of the superstructure, where the night breeze makes the fish smell less offensive, and talk before going to bed. I usually turn in before Hana does. That way, I can pretend to be asleep when she comes down. It’s not that she’s done anything cruel; she just makes me feel uncomfortable. Guilty for something I haven’t done and defensive about it at the same time.

One night, several days into our journey, I’m sitting with some of the warriors on the deck. The conversation, which is about rugby, holds little interest for me, so I’m looking up at the stars that are beginning to poke through the sky and thinking about the twins. Picturing them in a prison cell overwhelms me with pain and anger, and I decide I don’t want to be around people anymore. I stand up and turn to make my way toward my cabin.

“Did you know that our
Matoa
fancied Kit’s mum?” someone says behind me.

I stop and turn around. I’m startled to discover that Ostrich made the comment; we’ve hardly had any interaction at all. Hana, who is sitting beside him, is watching me with a smirk on her face.

“That’s not true,” I say. “They were friends.”

“Everyone fancied Aroha Awha,” Ostrich counters patronizingly. “Including Henare. Broke Paik’s heart when they got engaged. Always treated him like her brother. But maybe he felt a tad better when she buggered the
Riki
’s heart too and married that
pakeha
Hemi.”

“My dad wasn’t a
pakeha
,” I say angrily. “He came from one of the oldest
hapa
in the
iwi
.”

“Here we go again.” Hana rolls her eyes. “Why does it always come down to bloodlines? Can’t you come up with an original argument? After all, your dad’s special pedigree didn’t protect him last time, did it?”

“Don’t you dare speak about my father that way!” I hiss, fists clenched.

“Guess now we know why you’re here,” Hana says. “And why you have such a pretty blade. The captain loved your mother, and you’re just filling her shoes.”

I take two steps toward her and land a right hook in her eye.

“Bint!” Hana shrieks, jumping to her feet and lunging at me.

She shoves my back against the metal railing. Blinded from pain, I wrench on her half-shaved hair and kick her in the gut. She roars and knocks me to the deck, shoving her fist into my nose. But before she can punch me again, strong arms pull us apart. I look at the person pinning me back. It’s Stephen. He releases me, and I wipe my nose, which is bleeding.

“What’s going on here?” he asks.

Neither of us says anything. We just glare at each other.

“Answer me!” he orders.

“She insulted my parents,” I say evenly.

“Is this true?” Stephen asks Hana.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Hana shrugs. “She’s the one who punched me.”

“She was slandering the
Matoa
,” I say. “So was he.” I point to Ostrich.

“Can anyone confirm this?” Stephen asks.

“It’s true,” Julian chimes in.

“You man, what’s your name?” Stephen says to Ostrich.

“Ihu Kotiri,” he answers.

“
Raiti
?”

“Three.”

“Well, I’ll see that your
kapa
disciplines you. All three of you.”

Ostrich rubs his mostly bald head and mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?” Stephen asks, turning around to face him.

Ostrich glares at him. “If you wanna know, I said that you ain’t got the bloody right to tell my
kapa
nothin’.”

A tense silence falls over the group.

“Excuse me?” Stephen says, more stonily than I’ve ever heard him.

“Yer
hapa
abandoned the
iwi.
In my book, that means you ain’t
ahia
anymore, which means you ain’t
maiha
. Which means, you ain’t no better than me. In fact,” he continues, gaining steam, “you ain’t even as good as me. I’m twice yer age. I’ve been in the field longer. Why should I take orders from a buck like you? You only got promoted because most of the bloody
maiha
carked it!”

His words fall like a match on the combustible Rangi tempers. It happens so quickly; I only have the space of a breath to dive out of the way. I don’t see who moves first. Maybe it’s several people. All I know is that where once everyone was sitting calmly, now the entire sundeck is in chaos.
Rohamaka
against
ahia
. Maybe every man for himself
—
I don’t know how they’re able to tell the difference.

It’s like no brawl I’ve ever seen. The roaring and snarling and screaming is horrible. And the warriors don’t hold back. At first they just employ their fists, but then weapons begin to appear. Then the ship’s tools and machinery. It’s as if centuries of bent up fury is being released, and it’s spreading like a wave of terror throughout the entire seiner.

A man reels toward me, and Stephen shoves him away. “Windwalk to the nest!” he yells at me then moves into the fray, throwing other warriors to the deck, bellowing for order.

As Squash, Mokai, Mafia and the other
maiha
emerge from the officers’ quarters, scrambling to break up the fight, I follow Stephen’s advice and ride to the top of the crow’s nest, barely avoiding a whaling spear that’s hurled in my direction.

When I reach the top of the tower, I discover I’m not the only one seeking refuge. Many of the other newbies, particularly the younger ones, are cowering in the nest, though some of them occasionally lean over the edge and fling insults at the battling warriors below.

I’m not sure how long the fighting lasts. Far too long. The screams of the people below me slash at my conscience.
I should have just walked away.

I brave a look at the deck and immediately scream. One of the
maiha
, the
wheteni
of another platoon, is trying to separate two warriors when another man comes up from behind him and knocks him into the winch, which has been powered on. The
wheteni
is pulled through the large crank and killed instantly. The pulley groans as it struggles to keep working.

The man’s demise snuffs out the fighting almost at once, the shock of his death whipping through the company with lightning speed. Everyone stares at the bloody winch in disbelief.

Squash pushes her way through the crowd, her brow black with rage. “You, man!” she yells. “Come here this instant!”

The warrior who pushed the
wheteni
into the winch walks forward slowly, all color gone from his face.

“This is disgraceful!” Squash shouts. “All of you will be punished!
Kapa,
assemble your
raiti
. Move it!”

As we file wordlessly into our squads, Squash sends one of the
maiha
back to her cabin. The officer returns with a small object. A staying stone. Squash advances toward the pallid warrior and locks the chain around his neck.

The man begins pleading for mercy, but Squash ignores him. When everyone is lined up and standing at attention, she signals to one of the
maiha
. He begins to slowly beat a drum.

“Marama Rā,” Squash states the man’s name. “You are hereby stripped of the title of warrior and your fellowship in the Rangi
iwi
. The gods will decide your fate.”

“Please,
Kapane
,” the man begs. “It was an accident, it was.”

“You can do it yourself, or I will do it for you,” Squash says coldly.

I watch horrified as the man, trembling and sputtering, climbs onto the ship’s railing. He looks back at the company, eyes wide with terror, then, with a gargantuan effort, steps off the rail. His body slips into the pounding waves.

Nobody breathes.

“All of you will get to work cleaning this ship,” Squash orders. “And tomorrow you will pull a triple shift. Rest assured that this incident will be reported to the
Matoa.
”

Flotsam and the other crewmen hand out cleaning supplies, and we begin scrubbing blood and spit from off the deck, sweeping up broken glass. Squash assigns the worst of the fighters to clean out the winch.

As I push my mop across the floor, I spot Hana on the other side of the skiff. She looks stricken, and I realize that the man who was punished belonged to her
hapa
.

That’s right,
I think.
See what you’ve done?

“How did this start?” Mokai’s voice suddenly hisses from behind me. “I know you were involved. What happened?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” I hiss back, turning around. “It was Hana’s.”

“I heard you threw the first punch. Is that true?”

“You should have heard what she said!”

“I could give a sheep’s arse about what she said! Did you throw the first punch or didn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“I can’t believe this! I should leave you on the boat when we deploy.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I bloody well can. Do you understand what you’ve done, Kit? A man was killed!”