Coiled Snake (The Windstorm Series Book 2) (3 page)

“How’s that then, love?” Lug slurs. “Wanna get on the piss?”

“No, thanks,” I say, stepping around him, but Clod grabs the kayak. I look up defiantly but flinch when I see a tattoo coiling across his face. Are these the people who have come to get me?
Dear Lord, please no.

“Where you off to?” Clod asks, his voice only slightly steadier. “Come have a drink.”

“I said no.” I try to keep walking, but he doesn’t let go.

“We can get to know each other,” Clod insists.

“Let me pass,” I say firmly, but inside I’m beginning to panic. I can’t windwalk, and I doubt I’ll be able to outrun them, even in their inebriated state.

Unfortunately, their yelling has attracted other members of their group. Three more men leave the fire and walk toward us.

“What you reckon, Pete?” one yells.

“She doesn’t want to drink!” Clod answers.

“That right, mate?” They move in. “Why not?”

“Maybe she just needs some encouragement,” one says, reaching for my face.

A knife comes from out of nowhere, slashing through the dimming light and slicing the man’s hand. As the man curses and jumps backward, I drop the kayak and turn around. My mouth flops open when I see Miri twisting Pete’s arm behind his back, the bloodied knife at his throat.

“You boys better sober up,” she says calmly, “or I’ll have to phone the fuzz.”

“Steady on, Nanny,” Lug says, backing up. “We were just having some laughs.”

Miri digs the knife into Pete’s throat. He yells and struggles to free himself, but her grip is iron. “Go have your fun somewhere else then,” she says. She knees Pete in the back and launches him into his friends. Most of them back away, but Pete picks up a large rock and stumbles toward her. In a second, a pistol is in Miri’s hand, pointed at his face. He drops the rock and totters backward.

“I said go somewhere else,” Miri repeats coldly.

“All right,” the men murmur, tripping over each other to run back to the fire.

“You okay, girl?” Miri asks, turning to me.

I nod, speechless.

“Should have warned you about the gangs. They pass through here from time to time. Well, stop your lollygagging, and let’s get this kayak back to Jim.” She picks up one end of the kayak and starts walking. I quickly follow after her, picking up the other end.

“How did you do that?” I ask when I recover my voice.

She snorts. “That was nothing. They’re just punks. Easy business.”

“So they aren’t Rangi?”

“Rangi? Heaven forbid. A Rangi child could have dealt with them.”

“But the tattoos … ”

“Lots of Māori have a
moko
. It doesn’t mean they’re Rangi.”

“Oh.”

We return the kayak, and Miri warns Jim about the troublemakers on the beach. He says he’ll call the police. Then we head back to the house.

As I lie in bed, I think about Miri holding the knife to the man’s throat, the ease with which she pulled out her gun. She must have warrior training. Maybe she is a warrior. The thought of facing her in battle sends a shudder through my chest, and I snuggle deeper into the wool blankets. But my last thought before I fall asleep is that a person would feel pretty safe to have her on their side.

In the morning, Miri drops me off at the shop on her way to the wharf, and Jim invites us to a barbecue dinner they’re having that night for some of their guests.

“I might not make it,” Miri says. “I’m going to try a different fishing spot today, see if I have better luck. But if my luck comes early, I’ll bring some snapper
to throw on the barb.”

Jim asks me to help some customers with their rentals, and I explain the basics to them. After I lead them down to the shore and come back to the shop, Jim pulls me aside. “I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay here,” he says, “but you’re just as good as any of my other workers—maybe better—and I’d like to pay you, make you a proper employee.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say. “I’ll have to ask Miri though.”

“Of course, of course. I just wanted to let you know.”

The rest of the day, as I clean the equipment and help other customers, his question continues to swirl through my mind.
How long will I be here?

I help out at the shop until the barbecue. Miri still hasn’t returned by the time we finish eating, so I walk back to the house alone. My feet are sore from standing all day, but apart from some small bruises and sensitive skin, I can hardly feel my injuries.

I turn the lights on when I get back, wondering how late Miri will be out. As I walk along the creaky hallway to my room, I notice something that makes me stop. The door to Miri’s room is ajar. She must have forgotten to lock it this morning.

I pause and consider. It seems plausible that Miri has kept her door locked because it’s where she hides the key to the staying stone. This might be my only chance to investigate. But if she finds out I’ve gone in there, there’s no telling what she might do. I deliberate a little longer, but in the end, my desire for freedom wins. Before I can change my mind, I push open the door and step inside.

Miri’s room looks a lot like mine. Old mattress, old bedspread, old prints on the wall. The only notable difference is a pale pink chest of drawers standing in the corner. I hesitate, but the opportunity is too tempting, and I walk toward it. As I’m reaching for the first drawer, a picture sitting on top of the chest catches my eye. I pick it up. It’s a photo of a man and a woman.

“Kava,” I gasp, all thoughts of a key vanishing from my mind. I know those faces.

They’re my parents.

Clutching the photograph, I wheel around and run down the hallway and out the front door. Frantic spasms bubble in my chest as I sprint toward the wharf.

In the fading light, I see Miri tying her boat up on the dock, her ridiculous yellow scarf popping out of the gloom like a beacon. She looks up when she hears me coming, but I don’t stop running until I’m right in front of her.

“What the hell is this?” I demand, shoving the picture in her face.

She doesn’t even blink. “You been flogging things from my room?”

“Answer me!” I shout.

She turns around and hauls a large cooler out of the boat, dropping it heavily onto the deck. Then she looks back at me and, brushing the hair out of her eyes, points to the image of my mother. “That,” she says, “is my daughter. Aroha.”

I step back, trembling violently. “You’re a liar,” I whisper.

“You think I keep pictures of strangers in my room?” Miri spits onto the sand. “You”—she points at me—“look like your mother, and your mother looks like me. Gonna deny that?”

“You are not my grandmother,” I insist. “My grandparents are dead.”

“Who told you that? Your two-faced,
pakeha
father?”

“What?” I stammer.

“Your father, Hemi. That lying bugger.”

“My dad was not a liar!”

“Ha! That’s a rich one. He betrayed the entire tribe!”

I want to shout that my parents were named Rachel and James, that they were from England, not New Zealand, but my heart is pounding so hard, my breath coming so quickly, I can’t get any words out. My nails dig into my palms, and my arms shake.

“You got something to say, girl?” Miri goads. “Go on. Say it.”

Her taunt does something. I feel it inside me, triggering a deep-seated explosion.

“My parents were not windwalkers!” I yell. “And they were not Rangi! All you Rangi are the same. You’re killers. My parents were not killers. I see their dead faces every single day. But somehow I have to be strong for the twins and pretend everything’s okay, and it’s not okay. It will never be okay. And now that I’m here on this stupid island thousands of miles from home, who’s going to take care of them? And then you’re telling me you’re my freaking grandmother! Well, where have you been all my life, grandma? Why weren’t you there helping me? Why weren’t you there to stop me from running away and seeing Aura die and getting in trouble.” Tears strangle my voice. “Now Rye thinks … and now I’m here … and now you’re saying … Well, it’s all a load of crap. That’s what.”

Miri leans toward me. “I didn’t know where you were. How could I? Your dad spirited you all away, and I never heard from your mum again.”

“No,” I shake my head, backing away. “I don’t believe it.”

“Your dad was a traitor. They had to leave quickly.”

“My dad was not a traitor.”

“He was, Kitara! He sold our secrets to other tribes.”

“And then what?” I shout. “Did you guys kill him? Is that why they died?”

“We didn’t kill him,” Miri says, after a pause. “The Yakone did.”

I stare at her. “Impossible,” I whisper.

“They wanted to make sure he didn’t sell his information to anyone else. Their
Riki
sent us proof that they were dead—though not before they’d already put the information to use.”

In my mind, I see the cold eyes of Aura’s father, hear his voice condemning me to my death. Just like he condemned them.

“No!” I throw the picture at her and then, turning around, run away from the dock, further down the beach. It’s almost completely dark now, and I stumble over the sand dunes and bushes, scraping my feet, but I don’t stop running.

The Yakone. It can’t be. What I did for them, the bomb. Hard to breathe. My parents dead. Dead. Grandmother. Why? How? Hurts so much. Can’t be true. A Rangi? No. Kava! Can’t be. Why didn’t they tell me? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

At last I reach the water and collapse on the ground. It’s like someone’s turned a freaking fountain on behind my eyes. I can’t stop bawling, shaking. I’d refused to believe that I really had a connection to the Rangi, even when that warrior showed me his tattoo. It was too impossible. But now this. I don’t know what to think—about my parents, about the Yakone, about anything.

I stay curled up on the sand until my muscles cramp and my head aches. I curse my body for being weak, but I know I can’t stay out here all night. So I get up and walk slowly back to the house.

Miri says nothing when she sees me dripping water in the entryway to the kitchen. She just puts some fish on a plate and hands it to me. I sit at the table and quietly eat while she dries the dishes.

“Cuppa?” she asks.

“What?”

“Would you like a cup of tea? Some Kava, perhaps?”

I stare at her.

“The tea that makes you sleep. There are lots of ingredients, but Kava root is the base.”

Kava—my mother’s favorite expletive. I think of the tea’s bitter taste and the awful dreams. She must have hated it too.

“No,” I say. I hand her my plate and go to bed. I stare at the ceiling with wet eyes, and daybreak comes before I fall asleep.

It’s late morning when I wake. I splash water on my puffy eyelids and go to the kitchen to look for breakfast. Surprisingly, Miri is still here. She’s sitting at the table, drinking her coffee and Scotch.

I help myself to some toast and sit across from her. Neither of us says anything.

Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. “What secrets was my dad selling?” I ask.

“I suppose I can tell you now.” Miri sighs and takes a long sip of her drink. “You might say Hemi was selling
the
secret. The
hiri
.”

“What’s that?”

She pours more Scotch into her coffee and stirs it around. “In the old days,” she says slowly, “we communicated with each other by using the wind. The
hiri
is a talisman, a pendant that channels the power of the wind and allows the person using it to know where other people with the same pendant are. Not unlike that stone you’ve got on.” She looks at the staying stone chained around my neck.

“All tribes gave
hiri
to their warriors, but this was a bit of a problem if a
hiri
was stolen. Their enemies would be able to track their movements. That’s why most
iwi
now use technology instead.”

I think of the Quil—the communication wristband all of us were issued at the camp—and nod.

Miri continues, “We Rangi, on the other hand, kept only one
hiri
. This was given to the
Matoa
.”

“But how did it work if there was only one?” I ask.

“Each warrior carved the exact pattern of the
hiri
somewhere onto their body—usually their chest or back. A pigment made of ground bone was then poured into the cuts. This connected the warrior to the
hiri
. We call it a
hirimoko.
The
Matoa
could track all of his warriors through their
hirimoko
without worrying about enemies butting in.”

For the thousandth time, I see the Rangi taking off his jacket, showing me his chest. Instinctively, I reach for my necklace, but of course it’s not there.

“So, my necklace was the
hiri
?”

“It was a duplicate,” Miri says. “Your father made it. He was a chippy, a craftsman. His job was to decorate our meetinghouses and create other forms of art to celebrate the spirit of our tribe. He was good. So good, he was made the chief artisan. That gave him access to our supply of
Te Kura
bone.”

“
Te Kura
?”

“
Te Kura
was a large, flightless bird. It’s extinct now.”

“Why would you use the bone of a flightless bird? That doesn’t make sense.”

“The gods created
Te Kura
at the time they made the islands and sent us here. His inability to fly represented the fact that we had left the sky and come to earth. But because he was made at the same time as Aotearoa he had a close connection to the wind.”

“Aotearoa?”

“The land of the long white cloud. New Zealand. On special occasions,
Te Kura
offered himself to the Rangi as a sacrifice, and our ancestors used his thigh bones to carve the first
hiri
.”

“Is that why it went extinct?”

“No. When there got to be too many people, almost everyone left the island. Only a few stayed. Ancestors of the Rangi. Later, people returned to New Zealand—people who had forgotten they were windwalkers—and
they
hunted
Te Kura
until all of his kind was killed. Now we have only a very limited supply of his bones, saved by our tribe for centuries.”

“And you’re saying my dad used some of this supply?”

“Yes. Somehow, he got a hold of the captain’s
hiri
and made a copy. Then he carved several others out of the bone. Because they were made from
Te Kura
, they worked just like the original.”

“Why would he do that?”

She shrugs and takes another drink. “Greed, I expect. He went to several of the tribes, offered them a
hiri
. For a price. And why wouldn’t they pay? It gave them a whopping advantage, and we had no idea what was going on. A good number of us died before we figured it out. By then your dad had fled, and you lot with him.”

“What happened next?”

“We had to alter the original
hiri
and all of the warriors’
hirimoko
. Let me tell you, your father was not a popular person after that.” She grimaces, confirming my suspicion that she’s a warrior.

“I still can’t believe my dad would do something like that,” I say hollowly.

“I don’t think any of us believed it. I just hope your mum didn’t know what he was on about.”

“It doesn’t matter if she did, does it?” I retort. “They killed her too.”

“It
does
matter, Kitara.”

I shake my head. “So the Yakone tried to take the rest of the
hiri
from him?”

“I imagine that’s what happened. They probably didn’t want any more tribes to have the same advantage.”

“But my dad kept one. He gave it to me.”

“So it seems.”

“And that’s why the Rangi warriors brought me here … ” I clear my throat. “Where is it now?”

“I don’t know. Henare probably has it. The
Riki.
”

I take another bite of toast and think about what Miri said. Suddenly, I picture the Rangi shooting at Rye and me in the woods, attacking the fortress, and an uncomfortable feeling sprouts in my chest.

“Is that how your warriors found us?” I blurt out. “Because I was wearing the
hiri
? Did I lead them right to us?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Miri says, “but I don’t think so. Only a warrior who hadn’t altered his
hirimoko
would be able to communicate with your
hiri
. Or someone who had another duplicate.”

Her last sentence sends chills down my neck. That whole time I was wearing my necklace someone could have tracked me. Why would Dad have given me something so dangerous?

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I say.

“Fine with me,” Miri says, finishing her coffee. A few minutes later, she leaves the house with her fishing gear and yellow scarf.

I don’t go to the lagoon today. Instead, I take the kayak out onto the open water. Once the shore is far behind me, I stop paddling and let the kayak bob aimlessly on the waves. The thought occurs to me that I could stay like this, let the ocean carry me wherever it wants—probably to my death.

I’ve always been scared to die, but maybe now it doesn’t seem so bad. Why should I live? I can’t get back to my siblings, and the truth is they’re better off without me. They always were.

My family. I scrunch up my forehead. My family is …
I
am … No, I can’t go back and face that. Can’t live with that knowledge.

It can’t be true. How can it be true?

I close my eyes and see my dad’s face from the photograph. His blue eyes and reddish-brown hair, big smile. I see him pushing me on the swing, playing trains with Jack, giving Maisy pony rides. He would never hurt anyone. It doesn’t make sense.

But as I push deeper into my memories, I remember strained conversations late at night after we had gone to bed. Our frequent moves before settling down in Williams, a town in the middle of nowhere. The pacing my father would do in our living room. Up and down, up and down.

“He was scared,” I say out loud. He was hiding.