Coiled Snake (The Windstorm Series Book 2) (6 page)

“Are we going to ride your bike?” I ask.

“Sorry,” he says. “Baby’s off limits. Only I get to touch her. Plus, she’s out of petrol.”

He walks over to the garage and opens the door to reveal an old Toyota Corolla. Fishing out the keys from a coffee can on a shelf, Paika unlocks the driver’s door—on the right—and reaches over to unlock mine.

“Will Miri care that we’re taking her car?” I ask as I get in and latch the buckle.

“Nah,” he says. “She likes sharing her stuff.” He grins at me and then backs the Corolla onto the street and drives down the Strand.

“Might want to keep out of sight,” he adds as we leave Okarito.

I lean back in my seat, an intoxicating blend of rebellion and trepidation churning in my stomach. From my hiding place, I watch relentlessly out the window, but if there are any Rangi warriors hidden in the bush, they don’t show themselves.

The road out of town is narrow, closely bordered by thick trees and fronds on both sides, though at one point a stream breaks up the foliage on our right. The road climbs higher into the mountains, further inland, and at last we reach a fork connecting us to the highway.

It’s hard to tell we’re in the mountains; the trees block most of my view. Even when we drive by a large lake, I get only glimpses of it between the branches. Eventually, the trees clear out as we drive through a small town surrounded by farmland—emerald pastures dotted with sheep and wildflowers.

The scenery repeats itself for about an hour: trees hiding all but the misty tops of the peaks, rolling meadows, quiet villages. And then the highway takes us back out to the coast, and suddenly we’re driving next to the ocean.

“Here we are,” Paika says, parking the car on the side of the highway.

“Where’s here?” I ask. All I see is coastline.

“Come look.” He gets out of the car, so I follow him.

Paika walks down the road until he gets to a small driveway on the left—the side that’s not the beach—and I realize that the trees have been hiding a group of buildings. A signpost next to the driveway reads, “Marae.”

Paika walks up to a rickety gate and stops.

“Aren’t we going in?” I ask.

“Have to be invited,” he says. “We’ll wait.”

After a few minutes, another car parks nearby, and a group of four people—two men and two women—join us at the gate. The six of us wait for maybe ten minutes before a woman in a bright red shirt appears on the other side of the entrance. Without warning, she starts to sing.

When her song ends, one of the visiting women looks at me with a question on her face. Confused, I look at Paika. He shakes his head at the woman, and she nods. Then she too begins to sing. She and Red Shirt exchange responses several times before Red Shirt comes toward us and opens the gate. They continue the song as we slowly walk into the compound.

“Welcome to our
marae
,” Red Shirt says when the song ends. “Te Tauraka Waka a Māui. The
whare tipuna
is over there, and the
wharekai
is there. Please enjoy your stay.”

“What are those?” I whisper to Paika.

“Meetinghouse and dining hall,” he says. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

We walk toward the meetinghouse. It’s a beautiful wooden building with a peaked roof supported by two pillars on each side. The roof and the pillars are etched with swirling engravings, and a carved figure dons the gable.

“That’s Māui,” Paika says, pointing to the statue. “He landed here after making the voyage from Rangiātea. After sailing around the South Island, he fished up the North Island.”

I stare up at the sculpture, but I can’t see its face.

“Let’s go inside,” Paika says.

Paika and the others take off their shoes outside the meetinghouse, so I do the same. Inside the large room, we’re greeted by more beautiful woodwork, more carvings.

“This is where they hold community events and celebrations,” Paika says in a quiet voice, “and where the members honor their ancestors.
Whare tipuna
literally means ancestral house.” He points to carved statues along the walls. “These are some of their forebears.”

I look around at the figures staring down on us and remember that Miri said my dad’s job was to decorate meetinghouses—not for the Māori, of course, but for the Rangi. The dark polished wood and the statues’ leering faces close in on me until it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m going back outside,” I say abruptly. I leave the meetinghouse, grab my shoes, and walk out of the
marae
, across the highway, onto the beach. I sit down on a rock and stare at the gray horizon and foaming waves.

A moment later, Paika sits down next to me. He says nothing, just watches the ocean.

“I don’t like all this talk about family,” I say. “About belonging, knowing your place. I don’t want—” But my voice breaks, and I can’t finish.

“S’all right,” Paika says.

We sit there for a while longer before he asks if I want to go home. I nod, and we get back in the car.

We drive for about twenty minutes in silence. Then I ask, “Why did you take me there?”

“Same reason I knew you wouldn’t run when I gave you the key. You’re looking for answers.”

A guilty flush spreads over my cheeks when I recall how I was tempted to do exactly that.

“Lucky for me, you didn’t,” Paika continues cheerfully. “Miri would have flogged me within an inch of my life. Then Henare would have packed my poor, bloody remains in a box. And burnt it.”

I smile in spite of myself. After another silence, I say, “I don’t get it. Why do you call your meetinghouses
whare tipuna
? I thought they were called
wakenus.
”

“Ah,” Paika says, “
wakenu
is the Kohangaere
word for meetinghouse.
Whare tipuna
is the Māori word.”

“Oh, right.”

“However,” he says, looking at me, “Māori is the closest language to Kohangaere, so many of our words are similar or even the same. Take
hongi
, for example, the traditional Māori greeting. Pressing your nose and forehead together to exchange the breath of life, create a bond. That’s a direct descendent of
honga
, that is.”

“Why is Māori the closest language?”

“Because everyone began life on New Zealand.”

I frown. “Everyone?”
That’s not what Rye said
, I think.

“Yeh. First Parents sent us all down on a cloud, which became this beautiful island.”

I remember Miri saying something about that. But then I think about what Rye told me. “I thought the Rangi came down on the cloud on their own,
after
the other windwalkers. And that after the war you were exiled here.”

“Who told you that rubbish?” Paika asks.

“Uh … ”

“A Yakone?” He spits out the car window. “They’re liars. Everyone came to Earth at the same time, but most of them left Aotearoa, wanting more space. Only our ancestors remained. They asked the others to stay, to remain close to First Parents, but they refused. So we guarded our sacred land until centuries later humans—who had of course forgotten their origins—returned to the islands.

“Ask any historian,” he continues in the formal voice he uses when he talks about tribal matters. “They’ll tell you that New Zealand has one of the shortest human histories. The first Polynesian settlers didn’t arrive until the twelfth or thirteenth century. What they don’t know is that we windwalkers were here before that, and our ancestors intermingled with the humans, the Māori, teaching them. That’s why there’s such a strong similarity in our language, customs, and weapons. Even Māori stories reveal a distant memory of windwalking. For example, they say that the winds are gods, all part of a large family.

“And remember the figure of Māui on the meetinghouse?” he asks. “The Māori say that he came from Rangiātea, our ancient homeland, and that all Māori who journeyed to Aotearoa came from there too. When we die, that’s where we return.”

“Is that true?” I ask.

“Almost. We did come from Rangiātea, the land in the sky, but like I said, the Māori left Aotearoa for a time, along with everyone else, and then came back home where we windwalkers welcomed them.”

“So you’re saying the Rangi didn’t want to leave New Zealand? They didn’t start a war to gain more territory?”

“What? Where do you come up with these ideas? No, the other tribes waged war on
us
. We lived on the sacred island, and they wanted it. There’s power here, in the land. We can craft talismans that allow us to use the wind—like
hiri
and staying stones and wind charms—while they have to make do with technology. Remember the
patu
and
knife
I showed you?”

I nod.

“They’re made from
pounamu
. Greenstone. New Zealand jade. Sacred boulders found only in the South Island. They enhance our connection with the world around us.”

“If you love this land so much, why were you in Yakone territory?”

His face grows hard. “Because they wiped out one of our villages. We wanted to strike at their center and prevent future attacks, but we failed. I’ll tell you something though: we won’t fail again. We will have vengeance.”

I stare out the window and bite the inside of my cheek. Could it be true? Had the Yakone attacked first? For everything Rye told me, Miri and Paika have an opposite story. Whose version is right?

Regardless of the truth, I realize I can never let Paika or anyone else find out what really happened at the fortress. If they were to know I was the one who removed the bombs …

“Tell you what,” Paika says. “I think it’s time for a little reward.” He pulls the car onto a turnout and shuts off the engine. “Come with me,” he says.

I follow him out of the car and into the forest. The plants and trees are even thicker than they appeared from the road, and the spiky shrubs scratch my skin, but Paika doesn’t slow down, so I don’t either. We climb uphill. It’s hard work, and I’m grateful for the breeze that cools the sweat on my forehead.

After a good thirty minutes of climbing, the ground levels out a bit. We follow a shallow stream upriver, stepping on the soft moss and ferns until we reach a clearing surrounded by tall trees.

“Scurry up a tree and make sure no one’s about,” Paika says.

“Are you serious?”

“Consider it part of your training. Go on!”

Shaking my head, I look for a good climbing tree and then pull myself up onto its branches, moving at a steady pace. When I get above the neighboring leaves, I let out a gasp. The view is incredible. Trees for as far as I can see, backed by the stately mountains shrouded in mist, an island above an island. And down below me, the azure ocean melts into the sky.

It is beautiful,
I think.

“See anyone?” Paika calls.

“Not a soul.”

“Right, come on down.”

“Are you planning to murder me?” I ask, when I land back on the soft forest floor.

“Depends,” he grins. “Can you defend yourself?” He throws a
patu
at my chest and then, without warning, jumps into the air and catches the wind. Whirling quickly, he pulls out his own
patu
and dives straight for my throat.

The sight paralyzes me for a heartbeat, but I recover and meet his attack just in time. He spins away and dives again; this time I catch my own air current and leap out of the way.

“The trick to fighting while windwalking,” Paika instructs, “is to watch the wind currents and figure out the possible paths your opponent can take.” He flips through the air and cuts me off, swinging at me with his club. “Like that.”

I knock his blow away, but it throws me off balance, and I almost hit a tree.

“The other trick is to not lose
honga
,” he laughs.

“Gee, thanks,” I yell. I call to the wind, feel it surge through me, and then I drop to a lower current and flip behind Paika. I seize his hair, and put the
patu
to his throat.

Before I can claim the win, he spins quickly and kicks my foot up. But my bond is stronger now, so I don’t lose the connection again. Instead, I rotate sideways and slash at him with the edge of the club.

“Cracker!” Paika says.

We continue to parry, and I lose all sense of time. Feeling the wind buzz in my chest, sailing through the air, watching my hard work pay off, it’s the best I’ve felt since I came here.

Finally, Paika calls it quits, and we return to the ground and trek back to the car.

“Thanks,” I say. “That was a reward.”

“You’ve earned it, girl,” he says. “I’ve never seen anyone learn as quickly as you have. Though I honestly didn’t expect you to be able to windwalk.”

“I learned from a Yakone,” I say, watching him sideways.