The Finder

by Will Ferguson

  “Maybe later. Can I tell you a story, Catherine?”

  She sniffed, nodded.

  “I have a brother,” he said. “A brother in Montreal, a niece as well. Her name is Brynne, and once upon a time, when she was very young, Brynne took me on a tour of her neighborhood. She must have been, oh, I don’t know, five or six at the time. The entire walking tour was from her eye level, and it was marvelous. We marched right past a statue of a general on a horse and a fountain with Latin inscribed in stone; she didn’t notice. These didn’t exist in the World of Brynne. Instead, she showed me the swing in the park where her dad pushed her, the shop on the corner where they put out water for pets and how she had seen a dog messily lapping up water once and how funny it was, and a restaurant where the owner was Greek and very loud and friendly, and how the Jell-O there was very good, especially the green Jell-O, and a fence where someone had put up a lost mitten this one time and how it looked like it was saying hi every time she passed. It was the best tour I’ve ever had. The entire world is in your backyard, Catherine. The walk you make from your home to your school? I imagine you could write an entire tome on the way the path turns, on the plants and the grasses along the way, the manner in which the light plays across the hills, your neighbors with their woolly sheep. When I was tromping around that neighborhood in Montreal with Brynne, she said something that has stayed with me ever since. We were walking along, her chattering away, when she stumbled on an uneven bit of pavement. She stumbled… and then, suddenly, ran. ‘When you trip, the best thing to do is to run through it,’ she explained later. I called it the Tao of Brynne.” He shifted in the straw, struggled to sit up, couldn’t. The weakness was spreading. His limbs felt numb and cold. “Catherine, when you start to trip, run through it.”

  “She seems really nice, your niece.”

  “She reminds me of you,” he said, though that wasn’t strictly true. It was something she needed to hear. Nor was it entirely a lie, either. “You’re both very kind, you see.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I recognize kindness when I see it, because it is so very rare. The world is full of unkind people.”

  “Was that who hurt you, one of those people?”

  “Indeed. A dishonest man, so he was. We had an agreement, y’unnerstand? And he tried to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement, after it was settled. Thought he could threaten me, you see. Thought he had me cornered.”

  “What happened?”

  “I left him pinned under a wall.”

  She passed him the last of the Anzac biscuits. The pain had grown diffuse, was surrounding his body like a dull halo. A silence passed between them.

  “Do you have a wife?”

  “There was a wife, yes. But I didn’t have her. I entertained her for a while. Had a child as well, before you ask. Lost him in the war.”

  “Which war?”

  He brushed his hand in front of him as though waving aside one of the many blowflies that were now buzzing about, sheep feces and human blood proving a heady mix. “Does it matter?” he said. “It’s all the same war. Young men die. Children suffer.” Fire and fever and the awful knowledge that when some things are lost, they are lost forever. “This world of ours is full of cyphers and symbols, Catherine. You just need to know where to look—and how to look.” The darkness began to close in.

  Cyphers and symbols.

  Catherine would write that in her journal and later, when she suddenly came face-to-face with the rage behind his eyes and the terror contained within, she would remember these words as well: The world is full of unkind people. She didn’t realize that he counted himself among them.

  When next he emerged from unconsciousness, Catherine was lying beside him, holding a cloth to his forehead. The light was different. A day may have passed, maybe more. He was growing weaker, feeling dehydrated, unable to hold his head up, and he stared at his young confessor. Her hair was in ribbons now, and curled. A smudge of pink on her lips.

  This puzzled him, even in his delirium. “Are you—are you wearing…” But he stopped himself. She had put on lipstick and mascara, clumsily; her eyes looked permanently surprised. It would be cruel, drawing attention to it. “A new dress?” he asked.

  “This? No, it’s what I wear—what I used to wear—when we go to church. Before we stopped going, before they told us to stop going.” Fayther bringing up mathematical improbabilities in the scriptures. “So now we mostly stay home, practice our prayers alone.” She moved closer, lay her head on his shoulder.

  “Catherine,” he said. “You should go now. You don’t need to stay for this.” He could smell the perfume of an absentee mother; she had doused herself in lilac. When she placed her hand, tentatively, on his chest, she felt his body tighten. He took her wrist, as gently as he could, moved it away. “You should go,” he whispered. Such a sad attempt at seduction. Sad and hesitant and heartfelt. It’s a terrible thing to be young.

  “But don’t you think it means something?” she said. “The two of us meeting?”

  Cyphers and symbols.

  “We live on a globe, Catherine. Draw any two lines and they will eventually intersect. It’s not a miracle, just basic geometry.”

  “You like boys instead?” Even in rural New Zealand, she had heard of such things.

  “I prefer women. You are a child.”

  And with that he fell backward into the darkness for what he believed was the third and final time. So, this is where it ends In a barn on a farm just short of the sea. And now, not only his strength, but the very core of who he was, circled down the drain. He could feel it, the greater darkness, the darkness that was always there, at the edge of all things, was almost looking forward to it.

  “You don’t have to stay for this,” he said. “I can do this next part on my own.”

  She held his hand, clammy and hot, and waited for him to die. “Will you see God?” she asked.

  “If he’ll take me.”

  “God will be waiting for you,” she said. “I know He will.”

  “And if he isn’t?”

  God was a theoretical construct as surely as Catherine was to her dad, but she remained stubborn on the matter. “I know God exists,” she said, “because I can feel His shadow.” This was from a hymn in her childhood, half-remembered. They were the last words he would hear as the darkness closed in.

  But then the worst possible thing happened: he got better. And he lived.

  I COULD DIE OF LOVE FOR YOU

  TONGUE EXTENDED, WITH EYES WIDE and rolling back, bulging in their glares. The coiled energy and heavy, panting breaths, the elaborate facial tattoos. The cries that emanated from somewhere deeper than the throat. The stomp and drop, down on one knee and up again. Defiance, defiance. Ka mate, ka mate! Ka ora, ka ora! Here is death, here is death. Here is life, here is life. Palms slapping against bare chests, leaving red marks and fire in their wake.

  Rafferty had never seen the haka war dance—or “challenge dance,” more accurately—performed at such close range before: on a stage in a village under rising steam and falling rain. It was not the drama of it or the passion. No. It was the sheer commitment. That was what made his heart race. The only way to perform a haka is to go full in, boots and all, as the Kiwis say. Had Rafferty ever felt such commitment to anything? Ever? He must have, at some point, maybe back when he was young, but he couldn’t think of when that would be. Ka mate, ka mate! Ka ora, ka ora!

  He hadn’t found her. Not in the humid streets of Whaka village—the very buildings seeming to sag under the weight of steam—not at the school or in the local café. They knew her name, though, knew who she was—“The American. The one who never smiles.”—and he knew he was getting closer. As he tramped about the narrow lanes of Whaka, Rafferty rehearsed what he would say. It was very simple. Three short words: “Give it back.”

  “You should talk to Kauri,” they’d said, a telling exchange of glances between the women in the village office. “Kauri Morrison
. He’ll know.” A knowing look, a barely contained smile. One of the women, to the other, “Ya reckon?”

  Rafferty walked over to the village baths, where the alkaline waters had been redirected into open pools. Communal bathers, but she wasn’t there, either, and he watched as a Maori woman submerged a tinfoil-wrapped tray of meats and root vegetables into a nearby pond in the sputtering rain. Off-limits to bathers, this one. “Can cook an adult pig in two hours,” she said, with a certain misplaced pride. There was the “grumpy old man” hot spring, bubbling in angry fits and starts, and a strange “champagne pool” with bubbles boiling up, effervescent but scalding. And finally, a haka performed in the village square, the women taking the stage first to spin the mesmerizing pom-poms of the poi, followed by a duet between one of the women and one of the men. “Pokarekare Ana,” a Maori love song, the story of a woman captivated by the flute of a young man on a distant island. She swims across the lake to reach him, suspended by gourds. Ka mate ahau, I te aroha e… I could die of love for you. It was a song in a language he didn’t understand, and he was crying again, wiping it away, angry at himself. Candles and churches and prayers and poi, and Tom Rafferty rubbing the heel of his hand into his clenched eyes.

  Love and war and feats acrobatic.

  The events in Christchurch had cast a pall on the proceedings, making the celebrations more subdued than usual. Tins had been set up like the asking of alms in a medieval procession. Help the victims of the earthquake. Rise up, Christchurch! And the spectators, to their credit, were more circumspect as well. Tourists on crepe-soled vacations watching the wild theater of the haka. Ka mate! Ka mate!

  “Kauri? Kauri Morrison?”

  Rafferty had slipped backstage after the performance. A cluttered room. A kettle simmering on a hot plate. Mr. Morrison was an impressive torso of a man, shoulders knotting into neck. Long hair, set in a kinked topknot, he was bent over a basin, washing the tattoo off his face. The other performers had left, but he had lingered as though expecting someone. Rafferty recognized him from the haka: the eyes rolling back, the tongue extended, the red slap marks on his chest. Kauri began rubbing his face into a towel, saw Rafferty in the mirror, turned with a broad grin—and is there any grin broader than a Maori grin?

  “You’re that travel writer, the one they told me about. Come on in. Cuppa tea? I’ll get you a cuppa tea.”

  Kiwis and their fuckin’ tea.

  “Sure.”

  “Biscuit? Oh, wait. They’re all gone.” He produced coffee mugs instead of teacups, turned the kettle up to boil, and they sat at a card table, the memory of mugs past having formed an Olympic flag of rings on the table’s surface. As they waited for the tea to steep, they discussed the never-ending rain that was New Zealand, mandatory in such situations. “It’s not always this wet,” said Kauri. “Mind you, it’s never entirely dry either.”

  “So,” said Rafferty, taking a cautious sip. “You grew up here?”

  “Did indeed. Just up the hill. My nana’s house. It’s still there.”

  The eggy airs and warm vapors. “Is it healthy?” Rafferty asked. “Living here?”

  “Healthier than most. Good for asthma. The waters in Whaka are known for their—how do y’say it?—healing properties, everything from arthritis to lumbago. Plonk yourself in it, y’emerge a new man.”

  “Like living in a spa,” Rafferty offered.

  “Exactly.”

  Rafferty swirled his tea. “I was in Christchurch—”

  “Terrible business, that.”

  Rafferty nodded. “The art gallery had a display of Maori weapons. They were from Whaka, many of them.”

  “Yeah, my uncle’s patu, I think. Stuff like that.”

  “I was wondering how they ended up down there, in Christchurch. On loan, were they?”

  And with that, Rafferty saw the man’s expression harden. Something had shifted, just under the surface, like a vein under the skin.

  “Thought you were interested in the haka, is what they said.”

  “I am, I am. But… one quick question. The woman who arranged that exhibit in Christchurch, an American.” Rafferty looked around him, as though she might be there and he hadn’t noticed. “Is she still here?”

  There was a chill unrelated to the weather. Angry emails. I don’t have it. Stop asking. And now this: a very large man in a very small room, eyes filled with undisguised hostility.

  “You’re not here to write a story, are ya? You’re the reason she left. She said you might show up. She wants nothing to do with you, bro.”

  “I just need to know where she is.”

  “Not here. Gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Didn’t say.” And then this: Leaning across the table, staring into Rafferty’s pale eyes, inches from his face, holding his gaze, unblinking. A challenge undeniable. “You know what a patu is? Polished greenstone. Blade like an ax. Close contact, isn’t it? In Maori culture, you kill a man face-to-face. You look in his eyes. Arrows and muskets, those were considered cowardly.”

  Emotions, barely contained. Partly despair, partly anger—mostly despair. And Rafferty realized, this man had been her lover, too.

  Rafferty ran a hand across the tabletop, clearing it of imaginary crumbs. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Our Rebecca.” He looked up. “We could swap stories, if you like,” Rafferty offered. “Tales of Rebecca.”

  “Not for the faint of heart,” said Kauri. The anger had subsided, not the despair.

  “No sir,” said Rafferty. “Not for the faint of heart.” The feint of hearts.

  “My mother,” said Kauri. “She taught me the haka. She was a giant. Me? Not so much.”

  “Te Arawa?” Rafferty asked.

  He nodded. “That was the name of the canoe. Each iwi traces itself back to a specific canoe. There were seven that landed. The Great Fleet. Canoes across open seas, can you imagine such a thing? Te Arawa. That one was ours.”

  “The legend,” said Rafferty.

  “The history.”

  The rainy-day dampness had taken hold. Rafferty’s sweater hung like drooping chainmail. Traces of a tattoo on the corners of Kauri’s eyes. Cold tea in the mug.

  “So, what happened?” Rafferty asked. “Between the two of you.”

  Kauri shrugged. “Not much. Pretty simple, really. She took my stories. And then she left.”

  A single tea steam was floating in Rafferty’s cup.

  Kauri’s eyes were in his tea as well. “You know the Ngati Tumatakokiri?” he said. “What happened to them? Were once the lords of the South Island, fierce, true Maori. Were the first ones to meet Europeans. That was before Captain Cook. A Dutch ship anchored offshore, a big battle. Held ’em back, the strangers never landed. But we only have the Dutch side of that story, because the Ngati Tumatakokiri are gone. All of ’em, and their stories too. Their descendants were absorbed into other iwi, other tribes, and the stories were lost. And without stories, we don’t really exist, do we?”

  “Maybe that’s what she’s trying to do, preserve these things before they are lost forever.”

  Kauri laughed. “Not preserve, purloin. That’s the word, isn’t it? To claim something that isn’t yours.”

  “I think so.”

  “And she purloined you too, did she?”

  Rafferty nodded. Hearts that we broke long ago, have long been breaking others.

  Time to go. The rain had stopped, and Rafferty got up. Pushed his chair back in, thanked him for the tea. But then, as he was about to leave—

  “Said somethin’ about Alice.”

  Rafferty turned. “Alice?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did she give a last name?”

  “It’s not a person, bro. It’s a place.”

  ENTER DR. ROWLEY

  WHEN NEXT HE SURFACED, HE was not alone, and neither was she. Someone had joined Catherine at her straw-side vigil, a face blurry, a voice the same.

  “I’ve employed a range of antibiotics�
� he may be weak for some time… fever should eventually come down…”

  A reverse drain, pulling him up, toward the surface. He could feel a fresh sear of pain in his side. Not as widespread as before. A more precise pain, as though gathering in on a single spot: the bullet wound, front and back, entry and exit.

  “I’ve stitched him up, best I could, both sides… will need lots of rest… liquids… Katie, we really should contact the police.”

  Catherine’s voice, through the fog. “It’s too dangerous. You won’t say to anyone, right? Bad men are looking for him. He has a satchel. I had to hide it for him. My dad doesn’t even know he’s here. You won’t say anything? Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Eyelids fluttering open.

  “Ah. The patient awakens.”

  Catherine, leaning in. “How are you feeling?”

  A choked response, trying to say “water.” She thought he said, “well,” and she beamed. Catherine Butler had saved a life.

  “This is Dr. Rowley,” she said.

  A modest objection. “Not a doctor, child.”

  “An animal doctor.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose.”

  “A doctor. You make things better.” She looked to the dying man, eyes imploring. “I know you said not to tell anyone, I know I promised, but I didn’t want you to die, and he came right away, he only lives two farms over, but don’t worry, he won’t say anything to anyone, I made him cross his heart.”

  Catherine, running across the fields. Catherine, in near panic, down hedgerow lanes to Dr. Rowley’s bungalow. Hammering on the door, in tears, breathless and scared and afraid of losing him. She had gone to rouse her father first, but he lay there sleeping. Might as well have been away. Ran instead in stumbling gumboots to the only other adult she could think of who could help, had brought him back here to Erewhon.

  “You needed a doctor, you really did, and Mr. Rowley—Dr. Rowley—he’s our vet, he inoculates our lambs. He’s the only doctor I know, and he parked and walked across the paddocks, so no one saw him, not even my dad.”