by A. W. Exley
Miguel worked at the map table, plotting a wide loop that would take a couple of hours and bring them back to their point of origin. Once he had the coordinates outlined he took them to the navigator.
Loki let the airship keep ascending until they reached a comfortable cruising altitude for the big girl.
“We have a sustained signal, cap’n,” his comms officer called out.
“Excellent, send our request through to London.” Loki hoped Nate would reply while they were still airborne.
Paniha tore her gaze from the green land and stared at the machine making the quick clack-clack noise in one corner. “What is that?”
“Aethergraph. It’s how we send messages around the world.” Loki twirled a finger above his head, which was meant to symbolise words spinning between countries but probably made him look a little crazy.
“What is aether?” She was full of questions.
When you grew up in an industrialised country you forgot that many everyday things are extraordinary to people still living in huts and hunting with spears.
Loki frowned. He wasn’t a scientist; he knew the contraption worked but he never really thought about how it worked. “Aether is all around us, but we can’t see it.”
“Air,” Miguel said from his spot at the console behind Loki.
“Is it?” Loki screwed up his face. That sounded a bit too simplistic and not nearly mystical enough to impress Paniha.
“It comes from the Greek aither and means fresh air or pure sky. It was believed to be the breath of the gods. While we cannot see it, the machine can sense it and releases vibrations, in a different pattern for each letter, upon the aether. The machine at the other end plucks it from the air and reforms the letters to make a message.” Miguel pointed to the machine attached to the comms officer desk. It clattered away and looked something like a misshapen sewing machine, except it spat out a thin ribbon of paper rather than thread.
Paniha beamed. “Like blowing a leaf on the wind?”
“Exactly,” Loki said, stepping back in to take some credit for the explanation. “We blow our request on the invisible wind and one will come back to us.”
A serious light crept into her gaze. “You are a master of air, Captain Hawke, bending it to your command.”
Yes, yes he was. He soared and swooped in his kingdom high above the ground.
“Master of hot air,” Miguel muttered from his post.
The seriousness left Paniha’s face as she chuckled at Miguel’s overheard comment.
“I could make you swab the decks, you know,” Loki reminded his second.
With the course set, Loki handed over the wheel to his first mate and went to stand next to Paniha. They travelled west, over the high range of mountains that were the spine of the South Island. A faint dusting of snow along the top looked as though a cook had sprinkled icing sugar upon them. Fluffy clouds drifted by or dispersed as they hit the glass and slid off to the side.
Giggling and stomping feet came from outside as the children ran round and round the deck, pretending they were birds and flapping their arms as the wind brushed over them. Loki hoped none tried to climb the mesh netting meant to keep passengers safe. He didn’t want to answer to Hone if he lost any over the side.
They passed over the mountains and approached the West Coast, a wild and rugged region. A turbulent ocean crashed against rock and desolate beaches and threw up spray that became a fine mist. There were only a couple of tiny settlements out here, made up of the brave men who risked their lives in the newly established gold mines. It would take a special woman to hunker down in such harsh isolation, waiting each night to see if her man would emerge from the bowels of the earth.
“Do you know these people?” Loki asked as they passed over a clearing with a collection of six wooden and tin huts. At one end stood a more solid structure with smoke rising from two chimneys, one at each end of the stone building. He would place money on it being the pub. When you worked hard, you drank and played hard as well. Wherever in the world he travelled, men with grime under their fingernails needed the escape that could only be found in such places. It didn’t matter if a town consisted of ten people or ten thousand, ale would flow.
“No,” Paniha whispered. “It is a long journey by foot. Only rarely do the chiefs of Ngai Tahu and Ngati Mamoe gather.”
Distance could separate people, and the convenience and speed of an airship could bring them together. How would this isolated and rugged land change once distances shrank?
“Would you like to be able to see more of this country? Or even other countries across the ocean?” He was curious about people who stayed in the same location their entire lives. He was surprised they didn’t grow moss—didn’t they grow bored of the same scenery every day, never seeing anything new?
Interest flared in Paniha’s dark eyes, only to be softened by sadness. “To journey to another place I would have to leave my whanau.” Her hand went to the pendant at her throat and a frown pulled between her brows.
“You don’t have to stay put your entire life. You’re not a tree rooted in one spot.” He’d quite like the little dove as a companion on his flights. He saw the desire in her eyes at the lure of exploring whatever lay beyond the horizon, then she shook it away.
“These are my people and this is my land. Hone and I will marry and I will tend to them at his side.” Her hands went back to the glass and the untouched forest that ran all the way to greet the ocean.
Oh. He had conveniently forgotten the dampener on his plans. Not that Loki saw marriage as an impediment to having either of the couple, but he assumed being married to a chief was like becoming mayor, and tied you down. Responsibility was as big a weight around your neck as those fancy gold chains mayors loved. Then he reminded himself that he certainly wasn’t looking to be weighted down. He didn’t want a permanent arrangement, just a pleasurable diversion.
“Don’t you ever have holidays? Couldn’t you come fly with me for a couple of months and then settle back in your nest with Hone?” He laughed at the idea of sharing the woman with the fierce warrior. Hone would probably add his head to the shrunken collection inside the marae for suggesting it. Or would he? Attraction had flared between the two men; the only question was whether they would they act on it.
Paniha laughed, a soft gentle noise like flowing water, yet it stabbed through Loki and swirled through his empty insides. She laid a hand on his arm. “What of you, captain, where is your nest?”
“I either live in Nate’s house in London, or I have a cabin on the airship.” He didn’t need a nest. That was a thing for women, something they made warm and homely with crocheted doilies over the backs of sofas.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve. “But every bird has a nest, for when its wings are tired from flying.”
Tired of flying? He couldn’t imagine that ever happening. But there were days when his wings grew heavy and he wondered about stopping for a while. “I live up here. I don’t need a place on the ground.”
“What are you looking for? You search the skies and all the lands, but you haven’t found it yet.”
“I’m not searching for anything except adventure.” He laughed and brushed her comment off. Then his gaze drifted over the trees and shoreline. What if he was looking for something intangible and he didn’t know how to identify it? He might search all his days and never find it—or worse, find it but overlook it completely. He rubbed at the ache in his chest. It kept returning whenever Paniha was near, or when Hone asked his questions. He should talk to the doctor about it.
They flew over an area of deep forest, birds diving and playing as though the canopy of foliage were the ocean. The lush green opened up to an angry brown scar. Far below the doll-sized men and strong draft horses worked to fell and drag out the massive logs. A few stopped to look up and point at the airship. The horses with their blinkers kept their gazes straight ahead.
Paniha traced an outline of the area on the glass
with one hand, the other wrapped around the pounamu creature hanging at her neck. “Those trees have stood since the time of my ancestors, and pakeha chop them down. Your British progress is a scar upon whenua.”
Timber milling was outside Loki’s field of expertise but he admitted it did look horrid to see the giants toppled and prone on the ground. “I’m sure the forest will recover.” Isn’t that what trees do—grow? He was sure it was some cycle of life thing: Cut down the tree and a new one grows, to be later cut down itself.
A single tear rolled down her cheek. “How many lifetimes will that take? If we flew your bird over here in a hundred years, would this forest have recovered? Or will it take a hundred lifetimes?”
“I don’t know.” How odd for a woman to cry over a few fallen trees. What connection did she have to this land that she felt its scars so deeply?
She turned from the window and faced him. “Pakeha don’t think. This is the problem our people have with yours. One action today will cause ripples that last for generations. We nurture whenua and moana, whereas pakeha would plunder them, not caring for the damage done.”
She wiped away the tear and walked from the bridge.
The rest of the flight was uneventful. Loki watched as excited passengers, and a few green-faced ones, placed their feet back on the grass. Paniha walked away with the children without a single backward glance. Loki pondered the conundrum she presented. How did a woman who wore a flax skirt and had no material possessions manage to make him feel that he was the pauper, with something missing in his life?
9
The rest of the day was spent in letter-writing. Missives were dispatched with traders leaving Matanui, to spread the word to others that there was a buyer looking for goods to take back to England. Loki had hoped their stay in New Zealand would be brief, but the country didn’t have an efficient transport network. They needed airships or a railway line right up the middle of each island. He wasn’t used to such a lack of basic amenities. He looked around at the settlement and found it easy to imagine the rest of the world didn’t exist.
With his tasks done for the day and nothing else demanding his attention, Loki retuned to the cottage. Miguel sat on the verandah with a waiting beer. He handed it over as Loki dropped into the chair next to him.
“Have you learned any more about our dead settler? Any likely suspects other than a hiding bear?” The man’s death niggled at him. Such a brutal way to die in the peaceful forest.
Miguel shook his head. “He was well liked. A devoted husband and father. Didn’t drink much, never gambled and attended church every Sunday. I didn’t find so much as a harsh word spoken about him.”
Loki wiped a droplet from the side of his beer bottle. “Are you sure? Sounds like a horrific life to me and a good motive for murder. Or perhaps he ended it himself rather than endure another mundane day.”
“Not everyone is shallow like you, thinking only of pleasure. Some people build deep relationships and family. And as I keep telling you, there are no bear or any large predators in Aotearoa,” Miguel gently chided Loki.
It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t understand the way others lived. He was never meant for a normal life: a wife, children, a steady job with both feet firmly planted on the ground. Pirates were meant to fly high above ordinary people’s heads and to have a different lover in every city around the world. Except one face kept invading his dreams. Or two.
“You know, everyone calls me a bastard, but the irony is that I’m not.” Loki nursed his beer. The ale down here was surprisingly good. Was it the water or the hops that added kick to the flavour?
“Were your parents happy?” Miguel asked in a quiet voice.
“God, no. A typical marriage for minor nobility—my mother loved deeply and Father not at all. Mother pined and wasted away while Father whored his way across London.” The doctors said it was consumption that took his mother in the end. The seventeen year old Loki saw it differently. He packed a bag that night and left, never to return.
“That will be where you get it from, then.” Miguel clinked his beer against Loki’s and took a drink.
Loki laughed. Perhaps he was too similar to his father, thinking only of his own pleasure. But what if he was more like his mother and simply couldn’t bear the idea of giving his heart to someone who then crushed it underfoot? Better to never love than to die of a broken heart. He didn’t want to become a desperate wraith who craved any crumb of affection. To be ignored while your life seeped from your body, with only your son to stroke your fevered forehead.
No. He had chosen his path and while he shared love with many, he would never let one person hold such sway over him.
They dined in the Jenny Elle with the rest of the crew and Loki played a game of chess with Miguel. Full dark blanketed the countryside as they walked back to the cottage by the light of one insipid lantern.
“This country needs lampposts,” Loki muttered. “And sewers and plumbing.” Their toilet was a small shack with a wooden seat covering a deep hole. At least there was nothing to hide in the privy and bite you on the arse when you were most vulnerable. Another gauntlet Australians had to deal with—poisonous spiders and snakes that crept into all sorts of nooks and crannies.
“I never pegged you for missing the creature comforts back home,” Miguel said, trying to hold the lantern steady between the two of them.
“I’m a pirate, not a hermit living in a cave.” Something about the enormous night sky above them and the loneliness of their location ate at him and fouled his good mood. Despite the size of the sky, the stars still had each other, while he went to a small but lonely room.
THE NEXT MORNING Loki rose early and dressed. Out in the main room, Miguel stirred on his cot. “Don’t get up, lad. I fancy a walk and I might rustle up something for breakfast. I have a hankering for fresh fish.”
Loki opened a cupboard and stared at the contents. He was sure he had spotted a fishing line and pole on his first inspection. The next cupboard revealed what he sought: a straight pole and spool of line, and a small tin with several hooks. He pocketed the tin and grabbed the line and pole.
Miguel had rolled over and gone back to sleep. Loki wished his first mate tasty dreams of Marika and then stepped out in the brisk morning air. Autumn scented the earth and soon the daytime temperatures would drop. Odd country, to greet winter in the middle of the year. What would it be like to celebrate Christmas in the middle of summer, when the weather made you sweat? So many things about this country were turned upside down, including the seasons.
Loki headed toward the river and walked along the bank. Others would laugh at the idea of him having the patience to catch a fish, but sitting on the end of a pier in silence, a line in the water waiting for a bite, appealed to him. It soothed the constant noise in his soul. People thought him shallow, but what if he was more than a reflection on the water? He could have depths. Possibly not many of them, but he could be more. He simply hadn’t seen the need to change his life.
Damn country with its isolation and peaceful forests. It's seeping into my head and making me soft. I'll be writing poetry about unrequited love next. He needed to bury himself in pleasure and plug up the holes inside him.
The shoreline consisted of smooth stones instead of sand and they moved and crunched under his boot. The water swirled and gurgled on its way past and out to the ocean. Birds with long legs waded out and did their own spot of fishing. More birds called from the bush as they awoke and set off for the day.
A jetty came into view. The large timbers were sunk into the riverbed and allowed a person to fish from over the water, or for people in smaller vessels or canoes to more easily disembark. It looked as though Loki was too late. Someone had already taken his chosen place. He didn’t even appear to be fishing, but sleeping at the end of the pier. Perhaps drunk from the previous night? Fellow should be grateful he had nodded off before he dropped in the river and drowned.
“Morning,” Loki called as he stepped onto
the jetty.
The sleeper didn’t reply. Perhaps he was awake and concentrating really hard on his quarry below? One hand stretched out over the wood as though he were trying to pat a fish. If this chap was going to keep quiet, there might be room for two of them on the narrow timbers.
The man wore rough canvas trousers and scuffed boots on his feet. A woollen jacket covered his torso and his head was bare, showing dark messy hair. Loki paused and peered at his form. Something in his quiet companion’s stillness raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
Then his mind grasped what was bothering him—the lack of any breathing except his own.
A dark stain spread under the man’s body. At first glance it appeared simply a wet spot, perhaps a splash from below. Now it took on a more sinister appearance.
“Oh, fuck,” Loki whispered.
He dropped his own line and rod and then took another step closer. This man had been fishing; his outstretched hand had a fine line looped around his fingers. It dropped into the water and disappeared. Loki placed two fingers against the man’s neck. Not that he needed confirmation of the lack of pulse—the stark paleness of the man’s upturned face and his glazed expression told the poor sod’s soul had departed. His eyes were mirrors with nothing behind them. A light dampness to his clothing could only have come from the morning dew. Meaning he had lain here for some time. Did he die last night while indulging in a bit of moonlight fishing? Given the blood staining the wood, it didn’t appear to be a heart attack.
He would need to turn the man over to see what wound leaked his life force into the river. Better to raise the alarm first. Wouldn’t do to find himself fingered for an unexpected death.
“I’ll be back, don’t go anywhere,” he said to the corpse, then trotted back along the shore to the warehouse.