The Tooth

by Des Hunt

  Mits swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge. He leaned forward looking at me. After a while he said, ‘Oh, it was a tooth all right. I know it was a tooth.’ He looked at me for a while longer. Then he smiled. ‘And you know what, Tiny? We’re going to find it. You and I are going to find The Tooth. And then we’ll be famous. Just you wait and see.’

  I said nothing. What could I say? All I could do was hope that by morning he’d have forgotten all about it.

  Chapter 3

  Mits and I are opposites in so many ways that it’s surprising we’re such close friends. I like history, art and music, whereas he likes science and technology. I read historical novels and he reads fantasy. I do outdoor things, such as playing soccer and horse-riding, and he only plays computer games. I get up early in the morning and he sleeps in, which means we often end up doing different things when we are together. Perhaps that’s the secret of our friendship—we can be ourselves while still enjoying the other’s company.

  On that Saturday morning I left the house while it was still mostly dark. I went through the back of the Smithsons’ section into Bluff Hill Domain. From there you can see forever. That morning I was in time to see the sun rise out of the Pacific Ocean. There’s something truly awesome about seeing the sun rise out of the sea—you really do get the feeling that it is the birth of a new day, and that better things might come from it.

  I watched the sun until it was clear of the water, before turning to see what was happening down at the port. That’s where Dad works. He drives a container forklift. This is a huge machine that can stack twenty-tonne, twelve-metre-wide containers up to five high. I could see and hear the machines working. If you watch them for a while, you begin to think that they’re shifting the containers around just for something to do. I can never see any pattern to it. But Dad says there is and that it takes a lot of planning to make sure everything gets to the right place.

  By the time I’d finished watching the forklifts, the sun was lighting the scene with its orange light. As usual my eyes were drawn to the brown hills that are the backdrop to Hawke Bay. Up there is a sheep station called Pounamu. That’s where Nanna and Grandad live—Mum’s mother and father—along with my other best friend—Phoebe, the horse I inherited from Mum. I have been riding Phoebe since I was five. She is something really special to me.

  Also in those hills, not far from Pounamu, is the river where Mum died, along with the place that Mits wanted to find. I stood staring in the direction of the hills, yet not really seeing them. I knew that Mits would not have forgotten the whole thing over night. He would still want to find The Tooth. The question was: did I want to go back to that place? Did I really want to find out what had happened?

  Surprisingly, I found that the answer was yes. I did want to find out about that part of my life. I needed to fill in the gaps, or they would haunt me forever. It was time to go back to that river and see what we could find.

  Yet I didn’t want it to be part of some fantasy quest, looking for dragons or whatever. It had to be a no-nonsense search for the truth, and that would mean that Mits and I would need to have a serious talk. With that thought in mind, I turned and headed back to the Smithsons’ house.

  Mits was up when I got back, having breakfast with his mother.

  ‘Ah, Tiny,’ he said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you. Grab something to eat and come through to my room.’ He then disappeared.

  Mrs Smithson gave a chuckle. ‘You’ve got him all worked up over something. I’ve never seen him up this early on a Saturday morning.’ I glanced at the clock and saw that it wasn’t yet eight.

  In the bedroom, Mits was sitting on his bed surrounded by books. ‘Right,’ he said as soon as I entered, ‘take a look at these.’

  They were all books on dragons, and each was open at a drawing that showed a dragon’s tooth.

  ‘OK,’ he started, ‘let’s see if we can identify this tooth of yours. I want you to look at each of these in turn and tell me which one is the closest.’

  ‘Mits,’ I said, patiently, ‘it’s not like any of them.’

  ‘You haven’t looked closely.’

  ‘That’s because it won’t be there. Looking at dragon’s teeth isn’t going to help.’

  ‘So what do you think would help?’ he asked, showing the first signs of anger.

  I turned to him and smiled. ‘How about we go and stay at Pounamu Station with Nanna and Grandad, and find the thing? That’s what I think will help.’

  His face brightened. ‘Yeah! When?’

  ‘What are you doing during the holidays?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, I thought I might stay at Pounamu Station and go hunting for teeth.’

  ‘On one condition,’ I added. ‘You’re not to mention dragons or any of that stuff anywhere near my grandparents. You’ll just spook them out and we’ll end up getting nowhere. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ he laughed, making a zipping action across his mouth. ‘You will never hear the D-word when I am with them.’ I laughed too, even though I doubted he could keep that promise.

  I always delayed my return home on Saturday so that Dad could have some privacy. The idea was that if he wanted to bring somebody home after his night out he could, without me disturbing them. There never had been anybody. He’d had a few dates, but nothing had ever come of them. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to find another partner or not. Yet it did worry me that his life never seemed to change. It was like time had stopped for him eight years ago.

  He was doing the vacuuming when I got back home, which meant he’d decided it was time for a clean-up. This happened about once every three weeks and ended with us going out for lunch. That suited me fine, because there were things I had to discuss with him.

  We finished about one o’clock and then headed the short distance into Ahuriri. Until the earthquake, this was the main port for Napier. Now the old wool warehouses have been transformed into apartments, and restaurants fill the spaces where wagons once unloaded their bales of wool. If you want, you can take a tour of the area sitting on a horse-drawn wagon of wool bales.

  I chose a place that served great chips and delicious ham-burgers. We sat outside, by the road overlooking the marinas that had replaced the wharves.

  ‘So,’ asked Dad, ‘how was school this week?’ This was his usual opening, and normally I would mumble something in reply. However, this time I welcomed the question because it would lead to the thing I wanted to talk about.

  ‘Pretty good. We’re studying the earthquake.’

  ‘Haven’t you done that before?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of. We’ve talked about it in other classes, but this time we’re doing a “Study in depth”. At least that’s what Klinkenstein calls it. We’re going on a field trip next week.’

  Klinkenstein is our teacher. His real name is Mr Klinkstein, but everyone calls him Klinkenstein or Klink, except to his face. He’s a good teacher, and the nickname is now a friendly one rather than an insult.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ replied Dad. ‘Where to?’

  Instead of answering, I pulled a piece of paper out of my pocket, unfolded it, and laid it out in front of him. ‘Here’s the permission slip. You’ve got to sign it.’

  He read the note without expression. ‘The museum, eh?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. I really do want to go.’

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘OK.’ After a pause he added, ‘I s’pose I should have taken you myself.’ He lowered his head and started playing with the knives and forks. I had some idea of what was going through his mind: he was remembering Mum. She used to work at the museum as a curator—apparently there’s a small plaque commemorating her work. I think that was the part that Dad feared most, seeing something related to her death. For the same reason, we’d never been to the cemetery to see where her ashes lie, or returned to the river where she’d drowned.

  I was the first to break the silence. ‘Dad, it’s time
I went to these places and found out about her. I need to know her. Half of me is her. I think it’s important.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ He pulled out a pen and signed the form.

  As he handed it back, I said, ‘There’s something else I want to do. I want to go back to the place where it happened.’ I went on quickly before he had a chance to say anything. ‘Mits and I want to try and find the place where I spent the night. I’ve got some funny memories about then, and I want to see if they’re right. We plan to do it during the holidays. That’s if I can convince Nanna and Grandad to have Mits as well. And if it’s OK by you.’

  Fortunately our meals arrived then, and for some minutes there was no need for either of us to talk. Halfway through, Dad put down his knife and fork. ‘You’ve given this plenty of thought, then?’

  I nodded.

  He took a couple of mouthfuls before saying, ‘Yes. It’s a good idea.’ Then he went back to his eating. When he’d finished, he looked at me and said, ‘There’s something I’ve got that will help. It’s Grams’s scrapbook from that time. I took it soon after she’d made it. I didn’t want her ever showing it to you.’ He gave a little smile. ‘She spent ages looking for it, thinking she’d misplaced it, and all the time I had it hidden. I think now’s—’

  He was stopped by a woman jumping to her feet and screaming: ‘No, Jamie! No! No!’ Then she rushed towards a young girl at the side of the road.

  Coming along the other side of the road were some tourists on the horse-drawn wagon. The girl, attracted by the horse, stepped onto the road and into the path of a car, which quickly swerved to avoid her. Unfortunately, it crossed the centre line, clipping the side of the horse before piling into the wheel of the wagon and screeching to a stop. The wagon collapsed onto its side, throwing a boy forward and under the feet of the horse.

  By then the horse was seriously upset; pounding its hooves on the road, while throwing its head wildly from side to side. Then it started whinnying—not the friendly whinny of a horse running to greet you, but the scream of an animal in terror.

  From that moment on, all I could see was the horse. Without any thought about what I was doing, I stood and walked towards it. I vaguely remember people screaming. I think I heard Dad shout, ‘No, Tim!’ I definitely heard the horse: it was the sole focus of my attention.

  As I got closer I started talking, ever so softly, yet I knew the horse would hear. I crept forward, talking all the while. His head stopped swinging, and slowly he turned towards me. I held out a hand and the pounding of the hooves lessened. For a moment I thought he was going to pull away, yet still I kept moving towards him. The pounding stopped as my hand touched his nose. I continued talking and began to slowly stroke his head. I could feel the huge animal calming and beginning to trust me. For him and me there was nothing else in the world. I sensed more than saw someone dart in and pull the boy to safety.

  A while later it was all over: the driver of the wagon had hold of the horse; the children were being consoled by their parents; and the crowd was thinning. No-one was injured, although I imagine the boy was probably going to have nightmares for a while.

  As I walked back to Dad, some of the people patted me on the back, saying ‘well done’ and things like that. I sat back at the table and began to unwind. Without speaking, Dad went off to the bar for a drink.

  When he returned, he asked, ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

  I shrugged. ‘I didn’t really learn it. I just started doing it with Phoebe and a few other horses at Pounamu.’

  He nodded. ‘That took a lot of guts.’

  ‘Sure did,’ added another voice. I looked up to see a tall, thin man beside us. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

  ‘Hi. I’m Mark Strongman. I’m with the Hawke’s Bay Beacon.’ He held out his hand.

  Dad took it. ‘I’m Bill, Bill Thomas, and this is my son Tim.’

  I also shook his hand, even though I wasn’t at all sure about talking to a reporter.

  ‘As your father said, that took a lot of guts. Do you do that sort of thing often?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What made you do it?’

  ‘The horse was in trouble,’ I replied. ‘I had to help it.’

  ‘Just as well you did,’ he said. ‘Or that boy would’ve been trampled to death.’

  I shrugged. I wasn’t any hero. It was the horse I’d been worried about.

  He must’ve seen my reluctance, for he stood and said, ‘Anyway, thank you.’ He pulled a camera out of his pocket. ‘With any luck I’ve got most of it on here and you’ll see it on the front page on Monday.’ Then with a cheery wave he left.

  ‘Great!’ I said. ‘That’s all I need.’

  Dad gave me a half-smile. ‘Don’t worry, Tim. It’s not the first time you’ve been in the news, is it? Only this time there was a happy ending.’

  Chapter 4

  Sunday afternoon I returned to Mits’s place armed with Grams’s ‘lost’ scrapbook. Already I’d seen that it had to be the starting point for our search.

  Mits was working on his computer with the screen covered in dragon drawings. He hadn’t heard me come in, so I gave a little cough.

  He jumped, and then scrambled to change the screen. To my surprise his face was pink when he turned to me, as if he’d been caught looking at naughty pictures. ‘Ah, Tiny, it’s not what you think.’

  I shook my head and said seriously, ‘I don’t mind if you look at that sort of thing in the privacy of your own room, Michael, so long as you don’t contaminate other people with your sick habits.’ Then I smiled.

  He grinned back at me. ‘I’m just loading my brain with images so I can survive at your grandparents’ place. Have you rung them yet?’

  ‘No, that’s why I came over. Grandad may want to speak to you. Find out if you’re a decent citizen or not. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him what sort of pictures you look at.’

  He passed over the phone and I gave him the scrapbook. ‘Have a look at that while you’re waiting.’

  I dialled and waited. Neither Grandad nor Nanna was ever quick to pick up the phone. Eventually a crusty voice said ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, Grandad,’ I said cheerily. ‘It’s me, Tim.’

  ‘Oh hello, Timothy. Your nanna and I were just talking about you. You haven’t called to say whether you’re coming out for the holidays or not. Are you coming?’ There was a touch of pleading in his voice.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ I could sense the relief. ‘Because I got the farrier in for Phoebe during the week, so she’s got new shoes.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine, she’s fine. Looking forward to seeing you as much as we are.’

  There was a pause for a while, as I sorted out how to say the next bit. ‘Grandad, I’ve got a friend called Mike…and I was wondering if he could come and stay as well.’

  There was no reply, but I could feel what was happening at the other end. He wanted to say no, yet he also didn’t want to upset me. For a moment I almost told him to forget about it.

  Eventually he said, ‘What’s he like? Does he know how to behave himself?’

  ‘Yes, Grandad. He behaves much the same as me.’ I glanced over to Mits and saw him snigger quietly.

  ‘Does he smoke? You know what those other kids did.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t smoke.’ I knew what he was referring to: some kids had stayed with another worker and had set fire to the hayshed.

  ‘Does he swear?’

  ‘No more than I do.’

  ‘What’s his name again?’

  ‘Mike, Mike Smithson.’

  ‘His dad wouldn’t happen to be a lawyer?’

  ‘Yes, with Buddle, Smithson and McIntyre.’

  This plainly meant something to him. ‘Hang on. I’ll ask your nanna.’ I could hear mumbling in the background. Then I clearly heard Nanna’s voice saying, ‘Of course he can bring a friend. It’s what boys of his age do
.’ There was more mumbling before Grandad returned to the phone. ‘OK, but on one condition. You’re responsible for him. You make sure he behaves himself. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Grandad, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Good, then I gather your father will bring both of you over next Sunday?’

  ‘Yes.’ After we’d said our goodbyes, I let out a long sigh of relief. ‘You’re in, but only just.’

  ‘What was the problem?’

  I was quiet for a while. I knew what the problem was, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell Mits. In the end I said, ‘They’re very protective of me. They had only one child and that was Mum. They don’t have her anymore but they do have me, and they want to keep me to themselves.’

  Mits nodded as if he understood, although I doubt that he did. I pointed at the scrapbook, ‘What do you think of that?’

  His eyes brightened. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Especially these pages.’ He had it open at the two centre pages.

  ‘Yeah. It’ll be a great starting point for the search.’

  Grams had pasted a large map taken from a newspaper. It showed the park where I went into the water, the place where Mum was found, and the place where I was rescued. Three rivers and four stations were also shown. One of the stations was Pounamu, and the important river—where it all happened—was the Waitea River.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Mits. ‘But where’s The Tooth?’

  I laughed. ‘What do you want? A red cross labelled, “Here Lies The Tooth”?’

  He smiled. ‘It would help. What’s the scale of that thing?’

  The scale at the bottom was a line indicating ten kilometres. It looked like the map covered forty kilometres by twenty kilometres.

  ‘We can’t search all of that,’ moaned Mits.

  ‘We don’t have to,’ I said. ‘We only have to cover between where I was found and the river, and that’s not far.’