“Home,” Tony finished, at the same time he did. She scratched at the back of her neck, uncertain. “Dude, that – that doesn’t make me some weird monster like you are; plenty of humans like the ocean. Oh, jeez, sorry, I didn’t mean to say you’re a weird monster in, like, the bad way! You seem totally nice. Just.” She held out her hand. “See? Human. I mean, if we go by skin colour alone, I’d be, like, coffee, and you’d be Powerade or something. I’m not like you.”
“Course you ain’t like me,” he said, snorting, “I’m halfway to being royalty, and you’re not even ponaturi. You wish you were ponaturi.”
“Not particularly.”
“You would if you knew what we was,” which – yeah, to be fair she didn’t really have any way to argue that particular point. “Or, well. Woulda, once.” He looked troubled, then shook his head and went on. “No. You’re not ponaturi, that’s twice-tide certain, but you’re definitely something Tangaroa-tinted. Anyone could see it.”
He was so earnest – leaning forward, long-fingered hands gripping his bony knees, eyes wide and intent – that she felt sorta guilty about not believing him, but it wasn’t like it was something she could help. Maybe she could buy him pie or something later to make up for it. Hey, yeah, they could totally do lunch some time – he would freak the shit out of random passersby. It would be so awesome.
“Okay,” she said. “Look, I’m definitely not Tangaroa-tinted, whatever that means, but I can see it’s important to you, so let’s roll with it for a sec. You’re a ponatuna –”
“Ponaturi!” he said, snappin’ his – snapping his teeth at her.
“Oh my god, you are so adorable. Anyway. You’re a ponaturi, okay, and you think I’m some other weird ocean thing – oh my god, do you think I’m a mermaid?”
Whai blinked at her. He was picking at the nets again, tugging lines free and knotting them back together in different patterns. “What’s a mermaid, then?”
“Never mind. Actually I guess that sort of answers my question! I’m thinking you’re kind of a mythological folklorey thing? Like, the books where people fall in love with vampires or faeries or turn into werewolves or whatever. Like that.”
He pointed his finger at her and glared. “Start making sense,” he ordered.
She gigglesnorted. He was ridiculous. “What I’m saying is, what is there? In the world? I mean, in terms of supernatural things, is this, like… a thing that happens? Like, is there a big underground – or, heh, underwater – community of folklore beasts or something? Like in the Fables comics and paranormal investigation shows and stuff like that?”
“It’s a thing,” he said. “And no, it ain’t just the ocean. There’s land atua and all.” He tilted his head back, haughty, his chin jutting out. She could maybe believe the whole almost-a-prince thing, except for how it directly contrasted with the almost-naked thing and the has-he-never-seen-a-hairbrush thing. “Nowhere near as good, course.”
“Atua!” she said, latching on to the one word in that string of haughtiness that actually seemed helpful. “Atua – that’s what you are?”
“The iwi atua,” Whai said, and straightened. She looked at him then, really looked at him. His hair was the rusty red of blood in the water. His grin was the sharks, circling. “We?” said the ocean prince who sat sprawled in her boat like he belonged there. “We are the god people.”
It was fully night now, windy and cold and dark. The ocean’s water was black where her boat’s lamps caught it, like she was sailing on shadows.
“I’m not,” Tony said. “One of you, I mean.”
“You are,” Whai said, “you just don’t got the knowing of it yet. I’ll get you schooled up, you wait and see.” His eyes were glassy ocean-black, pools of shadow above sharp cheekbones. This dim light made everything into jagged angles. “We’re kinfolk, or near enough. ’S my job to keep an eye on you.”
“Does that mean it’s my job to keep an eye on you too?” said Tony. “Because in that case, you really need to eat something. No, seriously! You’re all… ” She struggled, trying to define his emaciated skin-and-bones state in words he’d understand. “All dried rope over driftwood. It can’t be healthy.”
He stared at her. At least, she thought he was staring at her. It was getting harder to tell in this dim light, now that she was aware of the dim light. “You’re fretting over me?” he said at last.
“I… yeah?”
He breathed out sharply, almost a whistle. “Well now,” he said, wondering. “That settles it. You’ve gotta be one of us; can’t be human, you ain’t got the cruelty for it.”
“You’re the one with teeth like a can-opener, fish boy.”
He grinned. “But I don’t got guns,” he said, standing up, shaking out the net. He’d woven some of that horrible plastic twine into it, too, ugh. It was the kind of thing that always ‘accidentally’ got dumped into the ocean and showed up later strangling some poor seabird; she hated it. “Or fire, or knives. Neither do you!”
“I have knives. How could I cut things if I didn’t have knives.”
A snort. “You only need them ’cos you ain’t figured what you really are yet,” he said. “And whatever that is… Well, I know, but it’d be best if you figured it out for yourself, probably.” He paused his net-shaking to look at her thoughtfully. “I’m guessing it’d probably come out when you were in danger, something like that? That’d be sense. And you’ll need to know what you are if you’re gonna be any use at all. Right, then, let’s do that.”
He was a lot less adorable when he was plotting things. “Um. What do you mean exactly?”
“Trust me!” Whai said confidently, “or wait, no, it’s maybe better if you don’t, heheh.”
He tossed his net over the engine. The boat sank.
2
Saint didn’t have any smokes on him, of course, but the fresh air did very nearly as well, that and the loneliness and the loveliness of this spot, even if it was also kind of tacky and in horrible disrepair and the roof of this place was probably so bad in places that he could fall right through it and this was a terrible idea. Still, he stayed there for longer than he meant to, as close to the edge as the railing would let him get, breathing the fresh air in. Letting the tension ease out of his shoulders, his muscles, his bones.
“Need a light?” someone said as they leaned against the railing beside him, and yep, there was the tension back again. Saint jumped.
He gave the stranger a sidelong glance, and then looked away again, quite fast.
“… Pardon me for saying so,” he said, staring straight ahead, “but you seem to be transparent.”
“Yes.”
Saint did his best to take this in stride. “So you’re a ghost, then?”
“I’m a wairua,” said the wairua, sounding a little annoyed. “… Technically a ghost, I suppose, but… a wairua. That’s what I am now.”
“Of course you are,” Saint said, giving the air a few metres to the left of the ghost a bright, chirpy grin. “Of course you bloody well are, mate.” He spread out his arms. “OF COURSE. HE. IS.”
He sagged against the railing, slumping so he sat. Breathed in. Breathed out.
“I –” the ghost said.
“You’re a delusion, piss off,” Saint said promptly, staring straight ahead.
There was a pause. Saint assumed he’d left, whoever he was – Saint hadn’t seen much beyond a glimpse, and it was hard to tell. He wasn’t actually transparent, not really, and certainly not all white and spectral like ghosts were in movies and stuff, seeing as how he was brown-skinned, but he’d seemed somehow blurred around the edges, not quite there, like something you glimpsed out of the corner of your eye that was gone when you looked straight at it.
“I’m sorry,” said the wairua softly, actually sounding it. “I didn’t mean to bother you! It just… you seemed like you needed someone to talk to, that’s all. Sorry. I’ll go.”
Saint groaned to himself. He shuffled around so he could stare
gloomily down at the city through the gaps in the rails. The view was pleasant, familiar. The shops across the road were the same shops they’d been yesterday, the people walking along were the same sort of people you always saw. Like the world was real, like everything hadn’t gone completely batshit crazy. Like strange otherwordly things hadn’t started appearing between the cracks.
He really hoped he wasn’t crazy.
Course he wasn’t. Why would he be? And if he wasn’t crazy then this was real, and if this was real then he’d just snapped at someone who seemed like quite a nice guy. Someone being dead was no reason to be a dick to them.
“Sorry,” he said, not quite recognising his own voice, the rasp in it. “Long day. No, I don’t need a light. I quit when I realised it made me look like a John Constantine wannabe. But thanks.”
“So you’ll talk to me!” the wairua or whatever said, gleefully.
“Why ever not? What’s the world come to when we can’t offer our friendly neighbourhood spectres the simplest of courtesies, that’s what I’d like to know… ” He trailed off. The wind swirled around them.
He knew that he should take a proper look at his new companion, probably, but he really didn’t feel up to it just yet. This day sucked, and it had barely even started, and the Flatmate was some weird thing and was still better at picking up girls than he was, and Steff hated him and was a stupid jerk anyway, and – giants! Giants and ghosts! This was all exceedingly unfair.
He sat up sharply. “Wait, no, I’m not gonna have my first proper conversation with one of you lot while I’m half naked under this thing – that is breaking all the first contact rules.” Steff would have a heart attack.
The ghost guy paused. “If it helps,” he said. “You don’t look entirely bad this way. I guess. I mean, I’ve lost track of the human fashions, but… ”
Saint looked at the ghost. He had to concentrate quite hard to see him in any detail; he sort of phased, like Saint’s brain kept on trying to insist he wasn’t real. So he couldn’t judge his level of handsomeness to any accurate degree. His voice was nice, though. Sort of smoky.
“Okay, people are flirting with me. Now we’re back on territory I can understand.” He grinned at the ghost and held out a hand lazily. “I’m Saint, professional slacker, renowned breaker of hearts and fine pottery.”
The wairua didn’t take his hand. “I’m not real, you know. Not in any way that’d mean you could touch me.”
“Oh,” Saint said, letting his hand fall back down. He leaned against the railing and frowned up at the sky.
Something touched his shoulder lightly, and he shuddered, flinching away. It felt wrong. “You see?” said the wairua, who’d sat down beside him. “It’s rare enough for anyone to even be able to see me. Touch isn’t possible, that’s all. I didn’t mean to offend you, you stupid man, I want your help.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “You can call me… hmm. Noah.”
“Honoured to make your acquaintance… Noah,” Saint said. He wondered idly why this guy didn’t want him knowing his real name, but it wasn’t like it mattered. Whatever he’d done, whoever he’d been, you couldn’t do much once you were dead. “I have to ask, though. You’re dressed all in the… ” He winced a little, not knowing the name for traditional Māori clothes, and waved his sadly cigarette-less hand. “Y’know. Shirtlessness and …skirt and feather-cloak and plumes and stuff. If you really come from that era, how the heck do you speak English? Let alone have a name like Noah.”
‘Noah’ grinned, a flash of white teeth in his blurry face. “I speak English because I’m exceptionally clever,” he said, “and English is an exceptionally stupid language, so it balances out.” He shrugged. “And Noah is the closest equivalent to my name that I could find in your language.”
“What,” Saint said, amused. “Did you save the various critters of Aotearoa from a flood? There wouldn’t be any need to – all we have is birds. The kiwi come marching two-by-two, hurrah, hurrah!”
Noah’s laugh was rich and warm and hearty, and all the better for being unexpected.
“Gotta say, ghost boy,” Saint said, grinning at him, relaxing finally, “you’re by far the nicest supernatural being I’ve met today.”
Noah stopped laughing. “Yes. You’ve had bad experiences with them – with us.”
“I… ” Saint frowned, trying to think, to remember. The stuff of nightmares. Huge black eyes staring at him, a soft voice with sharp edges whispering. He put his hand to his face, and wasn’t entirely surprised when it came back red with blood. He sniffed and tilted his head back and pinched his nose. “Yes. That’s seeming increasingly likely.”
“The iwi atua are many things,” Noah said, “but kind is rarely among them. I’m sorry.”
Saint shook his head. “Ain’t your fault, pet,” he said, a little thick and nasal, “all you’ve done is hang around being vaguely creepy.”
“All the same. It’s difficult for humans to understand that there are things other than our – than yourselves in the world, which is probably why so few of you notice them. Us. Of those that do, many go mad from the strain of it.”
“Wonderfully reassuring, thanks.”
Noah smiled. “You’ll manage all right, I think, so long as you know that there are beautiful things in this new world you’ve found, not just foul.”
“And then, if I learn to conquer my self-doubt, can I defeat the foul legions of evil and save the day and learn the true meaning of friendship?” Saint said, widening his eyes. “Stop playing the wise mentor – it’s irritating. Next you’ll be whispering to me to use the Foooorce.” He wiggled his fingers.
Noah smirked. “I begin to see why other atua took a dislike to you.”
“Thanks awfully. So, uh… atua?”
“That’s what they call themselves, collectively.” He paused. “We. What we call ourselves. Would you like to see?”
“Huh?”
“That there are beautiful things as well.”
“Sure.” Saint made a magnanimous gesture. “Knock yourself out, ghost boy.”
Noah rolled his eyes, the expression looking odd and stiff, like he’d seen others do it once or twice and was imitating the gesture rather than understanding it. “Enough inaccuracy! I’m a wairua, not a ghost. The thing that you’d call a soul is made up of two parts: the wairua and the hau. When someone dies, their wairua remains, and it travels to Hawaiki in various ways, sometimes; or lingers, sometimes.” He paused. “Don’t judge what they are by me. Like I said, I don’t follow the usual rules, not quite. Anyway. The hau is the breath part of the soul, and when people die it… becomes not-them, and joins the wind. Which is why I came here.” He smiled. “Why I can make myself a real shape, affect the things around me. This is the wind city. There is life in every breath, here.”
Saint saluted. “Thank you, O Captain! my Captain!” he said. “Because of you I’ll be sure to get great marks on all my Creepy Supernatural Beings exams. Come on, enough of the exposition, just do the thing.”
Noah grimaced. “If I impress you enough,” he said, “will you help me?”
“I make no promises,” Saint said loftily. “Don’t really like to be pinned down. Free roamer, that’s me.”
“I know.” Noah held out his hands, concentrated, rolled the wind between them. His form flickered, faded a little. Saint sat up straighter in alarm, and Noah, still looking wavery, breathed in. Then he held his arms out to either side of him in a theatrical kind of way, and breathed out.
When Saint went to the beach he liked to wade into the ocean and dig his bare toes into the sand and feel the chill salt water, and he’d stand there until the little schools of fish would be bold enough to come in and dart around and near him as though he wasn’t there, little fish only half-glimpsed out of the corner of your eye because they were so quick and silvery and small. The birds were like that.
They came from Noah’s mouth in swirls of smoky silver, twisted by the wind, sketched-in-smoke just-for-a-moment blink-
and-you-miss-them blurred. They were disintegrating at the edges into curled tendrils of shapelessness, and they were quick and fragmented and strange, but they were birds all the same, birds Saint knew, fat wood pigeons and darting fantails and tui with white puffs for collars against their grey-smoke forms, swirling away where the wind bore them. There were insects, too, great fluttery moths, bow-legged weta, all sparkling in silver and wisps of smoke. Noah tilted his head and a little fantail fluttered forward. Saint held out a finger, and the bird perched on it and tilted its head just like Noah did. He couldn’t feel any weight on his finger at all. It opened its vague beak to chirp at him, though he heard nothing. Birds, swirling in the wind.
And then they were gone.
“… Oh, wow,” Saint said. And then again: “Oh wow. Gods. Wow. Wow is really not a big enough word to sum up the … Wow.”
“There are spirits called hakuturi that live in the forests,” said Noah, casually, “guarding the trees; here there is no more forest, only the city, and so there are no more hakuturi, only the ghosts of hakuturi, the wairua of hakuturi, you might say. And so I can control them, if I feel the need to. I have my winds, after all.” He paused. “Well. Tāwhirimātea’s winds, but he doesn’t care much, not in this day and age. And birds have always been friends of mine, especially kererū.”
Saint was smiling. Not his usual grin but an actual smile, and it felt strange on his face. “That was really quite lovely,” he said. “Thank you – hey, are you all right?” because Noah was flicker-fading and he looked exhausted, utterly drained.
The Wind City Page 3