by David Hair
Riki and Damien just stared at him sullenly. He could have refused to speak, but he didn’t want to leave things like that. It could be the last time I see them…No, don’t think like that! He offered Riki a hand. ‘I’m sorry. But they won’t let you come. And I agree with that.’
Riki grimaced, and then slowly took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Sure, matey. You take care, yeah?’
‘I promise,’ he told him solemnly.
Damien shook his hand too without meeting his eyes. He could almost feel them concocting plans to follow him or some thing similarly idiotic, but what could they do?
I’ll be back tomorrow night, and every thing will be all right.
It will be, I know it will…
11
Morere Springs
Slipping away had been easy. Mat had taken very little, just his taiaha, because you never knew if you might need one in Aotearoa, and a tracksuit to throw on if it got cold. He met Lena beside the old clocktower, her eyes gleaming in the morning sun. Her newly short hair looked like it had been trimmed and tidied by a professional, and he made some admiring noises. It occurred to him that perhaps this was what their lives would be like in the future: the thrill of mysterious errands in the arcane world, he and she together, righting wrongs and helping others, like some kind of superhero couple.
It was a pretty fantasy, and her lips were moist on his. She stroked his cheek. ‘Isn’t this marvellous?’ she breathed. Her eyes were flickering hungrily about, and her whole body was quivering with suppressed tension. Mat felt weightless in her presence.
I wonder if I’m falling in love?
A car tooted, and he saw Sassman wave from the passenger seat. It was a big black Mercedes saloon, sleek and menacing-looking, with Dwayne driving. They hurried over, and leapt into the backseat. ‘Hey, the crazy lovebirds!’ Sassman greeted them, reaching back and gripping both of their hands briefly. ‘Ready for action?’
‘Sure!’ Mat responded, the spirit of adventure inside him. Lena looked like she wanted to dance, bouncing about on the seat.
‘Jones is down in Wairoa, organising the troops,’ Sassman told them. ‘We’ll meet them in Morere, and rendezvous with a local trader for old-time weaponry and gear, before we push on to the lake. So settle back, relax an’ your favourite DJ will supply the tunes.’ He fed one of his own CDs into the stereo system, as Dwayne accelerated the vehicle out of the main shopping area, purring down Gladstone Road towards the south.
Mat gripped Lena’s hand as the engine surged and picked up momentum. It was 9.07 a.m. The quest to free the taniwha had begun.
The trip was easy, though the roads were busy with holiday traffic. Sassman had packed cans of soft drink and chocolate bars, and the car was the epitome of comfort. Mat recalled September, fleeing Napier in Kelly’s Volkswagen, and relished the improvement. He wondered what Wiri and Kelly were up to, and decided he should check in with them. He pulled out his cellphone.
‘Hey, no calls!’ Sassman told him, looking back with a serious face. ‘We’re on radio silence, brother. In fact, best you turn off your phones, an’ I’ll look after them. Kyle could have ways of trackin’.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’ll take care of them.’
Mat looked at Lena, slightly put out, but she acquiesced without hesitation, so he did too. Sassman nodded thanks, and thumbed them off then pocketed them. Mat felt Dwayne’s hard eyes on him through the rear-vision mirror, and felt a tiny twinge of unease. But then Lena stroked his arm, and at her touch, all else was forgotten.
‘Will it always be like this?’ she whispered, mirroring his earlier thoughts. Her naturally forceful face looked softer somehow, warmer.
Maybe this is love…
‘Always,’ he replied, feeling a swelling of sweet clinging emotions inside him. ‘Every time.’
They arrived at Morere Springs at 10.30 a.m., where another Mercedes, silver-grey, awaited them under the trees outside the car-park to the heated pools. There were thermal springs at Morere that had been in commercial use since 1892. Recently it had been upgraded into a modern facility with beautifully tiled stonework and luxury pools. There were tourist buses outside and a whole world of languages flying about from foreign and local faces. Sassman led them to the silver Mercedes, as Bryn Jones emerged from it, looking grim and strained. His black hair gleamed with some kind of oil or cream, but his curly beard was a little unruly, as if he’d been combing it with his fingers in agitation.
He thrust an abrupt hand at Mat. ‘Welcome, welcome.’ He turned to Sassman, and growled. ‘Burns is late. See to it.’
Sassman bobbed his head, looking annoyed at being addressed so peremptorily, and backed away. ‘Yeah, sure, boss.’
Jones seemed to remember himself then, turning back and forcing a smile at the teens. ‘Apologies, it has been a stressful night and morning pulling this operation together. I have resources in the region, of course, but getting access to ammunition that will function in Aotearoa is difficult, and our contact is late.’ He put a hand on Mat’s arm. ‘But there is no need to concern yourselves. Come, and I will make you known to my men.’
Jones reached out a hand and took Lena’s forearm in a firm grip, maintaining his hold on Mat’s arm. He glanced about to ensure they were not being closely observed, and then shut his eyes and muttered some thing under his breath. Mat felt a touch of energy, similar to that which he had often tapped into, and recognised it as a power the same as or similar to his own. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like being brushed by an oily bubble of air that belled and then burst about them. Lena gasped, and seized Mat’s other hand.
The car-park was gone, and so too the buses and cars, and in fact the whole road, which was now a thin muddy track winding through the dark and dank trees, coated in mosses and lichen, that gathered thickly about them. The light was halved, filtered by the leaves of the trees, and the thicker heavier clouds. The scents of the forest floor filled their nostrils, and insects hummed. A small group of men were waiting, incongruous in their modern combat fatigues. They saluted Jones from where they crouched or reclined, cleaning weapons and smoking. Lena stared at them. They stared back.
‘Sir!’ the nearest man said, his voice clearly American, with a stately drawl that Mat guessed as Southern. He looked to be about forty, with receding pale brown hair beneath his grey cap and a honed face. ‘No sign of the trader, sir. But we’re being watched by…what do you call ’em? Tipua? That how you say it? Tee-poo-wah? Sounds Injun t’me. Anyways, at this stage we’ve not endeavoured to engage.’
‘Shoulda jus’ let us plug da varmint, Cap’n,’ one of the soldiers guffawed. The laugh never reached his cold dead eyes.
Bryn Jones frowned, then sighed. ‘They could be Kyle’s goblins or unaligned; this is goblin territory. Best not to engage, Captain Taylor. Carry on. Oh, and these are the two young people I told you of. Mat and Lena. Keeping them safe is a high priority.’
Captain Taylor saluted again. The other men were mostly eyeing up Lena in her tight jeans and T-shirt, nudging each other. Mat made sure to keep a grip on her hand.
Jones turned to them both, and thrust some coins into Mat’s hand, shillings and pence from the 1800s. ‘It looks like we will be here for a while. Why don’t you two go and book a swim each. I’m afraid it’s segregated,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘And don’t duck your head underwater; yes, you can catch meningitis here just as easily as in your world. I have things to attend to.’ He abruptly walked away, ordering Taylor to follow.
Mat looked at Lena. He felt awkward, under the scrutiny of the dozen soldiers watching them, these mercenaries from another time and place. It would be good to get out from under their eyes, and a swim did sound pleasant.
In Aotearoa, the Morere Springs bath-house was far less impressive—a timber building, damp and musty, with more moss than paint on the timbers, stood where the modern complex would be in the future. They climbed to a low veranda and entered a small ill-fitting door, where a leering man called Tozer with a gri
zzled beard and thinning hair stared openly at Lena’s chest as he took their money. He handed her a bathing costume that looked like it would cover more skin than her current attire, and she accepted it with a derisive laugh.
‘Wimmin to the left, gents to the right,’ the man rasped. ‘No more’n half an hour, and keep your heads above the surface, on accoun’ of that menin…mean-thing.’ He winked at Mat. ‘An’ no funny stuff with the girl, y’hear? This is a respectful establement.’
The changing rooms were dark and poky, and some of the biggest cockroaches Mat had ever seen scrambled about the corners and walls. Outside, the pool was just a natural open pool amidst the trees, set about with rocks and ferns bejewelled with droplets of condensation. Steam rose from the surface of the water, and it stung his cold skin as he walked slowly into the pool.
From the other side of a small rocky ridge dividing the pools, he heard a squeal, and called out anxiously. ‘Lena?’
‘The cockroaches here are disgusting!’ she called.
‘East Coast cockies,’ Mat chuckled. ‘Check your clothes when you get out!’
‘Yuck! Ow! This is hot!’
Mat slowly sank into the stinging heat of the thermal pool. The North Island of New Zealand, especially the Central Plateau and East Coast, was on a major fault line, and dotted with geothermal activity, especially around Taupo and Rotorua. Earthquakes were frequent, and there were tiny hot springs here and there, little havens of heat in the damp and cold bushlands.
Lena called in an anxious voice: ‘Mat, is this really the other world that Sassman and you talk about? It’s amazing, like being on a movie set. And the air is so clean, and everything smells so pure. It’s beautiful.’
Mat smiled. ‘It is, isn’t it? It’s like Mother Nature stored the best of everything, here.’
Lena fell silent, but he could hear her splashing about on the far side of the mound of earth. Eventually she called out again. ‘I bet that proprietor is spying on me, the pervy git.’
‘Oh no, surely not,’ Mat called. ‘This is a “respectful establement”.’
Lena giggled. ‘This old bathing costume is a relic. I feel like a grandmother.’ She put an alluring tone into her voice. ‘Why don’t you slip on over and join me?’
Mat looked about him. The back of the bath-house building opened above, and he caught a flicker of movement at the half-closed window of the office. ‘We’re being watched,’ he called back in a low voice. ‘Well, I am, anyway.’ He sighed, longing to be able to press himself against her. ‘Maybe we can come here on the way back and hire a private pool in the modern pools?’
‘Now that’s a nice thought,’ Lena called back in a purring, sensuous voice that made his body tremble.
Mat closed his eyes, and tried to think of something other than her. ‘I wonder why they wanted our cellphones?’ he called softly. He felt he was missing something. But the hot water and Lena’s voice made it hard to think.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Lena called back.
‘But Sassman’s phone isn’t off. If ours are traceable, why isn’t his?’ Mat felt his face frown. ‘And Jones isn’t what I expected.’
He heard Lena sigh. ‘Shhh. Someone may be listening. One of those soldiers.’
‘Why are they Americans? What are they doing here? And where did they get their guns? Those must be army stuff. Are they mercenaries?’
‘Who cares? They’re on our side,’ Lena called back, her voice touched with exasperation. ‘Let me just enjoy this water.’
Mat sighed and tried to clear away his worries, but the more he tried, the more additional concerns surfaced. What were they heading into? Where was Donna Kyle?
Was John Bryce some where near? Why couldn’t he talk to Wiri? He tried to let the hot water soak his worries away, but in the end he got up, and trudged back to the changing rooms, where a thin cold shower rinsed the mineral waters off his skin, then he dressed and left the dank little room behind gratefully.
The office door was half-open, and Mat glimpsed the proprietor, his eye against the far wall, where the women changed. ‘Hey, you!’
The man turned and grinned at him. ‘Nice little girly you got there,’ he snickered.
Mat strode to the door, his temper flaring. The man backed away from the wall, where a small notch had been carved from a knot in the wood. Mat put a hand to the door frame, and let his anger surge through the walls. Several cockroaches on the walls fell to the floor and scuttled away as a surge of energy crackled along the timbers, and sealed the hole. ‘Keep your filthy eyes on your job,’ he snarled at the man.
The proprietor cringed. ‘Sorry, I meant nothing by it. I had no idea you were…an adept…’ He bowed his head, a pleading expression crawling over his cunning face. He grabbed a pile of coins and thrust it at Mat. ‘A refund…please.’
Mat slammed the door in his face and stalked away.
Outside, a wagon had pulled up, driven by a hunched man in a battered black top hat. Greasy curls ran down his shoulders, shot with grey. Though a white man, his face and exposed forearms were fully tattooed. His clothing was stained and his eyes furtive, taking in every thing. His wagon was drawn by two horses that sweated and steamed in the cool humid air.
‘Are you Barnet Burns, the trader?’ Captain Taylor was calling, brandishing a modern combat rifle.
The trader eyed the gun with amusement. ‘Ye got the right powder for that flash toy, Captain, or ye jus’ like waving it round cos it makes ye feel manly?’ He spat on the ground. ‘Where’s the boss man?’ His eyes flicked to Mat. ‘An’ who’s the boy?’
‘He’s with us,’ Taylor replied, lowering his gun. He regarded the trader with unfriendly eyes. ‘You got the goods?’
Burns smiled broadly. ‘O’course I got the goods. Who you think yer dealin’ with?’ His accent was coarse English, antiquated and mockingly obsequious. He glanced past Mat, where Bryn Jones emerged from the trees. ‘Ah, here’s t’ big man now. Good day t’ ye, sir!’
Jones marched past Mat, and reached up and took the trader’s hand. ‘That’s Mister Jones to you, Barnet Burns. Did you get it all?’
‘Sure I did, Mister, er, Jones. Sure I did. An’ have ye got the gold?’ He grinned around yellowed teeth. He had a shifty manner Mat instinctively disliked, a feeling that increased when Burns glanced up at the bath-house, where Lena was coming down the stairs, and whistled appreciatively. ‘Coo-ee, guv’nor, that’s a nice bit of—’
‘The girl is under my protection, Mister Burns,’ snapped Jones. He turned to Taylor. ‘Unload the wagon, Captain. Mister Burns, here’s your money, and a little extra for your silence.’
The trader’s eyes lit up greedily as he accepted a leather money pouch, weighing it in his hand appreciatively. He reached back, and pulled at the awning. ‘Here, wife, count this out, afore the captain unloads.’
A slender brown arm reached out and took the pouch. Lena joined Mat, her eyes round and curious. ‘What’s happening?’
Jones answered her question. ‘This is Mister Burns, a trader in these parts. There are problems in transmuting ammunition from one world to the next, as Master Mat may well know. Powder can become unstable, as can any other flammables. So here, we have to trade for it.’
‘Who do you trade with?’
‘Well, the British, mostly,’ Jones answered. ‘There are well-stocked garrisons here and abouts. Mister Burns has the contacts locally to keep men that need such items supplied.’ He lowered his tone, and muttered, ‘like Te Kooti and half the rebel tribes,’ in a dark voice. ‘He makes his money on both sides of his bread does our Mister Burns. A tricky fellow.’
Mat stared at the man. He seemed vaguely familiar. ‘Does he have a brother?’
‘No, but he has a son that trades in Turanga. If you’ve been over there, you might have seen him. Hori White, they call him.’ Jones’ voice was slightly scornful.
Mat remembered the beer-seller, and nodded slowly. He watched as the back flaps of the canvas cover on
the wagon were opened, and a long box lifted to the ground, followed by several small barrels. A soldier opened the long box with a crowbar, and began tossing muskets to his gathering comrades. They looked sniffily at the old weapons, but handled them expertly as they tried the lock and triggers under Burns’ watchful gaze.
Jones went back up to the trader, and said something quietly. The trader looked as if he’d just been reminded of something, and produced a small flask which he handed to Jones with a wink of the eye. More money changed hands. Then the trader shook hands once more with Jones. ‘Well then, me an’ my missus’ll be havin’ a wee sample of the local waters, afore we ’ead back, I’m thinkin’,’ the trader said. He reached into the wagon again, and helped down an imperious-looking Maori woman in a thick birdfeather cloak. She looked about her like a duchess, then stared at Lena with cold eyes. She said something in Maori, too low to catch, in Burns’ ear. Burns nodded and laughed. Mat felt Lena colour.
‘What did she say?’ she whispered to Mat, but he had no idea.
In a few minutes Taylor’s men had fully equipped and distributed powder from the barrels into flasks. They looked incongruous, these men in modern gear with antique-looking rifles. A couple were fitting electronic sights to the barrels. He watched Jones shift the pile of abandoned modern weapons back to the real world with a gesture. Then several more of the soldiers appeared with strings of horses and the soldiers mounted. Jones went to Taylor.
‘You’ve a hard ride ahead of you, Captain. I expect you at Tuai in four hours. Are you up to it?’
‘We’ve a native guide, sir, and we have spare mounts. It’s a more direct route than yours we’ll be taking. An’ my boys rode with Jeb Stuart, sir. Best cav’ry in the whole goddamn Civil War. We’ll be there.’ He glanced at Burns, who was leading his Maori wife up the stairs. ‘I don’t trust the trader, sir. He’ll sell news of us to all comers quick as light.’