Mika

by Lee Murray

  ‘Hey Stan!’

  ‘Craig!’ Stan greets a man who’s missing his lower legs. Craig rolls forward on a make-shift trolley made from an old push-chair, propelling himself with gloved hands.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you back for another month.’

  ‘East coast storm caused some disruption,’ Stan says, shrugging. ‘So there was a sudden change of plans.’

  ‘I can see that!’ Craig ribs, staring pointedly at Mika.

  Grinning, Stan pushes the trolley, sending Craig off in the other direction. ‘Yeah, yeah. It’s not what you think. Gotta see some people. Talk later, okay?’

  They continue on in a haze of afternoon heat, a shock after the air-conditioned comfort of Torua. Mika notices that, like Craig, many of the people here are missing limbs, fingers, eyes. Some have prosthetics, but they’re not the sophisticated appliances she’s seen advertised on billboards and digital displays all across the country. These are older models, less advanced, and judging by the way the woman in front of them is weaving and tottering on hers, far less effective. Wobbling, the woman steps aside, allowing Mika and Stan to pass. In spite of her suffering, she smiles at Mika. Mika smiles back. She may be a stranger, but already the reception here has been warm and unguarded. And unlike at the warehouse, something about this community reminds her of home.

  ‘I have some business with the elders,’ Stan says, ‘But first I want you to meet some friends of mine. The Adèmes are among our kikmongwi, the wise people, here.’

  ‘Like tohunga?’

  ‘Tohunga? Sorry, I don’t know this word.’

  Mika tries to explain. ‘In my culture, the tohunga is mainly a spiritual leader, but also a herbalist, astronomer, strategist, story-teller, and mediator. The tohunga is a wise person who carries the knowledge of the people.’

  Stan considers her definition and nods. ‘Yes, I think that’s a pretty good approximation.’ He stops outside an adobe. It is small and unassuming, the sort of place a hermit might choose. ‘This is us here.’

  Stan guides Mika into the house. Inside, the dwelling is cool and clean, the pink clay decorated with a number of lively blankets like the ones at Stan’s warehouse home, diamonds and triangles highlighted in stunning reds, ochre, and black.

  ‘Lisa? Lionel?’

  ‘Stan! What a surprise. We didn’t expect to see you back so soon.’

  It’s the second time Mika’s heard that said. Clearly, Stan returns to the reservation regularly. Something must be important to bring him all the way from New York, and it’s not as if he can fly. With so little fossil fuel remaining, air travel is reserved for the spectacularly rich. Mika has seen Stan’s place. There’s no way he could be mistaken for someone spectacularly rich. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. They’d agreed it was safer Mika not know about Stan’s activities, and it won’t be long until they part company.

  ‘And who’s this with you?’

  ‘This is Mika.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you Mika.’ Creases at her eyes. Dark olive skin. A broad genuine smile. Mika estimates that Lisa is in her late fifties, her salt and pepper ponytail hinting of long dark tresses in her youth.

  ‘So pretty.’

  Mika blushes. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Lionel! Bring some drinks. We have guests.’

  Moments later, Lionel Adème, a diminutive bird-like man, enters carrying a tray with a water jug, glasses, and some serviettes.

  ‘Stan! Nice to see you.’ He places the tray on a low table, and gives Stan a clap on the back, a gesture Mika finds odd in such a tiny man.

  ‘This is Mika, Lionel.’

  Ignoring the serviettes, Lionel wipes his hands on his trousers. He offers a hand to Mika. ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Mika Tāura, from Aotearoa,’ Stan says gravely, lingering on the words.

  Why the emphasis on her being foreign? So, she’s from New Zealand. It’s not against the law to travel. Just a bit impractical. But Lisa Adème sits bodily on the sofa, her face suddenly pale.

  ‘Oh.’

  Lionel rushes to his wife’s side. ‘Lisa! Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, Lionel. It’s nothing serious. Don’t fuss...’ Lisa pats her husband’s knee. ‘It’s just a shock to meet a person carrying that name. It’s been years. Decades...’ She lifts her eyes to Mika. ‘Is your father Atticus?’ she says.

  This time, it’s Mika whose knees buckle beneath her.

  An hour later, both Mika and Lisa have recovered somewhat from the shock. With a fresh pot of tea and a plate of cookies on the table, and Bree – her hair still wet from the river – playing with Paddy nearby on the floor, they settle down to talk.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your father,’ Lisa says, shaking her head sadly. ‘We worked with him on the diabetes project, Lionel and I. We were part of the native epidemiology team. Indigenous people have always been more susceptible to diabetes. Back then, about half of all the people on the reservation were affected, and each year our children were diagnosed younger and younger. I seem to remember your father telling me it’s the same for the Māori. It was one of the reasons he pursued a career in science. Anyway, when B-Cell offered subsidised gene therapy for the new insulin – your father’s work – people jumped at it, and for the first few years it was wonderful. The up-regulation delayed the onset of the disease, and there were fewer deaths. But then the gene mutated. Your father was devastated. He nearly killed himself trying to find out what had happened, looking for ways to reverse the change. But B-Cell weren’t interested, moving up production in their spare parts division instead. And that’s when your father left. He was a brilliant man, an inspired scientist. We should have supported him when he made his stand against Selwyn Bruce. We wanted to, but B-Cell ... well, the company has huge resources. Some of the other researchers who came out against their strategy...’ she trails off, dabbing at her eyes with a serviette. Composing herself.

  Lionel speaks, filling the silence. ‘No one knew what happened to them, but there were rumours. We had children – all grown now – but back then we were afraid. So Lisa and I came back here to the reservation. We’ve been off the grid ever since.’

  Lisa reaches over and puts a hand on Mika’s forearm. ‘Your father was our friend, and he was right to stand up against Selwyn and B-Cell. Perhaps if we’d listened to Atticus when he came to us, things might have turned out differently. We should have helped him. I’m so sorry we didn’t.’

  Lionel nods in agreement.

  Mika can’t believe it: these people knew her father, and about B-Cell. Perhaps Selwyn Bruce is the person she’s supposed to meet? The one who claims to have worked with her father. It seems likely. If she can find him, perhaps he’ll be able to help her. Perhaps there’s hope for Huia, after all.

  Suddenly, a woman pushes into the building – a handsome woman with almond eyes and slender limbs. Her face is streaked with tears.

  She stares at the group. At Stan. At Mika. And especially at Bree.

  Then, sobbing, she turns on her heel and runs.

  Mika looks at the others, puzzled. ‘I hope I haven’t done anything to offend.’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s not your fault. Irina’s been...’ She glances at Stan. ‘...unhappy for some time now. Not so long ago, she lost her baby girl to the disease. A wonderful vibrant little girl. We did everything we could...’ Lisa dabs at her eyes with a serviette.

  ‘Irina’s your daughter?’

  But now Mika sees the ripple in Stan’s jaw. Even his cybernetic eye seems to dull in pain.

  ‘No. She’s my wife,’ he whispers.

  Chapter Six

  THE SOUND OF RUSHING water and wind bounces off the stone walls of the gorge.

  Full of excitement, Bree hurries Mika along the path. ‘Come on, Mika! It’s just round this bend. We’re nearly there.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ But Bree can hardly keep still, running up the path to the corner and back again. ‘You go on and meet Arlene,’ Mika says, seeing
the girl’s impatience. ‘I’ll catch you up.’ Smiling, Bree skips ahead, Paddy at her heels, his tail wagging.

  Around the bend, the gorge opens into a clearing where the community has its swimming hole, a bulge in the river like the eye of a needle. On one side, a false beach has been created by the shifting river bed. Already, several families are gathered there, including Lisa Adème, who’s sitting with a group of women. Nearby a bunch of tyre tubes are stacked neatly in a pile. Lisa looks up and gives Mika a friendly wave. Mika waves back.

  ‘Geromino!’ shouts a child as he swings into the water. The rope swing dangles over the centre of the pool from a tree clinging to the rock face, clearly a favourite pastime of the reservation children. The rope is worn and frayed, but the children shout and jostle for a turn, each one swinging out and tumbling into the water, where they splash like otters, water streaming off their bodies. Too impatient to wait for Mika, Bree too is in the water. Mika pauses a moment to watch her. Her blonde hair – wet – has darkened to black, and her skin is racing to catch up as it sucks greedily at the sun, camouflaging her among the others.

  As if she belongs here.

  Mika should leave now. Bree would hardly miss her.

  Not today.

  She’d promised to spend the day with Bree.

  Looking for a place to set down her towel, Mika notes the large flat stone near the water, where six prostheses, tiny legs mostly, old models, some of them very battered, wait while their owners take a dip. Children damaged by diabetes. Mika’s heart lurches. Her father had foreseen this.

  Spotting Mika, Bree breaks away from Arlene.

  ‘Mika, look at the rope swing,’ she says, raining droplets as she emerges from the water. Twisting, she points a finger at the rope. ‘See it?’

  ‘No, what rope swing? Where?’ Mika teases, looking everywhere but at the swing.

  Bree giggles. ‘That rope swing there. Right there. I did it twice, yesterday,’ she says proudly.

  ‘Twice!’ Mika says. ‘Well, then I’ll just have to make sure I have three swings today, won’t I?’

  Bree’s eyes widen. ‘You’ll come in the water? Really?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mika feels a twinge of sadness at the joy Bree finds in tiny things. Has she never had an adult play with her before? Time to fix that. But, looking around, Mika realises there’s nowhere for her get changed. She should’ve put her togs on earlier, back at Torua. Mika isn’t ashamed of her body, but she doesn’t want to embarrass anyone either.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ says Lisa, padding barefoot across the sand to Mika’s rescue. She chuckles. ‘We’ve been meaning to put up a changing shed, but no one wants to spoil the view, so instead we adults make screens with our towels. I’ll hold yours up for you, and if Bree holds hers up too, no one will see a thing.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  But Mika is only half dressed when Bree pokes her nose over the top of the towel, peeking to see if Mika is ready yet.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, pointing with her head at the swirls on Mika’s body. ‘Your skin looks like a treasure map.’

  Lisa takes a peek. ‘Oh, my word,’ she says, breathless. ‘Bree, I think you’re absolutely right.’

  Sitting on the roof of Torua, Mika watches the sun rise over the village. They’ve been here a week now. Mika never planned on staying this long, but the professors are convinced that with some time, she might not need to go at all. So, each morning she’s watched the day break and decided to stay just one more day.

  Mika pulls a blanket – a welcome gift from the villagers – tighter around her shoulders, comforted by the heaviness of the weave and the scratchiness of its fibres. Like the blanket, the quiet stillness insulates her against the urgency to keep going, to get the job done and return home.

  She inhales deeply, savouring the smell of wood smoke on the air. There’s a beauty here, in the barrenness of the landscape, in the widely spaced homes in various stages of decomposition, half hidden in the scrub and spindly trees. On the night of their arrival, Mika had been close to tears when each person had taken the time to greet her with declarations of their lineage reaching back into the ages. Some of the families had claimed a distant kinship to her, using it as an excuse to offer her clothes for Bree, and the meal that followed included music, laughter and shared stories.

  So like home, but not home.

  Bree head pops into view as she climbs Torua to join her.

  ‘Hey, sweetie. Did I wake you?’ Mika’s amazed at how quickly the child has put away her past and begun to stretch into her new identity: loving and fearless. Mika opens her blanket, like the wing of a Haast’s eagle, and tucks Bree into her side. The girl snuggles closer, leaning her head against Mika’s shoulder.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to go.’

  ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to.’

  I wish I didn’t.

  ‘You’re going to leave me?’ The words fall like dead soldiers.

  ‘You like it here, don’t you?’ Mika brushes Bree’s hair out of her eyes, no longer rimmed with black smudges. ‘Let’s not talk about it now.’

  They sit and watch the light creep over the horizon, waking man and dog as the sun climbs. Soon though, the noise of life begins to thicken and hunger calls them back inside for breakfast.

  ‘Is this all of it?’ Lionel says impatiently.

  He stands at a large meeting table, rearranging strips of paper covered in the script copied from the images decorating Mika’s body.

  ‘Yes.’ There’s nowhere else to hide them. Does he expect her to shave her head, too? Kikmongwi or not, it twists Mika’s conscience to let the professors apply the images to paper for analysis. It doesn’t feel right. She wishes she had better counsel than her own.

  ‘It must have taken years to carve all this on your body. How would they know you would grow big enough to fit it all?’ Lisa asks, shuffling a row of papers from top to bottom.

  ‘Yes, it took years, but I’m not the only one in my family to wear the moko. It was the only way to keep my father’s work safe.’ Mika shudders at the memory of the pain as the tattoo was etched into her skin. It was pain mixed with pride, as she’d sat alongside Huia, the two of them laughing through their tears.

  ‘It’s all nonsense,’ Lionel announces, and Mika catches Lisa’s cutting glance in his direction. ‘I’m sorry, Mika,’ he softens. ‘But we’ve been looking at these for a week and we’re no closer to understanding what Atticus was getting at.’ He picks up a strip. ‘Look here, this is a basic protein sequence, but...’ He grips another between fingertips. ‘...this one is a mathematical sequencing formula.’ He lets the papers flutter back to the table.

  ‘Lionel, we mustn’t blame Mika for our frustration,’ Lisa says. She takes Mika by the elbow, and leads her towards the door. ‘Can you give us a bit more time? We need to figure this out.’

  Mika turns to her. ‘Okay, I guess another day or two can’t hurt. But after that, I really have to go, whether or not you’ve deciphered the message. I hope you’ll understand.’

  Lisa frowns. ‘We’re not sure you should even go to Las Vegas. Selwyn, B-Cell, they’re not to be trusted. Stan says there was an attempt on your life...’

  Mika looks past Lisa, back into the room where Lionel is muttering to himself, scavenging through the papers, picking up and discarding each one in turn.

  ‘I was told they might have some of my father’s research notes – the last pieces of the puzzle.’

  Lisa snorts. ‘Unlikely.’ She takes Mika’s hand. ‘Give us time, Mika. If the answer’s here, Lionel and I will find it.’

  Mika kisses the older woman on the cheek.

  All this can wait until tomorrow.

  Bree is down at the river with Lisa, so now is as good a time as any. Mika’s put off asking long enough. She steps up to the old converted school bus, Stan and Irina’s home on the reservation. But Irina is there, blocking Mika’s way, her arms crossed across her chest.

  ‘I’m
sorry, but you can’t come in.’

  ‘I have something to ask you both, and then I’ll be on my way,’ Mika says, straightening her shoulders.

  ‘You’re leaving for good, then?’

  Mika pauses. ‘Maybe. It depends.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. We’ll find you later.’ The other woman hasn’t moved, yet Mika feels she’s being pushed away.

  ‘That’s okay. I’m happy to wait.’ Mika knows a village line when she sees one; mothers keeping close eye on their children playing in the dirt, the group of elders sitting in the shade talking about the weather. Everyone here is waiting their turn to visit the bus.

  At that moment, the door swings open and a teenage girl steps out, followed closely by a woman – her mother – whose smile matches her daughter’s.

  ‘What would we do without you?’ the woman says, taking a small package from Stan, but then, noting Mika’s presence, she freezes.

  Irina steps closer to Mika. ‘Please don’t judge him,’ she says gently. ‘You’re not from here. You have no idea what we’ve lost, what we’re forced to do to keep our families safe.’

  Mika thinks of what she’s left behind, what brought her to this country, heart in her hand, begging for salvation. She knows exactly what people are willing to do.

  Anything.

  Stan has seen her. He pulls the doors of the bus closed and, excusing himself from his customers, closes the distance to Irina and Mika. He takes his wife’s hand.

  ‘Is everything okay, here?’

  ‘Depends on what you tell me,’ Mika says, allowing herself to be guided away from the bus towards Torua. Turning to Stan, she takes a deep breath. ‘You’re a paramedic who deals drugs. Fine. I don’t have a problem with that, providing you can keep Bree safe.’

  ‘Me? Keep her safe?’

  Mika looks from Stan to Irina. ‘I was hoping that you and Irina would keep her here with you on the reservation.’

  Irina gasps, gripping her husband’s hand, but Stan says nothing. Instead, he kicks at a stone, letting it lead them to Torua.