The busker’s fingers paused on the strings. “Ahh,” he said knowingly, nodding. His head was really quite fascinating, Steff noted; it ought to have looked absurd, but it didn’t, somehow. “Yep.” He tilted his head – spout? – head quizzically. “Are you?”
“Oh – me? No. No? I – no, I’m not. Thoroughly human.”
“Thought so.” The busker played a major chord, pleasant and warm. “Not from New Zealand, though?”
Steffan blinked. “Ah… ”
“That might have something to do with you seeing me,” the busker mused to himself, “or, it might not.”
“So you are in disguise? I mean, I wasn’t sure, because, I did see you earlier, but I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Even though I… did? But only realised it when another thing happened? Does that make sense?”
“I weave a little spell of not-noticingness into my songs most of the time, that’s all. I… don’t usually hide, exactly – people just gloss over me in their minds. I don’t mind that you saw me, honest. I’m not in the least annoyed or offended. Especially,” he added, nudging his shoe against his hat, “as you’ve been so generous.”
Steffan scratched the back of his neck. “I was just… There’s. Um.” He fumbled in his wallet for more change, but he was all out.
The busker chuckled. “Nah, jokes. So what do you want?” He tilted his spout hopefully. “Beatles song? I know a lot of Beatles songs.”
“No, I… I want to ask you some things.”
The busker sighed, a whistling exhalation of breath. “All right then,” he said, and carefully placed his guitar in its case. He pulled on a tweed jacket that Steffan wouldn’t mind having in his own wardrobe, swept his hat onto his head somehow and stood. Steff had always rather liked that about the Cuba Mall buskers, how sometimes they’d just find a patch and play for a while and leave; there was a sort of casualness to it. As someone who had (much to his parents’ disappointment) never been able to master any musical instrument, he admired that, whatever it was in the human – or, uh, inhuman – soul that drove people to make music for strangers in exchange for just a few coins and the sheer joy of it, making strangers smile or pause or dance.
“I’m Steffan,” he said stiffly. “Or Steff, if you like.” The busker had more or less welcoming body language, standing with one hand in his jeans pocket and the other steadying his guitar. That helped a little.
“You can call me Cuba,” the busker said.
That sounded awfully evasive, the phrasing of it. “Is that your name?”
The busker looked blank. “I don’t really have one. I’m still young.”
“All… right then. Cuba. I want to ask you a question.”
Cuba looked at him almost indulgently. “What is it, then?” he said.
Steffan pulled out his notes. “What do you eat?” he said, picking one at random. “Or, if you don’t eat, from where do you derive your energy? You seem comfortable in sunlight; is that something all atua have adapted to gradually, or were you – born/made that way; also, how are atua made? I understand if you don’t want to answer that one. Might there be any atua living in New Zealand that aren’t from New Zealand stories – werewolves or demons or something ridiculous like that – or, actually, would there be those at all, because if this is a worldwide phenomenon then studying the wider ramifications could be fascinating. Exactly how many –”
“Wait, wait,” the busker said, holding up a hand. “Is that all you want?”
Steffan looked down at his list. “It’s quite a lot of information, to be fair,” he said.
Cuba rubbed at the bowl of the teapot, where a chin would be on a human face. “You don’t want to know about… magic charms to make people love you, or how to live forever, or ways to be wealthy? Or like… revenge?” The busker looked dumbfounded. “Or anything?”
Steffan was hugging his list close to himself almost protectively. He made himself relax and shrugged. “I just want to know things,” he said, which was all he could think of to say, because it was all there was to it.
“You what?” said Cuba, and he shook his head. He bent over a little with his hands on his waist and let out a long whistle of bewilderment. “Steffan, kid. You’re something new.”
“Saint always said that I dressed like an English professor from the forties,” Steff said, rather at a loss.
Cuba laughed, a big hearty laugh. Then he straightened and looked at Steffan for a while, all appraising. He said, “I’ve made enough for today, I guess – why don’t I introduce you to the gang? I know someone who will just eat you up!”
Steffan flinched. “I, I don’t… ” he said, because he was standing in the sunlight on a busy street and it had only just occurred to him that this shabby friendly man might also be something to be afraid of.
“Oh,” Cuba said, and patted hesitantly at Steff’s shoulder. “Bad choice of words? I’m sorry.”
He sounded honestly compassionate. Steffan knew from long experience that his first impressions of people could be a little naïve, but perhaps he could trust his instincts this time? It wasn’t every day an atua offered to introduce you to his friends; he’d hate to lose the opportunity.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Cuba continued, and Steff shook his head.
“No, I’d love to meet them, whoever you want. That, no, yes, that would be more or less ideal, thank you.”
Cuba tipped his hat at a jaunty angle, seeming relieved. “No problem,” he said, and walked a few metres then came to a stop near the Bucket Fountain, where he whistled again.
There was a nymph in the Bucket Fountain.
That, Steffan hadn’t been expecting. He… supposed it made sense, though. The colourful tipping splashing tower did end up on a lot of postcards and brochures, and everyone seemed to agree that the eyesore was pretty iconic; if it was the amount of energy that was focused on a place that gave a location resident spirits, then it was natural that the Bucket Fountain would have one.
The nymph stepped out of the pool – there really should not have been space for her in there, as the water was all of twenty centimetres deep – and threaded her arm through Cuba’s and laughed. She was colourful and clashy and loud, like you’d expect, with rainbow-painted nails and hair in bright streaks of red and blue and yellow. She looked almost human otherwise, like a number of girls Steff had seen, though her clothes – denim cutoff shorts and a halter top – were drenched. Already a damp patch was forming on Cuba’s jacket, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Cuuuba,” she said, hanging off his elbow. “Who’s this douchebag?” She wrinkled her nose, smiling so Steffan knew it wasn’t an insult.
“Foreign magistrate,” Cuba said seriously. “Agent for the FBI. Wandering paint salesman.” The girl elbowed him, laughing.
“I’m a student,” Steffan said, holding out his hand.
She took it and shook it with too much enthusiasm. “Nice to meetcha!” she chirped, and went back to hanging on Cuba’s arm.
Steffan asked, “Are you something akin to a ponaturi, more like a taniwha, or closer to the Greek concept of nymphs and naiads?”
The girl laughed. “He’s weird,” she said.
“I know, right?” Cuba said.
Steffan shifted from foot to foot and frowned a bit.
She took pity on him. “Aw, honey,” she said. “That’s good – it’s so dull being stuck in a pool all day.”
“You’re hardly stuck,” Cuba said, but fondly. He looked towards Steffan. “I’ll tell you what I can, kid, and I can take you to the Hikurangi, if you want to see some of the more traditional of our folk, which I guess you probably do. Apparently there’s a taniwha hanging about! Hasn’t been a taniwha of Wellington since old Whātaitai. That’ll be good for the Hikurangi crowd.” Cuba puffed up a bit. “Us newer ones tend to fend for ourselves.”
“It helps that we can actually go out in sunlight,” the girl said. They both sniggered.
“See,
the older ones will be good for you to talk to. I can’t give you a, whatchamacallit, unbiased subject sample,” Cuba said, adding, “I took a few courses at Vic. Good place. Good people.”
That mental image was enough to leave Steffan completely speechless for most of their trip down the street. He settled for just tagging along behind the two of them, as the Bucket Fountain girl tugged at Cuba’s arm and talked. And talked. And talked.
“Why are you a teapot today?” she was saying, when he’d regained the ability to pay attention. “That’s booooring, and what does it even have to do with anything? You were so much prettier when you were a flowerpot, you should do that.”
“All right,” Cuba said, ambling.
The girl grinned at Steff. “Come see us tomorrow if you like,” she told him. “Once you’re done talking to the stuffy old boooring forest people. Cuba can show you. Ooh, Cuba, could you have a laptop head?”
“Sure,” Cuba said, and paused. “That’d be… Dell-ightful!”
They high-fived.
“Come and see us tomorrow, and Cuba can have a laptop head,” she continued, “so that’ll be good for you, Mister Weird Student Guy.” She waved her fingers and laughed, then staggered a little. Her grip on Cuba’s arm helped her regain her footing and she went on like nothing was wrong, but she was looking paler as well, Steff noticed. Of course. They were getting further and further away from her fountain.
“That’d be nice,” Cuba said amicably.
She leaned her head against Cuba’s arm. “Or you could be a coffee pot instead! But no being a girl, okay. Girl Cuba’s fine and all,” she added for Steff’s benefit, “but sometimes she’s prettier than me. Not allowed!”
Cuba patted her hand. “No one’s prettier than you,” he said. Evidently he took fluidity of sex – or maybe just gender; did spirits like this even have a biological sex? Maybe not, or maybe it varied. Perhaps their concepts of gender were imported from observing humans, and wouldn’t that be a fascinating thing to study. Anyway, Cuba took that as much in his stride as he did everything else. Steffan envied that a little.
Not that his calm was impossible to disrupt; when the girl stopped talking altogether Cuba looked at her in concern, and he himself seemed to get shakier as they stepped past the end of Cuba Street. Steff half thought that they’d stop there, but the two of them took him right to where they said the entrance to the Hikurangi was, between two pillars by the side of the library.
Steffan just lingered there for a while, staring at the space between pillars. He couldn’t see anything. Well, of course you can’t, he chided himself, but still. He hadn’t been expecting that. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting.
Eventually Cuba made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat – well, he made a sympathetic noise, anyway, and said, “All a bit much, huh?”
Steffan flushed in embarrassment. “I just… I feel I should be more prepared,” he said, lamely, and the Bucket Fountain girl managed a laugh.
“They’re not gonna quiz you,” she said, and she tugged on Cuba’s arm. “Hey, hey, let’s get back, you were gonna sing more stuff.”
“Yeah, all right,” Cuba said, a smile in his voice, and they turned away. Steffan just stood there awkwardly, watching them go. They were friendly, what if the other atua weren’t friendly, it – it had been awfully pleasant, spending time with them; he was cordial but distant with most people he knew except Saint, and Saint was… well. Saint.
The Bucket Fountain girl glanced back at him. “You can come, dummy,” she said, so he flushed deeper but followed them, leaving the Hikurangi alone for now.
Tony’s mother had nearly died once, when Tony was very young. She remembered the ache and the worry and the sheer cringing terror of it, hovering awkwardly by her mother’s bedside, watching her get sicker and sicker every day, powerless to help –
Her mother had gotten better, but. But. Tony learned what death was, that day: realised that people could leave, go, simply no longer exist. It was a little like the first time she’d lost a tooth. She’d held it in her hands and blinked at it, at the concept that something that had been so very much a part of you could just leave. Death had seemed such a strange thing.
It hadn’t gotten any easier.
She walked by the ocean, breathing in the chilly morning air, but that didn’t help this time; it just made her think of losing her boat, the livelihood she didn’t have any longer. Made her think of Whai grinning at her sharp-toothed that first time they’d met, and that, of course, brought unbidden the image of Whai the last time she’d seen him, as she lowered his sagging corpse into the sea. He had sunk far too slowly.
So the ocean couldn’t help. She wasn’t sure that anything would, really – that had always been her problem, she had always cared far too much. Poor Whai, snarky and slouchy and … lonely. He’d been lonely. Had to be – that’d explain why he’d clung to her so much, her and the rest of the atua, oh and hey, that’d be why he’d been so worried about Māui killing –
…Hm. Māui.
Māui who’d killed him, if Whai was to be believed, and as those had been his last words Tony wasn’t much inclined to disbelieve them. Māui who could kill someone under her protection and think to get away with it.
Tony found that her teeth were set into a snarl without her quite intending them to be. Well, then. Maybe there was one thing that’d help.
She turned on her heel and started striding toward the library, not terribly far from here. It started to rain, light and inconsequential, the sort of rain that slicked the pavements so the streetlights shone back from them. Tony wiped damp curls out of her face and walked faster, quick and sure. She knew the way.
The people at the Hikurangi would know more about Māui, they might even help her stop him. They were all lonely, really, sad lost creatures stranded in a city full of people not their own. They would help. Atua whānau.
Look past, she told herself, and then she imagined it in Whai’s jagged drawl and had to squint her eyes against the rain until she was composed again.
Look past. Right. She practised on the city, on the few people out at this time of day; she could almost see… something, something wispy and nebulous and vague, like city spirits, but it was probably her imagination. It was good that she was practising, though, because it meant she saw Hinewai.
Tony stopped when she saw her, the silent figure standing there. Looked through all the different things Hinewai was, looked past then past again – a seeming of her as a human girl, not very convincing, and then beyond that Hinewai, plain black clothes and a flute at her neck and white hair plastered to her face so her eyes seemed huge, and then beyond that something else again, something sharper and even less human; it reminded her of a moray eel, a little, all smooth skin and gaping teeth bared in something that was nothing like a smile.
Tony blinked and Hinewai was just herself again, thank goodness. It was impossible to hold the different levels together at once, so things got pretty confusing. Hinewai was Hinewai, standing there, and Tony tensed, thought of scales and ancientness and strength in preparation. She’d be ready for whatever attack Hinewai threw at her.
“I’m sorry,” Hinewai said.
Okay, maybe not ready for that.
“What?”
“As I say.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I meant you no harm, but I can see I harmed you all the same, so – I thought I should apologise before I go. There is a way to these things.”
Tony frowned. “Before you go?”
Hinewai tilted her head. There was no one else in the square, right now; just them, just the taniwha and the mistgirl standing in the rain. “If you will not lend me aid I have little left to do here. The reasons I came were… foolish.” Her lip curled. “And I thought I was being clever, moving from the mountains to this filthy frantic place, I thought I could carve of this place a home, for my own home will surely not last long, not in this new world. I thought wrongly and foolishly. This is… this is not a plac
e I belong, not in the least.” Again, in a voice so small Tony had to step forward to hear it: “This isn’t my place…”
Sad lost creatures in a city not their own. And Tony was their guardian, because they had no one else.
No. No! Bad Tony! Yeah okay she’d always cared too much, it was a thing she did, but this, no, no no no she refused to feel compassionate about someone who was such an utter jerk and also terrifying. She flat-out refused. Not gonna happen.
“I miss my mountains,” Hinewai said.
…God fucking dammit.
Tony gritted her teeth and forced herself to not be compassionate. “Yeah okay, blah blah blah all very tragic. You’re sorry, I get it, now get the hell out of my sight before I punch you right in the face! Okay?”
Hinewai gave her a look that Tony would’ve described as fond, if it had been anyone else doing the looking. “You are so kind,” she said. “And so strong, and so hard to anger. I should take it as flattery perhaps, that I managed it.”
“You should take it as get the fuck out.”
“I do not understand… ” Hinewai said, and then stopped. She frowned. “I,” she said, carefully, like it was something rehearsed, “do not understand, but I shall nonetheless respect your decisions and act accordingly.” And then she ruined it by looking up at Tony all wide imploring eyes. “Is that right? That’s right, isn’t it?”
Tony sighed. She was bad at being annoyed at people. Which was good! Which was good, because hate curled up in you like cancer and ate you from the inside out if you let it. Hating one person at a time was more than bad enough. Particularly when that person was a legendary trickster demigod, which was bound to make stuff a teensy bit more complicated.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she said, kindly. “You’re learning. Well done.” She walked forward, held out her hand formally. There was a way to do these things. “Bye! Let’s part – well, not friends, but… not enemies at least.”
Hinewai’s face was a study in perfect astonishment. Then she nodded, rapid and quick like the movement of a bird, and closed the distance between them, ignoring Tony’s hands completely. For an odd second Tony thought she was going to kiss her, but she just pressed their noses together, closed her eyes, breathed out her own air and breathed Tony’s in. Smiled, shy.
The Wind City Page 15
