Into the Mist

by Lee Murray

  Oh God.

  Jules turned again, and willed sleep to come. Outside the soldiers murmured, moving about the campsite.

  Chapter 13

  Rotorua township

  “Pania, have you seen my training thermal?”

  Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a magazine on her lap, Pania flicked through the pages while holding a cup of tea. “Isn’t it in your drawer?”

  “I can’t find it.”

  “Did you have a proper look or a man-look?”

  Wayne popped his head around the door. “Baby, I looked hard. Believe me, it’s not there.” He tilted his head to one side and showed her his helpless puppy-dog eyes.

  Pania snorted. “Try the laundry cupboard. I might have put it in there.”

  Wayne’s head disappeared. “Got it, thanks.”

  A few minutes later he emerged in his rugby kit and socks, his big toe separated from the others by the thong of his jandals, and his boots slung over his shoulder in a drawstring bag.

  “You planning to stay on for a drink afterwards?”

  “I thought I might. I said I’d drop Greg home. His car needs a warrant.”

  He leaned in to give her a peck goodbye. She held her cup out wide to avoid a spillage and returned his kiss.

  “Have you seen Uncle Rawiri? I’m just about to set the table.”

  “I think he’s pottering around in the back shed. Want me to go look?”

  “No, you’re late. I’ll go. Have a good practice. Try not to wake me up when you come in.”

  Wayne thwacked down the front steps. The four-wheel drive gave a throaty roar and he sped off.

  Closing her magazine, Pania went through to the kitchen, tipped the dregs of her tea into the sink, and checked on the potatoes. Then she picked her way along the cracked concrete path to the back shed.

  She knocked on the door before she entered. “Uncle Rawiri?”

  Like his room, the shed had become Wayne’s uncle’s private space. Ignoring the daddy long-legs spiders hanging cheerfully in the corners, she ventured in. An earthy odour of potting mix and seedlings pervaded the lean-to – and the sharp tang emanating from the half bag of left-over sheep pellets stored alongside the motor mower. On the scarred worktop, a battered radio played an AM station, the tune barely recognisable through the hiss of static. Most of the seed pots had been stacked away now for the winter, but a small jumble of odd pots and some used window cleaner bottles filled with Uncle’s home-made bug spray remained.

  “Uncle Rawiri? It’s almost tea time.”

  Looking up, the old man leaned over and flicked off the fan heater with the tip of his chisel, the soft whirr dwindling away. “Ah, Pania.”

  “What’s that you’re up to?” Pania said, perching on the wide arm of the chair.

  Putting the chisel down, Uncle Rawiri held up his handiwork for her inspection. “I’ve been making a pūrerehua.”

  “A what?”

  Pania was ashamed she didn’t speak more Māori. She knew the words to the national anthem, well most of them, and a spattering of other words like library and family, but beyond that, her Māori was pretty shabby. She wasn’t the only one. They said there was a chance the language could die out.

  “It’s a pūrerehua,” Uncle Rawiri said patiently. “A musical instrument.”

  Pania examined the object in his hand. Elongated and oval – a bit like a TV remote control – it was strikingly beautiful, made of a deep golden wood naturally swirled with darker lines and knots, and the blade overlaid with surface carvings. Pania admired the strong sweeping whirls and delicate spirals of the design. It wasn’t quite complete yet; pencil marks outlined spirals Uncle Rawiri still had to etch and whittle, but Pania had never seen anything quite like it.

  She put out her hand. “Let’s have a look.”

  To her surprise, Uncle Rawiri snatched it away. “Please, you mustn’t handle it. Pūrerehua are very tapu, too sacred for womenfolk to touch.”

  Pania was disappointed. She’d like to touch the little instrument, and imagined those swooping ridges under her fingertips, the aromatic tang from the heart of the mataī tree.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Pania shrugged. Tapu was tapu. Nothing you could do about that. “That’s okay. How does it work?”

  “See this little hole here at this end?”

  Pania nodded.

  “You thread a string through it and then swing the instrument, whirling it at differing speeds around your head. You know, the way a cowboy uses a lasso. The wind carries across the blades over the little dog’s-tooth notches I’ve carved on either side of this end – see? – and that’s what creates the sound.”

  “What does it sound like?”

  “Like a piece of corrugated iron thrown about in a tornado apparently, although they’re supposed to sound like the wings of a moth. I guess it’s an acquired taste. Like that DJ music Wayne likes.”

  “You mean David Guetta?”

  “Is that his name? Guetta. More like Get-a-Headache.” He laughed at his own joke. “Tell you what, when I’ve finished making it, I’ll play it for you and you can hear for yourself.”

  “Well, it’s very pretty. Is it a gift for someone?”

  “Not, not a gift.” He frowned. “I’m not sure why I made it.” He closed his eyes…

  Temera was eleven. It was the summer holidays. He and his Mātua Rata had climbed the narrow track to the top of a nearby hill and sat in a clearing in the trees looking over the valley. It had taken them a long time to get there because the day was hot and Mātua was old, so old years of learning were fixed in the wrinkles of his skin, like the words in a book or the rings of a tree. At the summit, Temera sat on his haunches while he waited for his mentor to catch his breath and consider the topic for the day’s lesson. To pass the time he took a stick and drew a picture in the dust – a WWII Spitfire. But when it was time for the lesson, Mātua wiped a bony finger through the wings and tail of Temera’s aircraft, leaving just the fuselage shape, which he then embellished with swirly patterns – the kind you saw on meeting houses.

  “Looks like a torpedo,” Temera said.

  “Hmph,” Mātua grunted. “It’s much stronger than a torpedo.”

  “No way.”

  “Much, much stronger.”

  “Can it blow up a submarine?”

  “Hush. Sometimes you talk a lot of rubbish. This is a pūrerehua, a musical instrument.”

  “A musical instrument. How can a musical instrument be stronger than a torpedo, Mātua?”

  “Because the pūrerehua is infused with powerful magic,” Mātua said.

  “What sort of magic?”

  “Old magic.”

  This time it was Temera’s turn to grunt. Picking up a little stone he threw it over the ridge. The pebble rattled through the foliage on its way down the hill until eventually it fell quiet. Mātua lit a cigarette, passing it to Temera before lighting another for himself. For a time they puffed contentedly together, the boy and his teacher. The cigarette half smoked, Mātua stubbed it out on the ground and put the other half of the butt in his pocket.

  He said, “Pūrerehua are powerful enough to connect a person’s wairua, his spirit, with others in the physical world.”

  Temera had reflected on that. “You mean like seeing ghosts? But when I follow the morepork in my sleep, that’s my wairua travelling, right? My spirit travelling, not my body. My wairua hears the messages in that dream-place and I have to come back to my physical body to warn people about what’s going to happen. That’s how it works.”

  “Not always. A pūrerehua like this one can serve as a conduit through which a spirit and an earthly body can talk directly.”

  “A conduit?”

  “A passage.”

  “Like a telephone?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, this musical instrument lets my wairua talk to people.”

  “It’s not exactly words.”

  Temera had frowned. This lesson
was so confusing.

  “That doesn’t make sense. How can they talk if they don’t talk? Some kind of telepathy?”

  “I don’t know. I’m only telling you what my own mātua told me. It isn’t the same for all seers. I’ve never experienced it myself.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “Not everything requires proof, Temera.”

  Annoyed, Temera flicked his cigarette butt into the bushes. Mātua had frowned at that. He didn’t approve of littering. Said desecrating the bush was the same as shitting in your own bed.

  “So how’s it supposed to work?”

  “I believe it’s in the particular music of the blade: a combination of the instrument’s shape, its surface korero – the carvings – and the material itself. These days pūrerehua are made of different woods but in the days of our ancestors, they were made of stone. Even the string attachment is significant. All these things influence the sound of the music when the musician swings and whirls the instrument.”

  “The magic is in the music itself then,” Temera had concluded, pleased with himself. “The way it makes you feel.” It wasn’t so hard, now he’d figured it out.

  Mātua smiled. “Ah, but Temera, you forget about the musician. If you give two guitarists the same guitar, do they make the same music?”

  “No,” Temera said thoughtfully.

  “What if they play the same tune?”

  “Still no.”

  “How are they different?”

  “That’s easy. It depends on the musician’s skill, or the amount of practice they’ve had, or their preference for a particular style of music,” Temera said proudly. But Mātua said nothing so Temera understood there must be something else. Perhaps the answer had something to do with playing the pūrerehua, which were swung in the air, and not guitars, which were plucked and strummed.

  “Is it to do with the speed the musician whirls it?”

  Mātua shrugged, opened his cigarettes and lit another, shaking the match to extinguish the flame.

  “The size of the circles?”

  Mātua looked out over the ridge. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. Made it long and slow so Temera knew he was waiting on an answer.

  “Well, am I even close?” Temera said crossly.

  “You’re close.”

  Temera huffed, impatient. He lay back on the ground and chewed on his lip. The clouds passed overhead. He was just about to drift off when the answer came to him. He sat up abruptly. “It’s about the wairua, isn’t it?”

  “Uhuh.”

  “Is that why they call it soul music?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think yes. If you want a song to be meaningful, you have to put your heart into it. I think when a man plays a pūrerehua, one he’s fashioned himself, he puts his soul, his wairua, into the performance. He plays it in a way that allows the voice of his spirit to travel through the string, through the blade, through the music. The song becomes like a prayer, or a chant. A song of the soul.”

  At that, Mātua had cuffed Temera’s hair affectionately with the flat of his hand. “You know what? I reckon you’re not as dumb as you look.”

  Excited, Temera stood and faced his tutor. “People have done this right? Other seers? They have to have, or what would be the point of this lesson?” Not waiting for an answer, Temera spun on his heel, striding away from the old man, only to turn and retrace his steps when he reached the start of the trail.

  “Holy shit!”

  The old man grinned.

  “The pūrerehua is like a telephone. It’s a link between the living and the dead. Between the spirit world and the earthly realm. When you told me before, I didn’t really get it, but this… this… it’s amazing.”

  The old man nodded. “It is, Temera. Can you see now, how, when used correctly, a pūrerehua can be more powerful than a torpedo?”

  “Yeah.” He flapped his arms in the air, letting them slap against his thighs. “Cool.”

  After that, Temera had lain on the ground, his hands cradling his head, once again watching the inexorable drift of the clouds. In his ear, Mātua continued the lesson, his old voice mellow.

  “As well as being a beautiful object, the pūrerehua’s uses are many. The right man can use it to call forth a soul-mate, farewell a loved one, even summon the rain…”

  Pania’s heart softened. Uncle Rawiri had drifted off. She patted him gently on the shoulder. “Uncle? Are you awake?”

  “Just thinking, that’s all. Did you know these little objects are supposed to be able to summon a person’s soul-mate? I should call up Jessica Alba, see if she wants a date.” His eyes twinkled, the crow’s feet around his eyes forming merry creases.

  “Forget Jessica, how about getting Wayne to come home early from the pub?”

  Uncle Rawiri laughed. “Nothing’s that powerful.” Chuckling, he hauled himself out of the armchair, put the instrument in the vice, and turned the handle to lodge it there. “Shall we go in then? The spuds aren’t going to eat themselves.”

  Chapter 14

  Te Urewera Forest, Day Three

  Still wearing his rain gear, Taine’s breath formed swirls of condensation, adding to the early morning brume that drifted softly in and out of the campsite like a sad melody.

  He skirted the camp’s northern edge. Unable to sleep, he’d taken over Coolie’s sentry duty at 0300. He walked wide of the camp perimeter heading south, his eyes scanning the surrounding bush. Had Louise Hemphill survived the night? And if she had, would they be able to find her in this pea-soup? They’d mount a full search in an hour or two, after he’d dealt with de Haas.

  Taine gritted his teeth. The geologist was a liability he didn’t need – a bad-tempered terrier yapping at passers-by from behind the safety of the fence. Well, let him bark all he wanted. Taine’s soldiers were trained to follow his command.

  Taine caught a glimpse of Trigger’s form up ahead, visible through the gap in the tents. Nathan Kerei emerged from his tent wearing a heavy red and black check Swanndri. He stopped briefly to talk with Trigger before ducking into the trees. Lefty was up too, stoking the fire with dry wood stored last night under a fly sheet. Ben chatted to him over a mug of something brewed on his camp stove.

  Good man, Ben. The best way to find some normality is to pretend…

  The early-morning mist had finally lifted, the drifting clouds separated…

  Taine’s breath caught.

  A monster.

  Surveying the scene, the creature stood motionless and silent at the southern edge of the rag-tag bunch of tents.

  Taine’s body swung into flight or fight mode, but he resisted the call to action. Lefty and Singh had warned him. A giant lizard, they’d said. And neither of them liars. In his heart though, Taine had been sure they were mistaken. It had been a trick of the light. Or a deliberate plan by an unknown opponent to confound them. He hadn’t truly believed.

  But now he saw it with his own eyes. A giant lizard, as big as a fucking bus, just as Lefty described it.

  It was magnificent.

  Taine estimated the creature’s height at about three metres, and a length of around fifteen metres – it resembled a crumpled, mud-coloured tarpaulin thrown over a small caravan. A mane of knife-like spines rippled from its head and down the length of its back like a jagged fence-line on a craggy hill. Its tail was a fallen tree, its surface equally knotted and gnarled. Each stout leg finished in a spray of deadly-looking claws, the longest the length of a bread knife and shaped like a sickle. In an impossibly slow movement, the creature turned its bony, feathered head. It stared at Taine. Their eyes locked. Taine felt a frisson of fear. Not even in Afghanistan, where enemies had masqueraded as Afghan collaborators, had Taine felt anything like this. Men with rocket launchers and hand grenades he understood. Men like him. Men who bled. This – this was different.

  An opaque eyelid blinked, the movement unhurried, languid.

  While the lizard was immobile, Taine didn’t shout a wa
rning. Instead, he raised the Steyr, inching it slowly upwards, looked through the scope and took aim at the odd third eye in the centre of the monster’s head.

  Hadn’t Odysseus taken out the Cyclops’ eye? Its weak point?

  Through the scope, Taine regarded the creature. It didn’t flinch or shy away. Anaru’s pierced and bloody corpse flashed through his mind. Taine had to keep the civilians safe. Already, the beast may have taken more than a dozen lives. It couldn’t be left to roam the forest. He had no choice but to kill it. Taine steadied himself. Slowed his breathing. Squeezed. Fired.

  But it was a bad idea, because as soon as he did, all hell broke loose.

  * * *

  The round hit home. Taine knew it had, but the creature charged across the campsite, catching a tent peg underfoot. Dragged it a step. Taine sucked in his breath. Miller dove out and rolled away. Taine breathed out as the creature carried the tent another step then trampled it underfoot. Was anyone…? Dropping to one knee, he prepared to fire again.

  The creature ploughed on.

  Where the hell were the sentries? Taine glanced to one side of his scope. Trigger and Eriksen were scrambling to respond.

  “Fucking hell!” Trigger shouted, his voice carrying over the last of the drifting mist, and the frenzied barking of the hunter’s dog tied to a nearby tree.

  Taine lifted his rifle and fired again. Lefty and Trigger followed suit, rifles booming, while the rest of the section scrambled to gain a clear line of sight.

  The monster thundered over the campsite, a moving truck, large and menacing. Taine glimpsed Ben’s dive into the bush.

  Good, that’s one civilian out of the way. But Nathan, running into the camp, was taken unawares, picked up by his jacket with a casual flick of the monster’s claw.

  His scream echoed through the valley.

  Taine raised his Steyr again, about to fire a third time, when something grabbed the creature’s attention. Abruptly, it discarded the big man, then stepped over him, plunging forward.

  On the ground, Nathan moved, but slowly, stunned by the force of the fall.