Digital Magic (The Chronicles of Art Book 2) Page 4

  Nana was watching her, she suddenly realized. The sun was streaming in through the window behind her grandmother, outlining her in a halo of silver. Aroha grinned through a mouth of cereal. Nana’s hair was the prettiest. Once it had been long and brown but it had turned into a wonderful concoction of gray and silver. It was almost pure white around her forehead and ears. Aroha loved to watch Nana brushing it out at night after releasing it from the bun she always wore during the day. She supposed it was Nana’s one vanity—though she’d never admit it.

  “You better enjoy those Weetbix today, Aroha. I have only so many packets put away.” Nana sighed. “There might not be anymore after that. Who knows if the factory survived…”

  Aroha contemplated her half-finished bowl.

  “Still, we’re lucky,” Nana had turned around and was once more scrubbing vigorously at some unfortunate dish in the sink. “Those poor people in the city… Lord knows what they're going through. At least we have our own garden.”

  Communication lines had been the first thing the enemy had cut, and no one knew if they would ever have the raw materials to repair them again. Aroha could catch a few of Nana’s surface thoughts, but as always her inner self remained hidden. Her granddaughter caught images of people screaming, running riot through once bustling streets. Aroha had been to Wellington a couple of times and she could overlay her memories of steel and water with Nana’s imaginings. For once Aroha wished she could tap deeper into her grandmother’s head. She wanted to find out if she was scared or hopeful—only then would she know what she should be feeling.

  Aroha finished her Weetbix, chewing slowly, enjoying the taste of something that might not last long.

  She’d been half thinking of asking if she and Sally could go into the bush. She chased the remains of her cereal around the bowl trying to find the right words.

  But if Aroha was unable to read her Nana’s mind, perhaps the opposite wasn’t true, for Nana turned and fixed her granddaughter with a piercing gaze. “And don’t think of running anywhere outside the village. Plenty of soldiers could still be around.”

  Aroha made a face, but knew better than to argue. Instead she trotted after as Nana took the bucket out from under the sink. She followed through the kitchen and the sun-porch to the water pump. Nana was such a little woman, small to the point of frailty, but there was strength in her arms. The water gushed out all icy and fresh with a hiss. It contained utu, but the taste had not been affected.

  Nana’s thoughts were now of those who had not taken the shots, those who objected to such things. They might have accepted utu, but they also accepted the consequences. Right now they would be dying; screaming in agony, or perhaps praying mute and silent to a God that no longer cared. The blood would hopefully choke them long before their internal organs failed. Some people had left to take their chances in the wide Pacific. Yet they would be in just as much pain, leaving all they loved behind. It’s not mine, but I love this land. This was what Nana was thinking.

  “Me too,” Aroha said softly, though she knew her grandmother heard.

  Nana pulled the bucket up the stairs and onto the porch, ignoring Aroha’s offers of help. Following on her heels was a little shadow. Barely had the fly screen door banged shut behind Nana than Sally was pushing it open again and sticking her head around it.

  Nana sighed but gestured her in, realizing that the child would only loiter in her garden until she did.

  Sally’s scarlet red hair was its usual mess, with tough little biddy bid seeds and broken fern in it. The girl’s mother had another six children to look after and Sally, being the most elusive of her brood, was never very well groomed. Nana shook her head and retreated into the house to get a brush and a flannel. That face needed a wipe, too.

  Sally flopped down in the kitchen chair next to Aroha and gave her an elbow in the ribs. “Not going to sit here all day, are you?” She didn’t hear the forest in the same way Aroha did, but it still called with all of its whispering coolness.

  Aroha twisted her feet uncomfortably. She wanted to go, but Nana had forbidden her the bush today.

  Sally’s grubby little hand stole over hers. “Not there, silly. Let’s go into the village—there’s some more strangers come in. Everyone is there.”

  Everyone, that was, except Nana and Aroha. Unlike the rest of their small community, Nana had never seemed interested in much beyond the hills. Maybe she didn’t want to hear how bad things were in the rest of the country, maybe she didn’t dare care.

  “Oh come on,” Sally was quick to become impatient, as usual. “We’ll miss them otherwise.” It remained unspoken that they had better run before Nana returned; she’d be bound to find something less interesting for two unoccupied pairs of hands to do.

  The lure of the unusual finally broke Aroha’s resolve. Pushing back quickly from the table, they bolted through the sun-porch, rattling the fly screen and sending the bantams scratching outside off in a squawking mass. Nana wouldn’t chase after them, it was too undignified to be seen yelling at children in the street, but there would be a pile of chores waiting for Aroha when she returned. It was a small price to pay.

  The street turned its back on the hills, becoming dusty and tiny as it ran down towards the small collection of shops. They were all rattling windows and peeling paint, but these were the heart of Makara. All the villagers gathered to hear the gossip and tales of woe from outside the valley here. The wind whistled down from the hilltops where the shattered remains of wind turbines resembled a broken row of teeth. Once the bane of the small town, it was universally agreed that their destruction was the only silver lining in the cloud of war.

  But the girls weren’t interested in woe even though it was all around them. They bounded down the road giggling. It was merely the chance to see someone that they had never seen before—a real treat in a place as small as Makara.

  Jan, the store owner, was out on her verandah talking to a couple of laden men while a semicircle of villagers gawked from a respectful distance. Aroha and Sally wriggled their way to the front to catch what the grownups were saying so seriously.

  “From the big smoke, then?” Jan was saying with more than a touch of distain.

  The men, both tall and dark haired, laughed a little, “More smoke than there used to be in Wellington these days...”

  Aroha was examining them all the while, noting their packs, but most of all the ugly black guns strapped to their backs. She was old enough to remember a time when guns had been a rarity in New Zealand. Nana still recalled that time with sadness.

  Sally darted forward and ran a finger over the long muzzle at one of their backs. The child had no fear.

  “Whoa,” the tallest man spun around as if he’d felt that, as if the metal was part of his body. “Best leave that alone little one.”

  “Are you soldiers?” Sally’s question was as direct as ever.

  The two men scanned the little crowd, but they had seen the dug up road and perhaps sensed the air of determination. They shared the same blood, the same utu.

  “Grey Wolves,” they confirmed. “We got a report that there might be a cluster of enemy bots laid in this area.”

  The villagers murmured; there had been a lot dropped, but mostly near the big cities.

  “In such circumstances, the enemy might have given them orders to give back a little vengeance of their own.”

  The crowd shifted a little, unsure how to take the stranger's comment.

  “We’re here to take care of you,” the second soldier gestured in what might have been meant to be a calming way. But these were the only men that could be spared, Jan was thinking bitterly. Not much against an enemy bot that might have God knows what orders.

  Jan quietly offered to equip them, so the three went into the store to conduct business. The rest of the villagers began to congeal into untidy and unhappy groups.

  Aroha and Sally, with a total lack of anything else to do, followed after the soldiers. The inside of the shop was mi
lled forest timber and even the presence of a lone light bulb and the daylight outside could not change its perpetual dimness. Jan’s rangy form maneuvered about the shop with the dexterity of the night loving kiwi, though one soldier nearly knocked over a bag of flour.

  They had government vouchers, which might or might not have been worth anything, but Jan was of that peculiar independent breed. A tough woman, she’d lived fifty of her years in the rugged West Coast, fiercely independent but with a wide heart. There would be no haggling, she told the men firmly. They could put their vouchers away and have whatever they needed.

  While the adults measured and discussed, Sally and Aroha wandered through the store trailing bored hands over the wealth of goods. The shop carried all the things that the village couldn’t provide for itself; iron goods, paint, and seeds of all kinds. It was an Aladdin’s cave, Nana used to say, a New Zealand Aladdin’s cave. Aroha tried not to contemplate it becoming empty and bare.

  The two girls, via a rather circuitous route, eventually reached the front counter. This had been their destination all the while, for it was there that Jan kept a treasured store of boiled sweets she made in her own kitchen. Aroha stood just behind the soldier’s elbow, staring longingly at the clear glass jar and the rainbow of sweetness contained within. Jan pretended not to notice. Showing a soft spot to more than two people in one day was not in her nature.

  They were asking her about guides up into the hills. Jan shook her head. Most of the young men and women had signed up for the army in those few desperate days before the final decision. Not many remained who both knew the paths and could physically manage them.

  Sensing her hesitation, the men exchanged glances. “We only want to go up as far as the falls.”

  Aroha frowned. Of all the places to go to in the bush, this was the worst. The Forest People had often found her there. It was a special place—no, more than that, a sacred place.

  The adults seldom went there, undoubtedly catching the unwelcoming air.

  Jan was very worried, no need to dip into her mind to sense that. “These girls know the way.”

  It was as if the world suddenly shrunk and spun. One of the soldiers turned to find Aroha practically ready to run.

  He was not a handsome man like Seth, the village gardener, nor did he have that aura of kindness like Sally’s older brother Adam, but she found herself blushing.

  He ruffled her hair. She didn’t like it, an entirely too familiar thing for a stranger to do. Aroha stumbled back, practically running into Sally.

  “We only need to get to the falls,” his companion said in a tone meant to be slow and soothing. “The bot signal came from near there. Surely you girls want to help…”

  She could think of nothing worse than guiding these men to that sacred place, but what could she say?

  As always, Sally rescued her. The boiled sweets on the counter made an excellent excuse. Quick as a flash, she’d grabbed a handful. On the wings of Jan’s angry yelp, she pulled Aroha out of the shop. They were fugitives now, and fugitives did not have to answer uncomfortable questions, or take anyone anywhere.

  They ran until they couldn’t run anymore, until their chests heaved and their throats burned, near the very limits of the village. Finally, the two girls flopped down amongst the dandelions and long grasses that lined the road into town. With limbs outstretched and her face in the sun, Aroha tried to forget the bright light of the stranger’s gaze.

  Sally silently snapped her stolen treasure in half and handed a portion to her friend. Aroha’s heart swelled with love for the other girl. They both knew there would be a scene for Sally to endure when she finally went home. Her mother was not someone who took such things lightly. But to say thanks or to even mention it would only bring a scowl. Instead they lay back and savored the sweetness while they could.

  A dozen magically shaped clouds raced across the bright blue sky, and the world seemed so quiet that there could have been only the two of them in it. The call of the Forest People had not reached her today and, although Aroha did not mind it when it did come, for now it was good to feel the earth pressed into the small of her back sticky with sweat, to hear nothing but her own heartbeat in her ears.

  But the Grey Wolves were an elite squad used to tracking and finding elusive enemies in deep forest, so finding two little girls in open territory was easy.

  Aroha felt them arrive while the other's less sensitive senses missed them completely. She looked up through the sun and into the soldier’s eyes.

  He shook his head and grinned. “That shopkeeper’s going to tan your hide.”

  Sally leapt up. “Nah, she’ll just make us count buttons or something.” Punishment meant little to her.

  The soldier crouched down and rested on his haunches, “This is a pretty spot.” He offered one hand to Aroha, “I’m Daniel Proust by the way.” He gestured back to where his companion was leaning against a tree, “That’s my mate Simon Hearfield.”

  Aroha shook the hand tentatively, as she’d been taught.

  Sally still eyed him suspiciously and kept her own hands firmly tucked behind her back.

  “Now, we really need to get to the falls,” Daniel said seriously. “I know you might not want to take us there, but these enemy bots. They can do a lot of damage. Your friends are in danger.”

  “I know,” Aroha whispered.

  “Hey,” he ruffled her hair again, and she had a flash of understanding, he’d done that with his own younger sister. “We’re here to protect you.”

  “It’s a special place,” she replied, trying to make him understand.

  “And you’re scared…”

  Well, she couldn’t tell him the real truth; that it wasn’t the bot that scared her, and how the Forest People would feel about adults going there. No one would understand that… and then there was the very real danger to her village.

  Aroha stood up and dusted herself off. “I’ll show you,” she said a lot more fiercely than she felt.

  And the way Daniel smiled at her made her feel grown up. Nana and her anger would just have to wait.

  ***

  Ella found herself running late as usual. No matter how early she went to bed or how many times she set her alarm clock, for some reason when it came round to her shift up at the Hall everything went haywire. She’d propped her bike right next to the door all ready to go in the evening, but when she’d gone out there in the morning it had somehow developed a puncture. And the repair kit had made itself scarce, too.

  At least there had been no one about to see her dissolve into a temper tantrum at the front door. Snatching up her mop cap and apron, Ella ran as best she could down the street and into the longest lane in Penherem. The view was chocolate box charming; Farmer Jones driving his red tractor, beautiful hedgerows, and the green distant hills, but Ella saw none of that. As she darted up the first turning she entered the tree lined drive of Penherem Hall. This was what drew the tourists, far more than the prettiness of the village.

  The Hall had a bloodthirsty and romantic history. There had once been a castle, but it now formed the ruins that sat in a sea of well turned out gardens. While the Hall itself was a piece of far later baronial splendor, the beauty of the ruins couldn’t be argued with.

  As Ella ran on, she came over the slight rise and the Hall leapt out in front of her. The garden’s designer had planned it that way and it worked, hitting you right between the eyes with its white columns and rising staircase. The windows gleamed and the shell drive was immaculately combed. That was what the tourists liked: the surface veneer of gentility with the rotting canker of scandal.

  Ella ran through the garden to the side entrance and struggled up the stairs to the Long Gallery. When the tour did arrive, they would be much like the others; barrel through the doors, take a few snaps, download the latest promotional vid for the folks back home to prove they’d been here, and then pile onto the QuickStep to the next attraction.

  Ella paused before entering. Hoping not t
o be noticed, she eased the concealed doorway open and peered through. Today was definitely not her lucky day. Tania Furlion was there, though she hadn’t noticed her yet.

  The current owner of the Hall was staring at the Holbien on the wall while chewing determinedly on her fingernails. Ella paused, amazed by this display of nerves from one who had always seemed to have none. Unobserved, she was different.

  Ella had noted the ruined fingers before, but had never seen their owner actually chewing them. They were the one mark on the flawless Baroness Furlion.

  With her white blonde flyaway hair confined to a severe bun, two inch black patent shoes and a conservative dark Aroldo suit sticking to her trim body, she appeared ready for today’s rush of flustered tourists. At least that was the way she appeared. Something about Tania had always disturbed Ella. Sometimes she seemed to stare at nothing at all, or her eyes would dart about the room. She was not liked by the villagers, either. Tania’s family had a certain reputation; bad blood, they whispered.

  Ella plopped on her mop cap and began stuffing her own mess of dark curls under it while waiting for Tania to turn and acknowledge her presence. She remained still, though, eyes fixed on the painting with such attention that it made Ella’s back twitch.

  The Hall had more than enough of its own ghost stories: Furlion maidens locked and starved in their rooms for loving the wrong person, headless ancestors killed in feuds, or the moon-eyed dark dog that ran through the long hall when a Furlion was about to die. Could that be what was riveting Tania to the spot? Ella doubted it. Apart from her odd ways, the Baroness had never seemed to carry any stock by those stories. Money was of far more importance to her.

  Whenever a tourist asked excitedly about the ghosts of Penherem Manor, she simply spun the tale out, while suggesting they might want to book into one of the more exclusive rooms to find out for themselves.

  Finally, the Baroness Furlion wheeled about on her shining black heel and noticed that she was not alone.

  The look she gave Ella was at first bemused, but then dropped to ill concealed anger. Tania’s eagle eye took in the misaligned cap, the maid’s outfit undone at the throat, and the apron ties flapping around the other woman’s ankles.