Free The Bone Tiki by David Hair

annoyance. He shook his head groggily, and the memories of yesterday flooded back. The gull flew away.
    The tiki…Dad, Riki… Puarata ! He crouched beside the emplacement, and looked cautiously around. The highway was humming with Saturday morning traffic. He glanced at his watch—7.11 a.m… the sun was well up. The beach was empty but for an old woman strolling a few hundred metres to the north.
    I’m going to the mouth of the Esk River, then I’m going to cut inland along the river banks, and hitch a ride to Taupo…I’ve got to see Mum…and go to Maungatautari Pa and see some tohunga.
    Seriously weird.
    He looked around him. He had a dim memory of two men wrapping him in blankets, but there was only his kitbag and coat. He picked the coat up and a plastic water-bottle fell out. He frowned at it, picked it up. It was full, and still had the plastic seal around it. But he remembered Wally tucking an old army-issue water-bottle there. He almost left it, but then he shrugged to himself, broke the seal, and had a drink. Then he brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with some more of the water, re-packed, and set off north.
    The old woman he’d seen in the distance peered curiously at him as he passed by. She was Pakeha, with a woollen shawl and straggly grey hair. She wished him good morning, and peered thoughtfully after him as he passed. Gulls whirled above, swooping into the waves. Once an aircraft roared overhead, coming in for landing at the airport. Then he was level with the first houses of Bay View. He went past a Maori man fishing, trudging on as the day heated, and the wind grew stronger. The sea breeze was chilly and he was glad of the coat, despite the sunshine. By lunchtime, his belly was growling, and he wished he had the food Riki had taken in his pack. That set him to wondering what Riki was doing, and where his father was. Had anyone phoned his mother? Maybe if he knocked on someone’s door, he could ring her? He felt a sudden surge of apprehension at the thought, anddropped the idea almost immediately. It felt wrong, and he decided he needed to trust his instincts.
    By noon, he had left Bay View behind. There was a strip of beach houses to his left, and he met a few more old people, walking dogs. All of them stared, and one asked his name. ‘Riki,’ he lied, without knowing why, and hurried on.
    He reached the river mouth. The Esk was more stream than river, but he remembered some good swimming holes. Here at the coast the river cut through mounds of smooth shingle and flowed into the waves. He drank some more water—it was half-empty now, but the river water would be drinkable—and began to walk upstream.
    It became impossible to stay dry, without getting tangled in willows, or running into fences. An hour of splashing and wading saw him crossing a bridge under the highway. He approached it cautiously, but there was no black car sitting in wait, no suited men leaning on the parapet smoking. He’d reached a fork in the highway—the bridge was the route for those going north, past the pulp mill, to Wairoa or Gisborne. A few metres short of the bridge was the turn-off to Taupo, but Mat didn’t go that way. He knew the river followed the Taupo road, paralleling it through the Esk Valley basin, and it seemed safer to join the highway somewhere away from the fork.
    In the broad area beside the bridge, a car was parked, and a family picnic laid out. His stomach rumbled. A large group of Asian adults and children watched him curiously, but said nothing. He walked on past the vineyards, feeling hotter now that he’d left the coast. Sandflies buzzed about,and a fantail began to follow him, snapping at the insects he’d disturbed. He wished he had something so plentiful to eat. The air carried the scent of growing things, but it was too early for grapes. He settled for drinking more, and refilled the bottle from the river. The river water carried a silt tang, but was cool and sweet.
    Once out of sight of