Teeth of the Wolf

Teeth of the Wolf ebook-5

PROLOGUE

Mārama drifts in the waka on a sea of rippling black.

She lies in its belly, the paddle flat on her chest, her hands folded over its carved wooden handle. The sky expands above her in shades of blood and fire, curls of colour twisting through each other like lovers’ fingers entwined, or ropes thrown out to hold back the sun. She knows this place. She has been here before.

She aches.

There is a warmth, a memory of something that should not have been. She wants to curl into herself, crush her hurt down into a small cold ball and bury it deep inside, along with all the rest. But if she closes up now, like a kōwhai flower retreating from the chill of night, she may not have the strength to unfold again. And this is no place for weakness.

She doesn’t question how she came to be here. Once you’ve been, it’s easy to find your way back. Or to be brought back. There are rules. Someone wants her here, but she has a choice. Either let the waka carry her, or take up the paddle laid across her chest, fight the current, this other desire that calls to her.

Yet the burden is heavy, pressing down her bones, speaking of the black depths beneath, the burning expanses above. Fighting is hard, and she has fought so long already. Fought the pull to return. The dreams have haunted her, the whispers taunting, always there in her thoughts, in the shadows that flicker wherever she looks.

If she could run away, she would have by now. Running isn’t an option, not when she has people to care for. So she must fight. Pushing against the awful weight, choking back the cries that flutter to her tongue like trapped birds, she comes to her knees and into a crouch, clutching the paddle in both hands.

A gravid moon peeks above the skyline behind her, rising as she rises, shrouding her in silver light.

The waka floats on, outriggers slicking across the waves, the twilight painting the glassy sea in red and black whorls. The horizon is not an unbroken line. She tenses, and grips the paddle tighter. The sea boils and splits, something huge rising from the deep, waves cascading off its back. Coils and spikes and fins breach the water, shredding the sea to a fury of white wake.

She straightens her back, lifts the paddle over her head, and screams out her challenge to the beast, the taniwha she knows so well. Then she plants the paddle in the waves, and drives the waka forward, surging towards the monster.

Because when you can’t run, all you have left is the fight.