NGĀ WHAKAWHITINGA

The house filled with people before breakfast was finished.

Aunties came first.

Then cousins.

Then people I knew only because they knew Mum.

Someone made tea.

Someone else made toast.

Nobody ate much.

Nan arrived just after nine.

I had never seen her look small before.

Huiterangiora was not a small person, even when she was sitting down.

She had a way of filling rooms.

That morning she seemed folded in half.

Mum ran to her.

They held each other without speaking.

I stood nearby with Ahi's hand in mine.

Wai sat on Dad's hip, sucking his thumb.

Dad had not gone home.

I was glad.

Nobody told him to stay.

Nobody told him to leave.

He just kept doing things.

He made bottles for Wai.

He found clean clothes for Ahi.

He answered the door when Mum could not.

For the first time since he had returned, he looked like Dad again.

Nan finally saw me.

Her eyes went straight to the hei tiki.

She made a sound and pulled me into her arms.

“He gave it to you.”

I nodded against her shoulder.

“Yesterday.”

Nan cried harder.

I wished I had hidden it.

Then I felt bad for wishing that.

“Nan,” I whispered, “why was Pania with Koro?”

Nan went still.

“What do you mean?”

“Mum said they were freeing a calf.”

“That's what they think happened.”

“But Pania left with Dave.”

Nan looked toward the kitchen.

Dave was not there.

Nobody had seen him since the hospital.

“Storms make people do strange things,” Nan said.

That sounded like a sentence adults used when they did not want to answer.

I frowned.

Nan touched my cheek.

“Not today, moko. Today we get through today.”

I wanted to argue.

Instead I nodded.

Kiki sat hidden in the curtain folds.

Only I seemed to notice her.

Every now and then her wings gave a weak green flicker.

Like she was sad too.

Later, when the house became too full, I sat under the kitchen table.

Ahi crawled under with me.

“Is Koro coming back?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He thought about that.

“What about Pania?”

I shook my head again.

Ahi leaned against me.

We stayed there together.

Above us, adults planned the tangi.

For the first time in my life, I heard Koro's name spoken in the past tense.

The next days did not feel like normal days.

Time became food trays, cups of tea, people arriving, people crying and people telling stories.

Koro was taken to the marae.

Pania's whānau brought her there too.

Mum explained that they would lie in the wharenui so people could come and say goodbye.

I did not want to go inside.

Then I felt guilty for not wanting to.

Nan found me standing outside.

“You don't have to be brave every minute,” she said.

“I'm not scared.”

“Mm.”

Nan used the same sound Koro used when he did not believe me.

That nearly made me cry.

She took my hand.

“Come when you're ready.”

Inside, Koro looked like Koro and did not look like Koro.

That was the hardest part.

His hands were still his hands.

The little scar on his chin was still there.

But the room did not change when he entered it.

Because he would never enter a room again.

Pania lay nearby with flowers around her.

Dave sat beside her.

He had not shaved.

His eyes were red.

People touched his shoulder as they passed.

He barely moved.

I had never seen Dave cry before.

I did not see him cry then either.

He looked beyond crying.

Empty.

I sat beside Koro and held the hei tiki in my fist.

“You said to listen,” I whispered.

“I'm listening.”

Nothing answered.

Kiki crawled from my sleeve and settled beside the greenstone.

Her wings glowed for one second.

Then stopped.

I covered her with my hand before anyone saw.

During the tangi, people told stories about Ru.

Funny ones.

Embarrassing ones.

Stories about him fixing things that were not broken.

Stories about him carving late at night.

Stories about how he used to know more te reo than he admitted.

That last one made Nan look down.

One old man said, “Ru carried old knowledge. Some of it went quiet, but it never left him.”

Dave's head snapped up.

Only for a second.

I saw it.

So did Pania's grandmother.

Their eyes met.

Then Dave looked away.

I did not know what it meant.

I only knew that everyone seemed to know pieces of Koro that I had never been told.

At night, I slept beside Mum and Ahi in a room full of cousins.

Krish slept in another room with the men.

Wai snored between two aunties like he owned the place.

I held Kiki beneath my blanket.

“I wish he told me everything,” I whispered.

Kiki clicked once.

It sounded like she agreed.

After the tangi, people tried to explain what had happened.

A farmer had found a calf near a damaged electric fence after the storm.

The ground was wet.

A wire had come down.

Koro and Pania had been nearby.

There had been lightning.

That was the story.

It was simple enough for newspapers.

Simple enough for neighbours.

Simple enough for adults to repeat when children were listening.

But it did not make sense to me.

Pania had left our house with Dave.

Koro had left with Nan.

Why would both of them end up in the same paddock?

Why was Dave at the hospital but not hurt?

Why did Nan say Koro had called her from somewhere else before the storm got worse?

Every time I asked, someone said, “Not now.”

Not now became my least favourite words.

Mum tried hardest.

“Aroha, sometimes accidents are messy. We don't always know every detail.”

“Dave knows.”

Mum's face tightened.

“Dave lost Pania.”

“I lost Koro.”

The words came out sharper than I meant.

Mum flinched.

I wished I could pull them back.

“Sorry.”

Mum sat beside me.

“You are allowed to be angry.”

“At Dave?”

“At everything.”

That was not permission to blame Dave.

But it was something.

Dave came to the house two days later.

He looked clean again.

Too clean.

His shirt was ironed.

His face was calm.

The empty look had not gone away.

Mum hugged him.

He stood stiffly, then hugged her back.

When he saw me, his eyes dropped to the hei tiki.

“You're still wearing that.”

I touched it.

“Koro gave it to me.”

“I know.”

“Do you know what happened?”

Mum said my name quietly.

Dave lifted a hand.

“It's okay.”

He sat across from me.

“There was a storm. Pania tried to help. Ru tried to help Pania.”

My heart thumped.

“Help how?”

Dave's mouth opened.

Then closed.

For the first time, something cracked through his calm face.

Pain.

Huge and fast.

Then it was gone.

“It doesn't matter,” he said.

“It matters to me.”

He stood.

“Some things are safer forgotten.”

He left before Mum could stop him.

Kiki flew down from the curtain rail and landed on my shoulder.

Her wings glowed.

Dave saw that too.

He paused at the door.

His face went completely still.

Then he walked out.

Dave went back to work quickly.

Too quickly, Mum said.

He had always worked in energy.

Power stations.

Electricity.

New systems that sounded boring when he explained them and expensive when he did not.

After Pania died, his work changed.

He started coming to Nan's house with notebooks full of diagrams.

He asked questions about Koro.

What did Ru know?

Did he ever talk about strange lights?

Did Pania ever mention feeling energy in plants, stone or water?

Nan stopped answering him.

“You're asking the wrong questions,” she said once.

“I'm asking the only questions that matter.”

“No. You're asking how to use it.”

Dave's jaw tightened.

“Use what?”

Nan looked at me.

She realised I was listening.

“Aroha, go find Ahi.”

“He's in the lounge.”

“Go find him anyway.”

That was rude.

I went as slowly as possible.

From the hallway I heard Dave say one word.

“Mīharo.”

I stopped.

Kiki, hidden in my hair, clicked softly.

Nan answered, “Don't.”

“Pania died because nobody understood it.”

“Pania died in a storm.”

“Ru died trying to control something he had forgotten how to control.”

My stomach turned.

Nan's voice dropped.

“You don't know what happened.”

“I was there.”

Silence.

I forgot to breathe.

Dave had been there.

Mum came up behind me.

I jumped.

She saw my face.

“What are you doing?”

I pointed toward the room.

Mum heard Nan and Dave arguing.

She took my hand and led me away.

“Not your job,” she whispered.

“But he said he was there.”

Mum looked shocked.

Then worried.

“We'll talk to him.”

They did.

Later.

Without me.

Dave told them he had followed Pania because she ran out into the storm.

He said he found Ru trying to help her.

He said the rest was too terrible to talk about.

The adults accepted that.

Or pretended to.

I did not.

That night, I wrote MĪHARO on a piece of paper.

I did not know what it meant in the way Dave meant it.

I knew the ordinary word.

Amazing.

Wonderful.

But this was something else.

I held the paper beside the hei tiki.

The stone warmed.

Kiki's wings lit green.

I stared at both of them.

“Is that what you are?” I whispered.

Kiki clicked.

I had no idea whether that meant yes.

A week later, Kiki started acting weird.

Weirder than a glowing cicada usually acted.

She would not leave my room.

She flew from the window to the wardrobe to the light shade and back again.

Click-click-click.

“Stop,” I whispered.

Click-click-click.

“Mum will hear you.”

She did not stop.

I shut the window.

Kiki attacked the curtain.

“What?”

Her wings flashed.

Green.

Green.

Green.

Then the hei tiki warmed against my chest.

I sat up.

The house was quiet.

Mum was asleep down the hall.

Ahi and Wai shared the next room.

Dad had gone back to the flat he was renting, but he came over most days now.

The hallway light was off.

I listened.

Nothing.

Kiki landed on my nose.

“Ow.”

She flew toward the door.

I opened it.

The hallway was dark.

At the far end, a floorboard creaked.

I froze.

“Mum?”

No answer.

Kiki shot forward.

Her glow became bright enough to see by.

A shape moved near the kitchen.

A man.

My heart jumped.

Then he stepped into the green light.

Uncle Dave.

I let out a breath.

“You scared me.”

Dave did not smile.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you here?”

“Your mum knows.”

That was a lie.

I did not know how I knew.

I just knew.

His left hand held a small black case.

Kiki began clicking wildly.

“What's that?”

Dave looked at her.

“Something that can help.”

“Help what?”

He stepped closer.

I stepped back.

“Aroha,” he said softly, “what happened to Pania can never happen again.”

“What happened to Pania?”

His face changed.

“Magic.”

The word sounded ugly in his mouth.

Kiki flew at him.

Dave swatted her away.

“Don't!”

I grabbed for her.

Dave caught my wrist.

Not hard.

But I could not pull away.

“You don't understand what you have,” he said.

“Let go.”

“I am trying to keep you safe.”

The black case clicked open.

Inside was something silver and fine, like a tiny piece of net made from wire.

Fear rushed through me.

I screamed for Mum.

At least, I tried to.

Dave pressed something cold against the side of my neck.

The hei tiki flashed.

Kiki hit the wall of green light around us.

The whole room went silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

Like sound itself had disappeared.

Then everything went black.

I woke in my own bed.

Morning light was coming through the curtains.

For a few seconds I thought the night had been a dream.

Dave in the hallway.

The silver net.

Kiki glowing.

A cold touch at my neck.

Dream.

It had to be.

I sat up.

The hei tiki lay on my pillow.

I always slept with it on.

Now the cord had been unclipped.

Kiki sat beside it.

One wing looked bent.

“Kiki?”

No sound came out.

I frowned.

I tried again.

“Kiki.”

Nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not air.

My throat moved.

My mouth formed the word.

Silence.

I jumped out of bed.

I tried to shout.

Nothing.

I tried to cough.

A tiny breathy sound came out, but no voice.

Panic hit me so fast I felt sick.

I ran into the hallway.

Mum was in the kitchen making toast.

Ahi was arguing with Wai about a spoon.

Everything looked normal.

I grabbed Mum's arm.

“Morning,” she said.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing.

Mum frowned.

“What is it?”

I tried again.

My eyes filled with tears.

Mum put down the knife.

“Aroha?”

I pointed at my throat.

I tried to say her name.

No sound.

Mum's face changed.

“Krish!” she yelled, forgetting Dad was not there.

Then she grabbed the phone.

Doctors.

Hospital.

Lights.

People asking me to say ahh.

People asking whether my throat hurt.

People telling me to relax.

I wanted to scream at every single one of them.

I could not.

They found no swelling.

No injury.

Nothing stuck.

Nothing wrong with my lungs.

One doctor said stress could do strange things.

Another said they needed more tests.

Nobody asked whether my uncle had come into my room with a silver net.

I tried to write it down.

DAVE CAME LAST NIGHT.

Mum read it.

Her face went pale.

“Dave?”

I nodded.

HE DID SOMETHING.

Mum called him from the hospital.

Dave answered.

I could hear his voice through the receiver.

Calm.

Confused.

He said he had been at home all night.

He said I must have dreamed it.

Mum looked at me.

I shook my head so hard it hurt.

Kiki was hidden in the pocket of my jacket.

Her damaged wing trembled.

The hei tiki was cold.

I knew it had not been a dream.

But I was eight years old.

Dave was an adult.

And I had no voice.

The tests went on for days.

Then weeks.

Every doctor had a different word.

Voice loss.

Aphonia.

Trauma.

Stress.

No one could explain why my throat worked but my voice did not.

I knew why.

I just could not prove it.

Mum believed that I believed Dave had been in my room.

That was not the same as believing Dave had been there.

Dad believed something had frightened me.

Nan believed more.

Hui came to sit beside my hospital bed after one appointment.

She waited until Mum went to get tea.

Then she took the hei tiki in her hand.

“Cold,” she said.

I nodded.

Nan looked at Kiki, who was hiding beneath my sleeve.

“And she hasn't glowed?”

I shook my head.

Nan's eyes sharpened.

She had seen Kiki before.

I realised that suddenly.

Or something like Kiki.

I grabbed my notebook.

YOU KNOW.

Nan sighed.

“I know there are things our whānau stopped talking about.”

WHAT THINGS?

“Things Ru should have told you.”

WHY DIDN'T HE?

Nan looked away.

“Because people forget when forgetting keeps them safe.”

That made me angry.

I wrote so hard the pencil tore the paper.

HE FORGOT AND NOW HE'S DEAD.

Nan closed her eyes.

I wished I had not written it.

Then she nodded.

“Yes.”

No pretending.

No telling me not now.

Just yes.

Nan squeezed my hand.

“So we do not forget you.”

She bought me a thick notebook with a red cover.

On the first page she wrote:

AROHA'S VOICE.

Then she handed me the pen.

I wrote underneath:

STILL HERE.

Nan smiled.

“Exactly.”

I could not sing.

I could not say Mum.

I could not say Ahi, Wai, Dad or Nan.

I could not say the Māori words Koro had taught me.

But I could write them.

I could remember them.

I could listen.

That night, I put the hei tiki back around my neck.

Kiki climbed onto the cord.

Her wing was healing.

I opened my red notebook.

I wrote one more sentence.

DAVE TOOK MY VOICE.

Then another.

I'M GOING TO GET IT BACK.