TE WAKA TŌHORĀ

Kaitiaki training was less exciting than Ahi would have imagined.

There were no swords.

No secret uniforms.

No giant monster on the first day.

There were lists.

So many lists.

Emergency routes.

Water pathways.

Names of people to call when a bridge decided to grow sideways.

Rules about who could open Earth crossings.

Rules about when not to.

“This is paperwork,” Hemi said.

He had joined a beginner group too.

“Paperwork saves lives,” Grog replied.

“That sounds fake.”

Grog handed him another form.

Moemoeā volunteered to help us practise patrol routes.

Piripi came because he refused to miss anything interesting.

Our first task was simple: escort three young children from Te Rākau Kura to the lower market during a path shift.

The path changed halfway.

A bridge folded up.

One child cried.

Another tried to climb the railing.

Hemi wanted to force the bridge open.

I stopped him.

We found another route.

It took longer.

Nobody fell.

Grog said that counted as success.

Hemi said it counted as boring.

Moemoeā told him boring was excellent when you were responsible for six-year-olds.

He looked at her.

“You sound like Grog.”

She looked horrified.

The next week we learned how to close a path without trapping anyone inside it.

That lesson mattered more to me.

The mesh in my throat still connected faintly to Earth.

Dave's white thread had not returned since the school incident, but I could sometimes feel it searching.

Like a finger testing a locked window.

I wanted to know how to keep the window closed.

Grog watched me practise.

“Protection is not the same as fear,” he said.

One training session involved nothing magical at all. Grog gave us a list of families in the lower valley and told us to check who needed help after heavy rain. We carried food, moved wet blankets and fixed a gate.

Hemi kept asking when the Mīharo part started.

“This is the Mīharo part,” Grog said.

Hemi stared at a broken gate. “This is wood.”

“Kaitiakitanga existed before you learned to make your hands glow.”

I liked that. Protecting people did not become more valuable just because it looked magical.

I wrote, SOMETIMES IT FEELS THE SAME.

“Yes.”

No wise answer.

Just yes.

I appreciated that.

Reweti's workshop smelled like fresh timber and rain.

He was an old carver with strong hands, sharp eyes and a habit of staring at people until they told the truth.

Grog took me there after training.

“This is Aroha,” he said.

Reweti snorted.

“I know who she is.”

I sighed.

Reweti smiled.

“And you are tired of everyone knowing.”

I nodded.

“Good. Means you're sensible.”

I liked him.

He showed me a long carved beam that had been removed from one of the oldest structures on Te Waka Tōhorā.

Tiny marks ran along the underside.

One matched the symbol on Koro's wooden box.

I touched it.

The hei tiki warmed.

“Ru used to do that,” Reweti said.

I looked at him sharply.

“He came here as a boy. Later as a young man. He had a good eye.”

My throat tightened.

I wrote, WHY DID HE LEAVE?

Reweti put down his chisel.

“Earth was home too.”

THAT'S ALL?

“No. But the rest is Ru's story, and some of it belongs to Hui.”

I accepted that even though I hated it.

Reweti showed me an older carving pattern.

“This mark belongs to your carver line. Long before Ru. One of your tūpuna helped shape parts of the waka's living frame.”

Beside it was a woven pattern preserved under clear resin.

“And this came from a weaving line connected to the same work.”

I stared.

Carving and weaving.

Hard structure and flexible pattern.

Two ways of making.

Two ways of holding things together.

Reweti tapped the beam.

“People keep calling you chosen.”

Reweti let me hold one of Ru's old practice pieces. A line curved badly through the wood and ended in a gouge.

“Koro did this?” I asked.

“At about your age.”

I laughed. It was comforting to know Ru had once been bad at something.

Reweti told me not to confuse whakapapa with perfection. Ancestors were people, not trophies. They made mistakes, learned, forgot, argued, left and sometimes returned.

That made my connection to Te Waka Tōhorā feel more honest. I did not have to become impressive enough to deserve my family. I already belonged to them.

I rolled my eyes.

He laughed.

“Exactly. Better to know what your people actually did than to live inside somebody else's prophecy.”

He handed me a blunt practice chisel.

“Start with the wood.”

Moemoeā liked Hemi.

Everyone knew except Hemi.

Possibly including Kiki.

Moemoeā started appearing wherever Hemi was.

Kaitiaki training.

Lunch.

Carving practice even though she hated wood dust.

Once she claimed she needed to cross three valleys because she had forgotten a pencil.

Piripi whispered, “There are pencils here.”

She kicked him.

Hemi seemed to think this was normal.

He was good at noticing danger and terrible at noticing people cared about him.

One afternoon we sat near the market watching a rain curtain move across the far side of the whale.

Hemi told us the Dutch couple from Northland used to make hot chocolate when storms came.

It was the first time he had mentioned them without sounding angry.

Moemoeā asked what kind.

“Too much milk. Not enough chocolate.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It was.”

He smiled.

Moemoeā smiled too.

I looked at Piripi.

Piripi looked at me.

Kiki clicked.

Hemi frowned.

“What?”

All three of us shook our heads.

Later, Hemi and I walked back to the guest house.

“Do you ever think about going back?” I asked with my tablet.

He read it.

“To Earth?”

I nodded.

He was quiet.

“Sometimes. Not to the system. Maybe to them.”

THE COUPLE?

“Yeah.”

He kicked a stone.

“But what if they moved on?”

I wrote, WHAT IF THEY DIDN'T?

Hemi looked away.

Moemoeā started teaching Hemi little pieces of life on the waka that nobody had bothered to explain when he arrived. Which market stall overcharged tourists. Which root bridge creaked but was safe. Which auntie would feed you even if you said you were not hungry.

Hemi pretended he did not need the help. He remembered every detail.

In return he taught her how to make hot chocolate the way the Dutch couple had made it. Too much milk, not enough chocolate. Moemoeā declared it terrible and drank two cups.

“That's worse.”

I understood.

Hope could hurt.

Te Waka Tōhorā had given Hemi belonging.

But it had not erased the part of him still waiting to be chosen back on Earth.

Rere missed the morning crossing.

At first nobody panicked.

Whales did not keep timetables.

By midday, Grog was worried.

By evening, every kaitiaki near the harbour was searching.

Rere was still young.

She knew the Earth route better than any other crossing, but she had never disappeared for a whole day.

I felt something cold under my jaw.

The mesh.

I grabbed Grog.

WHITE THREAD.

His face changed.

“Where?”

I closed my eyes.

The thread did not pull toward Earth.

It ran sideways.

Through Te Waka Tōhorā.

Toward the lower water paths.

Hemi overheard.

“Dave got her?”

“We don't know,” Grog said.

Hemi's hands glowed orange.

“We know enough.”

Moemoeā stepped in front of him.

“Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Turn angry before we even know where she is.”

Hemi looked like he wanted to argue.

Then he saw her face.

The orange light faded.

We followed the cold thread through a service tunnel under the harbour.

Piripi came because he knew the water routes.

Moemoeā came because nobody could stop her.

Grog said this was not a school mission.

It was real.

That made my stomach hurt.

The tunnel opened onto a hidden pool.

Rere floated in the centre.

Her blue light was dim.

White mesh stretched across the water around her.

Not physical mesh.

Energy shaped like it.

The same pattern inside my throat.

Rere called weakly.

I ran toward the water.

Grog caught my shoulder.

Before we entered the service tunnel, Grog made us stop and say what each of us could do and what we could not. Piripi knew water routes but was not a healer. Hemi could control heat but not white extraction lines. Moemoeā was good at keeping frightened beings calm. I could sense the mesh but was vulnerable to it.

“Knowing your limits is part of an emergency plan,” Grog said.

Hemi muttered that limits were depressing.

“Only if you think you were meant to do everything yourself.” Grog looked at me when he said it too.

“Listen first.”

Koro's words.

Always the same.

Listen before you act.

I forced myself to stop.

Rere was not trapped because Dave had reached Te Waka Tōhorā completely.

He had done something worse in a quieter way.

The thread inside me had left traces every time I crossed or used strong Mīharo.

Those traces had collected in the water path.

Rere had swum through them.

The mesh had wrapped around her.

I felt sick.

MY FAULT, I wrote.

Grog read it.

“No.”

IT CAME THROUGH ME.

“That is not the same thing.”

Hemi said, “Dave did it.”

His anger was aimed in the right direction this time.

We had to free Rere without tightening the net.

Pulling made it contract.

Burning it risked hurting her.

Cutting one line made two others shift.

Piripi mapped the water current.

Moemoeā kept Rere calm, speaking to her softly.

Hemi warmed the coldest parts of the pool so Rere would not go into shock.

Grog worked on the outer strands.

I stepped into the water.

The mesh in my throat connected to the mesh around Rere.

Pain flashed through me.

Kiki landed on my head and refused to leave.

I put my hands on Rere's side.

Her fear flooded into me.

Not words.

Images.

The river on Earth.

The first time she carried us.

Open sky.

The white net closing.

I sent back the only thing I could.

We're here.

Her body relaxed a fraction.

The net loosened.

“Again,” Grog said.

I stayed connected.

Not controlling.

Not ordering.

Present.

Moemoeā matched her breathing to Rere's calls.

Piripi moved water through the gaps.

Hemi held his heat steady.

At one point Rere's fear became so strong that I wanted to promise everything would be fine. I stopped myself. I did not know that.

Instead I pressed my hand to her side and said the roughest words I could manage: “We're... here.”

Moemoeā heard me and repeated it. Piripi did too. Hemi joined last.

Four voices, plus Kiki's furious clicking. Not a promise that nothing bad would happen. A promise that she would not face it alone.

Slowly, the white threads lifted away.

One remained.

It ran from Rere directly into my throat.

Grog looked at me.

“That one is yours to close.”

The last thread felt like a wire tied behind my tongue.

On the other end, Dave was there.

Not his body.

His attention.

The line opened and his voice came through.

“Aroha.”

I hated how normal he sounded.

“You don't know what they're turning you into.”

I could not answer.

The mesh caught my voice.

Dave continued.

“Pania believed this was beautiful. Ru believed he could control it. They died.”

The pool around me went cold.

That was the first time Dave had said their deaths and Mīharo in the same breath.

Questions exploded inside me.

But Rere was still trapped.

This was not the time.

Dave said, “Come back. I can remove it all.”

The lie was clever because part of it might have been true.

He could remove Mīharo.

He could probably remove my voice with it.

I thought about Koro.

Mum.

Nan.

Hemi saying smash it.

Whaea Anahera saying create the conditions.

I did not need to beat Dave.

I needed to close my door.

I put one hand over the hei tiki.

I remembered the waiata from my eighth birthday.

My throat hurt.

I tried to sing.

The first sound was broken.

The second was barely a note.

Then one clear syllable escaped.

The hei tiki blazed green-gold.

Kiki's wings flashed.

The thread trembled.

Dave shouted something I could not hear.

I sang another rough note.

Not pretty.

Mine.

The white line broke.

Rere surged upward.

The net dissolved into the pool.

Blue light filled the chamber.

I fell against her side laughing and crying at the same time.

Hemi jumped into the water fully clothed.

Moemoeā followed.

Piripi complained that now everyone was wet.

After the rescue, I asked Mere whether breaking the thread meant the mesh was gone. She shook her head.

“No. But it is learning something Dave did not design it to understand.”

“What?”

“That you are not a closed system.”

I frowned.

She pointed toward my friends outside the healing room. “He built the mesh around taking from one person. Your strength keeps arriving through relationships he cannot measure properly.”

For once, complicated sounded hopeful.

Grog sat on the edge and laughed.

Rere called so loudly the whole harbour answered.

My voice disappeared again after that.

But the door was no longer locked.

I had opened it myself.

At the end of the year, Te Rākau Kura held a gathering beneath the central trunk.

Not for me.

For everyone finishing their first stage of learning.

I liked that.

No chosen-one ceremony.

No prophecy speech.

Just students, whānau, kaiako and too much food.

Mum, Dad, Nan, Ahi and Wai crossed from the Earth Sanctuary with Grog.

Ahi talked for ten minutes without breathing.

Wai tried to climb a root that moved away from him.

Mum hugged me so tightly I squeaked.

An actual squeak.

She froze.

I laughed.

That sound came too.

Rough but real.

“Don't make me cry,” Mum said.

Too late.

Whaea Anahera gave each learner a small woven cord.

When she reached me, she said, “Kaitiaki is not a title you own. It is a relationship you keep choosing.”

She tied the cord around my wrist.

Hemi received one too.

Moemoeā whispered, “Try not to set yours on fire.”

He whispered back, “No promises.”

She smiled at him in a way he finally noticed.

His ears went red.

I nearly laughed loud enough to lose my voice again.

After the gathering, Reweti found me near the trunk.

He placed my hand against the bark.

“Listen.”

I did.

The tree's heartbeat moved through my palm.

Then something deeper answered.

Gold lines spread beneath the bark.

Not toward me.

From me.

They travelled down the trunk, through roots, across the floor and out toward the valley.

Reweti stopped smiling.

Grog stared.

Whaea Anahera whispered one word.

“World-Shaper.”

I pulled my hand away.

Before my family left, Ahi made me promise that when he was old enough I would show him the road with legs. Wai, now old enough to speak in short bursts, called Kiki “bug sister.” Kiki seemed pleased.

Krish stood beside Rose at the crossing. They were not getting back together. I understood that now. But they had become a team again where we were concerned, and that felt like its own kind of repair.

As Rere carried them toward Earth, I watched until the gold path closed. Then I turned back toward Te Rākau Kura, my friends and the lines beginning to wake beneath the tree.

I had come here looking for my voice. I had found a responsibility too.

The lines remained.

Hemi stood behind me.

“What does that mean?”

Nobody answered.

I looked at the living gold running through Te Rākau Kura.