I like this picture, in the novel ‘A New Kind of Zeal’: I suddenly realized it’s a metaphor for this Blog. Nice! 🙂
CHAPTER ONE: Kerikeri
It was hot – a humid, muggy kind of day.
Tristan tugged at the straps of his backpack, and shook sweat from his eyes. The midday summer sun was getting to him, now – even despite the odd shade from totara and pine trees. He had been walking for over two hours, after that mad salesman had dropped him off after Black Bridge Road. Heading back to Auckland, that guy had been – and there was no way Tristan was hitching a ride back there.
A junction was ahead: Kerikeri Road, to the right. Kerikeri? No – surely he could make it further than this. Taking a deep breath, Tristan forged ahead – crossing the junction, watching for cars, darting back into the ditch as needed. Where did he want to go first? Whangaroa Bay? Doubtless Bay? It didn’t really matter. Just somewhere away – somewhere out there, to get away from it all.
The tar seal was starting to melt on the road – he could smell the fumes, and grinned. Where could he score a joint on the way? Wouldn’t be far, he was sure. The thought carried him, one step at a time – but after another thirty minutes of slogging and sweating, he lost interest, crossed over to the left side of the road, and starting thumbing for a ride.
Now he was walking backwards, a little uphill and around a bend. A car just about caught him – he swore, stumbling against a tree. Someone tooted at him – he swore at them. Then he noticed the Ute had pulled up at a parking bay a few metres ahead.
Tristan slowly walked toward the car. It was an old red Holden, and there were fishing lines strapped in the back.
“Sweet as,” Tristan said, speeding up to catch the car. The driver’s door opened, and Tristan reached out a hand.
“Hey, mate.”
“Kia ora, ‘mate.’” The Maori man grasped his hand in greeting. “Need a ride?”
“Where are you headed?”
“To Ninety Mile Beach.”
Tristan grinned. “‘Ninety Mile Beach’? More like ‘Ninety Mile Rip,’ by now. Mind if I borrow one of your lines? Go fishing?”
“Sure. Why not? Still enough beach, and the warmer water’s bringing more fish.”
His brown face was smiling – with a slight wrinkling around the corners of his eyes, and light silver dusting his short black curls. Tristan held his warm brown gaze – but then, suddenly, he started. The man was wearing a dog collar.
“No way,” Tristan said, before he could stop himself. “You’re a priest?”
“My name is Rau,” the man replied, “Rau Petera, of the Ngapuhi tribe. And you are?”
“Tristan Blake, from…never mind.”
“You look like you need some help, Tristan Blake – still want that ride?”
Tristan cast his eyes up and down the man before him. “I don’t know,” he said. “What about that collar?”
Rau’s brown eyes stayed on him. “Makes you nervous, does it?”
“Nervous?” Tristan laughed. “You have no idea!”
Rau’s mouth twitched – and then he pulled the collar away, and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his white shirt.
Tristan studied him – as Rau stretched out his hand again.
“Want a ride?”
“Okay,” Tristan replied.
“Hop in then.”
So Tristan dumped his backpack in the back, with the fishing lines, and let himself in the left passenger door.