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towards her, teeth gleaming through his goatee. She began to stammer an apology that turned into a yelp of pain as he seized her hair and pulled her behind him. She shrieked, trying to keep on her feet.
    â€˜Where the hell have you been, you lazy little bitch? What gives you the right to piss off and leave the rest of us to clean up for Deano’s party? Do you live here on my charity or not?’ He half-dragged her towards the house. ‘Where were you? Who were you with?’
    â€˜I was down by the lake! I was alone! Don’t hurt me! Please!’

At Jones’s cottage
    Sunday
    M at woke early on Sunday, made a coffee for his mother and headed for Jones’s cottage, his mother’s instructions (‘Be home by three’) ringing in his ears. Mat hurried along the track. Yesterday afternoon, Jones had clammed up after seeing the vision-stone Horomatangi had brought. They had chatted, and Mat had gone over his magical exercises: fire, water, earth and air — the basics. They still left him dizzy, but he was getting better at them. He could now light fires, produce gusts of wind, and create any manner of small subtle effects. This break they were planning to work on the basics of mental communication. It was heady stuff, and he wished he had more time to devote to it. School work was such a drag compared with magic.
    He ran up to the house, where Jones was smoking his pipe. ‘You’re late,’ the Welshman grumped. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t send you off for an hour’s run as punishment.’
    Mat hung his head a little. ‘Actually, I had a nightmare, and slept through my alarm. Not much of an excuse, huh?’
    Jones frowned. ‘Actually, it’s a very good excuse. Dreams are important, laddie. I’ve told you that before. For folk likeus, they can be the voice of the spirit world. Pay them mind, Mat. You can tell me about it later, after you show me where you’re up to with this.’ He threw a taiaha at Mat, who caught it deftly. ‘Show me what you’ve got, and make it good.’
    Mat twirled the taiaha, and went into a crouch. He went through the preparatory movements while Jones settled back into his easy chair, and then leapt into a full routine. The taiaha swished and whistled about his head, and he began to perspire as he jabbed, swung, lunged and thrust in a crabbing dance back and forward. He finished with a shout and crouched, pulling a face with his tongue out, part in challenge, part panting like an overheated dog.
    Jones got up, tapped out his pipe. He looked cross. ‘Well, laddie, that’s all well and good. No doubt your kapa haka teacher thinks you could be lead dancer in a feckin’ cultural party. But you’re supposed to be learning to fight , not twinkle-toe about like a prima feckin’ ballerina!’ He walked up, and tapped the taiaha. ‘Yer Maori had no metals, just stone, bone and wood. So they mostly used impact weapons, not edged ones. That thing you’re waving around like a rhythmic gymnast is a CLUB. It’s for bludgeoning people to death.’ He picked up a heavy basket-hilted sword. ‘So now you can show me if you’ve learned how to fight with it.’
    Mat flushed as Jones lunged with a speed that belied his years. Mat beat the sword away and countered, but the blade was already snaking at his stomach, and he was forced to defend again. On the old man came, making the air sing as the blade chimed off the taiaha, sending little chips from the wooden blade. Mat fought desperately for a way to get control. Their two fighting styles were entirely different: the taiahawas a two-handed long-club, wielded like a samurai sword, whilst Jones’s heavy sword was from the musketeers’ era, a thin springy blade that searched for gaps but had enough weight to parry the heavier taiaha. Another thrust and then a feinted jab, and Mat found himself slipping in mud,