Cry of the Taniwha Read Online Free PDF

the ground could collapse beneath him or a steam vent might sizzle up his legs. He considered that a better risk, though, than meeting up with the three thugs coming towards him.
    They were walking just like the gang members at school did: arms hardly swinging and held out from their bodies which they swayed from side to side as if to indicate great strength. As they got closer, Matt saw that they were older than school age, and a lot meaner than any gang membershe’d met before. The one in front had a skull tattooed on his forehead. The other two were bigger men, and yet it was clear from the space that they gave the front one that he was the boss. All three were Maori. Fortunately, they were so intent on looking tough that none of them glanced sideways, and they were soon out of sight, allowing Matt to start breathing again.
    When he heard them stomping over the bridge he reckoned it was safe to come out of hiding. But then he saw that the boy was almost in front of him. He pulled back, not wanting to get involved in other people’s trouble. As the boy went past, Matt recognized him as Jackson Peters. This was no longer the person who had acted tough over the fence. There was no sign of the tilted head and thrusting jaw that Matt had seen earlier. This was a kid who was crying his eyes out, terrified by the thugs who had just left.
    Matt’s heart felt for the boy, and he almost called out. But in the end he didn’t. It was Jackson’s problem, not his, so he stayed hidden in the bushes.

Chapter 5
    The trip to the Buried Village passed through some spectacular road cuttings where thick layers of volcanic material could be seen. The thickest layer was composed of small balls of pumice, which Hone said was mined in a nearby quarry. The ash layer from the 1886 eruption was less than half a metre at the top, showing how insignificant it had been when compared with some of the mighty events from the past.
    The museum at the Buried Village had lots of the sort of stuff that Matt might find with his metal detector. However, most of them were everyday items like tools and cooking pots, whereas Matt wanted money, gold, jewellery and things he might be able to sell. If all he was going to find were horseshoes and the like, then it wasn’t worth getting the detector out of the car.
    Surrounding the museum were the excavated remains of the village of Te Wairoa. Clearly the ash and mud that had fallen here was much more than had fallen back at the road cutting. The most interesting was the whare of Tuhoto, the old Maori tohunga who had predicted the disaster. Nine days before the eruption, a group going to see the Pink and White Terraces had seen the image of a large canoe floating through the mist on Lake Tarawera. When Tuhoto learned of the sighting, he said that it was an omen that something bad was coming; that the whole area would be overwhelmed. When disaster struck, the ash buried him in his whare, where he spent four days before being rescued. The world he cameout to was vastly different to the one that he’d known all his life: his village was buried; the gardens and bush were lost under tonnes of mud and ash; the Pink and White Terraces that had brought tourists from all over the world were gone forever. Tuhoto died two weeks later.
    On the way back they stopped at Lake Tikitapu so that Matt could try out his metal detector on the beach.
    No sooner had he started than he got a high-pitched whine, indicating something metallic. A moment’s digging with his trowel and he had it: a two-dollar coin. Three other coins came in quick succession, followed by a cheap watch that no longer worked, and set of metal-framed false teeth. By then, they were at the end of the beach and Matt’s arm was aching from waving the detector back and forth. Hone suggested they take a rest.
    ‘See that ridge up there,’ said Hone, sitting down on a low wooden fence. ‘That’s called Te Ahi Manawa—the place where the heart was