Cry of the Taniwha by Des Hunt

roots, but they were small enough for him to cut. It was easier going then, and after a couple of minutes the trowel hit something solid. Matt leaned down and started scooping around with his hands. Yes! There was something there—something smooth and round. He brought in his other hand so that he could grip it from both sides. It came free with a pile of dirt sitting on top. He gave it a shake and the earth fell away. Then he could see what it was.
    ‘Craarrk! Craarrk! Craarrk!’ cried the heron from above.
    ‘What is it?’ called Jackson.
    ‘You were right,’ replied Matt, quietly. ‘It is a body. And it’s human.’
    Sitting on the dark earth and staring up at him was a skull. Fortunately, the lower jaw was still below the ground, so Matt didn’t have to cope with the thing grinning at him. The empty eye sockets were scary enough.
    ‘Craarrk!’ cried the heron again, more loudly than before. Matt looked up and saw that the bird was now on a lower branch, peering down on him and the skull—accusing him.
    ‘Yes, Tani,’ he whispered. ‘You were right: I should’ve left things alone.’

Chapter 8
    It took a fair bit of coaxing before Jackson moved over to look at the skull. Even then, he sat side-on and only looked at it out of the corners of his eyes. ‘We’ve got to put it back,’ he mumbled.
    Matt continued taking his photos. ‘No!’ he said firmly. Then after a while: ‘We tell the police.’
    Jackson looked up at him sharply. ‘No feds, man. I want nuttin to do with the feds.’
    ‘We’ve got to. It’s a body. You can’t dig up a body and just bury it again.’
    ‘Might be a Maori burial ground. An urupa. You can’t dig those up.’
    ‘Who would bury a body with handcuffs on?’
    Jackson played with the grass, saying nothing.
    ‘Look! What’s so wrong with going to the police? We’ve done nothing wrong.’
    Jackson looked up. ‘That won’t make no difference. You’ll be all right. But they’ll find sumtin to blame on me.’
    This time, Matt remained silent.
    ‘Anyway,’ continued Jackson. ‘If I’m seen with the feds, everyone’ll think I’m a snitch.’
    ‘OK,’ said Matt. ‘I’ll tell the cops, and I won’t even mention you were with me. How does that sound?’
    Reluctantly Jackson agreed, and a short time later they were heading back home with their gear.
    No sooner had they left the path to walk along the streetthan a group of people turned the corner and started walking along the opposite side of the road.
    Jackson swore and tried to duck behind Matt.
    ‘Isn’t that your gang?’ asked Matt.
    Jackson made a strangled noise that could have been a yes.
    The guy in the front spotted Jackson and stopped. It was the one with the tattooed skull; the one Jackson had called Skulla. He tilted his head and the others stopped, too. A second tilt was aimed across the road.
    Jackson swore again, before dropping the gear and moving towards them. Matt could almost smell the fear coming off the boy, or maybe it was from his own body: any moment he expected that another tilt of the head would ‘invite’ him over as well.
    When Jackson got to them, the group encircled him. Matt could hear voices, but could make nothing from them, although it seemed friendly enough. Then there was laughter and they all turned to look at Matt. Somebody said something about bogans, and there was more laughing. Not the laughter of people enjoying a good joke, but the sneering cackle of ridicule.
    Next, Skulla went through a strange performance which ended with him and Jackson shaking hands. Jackson repeated the performance with a couple of others before swaggering back over the road as if he’d just been made their leader.
    ‘What was that all about?’ asked Matt.
    ‘Gang stuff,’ replied Jackson, grinning at Matt. He turned to the others and mouthed something. The gang members almost fell over laughing.
    Matt was now beginning to get angry. ‘Why are they laughing at me?’
    Jackson was still