Into the Distant Clouds: Taine McKenna Adventures, #9

PRAISE FOR LEE MURRAY

There are monsters; there are lands that should remain untouched; and there are secrets that should not be investigated…

WORLD HORROR MASTER, MICHAEL R COLLINGS

...the author’s greatest strengths lie in her characters, and her ability to show us all the land she loves.

SCI-FI AND SCARY

INTO THE DISTANT CLOUDS

A TAINE MCKENNA ADVENTURE

LEE MURRAY

Copyright © 2025 by Lee Murray

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. A catalogue copy of this book is available at the National Library of New Zealand.

ISBN:

978-1-0670332-3-1 print

978-1-0670332-4-8 epub

Stories first published in Fright Train, Switch House Gang (eds.) Haverhill House, USA. 2021; SNAFU: Unnatural Selection, Amanda J. Spedding and Geoff Brown (eds.) Cohesion Press, Australia. 2016; Grotesque: Monsters Stories by Lee Murray. Things in the Well, Australia. 2020; Contact, Chris McNally (ed.) Screaming Banshee Press, Australia. 2021; Damnation Games, Alan Baxter (ed.) Clan Destine Press, Australia. 2022.

Cover design by Getcovers.

CONTENTS

Into the Weeping Waters

Into the Darkness

Into the Clouded Sky

Into the Geyserland

Into the Boneyard

About the Author

Also by Lee Murray

INTO THE WEEPING WATERS

New Zealand, Tangiwai, 24 December 1953, 10:15pm

Rawiri Temera jerked upright on the leather bench seat, the hairs on his neck prickling. The 626-night express rattled rhythmically on the tracks, a slow and steady lullaby. His fellow passengers bobbed their heads in sleep—even the children, which was no small feat given it was Christmas Eve. Across the aisle, a boy lay with his head in his mother’s lap and his thumb in his mouth, and beyond the slumbering pair, in the orange glow of the carriage light, his own reflection stared back from the window. On the other side of the pane, the mountains were invisible in the darkness.

Everything’s fine.

Except it wasn’t. Something was wrong. Temera slipped his hand inside his cotton shirt to the flattened pūrerehua-bullroarer at his throat. Clasping the wooden instrument, Temera reached out with his soul. No one answered.

What woke me?

He glanced at the carriage clock. A quarter past ten. They weren’t long out of Taihape township, then. Probably somewhere near Tangiwai. It would be several hours before he reached his stop at Huntly. He should go back to sleep. If there was something wrong, he might see it in his dreams, where his spirit-guide—his friend, the morepork-ruru—could reveal it to him.

Who was he kidding? Even with the little owl’s guidance, messages from the spirit world were always so obscure. That was the trouble with his gift—it was a feast or a bloody famine—either everything spoke to you, or nothing at all. It was as annoying as spending a night with a hungry mosquito.

Temera’s old mentor, when he’d been alive, had counselled patience. Learning to use your gift isn’t like training to be a plumber, Mātua Rata had told him a decade ago, when Temera was only twelve. It’s not like you start with a washer, slip in an O-ring, and you’re good to go. The ways of seeing are different for all matakite, sometimes for different situations. You have the makings of a powerful seer, Rawiri, but even the best fisherman doesn’t catch a tuna without a little waiting. Take your time; you’ll find a way. He’d cuffed Temera on the shoulder and taken back his cigarette. Temera missed the old man. Truth be told, he missed the cigarettes, too.

The train groaned softly, the forward coupling grinding as the K A949 locomotive took the bend. Damn. There it was again. That prickling on the back of his neck, and it had nothing to do with the scratchy wool of his suit. Arching his back, he twisted his torso left and right, trying to shake off some of the unease.

Someone else was awake. He hadn’t noticed her before. Older than Temera, the woman was sitting alone at the rear of the car. She wore a cream dress and matching chiffon scarf, and although her hair had been pulled into a bun at her nape, a day of travel had allowed a few unruly wisps to escape.

Lifting his hand, Temera acknowledged her with a wave that said, Look at us night-owls still awake, aye?

But the woman didn’t wave back. Instead, she turned away to press her forehead to the window.

Idiot. You’ve only gone and made her feel uncomfortable, too.

Why were his nerves jangling? Was it because the train was passing through the central plateau region right under the noses of the great mountain warriors of the Kāhui Tupua? Those fellows had been bickering over the affections of the beautiful mountain of Pīhanga since practically forever. Perhaps it was their grumbling he could sense. Or, maybe it had nothing to do with their centuries-old feud. Maybe the mountain-gods were miffed because just yesterday the newly crowned white queen had arrived in New Zealand with her duke for her first royal tour. Temera had heard rumblings from Māori elders about the visit. Things like the organisers weren’t being properly respectful of tribal differences. That her coming was an evil omen: an aituā.

Well, if the mountains’ unrest was the cause of the bad karma, he only had to wait another half hour until the train had left the region on its journey up the country. Perhaps then I’ll be able to get some sleep…

The carriage door opened, letting in a gust of keen air. Temera shivered as a woman entered from the car in front. Her hair was wild, dark tendrils clinging to her face after being buffeted by the wind as she’d passed between the coaches. She paused a moment, her eyes darting around the carriage, as if she were searching for someone.

She marched over and thrust her face into his. You! I’ve been looking for you. You have to save my daughter, she said.

What? Who was this woman? Temera shrunk backwards on the bench seat. Your daughter? Why? What’s wrong? Where is she?

"I don’t know. I’ve lost her. They’ve taken her. Please help me. Help me find her," the woman’s voice rose to a shriek.

Temera glanced around, expecting her shout to have woken the other passengers, but lulled by the gentle sway of the train, they slept on.

Shuffling sideways, he slid off the seat to stand in the aisle. Maybe I could fetch the conductor for you? he said. I’m sure they have procedures for children who go missing on the train. Perhaps, your daughter was over-excited, what with the trip on the night express and it being Christmas. You should have seen the little boy over there earlier, he⁠—

No! She put her hands on her head, clutching at her hair. Mary didn’t go missing on the train. She ran away.

Temera frowned. The woman wasn’t making any sense. One minute the child had been kidnapped and the next she’d run away? More likely she’d wandered off to explore the train while her mother was dozing.

Look, she won’t have gone far. There can’t be more than a dozen carriages on this train, Temera said, gesturing to the bench. Why don’t you take a seat here and I’ll get⁠—

Not the conductor, the woman pleaded. She clasped her hands together, imploring him. It has to be you. Please. Say you’ll find her! Suddenly, her mouth went slack and her eyes widened.

Temera turned slowly, following her gaze to the woman at the rear of the train—to the cream dress and unruly hair. He sucked in a breath. Were they sisters? Twins?

He whirled to face the newcomer. It was the same cream dress, except the newcomer’s had a mud-soaked hem and rents in the fabric. She was missing a shoe too, and an ugly purple bruise was deepening on her temple.

He looked back and forth, comparing the women. The hairs lifted on his arms. I don’t understand.

Just promise me, you’ll help me look for my daughter. You’re the only one who can.

All at once, the train’s brakes screamed, the shrill shriek of metal on metal. Temera snatched at the handhold on the corner of the seat.

The newcomer sat down hard, her fingers gripping the seat back. Too late, she whispered. We’re at the river.

The noise was total. Hurtling into the night, at once fast and also excruciatingly slow, the train lurched. It was derailing. Temera’s heart clenched. He clamped his mouth shut, no breath to scream. The train stormed on, groaning as it thundered interminably across the uneven ground. Inside the car, the passengers jolted and rattled like coins in a jar. Luggage tumbled from the racks. Children wailed. The train screeched. For a moment, Temera wondered if they might be slowing…

Then there was a crash, and the train plunged…

Temera fell heavily, pain flaring in his hip as cold and darkness closed in.

Temera gulped a breath before the water—freezing and violent—sucked him down again. Temera flailed in the water. Which way!? His eyes were full of silt. The darkness was complete. The current swirled around him, battering his back and legs with unknown things: some soft, others dull and solid. Something sharp grazed his shoulder and he felt his jacket tear. Wait, was that a seat?

He was still in the train: in the water, yet in the train. The car might be sinking. He had to get out now. Lungs bursting, he thrashed, grabbed, snatched for a handhold. Where the fuck was the wall? His air was almost spent. If anything, he had a minute left. If he didn’t find a way out, this carriage would be his tomb.

He kicked out hard, propelling himself forward, sensing something fleshy and fleeting beneath his feet. His fingertips grasped…a rope! Temera grabbed it. Held on. The rope dug into his palm. He was moving! He kicked hard to help his rescuers drag him out. Or had he snagged himself a one-way trip to the bottom of the river? There was no way of knowing. In the darkness, he whispered a karakia-prayer to the gods.

Please. Hurry.

Then he burst onto the surface.

Temera heaved in a breath, tasting mud and dirt and who-knows-what else. Air never tasted sweeter. He opened his eyes. Through blurred pupils, he glimpsed flickering lights. Still gripping the rope, he struck out in their direction. Frigid water surged around him. He kicked out hard, giving it everything, but dulled with cold and shock, his muscles were as feeble as a newborn’s.

Groans and gasps carried over the roar of the current. Other survivors? Or the groans of stressed metal and the rush of the river? Temera was powerless to help anyone. He had to reach the bank. If only he wasn’t so tired. Whoever his rescuer was, they were tiring too. What if he let go the rope and floated a bit? Just until he caught his breath. He was so cold…

No! He mustn’t give up.

Squinting, he fixed on the flicker of the torches. He clutched the rope even tighter and threw himself forward. His feet stumbled, sinking into mud. The bank! He’d reached the edge. With one final push, Temera threw himself out of the water and flopped on the shore.

He must have passed out because when he came to, he was shivering with cold, still lying in the mud. His shoulder was numb. He tried to roll over and sit up, but his hand was caught on something. He blinked, clearing his eyes of grit, then looked down.

His fingers were curled around a scrap of cream chiffon. A scarf. The other end was wrapped tightly around a woman’s neck, the knot tightened to a pinched grey ball.

Temera let go and scrambled to his knees.

No, no, no. It was the woman from back of the train. His stomach churning with dread, he scratched at the twisted fabric, pulling it away from her windpipe with clumsy hands. When nothing happened, he lifted the woman’s shoulders and yanked the choker over her head, hoping upon hope for the grateful suck of breath.

Come on, breathe dammit!

In the moonlight, the woman lay still, glassy eyes staring up at him, thin lips tinged blue and a dark bruise on her forehead.

Frantic, Temera lay her down, pulled back her chin, pinched her nose, and blew into her mouth. Filled her lungs with air from his own.

Her chest rose. Then fell.

He blew again.

Again her chest rose and fell.

Breathe! Dizzy, he blew again. Nothing. Was her heart still beating? He fumbled for her pulse, but his fingers were like icicles. He thumped her hard on the chest anyway. She didn’t respond…

Temera sank back onto his haunches. She was dead. He’d killed her. If he hadn’t held on to the scarf, she might have pulled herself clear of the carriage and onto the bank. Had it been her he’d heard gasping? Had she been struggling to get his attention, to free herself, and all the while he’d been slowly strangling her? In his panic, he’d thought of nothing but making it to shore and saving his own miserable soul. Temera drew a deep breath. He dropped his head and covered his face with his hands.

The air stirred as someone sat beside him.

Temera raised his head. It was the