The barrier island barely rose above the sea. Made of coral boulders piled up, the gaps filled with white sand, to form a true desert island, and nothing like the high island of Black Spire across the lagoon. Peter took in the small desert island at a glance. It would have no standing water here, no stream, no lake.

The girl had turned her back on him, wrung the water from his T-shirt, and pulled it over her head.

‘This smells… of something…’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Um… clams…’

The girl turned away once more and walked along the beach. She took the shirt off and walked into the water and gave his shirt a more thorough wash than he thought necessary.

Peter’s bare arms, and legs had a hint of sunburn, but not the burning heat that would seer him to a crisp in New Zealand. The soft hair of his forearms had already turned a light bleached gold.

He had never spent so much time outside, with no sunblock smeared in protection. The bright sun warm but somehow comforting.

A different star? A different planet? Some mysteries he could not solve. And there were other things to worry about. The here and now.

Like... am I going to run out of clothing?’

He wore just his wetsuit, with shorts under it, and sailing boots. His sailing watch on his wrist. He wished he had brought his sun glasses and sailing hat, but they were somewhere under his sailboat. Or washed away by the storm.

The too big shirt hung baggy and shapeless on the girl so she had pulled the bottom together and tied a knot in the ends. The Comsats Angels logo ended just above the tummy button on her flat stomach.

‘How long have you been here?’ Peter said. They sat in the shade of the brush under the high swaying coconuts trees — though well away from where they might be bombed with falling nuts.

The girl leaned forward, her hands clasped on her ankles, chest against her lean legs, as if still shy of revealing her upper body. Her arms had already tanned a deep brown. From what he had glimpsed, her back and tummy were an even brown too — her natural color perhaps?

‘A few days. I think.’ She studied him. ‘Where are you from?’ She spoke a lot like he did. Not quite an accent, just different.

‘Lyttleton,’ he said. ‘And you?’

‘I was on holiday at Woodend Beach. Swimming, or rather on the beach, when it happened.’

‘Woodend. That’s just up the coast. Not far at all from Christchurch.’

‘Yes. I live in Opawa.’

Peter nodded. ‘That’s near me. Opawa is pretty nice. If I lived in Otautahi that’s where I’d like to be. It’s close to the river, and the cycleways run to Sumner. It’s pretty close to the mountain bike trails. Though Lyttleton is the best.’

‘Where’s Otautahi?’

‘Christchurch, that’s the Maori name for…’ Peter stared at her. ‘You’re joking…’ Everyone, including the TV weatherman used the Maori name for Christchurch as much as the English. And somehow, for kids Otautahi was normal. The old Christchurch had died in the earthquakes years before. The new city that had been built since fitted the Maori name better somehow.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

‘Oh. I didn’t know,’ she said.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Maggie. Most friends call me Maggs. Though Mum insists on using Margaret when she wants me to act proper and ladylike.’

‘Ladylike?’ Peter smiled at the old fashioned words.

‘And you?’

‘Peter. I guess no one got around to giving me a nickname. I'm just Peter.’

The breeze lifted the fine white coral sand in the air with a low shush as the grains bounced just above the surface. Where sand and sky met a fuzzy layer now floated, neither one nor the other, but both. The gust died and the moment passed.

‘Okay just Peter. It seems strange to talk to you. Of home. This place is so very dreamlike,’ she said. ‘I’ve never experienced such heat before. You?’

‘Sure. I went to Australia once. To Cairns. It’s hot there. But not like this… always a breeze from one direction or other.’ Peter closed his mouth. Too much babbling. He had never been very good with meeting new people. Here though it would be more than rude to not learn about this girl. And important somehow. So he screwed up a breath and asked a question.

‘How old are you?’ He always found it hard to tell with girls. They changed so much. Boys just seemed to get taller.

‘I’m sixteen. You?’

This bemused Peter — a little older than he had guessed. ‘Fourteen. But I’ll be fifteen soon. I’m Year 10.’

’Year 10?’ Maggie paused. ‘What’s a cycleway?’

‘A cycleway? That’s… everyone knows what they are. It’s where you ride your bike. On the road… it’s next to the road, separated from cars so its safer.’

‘And you call Christchurch…’

‘Otautahi.’

‘Otatahi…’

‘Close enough,’ Peter said. They stared at each other.

‘I’m not sure that we are from the same place,’ Maggie said. ‘I’ll be in Form 6 at school this year.’

‘That’s what they used to call Year 12.’

‘Used to?’ Maggie said. ‘When were you born?’

’8th August 2009’

‘Oh.’ Her blue eyes widened. ‘And the year is...’

’2024 of course. Why?’

‘No. It’s 1943. February 1943’

‘No way. So you were born in like 1926…’

’1927. Fourth of May.’

'Huh. May The Fourth Be With You,’ Peter laughed, gave a Vulcan salute… then grinned at his mixed sci-fi cliches.

‘What?’

Peter shook his head. ‘Never mind.’ He moved to sit next to her and together they gazed over the darkening lagoon towards the black spire of the high island.

‘Peter. What’s your last name?’

‘Drake. Like the famous English captain… the Queen’s Privateer… or the rapper. But he’s not my scene. I’m more into the classics from the 80’s… my Mum has an awesome vinyl collection…’

‘Peter. I don’t know half of what you talk about.’ Maggie frowned. ‘I’m old enough to be your grandmother. Which is impossible.’

He laughed at that. ‘Yeah. You? A granny? No way.’

‘But don’t you see? We’re from the same place, but not the same time. It’s too much like a dream that we’re here, wherever this dreamland is.’

‘But that means we don’t know when this is. It could be anytime.’ Peter stood up.

‘Do you think this is…’

‘Could be Christchurch. Like in the future?’ Peter had to sit down again — the situation had become all too much to take in.

‘Or the past.’

‘I don’t know that there ever was anything like the mantas and manisaurs, and birds with hands…’

‘The what? Mantas?’ Maggie said.

‘My friend. The sea monster. The manta. Like a manta ray…’

‘Oh. I thought of him like a big fish. Like Moby Dick or something.’

‘Moby Dick is a whale… no way the manta is a whale… they don’t have fur.’

‘What is he then?’ Just then the manta splashed high out in the lagoon.

‘I have no idea,’ Peter said. ‘But not a whale.’

‘He’s my friend. So I’ll still call him Moby.’ Maggie said.

‘Sure. Mum reckons Moby makes some good music too.’

Peter couldn’t resist. There were so many popular references that Maggie would never get. Somehow it made him feel superior to this beautiful sixteen year old… ‘Grandmother.’ He snorted as he suppressed a giggle.

‘What? Peter Drake! You are not going to start calling me Granny. We have to forget all of that.’

‘I know.’

They fell silent then.

‘Maggs? It’s pretty far-out strange isn’t it? Almost scary.’

She leaned her shoulder against his. ‘I’m not so sure. It’s like a dream. I don’t want it to end. Especially now you’re here.’

Peter felt the warmth of her arm leant against his. He looked down and eased away. Self-conscious but happy now he had found someone from home. And no longer running from strange people. ‘Yeah, good to meet you.’

‘Let’s get something to eat,’ Maggie said.

‘You have food?’

‘Sure. Though it’s going to surprise you.’ She flashed a wide grin.

‘Sushi? Peter said. ‘I mean… raw fish?’

‘What? No. Even stranger.’