These are the photos I took on the plane:

1. Dad, asleep

I wish I knew how he does it. I never sleep on planes. Never, ever, ever. It doesn’t matter how luxurious the cabin is; there could be king-size beds, aromatherapy massages, and soothing ambient whale songs. I’d still be wired and awake from takeoff to landing. I hate not being on the ground. Dad, on the other hand, drops off the moment we’re airborne, leaving me alone to deal with flight attendants and bad food and boredom. Plus, he snores.

2. Flight attendant in love with Dad

This flight attendant named Suzie kept coming by to ask if I needed anything, but it clearly wasn’t me she was interested in. I’ll never understand why so many women are attracted to Dad. I mean, seriously? He’s pale, scrawny, and hairy, with an unforgettably, ridiculously, prodigiously enormous nose. Actually, “nose” is a woefully inadequate word for that thing in the middle of Dad’s face. “Proboscis,” maybe. Or “trunk.” You could establish a small nation on that nose. And yet here’s Suzie, leaning against an aisle seat, gazing straight at Dad’s vast nasal formation, lips parted, pupils dilated, cheeks slightly flushed. Did I mention he snores?

3. Krystle and Thomas kissing

So there I am: thirty thousand feet over the Pacific, deathly tired but unable to sleep, and I’m watching some stupid movie called The Wakening, about a girl who falls in love with a vampire. (Or werewolf? Zombie? Shape-shifting people-eating werebat from Mars? I honestly don’t remember, that’s how stupid it was.) Anyway, halfway through there’s this scene where Krystle (the girl) and Thomas (whatever he was) kiss for the first time in a sunlit cherry orchid while falling blossoms paint everything pink (etc., etc.) . . . and then BAM! My dear father’s voice fills the headphones, singing some stupid song about sunlight and blossoms and love, love, love. I tore off the headphones and hit the pause button, but it was already too late. That god-awful song had burrowed deep into my poor tired high-altitude brain, and it wasn’t going anywhere. It was still in there twelve hours and five thousand miles later. Some people might call it catchy. Sure. Like Ebola.

4. Sky monsters

Actually, these were clouds. But they looked just like giant living creatures, swimming slowly through the sky. Of course I know clouds are really nothing more than water suspended in the atmosphere through a process of condensation and convection. But honestly, these looked alive. Just look at them — really look — and I swear you’ll see it too.

I took plenty of other photos, of course, but those are the ones I kept and put online. Except for the picture of Dad; that went straight into a hidden, locked, password-protected folder on my trusty laptop, George. I keep all photos of Dad offline to protect my secret identity. No one must know that Kitty Capulet (mysterious, well-traveled photographer whose enigmatic images are the toast of Tumblr) is in fact the daughter of alt-folk sensation Daniel Flynn (aka Parliament of Trees).

Actually, I lied about being the toast of Tumblr. Truth is, my Tumblr only has seven followers. But still — that’s seven people who must never learn my true identity.

Judging by the airline’s in-flight magazine, New Zealand is a fun, outdoorsy sort of country full of beaches, forests, and mountains, with a population the size of Kentucky’s. The original inhabitants, the Maori, apparently possess “a rich, unique culture that forms an integral part of the Kiwi national identity.” Which is another way of saying: “Sorry we colonized you.” New Zealand’s main industries seem to be bungee jumping, skiing, and eating, and their main export is Lord of the Rings movies. A giant sign in the airport arrivals hall welcomed us to Middle-earth.

The festival promoter was there to meet us in person: a winemaker named Gerald who looked like a skinny George Clooney. Gerald wore expensive jeans and purple Vans and a bright red shirt with his festival’s logo: CLEARWATER FOLK.

“Welcome to New Zealand,” he said, shaking Dad’s hand. “How was the flight?”

“Awful,” I muttered. But no one was listening to me.

Gerald Clooney had a minibus waiting outside, driven by a woman named Maria with long black hair and soft brown skin. She smiled at Dad, and he smiled back. I rolled my eyes. No one noticed.

Dad had brought two backup musicians: Jacob (on percussion) and Lucy (second guitar/double bass/banjo/keyboard/clarinet/vocals). Jacob was new, but Lucy’s been traveling with us for ages. She’s short, tough, and wiry, with a sharp blond crew cut and cold gray eyes. Lucy’s from Düsseldorf and doesn’t say much. She’s the coolest person I know.

Then there was Steve, Dad’s longtime sound mixer/assistant/roadie/part-time manager. Steve’s madly in love with Lucy but hasn’t realized it yet. He watches her all the time and turns her microphone up way too loud. I don’t think Lucy’s even noticed. One day maybe I’ll tell her. Or him. Maybe one day I’ll sneak onstage in the middle of a show and shout it down the microphone to fifty thousand swaying hipsters, and the secret of Steve’s hidden passion will surge down a twisting snake cable at the speed of light through his Euphonix mixing console to a towering wall of giant speakers, booming out across the seething crowd of skinny boys and beardies, music nerds and drunk teenage girls.

But until that day, it’s my little secret. One of the many I’ve collected over the years, traveling from gig to gig with Dad and Lucy and Steve, living in hotels and trailers, with my two blue suitcases (one for clothes and shoes and one for books, cameras, hard drives, and sundry private comforts) and a laptop named George.

I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, poor you.”</sarcasm>

Seriously, though: having a famous singer for a dad isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. For starters, we’re on the road most of the year, doing concerts and festivals around the States and the rest of the world. And when we do stop for a month or two, it’s almost never at our official residence in Vermont. Living with Dad means I don’t have much of a home or family or friends (unless you count Lucy and Steve, which — frankly — is a bit of a stretch). As for my mother . . .

Actually, let’s not talk about my mother. Ever.

The drive to the festival site took three hours, through bland suburbs, shabby sunlit farmland, and occasional patches of wet dark forest, which the locals apparently refer to as “bush.” The last couple of miles were on a bumpy gravel road that ran alongside a narrow winding stream.

“Sorry about this,” Gerald said. “The old track gets pretty chewed up by all the festival traffic. We’re trying to put a proper road in, but it’s been a nightmare getting permission from the council, thanks to —”

Maria swore and hit the brakes. We lurched to a stop in a cloud of brown dust.

“What the hell?” Gerald said.

The road was blocked by a group of people holding signs. When Gerald got out to move them along, they started to shout and yell: “Save our river!” “Kaitiakitanga!” “Shame! Shame!”

“Now this is interesting,” I said, slipping out of the van, camera in hand. Dad started to say something, but I ignored him, as usual.

It was a ragtag bunch: a dozen or so people, mostly Maori, from young guys in hoodies and wraparound sunglasses to old ladies in long skirts and thick black cardigans. One figure stood silently watching from the sidelines: a solidly built middle-aged man, his entire face covered with swirling green tattoos. When I raised my camera to take a picture of him, he turned to look me straight in the eye. For a long cold moment, I felt like he was peeling away my skin and staring deep inside. The camera shook in my hands and my throat went dry.

But I got the picture.

Gerald was talking to the protesters, obviously angry but trying to stay calm. One of the younger men was shouting at him, jabbing a finger at his chest. I got a picture of that, too. Then Dad appeared at my shoulder and steered me back to the van.

“I don’t think that’s helping,” he said.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Maria turned and grinned at me. “It’s about the new road,” she said. “Some of the locals don’t want it built.”

“Why not?” I said.

She shrugged. “People think it’ll destroy the stream.”

“Will it?”

“Probably not. But the water will have to be diverted through a culvert under the road.”

I looked out the window at the thin brown stream threading through the trees. It wasn’t very impressive.

“What’s the big deal?” Jacob said, leaning forward from the rear seat. “I mean, it’s hardly the Mississippi.”

Maria gave a small smile. “There’s supposed to be a taniwha,” she said.

“A what?” I asked, but then Gerald climbed back into the van, bringing the noise and dust with him, and a moment later we were rumbling forward through the reluctantly parting crowd. I looked at Dad, and he made an “oh, well” face.

As the van drove past the tattooed man, he watched me through the dusty window. His face looked like it was carved out of wood.

The festival was held in the fields below Gerald’s vineyard. The main paddock sloped down to form a natural amphitheater with two stages set up at the bottom. There was a roped-off area patrolled by security guards, with trailers and tents for the artists. I took one look at the arrangements and went to find Maria.

“Can I borrow a tent? Something small, just for me?”

She laughed. “Does your dad know?”

“He snores,” I said. “And farts. I’d rather sleep alone.”

“Okay,” Maria said, and grinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She brought me a cherry-pink pup tent from last year’s lost property, and I pitched it a long way from the trailer, near the edge of the bush. Dad was too busy checking that all the gear had arrived safely to notice.

The festival was due to start the following day, but people were already drifting in, setting up tents and enjoying the afternoon sun. It was a familiar scene, just like a hundred other music festivals I’d been to, in more places than I can remember. When you’re always traveling, everywhere starts to looks the same.

A group of kids was heading into the bush, laughing. I’m usually pretty shy, but it was hot inside the tent and the bush looked cool and quiet, so I grabbed a camera and followed. The sounds of the campsite faded away among the densely packed trees, replaced by the soft crunch of old wood, the hush of swaying leaves, hissing cicadas, and singing birds. There was no path, so I made my own, ducking under branches and pushing past brambles that caught on my jeans and scratched my arms. After a few minutes, I was lost. It was like another world.

Then I heard voices and laughter ahead. I climbed over a sagging barbed-wire fence and emerged at the edge of a sunlit stream. Where I stood, the water was narrow and quick, tumbling over rocks and stones. But a little farther down, the stream widened to form a quiet pool, and there I saw one of the kids swing out on a rope and drop with a whoop and a splash.

The others followed one by one: two lanky boys and a dark-haired girl, their brown skin flashing in the sunlight as they swung out from the trees and let go, disappearing in a cloud of glittering water. I started taking pictures, but one of the boys saw me and they all turned and stared. I lowered the camera and waved, feeling stupid.

“Hi,” I said, trying my best to sound relaxed and likable. “Is the water cold?”

“Who are you?” the girl asked.

“Um — my name’s Kitty,” I said, trying another halfhearted wave. “My dad’s playing. At the festival.”

Okay, so I’m not above using my dad’s fame to make friends. I’m not proud of it, but what can I say? It’s a lonely life.

“Parliament of Trees. You heard of him?”

They glared at me in silence. This wasn’t working.

“I’ll — uh — go and get my swimsuit,” I said, as if they’d invited me to join them. Like maybe if I just pretended we were friends, they’d end up believing it?

Oh, the Walk of Shame. Even the bush seemed to be mocking me, tripping my feet and pulling my hair all the way back to the campsite. Inside my tent, it was cramped and stuffy, and getting changed turned into an exercise in contortion. On the plus side, by the time I emerged, swimsuit hidden under T-shirt and towel, I was so flustered and hot, no amount of embarrassment and humiliation was going to keep me out of that water.

When I reached the swimming hole, the other kids were gone. I don’t know if I was relieved or disappointed. Maybe both. But, damn it, I was going to swim.

I found the rope swing hooked over a branch. I hung my T-shirt and towel on the same tree, then gripped the rope tightly and took a deep breath. For a moment the sun was hidden by a cloud, and I shivered in the sudden cold, looking down at the dark pool below. The surface of the water looked like skin, sliding and shifting as though muscles moved inside. Like a living creature, huge and heavy, breathing, asleep. Then the sun came out, and it was water again, sparkling and bright.

I swung out and let go. There was a moment of stillness, surrounded by light. Then the cold water swallowed me up, and I shut my eyes tight, every inch of my body tingling and alive. I don’t know how deep the pool was, but I seemed to sink for a long time before something bumped into my shoulder, and I pushed myself up toward the surface — and was abruptly yanked back.

Something was wrapped around my foot, holding me down. I opened my eyes, but the bottom of the pool was too murky to see. Reaching down, I tried to get free, but rough shapes slapped against my arms and coiled around my legs; the more I pulled and thrashed, the more trapped I became. I fought the urge to open my mouth and scream. The water was thick and heavy, weighing me down till I could hardly move. I had a brief vision of the view from the airplane window: huge white giants drifting through the sky. And then my mouth filled with water, and I knew I was going to die.

I’m not sure what happened next. There was a blur of motion, and the world was flooded with light; I gasped and coughed and swallowed sweet warm air, pushing hard against the arms that held me up. Then my head cleared and I grew still, staring into the eyes of the boy who’d saved my life.

He looked my age: long black curls, smooth dark skin, full lips, bare arms around my waist. I realized my hands were on his shoulders and felt my face turn red.

“Th-thanks,” I managed to say, gently pushing him away. His grip eased and I began to tread water, kicking back toward the shore. He followed me slowly.

I climbed out and sat down. The earth felt firm and safe after that strange dark underwater world.

“Really, thanks,” I said again. “I must have caught my foot in something. If you hadn’t come along . . .”

He stayed in the water, silently watching. I was uncomfortably aware of my ugly green swimsuit and pale blotchy legs. I pulled the wet hair back from my face, wishing I had gorgeous brown skin like his.

“I’m Kitty,” I said. “I mean, Catherine. Kate. Cat . . .?” Get a grip, girl. “Um . . . were you here before? Swimming with those other kids, I mean?”

There was a long painful pause, and then he lifted himself out of the water and sat beside me on the grass. He stretched out his long legs to dry in the sun.

“Ruakiri,” he said.

“That’s your name?” I asked, like an idiot. “Um . . . is that Maori?”

He smiled lightly and nodded. “You are from far away,” he said.

“God, yes,” I said. “Like fourteen hours by plane. And that’s just from L.A. We actually flew from Boston, which took another seven hours, with a few hours wait in between.” I couldn’t believe I was listing our itinerary like a moronic travel agent. “I hate flying,” I finished, lamely.

“You’re from around here?” I asked, after another long silence.

“Ae,” he said. I guessed that meant yes.

“Oh,” I said. “It’s nice. Here, I mean.” I think my toes actually curled with embarrassment.

He looked at me, a little sad. “It’s changed,” he said. “Trees cut down, rivers dirty and weak. Once there were no people here. None at all.”

I looked up at the bush, tried to imagine a world without people: huge old trees and clear clean streams; birdsong and wind and water the only sounds.

“You’re cold,” he said, and I realized I was shivering, covered in goose bumps. My fingernails were blue.

“I’m all right,” I said. “I warm up fast.” I got up and walked to the tree where I’d left my T-shirt and towel.

“My dad’s here for the festival,” I said, drying my hair. “He’s headlining tomorrow.” Pathetic, I know.

“Your father?” he asked.

I pulled on the T-shirt and wrapped the towel around my skinny, pale, unappealing legs.

“Yeah,” I said. “Parliament of Trees. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

He shook his head, and I saw he was completely unmoved by my father’s celebrity status.

“Actually, he’s not very good,” I said quickly. “I mean, he has a lot of fans, but I think he sucks.”

Ruakiri raised his eyebrows.

“Singer-songwriter stuff,” I said, making a face. “Involves banjos.”

“Will you stay here?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. “At Clearwater? Till the festival’s over. Then it’s on to the next show. I don’t even know where. It’s never up to me. I’m basically Dad’s prisoner, forced to go wherever he decides.”

The bitterness in my voice surprised even me. I bent over to find my shoes. But when I turned back, he was gone.

“Ruakiri?” I called.

I listened for a long time, but all I heard were the sounds of the bush and the stream and a radio playing nearby.

Dinner was at Gerald’s house, on a hill overlooking the vineyard. Most of the musicians were there, along with staff and volunteers. Gerald was in a bright red shirt covered in tiny white unicorns. He no longer looked like George Clooney. More like Nicolas Cage on a bad day.

There was a buffet and a barbecue, with a lot less vegetarian food than you’d expect at a folk music festival. I haven’t eaten meat since I was old enough to understand that the juice in a juicy steak is actually blood. So I piled my paper plate with coleslaw and potato salad and bread, and I tried to find a quiet corner where I could eat by myself. But it was not to be. Dad called me over, and I had to sit at the table with everyone else.

I ended up stuck between a drunk music journalist with a handlebar mustache and a frail-looking harpist from Ecuador whose band was apparently called Savage Monkey (El Mono Salvaje, to be precise). The harpist’s name was Inocencia, but the looks she kept sending over my head at the wobbly journalist were anything but. I did my best to ignore them, staring down at my plate or across the table at Dad, who was deep in conversation with Gerald Cage and the lovely Maria. They were talking about the protesters who’d stopped us earlier.

“It’s quite silly, really,” Gerald was saying, looking terribly disappointed by just how silly it was. “You’ve seen how bad the road is. By the end of the weekend, it’ll be all churned up and muddy. And it’s far too narrow. The traffic jam when everyone’s leaving is the worst.”

“Last year it took ten hours to clear the exit,” Maria said.

“The new road will solve all that, with two lanes and a parking area outside the grounds.” Gerald smiled, presumably at the thought of all that concrete. “We’ll be able to host busloads of tourists at the vineyard and double the size of the festival. I’m thinking of inviting Sandy Gardener next year.”

“Wow,” Dad said. Dad hated Sandy Gardener.

“Well, with better access and all the other facilities we’re planning, I think we can get the numbers. It’ll be the festival’s fifth anniversary — time to take things to the next level.”

“But not everyone’s in favor?” Dad asked.

Gerald frowned at his wineglass. “That’s where things get ridiculous,” he said. “Apparently there’s a taniwha in the stream.”

“A what?”

“A taniwha. It’s a monster from Maori folklore: a giant lizard that lives in rivers and eats occasional passersby.” Gerald leaned back and laughed. “Of course, no one really believes in it — they’re just using it as an excuse to extort my money.”

Maria shifted in her seat. “The local Maori claim the roadwork will block up the stream,” she said. “But I reckon they’re using it to draw attention to wider issues. The waterways around here are badly polluted by farm runoff and chemical sprays. But it’s not fair on Gerald. His business brings money and jobs into the area.”

Gerald gave a wry smile. “Here we are in the twenty-first century, and we can’t build a road in case it hurts an imaginary monster’s feelings. It’s political correctness gone mad.”

“Is this the stream with the swimming hole?” Everyone turned and looked at me. I cleared my throat. “I was down there this afternoon. It’s nice.”

Maria smiled. Gerald looked like he had no idea whose child I might be and what I was doing in his house.

“In the bush, behind where the trailers and tents are,” I persisted, feeling my skin turn bright pink. “Is that the stream all the fuss is about?” I don’t know why I’d called the swimming hole “nice” when I’d just about drowned there. Maybe the memory of Ruakiri’s long black hair and deep brown eyes trumped the near-death experience?

“Yeah, that’s it,” Maria said. “Clearwater Creek. The vineyard’s named after it.”

“Is it true, then?” I asked her. “Will the new road ruin the stream? There were kids swimming in it today.”

Gerald frowned, but Maria ignored him. “I don’t think so, Kitty. But it’s not ideal for swimming anyway. Sometimes all kinds of bacteria and chemicals get into the water from farms upstream. I know it’s a shame, but it might not be a bad thing if kids couldn’t swim there anymore.”

Great. So even though I’d escaped drowning, the botulism could still kill me. Suddenly I didn’t feel so hungry. I got up to get rid of my plate, and Inocencia shuffled over to move in on her prey, while across the table Dad whispered in Maria’s ear and she smiled. Just another night on tour.

But for once I didn’t really mind. I liked Maria. I figured she could look after herself.

I took twenty-three photos that night: Inocencia close dancing with Handlebar Mustache like a cheesy music video; Gerald wiping ketchup off his unicorn shirt; and the usual predictable shots of posing musos, starstruck volunteers, and bored staff.

But the best photo came when I was going back to my tent. I was all alone, walking across a wide lawn in the moonlight. For a brief moment, it seemed like the rest of the world had disappeared: there was nothing but the grass and the trees and the cool night air. And I stopped and knelt and raised the camera to catch the silver light on the ground. And just as I took the picture, a bird cried out, right behind me: a loud harsh shriek. And when I turned around shaking, there was nothing to see. Just thick black shadows. And I ran all the way to my tent and crept inside and zipped the flaps shut and climbed into my sleeping bag with my head buzzing and my heart pounding. But when I’d calmed down enough to check my camera, there was the photo I’d taken in the garden, and it was perfect and beautiful and mysterious and strange. The silver grass, the looming trees, the heavy black sky. And best of all: my own shadow spread out across the ground, arms raised to take the picture, and above my head the shadow of a bird, wings spread wide.

That night I slept curled around my camera bag, dreaming of monsters and owls and deep dark pools.

I took my first photo when I was three years old. I loved how it froze time: bodies became statues; balls hung in midair. It was like casting a spell. I filled Dad’s camera’s memory card in half an hour, snapping nonstop. For a while he tried hiding it, but I’d just steal his phone and use that instead. In the end he bought me my own camera: a two-megapixel Canon that lasted exactly four weeks before I tried to invent underwater photography in a hotel swimming pool. I was so sure that idea would make me rich.

Since then I’ve gone through a lot of cameras — from the latest DSLRs to antique box Brownies and even a homemade pinhole or two. I love it all: film, digital, paper, glass. And one day I will build my own house with a darkroom and studio and a camera obscura in the loft.

You see, life is scary. The world makes no sense. But when I look at it through a camera, all that fear and chaos and confusion is contained in a small neat frame. And later, when I see the picture I caught, sometimes it’s like the world has given me a gift: a perfect magical arrangement of light that sets off fireworks in my brain. Then when I share that picture on Tumblr, it’s like I’m letting the whole world see this amazing beautiful thing we’ve made. And then we’re even. And the world can go on being huge and crazy and terrifying, and I’ll go on looking at it through a lens.

And that, basically, is me.

When I peeked out of my tent in the morning, the field was filling up fast with people and music and noise. I pulled on a bright cotton dress and went looking for a bathroom without a line.

I was sitting in the trailer having breakfast when Dad came in and looked at my dress, surprised.

“Looking good, Kitten.” I hate it when he calls me that.

“How’s Maria?” I retaliated.

He smiled. “None of your business.”

“When are you playing?”

“Twice,” Dad said. “Big show tonight at eight and a solo acoustic session tomorrow afternoon.”

“Huh. Gerald’s sure getting his money’s worth,” I said.

“You don’t like him, do you?” Dad looked at me over his coffee cup.

“Are you kidding? What a creep.”

“He’s just an entrepreneur,” Dad said. “He’s trying to make money from the things he enjoys: good wine, good music. It’s not a sin to earn a living.”

“How about destroying the planet for a profit? Is that a sin?”

Dad laughed. “Destroying the planet? Come on, Kitty, they’re talking about running a creek through a culvert. You’re familiar with the term hyperbole, right?”

“Don’t patronize me.” I knew I sounded childish. But I was tired and grumpy. And I really didn’t like Gerald.

“Anyway,” I said, standing up to leave.

“Take care, Kitten.”

I went for a walk with my camera, collecting photos of spectacular beards and hats. One guy had both: a flowing chin-mane that could have been mistaken for a small bear and a striped top hat taller than me. He grinned for the camera like a hungry cannibal.

At some point, tired of all the noise and dust and excitement, I drifted toward the entrance, pushing against the flow of people until I was outside. The gravel road was one long line of crawling cars. Volunteers in festival T-shirts directed them to parking spaces on a churned-up field.

Standing at the edge of it all was a small group of protesters, holding signs about saving the river. The man with the tattooed face was arguing with a security guard. It was hot in the sun, like standing under a grill.

Then a police car drove up, bouncing over the grass to avoid the long traffic jam. Two cops got out — one Maori, the other European — and strolled over to Tattoo Face. When I got close enough to hear, Tattoo was talking to the cops in what I guessed was Maori. He sounded calm but determined. I raised my camera, but the security guard shook his head.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, pointing at the camera. “No photos, please.”

“Oh?” I said. “This is a public place, and I’m allowed to take pictures.” I took one of his frown to demonstrate.

“Oy! Clear off before I confiscate that.” He looked just about angry enough to do it.

“I know my legal rights, mister, and if you touch my camera, you’ll be in very serious trouble.”

He took a step forward, but then one of the cops intervened. “Give it a rest, Tony,” he said. “She’s just a kid.” Tony made an ugly face but backed off. Which made a great photo.

The police were arguing with Tattoo. “Look, Wiremu, we’re only going to say this one more time. You’re entitled to express your views, but there’s a time and a place. You’re causing an obstruction, and if you don’t move this protest ten meters away from the road and parking lot, we’ll have to arrest you.”

I looked around. Ten meters in either direction would put them in the bush.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, lowering the camera. Everyone ignored me, except Wiremu, who glanced my way before turning back to the police.

“E hika mā,” he said. Then he called to the rest of the protesters: “Come on, let’s go!”

They started gathering up their signs and getting ready to leave. The police retreated to their car and talked into the radio, while the security guard stood back with crossed arms looking pleased with himself. But Wiremu came over to me.

“Who are you?” he asked. I forced myself to answer with a steady voice.

“Kitty,” I said. “My dad’s playing at the festival.”

He looked me up and down. I realized I was staring at the tattoos: a dense pattern of swirling lines dug into the skin. Even his lips were dark with green ink. I kept thinking how much it must have hurt.

“You’re American,” he said at last. “What do you do with all these photos you take?”

“Um . . . nothing. Sometimes I put them on my Tumblr. That’s like a blog.”

“I know what Tumblr is,” he said, with a hint of a smile. “Tōna pai nei, hine. You take your pictures. Just make sure you keep your eyes open too.” He turned to go.

“Wait,” I said. “The . . . the taniwha . . .” He looked back at me, his face totally impassive. “I mean, is there really a taniwha in the stream?”

He frowned and said nothing. “Because yesterday,” I said, “when I went for a swim, something pulled me down. I nearly drowned . . .” My voice trailed off into silence. I was starting to feel stupid.

The silence stretched between us. Then he made a rough chuckling sound, like a cough. “You probably shouldn’t swim in that stream, eh?” he said. “They say the water’s pretty dirty.” He walked away to join the others, still chuckling.

I didn’t swim again, though God knows it was hot enough. Instead I sat at the foot of a tree, staring at the stream from a safe distance. At least I hoped it was safe.

The sun was high, and the water glittered like liquid light. The noise of the festival was loud enough now to compete with the birds, but it still felt good to be surrounded by trees, watching dragonflies skim across the pool. I wondered what was down there, beneath the shining water, moving among the rocks and sunken logs.

When someone spoke, I almost screamed.

“E kete.” Ruakiri sat down beside me. His hair hung loose, curling around his shoulders. His skin was the color of polished wood.

“Hey,” I managed to say. Or squeak. Definitely a squeak.

We sat for a while without saying anything. I watched the veins on his feet, imagining I could see them pulse with each heartbeat.

“Pretty noisy,” I said at last, meaning the music pounding through the trees. “Sorry about that.” Like it was my fault.

“Swim?” he asked, rising to a crouch.

“No,” I said, a little too quickly. “Not after yesterday.” I smiled, trying to make it a joke.

He turned and slid into the water, smooth like a snake.

He took so long to surface, I was starting to panic. Then his face appeared in the shimmering light, and he shot me a quick grin before disappearing again. I sat and watched him swim, wishing I had the courage to join him, or that he’d get out before some mythical monster swallowed him whole. In the end, I did what I always do in these situations: I got out my camera.

Ruakiri swimming.

Ruakiri floating.

Ruakiri diving.

Ruakiri smiling straight at me.

A tree.

Then he was hauling himself out, long hair pouring down his back, splashing water on my dress. I put the camera away, too shy to look. He lay down to dry off in the sun. I could have sat there forever.

After a while a different band must have gone onstage because the music got a lot louder, deep bass notes thumping up from the ground. Ruakiri flinched and sat up.

“I guess the festival’s kind of annoying for locals,” I said. “All the noise and people, and of course the new road . . .”

He glanced at me, his face unreadable.

“This stream is so beautiful,” I went on. “I can’t believe they’re going to ruin it.”

“What?” Ruakiri asked, frowning.

“You know,” I said. “People say the new road will cover up the stream.”

He said nothing, his mouth a thin straight line.

“The protest outside?” I said, lamely. “I thought the locals were all talking about it . . .”

“Who is doing this?” he asked.

“The . . . the music festival. I mean the vineyard.” The look on his face was starting to scare me. “But maybe it’ll be fine. It might not happen, and even if it does, maybe it won’t be so bad.”

He stood up and walked past me into the trees. I got up to follow but couldn’t see which way he’d gone.

“Ruakiri?” Nothing.

Stupid stupid stupid. Why did I have to mention the road? Why couldn’t I just sit quietly and surreptitiously watch him soaking up the sun like any normal, sensible love-struck girl would have done? Now he was angry and probably blamed me, and he’d never want to be my friend (let alone something more). And I would grow up lonely and miserable and nerdy and weird and never go to college and never have a life and eventually end up a crazy cat lady living in a garbage dump in Santa Monica with twenty-seven semi-feral street cats and a particularly pungent skin disease, shouting at strangers and throwing poop at social workers, until one day I’d die of acute septicemia and the ungrateful flea-ridden felines would feast on my rotting corpse for six whole weeks before someone finally noticed the smell and called the police.

I do worry about that sometimes. Seriously.

My tent was small, hot, and airless, and the relentless grinding beat of Australian dub-folk trio Blackheads made my head hurt. But I didn’t want to be seen like this, so I sat in the bright pink glow of that tiny nylon cage thinking about the last ten years of my stupid, stupid life.

I was five when Dad got custody. I don’t remember much before that — a few vague images of a house in the country, climbing trees, a wide blue lake. And her.

Dad’s career took off soon after we left. “Weeping Willow” hit half a million views on YouTube, and he suddenly went from tiny shows in local cafés to playing headline gigs all over America. We’ve been touring ever since. Sometimes I think Dad only makes music so he never has to stay in one place for more than a month. But he sure is popular. Haunted Xylophone magazine called him “the leading alt-folk lyrical melodist of our time.” Whatever that means.

Personally, I can’t stand Dad’s music. It’s all soft acoustic guitar and heartfelt vocals, harmonica solos and glockenspiels and brush work on the drums. Folk music makes me want to break things. Banjos give me hives. My favorite band? Ice Nine. The most brutal Finnish smashcore noise band ever heard this side of Tuonela. Their lead singer, Pilko “Chop” Mustajärvi, is so pale, he looks like a ghost, with long black hair that covers his face and deep dark scars on the back of his hands. He’s kind of a freak. Dad calls it “slaughterhouse” music and won’t let me play it when he’s around. So I put on my headphones and crank it up past health-advisory levels, and my brain turns to water and —

The floor of the tent quivered to Blackheads’ bass. “Argh! I can’t stand this!” I grabbed my camera and pushed out of the tent, my head like a bomb about to explode. I started taking pictures: the ground, my feet, the sky, and way too many people. The closer I got to the stage, the more the world shook with noise. But I stayed focused on the LCD screen, turning light into memory again and again and again.

I kept taking photos like that till the memory card was almost full. By then I’d calmed down and the sun had disappeared behind a wall of gray clouds, low and heavy. Blackheads had finished their set and been replaced by a country group called Desert Snow, who boasted not one but two banjos. My neck began to itch; it was time to go.

At the back of the field was a line of food stalls: kebabs, hot dogs, french fries, vegetarian curries. The kids from the swimming hole were leaning on a fence, watching the steady stream of hipsters with ice creams, cold drinks, and fries.

“Hey,” I called to them. “Want something?”

They looked at each other then slowly wandered over.

“What do you want?” I asked. “I’ve got money.”

“Your dad’s in a band, eh?” the dark-haired girl said.

“Yeah. Parliament of Trees,” I said. “They’re on later tonight. You guys live around here?”

One of the boys nodded. “You serious about getting us some kai?”

“I’ll have a Coke.”

“Ice block.”

“Chips.”

“Okay,” I said. “You seen Ruakiri?”

The girl frowned. “What?”

“Ruakiri. I was talking to him at the swimming hole. By the swing.”

They exchanged a look.

“Who are you on about?” asked the shorter boy.

“He’s about my age,” I said. “Local boy. Don’t you know him? He was there yesterday just after you left.”

“Maori?” the girl said, looking skeptical.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, wondering if I’d said something wrong. “He said his name was Ruakiri. I saw him again today.”

“Nah,” she said. “We know all the kids around here. He must be here for the festival.”

They let me sit with them while we ate and drank. The girl kept asking about Dad: Was he famous? Were we rich? Had he been on TV or in the movies? I told her about his song being in The Wakening, and she seemed impressed. But they swore they’d never met the boy by the stream. And then one of them said he must be pulling my leg.

“Ruakiri isn’t a real name,” he said. “It’s the name of the stream: Wairuakiri.”

“Wai means water,” the girl added, like she was speaking to a young child. “So it means Ruakiri’s water, Ruakiri’s stream.”

“Ruakiri’s the taniwha who lives there.”

All three of them giggled.

“Want one of your chips?” the girl asked, grinning.

Halfway across the field, I felt something shift, like a change in the air pressure. And when I turned around, there was Ruakiri, standing so close I could have touched him.

“Oh!” I said, taking a step back. “I — uh — hi.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Just stared straight at me, his face a dark mask.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“They must stop,” Ruakiri said. He spoke low but clear.

“What? Who?”

“All this,” he said, sweeping an arm at the field, the crowd, the stage, everything. “The people. The road. It all must stop.” There was something very strong in that gesture and in his voice.

“Um —”

“Tell them. Tell your father.” He still hadn’t blinked. “If it does not stop, there will be flood and fire.”

A drop of water hit my cheek and then another. Big round blobs of rain started splashing around us.

“Ruakiri,” I said, reaching for his arm. “Who are you?”

But he turned away, and the rain closed around him like a curtain.

I ran to the trailer. Steve answered the door.

“Kitty!” he said. “You’re drenched!”

He found me a towel. Lucy checked my camera while I dried off.

“It looks fine,” she said. “Water-resistant, huh?”

“Everything-resistant,” I said. I loved my camera. “Where’s Dad?”

“Having a glass of wine with Maria.” Steve gave a lopsided smile. “Preshow ritual. A new one, started today.”

“I need to talk to him,” I said. “Something weird’s going on.”

They both frowned. “Are you okay?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know. Where?”

They were in Dad’s tent, sitting under the awning with a bottle of pinot gris, watching the rain fall.

“Hey,” Dad said as I ran up. “You look wet.”

I shook the raincoat off. “Dad,” I said, “we have to talk.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “What is it, Kitten? Is everything all right?”

I sent him a glare that said “in private, you idiot.” But he apparently mistook it for “It’s really important that we have this conversation in front of Maria,” because that’s what he started to do.

“Did someone . . .?” He reached out to take my hand. “Is it a boy?”

I almost hit him. “No, Dad,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s not a boy.” Although, actually, it kind of was.

Maria got to her feet. “I should get going,” she said, smiling at Dad. See? I was right about her.

Dad watched her walk away. I cleared my throat.

“Listen, Dad,” I said, in the heaviest, most grown-up voice I could muster. “Something really bad’s about to happen. They have to shut down the festival.”

Dad did a double take. “What? I thought . . . Kitty, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know how to explain,” I said. I really should have thought this through before barging into Dad’s tent.

I took a deep breath. “You know the road they’re building?” Dad frowned, but I carried on talking before he could interrupt. “It’s going to destroy the stream. Wairuakiri. Kids swim there all the time, and it’s . . . well, it’s really special.”

“Kitty,” he began.

“No, Dad, just listen. You’re always singing about how important nature is. Trees and willows and lakes. Well, here’s an actual real-life situation where something natural is about to be ruined, and you can do something about it.”

“What can I do?” he said, looking annoyed. “I can’t call off the concert. I’d be breaking a contract.”

I tried to speak, but he shook his head. “I promise I’ll look into it,” he said, “after the show. But Gerald’s version of what’s going on is very different from whatever you’ve been told.”

This wasn’t working. I started to panic. “It’s not just that,” I said quickly. “There really is something in the stream, Dad. I know that sounds crazy, but I’ve seen it. And it’s angry. Something very bad’s going to happen.”

“Darling, I can see you’re upset.” As soon as he called me “darling,” I knew I’d lost him. “But it’s just a stream.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “How about you sleep in the trailer tonight with Lucy? Or I could ask Gerald to give you a room in the house? I think you need to get out of that claustrophobic pup tent, especially if it’s raining . . .”

That did it. I pushed away his hands and swore. “I’m not five years old! This is serious!”

He took a step back. “Hey — come on, Kitten. You’re being silly.”

I think I screamed with frustration then; I might even have thrown something. I remember striding away from the tent muttering about stupid useless fathers and how much I hated them. Without knowing why, I headed for the stream.

“Ruakiri!” I called, still angry. “Come on, Ruakiri, come out and talk to me! Damn it, Rua — I’m on your side!”

I didn’t know what I would do if I found him. But he didn’t show. Instead, I found myself splashing through ankle-deep water long before leaving the trees. And then I saw what was ahead and froze.

The quiet creek was gone; in its place a dark turbulent river raged, cutting a wide path through the bush. As I stood staring, a wall of black water rose up and rolled forward, crashing into the trees and surging around my legs till I staggered and almost fell. Another wave followed and another, each higher and stronger than the last.

The tree with the rope swing now stood entirely surrounded by water. I watched as it slowly tipped sideways then vanished, sucked under and away. The river made a low hungry sound, like a growl in the back of its throat.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, unable to move. As each new surge of water rushed up, I held my breath and imagined being swallowed and swept away, leaving no trace behind. But the waves always broke just short of where I stood, washing all around me, tugging at my legs like an invitation to come join them. And part of me longed to let go and slip into that cool dark world, to be pulled rushing and flowing over smooth stones and rich soil, through valleys and over falls, churning around rapids and dancing down gullies, till finally we’d merge with the vast warm sea.

And then I thought, I want to get a photo of this. And my mind cleared, and I looked down. I was up to my waist in water, clinging to a tree. The sun was gone, and night was closing in; I would have to use a long exposure. Wrapping one arm around the trunk, I steadied the camera on a branch and tried to stop shaking long enough to take a few good pictures. Then I hauled myself backward, fighting the powerful pull of the flood until at last I was free, climbing out of the water and running through the trees.

When I got back to the field, the rain had eased and the natural amphitheater was packed with people.

“Flood!” I cried. But no one could hear me over the music.

On one stage, a local band was finishing their set with a three-guitar feedback war. I checked my watch. Dad was due to play in ten minutes. I pushed into the dancing crowd, a seething mass of bodies that swept me up and pushed me backward and forward.

“Out of my way!” I yelled. “Let me through!” But the guitars were too loud, and it was too dark to see, and everyone was having too much fun to notice.

Somehow I got to the edge of the crowd and slipped under the fence to the backstage area. I thrust my All-Areas pass at the security guy. He frowned at me skeptically.

“I’m Daniel Flynn’s daughter,” I half yelled at him. And then, when he looked blank: “Parliament of Trees. He’s my dad.”

“Oh,” he said, “sorry, girl. They’re onstage now, about to start.”

“Thanks. And listen — you’d better raise some kind of alarm. The stream behind those trees has broken its banks, and the water’s still rising.”

He blinked. “What stream?” He glanced in the direction I’d pointed, but it was too dark to see anything.

“Just tell someone who’s in charge,” I said firmly. “Quickly!” He stared at me a moment, then turned and took out a cell phone.

I went through the same routine two more times before finally climbing onto the back of the stage. Through a tangle of lashed cables and light stands, speakers and amps, past a couple of idle roadies watching from the rear, I could see them: the nearest thing to a family I had in the world. Jacob had sat down at his kit and was giving it a final check, stroking the cymbals and gently working the bass drum pedal. Lucy was adjusting her guitar strap over a pale green dress. And off to the side, hidden from the audience, sat my father, quietly writing in his notebook.

The lights were in preshow mode, dimmed onstage, with a couple of spots rolling across the crowd outside. Everyone was waiting for Dad’s imminent appearance, with that mixture of expectant hush and restless noise I knew so well. Lucy looked up and saw me and smiled. Then she saw the state I was in, and her smile faltered.

“Kitty?” she said. “What —?”

I walked right past her and stepped up to the mic stand. The stage manager must have thought I was Dad because the lights flicked on, turning everything white. The audience roared like a hurricane. I couldn’t see and my hands shook. But I forced myself to reach out and take hold of the microphone. The audience fell silent, confused by the sight of a bedraggled girl in a filthy wet dress alone on the stage. I cleared my throat.

For a second, I thought of announcing Steve’s secret love for Lucy, just like I’d imagined a thousand times. But I didn’t. I took a deep breath and tried to sound as serious as I could.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the show, but this is an emergency.” It was weird hearing my own voice amplified across the valley. “There’s going to be a flood, and you’re all in its path. You have to move to higher ground.”

A murmur spread through the crowd.

“Please stay calm and don’t panic,” I continued. “But start making your way to the hill at the back of the field.”

People were talking to each other and looking around, trying to work out if it was a joke. But no one was leaving.

“Kitty.” Dad was behind me, speaking quietly. “What are you doing?” I put my hand over the microphone so our voices wouldn’t carry.

“It’s true, Dad,” I said. “I’ve just been down to the river, and it’s rising fast. We’ve got to clear people out of here.”

Dad frowned darkly then turned to the stagehands. “Where’s Gerald?”

And then the heavens fell. With a hissing roar, rain suddenly filled the air, pounding down with such force, the crowd cowered and broke. Dad was shouting, but I ignored him, staring at the shimmering wall of water caught in the spotlight. For a moment I thought I was back at the bottom of the stream, held down, unable to breathe.

Then a rush of cold wet spray hit my face, and I stumbled back. I saw Dad step up to the microphone, wanting to calm the crowd, but water gushed over his hands on the mic and the cables at his feet, and there was a sickening flash and a bang, and he was thrown off the stage and disappeared.

I screamed and ran forward, vaulting off the edge. The downpour hit me in midair, taking my breath away and hurling me to the ground, where I slipped and rolled in the mud. The audience was gone. There was no one there.

“Dad!” I yelled again and again, my voice lost in the pummeling rain.

I saw movement off to the left and began to run. A dark shape loomed up in the chaos: a glimpse of something tall and inhuman, dragging a limp form away. All around me was water; the river was pouring into the bowl-shaped field, merging with countless puddles to form a wide shallow lake. Into this flood slid the strange giant shadow, pulling my father behind it.

Then the rain shifted, and the shadow became a slim teenage boy.

“Ruakiri?” I no longer knew what I was seeing.

He looked up at me. Black hair framed his beautiful brown face, shining and wet.

“Ruakiri, please . . .” I said, moving closer. “Let him go.”

“Why?” He spoke quietly, but it cut through the rain clear and cold. “You are his prisoner. Now you will be free.”

“What? I didn’t mean —”

“You can stay.”

I wiped the water away from my eyes. “No, Ruakiri,” I said. “You don’t understand. It’s not like that. I — I was angry at Dad. But he’s a good person. And he’s my father.” I realized I was crying.

Ruakiri stopped moving. “They must be punished,” he said at last, still holding Dad’s shoulders. “I will defend myself. They are killing me.”

“Please,” I said again. “Not like this. It’s not his fault. I can stop the road, if you give me a chance. I’ll make them understand. Please just don’t hurt anyone.” I reached Dad and fell to my knees, lifting his pale face clear of the water. “Please.”

I looked up, and our eyes met. Ruakiri’s face was very still, yet somehow it flickered back and forth between that soft young boy and something else. For a moment it felt as if I were doing the same, as though I was no longer just Kitty, but also someone older and bigger and braver than before. The crying had stopped. I knew what to do.

“Go back to the stream,” I said, calmly this time. “Go to Wairuakiri and rest. I will finish this.”

His hands slipped from Dad’s shoulders. “Go,” I said. And he slid into the water and was gone.

The rain eased away. I rested my head on Dad’s chest and listened to the slow steady drumbeat of his heart. It was going to be all right. I closed my eyes and lay like that until they found us.

Dad was unconscious for eighteen hours. They took him to the hospital in a helicopter, and they had to take me, too, because I wouldn’t let go until we reached ER. Lucy and Steve arrived a few hours later with Maria, who’d driven all the way from Clearwater Creek in Gerald’s fastest, flashest car.

Gerald didn’t turn up till morning. He’d had to cancel the festival and was up all night dealing with the chaos of the flood and several thousand angry music fans. He looked pale and irritated.

“How’s your dad?” he asked, forcing his mouth into an unconvincing smile. “The doctors tell me he’s going to be fine.”

I didn’t say anything, just looked him in the eye till he coughed and said, “Well, I’ll check in again in a little while. Let me know if anything changes.”

It was true; the doctors had said Dad would be fine. He’d had an electric shock from a wet cable, and the fall from the stage had left him scraped and bruised. But no one seemed terribly worried. Except Steve, who’s always worried, even when nothing’s wrong.

And, well, maybe me.

I was alone with Dad when he finally woke up. The room was full of afternoon light, and I’d opened a window to let in the warm summer air.

“Kitten,” he said.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, fighting the urge to cry.

“Sore,” he said. “What happened? Where are we?”

I told him about the electrocution and the fall, but then I kind of ran out of things to say. I had meant to tell him the rest, too: about the taniwha and the flood and how he’d nearly been carried off to drown. But in the end, I couldn’t.

“Is everyone else okay?” he asked. “I remember a hell of a lot of rain.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. Just like Dad to worry about everyone else. “The festival was washed out, and Gerald had to shut it down. People are pretty mad.”

Dad turned and watched the sunlight on the walls for a while.

“Kitty,” he said at last. “All that stuff you said in the tent — about the stream and the road and . . .”

I flinched, not knowing what to say.

“You meant it?”

I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I did.”

He went back to watching the wall, and soon I saw he was asleep. I rubbed my eyes and realized I’d been awake for more hours than my tired brain could calculate.

So.

It turns out those narrow hospital beds have just enough room to curl up next to your sleeping Dad if you nestle in close like a little girl. And if you’re lucky, the sound of his huge nose gently snoring can make you feel cozy and safe and like you’re five years old. And you’ll close your eyes and drift off and have the best sleep you’ve had in years.

Two weeks later and I’m sitting on another plane. Dad’s dozing across the aisle while Maria watches a movie in the seat next to his. I don’t know how long she’ll stick with our crazy traveling family, but I kind of like having our own official driver. I’ve been copying all my photos from New Zealand onto George, and now I’m going through them one by one, deleting, renaming, cropping, and uploading.

There’s Dad in the hospital, giving the nurses an impromptu solo concert on the day they let him out. And there’s Gerald arriving for a meeting with Dad, with his colorful shirt and handshakes and backslapping and smiles. I sure wish I’d seen Gerald’s face when Dad told him he’d sue for negligence over that faulty electric cable unless he dropped his plans for the new parking lot and road. But Dad wouldn’t let me in the room for that. Still, I managed to get a couple of great photos of Gerald walking out, ashen-faced and thin-lipped. He didn’t look at all like George Clooney that time. More like Steve Buscemi. Or Monty Burns.

And here’s Dad again, onstage at the fund-raiser he threw together with some of the other bands from the festival. The one-day concert cheered up a lot of disappointed fans and collected over $100,000 to clean up the rivers and streams around Clearwater.

It won’t solve everything, but at least it’s a start.

This one was taken by Lucy: it shows me and Dad hugging onstage while the audience cheers. The newspapers said I saved lives in the flood. I don’t know. It feels weird being talked about and seeing my face all over the web. But I like the way Dad looks at me now, like I’m not just a little girl anymore. I think he’s proud.

But this is my favorite photo.

I took it on our last day in New Zealand, when I slipped away from the motel just before dawn and climbed the fence around Gerald’s vineyard, ran across the dark wet fields, and crept through the bush to Clearwater Creek.

The flood had left broken trees and stones strewn across the ground. But the stream flowed dark and strong and quiet. I stood for a long time, watching and listening as the sky turned gray then pink then blue. And then I raised my camera for one last look.

And the sun rose above the trees and the water lit up like liquid gold, and for one brief moment I was in his world, and it was beautiful and alive and filled with light. And then the light became memory, and the memory was saved, and I turned and walked away.

And here it is.

Look. Can you see it?

Look.