Taniwha's Tear (13 page)

Mat shoved again with that well of energy he drew on, striking the warrior’s leg, causing him to spin sideways in the air as he came, and plough shoulder-first into the muddy track. His shoulder-blade cracked, and he bellowed in pain and fury. The other warriors paused, as Mat gained a few steps, and one cried out ‘Ruanuku!’ in a frightened voice.

A deep-throated voice shouted, ‘That’s him! Take him alive!’ Mat looked beyond the main group, and saw Kereopa Te Rau appear beside the musketeer, holding an iron-headed axe in one hand and a heavy hammer in the other, running hard. The other warriors leapt into action.

Mat turned and sprinted after Lena and the two boys.
‘Get to the church. Get to the church!’

The men behind him were too fast. He heard the footfalls slap the earth, too close, gaining all the time. More shadowy figures rose on the left-hand side of the track, out of the long grasses of the paddock. Ahead he saw Lena thrust the two boys through the wooden church gate, and then pelt onward, wrenching open the church door. Then he sensed the whistling of air, and threw himself into a roll as a mere whooshed past his head, and the warrior who wielded it leapt past him and skidded to a halt. Horses were thundering in the middle distance, and a bell was ringing in the church. Lena was at the door, screaming at him. ‘Mat! Come on!’

He leapt to his feet again, and then threw himself sideways as another blow from a taiaha flew at his head. Too slow! The wooden blade smashed into his shoulder and he cried out in pain. Another warrior joined the first two, cutting him off from the church. He gathered his fist, poured a vision of fire into it, then threw it. The warrior with the mere howled as his long hair caught fire, and staggered away. The other two hesitated. Mat feinted another burst, making both cry out and throw themselves aside, then darted between them and ran for the church gate. From the distance shots rang out and horses neighed. The ground seemed to quiver from their hooves, though he couldn’t see them.

As he ran, the foremost of the warriors that had sprung from the paddock leapt the church fence, and ran at Lena. He saw her try to thrust him back, but she barely checked
him, and shrieked as he came on. She pulled the door shut an instant before he slammed into it, hammering it shut. Mat shouted at him as he went to hurdle the gate, which had fallen closed.

Even as he flew over the gate, a heavy blow slammed between his shoulders, knocking the air from him. He felt his arms fly upward as the ground rose and smote him heavily, and then he was gasping desperately for air as he rolled. A thrown hammer fell beside him—Kereopa’s hammer. Its owner kicked through the gate with his axe in hand, grinning evilly and licking his lips.

Mat forced himself to grasp the hammer, sucking in air in painful gasps as he tried to stand. Another warrior appeared at Kereopa’s shoulder, and aimed a musket at his head. He asked Kereopa some thing, but the Hauhau leader shook his head. ‘Alive,’ he said, his voice hungry. ‘Don’t move, boy.’

The musket barrel was huge, and immensely long, seeming to reach out towards him, its muzzle a dark mouth. And yet…
If they have to take me alive, then he can’t use the thing…which means it isn’t a factor…

Mat shouted, and hurled the hammer at Kereopa’s head as he threw himself sideways.

The musket roared, triggered by reflex by the warrior, who immediately went pale, more afraid of disobeying Kereopa than of harming Mat. A stinging slash tore a furrow across Mat’s left shoulder as he hit the ground, and then he was up and running again. But Kereopa just laughed as his axe swatted the hammer aside, then he
reversed its grip so that he could strike with the back of the axe-head, a bulbous counterweight that looked as if it could stun a horse.

The warrior swung, as Mat launched himself through a glass side-window of the church. His hands tore on the thick glass, then he fell against the broken shards at the bottom of the frame, and flipped over, landing on his back on a wooden form. All the wind was knocked from him, as he pitched sideways onto the kneeler of the form in front. He stared at the blood on his hands, felt a thick shard in his stomach, and wondered if he had killed himself with what he’d done. There was no pain, yet, but he could barely breathe and it was getting harder.

Dimly he heard Lena calling his name, and the boys shriek, and then Kereopa’s grinning face appeared at the window. ‘Nice try, boy,’ the Hauhau snarled, as he gripped the window frame, poised to climb in. Mat still couldn’t get air to his lungs, while blood pooled about that shard of glass.

Then the window reformed itself.

It was like watching a film of the window shatter, played backwards. All of the glass, including the shard in Mat’s belly, suddenly flew upward, flying together, rejoining, re-bonding with the wooden panels and in the next instant the window was whole again. Kereopa fell backwards, and then his thwarted face appeared again, dimly seen through the dirty glass, purpling and infuriated.

‘Get in there!’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Bring them out!’

A dozen bodies hammered into the doors and windows of the church. Mat heard a squeak behind him from a terrified old priest kneeling before the altar, clasping a crucifix, his face streaked with tears of fear. Down by the door, Lena was hurrying towards him, her face white, while the two boys hugged each other. It was as if the sky were falling upon the tiny wooden building.

But not a single window or door gave way.

For thirty seconds, the hammering of blows upon each window was like explosions of thunder. The door buckled and straightened, as the tiny building shook. At times Mat saw the glass windows shatter as weapons broke them, then reform in the next instant.

‘Are you doing this?’ shouted Lena, rushing to his side. Then in the next breath she gasped, ‘Omigod, you’re bleeding.’

‘The church is doing it,’ Mat hissed, holding on to his stomach. His shoulder stung from the grazing musket-ball, and his hands were raw agony. It was all he could do to draw breath into his tortured chest. Lena dragged the bench he’d landed on aside and knelt beside him. With every blow against the building she flinched, but her eyes were on him.

‘It’s the only building that the Hauhau didn’t destroy during the raid. I think it must remember that, and it remembers them,’ he gritted, holding on to the words as a way to hold on to consciousness.

‘How can a building remember some thing?’ Lena muttered, staring helplessly at Mat’s stomach, where
blood was oozing through his fingers. Then suddenly there were voices shouting in English outside, and a volley of muskets, and no more blows fell upon the little church.

‘The Lord Jesus be praised,’ the priest shouted. ‘We are saved, we are saved!’ He buried his head in his lap, shaking. Lena snorted at him, then looked at the two young boys, who were clinging to each other in terror.

‘Bring water!’ she shouted at them. ‘Hurry!’

Then the door of the church flew open and they all froze. The priest whimpered. Lena gripped Mat’s arm in rigid terror.

But the man who entered was not a Hauhau.

He was a small man, thin with intense eyes and a pale face framed by lank black hair and a bushy beard. He held a smoking pistol and was clad in a black, ill-fitting colonial jacket. There was a curved cavalryman’s sabre at his side. His eyes took them in instantly, and then he placed the pistol on a table, and strode towards Mat and Lena. DJ Sassman appeared at the door behind him.

‘We are in time,’ he said, with relief in his voice. ‘You are presumably Mat and Lena. I am Bryn Jones.’

Bryn Jones did some thing to Mat’s wounds that sterilised and re-knit the flesh, and took away much of the pain. Sassman took the colonial children away. The priest just stared at them all helplessly. When Mat was able to stand, clinging to Lena for support, they found a cluster
of horsemen outside. They were dressed in modern-looking camouflage gear but wielded muskets and sabres. They called to each other in what sounded like southern American accents, rich musical drawls like the men in
Gone with the Wind
. They all peered at Lena with undisguised interest.

There were no bodies; it seemed all of Kereopa’s men had escaped, which seemed strange given the sounds of conflict they’d heard outside, but the soldiers appeared unconcerned.

Bryn Jones had a restless, burning energy about him, like a man fevered. His men obeyed him instantly and to the letter, and watched him nervously. Even Sassman seemed nervous of him. Mat remembered Wiri’s description of the man as a ‘cranky old bugger’ which kind of fit, but didn’t do the man justice. He seemed everywhere, and had a haunted, hungry quality about him, though he also exuded assurance and competence. Mat had to nerve himself to address him.

‘Mister Jones, what happened to us? We were in the normal world, and then suddenly every thing changed.’ Mat sat with his back to the outside of the church, his legs still wobbly. It already felt like the wounds had been inflicted days ago. He felt stiff and bruised, but thankfully not in much pain.

Jones nodded shortly. ‘Places with a strong history re-enact those events frequently, usually on the anniversary, but at other times also. Someone skilled in makutu could trigger such an event, and set an ambush alongside it.’
He looked at Mat. ‘Someone like Donna Kyle.’

‘She must have seen us after all,’ Mat breathed. Lena, sitting on the floor holding his hand, gave a small shiver. He squeezed back, trying to reassure her.

‘I’m told she has been seen with Kereopa Te Rau and his scum,’ Jones remarked. ‘It would seem likely she saw you and planned revenge, especially given your history.’ He stood up, and offered Mat a hand. ‘You should be able to stand, and move a little if you are careful.’ Mat took the man’s cool, bony hand and allowed himself to be drawn to his feet.

‘Thank you, sir. I’m most grateful.’

Jones’ smile was hard. ‘You were right to go to the church. You have good instincts—which is vital in the Ghost World. Had you run to any other building, you would almost certainly have perished in flames. The Hauhau burnt every other building in Matawhero in 1868, and killed more than fifty folk, including many women and children.’

‘We were lucky, sir. We’d just been reading the sign that said the building was spared, so it was the logical place to go.’ Mat thought for a moment. ‘Did God protect it, back in ’68?’

Jones grunted. ‘In a way. Remember, for all their barbarism, the Pai Marire were essentially a Christian sect, however warped. They would have viewed burning a church as wrong and, more importantly, as bad luck. It’s the more likely explanation. But who knows? They targeted men involved in purchasing native lands.’ His
face seemed to be struggling to conceal a measure of contempt as he said the word ‘native’. ‘There is no record that Kereopa Te Rau was part of the original assault, but Te Kooti had several hundred men. They reckon that if he’d planned it right, he could have swept into Turanga and wiped out every white man there. But it seems he overestimated the defences, and settled for looting the farm houses for food and liquor.’

‘Was Te Kooti here today, sir?’

Jones shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. We believe he’s further north. He and Kereopa don’t get on these days—some thing to do with Te Kooti being pardoned and Kereopa being hanged.’ He grunted again, that nervous grim laugh that seemed characteristic of the man. ‘I guess that would tend to set men at odds.’ Then he turned and looked Mat in the eye. ‘The American tells me you’re under a promise to aid the taniwha at Waikaremoana?’ He motioned to a bench and they sat together, Lena a few feet away on another bench, her face still pale and scared, but listening intently.

Mat swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, sir…I have no right to ask for help, but…’

Jones frowned, then smiled awkwardly, as though it wasn’t an expression he used freely. ‘Nonsense, boy. Your problems are mine. Tell me more, and then we’ll see what we can do.’

It took some time to summarise the situation and answer all of Jones’ questions. He was particularly interested in Hoanga’s revelations about the shrunken
tohunga’s head in the Onepoto Caves, and became more and more intense as he probed Mat’s recollection of the conversations with Kauariki. Finally he sat back and stared into space, concentrating on his thoughts with such fervour that one of the soldiers, bringing tea, was too afraid to approach. He was a difficult man to like, Mat decided, but he radiated authority, knowledge and capability to an intimidating degree. Mat was relieved to unburden himself and put his problems into the man’s hands.

‘Of course we will help you,’ Jones told him. ‘But I fear that you will need to be a part of this still. Hoanga hints that you are the only one that can retrieve the tohunga’s head from the Onepoto Caves. Are you able to do this? We must all do every thing we can to prevent Donna Kyle or Sebastian Venn gaining power over the taniwha.’

Fear and anticipation warred inside Mat’s heart. The excitement of the moment won. ‘Yes, sir. Of course I will help. My parents and I are here for another week. They prefer to be with each other, as long as I’m safe.’ He thought about that. ‘I guess I’ll not be all that safe, will I?’

Jones half-smiled. ‘No, you will not be totally safe. But we’ll keep you as protected as we can. There will be armed men with you, and I will be there.’ He leant forward. ‘But to avoid complications, you must keep it a secret from your family and friends. I’m uneasy about this young lady here, but as she has the same talents as you and me, then for her own protection I’d prefer to keep
her with us, until the danger is passed. Perhaps I can help you both develop your talents, when the danger is over.’

Lena met Mat’s eyes, and he saw her excitement and relief. He felt a tremor of fear for her, but also relief that she would be with him. And certainly Jones wasn’t treating her powers as ‘trivial’, no matter what Sassman had told her.

‘Then this is what we will do,’ Jones continued. ‘This evening you must rest. You will just have to miss the rest of your musical festival, I’m afraid. You are still badly bruised and will be in some discomfort for the next twelve hours. I will arrange us some support in the Waikaremoana area. You must conceal our plans from your parents and friends who would only worry. Then tomorrow, on the thirty-first, we will meet at 9 a.m., travel to Wairoa and then on to Waikaremoana, a journey of not more than three hours. I expect that we will have you home by 9 p.m., but it may be later.’