Taniwha's Tear (18 page)

‘What a shame.’

‘Really?’

‘No.’ Cassandra smirked merrily at him.

Riki held the vibrating hull with both hands, awed by the speed and power of the Ponaturi. So fast were they going that they were creating their own wind, which snatched at the words he shouted to Jones in front of them.

‘Hey, Merlin, what was that name Cassandra said? Bryce?’

Jones looked back at him. ‘John Bryce. He’s a warlock.’

Riki felt a sudden chill. ‘But why would Mat and Lena be with him?’

‘I have no idea.’ Jones’ voice was grim. ‘John Bryce is called “Murderer Bryce” by the Maori—“Bryce Kohuru”. It was at his instigation, and under his personal supervision, that the peaceful protest settlement at Parihaka was stormed in 1882. His men raped the young women, and beat the men then imprisoned them. They even sold a few off to some of the South Island municipalities as virtual slave labour. Bryce was a Minister of the Crown at
the time. After his death, he reappeared in Aotearoa, as ghosts do. Because of his Maori-hating reputation, he had powers attributed to him, and he built on those, away in the South Island, where Puarata’s influence was thin. He has built a powerbase in Aotearoa-Dunedin. The death of Puarata must have brought him north, hoping to steal what he can, and influence the outcome of the struggle amongst Puarata’s former lieutenants.’

‘And what about that Taylor dude, and Sassman?’

‘Sassman’s name is new to me, but I had heard that a black man was working for Bryce in the south, as a recruiter. I didn’t initially make the connection as he has never been known to leave the South Island. But it seems he has duped Mat and Lena into trusting him.’ He cursed softly under his breath. ‘As for Taylor, he’s a former officer of the Army of Virginia. Robert E. Lee’s army.’

‘But wasn’t that more than a hundred years ago…? Oh, yeah…Ghostland! Duh!’ Riki felt his mind reeling. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Bryce hired him and his squad to fight Sebastian Venn’s men.’

‘Why would the ghosts of Confederate soldiers come here?’

‘Because Venn has bought up most of the local mercenaries that’re willing to fight for a warlock.’ Jones chuckled humourlessly. ‘And Bryce likes his men to…how should I put it…disdain a brown skin. The technology levels are about right, so they don’t need so much retraining, and the equipment holds up to transfer
better.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Many former soldiers become mercenaries in the Ghostlands. It’s all they know how to do, most of them. A whole new world, a whole new life, and most people just repeat themselves. We never really learn.’ He shrugged. ‘Human nature, I suppose. For what reason they are going to Waikaremoana I don’t know, but I do know this. A taniwha can be a thing of great power, and a warlock that controlled one would be able to turn the tide of battle in their favour. I fear that Mat and Lena are in great danger.’

The Welshman turned forward again, his head on his knees. Riki turned back to try and talk to Damien, but there was a Ponaturi between them, paddling mechanically. He tried to smile at the creature, but it merely blinked at him, its alien eyes flashing. He swallowed, and turned forward again, lost in worry.

It was an hour later that they paused mid-stream, at a call from the front waka. They must have passed Wairoa township in the mists, and as they flowed upstream, the river seemed to be narrowing, but was surely still far deeper and wider than on the real-world side. The dog Godfrey had swum off into the mists, and they had not seen it again, but a gull kept landing near Jones and chirruping at him. Riki drew his own conclusions on that. As it flapped away again, he looked up from his gloomy reverie, and wondered what time it was. Then he blinked, as a strange sight loomed out of the mist.

They were overtaking a giant figure, trudging upstream,
waist deep in the river, dragging a net of fish, still thrashing in the bounds of the ropes. The man had to be three times the height of a normal man, with the breadth to match. He was dark-skinned, almost to the point of black, with deeply etched green tattoos on every inch of his skin. When he turned his face to them, it was filled with melancholy. Piriniha, the leader of the Ponaturi, called out to the giant, who responded in a desultory tone, and then he bent his head, and struggled onward.

‘What is that?’ Riki asked Jones.

‘Better to ask who,’ Jones replied. ‘Piriniha says that he is Maahu. He was the father of Haumapuhia, the taniwha. Remember what Cassandra read to us earlier? After he drowned his daughter and she was condemned to eternal imprisonment in stone, he went to the sea, and carved a river to her feet, which he filled with fish. Piriniha says his people see him at times, still carving the river, and bringing Haumapuhia his tribute, in remorse and misery for his sin.’

Riki stared back at the giant. ‘How long ago?’

‘Oh, it’s hard to say. Probably around six hundred years ago, judging by what I know of history since then.’

Riki let out his breath slowly. ‘Poor guy,’ he sighed.

Damien suddenly jerked some thing out of the bag of provisions they had bought in Wairoa, and stood up. ‘Hey, old man…here!’ He hurled a 1.25-litre drink bottle at the huge figure, who caught it easily in his massive hand. ‘For you. Drink it!’

The giant looked at the bottle curiously, then bit the
top off and drained it. Slowly he bared yellow teeth, and bowed his head in thanks, before his expression returned to melancholy. Damien sat down, looking pleased with himself.

‘That was my Pepsi,’ Cassandra complained.

Damien shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I prefer Coke.’

‘It wasn’t for you.’

Damien spread his hands. ‘The guy looked like he needed perking up. It was my good deed for the day.’ He turned and waved back at Maahu, already disappearing behind a riverbend as the waka ploughed effortlessly upstream. The giant raised a big hand in response, just before he fell from sight.

‘Positive karma,’ Riki commented, with a grin.

‘I don’t believe in karma,’ Damien responded. ‘Only cynicism.’ He raised his voice, leaning forward. ‘Mister Jones, can I ask you some thing? Let’s take a modern-day explanation for this Haumapuhia legend; basically it’s a story that explains a geographic feature in mythic terms, right? The lake’s a funny shape, so a taniwha must have done it. Right?’

Jones half-nodded. ‘Maybe. It’s not usually that simple. But go on.’

‘So,’ continued Damien, ‘if Aotearoa is built on memories and beliefs, which come first over here? The geographical feature, or the people in the story that explain the geographical feature?’

Jones chuckled. ‘I have no idea. I wasn’t around at the time. But you’re not the first to ask such a question. My
belief, and it is only a belief, is that people create the story, which then creates the “beings” of the story, who then populate the land, and enact the story. So let’s say the story began in, say, 1400 AD in our world. At that point, Aotearoa itself would create the characters, and they would live their lives in accordance with the story. Once they had fulfilled it, they would then be freed to continue living, and further events could then happen to them. But that is just my opinion, you understand? Cause and effect don’t work so well over here, laddie. But the suffering of Maahu is none the less for that,’ he added seriously.

They lapsed into silence again, as the river narrowed further, and hills enclosed them. The mists fell away, revealing a wooded, stark landscape, with sheer cliffs and broken hills enclosing and circling them closer. The current was swifter here, and even the Ponaturi were beginning to strain against it. High above, a ghostly sun hovered behind thickening clouds. Riki estimated it was 3 p.m. Godfrey reappeared, climbing out of the water and shaking himself dry over everyone, though the Ponaturi didn’t seem to mind, snickering among themselves. The dog leapt onto Riki’s lap, as if to cheer him up. He patted the dog, and wondered where they were. Glancing back he saw Damien, flexing his right hand impatiently, and Cassandra, cradling her laptop against her stomach, her eyes far away. But his mind was on the others.

Where are you, Mat? Where are you, Lena?

T
hey pounded along the paths, Dwayne leading, looping northeast, then descending to the left sharply and heading west. The trail dipped towards the lake in steep drops. In some places they had to slide on their backsides over rough earth and slippery grass. They were all dirty and their skin was slick when suddenly Dwayne shouted a warning.

‘Watch it! It drops away here!’

Mat came up on the big man, who was peering down through the under growth to where water glistened, about sixty yards below. Thirty seconds later, Lena and Sassman arrived, the girl clinging to Sassman’s arm. Mat felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t realised she was so physically distressed, resenting the American’s hands on her. She pugnaciously pulled away from the DJ’s hands as they came to a halt, and sucked in huge mouthfuls of air. ‘I shouldn’t have wagged phys-ed so much,’ she gasped.

‘Where are we?’ Sassman demanded of Dwayne.

The giant ex-marine cocked an eye at his companion. ‘Right where we’re supposed to be, of course, nigger.’

‘You shouldn’t call him that,’ Mat snapped without thinking.

Dwayne half-turned to Mat and smirked derisively. ‘I’ll call him what I want,’ he drawled. ‘He’s just a delicate lil’ artiste, can’ hurt no one, no how.’ He jabbed a finger down the slope to their left. ‘We go that way.’ He stalked away, contemptuously turning his back on them.

Mat looked at Sassman. ‘What’s up with him?’

Sassman glared after him. ‘Jus’ the usual. He’s from Alabama, an’ they don’ like blacks there.’

‘You shouldn’t have to put up with that,’ Mat said angrily.

Sassman nodded, gazing at the broad back of the giant. ‘Ain’t fixin’ to,’ he whispered softly. ‘Ain’t fixin’ to.’

They had not gone far along the trail when Mat saw subtle signs, and he called ahead to Dwayne. ‘Stop.’

The big man half-turned. ‘Yeah?’

‘This is sacred ground. It’s tapu.’ Mat pointed at a rock, which had a small serpentine shape carved into it. ‘This is a sacred place. We have to get permission to enter it.’

The American scoffed. ‘I don’t do “permission”, boy. Specially not from natives.’

‘Then you should,’ said Sassman, coming up behind Mat with Lena. They were on a more defined trail now, one that wound the cliffs overlooking the lake. The views were magical, but none of them were looking, intent on
the path ahead, still keenly aware that this area may be patrolled. ‘This is a Ghostland. If you break a tapu, you take on the curse laid down. Curses come true here.’

Mat nodded emphatically. ‘Hakawau told me that. We have to make an offering, or we could break the tapu. That would be bad.’

Dwayne spat, then shrugged. ‘It’s your show. What have we gotta do?’ He looked at Lena. ‘Sacrifice a virgin, maybe?’ He sniggered. ‘Or maybe just her virginity?’

Lena stared back with fury in her eyes. Mat put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Just a short prayer, and a small offering,’ he replied, before angry words could be exchanged.

‘When we’re done with this, he’d better watch his back,’ Lena muttered darkly.

Mat cast about himself, but all he could think of was to pull out a few dollar coins from his wallet. He knelt, and buried them in the turf beneath the carving. He noted the eye-spot in the carving, and reckoned it awake, and aware. He whispered to it. ‘Kia ora, Guardian Spirit. We give this offering, in due respect. We will not violate the sanctity of this place. Please permit us to enter.’

If there was supposed to be some sort of sign that the offering was accepted, he didn’t sense it.

‘Done, boy?’ Dwayne sneered. ‘Then let’s shift our arses.’

Mat clenched his fists as he straightened, and hoped that if the spirits that guarded this place were offended, their wrath would fall upon the ex-marine. Preferably soon.

But nothing happened, as he stood and watched that immense back. Wind whipped the trees, and sunlight glinted on wavelets. Distantly, a cannon fired and musketry rattled. Faraway shouts carried on the wind. Sassman plucked at Mat’s sleeve. ‘C’mon, brother. Can’t stay here all day.’

Mat had no idea what the Onepoto Caves were like in the real world, but he seemed to recall that they were small, shallow holes more like the burrows of giant rabbits than, well, the Mines of Moria. But here in Aotearoa the first cave mouth yawned gapingly, and the shadows swallowed the daylight and spat it out. Someone had hewn a gateway into the stone, goblin shapes that were wet and glistening, like the skin of reptiles. A huge tuatara, fully six feet from maw to back legs, and twice as long if you counted the tail, sat above the apex, basking in the late afternoon sun—a vestige of the dinosaur era, regarding them with unblinking eyes.

Dwayne looked at the beast and waved his knife threateningly, but it merely blinked at him, and cocked its head, keeping them all in view. Lena sucked in her breath when she saw it, and gripped Mat’s hand. But Mat was consoled by its presence, seeing some thing of the guardian spirit carving in the lizard’s shape. ‘We come in peace, kingi,’ he told it softly.

Dwayne looked at the cave mouth. ‘This the place?’

‘Yeah, it sure is,’ said Sassman, stalking up beside him.

‘So what, we wait here an’ these two go in?’

Sassman cocked his head, looking away into the cave, not meeting his eyes. ‘No, we all go in.’ He smiled slowly, and extended an inviting arm. ‘Why don’ you go first, big man?’ He reached into his pocket and handed Dwayne a torch.

Dwayne grunted and looked at him suspiciously, as he turned towards the cave. He stepped between the carved stone pillars, thumbing the flashlight on. Mat and Lena followed him in, hand in hand. The walls of the cave were wet, and Lena gave a small squeak when something moved on the wall, a giant cave weta fully as long as her hand. The insect scuttled into a crack as Dwayne’s light swept over it. The air was cool, and smelt loamy but fresh. The wind sighed around the mouth of the cave mournfully.

Dwayne pointed the beam at a low black opening at the back of the chamber, which narrowed like the inside of a man’s throat. ‘This the way? When do we stop and let this pair go on?’

‘Next chamber,’ Sassman breathed. ‘You ain’ afraid o’ no “tapu”, are you, big man?’

Dwayne spat. ‘No, I ain’t afraid of no damn tar-poo!’ He trod to the back of the cave, and hunched as he clambered into a smaller opening that descended into the earth. Sassman motioned for Mat and Lena to follow him. The sound of the wind outside was like a man drawing breath after a long pause—maybe years.

They ducked and clambered after Dwayne.

These were no hewn caves, but natural holes, unformed and untouched by men. Millennia ago, a massive chunk of the Ngamoko Range had slipped and broken into fragments the size of buildings. The caves were the holes formed as the block fragmented. They were awkward to traverse, with little or no flat areas.

The group had to scrabble on their haunches, perpetually grazing their heads against ceiling rocks and stalactites if they weren’t wary. Dwayne was selfish with his torch, scarcely aiding Mat and Lena and Sassman behind him, unless reminded.

All the while as they descended into the earth, Mat felt creeping movements about them, as though they were being stalked. The taste and the stench of fear slowly grew. He knew Sassman felt it, and Lena seemed almost petrified. He wondered what drove her on, and an ugly thought occurred.
What has she been promised?

He put the thought aside angrily.
She is here for me. No one has promised her anything…

Finally they stumbled into a chamber where the touch of man was evident. The space was perhaps fifty feet in length, and thirty feet wide. Someone had hewn the walls into the shapes of rough pillars, like the inside of a meeting house. The floor had been flattened and filled in with packed earth, at least along the middle, though there were holes on the sides, pits two or three feet wide that stank of decay. At the far end, two torches were lit on either side of a round carved boulder that was flat on top. Atop that boulder was a small dark round shape.

Who could have lit the torches? Who maintains them?
Mat felt the weight of unanswered questions beginning to bury him.

‘Ha! Easy!’ Dwayne snorted, already halfway to the boulder.

‘Wait!’ Mat called. ‘The tapu!’

Dwayne turned back towards him. ‘Boy, I don’t give a damn about your nigger “curse”. This ain’t no Egyptian pyramid. So what if some bad thing is gonna happen in ten or twenty years’ time? What’s it gonna be, premature balding? Bad luck at the roulette wheel in Vegas? It ain’t scarin’ me, boy. I don’ believe in any o’ that crap.’ He turned back towards the shape perched on the boulder. ‘But being the one that gives the boss his prize, now that’s real, and tangible, and immediate. Everything your lil’ tar-poo ain’t.’

He reached out to pick up the shape on top of the boulder.

The shadows blurred, and something smashed into the back of his skull with a sickening moist thud. The torch fell to the stone floor, though it didn’t go out. His knife hit the dirt a second later, and then his whole body pitched forward heavily. Something blurred into the shadows behind a pillar. Lena screamed, making the chamber throb.

It was Sassman that moved first, pulling a modern handgun, and backing out fast, his face wide with fright. Mat and Lena turned slowly, their minds numb. The DJ spun and scrambled away, leaving them alone with the fallen marine.