Taniwha's Tear (6 page)

Riki nudged Mat in the ribs as soon as the girls were gone. ‘Matty’s got a girlfriend,’ he snickered.

‘Cute one too,’ Damien agreed. ‘Dunno what she sees in you, but then, what do I know?’

‘Not a lot, bro. Not a lot.’ Riki looked at Mat. ‘So, what’s happening, dude?’

Mat forced himself to shrug.
Yes, Matiu Douglas, what’s happening? You’ve met a girl who might be part of the magical world, who might…MIGHT…like you. But you’ve also promised to help some long-dead taniwha. How’s that going?

‘We should get back.’
And I’ve got to work out what the hell to do about Haumapuhia.

Riki grinned. ‘Hey, Mat, I was just thinking…what’s the night life like here?’

Mat stared at him suspiciously. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What say we find out?’ He winked at him heavily. ‘Just the three of us, cutting some shapes in old-time Gisborne? Come on, you know you want to.’

Damien looked at him expectantly.

Mat slowly shook his head.
I’ve got to find out about the taniwha…Ten to one the answer is in Gisborne-Aotearoa…
He chewed his lower lip, studying the two eager faces before him.
Wiri would tell me not to be an idiot…

Finally he nodded. ‘As long as we’re back by half-seven for that dinner out, yeah? Okay. Let’s do it.’

T
his is a certifiably dumb idea,’ Mat told Riki. Second thoughts were galloping through his brain.

‘Nah, it’ll be easy. Just a little trip over, and if we get into hassles, we just leave. No problem.’

Mat grimaced. ‘It won’t be that simple. It never is.’

He and Riki were huddled together in the foyer of the hotel on Customhouse Quay, trying not to look furtive as they waited for Damien. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. The town was packed for the post-Christmas sales, with the queues of cars at The Warehouse extending for several blocks. Riki had returned the car, after dropping Mat at the hotel. His parents were out, according to a note his father had left, at a bar on Reads Quay for a drink and a significant-sounding ‘chat’. He had changed into jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie, and headed downstairs, where Riki was already waiting.

‘Hey, you sure you’re okay about doing this?’ Riki asked anxiously.

‘Nope.’ Mat was completely not okay with it, for any number of reasons. Not only were they risking blundering into all of the dangers of the Ghost World, where interlopers from the real world were often unwelcome, they also risked drawing the attention of some of the more dangerous denizens of that world, not all of them human. It also seemed to Mat to be a slur on that other place, to treat it as some kind of sideshow. It lacked reverence, to go sightseeing in a land of the dead and the mythic. It felt wrong, and he didn’t like it one bit.

‘But we’re still doing it, right?’ Riki was insistent.

Mat grimaced. ‘Yeah.’

‘Cos I don’t want to look like a dork in front of Damien. Ever since I told him, he’s been curious, and I swore it was real, and well, you know…If he lived in Napier and went to Napier Boys’ High, he’d, like, be my best friend, I reckon.’

Mat looked at Riki in surprise. He could have named five or six guys that Riki hung with at Boys’ High that he assumed were closer to Riki than anyone, even himself, though they’d grown closer recently. All rugby players, all Maori, youths he thought rated highest in Riki’s affections. That Riki valued Damien’s friendship over them was slightly incomprehensible.

‘We just get on,’ Riki said. ‘He’s a good laugh.’

‘Yeah, well, he is that.’ Mat winced, then swallowed. ‘I guess if we’re going to do this, we should just get on with it.’

Damien appeared beside them. He was wearing
black jeans and a hoodie, and looked as if he’d seriously considered wearing camouflage paint on his face. ‘Hey, guys,’ he said, sounding very, very nervous.

‘Hey, Devil.’ Riki and Damien touched fists. ‘You ready to go?’

‘Yeah, I think.’ He looked at Mat. ‘So, what do we do?’

Mat looked around. ‘Come with me.’ He led them towards the Turanganui River. The landing site where Cook and his men had arrived was on the north side of the main rivermouth, whilst they were on the south side. Three bridges spanned the rivers—a rail bridge closest to the sea, a road bridge just beside it, both straddling the Turanganui, and then another road bridge upstream on the Taruheru, before it met the Waimata. It was towards the rail bridge that Mat led them—it was barely used, even in daylight, and deserted at night.

There were plenty of people about—clumps of teens looking for fun, adults walking hand in hand, old couples walking dogs, and tourists everywhere. Gisborne was a provincial city, with only a handful of night spots, but it was a place with a relaxed attitude and an eye for fun. The annual Rhythm and Vines music festival, held during the three days leading up to the New Year, was the hottest ticket in New Zealand. The city was filling up in readiness.

A balmy warm evening was settling over the city, with next to no wind, and heat radiating from the roads and footpaths. There was no one else on the rail bridge as they went across, laughingly walking the rails, joking about trains coming. It was only sixty metres long and they were
over inside a minute, into the marina where the well-to-do had their yachts and the fishermen their boats. Mat pointed at a monument, topped by an obelisk, which was just to the seaward side on a small grassy knoll. ‘That’s the place. Cook’s Landing.’

‘Yeah, built to commemorate the first shooting of a brown guy by a white guy in this fair land,’ Riki sniffed.

‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’ Damien said.

‘Well, it’s kinda true,’ Mat put in. ‘Cook brought some of his men ashore, just over by the base of the bluff, where the beach used to be. The Maori came to meet them, and a whole bunch of warriors were suddenly swarming round them, trying to take their guns off them to look at, not knowing what they were. It got out of hand; a soldier panicked and shot one of the warriors.’

Damien pulled a face. ‘I suppose you reckon that was the soldier’s fault?’ he said to Riki with a grin.

‘Of course! He should have known he was supposed to bring a gift. A bit of koha, to sweeten the meetin’.’ Riki poked Damien in the ribs. ‘What’s ours is ours, an’ what’s yours is ours, Pakeha.’

Riki went to the monument and read the politically correct inscriptions in Maori and English aloud, but Damien just looked at Mat, shaking his head. ‘You really say you’re going to take us to another place?’

‘Yes. Do you still want to do this?’ Mat asked him.

The tall boy paused for a long time before nodding. ‘Who could say no?’ he breathed.

‘Then think about this. Where we are going, most
everyone you meet is dead.’ He let the word ‘dead’ hang in the air until it had sunk in.

Damien nodded with Riki, their faces finally serious. Mat decided that was a good thing, and continued. ‘I don’t know how or why it is, but Hakawau and Wiri say that the Ghost Land remembers things—places, people, stories. It’s like parallel worlds, if you want to go all science-fiction about it. Sometimes people can pass between, in certain places, or if they have certain abilities. But that doesn’t happen a lot. Just because we’re still alive here doesn’t mean that we can’t die there. If some thing goes wrong, we may never come back. Do you still want to do this?’

The other two looked sober now, all excitement draining away, replaced by a more serious demeanour. They both nodded though, still keen.

Mat sighed, and looked around. ‘Let’s go this way.’ He led them towards the foot of Kaiti Hill, where the site of a former cottage, dating back to the first settlement of Gisborne, used to stand in the lee of the hill. They left the road and climbed a little until they stood in a shadowy glade, amidst some old pine trees. They could still see the big loading gantries of the port, where a logging ship was being laden with timber. No one seemed to be watching them.

‘Put your hands on my shoulders,’ Mat told them.

Riki gripped his shoulder, and he gripped Riki’s, and then Damien added his arm, so that they were bound together. He closed his eyes, and called to the place
within himself where his power waited. Every thing faded, the sounds of the city falling to sleep, the smell of the river, the boom of the distant surf, and the sting of the wind. All was gone in the space of a few slow seconds, and replaced by the song of crickets, the sonorous boom of the ocean, and a warm gentle breeze. He slowly opened his eyes.

The gantries through the trees were gone, and so were the docks. The river no longer held a logging ship, but a low-lying, two-masted sailing vessel, which was being emptied of fish by a crew of seven. The trees were not the introduced pine of today, but weatherbeaten bushes of kowhai and pohutukawa.

The river divided itself about a massive rock. On the near side were just a few waka and a ferry pulled up against the shore of the river. The sea was much closer—evidently the modern harbour was mostly reclaimed land. On the far bank, the hotel on the inlet where Mat was staying was gone, replaced by a few wooden houses surrounded by little picket fences—the early Gisborne township. Men and woman promenaded, and went about their business. Carriages and wagons plied the streets, with the occasional vintage-model car.

Damien broke away from them, and stared about him like a blind man who had recovered his sight. ‘Omigod, omigod,’ he kept repeating. Finally he turned to Mat and said in a low voice, ‘I thought he was having me on, even up until a few seconds ago.’ He looked at Riki. ‘I’ll never
call you a bullshitter again, man.’ Then he stopped and thought. ‘Well…possibly.’

‘I’m overwhelmed.’ Riki could apparently view the greatest of miracles with a certain detachment and cool, but he still looked somewhat awestruck. It was, after all, his first time in Aotearoa too. He looked at Mat. ‘Far out, bro. You da man. You are the man!’

Behind them, someone coughed. They turned, and found a cottage, which had to be the historical one mentioned in the plaque, standing solidly behind them. A young woman with a strained pale face beneath a bonnet was staring open-mouthed. She had been working a primitive-looking clothes wringer, her clothes stained with sweat. An infant squalled at her feet.

‘Gidday, babe!’ Damien offered. ‘How’s it goin’?’

She snatched up the child and backed into the house.

‘You’ve still got it, man,’ Riki drawled. ‘That ole charm works just as well here. Who’d have thought?’ He slapped Damien on the back, while the Pakeha boy looked pained.

Mat led them out of the little glade, towards the docks. The fishermen eyed them suspiciously, and one of them, a dark-skinned Maori with long curly hair, pulled out a knife. That was enough to make Mat and the others freeze and lift their hands cautiously. The weapon was handled with calm competence.

The Maori with the knife approached cautiously, a Pakeha following him, holding a cosh. Both men were wearing rough cotton and linen clothes, streaked with fish blood. Their shirts were unbuttoned, revealing tanned
and lean bodies beneath. Both were barefoot, and reeked of fish.

‘What’re you gents doin’?’ the Pakeha asked in a strong English accent.

‘Erm…we’re from…uh…’ Riki started.

‘From the Other Side,’ the Pakeha finished for him, to his surprise. ‘We’d figured that. What do you want? And how did you get here; there ain’t any Holes round here.’

‘Ah, I brought us here,’ said Mat cautiously, unsure whether he should be telling the man such a thing.

The men’s eyes bulged a little. ‘Ruanuku?’ the Maori breathed. He stared at Mat. ‘Tohunga makutu?’

‘No! No! Not makutu,’ Mat replied hurriedly.

‘What’s makutu?’ Damien muttered.

‘Black magic,’ Riki replied. ‘You don’t want to confess to that around here, I guess.’

‘I’m looking for Hoanga,’ Mat said. ‘I need his help.’

The Maori and Pakeha men exchanged a look. They nodded slowly. ‘Hoanga?’ the Pakeha echoed, nodding. ‘Figures. He’s one of you.’ He lifted a hand, pointing northwest, around the inland side of the hill. ‘You need to go to Te Poho o Rawiri—that’s the meeting house at the marae around the hill. But take care. There was trouble there last night.’

Mat let out a relieved breath as both men lowered their weapons.

‘What’s your name?’ the Pakeha asked.

‘Matiu Douglas.’

They both raised their eyebrows, and looked at each
other again. Neither said another word as Mat led his friends away towards the marae. They just watched them carefully, as if anxious they should leave, but frightened to push it. It didn’t make Mat feel any better, to be feared like that.

‘Jeez, Mat, what do you mean, “we are looking for someone”?’ Riki muttered. ‘I thought we were just sightseeing.’

Mat gave him what he hoped was a knowing wizardly look. ‘Just stay with me on this one, guys.’

The land north of the river was dominated by a pa, further inland, but the marae was unguarded by fortification. Mat had expected Kaiti Hill, or Titirangi as many of the locals called it, would be surmounted with fortification, but it wasn’t. There were a few houses here, and paddocks with cattle and crops. Mostly Maori faces peered at them as they walked towards what had to be the marae. A great, red-painted archway, alive with carvings, showed the way to the timber-walled building beyond. The late sun lit the open space before it.

Children and youths ran about, playing chasing games, while their parents gathered in clusters over tea from colonial-era kettles poured in fancy English crockery. They eyed the trio suspiciously as they walked to the carved gate, Mat in front and the other two trailing. Mat could have sworn the paua eyes of the carving were watching him.

After an awkward few seconds, a limber young man
clad only in a flax skirt strode to meet them. ‘Kia ora, tauhou,’ he said tersely. Greetings, stranger. He ran his eyes up and down Mat’s modern clothing.

‘Uh, kia ora,’ Mat returned. ‘I’m…my name is Matiu Douglas. I need to talk to someone.’

The youth accepted the switch to English easily, but his eyes widened when Mat said his name. ‘Matiu Douglas? The one who slew Puarata?’

‘Um, sort of,’ Mat replied. ‘Wiri did it, really. I just helped. But don’t tell anyone, please. I don’t want a fuss. It’s supposed to be a secret that I’m here.’

The young warrior’s mouth contorted slightly. Then he stepped close, and pressed his nose to Mat’s in a hongi. He was maybe twenty, but looked like he’d seen a lifetime of struggle and danger. Perhaps he had. ‘Welcome to Te Poho o Rawiri, Matiu Douglas. You are our guest, and all we have is yours. Blessings upon you for what you did to bring about the demise of the tohunga makutu.’

Mat ducked his head. He hated taking credit for Wiri’s deed, but it would take too long to explain what had actually happened. ‘Uh, thanks.’

The young warrior greeted Riki and Damien, before turning back to Mat. ‘Now, if you will not let us celebrate your deed, then will you tell me how we can serve you? My name is Potou.’

‘I need to talk to someone about a legend of Waikaremoana. I was told to ask for Hoanga.’

‘Tuhoe lore? Certainly you need Hoanga.’ Potou nodded. ‘Come this way.’ He gestured around him.
‘Excuse the lack of welcome. We were attacked last night, by men of the south. They attempted a kidnapping.’ He looked grim. ‘We will feast on them tonight,’ he added, making Damien go pale.

‘John Bryce’s men?’ Mat exclaimed, then pursed his lips.