Taniwha's Tear (7 page)

Potou threw him a sideways look, but said nothing. He led Mat and his friends away from curious eyes, behind the meeting house where only carved figures stared at their passing. ‘See how some of the carvings have a dot in the middle of the eyes, while others are blank?’ Potou remarked. Mat nodded. ‘The ones with the eye-dots are awake. You need to be careful of them. Treat them with respect.’

‘What are the carvings of?’ Mat asked.

‘Taniwha.’ Potou grinned. ‘Must’ve been a shock to a modern boy like you to find all this was real, eh?’

Mat nodded deeply. ‘You’ve got no idea.’

Potou smiled again. ‘Actually, I had a similar shock when I found out about your world.’ Mat took that in with a blink. Potou laughed. ‘I was a stillborn child. The only world I’ve lived in is this one.’

Mat swallowed in surprise, which seemed to please Potou immensely. He cheerily pointed up the slope behind the meeting house, where a church sat, a tiny wooden building set at the foot of Kaiti Hill amidst the bush. ‘I’ll take you to Hoanga, our tohunga wairua.’

Potou led Mat to the door of the church, and called out a greeting. He was answered, not from the church,
but from a large mound that Mat had taken for an old rock, covered in moss and debris. It shivered suddenly, and became a cloaked man sitting cross-legged.

‘Potou, open your eyes! I am here.’

The three teens gaped.

Potou ducked his head. ‘Tipuna-tane, I bring a visitor, Matiu Douglas, he that—’

‘I know who the guests are, Potou. I am not deaf to every thing that happens here.’ The old man grinned crookedly at Mat. He had a lean tattooed face so deeply brown it was almost black. Thin grey hair and a straggling white beard framed a face well suited to smiling and sharp words. ‘Fetch me some tea, Potou. Take Riki and Damien with you. The words I speak with Matiu are not for them.’

Riki looked questioningly at Mat, who nodded.
We have to trust him.
Riki and Damien looked like they were remembering what Mat had told them about the perils of getting separated. They went hesitantly with Potou, who clapped them both on the shoulder in what looked to be meant as a reassuring gesture. Mat watched them go, suddenly ill at ease.

‘Last night, soldiers, men of Dunedin, tried to take me alive,’ Hoanga observed. ‘But this place is better warded than they expected.’

Mat looked at him, waiting. ‘Why did they do that, sir?’ he was forced to ask after a long pause.

‘Why indeed? We asked the ones we captured that. Eventually one spoke. He said a word I’d not heard in a long time, a word he’d overheard his master whisper.’
Hoanga leant forward. ‘The word was “Haumapuhia”.’

Mat felt a thrill of fear course down his spine.
Oh crap, they are already on to it. John Bryce’s men, on the same trail as me…

Hoanga looked up at him. ‘Sit, Wiremu Matiu Douglas, sit here, where I can see you without cricking my neck.’ He patted the ground beside him. Mat sat, and Hoanga looked him up and down, then pulled out a pipe and lit it. He asked Mat who his father and mother were, and of what iwi. His nose crinkled when Mat told him he was Ngati Kahungunu.

Mat recalled that his iwi had helped the British against Te Kooti, a Maori leader, born in the Gisborne area, who was feared by Maori and Pakeha alike, so he guessed that he couldn’t expect his tribal background to make him any friends here.

But Hoanga said nothing on the subject. He glanced up at the church behind him. ‘Surprised to see an old tohunga living near a Christian church, I suppose?’

Mat looked about him. ‘I guess.’

‘The priest is a friend of mine. We discuss our beliefs until late at night, over good whisky from your time. Don’t ask me how we get it.’ Hoanga grinned, then looked thoughtful. ‘You know, neither he nor I have met our gods here, neither my Tane and the gods of my ancestors, nor he his Jesus. We dwell in an afterlife yet remain none the wiser. It is what you Pakeha call “ironic”, I suppose.’ He looked back at Mat. ‘So, how can an old, but not-wise, holy man help you?’

Mat took a deep breath.
Here goes…
‘What can you tell me about the taniwha Haumapuhia?’

Hoanga nodded. ‘So you want to know about her as well, do you? I thought you might. Well, you I will talk to…’ The old man took a deep breath and stared out into space. ‘She was the taniwha that carved Lake Waikaremoana, but perished at the touch of the sun. Or so the Tuhoe say, and it is their tale. We are Ngati Porou here, but I know some Tuhoe lore. You must tell me something first, though—what is this old story to you?’

Fair enough. Mat told him about his encounter with Kauariki, and his promise to help her prevent the taniwha from falling into the hands of Puarata’s warlocks. ‘Kauariki said that the spells Puarata set about the taniwha will expire when the new moon rises on New Year’s Eve. It is the twenty-seventh of December, I have only until New Year’s Eve to save the taniwha, and I have no idea how to do it.’

Hoanga frowned. ‘Then that explains last night’s attempted raid. Bryce too seeks the taniwha. A taniwha at the command of any makutu would be a great ill. I know how it could be done, too. When I was young, I fought against Puarata’s warriors in the Ureweras, and contended with his powers.’ He shuddered slightly. ‘I was overmatched, of course, but I survived. I came here for refuge, and was protected by this holy place. There is a tradition of sanctuary in churches, and a tapu on violence in a meeting house. I have been safe here, but also trapped. Puarata knew I was here and kept me penned in.’

He traced a finger in the dirt, pondering. ‘To bring life back to the stone taniwha would require an undoing of the curse. These elements would be needed: the essence of the taniwha, the water of the sacred stream where the taniwha was transformed, and a sacred token of the tohunga whose intercession turned Haumapuhia into a taniwha in the first place.’

‘Kauariki didn’t say anything about a tohunga,’ Mat observed.

‘Kauariki may not have known. But I have walked the lake about, and I know its secret lore. Maahu’s tribe had a tohunga. When Hau’s spirit cried out as she struggled beneath the waters of the sacred stream Waikotikoti, the tohunga heard, and spoke to the gods, enabling the transformation. Why he did so, I do not know. Perhaps Hau had some power herself that he wished to preserve? Maybe he sought to recreate her as a taniwha for his own purposes? Regardless, he it was that interceded between the drowned girl and the gods, and through his intercession she became a taniwha, little good though it did anyone.

‘When Maahu realised that his tohunga had played a role, he was even more wrathful. Bad enough he had drowned his child, but to have her so transformed shattered him. He was beside himself with rage and slew the tohunga. For a time, he kept the tohunga’s shrunken head as a trophy, but later he repented and laid the head to rest, in the Onepoto Caves, near to his daughter’s stone body.’

Hoanga paused as Potou brought tea. Damien and Riki were not with him, but Potou said they were talking to some of the girls, which sounded likely and didn’t comfort Mat at all.

He had to smile at the Bell Tea brand on the tea bags though. Someone liked their tea modern around here. He paused for thought as he sipped the strong sweet brew. ‘You’re saying I need the head of the tohunga to free the taniwha, and it is in caves only a few yards from the taniwha?’

Hoanga nodded. ‘But it is guarded. A tohunga’s preserved head is still powerful, even when the tohunga himself is dead. It has acquired protections for itself, or Puarata would surely have gone there himself. I believe that only one, such as you or I, a tohunga ruanuku, may succeed. The Onepoto Caves are a dreaded place in Aotearoa. One does not go lightly to those caves, Matiu. There is a deadly spirit there that destroys all who enter.’

‘I’m not a tohunga,’ Mat protested.

Hoanga just smirked wryly and inclined his head.

Mat ducked his head, then looked up at the old man. ‘If Puarata is dead now, are you free to go to Onepoto?’

Hoanga shook his head. ‘No, Matiu Douglas, I cannot. I would be of no use to you, for I have over the years bound my powers to this place, to keep it safe from Puarata and his ilk. Beyond this marae, I am nothing. I am no longer sure I can even leave this place now.’ Hoanga put a hand on his arm. ‘Do not fret, Matiu Douglas. You are the Heir of Ngatoro. You will find allies.’

Not that again…
‘Why do people keep calling me that?’ Mat demanded.

‘Have you not felt it? The lost tohunga, Ngatoro-i-rangi, has laid his touch upon you. I perceive his essence, permeating and strengthening your aura. He is with you, even now.’

‘But I’ve never met him,’ Mat protested, fighting a nervous urge to look over his shoulder. ‘I don’t feel anything.’

Hoanga peered at him. ‘Can you make fire?’ he asked.

Mat frowned. ‘Yes.’ He hesitantly called a flame to his fingertip, as he had with Lena earlier.

‘How did you learn that?’ Hoanga enquired.

‘It just kind of occurred to me. In a dream,’ he confessed. ‘Then Pania showed me how to do it properly.’

Hoanga gave him a gap-toothed grin. ‘Then you have already felt Ngatoro’s touch on your mind without knowing. Calling fire is one of the first things a young ruanuku apprentice learns, but few can learn it without guidance.’

Mat remembered the dream when he had realised he knew how to do it. It wasn’t a comfortable thought, that someone was whispering ideas into his head, even if they wished him well. ‘But how can I become a tohunga? I’m not even fully Maori.’

‘The word “tohunga” just means “expert”, loosely, as well as “priest”. There are many types of tohunga,’ Hoanga explained. ‘Some are made, and some are born. Many learn carving or moko, and have no mystical powers
beyond skill and learning. But a tohunga ruanuku or a tohunga wairua, a wizard or spirit-caller, is born, not made.’ He tapped Mat’s knee. ‘We are kin, in a way, you and I. We have been born to the gift. We have to learn to master it, lest it masters us.’ He chuckled. ‘Oh yes, I am still learning, Matiu Douglas, even at my age.’

Years of slow, patient mastery of arcane lore unfolded in Mat’s mind, oppressive and dull. He groaned softly before he could stifle it. He looked up anxiously, but Hoanga just snickered.

‘I know what you feel, Matiu. But there is joy in the journey, and in the destination. Do not fear it. And as for your heritage, the old bloodlines are thinning, it is true, but new strains can also be strong. It may be that your heritage of two cultures is what is important.’ He leant forward and jabbed with his pipe for emphasis. ‘You have a gift and would appear to have a powerful spirit guide,’ he told Mat. ‘Accept, don’t resist.’

It sounded uncomfortably like the advice Kauariki and everyone else seemed intent on loading on to him. Mat put it aside. ‘So John Bryce sent men to try to find out what you’ve told me?’

‘So it would seem. You must take care. And you must learn more, so that you can protect yourself.’

‘There is a man called Jones coming to teach me, next month.’

Hoanga nodded. ‘Jones, eh? The Welsh wizard. What I have heard of him is good. He will teach you the Celtic paths, and Pakeha forms of magic. You will also need
a tutor in the arts of the tohunga wairua, though. I will speak to Hakawau on this.’

Mat guessed that for Hoanga, contacting Hakawau wouldn’t involve telephones or emails. The old man was unnerving, but it was also reassuring to know there was help about. At least he knew a little about how to free Haumapuhia now, and some of the dangers.

Maybe I can phone Wiri, and get him to send this Jones here to Gisborne.
Mat let out a long breath. It was good to have someone older and wiser on his team. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Matiu Douglas,’ said Hoanga in a formal voice. ‘You are at the beginning of a journey. I have seen others take that journey. Some fall by the wayside and some become paralysed by fear. Many end up dead. Others become bent old men trapped on marae. Some choose the glamour of power, and turn to makutu. You are young, but the choices you make now will affect who you become.’ He tapped Mat’s knee with the stem of his pipe. ‘What manner of man will you choose to be?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Mat said, keeping his eyes downcast. He didn’t feel old enough to answer such a question. ‘Someone who does the right thing, I hope.’

It didn’t feel like a clever reply, but it seemed to satisfy the old tohunga. He nodded slowly. ‘Good and evil aren’t easy to tell apart sometimes, boy. Even my friend the priest can’t claim to understand all the nuances, and he thinks he’s an expert. I like to think on it like this: the power of the land is like a river, and it flows where it wants. Some try to tap into that flow. Others dig ditches
and try to channel it their way. Some tip poison into the waters, while others drink greedily. But all of that is makutu, boy. It is all selfish. The true tohunga ruanuku learns to swim, and is happy to go where the river takes him. You follow?’

Mat shook his head.

Hoanga chuckled. ‘Neither did I at your age. It becomes clearer as you get older, boy. I’ve almost got it now,’ he finished softly. ‘You’ve got a wise head for a young man, and you’ve got Ngatoro-i-rangi looking over your shoulder, whether you see him or not. If you keep in mind that you’re here to serve others and not yourself, and that knowledge is wisdom, not power, then you’ll do okay.’ He puffed on his pipe, and fell silent, gazing out over the only view he had probably seen in all the later years of his life.

Is this what I’ll come to as well, trapped in a single place through one slip, or one powerful enemy?
It was a depressing thought. ‘But how can I fight without using makutu?’ Mat asked. ‘Fitzy says all magic that causes harm is makutu, but if I’m attacked, how can I defeat an enemy without harming them?’

Hoanga half-smiled. ‘Your friend is only half-right. To wield makutu is not to become makutu, Matiu Douglas. Makutu is two things—it is the tool of wreaking harm, and the ethos that empowers it. The trick is separating the two, and wielding it, without succumbing to it.’

Mat looked at him helplessly. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Think of a gun. It is a thing that wreaks harm. It is a
form of makutu. Not magical makutu, but a scientific makutu, just as deadly. But good men wield them, and do good in using them. The problem is that we can come to enjoy our “righteous smiting” too much, poai. Then we are in peril. Some makutu is much more intensely personal than a gun. With the strongest makutu, you sense the pain you inflict as a physical sensation of pleasure, turning the act into a form of depravity.’