Taniwha's Tear (8 page)

‘Then how can we win?’

Hoanga smiled. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, Matiu Douglas. Our magic still obeys certain laws, and can be thought of as speeding or slowing the work of nature, which is both destructive and constructive. We can both preserve and destroy. Think of yourself as a knight, and your spirit is your armour. The armour of the tohunga makutu is weak, as they have devoted themselves to causing harm, and their ability to resist it is poor. On the battlefield, you are the toa, armoured in light, formidable. Your foes are shadowy archers, menacing at a distance, but vulnerable. Strengthen your armour, poai, so that their arrows fail, and smite them with righteousness.’ He leant closer. ‘The warlocks like to boast that nine in ten choose their path. That is true, for it is an easy path, with swift gratifications and cheap rewards. But the truth they evade is that the true tohunga ruanuku is worth ten or twenty of them on his own.’

It was the most encouraging thing Mat had heard in months.

T
hey left the marae soon afterwards. Riki and Damien were round-eyed, staring at the ferocious-looking warriors that lounged about, and were now averting their eyes nervously from the women for fear of antagonising the men. The children had poked at them curiously though, and Riki found he could understand much of the language, despite some dialectic difficulties.

The sun was falling towards the western hills by the time they returned to the river. They regained their normal jauntiness when they saw the reassuringly familiar-looking European settlements on the far side. Riki peered about. ‘Hey, Merlin, when you led us across the river, did you know there were no bridges here to get back into town? Bloody incompetent wizard you turned out to be!’

‘I was keeping you away from the bright lights of Gisborne,’ Mat replied, peering across the river in the gathering gloom. It was hard to tell; sometimes it seemed there was only a pa, an instant later it was chock-full of
houses, all low-rise white-walled timber. The city seemed to shift and melt into different eras, as if it were trying to decide what period it was that night. None of the options seemed to contain a lot of bright lights. ‘But I suppose we could have a quick look,’ he added when the others looked askance.

There were no bridges here, but there was a ferry tied to a nearby jetty, run by a Scotsman who seemed only slightly surprised to be given a five-dollar note dated 2002 to take them across. He didn’t smile much though. ‘You one of Venn’s?’ he asked Mat sullenly. ‘Or you with Kyle?’

The mention of Donna Kyle’s name set Mat’s heart pounding. He looked at the Scotsman, and then handed him a ten-dollar note instead. ‘Neither. Don’t ask any questions, and don’t tell anyone.’

The Scot half-smiled. ‘Right you are, young sir. Right you are. Welcome to Turanga.’ They looked at him blankly. ‘That’s the old-time name for Gisborne. You should be knowin’ that.’

A couple of Maori oarsmen ferried them across, eyeing them suspiciously. The Scot poked a finger at the massive rock in the middle of the river as they passed it. ‘Te-Toka-a-Taiau,’ he pronounced, his accent mangling the Maori words. ‘Old sacred rock. Your lot blasted it away when widening the harbour. Was no good came o’ that.’

Riki nodded, while the other two looked mystified. ‘They reckon taniwha guarded the river, but left when they blew up the old rock.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Local knowledge, eh.’

The ferry set them down where Reads Quay would be in the future, near a large and flash-looking timber building, which the signage simply proclaimed as ‘The Store (Prop. Capn G.E. Read)’. There were black-garbed constabulary everywhere. The boys felt utterly conspicuous in their modern clothes, but to their surprise, though they attracted some curious stares, no one challenged them. The streets were dry dirt, pounded hard by hooves and wheels of carts and wagons, hard-packed with crushed shells and gravel. The sound of the surf followed them everywhere, as did the eyes of shifty-looking men with unshaven faces and filthy clothes. There were few Maori here in the Pakeha settlement, and of those, many were drunk, to Riki and Mat’s embarrassment.

‘My grandpa told me the Maori that left the marae were the ones that ended up drunk on the streets all the time,’ Riki muttered. He took a bottle from the limp grip of a prone derelict and sniffed, then crinkled his nose. ‘Far out, man! That’s the worst whisky I’ve ever smelt,’ he exclaimed, with the air of an expert.

‘What’s it taste like?’ asked Damien.

‘I’m brave, not stupid. You try it.’

Damien wasn’t game for that. He did point out that not all the drunks were Maori, though. There were plenty of European victims of the bottle too. The streets had a rough, almost threatening feel to them, with hardly any women in sight now it was almost sundown. This was still a frontier town it seemed—a man’s world, rough and aggressive.

Riki nudged Mat. ‘No chicks,’ he whispered in a disappointed voice.

‘They’ll mostly be home in the kitchen, I reckon, an’ probably barefoot and pregnant too,’ said Damien, looking about him with wide eyes. ‘You wouldn’t think we were the first country in the world to give women the vote, seeing this place.’

The roads were wide, and there were few vehicles on the street. Mat had been told once that in the old days, people mostly were in their own homes soon after sundown, as there was no electricity to light the streets and often curfews were enforced. Whilst there was evidently no curfew here, the town was tiny and showed every sign of falling asleep imminently.

Nevertheless, there were still sights to see. A cluster of workmen with massive draught horses were shifting a wooden house on sliding foundations—a sled house. The breath of the horses sent plumes of steam into the evening sky. When they had settled the house into place, a raucous cheer went up amidst much backslapping. Further along, a preacher laid down hellfire Bible-law from atop a beer barrel to a small group of drinkers, all male, with expressions ranging from sceptical to fervent.

The boys followed the noise of a piano and many singers to a two-storeyed building near a clocktower that looked exactly like the one in modern Gisborne. They stared up in some confusion. A stout man with thick sideburns and a seafaring style of cap stopped beside them. His legs were so short they were almost bowed, and he walked
as if he were shipboard. ‘It’s a backwards echo,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Sometimes it’s here, sometimes it’s ain’t. Can’t say I’m taken with it.’ He looked them over. ‘Are you with Kyle or Venn?’ He didn’t sound like he welcomed either. ‘Or that prick Bryce?’

‘None of them, sir,’ Mat said quietly.

The man grimaced. ‘Well, an’ I thought ye looked a bit young, but who can say, eh? They’re all recruiting, recruiting heavily. All sorts of folk are in town, mostly fightin’ men. But ye don’ look like soldiery, so I thinks, who are these lads?’

‘We’re…um…sightseeing,’ Riki put in hesitantly.

The stout man snorted. ‘Are ye just? Well, I’ll be. Just a little bunch of tourists from t’Other Side, are ye? Jus’ innocents, hmmm?’

More than we even know, I expect,
Mat thought. ‘Sir, we don’t want that sort of attention,’ he said.

‘Don’t ye, lad? Well, you’ve come to the wrong feckin’ place. This is a bloody warzone.’

A carriage clattered down the wide dirt road, between the old gabled shops and tiny picket-fenced cottages. Mat felt a sudden premonition, but his limbs seemed to have turned to water. The stout man beside him didn’t hesitate, though. ‘Well, an’ speak o’ the devil. Get ye’selves inside, lads, if ye be what ye say.’ He shoved Mat towards a shop. Mat and his friends darted inside, to a tobacco store that reeked of its rich product. A young man with the sort of beard Mat had only ever seen in movies involving the Amish stared at them, but he didn’t move when Mat put
a finger to his lips. The three teens peered surreptitiously through a corner of the shop window.

The carriage had stopped just a few yards away, and a woman in colonial dress, all swirling skirts and boned corset, stepped down from the door. Her eyes swept the street, finally alighting on the stout man who had spoken to the boys. Her hair was hidden beneath a bonnet, but the pale face was unmistakable. She had an unhealed welt festering across the bridge of her nose, and a small tangle of moko on her chin. The last time Mat had seen her, she was unconscious on the floor of her mansion in Auckland, but there had been no time to kill her. Though he had never killed anyone in his life, and didn’t even know whether he was capable of such an act, he bitterly regretted that this woman still lived.

‘Miss Kyle,’ the stout man said coldly. ‘What brings you to Ol’ Turanga?’

Donna Kyle stared at the man before her with disdain. ‘Captain Read,’ she drawled with loathing in her voice. ‘My business is my own, and to the best of my knowledge, the judge threw out the warrant for me, so I am free to go where I please.’ Her eyes flickered about, causing Mat to duck back out of sight.

‘That may be so, Miss Kyle, but I’ll tell ye flat, ye’re not welcome here an’ never will be.’ Read hawked and spat. ‘Ye’d be best to clear out, I’m thinkin’. Ye can’t hide behind your dead master any more.’

Mat peered out and saw Donna Kyle rear above Read like a cobra about to bite. ‘Oh, you’re brave now, aren’t
you! I remember my master and I being welcomed here with the best of things, and worms like you crawling aside lest they got crushed.’ She stamped her foot. ‘Crushed underfoot.’

Read chuckled. ‘Livin’ in the past ain’t gonna dig ye out of the mire ye’re in, Kyle. I hear Seb Venn kicked yer ass up at Kaitawa. I hear ye’ve lost the Redoubt. They say Te Kooti has withdrawn his support, an’ the goblins are wavering. I’m thinkin’ that what comes around goes around, an’ ye ain’t much no more.’ Read looked about him, where armed constabulary had been quietly gathering at a distance, leaning on muskets and smoking watchfully. ‘The good folk of Turanga don’t want you or Venn here no more.’

Donna Kyle glared about her. ‘The good folk?’ She spat. ‘There are no “good folk” here, just land-stealing racist fools busy digging their own graves. I won’t forget this.’ She looked about her at the hard faces of the soldiers. ‘You hear? I won’t forget this. I will remember every face here, and I’ll know how to repay this insult. Kereopa Te Rau will know how to repay it too, just as he repaid Volkner. Remember him? Remember how he died?’ Her eyes burned about, and armed and battle-hardened though they were, none of the soldiers dared move.

Mat was sure it would come to blows, but then a soft voice spoke from within the carriage, in tones that barely reached his ears, but made him shudder all the same. ‘Peace, Donna. This is neither the time nor the place.’

It was the same voice that had spoken from the mouth
of the dead cat in the alley in Napier. Mat felt his heart hammering, and tried to pierce the shadows within the carriage with his eyes.

‘I rather think we will get a fairer welcome when we return victorious, perchance,’ the sly voice slithered out of the darkness.

Donna Kyle looked torn between violence and discretion. Eventually, though, she contained herself. ‘Good night, Your Majesty,’ she sneered at Read, then disappeared back inside the carriage. The coachman whipped the horses about, and stormed back down the road out of town.

Read walked about the circle of men, shaking hands with them, praising their steadfastness and courage. Finally he sauntered into the tobacco shop. He didn’t look at the boys, but went straight to the counter. ‘I’ll have a roll of yer best, Jonas.’

‘On the house, Captain,’ said the bearded youth in an admiring voice. ‘On the house.’

‘Oh, ye don’ go givin’ away yer product, Jonas lad,’ said Read, slapping a coin onto the counter. He let the owner light his wad, then turned to the boys. Mat noticed that for all his boldness, the hand holding his cigar was shaking. ‘So, lads. What’d ye make o’ that lil’ scene?’

Riki and Damien looked at Mat uncertainly. Mat thought for a second before replying. ‘You must feel very certain, to defy her, sir.’

Read’s mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘Not so certain as all that, boy. She’s still a snake, an’ she’s got plenty o’
fangs and venom in her. But she’s bad for business—she takes without payin’ and I can’t abide that. Venn at least pays ’is round, but he buys lads up and gets ’em killed. We don’ need either of ’em here to get by. An’ iffin we can keep the lads together, we’ve got guns enough to see ’em off. Let ’em fight in the forests and hills, jus’ so long as they don’ come here again.’

Mat nodded at that. But he had a question burning on his tongue. ‘Sir, who was the man in the carriage?’

Read shrugged. ‘I couldn’t see him, lad, and the voice was unfamiliar. One of her coterie of warlocks, I don’ doubt.’ He spat on the floor and worked the spittle into the grain with his boot thoughtfully. ‘Her newest alliance—I expect we’ll find out the hard way.’

‘Sir, how come she called you “Your Majesty”?’ Riki asked.

Read grunted. ‘Jus’ a nickname. “King o’ Gisborne”, they calls me. Jus’ a nickname. We’ve all got ’em.’

‘They call me “Devil”,’ Damien volunteered.

Read looked him over. ‘Really? Can’t think why,’ he commented drily. Damien sniffed a little and bowed his head. Read looked back at Mat. ‘I suggest if ye don’ wanna stick out like sore thumbs, ye might want to get some decent local garb. Tell the proprietor I sent ye, an’ ye’ll get a fair price. But better yet…don’ come back.’ He left in a thick cloud of reeking tobacco smoke.

Mat turned to the others. ‘He’s right; we’re babes in the wood here. We should go back. And Donna Kyle is here. I need to talk to Wiri.’

Riki spread his hands. ‘Aw, come on, man. She’s gone, and the night is still young. Let’s at least buy some clothes for next time, and try the local beer.’

‘You seriously want to go into a tavern full of drunken colonials, dude? Armed drunken colonials?’

Riki pulled a face. ‘When you put it like that…and no chicks in the bars.’

‘Oh, there’ll be chicks. The sort whose affections you pay cash for!’

Riki looked like a dog had bitten him. He shook his head, grimacing.

Damien screwed up his face too. ‘That kills my enthusiasm. At least on the new-Gisborne side we can cadge something halfway palatable to drink if we play our cards right. But let’s get some clothes; I reckon that could be a laugh and we’ll probably need them.’

They found a menswear shop just about to shut for the night four doors down, and each bought some linen trousers, a white shirt and plaid waistcoat for thirty dollars each. None of them followed the complicated way the owner converted the eighteenth-century shilling-and-pence price tags to modern dollars, and were left with a profound feeling of having been conned, a feeling that wasn’t helped when the owner threw in cloth caps and canvas bags for their modern clothes, for free.

Their new colonial-era clothes fitted passably well though, and they attracted fewer curious looks as they wandered past the tavern, wistfully listening to the music, and laughing at the drunken men staggering outside to
puke or pee against the fence at the back. Most were no older than them, with straggling baby-beards and unlined faces. They bought a pitcher of beer from a shifty-looking part-Maori man with moko on his face and forearms, who spoke reasonable English. ‘Got the Queen’s tongue from me father,’ he told them with a leer. ‘Can I get ye another mug? Better price than inside, ’tis, an’ assumin’ they’d even serve ye.’