The Spanish Helmet (11 page)

Tuesday, June 1, 1526

We have struggled for the last few days, sailing under sunless skies in bitterly cold conditions. The whole crew, I include myself, have lost the joy we had felt after our successful navigation of the straits. We are approximately 157 leagues from Cape Deseado, where we left the straits behind us. Earlier today, a gale once again took hold of us and separated us from the rest of the fleet. The watch briefly spotted the pinnace Santiago in the far distance, but we have lost sight of her since. We are now alone in a lonely and cold ocean. Even the fine wines which I enjoy with the pilot and master in the evening are doing little to restore warmth to us. At least I have the companionship of these two men, who have become my friends. Without them, I fear this would be a spiralling journey into a personal hell. We pray we will meet with our fleet again soon.

Sunday, June 6, 1526

It is the fifth day since we have seen any of the rest of the fleet. I can only presume that they are either in front or behind us and that we will find each other again on our arrival at the Moluccas. Our instructions tell us that if we are to be separated from the fleet we should sail on to the Moluccas and await the others there. Accordingly, I have set a course for the Moluccas. On arrival there, we will wait one month for the others. If they do not arrive, we will assume them lost and continue home to Spain.

 Provisions are good. We have plenty of biscuit and wine from our original supplies, and have also a number of seal, preserved fish, and other preserved meats that were transferred from the Sancti Spiritus when she foundered. Among the men who have joined
us
from other ships are a carpenter, a cooper, and a steward.

The weather is improving as we continue north-west. The sun is warming our bodies and our souls. The winds are light and favour good sailing onward to our goal.

Matt sat at the breakfast table munching on a bowl of muesli mixed with berry yogurt - one of his favourite breakfasts and midnight snacks.

‘How did it go with your father then?’ Warren, sitting opposite, asked through a mouthful.

‘Hmm.’ Matt swallowed; speaking with your mouth full wasn’t the
done
thing. ‘It didn’t go, actually. I met my half-sister though.’

Matt went over the details of his afternoon in Devonport, leaving nothing out. He knew that Warren was interested as both a friend and a father-figure. He made sure not to make Warren feel that his place in Matt’s life was diminished in any way.

‘I’m sure your mother will be pleased to hear it’s going well for you.’ Warren said.

‘She doesn’t know yet. I didn’t even tell her I was coming to New Zealand.’

‘Oh.’

Warren looked like he was at a loss for words. Matt saw his cue and changed the subject.

‘So, what’s on the agenda for today? You’ve got the day off, right?’

‘I do,’ Warren said, looking up and smiling, ‘I thought maybe I could take you on the grand Celtic tour of Auckland and her surrounds.’

‘Sounds great.’
Matt was pleased he might get his hands dirty some more. Aside from the mirror, he hadn’t been presented with any compelling reason to believe that Warren’s theory was correct. He really hoped that today might put a change to that.

‘I want to show you the Auckland Alignments.’

‘Sure, you mentioned those.
The trig in Silverdale.
It sounds interesting.’

‘It is. Some committed researchers have located a number of trigs, tor mounds and the like. Sighting stones, small henges. They line up perfectly with the equinoxes and are quite impressive when properly observed.’

Matt was genuinely interested. If there were indeed some fine examples of henges and alignments like the ones Warren was describing, it would raise the question of previous habitation of the area by Celts or another ancient civilisation. At least, whoever created such features was likely to have had contact with someone like the Celts or Mayans at some point in their history.

An hour later, Matt and Warren walked around the crater rim of Mount Wellington, one of Auckland’s many volcanoes. Warren stopped Matt as they approached a small wooden footbridge that crossed an unlevel part of the rim.

‘What do you see there?’ Warren asked, pointing at the V-shaped indentation in the rim.

‘I’m not sure. Is it man-made or natural? I’m no volcanologist.’ He laughed.

Warren remained deadly serious. ‘That’s a sighting trench. From over there, on that hill to the east, the sun sets into this trench on the days of the vernal and autumn equinox.’ Warren was clearly proud of his knowledge.

Matt looked over to the hill Warren had pointed out and back at the trench beneath him. He had to admit it was interesting, though he saw a slight flaw in the theory.

‘Supposing you didn’t discover the sun setting in the trench from that vantage point, you could just choose another marker to better suit, right? Like that little knoll
there,
or the outcrop of rock there.’ Matt pointed to two other features.

‘Yes, but if you look over there to the west, see the hill just to the left of that big road running through there?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘From there, Mt Albert, where a trig stone was discovered by a British surveyor a few decades back, you see the sun rise through the trench on the equinox days.’

Matt turned to look at the hill to his east, and back to the one at the west. ‘It’s a perfect line?’

‘It’s a perfect line.’

‘Are there more like this?’

‘I could drive you around Auckland sites all day. The north-south alignment, which goes beyond Silverdale and way to the south of us here, is over eighty miles long. What’s more,
there’s
a couple of perfect examples of tor mounds on the southern part of that alignment.’

‘It’s compelling stuff, but alignments like this are too hard to confirm. You know that from all the work in France and back home. Without the evidence of the mirror, you would never get this theory off the ground.’

‘I know. I’ve been trying for years.’

Matt felt sorry for Warren. But the truth remained. If Warren hadn’t been in possession of the mirror, Matt would have also laughed off his theory as wild speculation. A theory like this, without hard evidence, was a non-starter. Theories with some concrete evidence, evidence demanding an investigation, like the Spanish Helmet, the Tamil Bell, and now the Celtic mirror, those were the kinds of theories you could sink some investigative teeth into.

They returned to the car and wound down the hillside. ‘What about Maori tradition, do they talk about an earlier people?’

‘They do. Well, they did. It isn’t necessarily kosher to discuss them anymore, but there was a race of red-haired, fair-skinned people. The Maori called them the Patu-paiarehe. Now they’re referred to as the mountain fairy tribe. Many deny they ever existed at all, but other elders and tribal leaders remember the stories their parents told them. They know they existed.’

‘Is there documented evidence of their existence, or of Maori talking about them?’

‘Many of the early settlers wrote about them. These writings are still to be found in the libraries and archives. Of course, the early settlers were quite ready to listen to oral tradition. They had no reason to make things up, or to try and hide what they learned behind untruths.’

‘
Uhuh,
and what about more recently?’

‘There’s a recent document from a borough council outlining a brief history of an old mill in the region. The mill was used to crush bones into fertiliser in the 1860s. The bones were apparently taken from the Auckland burial caves, caches of ancient Maori bones. The Maori, at the time, reportedly had no issue with the bones being taken because they were ‘not the bones of our people.’

Warren drove them back over the harbour bridge. Matt thought about what he had seen and learned today. It was a lot to take in.

‘There are certainly a lot of questions surrounding your history Warren, I’ll give you that. I just hope that we can find some solid evidence in one direction or the other. The mirror is a good start, but I can’t help but think we need something to support it.
Something to really set the theory in concrete and build a decent foundation.’

‘We’ll work on it, Matt. Let’s call it a day and go home. We’ll go to a few more sites in a couple days time, see if I can convince you it’s worth sticking with this.’

Matt let the words sink in. He wondered about sticking with this himself. The last thing he needed was an embarrassment. He hoped that Warren could convince him. At the moment though, Warren wasn’t quite there. It was a concern. If Dwight Pick was privy to what Matt had seen today, or hadn’t seen, Matt wouldn’t hear the end of it. Dwight would tear him, Warren, and the theory to pieces. Maybe when Julia came back with some promising information about the mirror things would be different.

  * * *

Hemi was bored. Following Warren Rennie and Matthew Cameron around while they looked at stones was not his idea of a fun day out, but Hemi only had himself to blame for this because he chose to follow them. Rennie had given him the day off, again. It was obvious why.

You don’t need me when you can feed him your bullshit and keep an eye on him yourself, do you?

 
Hemi could imagine Rennie also used more of his scare tactics, telling Cameron they were being watched by the Government. If only he knew. Hemi had to smile at the irony of that thought but couldn’t get over the cheek of the bastard. Fancy inviting someone you had fooled into believing was your friend to a country on the other side of the world to take part in a wild goose chase. No doubt Rennie was setting up Matthew Cameron to take the fall when his absurd bloody theory didn’t come to fruition. An innocent man goes down in place of Warren Rennie. Bile rose in Hemi’s throat and he tapped the steering wheel in time with his racing pulse. The situation was all too similar, memories came flooding back.

Hemi was a happy seventeen year old finishing high school. His future wasn’t paved with gold but it was promising enough and he made his father very proud. Dad was the local mean cop,
Robo
-cop they called him. He wasn’t a much liked man, but he was honest and fair. Hemi loved him to bits. It was just the two of them.

Hemi killed his mother during childbirth. Dad never said it like that, but Hemi knew he was to blame so he held on to his Dad with all his might. But that year, it all changed. Hemi’s father got involved in a case investigating some racist crime. Thanks to his efforts, two Pakeha went down for the crime. But a man named Warren Rennie stuck his head
in,
accusing Hemi’s dad of tampering with evidence to make sure the local Maori got the result they wanted. Rennie’s efforts paid off. A suspension and quick trial followed and Dad ended up behind bars, albeit only for eight weeks. He was dead within one. Tough cops don’t last in common jails.

Hemi went off the rails when he learned of his father’s death. Dad’s words from a week earlier rang in his ears. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll watch over you. I’ll always be there.’ Where was he now? Was he watching over Hemi? None of it made sense. All Hemi knew was that Warren Rennie caused his father to be in jail. He was certain Rennie knew nothing about him, and wouldn’t have cared anyway. So Hemi decided to make it his life mission to get revenge, or justice as he preferred to call it.

The problem was
,
Hemi would never break the law. If there was one thing his father had thoroughly stamped into that head of his, it was that you never break the law, not for any reason. So if you can’t break it, you get yourself above it. That meant you need to be a top cop or an agent for the NISO. Those normally get selected from the best of the best.