Taniwha's Tear (4 page)

Kauariki grasped Mat’s chin. ‘Now though, all has changed. Puarata is gone and much that he made is crumbling. This includes the enchantments that prevent access to Haumapuhia. They are fading, and the light of the new moon will sear them away completely, on New Year’s Eve when the new moon rises. Puarata’s former lieutenants are at war with one another, picking over their old master’s treasures for weapons and secrets. If my daughter is not freed by moonrise, they will unravel how to enslave her. Only you can prevent this.’

Only me…
Mat groaned. ‘But, why me? Surely there must be any number of people you could ask about this? I’m on holiday…my parents…my parents are trying to get back together again. I can’t…I can’t get involved.’
He bowed his head, feeling ashamed, and helpless.

The old woman gripped his shoulder with talon-like strength. Her voice held a twisted smile. ‘There is no one else, Matiu Douglas. The old heroes are all gone, or don’t come here. I have called and called, but none hears me. Only you. And you are the Heir of—’

‘No! No, I’m not!’ Mat cried. ‘I barely even know who Ngatoro is. Some old-time tohunga…I’ve never seen him. I don’t even know if he is still alive. I’m certainly not his heir.’

‘But you are. I can see it, as clearly as I see your face. It is woven into the light of your being. He was the greatest tohunga of all time, and his hand is upon you.’

Mat shook his head mutely.

‘Please, Matiu Douglas. For my daughter. For my family!’ Kauariki pleaded. ‘We wish to go on, to find Reinga at last. And my daughter yearns for the sea. She is owed a life.’ Her voice was thick and quavering, yet still retained that authority of the wife of a chief. A voice used to command, forced to beg. ‘Please, will you help us?’

Mat bowed his head. He had barely touched his newly found powers in three months, for fear of what they might bring upon him and his family. It had been easy, surrounded by school, with exams to do and friends to hang with. The longer he let it be, the easier it got, to put it all aside and get on with life. Now wasn’t a good time, not with his parents’ truce so fragile. Yet…

‘I don’t know how to help. I don’t know!’ He had never known how to refuse another person. Riki always told him
he was soft-hearted. He found words tumbling from his mouth before his mind had formed them. ‘Okay! Okay! I’ll try,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘I’ll try.’ He gulped. ‘I promise.’

Kauariki’s face hardened. ‘I hear your vow, Matiu Douglas. The gods hear. I hold you bound.’

Mat groaned.

‘In five days, when the moon rises, the stone taniwha will be laid bare, at the mercy of Puarata’s makutu-warlocks. Help her, Matiu Douglas. She was a wilful girl, but she was innocent. Her life was torn from her twice, once as a girl and a second time as a taniwha. Save her…redeem her.’

He bowed his head, wishing he were anywhere but here. He felt Kauariki’s hand on his shoulder, and she whispered in his ear. ‘Please, we need you. You have a gift, so become a giver. If you need aid, go to Hoanga, in Old Gisborne. He cannot hear my call, and I cannot go to him, for I am bound to this place, but he will aid you. Remember the name—Hoanga. Please, we rely on you.’ She sounded as if having to beg aid was wrenching at her soul.

Abruptly she rose, and walked into the river, and kept walking as her shawl dissolved about her, until she was gone, below the surface, and he was utterly alone. He felt a creeping chill enclose him, and his thoughts clouded over. He closed his eyes and wished it all away.

‘Mat?’

Tama’s voice intruded, and he shook his head groggily. Suddenly everything was back: the traffic, the buildings,
the shouting of children and parents, a blare of music from a car-speaker.

‘There you are! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to wander off?’ Tama Douglas looked grumpily at his son. His cellphone was clenched in his fist as if it was a stone he’d like to skim on the river. He held a brown bag in his other hand, which was slowly turning transparent from the hot fatty pie inside. ‘I got you some lunch.’

‘Dad, it’s thirty degrees. I don’t want a hot pie.’

Tama grunted. ‘Best pies in New Zealand,’ he noted irritably. He sighed and took some money out of his pocket. ‘Okay, I’ll have it. Go get yourself something you want, and then we’ll hit the road. I want to be in Gisborne by three.’

Mat took the money and got up. ‘How far is it to Waikaremoana from here?’ he asked.

Tama frowned. ‘About an hour. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing.’
Unless you count promising to rescue a centuries-dead taniwha from a bunch of warlocks within five days as ‘something’.
He headed back to the bakery, as Tama’s cellphone began to ring again.

It was going to be the worst family holiday ever, Mat could tell. They were supposed to have left Napier at nine that morning, for the three-hour drive to Gisborne, and meet Mum for lunch. But of course, something had come up. It always did.

This time it was the non-molestation case, but the
previous year it had been an escaped prisoner giving himself up to them at their house, and two years before they had an alleged rape victim crying in the lounge. It was the sort of thing that had wrecked Tama and Colleen’s marriage. Now they were running three hours late. He hoped Dad had let Mum know.

The road to Gisborne was one of the slowest in New Zealand, full of precipitous climbs and drops, but there were spots where the views of the coast were spectacular. Gisborne was the first city west of the International Date Line, which made it officially the first city to see the sun every day. When the old millennium had ended, visitors had flocked there to claim to be first to feel the rays of the new era, champagne flutes in hand and fingers crossed about the Y2K bug. It was also the place where the first Europeans—Captain James Cook’s sailors—had stepped ashore in New Zealand.

Despite himself, Mat felt a touch of excitement. Curiosity over what Aotearoa-Gisborne might be like filled his imaginings as they drove into the city, and he began to remember his first excitement on discovery of this new-old world that lay so close by. What would it feel like to meet pioneers, and maybe even Captain Cook himself? Perhaps he could take a few chances, and explore. It wasn’t that he would completely disregard Pania and Wiri’s advice to take care, but wouldn’t it be good to look around?

Tama had booked them the best suite in the most expensive hotel in Gisborne, of course, a hotel complex
right on the inlet across from Cook’s Landing. He’d booked two suites in fact, as he couldn’t presume that Colleen would share rooms with him and Mat. It was going to be awkward, Mat could tell from the first strained greeting of his parents. After Reinga in September, his mother had gone back to Taupo, and he’d not visited her there since, as he had to concentrate on exams. They’d talked on the phone, but it wasn’t the same. She was worried for him, he knew that.

Naturally, Dad had forgotten to tell her he was running late. She had rung as they drove north, but they had been in deep valleys with no reception each time. She didn’t look best pleased, and was wearing that look of being torn between speaking her mind and keeping the peace. She greeted Tama with a terse ‘Hello’ and a small peck on the cheek, then enveloped Mat in a long hug.

‘Hello, my fine lad,’ she whispered in her soft Irish lilt. Her hair was fading from the vivid red that Mat had grown up with to a softer brown, shot with traces of grey. She looked tired and older than he remembered, and shorter too, but maybe that was him growing.

They spent the afternoon unpacking, exchanging presents with Colleen, and then the three of them went for a walk down to the shore and along Midway Beach, barefoot in the sand, splashing in the cold waves. Mostly it was Mum talking, asking how the NCEA exams had gone. Was Mat confident? Did he think he’d done enough? On and on it went, as though they were all scared to move on to more difficult subjects. When Tama and Colleen
did converse, it was in stilted conversations about neutral things, but still oppressive enough that Mat wished he were elsewhere.

Back at the hotel, he dug out his battered old cellphone, and texted Riki:

A few seconds later Riki buzzed him back:

Mat grinned. Maybe if he could spend most of his time with Riki, he wouldn’t be in the way so his parents could talk properly. ‘Is it okay if I meet up with Riki tomorrow morning?’ he asked his parents, who looked a little put out. ‘Hey,’ he put in quickly, ‘you’ll be able to spend some quality time without me underfoot. Have the hard conversations, reach new accords, put all your cards on the table, get emotional. Just like on telly, right?’ He forced a grin. ‘I’m blowed if I wanna be around for all that crap.’

They stared at him for a second, and then Colleen’s lip quivered, and she finally laughed, for the first time that day. ‘I guess that’s fine,’ she answered for them both. She put an arm around his shoulder, and led him out to the balcony. ‘Let’s have a look at the view, eh?’ As soon as they were alone, she whispered: ‘So, how are you really, Matty?’

‘Okay, I guess,’ he replied. ‘You know what it’s like. Dad’s always talking to me like we’re in court and I’m a witness. But, we don’t ever really talk about…you know.’ Mat knew it must be hard for Dad, having initially backed up Puarata’s claim to the bone tiki, and then finding he was wrong. By then he’d given Riki concussion and set Puarata’s men on Mat’s trail. When he’d finally caught up
with Mat again, his own son was developing supernatural abilities and fighting for his life. ‘I guess most parents’ main fears are about drugs and booze and girlfriends, huh? Not myths and legends.’

Mum looked no happier than Dad to be thinking along these lines, he thought, watching the way her face closed up. She had perhaps the worst time of it—she’d been taken hostage by Puarata. She never spoke of that. He watched her struggle for words. Finally she patted his arm. ‘That’s all behind us now, Matty, isn’t it?’

He thought of all he’d learned from Pania, and the promise that more would be learnt when Jones came to Napier, and didn’t know what to say. ‘I dunno,’ he muttered.

Her eyes tightened at that. But what could she say? She glanced back over her shoulder at Tama, standing uncomfortably in the living room. ‘Matty, you need to make peace with your father. Have a proper chat. Otherwise, I’m wasting my time here.’

Thanks, Mum, put it all on me, why don’t you?

‘If you and he can’t sort yourselves out, then what point is there me being here?’ she added.

He sided with Puarata, Mum…

Mat swallowed a couple of times, then shut his mouth and looked away.
To be fair, he helped me at the end…
But it was hard to forgive. He stared out at the ocean from the balcony, and thought that his excuses sounded as much a cop-out as Dad’s.

It was going to be a long ten days.

H
ey, bro!’ Riki stood as Mat approached, his dark face blending into the pre-dawn twilight. It was the next morning, the twenty-seventh, and Mat had risen before dawn, dressed silently and slipped out while his father’s snores rattled the door to the other bedroom.

‘Hiya.’ Mat found himself grinning like an idiot just to see Riki’s face. It had only been a couple of weeks since they’d seen each other, but they had been tense times, with his father very busy. (‘Christmas is the worst time for domestic violence, son.’) It was a relief to see a cheery face.

Riki had been waiting on a park bench beside a statue of Captain Cook, watching the sun coming up through the dawn mist. The winds had died during the night, and the sky was clear, the pre-dawn chill nipping gently at their faces. Both were in mismatched tracksuits and each held a long polished wooden club—a taiaha. Riki had been doing taiaha lessons for most of his life, and was blindingly quick, while Mat had studiously avoided
anything Maori throughout his childhood.

However, the Cape Reinga adventure had given him a new desire to get in touch with what Riki called his ‘inner brown boy’. Riki had been coaching him in taiaha training before school, so that he could join a formal Maoritanga class next year without being too far behind the others. ‘You’re part-Maori, bro,’ Riki would tell him. ‘Time you got used to it.’

They exchanged a complex pattern of fist touches that Riki had taught him, which probably originated from some gangster movie, and wandered down to the shore. Poverty Bay was nearly flat, the hiss of the waves subdued as they folded apologetically onto the sands. There was no one else on the beach at all, and they went through their exercises with vigour. The moves were beginning to feel natural now, but Mat, more artist than athlete, could only marvel at the way Riki could make the taiaha whir and spin with deft control, his movements all liquid grace and power.

When they were done, they laughed for the sheer exhilaration, joshing around as they watched the sun come up. Gisborne was at the northern tip of Poverty Bay, and faced south, so it was already quite light when the sun rose over Kaiti Hill, which marked the north and western end of the bay.

‘Ain’t this the best place in the world, bro?’ Riki murmured, staring out over the water.

‘Nah, that’s Napier, man,’ Mat replied, loyal to his home. They fell silent for a while.

‘How’re you going with your folks?’ Riki asked eventually.

Mat thought before replying. ‘Okay, I guess. Dad took us to the most expensive restaurant in town last night, but that just seemed to pee Mum off. And he bought her this uber-expensive necklace for Christmas, and she was embarrassed. Then they fought about who paid for the meal. It was kinda messed up.’

‘So they didn’t “get it on”, huh?’

‘Nah.’ Mat’s mind recoiled from the thought. He grinned. ‘I don’t really want to be around for that.’

‘Yeah, nuffin’ worse than parents getting jiggy. We kids should never get exposed to that. Could, you know, traumatise us or something. Specially my folks—my P’s are so ugly, it’s amazing they had such a handsome son.’

Mat threw him a sideways look. ‘Yeah? I didn’t know you had a good-looking brother?’

Riki sniggered, then leapt to his feet. ‘That’s a mortal insult, Pakeha boy! Put up your weapon!’

They sparred for a few seconds, but inevitably Mat found himself beaten back. He gave ground, darting in and out as he went, but no matter where he attacked he was parried, and then a deft trip saw him sprawling in the surf.

‘Got ya!’ crowed Riki, swirling the taiaha triumphantly.

‘Bloody primitives,’ growled a voice behind him, and a dark shape stepped out of the shadow of a pine tree, carrying a sword that glittered red in the first light of dawn. ‘En garde, savages.’

Riki spun, and roared with laughter. ‘Hey, Stringbean! How’re you doing? About time you showed, bro!’

Mat stared as the rising sun lit the face of the newcomer. He was tall, probably over two metres, with an unruly mop of blond hair, thick sideburns, and a chin that needed shaving to remove the embarrassingly straggly curls of fluff that grew there. In his right hand was a fencing foil, and his black T-shirt bore a picture of a death-metal rune-carved skull, probably the logo of some band with long hair and longer guitar riffs.

When Riki went to greet him he neatly avoided the fist-touching ritual by sticking out his hand and bowing slightly. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance again, old chap,’ he announced with a put-on British accent. ‘I thought I saw someone morris dancing down here, but it turned out to be you and your fellow tribesman on an early morning beat-up.’

‘The pleasure’s all yours, whitey,’ grinned Riki. He turned back to Mat. ‘Mat, this is my holiday pal, Damien. He’s from some desolate hole down in Central Hawke’s Bay where they kiss their sisters and square-dance and such.’

‘He means Dannevirke,’ Damien clarified. He proffered a hand, and shook Mat’s with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I try to keep Riki out of trouble during the hols, you know. It’s like community service.’

‘Mat Douglas,’ Mat introduced himself cautiously.

Damien cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is this…?’

Riki nodded. ‘Yeah, this is the weirdo who sees dead people and such.’

Mat stared at Riki and then back at Damien, suddenly lost for words. He’d told Riki about his adventures—you had to tell someone!—but he had sworn Riki to secrecy. Riki had never even mentioned Damien before. It was weird to realise that Riki had a close friend he never even knew about. Mat felt a little upset that his secret had been spread to this stranger.

Riki clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. ‘Hey, don’t worry, bro. I’ve known Dame for years. We see each other virtually every holidays cos our grandparents both live up this way. He’s totally okay, as far as pasty-faced whiteys go. I only told him the other day, and he’s sworn to secrecy.’

‘So were you,’ Mat muttered, but Riki just grinned semi-apologetically, and he couldn’t stay angry.

Damien frowned. ‘Don’t call me “Dame”, brown boy. My official nickname is now “Devil”.’ He glanced at Mat. ‘Like in the
Omen
movies—the devil-kid was called Damien.’

Riki snorted. ‘Yeah? Who calls you that? Your little sister?’

Damien blushed slightly. ‘I just think it sounds cool,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway,’ he added, flourishing his sword then kissing the hilt, ‘if you guys have done playing pickup-sticks, I’ll show you how gentlemen fight.’

‘Ha! En garde yourself, Pakeha!’ Riki flashed the taiaha
about, but Damien was already stabbing away, then lunging, his foil darting in long-armed thrusts.

Mat backed away as his oldest friend and (maybe) his newest one began plying their weapons at each other in a duel that had as much to do with zany challenges and insults as it had to do with real fighting. It ended when Riki tripped Damien and swept in with reversed taiaha, pressing the sharp tongue of the club to rest on Damien’s belly, even as the tip of the foil caught him in the chest.

‘Both dead!’ shouted Mat, laughing. The two cursed each other good-naturedly, and then Riki pulled Damien to his feet, and hugged him quickly.

‘I reckon ending up on your arse means you lost,’ Riki observed, ‘regardless of anything else.’

‘It was just a trap to lure you in,’ Damien retorted. ‘No winner, no loser, so…’

‘…so Mat buys breakfast!’ Riki finished.

‘Huh?’

They drifted back through the waking town, looking for some where that opened early. The streets were wide and lined with palms, and few buildings were higher than two storeys, blocky buildings from the thirties and earlier, with awnings to shelter shoppers from the sun. The sky was clear again, and you didn’t need to be a meteorologist to know that it would be another scorching day.

Gisborne had been the site of several Maori pa, built around a natural harbour formed where three rivers, the
Waimate, Taruheru and Waikanae, flowed together and into the sea, beneath Kaiti Hill. The short stretch where the Waimate and Taruheru ran together to the sea had been named the Turanganui River, one of the shortest named rivers in the world. The Turanganui gave the settlement its first name, Turanga.

It had been among the last places in New Zealand to be settled heavily by Europeans, who were even now barely in the majority. Early on, there had even been some Chinese settlers who had initially been treated as virtual slave labour, paying a poll tax just to remain in New Zealand. The region had seen some of the worst fighting and bloodiest deeds of the Land Wars, as recently as the late nineteenth century. Tribal roots were strong here, where one’s iwi and hapu counted for much. Captain Cook had named the region Poverty Bay due to the meagre provender offered by the native tribes, with whom he had fallen out, but the region had aways been prosperous.

They found a café on the main street, which was only three blocks back from the beach. It was a battered-looking place with stainless steel furniture and painted walls covered in old movie posters. They ordered bacon and eggs, and a plunger of coffee. Damien and Riki kept up a banter that had the girl serving them giggling constantly as she took the order, and they joked their way through the breakfast, catching up. Damien had arrived in town just before Christmas and had been spending every day with Riki. They were all of an age, all in the
same year at school. Damien told Mat his ancestors were actually Danish. They had come to Dannevirke following the First World War to join an already thriving Danish community.

‘Dannevirke is this honky town with Viking stuff everywhere,’ snickered Riki. ‘Half the dudes there have names like Jens Jensen or Anders Andersen. It’s totally hokey.’

‘Hey, it’s not like that at all. Well…mostly not. Anyway, it’s home.’ Damien looked at Mat. ‘So, Riki tells me all this stuff about other worlds and evil witchdoctors and stuff. Was that just further signs of his lunacy?’

Mat pursed his lips.
Oh well, it’s out there.
He looked back at Damien. ‘It’s true.’

Damien rubbed his chin. ‘Really? No bull?’

Mat shook his head.

Damien whistled. ‘“Stranger things under heaven” and all that, huh?’

‘I guess,’ replied Mat, watching the youth carefully. ‘I can prove it,’ he added. He felt on uncertain ground. Wiri had told him that it was best to keep the existence of Aotearoa a secret, and yet he had been unable to keep himself from telling Riki—after all, Riki had been caught on the fringes of the whole thing anyway and was owed some sort of explanation. He hadn’t expected it to go further. He instinctively liked Damien though.

Damien looked intently at Mat and nodded. ‘That would be…interesting.’

Mat shifted, unsettled at the turn the conversation had
taken. ‘How did you get into fencing?’ he asked Damien. ‘Your dad?’

‘Nah, the usual,’ Damien replied. ‘
Star Wars
,
Lord of the Rings
, you know. My dad thinks I’m nuts, but I kind of suck at ball sports.’

‘That’s cos he’s unco, like most Pakeha,’ Riki put in.

Damien reached across and fake-swatted Riki about the head. Then he glanced at the door and gave a low whistle. ‘Incoming babes,’ he whispered, winking at Mat.

A mismatched but eye-catching pair of teenage girls had just entered the café. The taller of the pair was blonde, with her hair tied severely in cornrows, her square face pugnacious but pretty. She was dressed in just a tank-top and tiny shorts, and her limbs were golden brown. A gold necklace with a gem-studded butterfly pendant, matched by her earrings, glittered above the swell of her chest. She moved with a purposeful gait, almost businesslike, despite her holiday attire. She took in the other customers, including the three boys, with a haughty sweep of her head, before saying some thing to her companion and sitting down, leaving the other girl to order at the counter.

The other newcomer certainly didn’t match her companion. Rake-thin with orange proto-dreadlocks, she had a horse-like face, glasses that magnified her eyes alarmingly, and her mouth glittered with braces. She too had on a tank-top, but she scarcely filled it, and her face and skin were heavily freckled. She laughed strangely as she ordered, then sat with her friend, pulled out a small
laptop from her satchel, and began tapping at it feverishly while the blonde girl looked bored.

‘I bags the blonde,’ hissed Riki. ‘Extreme hot babeliciousness! The gingernut is kinda freaky-looking.’ He nudged Damien. ‘Ideal for you, I reckon.’

‘She laughs like a horse,’ Damien whispered. ‘And she looks like some kind of druggie. You’re right about the blonde one; she is really hot.’

‘She’s looking at me,’ Riki noted.

‘Nah,’ Damien retorted. ‘She’s looking at me. Let’s order some Cokes, and hang here some more.’

They both looked at Mat. Mat sighed, and shrugged. Girls were still some kind of foreign species to him, though since meeting Kelly, he’d had to admit that they weren’t as dull as he’d previously supposed, and Pania was very…married, he reminded himself. Still, it might be fun to hang around, and see what developed.

He ordered the Cokes, and they sipped them while chatting. Riki and Damien made ostentatious jokes so that the girls would notice them, but the blonde barely looked their way, and the other girl was absorbed by her laptop, cellphone and headset.

Finally the blonde got up to pay. By then Riki and Damien had lost interest and were playing a fencing game with the wooden toothpicks, but Mat found himself watching her stride to the counter. He saw her lean forward to catch the eye of the woman behind the counter, and then he felt it. The stirrings of the liquid energy that he had learnt to use himself, in that frightening chase
across New Zealand and Aotearoa in September. The power that he named ‘magic’ for want of a better word.

It came from the blonde girl.

The woman at the counter swayed slightly, then blinked, opened the till and handed the girl a twenty-dollar note, closed it again, and smiled. The blonde girl smiled to herself, and then turned and strode out the door, with her skinny companion fussing behind her, trying to pack up her laptop as she scurried after her.