The Bone Tiki (8 page)

There was a sickening
crack
as the taiaha struck Pockface’s wrist, an instant before the gun fired, knocking it aside so the bullet ripped past Mat’s head to strike the back of the VW with a thud. The gunman’s hand hung askew, bone piercing the skin of his wrist. He howled, and then the backswing of the taiaha smashed into his jaw and he crumpled sideways.

Donna buried her foot to the floor. The BMW spun and skidded on the gravel, then the tyres bit, and it roared out of the rest area and spun away south. Suddenly the only sound for three long seconds was the trickling stream, and the dying echo of the gunshot.

‘Mat?’ called Kelly. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah,’ replied Mat, staring at the warrior. The young man stalked about the three fallen men, bending over each in turn. Tattoo and Pockface were unconscious, their faces a scarlet mess, but Beard was writhing, horrible gurgling noises rising with bloodied bubbles from his mouth. The young man smashed the hilt of the taiaha into Beard’s temple, and he rolled over, motionless. Mat looked away, sickened, yet relieved. He’d never pictured real fighting as being so violent, and so messy. The computer games he’d played were all so…
clean.
He crawled over to Kelly and hugged her and Fitzy, and tried to shut the scenes he’d witnessed out of his head.

Everything was still, as if every living thing was drawing breath in one slow frozen moment. But Mat could still hear the fading roar of Donna’s engine, and the wind, and the insects, and the stream. He looked up blinking, not really expecting to still see the warrior. But he was there, kneeling in the dirt and gravel holding a handful of shingle and letting it trail through his hands. He was speaking, softly to himself, in flowing Maori. His voice was clear and musical. The words rolled, and his shoulders were trembling as though he were about to burst. But instead he bowed his head and clenched his fists, and then released them, spreading them wide to the sky as if praying.

Kelly was staring at him open-mouthed, not daring to speak.

The three of them may only have stayed that way for seconds, but it felt like an eternity before the warrior turned to walk toward Mat.

He spoke in perfect English, accented but easily understood. ‘Matiu. I am yours to command.’

Mat looked up at him, in fear and shock. The young man had three messy holes in his shoulder and chest, but no blood came out. The jagged tears seemed to be knitting together even as Mat watched, shaking, trying to pull away. The warrior stopped advancing, held up his right hand, palm outward, placatory. His face was grave.

‘Command?’ Mat was confused.

‘You called me. I am yours to command.’

Mat pulled the tiki off his neck and threw it at the young man’s feet. ‘I don’t want to command you. Here, you take it. Take it and leave me alone.’

The young man shook his head sadly. ‘If only it were that simple,’ he said. He reached down, and made as if to pick up the tiki. His hand seemed to pass right through the pendant as if one or the other wasn’t really there. ‘I am afraid I am unable to even touch it, Matiu.’

Mat disentangled himself from Kelly and Fitzy, and slowly got to his feet. The ground seemed unstable, as though any second it might dissolve. ‘Who are you? Where did you come from? How do you know my name?’

The warrior half-smiled. ‘You know the answers to those questions, or you could not have called me.’

Kelly looked at Mat. ‘What’s he talking about?’

Mat shook his head. ‘Magic. Real magic. Not clown-magic. The real thing.’

Kelly let out her breath. ‘The real thing…oh my goodness…’

Mat looked at the warrior, who had pulled his feather cloak back about his shoulders. ‘You are Toa, and this tiki is made from your bones.’

The warrior nodded. ‘From my shoulder-blade. But you can call me Wiremu, or Wiri. That was my name when I last walked among men.’

The warrior bowed slightly, and then offered a hand. Mat took it in his—it was warm, and strong. And palpably real. Wiri turned to Kelly. He gave her a solemn smile. ‘Kia-ora, wahine. I am Wiri.’

Kelly put out a trembling hand and he took it, and pulled her to her feet.

‘H-hi…I’m Kelly.’

‘Kia-ora, Kelly.’ He looked down at the dog.

‘And this is Fitzy,’ said Kelly, still looking scared.

Wiri raised an eyebrow, then hunched down and stroked Fitzy’s head. ‘Kia-ora…Fitzy,’ he said slowly, with half a smile on his lips. ‘I am pleased to see you again.’

Fitzy looked up at Wiri and they stared hard at each other, as if some silent conversation was taking place. Wiri then nodded once, and straightened.

Mat picked up the tiki. It was still bloodied, and it felt hot to touch. Kelly stared at it. ‘That’s what she wants, isn’t it?’ she asked.

Mat nodded.

‘Wow!’ breathed Kelly. ‘Ohmigod…’

Wiri looked at Mat. ‘I have many questions, Matiu. I’m sure you and Kelly do too. But I think they will have to wait. Puarata is near…you know who he is, don’t you?’

Mat nodded.

Kelly looked at him, mouthing ‘Who?’

‘Later’, said Mat.

‘Let’s go then,’ said Wiri.

Kelly turned to the car, and then gave a hiss of despair. ‘Oh no!’

Mat stared, and then remembered the one thing he knew about Volkswagens—the engine is in the back.

Pockface’s bullet had pierced the engine, which was quietly disgorging oil onto the ground as they talked.

Mat walked up to the stricken VW and kicked the bumper.

‘Hey!’ protested Kelly. ‘That’s my car!’

‘Yeah, well…’ Mat shook his head. ‘Now what are we going to do?’

They both turned to Wiri. The young warrior pursed his lips. ‘The woman will be calling her friends. If your car cannot take us away from here, then we have to go on foot. And the next traveller to look into this clearing will see them,’ he indicated the prone thugs, ‘and then there will be police on the way.’

Mat stared at him, his mind racing with questions. ‘How do you know about cars? And police? And how to speak English? And how—’

Wiri put up his hand. ‘Later. I’ll tell you later. All you need to know for now is that I have lived for many years in your world and learned much, though that was long ago. And all the time I was in the tiki, I could sense things around me. But for now, we have to move!’

Mat swallowed hard and nodded. Wiri patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. He was perspiring and had a pleasant, salty smell. He felt very
real.

Kelly tried the ignition but the engine didn’t even threaten to start. There was more wrong with it than just the oil leak. She thumped the steering wheel. ‘My car! My car! Damn them! Damn that
witch
!’ she shouted furiously.

Mat heard a noise—another car, coming from the Taupo direction.

‘Kelly! Someone’s coming! Come on, we gotta go!’

Wiri nodded. ‘I think it’s just a traveller, but Mat is right. Come, I know the paths of this land.’

Kelly opened her mouth, but as she heard the roar of a car descending the road toward the floor of the gorge, she stopped, grabbed her keys, and ran to the crumpled front bonnet. She pulled it open, and hauled out a large pack. Mat reached in beside her and shouldered his kit. Fitzy had run down to the stream and was barking urgently, as though urging them on. With one last dazed look at each other, they turned and trotted to the stream, where Wiri was waving his taiaha frantically.

By the time the oncoming car drove past the rest area—and braked sharply as the driver saw the sprawled bodies—Wiri, Kelly and Mat had vanished into a gap in the trees beyond the stream, following Fitzy up a faint trail that took them away from the road, up into the hills.

T
hey lost the light within minutes. Steep cliffs, overgrown

with native bush, pressed about them. The air was close and cold. Wet ferns clawed at them, pawed their clothes and faces as they passed. Moss covered every rock, every dip in the soil contained a muddy puddle, slimy with livid green growths. The wet earthy atmosphere made every breath heavy, like drinking fog.

Fitzy had come back and was trotting alongside Wiri, as though the dog and the warrior were old friends. Mat was soon tired and breathless. His shoes were wet again, as they seemed to have been all night and all day, and he was staggering and reeling within minutes. It wasn’t just the long strange night, or the terrifying things he’d seen, or the long tiring day clambering through the river valley. When he somehow managed to unlock the secret of the tiki and
summoned Wiri, it was as if all energy had flowed out of him, as if some internal battery had used all its electricity, and he felt hollow, the very marrow of his bones sucked away.

Wiri noticed him fall behind, and helped him to the next clearing. Kelly was sitting on a rock, her face flushed. Fitzy woofed softly at her like a nanny reassuring a child, and she patted the dog’s head in answer, looking at Mat with concern. Mat felt a fleeting shame as he sagged down on the ground. Wiri’s arms around his shoulders were smooth yet rocklike in their strength.

For someone who isn’t real, he seems more solid than I do…

They managed another few hundred metres up a barely discernible trail, away from the road, though the cars were still audible. Kelly panted behind them. Occasionally Mat looked back to see her gazing in awe at Wiri. Mat could scarcely believe the warrior was truly there, but couldn’t clear his head enough to think. Wiri led them to a tiny overhang under a boulder. Mat lay panting as Wiri said something and left again, Fitzy with him. Kelly began pulling things out of her pack, clothes mostly, but the biggest thing was a sleeping bag. She helped Mat into it, babbling about how lucky they were that she had it, something about having to sleep on friends’ floors a lot. Mat barely heard, and his eyes fell shut the moment Kelly got him into it.

She woke him some time later. His watch said 11.07 p.m. There was a fire going, and, amazingly, the smell of roasting meat. Mat blinked awake. Wiri was turning a large wood
pigeon on a spit, and Kelly was feeding twigs onto the fire. They both grinned broadly when he yawned loudly and stretched.

‘You’re lucky you woke, otherwise you’d have missed out.’ Wiri gave a cheeky wink.

‘Yeah, darn it. Now we’ll have to share,’ put in Kelly.

Mat looked around for Fitzy, but Kelly told him the dog had gone off an hour ago. Mat looked closely at Wiri. If it wasn’t for his clothing, the warrior might have been any ordinary young Maori. He even spoke like one—although his way of speaking seemed slightly odd to Mat’s ears. It reminded him of the way his father spoke, rather than his school-mates. And there was something almost
plummy
about his accent, as if Wiri had learned English in England. Which had to be impossible.

Fat from the bird dripped into the fire and the delicious smell wafted into Mat’s nostrils. His mouth watered, and he reached out toward the food.

‘Not yet,’ laughed Wiri. ‘Give it a few more minutes, then we’ll eat.’

Wiri had laid a skilful fire—sheltered from wind and damp, and banked with slate rocks. He reached down beside him, and began to load a pile of white wriggling grubs onto the slate, where the heat the stones had absorbed caused the grubs to writhe.

Mat watched in horror. Kelly just shook her head, enjoying his reaction.

‘What are they?’

‘Huhu grubs. Good kai!’

The grubs began to sizzle.

Mat’s stomach contracted in his belly. ‘I…don’t think I’m that hungry.’

‘I’m not touching them either,’ said Kelly.

Wiri raised an eyebrow. ‘I guess you’ll have to starve then. I’m eating the bird.’

They both look aghast.

He laughed. ‘Just joking, eh! Though if we can’t get any grub—I mean food—soon, you might not have any choice!’

Mat hugged his empty stomach and tried not to look at the grubs.

In the end he tried one—he didn’t bite, just swallowed, once he was sure it was totally dead and totally cooked. Over-cooked, in Wiri’s opinion. Kelly had one too, but made the mistake of biting, and dry-retched it back up, which amused Wiri but spoiled Mat’s appetite completely. They had equal shares of the bird—Mat was curious that Wiri ate at all, but saved his questions for later. Wiri brought river water in Mat’s water-bottle and they emptied it in grateful swallows.

Throughout the meal, Mat and Kelly’s eyes scarcely left the warrior. Mat could hardly believe his eyes.
I summoned this guy from a carved piece of bone
! But, even allowing for the feather cloak, swirling body tattoos and moko, he seemed incredibly normal. His hair smelt of sweat and herbs. Dirt stained his skin, and a small stubble was shadowing his upper lip and chin. He looked around twenty, and the scar
on his temple still looked painful. His fingernails were dirty and broken. He looked like any number of young Maori Mat had seen playing rugby, or hanging out around Napier…but not quite. He had an air of capability, a confident way of walking and talking, a calm cheerful look in his eye, that set him apart from anyone Mat had ever met. If he’d gone to high school, he would have been captain of the first fifteen. If he’d been on the streets, he would have owned them, not slunk around as if defeated by the Pakeha world. He reminded Mat of Maori All Blacks he’d seen interviewed on telly, confident young men who were winners.

He opened his mouth, trying to work out which question to spill out first. Kelly had the same look.

Wiri grinned at them. ‘Question time, is it? Who’s first?’

Mat thought for a moment. He didn’t know where to start. He looked at Kelly.

‘Me,’ she said. ‘Because I know absolutely nothing about what’s going on here. If I start, then Mat goes next, you’ll have the picture from our side, and you’ll know what to tell us. Because I think that, although you talk like us, and use some of our expressions, this isn’t familiar territory for you, is it? You had to ask me what year.’

Wiri nodded. ‘You are right. First thing though, is that we should make a promise. A promise that we are going to tell the truth, and the whole truth, no matter how strange.’ He spread his hands. ‘Because, believe me, some of what I have to say will be very strange.’

‘You’re telling me!’ exclaimed Kelly. ‘I’ve just had my car
shot up by gangsters then been rescued by a Maori ninja who leaps out of thin air.’

‘You haven’t heard anything yet, wahine,’ replied Wiri.

The fire crackled, and they gazed into it for a few minutes. Kelly’s lips were moving noiselessly, as though she were rehearsing what she’d say. Finally, after a few tries, she began.

‘Well, I was in Napier this morning, and I’d jacked up to do some shows at the Eskdale Park Craft Fair. Over the radio they’d been running these Police notices, about some runaway part-Maori boy, but I’d not really given it much thought. I was down by the river getting some water when I saw a boy who fitted the description walking up the river bed. I’ve run away from home myself, so I thought I was as good a person as any to help someone like him, so I said hello.’

‘Nearly scared me off!’ put in Mat.

‘You’re lucky I wasn’t in my make-up!’ laughed Kelly. ‘Anyway, I got Mat to eat and chat. I was planning to see whether he needed to be talked into going home. But Mat said he was going to see his mother in Taupo, and that sounded fine to me. It’s where I was heading anyway, so I offered him a lift. Then, in the middle of my show, that blonde bitch showed up, trying to grab Mat. I helped out, got him away and, well, things were going good until they rammed us, and…you know the rest. My poor Beetle-Car!’

‘This woman, this Donna Kyle,’ said Wiri. ‘You were brave to come between her and Mat. Very brave. I know her and
her type. One of Puarata’s acolytes. They are not the sort of people you cross lightly.’

‘Hard bitch! If I see her again I’ll smack her one!’ Kelly’s bottom lip stuck out defiantly.

‘Be careful of her. She may carry a gun, but she has worse weapons at her disposal.’

‘She still doesn’t scare me!’ maintained Kelly.

Wiri shook his head, chuckling.

When it was Mat’s turn, he told them about the conversation he overheard between his father and Puarata when he’d realised they were talking about Nanny Wai’s tiki. He tried to explain how he’d just
known
he should take the tiki before Puarata could get his hands on it. Wiri frowned, but Kelly exclaimed, ‘I know just what you mean!’ He managed to talk them through his father supporting Puarata without crying (Kelly came and put her arms around his shoulders), but he wept when he remembered Riki going down, and having to run.

When he spoke about the brutish warrior, Wiri grew tense and angry, and made him repeat his description of the chase. Finally he slapped his taiaha hard, but didn’t interrupt further. He smiled when Mat described Pania. Kelly started to scoff, but stopped at a gesture from Wiri. Mat described the swim across the Iron Pot, and the half-remembered dream of the soldiers helping him. He could clearly remember the long river walk, and the scenes at the fair, without losing his thread. But he found it really hard to describe the unreal moment when the tiki had somehow pulsed into life, and Wiri had suddenly appeared.

‘It was like finding the on-switch, or like waiting in the morning for Dad to start the car, and it won’t at first, but then you feel the engine kind of cough, and then it goes. It was also like when you’re painting and it’s a mess, and you do one line—and suddenly the whole thing takes shape. But it was also like…nah, I dunno.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘It was like, really weird.’ He finished, feeling totally inadequate.

Wiri smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t know anyone who could describe what you’re describing. You have to have felt it.’

‘Have you?’ asked Mat. ‘Felt that…power?’

Wiri twisted his mouth, his eyes reflective. ‘Not exactly, but something close.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s late, but I think you’re both wide awake. Wide enough awake for a very strange story?’

Mat nodded. Since the food he’d felt much better, and he knew he needed to hear what Wiri had to say more than he would ever need anything else. Kelly was leaning forward, dark circles under her eyes, but her gaze bright.

‘OK. Please remember that some of this I didn’t find out til much later on, and that I don’t know everything. But some things about this story I know really well indeed. Remember too that I am Maori. We never had writing when I was born, and stories were handed down, and embellished shamelessly, from generation to generation. If my story starts to sound like a legend, well that is because it is legend, but it is also real…’

As Wiri began his story, Kelly and Mat sat listening,
initially in semi-disbelief, but the conviction in Wiri’s voice was persuasive.

‘I was born into the Tainui tribe—a small sub-tribe called the Ngati Tautari, in the Waikato. Though Tainui, we were friendly to some of the Ngati Tuwharetoa around Taupo, and were mostly peaceful, and too small to notice. But the tribe no longer exists—at least not in this world…but that’s another story…’

He paused and looked momentarily sad, then shrugged and continued.

‘My father was chief, and our pa was—and still is—on a hill near the banks of the Waikato River, at a place we call Maungatautari. Yes, Mat, it is the same place Pania has advised you to go to. That is not a coincidence! And I must say I envy your meeting the girl of the reefs. You must tell me more of her. If only Wai-aroha could have met her! But I digress—what year was it? I have no real idea, but I think it must have been perhaps 1400 AD. But I don’t know, it is a guess. We did not have Pakeha calendars! Our lives were typical of the time. Not so pretty and noble as storytellers would tell it—but not so bad. We grew crops, and we hunted birds and we fished the river. We fought with our neighbours. We sang and had babies.

‘What was I like? Well, I was a chief’s son, so I had privilege. Others fed me. I only hunted to show off. I fought. I was arrogant, because no one had ever rubbed my nose in the dirt, not even my older brother. People said I was the finest warrior in Aotearoa. That was a song I loved to listen to.

‘By the time I had counted twenty summers—my current age—I had two wives and four children. My father loved me and my elder brother hated me. I couldn’t blame him. I lorded over him at every opportunity. He was a good man, nothing special, but I eclipsed him. Fate was not kind to him.

‘Life might have gone on like this. I would have become chief, and probably been killed in a raid on another tribe. The champions of the tribes used to watch out for each other—to kill a famous fighter in single combat was the greatest glory, and lots of men wanted to be the one who killed me. Who knows? But instead, two strangers came to Maungatautari. One was Puarata. He had all the trappings of a great tohunga, and came from the Ureweras. He had a warrior with him, a huge mountain of a man, with the manners of a pig. His name was Tupu.

‘They were received as guests should be. This hospitality was not so common as the storytellers would have it. We Maori like to talk about some sort of big, civilised, family that existed then, but in reality we were all living in armed camps, and meeting with strangers could be tense and deadly. But honour was also important. That year, we had more than enough kai, and my father wanted to impress this travelling tohunga, so they were welcomed generously.

‘But we soon felt uneasy around them. Tupu was a brute, but Puarata scared people. He had a hidden power that intimidated us all. I liked them no more than anyone. I disliked all tohunga then, even the good ones. I did not believe in their powers—it all looked like lies to control
the gullible to me. But Puarata made my skin crawl. He was the first man I ever saw who warranted the term Tohunga Makutu or Black Tohunga. He could freeze bones with a glance.