The Lost Tohunga (4 page)

Saturday

H
ine Horatai hurried from bed as the tide rose in her belly, and a vile taste invaded her mouth. On the bed, Evan Tomoana stirred then lapsed back into sleep. Hine pushed the door shut and teetered dizzily down the hallway, through the discarded cans and spilt ashtrays, into the tiny toilet cubicle. It already stank and hadn't been flushed, but there was no time for that. She opened her mouth with a little cough and vomited.

She huddled there for what felt like hours, her head pounding. Then she heard a warm voice, and Ko's kind, fleshy face loomed over her as she flushed the toilet and wiped Hine's face with a wet flannel. ‘Jesus, girl, you look terrible.' She pulled Hine into a sitting position. ‘There, lovey. Better now?'

Hine nodded weakly, embarrassed and ashamed. ‘Think so. Sorry, Ko. Can't hold my drink, huh?'

‘At least you made it to the bog, lovey. More than bloody Brutal managed. He just chucked up in the lounge and then took hisself out for a smoke. Guess who had to clean it up?' They exchanged hopeless looks. The Saturday morning comedown. Last night the house had been rocking, but now it
slumbered in a silent haze. Hine gazed back down the hallway she had crawled along, to where the front door was ajar. Some guy was there, unconscious. She wondered blearily how many others were lying about the house amidst the trash and empties. ‘What's the time, Ko?'

‘Just gone midday, lovey. Ronnie's gone to work, bless him. Brutal's out back, and everyone else is taking off as soon as they wake up so's to dodge the cleanin' up. Evan awake yet?'

Hine hoped not. ‘Don't think so.'

‘Amount of rum he knocked back last night, he should be out cold 'til Christmas.'

‘You want a hand in the kitchen, darl?'

Ko looked back at her wearily. ‘Nah. I need some fresh air. Let's go for a walk, eh?'

‘But there's gonna be another bash tonight. Evan'll want—'

‘You worry too much 'bout what he wants, girl. Let's go for a walk. Brandi-babe needs to get outta this house. And Filli, too.'

Hine got unsteadily to her feet, and crept back to her bedroom, which echoed to Evan's snores. She slipped in, grabbed clothes from a pile in the corner, and crept out. Evan's hard face was softened in repose, his mouth open and dribbling into his spiky goatee. His bare chest was covered in heavy-metal tattoos, all spikes and swirls. He said he was part-Maori, but he looked Pakeha. At twenty-nine, he was eleven years her senior. The man who had rescued her. She prayed she hadn't woken him.

She dressed in the bathroom, eyeing the stranger in the mirror uneasily. She had been slim and pretty once, she vaguely recalled. Her tummy had been flat and her limbs taut. Her skin had been clear and her hair shiny. All the boys at Rotorua High School had wanted to date her. She had been happy, and
dreamt of Olympic swimming medals and modelling.

Her stepfather had changed all that one night, when he had held her face down on the mattress, sobbing that it was her fault.
Glenn Bale …
He had done it again whenever her mother turned her back, so she had run away. Bale had tracked her down, but when he had tried to drag her into his car, Evan had stepped in, bashed ‘Gentle Glenn', and taken Hine home. She had been so grateful for her rescue she had not noticed that all she had done was swap jailers.

Now she had aged, and her hair looked like a rat's nest. Her eyes were sullen. She hugged herself and shook silently, trying to stop the girl in the mirror from crying.

Finally, she dressed. The tee was too tight and the trackies were baggy.
I look like a tramp
. She dragged her fingers through her hair, pinched her cheeks, and slipped out. A half-empty pack of ciggies lay in the hallway, and she pocketed them. The man at the front door had gone. She glanced into the lounge: cigarette haze and empties everywhere. The stained carpet squelched as she picked her way into the kitchen, where Ko was dressing her children. Three-year-old Brandi was sitting on the floor fiddling with an empty beer bottle. Filli, who was eight months, was lying on the table while Ko finished changing her nappy. Ko's partner, Ronnie, was Samoan, and the two kids took after him. Ko passed Hine a huge hoodie, about five sizes too big for her, which she burrowed into. ‘You 'kay, lovey?' Ko asked. ‘Grab the pram and we'll do a runner, eh.'

They made it past the main bedroom without Evan's snore faltering. Whoever was awake was in the back yard so the coast was clear. They wedged Filli into the old pram, and Hine carried Brandi as they made their escape. The sun was
horribly bright and she hadn't remembered her sunglasses, but she wasn't going to risk going back.

A southerly stung her cheeks, and for once the three mountains were faintly visible, the low, snowy mass of Tongariro in the foreground, the cone of Ngauruhoe behind, and then the snow- and shadow-streaked Ruapehu hunched behind and dwarfing them both. It was a fine sight and gave her back a little heart. They ambled down towards the lake, Brandi holding Hine's hand now, while Filli burbled happily in the pram. Ko's waddling gait meant they moved slowly, and Hine snuck a look back every few seconds to make sure they weren't being pursued, to be dragged back and chained to a mop. Finally, they were out of sight of the house and she let out a long breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

They walked in silence to the main road, and crossed to the lakefront. The water lapped at the shingle and sand. A few windsurfers were out, and far to the south triangles of sail unfurled from sleek yachts that swooped like gulls in the stiffening breeze. Brandi ran to the water's edge to look for shells, while Ko and Hine found a spot under a tree to watch over her, nurse their headaches and puff on a ciggie. Ko took Filli from the pram and let her roll on the ground, gurgling blissfully. She was a happy baby, which was a miracle considering the squalor she was being brought up in. Evan owned the house, left by some dead relative. Hine shared his room, and Ko and Ronnie had the second room with their kids. Brutal had the third room, and Hine refused to go near it, it stank so bad. A bunch of other itinerants came and went. ‘Soul brothers,' Evan liked to call them.
Parasites
was Hine's word for them.

‘So, how's Ronnie doing at his new job?' she asked Ko.

‘Yeah, good. Been there two weeks now. Hasn't stolen nothing.' The word ‘yet' stayed unspoken. ‘Hopin' this'll last, an' we can maybe get a place of our own.'

‘Yeah, that'd be sweet. Well, for you guys.'
No bank would ever give you a mortgage, but dreams are free
.

‘He tries hard, does my Ronnie. Tries to do his best, mosta the time. When he ain't drinkin' an' talkin' trash with Brutal and Evan.'

‘It's Evan,' said Hine. ‘If it wasn't for Evan, Ronnie wouldn't do half the stuff he does.'

Ko looked at her intently. ‘Evan been smackin' you 'bout again, hon?'

You couldn't hide stuff from Ko. ‘Most ev'ry day now,' Hine admitted in a whisper, her eyes on the distant mountains, her lower lip quivering.

They stared out across the water. Ko was talking, but it wasn't easy to listen when all the thoughts crowding her head kept welling up. She had been a little golden girl when she was younger. She had been tall and athletic, and she wasn't dumb. Her teachers had told her she had a ‘future' and spoken about university. None of her family had gone past fifth form, but for her the sky had seemed the limit.

‘Then what happened?' asked Ko.

Hine started, and realized she had been thinking out loud. ‘Mum got tired of being on her own. So she took up with Glenn Bale, this Pakeha ex-miner from Huntly.' The thought of ‘Gentle Glenn' made her feel nauseous. After Evan had punched Bale, she had been so grateful she would have given him anything. In fact, she had. He had got her away
from home, and for a while it had seemed like paradise. She had thought herself safe. Ha! ‘Evan treats me like dirt now. Just another source of welfare money. He's always angry, an' ev'rthing's my fault. I've got to get out, Ko.'

Ko reached out and pulled her in as she began to shake. She clung to the fat woman and bawled like a baby, while Filli stared confusedly. ‘I've got to get out. But I don't know how. What'll he do if I run, Ko?'

‘Lovey, there are people who can help you. You go down to the Women's Refuge. They's good people. I know them, cos of my sister, y'know. I could take you there, when the boys are out.' Ko's voice betrayed what she really thought, that no social worker or cop could stop Evan if he went after Hine. They might catch him later, but by then Hine would be smashed up or dead.

‘I don't know what to do, Ko. Some days I just want to walk out into the lake and never come back.' She had dreamt it, dreamt of swimming in deep water, while dark shapes swam below. She stared out across the lake. There was a log floating there, but somehow it seemed like a huge black eel, circling and waiting. She shuddered and looked away.

A young Pakeha or maybe part-Maori boy was walking past, with a redheaded woman who looked like his mother. Their clothes were clean and neat, and she had her arm around his shoulders. There was something about him that caught the eye, something subtly strong. He was probably only her age, but he seemed a world apart. He looked straight at her, with concern in his eyes. She felt a sudden flash of resentment and shame, to be seen like this.

I bet he's never been smacked over. I bet nothing bad has ever
happened in his prissy little life.

Piss off
, she mouthed, then buried her face in Ko's shoulder. She stayed there a long time, and when she looked up again, mother and son were gone.

‘What shall we do, lovey?' asked Ko. ‘You want to take a walk down to the refuge?'

Hine almost agreed. But then she thought about Evan and she wasn't so sure any more. He kept her safe from all the other dark things. He needed her, she made him calmer, she made him happier … he told her so. Her place was with him. He was her Guardian Devil. She loved him, didn't she? ‘I dunno, Ko. I … I need to think on it a bit, y'know. I don't want to do the wrong thing. You know what I mean?'

Ko looked at her sadly. ‘Okay, deary. I gotta get back and put Filli down for a sleep. You stay here if you want. I'll get Ronnie to help clean up when he gets back, eh.'

Hine nodded, and bowed her head. She kissed Brandi and waved them off, then just sat and stared at nothing. Time passed and she couldn't remember a single thought crossing her mind. People probably went past, maybe some of them looked at her, but nothing registered.

Finally, a gentle wuffling intruded on her thoughts. There was a dog, a black-and-white sheepdog like Dog from the
Footrot Flats
cartoons, worrying at something that lay in the tidal sands. Then it looked up and trotted towards her. She shooed at it half-heartedly, but it came right up, nuzzling her gently, so she relented and let it curl up against her. ‘You better not have fleas, boy,' she told it.

It looked at her indignantly, as if it found her remark offensive.

‘Okay, sorry!' She smiled and patted it. It licked her face, and she felt herself relax for the first time that day. So she hugged the dog, and before long, the gentle waves of the lake and rhythm of the traffic had blended into a lullaby.

 

She woke suddenly, and found the sun was dipping towards the western horizon. The dog was still with her, and it tugged at her sleeve, as if trying to persuade her to follow it home. She shook it off. ‘No, fella! Go home! I'm going this way!' It took a long time to convince it that she was not going to follow it.
Crazy dog! I wonder who owns it?

She hurried home — there was another booze-up tonight and she should have been helping Ko get it ready.
Shit! Evan's gonna be mad as!

When she arrived, one of Evan's Rottweilers charged down the path to meet her, scaring her to a halt. The door slammed open and Evan strode down the path towards her, teeth gleaming through his goatee. She began to stammer an apology that turned into a yelp of pain as he seized her hair and pulled her behind him. She shrieked, trying to keep on her feet.

‘Where the hell have you been, you lazy little bitch? What gives you the right to piss off and leave the rest of us to clean up for Deano's party? Do you live here on my charity or not?' He half-dragged her towards the house. ‘Where were you? Who were you with?'

‘I was down by the lake! I was alone! Don't hurt me! Please!'

Sunday

M
at woke early on Sunday, made a coffee for his mother and headed for Jones's cottage, his mother's instructions (‘Be home by three') ringing in his ears. Mat hurried along the track. Yesterday afternoon, Jones had clammed up after seeing the vision-stone Horomatangi had brought. They had chatted, and Mat had gone over his magical exercises: fire, water, earth and air — the basics. They still left him dizzy, but he was getting better at them. He could now light fires, produce gusts of wind, and create any manner of small subtle effects. This break they were planning to work on the basics of mental communication. It was heady stuff, and he wished he had more time to devote to it. School work was such a drag compared with magic.

He ran up to the house, where Jones was smoking his pipe. ‘You're late,' the Welshman grumped. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn't send you off for an hour's run as punishment.'

Mat hung his head a little. ‘Actually, I had a nightmare, and slept through my alarm. Not much of an excuse, huh?'

Jones frowned. ‘Actually, it's a very good excuse. Dreams are important, laddie. I've told you that before. For folk like
us, they can be the voice of the spirit world. Pay them mind, Mat. You can tell me about it later, after you show me where you're up to with this.' He threw a taiaha at Mat, who caught it deftly. ‘Show me what you've got, and make it good.'

Mat twirled the taiaha, and went into a crouch. He went through the preparatory movements while Jones settled back into his easy chair, and then leapt into a full routine. The taiaha swished and whistled about his head, and he began to perspire as he jabbed, swung, lunged and thrust in a crabbing dance back and forward. He finished with a shout and crouched, pulling a face with his tongue out, part in challenge, part panting like an overheated dog.

Jones got up, tapped out his pipe. He looked cross. ‘Well, laddie, that's all well and good. No doubt your kapa haka teacher thinks you could be lead dancer in a feckin' cultural party. But you're supposed to be learning to
fight
, not twinkle-toe about like a prima feckin' ballerina!' He walked up, and tapped the taiaha. ‘Yer Maori had no metals, just stone, bone and wood. So they mostly used impact weapons, not edged ones. That thing you're waving around like a
rhythmic gymnast
is a CLUB. It's for bludgeoning people to death.' He picked up a heavy basket-hilted sword. ‘So now you can show me if you've learned how to
fight
with it.'

Mat flushed as Jones lunged with a speed that belied his years. Mat beat the sword away and countered, but the blade was already snaking at his stomach, and he was forced to defend again. On the old man came, making the air sing as the blade chimed off the taiaha, sending little chips from the wooden blade. Mat fought desperately for a way to get control. Their two fighting styles were entirely different: the taiaha
was a two-handed long-club, wielded like a samurai sword, whilst Jones's heavy sword was from the musketeers' era, a thin springy blade that searched for gaps but had enough weight to parry the heavier taiaha. Another thrust and then a feinted jab, and Mat found himself slipping in mud, landing heavily on his back, only just parrying an overhand cut that gouged the taiaha blade. The steel caught in the wood, and he kicked out, trying to tangle Jones's legs, but the old man's stance was strong. He wrenched his blade free and flicked it against Mat's chest.

‘Ach!' Mat looked up along the blade to Jones, his lined face a little flushed, frosty breath billowing from his mouth. ‘I'll yield …' Jones grinned, and Mat suddenly swung at his legs, ‘ … later!'

His blow connected with air, and then Jones's foot came down on the taiaha, jamming it into the turf. He flicked his wrist and Mat had to flop to avoid being skewered. He lay in the wet grass, looking along the polished blade. ‘You'll be yielding about now, then?' Jones enquired, jabbing the tip of his sword into Mat's chest.

‘Ow! Yes!' He let go the taiaha and shoved the blade away. ‘That hurt!'

Jones stepped back, out of reach of another surprise blow, and brought the hilt of his sword to his lips in a mocking salute. ‘Not bad, laddie, you're improving.'

Mat sat up and glared at the wet patch of grass. ‘If it wasn't for that mud …' He looked up at Jones accusingly. ‘It wasn't muddy earlier in the fight! Did you … ?' He made a ‘magical' gesture, fluttering his fingers.

Jones grinned wolfishly. ‘Of course. You'd stopped noticing
your footing. Easy enough to summon a little water and back you into it.'

‘That's cheating!'

‘No laddie, it's winning. All's fair in love and war, don't they say? Now, let's see you with a patu.' He retired to the balcony and exchanged Mat's taiaha for a bone-carved, thin, sharp-edged hand club, a patu. It was light, a cutting weapon as much as a club. Mat moved with grace and made the air about him hiss, while Jones smoked his pipe. He made Mat stop and go over certain moves again until he was satisfied. Then he tossed Mat a heavy stone hand club, a mere, thicker and blunter, made to smash bone. Mat tired quickly using the heavier weapon.

Jones raised a hand. ‘That's enough, lad. I think the taiaha will always be your main weapon. You're small for a warrior, so you need to fight at a distance. Get in too close, and a big man will take you down through bulk alone.'

‘So I'll need a gun, too, for that real fight-from-a-distance vibe?' hinted Mat meaningfully. Firing the antique guns Jones owned was his favourite training.

‘Indeed. Come on out the back.' Jones led Mat around the house, where his yard backed onto denser bush. He had evidently cleared the ivy that winter, as last time Mat had visited there had been a curtain of it falling over the back veranda. On the back-porch table lay a flintlock with a walnut-inlaid handle and embossed plates proclaiming it the workmanship of ‘Williams & Powell' of Liverpool. Jones had a room in the stables full of old-style guns, all shining like new and perfectly maintained. Only antique guns worked in Aotearoa, which was curiously resistant to modern weaponry. ‘Show me,' the
Welshman grunted, leaning back and puffing his pipe.

Jones had Mat load the gun with black powder and a lead ball, then discharge it at an old keg thirty paces away, over and over, until the lawn was wreathed in sweet, acrid smoke. The recoil was wrist-breaking, and the gun became progressively heavier, but Mat was a fair shot, and soon the old keg was shattered.

Jones laid a hand on Mat's shoulder. ‘Good, lad. But too slow. A good pistolier can fire a musket or a flintlock four times a minute. You're not doing much better than two.'

Mat scowled, reproaching himself. ‘It's the cleaning. I'm worried about leaving a spark in the barrel that'll make it explode.'

‘That's fine, lad. Care is good. But you're not being deft enough. Here, I'll show you.' Jones picked up the flintlock, turned and fired. From then, his hands were a blur, as he ram-cleaned the barrel, recharged from the powder flask, inserted a ball and whirled. The last remnant of the barrel flew to pieces as the clearing reverberated.

Mat had been counting the seconds. ‘Seven! Wow!'

The old man shrugged. ‘It's just practice, lad. And there are ways of using our powers to speed the process. When you've got the basics right, I'll show you how.' Jones tapped the embers from his pipe. ‘The real question with any weapon, lad, is: are you prepared to use it? In World War Two, the American military found that most soldiers didn't even fire at the enemy. On old American Civil War battlefields they found muskets that had been loaded a dozen times or more and not discharged. Killing is abhorrent to most people.'

Mat frowned, struggling to reconcile this with movies and
television and books. He had been in some deadly fights. Yet now he thought of it, he had never deliberately tried to kill, although sometimes those he fought had died. He wasn't proud of that.

Jones refilled his pipe. ‘Remember Waikaremoana? You all just fought to survive.'

Mat nodded slowly.

Jones patted his arm. ‘It was training that got you through. And luck.' He sighed and took the gun from Mat's hands. ‘Let's have some tea, and you can tell me about this dream of yours.' He opened the back door with a strange smile on his face, as if harbouring an amusing secret. Mat looked at him, walked inside and gaped in surprise.

Cassandra Allen was sitting at Jones's table, surrounded by a tangle of wires and boxes and gadgets, an open laptop beside her. ‘Cassandra?'

She looked up at him distractedly, her eyes flashing through her thick-rimmed glasses. Her mouth glittered with a full rail track of braces. She looked no less odd than last time he had seen her. Her hair was in a ‘Sideshow Bob' pile of ginger semi-dreads, and her clothes appeared to have been stolen from Pippi Longstocking. ‘Hiya, Mat!'

She wasn't supposed to be here until next week. ‘What're you doing here?'

She grinned up at him with a wry smile. ‘Great to see you, too!'

He reddened. ‘Uh, yeah, sorry … hi!'

‘Dad decided at the last minute to come to Taupo early this year,' Cassandra said. ‘I thought I'd bless Jones with my skills and genius.'

‘Apparently it's an honour,' Jones drawled.

‘Are you kidding? I normally wouldn't go anywhere that doesn't have full wi-fi access, an Xbox-360 and an espresso machine; you haven't even got electricity! You bet it's an honour!'

Jones just shrugged imperturbably. ‘I can wait 'til Aotearoa provides. I'm in no hurry.'

Cassandra sniffed, and turned back to Mat. ‘We only got in last night at about eleven.' Since the adventures on the East Coast at New Year, Mat, Riki, Damian and Cass had contrived to spend at least a week together each school break, whether in Napier, Gisborne or here in Taupo. This time around the plan was for everyone to get together in the second week, once Riki had finished his taiaha class and Damian got back from a fencing tournament in the South Island.

‘How'd you actually get here?' Mat asked curiously. Normally he had to bring his friends across to Aotearoa.

‘I hacked my way in,' Cassandra laughed. Then she glanced up at Jones a little warily. ‘Actually, last time I kept an eye on the trail and figured out how you use that big kauri to get here. Three times widdershins! Nothing stays secret from me for long.'

That's true enough
, Mat reflected. Cassandra could take a person's cellphone number and find out their history and secrets inside an hour. She was like a character from
The Matrix
, only without the fashion sense and the slo-mo kung-fu moves.

‘Whatcha doing?' he asked as he sat at the table, while Jones put the kettle on the hob.

Cassandra looked down at the wires and clamps and
screwdrivers, and nibbled her lip thoughtfully. ‘I'm trying to hook this place up with a telephone that links to the real world.'

Mat glanced at Jones. ‘Isn't that, like … impossible?'

Cassandra gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Jones says you got a car to transition across without fritzing it out last year. There must be a way to do it.'

‘But even I don't really know how I did it,' Mat confessed. It had been Donna Kyle's car, and he had somehow got it through a transition to Aotearoa without it missing or failing. It was something he had puzzled over with Jones, but they had not solved yet. ‘Ngatoro helped me with it. And maybe it was something to do with the car itself.'

She pursed her lips, her goldfish-bowl eyes thoughtful. ‘Anything doable is repeatable.' She handed him a thing that looked like a spanner with a speedometer on it. ‘Grab the pincers and give me a current.'

He stared at her, feeling a little silly. ‘Huh?'

She rolled her eyes. ‘This is an ammeter. I thought boys knew stuff like this! Let's see how much electricity you can create.'

Mat glanced at Jones. ‘Uh … I've never created electricity … Not consciously anyway.'

Cassandra fumbled in the pile of gadgets. ‘You don't know electricity? I thought you were supposed to be some kind of apprentice wizard.'

‘I can do fire and water and stuff,' he offered.

‘I want electricity!' She handed him another wire attached to some kind of power pack. ‘Hold the metal clamp at the end.'

He grasped the metal clamp, and she twisted a knob on the power pack. He yelped. ‘Oww! You electrocuted me.'

She giggled. ‘It was only a few volts, Mat! Come on: duplicate it. Come on!'

Mat glanced at Jones, who nodded, his face curious. Mat closed his eyes, and tensed himself as Cassandra trickled electricity into his hand. He concentrated in the same way that he had for Jones when learning fire and water and the other elements. Time slowly passed, as he learnt the sensation, feeling it build and tingle and course through him. Cassandra murmured something about the level of volts, so that he could measure the levels of input and what he could deal with.

His concentration suddenly shattered, as a black-and-white dog bounded in the open back door, woofed happily, and leapt into his lap. There was a sudden crack, the dog's fur shot up, and he spun, jerked and landed on the floor, wuffling indignantly. ‘What the hell?' Godfrey the dog growled. He shook himself, while Jones, Mat and Cassandra struggled not to laugh, and failed. Mat doubled over, holding his stomach, while Cassandra vented her loud, horsey laugh that could clear restaurants. Even Jones chuckled.

‘Uh, sorry, God!' Mat offered finally, wiping his eyes, while the little shape-shifter earthed sparks into the floor as he stood.

‘I should bloody think so,' Godfrey muttered, lowering his tail and rubbing himself against Jones's legs. ‘Don't come near me again.' God was ‘Godfrey Llewellyn III', who, like Fitzy, was a turehu shape-shifter; only Mat supposed God wasn't really a turehu because Jones had brought him from Wales,
which probably made him a bogle or pooka or something similar from Celtic mythology. The dog settled in the corner and glared at Mat.