by Julian Cheek
“Ngaire is not the only one who sees what others cannot,” said another. A younger man who had arrived late, his burlap cloak still covering his head such that his features were in shadow underneath his hood. “We do not have to follow her counsel just because she hears the heart beat of some of the Anahim.”
“Be silent, Kahurangi. If you have nothing positive to contribute, then stay hidden under that blanket you call a cloak and listen to what the wise have to say instead!”
Tai, one of the elders of the Turangai folk who had all assembled in the tent that night, glared at Kahurangi, daring him to speak further. His staff, already gripped tightly in his hands, was poised to strike out at this young upstart of a man who generally seemed prone to speak rather than to listen. Turning back, he addressed Ngaire.
“Ngaire. No one knows more of the world order and of the events of the last few years than you. Your counsel and wisdom is regarded and recognised amongst all the Turangai, and, most importantly, amongst these your fellow elders.” Tai gestured around the gathering, pointing to a few key members as he spoke. “We listen to what you say, but we cannot wait. Hard though it is, we need to act and act decisively if we are to ever get The One to accept who he is and, more importantly, what it is he needs to do.”
Tai looked down at Ngaire, who, until that moment, had remained quiet, her pipe fixed to her mouth as usual and the thin stream of smoke flowing up and into the eaves of the tent to join the smoke of others, who had similarly brought their pipes and weeds to assist them as they debated what was to be done with Sam, The One.
Ngaire, with a final, deep puff of her pipe, looked up at Tai through wrinkled eyes and said, “And what is it exactly, you feel we should do, Tai, to get Sam to accept his destiny?” Ngaire had been sitting in the same spot now for a few hours and her bones and backside were starting to throb. These people prattle on like old women! she thought, not for the first time. Ngaire was rapidly losing patience with her kinsmen as they debated and shouted and cajoled, but just didn’t listen.
“Are we to call the Anahim one more time?” she continued. “Call them and insist that they sort Sam out once and for all? Would you, Tai, Anaru, Ariki?” Pointing to the three main culprits who were advocating decisive action. “Would you like to summon them here, to this place and demand that they do something?” The men stayed silent, not knowing how to answer a question that they were too afraid to consider themselves. “Where is your faith, that what was started by them, will be finished by them also? When all appears to be lost, the only thing that remains is faith, otherwise we are no different to the Nephilim and their brood, the Bjarke. They have abandoned faith and their fall is complete. Do you want to be like them?”
The tent fell silent for a while after this as the crowd heard the pronouncement from Ngaire. But only for a moment. And then, everyone clamoured to be heard.
“Ngaire speaks the truth.”
“If we wait and do nothing, we are surely doomed. Look at the towns of Rudhjanda, of Baradin, of…”
“We need to assemble the Anahim and get them to act.”
“Ariki, you speak without thinking, as you always have done. Who is it that ran, when the rest of us…”
“You are all old men who babble like a brook but your words lead nowhere…”
“There is another way!”
With perfect timing, this sentence was uttered in the pause between arguments, causing the crowd to focus in on it in an instant, looking back to see who had uttered this proclamation. From the back of the crowd, the elders parted slowly making room for one, lone, seated individual who, to this moment, had remained silent. Listening, thinking, and now imparting.
“Tensa. You are one of the oldest among us,” said Kuhurangi. “What could you possibly know of another…”
“Silence, whelp!” came the iron response as Tensa looked up at him from the bench on which he sat. “You wear fine clothes, young Kuhurangi, yet underneath it all, you are skinny, lacking substance, and your words, likewise.” Tensa, sat huddled up inside an old, threadbare blanket, his feet brought up onto the bench so that he was sitting cross-legged on it. If anything, he looked even older than most and his weather lined face resembled parchment, which had seen many seasons come and go. His beard was full, yet wirey and his nose was creased and incredibly large. However, within the tapestry of his face, his green eyes blazed with intensity and were most definitely not the eyes of a doddering old man, resigned to rock backwards and forwards on his chair until Father Time called for him.
“Like Ngaire,” he began, “I have seen this world grow, flourish and rejoice with life. There were times when we could walk among the Anahim and communicate with them, be one with them. Most of you are too young to remember, but I do. I remember the mighty waters of Moana, the mother ocean, when she was clear and bright and her waves washed the shores of all Maunga-Atua with peace. I remember the snows of the Sky Eater, the lofty peaks of the Kairaki range when all was as it should be.” His audience listened with intense concentration now that Tensa had their attention.
“But do you not remember as well, the days of the ancient time? When the power of the Anahim flowed through us, their people. We lived and moved with their ways, with their powers, with their magic. And it was the way of the Turangai because it was the way of the Anahim and the Ethereals, who are to be honoured.”
Tensa stopped for a moment as he gathered the blanket around himself where it had slipped away from his ancient shoulders.
“Some of you,” he continued, “will also remember our forefathers telling us how the Anahim spoke of many other things then. Of lofty places one could only dream of. Of times even further back in the eons of the birthing of Maunga-Atua and of places locked away beyond our times, this place or this reality.”
Tensa gathered his thoughts. The next part was critical for his ideas to have any chance of holding sway in this group of peers. Some were nodding their heads in acknowledgment. Some, but not all.
“Do you therefore also not remember that mention was made of the ability of the Anahim to world swap?” Some of the crowd started to utter incantations of protection around themselves, such was the sense of fear suddenly palpable in the gathering. Tensa needed to strike, and strike quickly.
“They spoke of the ability to move between worlds, and times and dimensions,” Tensa said, raising his voice slightly to regain the control. “This, some of you must accept, is what we have been told. But, we have also been told that this world swap was NOT just a privilege of the Anahim, but was also possible for their people, the Turangai, under extreme situations and with very, very careful control.” Tensa had to shout now to be heard as the elders all threatened to revolt and lose any chance of seeing where Tensa was going with this.
“If this is true,” he shouted, “and Aronui moved dimensions not a few years back, why is it therefore not possible still, for the people of the Turangai to do likewise? If the chosen one will not accept who he is, then we must go to him and convince him. Nothing has changed since the days of old other than the Nephilim spit in our faces and we stand there and ask them to spit harder!”
“You are mad, Tensa,” shouted one with disgust
“How can he speak of these things as if they are merely the small talk of the children and gossip mongers in the villages?” asked another.
“Tensa, you go too far. This is utter fantasy. How can you sit there and spout such things especially now when we need clear direction?” said a third, turning away from him in frustration, ready to ignore any further comments arising from that corner. The crowd started to move into puffed-up anarchy.
“Actually,” said Ngaire, after the crowd had spewed out yet more shouts and comments to the four corners, “Tensa speaks truer words than all of us put together.”
At first, the crowd hadn’t registered what she had said and the import of it. But slowly, like a gentle ripple, her words filtered out, stopping the various discussions in their tracks, flowing out towards
the periphery of the elders gathered.
“Tensa speaks the truth,” she repeated. “Tensa speaks with wisdom that should shame all of us.” She looked around as she said this, looking with daggers in her eyes at some gathered around. “Aronui did indeed make that journey and we all know that she went of her own accord and is lost to this place, for ever. BUT, it is true that should we feel there is no other way and we accept that Sam must be convinced that he needs to remember again and so unleash all that is still inside him, then we have no choice. We must depart from this world and risk losing ourselves in order to regain it once more. Our talking must end and we must journey to the citadel of Maqata, there to find Fastana, the last of the monks of Anahim and seek his blessing to unlock that which has been hidden from us now, for eons.”
The silence was palpable as the gathering choked down on what had just been suggested. It was pure senselessness, surely? And then, like a dam bursting, everyone started to clamour and shout and try their hardest to be heard, to try to argue any other option other than one which, so far as they were concerned, had been locked away for ever, and rightly so. Outside, the calm of the forested clearing remained. The various animals and forms of the Padme remained seated in a concentric circle around the tent, looking outwards, protecting, scanning, waiting. Ignoring the noises emanating from within. For them, they sensed what was being discussed within and already knew the outcome. Without a word, first one, then the rest stood from their protective cordon and started to move to the front of the tent, to wait.
Inside, chaos reigned. Men and women shouted and stamped around, arms cartwheeling in agitation with some, their cloaks and long sleeves flowing up into the air like a strange dance. But it was not choreographed. This was control banished to sit outside until they were all good and ready to allow it back in.
Within this upheaval, Ngaire sat quietly, bringing her pipe up to relight it. Allowing the dry tinder within to light up slowly, the smoke starting to filter into her mouth. Through the smoke, her eyes moved to fix on Tensa. His eyes were already focussed on her. Together, they turned their gaze to look over to one of the younger leaders in the crowd. Hauku normally kept quiet in these gatherings, but both Ngaire and Tensa knew that when Hauku listened, she really listened. Her youth belied her wisdom and she was destined to go far as an elder amongst her people.
They were both looking to her, their eyes communicating what did not need to be uttered. Hauku, looking at both of them in turn, brought her hands together and lifted them to her mouth, the fingers pressing together, forming a spire. She looked down once as if to seek acknowledgement, then she looked at Ngaire and Tensa and nodded her head imperceptibly.
In amongst the throng, the three of them slowly stood up and started to make their way to the entrance of the tent, where, without a word, they disappeared outside to commence the journey, with or without their comrades. Their parting at first, went unnoticed, but, as one support can weaken a structure, when three principle pillars are removed, it did not take too long for first one, then all to register that there was an imbalance within their gathering.
“Ngaire is gone!” said Uriah.
“So is Tensa,” said another.
“And where is Hauku?” said a third.
A quick look around confirmed that they had indeed left, and, as often happens with a leaderless group, regardless as to whether they might feel they can carry on without them or not, a stream of people slowly started to exit the tent to find and follow the intrepid three.
The tent returned to being a dull green-grey structure within the clearing. The lights still glowing at an entrance of a space now devoid of life, save for the wildlife around it, who nibbled on the grasses as they had done since time began. The mist sending strands of dew to caress everything until the place disappeared once more into memory.
As this unlikely group of travellers moved, their passing, from the air, resembled a long line of rag-tag, shuffling blankets all hobbling and wobbling forward. It did not look at all like any army that might cause concern to an enemy. The Padme flitted around their charges like mosquitoes, but generally, they all moved forward in singular fashion, all moving slowly, inexorably on towards the foothills of a mountain range they wished they never had to visit again. Ahead of them, leagues away, sat the cold, impenetrable rock of the mountains of Kairaki and the lair of that worm, Lord Elim, his household of the Bjarke and the resting place of the Nephilim, the sworn enemy of the Anahim, and all the Turangai.
The travellers moved off to the west, away from the head mountains of Kairaki. Instead, they made their way to where mountain met ocean. As they travelled, they attracted other curious groups of people, wondering what auspicious occasion was happening to attract such a troop of esteemed leaders and elders so that, when they eventually started to climb the first of the foothills kissing the ocean, the group of some 30 elders had now expanded to over 200 as they all walked silently onward towards the destiny of their world and their existence.
This group of nomads grew and flexed as they travelled onward. Padme could be seen flying or running off into the undergrowth, to relay their charge’s orders to the villages still remaining on the western shores. Slowly others came to join the group, summoned by those already travelling. At the head, Ngaire, Tensa and Hauku continued with grim determination, from time to time, stopping to get their bearings but always onward to a place they had heard about, but till now, never visited. The citadel holding the last of the monks of Anahim was ahead of them, and more climbing would be required before they stood finally at the gates, hoping someone was there to let them in.
The band had grown to close to five hundred people by the time they approached the steppes leading them upwards at last to the final track and the gates of the citadel of Maqata. The remaining peoples of many villages and towns were, by now, represented here. Solidarity was being shown where it was at all possible. Dotted thorough the crowd were one or two from Baradin, Tangaroa, Anduin, Ruhdjanda, even Watamka, which had similarly been dessimated. News moved up along the lines to land at the ears of the leading group of three, and it was both balm and acid to them when reports eventually reached them of survivors, of loved ones, still alive but in hiding in the forests and caves around the areas.
From Baradin, news that Pit and Niko and a number of the others had managed to escape and were alive.
From Tangaroa, five still alive.
From Anduin, thirty.
Ruhdjanda, ten.
Of Watamka, that mighty town numbering in the hundreds, only forty survivors so far.
But, for Ngaire, both elation and despair as she heard that Ma-aka, though badly injured, was alive. Pania however, her favourite and cherished sister/daughter, and for Sam, his closest link to this place, kidnapped and taken away by the Bjarke. If anything, this news spurred her on. Spurred her to climb, determined to get to Maqata, smash open the doors, climb into hell itself if necessary. Do anything possible to get Sam by the scruff of his neck, and bring him screaming and shouting, for all she cared right now, back into Maunga-Atua to finally finish what he had started and to finally meet and destroy Lord Elim and all his brood of scum, and even all the Nephilim at the same time.
With teeth gritted and steel in her eyes, Ngaire stood at the first stone step leading up into the darkness above and into the depths of the mountain pass, leading to Maqata. She turned to see the crowd spreading out below and around her. It made no difference whether she saw a thousand or just one. For her, she would battle “the Nameless One” himself right now, just to get one opportunity to summon the only one who could possibly bring an end to all the misery coursing through her beautiful land.
Ngaire turned back to look ahead, and with one thought shot to her falcon Seria, she gripped the first rocky outcropping and started her climb up into the darkness and the citadel of Maqata.
Up and up the crowd of stragglers moved, winding their way through the cuts and gashes of the rocky peninsula which merged the beginnings of th
e mountain range of Kairaki with the Oceans of Moana. Climbing slowly yet steadily onwards. All the while, their protective flank of Padme flew, climbed or scuttled around them, wary of any danger, ready to attack should anything come towards them uninvited.
The waves below them crashed against the foot of the steppes and seagulls flew off from their perches to soar on the air currents around them as they climbed higher. Otherwise, the gathering climbed step after step, ever upwards until at last, Ngaire reached the narrow straight that announced the path that led to the gates of the citadel. Slowly, the rest of the group arrived at the landing, their bodies pressing into all the nooks and crannies to accommodate the people who had come to offer support or, for others, to seek comfort in these dark days among their own kind.
Ngaire looked over to Tensa and Hauka, who, like her, were breathing heavily from the exertion and, with renewed vigour, she gathered up her shawl around her, tucking the odd strand of her long hair back into a hide hair band, and moved down the track to find the gate and seek entry into a place she had only ever heard about, never believing she would ever need to visit this austere place of mystery and silence.
The stony path wounds its way between rocky outcroppings and, as they progressed, the sheer rock faces of the mountain slowly rose above them until they were walking along a canyon, overshadowed by the vertical sentinels of a menacing, cold and silent mountain. Occasionally, a few rocks lost their grip with the vertical surface and bounced down the face, slamming into the floor of the canyon and spewing pieces of stone over the surface, such that their passage slowly became more of an obstacle course than a smooth path.
With a final bend in the canyon route, Ngaire was presented with a view that simply took her breath away. Ahead and to either side of the canyon, the steep rock faces peeled away from each other such that a framed view out to the northern expanse of the Moana Ocean was created. Ngaire noticed that the mist banks lay below them out towards the ocean such that she was able to gaze out for miles over the expanse in front of her. Green fertile fields, huge forested areas and the ocean, all merged into a tapestry laid down over the earth to fold itself into the striking yet severe faces of the main body of the Kairaki range which disappeared off into the distance until it too was lost within the mist fields that still lay like a cloth over everything. Placed within this framed view as if sculpted there on purpose, sitting clear of the vertical rock faces, sat a structure of pure beauty and simplicity, yet exuding strength from its solidity.