by A. W. Exley
Loki shook his head. “We don’t need a deep harbour, and it’s too removed from where we want to be. I want to buy goods direct from the traders, not pay the middlemen in Christchurch.” His gaze ran up the coast and lingered over one point. “Nate and I discussed this before we left. We’re heading here. Matanui. It’s on the intersection of the main trade routes north, south, and west.”
Miguel looked up, a question in his hazel eyes. “What about the settlers who think they’re heading to a new life in Christchurch?”
“They’ll find a coach heading south. Matanui is a large settlement, although I believe it is rather rough around the edges. Just the way I like them.” In truth Loki had no idea what they would find on their arrival. The country was new and few people made the arduous journey. Only those desperate for a new life far away from the hardships of England took the risk. Who else would want to spend eight weeks cramped into a smelly, damp ship surrounded by vomiting children?
Not to mention the country was so young, it would be a long time before it could be called civilised. At least it wasn’t full of convicts like Australia. England had embraced deportation to deal with the criminal element, and banished them to a land full of deadly creatures. Loki did wonder, though, if that was the best strategy—surely those who survived (or even thrived) in such an environment would emerge far more dangerous? If he and Nate ever found themselves sentenced to labour in Australia he suspected they would be running the entire country inside of a year. Perhaps that was why Queen Victoria kept Nate close, rather than banishing the villainous viscount to a remote corner where he could set himself up as an opposing monarch.
Once they had plotted the last leg of their journey, Loki took the helm. No one but him was allowed to land an airship. He prided himself on his smooth landings, whether on land or water. Below, the country was shrouded in mist as the Jenny Elle approached.
“Aotearoa,” Miguel whispered from beside him as the clouds parted and a lush green landscape was revealed.
“What does it mean?” Loki asked.
“Land of the Long White Cloud.” Miguel moved closer to the window to watch the forest passing below them. Trees soared, some of them hundreds of feet tall. Birds took fright and flew up from the canopy, then dived back down to its protective green embrace. “She appears almost untouched by civilisation.”
“Virgin territory? Not my favourite, but I’m sure we can teach the locals a thing or two.” Loki grinned while Miguel rolled his eyes. Again. The lad would soften up eventually. No one stayed immune to Loki’s charm for long; they either fell in love with him or wanted to kill him. Indifference wasn’t an option.
The trees thinned and narrow brown lines showed rough dirt roads between them. The landscape changed as their destination materialised in the distance. A hill seemed fortified, with low wooden buildings surrounded by a tall wall with guard towers. Terraced gardens swept down the hill to a village nestled below the rise. Smoke rose from chimneys and people ran in the streets, pointing up at the airship. Others were frozen to the spot, perhaps wondering what sort of creature had dropped out of the sky.
Dense trees had been cleared to make paddocks where crops grew and animals grazed on lush grass. Draft horses dragged massive logs to a timber yard where men laboured to mill the wood. Man and beast alike stopped their work and looked up.
Loki reduced their altitude and the enormous airship bore down on an empty field that was bordered by a river running out to the ocean.
“Will they have anywhere for us to moor? Surely Lyttelton harbour will be more suited to accommodating an airship?” Miguel waved to panicked locals. A horse bolted and took off with its rider across a paddock, yet the cows and sheep never raised their heads from the grass.
“Nate was going to send word via the aethergraph with our requirements. Assuming the signal reaches this far south, they should know we are coming. They just didn’t know exactly when.” Lower and lower, the Jenny Elle sank toward the ground.
Two men on horseback appeared, bent low over their mounts as they chased the monstrous airship. One man waved his arm forward and to the left. Loki followed his signal, relieved that the settlement was prepared for their arrival, after all.
“Release the lines,” Loki commanded.
Crewmen jumped to action and raced out the door to throw the guidelines to those on the ground. Rope trailed through the grass as they dropped even lower, until they hovered just a few feet from the earth.
Up ahead loomed two massive piles driven into the ground. With a grin on his face, Loki guided the Jenny Elle to kiss the grass between the posts. The riders had leapt from their horses and grabbed a rope each, as more men appeared from a nearby structure. Soon five men hauled on each rope and the airship was lashed to her mooring.
Loki held up his hands and smirked. “Another perfect landing.”
The crew dropped the metal gangplank to bridge the short distance from the deck to earth. Excited passengers clustered around, waiting. Some dragged children and luggage behind, while the few wealthier ones among them demanded the crew act as porters and fetch and carry for them.
Loki took the lead and trotted down the stairs to the waiting men. A crowd gathered in the distance, come to stare at the airship.
A tall, robust man approached, a dusty hat wedged on his head. His clothes were stained with sweat and dirt and he wiped his hand on his trouser leg before he held it out. “I’m James Taylor, Captain Hawke. Viscount Lyons asked me to organise what you needed for your stay in New Zealand.”
Loki shook his hand while his feet acclimated to solid ground again. “Excellent. My first mate was somewhat concerned whether you had been informed of our arrival.”
Loki smiled at Miguel as he said it. Any chance to needle the young man for fretting about the small details.
Taylor looked from captain to first mate. “We have constructed a warehouse for your use. It has river and road access. There’s also a small cabin next to it for your personal use. Life is basic out here but I hope you will find it satisfactory. My men and I will try and provide whatever else you require.”
Loki cast a glance around. He had expected basic, but this bordered on primitive. Dirt roads, houses that looked like they were made of twisted sticks, a camp made of canvas tents, and not an enticing woman in sight. Mentally he would be counting the days until they could head back to civilisation.
“There’s also the small matter of the welcoming powhiri that has been arranged by the local iwi, the Ngati Mamoe. We will require the presence of everyone here,” the man continued.
“A what?” Loki narrowed his gaze at the man.
The man twisted his cap in his hands. “A powhiri. It’s a local custom involving song and speeches. The passengers cannot leave until after the ceremony. Plus there is the small matter of the treaty that governs life here. The local tribe has first pick of the new arrivals.”
Loki didn’t have time for boring local customs. He had come to fill their airborne whale with gold. Rubbing shoulders and pretending to be polite was Nate’s speciality, not Loki’s. His attention drifted to Miguel. He would send the lad in his stead. Right now he had more earthy needs to satisfy. He had grown bored of the on-board diet some days ago. His immediate plans involved finding a pub, a few tankards of ale, and an exotic-looking companion to relieve his travel fatigue. He always enjoyed a bit of local spice in his diet.
“Perhaps the passengers could disembark and store their luggage in the warehouse for now?” Miguel suggested. “It would give the children a chance to play and the adults could walk to town for a change of scenery. We can organise their onward transport after the welcome, once we know who is staying and who will be moving on.”
“Excellent idea.” Loki waved his hands. “Go organise this ceremony, Taylor. Miguel, deal with the passengers. Find me in whatever tavern this place has, when you need me.”
Loki headed for the township on foot. Not that it was far away—just across the paddock. People
assembled at the edge of the field, gazing at the slumbering airship and whispering among themselves.
“You flew in the belly of the beast.” A dark-skinned child wearing a grass skirt regarded him with wide eyes.
Loki knelt down to the child’s eye level and beckoned him closer with one finger. “Yes, she is called the Jenny Elle. She has flown nonstop for two weeks to get here. Don’t get too close as she’s very thirsty and might accidentally slurp you up.” Loki winked at the child, who looked equal parts mortified and fascinated. Then the boy turned tail and ran off to his friends, babbling in a language Loki didn’t understand.
There wasn’t much to the small town. One main road cut through the middle with wooden buildings clustered on either side. A couple of side roads ran out to houses and paddocks that soon turned into soaring forests. One paddock held numerous canvas tents of varying sizes. Carts and horses moved among the tents, the temporary homes of men come to trade goods before heading back sealing, whaling, or mining.
Matanui could have been the only settlement in the entire country, it seemed so isolated and alone. Apart from the surrounding greenery pushing in on them, it reminded Loki of towns on the frontier of America’s Wild West: men and women living apart from the rest of the world and subject to no law except their own.
A stroll along the main street soon revealed the building Loki sought. The tavern had double swinging front doors, a bar that dominated one side of the interior, and a stage for dancers. A few dusty men clustered around a table, playing cards, and another man wiped the wooden bar with a clean rag.
“Ale, please,” Loki said, leaning on the gleaming surface.
“You come in on the airship?” the barman said as he selected a sparkling glass and held it under the tap of the barrel resting behind him.
“Captain Lachlan Hawke. We’ll be here for a few weeks while we acquire the cargo for our return trip.” He took a deep breath. The air here was cleaner than in London, even with the men smoking behind him. The tavern was the cleanest he had ever seen and the staff had open, friendly smiles. He was used to squalor, filth, and surly dispositions. This wasn’t natural. Maybe there was something in the water down here?
“It’ll be good to see some new faces. Did you bring supplies from England? Tobacco is hard to get here. Doesn’t grow in the damp.” The barman slid the amber liquid toward Loki.
“Mainly passengers this trip. Once we know what you need here in the colonies we can establish a trade run.” Loki passed the man a coin and picked up the ale. Malty warmth slid over his tongue and down his gullet. “Oh, that’s good.”
His stay in this wilderness had just become tolerable thanks to a decent brew with a kick like a mule.
3
Loki was on his fourth ale and deep in a round of cards when they came looking for him. Taylor cast around in the shadows and then signalled to him. “Ceremony will start shortly, Captain. We’ll be needing you.”
Loki glanced at his cards. He had a useless hand anyway, may as well fold. “Sorry, gentlemen, but duty calls.”
He dropped the cards to the table and quickly downed the remains of the beer in his glass. Fortunately he now had a warm glow that should see him through whatever stuffy welcoming the locals insisted on doing. He gestured for Taylor to lead the way and they walked through the small town, which bustled with activity. Loki’s eye roved over the inhabitants but he had yet to spy anyone who sparked his jaded palate.
Back at the paddock adjacent to the airship, a large crowd had gathered and was assembled facing the chattering immigrants. They were a mix of English immigrants, the native Maori, and—off to one side, not mingling with anyone—a few uniform-clad British soldiers. The Maori wore a mixture of clothing that incorporated what Loki assumed were their native garments and those borrowed from the working class Victorians.
The men were predominantly bare-chested with intricate tattoos climbing over their skin. They wore either a type of short grass skirt or trousers. Their feet were mainly naked, but one or two wore tough work boots. The women wore rough linen blouses with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows, and either the same type of skirt the men wore or longer wool skirts, such as one might see in the streets of London.
Miguel glanced at his watch and narrowed his eyes at Loki, who could hear him tsking under his breath. Loki rolled his eyes. I haven't missed the blasted function—it hasn't even started yet.
A young woman with dusky skin detached from the native group and approached. Her black hair was caught at her nape in a loose ponytail and a sprig of fern was tucked behind one ear. Like many of the native women, her lips were tattooed a greenish black and swirls spilled over her chin. She wore a plain linen shirt and a long brown skirt, but bare toes peeked out from underneath. She wasn’t overly tall and had a pleasing roundness that Loki’s gaze appreciated, even though she seemed a little young and innocent for his tastes.
Taylor raised a hand in greeting to her, and then turned to Loki. “This is Marika. She will assist you during your stay with matters of custom and language.”
Work-obsessed Miguel beamed at the woman as though she were a time schedule with everything organised down to the last minute. “I wanted to use my free time on our journey to learn the Maori language, but I couldn’t find any books in England.”
Marika smiled shyly at the young crewman but kept her eyes downcast.
Definitely too innocent to whet my appetite.
“Our language is not a written one, but oral. It must be learned lips to ears,” Marika said.
Loki elbowed Miguel. “I keep saying you need to practice your oral skills, lad.”
From the way the youth was staring at Marika, Loki suspected there would be quite a bit of learning done in New Zealand. About time, too. Apart from when they had got him drunk in St Petersburg and delivered him to a brothel, the lad was more interested in work than the opposite sex.
The girl was lovely, a flower in her first bloom, but far too young for Loki’s tastes. He liked them with an edge and a sway to their walk. He let out a sigh. Let there be someone in this backwater who might be capable of holding my interest.
“If you are ready, we shall begin your welcome to Aotearoa.” Marika nodded to her tribe and a cluster moved forward.
Silence fell as the immigrants waited to see what would happen. Then a woman’s voice cut through the air, without any musical accompaniment. Loud and pure, it held the audience captive. Loki didn’t understand a single word of the melodious language, but the emotion came through. Then the group parted and the singing maiden stepped forward.
Of average height and voluptuous, her long black hair was held off her face by a headband with feathers on one side. She wore the native dress—a short moving skirt that flowed around her knees and a tunic with a loose top, pulled down to expose her shoulders. But it was her face, not just her form, that captivated Loki: eyes as dark as a night-time sky and lips tattooed black, the pattern flowing down her chin like a spill of water.
“Paniha sings the karanga. I will answer for you. This is how we discuss the purpose of your visit.” Marika stepped forward and her voice joined and mingled with Paniha’s. The two women wove a conversation on the late afternoon air. Then their song drifted away and Marika stepped back to Loki’s side.
“She certainly has a gifted tongue,” Loki muttered. Both women were gifted. But he would wager Paniha was the far more experienced of the two, with a tongue he couldn’t wait to taste. Listening to her song, he had decided that this Paniha would be the lucky woman he would gift with his time and talents.
Miguel shot him a horrified look. The lad really needed to loosen up. Perhaps their delectable little local assistant could help with that particular task. He saw the way she glanced at Miguel and he at her. Although if they were both shy, Loki might need to give them a prod in the right direction.
As Paniha stepped back among her people, a man took her place. The warrior was enormous. Loki guessed him to be at least six and a half f
eet tall, and solid. Muscles bulged along his shoulders and down his arms. The short swaying skirt revealed legs like tree trunks. Tattoos swirled over his body and seemed to highlight the movement of tight muscle under skin. He swung a spear with feathers tied around one end, dancing with the weapon as he crossed the grass.
The man’s eyes were unblinking, with an unnatural amount of white showing. Loki locked gazes with him as he approached.
“Hone is our chief and our fiercest warrior. This is the challenge, where he will determine if you are friend of foe. Then he will make an offering. If you dare, you will pick it up,” Marika whispered from beside him.
Loki’s heart thudded in his chest as the man danced closer and closer. He was magnificent to watch and his raw power held Loki as captive as the notes of Paniha’s song had. Hone’s dance was a solo fight routine, each movement precise, strong, and sure. His tongue flicked in and out, like a serpent scenting the air, and still his eyes never blinked. He bent down to place something on the ground in front of Loki, his gaze fixed on the newcomer, never wavering. The pirate had to break eye contact to look down.
A bright green curl of fern.
He took a step forward and picked up the offering, half expecting the warrior to drive him through with the spear. As he stood, the warrior gave the briefest nod, as though satisfied, then walked backward to join his tribe.
Then Marika explained that the settlers needed to answer with their own song, something that represented who they were. What followed was a quick discussion and a lacklustre round of “Amazing Grace.” After a speech and then another song, the Maori formed a line for what Marika called the hongi.
“You will press noses with each person. This is the mingling of our breath, to show we are now one,” their guide whispered, and then led off their line so that everyone could copy her actions.