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by Kirsten McKenzie


  Aroha travelled on old traditional paths, skirting the more obvious signs of progress by the English, but the babe was fussing and she needed to find somewhere more settled to rest and take stock of her situation. Tiredness threatened to overwhelm her, and that’s when mistakes happened, potentially leading to her death, or worse. Aroha shifted the woven basket, relieving the chaffing on her shoulders. The baby whimpered and Aroha shushed it using her finger as a makeshift pacifier. The baby sucked greedily on her slender finger. It would only distract her daughter for a moment, she had to feed the poor thing, but with the two of them huddled deep in the undergrowth, hiding from the men carousing only steps away from them on the new road slashed from the land of her ancestors, they had to hide. She whispered in her daughter’s tiny ears, smothering her face with maternal kisses. The sound of the soldier’s revelry grew fainter. She couldn’t be sure what they’d do with her if they found her in their alcohol fuelled state and she didn’t want to know. To them she was nothing — a pest in their house and they wouldn’t think twice of disposing of her the way you would a rat, stomping it underfoot and discarding it for the dogs to devour.

  Since the death of her beloved husband Wiremu at the hands of the Jowls, Aroha Kepa travelled under cover of darkness, spending her days cloistered in dank grottos of storm-tossed trees and knotty undergrowth. The land provided both food and shelter if you knew where to look. There’d been times she hadn’t walked alone, joining other Māori making the pilgrimage south for whatever reason. No one shared their stories, they merely travelled in the same direction. History wouldn’t remember well those who fought for the other side. It was better to keep to oneself, taking sides a dangerous position.

  Her daughter cried again, Aroha’s finger losing its effectiveness. Adrenaline leaked from her pores and the wind snuck through the branches of the trees, encircling them with their icy embrace as the soldiers drifted away, their noisy jocularity now just a shadow further down Great South Road. It wasn’t a great road; it was a scar marring the backbone of New Zealand. A weeping sore delivering white men and their rifles and their illnesses to every corner of her country. But soon she’d be home, and from there, with the support of her tribe, her people, she’d seek retribution for the great harm done to her family.

  With the threat of the drunkards gone, Aroha eased the flaxen sling from her shoulders and pressed the baby to her breast, sighing as her perfect daughter suckled greedily. With her free hand, she probed at the raw graze on her shoulder. Her daughter was getting heavier with every passing day and unless she was eating or sleeping, she constantly squirmed to be free. Aroha swallowed back the tears forming as she remembered how only a fortnight ago she and Wiremu had watched their tiny daughter discover her own feet and hands as she lay in their bed, safe from what the future was about to fire at them.

  The night grew swollen with the snuffles and calls of the native wildlife. Aroha feared nothing from the bush, only the two legged men on the road who killed for fun. Wild creatures who slaughtered others, not for need but for pleasure. Aroha wrapped a blanket around them both. She was so tired, and the baby was sleeping, and the risk of being found in this hollow was low, she’d doze… just for a minute.

  The stillness of the air vanished as voices cast dangerous shadows in the night, waking her. Only a foot away, Aroha shrank into the bushes.

  ‘How many have we got then?’

  ‘Enough to pay our way home, that’s for sure,’ replied a deeper voice.

  ‘You certain the Jowl’s will pay for them?’ whined the first voice.

  ‘They’re good for it. Don’t you worry, been doing it for years I’m told.’

  ‘Don’t you think about them using the guns on us?’

  ‘There ain’t no us anymore, is there? These rifles are our ticket back to England, where no one is trying to kill us. Where it’s not likely someone will try slitting your throat as you sleep.’

  ‘But it’ll be English soldiers who’ll get shot…’

  ‘But not these two soldiers, eh? Don’t worry about them, mate. They’re nothing to us. We’ve got a few days up our sleeves before they notice we didn’t come back, and that’s time enough to get these guns up to Auckland and sell them to the Jowl’s, then we’ll be no one the army has ever heard of. They’ll be looking for Amos Wood and Jack Antony, but those fellas won’t exist anymore except on paper. We’ll be someone else. I always fancied the name Matthew, very biblical, honest-like,’ he laughed. ‘Matthew bloody Canterbury, can’t get more Christian than that, can you? Who are you going to be then, Amos?’

  ‘Still don’t feel right,’ Amos whined again. ‘Them selling these rifles to the natives. What if they use them to kill—’

  ‘Shush,’ Jack hissed. ‘Thought I heard something?’

  Aroha held her breath, afraid it was her heartbeat the man was talking about. Her broken heart pounding so loudly within her chest it sounded like a horse thundering down a racetrack. The baby snuffled in her arms, a sure sign she was about to wake. Aroha’s heart beat faster. Keep sleeping, for just a few minutes more, she prayed to the baby girl.

  ‘Grab that bag, I’m already carrying these. Better we get as much distance between us and camp while we can. And quit your whining. We’re in this together now, you and me. Let’s go.’

  And the deserters stomped off, passing within a breath of Aroha and her baby, their thrashing through the virgin undergrowth masking the whimpers of the baby woken from its slumber.

  As her baby fed again, Aroha considered the conversation she’d overheard. Of all the names they could have said, why was it fated that it connected her to the Jowl brothers? The men responsible for the vicious beating which killed her husband? And now these soldiers were selling their own guns to the Jowl’s. A thousand thoughts ran through her head. Her heart told her to carry on south, to the safety of her family, her whanau, in the Waikato. But revenge was a powerful motivator, and she looked at the babe on her breast. This wasn’t a battle for her daughter — she deserved safety and stability. Her daughter came first, but then came revenge.

  Loosening her cramped limbs she stood up, wincing as the fibrous straps bit into her shoulders again. After emerging from her hiding place, she picked her way towards the soulless road, her pace faster than before. Revenge providing the fuel she needed to continue her journey south.

  The Chase

  ‘He had a wife.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The miller. The Māori had a wife, and she’s skipped town, gone down country,’ said Joe Jowl.

  Jimmy Jowl scowled. ‘What’re we going to do?’

  ‘We’ll find her, and that other slut who got away. I’ll warrant she’s running back to her heathen roots, taking our money with her. I want that back, to reimburse us for our losses,’ Joe said.

  The brothers sat at the scrubbed kitchen table, the windows shut against the elements outside and the gossiping ears of any passersby. Each man reminiscing about the woman they’d found in their cellar, and her subsequent escape from their weatherboard home in Auckland, followed by the fracas with the native man on the road, trying to protect the harlot. The fight, in front of all their neighbours and clientele and the embarrassment, couldn’t have gone unpunished, their reputation was at stake. So they had punished the Māori man. And now they had two women to track down. Women always caused the most problems.

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow after I make some arrangements at the bar, No doubt the thieving bastards will try to fleece us while we’re not looking, but if they do, we’ll deal with them upon our return. You know what to do,’ Joe instructed his brother. Jimmy could follow instructions — he was the perfect tool if used right.

  Jimmy flexed his meaty paws, already scarred from carrying out years of Joe’s directives, and some of his own personal entertainment behind closed doors. He didn’t care about the native woman, she wasn’t worth any thought at all, no better than the chickens he kept out back. But Sarah was a different story. Her disappearance gn
awed at him, making his skin itch. Even in church, the slightest feminine scent, the merest brush of a woman as she skirted his giant girth, was enough to send his pulse quickening, his breath laboured. The church women were respectable, according to his brother, so he didn’t play with them. But God had sent the Sarah woman to release the demons within him. Joe told him that too. But sometimes the demons were nigh on impossible to placate, and occasionally the numbers of women in their congregation dropped by one or two, keeping the demons quiet a little longer. At heart, all women were instruments of the devil, Joe had said. They used their magic to steal your money, corral your life and your possessions, and then they pressed you into the soil until you were nothing more than an earthworm. He was looking forward to this chase.

  ‘Remember, Jimmy. Family business is for behind family doors. Don’t you be telling anyone why we’re going away. You make your deliveries like normal, say nothing, and we leave tomorrow afternoon. You understand?’

  Jimmy’s cheeks flushed at the thought of Sarah’s neck between his hands. He’d do whatever Joe said to do. As the eldest, Joe was always right.

  With their liquor operations under temporary management, the Jowl brothers headed south, rifles slung over their shoulders, their identical faces set like stone atop of their matching horses. As the Jowls made their way south down the ever lengthening Great South Road, they stopped to talk with the soldiers and the roading gangs, and travellers worthy of their time. You never knew when someone might have seen or heard something of value. And on the odd night, travellers who looked like they were carrying something more valuable than information, joined the long list of people missing in the prosperous new world. The indigenous population blamed, fuelling the simmering tension which sat like a mirage upon the lush land, and clung to the boots and the rifles of men plucked from the confines of a Victorian England, free from the shackles of societal expectations.

  ‘No one’s seen them, Joe,’ Jimmy complained.

  Joe ignored him, he was counting the coins in his purse, although he already knew how much he carried, but nevertheless, he liked to check.

  ‘Joe?’ Jimmy interrupted again, his simple face reflected in the fire.

  ‘I’m counting, Jimmy. Leave it.’

  Jimmy stirred the contents of the pot over the fire. Joe never made the supper, that was Jimmy’s job, always was, but tonight was different, a frisson of resentment for his older brother simmered with the stew. Joe was much cleverer than him — his mother had told him enough times, until he’d told her to shut up the best way he knew how — in the cellar with his hands around her throat. But tonight he felt different. Maybe it was a sign they were getting closer to Sarah, but still he stirred the pot harder than required.

  ‘Careful, Jimmy. Don’t go spilling the stuff. I wanna eat tonight not tomorrow,’ Joe chastised, tucking his pocketbook deep inside his jacket. He moved closer to the fire, peering into his brother’s pot. Joe Jowl was oblivious to Jimmy’s tortured face, casting him as a hideous stone gargoyle in the firelight.

  Jimmy ladled their supper into a pair of blue rimmed enamel bowls, settling on his haunches to spoon it into his mouth as fast as possible. Growing up, they’d often had their food whipped away from underneath them by their mother, for whatever imagined infraction they’d committed, so both men ate like it could vanish without warning. With no small talk between them, the only sound in night air were the voices of the nearby soldiers, settling down into camp for the night, ready for another day extending the fingers of civilisation into the untamed land.

  ‘How long till we find them?’ Jimmy tried again, picking at his teeth.

  Joe ignored his brother, intent on finishing his meal. Besides, he had no answer for his twin. Joe himself couldn’t shake the suspicion that there was some magic afoot, although he’d never voice those concerns to his brother. Jimmy operated on the delicate edge of a knife as it was. Joe kept his leash short, and strong.

  Joe laid his empty bowl on the ground, ‘We’ll find them. There’ll be word at a hotel down the line, I’m sure. Patience is a virtue, and we’ve got the whole country on our side. They’re just common whores, with their legs in the air and a man between their thighs.’

  Jimmy’s features rearranged themselves into their more familiar form — that of a compliant younger brother. He collected the bowls, rinsing them clean with water from the billy. His world was back on track. If Joe said they’d find them soon, then that’s was the truth. He could still feel the itch, inching its way down his body, licking at his thighs, tightening his hands, and his cock.

  The Boy

  Colin Lloyd waited in Dunedin for what seemed like weeks, months even, but Warden Price never returned, despite promising he would. Once they discharged Colin from hospital, he’d tried calling at the Manse to ask after the woman Price had mentioned, but a man at the door had sent him away using language which burnt Colin’s ears. He was in a town where he knew no one and had nothing. The only thing he had was the knowledge that his older brother Isaac was in Bruce Bay. So, with the resilience of youth, he set off into the great unknown, heading for the gold mining mecca of Bruce Bay on the west coast of New Zealand. Price had told him that gold mining was for fools, but Bruce Bay was where his brother was, so that was where he needed to go.

  With no money behind him, and his belongings on the silty bottom of Port Chalmers, Colin was at a distinct disadvantage, but the road north promised adventures for those freshly arrived with ample to spare for the skinny lad from Wales who reminded them of their own brothers back home. And so it wasn’t long before Colin was firm friends with a fresh-eyed group of men venturing north.

  The prospective miners cared nothing about news of worsening relations between the settlers and the Māori, instead mesmerised by reports of fountain-like gold gushing from the rivers and streams of the West Coast, and their dreams of incredible wealth buoyed them through rain storms and scurvy, hunger and cold.

  With little to distract them, they turned to sport for entertainment.

  ‘All right lads, let’s have a wager then, on whether James here can best old Milne,’John Regan announced, throwing a handful of pennies into his empty gold pan.

  Colin wiped his mouth. Someone had caught two fat pigeons, and for the first time in days, he was full to the brim. The cooking fire kept them warm, as did the stories told by Bob Milne, a somewhat experienced miner heading north with them to take up a new claim. What Colin didn’t see was the alcoholic glint in John’s eye. John Regan and James Allen had been sharing slugs from a bottle of illicit gin. Nobody cared about the drinking, so Colin hadn’t paid much notice to the quantity they’d consumed. Perhaps he should have.

  With hollers and hoots, the men threw coins into Regan’s pan as they placed their wagers. Bob Milne was older but built like a brick shit-house, whereas James Allen was as skinny as a beanpole but a good ten years younger, so the odds were pretty even.

  The miners formed a rough ring, scuffing at the tussock to give the fighters a flatter surface. Filthy comments describing the size of the men’s tackle and their ability to use it filled the air, giving Colin an education to mortify his mother.

  Regan held up his hand, a hand which had already seen the inside of a gaol over in Victoria in Australia, not that anyone else knew that. New Zealand was about starting afresh, reinventing himself to be a better man, if Regan had a different nature.

  ‘Come on then boys, nothing below the belt and no rabbit punches. Understood?’ Regan said.

  The two fighters grinned and Regan dropped his hand and it was on.

  ‘Bet you he fades,’ said a miner.

  ‘Nah, he’s got form, look at him feeling out the beanpole. My money’s on Milne, for sure,’ replied another.

  The men shouted at the fighters, working themselves up on the blood and the ready availability of strong drink. It wasn’t just Regan and Allen knocking back the cheap gin, most had bottles of grog stashed in their bags. Booze, half empty stomachs, moody fi
relight, and inequitable gambling was never going to end well for a group of men in the wild. Especially when they weren’t on an even keel to start with.

  Milne threw the first real punch, a liver shot, sending Allen to his knees. Someone rushed in to pull Milne away from Allen who struggled to get to his feet.

  ‘Get off,’ Milne shouted, an early victory within his grasp. And he shook off the other man.

  Allen stood unsteadily, his arms up protecting his face. He feinted a left hook, before delivering an uppercut with his right, sending Milne into the crowd.

  The miners parted, allowing Milne to sprawl to the ground. He bounced up, shaking off the punch, and launched straight into Allen, jabbing like a woodpecker at a tree.

  Allen retaliated with a cross. Milne ducked to the side and delivered his own powerful punch to Allen’s torso. Punch after punch followed, almost all of them finding their mark. There were jeers from the crowd, and more money flew Regan’s way as allegiances shifted. Advice came from every corner. If it had been in a ring, any referee worth his salt would have halted the fight, given the blood which bathed the faces of both fighters, and the audience.

  Regan called a timeout, and huddled with Allen, whilst Milne took a mug of water from Colin’s eager hands, slugging half of it and tipping the rest over his head. The older man bounced back into the circle invigorated, bouncing on his toes waiting for Allen.

  Allen entered the circle, dancing round till his back was to the fire, darting in and delivering a quick right-handed jabs then darting back again, well away from Milne’s reach.

  ‘Quit your dancing.’

  ‘Are you bloody girls?’

  ‘Get in there.’

  ‘Kill him!’

  In the bloodlust surrounding the fight, nobody had noticed Allen taking something from Regan’s hand, no one except Colin, who wasn’t certain what he’d just seen. Perhaps it was a cloth to stem the blood?

 

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