Cry of the Taniwha

by Des Hunt

  The pursuit did not last long: Jack’s desire to escape was far stronger than the policemen’s desire to catch him. So when Jack headed off the road into low scrub where steam escaped from the ground, they quickly decided that their services would best be given to the people of the village, some of whom were now pouring out onto the streets in panic. If Jack Boult wanted to kill himself by running around in a dark thermal area, then let him—they had more important matters to attend to.

  Jack sat on the rise overlooking Ohinemutu, thinking about his future. Clearly, he had to get away from Rotorua. The best option was to head south to Taupo. From there, he could get to Napier where there was a port. Then he could go anywhere and, with the money he had, do anything—the whole world was now open to him.

  His dreaming was abruptly stopped by another jolt from the earth. This one was stronger and accompanied by louder rumbles. ‘Forget about the whole world, Jack,’ he said to himself. ‘First you’ve got to get out of here.’

  Yet he was reluctant to move. It was safer up on the hill than near the thermal areas where mud bubbled and boiling water spouted into the air. He was a superstitious man, and he had been unable to put out of his mind the talk he’d heard during his visit to the Rotomahana terraces. The locals had spoken of a phantom canoe on Lake Tarawera, exploding geysers, and strange waves that suggested some giant within the lake was awakening. A huge lizard-like monster called a taniwha was said to be responsible. Certainly, the rumbling and the shaking of the ground indicated that something was happening below.

  A lull in the earthquakes eventually got Jack to his feet, and he headed down the hill towards the new town where he hoped to find a horse. As he approached, the smell of sulphur became more noticeable, and Jack’s fears grew: unpleasant things were happening in Rotorua.

  Finding a horse proved to be much easier than expected. Even though there were lots of citizens out on the streets, they were too worried about themselves to notice him slipping inside the stables behind the local hotel. There, Jack paused and listened. If someone accosted him, then he would simply run out again. But there was no alarm, other than that of the horses frightened by the shaking earth.

  Jack went from stall to stall, looking for the horse that was coping best with the distractions coming from the ground. It turned out to be a small, chestnut mare. All the gear he would need to ride her was resting on the wall alongside. To Jack it seemed as if she’d been put there just for him.

  Five minutes later, he was leading her out the stable door. It was then that the mare showed the first signs of fear. Smoke hung over the eastern hills, with a hint of red suggesting that there might be a fire of some sort.

  ‘Easy, girl,’ murmured Jack, trying to show more confidence than he felt. ‘It’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  One good thing about the smoke was that everyone was too concerned about it to notice a man leading a horse through the shadows. Only when he was clear of the buildings did he climb into the saddle. He jiggled around until the carpetbag’s weight was resting on the mare’s hindquarters, and then he was ready for the journey to Taupo.

  While it was tempting to raise the horse to a gallop, he realized that forcing her would only slow him down later. It was better to set a steady pace and be sure to get there. Similarly, he resisted the temptation to take the main road. There were simply too many people about, and when dawn came he would be exposed to too many prying eyes. The Waipa Track would be the best route, even though it was closer to the events that were lighting the sky.

  The first part of the journey around the southern shores of the lake went without mishap. He quickly crossed the Te Puke road and located the start of the track leading south through the scrub.

  After crossing a steaming stream, the track followed flat land alongside the slope of a hill. The horse was jittery from the rumbling that now seemed to fill the air; the loose handcuff banging on her shoulder didn’t help either. Jack hooked it under his shirtsleeve, hoping that it would hold for a while until he found a place to stop and remove the thing.

  She had just begun to settle a little when a terrible noise came from immediately ahead.

  Craarrk! Craarrk!

  The mare pulled back, calling out in fear. As Jack struggled to control her, the noise came again, louder and more urgent than before—a raucous croak that seemed like the death rattle of some monstrous creature. Jack thought of the taniwha and shuddered.

  Then he saw the creature. It was no monster, just a white bird standing in a clearing alongside the track. It stood absolutely still, with its long neck tucked into an S, its feathers tinged with red from the glowing sky.

  ‘Craarrk!’ it cried again, but this time more softly.

  Jack tried to hold the horse in place while he studied the bird. It was a white heron, the same as one he’d seen on the trip to the terraces. On that occasion their guide had pointed it out, saying that they were often a good omen. Jack looked at the bird and wondered if this one was trying to tell him something: maybe that he was in too big a rush to get out of the place. Perhaps now was the time to stop and sort out that damned handcuff before he met someone who might question why he was wearing it.

  Ignoring the skittery protests of the horse, Jack moved into the clearing, dismounted, and sat down on the bare, white ground. Removing the cuff would take only a few minutes, and then he could continue on his journey. By morning, he’d be well away. He should reach Taupo by midday, and then, with a change of name, the person known as Jack Boult would cease to exist.

  As he fished around in his pocket for the lock pick, his hand touched the leather pouch containing the pendant. He pulled it out, unable to resist the desire to look at it again. The diamond seemed even more spectacular under the red light from the sky. ‘Look at this,’ he said holding it up to the heron. ‘You’ve already brought me luck tonight.’

  In answer, the heron screeched loudly, before spreading its wings and taking to the air. Twice more it called before disappearing: strident, scary sounds that had Jack wondering if he should leave the area as well. Instead, he put the diamond on the ground and began working on the handcuffs. He’d get rid of them first, and then he’d be on his way.

  Chapter 3

  The present day

  Matt Logan was enjoying his first-ever flight. He had a window seat, and the weather had been fine all the way from Dunedin. In the past hour, he’d seen more of New Zealand than he had in all his previous thirteen years. That was mostly because he’d never been to the North Island before: never seen Wellington harbour, the volcanoes on the Central Plateau, Lake Taupo, nor the lakes around Rotorua which were now coming into view.

  He studied the scene, knowing that somewhere down there would be his home for the next few weeks; a thought that dampened some of the joy of the flight. Three weeks staying with old people whom he hardly knew was not his idea of a fun summer. But there’d been nothing he could do about it. His mother had just come out of hospital, and everyone thought it would be better if he was out of the way. So, when his grandmother, Nan, had said he could stay with her, his parents had thought it was a great idea, especially when she offered to pay for the air fares.

  The speaker above his head chimed, indicating an announcement. ‘We are now making our final approach into Rotorua airport. This will take us over Mount Tarawera, giving those on the port side of the aircraft a view of the craters left after the 1886 eruption. As you can see, the weather in Rotorua is beautifully fine, with the temperature a pleasant—’

  Matt blocked out the sound to concentrate on the view through window. Almost directly below he saw steam rising from small lakes. Then they were over Mount Tarawera itself. There was no mistaking that this was a volcano. A chain of craters stretched from the lakes into the heart of the mountain. The eruption had almost ripped the mountain in half.

  Soon they were passing over several lakes, each of them sitting in its own eruption crater. Finally, they turned and moved towards the largest one—Lake Rotorua.
As the plane dropped down to the runway, Matt began to have horrible thoughts. What if he and Nan didn’t recognize each other? He’d been only six when they’d last met. He could remember the yummy biscuits and cakes she’d baked, but not her. He had a vague image of Pop, but that wouldn’t be any help, as he’d died three years back. She had a new husband now. A Maori man: a bus driver she’d met on a tour around the North Island. The marriage had been the subject of much heated discussion within the family, and Matt suspected he was being used to repair the damage, which was another reason for being fearful. Why should he have to be the first to meet this person?

  As the plane taxied towards the terminal, Matt’s fears increased. What if they weren’t there; what if her husband was working today; what if they were so old that they’d forgotten he was coming; what if…?

  Fifteen minutes later he walked out into the concourse, and discovered that all his fears were groundless. A man and a woman moved forward, and soon the woman was taking him in a hug so huge that she almost engulfed him.

  ‘Hello, Matt,’ said Nan as she released him, stepping back to look him up and down. ‘It’s good to see you again. You’ve grown so much.’ She turned and grabbed hold of the man’s hand, pulling him forward. ‘This is my husband, Hone. No need to call him Pop or Grandad, or anything like that, just Hone will do.’

  The smiling man stepped forward and took Matt’s hand. ‘Kia ora, Matt. Welcome to Rotorua.’ Matt nervously nodded in reply. As they led him towards the luggage pickup, he had the chance to study the pair. They were an unlikely combination. Whereas Nan was large, Hone was slight, much smaller than the few Maori men Matt had come in contact with before. Judging by their looks and amount of grey hair, he was the younger of the two, although both of them must’ve been in their sixties. Old, but not ancient, and their manner and movement suggested that there might still be plenty of life within.

  The luggage arrived and they made their way to the car park. The car was almost as old as the one Matt’s mum drove, yet it seemed to go all right, and soon they were heading along a stretch of two-laned highway towards town. After a while, Matt noticed a sulphurous smell filling the car. He looked at the two sitting in front of him, deciding that one of them must have passed gas—old people did that all the time. He eased the window down a bit to clear the air, hoping they didn’t notice. But when he looked up, he saw Hone watching him in the rear-view mirror.

  Hone nudged his wife with his elbow. ‘Did you fart?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’ replied Nan, indignantly. ‘Ladies don’t fart.’

  ‘Then it must’ve been Matt,’ continued Hone. He looked at Matt in the mirror. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘No!’ Matt all but shouted. Why were they blaming him when it was obviously one of them?

  Then he saw that Hone was smiling. ‘Wind the window up, Matt. The smell’s coming from outside.’

  Nan turned around. ‘You’ll soon get used to it. After a while, you won’t even know it’s there. I only smell it on a cold, frosty morning now.’

  ‘It’s hydrogen sulphide,’ said Hone. ‘Comes out of the ground all around here. You ought to see the tourists when they first get out of their air-conditioned buses. They screw up their noses and start looking sideways at the person next to them.’

  ‘Does it do any harm?’ asked Matt.

  ‘It corrodes everything. Metals in particular. Even wood. You’ll see that all the wood is black around here.’

  ‘What about humans?’

  ‘Only if you get a heavy dose. There was a newly married couple that died a long time back. They were in a motel with all the windows closed and the gas was seeping in through the floor. The problem is that it desensitizes the nose, and you stop smelling it. That’s what happened—they died in their sleep.’

  Matt was thinking about this when Hone turned the car into a driveway alongside a wooden house, which was neater than those on either side of it. The house was dwarfed by the backdrop of hotels just a couple of blocks away. Steam was drifting into the air from all over the place.

  ‘Whakarewarewa,’ said Hone, pointing to the steam. ‘That’s one of the reasons why all the tourists come here. I’ll give you the guided tour if you like.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Nan. ‘Matt will be tired after his trip and it will soon be dinnertime.’ She climbed out of the car. ‘Come on, Matt, and I’ll show you your room.’

  Matt’s room was small and very tidy—tidier than any bedroom he’d ever had before. ‘This is your own private space,’ said Nan. ‘I won’t come in unless you want me to make the bed or do the vacuuming.’ She stepped back out to the hallway. ‘The bathroom and toilet are just there. You can have a shower if you want. Or a lie-down. Dinner will be in an hour.’

  Matt didn’t need a shower or a lie-down, so he unpacked his things and went outside to have a look around. He wandered about the backyard, taking in the smell and feel of Rotorua. The smell of hydrogen sulphide seemed to come and go. It was not strong enough to be unpleasant, and Matt found that he liked it, now that he knew it had earthly origins and not biological ones. He hoped that he didn’t get used to it, the way Hone had said he would. He wanted to continue smelling it as a reminder that he was living in a volcanic zone—one that might blow up at any moment.

  His wanderings took him behind the vegetable garden, to the corner of the section where there was a rusty arrangement of pipes and taps. It seemed to be a well of some sort, although one that was past its use-by date. He touched the pipe close to the ground and found it was warm. The rustcoated taps tempted him for a moment, until he imagined a great fountain of boiling water going everywhere, and quickly withdrew his hand.

  ‘Wouldn’t do anything, anyway.’

  Matt jumped. He looked around to see who had spoken. There was no one. Maybe he’d imagined it.

  ‘They were all closed down.’

  This time, Matt sensed the direction. He looked up and saw the brown face of a boy peering over the side fence. He must’ve been standing on something, for his head and shoulders were well above the top of the fence. Matt guessed that he was aged about eleven or twelve. His scruffy black hair was cut short on top and left long at the sides.

  ‘Why?’ Matt asked. ‘Why were they closed?’

  ‘Cos they were stopping the geysers. That’s what Mum says anyway.’

  ‘What was it used for?’

  ‘Heating. But instead of hot water going up the geysers, people were using it all.’

  Matt nodded.

  ‘Who’re you, anyway?’ asked the boy.

  ‘Matt Logan. I’m staying here for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because my mum’s been in hospital.’

  ‘Why here?’ The boy’s tone was becoming more aggressive, as if Matt was an intruder.

  ‘Because they’re my grandparents.’

  ‘Doubt it!’ said the boy. ‘Hone doesn’t have any mokopuna.’

  ‘He does now, since my grandmother married him.’

  ‘That’s not real mokopuna,’ sneered the boy.

  ‘Hone thinks it is, and that’s good enough for me.’

  The boy was quiet for a while, before asking, ‘Do ya bleach ya hair?’

  It took Matt a moment to decode the boy’s words. Then he laughed. ‘No, it’s always like this. It’s the way I was born.’

  ‘I’m gunna get a mohawk,’ said the boy. ‘Soon’s I get the cash.’

  Matt tried to hide his disgust. What a loser, he thought. Out loud he asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Juzza,’ the boy replied, tilting his head proudly.

  ‘Never heard that name before.’

  ‘Ya will! Round here it’s fame.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re famous?’

  Instead of answering, the boy made squiggles in the air for a moment, as if he was writing something. Then suddenly, he thrust both his hands towards Matt and yelled ‘Juzza!’ He held the ‘ah’ sound for a few seconds, before pulling his hands back dramatical
ly, and suddenly disappearing behind the fence.

  Matt was so surprised he just stood for a while, not sure what to do. Maybe if he waited, Juzza would reappear just as spectacularly. However, he didn’t; and a short time later Matt was called in to wash his hands before dinner.

  The meal was excellent: chicken pie, mashed potatoes, carrots and beans—just the sort of food Matt liked.

  Clearly dinner was a serious time in this house, because neither Hone nor Nan spoke while they were eating. When Nan took the dishes away, Hone asked, ‘Who were you talking to out there?’

  ‘A boy from over the fence. Juzza, he said his name was.’

  ‘Juzza, eh?’ Hone shook his head slowly from side to side. After a while he said, ‘That’s not his name. It’s Jackson. Jackson Peters.’

  ‘Juzza must be a nickname, then.’

  Again Hone shook his head. ‘Juzza will be his tag name. I’ve seen it all over the place recently. I just didn’t know it was him.’

  Suddenly Matt recognized what the squiggles in the air had been: Juzza had been practising his tag.

  Hone continued. ‘He’s been getting into a bit of trouble lately, so I’ve been hearing.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Nan, returning with dessert.

  ‘Jackson Peters.’

  ‘Oh that boy,’ growled Nan. ‘He’s really bad news is that one.’ She turned to Matt. ‘Keep away from him or you’ll end up in trouble.’

  ‘He’s not that bad, dear,’ said Hone.

  ‘He will be soon,’ said Nan, forcefully. ‘Next thing he’ll be in the gangs.’

  Hone sighed. ‘If he’s already into tagging, then you’re probably right. I’ll go and have a chat to Mere tomorrow. See if we can stop things now before they get any worse.’

  After that they started on the dessert, which was yummy apple strudel. Again the eating was done in silence, which Matt didn’t mind. He now realized that Juzza’s hand actions had been a gang symbol. The boy was already in a gang. Matt’s only past contact with street gangs had been with some older kids at school, and they were ‘really bad news’. Maybe Jackson wasn’t that bad yet, but Matt suspected Nan was probably right: hanging around Juzza would be asking for trouble.