by David Hair
Mat shuddered. ‘I was in his mouth!’ he whispered in horror.
Wiri nodded, puckering his lips and whistling softly. ‘You are one lucky guy, brother.’
Mat lay back, and tried to take it all in. ‘So, are we in Aotearoa?’
Wiri nodded. ‘The New Zealand myth-world. See how the moon is full, and the stars look different? When it is light again, you’ll see more.’ He prodded the fire again. ‘And as for what we are doing…well, we are doing as Pania suggested—heading for Maungatautari. We’ll be there by tomorrow afternoon.’
Mat lay back, and sucked in the cold smoky air. ‘Tomorrow…and will it all be over?’ He wondered where he could go, and what he could do. Tears stung his eyes—he tried to pretend it was smoke from the fire. When will I see Mum again? And Dad? Dad tried to help! He realised what Puarata was doing…will Puarata ever give up?
Wiri looked at him sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry, Mat. I think this will only be over when Puarata and Tupu are dead and gone forever.’ Wiri’s face looked hard and merciless, and for the first time, Mat could see the full weight of years in the warrior’s eyes. He tried to imagine centuries of servitude to Puarata, and shuddered.
Wiri put a heavy hand on Mat’s shoulder. ‘Get the tiki to Hakawau, and then the tohunga and I can do what needs to be done. I won’t rest until Puarata is gone, and you can go home safely. I’ll do whatever it takes.’
Mat shivered at the coldness of his friend’s voice.
He woke to a pale misty dawn. Kelly and Wiri were asleep, and Fitzy was away somewhere. He stumbled yawning to the water’s edge to wash his face. The air was chilly, the river fog clinging about the willows, the slimy stones at the bank dull in the leaden air. Somewhere a river bird called, a solitary sound. Beyond the tiny encampment, the world ended in a sallow white shroud.
He watched the rippling waters, and tried to work out what he should do. The river fog was so thick he couldn’t see the other side and he began to worry that he might not find the camp again. He stood and called for Wiri, then for Kelly. No one answered.
Taking the pendants from his pocket, with a deft flick of his fingers, he reunited the koru and the Celtic knot. They slid together perfectly, and he paused to look at them. He looped them, and the tiki, over his neck, and tucked them into his shirt before rising to go and find the others.
Behind him there was a sudden rush of water, a slurping sucking and a cascading rush. He turned slowly, almost afraid to look. What he saw made his limbs stiffen and lock.
The taniwha looked even larger in the morning light, too large for the river he lay in—a truck could have balanced on his head. Mat remembered what he’d done to the BMW back at the bridge, and had a dreadful vision of those jaws engulfing him. Cold breath hissed from his huge maw, stinking of rotting fish and deep, deep water caverns. His eyes were huge, massive orbs that glistened like giant glass marbles and his hide, dripping with greenish river slime, was pitted and rough hewn. As he uncoiled himself slowly, head rippling side to side, he gave one eye a look at Mat, then the other, the huge head dipping closer.
Mat felt rooted to the stone. If the jaws flew open, he knew he wouldn’t be able to move. He gulped, and tried to find his voice. Somehow he found trembling words. ‘K—Kia-ora. Th-thank you for saving me.’
The taniwha dipped his head nearer, until he could almost have bumped Mat with his nose. His nostrils sucked in wetly, then billowed steam into the cold air and his eyes blinked once, scanning Mat closely, then abruptly he swayed backward, and lowered his head to the riverbank, where he lay, steam billowing with each exhalation. Mat let out his breath, and found he could move, though his knees were shaking so much he could hardly stay upright. He staggered backward, his eyes never leaving those of the massive creature.
The taniwha blinked at him again, and then looked beyond Mat. A series of barks echoed out of the mist, followed by Fitzy bounding into the clearing. The Labrador looked up at the taniwha, which looked back and nodded his massive head. Fitzy whimpered slightly and ducked his head, as if bowing. The taniwha snorted fishy breath over them, then with a gurgling noise sank below the surface and a huge wave broke against the banks.
Wiri appeared out of the mist and put a hand on Mat’s shoulder. ‘Come on. We have to break camp.’
They cleaned up their campsite, then Wiri led them back to the riverbank, and called the taniwha. He rose slowly this time, water cascading from his sides in a massive roar, baleful eyes unblinking, but he tolerated Wiri helping the teenagers onto his back. Kelly, who looked tired and scared, cradled Fitzy. When they were secure, Wiri called something in Maori, and the serpent twisted about slowly, before surging into the river current, a huge wake breaking about his head.
The journey down the Waikato River was a magical experience Mat knew he would never forget. All day they were borne north on the river, past lesser taniwha who rose like crocodiles on an African river to see the monster that dared enter their territory, only to dip and disappear when they realised his size.
‘Waikato taniwha rau, he piko he taniwha,’ murmured Wiri. ‘It’s an old saying,’ he told them. “Waikato has a hundred monsters, at every bend a monster”, though the saying is usually interpreted as referring to all the petty chiefs along the river further downstream.’
On the riverbank Mat saw Maori fishermen, gaping at the massive creature and cursing the waves that smashed their careful nets. He even saw a white girl, in a nineteenth century white cotton frock, who squealed and fled when she saw the giant taniwha.
Several glistening goblinesque little tiki-men peered at them from the bank, squatting like buddhas in the shade of the trees, their eyes alien and unreadable.
Once, unforgettably, a huge flightless bird emerged from the trees to gaze at them. Feathered in a dirty dun hue, it towered at least three and a half metres tall, a moa, the flightless bird that had once stalked New Zealand. ‘I thought they were extinct,’ Mat gasped, realising even as he said it how stupid he sounded—he was in a land of myth, riding a taniwha—‘extinct’ was meaningless here.
Even when there was no strange, mythic creature to catch the eye, it was enough to breathe the air, to see the deep azure sky or the verdant forest shadow to know he was somewhere apart from his world. Every colour seemed more vivid, every scent stronger, the air warmer, the sun brighter yet not harsher. It was as if everything carried its own light, its own healthy, ripe vibrancy, a pulsing living glow that infused every tree, leaf and rock. Even the birds, fish and insects all seemed to carry this extra lustre, as intrinsically a part of this place as the monster they rode.
There was no mistaking this place for the real world, Mat thought. Everything about it was enchanted. He drank in every word as Wiri pointed out landmarks they passed. Initially they were places Wiri had visited, or heard of, but as the day wore on, he began to indicate places where he had played as a child, or hunted as a man. Maungatautari Pa was getting closer.
Near to dusk the taniwha carried them to the riverbank, and shrugged them off unceremoniously, dumping them in waist-deep water before swirling away in a cloud of muddy water. Fitzy bounded out and looked back at them, shaking water off indignantly. Kelly went and hugged him, whispering in his ears. Mat hadn’t heard her say a word all day, but her expression had been as wide-eyed as his. Mat was soaked, but felt so exhilarated he didn’t mind. His mind was still whirling over the beautiful and incredible things he’d seen. He turned to look at Wiri, but he was staring off into the distance. Mat followed his gaze. There was a cluster of hills to the west, three or four kilometres away.
Wiri put a hand on his shoulder. ‘That way,’ he said. ‘That is the way to my home.’
They peered toward the hills. Kelly came up with Fitzy at her side, her eyes flickering everywhere as if trying to imprint every sight into her memory.
‘Let’s go,’ said Wiri, with uncharacteristic hesitancy.
They found a trail and walked through close native bush that pressed about them on a
ll sides. The air was cooling, and alive with insects. Fantails darted through the clouds of sandflies and rich leafy smells rose from the manuka, ngaio and karaka. While Wiri sang softly to himself Fitzy ran ahead as though he knew the way.
They came upon a steep climb up a low hill, and Wiri stopped suddenly. A warrior stood with the setting sun behind him, a menacing silhouette. Wiri called out in Maori to the warrior, who seemed startled, and afraid.
‘Toa?’ answered the warrior, in a high voice. ‘Toa?’ Then he turned, and ran.
Kelly looked at Wiri, puzzled. ‘I thought this was your home?’
‘It is,’ said Wiri slowly.
‘He didn’t look very pleased to see you.’
‘He wasn’t. The last time I was here, I was Puarata’s slave. I killed my brother.’ His voice sounded hollow. ‘Here I am now known only as Toa. My original name was taken from me by my father, after I killed my brother.’
Mat felt his good mood drain away, leaving a sour taste of tension and danger.
‘No you didn’t,’ said Kelly quietly.
Wiri looked at her. ‘It was my arm, my blow.’
‘But whose command? You did it because Puarata made you do it!’
Wiri shook his head. ‘I have told myself these things, over and again. But that does not make them real. It was my blow that struck him. Puarata made me do it, you say. But perhaps he could not have done so, if secretly I did not want it to happen?’
Kelly put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘Don’t you say that! You aren’t a murderer!’
Wiri met her eyes, slowly shook his head, then turned away. Mat watched Kelly blink, and gnaw her bottom lip. He stared at his feet.
‘Come,’ said Wiri at last. ‘The pa is this way.’
Mat had seen models and pictures of pa. Dad had even taken him to a recreated one near Rotorua, but this was the real thing. It was on a low hill, with tiered ranks of upright wooden fences carved into the slopes. More fences, taller than a man, ringed dozens of wooden-walled whare linked by muddy paths. There was a sea of faces at the gates, black-haired and brown-skinned, most of the children half or fully naked. Adults were packed about the massive carved pillars, which were painted in a deep red ochre, the eyes of the beasts inlaid with gleaming paua shell. The villagers were clad in little more than loincloths and thin cloaks, with most of the women wearing bodices, but not all. Mat averted his eyes from their bare breasts, feeling like an interloper in a strange world.
They were stopped at the gates. Before them was an open field, heavily trampled. On either side the people of the pa stood silent. Before them, a rank of warriors, three slightly ahead of the rest. Beyond them on a rise before the main meeting house stood the elders, gathered about the chief like old leaves at the base of an autumn tree.
The three warriors prowled forward, and the middle one, clad in a flaxen skirt came ahead, stopping a metre in front of Wiri, brandishing a taiaha. His muscles rippled and his long hair was caught in a top-knot. His chin was smooth, except for the intricate whorls of his moko. His eyes bulged with aggression. Every gesture conveyed threat, proclaimed challenge.
Mat had seen the ceremonial welcome onto a marae many times. He’d always thought of it as just a load of shouting and posturing and even joked about how long it always took. But this was no empty ritual. This was the real thing.
The warrior was clearly a master of his weapon. It sang as he spun it, smacked as he hammered it into his palm, blurred as he brandished it in intricate patterns, never once less than perfectly controlled. All the while he roared out a challenge, daring Wiri to enter the pa. Kelly and Mat didn’t need to know the language. Each shout, each stare, each lunge, every crouch and slow backward stalking step, spoke clearly of threatened violence. The warrior before them was aching to strike.
After each menacing roar, the warrior took one step back, and Wiri took one forward. Each step forward they were challenged again. Sometimes a question was bellowed, that hung in the air, and each time Wiri answered, sometimes firmly, sometimes sadly, and then he would advance another step. Mat cowered behind him, terrified that somehow Wiri would say the wrong thing, and this boiling sea of hostile faces would break over them and pull them apart. At first only Fitzy took his cue from Wiri, stepping boldly beside the young man, head high. But then Mat heard Kelly swear under her breath, her chin up and her snub nose flared.
Don’t get angry, he silently willed her. Don’t stuff up…
She tossed her head and went to step beside Wiri. Mat seized her hand and held on, even when she tried to jerk free. He shook his head at her quietly. Don’t! Bad move! Let him handle this!
She glared at him, then took a deep, chest-expanding swallow of air, and relented.
Finally the challenge ended, but the second of the warriors, an even bigger man, took the place of the first, carrying a huge pitted mere. With a scarred face and broken teeth he was nearly the size of Tupu. He gave ground slowly, reluctantly, and every gesture he made seemed designed to enrage Wiri, as if daring him to lash out. Then the third took his place, a shorter, heavily muscled man with a long tongue. This warrior crabbed up to them, his eyes seeming to leap out of their sockets, his tongue waggling obscenely. Finally, he drew away, and returned with a green branch. Slowly, every nuance of movement emphasised, he placed the branch carefully at Wiri’s feet. Wiri bent equally slowly, and picked it up, without taking his eye from the warrior. He straightened, the warrior drew away, pacing backward fluidly, and the crowd let out a collective sigh. Mat felt suddenly faint, and squeezed Kelly’s hand.
‘What just happened?’ she whispered.
‘I don’t think they’re going to kill us. I think they’re going to feed us, and let Wiri talk.’
Kelly let out her breath.
Of course, they might kill us right after that, Mat said to himself.
The rangatira, the chief, came forward. He was tall, but past his prime, his belly growing large. He had a mop of curling black hair that was beginning to go grey, and a face made for smiling. It wasn’t smiling now. His cloak was magnificent, a matting of moa feathers, with a ruff of green and white tui feathers. He approached Wiri slowly, speaking softly, and then gestured forward an older man, white haired, with lined face and yellowed teeth, but a straight back and bright eyes. They spoke together, and then addressed Wiri. Mat watched him intently for some hint of what was happening, but couldn’t tell, but he noted they called him ‘Toa’. It didn’t seem to be a good sign. Wiri just nodded once or twice, then said a few short words of assent. The two old men backed away, and the whole crowd murmured. There were no hongis, no greetings. Mat looked around, sensing that while the hostility had been diverted for now, it hadn’t gone.
The mass of people—Mat thought there might be three or four hundred—closed around and herded them up the hill toward a small whare. They were pushed inside by hard unfriendly hands, and then the door was shut. There was no light, no fire, and no food. Outside they heard a babble of voices.
Kelly looked at Mat. ‘Thought you said they’d feed us.’
‘They will,’ said Wiri flatly. He looked tense and tired.
‘Where’s Fitzy?’ asked Kelly. They looked around in the darkness and realised he wasn’t with them. Kelly called out, but he didn’t come. ‘I hope he got away. They wouldn’t…eat him…would they?’ she asked Wiri.
Wiri smiled. ‘I’d like to see them try,’ he said enigmatically.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mat.
Wiri shook his head, smiling. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Eventually food and drink came—hot kumara and yams, and some fish, with a gourd of fresh water. The food smelt and tasted delicious. There were guards outside, at least two. Kelly tried to ask Wiri about what had just happened, but he seemed tired and unwilling, or unable, to talk, and she gave up. Mat was exhausted—the exhilaration of the journey on the river replaced by fear and uncertainty.
‘There will be a trial tomorrow,’ said Wiri finall
y. ‘They will demand an answer for my brother’s death. I need to sleep.’ He rolled aside and lay, staring at the walls.
‘But you were going to tell us something about Fitzy,’ protested Mat.
Wiri shook his head. ‘Later.’
Mat looked at Kelly for support, but she turned and lay down, facing the other way. Mat was left to lie between them, wondering about a lot of puzzling things, until sleep overtook him.
11
The judgement of Rata
They were woken by birdsong and the smell of cooking fires. Light crept between thin gaps in the walls of the whare, illuminating the carved wall panels. Mat stared at them, and ran his fingers over the swirling patterns. They were magnificent, but sinister. There were creatures, animal and man-like, and they all had eyes, set with paua, catching the half-light in the hut and glistening, watching him, their scrutiny like a pricklish weight.
Eventually the door was unblocked and food brought in. More fish, some kumara and some water. Soon after they had eaten they were led out to the open space before the gates. Only the warriors came close to them, and none spoke directly, though Mat heard the word ‘Toa’ on every tongue. He wished more than ever that he’d really tried to learn his father’s language. I should have. It’s my language too.
Fitzy hadn’t reappeared and Mat realised he still had no answers to his questions about the dog. Why had Wiri said Fitzy ‘told’ him about Mat nearly drowning? And how had Fitzy ‘told’ the taniwha about him? Where was he from, and how come he knew the way to everywhere they were going? He looked around hopefully for a glimpse of the dog, and then up at Wiri, who seemed preoccupied and unwilling to talk.