by David Hair
The sun had not long risen and the ground was cold, as dampness hung in the air under a misty sky. The whole village had gathered before the great meeting house, with the rangatira looking down from amidst his elders, who murmured advice. The warriors looked stony faced and hostile.
Mat saw boys his own age staring at him, nudging each other. Most were hard-eyed, full of bravado, but one or two looked at him curiously. He saw women and girls staring at Kelly and giggling behind their hands. She heard them too, and tossed her head and glared, causing fresh ripples of snickering. But most eyes were on Wiri. He seemed to have tossed off his sadness and self-blame, walking with his shoulders squared and head erect. He laid his taiaha and patu at his feet. When a warrior glided in and took them away Wiri sat, cross-legged, opposite the chief, and the old man who advised him—a tohunga, Mat guessed. Mat and Kelly and the whole front row of the crowd sat as well, and all fell silent.
‘What’s happening?’ whispered Kelly.
Wiri glanced at her. ‘I have agreed to submit to the justice of the iwi.’ He looked at the chief. ‘To the justice of my father, whose son I have slain.’
Rata, the rangitira, was leaning forward, his face grim and set. He looked like a heavier, older version of Wiri, but there was no fondness as he looked at his son. Mat was reminded of his own father in the way the chief’s mouth twisted—a look of disappointment and disfavour. A look that asked ‘Where did I go wrong?’ and then answered ‘I didn’t go wrong. My son did.’
Beside him the bird-like tohunga was whispering urgently. His face was clever and lively, despite his age. Hakawau. Pania had told him to ask Hakawau for help, Mat remembered. He hoped he would be allowed the chance.
The trial was like nothing Mat had seen before—he’d never been old enough to hear any of the long debates his father attended on marae around the North Island. Wiri spoke first, and was questioned by Rata and Hakawau. Mat heard his and Kelly’s name many times. Afterward, others were allowed to speak. He only dimly understood protocol, which varied from iwi to iwi. Some spoke in order of precedence, some allowed any to speak. Some allowed only men to attend, some allowed women to attend but remain silent, others allowed them to speak. Here, it seemed everyone could speak, and it seemed everyone wanted to. No sooner had one person finished, than three others would be seeking to claim the right. Rata would choose the next speaker, and they would stand and speak before the chief, while the others would subside, some with grace, others muttering, to await the next opportunity.
Even with his limited grasp of the language Mat could tell it wasn’t going well. So could Kelly, who was seething, her teeth set and eyes flashing. All the speakers were angry—glaring at Wiri, some accusingly, some with a fearful wide-eyed look. Fingers were jabbed at him. Two even spat—though they were rebuked by Rata. The first of the warriors who had delivered the challenge the night before came right up to Wiri, his eyes bulging in fury, and when he looked past Wiri at Mat and Kelly, his anger was a living thing that made their skin prickle.
The crowd murmured, and slapped their thighs when they agreed with a point, which mostly happened when the speaker was one of the angry ones.
Mat began to notice Rata only chose a speaker whose approach was more reasonable and less confrontational when Hakawau prompted him. By the time more than an hour had gone, he was feeling angry and afraid. What was wrong with these people? He knew Wiri was innocent. It was obvious. Why couldn’t they all see it?
Finally there was a small break—Rata wanted water. Wiri turned back to Mat and Kelly, looking strained, but calm. He glanced to one side, where a scruffy young warrior with a curious combination of traditional and settler clothing had just sat down. They exchanged a nod.
Wiri surprised Mat by addressing him in English. ‘Manu. You look like you just woke up.’
The scruffy warrior rubbed a whiskery chin and grinned. ‘I have,’ he replied. ‘What did you come here for, cousin? You know Rata will never forgive you.’
Wiri nodded slightly. ‘I know. But it is time it was cleared up.’ He indicated Kelly and Mat. ‘This is Matiu, and Kelly. Could you sit closer and tell them what is happening? They don’t speak te reo.’
Manu pursed his lips, then shrugged. ‘For you, I will. Rata doesn’t like me anyway,’ and he got up and moved to sit beside Kelly, giving her a broken-toothed smile. ‘Kia-ora, Kelly. Kia-ora, Matiu.’
He was wearing a stained colonial soldier’s jacket that smelt of wood smoke, over a skinny bare chest. An old walnut-handled pistol was tucked in the belt of his knee-length breaches and Mat was surprised to realise that the gaudy scarf around his throat was the red, yellow and black of the Waikato rugby team. Kelly stared too and Manu laughed.
‘I try to get to the rugby in Hamilton when I can,’ he chuckled. ‘The Pakeha have brought many bad things to this country, but the beer is good, and I like rugby.’
Kelly and Mat exchanged a disbelieving look. Mat wondered suddenly how often inhabitants of Aotearoa wandered into his world for the fun of it—or for more serious reasons.
‘Aren’t you a little conspicuous?’ he asked Manu.
Manu grinned. ‘You ever been to Rugby Park, bro?’
Mat shook his head. ‘Believe me,’ said Manu, ‘some of the brothers at the rugby look way more native than me!’
The speeches resumed, this time with the benefit of Manu’s comments to help Mat and Kelly understand what was going on. Things were getting worse. A woman spoke about makutu, evil sorcery, finishing with a dramatic demand for Wiri to be killed. Wiri went pale. Manu whispered that she was Iru, Wiri’s younger wife. Kelly hissed, and Mat sucked in his breath.
He pulled the tiki out and tried to work out an escape plan. If he recalled Wiri to the tiki, they could pull him out of the circle of warriors, but then they’d be helpless. And there were at least thirty warriors encircling the ring of people.
The sun was high in the sky. Everyone was perspiring, and the three warriors who had delivered the challenge last night were demanding a resolution. Mat looked at his hand, and began to rub the edge of the tiki into the itchy scabs on his palms. He winced as the edge reopened a cut. He felt blood weep from the cut, and smeared it onto the tiki. It began to feel warm, and to throb slightly, a pulse that mingled with the pain of the re-opened cuts. Closing his eyes, he let the smell of smoke and sweat, the noise of the speakers and the crowd recede, as he concentrated on the tiki.
In a sudden vision he saw Puarata, his face lit by candles, sitting in repose. The dark tohunga seemed to sense Mat and he turned, his eyes glowing red.
‘Shush…’ said Mat, and the vision faded. ‘Toa,’ he whispered. A pale light seemed to form in his hand, that illuminated nothing, cast no shadow, but began to spill from his fingers, and seep through the air, to hover over Wiri, to cascade down until he was bathed in it, like an angel’s halo. No one seemed to react—no one but me can see it, Mat realised, but then Wiri and Hakawau both turned and looked at Mat with piercing eyes. Wiri nodded.
Feeling like a diver about to leap, Mat stood up. Every face, every pair of eyes, seemed to suddenly swivel and bore into him. The current speaker, a plump man past his prime, stopped and glared. Rata’s eyes flashed, but Hakawau reached across and touched his arm.
‘I ask for the right to speak!’ Mat shouted. ‘I can prove Wiri, who you call Toa, is innocent!’ His voice echoed shrilly. I sound like a frightened little boy, he thought. Which is what I am. His heart was thumping in his ears.
An uproar ensued, and he heard his words repeated, translated into Maori, and the crowd surrounding them began to shout and argue. He met the eye of the chief, and saw curiosity and disbelief. The plump man who had been speaking stalked over to him, shouting and pointing downward. Mat stood his ground.
Manu stood up as well, and drawled something at the plump man that made those nearby grin, but the plump man stamped his foot, and others shouted angrily.
Order was restored by Rata, at Hakawau’s urging. Then Hakawau
surprised Mat by speaking in perfect English. ‘It is time for this young one to speak. He has much to tell us.’ His bird eyes sparkled, but his hands gripped his carved walking stick like a talon. He looked like an old hawk, waiting to see whether he would pounce.
Mat looked at Kelly, who stood beside him, her fists clenched. Manu had one hand on the butt of his pistol, though he was still smiling, with the merriment of one who expects a good show. Mat looked down at Wiri, who was still sitting cross-legged, awaiting the tribe’s judgment. The nimbus of light still washed about him. He swallowed hard, then grabbed hold of his anger, and stared at the old priest, who nodded. Rata leaned forward.
Here goes…
‘This is all a waste of time!’
Manu translated a second later. The crowd murmured, and eyes narrowed.
‘Wiri—Toa—didn’t kill his brother! Puarata did!’
Hakawau leaned forward. His voice was soft, reasoned. ‘But we all saw Toa slay his brother, at the behest of his master. Puarata shares the guilt, but it was Toa’s hand that slew his brother. This we saw. This Toa himself has conceded.’
‘But Puarata made him do it. He controlled him. With this!’
He brandished the tiki. Some of the people flinched, and made gestures with their hands. Others stared blankly.
‘This is made from Wiri’s bones. It controls him.’
‘So you say,’ said Hakawau. ‘But if it contains Toa’s bones, then how is it that he sits before us, whole and unharmed?’
Mat clenched his fists. ‘Don’t you know anything? Wiri is dead! Tupu killed him!’
A storm of noise ensued when Manu translated. Some were angry at a white boy shouting at the chief and his priest. Others reacted to the strange claim with fear. Others again were disbelieving. Mat felt horribly out of his depth, but held his ground, his eyes fixed on Hakawau, willing him to believe.
Finally Rata regained enough quiet for Mat to continue, but he looked angry. He thumped the earth with his taiaha, then spoke in a rumbling voice.
Hakawau translated, his voice calmer than Rata’s rumble: ‘Toa has told us all this, but he has no proof we can believe. We all saw Tupu strike down Toa, but he lived, through the healing of Puarata. They became friends, and Toa went to learn from him. To learn makutu. When he returned, he picked a quarrel and slew Mahuta, his brother. His words were poisonous, filled with the evil of Puarata. It was only the coming of Hakawau that drove Puarata away, and Toa with him. We know what we saw. And we saw this man who was my son murder his own brother! So what proof can you give us, Pakeha boy? Or have you finished wasting our time?’
‘No!’ flared back Mat, his hands trembling in fury. ‘I can prove it. Puarata controlled Wiri! He couldn’t help what he was made to do! And I’ll prove it!’
He lifted the tiki, pointed his hand at Wiri, and shouted ‘Return!’
There was a dimming of the light about Wiri, and suddenly he was gone. So were his taiaha and patu, vanished from where they had sat at the feet of Rata. The tiki pulsed and shook in Mat’s hands and he felt a wave of exhaustion that made his knees wobble.
The crowd went berserk. Warriors brandishing taiaha, patu and muskets shouldered forward and surrounded him, while the women and children screamed or gasped and pointed. Even Manu backed away from him, leaving him surrounded by hard eyes and gleaming weapons. Only Kelly stood with him, holding Manu’s pistol, its barrel shaking wildly. Manu stared ruefully at his pistol, a half-smile on his lips.
Hakawau and Rata stepped through the ring of warriors.
‘What have you done, Matiu Douglas?’ asked the tohunga, in a searching voice.
Mat raised the tiki. ‘I have taken Wiri’s spirit back into this.’
Hakawau stared at the tiki, licking his lips.
He’s going to try and take it off me, thought Mat.
But the tohunga turned to Rata, and then walked around the circle of warriors, herding them back and clearing a small breathing space. Kelly kept the pistol swivelling, following the nearest warrior, the one who had spat at Wiri. He glared at her belligerently, shaking off a warning hand from Manu. The scruffy warrior slid a hand into his coat pocket, and went very still.
Hakawau turned back to Mat.
‘So, Matiu Douglas. Tell me about this wonder you have shown us.’
Mat’s mouth was dry. He fumbled for words. ‘Tupu killed Wiri—Toa. Puarata took his shoulder-blade and made this tiki, to keep his spirit in. The person who has the tiki can control him. Puarata made him kill his brother, and other people too. It wasn’t his fault.’
Hakawau nodded. ‘Show me.’
Mat swallowed. ‘I don’t know how. I’ve not tried to control him. He’s my friend.’
Hakawau leaned forward. His eyes softened slightly. ‘That is commendable, Matiu. We do not control our friends. But you must show me, if you are to convince my people that what you say is true.’
‘I’ll try.’
Mat took a step back, and closed his eyes. He pictured Wiri, and called him. There was a rush, another dizzying outpouring from his body, and the warrior was suddenly there, causing another gasp and backing away. His taiaha was cradled in his hands and he turned gracefully on the balls of his feet, keeping all of those confronting him in sight. Only warriors surrounded them now. The women and children and old people were gone, somewhere behind the fighting men. The warriors were wide-eyed, afraid, poised to act, to fight against the unknown in the only way fighting men can. The hands gripping their weapons were white at the knuckles, their chests heaving, sucking air in readiness for action.
‘Matiu,’ said Hakawau. ‘Tell me about this power.’
‘Ummm…it’s hard to explain,’ stammered Mat. ‘I just sort of feel Wiri inside the tiki, and call him, and he comes. It’s like a picture in my head.’
Hakawau nodded. ‘Toa, can you sense what Matiu senses?’
Wiri shook his head.
Hakawau leant forward. ‘Cause him to put down his weapons,’ he whispered, so that only Mat could hear him.
Mat looked at Wiri. He closed his eyes, and sent the unseen light coursing from the tiki, and flowing into Wiri’s limbs, then imagined Wiri dropping his taiaha.
He felt a small seeping of power, then heard a hollow thump as the wooden weapon fell to the earth. He opened his eyes, as one of the warriors snatched it away. Wiri was staring at his hands, then snatched his patu from his belt, and spun, as several warriors poised to leap at him.
Hakawau snapped something, and they backed off. Kelly aimed the pistol squarely at the chest of the biggest warrior.
Mat closed his eyes again, and willed the fingers around the patu in Wiri’s hand to go limp. As he opened his eyes, he caught Wiri’s startled look as it fell. The warrior bent and snatched it up again, looking wildly at Mat. Their eyes met. It’s OK, Mat tried to say with his face. Wiri stared at him blankly.
Hakawau touched Mat’s shoulder.
‘Now, give this thing to me,’ he said in English.
Mat looked at him, slightly dizzy. He tried to see if there was trickery or greed in the old priest’s face, but all he saw was curiosity and a certain sympathy.
He held out the tiki. The tohunga took it, and examined it carefully, as the warriors watched anxiously. He closed his eyes, and whispered something. There was a pale rush of light and Wiri visibly flickered, as if he were an image on a television screen, but didn’t vanish. Hakawau staggered suddenly, grabbing against his walking stick. He opened his eyes and looked around in surprise. He nodded at Mat with something like respect.
‘You are a wonder, Matiu. You can do something this old tohunga could not. But who are you? How do you have this thing that Puarata made? Are you one of his servants?’
‘No! No, I’m not! He’s got my mum and dad! I hate him!’
‘I believe you. I have sensed him, in holding this thing. I felt his hatred and fear of you.’
Fear? Of me?
Hakawau nodded, and handed back the tiki. ‘Oh yes,�
� he said quietly. ‘He is afraid. You have mastered his talisman, and escaped his clutches. You have found me. He is most definitely afraid. Because he knows that this talisman could as easily be used against him. He fears what we might do with it. He has much to fear.’
Mat stared at the tiki, then held it out to the tohunga. ‘You should keep it,’ he said to Hakawau. ‘You know about these things. You could find a way to help Wiri, and end Puarata’s power over him. So he doesn’t die. I can’t do it. I’m just a boy.’
Hakawau shook his head.
‘You are more than just a boy, Matiu. This talisman is yours to hold by right. In using it, you have claimed it, and made it truly your own—for another to use it now, you must die, or be removed from it by both distance and time.’
Mat stared at the bone trinket, spinning gently on its string.
‘What can I do? How can I free Wiri from Puarata’s powers? Do I…do I have to kill him?’
Hakawau looked at him gravely, a sudden speculative look in his eye. ‘I believe there is another way. Aiee, yes, there is another way.’ He met Mat’s eyes, and winked. ‘We will talk again later, in private.’
The old tohunga turned to Rata. ‘Toa has spoken truly. He was compelled by Puarata, and a father might find it in him to forgive, now that he is free of that compulsion.’
The chief looked gravely at his son, and slowly, gruffly nodded.
The circle of warriors exhaled, and their weapons lowered imperceptibly.
Hakawau leant forward and whispered in Mat’s ear. ‘There is a thing you can do to free Toa. And only you can do it.’
‘Only me? Why? Why me?’
Hakawau laughed gently. ‘Now you do sound like a boy,’ he chuckled. “Why me?” Why indeed. There is something only you can do. Only you can control the tiki, and hide yourself from Puarata. But come. It is dinner time, and my old belly is craving food.’
Mat was suddenly aware of how hungry he felt. All the stress of the trial, all of the exertion of manipulating Wiri, seemed to hit him at once. Hakawau caught his shoulder as he reeled slightly, and he felt a flow of warmth coursing through him. He felt better, strong, and looked at the tohunga in surprise.