Ghosts of Parihaka

by David Hair

  He knew little of tarot, but he knew what the upside-down positioning of the card meant: it meant the opposite of what the card normally symbolized. Upright, The Lovers meant good things, but upside down it meant separation, frustration and failure. The card had been given to him by the girl he wanted most: Evie — Everalda van Zelle. Puarata’s daughter. And it symbolized all the reasons why his feelings for Evie, which grew stronger, not weaker, the more time they were apart, were doomed from the start.

  And now Aroha had placed her finger on him, and made demands that he was far from ready to fulfil. He groaned aloud and massaged his temples. His cold might be gone, but he could feel a headache coming on that was probably going to be just as bad.

  And then the phone rang.

  The legend of the Wooden Head

  What are you reading, Evie?’

  Everalda van Zelle glanced up at her mother, Florence, who’d just got home from a shopping trip to the boutique clothing stores in Devonport. Outside it was windy and raining but her mum had a regular get-together with her friends in a café near the pier every week, and always came back with something new to wear. It drove Evie’s father, a particularly stolid Dutch Protestant, to distraction. Evie didn’t mind though — she got the hand-me-downs.

  ‘It’s just an old book on Maori mythology,’ she replied, brandishing the ancient hardcover.

  Evie was freshly showered, her curly brown hair damp and heavy about her shoulders. She had a pugnacious but pretty face with a snub nose and freckles — and only one eye. Her left eye was a blank white orb, concealed behind a leather eyepatch. She hated it, though it was also what made her a seer. Once she’d been given the choice of being healed, but losing her seer’s gift. She’d thought about it seriously, but in the end had declined. Her gift might not always be pleasant, but it was addictive.

  ‘Oh,’ her mother said, immediately losing interest. Her general view on things Maori had always been that if you didn’t think about them, you could ignore all that awkward messy stuff they always seemed to be protesting about. Ancient land confiscations and water rights and discrimination and all that. In all honesty, Evie had felt much the same way until just a few months ago, in February, when she’d learnt some uncomfortable truths about her genes. She’d always thought she just tanned well, but no, it turned out that she was an adopted half-Maori. Her adoptive parents had never told her. Not just any old birth parents either: her parents were Puarata, a tohunga makutu — an evil wizard to all intents and purposes — and his witchy Pakeha sidekick, Donna Kyle.

  Evie had always known that magic was real, right from her earliest years when she could see little things unfolding before they happened. That ‘gift’ had been strengthened hugely after a vicious blonde woman had poked her left eye out when she was nine. That had changed her in many ways, but had also created a career for her: she now ran a fortune-telling booth in Victoria Park Market.

  It turned out that blonde woman was her real mother, not Florence. That had been a very nasty shock. Especially as Donna Kyle was a wanted criminal in two worlds.

  Two worlds: in many ways the biggest shock of all. Alongside the real world that she lived in was another place: Aotearoa. A place that was like a memory bank of all the things that had been, where historical places and extinct creatures still existed. More than that: it was a kind of afterlife, where dead people dwelled if they had some great affinity to their land. Maybe really religious people went to heaven, but those who loved their land went to Aotearoa. And even more than that, Aotearoa was also a cultural repository: mythical people and beings dwelt there too, created and sustained by the beliefs of those who lived there.

  The final, terrible shock of that February had been to learn about her father: his name was Puarata, and he had been the most feared evil wizard in Aotearoa. He was dead now; that was the only good thing people could say about him. Hence the reading: she’d found a book with a legend in it about Puarata, and had been reading it over and over, trying to understand who and what her real father was.

  ‘Mum,’ she asked, ‘do children always turn out like their parents?’

  Florence van Zelle visibly squirmed. ‘There is a little of our parents in all of us, darling,’ she replied brightly, as if it was a well-rehearsed answer. She displayed her shopping bags. ‘Want to see what I bought?’

  ‘Later.’

  Her mum looked a little hurt, but grateful she’d dodged the question. Evie didn’t ask again — it had been a little cruel to ask and she regretted bringing it up. Her parents had been made to promise never to tell her she was adopted, and they’d been good to her. Hinting that she might know the secret was hurtful.

  Once her mum had gone, Evie settled back into the armchair, studying the legend again. The tale was called ‘The Wooden Head’. It was about a magical carved wooden head which was greatly feared because it could kill intruders by emitting a terrible scream when they approached. The carved head was controlled by a tohunga makutu called Puarata, who ruled a pa at a place called Sacred Mountain. Someone had scrawled a Maori translation, ‘Maunga-tapu’, in the margins. Evie had looked the name up in an atlas, but there were a lot of places called Maungatapu in New Zealand.

  Eventually another tohunga, a good guy called Hakawau, had come to try to put an end to Puarata. He’d taken a friend, and they’d fasted along the way, which seemed important to the magic. Once they arrived at Sacred Mountain, Hakawau had detected invisible troops of evil spirits guarding the pa, and had sent his own spirit guardians to do battle. Hakawau’s spirits had won and destroyed the evil spirits, which somehow meant that the Wooden Head was drained of power, so when Puarata called on its powers to slay Hakawau, it failed. Hakawau and his friend then entered the village. The villagers had tried to give them food, which if they’d accepted would apparently have killed them, but they refused it, causing the spell to rebound and strike Puarata and all his followers dead. The danger was over and Hakawau returned home a hero.

  The tale told Evie precious little about Puarata. He seemed to be just the standard bad guy of fairy tales, with deadly powers and a fatal weakness that a hero could exploit. But he’s also my birth father. She put the book down, frustrated.

  She closed her eye and a face filled her mind: Matiu Douglas. Tousled dark hair, golden brown skin, a serious but attractive face with a glowing but seldom-used smile. In February when Donna Kyle had come to claim Evie, it was Mat who’d been her protector. He’d guided and defended her through the deadly struggle that had ensued. Donna was imprisoned in Aotearoa somewhere now, and had degenerated into some kind of vampire-like creature. Evie never wanted to see her again.

  She wished Mat was here right now. Wished she could hold him close again, kiss him again as they had for those precious few hours before the death of one of Mat’s friends and the revelation of Evie’s true parentage had driven them apart. She missed his voice, his eyes, the way he talked, the way he moved; everything about him really. But Puarata and Donna had both tried to enslave and kill Mat. She wasn’t sure he would ever be able to trust their daughter.

  There was a tarot card on Evie’s bedroom wall: The Lovers. It symbolized her relationship with Mat, and for now, it stubbornly remained inverted, meaning the relationship was wrong. Every night she stared at it before turning out the light, hoping that in the morning it might have righted itself. In the four months since she’d seen Mat, it never had.

  She could wait. Her adoptive parents had indeed left their mark on her. They’d shown her patience and support. They’d shown her that good things sometimes take time. They’d shown her that love was faithful and forgiving.

  When Mat was ready for her, she would be ready for him.

  Parihaka

  Winter sun painted the scene in brilliant acrylics — bright blues and vivid greens. The sky and the earth, Rangi and Papa, in a warm embrace. Clouds scudded across the sky like wind-tossed cotton balls. The song of greeting, the karakia, rose and fell as the schoolboys and girls either lis
tened attentively or eyed each other speculatively. There were more than a hundred students lined up in ranks before the marae, contingents from the Maori Studies classes of nine different high schools.

  The song of greeting ended and a big sunny-faced man bellowed: ‘Hey, kia ora; kia ora, everyone! Welcome to Parihaka!’ His smile was so infectious, it spread from mouth to mouth in seconds. ‘Come on in, we’re all waiting to meet you!’

  As spontaneous cheers broke out, the least-disciplined school groups simply welled towards the gates of the marae. That didn’t include the students of Napier Boys’ High School; they were under the watchful eyes of their teachers, who had immediately lifted warning hands. There was an order to proceedings, and that included ‘ladies before gentlemen’.

  This gave Riki Waitoa and his mates a good chance to eye up the girls from Gisborne’s Lytton High School as they filed into the marae.

  ‘Hey, Rik, ain’t your chick from Gizzy?’ Billy Simcox whispered. Billy was half Riki’s height, twice his width, and played tight-head prop for Napier Boys’ First XV. ‘She here?’

  Riki shook his head regretfully. ‘Nah, she goes to Gisborne Girls’, bro. And she only does Computer Studies and Maths and that kinda stuff anyways.’

  ‘She sounds pretty smart, eh? What’s her name?’

  ‘Cass. Yeah, she’s smarter than Bill Gates and Einstein rolled into one. And hot with it.’

  Billy chuckled and nudged him. ‘You’re jus’ making that up, man. There ain’t no chick like that.’

  ‘None you’d ever meet. That’s cos you’re a forward and spend all your life pushing a scrum machine. Only backs get the hot chicks, man.’ Riki played right wing for the First XV, and was proud to be a fast, cool and sexy back.

  Billy chuckled. ‘Yeah but all backs are wimps, so your babes are always disappointed, until they meet a real man.’ He poked Riki in the chest. ‘A prop, in other words.’ He might have said more, but then he looked across the line of Lytton students. His gaze locked on a tall, stately Maori girl with long flowing hair, standing a little apart from the others, and he lost his flow. ‘Phwoar,’ he managed eventually.

  Riki made an effort to not stare as well. Cassandra was his girl and, besides, watching Billy’s eyes bulge and his jaw drop was pretty entertaining. ‘Hey, now I know why you’re a tight head, bro.’

  ‘Why?’ Billy growled, still staring at the girl.

  ‘Cos your head’s so tight your eyes jus’ popped out.’

  Billy grunted. ‘Get behind me, woofter. I saw her first and I already know how sweet it’s gonna be.’

  Riki glanced back at the girl. She was looking back at him and Billy and tossed her head when she saw him, making her hair do this rippling thing like a shampoo advert. Well, she’s hot, I’ll grant that. ‘Man, you’re dreaming. She’s looking at me, not you.’ And I’m not looking back. Really.

  ‘You always think that. But who pulls at parties?’ Billy tapped his own chest. ‘I’ll tell you who.’

  ‘Whatever, cuz. The only girls at your parties are your seventeen sisters.’

  Billy snorted. ‘And your sisters too, bro.’ He laughed and punched Riki’s shoulder. ‘Hey, where’s your super-serious mate?’

  ‘Mat? He’s got the lurgy. Laid up at home.’

  Billy nodded thoughtfully. ‘Matty Douglas: he’s spooky, man. His paintings are weird as.’ He shrugged. ‘But his dad is, like, the best man to call if the cops raid, so say no more, eh?’

  ‘Mat’s cool. He’s jus’ operating on another plane.’ Literally. Riki glanced towards the nearest teacher, who was waving their class forward. ‘Time to go in.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Billy. ‘If that Lytton chick sees me talking to you much longer, she’ll think you’re my girlfriend.’

  ‘You’re a funny bugger, Simcox.’

  ‘I’m a comedian from way back, Waitoa.’

  The Napier boys filed into the marae and pressed noses with all manner of kaumatua and kuia, before being let loose on the grounds. The visit to Parihaka was the annual Maori Studies trip, only open to Year 11 and up. It was Riki’s third trip, but his first to Parihaka. The class had been reading up on the place, of course: towards the end of the Land Wars, a multi-tribal group of Maori had settled at Parihaka in protest at the land confiscations. The government had reacted by sending in the troops, led by the Native Minister of the time, John Bryce. There had been no deaths, but the people of Parihaka had been forcibly removed and most of the men sent to do prison labour all over New Zealand. It wasn’t the greatest crime in history, but it was a dark deed nevertheless.

  Riki had a more personal grievance against the place: nearly a year and a half ago, Mat Douglas had taken him to the magical other-land, Aotearoa, where long-dead people were still alive, or their ghosts were. That included John Bryce. Bryce had tricked them and damn near killed them.

  If you’re somewhere near, Bryce kohuru, you better watch yourself.

  As the boys and girls milled about, Riki lost track of Billy Simcox and let himself drift to the edges, looking about him. There wasn’t a lot to see — just a big flat open space where apparently the occupiers had built their huts. After they’d cleared the village, the colonial government had razed it and built a fort instead. I wonder what’s still here, on the Aotearoa side …

  ‘Kia ora,’ a resonant female voice breathed in his ear.

  He turned, and all thoughts froze in his head. It was the Lytton girl. About an inch shorter than him, with a face that wasn’t classic beauty, but something more: timeless. Noble, even. The sort of face you saw carved in marble. Her hair was a lustrous cascade of ebony, glowing in the light. And her eyes! Riki caught his breath. There were flecks of gold in her irises, floating in slow circles.

  ‘Would you like to hongi with me?’ she said softly, with just the subtlest hint of teasing, as if this was all just a game to her. Up close there was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place it.

  ‘Uh, sure,’ he said, staring into her stunning face and sighing, as thoughts of Cass were somehow erased. Yeah. Absolutely. He pressed his nose to hers and met her gaze. About then, all rational thought ceased to function …

  Which was why, twelve hours later, he found himself creeping from the dormitory just before midnight.

  Riki waited until everyone in his dorm was asleep, then with barely restrained excitement, slipped out of bed, grabbed the little shoulder bag he’d stuffed his clothes and runners into, and tiptoed towards the door. The girl’s eyes seemed to beckon him. Finally this dead-dull field trip was going to get exciting!

  Sure, the kaumatua telling them about Parihaka had been funny and informative enough, and walking around the Parihaka site had been kind of evocative, though it was really just an empty field with a big monument now; none of the original buildings or fences remained. He’d hoped for more. Most of the boys had got pretty restless, and started silently flirting with the girls. That had led to lots of giggling and winks. He’d mostly stayed out of it, because all he could think of was that girl from Lytton High. He hadn’t spotted her all day, it was driving him nuts, but she’d said to meet him by the memorial at midnight. No way was he not going to do that. He felt feverish for her, unnaturally so perhaps, but he couldn’t ignore the craving. He’d texted Mat around six o’clock, to tease him, wolfed down dinner and then waited like an unplugged appliance until midnight rolled around.

  Billy Simcox was snoring like a pig farmer. See ya, prop-boy! He slipped out the door and darted into the toilets just before the heavy tread of a teacher sounded around the corner. The boys were at a dorm on the nearby marae, and the girls were not far away, boarding at the local school. He worked the door silently closed as the teacher went by, hurriedly changed into his outside gear, then shouldered his bag and clambered out the window. The night air was bitterly cold, a wicked westerly off the Tasman Sea slapping his cheeks, but he barely noticed. His excitement rose as a tiny flame flickered beside the old-fashioned wooden fence
of the marae. He darted into the lee of the next dorm. As he crept below window level, he could overhear grown-ups laughing over something and someone strumming a guitar. He had to hide from two teachers smoking in the doorway, but once they were gone the coast was clear. He dashed into the shadows, leapt the fence easily. The monument waited, looming out of the misty darkness.

  He was a little early, so he pulled out his cellphone. Time to crow a little. He thumbed the speed-dial. It rang twice, and then a dazed voice answered. ‘Riki?’ Mat Douglas’s voice. He sounded spaced out, like he’d done some pot. Mat didn’t do drugs though, so it was probably the effects of too many cold remedies.

  ‘Mate, guess what?’

  The line went silent. Mat eventually responded in a flat voice. ‘Don’t play games, man. I’ve just had the weirdest evening, and—’

  Riki was barely listening. ‘Mat, I’ve just snuck outta the dorm.’

  ‘What? But … why?’ Mat was the sort of guy who pretty much toed the line on rules and stuff. Came of having a lawyer for a father, Riki supposed.

  ‘Just for the fun of it, bro.’ He was suddenly embarrassed to confess the truth, or mention the girl at all. The first creeping sense of unease stole over him. Why did I agree to this?

  ‘You take care, man,’ Mat admonished.

  ‘Gotta go, Mat. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. See ya.’ He thumbed off the connection. The wind rose, making him shiver. This suddenly didn’t seem like a good idea at all. But creeping back with his tail between his legs would hurt his pride, and he didn’t want that girl to think he was chicken.

  ‘I’m here,’ he whispered into the night.

  A tall shape rose up before him, eerily close. ‘You came,’ she said, as he jolted in surprise.

  ‘Far out, you’re quiet!’ he exclaimed.

  She smiled without opening her mouth, circling him with an intrigued look on her face. It was as if she was measuring him up or something. Only the pale moonlight lit her face, but somehow her eyes caught the light in an unnerving way. They held a rainbow gleam, like oil on the surface of a pool. ‘I wondered if you would have the nerve.’