by David Hair
‘Kapiti,’ someone guessed.
‘Te Rauparaha,’ someone said in a low voice. The name resonated in Riki’s mind — Te Rauparaha had been a fearsome warrior-chief who had used Kapiti as a base. His conquests, using the newly acquired muskets of the Pakeha, had included most of the South Island. It was his famous haka that the All Blacks used before test matches: ‘Ka Mate’.
‘Will he rescue us?’ Riki asked hopefully.
Someone laughed. ‘Shut your mouth, fool.’
Hemi shook his head sadly. ‘He doesn’t take issue with Bryce kohuru, so long as Bryce’s men pay his toll.’ His eyes flickered to the other end of the hold. ‘Ten women, and twenty barrels of gunpowder and shot.’
Riki swallowed. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘Better for them than being taken south. They become wives for the Ngati Toa for a year, until their souls are sucked back to Parihaka. They have better lives than those who go to Dunedin.’ Hemi lowered his eyes. ‘It is merciful, in its way.’
Riki shook his head, his whole world view under attack. Te Rauparaha was one of his heroes. ‘But, we’re all Maori. We are all one people! Surely he would help us. Perhaps he doesn’t know!’
The man beside him pulled a contemptuous face. ‘You speak like a child.’ There was a murmur of agreement, every face hard and hostile.
Hemi met his eyes, the only sympathetic look anyone was giving him. ‘Riki, we’ve never been one people. We fought each other long before the Pakeha came, and when they did come we just used their guns to further our wars. We gave them land for guns and didn’t see what that would cost us until too late. When we finally tried to unite, many of our people fought alongside the Pakeha. They placed the interests of their tribe ahead of their people. Many prospered from their trade with the Pakeha in the early days when the settlers had to tread carefully, but few were well rewarded when the white men felt secure enough to dictate terms.’
Riki hung his head. Who am I to argue after what these people have gone through — and go through still?
He was about to clamber down when a waka taua hove into view — a war canoe powered by dozens of brawny warriors. Each wore a musket slung barrel-down over his shoulder, and they laughed as they shipped oars alongside the boat. Their canoe was followed by another that was only half-full. There was a young chief onboard the first, or so it seemed, a young man with confident poise. He looked vaguely familiar for some reason. Beside him was an old tohunga, squat as a toad as he huddled in the midst of the men. Both looked hard and pitiless, their eyes watchful. Riki instinctively flinched from sight. Then a ladder banged down, and Riki was forced to clamber back before anyone saw what he was doing and took a closer interest in him.
A cluster of sailors swarmed into the hold and unclamped ten of the women, herding them onto the deck with leering eyes and groping hands. Riki seethed, but no-one else seemed to even want to look, not even Hemi. The despair and defeat that hung over the captives was a tangible thing, worse than their physical captivity. Their mental bondage ached at Riki’s soul. There was not a spark of resistance left in any of them, it seemed.
Voices rang down from above, words of greeting, in English. None of the prisoners took notice, but Riki strained his ears, trying to take it in. It all just seemed to be flowery fluff, dialogue from some British period-drama on telly, until one name reached him, and made his blood run cold.
Byron Kikitoa. The so-called sporting hero who’d killed Damien back in February.
Riki huddled into himself, his heart pounding and his teeth grinding. And prayed for a chance to gain retribution.
Nelson
By the time Cassandra’s Mazda swooped down Ngauranga Gorge and Wellington Harbour came into view, the transformation of the weather was complete. The harbour was a rippling sheet of sparkling waves, as blue-green as paua shells and almost still. Distant houses gleamed white from all manner of perches about the harbour’s edge. The highway flowed towards the city, where glass and steel towers were clustered. The Interislander ferry Kaitaki awaited, on the near side of the city. Tucked in behind it was the large sports stadium nicknamed ‘The Cake Tin’ by the locals for its round, corrugated metal exterior. It was set in the rail yards, with a long concrete walkway built above the lines to service it, and the floodlights were alight, presumably for testing as there was a rugby match there tonight. Ordinarily Mat would have been sitting down at home with his dad to watch the game on telly — his native Hawke’s Bay was playing in Wellington tonight — but right now it was the last thing on Mat’s mind.
Where are you, Riki? Are we ahead of you, or has Hayes already slipped past us? Are you even alive?
Cass confidently navigated her way to the ferry — she and her father had holidayed together a lot and she had been here before. They were slightly late for check-in, but there was no fuss as they joined the tail of the queues of trucks and cars that were being fed onto the ferry. Kaitaki was a former English Channel ferry named Pride of Cherbourg, the name visible in shaped metal beneath the white paint. They had to drive on and park in rows on the fifth deck, one level up from the entrance hatch in the bow. To Mat it was all new and exciting, but he was also dog-tired. He’d slept a little on the trip down, then taken a turn driving to give Cassandra a break. He was still on his restricted, but he’d taken it carefully and managed fine.
They left the car and went to the passenger decks, where crowds of fellow travellers were buying up food and drink at the bars and cafés. There was even a small movie theatre, but they were both so sleepy they just found a couple of adjoining sofas, curled up and closed their eyes. Cassandra seemed to go straight to sleep, but Mat couldn’t. Eventually he gave up and bought a chicken wrap and some water. Then he just stared out the windows as they got under way. He had vague plans to move to Wellington to go to university next year: Wiri and Kelly lived there now, and Fitzy, the shape-changing dog. He had been looking forward to it. But right now, with Riki missing and Aroha’s demands hanging over his head like a headsman’s axe, it was hard to think too much about the future. Throw in the Treaty of Waitangi being in Kiki’s hands and Evie being lost to him, and life felt like it couldn’t get much worse.
It was a three-hour ferry trip, and Cass didn’t move the whole time. She seemed terribly fragile as she slept, not the confident girl he knew at all. She’s frightened for Riki too, as much as I am or more. Once he’d had a few amorous intentions towards Cass, but she’d never really reciprocated, and then she and Riki had become an item. It felt right despite them being almost polar opposites. He badly wanted to see them safe together again.
People came and went; some loud and boisterous, others as tired and subdued as he was. He heard all manner of accents, saw all shades of skin and hair. It was kind of fun to guess at people’s nationalities, not that he could tell beyond what he’d heard on telly what people from other places were like. Travel overseas was something else he would like to do, although he wasn’t sure that life was going to allow that either: between Jones, Ngatoro and Aroha, his life seemed pretty closely tied to Aotearoa.
The crossing of the Strait was calm, a rarity at this time of year. The weather in Wellington and Cook Strait was notoriously changeable, including the capacity to be stunningly gorgeous without warning. He took a stroll around the viewing deck, which was pleasant if you didn’t mind the chill of the air. The inky black of the water was lessened by jade seams that shifted constantly. White-capped waves slapped, and once he glimpsed dolphins playing in the ferry’s bow wave. The North Island receded off the right-hand stern, while the South Island loomed closer and to the left. He could see the snow-capped Southern Alps ahead and, away to the south, a bulk of low clouds over the Kaikoura Ranges, which ran to the eastern coast of the South Island.
The crossing was mostly east to west, until they hit Queen Charlotte Sound, the narrow defile of water that led deep into the bays and inlets at the top of the island, heading for the deep-water berth at Picton. In the Sound, the land was a
t times only a stone’s throw away — low cliffs and tiny bays lining the way, many with houses tucked within, only accessible by boat in lots of cases. The sun washed everything in light, so that the water seemed enticing, though he knew it would be frigidly cold. The weather seemed impossibly good, but the wall of clouds rolling up from the south to meet them hinted that it wasn’t going to last.
The journey ran to time. Mat nudged Cassandra awake as the loudspeakers asked all passengers with vehicles to return to them. She awoke with a start, her eyes disoriented as if blind, until she fumbled her glasses on. He wanted to hug her, but she glared at him defensively and said, ‘What?’ in an almost antagonistic voice. He let her be.
Disembarking from the ferry seemed to take forever, but finally their turn to move came. They headed out of Picton on Queen Charlotte Drive, the coastal road that took them on a more direct route to Nelson. Unfortunately, so did many of the trucks, and they found themselves in a train of vehicles on the winding road. Cassandra became impatient as long minutes were lost behind slow-moving container trucks. They didn’t talk much — there didn’t seem much to say.
Mat took a call from his dad along the way, pretending he was in Napier. He was pretty sure Tama could tell he was in a vehicle, so he made out it was the main street of Napier and that he was going to a movie with friends. He told his father he was over his cold.
They reached Nelson as evening fell, with nowhere to stay and no set plan for reconnecting with Jones. They didn’t know whether they were ahead of Hayes’s ship, but they were certainly ahead of Jones and Damien on the Wallaby. ‘I need to have a look around on the other side,’ Mat told Cass as they looked for a motel. ‘Hayes’s ship might be in port here already.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Cass replied flatly, in tones that brooked no refusal. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but he did know he’d lose the argument.
‘Sure.’
They pulled into a quiet-looking motel and, after some discussion with an amused women behind the counter, secured a room with separate beds. ‘You can pull them together if you need,’ she remarked drily. ‘Here’s the keys: it’s 114, around the back. Nice and quiet, so keep it that way, eh.’
‘Cow,’ Cassandra muttered under her breath as they left the office.
‘Hey, chill,’ Mat said. ‘She probably thought we were running away together.’
‘As if.’
Mat sighed. He’d never seen Cassandra this edgy, but it wasn’t fair to blame her for it either. ‘Well, we’re here,’ he said eventually, as he fitted the key to the door of room 114. The door opened directly onto the car park behind the motel. ‘It’s Friday, so we’ve got about 24 hours until my dad gets home and discovers I’m not there. Then all hell’s gonna blow.’
‘Yeah,’ Cass admitted, her face easing a little. ‘At least my dad is totally in my pocket.’ She shouldered her way into the room and picked the bed furthest from the door. ‘That way anyone who tries to jump us has to get past you first,’ she said with a faint smirk.
The room was plain, just brick walls painted pale yellow, with cheap furniture and no adornments, but that was fine. Two single beds jutted from the left-hand wall, facing a wall-mounted TV. They had barely put their bags down when Mat’s cellphone bleeped. Hoping against hope that it was Riki, he lunged for it, then almost dropped it when the screen showed that the text was from Everalda van Zelle. He thumbed it open, frowning.
The text read:
Mat took a deep breath and knocked. The curtain twitched open. There she was: his Evie. She looked just as he remembered her — a round face built for smiling, but marred by the ugliness of her eyepatch. The cheeky little nose and full lips, and the mop of brown curls, even more unruly than last time he’d seen her. He went almost instinctively to hug her and then checked himself, hovering awkwardly. ‘Hey.’
She smiled sadly. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, and bridged the gap, putting her arms around him and her face into the crook of his neck. His whole body quivered at the firm press of her warm body. She was wearing a thick woollen jersey and jeans. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said softly. She smelt of something nice and possibly expensive, not that he was an expert. She felt impossibly good. He inhaled the scent of her hair and wished everything could be different.
‘It’s good to see you too,’ he managed in a husky voice.
‘Ahem,’ said Cassandra pointedly from behind him. He jumped a little, and pulled himself apologetically out of Evie’s arms. Cass thrust her right hand at Evie. ‘So, you’re the famous Everalda,’ she said in a stagy voice. ‘I’m delighted to meet you.’
‘Hi, Cassandra,’ Evie replied smoothly, without being introduced.
‘Ooo, spooky,’ Cassandra remarked. She produced her iPad, flipped a finger at it and studied the screen. ‘Of course, I know a bit about you: Everalda van Zelle, aged nineteen, birth date fourteen March, born to Joss and Florence van Zelle of Takapuna. Proprietor of Everalda, Fortune-Teller, at Victoria Park Market. I could rattle off your accounts and their balances if you wanted an update.’
Evie’s eye widened then narrowed, and Mat wondered if he was going to have to break up a fight. Everalda took Cass’s hand again. ‘Cassandra Allan, Virgo, born with Venus ascending. You try to hold the world at bay with technological toys that create an emotional distance between you and the world, but the need to love and be loved is greater and will overcome. Lucky numbers three and eighteen, colour orange. It’s nice to meet you too.’
‘Holy hell,’ said Cassandra quietly, without malice.
‘Are you going to be friends now?’ Mat asked in a small voice.
‘If the stars align,’ Evie said drily.
Cassandra stepped forward and hugged the other girl. ‘What the hell. Welcome to the team,’ she said. ‘Want to swap rooms with me?’ she added archly. Mat felt his face go scarlet.
‘How about you share mine,’ Evie replied, without looking at Mat.
Cassandra paused, her eyebrows flickering upwards a little. ‘Oh. Okay.’ She glanced at Mat. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to presume …’
Evie smiled gently. ‘No worries. But I would like to have a talk with Mat, if I may?’
‘Sure, I’ll go get my stuff together.’
Mat found himself ushered into 107, and Evie shut the door behind him. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘How did you know? I mean, we didn’t even know which motel we’d choose!’ His voice trailed away. She’s a seer, idiot …
Evie stepped towards him and he backed away. ‘Oh, Mat,’ she said in a helpless voice. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just so good to see you.’
He nodded mutely. ‘That damned Lovers card says that you and I are still a bad idea,’ he said, fighting the urge to ignore the warning and kiss her anyway. She’s Puarata and Donna’s child! And Aroha has claimed me and she’s a goddess … Damn this all the way to hell.
She nodded. ‘I know. I keep one on my wall too.’ She looked at him appraisingly. ‘It nearly came right though. It edged sideways. I could almost feel the anger draining from you. Then something happened, the night before you called me.’ Her voice lifted in questioning tones as she spoke, then she waited.
Aroha. She sensed Aroha’s visit … Jeez, I can’t tell her about that … He shook his head, tried to look as perplexed as her. ‘I don’t know. Maybe we’re cursed.’
‘You think I’m going to turn into a Sith or something, do you?’ she asked, her voice peevish. ‘“Blood will out”, yeah?’
He winced. It was too close to his thinking. Yet he also couldn’t quite believe it. Were people inherently evil? Were children the sum of their parents? No! But he had a feeling that Aroha would destroy Evie if she knew about her. ‘Evie, I trust you. I swear I do.’ And it was true. He’d seen Donna Kyle change. He believed there was only good in her secret illegitimate daughter. But he was terrified of Aroha. ‘That card,’ he muttered. ‘It’ll change one day, I hope.’
Evie shook her head. ‘It doesn
’t work that way, Mat. The card doesn’t change us — it will change when we do. I know my own feelings. I know that I want to spend time with you, see whether what I think we have is real. It’s you who’s holding it back, not the card. You’re running away from me, and if you tell me it’s not because of my birth parents, then what is it?’
Mat looked away. She was right. But he couldn’t tell her so. Aroha might be watching them somehow at this very moment. He felt a self-pitying desire to hide in childhood, and flushed with shame. But I can’t tell her about Aroha. I just can’t.
They looked at each other for a long miserable moment that was only broken when Cassandra knocked on the door. ‘Can I come in? It’s cold out here.’
Evie opened the door and Cass piled in with her baggage, glancing curiously at Mat and seeming to read something in his expression. ‘Off you go then. We girls need to bond.’
Mat looked at Evie, who had pulled on a brave face and wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Sure.’
It certainly was cold outside, as the night fell about him. But room 114 felt colder still, as he shut the world out.
Mat knew Cass had been serious about coming to Aotearoa with him, so he decided not to have that argument at all. Instead of stewing in his room until summoned, he slipped out, flagged down a taxi and went to the harbour. He got the driver to drop him off near a fish and chip shop, but instead of going into the shop he trudged into a shadowy spot near some wire fences and transitioned to Aotearoa. He found himself on a windswept road beside piles of logged timber; sailors’ songs droned from a group of drunken men lurching back towards the city. He wasn’t really dressed for Aotearoa, being in modern garb, so he avoided people, staying well in the shadows when wagons trundled past, drawn by massive Clydesdales, heading home for the night.
He reached the docks — just an unadorned group of wooden piers jutting out into the water from the earthworks that lined the harbour — and scanned the half-dozen ships. He didn’t know much about sailing ships, he realized. Jones had said that Hayes’s ship was a brig but he wasn’t at all sure what a brig was or what one looked like.