Ghosts of Parihaka

by David Hair

  The changing rooms were huge, and Evie found herself at one end, pressing the shower button over and over again as she rinsed the pool water from her hair. Her curls were pretty low-maintenance, but they would smell of geothermal water for days if she didn’t wash them thoroughly. Hot water streamed over her, while she smilingly replayed the last few minutes. Breakthrough … There was something still bothering him, but he’d set it aside, and admitted to himself what she already knew. Maybe in doing so he would be able to put it aside forever.

  She blinked her vision clear as someone else came into the shower room. A Maori woman who looked in her twenties shrugged out of her towel and stepped under the shower nozzle beside Evie. She had a perfect figure, her skin glowing, a body even a model would envy. There were tattoos on her chin and on her buttocks and thighs that looked very traditional. She had such an exotic — no, indigenous — beauty that Evie found herself staring in admiration.

  She looked away in case the other woman noticed her staring, when she felt a firm touch on her shoulder. ‘Everalda,’ the Maori woman said in a cold voice.

  Evie turned in surprise. The woman’s deep green eyes locked into hers, and she froze. Then the woman reached over, gripped Evie’s throat, and squeezed.

  Evie kicked out, but her limbs locked up. Air suddenly became horribly precious and scarce. She choked out little coughs as her feet left the ground, her back slammed against the tiled walls. The woman’s eyes were pitiless. ‘Everalda, you will stay away from him. Or I will rip both your eyes from your skull and eat them.’

  ‘Ghnnghh …’

  ‘He is mine and mine alone. He is the only hope I have and you will not take him from me!’ Her nails bit into Evie’s skin.

  ‘Hunghhh …’

  ‘I can smell the stink of Puarata on you. My monstrous son. I will not breed another like him.’

  ‘Uhhhh?’ The world began to turn black around the edges, like old film. She squirmed helplessly in the woman’s grasp. ‘Please …’

  The woman let go and Evie slid down the tiled wall, cracking her right knee and the side of her head on the tiles. Bright pain flared, and the hand she pressed to her temple came away bloody. She sucked in air desperately, trying to re-inflate her lungs.

  The woman’s voice was remorseless. ‘I will let you live, as he would resent any harm I do to you. That is the only reason I tolerate your existence.’ The woman’s voice was like a glacier: slow, icy and inexorable. ‘Do not make me regret this mercy.’

  ‘Unnn …’

  In the blink of an eye she was gone, and Evie was sobbing on the floor. Another customer, a middle-aged German tourist, found her like that a minute later and helped her until she could stand again. She pretended she’d slipped on the wet tiles and persuaded the German woman not to tell anyone.

  When she found Mat outside he moved awkwardly, and there was a hand imprint livid and red on his left cheek. It faded fast. She wanted to ask but didn’t need to and, anyway, she was too frightened. They found Cassandra outside and walked back to the motel together. Evie didn’t look at Mat, and they parted in silence.

  ‘Hey, are you okay?’ Cassandra asked the moment the two girls were alone.

  She nodded mutely.

  ‘Did you and Mat fight?’

  She went to shake her head, then nodded instead. The truth was far too confusing. So she had to let Cass fuss over her and put her to bed, before she could be alone and begin to think again.

  That was The High Priestess … She’s not a metaphor from a tarot card, she’s a real person.

  Mat is scared rigid of her. And so am I.

  Milford

  As dawn came, the seas subsided, though the bitter cold that penetrated the hold didn’t ease. Riki groaned as Hemi nudged him awake and handed him the slop bucket. He pissed and passed it on to the next man. All about him were the glassy-eyed prisoners of Parihaka, each locked in their own personal hell, barely acknowledging the others.

  After that came the water bucket, then sailors came down and cuffed them to manacles linked to a single chain, before unhooking their ankles. They were forced up onto the deck to walk around in a line, while the sailors looked on.

  ‘Wait,’ one of them said, an older man with a Scottish accent. He reached over and lifted Riki’s chin. ‘I thought I knew all the prisoners, but I don’t recognize this boy.’

  Riki forced his eyes to empty as he met the other’s stare. I am like Hemi. I am no-one.

  ‘He’s got the look,’ another sailor commented.

  A second man chimed in. ‘Aye. Your memory’s going, Charlie.’

  Charlie frowned. ‘He ain’t scarred like the rest of ’em.’ He tapped Riki’s cheek. ‘Where you from, laddie?’

  Riki didn’t answer, just stared back at Charlie and imagined himself somewhere else.

  Then the cabin door opened, and the sailors turned back to their tasks with fear in their eyes, Charlie included. Riki glanced sideways and saw three men he most definitely didn’t want to take an interest in him. He stared into space with a passion, edging behind the other prisoners, his ears straining.

  Captain William ‘Bully’ Hayes was a stout man in a sea-coat, with a rough beard and thinning hair. He didn’t so much walk as stump about the deck, spitting constantly. His accent was American, but his speech was antiquated. ‘We’re half a day out from Milford Sound, Master Kiki. Less than that if the weather is kind.’

  A low voice rumbled out a response. ‘The weather will not be kind. There are storms around Chatham Island. Foveaux Strait is impassable.’ The speaker was the short, fat tohunga who’d come aboard at Kapiti. He looked about the ship with lidded eyes. ‘We are being watched too, through some Pakeha magic I am not familiar with. Someone is attempting to track us. I feel their thoughts bend towards us.’

  ‘Old Man Jones?’ asked the third man, Byron Kikitoa. The former rugby league star still had his hair trimmed like a sports star, with a spiral pattern carved into his scalp, and he was wrapped in a feather cloak, with tattoos on his bare arms and calves. He had sneering eyes and a swagger to his walk. ‘I’ll carve his heart out.’

  ‘Not Jones,’ Kiki disagreed. ‘Another, with a different style. Feminine.’

  ‘A woman?’ scoffed Hayes. ‘Who?’

  ‘There was a girl at White Island in February. I felt her touch that day. It is the same.’ Kiki ruminated thoughtfully. ‘A seer linked to Donna Kyle.’

  ‘There was a seeress among Hobson’s men that day. A one-eyed girl.’ Byron scowled. ‘She almost burned me,’ he added resentfully.

  ‘Does she know our destination?’ Hayes asked, spitting over the rails.

  Kiki shrugged, casting his eyes about him warily. Riki was careful not to attract attention, though his mind was whirling. He knew who Kiki was talking about — Mat had told him about Evie. If she was tracing them, then surely Mat was on his trail. He felt his courage return, and began listening to the conversation again.

  ‘… and the Treaty?’ he heard Hayes say.

  Kiki shrugged expressively. ‘Te Rauparaha listened to us. Whether it is enough to draw him into the struggle on our side is another question. We have the document, and therefore the peace of this land rests to some extent in our hands. So far we have the pledge of seven major iwi that when I order it, they will strike against Pakeha in their territories. But it will take a major demonstration of our power before they commit fully. This alliance with Bryce will be crucial.’

  The missing Treaty of Waitangi … an alliance with Bryce … I’ve got to get word of this to the others.

  ‘Von Tempsky’s Forest Rangers have pledged that they will spark conflict in the Waikato,’ Kiki went on. ‘An atrocity, to spark outrage. There are Pakeha who want war as well. To resolve unfinished business. For revenge and honour. For glory.’

  Riki shuddered. The names meant little — he vaguely recalled that von Tempsky was a colonial-era commander — but the threat inherent in Kiki’s words — atrocity and outrage, war and glor
y — were enough for him to imagine the worst. A civil war in Aotearoa, spilling into the real world. Ghosts killing ghosts until paradise was lost.

  A hand gripped his shoulder: Charlie the Scot. But he showed no interest in Riki, not in front of his betters. ‘These prisoners have had their exercise, sir,’ he called to the captain. ‘We’ll chain ’em up again.’ But as he locked Riki back into place below, he lifted his chin and peered at him thoughtfully.

  Milford Sound: Piopiotahi in Maori, named for the lament of the piopio bird at the passing of Maui, a death it inadvertently caused by waking the Goddess of Death just as Maui was about to claim immortality for mankind. Riki had never been there, only heard of it. A place Rudyard Kipling described as the Eighth Wonder of the World. It was more beautiful than he’d imagined, as they sailed in on Sunday evening. As they were led out from below deck in chains, the scenery was awe-inspiring, and even the other prisoners slowed to stare. At the head of the Sound, Mitre Peak was a wedge of ice driven into the sky, stunningly regal as it caught the red-gold of the setting sun. The waters were so still they reflected the mountains and sky perfectly. The setting was pristine, a frozen paradise.

  Charlie stared thoughtfully at Riki as he went past. ‘I’m watching you, laddie,’ the Scot murmured softly. ‘There’s something wrong about you.’ The Scot spat in his face, trying to provoke a reaction. ‘I’m going to find out what, believe me.’ He waggled a lash under Riki’s nose. ‘You’ll tell me, sooner or later.’

  Riki looked stonily away. In front of everyone Charlie seemed reluctant to act, as if fearing the consequences of his superiors discovering that a mistake had been made. Hayes was nearby, as were Kiki and Byron Kikitoa. Neither tohunga makutu showed any sign of worry that the only other Maori present were ill-treated prisoners.

  Riki was relieved to shrink from their sight, as he and the others were herded under the eyes of the few townsfolk into sheds on the docks and chained up again, eight to a shed. At least the floors were dry and didn’t move. They were given a perfunctory meal of soup and then locked in. Riki struggled with the manacles a little, hoping to pick himself free, but Hemi laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Enough. They will hear,’ he whispered.

  Riki sagged back into his chains and wriggled until he was comfortable enough to sleep, pressed on either side by men he’d sailed with for three nights, but still knew nothing about. All the prisoners had gone further into themselves as the journey went on. To them, it was just another nightmare, from which only death permitted awakening, and then just to another repeat of the same ordeal. He pitied them despite their apathy. I will never lose hope like they have, he told himself.

  But his courage faltered next morning when the prisoners were dragged out into the icy dawn and set to walking inland. Riki heard Hayes say they were going to Arrowtown, an old goldrush-era township far inland. The only road out of here was the Milford Track, and in winter it would be choked with snow, and avalanches were a constant danger. We’ll never make it alive.

  His fears were allayed when, with a loud mechanical roar, four ancient trucks ploughed their way through the mud and up to the docks. They were followed by a plush-looking limousine that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a World War Two movie set: a military staff car, perhaps. All of the vehicles were seventy years old at best. But they were trucks: Aotearoa was slowly modernizing, as time passed. He exhaled with relief as the vehicles lurched to a stop before them, engines chugging.

  ‘Get them onto the middle two trucks,’ shouted Hayes. ‘Soldiers on the first and last. Let’s move!’

  Warbird over Wanaka

  Jones roused Mat at dawn. He’d arrived in Hanmer around midnight, and slipped into the room Mat had rented for them. By then Aroha’s handprint had long faded from Mat’s cheek. The terror of walking into her in the changing rooms with her eyes black as night and her teeth bared in fury hadn’t faded though. She’d been terrifying. Even worse was knowing she’d also attacked Evie. I dragged her into this. I was weak and selfish. I brought Aroha’s fury onto her. He hung his head with shame.

  ‘Come on, laddie, get yourself up,’ Jones told him. ‘There’s much to do today. Everalda has already done a reading — Hayes’s ship is north of Haast, hugging the coast, and there’s a storm coming up from the Antarctic to meet them.’

  Mat struggled to hide his morose mood, especially at breakfast. Jones went across to roust out Damien and Shui, who had found lodgings in a guesthouse in Aotearoa. Mat was left to share bacon and eggs at a café with Cass and Evie, neither of whom seemed to be happy to see him. Cassandra quickly made excuses and left him alone with Evie, who was limping off her right knee.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked her, looking guiltily at her swollen and bruised temple.

  She looked at him bleakly. ‘Who was she?’

  He had no choice but to tell her everything. That Aroha was a channel to the triple-goddess of Maori lore, and that she had chosen him as her next mate. It’s not my choice, he wanted to tell her, but he was too frightened that even a whisper might reach Aroha’s ears.

  Perhaps she understood that. She didn’t ask, didn’t press him for what he wanted. She seemed to know, as if this confirmed something she’d read in her cards. ‘The High Priestess,’ she murmured, nodding to herself. She gave him a look that was full of pity and dread, then they left before any other dangerous words could cross their lips.

  Jones guided them to a small airfield outside of town, though calling it an airfield was generous: it was a farm paddock with a couple of crop-dusting planes under canvas beside a tin shed at one end. Jones took them across to Aotearoa and bade them make themselves comfortable. ‘I’ve got a call to make,’ he said, before going into an identical tin shed beside the field. There was no-one inside, but Mat glimpsed a primitive radio. Fascinated, Cassandra went in and Evie followed, but Mat stayed with Damien and Shui, peering up at the grim-looking skies.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked Damien.

  The lanky youth shrugged. ‘No idea.’ He leant close and said quietly in Mat’s ear, ‘What happened to Evie?’

  ‘She slipped in the shower.’

  Damien looked at him sceptically. ‘Really?’

  Mat met his eyes. ‘Officially.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I can’t say more just now, though.’

  ‘Okay.’ Damien shrugged and put an arm around Shui, who was about half his height but looked at home tucked against his waist. ‘Cass thinks you had a fight.’

  ‘No fight. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘You’re still friends?’

  ‘Sure, I guess.’

  Damien left it at that, though his worried expression didn’t go away. Shui was casting doubtful looks at Mat too, throwing occasional sharp questions at Damien in Cantonese. He seemed at pains to reassure her.

  ‘Why don’t you just bring one of the cars across?’ Damien asked eventually.

  Mat frowned. ‘The only vehicle I’ve ever managed to bring across was a Toyota I stole from Donna Kyle. She’d done something to it that made the transition possible. I think Ngatoro was helping me somehow too, though I didn’t know at the time. Anyway, our two cars are totally rooted in our world.’

  Damien looked disappointed and lapsed into silence again. They both watched the tin shed curiously. They were just beginning to wonder what was up, when Jones, Cassandra and Evie emerged from the hut, the Welshman looking pleased and the girls mystified. Time passed in which they all muddled about, or simply stared into space. Eventually a faint engine roar rose from the south, and a small dot appeared among the clouds. They all peered at it as the dot grew and the engine sound grew louder.

  As it got closer, Mat rubbed his eyes. ‘You’re kidding!’ he said.

  ‘Oh boy,’ said Damien.

  The flying machine that came out of the southern skies owed more to kites than to conventional aircraft. Or perhaps it owed more to the tricycle. It was tiny, just a single rectangular wing atop a rigid three-
wheeled frame, with a single tail-wing atop the seat. It all seemed to be made of cloth and bamboo, with one man at the controls. A propeller attached to a loud diesel engine pulled it through the air. It didn’t look capable of flight, let alone the speed it was doing, yet here it was, swooping towards them.

  ‘What the hell?’ Cassandra asked Jones, her eyes wide open.

  The Welshman smiled broadly. ‘Come along, boys and girls, I’d like you all to meet a friend of mine: Mister Richard Pearse.’

  Mat’s head swam. Just when you thought you knew what Aotearoa could throw at you, something like this happened. He glanced at the others, saw that all of their eyes and mouths were wide open.

  They all knew of Pearse, except perhaps Shui. Richard Pearse had been a farmer and inventor in Temuka, south of Christchurch, and in 1903, before a small gathering, he’d attempted powered flight, a year before the Wright brothers in America. He had succeeded, but because of the conflicting documentary evidence, lack of subsequent development, and Pearse’s own self-effacing nature, it was the Wright brothers who’d gone down in history as the first men to achieve heavier-than-air powered flight.

  Jones, Mat and his friends hurried forward as the man brought his tiny craft into a bouncing landing on the grass strip. Today it might be loosely termed a ‘microlight’. An extremely homemade-looking, barely-air-worthy microlight. But it evidently flew.

  The pilot pulled off leather cap and goggles to reveal an intense-looking face with curly hair and a small moustache. ‘Aethlyn,’ he called to Jones. ‘How are you, old man?’

  ‘Not so old as all that, Dick,’ Jones called back, striding forward and shaking his hand. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’

  ‘Oh, you know, I was in the area, and this old kite goes like a dream.’

  Mat raised an eyebrow at Damien. ‘“Old kite”, I get. Not sure about “goes like a dream” though.’

  Damien and Shui were exchanging worried looks. They were, after all, supposed to be travelling on something Jones was organizing. This was evidently it.