Ghosts of Parihaka

by David Hair

  You’ve got to see the Milford Track, son; it’s glorious …

  He was keeping his head well down, especially when the military staff car containing Kiki, Byron and Hayes pulled up nearby. He strained his ears for clues, but heard nothing, and soon they were back in the vomit-encrusted cage and on their way again.

  The road barely existed in some places, and they had to ford streams choked with ice and snow. But whenever some obstacle presented, the staff car would pull up and he would see the ancient tohunga Kiki hobble past, usually followed by some surge of heat or noises like splintering wood. Once he even saw him in action, causing a fallen log to fly apart in a frightening display of magical power.

  They struggled free of the mountains near midday and picked up their pace, following the rivers down towards Southland and Otago on muddy roads lined with snow. The air was bitterly cold, but at least that suppressed the smell of sickness. About mid-afternoon they reached a town he could actually identify: Lumsden, the name on a rail sign read as they paused to refuel. A few locals were watching but none approached. He glanced at Hemi. ‘You been this way before?’ he asked, as the trucks roared into life again and rumbled forward.

  Hemi shook his head. ‘Never. I’ve always been taken straight to Dunedin.’

  Riki wasn’t strong on South Island geography. ‘Maybe we’re just driving to Dunedin instead of sailing?’

  ‘I worked on these railways,’ a man named Turi stated. ‘This road goes north to Kingston and Lake Whakatipu.’

  Riki frowned. ‘That’s the big tourist place, isn’t it?’ The prisoners looked at him blankly. He guessed that tourism was an alien concept to them. ‘Queenstown, yeah?’

  Turi nodded slowly. ‘Queenstown, that is at Lake Whakatipu also.’

  ‘We’re not going to Dunedin?’ Hemi asked, as something like animation kindled in their dead faces. ‘Somewhere new?’ A mutter ran through the prisoners.

  ‘Probably just the railroad again,’ Turi said dully. ‘Worked me to death, they did.’ But the men were roused, looking about them. The roads began to wind again, as they ascended once more from the plains, but they were better roads, and the convoy made good time. By late afternoon they were chugging along steep cliffs above a lake: Whakatipu itself. They had bypassed Kingston and its famous railroad, and even Turi didn’t know where they were.

  As afternoon turned to evening, the road led them into a river valley. A cluster of wooden and stone houses sat on a gentle slope descending towards a line of willows. There were people everywhere about them as the trucks lurched to a halt. The prisoners were left to sit for a time, while pale and dirty faces, all male, peered into the truck. They were mostly as ragged and unwashed as the prisoners, but they were strutting and laughing callously at the new arrivals, while tobacco smoke wreathed the frosty air. Riki heard sniggering comments about their stink, and he gazed back at them resentfully.

  The sun had fallen behind the mountains to the west, though the peaks were still lit, glistening pink and gold. Riki kept his head well down, especially when he heard Hayes swagger by, boasting of ‘finally dealing with the damned Chinks’, whatever that meant. Eventually someone unlocked the rear of the truck. One by one the prisoners lurched to their feet as the chains forced them to follow their neighbour. Riki took the opportunity to steal a metal clip from one of the doors. No-one seemed to notice, and he followed the others feeling as if he’d won a small victory.

  They were marched like a human caterpillar between lines of jeering white townsmen, herded towards an open space behind a row of houses. A wooden whitewashed building the size of a village hall stood nearby; the words ‘Arrowtown Gaol’ were painted over its door. He eyed it apprehensively. But they weren’t taken inside. Instead they were made to stand in rows, flanked by a dozen scruffy men with muskets over their shoulders. Beyond that cordon, it seemed the whole of the town had come to watch, hundreds of dishevelled men lounging about staring. There were women too, some stolid-looking matrons, others young with low-cut bodices and calculating eyes. It was hard to read the crowd’s mood — they were curious, but also wary and sullen.

  Hayes, Kiki and Byron Kikitoa stood in front of the prisoners, conversing softly while looking them over. Riki glanced about surreptitiously and saw to his dismay that Charlie, the Scotsman who’d been so suspicious of him onboard the ship, was still watching him. The man’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction as he saw Riki flinch. I’ve got to get away before he rumbles me.

  A hush fell over the crowd, and they all heard the distant growl of another motor vehicle. The townsfolk craned their necks, peering away to the east. Riki risked a look, conscious that none of the other prisoners were showing such curiosity even now, but he was unable to resist. He saw the flash of headlights high up the valley, and heard the smooth purr of a car. The whole gathering paused as the sound came closer, until a car arrived, sleekly gliding to a halt before Hayes and his colleagues. It was an early Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, looking utterly out of place in this rough back-country settlement. A truck followed, similar to the one in which the prisoners had arrived, and from it disgorged a dozen hard-faced soldiers in black jackets, heavily armed with muskets and blades. They all wore kilts, Riki noticed in surprise. ‘Bryce’s Thistle Guard,’ one of the crowd muttered.

  The driver of the Rolls-Royce got out and opened the passenger door before snapping off a salute. Riki stiffened as a solid man with a curly beard and balding head emerged, pale and grim of face. He wore a three-piece suit and carried a long walking stick capped with silver.

  ‘Bryce kohuru,’ Riki heard Hemi mutter beside him, his voice a growl of fear and rage.

  Riki had seen Bryce before, very briefly, on the East Coast over a year and a half ago. He would have sworn the man had not seen him, but he felt his fear mount as Bryce ran his eye over the prisoners.

  ‘Only thirty,’ the warlock noted in a disappointed voice. Then he shrugged. ‘They will suffice.’ He turned to Kiki, and they performed a very formal hongi, a greeting that Riki felt the former Native Minister did extremely reluctantly. He repeated the gesture with Byron. No-one smiled. ‘You have the document?’ Bryce asked.

  ‘I do. You have the artefact?’ Kiki replied in English.

  Bryce nodded. ‘I warn you, I have ensured my own immunity to its power,’ he said in a warning voice. Kiki merely smiled. Bryce pursed his lips, then abruptly turned and strode to his Rolls-Royce, gesturing for the tohunga to follow. The driver opened the boot of the car, and two of the Thistle Guard lifted out a large and seemingly heavy bundle, wrapped in plain cloth.

  ‘Show me,’ Kiki said, his voice eager.

  Bryce gestured and the men removed the cloth, revealing a wooden carving so old it was grey and cracked in hundreds of places. But it was still clearly recognizable as a Maori carved head, such as might adorn a meeting house. This one radiated ill-feeling so palpably that even the townsfolk sucked in their breath in apprehension.

  ‘May I try it?’ Kiki said fervently, with the eagerness of a child.

  Bryce smiled and nodded. He pointed to a pole set in the field as if for this purpose, and his soldiers quickly set the head in place atop it. Bryce paced to the front of the rows of prisoners. Finally he settled on one. ‘Turi, come forward.’ A hush fell over the crowd, as if they sensed what they were about to see.

  The soldiers unlocked Turi from the line of prisoners and walked him forward. Bryce bade them step away, leaving the Parihaka man standing alone before him. ‘Turi, how long have I known you?’

  ‘Since 1881, master,’ Turi replied with bitter weariness.

  ‘How many times have you died since that day, Turi?’ Bryce’s voice was deliberately pitched to carry to the whole crowd.

  ‘Seventeen times, master.’

  A storm of incredulous whispers ran through the crowd. Riki could feel their fears multiply.

  ‘Do you wish for release from the cycle of rebirth, Turi?’

  Turi’s voice was tremulous. ‘I long for it,
master.’

  ‘Then today is your lucky day, my friend,’ Bryce said ironically. He turned to the wooden head atop the pole. Kiki was stroking it, whispering over it. ‘I presume you know the invocations?’

  Kiki was visibly purring. ‘I do.’ He flashed a superior smile. ‘I taught them to Puarata myself.’ He muttered something in Maori, then turned back to Turi and jabbed a finger at him.

  The paua-shell eyes of the carving glowed faintly, as if a stray moonbeam had lit them up. The pupil holes seemed to move, to look about. And then they focused on Turi.

  ‘This is the Wooden Head of Puarata,’ Bryce proclaimed to the gathered people. ‘It was the master’s mightiest weapon!’

  Riki felt his heart pound painfully against his ribcage. He knew the story — his grandmother had used to love telling it late at night to frighten her grandchildren. In the story, the Wooden Head of Puarata could kill enemies miles away through sound alone. Riki wondered what would happen, if this truly was that fearful thing.

  Turi blanched, terror of the artefact destroying any willingness he might have had to die meekly and find release. ‘No!’ he pleaded. His fear transmitted to the watching miners and townsfolk, who backed away — though if the Wooden Head did what legend suggested, it was already too late to run. But Kiki just smiled and purred an incantation to the Wooden Head. With a high-pitched shriek, the Wooden Head called Turi’s name.

  At the first sound, the man tried to clap his hands to his ears, but to no avail. His knees gave way first, as the sound of that hideous scream washed over the whole crowd. Riki sensed many watching flinch and those at the rear back away, but with the other prisoners, all he could do was watch.

  Turi fell from his knees onto his face, convulsing, blood pouring from his nose, eyes, mouth and ears. He thrashed briefly, then rolled onto his back and fell limp. The whole crowd sighed. Riki caught the look on Kiki’s face: pure, savage ecstasy. Then the crowd shuddered as a mist rose from the fallen man and flowed towards the mouth of the Wooden Head. Its tongue seemed to flicker and lick the mist from the air, inhaling it. The wood took on a greater sheen; the eyes seemed to focus hungrily.

  ‘I rather think that we can solve a few local problems for you, Mister Hayes,’ Bryce called to the captain. ‘Including your yellow problem,’ he added with a nasty chuckle.

  Hayes laughed, as did a few of the men in the crowd. But not many. Some threw sideways glances and Riki followed their eyes: there were Chinese here, he realized in surprise, at the edge of the crowd. They began to edge away as eyes fell on them.

  Bryce held out a hand expectantly towards Kiki. The tohunga makutu reached into his cloak and pulled a sheaf of old parchment from beneath it, which he placed in Bryce’s hand. The former Native Minister accepted it solemnly, but his eyes were alight with fervour. He lifted his hand for silence and the shocked gathering quieted.

  ‘This is the Treaty of Waitangi,’ he shouted, his voice gloating. ‘This is the document that binds this nation in peace!’ He brandished it with a disdainful look on his face. ‘But at what price? Must the strong make accommodation with the weak? Must progress be thwarted by primitivism? Must men who have the power to take what they want be constrained by politicians hiding in the cities?’

  An uncertain hush fell over the crowd. Someone called out: ‘What are you going to do, sir?’

  Bryce clenched a fist about the Treaty. ‘What am I going to do? I have the parchment that pacifies the spirits of conflict in this land. While this Treaty remains, the settlers and tribesmen alike feel confined. They seek negotiated solutions. From North Cape to Bluff, the forces of war are constrained. And with them is constrained the ability of strong men to take what they deserve. Men like you, good people! Would you rather live in huts here, or in mansions in Dunedin or Wellington or Auckland?’

  A low mutter ran through the gathering. Riki couldn’t tell whether it was of agreement or dissent. The crowd was frightened, he sensed, but not won over.

  ‘You ask, what will I do with this Treaty? I will take it back to Dunedin and publically destroy it. Already men of all races have pledged that there will be war once this document is destroyed. I promise you, that war will begin before the year is out!’

  More mutterings, of fear and alarm. Consternation was written on the faces of the townsfolk. These were people whose feelings for the land had brought them to Aotearoa after they died. Riki could sense their conflict, torn between whatever injustices they felt they still suffered and fear of war. ‘What will this mean for us?’ a miner called, speaking for many.

  Bryce made a gesture that encompassed the crowd. ‘For you? Well, my friend, if you choose to join my armies, it will mean riches and conquests, and a place at the table of the elite. I tell you this: Dunedin is mine already, and Christchurch is in turmoil. The colonial authorities in the North Island will be swept away by my ally Kiki’s friends. Aotearoa is going to be carved up anew. But you, good people, will have my protection, I swear it!’

  There were a few cheers, but fewer than Bryce wanted, clearly. He scowled. ‘Mistake me not!’ he shouted threateningly. ‘I will remember who aided me!’ He gestured angrily with the Treaty. ‘Remember my words and, when the time comes, be ready to fight!’ A few men cheered; others muttered, backing away.

  The show was evidently over. The crowd began to disperse, eager to be out of the presence of the fearsome Wooden Head. Kiki and Byron went to the artefact, conversing in low tones while examining it reverentially. Riki stared at them, imprinting their faces in his mind. Byron had killed Damien. Okay, two jobs: one, get out of here and get help; two, come back and kill you.

  For now, though, he was constrained by chains. The prisoners were herded into a barn and shut in. The barn was small and damp, and stank of sheep and rat droppings and rotting hay. Their ankle chains were left on, but they were given bread and a bucket of lukewarm vegetable soup. A hole in the roof let in the remainder of the daylight, which was dimming by the minute as evening fell. They could hear distant noises — piano music and raucous male voices singing, and the hooting laughter of some women.

  Riki found himself beside Hemi. He fumbled into his pockets and brought out the metal clip he’d filched earlier. The young Parihaka man stared at him in puzzlement as he took the clip and pushed it into the lock of the manacle encasing his right ankle. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Well, duh!’ Riki replied sarcastically. ‘I’m escaping.’

  ‘There is nowhere to run,’ Hemi said blankly.

  ‘How would you know? You’ve never been here before.’

  ‘Because there never is.’

  Riki blanked him and worked at the lock. Fortunately it wasn’t sophisticated and fell open within a few minutes. He grunted in satisfaction, then looked up at Hemi. ‘You want out?’

  The young Parihaka man shook his head sadly. The rest of the prisoners were staring at him with uncomprehending eyes. ‘You can’t do that,’ one of the women prisoners said. ‘Look at what happened to Turi.’

  ‘Better to keep your head down,’ another added. ‘We don’t know what’s out there.’

  ‘We’ve been through worse than this, boy,’ Hemi said in a dull voice. ‘In time you’ll see: there’s no point in resisting.’

  Riki shook his head. ‘Bugger that,’ he told them. ‘I’m out of here.’

  The doors to the shed were shut and locked by a simple beam on the outside. He only had to push the clip through and lift, then carefully slip out without letting it slide back down. He managed it noiselessly, then looked about him. It was almost dark, the stars beginning to pierce the sky as the light of the sun fled, and the moon glowing like a giant balloon just above the horizon. The air was frigid. From near the willows came the sound of gurgling water. There were still people moving, out of sight, but he could hear their voices. He slipped up to the corner of the barn and peered around the corner.

  Then a metal circle pressed against the back of his head, and Charlie’s voice spoke in his ear. ‘�
��Ullo, laddie. Going somewhere?’

  Arrowtown

  Cassandra tapped her iPad with a smile. ‘Arrowtown,’ she told them. ‘William “Bully” Hayes had a tavern in Arrowtown: The Prince of Wales. That’s where they’ll be.’

  The group was gathered in a siding near the Frankton Junction, just before dusk on Monday. A reading by Evie in Lumsden earlier that day had revealed that their quarry had gone north to Lake Whakatipu, not east to Dunedin as they’d expected. That had sent them roaring back north again.

  The Mazda and Jones’s rental were parked alongside each other. They were all sitting on the bonnet of Cassandra’s car eating burgers they’d bought in Queenstown. Damien and Shui were loading a pair of ancient pistols; Mat was making some practice swings with his taiaha. He wondered who they would be facing. Hayes, for a certainty. But who else? Kiki? Byron Kikitoa? Aroha wants me to kill him — will this be my chance? Or his? He’s bigger than me, and I’ve got a nasty feeling he’s faster and stronger too.