by David Hair
His eyes, as always, trailed towards Everalda. She was clearly tense. In February she’d been in a fight that had resulted in many deaths. She kept glancing back at Damien. Her thoughts weren’t hard to guess: Damien had died that day; the guy with us is a ghost. And he’s only with us because he died in the real world, but this fight will be in Aotearoa — and anyone who dies there, dies for good.
Damien sensed their stares and glanced up. ‘Hey, be cool guys. They don’t know we’re coming. We’re gonna kick butt.’
Jones was sharpening his heavy basket-hilt rapier. ‘We should scout the place, learn what we’re facing. We might not attack tonight,’ he reminded them.
They finished the takeaways, then took the road back to Arrowtown. Having to double back was irritating, but the drive was short. Still, it was already dark by the time they pulled into the village. Arrowtown in the modern age was tiny, built around several rows of well-preserved old houses, and new ones built to look old, on the banks of a small river. There could be no more than a few hundred homes and almost no-one on the streets. Wood smoke from chimneys filled the air, and thick mist spread tendrils about the slopes, giving the town a dreamy, not-quite-real feel.
Jones’s rental led them down to a riverside car park, where they parked both cars, well away from the buildings and any prying eyes. Jones lifted an oil lantern from the back of the vehicle, and a cricket bag containing their weapons. Modern guns tended to misfire in Aotearoa, but old ones worked fine — one of the quirks of the Ghost World. They were making their way towards the river when Cassandra veered to the left to read the tourist information board, which contained a painted map of the old part of Arrowtown. ‘Hey, it says there were Chinese goldminers here too.’
Damien lifted his eyebrows and said something quietly to Shui. The little Chinese girl perked up noticeably, replying in a stream of words too quick for even Damien to follow. They got her meaning though: she beckoned them eagerly, tugging at Jones’s sleeve. ‘She wants us to cross over and talk to her people,’ Damien clarified.
Jones looked thoughtful, then nodded. ‘Good idea. They’ll know what’s going on, but they won’t tell anyone we’re here. They aren’t treated well, as I recall.’
So they went to the left, leaving the township behind as they threaded along a narrow track, past a wooden hut and some old stone buildings, until they lost all light but the moon. Jones’s lantern lit the way, a pale glow in the misty air. They reached a point one hundred yards or so along the riverbank, deep in the willows. They passed a couple more dwellings — tiny mud huts slowly being swallowed up by the bush. They seemed too small for humans to live in. Mat wondered what the miners’ lives had been like. I guess we’re going to find out soon enough.
They gathered about Jones, and he took them over to Aotearoa. As the darkness deepened, the river vanished then reappeared, a little louder and fuller perhaps. The snow was heavier here and wood smoke choked the air. There were other lanterns, hung all about them in the trees. Then they were seen, and all talk died. A young Chinese man with wispy facial hair was staring at them open-mouthed, then he shouted something, backing away. Within seconds half a dozen men were all about them, holding knives and clubs, and one or two guns. Their faces glinted in the lantern light. They looked unkempt and hostile.
For a few seconds violence threatened, until Shui stepped forward. A rapid-fire exchange took place, and some of the tension eased, just a little. The weapons were gripped a little less tightly as the conversation progressed in quick bursts. The chief spokesman on the Chinese side was a small man with a potbelly, spindly limbs and a long beard, who seemed to understand their English perfectly well, but refrained as yet from speaking it.
‘Ask about Hayes and the prisoners,’ Jones told Shui.
Shui’s next question brought a huge burst of words from all sides, and it took a long time for her to get a coherent response. When she did, it was harder still for her to report, and she had to check words with Damien often. Gradually a frightening tale emerged: John Bryce was here, meeting with Captain Hayes. There were two tohunga makutu with them, one old and one young. Worst, they had some evil carving that killed people. Several of the Chinese miners who’d been in town when the prisoners arrived had seen everything.
‘Puarata’s Wooden Head,’ Jones breathed. ‘They’ve found it.’ He looked profoundly shocked.
‘My people are afraid that Bryce and Hayes will use this weapon against them,’ Shui reported. ‘Some among the white people resent us. They impose special taxes and give them bad prices for the gold they find. Now they are afraid they will be attacked and killed for good.’
Mat asked Shui: ‘Have they seen Riki?’
More questions, and a circle of shaking heads that told its own story. ‘Prisoners arrived today. He could be among them,’ Shui reported.
‘Should I do a reading?’ Evie asked.
‘No, not so close to Kiki,’ Jones replied firmly. ‘He would sense it.’
‘My people say Bryce spoke about a treaty and a war.’ Shui glanced about her. ‘My people are thinking that perhaps they should leave here and run.’
‘No! Don’t do that!’
Everyone turned as a tall white man with thick whiskers strode into the clearing, followed by a dozen fellow white men. Mat half expected the Chinese to turn on them, but they didn’t react except to make room. The newcomer offered a handshake to Jones. ‘My name is Samuel Goldston. I was mayor here, until Hayes used his ties to Bryce to take control. I’m telling you, the vast bulk of folk here want Hayes out.’ He turned to face the Chinese spokesman. ‘Ah Lum, you know me. Your people are part of this community. We will not permit Hayes and his cronies to drive you out.’
The Chinese spokesman weighed these words, then nodded slowly. When he spoke, his English was clear and barely accented. ‘We have been bullied and harassed here, in our lives and even afterwards in this “Aotearoa” where ghosts dwell. Now Hayes has friends with powerful magic. To stay is to die.’
‘We will fight with you,’ Goldston maintained, and those behind him murmured agreement. ‘You are part of our community here.’
Jones shook his head firmly. ‘You say there are a dozen men with Hayes?’
‘And more came with Bryce,’ Ah Lum replied.
‘His personal guard,’ said one of the Chinese men. ‘Thistle men.’
‘Scots from Dunedin whom he’s hired as his personal guard.’ Jones grimaced. ‘Ah Lum, Mister Goldston, this is important: if we attack Hayes, to try and rescue the prisoners and destroy the Wooden Head, will your people help us?’
Ah Lum glanced at Goldston, who was nodding emphatically. ‘I understand. You wish to destroy the carving, yes? We wish this too. Mister Goldston and most of the townsfolk here, they are not bad men. In this after-death we have dwelt together many years, and made peace. Only those who work for Hayes and Bryce are enemies here.’
Jones inclined his head thoughtfully. ‘This is good. It is sad when feuds of life carry over into the ghost worlds. It is one such evil we are here to prevent.’ He bowed to the Chinese spokesman. ‘Your name is remembered in our world.’
Ah Lum smiled. ‘Sometimes I visit. Quietly quietly, just to see what has changed. It is my store you pass on the way here,’ he added proudly. ‘We came here at the invitation of the Otago Provincial Council. Many European had left for other goldfields, and they needed workers. Only fifty of us came, but soon the townspeople are complaining to their politicians. Otago area had more than three thousand Chinese come. They were frightened of being overrun by little yellow men,’ he added contemptuously. ‘Soon they are putting taxes on rice, and then a poll tax. They try to drive us out, so we go. But not far. This place was our lives. I was reborn here.’ He stuck out his chest. ‘We all were.’
Mat looked about him. There were maybe forty Chinese gathered about them, all of them male. They were staring at Shui as if she were a goddess incarnate, something Damien seemed uncomfortably aware of. Mat could see t
hat his friend needn’t be worried. There was more reverence than amorousness in the air. ‘One hundred years since I see a Chinese girl,’ Ah Lum said, beaming. ‘You are very beautiful.’ Shui looked away shyly. Ah Lum looked up at Damien, who was about twice his height. ‘You will take good care of her.’
Damien nodded awkwardly. ‘Sure will.’
Ah Lum smiled and turned back to Goldston and Jones. ‘We will help you. We have some weapons, hidden, ready for this day.’
They moved stealthily through the trees, weapons readied, Jones leading the way. The moon was bright in the sky, making the ice-encrusted trees glisten. The open spaces seemed too bright and the shadows too dark. Noises were too loud; whispers carried for miles. A red deer crept from the shadows on the far side of the river and drank, then darted away as it sensed their presence.
In the tiny town, patrols circled, holding lanterns high, but for the most part the people slept. Arrowtown in Aotearoa was just a few rows of houses, and an array of tents in which the gold-hunters shivered. The streets were strips of mud. Smoke and mist hung thick in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Mat had to swallow a cough. He glanced at Damien beside him, his sword scabbard held in his left hand, the blade still sheathed so that it would not catch the light, his right hand on the hilt, ready to draw. Behind them Goldston’s troop, and those of the Chinese willing and able to help, were strung out in a loose column, about four dozen men with weapons. The initial plan was for Jones and the bulk of the men to steal more weapons from the town gaol, while Mat and a smaller group freed Riki and the other prisoners from the barn.
They split their forces at the edge of town, Jones leading Ah Lum and his men along the banks, towards the gaol. Mat and Damien and Goldston’s men waited in the shadows of Ah Lum’s store, counting the gaps between the patrols. They could see the barn where the prisoners from Parihaka were being kept, only a scant few yards away, but across open ground.
The three girls were with Mat’s group, and Shui was as heavily armed as any of the men. Cassandra was unarmed and edgy to be in a place with such limited technology. Evie had her cards, but they were not battlefield tools. She wasn’t helpless, but this wasn’t her arena. Mat looked at her worriedly, willing her to stay back and stay safe.
A patrol stalked past again, mere yards away, oblivious to their presence. There were two groups circling the township, roughly five minutes apart. They watched them go, and then Mat touched his fist to Damien’s. ‘Let’s go, bro.’
A silent dash across the moon-drenched strip of frost-hardened mud and into the lee of a saddlery, where the shadows were deep. The sound of snoring came from within. Mat glanced inside at the tools and tanning pits, and made out a sleeping man beside a dying fire. In the next house a woman in a shawl embroidered at a small table, her young husband reading beside her. Then they had to crawl beneath the windows of a bakery, still working late at night. This took them to the head of a small alley, beside the barn housing the prisoners. There was a man leaning against the shed, smoking, a long-barrelled gun beside him.
Damien tapped his own chest, as if to say ‘mine’, and before Mat could react he stepped plainly into sight. ‘Who’re you?’ Damien asked the man in a peevish voice.
‘Who’s asking?’ the guard replied in a heavy Scots accent, straightening.
‘Don’t take that tone, I live here,’ Damien replied, brushing past the man, forcing him to turn to face him. Which meant the guard had his back to Mat. ‘Hey, got a light?’
Mat unhooked the heavy stone mere at his belt, took three light steps and cracked the man across the temple. Damien caught him as he fell with a soft grunt, and lowered him to a sitting position against the side of the building. He stamped out the cigarette and picked up the musket. ‘Easy as,’ he grinned.
Mat lifted the bar and slipped into the shed, lighting a small glow of flame in the palm of his left hand for illumination. He was immediately hit by the smell of unwashed bodies, close-packed in the dank building. A sea of faces turned towards him, uncomprehending stares on hopeless faces. He focused on the youngest of them, a hefty youth who seemed less defeated than the rest. ‘Where’s Riki?’
The young Maori blinked in surprise. ‘He is gone.’ He indicated an empty manacle beside him. ‘He picked the lock and left twenty minutes ago.’
Mat cursed silently. ‘Where did he go?’
The Maori man shrugged. ‘We do not know.’
Damien dragged the guard inside and pulled the door closed. The prisoners stared at the fallen man, and one or two of them clenched fists, their eyes suddenly alive with murder. A low murmur passed among them.
‘Why didn’t Riki free you too?’ Mat asked the young Maori.
‘He offered. We did not accept.’
Mat and Damien stared at them, then each other. ‘Mate,’ Damien whispered, ‘we’ve got maybe a minute at best. I’m going to give Shui a wave, then make like I’m the guard. Good luck with this lot.’ He darted outside and barred the door again.
Mat looked about him. The prisoners were staring at the unconscious guard. He focused on the young man who’d spoken to him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hemi.’ His voice was flat, his expression downcast.
‘And you’re from Parihaka?’
‘Yes.’
Mat thought of all they’d surmised about these people: people who literally could not die, locked into a cycle of rebirth only to be enslaved repeatedly by Bryce and his people; people for whom hope, it seemed, was a forgotten emotion. He wondered how he could reach them. Jones intended to arm these men to help fight Bryce and the rest. That seemed a forlorn hope right now.
As they looked at each other in silence, they heard the sound of a patrol approaching. He listened intently for any sign of the alarm being raised, but Damien answered their greetings with a non-committal grunt, and they passed on. Mat watched it register on these men that their captors were not infallible, not untouchable. It seemed to be a thought they’d not had for a long time.
‘Hemi,’ he said. ‘If John Bryce were to die, your torment would be over.’ He didn’t know this for sure, but it sounded logical. ‘And he’s here in Arrowtown.’
‘Bryce kohuru has soldiers. Kiki the tohunga has the Wooden Head.’ Hemi wouldn’t meet his gaze.
‘And I have the taiaha of Ngatoro-i-rangi, and the fires of Mahuika.’
Every eye kindled at these names. ‘Who are you, poai?’ asked an older woman.
Mat had never boasted of anything in his life, but this was not a time to hide behind modesty. These people needed to believe in someone, if they were to seize this chance for freedom. He puffed out his chest and stood up straight. ‘My name is Matiu Douglas of the Ngati Kahungunu. I am apprenticed to Ngatoro. I walk two worlds, and wield the powers of the tohunga ruanuku. I freed the taniwha of Waikaremoana and brought about the death of Puarata.’
Utter silence greeted his words. He exerted a small amount of his mystic strength, speaking an unlocking charm that caused the manacles of the prisoners to fall open. He saw their eyes go from his face to the unearthly flames dancing at his fingertips. One or two pulled their ankles from the open manacles. ‘Why are you here?’ Hemi asked for all of them.
‘I came looking for my friend Riki Waitoa. But I also came to find John Bryce and put an end to what he is doing at Parihaka. To what he is doing to you. I am not alone, but I need your help.’ He addressed himself to Hemi. ‘What would you give for one chance to be free?’
He could see Hemi wavering. His eyes ran from the prostrate guard, to the released shackles, to Mat’s face. ‘All our long years we have died only to be reborn and re-enslaved. Why should this time be different?’
They’ve forgotten how to resist. No, not even that — they swore passive resistance; they gave up armed struggle. I’m not only demanding that they find their anger and courage, but I’m also asking them to break their oaths …
The task seemed hopeless, but he bit his lip and went on. ‘I’m not say
ing it will be different. All I’m offering you is a chance. What have you got to lose, in the end?’
The prisoners looked at each other. ‘What about what happened to Turi?’ someone said fearfully. ‘What about the Wooden Head?’
‘It has been conquered before. Hakawau did so, and so Puarata lost it in the first place. And think about that tale: when Puarata wielded it, it could sense enemies approaching and destroy them. Yet Kiki has managed no such feat, or we would already be dead.’
A few heads began to nod, but others remained doubtful. Hemi flexed his fingers, but he didn’t stand. Mat felt a flash of impatience. I don’t know what they’ve been through, he reminded himself. How can I judge them?
Another voice spoke. One of the female prisoners, a stout and matronly kuia, kicked free of her manacles and stalked forward. She began to berate her menfolk. ‘Look at you! Look at you, you craven dogs! You weak-kneed excuses for men! You were warriors! Now you’ve become cowards!’
‘Be silent, Kiri!’ an older man grumbled, his face downcast.
‘How can I be silent, in the face of this shame?’ Kiri emerged into the light, everyone’s eyes on her. She looked slightly dazed to be speaking before the group. Then suddenly everyone gasped, as her appearance completely changed. In the blink of an eye, she transformed from a short, plump woman to a tall, regal presence, wrapped in a cloak with her topknot adorned with feathers, her head high and proud.
She had become Aroha.
Mat caught his breath. Aroha seemed subtly different, her eyes and aura carrying a faint rose-gold glow. The goddess was upon her, not Hine-te-po — but Hine-titama, the Dawn Maiden. The Giver of Hope. He felt his throat go dry. The men of Parihaka stared as they, too, realized that they were in the presence of something beyond them.
Aroha met Mat’s eyes with an unreadable expression, then turned and looked at Hemi. ‘You: Hemi! You swore to free the girl Huia. Too late, for Matiu Douglas and his people have done so. You owe him for that!’ Hemi’s face went from Mat to Aroha and his eyes went round. Aroha glared at another man. ‘And you, Pou: you were a chief’s son! You mastered the taiaha and patu for what reason? To grovel before others?’