by David Hair
‘We gave up war,’ Pou replied, his eyes downcast. ‘The Prophet told us to become men of peace. The principles of Parihaka were of passive resistance.’ Others murmured in agreement.
Aroha — or Hine-titama — tossed her head, making her hair ripple. ‘Passive resistance is still resistance, people of Parihaka. To not fight then was right, for you could not win. But Matiu Douglas offers you a struggle that can be won, against the enemy who destroyed what your lives stood for. There is a season for peace and a season for war, as day follows night. As Hine-titama becomes Hine-te-po, Life unto Death.’ She pulled a greenstone patu from the folds of her cloak and brandished it. ‘Evil must be resisted, whether passively or not.’ She paused expectantly, glaring at the men.
Hemi rose to his feet painfully and looked at Mat. ‘Huia is free?’ Mat nodded, and Hemi put a hand to his own heart. ‘Then I will stand with you, in gratitude for what you have done.’
Pou stood slowly and stuck out his chin. ‘Bryce has taken away my pride. I wish it back.’
‘If you wish it, it is done,’ Aroha told him. The man’s back straightened.
One by one the other men rose, and the women too. Mat stared about him, a lump in his throat. Then Aroha turned to him and pressed her nose to his. ‘Byron Kikitoa is here,’ she breathed. ‘You know what to do.’ He nodded, frightened of her face, which was like something carved in kauri and pounamu. Then suddenly Aroha was gone, and a confused and frightened Kiri stood before him. Mat touched the woman’s arm, and she backed away.
‘The goddess touched me,’ she breathed, and fell to her knees. The other women gathered about her, their faces awestruck.
Another patrol went past, then Damien poked his head inside. He saw the men all standing free, and gave Mat a questioning look. ‘Is this lot coming or what?’
Mat looked at Hemi, who nodded firmly. ‘They’re coming,’ Mat said gratefully.
Damien led the way, back into the shadows of Ah Lum’s hut. Goldston’s men and the Parihaka Maori looked at each other warily, and Mat made rapid introductions.
Cassandra plucked at his sleeve anxiously. ‘Where’s Riki? Why isn’t he with you?’
‘He’d already escaped, about half an hour ago,’ Mat said, trying to keep his voice optimistic.
‘Where is he?’ Cass said. She looked at Evie. ‘Can you find him?’
‘Maybe,’ Evie replied, looking at Mat. ‘But if I use my cards here, won’t that Kiki realize?’
Mat nodded shortly. ‘Jones thought he might. We’ll ask him when he gets back.’ He looked about him, wishing Jones and his contingent would appear.
‘We’ve got to try and find him. Maybe we don’t need to attack after all.’ Cassandra looked to Evie for support. ‘We can just find him, then leave.’
Mat shook his head. ‘We’ve still got to attack. There’s the Wooden Head. And we owe it to the people of Parihaka.’
Cassandra looked away. ‘Surely there’s some way we can find Riki if he’s got away? He can’t be far.’ She looked about to shout Riki’s name aloud.
Mat managed to persuade her to wait until Jones returned, which he did within minutes. Ah Lum and the Chinese were carrying bundles of muskets and a sack of powder flasks and musket balls. The moonlight made Jones’s face seemed carved from granite. ‘Done,’ he said shortly. ‘Someone is going to spot us soon. We’ve got to act now.’ He dropped his voice, speaking only to Mat, Cass and Evie. ‘I saw Riki Waitoa.’
Cassandra gave a small cry. ‘Where?’
‘In the back of Hayes’s tavern. There was a light on inside. He’s being interrogated by Bryce and Kiki.’
Interrogation
Charlie the Scotsman looked pleased with himself as he marched Riki down the narrow muddy street, towards the sound of piano music and sailors’ songs. Riki desperately wanted to run, but the muzzle of the pistol at his back ate at his courage. He’d seen what bullets could do, and he didn’t want that to happen to him, even though being taken before Bryce might be worse.
‘I knew I hadna seen ya before, laddie,’ Charlie crowed. ‘Yer too clean, and ye’ve not got that blank look. Who are ye?’
When Riki didn’t answer, Charlie shoved him towards the tavern. Beside the back door a window shone lamplight over a tiny refuse-filled yard. ‘Open the door, boy.’
Riki glanced back, seeking a chance to bolt, but the man was too wary, too competent. Riki had no choice. He screwed up his courage and opened the door. The room fell silent as he stepped inside and found himself face to face with the four people he least wanted to see: John Bryce, Bully Hayes, Kiki and Byron Kikitoa.
A bottle of Wilson’s Scotch from Dunedin was on the table, and two crystal tumblers half filled with amber liquid. One was in front of Bryce, the other before Hayes. Both Pakeha were stout and bearded, with balding heads and piercing eyes. Hayes was red-faced and sweaty, Bryce cold and intense.
Neither of the two tohunga makutu was drinking. Riki had seen Byron’s face in the newspapers — the story of the rising league star and his apparent disappearance still sold papers. He was clad in the traditional Maori flax kilt, the piupiu, and a feather cloak. His tattoos were fearsome, covering almost his entire torso. Riki could bet they’d been done the traditional way too — literally carved into the flesh. They gave Byron a fanatic aspect, like some ultra-radical Maori dissident.
Then his eyes were caught by Kiki, and rational thought became difficult. Up close, the tohunga makutu was short and obese, with folds of skin about his stubby neck and yellowish eyes like a predatory bird. They latched on to him, narrowing with interest.
‘Charlie, what’s this? I gave orders not to be disturbed,’ Hayes slurred angrily.
Charlie didn’t flinch. ‘Sir, this is one of the prisoners we nabbed up at Parihaka. But he ain’t one of them, sir. I’ve never seen him before.’
Bryce raised a curious eyebrow, then studied Riki. ‘Is that so? Who are you, boy?’
Riki met Bryce’s pitiless stare. No clever stories sprang to mind. He let the moment stretch out, afraid he didn’t have a lot of time left. Charlie cuffed his ear, making his head reel in burning pain. ‘You answer the master, laddie.’
‘Hey,’ he gasped, the pain loosening his throat.
‘So he does have a tongue,’ Bryce observed. He turned to Kiki. ‘Do you recognize this youth, my friend?’
Kiki shook his head. ‘I do not.’
Bryce frowned. ‘Speak, boy. We won’t hurt you if you tell us the truth.’ But his eyes said something else.
Riki swallowed. Here goes. ‘I was on a school trip, at Parihaka, and I went out to meet this girl,’ he said quickly. He was trying to babble, to sound scared. It wasn’t difficult at all. ‘I must’ve got lost … suddenly I was in this weird place, and then these men whacked me.’
Hayes looked at Bryce. ‘He just wandered into Aotearoa?’ he said incredulously.
‘It isn’t unknown,’ Kiki commented thoughtfully.
‘Then why did you hide among the prisoners?’ Bryce asked Riki in a flat, suspicious voice. ‘Why would you not be clamouring to be released?’
Riki hung his head. He wasn’t sure he could meet the eye of anyone in this room and lie. ‘The other prisoners frightened me. They told me I’d be killed if I was discovered.’ It was the most plausible story he could think of, as well as being more or less true. If they find out I know Mat, then I’m in the shit and so is he.
‘Where do you think you are, poai?’ Kiki asked with mild menace.
‘Arrowtown. I mean, someone told me that’s what this place is called. I’ve never been here before.’
‘And your name is?’
‘Billy. Billy Simcox.’ Sorry, Billy.
Kiki’s eyes flickered, and he looked at Bryce. ‘With your permission?’
Riki felt his mouth go dry as Bryce gave a short nod. Kiki turned back to him, and then made an abrupt gesture with his right hand. Without warning, an invisible force slammed into his belly, and he doubled over and coll
apsed, vomit filling his throat as he gasped for air. ‘Unghhh.’
‘How dare you lie to us, poai?’ Kiki snarled, bending over him. Then Byron’s boot connected with the small of Riki’s back. It felt like he’d been shot. A spasm locked his spine as he rolled, mewling, on the floor. Kiki bent over him, a malicious smile on his face. ‘We might have believed you; your story is almost plausible. But I know when a man gives a false name, and you have no reason to lie if your story is true. Tell me again, what is your name?’
Riki tried to speak. ‘Ghh … ghhh …’
‘Hmm?’
‘Ghh … go bite yourself …’
Kiki laughed and nodded at Byron. He kicked Riki again. Charlie joined in, their boots battering him as he fought for breath amidst the sharp knives of agony. Abruptly they stopped, at a sign from Kiki. The tohunga makutu made a grasping, pulling gesture, and Riki found himself hauled to his feet by the same invisible force that had struck him. He was locked there, hanging in the air, his shirt bunched at the front, suspending him like a puppet. ‘Now, poai, let’s try again.’ His eyes swam into Riki’s watery gaze, and Riki couldn’t look away. Closer and closer they came, two dead suns burning through his mind. ‘What is your name?’
He tried to resist, wanting desperately to be brave, like those action heroes in the movies who couldn’t be broken. But something dark clamped itself to his will and wrapped about it, like a python biting then asphyxiating him. It seemed he had no control over himself. Words babbled from his mouth despite all he did, as his control ebbed away. Then he sagged to the floor and lay there panting, his clothing soaked in sweat and sticking to him.
‘So, Riki Waitoa, friend of Matiu Douglas,’ Kiki gloated. ‘We understand each other better now.’
Riki closed his eyes. He had no idea what he’d said, and wasn’t sure if it mattered. He didn’t know if anyone was looking for him. He knew no plans. He’d been caught up by mistake in something he knew nothing about. Which also meant these people had little reason to value his life. ‘It’s all been a mistake. Please, I know nothing.’ He hated the pleading in his voice.
‘Has he any value as a hostage?’ Bryce asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Kiki ruminated thoughtfully. ‘He’s of no intrinsic value, but a sentimental attachment may be useful to us.’
‘Might Douglas be persuaded to turn aside from the woman, in return for this one’s life?’ Byron Kikitoa suggested, his voice low and musical.
What woman? Evie?
‘Douglas will not give up the chance of immortality for this creature,’ Kiki countered disdainfully.
Immortality? Mat? What the hell?
‘Then let’s kill him,’ Hayes suggested in a bored voice. ‘Perhaps the emotional impact of losing a friend will weaken Douglas.’
Charlie drew his pistol again. ‘I’ll happily do it now, sir.’
Oh shit! Riki felt his whole body go rigid.
‘Wait,’ Kiki interrupted. ‘The Wooden Head is hungry. It craves more souls to restore itself to its full powers. Give him to me, and I will dispose of him more profitably.’
Charlie scowled, then hid the expression quickly. ‘Och aye. Dead is dead.’
The image of Turi’s soul being sucked into the mouth of the Wooden Head filled Riki’s mind. No! I don’t want to go like that! He looked about him wildly, wondering if by attacking he could force them to shoot him. Surely that would be better than being eaten by that awful carving.
What he was feeling must have shown on his face, for Kiki’s toad-like features wrinkled into a smile of malicious pleasure. The ancient tohunga reached down and patted his head as if he were a pet about to be put down. ‘No, poai. You’re ours now. We will choose how you die.’ Something flared from his hand into Riki’s skull, and everything went numb.
Fighting back
While the guns and weapons stolen from the gaol were being distributed, Jones drew Mat and his friends aside. ‘The time for stealth is almost done. The alarm will be raised in minutes, probably before we can get back to the tavern. I’ve left most of Ah Lum’s people near the gaol. The Wooden Head is near there. I’ll rejoin them and secure the carving. Mat, you take this near side, and head for the back of the third row of houses — Hayes’s tavern is there. Break in once you hear the sound of fighting from my zone. We’ll trap them in the middle, and hopefully reclaim both Riki and the Wooden Head.’
‘I’ll go with Mat,’ Damien said quickly, his arm on Shui’s shoulder. About them the local Europeans and remaining Chinese, as well as the released prisoners, prepared for a fight. Steam rose from their mouths as they breathed heavily, the realization of what they were doing hitting them all. Sweat had broken out on every face, and not all had steady hands.
Ah Lum tapped Jones’s shoulder. ‘There is a problem,’ the Chinaman said gravely. ‘The Maori men you have brought — they will not fight.’
‘What?’ Jones looked around, his nostrils flaring as he focused on Hemi. ‘What’s going on?’
Hemi looked at him gravely. ‘We will help you. But we will not fight.’
‘Then you’re no damned use!’ Jones exploded. ‘Pick up a weapon, all of you!’
Hemi and the other Parihaka men were steadfast in their refusal. ‘We will aid you. But we have vowed before our prophets not to take up arms. We will not renege on that promise.’
‘We’re out of time,’ Ah Lum put in. ‘We must fight or run.’
‘Then we must fight.’ Jones looked at the Parihaka folk, cursed and spat. ‘Or not. We’re doing this for you,’ he snarled at Hemi.
‘We honour that,’ Hemi replied.
Jones stared at him, glowering, then looked away. ‘Then you better hope we can win without you.’
Mat glanced at Evie. ‘What about the girls?’
‘I’m coming,’ Evie said, shrugging on Riki’s feather cloak and brandishing her tarot.
‘Me too,’ Cassandra said darkly, clutching a pistol Shui had given her.
There was no time to argue. Jones gestured at half a dozen of the Chinese. ‘Follow Mat,’ he told them. Then he waved an arm over the rest of the group, and broke into a run towards the river, to rejoin those already deployed near the gaol. The bulk of the Chinese went with him, and so did the Parihaka men.
Mat watched them go, then turned to Damien. The last time they’d done this sort of thing together, Damien had been killed and forced to become a ghost in Aotearoa. There were no second chances here: if anyone died in Aoteoroa, they died forever. ‘You ready?’ Damien nodded, his eyes lighting up. Damien was like that: a danger-junkie. ‘Then let’s go.’
They jogged away from the river, a mere hundred yards or so that would take them to the third row of houses, where Jones had seen Riki last. Behind them, he saw Evie leap into the air, the feather cloak flaring out around her as she soared upwards. Be safe, Evie. Please don’t die. He looked back for Cassandra, but couldn’t find her. Perhaps she’d decided to stay back after all; he hoped so. She was too precious to risk losing in this sort of thing.
As they broke across the open ground, he fully expected shots to ring out from hidden marksmen. But nothing came. Night in old Arrowtown remained silent, the carved face of the moon glaring down over them, the unmelted snow gleaming white at the edges of the road, the frost sparkling on the slopes of the open spaces. They crunched over a lawn and up a muddy slope, angling towards the third row of buildings. Sounds began to carry, faltering piano music and low calls. Then they hit a spot level with the third street, where the tavern lay. Mat glanced down the street and froze, lifting a hand to signal a halt. There was a cluster of men in the middle of the street, about fifty yards away, lit by lamplight. He recognized several instantly.
Riki was stumbling along in the grip of a big red-bearded man. Flanking him was a man of middling height, also with a thick beard, wearing a felt hat and overcoat: John Bryce. Beside Bryce were two figures in Maori cloaks, one tall and broad — Byron Kikitoa — and surely the short and fat one was Byron’s mento
r, Kiki. Three other men were with them, all armed with muskets.
Then a massive shout arose from the far side of the township and a bell began to ring furiously.
Mat turned to those with him. ‘Ready?’
The men in the street turned at his voice, Bryce and Byron spinning like startled snakes, but Kiki merely glancing backwards with faint curiosity, as if a cat had yowled at him.
Mat stabbed his finger at the cluster of enemies and shouted, ‘Fire!’
Aethlyn Jones had lived a long life and seen a lot of fighting. His powers as an Adept gave him an unfair edge in those skirmishes and scraps — they were the main reason he always won.
But he very seldom went up against men like those arrayed against him in Arrowtown. Survival was also about the fights you avoided. For many years, Puarata had held the upper hand in Aotearoa, and open conflict was not a risk worth taking. One hid, and did what one could. But Puarata’s death had brought the old struggles back to life.
John Bryce had been an enemy for a long time. A competent Adept with a few quirks to his power, he could make people with weak minds drop dead with a word due to his reputation as ‘Bryce kohuru’ — Bryce the murderer. Jones was confident he could take him, though. He knew himself and he knew his enemy.
Kiki was a different matter altogether. He was like Puarata had been, a legendary tohunga makutu. His powers were such that no sane man would go after him. Only the fact that Puarata hated Kiki as a rival had forced Kiki to hide, though rumour had it they were father and son. Kiki had taken no open role in Aotearoa for centuries. But Puarata was gone now and Kiki was back, and just as deadly.
The Chinese and Maori fanned out behind Jones as they ran around the front of the first row of buildings and then up a slope, aiming for the gaol house. Beyond the gaol lay a mass of miners’ tents, several hundred yards away beside the Arrow River. Those miners were too far away to matter right now, though Goldston had sent word to them, asking for aid. Whether it came in time was another question.