Ghosts of Parihaka

by David Hair

Bryce’s words hit Mat like a punch to the heart. He felt the pump in his chest falter, felt it quiver and skip, and he staggered. But he didn’t fall.

  The power to kill with a mere command had been something that Bryce had gained when he was reborn into Aotearoa. It was born of the very nickname he’d earned through what he’d done at Parihaka — Bryce kohuru, Bryce the murderer. A name that became a belief. Like a Caribbean voodoo priest, he’d gained power through the beliefs of his victims.

  But Mat wasn’t a believer.

  Unlike all the others Bryce had wielded this power against, Mat was not a native of Aotearoa. He still lived in the modern world, where John Bryce had been just another avaricious politician who’d exerted the government’s power over the native people. Yes, Mat knew that Bryce was an experienced warlock here in Aotearoa, but he did not believe he could simply will Mat dead. Mat believed in himself far more than he did in Bryce. Bryce’s spell disintegrated.

  He straightened, and fire rekindled at his fingertips. ‘Not good enough,’ he snarled, and a ball of flame the size of his head formed at his left hand. He gripped the taiaha of Ngatoro in his right, and strode forward. Bryce lifted his gun, but Mat moved faster. He jabbed out his left hand, aiming carefully to ensure he didn’t hit Riki, who was standing as if paralysed at Bryce’s side, and sent a roiling ball of flame straight at the warlock.

  Evie saw the former Native Minister’s face blanch as Mat shrugged off his spell. The Ace of Clubs fell away into the night; the fire rune kindled in the air about the Jack of Hearts. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out the first tarot card that came, as fire enveloped Bryce. The warlock shouted aloud in rage as his coat caught fire, but he doused the flames with a gesture. Beside him, Byron Kikitoa darted aside, his feather cloak alight, going up like a torch. He threw it off, backing away. For a second Evie thought that all would be well.

  Then Bryce stepped back and placed his gun against Riki’s temple. ‘Stop, Douglas! Stop or your friend dies!’

  In front of her, Evie saw that her Jack of Clubs card was smouldering. Without looking at the tarot in her hand, she slapped it against the Jack. Eat that, you bastard!

  The Thistle Guard advanced, their long muskets held like spears, bayonet-points glittering in the moonlight. Jones saw the way the Parihaka people took a step back, their chant faltering in the face of the enemy. The captain lifted his sword and pointed forward. ‘Show ’em boys. No quarter.’

  Behind the soldiers, Jones saw Kiki’s eyes glowing at the unfolding massacre.

  Twenty yards … fifteen … ten …

  Jones steeled himself, then reached up and touched the Wooden Head. It was hot, as if it were on fire. His awareness widened instantly, though his sight became oily. It was as if he’d thrust his head into a polluted pool, and suddenly the eyes of the carving were his own eyes. Through them he saw the soldiers reach Hemi’s people, their serried ranks of bayonets coming up and then stabbing forward.

  Beyond the soldiers walked Kiki, barely fifteen yards away now, on the other side of the press. His face was that of an addict injecting himself as he saw the slaughter begin. Jones grasped the power of the Wooden Head, though he knew there would be a cost. He hesitated, hoping against hope that the people of Parihaka might endure.

  Passive resistance — the men and women of Parihaka reached out to their killers. Some caught the weapons in their hands, wrestling for them, holding back the inevitable, struggling to survive only. But the true believers simply opened their breasts to the blades that sank home with a wet hiss, while prayers fell from their lips. For a few moments, it appeared that such passive resistance might prevail. The wounds simply closed over. Men with fatal injuries continued to pray, and to hold the advancing guardsmen at bay, even as the icy steel sank again into their bodies. The power of belief had made Aotearoa, and it sustained them here.

  Then the faith of the first one died. He looked down at his pierced chest, and his chant failed. He went down slowly. Others followed, as doubt overwhelmed them.

  ‘Kill ’em,’ the Thistle Guard captain shouted excitedly. ‘Kill ’em all!’

  No! I cannot permit this.

  Jones threw his consciousness into the fetid reservoir of power within the carving. It embraced him like a mother. Darkness and venom filled his throat. He did not need to articulate his will. He needed only to cry out, against the hideous butchery being played out before him. The Wooden Head of Puarata did the rest.

  An unearthly shriek filled the air, shredded the night, blazed like ice and fire. The pool of darkness in which he swam spread rippled waves, filling the field. It tore at his mind, lanced through him as he poured all he had into that cry.

  It ripped through the Thistle Guard soldiers. They were ghosts of men who’d been won to Bryce’s cause during his long sojourn in the south. None was immune to the awful power of the carving. Its call tore open their minds, wrenched souls from bodies and sucked them into itself. They fell as one, no twitching, no rolling about. They were dead before they hit the ground.

  The men and women of Parihaka stared as every man they faced fell. Weapons dropped, many of the bayonets wrenched from the flesh of victims who were still trying to work out if they were dead or not. They cried aloud in wonder. Belief was reasserted. Wounds were healed before their eyes.

  Jones wrenched himself from the putrid pool of the carving’s power before he drowned in it. His awareness plummeted downward from the godlike vantage of the Wooden Head, down to the foot of the pole. His knees gave way. His hands were shaking, his legs like jelly, and he felt as if he were coated in an oil of corruption that could never be washed away.

  He looked up as a squat shape flickered into being above him, blocking out the moon. ‘Aethlyn Jones,’ Kiki purred. ‘Finally you have sampled what it is that I enjoy all the days of my life.’ He licked his lips. ‘The taste of pure makutu.’

  Jones tried to stand. His stomach heaved and black water gushed from his mouth.

  ‘I see that it is not to your liking, Aethlyn,’ Kiki said. ‘But you have partaken nevertheless.’

  I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to stand …

  He looked about wildly, seeking help. But though he could dimly make out Hemi and his people, it was through some kind of fog. He knew that mist: Kiki or maybe the Head itself had pulled him into the place between the Ghost World and the real world.

  ‘If you live by the sword, Aethlyn, you must be prepared to die by the sword.’ Kiki reached up and touched the carving. His eyes rolled back in his head, but they remained horribly focused on him. ‘Aethlyn Jones,’ whispered Kiki, to the Wooden Head.

  The Wooden Head began to sing a symphony of death only Jones could hear.

  His mind was in shock, but Damien’s sword arm moved on pure reflex. It swept across and batted Hayes’s thrust aside. He felt numb inside, barely knew what he was doing. Instinctive self-preservation did the fighting for him. Parry, parry, give ground and move again. Driven back, moving like a drunk, while the girl he loved pumped out her life on the floor of a filthy tavern.

  He tripped over the body of one of Hayes’s dead friends, staggered backwards and hit the bar with the back of his head. His sword flew from his hands.

  Hayes loomed over him, cursing good-naturedly. ‘Well, boy, that was a bit of fun. Can’t call a night in the pub complete without a fight, can we?’ He positioned the cutlass over Damien’s heart, his muscles bunched for the fatal thrust.

  Then a shot blasted Damien’s ears, and Hayes staggered sideways and collapsed beside him, the light already going out in his eyes, a bloody hole in the side of his head.

  He looked up in confusion and saw Shui, kneeling and swaying, smoking pistol in her hand. Blood bubbled from her throat as she tried to speak. Then she sagged back to the floor.

  Mat had barely registered what Bryce was doing. Riki was just standing there, his face vacant, as Bryce pulled him in front as a shield, gun at his head. To the side, Byron Kikitoa was gliding sideways, like a se
rpent readying its fangs.

  Bryce’s coat was smoking, his hat lost and his eyes wary.

  Yes, I could kill you, Bryce. And you know it. But Riki just stood there helpless, and Mat knew that his hands were utterly tied.

  Then something happened. For a split second Mat could have sworn he saw ten swords appear about Bryce, all pointed inward like some medieval torture device. They all stabbed in at once. The man’s back arched in agony, his mouth wide and his eyes bulging. The swords didn’t cut him — they seemed composed of something other than steel — but the pain they inflicted was clearly real.

  Bryce fell in slow motion, his pistol flying unfired through the air. It spun end over end — into Byron Kikitoa’s right hand. The young makutu simply flowed to the right place, caught it, thumbed the hammer and fired without aiming.

  Mat had no time to form a stasis shield, but the shot was aimed nowhere near him. It blazed high into the darkness.

  A girl shrieked, and his heart almost stopped. ‘Evie!’

  He heard a choked cry, and Evie’s body slid down the roof and fell. She hit the ground somewhere in the lee of the building with a dull thud.

  Before he could move, Byron Kikitoa was on him, taiaha flashing viciously. Blow after blow, raining in as Mat staggered, flailing desperately. The blade of the club struck his ankle and pain ran up his body, numbing his leg. He went down, rolling away from the stabbing tongue of the taiaha as it gouged the earth where his throat had been a millisecond before. Some kind of feeling returned to his leg, enough that he could lurch to his feet. Byron prowled towards him.

  ‘Bigger, stronger and faster, Douglas. You’ve got nothing to hurt me with.’

  Mat made no reply. All he could think of was Evie, lying a few yards away. His eyes went to find Riki, but he was gone. So too was Bryce — they’d both disappeared some time during his desperate struggle to survive against Byron.

  ‘Ready to die?’ Byron purred, readying a blow.

  Evie never even saw the moment coming. As the Ten of Swords bit into Bryce, all she’d felt was exultation. Then came the muzzle flash, and something punched her in the belly. She folded over, lost her balance and fell. The sloped tiles were slick with frost; she went straight over the edge. The ground was lost in shadow, and she was still facing upwards. The earth hammered into her back; she choked in agony, and blacked out.

  She must have come to within seconds, though, because her next moment of awareness felt just the same. Her stomach was a numbing pool of slick wetness. There was someone kneeling over her, prying at her hands. She tried to fight them off.

  ‘Lie still, damn it,’ Cassandra hissed. ‘I’m trying to help you!’

  Oh, it’s you, Evie thought dimly. She stopped fighting. Deft hands tugged and prodded at her, and then she found herself clasping a wedge of cloth against her belly. She gritted her teeth, tried to endure. With a tiny squeeze, Cassandra stood and muttered something. Then she was gone, and Evie was alone facing the darkness that was rushing back in on her.

  Dimly she heard a shrieking sound, and caught a glimpse of a carved Maori wooden face, which blurred into the heavily tattooed face of a silver-haired man: Puarata, come to take her home. Two stars were visible in the skies above. They glittered like her father’s eyes.

  Mat tried to stand, wobbling on an ankle that was swelling by the second. Circling like a panther, Byron Kikitoa closed in. He had a careful, methodical style, one that left nothing to chance. He was not the sort that rushed into a killing blow and left himself exposed to a surprise counter-strike. As Mat tried to raise his hand to use fire, Byron’s taiaha blade flashed and cracked against his fingers. He cried out as at least one finger snapped. After that the pain was too much to work magic, or even think straight.

  ‘So, I guess Aroha will only have me to comfort her when her time comes,’ Byron smirked maliciously. He lifted his right hand and made a pulling gesture. Mat’s taiaha flew from his grasp, into Byron’s. The makutu apprentice smiled triumphantly. He made another gesture, and Mat felt his limbs lock up. Paralysed, he toppled onto his face. The ground hit him hard, and he could only lie there, helpless. He looked up at his enemy, who lifted his own taiaha against him.

  ‘Get away from him!’

  Byron blinked. He turned and stared. Mat did too, as he recognized the speaker: Cassandra. She was standing about ten feet away, the end of a rope in one hand. There was a gun in her other hand.

  ‘Who are you, you skinny freak?’ Byron drawled. Mat tried to struggle, but couldn’t. With his eyes he pleaded for the girl to run, but she did no such thing. Byron stepped towards her, raising the taiaha. In doing so, he stepped into a puddle that lay between them. ‘Drop the gun and I’ll let you live.’

  Cassandra stepped back and meekly dropped the rope.

  Into the puddle.

  A loud crack thunderclapped about them, as the water at Byron’s feet exploded, throwing the young tohunga makutu into the air in a vivid flash of blue light. He spiralled head over heels and hammered into the veranda post of Hayes’s tavern. The whole building shook. Mat gaped as the binding about his limbs fell apart, and suddenly he could move again. Not that this was such a good thing. His ankle screamed and his fingers throbbed. But he moved anyway. ‘Cass!’

  Cassandra lifted her gun again, skipped around the crackling waters of the puddle, in which the rope — no, electrical cord — still danced, sending sparks in all directions. ‘Who’da thought,’ she crowed. ‘This place’s got electricity.’ She took aim. ‘Right, you arsehole …’

  Mat saw the look on Byron’s face. Not cocky any more. Frightened. Then his whole form became transparent.

  Cassandra fired. The gun coughed and the bullet ploughed into the mud where Byron’s head had been an instant before. But he was gone.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ she shouted in pure frustration. ‘That’s not fair!’ She glared at Mat. ‘What’d he do?’

  ‘He went back to our world,’ Mat panted, his ankle and fingers sending shock waves of pain through him.

  ‘Then let’s follow him! Let’s get him!’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m all in. And Evie’s hurt …’

  Cassandra’s face fell. ‘I know, I’ve seen her.’ She looked about her. ‘Riki?’

  Mat grimaced. ‘Bryce took him. He got away too.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘Where’s Evie? She’s not … dead?’

  ‘No, no, but she’s badly hurt. Come on!’ She grabbed his arm, slung it over her shoulders.

  Mat clung to her, letting her pull him along. ‘Take me to her.’ His body was beginning to shut down the pain, numbing him against the assault on his senses. His faculties returned, including his ability to heal himself. He straightened his broken fingers and set the bones to re-bonding. Then he limped on with Cass, looking for Evie.

  They found her just as the surviving Chinese entered the streets. It seems that we’ve won, but at what cost? Mat thought. They gently picked the girl up, and took her into the biggest building they could find: Hayes’s tavern. It was a mess, with fallen men and bloody pools amidst the broken chairs and shattered glass. Damien sat in a corner, cradling Shui in his lap. The Chinese girl was pale, but she was alive. A doctor was with them, a young man with an uncertain face. He’d put a metal straw in Shui’s throat; she was breathing in hissing bubbles through the tube. Damien looked like he was in shock.

  The doctor looked at Evie, and went to work once more.

  Ah Lum arrived. ‘What happened?’ Mat demanded, dragging his eyes from Evie’s grey and bloody face. ‘Where’s Jones?’

  The shopkeeper hung his head. ‘When the bad men all dropped dead, we look for him.’

  ‘Dropped dead?’ Mat asked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The bad thing, the carving — it spoke, and enemy all gone.’

  Mat blinked. The Wooden Head killed our enemies?

  The Chinaman lowered his eyes. ‘When I went to find Master Jones, he was on the green, at the foot of the pole. Parihaka people were all around h
im, most still alive. But Master Jones was dead.’

  No!

  The bottom dropped out of Mat’s world. Everything seemed to ripple, to blur out of focus. Acid welled up in his eyes and venom in his throat. This was impossible. Jones was indestructible. He’d known the man for barely two years, but they’d been intense times. Training, mastering disciplines of magic and warfare. Preparing himself to be a player on the deadly stage of Aotearoa power-politics. Learning by rote and practice, but also by example. Jones had been an iron-willed, stiff-backed fighter who never flinched from the perils of doing what was right and necessary. He’d fought evil bastards like Kiki and Puarata all his life. He embodied all that Mat wanted to be. How could he be gone?

  Ah Lum laid a consoling hand on Mat’s shoulder. ‘My people grieve for you.’

  ‘As do mine,’ said Hemi, entering the room. ‘The soldiers were about to slay us all when Master Jones caused the Wooden Head to cry out. He saved us.’

  ‘What about Kiki?’ Mat asked bleakly.

  Hemi knew who he meant. ‘The tohunga makutu appeared beside the Wooden Head. But we could not reach him in time. He vanished, and the Wooden Head also.’

  ‘It’s gone?’

  Hemi nodded, his face a study in pain. ‘It is gone.’

  Jones dead. Bryce, Kiki and Byron all escaped, and the Wooden Head with them. Riki still a prisoner. This is awful. He looked at Evie, lying pale-faced and unconscious on the table, her head propped up by a rolled coat, a blanket over her. Her single eye was closed and her chest barely moved. Evie’s dying. I can feel her life slipping away. He grabbed the doctor’s arm. ‘Sir, can you …?’

  The doctor met his eyes. ‘I’ve done all I can,’ he muttered apologetically. Then the man backed away, as other wounded men took his attention, men he could save. Mat watched him go numbly.

  I can heal myself … can I heal her?

  ‘I need to be alone,’ he said softly, focusing on Hemi. ‘ To concentrate. Healing is really hard.’ His own voice sounded small to him. Defeated. Healing wasn’t his strong point. But he had to try.