Ghosts of Parihaka

by David Hair

  ‘Hey, nice moves, Mat,’ Riki said, next time his mouth was free. Cass gave him a thumbs-up, then smothered Riki again.

  Mat just looked at them, trying not to let his knees give way. ‘That,’ he panted, ‘was way too close.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Riki glanced to the left, as the last of Bryce’s men fought a rearguard action at the head of George Street. Beyond the roar of the crowd, car engines were suddenly revving violently. Tyres screeched and the motors roared away, while those left behind were overpowered. Cheers throbbed through the Octagon, but Mat could only feel despair.

  ‘Bastard got away again,’ he moaned. He shivered involuntarily, his body temperature oscillating wildly, leaving him simultaneously sweating and shivering. He’d never made two shifts so close together. And I don’t think I’ll be doing it again in a hurry. But he’s getting away.

  He looked up as a bulky figure climbed the steps and put a hand on his shoulder. It was William Cargill. ‘Master Douglas, are you alright?’

  ‘How is he, Captain?’ someone shouted from below.

  ‘Captain?’ Mat asked weakly.

  ‘Oh, I fought in the wars, a way back,’ Cargill replied. ‘Breathe deeply, lad.’

  ‘Which wars?’ Mat panted, his mind wandering. He swayed, and would have fallen if Cargill hadn’t caught him.

  ‘Napoleonic.’ Cargill held him up until a doctor scurried up the steps. ‘Now, lad, let’s just be sure of ye.’

  Mat gratefully let them lower him onto the tiled steps. Riki and Cass came and sat with him, both hugging him in relief. Either they were shaking badly, or he was. But sitting down was helping.

  It was some minutes before he felt well enough to move. He let the doctor fuss over him, taking his pulse and checking his pupil dilation. His heartbeat was slowing, and he was getting his normal body temperature back too. His breathing slowed, but his mind began to speed up again. He looked up and saw that Captain Cargill was watching him. ‘Where will he go?’ Mat asked.

  ‘Bryce? He’s taken up residence in Larnach Castle,’ Cargill replied, in disapproving tones.

  Mat saw Cassandra smile to herself. Yeah, you were right. ‘Where’s that?’

  Cargill stretched an arm, pointing southward. ‘On the far side of the harbour, on the peninsula four miles from here.’

  About seven kilometres. ‘What are the roads like?’

  ‘Not good at this time of year,’ Cargill replied. ‘The hills are full of snow right now, and the castle is right among it. Though Bryce usually keeps it clear for his own use.’

  ‘Will they make it?’

  ‘They will, I warrant. Bryce has his ways.’ Cargill clapped him on the shoulder. ‘The question is: will he come back with more men?’

  Mat eyed Cargill. ‘He’s vulnerable right now. And he still has the Treaty.’ He took a deep breath. The strain of two rapid-fire shifts between the worlds of the living and the dead was aching deep in his bones. ‘I’ve got to go after him.’ The imperative to act was overwhelming. We’ve got him on the run. I can’t let him recover. I’ve got to stay on him.

  ‘That’s madness, laddie,’ Cargill replied. ‘Recover. You can’t go after him. We’ll deal with this. We can muster a militia, go after him in strength. You taking him on alone is suicidal.’

  ‘He’s right, Mat,’ Riki said. ‘You’d be mad to go after him.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘And there’s a storm coming. Look away to the south.’

  Mat stared up at the skies, saw the black clouds rolling. To him they were a symbol, of what would happen if he let Bryce get away. He’ll come back with more men and take his revenge. There was enough strength in his legs now to move again, but little else.

  Abruptly, his eyes were drawn to an unexpected face in the crowd. Hope returned. Without warning his friends, he leapt from the steps and lurched through the people, waving frantically.

  ‘Mister Pearse! Mister Pearse!’

  Larnach Castle

  Richard Pearse stood among a cluster of men, chatting animatedly over what they’d just seen. When they saw Mat coming through the crowd to them there was a ripple of spontaneous applause for this boy who’d faced down Bryce. But Mat had no time for that. ‘Mister Pearse, where is your aircraft?’

  Pearse stared at him, then smiled. ‘See,’ he told the men about him. ‘I told you I’d met this lad. Well spoken, young man,’ he added warmly. The other men clapped Mat about the shoulders, adding their praise. Mat glanced behind him and saw Riki and Cassandra scurrying up, their faces anxious.

  ‘Mister Pearse, I need you to fly me somewhere, urgently.’

  Pearse blinked, then glanced south. ‘Well … there’s a storm coming, lad. Only a fool’d fly in that mess, and my Bessie ain’t good in foul weather.’

  ‘Bryce is getting away. No-one else can get me to Larnach Castle in time.’ He thought of trying to get back to the real world, retrieving his cloak and flying, but quite apart from the fact he had no strength to make one more shift, let alone two, he doubted he could fly in such a wind as was beginning to build. But he was sure Pearse could. ‘You’re my only chance of catching Bryce while he’s weak. Please, sir.’

  Pearse frowned, then nodded reluctantly. ‘Having just said only a fool would fly today, now it seems I’m agreeing to do just that. What manner of fool does that make me?’

  ‘Right now, my hero,’ Mat said fervently, as Riki and Cassandra arrived, demanding to know what was going on. ‘I’m going after him,’ Mat said flatly.

  ‘We’re coming too,’ Riki said instantly.

  ‘Not on my Bessie,’ Pearse said, raising his eyebrows. ‘I can carry two at a pinch, but not in weather like this.’ He shook his head and tapped Mat’s shoulder. ‘I can take this lad, no other.’

  Riki scowled and Cassandra looked exasperated. Then the girl stuck her chin out. ‘Get us back to the car, Mat. We’ll drive instead.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Mat admitted. ‘I’m exhausted. That’s the problem.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t be going after him, bro,’ Riki said seriously.

  ‘I’ve got to. Time’s wasting: he’s getting away.’

  They kept up a running argument as Pearse led him to the lawn outside Dunedin’s massive and eye-catching railway station, where his aeroplane was roped off and surrounded by curious admirers. They cleared a way eagerly, keen to see the craft fly again. Mat found a spot to cling to, behind Pearse’s seat, all the while trying to convince Riki and Cassandra to let him go.

  ‘I can do this,’ he told them. ‘He’s on the run; he won’t expect me.’

  Riki shook his head. ‘If Jones was here, he’d stop you, man.’

  Mat stared at his friend, and then realized: Riki didn’t know about Jones. He saw Cassandra take Riki’s hand and whisper in his ear, saw Riki’s eyes well up. But then Pearse was thrusting goggles at him, and the engine roared into life. Riki’s face was the last one he focused on, then suddenly the aircraft was in motion, roaring down an improvised runway that was a hard-packed dirt street. Faces became a blur, the wind dug into his exposed skin like icy knives, and suddenly they were lifting, bobbling into the air and careening almost sideways as the wind took hold. A building loomed up, but Pearse shouted and somehow coaxed enough lift and power to avoid smashing into the red-brick façade, and swung Bessie into the wind. The crowd below cheered, and then they were off, roaring nose down, barely twenty yards off the ground, narrowly missing the clock tower at one end of the station before clearing the harbour and heading out over the waters.

  ‘Have you got enough fuel?’ Mat shouted in Pearse’s ear.

  ‘Never seem to need any,’ Pearse replied. ‘The old crate just goes on demand.’ He laughed. ‘Faith can move mountains, but Bessie can fly over them! She can handle a wee storm.’

  As he clung to the back of Pearse’s seat, Mat could feel his core temperature plummet. His fingers went raw and then numb. He thought longingly of the feather cloak, which always felt like wearing a sleeping bag. But all he could
do was hang on as they dashed above the waves, the spray whipping into their faces and smearing their goggles. White-horse waves galloped across a dark plain. The canvas wings shrieked as they fought the mounting gales. But they were soon over land again, on the south side of the harbour and seeking a gap in the cliffs, seeking the castle hidden amidst the forested heights.

  They rode an updraft in the lee of the hills, rising like a bird. To their right, the hills were pure white except for the blackened pines; below them one black strip of road snaked along the ridge. ‘Bryce keeps the road clear no matter the weather,’ Pearse shouted. He jabbed a finger to his right. ‘Look, there they are, coming up Highcliff Road!’

  Mat followed his pointing finger and saw three big, old-fashioned cars powering along the dark ribbon that cut through the snow. The vehicles had their headlights on and billowed smoke and fumes as they roared along the heights. ‘So, where’s the castle?’

  Pearse swung about and they slewed across the sky as the wind tore at them, but the miraculous craft somehow did exactly what Pearse wished, zigzagging haphazardly towards a snowy bulk set amidst tall trees. ‘There she is!’

  ‘Did Bryce build it?’

  Pearse shook his head. ‘Stole it, more like. William Larnach had it built, in the 1870s and ’80s. Then he shot himself. Tragic history, lad. Been a nursing home, a station for soldiers and an asylum in its day.’ The pilot had to shout above the wind and the engines, and still Mat had to strain to hear. ‘They say it’s haunted, and that Bryce cast out the ghosts when he took possession.’

  From above, the snow-crusted pile of stones looked as grim and foreboding a place as any Mat had seen. It was set in large wooded grounds just off the summit of a hill. But the air was full of crystals and flakes, and visibility was fading. It was time to land, before they crashed.

  ‘Where can we put down?’

  Pearse looked around, then pulled a face. ‘Laddie,’ he shouted, ‘I don’t rightly know. There ain’t no place to land up here.’

  Oh shit. Mat peered about. ‘What about those fields?’ he asked, pointing to a white, flat expanse.

  ‘No chance! Those drifts are at least four feet deep. Oh, I could get down, but I’d have to wait ’til the spring thaw before getting off again.’

  Mat felt his heart sink. He hadn’t thought of that at all. Then he had a simple, obvious idea. ‘Take her in low, but don’t land. I just want a closer look before we leave.’

  Pearse shot him a glance but did as asked, taking Bessie on a wide swing then levelling off into the wind, gliding above the fields adjacent to the castle grounds.

  Mat gripped his shoulder. ‘Mister Pearse, you’ve been awesome! You’re a legend, and all New Zealand knows you were the first one to fly!’ He gave a final squeeze. ‘Don’t wait for me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know what I did was really fly so much as …’ Pearse began modestly, then he suddenly realized Mat’s intention. ‘Hey—’

  Mat grinned, and let go.

  The two-second drop to the snow took an eternity, then he was enveloped in a cloud of frozen snowflakes. He rolled instinctively, tumbling into a thick drift of snow that cushioned his landing effectively enough. He struggled to his feet, coated in white but with barely a bruise on him. Pearse’s aeroplane swung about and roared overhead. Mat waved, to let him know he was alright, and saw with relief that Pearse wasn’t hanging about. The pilot put the nose of the tiny craft low, turned north with the wind howling at his tail, and in seconds vanished, roaring away as fresh snowflakes obliterated him from sight and sound. Silence closed in, except for the moan of the wind and the distant growl of car engines.

  Mat exhaled a thick plume of steam and began to struggle through the snow. He stumbled from the fields, striking solid earth in the lee of a line of snow-shrouded trees. The world had turned black and white, and the air was bitterly cold. He soon lost feeling in his feet, and only kept his hands warm by sliding them into the deep pockets of his jacket. The inner pockets were full; the bulky patu and pistol pressed against his sides, comforting him with their solidity. He clambered over a wire fence among the trees, and crept through the bushes until he got his first proper look at the castle.

  From the front, Larnach Castle was a dark bulk, barely lit by a few lanterns swaying in the wind. The light of those lanterns caught the swirling snow flurries that danced in eddies about pools of illumination. They lit a scene of fairytale splendour. Glittering snow lay all about, encrusting the trees like diamonds in a woman’s hair. Amidst it all sat the castle. It wasn’t as Mat had imagined. He’d been thinking of a fortress, but instead it was a stately manor house with a stone exterior. It rose over what appeared to be at least three storeys to a small square turret encrusted in ice. The front doors were only accessible via steps that climbed past stone lions to a grand entrance overlooking the front gardens.

  There were men there, at least a dozen fanning out about the property, all of them armed with guns. Mat watched them as he huddled into his jacket. They might have seen Pearse’s aeroplane. They may know I’m here. Bryce’s Rolls-Royce was parked before the castle, gradually being swallowed by the snow, except for the bonnet, which had enough residual heat to repel the icy blanket. There were lights coming on inside, and he could dimly hear orders being shouted. He wondered what Bryce’s plan was for this circumstance — if he even had a plan. He’d probably never envisaged being attacked here.

  Mat stole through the shadows, seeking a way in. He chose to go left, ducking down narrow paths between garden beds, the bushes mostly leafless and spindly, coated in ice and with no foliage to hide him. He crept to the edge of a tiny lawn where a cluster of statuary was arrayed — they seemed to be themed around Alice in Wonderland. It seemed appropriately surreal. But there were men in the back courtyard, mere yards away, and he couldn’t see a clear way inside. He could hear them talking, see the clouds of steam as they exhaled and the glow of their cigarettes gleaming like red eyes in the darkness. The wind was like a funeral choir, singing mourning dirges and laments.

  If I attack them, I’ll lose the surprise factor. To get the Treaty back, I have to give Bryce no warning.

  He backed away, to the lee of a tiny shed. He was bitterly cold now, so cold it was debilitating. He had to do something soon, or he’d be doing himself serious harm.

  There had to be a way to overcome the guards silently, or to evade them entirely. And though he was recovering, he felt a long way from being ready for a fight. I need help.

  Then he thought of a way he might find the aid he needed.

  He crept right back to the edge of the gardens, so that the bulk of the house was almost lost in the flurrying snow. He found a tall tree, an oak maybe, but who could tell in this darkness? He tentatively reached out with his bare right hand, pressed frozen fingers to the wood while holding on to his interlocking pendant with the other, and drew upon his slowly recovering powers. He didn’t try to do anything dramatic: he simply let that power seep along his fingers, the sensation a burning one like slowly immersing cold toes into a hot bath, then let the energy flow into the wood. It seemed that the entire night fell silent, as he sought others, from the castle’s past.

  He felt at once the sadness that hung about the place, the sense of distance from the vibrancy of the city, the isolation and sorrow. He focused in on it, hunting memories. After a slow, almost imperceptible answering pulse, the whole world seemed to shiver and exhale. The weather and the light and the temperature changed with each heartbeat, and the castle with it. Then, all at once, he felt like he was spinning, and the whole world with him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the bronze statue of Alice, staring at him, as he vanished down a rabbit hole of swirling light.

  The house and gardens grew both younger and more dilapidated before his eyes, like watching a time-lapse movie of the place running backwards on high speed. The tree shrank beneath his touch, growing smaller while the house fell backwards into decay and emptiness. As the moon and sun raced each other
west to east across the sky, the house became crowded and empty, over and again. Khaki-uniformed men mingled with white-clad nurses. Old cars roared up the drive and then vanished and were replaced by horse-drawn carts. The rose-bushes devolved from full bloom to stem to cutting. Spring followed summer and autumn followed winter. The tree he touched became a bush that became a shrub that became a tendril which wriggled into the earth and vanished. And shadows formed about him that didn’t change, though the rest of the world did. One of them looked like Alice. He quelled his powers, and rose to face them.

  There was a circle of people around him, white men and women dressed in colonial garb, all staring with expressions of guarded curiosity. The men were whiskery-faced and lean, the women delicate-featured with their hair severely tied beneath bonnets. Beyond them, others watched, people of every period he’d traversed: soldiers and nurses in old uniforms, and gardeners and staff of the house from earlier times. But at the forefront was a semi-circle of people, in expensive-looking colonial-era clothing, with the hidden bond of family hanging over them.

  Mat straightened. He felt dizzy, yet curiously refreshed, as if he’d just drunk icy water from a very pure stream. He cautiously faced the man in the centre of the gathering, a stout middle-aged man with hollow, sad eyes. The youngest girl held his hand, and was staring up at Mat with round eyes.

  ‘Mister William Larnach?’ he guessed, addressing the man.

  ‘I am he.’ Larnach’s voice carried overtones of Scotland, but was clear and calm.

  The younger man beside him, a taller and more delicate-looking version of his father, stroked his boyish moustache. ‘Who the dickens are you?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Matiu Douglas,’ Mat replied. They gave no sign of recognition.

  ‘We saw you appear, but we couldn’t reach you,’ said a pretty young woman with soft brown curls, who stood at the young man’s side. ‘You’re trespassing,’ she added, her curiosity at war with her disapproval. Two older women with the stamp of sisters nodded emphatically.