The monster slowly opened its mouth and aggressively slashed the air with its claws. It blasted Ernest with a deafening screech that sounded like a breaking, runaway fifty-ton train. Ernest’s hair blew back from his face, and he later found mouldering gobs of half-eaten monster food in his beard. He’d closed his eyes, expecting his throat to be torn out at any second. But when no such thing happened he opened his eyes again, just in time to see the last of the taniwha’s serpentine tail slip silently under the silky metallic surface.
Ernest had never forgiven himself. The harrowing thought that that might have been his only chance to strike was unbearable. This time it would not escape him. This time it was going to pay. This time would be the last time, one way or the other.
Ernest prepared to settle in for the long haul. The wind had dropped again, but it would be pitch black in less than an hour. He worked quickly, digging a small hollow in the ground, building up a circle of stones and earth around it, and setting a stub of candle in its centre. He collected twigs and branches, and peeled away their outer wet layers with his bush knife. He whittled away at a stick of birch until he had a small pile of shavings. He lit the stub of candle, stacked a scaffold of twigs around it, and balanced the shavings on top with a clump of pungent moss. The moss steamed, then smoked, then finally the whole thing was smouldering. He carefully placed some bigger pieces of wood on top and blew gently at the base of the fire until the smoke thickened and the tell-tale glow arrived. Ten minutes later the whole thing burst into yellow and green flames.
Twilight faded. Soon Ernest was stranded between the fire’s circle of light and the rich, living darkness. He hid the hook inside a thick hunk of goat shoulder, and cast the line at the centre of the puddle. The line sank without incident. Ernest watched the coils loop away until at last there was no slack left and the line jerked tight. He checked again that the line was secure, then sat beside the tree stump nursing his rifle in his lap.
Ernest fed the fire through the night and ate some more bananas. A crescent moon slashed through the clouds - a cold silver smile to greet the eels that had risen to the surface, the taste of the goat’s blood on their fat grey triangular tongues. Ernest had rested a foot on the rope to feel for tugs, and he could feel already the eels nibbling his bait. But he was satisfied to wait for the mighty tug he was interested in. He replenished the hook about every three hours with another hunk of goat.
By three o’clock in the morning the temperature had plummeted. Ernest unwrapped his parcel of stolen steaks, but even when he heated them on a flat stone at the fire’s edge, they tasted dry and bland. Besides that, they’d become burnt on one side while Ernest had been busy murdering the cook. He found himself longing again for the meat of the puddle’s eels. The thought of that juicy, rich chewy flesh rolling in his mouth had been present in his mind for weeks already. In fact, he’d missed it from the time he’d last driven home from Fjordland. Could it be possible that it really was somehow addictive? He chuckled at himself. He was starting to sound like Rangi the fancy scientist, looking for elaborate causes when simpler explanations would suffice. The eel meat was tasty – nothing more. He decided he’d break up the steaks and use them to bait hand lines. Five minutes later he was dragging a six-foot eel up close to the bank and hammering the gaff down through its gills.
With the gaff lodged securely behind the creature’s fat bullet head, Ernest held on tight and leaned all his weight away from the water. He roared with laughter as the eel began to flip about and wind like a corkscrew. He allowed it to calm before taking hold of the gaff with both hands, tensing his lats and shoulders, then yanking upward with all his strength. He swung around like an Olympic hammer thrower. The eel lifted clear of the water and whipped in the air for a dangerous, glistening moment, before thudding into the grass nearby. It writhed and knotted its coils before whipping straight again, attempting to fend off its predator and slip back into the water unharmed. But Ernest had other ideas. He smashed the blunt side of the hatchet down on its skull to stun it, clamped its neck to the earth with a boot then hacked off its head with four neat chops while the supple body slapped painfully into his thigh and side. Then, grateful to be only a little bruised, he got well out of the way.
The eel slowed its writhing but didn’t stop completely until sliced into six-inch logs. Even then the head seemed to have life. The eel’s eyes followed Ernest as he moved about, and watched as he sat a hunk of its flesh on a corner of the fire to cook. It amused Ernest to tear a piece off, place it on the end of his knife, and move it slowly back and fore in front of the eel’s nose. The creature’s eyes followed the meat’s movements, and when Ernest brought it close enough, the eel’s jaws opened and snapped shut.
“Well, eel,” said Ernest. “You were a worthy opponent. Even in death you’re still out to injure me. Little do you know I’m feeding you yourself!” Ernest giggled. “But that’s enough for you. Soon the rest of you will be in my belly!” And with that, Ernest did the traditional pukana at the eel, opening his eyes and mouth as wide as he could, and forcing out his tongue.
Ernest began eating, and soon found he couldn’t stop. The meat was sweeter than on the night when his father had disappeared years before. It was pungent and oily and dark, sliding down his throat and catching between his teeth, melting on his tongue with a salty, exquisite richness. The juice shone on his beard as his fed the fire’s yellow flames. The fire filled the grove with flitting smoke, making the shadows dance over the tree trunks surrounding him. The surface of the water remained a black void, broken only by the silver of the new moon’s reflection. Ernest began to breath deeply through flaring nostrils, sucking in the night’s energy. He felt strong and electric. He buried a hook in another steak and soon had another eel fished out of the puddle. Even after devouring the first, there seemed no end to his appetite.
Ernest was aware that something was different: something about the air, or his experience of the night, like he’d become a part of its substance but at the same time felt oddly removed from it. He was giddy and nauseous again. Something wasn’t right, his instincts told him, and he edged closer to the rifle, wondering if the monster was about to appear. The wind had stopped its assault on the trees and even the crackling of the fire seemed muted. It was like being underwater. He was suddenly aware of how exposed he was in the darkness. All he could see was inside this tiny circle of light. Beyond that was the living, breathing mystery of blackness and death. Ernest stopped chewing a moment. If he listened hard enough, could he hear its humming energy?
That’s when he noticed the figure sitting in the shadows, just off to his left.
“I know who you are, kehua,” said Ernest, looking at the ground in front of him and feeling a cold sweat spring from his shoulders and forehead. It was the ghost of the man he’d murdered that morning. To think of that word made him shudder – murder. Ernest was a murderer. He’d crossed a line there was no coming back from. The ghost made no sound but Ernest remained aware of its presence and how it scrutinised him. He knew it had come seeking retribution, to ask why, in the hopes of understanding. It wanted to move on to the next world in peace.
“Forgive me ghost,” said Ernest, resuming his chewing and talking between mouthfuls. “I couldn’t let you stand in my way. I can’t let anything stand in my way. Not now. If you can’t understand, I’m sorry. But perhaps you won’t have long to wait before you can settle with me directly.”
Ernest risked a glance at the ghost’s shambling grey shape, and instantly regretted it. The man’s eyes had become unbearably empty, his skin pale, mottled and transparent. He appeared to be wearing the same clothing as he’d had on that morning, the fleece top torn open and black with blood. Through the tear in the fleece top, the man’s lacerated side was clearly visible. He was pointing at his wounds, sometimes inserting whole fingers, and mouthing words that Ernest couldn’t hear. Ernest looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said again, helplessly.
So, the ghost had come to haunt
him now too. As if his quest for the taniwha weren’t enough, he was to be hectored by a nagging dead pakeha as well. “So be it, ghost,” he said. “But you’d better make yourself comfortable. On second thoughts, we could be in for a long wait after all. At least you still have your fleece top to keep you warm. Looks warmer than my jersey. Apart from those big bloody holes. No pun intended.”
The next moment, the silence was destroyed by the annoying ring of Ernest’s cell-phone. Ernest jumped, then scrambled in his pack to answer it. “Excuse me, ghost,” he said, flipping the phone open. It was Rangi, sounding frantic.
“Dad, thank God,” he said. “We’ve been worried sick and I couldn’t get a signal before. Are you okay? There’s a murderer loose in Fjordland!”
“A murderer,” Ernest repeated.
“Yes, a murderer. Some porangi Maori flipped out at a campsite and stabbed some poor guy to death. Took off with his jeep and speedboat. Can you imagine it?”
“Oh, I can imagine it, son,” said Ernest.
“They reckon he must still be around Manapouri somewhere. That’s where you are, right? At the puddle?”
“Sure am. Care to join me?”
“Dad . . . You know I’m too busy for that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Hey, listen. There’s something else too. Mum’s gone missing. She’s taken her car and she’s not answering her phone.”
“Don’t worry about your mother, son,” said Ernest reassuringly. “She can look after herself that one. No-one’s going to fuck with her, she’s a tuff old bitch, believe me. You remember when I tussled with her that Christmas? The bitch broke three of my ribs!”
“I told you, dad. I don’t like it when you speak about her like that. I wish you wouldn’t. I know you guys hate each other but it’s not fair to keep putting me in the middle.”
Ernest could sense Rangi’s indignation and anger. “It’s alright, son. Don’t cry in your microscope. Stop being a sook and tell me more about your experiments. How’s it all going? Are you famous yet?”
There was a pause. Finally Rangi said, “Look, dad, I’m really busy. I just wanted to check you were okay and give you the heads up. But I can tell you this. We’ve discovered an entirely new species of microscopic life forms. They’re an insidious form of parasite, but we’re still running the last experiments. Actually, that’s where I have to go now, dad – to the lab. I’m actually late . . .”
“Okay, son, no worries. Listen. Goodbye, then, son.”
“Bye, dad.”
Ernest wanted to say more, but Rangi ended the call. “That boy’s never got time for anything these days,” he told the ghost, who was still silently moaning away at the edge of the shadows. Then there was an almighty tug on the cable.
Ernest jumped to his feet. It took him a moment to get over his shock, but he quickly took hold of the line and felt the tension. He could feel something nibbling at the goat meat, and let off a few coils of slack. The monster took it. It had to be the monster! When he pulled the line back he felt the great weight of whatever was on the other end, deep down in that living, seething blackness.
Ernest was letting off more coils from around the stump when the monster suddenly began to run with it. The coils whipped dangerously away and Ernest panicked. He grabbed frantically for a hold on the heaving rope, and roared as it burnt the palms of his hands. Biting his lip in agony, he gripped as hard as he could, breaking the monster’s momentum and striking the hook securely in its jaws. He had it, and now there was only the matter of bringing it to the surface.
A tremendous tug of war commenced. Ernest gained ground, but would tire of straining just before he was able to loop another coil back over the stump. The monster seemed able to tell just when Ernest was at his weakest, and at these moments made a surge of effort, regaining all the hard-won ground in only a second. This went on for over an hour, with Ernest leaning back at a forty-five degree angle, his bloody weeping hands tormented by the rope and his eyes shut tight. He kept his eyes closed because the ghost had shuffled closer, and now stared directly into Ernest’s face with its uncompromising eyes. As the monster sapped his strength, it seemed the ghost might deplete his spirit with its continued chilling scrutiny. But eventually Ernest felt the monster tiring too. He took a series of deep breaths, and prepared himself for a last final effort.
Ernest heaved with all his strength, employing every reserve of energy his body had left. He felt small fibres tearing in his shoulders, biceps and chest, and every muscle stung and ached. His burnt, bleeding hands made the rope sticky and wet, and caused him so much pain that he wept in loud hacking sobs. But he was determined to show the taniwha who was boss, now that he had it hooked at last. With a final roar that tore the night clean in half, his trembling arms, with agonising slowness, at last looped another coil over the top of the stump.
Ernest collapsed and vomited, unable to even raise himself from the cold dewy earth. When he finally raised his head, he saw the ghost of his father standing naked before him. Ernest was restored by sudden warmth flooding his cramped, exhausted body. He was overjoyed to see his father again, who was smiling, and now pointing at the bananas that were resting half way out of Ernest’s pack. Ernest understood, and began to peel one and eat. “Do only pakeha ghosts get to wear clothes?” he grumbled between mouthfuls. But his father, like the ghost of the murdered man, seemed unable to speak. He only stared in an unsettling, empty way, as though a part of him still pined for things left behind, but knew there could be no return. He pointed at the remains of the eels Ernest had eaten – mostly a pile of skin and bones beside the almost-burned-out fire – and began to gesticulate, mouthing soundless words.
“What is it?” Ernest asked. “I don’t understand. Something about the eels?” But the ghost of his father could only shake his head mournfully. Then he motioned to the ghost of the murdered man, who reluctantly followed him, through the willow trees and further into the darkness, until the first light of dawn broke through from the east, and they vanished together.
Ernest was alone. Alone with the monster. Now was the time to finish it. He checked his rifle and had it ready at hand. He’d land the fucker, even if it took all day. He’d dredge from the depths … what? Ernest remembered the awful face of the taniwha, how it’d stunk worse than a melting corpse, and how it’d all but deafened him. But seeing his father again had reassured him. He was closer to success than he’d ever been, though even if he failed, he knew now that his father would be waiting to help him to the other side.
Just then, like a fart in a bathtub, the puddle belched up a huge single bubble. A projectile shot from the centre of the sinkhole and flew through the air in a high ark. Ernest had to duck and cover his head. The object smashed into the trunk of a willow just behind him, then rattled over the ground to rest at his feet. Ernest was appalled to discover what it was. He scraped away the monster’s intestinal slime to reveal a skull – the skull of a dog. “Alas poor Jess,” Ernest muttered. Then gritting his teeth and binding his hands with his socks, he yelled a challenge into the puddle’s immutable blackness. “Fuck you, monster! I’m going to cut off your raho and stuff ’em down your throat!”
A reply seemed to come in what Ernest mistakenly thought to be thunder at first. But the noise was too constant and rhythmical, and he eventually realised it was the sound of police helicopters, searching for Ishmael’s killer. It was fully light now – the sky behind the black-eyed cliff a brilliant powder blue. Ernest would have to work fast. He grasped the rope again and felt how the monster had weakened. “Right,” he said to himself. He paused, and then began heaving. The monster kicked, and had all but exhausted itself in the previous battle. Ernest looped one coil after another triumphantly over the stump. In only half an hour he’d reeled in the whole of the hauling rope and about half the cable. There was only about eighteen feet left to go. If he could drag the monster to within a few feet of the surface it might even turn out to be as easy as shooting fish
in a barrel.
But the monster had other plans. It wasn’t giving up without a fight. The black water boiled, and suddenly it emerged, confident and terrifying. Its long muscular neck craned back and let out a blood-freezing scream at the sky. Ernest scrambled for the rifle but was panicked and missed his shot. Before he knew what was happening, the monster’s lethal claws were scraping at the bank, and its neck coiled around him like a gigantic crushing snake. Ernest felt his lower ribs pop and screamed. The monster’s hideous face pressed close to his own. Its rank breath watered his eyes, and he studied its teeth while the rifle clattered to the floor. And then the eyes sucked up from the depths of its skull. Those crazy green eyes, familiar and loathsome.
Ernest knew he only had seconds. He attempted to butt the monster, but it pulled its head away and seemed to laugh. His arms were restricted though slightly moveable. He waved them like a desperately flapping penguin, and experienced huge relief upon making contact with the handle of the hatchet. Ernest grasped it, pulled it free of the tree stump and thumped it home into the taniwha’s chest with a swift underarm flick. The monster screeched like a breaking locomotive again, and quickly released its vice-like grip.
Ernest wrangled himself free of the monster’s snaring neck. He retrieved the hatchet and began joyously inflicting further wounds in the monster’s torso, until the creature began to swoon about, pouring its cold black blood over the stones. At last it fell. Its long, outstretched neck waited for Ernest’s coup de grace. The hatchet was raised, trembling in the air. But something made Ernest delay. Was it simply that he wanted to extend the glorious moment, now that it had truly arrived after so many years? Or was it that hunting the monster had become his whole purpose? Ernest remained poised, realising it might be something more than both those things, something darker, something disturbingly familiar and almost human in those pleading green eyes.
Dead Bait Page 6