Magic and Makutu

by David Hair

  Then Kelly was bustling in and grabbing him. ‘Matty-Mat-Mat! Look at you!’ She made a show of going up on tiptoes and smooching his cheeks. ‘You’re bigger than me now!’

  He poked her gently in the tummy. ‘No, I’m not!’

  She laughed, and struck a pose with her stomach — heavily pregnant — bulging. She was wearing a voluminous yellow T-shirt with Wide Load printed on it, back and front. Her hair was, as usual, garishly coloured, in lime green this time. ‘Yes, it’s true, I’m fat again! I blame Wiri’s cooking.’

  ‘His cooking?’

  ‘Yeah: he keeps putting buns in my oven,’ she winked. She went to Riki and kissed him. ‘Allo, Skinny,’ she said fondly, reaching up and mussing his hair. She hugged Colleen and Tama in turn, while Wiri grabbed suitcases and backpacks, and farmed them out to the boys. In a few minutes they were inside the cosy little character house, in a side-road off Aro Street, Wiri and Kelly’s abode for the past two years. Dog and baby smells blended with the aromas of cooking and cleaning, the wholesome feel of a happy home enveloping them. Little Nikau, their first child, was asleep, but Kelly told them not to worry about being quiet: ‘He can sleep through anything, and he’s due to wake up soon anyway.’ She took Colleen through to coo over him in the nursery, while Wiri put on the kettle.

  ‘So, when’s number two due?’ Tama asked, as they settled around the kitchen table. Even Fitzy selected a chair and climbed up. He remained in dog-form, though — his natural turehu form was a little alarming, and they didn’t want to upset Colleen.

  They’d all known that Kelly was expecting again, after Wiri had telephoned them with the news a few months ago. ‘February or March next year,’ Wiri replied, smiling broadly. ‘Whenever it’s ready.’

  ‘You still working security?’ Tama asked.

  ‘Sure. Mostly night-shifts at Te Papa museum. Nightshifts pay better.’ He shrugged. ‘I like the museum at night. The displays take on a life of their own.’

  ‘You know I could get you better work,’ Tama offered. He’d been instrumental in establishing a new, modern identity for Wiri. He had also expressed the thought many times that someone with Wiri’s wit, judgement and moral courage could do a lot better than work as a security guard, but Wiri wasn’t really interested. Mat was pretty much on Tama’s side of the debate: it annoyed him that someone who had saved Aotearoa from Puarata, and many other feats, had to work anonymously in a low-wage job, while bankers and currency traders got rich. It was the wrong way around, so far as he could make out.

  ‘We’re doing fine, Tama,’ Wiri said, his tone affable but closing down the subject. ‘So, Mat and Riki, off to check out the unis? What’re you looking to take next year?’

  ‘Maori Studies, and maybe some Social Policy stuff,’ Riki replied. ‘I’ll get some quals to work for my tangata whenua. And I can see what this big-city life is all about: I’m gonna see every Hurricanes home game. It’ll be cool as.’

  Wiri grinned. ‘I’ve worked security on some of those games, and the Sevens, too. It’s a bit of fun, but us poor buggers have to watch the crowd, not the game.’ He looked at Mat. ‘What about you, little bro?’

  Mat ducked his head. ‘Y’know. Visual Arts. A little History.’

  Tama did his best not to look utterly disgusted. The major fault-line in Mat’s relationship with his father was that Tama, hard-driving defence lawyer, did not think that any son of his should aspire to nothing more than the hand-to-mouth existence of an artist. At times it had generated shouting contests, but no-one was in the mood for that right now, especially not in front of Wiri. So Tama nodded noncommittally, as the ladies returned bearing a bleary-eyed bundle of small boy.

  Little Nikau had big eyes and a thick mane of black hair, his Polynesian heritage clear despite his paler skin. He’s another little me, Mat thought, as he held the child on his lap. Mixed race, and maybe more, too: Nikau had been born on Mokoia Island in Aotearoa during a night of deadly magic. Mat fancied some of that eeriness had rubbed off on the child. His eyes, hazel with flecks of amber, had a wildness to them that spoke of other worlds.

  ‘He’s a serious little fella, isn’t he?’ Mat said, pulling faces to see if he could make Nikau smile. When he did, after yawning and stretching, it was worth the wait, like a rising sun breaking through clouds.

  They played pass-the-baby around the table, then Kelly breast-fed him, a little defiantly: the debate on the right to breast-feed in public was going through the media rounds again at the moment, but everyone present was on the mother’s side.

  After a while, Tama turned to Colleen: ‘I guess I better drop you off at the hotel?’ There was a touch of sadness in his voice. There wasn’t room for them all in Wiri and Kelly’s house, unless Mat’s parents shared a room, and that wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘No!’ Kelly protested. ‘Coll, you have to stay for dinner! We’re gonna fire up the barbeque and all.’

  Colleen stood, shaking her head. ‘I’ve promised to catch up with some teacher friends. And I’ve got my thesis to work on.’ She was doing some post-graduate studies on New Zealand literature. ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow at the university, OK?’

  They all knew better than to argue. Tama got up and they left, amiably enough but distant; that pattern they’d seemingly fallen into. It made Mat feel sad.

  After his parents had left, Mat and Riki went out the back with Wiri to set up the barbeque. The sun was still up, but the house and indeed the whole of the Aro Valley was in shadow from the surrounding hills. The backyard was sheltered from the wind, and perfect for an evening outside. After a few minutes of organizing, Wiri offered the boys some soft-drink and asked, ‘So, what’s happening?’

  Wiri and Mat had already spent hours on the telephone in the past months, discussing the events of June and the destruction of the original Treaty. He quickly explained his new idea. ‘I think Dad buys into recreating the Treaty, but Mum’s not keen. Do you think it would work?’

  ‘It might. Worth a try, I reckon. If Colleen won’t help, I might know people who would. Some of the curators at Te Papa are crazy enough to have a go, and we probably wouldn’t even have to explain what we’re doing.’ Wiri took a sip of beer. ‘What about Aroha?’ Wiri and Mat had discussed the ‘Aroha Problem’ many times over the phone, too.

  Mat pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. How do you go to someone with “love in your heart” when they’ve essentially bullied and manipulated you into being there?’

  Wiri shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I can only suggest that you look past that. You know why she’s doing it: she doesn’t want Byron Kikitoa on her threshold. If you put that aside, she’s a beautiful, complex young woman who inhabits the world that you do. Isn’t that what you’ve always said you wanted?’

  Mat sighed. ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘She’s not Evie,’ Wiri finished. He knew Evie, from the pursuit of the stolen Treaty. He seemed to like her, but Mat knew he was also very conscious that she was Puarata and Donna Kyle’s daughter.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mat slurped his coke. Voicing these thoughts seemed dangerous, when he had no idea what Aroha could hear or see, from wherever she was. But he couldn’t be less than honest with his closest friends. ‘Aroha is, like, totally overpowering: she marches in and batters your senses. Being with her is like being forced to eat a king-size chocolate bar: too much of a good thing. And it’s not like she seems to want anything more from me than one night.’

  ‘Maybe that is all she wants,’ Wiri commented. ‘But there were the wedding proposals, too.’

  ‘I suppose. But how’s all this supposed to make me feel towards her? Ngatoro told me that her child will reflect the nature of the feelings of the father towardsher, and that will be the spirit of the age it ushers in. Byron’s child would be like Byron: an arsehole. Mine would be … what? Scared? Conflicted? Confused? What kind of legacy is that?’

  ‘It’s a tough situation,’ Wiri admitted. ‘Clearly she’s singled you out, so she must feel that you’ll be the r
ight person. I think the key is empathy: think about life from her perspective, have sympathy for her position, and look for the qualities she has.’

  ‘Sure. It’s just, when your heart is set on someone, you resent being forced to chase someone else. Who knows what damage that will do to all of us? Even if it all works out, Evie will still know there was someone else.’

  They sat silently for a while, then Wiri tapped the picnic table. ‘Yeah, it’s hard. But forgiving people is what keeps the world going. If we carried our grudges around with us all the time, nothing would ever get done. Bottom line: if you love each other, you’ll get through it. And if not … I know it seems a hard thing to say, but very few people find the right person at your age. You’re still young, and changing all the time. The right person today might not be the right person tomorrow. So don’t get too hung up on it, yeah? There’s always a dawn after the dark.’

  Mat tried to envisage something beyond his current predicament, and largely failed.

  ‘Teenagers today spend far too much time worrying about finding perfect love by the time they leave high school,’ Wiri told him. ‘Hell, I didn’t find it until I was almost 600 years old.’

  ‘That’s not all that helpful,’ Mat told him.

  ‘Girl trouble. It’s all we ever have.’ Riki scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘You’d think we’d know better.’

  Wiri raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s your problem? I thought you and the geek had a good thing going?’

  Riki wrinkled his nose. ‘She’s gone to California to scout out her uni options. Kinda puts me to shame: she’s off to see the world and I’m stuck in little ol’ EnZed.’

  ‘Then I guess the same goes for you: let what will be will be, and don’t get too hung up on it.’

  ‘Huh. I s’pose.’ Riki nudged Mat. ‘At least Casanova here has two on the go. And say whatever else about Aroha, she is hot, right?’ Riki had only seen Aroha in person briefly, when she was newly rescued, but he’d had second-hand accounts from the others. ‘I mean, she’s a goddess, yeah?’

  ‘Then you do it,’ Mat snapped tiredly.

  ‘Me? Sure. Except apparently if I try to help you I won’t make it that far anyway.’ Riki took a swig of coke. He glanced at Wiri. ‘Mat won’t let me help him because in some old legend the hero’s sidekick always craps out.’ He grunted morosely. ‘Why can’t the babe come to you, instead?’

  Mat rubbed his chin. ‘I guess she can’t. I’ve not had direct contact from her since Arrowtown. Last thing she told me was that she had to ascend into the clouds to wait for me. Nothing since: it’s one of the things that makes it harder: I can’t even talk to her. What kind of relationship has no communication?’

  Evie’s only a cellphone call away.

  ‘Heh, maybe you should’ve accepted her marriage proposals after all,’ Riki chuckled, glancing questioningly at Wiri. ‘Might’ve helped, yeah?’

  ‘It might have, but I doubt it would have guaranteed success,’ Wiri replied thoughtfully. ‘He’d still need to defeat Byron, and all other comers.’

  Tama arrived back, and with Kelly bringing out marinated steaks and some potatoes wrapped in tin-foil for the barbeque there was no further opportunity for serious conversation. Which was a good thing, Mat decided. The luxury of leaving his fears and anxieties parked for a while, and just enjoying the company of the people he loved, was something he might not have again for some time.

  Even so, the temptation to pick up his cellphone and dial a certain number was a nagging itch that he couldn’t quite throw off. But he did resist, and that felt like a victory.

  It’s not all darkness

  The next two days, Monday and Tuesday, were a blur. On Monday, Mat and Riki went with Mat’s parents to Victoria University, situated primarily on a hill overlooking Wellington Harbour, with amazing views of the city. The campus itself was a maze of old red-brick buildings dating all the way back to 1897, mixed with new buildings, some only a few years old. There were glassed-over courtyards and walkways, a massive library and multiple study halls. The main campus was on Kelburn Parade, but the university also had various faculties in the city below, mostly near the railway station and in the old Government Buildings.

  The rest of their Year Thirteen class were also present, with lots of parents and a few teachers, so they travelled in a swarm to and from the different lecture theatres. However, Victoria didn’t offer Visual Arts, only Art History, so Mat figured he wasn’t likely to end up at Vic.

  Tuesday, they went to Victoria’s rival — Massey University’s Wellington campus. Massey was a Palmerston North university that had also set up campuses in Wellington and Auckland. From Mat’s perspective, it was the more interesting visit even though the university buildings were largely modern and utilitarian, as they offered Visual Arts. After the modest facilities of Napier Boys’ High, Mat thought the art rooms were incredible, and the students’ work displayed on the walls was dauntingly good. How could a boy from Napier make it as an artist against such competition? He really needed the pat on his back from one of his teachers, who whispered in his ear and said, ‘Don’t worry, Mat: a couple of years here, with exposure to different techniques and ideas, and you’ll be just as good.’

  The tour took the morning, and after lunch, Riki went off to the Victoria university marae with other prospective Maori Studies students, and Tama went to meet a client in the city. So Mat ended up with his mother, mid-afternoon, with nothing much to do until evening.

  ‘Mat, do you mind, I’ve got an errand to run in town?’ Colleen was in her jeans and jacket, toting a satchel of papers for her thesis.

  The idea of trailing after his mum didn’t sound all that appealing, and he was fishing around for an excuse when she added, ‘I want to drop past the house where Katherine Mansfield grew up.’

  That sounded interesting enough that he agreed to go. Mansfield was generally acknowledged as New Zealand’s most famous writer, even though she’d lived mostly overseas among the fashionable and bohemian élite of England’s writing and art set. Mat had never really been very curious about her, but he could tell that his mother was excited.

  ‘I mention her influence a lot in my thesis,’ she explained. ‘So it would be lovely to have a look around the house. The house where she spent some of her childhood isn’t far from here, on Tee-nah-korry Road.’

  ‘It’s “Tinakori”, Mum,’ Mat corrected her. ‘How long have you lived in New Zealand again?’

  ‘Longer than you. Wait until I get you to Ireland and I can laugh at you mangling the Gaelic.’

  They caught a bus to the railway station, then walked up Murphy Street, which ran to a bridge over the motorway, and turned onto Tinakori Road. Number 25 was a small two-storeyed wooden building, with a garden front and rear. Two ladies who might have been in their fifties ran it, and all the rooms were laid out with period furniture and household items. Mansfield, born Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp, had largely grown up in Wellington before leaving New Zealand forever at the age of nineteen. There were leaflets about her life, and copies of her books. Mat leafed through one idly, studying the photograph of a serious-faced young woman with big, deep-set eyes, and a very plain pudding-bowl haircut. He liked the quote in the leaflet: Life never becomes a habit to me, it is always a marvel. That sounded like a pretty good way to live.

  Old photographs of the Beauchamp family were on the walls; Kathleen always readily identifiable in her small wire-frame glasses. But Mat found the pictures of early Wellington more interesting, and he left his mum chatting to the curators while he studied them. It seemed that the gully behind the house, where the motorway now ran in from the north, had actually been an inlet to the sea, so all the modern flatland now containing the Thorndon area, the rail-yards, wharves and the stadium was reclaimed land. Best I don’t cross to Aotearoa down there, unless I’ve got my swimming togs on.

  ‘So, Mat, shall we go?’

  Colleen came into the back room, an old scullery or something, where the p
hotos of old Wellington were displayed. She looked mildly pleased with herself over the visit, but Mat thought it all a little dull. ‘Not much to it,’ he opined. ‘Are her stories as boring as I think they’ll be?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Colleen looked offended. ‘She was quite the wild thing: very bohemian, and something of a diva. She used to party with the European arty crowd, had affairs with men and women, pregnancies and scandals and died quite young.’

  Mat blinked, reappraising everything he’d thought about dry old writers of antiquity. Not really thinking so much as acting on instinct, he gripped his mother’s arm and let the little spark that coiled inside him catch fire. With a small, subtle lurch, like stepping from a moving carriage to the ground, the floor shifted faintly, and the walls of the room changed. The photos blurred then vanished, to be replaced by kitchen implements. Pottery jars were strewn over a table, and a pile of carrots and potatoes lay, half chopped-up and ready to use in a meal, on a chopping board. From elsewhere in the house voices shouted, a mother summoning her children.

  Colleen’s face had gone utterly white. ‘Mat?’ She clutched her hands together. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’s OK. I just thought that if she was that cool, you might want to meet her.’ He beckoned Colleen to his side as he crept to the front door. Frightened to be left behind, she followed, her face absolutely furious. Undaunted, Mat rapped on the door, then stood outside it, as though he had only just arrived. Mum darted in behind him, seemingly on the verge of flight. ‘Hello?’ he called out, before she lost her nerve.

  A stout woman emerged from the dining room, peering with a disapproving face. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello. My name is Mat, and this is my mother, Colleen. We were wondering, is Katherine home?’

  The woman looked them up and down. ‘You’re from out of town, aren’t you?’ Her expression made it clear she didn’t just mean, ‘out of Wellington’.