by David Hair
‘What’s happening, bro?’
He looked at Riki with real fear in his heart. ‘She’s been calling for the past half-hour. I don’t know how much longer I’ve got, but I think I know where I’ve got to be. It’s all going down, man!’
Riki didn’t question the change in plans, just nodded tersely and asked, ‘Where’s lift-off?’
‘Somes Island: it’s also named “Matiu”.’
‘Yeah?’ Riki looked sceptical.
‘I’m sure of it. Names have power, Evie said, and it would’ve been called that when Aroha was growing up. Anyway, it’s all we’ve got: it must be right, or we’re screwed.’
‘But how the hell will you get there? Ain’t no boat gonna get you out in this weather.’
‘I’ve got to fly! Did you bring the stuff?’
‘Back seat! I brought you some warm clothes, too. At least change first!’
‘No time!’ Mat reached into the back, seized the pack with Ngatoro’s taiaha strapped sideways to the top, pulled it over and wrestled it onto his front. Then he seized the feather cloak and nestled it on his shoulders. ‘I’ve got to go — I don’t even know if I’ll be in time as it is.’
‘At least the wind’s behind you.’ Riki stared at him with open fear. ‘Good luck, bro.’ They hugged wordlessly. There was so much to say, and no time to say it. Mat could tell that Riki wanted to come too, but to his relief Riki didn’t ask to.
‘Thanks, for everything. If I don’t—’
‘Shut up and go!’
He did. Wrenching the door open, he spread his arms, staggering in the gale as the needles of the feather cloak punctured his arms and side, right down to his thighs. He mouthed a cry of pain, bunched his leg muscles and leapt. The cloak did the rest, sent him soaring into the storm like a leaf, tossed spinning into the teeth of the gale.
For a few seconds he had no control at all, as wires flew by, then power poles and buildings. He was thrown over the port, dark stacks of containers and giant gantry cranes looming out of the darkness with terrifying speed, only instinctive twists and gyrations sparing him from a sudden end, splattered into stone or steel. Then he was over water, the ring of harbour lights lost in the squall. Quickly he regained control: he’d practised flying as often as he could, in all conditions. Soon he was soaring, keeping low, almost skimming over the water, the wind mostly behind him. Beneath him, giant waves were rising up and crashing down, and in one lightning blast he was shocked to see what seemed to be a giant reptilian head rising from the water, then crashing down in a massive spray, but the moment was gone, and then before him, in a brief parting of the curtaining clouds, he saw a flare of light, blinking at him. It came from a low bulk of darkness in the gleaming waters, and he knew without having to think it through that this was his goal.
She even lit the way …
The winds hurled him through the rain, and he fought across the stinging gale, angling towards the beacon’s light. In his flickering sight, the harbour seemed to change by the second, with one moment a Cook Strait ferry visible and then gone; replaced by a warship, and then a sailing ship, sails furled and prow turned into the storm. Sometimes the island was lit with electric lights and other times dark, and in one lightning flash he could swear there was a pa at the north end, the wooden palisades wobbling at the onslaught of the winds. He hurtled past the beacon, which was at the southern end of the island and set in woods above a jagged little cove where giant waves were crashing. Banking instinctively towards the highest ground, he glimpsed stone gun emplacements illuminated by lightning, and then he was slamming into the grass spaces between them, only missing one gleaming metal artillery barrel by inches. The grass was slick as he slithered over it, ploughing into the undergrowth as he came to a halt. The strap on his pack nearly broke as the taiaha embedded itself in the ground.
‘Hey!’ someone shouted. ‘Hey! Cap’n, I saw something out there!’
Mat lay, stunned. But Aroha’s call cut through his senses, and he could hear the pleading in it now. Matiu …
He sucked in a giant breath, and wrenched and convulsed, trying to free himself and the taiaha. The precious feather cloak all but came apart in the ripping undergrowth that tore at it as he pulled free, but there was no time to be careful anymore. He staggered to his feet and looked to the skies. Clouds were swirling, giants’ shapes forming and re-forming as they boiled overhead, then a shape like a mouth opening and a tongue descending.
I’M RIGHT! I’M RIGHT! THIS IS IT!
‘Halt!’ someone shouted. ‘Cap’n, one of the prisoners is out!’
‘No!’ another shouted. ‘I saw him land: it’s a Jap para!’
What? He pelted toward the highest point, a bare knoll at the very summit of the island. Clearly the borders between the modern world and Aotearoa were blurring tonight. When he threw a glance back, he saw men in World War Two military uniforms, backlit by electric lights from the gun emplacement doors. Two held rifles, trained in his direction. He sprinted from them, towards the summit of the island, barely fifty metres away.
Crack! A bullet whined past his shoulder.
Shit! He doubled over, and tried to weave, too frantic to create any kind of protection for himself, relying on the dark and the wet and his movement.
Another shot came, then another, ripping past him and hitting the wet earth with a sucking slurp.
Please, miss miss miss …
He could see it now: an impossibly huge vine hanging from the clouds, swinging wildly in the gales, slapping against the ground at the summit of the island as he ran for it. Then with a lurching shriek, it began to retract, pulling upwards—
NO!! WAIT!! Mat ran as fast as he could, launching himself at the disappearing vine, the tattered flying cloak giving him extra spring as he covered the last few metres. He spun the taiaha and speared the pointed tongue of the grip into the metre-wide tube of the vine. It sunk in, halfway up the blade … and gripped. He held on, too, wrapped his legs about it and thrashed about for purchase, the pack in front of his belly impeding him until he fought one strap free and gripped a leaf stem, wedging himself against the stem as the vine lifted into the roiling storm.
Mat threw a look down, saw dark shapes on the island below as more shots flashed, but the range was already too far. For an instant he saw the ring of lights about the harbour, from the city to the motorway north, from Petone at the foot of the Hutt Valley to Eastbourne and the far lighthouse at the harbour’s entrance. Then it was all simply gone, lost in the swirling mist.
He exhaled, sucked in more air, gasping.
I did it. I caught it. I made it. The words kept resounding in his brain, a mantra that filled his thoughts as he clung on and shook with relief. I’m in the game.
Then something careened into the vine just beneath his feet, and the whole giant tendril convulsed. Mat almost lost his grip, clinging on for dear life as a man-shaped figure in another feather cloak fought for a perch, a hand gripping his own boot, then re-fastening onto the stem he rested on.
Riki’s voice reverberated out of the darkness. ‘Woohoooooo!!’
There was no point in shouting or recriminations, Mat finally reflected, after spending about ten minutes doing just that. For one thing, he doubted he’d even made himself heard. Riki was still grinning up at him like a smirking cat. For another, there was clearly no going back. The ground had vanished, and Mat wasn’t sure whether, if he let go, he would even fall. One look upwards showed they were being drawn into the sky, reeled in like fish on a line. There was a point of light in the dark clouds above, about the vine that drew them up, as though the sun was directly above; a shaft of soft white glow that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. He looked down, and saw Riki looking far too damned pleased with himself.
It’s goddamn suicide. He’s going to die.
Then they were in the clouds, being hauled upwards through a shaft of light, where faces and patterns formed in the mists, constantly changing. He saw his parents, saw Wiri, Ngatoro, Jon
es, Cass, Evie, Kelly … saw his school, his house, the palm trees on Napier’s Marine Parade, his mother’s house in Taupo, Larnach Castle in Dunedin …
… and then they were flying free as the vine convulsed and threw them off, tumbling onto a spongy, misty, not-quite-solid surface. They landed easily, like falling onto a bed of pillows. Mat shouted in alarm; Riki in sheer glee. They landed about ten metres apart, and the taiaha spat from the vine and speared towards Mat. He caught it deftly despite the surprise, and the vine vanished in the mist.
‘We did it!’ Riki shouted.
Mat rounded on him, finally audible and able to vent. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Riki just raised his eyebrows, as though the question were so banal it barely rated a reply. ‘I was never going to let you go alone, bro. You should know that.’ He pushed experimentally at the spongy surface they lay on. ‘Not sure I trust this stuff.’
‘Riki, will you listen to me? You can’t be here! This will kill you, dead!’
‘My call, bro.’
‘But you’ve got so much to live for! Your whole family! Everyone else! Cass, for one: she needs you, man: she’s just lost her father!’
‘Nah, she don’t need me. She’s a self-contained unit, bro. She never really needed me, not like I needed her.’
Mat could only stare. ‘That’s not what I saw.’
‘Maybe not. But it’s my life, not yours, bro. My call.’ He stood unsteadily. ‘Let’s get off this stuff before it forgets to support us an’ we fall through.’
It was good advice. Mat shut his mouth crossly and got to his feet, and they began to step unsteadily through the shifting mistiness, their footfalls never quite feeling like they were fully supported, always on the verge of punching through. Riki went to fly instead, but the feathercloaks seemed to have become inert. To one side there was a darkness, the only place that wasn’t featureless white, so they made for that, and were rewarded when their boot soles struck stone.
‘Amen,’ Riki breathed, in a tone of profound relief. He sank to his knees and kissed the wet rock.
A few metres onward was a tunnel, seemingly naturally formed but of comfortable height and breadth, and there was a faint light ahead. They emerged onto an open ledge, above a lush, verdant valley. The bushlands below were lit by a rising sun, golden yellow with the imprint of a carved Maori face on it, and the birdsong was almost deafening. There was a primeval feel to the scene, trackless bush so dense that the ground was invisible, morning mist clinging to the valleys. Beyond, mountains rose, virginal snow glittering on the peaks. It felt like the dawn of time. Perhaps it was.
Is this Aotearoa … or someplace else? Mat had no idea. Riki went down on his haunches beside him, as they searched for landmarks in the alien landscape below. Mat made out a distant tendril of black smoke, rising from the plateau below, maybe five kilometres away. He pointed it out.
‘Byron, maybe?’ He looked sideways at Riki. ‘Mate, I wish you hadn’t come.’
Riki was unrepentant. ‘You know, the way I see it is that Tawhaki needed his cuzzie with him, at least part of the way. Maybe he wouldn’t have won through without that help. So maybe that’s the real lesson of the story. You ever thought of that?’
Mat had, but he’d dismissed it. ‘The sidekick always dies, Riki.’
‘Yeah, well. I’ve been thinking about that, and the way I see it is this: you’re a capable young man, Mat. Don’t under-rate yourself: I reckon you’ll be OK.’
Te Papa
The storm was directly above, and the gales slammed into the giant concrete-and-glass exterior of Te Papa museum. Wiri could see the windows bowing, distorting the lights they reflected. He was on the fourth floor, in the marae, a futuristic vision of Maoritanga with heat-shaped wood-panels that had been formed into flowing designs, and painted in a rainbow panoply of colours. Some traditionalists had been critical, but Wiri liked it. So far as he could see, culture had to live and breathe, and that meant adapting to new things also. Te Papa itself was a new type of museum, presenting treasure of the past in new and different ways, using all manner of technology. Preserving the past didn’t mean that you did not find new ways of presenting it. ‘The future is the history we’re about to have,’ someone had commented to him once, and he liked that thought.
Wiri was something of a living embodiment of new and old blending together, having been born centuries ago, died and been brought back, first as a slave-spirit, and then again as a living, breathing man. He’d been a chief’s son in the Waikato, but here he was a humble security guard and without a doubt these past couple of years had been the happiest. He’d had to learn so many new things, but the best of those Kelly and little Nikau had taught him: how to be a husband and a father.
And we’re going to have another child. That glowing thought warmed him all the way through, and he found himself smiling out at the storm.
There was a balcony outside, overlooking the harbour. He could see it through the glass doors, lit by flashes of lightning every few seconds. He liked to watch the sun come up from out there, lighting up the harbour. The last act of the night shift, before heading home. He did enjoy this shift, even if it did mess up the rhythm of his days with Kelly.
‘Are we going to spend all night in this travesty?’ his companion grumbled.
While Wiri was fully reconciled to change, Fitzy wasn’t. The little turehu might change shape, but he wasn’t a fan of changing times. Right now he was in his true form, a grotesque little waddling goblin, about a metre tall, looking like a tikicarving come to life, with big reflective eyes and a beak-like nose and mouth.
‘Security camera,’ Wiri reminded the little turehu, jerking a thumb at the little metal box in the corner of the ceiling. Te Papa was full of them.
‘I know it’s there and I’m being careful,’ Fitzy sniffed. ‘It can’t see me unless I want it to.’ His true name was Whiati, but Kelly had named him ‘Fitzy’ after an All Blacks captain, and the name had stuck. He waggled his bare behind at the camera disdainfully. ‘Glass eyes can’t do the work of real ones. C’mon, let’s go back to the earthquake display.’ His favourite part of Te Papa was the earthquake simulation, in which a replica house was mechanically shaken every couple of minutes.
‘We’re not supposed to do the rides,’ Wiri reminded him. ‘We’re on duty.’
‘Spoil-sport.’
During the daytime, Te Papa employed lots of security and guides, but at night there were just a few people present. Tonight it was Mike in the control room with the camera monitors, and Wiri and a young Tongan called Sosefo patrolling. Sosefo was currently downstairs, but they were all linked by walkie-talkies. In the time Wiri had been here, there had been no real incidents; just the occasional drunken kid outside who needed an ambulance, or taggers trying to spray-paint the walls. But there were literally millions of dollars’ worth of artefacts in the museum, and security was taken very seriously.
‘Wiri?’ Mike’s voice crackled from his WT.
He thumbed the device to speak. ‘I’m here.’
‘You know a woman called Everalda van Zelle?’
‘Sure.’ He frowned. What’s she doing here?
‘She’s downstairs with Sosefo, wanting to speak with you.’
‘OK, I’m on my way.’ Wiri looked at Fitzy. ‘Dog-shape, bro. We’ve got a visitor.’
He hurried through the display of Maori treasures, the Mana Whenua, and out into the central space beside the Treaty display, all dark but for the footlights. An open space dropped to the second floor, more than twenty metres below, and there were stairs beyond. He took them two at a time, Fitzy in labrador form pacing him. Level Three was small in terms of the public area, with lots of sealed-off office and storage space, Level Two contained displays on the natural environment, and Level One was mostly foyer, a shop and the huge car park. As he descended the broad stairs to the foyer, Wiri could see Evie van Zelle waiting with Sosefo. The Tongan was a big, solid man, who played prop for his rugby
team and looked like he could bench-press a truck.
‘She was banging on the doors and yelling for you,’ Sosefo told him, more amused than annoyed.
Wiri looked the girl up and down. Evie’s mop of light brown curly hair framed a determined face with a patch over her left eye. She was bundled up in a puffy green jacket, which was wet from the rain. He had met her only once, in February during the chase for Asher Grieve and the original Treaty document. She’d impressed him then, but he was wary of her, for the very strong reason that she was Puarata and Donna Kyle’s daughter. After the mess that those two had made of his own life, it was hard not to believe that blood would out, especially bad blood like hers. That she was here now, when Mat had been trying to avoid her due to the Aroha situation, made him doubly cautious.
‘Can you give us a moment, Sos?’ he asked the big Tongan, then drew the girl aside. ‘Hi, Everalda. What are you doing here?’
Her single eye met his. ‘The cards brought me.’
He knew what she was, so he didn’t laugh. ‘Explain.’
‘The quest for Aroha has begun. Mat’s already gone into the sky, and Riki, too.’
Wiri swore softly. That Mat’s quest had begun was concerning enough, but that Riki — with none of Mat’s magical advantages — had gone with him was frightening. They both should have known better. ‘I thought it was supposed to happen in December?’
She shook her head. ‘Kiki changed the game. Mat was only just able to make it.’
Wiri felt his chest tighten with apprehension. ‘Go on.’
‘Byron has also left. But Kiki has other plans. He’s preparing for Byron’s return by triggering something, some kind of disaster that will break the hold of the authorities over society.’
‘What kind of disaster?’
‘I don’t know: but he’s on his way here.’
Wiri stiffened. ‘Here? To Te Papa? You’re sure?’