Show Me a Huia!

by Chris Barfoot

  Kate, standing on the outside of this group, was furious. Something had happened in her, and she felt detached from the whole gathering. She couldn’t help thinking about Eleanor. The search for Stan and Bill had been called off. She couldn’t help thinking about the broken leatherwood on the Waitoa side of Devil’s peak.

  What was more important – birds or people?

  It was a strange question for a huia enthusiast to be asking. But within her mind an even stranger question was forming.

  She found herself observing Kevin more closely. The main thing she noticed about him was his air of seriousness. He spoke slowly and rather self-importantly in a boring monotone. Yet the man had achieved his greatest ambition in life, an achievement which to anyone else would be a dream. Why doesn’t he get excited? Why doesn’t he smile? “Gravest national importance!” How pompous can you get?

  Suddenly all her frustration boiled up against him. If he hadn’t discovered the huia, the search would not have been called off! Compared with Stan he’s a wimp!

  But there are some things he does get excited about, she thought darkly. What was that angry argument that John had spoken about, the one he had with Stan on Little Barrier?

  Dammit! I’ll stir him up!

  “Well spoken, Kevin,” she said, coming up close to him. “I was going to ask you what you think about Nga Tama’s proposal for the Waitoa Sanctuary?”

  “What’s that?” he said. “Nga-what?”

  She sensed a sharper tone in his voice.

  “Nga Tama. You know – that Maori group that are protesting about the huia. They’re saying the Maori people have a customary right to hunt the huia and to take its feathers because it is their royal bird. Therefore, if the Government wants them to give up this right, it has to pay them compensation.”

  As she looked carefully at him she noted the narrowing of the eyes and the deep vertical trough appearing between them, the thin lips setting in a tight straight line, the knuckles of the fists whitening. “It’s time they were put in their place! What on earth is the Government doing to allow that kind of blackmail?”

  Kate’s mind raced. She remembered Kevin’s presentation and a thought came to her so bizarre that she could hardly comprehend it.

  “What a beautiful bird in your photo! You couldn’t mistake it for a female huia. In fact, apart from the background, the absence of its mate and the way it’s facing, it’s identical to the Keulemans painting.”

  “What are you talking about? Keulemans? Never heard of him!” he said tersely.

  She was on the verge of saying, “He was the painter who did the original illustrations for Buller’s Birds,” but stopped short because she realised that something was terribly wrong with his answer. She looked around at the other faces in the group. When he denigrated the Maori activists, it was evident that some of them nodded approval and others saw nothing unusual in it. Moreover, most of these people were not ornithologists. The 1967 edition of Buller’s Birds was expensive and not widely known. The name Keulemans evidently did not mean anything to them, and besides they were intent on hero worship.

  But she knew from the Ornithological Society Librarian that Kevin had borrowed the book for a fortnight immediately before he left on his trip to the Raukumara. His special interest was the huia, he was a careful, studious man and in his research he was thorough. He would certainly have studied the section on the huia and the superb painting by Keulemans in the midst of the text, particularly for help in identification.

  The other curious thing was his failure to recognise her deliberate mistake in the gender. She had said “you couldn’t mistake it for a female huia” when she knew it had the longer beak and therefore was the female.

  She walked away, her heart thumping.

  Kevin Carr was glad the huia business was over. Any public appearance was a strain to him, but especially the interview for the documentary and speaking to the Alpine Sports Club.

  But one thing upset him particularly about last night and that was Kate Fairweather supporting the Maori terrorists. It was bad enough for the Maoris to be talking so much about their royal bird when all they had done was to hunt it to extinction.

  He was not normally an emotional man, but the Maori claims on wildlife and the conservation estate had in the last few years built up in him a deep, almost pathological anger. It had begun with the blocking of mountain and forest access because of disputed ownership and alleged wahi tapu and continued with the demand for customary rights to shoot native birds based on alleged treaty rights.

  This anger was so strong it was not easy to handle, but a lot of others felt the same and he knew where he could get help.

  As for that innuendo about his photo – that was a slander that he would see his solicitor about. But first of all, he would talk to the Director-General.

  He might also have to reconsider his membership of the Ornithological Society if people like Kate Fairweather continued to run it.

  Perhaps it was time he took a holiday.

  “I just rang to thank you for speaking to us last night.”

  The voice made Kevin’s blood pressure rise, but he held himself in.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking but I have another request. I’m doing an article for the Notornis, our journal, on the discovery and I thought it would be useful to get some background on the adventure tourist company you were advising and how you managed to get this appointment. More of a human interest story, you could call it.”

  The cunning of the woman appalled him. “As a matter of fact I do mind. I discussed the meeting last night with the Director-General with whom I am in daily contact. He has suggested that I give no more information to the Ornithological Society while you are Secretary.”

  “Really? Is there a reason?”

  “We feel that you are too close to the people who are trying to destroy the sanctuary.”

  “Why, that’s nonsense. The Wildlife Service has appointed me an advocate.”

  “The Director and I have also discussed that.”

  Kate felt she wanted to scream.

  Something beautiful had just been trampled on.

  Show me a huia!

  CHAPTER 18

  “Are you all right driving, Jim?”

  A few days before the New Year Jim and Susan McAndrew were returning to Auckland from Wanganui where they had spent Christmas with Susan’s mother. They had left later than planned, and darkness had already overtaken them on the hilly part of the road between Taumarunui and Te Kuiti. Susan at these times always regretted that she had never learned to drive.

  “We can always look for a motel in Te Kuiti.”

  Her husband grunted. “I’ll see how I go. Not much traffic tonight.”

  They were climbing a long hill. Suddenly, as they came around a bend, flashing lights shone on the road ahead of them.

  “Looks like an accident,” said Jim, slowing down.

  Two cars were slewed right across the road. Somebody was lying on the tar seal between them. There were several other figures huddled around, their bodies lit up eerily by the flashing hazard lights.

  Jim stopped and began to open the door.

  “Wait!” cried Susan. She had seen the body on the ground move. It leapt to its feet, brandishing a knife. The other figures moved away from the cars and rushed towards them. They wore balaclavas, their faces were masked and their arms heavily tattooed. They carried knives and baseball bats.

  “Lock the doors!” she cried. It was too late. The passenger door was wrenched open. She felt the horror of violent hands invading the car, touching her, clawing at her, tearing her clothes, pulling her hair. She fought back, biting, scratching, hitting; but it was no use. Numb with fear, she was dragged out of her seat and across the road and flung down into the grass. But what she feared did not occur. Jim too had been dragged out, but he had more strength and she saw him trying to wrestle his assailants. They only redoubled their blows until he collapsed and lay still in the middle of th
e road.

  “Oh, no!” she rushed to kneel beside him.

  Now she heard a new and sickening sound as baseball bats rained down on the car from all sides. Jim’s pride and joy, their gleaming near new Triumph 2000, looked as if it had been involved in a multiple-car crash.

  Helpless, she watched, unable to speak in sheer terror.

  Their work of destruction done, the masked figures drew back while one of them wrote on the car with spray paint. The man threw the can away, came close to Susan and spat at her.

  “Pakeha scum! You took our land. This is pay back,” he hissed.

  As Susan bent over her bleeding husband, she heard laughter and more taunts, doors were slammed, engines roared, and the two large and battered cars sped off down the road leaving a trail of expletives, screeching tyres and exhaust fumes.

  She looked at the wreck of their car. In the headlights of the last departing car she had read the crudely written words:

  MANIAPOTO REPUBLIC

  AKE! AKE! AKE!

  It was the challenge issued by Chief Rewi Maniapoto during the battle of the Orakau Pa, meaning “We will fight on for ever and ever!”

  ***

  “I know it’s serious, Sir, and we’re following up several leads at the moment. And I believe Jim McAndrew’s injuries were not serious.”

  Detective Inspector Ian Molloy of the Auckland C.I.B. held the phone in one hand and wiped his brow with the other. He and Detective Sergeant Piriaka had been working in the Te Kuiti area for sixteen hours. They had been sent down from Auckland because they had recently been investigating similar hold-up cases in Rotorua, Ruatoria and Turangi.

  “That’s not the point,” continued the Commissioner. “The media have been giving us hell. They’re saying that no one’s safe on the roads any more. What’s more, they’ve got hold of the fact that the police haven’t made any arrests. My Minister says it’s a political disaster. He’s accused of being soft on Maori thugs, and the Opposition are yelling law and order for all they’re worth. There’s even talk of a snap election.” Inspector Molloy swore under his breath. Why didn’t the Commissioner come up to Te Kuiti and find out for himself?

  “The name on the McAndrew car was Maniapoto Republic, but we’ve talked to the local marae at Te Kuiti, and they didn’t know anything about it. And we’ve been to the marae at Taumarunui and to the gangs at Taumarunui and Te Kuiti and it’s the same answer.”

  “The public have another view. Do you know that after each attack a vigilante group of beefy young Pakehas is formed in the area, and they call themselves the Highway Watch or some such name?”

  “Yes, they were demonstrating outside the marae at Te Kuiti and trying to tell us our job.”

  “It’s worse than that. They’re saying there are too many Maori in the force and they’re turning to private protection. Some Pakeha drivers are reported to keep a pistol under the driver’s seat when they go on roads where there have been assaults.”

  “Hmm, that won’t make our job any easier.”

  “Do something, Inspector.”

  “Sir.”

  Ian Molloy looked across the office to Sergeant Matthew Piriaka. “Any ideas?”

  “Only that the attackers are not very original.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Always night, always balaclavas, tattoos, knives, baseball bats, spray can, nearly always the same words, claiming rangatiratanga, same tag except that the Republic varies according to the tribal district – Arawa at Rotorua, Ngati Porou at Ruatoria, Tuwharetoa at Turangi, and now Maniapoto at Te Kuiti. The trouble is the victims are so scared they don’t notice anything.”

  “What are you getting at, Sergeant?”

  “It looks as if we’re watching not a hold-up but a performance.”

  Ian Molloy was an experienced detective who had been under cross-examination in many a closely fought court case and knew the value of hard, irrefutable evidence. He looked at the young Maori sergeant suspiciously. This was the sort of smart comment that he didn’t appreciate. “I don’t understand.”

  “Everyone says the hold-ups are political, all to do with Maori rights. I’m not so sure. I wonder if they’re only meant to look political.”

  Inspector Molloy growled. “Just cut out the politics, Sergeant. Get some proper evidence.”

  Matthew Piriaka walked slowly out to his car. He felt uncomfortable being Maori on this case. Some people had even suggested that he should be taken off because of racial bias. But it wasn’t just a police matter. He was Tainui. His ancestors had suffered under confiscation in the Waikato. It was impossible to be Maori and not feel some sympathy for the cause which the republics were supposedly drawing attention to, even though you didn’t go along with the violence.

  He was a New Zealander as much as a Maori. It was bad enough that the hold-ups were dividing his own people but worse still that the whole country was being ripped apart. And he was supposed not to notice it.

  Sometimes being a policeman made him sick.

  CHAPTER 19

  Kate sat on her settee drinking her fourth cup of coffee and fuming.

  Since the Alpine Sports Club meeting and her conversation with Kevin, she had hardly slept. Both by her profession as an accountant and by nature she was a person who prided herself on being organised and completely in control of a situation.

  Now her ordered world was disintegrating.

  She could no longer look at the Keulemans reproduction and had thrust it into the lowest corner of her desk. Her appointment pad for the day was empty. She had put her phone on answerphone and she didn’t bother to check the calls. What was the point? Any moment the phone call or message would come from Wildlife or Forestry to say that she had lost her advocacy job.

  That little Hitler! That jumped-up robot of a man! He’s a liar too!

  Then she told herself, Stop getting your knickers in a twist about that man. Calm down and start thinking!

  She put down her coffee and went to her desk for the Keulemans photo. She studied it long and hard with a microscope. After that she called up one of her friends in the Ornithological Society.

  “I’m going to write about Kevin for the Notornis. You’ve been on several trips with him. Would you mind giving me your own personal impressions?”

  Perhaps it was not quite honest. She didn’t feel at all like writing such an article in the Society’s magazine.

  After several calls she had found out nothing new. Kevin was a shy bachelor who lived on his own and his only interest appeared to be birds. It was not until the sixth call that she began taking notes.

  “Oh, he’s a whiz with his camera and video, but it’s the work which he does afterwards that’s amazing. I remember he showed us the video he did on Tiri. He was able to produce close-up shots of the kokako with them doing all sorts of things which we hadn’t seen.”

  She paused. The accomplishment was not surprising. The art of creating composite photos or scenes was increasingly important in the media, especially in TV advertisements, and was now being used by budding Alpine Sports Club film makers. Kevin was evidently up with the latest techniques.

  “Really,” she said and put the phone down slowly.

  What did Miss Marple say? “Motivation explains everything.” Everyone knew Kevin as a dedicated ornithologist. So he was. But no one knew him very well as a person. She recalled the deep line between the eyes, the hard, thin lips and the white knuckles on the fist when she asked her question about Nga Tama.

  Kevin had lied about the Keulemans painting. And he hadn’t corrected her mistake about the sex. Why? Because he was angry and didn’t think. And why did he get angry? Because he has a phobia about the Maori.

  But plenty of other Pakeha had the same phobia. Strong opinions about the Maori claims, especially to the conservation estate, were not uncommon in the mountain and tramping clubs. Some who held these views were her close friends. The so-called “Maori problem” had become the hot topic for the media, the talkbac
ks, the conversation in the street. It was all because of the hold-ups.

  The spate of Maori highway hold-ups had started three months before. Each wrecked car had on it the name of a particular Maori “republic”. Not one of the iwi named had publicly claimed responsibility for the attack, nor had the Nga Tama. But every hold-up had been followed by a flood of vituperation in the media correspondence columns and by a spate of angry calls on talkback. There had even been organised demonstrations outside Maori marae and one marae near Turangi had been destroyed by fire with arson suspected. She had been appalled by the level of redneck intolerance in the community. It even deterred those with contrary opinions from making their views known lest they be branded as wimps or pinkos. The talkback response was 90% anti-Maori.

  Motivation explains everything. Phobia about the Maori was a motivation for atypical behaviour. But could this include lying and the possible doctoring of the photo?

  In auditor’s language there was a discrepancy in the accounts.

  The Central Library newspaper room was fairly empty and fortunately there were no people there whom she knew. She took a look in the adjacent research room. Some elderly grey-haired Pakeha men were filling in their retirement days working on their genealogies. Again she was pleased that there were no accountancy clients or fellow ornithologists.

  For two hours that morning she worked away, photocopying items from the relevant papers. She hadn’t read much about the hold-ups before, but now she studied them systematically together with public response in the way of editorials, articles and letters to the editor.

  There was something unusual about the four hold-ups. In spite of the number of perpetrators and huge public reaction against them, the police had not succeeded in charging or arresting a single person. This had a noticeable effect on the type of media coverage. When a crime is committed, usually the media focus on the police activity to find the criminals and public requests by the police for information. In the hold-up cases you had to search to find any reference to what the police were doing. If they were mentioned at all, the publicity was derogatory. The papers instead were filled with angry letters and articles and strident political comment.