Show Me a Huia!

by Chris Barfoot

  In other words the response was almost entirely political.

  An article in the Herald caught her eye.

  NEW ZEALAND RIPE FOR BLOODLESS COUP?

  It is often assumed that real change in society can only come through democratic processes. This is to assume that a particular political way of doing things is the best and only way for our society. Yet in history many revolutions have brought progress and some have been non-violent. Take for example, the Glorious or Bloodless Revolution of 1688 whereby public-spirited Englishmen replaced the Catholic Stuart King James II with the Protestant William of Orange. It is believed that such bloodless coups could never happen in a democratic country like New Zealand, but history gives no such assurance. Let these examples be a salutary reminder to our present Government, lest it take too far its pandering to a minority group which has adopted a policy of highway terror to press its claims. Let it remember that the political process rests ultimately not in the Government but in the people itself.

  This article was written by a senior member of the Department of Political Science at a leading North Island university. It was even supported in the following issues by the majority of the readers. She noticed that the supporting letters were similar in their arguments and in the historical facts which they quoted.

  So there was talk of a coup, and ominously it was to come from the people – in other words from outside Parliament. Was there a hidden group of conspirators or “sleepers”? If so, who were they?

  And what could this possibly have to do with the huia sanctuary?

  She gathered up her notes and photocopied items and glanced across to the research room again. The elderly grey-haired Pakeha men did not look up. They appeared to be assiduously and silently gathering material on their long-forgotten forbears.

  Or were they writing letters to the paper?

  Why were there so many of them? And why did they all look alike? Were they really working on family history? Retired Pakeha men were formidable in political controversy. A pity that the older some of them got the more one-eyed they became.

  As she came down the stairs, she noticed a Maori woman with three small children at the counter getting some books out. She was fumbling in her bag for her card, but someone appeared to jostle her. Her bag fell on the floor and the contents spilled and were spread around. There were several Pakeha people standing with her at the counter, but no one moved. One of the children started to cry.

  For heaven’s sake!

  She dashed forward, gathered up the little bits and pieces and put them back in the bag. The contents were cheap and a little dirty and the bag was well worn. She also found the card and gave it to the attendant at the desk.

  “Thank you very much,” came the soft, gentle voice.

  As she went out the door, she heard the quite audible comment from a thin-lipped, well-dressed European woman, “Why help those people?”

  ***

  It was a perfect summer’s afternoon at Achilles Point. People were swimming at St Heliers Beach, there were beach umbrellas on the sand and a few windsurfers curvetting in the light breeze off the shore. All in front of her the channel sparkled in shades of blue and green and purple. Northwards in her mind’s eye she saw its waters lapping on a succession of golden beaches all the way up to Whangaparaoa. Eastwards beyond Te Waiarohia-o-Ngai Tai, “the panoramic waters of Ngai Tai”, known as Musick Point, the Tamaki Strait shimmered in the summer haze, and ranged across the horizon were the green-brown islands of the gulf. There was Motutapu, the sacred island, Motuihe, the jewel of the gulf, Motukorea, the island of the oyster-catcher, Waiheke, stretching lazily with its gentle brown hills to the east, and looming beyond it all the misty blue eminence of Moehau – where the wind slept. Then lastly, right opposite her and dominating the whole scene like some benign kaitiaki or guardian was Rangitoto, its mysterious, perfectly symmetrical volcanic cone rising skywards, clothed with its magical green and blue-hued cloak.

  It was all so beautiful. The “City of Sails”, where a thousand yachts glided on the sparkling waters of Waitemata. Tamaki Makarau, “Tamaki desired by many”, where gardens blazed in a riot of summer colour on the rich volcanic soil. Auckland, a city of wide cultural and racial variety, where people came in their different canoes from the islands, from Europe, from Asia, from Africa, to live together in peace.

  Yet once this isthmus had been a place where twenty-two volcanoes had wreaked a holocaust of death and destruction.

  Suddenly a black cloud came from nowhere and covered the sun. She felt a chill. Rangitoto had metamorphosed. Now it loomed up out of a purple sea, dark, sinister and menacing, no longer a benevolent kaitiaki but a boding figure of impending doom.

  She shuddered. Did she imagine that the previous occupants of Auckland had once beheld another horror? Rangitoto, meaning red sky or sky blood. That was how they remembered Auckland’s most recent volcano.

  Then she thought back to all those sickening letters and articles.

  What is happening to our beloved Tamaki Makaurau?

  CHAPTER 20

  It was a curious experience being the victim of a highway assault.

  Susan McAndrew took some weeks to recover from the trauma of the hold-up and the assault. At first she was more concerned about Jim’s recovery, but his head injuries were not serious and his other wounds had soon healed sufficiently for him to return to work. She, who was more often at home, had time to reflect.

  Her friends had called around or phoned or written. Some of them took the view that the best comfort to her was the knowledge that the offenders would be severely dealt with, preferably by the infliction of the same injuries. However, as the offenders were nowhere to be found, let alone dealt with, this did not help.

  In addition, she and Jim received a visit from an anonymous public-spirited group which was initiating local and political action about the hold-ups. They were told that their membership, like the visit, would be entirely confidential.

  “You can use my name,” said Jim. “Anything to stop the bastards.”

  Susan was uneasy. “What’s this you say in your pamphlet about Maori terrorism?”

  The answer did not satisfy her. She had not signed because she did not like the idea of her name being used in a campaign which could be described as racist. She was working with Maori women in Plunket and knew that they were just as concerned as she was about the attacks. Moreover, she felt a sense of inadequacy over the identification of the assailants. Because Jim had been knocked unconscious, the police had to rely on her. Yet it had been dark, the shock of the assault and her fear of a personal attack had stunned her, and afterwards there was the delayed shock.

  She recalled the interview with Detective Inspector Molloy and Sergeant Piriaka.

  “I know it’s distressing for you, Mrs McAndrew, but have you any memories of the appearance of the people who assaulted you?”

  “They all had balaclavas and masks. The only person I saw closely was the one who pulled me out of the car. He was a big man, a Maori, very strong.”

  “If he had a balaclava on, how did you know he was Maori?” Sergeant Piriaka had asked.

  “He had brown skin and tattoos on his arm, and when he spoke it was with that Maori intonation.”

  “What happened when he pulled you out of the car?”

  “He had hold of my hair and I tried to scratch his arm with my finger nails.”

  “Did he loosen his grip?”

  Yes, he wrenched his arm away, and all I got was some of his paint in my fingernail.”

  “Paint?” asked Sergeant Piriaka.

  “War paint,” explained the Inspector. “Apparently they put it on before each assault. It’s a custom before going into battle – like the haka.”

  The Maori sergeant seemed pleased at his chief’s knowledge of Maori customs.

  There the interview had ended. They had mentioned the possibility of an identification parade, but this had not eventuated, and Susan was relieved because t
he thought of being face to face again with a possible assailant was terrifying.

  ***

  “You won’t know me, Mrs McAndrew, but I’m an accountant and the Secretary of the Ornithological Society.”

  “Ornithological Society?” The voice sounded puzzled.

  “I have a query about the recent highway attacks, and I was wondering if I could come and speak to you.”

  To Kate’s surprise Mrs McAndrew did not ask for further explanations and was happy to make an appointment.

  The house was in a tree-lined Epsom street, a comfortable bungalow with beam ceilings and an oregon-panelled entrance hall. Kate had parked her Ford Cortina outside and was in her smart grey business suit. Susan McAndrew turned out to be a bright, cheerful woman, probably in her late forties.

  “I hope your husband is feeling better.”

  “Back at work already, and we’ve got a new car too. There was a public appeal as well as the insurance money. People have been so good.”

  “I’m so glad he’s recovered. But I do have a little question. You see, I’ve been doing some quite unofficial research. I’m really sorry to bring it all up again.”

  The voice was more guarded. “I’ve given a report to the police. Still, what was the question?”

  “I’m curious about the assailants. You must be concerned that they have never been identified.”

  “I’m sure the police are doing their best.”

  “Were you sure that they were Maori?”

  “That’s curious, it’s just what Sergeant Piriaka asked.”

  Kate listened with interest to Susan McAndrew’s account of her interview with the police.

  “What colour was the paint in your nail?”

  “It was browny.”

  “Did Sergeant Piriaka make any comment?”

  “No, but Inspector Molloy said it was war paint, and I think the sergeant was quite impressed.”

  “I suppose they have to psych themselves up for something like that.” She stood up. “Thank you very much, Mrs McAndrew. I hope raising the matter again hasn’t been upsetting for you?”

  “Not at all.” The tone was pleasant, though a little mystified.

  CHAPTER 21

  You wouldn’t want to go off the road here!

  Carefully David crept round the outside of a hairpin bend, sounding his horn as he went. There was hardly room for another car to pass and a few feet away was a long, almost sheer drop down to where the long rollers crashed in white foam over the black rocks and the seagulls screeched.

  Where on earth has Pataratara got to?

  He remembered the coast from childhood holidays. He had camped there with his parents. They, knowing that the best sites, usually on headlands, were likely to be urupa or burial grounds, had always asked the local Maori beforehand where they could camp. He remembered one holiday in a pohutukawa-fringed bay right up the coast. There had been a Maori family nearby who had been very good to them, shown them the best fishing places and dropped in a few crayfish.

  This coast was part of the Maori as it never could be part of Pakeha. The Maori had an understanding with the sea. They knew every reef, every ledge, every rock, every islet and every fruitful hole. They respected it, and in turn it yielded them its harvest of kai moana.

  He remembered the rivers too, the wide, stony beds and the strong bridges that spoke of fearsome torrents, the sullen, whirling grey waters, and the cold wind that swept down from the misty peaks of the Raukumaras. When you came to a river, there was a sudden change from the peaceful coastlands. These rivers had the mood of the mountains behind, wild, uncontrolled, fearsome. The Maori spoke of taniwha, the treacherous currents that could claim a life or sweep away a bank. He heard of the road which the river repeatedly washed away where it abutted on the river bed. It would have been better if the Pakeha road builders had consulted the local whanau first, they said.

  Strange how he had forgotten it all, and seeing the coast again, it all came flooding back. But it was all in the past now, and those same properties where they had camped with friendly permission were beginning to have large notices and padlocked gates. Even some roads to beaches were being blocked off and large notices advised that access and camping was only with the permission of some Trust Board or other.

  It was a less friendly place. In fact all of New Zealand was a less friendly place.

  PATARATARA LODGE

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  BEWARE GUARD DOGS

  The large white notice was placed on two heavy wrought-iron gates in a high split-stone wall which was built right across a headland on the seaward side of the road. The wall was about eight feet high.

  His colleague in the Law Department had said Dr Hawthorne liked to be private here. The locals said they were never invited.

  It was seven o’clock Thursday.

  He eased the red Honda Accord into a grove of puriri, well beyond the little headland so that it was hidden from the road, climbed up the hill on the inland side of the road and checked his map. On the map, the headland enclosed a bay and in the bay were the old wharf and the deep-water anchorage. This was apparently part of the marine reserve which Dr Hawthorne policed. The configuration of the headland was such that neither the wharf nor the anchorage could be seen from the road or the shore outside the property.

  He drove back to the little flat at the head of the bay. There was no stream here, but a valley or natural depression led a short way up into the bush and ended in a bluff. It was a pleasant, level place, grassy, with puriri and karaka trees dotted around, and it looked almost landscaped. Then he saw the notice, in the same style as the one at the gates.

  PATARATARA LODGE.

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  ABSOLUTELY NO CAMPING

  DO NOT PARK OR WALK ON THIS LAND WITHOUT PERMISSION.

  It looks as if Dr Hawthorne owns all of this bay and on both sides of the road.

  Keeping himself hidden in the trees, he quickly walked up to the head of the depression and examined the bluff. It was limestone. Excitedly he climbed round the side and up to the top of the bluff, looking for caves and slits. The surface, like the surface of the flat, appeared to be landscaped. There was evidence of karaka and kohekohe having been planted in several places relatively recently.

  This place is very tidy.

  Eight-thirty. The long summer day was drawing to an end. He drove up a few yards and parked the Honda off the road among some trees, stretched his sleeping bag out on the back seat, and munched a ginger nut, wishing he’d had more than a snack in Opotiki. He could just see the little flat from between the trees.

  There were very few cars now. He heard a vehicle approaching from the Opotiki direction and then a black Land Rover appeared round the corner and stopped alongside the notice. He picked out the lettering, “Pataratara Marine Reserve”. Two men got out, dressed neatly in golf shirts and white shorts. They separated and walked swiftly over the flat and in and around the groves of trees. In a few minutes they had between them covered its whole area. Without any word or sign they got back into the Land Rover and headed in the direction of Pataratara Lodge. Shortly afterwards, he heard a faint whirring sound like electronically controlled gates opening, then the revving of an engine and another similar whirring sound.

  So these are the private rangers. Very thorough too.

  Eleven o’clock. It had been dark for an hour or so. The cars had long ceased to run on the lonely road. The moreporks had begun to sound back in the bush. The crickets had started their plaintive singing. Down below in the bay the water was lapping gently on the rocks.

  David was tired after his long, hot drive down from Auckland. Yet he could not sleep. The landscaped limestone bluff kept coming back into his mind, as did the notice and the two private rangers who had searched the little flat to make sure there were no campers. It was very smartly run.

  Dr Hawthorne had bought it three years ago – at the same time as Tane had disappeared. If the limestone bluff he had inspected
was continuous with the Waitoa limestone, the old course of the Waitoa might just have come out here. But there was nothing that gave any evidence of such a possibility. The landscaped grounds, the notices, the elaborate security were typical of the private lifestyle which New Zealand’s rich and famous were increasingly requiring at their elaborate holiday mansions.

  Perhaps if he played his cards right, he might even be invited here in the future.

  He walked down to the flat and up the hill. The heavy iron gates were securely locked. Alongside in the wall was an electronic control box where you keyed in a number. What should he do? Did he make contact? “I’m sorry to wake you but I’m Dr David Corbishley. I’ve come to check out this property briefly for an underground outlet before I go to Australia, even though Dr Hawthorne told me there isn’t one.” Or should he say “I’m Dr David Corbishley, I’m a consultant to one of Dr Hawthorne’s overseas clients. Do you mind if I have a quick look around his property?”

  To tell the truth he had never anticipated this situation, and the more he thought of it, the more ridiculous it became. Who am I? Investigating all possibilities like a good scientist. Does this justify me in sneaking round a client’s property? He laughed out loud. It was surreal.

  “Keep to rocks!” His own advice to Tane. Just common sense. He thought of Dr Magnusson. What a future lay before him if he played his cards right!

  And I don’t want to miss that flight to Australia tomorrow night.

  He turned as if to go back. Then he thought of Tane. That piteous upturned face and the appeal in his eyes. He found himself eyeing the wall curiously. He never knew what got into him next. There was a puriri growing near the wall. As a boy he could not resist tree climbing. Impetuously he swung himself up on a branch to look inside the grounds. He saw that the top of the wall was covered with broken glass. Carefully he manoeuvred himself along the branch until he could put one foot on the wall, then the other, placing them gingerly between the shards of glass. On the other side was a grove of ancient pohutukawa. There was no branch to climb down. Without even a thought he jumped and landed with springing knees on a carpet of the Christmas blooms which had recently fallen. He could smell the honeyed nectar.