Amber

by Deborah Challinor

  But the figure merely broke into a jog, although not before Kitty had realised that Amber’s abductor was a woman, and that there was something vaguely familiar about her heavy but powerful gait. She set off after them, her boots slipping and sliding on the muddy track.

  She had been running for almost five minutes when she came to a fork and knelt to inspect the mud for footprints: they were there, a clear set made by wide bare feet, but where the track branched they stopped, as though whoever had made them had vanished into thin air. Kitty stifled a groan and remained very still, straining to hear any sound that might indicate the direction the abductor had taken. But there were only the normal rustling sounds of the bush.

  After a long minute Kitty stood and walked a couple of paces along the left-hand track, looking for bent branches, broken twigs, fresh fallen leaves—any sign that might suggest something had recently passed by. But there was nothing. She did the same along the other track, but again there was nothing. She bit her lip and blinked back tears, wishing she had Hawk with her—Hawk, who could track anything anywhere.

  The sharp crack of a twig made her whirl around, aiming her pistol at the undergrowth. Holding her breath, she steadied her pistol hand with the other, but when nothing more happened, she stepped forward cautiously and peered into the bushes.

  A kiwi stared back up at her, its small black eyes blinking resentfully in the sunlight before it turned and shuffled further into the gloom, presumably to return to sleep.

  Kitty let her breath out, turned to the fork in the track again and withdrew from her jacket a pocket compass she’d purchased in Auckland. She flipped up the smooth brass lid and watched as the needle wavered, then settled. Then she turned the compass so that the needle sat over the reading for north, which told her that the left-hand track headed south-west, while the other went north-west. Neither direction could be guaranteed, of course, because the tracks could change direction at any stage, but Kitty felt a surge of hope as she contemplated the track on the right. Hadn’t Haunui mentioned a rumour about Heke and Kawiti building a new pa at Ohaeawai? And Ohaeawai, she knew, was inland and slightly south-west of Paihia, which meant that it lay directly north-west of where she was now. If whoever had Amber was in cahoots with the rebel Maoris—and who else was likely to steal a child belonging to Pakehas?—then it stood to reason that they were probably heading for Ohaeawai. Kitty pocketed the compass and ran off along the right-hand track, praying that the abductor was in fact ahead of her.

  After more than forty minutes, her lungs felt as though they might tear themselves out of her chest and the stitch in her side had become unbearable. Cursing her diminished physical fitness, she slowed and then stopped, bent at the waist and hoicking inelegantly to clear her throat. Then all of a sudden she remembered Simon. He would surely have returned to their camp by now and be wondering where on earth she and Amber had got to. Would he come looking for them? She knew he’d be desperately worried, and cursed herself for not thinking to leave even a scribbled note.

  She straightened and stretched painfully, the muscles made stiff from riding complaining mightily at being exerted even further, and then took a moment to review her surroundings. Her resting place was on the crest of a steep hill, and in the gully below ran a small stream bordered by rocks and scrub and, a short distance upstream, a wide fan of what appeared to be freshly fallen debris. A movement caught her eye and she squinted, her heart leaping as Amber’s kidnapper stepped out of the scrub and knelt to drink from the stream. The little girl had a rope tied around her neck and, when she made a move to break away, the kidnapper viciously jerked the rope and Amber sprawled onto her side.

  Kitty stifled her cry of outrage and, bent double to avoid attracting attention, moved along the exposed ridge to the point where the track began its descent into the gully. But she was dismayed to discover that the track itself had gone, washed away by the recent heavy rains, leaving only a vast, eroded, scree-covered slope extending to the bottom of the hill. The bush on either side was thick and tangled, and Kitty knew it would take too long to pick her way down through it.

  She quickly emptied her outside pockets, shoving everything inside her jacket, removed the ball from the pistol and jammed it back into her belt, buttoned the jacket itself, and prepared to launch herself onto the scree. In the second before she jumped, however, she glanced down into the gully. The kidnapper had seen her.

  But it was too late—Kitty was already on her way. She soon discovered that remaining upright was going to be very difficult. She went over once and managed to scramble wildly back up again, but halfway down the slope, a hissing avalanche of small rocks preceding her, her feet went out from under her a second time and she crashed heavily onto her back, her head connecting sharply with a lump of rock.

  For a moment after regaining consciousness, Kitty had no idea where she was. Then she remembered and let out an involuntary cry of fear and despair. Her head was pounding atrociously, and when she gingerly probed at the base of her skull her hand came away sticky with congealing blood. Oh God, how long had she been knocked out? Glancing up at the sun, hazy behind low, grey cloud, she was relieved to note that it had barely moved across the sky.

  Feeling too dizzy and nauseous to stand, she slithered the rest of the way down the hill on her backside, her fingernails clogging with dirt as she used her hands to steady herself. At the bottom she sat for a moment, then crawled to the stream and ducked her head completely beneath the water. It was extremely cold and bit viciously at the wound at the back of her skull, but the shock of it helped to clear away the fogginess that was threatening to overwhelm her. She took a long and welcome drink.

  In a few minutes she began to feel better, although her head hurt like hell and she’d torn several fingernails to the quick on her left hand. She’d lost the tie binding her hair, so she used her right hand to comb the wet strands back from her forehead, then checked the inside pockets of her jacket to make sure that nothing had been lost or damaged. The small powder horn and bag of lead balls were still there, as was the compass, although the glass over the dial had cracked. Her short, bone-handled knife was still in her boot, but had left a small purple gouge on her ankle, and her pistol was secure beneath her belt. But the latest letter from Rian, which she’d folded into the breast pocket of her shirt, had gone. She turned and squinted up the slope; was that a piece of note paper snagged in a bush near the summit, or simply the pale underside of a leaf? She briefly debated fetching the precious missive, then shook her head. She might be able to climb back up, but she doubted she could get down again in one piece, and, she thought desperately—Amber needs me. Repeating those three words over and over, she reloaded and primed the pistol.

  When she was sure her legs would support her, and the stabbing pain in her head had subsided to a dull throb, she waded across the stream and began the long climb up the hill, water squelching from her boots and her torn fingers smarting. At the top, after stopping several times to catch her breath and wait for waves of dizziness to wash over her, she stood and surveyed the terrain that unfolded to the north-west. Below, and slightly to her right, snaked the Kawakawa River. Had it only been the day before that she, Amber and Simon had crossed it with such giddy bravado? To the left of the river lay mile after mile of dense rolling bush, and somewhere, hidden beneath its lofty canopy, was Amber.

  The river—yes! She would follow the river inland: paddle up it, in fact, if she could find a waka or a rowboat. That would take her some miles past Kawakawa, and then she could continue on to Ohaeawai on foot.

  But an unpleasant little voice in Kitty’s head suddenly said: But what if Amber’s being taken somewhere completely different, and you won’t see her again and you’ll never know what happened to her?

  ‘But it must be Ohaeawai they’re heading for,’ Kitty countered aloud, saying it with enough force to drown out the other voice. She had been putting together snippets of information she’d heard in recent months, and now had a strong suspici
on she knew who Amber’s abductor was. Her mouth set in a line of fierce resolve: if she was right, then she would have no compunction at all in doing whatever it took to get Amber back.

  Heartened by her own sense of determination, she set off in the direction of the river.

  It took Kitty longer than she had expected. By the time she reached the southern bank of the Kawakawa, at a spot several miles further inland than where they had crossed the previous day, the sun was beginning its late afternoon slide towards the western hills. Now all she needed was a boat of some sort. She knew that small ‘communal’ waka were often left on the riverbanks for people who wanted to cross without getting themselves or their possessions wet, and she’d been praying for the last few hours that there would be one somewhere near the point at which she emerged from the bush.

  However, there was nothing on either side of the river as far as she could see in either direction, so she set off again, heading inland, at times wading through the shallows when the bush crowded her off the narrow track bordering the water.

  But as she rounded a bend almost an hour later, she spied some thing that made her spirit leap with triumph—a small waka, beached on the bank, with a single oar propped against the prow. She hurried towards it, her boots slipping in the mulch of wet, fallen leaves littering the track, and was only yards away when she heard a human voice—an angry human voice, as though someone was indulging in a good telling-off. Her heart racing, she ducked for cover.

  A moment later, two people appeared on the bank near the beached waka—one, her back to Kitty, was the kidnapper, and the other was Amber, once again tucked under an arm. The little girl was struggling, and for her efforts was receiving a rain of blows about the head, which served only to make her struggle and kick out even more energetically.

  In Maori, the kidnapper demanded fiercely, ‘Stop that! Now, get in the waka before I drown you.’

  Kitty’s rage rose like a boiling red tide. Launching herself from the shelter of the trees, she bellowed, ‘Put her down!’

  The kidnapper slowly turned and Kitty recognised her immediately. She was a little older, of course, and had grown heavier, but it was definitely her.

  Amber cried out, ‘Mama!’ and the woman clamped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Amiria,’ Kitty croaked, her voice thick with anger and fear.

  Hoisting Amber more securely under her arm, Amy moved a few steps closer. ‘Ae, you remember me,’ she said.

  ‘Of course I remember you,’ Kitty spat. ‘How could I ever forget?’

  Amy shrugged, raising her heavy, slanted brows. The rims of her eyes were red, as though she hadn’t slept for some time. ‘Wai was a long time ago. She is dead. What do you care now?’

  ‘I care because she was my friend, Amy. And what you did contributed to her death.’

  ‘No,’ Amy said petulantly, and then she laughed, a horrible, high, cackling sound. ‘The baby of the Pakeha minita did that, not me. He should not have lain with someone as silly and as weak as Wai, he should have lain with me! I was the one worthy of him, not her!”

  It was then that Kitty realised that there was something terribly wrong with Amy’s mind. Very slowly, she took a step towards her.

  ‘Do not move!’ Amy warned. She stood Amber on the ground, holding her still by her hair. A trickle of blood ran across Amy’s palm from what appeared to be a bite wound.

  ‘Mama!’ Amber wailed again.

  Kitty hesitated. ‘What do you want with the child?’

  ‘She is yours, is she not,’ Amy said. It was a statement, not a question. ‘I have been watching you for days, you and the Pakeha man. I have been watching.’

  Amber suddenly tried to twist away. Amy slapped her across the side of the head and she went limp, crouching on the muddy ground, the ends of her hair still tangled in Amy’s fist.

  ‘Amy, please, let her go,’ Kitty pleaded, suddenly desperate. ‘What can you want with her?’

  ‘To trade,’ Amy said simply.

  Kitty stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘When the next battle comes, at Ohaeawai, there will be prisoners. We will trade this one for one of ours.’

  Kitty felt cold fingers dance down her spine. ‘Amy, who is we?’

  ‘Who is we?’ Amy parroted. ‘Who is we?! We are the greatest army ever to face the Queen’s men! We are the saviours of the Maori race, and we will not rest until every Pakeha skin has been banished from this land!’ And she launched into a vicious haka, hissing and springing from one foot to the other and throwing out her arms, jerking Amber about by her hair like a life-sized doll.

  ‘Stop!’ Kitty cried. She thought furiously. ‘Amy, what value can a child have?’

  ‘One of yours for one of ours!’

  ‘But I’m not part of the fighting! I’m looking for my husband!’

  A tiny flicker of doubt appeared in Amy’s eyes. ‘No. You are fighting for the Queen. I have a prisoner already. Kawiti will be pleased.’

  Kitty took a tentative step closer.

  Amy yanked Amber in front of her and a second later a blade glinted in her hand. ‘Come closer and I will slit her throat!’

  Kitty froze. Oh God, what should she do? But then Amy did something that made up her mind for her—she passed the sharp blade of the knife across Amber’s throat, leaving behind the shallowest of cuts. A single bead of blood began to trickle into the little girl’s collar.

  With her own blood roaring in her ears, Kitty snatched the pistol from her belt, cocked it and aimed it at Amy’s face. ‘Let her go or I will shoot, I swear it.’

  ‘You do not have the strength to do that,’ Amy sneered. ‘You never did.’

  Nothing moved for several seconds, not even the wind in the trees, then Kitty squeezed the trigger and a ragged red hole appeared in the centre of Amy’s forehead. For a moment she looked comically surprised, then crashed onto her back, her legs spread and the knife spinning off into the undergrowth. She twitched once, then lay still.

  Kitty sank to her knees, sure she was going to be sick, the pistol on the ground before her.

  Amber ran over and snatched it up, aimed it at Amy’s dead body and shouted, ‘Ka mate!’

  Then Kitty gathered her in her arms, smelling the sharp tang of fear in the child’s sweat, and hugged her tightly, rocking her gently back and forth. Slowly, as the minutes passed, their heartbeats gradually returned to normal.

  Kitty was immensely grateful for the comfort of the little warm body pressed against her chest. She knew she would never be the same again. She had deliberately taken a life, and that knowledge would stay with her forever. But in truth she felt very little regret, which startled and frightened her. Amy had threatened Amber’s life, therefore she had to be stopped: it had seemed so clear and simple when she pulled the trigger, and it seemed no more complicated now. Is this what love for a child means? A willingness to go to any lengths to protect and deliver from harm? If so, then she could accept this unexpected and violent turn of events. And in that moment, she also knew she would kill again if she had to.

  Amber’s lips tickled Kitty’s cheek as she whispered, ‘Mama?’

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ Kitty replied, smoothing Amber’s hair away from her grubby face and turning to see what had caught her daughter’s eye.

  There stood a heavily tattooed man, the muzzle of his musket pointed directly at them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The warrior reached down and deftly removed the pistol from Amber’s grasp, then gestured at her and Kitty to stand. As Kitty got shakily to her feet, fresh fear surging through her, but she retained enough wit to slip the compass unseen from her own pocket into Amber’s, and breathe ‘Kahore korero’ into her ear, praying that she understood the words and kept silent. Better, in fact, if they both feigned ignorance of the Maori language.

  The man gave a whistle that sounded exactly like the call of a kokako, and two more warriors stepped soundlessly from the bush. They were kitted out for war in maros, garme
nts like short aprons, and not much else, and it was clear to Kitty that they belonged to either Hone Heke or Kawiti. She sincerely hoped they weren’t Kawiti’s men: the chief had lost a son in the battle at Puketutu and would surely be in no mood for carting a Pakeha woman and a scruffy half-caste child about the countryside, regardless of Amy’s comments about the usefulness of prisoners.

  One of the warriors approached Amy’s body, spread-eagled on the narrow shore with one arm trailing in the water, and prodded hesitantly at her flank with the barrel of his musket.

  ‘Ka mate,’ he said in an unnerving echo of Amber’s earlier proclamation.

  The others grunted, apparently not in the least perturbed by Amy’s death.

  The first man eyed Kitty, then gruffly ordered in Maori, ‘Shoes off.’

  Kitty pretended she didn’t understand him.

  ‘Shoes!’ the man repeated, and pointed agitatedly at her boots, then at his own bare feet. ‘Off!’

  Then Kitty was suddenly sitting on the ground again while one of the warriors wrestled with her bootlaces.

  ‘I will do it!’ she snapped in English, and very reluctantly removed her boots. The knife she had been concealing fell out onto the sand.

  No one said anything, but the first man reached roughly into her pockets, emptied them and tucked the contents into the waistband of his maro, then barked, ‘Ngaru, Hapi—prepare the waka.’

  The two clearly subordinate warriors shoved their way into a thicket of bushes near the river’s edge and set to dragging out armfuls of nikau branches that were concealing a second waka, somewhat larger than the one Kitty had been intending to steal. Grunting, they hauled it out and shunted it towards the river so that the stern sat in the water.

  ‘Get in,’ the first man said to Kitty, and gestured at the waka.

  ‘Wiripo, what about the body?’ Ngaru asked the leader.

  Wiripo glanced at Amy’s prostrate form and frowned.

  ‘Leave her, she was mad,’ Hapi said, waving his hand about his head and making a strange face.