by Joanna Orwin
The man-eating bird landed on the roof of the trap and tried to reach the men inside. First its feet, then its wings became ensnared. Ruru and his companions then slew their enemy with clubs and adzes….’
Tāua Gray’s voice faded once more. Hamish didn’t like what he’d heard. He wished it would all go away, wished it wasn’t happening.
Tama was staring at his tattoo again. ‘Guess these thick lines have to be clubs of some sort – here, underneath the adzes.’ He sounded totally unfazed. ‘Any ideas what we could use?’
Hamish swallowed. Didn’t Tama realise what it would be like, using clubs and adzes? ‘I dunno. Cricket bats maybe? There’s some old iron bars in the shed. They might do.’ But they were metal again. What if Pouākai was immune to attack by any sort of metal, not just bullets? ‘Cricket bats might be better.’
‘Axes and cricket bats it is then,’ said Tama nonchalantly. He looked at the print carefully. ‘So, for our purposes, this figure up here away from the trap has to be you, Owl – Ruru.’
‘How d’you make that out?’ asked Hamish cautiously. He tried to deflect him. ‘Ruru’s the yellow-haired guy. That’s you.’
‘This one down here, by the trap, is the figure with yellow hair,’ said Tama. ‘The one that looks headless, right?’
Reluctantly, Hamish studied the print. That figure beside the trap, one of a group of three, had only an outline for a head. ‘Right,’ he conceded.
‘This has to be one of your parallel patterns, doesn’t it?’ Tama continued inexorably. ‘Remember what the old lady said? You’re Owl – Ruru.’
‘But you’re Ruru’s descendant,’ protested Hamish feebly. He seemed to have lost control of this exercise. He wished Tama hadn’t proved so quick on the uptake.
‘That’s right, and there’s some things I can do that you as a Pākehā can’t,’ said Tama. ‘This is where your parallel pattern comes in again. For us, this has to be a split role.’
And then he said what Hamish had been praying he wouldn’t say.
‘I do the chant that pulls Pouākai in, okay. That’s what she taught me. And you do the bait thing – stand up on the hill somewhere where he can see you. You do the running as Ruru – split role, just as it shows in this drawing.’ Tama pushed the print at Hamish.
‘Get real, Tama,’ said Hamish, hoping to make him see sense. ‘D’you see me running?’ What was it she said? As swift as the wind? ‘I can’t run for peanuts.’
‘It’s downhill,’ said Tama.
Hamish tried once more. ‘Perhaps you’ve got it wrong.’
‘Not a chance,’ said Tama. ‘This drawing, it’s just like the one that showed me and Storm being attacked. It’s showing now, not then. Like you said.’
‘S’pose,’ said Hamish.
‘Look,’ said Tama, stabbing at the print. ‘There’s only two other figures standing at the trap entrance with the yellow-haired guy – that’s me. The other two have to be Kirsten and Tod. The Ruru of the legend had forty companions. There’s just the four of us – and there’s just four figures in this drawing. It’s showing us, now. You can’t make sense of it any other way, bro.’
‘Oh all right,’ said Hamish. ‘You needn’t go on about it.’ For once, he would rather follow his heart than his head. And here was Tama rubbing his nose in it, using logic to persuade him.
‘It all fits, doesn’t it?’ said Tama triumphantly. ‘So you will do it, Owl, the running?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ Hamish grinned feebly. His lips felt stiff.
‘Not really. Anyway, you’ll have the kaitiaki with you, won’t you?’ Tama had sensed part of what was troubling him.
‘But I can’t – have the kaitiaki, I mean – can I?’ said Hamish slowly. ‘Not if I’m the bait. It would defeat the purpose.’ He would need to be unprotected. He could see it all now, what they were going to do. It was like the worst of dreams.
≈ TWELVE
BUT IT ISN’T A DREAM, not even the worst of dreams. This is for real. Hamish is standing on the spur, fifty metres above the trap they’ve prepared for Pouākai. Dressed in Tod’s old lightweight wetsuit and wearing a climbing helmet for protection. His legs are quivering inside the wetsuit. Like jellies encased in a mould. Nothing is happening, yet already his heart is knocking at his rib cage, trying to escape. Some hero, Owl, no substitute for that warrior of the past, Ruru. His mouth is dust dry. His stomach is churning. He can’t believe he’s doing this. But he has no choice. His father’s words echo in his head. Act. Will he be able to?
No sign of Pouākai. Perhaps he won’t come. Hamish wishes he was holding the kaitiaki stone. Finds himself praying that Pouākai won’t come.
Below him, Tama starts the chant he has been taught, the chant that will lure the giant eagle from wherever he’s lurking. Swallowing to ease his aching throat, Hamish scans the dawn sky. Nothing. Nothing but a layer of high grey cloud that threatens snow. Even as he looks upward he sees the first light flakes spin carelessly past. No wind. It’s deathly still. He tries to calm himself, take even steady breaths. It’s difficult. Every muscle is telling him to run and hide. Icy sweat trickles from under the climbing helmet. His glasses keep fogging. He’s not cut out for heroics.
Below him, Tama picks up the tempo of his chant. Hamish hears Kirsten shouting. He can just make out the words, faint against the growing force of the chant. She’s wishing him luck. He’ll need it. He gives a thumbs up sign. He doesn’t trust his voice. They’d realise how pathetic he’s being. He’s a wimp, a wuss. Gutless. No hero. Hamish turns his back on the group standing at the trap entrance. He wipes his glasses. Checks they’re held firmly in place by the cord Tod has lent him. Scans the sky. Still nothing.
And then his straining ears pick up a distant sound. He tries to discount it. But it grows stronger, nearer. The beating of wings. Pouākai has taken to the sky. He’s coming. Responding to Tama’s call. Hamish turns, shouts a warning to the others. Sees Tod and Kirsten duck into safety. Out of sight under the latticework that covers the trap. Wishes he was down there, with them.
But Tama still stands outside, chanting, chanting. A swell of sound. It beats in waves up the slope of the hill towards him. Envelops him. He clenches his suddenly sweating hands.
He can’t do this.
It’s too late. The giant eagle is already circling overhead. The lure has worked. And he, Hamish – Owl – Ruru, is the bait. He stands there. He can’t move. Then he senses a presence, someone at his shoulder. A familiar voice murmurs, reassuring him. He turns. ‘Dad?’
No one is there.
Overhead Pouākai is circling again. Lower. The eagle has spotted him. Hamish lifts his chin, faces him. Liquid golden eye meets his. Somehow majestic, far-seeing. For a split second, he feels a sense of empathy, a sense of their partnership in destiny.
Pouākai breaks off the brief contact. Circles. Now Hamish is a rabbit, a mouse transfixed. Prey. He draws a deep shuddering breath. Wills his legs to move. And at last is running down the hill. Running, running. The beating of the giant eagle’s wings fills his ears.
His boots slip and slide in the loose shingle. He stumbles. Almost loses it. Regains his balance. Running, running. The trap is not getting any closer. Hoarse breathing thunders in his ears. Blocks out the beating of wings. He panics, then recognises the sound. His own breathing. Tiring now. Forces his legs to keep moving.
Pouākai attacks. Talons flash past his face. Miss him by a hair’s breadth. A wing tip catches the side of his helmet. He staggers, falls. Picks himself up. Legs pump. Running, running.
The giant eagle attacks again. Talons rip the shoulder of the wet suit. Catch briefly, then pull free. The bird swings up and away. Running, running.
And at last. Trap entrance looming. Tama still chanting. Tod and Kirsten, white faces peering out, shouting encouragement. Pouākai dives again. Hamish lunges forward. Legs slide out from under him. He’s down. Hands grab him. Drag him to safety. He’s made it.
No time to gather his w
its. The others haul him to his feet. Tod hands him a cricket bat. Tama is inside now. His eyes gleam in the dim light. He hefts his axe. They wait. Hamish’s breathing slows. Still ragged. Tension in the air. They wait.
Sound of wings again. And for the first time, that long drawnout bugle-cry. Stabs right through him. No one speaks. They wait.
And then Pouākai strikes. The full force of his strike hits the latticework of the trap. The structure creaks. Timber cracks. It holds. Talons scrabble to reach them. Only centimetres away. Hooked beak tears at the steel netting. Wing tip thrusts through the gaps. The curved globes of his eyes. Yellow now, cold, inhuman. Focusing on them. A wave of foetid stench rolls over them. Blood, carrion. The latticework shifts and groans. Hamish squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Prays it will hold. Prays that metal will suffice. Beside him Kirsten is swearing. Same words over and over. He doesn’t think she knows she’s saying them. Tod is shouting now. Urging the giant eagle on. Taunting him.
Tama. Tama starts to chant again. Different this time. More like the bugle-cry of Pouākai himself. Something fierce and primeval in the sound. The giant bird pauses in his attempts to break through to them. Listens. Gives a gut-wrenching drawn-out response. Tama chants on. Pouākai renews his attack. This time a wing tip catches in one of the snares. Then one foot. Another. Tama intensifies his chanting. The eagle tears at the steel with his beak. Snags another snare. The fine steel loops tighten. Trapped. Pouākai is trapped. The metal snares have worked.
‘Out!’ yells Tod. ‘Everyone out! Make sure you’ve got your weapons.’
They scramble out. Stand at a safe distance. Tod and Kirsten see Pouākai properly for the first time. Hamish sees them blench. Pouākai close up. Huge. Real. Trapped. Held tight. Eyes glaring. For a moment everything is still. Hamish’s heart thuds.
Then the eagle hisses. Struggles. Rears his head back. Tries to strike. The steel holds firm.
‘Now what?’ breathes Kirsten.
‘We kill him.’ Tama.
Hamish stares at Pouākai. Lives again the moment of empathy, sees again the golden eye of majesty. Kill him? In cold blood? He doesn’t think he can do this. He knows he can’t do this.
But Tama is already charging towards the trapped bird. Yells a bloodcurdling string of what sounds like Maori. Curses of some sort. He swings the axe at one of the huge wings. Tod follows. Swings his axe at the other trapped wing. Shouts incoherently. Swings again, and again.
And Hamish finds himself right there. Aims wild swipes at the twisting lunging head with his bat. Kirsten beside him. Chops at the trapped feet.
Hamish lands a blow on the bird’s skull. Crunch. Those eyes blink, flare. He swings again. Triumphant voices yell. The bird hisses. Rears, struggles. They all hack at the heaving shape. Blood sprays. Feathers fly. Weapons thud. Impact. Hamish connects with the skull once more. It splits open. Wet grey matter leaks. Mutilated head droops. Colour fades from yellow eyes.
But he doesn’t stop. He swings the wooden bat again and again. Batters the head. The voices yell. His heart sings. His pulse pounds a drumbeat. Revenge. Revenge for Storm, revenge for the sheep. Revenge for the farm, revenge for his father. Exultant, wild, he swings the cricket bat.
At last his arms tire. He can swing the heavy bat no longer. Hands fall slack to his side. The weapon slips from his grasp. His chest heaves. He can’t see through his smeared glasses. The yelling falters, dies away.
The only sound is the others’ laboured breathing. His own breathing. Then nothing.
Now a whimpering. The whimpering continues. It’s him. He’s making the sound. He can’t stop. He takes off his glasses. Tries to wipe them clean. Congealing blood. He stares at it, then turns slowly. Looks at the mangled heap still tethered on the steel latticework. Their doing. He looks at the others.
They are staring at the dead eagle. Battered beyond recognition. Their faces white under the smeared gore. Clothes streaked with blood. The frenzy of killing ebbs and drains away.
Kirsten sinks onto the ground. Crying. Tod stands, rigid. Tama, eyes still glittering, shifts his feet, rubs his face, then stares at the mess on his hand. ‘Jesus wept!’ It doesn’t sound like blasphemy.
They all slump to the ground. Sit there, heads hanging, exhausted. Hamish is numb. He doesn’t recognise himself. He doesn’t recognise any of them.
And then Hamish hears something, faint, in the distance. The beating of wings. He freezes, caught in the act of rising. Then he remembers. And as he remembers, the words of the legend of Pouākai sound in his head once more.
The killing is not yet done. The killing is not yet done.
‘… And the female bird came seeking her mate. On finding the slain body of the great Pouākai, her fury and grief knew no bounds. She attacked those who had destroyed her mate. Ruru and his companions retreated once more into the trap. They reset the snares. Once their preparations were complete, Ruru enticed Pouākai’s woman with his powerful chanting. The female landed on the roof of the trap. Just as Pouākai had been snared and destroyed, so was she….’
Tama meets Hamish’s eye. He nods abruptly. Hamish knows that he also has heard the distant beating of wings. He also has heard the words of the legend. Before he can react, Tama speaks.
‘We must clear that mess away. Reset the snares. Pouākai has a mate.’
His voice rings with authority, and the other two get to their feet obediently. Without a word, they heave the corpse of Pouākai to one side, averting their eyes. Free the severed feet, the wing tips, from the steel wire of the snares. Kirsten, her usually nimble fingers awkward, fumbles to reset the snares. Hamish gathers up the bloodied weapons and places them under the cover of the trap. Moving like automatons, they do not look at each other.
By the time they finish, the sound of wings beating is loud enough for Tod and Kirsten to hear it. Pouākai’s mate is approaching. And then she is here, circling overhead. Looking for Pouākai.
‘Quick!’ says Tama. ‘Into the trap!’ He hustles Kirsten in ahead of him. Tod follows.
Hamish lingers, searching the sky. There she is. Bigger, if anything, than the male giant eagle. He stares, every detail imprinting on his mind. Dun brown, without the pale breast. No crest on the sleek head. But the same glowing golden eyes. They see the corpse of Pouākai. The bird wheels in the sky above him. A shrill ululating lament fills the still, cold air. She wheels again, circles closer. The eyes spot Hamish. Flare, turn yellow and cold. The bird turns, dives. And still he stares.
‘For chrissake, Owl – get in here!’ Tama yells.
Hamish blinks. Scrambles for cover. And not a moment too soon. The tip of the bird’s wing catches his back in a buffeting blow. He sprawls into the entrance of the trap. Rolls inside. Hands grab him, set him on his feet.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ Tod asks.
Hamish cannot reply. He tries to clean his glasses. His hands tremble. He must be mad. A shadow darkens the trap. The female bird strikes. Her heavy legs and talons crash into the steel netting. Once again, wing tips thrust through the gaps, trying to reach them. Talons rake the steel. Beak plucks and worries at the lacing wire. Yellow eyes pierce him through and through.
This time they wait in silence. Cold, purposeful. Wait until the bird is ensnared, wing tips caught, feet. The female struggles in vain as the snares tighten. She raises her head towards the sky, cries out, laments. Then lies still. Those eyes turn towards them, watch her tormentors.
Tama leads the way outside. Tod hands them their weapons. Hamish tries to steady his breathing. He looks at the trapped bird. She lies still, watching them. No one moves.
Then Tama straightens up, stands tall. He brandishes his axe in both hands. Raises it high. He starts to chant. Soft at first, the sound deepens, strengthens. Not fierce this time – proud, full of dignity. He gestures with the axe, towards the slain remains of Pouākai, towards the trapped and motionless female. Towards the sky, towards the crags above them. His chant seems to revere the foe
they have slain, the land they seek to protect. He steps, high steps, first this way then that. Still chanting, he advances towards the trapped bird. She raises her head, watches him. And Hamish sees the yellow glare fade from her eyes. They glow, golden depths. Calm majesty.
Hamish, his brother, sister, stand still, awed. And as they watch, the great bird cries out once more, then lowers her head, submissive. Her eyes still on the boy approaching. Tama, descendant of Ruru, raises his axe high. With one swift, clean blow, he severs the head. The female jerks, and lies still. She is dead.
Tama lowers his axe. He stands there, head bowed. His shoulders heave.
Hamish feels tears on his own cheeks. He sees that Tod and Kirsten too are crying. For a long moment he cannot move. Then he crosses the distance that separates him from Tama. Reaches his side, stretches out a hand to touch the stooped shoulder. After a moment, Tama turns tentatively towards him. They embrace. No words are needed. And then Tod and Kirsten join them. They cling together, the slayers of Pouākai and his mate.
It is Tama who breaks away first. He straightens and speaks, hesitant then more strongly. ‘We can’t….’ he gestures at the slain birds. ‘We have more to do here.’
Kirsten responds, her voice subdued. ‘Tell us what you want us to do.’
‘We should burn the remains, remove all traces of what has taken place.’
Hamish has never heard Tama sound so assured. Even Tod doesn’t question the younger boy’s authority. Without argument, they set about gathering up twigs and dry wood from the base of the beech trees.
They build a pile of brushwood in the hollow as tinder, then place the lengths of timber from the dismantled trap over the pile. Finally, they drag the remains of the two giant eagles and lay them on top. Tod brings the spare fuel can up the hill from the vehicle.
‘Wait, Tod.’ Tama gestures at their filthy clothing. ‘We should also burn these.’
