The Lost Tohunga

by David Hair

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Shut up,’ he snarled. ‘I’m trying to think. Deano, check the hallway. And put out that bloody smoke!’

  Ronnie said nothing as Deano slunk out the door, which for a dumbass was pretty smart.

  Parukau turned back to the cracked, gore-smeared window, and chewed his goatee, clenching and unclenching his fists. There were more important questions to ponder, about Kurangaituku and whose side she was on. And where was Donna Kyle? Surely it was her behind the goblin attack last night! Where was she now?

  He felt like a child at a footy game — he could see some of the moves, but he wasn’t understanding them, didn’t know the rules, wasn’t able to play … Blood of the Swimmer; Hine’s blood … I know it’s vital! But where? How? Why? Damn this!

  Ronnie got up, and fingered the cracked glass, his soft face lost. Suddenly he giggled incongruously, and pointed down into the street. ‘Jeez, look at that thing!’

  Parukau peered incuriously down to the street, where a Volkswagen, an original Beetle by the look of it, was turning into the hotel car park. It was vivid pink, with bright floral patterns and some sort of clown face painted on it. ‘Heh, gotta be a clown to drive an ol’ heap like that!’

  Couldn’t the moron stay focused for two minutes? ‘Sit down, Ronnie. An’ shut up. I gotta think …’

  Deano waited in the hallway, in a little alcove just down from the door to Mat’s room. Some old biddy walked past, looking sniffily at the ciggie in his hand. He puffed it defiantly, meeting her eye. So what you gonna do ’bout it, lady? He wished they could just go and get on with finding this loot that Evan — Parukau — whatever — kept talking about. Where was it, anyway? Why weren’t they working on that?

  His mind went back to the motel where they were staying. That was a bad scene, too. Hell, he liked Hine, thought she was damned hot, true thing. Chaining her up was extreme, even for Evan. And whatever had gone down in Taupo the other night had seriously freaked Brutal and Ronnie. Those few seconds when Evan had vanished and then reappeared with the boys and Hine had been savage, he could sense that. He had never seen those guys scared, but they had come back all torn up and shit-scared. And how did Evan do that?

  He shied from that question, instinctively.

  If Evan hadn’t been in such a foul mood, he would have demanded some answers, for sure! But ever since that overnight in the lock-up, he had been weird. Deano wanted the old Evan back, the laid-back, cool dude. He dragged on his ciggie, working up the nerve to go back inside that room and get some answers. He wanted to hit something. Or shoot the gun, and feel that hard, heavy thing buck in his hands. Where’s that stupid kid? I hope he shows up, so we can take it all out on the little jerk.

  The lift chimed and a man got out, with a pregnant woman and a big golden Labrador. The man was Maori, tall and rangy. He moved like a runner, or a rugby player — strong, loose strides. He was wearing jeans and a loose polo shirt, and his face was handsome, clean-shaven, with curly black hair cropped close; just one blemish — a scar on his temple. Deano felt a surge of resentment, for his looks, for his confidence. Wasn’t right, him stepping tall like he owned the place. The bitch with him was Pakeha, waddling like she was about to drop a sprog. She had dyed-pink hair and looked like she had an attitude, but both of them seemed tired, like people who had come a long way with bad news to tell.

  The Labrador looked up at him and he returned its stare. There was something strange about its gaze, something too focused. He looked away first, then back at the man. ‘Hey, bro,’ he said, unsure why. He felt truculent and nervy.

  The man nodded at him, and their eyes met. Clear, strong, timeless eyes that looked like they had seen just about anything, and faced it down. Deano dropped his gaze, feeling suddenly small. He looked up again only when he knew those eyes had moved past him. They had stopped outside the door to the boy’s room. Jeez, now what do I do?

  The man raised his hand and knocked twice. The woman was still looking back at him, and so was that mutt, wary and hostile. Maybe they’re friends of the boy. He slid his hand into his pocket, gripping the Glock. ‘Hey! That ain’t your room.’

  The Lab growled. The door opened a little. He held his breath, everything paused … and then it was like someone yelled ‘Go!’ in his head. He pulled out the gun.

  Parukau sat bolt upright as someone knocked on the door. Ronnie looked at him for guidance. ‘Dat the boy?’ he asked.

  The boy wouldn’t knock, you idiot. It’s his own room, and he’s got the key. Nor would Deano … Room Service? Where was Deano? Shit! What if it’s another ambush, like those tipua that came flooding out of the trees last night? There was only one other way out of this room, through the window — but they were three flights up. He swallowed, his skin going slick.

  He picked up one of the antique pistols and rammed it into his pocket, then cocked the other one and put it in his left hand. If it was another attack, he would cross to Aotearoa, so best he had guns whose powder worked there. In his right hand he palmed another Glock, one of those he had got from Robert Heke in Taupo. ‘Get the door, Ronnie,’ he hissed. ‘Take it slow.’

  Ronnie stared at him, his left hand holding the taiaha like a kid’s softball bat, then he dropped it and pulled out his own Glock. He looked like he was crapping himself as he fumbled with the handle and pulled the door slightly ajar. He peered through the crack, blinked and growled, ‘Who da hell are you?’

  Even as Deano advanced, he saw the man flick his head forward, forehead neatly cracking Ronnie’s nose. Ronnie howled in pain and staggered backwards into the bedroom.

  Bastard! I’ll fix you! He hefted the gun, began to shout a challenge.

  The Labrador was already moving, coming towards Deano in two accelerating bounds. Its muscles bunched and then all he could see was teeth as it leapt. He pulled up his hands to shield his face, and then the hot wet mouth closed over his gun-hand wrist, and rows of teeth punctured his skin as the weight of the dog hammered into him, pitching him backwards. The sudden agony of the bite shocked through him and he heard himself screech, and his fingers lost all grip as bones snapped in his wrist.

  He hit the ground with a pulverising crack. The gun spun off down the corridor. Shots went off inside the room and bullets tore into the hallway ceiling. The pregnant woman shouted something, but he was under the Lab as its jaws snapped at his head. He tried to roll, but the thing was heavy and there was no leverage. His left hand beat weakly at its flank, his legs flailing for purchase, and then those huge jaws opened above his throat, and plunged down.

  Parukau saw Ronnie’s head suddenly cracked backwards, and Ronnie lurch, trying to aim his gun at a man who had burst through the door, slamming him sideways against the wall. Ronnie howled and fired, but the newcomer had already caught his gun hand and forced it upward so the bullets spat high into the ceiling of the hallway. Then the newcomer butted his forehead once more into Ronnie’s face, and Ronnie fell backwards onto the bed with a choked cry, his gun spilling as blood splattered from his pulped nose. He cried out like a child and crabbed backwards.

  The newcomer saw Parukau and moved instantly, diving sideways through the bathroom door even as Parukau’s gun trained on him. A wide, shorter shape — a pregnant woman? — was silhouetted in the hallway door, but reflex took Parukau’s aim towards the man, and the Glock coughed two bullets between the two targets, puncturing the bathroom wall. He jerked his aim back to the doorway, but with surprising grace the woman at the door was gone. He heard her voice call ‘Wiri?’, and his mind whirled.

  Wiri — WIREMU! THE IMMORTAL!

  He knew Wiremu, Puarata’s spirit-warrior, one of the tohunga’s two bodyguards, his hit men when all other coercion failed. Two immortal warriors he had conjured somehow: Tupu, the unstoppable force; and Wiremu, the silent killer. He recalled hundreds of council sessions with those two flanking Puarata, reminding them all of his power and reach.

  And now Wiremu the Immortal was here. But he had never been on
e to dodge bullets back then — he hadn’t needed to — and he had heard rumours whilst skulking about in the Ureweras that when Puarata had died, things had changed for Wiremu too …

  Boots thumped outside in the hallway, then went still. He heard a wet canine growl. Shadows moved beside the door. Deano must be down. Useless kid. He cocked the pistol, and kicked Ronnie. ‘Get up, Ronnie,’ he whispered. Then he raised his voice. ‘Hey, Wiremu! Is that you?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ came the reply from the bathroom.

  ‘An old friend,’ he called out, stalling for time. ‘What’re you doing here?’ Although he could almost guess — the Douglas boy must’ve called him. ‘I hear you ain’t so immortal now … an’ your woman out there is either a fat cow or you got a kid on the way. Not so invulnerable any more, are you?’

  ‘Parukau,’ answered Wiremu, a few seconds later. ‘I recognize your voice … and your stink. I was warned you were back in circulation. How was the time spent as a dog? Did you pick up any manners?’

  Ronnie was on his knees behind the bed now, clutching his face like a woman. He would be no use, except as a distraction. More distantly, he heard shouting, and he could bet the sirens would sound next. He wished Brutal were here, to throw at Wiremu whilst he escaped. ‘If you gonna come out that door and settle this, you better do it soon, “Immortal”,’ he taunted. ‘Otherwise the cops are gonna be all over this place.’ He put the antique pistol down on the bed, and gripped the Glock with both hands.

  ‘Doesn’t bother me,’ Wiremu returned. ‘I think you’ll have more to explain than we do.’

  Parukau heard a noise from the bathroom, like a knife scraping glass, and wondered what it was. ‘Maybe.’

  The bathroom went silent. Sirens blared in the distance, muffled by the hotel’s soundproofing — which meant they must be pretty close. Parukau eyed the door to the hallway. The woman was out there. There had been no sound since the dog had growled. Deano must be out of it: did the woman have Deano’s gun? Did she know how to use it? Where was the dog? If it had taken down Deano, then it was a factor.

  Time to gamble.

  ‘Throw your gun out, Wiremu, and I’ll let your woman live.’ He looked at Ronnie, and pointed to the door. The big man nodded, and levelled his gun shakily. He was guessing Wiremu had a gun, although he had not seen one. ‘Deal?’

  A heavy black metal object spun out the bathroom door. He grinned.

  Coiling himself up, he sprang towards the bathroom. He was firing even as he lunged around the corner. The gun bucked as bullets exploded from the muzzle and ripped holes in the walls, shattered the mirror, and flew straight through the window — which had no glass, just a gaping hole: the panel had been removed, and laid neatly against the wall.

  He whirled, and looked straight down the barrel of Deano’s Glock, gripped steadily by a pink-haired Pakeha girl in floral maternity overalls. She was still in the hallway, perfectly placed to cover him while remaining out of Ronnie’s field of fire. Well played, bitch!

  Her trigger finger squeezed; a bullet smashed into his left shoulder and spun him round. A second tore across his back, missing his spine by centimetres and slashing a rut across his right biceps. He shrieked, and desperately began to shift. More bullets tore his flesh even as he began to fade. Out in the lounge he heard glass shatter inwards, and Ronnie bellow in terror. He pulled the whirling forces around him, and dived into Aotearoa. Empty air embraced him, and he had just a second to remember that he had shifted across from a point three storeys above ground level, before he was falling through tree branches. The ground flew up at him, and the world went out.

  Armed police were swarming about the building within minutes. Seven police cars with sirens blaring surrounded the hotel, and uniformed men set up a cordon, herding the curious back. More police were guiding the staff and guests out to a staging area down the street. Sirens clamoured deafeningly. Through the chaos, hard-faced men with walkie-talkies strode about, creating a clear zone around the building, keeping the media back as they arrived, calming frightened guests. White vans disgorged a dozen black-clad Armed Offenders Squad officers with face shields, Kevlar body armour and automatic weapons.

  It took a few minutes to secure the ground floor, and get men onto the back stairs. By then all apparent violence had ceased. A shattered window alongside a missing one identified the likeliest location, and a sharpshooter was racing to get to a vantage point across the street.

  A hand appeared at the shattered window, holding a handkerchief. It wasn’t white, in fact it was brilliant orange, although the intent seemed clear. Guns and cameras trained on it as a woman with spiky pink hair appeared.

  ‘Hi, everyone!’ she called anxiously. ‘We’ve apprehended a criminal. Can you come up and give us a hand, please?’ She smiled hesitantly, and waved at a news camera. ‘Hi, Mum!’ Then she exchanged a couple of words with someone inside, and turned back. ‘Could someone give Tim Spriggs a call, please?’

  The witch’s cage

  Thursday evening

  Kurangaituku dropped the limp form into the cage she kept for just such a purpose, and then sat back on her haunches and watched the unconscious boy, occasionally reaching through and greasing her fingers in his blood, then licking them clean.

  She hadn’t meant to snatch this boy — it was the other one she was after — but when this one fell into her talons, instinct had taken over. And the Douglas boy had almost burned her. She shuddered.

  I hate fire!

  Mistress Kyle will want me to keep this one alive, for leverage … but I’m ravenous.

  The boy groaned, and rolled over. He opened his eyes and peered through the gloom. He wasn’t one to hide his face and pretend things hadn’t happened, this one. Not like most of them. She liked that. But there wasn’t much fat on him. Maybe he wouldn’t make much of a meal after all. He looked up at her, through the wooden bars of the cage, with wide eyes. The room was dim. All he would be able to see of her would be a silhouette. His nose wrinkled as he inhaled the fetid air.

  ‘What is your name, poai?’ she asked.

  ‘Riki,’ he replied tentatively.

  ‘You are a friend of the Douglas boy?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said huskily. ‘What do you want with us?’

  She leant closer, measuring the fear in his voice. He was worried, but not terrified. And he didn’t seem shocked by her appearance. What did he know of Aotearoa? Was he an Adept, like Douglas? Another fire-wielder? ‘Do you know where you are?’ she asked, ignoring his question.

  ‘Aotearoa?’ he replied, after a pause. ‘You’ve gotta be that Birdwitch, that gets parboiled when she’s trying to catch Hatupatu.’

  She scowled at the reminder. ‘Don’t think that you’ll escape me like that,’ she growled. She shook her grey mane. ‘Don’t think you’ll escape me at all, Riki.’ She stood, thinking. Kyle will want to question him. She sighed, abruptly bored. ‘Sleep. I will return in the morning.’

  She stalked outside, into the night air. Most of her children were settling to sleep, but the night birds were waking. She called a morepork to her, filled its tiny mind with a message for Donna Kyle, then tossed it into the air. ‘Tell her I have one of them,’ she told it. ‘But not the one she wants, so he’s mine.’

  Thursday afternoon

  ‘Matiu Douglas! Come out!’ Donna Kyle pirouetted slowly, watching every angle. ‘Come out — I know you’re there!’ Nothing moved in the shadowy bush. Insects buzzed lazily, a gentle breeze stirred the leaves, and those damned birds just kept on watching her. She fought the desire to lash out at them. ‘Matiu — come out! I only want to talk.’

  She had followed as swiftly as she could, but had quickly lost sight of him in the dense bush, apart from a glimpse ten minutes ago, labouring up a slope half a kilometre ahead, just a chance sighting through the woods. But now … his elusive presence hung in the air.

  ‘I know you think I’m the enemy, Matiu,’ she called, fishing for contact, listening with eve
ry sense she possessed. ‘But I’m not — I’m not really your enemy at all. I’m not even that different from you: I’m just fighting to survive!’

  Her words echoed and faded about her. Nothing stirred. But the birds cocked their heads intently.

  ‘I was eight when my father sold me to Puarata — can you imagine what that was like? What chance did I have?’ She tried to put all that old pain into her voice. ‘Mat, we don’t have to be enemies.’ She raised both hands. ‘I just want to talk!’

  She panted slightly, feeling very, very strange. This had begun as a ruse, to try to lure him out. But somehow, speaking these words aloud felt dangerous, and gave them a life of their own. And she couldn’t stop talking suddenly. ‘What happened to me could have happened to you, Mat. If Puarata had won last year, you would be his now. We would be allies.’ Nothing moved. ‘But he didn’t win. You did! You freed me!’

  A huge old crow turned and faced her from a branch in the nearest totara, with eyes like a camera.

  ‘I’m the least of your enemies, Matiu. Venn is a foreigner — he’ll rape this place if he wins! John Bryce: you know what a bastard he is. And Parukau … he’s the worst of them all.’ Except for Father. ‘Parukau has the girl, Mat. The girl you’re hunting. Together, we could find him and get her back. He can’t hide from me, not when the Birdwitch is my servant! Not with all these birds looking for him.’

  I bet Kurangaituku knows where the boy is … Crooked bitch …

  ‘I’m not what you think, Mat! I’m like your friend Lena. I’ve had to swim in dark waters, but now I want to come back, into the light — and I need your help to do that. I can’t give myself up to the authorities. Governor Grey would have my head on a pole in seconds — if my enemies didn’t get to me first. So I’ve got to keep fighting. But with you beside me, vouching for me, helping me … I’d have a chance. People would listen. Please! Give me that chance!’