The Unknown Zone

by Phil Smith

  The old man shook his head sadly as he tucked into yet another mussel.

  ‘You know, Hemi,’ he said, taking a swig of beer, ‘that valley, all of them hills up the back, from the beach right to the top of the ranges; all that is the ancestral lands of Ngati Hei and Ngati Wairangi.’

  Hemi waited. His years with the circumspect Bart Larkin had taught him not to speak with haste.

  Barney, the sons, the cousins, their partners and children all ceased talking and turned towards the elder.

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard,’ said Hemi. ‘That’s why I’m here. I want to find out the story from you.’

  Kohu settled back in his chair, giving his chin a final wipe. ‘Well, you see, it all goes back to our ancestor, Anatohia, and her husband Raupeti Reweti. They and their whanau lived at Kaimiro. One day Anatohia was carrying weaving materials for her whare near the top of the big waterfall. In those days — some say he’s still there today — there was a taniwha who lived in the deep pool beneath the falls. Those who came too close or walked into the waterfall’s spray, specially at night, stood no chance. There’d be a shriek or a cry, and that’s it. The wails of the victims could be heard far out to sea on calm nights.’

  The children drew nearer, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

  Kohu hunched towards them and gazed for a moment at each face, seeing his reflection in their eyes. ‘She had a whole heap of leaves on her shoulder and as she was crossing the stream, using the pohutukawa tree as a bridge, Anatohia lost her balance. Over the waterfall she went, out of sight, never to be seen again. Not even a bone was found.’

  Kohu Reweti glanced towards the children and lowered his voice. ‘The mouth of the taniwha was big enough to swallow six people in one gulp and he could keep them alive in his stomach until he was ready to digest them. There was never any doubt that the taniwha had taken the woman into his putrid belly. After that our people began to move away from Kaimiro as tribes from the Waikato, Northland, and the Bay of Plenty moved in. They sold a lot of it to the Pakeha settlers, and, of course, the Government took its share when the miners came along.’

  ‘And then there was our Great Loss,’ said Barney. ‘The loss of our taonga pounamu.’ Instantly the cavern under the Square Kauri sprang to Hemi’s mind, and he could again see and feel the lustrous greenstone objects.

  Kohu continued. ‘You see, Hemi, our tribe had gathered, through trading enterprises over many years, a collection of greenstone artifacts. Priceless ancestral pieces. Most of them were given as koha, gifts of love, by our sister tribe, the Ngati Wairangi, who came to live with us in the early days.’

  ‘Where’s all the taonga now?’ said Hemi, feeling guilty at his reluctance to tell all he knew.

  ‘Gone,’ said Barney. ‘Buried in the bush I suppose, or in the bowels of some museum. Who knows? The thing is, it’s gone, and so is our status and purpose as a people.’

  Hemi was appalled. If he failed to halt the mining operation then the pounamu would be destroyed.

  ‘And this land here is all you’ve got now?’ said Hemi, looking out the door to sedge-studded pasture, with blackberry and bracken scrub on the other side of the dilapidated fence.

  ‘Yep, this is all we’ve got. Nine acres of swamp,’ said Reweti.

  ‘Some of the land was sold legitimately, though, wasn’t it?’ Hemi asked.

  ‘That’s true, but most of it was taken through lies, deception, bribes, gambling debts. Confiscated after the Land Wars. Seized under government legislation. Lost by the trusting innocence — some might say ignorance — of our people. We’re not politicians and lawyers, Hemi. We’re not city slickers. We’re simple people. Once, though, the Ngati Hei and the Ngati Wairangi were a powerful and respected confederation.’

  Barney took up the story. ‘On every headland up and down this coast, from Nga-kuri-a-whare to Port Jackson, you can still see the terraces and the food pits of our kainga and pa. Now it’s all farmland and holiday houses, ruined by developers and land sharks.’

  ‘And so who owns Kaimiro now?’ said Hemi, sitting on the edge of his seat. ‘Who would you say ends up with it?’

  ‘Well now, there’s a few players on the field, as you’ve stated,’ said Barney. ‘The Hapetas reckon they inherited it after your folks died. Our people agree the valley was paid for in gold by your tupuna, Tuapiro, in the 1890s. But there’s no proof of that, no titles. Unless you know of any?’

  The key! The words of the old man made the image leap to Hemi’s internal vision.

  ‘How did American Mining get their hands on it?’ said Hemi.

  ‘There’s a big law firm in Auckland looking after it for some bogus Maori land trust. They’re the ones that leased it to the foreigners. I think your aunt and uncle were mixed up in it.’

  ‘They’re saying that mining will create hundreds of jobs and bring millions into the local community.’

  ‘That’s a load of old cow’s poo, too,’ scowled Kohu, banging the table. ‘Look at any old mining town, look at Waihi, or Coromandel. What’ve they got to show for it years on down the track, eh? These multinationals take the money and run, then the whole show literally caves in. They reckon there’s a quartz vein thirty feet thick running right through the Kaimiro Valley, just waiting to be got.’

  ‘You think they’ll destroy the entire valley, then?’ said Hemi.

  ‘Too right they will!’ Kohu snorted. ‘And all them big trees are going to go, as well. There’s some of the country’s biggest kauri trees up that valley. They say there’s one that’s over a hundred and fifty feet high.’

  Hemi was silent, momentarily overwhelmed by his memory of the rata vines, the supplejack, the glowing sphere of polished gum, the weta, and the skeleton.

  Kohu knew the time had come for the guest to respond. ‘And so, Hemi, tell us of your interest in Kaimiro these days? You should feel some entitlement to it, surely. What is your involvement in this affair?’

  Hemi reached into his denim jacket and produced a map.

  He spread it on the table. He would give the official explanation first and see where things went from there.

  ‘I work for a company that owns the adjoining Tapuwaetahi blocks, these ones outlined in green,’ he said in his best managerial voice.

  ‘Just over the hill from Kaimiro, eh?’ said Kohu.

  ‘Yes. It’s mainly scrub. Steep hill country. Five thousand acres of freehold — all this area here — and 3000 leasehold. A lot of reverted farmland, rough country. We’re planning to start planting it in pine trees next year.’

  ‘Pinus radiata, eh! The new gold-rush. Get in early, that’s the idea. Good on you!’ he laughed. Then he leaned towards the visitor. ‘But Hemi, you must also have some personal concern over the fate of your birthplace?’

  The ladies had brewed a huge pot of tea and while the cups, the sugar, the milk and the teaspoons were being handed out, two vast chocolate cakes filled with cream appeared from the kitchen.

  A sigh of unanimous approval arose from the children who immediately abandoned interest in the adult conversation.

  Hemi stirred his tea. He hadn’t counted on getting involved like this. His plan was to be an impartial observer. Sure, he’d been sympathetic towards the Rewetis. Sliding from prosperity to near-poverty was bad enough, but for an aristocratic people to lose their self-esteem, their reason to exist, was a huge weight to carry. He longed to tell them of his discovery in the depths of the taniwha’s pool, and of the secrets of the square giant, and it pained him that he was not being completely transparent. Bart had taught him to avoid giving in to an impulse, or making big decisions too quickly. And yet he’d become moved by the trust and hospitality the whanau had extended to him. Thanks to Kaimiro he saw their paths had become entwined like the rata and the supplejack, and Hemi could no longer think of the land as Ratana property. That was arrogance. The land belonged to those who had gone before, and to those who were yet to come. The living were merely caretakers and guardians,
with no rights of eternal possession, no guarantees of permanent occupancy, no right to pollute or destroy.

  When he spoke again it was in a tone of thankful realisation.

  ‘Until last week I knew nothing about you,’ said Hemi. ‘I’m ashamed to say I didn’t even know this place existed. Now I can see that you’ve got a claim that needs to be addressed. If it was wrongfully taken then that should be put right. I want to make sure justice is done for everyone.’

  No one spoke for several seconds.

  Barney ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. ‘So what’s your plan, Hemi?’ he said. ‘Where do we go from here?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Hemi. ‘We need to find out more before we decide. Waiting seems to be our best option at the moment.’

  ‘We’re completely out of our depth here, Hemi,’ said Kohu. ‘We should work together with you.’ The others nodded.

  ‘There’s certainly no need for us to be in competition, eh?’ said Barney. ‘We’re all going to be around for a while — we might as well be friends right from the start.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Hemi. ‘In fact I might even have the key to the problem.’

  18

  The unknown zone

  Something indistinct had been prowling his memory all the way back from the Reweti meeting — and when he saw it on the front of a small office building in Thames, Hemi recognised the symbol straight away.

  The structure was of classic Edwardian design, single-storeyed with a high, castellated façade, made of red and cream brick and grey, textured concrete. Grecian ornamentation formed a band beneath the parapets and tall sash windows gave the impression of elongated eyes on either side. There were signs of fire damage and someone had attempted to convert the building into a fish-and-chip shop.

  The law office was built when Thames was the third largest town in New Zealand, with eighty hotels and seven hundred ore-stamping batteries that used to thump and bang twenty-four hours a day, six days a week — a din that could even be heard across the gulf in Auckland on tranquil nights.

  The gold-rush had inspired the Government to seize Maori land and sell it for hotels, theatres and homes, as well as to thousands of miners who honeycombed the mountains in their quest for the magic metal.

  Law firms, like the banks, made a mint. When the gold industry declined these bastions of providence remained.

  The facade bore the raised lettering:

  LAWYERS’ CHAMBERS

  Established 1870

  Underneath, framed by a circle of laurel leaves, were the firm’s trademarks:

  J&B

  Jacobs and Bannister Ltd

  The logo on the building was identical to the one on the key.

  He walked back to the vehicle and drove to Hikutaia.

  It was time to go flying.

  Rodger Baigent, the Jet Ranger’s log-recovery pilot, was in the office completing a flight plan when Hemi walked in.

  ‘Just the man I want to see,’ said Hemi, reaching for his helmet and log book. ‘Got half an hour to spare? We’ll be back before dark.’

  The two had flown together since the aerial logging programme started, scanning the remote slopes and valleys of the Coromandel Peninsula for dead kauri trees, then lowering men and machinery down to them. Both were skilled in bush flying and would take turns — one at the controls while the other, wearing a body harness, was lifted on the wire cable and lowered into the trees with the equipment.

  Rodger grabbed his jacket. He knew that whenever Hemi asked if he had half an hour to spare it always meant excitement of some variety, and that it would be sure to take much longer than thirty minutes.

  They flew straight over to Kaimiro and Hemi pointed out the Square Kauri to Rodger. They landed some distance away in a clearing and Hemi climbed out, screwed the carabiner onto the cable’s shackle and pulled his visor over his face as the helicopter’s rotor wash thrashed the bushes around him.

  He’d done it dozens of times before but Hemi felt the same elation each time he flew, arms outstretched, suspended on a fifty-metre wire high above the forest.

  As they approached the target Rodger stabilised the helicopter. Hemi, giving instructions over the radio, saw an opening and was dropped through the canopy like a sinker on a fishing line. He landed twenty metres from the trunk, unclipped the cable and made his way to the downhill side of the tree.

  His heart was beating, and not with the strain of exertion. This was exactly how he’d felt when he lay there as an exhausted but triumphant teenager all those years ago, his numb feet bound to the climbing spikes.

  The space between the root columns was obstructed by luxuriant vegetation. Hemi unsheathed his machete, chopped a path through to the opening and shoved his way into the cavern.

  He flicked on his headlamp.

  Everything was as he’d left it.

  Hemi slid his pack from his shoulders, took out a gear bag, and began carefully stowing the canvas bundles of greenstone into the containers. There was a chance, he realised, that he was violating a tapu by disturbing the sacred site, but this was justified by the danger of the forest and everything in it being obliterated by the mining operation.

  He found the crevice, cleared away some spider’s web with a twig, and without hesitation placed the chain with the key around his neck. It felt cold but comfortable, as if he had a right to wear it.

  The climbing apparatus should stay in the cave, he decided; it seemed wrong to take a man’s shoes and he resolved to return one day and replace the gold key around the neck of the skeleton. He just had to use it first.

  The wire came down where Hemi directed and he clipped onto it. As he rose beside the tree’s immense flank Hemi marvelled at the courage — or was it lunacy born of despair? — that had driven him to attempt such an outrageous feat. He’d never had any fear of heights as a boy but a climb of this intensity had developed in him a deep reverence for life and nature, and a stronger affinity for truth and integrity. And these attributes had stayed with him.

  They flew back to the mill and Hemi locked the bags in the back of the Toyota. Rodger Baigent smiled. He knew better than to ask for an explanation. Getting Hemi Ratana to explain something before he was ready was like trying to tear the skin off a snake — just as the serpent would shed its skin when the season arrived, Hemi would talk when the time was right.

  Next morning Hemi phoned Rachel.

  He felt slightly sheepish for having been evasive and was thrilled when she’d remembered him with such obvious pleasure. He had never forgotten the understanding smile she gave him when he emerged naked, seething with exasperation, from the taniwha’s pool, and she had given him her towel.

  ‘Hemi, I’m so glad you called,’ the lilting voice said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I went to see the Reweti family at Opoutere the other day. We had a great meeting. You did well to put me onto them.’

  ‘Did you unravel any particular mysteries?’

  Rachel’s choice of words made Hemi think harder than he normally did before he spoke.

  ‘It’s interesting you should ask that,’ he said, lifting the gold key through the neck of his T-shirt and examining the J&B imprint. ‘I’d like to have a look at your deposit box records some time.’

  ‘They’re confidential to our clients, I’m afraid Hemi.’

  ‘What if I’m a box holder?’

  ‘That changes things,’ she said slowly.

  ‘I’ve got a key with your firm’s logo on it.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s one of ours?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure,’ said Hemi, disappointed at the prospect of the key having no more than ornamental value. ‘It’s a long shot. I could be barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Nice metaphor, Monkey-boy!’ she laughed. ‘I’ll look at our records. Shall I put the information in the mail for you, or can you come up and see me? I’m free later this afternoon.’

  Hemi was momentarily o
ffended by her use of his boyhood nickname but this emotion was elbowed aside by her invitation.

  The possibility of finding the deposit box and discovering whether the key fitted sparked excitement. But this paled alongside the prospect of another meeting with Rachel Revington. He hadn’t felt this way for a long time.

  ‘Rachel, are you sure that’s convenient?’ he heard himself asking, careful not to sound overly enthusiastic or unbusinesslike.

  ‘Let’s say, four-thirty,’ she replied. ‘And we can maybe go for a drink afterwards?’

  When he put down the phone Hemi was close to hooting with happiness, but people in the office were working and he didn’t want to have to explain himself.

  He booked a room at the Trident, in Parnell, and strode out to the Jet Ranger. He activated the starter and ran the turbine up to 7000 rpm before opening the throttle. The jet-whine and soft vibration echoed his rising spirits.

  Hemi stepped out of the lift into the air-conditioned J&B suite.

  Rachel was standing by her desk, finishing a telephone call, when he entered. She held out a hand.

  In this environment Hemi felt less than relaxed. He was still wearing his Levis and Rip Curl T-shirt and though he’d grabbed his best leather jacket on his way out of the office and swapped his work boots for a pair of Nikes, he wished he’d thought more about his clothes.

  Rachel, on the other hand, looked stunning. Her hair hung in a series of auburn swoops to its full length. She wore an emerald-green, off-the-shoulder knit top and a pair of black straight-leg pants, with open-toed high heels.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Hemi,’ she said, and he wished he could prolong their handshake as he again felt her slender, cool touch. She smiled, tilted her head, and indicated he should take a seat.