by David Hair
Mat was watching out the window, trying to think ahead to what might be awaiting them, when Kelly suddenly braked, crying aloud. Thrown against the back of the seats before him, he looked forward, in time to see a pale shape drift into the forest. Kelly was shaking.
‘There was a woman! Did you see her? I nearly hit her!’ she said, her hand to her mouth.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Wiri. ‘She is only a ghost.’
Kelly raised an eyebrow, and swallowed. For a second she looked like she might scream, but she let out her breath and grinned. ‘A ghost! Was that supposed to be reassuring?’
‘Well, you can’t kill her any deader,’ said Wiri lightly. ‘Let’s go on, wahine.’
Kelly gripped the steering wheel and blew out a deep breath. ‘Ghosts!’ she exclaimed with rich sarcasm. ‘Ghosts! Right! Fine! See them every day! Hey everyone—I see dead people. Must be my sixth sense. No worries, mate! Let’s just do it!’ Her voice rose with every word, to a tone verging on hysteria.
Wiri just nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We’ve left normality a long way behind.’
Kelly took another deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Yeah. The things we do, eh?’
The RAV4 roared back into life, and bounced up the next slope. They passed under the arch of the rainbow, and into a darkening sky. It was as if they had driven from morning to twilight in the blink of an eye. The ghosts became more common, pale shreds of people drifting back and forth, as though lost. Behind them the rainbow still stood, and the bright day receded as they drove on. It was like looking from inside a darkened tunnel, toward the light. But ahead, the day was darkening. They crested a rise, and saw what Puarata had prepared for them.
Only half a kilometre ahead a shifting, half-seen knot of transparent pale shapes seethed, heaving, toward the cape and then boiled backward, like a sea that tries to break over a sea-wall and is repulsed.
The breakwater holding them back was a line of earth, which had been dug across the narrow strip of land that led to the pohutukawa. Mat could see the tree itself beyond, teasingly close. The wall was manned by ranks of small warriors—kehua goblins. They had dark skin and strange, bird-like faces, and brandished mere and taiaha. Before the kehua were six robed and hooded humans, gathered about a tall, heavily carved totem. The creatures on the totem had paua for eyes; the totem was daubed in red ochre so that it gleamed as if dripping blood. Something about it seemed alive, even from that distance. Kneeling, tied to the foot of the totem, was a small woman with a tangle of red-brown hair hiding her bowed face. She was slumped, semi-conscious at best. Mat recognised his mother with a tightening in his stomach. Above her, towering over his apprentices, was Puarata.
Mat looked at Wiri. ‘What has he done?’
Wiri looked at Kelly, then answered Mat. ‘He has created a barrier, to prevent the dead from escaping this world.’
‘Why?’ Mat thought for a second, and then answered the question himself. ‘Because you can’t escape. Unless I take you back into the tiki and carry you through. And that would leave just Kelly and me against all of them.’
Kelly scowled. ‘Let’s just run them over.’
Wiri shook his head. ‘See the earthworks? Even the RAV can’t get over that.’
‘I wonder what’s on the real world side,’ said Mat.
‘Couldn’t be worse,’ said Kelly. ‘Can you get us over, Mat?’
Mat closed his eyes, held the koru, and tried to wish them back to the real world. But at once he felt something hammer at his consciousness, and gasping, opened his eyes. ‘I can’t do it!’ he panted. ‘Something stopped me.’
Wiri looked up and back at the rainbow arch. ‘Ah…so that is the purpose of the rainbow gate. He has made this place his own. You cannot shift out of it.’
Kelly looked behind them. ‘Let’s go back. We could try again on the other side of the rainbow.’
Mat looked at Wiri. The warrior seemed about to nod, but when they glanced back, it seemed that dark clouds were gathering behind them, in the south. He peered through narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t think we can. We’re out of time. Something is coming. We have about half an hour before we’re trapped. We have to try now.’
He looked down the slope to the waiting tohunga and his minions, only one hundred metres away. One of the apprentices, a plump balding man who looked like an office clerk, was stumbling down the earthworks holding a handkerchief aloft.
‘It seems they want to talk,’ observed Wiri, his voice flat. ‘That’s Benjamin Platt. I remember him from before Wai stole the tiki. He fancies himself as Puarata’s right-hand man, but he’s second rate.’
Platt stepped confidently to within a few metres. He was sweating in the stifling air, but spoke to Mat with oily contempt. ‘The master wishes to trade with you, boy. Give him the tiki, and you’ll have your mother back, and the right to return home safely. I’d advise you to accept. The alternative is death, and my master takes the tiki from your corpse.’
Mat stared up at the man helplessly and Platt sniggered. ‘Don’t wait too long, boy. Or we’ll kill you anyway. Just for fun…’ He looked down contemptuously as Fitzy whimpered, and crawled forward. ‘Ha! Even your dog seems to know his master.’ He bent down, oozing smugness. ‘Here, doggy…’
Mat held his breath.
‘Come here, mutt,’ purred Platt. Fitzy crawled up to him, and licked his fingers. He laughed.
And Fitzy changed.
It began with his legs. They twisted backward and upward, even as his abdomen distended. It was as if a shiny ball of darkness was swallowing the dog from within, even the dog head fell backward into the ball of darkness, and more legs sprouted and then it leapt onto the apprentice. A spider the size of a cat clung to his face, its legs caught about the gleaming bald head, huge fangs poised above each of the man’s eyes. Platt gave a half-shriek, then whimpered and nearly fell.
‘Steady!’ hissed the turehu in a sibilant whisper. ‘Stand up straight. If you move I will kill you. Understand?’
Platt let out a soft whine that sounded a little like assent.
‘Good…now stand still.’ The spider shape slowly shifted, shrinking as it crawled in behind Platt’s neck. As the man’s face was uncovered, Mat saw a look of naked terror. His eyes were nearly rolled back in his sockets, and his skin was grey, his lips nearly blue. Fitzy hissed at him. ‘Now, slime…I am behind your neck, hidden in the hood of your robe. Bear in mind that the amount of poison I can pump into you will kill you in seconds. Understand?’
Platt nodded weakly. His balance wavered and there was a sudden stench and a patch of wetness on the front of his robe. He had lost control of his bladder, and was trembling so much he could barely stand.
‘Cowardly scum,’ continued Fitzy in the same chilling whisper. ‘You are going to walk back, with me in your hood. You will not betray my presence. You will act as if all is going well. Otherwise I’ll kill you for fun and we’ll think up a new plan.’
‘If you kill me the master will kill the woman,’ said Platt in a weak voice, attempting bravado.
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Fitzy. ‘But that won’t help you, will it?’
The attempt at defiance collapsed, and he nearly fell at Wiri’s feet.
‘Let’s go,’ said Wiri.
Fitzy made Platt walk before them, shouting ‘they agree, master, they agree’ in a quavering voice. They followed him, heads down.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Kelly quietly.
Wiri thought for a moment, then replied in a low voice. ‘Fitzy, go for Puarata to distract him, but don’t get too close. I’ll try and grab Mat’s mother. Mat, you stay back. Once we’ve got your mother out, they lose their bargaining chip and it becomes a fight instead of a hostage situation.’
‘What should I do?’ asked Kelly.
‘Stay out of trouble.’
‘Not a chance,’ she replied grimly.
They got to within a few metres of the waiting tohunga and his apprentices. Puarata looked l
ike an ancient king, his hair around his face like the mane of a lion. His face was set, his eyes triumphant. About his shoulders was a deep green cloak of tui feathers, and in his hand a pounamu mere, intricately carved. Beside him his apprentices looked pale and insipid, but each was cold-eyed, and full of sneering malice. Behind them, on the earth embankment, boiled a host of goblin faces, gesticulating fiercely, with hands and faces.
‘Well Matiu. We meet again. You have caused me some problems, boy. I was right about your potential. If you join me, I could make you great. Very great indeed.’
Mat glared at him, not trusting himself to speak.
Puarata laughed. ‘I see you are too consumed with disappointment and anger to reply. You need not…yet. But think on it, and I will call you again. Never forget that I know where you live, boy.’
The tohunga turned to Wiri. ‘My prodigal son. My Toa. It is good to have you back.’
Wiri didn’t reply, and laid a hand on Kelly’s shoulder to restrain her.
Puarata turned back to Mat. ‘Give it to me, Matiu. You have lost. I have won. Give me the tiki.’
Mat nodded, his eyes on Platt and the spider, visible from behind on the back of his neck, unseen by his master and the other apprentices. The bald man came to within a few feet of Puarata, then suddenly his hand slapped at the back of his neck and he half-turned, his mouth flying open to screech a warning. ‘Mas—’ With a gurgling cry his arms suddenly spread wide, as Fitzy buried fangs the size of fingers in his neck. Puarata and the five apprentices turned toward him, eyes going wide, their mouths opening, their hands moving, as Wiri blurred into motion.
His taiaha appeared in his hands as he leapt, and smashed a grey-haired woman to Puarata’s right to the ground with a sickening crunch. He spun like a dancer, his foot catching Puarata in the chest and throwing the tohunga backward. Puarata staggered, and snarled, and the four remaining apprentices jerked into movement like puppets. Behind them the kehua squealed and gibbered. Their ranks parted and Tupu appeared atop the earthworks, bellowing.
Platt had collapsed screaming, spittle and blood spurting from his mouth, quivering until he went rigid. A snarling reptilian form erupted from his hood and darted through the apprentices toward the totem, where Mat’s mother crouched. As a male apprentice—a horribly ordinary red-haired man—reached toward her, knife in hand, the turehu sank his teeth into the man’s wrist, and the knife fell. Kelly darted forward, snatched the blade and slashed at the knots tying Colleen Douglas to the totem. Wiri smashed another apprentice aside—a pencil-thin girl with bloodshot eyes and scarred arms. Mat heard bones splinter as she fell motionless, and the others fled back up the slope, screaming, into the ranks of advancing kehua.
Puarata had rolled away, out of reach, his eyes ablaze. Tupu roared like a bull, and charged down the slope. Wiri paused half a second, caught between a desire to strike again at Puarata, to fight Tupu, or to grab Colleen Douglas. He chose the latter, swept Colleen up in his arms and staggered backward. Kelly came up behind him, waving the knife and snarling like a wildcat, slashing about her to create space to retreat. It seemed an inadequate gesture—there were seconds to spare before Tupu and kehua reached them, and they were engulfed…Mat stared up at the totem, then almost in a dream he lifted the knife he had taken from Donna Kyle’s office, and plunged it into the right eye of the totem.
With a burst of rainbow light, a massive concussion threw him through the air like a toy. Roaring filled his ears like a huge bell, like a massive wave, and he spun dizzyingly, to plough into the earth feet from the edge of the ridge, fifteen metres from where the totem had stood.
He looked about, dazed. He couldn’t hear, and blood was pouring from his nose. Wiri and his mother were lying nearby. The warrior was getting to his feet, but his mother was limp, unconscious. Kelly was on her face in the dirt six metres beyond them, but moving gingerly. Fitzy was nowhere to be seen.
He looked back at the totem. It stood, but it was split in two, and blackened as if a fire had half-consumed it. About it were strewn the fallen apprentices. Puarata was staggering to his feet, as was Tupu—the kehua had been blown backward like twigs.
Something pale swam past his eyes. Something transparent, shaped like a woman. It was the ghost they had seen on the road to the cape. She was moving toward the tree, unimpeded now by the totem. Other pale shapes followed her—Puarata’s forbidding was broken.
Wiri could get through now…he could fight…
Puarata rose with blood spattered across his face, and bellowed aloud in words Mat couldn’t follow. He saw the pale ghost-figures ripple, then something swept them backward. Wiri was swept aside, as if some hidden mind were tearing at his flesh, ripping pieces of him into the winds. Mat got to his feet, yelling, expecting to be blown aside but there was no wind that affected him, only a ghost-wind that flowed from Puarata and ripped into the phantoms as they gathered, tearing them apart like cobwebs in a storm.
Mat saw the ghosts, and Wiri with them, re-form a hundred metres further back. Kelly was bent over his mother’s prone form, and he stumbled toward them, helping move her away to safety. Fitzy flowed to his side, in dog form again, blood soaking one flank. In the distance, on the earthworks, the kehua were regaining their feet, and Tupu also, shaking his massive head.
‘That was well done, Mat,’ panted Fitzy. ‘But we’ve got to do more. They’re about to attack.’
Mat turned to face their enemies, trembling with fright. They had freed his mother, but there was no more time. The kehua were gathering themselves to charge, Tupu rousing them for the fray. About them ghosts boiled ineffectually, repulsed by Puarata’s power. His mother lay unconscious, limp as a broken doll. He looked back toward the RAV4. Maybe they could run? But the darkness was sweeping in from the south. He heard an engine roaring, something coming near. Wiri’s eyes were blazing with suicidal desperation. Kelly’s looked blank, in shock, as if everything she had seen was now too much to bear. Puarata was on his feet, roaring, and the wind behind him grew, slashing at the pallid forms of the ghosts that massed about Wiri.
A car skidded close to them and the doors fell open. It was Manu and Captain Spriggs. Their faces were grim, but they had weapons. They turned, and helped another man from the car. Tama Douglas.
Mat gasped. His father’s face was swollen with mottled bruises, purple and livid red. One eye was nearly closed and he moved with awkward discomfort. But move he did, yelling defiance at Puarata, then falling upon his unconscious wife. Tears stung Mat’s eyes and he turned. Winds tore from Puarata’s hands, and the kehua massed behind the tohunga makutu, baying for blood.
A hand touched his shoulders. He had fallen to his knees without realising. It was a ghost, pulling him to his feet.
It was Hakawau, the tohunga. ‘Come, Mat,’ Hakawau said. ‘It is time to lead the haka. It is time to fight.’
Mat looked around him. At the ghosts. They were warriors, Maori and Pakeha. Some carried mere and taiaha, others bore muskets and swords. Many were ordinary men and women from the modern world. They were pale, transparent, but they saw him. The air was deathly cold. He shuddered, and looked up, at his enemy, at Puarata looming above, spitting rage. He looked at the spirit of Hakawau. ‘Are you dead?’ he asked.
‘No,’ answered the tohunga. ‘But I am with you, as a spirit. I am here.’
Mat turned, and looked down the line of ghosts, who were staring up at the tohunga in confusion and dismay. He let himself go then, let his senses flow into the ghosts, until he could feel them, feel their lost, sorrowful pain, feel their hunger to leave this world, feel their anger at being thwarted, and feel their strength.
Behind him he heard the storm snap and howl, but he didn’t look back. What would be, would be. He went into a crouch, slapped his thighs, and felt the mana of the warrior flow into his being. He wondered if he would remember the words, but they flowed from his mouth as naturally as breathing.
‘KIA MAU.’
He shouted alone at first, and th
en Wiri and Manu joined him, leading the call to battle.
‘RINGA PAKIA.’
The Maori among the dead replied in a sibilant hiss. ‘PAKIA PAKIA.’
The Pakeha dead looked about them, and from the memories of their lives—of seeing the haka on a marae, or classroom lessons, or watching it on television before a rugby test—they found the words and actions.
‘PAKIA PAKIA,’ they all repeated now, a hundred chill voices, and they slapped their thighs in time. Mat could feel an energy building from them, and he looked up at the kehua, saw them waving their weapons defiantly, but he sensed a sudden uncertainty among them, and felt a terrifying thrill.
Wiri stalked before the ranks of living and dead.
‘WAEWAE TAKAHIA KIA KINO,’ he called.
As one they all stamped their right foot and replied. ‘E KINO NEI HOKI.’
Wiri grinned ferociously, and shouted the famous words.
‘KA MATE! KA MATE!’
‘KA ORA KA ORA,’ they yelled back at him, Pakeha and Maori spirits together answering the call.
‘KA MATE! KA MATE!’
‘KA ORA KA ORA.’
And then they all joined in one voice.
‘TENEI TE TANGATA,
PUHURU HURU,
NANA I TIKI MAI,
WHAKAWHITI TE RA.’
Down the line, Mat saw Manu, his fox-like face blazing, teeth bared. He saw Timothy Spriggs, caught up in an alien culture he didn’t understand, but a battle fury he embraced instinctively. He saw Kelly, howling out her fury with her red hair blazing like some Irish war goddess. He saw his father, his battered face and aching body forgotten in the heat of the dance. He saw his mother raise her head and look, through the ghosts and the living, at him, and she nodded. She smiled dazedly.
