by David Hair
VENN’S ESTATE MAY RUN TO BILLIONS, one headline blazed, talking about the recently deceased American businessman who had also been a warlock of Puarata’s entourage. Mat felt a sense of grim satisfaction knowing the man was dead. Tax officials were now investigating the man’s financial empire and pulling it apart. ‘Result’, as his friend Riki would say.
WHERE IS BYRON KIKITOA? asked another headline, above a story about the missing rugby league star, who’d vanished at the same time Venn died. The papers had no idea of the truth: that Byron Kikitoa was a warlock whose sports career had been built on cheating with magic. Mat burned to bring the young warlock to justice, for what Byron had done to his friend Damien.
TREATY DOCUMENT DETERIORATES, read the third clipping. The original Treaty of Waitangi document, the founding agreement of New Zealand, was reportedly decaying, rotting away, and no expert could save it. Scientists were baffled. Mat could have told them more: that the document they had was not the true original, for the master copy was in the magical world of Aotearoa, and had been stolen by Byron Kikitoa’s master, Kiki. He doubted going to the papers with that story would help though. More likely it’d get him locked up in a psychiatric ward.
He sighed heavily, feeling weighed down by his problems. At seventeen he should have had no worries other than homework, sports and girls. But he was far from your regular high school student: he was an Adept and trainee tohunga, an intermediary between the real and ghost worlds.
He still got head colds though. So much for special powers. Snuffling miserably, he slouched into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he was showered, dressed and tugging a brush through his hair. He was a lean and well-built boy, in his last year at high school. His colouring was halfway between that of his Maori father, Tama, and his Irish mother, Colleen. His thick wavy hair was black but had a coppery glint in the sunlight, and he got faint freckles in the summer, although it was winter now and only a light dusting of those remained. He was short for his age but had grown muscular from two years of taiaha practice and a dedicated fitness regime. His eyes had a maturity that even adults could find daunting — but then he’d faced things that most people hadn’t, like kehua goblins, massive taniwha and evil tohunga.
In the kitchen downstairs he fixed himself a hot lemon drink, and tried to work out the instructions to the meals his dad had left. Tama Douglas was a lawyer and had a difficult case up in Taupo this week, which meant that Mat had to fend for himself this week, sick or not. Mat’s mother coincidentally lived in Taupo, but she was a teacher, so she couldn’t come down, and as they had both told him, he was old enough to look after himself. Being on his own might have been fun if he’d not come down with this damned cold.
His cellphone bleeped, and he put down the hot drink to check the new message. It was from his best friend, Riki Waitoa:
Riki was on the Maori Studies field trip, of course. The class had taken a bus yesterday to New Plymouth, and had been at Parihaka all day. He wondered if it was raining in Taranaki too.
The reply came back in seconds:
Mat laughed aloud. He presumed ‘lechered’ meant ‘lectured’, though with Riki you never knew. Although he’d been keen to see Parihaka himself, the programme had seemed to include a huge amount of time locked up in meeting rooms being lectured to by kaumatua, something he’d not been looking forward to all that much. Riki had been very quick to accuse Mat of pulling a sickie when he’d pulled out of the trip due to his cold. He tapped back:
Mat tsked morosely and set the phone aside. Bad enough to be sick, but his best friend was now several hundred kilometres away and apparently surrounded by a bevy of girls. There were other schools doing the same trip including, Riki had been gleeful in pointing out all week, girl-only schools. One thing Napier Boys’ High was very much devoid of was girls. At times Riki and Mat did envy the co-eds like Colenso High School.
Perhaps I’ll watch a DVD. But to be honest, Mat didn’t feel like doing anything much at all. That was the problem with being sick: you got time off school but you felt too crappy to enjoy it. On top of that, it was Year 13, his last year at high school, and if he stuffed up his final exams his parents, separated or not, would band together to rip him limb from limb.
Still, in fifteen minutes or so he had a pasta sauce simmering and was getting ready to drain some spaghetti. He couldn’t tell if it smelt good, having lost his sense of smell days ago, but it looked okay and it was hot. He stretched in pleased anticipation. It felt good to be doing this, mature even, like a foretaste of being grown-up. It’s quite nice being on my own …
‘Kia ora,’ a woman’s voice said in his ear.
He shrieked and leapt a foot in the air.
It took what felt like minutes for his heart to slow and his hands to stop trembling. Neither entirely got back to normal though. Not when he recognized his ‘guest’.
Her name was Aroha. She was tall, taller than him, and had the regal bearing of a princess. Her long rippling black hair framed a beautiful but imperious face with a stunning green moko pattern on her chin and eyes of burnished gold. She wore a topknot thatched with emerald and white tui feathers, and a full-length feather cloak of unidentified and possibly extinct birds. She was barefoot, but showed no signs of being cold or uncomfortable.
‘You’re cooking,’ she said doubtfully.
Mat suspected that Aroha had never cooked in her life. She was the daughter of a tohunga and had been out of circulation for probably four hundred years. Slaves and commoners had most likely done all her cooking for her, and there were extremely complex rules around what tohunga ate.
Mat hadn’t seen Aroha since February, but they had exchanged letters — really, really awkward letters, in which Aroha proposed marriage and Mat tried to decline without offending her. Mat and his friends had rescued Aroha and her father the previous year from a type of suspended animation. She seemed to feel an obligation to him, one that she felt was best fulfilled by marrying him. Not that she wasn’t an extremely attractive young woman, but Mat liked to make up his own mind about these things.
‘Ah, I’m making pasta,’ he said apologetically.
She stepped towards him, clearly intending to hongi. Good manners demanded Mat respond, but he had a contagious illness. He sneezed ostentatiously. ‘I’ve got a cold,’ he mumbled.
Aroha drew away slightly. ‘You are unwell?’ she enquired imperiously. ‘No matter.’ She stepped in close before Mat could react and, as he straightened, pressed her nose to his and exhaled heavily in his face. He tried to pull away, but suddenly his nasal passages cleared as her breath, warm and clean, blasted through his cold and dissolved it.
He blinked. ‘Uh—?’
Aroha pulled a martyred face, like a parent who’s just changed her child’s nappy. ‘You should be fine now,’ she told him. ‘You should take better care of yourself,’ she added, as if getting sick was all his fault.
She can cure the common cold … Aroha 1; Medical science 0!
‘Ah, thanks,’ he said lamely.
‘It is my honour to aid you,’ she replied formally. She caught one of his hands and examined it curiously. Mat had unusual fingernails — almost entirely scab-red. He told people it was a medical thing, but the reality was that they were fingernails given to him by Mahuika, the Goddess of Fire. Aroha wrinkled her nose at them. ‘I do not like her touch on you,’ she said. She let his hand go and went to the stove, peering at the simmering sauce. ‘What is this “pasta”?’ she asked disapprovingly.
‘It’s Italian,’ he said. She didn’t look any wiser. Other countries were a distant rumour the last time she walked the earth. ‘Is there something else I can fix you?’ he asked anxiously.
She frowned. ‘I will not eat. Not here,’ she said.
‘I will await you.’ She strode out of the kitchen, leaving Mat bewildered.
Okay, she’s just cured my cold. But why is she here? How did she even get in? She’s not going to talk about marriage again, is she? I barely even know her.
He’d hoped his last letter, sent more than a month ago in May, had knocked this on the head:
Dear Aroha
I am flattered that you have made this proposal, but until we have made better acquaintance, it is not possible for me to give your proposal the full consideration and honour that it deserves. Once I have completed my tertiary education we could perhaps revisit this matter.
His dad had helped draft it, which meant it had read more like a legal letter than a personal one, but that was good too: establishing some distance and all that. He didn’t want to marry her and it was much easier to say that in a letter than to tell her face to face, especially when she was one of the scariest people he’d ever met. Besides, there’s someone else, he added softly to himself. Evie’s face flashed before his eyes. He shut down that line of thinking quickly though. You couldn’t tell with Aroha just how much she knew just by looking at you.
In what felt uncomfortably like a preview of what being married to a princess might be like, Mat cleared and set the dining-room table, then finished cooking and served himself the meal, while Aroha waited impassively. He had no idea if she was approving or severely disapproving. Perhaps she’ll change her mind now she knows I’m just a commoner, he hoped.
‘Uh, do you want a drink?’ He had his dad’s permission to help himself to no more than one glass of beer or wine a day, if he wanted. He mostly didn’t as, truth be told, he didn’t actually like either, and he’d promised Aethlyn Jones, his mentor, that he’d keep away from alcohol.
‘Just water,’ she replied. ‘Alcohol is forbidden,’ she added in a severe tone, sounding disquietingly like his mother. She sat opposite him, watching him curiously as he ate. The silence was awkward. Evidently Aroha didn’t do small talk. Perhaps being locked up for centuries had drained away her words. Or maybe princesses didn’t converse. Either way, his meal was consumed uncomfortably under her wordless gaze.
The moment he finished his last mouthful, she rose. ‘We must talk.’ She turned and walked into the lounge, awaiting him beside the window.
Mat could hear the deep rumble of the surf on Marine Parade, like a slow bass rhythm thundering behind the melody of the rain on the windows. The wind wailed banshee effects across the top. It was a good soundtrack for bad news, which he was almost certain this was going to be.
‘Do you know the tale of the first woman?’ Aroha asked as he joined her, immediately throwing him off his stride.
‘Uh, sort of.’
Aroha went on as if he’d not responded. Her voice took on a storytelling timbre, a recital voice of restrained passion. ‘The god Tane desired a vessel for the female essence — uha — from which to bring forth children. So he made a woman from earth and breathed life into her. Her name is Hine-ahu-one, the first woman. She gave birth to many children, the offspring of Tane, gods of our people, many males but only one female. That was Hine-titama, the Dawn Maiden. Hine-ahu-one was content, until she was put aside by Tane, in favour of her own daughter. Together Tane and Hine-titama gave birth to humanity. But then Hine-titama came to realize the incestuous nature of her relationship with Tane and she grew ashamed. She fled him, entering the realms of the dark, to escape her lustful father. In the darkness her nature changed, and she became Hine-te-po: Hine of the Night, the Goddess of Death.’
Mat listened dutifully, wondering what Aroha was trying to tell him. The story was vaguely familiar, something he’d heard related on occasion but never really thought about.
‘You have to understand, Matiu Douglas, that Hine-ahu-one, Hine-titama and Hine-te-po are the same being, for they share the same uha, the female essence that engendered humanity. By day, Hine-titama walks the earth, bringing life and hope, while at night, she returns to the darkness and comforts the dead. But the third aspect, Hine-ahu-one, the first woman, also remains. She is estranged from Tane and wanders the spirit realm. When the need comes over her, she takes on a body, that of her chosen vessel, and seeks a mate.’
Uh oh …
‘I am the vessel of Hine-ahu-one and her other incarnations,’ Aroha said gravely. ‘I was locked away by Puarata for many years, and have missed the touch of a man and the fulfilment of a child. My time is coming again, very soon. Only a young man skilled in the arts of the tohunga can reach me and survive our union. I have chosen you to be that man.’
Mat felt himself turning hot and cold as her words sank in. His temple and cheeks were throbbing and his skin was prickling with goose bumps. His throat was so constricted it was hard to breathe. ‘Uh … what do you mean “reach you”. You’re here now.’
She shook her head. ‘I am not truly here at all. Not in any way that matters.’
He felt his mouth drop open. She looked pretty damn real to him.
‘What you see of me is merely a projection. But in December this year, at the solstice, when the moon rises and the Southern Cross is high, the way to my arbour in the clouds will open. You will come to me there.’
‘But … I’ll be in Wellington at Wiri and Kel’s place in December!’ And I don’t want ‘union’ with you anyway …
Aroha ignored him. ‘The man that lies with me will be subjected to mystic forces that only the mighty can endure. But they will emerge from that ordeal perfected, their powers multiplied and their body invulnerable. They will become a demi-god.’
What?
‘The child of that union will be a mighty power for light or darkness, and shape the vitality of nature. Too long, while I was imprisoned, has this land been bled, without the renewing touch of a child of mine.’
Four hundred years. While she was locked away the Europeans came and turned the forests into farms. Mat’s head reeled with all that was implied by what she’d told him. And she wants me?
Aroha stepped towards him and stroked his cheek. ‘I warn you, Matiu Douglas, that for this to come about, a man must come to me willingly, with love in his heart for me and for this world. If he does not, then our union will be corrupted. His existing powers will be twisted into makutu, and the offspring I bear will be a monster. Thus it was before, when Kiki came for me, and I begat Puarata. This cannot be allowed to happen again.’
Mat’s head reeled. She is the mother of Puarata? He had faced Puarata, and only luck and powerful help had seen Puarata die. She was raped by Kiki, my new enemy? And now she wants me? He stepped away, frightened of her and all that she said.
‘Do not fear, Matiu Douglas. You are worthy. I have watched you, since you freed me. You are the one.’
He swallowed, floundering for words. My god, what do I do? Then another thought: Aroha is Evie’s grandmother! His knees almost went.
She stepped close to him again, inhaled and sighed. ‘I wish it could be tonight,’ she whispered in a wistful voice. ‘But my time has not yet come, and I must remain inviolate until then.’ She put her arms around him and drew him to her. She had an alluring musky smell and radiated warmth. ‘I must warn you, Mat, that there will be others who seek me in December. Others I do not choose. When I am in my time, I have not the strength to protect myself, and desire will overpower me. So you must win the race to reach me. You must!’
He shuddered, but was too afraid to pull from her embrace.
‘One especially I fear,’ she whispered. ‘Byron Kikitoa. He is the protégé of Kiki, bred and raised for this task. You must keep him from me.’
Byron Kikitoa had killed Mat’s friend Damien: he was high on the list of people Mat wanted to see destroyed, but that was not exactly an easy thing to do. Kiki was also on that list. He nodded grimly.
Aroha seemed to take his nod as assent to everything. Her face lit up. ‘I know you won’t let me down,’ she whispered. Then she kissed him.
Mat had kissed a couple of girls, including on
e he cared for very much. But being kissed by a goddess was another experience altogether. It was as if she were radiating pure pleasure and seduction, forcing them into his mind through her mouth. If her arms had not been around him he would have fallen down. As it was, he almost fainted, blasted away by centuries of want. The ceiling tilted, his balance went and he was floating in her eyes, weightless and dizzy.
‘I will await you at the spring equinox, at the rising of the moon,’ she told him softly. Then her molten eyes narrowed. ‘Slay Byron Kikitoa for me, my champion. Destroy him, and come to me filled with love.’
He tried to speak, to protest, but all his words were lost, tossed on the tidal waves of her presence. She engulfed him, overwhelmed him. When her lips finally left his, he could barely tell up from down. She kissed him again, on the forehead like a mother kissing a child, and he simply passed out, falling into a soft, enveloping darkness that embraced him and rocked him into oblivion.
He woke much, much later, and found himself sprawled on the sofa. The wall clock said 11:37 p.m. He’d lost almost five hours, assuming it was the same day. He blinked blearily, too stunned to take it all in. He staggered to the bathroom and threw up, then rinsed his mouth and brushed his teeth, consciously not dealing with all he had been told. Not yet. He went back to his bedroom and sat on the bed, just staring into space. Outside the storm gathered in intensity, but he was barely aware of the creaking timbers and rattling latches, or the lashing sheets of rain which drenched his southern window. He stared at one thing: a tarot card pinned upside down above his bed.
It was called The Lovers, and depicted a man and a woman beside a tree, with a sun-face beaming down on them. That face in the sun was not benign, however. It was a devil face, leering with anticipation as the man and the woman reached for each other.
