by David Hair
There had been snow on the ground in Arrowtown, but Dunedin was merely cold and grey, with a chilling southerly blasting through — although there was snow on the peninsula to the south. Dunedin was at the inner mouth of Otago Harbour, which extended for 21 kilometres out to Taiaroa Head and the ocean. The prevailing colours of the city were midwinter greys and browns, especially in the Octagon, which was indeed octagonal. It wasn’t flat though, being on three levels. The oldest buildings about it were the town hall and an Anglican cathedral, side by side on the northern corner where the streets climbed away to the north. Mat read the plaque in front of the cathedral, but the names meant nothing to him: apparently it had been designed by one Arthur Lawson, who’d also designed the First Church and Larnach Castle. The castle again …
Mat and Cassandra had a coffee and a toasted panini each at a Middle Eastern-themed bar on the southern corner of the Octagon, and Mat felt himself revive. With it came a greater sense of what he was seeking to do. Bryce ran, and he’s lost a lot of men. He must be vulnerable. He shouldn’t be hard to find. But can we get Riki away from him? Are we already too late?
‘I guess the next step is to have a look around on the other side,’ he told Cassandra.
Cass inclined her head in agreement. She looked very much like an Otago scarfie, with her spiky dyed hair, pale skin and bohemian clothes. The university was outside the central city but there were lots of students here. They gave the city an appealing liveliness. ‘This is a cool place,’ she commented.
‘You’d fit right in,’ he told her.
‘Yeah, I haven’t worked out where I’m doing varsity yet, but Dunedin is on the list.’
‘Are you and Riki going to go to the same place, once high school is over?’
She shrugged uncomfortably. ‘We’ve gotta get him back first.’ She shook her head. ‘I dunno. Career comes first. For me anyway. Riki and me … it’s kinda “friends with benefits”, really.’
Mat would have preferred to hear that she and Riki were a committed item. ‘But you’re here.’
She looked at him, faintly surprised. ‘We’re mates, Mat. We stick together. That’s bigger than love.’
It sounded the wrong way round to Mat. ‘You reckon?’
‘Hell yeah. Mates are mates. You stick together, you cover for each other, you fight for each other. Romance is more selfish, I think. Couples go into their zone and shut other people out. I’ve seen it happen.’
Mat thought about Aroha and Evie. He couldn’t imagine Aroha being part of his life and his friends’ lives. She existed on mountain tops and in deep forests, not cafés and cinemas. But Evie … He could imagine being with her through anything.
Not that it seems to matter what I want any more.
Cassandra nudged his hand. ‘Time’s moving. Let’s go and sort out that bastard Bryce. One thing at a time, yeah?’
They went back to the car and changed into colonial attire they’d purchased in Arrowtown. Cassandra got around the whole hoops and petticoats thing by dressing as a boy, with her hair tucked under a cap. They crossed over around the back of First Church, out of sight of the road and the surrounding houses. Regretfully Mat left the feather cloak and taiaha behind — they were too conspicuous. He had to comfort himself with a greenstone patu that fitted inside his jacket’s inner pocket. Cassandra looked even unhappier at leaving her iPad behind. They looked each other over, measuring the determination in each other’s eyes, then transitioned to Aotearoa.
In the Ghost World, Dunedin initially seemed only subtly different. The skies above were just as bleak, the air just as cold. The tall church looked both newer and grimier, and there was a heavy smell of coal fire in the air. It wasn’t until they emerged from behind the church and went out onto the streets that the real changes became apparent. There were no cars, of course, and the road was now hard-packed dirt and grit, the drains on either side filled with ploughed snow. No power lines or neon: the shop signs were antiquated painted boards with gaudy lettering, advertising hats and corsets. A horse-drawn wagon was creaking down the gentle slope towards the town, laden with metal milk-cans. It was driven by a sandy-bearded man who looked them up and down curiously, though he nodded politely enough.
They hadn’t formulated a plan for finding Riki or Bryce, and as it happened, they didn’t need to. The first major building they encountered on Princes Street had a freshly plastered poster stuck to the wall. Cassandra grabbed Mat’s arm and pointed to it.
HEAR JOHN BRYCE! THE PROTECTOR SPEAKS! BE AT THE OCTAGON AT 1 P.M.
Mat stared. He’d been expecting to have to hunt for Bryce, not for his quarry to be so public. The very fact that the man was willing to stand in front of others and speak was unnerving. The other warlocks he’d encountered had been creatures of the shadows.
One o’clock was less than an hour away. They were trying to work out what to do when a middle-aged man emerged from the building and glanced at the poster. Mat stepped back to allow him a view, and to gauge his reaction. The newcomer was a big man with a stiff manner. He was dressed in a heavy tweed coat, and had dark hair with thick sideburns and a clean-shaven chin. ‘Och aye, what’s he want, eh?’ He glanced warily at Mat. His voice had a rich Scottish timbre. ‘Ye ain’t from round here, are ye …’ he frowned at Cass, ‘er … lads?’
Mat ducked his head. ‘Me and my mate are from out of town, sir,’ he said in a respectful voice.
‘Aye? Are ye just?’ The man scratched his Adam’s apple pointedly, looking at Cassandra. ‘Don’t go into the Octagon, lads. There’s some speechifying to be had. No place for young fellows like you, hear?’
‘Will you be going, sir?’ Mat asked.
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps I will. Perhaps I won’t. We don’t get to see “The Protector” much. And that’s no bad thing, if ye take me meaning.’
So people here don’t like Bryce … Well, this man doesn’t, anyway.
‘What will he be talking about?’ Mat risked asking. ‘Er, Mister …?’
‘The name’s Cargill. William Cargill.’ He looked Mat and Cass over again thoughtfully. Clearly talking about ‘The Protector’ wasn’t something people did lightly. ‘Bryce will talk about the usual things he talks about. We’ll listen, and then go about our business. I suggest you do the same.’ He gave a small inclination of his head. ‘Good day to ye.’
‘That wasn’t very friendly,’ Cassandra remarked when Cargill was out of earshot.
‘Considering he had you pegged as a girl inside two seconds, it wasn’t so bad,’ Mat replied.
Cassandra harrumphed. ‘Who was he?’
‘Dunno, but he didn’t seem to like Bryce much. Let’s see what the reaction is closer in.’
They waited until Cargill was well gone, then scurried along towards town. The posters were still being slapped on the walls, by a scrawny man with a hacking cough. The reaction of the townsfolk was hard to read: people dutifully read them, but there was something reticent and noncommittal about their responses. It was as if they would rather have been unaware.
When Mat and Cassandra were a block from the Octagon foot traffic picked up hugely, with several hundred people about them, almost all heading towards the same place. There were criers too, summoning people to come to the Octagon. ‘Hear The Protector! Hear him speak! Witness his mighty power unveiled!’
‘What does that mean?’ Cassandra whispered. ‘That stuff about his “mighty power”?’
Mat knew of one unique power that Bryce had, and he didn’t like to think of how he might use it. He spotted a young man about his own age reading a poster and tapped him on the arm. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’
The young man looked him up and down. ‘Get lost, darkie.’ He bunched a fist.
Mat blinked, not afraid but shocked. Modern New Zealand wasn’t totally free of racism, but you didn’t often encounter such blatant aggression. ‘What?’
‘You heard me. Get lost.’ Then a sly smile slid across the youth’s face. ‘Or better yet,
come to the Octagon. The Protector might make you part of the show.’
Cassandra tugged at Mat’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ she whispered in a husky voice, trying to maintain the fiction of being male.
‘Yeah, Skinny, take your darkie mate and go,’ the youth told her. ‘Before he gets what’s coming.’
Mat stared at the boy, but there were more of his ilk taking notice. He turned away, seething quietly. He let Cass guide him to where older people were milling at the edge of the Octagon. ‘What do we do?’ she whispered in Mat’s ear.
‘Let’s hang around and hear what Bryce has to say,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘So long as we can steer clear of imbeciles like that guy, we’ll be fine.’
‘We can’t draw attention,’ Cass warned. ‘If Bryce spots you, it looks like he’s going to have a lot of friends to help him out.’
Mat nodded. They edged their way through the gathering crowd. There were literally thousands of people in the Octagon, gathered most prominently around the steps of the town hall. There were armed men with muskets, sealing off the steps, who looked different from the rest — shaven-headed and tattooed neo-Nazis, their modern-militant appearance out of keeping with the old-world setting and the colonial-era garb of the rest. The crowd was packed close together, and almost all those in it were men, clad in black and brown overcoats and hats. Many wore kilts: Dunedin had been a major destination for Scottish settlers, people who’d named it and shaped its culture.
The noise was low and constant, the atmosphere tense. There was watchfulness, fear, even shame, and a simmering sense of danger. Mat pulled his collar up and his cap down and sidled through the crowd, until he and Cass were amidst the press gathered at the foot of a large statue of Robbie Burns, only about thirty yards from the town hall steps which everyone was facing.
With a sudden skirl of pipes and roll of drums, the town hall doors burst open and a group of suited men emerged in top hats and overcoats. Mat stiffened as he saw that John Bryce was among them.
Yikes! He must totally own the council here. He must rule the place.
Suddenly, being here seemed like a very bad idea. But the crowd was pressed so closely that he didn’t think he and Cass could leave if they tried. They’d ended up not far from Bryce. They could see down to the lower levels of the Octagon, a sea of mostly white faces. Perhaps he imagined it, but there seemed to be darker-skinned faces towards the rear, though they were few.
The pipes ceased skirling and droned to a ragged silence. Drums rolled thunderously, then fell still. Some in the crowd were cheering, particularly those gathered close to the foot of the steps, but not all that many compared with those watching with guarded expressions. Apprehension, rather than enthusiasm, seemed to be the prevailing mood.
There were two black wrought-iron lamp stands surmounting the steps of the town hall; four small metal dragons supported each light. John Bryce appeared between the lamps, and the lights flickered on, illuminating his face and making the day seem darker. He raised a hand, greeting his supporters. They cheered again, then fell silent expectantly. He surveyed the crowd further from him, reading the stony faces. Bryce stuck his chin out belligerently. There was something pit-bullish about him, something that gathered strength from antagonism. ‘People of Dunedin,’ he called. ‘Hearken, my people!’
‘We’re not your people, Mister Bryce!’ someone shouted from the rear, in a thick Scottish brogue. ‘Go back to Wanganui!’
Bryce took no notice. ‘People of Dunedin, you know me. You know what I stand for. You know what I can do. You know what keeps this great city safe and prosperous!’
‘Aye, our hard work!’ shouted another man from the back. A few men laughed.
Mat saw men fanning out from the town hall, seeking the men who dared to heckle, while Bryce carried right on: ‘While the North Island shivered in fright at the mention of Puarata’s name, I kept you all safe. His fear of me was your shield!’
Mat looked at Cassandra indignantly. Bryce had done no such thing: he had been Puarata’s agent here.
Evidently plenty of others thought the same. A low rumble simmered through the back of the crowd. Bryce heard it, and so did his supporters. But there was no open dissent; rather, the smell of fear. Mat accidentally met the eye of a thin man on his left. He felt a flash of concern that the man might react to the colour of his skin, and he did, but not in the way Mat feared. ‘You’re brave to come, laddie,’ the man whispered. ‘But keep your head down.’
‘What’s Bryce’s status here?’ Mat whispered.
‘That’s not easy to define. He has no official position, but if he wants something, he gets it.’
‘What’s this “Protector” business?’
The man grunted. ‘He tells us we’d have all been eaten by, ahem, your people, if it weren’t for him.’
Before the man could add more, Bryce lifted his hand again. ‘Some people say that I hate the native people,’ he shouted. ‘Well, I’m telling you that isn’t true.’ A ripple of smirking laughter ran through his supporters, and he raised a hand. ‘No, I swear I do not hate the natives. Why should I? Hate is for those we fear, for those who threaten us. But the native people are a dying race. Why should we fear them?’
Mat felt himself begin to bristle. ‘Shh, lad, keep yer head down,’ the thin man said in his ear. ‘Ye ain’t the only one that his verbiage rankles, but he’s the only one here that can warp the laws of nature itself.’
No he’s not, Mat thought angrily. You just watch me.
‘For myself,’ Bryce continued, ‘I espouse the words of Mister Rudyard Kipling himself, who has said that it is the White Man’s Burden, our moral imperative, to bring enlightenment to the savages in their hour of decline.’
Suddenly, Bryce was on territory Mat was familiar with. The school history curriculum he’d been wrestling with this year had included a section on the rise of Hitler and the Nazis. One of the elements of that had been the concept of races being in conflict. Rudyard Kipling’s poem about the so-called ‘White Man’s Burden’ had been a part of the lessons. The poem may or may not have been satirical, but it was taken at face value by many. Mat’s class had even had to write a critique on it. Counter-arguments gathered in his mind as he listened.
‘Look about you!’ Bryce shouted. ‘Do you see the wooden huts and palisades of a pa? Or do you see sturdy Anglo-Saxon stone buildings? Do you see primitive canoes in the harbour, or traders and warships? Are our shops filled with cloth, or flax? Do we eat kumara and fish, or hearty steaks and honest potato? Do we pray to God the Father, or to some Tane and Maui and whatever else the savages might dream up?’ He put a hand on one of the dragons. ‘We have brought civilization to this place. We have come to educate, to evangelize, and to elevate the natives.’ He clenched a fist. ‘The sooner their rebellious leaders recognize this, the sooner there will be peace!’
His followers threw up their fists in response, a gesture reminding Mat uncomfortably of the films of the Nazi rallies they’d been shown at school. But the wider audience looked on stonily. He began to estimate that maybe half a hundred people at the front were the only ones openly in favour of Bryce’s words. The rest, more than a thousand, merely watched on, too afraid to speak out.
‘We have come here, multiplied, and covered the land, and converted those of the natives who are open to it.’ Bryce nodded to a minister watching from the steps of the Anglican cathedral. ‘We have brought British manners, learning, culture and craft. We have turned these islands from wilderness to farmland. We have built stone houses and bridges. Before we came, there was nothing of merit: not even writing or the wheel! Our superiority is manifest!’
‘That’s a false argument,’ the thin man muttered. ‘Cultures evolve differently, and the forces involved have nothing to do with race. The man’s a bigot and there’s an end to it.’
‘Why do people put up with him?’ Mat whispered.
‘Because he can kill a man with a word,’ the thin man retorted. ‘Keep your
voice down, lad.’
Mat looked about him, thinking hard. This was Aotearoa, the Ghost World: there were people here who had died from many different decades, and the dress of some identified them as from more recent times. Most of the people here knew of a world view far more modern than the hundred-year-old bigotry of John Bryce. Even the older-period people were visibly hostile to Bryce. A plan began to form in his mind.
‘We should be dictating to the natives, not making accommodation with them,’ Bryce went on. ‘Yet in our earlier weakness, the English made a treaty with the natives, instead of investing more troops into subduing them! It was a moment of shame to our Empire!’ Like a magician showing his newest trick, Bryce pulled a sheaf of paper from his coat. ‘Behold!’ the warlock shouted. ‘This document, here in my hands, is that very treaty! The Treaty of Waitangi!’
The crowd gasped. Even Bryce’s followers seemed uncertain what this meant. The news that the original treaty document had been stolen four months ago would have spread like wildfire through Aotearoa. No-one truly knew what that meant yet, but several prominent Maori chiefs in the north had already sworn war against the Pakeha if it was not returned.
Mat stiffened, his fingers gripping the stone plinth. He wanted to shout out something, anything, that would make Bryce stop. But where’s Riki? What if I open my mouth and get him killed?
Bryce waved the parchment furiously. ‘Yes, this is the document! This flawed, foolish scrap that makes no sense in and of itself, let alone when considered against the travesty of the master bargaining with the slave!’
‘He goes too far,’ the thin man hissed. He glanced to the rear of the crowd, where a chorus of boos was ringing out. ‘He’s insane.’
Bryce shouted over the noise. ‘Some say this Treaty has a spiritual force!’ he shouted. ‘That it keeps the native from war, but that is not its crime. Its crime is that it forces us, the enlightened settlers, to deal with the native at all. This document is what keeps our might leashed!’
