by David Hair
‘Destroy it!’ shouted someone down the front. ‘Yeah, rip it up, Mister Bryce!’ called another.
‘Only equals make valid treaties,’ Bryce shouted. ‘And as I have told you, we are not equals of the native.’ He brandished the paper. ‘This document is old. It is fragile. It is divisive: many New Zealanders in the modern age refer to Waitangi Day as “Our National Day of Protest”. You have probably said the same yourself!’ He pulled out something metallic and displayed it: a cigarette lighter. ‘This piece of paper is neither needed nor wanted! It’s a sham.’
He wouldn’t! Not here! But Mat could see the set of Bryce’s jaw. He would.
‘Burn it!’ someone at the front shouted. ‘Burn it!’ The call was taken up and became a rhythmic chant among Bryce’s followers. The rest of the crowd watched anxiously, confusion on their faces.
Mat glanced down to the lower levels, where those who’d barracked Bryce were gathered. He saw the man he’d met earlier, William Cargill, among a group of men. They were speaking together, their faces agitated. ‘Why would we want a war?’ one of them called.
‘Because our cause is just!’ Bryce shouted.
Mat knew he had to intervene before Bryce carried out his threat. He could feel words colliding in his head. He’d only got a B– for the assignment on the Nazis, but he pushed that from his mind. He couldn’t do nothing. The hostility of the bulk of the crowd to Bryce gave him courage. The glee of the small group massed at Bryce’s feet fuelled his anger. Without warning Cassandra, he leapt up beside Robbie Burns and shouted as loud as he could. ‘IT IS NOT OUR CAUSE AND IT IS NOT JUST!’
The whole gathering took a single intake of air. Every eye sought the source of this dissent.
‘JOHN BRYCE, I CHALLENGE YOU!’
His voice rang out across the crowd, which fell utterly silent. He could sense the confusion, the frisson of dread that shivered through the gathering. He could see the angry faces of the men with Bryce. But his attention was on the face of Bryce himself.
Fear. It was there in the eyes that went wide, and the lips that quivered uncertainly. But Bryce overcame his confusion quickly, stabbing a finger at him. ‘Seize him! He’s a wanted criminal! Seize him!’
There was a boiling movement from the front. Mat saw the young man who’d threatened him earlier and a dozen skinheads begin to push towards him. So he kindled fire at his fingertips, in an open display of his powers. At once a hush fell and Bryce’s thugs hesitated. Evidently the people here had seen enough of warlocks in action not to want to be caught between two Adepts.
‘Mister Bryce,’ Mat called boldly. ‘You call yourself enlightened, but since when is it enlightened to steal, bully, displace or kill? Since when is it even natural?’
‘It is natural for the strong to subjugate the weak!’ Bryce shouted back. His followers cheered.
‘So now you speak of subjugating!’ Mat retorted. ‘What happened to “elevating”?’ A murmur of agreement ran about the fringes of the crowd, and he felt a moment of connection to them. It gave him strength. Before Bryce could start up again, he turned to the people gathered below, those who had heckled or merely listened resentfully to the warlock. ‘People of Dunedin, I don’t pretend to be one of you. I am from the north. I am part-Maori. And also part-Irish. But I am exactly like you: I am a New Zealander! My great-grandfather was in the Maori Battalion, fighting for the Empire Mister Bryce seems to think still rules this place.’
That brought a cheer, and Bryce looked flummoxed. The crowd murmured. ‘Who are you, boy?’ called Cargill, staring at him intently.
For the second time in two days, Mat had to stand before strangers and give his lineage. It still felt hard, but even more rested on it now. He doused the fire on his fingertips, so that he didn’t seem too intimidating, and lifted his head. Be proud of who you are. ‘My name is Matiu Douglas!’ he shouted across the Octagon.
‘The boy who brought down Puarata!’ the thin man at his feet said excitedly. His words flashed across the plaza, mouth to mouth, ear to ear. Mat saw Cargill smile grimly at those around him.
‘I am Matiu Douglas, son of Tama and Colleen. I am of two cultures and two worlds. I live with that balance all my life. I am here to tell you that the time of John Bryce is over!’
His words, clear and high, rang through the Octagon, echoed from the tall buildings, and rippled through the massed men of Dunedin-Aotearoa. Before Bryce could respond, he pressed on, though he could still see the skinheads aligned to Bryce moving warily closer — until they encountered a rank of men, anchored by the thin man Mat had spoken to, who braced themselves in a line. Imminent violence filled the air. But if he let that distract him, he’d lose this chance.
His words came from many places: his parents, his school teachers, his tutors Jones and Ngatoro, from TV and newspapers. From inside him too, where he’d been percolating them without realizing. And from the heart. Especially that.
‘They say that for evil men to prosper, it merely needs good men to do nothing. I see a lot of good men here,’ he shouted, waving a hand to encompass the crowd. ‘And I see one evil man!’ he jabbed a finger at the steps of the town hall. ‘We’ve been idle for too long! Our country outlived Mister Bryce’s ideas decades ago. Most of you have lived in that New Zealand! You’ve grown up not just with Maori and Pakeha alongside each other, but with Islanders, Eastern Europeans, Chinese, Indians, people from everywhere. It’s still your country!
‘I’ve just come from Arrowtown, where brave Pakeha, Maori and Chinese forced Bryce to flee like the coward he is. He’s built his whole reputation on bullying a group of people at Parihaka who’d sworn away violence. Where is the mana in that? Where’s his precious superiority?’
His hand swept the Octagon again. ‘But you know all that. You’re grumbling and heckling because you know he’s talking bullshit. You’re not the only one who thinks so. I know you’re afraid of him. I know you’re frightened to be singled out.’ He pointed to Bryce and the men around him. ‘I can bet those men with Bryce right now aren’t any more convinced than you are! They don’t believe his dead philosophies either: they’re just frightened of him, that’s all. Like you are.’
The men in top hats looked at one another uneasily. And at Bryce. The former Native Minister was in a growing fury, his face turning purple, his mouth working as he sought to interject. Mat didn’t let him, addressing himself to those dignitaries surrounding his enemy.
‘I know how it has been for you: Mister Bryce came here with frightening powers. He’s built up fears in your mind, then promised to save you from them. But those fears were never real. There are no Maori chiefs plotting invasion. Your so-called “Protector” has been like a one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind, making himself king! He was the only Adept here, and therefore all-powerful. But Mister Bryce, you’re not the only man who can see any more. I’m here, and I have two eyes!’ He kindled fire in his hand again for emphasis.
A hush fell over the crowd at this direct challenge. All eyes went from him to Bryce and back again, awaiting a response from ‘The Protector’. Bryce glared at him furiously and their eyes met. Mat could see the man recalling how Mat had survived his deadliest strike, his death-wish, at Arrowtown, and how it had failed.
‘Silence!’ Bryce shrieked over the crowd’s babble. ‘I have told you that this boy is a known criminal! He’s a fanatic, and I have one of his accomplices.’ He clicked a finger, and one of his henchmen hauled a prisoner forward, hands bound behind his back. Mat swallowed: it was Riki.
The crowd fell silent; even the pushing and shoving below Mat’s vantage point died down as the attention of everyone focused on the town hall steps. A shudder ran through the gathered people, and Mat realized that they’d seen this scene before.
Bryce must kill people in front of them, to cement his power.
His eyes locked on Riki’s, across the thirty yards or so. His friend was unbowed. His face was pummelled, his left eye swollen, but he grinned over a split lip. ‘H
ey, bro,’ Riki called. ‘Nice speech. The rest of the gang here?’
One of the guards cuffed Riki about the side of the head. ‘Shut it, you.’
Bryce had visibly regained his composure and confidence. ‘So, Matiu Douglas,’ the warlock shouted. ‘This is how we do justice here. This criminal has been sentenced to death. You know how I’ll do it!’ The crowd fell silent, and his words echoed about the plaza as he let his threats sink in. ‘Surrender yourself, Douglas, and I may show clemency.’
Mat looked down into the crowd at Cassandra. Her face had gone white, but her eyes were vividly furious. She shook her head, but Mat had no idea what she was trying to convey. Before he could ask, Bryce spoke again. ‘Well, boy? Will you condemn your friend, or will you surrender yourself to my justice?’ he demanded with relish. He leant forward eagerly, framed by the dragon-lamps, both hands on the railing.
Mat looked out over the crowd. A few seconds ago, they had been with him, willing him on. Now, he could feel them pulling back, disassociating themselves from him and the hope he’d offered.
In the past months, during the infrequent times he and Jones had managed to get together, they’d been working on something new: mental communication. He’d been fumbling with it, but had made progress. He stared at Riki, willing him to hear the silent words he sent. Bro, he’s going to try and kill you with a word, to prove his power. It’s like voodoo: he uses your own fears against you. Resist, and you’ll live.
He saw Riki’s eyes widen.
Can you do that, Riki? Or do I surrender to him?
Riki blinked, then turned to Bryce and stuck his chin out. ‘Hey, Baldy: do your worst.’
The desire to live
Riki’s mind reeled at the enormity of what he’d just said. But there was no time to dwell on it. The crowd gasped at his defiance, and there was a recoil that ran through the gathering as some people shoved and others pushed, the struggle centring upon where Mat clung to the Robbie Burns statue. Riki wanted to search the crowd for Damien and Shui, and whoever else Mat had brought with him, but his gaze clung to Bryce as the man smiled in grim satisfaction.
‘Riki Waitoa,’ he said in a grave voice. ‘I sentence you to …’ he stabbed a finger at him, ‘… die.’
The effect of Bryce’s magic hit him immediately. His heart tripped, a double beat that was painful, as if someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed. But other blows struck him at the same time. His throat constricted and his windpipe shrank, making him gasp. But these were only the physical strikes. The worst attacks were psychological.
You’re a waste of space, Riki Waitoa. You’re just another ant on this rotten piece of fruit we live in. Just another meaningless life squeezed from your mother’s body. The words stabbed at him, poisoning his thoughts with suicidal desolation. You’re alone, Riki, abandoned by everyone. Where are those you love? Surely not Matiu Douglas: he’s just allowed you to die.
His heart tripped again, an agonizing double thump, and he began to lose air. He could feel Mat trying to send him one of those mind messages again, but he couldn’t hear whatever it was he was trying to say. He tried to cling to what Mat had told him, but his heartbeat was faltering, his lungs were emptying and he really, really felt like he was dying.
Bryce’s mental voice drilled into his head. You’ve got no air and without that your heart’s going to stop and then it’s all over, leaving your friend looking like a weak, double-dealing fool. You are failing, and that will bring ruin to him as well.
Riki tried to breathe, tried to keep standing, but his knees began to waver and he staggered.
No-one cares, boy. You are dying and no-one cares.
Bryce’s face filled his sight, his expression going from studied concern to satisfied triumph.
Then two things struck him at once: one, that Bryce had been on tenterhooks; he’d not been certain this would work. That doubt gave him strength. And two: a voice cutting through the swirling noises and reaching his ears.
‘Riki, hold on!’ Cassandra shrieked across the plaza.
Cass! Cassie was here! Her face, grinning wickedly at him over some secret joke only he and she got, filled his mind. With that came the way she smelt, the way she tasted, the way she moved. The way they pretended it was just a fling when they both knew better …
Riki planted his feet and made himself resist, but not as he had been. His heart suffered another double thud, but he ignored that, concentrating utterly on loosening the muscles that were making his own windpipe close. It’s not Bryce, it’s me … I’m killing myself … But I don’t have to …
Bryce raged at him. ‘Damn you, boy, I said DIE!’
The trick was to relax in the face of panic, not to struggle but to let it all wash through him. So that was what he did. Like grass in a hurricane, he let it all go over the top of him, bending instead of breaking. He felt Bryce’s attacks flow past, leaving him dazed, but standing. He sucked down a glorious mouthful of air, and sparks went off in his brain.
He braced himself for more, for another blow — but none came.
I’m alive!
He met Bryce’s eyes. ‘So, Baldy,’ he said with his most insouciant grin, ‘what else you got?’
Below Mat the crowd heaved in excitement and horror, the thugs at the front distracted by Riki’s struggles. Mat was desperate to act but he couldn’t see how. Mahuika’s fire would kill innocents and probably leave Bryce untouched. Nothing he could do would carry him fifty feet across their heads to him. He tried desperately to call into Riki’s mind again, but couldn’t reach him.
But just as Riki seemed to be failing, he straightened. He said something low to Bryce, and flashed his most irritating smirk: the one that set his teachers’ teeth on edge. Bryce looked set to explode. He whirled about him, his face apoplectic. ‘No! I have the power of life and death!’ he shouted. He stabbed a finger at a heckler. ‘You: die!’ But his voice was broken, his conviction gone.
The man he’d chosen stared back up at him, his expression going from panic to utter relief. All about the man, others took courage. The knot of supporters surrounding Bryce seemed to shrink as the crowd surged forward.
‘No!’ Bryce shouted. He singled out others in the crowd and screamed at them. ‘Die! Die! All of you, I command you to die!’ His eyes were bulging and his arms waving frenetically. But the self-belief was ebbing from his voice.
Cargill shouted aloud in triumph, and the good men of Dunedin, repressed for so long, surged forward.
Mat dared to think that Bryce was beaten. But ‘The Protector’ pulled a pistol from his vest and waved it about him maniacally. The crowd paused, as others drew weapons also. Bryce snarled and turned towards Riki.
Abruptly Mat realized what he had to do. He leapt from the statue towards the town hall, pulling magical energies about him with all his skill and strength. A man below him flinched and shouted in alarm as Mat plummeted towards him. But Mat never saw the man’s next reaction, because by then he was falling through a shimmering swirl of colour — and landing in modern Dunedin, in the Octagon, on a wintry afternoon. There was a stiff wind blowing and a weak sun shining behind the clouds, a dull glow that limned the stark empty branches of the trees. A Japanese girl gaped at him, her camera dropping from her hands. A tall man in a green windbreaker stared at him as he landed and sprinted towards the steps of the town hall. ‘Hey,’ the man exclaimed weakly, as Mat pelted past him. A car honked as he threw himself ahead of it, already shifting again as he ascended the steps. ‘Hey!’ the man in the coat called again, but his voice was lost in the silence between worlds as he faded from sight, and Mat exploded back into Aotearoa.
The Ghost World opened for him again in a roaring silence that filled his skull. He lurched dizzily to the steps, finding himself between two of Bryce’s acolytes, inches from Bryce’s gun. His hand shot out and he smacked the barrel of the pistol upwards. The gun belched flame and smoke, and the ball ripped into the wooden doors of the town hall. Bryce shouted in fear and
disbelief, staggering back. All about them, the council men in their top hats were gaping. A guardsman tried to draw a pistol, but Mat threw himself at the man’s hand. The man was full grown, bigger and stronger than him, but he was still stunned by Mat’s sudden appearance. He tried to bring his superior size to bear, to force Mat back, but Riki spun and drove his knee into the man’s crotch. The man bellowed weakly and sagged to his knees.
Mat wrenched the man’s gun out of his hand and turned with it, as Bryce fled down the steps.
Mat tried to follow him, but suddenly the power recoil from two rapid shifts from world to world hit him like a stiff-arm tackle. He reeled and clutched the stone railing. He tried to raise the gun, but he was seeing double.
There were people everywhere below him, a full-scale riot breaking out. He could just make out Bryce amidst a mass of his supporters as they shoved their way ruthlessly to the left, angling towards the side of the town hall and George Street. He tried to think of some way to intervene, but he’d used all that he could in such short succession. When he tried to aim, he couldn’t get a clear shot, and it felt wrong to fire into a group when he couldn’t be certain of his target. Damn!
‘Untie me, someone!’ Riki shouted. Mat turned and saw that his friend was now being supported by two of the council men. As if to demonstrate new allegiances, they unknotted the ropes anxiously. As Bryce’s men fled the Octagon, men from the back were flowing forward to take their place.
Someone waved his hat and cheered, his face flushed with excitement. ‘A Douglas! A Douglas!’ one of them shouted. ‘Jamais Arriere! A Douglas!’ He had a deep roaring voice and it filled the Octagon. ‘He’s a Douglas from Lanarkshire, I be thinkin’! He’s me kinsman! We’re with ye, laddie!’
Cassandra burst through the crowd and up the steps, darted between the men holding Riki, seized his collar and kissed him on the lips. That she was dressed as a boy did nothing to allay the alarm among the council men.
