by Baker Chris
When the old man returned he looked worried. He sat beside Sean’s bed.
‘It’s a long story,’ he began. Here we go, thought Sean. More doom and gloom.
‘It starts with Uruao. That’s the name of the waka of creation of a very old iwi.’ Sean pulled himself upright. ‘Those people journeyed here to a place called Te Wai o Tinirau.’ Sean’s hand went to his manaia. ‘It’s a real place,’ he said. ‘It’s in the south, near Otepoti. People renamed it. They call it Makereatu now.’
‘Makereatu? What does that mean?’
The old man looked amused. ‘The historians had a lot of trouble translating that name. It’s a male ejaculation. Since those early days Te Wai o Tinirau has always been a place of conservation, and especially a place of regeneration.’
‘Where do I fit into all this?’
‘There’s nothing left of Te Wai o Tinirau now. It all got quarried and crushed for road metal. That’s why the Maeroero are so annoyed. That’s why they caused the Fever.’
Caused the Fever? That bunkly little troglodyte? Him and his mates?
‘That’s a bit extreme,’ said Sean. ‘They must have been really pissed off.’
‘They were. Angry about a lot of other things too.’ The old man gave him a puzzled look. ‘I’m not sure where you fit in. Nobody else knows either. Maybe you have to work it out for yourself.’
That night when Roha brought a bowl of stew he asked her who the kaumatua had spoken with.
‘Uncle Ruka?’ she said. ‘He’s been away for a week.’ She plumped Sean’s pillows and helped him sit up. ‘Mangu saw him in the bush, though. He was sitting by himself, talking away flat out. Mangu was too scared even to say hello.’
Two weeks later Sean was allowed out of bed. His clothes had been washed and patched and someone had retrieved the gear he’d left behind at his last campsite, where one large clawed footprint almost obliterated by time and weather confirmed his tale. The kids at Tokaanu went silent and wide-eyed whenever he was around, but he wasn’t thinking about Kurangaituku now. He had a better idea of where he was going. But he was even more nervous about why, about what he was going to do when he got there.
Sean was told to be a minder for George. ‘He’s a thinker,’ said Uncle Ruka. ‘He talks a lot too. You might learn something off him.’
George had watched how the Fever had blown everyone’s lives apart.
‘A lot of people didn’t survive the aftermath,’ he said. ‘Especially people by themselves.’ He told Sean of epidemics of flu, like the one that had struck the Ngahere community, and of people dying from simple infections and illnesses that hadn’t been a problem for years, like TB and diphtheria. Other people had been overcome by horror and despair. The dogs had killed people too, but they’d long known to avoid Tokaanu where people had always shot stray pig dogs on sight, no questions asked.
‘But the scariest thing is, nobody’s getting pregnant,’ George said. ‘What’s happening? I’ve done tests and I can’t find anything wrong with anyone. It isn’t looking good.’
Maybe that’s part of the utu, Sean said to himself. Wonder how long it’ll last? Is it permanent?
It was a dreadful thought and Sean tried to ignore it while he travelled with the doctor on his visits to outlying communities. Sean felt like an old hand as he shepherded George through the winter snowstorms on the Desert Road. Often they took shelter wherever they could, sometimes in culverts and sometimes under the mountain totara that grew, gnarled and stunted, on the roadside.
Twice they were attacked by dogs and Sean christened the crossbow he’d been given by Mangu, who turned out to be one of the community’s hunters. The crossbow was made from the leaf spring of a broken-down Austin Gypsy, filed to shape, mounted on an old .303 rifle stock, and strung with woven stainless steel wire. It took all Sean’s strength to cock it, but it could drive a reinforcing steel bolt through a piece of four-centimetre matai.
‘Those shop ones are just toys anyway,’ said Mangu, dreads, tats, and a checked swanny, missing most of its front where squares had been ripped out to assist with personal hygiene in the bush.
But he didn’t get a chance to use it, or his sawn-off, the day they were ambushed. He and George were on their way to visit a community of young soldiers at Waiouru. They were riding past the Chateau Tongariro, a place of evil repute. Sean turned to ask George something, but before his friend had a chance to reply a small hole appeared in his forehead, just as a rifle shot sounded. Sean was still trying to grasp what had happened when George toppled from the saddle and three men appeared atop a bank of the cutting they were riding through.
One of the ambushers looked familiar. He gestured for Sean to dismount. As Sean swung free of the saddle, the man stepped forward, grabbed a handful of Sean’s swanny and pulled him, so that he ended up sprawled in the road. Sean was on his hands and knees, getting to his feet, when a kick in the face sent him sprawling again.
‘You again, you prick!’ said the guy. ‘Got you this time!’
Sean saw dirty blonde hair, a tooth missing in the front. Colin? He was supposed to be dead. Colin swung his rifle by the barrel and laid the stock across the side of Sean’s head. The last thing he saw, before everything went black, was a scuffed and dirty pair of Doc Martens.
When he came to he was lying across Bojay, his hands tied and a vicious pounding in his head.
Not this shit again, he thought to himself. He knew there was little chance of another tattooed marksman hiding around the corner. He couldn’t see Hamu either, and he hoped the dog had the sense to stay out of sight. Colin saw him regain consciousness and trotted alongside. He sounded chatty, almost jovial.
‘I met some skinz in Hamilton,’ he said. ‘They told me about this smart-arse who was riding south. Sounded like you. I hoped it was.’ He nodded towards Sean’s eyepatch. ‘Hope that hurt like buggery.’
How had Colin got here? How come he wasn’t dead? How had he escaped Kurangaituku? Colin guessed Sean’s thoughts.
‘Simple to get here,’ he said. ‘I took a microlight and flew direct. Couldn’t wait to meet you.’ Colin did a Hannibal Lecter imitation with his teeth. ‘We’ve got some company for you too. He looks a bit stringy but he should be young and tender.’ He laughed in Sean’s face. Sean grimaced.
‘You hear about the bad breath contest?’ he said.
Sean passed out when Colin struck him again with the rifle butt.
This is a major bummer, Sean thought as he regained consciousness, bouncing and lurching on Bojay’s back. He was still wondering how the hell he’d get out of this one when they rode around the back of the Chateau. Shod hooves clattered and sparked on the paved parking area. Colin pulled Sean off Bojay by his hair and prodded him with the muzzle of his .308 — through a kitchen, along a hall and down a flight of stairs into a damp and icy cellar, lit only by a small high window. He stepped past Sean, unbolted a door, pushed it open and motioned Sean inside. As he stepped into the gloom Sean heard ‘Enjoy yourself!’ followed by an evil chuckle. The door slammed and the bolt slid home.
Sean’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the gloom. He was taking in the concrete floor, the block walls and the dog kennel stink of the room, when someone spoke. The voice sounded young and uncertain.
‘Gidday,’ it said. The voice was familiar. Sean turned at the sound, to what looked in the gloom like a bundle of rags. He peered, and made out a human shape getting to its feet. They stood there, both trying to see, and they recognised each other at the same time.
‘Kevin!’ cried Sean, and ‘Sean!’ yelled Kevin. Both of them were slack-jawed with surprise and a split second later they were in each other’s arms. Sean held Kevin as the young man sobbed with relief. Sean wondered what the hell he was doing here? Eventually Kevin was breathing evenly. The two men sat on the floor, a ragged blanket keeping the worst of the chill away.
‘I followed you,’ Kevin said. ‘I got bored in Ngahere, doing the same old things every day.’
Sean had a fleeting memory of tranquillity and certainty, the safety of living without nasty surprises, of waking up in the same place every morning, a real bed with proper bedclothes and knowing exactly what the day held in store.
‘I met some people in Ngaruawahia who’d seen you,’ Kevin said. ‘This old man told me about Kurangaituku. He said if I was quick I could ride right through the middle and I’d be safe.’
He stopped and looked at Sean’s eyepatch. ‘What happened to you anyway? And how come these guys caught you?’ Sean’s head spun. Where to start?
‘I had a run-in with Kurangaituku. And I met one of these guys at Brynderwyn. I thought we’d killed him too. I think I should have made sure.’
Kevin looked at Sean, very worried and very young.
‘I wish you had too,’ he said. ‘I think they’re going to eat us.’ He told Sean about his former cellmate, taken out three days ago and not seen since. Colin’s taunts had held him in a constant state of terror for the past week. ‘It’s my turn next,’ Kevin said. ‘That tall skinny dude said so.’
Sean looked at his young friend — frightened half out of his wits, frozen, starved, kicked and beaten. That night they lay huddled together for warmth on the concrete floor.
In the morning they were tossed a live eel and a plastic bottle of water. During the night, Sean had planned to jump the next person who came through the door, but when the time came he was rigid with the cold and too stiff and sore to move. All he and Kevin could do was wait until the eel stopped moving and do their best to eat it.
‘We need the strength,’ Sean said. He killed the eel by submerging his nausea and chewing its head off. He’d tasted worse, he kept saying to himself, keeping a brave face on things for Kevin’s sake. If they could hold on for another three days, when he and George were expected back, there was a chance the Tokaanu people would come looking for them.
Sitting huddled against the wall, their one blanket wrapped around them, Kevin told Sean of a conversation he’d overheard.
‘That Colin is really out to get you,’ he said. Sean turned and looked at Kevin. ‘He was telling this guy what happened when he woke up, after you thought you’d killed him. He said a pig was eating Murray’s face. Murray must have been his mate. He reckoned it was gross. "What a way to go," he told this guy. No worse than him eating somebody. But he said, "I’m going to get that prick". I suppose he meant you.’
Three days came and went. Every day they froze and every night too. They marked the time by killing and eating a live eel each morning. The bucket they used for a toilet was overflowing in a corner and stinking the place out. Nobody ever emptied it. Sean tried to make a joke after four days.
‘Last time I stay in this fucking dump,’ he said.
Kevin didn’t laugh. He was expecting each day to be his last. He told Sean of Colin’s terrifying taunts, of how he was just waiting to be taken out, stunned with a blow to the head, gutted, spitted and roasted.
‘Sometimes they’re still alive when they get spitted,’ Colin had told him. ‘You should hear them scream when they feel the fire.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ Sean told Kevin, not really believing it himself. ‘And don’t worry. Something’s going to happen.’
But nothing did. On the fifth day, Colin and two others came in without a word and knocked Sean flat with a rifle butt. They dragged Kevin out, kicking and yelling his head off. When the door slammed, the bolt drove home and Sean was left alone in the stinking gloom.
Colin’s words echoed around the cell, ‘Your turn next, you prick!’
Sean jumped up to see out the window but couldn’t get high enough. He tried kicking the door down but it was solid timber, opening towards him, and he succeeded only in hurting his foot. He strained to hear any sound, a hint of what might be happening. But there was only silence, and he sank to the floor.
Then as he sat there, thinking that he’d kill himself, if he could, before Colin had him impaled on a spit, he heard a rifle shot — and another, then shouts, and horses’ hooves, dogs barking. He leapt up just as running feet sounded overhead. Shotguns blasted. The walls shook with crashes, like doors were being kicked in and furniture thrown. He heard feet on the stairs outside, and the door burst open. Sean had never seen a more beautiful sight than the gap-toothed, dreadlocked, tattooed apparition, in the torn, red and black checked swanny, standing in the doorway.
They looked at each other for a moment, then Mangu spoke.
‘Man, it stinks in here!’ he said. ‘C’mon, if you can. We haven’t finished.’
Kevin was with Sean’s rescuer, grinning with what Sean could see was a great relief. He wondered how close Kevin had come to being the main course. As they were going back up the stairs, Kevin started to tell him but Mangu turned with a finger to his lips. He held a rifle in his other hand and pulled a machete from his belt and gave it to Sean.
‘They’re all up on the next floor,’ he hissed. ‘But you never know.’
As they reached the top of the stairs, two men attacked. One of them grabbed Mangu and the other fired his shotgun just as Sean ducked. The blast deafened him. He swung the machete, catching the guy on the side of the knee. The fellow collapsed, clutching himself, and quick as a snake Kevin was stabbing him with a large knife. Mangu twisted in his attacker’s grasp and, as Sean looked up, delivered a savage headbutt and a knee between the guy’s legs that lifted him off the ground.
‘You can tell he doesn’t drink in the Flying Jug,’ Mangu said.
Overhead they could hear thumps and bangs and an occasional shotgun blast. Sean thought of his own weapons just as he heard a shout of ‘Fire!’
‘Watch it!’ said Mangu. ‘They’re firing out of the windows.’ But Sean was already kicking open doors along the corridor he remembered led to the kitchen. He found his gear in about the fifth room, his sawn-off still in its scabbard, his crossbow, even his saddle and the bags and blanket.
‘Where’s Hamu?’ he thought, and turned at a loud bark just in time to be knocked flat on his back by the dog’s leap into his arms.
Back in the corridor, Sean smelled smoke. A man appeared coughing, at the top of the stairs. A rifle cracked. He reeled backwards, clutching his face.
‘That’s for George, you bastard!’ came a voice beside him. Over their heads the fire crackled and windows exploded.
‘We’d better get out of here!’ yelled Kevin in his ear. Two more people burst through the door at the top of the stairs. Rifle shots dropped one man and drove the other back into the billowing smoke. Sean turned at the shots and saw two more of the hunters. They were almost invisible in the shadows. One of them lifted a hand to Sean. One more person, probably a woman but hard to see by then, ran through the door and fell with a shot. Another, with his hair and clothes on fire, tumbled down the stairs and lay still on the kitchen floor. Flames were coming through the door now and licking down the room’s timber walls. A shelf of liqueur bottles crashed and the liquid caught, flaming as it spread across the floor. Sean, Kevin and the three hunters groped out the door and stood in the parking area coughing. Flames curled through the upstairs windows and a section of roof collapsed.
‘Serves the bastards right,’ spat Mangu. ‘We caught them just as they were going to kill this little guy.’ He nodded at Kevin. ‘I think they were going to eat him too. We found a fireplace and a big spit.’ And just like Matapihi, ‘No time for that sort of shit.’ He thumbed fresh cartridges into the magazine of his rifle. ‘Sorry we took so long. When you guys weren’t back in three days we rode to Waiouru. They hadn’t seen you and on the way back the dogs found George. We just knew who it was. We came straight here.’ He turned to the other hunters. ‘Did you get them all?’
‘All but one of them,’ came the reply. Sean’s heart sank. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘It was a tall skinny blonde guy with a front tooth missing.’
‘That’s him,’ said one of the hunters. ‘Soon as we started shooting he took off.’ They moved back fr
om the heat of the burning building. The hunter laughed. ‘Friend of yours?’
11
AFTER A FEW WEEKS back in Tokaanu recovering, Sean resumed his southward journey, now accompanied by Kevin. The young man had aged, was wary of everyone, and aware of his diet in a way he never had been.
Just north of Taihape they were caught by a sun-shower. They spied a church up ahead and took shelter in the porch. Sean found dry wood under the building and laid and lit a fire on the concrete floor. While they waited for the billy he opened the door, expecting a dusty and unkempt interior.
It was spotless. The floor was swept and polished, the wooden pews oiled, clean linen adorned the altar, and in the sanctuary the eternal flame burned. The flame’s brass stand and all the candlesticks were burnished and gleaming. Late afternoon sun shone through leadlight windows, each one showing a saint from Sean’s Catholic boyhood.
There was St Peter, bearded and patriarchal; St Paul stood among lightning bolts on the road to Damascus. The recently demoted St Christopher carried an angelic Christ child through knee-high wavelets. Ascetics looked at the ground, martyrs gazed piously heavenwards. Even St Jude was there, peering myopically outwards. Hastily Sean whipped off his hat and stepped backwards. He nearly tripped over Kevin, who hadn’t seen inside.
‘It’s boiling,’ Kevin said. ‘Where’s the tea?’
Sean rummaged in a saddlebag, tossed a handful of tea into the billy and was served a faceful of smoke by a gust of wind. He wiped his streaming eye with the tail of his swanny and, when his sight was restored, the first thing he saw was Kevin’s open-mouthed gaze.
She wore an ankle-length bright yellow robe and odd sneakers, one crimson and one gold. In her arms was a bundle of lilies. She didn’t look dangerous. Bojay was sniffing the back of her shaven head. She pointed to the fire.
‘You’ll have to get rid of that,’ she said.
Sean didn’t even think of arguing. He’d never have argued with a nun, and that’s what he saw. He knew what nuns were like. For years he’d been convinced they wore roller skates beneath their robes, so they could sneak up on small boys, almost certainly involved in some sinful activity.
