Taniwha's Tear

by David Hair

  The man beside her looked like a relic of the Maori wars, which he probably was. He had long black hair tied in a top-knot, a full-facial moko, and his bared arms were similarly lined with swirling patterns. He was clad in a sleeveless muscle-shirt and jeans, but there was some thing more primitive about him, that spoke of war-parties and waka and hand-to-hand combat. He wore a large cross about his neck and, almost bizarrely, a wooden pipe stuck from one corner of his mouth. His eyes were constantly moving over the crowd. There were others about them, wild-looking fighting-type men, all wearing crosses and ill-fitting modern garb, maybe a dozen in all.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Lena softly, her eyes round as she stared across at them.

  Sassman answered her. ‘The blonde woman is Donna Kyle, who Mat spoke of yesterday. The pipesmoker is Kereopa Te Rau. They call him “Kai Whatu”.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Lena asked.

  Mat ransacked his little store of Maori words. ‘Eyeball Eater,’ he translated hesitantly. He looked at Sassman, a taste of bile rising in his mouth. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Eyeball Eater…?’

  Sassman nodded grimly. ‘Sure is. Ole Eyeball Eater there killed a priest in Opotiki, name of Carl Volkner. The Maori reckoned he was passing the names of dissidents to the British. So Kereopa killed him in his church, severed his head, then gave a sermon to his followers during which he plucked out Volkner’s eyeballs and ate them to make his point.’

  Lena looked sickened. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘By today’s standards. But it was more commonplace back then, they say. Ole Eyeball Eater’s a priest and warrior of the Pai Marire—them that you folks call the “Hauhau”. It was an offshoot religion of Christianity blended with beliefs Maori had about cannibalism and warfare. Reminds me of New Orleans—all that old-time Bible and hellfire preachin’ mixed up with African voodoo. Anyway, these Pai Marire, Te Kooti led them, back in the 1860s. They raided all round the East Cape, but after they were defeated, Te Kooti and Kereopa went into hidin’ for a while. Eventually Te Kooti was pardoned, but Kereopa was handed over and hanged for the murder of Volkner.’

  Lena had gone white. ‘How can he have been hanged, if he’s here?’

  ‘He was hanged in this world, but like I told you last night, ghosts rise in the other place, in your “Aotearoa”. His ghost joined the other dead Hauhau.’ Sassman looked at them both. ‘Now I’m jus’ an American boy and I don’ take sides. Some folk here call the Pai Marire freedom fighters and others call them terrorists and murderers. There’s a case both ways. But I’ve never held with cannibals, and eating someone’s eyeballs is crazy-insane in my book.’

  Looking at the wolf-faced Kereopa, it wasn’t hard to envisage that he had slain the priest with relish. But Lena was looking at Donna. ‘Who is this Donna Kyle? Why do they let a woman lead them?’ she asked.

  Sassman grunted. ‘Puarata’s girlfriend, and his apprentice. She’s probably almos’ fifty, but she don’ look it. Puarata used to rule all the big hitters in Aotearoa. So I reckon she mus’ be tradin’ on her old status, to get the Hauhau onside. Or maybe she’s got some hold over them, I dunno. I’ve heard that Te Kooti don’ like her and won’ play ball, but Eyeballs, he makes nice so his boys can raid and fight like they used to.’

  ‘And they accept a woman leader?’ Lena asked distantly.

  Mat didn’t like the way she said it. ‘What was Te Kooti like?’ he asked, to change the subject.

  Sassman shrugged. ‘Never met him. I’ve heard he’s got a way ’bout him, like Crazy Horse or Geronimo had back in the West. Smart, hard, lotsa charisma, y’know. Kinda “mad, bad, and dangerous to know”, like that Byron dude. He led the last big resistance ’gainst the colonials, an’ it got real nasty. Settlements got wiped, women and kids killed, all round these parts. Folk still remember. Some still fight it, on t’Other Side, in Aotearoa.’

  ‘Does America have an Aotearoa too?’ Lena asked curiously.

  Sassman nodded shortly. ‘Sure does. Ev’where does. Our Ghostland’s still got slav’ry and Injun Wars and the Civil War, all goin’ down at once. And the cities . . it’s crazy, babe! Ain’t safe to be a black man there, I’m tellin’ yer. That’s mos’ly why I’m here.’ He pulled a melancholic face, then shrugged it away. Mat wondered how old he was, and when he’d come to New Zealand. ‘Anyhow, kids, let’s get outta sight o’ that lot afore they see us.’ He led them back to the backstage area. ‘Hang tight, yeah? Enjoy y’selfs, but hang here for a while. Big Dwayne’ll keep an eye on y’all.’ Sassman slouched off, unusually downbeat.

  Mat had suddenly lost his appetite for the festival, but followed Lena to the fringe of the crowd, where they watched the band without really hearing them. People danced and shrieked and laughed around them, but Lena just stared across at the small knot of people clustered about Donna Kyle. The blonde girl was unconsciously chewing on a straw in the same posture as Donna smoked her cigarette.

  At some time in the evening, Donna Kyle and her entourage left, but the mere thought that she had been there dampened Mat’s spirits. He found himself constantly casting anxious glances over his shoulder. It didn’t help that Lena was distracted and fidgety. She let him put an arm about her, but she paid her attention to the music and the crowd with a fixed determination, as if to avoid talking about anything else.

  Riki and Damien were joshing each other non-stop and seemed in high spirits, but as the evening wore on, Mat found himself more and more tense, and drifted to the fringe of the crowd.

  ‘Hey, dude, what’s happening?’ Riki materialised beside him, and put an arm about his shoulder. ‘We’re missing you out there, man.’

  Mat let out a slow breath and forced a smile. ‘Yeah, I dunno, just can’t get into it.’

  ‘What’s up? Lena? Your folks? Weird stuff?’

  ‘All of the above, mate. Well, not Lena, that’s all fine, I think…’

  ‘Never can tell with chicks, dude. Just when you think you’re cool with them, you’re usually not.’

  ‘Speaking from experience?’

  Riki grinned ruefully. ‘You bet.’

  ‘How’s Damien getting on with Cassandra?’

  ‘He’s made the critical breakthrough of realising that every time he opens his mouth, he puts his foot in it. So he’s just admiring silently from a distance.’

  ‘I reckon they’d go good together.’

  Riki sniggered. ‘You’re in a minority of two there. You and Dame. Anyway, it’s you she fancies.’

  Mat stared at him. ‘Me? Cassandra?’ It seemed bizarre. And anyway, he was Lena’s guy. Well, sort of.

  Riki shrugged. ‘No accounting for taste, eh?’ He clapped Mat on the shoulder. ‘She’s kinda cool for a geek. And she can surf. But she ain’t half the looker that Lena is. Now that’s what I call booty!’

  Mat blushed. ‘She’s cool, isn’t she?’ He felt a flush of wellbeing, and his dark mood lifted. ‘We should go find them.’

  Riki grinned. ‘Yeah, right on, bro. Let’s go party.’

  After that, it was much better. As the headline act for the night came on, Mat found himself sipping something potent diluted with Coke, his arm around Lena’s shoulders, wishing it would never end. Fireworks exploded above, and the band struck their opening chords. Everyone was screaming and jumping, and Lena excitedly pulled him into the press. He had no idea who the band were, but they looked like they didn’t get much sun and sounded English. The lead singer was scrawny and pasty, and had a nasally whine, but he seemed to think he was exceedingly sexy, a delusion most of the crowd seemed prepared to indulge by screaming every time he postured. Mat tried hard to forget Donna Kyle’s face, and gradually, pressed against Lena while she writhed sinuously or bounced joyously, he managed to.

  Much later, with the beats of a techno outfit carrying into the VIP area, Mat was sitting watching Lena dancing slowly on her own while blearily sipping a soda, when Sassman found him. The DJ had played a set before dusk, a reggae-influenced dance set that sounde
d like some kind of far-future island party music, but it was pretty good and had been well received by the crowd.

  He was watching Lena sway, thinking how perfect she looked, and how gracefully she moved. Riki and Damien were off autograph-hunting among the white-boy bands and soul divas. Cassandra was dancing with a skeletally thin drum-and-bass DJ from Scandinavia who seemed fifty, but she looked bored. Cassandra danced as oddly as she did everything else, all off-kilter moves and strange expressions, but she was totally unselfconscious, which was quite an attractive quality, at least with aged Scandinavians, apparently.

  ‘Hey, Mat Douglas, how you doin’?’ Sassman sat beside him on the grass, holding a beer bottle and a thick cigarette that definitely wasn’t tobacco. ‘You want some smoke, my man?’

  Mat didn’t want to try marijuana; anything that dulled his edge seemed unwise just now, quite apart from the fact that it was illegal and bad for you. He was regretting the alcohol already, and was quite ready to hit the next so-called ‘star’ that mistook him for a waiter and demanded a drink. He felt like a caged lion and more than ready to go home. ‘Nah, but thanks for the passes.’

  Sassman shook his head impatiently. ‘No problems, man. Small thing, that.’ He sucked on his beer, then looked at Mat. ‘You’re sixteen, you say? Difficult age, as I recollect. How ’bout you tell me ’bout Puarata, if you wanna? Tell me how that went down.’

  Mat tried to think carefully and dispassionately, but the alcohol, and the secondary smoke, and watching Lena dance…it was hard to stay focused, and remember how to be cautious. He started talking, telling Sassman about the bone tiki, and the flight from Puarata, and Wiri…after a while it all seemed to come out. At some point, Lena had come and sat beside him and he barely noticed. But it felt good to talk about it all. ‘And so this Jones is supposed to arrive any day, and help me out. But I can’t see what to do. I mean, this taniwha has been stuck in the rock for hundreds of years, for heaven’s sake!’

  Huh? He shook his head, unaware of what he’d been saying for the last few minutes.

  Sassman nodded to himself, staring at Mat. ‘Well, I think we can help you, my man. You see, this Jones, I know him. Good friend of mine. I’ll bring him here, so you can meet him. We can sort this thing out for you. Sure we can.’

  Lena was looking at Mat with a strange expression. ‘Sassman told me about the “Other Side”, last night. Aotearoa. I never imagined it was even there.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Isn’t this just like a dream? I feel like the princess in a fairy story.’

  ‘You are a princess, honey,’ Sassman drawled. He looked up at the stars. ‘Tomorrow or next day, I’ll bring Jones here, an’ we can sort all this out together.’ He nodded at Mat. ‘Don’ you worry, my man. Don’ you worry ’bout nothin’.’

  Mat put his arms around Lena’s shoulders, and felt that all of his burdens had been lifted.

  They found the others and worked their way closer to the stage, and as the first night ended, he found himself dancing and shouting amidst his small group, happy again. The cares and worries evaporated away; not entirely—they’d still be there tomorrow—but for now it was enough to put them aside and sing and dance.

  Just as the last act signed off amidst deafening applause and began the milk-an-encore routine, he dared himself, built up his nerves, and kissed Lena on the lips. She didn’t push him away. Her arms wrapped about him, and when she kissed him back, he felt a surge of euphoria. He caught Cassandra staring at them, her glasses reflecting the sky rockets exploding above. Then the band was back on, and they were all leaping to the last encore. Fireworks and laser lights shredded the darkness, and all about them, people cheered, even as they began to disperse into the night. The young and inexperienced were barely standing, being led off by friends with more staying power, and floodlights were coming on. Faces looked surreal in the stark white light, as they wound their way towards the paddocks full of cars, and the drive home.

  By the time they were back in town, it was closer to dawn than to midnight. Rain was falling at last, blowing in from the sea in sheets, and making them all shiver. Dressed only in thin T-shirts and shorts, they were soaked and shaking, their minds befuddled by tiredness, alcohol and fading adrenalin. None of them was ready to go home, but had no idea what to do or where to go.

  Lena let Mat wrap his arm about her for warmth, and they huddled by the clocktower on the main street, watching the last of the revellers disband. There were policemen about, stopping people and directing them homewards. A small group of Black Power guys were bullying some tourists until a pair of officers intervened, but the joie de vivre of the night had fled. Mat’s watch read 3.14 a.m. as they saw the gang members disperse, and in a few seconds, the police were following the main body of them down Gladstone Road towards the south. Two men remained, men without gang patches on their leather jackets, who looked like bikers, huddled against a wall, trying to light a smoke in the damp wind.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ Mat suggested in a low voice. ‘We’ve still got two days of the show to go.’ He tried not to think that he also only had two days to work out what to do about the taniwha. Surely when Jones arrived, he would suggest something. Tomorrow, Sassman had promised him.

  ‘Look!’ hissed Lena, pointing. They followed her finger, to where a blonde woman was hurrying along, wrapped in a short raincoat with her legs bare beneath her short black dress. ‘It’s that woman, Donna Kyle!’

  Mat felt a sudden chill. ‘We should go, before we’re seen.’

  Riki gripped Mat’s arm. He pointed towards the two smokers. There was a flash of teeth as one of them sauntered out into the rain, towards the hurrying blonde woman. ‘Hey, chicky-babe,’ he called in a leering voice. ‘Got a light?’ She ignored him.

  Mat pulled Lena into a shop doorway as Donna lifted her head, the others crowding in beside them. ‘Who’s she?’ Cassandra wanted to know.

  ‘The Wicked Witch of the West,’ Damien hissed back at her. Five sets of eyes stared as the second man followed his friend across the street to where Donna confronted his comrade.

  ‘Hey, bitch, I asked if you gotta light?’ the man demanded. The two men encircled the lone woman. Rain whipped down the road malevolently. A slash of light lit Donna’s face. Her eyes narrowed, and she turned and strode away from the clocktower intersection, towards the sea. The two men followed, like jackals circling wounded prey. They all vanished around the corner.

  Mat let out a breath, only to suck it in again as Lena exclaimed. ‘Come on!’ and wrenched herself from his grip. ‘Let’s go!’ She darted out of the shelter of the shop door, and onto the street.

  He stumbled after her. ‘No! It’s not safe!’

  She threw him a scornful look. ‘Who needs “safe”? Are you coming?’

  Uh oh…He scurried after her, as she ran to the corner where Donna and the two men had vanished. He sensed the others reluctantly following, cursing under their breath. ‘This is stupid,’ Cassandra said quietly. Mat agreed wholeheartedly.

  He caught up to Lena as she peered around the corner of the intersection. He grabbed her shoulder, and peered past her, to the two men and Donna Kyle, only some thirty metres away, at the head of an alley beside a Mitre 10 hardware store. The voice of the man who was doing the talking carried muddily through the rain and wind.

  ‘Hand over your purse, you ugly hag. Or we’ll wreck your face even worse than it already is. What happened, your man smack you one?’

  Donna Kyle pulled off her raincoat and let it fall. ‘This is your last warning, fool.’ Her voice sounded like a thousand snakes hissing. ‘Back off, and I’ll let you go.’

  ‘Ha! Get you! Who do you think you are?’ The first man stepped closer and made a grab at Donna’s hands. She stepped backwards, out of sight down the alley, and then they heard the crunch of her shoes on gravel. The two men whooped and followed.

  Lena ran after them. Mat cursed and followed, the others trailing behind them.

  They reached the mouth of the a
lley, as they heard a female cry of pain, and some thing skidding across loose metal. A male voice growled in triumph, and as their eyes adjusted they saw a big shape, holding a smaller one who was backed up against the wall. The other attacker ran to the struggling pair.

  ‘Grab the purse!’ the first attacker snarled to his colleague.

  ‘Omigod,’ Lena gasped. She looked at Mat. ‘We have to help her!’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Mat replied. The violence sickened him, but…‘She’ll—’

  A scream echoed down the alley.

  It came from the first man. He staggered backwards, his hands going to his throat. The other man backed away, his whimpering almost childlike as Donna whirled on him. Scarlet light kindled in her eyes, as her hands reached forward, dripping with blood from where her nails had pierced the windpipe of the first attacker. Like talons they flexed, and then her hand gestured, and the second man was thrown backwards against the wall, the back of his head smacking wetly against the stonework. He slid down the wall, his frame slumping as his limbs lost their strength.

  Mat pulled Lena out of sight at the head of the alley. ‘She wasn’t the one who needed help,’ he hissed. ‘Now let’s get out of here, before we get the same treatment!’

  From some where a couple of blocks away, a siren shrieked. The others milled in confusion, but when Mat and Lena, hand in hand, broke into a run, they pelted after them. They ran down a service alley, behind a cluster of shops, and emerged a block away, still running. Mat tried to check behind them, but all he could hear were sirens blaring louder and louder.