Taniwha's Tear

by David Hair

  Lena paused beside him, panting for breath. Her eyes glittered with tears but her jaw was tight and furious. ‘I’m going to get the bastards shooting that cannon.’

  ‘Keep your head down for now,’ Mat advised, surprised and worried at her belligerence.

  But Lena showed no sign of caution. ‘When I gain my full powers, I’m going to smash them all,’ she vowed, glaring into Mat’s eyes. She stormed after Dwayne.

  Full powers?

  He hurried after her, more confused and anxious than ever.

  Dwayne was waiting just beneath the top of the ridge, and he pulled them down beneath the skyline. ‘Don’t make a silhouette,’ he snapped at them. ‘The ridgeline is bare, and Venn might have scouts up here.’ He made them crawl forward, until they reached the top, and gazed out at the burnished silver and emerald of the lake.

  Whether Waikaremoana had been made by the thrashings of a taniwha or the movement of tectonic plates, it was still a breathtakingly beautiful place. The lengthening shadows on the slopes streaked the sheer wooded slopes of the surrounding hills in every shade of green and gold. The westering sun was reflected copper and silver in the shifting waters of the lake, rippling gently in the winds that tossed the trees and made them sigh.

  To the north, their right, the woods were featureless, the ranges that had prevented Haumapuhia’s flight northward. The shape of the bays was lost in the distance. A path lay at their feet, running along the ridgeline. Some distance below them to their left was Lake Kaitawa, barely a pond among the trees, looking like a dark gem, merging into the lengthening shadows. However, it was above and beyond towards the south that their eyes were drawn.

  The highest peak lay to their left, the mighty Panekuri Bluff. Mat stared at it, the bald peak where Wiri had first met Fitzy. His eyes were then drawn to the slopes below, where acres of forest had been cleared. He had seen wooden palisades before, Maori pa built into hilltops in concentric circles, but this was some thing different again. At its heart was a sprawling modern lodge, a luxury hideaway with fountains and gardens. About it were low stone walls and pillboxes for mounting guns. There were even big artillery pieces guarding the approaches, and as they watched, one spoke, smoke pluming from its barrel and a rumble rolling over the slopes. An explosion rent the bushlands further down the slope. Mat remembered what Jones had said about a diversion—harassment of the fortress to cover their true purpose. He wondered who was doing the harassing, and whether lives were being lost.

  Are people dying for Haumapuhia? For us? Is it worth it?

  Sassman gripped his shoulder and pointed away to the right. ‘We’ve got to take the old trail, brother. The descent below is impassable. But if we loop round, we’ll hit the lake at Rosie Bay, an’ find the trail to the caves. It’s only half an hour at mos’ if we run.’

  Mat looked at Lena, who was still panting. ‘You okay?’ he asked her.

  She tilted her head so that she could catch his words through her unharmed right ear, then nodded, too breathless to speak.

  ‘Then let’s go,’ Sassman told them.

  14

  Ponaturi

  It was almost midday before Riki was able to get the car, his grandfather’s battered little Cortina, and then they had to load a bunch of gear, mostly that of Aethlyn Jones, into the boot. There was a musket and powder, his sword, a backpack, and a walking staff shod with iron. Riki checked it for arcane symbols, but found none. Cassandra had brought a large pack with her and was disbelieving that the boys had brought nothing but what they wore.

  The Welshman clambered into the passenger seat impatiently, while Cassandra coiled up like a cat on the back seat cradling her laptop. Damien sat beside her trying to peer over her shoulder, until the dog Godfrey wriggled between them, peering at the screen almost as avidly as Cassandra.

  ‘They’re moving,’ she told them as they pulled away. ‘They’re leaving Morere.’

  ‘That puts them about ninety minutes ahead of us,’ Riki calculated aloud. ‘Let’s boot it.’ He planted the accelerator and the little car lurched down the street.

  ‘I bet they’re driving some thing with more get-go than this old thing,’ muttered Damien.

  ‘It’s a shame we can’t use that little sporty number of Lena’s,’ Riki agreed. ‘But this is what we’ve got.’

  It took what felt like an age to clear Gisborne, and the road, windy and steep at the best of times, was filling with holiday traffic. There were several speed traps. The minutes seemed to crawl. Periodically Cassandra announced the progress of their quarry. ‘They’ve stopped in Wairoa; let’s hope they have a long lunch.’ But the red dot was soon moving again. ‘Look, they’ve taken the road inland, towards Waikaremoana. And Mat and Lena’s cellphones are still shut off. But I guess they must be after that taniwha Damien told me about.’

  Jones jerked in his seat and flung a look back at her. ‘What? What did you say?’

  Riki flushed. ‘Uh, didn’t we mention that? Mat’s supposed to be rescuing some taniwha. He said he met this old woman in Wairoa, and she made him promise some thing about a taniwha.’

  ‘Rescue a taniwha?’ Jones pursed his lips, his face a study in puzzlement. ‘You’re sure of this? But…’ He looked at Riki, his face baffled. ‘I don’t know a lot of the mythology of this region—I’ve spent my time in Aotearoa out westwards, around Taupo, and up north. What taniwha, anyway?’

  Cassandra tsked. ‘Gee, you’re lucky you know us,’ she said brightly, opening a new window on her screen, and within a minute she was reeling off the tale of Haumapuhia as contained on one of the websites she found. ‘Father drowns girl, girl turns into taniwha, girl gets turned to stone,’ she summarised at the end.

  ‘Ah, a timeless tale of courtship and romance in the olden days,’ mock-sighed Damien.

  Jones suppressed a laugh, his face creasing into the first smile they’d seen on his craggy features. For a second he looked like a favourite uncle, as he scratched at his stubbled chin. ‘This is a fresh mystery. Why should this woman ask help of Mat, an untrained boy…?’

  ‘I guess no one else was around,’ Riki responded. ‘That’s how Mat told it to me. And he said she told him something about an “Heir of Ngatoro”. Mat didn’t know what that meant either.’

  ‘According to Google—’ Cassandra began, her fingers whirring.

  ‘I know who Ngatoro-i-rangi is,’ Jones interrupted. ‘Heir of Ngatoro?’ He looked perplexed. ‘But Ngatoro hasn’t been heard of for more than two centuries.’

  ‘Who was this Ngatoro anyway?’ Damien asked.

  ‘Ngatoro-i-rangi was the greatest tohunga among the early Maori,’ Jones responded. ‘He made the volcanoes of the Central Plateau, and could summon storms to destroy enemies. In Aotearoa he was the force that kept Puarata in check, but then he vanished, and Puarata came to dominate Aotearoa so much that even the great heroes were forced to hide from him.’

  ‘You think Puarata offed him?’ Damien put in.

  Jones bit his lip, the lines on his brow furrowing deeper. ‘It’s the logical presumption. But what connection could there be between Mat and Ngatoro?’

  ‘Maybe they’re distantly related or some thing?’ Riki offered, his eyes on the road.

  Jones shook his head. ‘From what Wiri said, Mat is Hawke’s Bay Maori—Ngati Kahungunu. Ngatoro was associated with Tainui and Te Arawa, and was only ever active in the central and northern areas of the North Island. It’s not impossible, but it’s unlikely in the extreme I’d have thought.’ He scratched his nose. ‘There must be some thing else…’

  They lapsed again into silence, until Cassandra calmly announced that she had run searches on the Office of Births, Deaths and Marriages on Mat’s family tree, but could see no link to the Te Arawa people. Riki flicked a glance at Damien, who was gazing worshipfully at the girl, and chuckled. ‘Hey, first thing I’m going to do when I get home is get a new cellphone number, so Spy-Girl here can’t track my every move.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Damien ag
reed with a smile.

  ‘I’m not the slightest bit interested in any moves either of you might want to make,’ Cassandra told them in a lofty voice. She patted the dog Godfrey absently. ‘This is my new boyfriend, aren’t you, fellah?’ The dog seemed to smirk at Damien.

  By the time they reached Wairoa it was after 1 p.m., and the sky was darkening a little, as a bank of cloud from the south enfolded half the sky. The sun still baked the town, but it was fast being swallowed up. Instead of taking the road to Waikaremoana, however, Jones took them via a stop at Osler’s Bakery for takeaways for lunch, to the south side, where the river emptied into the sea.

  ‘But they went the other way, Merlin,’ Riki muttered, anxious at any delay. ‘They left the town on the northwest road, and this just takes us to the sea.’

  Jones looked at him calmly. ‘I’m well aware of that. Now, just pull over here, and let’s stretch our legs.’

  Riki sighed doubtfully and parked the car on a grassy verge beside the river, which was effectively an estuary this close to the sea. The sparkling water lay behind a row of willows whose tendrils fed from the river, and they could see and hear the sea beyond the spit of land on the far bank. Perhaps on a clear day they could have even spied Napier Hill far to the south across the glittering waters of Hawke Bay, but the cloud from the south had swallowed the view. They clambered out, stretching cramped limbs. Godfrey sniffed suspiciously among the trees. Jones set the boys to emptying the car boot of his gear, then eyed up Cassandra.

  ‘We know where they’re going now. Well done, young lady, but this is where I must leave you all. I needed your help to locate them, I admit that, and I thank you for getting me this far. But from here on, you must leave the matter in my hands.’

  Riki felt a knot twist in his stomach, as they chorused their disapproval. ‘No! You can’t!’

  ‘They may shift, or change heading,’ Cassandra argued. ‘You need up-to-the-minute information.’ She stabbed her finger angrily at him, her right hand tapping at her keyboard on the boot of the car.

  ‘We’re Mat’s friends, and Lena’s too. You need us!’ Damien argued. ‘You can’t do this!’

  Jones shook his head firmly. ‘They are going to Waikaremoana, and to the head of the stream at Onepoto. That’s obvious. There will be danger, and I will not risk the lives of innocents. I admire your loyalty and bravery, but I won’t have you on my conscience. That’s an end to it!’ He folded his arms across his chest in a gesture of finality.

  Riki looked helplessly at Damien. ‘Shall I hit him?’ Damien muttered in his ear.

  Riki considered that, then shook his head. He felt like hitting someone himself, but…no. He hung his head. Cassandra was pummelling her keyboard frantically, her horsey face clenched in an almost trancelike state, her eyes huge behind her thick lenses. Her lips were moving soundlessly.

  ‘Go home,’ Jones told them. ‘I’ll handle it from here.’

  ‘Then I suppose the cellphone and text traffic of DJ Sassman with…oh, let’s see…one “John Bryce” and “Franklin Taylor” are of no relevance to you?’ Cassandra enquired fiercely, looking up from her laptop, licking spittle from her lips.

  Jones went white. Even Godfrey looked up and whined miserably.

  ‘So, I guess we’re coming, then?’ Riki smirked. He looked around. ‘Are we here for some reason, or shall we jus’ get back in the car and get driving?’

  Jones rubbed his face tiredly. ‘Bryce…Bryce…damn. Damn, damn, damn!’ He strode to the riverbank, then flung an angry glance back over his shoulder. ‘Bring every thing. And turn that machine off for the transfer, girl, otherwise it’ll fry when I take us to Aotearoa.’

  ‘But, but…there’ll be no Internet over there,’ Cassandra protested, suddenly nervous, one hand on her laptop and the other going to her belly as if gripping an unseen umbilical cord. ‘Couldn’t we just drive?’

  ‘No. I have another route in mind, and another mode of transportation,’ replied Jones.

  ‘Then what are we doing here?’ Riki wanted to know, peering about the empty riverbank.

  Jones looked at him intently, and then gave that wry smile he seemed to ration out carefully. ‘Hitching a ride.’

  Cassandra pulled her large pack onto her back, while the boys emptied the car of all of the gear. Damien eyed Jones’ sword enviously.

  ‘We can leave the car here safely,’ the Welshman declared.

  ‘But this is Wairoa, man. If we leave the car alone for a second, the tyres will get ripped and the stereo taken!’ Riki cried.

  ‘That’s a little harsh,’ Jones remarked. ‘My horse and gear were perfectly safe on the way north. Anyway, let me take care of that.’ He waved his hands over the car, and a shimmering light seemed to gather that made the vehicle hard to see unless they looked hard. Then he gathered them all about him, and in a dizzying transition, moved them across to Aotearoa. The teens gaped about them, as the houses of the town were replaced by dunes and bush, and distantly the walls of a pa. Riki and Damien played it cool, as if this were an everyday thing, but Cassandra clung to Damien’s arm unconsciously, her eyes like saucers. She cradled her laptop like a newborn child, her hands trembling.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether to believe or not,’ she whispered tremulously. ‘It just didn’t make sense. I mean, there’s no logic…’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry, babe, you’re with us,’ Damien drawled, tightening his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Sod off, Long-Legs,’ she murmured, pushing him away and gaping about her. Then she looked down anxiously, flipped open her laptop and hit the ‘On’ button. She heaved a sigh of relief. ‘It still works, it’s come across intact,’ she announced as if that were the most important thing. ‘No Internet signal, though. But I suppose that would be too much to ask for.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ll have to wait till the Net is a myth, I guess,’ Riki drawled.

  Cassandra gave a small shudder at the thought, and returned her attention to the world around her. There was little to be seen. A thick mist hung about the river, and a low wind moaned through the willows. The surf rumbled. Gulls called, unseen in the airs above, and a constant splashing sounded rhythmically from some where in the mists. It came closer with each splash, and became a waka, a dark silhouette that seemed to slide out of the mists.

  The canoe itself seemed alive, the paua discs of the eyes watchful, seeming to move. The coiled serpentine carving seemed to pulse and breathe. Aboard were twelve men, with pallid skin shot with an almost bluish tinge, unhealthy, as if they were recently drowned, yet somehow still animate. Their eyes were disturbing, the same paua shades as the carved figurehead, and the iris filled the socket, like cat’s eyes. Black hair hung lank down their backs, and they moved with an eerie muscular grace. Each bare torso was as lithe and lean as an Olympic swimmer’s, heavily inscribed with moko patterns that were alien to Riki’s eyes, containing motifs more akin to the Pacific Islands than to Maori culture.

  ‘Who are these…people?’ he breathed.

  ‘They’re Ponaturi,’ Jones answered. ‘The sea-fairies.’

  Damien laughed nervously. Jones shot him a warning glance. Another canoe slid out of the mist, this one with fewer crew. The tallest of the Ponaturi stepped from the lead craft, and looked expectantly at Jones. He said something in a language Riki had never heard before.

  Jones answered, and then stepped forward and touched noses with the Ponaturi leader. Godfrey barked, but not in a frightened or threatening way. It’s like he’s greeting old friends, Riki thought.

  Jones turned back to the teens. ‘Their leader you may address as Piriniha. It means “Prince”. I called to him, as we approached the town. He heard and answered. I have aided his people before, in the Bay of Plenty. From that I gained the right to request their aid. They will bear us upriver to Waikaremoana.’

  Damien frowned. ‘Um, without wanting to sound ungrateful, wouldn’t driving there have been faster?’

  Jones half-smiled. ‘For the first thing, only
slightly; they can propel us nigh as quickly. No one handles watercraft like the Ponaturi. And secondly, we will need allies when we arrive, and there are none to be had up at the lake.’

  Damien looked slightly ill. ‘Um, but…“fairies”…?’

  ‘Do not let the innocuous paucity of our language fool you,’ Jones told him. ‘They have as little to do with “fairies” at the bottom of Victorian English gardens as can be conceived. The Ponaturi are a feared race, reputedly sprung from the ghosts of the drowned. If you thought of them as undead sea-elves, you would be nearer the mark.’

  Piriniha of the Ponaturi eyed up Damien with thinly parted lips over small pointed teeth, as if appraising what he would taste like. Damien gulped. ‘But they’re on our side, right?’

  Jones raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re on my side. For now.’ He turned to the others. ‘Well then, are you coming or not?’

  They clambered onto the second waka, and then both canoes turned, and the Ponaturi paddled upstream. Faster and faster they churned the water, so that a wake began to form. Their bodies clenched and rippled powerfully with each stroke, yet they seemed to expend no effort. Cassandra nudged Damien, and pointed out the bulging musculature of the Ponaturi in front of her. ‘When your body is ripped like that, then you can call me.’

  Damien rolled his eyes. ‘I’m going off you anyway,’ he told her with a half-grin. ‘Our horoscopes are incompatible.’

  ‘What a shame.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’ Cassandra smirked merrily at him.

  Riki held the vibrating hull with both hands, awed by the speed and power of the Ponaturi. So fast were they going that they were creating their own wind, which snatched at the words he shouted to Jones in front of them.

  ‘Hey, Merlin, what was that name Cassandra said? Bryce?’

  Jones looked back at him. ‘John Bryce. He’s a warlock.’