Taniwha's Tear

by David Hair

  Be safe! All of you, be safe!

  Jones and the remaining Ponaturi burst out of the woods behind her. Both waka were on the Ponaturi’s shoulders; they positioned them at the edge of the torrent, poised to leap inside. Jones pulled her to her feet and knelt to look at Riki. Grim excitement lit his expression, as if beneath his harsh veneer he was actually enjoying himself immensely. Cassandra felt a surge of affection for him, despite the danger. ‘Well, girl, are you ready for some white water? Because I think this whole area will collapse in about thirty seconds.’

  He virtually threw Riki into the nearest waka, whilst the Ponaturi warrior she had mentally christened ‘Jellybean’ hauled her in beside the semi-conscious youth. ‘My pack, my gear,’ she tried to protest, too late. Whooping like children, the Ponaturi thrust their craft into the raging waters, leaping aboard as they launched. Godfrey swooped above, and then vanished in the mists of the raging water.

  ‘My gear!’ she shrieked. ‘My gear!’ What’ll I tell Dad?

  She nearly jumped out, but Jellybean held her tight. The torrent roared, and the primitive need for survival swept every other thought away.

  As Mat stared at Bryce’s severed hand, the golden braid winked out. He half-turned to reach out towards Damien and Riki, when the torrent took him. It was like being hit by a falling house. He had time for half a choked breath, and then it swept him down, under, and he was a child again, caught in the undertow of breakers at Westshore Beach, helpless, flailing, turned over and over, no light except for flashes, his ears filled with roaring water.

  Some thing buffeted his back, his whole torso scraped on the ground, and then he was lifted by the flow of water, and into the side of some thing flowing alongside, some thing ridged and massive. He scrabbled for footing, following the stream of bubbles seeping from his mouth and nose, the only things he could see in the tumbling rush. He felt his lungs slowly empty, a dizzying fog settling in his brain. Every time he almost blacked out, a shock like electricity jolted him. He’d never been a great swimmer, but it almost seemed he was breathing water at times. His arms and legs pumped automatically as he clung to the side of the log, or whatever it was, and he had no idea how he kept his grip, except that it seemed that forces ran through him that gave him strength beyond all reason.

  All the while, he flowed downstream, clinging to the side of the massive bulky thing. Part of him knew what it really was, but refused to tell the rest of him.

  He broke the surface, and then went under again, but not before he gulped in fresh air, and redoubled his efforts, scrambling, desperate to live, onto the back of the taniwha as it flowed with the flood.

  The waters had found a natural channel in the Waikaretaheke Stream, carved by Maahu to bring fish for his daughter. Through narrow gorges and wide plains, the water spread, initially a tumult as it thrashed through narrows, spilling out in every bend and wide point of the stream, but the taniwha swam it with ease, in its element finally after centuries trapped beneath the earth. He could feel its exultation in the movement of its head, the way its sinuous body rolled and shimmied, turning its trek to the sea into a thing of joy. All along the river he saw creatures scrambling for high ground, and people too, Maori fishermen and colonial farmers alike. But after the first murderous torrent, the flow had slowed, and become more gentle—still headlong, rapid and destructive, but palpably calming.

  The head of the taniwha turned this way and that, like the skull of some dinosaur brought to life. At times it scooped the flood, and came up swallowing fish and eels, dozens at a time, then roared with a fierce kind of joy. Finally, as they washed onto the flat land northwest of Wairoa, it turned to look back, its neck coiled like a serpent, and Mat found himself a few feet from its jaws, its fishy-cold breath wheezing through its teeth.

  It occurred to him that after centuries trapped in stone, it might still be hungry.

  If she’d been able to see more than three feet in front of her, fright might have taken Cassandra’s capacity to act. Her throat was raw, her nerves shredded, and she was losing all belief they might survive. The waka flew down the torrent of water into the bottleneck of the Waikaretaheke gorges like a twig caught in a tsunami, thrown all about the flow without control. The Ponaturi flailed about them, their paddles blurring, stabilising and twisting them, keeping their nose down and frontwards. Their skill was miraculous. Time and again they plunged deep, yet came up like a surfacing submarine.

  They were all soaked to the skin, and her pack was gone, her laptop gone, her ruined glasses gone, her energy snacks gone, and all she could see clearly was her bailer, which she could barely lift. If she tore her gaze from the interior of the waka, all she could see was churning froth and darkness. Her mouth was full of the taste of vomit, from losing her stomach contents within seconds of embarking on this insane ride. Riki was facing her, looking backwards as he too bailed, pale and shaking. He’d revived within seconds of them entering the water. It had been perhaps only ten minutes, but who could tell? His eyes looked glazed and, like her, he was close to exhaustion. But his face was fixed with determination beyond reason. They bailed, and consigned their fate to the skill of the sea-fairies, all the while their thoughts on Mat and Damien, wishing and hoping and praying that by some miracle they might also still be alive.

  There had been no sign of the other waka since they entered the water—the churning white water was simply too chaotic. It might have overturned, with all drowned or dead, or be ten feet away; there was no way to tell. How they might find Mat or Damien or their bodies, she had no idea.

  Every thing changed very suddenly. They exploded through a canyon, and suddenly they found the waters ahead were rolling out across a valley, or what would have been a valley until the waters struck, and the nature of the canoe journey changed totally. Without the momentum created by the gorges, its sheer weight caused the water to slow as it was dissipated in different directions. The waters changed from frothy water to dark and calmer, though still swift. It seemed that this area had been forest, and the chief danger became the trees that had been torn from the earth by the wall of water, and now constantly snagged and pulled at the waka as they glided with the flood. The paddles became employed primarily for freeing the craft from debris.

  They swiftly spotted the other waka when Jones lit some kind of beacon above them, and it came alongside them a few minutes later. The new moon hung above, a silver sickle that lit little, but the stars were bright, now that they were out of the spray and mist of the gorges. The relief was tangible, even in the faces of the Ponaturi as they looked about them, flushed and grinning. Riki slumped to one side, staring out across the water, his eyes far away. Cassandra leant forward, with her head in her hands, panting slowly. Her face felt like one massive bruise, and her skull throbbed. But they were alive.

  ‘Reckon there’d be a market for adventure tourism here?’ Riki joked wearily. ‘A little rafting, a little jetboating? Whaddya reckon?’

  Cassandra was too tired to reply, but she managed a grin.

  We’re alive.

  The thought reminded her that the others probably weren’t.

  It was the Ponaturi that saw the first body—one of Bryce’s mercenaries, floating face-down in the waters. Riki thought he might have recognised him—maybe the one that he had sent spiralling down into the bowl, seconds before the western wall gave way, and the lake surged in. It was a horrible thought, that he had effectively killed the man, no matter whether it was deserved or not. There was no feeling of glory or exultation. Nothing that made him want to stamp his feet and punch the air. Only the profound relief that it wasn’t him, floating in the black waters.

  The Ponaturi hissed, their faces jerking to one side. The teens followed their gaze, apprehensive again. A dark shape was struggling through the waters, pushing through the debris of the fallen forest, a colossus striding amidst the flood. Jones stood, and shouted something, and light bloomed from a gem in his hand, causing the newcomer to blink, and hide its face from
the sudden brightness.

  It was Maahu, the old giant they had seen when they had paddled upstream; had it only been five or six hours ago? It seemed like a lifetime. Yet here he was, slogging through the waters towards them, in the wake of the trail of destruction his daughter had released. When he came closer, the waves from his thighs threatened to tip the waka. His face seemed even more sorrowful, the lines on his brow like canyons, and his eyes raw with weeping.

  In his arms, he bore a form, lying unconscious against his chest. He reached out with both hands, offering the body to Jones.

  Riki stifled a shout of hope and horror. Cassandra clutched his arm, and cried out.

  It was Damien, and he was alive.

  The giant slouched away, walking with the currents of the huge river as it ploughed through forest and plain, trying to find the sea. The two waka sought the hills though, where they could find dry ground, and fuel for a fire to warm the teenagers, who were all shivering uncontrollably. None of them was fully conscious as the Ponaturi laid them beside a fire that Jones lit, and swaddled them in blankets pulled from cavities inside a waka. They barely registered the broth that Jones brewed, which the Ponaturi gently fed them, their alien faces unreadable even to the Welsh adept as he stood over them. They were asleep seconds afterwards.

  Jones watched the waters calm, and dared to hope that perhaps, this catastrophe might not have been overly ruinous. This was not a populous area in Aotearoa, especially since Puarata had made the redoubt below Panekiri his lair. The iwi native to the area had drifted away, or been destroyed. Below the highlands about the lake, the lands were wide, and hopefully the fury of the waters had been spent ineffectually against empty vales and dells, and lost its menace before the path of the river brought it to Wairoa.

  He wondered what had become of John Bryce and Donna Kyle, and what Sebastian Venn had made of the sudden violence erupting on his doorstep. Had the game changed again? Would there be further conflict, or would this night have resolved the struggle for supremacy among the tohunga makutu’s acolytes? He let his mind range over the possibilities.

  But mostly he bent his skills and talents to finding young Matiu Douglas. However, he had not met the boy, only seen him briefly before the water took him. That was little to work with. He built the fire high, cast his seeing spells into the heart of the flame, and sent his gaze out over the flooded lands, calling, seeking. But not finding.

  23

  To find the sea

  Awoman was singing, low and sad, amidst the thunder of the waves. It tugged at his sleep, nagging, winding its way into his tumultuous dreams of raging water and giant serpents. It pricked at him, and pulled him from where he lay, deep amidst the blankets of sleep, back to wakefulness.

  Mat blinked, and let his senses return. The throbbing pain from his left temple came first, and he groaned aloud. Shingle was digging into his side and cheeks, and the aching that began in his skull ran the length of his spine and legs. He could feel bruises and grazes and scrapes, and swelling in twisted joints, and scabs forming on gashes and cuts. He felt like a car-wreck.

  ‘Kia ora, Matiu. Welcome back,’ whispered Ngatoro-i-rangi into his mind. The ancient rasping voice had an ironic sound to it.

  ‘Where—where am I?’

  ‘I don’t know, poai. The only eyes I have are your ones and they’ve been closed.’

  Mat tried to think that through. It hurt. His headache was the worst he’d ever had. Finally he managed a little coherency. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Trapped, boy. Trapped and imprisoned, and barely alive. I don’t know where.’ The ancient voice sounded both frustrated and resigned.

  ‘But how…?’

  ‘I sensed you, when you were on the run from Puarata. I couldn’t work out how to communicate with you, then, but somehow I sensed you. The ability to speak to you came later, just recently, in fact. I have forged a kind of link. Now that you’re listening, I can strengthen it.’

  Mat closed his eyes. If he concentrated, he could almost see it, like a rope made of electricity and flame.

  ‘Why me?’ he asked plaintively.

  He felt Ngatoro consider his reply. ‘A few months ago, I followed Puarata’s thought, bent on you, and found you. You need to understand that Puarata’s grip on the magical forces of Aotearoa was very strong. Most people with your ability had no choice but to hide. Most are so walled in with protections that I can’t detect them. But you appeared at a crucial moment, and you were an unknown, untrained, and at the heart of the action. Long ago when we fought, Puarata proved stronger than me, but my powers have always been subtler than his. I could find you, though he couldn’t. Since then, you have been my lifeline, the thread that holds me here.’

  Mat groaned. More responsibilities.

  Ngatoro tsked impatiently. ‘Who do you think gave you the strength and wherewithal to cling to the taniwha in the flood while breathing water, then? A little gratitude goes a long way.’

  ‘Uh…thanks.’

  ‘You are very welcome, Matiu Douglas. If you are to be my eyes and ears for the near future, it is beholden upon me to help as I can. But I fear I must leave you again, for now. This has nearly worn me out, and that’s not good at my age.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Well done, Matiu. Again. You will hear from me in future. Haere ra, Matiu. Haere ra.’

  The link was suddenly gone, and no amount of trying could get another response, or any sense of the tohunga’s presence. Mat opened his eyes.

  He had no idea where he was, but he could guess. Waves were pounding on a beach strewn with detritus. A river of debris was spilling into the sea. Everything was still gloomy and dark, but he knew from the distant glow above the ocean that it would be dawn soon.

  The song stopped, and he turned to find the singer. She was sitting on a log, staring out across the water. Her black hair was wet through and clung to her back, twisted and knotted. He could not see her clearly in the darkness, but he could tell she was naked, cloaked in her thick black hair like Lady Godiva. A slender girl, no taller than him. He averted his gaze a little, and coughed. She turned, and her eyes glowed amber in the dim light of the moon and stars. Reptile’s eyes.

  His last recollection had been the mouth of the vast beast opening, and himself tumbling from the heaving back of the taniwha, into the waves. He’d thought he would die. She must have pulled him out.

  He sat up, and gathered his legs under him, wrapping his arms about them, and placing his head on his knees. ‘Thank you,’ he told her. ‘Thank you for saving me.’ She looked at him without comprehending the words. Perhaps she understood the sentiment. He cursed his own lack of knowledge, but tried, racking his tired brain for words. ‘Uh…kia ora rawa atu,’ he said tentatively. Thank you very much. Or something like that, he hoped.

  She stared at him, then nodded slowly. There was a strangely unfocused look in her eyes, as if everything she saw was too much to take in, and he was about the least interesting thing present. Her gaze shifted to the stars, the moon, back to the beach, and always, to the sea. He had no idea what to say as minutes like hours dragged by.

  The sky grew lighter. Mat looked inland, and saw a huge man striding through the waters of the flood, straight towards them. Water ran from his head and shoulders, and down his massive thighs, as if he had just emerged from the deep. He looked immense, the height of two or three men, with corded muscles. The girl rose, and walked towards him, until they were only a few paces apart. It could only be her father, the man that had drowned her centuries before, and then carved a river in his remorse. He seemed to shrink as he walked towards her, until he was merely six feet tall, straight-backed and muscular.

  Feet crunched on the shingled beach behind him, and he glanced back. The old storyteller, Kauariki, stood there, wrapped in a feather cloak, clutching an old walking stick, with her dead-alive huia pohoi on her shoulder, watching him. She was staring at the man and girl, longing, hope, and anger warring for mastery of her face. Her eye
s gleamed in the pre-dawn light as she looked at Mat, hobbling up to him, and pressing her nose to his. ‘Behold,’ she whispered in Mat’s ear. ‘That is Maahu, her father.’

  Mat watched as the old man spoke to his daughter in a low rumbling voice that barely carried to his ears, the words so archaic that even his Maoritanga teachers at school would have struggled.

  ‘He greets her as daughter,’ Kauariki hissed, her voice quavery. ‘He says he is sorry. So very sorry…’

  Maahu hung his head, his hands extended. Abruptly he fell to his knees on the beach, Haumapuhia before him, a silhouette against the light of pending dawn. His voice broke, a stream of broken words pouring from his lips.

  ‘He says “I carved you a river, to ease your pain”,’ Kauariki whispered, her voice thick with emotion. ‘He begs forgiveness. He begs!’ Mat could see tears flowing down his cheeks in glistening streams.

  The girl who was a taniwha reached out slowly, stroked his cheek and said something softly.

  ‘She forgives.’ Kauariki’s raw voice broke. ‘Aieee, she forgives!’ The storyteller clung to Mat as if for strength, then pushed off, tottering towards her husband and daughter like a baby taking her first steps. The three of them embraced. Mat had to look away, blinking back his own tears, thinking of his own family.

  Haumapuhia looked over her mother’s shoulder, staring at Mat. At first she made no sign, of recognition, of gratitude. Her eyes were empty of any emotion that a man could recognise. But they glittered, with complex facets and strange desires. Finally, her face contorted, as if relearning expressions, one by one, until it settled upon a slow smile.

  She surprised him by speaking hesitantly in English. ‘I understand now, Matiu Douglas. The power is the river, and I will swim it. To the sea.’