by David Hair
Acknowledgements
First up, thanks once more to Arama for his insightful views, and kia ora and namaste to all his family. Thanks also to Kerry, and my agent Heather, for proofing this book prior to release to the publisher. Honest and insightful criticism enhances any venture, and I can’t thank you all enough.
My gratitude again to the good people at HarperCollins New Zealand for their continued support for this series. Special thanks to Kate Stone for again editing (fabulous job as ever), and to Finlay Macdonald.
During the writing of this book, Kerry and I were transferred from Wellington (my home of 20-plus years) to Auckland. I’m still getting over that, so big shout-outs to those I’ve left behind: my kids, Brendan and Melissa, who are actually adults now (still my babies, though). Hi to Paul, to Mark, to Felix and Stefania, Andrew and Brenda, Keith and Kathryn, Jacky and Paul, Rex and Erina, Clare and Reg, Craigie and Mark, and everyone else we’ve whiled away happy times with in Welly. Hi to Daniel, Phil and Neil from the ‘man-cave’ and all the other staff at Medical Assurance; thanks for putting up with having a writer in your midst for a couple of years. And hi to the remnants (or should I say ‘relics’) of my old footy team. Sorry my hamstrings gave out. Keep on kicking!
And, as always, my deepest appreciation is for having the privilege to be married to the wonderful Kerry, whose patience and judgement in reading, re-reading, editing, criticism, support and love is what makes writing possible for me. I’m a very lucky man.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Ngawhina Campbell, my late grandmother, for all the happy holidays in Rotorua, long walks and talks, tales of Hatupatu and Maui, swims at the Polynesian Pools and playing in Kuirau Park. And also to her daughter, my mum, Biddy Hair, and my dad, Cliff: 50 years married and still in love.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Prologue: Carved bone
A hero’s quest
Your whole lives ahead
Harbour city
It’s not all darkness
The prisoner
Dead Premiers
Rewriting history
Seeking a sign
The storm hits
Sidekick
Te Papa
The turn of a friendly card
Cloudland
Banshee wail
Testing times
Oil and spark
A library by candlelight
Life drawing
Only one winner
Hataitai ridge
Death Goddess
Shafts of light
Certainty
Renewal
Epilogue: The old park
Author’s note
Glossary
Aotearoa series
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue: Carved bone
The old man and the young man climbed to the headland as soon as the sun went down. The old man had been avoiding sunlight for years, for he was very much a being of darkness. Wind rose from the sea, filling their nostrils with salty air. Far below, the waves broke on the rocks, hissing over the stony beach in urgent whispers. This was a potent place: Cape Reinga, where the spirits pass to the land of death. It was also the place where the old man’s son had died.
The climb was gentle, but the old man’s face was clenched at even this exertion. He crabbed forward, leaning on his carved walking stick, wrapped in a feather cloak, with wispy white hair clinging to his scalp. He was hunched over, though his frame hinted that once he’d stood straight and proud. Years lined his face like rings on a tree-stump, deepening the furrows of his moko. Legend said his shadow could wither trees. Hard-won knowledge lurked in his hooded eyes. ‘I have fought for what I have’, his gaze said. ‘I have taken, trampled and stolen, and I would do it all again.’
The younger man was perhaps what the older man had once been. Tall, straight, muscular and athletic. He was bare to the waist, clad only in a piupiu, a flax kilt. His thighs and abdominal muscles rippled as he moved, graceful as a panther. His torso was decorated with all manner of dark tattoos, some traditional, others darkly whimsical, like the shark rising behind the naked swimmer on his lower back. His close-cropped hair had jagged patterns cut into it, and his skin was burnished copper by the setting sun. His face, which had once adorned posters and the sports-pages of the dailies, looked perpetually hungry as his eyes roved.
‘What now?’ the young man growled, in a flat, almost dead voice.
The old man looked up at him without expression. ‘For now, we wait.’ He found a mound of tussock-covered earth and sat. The cloak settled about him, and he subtly faded into the land around him, until to the casual eye he could be mistaken for a gnarled and bushy tree-stump.
The young man was at first reluctant to sit, instead going through a complex series of martial movements, chopping and kicking and punching at imaginary foes, before finally perching near the old man. ‘All we ever do is wait,’ he muttered nervously. He could feel the presence of the lands of the dead here, and he had no intention of ever coming so close again.
His mentor scowled. ‘Byron Kikitoa, the world does not yet dance to your song. Patience.’
Byron looked away, so the old man would not see his nose wrinkle in distaste. For one thing, his mentor’s condescending tones rankled. For another, he’d sat downwind, and Kiki Who Withers Trees smelt like a corpse. Probably withers those damned trees with his stink. But he needed the old man for a while longer. So he swallowed his irritation and settled in for yet another wait. And no doubt another lecture.
The lecture at least was not long in coming: ‘I have waited centuries for this time to finally arrive, poai. So you can wait a few hours. The moment is coming, very soon, when you will climb into the skies and do battle for the right to claim immortality. You must be ready, mentally and physically, if you are to claim the victory, and the prize.’
‘I am ready. I train all day, and have mastered the patu and the taiaha, and command makutu second only to you. I know what must be done, and I am ready for this!’ He felt that all his life had been preparing for this inevitable ascension to power: he’d been different since he was a child, used his uncanny abilities, even untrained as they were, to hurt and dominate others. Kiki had harnessed and honed him for one purpose: domination. He was fast tiring of having someone claiming to be his ‘master’.
‘Lower your voice, boy. Who taught you all of this? Show some respect.’
I’ll respect you when you’re dead and I have eaten your heart.
But such thoughts were dangerous, and he buried them swiftly. Kiki was to all intents and purposes immortal, although confined largely to Aotearoa, the Ghost World, since a near-death experience deep in the past, at the hands of the tohunga Tamure. It had weakened Kiki, left him vulnerable to slaying, and taken his immunity from aging. He was still deadly dangerous, though, so Byron quieted his mind, his hard-won discipline reasserting itself. The dark core at the centre of his mind widened and he sank into it, entering a meditative state as Kiki had trained him. It still didn’t come easy to him. Part of him still craved the glamour and attention of his rugby league days, when he’d been the most promising young player in the country, poised to achieve international fame. Matiu Douglas had ruined that, as he and his pathetic friends had ruined other things. Not that he was afraid of Douglas — he’d tested his mettle in Arrowtown a few months ago, and bested him easily. Douglas’s escape had been a fluke.
If that skinny geek-girl hadn’t pulled that trick, I’d have won this contest already.
Instead he’d had to be rescued, Kiki pulling him out of Aotearoa and into the modern world in the very
nick of time, then reviving his dying body. What should have been a victory had turned into the worst moment of his life.
Cassandra Allan: that’s the geek’s name. She’s first.
As the western sky darkened towards full night, its final rays painted the clouds with shifting colours, pinks and oranges blending with the blues and purples of twilight, each a momentary masterpiece of transient beauty. Neither really noticed, their eyes cast forward to the headland, beyond the little lighthouse.
When the light was gone, Kiki rose painfully to his feet. ‘It is time.’ He filled his lungs, then let out a low, dirge-like chant with no discernible rhythm. Maori words, greetings and invocations to the night spirits, a call to the dark things that haunted wild places when the light was gone. As he chanted, the old man held out his hand to Byron, who took it reluctantly because Kiki had fingers like claws, with thick and dirty nails that invariably drew blood. They did again, as he drew on his powers, and took the young tohunga makutu from New Zealand to Aotearoa.
Two worlds: one, the modern land of New Zealand, rooted in the past and flowing into the future, a tamed land of farms and towns, ports and roads and pacified wilderness, where people grew and met, learned and worked, and got passionate about sports results and television shows. The real world, of science and logic. The world where lives were made and lived.
And the other world, Aotearoa: the Ghost World, the Memory Place, where all things gradually accumulated, where legend was real, and the dead still lingered. Where what mattered was who you once were and what you once did. A place where Nature did not have laws so much as opinions; fluid and subject to other views. A place of power, if you knew how to reach it, and what to do once you had.
Kiki had dwelt in Aotearoa since the first waka had pulled up on the shores of these lonely islands, beneath the long white clouds of the Southern Ocean. His roots lay as deep as the massive totara trees in the forests. Gnarled, dark roots, sucking life from all about him as he clung on through the centuries, fuelled by ambition and greed for mastery over others. He’d been engaged in a secret war all that time, vying for dominance with other tohunga — both good and evil. Once he’d lain with the Death Goddess to gain immortality, strode the world like a giant and terrorized the lands. Now, through Byron, his apprentice, he sought to perpetuate his dominion.
His chant reached out, seeping into the pores of the rock and down to the caves beneath, where the kehua dwelt. The goblins of Te Reinga had dwelt here as long as Kiki could recall, drawn by this place of power and leeching its essence to sustain them. They had come to the aid of his son Puarata two years ago, as he sought to entrap Matiu Douglas. Now he called them to serve again.
As his voice rose towards a crescendo — a sound like the crushing of buildings beneath an avalanche — the winds stilled, and when he reached the final call, darkness boiled up from the ground like living mud, emitting a sickening stench as it came. It twisted and bulged, until each pile resolved itself into a shape the size of a child, but beaked and misshapen, not unlike the carvings on a meeting house. Fierce little things, kehua-goblins, but they quailed when they saw who had summoned them.
‘Master Kiki,’ the largest greeted him in a tremulous voice, eyes downcast.
Byron wrinkled his nose in disgust, while Kiki cooed over these creatures as though they were pets. They grovelled before him, murmuring greetings and praise.
‘What is it you wish, O Great One?’ the largest asked.
Yes, why are we here? Byron leant closer, trying not to breathe in the stench.
‘When my son Puarata fell at this place, he dropped a talisman, a tiki carved in bone. The tiki of Tupu, his champion warrior, lost when he was slain. I believe that you have found this artefact. I require it.’
A low chittering ran through the gathering, as the creatures bent their heads together. Then the largest again spoke, its ugly face sly: ‘We have this thing, in a place you cannot reach. We might be willing to trade for it.’
Byron clenched his fists, took a step forward. ‘Why you little piece of shit! We don’t bargain with the likes of you — give it to us!’
The kehua laughed at him. ‘You cannot threaten us, manling.’
Bryon’s hand went to his patu, but Kiki slapped his wrist. ‘No, my apprentice. The kehua is right: there are places even I cannot reach, and this is one such. It is too close to the boundary between life and oblivion.’ He turned back to the goblin. ‘What is it you desire in return for the tiki?’
The kehua conferred with its fellows again, then looked up. ‘Nothing excessive, Great One. Just ten mortal years, to share amongst ourselves.’
Kiki raised an eyebrow. ‘Ten years? That is a princely sum, kehua. And one I cannot pay.’ He chuckled darkly. ‘I live on borrowed time as it is.’
The kehua pointed its stumpy little arm at Byron. ‘This one can pay.’
Byron’s anger turned to apprehension. ‘What is it saying?’ he snapped at Kiki.
‘It wants ten years of your life. To them, it equates to centuries of extended existence.’
‘Ten years? I don’t understand?’
‘It means that should you give them what they wish, your body will age ten years, and bring forward your death.’
Byron thought about that. ‘But once I claim Aroha as my own, I’ll be immortal …’
Kiki’s lips parted in a gloating smile. ‘Indeed.’
Byron went to give his assent, then paused. ‘But what if I have some condition that will kill me within the next ten years?’
‘You do not. I have cast the bones, and your natural life is many decades. In fact, the price the kehua demands will make you stronger, as you take on the bulk of full adulthood. I counsel you to accept.’
Byron looked at Kiki suspiciously. ‘Why do you want this tiki?’ Does he mean to supplant me with Tupu?
‘Because Tupu is a weapon our foes cannot match. Already we have the Wooden Head: with Tupu also, no-one can stop us.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Tupu is not capable of the quest that you are to undertake, boy. He is not a rival to you, just a tool.’ The old tohunga seized Byron’s wrist again, nails gouging. ‘Do you still not trust me, after all I have sacrificed for you?’
No, thought Byron. Nevertheless, he still held out his hand to the kehua.
With a delighted chortle, the goblin seized it, opened a mouth full of tiny barbed teeth, and bit.
Byron’s cry filled the night, echoing around the cliffs before dying in the waves below.
A hero’s quest
The old man and the young man climbed to the headland as dawn broke, silently rejoicing in the sun’s renewing energy. A warm wind rose from the sea, lifting the old man’s wispy white hair, and filling their nostrils with salty air. Far below, the waves broke over rocks, and crashed amidst the docks of the port of Napier. Gulls shrieked as they passed, and the distant traffic hummed. Napier city spread north and south, hemming in what had once been Scinde Island, until the 1931 earthquake had raised the land around it: creative destruction, the ruin of one thing to make way for another.
Although tall and lean, the old man was frail. He leant on the shoulders of his youthful companion, who fussed over him respectfully. ‘Where do you wish to sit, master?’ the youth asked, as they crabbed slowly toward the benches overlooking the sea.
The old man indicated a bench, and they patiently hobbled toward it. It was dawn, the return of light and new life, and the hill reserve was empty of all but themselves. He looked sideways and said, ‘I’m not your master, Matiu. I am your guide.’
‘Yes, master,’ Mat Douglas replied fondly. He helped Ngatoro-i-rangi sit, then sat beside him. They fell silent for a while, looking out to sea, shielding their eyes from the newly risen sun and basking in its soothing warmth.
Mat, in contrast to the traditional attire of his mentor, was clad in a replica Hawke’s Bay rugby jersey, blue jeans, and a pair of old runners. He wasn’t a big boy, although he was almost eighteen. His face reflected his two herita
ges: New Zealand Maori from his father, and Irish from his mother, with his thick, dark curls prone to glowing auburn in the sunlight, and his serious face much paler than the visage of the ancient tohunga beside him.
‘Last night, the first act of the struggle to come took place,’ Ngatoro told him. The old magician had been Mat’s distant mentor ever since Mat had rescued him from imprisonment over a year ago, and more recently he’d been increasingly present, since the death of Aethlyn Jones, Mat’s previous mentor. Both were Adepts in magic, the mysterious arts that were also at Mat’s call.
‘What do you mean?’ Mat asked.
‘Kiki and his apprentice, Byron Kikitoa, went into the Far North, and something took place that set a reverberation through the lands, for those listening. The stars are aligning, Matiu: your trial is coming.’
Mat took a deep breath, stared apprehensively into space. ‘The solstice, Aroha told me. That’s in December, just before Christmas.’
Ngatoro nodded gravely. ‘Only a month away. Are you ready?’
‘I guess.’ Mat hung his head, not wanting to think about Aroha. Although he hadn’t seen her since June, and it was November now, very few hours passed in which her name and face didn’t fall into his thoughts. That was the thing with goddesses: they were difficult to ignore.
Aroha wasn’t precisely a goddess, though: she was a tohunga’s daughter, centuries old, who was also a channel for the Maori goddess Hine-nui-te-po, the Goddess of Death, and her brighter aspect, Hine-titama, the Dawn Maiden. Mat had rescued Aroha from Puarata’s clutches the same day he’d rescued Ngatoro. To demonstrate her gratitude she’d seemingly decided he ought to marry her. At first her proposals had been amusing, then they’d become alarming. Especially when he’d learnt that every few centuries the goddess became fertile and sought a human male to father her child. That lucky man would become immortal — if he survived the experience. Aroha wanted Mat to be that lover, although Mat found Aroha more scary than attractive, despite her beauty. It didn’t help that becoming her lover required a mysterious and deadly dangerous quest, and that if successful he would end up fathering a child.
