Magic and Makutu

by David Hair

  Colleen nodded shortly, spinning the revolver chambers and sighting along the gun. Her former fears seemed forgotten in the heat of the moment. ‘I’ll keep ’em safe.’

  Seddon clapped her on the shoulder. ‘Good lass. Let’s keep ’em out of here. Make your shots count.’

  ‘That’s not a strategy, Dick, that’s a delaying tactic,’ Ballance commented. ‘We need a way out.’

  ‘In this storm?’ Muldoon chuckled. ‘No chance, John. We’ve no idea what’s out there, heh-heh.’ The little laugh sounded nervous.

  They hurriedly deployed. Colleen grabbed Tama’s arm, then quickly kissed him. ‘For luck, love,’ she blurted. He stared at her, but Muldoon gripped his shoulder and pulled him away.

  ‘She’ll hold up,’ the former prime minister told him, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I heard you and she don’t see eye to eye?’ he asked, with a faint arch of one eyebrow.

  ‘We get on fine,’ Tama breathed, his lips still tingling from her touch. He glanced at the former prime minister curiously, as they hurried to the top of the stairs at the south end of the corridor, a wide wooden suspended staircase with a few vantages over the lower two floors. ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been looking into you, Mr Douglas: ever since I heard you were in here. Your son’s quite the prodigy, I hear?’

  There was something in the man’s tone Tama didn’t quite like. ‘Do you have a problem with Mat?’

  Muldoon chuckled. ‘Calm down, I’ve not even met him. But he’s a lightning rod, isn’t he? Trouble finds him.’ He peered at Tama intently. ‘What exactly are you and your wife doing in that office, Mr Douglas? Oh, I know some of it: you’re rewriting the Treaty and you’ve invited every signatory you can lay your hands on to sign it. But what’s it going to achieve, eh?’

  ‘Peace, I hope.’

  ‘Peace, eh?’ Muldoon grunted. ‘No such thing. Just different degrees of conflict.’ He took a sighting along the barrel of the revolver, down into the stairwell. ‘I was in the army, you know. Saw action in Italy, during World War Two. But politics was dirtier, heh-heh.’

  Tama frowned at the man. ‘Sir, I should say that I’ve always regarded you as the worst prime minister we’ve ever had. You behaved like a bully, and bankrupted the country on pensionbribes to the elderly. And that “Dancing Cossacks” advertising campaign— for goodness sake!’

  Muldoon squinted at him. ‘Helped get me back into power, Tama,’ he chuckled grimly. ‘That’s what politics is about: winning. You want a bad egg, try “Farmer Bill” Massey: he had his own “Cossacks” — marching his farmer toughs into Wellington to break the 1913 waterfront strike by force. Yet that bugger is the second-longest-serving premier after King Dick. Got himself a big memorial out on the Miramar Peninsula. What does that tell you, eh?’

  ‘Winning doesn’t make you right, sir.’

  Muldoon’s lopsided face twisted into a wry smile. ‘Rich coming from a man whose job is to deceive the judiciary into keeping criminals out of jail, Tama.’

  ‘It’s called adversarial justice, sir.’

  ‘Of course. But I take it that it’s alright with you if we win tonight, by whatever means possible?’ Muldoon chuckled again. ‘And call me Rob, Tama. We might as well be on first-name terms if we’re going to die together.’

  Tama was still trying to think of a rejoinder when they heard a window shatter somewhere down in the darkness below. Voices carried up the well, and feet, both booted and bare, began to pound upon the stairs, coming ever closer.

  Wiping the sudden beads of sweat from his brow, Tama muttered a quick prayer.

  Colleen held the revolver tightly, surprised that her hands weren’t shaking more. From the window she could see a steady stream of misty forms flowing towards the building and disappearing beneath the veranda. She could make out the man Tama had seen, too; the tohunga beside the wooden pole with its ugly carved head. Now she wished she’d spoken more to Mat about this world, so that she knew what they were dealing with. But she’d never really wanted to know.

  The two old men had identified themselves as Giles and Torrance —but she wasn’t quite clear whether those were their first names or surnames. They seemed rather feeble, dusty antiques who knew everything about obscure legislation and nothing practical. But Nelly the cook seemed as tough as old leather, as she fixed Colleen with her bird-like stare. ‘You’re thinking I’m too skinny to be a cook, ain’t ya?’

  ‘I s’pose.’

  Nelly cackled dryly. ‘Food— I’m sick of the stuff. Ghosts don’t have to eat, you know. Makes no difference either way. But it’s the only thing I know how to do, so here I am. Ironic, ain’t it?’

  Colleen smiled. ‘What would you rather do?’

  ‘Just about anything. Afterlives are a bitch. You really know how to use that gun?’

  ‘Yes. But if you’re a better shot?’

  ‘Me? Good Lord, no.’ She drew a big kitchen knife —the sort Colleen thought of as ‘psychopath knives’ — from her apron pockets. ‘I can use this well enough, though.’

  I bet you can.

  Colleen peered out of the window again. It was still raining in torrents out there, the lances of water falling almost sideways, driven by the gales. The shrieking of the wind in the eaves was like an echo of that banshee wail she’d heard earlier. People are going to die tonight, she thought. I just pray it’s no-one I love.

  Just as she was beginning to wonder where Mat was, and praying that he was safe in bed at Wiri’s — or, better yet, coming to their rescue with all his uncanny skills — a fierce, moko-ingrained face appeared at the window, barely a metre from her.

  She screamed, fumbling the gun into line as the window burst inwards.

  The ghosts came in a swarm, up both staircases at once. Tama glanced behind him as Seddon’s group opened fire, the crack of the guns reverberating along the passage. Then movement below caught his eye — men of all sorts, Maori and Pakeha, civilian and military, pouring onto the stairs, only a few metres below them. All he could see of them were the tops of their heads and their backs. Muldoon cackled gleefully and opened fire. The first man, a burly farmer in a leather coat, shrieked and dropped, his back bloody.

  Here we go … Tama sighted and fired. The gun bucked in his hands, and a red flower blossomed on the top of a Maori warrior’s skull. The men following, impeded by the bodies, milled, and then several raised their muskets. Muldoon grabbed Tama’s collar and dragged him back an instant before the guns cracked and three bullets tore through the ceiling above him. Black gunpowder smoke billowed up the stairwell.

  More men came on, rampaging upwards, firing blindly. Tama sucked in a breath, stepped to the lip of the well and fired at the first. His target, a rough-clad whiskered man who might have been a convict, clutched his belly and went down. A Maori toa hurdled the fallen, then clutched his face as his eye burst and the back of his skull exploded, spraying blood over the wall. Muldoon grunted, fired again into the press, then flinched as a musket ball whistled past his face. Again the attack faltered.

  For a few seconds, there was respite, enough time to reload, but then the attackers tried again, and this time they also heard boots hammering down the corridor from their left, through double doors with glass panels. Muldoon turned and darted that way, shouting and firing again and again. Tama was left to hold the stairs alone, firing blindly into the smoke, trying to keep moving around the circular stairwell. The attackers were getting closer with each fusillade, firing blindly to make him duck, then surging upwards. Three made the top of the landing below as his revolver clicked impotently on an empty chamber. They fanned left and right, two farmers with rifles, and a gaunt figure in a hat and trench coat with a revolver in either hand.

  ‘Rob! They’re up!’ he shouted. ‘Get back!’

  He saw the former PM stagger, spinning slowly and clutching at his left shoulder, where blood was swiftly soaking a ragged gash in his jacket. There were more men coming down the side corrido
r, feet pounding. Shit, we’re done … Tama fumbled the reload, then looked up as the first farmer reached the top of the stairs and levelled his rifle. The barrel seemed to fill his vision.

  Crack!

  The warrior who burst through the Cabinet Room window screamed a challenge, landing two-footed in the broken glass, as Colleen tripped over her own feet going backwards, and sprawled. Her gun went off involuntarily, punching a hole in the ceiling. The warrior’s taiaha swept about, braining Giles with a sickening thud. The old man’s neck snapped as he flew sideways, struck the wall and fell. His colleague Torrance just gaped, while Nelly shrieked and hurled her knife.

  With a sharp clunk, the taiaha batted the blade away, sent it spinning to the floor. He shouted and launched himself at Colleen.

  With a coolness she would not have thought herself capable of, Colleen levelled the revolver two-handed, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell and the gun roared, flame spurting as the recoiljarred her wrists. A hole appeared in the warrior’s chest and he was thrown backwards. She sat up, readying another shot, but he struck the window frame and sat down heavily, his expression turning from ferocity to fear as he looked glassily at her. His war-cry died in his throat, and then he convulsed and slumped onto his side.

  Oh my …

  Colleen stared, aghast at what she’d done, while Nelly grovelled under the table for her knife, praying at the top of her voice. Then another attacker swarmed through the window.

  She’s a woman …

  The wahine-toa was wearing only a flax kilt and a bodice, a sharp-edged bone mere in her hands. She was thickset but moved with speed and power, screeching savagely as she launched herself at Colleen. Her chin was covered in moko, and the whites of her eyes blazed in her dark face.

  Some stupid part of Colleen’s brain refused to order her finger to pull the trigger. I can’t shoot another woman … The wahine-toa was on her in a blur, her weight battered into Colleen’s midriff, slamming her into the floor and straddling her as the air was buffeted from her lungs. Her left hand forced the gun away, while her right raised the edged mere.

  Colleen threw up her left arm, and caught the woman’s forearm as the blow fell. The bone mere stopped, barely inches from her face. The woman grunted, and bore down, baring rotting teeth and howling.

  A flash of steel plunged into the warrior-woman’s throat. She looked momentarily stunned, staring at Colleen in bafflement. Colleen’s eyes went sideways, to Nelly who was staring at the big and bloody knife, her face pale, her lips a thin red line. The cook grimaced, her face twisting as she gripped it tighter, her shrieks as bloodthirsty as those of the wahine-toa.

  The wahine-toa fell sideways, dropping the mere, her hands going to her throat. Colleen shoved at her, flailing to be free from her weight. The woman went still as Colleen stumbled to her feet.

  Colleen’s eyes locked with Nelly’s, in a fleeting moment that seemed to stretch into forever. ‘I crossed the world to come here,’ Nelly hissed. ‘I don’t die easy.’

  Damn this. I don’t want to die at all.

  ‘Well done, ladies,’ Torrance croaked, his face pale. He stood awkwardly, and teetered towards the window. ‘Let’s see if—’

  A bullet crashed through, and took the old bureaucrat in the chest. Both women froze, staring out into the darkness at a smoking rifle as it turned, and lined them up. It settled on Colleen.

  Tama stared bewildered as the man who had him in his sights fell sideways, shot in the back by the man with the revolvers. The other farmer, coming up the other way, turned on the traitor, but he was too slow to act. The newcomer’s left-hand gun barked. The other attacker cried out, fell and slid down the stairs, clutching at his chest then rolling into a slumped ball on the landing. The newcomer kicked him down the stairs, then fired again into the smoky murk.

  ‘I’m with you!’ the newcomer shouted at Tama. ‘Pull back! This is doing nothing but delaying the inevitable.’

  Tama stared at the man in shock, then recognition. ‘Aethlyn Jones?’

  ‘The same.’ The gaunt Welshman bounded up beside him, firing downwards as he came. ‘Aren’t revolvers wonderful? About time Aotearoa caught up with them!’

  Although the attack seemed to be petering out, they could sense many more attackers still below. Tama glanced at Muldoon, who was propped against the doorframe. The corridor beyond was filled with bodies, but the former prime minister looked weak, barely able to stand.

  Tama had met Jones a couple of times, once he became Mat’s tutor in whatever it was — magic, he supposed. ‘But … you’re dead!’

  ‘I know. It’s a bugger, isn’t it? Come on!’ Jones went to Muldoon, gripped his good arm and thrust a loaded revolver into it. ‘Sir? You must hold here!’ The former PM stuck out his bulldog jaw and nodded.

  Jones turned to Tama, and jabbed a finger down the corridor Muldoon had been defending. ‘Come with me! Hurry, we’ve got a minute at the most!’

  Colleen never saw what happened to the man with the rifle. Before she could do anything at all, the gunman vanished, and for a few seconds all she could hear were choked, gurgling sounds, and the growls of some feral beast. Then something slid off the roof and hit the ground below.

  A labrador with a bloody muzzle leapt through the window. For a moment she thought it was another attacker, then she squealed in relief. ‘Fitzy!’

  The dog bounded to her side and nuzzled her. Then he jumped onto the table, fixing her with an intent look, and shocked her by speaking in an awkward, barely discernible voice. ‘Colleen, where’s Tama?’

  Nelly gave a small wail and backed against the wall. Colleen stared, and then remembered herself. She knew he did this, knew what he was. She just hadn’t been ready for him to talk right now. ‘Out there,’ she squeaked, indicating the door.

  The turehu bounded down again, sniffing at the lifeless bodies of Giles, Torrance and the two Maori. ‘Dead, all dead,’ he said. ‘Stay in here. Block the window, if you can.’ He scrabbled at the locked door, then swore. ‘I should’ve been a monkey,’ he muttered. ‘Opposable thumbs, you see.’ His front paw blurred and he gripped the key and turned it.

  Nelly looked as though she was about to faint.

  ‘You haven’t seen my real form yet, honey,’ the turehu smirked, and he vanished into the corridor.

  There seemed to be a lull in the firing, but the air that wafted through from the corridor was filled with acrid-smelling gunsmoke. Colleen strained her ears for the sound of Tama’s voice, but heard nothing.

  Please be safe …

  ‘What the Hell are you doing here?’ Tama breathed, as they crept into the room Jones apparently sought: a small private kitchen. ‘Mat said the Wooden Head got you.’

  ‘It did,’ Jones replied. ‘It sucked my soul into itself. Kiki can empty the Head whenever he wants to, and force those within to do his bidding: usually that means killing people.’

  Tama’s mouth went dry. ‘But you …?’

  ‘I’m an Adept. I’m not so easy to command as ordinary people.’ Jones wrenched open the cupboards, then grunted. ‘I slipped out in the press. There: the salt, pick it up.’ He looked at Tama apologetically. ‘I can’t, not anymore.’

  Tama frowned, but did as he was told, picking up the big pottery jar and checking its contents. It was almost full, at least two kilos of white crystals. ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Salt is useful for repelling certain types of spirits. It’s a very old tradition, widely known. It’ll work here: those trapped inside the Wooden Head are vulnerable to it. Come on.’

  They hurried back along the corridor, stepping over the bodies as they came. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘Other victims of the Wooden Head,’ Jones told him. ‘Spirits trapped and enslaved over the centuries.’ They reached the Cabinet Room. Tama peered toward the far end, where Seddon was reloading. The big premier gave him a wave, then stared at Jones, and came striding toward them.

  ‘Aethlyn Jones?’ he boomed. ‘We thought you
dead and gone!’ He clasped the Welsh Adept’s hand fervently. ‘Never gladder to see you!’

  That saves any need for introductions, Tama thought. ‘Is everyone alright?’

  ‘So far,’ Seddon said grimly. Then the door to the Cabinet Room opened, and a Labrador with a blood-wet muzzle stepped through, barking joyously at Jones.

  Tama paused, momentarily stunned. ‘Fitzy?’

  ‘How are you here, sir?’ Seddon asked, as Jones hurriedly hugged the little turehu.

  Jones grimaced. ‘I’m no less dead, Dick. I used the Wooden Head myself in Arrowtown, and it overcame me. Kiki stopped my heart, and drew my spirit inside. But there were some extenuating circumstances in my case: I’m an Adept; trained to resist other magic. And I’ve never died in the real world, which gives my spirit greater strength. I’m holding out, though it feels like bathing in acid being in there. I can’t do it forever.’

  ‘Why did Kiki send you against us?’

  ‘He didn’t: I slipped out when he unleashed the rest. Once he realizes, he will try to summon me back.’ He pointed to the salt jar. ‘That’s where this salt comes in.’

  Jones’s plan took only seconds to enact. They crowded into a big room across from the Cabinet Room, with no windows to the outside, after leaving two lines of salt across the corridor, one in either direction, some ten metres from the door, and another right across the door to the room. ‘The spirits won’t be able to cross it,’ Jones told them. They left the door open so they could still shoot in either direction, and prepared for another fight.

  Tama had hoped that Fitzy’s appearance might mean that Wiri was here, and perhaps others who could help, but it quickly became clear that wasn’t the case. Muldoon and Carlisle had both been hit, and Nelly and Colleen bandaged them. Muldoon said something that made Colleen primp and blush, then wag a finger at him.