by Paul Haines
These two ideas merged wonderfully for me and the story rolled out complete in my mind.
When I sat down to write it, I intentionally wanted it to be so dark and nasty that by the end of the first page the reader would be struggling to keep going. Many people I know who politely read my work never got past this one and subsequently didn't want to read anything else I'd written. I achieved my intention but it backfired in some ways as it was the opening story in my first collection. I had been warned that this might happen, but I went ahead with it anyway.
It took me about three months to write this piece. The first half I wrote in a few days and then I had to put the story down as I didn't want to write the ending. Three months later, I finally had the appropriate energy and wrote the second half over one weekend. No second draft needed.
By the time I had finished writing, I thought this was my first award-winning story—a box on my to-do-list that needed ticking—and felt a little uncomfortable in admitting that to people in case they thought my self-worth was a little too high, and the Tall Poppy syndrome needed to be enacted to cut me down to size.
"The Last Days of Kali Yuga" went on to win the 2004 Aurealis Award for Best Horror Short Story, the 2005 Ditmar for Best Novella, and helped me secure the book deal for my first collection.
***
Taniwha, Swim With Me
Henry had drunk too much the night before in an attempt to drown his feelings. Now he smiled when required and nodded politely during the presentation, but he felt something building in the pit of his gut, ready to erupt and lash out in a confusion of lust and fury.
When Anna laughed at Steve's joke about his new BMW being a gas-guzzler, her fingers lingering on Steve's arm too long, Henry excused himself from the meeting room. With hangover sweat seeping from his scalp, he needed to vomit, but instead of staggering towards the toilets, he found himself outside sucking in lungfuls of cool autumn air and wandering across the team-building exercise yard.
Distance. He needed distance.
Her fingers, small and delicate, the nails manicured and cut short. Tracing lines along Henry's chest, and then down, over his stomach.
Ahead a walking track cut off into the bush, and his pace increased with the gorge in his throat. Distance. Silence. It's what he needed. His head throbbed and sweat dripped down the back of his neck.
Henry's tongue, between her shoulder blades slowly up towards the base of her neck, licking the salt from her skin.
The shadows of the bush enveloped him, the corporate retreat now a world away. He fell to his knees amongst the ferns and threw up the scrambled eggs he'd eaten earlier while Anna had smoked cigarettes and drank coffee with the new golden boy of the company. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the patchwork sky through a green canopy of ponga fronds and ti-tree branches.
Distance and silence.
The drone and rah-rah of the sales kick-off gone. The soft gurgle of the river nearby, the rustle of leaves as the wind crept through carrying birdsong. Moss eased Henry into its forest bed, and he breathed deep. What had he been thinking? He had been warned she was too hot for him. The smell of vomit still burned in his nose and his hair was plastered to his scalp. His clothes were dirty. Business casual. Smart casual. Office fucking casual. And he had been the casual office fuck. Henry needed to cool off.
A warbled song sparkled in his ear. Nearby, a fantail cocked its head, a dark black eye in regard. It hopped closer towards him, yellow feathers spotting its chest. It warbled again, then speared regurgitated egg from the still-steaming vomit with its beak.
Henry laughed, a bitter coarse noise, watching as another fantail alighted and began to eat. He sat up, head spinning, and amongst the birdsong and rustling leaves, he heard the river gurgle his name. He struggled to stand, vision blurred, and steadied himself against the trunk of a ponga, its fat fronds curling above like black hairy caterpillars. He sucked in another lungful of air as his head cleared. There were now four fantails warbling and eating.
'Tame little fullas, eh?' Henry wiped grit from his eyes and ran dirty fingers through his damp hair. 'You've probably seen dozens of drunk suits cavorting out here.'
No sooner said then regretted.
Steve and Anna, here in the bush. In her bush. Henry felt sick. They hadn't yet, he was sure, but it was inevitable, wasn't it? You can't fight what you are; you can't fight your nature.
At the bar last night she had hardly spoken to Henry. Too busy networking. Too busy sticking the fucking knife in, making sure Henry could see her hand on the hilt, twisting with every flirtatious smile sent Steve's way. She knew what she was doing. Putting distance between them. Her closure. But not Henry, no, his heart was still an open ragged mess, and now he needed his closure. Maybe if he had her one more time, one last final splurging of lust and agony, maybe that would give him what he needed, or better, maybe she would know she had made a mistake, that she did love him.
The fantails pecked and gobbled.
'Cleaning up my mess for me, eh boys?'
Henry followed the track towards the sound of water flowing over stone and pebble. Behind him, fantails fluttered into the air to follow, darting between ferns, perching upon twisted ti-tree branches, singing his loss.
The track wound down to the muddy riverbank. He kicked off his shoes and rolled his pants above the knees, then waded in, shuddering involuntarily at the temperature of the water as it clutched his calves. Mud squelched between his toes and Henry felt, perhaps, an eel slither over his foot. The river was maybe twenty metres wide, but here it was shallow, and Henry waded out to the middle, turning to look back up at the bush he had emerged from. There was no sign of the retreat, or the vineyard beyond, and even the sound of cars roaring along the nearby state highway had been hushed. From the trees, birds sang verse over the rhythm of the river.
It could be a perfect moment, thought Henry, alone, but not lonely, at peace. Except for the taste of bile in his mouth and the clogged pressure in his nose. He bent to cup a handful of water over his face, letting it run cold and clean. He rinsed his mouth with another handful, slicking the remainder through his hair, washing away the sweat. And then he thrust his head under, the headache flung from his skull as the water clasped tight, sending cold shivers down his spine. He opened his mouth wide and drank in the river, letting it cleanse him inside as well as out, before standing upright again, throwing his head back, water arcing from his hair, running down and plastering his shirt to his back. Henry laughed, in tune to the fantails skimming the surface of the river.
A voice like thick wet leaves trodden underfoot broke the moment. 'Better be careful of the taniwha in there, eh pakeha? It don't like you disturbing his home.'
Henry spun round awkwardly, almost losing his footing. A few feet away in the water, an old Maori wearing nothing but a frayed pair of shorts held a two-pronged spear and several flounder strung on fishing wire. His hair was cut short and shot through with white. The muscles on his bare chest were beginning to sag with age, though the biceps were still large. His face was gnarled like ponga fronds that split wide when he grinned, revealing a mouth housing several yellowed teeth between gap and gum. All that was missing was the full moko tattooed over his face.
'You know what a taniwha is, pakeha?'
Where the hell did he come from? Henry took a tentative step backwards. And who calls white people pakehas anymore?
'Yeah,' said Henry. 'I know what a taniwha is. It's a monster, lives in the sea, eats little kids.'
Laughter gurgled from the old man's throat as he stepped closer to Henry, the water slicing around his thick thighs. 'Lives in the river, too.'
For one insane second, Henry pictured the spear thrust into his gut and then yanked out hard, the prongs shredding his stomach lining. The only monster that lived was man. And this man was the taniwha.
'I see the piwakawaka like you.' The old man pointed at the fantails darting around the surface of the water.
'Yeah, lots of them
round here. What'd you call them?'
'Piwakawaka. Unusual that there is so many. Coming up to winter you don't see so many around. Got nowhere safe to hide anymore, eh? Too many bad animals that don't belong here eating up the undergrowth. Piwakawaka. Maybe they're coming back, maybe the land is good to them again. Don't trust them, pakeha. They'll betray you, just like they did the great Maui.'
Henry edged backwards. The old man edged forwards.
'You don't look too good,' said the old man, his dark eyes twinkling. 'Been heavy on the piss, eh?' He nodded towards the bush obscuring the retreat. 'You with that lot from the city?'
Henry nodded.
'Thought so. Not seen anybody down here for a couple of months. Been real quiet. Business been bad.'
'Seems like a nice place.'
The old man shrugged. 'Used to be better.' He waved his hand towards Henry. 'Before all this.'
'Sure,' said Henry. 'I'd, uh, better get back.'
Henry tried not to look behind as he made his way to the riverbank and the safety of his shoes. He had the feeling the old man was following him. Maybe poach a bit of pakeha to go with his stolen flounder.
When Henry climbed from the river though, the old man was still standing in the middle of the water, a fantail perched in his hair.
'You didn't drink the water, did you?' called the old man.
'Yeah, why?'
'It's in you. You too. Taniwha got you now, pakeha.' The old man turned and waded upstream, the fantail still nesting in his hair.
Henry walked back along the track, shoes in hand. The hangover had gone and the grumbling of an appetite had returned. Fantails danced on branches before him, and on a whim, Henry held out an arm. A fantail swooped and landed, its talons curling around his wrist, not quite piercing the skin. He realised that he had misheard the Maori say, 'It's in you. You too.' He had said, 'It's in you. Utu.'
The fantail regarded him with dark eyes twinkling.
Utu.
Revenge.
#
Dinner should have been a tantalising affair. The first Bluff oysters for the season were on offer, as well as slow-roasted lamb, camembert-stuffed chicken breast, and fresh Autumnal fruit coupled with local brie, served with bottles of chilled Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and Hawkes Bay Pinot Noir. Henry couldn't taste a thing—his tongue lay fat and thick within a metallic soup that lined his mouth. His skin rippled in goosebumps and the hair on his arms, his hand, wavered static and stiff. The high he had felt upon returning from the river had seeped away until it seemed only the dregs of his spirit churned within, low and muddied.
Henry had chosen a seat at the far end of the table from Anna and Steve. He pretended not to notice they sat opposite each other. He pretended not to see the stolen glances they shared. The stolen, intimate glances.
Her toes sliding along his inner thigh, gentle pressure easing his legs apart. No one knowing, amidst conversation of commissions made and client confessions, a laughter shared at a different joke as blood pumped and flushed and engorged.
Henry knew Anna would be teasing Steve under the table, as she had with him. He knew it. But he pretended he didn't care, and he forced the beast inside to stay at bay. He swigged more Pinot, supposedly filled with hints of cherry and chocolate, but all he tasted was sour water, that left his mouth acidic and coated in slime.
'You look like shit, Henry,' said Barnsey, whose ruddy cheeks held their first splotches of alcoholism.
Henry stared back. 'What are you saying?'
'Take is easy, mate. Christ, I mean like, I feel for you, but at least you had a go. Know what I mean?'
'What?' Hundreds of tiny wings fluttered against his face.
Barnsey cocked his head, eyes twinkling. He nodded towards Anna and warbled. A yellow feather poked between the buttons on his shirt. An oyster disappeared into his maw and he warbled again.
Henry sat at the table, the smell of charred flesh thickening the air. Barnsey hopped onto the table and pecked another oyster out of a bubbling pool of mud. He warbled, bright and furious, and hopped towards Anna and Steve, their skin blackened and crisp, as they fed wetas to each other. Teeth, visible beneath burnt sinew, chewed vigorously, a weta carapace percussion, as around the table corpses feasted. The table smouldered, a charcoal kauri ripped from the forest, stripped and burned. Stripped and burned.
'Think of her as a sales bonus.' Barnsey laughed, pouring himself another wine. 'Just don't count on getting it at the end of the year.'
Henry pushed his plate away. Roast lamb and vegetables again. Kauri table intact, polished, not burnt. Barnsey no longer a fantail, just a guy in his late twenties going to corporate seed. As Henry stood to leave, he knocked his knife to the floor. Not an excuse, he told himself, an accident. He bent down and peered beneath the table, following the line of legs. Anna's shoe sat empty next to her chair. Her painted toes worked beneath the hem of Steve's pants.
Henry left the room with Barnsey's high-pitched laughter lingering in his ears and Anna's eyes burning into his back. His skin still tingled, the hairs electric.
The moon hung heavy in the sky, fat and full, an evening for lycanthropes and other monsters. By the moonlight, the hair on his arms looked yellow, thick and fibrous. He'd sleep badly tonight under its baleful glare. He always did.
Instead of returning to his room, Henry found himself wandering down pathways towards the entrance of the retreat, where it met with an old one-lane stone bridge that crossed the river. Downstream, he could just make out where he had encountered the old man that afternoon. The moonlight bounced from the surface of the water, and Henry realised the soft gurgle of the day had been replaced with a thick, dark bubbling sound. Would there be a troll lurking beneath this stone ready to pull him under? He spat out a mouthful of metallic saliva and watched it disappear into the shadow the bridge cast upon the water.
For you, taniwha, for you.
Something large coiled through the shadows in the water, rippling the surface of the river, before disappearing beneath the bridge. Behind him, from the other side of the bridge, the water thrashed, followed by a piercing hiss, then silence.
Henry turned slowly, his skin no longer tingling, but every pore achingly alive. Though he didn't remember moving, he was now leaning over the other side of the bridge, looking down upon the water illuminated by the moon. The surface of the water was as smooth as polished marble and from it stared a creature with execution pits for eyes, its yellow feathered arms reaching up for him, talons extended. It opened its mouth and Henry screamed, sucked down with a rush of damp meat and a thousand fluttering wings. He hit the water and the maw closed cold around him, biting off his breath. Kicking and thrashing, Henry burst to the surface, spluttering slime and coughing for air. Easy, easy, there's nothing here. Henry tread water, catching his breath while his heart hammered blood to his brain. Water, only water. Until he realised the current dragged him slowly towards the shadows living beneath the bridge. He kicked out against the flow, swimming upstream towards the riverbank, pulling himself through watercress as he neared the edge. He stood clumsily, the mud sucking at his legs, and stumbled towards the bank. He dragged himself out and lay back on the moss that lined the river's edge, his chest heaving. The stench of decay drifted from the river. Above him the moon leered fat and obscene in the rapidly cooling night air. Henry realised he had lost his shirt and shoes, and now something, some many things, wriggled against his bare skin. Sitting up, he wiped away a handful of maggots. The stench thrust its fingers into his nose and he gagged. Around him, beneath him, scattered on the riverbank, half submerged in the water, possum and rabbit carcasses rotted in the moonlight. Dozens of them.
Henry screamed again, leaping to his feet, as decayed flesh oozed between his toes and yet to be gnawed bones prod at his soles. He slid in slippery skins as he tried to flee, tripped and fell flailing to the ground in front of a pair of bare feet.
The old Maori, wrapped in a cloak of feathers, glared down at him. T
he moonlight twinkled in his dark eyes and he grinned his toothless grin.
'Taniwha got you, pakeha?'
He held out a firm hand and pulled Henry to his feet.
'Some ... something ... the water,' Henry chattered through his teeth.
The old man chuckled a rustle of reeds. 'Told you not to drink the water. Full of dead bodies.'
'No, no, you don't understand.'
'I don't understand? This is my land.' He removed his cloak and wrapped it around Henry's shoulders. 'Here, this'll keep you warm.'
'The taniwha ...'
The old man laughed again, pointing at the animal corpses. 'The land does not want them.'
'But the taniwha ...' And then it dawned on Henry. 'You're polluting the river, poisoning the water.'
'The land doesn't want you.' The old man fixed Henry with a stare that chilled him more than the cold depths of the river. 'Any of you.' The long knife in his hand glittered in the moonlight.
'Hold on, mate.' Henry held one hand up, still clutching the cloak, trying to placate the old man. From here he could see the gate that lead back up to the carpark. 'You don't want to hurt me, right? You already warned me about drinking the water.'
The old man grunted. 'I didn't warn you, just asked if you drank it.' From a sack on the ground, he pulled a dead possum. He slit the belly open with the knife and dropped the corpse into the watercress. 'And if I was going to hurt you, why give you my cloak? Don't want you dying on me while you still got work to do.'
Henry almost said, 'What's to stop me from reporting you to management?' but wisdom held his mouth shut. This guy was living in a land of loons. Instead he said, 'Sure.'
The old man gutted another possum. 'You'd better go clean that mud off, get warm.'
Henry nodded and walked up to the gate, towards reality: carparks, cars, utility sheds, electric lights, tractors, vineyards, hotel rooms. The metallic taste in his mouth had gone, and surprisingly, the cloak warmed him against the clutch of night.
