Taniwha's Tear Page 3

  ‘None of your business, stripling.’

  ‘Answer me!’

  The cat raised its paw in a lofty fashion, and yawned, despite being crushed beneath Fitzy’s paws. ‘Or what, stripling? You wouldn’t know how to touch me, let alone harm me. You know precisely nothing.’

  ‘You know nothing about what I can do,’ Mat tried to bluff.

  The cat laughed. ‘Of course I do. I’ve watched you, learning your petty little tricks from the water-girl. They are nothing. You know nothing of value. But you could be much more, you know. Don’t you want to be more, perchance? Much, much more?’

  ‘Not if it means being like you,’ Mat cried.

  ‘Ha! How noble. How deluded. Wake up, boy! Take a reality check! Why are no great virtuous wizards and tohunga rising to cast down the so-called “evil” ones, now that Puarata is dead, hmmm? Why? Because there is none! Virtue is weakness, boy! We all know that only the strong thrive. In magic, strength means using makutu. It’s that simple. The only true path to power and dominance is makutu. Every powerful ruanuku in this land is a tohunga makutu, boy! You have some potential, but you need to shed your petty prejudices of morality. This isn’t a fairy tale, boy. Only the strong thrive, in this world and the next.’

  Mat felt his throat constrict, with anger and frustration that he couldn’t find the words to counter this vile creature. ‘Who are you?’ he choked out eventually.

  The cat snickered. ‘That’s for you to find out, if you have the courage and the wit. Do you, perchance?’

  ‘Yeah, well try this!’ Mat snapped, and poured all the brilliance and heat he could into the light he held in his hands, and blasted it at the cat. It gave a sudden shriek, and then howled as its dead flesh ignited. It writhed as it burnt, screaming imprecations. This time lights did come on in the closest house across the road, and Mat and Fitzy ran. Mat could already see the headlines in the paper—‘Cat burnt alive on Marine Parade’. It wouldn’t pay to be caught nearby.

  ‘Nice work!’ Fitzy panted as they pelted across the road, heading for home. ‘Normal fire would have been too slow, but I’m thinking that would have hurt him a little before he disconnected. Did Pania teach you that?’

  ‘No,’ Mat gasped. ‘I made it up myself a few weeks ago.’ He was feeling suddenly giddy and drained, and slightly sick. ‘We did some chemistry this term, and created this really intense fire using lithium. I kind of measured up the effect, and duplicated it.’

  ‘He didn’t expect that,’ the turehu commented neutrally.

  ‘It was a “he” then?’ Mat asked.

  ‘Perhaps…or should I say “perchance”?’ Fitzy chuckled.

  ‘Should I tell Wiri?’ Mat wondered.

  ‘That depends on whether you want to tell him you’ve been taking secret magic lessons when you’d promised you’d leave all that alone until after a proper teacher showed up,’ Fitzy observed.

  ‘Yeah, good point.’

  They slunk into the backyard, and Mat leant against the fence, panting a little still from the exertion of the magic fire. It was just before five and the eastern horizon was turning pale violet.

  ‘That cat-thing was disgusting,’ he told Fitzy. ‘If that’s makutu, I want none of it.’

  ‘Good to hear it,’ Fitzy rumbled, and semi-stood, putting his paws up on the fence and looking Mat in the eye.

  ‘Is he right though?’ Mat asked. ‘Is makutu the strongest magic?’ It was an ugly thought.

  ‘That depends, Mat. The thing is, makutu is the magic of harm. It hurts those that it is cast upon. If you want to win a fight, you need to know how to harm someone. Otherwise, all you can do is defend.’

  Mat thought for a second. ‘So what I did to the dead cat creature was a kind of makutu, then?’

  Fitzy looked him in the eye. ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

  Mat groaned, and buried his head.

  ‘So how did it feel?’ the turehu pressed.

  Mat thought about the dead creature, and the sibilant taunting voice, and the words that had goaded him. And about how it felt to strike back. ‘It felt good,’ he admitted. ‘It felt really good.’

  Fitzy nodded sagely. ‘That’s the problem.’

  3

  The storyteller

  Later that day, the grass beside the Wairoa River was shrivelling in the heat. The tarseal of the road was liquefying, and the waters were like a ribbon of light. Mat stepped out of the cool fan-stroked air inside Osler’s Bakery with its ‘Best Pies in New Zealand, 2002’ certificates, and inhaled the sticky air. Inside, his father was arguing on his cellphone with the same client who had ruined Christmas Day, amidst the babble of travellers and locals. That would have been a good enough reason to leave the bakery by itself, but there was someone whispering in the air, someone calling. Calling him.

  Come to the river. Hear me. Come to the river, Matiu Douglas.

  He’d been hearing the whispered voice ever since he got out of the car. It made his inner ear tingle, and his skin go slick. It was an old woman’s voice, insistent yet pleading. No one else seemed to be able to hear it. Everyone else in the bakery was caught up in the excitement of the summer holidays, or, in the case of his father, trying to keep a violent criminal who had broken a non-molestation order out of detention.

  Mat slipped between the parked cars and navigated around the stickiest puddles of melted tar, as the heat slapped his skin. Across the road was the verge of the river, a gentle incline to where the waters were meandering the last couple of kilometres to the sea.

  He saw the caller immediately; the woman could be no other. She looked like the model for a Charles Goldie painting. Her hair was silver-white, caught untidily beneath a scarf, the loose strands glittering. She was wrapped in an old-fashioned shawl despite the midday sun. At her right ear was a pohoi, an ear ornament that seemed to have been made from a skinned bird, blacky-green with an orange wattle, with beads for eyes that looked more alive than dead. But it was her face that drew the eye. Deep green moko adorned her chin in thick whorls, but age had etched her face even deeper, carving furrows in forehead and cheeks. Her eyes gleamed with oily light beneath jutting eyebrows. She held a stern majesty, though her clothes were rough and dirty. She could have stepped out of another time. Mat was afraid that she had.

  She was surrounded by a small posse of children, none older than ten. She looked up as Mat approached and patted the grass beside her in invitation. The children all turned and looked at him. They were dressed in old singlets and breeches, and seemed more than half-wild. ‘Kia ora,’ one urchin grinned, as they nudged each other and passed comments in Maori.

  Mat wondered for an instant whether they spoke English at all, but then the old woman addressed him.

  ‘Kia ora, Matiu Douglas,’ she smiled around broken yellowed teeth. ‘Please sit, join us.’

  He stared down at her, his heart pounding suddenly. He wondered whether he should walk away. Or run. Instead he found himself sitting beside her. ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘By looking at you,’ she replied, patting his hand. Her fingers were cold. The children giggled and smirked. ‘You are Matiu Douglas, the Heir of Ngatoro.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Mat replied quickly. ‘Well, I’m Mat Douglas, but I’m not the other thing.’ Heir of Ngatoro? Huh?

  She just smiled.

  ‘Tell him the story, karani-mama,’ the eldest girl urged her, her eyes on Mat. ‘Tell him…you know…’

  The old woman smiled grimly. Her eyes locked on Mat, who felt his heart sink. No, he thought, I don’t want this, not right now. Not with the way things are with Mum and Dad… He didn’t know how to prevent her speaking though, and he was incapable of just walking away, so he sat and waited with trepidation for her to speak.

  The old woman began her story in a melodious, well-practised cadence, as if this tale were one she had told many times.

  Long, long ago, before the Pakeha came, the great lake Waikaremoana held no water, but was a valley, contained by the high s
lopes of jagged cliffs and hills. Mighty Panekiri Bluff looked out, not on water, but on a sea of trees that sighed in the endless winds. Tall moa and tiny kiwi stalked the damp earth beneath the leaves of kahikatea and toi, and tui sang above.

  Men dwelt there too, in small numbers, a few hapu of the Tuhoe, the Children of the Mist. They were hunters, as the ground was poor, and lived a wild existence, far from the great tribes of the coastlands. But there was some unity, and their chief was Maahu. His wife was Kauariki, and they had many children, seven in all. The eldest and wildest was Haumapuhia, a girl-child whose legs were long and lithe, and her hair a tangle of midnight.

  Near to the place where Maahu and his family dwelt, on the southwest side of the valley, was a stream that was sacred to the people, called the Waikotikoti. One afternoon, Maahu desired water from the stream, and called Haumapuhia to fetch water. But Hau was a contentious child and she refused to obey her father. Maahu was very angry, but with all others away, he had no recourse but to go to the stream himself, where he brooded for hours upon the disobedience of his daughter.

  Finally he heard movement, another coming up the trail to the stream. Lo, it was Haumapuhia, finally deigning to obey. But Maahu was still wrathful, and vengeful too. He was a chief and never forgave a slight, even from family. So when Haumapuhia came, he sprang upon his daughter, and bore her down, holding her head under the water until his child was drowned. He swears he never meant to kill her, that he lost control. Maybe that is true. All I know is that he left her body there, lifeless in the sacred stream.

  That night a transformation took place. Haumapuhia’s dead skin mottled, the lungs filled with water stirred, and the heart again began to beat. The face became scaled and the mouth full of large teeth, and the long lustrous hair a tangle of weeds. Haumapuhia became a taniwha!

  About her, the children quivered excitedly, and the youngest boy went to speak, but the old woman put a fingertip to the child’s lips to silence him. Mat felt strangely cold despite the sunlight and heat. The sounds of the traffic seemed to have faded away, and he was suddenly afraid that if he took his eyes from the old storyteller, the town would have vanished behind him.

  Later that night, beneath the glowing moon, Haumapuhia the taniwha rose, massive and unwieldy, and crawled down the stream into the valley, where the waters of the streams that flowed into the valley were lost in sinkholes and tiny caves. All about the taniwha were the towering trees of the valley, bounded by high hills. The taniwha shouldered aside trees as she went, for she had grown as big as a whare, and stronger than one hundred warriors.

  But there was something that was stronger—the call of the sea. Through the silence of the night came a wind from the coast, bearing the pounding of waves on the shore and the lonely night-time calls of sleepless gulls to her ears. The sea calls to all taniwha, and they are never at rest unless they can swim in waters deep.

  So Haumapuhia strove to find the sea, though she had never been there, and did not know the way. First the taniwha turned north, and ploughed great furrows into the Huiarau Range, but the mountains defeated even the strength of the taniwha. So the taniwha turned eastward, thrashing this way and that in growing desperation, making great gaps that later water would fill, creating the bays of the eastern lake.

  Finally, Haumapuhia was tiring, but the call of the ocean drove the taniwha to one final effort. Smashing aside rocks in the cleft that lies between the Panekuri and Ngamoko Ranges, she howled in one final frantic bid to reach the sea. But the sun rose, and turned Haumapuhia to stone.

  The old woman paused, her voice slightly ragged and eyes moist, as though this were something more than a story to her. Even the young children about her were intense, hanging on every word. She shook slightly, and let out a slow breath.

  Gradually, the valley filled with water, and became Lake Waikaremoana, the jewel of the East Cape. But the taniwha remained trapped in stone. Maahu later repented, and carved a river all the way from the coast to where Haumapuhia lies, so that the stone taniwha could feel the water on her stony skin, and watch the fish. Some say Maahu was forgiven for this gesture. Others say that if you dip your finger in the river and taste salt, it is the tears of Haumapuhia, mourning for lost life and longing for the ocean.

  One of the children dipped her skinny arm down to the river, and placed a drop of water on her tongue. ‘Oooo, I taste salt,’ she shivered, giggling nervously. So they all tried it, and squabbled loudly until the old woman hushed them.

  ‘Run along, children. I must speak with this young man,’ she told them, her eyes fixed upon Mat. The children groaned, then laughed, and ran along the riverbank and dived into the water. Mat watched them vanish, one by one, conscious that the sunlight was being diffused by green leaves, and that the lawn on the verge where they sat had become a tangle of wild ferns. He looked slowly around, apprehensive but not really afraid.

  Wairoa, the town, was gone, and thin cabbage trees concealed much of the south side of the river, but he could make out the walled palisade of a pa a few hundred yards downstream. Across the river, which was no longer spanned by a bridge, lay dense forest. The air was rich and pungent, alive with insects and plump fantails darting after them. Even the air tasted different—cleaner, more invigorating. He took a deep breath, and cupped water from the river and drank deeply. It was crisp, lush, and it wasn’t salty.

  He was in Aotearoa, the land of myth that lay alongside New Zealand. The land of wonders and shadows that had nearly stolen him only three months before.

  He still woke some nights with Puarata the tohunga makutu’s deep laughter ringing in his ears, or Donna Kyle’s pale bloody face looming over him. He hadn’t been back here since that final night at Cape Reinga. He wasn’t sure why. Yes, he had exams and ordinary life to claim his time, and some days he wasn’t even sure he ever wanted to come back to this place.

  Yet now he was here, it was difficult to resist the feeling that he was coming home. To where the air was pristine and the water in rivers more pure than the bottled stuff that had been filtered to death. To where legends still lived, and where he was someone, the boy who had brought down Puarata and freed Wiri, not just another Year Eleven student struggling with his NCEA Level One exams.

  ‘I should go back,’ he whispered huskily, not wanting to look around too much, not wanting to be seduced. ‘Dad might be wondering where I am.’

  The old woman glanced to her left, where Osler’s Bakery would be, and smiled. ‘Oh, he’s still shouting down the phone while his coffee goes cold. He hasn’t even noticed you’ve gone.’ Mat glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing. The old lady stroked the bird pohoi absently, her head cocked as if it were whispering in her ear, then looked at him with a faint smile. ‘And he is still afraid to talk to you,’ she added, almost vindictively.

  Mat refused to be drawn into a discussion about his father. ‘What’s that?’ he asked timidly, pointing at the pohoi.

  ‘It is a huia. They are all dead now, extinct. We killed them all, we Maori and you Pakeha.’ She patted the pohoi. ‘Their plumage was valuable, you see. Feathers for chiefs and their wives—great mana. This pohoi was made by skinning the bird, with legs and wings removed, but keeping the head and beak. I was so vain when I was young, showing it off whenever I could.’ Her voice was soft and regretful. ‘I was foolish in many ways. I let my children run wild, and now look at them.’

  She fell silent. Mat tentatively asked the real question. ‘Why did you call me? And why do you think I am the…whatever…heir of someone?’

  ‘Because you are the Heir of Ngatoro. I can see this, as plainly as I see your name written across your soul. Can you not feel his touch upon you?’

  Mat shook his head. Pania had never mentioned this. Neither had Wiri. They would have if it had been true, wouldn’t they? And Ngatoro…he was the most powerful tohunga of legend. That a part-Maori boy from Napier was his heir was ridiculous.

  ‘You will feel his touch soon. I can almost see his hand upon y
ou.’ The woman crinkled her eyes knowingly. ‘Regardless, the reason I called you here was to hear my tale.’

  He frowned. ‘But why tell me that story? I mean, I think I’ve heard it before on a school camp. It’s not anything special…er, I mean, to me…’ he finished awkwardly, as the woman’s face clenched into a frown. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to cause offence. Is there some thing special about it?’

  The old woman leant forward. ‘It is special to me, Matiu Douglas, very special indeed. My name is Kauariki. Haumapuhia was my daughter.’

  Mat’s mouth fell open.

  Kauariki’s voice turned hard and bitter. ‘After he had drowned my eldest daughter, my husband, still enraged, turned my other children away, and left me to grieve alone. I see him sometimes, gouging away in the river, as if that will somehow make things right after what he did.’ She spat. ‘Men and their grand gestures. I curse him, as I cursed him all those years ago. No peace, no peace ever, whilst his daughter is locked in stone.’

  All about them was silence, but for the slow murmur of the stream. Even the insects had fallen still. The children were silent, invisible, gone. The huia pohoi’s dead eyes watched him intently. He bowed his head, afraid again.

  Kauariki touched his knee. ‘Listen to me, Matiu Douglas, Heir of Ngatoro. In his grief and rage, Maahu forgot his duties as father and chief, and left his people, bitter and remorseful for his deadly rage and its consequences, interested only in seeking forgiveness from his petrified daughter. It was a kind of madness that grips him still. He ceaselessly carves the river deeper, and drags her fish and clams and sea creatures. Perhaps she senses this, from within the stone. Maybe she does forgive him, but it matters little, for none can free her. But all the regret in the world cannot undo what is done. He and I have dwelt in the shadows for centuries, waiting our chance to make amends, watching over our children.

  ‘Eventually, Puarata the tohunga makutu came to Waikaremoana, seeking power. He befriended the warriors that fought the Pakeha settlers and aided them in battle. He took the old redoubt beneath Panekiri and made it his lair. Of course he came to hear of Haumapuhia, and sought ways to bring my daughter to life, as his slave. If he could trap and enslave a taniwha, his power would be greatly enhanced. But he could not work out how it could be done. So instead he cast enchantments about the place in Aotearoa where my daughter lies encased in stone, to prevent his enemies from gaining access.’