The Bone Tiki (12 page)

There was no mistaking this place for the real world, Mat thought. Everything about it was enchanted. He drank in every word as Wiri pointed out landmarks they passed. Initially they were places Wiri had visited, or heard of, but as the day wore on, he began to indicate places where he had played as a child, or hunted as a man. Maungatautari Pa was getting closer.

Near to dusk the taniwha carried them to the riverbank, and shrugged them off unceremoniously, dumping them in waist-deep water before swirling away in a cloud of muddy water. Fitzy bounded out and looked back at them, shaking water off indignantly. Kelly went and hugged him, whispering in his ears. Mat hadn’t heard her say a word all day, but her expression had been as wide-eyed as his. Mat was soaked, but felt so exhilarated he didn’t mind. His mind was still whirling over the beautiful and incredible things he’d seen. He turned to look at Wiri, but he was staring off into the distance. Mat followed his gaze. There was a cluster of hills to the west, three or four kilometres away.

Wiri put a hand on his shoulder. ‘That way,’ he said. ‘That is the way to my home.’

They peered toward the hills. Kelly came up with Fitzy at her side, her eyes flickering everywhere as if trying to imprint every sight into her memory.

‘Let’s go,’ said Wiri, with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

They found a trail and walked through close native bush that pressed about them on all sides. The air was cooling,
and alive with insects. Fantails darted through the clouds of sandflies and rich leafy smells rose from the manuka, ngaio and karaka. While Wiri sang softly to himself Fitzy ran ahead as though he knew the way.

They came upon a steep climb up a low hill, and Wiri stopped suddenly. A warrior stood with the setting sun behind him, a menacing silhouette. Wiri called out in Maori to the warrior, who seemed startled, and afraid.

‘Toa?’ answered the warrior, in a high voice. ‘Toa?’ Then he turned, and ran.

Kelly looked at Wiri, puzzled. ‘I thought this was your home?’

‘It is,’ said Wiri slowly.

‘He didn’t look very pleased to see you.’

‘He wasn’t. The last time I was here, I was Puarata’s slave. I killed my brother.’ His voice sounded hollow. ‘Here I am now known only as Toa. My original name was taken from me by my father, after I killed my brother.’

Mat felt his good mood drain away, leaving a sour taste of tension and danger.

‘No you didn’t,’ said Kelly quietly.

Wiri looked at her. ‘It was my arm, my blow.’

‘But whose command? You did it because Puarata made you do it!’

Wiri shook his head. ‘I have told myself these things, over and again. But that does not make them real. It was my blow that struck him. Puarata made me do it, you say. But perhaps he could not have done so, if secretly I did not want it to happen?’

Kelly put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘Don’t you say that! You aren’t a murderer!’

Wiri met her eyes, slowly shook his head, then turned away. Mat watched Kelly blink, and gnaw her bottom lip. He stared at his feet.

‘Come,’ said Wiri at last. ‘The pa is this way.’

Mat had seen models and pictures of pa. Dad had even taken him to a recreated one near Rotorua, but this was the real thing. It was on a low hill, with tiered ranks of upright wooden fences carved into the slopes. More fences, taller than a man, ringed dozens of wooden-walled whare linked by muddy paths. There was a sea of faces at the gates, black-haired and brown-skinned, most of the children half or fully naked. Adults were packed about the massive carved pillars, which were painted in a deep red ochre, the eyes of the beasts inlaid with gleaming paua shell. The villagers were clad in little more than loincloths and thin cloaks, with most of the women wearing bodices, but not all. Mat averted his eyes from their bare breasts, feeling like an interloper in a strange world.

They were stopped at the gates. Before them was an open field, heavily trampled. On either side the people of the pa stood silent. Before them, a rank of warriors, three slightly ahead of the rest. Beyond them on a rise before the main meeting house stood the elders, gathered about the chief like old leaves at the base of an autumn tree.

The three warriors prowled forward, and the middle one, clad in a flaxen skirt came ahead, stopping a metre in front
of Wiri, brandishing a taiaha. His muscles rippled and his long hair was caught in a top-knot. His chin was smooth, except for the intricate whorls of his moko. His eyes bulged with aggression. Every gesture conveyed threat, proclaimed challenge.

Mat had seen the ceremonial welcome onto a marae many times. He’d always thought of it as just a load of shouting and posturing and even joked about how long it always took. But this was no empty ritual. This was the real thing.

The warrior was clearly a master of his weapon. It sang as he spun it, smacked as he hammered it into his palm, blurred as he brandished it in intricate patterns, never once less than perfectly controlled. All the while he roared out a challenge, daring Wiri to enter the pa. Kelly and Mat didn’t need to know the language. Each shout, each stare, each lunge, every crouch and slow backward stalking step, spoke clearly of threatened violence. The warrior before them was aching to strike.

After each menacing roar, the warrior took one step back, and Wiri took one forward. Each step forward they were challenged again. Sometimes a question was bellowed, that hung in the air, and each time Wiri answered, sometimes firmly, sometimes sadly, and then he would advance another step. Mat cowered behind him, terrified that somehow Wiri would say the wrong thing, and this boiling sea of hostile faces would break over them and pull them apart. At first only Fitzy took his cue from Wiri, stepping boldly beside the young man, head high. But then Mat heard Kelly swear under her breath, her chin up and her snub nose flared.

Don’t get angry,
he silently willed her.
Don’t stuff up…

She tossed her head and went to step beside Wiri. Mat seized her hand and held on, even when she tried to jerk free. He shook his head at her quietly.
Don’t! Bad move! Let him handle this
!

She glared at him, then took a deep, chest-expanding swallow of air, and relented.

Finally the challenge ended, but the second of the warriors, an even bigger man, took the place of the first, carrying a huge pitted mere. With a scarred face and broken teeth he was nearly the size of Tupu. He gave ground slowly, reluctantly, and every gesture he made seemed designed to enrage Wiri, as if daring him to lash out. Then the third took his place, a shorter, heavily muscled man with a long tongue. This warrior crabbed up to them, his eyes seeming to leap out of their sockets, his tongue waggling obscenely. Finally, he drew away, and returned with a green branch. Slowly, every nuance of movement emphasised, he placed the branch carefully at Wiri’s feet. Wiri bent equally slowly, and picked it up, without taking his eye from the warrior. He straightened, the warrior drew away, pacing backward fluidly, and the crowd let out a collective sigh. Mat felt suddenly faint, and squeezed Kelly’s hand.

‘What just happened?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t think they’re going to kill us. I think they’re going to feed us, and let Wiri talk.’

Kelly let out her breath.

Of course, they might kill us right after that,
Mat said to himself.

The rangatira, the chief, came forward. He was tall, but past his prime, his belly growing large. He had a mop of curling black hair that was beginning to go grey, and a face made for smiling. It wasn’t smiling now. His cloak was magnificent, a matting of moa feathers, with a ruff of green and white tui feathers. He approached Wiri slowly, speaking softly, and then gestured forward an older man, white haired, with lined face and yellowed teeth, but a straight back and bright eyes. They spoke together, and then addressed Wiri. Mat watched him intently for some hint of what was happening, but couldn’t tell, but he noted they called him ‘Toa’. It didn’t seem to be a good sign. Wiri just nodded once or twice, then said a few short words of assent. The two old men backed away, and the whole crowd murmured. There were no hongis, no greetings. Mat looked around, sensing that while the hostility had been diverted for now, it hadn’t gone.

The mass of people—Mat thought there might be three or four hundred—closed around and herded them up the hill toward a small whare. They were pushed inside by hard unfriendly hands, and then the door was shut. There was no light, no fire, and no food. Outside they heard a babble of voices.

Kelly looked at Mat. ‘Thought you said they’d feed us.’

‘They will,’ said Wiri flatly. He looked tense and tired.

‘Where’s Fitzy?’ asked Kelly. They looked around in the darkness and realised he wasn’t with them. Kelly called out, but he didn’t come. ‘I hope he got away. They wouldn’t…eat him…would they?’ she asked Wiri.

Wiri smiled. ‘I’d like to see them try,’ he said enigmatically.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mat.

Wiri shook his head, smiling. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Eventually food and drink came—hot kumara and yams, and some fish, with a gourd of fresh water. The food smelt and tasted delicious. There were guards outside, at least two. Kelly tried to ask Wiri about what had just happened, but he seemed tired and unwilling, or unable, to talk, and she gave up. Mat was exhausted—the exhilaration of the journey on the river replaced by fear and uncertainty.

‘There will be a trial tomorrow,’ said Wiri finally. ‘They will demand an answer for my brother’s death. I need to sleep.’ He rolled aside and lay, staring at the walls.

‘But you were going to tell us something about Fitzy,’ protested Mat.

Wiri shook his head. ‘Later.’

Mat looked at Kelly for support, but she turned and lay down, facing the other way. Mat was left to lie between them, wondering about a lot of puzzling things, until sleep overtook him.

T
hey were woken by birdsong and the smell of cooking fires. Light crept between thin gaps in the walls of the whare, illuminating the carved wall panels. Mat stared at them, and ran his fingers over the swirling patterns. They were magnificent, but sinister. There were creatures, animal and man-like, and they all had eyes, set with paua, catching the half-light in the hut and glistening, watching him, their scrutiny like a pricklish weight.

Eventually the door was unblocked and food brought in. More fish, some kumara and some water. Soon after they had eaten they were led out to the open space before the gates. Only the warriors came close to them, and none spoke directly, though Mat heard the word ‘Toa’ on every tongue. He wished more than ever that he’d really tried to learn his father’s language.
I should have. It’s my language too.

Fitzy hadn’t reappeared and Mat realised he still had no answers to his questions about the dog. Why had Wiri said Fitzy ‘told’ him about Mat nearly drowning? And how had Fitzy ‘told’ the taniwha about him? Where was he from, and how come he knew the way to everywhere they were going? He looked around hopefully for a glimpse of the dog, and then up at Wiri, who seemed preoccupied and unwilling to talk.

The sun had not long risen and the ground was cold, as dampness hung in the air under a misty sky. The whole village had gathered before the great meeting house, with the rangatira looking down from amidst his elders, who murmured advice. The warriors looked stony faced and hostile.

Mat saw boys his own age staring at him, nudging each other. Most were hard-eyed, full of bravado, but one or two looked at him curiously. He saw women and girls staring at Kelly and giggling behind their hands. She heard them too, and tossed her head and glared, causing fresh ripples of snickering. But most eyes were on Wiri. He seemed to have tossed off his sadness and self-blame, walking with his shoulders squared and head erect. He laid his taiaha and patu at his feet. When a warrior glided in and took them away Wiri sat, cross-legged, opposite the chief, and the old man who advised him—a tohunga, Mat guessed. Mat and Kelly and the whole front row of the crowd sat as well, and all fell silent.

‘What’s happening?’ whispered Kelly.

Wiri glanced at her. ‘I have agreed to submit to the justice
of the iwi.’ He looked at the chief. ‘To the justice of my father, whose son I have slain.’

Rata, the rangitira, was leaning forward, his face grim and set. He looked like a heavier, older version of Wiri, but there was no fondness as he looked at his son. Mat was reminded of his own father in the way the chief’s mouth twisted—a look of disappointment and disfavour. A look that asked ‘Where did I go wrong?’ and then answered ‘I didn’t go wrong. My son did.’

Beside him the bird-like tohunga was whispering urgently. His face was clever and lively, despite his age. Hakawau. Pania had told him to ask Hakawau for help, Mat remembered. He hoped he would be allowed the chance.

The trial was like nothing Mat had seen before—he’d never been old enough to hear any of the long debates his father attended on marae around the North Island. Wiri spoke first, and was questioned by Rata and Hakawau. Mat heard his and Kelly’s name many times. Afterward, others were allowed to speak. He only dimly understood protocol, which varied from iwi to iwi. Some spoke in order of precedence, some allowed any to speak. Some allowed only men to attend, some allowed women to attend but remain silent, others allowed them to speak. Here, it seemed everyone could speak, and it seemed everyone wanted to. No sooner had one person finished, than three others would be seeking to claim the right. Rata would choose the next speaker, and they would stand and speak before the chief, while the others would subside, some with grace, others muttering, to await the next opportunity.

Even with his limited grasp of the language Mat could tell it wasn’t going well. So could Kelly, who was seething, her teeth set and eyes flashing. All the speakers were angry—glaring at Wiri, some accusingly, some with a fearful wide-eyed look. Fingers were jabbed at him. Two even spat—though they were rebuked by Rata. The first of the warriors who had delivered the challenge the night before came right up to Wiri, his eyes bulging in fury, and when he looked past Wiri at Mat and Kelly, his anger was a living thing that made their skin prickle.

The crowd murmured, and slapped their thighs when they agreed with a point, which mostly happened when the speaker was one of the angry ones.

Mat began to notice Rata only chose a speaker whose approach was more reasonable and less confrontational when Hakawau prompted him. By the time more than an hour had gone, he was feeling angry and afraid. What was wrong with these people? He
knew
Wiri was innocent. It was obvious. Why couldn’t they all see it?

Finally there was a small break—Rata wanted water. Wiri turned back to Mat and Kelly, looking strained, but calm. He glanced to one side, where a scruffy young warrior with a curious combination of traditional and settler clothing had just sat down. They exchanged a nod.

Wiri surprised Mat by addressing him in English. ‘Manu. You look like you just woke up.’

The scruffy warrior rubbed a whiskery chin and grinned. ‘I have,’ he replied. ‘What did you come here for, cousin?
You know Rata will never forgive you.’

Wiri nodded slightly. ‘I know. But it is time it was cleared up.’ He indicated Kelly and Mat. ‘This is Matiu, and Kelly. Could you sit closer and tell them what is happening? They don’t speak te reo.’

Manu pursed his lips, then shrugged. ‘For you, I will. Rata doesn’t like me anyway,’ and he got up and moved to sit beside Kelly, giving her a broken-toothed smile. ‘Kia-ora, Kelly. Kia-ora, Matiu.’

He was wearing a stained colonial soldier’s jacket that smelt of wood smoke, over a skinny bare chest. An old walnut-handled pistol was tucked in the belt of his knee-length breaches and Mat was surprised to realise that the gaudy scarf around his throat was the red, yellow and black of the Waikato rugby team. Kelly stared too and Manu laughed.

‘I try to get to the rugby in Hamilton when I can,’ he chuckled. ‘The Pakeha have brought many bad things to this country, but the beer is good, and I like rugby.’

Kelly and Mat exchanged a disbelieving look. Mat wondered suddenly how often inhabitants of Aotearoa wandered into his world for the fun of it—or for more serious reasons.

‘Aren’t you a little conspicuous?’ he asked Manu.

Manu grinned. ‘You ever been to Rugby Park, bro?’

Mat shook his head. ‘Believe me,’ said Manu, ‘some of the brothers at the rugby look way more native than me!’

The speeches resumed, this time with the benefit of Manu’s
comments to help Mat and Kelly understand what was going on. Things were getting worse. A woman spoke about makutu, evil sorcery, finishing with a dramatic demand for Wiri to be killed. Wiri went pale. Manu whispered that she was Iru, Wiri’s younger wife. Kelly hissed, and Mat sucked in his breath.

He pulled the tiki out and tried to work out an escape plan. If he recalled Wiri to the tiki, they could pull him out of the circle of warriors, but then they’d be helpless. And there were at least thirty warriors encircling the ring of people.

The sun was high in the sky. Everyone was perspiring, and the three warriors who had delivered the challenge last night were demanding a resolution. Mat looked at his hand, and began to rub the edge of the tiki into the itchy scabs on his palms. He winced as the edge reopened a cut. He felt blood weep from the cut, and smeared it onto the tiki. It began to feel warm, and to throb slightly, a pulse that mingled with the pain of the re-opened cuts. Closing his eyes, he let the smell of smoke and sweat, the noise of the speakers and the crowd recede, as he concentrated on the tiki.

In a sudden vision he saw Puarata, his face lit by candles, sitting in repose. The dark tohunga seemed to sense Mat and he turned, his eyes glowing red.

‘Shush…’ said Mat, and the vision faded. ‘Toa,’ he whispered. A pale light seemed to form in his hand, that illuminated nothing, cast no shadow, but began to spill from his fingers, and seep through the air, to hover over Wiri, to cascade down until he was bathed in it, like an angel’s halo. No one seemed to react—
no one but me can see it,
Mat realised, but then Wiri and Hakawau both turned and looked at Mat with piercing eyes. Wiri nodded.

Feeling like a diver about to leap, Mat stood up. Every face, every pair of eyes, seemed to suddenly swivel and bore into him. The current speaker, a plump man past his prime, stopped and glared. Rata’s eyes flashed, but Hakawau reached across and touched his arm.

‘I ask for the right to speak!’ Mat shouted. ‘I can prove Wiri, who you call Toa, is innocent!’ His voice echoed shrilly.
I sound like a frightened little boy,
he thought.
Which is what I am.
His heart was thumping in his ears.

An uproar ensued, and he heard his words repeated, translated into Maori, and the crowd surrounding them began to shout and argue. He met the eye of the chief, and saw curiosity and disbelief. The plump man who had been speaking stalked over to him, shouting and pointing downward. Mat stood his ground.

Manu stood up as well, and drawled something at the plump man that made those nearby grin, but the plump man stamped his foot, and others shouted angrily.

Order was restored by Rata, at Hakawau’s urging. Then Hakawau surprised Mat by speaking in perfect English. ‘It is time for this young one to speak. He has much to tell us.’ His bird eyes sparkled, but his hands gripped his carved walking stick like a talon. He looked like an old hawk, waiting to see whether he would pounce.

Mat looked at Kelly, who stood beside him, her fists clenched. Manu had one hand on the butt of his pistol, though he was still smiling, with the merriment of one who
expects a good show. Mat looked down at Wiri, who was still sitting cross-legged, awaiting the tribe’s judgment. The nimbus of light still washed about him. He swallowed hard, then grabbed hold of his anger, and stared at the old priest, who nodded. Rata leaned forward.

Here goes…

‘This is all a waste of time!’

Manu translated a second later. The crowd murmured, and eyes narrowed.

‘Wiri—Toa—didn’t kill his brother! Puarata did!’

Hakawau leaned forward. His voice was soft, reasoned. ‘But we all saw Toa slay his brother, at the behest of his master. Puarata shares the guilt, but it was Toa’s hand that slew his brother. This we saw. This Toa himself has conceded.’

‘But Puarata made him do it. He controlled him. With this!’

He brandished the tiki. Some of the people flinched, and made gestures with their hands. Others stared blankly.

‘This is made from Wiri’s bones. It controls him.’

‘So you say,’ said Hakawau. ‘But if it contains Toa’s bones, then how is it that he sits before us, whole and unharmed?’

Mat clenched his fists. ‘Don’t you know anything? Wiri is dead! Tupu killed him!’

A storm of noise ensued when Manu translated. Some were angry at a white boy shouting at the chief and his priest. Others reacted to the strange claim with fear. Others again were disbelieving. Mat felt horribly out of his depth,
but held his ground, his eyes fixed on Hakawau, willing him to believe.

Finally Rata regained enough quiet for Mat to continue, but he looked angry. He thumped the earth with his taiaha, then spoke in a rumbling voice.

Hakawau translated, his voice calmer than Rata’s rumble: ‘Toa has told us all this, but he has no proof we can believe. We all saw Tupu strike down Toa, but he lived, through the healing of Puarata. They became friends, and Toa went to learn from him. To learn makutu. When he returned, he picked a quarrel and slew Mahuta, his brother. His words were poisonous, filled with the evil of Puarata. It was only the coming of Hakawau that drove Puarata away, and Toa with him. We know what we saw. And we saw this man who was my son murder his own brother! So what proof can you give us, Pakeha boy? Or have you finished wasting our time?’

‘No!’ flared back Mat, his hands trembling in fury. ‘I can prove it. Puarata controlled Wiri! He couldn’t help what he was made to do! And I’ll prove it!’

He lifted the tiki, pointed his hand at Wiri, and shouted ‘Return!’

There was a dimming of the light about Wiri, and suddenly he was gone. So were his taiaha and patu, vanished from where they had sat at the feet of Rata. The tiki pulsed and shook in Mat’s hands and he felt a wave of exhaustion that made his knees wobble.

The crowd went berserk. Warriors brandishing taiaha, patu and muskets shouldered forward and surrounded him, while
the women and children screamed or gasped and pointed. Even Manu backed away from him, leaving him surrounded by hard eyes and gleaming weapons. Only Kelly stood with him, holding Manu’s pistol, its barrel shaking wildly. Manu stared ruefully at his pistol, a half-smile on his lips.

Hakawau and Rata stepped through the ring of warriors.

‘What have you done, Matiu Douglas?’ asked the tohunga, in a searching voice.

Mat raised the tiki. ‘I have taken Wiri’s spirit back into this.’

Hakawau stared at the tiki, licking his lips.

He’s going to try and take it off me,
thought Mat.

But the tohunga turned to Rata, and then walked around the circle of warriors, herding them back and clearing a small breathing space. Kelly kept the pistol swivelling, following the nearest warrior, the one who had spat at Wiri. He glared at her belligerently, shaking off a warning hand from Manu. The scruffy warrior slid a hand into his coat pocket, and went very still.

Hakawau turned back to Mat.

‘So, Matiu Douglas. Tell me about this wonder you have shown us.’

Mat’s mouth was dry. He fumbled for words. ‘Tupu killed Wiri—Toa. Puarata took his shoulder-blade and made this tiki, to keep his spirit in. The person who has the tiki can control him. Puarata made him kill his brother, and other people too. It wasn’t his fault.’

Hakawau nodded. ‘Show me.’

Mat swallowed. ‘I don’t know how. I’ve not tried to control him. He’s my friend.’