The Armed Constabulary arrived at the Pa, surrounding the coach carrying Captain Porter, Mr. Johnston and Mr. Balance. The three men climbed down awkwardly and walked up and down, stretching their legs. The men were dressed alike in dark suits with tails, and tall hats, with Captain Porter distinctive by his height and bearing. Frank had positioned himself at the bend where Anahera had performed the haka, pretending to be digging out a stone from Copenhagen’s front hoof with his Barlow knife, and keeping an eye open for anyone else arriving at the Pa; after the coach and escort passed by, he climbed back on Copenhagen and followed them to the gates of the Pa.
Captain Porter greeted him, and they walked through the winding gateway. Behind them, the Armed Constabulary split into two groups and spread out from the entrance, leaving a man every fifty yards. Frank scanned the palisades and the grassy area inside the Pa walls.
In the distance, he could see the small greeting party, a group of young warriors waiting to perform the powhiri, the ceremonial greeting haka that Māori performed for visitors. It would be not unlike the haka that Anahera had done before he attacked, but more formal, with the violence obviously exaggerated. The leader would carry a taiaha, a ceremonial spear, which he would use to make threatening moves towards the group of visitors. Then he would lay down a small item in front of the visitors, and Captain Porter would pick it up to show that they came in peace.
“I’ve seen far too many of these damned greetings,” said Captain Porter as they stood waiting for the powhiri to commence. “I wish we could get right down to business.”
The powhiri group approached. As they did, they began the series of yells and stamps that Frank knew accompanied the challenge. They were almost in front of his group when a woman’s voice began intoning the Kananga, the greeting that called for the hapu to accept the visitors. Once the haka was finished they would be in the meeting house and safer. He kept his eyes on the perimeter, scanning for movement. Karira was standing guard inside the meeting house, making sure no one entered.
“That chap at the front is taking the whole thing very seriously,” said Captain Porter. “You’d think he intended to hurt us.” He moved forward and bent down to pick up a small carved tiki that the warrior had dropped at his feet.
Frank glanced over to see what he meant. The leader of the powhiri group had raised the taiaha, clutched in both hands, above Captain Porter’s exposed head, his eyes wild and bulging, a normal part of the ceremony. Frank was about to make a quiet joke, but it froze on his tongue. Anahera, the Avenging Angel, beardless but recognizable with his distinctive angel wings moko, was the man standing there, the taiaha raised, the expression on his face, one of almost insane hatred.
As Anahera moved towards Captain Porter with the taiaha, he screamed the words he had said to Frank behind the Royal Hotel when he attacked him: “Mo toku tuahine. Mo toku tuahine.”
Tuahine, not teina, not brother, but sister. That was who he was avenging. His sister and his nephews. Time slowed down and he felt his body moving in slow motion towards Anahera. Without a conscious decision, the childhood years of being forced to play rugby with his father’s employer’s sons came back to him, and he threw himself towards Anahera’s knees and brought him to the ground in a tackle. The rain had started to fall and he was face down on the ground, Anahera’s feet before his eyes, when the rest of the powhiri team jumped him, forming a scrum over his back, feet pressed firmly into his spine. He forced his face up from the mud to see what was happening to Anahera and saw that Captain Porter and the Members of Parliament were on his arms and legs, holding him down as he writhed with rage. He lay there knowing he had stopped the murder of his old captain. But the words Anahera had screamed echoed in his ears. “For my sister,” he had said. “For my sister.”
To add to the chaos, Captain Porter blew hard on his whistle, in a perverted version of a referee.
The Armed Constabulary poured through the gates, rules forgotten, carbines trained on the melee. They were on Anahera in a minute, binding his arms and legs, dragging him from the Pa, shouting instructions to the powhiri men who still held Frank pressed to the ground. They released him reluctantly.
Captain Porter stood there calmly, dusting himself off. He had remained totally self-possessed the whole time.
“I shall be with you momentarily,” he called after the Constables. Take good care of him.”
He turned to Frank.
“Nice tackle,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “If I ever need a first-five-eights I shall know where to come. Well done, Hardy. I shall see that you get a commendation for this.”
Hakopa and Karira had arrived by now, Hakopa full of apologies.
“My wife,” he said. “My wife has brought shame on my hapu. She has allowed this serpent into our midst. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I will send her back to her iwi in Poverty Bay.”
Captain Porter nodded at him and reached out a hand to shake.
“Why should my wife want you killed?” asked Hakopa as he grasped the captain’s hand.
“It was Anahera who wanted to see him dead,” said Frank.
“Something to do with a foolish incident during the pursuit of Titokowera,” said Captain Porter. “He has a grievance from those days. Insanity, I would say. He was in solitary confinement for eight years. Your wife must have misunderstood his intentions. We’ll keep an eye on her in Poverty Bay, but I can’t imagine she is much at fault.”
Captain Porter and Hakopa walked through the gate together, chatting amicably, acting like the friend of the wife of one had not just attempted to assassinate the other. Frank and Karira followed them silently.
Outside, the Armed Constabulary had the coach ready to leave, door open, coachman with his whip high. The two members of Parliament were hustled inside. Behind the coach, two more Constables had arrived with a horse-drawn cart that carried a cage on the back. Anahera had been pushed into the cage and sat there, his knees up, with barely room to move.
About to mount the carriage steps, Captain Porter stopped and turned to Hakopa. “Thank you for your cooperation in the other matter,” he said. “The sale will go through before the end of the year. And again, don’t worry about your woman. As I said, we’ll take good care of her in Poverty Bay.”
Frank felt his stomach turn at the inappropriateness of the words. He walked over to the cage where Anahera was confined. Anahera was staring darkly ahead. He would be in solitary confinement again, probably forever. Frank wondered how he would bear it.
“Ta matou he koe,” Frank said. “We did you a great wrong.” Anahera turned and looked at Frank. Frank held his gaze for several minutes. It was impossible to know what Anahera was thinking. He knew he could not expect to be forgiven, but he tried to explain. “I patua toku teina…” My brother was murdered. Anahera made a sound. “Huh.”
Frank turned to leave and heard Anahera say something. He stopped and looked back.
Anahera tilted his head backwards and said something again. “Awa.”
“What’s that…river, you said? Awa?”
“Awa,” said Anahera. “Turehu.” He touched the top of his head, then pointed towards the river, gesturing with his hand. “Turehu, awa.”
“I’m sorry,” said Frank. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
Anahera shrugged and withdrew into himself once more.
Captain Porter had been watching them. “He’s talking about a ghost,” he said to Frank. “Perhaps he’s telling you he intends to haunt you.”
Frank banged on the side of Anahera’s cage, and asked, “What do you mean? What ghost?” But Anahera had said all he intended to say.
“He’s not trying to tell you anything that matters,” said Captain Porter. He turned on his heel and mounted the coach. Wilson, the Irishman, who had been waiting at the back of the coach, winked at Frank, then leapt onto the steps of the coach as it thundered away, still guarding the men inside. As they left, Anahera looked up at Frank again. His look was not exactly friendly. But it was not hate either.
“What will happen to him?” asked Karira.
“He’ll disappear into a gaol in Wanganui and we won’t hear about him again,” said Frank. They have a special gaol for people like him, upriver from the town.”
“That is good,” said Hakopa. “Better we never see him again.”
“What was your business with Captain Porter?” asked Frank. “You said something about a sale.”
Hakopa waved his hand vaguely towards the Pa. “I have sold our land to the government,” he said. “This Pa land. We will move into town.”
The wastelands thought Frank. The wastelands of the Pa that Captain Porter had alluded to briefly. That was what had been bothering him.
Karira looked at his uncle, his face blank with shock.
“Is this true?” he asked. “You have sold the Pa? The land our family has owned for a thousand years?”
Hakopa looked defiant. “You have said to me many times, Wiremu, that our people must move forward. Now comes that opportunity. They will move to the town and find employment, or to the city. They will become modern New Zealanders.”
“You have sold our birthright,” said Karira, his voice rising. “For what? For nothing, for a mess of pottage. I cannot forgive you. My father would not forgive you.”
Hakopa looked back, his face calm.
“I will have a place in town,” he said in Māori. “I’ll build a large house and you may stay with me when you must leave the Pa.”