This is a certifiably dumb idea,’ Mat told Riki. Second thoughts were galloping through his brain.
‘Nah, it’ll be easy. Just a little trip over, and if we get into hassles, we just leave. No problem.’
Mat grimaced. ‘It won’t be that simple. It never is.’
He and Riki were huddled together in the foyer of the hotel on Customhouse Quay, trying not to look furtive as they waited for Damien. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. The town was packed for the post-Christmas sales, with the queues of cars at The Warehouse extending for several blocks. Riki had returned the car, after dropping Mat at the hotel. His parents were out, according to a note his father had left, at a bar on Reads Quay for a drink and a significant-sounding ‘chat’. He had changed into jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie, and headed downstairs, where Riki was already waiting.
‘Hey, you sure you’re okay about doing this?’ Riki asked anxiously.
‘Nope.’ Mat was completely not okay with it, for any number of reasons. Not only were they risking blundering into all of the dangers of the Ghost World, where interlopers from the real world were often unwelcome, they also risked drawing the attention of some of the more dangerous denizens of that world, not all of them human. It also seemed to Mat to be a slur on that other place, to treat it as some kind of sideshow. It lacked reverence, to go sightseeing in a land of the dead and the mythic. It felt wrong, and he didn’t like it one bit.
‘But we’re still doing it, right?’ Riki was insistent.
Mat grimaced. ‘Yeah.’
‘Cos I don’t want to look like a dork in front of Damien. Ever since I told him, he’s been curious, and I swore it was real, and well, you know…If he lived in Napier and went to Napier Boys’ High, he’d, like, be my best friend, I reckon.’
Mat looked at Riki in surprise. He could have named five or six guys that Riki hung with at Boys’ High that he assumed were closer to Riki than anyone, even himself, though they’d grown closer recently. All rugby players, all Maori, youths he thought rated highest in Riki’s affections. That Riki valued Damien’s friendship over them was slightly incomprehensible.
‘We just get on,’ Riki said. ‘He’s a good laugh.’
‘Yeah, well, he is that.’ Mat winced, then swallowed. ‘I guess if we’re going to do this, we should just get on with it.’
Damien appeared beside them. He was wearing black jeans and a hoodie, and looked as if he’d seriously considered wearing camouflage paint on his face. ‘Hey, guys,’ he said, sounding very, very nervous.
‘Hey, Devil.’ Riki and Damien touched fists. ‘You ready to go?’
‘Yeah, I think.’ He looked at Mat. ‘So, what do we do?’
Mat looked around. ‘Come with me.’ He led them towards the Turanganui River. The landing site where Cook and his men had arrived was on the north side of the main rivermouth, whilst they were on the south side. Three bridges spanned the rivers—a rail bridge closest to the sea, a road bridge just beside it, both straddling the Turanganui, and then another road bridge upstream on the Taruheru, before it met the Waimata. It was towards the rail bridge that Mat led them—it was barely used, even in daylight, and deserted at night.
There were plenty of people about—clumps of teens looking for fun, adults walking hand in hand, old couples walking dogs, and tourists everywhere. Gisborne was a provincial city, with only a handful of night spots, but it was a place with a relaxed attitude and an eye for fun. The annual Rhythm and Vines music festival, held during the three days leading up to the New Year, was the hottest ticket in New Zealand. The city was filling up in readiness.
A balmy warm evening was settling over the city, with next to no wind, and heat radiating from the roads and footpaths. There was no one else on the rail bridge as they went across, laughingly walking the rails, joking about trains coming. It was only sixty metres long and they were over inside a minute, into the marina where the well-to-do had their yachts and the fishermen their boats. Mat pointed at a monument, topped by an obelisk, which was just to the seaward side on a small grassy knoll. ‘That’s the place. Cook’s Landing.’
‘Yeah, built to commemorate the first shooting of a brown guy by a white guy in this fair land,’ Riki sniffed.
‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’ Damien said.
‘Well, it’s kinda true,’ Mat put in. ‘Cook brought some of his men ashore, just over by the base of the bluff, where the beach used to be. The Maori came to meet them, and a whole bunch of warriors were suddenly swarming round them, trying to take their guns off them to look at, not knowing what they were. It got out of hand; a soldier panicked and shot one of the warriors.’
Damien pulled a face. ‘I suppose you reckon that was the soldier’s fault?’ he said to Riki with a grin.
‘Of course! He should have known he was supposed to bring a gift. A bit of koha, to sweeten the meetin’.’ Riki poked Damien in the ribs. ‘What’s ours is ours, an’ what’s yours is ours, Pakeha.’
Riki went to the monument and read the politically correct inscriptions in Maori and English aloud, but Damien just looked at Mat, shaking his head. ‘You really say you’re going to take us to another place?’
‘Yes. Do you still want to do this?’ Mat asked him.
The tall boy paused for a long time before nodding. ‘Who could say no?’ he breathed.
‘Then think about this. Where we are going, most everyone you meet is dead.’ He let the word ‘dead’ hang in the air until it had sunk in.
Damien nodded with Riki, their faces finally serious. Mat decided that was a good thing, and continued. ‘I don’t know how or why it is, but Hakawau and Wiri say that the Ghost Land remembers things—places, people, stories. It’s like parallel worlds, if you want to go all science-fiction about it. Sometimes people can pass between, in certain places, or if they have certain abilities. But that doesn’t happen a lot. Just because we’re still alive here doesn’t mean that we can’t die there. If some thing goes wrong, we may never come back. Do you still want to do this?’
The other two looked sober now, all excitement draining away, replaced by a more serious demeanour. They both nodded though, still keen.
Mat sighed, and looked around. ‘Let’s go this way.’ He led them towards the foot of Kaiti Hill, where the site of a former cottage, dating back to the first settlement of Gisborne, used to stand in the lee of the hill. They left the road and climbed a little until they stood in a shadowy glade, amidst some old pine trees. They could still see the big loading gantries of the port, where a logging ship was being laden with timber. No one seemed to be watching them.
‘Put your hands on my shoulders,’ Mat told them.
Riki gripped his shoulder, and he gripped Riki’s, and then Damien added his arm, so that they were bound together. He closed his eyes, and called to the place within himself where his power waited. Every thing faded, the sounds of the city falling to sleep, the smell of the river, the boom of the distant surf, and the sting of the wind. All was gone in the space of a few slow seconds, and replaced by the song of crickets, the sonorous boom of the ocean, and a warm gentle breeze. He slowly opened his eyes.
The gantries through the trees were gone, and so were the docks. The river no longer held a logging ship, but a low-lying, two-masted sailing vessel, which was being emptied of fish by a crew of seven. The trees were not the introduced pine of today, but weatherbeaten bushes of kowhai and pohutukawa.
The river divided itself about a massive rock. On the near side were just a few waka and a ferry pulled up against the shore of the river. The sea was much closer—evidently the modern harbour was mostly reclaimed land. On the far bank, the hotel on the inlet where Mat was staying was gone, replaced by a few wooden houses surrounded by little picket fences—the early Gisborne township. Men and woman promenaded, and went about their business. Carriages and wagons plied the streets, with the occasional vintage-model car.
Damien broke away from them, and stared about him like a blind man who had recovered his sight. ‘Omigod, omigod,’ he kept repeating. Finally he turned to Mat and said in a low voice, ‘I thought he was having me on, even up until a few seconds ago.’ He looked at Riki. ‘I’ll never call you a bullshitter again, man.’ Then he stopped and thought. ‘Well…possibly.’
‘I’m overwhelmed.’ Riki could apparently view the greatest of miracles with a certain detachment and cool, but he still looked somewhat awestruck. It was, after all, his first time in Aotearoa too. He looked at Mat. ‘Far out, bro. You da man. You are the man!’
Behind them, someone coughed. They turned, and found a cottage, which had to be the historical one mentioned in the plaque, standing solidly behind them. A young woman with a strained pale face beneath a bonnet was staring open-mouthed. She had been working a primitive-looking clothes wringer, her clothes stained with sweat. An infant squalled at her feet.
‘Gidday, babe!’ Damien offered. ‘How’s it goin’?’
She snatched up the child and backed into the house.
‘You’ve still got it, man,’ Riki drawled. ‘That ole charm works just as well here. Who’d have thought?’ He slapped Damien on the back, while the Pakeha boy looked pained.
Mat led them out of the little glade, towards the docks. The fishermen eyed them suspiciously, and one of them, a dark-skinned Maori with long curly hair, pulled out a knife. That was enough to make Mat and the others freeze and lift their hands cautiously. The weapon was handled with calm competence.
The Maori with the knife approached cautiously, a Pakeha following him, holding a cosh. Both men were wearing rough cotton and linen clothes, streaked with fish blood. Their shirts were unbuttoned, revealing tanned and lean bodies beneath. Both were barefoot, and reeked of fish.
‘What’re you gents doin’?’ the Pakeha asked in a strong English accent.
‘Erm…we’re from…uh…’ Riki started.
‘From the Other Side,’ the Pakeha finished for him, to his surprise. ‘We’d figured that. What do you want? And how did you get here; there ain’t any Holes round here.’
‘Ah, I brought us here,’ said Mat cautiously, unsure whether he should be telling the man such a thing.
The men’s eyes bulged a little. ‘Ruanuku?’ the Maori breathed. He stared at Mat. ‘Tohunga makutu?’
‘No! No! Not makutu,’ Mat replied hurriedly.
‘What’s makutu?’ Damien muttered.
‘Black magic,’ Riki replied. ‘You don’t want to confess to that around here, I guess.’
‘I’m looking for Hoanga,’ Mat said. ‘I need his help.’
The Maori and Pakeha men exchanged a look. They nodded slowly. ‘Hoanga?’ the Pakeha echoed, nodding. ‘Figures. He’s one of you.’ He lifted a hand, pointing northwest, around the inland side of the hill. ‘You need to go to Te Poho o Rawiri—that’s the meeting house at the marae around the hill. But take care. There was trouble there last night.’
Mat let out a relieved breath as both men lowered their weapons.
‘What’s your name?’ the Pakeha asked.
‘Matiu Douglas.’
They both raised their eyebrows, and looked at each other again. Neither said another word as Mat led his friends away towards the marae. They just watched them carefully, as if anxious they should leave, but frightened to push it. It didn’t make Mat feel any better, to be feared like that.
‘Jeez, Mat, what do you mean, “we are looking for someone”?’ Riki muttered. ‘I thought we were just sightseeing.’
Mat gave him what he hoped was a knowing wizardly look. ‘Just stay with me on this one, guys.’
The land north of the river was dominated by a pa, further inland, but the marae was unguarded by fortification. Mat had expected Kaiti Hill, or Titirangi as many of the locals called it, would be surmounted with fortification, but it wasn’t. There were a few houses here, and paddocks with cattle and crops. Mostly Maori faces peered at them as they walked towards what had to be the marae. A great, red-painted archway, alive with carvings, showed the way to the timber-walled building beyond. The late sun lit the open space before it.
Children and youths ran about, playing chasing games, while their parents gathered in clusters over tea from colonial-era kettles poured in fancy English crockery. They eyed the trio suspiciously as they walked to the carved gate, Mat in front and the other two trailing. Mat could have sworn the paua eyes of the carving were watching him.
After an awkward few seconds, a limber young man clad only in a flax skirt strode to meet them. ‘Kia ora, tauhou,’ he said tersely. Greetings, stranger. He ran his eyes up and down Mat’s modern clothing.
‘Uh, kia ora,’ Mat returned. ‘I’m…my name is Matiu Douglas. I need to talk to someone.’
The youth accepted the switch to English easily, but his eyes widened when Mat said his name. ‘Matiu Douglas? The one who slew Puarata?’
‘Um, sort of,’ Mat replied. ‘Wiri did it, really. I just helped. But don’t tell anyone, please. I don’t want a fuss. It’s supposed to be a secret that I’m here.’
The young warrior’s mouth contorted slightly. Then he stepped close, and pressed his nose to Mat’s in a hongi. He was maybe twenty, but looked like he’d seen a lifetime of struggle and danger. Perhaps he had. ‘Welcome to Te Poho o Rawiri, Matiu Douglas. You are our guest, and all we have is yours. Blessings upon you for what you did to bring about the demise of the tohunga makutu.’
Mat ducked his head. He hated taking credit for Wiri’s deed, but it would take too long to explain what had actually happened. ‘Uh, thanks.’
The young warrior greeted Riki and Damien, before turning back to Mat. ‘Now, if you will not let us celebrate your deed, then will you tell me how we can serve you? My name is Potou.’
‘I need to talk to someone about a legend of Waikaremoana. I was told to ask for Hoanga.’
‘Tuhoe lore? Certainly you need Hoanga.’ Potou nodded. ‘Come this way.’ He gestured around him. ‘Excuse the lack of welcome. We were attacked last night, by men of the south. They attempted a kidnapping.’ He looked grim. ‘We will feast on them tonight,’ he added, making Damien go pale.
‘John Bryce’s men?’ Mat exclaimed, then pursed his lips.
Potou threw him a sideways look, but said nothing. He led Mat and his friends away from curious eyes, behind the meeting house where only carved figures stared at their passing. ‘See how some of the carvings have a dot in the middle of the eyes, while others are blank?’ Potou remarked. Mat nodded. ‘The ones with the eye-dots are awake. You need to be careful of them. Treat them with respect.’
‘What are the carvings of?’ Mat asked.
‘Taniwha.’ Potou grinned. ‘Must’ve been a shock to a modern boy like you to find all this was real, eh?’
Mat nodded deeply. ‘You’ve got no idea.’
Potou smiled again. ‘Actually, I had a similar shock when I found out about your world.’ Mat took that in with a blink. Potou laughed. ‘I was a stillborn child. The only world I’ve lived in is this one.’
Mat swallowed in surprise, which seemed to please Potou immensely. He cheerily pointed up the slope behind the meeting house, where a church sat, a tiny wooden building set at the foot of Kaiti Hill amidst the bush. ‘I’ll take you to Hoanga, our tohunga wairua.’
Potou led Mat to the door of the church, and called out a greeting. He was answered, not from the church, but from a large mound that Mat had taken for an old rock, covered in moss and debris. It shivered suddenly, and became a cloaked man sitting cross-legged.
‘Potou, open your eyes! I am here.’
The three teens gaped.
Potou ducked his head. ‘Tipuna-tane, I bring a visitor, Matiu Douglas, he that—’
‘I know who the guests are, Potou. I am not deaf to every thing that happens here.’ The old man grinned crookedly at Mat. He had a lean tattooed face so deeply brown it was almost black. Thin grey hair and a straggling white beard framed a face well suited to smiling and sharp words. ‘Fetch me some tea, Potou. Take Riki and Damien with you. The words I speak with Matiu are not for them.’
Riki looked questioningly at Mat, who nodded. We have to trust him. Riki and Damien looked like they were remembering what Mat had told them about the perils of getting separated. They went hesitantly with Potou, who clapped them both on the shoulder in what looked to be meant as a reassuring gesture. Mat watched them go, suddenly ill at ease.
‘Last night, soldiers, men of Dunedin, tried to take me alive,’ Hoanga observed. ‘But this place is better warded than they expected.’
Mat looked at him, waiting. ‘Why did they do that, sir?’ he was forced to ask after a long pause.
‘Why indeed? We asked the ones we captured that. Eventually one spoke. He said a word I’d not heard in a long time, a word he’d overheard his master whisper.’ Hoanga leant forward. ‘The word was “Haumapuhia”.’
Mat felt a thrill of fear course down his spine. Oh crap, they are already on to it. John Bryce’s men, on the same trail as me…
Hoanga looked up at him. ‘Sit, Wiremu Matiu Douglas, sit here, where I can see you without cricking my neck.’ He patted the ground beside him. Mat sat, and Hoanga looked him up and down, then pulled out a pipe and lit it. He asked Mat who his father and mother were, and of what iwi. His nose crinkled when Mat told him he was Ngati Kahungunu.
Mat recalled that his iwi had helped the British against Te Kooti, a Maori leader, born in the Gisborne area, who was feared by Maori and Pakeha alike, so he guessed that he couldn’t expect his tribal background to make him any friends here.
But Hoanga said nothing on the subject. He glanced up at the church behind him. ‘Surprised to see an old tohunga living near a Christian church, I suppose?’
Mat looked about him. ‘I guess.’
‘The priest is a friend of mine. We discuss our beliefs until late at night, over good whisky from your time. Don’t ask me how we get it.’ Hoanga grinned, then looked thoughtful. ‘You know, neither he nor I have met our gods here, neither my Tane and the gods of my ancestors, nor he his Jesus. We dwell in an afterlife yet remain none the wiser. It is what you Pakeha call “ironic”, I suppose.’ He looked back at Mat. ‘So, how can an old, but not-wise, holy man help you?’
Mat took a deep breath. Here goes…‘What can you tell me about the taniwha Haumapuhia?’
Hoanga nodded. ‘So you want to know about her as well, do you? I thought you might. Well, you I will talk to…’ The old man took a deep breath and stared out into space. ‘She was the taniwha that carved Lake Waikaremoana, but perished at the touch of the sun. Or so the Tuhoe say, and it is their tale. We are Ngati Porou here, but I know some Tuhoe lore. You must tell me something first, though—what is this old story to you?’
Fair enough. Mat told him about his encounter with Kauariki, and his promise to help her prevent the taniwha from falling into the hands of Puarata’s warlocks. ‘Kauariki said that the spells Puarata set about the taniwha will expire when the new moon rises on New Year’s Eve. It is the twenty-seventh of December, I have only until New Year’s Eve to save the taniwha, and I have no idea how to do it.’
Hoanga frowned. ‘Then that explains last night’s attempted raid. Bryce too seeks the taniwha. A taniwha at the command of any makutu would be a great ill. I know how it could be done, too. When I was young, I fought against Puarata’s warriors in the Ureweras, and contended with his powers.’ He shuddered slightly. ‘I was overmatched, of course, but I survived. I came here for refuge, and was protected by this holy place. There is a tradition of sanctuary in churches, and a tapu on violence in a meeting house. I have been safe here, but also trapped. Puarata knew I was here and kept me penned in.’
He traced a finger in the dirt, pondering. ‘To bring life back to the stone taniwha would require an undoing of the curse. These elements would be needed: the essence of the taniwha, the water of the sacred stream where the taniwha was transformed, and a sacred token of the tohunga whose intercession turned Haumapuhia into a taniwha in the first place.’
‘Kauariki didn’t say anything about a tohunga,’ Mat observed.
‘Kauariki may not have known. But I have walked the lake about, and I know its secret lore. Maahu’s tribe had a tohunga. When Hau’s spirit cried out as she struggled beneath the waters of the sacred stream Waikotikoti, the tohunga heard, and spoke to the gods, enabling the transformation. Why he did so, I do not know. Perhaps Hau had some power herself that he wished to preserve? Maybe he sought to recreate her as a taniwha for his own purposes? Regardless, he it was that interceded between the drowned girl and the gods, and through his intercession she became a taniwha, little good though it did anyone.
‘When Maahu realised that his tohunga had played a role, he was even more wrathful. Bad enough he had drowned his child, but to have her so transformed shattered him. He was beside himself with rage and slew the tohunga. For a time, he kept the tohunga’s shrunken head as a trophy, but later he repented and laid the head to rest, in the Onepoto Caves, near to his daughter’s stone body.’
Hoanga paused as Potou brought tea. Damien and Riki were not with him, but Potou said they were talking to some of the girls, which sounded likely and didn’t comfort Mat at all.
He had to smile at the Bell Tea brand on the tea bags though. Someone liked their tea modern around here. He paused for thought as he sipped the strong sweet brew. ‘You’re saying I need the head of the tohunga to free the taniwha, and it is in caves only a few yards from the taniwha?’
Hoanga nodded. ‘But it is guarded. A tohunga’s preserved head is still powerful, even when the tohunga himself is dead. It has acquired protections for itself, or Puarata would surely have gone there himself. I believe that only one, such as you or I, a tohunga ruanuku, may succeed. The Onepoto Caves are a dreaded place in Aotearoa. One does not go lightly to those caves, Matiu. There is a deadly spirit there that destroys all who enter.’
‘I’m not a tohunga,’ Mat protested.
Hoanga just smirked wryly and inclined his head.
Mat ducked his head, then looked up at the old man. ‘If Puarata is dead now, are you free to go to Onepoto?’
Hoanga shook his head. ‘No, Matiu Douglas, I cannot. I would be of no use to you, for I have over the years bound my powers to this place, to keep it safe from Puarata and his ilk. Beyond this marae, I am nothing. I am no longer sure I can even leave this place now.’ Hoanga put a hand on his arm. ‘Do not fret, Matiu Douglas. You are the Heir of Ngatoro. You will find allies.’
Not that again…‘Why do people keep calling me that?’ Mat demanded.
‘Have you not felt it? The lost tohunga, Ngatoro-i-rangi, has laid his touch upon you. I perceive his essence, permeating and strengthening your aura. He is with you, even now.’
‘But I’ve never met him,’ Mat protested, fighting a nervous urge to look over his shoulder. ‘I don’t feel anything.’
Hoanga peered at him. ‘Can you make fire?’ he asked.
Mat frowned. ‘Yes.’ He hesitantly called a flame to his fingertip, as he had with Lena earlier.
‘How did you learn that?’ Hoanga enquired.
‘It just kind of occurred to me. In a dream,’ he confessed. ‘Then Pania showed me how to do it properly.’
Hoanga gave him a gap-toothed grin. ‘Then you have already felt Ngatoro’s touch on your mind without knowing. Calling fire is one of the first things a young ruanuku apprentice learns, but few can learn it without guidance.’
Mat remembered the dream when he had realised he knew how to do it. It wasn’t a comfortable thought, that someone was whispering ideas into his head, even if they wished him well. ‘But how can I become a tohunga? I’m not even fully Maori.’
‘The word “tohunga” just means “expert”, loosely, as well as “priest”. There are many types of tohunga,’ Hoanga explained. ‘Some are made, and some are born. Many learn carving or moko, and have no mystical powers beyond skill and learning. But a tohunga ruanuku or a tohunga wairua, a wizard or spirit-caller, is born, not made.’ He tapped Mat’s knee. ‘We are kin, in a way, you and I. We have been born to the gift. We have to learn to master it, lest it masters us.’ He chuckled. ‘Oh yes, I am still learning, Matiu Douglas, even at my age.’
Years of slow, patient mastery of arcane lore unfolded in Mat’s mind, oppressive and dull. He groaned softly before he could stifle it. He looked up anxiously, but Hoanga just snickered.
‘I know what you feel, Matiu. But there is joy in the journey, and in the destination. Do not fear it. And as for your heritage, the old bloodlines are thinning, it is true, but new strains can also be strong. It may be that your heritage of two cultures is what is important.’ He leant forward and jabbed with his pipe for emphasis. ‘You have a gift and would appear to have a powerful spirit guide,’ he told Mat. ‘Accept, don’t resist.’
It sounded uncomfortably like the advice Kauariki and everyone else seemed intent on loading on to him. Mat put it aside. ‘So John Bryce sent men to try to find out what you’ve told me?’
‘So it would seem. You must take care. And you must learn more, so that you can protect yourself.’
‘There is a man called Jones coming to teach me, next month.’
Hoanga nodded. ‘Jones, eh? The Welsh wizard. What I have heard of him is good. He will teach you the Celtic paths, and Pakeha forms of magic. You will also need a tutor in the arts of the tohunga wairua, though. I will speak to Hakawau on this.’
Mat guessed that for Hoanga, contacting Hakawau wouldn’t involve telephones or emails. The old man was unnerving, but it was also reassuring to know there was help about. At least he knew a little about how to free Haumapuhia now, and some of the dangers.
Maybe I can phone Wiri, and get him to send this Jones here to Gisborne. Mat let out a long breath. It was good to have someone older and wiser on his team. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Matiu Douglas,’ said Hoanga in a formal voice. ‘You are at the beginning of a journey. I have seen others take that journey. Some fall by the wayside and some become paralysed by fear. Many end up dead. Others become bent old men trapped on marae. Some choose the glamour of power, and turn to makutu. You are young, but the choices you make now will affect who you become.’ He tapped Mat’s knee with the stem of his pipe. ‘What manner of man will you choose to be?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Mat said, keeping his eyes downcast. He didn’t feel old enough to answer such a question. ‘Someone who does the right thing, I hope.’
It didn’t feel like a clever reply, but it seemed to satisfy the old tohunga. He nodded slowly. ‘Good and evil aren’t easy to tell apart sometimes, boy. Even my friend the priest can’t claim to understand all the nuances, and he thinks he’s an expert. I like to think on it like this: the power of the land is like a river, and it flows where it wants. Some try to tap into that flow. Others dig ditches and try to channel it their way. Some tip poison into the waters, while others drink greedily. But all of that is makutu, boy. It is all selfish. The true tohunga ruanuku learns to swim, and is happy to go where the river takes him. You follow?’
Mat shook his head.
Hoanga chuckled. ‘Neither did I at your age. It becomes clearer as you get older, boy. I’ve almost got it now,’ he finished softly. ‘You’ve got a wise head for a young man, and you’ve got Ngatoro-i-rangi looking over your shoulder, whether you see him or not. If you keep in mind that you’re here to serve others and not yourself, and that knowledge is wisdom, not power, then you’ll do okay.’ He puffed on his pipe, and fell silent, gazing out over the only view he had probably seen in all the later years of his life.
Is this what I’ll come to as well, trapped in a single place through one slip, or one powerful enemy? It was a depressing thought. ‘But how can I fight without using makutu?’ Mat asked. ‘Fitzy says all magic that causes harm is makutu, but if I’m attacked, how can I defeat an enemy without harming them?’
Hoanga half-smiled. ‘Your friend is only half-right. To wield makutu is not to become makutu, Matiu Douglas. Makutu is two things—it is the tool of wreaking harm, and the ethos that empowers it. The trick is separating the two, and wielding it, without succumbing to it.’
Mat looked at him helplessly. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Think of a gun. It is a thing that wreaks harm. It is a form of makutu. Not magical makutu, but a scientific makutu, just as deadly. But good men wield them, and do good in using them. The problem is that we can come to enjoy our “righteous smiting” too much, poai. Then we are in peril. Some makutu is much more intensely personal than a gun. With the strongest makutu, you sense the pain you inflict as a physical sensation of pleasure, turning the act into a form of depravity.’
‘Then how can we win?’
Hoanga smiled. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, Matiu Douglas. Our magic still obeys certain laws, and can be thought of as speeding or slowing the work of nature, which is both destructive and constructive. We can both preserve and destroy. Think of yourself as a knight, and your spirit is your armour. The armour of the tohunga makutu is weak, as they have devoted themselves to causing harm, and their ability to resist it is poor. On the battlefield, you are the toa, armoured in light, formidable. Your foes are shadowy archers, menacing at a distance, but vulnerable. Strengthen your armour, poai, so that their arrows fail, and smite them with righteousness.’ He leant closer. ‘The warlocks like to boast that nine in ten choose their path. That is true, for it is an easy path, with swift gratifications and cheap rewards. But the truth they evade is that the true tohunga ruanuku is worth ten or twenty of them on his own.’
It was the most encouraging thing Mat had heard in months.