Hopu raises his paddle, the sweat glinting silver on his shoulders. “A messenger. On the beach.”
Kupe lifts his eyes. Beneath the palms, a boy waves a taiaha-spear, its dog-hair trim quivering impatiently on the breeze. Plunging his own paddle into the surf, Kupe drags it back. “I see him.”
There’s no need to change course. They’re already heading for the shore. The sea god Tangaroa had allowed them to haul in the nets and return early, the bowels of their waka-canoe filled with fish. Keeping their cadence steady, they breathe deep and pull harder, their bodies straining in unison as their paddles strike deep, the prow of their waka-canoe slicing a path through the ocean.
In the front, Kupe’s cousin Rerete grunts. “The delegation must be back.”
“Just two days,” Makoro says from the rear.
Rerete snorts. “How long does it take to ask them not to encroach any further onto our lands? Do they want us to starve? No disrespect to your father, Kupe, but he should never have let those thieving Arowana stay.”
“What should Chief Ariki have done?” Hopu says, droplets spraying from his paddle. “Push them back to the mainland? Their Han enemies would have slaughtered them the moment their waka touched the beach.”
“So instead they should come here and pick a fight with us. Is that it?” Rerete barks.
Makoro chuckles. “They’re not the only ones who like an argument!”
“My father had hoped we could live here together,” Kupe says. “Hawaiki has plenty—”
“He gives too much!” Rerete shouts as they near the breakers. “We’re teetering on the edge of the island as it is.”
Lifting their paddles, they crest a wave and begin their descent.
Hopu and Rerete leap out first, the saltwater surging about their knees. Together, they drag the waka up the beach, friends too long to let an honest exchange of views stand between them. Then Makoro and Kupe splash into the surf, pushing the waka from the rear until it’s safely on the shore.
The messenger dashes across the beach to meet them, lifting his feet high like a gecko to prevent the hot sand from scorching his soles. “Tāhae has returned from the citadel!” the boy calls.
“Where is he?”
“The meeting house. The elders are already there. You have to hurry.”
Kupe nods. His brother has never been a patient sort. Ruffling the child’s hair, Kupe shows him the pile of fish crying soundlessly in the rushes at the bottom of the waka. “See to our catch, will you?”
They leave the boy with the fish, the four of them grabbing their nets and their patu-clubs before running up the beach.
Kupe tries not to look for Nuku in the crowd of people making for the meeting house. He sees her anyway, his eyes drawn to the curve of her neck, the fall of dark hair about her shoulders. He sucks in a breath. Does she feel his gaze? His childhood friend; they’d been close once, and Kupe had hoped—
“Don’t look,” says Hopu under his breath. “You’ll only torture yourself.”
Kupe flushes with embarrassment. Is he really that transparent? Although, he shouldn’t be surprised. Hopu’s always known his heart. And he’s right, of course. There’s no point torturing himself. He should’ve spoken for her earlier, told her how he felt, only it was Nuku—so perfect—and him just a fisherman. So, he’d put off speaking to her. He’d put it off and put it off until it was too late. Now, she’s married to his brother. Kupe’s happy for her. Tāhae is the tribe’s best warrior and destined to be chief. It’s a good match. Still, just a glimpse of her lays Kupe’s heart open like two halves of a pipi shell.
“Forget her, man.” Rerete doesn’t bother to keep his voice down. “You were never going to get a woman so fine. The only thing a fisherman attracts is flies!”
Hopu grins. “You’re one to talk. Have you taken a whiff of yourself lately?”
“Can’t be any worse than you,” Rerete retorts, landing a slap on Hopu’s arm.
Alerted by their banter, Nuku glances back. Smiles.
Kupe lets his gaze slide away.
“Hurry,” Makoro calls. “They’re waiting for us outside the meeting house.”
“They’re not inside? Tangaroa!” Hopu curses. “That’s bad.”
Kupe frowns. While the meeting house is a sanctuary of peace, the open space in front of the building is reserved for councils of war. Already, the air is humming with murmurs of men, the war god, Tu, stirring in their midst. Taut and expectant, it’s the sound Kupe’s harpoon makes when he lets the barb fly.
At their approach, the crowd separates.
Tāhae!
On his knees, blood runs the length of Tāhae’s body, dry rivulets covering his arms, his thighs. Tāhae looks up, blood cracking in the creases of his moko-tattoo. “You’re here at last, brother.”
Then, Kupe spies the bundle on the ground, the matted ceremonial feather cloak, its iridescent plumage torn and dangling from the hem. A hand escapes from under the feathers, the curled fingers tinged blue.
It’s their father’s cloak, their father’s hand. Kupe chokes back a cry.
Tāhae stands and moves aside. The cloak falls open. Cruel, cruel cloak. Now Kupe can’t help but see: his father’s heart has been torn from his chest. Kupe stares at the bloodied cavity. Hollow and still. Ariki dead? He can’t believe it. And nor does Ariki because his father’s face is slack, his eyes open in dull surprise.
Kupe sinks to his knees. “No,” he breathes. Not this. Not like this. Around him, the tribe is silent, the way a breaker is in the moment before it crashes onto the beach.
“They murdered him,” Tāhae says, his jaw rippling with emotion. “Butchered him like an animal. They would’ve murdered me too, only our tohunga-priest created a distraction so I could escape. The Arowana captured him.”
At last, the breaker crashes—the tribe’s anguish spills. Ariki’s people wail their loss, Kupe crying out with them.
Rerete, the crazy hothead, raises his patu-club over his head, his fist tight about the shaft. “They murdered our chief! Disrespected him. We need to teach these Arowana devils a lesson,” he shouts.
Other voices chime in.
“A war party to avenge Ariki!”
“They’re asking for it!”
“When a shark’s circling, you bash it on the nose!” Rerete shouts.
At the edge of the crowd, Kupe’s grandmother, Kuia, shakes her head. “Be quiet, you fools. Take the battle to the Arowana? When all they have to do is look over the walls and see our war party coming? It’s suicide!”
Tāhae steps towards her. “You are wise, Grandmother,” he says, placing bloody hands on her withered shoulders. “The Arowana might wish to provoke us into a war, but that doesn’t mean we have to fight. Instead, let’s gather the people in a great fleet and leave the island. We’ll go today, at dusk, and find somewhere where the Arowana can’t harm us.”
Rerete whirls. He strides over, closing the distance to Tāhae and Kuia. Kupe’s teeth ache: the way Rerete is clutching his patu-club is dangerously insulting.
“You’d have us run away?” Rerete demands.
“If we stay, they’ll pick us off one by one,” Tāhae says. “They’ll slink down from their citadel and slaughter us in our beds.”
“Hawaiki’s our home!”
“Bah, Rerete, you’re too young to have any sense,” someone—Kōioio, Kupe thinks—calls from the back of the crowd. “You’ve no wife, no sons to think of. What use is a home if we’re all dead?”
“What use are warriors with no pride?” Rerete spits back.
Grandmother cuffs him on the head. “Pride’s for idiots.”
Another elder, Ruānuku, raises his hands. “Confronting the Arowana isn’t the way. There are too many of them, and their citadel’s too well guarded. We should do as Tāhae says and leave. We wouldn’t be running away, just departing on a journey. An adventure. The Arowana can’t keep us from this island forever. When circumstances are different, we’ll return—”
“And what about our tohunga?” Grandmother asks. Again, there’s a hush. “We can’t just abandon him. The priest is our conduit to the gods, our link to the wisdom of our ancestors.”
Kōioio pushes to the front. “He might already be dead.”
“No,” Kupe replies. “Tāhae said the Arowana captured him.”
“Doesn’t mean he isn’t already dead.”
“What if a small group attempted a rescue?” Tāhae suggests. “Three or four swift men could approach the citadel unnoticed. They could sneak in, find the tohunga, and return by dusk.”
“Still suicide,” says Kōioio.
“The odds are better,” Tāhae insists.
Kōioio scoffs. “Suicide and certain death? Not much of a choice.”
“The tohunga is the soul of our people,” Tāhae cuts in. “I would lay down my life to save him. Surely I’m not alone in this?” He scans the crowd, seeking out the tribe’s warriors.
“No, not you, Tāhae,” Grandmother says. “You forget that Ariki walks in the spirit world now. You are our chief. You must stay with the Tangata-whenua, with the people, and guide us to safety. Besides, Nuku’s son will need a father.”
The air is dragged from Kupe’s lungs. A son! Nuku’s going to have a baby.
First his father and now this.
Water closes over his head.
He’s drowning.
He has to get away somewhere… anywhere.
He hauls himself to his feet. “Brother,” he calls. “Let me go. Let me do this. I will avenge our father and bring back the tohunga.” And if he should die? No matter. His wairua-spirit is dead already. Ariki’s not the only one to have his heart ripped from his chest.
Tāhae holds up his hand. “It’s settled, then. The fishermen will go.”
Kupe turns; Hopu, Rerete and Makoro are gathered at his back.
Hitching his net higher on his shoulder. Rerete grins. “What? You think we’d let you go without us?”
Tāhae pulls them aside. “Take the old tunnels into the volcano,” he says.
Makoro’s eyes widen. “They’re still there?”
As boys, they’d all played under the mountain. A horde of skinny warriors wielding sticks, Tāhae in the lead, they’d darted about in the darkness of the caves, skirmishing with imaginary fire demons and battling make-believe monsters, their mock death throes echoing through the tunnels. Once, the mountain had grumbled back, the earth shaking beneath their feet, and they’d stumbled out into the sunlight, laughing in terror. Afterwards, the tohunga had warned them against playing there and angering the mountain. That was years ago, before the Arowana had come to the island and built their mighty citadel high on the slopes of the mountain. Before Kupe and Tāhae had become rivals.
Before they’d grown up.
“Of course they’re still there,” Tāhae replies. “And they come out right under the emperor’s throne, or close enough. How do you think I escaped? By outrunning the entire Arowana army while carrying my father’s body? You rate me too highly, Makoro.”
Rerete grins. “Well, I hardly think they’ll be keeping our tohunga in their throne room.”
“I agree. You’ll have to search for him.”
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking it’ll be easy,” says Ruānuku. “This isn’t a little jaunt to catch some fish! The Arowana have guards everywhere, hunkered behind the citadel walls, just waiting for us to try something like this.”
Kupe pushes back a surge of anger. They already know the odds are bad—that their chances of returning are slimmer than a fishbone needle.
But Ruānuku hasn’t finished his speech. “Remember, keep your wits about you. There are many Arowana warriors, hundreds of them, but they’re nothing compared to their sorcerer, Wuxian. Look for his cloak: the colour of the sun, it glimmers the way light falls on water.” The old man hesitates. He lowers his voice. “Wuxian’s powerful. Perhaps even more potent than our own tohunga. Don’t underestimate him.”
More powerful than our own tohunga? No wonder the old man lowered his voice.
Rerete lifts his chin, flaring his nostrils. “Someone should warn this Wuxian not to underestimate us!”
Grandmother scrubs away a tear. “Idiot.”
There’s nothing left to say: it’s time to go. Already the tribespeople are breaking off, heading for their whare-houses. They’ve only a day to prepare if the fleet is to set out at dusk. No time even for a proper tangi to farewell Ariki’s wairua-spirit on the next stage of its journey. Kupe and his friends turn inland towards the mountain.
“Brother,” Tāhae says, grasping Kupe’s arm. “Go quickly. We won’t wait.”
A rock dislodges beneath Kupe’s feet and rattles into the shadows. They’ve been clambering over the rocks for hours, climbing into the heart of the volcano, their nets banging at their backs.
“It’s darker in here than I remember,” says Rerete. “Steeper, too.”
“You didn’t have to have come,” says Kupe for the third time. He should put an end to it now, force them to turn back while their hearts are still beating.
Hopu scoffs. “And let you rescue the tohunga on your own? I’ve seen you mistake your own foot for a flounder: you’re just as likely to come back with the Arowana emperor.”
Makoro chuckles. “That wasn’t Kupe’s fault. His big toe wiggled. It put him off.”
Kupe groans. “That old story again. I was nine.”
“Kupe’s right,” Rerete says. “Why should we all risk our lives? I should probably do the girls a favour and go back.”
Although the tunnel is dim, no one misses Makoro’s eye roll. They all laugh, Makoro’s chuckle bouncing off the walls.
They shouldn’t have come, and yet Kupe can’t imagine doing this without them.
“Sssh,” whispers Hopu. “Someone’s coming.”
They shrink into the shadows, crouching behind a pile of boulders from an ancient roof fall. All at once, the tunnel is filled with noise and movement. There’s a stench of unwashed bodies. Shapes dart about them. Wiry and quick. Chattering. For an instant, Kupe thinks it might be kids playing in the tunnels under the volcano as Kupe and his friends had, but there’s no innocence in their movement. No unrestrained whimsy. These are not children.
“How many?” Hopu asks.
Kupe shakes his head. He can’t tell. Too many to count. They swoop through the tunnel like bats. Only they’re too big for bats. With a high-pitched squeal, a creature razors past him. Dark fur. Red eyes. Human but not human. Twisted hairy demons. Kupe grips his patu in his hand. Flying demons. And they’re not playing.
Splitting off from the pack, one of the creatures darts towards him, teeth bared. Kupe thrusts at it with his club and the demon flies off, shrieking in anger. No sooner has it gone, Makoro yells. There’s one on his back, grasping him with blackened talons and nipping about his head with its stinking yellow teeth. Hopu and Rerete are busy fighting off two more.
They’re everywhere. Worrying at them like a pack of dogs!
“Get it off me!” Makoro shouts.
Kupe hesitates. His patu won’t work. He could accidentally slice Makoro and cleave off a limb. Instead, he storms over and grasps the demon by its wings, hurling it across the tunnel where it thwacks against the rock wall. Stunned for barely a second, it recovers, and, screaming, comes at them again. Kupe pulls his patu from the waistband of his maro. He swings it, the flattened blade of the club slicing through the creature’s neck. It flops to the ground in a mass of bloodied fur, its head attached only by a flap of gristle.
More demons dive for them. They bite and claw in a rush of teeth and talons. One slices at his cheek. Batting away another with the flat of his weapon, Kupe brings his hand to the wound, feels the wetness.
They’ve wounded him.
Blood roars in his head and he swings his patu again and again, hacking and slashing at the beasts, until a gruesome pile lies at his feet. His arm is aching when Hopu chases off the last of them.
“What are they?” Makoro says, breathing hard. He’s lost a chunk of his ear. Blood trickles onto his shoulder.
“I never saw them before,” Rerete says, nudging one with his foot. “Did they always live in here?”
Kupe crouches for a closer look. “We never saw them because they weren’t here,” he says. “This isn’t natural. Look.” He points to the ragged seams where the creature’s wings have been crudely sewn onto its back. “It’s been spliced together.” He returns his patu to his maro and gets to his feet. “It’ll be their sorcerer’s doing,” he says. “Wuxian.”
Makoro frowns. “But how could the sorcerer have known we’d come this way? No one’s used this tunnel for years.”
An ache sets in behind Kupe’s eyes. Tāhae had suggested they take this route. Had Kupe’s brother known the sorcerer would send his minions to push them back? Kupe shakes his head. Of course not. This isn’t some petty rivalry held over from their childhood. It must be the darkness getting to him, the stench of dead beasts clouding his mind. Tāhae’s his brother, his chief…
Kupe looks up and sees the question written in the eyes of his friends. “It’s not how it looks,” he says. “Tāhae came this way carrying our father. The Arowana had only to follow the trail of blood.”
“Here they come again!” yells Hopu, running back towards the others. More of the demons! A school of them. Together they fill the tunnel with their bodies, weighing rocks in their human-like hands, red eyes gleaming.
Kupe raises his arms to protect his face as the demons launch their attack. Stones strike him on the hip, his arm, the back of his calf. They dive for cover, Kupe and Hopu to one side of the tunnel and Rerete and Makoro to the other. The tunnel reverberates with thundering rocks and the creatures’ frenzied laughter. Kupe peeks out from the safety of the rocks, and almost loses an eye. He ducks back down. They’re pinned here. A rock ricochets off the boulder nearest Kupe. It shoots across the tunnel, hitting Rerete squarely on the ankle.
“Ow!” he grumbles, pulling his foot closer to his body.
“You okay?” Hopu calls.
“Just a bruise,” he says. “Lucky it wasn’t my head.”
“If it’d hit your head, it might have knocked some sense into you.” Hopu grins.
“We have to do something,” Makoro interrupts. “The fleet leaves at dusk. We’re not going to find our tohunga if we cower here behind a pile of rocks.”
True enough.
Keeping his head down, Kupe unhitches his net and flings one end across the tunnel to his friends. He gives one corner to Hopu, and, keeping the other for himself, hooks it under the decorative curl of his patu and holds it above his head.
“I’ll be the float; you be the sinker,” he says, but Hopu has guessed his purpose and is already crouched, ready to go.
On the other side of the tunnel, Makoro and Rerete are waiting for his signal.
“Now!”
Kupe and Rerete charge along the tunnel, holding the net high, while Hopu and Makoro run behind them, the net’s edges held taut. It trawls in their wake, as if the tunnel is the mouth of a river.
The hairy half-humans keep coming. They scream and hurl their rocks, swooping at the four of them, attacking them in a blur of wings and fur and nipping yellow teeth. Some of the rocks bounce off the walls, but some hit home. Kupe’s arm is hit again. Ignoring the pain, he charges on.
To Kupe’s right, Rerete wields his patu in his free hand. He cleaves a creature in two, both morsels tumbling back into the net as the men plunge forward. A demon launches a stone which strikes Rerete on the shoulder, wrenching his arm backwards. Grunting in pain, Rerete leaps a tumble of rocks before another creature takes aim.
“Rerete!” Kupe warns, but he has troubles of his own: two of the beasts have peeled off the group and are barrelling towards him, their wings flattened. One after the other, they dive at him, like cormorants plummeting from the cliffs in search of fish. Readying himself, Kupe fends off the first with a jab of his elbow, hitting it in the head and stunning it, before slicing the wing off a second. The maimed creature limps backwards and is gathered up in the net.
The net’s getting full. It’s all the fishermen can do to hold it. Kupe’s shoulders burn. His hands ache under the weight of the thrashing monstrosities. Caught in the fibres, there are scores of them, the net bulging with bodies, its surface undulating, like the skin of an animal rotten with maggots. Kupe and Rerete are forced to slow. It’s like they’re paddling upstream after a heavy rain, battered by debris and dragged back by the current.
“Kupe!” Rerete shouts, lifting his chin to point out a glimmer in the shadows up ahead. Kupe has already seen the massive stalagmite rising from the centre of the tunnel, the limestone pyramid reflecting the pale light leeching through the overhead cracks.
They run for the mound, Kupe turning in while Rerete takes the outside, each of them hooking a corner of the net over the stalagmite. As Kupe and Rerete step back, hacking at the creatures that have worked their way free, Hopu and Makoro take their turns dashing in and looping their corners over the limestone crest. The remaining creatures flee into the darkness.
Leaning over, Hopu puts his hands on his knees, and sucks in a breath, while beside him the net writhes. Wails echo in the cramped tunnel. Some of the beasts saw at the fibres with their talons.
“Come on,” says Makoro, hauling Hopu upright. “We need to get going. That net isn’t going to hold them forever.” Hoisting his own net on his shoulder, Makoro disappears around the bend, following the tunnel deeper into the mountain.
Moments later, his muffled cry carries back through the tunnel.
“Makoro!” Rerete starts forward.
Kupe pulls him back. “Wait!”
“What are you doing?” Rerete says, shrugging him off. “Makoro needs us!”
“We can’t help him if we’re dead,” Hopu says. “We don’t know what we might find.” He waves a hand in the direction of the net. “For all we know, there could be swarms of unnatural creatures down here. Let me look first.” His back to the wall, Hopu lifts the paua shell from around his neck, angling it to see around the bend. He peers into the shell’s blue-green surface. “Tangaroa!” he swears.
Rerete’s head snaps up. “What? Can you see Makoro?”
“It’s a massive cavern…” He breaks off.
Kupe takes the shell from his friend’s shaking hands. He holds it up. The paua’s tiny, and the light’s poor—the daylight only reaching them through fissures in the tunnel’s ceiling—yet Kupe knows he’s looking at Wuxian. It can only be him. The sorcerer’s cloak billows about him, as dazzling as sunlight. He’s floating in mid-air, perched between the spinal ridges of a massive taniwha-dragon.
And the monster has Makoro gripped in its claws!
Trembling, Kupe rests his weight against the rock wall. He wipes the paua shell with his thumb. The smoke-coloured vision doesn’t change. The sorcerer has conjured a dragon: a horned serpent with the body of an eel and jaws meaner than a shark’s. The beast swivels its head from side to side, its slanted yellow eyes penetrating the darkness. Kupe’s neck prickles.
Rerete yanks at his hair. “What’s happening? Can you see Makoro? Is he okay?”
Kupe jerks away. “Wuxian has conjured up a taniwha-dragon. It has Makoro in its talons.”
Rerete pales. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t know. He’s not moving.”
“What do we do?”
Kupe shakes his head. “It’s as big as a whale.”
“Ruānuku said their sorcerer was powerful, but this…” Hopu’s words trail off.
“It’s hopeless, then, is it?’ Rerete demands. “We’re just going to abandon everything and run back to the village?”
“No, not hopeless.” Kupe hands the paua to Rerete so he can look for himself. “We don’t have to kill it, just distract it long enough to snatch Makoro and get across the cavern. Once we’re in the tunnel we should be safe; the dragon will be too big to follow.”
Hopu’s smile is grim. “Right. Not hopeless at all, then.”
“Rerete, take out its feet. Hopu, you foul up the tail, and I’ll grab Makoro.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
“Unlikely,” says Rerete, handing the paua back to Hopu, but he unhitches his net and charges around the bend anyway. Kupe and Hopu race after him.
In the cavern, Kupe almost stops in his tracks. The dragon is mesmerising. Terrifying. It undulates gently, floating on air, each massive scaled coil rolling over the next. But there’s nothing gentle about the knife-like talons clutching Makoro.
Astride the dragon, the sorcerer cackles, curling back his lips to reveal a cracked tooth. His thin eyes narrow and, in a flash of gold, he leaps from the dragon’s back onto a ledge on the wall of the cavern, safely out of reach.
Smirking, Wuxian lifts his arm in a dramatic upstroke and the dragon whips its tail, surging for the cavern roof. It hovers a moment at the apex, then Wuxian drops his arm and the monster plunges in attack.
“Look out!” Hopu screams.
The beast opens its maw, but Kupe’s already gone. Sprinting up the nearest wall, he launches himself into the air, grasping for the net still dangling from Makoro’s shoulders. Kupe’s fingertips graze the fibres.
Yes!
He clings on. Thrusts his toes into the weave and climbs, his weight pulling on the net and gouging deep welts across Makoro’s chest. It can’t be helped. To cut him free, Kupe needs to get to him first.
The dragon circles and swoops, its coils rolling past each other, faster than a whirlpool, the yellow slits seeking him out.
Instead, they find his friends.
Rerete and Hopu have reached the centre of the cavern. They cast their nets into the air, the muscles in their backs rippling with effort. The dragon glides artfully out of reach. Rerete’s net falls to the ground in a cloud of dust, but the change of direction has worked in Hopu’s favour; his net has snagged on a barb near the monster’s tail. The dragon jolts, whipping its fin viciously, taking Hopu with it.
The sorcerer shouts a stream of words at his pet—harsh grinding sounds.
Kupe blocks them out. With the dragon rolling wildly trying to throw off Hopu, it’s all he can do to hang on. At least he’s reached Makoro, his friend still gripped between the dragon’s ivory talons. Little wonder Makoro didn’t cry out a second time. His ribs are squeezed tight. It’s a miracle he can breathe at all. But he won’t last much longer: his lips are tinged a sickly blue…
The scales are layered one on top of another, like rocks conjured from the earth. Using them like a ladder, Kupe climbs up the dragon’s limb until he’s clear of Makoro. Kupe’s palms are grazed raw.
It’s nothing; Makoro can barely breathe.
Clinging to a scale with one hand, Kupe slashes the monster’s claws with his patu, severing them at the quick. The beast howls, opens its fist and drops Makoro. He hits the ground heavily, crying out. Quiet for so long, Kupe’s relieved to hear his voice. Except now Makoro’s tangled in his own net. Fortunately, Rerete’s right there. He seizes Makoro by the wrists and drags him into the tunnel on the other side of the cavern.
“Hopu, Makoro’s good. Jump clear!” Kupe shouts.
“Can’t,” he chokes.
Still clutching at the scales, Kupe waits for the coils to roll around again. Desperate to free its tail, the dragon has been spiralling faster and faster. At last, Kupe glimpses his friend. His stomach lurches.
Tangaroa.
It’s not Hopu’s net that’s pinned. One of the dragon’s tail barbs has caught his shoulder, the curved spike buried in his flesh. He’s impaled.
“Hang on. I’m coming over,” Kupe says.
“Sure thing,” Hopu quips, but his voice is thin.
Kupe climbs along the dragon’s body using the scales. The dragon whirls around the cavern like a dog chasing its tail, trying to shake them off, making Kupe nauseous. More than once, the beast’s twisted horns rake dangerously close to his body. At last, Kupe is clutching at the scales opposite Hopu.
“Hopu!”
His friend has passed out. The curved barb is acting like a fishhook. Even the dragon’s circling didn’t dislodge him. Kupe will have to cut him free. Clenching his jaw, Kupe removes his patu from his maro, then leans between two spines on the beast’s back, and, wedging the blade of the club at the base of the barb, he slices into it. Dark blood wells.
Damn. Only halfway.
Wuxian sweeps his arm across his body, and the dragon thrashes from side to side. Kupe and Hopu are thrown about, like how a bull seal tosses its catch. The sorcerer lets out a strident cackle. Kupe clings on, pushes the blade deeper, spilling more blood.
The beast hurls its weight against the wall.
Kupe is ripped from his perch. He flies across the cavern, wind whistling in his ears. He hits the ground in a searing burst of pain. Kupe staggers to his feet, screaming, as Hopu is dragged across the rocks, flayed to the bone in a rain of blood and muscle. The dragon’s barb tears free, and Hopu slides to the ground, unmoving.
Hopu. Please, no. His chest burning, Kupe races to his friend. The sorcerer lifts his arm again, and the dragon ascends to the roof of the cavern. Its tail barb remains embedded in Hopu’s shoulder. Kupe seizes Hopu by the arm.
“Kupe!” Makoro calls to him from the opposite end of the cavern.
The dragon turns, preparing to dive. Kupe measures the distance. The dragon plunges. They’ll never make it. He takes the shorter route, back the way they came. Hopu’s hand is slippery with blood. Kupe’s arms shake with fatigue. They’re barely inside the tunnel when the dragon’s jaws graze the cavern entrance, fanning them with its foul breath while, still in Kupe’s net, the hairy demons scream.
Kupe crouches beside his friend’s ruined body, taking care not to touch him. One side of Hopu’s body is ground to a glistening morass.
“I’d hoped to live a little longer before seeing my ancestors,” Hopu says through ruined teeth.
His heart breaking, Kupe forces a grin. “Tell them they’ll have to wait. We need you here.”
“I’m already dead,” Hopu says. He touches his hand to the barb, his breath coming in short stabs. “Poison.”
Kupe nods, understanding. “We nearly made it.”
Hopu’s eyes flutter. “Kupe, do you remember the whale…?”
“I remember,” Kupe says, taking up one of their favourite fishing stories. “It swallowed a hook that Makoro carved from a shark’s jawbone. Dragged our waka behind it for a full day. What a ride. The foam. The speed. Rerete shrieking in my ear. I was almost deaf…”
Hopu’s hand slips to his face. “Jawbone,” he whispers, his hand going slack. Behind them, the flock of demons hoots with laughter.
Time passes, although in the darkness Kupe can’t say how long he sits there. Are Rerete and Makoro still waiting on the other side of the cavern? Perhaps they’ve gone on in search of the tohunga? Kupe should follow them, but he doesn’t want to leave Hopu.
Hopu’s wairua-spirit, lingering in the tunnel, isn’t ready to depart either. You should go on, it says.
“I can’t leave you,” Kupe replies.
We made a promise, it chides. Someone has to see this through.
Kupe snorts. “You forget there’s still a dragon to get past.”
What if it’s gone?
Kupe takes the paua from around Hopu’s neck. It’s broken now, but there’s enough of the blue-green surface left for Kupe to see the dragon hovering in the cavern, waiting for him. There’s no sign of Wuxian.
“The dragon’s still there,” he says aloud. The wairua-spirit says nothing.
Will the dragon pursue him without the sorcerer’s guidance? If it does, how is Kupe supposed to get across? He has no net, no way of distracting it. He could set the demons free. Create a diversion. But they’re the sorcerer’s minions—they’ll probably turn on him.
Kupe looks over at Hopu. His friend’s hand still rests against his jaw as if he’s thinking.
Yes. Hopu’s death shouldn’t be for nothing.
Kupe uses the blade of his patu to slice off Hopu’s jaw, and the weapon’s hilt to crack the bone in two. Taking one half, he scrapes away the tendon, fashioning the bone into a hook. Not beautiful, but it’ll do. Then he attaches the hook to a rope of twisted fibres from Hopu’s maro.
Now for a sinker big enough for a dragon. He checks the paua shell for a boulder. One that’s close, and not too high.
He’s ready. No, wait.
He rushes back to Hopu’s body one last time, hacking off the tip of the dragon’s barb and slipping it into his maro. He doesn’t slow to farewell his friend. Hopu is already gone, and the day almost over. Running into the cavern, he leaps onto the boulder. The dragon spies him. It surges upwards, preparing to attack.
Kupe swings the line. Spins the jawbone hook in a wide circle: once… twice… three times. He throws. The hook sails into the middle of the cavern. Attracted by the movement, the dragon plummets, jaws extended like a snake’s. It takes the bait. Swallows. Kupe lets the rope run through his fingers as the dragon gathers its coils for another pass, then he leaps from the boulder. He runs around it twice, pulling hard on the rope to wedge it against the stone, then dashes for the tunnel on the other side of the cavern.
Makoro’s patu!
Barely slowing, Kupe scoops it up as he passes.
He’s almost at the other side when the rope pulls taut and the dragon is yanked back hard, pinned to the stone, the hook protruding from its neck. Bellowing, it thrashes and twists, the massive coils turning like a cyclone. The rope won’t hold, the creature’s twisting is already causing it to fray, but Hopu’s jawbone has given Kupe the time he needs. He runs into the tunnel to join his friends.
Makoro is sitting on the ground, his back against the rock wall, his body raked with scratches. Large welts streak his shoulders. Black bruises cover his chest.
When he sees Kupe slicked with Hopu’s blood, Makoro’s eyes widen.
“Hopu?”
Kupe shakes his head. “Walking with our ancestors. And Rerete?”
“Scouting out the entrance to the citadel.”
Kupe puts out a hand to help him, but Makoro can scarcely lift his arm. He cries out, blinking back tears. Carefully avoiding his crushed ribs, Kupe lifts him to his feet.
With Makoro leaning heavily on Kupe’s arm, they shuffle forward, Makoro wincing at every step. The tunnel leads upwards, the rough rock giving way to walls and floors smoother than a lake. Nearing the end of the tunnel, doors appear, decorated with strange patterns. Suddenly, one swings open.
Kupe thrusts Makoro behind him, making him grunt in pain.
“It’s me,” Rerete says, stepping through and closing it behind him. Wearing an Arowana cloak that closes at the front, he carries three more. “Here, put these on.”
“Where did you get them?” Makoro rasps.
Rerete shrugs. “Their owners won’t be needing them anymore.”
Kupe takes one. The fabric glides under his fingers, the weave so fine he can’t make out the threads. And the colours—forest moss, darkest driftwood, a crab’s back. The fourth cloak, the one that would have been Hopu’s, is silver like a fish. Rerete puts it aside. He doesn’t ask about Hopu.
With no water and no grass to clean them, Kupe wipes his bloody hands on the polished floors. He lifts the moss cloak over his head, the fabric cascading like liquid. Makoro can’t manage his, so Rerete and Kupe do it for him.
They slip out of the tunnel into… more tunnels. No, not tunnels, thin rooms, crossing each other, like the weave of a sleeping mat.
“This way,” Rerete says, turning them deeper into the citadel. “There isn’t much time. It’s almost dusk.”
They follow him into the maze, walking with purpose, as if they belong, although anyone looking must surely notice their dark skin and broad noses. They’re nothing like the Arowana with their narrow eyes and pale complexions. Several times, the three of them duck into alcoves, while people run by in a swish of cloaks and soft sandals.
“Where are they all going?” Rerete asks.
“To the walls,” Kupe says bitterly. “To gloat and cheer at the Tangata-whenua leaving the island in their waka-canoes.”
“Look,” Makoro wheezes.
Kupe can hardly believe it. Before they’ve even begun to search the room, the Arowana warriors have brought their tohunga to them, the priest ushered along the corridor surrounded by seven men in flowing cloaks with silver blades at their hips.
“Bringing the prisoner to witness their triumph,” Rerete says, drawing his patu from inside the folds of his cloak.
The three of them step into the path, blocking the way.
Not expecting to see a war party dressed in Arowana garments, the warriors are shocked, but there are seven of them and they’re fast, recovering quickly to draw their blades. While three of them cluster around the tohunga, the remaining warriors advance. Protecting their enemy’s sorcerer. What do they want with him?
A warrior rushes forward to attack. Kupe spins on his toes and delivers an uppercut beneath the man’s ribs. The man’s lifeblood gushes and he falls, frothing red, the tang of oyster assailing Kupe’s nostrils.
Blood dripping from his patu, Kupe shivers. He’s never killed a man before. Do the Arowana have wairua-spirits? Kupe doesn’t know.
Behind him, another warrior roars with rage. Fighting back bile, Kupe whirls again, hammering the butt of his weapon into the man’s forehead. He sinks to his knees, Kupe pushing him away with his palm. Breathing hard, Kupe looks around as a warrior charges at Makoro. Palm down, Makoro sweeps his patu across his body, slashing away the warrior’s blade, but the warrior swishes his cloak, distracting Makoro with the swathe of fabric.
“Look out,” Kupe screams. Too late. The warrior thrusts upwards with a fishing knife. Blood seeps from the wound, staining Makoro’s crab-coloured cloak. Kupe starts forward, rushing to his aid, but there’s nothing wrong with his friend’s brain: Makoro thrusts his head upward, his skull making contact with the warrior’s chin. Kupe pulls up, wincing as the man’s jaw cracks. The warrior flies backwards, his head smacking on the ground.
Makoro staggers. Covered in blood, his face is white, his chest heaving with exertion. Kupe throws out an arm to catch him, but two more warriors are advancing. “I’m fine,” Makoro says, pushing Kupe away.
The first advancing Arowana warrior is as wide as a storehouse, and well trained. It’s all Kupe can do to hold him off, parrying blow after blow. Rerete saves him, ducking under the blade and stepping in close to slash Kupe’s opponent in the throat. No sooner has he pulled his blade free, a warrior attacks Rerete from behind, but the tohunga trips him up. Makoro steps in to fillet the warrior like a fish. He won’t be getting up again.
Only two of their enemy remain.
“Go!” says Makoro.
“No,” Rerete replies.
Makoro’s eyes flash—pleading with Kupe.
“Rerete,” Kupe says, pulling him away. “Makoro can do this. I need you to help me get our tohunga home.” Rerete’s jaw quivers. “Rerete,” Kupe says again. “We’re leaving.”
They don’t linger. Makoro is dying; he won’t be able to hold the way for long.
“Run for the tunnel,” Kupe urges. The corridor is empty when they slip into the tunnel, barring the door behind them while they wait for the tohunga to catch his breath.
“This is Tāhae’s doing,” the tohunga declares when he’s breathing easier. “Doing deals with our enemies so he can take what isn’t his!”
“No!” Kupe says. “That’s not how it is.” It can’t be true. He’s lost two friends. “My brother carried our father’s body out through these tunnels.” Even as he says it, he can see the only blood on the floors is his own.
The tohunga arches a brow. “And whose idea was it to rescue me?”
“We volunteered,” Kupe retorts.
Rerete clicks his tongue.
A blow to the head would hurt less. He’s been a fool. Ariki, Hopu and Makoro. Nuku. Tāhae has betrayed them all. We have to get back. Tell them. Tell her.
“We need to find another way home,” he says. “Wuxian has filled the bowels of the mountain with his monsters.”
The tohunga snorts. “Ha! That charlatan with his stitching spells.”
“You don’t understand. He has a dragon.”
“Can he hold back the gods? Can he stop the mountain spewing its anger into the skies?”
“You can do that?”
“It’s not what I do, but rather what I don’t do. Spirits are contrary beings. It’s a tohunga’s job to keep the peace. Although…” He shrugs. “…if our people are leaving the island, perhaps now is a good time to let the mountain speak its mind.” He smiles, his broad nose flattening even further. “But you’re right. It doesn’t do to get eaten. Come. A narrow path descends outside the walls. We can reach it from the courtyard. It’s the only other route.”
Before they leave the tunnel, Kupe throws off the moss cloak. Rerete adds his cloak to the pile. They won’t wear the Arowana clothing any longer. They are Tangata-whenua. Of the people.
Only a handful of straggling warriors slow them down as they make their way to the citadel’s outdoor courtyard, hewn into the side of the mountain. The centre of the courtyard is empty: the Arowana people, their warriors, and their guards, are peering over the walls, watching the defeated Tangata-whenua depart. Their thieving emperor and his sorcerer sit on a raised platform just behind the crowd. Kupe follows the emperor’s gaze. On the horizon, the tribe is preparing its waka-canoes for their journey. Some of the waka are already putting out to sea. Kupe’s heart lurches. Perhaps Nuku’s on one of them…
“Where’s the exit?” Rerete murmurs, waking Kupe from his daydream.
The tohunga points out the tiny door on the far side. To reach it, they’ll have to pass right by Wuxian. Kupe’s had enough of him and his monsters.
Suddenly, the ground rocks. The people gasp. They grasp for handholds to steady themselves.
“Ah,” the tohunga says. “This mountain’s as hot-headed as you are, Rerete.”
The shaking earth makes the sorcerer look up. Spying them, he leaps to his feet. Kupe doesn’t wait for Wuxian to summon his creatures. He sprints at the sorcerer, pulling the dragon barb from his maro.
When a shark’s circling, you bash it on the nose.
Charging forward, he dives low and buries the barb in Wuxian’s belly, yanking it upwards so it catches deep in the muscle. Kupe rolls away as Wuxian clutches at his gut. Red stains his golden gown. His eyes widen in horror. The injured sorcerer staggers backwards, shrieking to his guards.
Is the poison already seeping through him? Perhaps it’ll have no effect—after all, the dragon is Wuxian’s own creation—but the barb’s sharp and Kupe has rammed it deep.
Several guards split away from the walls where they’d been watching the fleet depart. They pull their blades from their sheaths.
“Run!” Kupe shouts.
Only a few paces and the earth roars again. A chasm, wider than a waka is long, splits the courtyard like an overripe gourd.
The tohunga wavers, losing his footing as the chasm crumbles inwards.
No!
Kupe throws out a hand, clutching the tohunga by the maro. The old man swings outwards, dangling over the edge. Kupe’s shoulder is almost pulled from the socket, his muscles screaming under the weight, yet slowly, slowly, he drags the priest from the jaws of the abyss.
But there’s nothing Kupe can do for Rerete, caught on the other side. He’s alone; a score of warriors gathering their wits to advance again.
Kupe readies himself to jump. This time, it’s the tohunga who holds him back.
Across the chasm, Rerete’s eyes meet Kupe’s. “Hey!” Rerete calls cheerfully. “What I said earlier. It was daft.”
Kupe digs his fingernails into his palms and smiles. “You say a lot of daft things.”
“I mean about Nuku.” Rerete parries a blow with the back of his patu. “You are worthy. The best of us. Lead our people, Kupe. I will remember you to our brothers.” Brandishing his club, Rerete leaps away from the edge of the divide, throwing himself at the warriors. For an instant, his blade cuts a path—before the warriors close in.
Kupe and the tohunga turn away. They have almost made it to the door when it slams inward, ripped off its hinges, the wooden slats hitting the ground with a whump. Late afternoon sky winks in the gap, revealing a line of warriors that snakes back as far as Kupe can see. Kupe grabs the tohunga and they pull up.
Not that way, then.
Sweat cools on Kupe’s back and he almost laughs. They’re out of options. Out of time. Out of friends. There are warriors to the east, a chasm to the west, and beyond the citadel wall, the mountain drops down to the sea. Worse, the sorcerer is not dead yet. Separated from the guards, Wuxian raises his arms to the skies, and, uttering a torrent of words, he calls forth his dragon.
The monster rises from the chasm in a veil of mist, a ragged rope dangling between its teeth, Hopu’s jawbone hook buried in its neck. The Arowana look up, strangely silent, their mouths opening and closing like fish. In moments they’ve scattered, some jumping over the wall in their terror. The sorcerer, too, scrabbles backwards, his face contorted in fear. For once, he does not raise his arms.
The dragon’s transforming! Turning to water, its misty coils roll lazily around the courtyard, slowly at first, then picking up speed, the dragon-mist gathering itself into a monstrous plume of water. When it’s as wide as a river, the dragon surges upwards, then turns back to crash onto the fractured courtyard. There’s a tidal wave of stone and mud, Kupe glimpsing Hopu’s jawbone one final time before the mighty water-dragon powers over the walls and into the valley, carrying the hapless Arowana with it.
In the rush of water, the door surges past, ramming his knees. Kupe catches it.
“Grab my shoulders,” he shouts to the tohunga, the water already foaming at his waist, trying to tug the door out of his grip. The tohunga clings so tight it almost chokes him. It doesn’t matter: if this doesn’t work, they’ll be dead. And even if they aren’t, by now the last of the tribe’s waka will have departed. Grasping the top of the door, Kupe tries anyway, throwing his body flat to the timber and hurling the pair of them off the wall into the surge of water. He’s timed the leap well. The crudest of waka, the wood planes before the wave, carrying them down the mountain to the sea.
Tāhae’s waiting on the beach. He rushes up the sand to meet them. “Tohunga. Kupe. I can’t believe it!”
“What can’t you believe, brother?” Kupe gestures to the tohunga to take his place in the waka at the water’s edge. “That Wuxian’s monsters didn’t devour me?”
“What are you talking about? I prayed for your success. I sent the others out beyond the headland to wait, while I came back for you.” Tāhae doesn’t stop the tohunga as he passes, doesn’t see him wade into the water and push the waka from the shore.
A flicker of doubt licks at Kupe. “And what if I told you I’ve come back to be chief?”
His brother laughs. “You? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Kupe lifts his chin. “And if I tell you that I know the truth? That you collaborated with our enemies and murdered our father?”
Tāhae’s eyes narrow. He pulls his patu from his maro. “In that case, perhaps it’s best if you die on the beach, overcome by your injuries.”
“You’d kill us both?”
“Well, I was hoping the Arowana would save me the trouble of killing the tohunga, but…” Tāhae lunges forward on his toes, his patu raised.
Kupe reaches for his own club, but he’s lost it in the deluge. His mouth goes dry. His heart pounds louder than the surf. No weapon. But his hand closes over the fragment of shell, the remains of Rerete’s paua. He takes it out and holds it in his fist.
Tāhae hoots. “What’s that? You’re going to come at me with a broken shell?”
Kupe only shrugs. Behind Tāhae, the tohunga has paddled the waka out past the breakers.
“Very well, then.” Tāhae darts forward, the patu flicking murderously. Kupe launches his own attack, the jagged edge of the paua held high above his body. But at the crucial moment, Kupe drops to the left, feinting away from Tāhae’s patu and delivers a sideways kick to his leg. Focused on the shell, Tāhae does not see it coming. The knee breaks with a crack.
Screaming, Tāhae crumples.
Kupe whirls. He raises the shell, about to drive it into Tāhae’s throat, but the vessel in his brother’s neck is pulsing and Kupe stops himself. No. I won’t be the one to kill him.
Tossing the shell onto the sand, he turns on his heel and wades into the surf, diving under the breakers. With the tohunga’s help, he clambers into the waka.
On the beach, Tāhae thumps his fists on the sand. “Kupe! Come back!” he bellows. Kupe takes up his paddle. “You don’t understand,” Tāhae says, quickly now. “Ariki refused to leave. The Arowana were going to kill us all. I had to make a deal.”
The volcano erupts, spitting rock and dirt, and the west wall of the citadel crumbles.
Tāhae’s face twists in terror. “Kupe! You can’t just leave me. I’m your brother!”
Kupe shakes his head. “All my brothers are dead,” he says softly, and over the mountain’s rumble, he could swear he hears Makoro chuckle. Blocking out Tāhae’s shrieks, he turns to the tohunga. “Where will we go?”
“There’s a place to the south. The whales know of it,” the tohunga says. “We’ll follow them.” Nodding, Kupe plunges his paddle into the foam. Nuku will be waiting around the headlands.