Chapter 4

Homebush Ranch, Masterton, Near Wellington. NZ.

Thursday 11th August 2011; 11am.

 

Ihaka Nga Hiwi looked every day of the hundred years old he claimed to be, albeit the reality was that he was closer to seventy. The tribal elder of the local Maori tribe, he had spent the last twenty years at Homebush Ranch, not doing too much hard labour himself but ensuring that the younger men worked hard for their beloved boss. Ihaka was very frail now, and to Ben Fogarty it seemed impossible that this was the man who had taught him everything he knew about Maori culture and how they fought and loved. This was the man who, at nearly sixty years of age, had run for twenty miles across a wicked terrain without a stop for breath whilst a young, and allegedly fit, Ben trailed behind in the distance.

As they sat in the traditional pitched roof hut with elaborately decorated timbering, the old man reminisced about Ben’s childhood, taking all of the credit for the fine young man who stood before him now. He explained how his Maori training in listening, watching, stealthy movement and battle tactics had made Ben a world class rugby player. It seemed that the coaches for Wellington and the All Blacks had simply benefitted from the finished product sent to them by Ihaka.

Ben took the old man’s hand. The flesh hung loose over brittle bones and visible veins.

“I will honour the old ways and venerate the animals. I will tread lightly and leave no footprint on this delicate land,” he promised the old man, repeating and paraphrasing, in English, the old Maori pledge of manhood.

The old man smiled and reached over to a small leather bag on the table beside him. Ben knew very well what the bag contained. It held Ihaka Nga Hiwi’s most treasured possession, perhaps the most treasured possession of any Maori warrior, his greenstone Mere or Patu. Made from highly prized nephrite, the simple unthreatening looking weapon could cut through bone better than the finest steel. Ben knew very well the damage and devastation the weapon could cause to animals; he had been trained in its use since childhood. Just a month earlier, Ben saw the short striking Patu being tested on the History Channel, where men, who were still secretly boys, tried to find out who would win if a Maori fought a Roman. The results were surprising. The Patu excelled in every test, beating some of the most advanced steel weaponry available. Ihaka held his treasured Patu in front of him, the weapon nestling in his two uplifted palms.

“Hehu, this is for you. Keep it with you always. Your destiny is to fight and so this must be your constant companion.”

Ihaka had used Ben’s adopted Maori name ‘Hehu’, which means saved by God. He had been given that name on his arrival at the ranch because the Maori ranch hands all believed that Ben had been saved by God from a terrible life in a dirty city called London. When Ben looked around at the landscape that surrounded them, he had known immediately what they meant.

“I will take the Patu, grandfather.” Ben knew that it was both pointless and insulting to refuse the gift. He placed his right fist over his heart and then placed it over the heart of the old man. “My heart is your heart; your family is my family.”

The old man was tiring quickly and so Ben took his gift and returned to the ranch house, where the dining table was groaning under the weight of sweet smelling meats and pulses of every kind. The buffet was a mix of traditional food and western food, all prepared by the housekeeper, Mrs Himbaka, who only ever answered to the name Nanni.

 

***

Later, with most of his farewells out of the way, his three Maori brothers, Hirini Matiu and Tane, crushed him in their meaty arms before they departed. Ben Fogarty was almost six feet four, toned like an athlete and around sixteen stones in weight, and yet his Maori brothers could have crushed him to dust, such was the power of their grip, such was their heritage as warriors. Pushing his floppy dark hair out of his eyes, he realised he needed a haircut. His unruly locks were now a step beyond fashionably long. Alone with his adopted son, the older man examined the young traveller. None of his Irish heritage showed through in either his swarthy complexion or his steel blue eyes; Patrick concluded that he was crafted more by his geography than his genes.

“This is the complete portfolio on your background,” his adoptive father said, handing Ben a thick folder. “Everything you need to know is in there - reports, records, document scans, photos, everything Vastrick have produced for me over the years. But be prepared; it makes uncomfortable reading.”

Ben took the file and placed the accompanying USB drive in his pocket. He looked at the tough but gentle man who had been his father for twenty years; Patrick Vernon Fogarty, second generation New Zealander, rancher and politician, beloved of all who knew him. Widowed at thirty when his Maori wife died in childbirth, Patrick had done everything he could to rescue Ben from his torrid existence in England. The MP was actually Siobhan Fogarty’s cousin, and so Ben was, in biological terms, his first cousin once removed, but in every sense that mattered he was his father. To everyone that knew them, and even to the rugby following public, Ben was Patrick’s son and heir. Not that Patrick was thinking of passing on any time soon, but now, in his mid fifties, he did not relish being apart from the boy who meant so much to him, the boy who was his life.

 

“Ben, go and do what you have to do. Don’t hesitate to ask for help, but come back to us safe and sound. OK?”

“OK, Dad,” Ben replied as he teared up, berating himself for his weak sentimentality. Damn it all, he had been an international rugby player.

 

***

Ben waved to the gathered crowd as he drove the pick-up truck out of the gates and off towards Wellington, where tomorrow morning he was due to fly out to England. Leaving behind him the lush but frost covered landscape he pressed on, knowing what he must do and hoping that he had the strength of character to do it.