The Lost Tohunga (8 page)

Monday

P
arukau sat with his back to the wall all night, unsleeping. He was learning the mind of his new host, Evan Tomoana, and especially examining his memories of Hine Horatai.
Hine …
Parukau had seen her for what she was immediately. All those years trapped in the dog's body, he had carried one clue regarding Te Iho:
Blood of the Swimmer
… He had wondered about who or what ‘the Swimmer' might be. It was obvious now, as the answers to riddles often were. He would find Hine Horatai, and she would open the path to Te Iho.

His mind reeled with the possibilities. Beside him, Tomoana's friends slept; a mindless mountain who called himself Brutal, and a lamb in wolf's clothing called Ronnie. This evening they would be released, and he would find Hine Horatai. Then Te Iho would be his.

 

It had been more than a century ago that Parukau's attempt to supplant Puarata had failed. Puarata had punished him by imprisoning him in the body of a dog. In pre-contact days, Parukau had been a tohunga makutu serving Puarata, one who
had learned body-jumping as a way of living forever. Unlike most, he had embraced European settlement, enraptured with these alien beings and their elegant trappings. Plush clothing and foreign women had been his addiction. Literally enduring a dog's life had nearly destroyed him. Only one thing had kept him going: Te Iho, The Heart. He had helped design and create it. One day, he would claim it and overthrow Puarata.

However, that dog body could get into places a man could not. Parukau had watched and learned. He had seen the rise of successive favourites and pretenders, and laughed as they all fell. When Puarata died he had gone straight to the Ureweras, and slipped into the hidden caves which led to Te Iho … and found them blocked and disempowered. Puarata had closed the gateway. He had panicked for a time, but he clung to the fact that Puarata had
needed
Te Iho. It must be merely hidden. They had designed it with no fixed abode, a pocket of space and time independent of both worlds. The gateway was movable, and of course Puarata would have moved it from time to time. He just had to find the new door, and the new key.

So he had ignored the war, and hunted for the gateway instead. The longer he used a body the better he controlled it, so he had kept the tramp-body despite its shortcomings. But now he was ready for a new phase. He was ready to enjoy this powerful younger frame, and make ‘Evan Tomoana' a feared man.

At dawn, the shifts changed and a new pack of uniforms swaggered in. His ‘friends' slept on. Let them; he didn't need them yet. He had plans to lay, a new world to explore. When last he had worn human guise, aeroplanes and cars were undreamt of, electricity a foreign rumour. Old Mac had
gone bush decades ago; he had been an ignorant loner. So Parukau feverishly shuffled through the memories of this Evan Tomoana to educate himself.

Eventually the police took statements. He feigned regret. A lawyer came and talked about bail. It was easy. He laughed inwardly at the pathetic amount tendered for his good behaviour as, exactly twenty-four hours later, he walked free.
Free. In a body worthy of me … I am Parukau. I am back in the game.

Monday evening

The girl was gone when Parukau returned to Evan's home. He needed to find her. But he was starving, needed to refuel. So they ate pizza and drank beers on the back lawn as evening fell, a scarlet sunset with clouds gathering to the north. He savoured every mouthful of food with relish. Life felt good, and was about to get better. The fat waddling creature that Ronnie was shackled to, Ko, kept the beers coming. She was afraid to meet his eye. He would talk to her later …

‘What's happening, boss?' asked Brutal. ‘What we gonna do?'

‘Yeah, what we gonna do?' Ronnie parroted.

Tomorrow, I will find other men to serve me. Better men than these cretins
. ‘First thing, I want you to know that I am going to take a Maori name. “Evan” is a Pakeha name. I renounce it.'

The two thugs looked at each other in surprise. Evan was basically Pakeha, for all his pretensions. But neither argued. ‘Sure thing, chief,' said Brutal. ‘What should we call you now?'

He let it roll off his tongue.
‘Parukau.'

‘Parukau?'

‘Yes, Parukau.' It was a joy to hear his name spoken aloud
after all these years. ‘Secondly, we will enlist some men tomorrow. Then we're going to get rich.'

‘Rich?' they chorused myopically.

‘That old tramp at the police station whispered a secret in my ear as he died. He told me where he had buried his money.' He leant forward conspiratorially. ‘It's in Rotorua. So that is where we're going, tomorrow night. To dig it up. But first, tomorrow morning, we're going to enlist some allies.'

‘Allies?'

Are these fools going to echo every word I say?
‘Indeed.'

He got up, indicating he was going to pee, and swaggered across the lawn to the back door. The toddler was there. She saw something in him that frightened her, made her flee into the house. He stalked into the kitchen, where that obese creature Ko was cooking. The other baby looked at him and began to cry.
Children have such good eyes
. ‘Where is Hine, Ko?'

Ko didn't look at him. ‘I dunno.'

‘I think you do, Ko. You were here when she came for her clothes. You're her only friend. Where did she go?'

‘I dunno, I swear.'

He picked up a carving knife. ‘Where is she, Ko?'

The baby screamed, like a torture victim. He watched Ko shake, too scared to move.

‘Don't you want those little brats to just
shut up
sometimes, Ko? Don't you just want to cut their tongues out sometimes?' She looked at him with her big pleading-cow eyes. He stroked her cheek with his left hand. ‘Where did Hine go, Ko?'

‘To the refuge. She went to the refuge.' Ko began to weep, rivulets flowing from both eyes. ‘Don't you hurt my babies.'

He put the knife down. ‘Of course not. I love children.'

Monday

H
ine opened her eyes, and realized with mild shock that she didn't have a hangover. She peered cautiously out from under the musty blanket, and guessed from the angle and hue of the sunlight that it was still early morning. She was on an old sofa in Aethlyn Jones's lounge. Godfrey lay on top of the blanket, snuggled against her, with a nice clean dog smell like warm rugs and pine needles. The ceiling above her head was open-beamed, with cobwebs in the corners.

She huddled under the blanket, clad in an old nightgown that Jones had handed her on arrival. He had been grandfatherly and gentlemanly, and she had trusted him right away. She liked the offhand way he talked, and the concern he showed without being over-solicitous. He had made it clear that they would talk, but only when she was ready. That suited her fine. She couldn't remember the exact impulse that had caused her to abandon the cops and run off, but it still felt like she had done the right thing. If she had gone to the refuge, Evan would know exactly where she was.

Evan … or whatever he is now …

She found to her surprise that she had no trouble
believing that Evan was possessed by some evil thing. She had grown up believing in good and evil, in religion and magic — this was just an extension of that. That tramp had been possessed, and now the demon was in Evan. It was horrible, but conceivable. It didn't really change things: she had already decided to leave. It just made it more imperative. She couldn't even mourn Evan: there weren't enough good memories to cling to.

Jones was fussing in the kitchen, and Godfrey got up and scratched at the door. It opened a crack, and the smell of bacon and coffee welled into the darkened room. ‘You awake, lass?' Jones called.

‘Yeah! I'm coming out! You got a dressin' gown'll fit me?'

‘Aye, I've got one warming by the stove. It's a cold morning, lass. You wantin' coffee or tea?'

Her mouth watered. ‘Coffee, please.' She got up, marvelling briefly at the antique cotton nightie she was in as she dragged fingers through her curls and rubbed the grit from her eyes. She felt refreshed as if after her best sleep ever. She fingered the scab on her cheek and found it almost gone, which was weird. Godfrey had licked it, she recalled.

The kitchen was warm and redolent of pipe smoke, cooking bacon and rich coffee. There were two chairs at a table, and she wrapped herself in the dressing gown hanging by the stove, and sat. The room had no electricity, at least that she could see, although there was a muddle of electrical wires and gizmos piled at one end of the table, looking out of place.

Jones turned and smiled. ‘Did ye sleep, lass?'

‘Yeah. What time is it?' Her watch seemed to have stopped.

‘Oh, about nine I'm thinkin'. Don't hold much with time
here. Although I can't abide lateness,' he added with a wry smile. ‘I keep a sundial out the back.'

She peered out the window onto a sunlit back yard surrounded by trees. Their shadows stretched towards her, so she guessed the back yard must face east. The grass was long and there were two sheds, a small one that contained a toilet she had used last night, and a bigger shed containing two horses and the cart they had ridden in to get here. It had been a strangely silent journey;
no street lights
, she had thought dimly at one point, but then she had fallen asleep.

Jones fixed some eggs while she took the coffee pot off the element and poured the black liquid into two old mugs. Then she wolfed down the best breakfast she could remember for a long time, while Jones picked at his, feeding half of his bacon to Godfrey.

‘You're probably wondering a few things, lassie,' he remarked finally. His accent was definitely British, and had a rough honey texture she warmed to. ‘Like maybe “Where am I?”, “Who's the old guy?”, and “What am I going to do?” perhaps?'

She smiled despite herself. ‘Yeah, I guess. What was the first one: where am I?'

‘We're on the lakefront, a little south of the Napier turn-off.'

‘I thought it was all time-shares and hotels down here? Your house must be worth a packet, eh? You hanging out for some rich dude to make you an offer?'

‘Something like that, lass.'

‘So, who's the old guy?'

‘I'm Aethlyn Jones, once of a hamlet near Abertawe, in Wales. But that was a long time ago — I've been in Aotearoa longer than I ever lived in Wales.'

‘Don't sound like it.' The old man had a pommy accent worse than she had ever heard.

‘Don't I?' He raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Perhaps the way we learn to enunciate as a child stays with us.'

Enunciate?
She had not heard words like that since high school. ‘What do you do? Are you on the pension?'

‘The pension?' He laughed. ‘I've never really thought to apply, to be honest. Maybe I should: I'm sure I've got papers somewhere saying I'm over sixty-five.' He chuckled, as if he found the thought inordinately funny. ‘No, I guess I'm something of a trader and fisherman, and a man who gets things done.'

She asked the last question. The serious one. ‘What am I going to do, Mister Jones?'

‘Just “Jones”, lass.' His eyes were suddenly serious. ‘That's the real question, isn't it? What are you going to do? Because you sure as hell can't go back to
him
, can you?'

She caught her breath at that, and wondered whether he somehow knew what had happened to Evan. ‘Can't I?' she asked, just to see what he would say.

‘No, you certainly can't.'

She tried again. ‘What's happened to him? I saw …' Her mind flicked back to what she had witnessed in that cell, and she shivered suddenly, as if someone had opened the door and let the cold inside.

‘What
did
you see, lass? Tell me.'

For a second she didn't want to, but she made herself do it. He didn't once scoff, or even interrupt, as she described the horrible vagabond, and the dark shadow-serpent, and what had happened to Evan. She found herself talking about Evan,
even though her eyes welled up with salty tears that stung as they flowed out and down her cheeks. She talked about Evan and what he did to her, which took her back to how he had been at first, which led further back to Glenn Bale and her mother. By then she was just crying, soaking the shoulder of this kind old man who knew how to listen and not question or accuse or condemn. It seemed like hours until she ran dry of tears and words.

He talked softly in her ear. ‘Lass, the world is a little more uncanny than you can know. The thing that is in your Evan now is something that I've been hunting for a long time. I'll tell you about him later, when you're up to it.' He wiped her eyes. ‘Go and shower, now. I've laid out some clothes for you in the bathroom. They're a bit old-fashioned, but they'll be a novelty for ye 'til I can take you shopping.'

She dutifully plodded to the bathroom. He told her there was hot water through a wetback on the wood burner. Enough light came through the grimy back window that she could see what she was doing. The shampoo packaging looked like something from a country fair, but there was a toothbrush and toothpaste by the sink. She locked the door from habit, although she was sure she was safe. The shower was divine, hot and bracing, and she spent ages in there without the hot water faltering.

Finally, Jones knocked. ‘Come on, lass, ye can't spend the whole day in there! I'll be getting you to cut me more firewood if you do.'

She called out an apology, got out and dried off in a huge thick cotton towel. It was wonderful to feel clean. The dress and underwear that Jones had laid out made her laugh aloud. There were baggy white cotton bloomers with lacy edges and
embroidered roses, and an ivory-coloured camisole. The full-length dress had a front-lacing bodice.
Jaysus! What century does this stuff come from?
It was like a dress-up party. Everything was too big, although the bodice fitted about her boobs nicely after a bit of fiddling with the lacing. When she combed her hair out, she looked like one of those Maori women from early colonial photos in the museum, servants or wives of the early settlers.

I wonder where he got it all. Weird stuff for an old guy to own. Be careful here, girl.

When she went out to the kitchen again, he stared a little and his breath seemed to catch, as though remembering someone else. ‘Where'd you get these relics, Mister Jones? I feel like a museum exhibit!'

He handed her one of her own ciggies, and tapped out his pipe. ‘Come on out the front and I'll tell you.'

He led her down the hallway, which led past the one bedroom and the lounge to the front door. They went out onto the small veranda. The front lawn was smaller than the back yard, with two goats cropping the grass, and the lake was only about fifty metres away, partly obscured by willows. There were a few dark shapes on the water, canoes or something, but she didn't look closely. The dark shape of the hills loomed beyond the water, out towards Acacia Bay on the far side. She went to sit down, and then her eyes registered what she was seeing, and her brain flipped.

Where are the houses across at Acacia Bay? I oughta be able to see them from here …

And while we're at it, why are there only Maori waka out on the lake?

She got down off the veranda and walked through the trees
to the jetty. She heard Jones follow, but her eyes were drawn to the gradually unfolding view of Taupo. She felt her knees quiver. She turned back to Jones and the words fell out of her mouth. ‘What have you done to Taupo?' She turned and looked again, just to make sure she wasn't mistaken. She wasn't. Taupo was gone.

In its place was a pa, a fortified Maori village behind rows of wooden palisades. There were wooden European buildings too, outside the pa walls. She could make out people walking and riding, and black-clad soldiery filing along the waterfront. On the shores, clumps of women of both races were washing clothes, and children ran along the shore. Men on horses ambled along the road where there should have been trucks and cars, and the road seemed to be a ribbon of pounded dirt. There were no telephone poles or power lines or street lights, either. Smoke billowed from chimneys. Only one boat wasn't a waka: she only recognized it because she had seen it before — it was the sleek white
Barbary
, a 1920s fifty-foot yacht once owned by Errol Flynn, which operated as a lake cruise attraction by a local company. Evan had promised to take her on it one day.

She turned to Jones. ‘Where's Taupo gone?' she asked, unsure whether this was some prank or something a whole lot stranger.

He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, lass, it's a long story …'

 

The sun was past its zenith, and her stomach had gnawed away breakfast, but she listened as the old man talked about the ‘Ghost World': Aotearoa, where legends and the long-dead
walked. It seemed impossible, but she could see the waka and the pa and everything else. Her eyes couldn't lie! She had no choice but to believe.

‘When can I go back?' she asked tentatively, suddenly afraid that he might never let her go, like some hermit who kidnaps a princess in a fairy story.

‘Oh, soon, lass. Godfrey and I just thought it best to get you off the streets for a while, to somewhere your man can't reach. Don't worry,' he added as though he had been eavesdropping in her head. ‘I'll take you back when you want to go.'

Godfrey the dog looked up at her with sincere eyes, and her doubts melted.

‘This is so weird,' she said, shaking her head. Bizarrely, amidst all this strangeness, the one thing she did feel was
security
.

Suddenly she heard a body brushing through foliage, coming from the direction of the Taupo settlement. She got to her feet apprehensively as two shapes appeared at the edge of the trees and walked up to the cottage. One was a teenage girl she mentally christened ‘Freakshow': a geeky creature with a mop of ginger dreads and a skeletal body clad in garish and unflattering clothes. Her face was all braces and glasses.

But the other one … was Matiu Douglas. He had a blue-black swelling about his eye and his hand was clutching his ribcage as he breathed awkwardly. She remembered that he knew Godfrey. They both stared at each other and blushed. Freakshow peered at her, looking put out.

‘I believe you know each other,' said Jones, with a dry chuckle.