Paniha's Taniwha: The Artifact Hunters 3.5 Page 3

  As captain, Loki followed behind their guide. There was one person in particular he wanted to press up against. Paniha was close to the start of the line and he took her hand as he leaned in. Her skin was warm to his touch and the fresh scent of the ocean clung to her, as though she had just returned from the beach.

  She frowned at him and pulled back a fraction. Then she raised one hand and touched the piercing in his eyebrow, a questioning look in her eyes. She asked a question in Maori but he shook his head.

  “Why do you have metal through your face?” Her finger dropped to the ring in the corner of his lip and she traced the golden circle. His skin tingled in anticipation of her fingers on his lip, but the expected touch never came and she pulled her hand away.

  “Because it breaks through the mundane and makes me feel things,” he answered. Then he leaned forward and his face brushed hers as they touched noses.

  The fierce warrior was next. He grasped Loki’s arm and pulled him close. The man emitted a raw power that surged through Loki. Hone was sure of himself and his position in a way that reminded Loki of Nate, a very English warrior who wore a suit instead of armour, but was just as deadly.

  “You can handle me rough any day,” he murmured as they were skin to skin. There was a certain freedom in being with someone more powerful and dominant. Such chances rarely came Loki’s way, but this one had potential.

  The warrior huffed and arched one eyebrow. A flash of hunger danced behind his gaze. Then he gave Loki a gentle shove toward the next person in the line-up. Any more of this type of treatment and he would start to feel rejected. What was wrong with these people? In Europe and on the airship he’d had to fight prospective partners off with a stick. Down here at the bottom of the globe, he was given the cold shoulder.

  With the formalities out of the way, the crowd dispersed. The Maori walked back up the hill to their pa. The European settlers and traders lingered, eager for news from home. A feast was arranged for the next day, when everyone would be somewhat recovered from the long journey. Another new experience, something called a hangi that Marika said would be cooked in the ground.

  “We have billets arranged for most of the settlers,” Taylor said, as people made introductions and formed loose groups, exchanging gossip from England. “Tomorrow the chief will choose those who he wants to stay in Matanui.”

  Loki frowned. “Surely the settlers say where they will establish their new lives. Many of them came here with land grants.”

  “Things don’t work quite like that in Aotearoa. They don’t own the land; they are given a grant to farm and build a home. It’s more like an arranged custodial relationship or a lease. Under the treaty the local tribe has the final say as to who resides in their town,” Taylor said.

  “Odd way of doing things.” Whether the passengers stayed or moved on was no concern of Loki’s. He was here to fill the cargo hold, not indulge in local politics. No doubt Miguel would find the intricacies fascinating and the lad could bother Marika for the details later.

  Taylor shrugged. “It’s the Maori way of governing, not the British way.”

  “Did anyone tell that lot?” Loki gestured to the sour-faced soldiers. They eyed the passing Maori as though the long-ago war were still in progress.

  Taylor turned and faced Loki, his broad face serious. “It’s hard to be the losing force, stationed under the victor’s watch. Those men came here to install British rule. Instead they were handed defeat and had to negotiate their position.”

  “It has long been the British way: invade and conquer. It does take us aback when events don’t unfold as planned.” Poor sods, Loki thought. Even worse for the man who’d had to tell Victoria her newest colony had been lost. He hoped their own trade negotiations went better. At least they planned to make everyone rich, not steal resources in exchange for blankets and guns. Nate might run an illegal network, but he made sure everyone was fairly compensated. The viscount’s sense of fairness in his dealings was what kept his crew and trading partners loyal.

  The crowd thinned further and Loki waved Miguel over. “I have a hankering to stretch out. Let’s see our accommodations and we’ll start afresh in the morning.”

  Taylor walked with them to the cottage that was at their disposal. The cottage was orientated with its back to the warehouse, and overlooked the nearby river. To call his temporary home a ‘house’ was doing it far too much justice. Even ‘cottage’ was too neat and tidy a word. ‘Shack’ seemed to fit it better. Built of rough-hewn logs, at least the chinking looked new and would keep out the wind and rain. The roof was made of tin, and the slow oxidation spilled dark red over the metal like a creeping bloodstain. A wide verandah gave a sheltered place to sit and a bench seat was pushed against the wall. If they had supplied a banjo and a rocking chair the picture of rural life would be complete.

  Inside was more cozy. In the first of the two rooms, a coal range provided heat and cooking facilities. The sofa and chairs were worn but clean. The floor was swept and covered with a woven mat with a geometric design in red, black, and white. A narrow daybed sat along one wall, and someone had put a bunch of wildflowers in a vase in the middle of the table.

  After a cursory look around, Loki claimed the small rear bedroom. He was captain, after all. His first mate would sleep on the daybed in the room that served as parlour and kitchen. The bedroom contained a double bed with an iron frame, pushed up under a small high window. A bright patchwork coverlet in greens and blues reminded him of the contrast between land and ocean. He gave the bed a test bounce; it squeaked. That would take some getting used to and would probably elicit complaints from Miguel if he had company. A three-legged stool acted as a bedside table.

  Their accommodations would do, and at least it was free of the constant buzz from the airship’s engines. As much as Loki loved being aloft, he needed some time on solid earth. Being grounded made him appreciate his lifestyle amongst the clouds. In a matter of days he would hanker to soar again, but right now he was going to relax and rest his wings.

  Loki and Miguel sat on the verandah, each man clutching a bottle of beer they’d found in one of the cupboards. Dusk took its time to fall and they watched the light fade over the river and tree tops. Birds called to one another as they settled for the night, and strange whistles echoed through the forest.

  “It’s so quiet, apart from the birds,” Miguel said. “Not just the lack of machine noises, but so few people. London is never silent, even in the dead of night.”

  “If you listen carefully, you can hear people dying of boredom here.” Loki took a deep draw from his beer. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do, the only light on his horizon a dusky maiden called Paniha. He just needed a chance to talk to her. Yet when he thought of passing the time with her, another image strode through his mind, the image of a fierce warrior who protected these people.

  “That’s not fair. People come here to start new lives, away from the strictures of England. You can be anybody out here.” The younger man gazed at the silvery water as the sun finally dipped below the horizon.

  “Who would you be?” Loki didn’t usually indulge in philosophy, but there was a wistful tone in the lad’s voice.

  Miguel drew a long breath and let it out. His hands clenched around the beer bottle. “Someone with a family who loves him.”

  Loki clinked his bottle against the one in Miguel’s hand. There's something I can toast. “To family and having someone to love.”

  4

  The wail drew Loki’s attention and pulled him from sleep. He rubbed his hands over his face and willed his eyes to open. It wasn’t a warning klaxon alerting him to danger on board. This seemed human in origin, not animal or mechanical. Curiosity roused him from bed. He swung his legs over the side and pulled on his trousers before standing. He met Miguel in the next room. The youth pulled a shirt over his head and headed toward the door barefoot.

  “What is it?” Miguel asked as he tucked his shirt into his trousers
and ran his suspenders up over his shoulders. They had only been in this country one day and already the youth looked like a backward yokel. He just needed a tuft of straw to chew.

  Loki shrugged. The easiest way to find out was to investigate. The two men stumbled from the cottage in the early morning light. Mist rose from the damp ground as the sun warmed the earth and the moisture evaporated.

  A strange procession stirred eddies in the mist as they moved past the warehouse and cottage, heading toward the town. A cart pulled by a lone grey draft horse plodded along the dirt road. The horse’s gaze was fixed on the ground passing beneath its nose. A man sat on the cart’s seat and held the reins in a tight grip, as though he thought the docile horse might turn wild and bolt.

  More men walked at either side of the cart and women followed behind. One woman, the source of the ungodly howling, screamed and tore at her hair, and two more women supported her as they walked.

  Loki and Miguel moved closer, drawn by the strange tableau. Loki peered into the cart. A man lay in the back, his eyes held closed by pennies and his skin unnaturally pale. Blood covered his torso. Three deep slashes sliced through his jacket and shirt, running from his shoulder across his chest and ending at his waist. Judging by the grimace etched into the man’s face, death had not come quickly or easily.

  Loki raised a hand to one of the men and halted him. Then he pointed to the corpse. “What did that—bear?”

  The man shook his head. “No bear in New Zealand.”

  “Bobcat?” Loki scoured his memory for animals with large claws that could inflict such a wound on a man.

  “No large predators of any kind here. Biggest thing around these parts is a moa. Nothing natural could do that. Some say it’s the taniwha.” The other men muttered as the women screamed and the funeral procession continued on its way.

  “Nothing natural,” Loki repeated. “I don’t like the sound of that. What’s a taniwha?”

  “Type of Maori water dragon,” the man said, then left them to catch up with the sad group. The woman’s screaming faded as her throat grew tired and she dissolved into sobs.

  “Dragons. That’s all I need. Thought we had left them in Siberia.” Loki rubbed his hands over his face. “Come on, lad, we’re awake now and I need a coffee.”

  Back in the cottage, Miguel stared into the cupboard and found ingredients. He set coffee on the coal range to brew first, and then found rolled oats to make porridge. Someone had left a jug of fresh milk on the verandah and he brought it in and set it on the table, ready to be poured over steaming bowls of porridge. Loki hunted on a shelf until he found a container with sugar. Then he located bowls and spoons while Miguel worked at the range.

  The tap at the door sounded as they ate breakfast. Miguel rose and opened it to Marika.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Kia ora,” she replied.

  “Key or—” He tried to emulate her greetings but fell over his tongue. Normally he had a quick ear, but the young woman seemed to distract him or stop his brain from functioning.

  Marika giggled behind a raised hand. “Kia ora.” She sounded the syllables out slowly.

  “You’re going to have to wrap your tongue around that one, lad,” Loki said without looking up from his porridge. Food in the colonies was basic. He could see a grand opportunity to trade in spices, fruit, and groceries not available in the new country. I never thought I would miss cinnamon.

  “Do you need me today, Captain? I thought I could start learning more about the Maori and their language, if Marika would be so kind as to help.” Miguel asked his question of Loki, but his gaze didn’t move from the young woman’s face.

  Loki waved his hand. “Why don’t you take the day off? Ask Marika to show you what they do for fun around here.”

  Miguel tore his attention away from their guide to frown at Loki. “Learning about their culture will assist in our trade negotiations. I didn’t travel halfway around the world for fun.”

  Loki sighed. He wouldn’t give up on Miguel. There was a fine man lurking in his uptight exterior, and Marika was the perfect assistant to help him pull that person out. He gestured for the youngsters to go, and Miguel grabbed his jacket and opened the door for Marika.

  Loki took his time to finish dressing and to shave. Miguel was right about one thing: The silence in the town was unnerving. He was used to the constant noise and bustle of everyday life, whether in the cramped confines of an airship or in cities like London. The isolation of New Zealand crept into his soul and reminded him that although people surrounded him, he stood alone in life.

  “Damn place is getting to me already,” he muttered as he shut the door to the cottage and headed to the warehouse.

  There was an old biblical saying, no rest for the wicked. And that succinctly summed up Loki’s day. First he surveyed the warehouse and the scant pile of goods waiting for transport back to England. Next he had to make sure the passengers had all their luggage and assorted children off the Jenny Elle. He didn’t want any snot-nosed brats wiping their grubby hands on her handrails all the way back again.

  Then he met with Taylor and gave him the mission of canvasing the settlers for what goods they wanted most desperately from England. Long-range trips were expensive and it made sense to fill the hold both ways, and Loki’s preference was for goods over passengers. He had yet to be ambushed by tea canisters lying in wait in the latrine.

  Taylor pulled a pocket watch forth and glanced at the time. “We need to go. The ceremony to decide which settlers go and which stay will start shortly.”

  Curious about the so-called sorting ceremony, Loki walked with Taylor back toward the town. The event was to take place on what Loki thought of as the village green—a large open expanse immediately behind one row of houses.

  After a quiet night where the passengers found their land legs again, they now congregated in the clearing next to the town. The row of wooden houses and shops stood to one side of the green. The compacted-dirt main street was trod by horses pulling carts and people with dust coating the edges of their clothing. Two other sides of the clearing were encircled by the soaring forest, like a protective mantle of leaves. The last quarter of the space was open to the field and river beyond. Here the transient traders set up their tents, or lived out of their covered wagons.

  The dispersal of the immigrants was a strange procedure. Loki had assumed they would disembark from the Jenny Elle, walk or hitch a ride in the back of a cart to wherever their purchased plot of land was, and set up home. But life under the Maori in Aotearoa didn’t work like that.

  The Maori had performed their official welcoming ceremony, because no business could be discussed until that formality was completed. In all his travels around the globe, Loki had never seen anything to compare to the fierce Maori challenging the newcomers. It was one of the few times in his life that chills ran over his skin… or perhaps it was an awareness of the chief who made the challenge seem entirely personal.

  The next stage of dealing with the new arrivals was providing Loki’s entertainment for the day. For starters, his former passengers had just been informed that they didn’t actually own any land outright—a detail that hadn’t been conveyed by the agents back in England who had taken their hard-earned money. Angry voices erupted as a very patient James Taylor tried to explain how all land was considered a treasure, or taonga. As such, it belonged to all the people of the tribe or hapu and not to one person or family. The pieces of paper that the irate settlers waved gave them rights to occupy and work their allocated patch, not outright ownership.

  While Taylor smoothed that problem with admirable patience, another problem was percolating. Two opposing sides had arrived. Even the way they approached the clearing highlighted the difference between two cultures. Hone and members of his tribe emerged from the forest on silent feet and crossed the grass, while Colonel Austin needed only a brass band to complete his arrival. Wearing his full dress uniform he rode in on a horse, while behind
him, his troops marched in tight lines. One blared on a horn as though a hunt were about to start. Or would he set hounds on his Maori rivals?

  The chief sat cross-legged on the ground, his most valued elders and advisers seated to either side of him. Draped around Hone’s shoulders was a cloak made of bird feathers. Varying hues and colours formed an intricate pattern as though they sprouted from his skin, and signified his deep connection to the land and its creatures.

  Meanwhile, the colonel fussed over the appropriate placement of his chair. He shouted orders, waved his arms and made his poor equerry run back and forth before he was satisfied. Then he pulled aside the rear of his jacket and sat. His men stood in neat parade lines behind him.

  Austin tried to look down on the younger warrior, but from Loki's perspective, the Maori projected an air of calm control and patience while Austin appeared to be a man grasping at any slim straw of residual authority. Some men exuded power simply by breathing. Hone had that capacity; Austin did not. The Maori sitting on the grass was a more dangerous man than the one wearing a cavalry sabre.

  With both sides now in position, the process could start. The settlers gathered in the middle, like chess pieces waiting for a game to start. While they might think they could choose to live in Matanui or Christchurch, again, things ran differently at the bottom of the globe. The chief had final say over who took up residence under his protection and the immigrants had to present their credentials, rather like a job interview. Hone would hear the requests of the new arrivals and decide their fates.

  Taylor had somewhat calmed the agitated people, but presence of the Ngati Mamoe chief did more to dispel their concerns. Under his calm dark stare, voices fell silent. The English settlers milled around like sheep; no one wanted to step away from the flock in case he was picked off.

  “What happens now?” Loki leaned closer to Miguel.