SHOW ME A HUIA!

Chris Barfoot

Copyright Chris Barfoot August 2019

ebook edition

Frontispiece: plate of a painting by J.G Keulemans of the huia, both male and female.

Reproduced by permission of the British Library from Walter Buller’s Birds of New Zealand, the complete work of J.G Keulemans, printed in 1888.

J.G Keulemans was a Dutch artist commissioned by Buller. Birds of New Zealand reprinted by Te Papa Press, a subsidiary of the Te Papa National Museum, 2013.

Cover design: Bev Robitai

Fiction: thriller, New Zealand, Maoritanga, conservation

To my wife Pat for her

encouragement and inspiration.

What would the world be, once bereft

of wet and wildness? Let them be left,

O let them be left, wildness and wet;

Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

“Inversnaid”: Gerard Manley Hopkins

CHAPTER 1

The gangly young man in T-shirt and jeans bounded two at a time up the stairs of the Geology Department, then loped along a deserted corridor lined with cases and cupboards filled with ancient rock specimens, whistling at the top of his lungs.

It was nine o’clock in the morning two weeks before Christmas at the University of Auckland. The white Italianate tower with its delicate wedding cake tracery soared into a Mediterranean-blue sky. Beneath its shade the dew still sparkled on the dark green, leathery leaves of the taraire trees, but the cicadas were singing their hearts out as they welcomed the first heat of a perfect summer’s day.

The students had all gone. Exam papers had been sat and marked, and results had been awaited and received, celebrated, rationalised or commiserated with until at last these feelings faded in the stress of finding holiday jobs. Finally, as Christmas neared, for those who had not found jobs came the delicious anticipation of holidays in the sun on far-off beaches where the long waves curled and crashed on the golden sand.

Though he loved surfing, not for this man today the thundering rollers of Muriwai, Piha or Mangawhai. Instead he was riding the crest of another wave.

You could not blame Dr David Corbishley, graduate of the University of New Zealand with a doctorate from the world famous School of Mines at the University of Washington in Seattle, for being exhilarated with his career, or, should we say, the brilliance which this career was about to bring him. Already he was finding his niche in his Department by his contact with the corporate world which was the elixir for its survival. Now he believed himself to be on the cusp of a discovery which would in his opinion involve these financial interests in profitable development of his country’s untapped mineral resources. The prospects were mind-boggling.

Today he would start to pull it all together.

But suddenly the whistling broke off in mid bar.

Wheeling round the corner, he saw before him a stranger in a well-cut light grey suit. He appeared fifty-ish with greying hair, but with a short, powerful physique. He was studying intently one of the geological maps.

Hoping his enthusiasm had not affected the image he wanted to convey, he applied the brakes, slowed down, parked and cleared his throat politely. “May I help you?”

The man turned. The face was square and commanding and the blue eyes piercing. “Are you a student here?”

It was an understandable mistake. He was thirty-one but looked younger. “Actually, I’m a senior lecturer – Dr Corbishley.” He offered his hand.

The stranger lifted his eyebrows momentarily but kept his hands at his side. Instead he indicated the map. “I’m looking at the Raukumaras. What can you tell me about the geology?”

David put on his knowledgeable lecturer’s voice. “The Tapuaeroa valley has some interesting igneous extrusions. Several mineral surveys have been done there.”

“I’m only interested in the middle.”

“Beyond Hikurangi?”

“That’s what I said.”

These sorts of men were brusque. Business people went straight to the point. The profit, of course. “Although it’s a Forest Park under the Forest Service there’s great potential. Unfortunately, we haven’t any detailed mineral surveys. One of my colleagues went in there three years ago, but he took all his research when he left.” Realising as soon as he said it that this would be discouraging, he went on quickly. “However, it would be easy enough to do another survey and we could give you an idea of which areas would be the most likely.”

He paused expectantly, but the other continued to examine the maps.

“It’s a good opportunity now because the Forest Service may be changing the zoning. However, the survey would have to be done soon, and you’d need to show there was mineral potential before the submissions on the new management plan proposal close on May 1st.”

The other still had his eyes on the maps.

He decided to take the plunge. “As a matter of fact I’m just completing some new research which may be of interest in the presentation of a case.”

At last the businessman turned and his glance was so direct that it was disconcerting. “What was his name?”

“Who?”

“Your colleague.”

“Oh – Tane, Dr Tane Ngata.”

“Where can I contact him?”

“You’re sure I can’t help?”

“No.”

“Well – we’re not sure where he’s gone.”

“You mean he’s at another university.”

“Not exactly.”

“So you don’t know if he found anything.”

“We have no record.”

For a moment the sharp, deep-set eyes bored right into him. Then they focused on the maps again. He spoke in an undertone. “Perhaps that’s just as well.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“If he had, that would be the end.”

“The end – of what?”

“A prime wilderness area, the last in New Zealand.”

David watched his visitor go away down the corridor. The suit was not so well cut after all. His shoulders were wide and muscular, and for a short man, he walked with surprisingly long, lunging steps.

“What an idiot – trying to disguise himself as a businessman!”

Strangely, his whistle had gone and his zest for work. He sat in his office drumming on his desk with fingers which should have been flying over his typewriter. His mouth was set in a hard frown and a deep vertical furrow ran down the middle of his forehead.

The guy was obviously a greenie and opposed to all that he was about to do.

But that, curiously enough, was not the problem. His open youthful face suddenly twisted and there rose up in him an uncharacteristic and inexplicable anger.

“Tane! Why the hell did he want to know about Tane?”

CHAPTER 2

The last rays of the sun lingered on the river flat below the newly completed Forest Service hut. Around the hut the waving grasses which had shimmered golden-brown all day were turning grey as a light breeze rustled through them. The crisp bite of a mountain evening was already in the air.

Two men were kneeling behind a large rock close to the hut which commanded a view right down the flat. One held a pair of binoculars, the other a Winchester 308 rifle that rested on the rock itself. Both instruments were trained on some objects further down in the valley.

The man with the binoculars turned and eyed the finger on the trigger. “Put it away.”

The man with the rifle lifted it up and as he did so the sun glinted momentarily on the barrel.

The speaker had a ginger goatee beard and a crisp, authoritative voice. He focused his binoculars again. “They’re staying down there by the river,” he said. “Mad Kiwis.” He added a few words in another language.

The other man answered with a hollow laugh.

Shortly afterwards, the two watchers got up and strode briskly up the rise to the hut. As they went, the sun dipped below the ridge. The shadows from the bluffs behind the hut came out towards them, and a damp chill spread over the valley as the mists began to drift down from the mountains.

***

“This’ll do us, Bill!”

The short, square-faced man with the greying hair lowered his pack on the grassy flat beside the river and lay down to test a patch of springy pohuehue, commonly known as ‘Maori mattress’. Having done this, he jumped up and started breaking off dry twigs from the bushes nearby and making them into a little pile.

“Fine night. We won’t need the tent. And this turpentine bush is just the stuff to get a fire going.”

His lantern-jawed companion, comfortably reclining against his pack and stretching out his long legs, glanced at the sky but made no effort to join in the activity. Instead he took out a cigarette. “Isn’t the new hut somewhere round here?” he asked.

“Probably just round the corner!” said the short man scornfully. “Do you know Forestry has just put in a helipad to fly in parties of overseas adventure tourists?”

“We’re not going there?”

He was answered with a derisive grunt. “That hotel!”

“Fair enough,” said the other, lighting up and taking his first puff. Staying at a hut didn’t worry him because the mattresses would have been more comfortable than the pohuehue. “Any deer, I wonder?” he went on philosophically as he scanned the grassy river flat for movement. Although he had not brought his rifle, the action was a reflex one for him. It was a long flat and he could see possibly 500 metres up the valley. The late afternoon sun was still on it, but the shadows were advancing from the valley sides. Suddenly he stiffened.

“There’s something up there behind that big rock.”

“Deer?”

“No. A flash in the sun. Metal, I think.”

“Do you think it’s the hut?”

“No, it was moving. Gone now.”

***

That second-to-last night in December, as Stan McTaggart lay back under the stars warmly cocooned in his sleeping bag, he thought with relish of the great shapes that loomed ahead where he and Bill Weatherley were to spend the next ten days. These were the Raukumara Ranges, which stretched from the Urewera to East Cape and were the most rugged and also the least known of New Zealand’s great forested ranges.

Beyond the headwaters of the Waiwawa lay fifty miles of high mountain country, often mist-covered even in summer, and deeply gashed by impenetrable gorges lined with black slimy rock which hardly saw the light of day. Above the bushline were rocky crags and peaks covered with a dense jungle of leatherwood. Great rivers had formed in the heart of the mountains and, rolling logs and boulders before them, every decade terrorised the lowland farmers with ferocious floods. Here, before the European came, Ngati Porou on the eastern side and Te Whanau-a-Apanui on the west fought and ambushed each other on the incredibly difficult trail which once linked the head of the Tapuaeroa to the headwaters of the Raukokore and the Kereu. Along this trail are sites like “the place where hundreds weep” and “the place where the greenstone mere is sharpened”. Later, here and in the adjacent Urewera, Te Kooti, the daring Hau Hau leader, and Rua, the prophet of Maungapohatu, had found sanctuaries, hidden from Pakeha eyes, where they inspired their followers, the Tuhoe, the people of the mist, with visions as awesome and mysterious as the mountains themselves.

Only Hikurangi, the great sacred mountain on the eastern boundary, had a track to its summit.

Yet sleep did not come to Stan.

Angry thoughts kept churning over. The management plan put out before Christmas proposed to open up the Raukumaras to swarms of camera-clicking, helicopter-riding, dollar-spending, overseas adventure tourists. The Government had suddenly decided that the Raukumaras had huge potential and needed promoting as the finest “wilderness experience area” in the world. They wanted to build huts, tracks and helipads everywhere. The newly completed Upper Waiwawa Hut was mentioned ominously as a “gateway”.

It was going to be a battle to keep the present zoning. The great forested interior was virtually without tracks or huts. You might almost call it a “de facto” wilderness; a place where those with a pioneer spirit could find their own way using a compass, swimming rivers and bush-crashing up leading ridges in order that they might retain the rugged spirit of independence which was part of the New Zealand character.

Stan was an old-fashioned tramper with an old-fashioned ambition. His aim was to discover a valley which no one else had trod. To him this could be found only at what he called “the point of maximum inaccessibility”. In November he had pored long over the inch-to-the-mile topographic maps of the Raukumara Ranges. From the Urewera to East Cape they had been spread out on the lounge floor so that he could study every valley, every ridge in their great green heart.

At last he had seen it! A valley of which there were no records, where the contours formed a solid brown band writhing like a snake in the heart of the central massif, a valley with a “would it go or wouldn’t it” gorge. His finger rested on it while his heart thrilled.

It was his forgotten valley, his Shangri La.

The name on it was Waitoa. Aptly the translation of the Maori was “rough waters”.

But he still couldn’t sleep. Because of the proposed change in the zoning and the new emphasis on development, the multinational mining companies were hovering like vultures waiting for the relaxing of the rules of the present Forest Park. He fumed as he recalled his visit to the University before Christmas. That bumptious young lecturer in the geology department who had been so full of his own importance had even had the cheek to ask him if he wanted a mineral survey done.

Strange that he didn’t want to know about that colleague of his who had done the survey. Yet he would have liked to talk to the chap. Before each trip he made a point of getting to know about things like limestone belts and possible caves and underground rivers

The tiredness after ten hours of fording and re-fording the Waiwawa at last overcame him. His aching legs stretched out deliciously on the mattress of pohuehue. Bill was already snoring. A few yards away the infant Waiwawa gambolled and sang its way along through the flat.

Why can’t they leave the mountains alone?

CHAPTER 3

Bill was a deerstalker.

He read the ground like a book. He observed recent hoof prints, droppings, chewed shoots, broken branches, scents on the wind and other signs of the presence of deer. As they walked up to the Waiwawa Hut at about nine o’clock the next morning, he glanced behind the rock which turned out to be just below the hut. He also looked carefully all around the valley and the hill slopes. As he approached the hut, he turned aside to examine the helipad just below it.

A lean, athletic man sat on the bench outside cleaning his rifle. His clean shorts and shirt, his long socks and polished shoes would not have been out of place in a suburban shopping mall.

“Gidday,” said Bill in his slow, laconic drawl, noting the Winchester 308.

Stan added briskly. “Just on our way through.”

“Where are you blokes from?” Bill continued pleasantly.

The other looked at him blankly. “No speak English.”

“Let’s sign the hut book and get going,” said Stan looking at his watch.

“Hut book,” said Bill slowly and distinctly.

The other nodded and disappeared inside murmuring “hut boo-ook”.

“Bloody tourists!” said Stan.

Bill examined the row of boots on the verandah. He counted twelve pairs. The party seemed unusually quiet.

An older man, similarly neat, clean and athletic, but tall, spare and with a ginger goatee, came to the door with a book in his hand.

“Sorry to interrupt your morning prayer, boss,” Bill said.

There was no hint of a smile. “I am the leader of the tourist party which is staying in this hut,” the other replied. “I have been asked to check the routes of all other parties coming through. Would you please tell me your route and where you camped last night?”

The accent intrigued him too. Was it South African? “We came up the Waiwawa yesterday,” he replied. “Last night we camped on the flat just below here. You must have seen the smoke from our fire.”

The other looked at him suspiciously. “I don’t understand.”

“I thought I saw one of your party looking at us from behind that rock below the hut just before the sun went down.”

“I need to know your route.”

A hearing problem? Bill quickly changed the subject. “Those 308s look just the job. Many deer round here?”

The voice was showing increasing impatience. “Your route, please?” the goatee asked a third time.

Short on the fellowship of the hills, thought Bill. But the route was not his department. He looked towards his companion.

“We thought we’d have a crack at the Waitoa,” said Stan, using the typical Kiwi understatement but not without an element of pride.

There was a short pause. “The Waitoa,” said the leader, emphasising every vowel carefully in his clipped accent, “is closed.”

“Closed!” Stan threw down his pack and thrust his face almost right into the goatee. “What do you mean closed? No one’s ever even been there!”

“These are official instructions from the Director-General of the Forestry Service.”

“The Director can go and get lost! It’s a public Forest Park. He can’t just close valleys like that!” He disliked intensely those small shifty eyes, the flat voice, the ridiculous little goatee.

“There must be some reason,” Bill said quietly.

“Two days ago on December 29th there was a discovery in the Waitoa.”

“What kind of discovery?”

“A formerly extinct bird,” replied the tourist party leader.

“Which one?”

“The huia.”

This new shock was too much for Stan. He reeled away muttering “Huia! Huia!”

“Congratulations!” said Bill, and offered his hand to the man with the ginger goatee. “Who were the lucky ones to spot it?”

“We have two wildlife consultants with our party,” the leader replied. “One is a member of the Ornithological Society. They came back here immediately, and Kevin Carr – he’s the member of the Ornithological Society – went in the helicopter to Rotorua to put a call through to the Director-General. Then he flew down to Wellington to show him the photos and the sighting reports.”

“Kevin Carr!” Stan seemed to have difficulty with the name.

“I expect they got into the Waitoa with the helicopter,” Bill continued coolly. “How many have you got?”

“We have only one helicopter.”

“What kind?”

“A Squirrel.”

“Just the job.”

Stan couldn’t offer his hand. It was his valley they were shutting him out of. They had violated it with a helicopter and travelled there in obnoxious comfort in under an hour. He would have taken three days down that terrible gorge. And they had discovered a huia, the Maori royal bird, a bird extinct for over sixty years. He would never in his wildest dreams have thought that a huia could be found there. But the cruellest thing of all was the man who had discovered it – Kevin Carr – a person he knew in the Ornithological Society and intensely disliked.

To hell with him!

The party leader was handing him the hut book and a ballpoint pen, but he pushed it away. “If I can’t go to the Waitoa, I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Let’s have a look at the map,” said Bill.

Stan, a little surprised, produced the map from his pack. Bill studied it carefully. “What about up Mt Waiwawa, along the ridge to Devil’s Peak, then down the Raukawa and out to Mangaorongo Station.”

“Oh, all right,” he said. “One, two, three, four, five, six days, plus two for safety. That should get us out before January 7th – unless the river floods.” He began to write in the book, then paused to read the names of the silent party, but the man with the goatee motioned him on. He finished his entry, including names, proposed route and estimated time of arrival at Mangaorongo Station.

They were ready to go. The leader stood waiting and there was no conversation. They heaved up their sixty-pound packs.

“Good shooting!” said Bill, as they lumbered off slowly up the hill.

The man with the ginger goatee didn’t reply but continued to watch them as if he wanted to make sure they chose the route that they had indicated.

The route rose steeply up the open tussocky ridge of Mt. Waiwawa. Stan, still seething, was beginning to feel the heat of the climbing sun. They stopped for a rest and a handful of scroggin a thousand feet above the hut. Not a word had been spoken since they had left it.

“You know, it strikes me as curious,” said Bill, speaking in his slow way, “that the leader of the tourist party didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t really listening.”

“That flash in the sun I saw. What is metal and moves?”

“Kevin Carr – that creep!” he continued to seethe.

“Think, Stan.”

“Oh – ice axe, binoculars, rifle?”

“Most likely to be a rifle as they were doing some shooting,” said Bill. “Did you notice anything unusual about the party in the hut?”

“Bloody arrogant dollar-toting tourists – but what can you expect in that ‘hotel’?”

“Would you say they were unusually quiet for adventure tourists?”

“That officious, slimy character behaving like he owned the whole shebang,” he seethed again.

“He didn’t smile at lot, did he?”

“Tried to make us feel like petty crims.”

“But all the same he was extremely efficient.”

Stan eyed Bill in surprise. His casual, easygoing companion could on rare occasions, usually on sighting a deer, move fast and in a totally unexpected direction.

“Too efficient not to keep a watch out last night,” Bill continued. “And that rock was the nearest point to the hut where you can get a view down the valley. We went past it on the way up and I saw signs that possibly two people had been kneeling behind it. Yet for some reason that leader bloke didn’t want to admit that they’d been watching us. And it couldn’t have been anyone else because I also checked the valley for other campers as we came up. Another thing I noticed this morning was someone with binoculars standing at the lounge window, watching us approach.”

“I thought you were watching out for deer as we came up to the hut.”

“I don’t mind watching, but I don’t like being watched. I also checked the helipad. Two helicopters had been using the pad in the last forty-eight hours. One was small, the Squirrel that he mentioned. The other had larger skid marks and was probably bigger and heavier. But the leader said they had only the Squirrel, which would have taken Kevin to Rotorua.”

He had a healthy respect for Bill’s opinions, partly because they were so seldom voiced. But the way Bill had acted in choosing the route was totally out of character. “That route. How did you work it out? You never even look at the maps.”

“Stan,” said Bill very deliberately. “I wasn’t thinking of going on that route.”

“Wha-at?”

“Would you like to keep to your original route?”

He looked at Bill incredulously. “To the Waitoa, you mean? But why? It’s a huia sanctuary.”

“I’ve just got a hunch.”

“About that party?”

“That bloke was hiding something from us. I don’t believe his party were adventure tourists.”

“Who were they then?”

“I don’t know, but he looked as if he had been in the military.”

“SAS? They always train secretly.”

Bill shrugged.

“What about Forestry?”

There was no answer.

Stan did not repeat the question. He couldn’t understand Bill’s suspicions and normally he wouldn’t dream of violating a sanctuary. But at this moment the suggestion fell on fertile ground. He hated being prevented from achieving his ambition; he hated being worsted by a man like Kevin Carr. His anger overrode his judgment. All he wanted to do was to get to the Waitoa.

The thrill of discovery came flooding back, but with it came something else, a feeling which he tried to stifle. Was it defiance, or was it a vague premonition of danger?

Two days after leaving the Waiwawa Hut they compass-crashed through matted leatherwood on the eastern slopes of Devil’s Peak, then descended rocky bluffs by rope. As mist gave way to darkness, they made camp on the banks of a small stream running through the fuchsia forest. It was the headwaters of the Waitoa.

CHAPTER 4

Kate Fairweather was so excited over the morning’s Herald that she forgot breakfast. There it was – the bird itself in the middle of the front page and the bold type splashed right across the next two pages of the first edition of the year:

WELCOME BACK, ROYAL BIRD!

The almost legendary royal bird of the Maori people, the huia, lives again! Deep in the heart of the Raukumara Ranges, New Zealand’s largest and most impenetrable forested mountain system stretching from the Urewera to East Cape, a huia has been sighted. The discovery was made by Kevin Carr, a member of the Ornithological Society, on a special expedition to the Waitoa Valley on December 29th and has been confirmed by Dr Gerald Holcroft, recently appointed Director-General of the New Zealand Forest Service.

Dr Holcroft said the description tallied in all respects and was from a reputable source. “In view of the significance of this discovery, the Department in conjunction with the whanau Apanui upon whose land the huia has been found has closed the valley. It is now taking steps to gazette the whole of the Waitoa Valley as a permanent huia sanctuary to come under the most rigid scientific classification of reserve with public entry completely forbidden. Now that the huia has been rediscovered, we want to give it every chance to live and breed without interference. It has sadly to be admitted that the presumed extinction of this magnificent bird has been mainly the result of human greed,” he concluded.

“That’s for sure!” Kate read on.

The huia is larger than a tui, but smaller than a magpie. It is glossy black with beautiful white tail plumes. An interesting feature is that the beak of the female is three times the length of the beak of the male, an example of division of labour between the sexes. After the male has broken up a log with his strong, short beak, the female inserts her longer beak to extract the grubs. The sexual differentiation in the beaks makes the sexes mutually interdependent, and they mate for life.

The officer in charge of the new sanctuary, Dick Burton, wildlife ranger at Rotorua, stated: “I have been on several expeditions to the Huiarau Ranges in the Urewera, and never saw a huia, though we once saw a log that could have been pecked by one. The only reason the huia have survived in the Waitoa Valley is quite simple. Probably no humans have ever been in there. The huia have just kept retreating to the inaccessible ranges of the east, as man has advanced with his burning, logging, hunting, making tracks, huts and National Parks. The only way to keep the huia there is to keep people out.”

“Absolutely right!”

The huia was greatly prized by the Maori for its decorative tail feathers. These plumes were worn by rangatira on ceremonial occasions, and hence the huia has often been referred to as the royal or sacred bird. This very fact became the undoing of the huia. With the coming of the Pakeha, two things happened. The old tapu which restricted the hunting season for the huia were weakened. At the same time the huia feathers became more commonly worn, and began to command a very high value on the market. A large-scale slaughter commenced. This reached its height round the turn of the century. In 1902 when the Duke of York visited New Zealand, there was an insatiable demand for huia feathers by all Maori of chiefly rank. Another factor was the reduction of the natural habitat of the huia by the clearing of the bush in the lowland areas of the North Island. By the early 1900s protective measures were too weak and too late. The last authenticated sighting of a huia was in the Tararua Ranges in December 1907. Since then there have been many reported sightings, but none have been authenticated.  

She got up from the breakfast table, unhooked the phone in the hall and dialled a number. “What a great way to start the New Year, John! Forestry have got their priorities right at last.”

John McTaggart was the chairman of the Auckland Branch of the Ornithological Society. “Yes, the new Director-General comes from a different camp than the last.”

“They mention the Duke of York but not Andreas Reischek. Didn’t he have a special studio in Auckland just for stuffing huia which he sent back to Austria?”

“It was all a case of supply and demand. They were a world-class bird and there was a huge demand by European museums and big money being offered. The trouble was in the 1880s there were cameras but they were too cumbersome to lug into the bush. You had to have either a stuffed bird or a painted one. Even Sir Walter Buller shot or captured a few and got Keulemans to paint them when he brought them out. Keulemans’ paintings are as good as photos.”

Mentally Kate made a note to have another look at Keulemans’ painting of the huia in the 1967 reprint of Buller in the Society’s Library. “I suppose it was the sexually differentiated feeding habits which made them unique.”

“Wouldn’t suit you,” John chuckled. “You’d have to have a husband to do your foraging.”

Kate at 29 was probably the youngest secretary the Society had ever had. Because she was enthusiastic, intelligent, attractive and efficient, they could hardly believe their good fortune when she offered her services. She was not put off by the lack of eligible young men in the Society. Her career and birds were her passions. “If I had to rely on a man like that, I’d never get married.”

“Husbands are sometimes useful for paying the food bills.”

She snorted. “You’re living in the past, John!”

“Like the huia, you mean.”

“Seriously though, if I recall, wasn’t Stan headed for the same valley?”

“That’s the one, the Waitoa.”

“Poor Stan!”

“Best thing that could have happened. He and Bill are getting far too old for that sort of country. I wish Stan hadn’t got this ridiculous bug about discovering a forgotten valley. All part of his crusade about keeping the wilderness. Now Forestry have done it all for him.”

John was an accountant, hardworking, conscientious, honest, but a little unimaginative. He was a person to whom you went for balanced and careful professional advice. Kate wondered how well he understood his considerably older brother. “Pity the huia had to be found by a type like that, though.”

“Who? Kevin you mean? Don’t be catty. I know he’s rather shy and not all that well known in the Society. Probably hasn’t been on enough trips.”

“Only one interest, that’s why,” she said. “Only birds he wants to look for are those heading for extinction.”

“That’s right. He was on the trip to Little Barrier when we were looking for kokako. Though strangely enough the thing I remember most about him then was his argument with Stan.”

“What happened?” asked Kate. “I’m sorry I missed that trip.”

“Stan was on one of his political raves, going on about rare people being just as important as rare birds. Only by rare people it turned that he meant the racial minorities of this country, especially the Maori.”

“I agree with him about the Maori,” she said quietly.

“Do you really,” he said quizzically, “even with the hold-ups?” Then he went on quickly without waiting for an answer. “Well, Kevin, like so many other people, didn’t. I’ve never seen a quiet shy chap get so worked up as he did then. It seemed as if he had some phobia about Maori claims to mountains and rivers under the Treaty of Waitangi. For the rest of the trip, we wished we hadn’t been on an island.”

“So Stan won’t be too happy about Kevin making the discovery.”

“That’s the understatement of the year!”

For some reason Kate couldn’t stop thinking about Stan.

“What’s the news about him and Bill?”

“Apparently they left a note at the Waiwawa Hut saying that they were going out another way. Mangaororongo Station.”

“That’s on the Gisborne side, isn’t it?

“It’s tough but they’ll make it.”

Though she heard John’s reassuring words,  she was not entirely convinced. There was something wrong with the chemistry between Stan and Kevin. Stan was like a bomb waiting to explode. You could never quite tell how he would react.

CHAPTER 5

“The god of the night has been appeased. The sacred bird has been returned to the land of the living.”

The distinguished-looking white-haired man leaned on his tokotoko in the ornately carved porch of the meeting house at Te Kaha. As he did so, he looked towards the great ranges which loomed up behind the little eastern Bay of Plenty coastal settlement.

They were the gift of Tane and Papatuanuku, Te Whanau-a-Apanui tribal land which reached from the eastern Bay of Plenty coast to the western watershed of the Raukumara Ranges. It was not owned but held in stewardship to be shared then passed on. Because his people had joined Major Ropata Wahawaha of Ngati Porou to fight with the Government forces against the Hauhau, their land had not been confiscated. The adjoining Whakatohea were not so fortunate.

Generation after generation had loved the deep shadowy clefts of rivers and valleys, the foaming water that roared through the dark rocks, the mysterious up-sweeping forested ridges, the great razor-sharp rocky peaks piercing the summer sky. They were a source of kai: sweet pork in the ferny hollows, eels in the deep pools, plump kereru, fleshy karaka berries. Where the red-barked totara grew strong on the ridges, there was timber for their waka and their houses. Here were to be discovered the rongo-ma-tane, the traditional medicines by which diseases were healed.

But you never knew with the younger generation now. The Pakeha way was different – wanting things for yourself all the time. He feared that they would listen to those who did not understand the wairua, the spirit of the land.

The huia would bring back the wisdom of the elders, the wisdom in which he had been trained from his boyhood. As senior kaumatua of Te Whanau-a-Apanui he had welcomed it as a member of their tribe. It was their special taonga or treasure because it had been found on their land. The mana of the royal bird had added to their mana. They would extend to it their mana-iki, their love and welcome and hospitality.

He had been informed by the Director-General as soon as the huia had been discovered. After he had spoken with his fellow elders, some of them had travelled down to the foothills of the Tararua near Palmerston North where the huia had last been sighted in 1907. When they returned, the iwi had held a ceremony at Te Kaha to welcome back the royal bird. The place of its departure and the place of its return had been noted.

Now it remained to explore the kaitiakitanga, the role of duty and obligation in protecting this taonga. The iwi would have a hui under the kaupapa atawhai to discuss a national recovery plan which the Director-General was going to implement. It had to agree to any proposal to remove the huia from its tribal area. It would also be involved in the upholding of the rahui, the exclusion of hunters and dogs from the sanctuary area which had already been gazetted.

It was strange though, the valley where it had been found. There was already a rahui there. Not only was it probably the most remote and inaccessible valley in the Raukumara, but it had a fearsome reputation. Some years ago a young member of the whanau was believed to have ventured there but on his return had died mysteriously. He had known the family well, especially the boy’s grandmother, and there was much sadness among them.

But that was not all. The knuckles of his hands on the tokotoko stiffened and whitened.

Three years ago he had seen it, the tutumaiao. It was over those same ranges. He remembered the screams from the women and the fear he felt as he and the other elders huddled together in its eerie red glow.

He remembered how the whole settlement was filled with accusations as each family accused the other of a breach of tapu. Who had been careless and built on an urupa or burial ground or disregarded a sacred place, a wahi tapu? He and the other elders had tried to calm the people and had searched a long time for the defilement. But they had found nothing.

Was it just a coincidence that in the last three years there had been two serious rafting accidents on the Motu, both involving fatalities? People said that they had both been caused by the freak midday storms which thundered and flashed among those ominous towering rocky peaks in the heart of the ranges. He saw in his mind’s eye the turbulent swirling flash floods which would afterwards have surged down the dark and gloomy gorges into the Motu.

Then there had been the pig hunters who had never returned, both experienced men, and the fishermen drowned off Pataratara, and the maize and the kumara crops which had failed.

But now all this was to be set aside. The rediscovery of the royal bird was a good omen. The ceremony which they held for it would restore kotahitanga, the unity of all creation, the harmony of the spiritual forces. The huia was the bird of thunder which came from Whaitiri, the god of lightning, and the pet of Whaitiri’s grandson, Tawhaki, who with his companion bird, the kotuku, fetched the basket of knowledge from the upper heaven.

There was trouble now with some of the Maori people, fortunately not with his people. The bird of thunder would intercede with Papa and Tane. It would bring Te Aomarama, the world of light, and the land would be healed.

***

Kate, who came from a farm at Opotiki, had always taken an interest in Maoritanga. Boarding at a well-known Anglican school in Auckland, she had been surprised that there was no Maori language and customs course. However, at Auckland University she was able to take this course as part of her commerce degree. After her graduation she had spent two years in London at the head office of a large multinational accounting firm. Returning to New Zealand she had obtained a position in the Auckland branch of this firm and was now an audit manager.

A few days after the announcement of the rediscovery she had had a call from the conservator of the Wildlife Service at Auckland with which she was involved as a volunteer. “We’re getting together a programme about the huia to show around schools and other groups. We’ve been flooded with requests. One of the things we want to talk about is the significance to the Maori. I know you’re up with Maoritanga. Would you mind giving us a hand with the advocacy side?”

“I’d like to do it,” she had replied, “but my holidays are taken up with helping you chaps ringing birds on Little Barrier.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got bags of volunteers for those projects. We thought you could make up a talk with some slides and go around the children’s holiday programmes and there’s lots of community groups like Rotary who have been enquiring.”

“Neat,” she replied.

Kate had more than one reason for taking on the work of advocacy.

She was uneasy about her own family history. The Fairweather family farm was located on land originally confiscated from the local Maori iwi, Te Whakatohea, because it was believed they had been implicated in the killing of the missionary Carl Volkner at Opotiki during the New Zealand Wars. For the life of one Pakeha three men had been hanged and a whole tribe dispossessed of their land. Many of the tribe too appeared to have been unwilling participants.

Nevertheless, the Fairweather land and all the best land on the Opotiki flat, the fertile alluvial plain of the Waioeka River, remained alienated from its former Maori owners.

Te Whakatohea had retained only the land which was less useful for farming, the land beyond the confiscation line which ran at the foot of the mountains.

One of the breaking news stories on TV at six o’clock that night pictured a new group of Maori activists styling themselves Nga Tama.

“Our royal bird should never have been allowed to become extinct,” said their spokesman, a man with dreadlocks and a moko. “It was white colonialism that despoiled our land. When the King sent his son here in 1902, they made our leaders grovel before him with their huia feathers. That was how all the huia were killed. It was a Pakeha holocaust.”

“So, what do you plan to do?” he was asked.

“Our solicitors are preparing a suit against the Crown. We want more than an apology. We are entitled to damages for the loss of the mana which was based on the possession of this taonga.”

“What else do you want?”

“We are asking for special access to our bird which is part of our rangatiratanga according to the provisions of the Treaty of Waitangi. If this access is denied, we want compensation for this as well.”

“How much will you be claiming?”

“We are talking with our solicitor who will be filing the claim.”

“How do you think the public of New Zealand will feel about this?”

The man with dreadlocks shrugged his shoulders. “It’s only justice.”

Kate’s reaction was mixed. Yes, Nga Tama had a case and some Pakeha would be sympathetic, perhaps more so if they weren’t so extreme.  

It was true that in the early 70s the myth of New Zealand as a model of good race relations was no longer being accepted. There was increasing realisation that the confiscations after the New Zealand Wars were wrong. There was talk of a big land march and there was evidence that the Maori were mobilising to claim back the land they had lost. Moreover, these claims were based on the Treaty of Waitangi between the Maori tribes and the Crown in 1840, which had given Maori equal rights as British citizens.

But John was right about the hold-ups. The sickening violence used against motorists and their cars in the last few months by groups claiming to be separate tribal groups was alienating ordinary, decent New Zealanders.

She had been advised not to travel alone at night on the open road.

Perhaps the huia will bring us all together again.

CHAPTER 6

Why did my brother have to die?

Tane remembered the furtive service by the graveside. He and his parents were the only mourners huddled together in the grey cold dawn. Below the headland the long Pacific rollers seemed to be joining them too as they sucked back mournfully out of their caverns and reefs. Perhaps they were remembering the lithe youth who used to dive for kai moana in their hidden depths of waving kelp.

In the old days Hone, who was seven years older, played soccer almost every evening with his younger brother, showing Tane the moves he was perfecting as a budding football star, already competing as a member of Te Kaha’s under-fifteen side. Sometimes they would play into the dusk or until Mum called them in for bedtime. Hone was tall for his age and very fast, and Tane hoped that one day he would become as skilled as his older brother.

In Te Whanau-a-Apanui Tane’s family were of chiefly rank. Hone as the eldest son had shown great promise. When young he was reading books at double his age level. He was a leader among his schoolmates, not only academically but also in sport. He thirsted for traditional knowledge, seeking out the elders to hear their stories. He learned the old ways to gather food both from the sea and the great forest. But above all he had an adventurous spirit which showed itself in a passion for exploration. By the time he was fifteen, he would venture far up the valley of the Kereu into the great untracked ranges of the Raukumara.

Not long after a long trip into the mountains, the family noticed an uncharacteristic development. Hone seemed to tire of the games with Tane and he sometimes went to bed early instead of kicking the ball around for an hour after dinner. He left off playing for the club.

The change in the once boisterous confident young lad concerned the family doctor greatly. He arranged for some tests. The week following, the doctor called in with disturbing news. The tests showed abnormalities which needed further assessment. He suggested to Hone’s parents that they take him to Whakatane Hospital for further tests by a specialist. On their return nothing was said to Tane but he could see from his Mum’s stricken expression and red eyes that they had received terrible news about Hone’s health.

Soon the family could no longer look after him and he was taken to the Opotiki Hospital. One night they were called to the hospital urgently. His parents went in first to see Hone, then called him in. He saw Mum and Dad at Hone’s bedside. Dad was very quiet, standing by his Mum who was holding Hone’s hand. They motioned for him to come closer. Hone’s eyes flickered and he said softly. “Keep those goals coming, mate.” He then closed his eyes. Tane’s Mum uttered a terrible cry then threw herself over Hone as if trying to bring back the life which had passed away. His Dad raised her up gently and they all clung to one another, their bodies shaken with sobs .

Tane returned home heartbroken. Who would be his best friend? Who would teach him soccer? Who would read stories to him as his brother had? As the days went on, it seemed things only got worse. His Dad had a terrible argument with the elders about the funeral the morning after Hone had died. Tane’s Mum was distraught at the attitude of many in the community to whom she turned for comfort.

Tane’s mother and father could not bear both their son’s death and the hostility on the marae. They felt they had to leave Te Kaha and went to live in Whakatane. Not long after, on the unaccustomed busy roads of that town they were involved in a car accident in which both died. Tane was taken in by his grandmother back at Te Kaha. She was a formidable person, a kuia, a woman of rank whose name was legendary in Te Whanau-A-Apanui. Tane was determined to follow the example of his brother and eagerly absorbed all the ancient teaching which had been handed down to her and which she treasured.

But one thing was on his mind. On his eleventh birthday he mustered up courage.

“Why do you never talk about Hone?”

His grandmother was silent and looked at him for a long time. “He was a good brother to you?”

“He did everything with me.”

“Remember him that way.”

But Tane was not satisfied. “But why does no one remember him?”

“Did your parents tell you why he died?”

“They probably thought I was too young to understand.”

“Tane, there are some things which cannot be explained.”

“He did something that was wrong, didn’t he?”

She did not answer.

 “But why don’t you tell me what happened?”

There was still no response.

“There was a tapu, wasn’t there? That’s why the elders didn’t want a service in the church.”

“But why do you need to know?

“Because he was my brother and I cannot believe that he would do anything… like that.” He could bear it no more and burst into tears.

Behind her tough and weathered exterior she was a kind woman. She put her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his, and he felt it warm and wet with her own tears. “You are a good boy, Tane. And Hone was a good boy. I have told you all I know. Your life is before you. Go to a good school, get to university and work hard.” She paused, drew back and looked straight at him and said in her quiet way. “Some things are not right. If you can make them right, you will do well.”

The years passed. Tane never forgot his grandmother’s advice. He studied hard and excelled both at school and at university. But in everything he did he remembered his brother Hone and kept steadily before him the need to be worthy of him. Nor could he keep it out of his mind that one day he might clear his name.

CHAPTER 7

“Two trampers are overdue near the new huia sanctuary.”

It was January 12. David picked up the 1ZB headline on his transistor as he took a sip of coffee while working in his study in the Geology Department. Apart from time at home with his father at Christmas and New Year and doing a Rangitoto-to-St Heliers swim, he had not taken a holiday. What was the point when he did not have a wife or close friend that he wanted to go away with? Besides, his research was reaching an interesting stage.

The gazettal of the sanctuary together with the subsequent withdrawal of the new management plan proposal for the whole of the Raukumaras was a disaster. It was going to be more difficult to get mineral exploration licences anywhere in the Raukumaras.

Birds! Birds! How could the Government give away millions of dollars from an area with such potential for development?

Two Auckland men are overdue in the rugged Raukumara Ranges near East Cape. Originally the party were to attempt to reach the Waitoa Valley but, on being advised of the closure of the valley due to the rediscovery of the huia, they changed their route and were to come out at Mangaorongo Station in the Gisborne back country five days ago. The men are Stanley McTaggart and William Weatherley, both trampers of over thirty years’ experience. A search was commenced yesterday by the Gisborne and Opotiki police with assistance from Search and Rescue volunteers from Gisborne, Opotiki, Rotorua and Auckland.

Thirty years’ experience? The greenie who had called on him about the Raukumaras just before Christmas and been so abrasive? The creep looked about fifty. Was it just a coincidence?

Then that anger surged again. “Why the hell did he want to see Tane?”

David had met Tane when the latter joined the Department after gaining his doctorate at the Australian National University at Canberra. For the two years before Tane had taken off they had shared a flat in Grafton. He still lived in this flat, but on his own. It had been an unusual friendship, for the two were entirely different. David had an excellent brain, was tidy and methodical and worked hard and conscientiously. He was also gifted with a fine physique. As a result, it was not surprising that he had been successful in everything he did. He had been Dux at Auckland Grammar as well as school swimming champion, had gained First Class Honours at Auckland University and a doctorate at the University of Washington in Seattle. In his five years as a lecturer at the University of Auckland he had had several articles published in scientific journals and had done some administrative work in the Department. Partly as a result he had recently been appointed Senior Lecturer.

Conscious of his gifts, David was ambitious, but he knew that advancement in the Department meant working at the interface of research and development. Moreover, his superiors valued the direction of his ambition because they saw that it would help to build up the Department. In particular they noted his growing grasp of the application of geological research to large development projects and the way he was beginning to understand and relate to the business sector.

It might be mentioned too that David, the only son of an adoring and wealthy father, never lacked encouragement or financial assistance. Tane, on the other hand, was abrasive, unpredictable and erratic. But he was at the same time a genius, the foremost authority in the Department on minerals, deduction and analysis. An empathy or instinct for minerals together with uncanny powers of observation enabled him almost to see through rocks to their inner components. The scientific analysis of samples he regarded virtually as a second opinion to confirm what he already sensed by intuition.

But in his attitude towards the Department Tane had no idea of working as a member of a team. He did not share his research, and would even go as far as to seek embargoes on its use by anyone except himself. He refused to be associated with the Geological Survey.

But the main trouble with Tane in the eyes of his colleagues was that he appeared to have an agenda. He was of Whanau Apanui and had been brought up at Te Kaha on the East Coast beyond Opotiki where his grandmother had been deeply learned in Maoritanga. This knowledge she had passed on to him and his whole thinking was saturated with it. Even though he had chosen a scientific career, he didn’t always look at things scientifically. In a university which prided itself on academic freedom this was not unusual, but it was the way his Maoritanga influenced his evaluation of his colleagues’ work which caused the problem.

“You can’t go in and survey that valley because it’s full of wahi tapu that haven’t been put on the register yet.”

“You can’t touch that mountain. It has its own spirit and is sacred to the tangata whenua.”

His most exasperating response to their objections was, “You don’t feel the land. You don’t understand it.”

In the days before these matters obtained a measure of official recognition there was a suspicion among his colleagues that Tane’s objectivity as a scientist was affected by what might be loosely called “Maori spiritual values”. He spoke of wei or spirit and the mauri or life force. He would use Maori terms as much as scientific ones. He described exploring the secrets of the mountains as a kind of spiritual journey which involved sharing a relationship with the mountains, respecting their mana , entering into their taonga or treasures.

He almost seemed to be claiming that the mountains spoke to him.

David had a regard for the Maori too, particularly from boyhood holidays on the East Coast when his family had camped in remote coastal areas and had had contact with the local Maori landowners. However, his feeling might be said to be somewhat distant and paternalistic, and he would not have thought of connecting it with his present work.

The immediate problem for the Department was securing enough money from the Government and private firms to get research projects off the ground. Tane was respected for his geological ability, but the amorphous, uncomfortable – and commercially sterile – agenda of Maori spiritual values found little favour with his more hard-headed colleagues and even less from their private sponsors.

How could two such opposite personalities be drawn together?

From his earliest childhood David had been abnormally shy. Whether this had its origins in being a too-much loved only child or whether there were other factors, it could not be known. As he grew up, his sporting ability earned respect but he still found it difficult to form close relationships. As a compensation he had devoted himself to excelling in sport and his school and university work.

Nevertheless, he needed friendship.

Soon after Tane arrived at the University David saw how quickly the new lecturer became unpopular in the Department. Perhaps it is easier to befriend an outsider, and in his egotism David may have thought of himself as a benefactor.

Tane for his part was glad to have a colleague on the staff who did not cold-shoulder him. Whatever the cause, and motives are never entirely altruistic, these two lonely people became friends as well as flatmates.

That was how David got to know Tane’s story.

His brother’s death at the age of sixteen had had a profound effect on Tane. Hone’s illness and death had haunted him as he grew up. But the older Tane grew, the more he had wanted to ask questions. The mountains which Hone had visited on his last trip had held a secret which he felt he owed it to his brother to investigate. The conviction had grown in his mind that he would be a scientist, and geology seemed the logical choice. But his upbringing in Maoritanga still lay at the heart of his thinking.

To David there were depths in Tane, strange contradictions which he could not fathom and which he had neither time nor inclination to explore. This was a potential source of weakness in the friendship. David basically accepted things as they were, following uncritically his father’s conservative values. He tolerated – or perhaps endured – Tane’s ideas, but never understood them.

Tane misinterpreted David’s toleration as acceptance.

When Tane had resigned three years ago, it was not surprising that there were some in the Department who were personally relieved.

Yet there were unusual circumstances about his departure from the University. Tane had not just resigned – he had completely disappeared.

Since Tane had left, David had not tried to find another flatmate. Instead he had tried to fill up the gap in his life by total absorption in his work. His research increasingly took over his life. Once or twice it had crossed his mind that Tane would not have approved of his present project, but he was no longer around to ask questions. David had always been close to his father and looked upon him as a role model, though he was nearer in nature to his gentler mother. After she had died of cancer, and even more after Tane disappeared, he drew closer to his father. John Corbishley, who by then had his own real estate business, encouraged him, especially in his research, and helped out with funds where necessary. He even cherished the hope that one day his son, who was an only child and seemed to have business ability, might leave his University position and take over the business he was working hard to build up.

The radio announcement had brought it all back. He glanced at his appointment book. Was it just a coincidence? January 12th. It was this day, three years before, that the incident had occurred.

That November Tane had planned a major trip. Although he did not usually give any indication of where he was going, David knew that because of his brother’s death the Raukumara Ranges behind Te Kaha were of absorbing interest. He had come into the sitting room quietly early one night and found his friend sprawled on the floor on top of what appeared to be a series of NZ inch to the mile Topographic maps. David estimated six sheets and, seeing the shape of the East Cape and the far eastern Bay of Plenty coast, he knew that it was indeed the Raukumara Ranges. But Tane did not notice David at first for he was peering intently at a point near the middle of the maps. Suddenly he tapped with his finger excitedly. “There it is,” he said almost to himself.

“What is?” said David.

But Tane seemed displeased at his interruption, quickly folded up the maps and left the room.

On January 12, Tane returned from his trip. David sensed that he was more than usually unsettled but, again knowing his friend, did not question him on his trip. He surmised, however, that it had been in the Raukumaras. After David had prepared the dinner, they sat down together. Tane did not eat but sat abstractedly gazing out the window, moody and morose. Suddenly, he banged his fist on the table, and looked at David with those fiery eyes under the tousled mass of dark, curly hair.

“Why did he go there? He was mad. He should have listened to the elders.”

“Are you talking about your brother?”

“He broke the tapu, don’t you see. That’s why there was a curse on him. But he didn’t know what he was doing.”

“But surely that’s only a superstition.”

“Superstition!” The word was screamed at him. “Is that what you call it? Do you not know that the land itself can suffer? You Pakeha don’t understand. You think you can do with it whatever you bloody well like.”

“Oh yes,” said David. He had chosen and cooked the steak medium rare to his satisfaction; he cut it meticulously with his steak knife and ate it slowly, savouring each tidy, tasty portion.

Tane was on his feet now and had started to wave his arms as he sometimes did when he was excited. He made up for his short stature by his swift movements and his dark, animated features. His voice also was rising. “You Pakeha governments and your bloody filthy-rich corporations are just like children playing with toys. You just want to prove that you are men by the number of your fellow human beings you can blow to pieces at one time.”

“I can’t quite follow you.”

“Can’t you see that it is you and I that are really to blame?”

“I don’t understand.”

Tane was pacing the room now, his voice annoyingly strident. “You and I are geologists. We give them their toys, the resources to build their weapons of mass destruction. But these minerals don’t belong to us. They are part of the mauri, the life force of the earth. They are taonga which we must respect. They all have their own tapu. We are kaitiaki, guardians for them.”

David was by nature calm and unemotional. He usually just listened and let Tane’s diatribes wash over him. Tonight, uncharacteristically, he felt himself getting angry. It might have been Tane’s lack of appreciation for the meal he had so carefully cooked or the totally unscientific and superstitious way he was using the Maori words or the swearing at the development corporations whose contacts he found so useful in his research. He put down his steak knife. “Don’t you think you’re getting a bit carried away?”

“What do you mean?”

Though he had never argued with Tane before, the question goaded him. “Geologists are only doing their jobs,” he replied. “It’s not for us to question what the minerals we discover are used for. Every geologist has a duty to be loyal to his country.”  

Tane thrust his face right in front of him. The sweat of a long tramping trip assailed David’s nostrils unpleasantly. “Duty! Loyalty! You can’t be a proper scientist unless you think! Your loyalty means not thinking about what you are doing.”

David was hot now and controlling himself with difficulty. “I can’t understand why every time you think you have to be disloyal.”

“You don’t even think! You just copy your father’s opinions.”

The attack on his father was the last straw. The friendship had always been under tension on this level, and now the long smouldering fire burst into flame.

He completely forgot his steak and stood up. “Thinking! Thinking! You’re ruining your career. Listen, Tane, you’re not a politician. You’re a geologist. For God’s sake, keep to rocks!”

Tane had looked up at him in surprise.

David had been remorseless. He even pointed with his finger as he did sometimes when he was lecturing. “My advice to you, Tane, as your friend – and I’ve been anxious about you for some time – is this.” He was a mild man but his voice shook with a white-hot anger which he had never known before. “Forget your ideas and get on with your job!”

Tane had not replied. He had drawn back from David and stood quite still, his hands hanging limp and helpless at his side. His face was pale, and he had looked, just looked. It was almost as if he was seeing David for the first time. Then he had gone out of the room and closed the door.

For a long time David remembered that look and the sound of the door closing. Although he had never before lost his temper like this, he was too proud to take back his words. From that time, although they were flatmates, he and Tane ceased to be friends.

Soon after this there was a change in Tane. He became increasingly secretive and seemed to lose interest in the fieldwork that he had always loved. He hardly spoke to the other members of staff, even to argue. One day he told David he was resigning his lectureship and leaving Auckland. David made some inane comment about sacrificing all his training and his gifts.

“We’re just on different wavelengths,” Tane replied.

Had he heard from Tane? He remembered one postcard, but he had never made any attempt to find out where he was.

The quarrel had been a disagreeable episode in his life. He needed to forget it. In fact, he had been trying to forget it for three years. He had work to do. The project he had started just before Christmas was vital to him and to the Department. It was to be the defining point of his career. He turned to his notes again and tried to concentrate.

But it was no use.

Suddenly he realised how lonely he was. He lifted his eyes beyond the native trees that lined the drive outside the Geology building, beyond the old Chemistry buildings on Symonds Street. In his mind’s eye a great bushed range shimmered in the summer’s heat. He saw a dusty, worn pack and boots hastily thrown down on the verandah at the Grafton flat.

The anger he had felt at the disguised greenie just before Christmas had surprised him with its force. He had recognised it as the same anger that had welled up in him on that fateful evening to cause the quarrel, the anger that had ended his friendship with Tane. Why had he felt so angry? There had been no reason for it.

He had never felt this kind of anger before. Was it the attack on his father? Whatever it was, he had over-reacted.

In his mind’s eye he was back in the flat again, and Tane was looking at him after his attack. And in that look was no anger, no reproach and no retaliation. Only the look of a child who was surprised and hurt.

Tane, in his rebellious lonely paths and his abrasive argumentative manner, had trusted him. That was why he had started talking to him. He had mentioned his brother and had already opened his heart to him on his history as he had done to no one else. Perhaps there was something more that he wanted to talk about. He had cause to think that David would listen and understand. True, typically enough he was slow in getting to the point and had been diverted into provocative language.

But what had he done? He had allowed himself to retaliate angrily about what Tane had said and to get into an argument about what were probably side issues. He had closed his mind. He had been judgmental. He had refused to listen to what his friend really wanted to say.

Then Tane had gone out and the door had closed.

No, he was not emotional. But he couldn’t help it. The tears started running down his face as he saw once again that face, the face of the one friend he had had. The friend whom he had failed at the very time his help was needed. The friend that he had called a friend but had never made the effort to understand.

“Tane! I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing!”

David continued to act strangely.

Acting almost blindly as his tears continued to flow, he reached for his prized research project papers and swept them together into one file. Then he took the file, placed it in the lowest drawer of his metal filing cabinet, slammed the drawer shut and locked it. There was a finality, a satisfaction, a determination in the sound of that slam. He was deliberately closing a part of his life, a self-centred addiction to work which since Tane had left had acted like a drug to deaden his memory and all that had been true in that friendship.

Then with unusual agitation he began to search. It was not until his office looked as if it had been ransacked that he paused, holding up in triumph a postcard with a picture on it of Gisborne’s Wainui Beach. Tane had sent only one, shortly after he left Auckland. There had been no address, but right at the bottom he saw through his tears the familiar scrawl that was Tane’s handwriting.

“They’re wanting someone at Waitehaia Station”

Was it just a coincidence that Waitehaia bordered on the Raukumara Ranges, where he appeared to have made his last trip?

CHAPTER 8

If you go about as far east as you can go, and about as high, you come to a land that the rest of New Zealand has forgotten. It is the great empty expanse of the high backcountry between Gisborne and the East Cape.

Here snow lies sometimes in the winter, and, even in summer a chill wind blasts out from the strange pinnacles of rock that guard the approaches to a great mountain range. High up on the bare ridges, the charred stumps of rata still stand, forming ghostly patterns in the mist with the moss-encrusted fence posts and rusting wire.

Man, in his brief glory of axe and fire, established his hold, built his homesteads, sheltered them with macrocarpa, and covered the denuded hills with sheep. He was too greedy. The hills, over-burned and then over-grazed, fell off into the valleys, transforming the watercourses into wide seas of shingle. The forest fought back with its vanguard of bracken and second growth. In a softer age labour could not be enticed to live forty miles from the nearest pub. The homesteads decayed among the macrocarpa. Even the run-holders preferred to stay in town, making seasonal sorties for shearing and lambing, and for the rest of the time setting tank traps to deter rustlers.

Now there was profit in pine trees rather than sheep. The run-holders had not been reluctant to sell. A dark green sward began to move like a tide up the eroding hillsides where once stood in verdant splendour the triple canopy of the Raukumara.

***

WAITEHAIA STATION

TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF THE LAST TRESPASSER.

David gazed with some anxiety at the little wooden cross on the mound beside the notice.

“It’s those larrikins in the forestry camp out for free meat. Most of them are bloody townies. They’ve got no respect for anything.” The run-holder looked at David’s dusty Honda Accord. “Where are you from?”

“Actually, I’m from Auckland.”

“You haven’t got a gun, have you?”

Quickly David explained the purpose of his visit. It turned out that the notice belied Toby Wilson’s real character. It was only after more half-pints than he could really take, a dirge on the state of the economy, especially wool prices, and a recitation of the exploits of former All Blacks from Poverty Bay, that David was able to broach the subject again.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, Tane Ngata was a colleague of mine at University.’’  

“University, eh?” A long, searching look as the run-holder helped himself to another drink and drank it reflectively.

“I understand he used to work here. It would have been about three years ago.”

“Maori boy, eh. Pint-size with curly hair?” He nodded. “Never picked him for a professor. Lived in the whare at the end of the road, and did odd jobs round the station. Kept to himself. The missus and I didn’t see very much of him. He didn’t stay long. Not more than a month or two as far as I can remember.” His weather-beaten face looked out the window.

“I’d really be grateful if you could help me. I’m worried about him. He could be in trouble.”

“Trouble, eh?” The voice had that Maori drawl which Pakeha acquire if they have been long on the East Coast.

“No one has heard from him for three years. This station was the last contact.”

“There’s all sorts of bloody goings-on you read in the papers. Blokes getting chopped up into little bits. International gangs and the like.” David was being eyed in a curious way. “We wouldn’t be wanting that carry-on here.”

“I realise he might have been a difficult employee.”

“Difficult, eh?” He poured David another drink. “OK, I’ll tell you. I thought he was a crook.”

David looked at him in surprise.

“The police told me some bastard was growing cannabis round here. I had my suspicions when this bloke spent so much time up the back and he didn’t shoot pigs or possums. So one day I followed him. I didn’t see any plant, but I saw him.”

Toby held out the bottle towards David’s glass, but David shook his head energetically.

The run-holder pointed to a long bare ridge which ran up from the farm buildings. “He was squatting up there beyond the last gate. You look out on the big range from there. At first he didn’t see me. Then he turned round and shot off so fast that I couldn’t see where he went.”

“What was he doing when you first saw him?”

The reply was slow in coming. “I couldn’t believe it at first.”

David waited.

“He was bawling.”

There was another long pause. “I like my hands to be happy. They work better. So next time I knew he was home, I took a couple of bottles with me. You see I yak a bit with them and he never used to come up to the house. I went down to ask him if he’d care for a drop. Well I knew he was there, but he didn’t answer. So I opened the door. He starts yelling at me. “Leave me alone!”

“After that, I couldn’t get him to work any more. I think he used to go off out the back most days. If I saw him he’d clear off in the opposite direction. I thought he was on drugs. Watery eyes, never shaved or washed his clothes. Once I asked the doctor to call, but he never let him in. The police kept on asking me about him, and one day they came up, and demanded to search the whare where he lived. I went up with them. He was out, and we broke in. Didn’t realise it leaked. I wouldn’t have let a bloody dog sleep there if I’d known. No sign of any drugs though. While they were searching, he showed up. They called out to him, but he backed away and hid behind some logs, just like a bloody animal. They went after him and he lit off. We never saw him again. The police put a search out for him and a warrant, but no one round here has seen him since.”

That afternoon David climbed the hill behind the homestead. He followed the fence line which led up the long ridge. It was a blazing hot day, and there was little shade save under the occasional old charred stump. He was fit and long-legged, and, as he strode on up the ridge, the feeling of being out on the hills exhilarated him. In spite of his fears he started whistling.

Soon the whole land began to open out below him. The Waitehaia River plunged out of the ranges in a deep gorge with a series of rapids. Towards the coast, he saw the bare, eroded hill country with a winding road along the ridge top, and tiny groups of trees marking the homesteads.

It was not till he reached the top of the ridge that he saw the view to the inland. Rearing up beyond the valley of the Waitehaia and right across the western horizon was the wide sweep of the main range of the Raukumaras, mounting up in great folds of forested ridges and valleys, till the bush itself faded into wind-blasted skeletons of trees and leatherwood and patches of snow grass. Soaring clear from the very crest of the ranges were two massive peaks with sheer rock battlements where even now the clouds were gathering.

Now, as he looked out on these peaks, they changed. They rose up like great horned monsters, fearsome, terrifying, menacing.

At that moment he knew that the police were wrong. The run-holder too.

That lonely, sensitive, turbulent man had needed a place where he could find comfort and peace. And where could he find it but in the great mystery and majesty of nature which he loved and which he had been led to explore?

That story about his brother had mentioned a tapu broken. And the tapu was connected with the mountains.

He had never made an effort to understand Tane. Yet he sensed that it was Tane’s strange relationship with the mountains which underlay his superb geological insight. Something had drawn him back to the Raukumaras . Was there a link between these mountains and the tragic death of his brother?

But why had he wept?

There came to David’s mind another picture. It came right out of his childhood, from the home of his grandparents who had been religious. A picture of a man, fugitive on a bare plain under an angry sky, head bowed, one arm over his eyes, the other thrust upwards in desperate appeal.

A man who had broken a relationship and could not find his way back.

Cain! The one who in a fit of jealousy kills his brother and then, driven from his home, becomes a wanderer and a stranger on the face of the earth. Cain – the man all alone – the murderer whose crime cannot be expiated.

Sometimes the imagination conceives fearful things which, strive as we will, we cannot drive out.

It was then that the cowering figure behind the logs looked at him – straight at him. He saw again that naive, childlike, piteous face, the same face that looked at him before he walked out three years before.

Tane, what did you want to ask me?

CHAPTER 9

The eyes terrified him.

From the bathroom mirror at the night shelter a wild, defiant creature stared out, accusing and mocking him.

He shrank away. He wanted to flee from that face as he had run away from everything else – the person he had once been, the position he had held, the people who had once been friends, even the care which he used to take of himself.

Running, running, running – finding some place where he thought he was safe, then having to run away again.

Even the mountains had failed him. The relationship was no more.

From Waitehaia he had travelled by day and night, taking several days. After one look most drivers had sped past him, and he had had to walk a lot of the way. He had found a bed at the Auckland City Mission among the homeless because it was one place where they didn’t ask questions.

Tomorrow he would go to the meeting and talk with his friend again as they had once talked.

Surely he will listen!

When he walked up to the hotel, he was the only one for whom the porter did not open the door. He stood in front of the reception counter in his torn, dusty T-shirt and jeans, with his lank, unkempt hair and unshaven face. The guests stood apart from him and the staff didn’t appear to see him. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his membership card.

“We’d be honoured if you joined us,” his friend had said “but you don’t need to go to meetings.”

The card was faded, soiled and crumpled. He pushed it towards the shining brass buttons of a blue-uniformed concierge, but kept his head down. The buttons drew back, there was a scarcely concealed sniff, then a searching glance at the photo and the printing on the card. He took the card and showed it to a colleague who said nothing but raised his eyebrows. The first man then said stiffly: “Your meeting is in the Board Room on the first floor up the escalator – sir.”

He crept around the far edge of the marble-floored atrium; he shunned close contact with the guests and business clients and the looks and the sniffs which would go with it – then he went up the escalator. At the top he felt faint, and realised he hadn’t eaten for two days and had had very little sleep. Approaching the Board Room, his feet seemed to drag in the lush carpet of the reception hall.

At the door he hesitated and looked longingly back along the wide wood-panelled hallway. Then he knocked lightly. Perhaps he wouldn't be there and then he could go away.

Suddenly the door opened and a muscular, white-shirted man smelling of after-shave and deodorant eyed him contemptuously. He hated the man, but took out his card and showed it. The other glanced at it, but eyed him again and showed no intention of letting him in. However, after a muffled conversation in which his name was pronounced, he was shoved forward into the room. He smelt the cigar smoke and saw about a dozen people in the room sitting at a U-shaped table – well-fed, clean-shaven, middle-aged Pakeha men with dark suits and greying or balding hair.

A very large man with a pink bow tie who was sitting at the top of the table rose ponderously and came towards him with outstretched hand and a wide smile. “Dear boy! What a pleasant surprise!”

It was the voice. The cordial tone, the warm grip of the hand and the smile, especially the smile, unnerved him. He swayed on his feet. Someone offered him a chair – by the door, not at the table. He almost fell into it and sat looking at the floor.

He saw only the highly polished Italian shoes and the perfectly creased pin-striped trousers as the once revered rich resonant tones boomed over him. “Where have you been all this time? Are you sure you are all right? May I offer you anything? Brandy?” He shook his head. Someone gave him a glass of water, but his hand shook, so that some of it spilt on his jeans and his worn sneakers.

“We have a little business to finish. Do you mind very much if we carry on? Then we can go and have lunch together.”

He wanted to say something, but couldn't get the words out. Again he felt the urge to bolt. The door was beside him, but the deodorised man was standing in front of it. There was a low buzz of voices. The members were leaning forward, their heads almost together over the table and speaking very quietly. Suddenly amid the buzz he heard that voice.

“It has proved the perfect location …”

The words ran through him like an electric shock. He jerked upwards involuntarily and he hardly recognised his own voice.

“You promised!”

The room had disappeared. He saw the blinding light of a nuclear explosion, the screaming, the people running and burning as they ran, not only their clothes, but their flesh as well. Behind them the buildings dissolving into one enormous fireball which raced after and engulfed the fleeing figures. His body was contorting and his arms flailing. His fists pummelled the air impotently. His shouts were echoing unnaturally, harshly. “You promised!”

“You are not well…” came that voice.

But the face belied the words. It was not consumed by the fire. Instead the fire seemed to be coming from it. It seemed to mock him, twisting grotesquely.

Through the fire came shapes clutching at him, pulling him down, holding his arms, stifling him. “The tutumaiao!” He hurled the word at them like a curse. “The tutu…”

Then all went blank.

CHAPTER 10

David didn’t go to church any more. The last time had been for the funeral of his grandmother.

He had often stayed with his grandparents when he was a boy and enjoyed eating the big juicy Satsuma plums, climbing the pepper tree in their garden and sliding down the banisters of their large two-storey house in Epsom. The picture of Cain was on the landing half way up the stairs. It was different from the other pictures in the hall and up the stairway which were portraits of gloomy, uninteresting people in old-fashioned clothes. At first, he liked Cain because he was a lively, active figure running away from those boring people. Later, his grandmother explained that he was running away because he had done something wrong, and he could identify with that as well. When he was a little older, she told him that Cain had killed his brother. Then he wasn’t so sure about him.

Although they also lived in the same parish, David’s parents gave up church when his father fell out with the vicar over the omission from the parish magazine of his modest contribution to the spire repair fund. His father’s opinion, often expressed to his wife and son and magnified over the years, was that all vicars were hypocrites and all they wanted was your money, and when they got it, they didn’t even bother to thank you for it. As this incident had occurred before he was born, David had never attended church except when he was staying with his grandparents. When he grew up, it did not occur to him to question his father’s opinion on this as on most other things.

***

After Waitehaia he found no trace of Tane.

As a scientist David worked on what could be proved experimentally and empirically. He was trained in scientific method, an approach based on the belief that as long as one applied intelligence and reason and sustained purposeful activity a solution would be found. The knowledge base established by the latest technology assisted this approach.

But how could he find a method to address the problem of Cain? It haunted him, this shut-out, fleeing, tortured figure. But the most fearful thing was that he could not forgive himself.

You fool! Did you think that all you had to do was look for him? Didn’t you realise that there were consequences to your own actions? You didn’t listen to him. Where could he go? Would he run until he could run no more? What would he do if he found no place to hide?

It was Sunday afternoon. He flung himself out of his flat and set off striding wildly around the streets. For hours he just kept on walking without knowing or caring where he was going. High on a hill in a smug leafy suburb he watched the sun going down in a blazing ball of red fire over the Waitakeres. In that fiery ball he saw his own turmoil. But when the sun slipped below the horizon and the cooling balm of the evening came on, he felt no respite.

It was then that he heard the sound of an organ and saw the shingled spire.

He recognised it as the church of his grandparents.

***

“I just wish he’d never gone there,” Eleanor McTaggart said to herself.

She had tried to discourage Stan from going to the Raukumaras, but it was like talking to a granite bluff. He did not listen, and as he got older he got worse. This idea of finding a forgotten valley was more suited to a twenty-five-year-old that a fifty-year-old, but you couldn’t change him.

“Eleanor,” she told herself, “you knew exactly what he was like when you married him.”

Leone, her sister-in-law, who was sitting beside her in the pew, was pressing her hand, and pointing to the hymn which was just starting. “Isn’t this one of Stan’s favourites?”

Guide me, O thou great Redeemer,

Pilgrim through this barren land...

Twenty-five years before, when she and Stan had married, old-fashioned Evensong was one of the services she loved. After a day in the Waitakeres, before the children were born, in the cool of the evening they would walk together up to the equally old-fashioned parish church of St. Peter-on-the-Hill, where the birds were gathering in the oaks to sing their own evensong. The organ would peal out, adding its rejoicing, the high-beamed roof and the kauri-panelled nave of the old Selwyn church would re-echo the sound as they had been doing for nearly a hundred years, and the congregation would respond enthusiastically.

Now she enjoyed coming back to it, hearing the beautiful poetic English words and the hymns and the music which had comforted and inspired generations before her.

Yes, Stan enjoyed singing this hymn in his fine baritone voice, and would sing it strongly, as he did with everything. She tried to join in, but could not stop herself thinking of him and Bill, and John, Leone’s husband, who had gone out on the search with the Alpine Sports Club contingent five days ago.

Suddenly, she noticed a tall, fair-haired young man whom she had never seen before enter the church and slip into one of the pews. He did not kneel but sat stiffly upright. She thought he looked unhappy.

***

He should have known it would be a waste of time.

The church was gloomy and dark, the prayers were in an archaic form of English, the organist had his own agenda and drowned out the thin voices of the small group of elderly people of his parents’ or grandparents’ generation.

He wasn’t surprised there was no one of his age there. How could these people, cocooned as they were in their generational complacency, have anything to say to him in his problem? What would they know about Cain?

They’re in a time warp.

As he slipped out of his pew at the end of the service, people kept smiling at him in a sickening way. He gave his book back to a tall, lugubrious man with a long, cadaverous face who was standing at the door. Then he tried to edge quietly out the door and slip away into the night.

But the vicar in his long black medieval robe, two bumps in a shining forehead and an unctuous smile, fixed his eyes on him and grasped his hand firmly.

“You are new here. How nice to see you!”

David mumbled something like “just looking, thanks”, and tried to move away. He found he could not get his hand free. “Come and meet some of us. What was the name? … From the University – ah, what Department? … You are on the staff there? … I have an excellent idea. Come and have some coffee. Leone and Eleanor, won’t you join us? This is David Corbishley. Leone and Eleanor, both McTaggart.”

McTaggart! At that word all the medieval atmosphere vanished. David’s brain locked suddenly into gear.

“We’re very traditional here. That’s why we still have Evensong on Sunday evening when nearly every other church has dropped it. People love it and it fits in with the church.” Archdeacon Harry Mountjoy never stopped talking all the way to the vicarage. “Built by Bishop Selwyn. Handcrafted timbers – the kauri is as good as new. We had to replace the shingles on the roof though for the centenary. We did the spire some years ago. We had an appeal and everyone was so good. What did you think of the organ? Just been rebuilt, had some trouble with the ventilation. Do you like music?”

“Some kinds,” he replied, not really listening.

“Would you like black or white, Mr Corbishley?” Mrs Mountjoy was a white-haired, ruddy-cheeked woman, again with the trademark smile. “Or is it Doctor Corbishley?”

He was pleased by her desire to recognise his correct status. “White, thank you, and it is Doctor”

Leone McTaggart was talking authoritatively. “They’ve got parties coming in from both sides of the ranges. John was asked to take food for a week and it’s probably the biggest one Search and Rescue have organised.”

Eleanor had a bright, open face with curly, slightly greying hair. She did not have the unctuous smile and her eyes were warm and intelligent. “It’s wonderful to have so many friends out searching,” she said. “I’m just sorry that Stan had to be the cause of it. He’s usually so well organised.” Then she saw David listening. “Do sit down, Dr Corbishley. I believe you are at the University. Our second son has just graduated.”

He nodded as he sat down beside her. “It’s just a long shot, but I was wondering if I had met your husband. Is he short and stocky with a square face and greying hair?”

“Sounds like him.”

“Walks as if he’s carrying a pack and takes extra-long strides.”

She smiled. “That’s because he tries to keep up with Bill who has long legs and boulder-hops down a river like a mountain goat.”

“He called in for information just before Christmas.”

Her reply was unexpected. “Was he rude to you?”

“He didn’t actually tell me his name.”

“No, he picks everybody else’s brains, but he doesn’t tell them a thing.”

“Wasn’t he originally heading for the Waitoa?”

She nodded.

“He would be disappointed about the huia?”

She sighed. “Of course. But he had no idea that it was there.”

“You don’t mind me asking, but, if it wasn’t the huia, why go to the Waitoa?”

Her eyes shone. He could see that she just loved to talk about her husband. “He‘s always been an explorer. He wanted to go somewhere where no one else had been – he was looking for what he called ‘the point of maximum inaccessibility’.” Then she sighed again. “Funny expression, isn’t it? I suppose you could say that he was hopelessly old-fashioned and should have lived in another century when places did exist that were unexplored.”

He felt strangely excited. “But how did he pick on the Waitoa?”

“Do you really want to know?” At his nod she continued. “You see, if you’re looking for country that is pretty much unexplored, the Raukumaras are the obvious choice. One evening last November he got out all the maps of the ranges, about six of them, and spread them out on the lounge floor at home. You could see East Cape sticking out at the top and Waikaremoana at the bottom. There’s a huge area of green in the middle with no huts or tracks anywhere, except on Hikurangi which is well to the east.”

He almost knew what she was going to say next.

“He moved his finger around until it stopped at one point. He was excited because he thought he’d found a valley where no one else had ever been.” She looked at him with a smile. “Mad, wasn’t it?”

No, it was not “mad”. He could have told her virtually the same words. He was no longer in the vicarage, but back in the sitting room of the flat in Grafton which he had shared with Tane.

“Are you sure there were six maps?”

She looked startled. “Yes, that’s right.’

“And was his finger on the lower right-hand corner of the middle map where the colour was totally green?”

“Yes; you see I was a tramper too. Stan and I were both members of the University Tramping Club. I was always very interested in where he was going, and he took pride in showing me his method to find his ‘forgotten’ valley.” Then she looked at him again. “But how did you know?”

“You may think it odd, but my colleague and your husband worked in similar ways. They were both explorers, wanting to go where no one else had been. Both chose the Raukumaras and then searched in the middle of those mountains for the valley of which there were fewest records of any exploration. But Stan looked for a valley that was inaccessible. Tane was more likely looking for the place where his brother had gone. Though Tane’s purpose was different, it looks as if the place they both looked for is likely to be the same. Before he left for his trip I saw the same six maps on our lounge floor.”

She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“I’d come into the room without his noticing, and saw him looking at these maps with his finger quite likely on that same spot. I heard him say ‘It’s there!’ But then when he saw me, he suddenly folded up the maps. You see, he liked to keep things secret.”

It was very quiet in the room. They had all stopped talking, and then Eleanor spoke unsteadily. “I don’t understand it. I don’t know what you’re getting at.” Then almost as if speaking to herself she added, “Surely there could be only one Stan.”

“Yes there is only one Stan,” he said, “but it’s just possible there’s only one forgotten valley.”

There was a long silence. “What’s this about his brother? Where’s your colleague now? Can’t we ask him?” said Leone eventually.

“His brother is dead, and I don’t know where Tane is,” he said.

So the whole story of Tane came out, or the story as far as David knew it. They listened to him attentively and in total silence. At the end he decided to share his feeling about the fleeing figure in the picture.

“…and I got this idea of Cain and I’d like to know what he’s running away from,” he finished.

This time the silence lasted a much longer time.

Leone had drawn closer to Eleanor and was holding her hand. “It’s been an interesting evening,” she said in a flat voice.

Eleanor’s face was pale. “Thank you, Dr Corbishley, for sharing this with us. We hope you find your colleague.”

The vicar stood up. It was obvious that the evening was at an end. “We’re all very sorry to hear about your friend, David, and we’ll certainly pray for you. And please come again if you think we can help.” He took David’s elbow and together they walked out of the lounge into the vestibule.

It was old-fashioned with little alcoves and crannies and rather dimly lit. He heard the sound of chiming. As he looked towards the grandfather clock, he was surprised to see a tall figure standing just inside the front door.

“Oh, Randall, thank you so much for locking up.” David recognised the man who had taken his book at the church door. He was placing a key on the table by the front door.

“Beautiful service tonight, Vicar.”

“Have you met David Corbishley? Dr Randall Richardson, my warden.”

It was the second shock about the membership of the congregation. Randall Richardson was the well-known psychiatrist who was the mental health consultant on the health talkback show on Radio Waitemata.

The gloomy cadaverous face gave the semblance of a smile. “Welcome to St. Peter’s!”

“David is searching for a colleague of his, a fellow geologist, who disappeared from the University about three years ago,” explained Harry Mountjoy. “There is just a possibility that both he and Stan may have been interested in the valley where the huia was discovered.”

“A sad loss to the University,” came the familiar reassuring talkback voice. The eyes, however, probed deep. “I don’t expect your colleague would have agreed with closing the valley for the huia.”

“Not entirely.”

“He would have been interested in another kind of discovery?”

“Possibly.”

“Any leads?”

Before he had time to answer, the vicar broke in unexpectedly. “David is concerned about his state of mind.”

“Is he indeed?” The eyes seemed to be sizing him up again, then the gloomy face returned. “‘The mind has mountains, cliffs of fall, sheer, no man fathomed’ – Gerard Manley Hopkins you may recall. I am afraid you will not find many signposts there.”

***

It was full moon and the dappled avenues of Epsom were full of the scents of midsummer blossoms. David strode out confidently towards Grafton whistling as he went. In his excitement he gave little thought to Eleanor’s white face and the evening which had been so politely but firmly terminated. At last he had a lead.

Was the Waitoa the valley that Tane had visited on his last trip? If so, what had he found there? And what possible connection could he have with the huia?

CHAPTER 11

So, there it is!

Before David lay the six maps of the Raukumaras, and in the middle map he saw an unbroken green. On the lower right-hand corner of this map he was examining a knot of contours hideously contorted and so close together that they were indistinguishable. In his mind’s eye he imagined it and shuddered. The great force of water that was the Waitoa blasted its way through the primeval rock on its turbulent descent, foaming white against black, cutting, hissing, pummelling, pounding, prising great boulders loose and hurling them downwards like sledgehammers, cascading, swirling, tumbling, falling, black, brown, green, foaming, spume-topped, breathing spray as a dragon would breathe fire, roaring on like a monster with insatiable appetite, yet locked in never-ending battle with the million year fortress of rock which stood aside as yet only a crack to let the impetuous torrent through.

No sane person would risk his life in that elemental battlefield between rock and water.

Or would he? He remembered those deep-set, disconcerting eyes – both pairs of them – Stan’s and Tane’s. The same eyes that he had seen in pictures of those nineteenth century explorers who blazed the way through African jungles and Australian deserts or in New Zealand’s Edmund Hillary who conquered Everest. Men like Stan and Tane were born out of their time. The present generation could not imagine the relentless thrust which drove them, as it drove those early explorers, to go where no one else had dared to venture.

Had one or both braved this terrible gorge?

And if so, what would he have searched for?

For Tane it would have been the rocks.

The geological knowledge of the Raukumara interior was rudimentary. Igneous extrusions, sedimentary, sandstone – anything was likely. He followed the course of the Waitoa. From Devil’s Peak down to the Motu it was all gorge. No, not quite. There was a flat about five miles long about half way down. He began to examine this flat. Then he noticed a curious thing.

There was a gap in the river’s course through the flat.

Was it a typographical error? Had the printer run out of ink? The mappers would have worked from aerial photos and the position of the contours which they calculated from these photos. He took a magnifying glass and looked at the contours. He noticed a steep-sided, possibly cone-shaped mountain which appeared to be an outlier from the main range and stood near the centre of the flat. The contours showed that the river went to the foot of the mountain and then disappeared. He thought again and then cross-checked with the geological map. There was nothing there because Tane had left no survey and no one else had been in there. Then he remembered the Ruakituri wilderness in the Urewera on the east side of Mt. Maungapohatu and the strange phenomenon of the Kopuapounamu River.

Of course! It’s a disappearing river.

So probably it was limestone country too. If so, he wondered how far the limestone belt extended. He put the magnifying glass aside and looked at the whole course of the Waitoa River. He noticed that the flat was on a wide bend at which the river valley appeared to change direction from west to south. The Bay of Plenty coast at the point of the bend was not far away.

It looked as if the river wanted to flow out westward direct to the Bay of Plenty, but changed its mind and turned south to flow into the Motu. It would have been a lot shorter and saved carving the lower part of that enormous gorge through the hard greywacke which was the base rock of the Raukumara Range.

The possibility of an underground river system opened up some interesting geological and developmental considerations.

Firstly, in a geological sense, the limestone caverns would be formed from ancient marine deposits. Assuming that these deposits were uplifted at some stage and used as nesting areas by seabirds, phosphate-rich guano deposits would overlay the calcium bearing limestone. Repeated processes of subduction and uplifting of the earth’s crustal plates would create the conditions for some interesting geological formations.

Secondly, in a remote, inaccessible area such as this, access was the key factor. Tane’s whole approach made him aware that any minerals discovered would belong to the Maori landowners. If there were no access, it was possible that the discovery would remain in effect “undiscovered” or at least unexploited. If there were access, several options might emerge. One of these options would be to leave the area as it was. This would have appealed to him as a conservationist. However, if there was going to be a benefit to the tangata whenua he would have taken this into account as well.

Whichever way, access was critical.

David decided to explore further.

***

The nearest point on the coast appeared to be a bay called Pataratara. He rang the Opotiki County Council. The county clerk was cheerful and chatty.

“Pataratara? That’s where they used to quarry granite and ship it up to Tauranga and Auckland. There’s an old wharf there and it’s one of the few places on the coast where there’s a sheltered deep-water anchorage.”

“Who owns it now?”

“One of your Auckland big-shots, Sir Charles Hawthorne, QC. Bought the whole bay and built a house on the headland three years ago. Has a manager there most of the time. He’s also quite a conservationist. Set up the first private marine reserve in the eastern Bay of Plenty. But he’s also a bit of an entrepreneur. He’s got the granite quarry going again, though it’s probably only a hobby.”

“Have you met him?”

“Oh yes, he often calls in here for a chat. He’s the legal adviser to the Whanau Apanui, the people round the coast. I gather it’s all pro bono.”

Sir Charles, David thought. What a stroke of luck! He was one of the most helpful and influential people on the University Council, and his extensive contacts had helped to generate funds for research from business and the professions. From his initial research contacts David had come across his name as a legal adviser on resource consents for multinational companies who were seeking exploration licences. His holiday house sounded like some mansion where he entertained his overseas and New Zealand business colleagues. He could be a good contact for the future.

***

Sir Charles could see him straight away. It was 11 o’clock on Monday, the day after his visit to St Peter’s Church, when he waited under the ornate domed ceiling of the reception area of the legal rooms in the restored Victorian Gothic heritage building in Customs Street.

“Welcome, welcome, Dr Corbishley.”

A very large man with a beaming smile and a deep resonant voice rose ponderously from his desk. “Do you mind if I call you David? You were enquiring about Pataratara. It’s my little retreat. A place where I can be on my own. My life here is so public, as you know.”

David was surprised and pleased at the warmth of the welcome from the great man. Glancing around the large oak-panelled office with the heavy leather-bound chairs and the bookcases around the walls filled with massive law volumes, he was interested to see framed above the desk a large topographical map of part of the Raukumaras with the area of the huia sanctuary outlined.

“One of my reasons for buying there was my interest in the local Maori history. Because I have worked closely with Whanau Apanui in cultural projects they asked my advice when the Director-General contacted them about the huia. I fully supported them in the sanctuary proposal and they made me a kind of patron or honorary kaumatua and gave me this map. The whanau and I are both very proud of the royal bird.” He acknowledged David’s congratulations in a warm, resonant voice. “Thank you. Now would you like some coffee? This is not a professional consultation, you know, but I’m sorry I can’t offer you something stronger. Working hours, you see.” He smiled broadly and David noticed a dimple on his ample cheek. “What do you like?” He motioned towards a side table where a tray was already prepared with delicate bone china jug, cups, saucers and sugar bowl. “Cream? Sugar? I am also interested in geology. That’s why I was so pleased to have the opportunity to talk to you.”

David rather hesitantly put forward his idea about the limestone. “You see if the belt was continuous, the river might have run out that way once. And if it did, there is just a remote chance that it could have come out near your property.”

“A most interesting hypothesis. Actually, I have studied the geological map myself, and strangely enough the same idea occurred to me. So when I built, I examined the whole neighbourhood most thoroughly. However, I found no sign of an outlet.”

David was disappointed. “Well, that’s that, I suppose. It was only a long shot.”

“Just as well,” said Sir Charles. “We might have had to seal it off in case we had trespassers in the huia sanctuary.”

David laughed as he sipped the excellent coffee. In spite of his shyness he managed to get on well with business people.

“Actually, policing the sanctuary is one of our big worries right now,” continued Sir Charles. “Some of my fellow patrons are concerned about the continuation of the search in the area adjoining the sanctuary. They’ve been out almost a week now.”

“Do you think there is some danger to the sanctuary?”

“It’s difficult country and even experienced trampers can get off course. Once the search is over, I think we’ll try to get the Government to gazette the whole of the Raukumara as a sanctuary.”

“Not so good for geologists,” David quipped.

“How right you are.” The barrister smiled. “I suppose I’m an environmentalist at heart, though I have business interests. You mentioned that you’ve decided to undertake a search for your colleague who went missing three years ago.”

“Dr Tane Ngata.”

“I’m so glad you’re doing that. He was a brilliant man. There was always a mystery about why he disappeared, and I wondered why more investigation was not done at the time. As you know I have been on the University Council for the last five years.”

The sympathy was welcome. “I didn’t realise you knew him.”

“I make a point of getting to know staff and what research they’re doing. From my business and professional contacts I am then able to make suggestions about what firms to approach for sponsorships. Come to think of it, I don’t think Tane approached me.”

“He preferred to keep his research to himself.”

“Yes, I believe he had a name for being something of a recluse.”

“Do you know he refused to work for the Geological Survey because he thought the minerals of the world belonged to mankind as a whole?”

“So he was a geologist with a conscience. Such people are to be respected”.

“I thought he wasn’t very realistic. I mean you have to work within the system.”

“Of course, and I expect that is how you carry on your research.”

The thought came to him that Sir Charles would be interested to know more about his research on mineral exploration in Forest Parks.

But his host changed the subject. “May I ask why you enquired about the underground outlet?”

“It’s just a hunch, but my colleague may have visited the Waitoa on his last trip.”

His host put his fingers together and smiled over the top of them. “Really! How interesting!”

“If he’d discovered something and if there was an old underground outlet to the Waitoa, it might have opened up the option of commercial development, probably in conjunction with Whanau Apanui.”

Sir Charles held up his hands deprecatingly. “Oh dear, what a thought! Fortunately, Whanau Apanui is quite satisfied with the huia.” He looked at David reflectively. “However, I do have some interest in mineral exploration in other areas. What do you think he was looking for there?”

“It could be any of a range of minerals. The guano overlaying the calcium could give some interesting possibilities.”

Sir Charles smiled. “Why, you would almost tempt me to give up my huia sanctuary. But seriously though, why did he choose the Waitoa?”

“Because it was so remote.”

“I expect that’s why the huia chose it. But when you enquired about the outlet, you evidently believed that he did discover something.”

“It was just the way he acted after his return.” He hesitated. “I could pick the signs.”

“But he didn’t tell you.”

“I’m afraid we had a quarrel instead.”

“Do you think he told anyone else?”

“Not as far as I know. He embargoed all his research.”

“Ah – what a pity! And now the huia has blocked all possibility of development.” He mused. “So Tane would have been disappointed that his discovery might never be used.”

David wondered whether he should query this opinion, but after a pause he continued: “Geologists learn to live with other people’s decisions.”

Sir Charles looked at him searchingly. “So you yourself don’t get too involved with political decisions – even where your own research is concerned?”

It was a slightly uncomfortable question, but Sir Charles quickly went on. “Have another coffee. How are you getting on with your search anyhow?”

David described the visit to Waitehaia, and how he had lost the scent. “I’ve got the idea that he’s a fugitive.”

“But he’s done nothing wrong – drugs or anything like that, has he?”

“I think he’s a fugitive from himself – like Cain.”

“I know the story well. You mean Tane is so disappointed about not being able to use his discovery that he can’t face life anymore?”

Again the words jarred. Obviously, Sir Charles did not know what really motivated Tane. He hesitated. Should he put him right? No, it would take too long. “It’s something like that.”

“I suppose you’re afraid he may harm himself?”

“Exactly,” he said gratefully.

Sir Charles put his fingers together again and half closed his eyes as if he were pondering a legal issue. “David, while speaking with you, I had a thought about Tane. If I recall, he did his doctorate at the Australian School of Mines at the Australian National University at Canberra.”

David nodded. “It was on the mineral resources of the Grey Range north of Broken Hill near the Sturt Desert.”

“What do you think was the distinctive thing about that research?”

“It was the historical and spiritual relationship of the landowners, the Aboriginal tribes, to mineral exploration, discovery and development. He lived among them for a while to gather his material. I believe the research was not popular in some quarters because it was thought it might encourage the Aboriginals to claim millions from the mining companies in compensation.”

“I thought that was his background, and I can understand the caution with which it might be received. As you may realise, I have extensive overseas university and mining contacts. I can’t promise anything, but would you mind very much if I did some detective work on your behalf?”

“I would really appreciate it.”

Sir Charles made some notes on a little pad. “I wonder if you could help me a little now. I understand you have been doing some research. I have some very substantial overseas clients who could be interested in your work. What do you think are the most likely areas – discounting of course the area of which I am an advocate?”

David was amazed. “How did you find out about my work?”

Sir Charles beamed. “My work on the Council is very hands-on. I make a point of knowing about all the research which is going on – that is…” the dimple appeared again “…all the important research.”

Eagerly he hastened to answer the question he had always wanted to be asked. “Coromandel, Paparoas and Tasman Mountains. These are Forest Parks, but there are certain clauses in the Crown Minerals Act, Forest Parks legislation and District Plans. In my paper I have suggested how these clauses may be used to obtain mineral licences. The most important is the public interest aspect.”

“Even though the environmental groups now have access to legal aid?”

“The benefit to the economy of the country can be proved to be more in the public interest than the locking up of large areas of the country for the exclusive use of certain minority environmental groups. We can of course protect the valuable tourist revenue by inserting minimum environmental impact clauses.”

“I see I’ll definitely have to watch out for my huia sanctuary.”

David laughed.

“I have a client who’s leaving for the United States tomorrow. If you can manage it, I would very much like you to meet him before he goes. Can you come here at four o’clock today? Of course, I don’t want to interfere with your search.”

“Not at all. I need a break from it.”

CHAPTER 12

“I am very happy, Dr Corbishley, with your approach.”

The gentle, scholarly man with the soft New England accent did not conform to the usual public conception of the director of one of the world’s largest mining companies.

David leaned back in the leather chair balancing his cup of coffee. “I thought you might be interested,” he remarked.

“It’s always a challenge going through your legal procedures,” said the American. “But we have a good reputation for social responsibility. The relevant Park authority would be provided with active recreation facilities, and trails and historic features developed for the tourist trade. The local community would be offered a wide range of welfare and employment opportunities. We would ensure that all our processes are ‘minimum environmental impact’. There are new methods of below-surface extraction and large helicopters are now used for access and transport, and we are able to transport the product for processing elsewhere. We would develop our contacts with the indigenous people and insist on a full process of consultation with them, which may include prayers and blessings at the different processes of exploration, extraction, processing and export.”

Sir Charles beamed across his desk. “So do you think, David, that the likeliest areas for Dr Magnusson are the Coromandel and the Tasman Mountains?”

“These areas have always been extremely mineral rich, but the environmental lobby has succeeded in preventing further development. However, I would envisage that with a combined economic benefit, employment and tourism thrust, we would appeal to the business and farming interests in the area as well as to the Ministry of Forestry. Moreover, if the product is processed in the economically disadvantaged towns of the area such as Waihi and Thames, this would also be seen as in the national interest.”

Dr Magnusson, however, was not smiling. “Our company has had reports of trouble with some of your iwi. Road attacks, I believe.”

“Don’t concern yourself,” replied Sir Charles, “I have already discussed your development with the Deputy Prime Minister and some key ministers. There is a plan being drawn up with the police for urgent action against the small group of troublemakers who I believe will shortly be apprehended.”

The director was smiling again. “I would like to retain you, Dr Corbishley, as our New Zealand consultant. Would you be so good as to provide my fellow directors with a presentation setting out the mineral potential of this area and the procedures to be followed in attaining resource consent? Money is of course no object. Just let Sir Charles check it, and then send it off as soon as you can, and I’ll get things under way.” He looked at his watch. “Charles, have I got a plane to catch?”

“Your chauffeur is waiting at reception.”

“Charmed to meet you, Dr Corbishley.”

David looked ruefully at the Queen’s Counsel. “Nice man and I’d like to help him, but I had committed the rest of my vacation to searching for Tane.”

“Of course you had. And very proper too.”

“I don’t know whether I can find the time to do both.”

The great man smiled. “I think you may. Since this morning I have spoken to a friend of mine on the Council at the Australian National University. He contacted Professor Carson in the National School of Mines who supervised Tane’s doctorate and knew him well.”

“Yes, Tane often talked about Prof Carson. They seemed to have a lot in common. Tane said they would sometimes go off together to the Grey Range. He showed me photos of those great red peaks rising right out of the Sturt Desert.”

“The professor rang me and expressed the opinion that if things went wrong in New Zealand, Tane might well return there. I mentioned Tane’s trouble. He said he could imagine Tane in those mountains shutting himself off from the world, part hermit, part explorer and part prospector. He also mentioned Tane’s unusual rapport with the Aboriginal people.”

“You mean he would see that place as a bolthole?”

“That’s my intuition. It says in the Bible that Cain went away and lived in a land called ‘Wandering’. Look it up in Genesis 4:16. If ever there’s a land of wandering, it’s the Australian outback.”

He was surprised at the great man’s biblical knowledge, but he did not think he would be looking it up. “I suppose it’s a possibility,” he said hesitantly.

“I can’t guarantee my theory, but it would do no harm to investigate.”

“But what about the report for Dr Magnusson?”

“No problem. I’ll arrange with him that you’ll start on it when you are free or when you return in a fortnight’s time.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I wouldn’t like to let him down.”

“Now as to Tane, I have contacts in the mining companies who are exploring in the Broken Hill area, and they always have an eye open for genuine bush prospectors. If he’s in the mountains, some one will know and there are always the Aboriginal trackers.”

“It’s good of you to take so much trouble.”

“I’ve asked them especially to check the Aboriginal contacts.”

“Do you think he might have gone bush?”

“It’s a not uncommon reaction to disappointment. However, I think you’ll agree that we must do all we can to ensure that this brilliant mind is brought back into the community.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Not at all. Just part of my job on the Council.”

Sir Charles Hawthorne was as good as his word. A telegram was delivered later that afternoon.

MINING COMPANY MANAGER BROKEN HILL RANG STOP APPARENTLY GEOLOGIST LIVING WITH ABORIGINALS GREY RANGE. STOP NEVER APPEARS THEREFORE NOT IDENTIFIED STOP CARSON SAYS ABORIGINAL CLAIMS HAVE MARKS OF NGATA THESIS. STOP YOU MIGHT LIKE FLY OVER CHECK OUT SITUATION STOP REGARDS HAWTHORNE.

That evening a special courier called with two return tickets, one Air New Zealand to Sydney and the other Qantas to Broken Hill. The Sydney plane left at 6 p.m. on Friday. A little note was attached to the tickets. Courtesy of the Anglo-American Consolidated Mines.

CHAPTER 13

A shy man has problems which he cannot share.

David had his own bolthole.

The steep, narrow road which led to the summit of One Tree Hill was lined with the terraces and trenches of the old Maori fortifications. Life was much simpler then. You knew who were your friends and who were enemies. David almost envied the Maori defenders. As their attackers breasted the stockades, they would leap up and strike at them with their meres.

He had got on uncommonly well with Sir Charles and Dr Magnusson, and the openings were huge. But something jarred. Did Sir Charles really understand Tane? Was Tane’s disappointment at not being able to use his discovery the reason for his acting like Cain? And those last words, “…we must do all we can to ensure that this brilliant mind is brought back into the community.”

Dammit! Was that what Tane really wanted?

He left his car in the parking area and walked moodily up the steps leading to the obelisk. Suddenly he realised that the sky had grown dark and it was cold. A great black cloud had rolled up from the Tasman. Driving rain was lashing the Manukau Harbour. Soon it was sweeping up the slopes. In a moment it was upon him. He retreated to the car.

A young woman in walking shorts had dashed down the summit road and was trying to keep dry in the shelter of the wall. He opened the car door and yelled out, “Get in!”

She was a tall, rather attractive person with glasses and short, straight brown hair. She looked at him searchingly before she slid in, then smiled. “Thanks.”

The rain appeared to have set in.

The legs were disconcerting, especially at such close quarters in his Honda.

“I’m David,” he said, determined to keep to the social niceties.

“Hi, I’m Kate.”

“Taking a walk?”

“Just a quickie. I decided I needed some fresh air. I’ve been at two school holiday programmes this morning and the kids can be a pain.”

 “Are you a teacher?”

“Yuk, no! I only talk about the huia.”

It came out involuntarily. A little groan quickly suppressed.

She noticed. “What’s up? Do they bug you?”

“It’s just that I’ve been hearing a lot about huias lately.”

“Huia,” she said just like a schoolteacher. “It’s a Maori word. They don’t have s’s. What’s the problem?”

“Well – I guess there’s more than one way of looking at things.”

She stiffened perceptibly. “I don’t think I understand you.”

“I have a colleague who’s a geologist.”

“Really,” she said in such a way that there was no doubt what she thought about that occupation. “So you’re against the sanctuary?”

“No, it’s not that. He may have visited that valley.”

There was an edge to her voice. “And why would he want to do that?”

“I don’t know. He never told me. And now he’s disappeared.” He turned and looked at her for the first time. “You see, he was my friend and I need to find him.”

She took off her glasses and looked at him. He was surprised to see that her eyes were warm and sparkling. “That’s different. I’m sorry.” The city below was invisible in the mist, and the storm and the rain had made them prisoners. “Tell me about him.”

Kate knew almost immediately who David was because she was a friend of the McTaggarts, they all being members of the Alpine Sports Club.

Small city, Auckland!

Eleanor had told her all about David’s visit to the church and was concerned about Tane, but Leone had thought he was unbalanced. Kate decided to listen and form her own opinion. His sincerity was convincing and as he spoke she was drawn into the story. In the meantime the rain gradually increased in intensity, drumming on the roof, and the light outside grew dimmer. The thundering of the water and the increasing darkness had an unusual and disturbing effect upon Kate. She found herself imagining a deep, dark gorge with precipitous bluffs and tumultuous white waters.

Suddenly she was afraid. There was something about that valley that Eleanor had sensed. When the storm subsided a little so she could talk she looked at him uncertainly. “I have not been quite honest with you. I’ve already heard some of this from Eleanor McTaggart.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “They told me about the search. I hope they find her husband.”

She paused. “It’s not that simple. I haven’t told anyone else, but I think there’s something wrong with that search.”

“But surely they’re being very thorough?”

“Only if you go on what Stan wrote in the hut book at the Upper Waiwawa Hut.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“They haven’t really thought about what sort of person he was.”

“I met him once,” he said. “He came to our Department before Christmas.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I tried to help him but wasn’t able to.”

These academics were maddening. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He fumbled again. “He seemed to have his own agenda.”

“Why don’t you say what you think?” she flared. “What about ‘stubborn, opinionated and rude’?”

“We didn’t exactly hit it off,” he said cautiously.

“I think you ought to know something. He and Kevin Carr were both members of the Ornithological Society and they hated each other’s guts.”

“Really? Why?”

“Both political fanatics – but at opposite poles.”

“But I still don’t understand why that would be important.”

“Look at the scenario. Stan hears that Kevin has discovered a huia in his precious valley, the one he has set his heart on discovering?”

“I expect he would be a little disappointed.”

“A little!” she said scathingly.

“You would know him better.”

She snorted, but then continued. “I had news this morning about the search. One of the parties found broken branches of leatherwood on the eastern slopes of Devil’s Peak leading down towards the Waitoa.”

“Is that so? Did they follow the trail?”

“Not very far. It stopped at some bluffs and they didn’t get permission from DOC to go any further into the huia sanctuary. I think the search organisers concluded it was just a track to get water.”

“I read in the paper that Stan and Bill were going into the Waitoa originally, weren’t they? But they changed their route when they heard about the huia.”

“That’s what they said in the hut book. But they had a rope. They could have got down those bluffs.”

“I can’t see what you’re getting at.”

“John McTaggart was the leader of that party. He knew about the rope, but in the circumstances he didn’t push the point. He’s just the opposite of Stan. Never puts a foot wrong. Wouldn’t want to do anything to embarrass the search controllers. The trouble is he doesn’t really understand how his brother’s mind works.”

“Surely Stan wouldn’t write a false entry in the hut book?”

“Stan can do some pretty strange things if he gets really upset. There’s another thing that worries me. Those two have been tramping together for yonks – well – since University Tramping Club which would be at least twenty-five, thirty years. They’ve been in the toughest bush country in New Zealand. Stan never goes on tracks. He’s one of the best route-finders in the Alpine Sports Club. Bill can rustle up a fire with rata shavings even when the bush is dripping wet. They can swim down rivers, climb down bluffs and cut their way through impenetrable leatherwood and supplejack. Both are extremely fit for their age. If one had an accident, the other could always get out. They could survive where a much younger party would panic or do something crazy and die of hypothermia. They’re the people that search, not the ones who get lost. What I can’t understand is Bill. If Stan goes off the rails, Bill will always bring him back. You see, Bill is about the only person Stan ever listens to.”

“So are you saying that they changed their mind and went into the Waitoa?”

“I don’t know and I’m scared to think.”

There was something which David could not fathom. He recalled that strange, brusque meeting with Stan. Stan had insisted on knowing more about Tane, was upset because he didn’t know where Tane had gone. Why? Was it just possible that he had sensed something about Tane’s expedition?

“Why would they want to go into the Waitoa if they’d been told it was a sanctuary?” he said.

She did not answer.

“Surely Stan couldn’t be that fanatical about birds?”

“You don’t understand at all!” There was a tremble in her voice which should have warned him but didn’t.

“And if not huia, what else?”

She turned away and burst into tears.

If he were not so shy, he would have tried to comfort her. But he only found it embarrassing. He found himself edging away from her. He hated any show of emotion. This was one of the reasons he had always kept women at a distance. He felt the plane tickets in his pocket. He’d soon be out of it anyway and there would be no risk of any more involvement.

Then she turned and was looking straight at him as if she read his action and the thought behind it. The moist eyes were blazing with anger. “Why are you sliding away? I think you’re hiding something. Why did your friend go into the huia valley?”

“He was exploring,” he said defensively.

“I don’t believe you. He did discover something, didn’t he? And that’s the reason you’ve suddenly decided to look for him after three years. You’re a geologist, aren’t you? And why did you go to Charles Hawthorne to ask for advice? I believe he’s filthy rich and acts for all the multinationals who are bleeding this country to death. He’s probably hatching up some plan to get mineral exploration licences in the sanctuary.”

He was appalled. She was not only a very emotional woman but also a typical, irrational greenie. These people just couldn’t understand how vital overseas investment was to the growth of the economy. If you mentioned to them anything about development or multinationals, they could no longer see reason.

He decided to put the record straight as far as his benefactor was concerned. “I’m only interested in finding Tane. I can’t go much further with the Waitoa because it’s a huia sanctuary. Sir Charles was interested enough in Tane to suggest a lead that’s quite promising. In fact, he has just arranged a trip to Australia so that I can investigate a report of Tane’s possible sighting in the Grey Range north of Broken Hill.”

“And so you go along with everything that, er, gentleman tells you?”

“Of course. He’s a Queen’s Counsel.”

“Yes, that’s his job, to convince people.”

David found himself getting angry. “He’s a very busy man but he’s given me hours of his time. He’s doing everything he can to help me find Tane. He also values the research I’m doing.”

He immediately regretted these words. Quick as a flash she homed in. “What research?”

“Mineral exploration,” he said cautiously.

“Is he going to help you with that too?”

He decided it would be unwise to mention Dr Magnusson. “He has good contacts.”

“So you’re in partnership with him.” She put on her glasses and looked at him as if she was studying a rather repellent insect under a microscope. “How odd!”

***

The rain had passed over the isthmus. Already, the Manukau Harbour sparkled in the sun, and the Waitakere Ranges stood outlined against the fresh, cloudless sky of a summer afternoon. Birds twittered in the olive groves below.

As she walked back down the road, Kate didn’t know with whom she was more angry – herself or him.

She had gone to One Tree Hill to think about the disturbing news from the search. She did not normally get into cars with strange men, but he had given her shelter from the rain and she was grateful to him. At first she had listened with interest to his story because she was sorry for him. But the alarming coincidences about his colleague together with his innuendos about Stan had just got too much.

What a fool she had been to confide in a man who was so painfully unimaginative and self-centred! Look how insensitive he was to Eleanor, thinking only of his own problems. And then to give way to tears in front of him! Worse still she had done so before he revealed his true colours. She ought to have realised earlier when he couldn’t even get the Maori right – huia not huias. What else would you expect from geologists? Slimy people sneaking about with hammers and Geiger counters, agents of globalisation and lackeys of multinational mining companies who just wanted to tear the mountains apart.

He was quite good looking, but he was pompous, he spoke as if he were near forty and acted like a professor. She wondered what his research topic really involved. It might have explained why he sucked up to big names and money. Worst of all, you just couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She suspected that the boyish face and innocent blue eyes covered up something particularly nasty that he was engaged in.

Perhaps at the end she had been under strain and had given him too much of her mind. She hoped he would find his colleague but, because of his obsession with his career, she doubted whether he would continue very long.

She didn’t expect she would ever meet “Sir Galahad” alias “the professor” again. This wouldn’t worry her. He was a long way from her expectation of what a man should be.

Yet her own problem remained. The trouble with Kate was that she was impelled to ask questions but she wasn’t sure if she could cope with the answers.

I wish I’d never heard about that broken leatherwood!

David watched her as she strode away. She didn’t even turn as she reached the corner. He felt uneasy about the conversation and its abrupt ending. It had been a disaster, just like all his other encounters with women.

Women were emotional time bombs. He just didn’t know how to handle them. And he had allowed himself to light the fuse by getting into an argument which didn’t go anywhere. It was the argument with Tane all over again. After their conversation it was unlikely that he would see her again, but, if he did, perhaps he should apologise.

CHAPTER 14

David had not looked for another occupant for Tane’s room. In fact in the last three years he had rarely entered it.

Even as he stood there he felt like a trespasser. But he rationalised that the information he might find there could be useful, and he needed to do it before he left for Australia. After his talk with the bird girl there seemed to be the possibility Stan McTaggart had actually met up with Tane before his trip. What could have passed between them? What had really happened in the Waitoa? Was there a discovery? And if so, what?

Nearly all of Tane’s research was embargoed . They each had their own filing cabinet, but Tane kept his locked.

For a long time he contemplated it.

“I have a similar cabinet – perhaps my key will work?”

He hesitated again before he inserted the key.

Inside lay a small folder. Eagerly he opened it. It was a short research paper on the geological implications of Maori spirituality, dated three and a half years before. He could not recall that Tane had ever published this – its contents were predictably controversial. It could have been a private paper. Attached to the paper was a copy of a proposal setting out procedures to be followed if a geological discovery were to be found on Maori-owned land. A note at the bottom of each paper indicated that both had been sent to Sir Charles Hawthorne.

That in itself was not surprising. He sponsored so many research projects that he might have forgotten about this one of Tane’s.

But what excited him was a third enclosure. This was a letter addressed to the senior kaumatua of the Whanau Apanui. The letter was dated January 14th three years before and two days after their falling out. It referred in general terms to the necessity for consultations in the case of a geological discovery. At the bottom it said that a copy of the letter and a proposal had been sent to Dr Charles Hawthorne, Q.C. However, the proposal was missing. He examined Tane’s signature at the end.

The letter was original.

Was it ever sent?

He put a call in to Te Kaha Post Office. The postmistress was friendly. “I think you want Eruera,” she said and gave him a number.

“Yes, thank you,” the kaumatua said acknowledging David’s congratulations. “We have waited over sixty years. I am talking about it on TV tomorrow night.”

“I am a geologist at Auckland University. Do you mind if I ask you an unusual question?”

The voice sounded puzzled. “Geologist, did you say?”

“I presume that you were the senior kaumatua three years ago.”

“I was.”

“May I test your memory? Do you recall receiving a letter from a colleague of mine, Dr Tane Ngata? It might have related to a possible geological discovery.             

There was a long silence at the other end. “Did you say Tane Ngata?”

“Yes, he came from Te Kaha.”

“Of course, I knew his grandmother. We have not heard from him for a long time, but are glad he has done well.” There was a pause. “It was sad about his brother – very unfortunate.”

“Tane told me the story.”

“He was not involved.”

The tone was cool, and David got the impression that the subject was closed. “This letter could have been accompanied by one from Sir Charles Hawthorne.”

The answer came warmly. “Of course, we know him well. He is an honorary kaumatua and our legal adviser.”

“I don’t know what the discovery was or whether there was one at all. But the tribal territory of Te Whanau-a-Apanui was mentioned. And as Tane was sensitive to your feeling for the land, he would not have proceeded further without your approval.”

“I do not recall a letter. However, if Sir Charles was involved, we would have asked his opinion.”

“If you’d received a proposal for the development of a geological discovery, possibly involving mining, on your land, what would have been your reaction?”

There was another long pause. “I do not understand you. It is a huia sanctuary and we are kaitiaki.”

“Another question. Sir Charles moved in to Pataratara just under three years ago?”

“We were very pleased to have him among us. He is very interested in our matauranga and he gave us our cultural centre.”

“Have you visited his home at Pataratara?”

“He is a very private man.”

“Do your people fish in the area?”

“No, not now. The Regional Council made the coast around there a marine reserve. Sir Charles thought it would be good for the area. He offered to look after it too.”

“Did your people approve of this?”

“Not at first, because it was a good place for kaimoana. But there have been some drownings around this coast and the rahui was often on the area.”

“So you accepted the marine reserve?”

“Yes, like the old proverb ‘te purapura pai’ – ‘out of bad things can come good’.”

Though the kaumatua was courteous, David sensed an underlying suspicion. He knew he was at risk of offending the elder if he continued further. However, he pushed himself to ask one last question. “I gather Hone visited a valley and the elders disapproved of his action.”

There was no reply.

“Was that valley the Waitoa?”

There was a click as the phone at the other end was hung up.

Eruera remained sitting in his chair fingering his tokotoko.

A geologist was he? But what was Tane Ngata really up to? Just like his brother. Testing the boundaries. Questioning the elders’ wisdom. Why did he want this information? There were certain things which were better left alone.

He would have a korero with Sir Charles before he spoke to that man again.

The Queen’s Counsel again received him warmly. David expressed his appreciation for the tickets.

“No need to thank me,” and he inclined his head graciously.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been doing some research here on Tane before I leave for Australia.”

“How interesting! But you gave me the impression yesterday that you had run out of leads in New Zealand.”

“It’s just about the Maori spirituality side. I believe Tane wrote a paper on it and sent it to you.”

“Did he indeed? I don’t remember. But I would certainly have been interested.”

“If he’d made a discovery, it would have been important for him to consult the local Maori in the development of his discovery. Did he ever ask your advice about this?”

This time there was a longer pause than usual, but the smile never left the cherubic face. “My dear boy, you would never get away with such suppositions in court. You are supposing that he discovered something, and you are also supposing that I was his adviser.” He looked up at the Waitoa map. “Let us deal in facts. The only discovery I know about is the huia.”

“I believe he wrote a letter to the Whanau Apanui that was not sent.”

He shook his head sadly. “David, more supposition. Did I hear the word ‘believe’?”

“I’ve seen the letter, and I’ve asked the senior kaumatua if he received it.”

The smile remained but the barrister seemed to grow in size and David sensed a tone in his voice which he had not heard before “Didn’t you tell me that Tane never let anyone know what he was doing? How did you get hold of that supposed letter?”

The question hit home. He was too ashamed to say that he had rifled Tane’s private cabinet, and changed the subject. “I hear you have a marine reserve all around Pataratara.”

“It’s like the huia. The community is very proud of it. I’ve supplied rangers and a patrol boat to keep out the poachers.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking questions,” he said lamely.

“Not at all, but I would suggest you keep your suppositions to yourself. And may I offer another suggestion.” He wagged his finger as if he was addressing a witness whose evidence had been revealed as unreliable. “Would you kindly consult me before you talk to Eruera in the future.”

The great barrister rose ponderously from his desk and smiled as he offered his hand. “But I do enjoy talking to you. And Dr Magnusson will be pleased to get your report in due course.”

The conversation had been a total disaster. In a classic courtroom interchange, his suppositions had been courteously but totally demolished. Not only that but his future access to Whanau Apanui had been blocked.

Only one choice. He fingered the tickets in his pocket.

He took the long way home. It was not until dark that he approached his flat in Grafton. The first thing he aimed to do was to unlock the cabinet again and look carefully to see whether he had really seen that letter. But as he entered Tane’s room, he knew that something was different.

The drawers of the desk had been pulled out and papers were strewn all over the floor. But worst of all, the locked cabinet had vanished and the empty place in the corner stared at him accusingly.

All the papers he had examined had gone!

CHAPTER 15

David had never gone to great pains to make the flat burglar proof, so the intruders had had no trouble in prising open a window to get in. The only thing they couldn’t open they had taken away. If it was robbery, it was not one that he wanted to report to the police, because his own actions could also be suspected. Yet the coincidences were too strong to ignore. He had told only one person about the letter.

Of course he had no proof, and he could not suffer any further demolition of his suppositions and the revelation of his burglary to boot.

He chose a time when there were not many people in the staff cafeteria, glanced warily around the room and leaned forward as he spoke.

His colleague in the School of Law seemed amused by his antics and made no attempt to lower his voice. “He’s a real sweetie.”

“Does he have any special interest?” asked David.

“International law. Riveting stuff on genocide in Africa just after independence. You should hear some of his stories.”

“What stories?”

“About the events which some call the rebellion and others the awakening and what happened to the white missionaries, teachers, farmers and anyone who happened to be working for them. The Africans got drunk before they started with their machetes. They called it fighting for freedom. Then they turned back to witchcraft and called it religion because it was African. Dr Hawthorne was sent there as a judge but couldn’t get many convictions because the defendants claimed they were fighting for their indigenous rights, and the African judges supported them.”

It was not a subject which interested David. “But what are his lectures like?

“They are riddled with biblical texts but he always attracts lots of students.”

David toyed nervously with his coffee cup. He had never been interested in politics or history and he didn’t really understand what his colleague was getting at, but he had an uneasy feeling that he had more sympathy with Sir Charles than he chose to reveal.

“But what about the man himself?”

“The most remarkable thing about him is that he’s a completely self-made man. Look at him – scholarships to King’s College in Auckland and to Oxford University, Queen’s Counsel, knighted for his service to the community. But do you know who his father was? “

The conversation was not going anywhere. “No idea.”

“Do you remember that backcountry Northland farmer who got all that publicity in the press a few years ago about his law suit with the local iwi about the wahi tapu on his farm? He belonged to some obscure Christian sect and refused to allow them on to his land to perform their rituals – which he regarded as superstition. He even built a pigsty on their sacred hill and refused to take it down. Then when he tried to sell the farm to pay his legal bills, no one would buy it because of the dispute. He became so paranoid about the iwi that he spent all his money on petitions and suits to Government and local councils and letters to everyone he could think of. The trouble was he was so one-eyed that in the end no one listened to him. Finally, it was believed he took his own life. Well, that was Caleb Hawthorne.”

“Couldn’t his son have given him advice?”

“Probably too stubborn to accept it.”

“But what does all this tell us about Sir Charles?”

“He could be Prime Minister if he chose, but he loves acting more. They say he can be both Falstaff and King Lear, both comic and tragic. Have you seen him in court? It’s all acting, but great entertainment. Just like his lectures. And have you heard him laugh?” His colleague looked at his watch. “Sorry, I have a lecture. Thanks for the coffee.”

CHAPTER 16

Royal Bird was the much-awaited TV documentary.

At seven o’clock on Tuesday night, stretched out on the settee in her Orakei unit, Kate watched it – together with most of the nation and many people round the world.

The opening scene depicted wild, misty ranges with a soundtrack of the calls of bellbirds, tui, kiwi, moreporks and pigeons. During the bird song the camera zoomed in on punga fronds, huge blooms of rata, cabbage tree flowers, and fruiting branches of berry-bearing trees and shrubs – miro, karaka and puriri.

The bird song then gave way to an action song, the Song of the Huia, composed specially and sung by the staff and pupils of Queen Victoria School in Parnell. During its singing in the school hall, two of the pupils, dressed up as huia, acted the song which told how the huia disappeared then miraculously came back to life.

After that a distinguished looking white-haired man was interviewed. He was standing on the bridge over a large, swiftly flowing river, wearing a head-dress with huia feathers and leaning on a carved tokotoko. Beyond the swirling swollen waters and the log-strewn rocky shingle banks loomed the forbidding outline of a great mountain range.

“May I introduce you to viewers?” the interviewer asked.

“Just call me Eruera.”

“I understand the huia was found on your land.”

“I stand here on the Motu River which is our river as Whanokao is our mountain. The western side of the Raukumara Ranges between them is our tribal land, the land belonging to Te Whanau-a-Apanui. We hold the land from Tane and Papatuanuku, the forest and the earth.”

“I believe the huia is the Maori royal bird.”

“It is the symbol of chieftainship, of rangatiratanga, shown by the headdress I am wearing. The number of feathers are an indication of rank. There is a saying ‘Maka iho te kotuku te huia hei whakapaipai mona’.”

“Would you mind explaining that for our viewers?”

“‘Put the feathers of the kotuku and the huia as ornaments for him’. The kotuku and the huia are both birds which belong to the highest levels of the heavens. The kotuku is the bird of wisdom, the huia the bird of authority. Queen Victoria, for example, was given the kotuku emblem.”

“Perhaps some of our present leaders could do with that emblem,” the interviewer smiled. “Would you tell us now what you are doing about the huia?”

“We have had a ceremony to welcome it back to the land of the living,” he said gently. “We will be calling a hui at Te Kaha to decide on its kaitiakitanga, its guardianship.”

“Does that mean you’re going to keep it for yourselves?” he was asked.

“Though it has been discovered on our land and is therefore our taonga and a member of our iwi, we are trustees for the royal bird and are pleased to share its mana.”

The genial, big-jowled, smiling face of the Minister of Forests, Sir Robert Roydhouse, then appeared against the books and the panelled wall of his office in Parliament. A New Zealand flag hung prominently behind his desk. Proudly he read a carefully worded message from Queen Elizabeth II.

“The circumstances which led to the extinction of this magnificent bird have been long regretted by all. May its rediscovery lead to a rekindling of the mana of the great Maori people. May this people whose partnership with the Crown is enshrined once and for all in the Treaty of Waitangi ever hold fast the riches of their heritage in the beautiful land of Aotearoa-New Zealand.”

“How many people are watching this programme?” he was asked by the interviewer.

“As you no doubt know, the international media interest has been considerable,” he replied.

“Do you think the huia is more popular than the All Blacks?”

Sir Robert laughed. “Looks like it – at the moment.”

“Do you mind if I touch on another subject. Many of our viewers are disturbed about the highway hold-ups and the fact that no arrests have been made. Some of the perpetrators are said to be claiming rangatiratanga for their actions. Is there any connection with the huia discovery?”

“None whatsoever. The Maori people are totally behind us and completely reject any connection with the hold-ups.”

“So your message is that in New Zealand all races are united in environmental protection?” said the interviewer.

Beneath the New Zealand flag, the broad, chubby face lit up with an enormous grin.

“Absolutely.”

Now the interviewer introduced Kevin Carr. He was sitting on a log against a background of native bush, a short, insignificant-looking man with a pencil moustache, probably in his mid-thirties. Apparently very shy, he avoided looking at the camera and appeared to be reading prepared notes. As a member of the Ornithological Society of New Zealand, he spoke initially of his extensive research into the huia and said that it had long been his ambition to rediscover it. He described the Society’s stringent requirements for the authentication of rare bird discoveries and showed how meticulous he had been in following these requirements in his report. The report had been made direct to the Director-General who had flown up from Wellington to Rotorua. He had been gratified when Dr Holcroft not only accepted his report, but immediately gazetted the whole of the Waitoa Valley as a huia sanctuary. He then gave from his rare bird report the date, the time of day, the state of the weather, especially the visibility, and described the bird, its size, colour, physical description, eating, walking and flying habits and its call. He described his camera and the setting he had used as well as the magnification of his telescope.

There appeared on the screen the photograph of the huia he had rediscovered. Kate saw that it was a female huia with the longer beak, and it was perched on what appeared to be a fuchsia bough. For a moment the strange thought passed through her mind that she had seen it before.

“Would you describe the actual sighting, please, Kevin?”

“The first thing I noticed was some unusual pecking marks on an old rimu log, the sort of log where you get a lot of huhu grubs. I immediately stopped and listened. Then I heard an unusually rich flute-like whistle. I called to Harry Wilson, my assistant wildlife adviser, and we both lay down behind the log. I adjusted my camera and telescope and then we covered ourselves with as much foliage as possible. Although I had never heard the sound before, I found it quite easy to imitate. Immediately after I called, a bird flew down spreading its white-tipped tail feathers and landed about twenty feet away on a low branch. It was a female bird, and seemed to be looking round for what she thought was her mate. I focussed the telescope on her and managed to get one camera shot, but as soon as the huia heard the click it flew off. Harry saw it too, but unfortunately, when we brought the rest of the party, we could not entice it again although we called several times.”

“Could you make the sound of the huia for viewers,” asked the interviewer.

He pursed his lips, and uttered a rather ordinary whistle.

If I were a huia, I wouldn’t have been fooled, thought Kate.

If he had been Sir Walter Buller, he would have shot it and brought it back. Kevin could only bring a photo. What a magnificent sight, she thought – all that rich blue-black plumage, its bright orange lappets at the base of the beak and the long spreading tail with its band of white at the end.

She looked more carefully at the photo and again it looked familiar yet not familiar.

Then suddenly she realised what it resembled. On the desk in her study was a picture – Keulemans’ plate in the 1967 edition of Buller’s Birds. She looked at it every day.

How odd!

The interviewer was now talking to the Director-General, Dr Holcroft, in the Forestry offices in Wellington. Behind him were photos of the takahe, the saddleback, the black petrel and brown kiwi, all in their natural habitat. He was a short, dry, scholarly-looking man, and his head and eyes had a habit of darting about in quick bird-like movements.

“Why do you think the huia was found in this valley?”

“The remoteness and ruggedness of the situation indicate that predators, especially the Norwegian rat, may not have penetrated there.”

“What measures have you taken to protect the huia?”

“I have set up a rigorous exclusion zone in the Waitoa Valley and have withdrawn the new management plan which envisaged further tracks, huts, helipads and tourist flight licences in the surrounding Raukumara.”

“So this is a change of policy from that of your predecessor. Won’t this affect the potential tourist income and possible income from mining licences?”

“The huia is a treasure beyond price.”

“Will the public object to being excluded from the Waitoa?”

“The Raukumara are a wilderness area and very few trampers go in there because of the mountainous terrain and the difficulty of access.”

“What about the process of consultation? You seem to have acted very quickly on this discovery.”

“The process here was probably less complicated than if it had been found in the Forest Park because Te Whanau-a- Apanui, who are the landowners and acting as a trustee for all hapu and iwi, immediately requested the protection of their royal bird. That is why I flew up to Rotorua on December 30th and interviewed the ornithologists concerned personally to confirm the discovery. Following this I spoke again to Whanau Apanui who after taking legal advice agreed with my view that the discovery should be handled at national level in consultation with all interested parties including the whanau representatives and officers of the Department of Forestry.”

“Would the huia be safer on an island where there are no predators?”

“We would have to consult the iwi on that. There is a problem because as yet we have identified only one female.”

“So what is the programme now?”

“I have already appointed a ranger, Mr Dick Burton, who is based in the Rotorua Wildlife office. I have asked our Wildlife offices in every area to appoint advocates and to work with the Kaupapa Atawhai to formalise iwi involvement. I am establishing a scientific workshop with a view to initiating a National Recovery Plan. I have already spoken to one of my corporate sponsors about such a plan and they have agreed to commit funds for this purpose.”

“Dr Holcroft, you don’t mind if I ask you a question about something which is concerning a lot of people.”

The Director-General, a precise man, frowned at this departure from the subject of the interview.

“We asked Sir Robert what he thought about the hold-up perpetrators, in particular the Maori republics, claiming the rangatiratanga of the huia as their justification. What are your views?”

There was a remarkable change in the little man. The veins stood out on his forehead, the bird-like eyes flashed with sudden anger and he seemed to have trouble in enunciating his words:

“Those kind of people have no rights!”

No need for him to go as far as that, she thought.

A ginger-haired man with a green shirt and a rugged, weather-beaten face was strolling with the interviewer along a boardwalk beside a cascading stream. All around them was luxuriant native bush. Every now and then the green-shirted man would stop, put a finger across his lips and point up into the trees.

“You’ve been appointed ranger for the sanctuary, Dick. Why do you think we need a sanctuary?”

“Open the place up for tourists and you close it for the wildlife,” he replied. “There won’t be any birds for tourists to look at. It’s about time people realised that birds need privacy as well as humans.”

“I suppose some people will say we’re locking up all this forest just for the birds. There could be a lot of money in logging those trees.”

“That’s just a lot of crap! For hundreds of years man has been behaving like a lunatic, looting, plundering and raping. He should realise that when he destroys his environment, he destroys part of himself, not only his shelter, his food, his water, his soil, but also his way of life, his recreation, his refreshment. Man can run up a house, a factory, and a concrete apartment block within weeks or months. But see how long it takes to create a forest. Yet man can destroy it in days. Who would ever think of destroying the Taj Mahal to build a fibrolite bach? In our monstrosities of cities, we play canned music and listen to ghetto blasters. Yet go into the bush and listen to the bellbirds chiming. Hear the surf crashing on a West Coast beach, a mountain stream singing. Listen to the wind in a pine forest, the cicadas in the tea tree, the crickets on a summer evening in the short sheep grass by the sea.”

At the beginning Kate wondered why the TV team had not cut what was obviously going to be more of an oration than an answer to a question. Then she saw how they had used it. First, the screen filled with a beautiful forest glade with branches arching over like the fan-vaulted ceiling of a great cathedral. Echoing through it like a heavenly carillon was the morning chorus of the bellbirds. The scene then shifted to a pine forest with its ferny floor dappled in sunlight and the sound of the wind softly sighing. Great rollers crashed in on a long white beach and the spray drifted against rearing cliffs where crimson pohutukawa clung. Above the cliffs were grassy ridges where sheep were peacefully grazing. And as background music came the calm and majestic strains of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.

Great! she thought.

CHAPTER 17

Kate had secured a scoop when she had invited Kevin to speak to a specially called meeting of the Alpine Sports Club at St Mark’s Hall in Remuera. It was the night after the documentary. Though some members were away on the Raukumara search and others on their South Island tramping and mountaineering trips, all the seats were taken and there were some standing at the rear.

When Kevin Carr walked down the aisle to the platform with the President, the sturdy, weather-beaten, normally phlegmatic trampers, mountaineers and skiers stood up and clapped, and some even shouted and whistled.

He was known to be a shy man and club members realised that the meeting would be an ordeal for him. They did not expect an enthusiastic oration and were not surprised when he read his speech which turned out to be the same that he had given on TV.

Kate, regardless of her little niggle of the night before, resolved to enjoy the excitement of the meeting. After all, coincidences were not unusual.

However, when the huia appeared on the screen she scrutinised it carefully. It was the same photo as used in the documentary. This time she compared it with her own postcard reproduction of Keulemans’ painting which she had brought in her handbag.

The background of Kevin’s huia was native forest, there was no male huia, the bough was at a different angle and the bird was looking to the left instead of the right. But the bird itself and its stance on the bough did not just resemble the Keulemans bird.

It was identical.

It wasn’t just odd. It was extraordinary.

After the talk the clapping went on a long time. Looking round a sea of excited faces she glimpsed Eleanor and Leone McTaggart.

She darted over to them. “Come on, you lot. Get a cup of tea and talk to Kevin.” Suddenly she noticed how pale Eleanor looked. “So good of you to come,” she said.

Eleanor said quietly. “We’re going home.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

Leone broke out angrily. “Didn’t you hear on the news tonight? It’s an absolute disgrace! The government’s decided that the trampers have gone into the sanctuary, and because they don’t want to disturb the huia, they’ve called off the search.”

Kate stopped short. Suddenly, all the exhilaration of organising people drained from her and she didn’t want to dart anywhere. She put her arm around Eleanor and they walked slowly out of the hall.

On her return she heard the supper conversation buzzing. “And this is just the beginning. We ought to establish sanctuaries for every endangered bird in New Zealand. We’ve done it for the takahe and the kakapo and the brown kiwi and the black petrel, and now the huia. What about the saddleback and the kokako? They’ll be wiped out too if we don’t act now.”

She made her way over to the corner where Kevin was hemmed in by a group of enthusiastic club members. “Wasn’t it great,” one of them was saying, “that the Government acted so quickly to set up a sanctuary. It really shows how lucky we are to have a man like Gerald Holcroft as Director-General.”

“I expect he realised that the huia could have been exterminated before an official team got in there,” said another. “And he recognised that Kevin probably knew more about the huia than anyone else in New Zealand.”

“Yes, I had done my research carefully,” said Kevin, “and the Government regarded the protection of the huia as a matter of the gravest national importance.”

Kate, standing on the outside of this group, was furious. Something had happened in her, and she felt detached from the whole gathering. She couldn’t help thinking about Eleanor. The search for Stan and Bill had been called off. She couldn’t help thinking about the broken leatherwood on the Waitoa side of Devil’s peak.

What was more important – birds or people?

It was a strange question for a huia enthusiast to be asking. But within her mind an even stranger question was forming.

She found herself observing Kevin more closely. The main thing she noticed about him was his air of seriousness. He spoke slowly and rather self-importantly in a boring monotone. Yet the man had achieved his greatest ambition in life, an achievement which to anyone else would be a dream. Why doesn’t he get excited? Why doesn’t he smile? “Gravest national importance!” How pompous can you get?

Suddenly all her frustration boiled up against him. If he hadn’t discovered the huia, the search would not have been called off! Compared with Stan he’s a wimp!

But there are some things he does get excited about, she thought darkly. What was that angry argument that John had spoken about, the one he had with Stan on Little Barrier?

Dammit! I’ll stir him up!

“Well spoken, Kevin,” she said, coming up close to him. “I was going to ask you what you think about Nga Tama’s proposal for the Waitoa Sanctuary?”  

“What’s that?” he said. “Nga-what?”

She sensed a sharper tone in his voice.

“Nga Tama. You know – that Maori group that are protesting about the huia. They’re saying the Maori people have a customary right to hunt the huia and to take its feathers because it is their royal bird. Therefore, if the Government wants them to give up this right, it has to pay them compensation.”

As she looked carefully at him she noted the narrowing of the eyes and the deep vertical trough appearing between them, the thin lips setting in a tight straight line, the knuckles of the fists whitening. “It’s time they were put in their place! What on earth is the Government doing to allow that kind of blackmail?”

Kate’s mind raced. She remembered Kevin’s presentation and a thought came to her so bizarre that she could hardly comprehend it.

“What a beautiful bird in your photo! You couldn’t mistake it for a female huia. In fact, apart from the background, the absence of its mate and the way it’s facing, it’s identical to the Keulemans painting.”

“What are you talking about? Keulemans? Never heard of him!” he said tersely.

She was on the verge of saying, “He was the painter who did the original illustrations for Buller’s Birds,” but stopped short because she realised that something was terribly wrong with his answer. She looked around at the other faces in the group. When he denigrated the Maori activists, it was evident that some of them nodded approval and others saw nothing unusual in it. Moreover, most of these people were not ornithologists. The 1967 edition of Buller’s Birds was expensive and not widely known. The name Keulemans evidently did not mean anything to them, and besides they were intent on hero worship.

But she knew from the Ornithological Society Librarian that Kevin had borrowed the book for a fortnight immediately before he left on his trip to the Raukumara. His special interest was the huia, he was a careful, studious man and in his research he was thorough. He would certainly have studied the section on the huia and the superb painting by Keulemans in the midst of the text, particularly for help in identification.

The other curious thing was his failure to recognise her deliberate mistake in the gender. She had said “you couldn’t mistake it for a female huia” when she knew it had the longer beak and therefore was the female.  

She walked away, her heart thumping.

Kevin Carr was glad the huia business was over. Any public appearance was a strain to him, but especially the interview for the documentary and speaking to the Alpine Sports Club.

But one thing upset him particularly about last night and that was Kate Fairweather supporting the Maori terrorists. It was bad enough for the Maoris to be talking so much about their royal bird when all they had done was to hunt it to extinction.

He was not normally an emotional man, but the Maori claims on wildlife and the conservation estate had in the last few years built up in him a deep, almost pathological anger. It had begun with the blocking of mountain and forest access because of disputed ownership and alleged wahi tapu and continued with the demand for customary rights to shoot native birds based on alleged treaty rights.

This anger was so strong it was not easy to handle, but a lot of others felt the same and he knew where he could get help.

As for that innuendo about his photo – that was a slander that he would see his solicitor about. But first of all, he would talk to the Director-General.

He might also have to reconsider his membership of the Ornithological Society if people like Kate Fairweather continued to run it.

Perhaps it was time he took a holiday.

“I just rang to thank you for speaking to us last night.”

The voice made Kevin’s blood pressure rise, but he held himself in.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking but I have another request. I’m doing an article for the Notornis, our journal, on the discovery and I thought it would be useful to get some background on the adventure tourist company you were advising and how you managed to get this appointment. More of a human interest story, you could call it.”

The cunning of the woman appalled him. “As a matter of fact I do mind. I discussed the meeting last night with the Director-General with whom I am in daily contact. He has suggested that I give no more information to the Ornithological Society while you are Secretary.”

“Really? Is there a reason?”

“We feel that you are too close to the people who are trying to destroy the sanctuary.”

“Why, that’s nonsense. The Wildlife Service has appointed me an advocate.”

“The Director and I have also discussed that.”

Kate felt she wanted to scream.

Something beautiful had just been trampled on.

Show me a huia!

CHAPTER 18

“Are you all right driving, Jim?”

A few days before the New Year Jim and Susan McAndrew were returning to Auckland from Wanganui where they had spent Christmas with Susan’s mother. They had left later than planned, and darkness had already overtaken them on the hilly part of the road between Taumarunui and Te Kuiti. Susan at these times always regretted that she had never learned to drive.

“We can always look for a motel in Te Kuiti.”

Her husband grunted. “I’ll see how I go. Not much traffic tonight.”

They were climbing a long hill. Suddenly, as they came around a bend, flashing lights shone on the road ahead of them.

“Looks like an accident,” said Jim, slowing down.

Two cars were slewed right across the road. Somebody was lying on the tar seal between them. There were several other figures huddled around, their bodies lit up eerily by the flashing hazard lights.

Jim stopped and began to open the door.

“Wait!” cried Susan. She had seen the body on the ground move. It leapt to its feet, brandishing a knife. The other figures moved away from the cars and rushed towards them. They wore balaclavas, their faces were masked and their arms heavily tattooed. They carried knives and baseball bats.

“Lock the doors!” she cried. It was too late. The passenger door was wrenched open. She felt the horror of violent hands invading the car, touching her, clawing at her, tearing her clothes, pulling her hair. She fought back, biting, scratching, hitting; but it was no use. Numb with fear, she was dragged out of her seat and across the road and flung down into the grass. But what she feared did not occur. Jim too had been dragged out, but he had more strength and she saw him trying to wrestle his assailants. They only redoubled their blows until he collapsed and lay still in the middle of the road.

“Oh, no!” she rushed to kneel beside him.

Now she heard a new and sickening sound as baseball bats rained down on the car from all sides. Jim’s pride and joy, their gleaming near new Triumph 2000, looked as if it had been involved in a multiple-car crash.

Helpless, she watched, unable to speak in sheer terror.

Their work of destruction done, the masked figures drew back while one of them wrote on the car with spray paint. The man threw the can away, came close to Susan and spat at her.

“Pakeha scum! You took our land. This is pay back,” he hissed.

As Susan bent over her bleeding husband, she heard laughter and more taunts, doors were slammed, engines roared, and the two large and battered cars sped off down the road leaving a trail of expletives, screeching tyres and exhaust fumes.

She looked at the wreck of their car. In the headlights of the last departing car she had read the crudely written words:

MANIAPOTO REPUBLIC

AKE! AKE! AKE!

It was the challenge issued by Chief Rewi Maniapoto during the battle of the Orakau Pa, meaning “We will fight on for ever and ever!”

***

“I know it’s serious, Sir, and we’re following up several leads at the moment. And I believe Jim McAndrew’s injuries were not serious.”

Detective Inspector Ian Molloy of the Auckland C.I.B. held the phone in one hand and wiped his brow with the other. He and Detective Sergeant Piriaka had been working in the Te Kuiti area for sixteen hours. They had been sent down from Auckland because they had recently been investigating similar hold-up cases in Rotorua, Ruatoria and Turangi.

“That’s not the point,” continued the Commissioner. “The media have been giving us hell. They’re saying that no one’s safe on the roads any more. What’s more, they’ve got hold of the fact that the police haven’t made any arrests. My Minister says it’s a political disaster. He’s accused of being soft on Maori thugs, and the Opposition are yelling law and order for all they’re worth. There’s even talk of a snap election.” Inspector Molloy swore under his breath. Why didn’t the Commissioner come up to Te Kuiti and find out for himself?

“The name on the McAndrew car was Maniapoto Republic, but we’ve talked to the local marae at Te Kuiti, and they didn’t know anything about it. And we’ve been to the marae at Taumarunui and to the gangs at Taumarunui and Te Kuiti and it’s the same answer.”

“The public have another view. Do you know that after each attack a vigilante group of beefy young Pakehas is formed in the area, and they call themselves the Highway Watch or some such name?”

“Yes, they were demonstrating outside the marae at Te Kuiti and trying to tell us our job.”

“It’s worse than that. They’re saying there are too many Maori in the force and they’re turning to private protection. Some Pakeha drivers are reported to keep a pistol under the driver’s seat when they go on roads where there have been assaults.”

“Hmm, that won’t make our job any easier.”

“Do something, Inspector.”

“Sir.”

Ian Molloy looked across the office to Sergeant Matthew Piriaka. “Any ideas?”

“Only that the attackers are not very original.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Always night, always balaclavas, tattoos, knives, baseball bats, spray can, nearly always the same words, claiming rangatiratanga, same tag except that the Republic varies according to the tribal district – Arawa at Rotorua, Ngati Porou at Ruatoria, Tuwharetoa at Turangi, and now Maniapoto at Te Kuiti. The trouble is the victims are so scared they don’t notice anything.”

“What are you getting at, Sergeant?”

“It looks as if we’re watching not a hold-up but a performance.”

Ian Molloy was an experienced detective who had been under cross-examination in many a closely fought court case and knew the value of hard, irrefutable evidence. He looked at the young Maori sergeant suspiciously. This was the sort of smart comment that he didn’t appreciate. “I don’t understand.”

“Everyone says the hold-ups are political, all to do with Maori rights. I’m not so sure. I wonder if they’re only meant to look political.”

Inspector Molloy growled. “Just cut out the politics, Sergeant. Get some proper evidence.”

Matthew Piriaka walked slowly out to his car. He felt uncomfortable being Maori on this case. Some people had even suggested that he should be taken off because of racial bias. But it wasn’t just a police matter. He was Tainui. His ancestors had suffered under confiscation in the Waikato. It was impossible to be Maori and not feel some sympathy for the cause which the republics were supposedly drawing attention to, even though you didn’t go along with the violence.

He was a New Zealander as much as a Maori. It was bad enough that the hold-ups were dividing his own people but worse still that the whole country was being ripped apart. And he was supposed not to notice it.

Sometimes being a policeman made him sick.

CHAPTER 19

Kate sat on her settee drinking her fourth cup of coffee and fuming.

Since the Alpine Sports Club meeting and her conversation with Kevin, she had hardly slept. Both by her profession as an accountant and by nature she was a person who prided herself on being organised and completely in control of a situation.

Now her ordered world was disintegrating.

She could no longer look at the Keulemans reproduction and had thrust it into the lowest corner of her desk. Her appointment pad for the day was empty. She had put her phone on answerphone and she didn’t bother to check the calls. What was the point? Any moment the phone call or message would come from Wildlife or Forestry to say that she had lost her advocacy job.

That little Hitler! That jumped-up robot of a man! He’s a liar too!

Then she told herself, Stop getting your knickers in a twist about that man. Calm down and start thinking!

She put down her coffee and went to her desk for the Keulemans photo. She studied it long and hard with a microscope. After that she called up one of her friends in the Ornithological Society.

“I’m going to write about Kevin for the Notornis. You’ve been on several trips with him. Would you mind giving me your own personal impressions?”

Perhaps it was not quite honest. She didn’t feel at all like writing such an article in the Society’s magazine.

After several calls she had found out nothing new. Kevin was a shy bachelor who lived on his own and his only interest appeared to be birds. It was not until the sixth call that she began taking notes.

“Oh, he’s a whiz with his camera and video, but it’s the work which he does afterwards that’s amazing. I remember he showed us the video he did on Tiri. He was able to produce close-up shots of the kokako with them doing all sorts of things which we hadn’t seen.”

She paused. The accomplishment was not surprising. The art of creating composite photos or scenes was increasingly important in the media, especially in TV advertisements, and was now being used by budding Alpine Sports Club film makers. Kevin was evidently up with the latest techniques.

“Really,” she said and put the phone down slowly.

What did Miss Marple say? “Motivation explains everything.” Everyone knew Kevin as a dedicated ornithologist. So he was. But no one knew him very well as a person. She recalled the deep line between the eyes, the hard, thin lips and the white knuckles on the fist when she asked her question about Nga Tama.

Kevin had lied about the Keulemans painting. And he hadn’t corrected her mistake about the sex. Why? Because he was angry and didn’t think. And why did he get angry? Because he has a phobia about the Maori.

But plenty of other Pakeha had the same phobia. Strong opinions about the Maori claims, especially to the conservation estate, were not uncommon in the mountain and tramping clubs. Some who held these views were her close friends. The so-called “Maori problem” had become the hot topic for the media, the talkbacks, the conversation in the street. It was all because of the hold-ups.

The spate of Maori highway hold-ups had started three months before. Each wrecked car had on it the name of a particular Maori “republic”. Not one of the iwi named had publicly claimed responsibility for the attack, nor had the Nga Tama. But every hold-up had been followed by a flood of vituperation in the media correspondence columns and by a spate of angry calls on talkback. There had even been organised demonstrations outside Maori marae and one marae near Turangi had been destroyed by fire with arson suspected. She had been appalled by the level of redneck intolerance in the community. It even deterred those with contrary opinions from making their views known lest they be branded as wimps or pinkos. The talkback response was 90% anti-Maori.

Motivation explains everything. Phobia about the Maori was a motivation for atypical behaviour. But could this include lying and the possible doctoring of the photo?

In auditor’s language there was a discrepancy in the accounts.

The Central Library newspaper room was fairly empty and fortunately there were no people there whom she knew. She took a look in the adjacent research room. Some elderly grey-haired Pakeha men were filling in their retirement days working on their genealogies. Again she was pleased that there were no accountancy clients or fellow ornithologists.

For two hours that morning she worked away, photocopying items from the relevant papers. She hadn’t read much about the hold-ups before, but now she studied them systematically together with public response in the way of editorials, articles and letters to the editor.

There was something unusual about the four hold-ups. In spite of the number of perpetrators and huge public reaction against them, the police had not succeeded in charging or arresting a single person. This had a noticeable effect on the type of media coverage. When a crime is committed, usually the media focus on the police activity to find the criminals and public requests by the police for information. In the hold-up cases you had to search to find any reference to what the police were doing. If they were mentioned at all, the publicity was derogatory. The papers instead were filled with angry letters and articles and strident political comment.

In other words the response was almost entirely political.

An article in the Herald caught her eye.

NEW ZEALAND RIPE FOR BLOODLESS COUP?

It is often assumed that real change in society can only come through democratic processes. This is to assume that a particular political way of doing things is the best and only way for our society. Yet in history many revolutions have brought progress and some have been non-violent. Take for example, the Glorious or Bloodless Revolution of 1688 whereby public-spirited Englishmen replaced the Catholic Stuart King James II with the Protestant William of Orange. It is believed that such bloodless coups could never happen in a democratic country like New Zealand, but history gives no such assurance. Let these examples be a salutary reminder to our present Government, lest it take too far its pandering to a minority group which has adopted a policy of highway terror to press its claims. Let it remember that the political process rests ultimately not in the Government but in the people itself.

This article was written by a senior member of the Department of Political Science at a leading North Island university. It was even supported in the following issues by the majority of the readers. She noticed that the supporting letters were similar in their arguments and in the historical facts which they quoted.

So there was talk of a coup, and ominously it was to come from the people – in other words from outside Parliament. Was there a hidden group of conspirators or “sleepers”? If so, who were they?

And what could this possibly have to do with the huia sanctuary?

She gathered up her notes and photocopied items and glanced across to the research room again. The elderly grey-haired Pakeha men did not look up. They appeared to be assiduously and silently gathering material on their long-forgotten forbears.

Or were they writing letters to the paper?

Why were there so many of them? And why did they all look alike? Were they really working on family history? Retired Pakeha men were formidable in political controversy. A pity that the older some of them got the more one-eyed they became.

As she came down the stairs, she noticed a Maori woman with three small children at the counter getting some books out. She was fumbling in her bag for her card, but someone appeared to jostle her. Her bag fell on the floor and the contents spilled and were spread around. There were several Pakeha people standing with her at the counter, but no one moved. One of the children started to cry.

For heaven’s sake!

She dashed forward, gathered up the little bits and pieces and put them back in the bag. The contents were cheap and a little dirty and the bag was well worn. She also found the card and gave it to the attendant at the desk.

“Thank you very much,” came the soft, gentle voice.

As she went out the door, she heard the quite audible comment from a thin-lipped, well-dressed European woman, “Why help those people?”

***

It was a perfect summer’s afternoon at Achilles Point. People were swimming at St Heliers Beach, there were beach umbrellas on the sand and a few windsurfers curvetting in the light breeze off the shore. All in front of her the channel sparkled in shades of blue and green and purple. Northwards in her mind’s eye she saw its waters lapping on a succession of golden beaches all the way up to Whangaparaoa. Eastwards beyond Te Waiarohia-o-Ngai Tai, “the panoramic waters of Ngai Tai”, known as Musick Point, the Tamaki Strait shimmered in the summer haze, and ranged across the horizon were the green-brown islands of the gulf. There was Motutapu, the sacred island, Motuihe, the jewel of the gulf, Motukorea, the island of the oyster-catcher, Waiheke, stretching lazily with its gentle brown hills to the east, and looming beyond it all the misty blue eminence of Moehau – where the wind slept. Then lastly, right opposite her and dominating the whole scene like some benign kaitiaki or guardian was Rangitoto, its mysterious, perfectly symmetrical volcanic cone rising skywards, clothed with its magical green and blue-hued cloak.

It was all so beautiful. The “City of Sails”, where a thousand yachts glided on the sparkling waters of Waitemata. Tamaki Makarau, “Tamaki desired by many”, where gardens blazed in a riot of summer colour on the rich volcanic soil. Auckland, a city of wide cultural and racial variety, where people came in their different canoes from the islands, from Europe, from Asia, from Africa, to live together in peace.

Yet once this isthmus had been a place where twenty-two volcanoes had wreaked a holocaust of death and destruction.

Suddenly a black cloud came from nowhere and covered the sun. She felt a chill. Rangitoto had metamorphosed. Now it loomed up out of a purple sea, dark, sinister and menacing, no longer a benevolent kaitiaki but a boding figure of impending doom.

She shuddered. Did she imagine that the previous occupants of Auckland had once beheld another horror? Rangitoto, meaning red sky or sky blood. That was how they remembered Auckland’s most recent volcano.

Then she thought back to all those sickening letters and articles.

What is happening to our beloved Tamaki Makaurau?

CHAPTER 20

It was a curious experience being the victim of a highway assault.

Susan McAndrew took some weeks to recover from the trauma of the hold-up and the assault. At first she was more concerned about Jim’s recovery, but his head injuries were not serious and his other wounds had soon healed sufficiently for him to return to work. She, who was more often at home, had time to reflect.

Her friends had called around or phoned or written. Some of them took the view that the best comfort to her was the knowledge that the offenders would be severely dealt with, preferably by the infliction of the same injuries. However, as the offenders were nowhere to be found, let alone dealt with, this did not help.

In addition, she and Jim received a visit from an anonymous public-spirited group which was initiating local and political action about the hold-ups. They were told that their membership, like the visit, would be entirely confidential.

“You can use my name,” said Jim. “Anything to stop the bastards.”

Susan was uneasy. “What’s this you say in your pamphlet about Maori terrorism?”

The answer did not satisfy her. She had not signed because she did not like the idea of her name being used in a campaign which could be described as racist. She was working with Maori women in Plunket and knew that they were just as concerned as she was about the attacks. Moreover, she felt a sense of inadequacy over the identification of the assailants. Because Jim had been knocked unconscious, the police had to rely on her. Yet it had been dark, the shock of the assault and her fear of a personal attack had stunned her, and afterwards there was the delayed shock.

She recalled the interview with Detective Inspector Molloy and Sergeant Piriaka.

“I know it’s distressing for you, Mrs McAndrew, but have you any memories of the appearance of the people who assaulted you?”

“They all had balaclavas and masks. The only person I saw closely was the one who pulled me out of the car. He was a big man, a Maori, very strong.”

“If he had a balaclava on, how did you know he was Maori?” Sergeant Piriaka had asked.

“He had brown skin and tattoos on his arm, and when he spoke it was with that Maori intonation.”

“What happened when he pulled you out of the car?”

“He had hold of my hair and I tried to scratch his arm with my finger nails.”

“Did he loosen his grip?”

Yes, he wrenched his arm away, and all I got was some of his paint in my fingernail.”

“Paint?” asked Sergeant Piriaka.

“War paint,” explained the Inspector. “Apparently they put it on before each assault. It’s a custom before going into battle – like the haka.”

The Maori sergeant seemed pleased at his chief’s knowledge of Maori customs.

There the interview had ended. They had mentioned the possibility of an identification parade, but this had not eventuated, and Susan was relieved because the thought of being face to face again with a possible assailant was terrifying.

***

“You won’t know me, Mrs McAndrew, but I’m an accountant and the Secretary of the Ornithological Society.”

“Ornithological Society?”   The voice sounded puzzled.

 “I have a query about the recent highway attacks, and I was wondering if I could come and speak to you.”

To Kate’s surprise Mrs McAndrew did not ask for further explanations and was happy to make an appointment.

The house was in a tree-lined Epsom street, a comfortable bungalow with beam ceilings and an oregon-panelled entrance hall. Kate had parked her Ford Cortina outside and was in her smart grey business suit. Susan McAndrew turned out to be a bright, cheerful woman, probably in her late forties.

“I hope your husband is feeling better.”

“Back at work already, and we’ve got a new car too. There was a public appeal as well as the insurance money. People have been so good.”

“I’m so glad he’s recovered. But I do have a little question. You see, I’ve been doing some quite unofficial research. I’m really sorry to bring it all up again.”

The voice was more guarded. “I’ve given a report to the police. Still, what was the question?”

“I’m curious about the assailants. You must be concerned that they have never been identified.”

“I’m sure the police are doing their best.”

“Were you sure that they were Maori?”

“That’s curious, it’s just what Sergeant Piriaka asked.”

Kate listened with interest to Susan McAndrew’s account of her interview with the police.

“What colour was the paint in your nail?”

“It was browny.”

“Did Sergeant Piriaka make any comment?”

“No, but Inspector Molloy said it was war paint, and I think the sergeant was quite impressed.”

“I suppose they have to psych themselves up for something like that.” She stood up. “Thank you very much, Mrs McAndrew. I hope raising the matter again hasn’t been upsetting for you?”

“Not at all.” The tone was pleasant, though a little mystified.

CHAPTER 21

You wouldn’t want to go off the road here!

Carefully David crept round the outside of a hairpin bend, sounding his horn as he went. There was hardly room for another car to pass and a few feet away was a long, almost sheer drop down to where the long rollers crashed in white foam over the black rocks and the seagulls screeched.

Where on earth has Pataratara got to?

He remembered the coast from childhood holidays. He had camped there with his parents. They, knowing that the best sites, usually on headlands, were likely to be urupa or burial grounds, had always asked the local Maori beforehand where they could camp. He remembered one holiday in a pohutukawa-fringed bay right up the coast. There had been a Maori family nearby who had been very good to them, shown them the best fishing places and dropped in a few crayfish.

This coast was part of the Maori as it never could be part of Pakeha. The Maori had an understanding with the sea. They knew every reef, every ledge, every rock, every islet and every fruitful hole. They respected it, and in turn it yielded them its harvest of kai moana.

He remembered the rivers too, the wide, stony beds and the strong bridges that spoke of fearsome torrents, the sullen, whirling grey waters, and the cold wind that swept down from the misty peaks of the Raukumaras. When you came to a river, there was a sudden change from the peaceful coastlands. These rivers had the mood of the mountains behind, wild, uncontrolled, fearsome. The Maori spoke of taniwha, the treacherous currents that could claim a life or sweep away a bank. He heard of the road which the river repeatedly washed away where it abutted on the river bed. It would have been better if the Pakeha road builders had consulted the local whanau first, they said.

Strange how he had forgotten it all, and seeing the coast again, it all came flooding back. But it was all in the past now, and those same properties where they had camped with friendly permission were beginning to have large notices and padlocked gates. Even some roads to beaches were being blocked off and large notices advised that access and camping was only with the permission of some Trust Board or other.

It was a less friendly place. In fact all of New Zealand was a less friendly place.

PATARATARA LODGE

PRIVATE PROPERTY

BEWARE GUARD DOGS

The large white notice was placed on two heavy wrought-iron gates in a high split-stone wall which was built right across a headland on the seaward side of the road. The wall was about eight feet high.

His colleague in the Law Department had said Dr Hawthorne liked to be private here. The locals said they were never invited.

It was seven o’clock Thursday.

He eased the red Honda Accord into a grove of puriri, well beyond the little headland so that it was hidden from the road, climbed up the hill on the inland side of the road and checked his map. On the map, the headland enclosed a bay and in the bay were the old wharf and the deep-water anchorage. This was apparently part of the marine reserve which Dr Hawthorne policed. The configuration of the headland was such that neither the wharf nor the anchorage could be seen from the road or the shore outside the property.

He drove back to the little flat at the head of the bay. There was no stream here, but a valley or natural depression led a short way up into the bush and ended in a bluff. It was a pleasant, level place, grassy, with puriri and karaka trees dotted around, and it looked almost landscaped. Then he saw the notice, in the same style as the one at the gates.

PATARATARA LODGE.

PRIVATE PROPERTY

ABSOLUTELY NO CAMPING

DO NOT PARK OR WALK ON THIS LAND WITHOUT PERMISSION.

It looks as if Dr Hawthorne owns all of this bay and on both sides of the road.

Keeping himself hidden in the trees, he quickly walked up to the head of the depression and examined the bluff. It was limestone. Excitedly he climbed round the side and up to the top of the bluff, looking for caves and slits. The surface, like the surface of the flat, appeared to be landscaped. There was evidence of karaka and kohekohe having been planted in several places relatively recently.

This place is very tidy.

Eight-thirty. The long summer day was drawing to an end. He drove up a few yards and parked the Honda off the road among some trees, stretched his sleeping bag out on the back seat, and munched a ginger nut, wishing he’d had more than a snack in Opotiki. He could just see the little flat from between the trees.

There were very few cars now. He heard a vehicle approaching from the Opotiki direction and then a black Land Rover appeared round the corner and stopped alongside the notice. He picked out the lettering, “Pataratara Marine Reserve”. Two men got out, dressed neatly in golf shirts and white shorts. They separated and walked swiftly over the flat and in and around the groves of trees. In a few minutes they had between them covered its whole area. Without any word or sign they got back into the Land Rover and headed in the direction of Pataratara Lodge. Shortly afterwards, he heard a faint whirring sound like electronically controlled gates opening, then the revving of an engine and another similar whirring sound.

So these are the private rangers. Very thorough too.

Eleven o’clock. It had been dark for an hour or so. The cars had long ceased to run on the lonely road. The moreporks had begun to sound back in the bush. The crickets had started their plaintive singing. Down below in the bay the water was lapping gently on the rocks.

David was tired after his long, hot drive down from Auckland. Yet he could not sleep. The landscaped limestone bluff kept coming back into his mind, as did the notice and the two private rangers who had searched the little flat to make sure there were no campers. It was very smartly run.

Dr Hawthorne had bought it three years ago – at the same time as Tane had disappeared. If the limestone bluff he had inspected was continuous with the Waitoa limestone, the old course of the Waitoa might just have come out here. But there was nothing that gave any evidence of such a possibility. The landscaped grounds, the notices, the elaborate security were typical of the private lifestyle which New Zealand’s rich and famous were increasingly requiring at their elaborate holiday mansions.

Perhaps if he played his cards right, he might even be invited here in the future.

He walked down to the flat and up the hill. The heavy iron gates were securely locked. Alongside in the wall was an electronic control box where you keyed in a number. What should he do? Did he make contact? “I’m sorry to wake you but I’m Dr David Corbishley. I’ve come to check out this property briefly for an underground outlet before I go to Australia, even though Dr Hawthorne told me there isn’t one.” Or should he say “I’m Dr David Corbishley, I’m a consultant to one of Dr Hawthorne’s overseas clients. Do you mind if I have a quick look around his property?”

To tell the truth he had never anticipated this situation, and the more he thought of it, the more ridiculous it became. Who am I? Investigating all possibilities like a good scientist. Does this justify me in sneaking round a client’s property? He laughed out loud. It was surreal.

“Keep to rocks!” His own advice to Tane. Just common sense. He thought of Dr Magnusson. What a future lay before him if he played his cards right!

And I don’t want to miss that flight to Australia tomorrow night.

He turned as if to go back. Then he thought of Tane. That piteous upturned face and the appeal in his eyes. He found himself eyeing the wall curiously. He never knew what got into him next. There was a puriri growing near the wall. As a boy he could not resist tree climbing. Impetuously he swung himself up on a branch to look inside the grounds. He saw that the top of the wall was covered with broken glass. Carefully he manoeuvred himself along the branch until he could put one foot on the wall, then the other, placing them gingerly between the shards of glass. On the other side was a grove of ancient pohutukawa. There was no branch to climb down. Without even a thought he jumped and landed with springing knees on a carpet of the Christmas blooms which had recently fallen. He could smell the honeyed nectar.

He looked back at the wall, and realised it was almost impossible to get back up in the same place.

That’s torn it. Might as well have a look around.

He kept away from the driveway, moving down through the pohutukawa. Soon he could hear the water just below him, and smell the seaweed on the rocks. There would be deep water off shore, the Marine Reserve. Still no lights. He wondered where the house was.

There was not a star in the sky, the water was black, and the night windless. Absently he reached down and raked through the fallen blooms with his fingers. Suddenly, he felt something hard. Shaped like a twig, yet it was not a twig. It was metal and hollow. As he rubbed it, there was a slight vibration and a low hum.

He tensed and listened. Only the crickets and the water lapping, and the thumping of his heart.

Suddenly the night erupted. Dogs barked, lights shone, and shouts came from a short distance along the headland.

He pondered the option of meeting his pursuers and trying to explain his presence there, but realised it might be difficult, especially explaining it all to the dogs. So he took off, half running, half creeping through the trees, making towards the only place where he could find safety from the dogs’ sense of smell – the water. Now it was just below. He eased himself down to it over pohutukawa roots and then rocks covered with seaweed.

The dogs and lights were now only a few yards away, the dogs following his trail. He lowered himself into the water, welcoming its cool, silky embrace. He took a big breath and, submerging quietly, swam underwater till he was well clear of the shore. He repeated this several times. Then he looked back towards the land.

At last he could see the dim outline of the whole headland, and the bay, probably the site of the granite quarry, the wharf and the deep-water anchorage.

There was something else there. A large shape at the end of the wharf. A large yacht or small ship? Yes, it could be! Yet there were no lights on either the ship or the wharf. He listened. A low hum came to him across the water.

There’s some work going on there. Was it like cranes loading? He listened more carefully. Was there another sound? It could be the clicking that wagons make as they move over railway lines The granite mining operation? But why at night? And without lights?

Another sound close at hand, less welcome this time. A powerful hull cutting the water, a smooth, low motor. Now a strong searchlight was moving over the surface of the water, sweeping fast and wide.

The Marine Reserve patrol boat – definitely unfriendly. Well, we’ll show them a thing or two.

If in his work-orientated life David had any spare time, he would go swimming. Ever since those holidays on the East Coast when he had been taught by the Maori how to hold his breath for a long time when diving for kai moana, he had enjoyed being in the water. Senior swimming champion at Grammar, he had since taken part in the harbour and Rangitoto swims.

Down he dived. When he surfaced, it was only to catch breath and to assess the direction of the pursuit. Several times he watched as the jet boat sped towards him, submerged in the nick of time and looked up at the light flashing over the water. Finally, the launch appeared to veer away and head back towards the quarry bay.

Slowly David swam towards the dark silhouette of the land where the road ran. Now lights had appeared, car lights on the coast road, torch lights on the beach and along the coastline as far as he could see.

So they are still searching, and if what I’ve seen so far is a guide, they’ll be pretty thorough. Better stay where I am.

He wondered how long he could last before the cold got to him. The search went on and on. He wished he had his wet suit that he used on the Rangitoto swim. The jeans were difficult to swim in. He felt the cold seeping into his legs, his arms and his chest, and struggled to keep moving. At last with relief he saw the lights thinning out, then disappearing, and the car lights on the coast road heading back towards the headland of Pataratara.

When David finally pulled himself out on the rocks, he was exhausted. Dawn was just sketching the saw-tooth outline of the Raukumaras. He had been nearly two hours in the water. Thank heavens it was midsummer!

He clambered over the rocks and up the bank towards his car, grateful that he still had his sneakers on. He was tired, hungry, not thinking clearly. The car was unlocked. How careless of me! He didn’t even check whether anything had been stolen. All he could think of was getting as much space as possible between himself and Pataratara in the shortest possible time. He pulled the key from his sodden jeans pocket, slipped it into the ignition, started the car, reversed it sharply so that it skidded on the grass, and took off at speed, heading westward towards Opotiki.

After he had passed the gates of Pataratara, he listened to the singing of the engine and the humming of the wheels on the seal.

He began to whistle.

On the other side of Pataratara there was a long ascent to get over a very high, steep bluff. He remembered this bluff when he was driving in and the sheer drop to the sea on the upward ascent. He accelerated quickly and soon reached the top of the bluff. Now there was only sea before him, and the steep, narrow road ahead wound around precipices dropping off to the rocks and the water hundreds of metres below.

Just take it easy, David.

He started the descent cautiously with his foot lightly on the brake. After a few yards he felt that the car was moving faster than was comfortable on that hill. He pressed down harder on the brake, but it went sickeningly loose and hit the floor. He pulled furiously at the hand brake but the handle just went loose in his hand. He swung the gear lever into low, but heard only an ominous graunching, tearing sound.

Now the trees began to race past and he saw the sea in front of him and the cliff edge where the road swung away at the first bend. He swerved at the very last moment outside the seal at the bend, as the tyres screeched and the metal rose in a white cloud. He struggled desperately to control the flying car on the next stretch. He knew that there was nothing he could do at that speed on the next bend.

He found himself looking at the sea – how peaceful it looked! Helplessly he watched the second bend coming up. The trees were now a green blur. For some reason he unfastened his seat belt, rested his hand on the door handle and dreamily thought of himself swimming in all that blue. As he made a last desperate attempt to swerve, he was thrown against the side of the car, the driver’s door burst open and the momentum shot him out.

Blue, green and black seemed to be whirling around him. At one stage he saw a comet of red hurtling past him.

Then something struck him with a heavy blow, and he knew no more.

CHAPTER 22

Sir Charles Hawthorne sat in the police station at Opotiki late on Friday morning. His eyes were moist and his handkerchief was in his hand.

Sergeant Herewini of the Opotiki police felt almost as if he were dealing with next of kin. “Sir Charles, we are very grateful that you have driven down from Auckland, especially to help us in our enquiries. Your staff have also been very helpful. We are still looking for the body. It seems to have been thrown out of the car. He must have forgotten to put his seat belt on. It may be hard to identify as the cliff was high and it would have landed on the rocks. Besides, the tide could have taken it anywhere.”

“My staff will be available for the search as long as you require them.”

“I’m sorry, sir, to ask this, as I understand that you were a friend of the owner of the car, Dr Corbishley from the University. Do you have any idea of the background of this incident?”

A tear glistened on the cherubic cheek. “Thank you, Sergeant. It is as you realise most distressing for me. He was a young man whom I was trying to help. On Monday he came to me for assistance in locating a lost colleague. I made several calls to Australia as a result and provided him with a fare there in order to follow up a likely sighting at Broken Hill. The flight was due to leave tonight. Now I find that he disregarded my assistance, drove down to the Bay of Plenty and last night broke into my property.”

“Any motive for his action, sir?”

“During the interview on Monday he questioned me quite closely about the Waitoa sanctuary of which I am a guardian. Apparently his colleague may have visited there before it became a sanctuary and he had formed the opinion that his colleague had made a valuable mineral discovery. A few days ago he asked me for some geological information about my property which he apparently did not accept. He had obviously decided to make his own investigations.”

“May I ask about this geological information?”

“It related to an idea in his head that there was an underground passage from the Waitoa to my property.”

“Why was he interested in this?”

“I believed at first that he was genuinely interested in tracing his colleague and therefore gave him all the help I could. Now I am afraid that his main desire was not to find his colleague but to find a way to enter the sanctuary illegally in order to exploit his colleague’s possible discovery. I formed this conclusion after he visited me the next day with further questions. He had in the meantime broken into his colleague’s confidential records and found a letter which referred to the discovery. He had also been trying to extract information from the Whanau Apanui.”

“Would you say that this action was unusual on the part of someone of his standing?”

“I fear that Dr Corbishley from my observation was a man under considerable mental strain due to the conflict between his desire to find his friend and his desire for monetary gain.”

The psychological implications of the case were taxing the sergeant’s understanding. “I see,” he said slowly. “Have you any idea of the cause of the accident? I believe your staff were there before us?”

“They reported that the car was so badly damaged that they could not detect the cause. They were also searching for him on the property and in the bay for most of the night after the break-in. As it was noted that the car was still parked near Pataratara shortly before dawn, it’s possible that the unfortunate man started driving back just after dawn and was half asleep.”

“So he might have been inattentive about his belt. Not that it would have made any difference, except in finding the body.”

The handkerchief went again to the eyes. “Whatever his faults, Sergeant, it is a terrible way to die.”

“Do you want us to check your property?”

“There is no need. We have already done so, and there is nothing missing.”

The sergeant completed his report. Sir Charles Hawthorne was held in such regard locally that he did not look for or interview any further witnesses. He noted the missing man’s two actual break-ins and a third contemplated break-in to the sanctuary. He did not think there would be any prosecution. When the body was found, there would probably be a rahui, and he could then close the file.

Sir Charles sat solitary on the terrace looking out over the bay enjoying a gin and tonic. It was a perfect January afternoon. The sunlight bedecked the blue waters with hosts of dancing jewels. The Pacific rollers having lost their strength lapped lazily on the beach at the head of the bay where the golden sand was streaked with the scarlet of the lately fallen pohutukawa blooms. The bush, alive with cicada, rose from the beach in a riot of rata. The terns wheeled and called in a cloudless sky.

He came here to find peace. But for some reason peace eluded him. In the law courts he reigned supreme: by his oratory he carried all the jurors with him, by his cross-questioning he intimidated and bedazzled the witnesses and by his cherubic smile and by his handkerchief and carefully controlled tear and dimple he charmed and beguiled. In the grand parties in his Epsom house and garden he towered above his guests and moved gracefully among them. He spoke to everyone because he knew them all intimately – in many cases he knew far more than they could ever have suspected. At society dinners his great laugh boomed around the room as evidence of his bonhomie. His munificence was legendary. Some even saw him as “the father of Auckland”, another Sir John Logan Campbell.

Yet strangely enough he had very few close friends and he had never married. Was this it because he did not wish to share his deepest thoughts? Or was it because he was used to acting a part? Leading roles at King’s and at Oxford had won for him a reputation of being able to submerge himself completely in the person he was playing. If he had not become a Q.C., he could have been an actor with the reputation of a John Gielgud or a Ralph Richardson.

The skill was fortunate in one way. For who could bear the burden that he bore, the memories that came increasingly to dominate his life?

In Africa it took a long time to kill a man with a machete. They had to cut the hamstrings first to prevent them running away. They talked of the blood running down the dirt street in little rivulets, of the hundreds of bodies floating in the river.

He thought of the sick old man with a deeply lined, hollow face, sitting hunched at a table with his arthritic fingers painfully and ponderously labouring on an ancient typewriter in a room bursting with documents, letters and newspapers, while outside on the former model farm the gorse grew again and the sheds rotted among rank weeds.

There came to him the words which he had spoken as Hamlet:

“The time is out of joint; o cursed spite

That ever I was born to set it right.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your afternoon nap, Mr Chairman.”

The broad American voice came from a tall man who had appeared on the terrace like an apparition. He was big, raw-boned and a little ungainly, and had deep blue eyes under a wide lined forehead and a mop of sandy hair. In his hand he held a book.

“Not at all, dear friend; I see you have your Bible.”

CHAPTER 23

“He’s just completely out of touch with the modern world.”

The Bishop of Auckland, who was of the progressive school, was just waiting for the vicar of St Peter’s-on-the-Hill to retire. He considered that the appointment as Archdeacon by the ageing previous bishop would have been made in one of his most absent-minded moments. Harry Mountjoy had not shown the slightest interest in the programmes on inclusive language which were just beginning to be promoted by the Bishop. He continued to use liturgies which still referred to God as “He”, refused to have Groups for Living instead of Evensong, and his views on current moral issues had a predictable inflexibility.

Harry Mountjoy himself had no ambition to be a popular vicar. He had but two aims. One was to make sure the services were properly and reverently celebrated. The other was to get to know his parishioners as well as he possibly could. Because of this latter aim it was acknowledged by his small but faithful congregation that he had at least one good point. He was an indefatigable visitor.

In fact for the vicar no other activity occupied more time than visiting. As he did not attend the many seminars, conferences or training sessions arranged by the Bishop and the Diocese, parishioners were likely to see him, any hour of the day or evening, quite without notice.

“I was just passing your way, and I thought I’d call in.”

If there were no answer at the front door, he would go round to the back. If there were no one in the house, he would wander down into the garden where the man of the house was cutting the hedge or building a playhouse or a sandpit. Quite often he would lend a hand with the job before everyone decided it was time for a drink. If his parishioners were away at work during the day, he would call in at the office or the shop where his white collar would cause either embarrassment or scarcely concealed mirth. In the evening he would call in sometimes when the family were sitting down to a meal, in which case he was happy to form one of the family and crack a joke with the younger members.

New parishioners were initially disconcerted by his sudden appearances. They felt they would have liked to get out the good tea set and be better dressed. However, regular St Peter’s parishioners accepted their vicar’s visiting habits.

All except one. This was the vicar’s warden, Dr Randall Richardson.

***

The vicar called around immediately to see Eleanor as soon as she rang early on Thursday morning to tell him about the search being called off. He tried to think of something that would give comfort. “Perhaps we could have a little service…”

“I don’t want any kind of service,” she broke in with spirit. “Stan would be horrified.”

Harry was a little taken aback. “Is there anything else?”

“I’ve been thinking about that young geologist.”

“I’m sorry his story upset you. I am afraid young people today are a little tactless.”

“Yes, he did disturb me at the time when he talked about his friend who had disappeared.” There was a tremor in her voice and she got up suddenly. “I’m sorry, I’ll put the kettle on.” There was a rattling of cups, then she came back. “Do you know, Vicar, they seem to be such similar people. I mean Dr Corbishley’s friend and Stan. They both wanted to get to that dreadful valley. And that’s not the only thing. The geologist’s friend used to speak out a lot and make people uncomfortable. And I know how rude Stan can be.” Then her eyes lit up. “But Stan’s sometimes right, and I expect Dr Corbishley’s friend might be too. Do you know how you sometimes talk in your sermons about the need for prophets for today?”

He decided to keep to the practical issue. “You must realise, Eleanor, that there’s nothing more that we can do to find Stan – apart from prayer.”

“But why can’t we help Dr Corbishley find his friend? I know it sounds odd, but I feel there’s a kind of link between us all.”

“I don’t really see what I can do.”

“Excuse me.” She went to the kitchen and returned with the teapot complete with cosy. “Please, Vicar, I know just how Dr Corbishley feels.”

“I’m afraid that Dr Corbishley may have a mental health problem. In fact he almost seems to blame himself for his colleague’s disappearance.”

She poured his tea. “I hope it’s drawn enough. Milk and no sugar? Had you thought of asking Randall for help?”

He sipped his tea. “Perfect.” Then he recalled last Sunday. “Of course, Randall met David after church on Sunday. He had a conversation with him about his search.”

She sat down on a small stool opposite him and was looking up at him with those clear blue, unanswerable eyes. “When can you see him?”

He could hardly credit the tenacity of someone who any moment might know that she was bereaved. “It’s not very easy. He’s the only parishioner who insists on an appointment, and, when I ring up, he is so busy he can’t always fit in a time to see me.”

“He’s such a good man. Why don’t you just call in?”

“He doesn’t like me doing that.”

“Please, Vicar.”

He could not resist those eyes.

The same day in the hot midday sun the vicar walked – he rarely used his car in visiting – through the leafy lanes and the flower-filled gardens of Epsom, savouring the scents and the blossoms and the summer song of the bees and the cicadas. At the end of a shady oak-lined street on the slopes of One Tree Hill he found himself outside a large villa with a return verandah.

GLENFERN PRIVATE HOSPITAL – VISITORS BY PRIOR ARRANGEMENT ONLY

He knew that Randall looked after a small number of psychiatric patients in his own home.

He knocked at the front door. There was no answer. Dr Richardson’s wife was also a doctor, but had her own practice in South Auckland. He supposed there was no one to answer the door. Almost as if by habit he made his way around the side of the house.

A single-storey annexe had been built on to the house at the rear. So this was the hospital. Still he saw no one. He wondered whether there was someone in the garden. Again, as if by habit, he followed a pathway which ran alongside the lawn. It was a very hot afternoon. The pathway ran into the welcome shade of a woodland copse growing over rocky lava outcrops from One Tree Hill and then mounted up towards the boundary of Cornwall Park. The path was well kept and the steps had been recently repaired.

As he walked up the steps, he realised that Randall had far more land than he had imagined, and there was no other house in sight. The copse was dense and it was a little dark. He wondered whether he should turn back.

Then he heard footsteps behind him, moving fast.

Suddenly he thought about the mental condition of some of Randall’s patients. There was a reason for the notice, and he was trespassing.

He turned quickly off the path, hid behind a large rock and looked out nervously. His pursuer’s head was down, looking at the steps, but as he approached he glanced up. He was a Maori man, stocky with a mop of dark unkempt curly hair. He looked young but his face was old. The eyes stared but did not focus.

The look on that face compelled him.

Poor dear man.

He followed, but still cautiously, to the top of the knoll. At that point, almost half way up One Tree Hill, though still on Randall’s property, he came suddenly out into the open. Straight ahead, rising up against the western horizon, he saw the Waitakere Ranges, hazily outlined in the light blue January sky.

He saw his ‘pursuer’ with his back to him, sitting on a bench looking out to the ranges in an attitude of what seemed rapt attention. Suddenly, the man plunged his face into his hands.

Compulsively, Harry began to move forward.

Then he heard a sound from the bench which caused him to stop in his tracks. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips.

Hearing the noise behind him, the other turned, leapt up like a hunted animal. Then he shot frantically past Harry and stumbled away down the steps.

Harry followed him, as fast as he could but keeping his distance. As he emerged on the lawn, he was just in time to see the patient disappearing into the annexe.

He did not follow.

When Harry reached the road, he resumed his normal gait but walked as if in deep thought and did not give the usual cheery hail to people working in their gardens or getting in and out of their cars. Miss Milliken, one of his most regular parishioners, stared after him in consternation when he did not greet her as she was planting a little plot of climbing geraniums around the telephone pole on the roadside verge.

“Oh dear, what have I done to offend him?”

CHAPTER 24

The relationship between a vicar and his vicar’s warden is one of the foundations of parish life in the Anglican church.

The vicar’s warden is a lay person appointed by the vicar because he has the confidence and respect of the parish. Yet he is the vicar’s own sounding board, his confidential counsellor, his escape route in times of stress, his apologist to the parish if this is necessary.

The parish of St Peter-on-the-Hill was no exception. In spite of all his visiting Harry Mountjoy was at bottom a shy man who lacked confidence in making decisions. Randall Richardson, his warden, could always be relied upon for sound advice and encouragement. Between the two men there was a good working relationship and a personal friendship.

Ask Randall. See what he thinks. There was nothing so easy as picking up the phone.

Yet the evening after his visit to Glenfern Hospital he had picked up the phone several times and put it down without dialling.

“Hallo, Vicar.” At last he had waited long enough to hear the familiar well-modulated tones. “How are you this beautiful summer’s evening? And how is Lavinia?”

“Oh, very well, thank you. Randall, do you recall meeting that young university lecturer at church last Sunday?”

“A very interesting young man.”

“I formed the opinion that he was over-stressed about his search for his colleague. I would like your opinion as to whether he should seek psychiatric help.”

“Get him to see his GP who would refer him to a psychiatrist if there is any cause for concern.”

“You don’t think you could help?”

“No, that’s the best course.”

Randall had a habit of getting to the point quickly, dealing with it briskly, then giving the impression that he had something else to do. The vicar feared that the conversation would be cut short. “Randall, as a matter of fact I was so anxious about him that I walked up to your hospital to see you at around midday today. I am sorry that I did not phone before I went.”

The confession was met by silence.

“I knocked and when no one answered the door I went around to the back. I thought you might be working in the garden.”

“You thought I might be working in the garden – on a Thursday at midday?”

He had not heard that tone from Randall before.

“Incidentally I happened to meet one of your patients. He was walking up to the lookout.”

Again silence.

“May I discuss this as a pastoral matter?”

The silence continued.

“I was wondering if you would allow me to be part of your ministry in his case. The chaplain at Carrington Hospital has a good arrangement with me and I provide prayer support for him.”

“Why are you so interested in this patient?”

He hesitated. “I just felt sorry for him.”

“You just felt sorry for him.”

The conversation was becoming increasingly strained. “Perhaps you would like to think it over and let me know if there is any way in which I can help in my capacity as a priest?”

The reply was courteous but cold. “I’m rather surprised, Vicar, that you should visit my hospital and speak to my patients without asking my permission. I am even more surprised at your request, especially in view of the professional confidentiality involved.”

It troubled the vicar that the relationship with his warden had broken down. He had made a mistake. He had disobeyed instructions about visiting. He had not respected Randall’s professional confidentiality. It was true that he had apologised. Yet his apology had not been accepted. His call had not mitigated the offence but added to it. He had wanted to discuss something pastorally important with Randall about the visit, but he had not been able to. Instead he had been treated like a child caught in a misdemeanour.

Randall was a dependable churchwarden, a faithful communicant. He had been at the church a long time and Harry’s warden for twelve years. Everybody in the parish respected him and trusted him. Yet Harry at this time found himself reflecting on how well he really knew his warden. Though he provided good advice and counsel to him as a warden, Randall never shared anything with him at a deeper level. In fact he never shared very much about himself at all. This was not unusual with the men of the parish who tended to keep their professional lives separate from their church lives. However, in the case of his own churchwarden whom he knew to be a man deeply concerned about society and its problems, it was a sadness to him that their conversations never got beyond the minutiae of church administration. Surely the closeness of their pastoral relationship deserved better.

I know I make mistakes, but I am still his parish priest.

***

Interfering simpleton!

Randall Richardson sat in his study in his Epsom home studying the file of the patient under discussion.

What right had Mountjoy got to go sneaking around his property and talking to his patients, then to ring him up and ask if he could help with the treatment? And just because he felt sorry for that person! It was getting to the point that he would have to go to another church. Harry Mountjoy was a good man, but simple, one who was always bludging on his parishioners for cups of tea, a person practised at holding babies at christenings and standing at bedsides and gravesides, but a man totally lacking in knowledge of the ways of the world. A gullible man whom people could twist just by making him feel sorry for them.

There was a time when he had wondered whether he should speak to the vicar about his own problem. He had decided against it. He was used to keeping his own counsel, and to do otherwise would show a lack of confidence in himself. He also suspected the vicar’s rather narrow theological outlook and his naive political views. How could this unworldly man understand his wrestling about the whole direction of society and the anger which grew in him as a result? The Anglican Church regrettably was no longer the bulwark of society it once had been and, if it was made up of people like Harry Mountjoy, it would never face the present threats. In fact it sometimes even supported them. He recalled with disgust a vestry meeting where a motion supporting the Maori terrorists had been put forward by Stan McTaggart.

He thought about the phone call again. The thing that concerned him was not the vicar’s naivety or his failure to obey instructions, but the fact that he was not telling the truth.

His vicar was a very poor liar.

He knew which patient it was. This person had been his individual and particular responsibility. By a mixture of personal bonding and drug dependency, he had established a relationship which had kept this patient at the hospital for nearly two and a half years without using locks or bars.

Fortunately, the problem had been neurotic and not psychotic and there had not been difficulties with violence or criminal conviction. If so, the patient would have been under a different system requiring stringent team supervision. Fortunately too, the patient’s parents had both died, and with no immediate family Randall had more freedom to develop his own treatment. Moreover, being a private concern, the hospital was not visited by patient advocates who could be an administrative complication.

The patient’s problem was associated with guilt, and this guilt produced nightmares during which he would wake up screaming. The relief which he prescribed was a particular drug which deadened all nervous reactions. It was not the only form of treatment, nor was it the orthodox treatment recommended by his professional body, but it was the one which in the circumstances was the most effective.

The long face lengthened and the slender fingers came together in an attitude of prayer. It was his habit every day to remember each one of his patients.

CHAPTER 25

I wish I’d never touched it!

On Thursday evening after her visits to the library and to Susan McAndrew, Kate had been excited as the results of her detective work had started to come together on the table at her flat. But when the final pattern emerged late that night, she was filled with apprehension. It was as if she had caught some loathsome disease and needed to make an appointment with the doctor yet hesitated because of what the treatment might be. The whole thing was so improbable that she wondered if she would ever find someone who wouldn’t laugh at her or say “Whatever.” She longed to find someone who would listen sympathetically, then tell her there was nothing in it. This way she could stop worrying and rip it all up. After all, her holidays were almost finished, and then she would get back to normality.

But everyone she thought of had his or her own problems. Sergeant Piriaka was cautious about commenting on racial issues and didn’t seem to want to offend his superiors. Her pastor might have started preaching. John McTaggart didn’t have enough imagination. Her bird friends would be too busy on field expeditions. As for her bosses or colleagues at work, their little world of finance was too neat and structured to admit even the existence of such a problem.

It took her till Friday at noon to decide to make a phone call to the Department of Geology at the University. Like her relationships with her male colleagues at work, she would keep this relationship on a strictly professional basis.

“May I speak to David?” She realised that she did not know his surname and wondered if there were more than one David on the staff.

“Are you looking for Dr Corbishley?” The receptionist seemed to hesitate. “He’s not here.” Sensing Kate’s disappointment, she asked in a changed tone. “Are you a friend of his?”

“No,” she said emphatically, “but we have an interest in the same project.”

“I’m sorry to say this, but have you heard that there has been an accident?”

“What?”

“His car was found down a cliff this morning.”

“Oh, no! Where?”

“Somewhere beyond Opotiki on the Te Araroa Road.”

She couldn’t speak. Surely it must be some horrible nightmare.

“Are you there, caller?”

She tried to control her voice. “Have they found… anything?”

“He hasn’t been found – yet.”

“Yet.” The word echoed ominously. “I can’t believe it.”

“I really am sorry. The police are doing what they can. They want any information they can get. You may like to phone them.”

She took a hold on herself as she got through to the Opotiki police.

“Sergeant Herewini here. Can I help?”

“I’m phoning about Dr Corbishley. Is there any more news?”

“The local landowner has been very cooperative. Comes from up your way. Dr Charles Hawthorne. By the way, what was the name again?”

She could stand it no longer. She flung the phone down and burst into tears.

“I’ve sent him to his death!”

Why did I ever accept his offer and get into his car? If I hadn’t thrown doubt on his Dr Hawthorne, he might never have gone down there. That’s what comes from interfering in other people’s lives.

She looked again at the photocopied material in front of her and felt like screwing the whole lot up and shredding it.

I should never have tried to copy Miss Marple.

The feeling she had had at Achilles Point came upon her again. She was no longer a high-flying career person with her own means but a vulnerable 29-year-old woman living on her own.

She was afraid.

She went to the window. Beyond the little lawn which belonged to her unit were forty hectares of native bush which stretched as far as the main trunk railway line. The line at this point ran along a mangrove-lined tidal creek, an arm of the inner harbour. She normally loved the bush because of the tui and the moreporks that lived there. Suddenly it had changed and become a hiding place, concealing people who could be watching and waiting.

She shut the windows, locked all the doors and sat where she couldn’t be seen from outside.

They haven’t found his body – yet.

She saw in her mind’s eye the red Honda Accord on the black rocks at the foot of the cliff with huge waves breaking over it. The door was open. On the shingle the waves were rolling up a long dark object like a log….

She jumped as the phone rang. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

“Hallo, it’s me, the One Tree Hill chap.”

She dropped the phone and collapsed on the settee.

The voice continued to speak out of the phone. “Can you hear me? Are you all right? Is that, er, Miss Fairweather?”

“Of course it’s me. What’s going on?”

“I got your name and number from Forest and Bird. They didn’t realise who I was. I know it seems a bit unusual in view of our last meeting, but may I come and see you?”

She had trouble in keeping her voice even, so great was her relief. “It’s 5 Cruttwell Place which is off Kepa Road. Go to the end of the right of way, then it’s the rear flat. Knock three times. Can you find that?”

“Don’t worry. And don’t tell anyone I rang.”

It was a most unusual way of making a date. But she needed to pull herself together and preserve her detachment.

Three knocks at the door.

She could have hugged him, but the sight of him changed her mind and she rushed for some warm water and her first aid kit. His long fair hair which she remembered as being carefully combed was dishevelled. There was a bruise on his forehead and his face was scratched. His jeans and T-shirt were torn and there were bloodstains on his sleeve. “Sit down here. Let’s have a look at that arm. Coffee?”

“Thanks. I got a ride back on the tray of a truck. They didn’t ask any questions, but then they hadn’t heard the news.”

She drew back his sleeve and started dabbing at the wound. “The coffee will be ready in a moment. Or would you like something stronger?”

“Ouch! No thanks. I went back to my flat at Grafton. It had been raided. Somebody had been right through all my clothes and papers. Then I heard a police car coming, and I got out down the fire escape.”

“But they’re looking for you. Aren’t you going to tell them you’re alive?”

“If they know I’m alive, they’ll want to arrest me.”

“Arrest you! Why?”

“I broke into Dr Hawthorne’s place at Pataratara.”

“God, I’m so sorry! I should never have talked to you like that on Monday.”

“It wasn’t just what you said. There were other things.”

“So what happened?”

She listened to his account. It was unbelievable. Not only the events but the changed way he spoke. No longer was he the pompous professor.

“I managed to undo my seatbelt before the car went off the road. I was thrown out and I landed on some vines growing on the treetops just below the road. I was knocked out for a while, but when I came to, I realised that nothing was broken. The vines softened my fall.”

“It was a miracle you survived.”

“Particularly when I wasn’t meant to.”

She nearly knocked over the bowl of warm water.

“I should have examined the car first, but I was tired and in too much of a hurry. Now, because of the state of the car, there’s no evidence. It was just a piece of twisted metal on the rocks when I climbed down to it. All the same I knew the brake lines had been cut.”

She shuddered as she dried his arm. “They tried to kill you?”

“Everything else could be explained as normal security precautions, even the twig sensors.”

“So it’s serious.”

He swept his fair hair back over his forehead with his other arm. “Attempted murder is a bit of a shock. Everyone’s always been so nice to me before. They wrecked my flat too. If it had been the police, they would have needed a search warrant. Now it’s too dangerous to go back.” He turned to her with that boyish face and innocent blue eyes but this time she knew he was not concealing anything. “The trouble is that no one will believe my story.” He stood up suddenly, went to the window, stood behind the curtain and looked out over the lawn, then he went to the window that overlooked the right-of-way. “Those cars? Both friends or neighbours, I suppose?”

“Come back here. You need this bandage.” He returned, sat down and held out his arm. “We know one another’s friends here. It’s quite a community.” She noticed that his head was nodding. “When did you sleep last?”

“The night before last.”

“And where are you going to sleep tonight?”

“I’m going to stay incognito at a backpackers’ hostel. It’s safer for me to be dead.”

“What! Do you think your family and friends will be happy about that?”

He looked at her strangely. “My mother is dead. I have no brothers or sisters. My father will have already disowned me – and I don’t have any real friends.”

“Surely your father would at least be glad to know you’re alive before he disowns you.”

“You can tell him if you like. He’s in Parnell. St Stephens Avenue. But please ask him to keep it to himself.” His head was nodding again. “Do you mind if I have a little zizz on your settee?”

“Help yourself.”

“Wake me up so I can go to the backpackers, won’t you?”

***

After John Corbishley’s wife had died of cancer two years before, he had missed her greatly. He knew that he could be at times aggressive and abrasive and that she with her gentler, more sensitive nature had soothed tempers which he had ruffled. The times he had most enjoyed were the holidays together with her and David when David was young, especially camping down the East Coast. Since her death David, always the only and much prized child, became even more important to him.

The news of the accident and the probable death of his son had hit him very hard. He maintained with difficulty the well-modulated, resonant telephone voice which gave the image of a successful real estate agent.

“John Corbishley here, how may I help you?”

“You won’t know me, Mr Corbishley, but I have news of your son.”

The memory came back to him of that fearful cliff road that he used to know so well and the crumpled car at the bottom. He felt his control going. “David – oh no!”

“I’ve just been talking to him.”

“Thank God!”

“He asked me to phone you.”

“He hasn’t rung himself. Is he all right?”

“He’s safe, but he thought you would believe what the papers said and wouldn’t want to speak to him.”

He felt his voice going again. “He’s my only child. I didn’t think about what the papers said. All I thought was that he was dead. Where is he? Can I see him? Can I speak to him?’

“In the meantime for certain reasons he feels it’s better that people think he’s dead.”

“I’ll do as he wants. Are you a friend of his?”

“No, but we had met before – briefly.”

***

She turned on the radio, keeping the volume down.

“This is the New Zealand Broadcasting Service, 1YA, with the six o’clock news on Friday 21st January.

Police have identified the owner of the car which was found at the bottom of a cliff on the Opotiki–Te Araroa Road this morning. He is Dr David Corbishley, a senior lecturer at the Geology Department of the Auckland University. Prior to the accident Dr Corbishley had been the subject of police enquiries in connection with an incident on a local property. The Geology Department have confirmed that Dr Corbishley was not on departmental business. Police are mounting an extensive search of the coastline around the crash area.”

Kate looked at the suspected criminal sleeping on her settee.

“Heavens!” she thought, “What am I letting myself in for if I harbour this man?”

Then with a shock she remembered why she had tried to ring him at University.

CHAPTER 26

David awoke, rubbed his eyes, and looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock. I’d better be off to the backpackers.”

“There’s no hurry. It’s seven o’clock on Saturday morning.”

“In the morning!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you wake me? I’ve slept for fourteen hours.”

“You needed it. And after breakfast I want to ask your advice.”

He listened to her account of the Alpine Sports Club meeting as he nursed his third cup of coffee.

“But I can’t understand why you sailed into the chap who discovered the huia.”

“I just got mad about people being excited about birds and not caring about people.”

He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “But I thought you were a greenie – Kate.”

She was intrigued that at last she was not just ‘er’.

“And that’s not all,” she said. “I started thinking about this bloke. Why would he want to lie about the Keulemans painting? And why was he so dry and lifeless about it all, except when I got him onto the subject of race relations. Then I got thinking that there’s a lot of people like him around. Then it struck me there’s something odd about the highway assaults. I mean no one has ever even looked like being charged. So I researched the back numbers of the Herald.”

“Oh, yes.” His voice was not as enthusiastic as she had hoped.

She took away the newspaper which covered her research on the table. “Take a look at this. I’ve underlined all the hate-building stuff – all the half-truths and insinuations. This is not just reporting. It looks like an orchestrated campaign.”

He scrutinised the photocopied news items and articles. “Do you really think people believe all they read in the paper?”

“And in the talkbacks and on the TV. I’m certain of it.” She described the incident at the City Library involving the Maori woman and her children.

“So you believe it’s a conspiracy?”

“Yes, and not by the Maori. Somebody or some group is preparing the scene for a particularly nasty counter-terrorist action like a coup.”

“It’s not exactly evidence,” he said slowly.

She was not surprised that he was slow. Males in general lacked imagination. “I have something a bit more definite about the highway assaults.”

“Good,” he said in a patronising tone.

“The interesting thing is that no one has ever seen the assailants except the victims. On the night of the McAndrew assault south of Te Kuiti no one except the victims saw a collection of noisy, beat up cars with smoking exhausts driven by a group of tattooed Maori, not even the highway patrols.”

“You mean the traffic police?”

“No, the voluntary patrols – some people call them ‘community vigilantes’. In the McAndrew case they were standing at the gates of the Te Kuiti marae when the police arrived. You’d think they’d be chasing over the country looking for suspects, especially as Susan McAndrew called the police immediately after the assault. But they went straight to the marae, almost as if they wanted to point them out as the perpetrators.”

“So the cars and the assailants have vanished into thin air.”

“Or melted into the countryside.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes you can’t see something extraordinary because it turns into something quite ordinary? A lot of farmers have old cars on their properties.”

“I thought you said you had something more definite.”

She controlled herself with difficulty. “I have also seen Susan McAndrew.”

He looked at her with new interest. “The hold-up victim?”

“Just to find out if she’d noticed anything unusual about the Maori assailants.”

“And had she?”

“No, not really. But I did when she described what happened.”

“What did you notice?”

“She’s a gutsy lady and she’d scratched some paint off her assailant’s arm with her fingernails. Well, it was brown paint. And when she was being interviewed by the two CIB officers, one Pakeha and the other Maori, it was the Pakeha who said it was war paint, and the Maori one didn’t question it. And they’re both wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because the Maori didn’t use war paint before going into battle. They used karakia, you know – prayers.”

“How do you know that?”

“I checked with the ethnologist at the Auckland Museum when I got back. Then I made an appointment to talk to Sergeant Piriaka, the Maori officer who interviewed Susan. I got the impression that he wasn’t up with his Maoritanga.”

“Did he admit to a mistake?”

“No, not in so many words. But he didn’t seem to want to follow it up.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a dodgy issue, but I reckon there must be at least some racial tensions within the police force. I guess he wouldn’t want to stir up a hornet’s nest, which is understandable.”

“I still don’t see where all this leads.”

“I wonder if the assailants were only disguised as Maori.”

David shook his head. “You’d make a great detective, Kate, but your deductions are well ahead of your evidence. You can’t build a case on a fingernail of brown paint.” He seemed preoccupied and nervous and went to the window again where he stood hiding behind the curtain as before. “Does that bush run all the way down to the railway?”

“Eventually.” She did not understand the drift of his question because she was trying to cope with his verdict. She had got what she wanted – someone to rebut her conclusions, but instead of being relieved she was about to explode. No wonder he fell out with Tane. How could someone be so conservative and cautious, so unthinking, unimaginative and insensitive all at once? She felt like blurting something out, but instead threw her papers together using more energy than was necessary.

Hearing the commotion he glanced back to her. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

She was considering carefully how she should answer his question when her phone rang in the hallway. David jumped up and looked around as if he needed a place to hide. “Don’t tell them,” he said as she answered the call.

“Hallo, Eleanor,” she said. She listened intently. “I’ll make some enquiries and phone you back.” She hung up.

“Eleanor’s just had a call from Harry Mountjoy, the vicar at the church you went to the other day. She rang me because I told her about meeting you on One Tree Hill. I haven’t told her you’re here, but the vicar wants to see you urgently. He hasn’t heard about the accident. Doesn’t listen to the radio.”

“I don’t know that I need his kind of help,” he said. “Anyhow why does he want to see me?”

“I don’t know, but do you mind if I come?”

CHAPTER 27

The vicar looked at him with a horrified expression. “But you’re hurt?”

“Just a little accident with my car. It’s been on the radio.”

“I’m afraid we don’t listen to the radio very often. Surely you should go to the casualty department?” David shook his head vigorously. “You don’t think so? Miss Fairweather, I’m sorry. I was forgetting you. Do please come in.” He ushered them into the lounge. “My wife has left us some tea. Please sit down, Miss Fairweather. I think that’s a comfortable seat. Lavinia baked these scones this morning. Would you like me to pour?”

“I love home-made scones.” Kate smiled.

“If you don’t mind, would you please not tell anyone you’ve seen me,” said David.

“Dear boy, are you in trouble?”

“My car went over a cliff yesterday morning. The police are looking for my body.”

He went to the window and stood behind the curtain looking out. The sunlit lawn flowed out towards a large copper beech. Below the beech was a deckchair and a figure hidden under a large sun hat. At the side of the chair was a basket with some gardening tools. Obviously the scone-maker.

He came back into the room conscious of the impression he was making. “And the police are not the only people who are after me.” He proceeded to give an account of his visit to Pataratara and his suspicions of what was happening there.

“.…so it’s better for me to stay dead,” he ended.

“A remarkable story,” said the vicar but he seemed not to be listening.

“The next thing to consider is what sort of future action I take. I have several different options.” He remained standing, pointing the finger of one hand to the palm of the other as if he were lecturing at the university. “As I see it, these are: firstly…”

He heard Kate clear her throat and saw her motioning towards the vicar. Harry Mountjoy was looking out through the French doors with an abstracted expression on his face.

“Don’t you think he asked you to come because he has something to say to you?”

Slowly Harry Mountjoy turned towards him. But the expected flow of words did not come. Instead he said hesitantly, “I don’t suppose you have a photo of Tane?”

Before setting out to Waitehaia he had dug out an old photo of Tane taken on a geology department trip. Mystified, he pulled the picture from his wallet.

The vicar looked at it for a long time and seemed to be immersed in thought.

“Why did you want it?”

Harry Mountjoy did not reply, but looked again out the window where the figure in the sun hat was now kneeling by a garden border. “You must have been concerned about Tane’s state of mind. You would have wondered what might have happened to him. Am I right in saying also that you even felt some responsibility yourself?”

“Of course I did.”

The vicar took off his glasses, polished them, put them back on, looked out the window again, then he leaned closer to David and put his hand on his arm. “You will be pleased to hear he is safe.”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know?” The vicar gave a half smile, hesitated again, glanced up to the ceiling, out the window, at the floor, then he looked at David almost appealingly. “Because I’ve seen him.”

“You – have – seen – Tane?” he said numbly. “There must be some mistake.”

“There is confidentiality involved so would you be good enough not to disclose this to anyone else?” the vicar continued anxiously, and appreciated Kate’s nod. “It was quite by accident during my visiting…. He did not see me. There were characteristics I recognised from your description, David, when you came here last. Still, I was not positive of his identity, so I went to the University Geology Department the next day. They showed me a photo which was similar to the one you have given me. I noticed some changes, but it was the same man.”

“You realise this is a little hard for us to believe, Vicar,” said Kate. “Where did you see him?”

“As I mentioned, my pastoral work is confidential.”

“Really? How is Tane?”

“He is well – physically.”

“Does this mean that he is in a psychiatric institution?”

“He is in good hands.”

“In whose hands?”

“I’m sorry; I cannot answer that question.”

“Confidentiality again?”

He nodded.

David burst out, “But I’m his colleague, his best friend!” As soon as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

“Unfortunately, sometimes even families cannot get this information.”

“Vicar, I understand about confidentiality,” Kate said, “but may we know the name of his psychiatrist so that David at least can make enquiries? He could of course refuse to give information, but you would be passing on the responsibility to him, and David would not disclose his source.”

“I can tell you that I know him very well as a parishioner and had already thought of consulting him about Tane before this discovery. In fact, David, you met him last Sunday.”

“The tall chap who collected the books, the one we met here in the vicarage afterwards – in the hallway. The talkback shrink?”

“Randall Richardson is my vicar’s warden and a personal friend.”

“Why didn’t he say anything about Tane then?”

The vicar sighed. “I don’t think you appreciate the situation, David. He is obliged to respect patient confidentiality.”

“Have you any suggestion, Vicar?” said Kate brightly.

“I have suggested that I was happy to work with him in the case of this patient using a team ministry model.”

“Did he agree?” asked Kate.

He shook his head.

“That’s a shame, isn’t it?”

“He has no professional obligation to accept my offer.”

Though she appeared to keep her cool, Kate was furious. Patient confidentiality, team ministry, professional obligations – it’s all bureaucratic gobbledegook!

Just like the Alpine Sports Club meeting about the huia when all the people were so excited about a bird discovery that they forgot the people who were lost. Something didn’t ring true.

A mischievous impulse seized her .

“Vicar, we greatly appreciate your offer to work with Dr Richardson,” she said. “I’m sure Tane is in good hands with him. As a matter of fact, he happens to be a great favourite of mine, and I often listen to him on the Radio Waitemata talkback late at night. He talks about stress and the way you can handle it. In fact I was thinking of ringing in myself once and asking him his advice on one particular question, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t listen to talkbacks.”

She sensed that he was relieved at the change of subject. “Of course you get a lot of cranks ringing in. But my question was going to be about the racial situation in New Zealand. He gives such good advice on other problems. As he is such a close friend, I thought you might know his views about how we can handle this kind of stress.”

“It’s one of those matters that we don’t discuss.”

“Really?”

“I suppose we are afraid we might disagree. You see there was an argument at a vestry meeting – can I trust you to keep this confidential? Two months ago after the highway assault on the Desert Road, the marae near Turangi was deliberately burned down. Stan McTaggart proposed a motion expressing our support for the Tuwharetoa people. The vestry seemed sympathetic until Randall spoke. He claimed the motion was supporting Maori terrorists and threatened to leave not only the vestry but also the church if the discussion went on any further.”

“What happened?”

“The motion was withdrawn. I had never known Randall so angry.”

“Angry?” she repeated. Then she said slowly, “It’s curious how anger affects people. Makes them act out of character.”

David couldn’t understand why Kate had suddenly switched to discussing talkbacks with the vicar. But the word “anger” resonated with him. He remembered with shame how he has allowed anger to destroy his friendship with Tane.

The psychiatrist seemed to have acted strangely at the vestry meeting. But was there not something out of character in his actions at the vicarage that night? He found himself looking back to their meeting in the dark hallway. Then it came to him.

It was the grandfather clock.

“I’m sorry, Vicar, but I don’t trust your churchwarden,” he said.

The vicar looked at him tolerantly. “I think you’ll have to give me a reason.”

“He’s an eavesdropper.”

Harry Mountjoy shook his head sadly.

“He was at the door that night I first came here. He came to the vicarage to leave the keys after locking the church. The service finished at eight-thirty. We met him in the hallway here just as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed ten o’clock. How long does it take to count the money and to lock the church?”

“But you don’t go to church,” observed the vicar.

“Even a six-year-old wouldn’t take one and a half hours because there were about twenty in the congregation and most of them didn’t put money in the plate,” he went on. “The real reason was that he heard my name and my position at the University when you talked to me at the door after the service. At that moment he was standing in front of you collecting the books. He knew at that point that I had been a colleague of Tane’s. So he stayed on after he had left the key – and eavesdropped. When you mentioned my search for Tane to him in the hall after we came out, does he admit to being his psychiatrist? Not at all. Instead he asks me if I thought Tane had made a geological discovery in the Waitoa. This was the one subject that wasn’t covered in our conversation in the lounge and one he wanted to know about particularly. The question is now: why doesn’t he disclose? It’s not because of confidentiality at all. It’s because he doesn’t want me to know where Tane is.”

“David, that statement is totally unwarranted!”

“You and your warden aren’t going to make me into a case too. That’s what you think Tane is. You think he’s mad. That’s why you lock him away and give him treatments. Yet he’s not mad. He’s the only sane one among us. He sees clearly, but people don’t want to listen to him. I know because I didn’t listen to him once. So what does he do? It’s all bottled up inside him, and he can’t get it out. He’s in that place, and they’ve got him and drugged him and made him into a vegetable so that he can’t talk to anyone.”

Harry Mountjoy looked towards Kate. “David is under a lot of stress, I fear.”

“I don’t think he is, Vicar. Keep going, David.”

“Now why don’t they want him to talk? It’s something to do with what he discovered on that last trip.”

“In which he probably visited the Waitoa,” inserted Kate.

“Exactly. You see he’s the only one who really knows about the Waitoa.”

“Particularly if the huia story is a blind.”

Harry Mountjoy drummed with his fingers on the table. His face was pale and drawn. He said nothing but got up, went to the window and looked out over the garden. Finally, he fidgeted with his watch, mumbled “Five o’clock – Evensong,” and disappeared from the room.

Kate gave a hollow laugh. “Typical Rip Van Winkle Anglican. Evensong indeed!”

David did not hear her. His heart was throbbing. Thoughts kept racing round in his mind, fearful, angry thoughts which he could not control. At last he could bear it no longer and plunged out of the room.

“I’ve got to get Tane out of there!”

CHAPTER 28

“Where’s he got to?”

David glanced behind the oak trees as he ran down the driveway towards the church. He half expected to find the psychiatrist waiting there as he had waited in the hallway. The vicar said he had gone to say Evensong. But what was he really up to? He had obviously been shielding Richardson all the time during their talk at the vicarage. They shouldn’t have told him so much because he was obviously going to be loyal to someone who was his close friend and churchwarden.

Now that the vicar realised how much they knew, he would go straight to his warden and tell him. Perhaps the church was the rendez-vous. Tane was in terrible danger.

He slipped quietly into the church. Not a sound. The light from the late afternoon sun was coming through the stained glass window at the west end, staining the carpet with deep red. There was a smell of Brasso, of candle grease, of furniture polish and old wine.

He saw him – a shining bald head in the front pew. Just sitting there. Waiting for Richardson? He listened for footfalls, or the sound of a car. “We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep” rose in a low monotone from the front pew. How hypocritical can you get? “We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts…”

How many entrances? Two. He would guard the main one just in case Richardson came in. He would also make sure Mountjoy didn’t get away.

“And there is no health in us….” He crouched down in a pew so that he wouldn’t be seen.

***

Harry Mountjoy said Evensong on Saturday and every weekday at five o’clock. Today he was especially relieved to have some time in the church on his own. The verbal attack on his churchwarden had hurt him deeply and personally.

The problem with his warden now threatened to develop into a major crisis in his own ministry and parish. This was because of his own actions. Not only had he visited the hospital without permission, but now he had told David about Tane before asking permission from Randall. His very desire to help people had led him into a situation where he was forced to be devious. The only way he could get out was to wash his hands of the whole affair and leave David to do as he wished. However, he couldn’t do that. He had given Eleanor a promise.

There was also a personal reason why he couldn’t draw back. Strange as it might have seemed to the young people, he didn’t understand and wasn’t interested in geological discoveries, racist plots and huia which did or did not exist in remote mountain valleys.

Ever since he had seen Tane on the bench looking towards the Waitakeres at Glenfern Hospital, there was something in his mind as a priest which would not go away. He had not been allowed to explain this to Randall in their last phone conversation, and now sadly in their strained relationship he could not raise the matter again.

David stood up in the middle of the aisle as the vicar, having finished his prayers, came towards him. “You’re not going to tell him,” he said firmly.

The vicar smiled. “Hallo,” he said, “Who am I not meant to tell?”

“Dr Richardson.”

“Why are you so anxious that I shouldn’t tell him?”

“Because he’s got Tane imprisoned there at his hospital. If he realises we know his secret, he’ll kill him.”

Mountjoy took off his glasses. His eyes were surprisingly piercing. “Why are you so angry, David?”

“I’m not angry.”

“Sit down!”

David obeyed. For the first time he realised how flushed and hot he was. There were hammers pounding in his head.

“You don’t understand me, David. Do you realise that I have already lied to my churchwarden about Tane?”

“What do you mean? “

“He is not aware that I know who his patient is. Nor does he know that I have told you of his identity.”

Suddenly David realised that he was sitting next to an entirely different person. The unctuous smile, the superior clerical voice had gone.

“There’s something about Tane that you don’t know.”

“I’ve got to get him out of there.”

“Then what will you do with him?”

“I’ve got to save him,” he said, but not so confidently.

“You don’t know his mental state. You aren’t able to save him.”

He looked intently at Harry Mountjoy’s face. There were lines he had not seen before. “What do you mean?”

“You thought Tane was like Cain. But do you know what the illness of Cain was?”

“Wasn’t it guilt?”

“No, Cain was not sorry. He murdered Abel out of jealous anger, then he told God that he didn’t care about his brother, he wasn’t his keeper. For him there was no way back.”

“No way back…” David repeated numbly.

“Do you know how I recognised Tane on the hill at Glenfern?”

“By the photo.”

“No. It was because of his tears.”

“The same as at Waitehaia?”

“Exactly. I remembered your story. The action told me everything.”

“Why?”

“With Cain there were no tears.”

“You mean Tane is different?”

“I don’t know what he has done, but he is sorry for it. He wants to find a way back.”

“Is there a way back?”

There was no reply. The red on the carpet was fading as the sun went down. The birds were starting to sing in the trees outside. He looked towards the front of the church. Above the altar there was something which held his gaze.

It was the figure of a man of about his own age dying in agony. He heard again the terrible cry from behind the logs at Waitehaia. Here in front of him was the same tortured face and body. The same trusting, upturned, child-like look.

“Tane, I’m sorry,” he murmured again and again.

And as he did so, the hot anger went and the hammering. In their place came tears, of sorrow, of relief, of remorse, all rolled in together. He was aware of a weight being lifted from him, a weight which he had carried but which was now being shared.

His eyes were moist as he turned to the vicar. “So there is a way?”

Again there was no reply. The lined face which was also moist was fixed on the tortured figure on the cross.

“I’m afraid I don’t believe.”

“But you already understand.”

“How can I?”

“You know that you are your brother’s keeper.”

The conversation in the church carried on after the vicar noticed Kate praying quietly at the back of the church and asked her to join them. It was long after Evensong on Saturday night when the vicar said goodbye to them both at the church door.

He started to walk back to the vicarage. The moon had risen, and was softly silvering the shingled spire. He stood for a moment. It was for him such a peaceful, such a comfortable place.

It was too late to change his decision now. He had befriended a young man whose story, in spite of Eleanor’s encouragement, most people would regard as nonsensical. He, an experienced parish priest, after wrestling in his own mind, had chosen to support this man in direct opposition to his trusted vicar’s warden whom he had known for over twenty years. He had not even consulted his wife who had been gardening for most of the afternoon, knowing that this decision was likely to affect them both very seriously. Nor had he consulted his vestry or his bishop.

Why?

At rare times in his ministry he had taken sudden, intuitive decisions, decisions which defied rational explanation, yet in the end he felt sure that they had been right. Nevertheless, his decision tonight left him with no peace.

He walked very slowly back towards the vicarage.

CHAPTER 29

Nurse Patel had not long been employed at Glenfern Private Hospital. She was on duty on her own in the annexe late in the afternoon of Sunday 23rd January, and she was nervous.

“ Dr Richardson, I don’t know whether I ought to mention it, but that long-term patient of yours has been hanging round the drug cupboard again. Is he likely to do anything?”

“Just make sure you don’t leave the drug cupboard open, and call if you need my help at any time.”

“So you’ve had a bad day?”

Though Randall spoke as warmly as he could, the man at the window didn’t turn around, but ran his hands through his long, dark, curly hair in nervous movements.

“Didn’t you see the mountains?”

“Can’t see them anymore.”

“Do you want to go to sleep?”

“I can’t sleep – I only see bad things.” The young man threw himself on the bed and buried his face in his hands.

“If you take the pills, you won’t see any bad things. The nurse has got the pills. Won’t she let you have them? Did you ask her again?”

The face looked up, deeply lined, sweat in beads on the brow and round the sunken eyes, eyes in which the fire was burning inwards. “I only see bad things.”

“Don’t let the nurse stop you.”

“Sleep!” The man mouthed the word, then buried his face in the pillow.

“Would you like to sleep for a long time?”

Randall needed to work quickly now. He had acquired the pills and the solution on Friday. He locked the door, opened the packets, and in the process strewed the little green pills about the floor. “Sorry! How careless of me!” He filled a glass with water, dissolved some pills in it, and placed it by his patient’s bed. Now he took the syringe out of his pocket and placed the needle in the bottle, drawing the solution up into the syringe.

“Just drink this and you’ll really sleep.” He placed the glass in the young man’s right hand. Then he took up the left arm, and looked for the plaster where the last blood test had been done. “And I’ll give you a little prick so that you will see the mountains instead of the bad things.”

He paused. It was all so simple. Nurse Patel was new and inexperienced. In a moment, he would arrange for her to be called away. Then he would open the cupboard, extract the tablets which were exactly the same as the ones he had left in the room. After this he would return to the room and put the key in his patient’s hand, while he was asleep.

He would sleep on, and on, and on.

The verdict would be suicide by means of an overdose of sleeping pills which he had stolen. No one would detect the little prick in the same place as the last blood test, the prick where he had injected the same drug that was contained in the sleeping pills.

Perhaps a little prayer was appropriate.

He was putting the syringe into the crook of the patient’s elbow when there was a loud knock at the door. “I’m busy,” he called out.

“Doctor, I’m sorry to disturb you, but Room 2 is having a fit. It looks serious. Could you come straight away?” Nurse Patel sounded desperate.

He quickly concealed the syringe under his coat. “I’ll be right along.”

“I’m so sorry, Doctor.”

“All right! All right!” He turned to his patient. “Drink it up, and I’ll be back in a moment.” He put the syringe in his front pocket, unlocked the door, carefully opened it just as much as was necessary, and locked it again after he went out.

***

Randall Richardson swore.

It had not taken long to deal with the man in Room 2. Within five minutes he had returned and unlocked his patient’s door.

The bed was unoccupied and the window open. The glass stood untouched on the table. He leapt to the window. Outside on the grass were two skid marks where a car had been driven off at speed.

He swore again and relocked the door.

He needed to keep calm. He emptied and cleaned the glass, drained and washed his syringe and cleaned up the sleeping pills off the floor. But, unusually, he did not notify the staff of the disappearance. Instead he sat alone in Tane’s empty room doing something which he had not done for some time – making desperate requests for God’s help.

“Doctor, there’s a call on your phone.” He went out, locked the door and went to his study.

“Randall, I’m ringing you because you are his warden, and I don’t know who else I can turn to. I’m so concerned about Harry. In all the years of our marriage, he’s never been like this. It’s almost as if he’s another person. He is so secretive. Tonight he just rushed out to the service and didn’t say anything or even look at me. He’s got something on his mind and he won’t tell me what it is.”

“It’s Evensong with healing tonight, isn’t it?”

“Yes, we sometimes discuss some of the people who will be there.”

“When did you first notice this?”

“He had an interview yesterday afternoon and he was with some people for hours. He wouldn’t even come to dinner.”

“Do you know who the people were that he saw?”

“As I came in from the garden just before five, I heard Harry’s voice raised. One of the other voices sounded familiar, and I thought it belonged to a man who was here last Sunday. He was a university lecturer, a very strange young man if I may say so.”

“Yes, I think I met the man myself at the service last Sunday.”

“Have you noticed anything yourself about Harry?”

He paused. “Strangely enough, I have.”

“Do you think you could have a word with him, man to man, I mean?”

“Of course, Lavinia,” he said, trying to conceal his excitement in the most soothing church warden-like tone that he could assume.

He could not wait for the conversation to end.

Returning to the patient’s room, he overturned the bed, the table and the chairs. Then he went back to his office, closed the door and made some calls.

The third phone call he made was 111.

CHAPTER 30

It was not often that the police were called out to a church service.

Detective Sergeant Matthew Piriaka of the CIB together with an eight-man squad of the uniformed staff had been called out at 18:45 hours on Sunday 23rd January to collect a mental patient and his kidnapper or kidnappers who were believed to be sheltering in St. Peter’s Church, Epsom. The 111 call had come from the Glenfern Private Psychiatric Hospital. The report from the incident car had given the details. The doctor in charge had stated that the patient had been violently abducted and that he could be dangerous without his drugs. He had also given the name of one of the suspected kidnappers and the name of the church as a possible destination. The situation report from the church confirmed that the kidnappers and patient were in that location.

Matthew, who had been appointed Incident Controller, observed a thin, balding, bespectacled man in a long, white robe standing at the door of the church and shaking people’s hands as they entered.

Uncertain of the protocol, he approached and took off his cap. “Sergeant Piriaka, C.I.B. May I have a word with you?”

“Certainly Sergeant. I’m the vicar of this parish; my name is Harry Mountjoy.”

“I have reason to believe that inside the church there may be a mental patient who is alleged to have been forcibly abducted from a local hospital. The patient is said to be violent. Under Section 317 of the Crimes Act we are entitled to enter a property when we have reasonable grounds to believe that people are in danger.”

“Sergeant, you must do your duty. But as the service is just beginning and there are elderly people in the congregation, any police intrusion or questioning would cause distress. We have no reason to anticipate trouble as all the members of the congregation have come willingly to attend divine service. If there is a problem, may we talk about it quietly afterwards?”

There was a conflict between the story of a violent abduction and the account given by the vicar. He had also been warned by his superior about the legal limits of Section 317 in the case of churches used as sanctuaries. He needed more information about the background of the abduction and decided to keep a surveillance role in the meantime.

He would need to talk to the doctor himself later.

He knew the deranged man and his kidnapper couldn’t go far, so he asked the uniformed men to set a squad at both front and side exits. At the same time he watched and listened for any sound of disturbance within the church which would give him reason to intervene to protect lives and property. He checked with his situation report about the description of the wanted people and confirmed that the uniformed staff had the same description:

The suspected kidnapper: Dr David Corbishley: Caucasian, thirtyish, male, blonde, tall, slight build. Patient: name not given, Maori, thirtyish, short, dark, curly-haired.

The report said that Dr Corbishley was an Auckland University senior lecturer in the Department of Geology. He was on the police record as wanted for enquiries about a break-in in the eastern Bay of Plenty on the evening of Thursday 20th January. “Not on departmental business,” the University had stated. His car had gone over the cliff on the Opotiki-Te Araroa Road early on Friday 21st January and the Opotiki police had reported him missing.

As to the patient, new information had just come through about his identity. The name was Dr Tane Ngata, former lecturer at the same Geology Department and a former colleague of the kidnapper. The report said he had been in psychiatric care since a total mental breakdown three years before.

The report from the Opotiki police and the owner of the property where the break-in had taken place indicated that Corbishley believed Ngata had made an important mineral discovery in the Raukumara Ranges and that the break-in was to obtain further information about this.

He wondered whether this might have been the motivation for the kidnapping.

But what was the point of taking him to a church service?

There had been mention of more than one kidnapper. He checked with an elderly, white-haired woman who had been part of a group standing outside and was about to go in when the organ started to play.

“A tall, fair young man. Yes, he came to church last Sunday. Such a polite man. He must have liked our service. Tonight he’s brought two friends. It’s so good to see the young people. We don’t see many of them at this church.”

“What did the others look like?”

“The other man was Maori, short with dark curly hair. I didn’t think he looked very happy. But the girl looked a very nice person. She was tall with short brown hair and glasses and she was driving that car.” She pointed to the black Ford Cortina parked on the road outside. She looked anxiously at the police cordon. “We’ve never had one of those here before. I hope everything’s all right.”

Matthew managed a half-truth. “The police are pursuing enquiries about a certain person, and there’s a report that he may be coming here. The cordon is just to protect you in case he arrives.”

“Thank you so much, Sergeant,” she said gratefully, and disappeared into the church.

At 7 p.m. the organ stopped, then began again shortly accompanied by the sound of thin but energetic singing. It appeared that the service had started.

Matthew had realised that the formation of a cordon would cause problems with the public. A too-obvious police presence often drew attention to a situation, raised tension and made negotiations more difficult. But the vicar’s uncooperative attitude gave him little choice.

His fears were soon realised. Passing motorists, curious about what the police were doing outside an Anglican Church during a service, were stopping outside and a sizeable group of people was gathering. As people approached him, he tried to keep the situation relaxed and low-key.

“We are acting on information received…. We are still receiving reports … In the meantime we are just ensuring that the public and the church members are not inconvenienced.”

He kept in touch on his car radio as the situation developed. “The media must have got a story out of the hospital,” said the inspector at base. “They’ve got the idea that the patient is violent and are asking about the Armed Offenders’ Squad. I’ve threatened to cut them out if they publish anything before we get the full picture. But they’re very pushy. They sense a juicy story with the church involvement. Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

“No, the cordon is already creating too much interest.”

He whistled when the base gave him the name of the owner of the Ford Cortina. “Any criminal record?”

“Clean.”

“Any licensed gun, pistol or rifle?”

“No.”

“Any spouse?”

“Not advised.”

“What’s the connection with Corbishley?”

“None as far as we can ascertain.”

“She’s an accountant, I believe.”

“We’ve checked with her firm. They say she’s on holiday and believed to be doing advocacy work for the huia sanctuary.”

“Her Ford Cortina is right here. I’ll keep one of my men posted by it just in case they try to make a getaway.”

A red MGB and a black Triumph TR2 came to a stop just outside the church. The doors flew open and the occupants leapt down. They were young, strong-looking men in jeans and football jerseys.

Matthew instinctively looked for the registration numbers, but found that two of the group were standing in front of the plates. I wonder what they’re up to.

The men, six in number, were approaching the police cordon and heading purposefully for the front door of the church. Leading them was a tall, well-built, bronzed young man with fair curly hair.

“Just a moment, sir!” Matthew moved quickly and placed himself in front of the leader. “Are you attending the service? If not, would you kindly remain outside the police cordon.”

The curly-haired man squared up to the policeman and grasped the lapel of his uniform with his right arm. In doing so his sleeve fell down, and a muscular forearm was exposed. His followers stood around belligerently with their fists clenched. “We know what’s happening. What the hell are the police doing! There are terrorists in there and the church is supporting them. If you’re not going to do anything, we will!”

Matthew motioned to the police who moved forward. “Thank you, sir, for your offer of assistance, but we are not permitted to enter the church.”

The other suddenly changed his tune. “Right, men, we can’t go to church today.”

There were guffaws and a low snigger, “bloody hori”, which Matthew pretended not to hear. The group fell back into the watching crowd, but he saw that they were talking to people, several of whom were shaking their hands. He had been trained to assess the mood of a crowd. He did not like what he saw.

20:00 hours. The singing had stopped, the front door of the church opened, and the vicar appeared on the porch in his long white robe. Some worshippers also appeared and looked nervously at the police cordon and the crowd beyond.

“Terrorists! Kidnappers! Lock them all up!” came voices from the crowd.

The vicar nodded pleasantly at Matthew. “Excuse me, Sergeant. Would you mind allowing my parishioners to leave safely?”

Matthew realised that he was going to be involved in protecting the congregation as well. “Archdeacon Mountjoy, I ask you to hand over immediately the patient from Glenfern Hospital and to identify the people who have removed him so that I can take them to the station for questioning.”

“Of course, Sergeant. Just coming.”

Now there was a stir in the crowd. A man who appeared to be around thirty emerged from inside the church. He was short, slightly stooped, had unkempt curly dark hair and looked pale and distraught. He appeared to be of Maori blood. The vicar seized his hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

Matthew nodded quietly to the police squad.

“Archdeacon, we are taking custody of this man to return him to the hospital.”

The vicar continued to shake the hand of the young man. “I hope you enjoyed the service, Tane, and thank you very much for coming.”

“Take it gently,” said Matthew to the police cordon as it drew closer to the porch.

The young man appeared to be embarrassed and tongue-tied at the police and crowd attention. He kept shifting from one foot to another and putting his free hand up to brush the hair from his eyes. At last he could stand it no longer. He wrested his hand from the vicar’s, and bolted like a rabbit down the church steps.

From this moment, things happened with considerable speed. The young Maori man was immediately encircled by the police. Yet quick as the police were, they were forestalled. The group in football jerseys suddenly reappeared and charged forward through the cordon in a kind of rugby scrum formation. In a flash, the nervous young man was whisked from the midst of the blue uniforms and born like a feather swiftly through the crowd towards the road.

The uniformed squad moved immediately in pursuit, but the crowd appeared slow to move aside. When they got to the police van, the onlookers had jammed their cars so close to it that they were unable to move out without much manoeuvring. Matthew got on the radio, but then he realised he hadn’t got the registration numbers of the cars belonging to the young men.

Back in front of the church porch, Matthew and the police squad had to be involved in protecting the departing worshippers from possible physical abuse by the crowd. At the same time they kept a careful lookout for the people answering the description of the kidnappers. But no young people came out. Most appeared to be middle-aged or elderly, and some wore clothes which had long gone out of fashion. A group of elderly women even wore wide brimmed hats, and were so frail that they had to be assisted down the steps.

Some of the onlookers were inclined to be witty.

“They’ll all be dead in a few years – no wonder they’re desperate.”

“The only way they can get a congregation is to kidnap them.”

But what hurt Matthew most were the remarks directed to him personally.

“Useless Maori cop!”

CHAPTER 31

“That padre is as cunning as a cartload of monkeys!”

At 21:00 hours a very pale, wet, frightened young man had been brought into the station. Matthew had just interviewed this man, the one who had been kidnapped by the group in football jerseys outside St. Peter’s Church.

He was not Tane Ngata, but Harry Mountjoy’s head server, Tane Peters.

The interview with the server had been interesting but inconclusive. The time with the kidnappers had been the horror story of his life. They had physically threatened him and blindfolded him, but when they discovered his identity, they had thrown him into a drain off Wairau Road behind Milford. He was fully convinced that if he had been the other Tane, he would have been the victim of something very much worse. In fact, he overheard them talking about other episodes of violence in which they had been involved.

“Maybe it was just to frighten me, but it sounded terrible.”

“Were they acting on their own?” asked Matthew.

“I don’t think so because they kept using a car phone, and talking to someone else.”

“Was tonight your regular serving night?”

“No, the vicar asked me specially.”

“And did you think that was unusual?”

“Oh no, I like serving, and Father Mountjoy is really neat.”

Before the interview with the server Matthew had been to Glenfern Hospital. He had been shown the room, and was able to take photos of the overturned chairs and tables which gave evidence of a struggle as the patient was apparently dragged out through the window to the waiting car. He also saw the skid marks on the grass where the car had been driven off at speed.

Dr Randall Richardson, the psychiatrist for the patient and the owner of the hospital, was able to tell him about the nature of the patient’s illness.

“Can he be violent?”

“I cannot guarantee his behaviour if he doesn’t take his drugs.”

“Were you aware of the possibility of the abduction?”

“Absolutely no idea. I trusted Archdeacon Mountjoy; I’d worked with him for twenty years as parishioner and churchwarden.”

“Your patient was a geologist. The abductor, I understand, was a colleague?”

“And a close friend who was aware of his previous research.”

“There is a suggestion that the abductor was interested in exploiting this research.”

“The financial aspect is the most likely explanation. I find it very sad, especially when I recall that at the time of outset of his illness Corbishley showed no interest in helping his friend.”

Warped academic, thought Matthew. The worst because they were the most cunning. But he was thoughtful. “Then why has the vicar got involved?”

“I should have suspected something when last Wednesday he obtained access to my hospital without permission. It was then that he managed to discover my patient. He deliberately concealed this discovery from me, and all the time was apparently working with Corbishley to abduct him.”

“I still don’t understand your vicar’s motivation.”

“He’s extremely naïve. The moment he feels sorry for anyone, he wants to help them. People in this parish take advantage of him all the time. I’m sure an unscrupulous person like Corbishley would have no problem in manipulating him by making him feel sorry for Tane.”

Matthew was still puzzled. “Dr Richardson, you don’t need to answer this, but surely this sympathy would not lead a person to be an accomplice to an abduction?”

“I was not going to mention it, particularly as I am his churchwarden. Confidentially, Sergeant, as a psychiatrist I have been concerned about his recent mental state, especially about his belief that he has only to touch people and they are healed.”

“Would you say this was a kind of religious mania?”

“It’s a not uncommon but rarely acknowledged psychiatric condition of clergy whose career has not otherwise been crowned with success.”

Matthew nodded. It was all beginning to fit in.

On the same visit Matthew had also interviewed Nurse Patel who corroborated the psychiatrist’s account.

“Dr Richardson is such a gentleman. And he takes a personal interest in his patients, especially the one who was kidnapped. I only wish I hadn’t called him when Room 2 was having a fit, and it would never have happened. I keep thinking it’s my fault.”

“Where were you when the patient was abducted?”

“I must have been back at the office.”

“Did you hear the sound of a scuffle?”

“I didn’t hear anything, but even if I had I wouldn’t have been able to help. Dr Richardson had the key.”

“Does he lock all the patients’ rooms?”

“Oh no. But he did with that patient because he thought he was likely to steal drugs from the office. He even locked himself inside Tane’s room that night when he was treating him.”

“You mean before you called him?”

“When I knocked on the door to tell him about No 2, he had to unlock the door.”

“Has Ngata ever stolen drugs?”

“I don’t know. I only started last week.”

Archdeacon Mountjoy expressed surprise at the events after the service.

“Poor Tane! I hope the experience won’t put him off serving.”

“I believe you asked him to serve tonight. Did you choose him because his name was Tane and he looked like Tane Ngata?”

“As head server I can always rely on him to fill unexpected vacancies.”

“Did you expect him to be kidnapped?”

“Why would anyone want to kidnap my server?”

“Were you expecting the kidnappers to break into your church?

“Dr Corbishley invited his former colleague to attend our evening service. Dr Ngata, I believe, left Glenfern Hospital willingly. They did not need to break into the church. Our doors are open to everyone.”

“Did you have any conversation with the patient during the service?”

“During the service he came up for healing and before the service he wanted to make his confession to me as a priest.”

“What did he say?”

“What penitents tell me in their confession is entirely confidential.”

“Were the alleged kidnappers known to you beforehand?”

“I have been counselling one of them.”

“I presume this was Dr Corbishley. He had been acting strangely previous to this, hadn’t he?”

“Those who seek counselling from me do so in strict confidence.”

“Including kidnappers and those who break and enter?”

“I do not ask if they have police records.”

“May I search the church and vicarage? It’s possible they may have hidden somewhere.”

“By all means, Sergeant.”

The interview was infuriating. The man was just mouthing words to deceive him. The body language gave him away every time. He fidgeted, he looked up to the ceiling or sideways when answering a question, he smiled in a sickly way after every lie. He had known before he searched that it was going to be a waste of time. The man was as guilty as hell.

The trouble was he didn’t have enough evidence. Moreover, he could not afford to lose any more credibility by arresting a padre.

The man of God was going to have to live with his own conscience.

***

It was the first time Matthew had had a problem with vigilantes. The group at the church were all Pakeha, well-organised, clever, strong and prepared to use violence. He had a suspicion that they had incited the crowd against him. After the McAndrew assault, the commissioner had told the police to expect trouble, as vigilante groups were being formed every day in the main centres and country towns. These groups were said to be encouraging Pakeha motorists to carry arms, ostensibly for self-protection. It was likely that the vigilantes themselves had arms, and possibly were selling arms illicitly. Under-staffed as the police were, it was impossible to go round checking the licences.

The trouble was that racial feeling was running high, and the police force was being accused of doing nothing about Maori highway violence. The Maori in the police force were taking the brunt of it. In some areas Maori policemen had been quietly transferred to avoid trouble.

In his mind he saw again the tall, bronzed young man with the fair curly hair who appeared to be the leader of the vigilantes at St Peter’s.

He was sure he had seen that face before.

He went to the police computer, looked up the McAndrew file and studied the various photos taken at the time. One was of the vigilante group surrounding the Te Kuiti marae on the morning after the highway bashing.

Why, that’s him in the middle!

It was a media photo. There were no names mentioned in the caption or in the accompanying story. He initiated a check through police files.

***

No one had driven the black Ford Cortina away after the service. Matthew reflected on its owner. Kate Fairweather had come to see him a few days before, regarding the McAndrew case. She had shown him some research which she had done. This evidence, she concluded, indicated that racial trouble was being deliberately stirred. He had some personal sympathy for what she was saying, but he had to accept that her conclusion was mainly supposition.

“Has anyone investigated the movements of the vigilantes on the night of the McAndrew assault?” she had then asked.

No, the police had not considered this.

Then she had mentioned she had been talking to Susan McAndrew. “I was wondering why you agreed so readily with Inspector Molloy that it was war paint under her nail.”

He hadn’t given it much thought. He had been surprised that his inspector knew anything about Maori customs at all.

“Do you realise that the Maori didn’t use war paint?” she had asked.

He had been taken aback. He was not strong on his Maoritanga.

“Did you analyse the paint?”

The Inspector had not attached much importance to it. In any case at the interview with Susan McAndrew, the paint under her nail appeared to have been removed – probably an understandable revulsion on her part.

He had decided to change the subject. “Are you working with anyone in particular?”

She had paused before she replied. “No, I’m working on my own.”

He wondered whether she were telling the truth. He had made more investigations about her. She seemed a very calm, highly intelligent and competent person, with a background of respectability into which she could merge at will, the sort of person who is able to mastermind a criminal action and cover all her tracks. He wondered whether the huia connection was some kind of front.

Matthew thought back carefully on the incident and the subsequent interviews.

As a policeman he distrusted vigilantes. What did their presence at Te Kuiti and at St Peter’s mean? At St Peter’s, their object was to kidnap Tane Ngata. What was their purpose in that? What were they really doing on the night of the McAndrew assault? But they were Pakeha. How could there be a link?

“How did you know he was Maori?” he had asked Susan McAndrew. Kate Fairweather had by implication asked the same question. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just a simple question. In the present climate in the force it was political and racial dynamite.

Part of the trouble was his superior. Ian Molloy was in charge of both the McAndrew and the Glenfern Hospital case, though he didn’t see any connection between the two. From his experience on the McAndrew case Matthew knew Ian Molloy’s likely reaction. It was not enough for a policeman to have merely feeling on matters of such sensitivity, especially if a supposition about Susan McAndrew’s story came from a suspected kidnapper.

He decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

***

Randall Richardson, who had already had a response to his prayer about the disappearance of his patient, was surprised at another phone call.

“Randall, it’s Nellie Milliken here; I hope you don’t mind me ringing you, but I’ve just heard the news on the radio. I’m so sorry about what happened at the church tonight, and I’m sure it’s all some terrible mistake. I didn’t want to disturb the vicar as he seems to have policemen climbing all over the church and vicarage so I thought that I would ring you as warden so that you could tell me what I should do.”

Miss Milliken was one of the “old faithfuls” at the church, so old that no one knew her age, but her energy in arranging the flowers, polishing the brass, cleaning the church, knitting garments and making marmalade for the church fair was legendary. “Only too pleased to help, Nellie,” he said.

“I can’t get hold of that dear girl who borrowed my car to take somebody home from church and I’m worried about her.”

“Which girl?”

“Kate Fairweather. I’m in the Ornithological Society, you know, and she’s our secretary, a lovely person. I was so delighted that even though she belongs to one of those dreadful happy-clappy churches she was interested in our healing service and wanted to take a sick friend home afterwards. Now I hope she hasn’t got herself into some sort of trouble with those nasty kidnappers.”

Randall could hardly believe his good fortune. “Hasn’t she got a car of her own?”

“Oh, yes, one of those smart shiny modern cars, but she said she was lending it to someone else.”

“Can you describe your car?”

“It’s a Morris Minor. I’ve had it for twenty years. It doesn’t go very fast. When people behind honk at me, I let them past and then wave at them. But it gets me to church and the shops. I don’t drive at night and Kate picks me up to take me to the bird meetings.

“So you drove it to church tonight. Do you remember the registration number?”

“Just a moment. I always forget it. Let me just look at my diary. Here we are. TW 3400.”

“How long did she say she wanted it for?”

“She said she might need to have it for a few days. She had the friend staying with her and it might be useful.”

“Did she borrow anything else?”

“Only some of my clothes. She said she was organising a skit. She’s full of fun, you know. And she’s doing such a good job with the huia.”

“What does she do?”

“She goes around holiday programmes talking to the children. They all love her.”

“Have you told the police?”

“No, I’d much rather speak to someone at church first.”

“Very proper of you. Don’t concern yourself about it anymore. I’ll do everything in my power to get the car back for you and notify the police if necessary.”

“Thank you so much. That’s a burden off my back. I don’t want to get her into any trouble, you know. Besides we need young people so much at our church.”

“Nellie, I understand you perfectly. What are Christians for if we can’t help each other?”

CHAPTER 32

At nine o’clock on Sunday evening an ancient Morris Minor with a cargo of elderly women swayed and whined its way up the Bombay hill. The lights of Auckland disappeared behind for the last time as it dipped over the top, descending into the blackness of the great Waikato valley and turned off on the road that led to Thames and Coromandel. The lady with the wide-brimmed hat which almost covered her face huddled over the wheel coaxing the last ounce of speed out of the ageing vehicle.

Suddenly lights flashed ahead as cars were parked across the road. A white glove loomed out of the darkness, and behind it a blue uniform.

“Good evening, Madam. Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?”

A boyish face peered in at the window, looking puzzled.

“My daughter has just been rushed to hospital in Thames,” the driver said in a tremulous high-pitched voice, tipping her wide hat even further down across her face.

“Well, just be careful. And don’t pick up any hitch-hikers. There’s a mental patient gone missing and he may be violent.”

“Dear, dear, how shocking!” the old lady quavered, and distractedly fumbled with gears, brake and starter until the old Morris Minor jerked and wobbled off down the Thames road.

The old ladies did not proceed to Thames but plunged off Highway Number 2 on to the backcountry roads that wound through the swamps and the little hills around Te Kauwhata. Reappearing on the Hauraki Plains, the car, which now appeared to have somewhat younger occupants, darted and criss-crossed over the plains in a maze of country roads, leaving a trail of barking dogs at isolated farmhouses and startled cows in the dewy paddocks.

One of the occupants broke the silence. “How d’you feel now, Tane?”

“I never had much to do with church, but that man was a tohunga,” the other spoke slowly as if he was trying to form the words before he said them. “I’d made some terrible mistakes and I told him I was sorry. Then it all came out. I don’t understand how it happened, but I have never felt like this – for a long time. They had kept me on a drug to deaden the pain because I had terrible nightmares. But that fella knew what the trouble was and now the nightmares have gone and I can think clearly again.”

“If you feel up to it, tell us what happened,” David said gently.

“It goes back to my brother Hone, as you know.” David nodded. “He died because of something that happened in those mountains. I found out later that the elders believed it was a result of a curse because he had gone into a tapu valley. That was why no one said anything about where he’d gone and why he died. It had happened before. It was called “the valley of death”. So three years ago I made a secret expedition. You saw where I was going, didn’t you, when I looked at the maps? I’d worked out where the forbidden valley was.”

David whispered, “So it was the Waitoa.”

“The huia sanctuary!” exclaimed Kate.

“Huia sanctuary?” Tane looked puzzled.

“Just carry on,” said David gently.

“That gorge almost killed me, but when I got out onto a flat I made two discoveries. A conical mountain almost all limestone stood near the mouth of the gorge. Over thousands of years the river had disappeared into the mountain and had made channels through it. But a rock fall years ago had diverted the river and I was able to explore and found these huge limestone caverns. I had discovered a hollow mountain.”

“Amazing!” said Kate.

But David was apprehensive. “After what happened to Hone, weren’t you afraid about going into the forbidden valley?”

“I knew the teaching and I respected it. But I looked further than the elders. I was a scientist. I wanted to find out why it was forbidden. But first I was curious about the limestone and the original course of the river. The largest and lowest cavern continued beyond the mountain and appeared to be heading in a westerly direction. I had taken cave-exploring equipment, and as the cave was dry and the course level and the roof height reasonably high, I was able to explore it for some miles. I had no doubt that I was following the original course of the Waitoa River. Also, it appeared likely that this course, if it continued in its westerly direction, would eventually have come out on the Bay of Plenty.”

Their eyes met, as Kate framed a word. David too was strangely excited, but he shook his head.

“The next step was to explore the Bay of Plenty coastline. So on my way back I looked for geological indications all along the nearest stretch of the coast. At the top of the bay at a place called Pataratara where there was an old granite wharf, I found a depression in the ground which ended at a bluff on a limestone hill. Land slips had blocked the entrance, but I found a slit on the side of the hill and managed to scramble down into a much larger cave below. There were further rock falls, but the floor of this cave showed evidence of the same river shingle as the Waitoa. I explored again for a mile or so. The direction was east. I checked the map bearings. It seemed almost certain that the limestone was continuous and that the Waitoa River had originally flowed out to the coast at that point.”

He paused, and seemed unwilling to continue.

David was puzzled. It was superb geological exploration. Only Tane could have done it. But one question remained unanswered.

He waited.

After a long silence Tane began again, but this time his voice seemed hesitant and he was breathing harder. “I was looking for the thing that killed my brother.”

“You see, I was re-enacting his journey. He would have come through the gorge and he would have been exhausted. There was a wide, sandy beach there on a bend in the river. I too felt tired but I was alert and I took precautions. As you know I usually carry a Geiger counter. I tested the sand. I found there what I had long suspected. It was radioactive.”

He stopped. There was complete silence in the car except for the occasional wheezing which came from the old engine and the sound of sleepy ‘mooing’ in the dark fields.

“My suspicions were confirmed. Hone had died of leukemia because of exposure to radiation. But the worst lay ahead. I wanted to do what was right by him, to restore his name and the family name. The Hollow Mountain and the underground access belonged to the Whanau Apanui. I saw a huge tourist potential for the iwi if they could be developed. But the uranium was different. Though its mining was allowed in New Zealand, my conscience told me it might be better to forget about it completely, to leave it as if it had never been discovered. But the problem was too big for me. I needed advice. The trouble was that I was not used to asking for anything.”

David groaned. “It was all my fault. So that was what you wanted to ask me. What I did was unforgivable.”

Tane put his hand on David’s shoulder. He spoke more softly. “I was the one who did what was unforgivable. I insulted both you and your father. I never cared about anything except my own ideas. You were the only one who didn’t cold-shoulder me. I didn’t deserve to have a friend like you.”

David was in the front seat with Kate. Tears came to his eyes as the healing words flowed over him.

“So what advice did you get?” asked Kate.

“Before my discovery I’d been approached by a member of the University Council, who was also a prominent lawyer, about the relationship between geological discovery and Maoritanga. He’d picked up a paper that I’d written about it, and he was very sympathetic to my approach. After my discovery I went to him and talked with him in general about geological discovery. He understood completely my desire to benefit the iwi. He said he’d acted for the Whanau Apanui in land matters already and also had access to development interests and sources of finance. I saw that his services would be extremely useful. Then I talked to him about Hone and what he would have wished. He had heard about him from the elders and he totally supported me in my desire to clear his name.

He stopped and buried his head in his hands. “I should never have talked to him.”

David looked at Kate. “We understand,” he said.

He looked up quizzically. “Do you – really understand?” But he did not wait for an answer. “There was one matter which troubled me. I wanted the Whanau Apanui to be involved both because they were the owners and because I had to be sure that their wairua and kaitakitanga would lead them to the same decision about the discovery.”

David thought back to the letter he had found. “So did you write to them about the discovery?”

“I started to, but after I’d discussed it with Sir Charles I agreed to leave it to him, because he said he’d be delighted to approach the Whanau Apanui. He also assured me of his complete respect for Maoritanga and the necessity to respect the wairua and the kaitakitanga. But I still had an anxiety about the uranium. He asked if I would still have the same objection if the mineral could be used for peaceful purposes. He told me that he was in touch with other scientists who had similar dilemmas and that he was working with them and a group of prominent citizens to promote the concept of scientific research for the good of humanity as a whole. He said this was a way the iwi could benefit.”

“I was blind not to understand what he was doing. He made me a member of the Scientists for Peace group he had established. He said there was no need for me to attend meetings as he would consult with me fully. He also told me shortly after this that he’d bought the property at Pataratara. It seemed an unusual step, but he explained it would preserve the confidentiality of my discovery and promised to consult me as well as the Whanau Apanui about any developments.”

“When I didn’t hear from him, especially about the Whanau Apanui, I asked him, but he told me I should trust him. I started getting anxious and secretly approached two of the scientists who Sir Charles had told me were members of his group. But I was in for a shock. When I talked to them, I realised that the Scientists for Peace was really a front for a much bigger international group, some of whom appeared to be white supremacists.”

“What sort of people were they?” asked Kate.

“On the surface they were intelligent, polite, cultured Pakeha people, deeply concerned at the direction of society, but if you questioned them closely, we had nothing in common.

“I asked Sir Charles again about the Whanau Apanui and he said he had a good relationship with them and repeated his assurances, but I couldn’t believe him anymore. I had terrible fears about the way they’d use my discovery. I began to have hallucinations. I saw myself dropping the bomb which I feared they would manufacture from my discovery. I couldn’t face people any more.

“I tried to hide myself away on a sheep station up from Gisborne on the slopes of the Raukumara. I thought I could work things out better there. But something was terribly wrong. I’d thought to restore Hone’s name but I’d done the same thing he’d done – only far worse. I’d betrayed the ancient teaching, I’d broken the tapu, I’d acted against the spirit of the mountains.”

David thought of Waitehaia. It was all coming together.

“And it was’t just my feeling. The first tutumaiao confirmed it. “

“I don’t understand,” said David.

“It is a Maori omen, a warning of disaster. I saw it over the Raukumara from Waitehaia. It made me desperate. I had to get my discovery back. I knew it was hopeless but I had to try. I went back to Auckland and got in to one of their meetings. He was there, but I only recall screaming at them. They thought I was having a nervous breakdown. But I knew the tutumaiao was right. After that all I remember is nightmares, horrible, horrible nightmares. They put me in that hospital and kept on giving me drugs but they only made me worse. I couldn’t have held on much longer.”

The sunken, lined face broke and his shoulders shook. “Thank you for not giving up on me, David,” he sobbed.

Strange time, thought Kate, for tears of joy. Among a kidnap party being pursued by the police and by who knows how many others. Yet she felt it too. The exacting life of an accountant, the weekends of bird watching with middle-aged ornithologists – both seemed shallow and artificial now. She was being carried along by something that caused her heart to beat more quickly, something that she had not previously experienced. She glanced sideways at David. She saw something in him which she had not seen before. He had been so self-centred, opinionated and insensitive. Now he was more relaxed, listened more and was gentler. Look at the way he had searched for Tane. That was the part of a true friend.

“Now Kate,” she said sternly to herself, “don’t get carried away.”

She was reminded that she had forgotten to pass something on. “Incidentally, David, your father doesn’t believe what the newspapers say.” He looked at her in surprise. “He’s so glad you’re alive.”

“I’m lucky to have a father like him.”

Kate smiled to herself. She wondered whether she would ever meet Mr Corbishley Senior.

“Isn’t it about time for the news?” David turned on the radio.

This is the New Zealand Broadcasting Service, Station 1YA. Here is the eleven o’clock news on Sunday 23rd January.

So far no trace has been found of the missing patient from the Glenfern Psychiatric Hospital who was kidnapped allegedly in conjunction with the Epsom church of St. Peter-on-the-Hill in Auckland earlier this evening. A controversial evening service was performed by the fifty-five year old vicar of the church, Archdeacon Harry Mountjoy. Police are seeking information about Dr David Corbishley, senior lecturer at the Geology Department of Auckland University, a former colleague of the patient. They have stated that he is the missing owner of a red Honda Accord which was found crashed near Opotiki yesterday morning following a previous incident at a local property. The police are also pursuing enquiries about the owner of a black Ford Cortina which was found abandoned at the church after the kidnap.

He looked wryly at Kate. “That’s my cover gone and my career. I’m sorry, but they may get you as well.”

“It’s all right. I was thinking of doing something else anyhow.”

The report continued:

Dr Randall Richardson, the prominent psychiatrist who is in charge of the Glenfern hospital and who is also the warden of St Peter’s Church, has disassociated himself from his vicar’s action and called for his dismissal. He has also requested an immediate enquiry into some of the services held by the Anglican Church, and has expressed serious misgivings as to the future safety of psychiatric hospital patients in non-secure institutions. The Bishop of Auckland has expressed grave concern about some aspects of the St Peter’s service and is expected to issue a public statement shortly clarifying the official Anglican position. He has in the meantime suspended Archdeacon Mountjoy from parish duties and arranged for him to take psychiatric tests.

Detective Inspector Molloy of the C.I.B., who is in charge of the case, has said that a search is being organised for the missing patient. It is believed that the 29-year-old missing man, Tane Ngata, is without his normal medication and could be dangerous. The public are warned not to approach him. He is Maori with dark curly hair, short in stature, and about 30 years old.

“Where are we heading?” Tane asked suddenly.

“Haven’t you guessed?” said Kate cheerfully. “We’re going to the Raukumara to look for Stan and Bill.”

Tane did not respond. Instead he turned pale and gave them a look which David could not fathom.

Too late David realised that he had not told Tane of their destination.

CHAPTER 33

It was five hours since they had left Auckland and they were not yet at Rotorua. They had had to follow little-used country roads to avoid possible roadblocks, and the car was painfully slow. To David fell one of the most dangerous stretches of the journey where they had no alternative but to follow the main highway to get over the ranges to Rotorua. The long straights and barberry hedges of the plains had given way to the sweeping curves and the rewarewa forests of the Mamaku ascent. The little Morris Minor whined and groaned as the gradient made itself felt.

Two lights approached swiftly from the rear. A large, powerful car was gliding effortlessly up the long hill. In less than a minute the other car was fifty yards behind them. A window wound down, and a hand was thrust out with something in it that glinted.

“Get down!” Tane yelled from the back seat.

The rear window shattered. Glass was everywhere. The shots continued. The Morris Minor veered wildly.

They must have hit one of our tyres, thought David.

The other car drew abreast of them and swung towards them, forcing them to the edge of the road where the seal disappeared into a black gulf. He glimpsed two occupants.

“They’re trying to push us over,” cried Tane.

There was nothing between them and the edge.

“Hold tight!” David yelled, and braked.

The big black car missed their front mudguard by inches. The Morris Minor skidded helplessly towards the brink. At the last moment the tyres gripped, and he spun the wheel. The car swung away and screeched to a stop, straddling the road.

The big car – a Mercedes – had stopped. The doors opened. The two occupants advanced on them with revolvers pointed. One was the tall, distinguished-looking man with a long, cadaverous face whom David had last seen in the hallway of St Peter’s Vicarage.

“Tane,” came the suave and cultivated voice of Randall Richardson. “I’ve come to bring you the drugs you need and to rescue you from your kidnappers.” He indicated his companion. “My orderly is here to assist me.”

“You tried to kill us,” David said angrily, but he realised that he was wasting his breath. The tall, bronzed, muscular curly-haired orderly had the physique of a street-fighting rugby forward and eyes which conveyed cold and mocking hatred. Never had he met a man who in his looks and bearing conveyed such an impression of physical menace.

The two men walked to the edge of the seal, Randall Richardson pointing to the Morris Minor and talking in quiet tones to the orderly. The orderly got into the Mercedes. “Please remain in your car,” said the psychiatrist. “We’re just going to move it out of the way of traffic.”  

The Mercedes reversed then approached them from behind. Suddenly it accelerated.

“Jump!” David yelled.

Three bodies jetted from the Morris Minor. A split second later there was a crunching sound as the two cars met. The great weight of the Mercedes pushed the other towards the edge of the road. But the Mercedes did not stop, and they saw with horror the little old car disappearing over the edge. They heard a series of sickening metallic crashing sounds as the car hit trees and rocks on its way down. Then silence.

Oh Miss Milliken, how can I explain this? thought Kate.

As David lay stunned and sore on the asphalt, he saw the curly-haired man get out with his revolver and walk towards them. As he did so, he looked towards the psychiatrist who nodded. When he got to David, he raised the revolver. In sickening helplessness, David saw the man’s eyes looking at him over the barrel. The orderly was actually grinning.

The shot did not come.

Instead, lights lit up the road, an engine roared, tyres screamed, a door slammed and footsteps came pounding.

“Accident? Can I help?” A weather-beaten, stocky, ginger-haired man in a green ranger’s shirt was shining a torch down on them.

“Oh, Mr Burton, how nice to see you!” shrilled Kate.

The ranger made as if to examine the bodies lying on the road. But these bodies immediately showed remarkable signs of life. Tane, under cover of the ranger, launched himself at the psychiatrist. David at the same time set his sight on the orderly’s ankles and brought him down with a flying tackle while Kate wrenched his gun from his hand.

“I thought you were sick,” David said to Tane admiringly.

“I don’t need my doctor now,” Tane replied.

The ranger moved to gain control of the situation. Swiftly, he placed his foot on the revolver which had flown from Randall Richardson’s hand. “Now then, what’s really going on here?” he demanded.

Randall Richardson rose slowly to his full distinguished height and brushed down his immaculate suit. The other man did the same. They looked loftily at the bloodstained and dust-covered figures of Tane, David and Kate. The contrast could hardly have been more pointed.

“Mr Burton,” the doctor began, “I think I recognise you from the TV programme as the ranger in charge of the Waitoa Huia Sanctuary.”

The ranger nodded.

“I am Randall Richardson, psychiatrist and owner of the Glenfern Hospital. This is my orderly, Donald Borrow. This young man,” he pointed to Tane, “is my patient, Tane Ngata. These two young thugs here are his kidnappers. You would have heard the regular police warnings.’’

The ranger nodded, but looked puzzled. “I know one of them.” He eyed the revolver Kate was holding. “Miss Fairweather, can’t I hold that for you?”

Kate shook her head determinedly.

The psychiatrist continued. “You will be aware from the warnings that the kidnapped patient is violent. You have just seen evidence of this in his unprovoked attack on me, his doctor. You will also have seen the violent character of his kidnappers by their attack on my orderly. Being aware of the personal problems of my patient and his need for daily drug sedation to prevent possible violent attacks, I have considered it my duty to assist the police, taking as you see adequate precautions.”

“It is very rare, you must admit,” added the orderly, “that a doctor will risk his life to help his patient.”

“As the condition of my patient is rapidly deteriorating, and as I have travelled down from Auckland with the drugs which he needs urgently, may I suggest, Mr Burton, that you assist us. First of all, will you return my gun to me. Secondly, will you assist me to disarm this young lady? Lastly, will you use your radio to contact the police and advise them that we have apprehended the kidnappers. I need hardly remind you of your public duty.”

Everything had gone very quiet. The night was still, moonless. The ranges enfolded them like a blanket. They could smell the sweet scent of the rewarewa forest. A morepork sounded quite near. Far away down, a little stream tinkled.

David’s mind raced. Any moment, he knew the ranger would stoop down and pick up the gun. The only reason he had not picked it up before was because he felt a necessity to be impartial. Now he looked impressed by Randall Richardson’s story which David had to admit was convincing. Was it worth making explanations? With such a weight of evidence against them, it would be uphill work. And it would mean delay. And every moment lost favoured their pursuers.

“Mr Burton, your Land Rover’s moving,” he yelled.

At the same instant he swooped for the gun under the ranger’s foot. It was enough. For just that fraction the ranger had glanced round.

“Tie them into the Land Rover, Tane. Into the Mercedes, please, Mr Burton!”

The ranger hesitated, but not for long. He got into the Mercedes. Tane followed, after making good use of the rope from the ranger’s Land Rover and extracting the key from the ignition. Last of all came Kate, retreating coolly in the style of a female Arab hijacker.

David fumbled with the controls, then heaved a sigh of relief as the great car purred into life

A moment later he looked at the speedometer. 100 miles an hour. They needed the pace. His hands shook on the wheel as in his mind he saw again the cold eyes of the doctor and his “orderly”.

It was not a good experience to meet people whose object was to kill you.

CHAPTER 34

“Let him go back to his bloody asylum!”

Ginger-haired people are commonly believed to have short wicks. Dick Burton lived up to the stereotype, particularly when the humiliation of his kidnapping was followed by the story about a geologist who had interfered with his sanctuary and of whose mental stability there was some doubt.

“Bloody mental geologist! Discovering uranium! In a huia sanctuary! I never heard such a lot of crap. The only place he discovered uranium was in the asylum. Well, let him just keep right out of my sanctuary! If you ask me, all geologists should all be in that bloody mental hospital.”

Kate, who was sitting in the back seat with Dick, came in quickly before any tempers were ignited in the front seat. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Dick. Geologists are certainly a real menace. Look at the job we had getting them out of Coppermine Island and the Poor Knights. Now they’re trying to get their hands on Coromandel and the Kaimais, even though they’re Forest Parks.”

With such appeasing words from Kate, the ranger gradually calmed down. It was then that she swung the conversation away from uranium to the huia, which was Dick’s favourite topic.

“That was great what you said in the TV documentary,” she said. “You must be a bit of a poet.”

She was surprised to hear that Dick had actually written a poem about the huia. They talked about its eating habits and physiology and the last reports of unconfirmed sightings. Kate then got onto Kevin and his interest in semi-extinct birds.

“That was a fine shot of the huia that he took. He saw the peck marks, made sure he had another witness, concealed himself, imitated the whistle, got the right focus, then he put in a faultless sighting report.”

“He did everything right.”

“Only one thing wrong; it wasn’t a photo of a live huia.”

Dick’s body suddenly went taut, his face reddened and his fists clenched with white knuckles. For a moment Kate thought he was going to hit her, but instead he exploded into a string of expletives, most of which concerned the mental state of his three captors.

She ignored his reaction and continued blithely. “It was a photo of Keulemans’ illustration of the huia in Walter Buller’s Birds of New Zealand, but only the female bird because the male was behind and less distinct and a little obscured and would not have reproduced so well.”

“Don’t give me that crap!”

Kate sailed coolly on. “The male was removed, the perch and the background were changed and it was facing right instead of left. But it was no trouble to an expert on photo doctoring like Kevin.”

“All huia look alike.”

“I know, but no two photos of a living bird are the same because it can’t sit still and is constantly changing its position. Have you seen the illustration?”

“I’ve got more important things to do.”

“The reprint was done in 1967 and there weren’t many copies.”

“I haven’t even tried to get hold of it.”

“Really. But Kevin’s not like you. He’s a very studious type. He borrowed our Ornithological Society library copy for two weeks before he left for the Raukumara. You can’t tell me he didn’t study it carefully, especially the illustration. Yet when I remarked that his huia slide was very similar to the illustration, what did he say? ‘Keulemans – never heard of him’.”

“You just want to get in there with your geologists.”

“In other words, he lied. But why did he lie? He got excited because of something I said about Nga Tama and he wasn’t thinking straight. He just took the easiest way out, thinking that the people listening to him would never have heard of Keulemans, as you probably haven’t.”

At this she paused and looked at the ranger’s eyes. They were angry, but did she sense some hesitation in them as well? Was his anger his way of resisting what he didn’t want to believe?

“Listen, Dick. You’ve had a fair experience of poachers telling you lies. What do you do to get the truth out of them?”

“I can’t see what all this has got to do with Kevin.”

“I’ll tell you what I think you’d do. You’d rattle them so they would say something they didn’t mean to. That’s what I did with Kevin. I asked him a question which made him angry, and as a result he resorted to a direct lie. As for his huia story, he must have made it up, then written it down. In the documentary he just read from his notes. He had nothing else, no humour, no anecdotes, and no excitement. Now would you expect a man that has achieved his life’s ambition to act like that? Not likely. The man’s a sham, an automaton. He’s being manipulated by someone else. He doesn’t really care about birds at all.”

“You’ve been listening to those mental geologists...” and he began another tirade.

During this outburst, Tane unfortunately broke out laughing. That’s canned it, she thought. Then David joined in. It was good humoured, jovial, clean, honest laughter. They were just laughing at the description of themselves. She looked at the ranger’s face and saw that he didn’t know how to take it.

She was becoming aware of something quite odd. The ranger was uneducated, uncouth, a man of strong likes and dislikes, a man who spoke before he thought. All his knowledge came from-on-the-ground observation. He was scornful of knowledge that came out of books and didn’t even bother to read them.

How was it that he had been appointed to a position of such responsibility?

Was it because he was the simple outdoor type whom the public could identify with but who could be relied upon not to ask questions?

“I’d really like to congratulate you on your appointment,” she continued. “They could not have chosen a better person. I suppose you have plans to get in there and see the huia soon.”

This time he definitely hesitated before he replied. “Every Tom, Dick and Harry wants me to come and address a meeting.”

“It’s probably a good idea to check on how they’re getting on, isn’t it? Put in a few traps for stoats, for example.”

“Dr Holcroft told me that my work would be outside the sanctuary.”

“So you’ve never been in there?”

“Dr Holcroft knows what he’s doing. If he hadn’t acted, there would be no huia sanctuary.”

“Don’t you think because of all these rumours, you should ask him again?”

They were in Rotorua now. They could smell the sulphur in the windless summer night.

David glanced at Kate and she nodded. In Fenton Street he stopped momentarily.

“Thanks again, Dick,” said Kate. “Give him the Land Rover key, Tane.”

The ranger leapt down and strode off into the darkness with clenched fists and without a backward glance.

***

The Mercedes gathered speed on the highway to Whakatane. Kate had taken over the driving. It was 2 a.m. on Monday and only the big transporters were on the road.

“He was very angry,” said David. “I don’t know how you managed to handle him.”

“He’s angry because he regards the huia sanctuary as his personal property and any doubts about it he sees as a personal attack. All the same it’s curious he’s never been in there,” she mused, “because he’s a real huia man.” She paused and added, “I’m sorry that I was so nasty about geologists just now.”

“You’re actually quite right. You spoke about the geologists who are trying to get their hands on Forest Parks. I ought to tell you that I am about the worst of them.”

“Oh, no!”

“My present research is on how to find legal methods to open up National and Forest Parks for mineral develop-ment.”

She felt sick inside.

“But I’ve decided to give it away.”

In spite of her determination to remain professional, Kate almost wanted to kiss him.

CHAPTER 35

From his time as an undergraduate and graduate at the University of Auckland, Tane had loved the mountains, especially their rocks. He had been awed by the dark Waitakere gorges where the Pararaha and the Piha Streams carved deep into the black volcanic rock as they plunged down to the wild west coast. He had climbed the rearing columnar basalt towers in Great Barrier and Coromandel. He had aqua-tramped down fossilised sea beds exposed by the rivers of the Urewera. He had walked out on the delectable ridges of the “candy mountains” of North West Nelson. By the time he went to Australia for his doctorate he knew nearly all the mountain ranges of New Zealand.

Tane’s knowledge of mountains was not just of routes or peaks climbed or of crossings made. He knew the secrets undisclosed to those who somewhat fearfully only pass through and remain extraneous to the mountains’ spirit. He sensed the mystical nature expressed in the Maori names like Moehau and Hauturu and Maungapohatu. He knew the place of the thunder and the mists and where the wind gathered. From the deep dark gorges and from towering bluffs he read history, almost from the beginning of time. On the soaring ridges and in the river beds, he fathomed the blending of minerals in all their multitudinous hues.

When he became a geologist, the pattern of his life did not change, but he began to search deeper and deeper into the mysteries of the mountains. For him it was not so much a search as a relationship. It was because he was aware of his relationship with the mountains that he was able to explore and discover. As with the Maori of old, he entered into the mountains with awe, not to exploit but to respect. And the mountains in turn revealed to him their secrets.

Then everything collapsed. What have you done with what we gave you? they accused him.

He could not speak to them as he did before, and he wept because they had become his enemies. But that was not the worst thing. The mountains had already signalled the revenge that they were preparing, and there was no way back.

It was like a vision of hell.

That was why he could not face the mountains again.

He had not told David. There were some things which David could never understand.

4.30 a.m. on Monday 24th January.

The course from Rotorua for two and a half hours had been eastwards. Kate was driving and David was with her in the front seat. The sky was already lightening and he peered excitedly ahead for the Raukumaras which would soon be revealed.

The light was coming more intensely than usual and David averted his eyes.

“Isn’t it too early for the dawn?” said Kate, “or the sunrise?” But her voice faltered.

Suddenly the whole landscape was ablaze.

Red, flaming red, burned the sky, a wall of fire stretching right across the horizon in front of them. And silhouetted against it was a huge dark shape like the grotesque saw-tooth outline of an advancing prehistoric monster.

An unearthly scream shattered the silence. Hands lunged forward over Kate and shaking white fingers reached out towards the ignition keys trying to pull them out.

“Get away, you fool!” shouted Kate as the car veered and swayed across the road at a hundred miles an hour.

David threw himself against Tane, forcing him back, and they grappled, their writhing shapes lit up in the fearful red, the car interior seemingly bathed in blood. At last he was able to overpower him.

“Stop the car!” he said.

Slowly, slowly, the terrible colour in the sky faded. David felt the horror and the trembling subside. The real dawn came. The windows were open and he could smell the dew and the pennyroyal, see the sleepy cows across the misty paddocks. The silence stole in, healing, reassuring.

But for David the silence was pregnant with terror. The man he had wrestled with was a stranger. The same mop of dark curly hair, but a man whose character had suddenly, totally, changed.

Tane was huddled now in an almost foetal position, the sunken eyes looking at him fearfully.

“What was it?”

A shaking hand pointed to the mountains. “I can’t go on.”

“Because of that red sky? “

“You can’t help me. You never understood me.”

“I know I didn’t. But now I want to listen.”

There was a long pause. “It was – the tutumaiao.”

“Is it a sign?”

“The second aitua, or omen.”

“It is saying something?”

“Papatuanuku is angry. The first one was a warning. The second one means she is about to take revenge.”

“Papatuanuku is the earth mother, I know. But revenge for what?”

“Defilement.”

Kate was looking back anxiously the way they had come. “Dick will have told the police. They’ll be following us,” she said.

“Hold on, Kate. We must listen.” He turned to Tane. “You heard about this from your people?”

“Te Whanau-a-Apanui. The first tutumaiao was three years ago. Just before I went to Waitehaia.”

“Did they understand?”

“They understood all right, and they were terrified.”

“What did they do the first time?”

“They went to the forests, the fishing grounds, the kumara and maize crops, but they couldn’t find any sign of a defilement. But there was a breach of tapu all the same. They only knew it was in the mountains because things kept happening. Like drownings on the Motu and pig hunters not returning. Even the rahui didn’t help. The trouble was they didn’t look far enough”.

“What do you mean?”

“They didn’t realise who was responsible.” And as Tane spoke his eyes narrowed and his face twisted strangely.

“Surely you can’t think …?”

Tane did not reply, but turned his face away.

And David suddenly knew. Waitehaia – it was not a sick imagining. The member of the whanau who was most sensitive to the spirit of the mountains had known all along why that spirit was disturbed.

“Surely you’ve been healed,” but even as he said it, the words mocked him.

Tane looked back at him with fearful eyes. He seemed to be curling back into a foetal position.

He felt the same numbing fear gripping him, and desperately he turned to Kate. “I don’t know what to do.”

“My pastor once laid his hands on someone like that. Do you think…?”

David didn’t know quite what happened next but he found himself and Kate sitting on each side of Tane and saying over and over again some of the words that the vicar had used at the service. As he did so, he felt the taut, coiled body gradually relax and saw the light coming back into the face and the eyes beginning to focus outwardly.

“Thanks, you tohunga,” said Tane at last in his normal voice.

David sank back, exhausted, full of silent gratitude.

Tane was mopping his brow. “That tutumaiao. It was for me. I wanted to run away. But now I know I can’t.” He looked ahead to where the ranges rose in the real dawn, fresh, cool, their highest peaks mist-wrapped. “They are my life. I don’t know what’s going to happen and I’m scared as hell. But there are things which have to be put right.”

David looked at Kate. “I think Tane is saying that it’s OK for him to go on. How do you feel?”

“Le-et’s go!” said Kate as she pressed the starter and the Mercedes leapt forward towards the Raukumara.

David too was scared. They were probably the most wanted people in New Zealand – the subjects of a manhunt by police and who knows how many other people. Yet what they were involved in wasn’t just the physical action of a rescue or a kidnap or an escape or a chase. It was a struggle with invisible forces whose very existence a short while ago he would have doubted – Papatuanuku, the tutumaiao, the utu.

The tutumaiao showed that the mountains were still defiled. What that defilement was he did not know.

As in one sickening moment a canoeist loses control and feels himself borne helplessly onwards into a roaring whirling mass of white foaming water, so now they were being swept inexorably into a very maelstrom of horror and destruction.

The ranges now hemmed them in on all sides. Kate had turned off the main highway onto a roughly metalled road that wound up the narrow valley of the Kaniwhaniwha River.

The bush, alive with cicadas and tui, rolled down into sunlit paddocks. Every now and then the crunching of the metal was interrupted by the rattling of a wooden one-way bridge as little streams rippled down from the valley sides, their pleasant burblings fading out as they were lost in the sleepy meadows.

Kate’s organisation had been superb . They learned now who her Opotiki contacts were. “My parents have a farm round here,” she said casually, “and they happen to believe me instead of what they see in the papers.” Half way up the valley, she stopped outside an isolated hay barn. There was no one in sight. She led the way into the barn, and after some rummaging in the hay, she presented them each with a pack complete with all their needs for fourteen days: tents, sleeping bags and covers; spoons, knives, plastic bowls and mugs; billies and dehydrated food; matches, a primus and bottles of white spirit for when it might be unsafe to light a fire – even torches for each of them.

At the head of the valley, the road would end, and the tramping would begin.

David glanced at Kate as she slid behind the wheel again. After they had dropped Dick Burton at Rotorua, she had taken over. She had driven the one hundred and fifty miles at a furious pace, and she had had no sleep. She did not appear tired. Indeed she looked – well, you might say – glowing. Strange. He had never thought of her that way. Efficient yes, cheerful, and game as they come. What a fantastic job she had done arranging the getaway from the church with the clothes and the car switch. Without her he would not have known what to do as they faced the terrible curse of the tutumaiao. And she was with him now, and she was glowing.

She turned to him and smiled. He placed his fingers gently on her arm. “Thanks for your help back there.”

She did not seem to resent his liberty. “It was we who were helped.”

“By the way, I’d like to apologise for dragging you into all this.”

“You big oaf! it’s far too late to apologise.”

***

07:00 hours on Monday.

David found himself looking out of the window of the car across the sunny, dew-filled paddocks. Suddenly he was startled by a loud roar close by and was surprised to see a yellow helicopter with a large Number 1 painted on the fuselage, alighting about a hundred yards from the road.

“Only a pilot in it. It’ll be picking up hunters,” said Tane.

Kate slowed down and looked at David. “It’d be a lot quicker,” she said with an impish grin.

He glanced back along the road. At the other end of the flat he saw the dust swirling behind a red sports car being driven up the valley. It was not a farmer’s car and it was being driven very fast.

Kate had seen it too. She stopped. “The helicopter!” he shouted.

Over the fence, across the paddock, they ran, stumbling, falling, with their heavy packs.

“We need to leave straight away,” said David as they piled in.

The pilot saw the revolver in David’s hand, and he started the rotors again.

“How long does it take to warm up?” asked Kate anxiously.

The sports car had stopped. Determined-looking Pakeha in football jerseys emerged with revolvers in their hands, and were looking towards the helicopter. Now they were over the fence and running through the paddock, shouting as they came.

“Stop them! They’re the kidnappers!”

“They’re going to shoot up your helicopter,” said Kate.

The pilot decided to protect his helicopter and ask questions later. Fortunately, the engine was warm. He lifted up just as the leader of the pack flung himself furiously towards the skids.

David marvelled at the speed with which the pilot moved both feet and both hands, all on different controls, at split second intervals. They climbed, veered, looped, wove miraculously through the fusillade of shots that sprayed from the men standing on the meadow. Soon a windbreak of poplars rose comfortingly to break the line of fire.

“Congratulations!” said David. “You handled that lot pretty well.”

“You’re not my hunters,” said the pilot. “My boss can’t afford to break a contract.”

“I wouldn’t go back if I were you,” said Kate. “Those types we met are not very friendly.”

“I don’t suppose you happen to know the Waitoa?” asked David, speaking as if to a taxi driver.

“But that’s the huia sanctuary!”

“That’s where we’re going.”

The pilot had heard the latest news bulletin and realised who his passengers were. Looking at the revolver in David’s hands, he knew that he was wasting his breath. He hoped his boss was insured against hijackers and decided to play dumb and wait for an opportunity.

Not long afterwards, the frustrated watchers saw, two thousand feet above the valley, a tiny speck pause alongside a great bushed arm of the Raukumara. Then it vanished into the anonymity of the mountains.

CHAPTER 36

Dick Burton was a ranger of the old school.

He had not been to University or taken a degree in psychology or education or business management. When he had left school, on gaining School Certificate, he had joined the Wildlife Service as a trainee. He had worked at cutting tracks, making ponds, constructing boardwalks, netting and ringing birds. They had given him oilskin and boots, a slasher, a hammer and a spade, and he had worked outdoors in all weathers, in the wind and the rain and the burning sun. He loved the feel of the roots of a plant as he gently bedded it into the welcoming soil, the damp fresh smell of the forest floor after rain, the sound of the children as they romped through the forest on one of his newly constructed boardwalks. So deeply did he feel these things that he even wrote poetry about them, a pastime unusual for one of rugged weather-beaten appearance and sometimes uncouth language.

Ginger was his hair, gingery and stubborn his nature. What he believed in, he believed in strongly and simply, and he was not easily turned aside. Fiercely loyal, he would battle for the trees or the birds under his care with an intensity that some people would see as abrasive or one-eyed.

Those who did not know him well might dismiss him as a simple man who wore his heart on his sleeve. But you could not be a ranger for thirty years without knowing something of the worse side of human nature. Slow he might be, but he was also wary. Years of dealing with certain members of the public such as wildlife poachers had developed a healthy sense of suspicion.

The appointment to the Waitoa Sanctuary was the high point of his life. The only disadvantage was the advice that he would be working outside the sanctuary and that permission to enter rested entirely with the Director-General of Forestry.

Dick Burton was not a desk man.

After alighting from the stolen Mercedes he strode off in the sulphur-laden Rotorua night making for the police station. But on the way he decided to call in to the Wildlife office in Pukaki Street. “I’ll scotch those bloody kidnappers’ stories.”

At 3 a.m. on Monday the light in his office still burned as he read and reread the huia file.

Bloody kidnappers! Mental geologists! What a cheek they had had, first turning a gun on him, then telling him that cock and bull story about a uranium discovery in his sanctuary!

He looked at the file again. He examined the photograph, which looked pretty genuine as far as he was concerned. He’d never read Buller’s Birds, though he had heard people talk about it. But Kevin’s report was said to be faultless. He was regarded as the Ornithological Society’s expert on rare birds. That was why it had not been considered necessary to get the Ornithological Society regional recorder to sign it off.

The second witness was a man from Auckland who said he was an ornithologist but did not belong to the Ornithological Society. His name was Harry Wilson. Wilson’s description had also been faultless, the report said. The interviews and the authentication had been carried out personally by Dr Holcroft, who had made a special flight to Rotorua because of the importance of the discovery.

Yet there was something about the report which was unusual. The independence of the second witness was vital in the sighting of rare birds. Harry Wilson? It was not a name known to him. He apparently had no New Zealand ornithological credentials, or the report did not mention them.

Had Kevin organised his attendance as a fellow consultant specially for the wildlife expedition to the Waitoa, or had he been a member of the party which had been staying at the Upper Waiwawa Hut? This party was said to be a group of adventure tourists from overseas. It was the same party which Forestry had asked to advise others that the Waitoa was closed. But none of this party had seen the huia.

He would talk to this bloke himself in the morning, just to assure himself that everything was all right. There was a phone number in the file. Perhaps his credentials were from overseas. Or should he ask Kevin Carr first? Then he remembered Kevin had gone on holiday. Why not go to the top and ask Gerald Holcroft? Damn Wellington! He would do it himself. In any case, it might only be his own half-baked idea.

He didn’t want any damn rumours about his sanctuary.

It was not till four o’clock on Monday morning when he was leaving the office that he remembered to call into the police station and to tell them about the doctor and his orderly tied up in Dick’s Land Rover on the Mamaku Hill.

***

“May I speak to Harry Wilson, please?”

A surprisingly efficient female voice answered. “May I ask who is calling, please?”

“Burton is the name, wildlife ranger at Rotorua.”

“May I ask in what connection, please?”

“It’s about the Waitoa Sanctuary. He was one of the people who discovered the huia, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” she said, but the voice gave no trace of any emotion.

“Well, I just wanted to discuss something with him.”

“Just a moment, please.” There were sounds of a muffled conversation and the sound of a photo copier in the background. Was it an office or a home? “I’m sorry, Mr Burton, but Mr Wilson has strict instructions not to talk to anyone about the discovery.”

“Yes, I imagine the media have been a nuisance. Can you tell him that I’m the officer in charge of the sanctuary?”

“Our instructions are from Dr Gerald Holcroft, the Director-General of Forestry, whom I presume you know.”

There was a nasty twist in the last phrase. It deliberately ended a very unsatisfactory conversation.

***

“Dr Holcroft is not available. May he call you back?”

Gerald Holcroft was a bossy little man who had been a professor of some kind before he got the Forestry job. Dick thought at first that because he had never worked his way up through the Department, he wouldn’t really understand the people in the field.

The huia sanctuary appointment had changed all this, and there was now a cordial relationship between the two men.

Dr Holcroft was on the line. “Good morning, Dick, sorry to hear that you had a brush with the kidnappers. Is the vehicle all right?”

“Yes, being recovered this morning, sir.”

“It is believed that they are heading for the Waitoa sanctuary. Any idea why?”

“The kidnappers said the mental patient bloke discovered uranium.”

“It must be part of his sickness. Obviously they’re after the huia, just like those trampers who disappeared.”

“Do you think so, sir? As a matter of fact I’ve been doing a bit of paper work and I had a query about the second witness, Harry Wilson.”

The voice stiffened. “What about him?”

“Are his credentials from overseas?”

“Dick, I’m surprised at your question. Has someone put you up to this?”

The stubborn, suspicious streak was roused. “No, but I couldn’t find much information on the file. So I rang him up, but was told that you wouldn’t allow anyone to talk to him. The only thing I can do is ask you. Can you tell me whether he was a consultant invited by Kevin or a member of the overseas adventure tourist party at the Waiwawa Hut? If he was a member of the party, would you give me the name of the leader of this group from the hut book so I can follow it up?”

“Dick, I don’t understand what you’re getting at. Why do you want this information?”

“I want to make my own enquiries.”

“I understand you’ve been talking to the kidnappers. Are you questioning my integrity in accepting this witness?” The voice was icy.

His boss should have known that Dick Burton was not a man to be put down. “Sir, is it that you don’t have this information or is it that you’re refusing to give it to me?”

His chief ignored the question. “Listen to me, Burton. I am not continuing this conversation any further. I am putting you on notice that I am holding you personally responsible for allowing the kidnappers to go free knowing that they intended to enter the huia sanctuary. Moreover, if you continue to act outside my instructions as you did when you rang Harry Wilson I have no alternative but to dismiss you.”

“The little blokes’s off his rocker!” said Dick as his chief slammed down the phone on him.

***

Professor Gerald Holcroft’s appointment to the position of Director-General two months previously had created some ripples in the Department. Though at the time of his appointment he had held the chair in zoology at Victoria University and was a noted ornithologist, he had no Forestry background. Yet of his environmental interest there had been no doubt. While at Victoria he had been the driving force in establishing sanctuaries for various endangered birds such as kakapo, brown kiwi and black petrel. Moreover, he had shown himself adept in obtaining public and commercial backing for these initiatives.

In recent years Forestry policy makers had struggled over a mandate which included both protection of New Zealand’s unique biodiversity and a commitment to fostering recreation and allowing for tourism. Conservation management strategies sought to give guidance on the balance between the two aims. Dr Holcroft had made no secret of the fact that he was seeking greater protection for biodiversity, especially where rare and endangered birds were concerned. He saw that the demand for public access was sometimes incompatible with this protection.

“Look at Great Barrier Island,” he had said. “We know that the prime nesting place for the black petrel is on Mt. Hobson, so we build board walks everywhere to protect the burrows . Then the public use increases tenfold as a result. What happens to the black petrel?”

His detractors said that he was intent on locking up mountains and remote bush valleys for rare and endangered birds. He replied that if these birds became extinct, some of New Zealand’s most notable treasures would be lost forever.

The huia sanctuary was the jewel in his crown. In no other sanctuary was he more zealous for exclusion. As soon as the search party had set foot in the watershed of the Waitoa, he had strongly objected, and it was his influence which led to the eventual cancellation of the search.

This exclusion even included wildlife officers. His own ranger, Dick Burton, had no authority to enter except with his personal permission, and the National Recovery Plan was to include the same condition.

The appointment of such a well-known university and public figure as Director-General was seen as a coup for the Government. For this reason Sir Robert Roydhouse, Minister of Forestry, had not bothered to delve too deeply into his background. If he had, he might have read an article written by Dr Holcroft a few years previously in The New Zealand Herald which strongly contested any claim to Maori customary shooting or fishing rights in Forest and National Parks.

He might then have had suspicions that the proposed Director-General’s bicultural sensitivity was not up to the standard required for such a controversial position.

Unlike the kakapo, the brown kiwi and the black petrel in the other sanctuaries Dr Holcroft had set up, the huia in its sanctuary was to survive without human assistance.

CHAPTER 37

Kate felt that she was flying like a bird.

As each great mist-topped range surged up in their path then fell away again into the anonymity of its restless green ocean, she felt the exhilaration that a bird must feel. She had the freedom to rise as the ranges rose, and the freedom to soar above them. She was part of the mountains of Papa as they rolled like great waves across the land, and part of the winds and the clouds which flowed and raced across Rangi’s measureless blue canopy.

As she looked down at that green expanse which stretched as far as the eye could see, she envisaged the sheltered fern and moss coverts, the berry-laden boughs, the fertile rotting logs and the nectar-laden kamahi and rata flowers, the remote valleys where introduced predators might never have penetrated.

Here was an avian sanctuary, a last retreat for birdlife. Might not a bird find shelter here – a bird which had been hunted and driven from every other North Island mountain range?

Instead of all the terrible rumours, dear God, could it really be there?

Show me a huia!

The helicopter was now following a big white-flecked river running in a north easterly direction, which kept on disappearing where thousand-foot bluffs almost closed in above it.

“That’s the Motu, best wild water in New Zealand!” called out Tane.

As they rose up into the heart of the mountains, the country changed. Instead of high, bushed ranges, bare pinnacles of rock thrust up, jagged and menacing. Tane pointed to a great horned peak rearing up by itself right in the path of their flight.

“That’s Devil’s Peak. We’ve got to get over that to get into the Waitoa.”

His voice was drowned by the whining of the wind around the cockpit of the helicopter. Rain appeared on the window, then hail ricocheted off.

“Where did that come from?” said the pilot, peering white-faced through the cockpit window which was rapidly icing up. The helicopter lurched and swayed. The mountains had disappeared. There was nothing to see outside but swirling mist and hail.

“Go up!” yelled Tane. “You’re going to hit that mountain!”

The pilot tried to climb, but the power did not seem to be sufficient to overcome the down-draught. Then the mists tore apart and they saw ahead a great black mass. Out of the mists it emerged like a ferocious guard dog suddenly unleashed. Beads of sweat stood out on the pilot’s face as he strove to keep control of his machine. Then the storm enveloped them.

“Where the hell are we?” he yelled.

“Just go back!” shouted Tane.

The pilot was struggling to keep control, but without bearings or sight they seemed to be borne along by the wind in a sea of whirling mist. They prayed that the wind was taking them away from those towering castles of rock.

Fifteen minutes later they saw a gap in the mist. Far below they glimpsed a patch of green.

“Thank God!” said the pilot.

They descended towards the green, and pierced through the mist. The green turned out to be a valley, with a ribbon of sparkling water running through it.

“Not the Waitoa,” said Tane, checking his compass. “It flows east. It’s the Raukawa, and if I’m right we’re somewhere near the falls. He scanned the valley. “Yes, I think I can see where they are – about a thousand yards downstream.”

“Wasn’t that part of the route that Stan and Bill chose?” said David.

“And one of the search parties investigated the falls as a likely place for an accident,” said Kate. “The storm must have blown us right off course.”

“Can you get down there?” Tane pointed out the grassy flat to the pilot. Down they came, and landed.

David got out. It was 9 o’clock on Monday morning. They were not in the Waitoa, but it was terra firma and it was not swaying. The grass was like a soft carpet under his feet. The sun was bathing the flat with its first warm rays. Blue mountain duck rose from the stream, honking round them in astonishment. The edges of the bush were alive with tui, robins and fantails. The cicadas were into their full morning song, and he could hear the river burbling over its stones.

“It’s just like the Garden of Eden,” said Kate stretching out her arms in the warm sunlight.

David looked at the helicopter anxiously. “I think we should hide it,” he said to the pilot.

The pilot had gone very quiet. “Why?” he asked sullenly.

At length he grudgingly brought out an old army camouflage net.

“Is that what you use for deer carcasses and possum tails?”

None of them wanted to go anywhere. With no sleep the night before and with all the strain of the last thirty-six hours they were physically and mentally exhausted. David, feeling a stab of conscience for the pilot, offered his tent and sleeping bag to him, but was too sleepy to realise that the pilot wasn’t interested. When he went to lie down on his spare clothes with a spare tent fly to cover him, he saw that the Kate and Tane had already disappeared into their own tents under the trees.

Just as David was falling asleep, he was jolted into consciousness by a harsh noise.

The helicopter!

The traitor! He leapt up, seized the revolver from his pack and raced over to the now uncovered machine.

“Stop!” he gesticulated.

The pilot continued to warm up the motor.

David realised that at any moment the rotors would begin spinning. He pointed the revolver at them.

The pilot shouted belligerently. “You jokers are crims! The sooner you’re behind bars the better!”

David shouted back. “There’s another side of the story! Do you want to hear it?”

The pilot, seeing that his helicopter was in danger, turned the motor off. But he stayed in his cockpit with his hand on the controls.

Ten minutes later, David had finished. At the same time he gave the revolver to the pilot. “Well, you’ve heard it all. If we are still crims, take us prisoner and bring us out.”

The pilot chuckled. “I can’t understand your story, but I understand that. You’re on the level, mate.” He handed back the revolver. “And Tom’s the name.”

As the sun rose higher over the camp David was again drowsing when he heard the roar.

“It’s that pilot again!” he exclaimed. Then he saw Tom emerging from the tent.

“Take cover!” he yelled.

They plunged back into the bush and took shelter in the deep fern, just hoping that their tents under the trees and the camouflage net on the helicopter would not be seen.

The roaring increased. It seemed to be coming directly towards their camp and a moment later it became deafening. Then he saw it, a large black helicopter without markings, only a hundred feet or so above the trees.

The ominous black machine passed over their camp. The roar lessened.

“They’re following the river down,” said Tane.

“Looking for us. Police?”

“I’m not sure,” said Tane. He turned to the pilot. “What do you think, Tom?”

“First of all, it was a big ’copter, real big,” he replied in his slow drawl. “It looked like a Black Hawk troop carrier, the sort the army used to use on operations and now they use for logging and spraying. But it didn’t have any markings, so it could be doing something illegal.” He shook his head. “It might be huia poachers.”

“Pretty big helicopter for poaching,” said David.

Tane broke in. “Like hell it’s poachers! That helicopter was coming down the valley from Devil’s Peak. On the other side of the Peak is the watershed of the Waitoa.”

“The Waitoa,” David whistled. Do you think it was coming from the Waitoa?”

“The huia sanctuary,” said Kate softly, “where no human beings are allowed.”

David was listening again. “It hasn’t gone far! The motor’s stopped.”

“I think it’s landed,” said Tane.

“Do you think they know where we are and they’re coming up?” asked Kate.

“Wait!” said Tane “They’re doing something down there.”

They listened, but could hear nothing. After about fifteen minutes they heard the motor spring into life and a few minutes later the roar broke on them again. They hid as the helicopter swept above them and went on upward towards the headwaters.

David came out and they all stood looking up the valley. Their Shangri La was no longer magical. It felt cold. The birds were no longer singing.

“I think we should reconnoitre,” he said. “Will you stay here, Tom?” The pilot nodded. The others got their boots on. David looked at Tane. “Lead on, but be careful.”

Before they had gone far, suddenly Tane stopped. “Hear that?”

They listened.

“Just the river,” said David.

“Listen again.”

David heard it. A low, continuous roar. “The falls?”

“Two hundred feet high. They’re the highest in the Raukumara.”

Shortly afterwards, when the roar was becoming much louder, they came out into a small clearing.

“That’s where it landed,” Tane said pointing to the skid marks.

He dropped into the riverbed. “Someone’s just been down here.” He pointed to wet boot marks on a rock.

“Be careful,” said Kate.

“It’s all right. The tracks come back too.”

Now Tane stalked noiselessly, nimbly among the boulders. In a moment he was out of sight.

Then they heard above the roaring an agonised yell. “Help! Help!”

They came round the bend and the river just ended. The water leapt into nothingness. The horizon collapsed. Spray was wetting them like rain. There was thunder all around them echoing and resounding from the black, sheer cliffs.

Tane was on the edge of the drop, pointing down. They saw it. A rope leading down into the falls. A climber’s rope. With horror David saw that the rope was taut and passed tightly over a rock near the edge. The rock was sharp and little strands of rope were spinning off.

“Hold me!” Tane motioned, and advanced towards the edge.

They formed a chain, bracing themselves as they could against any footholds they could find. Tane leaned over the very edge and grasped the rope just below the frayed part.

“One – two – three – HEAVE!” he called.

The rope did not move. Tane wedged his foot into a crevice. “Try again.”

This time the rope moved upwards an inch.

“That’s it! Again!”

Now it moved six inches. Tane stepped back from the edge. “Again!”

Inch by inch the rope came up.

They cried out in horror. A hand was coming over the edge clenched to the rope, then an arm, a head and shoulders. Sodden, white, blood-flecked, numb.

“Don’t let go! There’s another!” cried Tane.

It was true. A second man came up. The hands had to be prised loose from the rope.

They seized both men and brought them to the bank, wrapping them round with their jerseys and parkas. Tane flung himself on one and started to rub his limbs furiously. David hugged the other in a desperate attempt to impart warmth.

David never forgot the moment when the eyes of the half-drowned man opened and looked at him. He was back in the Geology vestibule talking to a stranger with a square face and piercing eyes under short, greying hair.

And he heard the voice of Kate crying brokenly.

“Stan! It’s Stan McTaggart!

CHAPTER 38

“Get it out!”

An urgent shout broke the stillness of the summer mid-afternoon.

David couldn’t believe his eyes. A person whom an hour ago he had seen as the half-dead victim of a staged accident was out of Tane’s sleeping bag and limping frenziedly towards the camouflaged helicopter.

“Get it out!” he shouted again as he started pulling away the net with his bandaged hands.

The shouts woke the other tramper. “Nice toy,” he said casually. “Arawa Lines. Hughes 500. Hunting registration Number One. Aircraft registration JM. How did you get hold of that at a thousand dollars an hour?”

David saw Tom looking anxiously at the tramper attacking his helicopter. “We sort of borrowed it. He’s the pilot.”

The exertion had proved too much for Stan. He was leaning against the machine and breathing heavily. “Start it up!”

His laconic, lantern-jawed companion did not move out of the sleeping bag he was in, but calmly lit a cigarette. “Give it a rest, Stan. You’ve hardly noticed the people who saved your life, and all you can think of is pinching their helicopter.”

“I should have introduced Stan’s friend,” put in Kate. “This is Bill.”

Bill’s words had their effect. “Kate, is that you?” Stan limped back towards them. “Is this an Ornithological Society expedition?” Then without waiting for an answer, he eyed David closely.

“I’m David Corbishley, Geology Department. You called on me just before Christmas”

“Doctor Corbishley. You had a colleague who disappeared.”

He nodded towards Tane. “This is him.”

“I thought you didn’t want to know about him. I must have got it wrong.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“So you’ve come to do a survey. ‘There’s great potential even though it’s a Forest Park,” he mimicked.

“I don’t feel that way now,” said David.

Stan turned his gaze to Tane. “The lost colleague. You came in here, didn’t you? You found something?”

It was time to change the subject. “What’s the hurry?” David asked.

Stan looked towards his companion who was still in Tane’s sleeping bag, then he sat down and buried his face in his hands. “There’s a madman loose. Ten thousand people – are going to die.”

They all looked at Bill in horrified silence. “It’s true,” he said.

“We know about the Hollow Mountain and the uranium,” David said. “Is there a base there?”

“You’re all too late!” Stan laughed hysterically.

“Cool it, Stan!” said his companion. “I must apologise for my cobber. He’s not the most tactful chap. But I can tell you there is a base and it’s run by an underground international group called The Brotherhood.”

“But what about the limestone caverns?” asked Tane anxiously.

“That’s where the base is.”

Tane groaned, but he felt David’s hand on his shoulder.

“But how do you know about this?” asked Kate.

“After we were captured a fortnight ago, we convinced them that we agreed with their aims and we were allowed to join them.”

“But we heard they were a white supremacist group? Surely Stan …” spluttered Kate.

Bill grinned. “He just had to shut up and let me do the talking. It was the hardest thing he’s ever done, but it was the only way we could find out what they were up to.”

“I don’t understand. You mean there is no huia?”

Stan started laughing again, but at a look from his companion he stopped.

“Kevin’s one of them,” said Bill quietly.

This time Stan spoke. He seemed to have heeded Bill’s words for his voice was calmer. “Do you remember Stephen Deveney?”

“You mean the American military scientist who resigned during the Vietnam War?” said Tane. “I really admired that man.”

“He’s the chief scientist at the Hollow Mountain.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“The US Government were about to present him with a Congressional medal for his development of selectively targeted electronic strikes. But he resigned because they were being used to target and kill the Viet Cong in a very cruel way. Now he works for the Brotherhood and he’s devised a way to disable the power stations throughout New Zealand. They’ve got sleepers throughout the country to hack in to the key stations. They’re going to start at Rotorua. It’s not only the closest, but happens to have more Maori than other cities. Once the station is sabotaged the sleepers in the Cabinet and across the House will stage a coup by promising to restore power. If it doesn’t work with one, they’ll start on the others.”

“But isn’t Stephen a pacifist?” Kate asked. “How could he possibly work for a racist group like The Brotherhood?”

“He thinks he’s discovered a non-violent way of waging war. Otherwise he doesn’t know what’s really going on.” He glanced at Tane. “You see, he’s only a scientist.”

It was a cruel comment and she deflected it. “But I still don’t see. If it’s just the disabling of the power system, why must ten thousand people die?”

“Because the Chairman doesn’t think it will be enough and he’s changed the plan.”

“So he has a nuclear weapon?” said David.

Stan shook his head. “The process was impossible. They’re exporting the uranium secretly – underneath the cargoes of granite.”

It all fitted in, David thought. The loading by night without lights. The sound of railway wagons.

“They’re trading it for a weapon that’s far more effective for their purpose, something that doesn’t involve property damage.”

There was an eerie silence. The cicadas seemed to have stopped singing. The birds no longer sang or chirped or fluttered around them. Even the river paused in its gentle shrilling.

The voice continued, so detached now that it seemed hardly a part of its owner. “In the Hollow Mountain there are secretly stored the germs of a plague, a disease normally picked up in handling animals, which is fatal, and for which there is no known cure. It’s in the form of a white powder that’s dropped in canisters from a plane, and when it hits the ground the canister bursts and spreads as a cloud. The worst thing is that people don’t realise they’ve got the disease. They think it’s something like flu, and when it seems to turn to pneumonia, it’s too late.”

“What’s its name?” asked Kate.

“Anthrax.”

His listeners gasped involuntarily.

“Surely no one would ever use it,” Kate asked, but her voice faltered.

There was no reply.

“When will it happen?” asked David.

“After a twenty-four-hour warning to the members of The Brotherhood in Rotorua so that they can evacuate.”

“How will the warning be given?”

“By the sabotage of the Rotorua power station.”

“But when?”

“It may already have happened.”

Numbly Tane glimpsed the tragedy which was engulfing Stephen Deveney. “Surely a man like that would never agree with… genocide? He can’t be that naïve. He must have noticed.”

“He only knows half the story. He trusts his leader absolutely. In fact he studies the Bible with him. He thinks Dr Hawthorne is a Christian hero, the pioneer of non-violent war.”

“But who would trust such a man?”

“Didn’t you?”

Stan looked directly at him and this time those relentlessly piercing eyes told him that everything about his own past was known.

He buried his face in his hands.

Blind! Blind!

When Stan had finished his story, he was conscious of a dull ache throughout his body and of sharper pain in his hands and arms where the bandages covered the rock and rope abrasions. But it wasn’t only the physical pain that racked him. When he had hung over the falls and looked into the face of death, his whole life had flashed before him. He saw how stubborn he had been in pursuing his own ambitions. The valley that he sought was not forgotten at all. His search for it had been nothing but an ego trip, a senseless chasing after a figment of his own imagination.

Not only this. His anger at having his ambition thwarted had led him and Bill into the Waitoa, into captivity, then to a hopeless escape and almost to a terrible death. He saw that he was up against strange and frightening forces, where his once prized physical and mental energy was as effective as a pin against the hide of a rhinoceros.

The fair-headed young lecturer to whom he had once been so rude was looking towards him. “Thank you for trying.”

But he who had tramped the ranges for nearly thirty years could strive no longer. His head was shrunk into his shoulders, his body bowed. He felt old and tired. Before him he saw the futility of all he had been passionate about.

“I’ve been a bloody fool.”

Kate was already racing towards the helicopter. “We’ve got to get out and tell people, right now!”

“It’s no good, Kate,” David said. “It won’t work.”

“You coward!” she screamed at him. “Are you going to let all those people die?”

“It’s an impossible story. No one will ever believe it, especially when it comes from hijackers, huia poachers and kidnappers.”

“We tried to escape yesterday because the anthrax strike was about to happen,” said Bill. “It’s now a day later and what are we doing to stop it?”

“From what Stan and Bill have just told us the Hollow Mountain base must be impregnable, with sensors, radar and probably one of the most advanced systems of electronic warfare in the world, not to mention a fleet of highly armed helicopters and biological weapons?”

Kate took off her glasses and looked at him the same way as she had at the end of their conversation on One Tree Hill. “Really, David – aren’t you going to fight Goliath?”

CHAPTER 39

It was a mutiny. Kate had called him a coward. She was right in that he was placing his own and his party’s safety before the lives of the people of Rotorua. Could he and his party live with that?

There was a long silence. He looked around at them. Their faces, even the face of Tom the pilot, gave him their answer. “It’ll be safer after dark,” he said, “but do you think you can find your way there, Tom?”

“It depends on the moon. The route is as shitty as it gets.”

“We’ll guide you. Tane and Stan and Bill have been through the gorge,” said David. “And this time when you ring your boss, tell him that we’re going into the Waitoa but keep it to people he can trust.”

“How much do I tell him?” asked Tom.

“Tell him everything. We need all the help we can get.”

Tom managed to get his base from their ridge-top camp at 21:00 hours on Monday 24th January.

At ten o’clock that night the full silver moon rose over the fearsome horn of Devil’s Peak. In the great sweep of the Milky Way the stars twinkled brighter than any stars David had seen. The moonlight filtered through the trees, painting the leaves with a magical silver sheen and making ghostly luminescent patches in the forest clearings. In the unearthly stillness of the night the moreporks sounded and resounded. Far down in the valley he caught the low and distant roar of the Raukawa Falls.

It was a brittle night.

Tom raised his thumb. “It’s OK.”

Up the Raukawa Valley they flew without lights, guided by the horn of Devil’s Peak which lifted up into the night as if questing the mysteries of that luminous, star-studded vault. Then, breasting the watershed ridge, they felt their way down into the Waitoa headwaters looking for the specks of moonlit water. Soon the specks disappeared and the moonlight glistened on the sides of huge rock bluffs.

“Sheer hell!” Stan peered down into the blackness. “Took us three days.”

“You wouldn’t be able to see the bottom of the gorge, even if it was daylight,” said Tane.

“It runs in a slit in the rock,” said Bill, “but the slit is a thousand feet deep.”

Kate shuddered, but she wondered whether this way was any better. At least they would have been able to see the dangers.

In fact the trip was a nightmare for everyone except Tom who appeared to revel in it. Black shapes below them, black shapes beside them, black shapes above them, they soared and fell, veered and swerved like a roller coaster. When they seemed to be in almost uncontrollable spin, the cockpit would suddenly stand still, then rise gently upward, while Tom would give a low whistle.

“Sorry, folks, all I can see is the tops of trees.”

Tom circled well away from the Hollow Mountain and came into the Waitoa on a stretch above it, screened from it by a bend in the river. They got out stiffly and had difficulty in standing upright. The very ground seemed to be swaying.

“Look out for hollow twigs,” said David.

Treading gingerly in the darkness and using their torches sparingly, they hauled the camouflage net over the helicopter and laid out their sleeping bags and mats.

Soon the camp in the Waitoa was still, but David remained awake to keep the watch.

It was 1 a.m. on Tuesday 25th January.

It was true that coming here was the only way of forcing his hunters to meet at the one point where it could make a difference – at the very headquarters of the terrorists themselves.

Yet it was a huge risk, a mad, foolhardy decision which he had taken only because so many other lives were at stake.

But this was not the only risk.

There was that other dimension which was too awful to share. In his mind’s eye David saw again that fiery line across the sky – the revenge that was coming – the utu or payback which the land itself would exact upon those who had defiled it. How would it strike and when? Would it strike indiscriminately the innocent and the guilty? The tutumaiao was over the Raukumara. Would the mountains themselves rise up in a cataclysmic frenzy of destruction and revenge?

CHAPTER 40

“Tom’s usually such a reliable fella.”

Johnny Matiu, owner of Arawa Helicopters, had come up the hard way. His father had been an alcoholic; he had been a school dropout, a petty thief who had spent time in Borstal. After his “training” in Borstal he had developed into a tough patch-wearer with a reputation for street fighting in his hometown of Rotorua. His gang was the Motley Mob which controlled territory in Rotorua, Kawerau, Murupara and Te Teko. He had spent several years in the Mob and had had a number of brushes with the police.

Fifteen years ago Johnny had been sentenced to periodic detention, working on Mokoia Island cutting blackberry and uncovering historical places associated with Hinemoa and Tutanekai and the former tangata whenua. The work on Maoridom’s Holy Island had a strong influence on him, and, after his sentence ended, he got involved in work for the Trust that was doing the restoration. He was eager to help others like himself to see the positive side of their Maori inheritance, and quickly showed gifts of leadership and organisation. The Trust advanced the money for a flying course and on the completion of his flying hours Johnny was able to pilot the helicopter which was used for transport to the Island. Within a few years he became Chief Executive of the Trust and was handling large amounts of Government money for Mokoia Island and other projects in the Rotorua district.

After ten years with the Trust Johnny achieved his greatest ambition – to establish a business of his own. With the help of a new government scheme he was able to form a company and purchase two helicopters which specialised in taking hunters into the wild, bushed ranges which lay to the east of Rotorua.

Johnny could be said to be a self-made man, and, like other people of this type, was decisive and determined. But after the previous night’s phone call he couldn’t sleep.

He had heard first from the irate hunters from the Kaniwhaniwha who had booked the helicopter for 07:50 hours on Monday morning. Shortly afterwards the police had rung him with the identity of the hijackers. He vowed at first to skin them alive if he caught them. The money side was very bad. The two helicopters had cost him the best part of a million dollars each, and he had a big loan. But the situation was worse than this. He had rung the insurance company on Monday morning and they told him that hijacking, which they referred to as “terrorist action,” was probably not covered.

The first call from Tom Davies had come through at 18:15 hours on Monday night. Tom said that he was alive and well. This was a relief because he had been out of radio contact, which could have meant he had crashed.

But was he really alive and well?

Those kidnappers were bad news if what the papers were saying about them was true. Any story that they told was bound to be lies. Yet Tom was one of his best pilots and had been with him for five years. All the farmers up the Kaniwhaniwha where he had been hijacked swore by him. And the possum hunters that he took into the ranges – they didn’t want anyone else. Trusted him to get them in and get them out whatever the weather, and some of those valleys they hunted in were very tricky.

Tom was a quiet bloke, but absolutely on the level. Normally you could believe everything he said.

Normally. But what he was saying now was different.

He looked across at the photos on his desk. Katarina and the kids. He had talked it through with Katarina after getting the first call. He had been angry because he thought Tom might have been making the call at gunpoint. He was also upset because he thought Tom had been deliberately keeping off radio contact. Katarina had told him to trust Tom. The two wives were very close. Tom had a great family too. Their children were also mates and at the same school.

When the second call came at 21:00 hours that night, he had listened more.

He went into the kitchen. Katarina was putting kumara into sandwiches for the children’s lunches. “Tom’s rung again. They’re flying into the Waitoa tonight.”

She shook her head. “The huia sanctuary. Tricky, tricky.”  Then she took his hand and looked straight into his eyes. “Johnny, you gotta do something. “

Next morning he settled his large form with its ample puku into his big Chrysler Valiant and drove into Rotorua. Near the lake he noticed a small group gathered round a red and orange flag, some press vans and cameras and a few policemen. It was an Arawa flag asserting a desire for their own republic. These people always attracted the media. and whatever they said, no matter how weird, was always reported. The police had taken no action against them in connection with the hold-ups as they were thought to be harmless.

The ranger fella that he had passed the first message on to was straight up and down. He would talk it over with him first.

***

“Mr Burton, I know you have the police there, but your appointment at the clinic is in five minutes’ time.”

“What appointment?”

“The one that Dr Holcroft arranged.”

“Which one?”

The psychiatric check-up”

“Tell them to go to hell!”

“Mr Burton!”

“Tell them I can’t get away. Make it tomorrow.”

“And Mr Johnny Matiu is here. He wants to talk to you about Tom Davies.”

“The helicopter bloke. Send him right in.”

“Johnny Matiu, glad you came in,” said the ranger. “Sorry your firm got mixed up in all this. I’d like you to meet Detective Inspector Molloy of the C.I.B. and Detective Sergeant Piriaka.”

Johnny was pleased to see Matthew Piriaka again. Matthew had started his police career in Rotorua before he had been promoted to Auckland. He had been involved with Matthew when he worked for the Trust, as the people he employed often had police records.

Dick Burton sat on the edge of his desk in the limited space left by empty and half-empty cups of coffee and piles of paper which also covered most of the office floor.

It doesn’t look as if he sits at his desk much, thought Johnny.

Dick didn’t appear happy. His ginger hair was dishevelled and it looked as if he hadn’t slept. He cleared some papers off a chair. “Have a seat,” he said.

The C.I.B. inspector was thin-lipped and grim as he looked at the burly intruder with the moko. “Is this a police matter?” he said.

“Too bloody right it is, Inspector,” said Johnny. He told them about his first phone call from Tom Davies, but followed Tom’s instructions about the second.

“So, Mr Burton, this confirms your statement that you received a call from Mr Matiu on Monday 24th January at 18:15 hours,” said the Inspector. His voice registered no emotion. “So what we have is authenticated voice evidence that all these people are still alive. These same people also allege that they are in the headwaters of the Raukawa River in the Raukumara with a helicopter stolen from Arawa Helicopters on Monday 24th January at 07:00 hours.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to do anything to help Tom?” Johnny began belligerently.

The inspector ignored the interruption. “We’ve made our own investigations which we are not yet at liberty to disclose. Nor are we able to advise you of possible further action on this case. May we be excused, Mr Burton? We have other appointments.”

Inspector Molloy went out first, but, as Matthew Piriaka followed, he stopped just briefly alongside Johnny Matiu, long enough to whisper, “If you have any new leads, let me know.”

As soon as the police had left, Dick exploded. “So much for our great New Zealand police,” he said. “These people allege... not at liberty to disclose... not able to advise you,” he mimicked. “They’re only interested in official reports, commissions of enquiry and media releases. They treat me as if I was a nut case because they know I’ve been ordered to see a shrink. Well, let me tell you no one’s going to push me around. Kevin’s gone away on holiday and left no address. And when I insist on checking out Harry Wilson’s story, I am threatened with dismissal by Dr High and Mighty Holcroft. He hung the phone up on me twice yesterday, first when I rang in the morning about Harry Wilson and the second time when I rang him last night immediately after you’d given me the message from your pilot. I’ve never known a bloke lose his cool like he did.”

“What did you say to him last night to stir him up?”

“I told him that the unmarked helicopter looked like a massive poaching operation and I just asked him if I could go into the Waitoa to see what was going on.”

“And he said you couldn’t go in?”

Dick nodded. “Worse than that. He’s accused me of deliberately helping the kidnappers and their victim get away from the doctor bloke on the Mamaku Hill because I didn’t notify the police till four o’clock in the morning. The trouble was I meant to ring them, but I was working in my office when I got back.” He added ruefully. “I didn’t tell my wife either and she wasn’t too impressed when I arrived home at five in the morning.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Holcroft or no Holcroft, I’m going to get in there somehow, even if I get fired as a result.” He clenched his fists. “No one’s messing about with my huia.”

Just then there came a furious knocking on the ranger’s door.

Dick Burton’s secretary rushed in. “Mr Burton, everything’s suddenly gone off. I was listening to the news on the radio and it went dead. The photocopier won’t work and none of the lights will go on.”

Dick looked at his watch. 2 p.m. Tuesday 25th January “No power cuts have been advised at this time,” he said. He glanced out the window. “I don’t think it’s just us.” They both rushed past the lifts, down the stairs and out into the street.

People were emerging out of every building in Pukaki Street. Agitated groups were gathering, talking, looking up at the buildings, anxious, confused.

“Find out from the Power Board,” Johnny said, and walked determinedly round into Fenton Street.

The Power Board offices were locked and the doors protected by a cordon of police. The crowd was increasing every moment; the closed doors and the police presence were beginning to anger them.

Suddenly the doors opened momentarily, and a man appeared as if thrust out from within. He wore a white shirt and a tie and sported a small moustache, all of which would normally have given him an air of authority. He stood on the front steps, blinking anxiously and looking uncomfortable.

“Give us back our power!” someone cried.

“We apologise for this unscheduled cut,” said the official. “We will be resuming normal services as soon as possible.”

“When will that be?”

“You will be advised as soon as we have the information.”

“How are you going to get the information?”

“We are expecting it to come to hand at any moment.” He attempted to smile, but one hand strayed nervously to his moustache.

“This twerp doesn’t know anything,” said Johnny.

Cars were coming in along Fenton Street. The crowd surged out into the road, surrounding the cars. “What’s happening? Does someone know what’s going on?”

“People are saying the whole of the city is out. There’s been an accident.”

As more and more cars came in, the information became more alarming.

“People are getting stuck in lifts and underground car parks… The supermarkets are closing… The sewerage pumps aren’t working, and there’s a huge public health risk… The water supply’s been affected… The petrol pumps aren’t working…

Johnny saw groups of youths gathering in front of shop windows and eyeing the goods now unguarded by alarms.

“The police are going to be busy,” he said.

Now a rumour spread down the street which was more alarming still.

“It’s not an accident. It may be sabotage.”

“Who are the people involved?”

“A terrorist group.”

Johnny looked at Dick intently. “Do you remember there was something about a secret base in the message from Tom last night?

“About a disabling of the power station, and then some other attack twenty-four hours later. But I didn’t believe it because I thought the kidnappers had made it up.”

Johnny pondered about his promise to Tom. “I ought to tell you also that Tom had seen some unmarked Black Hawk helicopters looking for them last night in the Raukawa.”

“Where did Tom think they came from?”

“He said they appeared to come, and then go back, over Devil’s Peak. Because it was getting dark when they went back, he didn’t think they were going far.”

“But the huia sanctuary is on the other side.”

They looked at each other, the same incredible thought dawning in each.

Johnny made a decision. He couldn’t face Katarina or Tom’s wife and family again unless he did it. “Dick,” he said, “It doesn’t look too good for my man with all that carry-on. If you don’t have any success with your boss, I’ve got another ’copter I can fly in, and I can muster some hunters who’d like to get Tom out. Just give us the word, and we’re right with you. And I meant to tell you the second message last night was that they’ll be flying from the Raukawa into the Waitoa after dark tonight. You and I are the only ones who know.”

“The Waitoa – my huia!” Dick’s eyes lit up as he held out his hand. “Put it there, Johnny! Do you think I’m even going to ask High and Mighty Holcroft about going in there? The only trip he’d give me would be one to the mental hospital.”

“OK. Don’t say a thing to him. And don’t tell that police inspector either. But make sure you tell your wife this time! To anyone who asks we’ll be going on a search in the Urewera. There’s been some rustling up the Whakatane, and we’ll need rifles. You’ll be coming with us because you know the country. We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.”

Dick grinned. “What a shame! I’ll miss my interview at the ruddy clinic.”

***

It was amazing the people Johnny knew. Dick suspected that they were often Mob members or ex-Mob. It was all word of mouth from one house to another. The fact that Tom was in trouble was enough.

“Tom got us out of the Waioeka when the river came up”, “Tom flew in through that storm when Jack broke his leg in the Mangatutara…”, “Tom got us into those shitty gullies at the top of the Raukokore…”

The hunters were already getting their 303s out of the cupboards and checking their ammunition.

“Don’t forget, fullas, we’re after rustlers and we’re going up the Whakatane.”

When they returned around Ohinemutu, the sun was setting behind Mt. Ngongotaha and a cool breeze was blowing in over the lake. The power was evidently still off because some of the people were cooking in hangi in their gardens.

Then they saw the cars. Loaded with camping gear on roofs and in trailers, they were beginning to form a continuous line moving out of the city.

“It’s a funny time of day to be leaving,” said Johnny. “And it’s pretty strange they’re all setting out at the same time.”

They were passing the tourist wharf. The Arawa Republic people were still there, sitting under their flag with blankets, sleeping bags and guitars.

One of the cars went past. The Pakeha male driver leaned out of the window, his face screwed up with anger.

“Do some bloody work!” he shouted.

Dick was watching the occupants of the cars as they went past. “Hold it, Johnny, a moment.” He got out and flagged down another of the cars. The burly Pakeha driver stopped a little reluctantly.

“Where are you heading, Peter?” he asked.

“Rotoiti for a few days,” the other answered.

“Half of Rotorua must be going on holiday,” said Dick. “What’s the attraction?”

“If we can’t use our houses, we might as well go camping.”

“So you’re expecting the power cut to go on for some time?”

The burly man glanced at Johnny Matiu, then back at Dick. He looked as if he were about to say something, but his wife called out anxiously: “Why are we stopping here?” He suddenly took his foot off the brake and drove off.

Johnny was looking thoughtful. “I didn’t believe Katarina when she said some Pakeha women were stocking up on canned food. I wonder if they know something.”

Dick stood watching as the car disappeared down Fenton Street heading for the Whakatane turnoff. Peter McNair was a solicitor who had an office in the same building as the Forestry Service. He didn’t think Peter had been interested in camping before. And he had noticed the new Browning rifle in the back seat. He didn’t think Peter had done any shooting either.

He heard a window breaking, and the sound of youths yelling.  The looting had begun.

CHAPTER 41

By 15:00 hours on Tuesday 25th January the Rotorua Police Station was in pandemonium. Frenzied home and business owners were thronging the public counters as burglars and looters roamed the streets openly exploiting the breakdown in security systems.

The burglars and looters benefited both from the non-functioning of electronic doors and alarms and the fact that the police force itself was being depleted. Several policemen in Rotorua had decided to take a few days of their annual leave and were leaving town with their families heading for the Rotorua Lakes, Taupo and the Bay of Plenty beaches.

Fortunately, the police system had its own generator.

Matthew Piriaka had asked for a room to himself, where he was studying the report on the Mamaku Hill incident which had occurred at 01:00 hours on Monday 24th January. The involvement of vigilantes puzzled him. He already knew that the leader of the vigilante group at the Te Kuiti marae after the Maniapoto hold-up was also the leader of the group which had kidnapped the alleged Dr Tane Ngata after the service at St Peter’s Church. Now in the Mamaku incident Dick Burton looking at the police photos had recognised the same person as Dr Richardson’s orderly, who was introduced as Donald Borrow. Now he had checked the police file and found an incident three years before involving a teenager named Donald Borrow. His career at a prestigious private school in Auckland had been marked by his athletic and sporting success and he had been captain of the First Fifteen. However, he had been identified as the ringleader of a group of sixth form boys engaged in the bullying of third formers. Some of these incidents had shown such a sadistic tendency that the police had been notified. However, no action had been taken because of undertakings given by the Headmaster, the coach of the First Fifteen and his father, who was a well-known Auckland stockbroker.

A spoilt boy with a tendency to violence.

It fitted in with his own idea of the background of some vigilantes. From his observation at St Peter’s Church it was also apparent that the group had racist tendencies.

There was strong evidence that the doctor had used vigilantes both at St Peter’s and on the Mamaku Hill to recapture his patient. There was also evidence that vigilantes had been involved in the abortive attempt to capture Ngata and the kidnappers in the Kaniwhaniwha. Why was the doctor using vigilantes at all? What reason did he have for bypassing the police? The police could have erected a roadblock on the Mamakus and captured the kidnappers without any problem. All the doctor had to do was to pass on to them what he must have found out himself about the getaway car and its movements.

Was the doctor trying too hard to recapture his patient? After all, what was so special about this patient? In spite of media reports which appeared to have come from the doctor, police files showed no evidence of criminal activity or possible danger to the public. Was the interest by his doctor and the vigilantes more likely to do with his former career? The kidnappers had told Dick Burton that Ngata, formerly a brilliant geologist, had discovered uranium in the Waitoa, the same valley which was now the huia sanctuary.

Unfortunately, he could not confirm that a discovery had been made as no one had access to Ngata’s research. The Geology Department had stated that staff research was the property of the individual staff member and they kept no record of it without permission of the staff member. A search of his flat revealed that it had been ransacked and his files had been removed.

He and Ian Molloy had heard the story which came from the kidnappers to Johnny Matiu through his helicopter pilot about a base in the huia sanctuary and an electricity strike. Ian hadn’t taken the story seriously because he said it came from people who were either criminal or mentally ill or both.  

In fact a lot of people involved in this Ngata case were alleged to be mentally ill. Ngata himself had had “an irreparable mental breakdown”. The alleged kidnapper, Corbishley, according to a witness after the incident at Pataratara, could be mentally deranged. It had come through on the news that the Vicar of St Peter’s had been dismissed by his Bishop and was undergoing psychiatric treatment. Dick Burton the ranger had been ordered by his boss to have psychiatric tests.

In fact the way things are going I might well be the next candidate!

Yet, in spite of these improbable rumours spread by supposedly mental people, the strike on the power station had occurred. Terrorists were said to be involved, but no one knew where their base was.

There was another story which had come through from the kidnappers – about biological weapons in the huia sanctuary. Like the report of the electronic strike, Ian had discounted it because of its source. Moreover, a request to investigate the rumour would cause huge political repercussions, as Dr Holcroft had absolutely forbidden any police intrusion into the Waitoa. In fact this shy, retiring man had suddenly become extremely vocal about anyone setting foot in his sanctuary.

It was part of police training to assess evidence by the reliability of the source from which it came. You were also trained not to act on rumours, suppositions, opinions and evidence at second hand. If you made a mistake, the media were after you like vultures and your public credibility and the credibility of the police was at risk. So you listened politely to everything, but before you acted you needed to have hard evidence.

Ian Molloy had trained him well and he understood and respected the time-honoured process by which his superior worked.

The only problem was that it didn’t seem to be working.

***

“Sergeant Piriaka, my name is Eruera and I’m ringing you because I believe you will understand. I am a senior kaumatua of Te Whanau-a-Apanui, and I live at Te Kaha.”

Matthew was apprehensive. “How may I help you, Sir?”

“Sergeant, have you by any chance heard of the tutumaiao?”

“Um – you’ll have to help me.”

“It’s an aitua or omen which warns of a defilement.”

“Of course.” His lack of Maoritanga was embarrassing.

“Yesterday morning we saw it again. It is the second time. Three years ago we saw it too. My people are afraid.”

“Where did you see it?”

“Over the Raukumara, the place of the royal bird.”

“Aren’t you the iwi concerned with the huia?”

“Yes, it’s on our tribal land. We have had the ceremony and we have the kaitiakitanga.”

“Have you had advice about the tutu – er – omen?”

“Yes, but our tohunga couldn’t find the problem the first time and they cannot find it now.”

He felt annoyed. “I am a policeman. Why are you ringing me? What do you want me to do?”

There was a silence at the other end as if his caller had recoiled from his words. He felt sorry that he had spoken so insensitively. “Do you suspect anything?”

“We had thought that the bird of thunder would bring peace.”

This time the policeman in him kept silent while the Maori listened. “You mean it hasn’t?”

“The tutumaiao does not lie.”

“But it’s a huia sanctuary.”

“Yes, and we are the guardians.”

“I believe I’m on to something pretty serious, Sir. I think we should check out the huia sanctuary.”

Detective Inspector Molloy looked up from his desk coolly. “If you’re thinking of getting permission to go in there, this has been forbidden by Dr Holcroft, Director-General of Forestry.”

“What if there’s something going on there? Shouldn’t we be going above Dr Holcroft’s head to the Prime Minister?”

“Are you taking the word of criminals seriously?”

Matthew decided it was time to tell his chief about the three appearances of Donald Borrow and the possible link between the Ngata and the McAndrew case. He also decided to throw in Kate Fairweather’s query about the war paint.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Sergeant. Any clever defence counsel would laugh you out of court.”

There was another thing Matthew wanted to talk over, but he did not know how to approach it. “You know how some of police and a lot of other people are getting out of Rotorua. Evidently they have been laying in stores for quite a while.”

“Yes, they’re just going camping with their families, sensible at the moment, especially when there’s no power. I’ve been advised to go myself.”

“Well, sir,” he said hesitantly, “they’re all Pakeha.”

He knew immediately that he had said the wrong thing. “Sergeant Piriaka, how often have I told you – get evidence! Keep out of politics!”

It was the end of the conversation, and a very strong rebuke. He had not even got onto the tutumaiao, and, if he had, the rebuke would have been even stronger. Matthew had not expected a different result.

There was something in this case more important than hard court evidence, something deep down in him as a Maori man which he could not deny.

I can’t shut up any longer, even though I lose my job.

“May I speak to the Prime Minister, please. It’s Detective-Sergeant Matthew Piriaka of the Police. I have tried to go through my superior, but I need to speak to him privately. It’s extremely urgent. It’s about the suspected terrorists.”

As he waited, Matthew thought about the ageing Waikato farmer, more farmer than politician, well respected yet regarded by most as a figurehead only, one whose Government struggled to keep power by the slimmest of majorities. It was likely that a crisis like this would finish him.

“Gordon Harding here. How may I help you, Sergeant?”

Matthew outlined his suspicions.

The voice was thin but clear and precise. “I speak to you in confidence, Sergeant. I don’t know where the terrorist base is and I have no contact with it. I am being asked to resign by members of my Cabinet and to hand over to a coalition government who claim they’ll be able to negotiate with the terrorists to protect the National Grid which is now being threatened. They have also promised strong measures to curb the rioting and looting. I’m not giving in to terrorists, but part of the problem is I don’t know whom to trust.”

“I’m in the same position, too, Sir. That’s why I’m ringing you.”

The thin voice warmed. “I appreciate your call, Sergeant.”

He decided to take a risk, and mentioned the tutumaiao.

The old man listened carefully. “Yes, we must respect these things,” he said quietly. “Sergeant, would you let me know directly, confidentially of course, if you have any further suggestion. Ring me on this number …”

It was 17:00 hours on Tuesday 25th January. Matthew looked out of the window and down Tutanekai Street. A depleted uniformed squad were preparing to take action against rioting. A group of Maori youths were coming down the street loaded up with new leather jackets, ghetto blasters and guitars. Two of them were carrying the Arawa Republic flag.

Were these people the same as those protesting by the lake, or were they only meant to look like them?

CHAPTER 42

As Kate slept, she dreamed.

And what a strange dream it was! She saw huia in their shiny, dark plumage and handsome white-tipped tails come trooping onto the Waitoa flat. They all linked wings and danced round in a kind of country dance. Beyond them she saw tui dancing in another circle. Near them an orchestra of bellbirds started chiming. And looking on she saw some schoolchildren with radiant faces. Standing among the children was Dick Burton.

Suddenly she heard a deeper, different sound. Was it the moreporks joining the orchestra, she wondered. Then she realised that all the birds and the children had vanished. She was awake, and it was light. The sound was rising to a crescendo. Now it was like thunder.

She saw it. Right above. A great, black shape.

The shape was descending right on top of them like a gigantic black eagle about to seize them in its claws. She screamed.

Then above the roaring she heard a voice. It was David’s.

“Get under the logs!”

Leaping out of her sleeping bag and tent, she plunged under a large rata log a few yards away and the others came diving in after her.

Then she heard a sound like the hammering of a pneumatic drill. A line of holes suddenly appeared across the roof of her tent.

The great black shape was revealed as a black helicopter gunship which now swung away and circled their campsite at a radius of about a hundred yards, getting ready to make a second attack.

“This was a crazy place to come to,” growled Stan.

Suddenly another helicopter came swooping in over the trees on the western side of the river. It was yellow just like Tom’s helicopter, and it had a big Number 2 on its fuselage.

Then she heard Tom cheering, and she saw the name. Arawa Helicopter Lines.

And now a deafening thunder of firing broke out. The first helicopter was firing at the newcomer. The black one was larger and had more firepower, but was less manoeuvrable. The smaller one darted, circled, swooped, like a swallow flying around a hawk, and its occupants seemed to be holding rifles and firing out of the windows.

The gun. Why hadn’t she thought of it? She found her pack and brought it, fumbling with its mechanism.

“Give it to me,” said Tom. “You have to get the tail rotor.”

She saw him take careful aim and push the trigger. Immediately the black gunship, in the act of pouring its bullets into the smaller helicopter, started spinning around in an uncoordinated way, then it disengaged and wobbled over the trees towards the Mountain.

The Arawa helicopter landed. Four rough men in bush shirts carrying 303s emerged and with them was a familiar green-shirted figure.  

“What’s going on here?” It was Dick Burton. As he rushed up to them, he said angrily. “What were those scum doing in my huia sanctuary?” He started to stride out in the direction the gunship had gone. “I’m going to book them for poaching.”

“Dick, I’m sorry to tell you,” said Kate. “They’ve never even heard of huia.”

“The bastards!” said Dick. “The bloody bastards.” He went over to a rotten log and kicked it furiously.

Tom was talking to a big powerful-looking man with a moko who seemed to be in charge of the men in bush shirts. “Folks, this is Johnny Matiu, he’s my boss. And these are my mates that I take into the ranges.”

The bush shirted men were all Maori. David couldn’t help picturing them on motor cycles with patches and leather jackets.

They grinned. “Better than shooting possums, eh!”

“And we don’t need electricity here.”

It was as if David had been dowsed with a bucket of ice-cold water. “Electricity? Why? What’s happening?”

“All the power’s off, all over Rotorua.”

“Can you give me the exact day and time it went off?”

“14:00 hours yesterday, Tuesday 25th January

“A lot of people are moving out of Rotorua.”

“The Pakeha can’t make hangi – eh!”

Stan and Bill had been listening. The look of horror which they gave David only conveyed what he already knew. He glanced at his watch. 8 a.m. Wednesday 26th January. Those people leaving. No Maori. Only Pakeha. It could mean only one thing.

The power station strike had happened. But it was the warning of something horrible beyond all imagination and it was to occur in six hours’ time,

He felt sick as he looked at the newly arrived helicopter and the four possum hunters. Their families would not have evacuated. He tried to keep his voice steady. He did not have it in him to tell them. “Thanks for coming, but we’re a bit outnumbered.” He pointed towards the mountain. “It’s hollow. There’s a military base in there.”

Johnny Matiu looked around at the mountain, the river and the sky. “OK. We need a pa to defend ourselves from attack.”

Tane pointed downstream to where the flat ended in steep bluffs and the river vanished into the hidden gorge.

“Let’s go, fullas,” said Johnny. “Just be careful with your ammo.”

David watched Tane as he led the hunters down the river. His tousled head was held high, his face animated, his hands gesticulating, full of enthusiasm for the pa he was going to help build. Behind him went Kate, the attractive bespectacled accountant he had met on One Tree Hill. She was wearing a bush shirt and shorts and strode lightly along, talking cheerfully to one of the tattooed men. She appeared so unconcerned, just as if she were on a Sunday tramp. She even directed her companion’s attention to a whau tree blossoming white along the way. He smiled as if he appreciated it too.

The early morning sun was touching the dewdrops and the trees appeared hung with a necklace of glittering jewels. The fantails flitted around their path, the tui were calling, the cicadas were lifting up their song as they felt the first heat of the day. The wisps of mist were slowly dispelling, revealing the steep beech-clad ridges rising from the valley floor.

Was it all just a horrible dream? `

CHAPTER 43

Stephen Deveney was nervous.

Last night it had all come back – the nightmare he had had about the Vietnam war which had led to the most difficult decision of his life – to defect from his beloved native land.

He saw again the forest trails set off by firebomb strikes where the sensors had been detonated along the Ho Chi Minh trail in order to burn alive the Viet Cong peasant conscripts. He saw gleeful young pilots returning from their bombing missions, landing on aircraft carriers off the coast to the strains of the 1812 Overture, telling of the hated communists being engulfed by the flames. He watched his fellow scientists in front of the TV cheering the pilots on, like spectators supporting their favourite baseball stars.

But last night the nightmare had had a terrifying sequel. After the pilots had landed, they were being congratulated by be-medalled generals and admirals. One of these admirals was a huge figure who from the back looked vaguely familiar. Then the figure turned round and he had seen the face. Surely it could not be Charles Hawthorne! There was a leer on the face and a horrifying coldness about the eyes.

He had woken up in a sweat. It must have been someone from the Pentagon who looked like him. It could not be his Chairman, the warm, genial man with whom he often discussed the Bible on the terrace overlooking the bay, the man whose friendship had encouraged him through these three long years, who had encouraged him to believe that he was following in the footsteps of the great Christian warriors of old.

Perhaps it was the stress.

Though the Chairman had allowed him the special privilege of the Bible discussions, he was tired, tired of the artificial light, tired of the cold, official relationships with his colleagues and the secrecy which surrounded every operation in the base, tired of the endless white limestone walls where he spent most of his working and sleeping hours. He was homesick for the sun and the fresh air of Iowa, for the wind and the flying clouds and the blue skies, for the yellow corn, the shady trees round the homesteads and the simple, big-hearted country people. Above all, he yearned for the laughter of his grandchildren.

Yet why should he be nervous?

The previous day, Tuesday January 25, had seen the launching of Operation Silence. It was the first electronic non-lethal weapon ever to be perfected. Today would be his day of triumph. Today would herald the end of war and the beginning of a new era of non-violence.

The operation was his swan song. When it was successful, when the world had recognised the greatest invention of his life, he would return to Iowa, to his country, his home and his family.

Sir Charles Hawthorne, Q.C., looked at his watch.

Wednesday 26th January, 11:45 hours. Carefully he synchronised it with the digital clock on the control panel. It was good that he had his own room at this time. He needed to think.

He had worked for years for this moment. It had begun with the acquittals of the mass murderers in Africa and the agony in the eyes of his father.

Today was his day of triumph. The Brotherhood, up till now hidden in the corridors of power, were to emerge – the healers, the saviours of Christian civilisation.

But the enemy had broken into the sanctuary and the whole project was endangered.

He had anticipated this and changed the plan. Now he alone was standing against the tide of pagan reversion. He alone had the courage to do what was required. That was why he had to take the power to himself.

His plan would be just a clean surgical act, a cut with the knife, which would remove from the body the cancer which had been growing for so long. A delicious sensation came on him as he thought of the operation, so quick, so efficient, and so final. He had named it Operation Hygiene.

He moved to the glass panels which formed a kind of picture window on the outside wall, giving a 200 degree view. He glanced momentarily down to the valley a thousand feet below and saw about fifty jungle green figures moving slowly down the river flat towards the mouth of the gorge. Above them he saw the black shapes of the defence force helicopters hovering. He felt the sensation again as he thought of the kidnappers, the trampers and the Maori vermin trapped at the mouth of the gorge. After noon he would be able to watch them being eradicated by Colonel Peter and his men.

His eyes narrowed as he looked out ahead. Range upon range unfolded before him, fading into the blue distance. Out to the north was the Bay of Plenty. To the west and beyond the ranges lay Rotorua. It was a helicopter flight of just two hours. Operation Hygiene would begin at 14:00 hours Wednesday 25th January.

Highway attacks in the Mamakus by the so-called Arawa republic had achieved their aim. They had filled the non-Maori people of the district with fear. As a result the Brotherhood in Rotorua included a large part of the Pakeha population. He had made sure that these people had been warned in advance but he had not told them the nature of the attack.

At 12:00 hours the new plan would come into operation. The secret store of canisters had been taken down to the launching floor. Not even the pilot knew what was in the canisters.

His chief scientist believed that his brain-child, Operation Silence, had been a great success. But Stephen did not know that it had now become a warning sign so that members of The Brotherhood could evacuate from the target area of Operation Hygiene. Only a wimp like Stephen would believe that jamming the power station in Rotorua could bring a country like New Zealand to its knees.

It was only force that the enemy understood. The evil that opposed them was so great that he had to hit them, hit them so hard that they would howl for mercy. If they did not give in, he would hit them again and again and again.

He pushed a button.

“Sir!”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes sir.”

“Launching is at 12:00 hours?”

“Yes sir.”

He had a moment’s unsteadiness, and sat down, gripping the sides of his chair.

He switched on the TV screen and there appeared a large lake and a city alongside with little wisps of steam drifting up from its southern outskirts.

More vermin where the ones down below came from.

A feeling of power seized him.. The mountain appeared to be coming alive under him like a powerful steed. He was riding the mountain, and he was totally in control. Through him alone evil was about to be conquered – and he was an instrument of God’s justice.

Suddenly he remembered he had an appointment with Stephen Deveney at 12:00 hours in the operations room to see if there was any word from the Prime Minister. It was only going through the motions, pleasing Stephen.

He had another thought about Stephen. He opened the drawer of his desk and put a revolver into his pocket.

The long act was over.

11:50 hours Wednesday 26th January. Nearly 24 hours after the launch of Operation Silence.

Stephen was standing alone in the main control room looked anxiously at his watch. The reports coming in indicated that he had succeeded. The sleepers had done their job. The power station had stopped operating. He had predicted social and economic dislocation but he thrilled with expectancy at the inevitable outcome, the first example of a war without bloodshed.

He had anticipated that twenty-four hours of chaos due to the power outage in Rotorua would be sufficient to achieve compliance. At 12:00 hours a call was expected to say that a new Christian-based government had taken over in an undertaking to restore the power and bring back public order. At the request of this new government he would send out the order to reverse the programmes.

A grateful, genial Chairman was to be here to receive the call.

In the excitement of his success his nightmare had been forgotten.

He scanned the screens. It was unusually quiet. The Chairman should have been here, directing, giving orders.

He caught a message on the intercom. It was the Chairman’s voice, but it was not addressed to him.

“Are you ready?”

He was suddenly alert. He listened to the next command. It was like a knife twisting deep in a wound.

His heart pounded as he checked on the screens the launching pads for the helicopters and then the launching deck. A helicopter was loading up with small canisters. He called the floor operator keeping his voice as calm as he could.

“Deveney here. What is in those canisters?”

A voice sounded behind him. “Stephen, what are you doing?”

He turned. Towering above him was the mountain of a man that could only be the Chairman. The voice was his, but not the face.

“What is in those canisters?” he asked again.

There was no smile, no dimple, no kindly wrinkles. Instead there was a leer on the face and he saw the eyes – the same eyes as those of the admiral on the flight deck which he had seen in his nightmare.

At once he realised. He had always trusted his smiling and benevolent chairman. Now all was revealed in the icy cruelty of those eyes.

“You said you would never use violence.”

There was no need of any words. The answer was in the eyes.

He glimpsed on the screen the helicopter leaving the side of the mountain.

“You are too late, Stephen. The anthrax is already on the way. Rotorua is just the first.”

“But you made me a promise.”

“You are no longer chief scientist.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your work is done.”

Stephen found himself looking into a revolver. The eyes held no mercy.

“We no longer need you.”

At that moment Stephen saw his own death. Worse than that he saw the Vietnam war replayed. He saw the death of everything he had believed in, the destruction of all he worked for. He saw that he had been used and was now to be thrown aside.

He fell towards the control panel as the first shot came. As the blood spurted from his shoulder and the other shots rang out, he reached out in one last desperate lunge.

In his dying moment he rolled forward onto the thing he had grasped and the last thing he ever felt was the pain as it thrust against his stomach.

CHAPTER 44

“Rewi’s last stand, eh?” said Johnny as he looked at the fort desperately thrown up at the mouth of the Waitoa Gorge.

Tane had known the spot, and Stan and Bill had bitter memories of their recapture further down the gorge on their desperate attempt to escape and warn people. At the entrance to the gorge there was a grassy flat and above the flat a low mound rose above a high bank. Around most of this hillock the river curved in a wide arc. On the landward side, on the slopes of the mound, they had built a high barricade. A row of the trees which covered the hillock were marked and used as uprights where they stood. The gaps between them were filled with fallen trees and branches, and the remaining standing trees provided a sparse cover. The two Arawa helicopters had been flown up and stood inside the fort so that they could be used for aerial defence.

“Ake! Ake! Ake!” chanted the men with the tattoos as they made openings in the barricade for their 303s.

David looked at his watch. It was just after 12 on Wednesday 26th January.

“Look up there!” Kate called out. “It’s a helicopter and it’s heading away.”

David put down the log he was carrying and followed Kate’s pointing. There it was, about a thousand feet up, not coming towards them but flying away from the top of the Hollow Mountain,.

“It’s heading west,” said Tane.

“It’s a Black Hawk,” said Tom.

Stan joined them. His face was ashen. He looked towards Johnny and the possum hunters. “Have you told them?”

“Johnny,” said David “We think that helicopter is carrying anthrax. It’s a biological disease. It’s heading…” his voice shook “…we believe towards Rotorua.”

“Those blokes going on holiday?” said Dick.

“The bastards!” said Johnny.

Tom started to move towards his helicopter. “I’m going to give it a go,” he said.

Johnny called out. “Not fast enough to catch up. And it would be suicide too.”

“We must do something,” said Kate.

Johnny was grim-faced. “Tom, we’ll both go up. Follow me and cover me, but if I get shot down, will you ring Katarina and ask her to phone this fulla.” He took Tom’s hand and wrote a name on it.

High up above the Waitoa, Johnny did not follow the Black Hawk. Instead when he was high enough, he tried the radio, silently grateful that his system was not on National Grid supply. “Thank God you’re home. This is the most urgent call I’ve ever made. I want you to ring Sergeant Matthew Piriaka at the Rotorua Police Station. Don’t speak to anyone else. Now get a pencil and write this number down, please. When you’ve contacted him, please call me back.”

He thought marrying Katarina was the best thing he had ever done. He had told her the full story, but she had been calm, just as if he had asked her to put something on the shopping list.

“Johnny, I’ve made contact. He believes you. There’s only one person he can ring, and he’s ringing him now.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“Take care, Johnny.”

At 12.15 Johnny and Tom were back at the fort and Johnny looked serious. “Matthew Piriaka says there’s a man who may be able to help us and he’s ringing him.”

“Unless that helicopter is intercepted, they’ll all be dead in two hours,” cried Kate.

“I’ve done all I can,” said Johnny. He and Tom went over to Dick Burton and the possum hunters and they all stood with their arms around each other. “We’ve all got wives and families there.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kate.

Johnny broke away and shouldered a tree trunk. “Let’s get this pa finished.”

Tane looked out towards the Hollow Mountain.

Long magical caves plunging deep into the heart of the earth, glistening white vaults from which hung slender stalactites, floors which grew stalagmites in many-shaped sculptured artistry, soaring caverns fan-vaulted like medieval cathedrals, underground cataracts echoing unseen in deep chasms. A miracle wrought over thousands of years by the primeval forces of water and rock, a mountain whose soaring cone and verdant forest cover concealed a pristine beauty, an incomparable taonga.

Why did it now tower above him, dark, obscene, evil, mocking, defiling and terrorising the land from which it sprang?

Ravished the taonga, broken the tapu, trodden down the mana and the wei of the mountains.

Instead, the curse.

Why had he come back?

They were all going to die – and it was because of his discovery.

Behind him in the fort he heard a full-throated haka beginning. It sounded unbelievably heroic.

12.20 p.m.. As David looked out from the fort, despair clutched him. The anthrax was on its way. They could not stop it. No one would believe such an impossible story.

Worst of all, it was his action in refusing to listen to Tane three years ago that had signed the death warrant of the people of Rotorua. But it was not just the people of Rotorua who would die. It was the people who were with him. Dick and Johnny Matiu and the possum hunters who had come to rescue them. Tane, his greatest friend. And Kate – she who had stood by him, encouraged him, and shared all the dangers with him.

It was strange, but he felt especially bad about Kate.

Why hadn’t he stuck to his research project? He would have achieved his ambition and become a professor. Now it was too late. His career was ruined, and so were Kate’s and Tane’s.

Why was he thinking about careers anyhow? Not only his career, but his life was almost over.

He looked over the shingle flat. A hundred metres away he saw the fringing trees alive with moving jungle green figures. He saw the flashes of the sun upon the metal of the guns which they carried. He wondered how many. Could be thirty or even fifty? He saw three Black Hawk helicopters hovering a few hundred yards back.

Two kilometres away loomed the Hollow Mountain, the perfect, the impregnable terrorist base. Its sides, its high bluffs could never be assaulted. Inside was an invisible honeycomb of caverns with down below an underground exit to the coast and above an aerial exit with hangar and launch pads and decks.

Kate approached him.

“We haven’t a hope,” he said.

She smiled. “That’s all right.”

“Should I surrender?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference.”

He shuddered. “I suppose not.”

“I should never have started on this thing.”

She smiled again. “Yes, you should.”

12:25 hours. The commander looked at his watch and stroked his ginger goatee beard impatiently.

Colonel Peter Van Ruyter had been Director of Army Intelligence working under the Government in South Africa. Because of certain incidents he and his particular army squad had found it advisable to depart the country. Since then his expertise had found a ready market among the unstable dictatorships and the ravaging revolutionary armies of warring black African states, sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other, depending on the money. At last his formidable reputation had attracted too much dangerous attention, and he had had to leave Africa altogether.

He had no illusions about the kind of men under his command. They had been cooped up so long that they were likely to go berserk when they came out of the Mountain. They would especially enjoy dealing again with those goddam trampers who had been strung up over the Raukawa Falls and who had somehow managed to escape.

“Calling Control Room, Colonel Peter here, awaiting orders.”

There was no reply. He listened carefully. In the background he could hear an unusual whining noise rising and falling.

He decided to go ahead on his own. The main reason for waiting was the Chairman’s insistence in seeing the action. He felt a pleasurable sensation when he remembered his words: “There are to be no prisoners.”

Except the girl, of course. She was to be kept alive for a short while.

David looked at his watch. It was a few minutes to 12.30. “I wonder why they’re waiting.”

“Something’s happening now.”

There was a sound like a birdcall and the figures on the edge of the forest began to mass on the edge of the bush. The sun flashed on the metal of their assault rifles. The helicopter gunships began to move forward in formation until they hovered just above the soldiers.

“OK, chaps,” called Johnny. “Here they come.”

Kate put her hand on David’s.

“Just pray.”

A jungle green line emerged from the forest onto the clearing in front of the barricade with their rifles at the ready. Behind it another line began to form up.

 “Save your shots until they come close,” said Johnny.

Now came a roar. The black line of the gunships moved forwards above the jungle green line.

“Hell!” said Johnny.

Suddenly there was a sound like a thunderclap right on top of them. The whole fort seemed to shudder and the top of the barricade collapsed outward down the slope of the hillock.

The defenders struggled to their feet in fearful apprehension at this totally unexpected and horrendous assault.

All around them was a strange silence.

The advancing jungle green line had hesitated. The gunships seemed to have veered away.

“Are they bombing?”

“Is it an earthquake?”

Tane carefully raised his head above the truncated battlements and looked out towards the Hollow Mountain. Did his eyes deceive him? At the very top there was a steep rocky bluff. Part of this bluff seemed to have given way, and the rocks were moving down the steep slopes below, rending the trees and rolling all before them.

Another roar and the sound of the avalanche swept over the flat like a mighty wind; it hit them with its blast, shaking the fort again.

He had seen avalanches before. Bluffs like that just did not collapse.

He saw the sky behind the mountain.

It was changing to red. Yet it was not sunset.

“It’s a volcano!” yelled Kate.

He saw the attackers standing in their tracks and looking back at the Mountain, their faces eerie in the red glow.

The faces of the people around him were also fixed on the Mountain. In a moment David and Kate were beside him.

The Mountain, like some giant prehistoric monster in its death throes, was convulsing, heaving, divesting itself of trees, rocks, collapsing in on itself, while from its shattered cone poured like dragon’s breath a towering sheet of fire and smoke.

“How can it be a volcano if it’s a limestone mountain?”

“Then what is it?”

“It cannot be …”

“The tutumaiao,” he said quietly.

“It’s come at last?”

“The revenge. It is the utu.”

CHAPTER 45

16:00 hours on Wednesday 26th January.

The Mountain or the remnant of the Mountain had ceased to belch out fire. The fiery glow remained and the bush appeared to be still burning on the flat at its base though smoke obscured the flames.

The attackers seemed to have fallen back into the bush and the gunships had disappeared.

Suddenly a familiar and ominous roar broke in on the defenders.

“They’re coming again,” called Johnny.

Then Kate saw the helicopters. They were not black and unmarked, but white with a red kiwi on a blue roundel.

“They’re Iroquois and they’re ours, lads,” cried Johnny.

Kate saw the marked helicopters landing on the river flat. Policemen in light and dark blue and soldiers in khaki leaped down from them and rounded up the jungle-green soldiers who seemed to have lost their urge to fight.

The policeman at the head of the arriving force raced towards the pa and was scaling the barricade.

“What the hell’s going on here?” said Matthew Piriaka.

The defenders did not answer but gathered together round him, anxious and white-faced.

“What about our families?” asked Johnny.

“They’re safe,” said Matthew. “Our guys and airport control picked up the Black Hawk on radar and communicated by radio with the pilot.   Apparently he didn’t know what he was carrying. We got him to land on a Kaingaroa Forest air strip.”

You would have thought the people in the fort were the All Black team which had just won the World Cup and Matthew Piriaka was their captain. With huge smiles and faces awash with tears, they raised him on their shoulders in the midst of a cacophony of whooping and weeping.

An army officer approached Matthew with a puzzled expression. “Those boys didn’t want to fight us,” he said. “They handed over their weapons and then asked what money we could offer them.”

Bill who was standing nearby grinned. “I’ve met some of them. When they think they’re not going to get paid, they just switch sides.”

Stumbling over the flat now came a forlorn and ragged knot of people. They were neither soldiers nor policemen. More like refugees fleeing from a war zone. Originally they may have been dressed in white or blue uniforms, but their clothes were burned, blackened and torn by the smouldering forest through which they had come. Many were hobbling or dragging damaged limbs. Though they were in a group, they did not seem to be supporting each other, but every now and then looked back with fearful glances towards the grotesque red glow of the Mountain.

“Do any of you speak English?” David called.

One of the group nodded. His face was pale and soot-covered. His fair hair was interlaced with congealed blood which had already stained his tattered blue overalls. He blinked as if unable to focus.

“Sorry, can’t get used to this sun.” The accent appeared to be American.

“Your men will get help,” said David. Already Kate, Dick, Stan and Bill were setting up a first aid station and assisting the refugees to it.

He looked surprised. “Thanks.”

David pointed to the Mountain. “So you got out of there?”

“It was hell. We had only twenty minutes to leave; then as we tried to get away across the flat, we heard and felt the explosion and next minute the rocks were falling everywhere and trees started to catch fire.”

“What happened inside the Mountain?”

“I don’t know.”

“Matthew, did the air force bomb it?”

The policeman shook his head.

“Can I help?” Another man spoke with the same accent but with a tone of authority. One arm hung limp, his face was deeply gashed and his once white laboratory coat hung around him in soot-covered, bloodstained rags.

Tane broke in suddenly: “Are you Stephen Deveney?”

“I was his assistant. When I was called to the Control Room,” his voice broke, “I saw him.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was lying over the control panel. I knew he was dead. Then I saw the Chairman. He had a gun. He was shouting at me and telling me to stop something. But the sirens had already started and I realised what had happened. I said I couldn’t do anything, and he began shooting. I only just got out.”

“What did he ask you to stop?”

“Something which should never have been started.”

“Is it an emergency device?”

“Stephen designed it to stop his work falling into enemy hands.”

“How was it set off?”

“Stephen’s body appeared to have fallen on it.”

“Do you think he had anything to do with it?”

“If he did, it was a damn fool thing.”

In his mind Tane saw the scene inside the Control Room just before Stephen had died. He saw a scientist like himself, brilliant but blind. A man who had been deceived, but whose eyes were suddenly, terrifyingly, opened.

Could this have been his last, desperate defection?

“I wish I’d known him.”

Tane looked out over the wreck of the Hollow Mountain. He saw the fiery red glow which lingered over it like the terrible glow of the tutumaiao. He saw the truncated cone, gouged out and black, like a fearful monster mutilated in its death struggle and transfixed in a pool of its own blood.

So Papatuanuku’s price had been paid. It had been paid in the destruction of that beautiful taonga of which he was the discoverer. It had been paid by the burial of the mineral which would have defiled it. It had been paid by the life of the man who, like him, had been tragically caught up in this defilement.

He knew then that in spite of the destruction the mountains were healed.

He knew also that in their healing his own healing was complete. He had done what his grandmother had hoped he would do. He had taken away the shame of Hone and his family. He had made right what was wrong.

CHAPTER 45

The events in the Raukumara Ranges were accompanied by the reinstatement of Rotorua’s power by technicians quickly flown in from overseas.

There followed a nationwide announcement by the Prime Minister. Upon that announcement Gordon Harding had pondered long and hard. Though old and tired, and a man whose values and loyalties many considered to be outworn, he did not lack courage in facing what was for him a crisis of the most ego-shattering type. Upon calling for an enquiry into the activities of the secret political group, The Brotherhood, which controlled the Hollow Mountain base, he was immediately given a list, showing as members some of his cabinet colleagues and their coalition partners who had urged negotiation with the terrorists. The realisation that they already knew of the Hollow Mountain complex and were using the base to engineer the take-over of his country by a secret racist group had a profound effect upon him.

He consulted briefly with Sir Robert Roydhouse, one of the few loyal members of Cabinet, then made his broadcast on 1YA National Radio at 6 p.m. on Thursday January 27th.

New Zealanders, men and women from all walks of life, and all those who hold our country dear, I have a vital announcement to make to you. I have this evening received a joint report from Police and Army Headquarters of the forestalling of an anthrax attack on the City of Rotorua by a terrorist group located in the Raukumara Ranges. This group was also responsible for the recent sabotage of the Rotorua power station. At the same time the army and police have captured and destroyed the terrorists’ base in the Raukumara Ranges. I would like to commend Sergeant Matthew Piriaka of the New Zealand Police personally for directly contacting me with information which led both to the forestalling of the attack and to the location of the terrorist base. I thank him and all those who were in action in the Raukumara for their courage and resourcefulness against great odds.

I have ordered a full-scale enquiry into the activities of the secret group known as The Brotherhood, who have, under cover of the Waitoa Huia Sanctuary, set up this clandestine military base. We have reason to believe that many positions of influence in industry, the professions, business, the public service and even in Parliament itself are held by its members. Their main characteristics are racial, national and ideological intolerance and incalculable duplicity. Moreover, this group have been responsible for a media campaign using fabricated acts of violence which has shown a total disregard for the truth in a deliberate attempt to promote racial disharmony and to set the scene for a racist coup. I apologise now publicly on behalf of our whole nation to our Maori citizens for the unwarrantable and baseless insinuations cast at them as a result of the malicious orchestration of the terrorist highway attacks.

It has come to my notice that two people died as a result of the engagement in the Waitoa. The first was the chief scientist at the base who assisted our military operation by destroying the base during the engagement. We understand this action which cost him his life was undertaken because of his conscientious objection to the use of anthrax, and we are pleased to honour him posthumously by pardoning his part in the conspiracy. The second was Sir Charles Hawthorne, a generous benefactor and outstanding citizen. We can only regard his part in this misguided project as a tragic and inexplicable mental aberration and trust the good he has done in our society may yet be remembered.

People of New Zealand, I love my country, and I love its people whatever race they belong to. Maori or Pakeha or any other race, we are all proud to be New Zealanders. The Hollow Mountain complex and the terrible biological weapons stored there would have become the base from which other cities would have been attacked in the same way as the City of Rotorua. Fortunately, with the destruction of the base this secret terrorist group has collapsed and New Zealand has been spared this fate.

It now remains to decide on the future of the Waitoa Sanctuary. There is no doubt that false information led to the setting up of this sanctuary. It is now obvious that the reported sightings of the huia were fabricated for political purposes, and the Government deeply regrets the disappointment that this will cause to many, especially the Maori people. However, there exists yet the hope that the huia will be rediscovered in this area. For this reason the Government has decided that plans to open the Raukumara Ranges for tourism and mineral exploration will be shelved and the Ranges will remain as a natural wilderness so that these birds if present may be undisturbed.

Finally there has been a suggestion that in memory of events of the last few days, the site of the destroyed base in the Waitoa Valley be named the ‘Valley of Peace’. Bearing in mind the naming of Hiroshima after the last war as the City of Peace, this would appear appropriate.”

CHAPTER 46

“I was very annoyed about the Prime Minister’s speech,” said Kate as she passed David a cup of tea and sat down opposite him in her flat. “It wasn’t the police and the army who defeated the Hollow Mountain.”

“What does it matter? Tane is coming back to the Department. He asked me first if they would have him back. I told him he’d have to mend a few bridges and share his research. He already had decided to do both. Apart from that no one wants him to give up his ideas. We’d all be the poorer if he did.”

“But, seriously though, nothing would have happened if it hadn’t been for you. Those people would have taken over.”

“I only started it off, but in the end, if we are honest, we would all be dead if it hadn’t been for Stephen.”

She nodded. “I’m glad he’s been posthumously pardoned. I noticed that the Prime Minister didn’t mention the uranium.”

He smiled. “Tane was relieved. Though he always knew that uranium mining was not forbidden in New Zealand law, he was never happy about it. In any case it’s now buried beyond recovery and the underground exit is blocked.”

“Did you hear about the vigilantes?” she asked.

“Donald Borrow and his mates really did disguise themselves with brown paint and tattoos. They’ve all been arrested and charged with the four highway assaults. And you were right about your conspiracy too. There was a well-known public relations firm involved, and there’s been a lot of sackings in their political team. The directors said they didn’t know what was going on. Since the PM’s announcement there have been extraordinary scenes – Maori and Pakeha hugging each other and shaking hands all over the place, in the streets and the pubs and on the beaches. I never thought that New Zealanders could be so emotional.”

“The healing has begun,” she said softly.

“Tane now says this healing is our greatest taonga. I didn’t understand him before, but now I’m learning.”

“What happened to Sir Charles?”

“The staff at the Mountain who got out said he would probably have tried the underground exit to Pataratara, but I guess he didn’t make it when the tunnel collapsed.”

“What about the other members of The Brotherhood in New Zealand?” she asked.

“The Hollow Mountain defence force and scientists are all going to be sent back to their own countries. The army didn’t want the defence force. Quite a few prominent professional people, civil servants and Parliamentarians have been arrested, including Randall Richardson, Dr Holcroft and Kevin Carr. It appears that the anthrax attack was ordered by Sir Charles alone, so there will be some mitigation.”

“It’s a pity they can’t let them all go free,” she said.

He looked at her in surprise.

“I suppose they’ve made mistakes, but so have we all. I mean they just got angry, didn’t they?”

He knew she was also talking about him. “Fortunately, some of us can change,” he said.

She smiled and took off her glasses. Her eyes twinkled in the same way as they had when he first met her on One Tree Hill. “I’m glad you’ve changed.”

“I need a lot of help. I mean I still get angry.”

“I’m sure you’ll work things out on your own.”

There was a pause. “What about you? What are your plans?”

“They were going to fire me, but now it’s back to the balance sheets and the profit and loss. It all seems a bit boring after this.”

A longer pause. “We were a good team, weren’t we?”

Her eyes twinkled again. “The best.”

A third pause even longer. “I was wondering if we could continue – er – to be a team.”

She gave that rippling laugh. Then she came to sit beside him on the settee and somehow her fingers became entwined with his. This time she kept them there. “Mr Professor, when will you ever say what you mean?”

***

David and Kate’s wedding was duly held at the Church of St Peter-on-the-Hill, where Harry Mountjoy, reinstated as vicar with a public apology from the bishop, officiated together with Kate’s pastor.

When Kate came alongside David in front of the altar, she smiled that beautiful smile and whispered “Hi, Sir Galahad.”

Kate’s father, a ruddy-cheeked farmer from the Kaniwhaniwha, gave her away. Her mother had been delighted to make Kate’s wedding gown, and her two brothers were ushers. Mr John Corbishley was present and expressed to everyone his opinion that his son who was a quiet worker had somehow discovered the best wife any man was ever likely to find. He also confided that he had found “just the right house” for the young couple and it was “a great buy”.

The occasion was also marked by a notable Raukumara reunion. Tane was talking with Eruera who was representing Te Whanau-a-Apanui. Matthew, now Detective Inspector Piriaka, attended without a police cordon. Stan McTaggart’s baritone voice could be heard in fullest flight, and Eleanor was at his side, together with John and Leone. Dick Burton and his wife were there, Dick already speaking of his plans to rediscover the huia. Bill Weatherley and his wife were there, with Bill waiting to get outside to light up. Johnny Matiu and Tom his pilot flew up in the helicopter with their wives and were in no danger of being hijacked. And many were the tales of the Raukumara told and retold with much wine, laughter and good fellowship.

***

Healing has come also to the Waitoa. Over the wounded, violated land – the burned ground, the broken trees, the slips – the bush begins to grow again. In the Valley of Peace, the river sings softly through the flat below the Hollow Mountain to a glorious symphony of bird song. On its banks may be spotted at certain times a familiar ginger-haired figure with a tape recorder in his hands, listening for the calls which all New Zealand is waiting to hear.

“Hui! Hui! Hui!”

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the following for their help in writing this book. My apologies to any whom I have unintentionally omitted.

Pat Barfoot (editing)

Dr Nicola Barfoot (expert editing)

The late David Simmons, MBE, former Ethnologist, Auckland Museum (Maori culture)

Dr Stephen Prest, inorganic chemistry (uranium and assistance with plot)

Kaumatua, Te Whanau Apanui, Te Kaha

Revd Anne Moody, former chaplain Mason Clinic (mental health)

The late Dr Michael Taylor, Ornithological Society

Dick Veitch, Wildlife Service

Ian Bradley, Department of Conservation

Shona Gibbs, Department of Conservation

Rau Kapa, Department of Conservation

The late Dr Les Kermode, Geological Survey

Dr Phil Shone, Department of Geology, University of Auckland

Susan Minchin, pharmacist

The late Dr Murray Johns, Department of Physics, University of Auckland

Terry Mutton, Senior Technician, NZ Police

Inspector Mike Rusbatch, NZ Police

The late Brian Middleton, formerly CIB, NZ Police.

Revd Dr Jonathan Hartfield (anthrax)

Brendan Cahill, pilot, Helilink

Sam Walter (helicopters)

The late Neil Clarke (rifles)

Roscoe Tait (search and rescue)

Ross Thompson (search and rescue)

Stephen Barfoot (information technology)

Raewyn Chaplow (dialogue)

Kiri Barfoot (dialogue)

Luke Barfoot (cars and legal advice)

Bruce Anderson, retired motor mechanic (cars)