Free Taniwha's Tear by David Hair Page B

Damien muttered.
    ‘Black magic,’ Riki replied. ‘You don’t want to confess to that around here, I guess.’
    ‘I’m looking for Hoanga,’ Mat said. ‘I need his help.’
    The Maori and Pakeha men exchanged a look. They nodded slowly. ‘Hoanga?’ the Pakeha echoed, nodding. ‘Figures. He’s one of you.’ He lifted a hand, pointing northwest, around the inland side of the hill. ‘You need to go to Te Poho o Rawiri—that’s the meeting house at the marae around the hill. But take care. There was trouble there last night.’
    Mat let out a relieved breath as both men lowered their weapons.
    ‘What’s your name?’ the Pakeha asked.
    ‘Matiu Douglas.’
    They both raised their eyebrows, and looked at eachother again. Neither said another word as Mat led his friends away towards the marae. They just watched them carefully, as if anxious they should leave, but frightened to push it. It didn’t make Mat feel any better, to be feared like that.
    ‘Jeez, Mat, what do you mean, “we are looking for someone”?’ Riki muttered. ‘I thought we were just sightseeing.’
    Mat gave him what he hoped was a knowing wizardly look. ‘Just stay with me on this one, guys.’
    The land north of the river was dominated by a pa, further inland, but the marae was unguarded by fortification. Mat had expected Kaiti Hill, or Titirangi as many of the locals called it, would be surmounted with fortification, but it wasn’t. There were a few houses here, and paddocks with cattle and crops. Mostly Maori faces peered at them as they walked towards what had to be the marae. A great, red-painted archway, alive with carvings, showed the way to the timber-walled building beyond. The late sun lit the open space before it.
    Children and youths ran about, playing chasing games, while their parents gathered in clusters over tea from colonial-era kettles poured in fancy English crockery. They eyed the trio suspiciously as they walked to the carved gate, Mat in front and the other two trailing. Mat could have sworn the paua eyes of the carving were watching him.
    After an awkward few seconds, a limber young manclad only in a flax skirt strode to meet them. ‘Kia ora, tauhou,’ he said tersely. Greetings, stranger. He ran his eyes up and down Mat’s modern clothing.
    ‘Uh, kia ora,’ Mat returned. ‘I’m…my name is Matiu Douglas. I need to talk to someone.’
    The youth accepted the switch to English easily, but his eyes widened when Mat said his name. ‘Matiu Douglas? The one who slew Puarata?’
    ‘Um, sort of,’ Mat replied. ‘Wiri did it, really. I just helped. But don’t tell anyone, please. I don’t want a fuss. It’s supposed to be a secret that I’m here.’
    The young warrior’s mouth contorted slightly. Then he stepped close, and pressed his nose to Mat’s in a hongi. He was maybe twenty, but looked like he’d seen a lifetime of struggle and danger. Perhaps he had. ‘Welcome to Te Poho o Rawiri, Matiu Douglas. You are our guest, and all we have is yours. Blessings upon you for what you did to bring about the demise of the tohunga makutu.’
    Mat ducked his head. He hated taking credit for Wiri’s deed, but it would take too long to explain what had actually happened. ‘Uh, thanks.’
    The young warrior greeted Riki and Damien, before turning back to Mat. ‘Now, if you will not let us celebrate your deed, then will you tell me how we can serve you? My name is Potou.’
    ‘I need to talk to someone about a legend of Waikaremoana. I was told to ask for Hoanga.’
    ‘Tuhoe lore? Certainly you need Hoanga.’ Potou nodded. ‘Come this way.’ He gestured around him.‘Excuse the lack of welcome. We were attacked last night, by men of the south. They attempted a kidnapping.’ He looked grim. ‘We will feast on them tonight,’ he added, making Damien go pale.
    ‘John Bryce’s men?’ Mat exclaimed, then pursed his lips.
    Potou threw him a sideways look, but said nothing. He led Mat and his friends away from