Kokopu Dreams by Chris Baker Page A

block by the Plunket rooms and cups of instant coffee on the footpath outside the roadside cafe while the Cresta engine pinged and creaked and he wondered if the car was going to take them all the way home or die out there in what felt like the middle of nowhere.
    Near Wellsford, Sean’s curiosity about Matapihi’s moko and gang patch got the better of him. ‘You’re articulate with more than half a brain,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to turn you into an outlaw?’
    Matapihi was silent and Sean began to think he was offended by the question. Then Matapihi started talking.
    â€˜I was head boy at my college. I topped the class in Maori studies, English and history. I was all set for an arts degree at university, maybe a career teaching.’ He fell back into silence then spoke again.
    â€˜During the holidays I got into a fight in the pub and bottled this guy. He lost an eye. I got six months for aggravated assault and — depending on how you look at it — things went downhill from there. I met some guys in boob that I liked and I ended up prospecting. My family sent me up north for a new life, but I don’t think they understood just what a big tribe we were. While I was away I got my patch and my moko and I never regretted a thing.’
    He told Sean about the fights he’d had with people who called him a smart-arse every time they saw him reading a book.
    â€˜Trouble is I liked fighting as much as I liked reading. Hard to find-a place in that sort of world.’
    They both laughed. Matapihi was familiar with the work of poets like Sassoon and writers like Graves. He understood their reluctance as badly led warriors and, like Puru and Mike, he wasn’t particularly upset by society disintegrating.
    â€˜Studying our local history gave me a very useful attitude,’ he said. ‘That and all those people who couldn’t see past the gang patch and the moko.’
    They rode on, the shadows lengthening.
    â€˜Do you know anything about Tinirau?’ Sean asked.
    Matapihi looked startled at the question.
    â€˜He’s a Polynesian god, isn’t he?’ Matapihi said. ‘He looks after regeneration and rebirth. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜He’s got something to do with all this,’ Sean said. ‘I don’t understand what, but I suspect I’m going to find out.’
    Matapihi looked inscrutable. He took a small flute out of his zippered jacket pocket and blew a soft scale. Hamu stopped dead, threw his head back and gave a howl that must have been audible for miles. Matapihi hastily put the flute back in his pocket. ‘Fuck that,’ he said. ‘So much for not attracting attention. We might get some visitors now.’
    Just ahead was a small stream, watercress growing by the banks and long grass down to the water. The fence was trampled flat, but they stood it up to provide secure grazing for the horses and, with an ease that was becoming practised, Sean lit a fire. They were soon leaning back against their saddles, with a cup of tea and some rice salad leftovers.
    Sean and Matapihi didn’t have to wait long for their visitors. The short northern dusk was over in half an hour. Hamu growled and, when they looked up, they saw a shadow with a bushy tail slink past, just beyond the circle of firelight. They barely had time to get back to back. The first dog was right on Sean before he could shoot, but he stunned the animal with the butt and shot it in the head as it got to its feet. Sean shot another in mid-air, as it leapt at him, and another as it attacked from the side, sinking its teeth into Sean’s calf, its grip suddenly vanishing as its hindquarters shattered. Sean could hear yelps and snarls, kicks and blows, as Matapihi used his tomahawk and knife. Then, from the darkness, came a sickening thump and a large Shepherd landed right in the fire, scattering coals and bowling the billy with a