The Lost Tohunga by David Hair Page B

him, but mostly of Hine’s. She was no doubt comparing his battered torso with that of her neo-Nazi-super-he-monster ex-boyfriend. ‘The doctor said that they don’t do strapping any more; it’s old-fashioned,’ he told Jones.
    The old man grunted. ‘Mmm. So am I.’ He laid a big thick bandage on the table, then began pulling out clay pots from his herb shelf. ‘So, we’ll be wanting some arnica for the bruising, comfrey for bones, and cloves and camomile for the pain. Maybe some aloe vera, too. What do you think, God?’
    Godfrey barked thoughtfully, and Jones pulled out something else and added it to the pot. ‘True, an antibiotic wouldn’t hurt … echinacea perhaps?’ He turned to Hine. ‘As for you, do you know how to operate an old colonial-era washing machine and wringer?’
    Hine shook her head.
    â€˜Well then, as soon as this poultice mix is on the stove, I’ll take you out and show you. You didn’t think you were free-loading here, did you? Guests have to earn their keep!’
    Cassandra smirked as she wired up a clock.
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    Jones took Hine out to the wash house, while Mat stroked God’s head and daydreamed. Cassandra was talking about electricity again, but he was thinking about Hine’s face. Eventually Cassandra rather huffily went silent. When the old Welshman returned, he got Mat to recount the previous day’s events. He had already had to tell Cassandra all about it. Mostly he was worried for Mum. ‘I don’t want Mum threatened for something I’ve done,’ he told Jones.
    â€˜That’s not the real issue, lad. The girl told me something that makes me fear much more than some gangland thug with a grudge. Do you remember the tramp we saw in the stone the taniwha sent us? Well, I think I know who he is.’ He told Mat about the vision that Hine had had in the cells, of the dark serpent shape that seemed to move from the tramp and enter her former boyfriend, Evan.
    â€˜I believe that what she saw was an evil spirit moving from the tramp to a fresh host. That evil spirit is an old enemy of mine called Parukau. Do you know the name?’
    â€˜Parukau?’ Mat shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’ He noticed Cassandra was listening intently.
    â€˜He was Puarata’s right-hand man, centuries ago. I was on his trail at one stage, and found out his history. Do you know the tale of Peha?’
    Mat shook his head again.
    â€˜Peha was a famed carver,’ Jones said, sitting down and lighting up his pipe. ‘Of course he was more than an ordinary carver — his carvings had power. He had an enemy, though; a man from a neighbouring tribe called Parukau, who practised makutu. One day Peha was in the forest seeking wood when the forest fell silent, and he heard sinister laughter. He foundhimself pursued by a disembodied head floating above him. Parukau’s head! He didn’t panic, though. He went to Parukau’s pa, and found it deserted. But he found Parukau, buried up to his head in the earth, seemingly dead. He dug him out, thinking to bury him properly. But as soon as he was free of the earth, Parukau leapt up and fled.
    â€˜It was near dusk, so Peha slept in the deserted pa. Next morning, Parukau was outside the whare door, looking up at him. As their eyes met, he felt energy surge into him, and then Parukau fled, and was never seen again. Peha returned to his tribe and ascended to supremacy soon after, as all could see that he burned with new vibrancy and power.’
    â€˜Weird story,’ Cassandra put in. ‘What does it mean?’
    Jones started, as if he had forgotten she was there and might not have spoken if he had. ‘Well, many interpret it as a positive story, that Peha overcame Parukau’s sorcery, and became stronger. But I think what really happened was quite the opposite: that Parukau’s spirit entered Peha’s body — especially in