Justice and Utu (5 page)

Belsworth wore a put-upon face as he bowed. ‘Your Honour, I merely sought to establish the witness's motive in speaking in support of a woman whom the whole world knows — and which she does not deny — to be a sorceress, murderess, traitor, kidnapper and liar. No gentleman would ever speak for such a one. Which leads one to wonder why any man would speak for her. If not carnal, could his motives be venal? Does he hope for reward from John Bryce or Sebastian Venn, perhaps?'

The gallery began to seethe again as it processed these suggestions. ‘Hang him, too!' someone yelled again, and another called out, ‘Hey, Guv'nor! What did he pay you for the pardon?'

Bang! Bang! Bang!
went the judge's gavel. ‘I will clear the court if this constant clamour does not subside!' He glanced at Governor Grey, who was peering up into the gallery as though trying to see who had shouted at him. The crowd went reluctantly quiet.

‘It would seem to me that Mr Wiremu is a most un trustworthy witness,' Belsworth resumed. ‘As you have said, Your Honour, this is a gentlemen's court, yet here is this
savage
, this pardoned killer given unnatural longevity through darkest makutu, speaking out for one of his own. Whether by greed or lust, he binds himself publicly to her. He claims he saw mercy in her demeanour, there at the end in Te Iho. Mercy? From Donna Kyle? Impossible, I say! Impossible, and therefore
untrue. I put it to the jurors that this man's evidence is either compelled — as
apparently
all this man's own crimes were — or mistaken.'

He raised a hand to forestall the gallery from making more noise in support — he clearly didn't want this session to end when it was going so well for him — and jabbed a finger in the air. ‘This witness is not on trial — this time — but his evidence is dubious at best.'

He smiled as the gallery restrained themselves to a ripple of applause. He bowed to them, and turned back to his seat. ‘No more questions, Your Honour,' he said airily, and sat among the junior prosecutors, ostentatiously accepting handshakes from his colleagues.

Wiri was sweating and trembling as he sat down beside Mat. Their eyes met briefly: Wiri's were blazing with repressed fury.

A bailiff stood. ‘The court calls Wiremu Matiu Douglas.'

Mat felt like he was about to be sick. He stood on legs that felt like those of a newborn colt, and tottered forward, clutching onto each bench for support, then gripped the side of the podium. He took two deep breaths, and looked across to his father.

‘Take a sip of water,' Tama told him. He did so, and felt a little better.

Mat had to swear an oath on a leather-bound Bible, and then Dad took him through his own experiences, similar but different to Wiri's. He felt he got through it OK.

Then it was Belsworth's turn. ‘Hello, Mat,' the prosecutor said in a falsely friendly voice. ‘I understand you prefer that name, yes?'

He nodded back at the man sullenly.
Condescending creep
.

Belsworth half-turned away, then whirled and jabbed a finger in Mat's face. ‘What did you shout at me during your friend Wiremu's testimony, Mat?'

Mat felt himself go bright red. ‘Lying prick,' he muttered. Someone laughed.

‘A little louder, please.' Belsworth posed attentively.

‘I said “Lying prick”, sir,' Mat gritted out. The whole gallery alternately laughed or hissed.

‘Ah, children,' Belsworth said, parading across the front of the jury. ‘In their world, things are so simple! So black and white. People are good, or they are evil. Lawyers are bad, obviously. Policemen are good, priests are saints and rugby players are gods. No shades of grey. Nothing to miscomprehend. No nuances to consider.' He turned back to Mat. ‘How old are you,
child?
'

Mat straightened. He saw Tama give a warning shake of the head, and Wiri pat the air downward, mouthing ‘Stay cool'. He took a deep breath. ‘I'm seventeen, and I'm not a child. Sir.'

‘Mmm. Just so. And you were — what? — sixteen, when the incidents you have related so well occurred? … Did “Daddy” coach you on what to say?'

Mat clenched his teeth. ‘No. Sir.'

‘And just so we're straight here: you
are
the only son of the defence attorney?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Belsworth smiled about him. ‘Do you know what crimes this woman has committed, Mat?'

‘Objection!' Tama stood up.

‘Overruled,' the judge said quickly. ‘Her crimes are what we are here to explore.'

Mat looked at his father, who nodded shortly to him, and then sat down again, glaring up at the judge. ‘I know she's done some bad things,' Mat answered.

Belsworth barked out a derisive laugh. ‘“Some bad things”,' he mimicked. ‘Good that you've been listening, Mat. This woman you're here to support is like a one-person apocalypse. Whole townships have been razed at her command, here in Aotearoa. She has corrupted good men and manipulated evil ones. Yet you seem to think that one ambiguous act during a defeat represents some kind of moral cleansing?'

‘I didn't say that!' Mat retorted without thinking. ‘I don't think she shouldn't be punished!'

Tama put a finger to his lips. Mat swallowed, and fought for composure.

‘What do you think should happen to her, Mat?' Belsworth asked, quietly. ‘After all, isn't this the woman who has pursued, struck, and even tried to kill you?'

‘Objection!' Tama snapped.

The judge leant forward. ‘Overruled. The witness will answer the question.'

Mat swallowed. ‘I … don't know.'

‘Come now. I understand you're something of a hero, Mat,' Belsworth said. ‘These last few months since I came here I have heard nothing but praise for you. A young man of talent and courage. Puarata's bane, some name you! Surely you have some views on what her punishment should be?'

Mat looked across at Donna Kyle. Her eyes bored into his, her expression just as he remembered it in that fatal moment
at Te Iho. Heartsick and beaten, placing her last remaining hope in him, the blind faith of a child.

Beside her Asher Grieve snickered, and drew his finger across his throat. Mat had to fight down the urge to raise his hand where Mahuika the fire goddess had placed nails of fire, and blast him to charcoal. He closed his eyes, locked out the faces of both father and daughter, and sought the calmness within that fuelled the gentler aspects of his powers. ‘I am part-Maori,' he said aloud. ‘We hold that restorative justice is possible, and natural. If she … the defendant … hadn't given up that day, her father would have won. He'd be a new Puarata. She's done bad things, but she also did one good thing. That should be remembered.'

Belsworth looked at him pityingly. ‘Playing to the gallery, are you, Mat? Trying to appear noble, for your “fans”, perhaps? Restorative justice … Ha! The erratic and uncoded principles of the natives do not concern this court. This court is concerned with facts and evidence and consistency before one universal set of laws. You are just a child, coached by your father to try to give weight to his flimsy defence of this self-confessed diabolist. We forgive your ignorance and your youth, but this court should give your testimony no credence.' He turned away, lordly and dismissive. ‘I have no further questions, Your Honour, except to question why we allow juveniles to testify at all.'

More applause from the gallery, while Mat teetered back to his seat and slumped there, shaking like a leaf. He glared at the back of Belsworth's head and seethed.

The session wrapped up after that, to his immense relief. Wiri put a hand on his shoulder and led him away, while Tama
stalked over and exchanged some terse, low-pitched words with Royston Belsworth.

‘That was the worst thing ever,' Mat told Wiri outside the back of the High Court, away from the crowds. He couldn't stop shaking. ‘What gives him the right to abuse people like that?'

‘His job, Mat. He's there to get under our skins, and reveal the truth. Wait and see what your father does if he thinks any of Belsworth's witnesses are lying or hiding the truth. It's a tough job, but necessary.'

‘He didn't have to enjoy it so much.'

Wiri smiled ruefully. ‘No. You're right, it wasn't pleasant. But we've done our bit now.'

‘So what happens next?'

‘The trial continues. It is a foregone conclusion, of course — the charges themselves are not contested, but we have to go through the motions of hearing evidence and testimonials to establish guilt. It's not how it would happen in our world, but the laws here depend on Governor Grey's moods. What your father is really fighting for is some degree of clemency for Donna Kyle. Whether that comes about is out of our hands now.'

‘I know, I just feel so … mad! That Belsworth! I could just … Arghhh!' Mat made strangling gestures.

‘Yeah, I know.' Wiri stood up. ‘Come on, let's get out of here. Looks like you'll be able to fly south on Friday and get to your concert after all, eh?'

Mat stood, forcing himself to think of more pleasant things. ‘Yeah. The whole gang'll be there.'
Including Riki and Cass being all sweet on each other
, he thought morosely.

Wiri read him like a book. ‘So, Riki and Cassandra, eh?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You OK 'bout that?'

Mat pulled a face. ‘Yeah, I guess. I mean, I can't understand half what she talks about — bitrates and torrents and CPUs and stuff — but she's pretty cool.'

Wiri gave him what Mat tended to think of as an ‘old person' look. One full of rueful memories. ‘If things are right, they work out. If not, they don't. That's the wisdom of five centuries talking.'

‘That's all you learnt in five centuries? You should have paid more attention.'

 

The trial ended on Wednesday afternoon. It all happened quickly, as if the judge, or the governor, had lost patience. Tama Douglas summed up with a plea for clemency for his client. ‘The woman before you was taken at the age of eight by a man steeped in evil, and moulded to his desires. For sixty years he shaped her, no less in thrall than Wiremu, who was bound to service by sorcery. With Donna Kyle, the bounds were less tangible, but just as strong. Coercion and punishment. Threats and promises. Yet despite this she withheld her blow, and in doing so saved us all. Yes, all of us! It is not too much of a leap to say that were Asher Grieve to have seized Te Iho, Akarana itself might have fallen in time. Perhaps she has saved all Aotearoa. Yes, she has done wrong in the past, but when the moment of truth came, she sacrificed her own gain for all of us. If we spill her blood, it will be martyr's blood!'

His speech was booed roundly from the unruly gallery, but Mat looked at his father with new eyes. He'd never have envisaged such words in his father's mouth. He still wasn't sure that he agreed with them, but they made him proud.

They were all for nothing, though.

‘Guilty as charged,' was the jury's verdict, and their recommendation of capital punishment for both Asher Grieve and Donna Kyle was no surprise. No-one had spoken a word for Asher Grieve anyway, and he had no defence lawyer — had refused one, in fact.

Judge Williams delivered the hardest blow.

‘I find in this matter no reason for clemency. I sentence both prisoners to death by hanging, this coming Monday.' He rapped on his desk with the gavel. ‘That is all. Thank you, everyone: this case is closed.'

The court was cleared in minutes. Asher Grieve was led away smirking; Donna went with her head bowed, not looking at anyone. Belsworth came to shake Tama's hand, which his father accepted, although Mat wished he'd punched Belsworth instead. Mat himself felt stunned, numb — not with surprise, but because this whole ordeal had been for nothing. All the stress and anger and fear, for naught. If this was justice, it seemed a hollow thing, and it gave him no peace.

The cheering crowds outside did not seem to agree, though.

A
UCKLAND
, T
HURSDAY

H
ey, we could get our fortunes told,' Damien exclaimed, pointing at a gaudy sign over a curtained-off booth. ‘
Everalda: Fortune-Teller
. Weird name! Reckon she'll be the real thing?'

Mat shrugged, and shook his head. The idea of having his fortune told by some charlatan was too depressing to consider. ‘They're mostly fakes, Jones reckons. This market is just a tourist trap.'

The two boys had the afternoon off, and after doing Queen Street had wandered over the hill to Victoria Park Market. The market was housed in a ramshackle brick building near Freeman's Bay. It had once been a rubbish collection and incinerator facility, and an old kiln still stretched into the air like an obelisk. Now it housed shops and stalls, most of them souvenir related. Neither boy was really in the mood for shopping, but Mat had found a couple of scarves he thought his mum might like, and one that
might make a good peace offering for Lena.

Wiri and Tama were off trying to lodge an appeal, and Damien's fencing tournament had finished the day before. Damien had been pretty happy to finish seventh out of twenty-three. He had a new motorbike and was planning to leave tomorrow afternoon, over-nighting at home in Dannevirke, then pushing on to Wellington on Saturday morning for the concert.

‘So, you gonna ring Lena?' Damien asked.

Mat scowled. He'd been putting this off. He pulled out his mobile, steeled himself, and rang Lena's number. It was answered after seven rings.

‘Hello? Mat?' Her voice was crisp, distant.

‘Hi, Lena. How're you?'

‘I told you not to call me.'

‘I just wanted to see how you are.'

‘No, you're checking up on me.'

‘Yeah, that too. You shouldn't go near him, Lena. He's …'

‘He's what? Bad? Dangerous? I might like that.'

‘No. He's a dirty cheating thug is what he is,' Mat found himself snarling. ‘No-one should go near him, let alone you.'

‘It's none of your business, Mat. I'm going to hang up now.'

‘Wait!'

Silence — but no click and dial-tone.

‘What?' Her voice was impatient, and infuriating.

‘Could we talk? Please! It's important.'

She sighed, and he really thought she'd just say no, but instead she said: ‘Where?'

He heaved a sigh of relief. ‘How about midday tomorrow, in Albert Park?'

A long pause. ‘Alright. But I've told you before, Mat: it's my life and I won't have you or Jones or anyone else meddling with it.'

She hung up before he could reply. He stared down at the phone, then slowly pocketed it. That hadn't gone so badly, all things considered.
How is it that in a country of four million people I know only two girls, and neither of them wants to go out with me?

Damien gave him a questioning look. ‘Well?'

‘We're going to catch up tomorrow.'

‘Good on ya, mate.' He looked about him. ‘What's this market like on the other side?' he asked in a low voice. ‘You know, in Akarana or whatever they call it? Shall we have a look?'

‘I don't think we should go there, man,' Mat replied. ‘Akarana is bedlam, nothing like Gisborne or Napier — heaps of people, and if they recognize me … Well, there were guys at the trial shouting about lynching anyone who spoke up for Donna Kyle.'

‘Aw, c'mon, who's gonna recognize you?'

‘I was on public display for three days. Lots of people could, and it only takes one.' He looked at Damien steadily. ‘You're not going to stop nagging me on this, are you?'

‘Nope.'

Mat rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘OK. But at the first sign of trouble we're out of there. Deal?'

Damien grinned. ‘Of course.'

Mat glanced about them, and then they headed towards the back of the market building, and found a place out the back where no-one was around. ‘You know how it goes,' he sighed,
gripping Damien's shoulder. Damien did the same to him, his face eager. Mat closed his eyes, reaching inwards for that small coil of light, the one kindled a year ago during his flight from Puarata, and built and tended by Jones and Ngatoro since. It built inside his mind, and then pulsed, sending a tingling feeling through him as he reached for that rich, fragrant
otherness
that was Aotearoa.

His nose was immediately assailed by possibly the worst smell he'd ever encountered. He and Damien were standing in the midst of mound after mound of rubbish each taller than their heads. Thick black smoke was swirling about them, and crowds of men were wheelbarrowing more rubbish through the slush towards the big brick furnace.

‘Arghh!' someone gurgled behind them. They spun, in time to see a young man backing away from them, his eyes wide with shock at their sudden appearance. He tripped and sprawled into a mountain of rubbish, shouting in alarm and fear. Every man there turned at the cry.

‘Jeez!' shouted Damien, ‘Let's get the hell outta here!'

Mat and Damien pelted away, zigzagging through the rubbish heaps while people shouted after them. The smoke in the air was pouring from the big kiln, but being driven down by fresh sheets of rain coming in off the harbour. Mat glanced back, but there was no pursuit. They slowed to a walk, crossing the cricket field across the road and heading back towards the city centre. No-one paid them any special attention. Mat was in fairly nondescript modern clothing, but Damien was in his patchwork jacket. Mat persuaded him to turn it inside out so that the black lining was on the outside and he therefore didn't stand out quite so much.
After that, they blended right in. They sauntered down to the harbour as the rain cleared, and the sun broke through the cloud.

‘Man, look at this place!' Damien looked about him cheerfully, at the old timber houses and the horse-drawn carriages. There were even very early cars, and red trams plied the main streets. On the harbour they saw tall-masted sailing-ships. ‘Isn't it amazing? Check out those old-time cars!'

Mat glanced upwards. The Sky Tower was gone, of course, and in fact there were few buildings taller than three storeys. No power lines either. He saw women in bonnets and bustles fussing past them towards Queen Street, and businessmen with sideburns tipping their hats to each other. Newspaper boys hollered out headlines, and rough-looking groups of youths were loitering on the street corners. An old Chinaman peered curiously at them, and spat a wad of tobacco into the churning mud of the streets. Just like Auckland in the real world, Akarana was a hive of activity.

The strangest thing was the way that every few minutes, a ripple seemed to run through the city, causing some buildings to vanish and others to take their place. Sometimes the change made the city more modern, other times less so. It was as if every incarnation of the city was trying to compete for attention. Yet these waves of time didn't touch them or the other people at all, just washed around them. It was disconcerting, but they got used to it.

‘It makes you think it should all be sepia-coloured, like an old-time photo, eh?' Damien said. He peered at a cluster of young women gliding past, like a flock of swans in their white
bonnets and full-length cotton dresses. ‘Must take these babes hours to get dressed in the morning.'

Mat shrugged — he had absolutely no experience of colonial women's attire.

‘Excuse me? Are you Matiu Douglas?'

The two boys turned. A young Maori woman, very dark-skinned with thick, long black hair that fell to her waist, was standing about six feet behind them, wrapped in a body-length feather cloak. She was barefoot on the muddy verge of the road. An older Maori man of middling height with iron-grey hair caught in a top-knot stood a pace behind her, also wearing a cloak.

It took a moment, and then Mat recognized them, from the rescue at Te Iho: Tamure and his daughter. Which meant that both were tohunga ruanuku. He cautiously nodded.

The girl seized Mat's right hand and knelt in the mud. A stream of Maori words spilt from her lips faster than Mat could follow, while the man seized his shoulder, tears spilling down his carved face. All Mat could do was stare and restrain the urge to run away.

The young woman — a girl, really, no more than his own age — eventually looked up, and slowed her words. ‘I sorry. My English no good. You speak Te Reo?'

‘Uh, not well,' Mat said apologetically. Mat had spent most of his life actively resisting his Maori side, and increasingly found himself regretting it, but learning Te Reo was proving hard, slow work, and he didn't trust his skills yet. He wished Riki were here. ‘Please, don't kneel,' he added, embarrassed.

The girl straightened completely in one graceful move
ment, so that she was eyeball to eyeball with him. She had ancient eyes set in a handsome face, and a regal bearing. ‘This my father, Tamure.'

Mat bowed. ‘I am honoured, sir.'

The tohunga nodded gravely, seeming to understand the sentiment if not the words.

‘My father has no English, Matiu Douglas,' the girl told him. ‘He thanks you with all his heart. We both do.'

‘It was my honour.' Mat hated praise almost as much as criticism. ‘Er, nice to meet you, uh …'

‘I am Aroha,' she offered.

‘Most people call me Mat.'

‘Mat,' she repeated. She stepped right up to him and pressed her nose to his. Her breath was warm and smelt of cloves. The sudden intimacy was alarming, but he knew better than to pull away. ‘You saved our life. We are in your debt.'

Mat reddened. ‘Oh. Yeah … ah, no! I was pleased to help. An honour. There's no debt!'

‘You are good man. My father write to yours, if I please?'

Her voice echoed, seemed to resonate faintly as she spoke, and in her eyes were flecks like stars and galaxies. For a frightening second she seemed far more than a girl or even an Adept.

What was that …?
‘Uh, sure. OK.'

She smiled broadly, her face inches from his. She had big lips with delicate moko carved into them, and eyes that bored into him. ‘Then, haere ra, Matiu. For now.' She stepped away, and she and her father bowed in unison, then turned and walked away.

Mat stared after them, wondering what he'd just agreed to.

‘I guess you've got a fan club,' Damien chuckled, nudging him. ‘She looked pretty serious.'

‘Yeah,' Mat agreed in a worried voice.

‘Nice-looking chick, in an “untouchable queen of all creation” kinda way.'

‘You think anything in a skirt is hot.'

‘Not just skirts, man. Feather cloaks, hot-pants, trouser suits and bikinis, too. All chicks are cute.' Damien poked him again. ‘Aroha …
nice name
. And her dad's gonna
write
to yours.'

‘Yeah. That's what's worrying me.'

 

Tama Douglas met Mat in the hotel room with an envelope in his hand. ‘Mat! I've been trying to call you all afternoon. Where have you been?'

‘Out with Damien.' He eyed the envelope in his father's hand suspiciously.
I only just met that Aroha chick; surely this ‘writing to Dad' thing can't have happened already …

‘The network said your phone was turned off …'

‘Really? Weird, huh?'

‘Were you in Aotearoa?'

‘Us? Nah.' Damien shook his head vigorously. Tama eyed him suspiciously, then handed Mat the envelope. It was already opened.

Mat peered at the unmarked envelope, then reluctantly pulled out a single sheet of folded paper. It was handwritten, and what he read made his skin prickle.