Chapter Ten
Fighting
Max had been out of bed and down to the Rockville Station's news stand as early as possible. There he purchased the new day's copies of both the Murderer's Bay Argus and the Dominion Press. Settling himself in the cafeteria he spread the papers on the table before him. He didn't even have to open a newsprint sheet to find what he was looking for; the story was on the cover of both papers!
'The Dominion League of Robots Wars!' blazed the headline of the Dominion Press, while the black on the Argus announced, 'Leith Triumphant!' Both displayed an almost identical photographic; Harriet, arms held wide, standing atop her steaming robot, smiling broadly, top hat at a jaunty angle, a crowd of jubilant student faces behind her.
The Dominion Press article took pains to explain to its readers the exact function that the robot race had in the life of the University, the specifics of a race, and the outcome and implications of the latest special round including the establishment of the new league. As usual the Argus' piece took a different approach. It certainly seemed to assume that its reader knew all about the ongoing robot races and were even aware of both the persons Harriet Leith and Lud Milligan. Its excited tone continued on to espouse the thrills and entertainments which would be enjoyed by any who chose to take an active interest in the new league. It was also implied that all of discernment and taste would indeed be following the said competition and its brave young inventors as they push forward the boundaries of engineering and applied science in general.
Max reread both stories and studied the images until the 7:30am pulled into the platform.
“Good morning P..." Max couldn't remember his name. "Wang!” Thanks Wiremu. “May I?”
“Please do,” responded Wang, drawing his bag closer and looking for all the world like he had just been saved from the most awkward of social situations.
Upon boarding and finding himself in a rather crowded carriage Max was then somewhat surprised to discover the Chinese student, who had met yesterday, huddled alone on a wooden bench seat. His aloneness was not the surprise, this was how people liked to leave the Chinese, but simply that he was there.
“Do you live around here?” asked Wang, once Max was seated and the train was underway again.
“Yes. In fact, right there,” replied Max, with a jab of his finger at Skilton House as it slid past the window.
“Oh, I see,” said Wang, with a long look at the house and its surrounding aviaries. Max was aware of the reasons for Wang's lonely seating, but chose to ignore them, and to ignore those who could not do the same.
Turning away from the window again Wang asked;
“What are you studying? If you don't mind my asking.”
“No not at all,” and Max set about explaining his subject choices and his hope to major in Archaeology the following year. He studied the timid Oriental in his grey suit a moment before reciprocating the question.
“My goal would be to become an accountant," answered Wang. "So, my subject choices reflect that outcome. Nothing as exciting as Archaeology or this Steam Engineering that I see the papers are full of this morning.”
Max chose to let the comparison in excitement pass, as while he did agree with the conclusion, he knew such things were more about personality than any choice one might make to be less exciting. Furthermore, he was puzzled with something else Wang had said.
“How do you mean you would become an accountant? Isn't that why you are here?”
“Of course,” replied Wang in a resigned tone, spreading his hands on his knees. “But it isn't up to me. Or more it is beyond my control.”
Max was lost. How could it not be Wang's decision?
He wondered for a moment if this was one of those cases where there was a controlling Father behind the scenes directing the course of his son's life. Or if there might be some Chinese tradition at work which only allowed Wang to train in certain professions, a caste thing. He decided to keep it simple.
“I don't understand.”
Although Wang had relaxed since Max's arrival, he returned now to looking distinctly uncomfortable. Max was immediately sorry that he had pushed the young man for personal details. He was about to beg his pardon when Wang appeared to make up his mind to trust his fellow student and began, with a sigh, to talk.
“I live with my Grandfather on his gold claim. Although the use of the word 'gold' is an overstatement. Rock claim would be more apt. My parents are dead, back in Hong Kong. My Grandfather is old, and his joints hurt in the cold water. We are greatly reduced. But we work together and if we find enough gold; we eat, and I study. If not, we just eat.” Wang finished talking abruptly and stared straight ahead.
Max worried about how much it had just cost him to share this. Tentatively he asked;
“So you have found enough?”
“For this year, yes.”
The train was stopped at Aorere Pā Station now. The whistle sounded then and with a jolt they started moving off again.
“That is hard,” reflected Max.
“Indeed,” agreed Wang, visibly relaxing, much as the confessed do when they find themselves not condemned. “The diggings are not good. Grandfather is old now... ...it took us three years to save the fees for my first year of study, this year. Maybe it will take three years more for the second. Who knows? But this is why Grandfather has brought me here, to study, to make a new path. He has sacrificed much.”
“Good morning gentlemen.”
Max and Wang turned to find Wiremu standing in the aisle, smiling down at them, his eyes alive behind his curly fringe. Wang was on his feet at once and extending his hand.
“Good morning Wiremu. How are you?”
Wiremu took the offered hand and shook it warmly.
“Good thank you Master Wang. And yourself?”
“Doing well thank you.”
“Have a seat Chief,” said Max with a grin. Wiremu, passing Max's little test with flying colours, gave a mock pūkana and whātero, that is; dilating his eyes and poking out his tongue, before taking the seat opposite them.
The older woman who sat in the other half of that pew next to Wiremu stared icily out the window while drawing her skirts and travel bag closer to herself. Max couldn't feel sorry for her, a little pity maybe, but he knew her xenophobia was her problem and should remain so. He could imagine her flapping off to some tea shop, all a flutter, panting on to her friends about the full horror of how she had to “...sit next to both a Native and a Chinaman on the train!!”
Max had a laugh in his voice when he next said;
“Wiremu I need to hear more about what happened yesterday at the welcoming ceremony. But it can wait. Join our conversation where it is and tell us what you are studying at University.”
Wiremu seemed at ease in grey trousers and clean white shirt, braces but no jacket.
“It hardly matters really. I only have enough money for one year.”
“What? I mean I beg your pardon?” asked Wang, sitting a little straighter.
“It's like I said, my Grandfather left me enough money for my first year. If I find it to my liking I'll have to raise the rest for myself.”
Max suddenly felt a little of how privileged he was. He had no living Grandparents, but Wang had no living parents, Wiremu had none of either. Furthermore, the Father Max did have was a University Professor. He certainly wouldn't be stopping his studies at the end of the first year due to lack of funds.
“With what I have I'm aiming for Law,” the young Māori finished.
“Law,” repeated Max, again a little surprised. Still not as exciting as Archaeology, but certainly better paid. “So what subjects are you taking this year?”
Wiremu recited his list of subjects.
"Māori Studies, Treaty Law, Land Law, Criminal Law, Civil Law and Theology."
“We'll be sharing Māori Studies at least,” observed Max.
“Great!” confirmed Wiremu, with what Max felt was a genuine warmth. “Second lecture up today.”
“But why Theology?” Max was a little puzzled by the choice.
“Hmmm, I guess as a way of helping me understand a little of how you English think,” responded Wiremu.
“Really? We don't think theologically!”
Wiremu clicked his tongue and paused a moment before answering.
“Oh you do. Just maybe not good theology.”
Max was still looking askance at him when Wang cut in.
“Isn't the real question; why are you taking Māori Studies?”
“Another good one,” added Max.
“It can't be to help you understand how Māori think,” continued Wang.
Wiremu gave a good-natured chuckle.
“No, you are right. It is to help me understand how the English think about Māori.”
“You can see the sad truth of that by just looking around,” asserted Max.
“Alright,” countered Wiremu “Let's go one more; It's to help me understand how the English think, that Māori think, about themselves... ourselves.”
“It's making my head hurt,” croaked Wang with a stage groan. “Where is the class to help me understand how Chinese think about how Māoris feel about the way English regard Eskimos!?”
The two others fell about laughing at this, while Wang looked uncomfortable, secretly fighting to hide his surprise at making a joke and the pleasure he felt with himself at doing so successfully. The lady in the other seat continued to find something of great interest far beyond the carriage window.
There was a pause in the conversation as the train rattled though the Addingtown yards. Max watched the engine workshops on the fair side, where, according to Professor McCormack, via Max's Father, Harriet worked with her Father on their entry in the Haast Engine competition.
* * *
Archaeology wasn't a large department. Although to Max it's small classroom within the Museum building, was a Hallowed Hall, alive with the ghosts of its noble past, and resonant with the hopes of future discovery. The native wood top of the desk at which he now sat was comfortingly age worn and marked with black ink and pen knife cuts, as if it too had become an artefact worthy of discovery. In the least, the primitive scribblings were testimony to more than twenty years of service within one department or another. The little glass ink pot sat neatly in its black well in the desk’s top right corner.
Archaeology's relative modesty of size was owed primarily to the fact that Aotearoa (that being the only workable name for the three larger disunified islands) apparently had a relatively short history of human inhabitation. Thus, there wasn't much to dig up. Added to this was the fact that the Māori, unlike the Mayan and Inca of Central America, never took any particular interest in gold. Therefore, here in The Dominion, the field was almost purely academic without too many economic motivators for treasure hunters, or so Professor Wynyard claimed.
The exception was Greenstone called Pounamu. But by and large the value of Greenstone was still principally in the artefact itself rather than the raw material that it was fashioned from. Therefore, if the discipline of digging in the ground had a dark side, it was not that it spawned, as in so many other places, the greed of smelting and minting bullion, but that of smuggling and hoarding cultural artefacts. Added to these detractors was the fact that the Empire as a whole was still largely in the grip of an Egyptology fever. And you couldn't get any further from Egypt than... the Dominion.
Professor Wynyard was currently expanding on the virtues of John Lubbock's 'Pre-Historic Times, as illustrated by ancient remains, and the manners and customs of modern savages' and extorting the small class to make the large book their standard text and constant companion. Max's brand-new copy had spent the night in a Central Station locker but now, retrieved, rested on the desk in front of him.
There were ten students in the first-year class. They would be replaced in the next lecture by the seven second year students. A further five third year, two honours and one masters student were currently in the field on the West Coast, where they worked the University’s 'Dig' at an old Pā site near the mouth of the Paturau River. There they painstakingly unearthed what had once been a major Māori settlement.
During the lecture Professor Wynyard promised his new class that sometime near mid-term they too would be making a visit to the Paturau dig. This news had caused excited murmuring among the class, for as everyone knew; the real discoveries were made in the field.
Max, while sharing the other's interest, was keenly aware of one complicating factor; the Paturua Pā was no longer there, and thus available for archaeological exercises, because it had been razed and it's people massacred, during The Musket Wars, a name given to the turbulent period of tribal unrest in the 1820's. The concern Max felt about this was that the Paturau massacre happened as part of the same episode in which Wiremu's Grandmother was raped by one of his surrogate Grandfather's advisories. Max made a mental note to tread carefully with Wiremu around this, for Paturau was not simple dead history. If any history ever truly is.
Max didn't know any of the other nine students in the room. He had heard from their short introductions during yesterday's class that two were local; one was from New Brighton, the other Ferntown. The rest were from other centres throughout the Dominion; Blenheim, Westport, Nelson, New Manchester, Picton. Although the final student to speak had simply introduced herself as Jasmine, from Hong Kong.
Max was proud of himself for, unlike some, he had managed not to stare when the beautiful Chinese woman had first entered the lecture room and taken her seat. He had of course already spied her amongst the crowd watching the arrival of the Northerners. As the only young woman in the class, she would have drawn attention whoever she was. But to be oriental and stunningly attractive made her a literal diamond among the coal.
As Max was seated in the back of the two rows, he could see this Jasmine, if he was as rude as to turn his head hard to the left and look. Certainly, it was easy to see that most of his peers were ill mannered enough to do exactly that. He watched with embarrassment at their poorly hidden glances. His own furtive observations showed her much as he had seen her previously; head up, eyes fixed forward, oblivious or choosing to ignore the attention being paid her.
She was clothed in appropriate European dress although her black hair was unadorned and tied back to reveal a slender neck. Before Max quickly turned back to Lubbock's 'Pre-Historic Times' he noticed a strength in her jaw and a hardness in her eyes, which for some faint, unnamed reason he did not find altogether pleasing.
He would not forget to ask Wang about her, next time they met.
* * *
"New Munster!" announced Professor Bertenshaw, as he prowled about before the blackboard. In front of him, in the semi-circle of the tiered lecture theatre, sat his new intake of students. Each, to greater or lesser degrees, intent on the study of History: Modern.
"New Ulster?"
All slicked waves of black hair and moustache, Bertenshaw had used the majority of his time, indeed their time, on helping to place The Dominion in its modern, global context. To him, local history was short and happenings before colonisation, before the Declaration of Independence or the failed Waitangi Treaty, in the time known as the Classic Māori period, held little interest. For Bertenshaw, in his grey pinstripe trousers and broard shouldered black jacket, more pugilist than Professor in appearance, the story of the Dominion was a European story.
"New Leinster? Anyone?"
Max knew the answer the Professor was after, as did any number of others in the room, but they all held back, none wanting to be 'that' student.
"Very well then. Though you do your high school tutors no credit," the Professor chastised, before warming to his subject once more. "In the very early days of the colony, some bright spark or indeed a whole firebox of them, decided that the Northern Isle should be named New Ulster, the middle Isle; New Munster, and the bottom Isle; New Leinster. It appears that the English language had run its full course, and no new words could be formed, thus anything new in the New World had to be referenced to something old in the Old World. The reference then?" Again, no answer was forthcoming from the students. "You then!" demanded Bertenshaw of a student in the front row, apparently chosen at random.
"Ireland, Sir," he answered timidly.
"Ireland. Correct. But these names never stuck. Why was that?"
Again no answer was supplied and Bertenshaw, appearing not to expect one, continued with hardly a pause.
"After the failure of the First Treaty in the north and the subsequent exile of the colonists, the Natives naturally also finished with New Ulster as the title of their land. We now call it The Northern Isle, or simply Maoriland. They of course have their own name for it; Te Ika-a-Māui, meaning 'The Fish of Māui'. For further clarification may I direct you to Professor Evan's Māori Studies course. We turn our attention then to our own land, the Middle or South Island; Te Wai Pounamu. We are unevenly divided in three and thus unable to be united in name. Certainly, the French on the East Coast were never going to abide with 'New Munster.' As I'm sure you are well aware they call their land Charlemagne. But in homage of whom?" Finally a student put up his hand in answer. "Yes?" inquired Bertenshaw.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"After their great Emperor-King Charles the First, Charles the Great, Sir," came the reply.
"Excellent! Yes. Carolus Magnus," agreed Bertenshaw, a small sparkle springing up in his eyes. "And how do we refer to their land?"
"Charlie Main!" called someone in quick response and there was a general murmur of half hidden laughter and agreement. Obviously this was the answer the Professor expected, and he gave it no reply of his own, other than to let his eyes shine a little more, and continue on with the lecture.
"Our Scottish friends in the south used a northern dialect to bastardise and then lose the local Native name Otakou and came up with 'Otago.' This has become the name for their entire region. No one really knows what it means, maybe place of the red earth, maybe nothing. The most southern part they call, as testimony to Caledonian creativity, Southland.
Finally, we, confined in the north and west, seem reluctant to be done with Cook's dream of New Zealand. In long form; The Dominion of Britannic New Zealand.
The bottom island, now called Stewart Island in honour of William W. Stewart, first officer on board the sealing ship Pegasus, dropped New Leinster as its name when it's two bigger brothers shed theirs. Have any of you been there?"
Max looked around. He hadn't, and it appeared from the shaking of heads, that nor had any of his peers.
"It is a harsh, cold, thankless place, too close to Antarctica," continued Bertenshaw. "Rare in safe harbours and covered in swamps and moss draped forests. Thus, it has little to honour Old Leinster. It being the haunt of sealers, no accounts, runaways and outlaws, is the island's only similarity with its namesake." It was becoming apparent that Bertenshaw had little love for Māori, Scots, French or Irish. The Professor reminded Max at once of his own Grandfather. "Any questions to conclude?"
A hand shot up.
"Are the French all Catholics?"
"Ah..." began Berkenshaw.
"No they're Republicans," stated another student.
"Ah... well..."
"Are the two mutually exclusive?" asked a third.
"Ah..."
"Possibly. I mean if they were theists then it would follow that they would also be Monarchists. Wouldn't it?" queried a fourth.
"Ah..."
"Would it? Can't a Republican believe in God?"
"Ah..."
"Can a Catholic support a King!?"
"Ah..."
"Only a Catholic one!"
"Ah..."
"Only if Rome... "
"Enough!" interrupted Berkenshaw with a sudden loud shout, which he moderated upon the return of his student's attention. "I appreciate your thirst for knowledge, even of our old foe, but I will demand some semblance of order." He gave a long sigh, like the whole subject pained him. "If there are Christian theists amongst the French in Port Louis-Philippe, then yes, they would most likely be of the Roman Catholic stripe. As to being Republicans or Revolutionaries? Yes, no, maybe. The Port was named for King Louis-Philippe I, by his supporters, naturally. But Philippe went on to become the last French King, being forced to abdicate in the Revolution of 48 when the monarchy itself was abolished. By all accounts the sentiments of that revolution spread to the colonies. Although I dare say that a good number of Monarchists also endure in secret. Thus like all modern societies, the French one in Charlie Main, will be comprised of all types of thinking men. But enough of this for now."
* * *
Later, having just completed their first Māori Studies class, Wiremu and Max were on their way to The Canteen for lunch. Max had initially been surprised at the large number of students taking Māori Studies, until he was reminded, by various references in the course notes, that it was a standard course for anyone wishing to work in government, policy, or law.
Professor Evans had moved though his material like a veteran, but Max suspected that having Wiremu, a real Māori, in his class was throwing him a little. It was after all the first time it had ever happened. Evans appeared at times nervous. Max felt a modicum of pity for him but ultimately knew that the presence of a Māori in fact created a good dose of professional accountability.
For his part Wiremu resisted the temptation offered, knowing that he was only one Māori and could not speak on behalf of a whole people. Or as Evans would himself say; a whole collection of peoples. The lecture had covered the legendary figure of Kupe from Hawaiki and the interlinked foundational narratives of the “Great Migration” or indeed the great migrations and what Professor Evans called “The Creation Myth.” The latter was touched on only lightly and would be visited in more detail in the next class.
It was also announced that the class would be joining with Year One Archaeology on their field trip to the old Paturau Pā site.
“What have we here?” asked Max, as they strolled around a corner and came into the open space in front of the Architecture Department.
“I'm guessing a rather complex situation,” answered Wiremu, taking in the ring of threatening looking young men who surrounded Wang. The Chinese student was scrabbling about trying to retrieve his fallen books from the paving stones with one hand, while endeavouring to hold onto a number of others, and keep his glasses from slipping from his face with the other.
“What is so complex,” said Max in response to Wiremu's reaction to the bullying unfolding before them.
“Well, I mean, I assume that there are a whole stack of deep seated issues at play here. And each of the players... along with being unique individuals, are also products to some extent of their own particular culture's biases and prejudices.”
“Meaning they can't be held responsible for what they are about to do?” quizzed Max, not taking his eyes from the small drama.
“Yes and no. But like I said complex.”
The pair came to a halt outside the ring of harassers. One of whom had just raced in to kick a book away from Wang's groping hand. The rest were calling names like Almond Eyes, Coon, Chink and Bamboo Māori.
“And,” continued Wiremu thoughtfully as he eyed the bullies. “I try to follow the non-violent way of Christ.”
“It’s probably just as well for Wang that I don't,” stated Max flatly.
“Why, are you that good?” ask Wiremu, nodded toward the group of six bullies.
Max wasn’t, and he knew it. But there seemed little other choice.
“Bamboo Māori!” called one of the tormentors again.
“Oh that one is particularly creative,” reflected Wiremu.
“Shall we?” Max asked. “Bravo?”
“And bluster,” replied Wiremu, as the pair, feigning confidence, pushed their way into the midst of the coming conflict.
Max selected a youth who clearly was not the pack's leader and pushing his bowler back, hitching his thumbs in his belt and enacting his best Yorkshire accent called;
“You done cob?!”
The boy he had chosen backed away a step, his courage wavering in the face of unexpected resistance. The real leader, reacting to the slight done to his dubious honour, called out;
“Oi! Get out of it!”
Max spun on the speaker. A ginger haired brute. He had seen him before in The Canteen. Another first year. They all were. Out trying to make a name for themselves.
“What seems to be da problem?” asked Max.
"I said for you to get out of it!"
"And I asked you what seemed to be da problem!"
"D'pens don't it? I mean it's changing in't it? First it was 'im, now it's becoming you!"
"What's the problem wiff 'im," asked Max, nodding toward Wang.
“Problem is that we didn't come all this way to rub shoulders with the likes of him!”
“I see. Then crawl back to wherever it was that you came from!” spat Max. Wiremu helped Wang to his feet.
“Hang on a minute,” said Ginger waggling his finger at Max and calling to his mates. “It's him, and his marrie friend. Our little kapa haka welcoming group from yesterday.” A small crowd was beginning to form as the bully leader went on. “You should keep out of their affairs,” a nod toward Wiremu. “And let the savages fight it out amongst themselves!”
“You should keep your fool ideas locked inside your thick skull and your mouth firmly shut to hold them there!”
“Or what?!”
“Or I'll reach into that pretty mouth... and pull your hand back out though it!”
Ginger looked a little lost at that.
"And how is my hand getting in my mouth?" he spat.
"Because," answered Max. "When we are finished you will find it stuffed so far up your arse that it’ll come out your… yeah you get it!"
This lewdness drew a good few chuckles from the onlookers as they tried to contemplate the contorted biology being suggested. Ginger eyes bulged and he started to turn red.
“So much for the diplomatic approach,” said Wiremu out the side of his mouth.
“You don't have to do this,” whispered Wang, from between his two defenders.
“Oh but we do,” responded Wiremu. “Max has just so sufficiently hurt Ginger's pride that there is now no other way.”
“Not really what I meant,” said Wang with a sigh.
Max had been in a couple of fights. He didn't love them. They weren't like in the books. They had been stupid, blind, running brawls; fists flying with little skill, accuracy, or effect. But he could fight, or at least box. He took up something like a boxing stance now. Wiremu dropped one hand to near his knee and held the other back behind his head, as if he held a mere patu. Max wished he did.
“Look at the three of you,” mocked Ginger cracking his knuckles. “The United Nations. Pathetic.”
“Come at me bro!” shouted the Māori.
“Shut up!” groaned Max, not so keen to invite the beating, before adding “So much for the non-violent approach.”
Also unlike in the books their attackers didn't politely wait turns to spar with them one at a time but came en-mass from every angle. Max and Wiremu braced themselves for the clash. While Wang folded his spectacles away in his top pocket, placed his pile of books on the ground and stepped forward from between the other two.
Then it was all over.
Almost.
* * *
Max dabbed at his bloody nose. It wasn't broken but it fizzed like he been drinking the chemist's cola soda through it. He felt like a dirigible had crashed landed on his face. Wiremu's left eye was black and starting to puff up. But apart from these surface injuries the pair were still on their feet. Wang had returned his eye glasses to his nose and his pile of books to back under his arm. He looked a little embarrassed. There wasn't a scratch on him. Although it was by no means deserted, the court yard was almost completely silent. The only sounds were the moans and groans coming from the beaten bullies.
The three comrades still stood in the middle while the defeated foe were sprawled about them like foreign numbers on some strange six digit clock. One was out cold, another two sat, their heads cradled in their hands, another was crawling on all fours, still another limped about whimpering, while the last; Ginger, stood stock still, mid stride, fists clenched, a look of shock locked on his face. It seemed that only his eyes could move and these darted about frantically.
The whole scene appeared as if a bomb had gone off in their midst. In some ways one had.
Max, Wiremu and all the gathered onlookers stared at Wang in disbelief.
“We should get going,” mumbled the Chinese student self-consciously.
Max agreed, he needed to find somewhere to clean the blood from his top lip. He couldn't believe what he had seen. One second he and Wiremu had been standing ready to defend Wang against his tormentors, in full acceptance of the thrashing they were most likely about to be awarded but strengthened by the virtue of their cause. The next the little Chinaman had exploded, literally flying past the pair of them and then seemingly in all directions almost at once.
What had Max seen? He was hardly sure. It appeared that Wang had reached the first attacker in mid-air and landed a series of quick kicks on his chest! But while this unfortunate still staggered back and before he could collapse to the pavers, Wang sprung away. Sideways he went and as he passed him his slicing hand simply touched the ginger haired leader on the neck. Ginger had remained in that same spot for the rest of the fight, as he was now, paralysed. Two down.
Wang had never been still, but instead with arms scything like some precision harvesting machine, he had enacted a brutal spinning dance amongst his enemy. It was a way of fighting the likes of which none of the students quickly gathering in the courtyard had ever seen before. Although Max had had little time for such analysis. Next Wang sprung left to trip another antagonist with his foot, the student skidded painfully to his hands and knees on the hard ground. Three down.
At the same time Wiremu had been trying to deal with two attackers and to his credit had managed to land a couple of good blows. But so had they. Wang came to his aid, darting right, and to Max he appeared to actually cartwheel the distance, but he wasn't sure, for he received his own blood nose at that moment.
One of the pair lunging for Wiremu quickly changed course to strike at the newly arrived Wang. But his fist was effortlessly caught in Wang's 'iron claw'. Now Wang used the forward momentum of the blow to send the sorry student between Max and Wiremu to crash into his mate on the far side. In the process disengaging Max from his opposite. Four and five down. These were the two who now sat cradling their heads.
One remained. Having only just blackened Wiremu's eye he was quickly dispatched onto his backside with a two-handed push from Wang.
As suddenly as it began, it was over.
A stunned silence descended on the courtyard.
People were rushing in from all directions to join the crowd and try to take stock of what had just taken place.
Max just stared at Wang, and Wiremu was clearly also dumbstruck by their acquaintance. His mouth even hung open a little in disbelief. Finally Max stooped to retrieve his fallen hat and slowly people began to talk among themselves, speculating on the whys and wherefores of the marvellously one-sided fight.
But before they could escape to tend their limited wounds and subject Wang to a whole raft of new questions, indeed a right royal inquisition, the double doors of the Architecture Department opened with a loud crack revealing a black void within.
All talking died away again.
A cold breeze played its way across the quad.
Then after a long moment ghostly white faces materialised in the gloom, appearing to float in the dark space beyond the doors. Finally black figures detached themselves from the darkness and slowly issued out, in single file, to descend the steps.
“Goths,” Max whispered under his breath, and for some reason a tingle of fear raced up his spine at the word and the sight of them. His questioning look only elicited a shrug from Wiremu. He had no idea what was going on either.
Reaching the courtyard the Goths began to slowly encircle the battlefield. No one else moved, it was clear that a new drama was unfolding. There were six of them and as before they were dressed in elegant black from head to foot. The monotone of their well-tailored lines, pinstripes and leather was only broken by the occasional silver watch chain or white lace. Each one had black hair and the colour somehow drained from their faces.
At the head of the procession walked a woman. She too was silent as she led them in their wide circling, and her long black skirts made no noise as she passed. Lip paint of the same tone blotted the last of any natural blush from her.
Max felt more out of his depth with these foreboding newcomers than the standard issue bully boys of five minutes earlier. There was no way of discerning whether they were now safe in the Goth's presence or if in fact things had taken a turn for the worse. Clearly the closed-mouthed onlookers felt just as unsure.
Max was about to say something, he wasn't quite sure what. But when he looked back to the woman, he found that she had stopped, and was likewise studying him, her finger to her black lips.
The walk began again.
Max's skin prickled and his jaw clenched hard in response to the unnamed power he sensed emanating from her. He tried to clear his head, steady his breathing. Clearly this women was a leader among the Goths, but what else she could be he had no idea.
None of the Goths took their dark eyes from the three friends, and only once did she turn to regard the frozen Ginger as she passed, as if to mock him with her movement.
Finally, she lead them to a stop, and Wiremu, Max and Wang were no longer surrounded by brawling first years, but encircled in darkness.
Still no one spoke.
She faced the three of them.
The other five Goths took up relaxed stances, folding their arms or glancing around at the onlookers. None of whom engaged the dark architects with greetings or catcalls, if anything they seemed to shrink back from contact.
The leader tilted her head to one side as she studied the three young men. Expressionless still. Then after a long moment she walked forward to stand in front of Wiremu. Raising a thin white hand she gently touched his swollen eye. He flinched but stood his ground. Then passing in front she gave Wang an approving nod before stopping again before Max.
She looked into his face, he, unmoving, looked back into hers. A light wind played in the strands of hair that had come astray from his pony tail, blowing them across his face. For a split second he saw her white teeth bite and draw in her lower lip. Then she raised a hand and with a stark white handkerchief tenderly wiped the blood away from below his nose. Then with the soft fabric folded and tucked away again she regarded him for a moment longer.
At some secret signal all six of them turned and returned into the Department of Architecture building.