Chapter 37
A Gift of Steel
"We are going back now," said Wiremu, as he watched the restless waves just off their ships starboard side, chin up and a distant, but somehow not detached, look in his eyes.
"Clearly," replied Max, next to him. To Max, Wiremu seemed, that morning, new or fresh, stronger.
"We are going back now..." repeated Wiremu, before adding; "...and you haven't yet resolved your feelings about Harriet."
It was true of course. Max gripped the side of the Lady Barkley and stared sightlessly at the green waves. The Northern Isle was now just a dark line on the horizon behind.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Is the sky blue?"
It wasn't, it was over cast, the proverbial hammered lead, threatening rain before they reached Collingwood.
Is that your meaning? It isn't obvious but you still know.
Max sighed.
"What can I say? There is little point in pretending that you are wrong."
Wiremu clicked his tongue.
"Of course not. I'm just not sure what you are going to do. We have tasks to get on with when we get back, not least lives to live. Hang we might even have to rescue Wang from Jasmine!" Max managed a chuckle at that. "I don't know. Make the pain your friend or some such," he finished, a note of desperation sounding in his voice.
Max forced a weak smile
"Wiremu you don’t need to worry that I will tend morose and… kill myself or some such. The more real risk is that I will seek out that end for Gilbert Lavisham."
"That does worry me," admitted Wiremu.
They lapsed into silence then, each to his own thoughts. Max hadn't enquired of Wiremu's night or of the meeting with Ikariki Maunga, guessing that they would both be stories best left to come out in their own time.
The Lady Barkley had reappeared at Wanganui docks the previous evening and her crew had set to offloading trade goods at once. She had been ready to return The Dominion it's brightest on the dawn tide.
Max and his classmates were all on board before Wiremu arrived, walking from between two dockside sheds and springing up the gang plank. Max had been trying not to worry and didn't think he had been. But still a great sigh of relief rushed out from him when his friend came into view.
Then with only moments until the ship’s apparent departure, two dugout canoes had come down the river and slipped past the waiting steamer. Amongst the paddling crews of each boat sat The Five. Kingi and Mahuika together in the first and the other three in the second. Where they had been these last few days, other than 'up river', was known only to them.
The canoes disappeared amongst the docked vessels and apparently found themselves a mooring, for within two minutes The Five were also stepping smugly on board.
The Lady Barkley's crew cast off, her whistle sent a plume of pure white steam into the air, and they were away.
"Julian Roil told me something interesting about Gilbert Lavisham," said Max.
"Oh?"
"Said that he is a member of a fencing club called; The Guild of Merchants and Gentlemen Adventurers."
"This is the thing that Dickie mentioned at the Iron Arena?" Wiremu recalled. "Said Charles Heaphy is the Grandmaster there, or something?"
"Corrected," confirmed Max. "The interesting bit is that this guild is what they apparently call a Men's Club."
"Meaning?"
"I needed to ask too. It means that they fence there with naked steel."
"Sounds dangerous."
"At a number of levels."
The returning students weren't the only ones travelling to Collingwood on The Lady Barkley. On board there was also a group of Māori Elders.
"Who are these?" asked Max of Wiremu, indicating the huddle at the bow. Wiremu sighed and didn't look.
"They are a delegation of... well, call them real estate agents. They are on-route to begin negotiations for the sale of tribal lands in The Dominion."
"Oh," responded Max, studying his friends face. "That is bad?"
"Indeed. Sooner than I had hoped. But it can't be helped. I'll see if I can find some coffee," and Wiremu wandered off.
Max knew that Wiremu wasn't showing his true feelings, but nor did he want to push him on it. If he was more honest with himself he would discover that he wanted to use his friend’s energy to maintain his own delicate equilibrium.
All things considered it had been a good few days in the Northern Isle. Possibly the best part being the uneventfulness of the stay. Sure, Hapimana had uttered dark words about The Five and factions within the tribes, and Wiremu had potentially met his real grandfather. But as they chugged away on the green swell Max felt that he had not been greatly reduced by the visit. If anything, the time away, though he chafed at the separation, had given his mind a rest. Of Rowan and the Goths, he had resolved to speak frankly with Dickie and find out what he knew. With regards to Harriet, he felt guilt and a slow hollow anger. But the time amongst the Māori had softened the blows that Tick had delivered and allowed the news he bore to become old, not being kept alive by the adding of subsequent episodes though proximity and involvement.
"No coffee," said Wiremu returning a few minutes later. But Max had his mind on something else.
"You know..." said Max. "...how you got those invitations for the Robot War addressed to Bill Marino?"
"Sure," answered Wiremu.
"I think they came from Harriet. I mean if they were watching her outgoing letters it makes sense to use an unknown name."
"Did you only just work that out?"
"Ah, well yes, as a matter-of-fact. Had you already?"
"Of course! Like you say, 'it makes sense'."
Max threw up his hands in mock frustration.
Wiremu seemed to pause for a moment, then repeated:
"No coffee” before adding “but I did find this." It was only then that Max noticed the rolled-up newspaper held loosely in his friend’s hand, and then the look of pity or maybe dread on his face.
"Yesterday's Dominion Press."
"Bad news?" asked Max hesitantly.
"Sorry Max," said Wiremu, spreading the paper on the top of the engine house and stabbing the news print with his finger. As Max read, Wiremu moved away again.
Jeremiah and Lady Lavisham along with Coval and Lady Leith join with their entire families in the pleasure of announcing the engagement of Master Gilbert Lavisham to be married to Miss Harriet Leith.
Max's heart missed several beats, and his world seemed to tilt away for a moment. To steady himself he gripped the outside edge of the engine cabin roof and wondered if he was about to throw his breakfast onto the deck.
Gasping, he slammed his fist onto the newspaper. In the engine room below, the Engineer who was taking a break slopped his cup of tea in fright at the sudden bang. If Max had been the only one on board he would have roared with the sickening mix of emotions, instead he clamped his jaw hard shut.
That's it then! Done. Sealed. Lost. Oh Harriet. All is stitched up and I am undone.
For a long moment he starred into the green wet, seeking to recover some form of that precious equilibrium, his mind racing away from him to explore all the dreadful implications of the few short lines of news print.
The door to Harriet had been completely closed. She was now a betrothed lady; she had moved to a completely different realm. But he, no matter their recent past, was reduced to an equal footing with every other man in the universe… whom she had not chosen. There was no other rank for him, no runners up. All losers, a majority he wished to be no part of, on the outside, with no way back in. It was over. He had been away, and she had gotten engaged! If he had ever really had a chance, he had missed it now.
Max always seemed to feel things in his stomach. Right then it felt like he had no insides at all. On wobbly legs he started pacing the deck.
Gradually, as the waves rolled past, he moved from melodrama though bitterness to melancholy. At the back of the boat, he stopped and gripped the stern rail, watching the swirl of wake below.
"What's the matter? Feeling sea sick Skilton?" said a snide voice behind him. Uncaring Max glanced back and saw that the speaker was Kingi Kuratahi. Mahuika was next to him on the bench.
"Leave him," she said, standing herself and making to go. "He has enough pain for one day. Love that shall go unreturned." And with that she and Kingi strode away.
* * *
"You've got your own worries," said Max quietly. Wiremu looked at him sceptically, as the rain hissed on the water all around them. Mercifully there was no wind to push the drips in under the tarpaulin awning that they shared with the other students, near the stern of the ship.
"If you insist."
"It's not that I insist Wiremu. I feel rotten to the core. But I don't wish to spend any more time on it. What choice do I have?"
"None. You need to get over it, or through it."
"Exactly! That's what I'm trying to do."
They were inside The Spit now, although the hills of the South Island were hidden from them in low rain clouds.
"Alright. Just don't be in denial?"
"What!? I'm not! I feel awful, like dying, the lowest of the low. Happy? Now can we talk about something else?"
"Sure."
Max wanted to hear about Wiremu's meeting with Ikariki Maunga, but still something stopped him from asking.
"What do you make of Hapimana's talk about this prophet fellow Rangiwhiro Matetai and his connection to Kingi?" he ventured instead. Wiremu sighed.
"I admit it troubles me. These things are how it has long been, the ongoing cycle of the blood feud. Hapimana talked about The Way..."
"He basically said that it was an old man's religion," interrupted Max.
"It isn't. Well not in theory. But it is only the old men who remember how much they needed it."
"How do you mean?" asked Max.
"Because they were alive during the time before the first Treaty. During what history has started to call the Musket Wars. They knew Utu."
"Who? No, I know. Revenge right?"
"Well utu is actually more about balance, reciprocation, of both kind deeds and yes; the seeking of revenge. But obviously any action that you take as rebalancing, your enemy will regard as a new attack, itself needing revenge and counter-balance. It's a see-saw that never rests." Wiremu scratched his head and looked back toward the far distant Northern Isle. "The coming of the Christ-light saved those old men. It changed their hearts and taught them forgiveness and reconciliation. Even the old murderer Te Rauparaha helped build the Rangiatea church in Otaki for Ngati-Awa, his enemies. My grandfather converted and dreamed of a land where all men would sit together at the table of brotherhood."
"But the young men? They haven't seen any of that transformation? They have only ever known the status-quo."
"I guess that is the point," agreed Wiremu. "They've listened to the words of this Rangiwhiro Matetai and now hunger for more."
"Land ho!" called one of the other students, enjoying the drama of his own voice. They all stood to confirm the sighting and sat again when done. The rain had eased off and they were closer than Max had expected. In minutes the Lady Barkley would be inside the encircling stone arms of Collingwood harbour.
Home again. The Britannic Dominion of New Zealand, God Bless. Iron and Steam.
The new term at Victoria would start in two days. Once more there would classes and exams, lunches with Wang and Wiremu to enjoy, piles of interesting library books to read, cricket and rugby football matches to avoid and Von Tempsky's sword classes to attend.
There might even be a new Von Tempsky paperback out.
Might have some damage control to do with Rebecca Salasor. Someone else to be avoided.
Wiremu tapped Max on the knee and pointed across to the stone work that made up the starboard side breakwater at the harbour entrance. There, next to the green beacon tower, a lone figure stood waiting. She wore a blue three-quarter length coat and held her chin high into the rising wind. Her red hair was unmistakable.
* * *
The Lady Barkley docked in the twilight and although Max was desperate to get onshore and along down the breakwater end, he and Wiremu watched as the others departed first. Most of the students mounted the platform of the harbour terminus and purchased tickets to their home stations. The Five simply walked away into Gibbstown, making for their lodgings at the old Pā site on the end of the point. But the elders who had crossed over from Wanganui were met on the quayside by a second and similar looking group. The two parties exchanged handshakes and hongi.
"Who are these?" asked Max, as he and Wiremu edged past. Wiremu studied them closely, then whispered;
"They are also visitors. Ngāti Toa from Porirua."
"Also on the Northern Isle?"
"Indeed, just north of Freeport. Te Rauparaha's old tribe."
"Oh."
"Indeed. They shall be the real power brokers here."
Max quickly stowed his bags in a station locker, before taking his leave of Wiremu with a hand shake. Wiremu joined the other students waiting for a train and Max slipped away across the rail yard and through the harbour-side industry.
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The drizzle seemed to have the stevedores running at a more sedated pace than normal. Though here and there the rusting cranes that towered over it all came alive to swing cargoes to and from the holds and decks of various waiting vessels and railway wagons. As always Red Billed Gulls squawked indignantly at offending fishing boats and little 'docksider' locomotives fussed about on their endless shunting duties.
Max marched past ranks of moored ships, the name plates on each not only the telling the boats titles but the attitudes of their owners; the daring Ocean Ranger, the massive City of San Francisco, the Camphill and the little Penguin. Captain Wilks' torpedo boat the HMS Harrier was moored on the far side, but Alistair Steward's Elizabeth III was not in port.
With heart racing he followed a rail-line off the dockside and out onto the spine of the stone breakwater. He was about to… Harriet… he wasn’t sure. When the line finished he stepped around the buffers and his feet found the shingle track atop the great limestone boulders from which the arm had been built. On the outside waves slapped the breakwater and noisily filled the cracks between the rocks, while on the calm inner the occasional resident fur seal peered up at him with baleful eyes.
He couldn't see Harriet out at the end. He hoped she would be behind the barrel-like bulk of the navigation beacon, hidden from the view of the city at his back. Reaching the beacon, he paused for a moment to retie the black ribbon that held his ponytail in place and steady his breathing. Then, swallowing once, he stepped out from behind the rotund concrete structure.
With arms folded Harriet stood in the middle of an open area, her back to him, looking out to sea. He felt nervous, scared and desperate all at once. The emotions... the love he felt for her… now apparently right in front of him... the news he had just read in the paper... his own guilt and regret... all tumbled about inside him. He paused, unsure how to announce his presences. And saw, to his surprise, that at her waist, crossed in an X, hung two scabbards, a sword within each.
While he was still paused she turned and looked at him. Max stared back. There was no doubt in his mind that she had known he was there, known that he would come. Her hair was beaded with rain or sea mist and hung heavy down the back of her blue jacket. A strand had been drawn from each temple and fixed behind, making the appearance of a circlet crown and lending her the look of a Celtic princess. The golden hoop earrings that somehow had become Max's favourites adorned her ears. Neither spoke as he approached.
He stood in front of her, almost unable to meet her eyes. Still, he forced his chin up and looked her in the face. He wanted to go to her, comfort her for all she had suffered and would suffer at the hands of Gilbert Lavisham, but at the same time he wished to run away in shame for the hurt he had added to her. Instead, even in the gathering gloom, he saw the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the turn of her lips, the life in her eyes, the elegance, the unattainable beauty of her. The wind blew and overwhelmed by it all Max dropped to his knees in the gravel at her feet.
"I have come too late," he said with hung head, and lengths of wet, black hair fell forward despite his earlier preparation. After a moment she placed a gloved hand gently on his head.
"You have," she confirmed with a tone that communicated both mercy and near unbearable finitude. "But we never did have time. I'm sorry I hurt you with false hope. You captured my heart Max Skilton." She came down then, cupped his face in her hands and almost brushed his ear with her lips. And he nearly sobbed out loud at her words. "You captured my heart, and I could not help myself. I'm so sorry I hurt you Max, my love."
"Is there nothing?" he whispered, broken with revelation and at the end of himself.
"In another world," she began, drawing him back to his feet. "In a heartbeat. But not in this one."
He held her hands, at arm’s length and watched as a tear formed and rolled down her cheek. What else was there, but to watch? She was engaged now. Even this meeting was scandalous.
"But know that I looked for you," she continued. "That I cared for you, right from the moment you blocked my path in the alleyway between Chemistry and Physics, clutching the last copy of Arthur Rigg’s new steam engine thesis to your chest." She tried a smile. "I was late to the library that day and they told me that a Max Skilton had gotten the last one. And that he wasn't even an Engineer! At first I wondered if you had appeared just to mock me with it."
Max couldn't believe what he was hearing. All this time.
"I got that book out," he stammered. "Just to know you. For the only reason, that in reading it, I might have something to one day talk to you about."
She seemed to crumple in on herself at that, hugging her hands to her chest. Max reached out and drew her to him, wrapping her in his arms. And there, against his chest she sobbed.
"I love you Harriet Leith," he whispered into her wet hair. But it did nothing to ease her suffering. "I love you."
After a long moment, not long enough for Max, she pushed gently away. And their eternal separation had begun. A great coldness rushed in to replace the warmth where she had just been tucked into him. Right then he would have rather held her like that, in the drizzle, in the deepening night, nestled against himself, forever, than face the future which he now did. He almost asked her back.
"No. I must be strong," she mumbled, casting about with wet eyes.
"Why must you be strong!?" he demanded suddenly. "Why can't you be happy?"
"I must be strong to endure what is to happen to me."
"Marrying Lavisham?"
She shook her head.
"Watching you walk away."
"Then I shan't."
She shook her wet head in misery.
"You have to."
"I shan't."
But unnoticed by Max she had slowly moved, circling him, so that his back was now to the sea and hers was toward the beacon and the city.
"You will. And one day you will thank me for it."
"That day shall not come."
"It must."
"It will not be me who walks away."
"Then I must make you," she finished sadly.
Max watched as her hand dropped to the hilt of one of the rapiers at her waste. She drew the weapon in one fluid motion. A length of silver flashed before his eyes as she tested it with double slashes. It was no practice piece, but naked, edged steel. Then she presented him with the hilt end.
"What madness is this," he asked, not touching the offered sword.
"Fight for me Max," she whispered in response.
Max found his hand closing around the hilt. He had never used an edged sword before… besides Gerard's old Naval cutlass. Harriet took her hand from the blade. The balance of the weapon felt perfect. With the sword held out in front of him Max found his legs automatically assuming the standard stance. Harriet drew out her second sword.
There was a good wind coming off the sea now and with the setting of the sun the drizzle had begun again.
"No!" said Max suddenly, lowering the sword. "This is the last thing I want to be doing with you." She just looked back at him; her face heavy with sadness. "These are not practice weapons," he continued.
"The time for practicing is nearing an end," she responded flatly.
What does that mean?
But he didn't have time to ponder it, for all at once she came at him with a cruel overhand stroke that seemed aimed at his head. His own sword went up, almost of it's on volition, and met the blow. The sound of the blades kiss rang across the water.
"I do think you mean to kill me!" gasped Max.
Harriet shook her head.
"I mean for you to thrive." And she came at him again. He parried the attack away.
"Strange form of nurture!" he gasped in shock.
But she just gritted her teeth and attacked again, this time a high double. Max stumbled back parrying as he went. He could feel the resentment building almost at once. He wanted to yell at her to stop.
Maybe that is what she wants? To turn me against her.
He knew that sometimes young ladies were cruel to unsuitable suitors as a way of turning their attentions aside, a kind of cruel kindness.
What to do? Get offended? Let her plan work, storm off wanting nothing to do with her ever again? Does she really want me to do that? Right now, she believes it's her only choice. Maybe it is? So, storm off? Or fight her, refuse to be so easily dissuaded?
This time when she attacked he stood his ground and parried the blows flat-footed.
I'm not going to attack you Harriet.
This is an amazing sword!
He flicked the tip wide and right to foil an incoming swipe, then low and left to the same effect. The weapon responded as if it were a part of him.
She'll cut me if I'm off my game!
She tested all his defensive blocks and guards, working him to the limit of his training. But still his quick sword met her every attempt.
"I have looked for you..." he said echoing her earlier phrasing "...from the moment I first saw you. When you were working on your robot at last year’s final robot race." Parry! Harriet's attacks did not let up. "I have cared for you since you stood up to McCormack and had the crowd shout for a rematch."
Again the blows came, again he parried them away.
"Yet you ignored me that night at the Railway Hotel. You spent the whole night with your back turned!" She hacked in three times.
She does remember!
"Because I couldn't bare seeing you with him!"
She faltered, and Max suddenly attacked for the first time. She wasn't ready for it and in one quick swing he had her blade trapped against her chest and his hand was over her shoulder and behind her head. Holding her he pushed forward and between their crossed swords, kissed her full on the lips. She did not resist, completely, at first. But after a short moment she fell back and cried;
"You're killing me Max! I do love you! I'll always love you! But it can never be!"
He could taste sea salt and her tears on his lips. She looked at him a moment, her sorrow unmistakable, then hove in yet again, her sword an arch of silver in the half light. Max fended it away.
"He beats you Harriet! He beats you!"
If Max had expected her to show any reaction to that he was disappointed. She knew, as well as anyone, the full horror of what Gilbert Lavisham was. "I cannot abide it!" he shouted and went to step around her, like he would seek out Lavisham and run him through. But he found the tip of her sword at his throat.
"You must," she said with grim finality.
Max stepped back and it was like sudden ropes bound him and held them apart. Ropes of family and commitment, big ship ropes of expectations and predetermined destiny, anchor chains of time and space. All the binds were too much. He blinked in realisation.
She was right. They would never be together when the first battle in the war was against Harriet herself. He growled with frustration and striding forward swung his sword, but this time she was ready. The blow was deflected away, and she counter attacked. Max parried and countered, and all at once the dance of swords began. Blow for blow, parry for counterattack, each working to exploit and expose the other, springing forward, sliding back.
Initially Max was scared of hurting Harriet but as the contest drew on he began to question his own safety. He remained confused about what was motivating her. At first he had thought that she was trying to drive him away, but now it felt like... she was trying to keep him here. Maybe to prevent him going after Gilbert.
As the day's natural light faded further the green light atop the beacon came on. Harriet's eyes flashed in the strange new twilight, and she came in with a series of thrusts and swings that blurred before Max's eyes and he only just managed to push the kill stroke aside.
It would be worth remembering that pattern. If it was a pattern.
For the next few minutes Harriet seemed to show him any number little tricks and subtle moves that he had not encountered before. Each also worth memory.
Then, down by her hip, she suddenly opened her fingers and waved her hand. At once his eye was drawn to the unexpected movement and just as quickly the point of her sword was resting under his chin. Max swallowed.
"Don't let yourself be distracted," she said, before whipping the sword away once more and bringing it in again for another attack. Max parried this away and the duel found it's rhythm again. After another minute or so she did the waving hand feint again, but this time Max only noted it at the edge of his vision, before ignoring it completely. Lesson learnt. Then while he was wondering how much longer it could go on, Harriet lowered her sword.
Her hair was plastered to her head by the rain, Max guessed his was too. The beacon at her back cast her eyes in dark shadow, but Max's, he knew were fully illuminated to her. She was breathing heavy, though the noise of the wind and the risen tide governed all other sound.
Harriet extended her sword once more, pointing the tip at Max, and backed away. Reaching the shadow of the beacon tower she nodded once, as if in approval, and said,
"Goodbye Max."
Then she was gone, spinning away and disappearing into the darkness. Max ran to where she had been but knew at once that she was beyond the light and running, unseen, down the back of the breakwater. He peered into the murk and rain. The beam from the Egyptian Lighthouse, perched high on the hill above the city, swept unhelpfully far overhead. He knew that he could run and maybe catch her, but there was no point.
As he turned to go his foot kicked something on the ground. Bending he retrieved a long black scabbard from where it had fallen or been dropped. He slid the matched silver sword home and set his face in the same direction.