Chapter 40

Return

As they stuffed as many coins as they could carry into their packs Max noted that the cave had lost its terrors, the Taniwha had been bested, its power broken. The cave and its golden cache were now theirs. Later at the 'skull wall' the bones now seemed like old friends and the guardian Tekoteko almost comical.

Before setting off they had needed to unload a good few coins again, both having enthusiastically underestimated the weight of the combined metal. Even then Max worried that the stitching in his new canvas packs might not last the trip and give out, depositing their treasure amongst the jumble of rocks on the cave floor.

If the journey into the underworld had been filled with superstitious imaginings of encounters with the denizens of darkness, the climb back to the surface produced more mundane but equally worrying fears in Max. Deep in the cave, next to the dragon, with his back to the wall, he felt safe. In the earth, in the cover of darkness they had some control, some form of protection and concealment. But now each step back toward the surface produced greater and greater feelings of vulnerability. It seemed to Max that their discovery must surely be news already, and that when they did at last step back into the light the gold would suddenly blaze like the sun in their hands and every eye in the Empire would be drawn to it.

How could they win free with such treasure? Surely malevolent hordes would spring upon them at once and deprive them of their so recently won booty.

They were puffing as they neared the cave mouth. Wiremu stopped Max with his hand.

"Listen," he commanded in a whisper. Max did as he was bid and heard it at once.

Silence.

"No birds," breathed Max.

"Exactly."

The tuis and skylarks that had been notably loud in and above the forest, just beyond the curtain of vines, only three hours ago were now quiet. The pair stood and listened as the westering sun sent staffs of golden light though the leaves.

"Something is wrong out there," said Wiremu after a moment.

"I was afraid you'd say that," responded Max, shifting the weight on his back. "Any ideas?"

Wiremu shook his head and moved to the cave entrance where he carefully drew aside some vines. Max joined him and together they peered out, over the tree tops, across the gully and out to the road with its fence made of ships timber and beyond to the shining sea.

"No one on the road," observed Max.

"No," agreed Wiremu after a moment. "And let's hope that there is no one in the forest between here and there. Maybe just a falcon about and all the birds keeping quiet least they become dinner."

"Shall we wait till dark?" asked Max.

Wiremu shook his head.

"I don't imagine that the people at the Karaka hostel will appreciate us appearing unannounced out of the night."

Good point.

They had decided that their best hope of getting back to the city any time soon was to seek lodging for the night at Karaka, then in the morning enquiring if there was a boat going around the Spit to Collingwood.

"We need to push on then," said Max. "It's still a good few hours till dusk."

"Let's not linger on the hillside once we are out of here. That sun will show us up for miles."

Max nodded and followed Wiremu though the curtain. Outside the cave he felt naked and exposed, then a moment later and with a slide of lose stones, the two friends and their heavy packs ducked into the apparent safety of the trees.

Deeper in the gully they re-entered the steam bed and began using it to retrace their footsteps back toward the road. It was enough to support the heavy packs and keep their feet on the slippery stones, but the lattice of branches above their heads obscured the sky and cast the path in a patchwork of light and gloom. This muddled with Max's senses and coupled with the strangely quiet forest, threatened to unnerve him. The forest seemed full of eyes, fiends behind each trunk.

As they walked Max relentlessly scanned the surrounding trees and rocks for some sign of an attacker. Wiremu was obviously doing the same.

"I don't like it," he whispered. The stream had led them into the lee of a high bank.

"Nor do I," responded Wiremu from in front. "Nor do I. In fact, I think we should abandon the idea of using the high road altogether and follow the steam right to the beach. It'll keep us out of sight and get us down to the foot of the sea cliffs. We'll be able to skirt around to the Flax Mill from there."

Max was about to voice his reluctant agreement, he didn't want to stay a moment longer in the creepy forest, went the gully suddenly filled with a strange hissing sound, pulsing and growing in volume. It recalled to his confused mind the memory of a rattlesnake he had seen at the zoo. At once he looked back the way they had come expecting to see a great snakelike Taniwha slithering down the stream after them.

Nothing.

But still the noise grew. He looked at Wiremu and saw his eyes wide with fear. Max knew that his friend's face was a mirror of his own. Suddenly the leaves on the trees around them started trembling and a great dark shadow filled the gully! Max pulled Wiremu back so that their backs pressed against the mossy bank. He was starting to panic now, he had no category for what was happening, the sound was inside his head, a great chugging hiss.

"What is it?!" he mouthed at Wiremu. But his friend only shook his head, eyes toward the dark three tops. Max wished for a sword, anything, and he began looking about for a branch, his mind repeatedly failing to comprehend what form their attacker would take. Then the dim light returned, and the unearthly sound faded, and again they could hear the sound of the water around their boots.

They were both puffing loudly in the near silence and Wiremu had beads of sweat on his brow. "Let's get out of here."

Max couldn't agree more. He didn't know what had just happen... a swarm of bees... a flock of mutton birds coming in to nest... nothing made sense, and he didn't want to stay and find out.

The stream wound its way toward the seaside and eventually the track came down and forded it in the floor of a small valley. For some time they hid in bushes near the road and watched. When no one came, Max wasn't sure who they expected, they darted across the open space as if the sky was about to fall on them and re-entered the trees on the other side.

The stream was dark now, deep and slow moving. They followed it from its banks toward the roar of the sea.

"What..." began Max.

"I really don't know..." interrupted Wiremu, reading his mind. "But it scared the hang out of me."

Max stepped through a jumble of veins.

"We are jumpy because of the gold... But even then..."

"I know. I just want to get back to the city and get this all squared away. I'm telling myself it was some strange wind and a low cloud. Maybe a freak twister off the sea."

"How is that working for you?"

"Not very well," Wiremu confessed.

Max knew how he was feeling. When they had crossed the road the sky was clear, a few high clouds, and a light breeze, not the kind of whether for freak twisters. He wanted to get back to the city quickly too.

Young gents like us don't just find their fortunes sitting waiting for them in caves. We are never confronted with more gold than we can carry. We don't simply walk away with untold wealth. Something happens to stop us. Fairy tales don't come true.

Max failed to rationalise away the weird sound in the forest and the sight of the shaking leaves. He had read too much about Egyptian archaeology, about strange curses said to be placed on tombs in ancient times, and the spooky misfortunes that had befallen some of those who had removed such treasures.

The sound could have been the souls of the Chinese crew out hunting for their stolen coins.

"Here we are," announced Wiremu, leading them though the crease in the hills, out of the scrub and into waist high flax. The stream dropped away in slick steps, spilling its dark water onto the beach below. A brisk wind brew from the south and before them the Tasman Sea folded its waves onto the sand.

"Looks about half tide," observed Max, with relief. If the water had been full in the beach would be gone and with it their easy road back to Karaka.

Although the round boulders at the base of the sea cliff and their fringe of collected driftwood were only a few metres below, descending to them was no easy feat. The rock sides of the stream were covered with slime and seeping green moss. The only hand holds of any use came in the form of green flax plants that grew hard up against the edge of the little creek. The final handicap was the fact that they each had a dead weight of gold tied to their backs. After ten minutes of near slides, wet back sides and desperate clutching at plants, they made it safely to the sand.

"Right let’s go," commanded Wiremu, adjusting his pack straps and turned into the north.

As soon as Max had scrabbled down the bank of driftwood and pebbles that marked the high tide mark and reached the firm wet sand, he turned and glanced back down the beach. His heart missed a beat.

"There are people back there! Back down the beach," he hissed, jogging up next to Wiremu.

"How many?" asked Wiremu, resisting the temptation to look back himself and walking on.

"At least three. And they don't look like fishermen."

"Head down, keep walking, let’s get around the point."

And they didn't look like fishermen either, clothed completely in black, walking abreast up the coast. Two wore hats and the one in the middle... despite the trousers... was a woman.

We've walked out in front of them. Plan as day!

Not that they had any choice, once they were down the cliff there was no way back up and there was nowhere to hide. They just had to walk on, innocent like. But there was no more than one hundred and fifty metres in it.

On the other hand the point seemed miles away and it wasn't really a point, more just the curve in the headland as it gave way to the river mouth. There was however long, low eroded fingers of rock protruding out across the beach, toward the sea.

"Maybe we can hide in those," ventured Max, indicating the black shapes laying across their path. Unconsciously they had both started walking a little faster.

"Hope so," responded Wiremu studying the near distance. But his words died on his lips. "Look!"

Up ahead, amongst the rocks there were more people. They hadn't seen the two friends yet, but it was only a matter of time. For now, they moved amongst the rocks, bent double, looking... long black plaits hanging down their backs.

"The crew from the Chinese ship," stated Max, his heart starting to race.

"Indeed. And behind us?"

"Jasmine and her two boyfriends."

Wiremu nodded his agreement.

Walk on.

"Let’s run past them, get by before they see us, reach Karaka," said Max. It was all he could think of. Wiremu was about to answer when a sudden gun shot rang out behind them and a bullet plucked the sand a few metres to their left, sending a tower of sand into the air. They watched up ahead as, alerted by the sound, twenty Chinese faces swung to stare down the beach at them.

There goes that plan.

"Blast!" spat Wiremu.

This is the part where the fairy tale comes to an end.

The crew members straightened from their work amongst the rocks and forming a lose line started walking toward them. Max could feel the panic rising in his chest. To their left was the tossing sea, to the right unconquerable cliffs.

Trapped.

He looked at Wiremu and saw the muscles working in is jaw.

"Close, we got close," said his friend.

Walk on.

Up ahead a couple of the sailors had produced curved sabres. Max could see their board blades glinting blight in the sun. As Wiremu turned to look over his shoulder a second shot was fired.

"Stop!" came the command from behind them. Their feet obeyed of their own accord. Max joined Wiremu in turning to face their three black followers. These were much closer now and coming on fast. One of the men carried a Winchester, but Jasmine and the other appeared empty handed. She wore a long black coat, and her hair was pulled back into a single braid.

"She's not looking so flash," remarked Wiremu. And even at a distance Max could see the purple black bruising around her left eye.

"What are you two doing?" she called when they were close enough.

Max didn't answer.

"Collecting shellfish," called back Wiremu.

"Really?" responded Jasmine, doubtfully. "Leave the packs and you can go."

"I don't believe that," said Wiremu, out the corner of his mouth. "Or what?" he called back.

"Or we shoot you!" she responded flatly. They were still a good forty metres away, but the sound of the gunmen cocking his carbine's lever and driving the next bullet into the chamber carried clearly.

Easy shots.

"What is this about my lady?" called Max.

Jasmine rocked her head to one side before answering.

"Why it's the end of the game Max. Now drop the packs!"

The rifle swung up and was levelled on them. The sailors approaching from behind scurried sideways, out of the line of fire.

"I guess we drop the packs," mumbled Wiremu.

"We can go back for more," sighed Max, loosening his pack.

"They will never let us escape with that knowledge," said Wiremu, still squinting at Jasmine.

"Take my pack," said Max suddenly. "Wear it on your front. You will have some protection from the gunman."

Wiremu smiled back at his friend.

"Your heroism is... well... touching. Thank you. But I think I'll save myself the trouble. Probably just sink into the sand." Wiremu started unburdening himself of his pack. "I'm thinking hard Max... really trying to come up with something..." He straightened up, the pack hanging from his hand. "But you know what?"

"You're not coming up with anything?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't be." Max fought the need to lay down; to make himself small, such was the violent potential of the rifle pointed at them. "We could die here... aye?"

"We could," confirmed Wiremu.

Max clicked his tongue. He knew he was going to sound braver than he felt. But being together with his best friend in the world, meant something, lent him some measure of courage.

"It's been good Wiremu. Thanks for... well everything."

"It has been," agreed the grandson of the last Chief in the Aorere. "Thanks for being... you... Max Skilton."

They were silent then and for the lack of a better plan stood together, staring at Jasmine and her gunman.

"Drop the bags and walk..." she started calling, but the last half of the sentence was lost, drowned out by a strange hissing sound. Max watched her lips moving, trying to make out what she was saying, puzzled and only slowly becoming aware of the noise. He shook his head to try to clear it, but nothing happened, the sound was everywhere. The same sound as from in the forest. Growing, pulsing, hissing and now clanking. He could hear the sailors starting to shout behind them and quickly looked toward the ocean encase a sea swell was about to engulf them all. But there was nothing, only the continued break and foam of the waves. Jasmine and her two guards were looking up at the sky, faces suddenly pale.

"Keep hold of your pack," muttered Wiremu, as Max turned to see where they were all looking.

Out from above the top of the cliff slid the elegant cigar shape of a great dirigible, gas bag above and gondola hanging beneath. With it came the sound of hot steam engines and throbbing roto-fans. Everyone on the beach was clearly dumb struck, the new arrival plainly not part of the Chinese's plan. The sailors, Jasmine and her men had all stopped in their tracks.

Suddenly a staccato of shots broke out from beneath the machine's basket, from where... Max couldn't believe his eyes... hung the smoking, spinning, multiple barrels of a Gatling type machine gun! The sailors all threw themselves down on the wet sand.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The shots burst out again as the weapon ground around.

A large bronze trumpet had been attached to the side of the gondola, and from it there now boomed a familiar voice.

"Drop the rifle!"

Jasmine's shooter did as he was told.

The airship came around and descended smoothly to glide just above the sand. The lethal weapon hanging below the gondola remained trained on the three in black the whole time.

"Come on you two!" shouted Dickie, as the dirigibles side door sprung open. The two friends didn't need to be told twice. Clutching their heavy bags they ran. Jasmine and Co stood still, faces flushed in helpless anger, watching their prize slip away. But they dared not move, least the Gatling cut them to bloody ribbons.

Wiremu and Max tossed their bags through the open door, so that they landed with heavy sounding 'clunks' on the floor, next to Wang, who was apparently operating the gun though a trap door. Wang's eyes went wide with surprise at the sound, but a moment later he was hauling his two friends into the bobbing gondola.

"All aboard?!" chanted Dickie from the steering wheel, and not waiting for a reply he began heaving on levers. The engines started to pound away with increased speed and in a moment the floor began to pitch back. "Don't roll into the boiler you lot," cautioned their pilot.

Dickie was wearing a grey suit, bowler hat and apart from a pair of bronze goggles and big leather gloves, he didn't appear to look like he had been planning to go flying today.

"Boy are we glad to see you two," remarked Max, straightening his own waist coat and sitting up.

"Looked a little tight," called back Dickie. "Here we go."

But just then there was a thump against the wicker weave side of the gondola, a moment later an arm reached over, the hand of which grabbing Max by the hair. Max screamed in shock and pain. Wang, springing up, screamed in anger. His fist shot down, connected with flesh and the grip on Max broke. But not before three more faces had appeared at the side of the basket.

"Don't let them away!" they heard Jasmine screeching.

"Too much weight!" shouted Dickie. "Get them off!"

No one needed to be told, all three were already on their feet and desperately smashing at the sailors faces with their fists. The attackers struck back, clinging to the side and trying to get on board all at the same time.

Max's glanced over and was surprised to see that they were still only a metre off the ground. Furthermore the southerly wind had the gas bag now and they were listing broadside along the beach, starting to travel at some speed. Then the wind spun the air ship around and Max could look back at Jasmine, who had also started running toward them. Behind her the gunman had retrieved his Winchester, but there appeared to be sand in the mechanism.

He'll have it working again in moments.

The basket ploughed into more sailors who were either trying to spring on board or scramble out of the way. Wang dropped back to the floor and flinging open a trap door, reached for the machine gun hung beneath. Sailors clung to the outside of the gondola as if their combined weight would drag it back to the earth. Max punched at a one, while Wiremu, thinking more clearly, had grabbed up the iron stoker from the boiler. Not a moment too soon either, for one of the sailors with a sword had appeared.

"Get them off!" roared Dickie again, twisting taps and bending a good brass telescope over the head of an attacker who had appeared at his side.

As the iron poker meet the sword for the first time the Gatling suddenly barked to life again. Sailors screamed in terror and fell away on all sides, and the dirigible sprung into the air like a dog whose leash had finally broken. The swordsman chose that moment to make his exit and jumped away, landing safely on the soft sand a few metres below. But one of his fellows still fought on and when Wang final dispatched him he had quite a fall and went with a scream.

"We're away," gasped Max, joining the other two at the gunwale to peer over the side. But the Winchester fired and all four of them ducted down again. Crack! It fired again.

"Don't let him hit the engine!" commanded Dickie.

"How can we stop him!?" barked Max.

"I dunno. Stand in front of it."

Crack! Crack! The first shot ricocheted off the engine's iron casing. But the second found a pipe and suddenly the air was filled with a jet of whistling hot stream.

"Blast! Blast! Blast!" cursed Dickie, peering at the rupture for a moment before feverishly turning taps and tapping gauges. Max could feel the lift go out of the airship almost at once, the ascent slowed, then... then starting to become a descent again.

"Do something Dickie!" he pleaded. The Chinese had picked themselves up and were starting to jog along the beach after the wounded monster.

"Like what!?" the inventor shouted back, his frizzy black hair wild in the wind.

"Fix it!" commanded Max. Dickie blinked a couple of times.

"Of course." Then leaving the wheel, he strode past them, produced a pair of clamp pliers from his belt and pinched off the offending pipe. The steam jet died away and at once the dirigible regained its lift. Thankfully the shooter didn't seem to have any more bullets.

"There's Karaka," said Wiremu. Sure enough they were almost level with the flax mill now, having drifted north along the beach. All the workers were standing in the yard by piles of harvested fibre, shielding their eyes with hands, to watch the smoking airship drift past.

"What's with this ship up ahead?" called Dickie over his shoulder. Max came up to stand next to him and looking down saw the Chinese ship moored in the river mouth.

"Sorry, should have mentioned that. She's Chinese too. Keep away from it."

"Easier said than done. This wind is going to carry us right over it."

There was feverish activity among the crew remaining on the ship. Max studied them and saw at once that they were preparing long rifles.

"Get height!" he shouted. "They are about to shoot us down!"

Below the sailors worked in pairs, one resting the extended barrel on his shoulder, the other cocking the weapon... and taking aim. "Wang! Wang! Use the Gatling on them, now!"

Wang and Dickie both turned to look at Max, puzzled expressions on their faces.

"Ah Max," ventured Dickie. "It's does work... the Gatling I mean... I told you that last week."

"But..."

Wang held up a string of little blight red explosives.

Double Happys.

"A bluff," he said, almost apologetically. Max was gob smacked.

So there was no ring of dead sailors back down on the beach?

"Oh that's just great! You two..."

Bang! A hole suddenly appeared in the wooden planked floor between Max and Wang. Bang! A second between Max and Dickie. Wood chips sprinkled down as the bullet passed on up into the gas bags. Max could feel the terror rising.

I'm going to get shot right up the ass!

Dickie was cranking on the ships steering wheel and it appeared to be stuck.

"Does that matter?!" shouted Max. "The holes in the balloon?"

"Not our biggest problem," responded Dickie over his shoulder. "The steering is jammed. Wang take a look."

"Hang on. I've got something," called Wang, producing a large red rocket from a wooden crate, just as another shot burst thought the floor and a second hit the engine with a terrible metallic crunch.

"There is no hang on," barked Dickie. "I can't turn, and the wind is going to smash us into those cliffs!" But Wang already had the rockets fuse lit from the boiler's firebox and was at the side pointing it down toward the ship. "Wiremu! Have a look over the stern would you," commanded Dickie.

With a shower of sparks the rockets powder took, and it raced away from Wang's hands. Wiremu moved to the back of the gondola as Max and Wang watched the firework's flight. To their delight Wang's aim was true and the missile landed on the ship's deck. For a moment nothing happened, and their hearts dropped, the barrels of the rifles swinging up once more. Then the entire topside of the ship was covered in racing orange sparks, loud popping fire demons set lose and ready to play. Crewmen ran screaming, batting at their clothes and some jumping overboard and into the river.

"Won't keep em busy for long," said Wang, and already Max could see the last sparks fading.

"Anything Wiremu?" called Dickie, still heaving at the reluctant wheel. Max looked to the steep cliff face ahead. Now suddenly very near, it's vertical, bush draped ramparts threatening to do to the airship what the Chinese rifles had just failed to achieve. Something needed to change right then. Spinning around Max saw Wiremu leaning over the rear of the gondola, but then with a sickening smack, almost flying backward and landing on his rump!

"That's done it!" called Dickie, swiftly winding the wheel and beginning to turn the dirigible away from destruction. But Max had his mind on other things, Wiremu sat up, shook his head and yelled;

"She's there!"

A moment later Jasmine sprung, like a cat, over the side rail and into the gondola! Hooked silver claws were attached to her hands, and she hissed as he charged at them. Max gapped up the iron poker as Wang ran to meet the new threat. Wiremu groped to his feet blood dripping from his nose.

Max swung first, but she clean jumped right over his attempt, apparently focused solely on Wang. Max staggered to the stern and just managed to stop himself from ploughing into the loudly protesting engine. Jasmine closed on Wang and the pair engaged in mind bogglingly fast hand to hand combat.

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"What's happening back there!?" called Dickie, before turning to look for himself. "Hell’s teeth! Where did she come from?"

"Must have clung to the back," groaned Wiremu, nursing his head and not taking his eyes from the combat.

"Do something. Get her off!" roared Dickie. But Max and Wiremu could only stand flat footed and watch the battle. Jasmine's claws raked at Wang, but his hands were just as fast and each time he turned her attacks aside.

But her defence was just as good, and Wang was hard pressed to land a blow. A moment later it didn't matter. For Dickie 'did something' or more to the point failed to do something, and the dirigible slammed broadside into the cliff face!

That gave pause to the battle raging mid-deck as all five on board were flung to the port-side. No one kept their feet. Wang and Jasmine rolled across the floor, seeming almost to absorb the crash into their conflict. The gondolas timbers and wickerwork cracked and popped fearfully at the impact. The packs of coins slid across the floor, ramming hard into the side. One burst open spilling gold over the deck.

Max, with his hands up to protect himself, was winded on the gunwale and even touched his palms to the rough stone of the cliff. Then the gulf opened up once more and the airship practically bounced off the rock face. Max pushed himself away from the void in fright.

Dickie, blood running down his face, regained the wheel and Wiremu, clutching ribs, retook his feet. Wang and Jasmine squared off once more.

Max staggered past the engine, which was now hissing and complaining like a beached whale. Gaining Wang's wooden chest, he crouched down and opened it. Inside were all kinds of bright coloured fireworks, most of which had subtleties of function that where completely lost on him. But his fist closed around a string of the little red double happys and he drew them out.

Dickie had the airship back under control and it was fighting the wind, heading back out over the river. Max drew open the door on the boiler firebox, burning his fingers in the process, and thrust the woven fuse into the flames. He could hear that the shooters on the ship had opened fire again, but where the bullets went he couldn't tell.

Wang was desperate. This was the second time that day that he had fought with the she-devil, and his body was growing weaker and his reactions slower by the moment. His shoulder throbbed where she had managed to rake him with a claw. Blood seeped out of his arm in five separate runnels. That she hadn't tipped the steel points with poison was something. He'd be dead already if she had. He was only vaguely aware of such thoughts. Their survival was his only concern. If he couldn't stop her, she would tear the dirigible and his friends apart. He fought on.

From the moment that he had first seen Jasmine in Chinatown Wang had increased his daily training routine. That fact was only just keeping him alive now, only just turning aside her attacks.

Suddenly a great pile of double happys were exploding around Jasmine's feet. For a moment she was distracted. Wang sprung away, jumped for the side of the airship, out and away.

His hands gripped a vertical rope, out, around and back he came, feet first. Across the deck he flew, the soles of his feet landing square and high on Jasmine’s chest.

"Off bitch," he spat, as she shot backward at the impact. The back of her legs hit the gunwale, her feet changed place with her head and over she went.

Max and Wang rushed to the side in time to see her fall and soundlessly smash into the forest below.

"Get us home Dickie," called Max.

"Ay, ay, Captain!" retorted Dickie, cranking on handles. "Wiremu, release all of those sand bags. We are in poor shape. Max, clean up all your gold."

Max turned to assess what kind of shape they were in and at once saw Wiremu sitting against the side, his face pale, eyes closed and a hand pressed against his side, sticky with blood.

He's dead! Wiremu is dead!

Max staggered to his friend's side and fell to his knees. Wang joined him a moment later.

"Wiremu!" called Max, shaking his shoulder. Wiremu's eyes flickered open.

"They shot me," he whispered. "Shot me right though."

"You are going to be alright!" lied Max.

"Keep your hand on it," commanded Wang. "Keep the pressure on."

"Right through," murmured Wiremu again.

Max reached his hand around behind Wiremu's back and pulled it away again... slick with blood.

"Wiremu! Sandbags!" shouted Dickie impatiently.

"Is it important!?" Max snapped back.

"What do you mean? Is it import... Oh! Hell!" Dickie looked over his shoulder mid rant. Now he abandoned the wheel and ran back to join the others around Wiremu. "There are some canvas patches in the chest… starboard side. We need to bind him up. Grab some Wang. Throw the chest over when you are done. Lighten the load."

"Dickie..." whispered Wiremu. "The wheel."

"Pardon?"

"The wheel," he wheezed again. "I don't care to fly into another mountain."

"What? Oh yes! Very good." Dickie rushed away again and muttering, retook his post.

Wang seemed to take an age. Wiremu waited with his eyes closed, pain written across his face.

"Max," said Wiremu faintly, as he gripped his friend’s forearm. "Don't look so worried. I'm not going to die. Hongi Hika walked around for a year with a bullet hole clean threw him."

Max tried to nod bravely.

But you might die Wiremu, you might die. People die.

And he sat there watching his best friend’s life blood seep into the airships thirsty timbers.

The chest smashed through the forest canopy below and Wang returned clutched some long strips of canvas. Wiremu fainted cold when they bound him up and didn't make a sound as they laid him out. Max hadn't dared look at the hole in his friends back and when the task was done he sat back in a daze wishing the age-old wish for the power to turn back time.

The coins lay scattered all around them. The irony did not escape Max, in fact he was keenly aware, that right then he was the richest man in the Dominion, but the one thing he wanted most, his friend’s life, he could not buy back.

"Right!" called Dickie when he saw that Wiremu had been bandaged. "Get to lightening the load you two. Our engine is stuffed, and the air bag is full of holes. We will be lucky to clear the mountain."

"Make for the hospital," said Max, standing. Dickie didn't respond, the obvious had been stated. Wang and Max worked at releasing the draw strings on the sand bags that lined the gondola's sides and for a few minutes the airship rained a cloud of sand onto the tree tops and they rose with the contours of the forested hills below.

"Stoke the firebox and jettison half the spare goal," commanded Dickie. "Wang bring me one of those coins." As their captain examined a coin Max sent shovels full of goal into the firebox and over the side. Praying all the while that Wiremu would live and that there might not be any hapless gold diggers directly below them. The ship's steam engine shook and rattled and threw off waves of heat. The two rotors that drove the contraption forward were blurred vortexes at the end of their pylons. When he was finished Max joined the other two at the helm.

"We had better bag em up," announced Max. "I'll throw every coin over board before I risk not getting Wiremu the help he needs." The other two nodded and Max and Wang started refilling the burst pack with the big coins.

"You found the gold," stated Wang, as the heavy pieces clanked into their bag.

"Aye," replied Max glancing at Wiremu's still form. "I wanted to tell you about it but..." he shrugged, "...well you've worked it out." Max's eyes searched for the pulse in Wiremu's neck.

There, just.

"Where were they?" asked Wang.

"In a cave guarded by a Taniwha."

"I see."

"And this is only a fraction of what we found."

The Airship was just limping over the limestone summit of Mount Haidinger, 2064 feet above sea level, according to the crafts on-board altimeter, when the starboard rotor jammed, snapping it's drive shaft and sending shards of splintered metal down on the giant's tussocked head.

Dickie glanced back at the wreckage where the propeller had been moments ago and swore soundlessly. Despite the cool wind his forehead was beaded with sweat. It had been a hard climb, too hard, and Dickie had coxed very last rotation and blast of hot air out of the dirigibles over taxed engine.

"I guess we've done well to make it this far," called Dickie after a moment. Max, dismayed at their pilot's apparent causal demeanour in the face of near disaster, left Wiremu and Wang, and in near panic ran to join him at the wheel.

Beneath their feet the mountain dropped abruptly away, first in scrub and stone, then a little further on in sheer cliffs. In front of them the Aorere Valley was laid out in miniature, a green swath of farm land across their path. Max took it all in at a glance, the valley's namesake river flowed from the south, from far beyond Riverdale, down through Rockville, past the National Aviaries and Wiremu's Pā, and on to Collingwood and into the waters of Murderer's Bay. He saw houses, villages, hedges and railway tracks. Each was familiar to him and stood out in clear detail. His home. So close, but a lifetime away. Wiremu's lifetime.

Max didn't need to be told that with the starboard propeller gone they had little chance of turning north and making the hospital. Realistically, in the pit of his own stomach, he already knew that Wiremu didn't have a chance of surviving, even if they could reach help. One simply didn't shrug off being shot in the stomach. The bowl or intestines are inevitability punctured, spilling their poisonous continence into the blood stream. Max simply stood still, for five long heart beats, in near cold shock at the certainly of it.

As above their heads the hot air bags hung limp, half deflated like a giant exhausted maggot, the ends drooping first. While behind them the ship's steam engine shook and complained, making twice the noise now, but producing half the heat needed to keep them afloat. Black smoke trailed behind.

For the moment they hung there, the highest thing in the sky, while beneath, the mountains marched north to run down and become Farewell Spit, a long scimitar of sand cleaving the waters of Murderers Bay from the Tasman Sea. No one spoke. Then the airship began to dip into the valley.

"We are going down now aren't we?" stated Max, with the grim finality of the condemned. Dickie nodded.

"You need to strap Wiremu and yourselves in."

Max swallowed and turned away to obey.

"Max. If we do hit the ground..." added Dickie over his shoulder. "...you'll only have seconds to get out before the canvas comes down and smothers you."

"And after that?" asked Max. "Fire?"

Dickie only nodded in conformation.

* * *

Wiremu was conscious again, barely. His eyes glazed with pain and his wounds seeping through their rude bandages.

"Not long now," said Max reassuringly, as he and Wang worked to make their friend secure beneath a cargo net. "Not long."

Not long to what?

Wiremu gulped air and closing to eyes to the fire in his belly, nodded his head. Max wished he had some water to give him. His thoughts were interrupted by Wiremu's rasping words.

"Riria. Get Grandmother Riria."

It took Max a moment to understand what he was hearing, so faint was the request.

"Yes course," he spluttered out, feeling cruel for taking so long to comprehend. "I'll bring Grandmother Riria." But Wiremu had past-out again.

"There is nothing more we can do," he said to Wang, half as a statement of fact, half as a question against that fact. But Wang provided no answer to the contrary. He was pale and his wide eyes constantly darted back to the pulse in Wiremu's neck.

"He is strong," said Wang, as they crouched together next to the stricken Māori. But Max could also hear the question in his voice. For a moment he was struck by a memory of the three of them paddling down the dark river to raid the Pou whenua from Wapping Point. Then Wiremu had been invincible, steadfast, fearlessly leading them into action against their adversaries. That adventure, the first outing of the Murderer's Bay Musketeers, seemed like a life time ago. Discovering the gold that morning seemed like a life time ago! Wiremu had been so alive.

"Whatever happens," said Max gripping Wang by the shoulder. "We have the gold to buy you and Jo Foo free from Chinatown."

Wang nodding and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

"I would pass it all up to have Wiremu back."

"As would I," agreed Max.

"Stand to!" barked Dickie from his post at the bow, and before Max could comprehend what he what talking about... "Brace for imp...." The sounds of tree branches scratching and snapping came from beneath the airship's gondola. Then nothing. Max and Wang sprung up and ran forward to the helm. "Close," muttered Dickie as they joined him. Behind, a tree, taller than its peers, had lost its upper branches, and they had lost the remaining port-side engine. "If we can make the edge of the cliff..." continued Dickie, cranking desperately on a leaver, "If we can just make the edge of the cliff we will be in clear air again... get down into the valley... land near the train track... get Wiremu to the city... to hospital... " he was struggling to string his words together... "Max, get the last of the coal in the firebox!"

Max took one last look at the cliff edge. The tops of the grey rocks, where the mountain dropped suddenly away, were still well below them. But the wounded airship was descending fast, skimming over stunted trees, boulders and tussock. Max spun on his heel and darted away to obey.

It'll be close.

The engine was super-heated now, some parts of its casing glowing dark red, the whole thing shaking against its mountings like a cuffed madman. But still it went. Freed of the need to produce motive power by the shearing off of its twin rotors, the engine was now just an elaborate incinerator whose sole purpose had been reduced to the provision of heat and subsequent lift.

Taking up the small coal scoop again, Max gingerly opened the firebox door and fed in the last of the coal. The hungry flames took it with a whoosh, though Max felt no measurable effect on the ship. They were still going down. Slamming the door with the shovel he raced back to the other two.

"Here we go!" shouted Dickie gripping the near useless wheel.

"Hold on!" screamed Wang.

"Oh God," moaned Max, half in prayer, half in vain, when he saw what was before them. The dirigible bore down on the cliff top with unchecked speed. Beyond the hard grey line they would be in the valley, in Dickie's 'clear air' and comparative safely, or at least temporary reprieve. But the trajectory was all wrong.

"Pull up, pull up!" he yelled pointlessly, gripping the wooden rail across the front of the helm so that his nails bit into the hard timber.

Dickie ground his teeth. Wang yelled something in Chinese. The underside of the airship smashed into the mountain, feet from the cliff's edge. The gas bags above pressed down, and the gondola twisted broadside, pitching its passengers from their feet and sending their world sideways. Like a giant scrapper, driven by the forward momentum, the port-side gunwale raked rocks and vegetation from the top. Max, and Wang screamed as they clung to the rail, their legs suddenly flailing in the air, eight hundred feet above the ground. The collected hilltop debris tumbled into the yawning blue void below. Dickie clung to the wheel for dear life.

But at once the gas bag bucked back from the impact, then forward again, jerking the gondola off the edge. The whole ship swung dreadfully, like a pendulum... the pendulum on a demented clock that had just pitched itself off the mantelpiece. The three friends were flung about inside the gondola, coming to rest in a tangled pile, as the dirigible righted itself.

Wiremu moaned in his makeshift hammock... still alive... and the boiler hissed and steamed in its own spilt water.

"A thousand apologies gentlemen," muttered Dickie, seizing the wheel once more. Wang and Max picked themselves up and moved tentatively to the side. Although the ship had no longer had any means of sustaining forward locomotion, wind and luck already had them out over the valley, and moving, although in the continued downward fashion, away from the cliff face.

"I've only really got up and down now," called Dickie, tapping the top of a leaver with a gloved hand. "And not much of the up. I'll try and get us near the railway."

Max's eyes scanned the thin grey ribbon that marked the route of the Valley Line, seeking the tell tail plume of white stream that would indicate the approach of a train. Almost at once he found a puff in the distance. But his heart sank again just as quick. It was only the little locomotive on the narrow-gauge line to Chinatown. That locomotive would be of no help in transporting Wiremu to the hospital, running as it did on its isolated line between Kaituna and the Chinese settlement.

For a moment Max studied the brown jumble of buildings of Chinatown. It was there that all this started; there where that brass coin had rolled against Harriet's boot and the first of Jasmine's accomplices had been killed by the Tong. He never had asked Harriet about Leith Engineering's role in supplying that locomotive, or what exactly her Father's connection to Chinatown was. They hadn't really had the chance to talk about anything.

On another occasion he might have resolved, if he survived the flight and was reborn with a new urgency, to be more assertive in the situation with Harriet. But he was totally occupied with Wiremu's survival. Any such cosmic bargaining was made for his life, not Harriet's love.

"There is another dirigible. Out above the city!" called Wang.

"Be Professor Aldridge," replied Dickie. "Wondering where this ship has got to."

Max searched the sky over the capital and as he located the distant craft it flashed with golden light.

"They are mirror signalling!" exclaimed Wang.

"Very good," remarked Dickie, not turning his head to look. "But our course is set. If we hadn't jettisoned our own mirror we might have been able to signal back 'venez m'aider'. But I trust they'll get that general idea from our smoke trail. What are you doing Max?"

"Don't mind me," said Max, who had just stood again after attending one of the coin bags and was walking back to the faithful boiler. The engine was indeed blowing out a great trail of black smoke now, which the airship hung across the sky like a length of grim bunting. To anyone watching from the valley below the ship must have appeared like a dragon flown through the flame or a slow-moving Chinese rocket. Either image was one of an arc downward to destruction.

At the sweltering engine Max retrieved the coal shovel, into the iron scoop of which he placed three gold coins.

A minute later they drifted high over the Aorere Pā. Below them children ran about waving and laughing. Max just stared back at them, unable to return a wave or smile, as those below would likewise be unable if they knew who they had dying on the ship's floor boards.

Still lower now, the breeze carried them above the main road and its accompanying railway. Various Steam Gurneys and Road-Locomotives, puffed along, while in the surrounding paddocks dairy cows leered up at the dirigible, rolling their eyes and bellowing at the interruption to their pre-milking feed.

The slow descent chaffed Max almost as much as the inevitable landing worried him. But then the life seemed to finally go out of the firebox, the engine beginning to bang and clank, screaming and seizing as it died. With Newtonian certainty the earth sucked them down, stomachs in throats.

With the same stoic dead-pan that he had maintained thought-out the entire flight Dickie remarked;

"I'm going to try and put us down in my Father's back paddock."

"Does it matter?!" asked Wang, desperation showing in his voice.

"It's out of sight, we don't need anyone else rushing in to help and discovering our cargo."

Despite his mounting impatience Max agreed with Dickie.

"Look!" shouted Wang suddenly, drawing Max to him and pointing down at the road. Max recognised the black figure stopped there, legs out in an A-frame, astride a velocipede cycle, at once.

"Gerald!" he shouted, leaning out over the wooden gunwale. Gerald was clearly looking back up at them, his bronze goggles pushed onto his brow and his head moving from right to left as he watched their flight past. He looked rather smart in his black uniform jacket with silver buttons and red epaulettes, black riding cap and high boots, but when he finally recognised his little brother above him, his mouth dropped wide open.

"Gerald! We are going down!" called Max as they slid by. "We are going down!" And he watched as Gerald turned is two-wheeled American steamer around and followed after them.

"Were is your back paddock?" Wang asked Dickie in alarm. The pilot didn't answer and two seconds later the dirigibles hull carved through the ridge of Dickie's neighbour's house, sending tiles clattering down into the yard and leaving a great bite from the roof.

"Mr Higgins won't like that," muttered Dickie.

"Where now?!" shouted Max, dismayed at the lack of anywhere safe to land. For beyond the violated house there was only a disused railway siding branching off the Valley Line and dividing the two properties. The closest side of the rusted rails had been planted by Mr Higgins in a crop of pumpkins and beyond, behind a trimmed conifer hedge, stood Dickie's own family home. The rails ended at the doors of a large shed-come-barn.

"The pumpkin field," groaned Dickie. "Higgins will hate this."

Even in the handful of seconds that remained Max could see that the pumpkins, now orange and ready, had had a full summer of growth, their vines drying off, moments from harvest...

They burst and were unceremoniously ground, pulp and pip, into the mud, as the airship's bulk finally surrendered, with considerable violence, to the basic laws of physics. Again, Wang and Max were thrown down onto the deck and Dickie clung to the useless wheel. With teeth breaking force the dirigible buried itself in the pumpkin patch, coming to rest at the end of a long and wide, brown and orange gouge in the earth.

At once the great gas bag bore down on the friends, the smothering canvas following the gondola into the terrestrial embrace.

"Get out!" shouted Dickie. Fear finally edging his voice. Under the sudden fabric ceiling Max and Wang crawled to Wiremu and began to throw off his cargo-net blanket. Already the smell of smoke was beginning to fill the tight space. Max didn't pause to check Wiremu's pulse. Even if he had gone, Max would not abandon his body to the fire.

"We'll hurt him!" said Wang, close by, and beginning to cough in the smoke

"We've no time or choice," barked Max. "Grab his collar!"

They seized a shoulder each and through tendrils of smoke began to pull Wiremu across the wooden floor toward the door. A slick, dark red smear of blood showing his passage.

"Get out!" screamed Dickie again. This time from beyond the dirigible. "It's about to go up!"

A second later Dickie's words were confirmed by a loud burning whoosh as the canvas atop the boiler caught light. The smoke that had been drifting past them was suddenly sucked back toward the sound, only to be blasted back again a second later ahead a wall of heat!

"Go! Go! Go!" urged Max, pulling on Wiremu with all his might. Wang screamed when he looked over his shoulder and saw the fiery orange mouth of hell that had appeared behind them. The heat was instantly intense, the wooden gondola cracking and popping as it burnt. With their bottoms on the floor they pulled, booted feet slipping on the smooth timbers, one arm dragging their friend, the other forward, pushing folds of canvas up and out of the way.

Then they were at the door and hands reached in, grabbed them and drew them coughing from the smoking hole.

"Help," gasped Max to his older brother. But Gerald and Dickie already had hold of Wiremu and were bearing him away. Arm in arm Wang and Max staggered after them and the hungry flames took the dirigible.

Gerald had his finger to Wiremu's neck, a moment later, when Max fell to his knees at his friends’ side.

"He's still alive," muttered the young army Captain. "Just. How long ago did this happen?" He waved his hand at the dark red bandages around Wiremu's middle.

"About half an hour, a little longer," panted Max. Gerald blew out a big puff of air. They all knew it wasn't good. By rights he should be dead already.

"Do you have your steam up?" Max suddenly asked Gerald.

"Of course, yes," answered the older, not taking his eyes off Wiremu's face.

"Good," replied Max, springing to his feet. "Load up and get Wiremu down to the hospital!"

"He'll never make it!" responded Gerald, looking Max full in the face for the first time.

"Sitting here won't do him any better!" spat Max, and to his surprise Gerald got to his feet and began to order the moving of Wiremu. A few minutes later they had the unconscious Māori sitting behind Gerald on his machine, with arms about him like a satchel and tied together at the wrists.

"Gerald," said Max, gripping his brother's arm as the Roper Steamer hissed its readiness to depart. His voice shook with emotion as he spoke. "We were shot down by Chinese... Chinese Pirates! Get Wiremu safely to the hospital, then take Captain Wilks and the HMS Harrier around to the Paturau River mouth. There's an iron-hull moored just off Karaka... put a torpedo in it for me!"

"I'm see what I can do," promised Gerald, adjusting his bronze rimmed riding goggles, and setting his mouth in a frown.

"Ride!" shouted Max, as Wang and Dickie pushed the steamer from behind and the chuffing engine took and carried them away down the valley road.

Covered in dirt, soot, sweat, grease and blood; with arms, torn shirt sleeves and dark hair hanging down, Max watched them go.