Chapter Six

WIREMU

Sapientia Magis Auro Desideranda

The day came... finally.

Unlike all other end-of-holiday return-to-school experiences before it, Max wanted this one. At that same moment, he knew, students from all over the Dominion would be converging on their university. Fresh faced they would be coming, would have already arrived in the Capital, from the South-West; Murchison, Westport, Charleston, Greymouth, Hokitika and Ross, and the East; New Manchester, Nelson, St Arnaud, Havelock, Blenheim and Picton, and Max happily took his place in that great migration.

Picton had always been his favourite of the Duke of Wellington's generals. For the sole reason that he liked to turn out, even for battles, wearing a top hat. And once even a nightcap. But it was the top hat that appealed to Max.

Why not look good, even when you are charging into the jaws of death?

No that wasn't the sole reason, good enough though it was. It was more than that, Picton sounded like a character; clearly brave and heroic he was also described as unconventional and uncouth, and by Arthur Wellesley himself as "A rough-mouthed devil, but one in which I have supreme confidence.” A likeable rogue then.

Max, a likeable rogue in his own mind, surveyed his get-up. He wore his best black boots, the tops of which were hidden under a good pair of charcoal pinstripe trousers. His favourite black, high button waistcoat kept him looking lean, which he was, and dapper, which is in the eye of the beholder. The sleeves and collar of his white shirt added a professional air. He carried a leather satchel, but no jacket, too hot in February.

His hair had almost grown enough to pull into a ponytail, but he didn't want to force it. That would send the wrong message. So, it hung in his eyes and got pushed behind his ears. Lastly, a good black bowler hat, currently held loosely in his lap, completed his armour. He was satisfied, and if it failed, maybe she would go for his personality!

He did feel a little like he would enjoy the swing of a walking cane in his hand. But it wasn't the thing for newcomers, he felt a more humble approach was recommended. After all the appeal was possibly the primal security of carrying a stick, a sword. Maybe so that if he happened on Master Lavisham, in a dark corner, he would be able to deal him a good thrashing!

All the silliness of infatuation.

Max hid his excitement well, only occasionally gripping his brown leather satchel a little too tight, as he sat next to The Professor on the train into Collingwood.

They had spoken a little as the train pulled out of Rockville Central, but the journey wasn't new to either of them so there was nothing novel to comment on from beyond the glass windows. For his part the Professor restrained himself from talking with his son about the day ahead. Knowing that to do so would only detract from the boy's experience, not add to it as any such talker, being a pseudo-sage, might hope. For this Max was thankful. Instead, Professor Skilton settled into the previous day's Dominion Press.

Max had read the paper. There were two articles of particular interest. One, condescendingly entitled 'First Native Scholars – the Māori come to School', was all about the four young men and one lady from the Northern Isle who would be attending Victoria as the first ever participants in the Native Scholarship Program. It was a strange text made up of both political and human-interest elements. Included was a grainy photographic of the five young Māori in question. It was hard to tell much from the picture, but they looked spruce in all the usual, bowlers and jackets, thumbs hooked into braces. Although the plaid trousers on a couple of them did make it appear as if some Irisher had had a hand in choosing the wardrobe. One fellow in the centre of the group stood out, being a whole head taller than the other four, a big man, according to the picture. The woman, lady if it was right to call her that, looked dark and haunted. Her hair hung free in great black cascades and a black moko tattoo marked her chin. She stared out of the photographic as if from another time.

The second was a short note stating that there had been much enthusiasm about the tender for the Collingwood-Dunedin Express locomotive build, and that as expected formal interest had been expressed by the engineering firms Leith, A & G Price Ltd and Rotheram & Scott. Unexpectedly however the article said that the winner of the tender would be decided by a locomotive time trial to the Westport turntable and back. That was to say that when the locomotives had been built, the winner of the tender would be the one who actually won a race with their construction! Max thought this was a great idea and would certainly do well in maintaining public excitement in the project.

For a day, maybe a day and a half, Max had felt like the evening at the Railway Hotel had been worse than a waste of time. That it had not just been a neutral event, but that it had gone back past the zero, and put him well in deficit. His summer holiday-long dream of Harriet Leith had very quickly come to less than nothing. Part of him wished that he had not known and could simply go on enjoying his fantasy.

But the hard truth denied him that, for he did know. He knew that she was, most likely at this very moment, in the arms of Gilbert Lavisham. Her heart totally his. In light of this, he wished that he hadn’t been made to wait almost the entire holiday to find out. If he had known earlier he could have possibly discovered something else to expend his limited emotional energy on.

Max felt stupid, and although Miss Leith did not even know of his existence, rejected. And as much as he might have wanted to have forgotten all about her, to just switch that part of his mind off, to go on to focus on his studies, he could not. This too frustrated him no end. He had not invited her into his mind, she had come unbidden, striding though the cheering crowd, top hat and bronze goggles perched atop her head.

Of course now following in her wake, bringing up the rear-guard in the invasion of his heart and mind came another. Also uninvited and most certainly unwelcome, Gilbert Lavisham.

Max knew little of the son of his Father's political adversary and majority owner of the Coast & Main Railway Company. He had observed that he was tall and darkly handsome, with thick black eyelashes that completed an appearance that commanded attention. That night at the Railway Hotel he had been well dressed, outfitted in the latest Barfleur Street fashion.

Dickie had said Gilbert Lavisham was at least twenty-two, so three years older than Max, and if he had heard right, in his third year of studying Accounting and Economics. Max's romantic notions about being an Archaeologist suddenly didn't add up, next to Lavisham the Younger's cold hard cash. Clearly Harriet was not with just another nobody… like Max, she was courting the colony’s most eligible bachelor.

Oh but the romantic spirit is resilient, ever hopeful. Foolish. Thus, after a day and a half Max noticed that he had regrouped. He had taken in the new facts, assimilated them and accepted the updated lay of the land. When his mind ran down that well-worn path that led to his store of information and imaginings about Miss Leith, he no longer found Gilbert Lavisham lurking there also. He was off somewhere faint in the background, locked out. Max would certainly stop going there if he had to share.

Six new files had been added to Max's mental dossiers. One, that Gilbert Lavisham existed. Two, that the image of the black ribbon choker encircling Harriet's slender neck was a hard one to forget. Three, green eyes. Four, Dickie's observation that Harriet had a kind heart. Five, that Lavisham did not. Six, an unhelpfully intimate detail; the delicate, endearing, sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and atop of her cheeks.

So it was when Max did finally board the 7:30am from Rockville Central, the imagined events of the day ahead of him, his first day at University, were all slightly eclipsed by the final one; the 4:00pm re-staging of the first-year steam engineering student's robot race. For at it he was guaranteed to see her again.

The British built 2-6-0, J Class locomotive faithfully pulled its four red carriages down the Valley Line at a good clip. They passed Skilton House and the Aviaries on the left almost immediately after departing. Max could see the small head of one of the Moas, atop it's long neck, sticking out above an enclosure fence and watching nonchalantly as the train gathered speed and puffed away. A moment later they passed Dickie's small family farm on the right.

Then their steam was up and the rail, leaving the adjacent Collingwood - Riverdale road, set out across good farmland. It was all rich river-flat and had been some of the first land to be strip milled of its ancient kahikatea, rimu and totara forests, and brought into dairy pasture. The cows of which, though safe behind their fences were now caught grazing too close to the line for their nervous dispositions, and staggered away from the noisy train, their large udders swinging dangerously.

After a couple of minutes, they drew in at 'Aorere Pā' station. From his window Max could see the Pā on its mound over by the river. Wood smoke from cooking fires and eel smokers rose lazily into the morning air to hang above the little hillock and the wooden houses or whare that huddled there together behind a log palisade. It was a sight, largely from another world, that was yet very familiar to Max.

The station platform was busy, possibly due to the fact that some of the men from the Pā ran a simple ferry service back and forth across the river. It was a boat crossing that was patronised primarily by farmers from the southern side of the river who wanted a cheaper fare to the city from Pā Station than they would get from their own Eeling Station. But also, by Māori who wished to avoid train transport for their own reasons, and Chinese diggers out of the Kaituna gorge, who were never made to feel particularly welcome in the passenger carriages.

The journey had begun again when Max realised with a little jolt that Wiremu Marino may well have just boarded the train. He had given his prospective fellow first year little thought over the holidays but remembered now that he had promised his Father that he would 'Look out for Wiremu... just until he finds his feet.'

If the Professor also remembered the pledge he gave no indication as he slowly turned through the pages of his paper, the newsprint photographic of the five Northern Island Māori scholars starring back at Max from the front page. Wiremu, the grandson of the last Chief in Aorere, wasn't one of them and thus wouldn't be getting any special attention from the University. Max hoped that he would at least find some solidarity with his northern brethren.

From Pā Station the rail made a gentle arc and headed in a near straight run toward the river mouth and Collingwood. On their left, out Max's window, a dark green lagoon slid past, evidence that the river had not always taken its current course. Along its banks stood a number of tall remnant kahikatea trees. These wet rooted giants, reduced in name to 'White Pines' by the English, had become the roost for a good number of kawau or cormorant, known hereabouts as 'shags'. The large black and white birds, who peered out from their high stick nests, seemed less worried by the huffing train than did the similarly coloured cows back up the line.

More commuters, young students obvious amongst them, waited in the sun on the platform at Swamp Road Station. They were accompanied by a long row of silver cream cans, but these the morning goods train would take the other way, on up the line to the dairy factory just over the big Rockville bridge.

As the train sped on Max could feel his excitement growing. This was a day of days, a day of personal historic significance. This was the arriving that followed his earlier stepping off. His mind raced with all the usual questions. Who would he meet? There would be students from every corner of The Dominion. Would he manage his classes? The Professor had warned him that it would be nothing like school, with nobody chasing him up on late assignments or making sure he attended lectures. Would he, in every imaginable sense, find his way?

It didn't bother Max that very few of his secondary school classmates were joining him at university. Most of them would already be at work in their Father's business or on family farms. As it was he had a good number of associates, but of late no particular friend.

The New Brighton West Coast line, called 'The Western', came in from the left and joined them with a click and a clack as the train passed over the points. Then they were in the Addingtown marshalling yards, speeding past ranks of dirty goods wagons, boxcars, and flat decks. The last already loaded with south bound Traction Engines and Steam Shovels for the new Haast rail project. Small tank engines fussed about with shunting duties, their smoke adding a little to the grey pall above the yard. A haze that owed its presence in majority to the massive red brick and corrugated iron sheds that dominated the far end. From each of these factories tall chimneys rose to paint the sky black and grey and vent the super-hot blast furnaces raging within. For here were the Dominion's locomotive works, the so called 'Great Companies', the birth places of modern marvels, iron horses and the engines of the gods!

Inside each of those great halls there scurried a sooty army of workers. Each of them apprenticed, trained, journeymanned or mastered in a specific of locomotive construction; draftsmen, foremen, engineers, blacksmiths, coppersmiths, carpenters, patternmakers, boilermakers, moulders, turners, fettlers, fitters, furnacemen, alloyists, and riveters.

One of those sheds was the home of Leith Engineering Ltd.

Max's pulse quickened at the thought of Harriet.

At the water’s edge the speeding train re-joined the Collingwood - Riverdale road and followed it around the Haven. On the right the boulevard was busy with Monday morning commuters; horses mixed with steam gurneys, locomobiles and keen bicyclists. Above, on the terrace side, the railway workers boxy cottages stood in solemn rows.

The tide was full in on the left side, the morning sun sparkling golden off water that covered the otherwise ugly black mud of Ruataniwha Inlet and Collingwood Haven. It was a beautiful day.

Then the train took the strain, crossed the road, and swept up The Cut, through the Botanic Gardens, under the Lyons and Horatio Street bridges, over Duncan Street, and eased into City Station.

* * *

In the stone belly of Victoria University's Great Hall, all the first-year students were seated in front facing rows. They listened closely, as if there might be an examination later that they could fail, as the Chancellor, Sir Hugh Rankine-Easterfield, welcomed them, gave general remarks, introduced some of the faculty and continued on with the various expectations, prides, hopes, futures, depths, traditions, and characteristics of a successful Victorian. 'Sapientia magis auro desideranda - Wisdom is more to be desired than gold.' A good sentiment for a city built on the wealth of its mines.

Max was some rows back and surrounded by excited students from all over the colony. But as the proceedings drew out his mind began to wander.

At first he knew that he really didn't have anything to hold against Gilbert Lavisham. He was mindful enough not to simply transfer his Father's various disagreements with Jeremiah Lavisham onto Gilbert. Nor could he conclude that dating Harriet, made his peer somehow evil, this a harder stance to maintain. Although clearly Gilbert had good taste, how could Max fault that? But still Dickie's observation that Gilbert was less than charitable in wanting to quietly keep the little Arab traveller's money seemed fair. This little thought gave Max a dark warmth. For he did want to dislike Gilbert Lavisham, but was too self-aware to do so without grounds.

Therefore, despite a general lack of information, Max had subjected Lavisham junior to a fare dose of mental cross-examination over the last couple of weeks. At the end of all his pondering one little thing had emerged. A faint half-remember rumour. Max couldn't recall the details and had no one to ask, let alone any tactful way to inquire. But there was something, something about a falling out with another young man at Victoria. Possibly it had made the papers, maybe even as far as two years ago. Max wasn't sure. And maybe someone had been hurt or... even died.

Then all the new students were clapping, Max joined in, realising as he did that the Chancellor must have come to the end of his excellent speech.

“And now,” continued Sir Hugh. “All that remains is to welcome our new scholars from the Northern Isle. If you would all join me, in an orderly fashion, in the main quadrangle just outside.”

The Chancellor left the stage and all the students rose as one to file slowly out the main doors.

Max used the opportunity to study his fellow first years. He still hadn't seen anyone that looked like a Wiremu but assumed that he must be somewhere in the throng. He did however see, to his surprise, a young Chinaman... a young Chinese man... shuffling earnestly toward the door with the rest. He wore a tidy grey three-piece suit and a pair of round eye glasses. He was a lone difference in a sea of Anglo-Celtic youth.

While all the talk had been about the historic first Māori students, nothing had been said about the first ever Chinese. Not even the Murderer's Bay Argus had picked up on that interesting bit of trivia. Max chuckled to himself and took a few more steps toward the door, careful not to tread on any hems or heels. It wasn't really surprising. The fact that there was a semi-self-sustaining Chinese community right in the heart of the Dominion was a fact that most seemed to want to ignore, and most likely found a little embarrassing. It did appear that the feeling was mutual. When an act of integration did occur, politicians worried about 'aliens' and 'naturalisation', The Unions about 'scabs' and The Clergy, at least those from the great Octavius Hadfield's mould, about 'slavery' and 'exploitation.' The name 'Chinatin' as opposed to the universal 'Chinatown' was itself slightly derogatory and was derived from an idea about the quality of the gold found there, it being only just better than tin. This bigoted analysis was both false and unscientific.

After passing safely and politely through the crush at the front doors the students fanned-out and filled half the grassed quadrangle. Some of the Tutors herded them back a little, and it became clear that there was an expectation that the party to be welcomed would arrive through the arch on the opposite side of the quad.

When all were still, a large Māori lady, whom Max had not previously noticed, stepped out from the front of the crowd. Students craned their necks to see. Then a shiver shot down Max's spine, she had begun the karanga, the calling.

“Haere mai, Haere mai, Haere mai, rā e kui mai, e horo mā i te pō.” The high call, half keening, half chant, cut the air and hung there, above their heads, between the cold stone walls.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

A moment later it was answered in kind from somewhere just beyond the far-side arch. Max's breath caught. He wasn't the only one who felt the air turn electric.

“Karanga rā te tupuna whare ki te kāhui pani.”

As soon as this response finished the woman in front of the students, hands shaking at her sides, replied;

“Huhuingia mai rā o tātou mate hia tangihia i te rā nei .”

And so it continued, back and forth, until the visitors from the Northern Isle and the five new students with them, slowly appeared through the arch, moving to place themselves before the assembly. Standing shoulder to shoulder the students looked just as in the Argus photographic. Accompanying them was a small collection of folk who Max could only assume were their Elders. These, both men and women, were dressed in that strange mix of traditional garb and European fashion. With the Elders there came a fleeting feeling of goodwill, an ancient and earthy wisdom. They seemed relaxed and proud to be presenting their young people.

The students themselves walked as if they didn't enjoy the scrutiny, heads down, hands clasped before them. With one exception, the tall one in the middle, who held his head level and stared straight ahead. Their forward advance ended as the karanga faded away.

The Chancellor stumbled over the delivery of a rudimentary Māori greeting, quickly reverting to his own native tongue. However, the Elder gentleman who replied did so in well spoken English. The students were introduced; Masters Piri, Hunapo, Kingi; being the tall one and Ihaka. Mahuika, was the name given to the young woman. Various other pleasantries were exchanged.

Proceedings seemed to have come to a natural ending and Max was beginning to wonder what would happen next, when all of a sudden the big one, called Kingi, commanded in a loud voice;

“Whakarongo Mai!”

The Elders looked surprised at this sudden announcement. Then without pause the four young men began to quickly unbutton their shirts! The girl, Mahuika, stepped back and re-joined the startled Elders. Throwing their shirts on the ground behind them the remaining four dropped into a half crouch, feet wide apart, hands resting on strong thighs. Max wasn't sure why, but the old people looked positively alarmed now, a couple of them even reached out hands to stay the students, but it was too late. Loud words ripped from the mouths of the young Māori, as their hands began to slap their legs in a controlled rhythm.

“Anei mātau! Anei mātau! Anei mātau!”

“Hei toa! Hei toa! Hei toa!”

“Kei ngā waewae te toto o te hoariri!”

The Elders who had apparently sought to prevent this display shrunk back, expressions of worry and extreme discomfort on their wrinkled and tattooed faces. With eyes wide enough to show the whites and their brown bodies pumping, the four young warriors continued their haka.

The Dominion's first year students were awestruck, and many took a step back as if blown by a strong head wind. Max, who had seen haka performed at other times, felt a sense of ferocity in this one that he had not encountered before.

He looked around to see how the other students were taking it and immediately saw instead, on the far side, another Chinese face. This one, however, belonged to a young woman. A rather attractive young woman. Max was about to take a second more guarded look at her when a firm hand gripped him by the shoulder.

“Max? I need your help!”

Max turned and there was the young Māori from Marino's funeral.

"Wiremu?!"

"Yeap," he confirmed.

“Ah, hello,” responded Max, hiding his surprise at the sudden meeting. Wiremu looked pale and a little angry. But an excited spark also jumped in his brown eyes.

“Look, sorry. Things... this...” he nodded toward the four newcomers who were still mid haka, “...aren’t going well. I need to do something. Take my Purerehua.” And he pushed into Max's hand a flat piece of wood, about the length of a sheet of writing paper and in the shape of an eye.

Max turned it over in his hand and examined the faint carvings on its surface. A long, plated string was attached though a hole at one end.

“It's a... an instrument... a musical instrument,” said Wiremu, as way of explanation. But Max got that feeling there was a little more to it than that. “You whirl it in circles at your side. Like a sling shot. But don't let it go!” He gave a cheeky smile at his last remark.

"No! What?" Max realised he was being asked to use it! He felt a surge of panic. He was probably breaking a hundred protocols just touching the... purerehua. “What?!” he repeated in a harsh whisper.

“When those boys up the front finish their haka you need to have that...” he nodded toward the purerehua in Max's hand “...swinging like there is no tomorrow.” Max blinked. He was being told to commit who-knew-what cultural sabotage!

“You'll know when they finish. There'll be a big jump and a shout. I need your help Max, this is important.” And with that he ducked away, slipping to the back of the crowd. Max watched him go, looked down at the purerehua hanging by its string from his hand, and back to Wiremu.

The young Māori was now talking quickly to Professor Evans, the Tutor of Māori studies. Max couldn't hear what they were saying, but the exchange was over shortly, finishing with Evans nodding and walking at a half run in the direction of the college offices.

“He ahi, he urupatu, rite ki te maunga!”

“He ahi, he urupatu, rite ki te maunga!”

“Anei te kaha o te kohatu tawhito!”

The haka appeared to be coming to an end. Max shook his head and pinched the bridge of his noise. This is crazy!

He had no idea what he was getting himself into. He would have much rather stayed anonymous on campus a little beyond his first day. The quadrangle had taken on a very intense air. No one moved. All seemed under the spell of the warrior's fearsome chant.

“Ka kautū ki te moana, kāore he toa!”

“Ka kautū ki te moana, kāore he toa!”

Max couldn't see Wiremu anywhere. His Father had asked him to “Look out for Wiremu. Just until he finds his feet.” Well, his Father, the Professor, would have to get him out of any trouble he was about to get in. With that he reached forward and started tapping the shoulders of the students in front and to the right of him.

“Excuse me. Stand back please.” People did as they were asked, and Max begun to swing the purerehua.

“Anei mātau. Anei mātau. Anei mātau!”

“Kei waenganui i a koutou!”

“Hōmai te mana!”

As one, the four Northern Māori jumped into the air, bending their feet up behind their buttocks and throwing their hands up as high as they could. It was an awesome sight. But when they landed the words of their haka were replaced by a haunting whirring, almost mechanical in nature, but ancient in sound. It was rhythmic but without a fixed rhythm, like the slow buzzing from the wings of a large insect. The sound filled the quad.

It came from the purerehua that swung from Max's right hand.

People began to look for the source of the otherworldly noise and all at once a broad path opened up between Max and the four northern students at the front. He swung on. The haka performers looked murderous, none of them had stooped to retrieve their shirts. Max swallowed. He was doing his part.

What was supposed to happen next?

He sincerely hoped it wasn't some cruel joke. Mahuika re-joined her four shirtless brethren, standing with her arms folded over her breasts and a cruel look contorting her face. The haunting sound drowned on.

But then the students behind him also parted, leaving him completely exposed. But a half turn revealed Wiremu, shirtless, a great chunk of Pounamu hung around his neck, striding toward him, up the aisle that had formed between the students. His muscles were taut, and he walked with his head slightly bowed so that he glared at the newcomers from under hooded eye lids and behind the black curls of his fringe. His lips were a tight line.

Max had no other instruction, so he spun on. Past Max went Wiremu, right out into the open space in front of the two groups.

“Ko au te waha ki te Tonga! Ko au te waha ki te Tonga!” He roared.

Max noticed a subtle change in the Elders expressions. Wiremu had taken up the haka stance, feet placed firmly apart, arms and hands ready to complete the actions.

“Kaua e kuhu mai! Kaua e kuhu mai! He shouted, slapping the bent elbows of his raised arms as he did. The slow whir of the purerehua filled any space between Wiremu's words. The five who faced him sneered.

“Kaua e kuhu mai! Kaua e kuhu mai! Wiremu slapped his chest as he shouted. The sneers fell slowly away, to be replaced with one of dangerous violence. A new intensity, stronger than previously filled the quad. Max got the impression, although he did not know why it should be, that Wiremu was fighting for his life.

“Ka tiakina e ngā mātua!” Wiremu reached up into the air to his left and with clawed hands pulled something invisible from the atmosphere and dragged it down into his chest.

“Ka tiakina e ngā mātua!” He repeated the action but now from the high right.

“Ka whakatūria ake e ngā whaea!” This time he reached into the earth to his left and pulled something up into his stomach.

“Ka whakatūria ake e ngā whaea!” Now to the right, the same action. Shouting, screaming the whole time.

“Kia toru nga kaupapa!”

“Kia toru nga kaupapa!” Max spun the purerehua on and on. He felt himself part of something bigger now.

“Kia toru anake ka tiaki!”

“Kia toru anake ka tiaki!”

The Elders faces had relaxed now. Max could see relief written across the expressions. One old woman even had tears streaking her winkled cheeks. This was in complete contrast to the look The Five, as Max had come to think of them, gave Wiremu.

“Ko te Matua! Ko te Tama! Ko te Wairua Tapu!”

“Ko au te waha ki te Tonga!”

“Kaua e kuhu mai!”

“Kia tau te rangimarie!”

Wiremu, his body a taut hybrid of controlled power, tradition, emotion, oratory, physical, maybe psychological, and indeed spiritual ability, finished his haka with a massive spring into the air! Arms stretched high and feet tucked up behind his buttocks. He landed, his body glistening with sweat, nostrils flaring for air. It wasn't a scene that any English Father would wish his daughter to witness.

Calmly the young Māori turned and held out his hands. Professor Evans reappeared, placing in the extended palms first a small bundle, which Wiremu attached to his belt and then a long-bladed taiaha. Wiremu spared a moment to nod gravely at Max, but before he turned back to face his foe, Max was sure a wink flicked his eye and a smile briefly touched his lips. Max let the purerehua fall silent.

The taiaha, a wooden weapon with a stone head, that seems a little like a cross between a cricket bat and a long thin paddle, spun to a blur in Wiremu's hands. He uttered no words now, but pushed out from deep in his diaphragm arresting, primordial, single syllable shouts.

“Aoi!”

“Aoi!” With taiaha held vertical, both hands together near the base, he approached The Five.

“Aoi!” He walked lightly, springing on the front of his feet. His calves and feet flicking up behind him as he went. Like a cunning weka.

“Aoi!” With head tilted to one side he watched The Five. Unmoving they in turn watched his approach.

“Aoi!” The taiaha hummed in a full circle and returned to the upright position.

“Aoi!” No one but Wiremu moved. Everyone held their breath, though few really knew what they were seeing.

“Aoi!” The thing seemed on the knife edge. An unknown young Māori crossing the grass with a devastating weapon in his hands.

“Aoi!” The taiaha swung through its circle again. One of The Five turned to look at the Elders behind him. None met his look. All their shining eyes were on the late Chief's grandson.

“Aoi!” Wiremu stopped a few feet from the group of newcomers. Not taking his eyes from the one in the middle, the big one called Kingi, he crouched, and placed the bundle Evans had given him on the ground.

“Aoi!” Then, standing he backed away, feet flicking up behind in the same bird-like fashion.

“Aoi!” The taiaha swung again and Wiremu seemed back out of danger.

“Aoi!”

The gift lay on the ground between the two groups. No one moved. Wiremu kept his weapon up. Then Kingi stepped forward, though few saw that one of the Elders had prodded him in the back with a bony finger. Not taking his eyes from Wiremu he stooped to retrieve the gift before backing away slowly to re-join his comrades.

“Very good!” announced the bony fingered Elder suddenly, chapping his dry hands together once and smiling.

As the tension started to lift there was an avian cry. Any who looked up in time saw a falcon, Kārearea, streak away across the rectangle of sky above their heads. It was followed a moment later by a great noisy, chirruping, flock of tiny Mohua, or Yellowheads, from which Murderer's Bay gets it's Māori name.

* * *

Students were leaving the quad, melting away in small groups, through stone arches, to the first classes of their university careers when Max found Wiremu handing the long taiaha back to Professor Evans.

“Thank you Sir,” he said quietly.

Max wrapped the string around the blade of the purerehua and pushed it gently into Wiremu's hand. Wiremu, head bowed, smiled.

“Thank you my friend. I could not have done it without you.”

Max had no idea how earlier Wiremu had known his name, or who he really even was, and was about to attempt to frame a question along these lines when the Chancellor arrived. He, as they say, had a good head of steam up.

“What are you doing boy!?” he demanded of Wiremu. “What is your name?!”

Wiremu, a look of sudden panic on his face, was trying to form an answer when Evans, the Tutor for Māori Studies, appeared at the Chancellor's shoulder.

“It is alright Sir Hugh,” he tried to reassure. “Master Marino has saved the University a fair degree of... how shall we say... mana.” The Chancellor looked a little confused at this last word. But Max understood.

“Face, Sir. He has single handedly helped us to save face,” continued Evans. Sir Hugh eyed Wiremu sceptically. Then they were joined by a fifth gentleman.

“Indeed he has Chancellor Hugh,” confirmed the Māori Elder, looking at Wiremu appreciatively. “He has done a great work on your behalf. It is good to see there is yet a real Māori in Mohua. What is your name son?”

“Wiremu Ironside Marino. Sir”

The Elder threw back his head and gave a great laugh.

“Marino! Indeed. I should have guessed.” With eyes sparkling in his leathery old face, he seized Wiremu's arm in the warrior's grip and drew him close. With left hands on each other’s shoulders, they touched foreheads and noses. With eyes closed they shared breath for a long moment.

When the hongi ended they stepped back, and Wiremu said;

“Hapimana, well met and welcome.”

This Hapimana gave Wiremu a slow knowing nod. Then he spoke in Māori;

“He tino tangata tou koro. Kaore he painga i a ia.” Which was to say; Your Grandfather was a good man. He is missed.

The Chancellor interrupted then.

“Mr Hapimana, come let us take refreshments.”

Hapimana's old eyes lingered on Wiremu a moment before he went with Sir Hugh and Professor Evans.

Wiremu and Max were alone for a moment. Max puffed out his cheeks and let the air run out in a rush, as if to say; well that was quite a thing wasn't it? And part of him wanted to laugh.

“Excuse me,” interrupted another voice.

The pair turned to see who was addressing them now, and it was, to Max's surprise, the grey suited Chinese student who he had seen earlier. He looked a little nervous.

“Hello,” responded Wiremu, with a friendly smile before pulling his shirt back on.

“Hello,” said the newcomer, bobbing his head a couple of times. “I'm wondering if someone could please explain to me what just happened?”

“Yes that would be good,” added Max, with a chuckle.

Wiremu studied the Chinese student for a moment.

“My name is Wiremu, this is Maximilian.”

“Max,” corrected Max.

“Oh yes, sorry, my name is Peng Long Wang,” apologised Peng, obviously a little embarrassed at the failure of his manners. To Max's surprise Wiremu asked;

“Can we just call you Wang?"

“So much for cultural sensitivity,” said Max with a snort. But Peng didn't seem to mind.

“If you wish, by all means.” His English was very good. “Just not Long Wang.”

Max could see a joke in that, but was unsure if it was intended, so refrained from laughing. The lawn was almost empty now, both students and Professors having moved away to their lectures.

“We'd best get to classes," said Max. "Shouldn't be late for our very first ones. Is there a short version Wiremu? You know, one that doesn't involve a back story with six hundred years of Utu?”

“Utu?” repeated Wang.

Wiremu gave a good-natured chuckle.

“Like... Revenge, balancing. And no not really.”

“Oh.”

“But the basics are...” reconsidered Wiremu “...that those five fellas from the Northern Isle said; we are really scary, you should be scared, we are here to take over, you should all bow down.”

“Really!?” said Wang and Max together.

“Yes. So, I said; You shouldn't do that. It's a bad idea. I'm not going to let you. You can live here in peace.”

“That was kind of you,” remarked Wang.

“Oh and I gave them a gift each to... how do you say? Seal the deal.”

“Above and beyond the call of duty if you ask me,” said Max.

“I doubt it was a personal thing from those guys. As you say it has been going on for a couple of hundred years,” Wiremu reflected with a shrug.

“Those old ones at the back didn't seem to like it,” stated Wang.

“You noticed that too,” added Max.

“You're right. I'd say that those Elders are a little more sensitive to historic precedent,” said Wiremu. “It was a pretty dark haka. Last time they invaded they wiped out most of my Grandmother's tribe. It did touch me...” Wiremu thumped his heart “...rather deeply.”

Max thought Wiremu was doing a good job of playing down just how deeply it had touched him. He would have said, judging from Wiremu's earlier response, that it had offended him to the core. But time really was up, and education beckoned. Wanting to make his exit, but not be rude, Max called out;

“Hey look you two. There is this robot race event thing that the Steam Engineers do, at four o'clock today. Would you like to meet up and have a look?”

“I would,” replied Wang, then looking a little downcast added; “But I will be needing to get back to help Grandfather on his gold claim. Sorry.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Wiremu. “I'll see you there.”

The Five's Haka Translation

We are here. We are here. We are here.

We are the warriors. We are the warriors.

The blood of our foe is on our feet.

Like the mountain we are fire and destruction.

Like the mountain we are fire and destruction.

We are strong as the ancient rock.

We wade into the sea and none can overwhelm us.

We wade into the sea and none can overwhelm us.

We are here. We are here. We are here.

We walk among you.

Bow down!

Wiremu's Haka Translation

I am the gate into the South.

I am the gate into the South.

I am barred against you.

I am barred against you.

My Fathers watch over me.

My Fathers watch over me.

My Mothers lift me up.

My Mothers lift me up.

Only three nails pierce my timbers.

Only three nails protect us.

They are the Father.

They are the Son.

They are the Holy Spirit.

I am the gate into the South.

I am barred against you.

Live in peace before me.