436 years before the birth of Maximillian Skilton.

- Prologue -

STORM

1423 AD

Eight miles north of Kahurangi Point, the Northern West Coast of Te Waipounamu

(New Zealand's South Island)

"Idiot!" hissed Wai Fong Lu though clenched teeth. "Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!" his mind raged again and supplied a vision of himself punctuating the point by repeatedly smashing his long telescope into the wooden rail that ran across the front of his ship's stern castle. However, his rain-wet face remained impassive, the 'stone mask' well in place. If any of his men had dared study him closely at that precise moment, they would have only seen his right hand rise an inch from the rail before slowly patting the soaking timber three times. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

His emotion would go unnoticed, hidden both by his self-control and the blackest night he had ever commanded through, and made trivial by the constant onslaught of wind, the roaring of the waves, and the blinding combination of both; the great white spray that sluiced the seven masts and high decks of his massive vessel.

All the hanging lanterns had long been extinguished, their copper and glass cages now, in dark turmoil, rocking to the storm’s dire actions. In a similar manner the crew of The Golden Dragon moved about their tasks, back and forth across the deck, checking and rechecking, the small sounds of their work lost in the wet void of storm roar. Thus, they appeared to function in stoic silence, although occasionally the wind would fling one of their sharp calls up to the high stern-deck and Admiral Lu would catch the shrill sound of a single word or a short curse. Then their shapes, the black deck, snaking ropes, pitching masts and driving white water would be frozen in the Admiral's eyes as a flash of lightening momentarily scourged the darkness, lancing the image into his mind, to be followed at once by thunder, the sound like a powder keg igniting and ripping the sky in half.

As dreadful as it was the storm posed little threat to Admiral Lu.

Correction, the storm posed little threat to Admiral Lu's ship, it may yet prove to be his undoing. And there was the injustice, the seeds of his destruction having been sown before they even embarked from Nanjing. Betrayed by the unwitting hand of his own sponsor.

Men should not meddle in affairs outside their station.

But was this not ever the way of men?

Only one small factor lay outside his control, one small, small man.

Humbler in every way than any voyage ever undertaken by the Great Zheng He, Lu's was still well organised, an expedition to be proud of, his one great chance. One thousand men, ten seven masted chuán warships and one small dragon prowed treasure ship.

It was this treasure ship, stuffed with gold coin and porcelain for trade, that caused the Admiral his current emotion. Correction, it was the small captain, of this small ship that caused Lu his current emotion. He had known it would go this way from the moment that lowly Wei presented the Emperor’s 'request' to him. Maybe he had not seen it going this bad, but he knew it to be a fool’s errand from the start.

He was damned if he did, and....

Maybe the Son of Heaven had wished to grant one of his wives a favour, and this is what she asked for?

Maybe Jing Fai... it didn't matter now!

Suddenly, only a month before they left, Zhou Di, some distant nephew of the Emperor’s was 'offered' to Lu. Wei had said something about Zhou Di needing to make something of himself, to meet expectations, to prove... Admiral Lu had hardly listened to the servants’ ramblings, he had known how it would go.

It was Lu himself who had placed Zhou in command of the treasure ship, a sturdy vessel, robust but little more than a large cargo transport. Then he had placed the treasure ship in the centre of the fleet, safe as a calf whale in the midst of its family pod. Here Zhou would feel responsibility and the illusion of power. Maybe he would feel he actually commanded men and that there was true danger, maybe he would be satisfied, even if none of it was real.

But Zhou Di was not satisfied; he was presumptuous and ignorant, untrained, and unbridled.

A little knowledge is a...

All Admiral Lu's Ten Captains had seen the predicament in which the Emperor had placed their commander and had remained silent. Silent when Zhou took his unearned place amongst them at council. Silent when Zhou spoke out of turn. Silent when he pushed forward his idiot ideas. Silent when Zhou broke fleet formation and sailed on his own ill tacks. In their silence Lu knew his men's loyalty.

And now they were where Hong Bao's charts hinted at there being land, and Zhou and his treasure ship were gone.

None of them had seen Bao's land that day. So, at dusk, with the eastering wind rising to a storm and pushing them on toward a massive white cloud bank, Admiral Lu had arrested the fleets movement with the flick of his hand. For surely that horizon of cloud hid mountains, and although the joy of discovery is great, such discoveries should not be made on moonless nights by wooden ships. At Lu's signal the ten great chuán came about and faced into the wind and the setting sun. They had been sailing in close enough formation for him to hear the calls of the Hortators repeating his command on the ships nearest. Nor could he have missed hearing the out-of-place cry of exclamation that came from his own deck. He had tilted his head forward to regard the shouting sailor below, knowing already what he would see when, a moment later, he let his eyes follow the east pointing hand.

“Idiot” Admiral Lu had mumbled for the first of many times that night. Zhou and the treasure ship had not turned back into the west with the rest of the fleet, but had remained running before the wind, toward the low clouds. As the sun had dipped beyond the rim of the earth Admiral Lu had ordered his own ship east once more, in pursuit. The rest of the fleet would cast their sea anchors and spend the rough night far out to sea, but safe in the west. This command was signalled to the Jade Dragon and within seconds had been relayed throughout the small fleet. The night lanterns were lit. By the time Lu's bow had come around again Zhou had disappeared in the gloom. That had been five hours ago.

Lu was sailing blind. Even the lightning failed to illuminate anything beyond a hundred yards of tossing waves and driving rain. The hanging lodestone was his only guide, resolutely pointing north though the ship spun slowly underneath it.

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Indecision. They could go no further. Lu knew there was land in front of him, he could feel its presence, its existence seemed to push on his eyes, a subtle new pressure in his black reality, he couldn't explain it. He might say it 'boomed' at him 'throbbed' though there was no new sound, he couldn't explain it. Maybe he could smell it, the tang of wet forests, muddy water rushing into the sea, he couldn't explain it. But to go on was to be wrecked.

The wind had turned now and came up from the south. He would be a fool not to take this chance to be away.

Maybe the treasure ship... maybe it too would crawl itself back from the jaws... he knew it would not be so. It had been a fool’s errand from the start. He saw no white line of surf, no black teeth thrusting up, he heard no coastal roar. To be that close would to be already ruined. Admiral Lu gave the signal to come about and return west, the treasure ship was lost, he would never see Zhou or his fortune again.

* * *

“Tutaekuri! Tutaekuri! Tutaekuri!” cursed Tawhiri as he stumbled and for the hundredth time, fell in the mud. Idiot, Idiot, Idiot. Even on the sodden ground amongst fern and rattling flax he was still buffeted by the wind and lashed by cold rain, although he could not get any wetter than he was. He groped about and retrieved his travelling companion, the precious harakeke pack.

Water ran from him in muddy runnels as he stood again. Back hunched, he slipped his arms though the woven straps and drew the pack onto his back once more. It was heavy with carefully wrapped Pounamu, the cherished green stone, jade. A flash of lightening illuminated the thrashing undergrowth. Like a haunted dog Tawhiri renewed his run, the wings of the storm beating madly about him.

Almost home. He had carried that pack north along the coast for a week, sleeping rough or finding hospitality among the various hapu who made their settlements at the brackish river mouths.

Tawhiri was driven. His village at the mouth of the river which would one day be called Paturau needed the pounamu he carried. So, he made this trip south once, maybe twice a year, normally alone but sometimes with others. The greenstone in his pack would be shaped by master craftsmen into fine tools, fearsome weapons, and noble adornments.

But he also collected the sacred pounamu as a ward. An insurance against future attack. Maybe it was a vain hope. But Tawhiri knew that the tribes on the northern island, Te Ika-a-Māui, Maui's Fish, were growing in size and power. Their winds were warmer, their lands more fertile, seas richer with life, and fewer of their boy children died in the cold months. One day, maybe not in Tawhiri's lifetime, they would come south.

Tawhiri's hope then was to establish his village as the principal, by virtue of being the most northerly, greenstone trading centre on the southern island, Te Wai Pounamu. If his people were not numerous enough to secure their place in the future by war, and they were not, then maybe they could do it by trade, and then they would not need to erect the Pā wall.

So, he made this trip to the west coast greenstone rivers on behalf of future generations, and he had made it countless times. He was a veteran of the coast trail and for this reason he called himself Idiot. Maybe for getting old, but definitely for growing soft and impatient.

Why after all this travel, all this treading of familiar paths, sleeping with a wet back, alone in the forest, did he suddenly need to be home a night early? They had offered him a dry mat in the sleeping whare back at the Anaweka, but he had shaken his head, wanting, so close to the end, to just be home. Maybe he feared that if he waited one more night, the rain would rise the rivers, and one night would have to become two or more.

The fishermen who stood at the sea mouth of the Anaweka, up to their waists in water, rain beading in their black hair, a net strung between them, called to him “Porangi” Crazy. But they waved and laughed. Each had seen Tawhiri pass this way more times than they could remember. As the dark and the rain and the tide came in, they too would draw in their net, full of silver flashing mullet, and retreat to their huts. And as they went so did Tawhiri, hitching up his pack and disappearing up the beach, north into the dusk.

Within an hour he had crossed the Turimawiwi and two hours after that the Anatori. But now the tide was high, and storm tossed, sometimes making travel on the sand impossible, causing him to waste time stomping inland to cross otherwise impassable headlands. That Marama, the moon, had his golden face hidden hindered the night-time journey still more.

“Tutaekuri!” spat Tawhiri again. He was miserable. Pushing his way through wet gigi and supplejack he admitted to himself that he should have stayed back with the fishermen. He would reach his village this night, but the hour would be so late that none of the sleepers there would be pleased to be disturbed by him, and the hearth fire would be down to embers. He freed himself from the tangle and jogged along under a stand of windblown Manuka, their shape eternally bent into the east by the prevailing wind. The same wind that this night caused the great rollers to roar and smash against the shins of the limestone cliffs beneath him.

Near about was a good vantage from which to view those waves, a lookout where Tawhiri often paused, less than an hour from his village. Gripping waist high flax, he moved near the edge and peered over. Wind borne spray raced up from the howling darkness below.

Lightning flashed.

Tawhiri screamed and fell back from the edge in horror! For beneath him, was revealed amongst the white churn, kelp, and rocks, the onrushing form of a great black sea monster! The ancient Taniwha of his people's nightmares! In the lightning blink he had seen it, enormous ribbed-leather wings covering its broad back, and atop it's long wooden neck, sat a great toothed head. Tawhiri stumbled away, sprawling, crawling, as the beast's open mouth plunged toward the cliff.

At once the night air was rent with a deafening crack, as, coupled with thunder, the monster assaulted the cliff face. The mud beneath Tawhiri shuddered at the impact.

Then the thin spaces between the noise of the sea and the Taniwha's tearing bites was suddenly filled with the terrified screams of dying men. For a heartbeat Tawhiri wondered who the monster's victims could be? For no one would be out on the rocks hunting kekeno, the fur seal, at this time. But the waves swallowed the sounds again. Maybe it had been the sound of the Taniwha's attendant ghosts, or maybe the screams had been his own?

Finding his feet, the pounamu pack forgotten, Tawhiri turned and ran headlong, paying no heed to the lawyer vine and cutting grass that tore at his flesh.