The Spanish Helmet Page 10

  On leaving the island, I have set a course west. The Moluccas must lie in this direction. If I am wrong, perhaps we will discover the great continent, Terra Australis. Yesterday, two days after we set sail, we encountered an inhabited island. The natives there were friendly and happy to trade some beads for food and water. Ten of the crew wanted to remain on the island to try to convert them to the teachings of Christ. I believe their true reasons for abandoning their posts is a fear of what lies ahead on the journey to come. Having no wives at home in Spain, they look lustfully at the native woman and will try to win them. Or take them by force. Some of these men were brawlers so I am not displeased to see them gone.

  With the departure of these ten men, and the fateful loss of the seven when we struck ground, my crew numbers 35.This is one less than the original crew assigned to the San Lesmes in La Coruña. I sail with a heart full of hope because the men gained at the misfortune of the other ships are of higher rank and knowledge than the seamen who have been taken from us. We should make the Moluccas as planned.

  CHAPTER

  23

  ‘You have arrived at your destination. Your destination is on the left,’ the GPS stated matter-of-factly.

  Matt leaned over the passenger seat of the car and looked at the front window of Aimee’s house, just in time to see a gap in the curtain close. Aimee was waiting for him. He checked the clock. No, he wasn’t late. As a matter of fact he was fifteen minutes early. She was keen! Very professional, Matt corrected himself. Walking up the garden path he inhaled the fresh aroma of the garden. Thyme. Blending with something he couldn’t quite place. It smelt wonderful though. He racked his brain trying to think of what it was as he waited for her to answer the doorbell. The opening door snapped him back to reality. Aimee, standing in the hallway, wearing beige shorts, loafers, and a buttoned blouse took his breath away. The aroma of the garden was replaced with something even better. Matt smiled.

  ‘Good morning.’ She returned his smile.

  ‘Morning. Nice looking place you have here,’ Matt said, sweeping his arm and trying not to look at her legs.

  ‘Thanks. I’m always a bit embarrassed that I live in a granny-flat but it beats putting up with flatmates.’

  ‘I live in a granny-flat too, nothing to be embarrassed about at all. I love my privacy.’

  Aimee’s smile widened.

  ‘So you like your privacy? Not a big party animal then?’

  ‘Not really. OK, not at all.’ Matt hoped he didn’t put her off by being so boring.

  ‘That’s great! It’s refreshing to meet a man who doesn’t feel the need to waste all of his waking hours boozing with friends and watching rugby.’

  ‘Oh, that’s definitely not me,’ Matt said, excited by the prospect that Aimee found his style so acceptable.

  ‘Cool.’ she said, looking over her shoulder and indicating her single bag. ‘I think I have everything. Shall we go then?’

  Matt looked down at her luggage. She travelled light. Her bag was smaller than his.

  ‘We might be gone a week or more.’

  ‘No problem, I’ve got enough here to get me by for at least a month.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  Matt reached through the doorway to take Aimee’s suitcase before she could protest. She didn’t anyway. He waited while Aimee slung a little day-pack over her shoulder and locked the door. Walking back down the path, Matt enjoyed the blend of Thyme, mysterious aroma, and Aimee. He could definitely get used to her. Definitely.

  His high crashed down to the ground as he walked towards the back of the car and saw the black Corolla parked a hundred metres up the road. It was occupied. Just one man. Matt said nothing, and loaded Aimee’s bag into the boot.

  * * *

  ‘Fuck a tar knee.’ Matt said, taking care to pronounce the name of Aimee’s hometown exactly as she had taught him. The sign at the beginning of the bridge spelt out the Maori name more politely: Whakatane.

  ‘Home sweet home.’

  They drove over the bridge and turned left towards the main part of town, as Aimee guided Matt with plenty of pointing. She directed him through a shopping area and past her high school before taking them over a large hill to a beautiful long beach on the other side.

  ‘My parents only moved here after I left home. Not fair really. I grew up back in town. The beach kids were one of the cooler crowds.’

  ‘They all would have moved on now though, right? Like you.’

  ‘Some. But a lot of them stayed here too. Those that managed to get on the property ladder are laughing their arses off now. The value of a place here has gone up massively. Ten-fold in most cases.’

  Matt pulled into the driveway of a tidy looking two-storey place that Aimee pointed out. Getting out of the car, he was relieved to stretch his legs again following the four and a half hour drive they had just undertaken. He turned to look from the gently sloping hill the house was on and was greeted with a view of the ocean and the familiar scent of salty air. When he turned back to the car to see what was taking Aimee so long he had to stop himself from laughing.

  ‘Are you cold or do you have other motives behind your special fashion choices?’

  ‘Other motives, of course. My Mum will be so proud that I’m still wearing her purple creation. You’ve got no idea how special it can be to a knitting addict to see your grown children proudly wearing your pullovers.’

  She was right. The front door of the house opened and Aimee’s parents warmly greeted them, her mother commenting on the pullover and how lovely it looked on, before inviting them in.

  As Matt walked through the door, he confirmed that indeed the Corolla was still parked within line of sight. There was no question they were being watched. He smiled at himself as he imagined how bored the occupant must be.

  * * *

  Hemi was far from bored. Arriving in Whakatane had been a trip down memory lane. A trip that started when Matthew Cameron stopped to pick up his travelling companion. It was when he saw Aimee come out of her house that it hit him, his realising just how small a place New Zealand can be. Bloody hell, Aimee Kingsbridge. Don’t tell me you’re tied up in this mess.

  He hadn’t seen Aimee for years. Since their days together at Whakatane High School in fact. She wouldn’t remember him, but he remembered her. Hemi had a massive crush on Aimee for years. They were in English and History together. She was a real history buff, so maybe she went on to University. Hemi, on the other hand, was the fat Maori kid in the back corner of the room. No one noticed him, except for a couple of his cousins. Of course the army had changed him. Even if she did remember little fat Hemi, she wouldn’t be able to pick him out in a line-up. Not in a million years. Had Warren set this up too? Hemi decided to keep it to himself to see how it panned out. If Warren didn’t already know, he didn’t need to. Until she proved otherwise, Hemi would treat Aimee as an innocent bystander.

  When they drew closer, Hemi realised he would have to confront his hometown. He tapped the steering wheel faster with each mile. Fifteen years stood between Hemi and Whakatane. As they drove down King Street it fully struck him. His old haunt. As a kid, he would hang about with friends outside the Kope Four Square dairy, stuffing themselves with lollies or greasies from the fish and chip shop, where the 20 cent spacies were. But then the Maori Wardens came along and ruined all of that. Bloody wannabe cops. It was even more embarrassing for Hemi though, when his dad would come along. The other kids hated him. As he drove past the Four Square his eyes flooded with tears. Thank God he knew this place like the back of his hand. Otherwise he might not have been able to continue driving. Seeing his school pissed him off even more. If it wasn’t for his father’s death, Hemi would have gone on to greater things. He could have gone to uni. Instead, here he was working as a spy. Not that he minded, it gave him a chance to seek his justice. Now, as he sat on Pohutukawa Ave and watched Matthew and Aimee enter her parents house, he couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. Mr. Kingsbridge had been Hemi’s fa
vourite teacher. He would have loved to have gone up to say hello. But he couldn’t. Having realised who Matthew Cameron was travelling with, Hemi now had another dimension to his mission. Aimee had to be protected, and that probably meant protecting Dr. Cameron too.

  Satisfied that they weren’t coming out again that night, Hemi got to work. He needed to know where they were if he lost sight of them. That meant a bug, and not just any bug, a special one hand-made by Leigh. He knew the model of navigation system that Warren had in the car he lent to Matthew and had asked Leigh to put together a special version of the same model. Only this Navigon had a few added features and an extra unit that would be fitted under the car.

  Hemi carefully released the locks and climbed in to the passenger seat. The first part was easy. He simply unplugged the USB cord from the GPS device and removed it from the window suction holder. The replacement unit went into place and you couldn’t tell the difference. He closed the car and lowered himself to a lying position to move on to part two, installing the relay transmitter which would receive the weak signal in the GPS unit and re-transmit it over much bigger distances. He fastened it to the undercarriage with some cable ties and connected it to a twelve volt supply. The red LED lit up, telling Hemi that it would receive signals, sent from the minute transmitter in the replacement GPS device, and relay them up to three kilometres away. With ease and in just two minutes, a standard car navigation system was sending all audible content from its microphone, along with the current position of the vehicle, on a government limited frequency. Hemi loved this work. Standing up again as he finished, he rubbed the bum of his pants and removed the dust he had collected. Back in his own car he confirmed that a signal was available. It was. Leigh was owed a box of chocolates.

  * * *

  Dinner at Aimee’s parents’ had been great. Mr. Kingsbridge, as he was referred to not just by his students but also by his wife, was a riot. The evening had been filled with laughter as he regaled everyone with his school tales. Aimee’s face had turned red more than once. She seemed to have been quite the spectacle in school. Matt couldn’t help but be drawn to her. Mischievous and fun, yet sensible and studious.

  Half way through dessert they were joined by Mike, the history teacher Aimee had liked so much. Matt understood the attraction. He was one of those examples of everything a teacher should be. Funny, interesting, passionate, wise, and approachable. When they talked, Matt felt an immediate sense of chatting with an old friend. With everyone at the table actually. It was homely.

  ‘Aimee said she recalls you talking about ships arriving long before the commonly accepted discovery of New Zealand,’ Matt said, prompting Mike.

  Mike’s face grew serious. Mr. Kingsbridge also sat forward and mirrored Mike’s expression.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Mike said.

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ Matt looked at Aimee for help. ‘I just thought...’

  The room was filled with laughter. Mike had to practically hold himself on his chair he was shaking so hard.

  ‘Sorry Matthew. It’s just too irresistible not to have a little fun with you. I’m guessing you know that these subjects can be treated with some trepidation here.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Seriously though.It’s incredible Aimee remembers the story. As it happens, it only really came to light in 1991 right when she was in my history class. The story had been around for a lot longer, but it was printed in a Maori newspaper. When it was translated and published as a small segment of a book by one of New Zealand’s most important historians, I first heard of it. It was an important book, full of history, but of everything in that book, it was the page about some mysterious fishermen that grabbed my attention.’

  There was a pause. Matt used it to make himself more comfortable. The mood could only have been improved if the dining table had been replaced with a campfire and their chairs with logs. He was hanging on every word that Mike spoke.

  ‘The story was told by Mohi Turei, a respected scribe and clergyman from the Ngati Porou tribe,’ Mike continued. ‘The Ngati Porou are from the east cape, that’s the area to the east of us. Not more than a good half day’s drive away.’

  Matt watched as a far-away gaze fell over Mike’s face.

  ‘One peaceful night, the men went out fishing. The sea was calm. There was no wind as the canoes floated in the pre-dawn light waiting for a land breeze to carry them to their fishing grounds. As the dawn glow bathed the ocean in its warmth, the canoes were whisked to their chosen spot and the fishermen dropped anchor and began to fish for Tarakihi. When the sun lifted into the sky, it illuminated the waters and revealed a boat in the far off distance. The boat, which was bigger than any they had ever seen, paddled toward them. The paddlers sat on each side and there were more rows of people who sat in between them. They could also see a man standing at each end of the boat. Such was the boat’s greatness that the men were afraid, for a boat this big must be a war canoe.’

  Mike looked at each person in the room. Matt glanced around too. He wasn’t sure how often the others had heard this story, but they all appeared to be as eager to hear it as he was. Mike looked at him directly and continued.

  ‘They watched, afraid, as the boat floated toward them. Closer and closer it came. Then, before it reached them, the paddles were lifted out of the water and the boat turned as it floated where it lay. As it turned, her true size became apparent to the fishermen. The number of the crew and the measure of the boat were far greater than they had at first realised.’

  One of the dining chairs creaked. Matt didn’t know who had shifted their weight. No one said a word. Only Mike’s voice broke the silence again.

  ‘As the fisherman watched, the men on the boat started to do something familiar. They were baiting fishing lines and throwing them into the sea on either side of the boat. The fisherman watched in awe as the newcomers hauled in huge numbers of fish. Each line carried a dozen or more and there were lines all up and down both sides of the boat. This excited the fisherman and their fear was forgotten in their greed. Their leader gave a signal and they raised the anchors and hurried in the direction of the biting fish. As they got closer, the people on the large boat collected up their lines, giving the Maori a chance to see them closer up. These men were different, appearing very strange to the locals. As a team, the newcomers raised their anchor, everyone in the middle of the boat chanting and pulling on a rope in harmony. The language of their chant was not one that the Maori knew, but the words sounded like this.’

  Matthew caught Aimee’s eye. It was obvious from the look in them that this was the part she remembered from school. She was mesmerised and hanging on to Mike’s words. Mike cleared his throat.

  ‘Ka whakatakotoria... Ki te ika te wa o tu... E ko te tae o tu... E kore rarii. That was the chant as they pulled on the rope. When the anchor was on board the newcomers took up their paddles and chanted as they moved about. Their words sounded like... Pakepakeha, pakepakeha... Hoihoi hii, hoihoi hii... Hihohoo, hihi hii.’

  Aimee stifled a laugh. Her father glared at her. But Mike just smiled, oblivious to the disturbance. Finished with the chant, he relaxed a bit again and sat back to continue.

  ‘The Maori could now plainly see the occupants of the boat. They were turehu, fairy people. They were punehunehu, misty looking. Ma, which means fair or white and ma korako, which means pale like albinos. The boat turned and the newcomers retraced their arrival route, leaving by the same waters. As the Maori watched, the boat seemed to rise up on the sea as if they were paddling in mid air and they were lost in the billowing white clouds. The Maori knew that these must be fairy people, evil gods, or stillborn and whistling spirits. They were sighted many times before and after that day. Their chants are still remembered and the place where they chanted was called the Haka of the god. Mohi Turei tells that this boat of fairy people was seen long before the arrival of Captain Cook.’

  Matt waited to be sure that the story was finish
ed.

  ‘They chanted pakepakeha?’ Aimee asked, confirming the story was over.

  ‘Yes.’ Mike said. ‘It’s suggested that this could be the origin of the word Pakeha in its usage in context of white people.’

  ‘And who do you think the people in the boat were?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. But the historian who published the story in English suggested that it was probably remembering the visit of Abel Tasman. I think it’s older though.’

  ‘Fascinating. I wonder if it could have been the Spanish.’

  ‘Some say that Fernandez made it here. There’s also plenty of speculation about other Spanish ships, not to mention Portuguese. Until now though, any evidence is only circumstantial.’

  ‘We hope to change that, don’t we Matt?’ Aimee said.

  Matt smiled. If he was able to find real evidence that the tale he just heard was true, it would be the proudest moment of his life.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We do indeed.’

  CHAPTER

  24

  The countryside scrolled by the car windows at a comfortable 100km per hour. Aimee had busied herself studying a map, attempting to find their way to the site of the Crosshouse of Miringa Te Kakara. Now she was trying to explain what it was about the Crosshouse that should be interesting to them. Warren, upon hearing of their visit to the site, had been kind enough to supply Matt with a website printout that provided information of the theories of the house. More than could be comfortably consumed it seemed. Aimee held out a diagram briefly so that Matt could take a glance. She paraphrased some of the description of the house.

  ‘Two wings actually lay along the observable rise-and-set line of the winter solstice sunrise and summer solstice sunset at 60-degrees and 240-degrees respectively. The other two wings lie, therefore, at azimuths of 150-degrees and 330-degrees.’