The Lost Tohunga Read Online Free Page B

form a shape: a blurred outline amidst the sight-defying movement appeared vaguely human.
    The birds flew closer still, their wings beating against each other, fouling each other’s flight, sending feathers flying as blood spattered the ground. Still they meshed closer, their calls deafening, until suddenly they turned inwards and with a sickening crunch collided, ramming into each other, breaking spines, rending bodies, shattering each other. The bloody mess collapsed in a heap of feathered, quivering, red-stained flesh.
    The mass of dead and dying seemed to dissolve, their last calls growing plaintive and thinner as each succumbed, and then the whole ghastly heap was still. It remained so for some minutes, as red fluids fed the roots of the trees. Then it quivered.
    Gently shaking, and then more violently, the ghastly pile bulged from movement deep within. The top corpses slid to the ground with wet little thuds. Something was beneath, struggling to rise through the deathly debris. Then a skeletal arm broke through, brittle-looking, tendons glistening, downy feathers sticking to bone. A head emerged, somewhere between human and bird, with a long beak sticky with gore. The pile of debris deflated as this new thing stood, and raised its arms. Brown skin formed slowly to cover the sinew and flesh. Bluish veins pulsed. Grey hair sprouted from the skull, and fatty globules formed buttocks and breasts. It was female, muscular and athletic, with the strength to power through the air, although the bird-like face, whose nose and chin almost touched, was aged and gaunt. She stretched and sighed, dreaming new dreams of freedom.
    A tui called from the trees. She answered in a lilting voice, wordless, everything conveyed in the pitch and tone. She let the tui alight on her hand. She was Kurangaituku, the Birdwitch. The tui paid her homage and brought her news.
    Puarata was dead , it sung. She had suspected this, sensing the release of bonds that bound her, compelling her service. She closed her eyes, opening her mind to her children, whose eyes were everywhere. She focused on the north, witnessing the aftermath of Puarata’s fall. She recognized Wiremu, the tohunga’s warrior-slave, now also free, it seemed. She noted the face of the half-caste boy who had stolen the tiki. Puarata had commanded her to find the boy for him, but she had failed him. She didn’t regret that, now.
    She turned and looked southeast. To the Ureweras, where his lair lay unclaimed.
    I must get there first. I must be the next power in the land, the one who inherits his mantle.
    I refuse to serve another Puarata.
    Donna Kyle
    Donna Kyle was dreaming of a time before it all began. It was a dream she often had, of a porcelain doll in a yellowed christening gown. Sunlight was shafting through curtains, and men were singing as they staggered home drunk down Ponsonby Road. The six o’clock swill. Footsteps crunched down the gravel path and she wondered who it could be …
    Daughter!
    The dry voice in her head made her flinch, and her eyes sprang open. That voice! Surely not …
    â€˜What’s happening?’ she murmured aloud to the empty room.
    Get up, Donna! Puarata is dead! They’re coming for you now!
    Father’s voice? Impossible — he’s dead!
    They’re both dead …
    She remembered. She had been watching Puarata’s end, in a scrying glass. She saw him die, and didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. She should have run then, but she was still so weak. The drugs dragged her down, back into that same dream she always had. Of that last hour of childhood …
    She tentatively raised a hand and touched her swollen face, wincing. She had been beautiful, until Wiremu’s blow had broken her nose and split her face. Her head was swathed in bandages, so that she felt partially embalmed. She had been wondering if Puarata would discard her, like others he tired of. That’s irrelevant now. You’re on