Three out of Three
The adventures of Triplet Brothers
STORY 4
Tamehana Tito
by D.R.H. Ashby
Copyright belongs to D.R.H. Ashby 2013 ©
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the writer and the publisher.
Published by Mackay Books
144 Bothwell Park Road
R D 2
Waiuku 2682
New Zealand
[email protected] CHAPTER 1
Hidden Message
Not long after their involvement with the downed Cessna plane, the brothers were fully recovered, their confidence riding high after venturing into uncomfortable territory and were raring to go again. They had hatched a plan to head back up the valley to follow up on all those stories they had been hearing about Tamehana Tito and to see for themselves how much truth there was to the long standing myth. All they needed was the right time and conditions to start their next adventure up the Waitai Stream.
They wanted to return to the south east branch of the river. This uninviting area was forever in shadow, so wooded and steep that the sun hardly got through to dry the dark forest floor. The heavy growth of lichen and moss hanging from the trees created a goblin-like forest, quite different from the usual bush the boys knew so well elsewhere in the forest park. This was a spooky part of the valley but now that the boys had already been into this area, their brief experience reassured them it was safe and so they were ready to discover more of its secrets.
In their search for the crashed Cessna they had seen the old goat shelter where this mysterious old character was meant to have lived. They planned to find the shelter again and maybe find out if there was any truth in the stories they had been hearing over the years. Even though the boys had their doubts about the supernatural, they were still open-minded about such things as it was hard not to believe some of the more convincing stories. They couldn’t help but be drawn in to the controversy, for this was all about their neck-of-the-woods and had literally happened in their backyard.
There were anecdotal stories that the old man was still in the valley. Pig hunters had reported strange things; sightings of a mysterious figure moving through the bush at night and of camp sites being visited after dark. Although nothing ever went missing, objects had been misplaced or rearranged by morning light. At times on very cold nights, camp fires had been kept alight all night after hunters had retired to their sleeping bags as if someone had kept a vigil over them and yet no one had actually seen anything.
The stories that circulated said Tamehana had been murdered and his spirit would never rest until his murderer was named; that his ghost would wander the length and breadth of the valley waiting for someone to find the missing clues to identify the guilty. So far nothing had been found and Tamehana’s ghost continued to roam.
The brothers set out on a bright and sunny day. The stream was low as there had been little rain that month so they walked in the shallow stream bed, rock hopping, and every now and then circling around a larger pool or jumping a deeper hole. It was slow going but easier to follow the river than climbing the steep terrain.
As they progressed deeper into the valley they couldn’t help but feel what a perfect hideaway this was for anyone who wanted to withdraw from society and live the life of a recluse and that was exactly how Tamehana had chosen to live. It was also apparent to the brothers what a wonderful defensive position it was for anyone wanting to defend against an attack. The track, when they followed it, was virtually single file, which would allow the approach of only one assailant at a time.
So as the boys moved forward, their minds wandered to legends of heroic stands by small bands of warriors holding back a marauding army of thousands. It brought to mind the Greek myths that their mother had read to them as bedtime stories. Walking one behind the other along the river bed they also felt the tension of moving into unfamiliar territory, their thoughts on the Tamehana ghost stories.
What they needed was a distraction to take their minds elsewhere to overcome their slight anxiety.
“Hey, this is Thermopylae!” shouted Simione. “We are a band of three, not three hundred!” With that he drew his knife from its sheath and held it aloft. “Death to the immortals. We will never retreat; we are Spartan!”
And with that quick summary of the famous battle, the three brothers with their knives in hand, charged up the creek bed slashing and cutting their way forward. The distraction was working a treat as the brothers now became brothers-in-arms and with feints and blows they fought the Persian Army for much of the remaining stretch of track. They grunted and groaned and slashed at the enemy and every now and then would receive a body blow or a wound that would momentarily slow their progress. By playing out the heroics of a small band of warriors, the three boys lost themselves in the make-believe and before they knew it, reached their destination. Exhausted from the energetic play and all laughing from the adrenalin rush they had created, their mood changed when they reached the site of the goat shelter. A chill of uncertainty now replaced their playful antics.
Before them, the overhanging rock created a deep shadow. The otherwise shallow shelter now seemed like a deep and dark grotto. Slowly and cautiously, and silently, Simione, Roscoe and Dan-Dan walked into the cave.
For some time they just stood there, letting their eyes adjust to the dark and absorbing the scene around them, searching the shadows to make sure they were alone. Once they were comfortable with their surroundings, they began to imagine how it would be to live in such a primitive dwelling. It was truly a return to the past. Other than ashes in the fireplace, there was no sign of occupation, the whole place becoming less threatening and more intriguing, and they moved freely with confidence. This could be any rock formation anywhere in the valley and their curiosity overtook any last feelings of uncertainty.
“Hey look at this,” called Dan-Dan from the back of the cave. “A cave weta … and there are plenty of them.”
They quickly noted how the cave weta were using the shelter and how ferns were growing inside due to the moist walls and the half light. The spell and mystique of the place was broken but then the fireplace caught their attention.
“Looks almost as if it had been used yesterday,” said Simi, peering in the half-light at the hearth stones. “Hard to believe this was someone’s home.”
The three brothers closed in for a closer look at the arrangement of stones in the corner of the shelter. The stones thick with charred soot, formed a perfect circle around a blackened central space, and had obviously been used to contain fires many times. Up close, the symmetry of the arrangement of the hearth stones looked quite out of the ordinary. Each stone fitted perfectly as if they had been shaped to butt together with no discernible gap. The whole arrangement had an aura or atmosphere around it and possibly that was the reason it had remained undisturbed for all this time. Even hardened pig hunters would likely sense that there was something almost sacred about the circle and though it appeared to have been regularly used, it had not been disturbed.
“There is something odd about this place,” commented Roscoe, looking around the room. “It feels strange, almost as if Tamehana is still here, a bit creepy really.”
For the boys, the fire place was a stark reminder of the man who had lived here and whose disappearance had remained a mystery for four decades. As the brothers’ attention focused on the stone formation surrounding the fire pit, a fantail flitted amongst them. They were familiar with the bird life in the bush and were always disappointed in the sparseness of the birds and bird calls. On their trips
up the valley they held no great expectations, expecting only to see a few fantails. This particular bird, however, was drawing attention to itself as it darted in and out of the overhang, almost touching the boys as it flew by, and it was very vocal.
Normally the boys would have ignored it but Simione noticed that after every flight around and between them, it would land on one particular hearth stone set in the circle. There the small bird would do a little dance, flicking its long tail feathers left and right while singing in a shrill and demanding manner. Then it would flit in and out of the over hang and dart amongst the boys before again alighting on that stone.
So unusual was its behaviour that Simione started to take note of the number of times the fantail repeated this action. Dan-Dan broke the silence when he spoke quietly to his brothers, “That bird has landed on that same stone ten times already.”
“No, it’s eleven times,” corrected Roscoe.
All eyes now on the bird, they watched as it again alighted on the rock and sang and leapt about frantically before flitting off into the surrounding trees.
“What do you think?” said the bemused Simione. Roscoe and Dan-Dan shrugged their shoulders, equally baffled by what they had just seen.
With no guiding response from his brothers Simione knelt down by the fireplace. For some seconds he remained there, not moving as he struggled with the thought of touching the stone. Maybe there was something weird under there that the bird could sense.
Simione reached out and grasped the stone with two hands. It was too heavy to lift up directly, so he tilted it and heaved it backwards, at the same time jumping backwards uncertain of what lay beneath.
Nothing!
With their expectation of something dramatic happening it was a total anti climax. But as the brothers peered more closely at the rock they could see scratches and marks on the underside of the stone. At first it looked like a series of lines and dashes, nothing more than natural wear and tear on the surface of the stone. The jumble of lines seemed meaningless until Simione wiped the stone with the tail of his shirt. This was not just a random collection of marks. They were not natural. They had been deliberately incised on the under-surface of the stone … it was a pictograph!