Ngaro's Sojourney: Fractures, #1

By Michel Weatherall

Making his first appearance in The Refuse Chronicles' novelette, Das Ghul, now the Māori chieftain's full story is told!

Follow the 1850 Māori warrior in his nautical adventure to the South Pacific gyre, from forbidden and lost islands, cannibalistic tribes, volcanic isles, sleeping tiki-gods, and discover the Secret of the Lost Library City itself!

From the wastes of the Australian Great Sandy Desert to the desolate tundra of Grænland. From his homeland of Aotearoa, New Zealand, to the nightmaric cradle of horror itself, this adventure is a white knuckled ride!

Home to a world doomed to destruction, Ngaro is its light!

 

One Ocean.

One Tribe.

One People.

One World.

 

Hope Rises.

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"Michel's writing style is brilliant, poetic and engaging. He paints pictures that make you discover the brilliance of your mind, the depths of your imagination. 

"If you appreciate traveling, adventures beyond time and space, gift yourself one of these books…. Ready for the adventure?" 

Yasmin Asgarali, YNA Photography

 

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"Ngaro's Sojourney is extremely well written...
...exciting action throughout...
...a world doomed to destruction and despair...
...a white knuckled ride in an ocean of mystery and intrigue...
This novel has potential to make a very good film."

Dr. Rongo H Wetere, ONZM, FNZIM
Maniapoto Tribe from Aotearoa (Maori Cultural Advisor)

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"When I first started reading Ngaro's Sojourney, I thought this book is way too intellectual for anyone. I mean come on, who uses the word xenophobic in their book, let alone twice? An intelligent someone that's who. Luckily for me, I kept reading and I was right, it is meticulously thought out in its execution, writing and narrative.

 "It's an absolutely clever journey and one that is worth the ride. You'll feel enriched for reading it.

"If Clive Barker and Stephen King had a lovechild, Michel Weatherall would definitely be it! He is one of the most intelligent writers out there.

"It is with anticipated breath that I look forward to the second book in this new series!"

Codi Jeffreys

 

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"Ngaro's Sojourney is an epic adventure that follows a Maori chieftain in a challenge that will test the bounds of faith, family, and friendship.

"In this first novel of his new Fractures series, Weatherall skillfully guides the reader through a mosaic of memorable trials and feats culminating into an elaborate tableau. Always the excellent storyteller, Weatherall produced a brochette of new and exciting characters who he led into the most unexpected circumstances, sure to surprise the reader. 

"This solid story, strewed with movie-worthy action scenes and solid character development, left me satisfied yet eager to read the next book!"

Nancy Laflamme

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Broken Keys Publishing
• Release date: Dec 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781988253220

Michel Weatherall

Michel Weatherall is a native of Ottawa, has lived in Europe and Germany and travelled extensively. With over 30 years in the print/publishing industry, self-publishing was a natural step to his company, Broken Keys Publishing. He has published 6 novels and 2 collections of poetry. Other work include Sun & Moon, Purgation, This Burden I Bear, Eleven's Silent Promise, Rupture and the essays The Doctrine of Fear and Ebook Revolution? all appearing in Ariel Chart's online journey as well as a theological essay (“The Voice of Sophia”) in American theologian Thomas Jay Oord's "The Uncontrolling Love of God: An Open and Relational Account of Providence" (2015) Weatherall's current books in print are, The Symbiot 30th Anniversary, The Nadia Edition,  Necropolis,  The Refuse Chronicles,  Symphonies of Horror: Inspirational Tales by H.P. Lovecraft: The Symbiot Appendum, Ngaro's Sojourney,  A Dark Corner of My Soul (poetry), Sun & Moon (poetry), His publishing company, Broken Keys Publishing has 2 anthologies: Thin Places: The Ottawan Anthology, & Love & Catastrophē Poetrē. Honours and Awards include Winner of the 2020 - 2021 Faces of Ottawa Awards for Best Author Finalist of the 2022 Faces of Ottawa Awards for Best Author Winner of the 2020-2022 Faces of Ottawa Awards for Best Publisher 2021Best of the Net Award Nominee (for Poetry: Purgation) 2020-21 Parliamentary Poet Laureate Nominee 2020 Best of the Net Award Nominee (Poetry: This Burden I Bear) 2019 Pushcart Prize Nominee (for Poetry) 2019 FEBE Award Nominee for Creative Arts Finalist for the Faces of Ottawa Award for Best Author 2019  2019 CPACT Awards Nominee for Entertainment Excellence (Arts) 2019 CPACT Awards Nominee for Small Business Excellence (Broken Keys Publishing) Finalist for the Faces of Ottawa Award for Best Author 2018

Book preview

Ngaro’s Sojourney

By Michel Weatherall

Credit Page

Ngaro’s Sojourney © Michel Weatherall 2018

All rights reserved

Cover designed by Michel Weatherall.

Cover’s technical layout and format by Chris Barnett.

Cover art: iStock.com/RuthBlack

Stock photo ID:102769689

Used with permission and in accordance of Licenced use.

Published by Broken Keys Publishing

[e-mail]

Published February 2019

First Printing

A special thanks needs to go out to the Beta-readers for all their input, thoughts, suggestions and edits.

Nancy Laflamme

Matt Lalonde

Sara Lalonde

Codi Jeffreys, Jewel 98.5 FM

Dr. Rongo Wetere, ONZM, FNZIM

Maniapoto Tribe from Aotearoa (Maori Cultural Advisor)

No part of this book may be used or reproduced, scanned, distributed in any printed or electronic form in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Copies can be obtained by sending an email to [e-mail]

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Facebook.com michel-weatherall

Twitter @brokenkeys9

@weatherallmichel

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are the product of the writer’s imagination or are

used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, business establishments, events or locales

is entirely coincidental.

––––––––

ISBN: 978-1-988253-22-0

Printed and bound in Canada

Dedication

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The American Dream is anything but.

The belief that we are all equal, and should we work hard enough, wealth and prosperity are within all people’s grasp. The unfortunate truth is that with the rampant race to attain superfluous resources, this private, commercial and governmental amassment of wealth also included putting down and crippling others, so as to negate potential competition. It also included a twisted form of legal theft, the blind Lady Justice being anything but.

The European colonization began it. Cultural appropriation? Cultural-genocide.

Deprived of their nurturing, of their native culture and languages, this cultural-genocide was nearly complete.

The loss of these Aboriginal voices, Cultures, Heritages, languages, Worldviews and Wisdom, is of detriment and loss to all mankind. We, collectively, are poorer and impoverished with this absence.

It is only through protectionism, xenophobia, non-communal ‘tribalism’ and a culture of fear and greed that has led us to these tragic circumstances.

Although I may only speak from the bias of a North American Westerner, this is not to say it hasn’t occurred elsewhere. Australia, New Zealand, the list goes on and on.

Since childhood I have attempted to imagine our world had the Inca, Aztec, the Māori, the indigenous Native North American people - only to name a few - had survived and flourished, not only as a culture, but as civilizations; to have evolved and advanced to our modern world stage today. What spirituality and wisdom might they have brought? What might our government and politicians look like today, instead of their short-sighted 2 to 4 year view, they based their decisions in terms of the next 7 generations?

What might our world look like?

I believe it would have been wondrous.

One Ocean ~ One Tribe ~ One People ~ One World.

Also available by Michel Weatherall

––––––––

The Symbiot-Series:

The Symbiot (I)

The Hunt: Symbiosys (II)

Necropolis (III)

The Refuse Chronicles (IV)

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Poetry:

A Dark Corner of My Soul

Sun & Moon

so·journ

ˈsōjərn/

formal

noun

1. a temporary stay.

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jour·ney

ˈjərnē/

noun

1. the act of traveling from one place to another.

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Sojourney

ˈsō-jərnē/

The act of temporarily residing in a place and the journey to discover one’s origin.

Yester-verse 1.0

Chapter 1: Incursion

The Calm Before the Storm

The British Royal Navy warship – The HMS Gloucester had orders to take this island by force. It was deemed the property of Queen Victoria and of strategic importance. Its indigenous inhabitants were to be converted to Christianity, or eliminated.

The British Admiralty had a plan. Three imperial ship-of-the-line battleships were to converge upon Aotearoa, taking it by brute force.

The HMS Gloucester was to rendezvous with the Cornwall and Pembroke and lead the assault. For reasons unknown, neither the Cornwall nor Pembroke arrived at the rendezvous point and neither ship were heard from.

Even on its own, the Gloucester was formidable. A Royal Albert-class 120-gun warship, there was little in the Pacific that could pose a threat to this battleship. The Admiralty made the decision for the Gloucester to continue and complete the mission solo. With its complement of over eight-hundred men they feared little.

They believed they were unstoppable as they marched upon the tribal Māori... they were wrong.

Despite the fact that they erred with their diminutive numbers, and in spite of their advanced weapons - flintlocks and muskets - they were no match for this tribe of warriors. They were overconfident. Too sure of themselves, of their colonial expansion, of their faith. They were lambs to the slaughter, their battle with this Māori tribe brief and brutal. Who survived and what remained of the commanding senior officers surrendered along with a Roman Catholic priest. Nevertheless, it had been over two decades since the people of Takamauroa had seen war on this scale.

Ngaro, the elder council will deliberate this evening, the older man spoke to a fierce warrior, his eyes fixed upon the five prisoners, hands bound and on their knees. You will need to wash yourself before attending.

Ngaro was an imposing man. Chieftain. Three-hundred pounds of warrior. His eyes, reflecting a calm fury, too were fixed upon the prisoners. His chest still heaving, his breath heavy from battle. It was difficult to be certain whether he was wounded or splattered with the blood of the British. He allowed his breath to ease before speaking. Kahurangi, he addressed the older man, What of my wife?

Ngaro, Kahurangi whispered as he laid his hand upon the great warrior’s arm. Aoatea did not survive.

Several emotions flickered through Ngaro’s deep brown eyes. Anger, rage, sorrow, pain. And what of Niko? There was blatant fear in his voice.

Your son is safe. He is with the tribal mothers.

There was relief as Ngaro’s eyes met the shaman’s. His tribal facial tattoos curled as he simply, yet sorrowfully, smiled. Blessed be Takamauroa.

Blessed be the Ocean-Mother, Kahurangi echoed in response.

Get them out of the sun, Ngaro turned his gaze back upon the prisoners. Offer them water, but nothing more.

The aged shaman stood still. Is that necessary? It is very likely the elders will judge execution.

Ngaro bit his lip, his anger swelling and subsiding like some great oceanic tidal wave. They needn’t suffer. He could no longer allow himself to look upon the prisoners. He knew his anger would boil to the surface. He needed to tend to Niko, and without a word, turned and left.

***

The tribal mothers had prepared fish for Niko, but he nearly spilled his food as his father entered the hut. The boy ran and excitedly jumped into Ngaro’s arms.

He hugged the boy, longer and harder than he had intended. Niko might have been young, but he was no fool.

What? his face was ghostly white. He knew. Ngaro said nothing - he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. His face said all that was needed.

Mama? Niko’s voice was small, the terror evident.

Ngaro shook his head slowly, his tears running down his cheeks, across his tattoos. Neither spoke a word as both wept.

***

Nanaia’s moko kauae was barely visible on her chin anymore. Although the intricate patterns of her chin tattoo were still there, they were mostly an odd gray now, only a slight contrast with her aged sun-kissed skin. The coarse sands of time had weathered harshly on the old woman.

She was the first of the council of Elders and leaders to arrive. Nanaia always was. It was her place. She awaited on her son, Kahurangi. He was an old man. She was proud of him. The tribe’s shaman, he was wise beyond even his long years. Gifted, some believed. Many had given him the name The Kakapo, for they believed he must have retrieved his wisdom from unknown secret places; just like the nocturnal Kakapo parrot did. If Kahurangi was an old man, how old must Nanaia be? No one was quite certain exactly how old she was. Nanaia wasn’t even sure.

Kahurangi, with his stories and legends, taught many of the men and women their traditions.... as she had taught Kahurangi. Passed down from generation to generation.

Nanaia frowned, the gray tattoo contorted within her wrinkles. She knew what was really in question here - what was really threatened: Their very identity. Their culture.

This wasn’t the first encounter they had with the European settlers, having limited trade. But it was their first engagement with British soldiers. This decision would change everything, she lamented.

Mama, a man’s voice greeted. It broke her out of her thoughts. Kahurangi had entered with their chieftain Ngaro in tow.

Nanaia, the great warrior bowed to the ancient matriarch.

She smiled as Ngaro gently touched her arm. He had always impressed her. He had all the elements of a true leader in her eyes. A fierce spirit of a warrior yet tempered with compassion. Ngaro’s mastery of fear in battle saved countless lives. She wondered if he was aware of that or not. Was this his active compassion, or just his opponent’s fortune?

We wait for Ahahata and Rangi, she informed Ngaro, beginning to stand as was customary for the arrival of a chieftain, her aged knees and hips creaking.

No, no, Ngaro whispered as he held her shoulders. You stay seated.

Kahurangi sat beside his mother, Ngaro, across.

You await no longer, a new voice joined as two old Māori entered. It was Rangi who spoke. Short, wrinkled from decades in the sun. Bless Ranginui’s abundance. It was his greeting. It was always his greeting. Named after a deity of the sky, Rangi rarely let an opportunity pass without reminding others of his name’s heritage.

Following Rangi was a truly impressive man. Tall and lean, the tā moko decorated his entire body. Ahahata’s hair was shock white, completely in contrast with his sun-kissed skin and tattooed body. He favoured his right leg, limping but refusing to use a cane or crutch. Over two decades ago, Ahahata waged war with the eastern Cannibalistic Te-Kai-Tangatu tribes. Their marauding excursions were put to a brutal end. It was the last war Ahahata fought. It was the last war this tribe faced.

Rangi and Ahahata sat on either side of the chieftain, finishing off the council of Elders.

Kahurangi was about to begin reciting their story of the islands and Man’s birth from the World Ocean, as was their tradition, when Ahahata interrupted.

Once again, our way of life, our culture is threatened with extinction, his voice was sober and serious. Although we have encountered these white European settlers, this is the first encounter, and combat, with their warriors.

Thanks to Ngaro, Nanaia spoke, We are safe and remain secure.

But not without a cost, Ahahata nodded his appreciation to their warrior-chieftain. Not without our losses. His eyes remained on Ngaro.

We are sorry for the loss of your wife, added Rangi.

And what of Niko? the elder matriarch Nanaia asked, concern etched in her eyes.

I have spoken to Niko, Ngaro answered. I will protect and nurture and raise him. I thank you for your concern but we are here to determine a course of action for the prisoners. The leaders of this British ship have surrendered. We need to decide how we will deal with these warriors.

Warriors?! Ahahata’s voice was incredulous. These men are not warriors.

Soldiers then, Ngaro conceded. He did not want to bicker over nomenclature with Ahahata.

Warriors fight! Ahahata continued as if Ngaro had said nothing, These cowards command their men to fight to the death, yet when their own lives are threatened, when their own well-being becomes questioned, they surrender?! These men cannot be judged as warriors, he sneered the final word. Not even leaders! There is little to deliberate on. Death is the only judgement.

The wrinkled Rangi was concerned. Execution may bring more of these warriors - soldiers, he quickly corrected himself, and ships. What you speak of is war.

We are already at war, Ahahata retorted. I say we burn their ship, let the British see the column of flame and smoke. Let it be a warning.

I am not convinced this is the path Takamauroa would follow, Ngaro quietly interjected. One Ocean, one people. That is Her belief.

Nanaia knew their goddess’s will. They were all a single people. She watched Ngaro carefully. Could he successfully navigate this difficult conundrum? That path betwixt compassion and war? Self-preservation and unity?

Ahahata stood, looking down on Ngaro. You would preach peace after our village was invaded? After your own wife was killed?

Nanaia could see the emotions sweep across Ngaro’s face, like the waves on a beach. First, shock and sorrow, as he remembered his wife. Then, fortified, a stoic coldness. Then the anger brewed up. A simmering rage, a lust for revenge.

You...you are right, Ahahata, Ngaro could barely contain his emotions. They invaded our land. Threatened our people, innocents.

A true warrior does not attack women and children, Ahahata joined his voice.

Killed our people, Ngaro continued. Orphaned our children, he whispered.

Nanaia sighed, her eyes falling, disappointed. Takamauroa’s was a difficult path to follow, maybe impossible.

I see little point in further discussion, Ahahata addressed the council. Death.

I see no other choice, added Rangi. Death.

Death, agreed Ngaro. We burn their ship. Let its smoke rise to the stars.

We must be sure these men are their leaders, cautioned Kahurangi, but I regretfully see no other option. Death.

Nanaia eyes remained on the floor as the council awaited her reply. The four men were greeted with silence.

When the ancient woman spoke it was barely audible. I fear Whiro has tricked us, less than a whisper, has influenced our sight, and wisdom, yet carrying the weight and volume of thunder. It is not for us to decide a man’s life. I cannot condone this action. She slowly raised her eyes, rimmed in tears. I will offer this decision to Takamaurao. I cannot condemn a man to death.

Let Takamauroa’s will be done, Kahurangi whispered.

The revered silence that followed was brief. It was Ahahata who spoke. It is decided. It is four to one. Death.

***

The sky was overcast and the colour of metal. The sun was low, hidden behind a vanguard of stormclouds. Even the Ocean was not pleased. It should have been dark with what little light was left of the day, but the Māori had set the Colonialists’ ship aflame. The five prisoners were lit by the dappled orange light the husk of their burning ship cast. The elders had delivered their verdict: Death.

The duty of executioner fell to Tane, a great Māori warrior. His long curled hair was more aptly described as a wild mane. His eyes, a pale hazel, only accentuated his wild demure. His choice weapon was a great tewhatewha, an axe-like staff. His tewhatewha was made of heavy whale-bone and ornately carved with symbols of his goddess, Takamauroa. Cumbersome, unwieldy, brutal. A weapon few were proficient with. But due to Tane’s great strength, he somehow made effective and violent use of the great club. It was with great regret that he fulfilled the duty decreed to him by the elders.

There was little delay, no words spoken. No last words. No ceremony to the execution. The first officer’s head was split and cracked open. The great muscular Māori, Tane, hammered his war club through his skull, the prisoner’s brains splashing upon the sand. The remaining four men began shouting out, crying for mercy, begging to stop, to allow them to speak, to offer their defense. Offering riches, anything!

The cacophony of babbling continued as the second man was slain, his head shattering like a ripe melon, Tane grunting with his great exertion. The remaining trio of prisoners’ cries becoming all the louder, replacing their slain companions’ missing voice.

The two bodies’ blood and brains seeped into the sand like some perverse sponge. Ngaro stood, his expression stoic. This was the decision and will of the elders. He had believed it was his will as well, but truth be known, as he witnessed the executions, he was no longer sure, of either his will or the decision of the elders. He would not turn away from the debauchery. He rested his hand upon Niko’s slender shoulder. The boy was silent, showing no expression. Ngaro must speak with him afterwards.

Thack! The dull sound of bone crushing was sickening as the third British Colonialist fell face down into the sand. Tane, wielding his tewhatewha, was winded. He would show his mercy in his exertion. He would deliver them no pain, no suffering. It was his goal to slay with a single stroke. He felt it was more than they deserved.

The next European trembled as he wept, his hope lost. The final man held his eyes closed, praying aloud, but showing no fear. The shaman, Kahurangi, observed carefully. He was concerned with the actions of the final man.

The bloody tewhatewha was studded with fragments of bone and grizzle as it whistled through the air. Thack-gush! The fourth prisoner’s hands and feet twitched as his lay upon the beach, his head little more than red pulverized meat.

Kahurangi leaned closer to Ngaro, whispering, He’s a holy man. Both Ngaro and Kahurangi’s eyes met, Ngaro giving the older man his full attention. The elders need to know. This changes their decision.

Hold! Ngaro’s voice boomed across the darkened coast.

Kahurangi followed Ngaro as he approached the final bound prisoner. Tane’s chest rose and fell heavily as he sat upon the sand, the tribal tattoos that adorned his body shrinking and expanding. It was a welcome reprieve from his terrible duty.

The prisoner’s eyes remained closed as he prayed under his breath. Ngaro gently slapped his face, vying for his attention.

Hey. You name? Ngaro’s English was poor but his question clear enough.

The prisoner opened his eyes, surprised at how close the great tattooed warrior was to him.

You name, he repeated.

P-Padre Miguel Arte-del-amor, he stuttered, unsure.

He’s Spanish, Kahurangi added, recognizing his accent. Padre - Father? translating as he spoke with Ngaro, I don’t understand, there were no children.

No, Ngaro said, roughly tearing the young man’s shirt. He is a priest, he finished pulling out a crucifix. 

I am from the Holy Catholic Church of our Lord Jesus Christ, Padre Miguel answered in fluent Māori. I have been sent to teach you.

Both Ngaro and Kahurangi was taken aback as the Spaniard wielded their native language.

Ngaro stood, his dark eyes reflecting his confusion and inner turmoil. Place a guard on him. Keep him bound, secured within. I will speak with the Elders. We will address this priest tomorrow.

Kahurangi motioned to some men as Ngaro spoke.

Feed him, Ngaro continued. Kahurangi turned, about to advise when Ngaro cut him off, allowing him no opportunity to speak.  Feed him! he barked.

***

Darkness had fallen quickly. The vanguard of the storm had reached their village. A light drizzling rain fell, blanketing all with its hushing sound. Like the great sky attempted to sooth its children’s sorrows.

The young boy Niko sat with his father. The two were silent. Partially disturbed by the butchery they had both witnessed. Partially in shock from their shared loss of mother and wife, the opportunity to mourn never allowed. Partially quieted by the raining night.

Niko was distraught by far more than the executions. There was something inherently wrong. Something he struggled to put words to. Ngaro watched his son. He knew he wrestled with these same demons.

Niko, his voice was barely a whisper beneath the silencing rain as it danced upon their grief. The storm was picking up, gathering its emotions. Ngaro knew his son needed to talk - that he needed to talk - but words escaped him.

I thought, Niko stuttered, unsure how to question their faith, unsure whether to voice his concern over their elders’ decision. I thought the Ocean-Mother birthed all people. His voice was laced with silent tears.

Yes, Niko, Ngaro voice was calm and soothing.  The world’s One Ocean is the mother to all people, to all tribes. His words seemed hollow in light of the butchery they had just witnessed.

I, I don’t, I, Niko was frightened as he stammered, I can’t believe... his voice trailed off into a whisper. Takamauroa wouldn’t, couldn’t... When the young boy’s words failed him, he reached out and hugged Ngaro.

Ngaro embraced him as he wept. Gently, he took the boy’s face in his great hands, their foreheads meeting. Do not fear, Niko, his voice was promising. You are not alone. I am here. You need not fear.

The first peal of thunder voiced its warning from a great distance.

As Niko listened his finger followed the tattooed patterns across Ngaro’s face, tracing their swirling lines. I, I can’t believe Takamauroa would wish this upon anyone. Even our enemy. One Ocean, One world. One people...

War... war can complicate things, Ngaro began, seeing the concern and truth his son struggled with. We must defend ourselves. We must defend our culture, our way of life, our beliefs.

The quiet rain began falling in sheets, pelting on the hut’s walls.

Niko’s voice was small when he spoke. This felt more like the will of Whiro. Do... do we dwell in darkness too? His eyes were shiny with tears.

Ngaro was silenced. Whiro, a chthonic deity, responsible for all the pain and ills of the world. The embodiment of evil. He who would consume the dead, feeding off their souls, strengthening itself until the day it could escape its underworld habitat... devouring the entire world.

Ngaro rocked Niko in his arms as he began to sing a song his mother had sang to him. The child was pure. He saw the world through the simple eyes of a child. Unfortunately the world was not as simple. Its morality existed in ever darkening shades of gray. That is what the elders were for. That is where their wisdom excelled.

At least, this is what Ngaro told himself, tried to convince himself. Deep down Ngaro knew. He recognized the wisdom of a child. The truth was never complicated. It existed in simplicity. And his son new it. This could not have been the will of Takamauroa.

The entire canopy of boiling storm clouds were lit up as the first bolt of lightning flashed. Even the confines of Ngaro’s hut were lit up. Both Niko and Ngaro counted to themselves, waiting for the thunder. Both were concerned.

Ka-boom! Ten seconds. The sound exploded. Two miles out. It was nearly on top of them.

The rain will sing us to sleep tonight, Ngaro said smiling, the rat-ta-ta drumming across their hut. Niko smiled, uncomfortably at first, but as he looked into his father’s eyes, his confidence was contagious. Takamauroa will sing us to sleep tonight! he emphasized their deity’s name, both subtly smiling. I think it is time for bed, Ngaro finished, escorting Niko to another divided room.

Father Miguel Arte-del-amor

He lay on his side in the dark. He could see nothing. He could smell wet sand and rain. The night wind had become a veritable tempest. There were moments the priest thought the palm frond roof would be torn off. It was but minutes before the pelting rain began. He could hear it shoaling across the hut in waves.

Hands bound behind his back, taut to his feet, turning onto his other side was a herculean task. His clothing had soaked the flooding water off the hut’s sandy floor.

He had secretly stashed a large seashell in his pocket earlier that day. He retrieved it with cold numb fingers. He paused for only a moment, resting from his exertion. He began sawing the rope that bound his hands with the sharp edge of the shell.

The roof tore off with a deafening boom, a deluge was rain poured upon the surprised priest. Miguel gasped in shock. He had never seen a tropical storm of this magnitude before. His emotions were mixed. He felt threatened and frightened by the savagery of the monsoon, but also relieved, nearly happy, as he knew it would cover and aid in his escape. The rope severed!

He wrestled and pulled his hands free. Sitting up, his clothes were drenched and twisted around his body. His long dark hair hung limp and soaking as he made short work of the rope that his bound feet.

The hut door wasn’t secured or had broke with the vicious winds. Father Miguel carefully peered out. Numerous tribesman ran from shelter to shelter. Chaos reigned. The sky was black as pitch and churning. The maelstrom cast darkness upon all. The sporadic flashes of lightning, like a strobe-light, only added to the pandemonium. His guard had clearly abandoned his post. They had better things to concern themselves with. As he took in the sight he realized this was far more than a storm. This was near apocalyptic.

He attempted to run, but the wind only knocked him down. A nearby hut shattered, its remnants whisked away by the storm, its occupants - woman and children - tumbling, crying, desperately clawing for the youngest.

An older Māori woman held a toddler in her arm as an adolescent passed an infant to her, pushing the old woman and children behind a fallen tree. The boy struggled and battled the storm but to no avail, the wind quickly snatched him away. He was lost from sight behind the raging rain.

Padre Miguel ran in fear, but a greater fear overcame him. He froze, his arm linked around a branch, water pouring off his nose, running through his eyes. The rain blurred his vision as he looked back. The boy was only a blurry shadow now. The priest turned, stepping forward again to flee, and again froze. His breath was laboured and exhausted, water spitting from his lips as he turned to face the doomed boy. Sante Cleopatra,  he cursed, the violent wind sucking his voice and breath away. He couldn’t. He couldn’t abandon the innocent.

Señor Jesus, ayudame, he prayed while making the sign of the cross, letting go of his secure branch. He allowed the storm to throw and drag him towards the struggling boy, their bodies slamming into one another. He grabbed the boy in a bearhug and let their combined weight pull them to the sand.

Father Miguel looked up, squinting his eyes tight against the driving rain, searching for cover or shelter. It didn’t matter what they found, anything to get out of this raging storm. The driving rain hurt as it pelted into their exposed flesh, stinging like needles.

His jaw dropped when he saw her. Her halo lit up the darkness, a crowned woman, robed in sky-blue, beckoning to him.

Virgen María, madre de Dios, he prayed. The Virgin Mary was a vision, a revelation to the Spaniard. She was unaffected by the wind or brutal rain. A beacon of hope and light. She glowed with an angelic golden light, her robes arching wide, offering protection, reprieve, shelter from the tempest.

The boy crawled and the priest half dragged him towards the Virgin Mary. It was shelter. That’s all that mattered. As the vision faded it was too dark and chaotic to make out where they were or what shelter they had found.

Miguel stuffed the boy into the crevasse, wedging himself atop. Only by screaming could one be heard. The boy cried frantically! No! Ngaro! I must find-

The Spaniard spoke and understood the Māori native tongue. ¡No! he clasped the boy by his shoulders and neck, violently pinning him down, pressing his entire body weight. No! We stay! We stay here! Face to face, he saw the utter fear in the child’s eyes. We find your Ngaro after! When it is safe!

This Coming Darkness

It has been decades since Ngaro truly slept. Since adolescence, he had never needed sleep. It was an unexplained and peculiar condition. He had developed the habit of meditation during the night, his peculiar disability unnoticed by all, bringing his ever active mind to a calm and relaxed state.

But tonight Ngaro’s meditation wasn’t a peaceful one. Tossing and turning. He was in sync with the raging storm without. Neither knew rest. Neither knew peace.

When he opened his eyes he was within some ancient, amnesic temple. Its internal walls were adorned and engraved with images and runes, mostly alien to him. He only recognize the stone columns’ graven images, the tiki-demon Whiro, the god’s masked face twisted in its rage and hatred. He knew he was dreaming. No Whiro temple remained. All were destroyed, leveled, the deity banished to its chthonic realms beneath the earth.  They were only spoken of in legends and hushed whispers. Old wives’ tales to frighten children.

The monolithic stones rumbled and vibrated from some hidden storm outside, the thunder dull but booming. Somehow, Ngaro could smell the pelting rain, seeping through the ancient masonry. Everything was heightened, yet subtle. The atmosphere changed. The barometer-shift, he felt through his great forearms, like the very laws of nature were bowing to a greater force, a greater will; kneeling before an even greater god.

An electric current flowed through his body, alive, sentient. He looked upon his hands, his forearms. The black tribal tattoos that adorned his arms shifted, moved, twisting and curling. He could feel their tickling tendrils beneath his skin.

The temple chamber was large, overgrown with neglect. A large pit filled its centre, ringed with terrible columns depicting the evil god’s numerous forms. A haunting breeze wafted from below, seeping the deep earth’s foul breath from the vacant abyss.

Across the pit stood the shattered, ruined and desecrated remains of what could only have been the evil deity’s altar. Its large single slab, bowed, its back broken in half. The cracked tabletop stained with the blood of countless sacrifices.

Broken. Forgotten. Desolate. Something stirred upon a raised dais, a fallen altar-like structure. A scarlet robe, as red as a sunset and empty as this forgotten temple, rose to stand before him. A ghost swirled within, billowing its robes, filling the vacant clothing.

She was small, easily mistaken for a child - impossible to mistaken for a child, her eyes betraying her overwhelming power. Foreign yet familiar, they flickered between the calm serenity of the ocean one moment, to the raging feral tempest the next. Her hair, cascading from the folds of her hood, long, braided, yet unbraided, like a tidal swell, constantly in an ebbing motion. Gray, possibly, yet highlighted with the blue of a cerulean sky, the undertones of ocean-green, always in flux. Even Her hair had a life of its own, a quasi-will. 

単一の海 Although the goddess spoke in a strange foreign tongue, Ngaro could hear Her voice within his mind.

One ocean. Takamauroa’s telepathy transcended language, causing the Māori warrior to see, to hear, to smell, and even to taste the great world encompassing Ocean.

Ocean-Mother, Ngaro knelt as he acknowledged the goddess. He could feel