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Welcome to Morcan Books & Films, the blog devoted to providing a unique perspective and intelligent commentary on books and films. It includes commentary on our own books and films – i.e. novels and screenplays co-written by the Morcans, and feature films produced by, or in development with, Morcan Motion Pictures.
Lance & James
Into the Americas is the end result of 13 years’ research by authors Lance and James Morcan. The father-and-son writing team first encountered the centuries-old diary entries of young English seaman John Jewitt in early 2002 and immediately became enamored with this intriguing slice of North American history.
However, it took untold drafts and careful study of the Pacific Northwest, including consultation with the tribal peoples of the region, before we felt sufficiently confident to develop Jewitt’s original bare bones historical account into the epic adventure novel it deserved to be.
In their own words: “As with writing any novel based on or inspired by a true story, we had a million agonizing decisions to make along the way. Decisions such as which historical events needed to be added to, or fictionalized, and which should be kept exactly as occurred albeit expanded upon or ‘dramatized.
“Our writing/storytelling process continues as we have since adapted ‘Into the Americas’ to a feature film screenplay and added it to our movie development slate. (Producer enquiries welcomed).
“Even after all these years of focusing on the history we still feel John Jewitt’s story is one history’s great true-life wilderness survival tales.”
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Into the Americas is available as an audiobook courtesy of Amazon. (Listening time: 14hrs. 2mins.) For those who prefer the printed word, the paperback version is also available via Harvard Book Store, Barnes & Noble, Waterstones UK & Europe bookstores, and via public libraries.
Spanning five centuries, New Zealand: A Novel is a sweeping tale of discovery, destiny, and forbidden love in which the old and new worlds collide. While this novel may not always convey exactly what happened during the discovery and settlement of New Zealand, first by Pacific Islanders and later by Europeans, I believe it captures the spirit of those sometimes romantic, always fascinating and often bloody times. –Lance Morcan (Author)
CHAPTER 17
Aotearoa, Early 1500s
The late thirteenth century had seen the advent of the pa, the fortified village that served as a stronghold for iwis under siege in Aotearoa. By the early 1500’s, those fortifications were becoming remarkably sophisticated. Nowhere was this better demonstrated than on the rocky headland at the southern end of the bay occupied by the Ngati Porou iwi. Like pa sites elsewhere, the iwi had made best use of the available terrain.
The headland that accommodated the pa extended some distance out into the Pacific and overlooked the entire bay as well as miles of coastline to the north and south. Cleared of bush, the only vegetation left was a line of pohutukawa trees that ran along the clifftops. The steep, white cliffs ensured that access was only possible from the land. Anyone who tried to attack from the sea could easily be repelled. A few boys throwing rocks would suffice.
The pa’s main defences were concentrated on protecting its entrance. Two lines of trenches had been dug from one side of the narrow headland to the other to help repel any raiders who chose to attack on foot. These same trenches could be turned into killing fields when enemies tried to cross them. Each was surmounted by a stockade to doubly protect the defenders, and underground tunnels enabled them to retreat if they were in danger of being over-run. This clever design, used by the Ngati Porou and increasingly by Maori everywhere, was surprisingly advanced and effective – as British troops would discover to their cost one day.
The pa itself comprised sturdy timber ramparts surmounted by wooden lookout towers and fighting platforms. These were the last line of defence should the trenches not do the job they were designed to do.
Behind the ramparts, an entire kainga [village] had been constructed. It comprised whares, storage houses, kumara pits and gardens, and most prominent of all a wharenui, or meeting house. It was here the eight hundred villagers would live if attacked.
The pa’s one drawback was that the headland it occupied had no stream or other source of freshwater, which explained why the iwi had opted to establish its permanent settlement on a riverbank half a mile inland. Iwi members only relocated to their coastal pa when there was risk of an attack – as was the case now.
Mahanga, the ageing rangatira of the Ngati Porou, paused in his early morning inspection of the fortifications to stare at a hill, which stood like a sentinel at the northern end of the bay that the pa overlooked. Kaiti Hill was the ancestral site of the Ngati Oneone hapu, a sub-tribe whose marae was located at the base of the hill. From the hill’s summit they had uninterrupted views north to the eastern cape where Mahanga knew the Te Arawa war party was preparing to launch its attack. He’d learned this from the enemy scout his men had captured and tortured several days earlier. Ngati Oneone residents would alert their Ngati Porou neighbours of any approaching threat as the two peoples were close allies. Unless they happened to be cut off, the former would relocate to the pa on the headland in the event of an attack.
Before dying, the Te Arawa scout had proven talkative after having had his feet held to the flames of a cooking fire. The information he’d imparted had given Mahanga a couple of sleepless nights.
Yawning as he continued his inspection tour, he reviewed what he’d learned. By all accounts the enemy’s rangatira, Apera, had three hundred battle-hardened warriors and numerous wakas, including those they’d taken possession of at Tokomaru Bay. More disturbingly, it was evident he was intent on invading the Ngati Porou pa.
The number of warriors the Te Arawa had didn’t concern Mahanga. He had that many and more, and he didn’t think the wakas would be of use to his enemies because any attack from the sea would be futile. If they didn’t already realise that, he thought, they soon would. What did concern the rangatira was the Te Arawa warriors were by all accounts battle-hardened, having prevailed in numerous conflicts with coastal iwis during their journey south from Maketu, a place Mahanga had never heard of. While his own warriors had been tested, having repelled half a dozen attacks on the pa by southern war parties in recent years, they could hardly be described as battle-hardened. The pa’s impressive fortifications had so far rebuffed any attacks, and his warriors had not yet had to engage in any serious hand-to-hand fighting. Such was the advantage those fortifications provided. The Te Arawa warriors might present an altogether different proposition.
What most concerned Mahanga, however, was the pa’s lack of fresh water. Water had to be carried to the site in wooden calabashes and poured into purpose-built, rocky ponds, which had been designed to catch rainwater and act as reservoirs in times of need. However, even when full the ponds would only sustain the iwi’s eight hundred people for seven to ten days at most during dry periods. As luck would have it, the present winter was one of the driest in living memory, and there was no sign of rain on the horizon. In the event of a siege, someone would have to descend the cliffs in darkness, fill calabashes with water from one of the streams that emptied into the bay and return unnoticed. That he realised would be quite a challenge as any self-respecting enemy would be on guard against such attempts.
The rangatira’s thoughts turned to his Te Arawa counterpart as he stopped to observe half a dozen men who were replacing rotting timbers on either side of the pa’s entrance. He’d never heard of Apera, but thought he sounded like someone to be reckoned with even if only half what the captured scout had told him was true. The scout said the ancestors of Apera and his people had travelled to Aotearoa aboard the Arawa waka. Pondering that fact, Mahanga looked north again. As he did he subconsciously massaged the stub of an extra small finger on his left hand – a family trait his late father and great grandfather had also been born with. He remained unaware that Apera shared the same trait or that they were both descended from Hotu who had first journeyed to Aotearoa aboard the Ronui – the very waka which had landed on the same beach he now surveyed.
Since the arrival of Mahanga’s ancestors on these shores, his people had flourished. The land and sea had provided all they needed, and any inter-tribal disputes had generally been settled quickly and peacefully. Change was afoot unfortunately. Iwis were now at war throughout Aotearoa. And war was coming Mahanga’s way. Of that he was sure.
The rangatira was distracted by the sounds of sticks clashing to the accompaniment of grunts of exertion. He looked around and saw his daughter-in-law Anahera sparring with a teenage boy nearby. The pair each wielded a wooden taiaha, or close-quarters staff, a weapon favoured by Maori everywhere. Useful for short, sharp strikes and stabbing thrusts, its use required superior hand-speed, deft footwork and considerable skill.
Mahanga’s daughter-in-law was, he thought, well named. Anahera in Maori folklore stood for Majestic and Powerful Angel. And that she was. Anahera’s sculpted body turned heads wherever she went, and although much lighter than the bulky teenager she sparred with, she was giving him a painful lesson. That was no surprise to the rangatira or to any of the other spectators who had gathered to watch the training session. The young wahine was after all a blooded warrior who had proved herself in battle. Wahines like her – and there were more than a few – often fought alongside their men with distinction.
The bulky teenager grunted in pain as his skillful tutor delivered a blow to an unprotected shin.
“Protect your legs!” Anahera said as she switched her grip on the taiaha and whacked the teenager across one shoulder with it, prompting another grunt from her victim.
“Protect your shoulders, too!” a spectator yelled, causing mirth amongst others watching and causing the teenager no small amount of embarrassment.
“Ignore them,” Anahera said to her bloodied and bruised student. “They can’t fight to save themselves.”
As the training session continued, Mahanga noticed one of his scouts jogging toward him through the pa’s entrance.
“The Te Arawa dogs are coming!” the scout shouted.
“Overland?” Mahanga asked as the breathless scout stopped in front of him.
“Ae…Overland…They will arrive in two days…Three at most.”
“How many?”
“We counted at least two hundred and fifty warriors.”
Mahanga pondered this as villagers began crowding around, keen to hear what the scout had to report. Anahera and her teenage sparring partner were among them.
Pushing through the crowd, Anahera stood before the scout. “Only two hundred and fifty warriors?” she asked. “The Te Arawa prisoner told us they had at least three hundred.” She knew that to be a fact as she was one of those who had held the captive’s feet to the fire before he died.
The scout didn’t like being questioned by a wahine, not even one related by marriage to Mahanga, and he glanced at the rangatira who nodded almost imperceptibly. “They left about forty warriors behind at Tokomaru to guard their slaves and wakas,” the scout mumbled.
Mahanga placed one hand on the scout’s shoulder. “You did well. Eat and rest, and then inform the others I want regular reports on our enemies’ progress.” The others he referred to were the other twelve scouts patrolling overland approaches to the pa.
The scout nodded and jogged off, leaving Mahanga to decide on the best course of action. He turned to Anahera. “Inform your husband of this news,” he said, referring to Nikau, his oldest son. “Bring him to the meeting house.”
Anahera hurried off to find Nikau while her father-in-law walked back to the quarters he shared with his three wives and their extended family. He wanted to check on them before he held a council of war with his headmen.
War was coming and he wanted his people to be ready.
Mahanga had good reason to be concerned: his Te Arawa counterpart, Apera, was at that moment leading a two hundred and sixty-strong raiding party north from Tokomaru Bay, their destination the Ngati Porou pa. They would present the biggest challenge his people had ever faced.
CHAPTER 18
Aotearoa, Early 1500s
The Te Arawa raiders had set out on foot at first light from Tokomaru Bay. Their number included six slaves. Forty warriors remained behind to guard the remaining slaves, wakas and other plunder they’d acquired…
Into the Americas is available as an audiobook courtesy of Amazon. (Listening time: 14hrs. 2mins.) For those who prefer the printed word, the paperback version is also available via Harvard Book Store, Barnes & Noble, Waterstones UK & Europe bookstores, and via public libraries.
“Lovers of adventure, exotic locales, and history should enjoy this read, which reminds me of James Mitchener’s novels in breadth and detail.” –Kathleen Buckley (Accredited historical fiction novelist)
CHAPTER 16
Aotearoa, Winter, 1501
For the first time, the hills and shores of Aotearoa echoed to the sounds of war. As competition for land and food resources increased, inter-tribal fighting became the norm. The inevitable result was war on a scale never before seen in Kupe’s land. Fighting was hand-to-hand, vicious and bloody.
One ugly side-effect of the conflict was cannibalism.
Eating the flesh of enemies provided a new source of meat as well as having symbolic significance for the victors. Cannibalism quickly became part of Maori culture, just as it had throughout the islands of the South Pacific. The losers in warfare accepted they would end their days in slavery or on the cooking fire, or probably both. Slaves provided labour for hard manual work and were a source of food when their meat-starved captors were hungry.
Feuds erupted between iwis which had previously lived side by side in peace. As rivalries intensified, bloodshed followed. Given the Maori preoccupation with mana [prestige] any slight was an invitation to violent retribution. The concept of mercy was unknown and the cycle of revenge that resulted was known as utu, or blood vengeance.
Utu would become the law by which Maori lived. It would survive, indeed flourish, until well into the nineteenth century.
Apera’s Te Arawa iwi had consolidated their tribal base at Rotorua, the inland whakatikatikatanga [settlement] located on the shores of the same thermal lake where they’d resided since relocating from coastal Maketu. But like most tribes of the day they needed more land for their ever-expanding population. It was because of this their rangatira decided to lead a sizeable war party down the east coast in search of slaves and new territory.
The decision to make war was not taken lightly. The Te Arawa had long been insulated from the feuding that was now common amongst coastal tribes. Increasing demand for new territory had recently seen their own tribal lands come under threat. Fortunately, their superior numbers had enabled them to repel any invaders. However, this was not enough to ensure their survival. More land, slaves and riches were needed.
Winter was always the worst time to travel or to make war. The land was cold and food was at its scarcest, but the Te Arawa warriors chose to make their move in the middle of winter when their enemies would likely be least prepared.
Almost one year to the day after he killed the last surviving moa, Apera led a war party of two hundred warriors to the coast. Among the headmen in their midst was the rangatira’s younger brother and right hand man, Kaihautu. He, too, was a natural leader, which was fitting because his name translated as A man with leadership qualities.
The brothers were always to the fore in any conflict. Opposites in many ways, they were a study in contrasts: Apera was tall and lean while Kaihautu was squat and heavy. The latter hadn’t inherited the family trait, and Kaihautu often ribbed his older bro about the stub of the extra small finger on his right hand. Both men possessed strength and courage in equal measure, often fighting side by side as was their wont. Individually, they were fearsome fighters; together they were an unstoppable force, overpowering all opposition they’d encountered.
Joining with their cousins at Maketu, the original landing place of the Arawa waka, Apera now commanded a force of some three hundred warriors. Six mighty double-hulled wakas carried them south, their destination a coastal cape that was said to be Aotearoa’s most easterly point. Te Arawa scouts had earlier reported the hunting and fishing was good around the cape and the land there was ready for the taking.
Along the way, Apera’s warriors plundered and looted many of the coastal villages, sometimes attacking from the sea, sometimes overland and sometimes simultaneously from land and sea, using a pincer-like strategy. The raids, like those occurring everywhere else in Aotearoa, began and ended with a mighty haka, or war dance, performed by the raiders – unless it was a surprise attack in which case no haka was performed beforehand.
Unfortunately for the Te Arawa raiders, the early pickings were slim. Heavily-armed northern invaders had recently swept south, wreaking havoc in the villages, slaughtering or enslaving their inhabitants and taking whatever caught their fancy.
Apera discovered that since his scouts’ reports had come in, those same northerners had invaded the eastern cape region as well. By the time the Te Arawa war party rounded the cape it had little to show for its exploits other than twenty or so undernourished slaves and some modest spoils. Those spoils included food, feathered cloaks, tools and weapons, and a single-hulled waka, which Apera used to transport the slaves.
An area just south of the cape held greater promise, according to the slaves who were predictably eager to please their captors. It was, they advised, the territory of the Ngati Porou iwi whose village was some thirty miles away. War parties from the north hadn’t ventured that far and incursions from the south had been repelled by the local iwi, so there were riches to be had there.
#
Dusk was fast approaching when the Te Arawa raiders’ flotilla entered a picturesque bay local Maori called Tokomaru Bay. On the beach, twenty or more wakas lay at rest above the highwater mark, and atop a small rise overlooking it was a pa, or fortified village. It appeared to accommodate about three hundred people, which tallied with estimates Apera’s slaves had provided earlier. The rangatira counted about eighty whares [huts] within the pa’s stockades. Smoke from cooking fires curled up into a darkening sky.
The Te Arawa flotilla’s appearance in the bay caused considerable panic on shore. Armed warriors took up defensive positions while others prepared to launch wakas to intercept the enemy’s flotilla. They evidently had second thoughts when they saw the size of the fleet, retreating instead behind their fortifications to await the invaders’ arrival, which could now be measured in heartbeats.
Apera was standing in the bow of the front waka, his legs braced to maintain his balance. He looked around at his brother who was standing in the bow of the following waka. “Are they Ngati Porou?” he shouted.
Kaihautu turned around and consulted a slave who sat immediately behind him. Looking back at Apera, he shouted, “Ae…They are Ngati Porou.”
The rangatira nodded and turned his attention back to the villagers on shore. He thought it more likely they were a sub-tribe of Ngati Porou given their small numbers and the fact that their settlement was located in that iwi’s territory. His lip curled into a cruel smile as he imagined how much the villagers would now be regretting they hadn’t relocated to the Ngati Porou’s coastal stronghold to the south.
“They are ripe for the plucking,” a warrior at Apera’s shoulder murmured.
The rangatira nodded. “Ae…They are,” he agreed. Though tempted to bypass the village, the lure of a quick slaughter, slaves, wahines and other bounty was strong – too strong to resist.
As the leading waka caught a wave and surfed the last forty yards to the beach, Apera studied the pa’s defences. He was pleased to note the stockade was in a state of disrepair, and there was no sign of the trenches, lookout towers or other defences that were a hallmark of bigger, well-defended pas like the Te Arawa’s own one at Rotorua and their allies’ pa at Maketu.
The Te Arawa raiders were among the very first outsiders to have visited Tokomaru Bay in such numbers, so remote was it, and the villagers believed their isolation kept them safely removed from the conflicts that raged elsewhere – until today.
The conflict that followed was as bloody as it was brief; resistance was weak and short-lived because the villagers had little experience of war.
Apera’s raiders killed almost every villager, sparing only the rangatira Rawiri, his two wives, thirty warriors and twenty-five nubile wahines. The warriors, all big men, were considered suitable candidates for slavery while the wahines would be used by the raiders for pleasure before being enslaved or killed.
As darkness fell, flames lit up the night sky after the raiders set fire to the whares and other structures. It wasn’t long before Rawiri’s whare was the only one left standing. Warriors wandered amongst the fallen, dispatching survivors with a savage thrust of a spear or blow from a club. The larger, meatier corpses – males and females – were stacked in a pile on the marae, a communal meeting place in the middle of the pa. These would be cooked, and the flesh and organs of many would be eaten before the night was over. Uneaten flesh would be cut into strips then smoked, packed and saved for eating in the days and weeks ahead.
It wasn’t long before the cries of the wounded faded. The only sounds were the crackling of flames and the triumphant shouts of the victorious Te Arawa warriors. Those same warriors then performed an impromptu haka to celebrate their triumph. Chanting, gyrating, leaping and stamping the ground in unison, the war dance was awesome, gut-wrenching and terrifying all at the same time. Between chants, the participants poked out their tongues, a chilling reminder that those vanquished would be eaten. Warriors needed no such reminding for all were aware, regardless of which iwi they belonged to, that that was the likely fate of those killed or enslaved. Maoris believed they inherited their enemies’ strength when they ate them.
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Later that night, after the Te Arawa warriors had had their fill of human flesh and the flames of burning structures had dwindled to smouldering embers, Apera and Kaihautu interrogated the vanquished rangatira. The brothers along with four other warriors had headed straight for Rawiri’s whare at the outset of hostilities. Larger by far than the other structures in the village, it accommodated twenty or so people, including the rangatira’s two wives and their six young children. All except for the rangatira and his wives had been slaughtered.
Rawiri, whose name translated as The Beloved One, trembled as Apera jabbed him with the tip of a spear. He was well named for he was loved by all his people. It wasn’t fear that made Rawiri tremble; it was grief and pain that caused his tremors. A blow from a club had left his right arm shattered, and blood flowed from a head wound. The pain caused by his wounds, however, was nothing compared to the pain he felt at the tragedy that had befallen his people. Around him the bodies of slaughtered children and other members of his extended family lay scattered about like rag dolls. The level of violence and depravity was like nothing the vanquished rangatira or his people had ever before witnessed.
“Are you Ngati Porou?” Apera asked, jabbing the defeated rangatira yet again with his spear.
Rawiri nodded dumbly. “Ae,” he mumbled through bleeding lips, tearing his eyes away from the broken body of his youngest son who lay close by.
The Beloved One’s two wives looked on as the questioning of their husband continued. They were distraught over the loss of their children whose mutilated bodies were almost unrecognisable, but the younger wife, a woman of striking appearance, did her best to hide her distress. She remained surprisingly stoical. This was noted by her husband’s interrogator.
“How far are we from the coastal pa of the Ngati Porou?” Apera asked.
Rawiri remained silent. He just glared at his opposite, his hatred clear for all to see. Apera jabbed his prisoner again, harder this time, causing Rawiri to grunt in pain as the spear’s sharp tip pierced the flesh of his good arm. Blood flowed from the wound.
“Tell him what he wants to know, Rawiri!”
The order came from the bloodied rangatira’s younger wife Emere. A beautiful wahine, she displayed little deference to the raiders who had so brutally invaded her sanctuary and destroyed the world she knew. The screams of wahines being raped outside carried to her, threatening to destroy her resolve. Determined to keep her fear under control, she pretended not to hear them.
Apera observed the outspoken wahine coldly. Unaware that two of the slaughtered children in the whare – a young boy and girl – were hers, he promised himself he would have her later. Returning his attention to Rawiri, he warned that he would kill both his wives if he didn’t cooperate. The warning prompted an outburst of crying and pleading from the older wife.
“It is a two-day trek along the coast to the Ngati Porou pa,” Rawiri said, grimacing as pain shot through his broken arm.
Apera studied his opposite, looking for some sign of subterfuge. He saw no such sign. “How many warriors do they have?”
Rawiri didn’t reply. Apera could see his opposite was struggling to remain conscious. He repeated his question, louder this time.
“About three hundred warriors,” Rawiri mumbled before toppling over, unconscious.
The comatose rangatira’s oldest wife crawled over from where she’d been cowering to comfort her husband while his interrogator considered what he’d learned. The estimate of enemy numbers tallied with the information he’d already received from other sources, so he could now plan his next moves accordingly.
Sensing Kaihautu was becoming restless, Apera nodded toward Rawiri. “Kill him,” he said. This prompted a cry of distress from the older wife. “And do what you like with her,” he added, pointing at the distraught wahine.
“What about her?” Kaihautu asked, looking lustfully at Emere.
“She is mine,” Apere said, locking eyes with the younger wife.
Kaihautu wanted to rape Emere. He had lusted after her the moment he’d set eyes on her. However, he held his tongue for he’d learned the hard way it was unwise to disobey the rangatira, even though they were brothers. Instead, he quickly despatched the still unconscious Rawiri with a savage blow from the club he held then dragged the older wahine, kicking and screaming, from the whare to have her.
Apera had kept his eyes on Emere when his brother killed her husband. He’d noticed she displayed no emotion. Not even a grimace or a flinch. Now she looked directly at him. Their eyes locked once again and he was impressed that she still showed no fear. Suddenly aroused, he realised he needed her. Urgently. Throwing his spear to one side, he stood up and moved toward her.
Emere held up her hand, motioning to him to stop. Apera pulled up one pace short. They stared at each other for one long drawn-out moment, each searching the other’s eyes.
Finally, Emere murmured, “Not here.” The wahine glanced around at the bodies of the others, including her own children. She needed to distance herself from this place of death.
Apera understood. He slowly extended his right hand, and after the briefest hesitation Emere took his hand in hers and allowed him to pull her to him. She came into his arms and he clasped her tight to him, pushing his groin hard against hers. To his surprise, she didn’t resist.
“Not here!” she said again, more insistent this time.
Apera nodded. He led her quickly from the whare in search of a quiet place, his passion increasing with every step.
Emere shared his passion in equal measure. It was something she couldn’t begin to explain or even understand. The widowed wahine mourned the loss of her beloved husband and children yet lusted after the man who had killed them. It went against everything she’d ever believed in, and the suddenness and intensity of her feelings for this monster next to her frightened her. She wondered if it was some kind of defensive reaction to help her remain sane and not succumb to the feelings of darkness and despair that threatened to overwhelm her.
Outside, on the marae, Emere ignored as best she could the celebrations underway. Apera’s warriors were cooking the carcasses of their victims on spits that had been erected over a dozen or more cooking fires while others took turns to rape those wahines who had been spared. Spirits were high. It was always the case after a successful raid. At the sight of the carcasses, the wahine closed her eyes. Her people used to roast moas like that before the big birds became extinct.
Warriors cheered their rangatira after they noticed him emerge from the whare with his captive. The pair ignored them as they hurried off into the darkness.
Apera pulled Emere by the hand into the bush behind the pa, stopping only when they came to a grassy clearing. Away from the prying eyes of the others, they hurriedly discarded their garments then lay down and gave themselves fully to the passion that had overtaken them both.
#
At dawn the following day, Apera dispatched four of his best scouts to survey the Ngati Porou pa further down the coast. They travelled on foot via an inland route in order to avoid the coastal walking tracks and villages. Their orders were to report back on the numbers of enemy warriors, their preparedness and weapons at their disposal, and the strength of their fortifications. Because of the circuitous route they followed, they had a three-day trek ahead of them before they reached the enemy’s pa.
#
Six days later, three of the scouts who had been sent to survey the Ngati Porou stronghold returned. Breathless, they reported directly to Apira’s brother.
“Where is Kiwa?” Kaihautu asked of the missing scout.
“He was captured by Ngati Porou hunters,” the senior scout said.
Kaihautu scowled. “So our enemies know we are coming.” He glared at the senior scout as if he blamed him personally. “What did you learn?”
“Our enemy’s territory includes good hunting and fishing grounds,” the senior scout said.
“Their village has much worth taking,” said the youngest scout who was barely into his mid-teens.
That caught Kaihautu’s attention. “Go on,” he said.
“Many slaves,” the young scout said. “Too many to count… And their wahines must be the most beautiful in the land!”
The other scouts rolled their eyes, indicating their youthful companion may be exaggerating.
Undeterred, the young scout added, “I saw wakas also. Maybe fifty wakas on the beach.”
Not to be outdone, the third scout delivered his assessment of the Ngati Porou iwi’s wealth, further confirming there were rich pickings to be had.
Kaihautu was wise enough to realise people with so much territory and wealth would be no pushover in a conflict. “What are their numbers?” he asked.
“At least eight hundred,” the senior scout said, “including three hundred fighting men.”
“And their defences?”
“Strong. Very strong.”
As the rangatira’s brother listened to the scout describe what he and his companions had observed, he quickly came to the realisation that victory over the Ngati Porou in battle would be no foregone conclusion. When the scouts finished telling him everything they’d observed he strode off to convey the sobering news to Apera. He found him inspecting the raiding party’s cache of weapons and informed him of what he’d learned.
“What of the Ngati Porou fortifications?” Apera asked.
“The scouts reported the pa’s fortifications are strong. Our enemies occupy high ground on a rocky peninsular that cannot be invaded from the sea, and deep trenches have been dug in front of the ramparts.”
The brothers looked at each other gravely. There were some big decisions to make – not the least being whether to risk everything in what could well be a costly attack on a well-defended pa.
CHAPTER 17
Aotearoa, Early 1500s
The late fourteenth century had seen the advent of the pa, the fortified village that served as a stronghold for iwis under siege in Aotearoa. By the early 1500’s, those fortifications were becoming remarkably sophisticated. Nowhere was this better demonstrated than on the rocky headland at the southern end of the bay occupied by the Ngati Porou iwi…
Spanning five centuries, New Zealand: A Novel is a sweeping tale of discovery, destiny, and forbidden love in which the old and new worlds collide. While this novel may not always convey exactly what happened during the discovery and settlement of New Zealand, first by Pacific Islanders and later by Europeans, I believe it captures the spirit of those sometimes romantic, always fascinating and often bloody times. –Lance Morcan (Author)
CHAPTER 15
Aotearoa, Winter, 1500
Half a dozen hunters followed a well-used trail through dense bush in the rugged central region of Aotearoa’s northern island, their bare feet slipping in the mud underfoot. The trail connected their tribe’s settlement at Rotorua, on the shores of a lake of the same name, to another village at Maketu, on the east coast. It was a gloomy winter’s day and they moved quickly to keep warm.
Tattoos adorned the face of each man, rendering his grim countenance even more fierce than it naturally was. The markings were a rite of passage among the tribe’s menfolk, and with few exceptions they underwent the painful process as soon as they were old enough to wield a club or throw a spear. In many cases their tattoos also adorned the chest and limbs.
The hunters were led by Apera, a descendant of Hotu who had followed in the footsteps of Kupe and brought his people to Aotearoa almost two hundred years ago. On his return voyage to Kupe’s land, Hotu had landed at Maketu aboard the giant voyaging waka Arawa as part of the Great Fleet. Apera was rangatira of the Te Arawa people whose iwi [tribe] was named after that same waka. It was a name he and his people wore with pride.
Like his fellow hunters, Apera wore a traditional grass skirt and dogskin shawl, and he wore his long black hair in a tight bun atop his head. Two white feathers protruded from it, distinguishing the rangatira from the others who each displayed a single white feather. In his right hand he held a huata, or long throwing spear, and hanging from a flax cord tied around his waist was a wooden patu [club]. Its intricately carved handle bore nine notches, each one denoting a kill in conflicts with warriors of other iwis. His fellow hunters were similarly armed.
Apera had inherited the family trait of other males in his line – the stub of an extra finger. In this case the stub comprised an extra small finger on his right hand.
Iwis now occupied Aotearoa from the far north to the deep south. Collectively, the people of these various tribes were known as Maoris – a name some, for reasons known only to themselves, translated as ordinary people. They did not think of themselves as Maori. They considered themselves to be of their iwi – even if that community numbered only a hundred or so souls. Still, they had many things in common: they considered Hawaiki their spiritual homeland and they believed their spirits returned there after they departed the physical realm. Many also considered themselves descendants of the great Hawaikan explorer Kupe although in most cases that noble connection might have been more wishful thinking than fact. In Apera’s case it was fact.
Apera and his men were on a mission. They were hunting moas, the giant flightless birds that had always been a staple part of their diet. Once found in abundance throughout the land, the emu-like birds were becoming increasingly scarce. In fact, many weeks had passed since Apera or any of his people had sighted a single moa. This was alarming for its meat was a vital source of protein, no small matter given this land was devoid of native animals. The moa’s feathers were prized as well for they made beautiful cloaks and shawls, which the rangatiras and high-born elders inevitably claimed for themselves.
In bygone years, moas congregated in large mobs along the river flats and in the valleys between the mountains and sea. It had been the Era of the Moa-Hunter in Aotearoa. Large-scale roundups sometimes resulted in a hundred or more moas being herded into some dead-end gully or driven to their deaths over the edge of a cliff. Their meat would feed an entire iwi throughout the winter. Those days were now long gone.
In recent years, hunting had greatly reduced the moas’ numbers. The surviving birds had been forced to retreat into dense bush in the most isolated regions to escape those who relentlessly hunted them.
After two centuries of abundance, the Te Arawa people, like Maoris everywhere, were facing starvation. Where previously the moa could be relied on to feed entire families, now each kill assumed great significance. Often it was the difference between full bellies and starvation, especially during the winter months. For most the flesh of the moa had been their main source of meat. These days they had to rely on smaller birds and fish to complement whatever fruit, seeds, berries, grubs and pikopiko, or fern shoots, they could find in the bush. Their coastal cousins also had access to shellfish and other seafood, but even they went hungry at times.
Apera hated seeing his people reduced to scavenging to survive. He knew his great ancestors who had guided the Arawa waka to this land would turn in their graves if they could see the state their descendants had been reduced to.
The golden age of the Maori was drawing to an end. In the two centuries since the big migration from Hawaiki, the people had thrived. There had been plenty for everyone; fish filled the rivers, lakes and seas; birds filled the forests and skies; there was abundant fertile land for crops and settlements; the people had few if any enemies; and iwis usually lived at peace with their neighbours. Aotearoa was the paradise Kupe had said it would be.
Now a change was coming over the land. It was becoming over-populated; forty tribes made up a population of one hundred-and-fifty-thousand people who occupied both the northern and southern islands. All the best sites for settlement and crops had been taken, and once-fertile land was becoming eroded and over-used. The climate was cooling noticeably and food was becoming scarce. Not only the moas were disappearing; so too were seals and various fish and bird varieties. The native pelicans and eagles were already extinct. Now it seemed the moa was going the same way.
The trail the hunters now followed linked Rotoiti and Rotoma, two volcanic lakes east of Rotorua. One day it would be known as Hongi’s Track – named after Hongi Hika, the leader of an enemy war party whose warriors would drag their wakas between the lakes in order to mount a surprise raid on Rotorua’s unsuspecting Te Arawa people. This trail was as muddy as the last one, and they slipped and slid as they descended a steep hill. Weeks of incessant rain had rendered all paths through the bush treacherous. Every now and then the trail skirted the edge of a steaming, hot, thermal pool or a bubbling mud pool. These along with live volcanoes and geysers were prevalent throughout the Te Arawa’s territory for it covered an active volcanic region.
Apera ordered his men to split up to improve their chances of finding a moa’s spoor. Two hunters immediately disappeared into the bush as they followed tributary tracks while the others made their own trails through the undergrowth.
Alone now, Apera continued along the same track he and the others had been following. The only sound apart from his breathing was the ever-present birdsong. It began at dawn and continued until dusk, never quietening unless a storm or some other significant natural event such as an earthquake was brewing. The cheet cheet of the tiny but fearless fantail, the melodic whistling accompanied by weird cackles and clicks of the beautiful tui, and the tui-like choruses of the bellbird combined with the unique calls of many other native birds to create a harmonious sound.
The rangatira stopped and cocked an ear. The distinctive wingbeats of a kereru [bush pigeon] carried to him. It took him a moment to spot the large bird with its green and white plumage. It was perched on one of the upper branches of a young kauri tree. The kereru was a favorite of his people. Its meat was delicious. He was tempted to spear it, but the urge quickly passed. He had bigger prey in mind.
Entering a gully at the foot of a hill he froze when he sensed movement amongst the trees on the hillside opposite. He remained motionless for several long minutes. Time seemed to stand still, nothing moved and he wondered if he’d imagined things.
Then he saw it: an adult moa. She was scouting for berries some thirty yards distant. He knew the moa was female because she was all of twelve feet tall, which was considerably taller than the males ever grew. This one, the tallest of her species, looked heavy, too. The rangatira estimated she must weigh all of six hundred pounds. She was so focussed on her search she didn’t notice the hunter whose spear was now raised.
Slowly extending his throwing arm full-length behind him, Apera took a deep breath before releasing his weapon. Propelled by a sling, the long spear flew with deadly accuracy, its serrated whalebone tip lodging in the breast of the unsuspecting moa. The big bird managed one solitary step backwards before toppling over. She was dead before her head hit the ground.
Apera let out a joyous shout. With luck the moa would feed his family and other families, too, for the remainder of the winter. The rangatira couldn’t wait to see the expressions on their faces when he lugged the moa’s mighty carcass back to his village. He hoped his fellow hunters had similar good fortune.
Suppressing his glee, he stood over the carcass and murmured a prayer of thanks to the spirits of the forest. He also thanked the moa. Tradition dictated that hunters thank the creatures they kill in appreciation of the fact that their flesh will feed them and their families. The moa’s feathers would also provide him with a fine feathered cloak, which would double as a warm blanket on cold nights, so he thanked her for her feathers also.
The kill was more significant than Apera could ever realise. He’d just slaughtered the last surviving moa in all of Aotearoa. The species was now extinct.
The Era of the Moa-Hunter had ended. A new and bloody era was about to begin.
CHAPTER 16
Aotearoa, Winter, 1501
For the first time, the hills and shores of Aotearoa echoed to the sounds of war. As competition for land and food resources increased, inter-tribal fighting became the norm. The inevitable result was war on a scale never before seen in Kupe’s land. Fighting was hand-to-hand, vicious and bloody.
One ugly side-effect of the conflict was cannibalism….
Fresh from its Kindle eBook launch, Lance Morcan’s new release suspense thriller One Witness Too Many is now available as an audiobook courtesy of Amazon’s Audible initiative. Listening length is 5hrs. 8mins.
One glance. A face glimpsed through a store window. A killer who now knows exactly what she looks like.
Auckland IT specialist Nessa Carter has finally put her life back together. After being jilted by her fiancé on the eve of their wedding, she’s newly single, newly confident, and ready to face the world again.
Then an after-hours detour past a closed jewellery store changes everything. Through the store’s glass door, she witnesses a robbery that turns to murder — and in one heart-stopping moment, the killer’s eyes lock on hers.
He flees, leaving no fingerprints, no usable CCTV footage, no other witnesses. Only Nessa.
As the police investigation stalls, Nessa realises a terrifying truth: being the sole witness, she’s the only person alive who can identify the killer. Worse, he saw her clearly so she knows it’s likely he will be searching for her.
Her fears are well grounded.
With no leads, no suspects, and a professional killer who doesn’t leave loose ends, Nessa must decide how far she’ll go to stop him — before he decides to silence the one witness who can put him away.
Because in this case, being the only witness is one witness too many.
Readers are advised the eBook version of One Witness Too Many will be free on Kindle on Saturday October 17, 24 and 31 PDT.
“With adventure and love, what’s not to like. An adventurous tale with a dash of romance. I particularly liked the parallel format so you learn about the main players almost together and are able to chart their development almost consecutively.” –Elaine Fleet (U.S. book critic).
CHAPTER 14
Matavai Bay, Tahiti, May, 1769
Night-time could not come quickly enough. Nicholas hoped against all hope there’d be a repeat of the previous night’s erotic experience following the visitation of the mystery wahine.
Earlier that day, he’d put his free time to good use, seeking out Tupaia to ask his advice on a sensitive and potentially embarrassing issue. He felt the amiable Tahitian was the only one he could trust with such matters.
The younger man had observed that Tupaia seemed to be spending more time in the company of the visiting seamen, either at nearby Fort Venus or aboard the Endeavour, than with his own people. It was becoming obvious to him that his new friend and confidant had his own agenda. He’d found him inside a large tent that had been erected at the fort’s observatory. Open to the elements on one side, it accommodated a table upon which the astronomical clock would sit in readiness for the transit observation. Opposite the tent and facing the same table was a wooden platform, which would support the astronomical quadrant as well as the two large telescopes that were still safely secured aboard the bark.
Anxious to have some privacy and distance himself from his crewmates, Nicholas had suggested that Tupaia join him for a walk along the sand spit. Away from the others, he had confided in his friend and received some valuable advice in return. Advice he hoped he’d be able to put into practice that very evening.
#
Apart from the fact that he hadn’t seen or heard from Queen Obadia all day, the early omens for the night ahead were promising: the routine of the previous day was repeated with the same beautiful servant girl delivering his evening meal and returning later to lay out his bed-mat. He noticed the wahine gave him a knowing smile before departing.
Now, lying naked on his bed-mat, it wasn’t long before his Little General, as he called it, was standing at attention.
Two hours went by and he was becoming impatient – and sore. His Little General was still on full alert, and he feared if someone didn’t come soon he’d have to take matters into his own hands.
Another hour passed.
Where the hell is she?
He promised himself he would identify the mystery woman when, or if, she returned. There was a full moon, and, although it was dark inside the bure, he knew he’d soon identify her if he could glimpse her outside in the moonlight. He tensed when the fleeting silhouette of an unmistakably-feminine figure appeared in the doorway. Instinctively he knew it was his same mystery lover of the previous night even though she remained a shadow in the darkness.
The wahine silently approached. Stopping a pace from the bed-mat, she loosened a garment. It softly brushed Nicholas’s face as it fell to the floor. Nothing happened for a few moments and he found himself once more holding his breath in anticipation.
Who are you?
In the dark, he could hear her breathing. Realising she was standing above him he reached out and grasped her slender ankles. She immediately knelt down astride him; her womanhood enveloped his extended member, quickly transporting him to another place. A place he’d only ever visited once before.
He felt himself coming almost immediately and willed himself to act on Tupaia’s advice to avoid repeating his mishap of the previous evening. That wasn’t to be.
Damn it!
As before, he exploded, unable to contain the lust that had been building up, layer upon layer, over the last twenty-four hours. His mystery lover had anticipated this and again she rocked and twisted expertly above him, panting and whimpering, until her release came.
Nicholas, his Little General now only partially at attention, lay panting on his back, fully satiated. In that state he still had the presence of mind to note that this time his lover – for that’s how he thought of her now – showed no intention of leaving. Instead, she laid her head on his chest, snuggled up to him and soon fell asleep.
Feeling her warm breath on his skin, he felt both content and dissatisfied. Dissatisfied because in the heat of passion he’d failed to put Tupaia’s advice to good use. He replayed in his mind the somewhat awkward conversation he’d had with the Tahitian during which he’d alluded to his experience of the previous night, and he vowed to do better next time.
#
Nicholas woke to discover his mystery lover gently pulling him over on top of her. Only now did he realise he’d fallen asleep. How long he’d been out to it, he hadn’t a clue. He also realised every part of him was at full attention, and he felt his passion building as the woman began moving sensuously beneath him.
So far, the routine of their first two trysts was being repeated, but with two crucial differences: this time he was on top, and instead of thinking about his lover, his mind was entirely focused on an image of the ugliest woman he’d ever seen. Closing his eyes tight, he shut out all except for that image and the words of wisdom Tupaia had conveyed to him earlier.
Tupaia’s words were now imprinted on his brain.
We have a saying in Tahiti, Nicholas. Do not be too eager to enter paradise… The paradise I refer to is a woman’s magical inner rings of fire. And another thing…When a man does enter paradise, he must think of other things, not about what he might be doing or the woman he is with at the time…What do I think about at such times? Anything! It does not matter…Think of the ugliest woman you have ever seen.
At Tupaia’s prompting, Nicholas had described a wrinkled, toothless, old whore he’d often seen peddling her ageing wares around London’s dockyards. And that’s who he was thinking of now because the Tahitian had told him he should keep her image uppermost in his mind to help delay the inevitable whenever he entered paradise.
By now, his mystery lover was beginning to whimper, her breathing coming in short gasps. Occasionally she let out a muffled cry as her pelvic gyrations pleasured her. Still Nicholas hadn’t given into the temptation to explode inside her.
Somewhere in the distant recess of his brain, he heard Tupaia’s voice. His friend was saying, “Welcome to paradise, my friend!”
Nicholas banished the words from his mind and re-focused on the wrinkled, old whore. Slowly, he allowed his thoughts to turn from her to the wondrous creature writhing beneath him. Exploring her face and body with his hands, he tried to determine whether or not his lover was Queen Obadia. She was certainly firm and athletic like the queen, but he couldn’t say for sure whether it was her or her servant girl.
Risking a couple of tentative movements of his hips, he immediately solicited a response from his partner whose movements became more urgent. Cautiously, he began matching her actions so they moved in unison, causing her to cry out again, louder this time. He could feel himself gaining a measure of control, and so he began rocking harder, grinding his pelvis into hers. In his mind he held onto the image of the old whore as he buried himself deeper and harder inside the woman beneath him.
For the first time, his mystery lover spoke. Her voice was soft and throaty, and he found that unbelievably sensual in itself. He couldn’t understand her as she spoke in her native tongue, but he sensed she was murmuring endearments and guiding him on how he could best pleasure her. As their passion built toward a crescendo, she grabbed his hand and guided his fingers to her clitoris. He massaged it, very gently at first and then more firmly, causing her to arch her back and cry out in ecstasy.
Somewhere, far away, a clap of thunder boomed out. It was followed by another Boom! – louder this time. At the same time Nicholas felt his lover’s juices flow, and his seed ejected into her in a triumphant, almost painful spurt. They came together, noisily, in a glorious, sweaty tangle of arms and legs.
Nicholas felt he had truly entered paradise. He also felt overwhelmed and more than a little emotional. For the first time, he knew, he’d brought real pleasure to a woman.
More thunderclaps followed, announcing the approach of an electrical storm. The lighting that followed was close now. A flash lit up the bure’s interior and in that brief moment Nicholas identified his mystery lover.
They made love twice more that night, each time even more satisfying than the time before.
#
Before dawn, while Nicholas was still sleeping, his lover departed the bure. She quickly crossed the narrow strip of grass that separated the small dwelling from the royal quarters and hurried to keep an appointment with Queen Obadia.
The beautiful queen, herself an early riser, greeted the servant girl and enquired how her latest tryst had gone with Nicholas.
Bowing, the servant girl simply said, “He is ready, my queen.”
#
Walking alone in the hills behind the village, Nicholas was too deep in thought to even notice the panoramic views around him. He was consumed by memories of the glorious lovemaking he’d experienced overnight – and he was puzzled by the fact that his mysterious lover was Queen Obadia’s servant girl and not the queen herself.
When Tupaia had informed him Queen Obadia had invited him to stay at the village, Nicholas had hoped it was not just because she wanted some stimulating conversation. He’d hoped she was as physically attracted to him as he was to her. Not that he was disappointed by the hospitality he’d experienced these last two nights. The servant girl was almost the queen’s equal in terms of beauty, and she’d pleasured him beyond anything he could have imagined. However, he still lusted after the older woman who had dominated his dreams since he’d first seen her.
Nicholas hoped he’d learn more soon. Hercules of all people had informed him earlier that Queen Obadia had invited him to join her for dinner in the royal quarters. The lad cautioned himself not to build up his hopes too much.
Best not get ahead of yourself, my good fellow.
#
While Nicholas explored the hills, Queen Obadia strolled naked from her quarters to the nearby lagoon for her daily swim. She would normally swim half a mile, or further if she desired. Then in keeping with her usual routine she would walk along the beach, interacting with fishermen and other villagers, collecting seashells and anything else that caught her eye while delighting in the sights and sounds of Matavai Bay. It was a routine she enjoyed as it helped keep her healthy and her body firm, and it was a good opportunity to interact with her subjects. As usual she was accompanied by a retinue of servants and by two armed warriors who were part of her personal guard.
The queen was more excited than she’d been in a long, long time. Tara, the servant girl who had pleasured Nicholas these past two nights, had delivered the news she’d been awaiting: the young white god from the tall ship was now ready to pleasure her. As the most skilled concubine in the village, Tara had been tasked with ensuring Nicholas was sufficiently accomplished in the art of lovemaking to pleasure the queen. He would then be more likely to give her a son – a strong son worthy of her ancestor’s spirit.
Had Nicholas known of this arrangement, he would most certainly have approved of it for he’d enjoyed the last two nights beyond measure.
#
Dusk was descending when Nicholas reported to the royal quarters to keep his engagement with Queen Obadia. He wore a change of clothes he’d had the foresight to bring with him to the village – a white cotton shirt and a pair of khaki breeches – and he was barefoot, having decided to dispense with his shoes for the occasion.
In the balmy evening, most of the villagers were preparing their evening meals outside their bures. Smoke from a hundred or more cooking fires spiralled into the darkening sky.
Nicholas felt rested, having slept through the heat of the day after exploring the village surrounds. He was also excited beyond measure by the possibilities the evening held for him.
The young man had recovered from his surprise that his mystery lover was the queen’s servant girl. Tara had delivered his breakfast as usual after their night of lovemaking, and she showed no sign of embarrassment. Although she couldn’t speak English, she had conveyed her name to him after he’d formally introduced himself. She hadn’t stayed long, but the twinkle in her eye made it clear she was still available if that was his wish.
Entering the royal quarters, he was relieved to see there was no sign of the surly Hercules. A servant led him to a large bure behind the main structure. The delicious aromas of island food carried to him from within the dwelling.
Inside, he found the woman of his dreams sitting on a plush Persian rug before a meal fit for a queen. She hadn’t noticed Nicholas’s arrival, busy as she was supervising those servants who were responsible for preparation of the food. A traditional grass skirt and brightly coloured shawl showed off her mesmerising figure, and her long, black hair, which she’d pinned up for the occasion, was topped off by a red hibiscus flower. The overall effect was stunning. Even the servants seemed in awe of her beauty.
The guest took in every feature of his beautiful queen. While Tara may be the most desirable girl on the island, Queen Obadia was the most desirable woman. To his eyes, the older wahine’s maturity only added to the powerful attraction she had for him. A familiar tingling in his loins reminded him of that and he quickly tried to think of something else as his Little General threatened to go on parade.
Behave yourself!
Looking around the bure, he saw that the furnishings and trappings were similar to those he’d seen in the reception room of the royal quarters during his first visit. Carpets, drapes, paintings and other items secured in trades were in evidence, giving the bure a distinctly European feel. Torches jutting out at an angle cast flickering shadows over everything.
Queen Obadia flashed a smile when she finally noticed her guest. Her almond eyes sparkled. “Welcome, Nicholas.” She patted the rug, indicating he should sit next to her.
The guest of honour did as she suggested. “Good evening…ah…my queen.”
She smiled at his formality. “You like?” she asked, pointing at the delicious food that had been laid out before them.
“Very much.”
The queen motioned to him to help himself to the food as she selected a serving of baked breadfruit and a bowl of fresh coconut milk for herself. At the same time, she dismissed the servants.
Nicholas selected morsels of roast pork and baked turtle flesh, but only pecked at the food. He found he’d lost his appetite. This was noticed by his hostess. Unnoticed by her guest, she smiled to herself. She could understand his loss of appetite: she wasn’t hungry either and, like him, she had other things on her mind.
Dinner turned out to be a pleasantly languorous affair that spanned several hours. Nicholas’s initial nervousness was soon eased by the charm and warmth of his beautiful hostess, her easy way with words and their stimulating conversation. One result of this was he regained his lost appetite and ate heartily.
Their dialogue continued from where it left off last time, and once again the surgeon’s boy marvelled at how easy she was to talk to. She questioned him closely on the habits of Englishwomen and the role they played in English society. In particular she was interested in their status in comparison to the menfolk. He quizzed her on the history of her family and her people generally – especially their apparent preoccupation with warring against other island nations.
Conversation eventually lapsed and in the ensuing silence Nicholas noted they seemed to have the bure and adjoining royal quarters to themselves.
Did she dismiss all her servants to ensure privacy?
Suddenly conscious of his close proximity to his hostess, he was very aware that their knees were touching. Her touch seemed electric.
Queen Obadia felt it, too. She looked at her young companion and smiled. “Come,” she said, taking his hand. In one smooth movement she stood and led him to a dark corner of the large room. Full of anticipation, he realised his heart was racing as he accompanied her.
The queen stopped in front of a pile of rugs, which evidently served as a mattress in place of the traditional bed mat. Nicholas could only watch as she slipped out of her garments, revealing a body more beguiling and stunning than he’d thought possible. Smiling, she removed the hibiscus flower from her head, letting her hair fall down to her shoulders. She then disrobed her young guest while slowly, excruciatingly slowly, allowing her fingers to brush against his skin.
Nicholas allowed her to pull him down onto the rugs. He gasped as she took his erect penis in her mouth and performed wondrous deeds with her lips and tongue. That was another first for him and he couldn’t believe how nice it felt. The lovemaking that followed was better even than he’d ever imagined. Better than anything he’d experienced before.
From Queen Obadia’s perspective, the young god who shared her bed was everything she’d hoped for. His lithe, youthful body thrilled her and transported her back to the days of her own carefree youth. She quickly discovered that she couldn’t get enough of him.
The queen was in no doubt she would miss Nicholas when he finally departed, but she was comforted by the knowledge she would one day bear his son, the future ruler of her people. It was ordained. Tupaia had said so.
The priest’s words remained imprinted on her mind.
The spirit of Hotu told me a young, virile god would arrive on our shores aboard a tall ship. He said that I would recognise this god when I saw him. He said you must take this god to your bed mat and he will fill you with his seed, which will bear fruit.
#
Nicholas soon discovered the routine of the past twenty-four hours would be the pattern for the days and nights that followed for the remainder of his idyllic sojourn in the village. He found the new routine immensely stimulating.
His nights were spent in the company of Queen Obadia, conversing and dining with her before making love to her – off and on all night long sometimes. His days were spent exploring the island, swimming and resting, more often than not in Tara’s company for he enjoyed the servant girl’s companionship immensely, and she enjoyed his.
Queen Obadia was aware that Tara continued to have sexual relations with Nicholas. Her spies had told her as much, but she didn’t mind. It was, after all, the island way to share lovers, wives and husbands as well as possessions. Besides, she had him to herself every night, and she could tell that her accomplished servant girl was teaching him new tricks every day – tricks that pleasured her immensely.
Although Nicholas didn’t realise it, he was now more experienced than most young men in the art of lovemaking. And, despite the lewd boasts of his crewmates, it was fair to say he was already more skilled than many of them if only because he had two of the finest tutors a man could have.
Young and fit as he was, he soon found he had to escape during the day to catch up on lost sleep and recover his energy away from noisy children and other sounds around the village. Satisfying two energetic and sexually active wahines was proving daunting – enjoyable, but exhausting. Nevertheless, he wasn’t complaining.
#
Rain threatened as Nicholas decided to head back to the village after another hike up into the hills. Two weeks had passed since his first sexual liaison with Queen Obadia, and in that time, he estimated he’d trekked hundreds of miles. He felt he knew every track in this corner of the island.
As he descended a steep, rocky path, his eyes were drawn to the Endeavour out in the bay. He could see officers and crewmen boarding her. They’d obviously returned from a shore excursion. He guessed Cook was among the returning officers though they were too far away to say for sure. The captain had been visiting the Fort Venus observatory at least once daily to ensure everything was in place for the transit of Venus that was only three days away now. It was a reminder for Nicholas that his time in paradise was nearing an end.
#
Aboard the Endeavour, Cook hurried below deck to escape the rain that was now bucketing down. The transit was imminent, and the captain was anxious that all that could be done had been done for when the big day arrived. He was even more apprehensive about the weather and wasn’t at all happy to hear thunderclaps close by. “Damn the weather gods!”
No-one knew better than Cook that one of his expedition’s primary goals would not be achieved if June 3rd was cloudy: cloud would prevent observation of the transit, and the Lords of the Admiralty wouldn’t be amused.
CHAPTER 15
Aotearoa, Winter, 1500
Half a dozen hunters followed a well-used trail through dense bush in the rugged central region of Aotearoa’s northern island, their bare feet slipping in the mud underfoot. The trail connected their tribe’s settlement at Rotorua, on the shores of a lake of the same name, to another village at Maketu, on the east coast. It was a gloomy winter’s day and they moved quickly to keep warm…
To celebrate the launch of Lance Morcan’s suspense thriller One Witness Too Many, the novel is free on Kindle this weekend October 10/11 and again on October 17, 24 and 31.
One glance. A face glimpsed through a store window. A killer who now knows exactly what she looks like.
Auckland IT specialist Nessa Carter has finally put her life back together. After being jilted by her fiancé on the eve of their wedding, she’s newly single, newly confident, and ready to face the world again.
Then an after-hours detour past a closed jewellery store changes everything. Through the store’s glass door, she witnesses a robbery that turns to murder — and in one heart-stopping moment, the killer’s eyes lock on hers.
He flees, leaving no fingerprints, no usable CCTV footage, no other witnesses. Only Nessa.
*
“Successful on every level, this novel once again proves Lance Morcan’s status as an important author of today. Excellent thriller!” -Grady Harp (U.S. Arts Critic)
Beautiful Nessa Carter is walking down Queen Street on a cold winter’s evening in Auckland. As you’ll discover, in the following excerpt from the opening chapter of my new release suspense thriller One Witness Too Many, she’s in a buoyant mood. However, that’s about to change – dramatically.
Despite the cold she felt happier and more content than she had in a long time – since she’d terminated her engagement to the man she’d been looking forward to marrying at least. There was a spring in her step, and she felt ready to face the future no matter what it brought her way. She knew she had Sandra Buller to thank for her newfound confidence.
Crossing Darby Street, Nessa remembered nearby Harrington’s Jewellers had been advertising a silver necklace she liked the look of. She glanced down the street and was surprised to see the store’s lights were still on. Hesitating, she debated whether to investigate and see if the necklace was still available.
Damn it!
She turned into Darby Street and hurried toward the store, resigned to being a few minutes late for drinks.
As she approached the store, she saw the CLOSED sign hanging inside its reinforced glass door. She also saw the necklace she’d admired was on display in the front window, its glitter enhanced under lights. Her eyes fastened on the precious item.
It’s beautiful!
She was almost too scared to look at the price tag.
“Seven grand!” she gasped when she saw the price.
Ah, well. It will have to wait.
Nessa made a mental note to keep the necklace in mind after her new business was pulling in a six-figure income. She reminded herself if her business plan was on target, she’d pull in $100,000 within six months.
As she turned to leave, she noticed movement toward the rear of the store. Closer inspection revealed, to her astonishment, a robbery was in progress inside. A big, masked man brandishing a knife was standing over the jeweller whom she recognized from the store’s newspaper ads as Clive Harrington; the harried jeweller was frantically stuffing gold watches, rings, necklaces and other valuables into a bag.
It was like a scene from a crime movie, and Nessa thought she was imagining it. Recovering from her shock, she retrieved her cell phone from her shoulder bag and phoned 111.
She almost dropped the phone when she saw the robber stab Harrington in the throat for no apparent reason.
Hands flailing, the wounded jeweller’s left hand caught in his attacker’s mask, temporarily unmasking him.
As the jeweller sank to the floor, his attacker turned and looked directly at Nessa. Both stared at each other for what seemed, to the young woman at least, an eternity.
The robber was first to recover, pulling his mask back up over his face but not before the witness noticed he had a bushy beard and, beneath the baseball cap he wore, his eyes were so dark they looked black.
“Hello, you have reached 111,” a female voice announced on Nessa’s speakerphone. “Please state your name and the reason you are calling.”
New Zealand author Lance Morcan’s latest novel, One Witness Too Many, was launched on Kindle today. Set in Auckland, this spine-tingling suspense thriller reveals how a beautiful young woman’s life dramatically changes after she witnesses a cold-blooded murder.
The premise:
One glance. A face glimpsed through a store window. A killer who now knows exactly what she looks like.
Auckland IT specialist Nessa Carter has finally put her life back together. After being jilted by her fiancé on the eve of their wedding, she’s newly single, newly confident, and ready to face the world again.
Then an after-hours detour past a closed jewellery store changes everything. Through the store’s glass door, she witnesses a robbery that turns to murder — and in one heart-stopping moment, the killer’s eyes lock on hers.
He flees, leaving no fingerprints, no usable CCTV footage, no other witnesses. Only Nessa.
As the police investigation stalls, Nessa realises a terrifying truth: being the sole witness, she’s the only person alive who can identify the killer. Worse, he saw her clearly so she knows it’s likely he will be searching for her.
Her fears are well grounded.
With no leads, no suspects, and a professional killer who doesn’t leave loose ends, Nessa must decide how far she’ll go to stop him — before he decides to silence the one witness who can put him away.
Because in this case, being the only witness is one witness too many.
https://charlottejames-potfolio.lovable.app/ 
