Traveller Probo

Dr Neil Chow’s life felt like an ongoing nightmare. His historic project had become a disaster worse than he could ever have imagined. When he first received the news that his Transporter project had been approved he had celebrated, basking in the glory. Those first days in primitive New Zealand were euphoric. The knowledge they had garnered, even the collected samples of plant life, feathers and shells, had excited global scientists from a wide range of disciplines. The data had been pored over and carefully analysed to build new understanding of New Zealand’s past in what was a cause for universal celebration.

Until now.

The stuffy room where Dr Chow sat was padded in the pale pink of a high-security psychiatric cell. Under the fluorescent lighting sat the Maori warrior, trussed into immobility in a strait jacket. The poor man drooled uncontrollably. His eyes could barely focus and he had just pissed himself so he sat, naked, in the puddle.

Chow glanced uncomfortably at the men beside him. One was Dr Pat Wihongi, an eminent educator, Maori Elder and expert in Maori culture sent by Te Puni Kōkiri; the Minister of Maori Affairs. The other, Dr Shane Clerk, was a language specialist from the Department of Maori studies at Dr Chow’s own University of Auckland. Both shared Dr Chow’s horror at the man’s condition. The fifth man in the crowded room was a fully-armed Special Forces soldier who the Minister required to be in attendance. After the horrific murders at the hospital, the military who now had jurisdiction. The young soldier, or one like him, was obliged to be at every meeting.

The three academics sat behind small, lightweight desks upon which rested a couple of laptops. Two cameras set into the ceiling monitored proceedings. The only access to the room was through a reinforced door behind them. In front of the door, the hard-faced young soldier stood with his pistol ready.

Dr Chow frowned, his injured arm throbbing. Not only was his arm broken but the thrown rock had also damaged his triceps muscle. He had been taken to one of the hospital’s treatment rooms where the sounds of what he now knew of the assault had disturbed the nurse and doctor caring for him. Dr Chow hadn’t known the warrior had been brought to the same emergency ward. But after his traumatic experiences of the day, he could only imagine that something truly horrendous was taking place, and that it was ultimately his fault. He feared he had finally gone insane. As he emerged from his treatment room he had seen the almost-naked Maori warrior, the one they had dubbed Max, thrashing on the floor near a little girl who was quite dead. To Dr Chow’s tortured mind, it felt as if the warrior had been searching the hospital for him. He was certain that, one fateful day, a warrior from the distant past would eventually find and murder him.

The blood and destruction were more than he could bear. It had all been his fault. If he hadn’t been so driven to jump into the past, this would never have happened. Though his arm would heal, his pain was a reminder of his failure. He had been assessed and found to be suffering from severe Post Traumatic Stress, not surprising considering what he had experienced. It was the guilt of the deaths and injuries that tore at his heart the most, not only of the men who had perished in the past but also those poor people at the hospital. He was perilously close to total emotional collapse.

With some difficulty he convinced his fellow researchers he was capable of even sitting in the same room as the man everyone now termed the ‘Maori Warrior’.

Mercifully, his colleagues weren’t aware of his internal struggle.

Dr Clerk nodded to Dr Wihongi as the linguist cleared his throat gently before he spoke a few sentences in fluid Maori.

The big man, sprawled on the floor, rolled his head and eyes in an effort to look at the speaker, for the first time acknowledging their presence. The muscles in his neck chorded as he grimaced and spoke but his voice was slurred and indistinct. Dr Clerk and Dr Wihongi automatically leaned forward to listen. As they did so, the young soldier looked to them and muttered, “Careful!” which had them sit back quickly.

“Did you understand what he said?” muttered Dr Clerk. Dr Wihongi simply shook his head. He looked inquiringly to Dr Clerk who nodded for him to try again. After addressing him a second time, the man on the floor uttered a feral growl.

Both academics looked stunned, the Maori representative having paled perceptively. “My God!” muttered Dr Clerk.

“What did he say? Can you understand him?” asked Dr Chow breathlessly. He gripped the tabletop tightly to retain his composure. He was moments away from rushing from the room in panic.

Dr Clerk took a deep breath and shook his head while Dr Wihongi explained, “I can understand a little. His language is different from what we know as the te reo Maori but I can understand enough. He gave us what can be considered a traditional threat, to scare us and build his courage and power, his mana. He says we are patupaiarehe, spirit people and that he will tear out our eyes and eat them before he will kill us, slowly.” Dr Wihongi took another shaky breath, “He doesn’t seem to like us.”

“So he thinks we are patupaiarehe,” Dr Clerk muttered. “Not surprising when you look from his point of view. Our world would be totally mystifying to him so, in his fear of the unknown, he attacks. My God, even though drugged, he’s terrifying.”

Dr Chow merely nodded, stood unsteadily and staggered from the cell.

In the corridor, the soulless fluorescent lighting gave no comfort as Dr Chow bent and held his knees as he took deep breaths. A second SAS soldier stood ready at the doorway. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Dr Chow simply nodded, so the soldier went back to watching through the one-way glass. Dr Clerk and Dr Wihongi continued to try to converse with the incoherent warrior for about another ten minutes but whenever they spoke in anything close to Maori, the drugged man seemed to gather strength.

Later footage showed the interview terminated by the young soldier after the furious warrior struggled to his knees. His eyes bulged as he threatened to kill and eat them. Dr Wihongi later described in his report that, while the warrior’s behaviour might have been par for the course for 11th Century Maori etiquette, his increasingly agitated state caused them to leave before the poor man did himself an injury.

When they discussed their preliminary findings, the doctor managing the warrior’s medication was more than surprised. “He had enough drugs to drop a horse!” he exclaimed with raised eyebrows.

A worried Dr Wihongi frowned as he muttered, “There are old stories of the power of the ancient warriors. Their mana made them immune to pain and cold. In the days of the Maori Wars, some of the older, more traditional warriors had to be shot a number of times to bring them down.”

“So, like a mind-over-matter situation, where force of will overcame all?” suggested Dr Chow. He had taken his prescribed medication and was relieved to find much of his anxiety had plateaued to a manageable level. His companions looked to him with sympathy.

Dr Wihongi continued. “As we all know, the Maori were the only people not conquered by their contact with the British. Our ancestors were warriors of renown and were known to be utterly pitiless by today’s standards. Hundreds, or even thousands of years of natural selection created a race of people who were naturally strong, large in stature, and courageous, while they exhibited a ruthlessness that ensured their survival. What we see in our friend in there, is a human whom I doubt would ever fit into our world. Our world is too alien, too frightening and, now he’s seen how easily we can die, it will be too tempting for him. He would never be at peace with us. He’ll always try to escape and kill us as the despised spirit-folk he thinks we are.”

“We have to send him back,” exclaimed Dr Chow quietly but firmly. “It’s not fair for him to be here. In the case of Tatae from Saxon England, she was accompanied by Michael Hunter. She had a cultural and linguistic affinity to the civilisation which she visited. Even then, she could barely tolerate the world in which we live. As Dr Wihongi suggested, our guest will only try to kill us until he’s destroyed.”

Dr Wihongi simply nodded. “He’s too different, even for modern Maori. While many of our people already hold this fellow as an icon for Maori history and culture, he is, quite literally, a savage to us. If you let him loose anywhere in our civilisation, he would end up killing everyone. It’s either take him home or kill him, because you can’t, in all humanity, keep him drugged in a cage for the rest of his life.”

Dr Clerk nodded reluctantly. “Oh, just imagine all of the things he could tell us about their myths and traditions but, damn it, you’re right. This isn’t the sort of guy you can see singing songs around the campfire and swapping stories with our oldies. We’ve conducted about all the physical tests we can without treating him like a lab-monkey. Okay, I concur gentlemen. Let’s do this, and quickly!”