Bombay, India
I know the truth of why those poor Frenchmen were brutally murdered and eaten in the Bay of Islands. I will relay it to the Sect of Seven here, only due to my deep and abiding affection for Giovanni, who brought the light of Truth to my soul. I know well that this account may well prove my undoing, for my kin are unforgiving, but I am assured of my soul's salvation through Christ and his sacrifice. I can only hope that my words here will provide some insight to the Sect, as to the characteristics of my kin and that my tale will be believed. In an effort to provide a measure of substantiation for this letter, I send it in both French and English, which I have both only recently learned--one of the few beneficial affects, so it may seem, of my birth.
I first met the French captain and explorer Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne in 1772, when his ships, the Marquis de Castries and the Mascarin, landed upon the shores of my home island which is now somewhat commonly known as Tasmania. Being an outcast due to the circumstances surrounding my birth, I was one of the first "Aboriginals" to encounter Dufresne and his men. Luckily for me, my unusual heritage as a shapeshifter allows me the ability to quickly understand and duplicate different tongues and it was not long before I found myself in the role of an interpreter and guide for Dufresne throughout his nautical explorations. It was also through these interactions that I quickly became proficient in the French (and later English) modes of speech.
This is, perhaps, an appropriate place to reveal a bit more about myself and my rare (but not wholly unheard of) heritage. My mother was a native of Tasmania, but my father was something else altogether. Known in my mother tongue, palawa, only as krakapaka takara nayri-nara, which, roughly translated means, "they who walk in the sadness of death", these creatures are the things of legend among my people. (In truth, the more I learn of other lands and their own tales, I feel strongly that they are examples of something more altogether, but I digress). My father was a shapeshifter, possessed with a rare ability to change his form into almost anything imaginable.
I never knew him, but before she was slain, my mother told me tales about his people, who she said, were divided into two clans: White Tongues and Black Tongues. The White Tongues were virtuous and well-meaning to others--protectors of both men and beasts. The Black Tongues, however, were the opposite, ever seeking only the destruction of all that was good around them. My father, whose name she never knew, was a White Tongue and his strange kin had even helped those within my village when starvation was upon us.
This mercy did not matter, however, as those within my village saw me as an abomination and once I was weaned, cast me out of their keeping to die. They named me Parahako, which to them meant "the unwanted egg of the cuckoo which is laid in the nest of another". My mother they forgave, so long as she left me to die. She refused, off course, and continued to come to me and provide succor. For this, they slew her and cast her body into the sea.
I survived, but only barely. Using my limited skills to change my shape and my color and blend in with my surroundings and escape those that sought me ill, I lived daily in fear of the stone, the spear, and starvation. Until, Giovanni Battista found me and displayed to me the truth of grace and mercy. It was this good man, a member of Dufresne's crew, who not only saved me from my island of persecution, but also led me to my Salvation from my Island of Sin.
Oh, how I miss him and how I thank God for his self-lessness. Poor Giovanni was washed from the deck of the Mascarin during a storm, but not before warning the crew (including myself) and likely saving us all. I pray for him daily that the Lord might spare him, but I fear that he is forever lost to the sea and may not be seen again until the Lord returns triumphant. It is for his sake that I write this letter now, for he often spoke of the Sect of Seven, and told me to seek them out should I ever become lost or seperated from him.
I still have the scriptures that he gave to me, after using them to show me the truth and I hold them as my most precious possessions: the first ten chapters of Isaiah, and the books of Jude, and 1 John. It was Giovanni, too, that brought me before Dufresne so that I might become one of his native guides and translators. Giovanni is why I am alive today, and why I shall live forever in Heaven. All I can do now is to repay his kindness by showing it to others and to tell others of, "that which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life-" (1 John 1:1).
But to the course of this letter I now return, and to the account, most dreadful of the murder and cannibalism of Dufresne and his men, and of the horrid realization of my own which came from it. It was in the summer of 1772 that Dufresne made landfall in the Bay of Islands, an area in the far north-eastern area of New Zealand's north island. I had only been a member of the crew for a few short months, but already I had come to faith in Christ and already my usefulness to Dufresne in the roles of an interpreter and guide had been made manifest.
At first, all seemed to be going well. Some of the many islands were explored and native fruits and plants were quickly found which were sorely needed to treat the scurvy aboard ship. Repairs, as needed, were quickly made and our first encounters with the natives of these islands, the Maori people (who called themselves tangata whenua), were surprisingly peaceful.
I was personally taken aback by the radical differences between these Maori and my own "Aboriginal" ancestry on my mother's side. Whereas those of my kin were primarily quiet foragers, these Maori seemed to bristle with aggression and war-like behavior. All of them, even the women and children, marked their skin with warped lines and strange sigils while they all carried pounamu weapons of glimmering greenstone. They worshipped strange spirits and practiced the eating of human flesh. It was bound within these differences that I began to notice strange and disturbing signs, and in truth, where among I first encountered the taniwha.
These behaviors and these creatures kept themselves hidden at first, however. I only wish I could have seen their signs and spoor sooner. Perhaps if I had, many good men would not have perished. Tragically, this was not to be.
Dufresne and his French sailors got along very well for the first several weeks. They had established peaceful relations with the Maori and the chief Te Kauri of the Ngāpuhi iwi (the nearest word I can find is English is 'tribe'). The sailors had even been allowed to establish a sizable vegetable garden on one of the many islands, Moturua, found within the Bay of Islands and had been invited to visit Tei Kauri's pā, their hilltop fortress, and sleep there overnight.
It was, in fact, this very event that began to cause me to suspect that something was untoward within the iwi of Te Kauri. This offer of honor and trust was not one that was shared by all of the Maori warriors. I could hear their whispers and understand them, but was careful to not reveal this fact to any. At the time, I thought little of it, of course, for there was no need to suspect anyone of any foul play. But it was at that time that I first heard the word "taniwha" it was amid these grumbles. Apparently, the taniwha (whatever they were) would not be pleased that the chief was bringing these White Men into their fortress. The most potent of these grumblers was a dark-eyed warrior known as Whiro-te-tipua.
Whiro-te-tipua was the leader of a war band among Te Kauri's iwi. These men had undergone trials, as I learned, that granted them special status amid their brethren and powers granted from their protective spirits. These spirits were said to live within talismans that Whiro-te-tipua and his warriors wore constantly: pounamu devices that were a dark green in color--so dark, in fact, that they were nearly black. These devices and the men who bore them were known as Mangu-Manapou.
The weeks passed and the French began to make themselves more and more at home, and generally civilized relations between the Europeans and the Maori grew. Maori were invited to spend the night aboard ship, and of the French officers made a detailed study of these people's native culture, diet, relations, habits, and customs. One of the officers, an intelligent and decisive fellow by the name of Roux, with my assistance, spent much of our time ashore speaking with and recording the responses of the Maori during this time.
It was during this time that my fears, solidly grounded, began to grow. I suspected that something distinctly spiritual and foul was behind the behavior of some of the Mangu-Manapou. Moreover, the non-friendly behavior of some of the Maori, also grew during this time. Things started out small: a stolen cutlass or uniform here or odd, night-time prowling behavior there. These things were easily dealt with and dismissed. A solid chiding by the French seamen, or a positive expression of tikanga and all was again made well.
But I could tell that there was something deeper astir. For one, all of the perpetrators of these "minor indiscretions" were bearers of the mangu-manapou. For another, once detained, as one would expect, the offender was stripped of all his possessions--including the unique greenstone fetishes. I observed that it was only after a man had been separated from these strange items for a period of time that they began to exhibit some form of sorrow for their deeds. I thought this most odd.
