Authors: Judy Corbalis
A Crooked Rib (15 page)
Tihe mauri ora.
Tihe mauri ora.
Tihe mauri ora.
Listen to my words. I was there. I know the truth of what took place. Listen to my story. Listen to my breath. Listen to my confession.
My name is Makareta, but long ago, in the beginning, I was called Hine-moana, the Girl from the Ocean. I was born on Kapiti Island. Men call it an island but, in truth, it is a lone grey mountain rising sharply from the water, brooding alone at the edge of Tai-o-Rehua, the Tasman Sea. Now, I am only a phantom swirling in the sea fog; then, I was of the tribe of the mighty rangatira, Te Rau-paraha.
Te Rau-paraha, the warrior, the eagle, the wily serpent. It was said that he ate the eyes and the sexual parts of the fighters whom he captured, the better to enhance his spirit. It was true. My mother, herself, saw it. He drove off the white settlers and burnt their dwellings, defied the English Government and their powerful Queen. His war canoes penetrated to the farthest reaches of the Southern Island, to the northernmost point of the North. Thousands fled before him. He was a living god; his mana was supreme. Every other tribe lived in terror of him. And so did we, his own people.
Once I was Makareta; now I am a wraith. I did not heed my mother’s warnings of the danger of makutu, witchcraft. I boasted that I, too, could cast powerful spells. And that very witchcraft rose
up against me and consumed me, so that now my bones lie far from my homeland and I am less than nothing. In my lifetime, I believed I, too, would follow the Broad Path of Tane, treading it across the sea to Hawai’iki. But, when the time came, when the poison of the Serpent caught and burnt me, the way remained barred to me forever. I could not follow my ancestors.
Turned away, I have become a kikokiko, a ghost soul, weeping as I haunt the world I once inhabited. I am the wind in the chimney, the rattle at the window pane, the creak of the stair …
Though I move among them, the living cannot see me. Yearning to be again as they are, I peer in at their windows, I stand behind them, blowing a chill wind at their necks, I enter their dreams while they sleep. This is my eternal punishment. I did wrong, I know, but what else could I have done? What power does a woman have, no matter that she is of noble parentage?
I remember nothing at all of my father, though his chiefly blood flows in me. The first man I can recall in our life was not a Maori but a white man.
‘Put away prejudice,’ said my mother, Kahe. ‘A good man is a good man whatever the misfortune of the colour of his skin. And a woman and her children are safe only under the protection of a good man.’
My father was Te Rau-paraha’s nephew. His favourite. The son of his treasured older sister, he was beloved even more than the chief ’s own son, and second only to the chief ’s son-in-law, brutal Te Rangihae-ata. But, as our great leader’s mana grew, said my mother, so he became a tyrant, unpredictable in his temper, capricious in his whims, murdering for the sport of it, insatiable in his appetites for women, war and blood. Our tribe lived in impregnable isolation, surrounded on all sides by the sea. Who could invade our stronghold? Where might his dissenters flee? On all sides, mighty Te Rau-paraha commanded the ocean.
But, in time, my father and his friends grew weary of the battles
of Te Rau-paraha and Te Rangi-hae-ata, of the endless forays and skirmishes, the alliances forged and broken. Our crops were neglected, our fishing boats idle. In defiance of the laws of the sea-god, Tangaroa, the bodies of the conquered were flung into the deep waters, the circling sharks drawn by the scent of yet more blood.
Then came the day when Te Rau-paraha’s tohunga, on reading the omens, refused to disclose their message, saying that he dare not for his life speak them aloud.
When he heard this, the great chief became enraged and attempted to violate the sanctity of the priestly rites, advancing upon his tohunga with his greenstone mere and swearing to kill him for his disobedience. Then my father and his friends, in their own turn, broke the holy laws of tapu by laying hands upon the sacred body of Te Rau-paraha and restraining their leader.
Prevailed upon by Te Rangi-hae-ata, on his father-in-law’s behalf, to deliver the message of the gods, the tohunga, in greatest fear and distress, revealed that, at the time of a future fourth full moon, the great chief would be captured and his mana broken.
Incensed, Te Rau-paraha ordered the slaying of his own tohunga, an act against all the laws of Heaven. It was Te Rangi-hae-ata who carried out this vile, unnatural murder before the gathered tribe, cutting off first the tongue and then the privy parts of the priest before despatching him with a merciful blow to the side of his head.
‘And now,’ said Te Rau-paraha, ‘throw his body to the dogs, and when they have had their fill, scatter his remains from the highest cliff-top.’
Much disturbed by the offences of his uncle and the predictions of the tohunga, my father took counsel with his friends, all of them alarmed in great measure by what had taken place. It was agreed among them that they should band together and, by force of arms, overthrow Te Rau-paraha. My father would seek an audience with his uncle and, at a pre-arranged signal, the others would burst in, armed, and together they would kill him. In this way, saved from the
ignominy of surrender or defeat, Te Rau-paraha might be permitted to die with his mana preserved.
An hour before the meeting, with darkness already shrouding the sky, a woman appeared by the door of our whare. ‘You are betrayed,’ she told my father. ‘Your uncle is apprised of your plans by a traitor among you. Te Rau-paraha is sending scouts to capture you. He has vowed to wipe out the stain of your treachery from his family. He already holds your mother prisoner and he swears that, before he puts you to death, you will be forced to watch him roast your children and have his warriors dishonour your wife in the presence of the entire tribe. I must flee for my own safety. His rage is uncontrollable. If he should discover I have come to warn you, he will surely kill
me
.’
My mother sank to the ground. ‘He would not do this. You are his favourite.’
My father raised her up. ‘He will be merciless. It is his way. I have seen him on our war parties. It is too late for me, but you must flee now with our children. Save yourselves and them. Take my fishing canoe and paddle to the mainland. Hurry.’
The woman, still hovering at the door, spoke again. ‘On your uncle’s orders, your fishing canoe has been holed and destroyed.’
‘He has desecrated my
canoe
?’
‘Yes. And all our other canoes he had taken away and hidden so no escape is possible for you.’
‘You must come with us,’ said my mother to my father.
‘I cannot. It is enough that you save our children and yourself.’
‘Then I will climb the mountain, Tutere-moana, and hide there.’
‘If you go to the mountain-top, he will hunt you down and discover you. Go to the sea. Cast yourself on the mercy of Tangaroa and swim to the sanctuary of the Mission at Otaki.’
‘
Swim
, Husband? But the mainland is so far distant.’
‘It is your only chance. Take these kete. There will be rope on the shore. Quickly! They will be here for me at any moment.’
He took flax cloth, tore it, and with the strips bound my mouth and that of my brother. I was fifteen months old, my brother three years, and we fought as he gagged us.
‘Now, Kahe, Wife-of-my-Heart, you must be strong. You cannot
reach the shore before they come. Conceal yourselves in the latrine pit at the edge of the pa and wait there until they have taken me. Hurry, I beg you.’
‘I will
never
descend into the latrine pit. It is noa, filthy. I should be dishonoured forever.’
‘You prefer that other dishonour? I think not. And it is because the pit is noa that I demand you hide there. That is the one place they will never look for you. They will not wish to defile themselves; they will believe you have fled to the mountain-top.’
For a moment they embraced, then, lifting us both, my mother took the kete, crept to the edge of the pa and concealed us in the stinking pit. Minutes later, she heard shouting, and the orange light of flaming torches illuminated our whare. For the last time she saw my father, standing proudly by the doorway to meet his betrayers, as befitted a chief ’s son. She heard his voice, raised so that she might catch his final words. ‘You have no need to bind me. I shall walk to my fate of my own free will.’
Another voice. ‘Where is your wife, Kahe Te Rau-o-te-rangi? Where are your children?’
‘They are under the protection of the gods.’
‘We have orders to set fire to your whare. And all of your possessions. Is your family within?’
‘I do not choose to answer you.’
Mired in the unbearable stench of the pit, my mother caught a glimpse of a moving flame which blazed up to light the sky. Forcing herself not to cough in the acrid smoke, she sank lower, pulling us down with her as we fought and struggled against our bindings.
When the fire had died down and my father had been dragged away, she crept weeping to the shore, half-hauling me inside the kete, clutching my frantic brother in her arms. There, she hastily gathered pieces of wood from the ruined canoe and lashed them with rope into a small raft on which she tied my brother. Placing me in the kete, she strapped it high on her back, my head raised above her own, then, praying to Tangaroa to preserve us, she slid
into the water. The tide was with her, ingoing to the mainland, a sign of the sea-god’s favour. Waist-deep in water, she secured the raft loosely to her front, freeing her arms. Then she began to swim.
Noise travels across the sea. The increasing swell of drums beat as if in her own head; she thought she discerned within it the thunderous tones of Te Rau-paraha, and willed herself not to think of my father and his fate. Suddenly, the drums ceased and from the Kapiti mountainside behind us floated screams, followed by a silence, then a collective sigh that made her shudder. She did not know then that the wailing she heard was the sorrowful massed voice of the tribe, forced to watch as Te Rau-paraha massacred his sister in front of her son. The smell of fire drifted over the sea and, mingled with the bitter tang of burning tawa and kanuka, came the unmistakable odour of roasting flesh.
Defeated by what she knew must be its hideous source, her strength already spent, my mother ceased to swim. Exhausted from struggling against his bonds, my brother had fallen asleep but I, high on the prow of my mother canoe, reached down and, clutching in my hands locks of her drenched hair, hauled on them in the manner of reins. The pain of this shook her from her stupor, and she began again to move her arms and legs, propelling us slowly, slowly through the water.
And then appeared an omen, a further sign from Tangaroa. The waves, which had been rippling about us, became deeper and more powerful, lifting us on each new crest, bearing us closer and closer to the mainland shore.
In his rush cottage, not far from that seashore, Mr Octavius Hadfield, the Christian missionary, friend of the Maori, knowledgeable of their ways, had heard the drums on Kapiti, had caught the drift of burning flesh and, full of unease, had gone to the water’s edge to try to observe the better what might be the cause of such disturbance. As the morning light rose from the horizon, he saw, to his sorrow, three bodies washed up on the sand. The
largest lay sprawled lifeless, a dead infant strapped to its back, the third, another child, rested motionless on a makeshift raft. In horror, the missionary saw that the children had their lower faces bound, and reached down to untie the infant’s tiny mouth. At this, it gave a feeble, angry cry, and he saw that it lived. Running to the other child, he unbound him and saw that he, too, was alive. What of the woman, who must surely be their mother? Turning her body, he saw infinitesimal movements of her chest.
By now, the night’s commotion from Kapiti had drawn curious others. Summoned by Mr Hadfield, they carried the half-drowned trio back to his hut at the Mission station.
And in this manner, and by the grace of the sea-god, my mother, my brother and I were saved from the wrath of Te Rau-paraha.
‘The mistress has been looking for you, Ma’am,’ said Johnson. She peered at me from under a furrowed brow, heightening her general air of gloom and disapproval.
‘Where is she now?’
Johnson shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t say, Ma’am. Possibly in the garden.’ And she flapped away into the house in her ill-fitting shoes.
‘Why do you keep such a bad-tempered servant?’ I had asked Lucy shortly after my arrival.
‘We’ve little choice. We constantly have to reprimand Johnson, but getting servants anywhere in New Zealand is almost impossible. If she decided to give notice, it would be very difficult to find a replacement for her.’
‘She’s quite horrid to poor Ingrams.’
‘She’s quite horrid to everyone. Servants in New Zealand have no concept of their place.’
Lucy waved to me from the grove of native flax bushes at the far end of the garden. ‘Here you are at last, Fanny. I’ve been searching for you everywhere. I have the most wonderful news. Godfrey is coming here!’ She ran up and seized my arm. ‘We’ll all have such fun together. I told you how he loves parties and dancing. I’ve missed him dreadfully since we left Adelaide.’ She checked herself. ‘Oh, Fanny, you must think me so ungrateful when I have
you
here. But my husband dotes on his brother, which will be good for us all. Godfrey always knows how to coax the Governor from a bad humour. You’ll see it at once.’
‘When will he arrive?’
‘Very soon, but the mails are so slow, I’ve only just heard. I must set about to have his room made ready.’
Mr Godfrey Thomas was, indeed, a refreshing addition to Government House. As unlike the Governor in looks as it was possible to imagine, he similarly differed entirely from his brother in temperament, being almost unfailingly cheerful and disposed to find everything about his new surroundings agreeable. To me, Mr Godfrey was courteous and attentive, frequently making me laugh with his impersonations of Johnson in disapproving mood. It was clear that he was easy in the company of ladies.
Shortly after his arrival, he persuaded the Governor to agree to hold a ball. ‘A little gaiety and dancing will do no harm,’ he said, ‘and, after all, the officers of the 58th are in sore need of some light relief.’
To my surprise, the Governor agreed. ‘I daresay, if you and the ladies are prepared to organise it, there’s no reason why not. But it will have to wait until I have settled affairs in the south.’
‘Of course. And, George, why shouldn’t Eliza and her sister travel with us to Wellington next month? It would provide some interest and distraction for Eliza, and Miss Thompson could see something of the rest of the country.’
‘Well, I suppose that may be possible, too.’
But the day before we were due to sail to Wellington aboard the government brig, I developed a fever and pains in my chest.
‘I shan’t consider going now,’ declared Lucy. ‘I must stay here with you, Fanny, and nurse you back to health.’
‘It’s merely a chill,’ I said. ‘In two or three days I’ll be quite well again. You are not to stay behind on my account. The servants can see to my needs, and I can send to Lady Martin or Mrs Selwyn if I need extra assistance.’
Eventually, she was induced to leave with her husband and brother-in-law and for the following two days I took to my bed, rising on the third day restored to health again. The weather being fine, I sent a message by Ingrams to Lady Martin, accepting her invitation to tea that afternoon.
On my return I was set down at the gates of Government House by the Martins’ groom. It had begun to rain a little and, as I made my way to the veranda, I saw that a black stallion was grazing in the horse paddock. Wearing her usual grim expression, Johnson opened the door to me almost immediately; I had the notion she had been standing there waiting for my return.
‘Ma’am,’ she said, ‘I must beg you to come directly to the reception room. There is a … gen … a man … a person … insisting he won’t leave until he’s seen His Excellency.’
‘Have you told him the Governor isn’t at home?’
‘Several times, Ma’am, but to no purpose. He refuses to go. And, excepting yourself, there’s no one but the servants here.’
‘Then I daresay I must see to him.’
In the reception room, a fire burned in the grate but the gas lamps had not yet been lit. Beyond the windows, the rain had begun to fall with its usual Auckland ferocity, darkening the room so completely that I did not at first discern the man standing beside the Governor’s bookcases. He turned towards me and, with a shock, I saw that he was a native, with a heavily tattooed face. He smiled, showing a flash of white within the purple of his skin, and instinctively I stepped back.
‘Kia ora,’ he said, then, seeing my incomprehension, ‘it is our “Good day”. You must excuse me. Te Kawana Kerei speaks to me usually in Maori.’
‘Te Kawana Kerei?’
‘Governor Grey.’
‘The Governor is not at home. He and his lady sailed for Wellington three days ago.’
‘It is most important I speak with him. I have urgent matters that cannot wait. When will he return?’
‘Not for some time.’
I discreetly studied the man before me. Tall and strongly built, he wore the usual native flax kilt, his legs and feet bare beneath it, and, above it, an Englishman’s shirt, jacket and waistcoat, without necktie or cravat. I was accustomed by now to the sight of such bizarre
combinations of clothing among the natives.
‘I don’t believe we have met,’ I said. ‘I’m Miss Thompson, Mrs Grey’s sister.’
‘I know it,’ he said. ‘Because it was I who carried you here from the Domain when you became ill.’
‘Then I’m pleased to have the chance to thank you in person. It was most kind.’
He bowed again, and the jade ornament encircling his neck swung forward and briefly caught the low firelight. Carved in the form of a manikin, its twisted arms and legs encircled its body; the huge iridescent eyes in its angled head sought mine, seeming to stare at me pitilessly. I stepped back, recollecting just such a remorseless gaze but unable to fathom … then …
‘Rio,’ I said aloud.
Puzzled, the man looked directly at me, so that I was uncomfortably aware of the twists and swirls of the whorls incised into his face. I willed myself not to show my nervousness at being alone with him. ‘I … I’ll ring for tea. Please to sit down.’
Within the savage mutilation of his face, his eyes, I saw, were kind. ‘I believe it is you who should sit down, Miss Thompson.’ And he drew up a chair for me before the fire and another opposite for himself.
‘I’m sorry that the Governor isn’t here,’ I said, ‘but I’m quite powerless to help you, and I must tell you … please not to be offended but … it isn’t quite proper that I should … that you and I should … that we are alone together unchaperoned.’
He laughed. ‘Ah, you Pakeha, with your respectability and your correctness. Tell me, do you think it is proper to steal? It is in the Bible, is it not,
Thou shalt not steal
?’
I nodded.
‘And,
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s
?’
In my astonishment, I forgot myself. ‘You have studied the Bible?’
‘Most certainly. I often attend the church at Waimate where Te Pihopa, the Bishop, preaches. I am very well acquainted with the Bible. It is true, is it not, as Pihopa Selwyn says, that we must keep the Ten Commandments?’
‘Yes, it is true.’
‘So tell me then, Miss Thompson, why has that great chief, Mata Wikitoria, allowed the Pakeha to come here and covet our land?’ He drew a paper from his jacket. ‘Here I have a letter for Te Kawana that I must without delay deliver to him. Once again the New Zealand Company seeks to take our lands in the North and on the West Coast. I wish to tell Te Kawana we will fight with all our strength to prevent this.’
I shrank a little.
‘Do not be afraid, Miss Thompson. We will not fight
you
.’
A terrible thought occurred to me. I breathed in deeply. ‘Are you … is your name … John Heke?’
He laughed again. ‘I? Hone Heke? That is a most excellent joke, Miss Thompson. It is possible that at this moment Heke is planning once again to cut down the British flagpole at Kororareka, though I think not. But that is not a concern of mine.’ He narrowed his eyes a little, and the carvings on his face reassembled themselves into a ferocious scowl. ‘Now, if you were Maori and not Pakeha, I should not have been so entertained. To be mistaken for Heke by a Maori would be a deadly insult, but as you know nothing of Maori affairs I have chosen to be amused.’
‘If I’ve offended …’
‘I will tell you. Heke is a little chief who has discovered a clever way to insult the British and increase his own reputation but, while he is in combat with flagpoles, behind his back more and more British are creeping in at the south and west of our land and snatching for themselves what they can.’
‘But some of the land has been legally bought.’
‘A little, true, but who has sold it? A Maori who says it is his land and that he may sell it in return for a few blankets and a musket? No single man owns our land. It belongs to the tribe, so only the tribe may agree to sell it. And the tribes do not wish to sell their lands. Only rarely, such as to the missionaries, and by common consent, will we do this.’
Suddenly, the grandfather clock chimed. It was only six o’clock,
but it was now completely dark in the reception room.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said, ‘but in what manner do you think the Governor can help you?’
‘I have brought this letter I have written to Mata Wikitoria. It is in Maori, for the greater honour and respect to her, but I am sure Te Kawana will translate it and send it to her in both English and Maori. I do not believe your Queen understands our language.’
‘I think not.’
‘But if she is a great and good ruler, as Te Kawana and Pihopa tell us, and if she believes in the justice of the Bible, she will help us.’
I did not know what to say, how to answer him. ‘I’ll ring for tea now,’ I said, ‘and ask Johnson to light the lamps. As soon as the Governor comes home, I shall tell him you wish to speak with him urgently. When will you return?’
‘I will not return,’ he said simply, ‘because I am not going. I will remain here until he comes back.’
‘
Here
? At Government House?’
‘I have stayed here many times before, and with Te Kawana FitzRoy also.’
‘But I … we are alone … I …’
He looked at me keenly. ‘Miss Thompson, you need not be afraid of me. I am a paramount chief. We rangatira do not dishonour the houses of our hosts. We are not savages. You are safe. I shall not eat you.’ He smiled, this time showing perfect white teeth. ‘Not tonight.’
I rose next morning unsure whether the events of the night before had been some kind of hallucination. From my window, I saw the black stallion still cropping grass in the horse paddock.
I took breakfast in my room and, as soon as I might, paid an uninvited call on Lady Martin.
‘There’s a native chief at present at Government House. He seems to have taken up residence and says he’ll leave only after he’s seen the Governor.’
‘Is he uncommonly tall?’
‘Yes.’
‘With a fine black stallion?’
‘At present in the horse paddock.’
‘Then it’s certain to be Te Toa. He’s from the North, near Waimate. Has he told you what it is he wants?’
‘He says it’s a dispute about land that only the Governor can resolve.’
‘Is he troubling you in any way?’
‘Not at all, though he speaks very good English and seems surprisingly deft in his arguments.’
Lady Martin smiled. ‘Then there’s no doubt it’s Te Toa. My husband says that were he to study the law, he’d make a splendid advocate at the English bar. He learnt our language from Governor FitzRoy and he is almost completely fluent in it. They were great friends and spent a lot of time together in the North. So, you see how truly I spoke when I told you that the Maoris are a most interesting race?’
‘Is it true they are still cannibals?’
‘Many of them, but we’re slowly turning them towards Christianity and leading them to a better life. I’m sure you won’t be shocked if I tell you that the chiefs and some high-born men generally have several wives.’
‘I believe it was the same with our local Aborigines in Albany.’
‘I daresay it’s their way. And the Maori young people, too, are much more lax in their morals than we might wish. But many have begun to adopt some of our habits and customs. As the Bishop says, we can but pray for the rest to follow, though I fear the temptation of the native girls has been a little too much for a number of our young English settlers. Several of them now quite openly co-habit with Maori women.’
‘And don’t marry them?’
‘Sometimes they marry. Which is, perhaps, a preferable state of affairs.’
‘And if an English woman were to marry a native?’
Lady Martin shuddered. ‘Now,
that
does not bear thinking about.’
Since Te Toa was now in residence, it seemed polite that we should dine together. Uncertain of what food a native might eat, I ordered cutlets, and sat down at table determined to mask my awkwardness.
Te Toa sat opposite me and I was relieved to see that he held his knife and fork in the manner of a civilised Englishman.
‘The weather remains bad,’ he said, indicating the still-falling rain, ‘though it is good for our kumara crops. Last year, it was so dry we had a very poor yield.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
There was a silence.
‘I fear Te Kawana will be delayed. I am told there are storms along the coast. So I shall be here for a little longer, Miss Thompson. Perhaps, if the weather improves, you would come with me to ride in the Domain.’
I did not wish to offend him but I could not possibly accept such an offer. ‘I … I …’