Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  One sailor who’d stood night watch claimed to have seen the old Maori conversing with dolphins. The mocking laughter of his comrades soon silenced him. It was amusing thereafter to observe this otherwise tough seaman going out of his way to avoid the tohunga whenever their paths threatened to cross on deck.

  “I’ll take care of him, Mr. Markham.”

  “Thank you, sor.” The gratitude was plain in the First Mate’s reply.

  They’re all afraid of him, Coffin thought as he walked across the deck. Maoris and sailors both. His crew barely acknowledged their Captain’s presence as they scrambled for the ramp. By the time Coffin reached the port side of his ship, the schooner was quieter than it had been in weeks.

  “Tena koe, Tuhoto.”

  The old wizard spoke without smiling. Coffin had yet to see him smile. “Hello to you, Captain Robert Coffin.”

  As before, Coffin was impressed by the old man’s fluency. The Maoris learned English readily enough, but Tuhoto hardly seemed the type to have attended missionary school.

  “What are you doing?”

  Tuhoto pointed toward the harbor with his staff, a beautiful piece of hardwood covered with intricately carved whorls and scrolls. They matched the tattoos that covered his face.

  “Those men on all the ships. They burn the flesh of the great fish, but not for food. For what, then?”

  Coffin indicated one of the lamps which illuminated the deck. “They suck oil from its flesh, to put in containers like that one to give light.”

  “The pakehas value such lights highly?”

  “Highly indeed.” Coffin was a pakeha himself, of course, but he did not feel insulted.

  “Then it seems to me you must fear the darkness very much.”

  “Some do. Is it not true of the Maori?”

  “No, it is not, Captain Coffin.”

  “I think I know why this may be so. In the land where I came from there were and still are dangerous wild animals who hunt by night. Your islands seem never to have been inhabited by wolves and bears and such. You have no reason to fear the night because it has never threatened you.”

  Tuhoto mulled this over before replying. “That is a good thought, though I think there may be more to it. There is something in the pakeha that fears even the deserted darkness. I think many pakehas fear themselves.” He gazed down at the young Captain. “I think your thoughts have teeth.”

  He turned to stare back out across the waters recently crossed. Coffin remained until the lamps were no longer necessary, giving the elder his due.

  “You have been a good friend to me,” Tuhoto said finally. “Moreso than any pakeha I have ever met. I sense something in you that is not in the other pakehas.”

  Coffin shrugged. “We are all special to ourselves, Tuhoto. I might say that you are unlike any other Maori I’ve ever met.”

  The old man did not laugh, but he smiled for the very first time. The smile was another curve in his face, a sweep matched by his intricate tattoos. They covered not just his face but his entire body, the most extensive Maori tattooing Coffin or any of his companions had ever seen. Upon being questioned, Tuhoto explained they represented the entire history of the Maori people. More nonsense, Coffin knew, but colorful nonsense it was.

  “I wish you much luck, Captain Coffin. I think you like my country. I think it may like you.”

  “I’m very happy here, Tuhoto. Best have a care when you debark.” He nodded shoreward. “Kororareka’s become the wildest and most lawless pakeha community in this part of the world. A lot of badness all in one place. It’s full of pakehas who don’t like Maoris even when they’re sober.”

  “I have tasted of the pakeha rum. I like the way it heats my belly, but not my head. I know what you warn against. Small men I do not fear. I have six gods. I will not be harmed.”

  “Maybe you could loan me a couple. I could use help these days.” Coffin intended it as a jest, but the old man’s reply was dead solemn.

  “I wish I could do that for you, Captain Coffin, but it is beyond even my abilities. Besides, have you not your own god, your Christ?”

  “I think he avoids Kororareka. Many of your people have already converted to Christianity, Tuhoto. Will you not do the same?”

  “I already have six gods,” the old man replied firmly. “It is too late for me to change.”

  “Couldn’t you add another? I know some of your people do that.”

  “I think not. It would make the other six jealous.”

  Coffin looked toward the deck so Tuhoto would not see his smile. “Yes, I can understand that.” He forced himself to adopt a serious mien. “If you should ever need to return to the south, seek me out and I will help if I can.”

  “Thank you, Captain Coffin, but I do not think I will be returning there soon. I have much to do here. Haere ra—goodbye.”

  Coffin followed the tall old man’s progress as he strolled gracefully across the deck to vanish down the disembarking ramp. He immediately put the tohunga and his wild tales out of his mind. An entertaining diversion. Now it was over and there was plenty to do before the sun was well up. Notations to make, shares in cargo to be apportioned—and Mary Kinnegad. He was not long in following in Tuhoto’s wake.

  He paused halfway down the pier, frowned at the wooden planking. Footprints seemed to lead to the edge of the pier. Below, dark water swirled oddly. He shrugged and continued on toward town.

  As he entered the ramshackle collection of small warehouses and storage sheds which lined the waterfront he could feel the first kiss of the sun on the back of his neck. By rights he should head straight home, but Goldman would be opening the store soon. It was vital that they get the Kauri graded, priced and sold as soon as possible, before some desperate Captain thought to send armed men to try to steal it. Even if law did come to Kororareka, His Majesty’s troops would have an impossible time trying to track down criminals whose business took them clear around the globe.

  Kororareka’s streets were paved with the usual combination of mud and drunken sailors. It was quiet, but only by comparison with the debauched nights. The revelry, if so polite a term could be applied to it, never ceased. Whalers were often away from home three or four years at a stretch. When such men finally made port-o-call their pent-up desires manifested themselves in a paroxysm of pleasuring.

  To the sometimes puritanical shipmasters Kororareka was truly a bit of hell on Earth. They forced themselves to turn a blind eye and deaf ear to the depravity of their crews, though the sight of nubile Maori maidens prancing about clad only in flaxen skirts was enough to tempt the thoughts of the most dedicated Quaker.

  So they said nothing while good men sinned a little among the heathens. It kept the mutinous in check and the Captains knew that God would punish such men in His own good time. A Captain’s task was to bring his ship home safely, its tanks brimming with precious spermaceti. To do that one needed the backs of strong men, not angels.

  A few of the grog shops and stores now boasted wooden walkways which rose above the mud, while the less prosperous were as filthy inside as the streets they bordered. Coffin navigated around those bodies which did not stir, paused to permit lurching men to pass.

  3

  The proprietors of the shops that lined the town’s “respectable” streets rose with the sun. On the fringe of The Beach, back behind the grog shops and gambling dens and the pens, were stores that sold tinned foods to homesick sailors, geegaws and gimcracks, ship’s supplies and fresh victuals. The latter was purchased entire from the Maoris. Why farm for a living when one could buy from the natives? This was fine with the Maoris, who realized substantial profits from their virtual agricultural monopoly.

  A few of the shops even specialized in primitive, heathen arts and crafts of the sort calculated to raise eyebrows and promote nervous giggles among the womenfolk at social gatherings back home in New Bedford or Southampton. The Maori were deft craftsfolk, fashioning hooks and needles of bone, skirts of the everpresent flax, attr
active baskets and heavy war clubs. The latter were made of intricately carved hardwood or a variety of South Island jade. The Maori called it greenstone and went to great lengths to obtain it. Sharpened and polished, a greenstone war club was a fearsome traditional weapon, though Coffin had noticed that any Maori warrior would gladly trade war club, wife and child for a modern musket and powder.

  There were even more notorious souvenirs to be had.

  The boy stepped out of a narrow alley between two stores. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen: a cabin boy or sailmaker’s apprentice, most likely.

  “Your pardon, sir.” He had a canvas bag slung over his right shoulder. “You look the sort of gentleman who might be interested in the unusual.” There wasn’t a suggestion of shyness or hesitation in his manner.

  Coffin eyed the lumpy sack, had a fair idea of its contents. He tried to go around the youngster, who moved quick as a crab to block his path.

  “You haven’t even seen my wares, sir. At least allow me that courtesy.”

  “I know what you’re selling, boy. I’ve nothing to do with that filthy trade.”

  For a moment the boy looked hurt. Then his flinty stare returned. “It’s not filth, sir, but a question of anthro—arthro—anthropology.” He smiled, having pronounced the difficult word correctly. “It’s science, sir.”

  “It’s unwholesome, and though I am not a religious man I am dead against it.”

  “Perhaps you’ve not actually had the opportunity to consider it in person, sir.” The boy hurriedly lowered the sack, reached inside, and extracted part of the contents. Coffin’s suspicions were confirmed. He eyed the object with distaste.

  It was a Maori head: smoked, embalmed, and exceedingly well preserved. A man of less refined temperment might have called it fresh. Teeth grimaced at Coffin. The eyes were shut tight.

  “Half a quid, sir. That’s a fair price. You won’t find a better head for twice that anywhere on The Beach. I’ll suffer a hiding if you can prove otherwise.”

  “I don’t want to beat you, boy, though God knows you need it. Do you not know where these heads come from, nor why?”

  “Of course I do, sir.” The boy was trying to sound knowledgeable as well as important. “The Maoris themselves do them up, even to tying the knots in the hair.” A youthful finger traced dry, dead flesh without hesitation. “Notice the tattoos here, sir. Are they not exceptional?”

  Coffin leaned close and examined the gruesome object with clinical detachment. Sometimes you could tell if the tattooing had been added subsequent to decapitation. In this instance the tattoos appeared to be original with the deceased. The knotted hair was not the fashion among the Maori, but had been so secured the better to display the forehead tattooing.

  “I am told, sir,” the boy went on, “that the natives do up the heads of their own relatives this way, and keep them on display for visitors much as I keep a picture of my sister in the locket which hangs ’round my neck. It’s their custom and habit. If they have a few heads to spare and if some jolly-boy wants to take one back home, why should I leave all the profit to the heathen who don’t appreciate real money anyways?”

  Coffin did his best to keep his voice even. “If you think the Maori’ve no sense of profit, boy, you’re wrong there. They are as sophisticated and avaricious as any white man, much to the distress of the good fathers who proselytize among them. I fear that is reflected in this dreadful head business.

  “I asked if you knew how you might’ve come by your stock. It’s true they’ve had this habit for as far back as any care to confess to it, but what many fail to realize, or choose to ignore, is that being the natural merchants they are, since the arrival of the European they have expanded their interests to accommodate an increased demand for goods.

  “I personally know of traders who’ve traveled to villages to bargain with the head chiefs, the arikis. The trader will set a price. Then the chief will line up some poor souls, usually prisoners of war, and let the trader walk down the line picking out the heads he likes. Come his next visit his merchandise will be waiting for him, like the contents of your duffle.

  “A man can make a cannibal of himself with his eyes and purse as easily as with teeth and gut. The Maoris have no corner on degradation. If the pakehas exhibited less interest in such souvenirs there’d be a few more natives walking the island this day.”

  After digesting this information silently the boy responded with an indifferent shrug. “Of what concern is that to me, sir? If their own chiefs have no more concern for their own people than that, why should I worry myself about it?”

  “Because you are not a damned naked savage, boy!” Coffin was unable to restrain his anger any longer. At his tone the boy took a wary step back. “You’re an Englishman. A Christian youth of good stock who has no business mucking about with such filth.”

  “My age be none of your business, sir. If my wares put you off so, why then I won’t try further to soil your fine hands with them. I’ll take my trade elsewhere.”

  “Why you impudent little bastard!” Coffin made a grab for the boy, but his feet were as nimble as his tongue. He scampered out of reach and vanished back down the alley from whence he’d come. Coffin gave a brief thought to pursuing, then turned away. By his willingness to overlook the questionable activities of others he’d profited well. He was no reformer. It was the youth of the offender that had moved him to anger. Kororareka was no place to raise children. Its air was full of poison, the missionaries’ strenuous efforts notwithstanding.

  Some day, he told himself. Some day something would have to be done.

  High on the hillside above the clamor and gunshots and debauchery of The Beach stood a cluster of small wooden buildings. They were grander than the huts that sprang out of the sand below, but not by much. Coffin House was the largest of the lot. It boasted a rock foundation and a fireplace, the latter an unnecessary afterthought since it rarely grew cold in the Bay of Islands. Captain and sailor alike founded many a jest on the establishment’s unintentionally morbid name. They appreciated the rough humor of it.

  It did not hamper business. Coffin had built a reputation among the sea captains by giving quality for money received. He never tried to cheat a ship new to the port, and he dealt only in the freshest victuals and best quality stores the Maoris made available. In addition to Kauri pine and treated hemp rope, a ship’s officer could find tea from India, coffee from Egypt and Turkey, tobacco from the Virginias and Carolinas, metalware from the mills of Birmingham and woolen goods from Edinburgh.

  Word of mouth was the best advertising, and satisfied Captains gratefully passed the name of Coffin House from ship to ship. “Put in to Kororareka and seek out Robert Coffin!” it was shouted across gunwales slick with blubber and whale blood, “He’ll not steal from you and his prices are fair.”

  It was comforting to set eyes on the familiar storefront, its sign hanging limp in the still morning air above the front door. Something else made him quicken his stride, however, and he soon broke into a run.

  Fighting was as natural to Kororareka as whoring and drinking, but it belonged down on The Beach, not up here among the community’s reputable businesses. Open brandishing of guns and knives was off-putting to customers.

  The sight made his blood rise for another reason. Three against one are not fair odds in any fight, for all that the lone Maori appeared to be holding his own. Like many of his people he looked too fat to run, but Coffin was not deceived. He’d learned while participating in friendly wrestling contests at trading meets that the brown bulges which so often surged over skirt-tops were usually rock hard.

  The native moved lithely, keeping his back to the building. He hefted a hardwood war club inlaid with sparkling paua shell. Both edges were lined with the inset teeth of some deep-sea monster. Using both hands, he swung the club in wide arcs sufficient to keep his three assailants at bay. They kept feinting, trying to draw his attention so one of them could slip behind those potentially disemb
oweling blows to cut the native’s throat.

  The shattered cutlass lying on the ground was testament to the force with which the Maori wielded his weapon. One sailor was bleeding steadily from a gash across his forehead while another’s left arm lay loose and broken at his side. Blood flowed down the native’s right arm where a knife had slashed home.

  “HOLD!”

  Coffin’s voice could command attention from a topgallant lookout to the lowest bilge. It froze the three attackers. The Maori hesitated, then drew his club in close as he stared curiously at the new arrival. He was breathing hard, but so were his assailants.

  One of them glared at Coffin. “This be none o’ your business, sir.” He turned back to the Maori. “We aim t’finish this cannibal for the insult he’s done us.”

  Coffin lowered his voice as he advanced. “What insult might that be? As to this being my business or no, that is in truth my business you are fighting in front of.”

  The man with the broken arm spoke up. “Wouldn’t get out of our way. Like to knock me over, he did. I take that from no savage. I’ve been all over the Pacific and Atlantic both, around the Mediterranean and three times ’round the Horn.”

  “Not in your present condition, I’ll wager.” Coffin eyed the other two. “You’re all of you drunk. If anyone blocked anyone’s path, I can guess who the trespassing party might be.”

  “Be you siding with the savage?” The tallest of the trio gazed at Coffin in disbelief.

  “I side always with the right side. Deny to me that you’re all drunk.”

  “So we’ve ’ad a spot o’ rum or two,” the first man growled. “What of it?” As he talked the fight was seeping out of him, just as Coffin intended. It’s hard for a drunk to fight and think at the same time.

  “If you’re going to pick a fight in Kororareka, gentlemen, you’d best choose an opponent other than the Maori, much as they’re delighted to oblige. That’s my advice for this fine morning. My request is that you stop blocking the entrance to my shop. Go back down to The Beach if you desire to bloody yourselves, and leave this part of town in peace.”