Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  Robert Coffin had always been able to hold his liquor against any man, but when he finally retired he found he was having trouble removing his boots. He’d enjoyed Christopher’s company so much he’d overindulged in his private stock of spirits. Ah, well. It was good to celebrate something. Been a long time since he’d relaxed so completely. If his old sailing mates could see him now, weaving unsteadily on his feet like a tidewater rum-besotted bum, they’d split their sides laughing.

  Taking a deep, deliberate breath he focused intently on his feet, managed to remove the first boot. The second he kicked clear across the tent. He removed his jacket and shirt and let them fall indifferently to the ground. With a sigh he slid beneath the blankets that covered his field bed.

  His fellow officers perferred to sleep in undergarments or dressing gowns, not only to ward off the night chill but in the event the Maoris were to attack after sundown. The cool air invigorated Coffin, and in all the time he’d been battling the Kingites they had yet to attack at night. Didn’t anyone realize the rebels had to sleep as well? Besides, in the event they proved him wrong he had no compunctions about fighting in the nude.

  The heavy blankets were a luxury reserved for officers, who could afford to have baggage carried. He lay wondering what time it was. The moon cast its diffuse light through the material of the tent, but not enough for him to read the face of his pocket watch. No matter. An orderly would wake him in time to dress for the march, or Merita would.

  As he tossed and turned beneath the blankets, unable to get comfortable, it seemed he saw her close by. Saw her not as she was but as he always imagined her to be. She was clad only in a filmy robe of lace, a gift from him to keep her modesty intact at night. As he’d learned right away, she had no inhibitions whatsoever. If he’d let her move about at night or in the early morning hours stark naked there would have been riots among the troops.

  She seemed to be staring down at him, silent, her form silhouetted by the pale moonlight shining through the tent’s ceiling. Then the robe was slipping from her shoulders, down her arms, her upper body, her hips, to form a silver-tinged lace puddle around her feet, a swirling base for the statue she’d become. He was breathing hard, painfully, even though he knew it was but a dream. Knew it was a dream because there was another figure in the tent with her. A tall, elderly shape that stared expressionlessly at him as it leaned on a carved wooden staff.

  He ignored the other figure and as he did so it dissolved. The dream-shape of Merita had moved closer and he could see nothing else beyond her. But he could think, and he could compare.

  Holly. Holly had a fine figure, but she was not Merita. No one was, for a body like this was not of this Earth. It belonged on Olympus among the other gods. Merita was perfect, an ideal made flesh. As he stared fixedly at the vision she presented he felt both lust and fear, fear to touch such beauty lest it too dissolve and go the way of the old man.

  Sheets and blankets were eased aside. Cold night air shocked his exposed skin. Then a torch was pressed against him, burning. Arms slid around him like pythons to hold and grasp him tightly. Wet heat covered his mouth as she moved atop him. She took one of his hands and pressed it hard between her legs.

  After that he could think no more. All the rest of that night he remembered, and yet none of it.

  3

  Neither of them spoke when morning woke them together. There was no need to speak, not when expressions and sideways glances spoke more eloquently than could any mere words. From then on she came to him every night. Sometimes only to sleep, warm and soft against him. More often to make love in explosive yet silent passion. Auckland suddenly seemed as far from this war-torn country with its dense forests and smoking ground as Sydney or London.

  When they encountered Kingites there was fighting, usually brief and inconsequential. The Maoris would attack, do what damage they could, and then retreat before the army could inflict a fatal blow. The column crisscrossed the central highlands, skirting brilliant blue lakes and somber mountains until winter began to set in in earnest and heavy rains made roads impassable to wagons. The Maoris retreated to their secret pas as the militia returned to their homes, leaving the pursuit of the Kingites to the regular army. Coffin lingered as long as he dared, until the new problem which now dominated his life could no longer be put off.

  They stood together on the outskirts of the town of Taurangi, overlooking the vast freshwater sea known as Lake Taupo, and time refused to stand still for them.

  “I could come back to Auckland with you.” Merita took his hand in hers and leaned against him, staring out across the water. “I will not go back to my father.”

  Coffin gazed down at her. Save for hair the color of night and her coffee-colored skin she could have been the most beautiful debutante at any royal ball. Any of these past days could have brought death at the point of spear or musket, yet they were the most relaxed and contented he’d ever known. Now it was at an end. He could no longer put off returning to Auckland through the gray clouds and haze that lay to the north. Already he’d stayed too long, risking pointed questions from friends and fellow officers.

  “I could live in your house as your maid. I know the rich pakehas do such things. Your wife need not know.”

  He smiled fondly. “You don’t understand the effect you have on men. Women are aware of such things too, even pakeha women. My wife would see immediately. Every time you passed me: in the parlor, helping with dinner, making a bed, the truth would show in my eyes. I might as well walk about wearing a written confession.”

  “Then what will become of us?”

  “I’ve been thinking on that. I won’t ask you to go back to your father. I can no more give you up than I can give up breathing.” He stretched out one arm toward the lake.

  “You know where Tarawera is?” She nodded. “I have a large home there, on the shore of the lake. It’s not as big as the house in Auckland but it’s large enough. We don’t live there. We only visit sometimes when the weather is bad in the city. A big place like that needs constant attention. I’ve been hiring local people to look after it. I don’t need to any longer.” He turned her around to face him.

  “From now on it’ll be your house, Merita. Our house.”

  She clapped her hands together like a child. “A house of my own! What a wonderful idea!” She threw her arms around his shoulders and jumped on him, her legs wrapping around his hips. “Our house, Robert, yes, our house!”

  “Easy, easy.” He couldn’t keep himself from putting his arms around her in return while simultaneously glancing over a shoulder to make sure no one else was watching. “There’s a man there, a priest named Spencer. He’s a good friend. He’s married and has children. I don’t think you’ll overwhelm him quite as easily as you would some others. If you need any help, ask him. I’ll set up an account for you to draw upon for household expenses and you’ll be able to spend all the money you want without attracting attention. I’m afraid that to maintain the fiction you’ll actually have to do some housework.”

  “But I would do that in any case. I’m very good at it, you know.”

  “So I’ve noticed. You’ll be mistress of the house.”

  “Not only of the house,” she reminded him with a low growl.

  “No; not only of the house.” He pressed his lips to hers, feeling her whole being respond as passionately as it had that first time months earlier.

  It would work. There’d be no trouble. Far from Auckland and its gossip they would be safe. What more natural, after all, than that out of the goodness of his heart he should agree to take a young Maori maiden into his service in order to please her father, his old friend?

  He glanced skyward. “Maybe the weather will clear a little. I have to start back. You know that.”

  “I know, Robert.” She slid away from him. “I would not be the one to keep you from your life’s work.”

  He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. “I think th
at my life’s work is going to require many trips into the interior.”

  Her lips split in a wide grin, teeth bright against her dark skin. “I will live for such visits. In your company I will be forever young. Whenever you come you will find me ready and waiting for you. I will be there whenever you need me, Robert.” She looked down and patted her belly. “We both will.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded. “Soon I will get big and ugly.”

  He laughed. “Merita, ugliness flees from you like mullet from a shark. You couldn’t be ugly if you tried.” He hugged her again—gently this time. “Our child will grow up in our house.”

  “What shall I tell him of his father, when he is old enough to want to know?”

  Coffin frowned. “Nothing of his father. That cannot be, for the foreseeable future anyway. I will be his ‘uncle’ until such time as he can be told.”

  “I understand.”

  “I knew you would. I’ll be as much a father to him as I can, Merita. Or to her.”

  “It will be a boy. It was foretold.”

  “Foretold?” he said idly. “By whom? A relative?”

  “No. When I was very young, it was said, my firstborn would be a boy. I do not know who foretold it for my mother and father. A tohunga, I suppose.”

  “Yes. It would be a tohunga.”

  Of course it would, he mused. That was part of a tohunga’s job. Natural and to be expected. So why then was he suddenly so cold?

  “I’ll visit every chance I get,” he told her, suddenly anxious to be on his way. It was said spirits dwelt in Lake Taupo. “And if this damnable war ends soon I’ll come more often than that.”

  4

  But the war did not end soon. Though he visited as frequently as he could, Coffin’s brief stays could not fill all of Merita’s lonely hours, all of her empty nights.

  There was the baby to busy her, when he came. A boy, as she’d known it would be. And the house. It was bigger than any building she’d ever seen, though Mrs. Spencer told her stories of much larger structures, and showed her pictures in books. Not a cobweb, not a speck of dust escaped Merita’s lethal broom.

  It was spring again and still Alexander Rui and Wiremu Kingi hid from the vengeful pakeha army, striking when and where they pleased. She’d just finished cleaning the downstairs when she noticed the singular pakeha standing by the front gate. He was staring at the house, only partly concealed by the newly planted rose bushes.

  This young man should be in the fighting, she thought as she studied him. Certainly he looked strong and healthy enough. He appeared to be about her own age, though he might have been older. With pakehas it was hard to tell. There were lines in his face that hinted at knowledge beyond his years, but there were many such young men traveling in Aotearoa these days. War aged them quickly.

  She thought she heard a sound from upstairs, turned to listen, then looked back toward the fence. Andrew slept soundly, as usual. He was almost a year old now. None of the pakehas in Te Wairoa knew who his father was, of course. As for the Maoris, they did not press such questions, it being none of their business. How fortunate she was, without a father for the child, to have such a fine position in so important a household!

  She returned to her work and only later thought to look again at the fence. To her surprise the young man was still there. He hadn’t moved. She found herself admiring his lean muscularity, hastily shut down that line of thought lest it carry her in dangerous directions. It was only her loneliness. It had been quite a while since Robert’s last visit.

  If he stood there much longer, though, he was going to make her nervous. Deserters from both the Maori and pakeha armies wandered the countryside, committing the occasional theft or murder.

  What was this? Was she not Merita, daughter of the great Te Ohine? How could she be afraid of one lone pakeha? Straining, she could see he carried neither rifle or sword. True, the big house was isolated, alone atop its hill overlooking the lake, but she still thought she could make enough noise to be heard by the Maori fisherman whose family had a small house not far up the shore.

  In any event, she wasn’t going to spend the rest of the day with him standing there, mooning at her house.

  Putting aside her dustmop she went into the den and took Robert’s lightest hunting rifle from the gun cabinet. She loaded and checked it the way he’d shown her to, then headed for the front door. Halfway down the porch steps outside she stopped, holding the rifle firmly in both hands.

  “All right! You’ve seen the house. You’ve been looking long enough to memorize every board and nail. If you’ve a place to go I think you better go there.” She gestured down the road with the rifle’s muzzle.

  The young stranger looked back and smiled, tipping the large wide-brimmed hat he wore. The pack on his back didn’t look like the type normally carried by displaced persons. When he replied she noted his tone was educated without being formal.

  “Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to upset you. Do me a favor and put the gun aside? I’ve seen too many guns these past years. I assure you I intend no harm.” He looked up and past her. He certainly was fascinated with the house, she thought. “Can you tell me if this is the house of Robert Coffin?”

  “It might be,” she replied guardedly.

  Once more he lapsed into staring silence. She began to wonder if he might be sick in the head. Not all the injuries suffered in the war damaged only arms and legs. He walked toward the front gate, his attention still fixed on the house.

  His preoccupation with the building bothered her. She was more beautiful in her maturity than she’d been when Coffin had first met her, or so she’d been told. It was said there wasn’t a man in New Zealand who could pass her without turning to stare. Yet this young man was ignoring her. Initial fears gave way to piqued vanity.

  As if suddenly realizing he was being impolite, the stranger looked back at her. One hand rested on the gate, toying idly with the latch. He stood there framed in the wooden archway, flanked by pink and yellow roses.

  “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “What makes you think you upset me?”

  Instead of answering, he rambled on. “I’ve been on the road for some time. As you can see, I’ve no horse, though my purse is full. I was traveling to the west and thought to pass by Tarawera.” He nodded at the house. “Architecture interests me and I’d heard about this place. It equals its reputation.” He sighed and took his hand off the latch. “I guess I’ve lingered too long.”

  He seemed to debate with himself, then looked back up at her. “Could I trouble you for a bit of food and water? I’ve had nothing to eat for a day.”

  Again she gestured with the rifle. “There’s a mission in Te Wairoa. The Reverend Spencer will feed you.”

  The young man looked in the direction she was pointing. “How far?”

  A ways, she almost said. How fatigued was he? If he hadn’t eaten in that long—what if he collapsed before reaching the mission? She tried to see behind deep blue eyes.

  “Never mind. I can give you something to drink, at least. Come in. But I warn you, the Reverend is due here any minute now, and if you’ve anything more than food or drink in mind.…”

  He laughed as he opened the gate and stepped onto the gravel path, which led through her meticulously kept garden. “I’m not one to abuse another’s hospitality. Besides, you have a gun.”

  “Just remember that.” She retreated to the porch. He was a shade under six feet tall, she noted, and those eyes were so blue they were almost purple.

  “What might your name be, miss?”

  “Merita. I’m the caretaker here for Mr. Coffin when he’s living in Auckland. He’s a very important man.”

  Her visitor nodded. “Everyone’s heard of Coffin House.”

  He was closer than she intended him to get, she suddenly realized, just as it struck her she’d been doing some staring of her own. The broad hat had shaded much of his face, masking his true h
andsomeness. Up-close there was a fierceness about him not evident from a distance, but she wasn’t afraid. His smile was genuine. She moved toward the open door, lowering the rifle but not putting it aside.

  “I think we can find you some cold mutton, and bread. There may be some sausage as well.”

  “I’d appreciate that more than I can say, miss. I’ll pay, of course.”

  “Nonsense! Reverend Spencer would never forgive me.”

  “As you will. I’d wager you’re as good at cooking as you are at defending your master’s property.”

  She winced slightly at the word. “Master” was a pakeha term she’d barely learned to tolerate in the presence of Coffin’s guests. Leaving the front door ajar she watched him as he studied the crystal chandelier, the broad stairway that led to the second floor, the woodwork and the paintings on the walls.

  “A fine house,” he was murmuring to himself. “Befits a man like Robert Coffin.”

  She brushed past him. “The kitchen’s back this way.” She deliberately passed close enough so that he could have made a grab for the rifle, but he made no move of any kind. The lingering tenseness went out of her. “What’s your name, traveler?”

  He smiled again; an open, disarming smile. “Kinnegad. Flynn Kinnegad.”

  Such an intense young man, she thought as she watched him. Too intense, too direct for a thief. As intense as his interest in architecture, for as they made their way back to the kitchen he noted every bit of ornamentation, every piece of furniture and scrollwork. Surely he would relax in the kitchen, but to her surprise he seemed as interested in the common furnishings and utensils as he’d been in the expensive vases and watercolors.

  “Over there.” She pointed to the small wooden table where the servants ate. Taking a seat, he doffed his pack and set it down carefully.

  Eventually he’d inspected everything in the kitchen. Only then did his attention return to her. And about time, too, she mused crossly.