‘The family agreed what gifts they would prepare for the party. My mother, hoping the party would spare her house, carried all our best possessions outside. Our cooking pot, my father’s gun and his axe. His woollen trousers, washed and folded, his pipe and all his supply of tobacco. But what liquor there was she poured in anger into the stream. My grandfather brought two sacks of potatoes and my uncles sent a sack of smoked eels and one of dried fish. My grandmother worked all night to finish a beautiful cloak that she had been making for me. It had dark and light patterns and feathers in the old style. It was beautiful. I had helped her make it and cried to see it laid out for that other girl to wear. Two young pigs were also tethered by their legs just outside the door to our house. My grandmother looked at the big heap of goods laid out there and nodded and said yes, this was a good price, but her eyes still looked sadly towards me.
‘Then our hut was left empty of all its homely things, even the blankets and mats we slept on. Even the table my father had made was carried outside. My mother, my brother and I went to our grandmother’s hut to wait for the muru party. They came silently as night fell and I was very frightened. There were many men standing just beyond our kainga. Some were dressed in the old way and some carried guns. Also they had brought horses and baskets. My grandfather stood in his doorway and nodded in satisfaction to see so many. He saw it as a compliment to his family’s importance that a big party was sent. My grandmother called a welcome to them, and many of our women joined in. But the voices sounded strained and anxious to me, not the usual strong and ringing karanga that shows the pride of a family.
‘The men came forward suddenly. They came with shouts and many threatening thrusts of guns into the air and kicking up the sand with their feet, but they did not shoot or fight. At our hut they stopped and walked around the pile of goods. The pigs squealed in fear, tugging on their ropes. The tether of one pig pulled out of the sand and my brother laughed out loud to see one Rangitane warrior chasing the little fellow in and out of the piled goods. My grandfather slapped my brother hard and told him to turituri. Usually he would not do such a thing, but even he must have felt fear.
‘The leader of the muru party was the brother of the dead man. A harsh and a cruel man. He is a relative by marriage of the chief Te Peeti, who is your friend, tihopa,’ Anahuia looks with hard eyes at the bishop, ‘and not such an honourable man, although he now has been baptised into the Christian church. He walked all around the pile of all our possessions and the gifts of food from the family. Then he shouted an order and at once two of his men came to my grandfather’s own cooking fire. They thrust bundles of dry tussock-grass into the embers and when these torches were flaming they tossed the fire into our house. My grandfather and grandmother and all our uncles and aunties watched without a word as our hut burned to the ground. Even my mother stayed silent.
‘At last the leader — I do not like to use his name — came forward and stood before my grandfather. He asked where were Johnny Jacks’ children. At this my mother cried out but someone held her back. My grandfather pushed my brother and me in the back, but we were frightened and would not move. “Go! Stand high!” said my grandfather sternly. We had been brought up to obey him always, so I took my brother by the hand and we both stepped one pace forward, while all the Rangitane looked at us. My legs were trembling but my brother, who was seven, held his head up and frowned like a man. When the leader reached out to take us, my grandfather spoke. “Not the boy,” he said. His voice was powerful and ringing. “Not the boy,” he repeated.
‘My brother, you see, is brown-skinned and dark-eyed, like the rest of the family, and strong-spirited. My grandfather, who is dead now, was very fond of him. He did not value me so highly.
‘For a long moment the two men, one grey-headed, the other black, looked into each other’s eyes. Then the Rangitane nodded once. He took me roughly by the shoulder and made a sign to the others in the muru party that they should gather the goods. I was very frightened and tried to pull away but they held me tightly. My mother cried out but she did not come for me. Only my grandmother came forward and spoke softly. “We will remember you, little Anahuia, but you must go with them. This Rangitane is a hard man to take you. But you must stay with him and be like a Rangitane now, even though you are Te Ati Awa. Just think that you are going by your own brave act to save others in your family. Never let them call you a slave. Think that you have chosen to go. This is a true thought.”’
Anahuia sighs. ‘I have tried to keep that thought in my head. It has been explained to me that if I leave this Rangitane man’s kainga they will take my brother or my mother in my place.’
The bishop frowns. ‘Surely not. This colony is now under English rule. Slavery is not permitted.’
Anahuia rises slowly to her feet. ‘I am no slave. I stay by choice. These days my life is fortunate. Te Peeti has asked my … the man … to lend my services to you because I speak your tongue. So that I can translate your ideas for Te Peeti and can carry his wishes to you.’ She speaks without looking at Monrad. ‘There was some thought when you first arrived that you might wish to add a Maori wife to your present one, and that an alliance would bring benefits to both important families.’
Anahuia turns at Emilie’s abrupt movement and speaks to the wife. ‘I have explained that one wife only is your custom. But forgive me, please … I have not spoken to Te Peeti or the other man about who the father of my child is. It is to my advantage, perhaps, if they think he will be a Monrad.’
Monrad rises and speaks firmly. ‘Thank you, Anahuia. You may leave now.’
She remains unmoving.
‘Thank you,’ he says again, ‘for your sad story. But this talk is not proper in front of children.’
Still she stands in front of them all, her fierce eyes fixed on his face. The bishop looks towards his wife. Even he is uncomfortable under her stare. Conrad is about to make some remark — anything to break the silence — when Anahuia, without any change in expression or movement, other than to take a long slow breath, starts to sing. There is little tune to it — a slight rise, an abrupt fall and then a continuation, the words, in Maori, rolling on, inexorable as the sea. As the chant grows stronger Anahuia’s hands at her sides flutter a little and then vibrate steadily, faltering only when she pauses for breath.
Monrad leans forward, listening intently. He has studied the language and can catch some of the meaning.
Conrad also listens closely, but with a different intent. Gently, not wanting to break her concentration, he draws a tiny pipe from his pocket. It is made from a hollow cow-bone, holes drilled in a line down the length of it and etched all over, as sailors do, with scrimshaw patterns. He puts the little whistle to his mouth and begins to accompany her, blowing softly. The notes come out high and sweet above the lovely depth and warmth of her voice. Anahuia’s eyes widen at the sound, and though she does not pause there is a new lightness to her singing — almost a smile. Sometimes she sings alone, sometimes she waits for the piping decoration to finish before she continues. Then, mid-phrase, she stops. Conrad waits. She looks to the ceiling, down at the floor, then shrugs.
‘Aue,’ she says. ‘It’s gone. That is my mother’s and my grandmother’s song. A Te Ati Awa chant. But I never learnt it all.’
In the silence Conrad pipes a cheeky little snatch, more like chattering birds than song, and they all laugh. Anahuia, laughing too, goes to stand by him and from this safe position turns to face the bishop.
‘Will you speak to Te Peeti on my behalf?’ she says. ‘I would like to leave.’
‘We will see. Thank you for your story. Goodnight, goodnight. God go with you.’
Anahuia leaves then, acknowledging each of the company in turn with a slight nod before she goes. Conrad smiles to see her dignity. He is proud of this woman. He and Napoleon take their leave too, and follow her.
‘I don’t think the bishop will speak for her, do you?’ whispers Napoleon.
Conrad frowns but s
ays nothing. Outside he takes his leave of Napoleon, who will sleep tonight in the hut beside the bishop’s house, and follows Anahuia into the moonless dark.
She takes his arm and they walk in silence. Conrad feels her shake from time to time and wonders if she is crying.
‘No,’ she says, ‘you cheeky man. I am laughing.’
‘Cheeky?’
‘Interrupting my solemn song with your squeaks.’
Conrad pretends outrage. ‘Squeaks? I have seen you dance lively enough to my pipe before. What was so solemn then in your song?’
‘It was my mother’s ancestors — who they were and where they come from.’
‘Well then, I added comments from your father’s Danish blood. Eh? Was that not proper?’ Conrad grins in the dark. ‘Ancestors are not always so solemn, are they? We should laugh sometimes.’
Anahuia hugs him closely as they walk. ‘My dear one, you are better at laughing than me. Yes, we should laugh sometimes. When we do not cry.’
Later, in Conrad’s little hut by the river, Conrad dons his scarlet military coat and tells Anahuia a story. The coat is a secret he shares only with Anahuia. Every time he wears it a different story about its history is told. Sometimes he is the son of a Danish prince; sometimes the heroic captain of a warship; tonight he is a famous explorer sent by his king to discover new lands. His ship sinks, cracked by ice and all his men lost. Conrad floats on an iceberg, then clings to the back of a polar bear until he reaches Greenland. Finally, after more adventures he reaches home and is rewarded with the highest honour in the land — a magnificent silver star set with diamonds and sapphires, which the king himself pins to the red coat.
Anahuia sighs. ‘Your stories have happier endings than mine.’
‘Ah, well, sweetheart,’ says Conrad, stroking her fine breasts, ‘only because I make them so. No harm in dreams, eh?’
After they have made love, gently for fear of the baby, Anahuia cries. She sobs loudly and heavily while Conrad holds her close on their bed of sweet manuka branches. He has never seen her break before; she is the self-possessed and proud one while he has often floundered in this new land. He can’t think what to say. Conrad is better at arguments or theories — or with music. He sings to her now, from the beginning of the first Sigurd ballad, but sings it softly, as if it were a lullaby, not a saga of great feats and doom.
Anahuia sobs harder. ‘You will go,’ she cries, ‘back to your home.’
‘I will stay.’
‘You will not stay and I cannot go.’
Conrad holds her until the sobs die away, then he says, ‘I have a plan.’
She listens.
‘If you were to die, would the Rangitane send another muru party to take your brother or mother?’
Anahuia thinks about this. ‘I am not sure. If I took my own life, Rangitane might demand another in my place. If it were an accident or illness, perhaps even my own hapu might demand some token for my loss. Perhaps not. I do not understand all the ways, and also these days Pakeha make other rules that might or might not be obeyed.’ She sighs. ‘Since I have lived with Rangitane I have not had my own mother to teach me the ways. I am neither Rangitane nor Te Ati Awa now.’
‘What about Rasmussen?’
‘What about this famous plan?’
‘If the bishop does not speak, or if he speaks and your people will not release you, this is my plan. We wait until the next big rains and when the river is high we will report that you have accidentally drowned. I will carry the story of the tragedy to the Monrad family and to Te Peeti. We could let some pieces of your clothing be found in the river. I will pretend to be very upset and after searching in vain for your body for many days, I will go away in despair.’
‘And where will I be all this time?’
‘Sweetheart, the plan is not finished yet. This idea has just now arrived in my head. Trust me, we can work this out. You swim like a fish.’
‘And you do not.’
‘Exactly! I will not be able to save you and will blame myself bitterly for your sad death.’
Anahuia is silent for a while. Conrad is drifting into sleep when she murmurs, ‘Let us hope the rain comes before the baby.’
Conrad grunts. That could be a complication, certainly. But he is happy enough with this kernel of a plan. Where they would go after the faked death, and how Napoleon might fit in, are matters for thought another day.
5.
TOWARDS THE END of May a heavy storm drives up from the south, bringing hail and high winds. The bare fields at Karere become waterlogged and sour. Pools lie between the black stumps of felled trees. At the boundary between cleared land and bush, tall trees — kahikatea and rimu and totara — unaccustomed to bearing the brunt of the wind alone, keel over one by one. Their great root systems, wrenched from the mud, thrust upward unnaturally — giant half-moons of matted root, soil and seedlings, twice as tall as a man. The Manawatu River rises rapidly and where it rushes past the boundary of the cleared block at Karere it begins to eat into its own exposed banks. Muddy water tears into the unstable tangle of roots and saplings and newly cleared land. At each bend the roaring river enlarges its banks, claiming freshly sown fields to the east and west.
Standing trees are undercut. Anahuia, watching the devastation from a patch of higher ground, sees an ancient totara that has often given her shelter topple slowly, slowly, with helpless dignity, into the torrent, to roll and thrash its way seawards as if it were no more than a branch. She thinks then about Conrad’s plan and knows it to be hopeless. These last few days he has been so happy, so excited with his scheming — storing food, putting together a roll of blankets and a few cooking implements for her — that she has found it impossible to voice her doubts. But she knows the baby’s birth is too close. The weight drags at her terribly. She would find it difficult to travel or to hide. And who would deliver the baby? There are rumours that Maori not far from here have become followers of Pai Marire; if she and Con travel alone outside their tribal boundaries he might be attacked. She herself might be taken for a Pakeha and killed. Anahuia, accustomed to being self-sufficient, does not like to admit to this feeling of helplessness. The coming baby, she feels, is undermining her courage and her independence. She has weakly smiled at Conrad’s chattering, as if he were the child, and put off any serious thought of action.
But now the river is swollen. If the pretence of drowning is to take place, this is the moment. Anahuia suspects that Conrad himself is more on edge than he admits. Napoleon is the difficulty; he doesn’t fit neatly into Conrad’s plan. When Anahuia raised the question Conrad avoided her eyes and changed the subject. She knows he cannot give up the unlikely hope of somehow persuading his friend to stay in New Zealand. Certainly he has not spoken to Napoleon about the drowning scheme. Anahuia recognises the anxiety but does not share it; she wishes Napoleon would go, quickly, back to his own land and leave her Conrad in peace.
Three days ago, head against the flank of the Monrad house cow, bucket between her legs and the wall of the shed to hide her, Anahuia heard the two friends arguing. The strong words easily drowned the steady swash of the milk against the scoured metal. Monrad, perhaps unwisely, given that winter would soon be here and fodder scant, wanted two men to ride to Foxton to pick up a small herd of cattle that Viggo had bought there on his father’s behalf. Napoleon, now reasonably adept on a horse, had volunteered and wanted Conrad to go with him.
‘Just the two of us!’ he said, his voice full of excitement. ‘It’ll be an adventure, Enok. A night at Foxton with a bit of singing and dancing and a drink or two. Like old times.’
Conrad had mumbled something low and uneasy.
‘But I asked the bishop if you could come. He said yes. He will release you from that old chore.’
Napoleon’s words were clear and high. Anahuia let her hands rest for a moment as she listened for Conrad’s reply.
‘It doesn’t suit me, Nap. Sorry.’
Anahuia knew then that Conrad was
ready to put his plan into action. She thought of the rain that had fallen all last night. Otherwise he would surely enjoy such an expedition.
Napoleon wouldn’t leave the matter. ‘But why? Is Ana not well?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Have I annoyed you, friend? Hey, sorry for whatever, but let’s go anyway!’
‘The answer is no, Haraldsen. This man is not coming.’
Napoleon gasped at the formality of the words. The anger underlying them. ‘What is eating you, Enok? You’re worse than a wounded seal. Come on, spit it out. You’re in a mood over something, I know you.’
‘Leave me be!’ shouted Conrad. Anahuia felt the smack of his fist on the side of the shed. The startled cow kicked her tethered leg violently and over went the stool — and Anahuia with it. When she had heaved herself upright again Conrad was still shouting.
‘… expect me to follow you everywhere like a dog! Always whining and pleading! Go back home in the name of God and leave me in peace!’
Another blow to the side of the shed — this time a kick, by the sound of it — and then no sound except for the crunch of boots on gravel. When Anahuia dared to look outside, Napoleon was still standing there, watching his friend go, his expression puzzled, shoulders drooping, a lifeless look to him as if he were some toy abandoned on the path. Anahuia went quietly back to her milking. She smiled into the flank of the cow. Later she would remember with pain the sharp pleasure she had felt.
BUT now she stands near the river waiting for Conrad. He comes from the direction of his hut, whistling. Across the river to the east the sky is dark and rain hangs like a curtain above the bush, but over the Monrad block the sun has broken through for a while. The damp earth steams and in the eerie brightness a rainbow forms over the river.
‘A sign!’ shouts Conrad, beaming just as brightly. ‘God is blessing our plan!’ His arms are full of parcels: a neat bedroll, a kete of food and a bundle of woman’s clothing. Anahuia recognises her own best dress, given to her by Louise Monrad.
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