Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  All day they pole upriver in their private world, hemmed between high walls of flax plants and rushes. Ducks clatter into the air as they approach but the brilliant red-legged pukekos ignore them, stalking on through the shallows, intent on their prey. The sun warms their backs, the flax shelters them from the breeze, and soon the two are sweating. Gradually they leave the great swamp behind. Now there are patches of cleared land; willows, planted by farmers, lean over the river. They skirt numerous mud-banks and low-lying islands of this broad and meandering Manawatu River.

  ‘Manawatu,’ says Conrad aloud, remembering the meaning. His own heart, though, does not stand still: it pounds, rather, and not only with the effort of poling. He has no plan. Has not the language to negotiate with Anahuia’s hapu. It is growing dark.

  When the lad points to a small collection of huts on the bank and indicates that this is the end of his journey, Conrad is glad enough. He turns down offers of a meal and shelter, and walks on alone up the riverbank, gnawing on a cold potato as he goes. He begins to recognise landmarks in the dusk. Where a wild peach tree stands on a raised bank he stops. The peaches are small and sour but he eats them anyway, looking down at the quiet water. This would be close to the place where Napoleon charged into the river and drowned. Conrad gathers ponga fronds and pig-fern for a bed. He pulls his heavy coat around him and sits there in the dark. After a while he takes the carved flute from his pocket and begins to play: a high sad lament of his own making. The notes echo across the black water. Then far away, from the other bank, a morepork calls. Conrad stops to listen. Blowing softly into his flute he tries to imitate the two tones and to elaborate on them. The owl answers, its two notes steady, perhaps disapproving of the decoration. Conrad smiles in the dark, his heart eased. He sleeps.

  IN the morning, dirty and unshaven, he walks into the kainga where Anahuia had lived. It looks smaller, the low huts dilapidated, the flattened mud of the yard sprouting weeds. A fire surrounded by stones smokes in front of a hut, a blanketed young woman tending it; a bone-thin dog barks. He stands at the edge of the clearing and calls her name.

  ‘Anahuia!’

  He is both excited and apprehensive. The young woman looks up for a moment, then turns her attention back to the pot over the fire. Something feels wrong.

  ‘Anahuia!’

  A big man crawls out of a hut on the other side of the yard. He stands, shading his eyes against the morning sun and then, grinning, shouts a welcome.

  ‘Te Ma! Haere mai! Tena koe!’

  Conrad grins back, relieved. This is Rua, the easy-going man who organised the eel drive, who first named him Te Ma — the white one — and who admired Te Ma’s abilities in singing and carving. Rua says something to the girl, who comes to offer Conrad a tin mug of hot, sweet tea. Both men squat to drink their tea in the sun. Rua sings a phrase of a song Conrad had taught the hapu. He puts his own actions to it, then laughs uproariously, slapping Conrad’s shoulder and shaking his head. Conrad would like to join in but is too anxious. Where are all the others? Matene and his family? Perhaps Anahuia is up at the big house? When it is clear that Conrad has forgotten most of his native language, Rua switches to halting English.

  ‘Anahuia? But she long ago went. Not here.’

  ‘She was free to go?’ Conrad tries to keep his voice and face neutral, not wanting to offend, but the news is exciting. Anahuia free! ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘I te kainga. Her home.’ Rua holds up his hand to halt further questions and indicates the door of the hut. ‘Hou mai. Come, come. Pakura knows answers.’ Rua waits while Conrad removes his boots. ‘Pakura very sick. This girl and me must wait here. When she die we go to the whanau. We all have gone downriver. Better place. Hou mai, hou mai!’

  Inside it is dark and strangely warm. The old woman lies on the floor wrapped in blankets, at her feet a small heap of stones — the source of the warmth. The girl removes two cooling stones and takes them to the fire outside, then, using an old shovel, brings two hot ones to replace them. The old woman murmurs something. Her eyes are closed. Rua motions Conrad to sit to one side of her, then seats himself at her head and leans low to speak in her ear.

  Conrad tries to follow the conversation but is lost immediately. The old woman’s voice croaks; often the words trail away into silence. He hears the word Anahuia and his own name — Te Ma — but can make out little else. At one time Rua frowns, looking quickly over to him and then away again. He asks another question and breathes in sharply. Conrad shifts uncomfortably. Something is wrong. The air in the hut is thick; a smell of decay comes off the old woman. She opens her eyes and slowly turns her head to look at Conrad. The black eyes are fierce and desperate, but recognition is there, too. Conrad feels her strength like a strong presence in the hut, as if she is holding tightly to life and will not let go. She speaks again and this time Rua answers strongly. Conrad feels that he is reproving her. He waits. Finally, after a long silence during which the old woman seems to have fallen asleep, Rua tries to explain.

  ‘The news is bad,’ he says, ‘but she knows all this kind of thing. That woman Anahuia is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’

  ‘All her whanau, whole kainga dead. Pakeha sickness dead them all.’

  ‘Her children?’

  Rua speaks to the old woman. ‘Nga mahanga?’

  ‘Kua mate,’ whispers Pakura. ‘Kua mate e rua.’

  ‘Both dead.’

  Conrad sits in silence. It has never entered his head that he would come all this way and find her gone.

  ‘Is she quite sure?’ he asks finally.

  ‘She say Anahuia a bad girl because she don’t come back …’

  The old woman interrupts, her voice stronger. Rua smiles and pats her blankets. He jerks his head towards the doorway and Conrad follows him outside.

  The sunlight is bright after the dim and smoky hut. Rua hawks up phlegm and spits. Conrad walks away and then back. He can’t keep still, wants to run or shout or hit something.

  Rua giggles and looks down at his feet. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘my words not good.’

  ‘What did she just say then?’

  ‘That kuia says we speak too loud. Want to sleep.’

  ‘Was she angry with Anahuia?’

  ‘Ae. Say Anahuia should stay, look after old Pakura. Not go away. Say Anahuia sickness is utu — punishment. Curse. That kind of words. No one left to cook her food and warm her.’

  ‘Rua,’ Conrad places a hand on the man’s shoulder, and again the big man giggles in embarrassment, ‘Rua, are her words true?’

  ‘True, yes. Of course. Those Ati Awa got sickness bad. Many kainga all dead. Pakura knows all that things.’

  Conrad groans. It is too hard to speak further. With a nod that he hopes conveys thanks, he walks away from the little settlement, into the bush beside the river then up towards the Monrad farm. Now the peaceful scene is hateful to him: the flat fields scarred with ugly stumps, the muddy and slow-moving river, the still air which seems to be waiting for some further terrible news. He breaks into a run, leaping logs and scattering sheep, but the feeling of doom, of being cursed himself, keeps pace with him.

  Close to the big house a single man is hoeing weeds in a field of potatoes: not someone he remembers. Conrad tries Danish and is absurdly pleased to hear his greeting answered. He learns that none of the Monrad family is at home. Herr Viggo Monrad is in Palmerston North pursuing business there. His wife and a child are unwell. Fru Monrad has taken the children to Foxton to consult the doctor. He is unsure when they might return.

  Claus produces bread and cheese. Together they sit on a log, eating and exchanging news. Conrad finds himself telling this stranger the story of Anahuia and his long voyage back to find her. Claus has never heard of the woman, never heard her mentioned.

  ‘She was so strong and full of life,’ says Conrad, still unable to believe it. ‘How can she suddenly be dead?’

  Claus is of the opinion that the native Maori are very prone to disease and
for that reason he will never marry one. ‘Even though good Danish women are hard to find, I would rather wait.’

  Conrad, lost in his own world, doesn’t hear. ‘I thought I could feel her waiting. You know? I could feel her. But now they say she was dead, maybe all the time I was sailing here.’

  ‘Take my advice and marry your own kind. Don’t rush is the best thing, friend.’

  ‘I never saw my two sons. Never even knew their names.’

  ‘You are young. Others will come. Good Danish sons.’

  Conrad stands, weary of this stolid fellow.

  ‘Please give my greeting to Herr Monrad and his wife when they return.’

  Claus stands too and stretches. ‘I will. You won’t stay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What now, friend? There is work here, if you want it.’

  Conrad looks around sadly. ‘I am not a farmer. First I will visit her kainga by the sea. Maybe there is a grave. Then who knows?’

  ‘Are you interested in mining? They say there is still gold in the south.’

  Conrad makes a sound that is part laugh, part sob. ‘Mining! There was coal on my own land on my own island half a world away but I left it for this new adventure. I am a simple fool.’

  But an hour later, swinging down the long track south, through farmland and bush, heading into a rising wind, Conrad Rasmussen, Faroeman, feels his heart lift again at the thought of new sights still unseen and of oceans yet to be sailed.

  7.

  Change

  WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND

  SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  1870–82

  1.

  ANAHUIA’S FIRST MONTHS in Wellington were not as rosy as she might suggest in the later telling. The experience unsettled her more than she would admit.

  ‘You won’t find it easy,’ warned a farmer who had given her a ride in his cart, on the last few miles into the town. Anahuia sat beside him on the seat, her babies wedged between bales of flax and sacks of potatoes behind her. The farmer, a Ngati Toa from Porirua, regularly brought food to sell from his tribal acres, but had no time for the rapidly growing capital.

  ‘Rules for this, rules for that, and militia-men to put you in jail for no reason at all,’ he grumbled. ‘You should have stayed in the country with your own tribe.’ He looked critically at her light eyes and light skin. ‘If you know it,’ he added.

  ‘I am Te Ati Awa from the Pukeroa hapu,’ said Anahuia with as much dignity as she could muster, given the jolting cart and crowded seat.

  It seemed this was worse than not knowing. The old fellow spat into the dust at the side of the road — a road broader and smoother than any Anahuia had seen.

  ‘Oh, well then, you’ll be set and sitting pretty,’ he said, a nasty glint in his eye. ‘Your lot are in with the government and have plenty of land, not to mention fine houses and all the trimmings. You’d do best to go to them — old Te Puni and all his family. Sold our land as well as his own, the son of a dog. And Ngati Raukawa’s. And Ngati Mutunga’s. He’s the one got us into all this mess. It’s no use him apologising now and saying he was tempted by the muskets and blankets. What about us? He sold the land right under the pa belonging to my relatives down here. Came down from Taranaki not so long ago and then hopped into bed with the Pakeha the minute they arrived. You’ll get on fine with that lot with your Pakeha looks. They’ll find you a husband to look after you.’ He spat again.

  Anahuia remained silent, unsettled by his vehemence. Her brother’s fierce beliefs and now this tirade. She decided to keep the babies well hidden for the time being.

  As they came down over the hills and reached the beautiful harbour, ringed with hills, the farmer pulled on his reins sharply and pointed up the valley. ‘Pito One — that’s your way. Te Ati Awa land. I’m headed for the wharves. Go on, off you hop.’

  He gave her no choice. Anahuia climbed down and stood at the edge of the road as he clucked his horse into motion again, headed south towards a large collection of buildings rising up from the water’s edge. Slowly she slung the babies across her shoulder and took up her bundle. Pito One looked a good distance away around the shore, and anyway Anahuia was more interested in being near the wharves, where Conrad might arrive one day in the future.

  On the broad road that skirted the shore a carriage approached then rumbled past, the finely dressed men seated high and frowning ahead, the women inside looking out at her as if she were some interesting curiosity. A heavily loaded dray pulled by two enormous horses passed the other way but the driver gave no sign of noticing her, let alone offering a lift. Anahuia sighed and set out north in the direction the farmer had indicated. She would need shelter and help if she were to survive in this busy world. And it sounded as if this branch of Te Ati Awa did not share her brother’s abhorrence of all things Pakeha. Surely her babies would be safe.

  Five minutes along the road a woman’s voice called from above.

  ‘Eh, girl, come in and rest. I saw that good-for-nothing Ngati Toa excuse for a trader dump you in the road — may his bones be picked bare by birds! Come on, come on in, you poor soul, loaded down like that. Come on up and rest.’

  A large woman, dark-skinned, her black hair wild around her head and a tattered dress hanging limp over a pregnant belly, stood in a garden a short distance above the road. The land there formed a broad shelf, and behind the rows of vegetables Anahuia could see three huts set close together. The roofs were rusted iron, though the walls were built of traditional ponga logs. Over a brush fence three small children watched her, their black eyes interested. Dogs barked.

  The woman leaned on a hoe and gestured vigorously with the other arm. ‘Don’t mind those stupid dogs. They would bark on their way to heaven. There’s no shelter between here and a good distance north. You will be caught out if you go on. Hoani! Carry the woman’s kete for her! Himona! Open the gate!’

  And so she continued, introducing herself and her five children as she guided Anahuia up the slope through the neat rows of cabbage and beans and potatoes to a bench in front of the largest of the three huts.

  Erenora, for this was her name, was philosophical about the babies’ colouring. ‘Oh well, we have seen plenty of this, my dear, haven’t we? Never mind. They are good healthy boys, which is a blessing these days and rare enough. I have lost three. Are they baptised?’ When she heard they were not she advised against Bishop Hadfield and his Church of England (even though he spoke good Maori) in favour of the Methodists, whose mission ran a very generous kitchen. But Erenora’s loudest exclamations came when she heard Anahuia’s lineage. ‘The Pukeroa hapu! But my husband is related by marriage to them! Your good mother Paora’s second brother — or was it the youngest? — married one of Tipene’s cousins! Wait till Tipene hears this! You’re Te Ati Awa from further up the coast then? Exactly! The very same! Sit here and rest, my dear, while I call Tipene.’

  A month later Anahuia was still living with the family. She was happy enough to rest, to work in the garden, enjoy the games of the children and Erenora’s cheerful chatter. Her twins, following Erenora’s advice, were duly baptised at the Methodist Mission in Wellington and received clothes and a Bible and a fine Sunday lunch of meat stew and potatoes. The good ladies of the mission welcomed her and promised to keep an eye out for any Conrad or Enok Rasmussen who might come to the port. Anahuia loved that visit to the town — the crowds in their fine clothes promenading on the Sunday afternoon, the bristle of ships’ masts in the harbour, the amazing size of some of the buildings — they could surely house hundreds! One week she offered to help Tipene take his vegetables to the market and proved herself useful, negotiating a good price. Anahuia had a quick ear for language, it seemed, and could soon converse in English more comfortably than the slower Tipene.

  Erenora’s husband was a large man and older than her by several years. He was good-natured enough, though often silent from morning until night, sitting on the bench outside the doorway, smoking his pipe and watching the traffic pass
on the road below. Sometimes he saddled the horse and headed north to the Hutt Valley where he had relatives, and would be away for a few days. Erenora, Anahuia and the children worked in the garden. Anahuia’s skill with needle and thread delighted Erenora.

  ‘Aue! You have fingers like the wind. These rough paws of mine would make a rats’ nest of it in three blinks of an eye.’ And she would find another child’s shirt in need of repair.

  Both women commented on the ridiculous fashion worn by English women. Anahuia could not believe they would waste so much material, bunching and fluffing the stuff behind, yet hobbling their poor legs in front so they could barely walk.

  ‘What do they hide under those big bottoms?’ laughed Erenora. ‘I would like to unwind a fine lady and see!’

  But Anahuia was fascinated. On her visits to town she watched closely the way clothes were cut. She loved the look of the fine, smooth materials in glowing colours, the way one colour was matched to another so that a dress was striped and banded and tucked in patterns as complicated as the markings on Erenora’s ginger tabby. Back home she would try to imitate the fine embroidery and tucks, altering her one dress over and over until she was satisfied. Learning new skills and a new language, her days passed easily enough.

  In time, Anahuia began to feel Conrad might be expected. He had been gone more than a year. Enoki and Hoani, the twins, were now walking, staggering their way into mischief, bigger already than Erenora’s two-year-old. Anahuia took every opportunity to visit the wharves and make inquiries. She was well known there by now, often earning a shout of greeting — or a rougher invitation — from a sailor or trader working there.