Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  That certainly catches Danny’s attention. He looks down at the little parcel and then slowly up at his wife. He smiles. ‘Doesn’t look much like cattle flesh to me, sweetheart.’ But he is wary, guessing perhaps.

  ‘Open it, open it! It’s a present. Open it!’ Stella’s bare feet dance on the wooden floor.

  Danny picks up the parcel, feels the weight and the jink of it and sighs. ‘Stella, I don’t need any more of your money …’

  ‘No, love, no, this is extra, not my regular pay. The foreign visitors sometimes leave a coin or two in the cabin. It’s for me, if they like me … what I do …’ Her voice is failing under her husband’s stern gaze but she struggles on. ‘I have saved it all this year. One gentleman left half a guinea! I kept it for a surprise.’

  But she has misjudged the strength of his own need. Danny pushes the packet towards her without opening it. ‘This is your money.’

  ‘But listen! I want the farm to do well, just like you do. We need the cattle. I want the heifer too.’

  ‘And I will provide it.’ Danny growls the words, tossing his thatch of unruly hair. His face is flushed but he will not look up at her. His fingers trace the knots in the rough wood of the table-top. ‘You provide food for the table. That is bad enough. I will see to the farm.’

  Stella opens the parcel herself, spread the coins proudly. ‘But see! There is enough here …’ She jumps as Danny’s fist pounds the table.

  ‘Put that away, Stell. I don’t wish to see it. I don’t wish to hear how you earned it. The logs will pay for the cattle. And for a proper coal oven for you. I will see to it!’

  ‘Ah, Danny!’ Stella is angry at his stubbornness and his rough denial of her gift, but knows his pride will not let him change his mind. She gathers the coins. For once she can think of no cheerful reply.

  Pita chuckles. ‘If he don’t want it I can find a use, sister.’

  Stella turns away from them both. Bangs the kettle of stew on the table and ladles it out. Perhaps food will settle them all. It is unlike Danny to be so terse.

  Over the meal the men discuss the river. ‘It’s high enough now,’ says Pita. ‘We should go tomorrow. Another cloudburst and the river will turn sluggish. Or a torrent. Neither will suit.’

  Danny nods, then looks across the table quickly at Stella, knowing her opposition. ‘Tomorrow, then,’ he says. He lays his hand on hers. ‘It must be done, Stell. The logs are ready, lashed and waiting. Pita has arranged for his cousin Hone to come up and feed the animals while we’re gone. Now is right.’ His quick smile is a kind of apology. ‘We need this, love. And your grandfather may give the logs to someone else in the hapu if we do not move soon.’

  Pita, steadier now that he has food in his belly but still overloud and too free with his hands, hauls his sister close, holds her against his chest longer than is brotherly. ‘A new dress for the little lady? A pretty nightdress to entice her husband?’

  Danny gives him a slap that is more than playful, though he smiles as he delivers it. Pita knocks the hand away and for a moment real anger threatens. But Danny laughs and pulls Stella to him; the danger passes. He is on edge tonight. His blue eyes have darkened; they glitter in the low light of the lamp. It is the excitement of the coming trip. A change after all these years of fruitless farming.

  ‘Can you be sure of the riverboats, though?’ asks Stella, not for the first time.

  Pita shrugs away the question. ‘Ae. You worry too much, sister.’

  But Danny turns to her and answers carefully. He needs her blessing. ‘There is no downriver boat to Pipiriki tomorrow, Stell, you know that, and the Wairua will be slow coming upriver in the strong water. She won’t reach the Houseboat till evening.’

  Stella nods, uneasy. She has heard it all before.

  ‘We’ll float on down till we judge the Wairua is close, or till we hear her — she is a roaring beast and we will be silent. We’ll have time to pull in under trees or beach on a shingle bank. When she is past we will continue.’

  ‘You sound so sure you can control a raft of logs …’

  Pita claps his chest like a champion. ‘I am sure! I can manage that river. Any mood, any craft. The river and I, we are twins.’

  ‘You are proud and stupid to make such a boast. And drunk. You know Mr Hatrick will not have loggers on the river.’

  Pita growls. ‘Mr Hatrick does not own the river. What can he do?’

  ‘He can set his gangs of River Trust men on you. They will be right wild if you destroy any of their careful training walls with your banging great logs.’

  ‘The River Trust gangs,’ says Pita, ‘are mostly related to us, as you know well, Stella O’Dowd. They will not touch us. The trees are given to us by our own grandfather from the hapu’s own land on our river. They are waiting on the bank of our river on family land. We have every right to cut them and to float them down. Don’t shake out your Pakeha ways against me.’

  The words anger Stella, but worse is her husband’s restless pacing. For the first time in five years he is going away without her. Clear to see he can’t wait to be off. She fears the outcome of this adventure. That her sweet man might be tempted, down in Wanganui town, by the taste of freedom; might walk away. The farm is a failure and there are no children to call him back.

  Then, as if he has heard her thoughts, he leaves his pacing and holds her tight.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself, my darling,’ he says. ‘It will all be grand. We will come back with money, and the farm will blossom like paradise. You will sing the night away at the good fortune of it all. Eh, Pita?’

  You would think he was the drunk one, but Stella smiles, comforted despite herself by his absurd claims. ‘I’ll cut some bread and mutton,’ she says lightly. ‘You will need to start early.’

  IN THE END Stella walks the two hours to the riverbank with the men — to help carry the supplies, she says, just down to the logs. The truth is that now the journey is under way she wants to be part of it. Stella swims like a fish, is as skilled as a man with paddle or pole, has lived all her life on the river and knows this section of it nearly as well as Pita does. But she also loves her work on the Houseboat and they cannot afford to lose that income.

  ‘Just as far as Pipiriki,’ she pleaded as they set out. ‘I could visit Ma and Pa and come up on the next boat. They would love to see me.’

  But Pita was adamant. ‘Just the two of us. Two is right. We have worked together on the snagging punts and know how they buck in the rapids. Not you, Stell.’

  Danny nodded. ‘I would be worrying were you still aboard, instead of watching the current. Not this time, Stell.’

  But she walks with them anyway, still hoping, off into the frosty night, the moon guiding them away from the Ohura, across the cleared fields of their own farm, behind the marae and then into the dark bush, this track heading for the quiet reaches of the Whanganui, below the Houseboat, and opposite the settlement of Tawhata. Here Danny’s three great totara logs are waiting, hidden under a fringe of branches, prepared for their journey.

  Stella’s father, Bert Morrow, spoke with the hapu months earlier when most of Danny’s flock was swept away in floods and they couldn’t afford to buy replacements — not even a ram to put to their remaining ewes. In a ceremony that all the family attended, the tohunga of the family blessed these three logs and allowed them to be cut. The agreement was that in return Danny would supply, each year, a mutton carcass for every log that came off the family land. Danny knows the deal is generous to him. He will find some way to repay Stella’s family. When their fortunes change.

  The logs are magnificent, each close to five feet across and longer than a great canoe. Stella’s uncles have trimmed them so they will ride the rapids sleekly, and then lashed them with flax hemp ropes to make a slim raft, about the same width as the riverboats themselves, and so designed to negotiate the rapids safely. On the two outer logs Danny has fitted rowlocks so that they might row the raft through the slow reaches.

 
‘Oars will have more pull,’ he argued with Pita, who favours paddles, ‘and we will certainly need an oar at the stern to steer through the rapids.’

  Pita nodded at that, grinning in anticipation. ‘I will do the steering. You may be stronger but I know the rapids.’

  There is no arguing on that matter. Pita has grown up on the river — boasts that he can guide a canoe through a hundred rapids with his eyes shut, which may be true. He has worked with the River Trust gangs and before that paddled up and down the river with his father, setting eel-traps or delivering food from one kainga to another. Pita likes to boast he could paddle before he walked, though no one believes this. Swim, perhaps, says his mother, batting her boastful son over the head. Up and down the river, people shake their heads over Pita — his wild behaviour, his bouts of drinking, his inability to stick with one task for more than a few days. His parents love him, naturally, but worry about his future. So far he has shown not the slightest sign of settling down. This adventure — bringing three valuable logs downriver — is much more to his taste. McPhee has promised good money for them down in the town, and Pita plans to spend his share of the payment on grog.

  Now the three of them sit on the bank, waiting for first light. The dark water runs past swiftly; the tethered logs shift a little in the current as if anxious to start their journey.

  Danny climbs onto the raft with a sack of food and a bundle of blankets wrapped in tarpaulin. He lashes these firmly to a post he has set on the central log. While he is about this, and hidden by a screen of branches, Pita produces from under a bush a fresh jar of liquor. He swallows deeply and winks at Stella.

  ‘Warm the blood. Take a swallow.’

  Stella shakes her head.

  ‘Hey, girl, leave the sour lemons to your husband. A mouthful won’t hurt.’

  He stands over her and tips the jar against her mouth. Stella slaps away his arm and some of the liquid spills down her dress. She jumps away from him, spitting like a cat.

  ‘Pita Morrow, you idiot! Dannyboy will kill you. Put that jar away!’

  Pita, angry now, shoves his face close to hers. She feels the heat of him and doesn’t like it.

  ‘I will be captain on this little journey, and what the captain says is law. Understand?’

  ‘Who’s talking captain?’ Danny laughs as he climbs back up the bank. He stops, though, when he sees the jar. ‘We won’t have that,’ he says, calmly enough, but the anger is clear. In one quick movement he picks up the jar and tosses it far into the river.

  ‘Hey!’ shouts Pita. ‘That’s mine!’

  ‘We must be sharp, man, you know that. No liquor.’

  ‘I say we will,’ says Pita. ‘There is more and I will bring it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Two, maybe three nights on the river, brother. We will need the warmth.’

  ‘Fire and food will do that without fuddling our minds.’

  ‘Then take the logs down yourself. I cannot manage three nights without a drink.’

  There is some shame in Pita’s admission, but also he is adamant. The other two can see this.

  Danny shifts his feet and dances a little as if preparing for a fight, then turns away, watching the river. ‘Jesus, Pita.’

  The three of them stand in the half light, mist rising around them. Stella breaks the stubborn silence. ‘Let him take the liquor, Danny, but not for drinking till the day’s work is done. A little at night. On dry land.’

  Danny nods, reluctant, but anxious to be away. ‘Pita?’ Danny won’t budge until he has an answer. Stella has rarely seen him so staunch.

  ‘Ae … Ae.’ Pita mumbles, still unable to look at them. ‘Though I can ride the rapids with liquor just as easy …’

  ‘No.’

  A quick, shamed nod from Pita. He pulls a fresh jar from the undergrowth and climbs aboard without another word.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ says Danny, and Stella knows what he is going to say. ‘Sweetheart, I will have my hands full with this man, your brother. It is better you go home now. Another time I will find a safer pilot and you will come too.’ He kisses her and she smiles back. No point in arguing. Dannyboy is on fire now to be on the river. She unties the tethering ropes and holds them taut as Danny climbs onto the rocking raft. The two men shove against the bank with their long oars and slowly the heavy mass moves into open water. For a moment it seems to want to ride broadside to the flow, which would soon bring disaster — if these heavy logs beach, re-floating will be a nightmare — but the two men, using the oars as poles, turn their raft so it travels in line.

  Stella stays on the bank watching. A milky mist has risen off the river to drift in and out of the dark trees. She can barely see the raft as it moves steadily, majestic, in the centre of the current. The men seem to have it under control. The shadowy figure of Pita waves to her and she waves back. He will be happier now he is on his beloved river. Then they are out of sight, swallowed by the mist.

  Stella runs along the bank. She wants to see them take the first rapid, Te Hue, but soon the track turns inland and the riverbank is blocked by dense bush. She stands shivering for a few minutes, listening. She can hear the tumble of water and knows Te Hue must be close. Not a difficult rapid really, but how will they control such a cumbersome craft? She hears a muffled whoop of triumph. That’s Pita. An answering high shout of pure joy: Dannyboy. They are away downriver. No stopping now.

  The birds are singing as Stella walks back. At first the song is muffled by the mist, then from the other side of the river, near the encampment, a shaft of sunlight breaks through and the birds shout in response. Stella recognises them all: the virtuoso tui, the pure dropping notes of the bellbird, the quick cheeps of piwakawaka, the fantail. Somewhere close by bossy magpies outwarble even the tuis. It will be a perfect day. Stella traces in her mind the twists of the river, the many rapids that the logs must travel. Perhaps they will reach Pipiriki tonight, but Stella doubts this. The long, slow stretches of calm water between high, sheer banks of the gorge will slow them down. And will Pita stay sober enough to pull his weight at those times?

  Downriver through the Gorge

  120 MILES OF GORGEOUS WATERWAYS

  Wanganui up-River Steam Packet

  and Tourist Steamer Line

  Promotional poster, c.1900

  AT FIRST THE log raft travels straight and clean in the muddy river; the treacherous shingle banks that otherwise might beach the logs are well underwater. In these conditions, as both men know, the rapids are less dangerous, their channels wider and deeper. The two reach Retaruke as the mist burns away and the world of the river opens to them. Pita waves to a girl standing in sunlight on the bank high above, and she waves back. The settlement is beyond her, out of sight, on the rough track that leads inland to where the railway is being built. After Retaruke there is not even a bridle track; the river will be their only connection with the outside world.

  Down on the riverbank, where the Retaruke River joins the Whanganui, a River Trust punt is moored. Three trust workers are squatting by a fire, waiting for their billy to boil. They stand and shout as the lograft drifts past. The water is slow here, made sluggish by the volume of tributary water entering it. Danny uses his oar to edge the craft into a swifter channel. He is nervous of the burly trust men, but Pita shouts to them in Maori, making a joke of their journey, dancing on the logs and taunting the men ashore. They call back insults, suggesting that the raft will soon beach and the loggers be begging for assistance, which will not be forthcoming. They shake their snagging poles but are laughing too, it seems. Clearly they know Pita, though Danny has not worked with this gang. Then the raft is sucked into the next rapid and they race down — nothing to do but let the logs follow the current — and into the gorge.

  Soon the men develop an easy rhythm. Through the rapids Pita mans the stern oar, trying to keep the raft headed into the swiftest water, while Danny stands with his pole, ready to push away from the bank if they crowd too close. At first, in the quiet wate
r between rapids they row a little, but the current is steady and the wind, which so often will blow up the river to slow progress, is absent today, so the men leave the raft to the current and enjoy the peace and beauty of the gorge.

  It is cold still. The sun has not risen high enough to enter the river. Steep banks, dripping with ferns and small trees, tower above them. The birds are silent now, and the river too. Pita walks up and down the logs slapping his cold arms against his body. Dannyboy whistles the new tune Stella taught them the night before. Things are going well. Pita grins and whistles a different tune. He opens his mouth and lets out a truly tremendous shout, which ends in the falling notes of his song.

  ‘Wha—nga—nui—e!’

  The sheer walls and quiet water send the echo back, every note clear. Both men laugh. Pita tries again, embellishing his song, competing with and complementing the echo. Danny takes from his pocket a bone flute and adds his high piping notes to the piece. In the still gorge the sound is miraculous, echo building on echo. They don’t want to stop, but Pita breaks off.

  ‘Hey, man, here is rough water coming. And after that the devil Tarepokiore. We better watch our step.’

  Danny nods agreement. Tarepokiore will be fearsome today — possibly their only real challenge of the whole trip. While the other rapids are tamer in flood times, the whirlpool Tarepokiore becomes more deadly. They say a taniwha is waiting on the riverbed, hungry to swallow anything, living or dead, that strays into its great rotating maw. Once Pita saw a huge totara log, at least forty feet long, slowly, relentlessly disappearing downwards. The hairs stood up on his neck at the sight. You could feel that taniwha licking his lips as he sucked.

  Long ago, the Maori of these parts say, a giant slip blocked the entire river at this place. The river built up behind it, then ate its way through the debris, initially as a waterfall. The power of the falling water, they believe, formed a deep hole, now a whirlpool with resident taniwha.