by Phil Smith
‘Sure, Hemi, a little at a time, eh. And the legend, too. But for now just remember that Uru was your grandfather, Tuapiro was his father, and our iwi are Ngai Tahu, from the South Island.’
Sonny gazed out into the trees, uncertain whether the time and place were right for the passing down of such knowledge.
‘But, anyway, we don’t talk much about that around these parts,’ he said, hoping the bark of the dogs would pull them back into action.
‘Why not, Dad? Is there something to be ashamed of?’
‘Let’s just say there are some who think Ngai Tahu should stay where they belong. After all, our territory covers most of the South Island. They say our people were a bloodthirsty lot but, really, we were only claiming what belonged to us. Today they’d call us ambitious and determined.’
‘What about Baldy and Atawhai?’
‘Well now, the Hapetas and your mother are Te Arawa, from Mourea. You see, some of their people stopped at Kaimiro in the Great Migration, under Tama-te-Kapua, while the rest went on to Maketu. Auntie Atawhai is your mother’s sister. That side of the family has a long history on the Coromandel but there’s a few ratbags among them, not mentioning any names of course. Anyway, they’re better to tell you about that, I think.’
Hemi was enthralled. It excited him to know he was descended from warriors, explorers, pioneers, people of the land.
‘And what about the legend?’
‘Ae,’ said Sonny. ‘The legend of Moanawhakamana! Ah, yes, the marakihau. That’s a story-and-a-half, if ever there was one!’
‘What’s a marakihau, Dad?’ Hemi asked, stroking the smooth maple stock of the rifle.
‘A kind of taniwha — only bigger and stronger. It was half man, half sea-monster, with a powerful tail and a huge hollow tongue that could suck in a swimmer, or even pull down a waka full of men. And it had four short legs like a crocodile, complete with spiked fingers and toes.’
The boy glanced into the shadows. ‘Could it go on land?’
‘Could it ever! A taniwha can’t survive for long out of the water, as you know, but the marakihau could travel for quite some distance over the land, as fast as a man can run. They say that when a brave person dies they sometimes turn into a marakihau and take utu on those who have wronged them during life.’
‘Are they bad creatures, Dad, like the taniwha?’
‘Some are bad, some are good. Moanawhakamana was a good one. The very best, in fact!’
‘Will you tell me the story?’
Distant barking and the squealing of a pig brought Sonny to his feet.
‘Yes,’ he said, hoisting his pack onto his back. ‘But right now it’s time to catch us some pork. Come on!’
Cool air flowed through the branches. It was impossible, Hemi resolved, to get down from the tree using the rata vines. The closest hung well beyond his reach and even if he made a leap for it there was no guarantee it would not pull free.
The rope in the shanty crumbled in his hands when he picked it up. His only hope lay in the picks and climbing spikes at the end of the bunk. He chose the strongest pair of boot-frames and two of the iron picks and went out into the light.
From a harakeke he cut a dozen leathery leaves, using his thumbnail to split them into lengths half an inch wide. With the knife he scraped the green pulp from the strips, then drew the tough fibres back and forth around a sapling to soften them. Then he knotted the ends and plaited the strands together into cords.
Hemi bound the spiked frames of the crampons to his bare feet. He thought of his tupuna, the ancestors, who centuries ago used this same material to weave cloaks and sandals for their journeys. As he worked he heard their whispery conversation.
Haere mai, Hemi.
We welcome you, Son.
The boy who climbs trees,
With us today in the treetops.
Your battle, your journey, begins.
May your victories be many,
May your wounds be few.
You will grow in mana
You will not fail us.
Sunlight glittered through the leafy canopy.
After a strenuous practice session on a sloping head branch, Hemi tightened the bindings on his feet until his toes went numb.
At last, taking several deep breaths, he knew he was ready.
There was one last thing.
He went back into the hut.
Taking great care, he folded back the rags from the skeleton.
Cautiously he lifted the bony hand from the ribs.
It covered a bright object on a chain.
A gold key.
One side was stamped with the number eleven, and the other bore a goldsmith’s hallmark and the inscription J&B.
Hemi raised the skull with his left hand and with his right removed the key and its chain, then lowered the bones to rest.
It was time to go.
He slid feet first through the hole in the bushes. Pointy epiphyte leaves slithered across his bare arms and back as he worked his way down through the vegetation.
Without warning, his legs dangled out over open space.
He gasped with horror.
Instantly he was seized by the desire to live.
Kicking out swiftly with his left leg Hemi felt the toe-spike thwack into the trunk.
He held his breath for several seconds.
Slowly he tested his weight on the foothold.
The bindings tightened around his ankle.
The hold held firm, so he took each pick in turn and hammered their points into the wall at shoulder height.
They easily carried his weight.
He resumed breathing, afraid to look up, terrified of looking down.
Reaching below now with his right leg, five storeys above the forest floor, Hemi kicked the toe-spike in and gently wiggled the left one free.
By alternately driving one hooked pick and one spiked boot into the firm bark, the climber moved like a stick insect in stiff, slow rhythm, down and down. Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot: the sequence improved in efficiency as the ground drew nearer.
Tawa leaves surrounded him, then the titoki, and the mamaku tree-ferns.
Hemi lay on his back, slumped and trembling with relief, at the base of the giant, light-headed as the tension drained away. He stretched his aching fingers and arms, crying with gratitude and joy as his feet throbbed to be released from the bindings.
The cicada volume rose a notch as the sun crept from behind some clouds. Misty light slanted through the greenery. Water trickled in a mossy gully. Courting bellbirds zigzagged side by side at high speed through the trees.
He listened for a while to the thump of his heart beating and to the whisper of the air passing in and out of his nostrils. He had never felt so totally alive.
‘Come on, my boy,’ he could hear his father say. ‘It’s time to get a move on, eh! Those dogs are onto something!’
Hemi unbound the lashings and rubbed the circulation back into his white toes.
On the downhill side of the Square Kauri, between two immense root structures, concealed by overhanging ferns and branches, was a small cave. Hemi pushed through and, finding a dry ledge in the rock, stowed the climbing frames, the picks, and the key.
He was about to leave when his hand touched something soft. A bundle wrapped in canvas. Carefully he unrolled the covering to reveal a polished greenstone patu as long as Hemi’s forearm.
His eyes now focused better in the dimness and he realised there were more of the canvas parcels — perhaps as many as thirty or forty of them and some quite large — packed and stacked carefully in the crevices and clefts. He could return later to inspect the taonga further — right now there were more urgent matters.
Replacing the package, Hemi crawled from the cave and covered the entrance with ferns and branches.
Then he was off down the hill, leaping and swinging his way through the bush using roots and saplings as handholds, following the creek to the stream.
/> He joined the logging road beside the rapids, just past the ruins of the old kauri dam, and jogged on through the grove of nikau, across the stream to where a thicket of kanuka opened out to the old horse paddock.
He was dismayed by the sight. The land was covered in blackberry and ragwort. Five years ago this field was green pasture. Sonny would break in horses here, holding the rearing animals on a short rein, biffing their flanks softly with a sack, speaking to them quietly until they stopped snorting and stamping. Then he’d gently slip on a bridle.
Hemi pushed through the weeds and paused in the shade of the puriri overlooking the homestead.
No smoke rose from the chimney.
Baldy’s Zephyr was gone.
The dogs were silent.
The time had come.
He strode to the back door and stepped inside.
8
Prosperity under Reweti
Mercury Bay,
August 19, 1822
My Dear Flanagan,
I write with fond felicitations and optimistic expectations that providence continues to help you.
I write to acquaint you with my circumstances, most fortuitous as they be, and to inquire as to yours.
For a dozen years now I have lived and worked with our Maori friends on this coast, who have long come to regard me as one of their own.
Sadly, however, it is my lot to advise you of the onset of tribulation and to acquaint you with the demise last Thursday of our valiant leader, Komuhumuhu, to a most grievous wound, from a musket ball no less. It happened in a skirmish with Ngapuhi marauders from the North, at Wharekaho Beach; the scurrilous Hongi Hika himself fired the offending shot, and also killed numerous of our people.
You will recall that Komuhumuhu possessed a fine greenstone pendant of peculiar antiquity. Well, upon his death-bed he took it from his own neck and placed it upon mine.
I argued I was an unworthy custodian of an object of such exquisite design and artistry but he insisted, saying it was through my fortitude and example in the face of dire peril that the remnant of Ngati Wairangi had escaped extinction at the hands of the Ngai Tahu, and that he trusted me to maintain well the traditions and prestige of his tribe.
It is now my honour to wear this fine piece and it appears to have accorded me a certain privileged status, as a sort of prince among the Maori people, who, following our auspicious welcome those many years ago, insisted upon naming me Raupeti Reweti, lacking as they do, the linguistic dexterity to articulate Rupert Revington.
I have become fluent in their tongue and customs and have had a tattoo, or moko, etched on my face. I think, what’s more, that I may take a bride from amongst them, for a maiden has indeed caught my attention. Her name is Anatohia, a girl of aristocratic lineage and stature whose countenance shines as the sun on the sea, and when she speaks the melodious bellbird doth stay his song in awe.
Meanwhile, old friend, we have commenced a Trading Enterprise from Mercury Bay, which is a short sail up the coast from Kaimiro; from the very place, in point of fact, where the indomitable explorer James Cook did witness the Transit of Mercury across our skies little more than fifty years ago.
We carry bales of processed flax for making rope, as well as all manner of produce from our fertile lands — potatoes, pigs, fowls, maize and firewood to name a few — by canoe to the Bay of Islands, where the whaling ships call, returning hence with merchandise to make our people dwell in comfort.
Our Venture, as it would appear, is bound to multiply; for verily as demand from the ships increases so doth our capacity for supply. Our need, therefore, is to have an honest Representative to oversee our business in the Bay. A reliable man of your recommendation might do well, or better still perhaps, your good self.
Please respond at your earliest convenience and may our bold South Sea Adventure continue yet anon to our mutual advantage!
I look forward to seeing you again.
Your friend,
Reweti
I put down my pen, placed the stopper in the ink bottle and blotted the page.
Anatohia was standing in the doorway; her silhouette suggested she wore her piupiu low on her hips and one of my linen shirts drawn in and knotted high above the waist.
‘The tide is high,’ she said. ‘The writing is finished?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ I said, folding the pages and slipping them into a thick vellum envelope. ‘You will find our man in the township of Kororareka. He will no doubt provide you all with lodging, then furnish you with his reply.’
Anatohia entered my whare and I instinctively arose from my desk. I felt the sudden emanation of warmth from her closeness and saw the shadow of a mischievous smile. I handed her my mail. For more than a year now she had served as my assistant, my secretary if you like, but lately I had found my affection for this young woman growing and I sensed a ready reciprocation from her. Being twice her age, I had exercised restraint in the interests of decorum and good form.
‘Be mindful of the Colville Channel,’ I warned, touching her lightly on the forearm. Her skin felt smooth and firm. ‘The current there runs treacherous. Counsel the crew to keep the safety of the shore close at hand.’
‘Ngati Hei have made these journeys for generations,’ she laughed. ‘I myself have travelled these coasts since a small girl, in weather fair and foul.’
‘Your preservation is my chief concern.’
‘Your serenity is mine,’ she replied, and with that she drew close to me and, placing her graceful fingers against my cheek, pressed her nose gently against mine. Then she was off, skipping down the pathway to the beach and running across the sand.
The waka-ama was the Ngati Hei’s largest and newest canoe and until the recent Ngapuhi incursions it had been used only for peaceful purposes. It was a typical design, sixty-five feet in length by four feet six inches in beam, but with a smaller, narrower canoe lashed by kahikatea poles fourteen feet out from the port side. This outrigger, or ama, as well as greatly enhancing the craft’s stability with little sacrifice in speed, served as additional cargo and passenger space. The vessel was well-laden with sacks, bales, bundles and crates of produce from our kainga.
Thirty paddlers, two abreast, sat ready with pointed paddles raised and as Anatohia jumped aboard they immediately began a thunderous chant and thrust their blades deep into the water.
The boat glided north in company with three smaller craft and I felt a sudden wave of loneliness unfold upon me. I sought consolation not among the tribesfolk tending the gardens across the river and strengthening the pallisades up on the ramparts, but in the forest.
I walked for an hour or more through cool glades of nikau palms, up to the kauri groves whose Grecian columns did welcome us those years ago. I found solace beside the stream’s cascade. There, soothed by the music of the brook, I did reflect upon my longing for this woman and wondered whether, as Flanagan had done, I should eventually have to leave my Maori friends and reinstate myself among those of my own culture. I sought a way to reconcile duty with desire, responsibility with the opportunity for greater happiness and, of course, the restoration of my English manner and status.
It would be wonderful, I was sure, to wear leather shoes again, or perhaps to ride in a carriage; to hear Chopin and Bach and indulge in pleasant social intercourse in my own language.
I could identify my highest skill and devote my time to performing it, perhaps in the arts, or commerce, or even return to dear old England and the family fold where memories of New Zealand would become a distant dream, so far away, so long ago.
But then I thought of Anatohia and knew my concern, nay, my longing for her deeper acquaintance should never be assuaged should I depart. I knew then that duty and desire indeed were one and that my heart and mind conspired to hold me captive among these gentle Polynesian folk on this enchanted isle.
It was then that I saw the glint of light from the water at my feet.
I climbed into the streambed below a small runnel, and the
re, in the rock, was the unmistakable glister. I drew my knife and prised a piece of metal the size of a pea from the vein.
It had weight.
I laid it on a smooth quartz-rock and tapped it firmly with the butt end of my knife.
It flattened out to a button the size of my thumbnail.
Gold.
I would stay.
9
A new start
The clock in the kitchen said ten past five.
‘Who the devil’s that out there?’ Atawhai’s voice cracked like rimu on a bonfire.
‘It’s Hemi. Where is everyone?’
The woman thumped into the room and stood brandishing her rakau.
‘They’re out looking for you. Where the hell have you been? The whole country’s been trying to find you.’
‘I’ve been up in the bush.’
Atawhai leaned forwards, her eyes like piss-holes in the sand. ‘Without bloody telling anyone, eh! Do you know how much strife you’ve caused us?’
‘I’m sorry, Auntie. I just went further than I planned. I’ve been out overnight before, you know. I’m quite at home in the bush.’
‘How dare you answer me back! You just wait till your uncle gets home, you young bugger. Go and wait in the wash-house right now. You’re going to be in for it big-time when the boys get back!’
Hemi felt his shoulders start to slump. His head bowed, his eyes were downcast; he felt unable to summon a response to his abuser.
But then he remembered the voices of the spirits high in the tree. He recalled the interplay of sunlight and shadow, the tui and the cicadas, the elation as he lay in triumph at the base of the tree.
Your battle, your journey begins today.
May your victories be many,
May your wounds be few!
You will not fail …
