by Phil Smith
Firelight sent shadows swaying and dancing up the sides of the sandhills and on the encircling cliffs above them.
A small group of new arrivals filed down the path from the old pa site above, lured by the smell of the kaimoana.
‘All right then,’ the kuia said when silence returned. ‘Here’s the story. The short version.’
‘At the very beginning of time the ocean and the land were good friends. One day the sea said to the land, “You’re getting too big for your boots. Your mountains get higher every year. You’re taking up too much of my space.”
‘The land just laughed. “My destiny is to be enormous. My dream is to grow into a huge continent.”
‘The sea decided to teach the land a lesson. She told her friend, the wind, of land’s pig-headedness. The wind said, “I’ve been angered by land’s arrogance, too. Let me have a bit of a yarn to my friends, the volcanoes and their father, the Great Fire.”
‘The fire learned of the land’s rudeness and for many years his thunder rumbled deep in the ground. Earthquakes shook and volcanoes erupted all over the place, destroying the forests and the rivers.’
The adults moved closer, captivated by this rare telling of an ancient tale. The children huddled nearer to the fire.
‘So the trees and the living things called out to the land, “Stop what you’re doing before we’re all destroyed! The mountains are caving in on us! The rivers are turning the sea to mud and the Great Fire is devouring us alive.”
‘Now deep down the land loved the forests and the rivers and he saw what his pride had done. He cried out in repentance to the sea, the wind and the fire, “Forgive my cruelty and selfishness.”
‘The sea was merciful but the wind was not convinced so he demanded, “What can you do to make us trust you?”
‘The land sobbed. His tears fell upon the rocks of the Southern Alps, turning them into the precious, green stone we call pounamu. Miraculously the forests sprang up green again, the rivers flowed clear and clean again, and the green stone tumbled down from the hills, into the rivers, and was carried to the sea.
‘One day our ancestor found a piece of pounamu on the beach near Hokitika. He worked on it night and day and over the next few months he carved it into a beautiful ornament, a kind of taniwha called a marakihau, or fish-man.
‘The man named it Moanawhakamana because he saw that it combined the great majesty of the ocean with the power of forgiveness and reconciliation, and that’s why the beautiful land of Aotearoa remains to this day for us to live on.’
The old lady paused and drew an outline on the sand with her walking stick.
‘The marakihau was shaped roughly like this,’ she said. ‘I saw it often when I was a girl. I will never forget it.’
One of the young men rose to his feet. ‘And what about our people, Auntie?’ he said. ‘Why are we in this situation tonight? How did our land ever get taken from us? What about our future, our families, our mana? Why have we been dispossessed, without a turangawaewae?’
Eyes tracked back to the kuia.
‘One story is enough for a time like this,’ she said.
‘No,’ said another voice. ‘Tell us what happened to Anatohia. We want to hear the account of our people before we leave Kaimiro for the last time; so that we can believe there’s hope for justice one day.’
The woman waved her stick towards the kaihoe. ‘You boys better get those crayfish out of that fire.’
The pot was pulled back and drained onto the sand amid billows of steam.
‘Well, you see, a long time ago, long before the Pakeha arrived on their ghost-ships, when plenty of moa wandered in the bush, a group of Ngati Hei travellers from Kaimiro came across a trading party from the West Coast of the South Island. They met on the Whanganui River. The southerners, the Ngati Wairangi, and our people stayed together several days and ended up trading their goods. Both iwi were adventurous explorers, so it was not surprising that some of our party decided to go down south with the Ngati Wairangi while a number of them came back here with our people.’
Approving faces glowed orange in the flames, eyes darting anxiously to the cooling crayfish and simmering paua. The hot coals were raked from the hapuku.
The lady explained how, for the next ten generations, the trade and social alliance between the Hei and the Wairangi developed steadily in quality and complexity.
Expeditions would make the eight- to ten-week return journey every summer, the sturdiest women bearing the cargo packs, protected by the warriors, the proud rangitahi, brandishing their taiaha and their tewhatewha.
Generally they met on the Whanganui and exchanged goods and tidings. Often a tattoo artist was among them and moko would be created. Elaborately made traps and snares for rats and birds would be traded and, as always, greenstone and obsidian would change hands.
The Ngati Hei, in bands of never more than twelve, bore loads of black, volcanic glass flakes prized for use as cutters and scrapers. There’d be packs of salted meats, flax kits of sun-dried tuatua, mussels and cockles; shark oil and red ochre, or kokowai; as well as aromatic sacks of kauri gum.
Sometimes they’d travel at night through dense bush to avoid hostilities, lighting their way with flaming torches.
At the same time, from the south, the Wairangi were traversing the stormy West Coast beaches, poling rafts across rivers, swaying from the windswept bluffs and crags above the sea from ladders made of vines, eventually making their way to Whanganui Inlet. From there their voyaging waka took them across the South Taranaki Bight to the Whanganui River.
‘The years went by,’ she went on. ‘The climate became colder. The soil got less fertile. Crops were smaller. The moa had long gone. Fewer birds and fish to catch. Hunger drove us further from our kainga. Travel became dangerous. Raiding parties would fight for food, or seek revenge for evil. Soon the bodies of the weak were being used to feed the strong. The old trade routes became warpaths littered with the bones of our loved ones.’
Some of the listeners bowed their heads out of respect, while others looked away, embarrassed by the references to death while food was being prepared.
She paused and bowed her head as well, the lines in her face etched orange by the flames.
‘One day, a few years before I was born, our friends from the south arrived unexpectedly. They were the only survivors of their great iwi, driven from their land by the Ngai Tahu. The refugees did not have to plead — we immediately took them in as our own people. Among the Ngati Wairangi was their chief’s youngest son, Komuhumuhu — they called him Kohu — and two white men. The Pakeha had escaped from the Ngai Tahu and warned the people to flee. One of them was named Rupert Revington. He became known as Raupeti Reweti and we adopted him into our tribe. A number of us here tonight are his descendants.’
The mood of the gathering lifted, as if a simple dinner of kaimoana had become a celebration in honour of the Pakeha ancestor.
The fish were unwrapped from the leaves and the hot paua were sliced from the gleaming shells. Eager hands passed the food around. Big chunks of fresh rewena bread were being distributed and bottles were being opened.
‘Now this is where the story gets interesting,’ she said, grimly scrutinising the array of faces.
‘Our tupuna Komuhumuhu was shot by Hongi Hika in 1822, just up the coast from here. As he lay dying on the beach he reached up and placed his sacred greenstone pendant, handed down through the generations, around Raupeti’s neck. The taonga was Moanawhakamana. Not long after, Reweti fell in love with Anatohia. She was the daughter of the Ngati Hei chief, Te Kani. They got married and, as a symbol of his loyalty and devotion, he gave her the piece. He said it would keep their tribes prosperous and united. It would secure peace and protection for them. Reweti presented it to her just over there, right next to the taniwha’s pool. Anatohia told him the greenstone would feel the warmth of her breast for as long as she lived. Little did she know how short a time that was to be.’
The old lady
closed her eyes and blinked away the tears.
‘So what happened to her then, Auntie?’ said a voice.
‘Well, you see, as Anatohia was walking across the branch above the stream with the bundles of kiekie, she reached out to steady herself on the handrail. But after years of use the rope was worn out. Nobody had noticed. Nobody thought to replace it. No one had ever fallen in, you see. So she grabbed it and the rope suddenly gave way. She cried out as she fell but no one could do anything. They couldn’t get down to her in time. Then, with sunlight flashing from Moanawhakamana, Anatohia Reweti plunged head first over the edge.’
The words came more slowly now, her voice less strident.
‘Reweti had been heartbroken when he returned but he looked after his children well, and when they were old enough he told them the story of their mother, and the Legend of Moanawhakamana.’
Helped by her granddaughter the kuia stood up from the log, raised her chin and straightened her back.
‘That young daughter was me, Ngarimu Reweti,’ she said, in a tone of childlike wonder, ‘and the taonga remains, to this very day, right over there, at the bottom of the taniwha’s pool.’
Seemingly fortified by hearing the legend, many of the people came and hugged Ngarimu, and they continued eating and talking quietly for some time. Then, one by one they turned from the fire and trudged up the sand hill or across to their boats.
The words had been spoken.
The paua shells and the fish frames were turned to ashes.
The final flames flickered.
As far as anyone could imagine, this would be the last time the Ngati Hei and their Ngati Wairangi cousins would cook their kai or tell their stories on their own land at Kaimiro.
On Friday the valley was to be sold. The Government had confiscated it, the last of their land, under the Mining Act. In six days it would be sold at an auction in Thames.
13
The disappearance
‘So anyway this bloke — he comes from down south apparently — he buggers off into the bush for weeks on end, see, gum-gatherin’ and prospectin’ and so forth, like a lot of them jokers did in them days, of course.’ Reg Sorrenson paused to relight the soggy stub of his cigarette. ‘That’s why no one thought much about it when the poor blighter never comes back.’
Eric, the saw doctor, stomped into the smoko hut and Hemi poured another steaming mug of tea. The workers shrugged their bums along on the bench to make room.
‘So how long ago did this happen?’ said Hemi.
‘Near the turn of the century, from what I can make out,’ said Reg, exhaling twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. ‘They called him Tua and he’d come to seek his fortune on the Coromandel.’
Hemi froze.
‘Seems he’d done pretty good minin’ down the West Coast as a young bloke in the ’50s, so by the time the Thames goldfield opens in ’67, Tua’s found himself a real nice claim somewhere over the other side. Secretive bastard, though. Only came into town to go to the bank, they reckon. Stayed away from the pub and the whorehouses. Never had much to do with the locals.’
The mill workers drank their tea, smoked their cigarettes and examined their Best Bets.
‘So what happened to him, then?’ said Hemi, trying to sound casual.
‘Well, he does a deal with the Maori owners of this big block, see, and a few years later the land comes up for auction. By this time he’s made a few quid. The Government takes it off the Maoris and Tua buys it, then he gives up the minin’ and gets stuck into the timber millin’.’
Reg flicked the yellow butt out the door, his head enshrouded with smoke.
‘Did bloody good outta that, mind you. Made a decent swag diggin’ kauri gum as well. Anyway, one day he goes blunderin’ off into the bush and bugger me if the bastard never flamin’ comes back.’
Eric ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of his roll-your-own and gave the fag a twirl. ‘I reckon that’s what happened to a fair few of them old bushmen. Bloody gum-diggers used to go up the trees when the gum got thin on the ground. Seen old photos of ’em, hangin’ from bloody ropes, using spikes on their boots. Used to chop holes in the trees and bleed them for gum.’
Bart folded his newspaper at the business section and rose from the bench. ‘That’s right, and y’know, a lot of trees died after they’d been bled like that. Even today you can see the dead ones. Rows of notches six feet apart right up the trunks and way out on the head branches. Chaps used to climb eighty feet or more.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Reg, ‘the rumour is that this Tua bloke left a flamin’ fortune in gold, plus the titles to all his land. Trouble is no bastard has a clue where all the stuff is, to this very day. Stuck under some rock on the hillside or in some safety deposit box, no one bloody knows.’
The steam whistle hooted and the workers drained their mugs and put their racing guides away.
‘So where’s the land located?’ Hemi asked.
‘Out east of Whenuakite they reckon. The Kaimiro Valley.’
‘Well, back to work, lads,’ said Bart, folding his newspaper for the third time. ‘Time to make some more sawdust, eh.’
Hemi gathered the dishes and put them in the sink. He wiped down the canteen table, put the milk in the fridge, topped up the sugar bowls, emptied the ashtrays and filled the Zip heater ready for lunchtime.
But his mind was not on the job.
He felt strangely inspired by the miller’s tale, and he remembered the key, suspecting that it could play some part in his life. One day, he decided, he’d go back to Kaimiro and find it, though for what purpose was unclear.
It had been over a year since he left home; twelve months since he conquered the Square Kauri, met the Rheineck-drinking car thieves, escaped down the river from the cops and ended up brewing tea at Larkin’s Hikutaia Sawmill. He chuckled at the craziness of it but knew there was still unfinished business with the Hapetas.
Bart Larkin had wasted no time in offering him a job, an offer Hemi suspected had more to do with his ability to catch fish than any obvious work experience.
‘Hemi’s looking for a job,’ Bart had told his wife, Janet, on that first day they arrived home. ‘He’s going to be our tea lady, aren’t you lad!’
Nothing was said from that day on about the stolen car or even where he came from. He got on well with the workers, kept the smoko shed clean and tidy, and learned not to inquire into anyone’s personal affairs — it just wasn’t done.
Bart was not slow to notice that Hemi was well organised and highly motivated. He only needed to be shown a thing once and he could repeat it flawlessly. He was great at fixing things and did jobs without being asked. Above all he made a first-rate cup of tea and within a week he’d persuaded Bart to provide biscuits for smokos, too.
After a few weeks, Hemi was working in the yard grading and stacking timber, and cleaning and oiling the machinery at the day’s end. It wasn’t long before he was competent enough to get his drivers’ licence. Time at the mill sped by and Kaimiro seemed like a dark and distant dream.
He slept in a caravan under a sprawling macrocarpa tree, and when he was not stacking timber or out fishing with the men, he worked on a tree hut high in the dense branches.
The hut had two levels with a deck on top and a lookout platform ten feet higher up. Built of rimu offcuts and with windows from an abandoned cowshed, the hut was completely weatherproof. When it was finished, Hemi moved out of his caravan and shifted his mattress and bedding aloft. When the south-westerlies blew, the tree rocked and creaked, swaying Hemi in his bunk as if he was at sea, thirty feet above the ground. He remembered with elation, the huts and hideouts he had built in the bush, and the shanty in the Square Kauri. There was a feeling of invincibility in a tree hut, and the thrill that comes with doing something daring.
‘You know, Hemi, you’re perfectly welcome to come and stay with us in the house, if you like,’ said Janet one morning as she piled more bacon and eggs onto Hemi’s plate. ‘You�
��re one of the family now. You don’t have to live in that pokey little caravan, specially with winter coming on.’
‘I don’t think you’ve been spending much time in the caravan any more, have you Hemi?’ said Bart, folding the Herald front section. ‘I think that tree hut’s become home to you, eh lad. Although no one would ever know — the jolly thing’s completely concealed from the ground. It’s a splendid job!’
‘Thanks for the offer, Mrs Larkin,’ Hemi said. ‘I appreciate the way you’re both looking after me. But it’s good sleeping up there. You should come and have a look. I had a tree hut back home that I slept in. It was built out over the river.’
At that moment an explosion rattled the windows.
The door of the caravan blew open and black smoke, followed by a balloon of flames, erupted from it.
The men raced down the steps and across the yard towards the macrocarpa, shielding their faces from the heat with their hands as they approached. Flames leaped into the resinous tree, which became a crackling, pulsating inferno.
By the time the Paeroa Fire Brigade arrived, the fire was of volcanic proportions, sending a column of smoke and sparks high into the windless morning air. Traffic came to a halt on the main road and neighbours ran out of farmhouses on the surrounding hills.
The Fire Safety Officer skirted the site for clues.
‘Have a look at this,’ he called, holding up a singed object.
The men walked over.
It was a dead cat.
Tied around its neck on a loop of wire was a note.
The officer unfolded it.
To the Monkey-boy,
So this is where you’ve been hiding!
There’s more to come.
The game’s not over yet.
I’m watching you, arsehole!
We haven’t forgotten you.
Signed: the Taniwha
‘Anyone know anything about this?’
Hemi felt an icicle slide down his spine.
‘A bit sinister, eh what!’ said Bart. ‘Obviously it’s a warning, but to whom?’
