White Lies

by Witi Ihimaera

  A day’s travel took her to the boundary between the lands of Te Whanau a Kai and Tuhoe, and there she sought Rua’s Track, one of the great horse tracks joining the central North Island to the tribes of Poverty Bay in the east. She followed the track up the Wharekopae River, through Waimaha by way of the Hangaroa Valley to Maungapohatu. The only people who travelled the track were Maori like herself; sometimes they were families but most often they were foresters, labourers or pig hunters.

  On her third day, however, Paraiti joined a wagon-train of some forty members; they, too, were making for Ruatahuna. They knew who she was and were honoured to have her join them. And she, in turn, valued the opportunity to sharpen up her social skills, to share a billy of manuka tea and flat bread, to spend time playing cards and to korero with some of the old ones about the way the world was changing. But they made slow progress, so Paraiti took her leave of them and journeyed on alone.

  And now, Ruatahuna lay ahead.

  As she approaches Ruatahuna, Paraiti knows she will be late for the service. She can hear the bell ringing at the meeting house, Te Whai a Te Motu, calling the Ringatu faithful to gather together on this very special day. The First of June in the church calendar is the Sabbath of the Sabbath, as written in Leviticus 23:4: ‘Ko nga hakari nunui enei a Ihowa, ko nga huihuinga tapu e karangatia e koutou i nga wa e rite ai.’ It is also the beginning of the Maori New Year, with the pre-dawn heliacal rising of Matariki, the bright stars of fruitfulness. On this happy day, each person contributes seeds to the mara tapu, the sacred garden. This is part of the huamata ritual, for out of the old seed comes the new plant, symbolic of the renewal of God’s promise to all his people.

  Paraiti urges Ataahua quickly through the village. Some of the local dogs bark at them, and Paraiti gives Tiaki a warning glance, ‘Don’t bark back, it’s Sunday.’ He gives her a sniffy look, then growls menacingly at the dogs so that they whine and back away. Ahead, Paraiti sees her cousin Horiana’s house. She knows Horiana won’t mind if she ties the animals to her fence. ‘Don’t eat Horiana’s roses,’ she tells Kaihe. Even so, she is troubled to see that the roses are taking over the native vines in the garden.

  Wrapping her scarf around her face, and taking with her a small sachet of seeds, Paraiti makes for the marae. Horses and buggies are tied to the fence outside and, hello, a few motoka as well. Inside, the meeting house is stacked to the gills; people are sitting up against the walls, prayer books in hand. Wirepa, the local poutikanga, pillar of authority, is leading the service.

  ‘Kororia ki to ingoa tapu,’ he intones. ‘And verily, an angel appeared to the prophet Te Kooti, and the angel was clothed in garments as white as snow, his hair like stars, and he wore a crown and a girdle like unto the setting sun and the rising thereof, and the angel’s fan was like the rainbow and his staff was a myriad hues. And the angel said to Te Kooti, “I will not forsake thee or my people either.” And so we prevail to this very day. Glory be to thy holy name. Amine.’

  Paraiti sees Horiana beckoning and making a place beside her. Stooping, she makes her way over to her cousin.

  ‘E noho, whanaunga,’ Horiana welcomes her. They kiss and hug as if they haven’t seen each other for a thousand years. ‘We’ll korero afterwards,’ Horiana whispers, opening her prayer book.

  Paraiti gives a sign of apology to Wirepa for interrupting the service. She hears a buzz as people realise she has arrived: ‘Scarface … Te Takuta … Paraiti … Scarface.’ She smiles at familiar faces. She doesn’t mind that people call her Scarface; they use the name as an identification, not to mock her. She lets herself be absorbed into the meeting house. It is such an honour to be sitting within Te Whai a Te Motu, with its figurative paintings and beautiful kowhaiwhai rafter patterns. Here, in the bosom of this holy place, Paraiti joins in praising and giving thanks to God.

  The service adjourns to the mara tapu outside Te Whai a Te Motu. There, Paraiti and others offer their seeds for the sowing. Wirepa intones a final karakia. After the service there are people to be greeted and further korero to be had with the local elders.

  After the midday meal, Paraiti sets up her tent in her usual place on the marae. Horiana, who acts as her assistant in Tuhoe, has been taking bookings. ‘Lots of people want to see you,’ she tells her. ‘The usual problems. Nothing too difficult so far.’ Always bossy, Horiana sits outside the tent deciding when clients should enter and depart. Inside, there are three chairs and a bed: a slab of wood covered with a fine woven flax mat. Stacked against one of the walls of the tent are the rongoa and the herbal pharmacy that Paraiti draws on for her work. Not all have been brought by her; some have been stockpiled by Horiana for her arrival. They include kumarahou for asthma; waoriki for arthritis; ake, kareao, miro or rimu gum for bleeding and haemorrhaging; hakekakeha or harakeke roots for blood cleansing and to promote regular blood functions; mingimingi, the mamaku pith and punga fern pith for scrofulous tumours, abcesses and boils; kawakawa for bronchitis and catarrh; weka oil, kowhai and bluegum juice for bruises, sprains and aching bones; harakeke and kauri gum to treat burns; puwha and mimiha gum for mouth and teeth ailments; harakeke for chilblains and bad circulation; houhere and tawa for colds; titoki for constipation; piupiu for cramp; wood charcoal for dandruff; koromiko buds for diarrhoea and dysentery; eel oil for earache; powdered moss for eczema and scabies; kaikaiatua as an emetic; pirita for epilepsy; seaweed for goitre; paewhenua for haemorrhoids; piripiri for urinary health; fernroot and convolvulus roots for lactation; flax leaf juice for sciatica; huainanga as an emetic to expel tapeworms and so on.

  On a small table are the surgical implements of her trade. Unlike some of her brother and sister healers, Paraiti shuns Pakeha utensils and keeps to traditional ones: wooden sticks and scrapers, sharp-edged shells and obsidian flakes for cutting, thorns for opening up abscesses, stones to heat before placing on the body, lacy houhere bark and cobwebs as poultices and dressings, palm tree splints for broken bones, kahakaha fibre for bandaging, and various oils for massaging.

  For any major bonesetting that requires steam treatment, Paraiti organises times at a makeshift spa. Her father gave her special knowledge of the various massages to heal and knit broken bones. He also taught her therapeutic massage for the elderly; he himself loved nothing better than to submit himself to Paraiti’s strong kneading and stroking of his body to keep his circulation going. ‘Daughter,’ he would sigh, ‘you have such goodness in your hands.’

  The clinic opens, and the patients are of the usual kind. Some are easily treated — patients with coughs or colds and children with asthma or bronchitis. Boils are lanced and the ripe cores squeezed out before Paraiti returns the patient to Horiana to apply a poultice. Paraiti gives a short greeting to patients returning for a check-up, and notes whether a broken leg has set well, or a burn is in need of further bathing or lotions. Sprained joints, too, are treated with ease; with Horiana holding the patient, Paraiti pulls the joint back in place, then instructs Horiana how to bind it.

  A young man with a deep cut on his forehead comes in. ‘How did you come by this?’ Paraiti asks.

  ‘His wife threw a knife at him when he came home drunk from the hotel,’ Horiana answers, rolling her eyes with contempt.

  ‘You will need stitches,’ Paraiti says. She makes a thread of muka and uses a wooden needle to sew the wound. As a dressing, she applies the ash from a burnt flax stalk. Throughout all this, the young man does not flinch. He’s a cheeky one, though; just before he leaves he asks, ‘Scarface, you couldn’t throw in a love philtre with the treatment, could you? My wife’s still angry with me and won’t let me perform my customary and expert lovemaking duties.’

  Paraiti’s eyes twinkle. ‘Oh really? But I have heard otherwise about your lovemaking. Do you think it might be the beer that is putting you off your stroke? No love philtre is required. Your wife will eventually forgive you and soon you will plough her in your usual diligent and boring manner, the poor woman. But if you must drink, chew puwha gum — it will
mask your breath when you go home at night.’

  Another young man comes in, but, as soon as he sees Paraiti, he changes his mind and goes out. He is embarrassed because he has a venereal disease. A male takuta is preferred to a woman healer.

  A young woman with shell splinters in the heels of her feet requires a little more care; she carelessly ran across a reef while gathering pupu and mussels. ‘I was being chased by a giant octopus,’ she tells Paraiti.

  Paraiti winks at Horiana. ‘Oh yes, and what was his name?’ She cuts around the wounds until the pieces of shell can be seen. Smiling at the young woman, Paraiti then lowers her head. ‘Here is the kiss of Scarface,’ she says. She bites on each piece of shell with her teeth and pulls them out. ‘If your octopus really loves you and wants to ensnare you in his eight arms, and if that causes you to run over shells again, show him how to use his own teeth.’

  The next patient causes some hilarity. He has constipation and hasn’t had a good bowel movement for days. ‘I have just the right potion,’ Paraiti tells him. ‘Crushed flax roots and, here, if you disrobe, I will also blow some potion into your rectum so that the result comes quicker.’ But the patient’s wife is with him and she accosts Paraiti:

  ‘Oh no, you don’t! If anybody is to disrobe my husband and blow anything up his rectum, it will be me! Do I want the whole world to know how awful a sight his bum is? Best for him and me to keep that treasure a family secret.’

  So it goes on throughout the remainder of the day; each patient pays Paraiti in coin or in food — a koha, no matter how small.

  However, there are some who are sick without obvious symptoms and their treatment cannot be diagnosed with ease. With such patients Paraiti takes a history of their activities before they became ill and, if she suspects an answer, administers a likely remedy. If she is still unsure, she advises the patient to drink lots of clean water and gives them a potion against the pain or fever. ‘Sometimes,’ she tells them, ‘the body has its own ways of making itself well again. Time will tell.’

  There are other patients whom Paraiti will treat separately, away from the clinic at Horiana’s house, because their conditions are more serious. One is a forester with a broken leg that will need to be broken again; Paraiti believes his best recourse would be to go to the hospital at Rotorua but the forester refuses to let their doctors look at him — he is worried about the expense. Another is a young girl with an eye condition that bespeaks oncoming blindness. A third is an old koroua with a debilitating illness; nothing can cure old age but, as she often did with her father, Paraiti will give this old man a good massage and steam bath for temporary relief. He is already walking towards God.

  The time comes to stop work for the day. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ Horiana tells the other people waiting in line. They are disappointed, but another day won’t hurt them.

  ‘But I will see the mother,’ Paraiti says, pointing to a woman waiting with her daughter. She has constantly given up her place in the line to others.

  ‘Thank you, takuta,’ the mother says respectfully as she steps into the tent. She is trying to hide her distress. ‘Actually, I do not come for my own sake but on behalf of my daughter, Florence. Do you have something that will enable her to keep her baby? She can never go to term and loses the baby always around the third month.’

  Paraiti notices how small Florence is. She places her hands on the girl’s stomach. E hika, this girl is very cold.

  ‘How many times have you conceived?’ Paraiti asks her.

  ‘Three,’ Florence replies, ‘and three times my babies have died inside me. But I really want this child.’

  Paraiti takes a look at the girl. She smells her breath; aue, she smokes the Pakeha cigarettes. She looks at her eyes; they are milky and clouded, and her fingernails and toenails are brittle and dry. Finally, Paraiti feels with her fingers around the girl’s womb — again, so cold. She speaks, not unkindly, to the girl.

  ‘A baby in the womb is like a kumara being fed nutrients from the vine of your body. But your vine is not giving your baby the right foods. Your circulation is sluggish and, therefore, the nourishment is not getting to the child. Bad foods and bad vine are the reasons why, in the third month, your baby withers and dies. Also, the garden in which your baby grows is not warm.’

  Paraiti looks at Florence’s mother. ‘I will put your daughter on a diet, which she must follow without straying,’ she tells her. ‘The diet is rich in nutrients. I will also put her on a regime of exercise that will improve her circulation. Florence must stop smoking Pakeha cigarettes immediately. Also, it is important that her blood temperature is increased. I will show you massages to make her body a whare tangata that is nice and cosy. Keep to the diet, the massages, and make sure she stays in the sunlight and eats vegetables and fruits and fish, especially shellfish. Try to make sure she is always warm.’

  The mother holds Paraiti’s hands and kisses them. ‘Thank you, takuta.’

  Paraiti sees them to the door of the tent. ‘I will also give you some potions that will improve Florence’s health while she is with child.’

  ‘Will you attend the birth?’ the mother asks.

  ‘No,’ Paraiti answers. ‘The authorities will not allow it.’ She turns to Florence. ‘Go well, and be assured that if you follow my instructions, the birth should be normal and you will be delivered of a healthy child.’ She kisses Florence on the forehead. ‘What greater blessing can any woman have than to give birth to a son or daughter for the iwi? Will you let me know when the baby is born? Ma te Atua koe e manaaki.’

  3

  This is Paraiti’s life and world. She is an agent of life, prolonging and optimising it. Paraiti’s knowledge, therefore, is of the treatment of the body not the spirit, though sometimes these two are intertwined.

  But Paraiti does not live and practise at the higher level of a tohunga. She is not a mediator between the human world and the spiritual world. She does not heal mate atua, diseases of the gods; she has no competency in dealing with those sicknesses that are due to possession of the spirit. While she has known some very great priests — with skills in the spiritual, arcane and esoteric arts: prophecy, dream, sign, rehu, whakakitenga, makutu, moemoea and whiu — that is not her domain. Nor does she return spells onto those responsible for casting them.

  Paraiti’s father was such a priest, a man of immense wisdom, whom the iwi consulted on all matters of importance because of his powers of divination. Indeed, it was as a priest that Te Teira had served the great prophet Te Kooti, and remained loyal to him to the very end; this was why the people of Te Kuiti had looked after Paraiti, and had taken them both in after he was released from prison. Te Teira loved to talk about the early days of the prophet’s victories. He used the language of the Old Testament, and likened Te Kooti’s exploits to the great exodus and the flight of the Israelites from the lands of Egypt into the Canaan. It was all metaphorical talk but Paraiti was moved by its grandeur and imagery. ‘In the end Te Kooti was pardoned,’ Te Teira told Paraiti as they sat in front of the fire in their kauta. ‘I will tell you how. The government wanted to run a railway line through the King country, and issued a general amnesty to all criminals, no matter what they had done, to secure the land. The prophet was saved by the iron horse!’ he laughed.

  ‘It was 1884 when that railway opened,’ he went on. ‘You and I were travelling to some hui or other, I can’t remember which one, but you were my right-hand man, do you remember? We came across some Ringatu boys bending over the rails listening. We got off our horses too and bent down and listened. And your eyes went big and wide and you said to me, “Papa, the rails are singing a strange waiata!” Then suddenly, around the corner came that iron horse, a huge ngarara, a monster, belching smoke and roaring at us. Our horses started to buck and bolt but, resolute in the face of the ngarara, you raised your rifle and fired a shot at it.’ Te Teira laughed. ‘I suppose you were still trying to protect your papa, ne?’

  Paraiti’s shot did not bring the nga
rara to the ground. But as it swayed and slithered past, she saw the many men and women who had been eaten by it, imprisoned in its intestines. She raised a tangi to them, a great lament. Of course, she had been mistaken. The passengers in the train were very much alive, dispersing into settlements — and the ngarara was just another monster eating up the land.

  It was in Te Kuiti that Paraiti grew into womanhood. Although Te Teira would have wished for her to marry some kind farmer or fisherman of the tribe, raise children and live a happy life, those options were closed to her because of her kanohi wera, her burnt face. No matter that he was revered for his medical skills; even his great mana could not obtain a husband for her. She was twenty-four and already accustomed to rejection when, in a terrible moment of truth, she asked, ‘Father, what man, in the moment of ecstasy, would look upon my face and not wish it was someone else’s?’ Te Teira himself acknowledged that his daughter was destined to become a spinster, with no provider once he was gone.

  Paraiti’s father had to go underground when the Tohunga Suppression Act was passed in 1908. The purpose of the Act was to replace tohunga, traditional Maori healers, with ‘modern medicine’. The politicians made a lot of noise about ‘charlatan’ tohunga, but the Act was primarily directed at Rua Kenana who, some say, succeeded Te Kooti as prophet. ‘As when the Pakeha pardoned Te Kooti,’ Te Teira said, ‘they brought in a law ostensibly for one thing when it was really for another.’

  Te Teira had defied the Act by continuing to practise covertly. And he taught his daughter the arts of healing so that she could achieve economic independence as a functioning member of the iwi. In 1917, when Paraiti was forty-two, the Spanish influenza hit Maori settlements and the people were unable to get treatment from the Pakeha doctors. Paraiti joined her father in offering succour and support to the sick and dying in Te Kuiti. The irony was that the disease had been brought among the people by the Maori soldiers who had gone to fight in the Great War, on the other side of the world.