Rich Man's Coffin

by K Martin Gardner

  The Maori men put their hands to their chests, stating their names one-by-one. The largest of the Maori pointed to his chest and said, “Ruaoneone.” Black Jack responded with his newfound whaling moniker. He thought that it gave him more prowess.

  “Black Jack!” they all repeated in unison, impressed with his name.

  “I know a little English.” Said Ruaoneone, to Black Jack’s surprise. “I am the Chief.”

  These Maori men, it seemed to Black Jack, had all the time in the world to do whatever pleased them. All of their needs were attended to throughout the day, and Black Jack was content to remain with them and learn the Maori language and customs. The men actually knew enough English to fill in the gaps when an impasse arose; but, Black Jack soon picked up enough Maori words to communicate a good deal of his story. What could not be translated verbally was helped with body language. Between hand gesturing, Maori words, and bits of English, a fairly decent conversation unfolded over the hours.

  “You speak the white man’s tongue, and yet you are as black as night. What of that?” the Chief asked Black Jack.

  “I come here from the land of the white man. They captured my people as slaves from the land of the black man.” Said Black Jack.

  “I did not know that such a land existed. That is good to know. But to me, you are a black white man. I call you, ‘Black Jack White.’ That will be your name among my people. This day, Black Jack White came to Pukatea.” The Chief leaned forward and took one of Black Jack’s hands and clasped his fingers. With his other hand, he pulled Black Jack’s head forward and touched his nose to Black Jack’s. He stared into Black Jack’s eyes for a moment, and then released him. The other two men repeated the hongi with Black Jack. Everyone continued to eat, drink, smoke, laugh, and talk.

  “When you first came out of the water, we thought you were the Taniwha.” Said the Chief.

  “What is the Taniwha?” asked Black Jack.

  “He is a great beast of the land, sky, and sea. He takes many forms, and one never knows where he will appear next. We must always keep a lookout for the Taniwha, or he will destroy us.” said the Chief.

  “I am not the Taniwha.” Said Black Jack, smiling.

  “We knew that, when you did not kill the Moa. The Taniwha would have seized upon the Moa and eaten it.” Said the Chief. Black Jack knew that he spoke of the giant chicken. He was relieved that it had not been a hallucination. “Then we thought you were the angry ghost of one of our ancestors.” Continued the Chief. “You see, when one of our people dies, we leave their bodies in a cave until they turn completely to bone. Then we return for the bones and bury them. When you went into the cave, we thought that perhaps we had overlooked someone, and they had come back to punish us!” The Chief began to laugh at his own story, and the other three followed suit. The Chief went on, “Then you ate, drank, relieved yourself, and slept! No ghost that we know of would desecrate his own tomb, so you had to be human! From then on, we just watched you to see if you were the kind of person we wanted to meet.” Black Jack chuckled nervously. He supposed that he had passed the test. The Chief began again, “You show great skill and power in using your surroundings, Black Jack. That impresses us. We have never seen a white man do the things you have demonstrated. Especially the fire!” The Chief sat back, admiring Black Jack.

  Black Jack said, “I did not build that fire. Did you not build it?”

  The Chief looked at his advisors, who reflected his concern. They all turned to Black Jack. The Chief spoke up, “Black Jack, my people are under serious threat these days. We have word that a great warring chief is moving south along the coast in hopes of conquering all other tribes. It is possible that he may have built the fire. You saw no canoes, and no people. We have been fishing and hunting at night to avoid him, so he may have been looking.”

  “Well without fire, then how was this food cooked?”

  “The Earth is our oven. No flames or smoke dance about and say, here we are, so that our enemies may come and cook and eat us with our own fires!”

  “Who is this other chief that you speak of?”

  “It is Robulla. He is a bad chief. He makes war for no good reason. We don’t like him.” Ruaoneone motioned for one of the women to come to him. He spoke with her in hushed tones. The Chief motioned her to bring something to him.

  She returned with a large, round stone. It was larger on one end, resembling a rock raindrop. The Chief removed a fern root from a bowl on the table, placed it on the floor in front of him, and brought the large stone down on top of it. The bulb was pulverized. He looked at Black Jack. Black Jack, not sure of the purpose of the bizarre display, simply smiled and nodded.

  Ruaoneone gestured to the woman again. This time she returned with a dried human skull and handed it to the Chief. Ruaoneone placed the skull on the floor. He raised the heavy, round rock above his head with both hands and paused. He slammed the stone down squarely onto the skull. It smashed to smithereens with sharp bone shards scattering everywhere. The Chief looked at Black Jack and shouted, “Robulla!”

  Chapter 12

  “I wish I could write down everything that goes on in this village, like the Captain does on the ship. I guess I will just have to think out loud. Besides, it will help improve my English speaking.” Black Jack said to himself one day.

  They gave me a house and a woman. Fed me like a king, and told me to enjoy myself. They must like me. Said I was the first white man to come without a canoe or the evil spirits.

  It seems that they believe the white man travels with some sort of invisible demons that kill their people without weapons. They have told me that every time a new white man’s canoe arrives, the bad spirits march slowly down the coast from village to village. The spirits are cowardly warriors, the people here say, because they attack without showing their faces, and they kill children and old people. The people here say that the evil spirits have killed more Maori in the last few years than all the bad chiefs put together. The only good thing about the spirits: The people here say that the evil white man’s spirits kill all Maori equally, without favoring one tribe over the other. In that way, they say, the killing has been fair without destroying the balance of power. Although, they say, with all the tribes being smaller now, it is the more peaceful tribes that suffer at the hands of warring chiefs like Robulla.

  Their language is not very hard to pick up. I have been here a week now, and I can talk more freely now with everyone without as much hand waving and finger pointing and jumping around like some fool. The young ones love that. They point and laugh and carry on something fierce when I try to ask the simplest things like where the out house is or when the next meal is or what I can do to help out around the place. The Chief told me to relax, but I can’t sit around and do nothing. Even he goes hunting with his mates. My woman busies herself with womanly things with her women friends. They start early in the morning getting the fire in the ground all hot again. It seems they do the same thing like we did back home with the potbelly stove. They just keep the coals going, forever and ever. And there’s always meat of some sort stewin’ away down in them pits, turnin’ nice and soft. It gets wrapped in the big leaves that grow around here. Then they cover it up with rocks and it’s just like a proper oven.

  The ladies also sit around and make things all day long. They make the feather robes and caps, the woven mats and baskets, and even some whalebone tools. But they are absolutely not allowed, and I have seen this enforced quite strongly, to engage in or go anywhere near the wood when it is being carved. The men believe that the carving is sacred only to them, that even the scent of a woman around the wood while the shavings are present will destroy its magic.

  The same holds true for something else that I have come to know here. There is a very precious looking green stone here that everyone holds in the highest regard. They use it for weapons, jewelry, and tools. Some of it is harder to see light through and has swirls in it, while I can see clear through some other stone with nothing
but the most brilliant green. I myself am impressed with this stone, as I have never seen anything like it. It is unique unto itself even in this remarkable place. I have seen no other precious stones here, nor even a hint of gold or silver. Aside from its material value, it seems that the green stone is also held in regard as the highest mystical and spiritual thing by everyone.

  Everything that requires a tool can be served with something fashioned in whalebone. The higher members of the tribe, or iwi as they call it here, have everything made in greenstone. That includes fishhooks, knives, necklaces, and battle-axes.

  For the Chief, his greenstone treasures seem to be indispensable, as if they are part of his spirit. He showed me his prize possession: His mere. It is a big, long, flat blade, about sixteen-inches long and six-inches wide at the broadest point. It is hard to describe, but it is shaped like a flounder fish or a beaver tail, with a handle at one end. The rounded jade edge is sharpened with grinding, and I reckon they use it like some kind of weapon in battle. To see the Chief wave it back and forth in the air makes me think that he must go after people with it; but I can’t imagine it being much use for nothing more than slappin’ people up side the head with. I mean, it don’t have a point like a sword, and I can’t see it gettin’ stuck into someone or anything like that. Maybe that’s why this tribe is so peaceful. All this big loud talk about war and killing and eating people: I just can’t see it. All these people want to do is eat and be happy all day every day. I think they just like to keep their enemies scared away.

  II

  Ten days here and I have learned a lot. I went out with the Chief and his men, and we speared a pig. I made the spear myself from a really hard wood here they call Rimu. They say I have the magic and that I will make a good warrior, perhaps even a chief.

  I have been training with the men and boys of the pa, learning all the moves and chants. I have my own mere, which is only whalebone now for practice, and an assortment of fishing gear and jewelry. They say when I make my first kill that I will no longer be a white man, but they also say that I will be the first white man to become a true Maori. They really like me, I can tell.

  III

  After a fortnight with my new woman, I think she loves me. I believe that I am falling in love with her as well. Kind of like a wife. I think of my Lalani back home and our unborn child, and I feel rather guilty. But, I could not refuse the gracious offer of my hosts. Besides, what man can turn away a beautiful woman when she is offered as a willing bride? I tried to remain above my feelings for her, as a visitor in a temporary situation that he cannot control; but, her constant attention and affectionate admiration for me have softened my spirit to the point that I cannot resist my feelings for her. She is so beautiful. I could not have chosen a more striking woman if the Chief had lined up all the females in the village and let me take all day to pick. She seemed to be ready for marriage. She was brought in by the Chief’s women. She did not try to be coy or shift her eyes or appear unkind in any way.

  She is remarkable. Unlike any woman I have seen in the pa, except for the Chief’s wife, she has green eyes. Green like the stone. It is shocking, really. Even though I must be mature and hide my embarrassment, the young women of the pa dress themselves so that their bosom is fully uncovered and visible at all times. For someone who is not used to it, the sight can be quite distracting. But, I must confess that my Kumari has the finest pair in the village, and my eyes have no problem whatsoever remaining faithful to her in that area, either face or figure. She spares no effort in pleasuring me, but I do not feel that she is my loyal servant. We truly seem to be developing a spiritual bond, deeper somehow than what I shared with Lalani back home. Getting betrothed to her was like a ritual to formalize a fact between childhood sweethearts. It seems now that she was always just a good friend, and the only girl around who I could even look at. We were always close, but there were always those gaps that we couldn’t reach across, like her trusting and understanding me when I left. Because I didn’t have a choice, I overlooked those differences in light of holding on to what I had.

  Now, I have many new choices in front of me when she is not. I think for now I will let Lalani, and her memory, rest somewhere in my soul until I can pay her some attention. I have Kumari, and she is becoming my world. I awake at dawn and her hands are already upon me, exploring my body like a new land. We make love like sharks make blood in the water, and we are always late for breakfast. At night, she breaks away early from her work mates, and she is waiting for me when I get in from hunting. She looks after every particular of my looks. She asks me what I think about everything that she wears. The women have begun her ta moko, the pretty little tattoo under her chin. She wants to know if I am going to start my face soon. I tell her I don’t know, and she respects me when I change the subject.

  IV

  Kumari, the Chief, his wife, and I took the village’s war canoe out on the bay for a little tour today to mark the passing of my first moon here. Well, us and a hundred men in full wardress. It was an exercise of sorts. That’s what the Chief told me; but I think he had told his wife it was going to be a pleasure cruise, judging from the quarrel they were having. It was a beautiful day: Clear, sunny, and warm, with very little breeze. It’s one of the reasons we went out, being that the visibility showed no sign of any war vessels around. Our boat is about one-hundred-feet long, carved from a single Kauri tree. The Chief says that he can go pretty far in it, he just doesn’t want to. Besides, he says, he would never want to go as far as the white man goes. The Maori boats can’t take that much water. The whites are here, he says, because they have killed all of the whales that they were originally given. The Maori only kill one occasionally for what they need, he says. He also says that he likes how the white man has put a top over the boats to keep the water out, but he doesn’t want to do that. He thinks that is how the evil spirits hide to get over here.

  His war canoe is a small one, the Chief says. The one that Robulla comes in will be much larger and will carry several-hundred men. Ruaoneone says he doesn’t know where Robulla finds such large Kauri trees. He seems a little jealous to me on that point. He says that he does not know for sure when Robulla will come, but that he is ready. I hope the old bastard never comes. I just want to live here in peace and make love with Kumari forever.

  Chapter 13

  June 24th, 1828. Tory Channel, just off the coast of Pukatea village:

  Ah, The Elizabeth, my darling. Good to see you again. You float so gracefully, so properly, when you come to dance in my waters. But you and I both know that you are my whore, and that you have come to do my bidding once again: For a price! Right my precious? And what will your price be this time? Eh, my little bobbing British brothel bitch? Never mind, you will give me what I want in the end, just like last time.

  It will start just the same. You will see me coming in this big boat that seems so odd to you. Your captain will throw out some fake greeting and ready your men on deck as he shits his pants. This time he will know my name, though. At a distance, he will recognize me, and order his men to stand down. Fool. I could have you all for lunch without breaking a sweat. It’s a good thing that you don’t know, I can’t afford to do that. Can’t afford having your flax-white asses telling everyone back home how savage we are. No, because then you would stop coming. And stop bringing your guns. My guns.

  Here they come. Roll out the barrel! Yes, that’s it. Try to appease me with your tobacco and your junk. Very nice. Is that how you conquer all your other lands? Very impressive. Oh yes, lots of whale meat and bones. Haven’t seen those before! Idiots. Yes, I’ll play your game, but not for much longer. Your captain can see that I am growing impatient. He wants to protect his interests here. His business venture. Yes, captain. I can help. I will keep those other bad, mean, nasty Maori at bay, so to speak. With what, you say? No, no, I couldn’t, I shouldn’t, see this year’s model of muskets? Oh, Captain, you make me blush. They’re so big. You can’t see me mocking your dumb white
ass behind my battle-hewn, tattooed face, can you? All right, name your price, captain. Make it good though; I really don’t feel like getting bloody today.

  A man you say? Have I seen a white man in the water or on shore? Well, yes, captain, there are more and more of you all the time. Your point? I like the way you kowtow to me when I am standing impudently upon your deck.

  He’s white, but he’s not. Now, you’ve been hitting that grog again, right captain? He’s black. A black white man. Goes by the name of Arthur. Your cabin boy. Gotcha. You want him back. Five muskets now as a deposit, and twenty more with ammunition when I return with your manservant. He’s somewhere close. Like where, at the bottom of this channel? South or North? You don’t know. Big help you are. You don’t really want your boy back, do you! These are old muskets, aren’t they, I just feel it. Without powder, they are useless. You’re slogging me off, aren’t you captain? All right, I’ll play your silly little game. I’ll find your black white man, and I’ll be back. And stop calling me ‘Robulla’. I don’t know where you got that shit. My tribe calls me Te Raupraha.

  II

  There he goes: Robulla the scoundrel. Like a rogue possum rummaging through alleyways at night, that one. But I’ve got his number, oh yes; no one pulls the wool over this captain’s eyes.

  It seems that our illustrious friend imagines himself to be some great chief; from up North at Kapiti, all the way down to Kaikoura. It seems that he has four or five tribes under his thumb. To me, he just sails around with the same group of rejects bullying his own people. All the Maori I’ve encountered don’t want anything to do with him. They’re all quite settled now in their respective tribes and lands, with peace and plenty to go around. They say Robulla - sorry, Te Raupraha - just wants to cause trouble. Worse than that, they say that he is just an opportunist who is seeking glory. He fights his own people with the white man’s weapons. Now there’s a hero! Poor dumb bastard.