Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “What if we decide to include you in the party, good sir?” The speaker gave him a challenging stare.

  Coffin’s right hand drifted meaningfully toward the sword slung from his belt. “Why then,” he replied slowly, “there’d be no containing the fury of your Captain, Kororareka being a difficult place in which to secure new seamen, and burials here being as expensive as they are time-consuming.”

  The man hesitated, glanced toward his companions. Neither showed an inclination to do battle with a gentleman swordsman. Furious, the leader of the trio glowered back at Coffin.

  “What if we came back some night with friends, sir, and burnt your precious place to the ground?”

  Coffin nodded toward the harbor. “Out there are a hundred Captains who regularly do business with me. They won’t look kindly on the perpetrators of such an outrage. Given such a happenstance I wouldn’t give you or any of your ‘friends’ the chance I’d give a Popester in Parliament.” He waited quietly for the man to make his next move.

  Instead it was the Maori who stepped into the breach, verbally and physically. He gestured with both big hands and smiled at the leader of his assailants.

  “Come, come. Why you stop now? We fight some more!” He looked hopefully toward Coffin without bothering to ascertain whose side he might take. “You fight too?”

  The tall drunk’s expression twisted as he gaped at the native. “He’s bloody mad, this one is. Come on, lads, let’s shove out of here.”

  “Aye,” said the man standing next to him. “What be the point o’ fightin’ with a crazy man? Nor have I a quarrel to pick with you, sir.” He bowed slightly in Coffin’s direction.

  Bereft of his army, the leader of the trio turned and staggered toward The Beach, his comrades in tow.

  The Maori let his shark-tooth-edged club fall to his side as he watched his assailants retreat.

  “What for you interfere? It was good fight.”

  Coffin replied in fluent Maori. “Not a fair fight. Only three of them against you.”

  It took the native a moment to absorb this. Then he burst out in rich, appreciative laughter. His belly shook, but no more than the rest of him.

  “Good man! You good pakeha fellow!” He gestured toward the building behind him. “I hear you say right you say this your store?”

  Coffin nodded. “All men are welcome at Coffin House. If you ever have flax to trade or want to part with that oversized scalpel of yours, you’ll find my people fair and honorable.”

  “Honorable pakeha? Interesting idea. I am no rangatira, not chief who does trading, but I will remember. Haere ra.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Coffin watched as the Maori headed down toward The Beach. He’d heard seamen speak of savages who were ferocious fighters, and of aborigines who had no stomach for battle, but until he’d come to this New Zealand he’d never heard of a people who delighted in spilling blood for the sheer sport of it.

  He stood and stared until the native had disappeared among the grog shops to make sure the three vindictive sailors hadn’t set an ambush for him. Then he turned and mounted the wooden steps beneath the swaying sign.

  4

  The bell above the entrance jangled, prompting a reply from behind the main counter. The voice was reedy and heavily accented.

  “Just a minute. It’s early yet. We’re not quite really open. Your business will have to wait.”

  Coffin strolled over to the counter and made his voice into a threatening roar. “A pox on your delay! Serve me now or I’ll see you sold to the Kanakas!”

  “What—ow!” The man bending over behind the counter straightened abruptly and smacked his head on the overhanging top. “Now you look here,” he began, rubbing his balding pate, “whoever you are.…” His eyes widened behind thick glasses as he recognized the intruder. The anger melted instantly.

  “Why Mr. Coffin, sir, you’re back two days early! You gave me a start, sir.”

  “Fair weather and a favorable current, Elias. Sorry about the knock. I couldn’t resist.” The two young men, one thin and aging fast, the other powerful of frame but appearing older because of his gray hair, exchanged a firm handshake.

  The young merchant had found Elias Goldman wandering dazed and drunk in a Beach alley two years ago this summer past. Goldman had shipped on a New Bedford whaler to see the world before settling down, and the world hadn’t been kind to him. He’d gotten drunk, missed his ship, and quickly found himself relieved of what little money he had by the regular habitues of The Beach.

  Coffin discovered that Goldman had a natural talent for figuring, if not for whaling. Coffin himself had little talent or liking for arithmetic. Quick to recognize ability in another, he soon had the grateful pilgrim installed as factotum of Coffin House. During the past two years Goldman had never given him reason to regret his decision.

  Adjusting his glasses, the clerk came out from behind the counter. “How did the voyage to South Island go, sir?” Without waiting for an answer he glanced over a shoulder and yelled, “Kamine!” A Maori girl emerged from the back room. “Mister Coffin has come back.” He looked back to his boss. “What will you take, sir?”

  “Some tea, Elias.”

  “You heard him,” Goldman told the girl. “Don’t dally.” She nodded sharply, then vanished. Goldman found a high-backed wood chair while Coffin took a seat nearby.

  “Now then, sir,” Goldman asked eagerly, “tell me what you’ve brought back for us.”

  “Nothing much, I fear.” Goldman’s expression collapsed. Coffin didn’t have the heart to tease his associate further. “A few logs.”

  “Kauri pine?” Coffin nodded. “How few?”

  “I don’t know. There are too many for me to count. You know how poor I am with figures.” Goldman let out a delighted whoop and Coffin could no longer restrain his enthusiasm. “You should have been with us, Elias! It still grows on the South Island thick as the vines in south France. The best quality, and we had our pick as no vessel had called where we made landfall in many years. The locals had amassed a huge reservoir of logs, more than the Resolute could carry.

  “Furthermore, as so few ships go there, the logs have been sitting out in the sun for months, curing fit to please the most demanding carpenter. There isn’t a green one in the lot. Half a dozen men saw us tying up. By now the word must be all over the harbor.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful!” Goldman’s eyes sparkled like those of a small boy at Christmas. “I’ll get right down there and set to grading it. Do you wish it warehoused?”

  Coffin shook his head. “There’s no need, I think. You should be able to sell it right off the ship. Let someone else haul it for us. It’s a fine profit we will have for a little difficult sailing. As soon as business here is finished and the ship made ready I’ll be going back south for another load. Best to skim off the cream before our competitors think to try and retrace our course. I’ve sworn the crew to silence, but such a thing is scarce in Kororareka.

  “Speaking of warehousing, how went business in my absence?”

  “Most excellently. Every whaler in the Pacific knows our community for the friendly port that it is. There’s no law here to irritate them as there is at Sydney, and not a tree in New South Wales to match the Kauri for quality. Nor do they have the Maori flax for making rigging repair. That’s what we’re really low on. We’ve had something of a run on rope while you were away. Every merchant in town is short stocked. Bidding will be spirited at the monthly sale several days hence. I’m glad you returned in time to attend. I can bargain with the natives, but not well in their own tongue. What besides Kauri? Gold?”

  The eternal question. “Everyone knows there’s no gold in New Zealand, Elias. We have a fair stock of foodstuffs. Kumara potatoes and some salt pork. Taro as well.”

  Goldman made a face. “Taro doesn’t find much favor with a sailor’s palate.”

  “True, but what I bought was cheap enough, and we can trade it to the Maori here. Taro for pork,
say.”

  The clerk looked thoughtful. “I’ll see to it.”

  “There’s one other thing.” Coffin dug into his coat pocket and extracted a small pouch. Rising, he had Goldman follow him back to the counter. Loosening the drawstring on the pouch, he dumped out a double handful of beautiful yellow-orange stones—except they weren’t stones. They were soft and warm to the touch.

  Goldman recognized them instantly. Picking up several of the largest specimens he held them up to the light. Bubbles and flecks of plant matter were silhouetted by the rising sun.

  “Amber. Fine quality, too. Too fine for common sailors. They wouldn’t know their value.”

  “No, but their Captains will. I’ve seen enough to know these are the equal of any to be gathered from the shores of the Baltic. If more was available we could make a good business of this, but supplies are scarce.”

  “A pity this is all this country has to offer in the way of gems.”

  “Who knows? The Maori have their paua shell and bone and greenstone. Perhaps someday the land will deliver to us some new surprise. There’s much still to be explored. Ah, here’s Kamine with our tea.”

  The girl’s long black hair fell in lustrous waves from her shoulders as she bent to serve them. “It is good to see you home again, Mr. Coffin, sir.” Her mission English, Coffin mused, was much improved.

  “Thank you, Kamine. It’s good to be back.”

  She’d been a prisoner of war. Her conquering chief, a rangatira named Waretotua, had not treated her well. The sub-chief was a drunkard and a frequent visitor to The Beach, where Goldman had seen him beating the girl unmercifully on more than one occasion.

  With Coffin’s permission, Goldman had bought her and sent her to the Anglican mission up the coast. Within a year she’d learned enough to begin helping out at the store. Now Goldman was teaching her figuring. She was valuable for more than tea-making and cleaning.

  While they’d long since given her her freedom, she’d chosen to remain with Coffin House. She was a hard worker and invaluable to the busy Goldman, and she had a hunger for learning. Besides, Goldman’s interest in the girl was beginning to be more than merely altruistic. As near as Coffin could tell, his feelings were reciprocated.

  “What other news, Elias?” The tea was hot and sharp, though not sweet enough for his taste. Sugar was worth a King’s ransom in Kororareka and the chance to buy it came infrequently. There was talk of settlers trying plantations in Australia’s humid northlands. Coffin was intrigued. Sugar meant molasses, and molasses meant rum, and rum meant very happy whalers indeed.

  Goldman didn’t look up from his cup. “Nothing much, sir. Business is excellent. We did have a china clipper stop briefly. Caused a stir among the citizenry. Out of Boston bound for Canton. For tea, of course. Storms blew her south of her normal course and she made here for repairs. A beautiful vessel. Lost her top mizzen, among others. Sad to say we did not have the large log she required.”

  “A week too late.” Coffin wasn’t the kind to linger over missed opportunities.

  “But,” Goldman added brightly, “I did sell her a brace of topspars and plenty of rigging. Four barrels of pitch as well.”

  Coffin was nodding to himself, thoughtful. “Who had the pine big enough to replace the topped mast?”

  This time Goldman looked away. “Tobias Hull.”

  “Damnation.” Coffin’s eyes narrowed. “Come, Elias, I know you too well. There’s more. Bad news, I wager. The exchange rate in London?”

  “No sir. Nothing of that nature.”

  “Then what? Don’t try to hide it from me. You know I’ll find out soon enough anyway.”

  “I can’t actually say it’s bad news, sir. It’s simply—awkward.”

  “I’m not troubled by awkwardness. Enough fencing, man!”

  “Sir, there were passengers on that clipper and they were not bound for Canton. She intended stopping here storm damage or not.”

  “Passengers for here?” Coffin looked pleased. “What’s awkward about that? New settlers are always welcome.”

  Goldman took a deep breath and set his teacup aside. “Among them were your wife, sir, and your son.”

  Coffin looked like a man who’d just taken a musket ball through the brain. It was the first time Goldman had ever seen him so. “My wife?”

  “I understand her name is Holly, sir. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “My wife.” Coffin was staring blankly into the distance.

  Goldman swallowed, continued. “The boy’s name is Christopher. Fine looking young chap, sir. Has your eyes. Six, she said he was.”

  “Holly’s here? Good God!” Coffin struggled out of his daze. “Where are they, where did you put them, where …?”

  “Rest easy, sir. You know I’d keep them off The Beach. Under the circumstances—your wife was most insistent—I thought it best as well as proper to install them in your house. I imagine they’re there now.”

  “At the house? My house?”

  “Sir, I didn’t see that I had any other choice. I knew it could cause trouble, but the house was, uh, empty at the time and so far no one’s come calling.” Both men knew who might “come calling.”

  “If I’ve done wrong, sir, I apologize, but I.…”

  “No, you did what you had to, Elias. As you always do. The problem is mine. Holly here, and Christopher too.”

  Three years since his last visit to England. His son would be walking now instead of tottering about on all fours like a bald dog. And what of his wife? What of dark-haired, delicate little Holly? Memories washed over him, all of them pleasant, all genteel. Memories too of the weeping and wailing that had accompanied his last departure. A long time ago, that. So long that he’d almost been able to forget.

  Once a year he’d promised to visit home. For the first two years of their marriage he’d managed to keep the vow. But the endless ocean voyage took too much time away from business, time utilized by his competitors. He grew adept at devising new excuses for putting off the visits. During the last three years Kororareka had exploded commercially. Coffin House’s growth had been proportional.

  Unkept vows mattered not now. She was here, here, and the boy too. He could understand her longing and impatience, but to bring the child made no sense. Christopher had always been a frail lad. Hauling him halfway around the globe struck Coffin as dangerous to a fault.

  Awkward, Goldman had said. Awkward was too pale a word.

  “You might ought to go up and see her,” Goldman prompted his employer.

  “Yes. Yes, of course, Elias.” Coffin’s gaze remained distant as he stood. He glanced out a window, gazing down toward the raging depravity that was The Beach. “How much of the town did she see when you escorted her from the ship?”

  “Enough, I should think, to make any respectable Englishwoman think twice about venturing there alone, sir.”

  “Good. Then at least she’ll stay at home. Kororareka’s no place for a woman of Holly’s sensibilities, no place at all.”

  “I agree, sir, but it was not my place to tell her that. If I may say so, sir, she strikes me as a strong, independent person. Her stature is deceptive. The sights she witnessed didn’t appear to faze her.”

  “Oh, she’s strong, she is, Elias, and were she anything but independent she wouldn’t be here now. She’s always been like that. It was one of the things that first attracted me to her. I’ll go up right now, of course. Bugger me if I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “That’s good to hear, sir.” Goldman had reason to fear his employer’s reaction would have been otherwise. He was pleased it was not.

  He rose and shook Coffin’s hand a second time. “It’s good to have you back again, sir. I trust this unexpected visit will only magnify your happiness.”

  “I imagine it will. It should be pleasant. What man wouldn’t be thrilled to see his wife and son after three years?”

  “Truly, sir. I envy you. Perhaps some day I will have the chance to experience
such domestic bliss myself.”

  “I’ve no doubt you will, Elias.” He turned sharply and headed for the door. “Mr. Markham will show you the cargo.”

  “I’ll get right on that, sir. We should be ready for buyers by midday if not sooner. No dallying when there’s money to be made, eh?”

  “No indeed, Elias.”

  As soon as the Captain had departed, Goldman reclaimed his chair. Might as well finish his tea before fighting his way through town to the docks.

  A soft voice materialized at his shoulder. “Mister Elias sir?”

  “What is it, Kamine?” He saw she was eyeing the front door.

  “Mister Coffin, sir, he doesn’t seem much happy at the coming of his family.”

  “Oh, I think he is, Kamine. It’s just that it won’t be easy for him right now. The ways of the pakeha are not the same as those of the Maori.”

  “How is that?” she frowned. “Are not both women part of Mister Coffin sir’s whanau?”

  “Among the English there is no whanau, Kamine. No extended families as the Maori have. It’s one man to one woman. I’d think they’d have told you about that at school.”

  “Mostly we talked about God, not men. So it is very different for the pakeha?”

  “Very. As far as Mr. Coffin is concerned, this new lady and Kinnegad ma’m are truly part of his whanau, but it’s kind of a secret whanau. You must help keep this secret from Mrs. Coffin ma’m as well,” he told her sternly. “This is very important. As far as Mrs. Coffin ma’m is concerned, Kinnegad ma’m is tapu. Understand?”

  “No, but I will do as you say, Mister Elias sir.” She picked up the empty cups and the teapot and set them on an exquisite black lacquer tray which had been smuggled out of the Japans. She believed completely in the Christ God and was so grateful that Mister Coffin sir had paid for her to go to the mission school so she could learn the pakeha language.