Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “There is no reason to fight. I agree with Te Rawana that something must be done, but war is not the way. It is true we have sold much land, but we still have more than the pakeha, much more. Not only do we sell land but the pakeha buys all we can grow. If we war with them there will be no business.

  “What we must do is stop fighting among ourselves. Not just between clans, but between the tribes. The time has come to forget the old feuds.” At the murmuring this induced Te Ohine raised his voice. “If we do this thing then the pakeha will respect us. If he respects us as one people he will not try to use soldiers.”

  “Let him send his soldiers,” Apatu said angrily. “Why are you all so afraid of these soldiers? Te Ohine is right. We must forget the blood feuds and stand together so we can fight together. We have guns of our own and there are pakeha who will sell us more. For ‘hunting.’” He snickered aloud and a few of the chiefs joined him. “Guns are what the white man respects. They are his true god, not this Christ. Guns and gold. The same god will serve us as well.”

  “There must not be any fighting.” Te Ohine was troubled. “You do not know the pakeha as I do, Apatu. I have heard him talk of other people not unlike ourselves whom they have encountered in other lands. Each time the pakeha settled among them they soon found themselves fighting these people. They have won every time. Every time! Because these people always fought more among themselves than they did against the pakeha.

  “That is why he always wins. Not because he is a better warrior.”

  “Certainly not because he is a better warrior,” said an unidentified voice.

  “His enemies fight among themselves,” Te Ohine continued, “until they are too weak to stand against him. Then he makes them do as he wishes.”

  “The clans will never forget their feuds,” insisted Te Haraki.

  “They must!”

  “I do not understand,” said Apatu softly. “You argue for unity but not for war.”

  “That is so. There is a better way than fighting. If we make peace between ourselves we can do as the pakeha do. They are strong because they fight for one ariki, one King.” His eyes swept the gathering. “We must be able to deal with them equally. We must show them we are as strong as they are. We must also have a King.”

  This time there was no discursive muttering. The rest of the chiefs were rendered speechless by Te Ohine’s remarkable and utterly unexpected declaration. Then as they found their voices the meeting room was filled with excited conversation. Only when it subsided was Te Rawana able to speak.

  “A King? There has never been such a thing among the Maori.”

  “You will never persuade all the tribes to accept such a phenomenon,” Raroaki said with assurance.

  “We need not persuade all the tribes,” Te Ohine pointed out. “Only a majority. The pakeha respect strength and unity. If we can unite enough to choose a King it will make the cheaters and the greedy ones afraid and we will be able to deal with the pakeha Governor as one people.”

  “What an extraordinary idea.” Te Haraki’s eyes were shining. “Just extraordinary enough to work?”

  Apatu was muttering to himself. “My clan holds blood feuds with three others who sit in this very room. If we were not meeting under the sign of peace we would be trying to split each other’s skulls. Yet what Te Ohine says makes sense. I still think,” he said, raising his voice, “we will have to fight, but it would be better to fight side by side. I will try this new thing, yes, I Apatu say I will try it. But,” and he glared up at Te Ohine, “there is one thing yet I am not sure of. If this fails and we have to fight, can I be sure Te Ohine would fight alongside me like a brother? You have many friends among the pakeha. You do so much business with them. Can I be sure of my brother? Can I know he is thinking more of me than his light-skinned friends?”

  Te Ohine replied with remarkable aplomb. “I am not a white Maori. It is true I have friends among the settlers, but I have more friends in this room.”

  “Enemies too,” Apatu reminded him. “Your tribe is not feud free.”

  “That is so. Yet I will put them aside so that we may confront the pakeha as equals.”

  Apatu leaned back. “I am satisfied.”

  “We must have a King, then,” said Omatuto. “But who?”

  “Not I,” said Te Ohine quickly.

  “Nor I,” Te Rawana added. “I have not the wisdom nor the manner.”

  “Then we must seek answers at the House of Learning.” Te Ohine and Te Rawana had by now formed an unspoken alliance despite the difference in their ages.

  A delegation was chosen to put the question before the assembly of tohungas. To no one’s surprise, the spiritual masters were as stunned by the concept as the ariki had been.

  “This is not a matter to be decided in haste,” the senior tohunga told the chiefs in a quavering voice.

  “We agree, but it must be done quickly.” Te Ohine saw Te Rawana nod in agreement. “Do not take too long. The pakeha are constantly on the move. The sooner this is decided the easier it will be to deal with them.”

  The tohunga retired to consider. Meanwhile the chiefs discussed the question among themselves, though they did not put forth their favored candidates. It was a matter for the tohunga to decide.

  At last the wise ones achieved a consensus and reported to the council. The tohunga who addressed the ariki was pleased. “If this thing can be made to happen we believe the spirits will look on it favorably.”

  “The spirits, yes, but what of the Christian god?” Raroaki inquired.

  “I have studied the white man’s scripture,” the tohunga replied, “and I find nothing in it that would object to a Maori King.”

  “This man will still be only a man, an ariki, one of us,” Omatuto reminded them all. “He will not rule as the English King rules. That would not be possible.”

  “We all know that,” said Te Ohine. “We are Maori still, not pakeha. But the pakeha will not know this. They will only see that we have a King whom most of us stand behind.”

  There was more debate but the course had been chosen. The ariki selected was one of the most dignified and respected of all the chiefs, senior but still a powerful warrior. In the manner of Kings, Te Whereowhereo chose a new name, calling himself Potatu the First.

  When all was done the chiefs themselves were dazed, unable to believe what they’d accomplished in so short a time. Yet they did not celebrate. It had been a difficult and controversial decision and those who disagreed left the meeting with bitterness in their mouths.

  Te Ohine and Te Rawana found themselves alone off to one side, watching as the ariki made preparations to return with the news to their respective villages.

  “This has been a great day,” Te Ohine murmured.

  “Yes. Te Whereowhereo—excuse me, Potatu—will deal forcefully with the pakeha Governor.” He went silent for a while, considering, then spoke softly so none could overhear.

  “Now you must tell me what you truly believe, Te Ohine. You know the pakeha better than most of us. How will they react to this announcement of a Maori King?”

  “It is difficult to say. The pakeha are unpredictable.”

  “Even your friends among them?”

  “Especially my friends among them. Some will consider it a provocation and argue for war. Others will think it a fine thing that we have decided to be like them in this fashion.” He grinned ruefully. “Most will be so busy trying to make money they will ignore it.

  “Meanwhile we must work hard to get as many tribes as possible to acknowledge Potatu, if only as their representative in dealing with the pakeha government.”

  “You ask much.” Te Rawana was doubtful. “From what I have seen of our brothers it will be all we can do to get those who agreed here to continue their support. One can speak of forgetting feuds that go back through generations. Getting the ariki involved to actually do so is another business.”

  “Even so, we must try. While I have many friends among the settlers and n
o desire to go to war with them, I fear their numbers.” Te Rawana looked startled and Te Ohine smiled back at him. “Just because I argue in council against hotheads like Apatu does not mean I disregard his arguments. The pakeha breed like rats. Their roots sink deep into our land. We cannot pull them out, but we can slow them down. We must, or as Te Haraki said there will be no room left in Aotearoa for the Maori.

  “Yes, I have many pakeha friends, but I will not end my days sleeping on the beach either!”

  There was a celebration for those chiefs who had not left by nightfall. After consultation with his personal spiritual advisor, John Mathis, one of the Christianized chiefs, agreed to submit to the ancient ritual of facial tattooing. Many of the Christianized Maori had given up tattooing in order to look more like the pakeha, who regarded facial scarring as barbaric.

  But Mathis was caught up in the fervor surrounding the selection of a Maori King. Older ariki sat and watched him with quiet approval as the tattooing was begun, nodding and smiling to themselves as the first elaborate whorl appeared on one cheek.

  “I have read the pakeha scriptures,” John Mathis told them, speaking to take his mind off the pain, “and there is nothing in it that speaks against tattooing one’s face or body. There are pakeha priests who insist it is not a Christian thing to do, but I cannot see how this makes me less of a Christian in God’s eyes.”

  “They will continue to call it barbaric,” said Te Haraki. “That is the pakeha way. Our carvings are barbaric. Our dress is barbaric. Everything about us is barbaric.”

  “Except our land and the food we sell them,” Omatuto pointed out.

  “Let them say what they will.” Mathis flinched as the tattooer’s needle went in deeply. “I will show them a man can be Christian and Maori at the same time. Besides, do not their women decorate their faces? They punch holes in their ears and hang rings from them. How can tattooing be barbaric and ear punching not?”

  “Even to those who know him well the pakeha can be difficult to understand.” Te Ohine knew whereof he spoke.

  Abruptly and without making proper obeisance a tutua, a commoner, burst into the room. He glanced excitedly from one ariki to the other until his gaze fell on Te Rawana.

  “You must come quickly, great sir!”

  “What is it?”

  “Apatu and Waraki are fighting. I fear one will kill the other.”

  “Waraki?”

  Te Ohine was struggling to rise. “I know him. He and Apatu’s tribe have a blood feud that goes back three grandfathers. I told you it would be difficult, but we must do better than this. Our King is not yet a day on his throne and already his followers are fighting among themselves.”

  They hurried from the house. “If we cannot stand together for even a day,” Raroaki was saying, “how can we stand together when the pakeha traders offer gold to any willing to set their mark to paper?”

  “I do not know,” Te Ohine replied as he huffed to keep pace with the younger Te Rawana, “but I know only that we must. For if we fail then what Apatu declared will surely come to pass.”

  “You think there will be war?”

  “I do not wish to say that.” They could hear the sounds of fighting coming from behind one of the elaborately carved granaries that were found in every Maori village. “But I have seen that gold can be a more deadly weapon than the finest greenstone war club. I have never feared the pakeha would push us off Aotearoa, as Te Haraki does. But I have always been concerned that they would buy it out from under us.” They were almost to the granary. Omatuto was drawing his knife and Te Ohine moved to stop him.

  “No. This must be ended without bloodshed. If an ariki is slain under the sign of peace then Potatu will be King in name only.”

  Omatuto stared hard at the other chief. “Apatu is my kinsman. I am bound to aid him.”

  “We are all your kinsmen now, Omatuto. It is true you must go to Apatu’s aid—but his enemy here is not Waraki. It is the pakeha who has no name and no face.”

  Omatuto considered this as he stood there panting heavily. At last he nodded and resheathed his blade.

  Together the ariki rushed to separate their brothers.

  3

  Hull studied the men clustered around him. They weren’t a very dignified lot and he knew it, but they were enough to impress the Governor. They’d have to do. He’d had a tough enough time getting this bunch to back him. He’d almost managed to persuade young McQuade to join them—he still thought of McQuade as young despite the Scotsman’s wealth—but at the last minute he’d decided against coming.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Hull had pressed him. “Where’s your backbone, man? Are you going to be like the rest of these fops and let the Maori push you around?”

  “I’m not aware any Maoris are pushin’ us around, Tobias,” McQuade had replied.

  “No? What about the Hamptons, then, ay? What about them?”

  William Hampton had seen his farm burned, his livestock slaughtered and his crops stolen by Maoris up near Mt. Egmont not three days previous. Everyone in Auckland knew about it by now and while there had been plenty of angry murmuring and talk of seeking vengeance no one was quite sure what to do about it.

  Entreaties had been made to the Governor’s office. The matter would be taken under advisement, the supplicants were informed. They were mollified but not pleased. The Hamptons weren’t the first. McQuade knew that as well as anyone. But the Maoris had been careful—or perhaps they simply knew how reluctant pakeha officialdom was to use force. A farm burned here, a timber operation halted there, a wagon looted while journeying northward from Wellington: these were isolated incidents. It was hard if not impossible to identify the culprits responsible for such acts. And there were instances of white highwaymen staining their skin with tobacco and dressing themselves as Maoris to mislead their victims. The Governor was only being prudent in disavowing indiscriminate reprisals.

  Not every man in Auckland was as sensible as the Governor, however. Hull and his friends considered all Maoris to be thieves at heart if not in fact. It was necessary, Hull knew, to teach the natives a lesson. Cut a few throats and this intermittent raiding and looting would cease immediately. He said as much to McQuade, which was a mistake. He could tell by the expression that came over the younger man’s face that he’d lost him.

  “Not all such incidents are entirely without reason. There are proven instances where the Maoris have been provoked.”

  “Provoked?” Hull could feel his face turning red. “What possible provocations could justify siding with the heathens?”

  “Let me remind you, Tobias, that not all of them are heathens anymore, though that’s beside the point. Each occurance must be considered separately from others of a similar nature. There is the incident, for example.”

  Hull turned away in disgust. “The incident! That’s all you or anyone else can talk about when you try and talk sense to them about the natives.”

  There was no need to speak of it further. The case of the three Godwin brothers was too well known to require discussion.

  They’d been prospecting for gold and silver outside New Plymouth, far down the western shore of North Island. Samuel Godwin, the youngest of the brothers, had come stumbling into the town one evening, dripping blood, missing an eye, and nearly dead from, starvation. To those who found him he told a rambling, half-coherent story of how Maoris had come down out of the hills to trade with him and his brothers. Of how the Godwins had traded fairly with them only to be set upon one night and slaughtered in cold blood, their goods stolen, their gold spirited away.

  Samuel told of how his brothers had been cut to pieces a little at a time until they’d died in agony. He’d escaped only because the Maoris had discovered the brothers’ cache of liquor. He’d bided his time until they’d fallen into a drunken stupor, then loosened the bonds and slipped away into the woods. Only a beneficent God had preserved him long enough to tell the tale.

  The resultant outcry was such that e
very able-bodied man in New Plymouth promptly armed himself and joined in an expedition to deal the bloodthirsty savages a lesson they’d never forget. Shopkeepers and farmers marched into the interior with death in their eyes.

  Only the determined intercession of a local merchant who frequently dealt with the local tribes prevented the men of New Plymouth from massacring the first family of Maori they happened upon.

  This family told a tale different from Samuel Godwin’s. There were still many in the expedition who would have murdered them out of hand anyway. Fortunately, their leaders were men of common, if not good, sense. After much talk and not a little violent disagreement it was decided to send a small party of volunteers, in the company of the insistent merchant, to the nearest village of unrepentant savages. Despite the urgings and entreaties of Sam Godwin it was determined that there would be no shooting until this brave group concluded their parley.

  The chief of the village knew the Godwin brothers well and readily admitted to the murder of the two elder brothers. Quite taken aback by this guileless and unprovoked confession, the leaders of the punitive expedition found themselves listening to a portion of the story Sam Godwin had neglected to include in his impassioned recitation. By way of conclusion the chief sorrowfully showed his visitors the still unburied bodies of the two young women the Godwins had abducted, repeatedly raped, and subsequently strangled. He then apologized if he had offended the pakeha’s sense of justice.

  The men of New Plymouth quietly told him they were not offended.

  Upon returning to the main body of the expedition it was discovered that Samuel Godwin was nowhere to be found. Seeing that his deceptive attempt to gain revenge for his dead kin was bound to fail once his companions commenced talking with the Maori instead of shooting at them, he had prudently absented himself. Though his former neighbors searched diligently he was never seen again in New Plymouth province or anywhere else in New Zealand. It was surmised he’d fled to Australia. He was not missed.