Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  She was used to men staring at her, but the longer he did so the more she grew aware this was different. It was unsettling: not threatening, but disquieting in a manner she couldn’t identify. She set food and drink before him, expecting him to dive into it with all the grace of a hog at the trough. Again he surprised her. Hungry he obviously was, but he ate slowly and with good, if not elegant, manners, chewing slowly for someone who hadn’t eaten in a day.

  “I suppose you’ve come to the Tarawera District to see the Pink and White Terraces.” These were, she’d been told by European visitors, the two most spectacular hot spring formations in the whole world, unsurpassed in their size and beauty. Across the lake, water that ranged from tepid to boiling tumbled in magnificently colored cascades down pure limestone, leaving behind frozen waterfalls and mirror-like travertine pools, until at last seeping into the cool blue water of the lake itself.

  “I’ve heard of them,” he said around a mouthful of bread. “I would like to see them, but that’s not really why I’ve come this way.”

  “You said you were traveling west. What’s your ultimate destination?”

  He had a maddening habit of not replying directly to her questions, instead poured himself another glass of well water. “What are you journeying for?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just seeing the country. I’ve been all over North Island and much of South. Been to Australia, too.”

  “I’ve heard of Australia. There are no Maoris there.”

  “That’s right. Just slim people black as the button on your dress.”

  She glanced down at the button in question, then back up at him. “Not really? Black?”

  He nodded somberly. “With hair like sheep’s wool and broad flat noses. Some say they can talk to the Earth. Their music makes men shiver and they run about more naked than the first Maoris. They live in the middle of a land so dry it never rains there, a place where you or I would die in a few days.” He looked down at his glass, suddenly troubled. “The pakehas there treat them very badly.”

  “Are the pakehas everywhere? We Maoris have only Aotearoa. If the pakehas would only understand that, this war would stop.”

  “I agree with you.”

  “But you are a pakeha.”

  He looked up sharply. “Not all pakehas are bad. You work for one, don’t you?” She had to nod at that. “One of the sad things is that there are a lot of Maoris and pakehas who just like to fight.”

  Such a strange man, she thought. One moment he appears rough and crude, the next educated and experienced. Then the import of what he’d mentioned so casually finally sank home.

  “You mean you have been walking all around the islands for a long time?”

  “Several years now.”

  She gazed at him in astonishment. “You should be dead. Shot by Maoris or by pakehas who would consider you a deserter.”

  “I keep to myself and I like the woods. I’m as at home in the forest as the city. I’ve sold the location of Maori hide-outs to pakeha scouts. I’ve watched the pakeha army on the march and given knowledge of its course to Maori warriors.”

  “I do not understand. Who do you support?”

  “Both. Neither. I view the whole stupid confrontation with sublime indifference.” For an instant his expression darkened so terribly that she was frightened. It vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. “You see, I have my own wars to fight. I can’t be bothered with the foolish concerns of settlers and chiefs.” He smiled at her again, that wonderful reassuring smile, and she relaxed.

  “Too much talk of war when there’s so little peace,” she finished.

  She found work to occupy her hands if not her mind, standing at the sink. “I do not understand you. You’ve been many places. Where is your home?”

  She thought that fury so briefly glimpsed might return, but he calmed himself. “My home is wherever I happen to be at the moment.”

  “Well, where is your family, then? Your mother and father?”

  “My mother died six years ago. Syphilis. A white man’s disease. Not a pretty death.”

  Merita had seen people die of that dreaded affliction and shuddered for him. “I am sorry.”

  “Thank you,” he replied with dignity. “My sister was killed at the battle for Haore. As for my father, he died a long time ago.”

  Merita was saddened. The Maori sense of family was stronger than that of the pakeha because in addition to close relatives every Maori child was also part of a whanau, an extended family grouping. The pakehas did not have whanaus, which meant this young traveler was denied even that little comfort.

  He noticed her expression. “Don’t sorrow for me. I’ve learned to live with my fate. In these times I’m not the only one without family left.”

  “That is so.” She scrubbed harder at the pan she was cleaning. “I do wish this war would stop! But who cares what someone like me says.”

  “I care,” he said quietly.

  She smiled back at him. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Most of the meat, bread and cheese she’d placed on the table had vanished. He leaned back and sipped at his water. “This Coffin must be rich.”

  “Oh yes!” She was delighted to shift the conversation to more pleasant topics. “He’s the richest man in New Zealand, I think.”

  “When I entered I thought I heard a child upstairs. His?” He’d risen from his chair and was walking around the kitchen, studying details again.

  Merita hesitated at the unexpected question. “Of course not,” she finally lied. “It’s mine. The father is—a soldier. An officer. A good man.”

  “Everyone’s a soldier these days.” But he didn’t inquire further. It would not have been polite.

  Instead he asked casual questions about the house and grounds. She followed him and answered as best she was able, until quite unexpectedly he turned sharply on her. During the conversation they’d moved closer and closer, until she was barely inches from him. Now his face was very near, those bottomless eyes locked onto hers.

  “This Coffin—is he good to you?”

  “Good? To me?” She was so shocked by his impertinence she could hardly reply. “I just look after his house. If you mean does he pay me well, I am comfortable here.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” His hand was on her shoulder and she felt it through her dress, searing into her skin. “It’s obvious you’re not starving.”

  She pulled away from him, wondering even as she did so why she didn’t strike him. “If you’ve had enough to eat and drink you’d best be on your way. The Reverend Spencer will be here soon and he might find your presence awkward.” She was breathing hard and fast suddenly, not entirely from nervousness.

  Slowly, deliberately, he put his glass aside. “Come now,” he said challengingly, “surely you’re not frightened of me? I doubt anything could frighten you.”

  “That’s right.” She spun back to face him, trying to remember where she’d left the rifle. There, in the far corner. But she didn’t make a dash for it. He hadn’t done anything, had he? “I’m not frightened of anything.” She was closer to the rifle than he. A moment later she had it in her grasp.

  He stopped. “Are you going to shoot me, then?”

  “If I have to. If you make me.”

  He resumed his slow advance. “I hope I won’t.” He was close again and she had to look up to see his face.

  “Who are you?” she whispered. “What do you want?”

  “I’m just a visitor, a friend.” His voice was so low she had to strain to make out the words. “One with no home, no family, no place to go and no hurry to get there.”

  She could have avoided his hand. She could have stepped aside, or moved back, or slapped at it. Instead she stood staring up at him as it brushed her cheek.

  “The question, Merita, is what is it you want? This is a big house, an empty house, and if your child’s father is a soldier then he’s away far more than he’s here. Are you married to him?”

 
“No,” she said truthfully even as she wondered why she was answering his questions. “No, we’re not married.”

  “Well then.” He moved closer still. Her fingers still gripped the rifle but she no longer thought of raising and aiming it. “As a good guest it behooves me to do my best to repay your hospitality—the only way I can.”

  Both hands were on her now, one on her cheek, the other falling to a shoulder. She was breathing so hard she thought her lungs would explode.

  “I’ll scream.”

  He grinned slyly at her. “I expect you will. I may myself.”

  “Kinnegad,” she whispered. “You’re a devil.”

  “No.” He brought his face down toward hers. “I’m no devil, though if it means anything to you, I’m related to one.”

  The first time they made love Kinnegad did so out of a desire for revenge. The second time it was to compound the satisfaction.

  The third time, later that night in Merita’s bed in the maid’s room off the kitchen, a maid’s room decorated far more lavishly than any maid’s room should have been, everything changed.

  At first he was furious with himself. This wasn’t quite the way it was supposed to be, not the way it was supposed to be at all. He wasn’t supposed to get involved in any way, wasn’t supposed to feel anything. He had determined long ago not to care. Nothing was supposed to matter. Just as it didn’t matter to the bastard sharing Merita’s bed whether the bastard upstairs was his father’s or not.

  He’d been told his father’s mistress was beautiful, but the reality was almost too much to bear. His first glimpse of her, standing on the porch with the rifle in her hand, had almost turned him away from the gate, from all his plans. Almost.

  Now that he’d achieved his initial goal nothing else seemed to matter as much. He’d anticipated satisfaction and had experienced it, only to find that something new and unexpected had presented itself. Something he hadn’t been able to plan for.

  It wasn’t hard to learn the truth. Not for one as adept with questions as Flynn Kinnegad. He was good at drawing information out of people without them even realizing they were telling him things they’d never tell anyone else. He could both question and listen well.

  As he lay contentedly on the bed with Merita sleeping by his side the sun began to peer over the horizon. Everything had changed. His plans, the future, himself. Gently he touched the side of her face. She shifted slightly but did not awake. She’d changed him.

  He would deal with it somehow. All his life had been spent in coping with the unexpected, from the time his father had abandoned his mother. He wasn’t going to weaken now.

  Coffin, he thought. Coffin hadn’t been there to see him and his sister Sally cowering in the back of their mother’s hovel while drunken seamen did unmentionable things to her. Hadn’t been there to see his children growing up in rags, begging in the streets. Hadn’t been there when Mary Kinnegad had died writhing in pain from the slow sickness that ravaged her mind and soul as thoroughly as it had her body.

  For years Flynn had considered simply confronting Coffin in a public street and shoving a pistol against his heart. As he grew older he realized such a death was far too easy, too quick for such a man. The debt had to be repaid gradually, thoughtfully.

  He’d long ago ceased thinking of Robert Coffin as his father. He was simply Coffin. Better that way. Only now did he think of him again, because it made this first small triumph better. Sleeping with his father’s mistress was only the beginning.

  Merita opened her eyes and gazed up at him. She was open, inviting, enticing and utterly irresistible. Flynn’s thirst for revenge remained, but it no longer included this woman. She had seen to that. He had come planning to take her, only to find that he himself had been taken. Whatever there was about her was powerful enough to overcome the hatred that had burned inside him all his life.

  She reached for him then and he jerked away. “Good God, woman, have you no shame?”

  “None at all.” She was grinning wickedly.

  “Well, then, at least have some pity.” Her hand was moving again.

  “All right.” She laughed and it filled the room in concert with the rising sun. Then her smile faded and she stared at him meaningfully. “Flynn, my Flynn, what are we to do? Something has happened between us. It will not go away as easily as it happened.”

  “Do you want it to go away?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Nor do I.” He felt safe in moving to embrace her again. Holding her close brought a warmth and contentment he’d never known. His revenge was important, but it would not spoil this new thing. It was all so confusing. What had seemed simple had become complex. Once so certain of everything, he was suddenly sure of nothing. In a single night Merita had shattered the plans of years.

  As always, he thought bitterly, his father had excellent taste.

  “You could stay here,” she murmured.

  “What?” He was so startled he almost let go of her.

  “I could create a job for you. The gardening and landscaping has become almost too much for me to take care of by myself, especially with Andrew to look after. Coffin always hires extra help when he’s staying here. I am sure I could talk him into taking you on.”

  “No!” She looked at him in surprise. “I mean,” he went on quietly, “there’s a better way. I’ll get a job, but elsewhere. Somewhere close by. I’m good at a number of things. If I can’t find anything in Te Wairoa I know I can in Rotorua.”

  There was no reason why his father should recognize him, Flynn knew. The last time he’d seen his son Flynn had been an infant. But if they spent time under the same roof Flynn knew there was no way he could keep his identity a secret, anymore than he could control his emotions.

  “Rotorua’s not that far,” he added.

  “Too far. Anywhere but here is too far.” She kissed him passionately.

  “You could come away with me,” he suggested when he could finally breathe again.

  She sat back and looked uncomfortable. “I almost would, my Flynn. But I’ve only known you a night and a morning. Nor could I ever find a position as satisfying and well-paying as this one. I make enough to support both of us, if need be.”

  “I’ll take care of myself. If you must stay on here, I’ll understand. And it’s good to have such a fine place to play in, a grander house than I could ever afford for you. Though perhaps someday.…” He stared intently at her. “Maybe someday a house just like this one will be yours in name as well as everything else. A house where others clean and wash for you, where you can receive whomever you please whenever you wish.”

  “That does not matter. What matters is that you came to me.”

  “Then I’m content, Merita.” He reached for her and she came to him readily, without hesitation. As before when she was in his arms all thoughts of revenge, of his long-held plans, of the future, faded and died.

  But only while she was in his arms.

  5

  Three years, Tobias Hull thought. Three years it had taken to run Alexander Rui to ground, but the hounds had finally cornered the fox. Three long years of traipsing back and forth across North Island, following rumors and fading trails from east to west, north to south. Fighting in dense forests and up mountain slopes, along gray beaches and through bush country hidden by the mists of hot springs. Three years.

  This time he wasn’t going to get away.

  The pa he and his warriors defended backed against a sheer cliff overlooking the sea. While it made his position unapproachable from the east, it also eliminated any possibility of retreat. There was nowhere for the rebels to run.

  It’ll go differently now, Hull reflected. Not this time would they storm a fortified village at great cost only to discover upon taking it that their quarry had slipped away to freedom yet again. It was true Rui could concentrate all his warriors on the west side of the pa, but if they could take it, the settlers and the army would at last have a real victory.

  Oth
er Kingites commanded deeper allegiance among the tribes. Great ariki led larger bands. But none embodied the darkest fears of the colonists like Alexander Rui. There were no Christianized Maoris in his army, though some like himself had taken Christian names. Rui’s men worhsiped their old heathen gods and tattooed their faces in the traditional manner. The delight with which they engaged in wholesale butchery and slaughter set them apart from their other war-loving but less brutal kinsmen.

  So vile were some of the incidents Rui’s men had perpetrated in the three years of war that even many of his fellow Kingites shunned him. Others whispered that Rui wasn’t pure Maori, that in fact he was largely Melanesian, child of a family that had drifted to the south from other islands. That the barbarities and cruelties he practiced on those unlucky enough to fall into his hands were learned from his cannibal ancestors.

  Now he’d been cornered, not by Stoke or Gold but by a young, unassuming Captain called Philip Marker. In his life Hull had met few men wholly without ego. Marker was among them. Furthermore, he’d accomplished the rare feat of rising to his current position from the ranks of the enlisted. He hardly ever raised his voice, in fact spoke infrequently. He was one of those men who let their deeds do their talking for them.

  His bravery and skill were such that commissioned officers had no choice but to promote him. Though slight of build and plain of appearance he could march for days while stronger, more boastful men fell by the wayside. In his pursuit of the rebels he proved relentless. This brought him the unqualified support of Hull and the other members of the militia who’d been attached to his regiment. Unlike their regular army counterparts, the colonials were not interested in parades, decorations and medals or fancy uniforms. They wished only to return New Zealand to peace as rapidly as possible.

  It had become a stranger war than anyone could have imagined. Though it had gone on for years, the countryside was not in flames. Isolated groups of rebels would appear unexpectedly, sometimes to perish of internal discord before troops could even arrive to confront them. It was more like malaria than a real war, Hull mused. Just when you believed you had it beaten it would pop up abruptly when and where least expected.