Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  She smiles still, remembering. Slowly now, lest she attract his attention too soon, she removes bonnet and bodice, lays them on a mossy stump. Rolling her damp shoulders in the cool air, she stretches up to unpin the long hair — darker than Conrad’s, but still light enough to attract ribald jokes downriver — to let it fall free down her back. At ease now, naked to the waist like him, she steps out into his line of sight.

  Conrad sees her immediately. His instincts and reactions are always quick. Perhaps he has been watching all along. He stops his sawing for a moment and raises one great arm, all his teeth showing in a grin wide as a dog’s. With the raised hand he now indicates the line along which the tree will fall, and motions her to move a little to one side. She waits. The crack, loud as a musket volley, comes a few moments later. Conrad steps back quickly as the bushy canopy high above sways forward, slowly at first, then with frightening speed. Whump! Down it comes, filling the little clearing with thrashing branches, exactly along the line Conrad has indicated.

  ‘Aha! Ha!’ his triumphant shout echoes off the standing trees. He scrambles onto the great trunk and for a moment poses there, fists high, like a prize-fighter. Then he flips into a handstand and proceeds along the fallen tree, hand over hand, sure as a cat, towards her. With another flip he is back on the ground, right side up, red-faced and laughing. ‘See that, Ana? Look, I have let the sun in!’ He lifts his head as if to drink the bright shaft of light. Already fantails are cartwheeling through the sunlight, feasting on the clouds of insects disturbed by the fall.

  ‘Yes, you big show-off, and by nightfall you will have destroyed all this cool shade. There is more than enough sunlight out beyond.’ But she can never be truly angry with this fascinating young man, who has so changed her life.

  ‘You don’t like sun?’ he shouts across to her, grinning because they have often argued the matter. ‘Sun, warmth: they are the gift of God. That blue sky, eh? Deep as oceans!’

  He picks his way through the fallen trash of branches to take her arm and lead her to a mound of moss. For a while they are quiet together. He strokes the warm brown skin of her back, and the curve of her belly where the baby grows. But when he tries to pull her into his arms she holds back, smiling.

  ‘Conrad, this is not a pleasure visit. I am at work.’

  ‘And I. But a lad must rest between felling trees.’

  ‘Then rest.’

  ‘And how is a servant of the bishop’s working when she takes off her clothes and visits a man alone in the bush?’

  Anahuia frowns. ‘I am not a servant, Conrad. I choose to work there.’

  ‘Oho! You choose?’ But he will not push this dangerous matter further.

  They speak mostly in Danish, hers heavily accented and laced with Maori words, his coloured by a curious lilt, different from the bishop’s but clearly understood by her.

  Conrad, not one to rest for long, now stands and stretches his full height. Damp blond hair curls from his shoulders to his navel; his muscles are firm under pale skin that never browns. He opens his arms to her and grins his invitation. His arousal is quite evident. The successful felling of the tree, the sight of her naked skin and heavy breasts have excited him, but he knows better than to force her; despite her status, Anahuia is always a woman to be reckoned with.

  She stands now too. Not as tall as him but remarkable for a young woman. She is not beautiful. Her people at the kainga find her ugly — the smoky eyes unnerving in her pale brown face, the body too scrawny, the fact that she is a good head taller than the chief, insulting. Conrad — this young wanderer who can sing a hundred sea-songs and tell wonderful stories, who can carve wood or bone into any likeness that takes his fancy — this popular giant of a fellow is the only man to have shown any interest in her as a woman, and she loves him for it. But now she places a hand against his bushy chest.

  ‘Later, perhaps. With luck. I am sent by te tihopa, the bishop. He wants you to come up to the house when you have finished work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A visitor has come from Wanganui.’

  Conrad frowns. ‘That is no reason.’ In the twelve-month he has worked breaking in this land he has visited the house rarely — for the feast of Christmas and the like.

  ‘I think he said the visitor knew you.’

  Conrad breathes in sharply. Anahuia notices with interest that he has completely forgotten about any lovemaking.

  ‘Did you see the visitor?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did the bishop seem?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘Not angry? Disturbed?’

  ‘No. More … what is the word? Like he is with a new book. Sharp, and pleased.’

  For a moment the big man is silent. Then he groans. ‘Ah, sweetheart, I have a bad feeling about this. Should we run off now? Would you come?’

  ‘You know that’s not possible.’

  Conrad is silent again, thinking. Anahuia, fearful that he might indeed run off as abruptly as he appeared over a year ago, is sharp with him. ‘Conrad, you are a big strong man and this is a country where people make their own lives …’

  ‘You do not.’

  ‘Don’t bring me into this. That is different. Go up to the house. Meet the visitor. It may turn out to be a great pleasure. Or, if it is a fear, better to face it here.’

  ‘Ana. No one — no one — could have followed me. Not one soul knows I am in New Zealand.’

  ‘Who said it was a visitor from the old world? It could be some drinking friend from Wanganui.’

  Conrad looks up at the patch of blue sky unveiled by the fallen tree. ‘Ah, no. There is a different feel here.’

  Anahuia snorts. ‘You are worse than my kuia down at the kainga, reading signs and portents into every simple event. A visitor, the bishop said. Visitors are rare and to be welcomed. You would think some executioner had arrived.’

  ‘Oh God, Ana, don’t say it!’

  She has never seen him anything but confident and carefree: a blond giant who would argue and sing all night and then do the work of three next day. This mood of his frightens her. Whenever he has spoken of his past, the story has been laced with fabulous beasts and magical adventures to make you laugh and gasp and end up with no idea where the truth, if any at all, lay.

  If there is something dark in his past, she wants him to face it here. ‘The bishop,’ she says carefully, ‘is an important man and a fair one. You are a valued worker. If there is something — or someone — to fear, what better ally to have than the bishop? Or what better judge if there are … matters … to be answered?’

  Conrad laughs suddenly and she laughs with him, relieved to see his mood change. ‘Jesu, sweetheart, you should be the bishop. You would persuade a block of stone to move uphill. Well, we shall see who on earth thinks he knows Conrad Rasmussen, eh?’

  ‘There is a clean shirt drying on the roof of your hut. And wash off the sweat before you come. The bishop is a man for dressing in the evening.’

  ‘And will you be there?’

  She laughs. ‘Ae! I will think of some work to keep me late at the house tonight. I’ll be watching somewhere, count on it. And Conrad … be polite. The bishop likes good manners.’

  She is teasing him and he knows it. Conrad Rasmussen roars through life with no regard for status or the conventions of society. Mostly his charm and high spirits earn him forgiveness. The occasional reprimand rolls off his back like rain off a leaf.

  Which make his odd disquiet now all the more puzzling.

  3.

  UP AT THE big house everyone is shouting and running. Louise is dashing towards the pataka where the tobacco is stored; Olga, the daughter-in-law, charges out of the house, holding her little son with one hand and flapping wildly with the other. The child is screaming. Bishop Monrad himself stands in the yard directing operations, while his wife and younger daughter bring him burning candles. In the fading light of evening the scene resembles a wild dervish dance: pale figures, dressed for
a quiet evening, capering through the flower-beds and vegetable gardens, arms whirling, never still for a moment.

  Conrad, striding up past the lagoon in his clean shirt, hair neatly tied back, can guess what has happened. Someone will have left a shutter open and mosquitoes have invaded the house. The maddening little pests are very bad this evening; near the water they hang in thick curtains, and only his constant movement keeps him ahead of them. He grins to see the pandemonium, glad to arrive when the centre of attention is elsewhere.

  ‘Louise! The leaves here!’ instructs Monrad. The smoke from burning tobacco leaves is his own discovery as a potent destroyer of mosquitoes. Now he damps the leaves with water from the rain barrel and gives them to Anahuia. She takes them and a candle and calmly goes into the now empty house to light the leaves in a pot on the hearth.

  Soon clouds of smoke are streaming out of the door. No one will be able to go back inside until the choking fumes have dissipated, but at least the mosquitoes will be dead. Monrad places another bundle of leaves ready at the door against further invasions, and leads his family in a brisk walk away from the lagoon and towards the newly cleared field, where sheep are grazing among the stumps.

  ‘Karen, let me hear your English lesson,’ says the bishop as he walks. His younger daughter answers clearly, in the language Conrad still finds awkward. He stands in the shadow of a tree and searches the faces in the half-light. None is new. All are family. The bishop and his wife Emilie, the two daughters, Olga the daughter-in-law and the grandson Ditlev. The two sons, Viggo and Johannes, are away up north. Where, then, is this mysterious visitor? Conrad decides to hold back from joining the party just yet, and slips around behind the house in search of Anahuia.

  This is the largest house in the district: four rooms downstairs, two above. Bishop Monrad was an important man back in Denmark — prime minister as well as bishop. He has bought property and built a house worthy of his past status. Already the homestead at Karere is a magnet to other Danes driven out of their homeland by the war or simply looking for a new life in New Zealand. Some, like Conrad, have been employed by the bishop; others have visited and moved on. Conrad had heard about this determined, strong-willed politician, admired in the early days for his hand in establishing the first Danish Parliament but later vilified for his part in the war. Here, in his new country, the bishop has become an inspiration to others struggling to make their way. The Monrads don’t sit down and weep over the past. Every member of this family works like the devil.

  Conrad, who took part in the Danish war unwillingly and whose interests lie in directions other than politics, admires the stern man for his work habits and his fairness as an employer, but has never become a friend, choosing rather to mix with the Danish workers who come and go and sometimes with the Maori from Anahuia’s kainga and those downriver at Jackeytown.

  He finds Anahuia outside the back door, tossing a shovelful of dead mosquitoes into the evening air. She smiles to see him neatly dressed, and draws him quickly into the house, kicking the door closed behind her, before further swarms invade. Inside the door an oven dish heaped high with the pests is ready for the same disposal.

  ‘Quick now,’ says Anahuia. ‘Open and close the door for me!’

  ‘But where is he …?’

  ‘She smiles at his impatience. ‘Wait till this is done. Now!’ And out she whirls, tosses the insects and is back in again as fast as he can heave the door this way and that.

  Inside, the smoke is less thick, though the tobacco stench is powerful. Anahuia wrinkles her nose. ‘It’s all very well for the bishop. He loves his pipe. How will they enjoy this piece of mutton when it is laced through with tobacco smoke?’

  ‘Ana! The visitor?’

  She indicates the stairwell. ‘Shh. He’s upstairs sleeping, behind a door, under a mosquito net. No idea about all this fuss! He’ll be down in his own good time. Te tihopa says not to disturb him — he’s had a long trip.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘For a moment. Not to notice much. Small man. Dark hair.’

  ‘Naval? I mean, in uniform?’

  ‘Conrad, what is all this about?’

  ‘Just tell, woman.’

  ‘A seaman maybe, by his walk. But then they all walk that way after months on the water. I wouldn’t know naval or no.’

  ‘Ah, sweetheart, what’ll I do?’

  Anahuia’s grey eyes narrow. They can be iron-hard sometimes, in her brown face, beneath the fine dark eyebrows. ‘Conrad, you will stay and find out. Te tihopa Monrad is pleased about the visit. There is maybe a happy secret about it. Not some bad thing. That is how I feel it.’

  Conrad grunts, thinking. He drums his fingers on the rough wool of his trousers, then nods. ‘Let us see, then. Ana …’ His blue eyes, in a face a world different from hers, are anxious. ‘Ana, there are things in my life … my stories are sometimes not quite … well, maybe you need to hear other things.’

  She faces him squarely. ‘Your life here is what is important, not what you came from.’

  ‘Easy for you to say that.’

  ‘No!’ The word is fierce. ‘Not easy. I could fill the air with laments. A sad saga with weeping and howling like a dog. But what use is that? Today is more important. And tomorrow.’

  He smiles at her. ‘Well, maybe true, sweetheart. But sometimes my yesterday knocks, wanting to come in. I try to forget it, that life in another ocean. But there it is.’

  She pushes him through the big living room towards the front door. ‘Tell or not as you wish, you big ox. And I will listen. But now is not the moment. Light these leaves at the door to help them all get back in safely. Here comes Louise, singing to keep their spirits up.’

  He sighs, then kisses her with unusual tenderness and lets her go back to the kitchen.

  NAPOLEON Haraldsen has been in a deep sleep, upstairs in the bishop’s house under his mosquito net, for twelve hours. He heard neither the rumpus over the insects, nor the voice of his old friend below. For four days he had ridden south over the most unsettling terrain he has ever encountered. Even that terrifying battlefield at Dybbøl had been open land — you knew where your enemy was. Here, everything was strange and unknown. Hidden. God knew what or who might be lurking behind the densely looming trees. Also, his progress was atop a horse. Napoleon could manage any kind of water transport, from full-rigged sailing ship to tiny rowing boat, but the jolting, creaking gait of a horse was an utterly new experience to him and it seemed that every bone and muscle in his young body complained of the treatment. Sometimes he dismounted and walked beside his horse, but then the scale of the trees towering above him, his own insignificance among all this lonely grandeur, began to intimidate him, and he would remount, just to feel bonded again to a creature of flesh and blood.

  Wanganui itself was not so difficult. The small town on the river seemed familiar enough, with its streets and houses and noisy businesses. The captain of his ship allowed him to live on board in return for occasional work, and the gentle rise and fall of the ship, its knock, knock against the solid wood of Taupo Quay, comforted him each night. For a week he wandered the streets enjoying the new sights, asking — in a colourful English learned from a Cornish sailor during the journey out — after Enok. Always he drew a blank. Bishop Monrad, though, was well known. The local preacher, Reverend Taylor, a kind man and a good friend of the bishop’s, helped him to buy a horse and provisions and described the fifty-mile journey down to Karere.

  ‘There are rivers to cross,’ he said, ‘which require some care. The bishop has lost a good friend, drowned in a river crossing. Do you swim?’

  Napoleon nodded, too ashamed to admit that he couldn’t. Swimming in the cold waters of the Faroe Islands was considered a foolish activity, and none of his friends had learned the skill.

  ‘If the river is shallow,’ said Taylor, with a shrewd look that made the lad blush, ‘stay on the horse, leave the reins slack and let him walk you through at his own pace. If the river is deep
, it is better to dismount and hold tightly to the saddle. Your horse will swim sturdily and you may float safely alongside him.’

  Napoleon wanted to ask how many deep rivers lay in his path, but only frowned in what he hoped was a manly fashion, and nodded.

  ‘And if the river is in flush from a storm — if large logs are tumbling downriver — do not under any circumstances attempt a crossing till the waters subside. The rivers in this country are surprising and dangerous. They rise and fall quickly. We are not used to such moods, as many settlers have learned to their cost. They call it the National Death here — drowning.’

  ‘Ay then, thanks to you,’ said Napoleon, hoping the warnings were over. And that he had understood the crisp English words fully. His sailor friend had spoken slowly, with much thought and chewing of his tobacco between one sentence and the next.

  Taylor smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You look a lively lad, you’ll do fine. All your countrymen seem to thrive on the settler’s life, even Monrad, who must surely have been used to more refined conditions. Take your time. The natives are mostly friendly down towards Foxton and will help when you need it. If they invite you to sleep or eat with them, accept gracefully.’ After a pause he remembered another piece of advice. ‘And don’t call the town Foxton. It’s not a popular name down there. The old name is Te Awahou.’