‘Does your father know?’ asked Mikkel, who wanted always to be the same as his hero.
‘Yes,’ said Køne, and wondered whether dead Róland, the ballad-singing father whom he had never known, was watching; whether he could possibly care about his foolish son.
They came to a many-storeyed brick building, crammed among others and backing onto a fetid canal. No lamplight showed, and no sound came from any window.
‘We live at the back,’ whispered Mikkel, ‘above the animals.’
Quietly the two crept through the arched gateway into the yard. A little lamplight leaked from a window here and there, where a family might be late abed — or early rising — but it was easy to keep to shadows. At the back of the square courtyard the smell of livestock rolled out richly from the lower, larger doorways. Rows of shuttered windows showed grey against the dirty brick for three more storeys.
‘The horse stables are on the ground floor, then the cattle above,’ said Mikkel, pointing. ‘We are next floor up, along at the far end. See, over there.’ He looked at his friend anxiously. ‘Ours is not the worst place. There are poorer ones higher up. More crowded.’
Køne had no idea where the lad meant. The idea of so many families crowded side by side into one building, so many eyes that could be watching, unnerved him.
‘Stay here,’ whispered Mikkel. ‘I will creep in and out.’ Fear in his voice.
Køne stayed outside, pressed against a wall with only a pile of soiled straw for company. His own feet were cold, his shame forming like icicles around his heart. When noises began to erupt from behind a tiny window on the third floor — the cry of a baby, other children’s voices and then, suddenly, the angry roar of a man — Køne moved out from the shadows and stood in full view. Shutters flew open. Lamplight fell in a shaft and Køne, trembling a little, stepped into the light. A woman’s voice cried out — in joy, perhaps? And then a high keening wail. That was Mikkel. More shutters opened as other families lit lamps, shouting questions above Køne’s head. He wanted to run, but the thought of Mikkel kept his feet planted.
Now came the sound of clogs on the stairs and the high whinnying of woken horses.
‘Thor’s hammer,’ muttered Køne, ‘we might have been safer back on board.’
A small door between the larger stable doors burst open. A thickset man, grey locks unruly, clad in underwear and cap, raged out. One hand reached for Køne’s shirt and gripped there. The other smashed into nose and mouth with a sickening sound that echoed off the cold stone. Someone above cheered.
Holding Køne upright, the father shouted for all the neighbours to hear. ‘You filth and scum! You cowardly shitbag! You have ruined my son’s career, which we have fought for and planned for. A small boy! Jesus and Mary! You have let our lad take blame in order to save yourself from a simple flogging!’ Again his fist crashed into the pulp of Køne’s nose.
For once the Faroeman did not fight back. The words struck even more cruelly than the blows. His bloody head hung low, his knees threatened to buckle.
‘Herr Waag,’ he said at last, ‘your son loves me, though as you say I do not deserve his devotion. Let him come to sea with me and I will promise to care for him like a father.’
Smash came the fist again. ‘The boy already has a man who has been a father to him. And who can take him to sea in a merchant ship. The navy! The navy was the dream. Now what navy will take him? Or my other sons? Eh?’
From the open window above, Mikkel, changed from a confident ship’s boy to a little child, leaned, nose bloody and eyes streaming. ‘Let me go with him, Father! We will go together. Please, Far!’
The childish wail stung Køne sharper than if he were sliced open with a fish-knife. Here was a small boy lost.
Waag shouted up at the window. ‘Get the boy inside!’ A woman’s thin face appeared briefly, and then the wailing boy was dragged back into the rumpus of the crowded tenement.
Køne tried once more, hardly able to speak through his ruined mouth and nose. One eye was closing. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘the harm is done now. I am truly sorry for it. Let me mend the matter by caring for the boy.’
Waag roared some insult and pushed at Køne, who lost his balance and all but fell into the pile of horse-dung. Perhaps he lost consciousness. By the time he found his feet the high façade was closed against him, the lamps extinguished, the shutters closed.
That was the last time Køne saw Mikkel. For three days he returned to the building, hoping to leave a message or to catch sight of his friend. Once the mother came out. When she saw Køne she growled something and walked past, hatred in her eyes. On the third morning Køne dared to stand in a corner of the yard and sing a snatch of a shanty Mikkel had loved. The Waag shutters remained closed, but a neighbouring window opened and an old man leaned out.
‘He is gone, and his father with him,’ said the old fellow. ‘To sea.’
‘Where bound?’
‘Ah, as to that … French ports most like. Maybe north up the Baltic. Waag doesn’t venture far these days. You would do well to get out too, while you can.’
Køne thought the old man referred to his escapade with the navy, but it turned out other more dire events were on his mind.
‘Denmark is done for,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you heard? Prussians have bombarded our army out of Als. It will be Copenhagen next. Your navy is off to sea again but what can they do? We are beaten on land.’
‘What?’ Køne couldn’t take it in. His head ached, one tooth was loose and sending jabs down his neck, and now this old fellow talked about the defeat of Denmark?
‘You been walking around with your head underwater, lad? We’ve lost the bloody lot. The duchies, Jutland, Als. If something doesn’t happen quick we’ll all be Germans. The king is after Monrad’s hide, Monrad blames the army, the army is blaming both of them, and ordinary folk are running around Copenhagen like headless ducks. Look around you — half of the inner islands are sleeping in our streets. Als is evacuating. It’ll be Funen next.’
‘But the ceasefire? The conference in London? Wasn’t Monrad going to sort it out?’
The old fellow was working himself into a fine rage. ‘Monrad couldn’t sort out a spat in a fish market! He refused to accept the peace terms, didn’t he? Which were dreadful, God knows, but it’d be better than this. We’re the bloody laughing stock of Europe, strutting around laying down the law and then wiped out after one day’s bombardment. Don’t give me bloody Monrad! I tell you, lad, if you can get a place on board anything that floats going anywhere, take it. Otherwise better start learning German.’
He squinted up at the cheerful morning sun as if it, too, were a dire enemy, spat again and slammed his way back inside.
Køne picked up his sack, which contained one scarlet officer’s jacket, one braided hat and an empty beer flagon, and walked down to the docks.
He signed on as Conrad Rasmussen.
‘And then …’ says Anahuia into the silence.
‘That’s the end of the story, sweetheart.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Wherever a ship sailed. To London. Then to Australia, because Mikkel had dreamed of the South Seas. Then back again. I always hoped to see that little black-head, so lively and determined; I thought he might make it but I never found him. Then, on one voyage south, the bishop and his family and six stout Danish lads were aboard. Wanted to settle his sons where the Monrad name wouldn’t bring a curse down on them. He said he would give me work whenever I wanted, so the next year I stopped off for a look.’
‘And stayed for a while.’
‘Well now, my eye fell on this beautiful woman, didn’t it?’
‘And our story has a sad ending too.’
‘Ah, sweetheart, don’t rub it in.’
‘I liked the parts about Mikkel. Was he real?’
‘He was. I liked him too. I often look up, if I am working near the bishop’s house, to hear a child’s laugh. I think Mikkel might have made it here, as I did
, drawn to a Danish settlement. He was so set on his new Zealand. But of course he would have a man’s laugh now. And has no doubt forgotten me — or if not forgotten might hate.’
‘And Dahl? That bad officer? Was he real too?’
‘Well now, you have me there! He was a real man and a real hater, but a Dahl? That was a storyteller’s little addition. I never knew his name. In my head, you see, I am thinking of returning to my homeland — and of the family of Dahls who have grown up not forgiving the Rasmussens. Perhaps it was my fear that turned the officer into a Dahl. Can you understand?’
‘Of course. Grudges held for years are a fearful matter. In my own case the grudge against my family was settled quickly and done with.’
‘Done with? You are still a slave! To take a person away from family — that is worse than keeping the grudge, surely?’
‘I am not a slave.’
‘So you say.’
‘I choose to stay here and wait till you come back. Then we will see. You are going back to a grudge still burning.’
‘Perhaps it will be different now. Napoleon said Magnus was dead.’
‘Perhaps. But are you different? Is Otto? Will you pick up old matters and put them on like a well-known cloak and forget this place?’
‘I want to come back, Anahuia, my dear one.’
‘I will wait here. And if things change, remember that I will be back with my family. Ask south for the Pukeroa hapu. I will be waiting. I need you to come back, Conrad Rasmussen.’
5.
Flight
NEW ZEALAND
1868–71
1.
ANAHUIA GIVES BIRTH only days after Conrad has left. Winter is past and new spring growth shows pale on the trees. Pink and white blossom cloud the wild cherries and peaches along the banks of the Manawatu River. The river runs brown and sedate between its banks, ducks bobbing and up-ending in the shallows. A hopeful time of year, early spring: misty mornings and clear days to make you sing at your work.
On this morning Anahuia is indeed singing — one of Conrad’s shanties — while she prepares eels for smoking. She leans forward to reach for another slimy black body and is surprised to feel a little tug inside and warm water run down her leg. Then a long, dragging pain. She gasps, looks to see who might be there to help, but for once her kainga seems deserted. No children running down by the river; no other women preparing food in front of their huts; even the old men, usually chatting in the sun seem to have gone off somewhere. Matene, her … owner … has been away for days and his wife must be visiting downriver.
Anahuia knows that her lowly status will not afford her a proper whare kohanga, where she can stay, warm and sheltered, with women beside her, until the birth is over and her tapu will no longer contaminate the village, but she has hoped that at least old Pakura will come. Pakura has never cared whether you were slave or highborn; she listens to the trees and the spirits and will give any man or woman, rangatira or commoner, the rough edge of her tongue if she feels so inclined. Pakura has a soft spot for the strange, grey-eyed Anahuia, and has given her medicine to help the baby grow properly. But at this moment the whole kainga lies quiet and deserted in the drifting tendrils of mist. Anahuia longs for another face, even a scornful one.
The pain comes again. Surely this is too early? The bishop’s wife said not for two or three weeks. Anahuia sighs deeply — and again — to keep the pain in her back quiet. Moving with difficulty, she picks up the flax rope and the stout stick with which she had planned to hang the eels. Taking these and her blanket, she sets out for the place she has marked but not yet prepared.
Beyond the boundary of the kainga, under the shelter of trees, she finds the small clearing. Here she will be close enough for someone to come and help, but far enough away to give no offence. She lashes the stick between two saplings, low to the ground, as Pakura has told her that women alone at birthing should do.
The pains are coming more swiftly now. Clumsily Anahuia gathers green fern fronds and spreads her blanket on them below the lashed branch. Surely the baby can’t be coming yet?
‘Ahhh, ahhh!’ she cries in panic now. ‘Ahhh!’ It seems an age that she crouches there, moaning with each spasm. The grey river-mist rises chill around her, clinging to blanket and hair.
Panting now, she kneels beside the horizontal branch, knees well apart. She pushes the great bulge of her stomach up against the pole. She has been told this is how you push the baby out — but it hurts. The branch is not well prepared; knobby parts dig into her. She doesn’t want the baby to come with no one to catch it. Tears run down her cheeks. Anahuia has never felt so alone.
‘Conrad! Conrad!’ she shouts, though she knows he is far away. ‘Conrad!’ Again she pushes at the stick.
‘Aue! What kind of woman are you to call on a man? And look at you! Where is the blanket for the baby? Or at least some moss! Lazy girl.’
To Anahuia the scolding is sweeter than honey. Old Pakura, still muttering, bustles into the bush for moss.
‘Now,’ says the kuia, returning with an armful, ‘here I am. Forget that old stick.’
She kneels behind Anahuia, tucking her old warmth into the younger woman’s back. Her strong arms encircle Anahuia’s belly and push down with her. ‘Come on now, woman, don’t leave it all to me or I will be worn out before we are done.’
Anahuia smiles at the grumbling voice. She relaxes, pushes, and almost immediately feels herself split in half as the baby slides out.
Pakura leaps back, laughing at the speed, to catch the little fellow.
‘Small,’ she says to the panting Anahuia. ‘Small, but all parts in place.’
As she wipes the blood and mucus away her chattering voice changes to one of awe. ‘But what is here? Have you given birth to a patupairehe? A fairy of the mist? Aue!’ She looks around fearfully at the mist that hangs low among the branches, drifting upwards from river to sky. ‘Your baby is pale like a ghost. Have the fairies bewitched you?’
Anahuia is too busy to look. The first cry of her son is drowned by her own. Pakura turns from her cleaning to see a second baby, also a boy, also pale as mist, slide out.
The kuia is too nervous to touch him. Anahuia must turn herself to pick up the tiny screaming bundle and hold him close. Amazed, she reaches for the other. Their cords still reach inside her, purple ropes connecting mother and sons.
She laughs at the silent old woman. ‘No, Pakura, this is no bewitching. The father is a man, don’t worry — the pale man up at te tihopa’s block.’
‘All very well,’ mutters Pakura, ‘but I see no sign of decent Rangitane blood.’ She frowns at Anahuia. ‘Or Te Ati Awa. What are you doing producing such uncooked babies? And two of them! So ugly! Matene will not be pleased.’
Later, when the after-birth has been wrapped in moss, ready for burial, and Pakura has returned with a square of blanket to wrap the boys, the old woman smiles at last. ‘There! At least those horrible white slugs are hidden from sight now.’
Anahuia, tired but comfortable, rests on the bed of fern, looking up through the trees. The mist has risen now, and shafts of sunlight stab down to warm the earth.
‘Thank you, Pakura,’ she says. ‘I was frightened.’
‘Anahuia frightened?’ snorts Pakura. ‘I thought I’d never hear those words!’ But her eyes soften to see the three lying there. ‘Well, well, why shouldn’t I help? You are part of our whanau, even if only a slave.’
Anahuia lets the remark pass. The babies are asleep in her arms. The sun warms her. She cannot remember such pleasure, even with Conrad. It is as if she is drugged from a night of feasting and drinking.
Pakura, groaning, lowers herself to the ground beside the young mother. She strokes Anahuia’s dark hair and sings to her. Anahuia drowses.
‘Sleep then,’ says Pakura, ‘You will need to be strong to feed two. And let’s look on the bright side — the babies may grow good black hair soon. I have never seen such baldness at birth! Thank goodness the summer
is on its way. You can leave the boys out in the sun to finish off properly.’
Anahuia grins sleepily at the woman’s chatter.
‘Better perhaps not to speak of that Conrad,’ continues the old woman. ‘After all, he has gone now, has he not? The bishop, now. Or his older son — that man is pale. They would give your babies more mana. I would advise naming the bishop’s son as the father … Matene, though, what does he expect? Good brown sons from his own bloodline?’
Anahuia shakes her head. Matene had tried to lie with her only once. Neither enjoyed it.
Hours later, when Pakura steps into the little clearing with a pot of eel stew and potatoes, Anahuia is sitting up, fresh and smiling, a pale baby on each brown breast.
‘Matene is back. I’ve told him the news, but not the colouring,’ says Pakura, nodding her grudging approval to see both babies sucking away. ‘Anyway, he is more taken up with news from the north. I told the elders they should not side with the Pakeha. Unwise, I said. Bad will come of it. Do those old fellows listen to a wise kuia? They do not. Our man Te Peeti may be a great leader but I can see through him. All he wants is some Pakeha guns to teach Ngati Raukawa a lesson. What does he want meddling in land wars of the north? Let the Pakeha fight their own war, I said. They are the ones took the land away. Did he listen to his old auntie? No, he did not. And now that handsome Titokowaru from the north is winning. And so he should — it’s his land. The Pakeha — and Te Peeti’s men with them — are beaten up at Moturoa. Our people have chosen the losing side.’ She pauses to take breath, wags a finger angrily as if she has Te Peeti in her sights. ‘When will those old men listen to sense? It seems the war is coming our way.’
2.
A FEW DAYS after the birth, one of the bishop’s Danish workers rides into the kainga with a great clattering of hooves. He’s looking for Anahuia. The chief, Te Peeti Te Awe Awe, is up at the big house with an important letter: a warning from the Minister of Defence himself, in Wellington. Will Anahuia come, if she is able, and help with the translation?
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