Anahuia is pleased to go. She has missed the bustle of life up at Karere. She puts on a proper dress, ties the babies into a sling.
‘I will walk up,’ she says to the impatient Dane. ‘These little ones will not enjoy bouncing along behind you. Tell them I am on my way.’
The fellow frowns at Anahuia’s easy words. He has caught the air of panic up at the house, and here at the kainga there are signs of people leaving. Two families are already paddling downriver, their canoes piled with baskets, a whining dog running along the bank after them. Anahuia’s family seems already to have gone.
And so has Anahuia. While the Dane’s horse frets and stamps, she is already walking steadily upriver, the babies slung over her shoulder, her bare feet slapping the hard mud of the track. She laughs and waves to him, cheerful as the sun itself. He lays heel to flank and gallops away, nervous to be on his own, unsure whether the Maori here are friendly, whether some warriors have remained in the bush to strike where they can.
TE PEETI is in the front room with the bishop. Anahuia leaves the two babies with a delighted Olga, smoothes her skirt and knocks as she has been taught. Both men are frowning over the paper Te Peeti Te Awe Awe holds. The chief is dressed very formally. His tall leather boots shine, his coat and waistcoat are tightly buttoned, his hands encased in white gloves. A gold watch-chain stretches across his front. This is an imposing man. In his working clothes Monrad, bishop and ex-prime minister, seems dowdy in comparison.
The bishop can speak with the chief in halting Maori or better English, but in this important case he wishes to make sure. The official letter is in Maori, and addressed to Te Peeti and other local chiefs. The two men wait while Anahuia reads.
‘This man, the Defence man,’ says Anahuia, rather outraged by the tone of the letter, ‘wishes the chiefs to warn their Pakeha settlers that the uprising in the north has spread our way.’ She looks up. ‘We know that already. He also says that the Pakeha should look after themselves, as no military assistance is available. He advises settlers to move to safer areas with blockades, like Te Awahou.’
‘Yes,’ says the bishop, ‘that is what I thought. But is the letter genuine? It could be a trick to make us move.’
Anahuia looks down at the paper. ‘The words are well written,’ she says. ‘I would guess the man who wrote it is an official. But how would I know?’
Te Peeti listens to this Danish exchange and then speaks in Maori.
‘I have already advised this man that in my opinion the risk is small.’
‘You think we should stay?’ Anahuia asks him.
‘I refer to the bishop, not you. I think he should stay, yes. But tell him that I am about to attend a meeting of all the important rangatira in the district. They are to discuss whether to join the war or take the way of peace. I will bring back news of the meeting. Some favour Titokowaru’s Pai Marire movement. Others do not. I, as te tihopa understands, have already fought on the side of the English queen. And will continue to do so.’
Anahuia translates the speech for Monrad, who reaches for the paper again. Studies it carefully. ‘Other settlers have already gone to Foxton,’ he says.
Te Peeti frowns. He does not favour the name change. ‘To Te Awahou,’ he says. ‘But as I say, you will be safe here. You are under my protection.’
Monrad nods, then looks for the first time directly at Anahuia. ‘What is your opinion? Should we stay? Are we in danger?’
‘I think you should stay,’ says Anahuia, as firmly as she is able. It will not suit her at all if the Monrads go. When Conrad returns he will come to Karere. She wants to be here, safe with this household, until that day.
The bishop’s sharp blue eyes watch her for a moment longer. Then he nods again. ‘We will stay for the moment. But will take the precaution of packing our most valuable possessions in case of sudden news.’ He rises and Te Peeti follows suit. They shake hands. ‘You are a good friend,’ he says to the chief in Maori. ‘Go in the love of God.’
‘And you.’
In the kitchen, voices are raised; the thin wail of babies penetrates the quiet room. Olga knocks and enters. One of Anahuia’s babies, red-faced and screaming, is in her arms. She greets Te Peeti in Maori and smiles apologetically at her father-in-law.
‘Sorry for the interruption but I can’t do anything with this little one. Hungry, I’d say. And now my own fellow has joined the chorus!’ She hands the baby to Anahuia and hurries out of the room. Further screams and the calming voices of women come through the open door.
Te Peeti looks at Anahuia’s baby and then at the bishop. Anahuia opens the blanket a little to expose the pale belly and arms. Te Peeti nods gravely but says nothing.
The bishop clears his throat, holds the door for Anahuia. ‘Thank you. That is all now. Feed your baby.’
She is not sure how he has interpreted Te Peeti’s small approving nod. Smiling, making sure the chief sees her proud manner, she walks out to join the other women.
BUT all Anahuia’s hopes for a calm future are dashed next day, when West, who works for Monrad, gallops past her hut, heading for the larger kainga of Tiakitahuna.
‘The Hauhau are two hours away!’ he shouts. ‘I’m sent to Jackeytown to ask the chief for a large canoe. We are leaving today.’
Old Pakura, taking blankets inside, for the clouds are threatening, snorts. ‘If there’s one thing makes me mad, it’s the way those Pakeha get everything wrong. Hauhau! Can’t they say Pai Marire? A good peaceful name, which that fine Titokowaru has chosen to show he is a good man. And Jackeytown! What is that supposed to mean? Are their ears stuffed with wool that they cannot hear properly?’ She hawks up phlegm and spits. ‘Jackeytown! Horrible!’
Her manner is more sombre when she comes into Matene’s hut a little later. Thunder rolls over the river and the first heavy drops are falling. Anahuia is alone with the babies.
‘Well, after all, it seems we are moving too,’ sighs the old woman. ‘Pack up, girl. Matene has sent word that we are all to join his cousin downriver at Ngawhakarau. Or further, if those northern men keep coming.’
‘But we will be safe here.’ Anahuia is alarmed at this sudden change of plan. ‘They won’t attack us.’
‘Why not? Hasn’t our chief fought with the Pakeha? The fool. Aue!’ Pakura rubs her hip bones. ‘These old legs won’t walk far. I hope there is room in a canoe for me. They have sent the big one up for the bishop’s family.’
A short time later Anahuia is walking downriver, alone. Pakura has found a place in her brother’s canoe; the rest of Anahuia’s adoptive family has already left. As they hurriedly paddled out from the bank, they shouted instructions to Anahuia: to bring the dog; to bury anything left in the hut; to hurry, she would be needed at Ngawhakarau.
Anahuia plods along the narrow track, head down against the rain. Her normal good spirits have deserted her. She has the babies slung tight under her breasts, but neither her blanket nor her flax coat can keep them dry. All three are soaked. The dog, tail between his legs, water dripping off his ears, slinks along at her heels. What if the northern tribes win after all? What if they take the bishop’s land and even the Rangitane land? How will she get news to Conrad if Matene’s hapu move away to some other part of the country?
One of the little babies moves a little, finds her wet nipple and begins to suck. Anahuia walks on.
After another hour the sun comes out and her blanket steams. The babies, lulled by the steady movement of her feet, sleep. Around a bend in the river comes the big canoe, moving in the centre of the river, the paddlers working with a will. She waves but the Monrads do not see her. The bishop, his wife and two daughters, also Olga, the daughter-in-law, with her little boy, all sit near the stern, a great pile of possessions covered with tarpaulin occupying every spare inch of space. The two Monrad sons are not with the group. They are away north, fighting on the British side and protecting their own blocks of land. The sale of this land is now disputed, they say. It is common talk in the k
ainga that the land was unfairly confiscated from the tribes in the first place.
The canoe disappears around another bend — this lazy river winds through every point of the compass on its way to the sea. Anahuia will reach Ngawhakarau almost as soon as the canoe. She heads west now, away from the meandering river. Her path skirts the great flax swamps full of water-birds and frogs. As far as she can see to the south the dark glossy flax bushes grow, their giant grassy leaves crowding this way and that in the mud like the busy jostle of a great war-party. Last year’s woody flower-stalks bristle like spears among the greenery. New spikes are just forming, their more hopeful green tips pointing skywards. When the dark red flowers open the air will be full of the songbirds — tui and bellbird — eager for the nectar, but now it is the rasp of frogs that accompanies her passage.
Anahuia leaves the bush behind and walks in open scrubland, the ground soft under her toes. Countless floods have laid their gentle muddy foundation under her feet. Sand is here, too, blown inland year after year by the relentless westerly wind off the sea. The sun is warm and the breeze brings an occasional sharp spike of salt air with it. Memories of her home on the beaches to the south come back: of her grandmother steaming pipi on an open fire, the sweet smell of the burning driftwood combining with the tang of the shellfish to make saliva nearly choke her with hunger; of playing in the dunes, sand in her hair and toenails and gulls screaming overhead. She walks on with long, even strides, the babies asleep, the basket of food bumping gently on her back. The freedom is intoxicating. From time to time she searches the tussockland north for signs of raiding parties, but the landscape is empty.
Late in the day, as she is sitting on the side of the path, feeding her babies, a cart draws up — a pale young Pakeha couple with their two children and few possessions, a horse pulling the cart and a reluctant cow shambling behind, tugging at its rope and bellowing. The man looks anxious and flustered. He greets her in English, asks a question which she doesn’t understand. Anahuia shrugs, tries Maori and then Danish. Neither works. She points south and urges them on, indicates with gestures that they will find a place to sleep soon. They indicate that they have no room to offer her a lift and are sorry about this. She smiles and waves them on; the village is close by and she is in no hurry.
When Anahuia arrives she finds the village at Ngawhakarau crowded. More than twenty canoes line the riverbank; temporary shelters of canvas or fern frond dot the shore and smoke is rising from dozens of fires. The atmosphere is relaxed, festive: no hint of panic. On higher ground near the marae three carts, still laden, attract a group of children eager to explore the treasures aboard. A kuia shoos them away, waving her switch at them.
Anahuia looks first for the Monrads. Their big canoe lies on the shore, guarded by one of the Danish workers. The family will no doubt be fed and housed up at the marae. But Anahuia has never been formally welcomed onto this marae and is too shy to ask these strangers to bring her in. For a while she stands on the edge of the clearing, waiting. People are bustling back and forth to the eating house and the big wharenui. She glimpses Te Peeti’s wife and sister, but they do not notice or acknowledge her.
The night closes in. No one will see her now. When one of her babies starts crying she turns back to the riverbank. She has already seen where Matene and his family have made their camp and she heads there, dragging her feet. Her day of freedom is about to end.
Pakura waves furiously. ‘Come on, come on, girl — where is that basket? I have the potatoes boiling to mash and no eel to flavour them. Have you been sleeping in the sun? Matene is in a worse mood than usual and I have no eel to sweeten his temper.’
Anahuia dumps the basket of dried eel, and sits beside Pakura, stirring the big iron pot with a stick and feeding her babies at the same time. She is tired now, and happy enough to listen to the old woman’s chatter.
‘You have missed all the sights with your dawdling. Did you see the bishop’s family in the canoe? What a load: I felt sure they would overturn before nightfall. A good thing the river is lazy today. And then at Tiakitahuna, we were on the bank just taking aboard that silly young nephew and some extra potatoes when the big canoe came down. All Te Peeti’s people ran down to the river to say farewell. Singing, of course, and loading the canoe with more food than was wise. And the bishop’s wife and daughters threw handfuls of flowers from their garden into the water and all the girls of the village waded out to take them. Such a sight! All colours of the rainbow drifting on the water! I’ll say this for the lady bishop — she is a good gardener, very good. She will grow ten beans to my one — I’ve seen her garden, which will now go to ruin, I suppose. It’s a sad end.’
Pakura pauses for breath. Tastes the stew. ‘This will have to do. Run over to Matene with a bowlful and then I will tell you a piece of news to make your ears curl.’
Anahuia nods down at her two babies, both sucking away. ‘Couldn’t it wait a moment?’
‘No, it could not. My old legs have done enough work for today. Here, give me those fat little huhu grubs. A pause in their guzzling won’t hurt them.’ Pakura slings one baby over each shoulder and Anahuia takes up the food. As she walks away the old woman is singing a slow, solemn song to the babies. The singing is gentle; for all her grumbling, Pakura has a soft spot for the pale pair.
Matene is sitting at another fire, with a relative Anahuia has not met. They are both drinking liquor and laughing. Anahuia hands each man a bowl of food. Matene looks up, frowns for a moment as if he has forgotten who she is, then grunts and starts eating. As Anahuia walks away he speaks over his shoulder.
‘Things have changed.’
Anahuia is not sure whether he speaks to her or the other man. She waits and now he turns to her.
‘Matters are different now.’
Anahuia speaks with her head down, not looking directly at Matene. ‘What matters?’
‘Ask the kuia, she will tell you.’ Matene waves a hand to dismiss her and turns back to his food.
Could the war have taken a worrying turn? One or two men are carrying guns over their shoulders but there seems to be no hurry to reach a fortified pa or a Pakeha blockade. What matters have changed then, since this morning? Anahuia walks back past the other fires. Chatting families squat close to the flames, slapping now and then at sandflies; the heads of drowsy children poke out under the arms of blanketed women. The marae is quiet. Inside the wharenui lamplight flickers. Te Peeti will be entertaining the Monrad family and the other settlers who are heading for the blockade at Te Awahou. No one would think these people were fleeing from a raiding party. Anahuia begins to think the whole scare has been exaggerated. Perhaps they will all return home tomorrow.
Pakura is quick to hand back the grizzling babies. ‘They are waking the whole camp! Those two have Pakeha voices, nothing surer. And see how their skin glows in the night! You won’t hide your babies from those raiding parties. Titokowaru will eat them for breakfast.’
Anahuia quickly tucks them under her blanket. She is used to Pakura’s gloomy forecasts, but even so … She eats with her fingers straight from the pot, which Pakura has kept warm by the fire, and smiles to feel the babies tugging at her breasts, sucking out the sustenance as fast as she can gulp it down. She is ravenous.
‘What is this matter that has changed?’ she asks at last. ‘Matene said to ask you.’
‘That lazy man would get someone else to carry him to hell. I am tired now; we’ll leave the news till morning.’ She glances sharply at Anahuia. Both know she would rather die than go to sleep with gossip undisclosed.
‘Well, goodnight then,’ yawns Anahuia. ‘Sleep in peace, Auntie.’
‘On the other hand,’ grumbles the old woman, ‘Matene will not forgive me if you wander away in the morning with the matter unspoken. Listen, then.’ Her black eyes gleam in the firelight and she chuckles as she speaks. ‘You are free to go.’
‘Go where?’
‘What does it matter where? Home. Back to your own tribe.
Away. Matene has released your obligation and that of your family.’
‘What! When?’
‘Today. Up on the marae. I heard it with my own ears.’
Anahuia can hardly believe what she is hearing. The news she has longed for, and yet now it brings only dismay. ‘But why?’ she asks. ‘Why now, when he has gone?’
‘What are you talking about, you ungrateful girl? You should thank the gods for Matene’s generosity.’
‘Conrad is gone. I could have gone with him.’
‘Listen, girl, that pale north man is a dream. You live in this country. He lives in another world.’
Anahuia frowns in the dark. She would like to argue with this hidebound old woman but holds her peace until the story is out.
‘So what were his words? How did he speak it?’
‘I was up there in the eating house giving Ereni a hand. Te Peeti and Matene were having a bite and discussing the war. It was Matene spoke first of you. He asked if Te Peeti still found you useful and the chief said if the Danes were leaving then he had no need of a translator. These men are quick to throw away a tool when it becomes blunt. No thought about sharpening it. I well remember when my husband was still alive and my childbearing days were over …’
‘Old woman! You are wandering away from the meat of this story.’
‘Well, and what I was about to say would be good advice, no doubt about it … but now you have made me forget it.’
‘Matene …’
‘That old fellow is all bluster and no balls. He is afraid — that is my opinion, though of course I would not say so to his face. He fears that your pale babies will attract the attention of the Pai Marire warriors, that they will think Matene is a lover of Pakeha, that they will kill not only your babies but him too, and eat his heart to give them strength.’
‘But the Pai Marire are not even in sight! Where are these fearsome eaters of men?’
Catching the Current Page 19