Pakura drinks noisily from a water gourd. ‘Don’t you be too sure, girl. My cousin’s husband’s brother has gone to join them, and his sons with him, and they live only a half day’s walk from our kainga. There’s plenty of followers lurking in the bush. Titokowaru has said he is coming to clear out the whole Manawatu, that’s what I heard, and why not believe it? Our people will come flocking to his banner, take my word. The Pakeha are right to tremble; they are right to flee to their blockade. Next they will maybe retreat to Wellington itself, and I will be able to pick all the tobacco I want from the bishop’s garden.’
Anahuia is impatient with the old woman’s chatter. ‘Pakura,’ she says, ‘you are worse than doomsday itself. What does Te Peeti say about all this?’
‘Te Peeti says for the settlers to go back to their farms; they will be safe; the tribes will not harm them. And so on and so on. Of course it is to his advantage. He is their friend and they continue to buy the land that he considers is his to negotiate. Oh, I am on to that greedy man! But the settlers are going. You will see tomorrow. The bishop and all his family will be gone to Te Awahou and then far away to their own country. I heard the bishop say so in his own poor attempt to speak our language.’
‘Pakura, you know he speaks quite well.’
‘It sounds like boots on gravel. Too loud, too harsh.’
‘So anyway …’
‘Do you need me to spell out every word? The matter is as clear and straight as the path to the sea. Matene had a debt to pay to Te Peeti. True. Some dishonour he laid on a young nephew of Te Peeti’s, I forget the detail. So Matene paid it by offering you to the chief to be his translator with the bishop. True again. But now the Danes are running away and you are no longer useful so Te Peeti has discharged the debt. The way Matene sees it, you are now more a threat with your pale babies than an asset. So he announces that the debt with your family is discharged. The matter is finished. Lucky girl.’ Pakura packs her pipe with tobacco leaves, pulls a glowing twig from the fire and touches it to the wad. ‘Naturally,’ she goes on, blowing clouds of smoke, ‘no one has consulted this kuia. Who will fetch and carry for me, now that you are going? Who will bring a hot stone to warm these old bones, or weed my garden and dig my food? Eh?’
But her old eyes are sad and she pats Anahuia’s knee. ‘Don’t mind an old woman’s chatter, girl. I will miss you, even though you are strange and have produced the ugliest babies in the world. You are a good one in your heart.’
Anahuia smiles, shifts closer to the old woman and rubs the crooked back, easing the twisted muscles so that Pakura can lie down in comfort. As she kneads she thinks of her quiet walk today and the freedom she enjoyed, of further days stretching ahead: whole days and weeks in which she can walk where she pleases. The thoughts grow large in her until her fingers dig too hard and the kuia cries out.
‘Aue! Are you trying to extract some precious piece of my insides? Enough of your digging. Help me to lie down now, close to this warm fire.’
Anahuia scoops a hollow in the soft river-sand and helps to make Pakura comfortable. Then, tucking her own blanket tightly around her and the babies, she walks to the water and stands, facing the slowly moving river. She moves her feet in the cool mud. Up at the marae there is singing. No doubt many farewell speeches and songs will be performed tonight. Anahuia, tired from the day’s walking and from carrying the babies, is happy to stand there in the dark, letting her thoughts drift. She is not sure what she wants or where she might belong now. Not sure whether she wants to belong anywhere. One purpose is clear, though. She will move on tomorrow, before Matene changes his mind. But her own family — her old family? Will they accept her now she has been tainted by another tribe? Anahuia sighs. Long ago she lost feeling for the hapu who let her go. Conrad has become her homeland but he has gone and will be away a year, maybe even two.
She stands there, tall and blanketed. In the east a half-moon rises above a low bank of clouds. Its white light frosts the water and Anahuia shivers. One of her babies startles and cries out in his sleep. Anahuia smiles and holds him tighter. Singing softly — a tune from her own childhood, a whaler’s ballad that her mother adapted as a lullaby — she moves back to the fire and settles to sleep.
3.
THAT SPRING MORNING, November 1868, was a day Anahuia remembered always. Even when she was an old woman, sitting in her own home, at her own table in a distant place, she would tell the story to her children and grandchildren.
‘Tension was sharp in the air,’ she would say, ‘with the fear that Titokowaru’s men might at any moment come around the bend in their canoes or creep up through the swamps and kill us all. All! Not only the Pakeha! Our people had fought on the side of the Pakeha so could expect the same fate. So at sunrise, at that place in the river that some called Half-Crown Bend but was in truth Ngawhakarau, everything was noise and shouting. Horses were harnessed to carts and canoes loaded. Two or three Pakeha families rattled off on the track to Foxton before my babies were awake. The sweet smell of hot food cooking came from the marae. You could be sure everyone up there would be well fed before they set out.
‘Imagine, little ones, what thoughts ran through my young head that morning! I was free to go where I chose, but how would I fare with two white-coloured babies and no family to support me? If I stayed the Rangitane would feed me, but what respect would I command? None at all. If I returned to Te Ati Awa, would they welcome me? Often I had imagined the cries of joy, the welcoming tears. But perhaps they would think I had run away. More than likely they would drive out this dishonourable woman. But I tell you, those fears and dark thoughts buzzed in my ears that morning no louder than a swarm of tiny gnats. The great swelling chorus I heard was my freedom! On that warm, clear morning I breathed a different air; I stood in a different manner. You children who have walked freely all your lives could not imagine.’
And Anahuia would tell of the great farewell. How the chief Te Peeti Te Awe Awe, dressed in his white gloves and his polished boots, ordered his young men to carry the Monrad ladies and the bishop himself to their canoe, for fear their clothes might become muddied. And how they all stood on the bank singing a farewell while the men’s haka echoed off the water. Some women held their babies high for the bishop to bless them and the high, sad voices of many karanga rose above the chants.
Anahuia stood close to the canoe, for she wished to get a message to the Monrads, but in all the fuss and grandeur she was not able to catch their attention. She would not wade into the river as other women did, for fear of dowsing her babies, and all her waving and calling came to nothing, drowned in the general heart-felt farewell. Out swung the big canoe into the current and slowly, slowly it moved around the bend and out of sight. All day the Monrads would be paddled, winding this way and that, through the great Ohutuiti Swamp, until the slow and muddy river reached the busy port of Foxton.
‘Never mind,’ said old Pakura, whose sharp eyes had watched Anahuia’s manoeuvring. ‘I will be back home at the kainga to give your young man a message, should he ever return, which I doubt. And should I live long enough, which is also in doubt if you are set on leaving.’
Anahuia then outraged the old woman by suggesting she come to Foxton, where they could help each other.
‘And leave my tribe? Are you out of your mind?’ cried Pakura. ‘That Matene might be lazy and a coward, he might forget from time to time that this kuia is in need of food and warmth, but he is family. How could I leave him? What a wicked suggestion. If I were younger I would take a stick to you.’
Then Anahuia would tell her grandchildren of her long walk to Foxton, with a basket of food on her back and the babies strapped in front. On the first day she kept close to the river, walking steadily through bush and scrub. At the Oroua River she exchanged a little of her precious food for a ferry ride. Without the babies she would have swum. From the village of Puketotara her path led away from the river, west in a straight line over land as flat as a table, the salt sea air growing
sharper in her nostrils with every step she took. Ahead, in the distance, the forest-covered hill Omarapapaku stood as a signpost to the mouth of the great Manawatu River, and to the town of Foxton.
At times the flax grew close to the path so that she walked inside a tall green tunnel. Then she would come to a patch that had been cut out and only tussock grew in the sandy soil. Several times she met groups of men and women — she did not ask their tribe and they did not ask hers — busy with their sickles cutting the long spears of flax and tying them into bundles ready for carting to town. I could do that, thought Anahuia; or I could scrape the flax leaves, or spin the fibre into rope. I could learn to make beautiful rope. She remembered Conrad’s tales of the sea: of how he climbed the rope ladders high up masts and loved to work there, his bare feet on trusted rope yards while he worked to repair yet other ropes that might secure or release sails that would drive a ship across oceans. Perhaps at this very moment, she thought, his feet are on ropes made from flax that grew right here beside me. And she sang as she walked in the sun, one of Conrad’s sea-shanties — ‘Tom Bowling’ it was, she remembered — a sad song but with merry music. When the flax-cutters heard her song they waved their sickles and no one would have thought that war parties from the north were in the area.
As the sun began to sink on the second day Anahuia walked into Foxton. ‘It was the busiest town you could imagine,’ she told her mokopuna. ‘Wooden houses each side of several roads, all with their iron roofs and brick chimneys, each one with a wooden fence around a square of yard as if the owners feared that some unclean foot might walk on their small patch of grass. At one jetty I could see two little steamboats and several barges loaded with flax, all tied to each other. Further down the river a larger sailboat was moored, its masts black against the evening sky, and on the banks there were more canoes than I had ever seen in one place. I tell you, my eyes were snapping this way and that to see it all! In the street more than one cart carrying goodness knows what. You children would not blink an eye, living in this great city, but to me it was such a sight! So many white people all in one place. So many Maori of many tribes.’
And if the grandchildren ran outside, tired of the old stories, Anahuia would smile and wave them off, and be happy to remember in peace those days when her life changed and she became almost intoxicated thinking and planning what she might do next.
IN the yard of the Presbyterian church, Reverend Duncan is supervising the building of a stout wooden blockade. He smiles to see Anahuia with her babies and asks her a question in English. When she does not reply, he repeats it in Maori. ‘Are you English? Perhaps not.’
Anahuia replies that she is both Danish and Te Ati Awa and that she has been working for Bishop Monrad. At this news the kind churchman nods and smiles, all the time casting a sharp eye at the pale babies.
‘This blockade is for white people,’ he says, ‘but you are welcome to shelter here anyway. If you are looking for the Monrads, they have gone to Langley’s Inn, down by the sea.’
‘Thank you,’ says Anahuia. ‘I will stay for the moment and help with the building.’ And, she thinks, I will learn to speak this English. It seems everyone uses it these days.
During the next few days she helps with the blockade, letting her babies, who are greatly admired by the Pakeha women, lie in the sun on their piece of blanket. One of the Pakeha men — a strong young fellow with wild dark hair and bushy beard — begins to show more than a casual interest in her. One of his legs is damaged in some way, which makes him walk leaning to one side like a ship in a storm. His attention is unwelcome to Anahuia but because of his disability she finds it hard to push him away. The man, whose name is Samuel, brings her food and sits in the sun to eat it with her. Anahuia needs to eat — is desperately hungry — but her acceptance of the food seems to carry a special significance for Samuel. He brings his bushy face too close to hers, whispers something she does not understand, puts a hand on her knee. Anahuia smiles and moves away. He watches her go with hurt eyes.
Anahuia likes the reverend. He notices that her babies are in need of clothing and arranges with some ladies for their provision. He speaks with everyone, Pakeha or any tribe, without discrimination. A kind and fair man. Anahuia tells him her story, and of her fear that her family might not accept her, might not believe that Matene has spoken his words.
‘If you have difficulty I will help persuade your people,’ he says. ‘Slavery is no longer lawful in this country.’
Every day he speaks to the workers and reads to them from the Bible in English. Anahuia begins to remember the words she learned as a child and to string them together into sentences.
‘You are a quick learner,’ says Reverend Duncan. ‘When you can say the catechism I will baptise you into the Presbyterian church and God will welcome you and your babies into his arms.’
Anahuia smiles and thanks him but keeps her own counsel.
THE blockade is completed but now the danger from the Pai Marire seems less urgent. The Maori tribes of the Manawatu have decided not to join the movement. Then news comes that Titokowaru is retreating. The great fighter lacks support to continue his campaign south, so is retrenching back into Taranaki. One family of settlers decides to return to their farm, but most stay safe in Foxton for the time being.
One day Reverend Duncan speaks to Anahuia carefully, using the Maori language.
‘Anahuia, have you a husband?’
‘Not yet,’ she says, ‘but I expect a man, the father of my babies, to return to me.’
‘Have you asked yourself why he has left you?’
‘He had an obligation back in his homeland — an island far from here but near to Denmark.’
The minister gives her a sad little smile. ‘Anahuia, my dear, that country is very far away. Settlers who return to their homelands do not often return. I would advise you against hope.’
He speaks to her as if she were a child. Anahuia straightens her back. She is taller than him by a good head. ‘He will come back,’ she says.
The reverend nods, but speaks as if he has not heard her strong words. ‘There is a man here — a good man — who has offered to take you as a wife and to look after your babies. It is an honourable offer, Anahuia; he has asked me to speak to you. He is willing to enter a proper Christian marriage. His name is Samuel McLean. A Scot. You have noticed him?’
The reverend mistakes Anahuia’s silence for acquiescence. He smiles warmly at her. ‘It would be a good move for you. A fortunate move. Samuel has land and is a hard worker. Your two little boys will need someone to protect and feed them.’
Anahuia feels tears of anger gathering. Her voice chokes but she drives the words out. ‘Please explain to Samuel McLean that I am not free. Please tell him thank you but no. Tell him that I have a family south of here who will help me provide for the boys until my Conrad Rasmussen returns.’
Surprisingly, the reverend’s face splits in a wide smile. ‘Conrad Rasmussen? The big Dane with the white hair?’
‘He is a Faroeman, but yes, he is the father.’
The reverend laughs at some memory. ‘A great fellow. A Viking! Sings like a hero and strong as an ox. I have see him lift a horse for a bet. But he is surely a wanderer, my dear. I would pick him for a man of the sea. Take Samuel; he will be the safe husband. And a Christian father. Think carefully.’
‘I do not need to think further. Please tell him not to hope.’
Anahuia walks away then, but the conversation has unsettled her. Later that day she sees Samuel’s dark eyes following her as she washes out the babies’ rag napkins and hangs them to dry on a bush. I must move on, she thinks, or there may be trouble.
She decides to move down to the guest-house — Langley’s — where the Monrads are staying. She wants to leave a message with them so that Conrad will know where she is when he returns.
A light wind blows off the sea. Tussock and low bushes lean inland as if pointing her in a different direction. She talks to her babies as
she walks.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘how everything lies in one direction. To the grasses life is simple: if the wind blows they lie flat to make the passage easier for the wind and for themselves. I could do the same, my children. Could return to that kainga, to Pakura and Matene, work for the Monrads, maybe, and wait for Conrad. But what I have in mind is to stand against the wind for a while and test my strength. The wind can be strong, but a person can usually lean into it and make progress.’ She shifts the sleeping boys in their sling to ease her back. ‘Let us hope there is no wind-blown storm on its way, eh, my chickens? And that you do not grow into big fat lumps too quickly!’
Fru Olga Monrad is at Langley’s with her little boy, Ditlev, but Anahuia is surprised to learn that the bishop and the rest of the family have already gone to Wellington. Emilie was not well, Olga says, and also the bishop was disturbed by the news of Te Kooti and his ferocious war-party. What if he crossed the island and attacked families in the Manawatu? Also, the Monrads had been greatly upset by the death of their good friend and worker Heie, who had been found down by the river with a terrible axe wound in his head. He had been ambushed a short way up the coast, had been attacked and then had crawled — goodness knows how — to the riverbank. Olga tells how Emilie nursed poor Heie all night until he died. What terrible person, cries Olga, would attack a peaceful man from behind? Surely it was the work of the Pai Marire rebels. The bishop’s wife cried and then coughed all night. Her health was certainly affected by that ghastly death. Now, says Olga, the family have sailed down to Wellington to wait for a ship home.
She looks tired. Her strong brown hair is not pulled back in its usual tight bun but straggles over her ears. The death, last year, of her second baby must have dispirited her, and now the other women are all going back to Denmark while she remains. Anahuia is curious about this woman, who followed her husband to a strange new country and is now left alone while he fights Titokowaru further north. She agrees readily when Olga suggests they walk to the beach.
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