Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  Richard Pearse smiled encouragingly at Atamarie. “You won’t slip, Miss Turei,” he said. “You’re far too graceful.”

  Atamarie beamed, but Dobbins furrowed his brow. He seemed about to reprove the flirtation but apparently changed his mind.

  “Really, you could also climb a bit yourself, Richard. I’d come along, but I’m afraid mountain climbing is too strenuous for my old legs. Perhaps you’d like to accompany Miss Turei.”

  Richard blushed slightly. “I’m sure it would be a pleasure for anyone to accompany Miss Turei—anywhere. I’m only afraid Porter and I will fight over the privilege of offering her a hand.”

  Porter McDougal rolled his eyes but dutifully followed the two up the next hill, Lion Rock, which offered captivating views of all the landmarks and also the picturesque bay.

  Atamarie thought wistfully how this would be the ideal background for a first kiss, but Richard only made a note on one of the maps and began comparing his sketches to Atamarie’s. Still, she was delighted that he repeatedly asked her the Maori names of the mountains and rivers, writing them down conscientiously. Even with his short time in the village, he had grasped that, for the Maori, this was about safeguarding their heritage.

  Then, however, Atamarie saw something that made her blood run cold. On one of the crags across from Lion Rock, a large birdlike being arose. It seemed static and flat, but a sort of face flashed from it before it started to twist and turn. It almost looked as if it were bowing to heaven or dancing a haka. And yet, Atamarie almost thought she caught scraps of words or songs carried on the wind. Richard, too, raised his head to listen—just in time to see the thing move toward the edge in an apparent suicide attempt.

  “Richard!”

  Atamarie gripped his arm in horror—but then, when the figure sprang over the rock and was at once seized by the wind, she knew at once what was happening: It was a kite, a massive manu. The face depicted was sort of a hybrid man and bird, a well-loved image for a traditional Maori kite. This one, however, was not attached to guide strings. There was no one flying it.

  “A glider,” Richard said, aghast. “But it’s going to fall. The wingspan isn’t sufficient.”

  “I sure hope you’re wrong,” Porter said, having grabbed his spyglass. “There’s a man attached to it.”

  Atamarie saw him now too. A gust of wind caught the kite and really did make it soar. The man hung on like someone crucified—could he have bound himself to it?

  “It’s lifting off,” Atamarie yelled, fascinated despite herself. “It is working; it’s taking off. He—can he steer it?”

  Richard shook his head. “He can’t even really glide. The wings are too short, and the shape isn’t quite there. It’s good for children’s kites, but it won’t bear the weight of the man. What’s more, whenever he moves, the thing immediately starts to spin. Not to mention the speed—”

  But Atamarie was already running down the hill. The kite had gotten a good launch off the hillside, perhaps thanks to a lucky gust of wind, but there was no way it could stay up. Now the contraption was spinning. With a lot of luck, the man might survive the fall into the sea.

  Atamarie glanced back up at Richard and Porter, both staring at the falling flier as if hypnotized.

  “Come on!” she shouted. “We have to save him.”

  Richard snapped out of his stupor and began to hurry down.

  Porter followed at his own pace. “Guy’s dead anyway as soon as he comes down,” he muttered.

  Atamarie’s mind spun. Since the kite had managed to clear the rocky hills, the danger now was the crash into the water—and the waves in the bay. She raced down the slope at breakneck speed. If the flier really was bound to the kite, he might drown before he could free himself. And once he got free, the waves could fling him against the cliffs. At least he had taken off in the direction of the protected bay instead of the churning open sea. Maybe they could throw him a rope.

  Atamarie was halfway down the hill when the birdman hit the water. She rushed across the rocky shore, watching helplessly as he fought for his life. The impact had freed his left arm, and now he was trying desperately to loosen the ropes that held him to the kite. At least the kite was floating. The material must have been light, but the surf played mercilessly with it, tossing the bulky thing back and forth as the man slipped under the water and then bobbed back into view. Atamarie could no longer tell whether he was moving.

  Richard scrambled to a stop behind her and slipped out of his jacket. “I’m a good swimmer,” he panted. “I’ll bring him here, but then you’ll have to help us.”

  With that, he leaped from one of the boulders. Atamarie understood. Getting into the water was easy enough, but getting out without injury was almost impossible. A rescue swimmer pulling someone else did not stand a chance. As Richard neared the accident victim with powerful strokes, Porter arrived and watched with interest.

  “We need rope,” Atamarie shouted. “The emergency pack. Now.”

  Grabbing the bag from Porter, Atamarie pulled ropes and spikes out of the bag.

  Richard had reached the kite just in time. The flier appeared unconscious.

  “Pearse has to cut him loose,” Porter observed. “I hope he has a knife.”

  Atamarie looked up for a moment, then remembered Richard was a country boy. He would hardly have gone camping without a pocketknife. She squinted at the water and saw with relief that Richard had succeeded in cutting the man free and now was pulling him in the direction of the shore.

  Meanwhile, Atamarie had decided on a plan. She pointed to a spot on the shore, a tiny inlet.

  “We can’t have them swimming into a rock,” she told Porter. “We’ll need to stretch a rope they can use to climb up onto shore. Here, hammer a spike between these two rocks, and there. Get going, Porter; they’ll be here in a minute. If I do it alone, it’ll take forever.”

  Porter looked skeptical, but Atamarie pressed the hammer into his hand. Fortunately, despite his phlegmatic nature, the young man proved exceptionally strong. He affixed the first spike with two swings.

  Atamarie roared at him when he wanted to debate the placement of the second. “Don’t quibble; hammer. And if you stand on that promontory, you won’t fall into the water.”

  He thoughtfully placed one foot on the promontory.

  “Dear Lord, Porter, the man is going to drown,” she cried, “and Richard might break all his bones if he’s dashed against these rocks. Just hammer the damned spike into the rock, and then stretch the rope.”

  While Porter worked, grumbling, Atamarie slung a second rope around her hips. It would have been better to have someone as strong as Porter in this role as well, but she didn’t trust him. So, she tied one end of the rope to the first, which was now securely stretched between the rocks. It would hold her upright in the sea a few yards from the rocky shore. Finally, Atamarie secured another loop for Richard before sliding into the water. The waves tore at her skirt, ready to fling her against the rocks, but the rope held her in securely.

  Richard understood at once. He held the unconscious man firmly with one arm, adroitly grasping for the sling with the other and clambering into it. Atamarie reached for the wounded man with both arms. He was a Maori youth with long, black hair. She held him firmly against her, keeping him safe until the others could fish them out. Fortunately, Porter was climbing on the rope and helping Richard up.

  Richard collapsed onto the rock a moment, but did not grant himself a break. Instead, he looped the rope around himself as well and slid right back into the water next to Atamarie. Porter stood above them, arguing that they should just pull the girl and the wounded man up at the same time.

  “Impossible,” wheezed Richard. “Porter, buoyancy, man. Archimedes’s principle. Atamarie can hold him in the water, but if you pull them up together, he’ll be too heavy for her. Not to mention, wet as he is, he’ll slip right out of her hands. I’ll take him now, and you help her. Then you’ll both pull us up.”

 
A few arduous minutes later, Richard and the kite flier lay on a rock, Richard coughing and spitting water, the boy motionless.

  “I told you he’s dead,” asserted Porter.

  Atamarie was ready to slap the dolt. Instead, she turned the Maori youth onto his stomach and tried to pump the water out of his lungs. And, despite her rather unskilled movements, he began to retch and spit up water.

  “Maori are a seafaring people,” Atamarie said. “You can’t kill us that easily.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t have taken much more,” said Richard. “Let’s see if we can get him to come to. He might have hit his head.”

  In fact, the boy was just then opening his eyes. He looked confusedly into Atamarie’s face, which was red from her efforts, but she was beaming with pride.

  “Ha–Hawaiki?” he asked weakly.

  Atamarie hooted. “It’s not that simple, you know. If I understood my mother correctly, you’d have to go to Cape Reinga first and then tie a rope securely on a pohutukawa tree, climb down and—or do you just try another manu? As a ghost, maybe you could. After all, you wouldn’t weigh anything.”

  The young man could process neither the teasing nor the blasphemy.

  “He wanted to fly to Hawaii?” Porter asked. “It’s thousands of miles away! Lilienthal was proud when he made it a hundred feet.”

  “Lilienthal flew almost a thousand feet,” Richard corrected him. “And on a glider a lot like this. But with arched wings. That way, the lift is—”

  “Not Hawaii, Hawaiki,” Atamarie interrupted. “For the Maori, it’s something like heaven. But it’s quite an ordeal for the souls of the departed to slog their way there. They have to wander all the way to the north first, then climb down a cliff. What he meant was, he thought he was dead.”

  “Rawiri,” the boy now said, pointing to himself. “And you are?”

  Atamarie broke into a grin, memories of the festival day rushing back. She could clearly recall Rawiri’s childhood face. Even then, he had been slender and tall for a Maori. His big dark eyes still shone as they once had and were still shaded by long lashes. Rawiri had a gentle expression. One could hardly imagine him dancing war haka or playing rugby. He was not tattooed; full, soft lips dominated his face, not martial moko.

  “You wanted to fly even back then!” she replied in Maori. “I did too. Do you remember? It’s me, Atamarie. So, was this your first attempt?”

  Rawiri tried to get up. “Forgive me,” he said in English. “You all saved me. Thank you. But where’s the manu?”

  “The kite,” Atamarie translated.

  Richard pointed out to sea. “I couldn’t save it too. Wouldn’t have been worth it, anyway. With that frame, it won’t carry you. You need to model them more on birds than on statues of gods.” Richard had recognized the birdman’s form from Parihaka’s marae. “And nowadays, double-deckers are preferred, for gliders, anyway.”

  “But the gods,” sighed Rawiri. “The manu was consecrated to the gods of the air. It shouldn’t sink into the sea. It—”

  “Well, the gods of the air should have kept a better eye on it,” Atamarie noted disrespectfully. “What did you stretch across it, anyway?”

  “Sailcloth,” Rawiri said, and looked even sadder than before. “It was expensive.”

  “And heavy,” Richard said. “Completely unsuitable, especially in rain. Lilienthal used shirting. It’s a waxed cotton material, which—”

  “Perhaps the thing will wash up,” Atamarie considered, with an eye to the bay. “I’d say it’s likely, if the direction of the wind doesn’t change.”

  “I should have used aute bark or raupo leaves. They stroke the face of the sky god. These pakeha materials—they probably don’t like singing for it.”

  “Singing?” Richard asked.

  “The gods direct the manu with karakia, songs and prayers,” Rawiri informed him.

  Atamarie sighed. “I’d say the gods don’t have anything fundamentally against sailcloth; otherwise, all the pakeha ships would have landed elsewhere.”

  While Rawiri collected himself, Richard took down the rope system and stowed the materials neatly in Porter’s backpack.

  “Damn, it’s cold,” Porter said with a shudder. “Aren’t you freezing in that?”

  Only then did Atamarie realize that her clothes were completely soaked through. In the rush of Rawiri’s rescue, she had completely forgotten the cold.

  “Good point. We’d better get to camp as quickly as possible. Maybe Professor Dobbins even has dry clothes in the wagon. At least for you all.” She gave the men an envious look.

  She turned to Rawiri. “Can you stand?”

  He nodded. He had really gotten off easy. Aside from a few cuts and bruises, he was unscathed. Plus, he was almost dry. Despite the cold, he had dressed only in the traditional Maori kilt of hardened flax strands for his flight. His upper body was naked, and Atamarie registered the impressive musculature. Richard’s, however, impressed her even more. He had taken off his wet shirt, revealing tan broad shoulders and defined pectorals. He must have spent the summer working on his parents’ farm.

  He turned toward her now, and Atamarie, embarrassed, looked at the ground, hoping she hadn’t been caught staring.

  “You must be freezing, Atamarie. Here, take my jacket. It’s still dry.”

  Atamarie looked at the goose bumps he himself had on his arms and wondered if she should refuse.

  “Oh, sorry,” Richard said. “I didn’t mean to use your first name.”

  Atamarie smiled. “I’ve done that to you too. Let’s keep it like that. Come on.”

  She held her hand out for him to help her up, then wrapped herself contentedly in his jacket.

  A few hours later, they were sitting by the fire in Parihaka, enjoying fish and sweet potatoes. There was hot tea to go with it this time. Rawiri and his rescuers simply could not get warm. The trip back had dragged on endlessly. Dobbins had made a campfire on Taranaki, but it hadn’t been enough to dry the men’s pants, much less Atamarie’s clothes. In the end, they had decided on a speedy ride back so they could change. When they reached the village at last, Porter McDougal pulled his weight for the first time, producing a bottle of the best whiskey from his bag and pouring it generously into his fellow students’ teacups.

  In return, Richard and Atamarie kept quiet when he passed himself off to the other students and the Maori girls as the hero of the day. To hear him tell it, he had rescued Rawiri almost singlehandedly.

  Rawiri was now wearing warm pakeha clothing and sitting beside Atamarie and Richard. He listened to their conversation with fascination while Matariki ascertained with amusement that her daughter seemed to be getting closer to her goal. That evening, the light her daughter had been seeking was at last in Richard Pearse’s eyes. Atamarie was beaming with happiness, and the two even held hands and wandered off together.

  “What a funny pair,” Matariki’s friend Emere said. “When I passed by, they were talking about the systematics of flight technology, whatever that is. Didn’t sound much like butterflies in the stomach to me.”

  Matariki laughed. “Atamarie’s primarily interested in butterflies for their wing shape. It seems the young man really is a soul mate.”

  Atamarie and Richard wandered happily over the moonlit hills around Parihaka, talking excitedly about whether, in running down these elevations, someone could attain a sufficient angle of approach for a glider, whether Lilienthal’s crash at Gollenberg could have been prevented by more skillful steering out of the thermal displacement, and whether one really could fly farther by means of a raised angle of approach and thereby more limited speed.

  When Richard dropped the young woman off in front of her parents’ house, he gave her a shy kiss on the cheek.

  “You’re the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met,” he whispered. “I never imagined I might find someone who understood me this way, Atamarie.”

  Atamarie rose up on her tiptoes and bravely kissed his lips.

  �
�One day,” she whispered, “we’ll fly together.”

  When they finally parted, she practically danced her way into her parents’ house.

  “He loves me,” she sang, embracing her mother. “Oh, Mommy, he loves me. We’re meant for each other.”

  Rawiri no longer thought of the defeat he had suffered that day. Fine, the gods had withheld their blessing. Probably he had not sung the right notes to conjure the wind as the god Tawhaki, who brought knowledge to humankind with the help of a manu aute, had once done. And maybe his rescuers were right—that pakeha with the curly hair and the strange girl who was at once Maori and not. It was quite possible that the gods disliked the form of his kite. He would have to try something else.

  And perhaps there was still more to it. Perhaps karakia was not enough. Perhaps he needed more of that knowledge Tawhaki had bestowed on humankind. The pakeha sometimes seemed to make better use of Tawhaki’s gift; Rawiri’s head still spun when he thought of Richard’s lecture on thermal displacement. He had not dared to ask further questions, at least not of this pakeha to whom he owed his life. But maybe he would ask the girl. That beautiful girl who had appeared to him like a greeting from heaven in the moment he’d returned from among the dead. Atamarie, sunrise.

  The gods may have denied him flight that day, but they had sent him a girl he could love. A girl who shared his dreams. Rawiri turned his face to the stars and thanked the gods for Atamarie.

  Someday they would fly together.

  Strong Women

  East London, Wepener,

  Africa

  Dunedin, Lawrence,

  New Zealand

  1900–1901

  Chapter 1

  While his brother planned a wedding with Juliet LaBree in New Zealand, Kevin Drury shipped out, first to Albany in Western Australia. The town was located along the Great Australian Bight and had once housed an infamous penal colony. Kevin thought of his parents, sent from Europe to Australia as convicts. Lizzie and Michael, however, had been taken to Van Diemen’s Land, an island off the coast. Whereas Michael had found the prison conditions exceedingly harsh, Lizzie had actually been quite content—so grateful was she to have escaped her abusive employer.