Flight of a Maori Goddess

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Flight of a Maori Goddess Page 48

by Lark, Sarah


  “He was not particularly euphoric,” Pania had said. “From a purely technical standpoint, he understands why their aeroplane rises into the air, but it does not open itself up to him spiritually. The Wrights lack humility before the spirits, in his opinion. Perhaps it was not entirely wrong of you to send your Atamarie away to school in Dunedin. Rawiri appears to have internalized the spirit of Parihaka a bit too much.”

  “Come on, Atamarie, you’re excellent at building kites,” Matariki now continued. “You won’t be taking anything away from Rawiri. So, up, child. Get to work. It would be delightful if we could fly a few of our Parihaka kites in stodgy Dunedin.”

  So, Atamarie acquired manuka and kareao wood. If she was going to build kites the traditional way, she would also need raupo leaves. She sought out a tohunga who told her where to find them and with how much reverence she was to pluck the leaves and thank the plant. Atamarie planned to abbreviate the whole spiritual to-do, but on the very first day of work, she suddenly found herself surrounded by a horde of children who also wanted to make kites.

  “Rawiri made manu with us every year for Matariki,” one little boy explained with grave concern. “But now he’s gone again. We’re going to forget the whole tikanga!”

  Atamarie had to laugh. She could hardly imagine that an art such as this could be lost in Parihaka, but fine, she would do her part for cultural preservation.

  She asked the older children to practice the songs, prayers, and calls that had to be sung and spoken during the construction process. Then she urged the little ones to retain the traditional kite forms, but also to try out new ones. They built double-deckers and parachute-like constructions, and experimented to find out which ones flew best.

  “But it’s not really that important how the manu fly,” declared a girl. “What’s important is the message to the gods!”

  Atamarie laughed. “But to reach the gods, the kites first have to get into the air. Now, draw a smiling face on yours, Wai, so Rangi will be in a good mood and not cry when you let the kites go, because then they won’t fly.”

  Atamarie and her little students decorated the kites with feathers and mussel shells. A tohunga explained the designs they painted in red and black. Atamarie overcame her disgust and mixed clay with horribly stinky shark oil to produce dye as tradition dictated. Finally, everyone braided strings out of flax—aho tukutuku. And at the very end, every kite had to prove its ability to fly.

  “It’ll be a shame if these little works of art crash now,” said Matariki, to whom Atamarie’s colorfully painted birdman seemed too heavy.

  “My kite won’t crash,” Atamarie declared. “It doesn’t matter how heavy a flier is if it makes good enough use of lift. Just wait: one day aeroplanes as big as a house will soar through the skies.”

  “But won’t the gods get scared?” asked little Wai.

  Atamarie thought quickly. “Not if we sing the right karakia! So, come on, children. How does the turu manu go?”

  “Taku manu, ke turua atu nei

  He Karipiripi, ke kaeaea . . . ,” the children intoned.

  Fly on from me, my bird,

  dance restlessly on high,

  swoop down like the hawk upon his prey,

  fly ever higher, glorious bird,

  conquer the clouds and the waves!

  One of the female singers from the haka group who was to travel with them to Dunedin took up the song, and though she chided herself for it, Atamarie actually had the feeling that the melody was carrying her manu into the sky.

  Chapter 2

  “I had a lot of fun teaching those children,” Atamarie reflected when she and her mother sat on the train on their way to Heather and Chloe’s festival. “At first, they just wanted to mess around, but then they really learned something about the laws of physics.”

  “And about tikanga.” Matariki smiled. “You seem to get it at last: nga wa o mua—the past is the future. The songs of our ancestors connect with your teachings about flying. It doesn’t have to be a contradiction.”

  “Mom! Could we talk about something other than the spirit of Parihaka for once?”

  “Better the spirit of Parihaka than the spirit of Richard Pearse.”

  Atamarie had honored her mother’s demand that she not mention her ex anymore, but it was hard to pass by the train station in Timaru. “I’d just like to know how he’s getting on,” she said. “The next train leaves in just a few hours. I could follow you on that one. And I wouldn’t have to go all the way to Temuka. Really, I wouldn’t even want to.” Matariki looked skeptical. “I could ask in the store, casually, as if I just happened by.”

  Atamarie made a halfhearted move for her suitcase, but Matariki shook her head.

  “What do you want to know? If he’s already married Shirley? Or if he’s flown after all? We would have heard about the first motorized flight in New Zealand. Whatever you could learn here would only hurt you, Atamie. Forget him.”

  Atamarie sank indecisively back into her seat. “And what about the past that determines the future?” she asked slyly.

  “Child! Richard isn’t the canoe in which your ancestors came to Aotearoa. He was just your first love. It’s time to close that chapter of your life, Atamie. Be happy for Roberta instead. She seems to have finally managed to stop thinking about Kevin Drury. Violet writes that she’s as good as engaged to a very nice veterinarian.”

  Atamarie made a face. “‘As good as’ doesn’t count, Mom. I was ‘as good as.’”

  Heather and Chloe put the Maori artists and dancers up in a hotel, but Kevin insisted Matariki and Atamarie stay with him. Matariki was a few years older than Kevin and Patrick, but they’d always been close. Maori traditions had also strongly shaped the boys’ worldview. All three had looked upon the Ngai Tahu as their extended family. The fact that Matariki was technically a half sister had never been a consideration. Thus, it hadn’t occurred to Kevin to prepare Doortje before they met Matariki and Atamarie at the train station.

  While Kevin rushed forward to hug his sister, Doortje froze, stunned at the woman’s dark complexion and her thick, black hair, which she wore shamelessly loose. Like the other women from Parihaka, she wore reform-style clothing, woven traditionally in the tribal colors, but adapted to Western conceptions of length and propriety. She was a beautiful woman and assuredly not white.

  “I—I didn’t know,” Doortje stammered, but Matariki did not take notice.

  “You must be Dorothea,” she said warmly. “Kevin wrote me your real name, but I don’t trust myself not to butcher it until I hear how it’s pronounced.” She laughed. “When I was little, they called me Martha at school. It didn’t bother me, but I wanted to make sure no one would call my daughter, Atamarie, Mary.”

  Matariki wanted to hug Doortje as she had Kevin, but she sensed her resistance and thought better of it. Perhaps hugging was frowned upon in South Africa.

  Atamarie offered her hand amiably, even though she could decipher Doortje’s abrasive behavior. Roberta was a loyal letter writer, and the odd woman’s prejudices had been a frequent subject.

  Doortje felt less aversion toward Atamarie than Matariki. One could hardly detect the native blood in her husband’s niece. Yet, she was puzzling in other ways. Atamarie distinctly resembled Kathleen Burton—she had the same hair color and aristocratic features. During the ride to their apartment, Doortje brooded on how that could be possible. She knew that Sean Coltrane was a son of Michael and Kathleen. Matariki must have been a misstep of Lizzie’s. But how was it that Atamarie resembled the reverend’s wife? Was Sean the father? She wouldn’t have expected such behavior from the distinguished lawyer.

  Now, though, Doortje had more-pressing problems than this confounding family tree. In Transvaal, no one would have asked her to share a table with non-white relations. No one would ever have admitted to the shame of having any. During the ride, she was monosyllabic, and she rebuked Kevin when Matariki and Atamarie withdrew into the guest room to freshen up before the
y all went out to dinner with Lizzie and Michael.

  “You could at least have warned me.”

  “You knew very well that Matariki was coming from Parihaka. With the Maori artists. What did you think she was doing there?”

  “You said she was a teacher,” Doortje said. “So, naturally, I thought—”

  “That she was bringing the poor natives a bit of civilization?” mocked Kevin. “Doortje, you’ve heard the history of Parihaka. Do you really believe they need pakeha to teach them to read and write?”

  “But you said Matariki’s husband served in Parliament.”

  Kevin threw his hands up. “Kupe Parekura Turei is a well-known attorney and serves in Parliament. Maori won the right to do so some years ago. You would know that if you showed just a little interest in the country you now live in. But you’re as ignorant as ever. Do me a favor and at least behave in my sister’s presence. Matariki is a very intelligent and lovable woman. If you could set aside your pigheadedness for one minute, you’d like her.” With that, he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Doortje balled her fists in powerless rage. Kevin’s outburst felt unfair and hurtful. She really was trying. She wore the customary clothing, even though she could hardly breathe in that awful corset, she was studying manners, and she read novels in order to be able to converse at social events. Recently, she had even started accompanying her husband to Reverend Burton’s Sunday sermons, which often seemed blasphemous to her. She preferred the women’s group, and she was slowly adapting to the Anglican notion of charity. Kevin couldn’t ask more from her. He couldn’t!

  Doortje rarely wished so much that she could cry, but she managed only a dry sob.

  Mere moments after his outburst, Kevin regretted it. Of course, it was awful that Doortje had rejected Matariki, but he should have prepared her. And lately, she truly was trying to plant her feet in Dunedin. No, his agitation had other causes. Juliet was the same seductress she had always been. Only, the relationship was no game now. Kevin knew exactly what he was risking when he gave in to her over and over. Patrick would never forgive his betrayal, and he would probably lose Doortje too. However, he could not manage to resist Juliet when she lay in wait in his practice, drew him into the garden during the late hours at parties, or when she once ambushed him in the stables. Juliet was walking a thin line between seduction and extortion—when Kevin desperately tried to say no, she threatened to reveal their affair.

  “I’m leaving that little brother of yours one way or another, dearest,” she had said the last time. “Life up there in Otago is unbearable. The only thing keeping me here is you. In that regard, you’re almost doing Patrick a favor, Kevin, my Saint Kevin.” She laughed throatily. “My sweet Kevin who goes to war to free the slaves and takes in fallen women.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he objected. “Doortje’s honor is beyond any doubt. She was never a ‘fallen woman.’”

  Juliet grinned, and Kevin knew she saw the fear in his eyes. Juliet Drury seemed to have a sharp eye for scandal. Every day, she saw Kevin’s features in the face of her daughter—but Abe, ostensibly his son, did not resemble him in the slightest.

  “Who’s talking about Doortje,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m speaking of myself, Saint Kevin, without a doubt a fallen woman whom you lift up again and again. And now I urgently need your blessed love.”

  Kevin told himself that he had to protect Doortje from a possible revelation—then lost himself in Juliet’s charms. Later, he loathed himself for it. It couldn’t go on like this, but even in good faith he did not know how to end it.

  Now, in any case, he needed some fresh air—or at least distance from Doortje. He could work on a few files in his practice. He would never have admitted that some small part of him wondered whether Juliet might be there waiting.

  Matariki heard choked sobs coming from the Drurys’ bedroom as she made her way toward the bath—just as she had heard the door slamming. She did not want to get involved in a marital spat, especially as Atamarie had just indignantly explained Doortje’s rudeness to her.

  “Robbie says they still kept slaves there until the war, and some surely still do. The blacks are totally dependent on them and aren’t even allowed to go to school, and—”

  Matariki had raised her hand. “I’ve heard that as well,” she said calmly. “All whites were like that once. Just think of the difficulties in Parihaka—and how we handled them.”

  “Plowing and building fences?” scoffed Atamarie.

  “Over time, it improved the situation,” Matariki said cautiously.

  At the time, Parihaka’s resistance against the government’s land seizure had not done much. Nevertheless, since then, Sean Coltrane and Kupe Turei had secured reparations for the Maori, and others were also fighting dogged legal battles for Maori rights. Everywhere, Maori men and women showed the pakeha that they were in no way inferior.

  Besides, sharing a handkerchief took less effort than building fences, Matariki now thought, throwing her bathing plans to the wind. Her new sister-in-law needed encouragement, whatever her dreadful misconceptions. Determined, Matariki knocked on the door to Doortje’s room and stepped in at once when she heard no reply. The young woman sat on the edge of her bed, doubled over but with dry eyes.

  “Is there anything I can do?” asked Matariki softly. “Kevin can sometimes be short-tempered, I know. It’s the Irish temperament, my mother always says. He gets that from our father. Now, calm yourself a bit, then tell me what’s bothering you.” She smiled at Doortje and sat next to her.

  Doortje bolted to her feet. To sit next to a colored person . . . She nervously glanced at the mirror.

  “I look terrible,” she whispered. “People will be able to tell.”

  “What will they be able to tell? That you were upset? If you wash your face, do your hair up nice, and smile, nobody will notice anything.”

  “But I can’t always smile,” Doortje whimpered. “I can’t always act as if—”

  “Oh, my dear,” she said, relieved that the woman’s distress had a less abominable source, “I understand. Pakeha society can be merciless. Always keep your posture; always be perfect—these corsets alone! You look ravishing, by the way. That’s one of Kathleen’s dresses, isn’t it? Today, though, it’s just family. You don’t need to torture yourself on our account. Atamarie and I won’t be wearing corsets, and I can guarantee Lizzie won’t either. And you’re beautiful even without fishbones, Doortje. My father’s crazy about you, you know.”

  “Michael Drury isn’t even your father.”

  Matariki leaned back slowly. “Ah, the fight wasn’t about your manners after all,” she said, more coolly but still at ease. “Atamarie was right. You didn’t know that I’m Maori.”

  Doortje made another choked sob. It sounded almost ghostly. Matariki wondered how she did not simply break out in tears, but Doortje kept an iron mastery of herself.

  “But you’re not even that,” she whispered. “You’re a half-breed. Colored. Like that—that Juliet. And that’s worse than black because you carry the mark of Cain on your face.”

  Matariki laughed, tossing her long hair. “Well, until now, everyone has always told me how good I looked. What’s more, I’m a chieftain’s daughter. I used to be very proud of that. A real princess.”

  “But a colored woman can’t be—in Africa no one wants them, not even the Kaffirs.”

  “Poor things,” said Matariki. “Rejected everywhere. It must be terrible for such people in your country. No wonder they think of it as a mark of Cain. But here, it’s completely different. Maori tribes happily take in all children. And once, when there were hardly any pakeha here or back in Polynesia, where the Maori originally came from, it was an honor for a woman to give birth to a mixed child. As we say, ‘Every iwi has its own tikanga.’ You could translate it as ‘Every tribe has its own customs,’ or ‘Every tribe has its own truth.’”

  Doortje shook her head passionately. �
�There’s only one truth, the divine Truth. And the Bible says only we were chosen.”

  She was astonished when Matariki laughed. “Forgive me, but I’ve heard that one before. In the Bible, it meant the Israelites. So, the Jews.”

  “The Jews? The Jews are more like the English. God doesn’t like them at all. But the Voortrekker, they’re the Israelites. Because both peoples were driven out and had to fight through hostile regions to get to the promised land.”

  Matariki rubbed her forehead. “The Israelites of the Bible are the ancestors of the Jews of today. Look it up. And their promised land was later taken away from them by invaders. Just like yours, Doortje. And ours. According to the teaching of a certain Te Ua Haumene, you see, the Maori are the chosen people. My birth father used to preach that—and so, he sent many people to die. Just like your Boer leaders did.”

  “I’m the daughter of Adrianus van Stout,” Doortje said bitingly, “one of these ‘Boer leaders’ as you so contemptuously put it. In my country, it’s an honor—”

  “So, you’re something like a princess too.” Matariki smiled. “It’s not always easy, is it? People have expectations for you. I, for one, was happier to simply be the daughter of Michael Drury. He’s no hero—without my mother, he would have been lost in this country. But he’s a good man. Just like Kevin.”

  Doortje glared at her. “You mean, I should just forget everything? My people and my beliefs?”

  “In any case, you should leave it to the gods to decide whom they like and whom they don’t. Or, believe Reverend Burton, who says God loves us all. The Maori lead a sort of peaceful coexistence with the gods and don’t really hold them responsible for the problems of the here and now. Pick something. There’s no proof for any of it. But now, it’s time we freshened up.” She stood up, went to the little washing table in Doortje’s room, wet a washcloth, and placed it in the younger woman’s hand. “Princess Matariki says, ‘The court ceremonial requires the washing of the face with cold water and the fixing of hair.’ Or do you still not want to go eat with Atamarie and me? Then we can say you had a headache. Besides, Maori princesses aren’t permitted to fraternize with common tribe members anyway.” Matariki raised her nose in the air and looked haughtily down at Doortje in jest. “On the North Island, you’d be damned if my shadow but fell on you. Though I’d be prepared to carry out a cleansing ceremony with you afterward. Then it wouldn’t be so bad.”

 

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