Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  “But it is the case that God made Eve from man’s rib.” Doortje was sometimes overstrained by Matariki’s constant changing of the subject. “While Adam received the divine breath.”

  “The Maori say the exact opposite. Take a look at the old people who are still tattooed. Women only have moko around their mouths to show that the gods gave them the breath of life. We should ask Nandi sometime how the Zulu see it.”

  “But—” Doortje broke off, recalling her sister-in-law’s earlier lectures, and then tried a shy smile. “I know, I know, there’s no proof for any of it.”

  Matariki smiled, then turned to Kevin’s bookshelf. “This time there is, Doortje. Wait a moment, I’m sure Kevin has The Origin of Species. It could be he keeps it down in his practice, but really that would be too risky.”

  “The book would be risky?” Doortje asked.

  Matariki pulled a row of books out and found the little volume behind. “I knew it. And here you have it: even my little brother is a hypocrite. He’s convinced by Darwin, but he doesn’t display the book. Reverend Burton is much braver on that point. This, in any case, might be the truth, Doortje. At least, Mr. Darwin presents a lot of very convincing evidence. God did not make mankind out of a lump of clay. All life developed slowly. Give it a read. But not just the table of contents. Most people who get outraged about it haven’t even read it, you see. But now, let’s head to Heather’s to take a look at this exhibition. Do you really want me to lace you up first? I hate corsets.”

  Doortje hated them, too, but she did not want to be gossiped about. So, she dutifully forced herself into one with Matariki’s help, even if she was uncomfortable showing herself half-naked to her sister-in-law.

  “We never did this back home,” she admitted. “Saw one another naked, I mean. Children do, of course. But for grown women, it’s indecent. The Kaffirs do it, of course, like apes.”

  Matariki patiently explained to her that in this, too, Maori women had no compunction, and furthermore, that apes did not enter into the equation. They could not take off or put on their fur, after all.

  “I don’t think there were ever such tapu in warmer countries. There, no one wore enough clothing to totally cover their bodies anyway.”

  “Tapu? What does that mean?” asked Doortje.

  Matariki began another lecture.

  Doortje found Matariki’s explanations peculiar, but they did help her understand her new world—and sometimes helped her gain new perspective on her old one. Doortje did not like that, but it was as if her reason were defying her. She still resisted things she could not comprehend, but Matariki did not simply prescribe doing things this way or like Kathleen’s book of manners. Matariki explained. During their visit to the big opening at the main exhibition, for example, her sister-in-law elucidated the artists’ colorful, large-format paintings in Heather’s gallery and showed her that, with the pictures painted in the pointillism style, one had to keep distance from the canvas to properly register the image. Doortje observed with concern that the landscapes did not properly resemble their models in nature.

  “Photography exists now, Doortje. You can’t get more similar than that. So, paintings no longer need to depict reality. You can portray it however you see it.”

  “But everyone sees the world the same.”

  Matariki indicated Juliet, who was flirting with Jimmy Dunloe while exerting herself to reduce Heather and Chloe’s champagne reserve. “Doortje, do you really believe you see that lady with the same eyes as Jimmy?”

  Every day Doortje attended the festival’s exhibitions and concerts, she learned more. She read Darwin and was outraged by his theories, but her roused intellect could not completely deny the theory of evolution. Doortje came from a farm; she understood animal breeding. There were now dozens of subjects about which she could have talked with Kevin, and she no longer embarrassed him in society. On the contrary, Doortje was slowly gaining a reputation similar to Matariki’s—her comments sometimes seemed strange, but they were always well-reasoned. Her English was less and less stiff, and social graces had become second nature. That gave her space to develop charm. She imitated Matariki’s easygoing, self-assured demeanor.

  “You’re allowed to be different, Doortje,” Matariki encouraged her, “and you’re allowed to say what you think. Just don’t proclaim it as the absolute truth.”

  Kevin should have been proud of his wife. He could even have been jealous when she chatted with other men. Gentlemen now fell over one another to sit next to her at dinner. Yet Kevin did not even seem to notice the changes. Their relationship remained tense. He did not touch her at night. He was obviously avoiding Matariki.

  “He doesn’t like it when I talk to you,” Doortje observed. “Maybe we shouldn’t spend so much time together.”

  “He’s not in charge of whom you spend time with,” Matariki replied. “Anyway, it’s not what you think.”

  She stopped herself, but Doortje was already looking at her questioningly. Of course, Matariki could not tell her that Kevin simply had a guilty conscience. He had probably still not ended things with Juliet, and the secrets surrounding the business with Colin were weighing on his heart. Matariki had made him promise to tell Doortje the truth as soon as possible. But she had not given him a deadline.

  Now, she regretted that.

  Chapter 7

  “They’re just so lovely.” Roberta praised Atamarie’s manu while helping her arrange them for the Maori art exhibition in Reverend Burton’s community room. “And what happened to the man who showed you how to build them?”

  “No one needed to show me! When I see something like that, I can build it myself. As for Rawiri, he’s wandered into the sciences. You won’t believe it, but he’s sitting—or was sitting, at least—at the feet of the Wright brothers.”

  “Well, there can’t have been much room for him in that little flier,” she teased her friend. “Are you mad that he helped, hmm, the competition?”

  “I imagine they would have managed without him. And Richard wouldn’t have either way.”

  “So, you don’t care about Rawiri at all now?” Roberta asked. “Or Richard?”

  “Well . . .” There was no point lying to Roberta. “I think he could have at least sent a, um, postcard from his honeymoon, don’t you?”

  “You’re saying he married that Shirley girl?”

  Roberta was obligingly arranging the carefully knotted aho tukutuku, the laces of the kites.

  “I’d be surprised if he didn’t. Anyway, enough about that. What do you think, should I really try singing at the exhibition? The women say it’d be nice if we sang karakia. To show that manu aute are not just kites but represent a connection to the gods. I don’t know. The gods and I aren’t exactly familiar with each other.”

  “Won’t the singers be there?” Roberta asked. “I’m sure they could take that over.”

  “No, that wouldn’t work. Waimarama just explained it to me earlier. They could join in, apparently, but the kite-building tohunga has to start and sing the most significant parts. And actually, you also have to let a kite fly when you do. But here?”

  “Maybe on the roof?” Roberta asked.

  Atamarie laughed. “Are we going to make all of Dunedin society climb up there with us? I can see Juliet climbing in her corset now. And Patrick and Kevin fighting over who gets to hold the ladder for her.”

  “You’re so mean. Kevin would hold the ladder for Doortje, of course. Although Juliet’s certainly doing all she can.”

  “To seduce him, you mean? It’s screamingly obvious. And I have to say, he doesn’t seem like much of a rock himself. More like a blade of grass.”

  “He would never, Atamarie! Just because such loose morals prevail in Parihaka, you can’t project them on Kevin.” Roberta turned away.

  Atamarie made a face. “Adultery doesn’t prevail in Parihaka. When two people there seal a marriage, they stick to it. Kevin, on the other hand, I’m sorry, Robbie, but just because your dreams ha
ven’t come true, that doesn’t mean he’s not betraying Doortje.”

  Roberta’s voice grew thick. “It’s not true that I’m still trying for Kevin. I—”

  Atamarie took a deep breath and moved one of the kites to the side to let another shine more. Then she turned back to her friend. “You’re hoping for the exact same thing as Juliet. Don’t bother arguing, Robbie; it’s all over your letters. At exactly the moment when it became clear that Kevin and Doortje were having difficulties, you stopped mentioning your veterinarian. Instead, it’s Kevin, Kevin, Kevin. Kevin’s doing this, Doortje’s neglecting that, Juliet’s trying that. What ever happened to Vincent? Should he still be getting his hopes up, or are you going to idolize Kevin until his silver anniversary? With Doortje or with Juliet, but definitely not with you?”

  Roberta dropped into a chair. “I don’t know. Vincent is—he’s so nice. He’d be a wonderful husband and father. But he’s also—”

  “A bit boring?” Atamarie said. “You feel adventure is missing? But Robbie, Kevin doesn’t lead an exciting life either. The only thing that was ever exciting about Kevin were his stories about women. And it’s not particularly adventurous to be cheated on.” Atamarie wiped her eyes. Then she sat down beside her friend. “I wish I knew if he married Shirley,” she said quietly. “If he didn’t—”

  Roberta gave her a sad smile. “Then you’d try again? Until, say, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Wright brothers’ flight? We’re both pretty crazy, Atamie. Give me a hug.”

  The opening of the Maori exhibition that evening found surprising resonance, even though Caversham lay nowhere near the center of town. Other exhibitions were taking place in more attractive venues than a church community room. Chloe and Heather had been thinking economically, however.

  “We need to sell artwork, Matariki, otherwise the numbers won’t work. All the venues and artist lodgings we’ve rented cost a pile of money—the entrance fees to the concerts don’t cover it. And so far, there are just too few people interested in buying Maori art. People like to look at it—and that’s good news, of course. But they don’t assume that these pieces are a good investment.”

  “They could just buy the works because they’re beautiful,” Matariki had objected.

  In Parihaka, they sold many textiles, paintings, and jade carvings to visitors. But those were considered souvenirs more than art.

  Tonight, however, Dunedin society’s great interest surprised the artists and gallery owners. The usual crowd did, in fact, make its way to Caversham, marveled at the colorful paintings, and stared with fascination at the tiny faces of the hei-tiki—figurines of gods that could be worn as amulets or displayed.

  Atamarie’s manu found special acclaim among the men.

  “Do they really fly?” asked Jimmy Dunloe, touching the birdman decorated with feathers. “The kites I flew as a child were lighter and had a tail.”

  Atamarie smiled. “Only if you sing while you fly them,” she replied. “With them, one could carry messages not only to the gods, but also to various tribes living farther away. A kite like this can be seen across great distances. Thus, the painted symbols or decorations are part of the message.” She told the gathering crowd of Pa Maungaraki’s conquest with the help of a glider kite. “Long before the Wright brothers,” she added, earning applause. “And now, I’m also supposed to sing some karakia. However, I can’t sing particularly well, and I’m not a tohunga either—I can only build kites. Others know far more about the gods.”

  “Maybe you should give Reverend Burton the text,” Jimmy Dunloe said with a smirk.

  Peter Burton shook his finger at him.

  But Atamarie ignored the interjection. In her high-pitched voice, she intoned the simplest prayer to the gods she knew, and paused, dumbstruck, when a deep voice joined her:

  “Taku manu, ke turua atu nei

  He Karipiripi, ke kaeaea . . .”

  Fly ever higher, glorious bird,

  conquer the clouds and the waves,

  fly to the stars,

  dive into the clouds

  like a warrior into battle!

  Atamarie sought the singer in the crowd and caught sight of Rawiri’s gentle face, transported by the song. As they finished together, he beamed at Atamarie.

  Atamarie cleared her throat and pointed to the young man. “I—I’ll hand things over to a real tohunga. This is Rawiri. What I know about manu, he taught me.”

  She stepped aside so that no one would notice how much the sight of Rawiri unsettled her. He had changed during his time in the United States. Not only did he wear his hair shorter, but he also looked more grown up, stronger, and more self-assured. And, of course, he had a share in the Wright brothers’ glory. Atamarie felt a tiny flare of envy as Rawiri now explained her kites to the visitors.

  “Sometimes, the spiritual meaning and practical use coincide,” he said. “When we used the kites to decide on settlements, for example. You could practically survey the land with them—but they also asked the gods to bless it. But I’ll stop talking now. The manu are impatient. I hear them whispering behind my back.”

  The listeners laughed, but Rawiri was quite serious. “Birds want to fly,” he told the crowd gently. “Atamarie, which should we set free?”

  “This one,” called Jimmy Dunloe, still not convinced that the heavy birdman could climb into the air.

  Atamarie shook her head. “Better the manu whara. There’s hardly any wind here.”

  The church did have a very pretty, if somewhat overgrown, garden, but it was surrounded by a high wall. Not ideal for flying kites.

  “It will only work on the roof,” Rawiri agreed placidly. “From the church bell tower would be best.”

  Reverend Burton cleared his throat. It was Kathleen, however, who intervened.

  “Don’t you dare,” she declared in a half-jesting tone. “What do you think the bishop would say to us about your making contact with your spirits from our bell tower?”

  “More like the ancestors,” said Atamarie, “if we take the manu whara. It’s shaped like a canoe, you see, which—”

  “Ancestors, spirits, whichever, they’ll stay out of our church,” Kathleen replied. “Peter, forbid it.”

  Peter Burton smiled. “I think God is pretty flexible on the point, and a prayer’s a prayer whether it flies to heaven upon a kite’s string or directly from our hearts. But my wife’s right. The bishop might see things differently. He’s particularly indignant about the word ‘ancestors.’”

  A few parishioners laughed. Peter Burton’s career had thoroughly stalled because of his unconventional sermons. He made no secret of being a Darwinist and saw it as completely compatible with his spiritual office. The horrified bishop was always on the lookout for complaints from the more sanctimonious parishioners.

  “Then we’ll just use the roof,” Rawiri whispered to Atamarie. The two realized with amazement that no one was paying attention to them anymore. Instead, they were excitedly discussing Peter Burton’s position and that of his bishop. “Come on.”

  Rawiri and Atamarie took the manu whara and the birdman with them. The wind was scarcely sufficient for the birdman, but Atamarie felt her honor impugned by Dunloe’s doubt. Now, she followed Rawiri up to the roof, hungry for adventure and invigorated by the surprise reunion. Fortunately, she had chosen one of her most comfortable dresses for the opening and not the captivating torture device from the Gold Mine.

  “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Rawiri asked as he helped her up.

  Atamarie stuck her nose in the air. “I’ll bet I’ve already flown higher than you.”

  Rawiri laughed. “I believe that. But even so, be careful not to slip in those shoes.”

  A short time later, Roberta, who had been watching Atamarie and Rawiri’s breakneck climb with concern from the garden, called out to the exhibition visitors. Awestruck, they funneled into the garden and listened to Atamarie and Rawiri sing as their two kites danced in the evening sky.

&
nbsp; “Did you sing karakia for the Wright brothers?” Atamarie asked Rawiri when they finished.

  “No. They don’t appreciate such things. And it was too loud at Kitty Hawk anyway. It was a show, Atamarie, not worship.”

  Atamarie wondered whether it had been worship for Richard Pearse. Of course, that was the wrong word. Still, she remembered her first flight in Tawhaki. It had been spiritual, somehow. She wanted to make a joke about that, but Rawiri looked at her.

  “Did you sing karakia for Richard Pearse?” he asked.

  Atamarie furrowed her brow. “How did you know—?”

  “That you flew? I saw it in your eyes. Besides, you just told me.”

  “Do you make a note of everything I blabber about?” she asked evasively.

  “Every word of yours becomes a song in my heart,” Rawiri said, but then came back to Richard Pearse. “And that he flew, well, that’s what he told Wilbur and Orville.”

  “He what?” Atamarie almost fell off the roof. Rawiri held out his hand to secure her. “Richard wrote letters to the Wright brothers?”

  Rawiri nodded. “They didn’t take him that seriously, though. It was a strange correspondence too. Sometimes he would write constantly; sometimes nothing for months. Sometimes he exchanged scientific observations; sometimes he seemed confused. The time it took letters to get back and forth made it all much harder, of course. At any rate, Wilbur and Orville thought he was a crackpot. But they’ve been in contact for years. These people all know one another.”

  “He never told me about that,” Atamarie muttered. “He really—he really wrote them that he had flown?”