Left Turn at Paradise

by Thomas Shawver

  By noon the mountain mists and snow were replaced by clear skies and we stuffed jackets and woolen sweaters into our rucksacks. At the far end of the meadow was a gravel path that seemed to peter out in front of a granite crag soaring several thousand feet. Ngati motioned for Craddock to join him where two jade boulders stood.

  I could barely hear their voices—in any case they spoke in Maori—but the exchange was extremely animated and I assumed that we weren’t to continue until word arrived from a higher authority.

  An hour passed before we got our answer. It came in the guise of an oval-faced woman who materialized like an apparition between the giant rocks. She might have been fifty-five, stood five and a half feet, and was plump as a stuffed goose. Her nose was broad and her skin was the color of slightly burnt toast. Long strands of silver hair had been braided into four serpentine plaits topped by a bone comb and a black feather. She said her name was Medusa.

  My first impression was of a rather innocuous middle-aged Maori woman until I noticed her eyes. Direct and unblinking, they were filled with a callousness that was chilling, the empty eyes of a Gulag guard.

  She walked directly up to Pillow, studied her face for a full minute. Then she caressed the scar tissue on Pillow’s neck with the tips of her clawlike fingers.

  “You claim to be Te Ranginui’s daughter?” the woman demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Raise your arms.”

  Pillow blushed, but did as directed.

  The woman, her wet lips parted, reached under Pillow’s sweater and slowly drew it up, exposing the scars from belt to collarbone.

  “Why have you come?” she asked, when finished with the inspection.

  “Simply to see my father,” Pillow said, readjusting her sweater. “And to offer gifts.”

  The woman sneered. “And what can that be for a man who wants for nothing?”

  “The lost words of Captain Cook’s Marine.”

  The yellowish eyes narrowed.

  “Give them to me,” the woman hissed.

  Hart and I exchanged looks, but there seemed no alternative if we were to proceed farther. We pulled from our backpacks the plastic pouches containing the journals. Then we stepped forward to place them in her crabbed hands.

  When I handed mine over, the woman studied me for a moment as if to mark me. She hadn’t done that with Hart. Silently, she placed the journals in a pocket of her woven flax cape, swung around, and returned to wherever it was she had come from.

  Once again, it seemed like the stones had swallowed her.

  “What now?” Hart asked Craddock.

  But it was Pillow who answered, her eyes gleaming.

  “What else? We follow the bitch to hell, if need be.”

  * * *

  *1 Greetings

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The granite wall of the cliff turned out to have an enfilading fissure.

  The path inside it meandered between towering slabs of rock that allowed little sunlight to penetrate to our level. Flashlights proved useless because of the constant turns in the labyrinth, so we felt our way along the walls, ears alert to the tapping sounds made by the woman’s staff, keeping within an arm’s length of one another. The farther we walked, the more enclosed our tunnel became. It became warmer as well. The air filled with the stench of sulfur.

  We stumbled for a mile or more through the ribboned maze before arriving at a stupendous chamber set in the heart of the mountain.

  It was fifteen stories high at its apex. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling in unicorn spires and undulating curtains as if designed by Gaudí. Sun rays piercing through a dozen keyholes in the upper reaches struck calcite formations to create a subterranean version of the northern lights. With the Technicolor light show dancing above, it took me a while to notice the long, thick seams of emerald basaltic rock that streaked the massive limestone walls.

  “Pounamu,” Pillow murmured next to me. “I didn’t know it existed in such quantities.”

  Less entrancing were the numerous fumaroles, each bubbling and belching globs of glutinous, evil-smelling slime. We were in a postcard mash-up of heaven and hell.

  “Keep moving,” Craddock ordered, nodding toward the sun-splashed mouth of the cave a hundred meters away. “The lady’s getting impatient.”

  Treading lightly past the sulfurous pools like acolytes in Dante’s Inferno, we arrived to where the woman stood at the bottom of a rock-strewn incline. Twenty feet above her was the tantalizingly close exit from the cavern.

  Pivoting to face us, Medusa recited an incantation in Maori.

  Craddock raised his hand, palm outward, to acknowledge the significance of the spell. To Hart and me—Pillow apparently understood already—he whispered, “She has taken our hau to protect the land we are about to enter. As strangers, we are considered tapu—unclean—until we are officially accepted at the marae.”

  Seemingly satisfied with the explanation, our guide led us from the stygian floor into brilliant sunlight and fresh air.

  * * *

  Granted, the physical exertions of the last couple of days may have affected my critical sensibilities. But when I recall the marvel I beheld that morning—a winding emerald valley six or seven miles long, wedged between towering perpendicular cliffs and filled with every beauty nature can offer—I doubt that Wordsworth could have done poetic justice to the scene before us.

  Even Hart gasped at the view.

  However, from the standpoint of accessibility, this miracle of nature had a lot to be desired. Although stunningly beautiful, the steep cliffs guarded the jigsaw-shaped valley like a vise. Nothing that could remotely be called a road was within fifty miles and the erratic winds funneling down the perpetually snow-capped peaks of the Haast Range made it impossible for helicopters to land. That meant the only entry into Ivo Mackin’s fiefdom was by foot through the maddening labyrinth of tunnels, dead ends, and toxic fumaroles under Shipowner Ridge. And unless you had wings, the route through the cavern was also the only exit.

  Prior to entering the cave, the ambient temperature had been below freezing and the ground covered by varying depths of snow. But here the temperature felt no less than sixty degrees Fahrenheit. Where the rays of the sun escaped the continual shadow of the mountains, acres of vegetables had been planted at an elevation not normally conducive to plants. It was a microclimate straight out of Lost Horizon, in which waterfalls tumbled from velvet heights into turquoise pools, sheep grazed contentedly on lush grasses, and willow-laced bridges covered fast-flowing streams teeming with trout.

  I’ve seen some mighty fine places in my time—the U-shaped canyon of Telluride, England’s Lake District, and the Swiss Lauterbrunnen Gap—but this wind-sheltered vale combined the best of them all, with the balmy fragrance of Napa Valley to boot.

  The beauty did nothing to soften our guide’s demeanor. Bogs, drizzle, and darkness seemed to be Medusa’s natural milieu. But I wondered how the Maoris who once dwelled here could have called this terrestrial paradise The Land of Tears?

  We followed her on a pebbled path past rows of sweet potatoes, taro, spinach, and cress, and a field where the honeyed reek of marijuana permeated the air. A dozen lightly clothed young men and women—all seemingly buzzed and oblivious to our presence—lazily filled their baskets with the flowering tops and leaves from tall stalks of cannabis. In an adjacent meadow thousands of red and orange poppies swayed in the gentle breeze.

  It was a mile from the cavern to a wooden arch covered with elaborately carved designs that signaled the entrance to the marae. A lodge-pole fence extended from it for a few yards on either side. Behind this ran a shallow trench filled with smooth rocks. The fence and ditch seemed there for appearances only, a nod to the traditional fortress, or pa, that once served a very real defensive purpose in the days of warring tribes.

  Within the border was a cleared rectangular compound about half the size of a football field. It was lined by plank-sided houses and sapling huts, interspers
ed with lean-tos where women huddled over looms and men executed remarkable spiral designs on wood using chisels made of sharpened greenstone. At either end of the village were storehouses in which people came and went, carrying baskets filled with berries, vegetables, and grain. Sullen, foxlike dogs with thick tails roamed freely among them.

  Beyond the arch stretched a walkway leading to a large A-frame building that Craddock explained was the Wharenu, or meetinghouse. Facing to the east to greet the morning sun, it was covered with beautiful carvings representing the history of the Maori people. Each spiral notch represented a paragraph, every concentric swirl a chapter to a legend. Next to the Wharenu was a slightly less imposing structure that was the communal eating place, the Whare Kai.

  The center of the compound was open except for a raised stone circle. Five men stood in front of it, carrying wooden staffs.

  The woman, having led us this far, beckoned us to advance toward the center of the open space while singing in a haunting, high-pitched voice.

  As if on cue, a dozen young men and women streamed from the meetinghouse. They formed a semicircle in front of us. They were dressed in cloaks, capes, and kilts of woven flax and bark cloth with kiwi feathers. All were barefooted and both sexes had some type of facial tattoo. Our guide shouted a command. They began to sway their bodies as if in some hypnotic trance.

  The dancing continued for a few minutes, followed by speeches from two older men, one of which was delivered in English for our benefit. After reciting their ancestry, tribe, and subtribe, they greeted us in the name of the dead who had come before and would come after, and the importance of remembering tikanga Maori—their culture and traditions. The archbishop of New York couldn’t have delivered the Litany of the Saints any better.

  When the homilies finally ended, Craddock told us that an offering was required. He gathered a ten-dollar note from me, earrings from Pillow, and half a bag of trail mix from a miserly Hart, and laid them at the foot of Medusa.

  Once she had picked up our offerings, the only thing left to complete our initiation was to formally meet with the welcoming party. It took a couple of clumsy efforts, but I finally got the hang of the hongi—touch forehead of target lightly, press (don’t rub!) target’s nose, introduce yourself by stating your name and the mountain, river, or lake nearest where you were raised. In my case the Muddy Missouri.

  Most of the greeters seemed friendly enough, but despite the genial words, I didn’t feel any closer to being a member of their fraternity, let alone family, than I had before we’d entered the compound. Most of them, women as well, had a glazed look about them, looking only slightly less stoned than the workers we’d seen earlier.

  With the powhiri ceremony over, a sinewy man in late middle age approached us with the precision and posture of a grenadier guard. He wore a beautiful cloak made entirely of kiwi feathers draped over his left shoulder, leaving his right shoulder and muscular arm bare. His long black hair was brushed straight from his forehead and tied in the usual knot at the top of the head, and a greenstone pendant dangled from an earlobe. A trim white mustache and goatee framed his mouth. His face, except for the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, was adorned with tattoos consisting of linear and concentric lines.

  He studied us with interest and not a little amusement. With a start, I realized he was holding our two journals against his chest.

  “I am Wiremu Tako,” he said, with no trace of a Maori accent. “If it’s easier for you, call me Witako. I was known as Terence Robertson in the world below.”

  Craddock stepped forward to exchange the hongi. “Are you the Ariki*1 of this compound?”

  Witako nodded. “Ora, Tane Ne Teome. I knew your mother years ago in Otematata. She was one of the great storytellers and a powerful seer. She would have been most welcome here.”

  He then approached Pillow. Instinctively, she bent her head toward him. He responded in a like manner for the ritual nose press.

  “It is good to meet you at last, Penelope. The Ranginui speaks of you often.”

  “Why call my father Sky God?”

  “Merely a term of respect.”

  “When will I see him?”

  “That is a delicate matter. I suggest that you take a few days to gather your strength. I have assigned people to assist each of you. Hopefully, you will learn some of our ways and see what we have accomplished here.”

  Hart stepped forward and pointed to the journals.

  “How about giving those back now that you’ve seen them. Not that I…we…don’t trust you.”

  The Ariki maintained his courteous formal demeanor, but made it clear we were going to play by the home team’s rules.

  “For now,” he said, after barking orders that brought two young men scurrying from a nearby hut, “they shall remain in my care.”

  * * *

  I didn’t see them spirit my fellow travelers away because by then a stocky young woman, foregoing the traditional greeting, had pulled my head down to plant a kiss on my lips.

  “I am Aronui,” she said, flashing a coquettish smile above her tattooed chin. “I asked to be your host. Do you agree to have me?”

  “Have I a choice?”

  Her mouth curved downward. “I do not please you?”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t think I need a babysitter.”

  Aronui let out a silvery laugh. She purred, “I think you’ll like me.”

  Well, thinks I, if a buxom girl wants to put it that way, who am I to protest?

  * * *

  She led me by the hand to a hut on the eastern side of the marae.

  I had to duck to get through the door, but the floor had been excavated so that the overall height inside the structure allowed me to stand upright. Aronui lit an oil lamp with an old Zippo and I saw what would be my digs for the next week.

  Coarse grass mats covered the otherwise dirt floor. The bed was marginally different from the mats in that it was woven of a thicker, finer material and stuffed with straw. There was a hole in the roof, twelve inches or so in diameter. Directly beneath it were sticks of kindling and matches for making a fire, but it would have to get plenty cold for me to risk asphyxiation lighting it. In the corner was a pottery bowl that Aronui shyly suggested could be used as a chamber pot.

  It wasn’t exactly the Dorchester, but it was snug enough, and after the arduous journey I wasn’t complaining.

  When I turned to inform Aronui that, despite the lack of a television and a minibar, the room would do, I saw she had taken off her cloak and was kneeling on the bed mat with nothing on except a tiny grass apron. The minx didn’t look in my direction, but there was no getting around her intent.

  It was late afternoon and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees, but watching that apple-cheeked girl with the upturned breasts and milk-chocolate eyes playfully pretending to adjust the feathers in her hair had me sweating like an Algerian stevedore.

  Nonetheless, I’m proud, if not a little surprised, to report that I declined her invitation to grapple in the buff.

  “Here, now, what’s the problem?” she demanded, when it became apparent I wasn’t succumbing to her charms. “You like boys instead, maybe?”

  “No problem at all, Aronui. I find you extremely desirable. It’s just…Well, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly, my being a guest of the Ranginui and all.”

  She found that amusing.

  “He doesn’t mind. No one here minds. It’s expected of us.”

  “ ‘Us’ who?”

  “Comfort hine,” she said, demurely draping the cloak over her shoulders. “Not all the girls, just the ones what plied the old trade before. This isn’t a monastery. Me, I come from a knocking shop in Hamilton up north. Things got too rough and I let an arioi know I wanted to put my talents to use elsewhere. Got me away from my uncle and his dirty friends. Been all right, all things considered. They teach me Maori stuff. I don’t drink gin no more. No chance for meth up here, neither. Only the hashish and poppies, which are brilliant
! Like you never had the likes of.”

  “What’s an arioi?”

  “A wanderin’ type. They go about the country lookin’ for folks the Ariki can help.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Going on three years. That’s why I talk Maori so good, although I was always hearin’ the words from my nana before she died. Most of them cuss words, mixed in with the old tales.”

  She looked at me before securing the cloak pin at her shoulder.

  “Ka mahi ai? You sure you don’t want to lie with me? I ain’t got the pox.”

  “Not today,” I answered, not too convincingly. “I still don’t quite see how your trade fits in with the Ranginui’s plans for a Maori rehab center.”

  Aronui considered this very seriously.

  “What I do is very much part of whanaungatanga. That is, to teach and guide, working to maintain harmony with what skills I have. I can’t weave, but I’m good at fucking and I don’t mind if it’s with someone I don’t especially like or even know. I make happy the blokes who need sex so they won’t take it out on others, upsetting the hau of the village.”

  “Why did you think it necessary to offer your body to me?”

  “Witako said it would be proper.”

  “That’s the only reason?”

  She smiled. “It would have been a nice greeting for me as well. Now, take off your clothes.”

  “But I thought…”

  “Pah, not for that.” She went to one of the baskets and pulled out a kilt, a woven belt, and a cloak made of dog skin similar to the one she wore with the hair side out. “You aren’t to wear pakeha clothes while our guest.”

  In deference to my tender feet, Aronui handed me a pair of sandals plaited from strips of leaves. Coyly, she averted her eyes when I pulled off my skivvies and climbed into the kilt. Once I’d secured the garb with a woven belt, I dipped my head so that she could drape a long cloak over it. Then she handed me a rectangular garment to be placed around my shoulders, pinned the two vestments together at my right shoulder, and stood back to admire her work.