‘Now go back and get the rest,’ Marzelline said, ‘especially the sacks of flour and sugar before they get wet.’
Once the food had been safely stored, Rocco wanted to deal straight away with the barrels of fuel. ‘I don’t want any to be washed away by the sea,’ he said.
‘Can you manage, Jüngling?’ Marzelline asked Erenora, her bright blue eyes shining with concern. She had finally taken time to remove her seaman’s hat and cape and to wipe the rain from her face with a towel.
‘Of course the boy can manage,’ Rocco muttered. ‘Come, Eruera.’
Lightning was crackling overhead as they braved the storm again. Erenora followed Rocco’s lead, rolling the barrels along the quay and hauling them up a few stone steps to the lighthouse. Rocco opened the door to a wide circular floor. ‘Stack the barrels around the walls,’ he ordered. ‘I am going aloft to check on the lantern.’
Erenora watched him ascend a circular staircase to the floor high above where the lighthouse’s huge lamp was blazing over the sea. Then she went out to collect the remaining barrels. On every return she could hear Rocco stamping overhead and the occasional guttural swearword as he cursed Jack.
‘Now go and find the pony,’ Rocco said when he came down.
Shading her face against the rain, Erenora saw that the pony had found shelter beneath a large tree near the beach. ‘There, there,’ she consoled the shivering beast. She shepherded him to the small wooden barn close by the cottage. A milking cow was already in one stall; Erenora manoeuvred the pony into the second. Seven laying hens, guarded by a fierce rooster, clucked in the bales of hay.
The pony was wet, trembling with fear and cold, and Erenora was rubbing him down when Rocco entered. ‘You sleep in the loft,’ he said. ‘It is comfortable and warm there and Jack will have left bedding for you. You take your meals in the cottage with me and my daughter. Tomorrow night you start your first shift as lighthouse keeper. Good evening.’
As Rocco brusquely took his leave, Erenora kicked him savagely in the back. The German turned to swing at her but discovered a butcher’s knife at his neck. ‘You’ve used physical force against me twice now, mein Herr,’ Erenora said. She knew if she didn’t take a stand against him now he would keep physically challenging her and, possibly, discover her secret. ‘Don’t do it again or I will stick you like a pig.’
Rocco looked at Erenora warily. ‘The Jüngling fights back? So be it.’
They were interrupted by Marzelline; she had changed into dry clothing and pinned up her hair. She hesitated, knowing something had occurred between her father and Erenora — but Rocco made light of it.
He looked at her and smiled, good humoured. ‘Eruera has just shown me he can look after himself.’
Marzelline nodded, ‘I’m glad, Papa.’ Balancing on her artificial legs and crutches, she had a pack slung across her shoulders. She put it down on a bale of hay, took out a large bowl and pitcher and began pouring steaming soup into the bowl. Then she took out two large pieces of bread from the pack.
‘That soup is not for Eruera, is it?’ Rocco objected.
Marzelline gave her father an impudent look. ‘I bring replenishment for the pony, Papa!’ she answered slyly. Her skin was shining, as if the storm had invigorated her. She whispered to Erenora, ‘You have done better than any of the others already.’ Then she turned to Rocco, ‘Come, Papa, get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.’
Later that evening, staring out of the loft window, Erenora saw the storm was abating and the moon leaping high into a cloud-streaked sky. Had she made the right decision? What if the rumours that Horitana had been imprisoned on an island were wrong? If so, she would be the prisoner.
Glancing at the lighthouse, Erenora saw Rocco silhouetted on an exterior balcony below the lantern. She left the barn, ran swiftly through the rain to the lighthouse and made her first ascent of the lighthouse stairs.
‘Show me what to do,’ Erenora said to the startled Rocco, ‘and then join your daughter for the night.’
‘I worked my first shift that very evening,’ Erenora wrote. ‘I intuitively realised that if I didn’t continue to take the upper hand, Rocco would ride me pitilessly morning and night. Better to get him to consider me, if not as an equal, at least not as an underling he could order around.
‘The shift took me through to an hour after dawn when Rocco came to wind the lantern’s operation down. You might have thought that he would be kindly disposed to me for having taken the initiative and worked on my first night on Peketua, but that was not in his nature. No, hard taskmaster that he was, he had me spending the day restacking the stores to his satisfaction. My only respite came when Marzelline took sympathy on me and brought me food again. “You must eat, Jüngling,” she said, wagging a finger. “If you don’t eat, how will you keep up with Papa?”
‘“Don’t call me Jüngling,” I answered. “There are more than ten years between us.” But Marzelline had already decided what and who I was, and she chose not to hear me.
‘It was not until a week later that I was finally able to take stock of my surroundings — the island, the lighthouse, my new employer and his daughter, and my strange circumstances …’
2.
I was finally able to take stock of my surroundings.
Aue, describing Peketua Island is a true test, but from the fragments of Erenora’s papers, and Marzelline’s diary, we can surmise some details of Erenora’s new world and build up a picture of it.
Of course the locational and topographical details of Peketua Island are well known. The name comes from the Maori god who was said to be the progenitor of all reptiles; he sculpted an egg out of clay and from it came the tuatara, Peketua’s physical form. The island lies at coordinates 46° 47’S, 169° 10’E. Its area is 5.1 square miles, comprising a small plateau — the ‘head’ of Erenora’s giant taniw’a — on which the lighthouse stood and a ‘body’ comprising a series of four hummocks each topped with a jagged pinnacle rising to the highest elevation of 240 feet. Although small, the island’s forested interior is difficult to access and, back then, it could not be traversed without difficulty. The quickest means of getting to the other side was in a small skiff with a much-patched but serviceable sail. Contrary winds made such a journey hazardous, however, and the best way was by foot, though walking was slow and meant having to negotiate jutting spurs and craggy cliffs.
As to the south-eastern side, where the lighthouse was, Erenora soon realised why its warning light was required. The outlying jagged rocks were scattered along the coast over a 5-mile stretch.
‘It was Marzelline who was able to connect the myth of the island with reality. When I told her that the island was named after the god of reptiles she clapped her hands and answered, “Then the reefs are like scattered egg shells when the island was born and the foaming sea their discoloured albumen.”
‘I laughed at her cleverness. Yes indeed, in the agony of its birth throes Peketua Island had literally exploded out of its egg and sent thousands of broken shards across the sea. How ever had Captain Demmer navigated his way through the rocks?’
And then there was the lighthouse, Rocco and Marzelline’s stone cottage — attractive in the daylight — and the small wooden barn close to it.
I don’t want to provide a treatise on lighthouses, but some background might be in order, and I hope you’ll indulge me as I’ve always been interested in these buildings. This fascination stemmed from the time when I was a young boy and my father, who liked comics, bought at the same second-hand store a small encyclopedia with highly coloured illustrations designed to enthral the young reader. Among the drawings were those of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World. Can you name them? The Pyramid, the Sphinx, the Great Library at Alexandria, the Colossus of Rhodes, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, pae kare, I can’t remember the sixth one, but the seventh was my favourite: the Pharos of Alexandria, built in 247 BC and 460 feet tall, according to my encyclopedia. Not only could the light be s
een 30 nautical miles away but — and this really appealed to my boyhood imagination — its huge lamp could act as a ray gun and burn any fleets attacking Alexandria.
You can see my point, can’t you? From the very beginning of civilisation, lighthouses have been revered and regarded as important to humankind. They were very important to Pakeha when New Zealand was being discovered and colonised. Ships were the primary, and the fastest, means of trade, communication and immigration, but what a treacherous and hazardous coast. It’s hard to credit, but over 1,000 ships were wrecked in the first fifty years of colonisation; that’s, on average, twenty ships a year — imagine twenty planes crashing annually. No wonder that building lighthouses became a priority and that the first one was erected at the entrance to Wellington Harbour in 1848, only eight years after the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi. As for the lighthouse on Peketua Island, it was first lit nineteen years later, and its lantern was able to beam out to 20 nautical miles — not bad, eh. The lantern was fired an hour before dark and remained lit until an hour after dawn, but it also operated when mists or squalls affected visibility. To see a lighthouse, whether by night or day, was to know that a guardian was watching over your progress:
‘I am here, pass by in safety.’
I like to imagine Erenora on duty at the lighthouse.
Snatching moments from her work, I picture her during the evenings going out onto the platform. She must have experienced some of her most sublime moments looking at that vast seascape, the stars above the ocean stretching into blackness. And during the days, peering through the telescope on the platform, she would have spied ships squeezing through the gap between sea and sky. They bucked through the waves, giving wide berth to the rocks and passed into the haze of the horizon.
Sometimes, when Rocco was not watching, she would swing the telescope landward.
If Horitana was here, where would he be imprisoned?
3.
‘Rocco kept me so busy that I scarcely realised that three weeks had gone by. He was a tough taskmaster and he insisted on maintaining a daily routine.
‘Most mornings, for instance, I was awakened by Marzelline’s girlish laughter, “Papa, let me walk!” I watched from the window as, instead, Rocco carried his daughter down the steps from the cottage to the quay. He would seat Marzelline on the edge and, dressed in a voluminous bathing costume, he would leap into the freezing sea. Briskly he splashed around, blowing and puffing like a sea lion. Then he invited Marzelline to jump down into his arms. No matter what the weather, this was their regimen, their daily constitutional.
‘There was a bell affixed to the doorway of the cottage and at 7.30 Marzelline would ring it for breakfast, “Eruera? Komm!” The kitchen was her domain and she cooked all the meals. She refused to let Rocco or me help her as she moved from kitchen range to dining table, ladling porridge or serving tea. Sometimes she was on crutches and other times she was in a wheelchair, always talking to herself. “Be careful now, Marzelline,” she would mutter, “don’t spill the milk! Oh, what a careless girl you are,” she would cry, “you forgot to slice the bread!” I marvelled at her dexterity, though sometimes it failed her. Once I made the mistake of kneeling down to pick up a plate she had dropped. “No, Eruera,” she pouted. “Your place, your job, is the lighthouse. My place, my job, is the kitchen.”
‘Following breakfast, Rocco spent most of his morning in the lighthouse. He liked to take the responsibility of maintaining the mechanism that rotated the lantern and refuelling the sixteen small paraffin oil lamps, each with its own lens, which turned inside. “If things go wrong while you are on duty,” he said to me, “I have only myself to blame and I will not feel inclined to hit you — and invite you to hit me back.” Rocco always had a list of other chores for me to do: keeping the interior of the lighthouse tidy, milking the cow, collecting and chopping firewood and fetching water from the well. The island was fortunate in having fresh water from an aquifer, an underground layer of water-bearing permeable rock.
‘We were always busy in the mornings, even Marzelline, who had a little garden at the front of the cottage for flowers, and a vegetable garden and apple tree at the back. I liked watching her as she sat on a small cushion, pushing herself along the rows and weeding the potatoes, carrots and other vegetables. She was particularly proud of a windowbox where she carefully nurtured the aromatic herbs with which she seasoned our meals.
‘Sometimes, rather than lay out lunch in the cottage, Marzelline would ask me to help her take a basket of food and drink to Rocco at the lighthouse. “Papa? Papa!” she would call, until he appeared on the platform. “Is that my Rapunzel?” he would laugh, forgetting that I was there to eavesdrop on their intimacy. “I let down my hair!” He had constructed a pulley system from the platform with a chair on which Marzelline could sit and be raised to the top.
‘Over lunch of cheese, sausage, bread and drink, Marzelline and her father would chatter away and often they played board games or read. Once lunch was finished, Rocco would rest: sleeping or reading or relaxing with one of his cigars. As for me, I took up fishing from the skiff that was moored at the quay. “Look, Papa! Eruera caught another fish!” Marzelline would exclaim when I arrived at the house with my catch. I think Rocco was jealous that I was such a good fisherman but, to be truthful, the island’s waters were so plentiful that anybody with a hook and line could catch something.
‘Sundays were special days. After lunch Rocco dressed in black coat and white shirt, and Marzelline joined him in the sitting room where they read to each other from the Bible. Come the evening, we would have dinner early in the cottage and, an hour before dark, Rocco lit the lantern and stayed on duty until midnight.
‘Then he would come and wake me. “Eruera! Boy! Do not let the lantern go out or it will be the worse for you.”’
Although the pony had been broken in — Marzelline christened him Napoleon — one of Erenora’s first duties was to make him amenable to the harness and trap. He was not a large animal, but Rocco appeared to have an antipathy to horses. ‘You do it,’ he said to Erenora.
There was a long sandy beach on the other side of the quay. On the first day of training, Erenora introduced Napoleon to the harness while Rocco and Marzelline watched from the hillside. When Erenora placed the harness on the pony’s back he recoiled; pulled across the sand, Erenora hung onto the reins for dear life.
Over the next few days, Erenora tried the harness on Napoleon again and again without success. ‘What if the pony won’t submit?’ Marzelline asked her father.
Rocco gave Erenora a strong glance. ‘Eruera will do it,’ he told her.
It was only a matter of time, especially when Erenora had a brainwave. She took Napoleon into the surf and hitched the trap to him there. The water level was up to the axles and, this time, the pony couldn’t bolt. He gave Erenora a withering, defeated look: unfair.
‘Can I drive him now?’ Marzelline asked. ‘Can I, Papa?’
Rocco lifted her into the seat. When he and Eruera went to walk beside the trap she set her chin with determination. ‘Nein. I go by myself,’ she muttered, as much to herself as to them. With that, she sent the pony trotting down the beach.
Watching her, Rocco looked at Erenora and spoke gruffly, ‘If ever my daughter wanted to go further than the cottage I always had to carry her,’ he said. ‘Now she can ride to the end of the world.’ It was the closest to a thank you that Rocco had come.
The next Sunday, Erenora pressed home her advantage. After lunch, Rocco and Marzelline settled down to reading their Bible to each other. ‘May I join you, mein Herr?’ Erenora asked.
‘I thought you Maoris were heathens,’ Rocco answered, astonished.
‘I was brought up by Lutherans like you,’ Erenora said.
Rocco paused, thinking.
‘Oh please, Papa,’ Marzelline teased him. ‘I get so tired of your droning voice!’
Rocco tried to look disapproving but, eventually, he frowned and nodded his head. ‘
But I am master,’ he said to Marzelline, wagging a finger, ‘you are mistress — and Eruera is our servant.’
‘Not in the eyes of God,’ Marzelline said.
And that was that.
4.
‘And so,’ Erenora wrote, ‘ my relationship with Rocco settled into a better pattern of acceptance.
‘He even trusted me enough to pull one of his teeth. I had to use two sets of forceps and he battled me all the way and, at the end, he lifted his fist! And he also began to trust his daughter to me on occasional afternoons. Sometimes when he was resting, I prepared Napoleon so that Marzelline could drive the trap along the beach. “Is that all right, mein Herr?” I would ask. And Marzelline would confront him, “It had better be!” She soon became more adventurous, forcing the pony up the sand dunes into rock caves. One day I forgot she was crippled and chastised her, “You try to walk before you can run.” We both laughed at my innocent remark.
‘Soon afterwards, the ease into which Marzelline and I had grown was illustrated when she asked, “Eruera, would you help me from the trap? I think I will go for a swim.” The day was dull and the breakers were surly, but Marzelline wasn’t deterred. To speak plainly, I suspect she desired physical contact: she had an affectionate heart and loved to have me swing her down onto the sand — “You’re so strong, Jüngling!” On that occasion, Marzelline was wearing her artificial legs but, as she undressed to her underclothing, she nonchalantly took them off in front of me; they were kept on by a tight girdle around her thighs. She unwrapped the bandages from the stumps and, looking at me, said, “You can touch them if you like.”
The Parihaka Woman Page 22