by Phil Smith
The Arrow, it transpired, had been trading in the tropics and recently returned to the Tasman. She had called at the Bay of Islands, in search of new spars, and some of her crew encountered their old acquaintance on the waterfront at Kororareka. Flanagan told them of the commerce we engaged in, and they resolved to visit me at Kaimiro on the next favourable wind.
Then Flanagan asked of me, ‘How fare you since the Ngapuhi came?’
‘Alas, our people are dispirited,’ I said. ‘The threat of invasion still afflicts us. It’s as if the land is cursed. The gardens and orchards are going to weeds and we lack the workers to sustain our trade in produce. Our time of prosperity has ended.’
‘And your lands? What of your extensive holdings along this very coast? They say you once possessed all from the Mercurys to Tairua’s fair haven.’
‘All but depleted sadly, by violence, by deception, by wretched misfortune. Nevertheless we live in contentment, for we know, as you do, that a smooth sea maketh not the steadfast sailor.’
The rum was taking its effect.
‘Well said!’ the skipper, a gray-bearded fellow, declared, topping up my mug and raising his in salutation. ‘Here’s to steadfast sailors!’
We told our stories, Flanagan and I, the men marvelling at our fortitude, then the talk turned to more commercial matters.
‘Was there gold to be had?’ the skipper asked. ‘I hear talk that traces have been found among yonder volcanoes,’ he said, tipping the rum keg’s dregs into a dented pewter jug.
‘A small amount, no more than that,’ I said. ‘Otherwise our lives would be less humble than you presently perceive.’
The last thing I desired was to see Kaimiro invaded by gold miners.
‘Well then, Revington,’ said the captain, ‘I have good tidings to declare. There’s back-pay due to you, and compensation too. You see, when we came again to Jackson Bay and found your station abandoned, we took on six hundred barrels of seal oil and nigh on five thousand skins, all clean and nicely preserved.’
I rocked back in my chair and looked from face to face for affirmation.
‘It’s true,’ smiled Flanagan. ‘And since the others are now demised the profit’s shared ’twixt us. There’s a thousand pounds awaiting you in the bank in Sydney.’
I held out my cup for more rum and caroused vociferously with the men until the afternoon gave way to eventide.
‘You’ll need to come with us to the Bay and thence to Sydney, to receive your revenue,’ said Flanagan. ‘And I’ve a business prospect that may turn the tide in your favour.’
The boat took me ashore, and a little drunkenly, I told Anatohia of our good fortune and of my need to sail tonight.
‘I bid you come with me,’ I urged her. For here, as on the bank of the Taramakau those many years ago, I sensed a turning point. ‘Herewini and Ngarimu will be looked after by their whanau. And I can show you my former home. But we must go now, for the sea breeze builds and our anchorage lies exposed. They sail tonight, with or without us.’
‘I’ll stay,’ she said, ‘for tomorrow we cut kiekie for the tukutuku and I must do my share. I bid you haere-ra, my love. Go with the men and get the money. I will do the women’s work. May God’s presence surround you.’
That was the last time I would see my beloved wife.
11
Fishing on the Firth
‘That’s it, then. There’s no one else. There must have been just the four of the bastards.’
‘Call it a day then, eh?’
From his refuge beneath the bridge, Hemi could hear the search being scaled down.
‘We’ll keep someone on deck tonight. There may very well have been five of them.’
‘Maybe we’ll find a body.’
‘Maybe. I’d say the car’s a write-off.’
‘Yep, I’d reckon she’d be buggered. Reported stolen from Tairua about lunchtime.’
‘See you back at the station.’
Hemi was starving. He’d had nothing to eat since the previous day apart from half a packet of Gingernuts taken from the table when he left home.
After the crash at the roadblock he’d heard the police chasing the four who stole the car. They’d bounded off, two of them vaulting the fence and racing across the pasture and into the mangroves half a mile away to the right. The other two went the other way, sprinting along the stop-bank in full view of the houses on the other side of the river.
Hemi had acted instantly.
The Kauaeranga Bridge is curved and the Super Minx at the southern end was out of view from those at the roadblock. The open doors screened Hemi for the few seconds he needed to snatch his pack and dive for the side of the bridge. After rolling down the embankment, he had crawled under the water and sewage pipelines and into the darkness.
In the ten seconds it took the police to sprint to the scene, he had crammed himself into the crevice between the foundation rocks and the concrete abutment wall.
Now he was safe.
The car wreck was towed away and the traffic began to rumble above him.
By this time it was dark.
Light rain hissed softly on the water.
Rats rustled in the rushes.
Hemi crept out and crouched on the sewer pipe. A police car remained. Hemi faded back into the shadows as a torch beam lit up the riverbank and tracked back and forth across the water.
It was the top of the tide.
Time to move. If the river level dropped too far he’d leave deep footprints in the mud.
After pushing his pack into a space between the rocks, Hemi waded through the reeds and slid into the current, drifting silently with the ebb, making for the town side.
Three hundred yards downstream lay the marina, if you could call it that; its constricted channels and berths were hacked out of the gray muck. Downstream the Kauaeranga ran thick with sediment between high mangrove banks into the murky Firth of Thames.
Hemi drifted past the Toyota factory and rounded the bend until a gap appeared in the trees. Ten yards up the canal a launch lay alongside a row of crooked piles that supported a rickety timber walkway.
Hemi glided up the canal then, sliding up onto the boarding platform, he squeezed the water from his clothing and climbed over the transom into the cockpit.
The door was padlocked. With the grim expression of someone who knows that things may get much worse before they start to get better, Hemi edged forwards along the deck and lifted the hatch on the bow. It was unsecured and he climbed down into the boat.
Although it smelled of diesel and fish, it was a beautiful cabin, and in the glow of the town’s lights, Hemi could see varnished timber panelling and gleaming brass lamps.
Bunks ran along each side, with a galley aft and a table on top of the engine box. A small door led to a compartment in the bow.
Silently he searched the lockers and found tins of spaghetti and corned beef. He opened two cans and upended them into a pot and, using a spoon, devoured the contents. He knew he could get into serious trouble, but too bad! This was survival! Hemi found a towel and dried himself. He took a blanket and lay down on one of the bunks and went straight to sleep.
Clomping gumboots on the boardwalk jerked him from his dreams.
It was daylight.
Stowing the blanket and the towel he scrambled into the bow compartment and clicked the door shut.
The boat rolled to starboard as the men stepped aboard. The padlock clacked open. The arrivals stowed their rods and bags, then started the engine and cast off the lines.
Hemi made himself as comfortable as he could in the gloom, wedged between a pile of rope and anchor chain, several lifejackets and two fuel containers. Water slapped and rippled against the hull as they cruised away.
After two hours the motor was stopped.
‘This’ll do, do you reckon?’
‘Good a place as any. I’ll drop the hook, eh?’
‘Good man. I’ll cut up some bait.’
Footsteps scu
ffed along the deck above Hemi, followed by a loud splash.
Chain rattled over the bow roller.
Hemi tucked his legs up tight to allow the cable to run freely. Too late — a loop around his foot yanked tight and he stifled a yelp as it jammed hard against the deckhead.
‘Damn thing’s stuck,’ said the voice. ‘What are we in, Bart?’
‘Thirty feet or so.’
‘Well the anchor’s not on the bottom yet. Better have a look up forwards, eh.’
Light burst into the stuffy compartment.
‘Hey, Bart, we’ve got a bloody stowaway on board.’
Hemi hung suspended by his leg.
‘So what the devil’s going on here, then, eh lad?’
Bart was a short but burly Englishman in his forties with black hair and well-tended moustache. He had small, penetrating eyes set wide apart and he held a fillet knife in his hand.
‘What the blazes are you doing on my boat?’
The knife blade glinted. Hemi jerked back in alarm, suddenly knowing how the wild pigs felt when facing the knife.
‘I’m sorry!’ was all he could manage.
‘Well, we’d better get you untangled, for a start. Reg, old boy, would you mind hauling in a fathom of chain.’
Hemi rubbed his bruised ankle and looked around. The firth was like a mirror all the way up to the Hauraki Gulf.
‘So explain yourself then, lad. And don’t try any funny business with us.’
Hemi didn’t know where to begin. But he was on the wrong side of the law. There was no sense adding lying to the list of sins.
‘My name’s Hemi. I was hitching to Auckland to look for a job. I got picked up by some hoons.’
‘Ah-ha!’ boomed Bart with what Hemi thought was a trace of a laugh. ‘The fifth man! The mystery passenger! You were with those yahoos in the hot Super Minx, eh what! Ran the roadblock. They grabbed your mates, you know. Drunk as skunks. Lucky if they don’t all get two years.’
‘They weren’t my mates,’ said Hemi. ‘They picked me up over the hill. I never knew they were criminals. I never met them till yesterday.’
Stroking the ends of his moustache with his thumb and forefinger, Bart gave Hemi a penetrating stare.
‘Fair enough,’ he said at last. ‘I accept your word. You don’t seem their type. The thing is, what are we going to do with you?’
‘Next high tide’s midnight,’ complained his companion, whose name was Laurie. ‘We won’t be able to get back up the channel in the dark, and we can’t turn around now.’
‘He’ll have to stay out overnight with us, then,’ said Bart. ‘That okay with you chaps?’
‘You’ll have to pull your weight, you know,’ Reg warned Hemi. ‘We’re not out here to muck around.’
‘I won’t get in your way,’ Hemi pleaded. ‘And I could probably teach you a few things about fishing.’
The men’s eyes widened.
‘So,’ Laurie sneered, ‘you reckon you know a bit about fishin’ then?’
‘I’ve caught one or two in my time. I notice you’ve got four rods on board.’
For the next couple of hours they stayed at anchor, the cloud-capped Coromandel Peninsula off to the east and the bushclad Hunua Ranges far away in the west.
There were very few nibbles as the sun beat down and Laurie suggested moving somewhere else.
‘What’s your advice, Hemi?’ said Bart. ‘You’re the expert.’
‘We should drift,’ he said, swinging his feet up on the cockpit coaming and yawning. If he was out with Sonny and his fishing mates they would have filled the boat by now. These guys were learners. ‘I think we’ll catch something if we pull the anchor up and drift.’
‘Well we sure can’t do any worse than we’ve done,’ said Reg, glancing at his watch.
‘But first we should move on to the Te Aroha Line,’ Hemi added. ‘There’s deeper water there, and some good reefs.’
The men scratched their heads.
‘Te Aroha Line? What the heck’s that?’ Reg demanded.
‘Go in closer to the coast and when the hills behind Thames start to line up with Mt Te Aroha, that’s the spot. And we should be using bonito. Have you got any?’
Reg was first to bait up once they arrived and within seconds his reel was shrieking. Laurie dived for the gaff while Reg pumped the rod, the nylon twitching like a plucked violin string.
‘Over this way, mate,’ said Laurie, reaching for the trace. ‘She’s a whopper!’
Twenty-three heavy fish flapped into the icebox in an hour and a half and they kept a fifteen-pound snapper for dinner.
‘So your old man taught you to fish, eh young fellow!’ said Reg next morning as they steered south for home. ‘You certainly know your stuff. I reckon you’ll do well in life if you stay away from bad bastards!’
‘You mean buggers like us?’ said Laurie, and the four of them haw-hawed with laughter.
The boat chugged quietly up the river past the town wharf. Bart turned to port into the mud berth, Reg went forwards with the bow line while Laurie prepared to fend off. With the engine silent and the seacocks closed, the men sat at the table and opened two bottles of Sparkling Waitemata.
‘Well, here’s to a successful mission,’ said Bart, raising his mug, and the others replied, ‘A successful mission.’
‘I’d say we’d better take this young joker along with us next time,’ said Reg. ‘He can teach us old-timers a thing or two, eh Bart!’
‘I wonder,’ said Bart, stroking his moustache again, thoughtfully. He turned to Hemi. ‘You say you’re looking for a job? Tell me, lad, can you use a broom and make a decent cup of tea?’
Hemi felt a twinge of curiosity and excitement. The corners of his mouth curved upwards and he sensed the clouds of uncertainty clearing from his horizon. ‘So you’re not going to dob me in to the cops,’ he said.
‘Not as long as you behave yourself,’ said Laurie. ‘So what do you say? Do you want to come to Hikutaia and work for us?’
‘I’d love to,’ grinned Hemi. It was the most joy and relief he had felt for years.
12
The fire goes out
‘What she was doing was dangerous.’
The old lady thrust her finger towards the clifftop in a gesture of anger and remorse.
‘Anatohia knew that all right. All of us know that, eh? But there was confidence in her footsteps as she balanced across the pohutukawa branch. She had done it a thousand times, same as everyone.’
Fragrant smoke from the driftwood fire swirled around the kuia and she hobbled towards a large log, sat down, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
‘Her husband was away from home and there was plenty of work to be done. Ah yes, Raupeti would return and he would praise his wife for her skillful plaiting of the tukutuku, and for the warm whare and dry sleeping mat she had prepared for him. And he would bless her for her faithfulness and embrace his children, Herewini and Ngarimu, in his arms.’
Lined and etched by the dancing flames and passing years, the woman’s face loomed fierce in the wide eyes of her listeners.
Someone threw more wood on the fire and sparks crackled high into the salty Pacific night.
Waves swished up the beach.
The woman jabbed her stick towards the canoe paddlers, the scornfully inattentive kaihoe, who stood square-shouldered with their muscular arms folded.
‘But beware!’ she cried. ‘Carelessness has a price! Anatohia forgot what she was doing! She didn’t watch her step.’
The children, sitting on the beach, leaned forwards, straining for subtle shades of meaning, glancing now and then at each other, and to the tumbling waterfall above.
‘Because, you see, right underneath her feet the rippling sound of the river became a deafening gush and the stream tumbled out into space, down, far down, to the dark pool, into the jagged jaws of the taniwha.’
The storyteller hunched in the firelight, eyes narrowed to slits. ‘No soul has ever beheld the
taniwha’s vile shape, or at least lived to tell about it! But all of us have seen the foam and froth around the pool from time to time, after the monster has been thrashing or grinding a victim in his monstrous jaws.’
The listeners were motionless.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the woman. ‘And we used to hear the screams. By jingoes, did we ever! Even today you hear screams of the disrespectful and the inattentive. Listen, even now — what’s that …?’
The young men abandoned their impudent posturing and looked furtively around them.
‘The bundles of kiekie weighed heavily upon her shoulder as Anatohia balanced across the branch. She was protected from danger, so she believed, by her precious greenstone pendant, her taonga pounamu. Its name was Moanawhakamana.’
No one spoke.
The older ones stared through the smoke and flames to the islands, and to the moon on the horizon. Others gazed up to the grove of pohutukawa at the top of the waterfall.
Since childhood they had all walked across the wide bough that bridged the Kaimiro Stream, and they remembered and loved the legend of Anatohia.
It was up to the prancing elder, with her sharp eyes and reedy lips, to pass this particular narrative on, not because of her seniority but because she enhanced its enchantment with each telling.
A waka with three men and a woman aboard glided down the avenue of reflected moonlight and slid up onto the shore. Helpers hurried baskets of fish and mussels up to the campfire. Nets and lines, paddles and harpoons, and kits of kina and paua were bundled from the craft.
The fisherfolk were welcomed around the fire.
The storyteller bowed her head and waited.
Three dozen large paua were laid, shells down, in the embers. Two enormous hapuku were wrapped in leaves and placed on the glowing coals. Twenty crayfish were dropped into a cauldron of bubbling water beside the fire.
‘Tell us about the greenstone thing, Auntie,’ cried a small voice.