Weeping Waters

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  She shakes her head and stays quiet, embarrassed and unsure of what to say. Tori respects the silence. For now, he will ask nothing more.

  The Card Players

  We were playing cards, the four of us—Mervyn, Charles, Rawiri and me. Three of us were old friends and we were heading north for a holiday. We’d bought some pies and chips at Taihape and we’d smuggled a few beers onto the train as you weren’t supposed to drink. We invited the Maori chap who was sitting opposite us to join us. We needed a fourth for our game and he seemed like a good sort. A bit shy at first but he turned out to be quite a joker and by the way he shuffled the cards I could tell he was no novice. We were having a great old time over a game of euchre. I remember passing through Tangiwai Station quite slowly—Irecall seeing the name but we didn’t stop. We were in the carriage immediately behind the engine and a lot of people had already dozed off. But we weren’t tired and wanted to play on. I was feeling good as I was winning. I had just scored another trick and was shuffling the deck.

  Suddenly we were all thrown forward. Our carriage was hurtling off the bridge at a terrific speed and I was tumbling in the air. It was like falling down a steep hill and I was turning somersaults. We hit the river with a terrific jolt and the water started pouring in around us. Everyone was screaming. The water gushed through and the lights went out so I could hardly see anything.

  The carriage landed on its side and I worked out where the windows were and called out to everyone to crawl through the broken windows. I climbed through one and cut my leg on a piece of glass. But before I could stop myself, I slipped and next thing I was caught up in the torrent and swept half a mile downstream. I kept being pushed under by the strong current and I could feel all my clothes being ripped off me. I swallowed lots of water and at one stage wondered if I would make it. I managed to find the strength to swim to the side and crawled ashore.

  We were the lucky ones, my friends and I. We met on the river-bank back near where the bridge collapsed. But we couldn’t find Rawiri. We looked everywhere that night but there was no sign of him. We felt bad, guilty even. Not that we knew him very well. It’s just that when you sit down to play a hand of cards with a man, there’s a bond.

  The rest of us had come out of it relatively unscathed. Mervyn had bad burns on his feet and hands, though. When he got out of the carriage he had leapt onto the wrecked locomotive in front. Even though it was half in the water, it was still scorching hot from its own fire and seared into his flesh.

  Some of the soldiers’ wives came to help us. They wrapped us in grey blankets and we huddled together eating fruitcake and cups of tea laced with rum.

  Other survivors were brought up to sit with us. There was one family who arrived looking like monsters from the deep. They were covered in engine oil and silt from head to foot. The parents and their son and daughter had been in the carriage behind us. They were all asleep when the train crashed and woke up in the water. They all squeezed out of a window onto the roof of the carriage which was upside down in the water. They said there was only about 9 inches of the roof sticking above the water and they had clung onto it, all holding their breath as a huge wave washed over them. They hung on for half an hour before being rescued.

  We sat there for at least an hour. By then the place was crawling with people; soldiers and police, ordinary people from surrounding towns who had come to help. Then there were the other passengers and of course the bodies. They were piling people up by the river as they pulled them out. I kept going over to see if Rawiri was among them. But I never saw him.

  I felt like I was caught up in a nightmare. We were all shivering with the cold. The river had been freezing and all of us were coughing from the silt that we had swallowed along with the water.

  Soon a truck arrived to take us away. Mervyn had to go to the army hospital to have his burns treated. The rest of us stayed the night in the house of one of the forestry workers who lived in a camp nearby. Next day, we all went home to Wellington. None of us felt like going on holiday after that.

  John Frederick, 21, passenger from Masterton

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Come on, Frances, walk with me ahead of the men for the welcome.’ Mata motions her forward onto the marae, located on a back street of a small settlement on the main highway. They walk through an elaborately carved gateway painted in traditional red and white onto a well-mown lawn that flows towards the meeting house. The day is crisp, and white cotton-wool clouds appear glued onto the still blue canvas of the sky.

  ‘The women go in front but the men like to speak first,’ Mata tells her as they walk slowly across towards the carved A-shaped building. ‘They like to think they’re in charge even though we women know they’re not,’ she says with an amused sidelong glance.

  Younger than her brother by three years, Mata has offered to take Frances under her wing, promising to guide her through the rituals that will be demanded that day. She shares Tori’s strong features—the smooth shiny brown skin, the clear dark eyes—but her cheekbones are even more pronounced with her black hair piled high on her head and secured with a white shark-bone comb. Her build is slimmer, emphasised by a well-cut purple jacket and skirt. A solicitor now working as a cultural adviser to a government department in Wellington, she travels home to help with iwi business when needed.

  Theo trails closely behind, accompanied by a manager from their office. No stranger to the marae, he is comfortable with the ceremonies but anxious about what lies ahead.

  ‘Good to keep the numbers up and Sam’s not able to come, which I imagine you think is no bad thing,’ he told Frances earlier as they were preparing for the meeting. ‘I always feel like my head is on the chopping block when I go to the marae. The elders have a habit of putting you through the wringer and I think they enjoy seeing anyone from the government or a company squirm a little bit.’

  As they both sifted through their papers for the meeting, Theo brought out a small square box from his desk drawer.

  ‘Talking of heads, you know I’ll have to disclose the discovery of the skull today?’ he said. ‘Our forensic people have confirmed it belonged to a young woman, pre-European, probably died in the early 1800s. Could be one of their forebears.’

  ‘How do you think they will react?’ Frances peered at the fragile relic, wondering again how the woman had died.

  ‘I don’t know, but it could delay what we want to do on the mountain.’

  Foreseeing a conflict of interest, she hasn’t mentioned the skull to Tori, resisting the temptation on several occasions. He hasn’t mentioned it either but she suspects that he’s waiting for her to raise the subject.

  ‘By the way, do you like to sing?’ Theo asked as they left the office, grinning at her puzzled look. ‘Don’t worry about it…you’ll find out.’

  She sighs and decides to give in to whatever the day will hold.

  Wanting to make an impression, Frances has swapped her usual outdoor garb for an understated black designer suit she lashed out on before she left Seattle. It flatters her hips and flat stomach. She wears a powder-blue silk shirt to soften the ‘I mean business’ look she hopes will be effective when it’s her turn to describe the early warning system.

  A tall dignified-looking man of around 70 with tousled white hair brushed back off his long forehead is standing at the entrance to the meeting house, with Tori and several others mingling around him. Above the entrance is the carved wooden figure of a fierce warrior, two pieces of paua shell acting as his all-seeing eyes. As one of the women steps forward and starts chanting, her hands trembling in the air, Frances recognises her, and the poignant, powerful voice.

  Mata whispers to her. ‘Aunty Tui is one of our elders. She’s singing the karanga. That’s to call us in. Walk with me now. Stay close and I’ll tell you what to do.’

  When they are halfway across the lawn, Mata signals Frances to stop and bow her head.

  ‘This is to show respect to the wharenui, the meeting house, and to the
ancestors,’ she whispers. ‘And because you’re new here you’re considered to be waewae tau, or sacred, so you’ll have to have this formal welcome before you are considered free of tapu.’

  The elderly man comes forward and begins a new chant.

  Frances feels the centuries shrink together as the sound punctures the air.

  ‘That’s Uncle Eruera. He’s continuing the welcome. We can go to meet them now.’

  As they move forward, he offers his hand. When Frances takes it, he leans down and presses his nose firmly against hers. It feels spongy and warm and intimate. She feels the beating of her heart and worries about the little box that Theo is bearing.

  ‘Kia ora,’ he says as he draws his face away, then presses her nose a second time.

  ‘Kia ora,’ she replies, then moves along a line of men and women that includes Aunty Tui and repeats the greetings. Tori is waiting for her at the end of the line. He shakes her hand, presses his nose on hers twice and follows with a quick kiss to both cheeks.

  ‘You’re doing well,’ he says. ‘Do you like the Maori kiss? It’s called a hongi and goes back to the beginning of time. It symbolises the god of the forest, Tane, blowing the breath of life into the first human being.’

  ‘I could get used to it—well maybe,’ she replies doubtfully, resisting the urge to blow her nose, which feels strangely squashed.

  When they move under a covered veranda at the entrance, Mata points at her polished black leather court shoes, telling her to remove them. She kicks them off, adding them to a line of others piled up outside the door.

  Mata ushers them in and directs Frances to sit alongside her with the other women. The men sit together opposite.

  The meeting house is cool and soft lights are reflected in the shiny wooden floor. It takes Frances a few seconds to adjust her eyes from the bright sunshine to the dark detail inside. The building has a steep ceiling. Around the walls there are finely detailed wooden carvings interspersed with woven patterned panels. On the rear wall is a line of photographs.

  Frances senses the ghosts of the past and has to force herself to concentrate on what is happening in front of her. She’s brought back to the present when she catches Tori’s irritated eye as he tries unsuccessfully to wiggle his toe back inside a hole in his sock and she quickly checks that her own stockinged feet are intact.

  Uncle Eruera is standing in the centre, speaking loudly in Maori. He sounds angry, gesturing wildly as he makes point after point. His eyes are flashing as he paces up and down, tilting forward and thumping his walking stick. Seeing Frances flinch, Mata touches her arm.

  ‘Don’t worry, he always talks like that. It’s all part of the tradition,’ she says under her breath. ‘He’s welcoming you but challenging you, wanting to know your business, what brings you here. You’ll have plenty of time to answer him soon.’

  Frances feels her heart beating even more quickly, not relishing the moment she may have to take the floor herself.

  Abruptly, the elderly man stops talking. He sits down and, eyes closed, bows his head. The air feels heavy as they sit waiting. Frances feels as though she’s inside a strange church but does not know what part of the service will come next. Uncle Eruera suddenly looks up and nods at Mata.

  Reacting to his cue, Mata walks to where he was standing. She closes her eyes for a few seconds. Then she starts to sing, her rich mezzo-soprano voice filling the room.

  Kati au, ka hoki ki taku whenua tapu,

  Ki te wai koropupu i heria mai nei

  I Hawaiki ra ano e Ngatoroirangi,

  Eona tuahine Te hoatu-u-Te-Pupu

  E hu ra ki Tongariro, ka mahana i taku kiri.

  As she listens, Frances glances towards Tori. He is looking at her. As Mata’s voice soars around them, she feels a strange longing surge through her. The emotion ambushes her and leaves her confused. She looks away. As the last echo of the song fades, Mata stays standing. She bows her head, while the others sit in silence. Presently, she looks towards them.

  ‘For the visitors here today, I will tell you about the song,’ she says.

  ‘It is a waiata aroha, a love song. It is about a young chieftainess called Puhi-wahine. She had been away from her home in Taupo from Hikurangi, the home of the Maori King Tawhiao. While she was there she fell in love with a young man in the village called Mahutu te Toko. But she was called back to her home and had to leave her lover. That is the song she sang as she wept for him.’

  Mata returns to her seat. Then Uncle Eruera looks at Frances and nods. Mata taps her arm. ‘He wants you to sing now,’ she says quietly. Seeing the panic on her companion’s face, she adds firmly, ‘It’s required.’

  Frances catches a wry expression in Theo’s eye. He is deliberately avoiding her gaze. She stands up, racking her brain for something, anything, to sing. Suddenly she recalls something and falls back on her schoolgirl French: ‘Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot’. Her voice is pure and clear but inside she feels like she’s dying a thousand deaths. It’s twenty years since she sang this in the school choir. She sings the words automatically, thankful they are etched in her memory, and returns to her seat. Both Theo and Tori nod approval. Her racing heart slows and she feels like Xena the Warrior Princess returning victorious from slaying a monster.

  Tori stands up, looking as assured as the elder his people have been hoping he will become. He looks first at Uncle Eruera before calling on Theo to speak.

  For thirty years, Theo has been visiting marae to talk to the iwi about the mountain and his work there. He has learnt a deep respect for them but knows nothing can ever be taken for granted. As he offers formal greetings, then starts to speak, Frances sees that his body is revealing all the anxieties of his sixty years.

  ‘As we’ve discussed before, I’m extremely worried about the danger on the mountain. The Crater Lake is very full and it’s only a matter of time before it overflows and we’ll have another very large lahar that will cause a lot of destruction and possible deaths.

  ‘There’s a lot of pressure to bulldoze the dam that’s blocking the outlet. While I respect your wishes, there are others who feel it’s more important to do that work. I’ve come here today with Frances Nelson to explain what we think is the minimum that needs to happen.’

  As Theo discusses the merits of building a stopbank on the lower slopes to protect the fisheries from volcanic destruction, those in the room listen impassively. No expression betrays what they are thinking and they turn down the request for questions.

  Theo beckons Frances forward to join him. She holds up two photographs of the microphone system in place on the mountain.

  ‘So far we’ve been receiving very strong sound signals that are telling us what’s going on inside the mountain. That way, we hope if there’s any dramatic change, we can predict whether there’ll be an eruption or a lahar.’

  Uncle Eruera leans over to the others near him and whispers to them. Then he stands and walks over to Frances.

  ‘And what is the mountain saying to you?’ he asks her kindly.

  ‘Well, the soundwaves vary from day to day, sometimes from hour to hour. But they reveal if there’s a tremor or a build-up of the gases.’

  The old man smiles at her warmly for the first time. ‘You’re a very clever young woman,’ he says gently. ‘But I’ll be surprised if you can outguess the mountain.’

  As they both return to their seats, Theo takes the box he has brought and places it gently on a table placed nearby.

  ‘Before we speak of other matters, I need to inform you that our scientists found some human remains, a skull, in the Crater Lake recently. We’ve had it analysed. It’s of a young woman and could be two hundred years old. I’ve brought it here today to give to you so you can decide what needs to be done.’

  Uncle Eruera sits up sharply and leans forward. Tori glances at Frances, then quickly looks away. Mata taps Frances on the arm.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ As Frances nods, she screws her face up in concern.


  Uncle Eruera and Tori walk over to the box, remove the lid and gaze at the skull inside. They stay like this for several minutes, not speaking, but the change in mood is unmistakable. Eventually the older man breaks the silence.

  ‘We are very disturbed by this. It is unexpected. It would have been better if you had left this at the crater and taken one or other of us there to remove it or bury it. This shows you why we feel so strongly about anyone tampering up there. It is best we end the meeting now.’

  ‘I’m sorry if you feel offended.’ Theo looks him directly in the eye. ‘We’ve behaved with integrity and we were obliged to remove it to have forensic tests.’

  The elder nods at him but says nothing.

  ‘With respect,’ Theo says, ‘when can you tell us your response to the stopbank and the danger of the lahar?’

  A cloud passes over the old man’s face.

  ‘To us the mountains are symbols of the authority of nature. We see them as our ancestors did hundreds of years ago—ageless, supreme. They are impervious to the relentless march of time.’ He stands to leave. Then he pauses and says directly to Theo. ‘Or to Pakeha deadlines. We will let you know when we have talked about it. When we are ready.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A stiff breeze touches them as they leave the meeting house. Tori and Mata accompany the visitors to the whare kai, the dining hall next door, to share tea and biscuits, hospitality another essential part of the ritual to remove tapu.

  Frances breaks the silence. ‘I’m sorry that went so badly, Tori. I’ve wanted to tell you about the skull but it wasn’t my right to do so.’

  ‘I know it’s not your fault. Those matters are more important to us than to others so we take it very seriously,’ Tori says.

  ‘What will you do about the skull?’

  ‘The tribe will try and work out who the young woman was and bury her remains either in the family cemetery with a special ceremony if everyone agrees or in another burial area nearby if they don’t. It’s unlikely we’ll ever really know because it’s so long ago but it’s important to her that she’s laid to rest with full respect.’