“I’m with you on that. Ka pae.”
Irihapeti burrows back into her work while Koa starts labelling the seeds they had harvested and dried at the end of last season, which now wait eagerly to fly off to their new homes in much-loved gardens and on marae all over Aotearoa as part of their seed-saving programme. A caterpillar roams over the bench below the seeds, aiming for the lush green leaves of the basil plants. She knows she has to scale the wall to the dizzying heights of the windowsill above the seeds, but that her trip will be worth while, for this is a garden without pesticides to poison her offspring, where she knows she can breed in peace and there is plenty for all of them to eat, insects and humans alike.
Maata crams the dirty washing into the gleaming new machine and sets it going. She has no idea what half the buttons are for, so hits some kind of superwash thing and lets it do its work. The machine rumbles with the weight once it starts spinning. From the room next door, she can hear that Tony is on the phone.
“Whad’ya mean ya can’t advance more money? If this experiment is as world-shattering as you say it is, then it’s gonna bring in heaps of bicky. What’s the point otherwise?” Then silence, as Steve’s accountant tries to explain it in simple terms. “Well, I’ll check with Steve on progress and get back to you then. Yes, yes, I know we can’t discuss details over the phone. I’ll see what he says in person.” The receiver is slammed back down on its holder. Tony sighs, then swings himself out of bed. He’s taken to watching telly in bed these days, now he does not have to run the farm. Peter Tremain took on his jerseys and the few nutty sheep he had left and now he’s a man of leisure – so long as the bikkies keep rolling in. That’s all he has to make sure about. He dresses and saunters out to the kitchen to see if Maata has made a pot of tea.
“Martha. You made a brew yet?”
Maata yells out from the laundry. “Na. Ya want one now?” Why can’t he put on the kettle himself, the lazy bugger.
“Yep. One of them fancy teas you make. Can’t do it meself.” Tony has come to enjoy being spoiled, now that Ray’s daughter has left town for a job in Kawakawa. This sheila from the marae isn’t such a bad looker either. But too close to Moana to risk anything. Better that he acts on his best behaviour as part of his master plan to get Moana back home. None of these chicks can cook, wash or iron half as well as her. Besides, he misses having the boys around, especially now that he has more time on his hands.
Maata emerges from the laundry and begins grating ginger into the pot, adding a good dollop of honey because Tony likes his tea sweet. She’s got him off sugar and onto the pohutukawa honey she brings from home. “’S’not bad, that stuff,” he remarks, while she is adding the creamy white honey to his tea. “Hope I don’t turn into a buzzy bee the way you keep feeding it to me, though. Or a bloody pohutukawa, with flaming red spiky hair!” He laughs, always enjoying his own weak jokes, and rubs his balding crown.
“No chance of that, Mr Pratt. More likely you’ll grow a sting in your tail!” Maata risks being cheeky for once.
Tony is taken aback for a moment, then grins. “You little beaut. You’re bloody right too. That’s exactly what I need right now – a bit of a bite to my bark, make these fellas take more notice of me.”
“Who are those men working in the barn?”
“Ah, just some fellas from FarmCorp. Developing some new research to make kauri trees grow bigger or something. I dunno, they just hire the barn from me.”
“That’s great, Mr Pratt. Maybe they will be able to reforest parts of the Hokianga stripped of kauri by the early settlers? That’d be wonderful.” Maata takes a genuine interest in his work. Tony is very pleased.
“Call me Tony. I don’t go for that Mr and Mrs stuff meself.”
“Okay. Thanks, Tony. Would it be possible to see what they’re doing sometime? I did a school project on the Waipoua Kauri Forest and the significance of Tane Mahuta to the local community. I’d love to see what is being developed.”
Tony clears his throat. “I’m not sure if that is possible. You know those sciencey fellas. They like to keep their research close to their chests. What they have of ’em anyway. Doubt most of those university leftie fellas could lift a lamb into the dredge if you asked them. Too much time spent studying. Makes their eyes grow too close. You noticed how little flesh hangs between their eyes?”
“No. I have not been that near to them yet.”
“Ah, I get it now. You think there could be good pickings among those FarmCorp fellas, eh? Get yerself married to a rich fella and away from the dead-end life here? Well, maybe you’re right. I sometimes think I should’a done that years ago.” Tony rubs his chin, thinking it may be about time to grow his beard again.
“No. I love it here at Te Kotuku. But I am truly interested in the kauri forest and I would like to see the work. Surely they wouldn’t mind if you showed me around sometime? Maybe you could ask them?”
Tony slurps his tea thoughtfully. Perhaps this would help him get back into Moana’s good books? Add a few brownie points to his credit. Brownie points, haha, that’s a good one Tony, m’boy. Shows you’re still up to scratch. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you come down with me, as I have to talk to their boss man, Steve, anyway. You could have a squizzy around the place while I detain him over the lease money.”
“Thanks Mr Pra– ah, Tony. That’d be great.” Maata pours him another tea, thinking how easy it is to get this man to come around. He is a walkover, really. She can’t understand why they all find him such a bully on the marae. Maybe he just needed someone to understand him, spend time with him?
What a buzz, man, thinks Tony. This is gonna be so easy. All I have to do is let her have a look and ask a few stupid questions and she’ll report back that I am doing good work for the district and Stevie Wonderboy won’t mind. He says he has a public relations spin if anyone walks in off the street to ask questions, and the whole thing looks so kosher with their painted FarmCorp signs all over the barn. Steve’s best friend and now business partner was a signwriter before he did his MBA and got into PR Spin. Mike. He’s a real smoothie. Martha will like him, and he’s down with Steve today so this should be sweet. Tony licks his lips and tells Maata to take off her apron and dolly herself up a bit to meet the boss men.
Maata cannot believe the simplicity of this Pratt, but does as he says, since she is about to get into the barn and check out this operation without even having to nick any keys or squeeze in at night. She can’t wait to tell Waka how luck has turned their way. She takes off her housework clothes and climbs back into her Fly-works uniform. “Very professional. That’s choice. You look like a bloody lady pilot in that gear with them epaulettes and all,” sniggers Tony. “Okay, get in behind!” Maata winces at the farmer’s command to his work dogs and suddenly realises that this is how he views women. No wonder Moana left him. Never mind, I need to find out what he’s up to, and then I can ditch the job if it gets too difficult. I need the money for now, though, so I’ll play it cool. She follows behind Tony, pretending to be one of his dogs, sniffing the kikuyu grass as she passes without him noticing. She’d love to lift her leg over his precious spray packs and littered Roundup containers as they pass, but thinks the better of it.
Steve and Mike are in the barn office which was once a horse stable. Light filters through the clear plastic roof and illuminates everything. Steve initially looks surprised to see Maata with Tony, but then again, he’d expected this to happen sometime. Lucky he’s using Operation Kauri as a front for his real work – Operation Cave, where the human cloning takes place. It doesn’t really matter what they see here as it looks like any traditional nursery to outsiders. Nothing unusual, except the very carefully monitored conditions and expensive computers that make sure it all ticks along like clockwork.
Mike, always the PR man, jumps in immediately. “I see you’ve brought a visitor along, Tony. How nice. Can I show her around the nursery while you two talk business?”
“That’s per
fect. Thanks, Mike.” How easily they play into my hands, thinks Tony. This will be a breeze. I could skipper one of the black boats at this rate. He smiles to himself, then remembers Maata’s comment about the sting in his tail. He waits until Mike and Maata have begun to walk down the first aisle of tree seedlings, and then homes in on Steve, demanding more money or he will blow the skull off the whole operation. Steve, sensing danger, takes him further into the room and shuts the door so they can talk in private.
Mike and Maata get to the end of the first row. “So, why do you have all this computer gear just for a few seedlings then?”
“That’s because we need to monitor their growth very carefully so we can present the work along with our research papers to FarmCorp. If the science is to benefit all, then we have to be very careful in documenting it.”
“Yeah – but surely the plants need air to breathe? How come you don’t have openings in the roof? Or doors open?” Maata asks. “You’re not doing GE stuff are you? Where you can’t let out the genie into the fields?”
Mike is taken aback by her shrewd deductions, then realises she is just concerned because of all that ridiculous Greenie Frankenfish stuff in the newspapers. She probably wouldn’t know a kauri from a pine seedling if it bit her bum. “No way. I’m an environmentalist myself, actually.” And adds, for good measure “A paid-up member of the Greens, in fact. I would not support that GE stuff. I reckon the country should be GE-free, actually.” Mike wants to lay down his false credentials right from the start. This kid could blab anything he says back to the local tangata whenua, and then they’d all be in deep shit. He knows better than to alienate them. He did not do all those arty-farty Treaty of Waitangi Partnership courses paid for by his government department for nothing.
“Great. My Aunty Cowrie is a Greenie too. In fact, most of the marae and the Far North Organic Growers are against genetic modification. She’s on the hikoi to protest GE which is marching from Tai Tokerau to parliament now. Well, she was, until she had an accident surfing on the way and got laid up for a bit.”
Bloody good job, too, thinks Mike. He’d been warned about that Cowrie chick and her mates. Known eco-activists. He’s got police files on them from the anti-Vietnam War and anti-nuclear protests, downloaded by a friend of his working for the Wanganui police. Easy to bribe these fellas. Just slip them cool hard cash and you have them downloading files on anybody. The National Party Government made it so hard for the workers that they all struggle in these jobs to survive financially. Any extra cash is a bonus. Mind you, not much better with Labour in parliament these days. You can hardly tell the difference between the two main parties, both edging more and more towards the centre to get more votes. Years ago, you’d never have thought that a liberal like Tony Blair would cosy up to a right-wing conservative like George Bush Junior, but now they are pissing into each other’s pockets like Tweedledee and Tweedledum. War is always good for retaining the status quo and their votes.
A fantail flits down in front of them and he suddenly comes back to earth with vigour. “Who the hell let that monster fly in here? Quick – get rid of it!” he yells. Nobody seems to listen. The nursery workers are outside the barn having afternoon tea. The fantail hopes they will kick up some insects for its meal, but there do not seem to be any insects about in this strange nursery. She lands on a stone nearby and waits for them to pass. Mike panics and grabs the spade. He whacks it down on the head of the fantail and lifts it to reveal a spattering of blood, flesh and feathers. Maata immediately bends down and offers karakia for the murdered piwakawaka. She is in a state of shock and acts intuitively as she has been raised to do. It’s then that she notices a baby piwakawaka, not yet able to fly, at the side of the rock. Maybe the mother had been protecting her young? Maata wails her karakia and finishes with a proverb that Mere taught her: “Mate i te tamaiti he aurukowhao, mate i te whaea he takerehaia.”
Mike stands back, amazed at her outburst, but also annoyed he acted so swiftly and blew his cool. Not a good look. He asks Maata what she is saying.
Maata, annoyed at him, grumbles her reply: “The death of a child is like a leak in a canoe, but the death of a mother is like an open rent in the bottom of the canoe.” She is thinking about how close she and Cowrie may have come to death recently, and how this has ripped their adoptive guardian, Mere, apart. How it would kill something in her if they died. How vital it is to protect the self, the soul, the aroha. To stand up for the causes they believe in. Here before her, it has been proved. It is literally a matter of life and death, and to these guys the death of another, be it fantail or human, means nothing if it comes between their research and their wealth.
Maata knows she has to remain calm, keep her cool, in order to do what she came to do. This may be her hardest test yet. Mike has not seen the baby bird, nor does he realise what he has done. She stands tall, towering over him and lies. “It’s okay, Mike. I know how much this research means to you and that one bird could destroy it. Let’s move on.” Mike is delighted he has won her round so easily. Good he let her mumble her superstitious mumbo-jumbo stuff. Now they can get on with the rest of his PR spin. He’ll make damned sure it’s stronger from here on. Maata begs forgiveness of the mother piwakawaka and sends aroha and karakia to her and her baby. “I think there’s a baby bird too. Let me take it and look after it.” She bends down and gathers up the small bird in the palm of her hand, holding her fingers protectively over it.
There’s nothing Mike can do to stop her. Besides, he reasons, the small bird is not yet at the stage where it can gather food for itself, so it will not be dangerous in spreading GE seeds about the place. Not that he really cares. He’d love to see how long it’d take to develop another Tane Mahuta in the wild – and this would be just the place to do it, so close to the mighty Waipoua Forest. But the timing is not right – not yet. He wants to test what they can do in the lab first, then release a few into the wild. Once the forestry industry sees what wealth it is onto – there will be no questions about the ethics of it then. He knows that. The International Seed Corporation clones have even won over a left-wing Labour Government with their spin. He never thought he’d ever see that day come. The corks have been flying off bottles of their most expensive champagne ever since. Like the heady days of the 1980s when shares skyrocketed and you could turn a hunk of dirty real estate into a goldmine in just a week with a good spin on it in Auckland.
But this time, it’s lasting. This time they are on their way to massive riches. If they can make the entire world dependent on GE seed, then they own the most valuable resource on the planet. Who cares about gold or silver when you can’t eat? And, if it all goes sour, then they’ll hedge their bets by investing in organic farming to clean up the mess. Not that it’ll be truly organic by that time, but with a good enough spin, people will believe it’s okay. He grins to himself as Maata is preoccupied with trying to get the wretched bird to drink some water from the cup of her hand. I’d smash it with the spade if she wasn’t here, thinks Mike. But there’s no harm in letting her think she can save it. Most birds do not survive without their mothers, so it’ll probably die anyway.
The great white heron at the apex of the whare nui shakes with anger. She is the sacred guardian of Te Kotuku marae; she is protector of the birds and creatures and land around her, as well as the tangata whenua who live off the land. She quivers, lashed by the storm assaulting the Hokianga Harbour, and vows her revenge on those who would interfere with nature, murder innocent creatures and think they could replace the Creator of the universe. She’s witnessed the unholy acts of contrivance within the sacred Maori burial caves nearby and she wants to alert the tangata whenua to the dangers surrounding them. There needs to be a symbol they will understand, as in the old days, a reminder to them that they too are the guardians of the land and must act on their inner wisdom and intuitive knowledge.
She waits until the winds are lashing the edge of the roof and then makes her ultimate sacrifice. She rips off her wing w
ith her beak and flings it toward the ground. It crashes down onto the rows of shoes lining the entrance to the whare nui and buries them alive. The thunderous sound sends the participants of the GE-free hui rushing to the doorway to witness an unusual sight. The wing of the great bird protecting their marae has been slashed off by the wind. But the cut is so clean, it almost looks as if a knife edge has been run between her body and her wing. Piripi and Waka bend down to lift their sacred white heron, their kotuku, from the dirty shoes and onto higher ground – the carving table which stands nearby. The onlookers are stunned by this act of defiance, this act of war on their marae.
“It’s a sign of defiance against the US war on Afghanistan,” utters one old kuia. “I told you it would come to this.”
“No. It’s related to the struggle for the land, the fight to keep Aotearoa GE-free,” adds Koa. “Or else it would not have happened when we were discussing the issues.”
“That’s all bullshit,” chips in Hemi. “My dad told me this stuff is all superstitious rubbish. It’s simply a bloody big wind, enough to rip the mast off a boat. You people need to get real.”
Moana nudges him to keep quiet. “How dare you talk to your elders like this, Hemi. You’re not with Tony now. You need to be respectful of your heritage.”
“It’s all mumbo-jumbo,” exclaims Hemi. “Dad says it’s Stone Age crap. He heard it all on radio. Some professor of literature, a poet, Snarl Steddy or something, said on radio that it’s all crap and that our race would be better off learning how to read and write than paying attention to this medieval magic. Even I can tell a storm when I see one.” Moana tries to hush him up. She notices how like Tony he looks when he is angry or defiant.
“The boy’s got a point. It is pretty rough weather,” adds a Kawakawa man. “Maybe we’d better get back and batten down the hatches.”
Ao Toa Page 18