She went to Rongopai to pray for safekeeping on her journey — surely there was no better place to set out from than this testament to the resilience of the people. Then she filled five blue bottles with the healing waters that bubbled from a deep underground spring behind the house, and sprinkled herself and her animals with the water.
Finally, Paraiti strapped the saddlebags around Kaihe’s girth, bridled and saddled Ataahua, got him to kneel as usual and climbed on. ‘I know, I know,’ she said to the horse as she straddled him, to stop his usual irritation. Straightaway, she urged him up: ‘Timata.’
She whistled to Tiaki to follow her. ‘Don’t fall too far behind,’ she called as she headed Ataahua into the foothills behind Waituhi.
As she passed by the houses of the village, people looked out and sighed, ‘Good, the old lady is on her way with her travelling garden. All’s right with the world.’ Every season without fail, the takuta was always about her work among the people; this season, the star cluster of Matariki was already gleaming in the night heaven.
A day’s ride took Paraiti to the boundary between the lands of Te Whanau a Kai and Tuhoe, and there she sought Rua’s Track, one of the great horse trails joining the central North Island to the tribes of Poverty Bay in the east. She followed the track up the Wharekopae River, through Waimaha by way of the Hangaroa Valley to Maungapohatu. Once upon a time there had been such a thriving community there, the holy citadel of Rua Kenana, another great prophet; survivors were still living within the mists of the mountain, waving at Paraiti as they scrabbled among their plantations, eking a living from the land.
Those who travelled Rua’s Track were mainly Maori like Paraiti herself; sometimes they were families, but most often they were foresters, labourers or pig hunters.
On her third day, she joined a wagon train of some forty people travelling in the same direction. ‘E hika,’ they jested. ‘Is the forest moving?’ Her saddlebags were overflowing with her herbal supplies. ‘Oh, it’s just you, Paraiti. E haere ana koe ki hea? Where are you going?’
Paraiti was a familiar sight and they were honoured to have her with them. She, in turn, valued the opportunity to sharpen up her social skills, to share a billy of manuka tea and flat bread, to spend time playing cards and to korero with some of the old ones about the way the world was changing. But the wagon train made slow progress, so Paraiti took her leave and journeyed on alone.
‘Ma te Atua koutou e manaaki,’ she called in farewell.
And now, Ruatahuna lay ahead.
CHAPTER THREE
Paraiti notices that Tiaki’s ears have pricked up. The dog looks at her: Are you deaf, mistress?
Then, even she hears the high tolling of a bell coming from Ruatahuna. ‘Ka tangi te pere,’ she nods. ‘I know, Tiaki, we will be late for the service.’
The bell rings at the meeting house, Te Whai a Te Motu, calling the Ringatu faithful to gather together on this very special day. In the church calendar the first of June is the Sabbath of the Sabbath and the beginning of the Maori New Year, with the pre-dawn rising of Matariki, the bright stars of fruitfulness. On this happy day, each person contributes seeds to the mara tapu, the sacred garden, for out of the seed comes the new plant, symbolic of the renewal of God’s promise to all his people.
Paraiti urges Ataahua quickly through the village: most of the houses are drab weatherboard with tin roofs, but a few are brightly painted. Some of the local dogs bark at them, and Paraiti gives Tiaki a warning glance. ‘Don’t bark back, it’s Sunday.’ He gives her a sniffy look, then growls menacingly at the dogs so that they whine and back away. They know Tiaki from past visits to Ruatahuna: he never retreats. Indeed, it was for this quality that Paraiti chose him when a pig hunter, whom she treated for a shoulder torn apart by a boar, offered one of his newborn litter of pups as payment. She had the thought that a dog would provide extra protection for her so she agreed to the offer. Putting out her hand, she watched the pups scrambling to reach it, and saw the runt pushing his other bigger siblings away — and then he held her gaze and bit her finger, drawing blood.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you want the job that much, you have it.’
Ahead, Paraiti sees her cousin Horiana’s house; it is one of the brightly painted ones. She knows Horiana won’t mind if she ties the animals to her fence. ‘Don’t eat Horiana’s roses,’ she tells Kaihe. Even so, she is troubled to see that the roses are taking over the native vines in the garden.
Wrapping her scarf around her face, and taking with her a small sachet of seeds, Paraiti makes for the marae. Horses and buggies are tethered to the fence outside and, hello, a few motoka are parked there as well. She walks through the carved gateway, stands a moment before the meeting house, remembering the dead and paying homage to it, and then crosses the threshold of the porch to peer inside the whare.
The atmosphere inside is smoky and dark, but there’s no doubting that it is packed with locals. People are sitting up against the walls, prayer books in hands. Wirepa, the local poutikanga, pillar of authority, is leading the service. He is about the same age as Paraiti, and he gives a brief nod in her direction.
Paraiti unlaces her boots, takes them off and slips through the door of the meeting house.
‘Kororia ki to ingoa tapu,’ Wirepa intones. ‘And verily, an angel appeared to the prophet Te Kooti, and the angel was clothed in garments as white as snow, his hair like stars, and he wore a crown and a girdle like unto the setting sun and the rising thereof, and the angel’s fan was like the rainbow and his staff was a myriad hues. And the angel said to Te Kooti, “I will not forsake thee or my people either.” And so we prevail to this very day. Glory be to Thy holy name. Amine.’
Paraiti sees Horiana beckoning and making a place beside her. Stooping, she makes her way over to her cousin; some of the worshippers recognise her and smile or hold out their hands for her to clasp as she passes.
‘E noho, whanaunga,’ Horiana welcomes her. They kiss and hug as if they haven’t seen each other for a thousand years. ‘We’ll korero afterwards,’ Horiana whispers, opening her prayer book.
Paraiti gives a sign of apology to Wirepa for interrupting the service. She removes her scarf and hears a buzz as people who hadn’t seen her entering realise she has arrived — ‘Scarface … Te takuta … The doctor … Blightface.’ She smiles at familiar friends. She doesn’t mind that people call her Scarface or Blightface; they use the name as an identification, not to mock her.
She lets herself be absorbed into the meeting house. It is such an honour to be sitting within Te Whai a Te Motu, with its figurative paintings and beautiful kowhaiwhai rafter patterns. Here, in the bosom of this holy place, Paraiti joins in praising and giving thanks to God.
When the service is over, the people adjourn to the mara tapu outside, where Paraiti and others offer their seeds for the sowing. Wirepa intones a final karakia. Then there are people to be greeted and further korero to be had with the local elders.
‘You will set up your tent in the usual place?’ Wirepa asks.
‘Thank you, rangatira,’ Paraiti answers.
‘Time to get started,’ Paraiti says to Horiana, after the midday meal. She can already see that people are waiting to see her.
Nodding, Horiana yells to some young boys, ‘Go and get the takuta’s tent, eh?’ They run to Kaihe and unload the medicinal supplies; once the tent is up they arrange a makeshift stretcher inside and then hold out their hands for some liquorice they have seen when unpacking the supplies.
Horiana is Paraiti’s assistant in Ruatahuna and has been taking bookings. ‘Lots of people want to see you,’ she tells her, as she shouts to the boys again, this time ordering them to bring some chairs from the meeting house for the old people so that they don’t have to stand. ‘The usual problems,’ Horiana continues. ‘Nothing too difficult so far.’ Horiana is very proud of the status that Paraiti’s visits give her. ‘I could have handled most of the cases myself,’ she adds.
Always bossy, Ho
riana sits outside the tent deciding who should enter and depart. Inside, the patients and their wives, husbands or partners sit on the chairs or lie on the stretcher: a slab of wood covered with a finely woven flax mat. Stacked against one of the walls of the tent are the rongoa and the herbal pharmacy that Paraiti draws on for her work. Not all have been brought by her; some have been stockpiled by Horiana for her arrival. On a small table are the surgical implements of her trade. Unlike some of her brother and sister healers, Paraiti shuns Pakeha utensils and keeps to traditional ones: wooden sticks and scrapers, sharp-edged shells and obsidian flakes for cutting, thorns for opening up abscesses, and stones to heat before placing on the body.
Major bone setting requires steam treatment, so Paraiti organises times at a makeshift spa. Her father had been renowned for his skill with massage, a special knowledge instilled in him by his mother, and he passed on to his daughter the techniques to heal and knit broken bones. He also taught her therapeutic massage for the elderly; he himself loved nothing better than to submit himself to Paraiti’s strong kneading and stroking of his body to keep his circulation going.
‘Daughter,’ he would sigh, ‘you have such goodness in your hands.’
The clinic opens and most patients are easily diagnosed — those with coughs or colds are treated with houhere and tawa; children with asthma or bronchitis are given kumarahou. Boils are lanced and the ripe cores squeezed out before Paraiti returns the patient to Horiana to apply a strong and tensile spider-web poultice.
Paraiti gives a short greeting to patients returning for check-ups, and notes whether a broken leg has set well, or a burn is in need of further treatment with harakeke and kauri gum. Sprained joints are treated with weka oil or kowhai juice; with Horiana holding the patient, Paraiti eases the joint back in place, then instructs Horiana how to bind it.
A young man with a deep cut on his forehead comes in. ‘How did you come by that?’ Paraiti asks.
‘His wife threw a knife at him when he came home drunk from the hotel,’ Horiana answers, rolling her eyes with contempt.
‘Perhaps it is her I should be treating,’ Paraiti says lightly as she applies rimu gum to the wound.
Horiana is adamant. ‘No, it’s him who’s the problem,’ she answers.
‘You will need stitches,’ Paraiti says. She makes a thread of muka and uses a wooden needle to sew the skin together. As a dressing, she applies the ash from a burnt flax stalk. Throughout all this, the young man does not flinch. He’s a cheeky one, though; just before he leaves he asks, ‘Scarface, you couldn’t throw in a love potion with the treatment, could you? My wife’s still angry with me and won’t let me perform my customary and expert lovemaking duties.’
Paraiti’s eyes twinkle. ‘Oh really? I have heard otherwise about your lovemaking. Do you think it might be the beer that is putting you off your stroke? No love philtre is required. Your wife will eventually forgive you and soon you will plough her in your usual diligent and boring manner, the poor woman. But if you must drink, chew puwha gum — it will mask your breath when you go home at night.’
Another young man comes in, but, as soon as he sees Paraiti, he changes his mind and goes out. He is embarrassed because he has a venereal disease. Then a young woman with shell splinters in the heels of her feet requires a little more care; she carelessly ran across a reef while gathering pupu and mussels. ‘I was being chased by a giant octopus,’ she tells Paraiti.
Paraiti winks at Horiana. ‘Oh yes, and what was his name?’ She cuts around the wound until the pieces of shell can be seen. Smiling at the young woman, Paraiti then lowers her head. ‘Here is the kiss of Scarface,’ she says. She bites on each piece of shell and pulls it out. ‘If your octopus really loves you and wants to ensnare you in his eight arms, and if that causes you to run over shells again, show him how to use his own teeth.’
The next patient causes some hilarity. He has constipation and hasn’t had a good bowel movement for days. ‘I have just the right potion,’ Paraiti tells him. ‘Crushed flax roots and, here, if you disrobe, I will also blow some potion into your rectum so that the result comes quicker.’
But the patient’s wife is with him. ‘Oh no, you don’t! If anybody is to disrobe my husband and blow anything up his rectum, it will be me! Do I want the whole world to know how awful a sight his bum is? Best for him and me to keep that treasure a family secret.’
So it goes on throughout the remainder of the day; each patient pays Paraiti in coin or in food — a koha, no matter how small. However, there are some who lack obvious symptoms and whose treatment cannot be diagnosed with ease. With such patients Paraiti takes a history of their activities before they became ill and, if she suspects an answer, administers a likely remedy: harakeke to cleanse the blood, kaikaiatua as an emetic or huainanga to expel tapeworms. If she is still unsure, and if the person has a temperature, she advises them to drink lots of clean water and gives them a herbal mixture which will alleviate the pain or combat their fever. ‘Sometimes,’ she tells them, ‘the body has its own way of making itself well again. Time will tell.’
There are other patients whom Paraiti will treat separately, away from the clinic at Horiana’s house, because their conditions are more serious. One is a young girl with an eye condition that bespeaks oncoming blindness. A second is an old koroua with a debilitating illness; nothing can cure old age, but, as she often did with her father, Paraiti will give this old man a good massage and a steam bath for temporary relief. He is already walking towards God.
The time comes to stop work for the day. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ Horiana tells the other people waiting in line. They are disappointed, but another day won’t hurt them.
‘But I will see the mother,’ Paraiti says, pointing to a woman waiting with her daughter. She has constantly given up her place in the line to others.
‘Thank you, takuta,’ the mother says respectfully as she steps into the tent. She is trying to hide her distress. ‘Actually, I do not come for my own sake but on behalf of my daughter, Florence. Do you have something that will enable her to keep her baby? She can never go to term and loses the baby always around the third month.’
Paraiti notices how small Florence is. She places her hands on the girl’s stomach. E hika, this girl is very cold. ‘How many times have you conceived?’ Paraiti asks her.
‘Three,’ Florence replies, ‘and three times my babies have died inside me. But I really want this child.’
Paraiti takes a look at the girl. She smells her breath; aue, she smokes the Pakeha cigarettes. She looks at her eyes; they are milky and clouded, and her fingernails and toenails are brittle and dry. Finally, Paraiti feels with her fingers around the girl’s womb — again, so cold. She speaks, not unkindly, to the girl.
‘A baby in the womb is like a kumara being fed nutrients from the vine of your body. But your vine is not giving your baby the right foods. Your circulation is sluggish and, therefore, the nourishment is not getting to the child. Bad foods and bad vine are the reasons why, in the third month, your baby withers and dies. Also, the garden in which your baby grows is not warm.’
Paraiti looks at Florence’s mother. ‘I will put your daughter on a diet, which she must follow without straying from it,’ she tells her. ‘The diet is rich in nutrients. I will also put her on a regime of exercise that will improve her circulation. Florence must stop smoking Pakeha cigarettes immediately. Also, it is important that her blood temperature is increased. I will show you a special massage to make her body a whare tangata that is nice and cosy. Keep to the diet, the massages, and encourage your daughter to spend as much time as possible in the sunlight. Make sure she eats vegetables and fruits and fish, especially shellfish.’
The mother holds Paraiti’s hands and kisses them. ‘Thank you, takuta.’
Paraiti sees them to the flap of the tent. ‘I will also give you some herbs that will improve Florence’s health while she is with child.’
‘Will you attend the birth?’ the mother ask
s.
‘No,’ Paraiti answers. ‘The authorities will not allow it.’ She turns to Florence. ‘Go well, and be assured that if you follow my instructions, the birth should be normal and you will be delivered of a healthy child.’ She kisses Florence on the forehead. ‘What greater blessing can any woman have than to give birth to a son or daughter for the iwi? Will you let me know when the baby is born? Ma te Atua koe e manaaki.’
This is Paraiti’s world. Dedicated to the health of the people, she is a giver of life. But recently she has been presented with a dilemma.
As she closes her clinic in Ruatahuna for the day, her thoughts fly back to a request she received just before leaving Waituhi.
She was asked to take life, not to give it.
CHAPTER FOUR
This is how the request happened.
In the middle of packing for her annual trip, a thought popped into Paraiti’s head: ‘I think I’ll ride into Gisborne and go to the pictures.’ Just like that the thought came, and the more she pushed it away, the more it pushed back: be kind to yourself, mistress, take a day off.
Truth to tell, Paraiti didn’t need an excuse to go, so she made one up: she would buy some gifts for all the women who would be helping at her clinics on her travels. Horiana wasn’t the only one, but for Horiana especially she would get her some of those Pakeha bloomers that would keep her nice and cool in the summer.
Paraiti got up at the crack of dawn, dressed in her town clothes, saddled Ataahua and, with Tiaki loping ahead, set off for Gisborne. She stopped for a picnic lunch by the Taruheru River, watching as cattlemen approached, herding a new breed of Pakeha cows along the side of the river: farms were springing up quickly, the settlers hastening to take advantage of the rich pasture land. Then she realised, e hika, that she didn’t want to complete her journey riding in the wake of the herd’s dust and smell of cow shit. Time to move on.
White Lies Page 3