Pulling Kaihe after her and with Tiaki on guard, Paraiti had visited the sick, wounded and elderly of Ruatoki, Waimana and Murupara. Then, her heart lifting, she began a clinic for her patients at Te Kuiti.
It was so wonderful for Paraiti to be back among the people who had given sanctuary to her and Te Teira those many years ago. No sooner had she arrived than she was ordered by the great chief, Whaturangi, to pitch her tent close to Te Tokanganui a Noho, the great ‘unification’ marae, prototype for most of the later Ringatu meeting houses. ‘Your dad would be cross with us if we didn’t acknowledge you,’ her cousin Peti growled, ‘and there are enough angry ghosts floating around us as it is.’ Indeed, in Paraiti’s honour, a special remembrance service was held for Te Teira in the meeting house. Sitting there, within the latticed walls and with the beautiful painted kowhaiwhai rafters soaring above her, Paraiti again honoured the morehu, the loyal remnants of Te Kooti, survivors in a changing world.
Then it was down to business again. A stream of patients waited for a consultation, with Peti at the flap of the tent. A young man with a broken leg would now be able to walk, following Paraiti’s skilful manipulation of his bones. An older forester, who had chopped off three fingers of his right hand, had the wounds cauterised. A child with chronic asthma would now breathe more easily if he followed the regime of herbal inhalants and exercises that Paraiti gave his anxious parents. A young girl was brought in covered in pustules; Paraiti looked after her during the night, using her poultices to draw out the pus and her soporifics to bring down the girl’s fever. And if Paraiti was not able to cure all those who sought her help, at least she had tried to make them more comfortable.
From Te Kuiti, Paraiti cut across to the lands of Te Whanau a Apanui: Te Teko, Whakatane, Te Karaka and Ohiwa Harbour. More patients, more successful diagnoses and treatments, and always humour, as people laughed in the face of their illness or impending death. Like the old kuia, wasting away; when Paraiti inspected her, she was horrified, saying: ‘E kui, you are all skin and bones.’ To her, Paraiti had given a strong herbal painkiller, her skilful massaging hands, and the gift of a few more precious days to breathe and to praise the Lord.
Then, just after leaving her clinic at Ohiwa Habour, Paraiti had a disturbing dream. The dream was a jumble of chaotic images. A face on fire — it was her face. A ngarara bearing down on her; she took up her rifle and shot at it. As the ngarara went by, Paraiti saw a woman with auburn hair coiled within the ngarara’s slithering entrails. Then Charlie Chaplin appeared — how did he get into her dream? He was in a hut and it was see-sawing on the edge of a cliff. But it wasn’t Charlie Chaplin at all — it was Paraiti herself. Suddenly, as the hut slid over the cliff, Te Teira appeared, put a hand out and pulled her out of the hut. He cupped Paraiti’s chin in his hands and wiped her face clear of the scar. He did this again and again.
Paraiti woke up puzzled and anxious. What did the dream mean?
The dream gnawed at Paraiti as she travelled around the coastline from Opotiki to Omaramutu, Torere and Maraenui. Wherever she went, she performed her healing duties. As for Tiaki, Ataahua and Kaihe, they loved swimming in the sea. Paraiti took Tiaki fishing with her in a favourite lagoon. She speared a fish and let the spear sink with the fish down to the bottom. ‘Kia tere,’ she commanded Tiaki. Immediately he dived after the speared fish, swimming down, down, down until he was able to grasp the spear in his teeth and return to the surface.
Camping on the beach one evening, Paraiti saw an uncommonly bright star blazing across the sky. That night she had the dream again. It had changed in two respects: the auburn-haired woman had now become the ngarara, and it was a child who was caught in its slithering shape.
This morning, Paraiti is waiting for Tiaki to bring her breakfast. Perhaps he has gone fishing without her and will bring her back a nice silver-finned kahawai. Of course she will have to throw it back into the sea — first fish to Tangaroa — but the thought of a fish for breakfast is enticing. She leaves her tent to get some driftwood together for a fire to boil water for her manuka tea. She puts the skillet on the fire so it will be ready for Tiaki’s catch.
As she is ranging along the beach, with the surf rolling in, she sees an old koroua sitting on a log in the middle of a vast expanse of sand. He is smiling at her and waving to her as if he knows her.
As soon as she sees him, Paraiti’s heart bursts with pain and love. She drops her driftwood and runs towards him like a young girl. When she gets nearer, he motions her to sit down next to him.
‘Hello, daughter,’ Te Teira says. ‘Isn’t it a lovely morning?’
Paraiti smiles at him. ‘Yes, Dad.’
He closes his eyes and sniffs the sea air. ‘Mmm, kei te whiti te ra, such a day brings back so many memories, daughter.’ Then he looks at Paraiti again, and she can feel herself drowning in his eyes, irradiated with his love. ‘You always had good hands, daughter. They can save lives and they can heal people. You know what you have to do.’ Then he is gone.
After breakfast, Paraiti talks to her animals. ‘Well, Tiaki, Ataahua and Kaihe, I know you are expecting us to head southward to Ngati Porou, and I know you like to visit kin at Tikitiki, Tokomaru Bay, Tolaga Bay and Whangara, but we have to cancel our travels; maybe we’ll go to Ngati Porou another day. Instead, we will go straight home.’
The animals simply look at her with a puzzled expression. So? What are we waiting for? Let’s get going.
Paraiti puts on her wide-brimmed hat. She packs the saddlebags, says a karakia on the beach and sprinkles sea water over her head and those of her animals. She taps Ataahua on his knees and mounts him.
It will be a long, hard ride. She wants to send a telegram from Opotiki and be at the Waioeka Gorge by nightfall, and reach Gisborne in two days’ time, if all goes well.
Better get a move on. ‘Me hoki matou ki te wa kainga,’ she orders.
The waves thunder and spray around her as she heads inland.
5
Two days later, and Mrs Rebecca Vickers waits in the upstairs drawing room of her home on Waterside Drive.
She is smouldering with irritation. Yesterday, Maraea had brought news that Scarface had telegraphed from Opotiki to say that she was returning to Gisborne, and had a matter of mutual benefit to discuss. An appointment has been arranged for this evening.
Mrs Vickers wears her auburn hair unpinned. She is dressed in a long crimson robe. Her full and generous pregnancy is clearly showing. Her backbone has curved to make space for the baby, and all the other organs have found their places around the whare tangata.
All her attempts to end her pregnancy have failed. The last butcher left her for dead on the bathroom floor. But the baby is still alive inside her.
Lighting a cigarette, she looks out the window. The day is already beginning to wane. She rings the bell for Maraea and tells her to bring the latest edition of The Tatler and switch on a reading lamp. The magazine has a full-page photograph of a young film actress, Merle Oberon: rich black hair, high noble forehead, exquisite cheekbones, the neck of a swan, and skin of unsurpassed whiteness. Regarded as the quintessential English rose, Merle Oberon is the woman of her generation — looks, style and manners — on whom Rebecca Vickers has modelled her own image. Opalescent eyes blazing, she throws the magazine to the floor. Waiting for Paraiti, she broods, eyes unblinking. If she doesn’t play her cards right, everything will be over. Everything.
What is Mrs Vickers’ secret? She has been passing for white ever since she was a young girl of twelve. Her father was English, her mother a Maori woman he met in Auckland and promised to marry but didn’t. Rather than return to her kainga, Mrs Vickers’ mother instead fled to Christchurch, where her daughter was born out of wedlock. Mrs Vickers is therefore a halfcaste. In other countries where interracial relationships — or miscegenation — lead to children, those children are called, by blood quantum, halfbreed, Eurasian, mulatto or quadroon. But Mrs Vickers is more white than brown. Pigmentocracy has enabled her to bl
end in and thus assure for herself all the benefits of being Pakeha. So began, with her mother’s connivance, her process of crossing over the colour bar.
No moral judgement should be assumed about her masquerade. Why not applaud a woman who has been able so successfully to move into the Pakeha part of town? And why not congratulate her for the huge accomplishment of catching the eye of the elderly Mr Vickers? As many other women have done before her, Mrs Vickers has parlayed her youthful sexuality to obtain matrimony and entry to high society, which she would not have obtained by pedigree. Aided by the application of an acidic nitrate, she has kept her skin glazed like porcelain; she knows full well that her white skin is her passport. She has perfected her masquerade with a long period spent in London, and an even longer period among the Raj in India, where her husband’s wealth was at her disposal. She is not willing to lose everything for the sake of a moment of adulterous passion.
Mrs Vickers does not know it, but Merle Oberon is, ironically, her perfect exemplar. Born in Karachi, India, the English actress maintains her position as a famous film star only because people do not know she is Eurasian. Like Mrs Vickers, Merle Oberon, the famous English rose, also bears the taint of the tar.
Suddenly she hears footsteps. It is Maraea. ‘Scarface has arrived. She is waiting for you in the parlour.’
Paraiti is unprepared for Mrs Vickers’ appearance. One month on, pregnancy has given her a transcendent, astonishing beauty. In her crimson robe, she looks like a gorgeous katipo spider.
‘You said you had a matter of mutual benefit to discuss with me,’ Mrs Vickers says angrily. ‘If you’ve come to gloat, you can get out now.’
Paraiti is exhausted from her journey. She has not detoured to Waituhi — her animals are tied up three streets away. She takes the upper hand. ‘You want something from me,’ she says, ‘and if you agree to my terms, I will do it. I will begin the induction of your baby, tonight if you wish, and you will abort it ahead of its time.’
Mrs Vickers’ eyes dilate. She turns her back on Paraiti and looks into the mirror above the fireplace, trying to mask her elation. Her reflection blazes in all the other mirrors in the room. ‘Tonight? What is the method?’
‘You will begin a herbal abortion. I will give you a compound which you will drink at least three times a day for the next seven days. The compound has ingredients which will bring on contractions and cause your whare tangata to collapse. By the sixth day, the compounds will affect the pito, the cord that connects your baby to your womb, and it will begin to constrict. To assist the process I will come every second evening to massage the area of the whare tangata and manipulate the baby inside. The massage will be deep, forceful and extremely painful for you. But both the compound and the massage should have the desired effect. On the seventh day I will return to physically assist your baby’s expulsion from your womb.’
‘Seven days?’ Mrs Vickers considers the proposal. She rings the bell for the servant Maraea. ‘When does Mr Vickers’ ship arrive in Auckland?’
‘In six days, madam,’ Maraea replies.
‘He will be expecting me to be there …’ Mrs Vickers turns to Paraiti. ‘You must take less time.’ It is not a request; it is a command.
Paraiti stays her ground. ‘Less time means more risk to you,’ she answers. ‘I have already accelerated the normal dosage. When the cramps begin, your body might not be able to cope with the strain. Your heart could go into arrest.’
‘Less time, I say,’ Mrs Vickers lashes. ‘You already know how strong I am. Just rid me of my burden.’
Paraiti’s head is whirling: Yes, Mrs Vickers has the stamina. She must be allowed to think that she has the victory. ‘So be it,’ she nods. ‘I will deliver your baby on the sixth day.’
Mrs Vickers smiles with satisfaction. Then, ‘I want to know if the baby will be born dead or alive,’ she demands.
Paraiti realises she must be very careful about her reply. According to her calculations the pregnancy is under seven months, but the foetus should be fully viable. If so, the baby would have to survive the poisonous and dangerous ordeal as the whare tangata collapses. It could be dead before the contractions pushed it into the birth canal. Paraiti’s voice quivers with emotion. ‘There is every possibility that the baby will be stillborn,’ she says.
Mrs Vickers looks at Maraea. ‘Every possibility,’ she echoes mockingly. Self-possessed, always aware, she turns to face Paraiti again.
‘And why are you doing this, Scarface?’ She moves with surprising swiftness, cupping Paraiti’s chin with one hand and, with the other, stroking the scar that crosses her face. The touch of her hand stings.
‘He Maori koe,’ Paraiti answers, pulling back. ‘You are a Maori.’ But she can still feel Mrs Vickers probing her soul, and she warns her, ‘Kia tupato, tuahine. Be careful. What I am proposing to do is against the law. You push me and I will change my mind.’
The threat of withdrawal has the desired effect. Mrs Vickers blinks and steps back. But she is soon on the offensive again. ‘You mentioned your terms. What do you want, Scarface?’
It is now or never. ‘I will not require payment for my services,’ Paraiti says quickly. ‘You will not understand this, Mrs Vickers, but my purpose is to save lives, not to take life away. Whether the baby is dead or alive, I will keep it.’
‘What are you up to?’ Mrs Vickers asks. ‘Wait here while I consider.’
Paraiti watches as Mrs Vickers and Maraea leave the room. She hears them talking in low voices. When they return, Mrs Vickers mocks, ‘I had not realised that your motives would be so humanitarian, but I agree to your request. What option do I have? You hold all the cards. I should have known you wouldn’t want blood money to go with it. But I warn you, Paraiti, if the baby is alive, take it quickly for I would soon murder it. Now let us begin the treatment.’
Asking Maraea to bring up the saddlebags containing her medicines, Paraiti instructs both women on the dosage and its frequency. She measures out the first dose and administers it. Self-confident though she is, Mrs Vickers’ eyes show alarm. Her face increases in pallor; after all, it is a poison that is being administered to her. Following the dose, Paraiti begins to massage Mrs Vickers. The massage is light at first and Mrs Vickers sighs and relaxes into it. ‘This is not so difficult to cope with,’ she laughs. But then Paraiti goes deeper, stronger, faster — above, around and upon the mound of the whare tangata. Soon, sweat starts to pop out on Mrs Vickers’ forehead and she groans, ‘No, please, enough, no.’ For half an hour Paraiti keeps up the massage, her eyes dark and her face grim, until Mrs Vickers starts to scream with the pain.
Paraiti stops. Mrs Vickers moans; she can feel the after-effects of Paraiti’s manipulations rippling within her womb.
But the massage isn’t over.
Paraiti administers a hard, shocking series of chops with her hands on and around the baby within the whare tangata, then applies relentless pressure on the baby. Please child, forgive me, but this is the only way. She can sense the baby beneath her hands, fighting the unbearable pain — and Mrs Vickers screams and loses consciousness.
‘Every second day, this?’ Maraea asks, horrified.
‘Yes,’ Paraiti answers. ‘Meantime, make sure your mistress drinks the compound. This regime is the only way to achieve the abortion on the sixth day. Under no circumstances can we slow or halt the procedure.’
It is time for Paraiti to leave. Just as she does so, Mrs Vickers revives and, exhausted, speaks to her. ‘You and I, Scarface, we are not so dissimilar. You wear your scar where people can see it. I wear mine where they can’t. Our lives have both been influenced by them. Me pera maua.’
Paraiti ponders her words, and then nods in reluctant agreement. ‘I can find my own way out,’ she says. She walks down the stairs, along the corridor to the side door. As she walks down the pathway and closes the gate behind her, she is aware that Mrs Vickers is watching her go. She continues along Waterside Drive and, when she is out of sight of the house, he
r legs fail her and she collapses into the shadows. ‘Oh, child, forgive me for the pain I have done to you tonight.’
My purpose is to save lives, Mrs Vickers, not take them away.
She hears panting and sees that Tiaki has joined her; he licks her face. In the distance, tied to a fence, are Ataahua and Kaihe. Sighing to herself, Paraiti joins her animals. They could be home by dawn.
‘I have gambled tonight,’ she says to Tiaki as she mounts Ataahua. ‘I have played a game of life and death. Let us pray that I will win.’
Together they fade in and out of the streetlights and, finally, into the comforting dark beyond the town.
6
Normally, Paraiti would have spent the rest of her haerenga on a circuit of the villages closest to Waituhi. The old woman with a dog, horse and mule are familiar sights among the Ringatu faithful in Turanga, which the Pakeha have renamed Poverty Bay.
Paraiti would have travelled throughout the lands of Te Whanau a Kai, Te Aitanga a Mahaki, Tai Manuhiri and Rongowhakaata. Wherever the Ringatu festivals take place, there you would have found her. Where the faithful gather to sing, pray and praise God, there she would be also: Waihirere, Puha, Mangatu, Rangatira, Waioeka, Awapuni, Muriwai and many other local marae. Still avoiding te rori Pakeha, the Pakeha road, she would instead have ridden the old trails along the foothills or rivers, the unseen roads that crisscross the plains like a spider’s web.
But for six days, Paraiti remains in Waituhi, venturing only every second day to Gisborne, and returning at midnight. ‘Where is Scarface?’ her people ask, puzzled at this change in her routine. ‘Is she ill? What will happen to us if she is unable to visit this year?’ And some, worried, come to Waituhi to knock on the door of her kauta. ‘Are you all right, takuta?’
When they are patiently told that everything is kei te pai and that she is only delayed, they leave.
White Lies Page 19