‘I have a bonnet, too,’ I said, ‘and a beautiful new frock but the box is a very large one and by no means empty yet. We are all to have new clothes, and there are shoes for you and me, and boots for all my brothers. Then, so that we may have a celebration, there’s a whole tinned ham, some potted meats, relishes, a tinned Dundee cake, tins of pineapple, strawberry jam and sugared plums, preserved ginger, Madeira wine and—’
‘Stop, stop!’ cried Robert, ‘it’s too much. I’m already hungry at the thought of it. Come, we must all kiss Fanny and thank her.’
Aunt drew me aside. ‘Fanny, it is so very, very good of you but I’m horrified at the thought of the cost of such extravagant gifts.’
‘You’re disappointed with your bonnet?’
‘Why, it is quite the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned, but I do not wish you to spend such enormous sums on us.’
‘I would like you to sit down, Aunt. I must talk to you.’
She looked at me in surprise but did as I asked.
‘I am rich, Aunt. Not immensely so, but I am very comfortably off and I have no need of such a large sum of money for myself. It gives me the greatest pleasure to be able to indulge you all a little. Only consider how very good you and Uncle have been to me. It’s gratifying to be in a position to repay just a fraction of your kindness.’
‘Fanny, I won’t hear any talk of repayment. You have been a joy and pleasure to us, the dearest of daughters. That is quite repayment enough.’
‘I am sorry to defy your wishes, Aunt, but I fear I must.’
‘Why, Fanny, you are sounding now like Lucy!’
‘I have written to my solicitor in Lyme instructing him to give notice to my tenants.’
‘You are returning to Lyme?’
‘No, Aunt, you are going there, with Robert and Richard and William. I have taken the very great liberty of procuring four ship’s passages for you all and of depositing a sum of money for your use in Lyme for your living expenses and the boys’ education. And while you are there, you may petition the Admiralty directly for your pension.’
‘Fanny, I … I cannot possibly …’
‘It is done, Aunt.’
For a moment, Aunt covered her face with her hands. ‘Ah,’ she whispered, ‘Lyme, dear, dear Lyme …’ She looked up at me. ‘I simply don’t know what to say to such generosity, Fanny. And you? Are you coming with us?’
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am going to New Zealand. To Lucy.’
IV
AOTEAROA
Tihe mauri ora.
Tihe mauri ora.
Tihe mauri ora.
Listen to my words. I was there. I know the truth of what took place. Listen to my story. Listen to my breath. Listen to my confession.
My name is Makareta, but long ago, in the beginning, I was called Hine-moana, the Girl from the Ocean. I was born on Kapiti Island. Men call it an island but, in truth, it is a lone grey mountain rising sharply from the water, brooding alone at the edge of Tai-o-Rehua, the Tasman Sea. Now, I am only a phantom swirling in the sea fog; then, I was of the tribe of the mighty rangatira, Te Rau-paraha.
Te Rau-paraha, the warrior, the eagle, the wily serpent. It was said that he ate the eyes and the sexual parts of the fighters whom he captured, the better to enhance his spirit. It was true. My mother, herself, saw it. He drove off the white settlers and burnt their dwellings, defied the English Government and their powerful Queen. His war canoes penetrated to the farthest reaches of the Southern Island, to the northernmost point of the North. Thousands fled before him. He was a living god; his mana was supreme. Every other tribe lived in terror of him. And so did we, his own people.
Once I was Makareta; now I am a wraith. I did not heed my mother’s warnings of the danger of makutu, witchcraft. I boasted that I, too, could cast powerful spells. And that very witchcraft rose up against me and consumed me, so that now my bones lie far from my homeland and I am less than nothing. In my lifetime, I believed I, too, would follow the Broad Path of Tane, treading it across the sea to Hawai’iki. But, when the time came, when the poison of the Serpent caught and burnt me, the way remained barred to me forever. I could not follow my ancestors.
Turned away, I have become a kikokiko, a ghost soul, weeping as I haunt the world I once inhabited. I am the wind in the chimney, the rattle at the window pane, the creak of the stair …
Though I move among them, the living cannot see me. Yearning to be again as they are, I peer in at their windows, I stand behind them, blowing a chill wind at their necks, I enter their dreams while they sleep. This is my eternal punishment. I did wrong, I know, but what else could I have done? What power does a woman have, no matter that she is of noble parentage?
I remember nothing at all of my father, though his chiefly blood flows in me. The first man I can recall in our life was not a Maori but a white man.
‘Put away prejudice,’ said my mother, Kahe. ‘A good man is a good man whatever the misfortune of the colour of his skin. And a woman and her children are safe only under the protection of a good man.’
My father was Te Rau-paraha’s nephew. His favourite. The son of his treasured older sister, he was beloved even more than the chief ’s own son, and second only to the chief ’s son-in-law, brutal Te Rangihae-ata. But, as our great leader’s mana grew, said my mother, so he became a tyrant, unpredictable in his temper, capricious in his whims, murdering for the sport of it, insatiable in his appetites for women, war and blood. Our tribe lived in impregnable isolation, surrounded on all sides by the sea. Who could invade our stronghold? Where might his dissenters flee? On all sides, mighty Te Rau-paraha commanded the ocean.
But, in time, my father and his friends grew weary of the battles of Te Rau-paraha and Te Rangi-hae-ata, of the endless forays and skirmishes, the alliances forged and broken. Our crops were neglected, our fishing boats idle. In defiance of the laws of the sea-god, Tangaroa, the bodies of the conquered were flung into the deep waters, the circling sharks drawn by the scent of yet more blood.
Then came the day when Te Rau-paraha’s tohunga, on reading the omens, refused to disclose their message, saying that he dare not for his life speak them aloud.
When he heard this, the great chief became enraged and attempted to violate the sanctity of the priestly rites, advancing upon his tohunga with his greenstone mere and swearing to kill him for his disobedience. Then my father and his friends, in their own turn, broke the holy laws of tapu by laying hands upon the sacred body of Te Rau-paraha and restraining their leader.
Prevailed upon by Te Rangi-hae-ata, on his father-in-law’s behalf, to deliver the message of the gods, the tohunga, in greatest fear and distress, revealed that, at the time of a future fourth full moon, the great chief would be captured and his mana broken.
Incensed, Te Rau-paraha ordered the slaying of his own tohunga, an act against all the laws of Heaven. It was Te Rangi-hae-ata who carried out this vile, unnatural murder before the gathered tribe, cutting off first the tongue and then the privy parts of the priest before despatching him with a merciful blow to the side of his head.
‘And now,’ said Te Rau-paraha, ‘throw his body to the dogs, and when they have had their fill, scatter his remains from the highest cliff-top.’
Much disturbed by the offences of his uncle and the predictions of the tohunga, my father took counsel with his friends, all of them alarmed in great measure by what had taken place. It was agreed among them that they should band together and, by force of arms, overthrow Te Rau-paraha. My father would seek an audience with his uncle and, at a pre-arranged signal, the others would burst in, armed, and together they would kill him. In this way, saved from the ignominy of surrender or defeat, Te Rau-paraha might be permitted to die with his mana preserved.
An hour before the meeting, with darkness already shrouding the sky, a woman appeared by the door of our whare. ‘You are betrayed,’ she told my father. ‘Your uncle is apprised of your plans by a traitor among you. Te Rau-paraha is sending
scouts to capture you. He has vowed to wipe out the stain of your treachery from his family. He already holds your mother prisoner and he swears that, before he puts you to death, you will be forced to watch him roast your children and have his warriors dishonour your wife in the presence of the entire tribe. I must flee for my own safety. His rage is uncontrollable. If he should discover I have come to warn you, he will surely kill me.’
My mother sank to the ground. ‘He would not do this. You are his favourite.’
My father raised her up. ‘He will be merciless. It is his way. I have seen him on our war parties. It is too late for me, but you must flee now with our children. Save yourselves and them. Take my fishing canoe and paddle to the mainland. Hurry.’
The woman, still hovering at the door, spoke again. ‘On your uncle’s orders, your fishing canoe has been holed and destroyed.’
‘He has desecrated my canoe?’
‘Yes. And all our other canoes he had taken away and hidden so no escape is possible for you.’
‘You must come with us,’ said my mother to my father.
‘I cannot. It is enough that you save our children and yourself.’
‘Then I will climb the mountain, Tutere-moana, and hide there.’
‘If you go to the mountain-top, he will hunt you down and discover you. Go to the sea. Cast yourself on the mercy of Tangaroa and swim to the sanctuary of the Mission at Otaki.’
‘Swim, Husband? But the mainland is so far distant.’
‘It is your only chance. Take these kete. There will be rope on the shore. Quickly! They will be here for me at any moment.’
He took flax cloth, tore it, and with the strips bound my mouth and that of my brother. I was fifteen months old, my brother three years, and we fought as he gagged us.
‘Now, Kahe, Wife-of-my-Heart, you must be strong. You cannot reach the shore before they come. Conceal yourselves in the latrine pit at the edge of the pa and wait there until they have taken me. Hurry, I beg you.’
‘I will never descend into the latrine pit. It is noa, filthy. I should be dishonoured forever.’
‘You prefer that other dishonour? I think not. And it is because the pit is noa that I demand you hide there. That is the one place they will never look for you. They will not wish to defile themselves; they will believe you have fled to the mountain-top.’
For a moment they embraced, then, lifting us both, my mother took the kete, crept to the edge of the pa and concealed us in the stinking pit. Minutes later, she heard shouting, and the orange light of flaming torches illuminated our whare. For the last time she saw my father, standing proudly by the doorway to meet his betrayers, as befitted a chief ’s son. She heard his voice, raised so that she might catch his final words. ‘You have no need to bind me. I shall walk to my fate of my own free will.’
Another voice. ‘Where is your wife, Kahe Te Rau-o-te-rangi? Where are your children?’
‘They are under the protection of the gods.’
‘We have orders to set fire to your whare. And all of your possessions. Is your family within?’
‘I do not choose to answer you.’
Mired in the unbearable stench of the pit, my mother caught a glimpse of a moving flame which blazed up to light the sky. Forcing herself not to cough in the acrid smoke, she sank lower, pulling us down with her as we fought and struggled against our bindings.
When the fire had died down and my father had been dragged away, she crept weeping to the shore, half-hauling me inside the kete, clutching my frantic brother in her arms. There, she hastily gathered pieces of wood from the ruined canoe and lashed them with rope into a small raft on which she tied my brother. Placing me in the kete, she strapped it high on her back, my head raised above her own, then, praying to Tangaroa to preserve us, she slid into the water. The tide was with her, ingoing to the mainland, a sign of the sea-god’s favour. Waist-deep in water, she secured the raft loosely to her front, freeing her arms. Then she began to swim.
Noise travels across the sea. The increasing swell of drums beat as if in her own head; she thought she discerned within it the thunderous tones of Te Rau-paraha, and willed herself not to think of my father and his fate. Suddenly, the drums ceased and from the Kapiti mountainside behind us floated screams, followed by a silence, then a collective sigh that made her shudder. She did not know then that the wailing she heard was the sorrowful massed voice of the tribe, forced to watch as Te Rau-paraha massacred his sister in front of her son. The smell of fire drifted over the sea and, mingled with the bitter tang of burning tawa and kanuka, came the unmistakable odour of roasting flesh.
Defeated by what she knew must be its hideous source, her strength already spent, my mother ceased to swim. Exhausted from struggling against his bonds, my brother had fallen asleep but I, high on the prow of my mother canoe, reached down and, clutching in my hands locks of her drenched hair, hauled on them in the manner of reins. The pain of this shook her from her stupor, and she began again to move her arms and legs, propelling us slowly, slowly through the water.
And then appeared an omen, a further sign from Tangaroa. The waves, which had been rippling about us, became deeper and more powerful, lifting us on each new crest, bearing us closer and closer to the mainland shore.
In his rush cottage, not far from that seashore, Mr Octavius Hadfield, the Christian missionary, friend of the Maori, knowledgeable of their ways, had heard the drums on Kapiti, had caught the drift of burning flesh and, full of unease, had gone to the water’s edge to try to observe the better what might be the cause of such disturbance. As the morning light rose from the horizon, he saw, to his sorrow, three bodies washed up on the sand. The largest lay sprawled lifeless, a dead infant strapped to its back, the third, another child, rested motionless on a makeshift raft. In horror, the missionary saw that the children had their lower faces bound, and reached down to untie the infant’s tiny mouth. At this, it gave a feeble, angry cry, and he saw that it lived. Running to the other child, he unbound him and saw that he, too, was alive. What of the woman, who must surely be their mother? Turning her body, he saw infinitesimal movements of her chest.
By now, the night’s commotion from Kapiti had drawn curious others. Summoned by Mr Hadfield, they carried the half-drowned trio back to his hut at the Mission station.
And in this manner, and by the grace of the sea-god, my mother, my brother and I were saved from the wrath of Te Rau-paraha.
AUCKLAND, 1847
‘The mistress has been looking for you, Ma’am,’ said Johnson. She peered at me from under a furrowed brow, heightening her general air of gloom and disapproval.
‘Where is she now?’
Johnson shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t say, Ma’am. Possibly in the garden.’ And she flapped away into the house in her ill-fitting shoes.
‘Why do you keep such a bad-tempered servant?’ I had asked Lucy shortly after my arrival.
‘We’ve little choice. We constantly have to reprimand Johnson, but getting servants anywhere in New Zealand is almost impossible. If she decided to give notice, it would be very difficult to find a replacement for her.’
‘She’s quite horrid to poor Ingrams.’
‘She’s quite horrid to everyone. Servants in New Zealand have no concept of their place.’
Lucy waved to me from the grove of native flax bushes at the far end of the garden. ‘Here you are at last, Fanny. I’ve been searching for you everywhere. I have the most wonderful news. Godfrey is coming here!’ She ran up and seized my arm. ‘We’ll all have such fun together. I told you how he loves parties and dancing. I’ve missed him dreadfully since we left Adelaide.’ She checked herself. ‘Oh, Fanny, you must think me so ungrateful when I have you here. But my husband dotes on his brother, which will be good for us all. Godfrey always knows how to coax the Governor from a bad humour. You’ll see it at once.’
‘When will he arrive?’
‘Very soon, but the mails are so slow, I’ve only just heard. I must set about
to have his room made ready.’
Mr Godfrey Thomas was, indeed, a refreshing addition to Government House. As unlike the Governor in looks as it was possible to imagine, he similarly differed entirely from his brother in temperament, being almost unfailingly cheerful and disposed to find everything about his new surroundings agreeable. To me, Mr Godfrey was courteous and attentive, frequently making me laugh with his impersonations of Johnson in disapproving mood. It was clear that he was easy in the company of ladies.
Shortly after his arrival, he persuaded the Governor to agree to hold a ball. ‘A little gaiety and dancing will do no harm,’ he said, ‘and, after all, the officers of the 58th are in sore need of some light relief.’
To my surprise, the Governor agreed. ‘I daresay, if you and the ladies are prepared to organise it, there’s no reason why not. But it will have to wait until I have settled affairs in the south.’
‘Of course. And, George, why shouldn’t Eliza and her sister travel with us to Wellington next month? It would provide some interest and distraction for Eliza, and Miss Thompson could see something of the rest of the country.’
‘Well, I suppose that may be possible, too.’
But the day before we were due to sail to Wellington aboard the government brig, I developed a fever and pains in my chest.
‘I shan’t consider going now,’ declared Lucy. ‘I must stay here with you, Fanny, and nurse you back to health.’
‘It’s merely a chill,’ I said. ‘In two or three days I’ll be quite well again. You are not to stay behind on my account. The servants can see to my needs, and I can send to Lady Martin or Mrs Selwyn if I need extra assistance.’
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