A Crooked Rib

by Judy Corbalis

  ‘But I am dead now,’ I said.

  ‘Wait,’ said my mother. ‘Only wait.’ And she spoke very quietly to Mr Hadfield, who spoke to Te Rangitake at Waikanae so that, under his protection, I was able to come alive again, the cockerel in the little grave forgotten in the universal joy at my reappearance.

  ‘Surely a Christian miracle,’ said my mother. ‘Your God is generous.’

  And, to celebrate my rebirth, she gave me a new name, Makareta.

  ‘Do nothing to draw attention to yourself, Makareta,’ she told me. ‘Always remember we are protected only within the halo of Mr Hadfield’s Christian goodness.’

  ‘People will see me,’ I said. ‘Someone will tell the great rangatira on Kapiti that I am alive.’

  ‘They will not dare to speak of you,’ said my mother, ‘because Mr Hadfield has spoken with Te Rangitake who has prohibited any mention of your name. Who would dare to incur the wrath of a chief by speaking of what is forbidden? Now, Mr Hadfield has again become sick. Go to him and tell him that you will feed his hens until he has recovered.’

  I went out behind the hut to the large wire run with its whare where the chickens slept at night. ‘A Maori-built hen run,’ said my mother, often, ‘so it is entirely rat-proof.’ And, indeed, no rat had ever penetrated that stronghold.

  As I entered, the hens came rushing towards me in a great flock. How many? I tried to count, but in the whirr and flurry of wings, the clutching and squawking, scratching and pecking, and the oncoming battalion of white and brown and scarlet legs, I could only guess. Perhaps a hundred. I took up the large tin container from which Mr Hadfield strewed the corn, dipped it into the sack, filled it and flung the grains as far from my bare feet as I could.

  ‘Beware!’ I warned the advancing army. ‘I am dead. I am a kikokiko.’

  For a long time Mr Hadfield lived in a small tent in the very centre of the pa at Waikanae.

  ‘How uncomfortable,’ said my mother. ‘Cold at night and too hot in the day.’

  Although the tribe had now built him a house, he kept the tent set up in his little garden. We frequently poked our heads inside it to see what new things Mr Hadfield might recently have acquired.

  ‘Blankets,’ said Hone. ‘Bricks for the chimney of the house he is building at Otaki, and books, many, many books. Mr Hadfield is a learned man.’

  Waikanae was a very large pa; the outer palisades were a Pakeha mile around and stretched to the sand-hills and the bush behind us, with the Tararua Ranges beyond. In the gardens outside the stockade grew apple trees, wheat, barley and oats, and grass for the goats and horses. Although he was content in his little Waikanae whare and had moved his possessions into this home, Mr Hadfield was building a second house at Otaki, one and a half hours away on horseback, where he had his other Mission.

  ‘And why is he building another whare there?’ asked my mother. ‘Because Te Rau-paraha is jealous and angry. He, too, wants a missionary. He has complained to Mr Hadfield that he spends too much time at Waikanae, and the tribes at Kapiti and Otaki have been overlooked. If Mr Hadfield does not do as he wants, he threatens to mount an attack on Waikanae.’

  ‘What did Mr Hadfield say to him?’ asked Hone.

  ‘Nothing,’ said my mother. ‘When Te Rau-paraha had left, Mr Hadfield said he was quite disgusted by him but, because of the chief ’s great influence, he must continue to humour him and be civil to him. And, yesterday Te Rau-paraha came here to our school in Waikanae and sat with a slate on his knee, demanding to be taught how to read and write. And afterwards, he ordered Mr Hadfield to sit with him, alone in Mr Hadfield’s whare, so they might speak of building a church at Otaki.’

  ‘That is not so bad,’ said Hone.

  ‘You think not?’ said my mother. ‘Mr Hadfield alone with that serpent. Do you know that once, when he was fleeing his enemies, he threw into the sea any of his slaves who could not assist in paddling so that he could lighten and speed his canoe?’

  But later that day she said to us, ‘In both Te Rau-paraha and Mr Hadfield you see the power of great mana. The chief ’s mana comes from his whakapapa, his lineage, but Mr Hadfield’s lies in his goodness and humility, and the way he conducts himself. You should learn from watching him how it is possible in this life to gain mana simply from being true to your own beliefs.’

  ‘Christian beliefs?’ asked Hone.

  ‘Of course not,’ said our mother. ‘What have Christian beliefs to do with it? It is not his Christianity which gives Mr Hadfield his mana. It is his own integrity.’

  Hone pulled me away. ‘I think it takes too much effort to be so good. Come and watch the canoes bringing in the fishing nets.’

  On Saturday night, Mr Hadfield appeared unexpectedly at the doorway of our hut.

  ‘I have come on an errand of some urgency, Kahe,’ he said. ‘I must tell you that, tomorrow, Te Rau-paraha will attend Sunday worship here at Waikanae. I think it may be prudent to ensure that all of you keep close in the hut or go to Otaki until he departs.’

  ‘But Harawira,’ my mother said, politely using Mr Hadfield’s Maori name, ‘does this mean Te Rau-paraha is now, suddenly, a convert?’

  ‘Not at all. He remains as Heathen as ever, but he wishes to attend the service so that he can enjoy the meal afterwards. He is particularly partial to an English breakfast.’

  Mr Hadfield came again to our whare. ‘Kahe, I have cheering news. When Te Rau-paraha came to our service, here at Waikanae—’

  My mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘I saw him.’

  ‘—he was so impressed by the beauty of our church that he vowed to build an even finer one in the pa at Otaki, using totara trees from his own lands.’

  ‘I heard,’ said my mother, ‘that he intended to send a raiding party to advance on the Pakeha settlement in the Hutt Valley.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Mr Hadfield, ‘but I have managed to dissuade him from such a course.’ He paused. ‘Te Rau-paraha is a man of extraordinary contradictions.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said my mother. ‘And therefore not to be trusted. Remember, Harawira, the shark does not feed on kumara.’

  AUCKLAND, 1847

  At the summit, Te Toa reined in his stallion. ‘I know you have visited already the Domain, Miss Thompson, but do you know its history?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ I gazed across the bay at the three peaks of Rangitoto Island that dominated the skyline. ‘Mrs Grey and I come here mainly to look at the panorama and the plants.’

  ‘You know that it is very large?’

  ‘Yes, and much of it seems extremely inaccessible. Such dense vegetation will take a long time to clear and replant.’

  We rode on again, the damp smell of green bush undercut with the sharp tang of kanuka rising around us.

  ‘You have seen before much harakeke,’ he said, ‘but there, do you see, are manuka and nikau. And the great green stars in the gullies below us are the tops of the ponga ferns. Over here are your English oaks and cherry trees, but I do not think they will defeat our Maori plants.’ He stopped his horse. ‘Now, Miss Thompson, I shall show you the crater.’

  ‘What crater?’

  ‘You are riding now along the edge of it.’ He gestured inland. ‘Pukekawa, the Hill of Bitter Tears. It was here that my own ancestors of Ngapuhi fought Ngati Whatua. All around us are volcanoes, but this was the mightiest.’

  ‘Will they erupt?’

  He shrugged. ‘I think not, but that is in the hands of the gods. Pukekawa is spent from an eruption long ago, but the others … Who knows? Not so many years ago, Ngati Whatua sold this ancestral land to the Pakeha to make a great park for the town. Come, I will show you.’

  We veered off the track and onto an unseen pathway. The fronds of the great native ferns brushed me as we passed.

  ‘Look,’ said Te Toa, ‘that is the floor of the crater. In that swamp are eels, good for eating.’

  I peered at the dark water in the pit below us.

  ‘And on the other side, over there,
Ngati Whatua once had fine kumara fields. But then they sold their land, so it is gone forever. And now, as I promised, we will go to the little settlement.’

  We pushed on, the vegetation restricting our horses to a walking pace, until Te Toa suddenly stopped his stallion and sprang from its back. Stretching out his hand, he took my reins and I dismounted. He tethered the horses and, after a brief hesitation, I followed him into the dense, seemingly impenetrable greenery, bending below the ponga fronds he held up for me, uneasy, but pulled forward by the strange call of something I had neither invited nor understood. Was this how Lucy had felt in her youth at Albany, I wondered — curious and unafraid of the unknown? I did not know then, and I do not know now, why I followed Te Toa with such blind confidence.

  We had passed quite some way into the depths of the bush when it suddenly opened out onto a clearing in the middle of which was a huddle of small, ramshackle native dwellings in a rough semi-circle. A few sticks protruded from the ground and a cooking pot lay on its side before one of the low doorways.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘It is an abandoned slave settlement.’

  ‘Slaves?’

  ‘Of course. In the past, all the tribes had slaves. Even today …’

  ‘When Mrs Grey and I lived in Australia we had a cook, a Dutchman from the garrison settlement, who had a native wife. “My lubra”, he called her, and he treated her exactly as a slave, poor woman. She had a number of half-caste children, and every morning he made his wife and children search the cooking area and the fireplace for snakes and poisonous lizards before he lit the fire. Then they spent the day carrying logs and water for him. He regularly beat her, and his children, if they didn’t obey his orders quickly enough. Slavery debases human nature.’

  ‘That is true but it is also in man’s nature to seek power over others. And there are no longer slaves in this place. It was abandoned long ago.’

  ‘And the slaves?’

  ‘Killed, eaten … perhaps freed, but I do not think so.’

  The bush around us that had seemed so peaceful now took on a more sinister aspect. Who or what might be concealed within it?

  He saw my discomfort. ‘There is no reason to be afraid. No harm will come to you. Be brave and follow me, and we shall look inside the huts. And behind, there are the remains of small kumara gardens …’

  I thought again of Lucy. I shall not be parochial, I told myself.

  To still my fears I forced the conversation to more mundane matters.

  ‘I’ve never seen it rain so often and as heavily as in New Zealand, and these houses offer very little protection. How do you keep yourselves and your possessions dry?’

  ‘If we are out in wet weather, we wear waterproof cloaks. We chiefs have several for different occasions, all fashioned from rare bird feathers, and very beautiful. Our possessions we keep in our whare in the pa, stored in carved boxes suspended from the rafters.’ He guided me towards the centre of the circle of huts. ‘You are not at all seeing a true pa here. When you come to visit my pa at Waimate, you will see that our present-day dwellings are much finer — made of reeds and harakeke — and that the doors and windows are very small to keep out the weather.’

  When you come to visit my pa at Waimate … Had Lucy already told him that we might pay a visit to the Selwyns’ Mission there?

  For more than an hour, Te Toa and I explored the ruins, examining the walls and roofs of roughly woven flax, stooping through low doorways into the meagre interiors. We saw only one piece of carving, a post driven into the ground beside the largest of the huts and hacked into the shape of a crude figure.

  ‘It is not at all an accomplished piece of carving,’ said Te Toa, squatting to examine it.

  Embarrassed, I turned away.

  He stood up again and moved towards me. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It is a man and he is unclothed. Is this what concerns you?’

  I felt a blush staining my entire face and neck.

  ‘But he is no different in form from any other man. So why does this shame you?’

  ‘It … it … I am unmarried.’

  ‘Married, unmarried, what is the difference? Surely you Pakeha know men from women? Even our smallest Maori child is aware of that. From the instant of birth, one is either a man or a woman and one’s entire life is shaped accordingly. Is that not true?’

  ‘It … it’s not something of which we may speak openly.’

  Te Toa shook his head. ‘I do not understand you Pakeha. So many things I cannot comprehend at all. Here are your men who take our women to them and make free with them, yet their own women they prefer to keep ignorant of the most important of human desires. So their women are stiff and formal, they do not move easily in their bodies. Perhaps they do not even know their own needs. Look at poor Mata Kawana …’

  ‘I don’t think we should continue this conversation. It’s not at all proper.’

  ‘Ah, once again, this proper!’

  ‘I have tried to explain … it’s a question of good behaviour. It’s what should be done. Or, sometimes, what should not. It’s what keeps society … what holds society together …’ I struggled for a moment. ‘It is right conduct.’

  ‘And who decides what is right conduct?’

  ‘I … God, I suppose. And Her Majesty. It is why England is a great and good country that leads the world.’

  ‘Do you remember that I asked you whether it was proper for Pakeha to take our lands?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now I ask you, as a Christian lady, just as I am a Christian Maori … sometimes … whether the Lord God thinks it is proper for us to work on the Sabbath.’

  ‘No. Or so the church teaches us.’

  ‘Indeed so. And yet, when my people were fighting the British at the Bats’ Nest, Rua-peka-peka, and we stopped for the Sabbath, the British did not observe Sunday worship and ambushed us at prayer. Is that proper?’

  ‘No! It is not.’

  ‘So you see, Miss Thompson, as I said before, “proper” is very often a matter of what is expedient. And now, I think I have embarrassed you enough and we should go back.’

  The Wellington travellers returned the next day. Te Toa stood on the veranda and greeted them as if he, not the Governor, were master of the house.

  ‘Te Kawana Kerei,’ he said, bowing, ‘I must tell you I have been here many days awaiting your return, and Miss Thompson has been to me a most excellent hostess. She has instructed me in important matters of British society and customs. Is that not so, Miss Thompson?’

  Unable to discern from his expression whether or not he mocked me, I nodded.

  ‘Ah, Fanny,’ cried Lucy, embracing me, ‘we’ve had the gayest time. Godfrey and I went riding in the hills and we met a friend of his who crossed over from Adelaide with him.’

  ‘Petre,’ said Mr Godfrey. ‘He’s lodging in Wellington with a Mr Domett, one of George’s officials there.’

  ‘Domett is an excellent man,’ said the Governor. ‘I’m so convinced of his abilities I’ve appointed him Colonial Secretary here.’

  ‘I liked Domett very much and I’m most taken with Wellington,’ said Mr Godfrey, ‘though its society is not one bit as jolly as here in Auckland.’

  ‘Even horrid Charlotte Godley was charmed by Godfrey. And her little Arthur remembered me, Fanny. He ran to me at once. He’s the most darling child.’

  ‘And George has passed valuable time with Mr Hadfield,’ said Mr Godfrey. ‘He spoke most informatively about native affairs in the south.’

  ‘So the only thing wanting for our complete happiness,’ said Lucy, ‘was you, Fanny dearest. You seem quite well again. I do hope you haven’t been bored all alone here.’

  AOTEAROA

  Hone and I went down to the Waikanae shore. On the sands were others from the tribe, collecting seaweed and shellfish, rolling nets, beaching fishing canoes. They hung back from us and waved but did not speak. We dug in the smaller sand-hills, not for food but for the pleasure of creating a
cave under the crab grass. After some time, I became suddenly aware of a repetitive sound, something familiar yet not quite known.

  Hone clutched at me. ‘Makareta, turn around! But slowly, carefully.’

  I moved warily in a half-circle and saw, to my horror, a number of waka moving steadily across the ocean towards Waikanae — from Kapiti Island.

  ‘Waka taua?’ I whispered.

  Hone shook his head. ‘No, they are too few. There are only seven, perhaps eight, of them. And they are not large enough for war canoes. But they are certainly not fishing canoes. Look at the leader.’

  At the head of the flotilla rode a canoe with a most intricately carved prow, and in it stood a slight figure staring ahead or, so it seemed, directly at us.

  I was transfixed with fear. ‘It must be Te Rau-paraha.’

  ‘A raiding party. Mr Hadfield is in Wellington and the chief may have seized his advantage.’

  ‘But what shall we do?’

  ‘I doubt Te Rau-paraha has identified us, and we cannot be seen to run or we will reveal ourselves. Let us turn very calmly and walk up from the sands back to the pa. We should be there before they land.’

  As we turned, the steady harmony of the raised and lowered oars, dipping in and out of the water, became clearer and clearer, and now we could hear the song of the paddlers as they advanced.

  Full of foreboding, we walked as much in our usual fashion as we could and gained the slightly raised ground. There, still in full view of the waka, we did not dare to move any faster. The distance from the shore to the pa seemed to have trebled, so it was with a sense of deliverance that we saw our mother striding towards us.

  ‘Come at once,’ she said. ‘That is Te Rau-paraha’s raiding canoe. We must hide.’