‘That day, itself.’
‘But you must know how many years you’ve been alive.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I have been a child, then a young boy, and now I am a man. That is how many years I have been alive.’
I was astounded. ‘I was born in 1824,’ I said, ‘so I will be twenty-five years old in November.’
‘This is very helpful Pakeha reckoning, I am sure, but for us Maori it is of no use at all. And now,’ he said gently, reaching to caress my face, ‘we should stop this talking. Come here, beside me.’
After some time, and his stroking of my arms and cheeks, I consented to part with everything but my shift and, though it was not cold, stood shivering before him. He placed his arms around me. ‘When you asked if I loved my wives, I said I did not think I knew what you meant. Now I know that I have this most difficult feeling for you, so it is certain to me that I feel love for you.’
‘Being in love is not supposed to be difficult …’
‘Are you sure of this? It seems to me very difficult. I am thinking of you when I should not, I am telling myself every day I must not ride to see you. I must not betray by a single word or look what I feel for you. And all the time, I wish to be with you.’
‘I know.’
‘Fanny, you must tell me. Do you understand what happens between a man and a woman?’
‘I … I … It’s not something I can speak about, even to my sister …’
‘You remember the carvings at my pa? In the wharenui?’
I said nothing.
‘I know that you saw them. I saw you redden and look away. And then, a little later, I saw you look again, but quickly. You were ashamed.’
‘I thought they were … that they should have been … somewhere more private.’
‘But why? In the wharenui, everyone may see them. Every child grows up beside them, so no one is obliged to do as I am doing now, to put into words what must be done between the bodies of a man and a woman.’
I felt a sudden panic. ‘I don’t think I—’
He held me tighter. ‘You are a grown woman. This should be natural for you. It is not something to be feared. Let me take off your shift.’
Trembling, I raised my arms.
‘There,’ he said. Tossing it to one side, he looked directly at my naked body. ‘Ah, Fanny, you are most lovely.’ He laid his forehead against mine and I felt the warmth of his breath on my face.
‘Tihe mauri ora,’ he said.
I looked at him, puzzled.
‘The breath of life.’
He drew me towards him again, and gently placed his hands on my breasts. I flinched. ‘Lie down,’ he said, ‘and I will show you what pleasant and most delightful feelings there can be between us.’
Gently, he began to stroke my breasts, then, suddenly, he leaned forward and placed his mouth to them, kissing and sucking me softly. I felt a throbbing, a strange rush of heat throughout my body.
‘That is better,’ said Te Toa. ‘And now, you must do the same to me.’
‘I …?’
‘Of course.’
He lay back and I began, shyly, to trace the whorls and spirals of the tattoos on his upper arms and chest. ‘Did it hurt?’
‘My moko? Naturally.’
‘Did you cry out?’
He shook his head. ‘If I had cried out, my father and my ancestors would have been shamed, and I would not have been worthy to become a chief.’ He took my hand and laid it against his chest. ‘Do you see this? And here, on the other side, another matching it exactly?’ He moved my hand upwards. And here, on my cheeks and above my eyebrows? Each of these tells a story. On me is written the whole story of our ancestors.’ He drew me closer. ‘And now, it is time for us to stop all this talking,’ he said, and covered my lips with his own.
AOTEAROA
Once, long ago, my mother told us an ancient story. ‘Listen, and heed,’ she said. ‘One day, I will be gone from you. When that day comes you must remember this story and the truth within it.’
Hone and I sat, silent.
‘Who is the guardian of the Underworld?’ said my mother. ‘Great Hine-nui-te-po, she who rules the night, she who is the rosy colour of the sunset. Her body is a woman’s but her hair is of bladder-wrack, her eyes of greenstone jade, and hidden in her mouth and her teke are the hideous obsidian fangs of a barracuda.
‘When it was revealed to her that her husband, the god Tane, was also her father, she fled from the light of day into the Underworld to hide her shame in its darkness at the edge of the sky. And it was there the demi-god Maui, accompanied by his friends, the fantail bird and the robin, came to seek immortality for all mankind.
‘Hine-nui-te-po lay sleeping, her immense thighs spread so that Maui could see the flash of the obsidian teeth in her secret parts. “If I crawl into her teke,” he said, “pass through her body and come out again from her mouth, I will reverse the path of birth, and mankind will become immortal.”
‘But the fantail, amused to see Maui disappearing into the body of the goddess, laughed, and woke her. Then great Hine-nui-te-po clapped her thighs together, crushing the demi-god with the obsidian teeth of her teke. And so Maui became the first man to die and, because of this, all living beings are mortal and Hine-nui-te-po remains forever at the gateway to the dark Underworld through which all human souls must pass.’
I did not fully understand her words but, at the thought of entering the darkness of the Underworld, I shuddered uncontrollably. My mother told me, also, of a sorceress she once knew. This was an old, old woman who lived away from the rest of her tribe. They were too afraid of her powers to dwell near her, but every day they left food and water for her at a safe distance. My mother said she could command the gods, that even Te Rau-paraha was in awe of her. Perhaps the sorceress has gone to the ancestors. But if she is living still and if I knew where to find her, I would go to her and ask her to read for me the omens of my future. For, with my mother gone, whom else might I ask?
AUCKLAND, 1850
Returning from a ride on the shore, Lucy and I found the Selwyns sitting on the veranda with the Governor.
‘We’ve had such a bracing gallop,’ cried Lucy. ‘I only wish you’d been with us.’
‘We’re here with news of a fresh arrival in the colony,’ said the Bishop. ‘I’ve just received a letter from my old friend, Sir Frederick Colville. His sister, Maud, will land here very soon.’
‘Is she travelling with her husband or …?’
‘No, Eliza,’ said Mrs Selwyn. ‘She’s unmarried.’
‘Ah, then perhaps she’s in hope of finding a husband in Auckland.’
‘I doubt it,’ said the Bishop. ‘Maud is even older than I am and, as I understand, is entirely set against marriage.’
‘I’ve met her only once,’ said Mrs Selwyn. ‘Long ago, at the home of my husband’s parents. And I confess I found her a most daunting and very formidable lady.’
‘Maud is rather … unusual,’ said the Bishop. ‘Very individual in her opinions. She holds strong views on the education of women — she’s even written pamphlets on the subject. And she scandalised her family by working for some time in the slums of London with … er … fallen women.’
‘As does dear Mr Gladstone,’ said Mrs Selwyn.
Bishop Selwyn looked awkward. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if, as a great favour, you might consider allowing Maud to lodge here with you until she’s settled. As you know, we’re overrun at the Mission House in Kohimarama; we have scholars tucked into every corner.’
‘Willingly,’ said Lucy. ‘When should we expect her?’
The Bishop looked even more uncomfortable. ‘If it’s not too great an inconvenience, perhaps I might escort her here the day after tomorrow?’
‘Why, yes. It is a little short notice but I’m sure I can have Johnson make up her room. And would you and Sarah care to come here that night to dine? As Miss Colville knows you, it might ease things a little.’
‘I f
eel it only right to warn you,’ said the Bishop, ‘that, in her conversation, Maud is inclined to be a little … forthright. One might almost say she thinks like a man. A gentleman, of course.’
‘I’m quite looking forward to meeting Miss Colville,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ve never before met a blue-stocking, though George’s Aunt Julia spoke of them in London. She seemed rather to admire them.’
I, too, was eager to meet the new arrival. I pictured her as a Romantic figure, lean and graceful, with a wistful expression and an air of unworldliness.
But, when the Bishop drew up in General Wynyard’s borrowed carriage two days later, he handed out a short brisk lady who strode purposefully towards Lucy and me.
‘Great Heavens,’ whispered Lucy, ‘she’s wearing a turban and bloomers.’
The Bishop performed the introductions.
‘How exceedingly kind of you to take me in,’ said Miss Colville. ‘I hope Gas didn’t lean upon you too hard.’
Lucy looked puzzled. ‘Gas?’
I saw the Bishop flinch.
‘George Augustus Selwyn,’ said Miss Colville. ‘Hence, always known as Gas to my brothers and me.’ She paused. ‘As you see,’ she went on, appearing entirely at ease in her new surroundings, ‘I favour the bloomer costume. Most freeing to women, particularly in such a climate as this.’ She gazed about her. ‘I do hope you’ll allow me to inspect your garden this afternoon, Lady Grey. And I’m most desirous of meeting Sir George tonight. I’ve read his accounts of his expeditions in Australia, and I understand he’s compiling a study of Maori legends. I, too, am very interested in the study of indigenous races, in particular, the role of their women.’
Miss Colville appeared at dinner clad in a long red silk robe over an orange tunic. This bizarre ensemble was completed by a pair of embroidered slippers and a bandeau of matching silk wound about her hair, which had been scraped into some kind of topknot. I saw Mrs Selwyn start, then recover herself. The Bishop appeared not to find anything at all extraordinary in Miss Colville’s attire, and was asking for news of her brothers when Sir George joined us.
‘Ah, Sir George,’ said Miss Colville, advancing upon him, ‘this is such a great pleasure. I intend to quiz you later on land reform and colonisation. My brother, Frederick, is in the Colonial Office and he has spoken often of you.’
‘Well, I trust.’
‘Not always. But he has a high regard for your abilities, if not always your veracity.’
I saw the tip of Sir George’s nose redden slightly, but he gave his arm to Miss Colville without further comment and led her into dinner.
There followed an awkward silence in which, to allay any further indiscreet remarks from Miss Colville, Lucy, Mrs Selwyn and I all began to speak together.
‘You were saying, Sarah?’ said Lucy.
‘I was merely observing that it seems particularly humid today.’
‘I imagine,’ said Miss Colville, attacking her mutton with relish, ‘that, in a climate like this, maggots are a continual problem.’
There was another silence, broken this time by the Bishop. ‘You must tell us, Maud, what has brought you to New Zealand.’
‘Well, you are aware, Gas’ — the Bishop winced — ‘how very much engaged I am in the betterment of the lot of women, and I determined upon coming here to see for myself the part played by females in the shaping and establishing of a new colony.’ She looked expansively at us. ‘The true scholar must see for herself. Would you not agree, Sir George?’
‘Er, naturally …’
‘And my principal interest is the enfranchisement of women.’
‘That’s quite ridiculous, Maud,’ said the Bishop. ‘You are not seriously suggesting that women should have the vote?’
Miss Colville turned to her host. ‘I understand that in your dispatches, Governor, you argue that the natives here should be enfranchised? Is that not so?’
‘Yes, but how—?’
‘You will find me very well informed on these matters. Now, if a Maori should be allowed to cast his vote — and, here, I am in complete agreement with you, Governor — why should a woman not do so?’
‘Woman, Maud, is the weaker sex. She must rely on the judgement of her husband or father.’
‘The weaker sex? In what way is woman weaker?’
‘Why, in every way. Even the Holy Book tells us that it was woman who succumbed to—’
Miss Colville gave the table a sharp rap. ‘You’re a Puseyite, Gas. I’m ashamed for you. What ridiculous notion is this, that woman in 1850 should be held accountable for the purported sin of Eve, set out in some Hebrew or Greek translation that—’
‘I must stop you, Maud. Remember you’re speaking of God’s Holy Word.’
‘My dear Gas, I can’t believe that Frederick and William haven’t told you I’ve long been a Freethinker.’
‘It may have been mentioned …’
‘Now, how is it logically possible that a woman should be speaking with a snake? It defies reason.’
Sir George leaned forward. ‘We are talking here not of reason but of belief.’
‘Ah, there we come to a topic on which I’m most desirous of interrogating you, Governor. From your study of Maori lore and legends, have you, yourself, taken on any of the native beliefs?’
‘Of course not. They are, in the main, mere superstitions.’
‘And no more logical, then, than the story of Adam and Eve?’
‘They are native beliefs, not Christian.’
‘And therefore inferior? I have lived among the Mussulmen in Turkey and I assure you they are quite as adamant as any Christian that their creed is the true one. But any opinion founded on lack of evidence is merely a form of superstition or a belief in magic.’
I thought guiltily of the spells and potions of my childhood. ‘But, surely,’ I ventured, ‘if belief provides comfort or a sense of security, it should be encouraged?’
Miss Colville smiled warmly at me. ‘Bravo, Miss Thompson, for entering our argument. I agree with you that there is a place for belief in human life, but it shouldn’t be confused with religion. It’s not belief I’m against but the dominance of the practitioners of religion over the credulous. Now, Lady Grey, do you support the enfranchisement of women?’
‘I’ve never yet considered it.’
‘Were my wife to have the vote,’ said the Governor, ‘she would, of course, cast it as I instructed her.’
‘As would my dear Sarah,’ said the Bishop.
Miss Colville spent much of the next week in conversation with Sir George. Leaving them together in the drawing room one morning, Lucy and I escaped into the far reaches of the garden.
‘What do you think of her?’ she asked.
‘Well, I began by finding her quite horribly overbearing, but the more I see of her, the more I find myself warming to her.’
‘And I. She’s very strange, but I believe she has a good heart.’
‘And she’s as committed to her own ideas as the Governor or the Bishop. Has she told you that she’s taken up land about ten miles south of here and that she plans to farm it herself?’
‘She’ll have to have some help.’
‘She intends to employ a few men but still to do much of the work on her own. She says that after her experiences in the East End clinic, delivering lambs will present no problems for her at all.’
‘Well, I commend her for it, though I hope she didn’t say it to my husband or the Bishop. Godfrey, of course, finds her most original and entertaining.’
‘She most certainly is. But, sometimes, she makes me feel rather uneasy.’ I hesitated. ‘Do you recall her speaking about magic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well … Te Toa once told me that his tohunga could make the gods speak.’
Lucy glanced around to make sure we were not overheard. ‘You must on no account tell my husband I’ve told you this, Fanny, but I know that to be true.’
‘You know it? How so?’
‘If
I tell you, you must swear that you’ll never speak of it to a living soul.’
‘Of course not. But I thought you’d deem it merely the conviction of savages.’
‘No, never. I have seen it for myself.’
‘What? When?’
‘Do you remember that when we were first at New Plymouth, Sir George became unwell?’
‘Yes, you wrote that you were seriously alarmed at his condition.’
‘The doctor feared for his life. Well, during that time, a tohunga from the local tribe came to me, saying that Sir George was at the point of death and claiming that he could call on the gods to help him. For all that he holds the natives in esteem for their intelligence and statesmanship, my husband, as you heard, professes that in their beliefs they are but as children and derides their reliance on spirits. I knew he would never consent, but the doctor could do nothing and, as Sir George was too ill to be consulted, I thanked the tohunga and asked him to do whatever he could to restore my husband.
‘The tohunga then asked for a green chair for the god to sit upon. As the only chairs to be had were black, I offered a black one, but he was adamant it must be green. “The god tells me,” he said, “that in this house there is a green chair and it is only on that chair he must sit.”
‘I’m sure the servants thought me quite mad. I set them to searching the place and, finally, in the attic, a dilapidated green chair was discovered and brought to me. The tohunga took it and entered the room, indicating that I might sit at the threshold and observe him.
‘I must tell you, Fanny, I was assailed by the strangest feeling — somewhere between doubt and fear. He muttered and murmured for some time, then cried out in English, “I see the gods ascending!” And then, from every corner of the room, came strange whistling sounds, like winds howling, which swirled about us and rose in pitch until the noise was almost unbearable.
‘Eventually, they died away and the tohunga rose and asked me to take him to my husband. I demurred, but he insisted. He laid his hand upon Sir George’s left side, made some sort of incantation over him in his own tongue, then said that within three days he would be well again and at that time he must ride on horseback to the tohunga’s pa.
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