Chapter 13
The Door to the South
Max woke feeling relieved, then conflicted.
The first week of his university career was over. Now he was supposedly free to enjoy his Saturday. And maybe he was. And maybe he would use that freedom to exercise responsibility and care for others. That, he told himself, was why he felt conflicted. Because part of him didn’t want to. He wasn't sure what exactly he would do with his time if he did indulge his selfishness. It didn’t matter because he knew he wouldn’t.
Something Von Tempsky had said had left Max with the feeling that he should be more attentive to his parents, to give them some of his time. Everything Wiremu had said made him know that he should make for the Pā with all haste, first to understand the young Māori’s news, then if possible to offer him some support.
Of course, that Saturday’s afternoon and evening entertainments were already scheduled. He would, in the company of Wiremu, attend Wang and his Grandfather at Chinatin for the celebration of the incoming Chinese New Year.
So, before the walk to the Pā to reconnect with Wiremu, Max enjoyed breakfast with his parents. They sat together in the east facing sun room drinking coffee, eating toast, eggs, and bacon; the Professor having laid his Saturday paper aside at Max's arrival. The talk was mostly of Max's first week at university; his reflections on his classes and their teachers. The Professor took an interest in some of Max's initial observations of his peers, but being the consummate professional didn't add any of his own.
The Haka incident from Monday was retold for Mrs Skilton and a number of questions about it answered. The fight outside the architecture department was completely avoided. Max's nose had well recovered from its interaction with the fist of a classical architecture student and his eyes hadn’t blackened, so any inquisition about that was avoided. Only the basic details of the fencing class were relayed.
As predicted Mrs Skilton expressed her worries about Max's interest in sword fighting, but moved on to speak briefly about some of the comings and goings of the household and shared an out loud wondering about when they might next see Max's brother Gerald. As usual no one had an answer.
The Professor, as was his style, gave comment on the news of the day. In particular the arrival, that week, of nearly four hundred 'Brodgen Navvies' from England to work on the construction of the new Haast rail link. These would be joining the two hundred already in the employ of Brodgen's Dominion Office. When he had finished, and finding no comment from the other two forthcoming, he rose to begin his morning inspection of the aviaries.
Max followed his Father's lead and carrying a pile of dishes to the kitchen, wished his Mother a good day, and took his leave.
* * *
The Aorere Pā was built next to its namesake river, on a low flat-topped island. The kind of island that is formed when the river braids, cuts a new channel and returns once more, in majority, to its original course. Such an action can leave an 'island' with the main river on one side and a small braid or 'back water' on the other.
A defensive log palisade ringed the island but served now only as a boundary marker and to keep pigs where their owner desired, either in or out. Although currently the gate was open and a number of small, hairy, fat kunekune and a couple of larger black 'Captain Cookers' snuffled about wherever they chose, regardless of the ancient fortification.
Max found Wiremu on the grassy bank of the Pā, sitting in the sun above the back water, busy repairing big basket eel traps, hinaki. These, cunningly crafted from the careful weaving of strong vines such as karewao or supplejack, into baskets that when finished look not unlike the kind of bee hives seen in children's story books. Although there was plenty of introduced 'crack' willow growing on both banks of the river Wiremu refused to use it for the task, calling it an 'inferior European material.' He stuck with the karewao and would rather goad the older Pā children into collecting it from the bush for him, than requiring them to continuously pluck new green shoots from anything made of willow.
“I guess I feel it's a fairly hard slap in the face,” said Wiremu, pulling a length of supple-jack though the side of an eel trap with a fierce tug. “I did think the process would take a little longer to get underway." Then with a shrug, "I guess it's good that no one is actually living there at the moment.”
“I don't understand,” admitted Max, handing Wiremu a length of cut vine and wishing he could do a little more to be helpful.
“The crux is that Wapping Point was the original Aorere Marae.” Wiremu took the offered length and gave a great sigh. “Grandfather lived there when he first settled in Mohua. He built his two ships there. Cultivated cape-gooseberries on the point and precious whau trees above the high tide line. They turned the meeting house into a church and Grandfather rung a cow bell that was hung in the old Ngaio tree for services. We have always been able to harvest shell fish from the mud flats there and come and go as we pleased. Although the people moved out when the influence of Gibbstown on them became too great, we have always seen the point as the heart of Aorere.”
Max thought he might be starting to get a glimpse of the issues.
“Are you saying there is some kind a message in the fact that this new group of invaders has chosen to settle in the same place as the last lot?”
“Exactly. You saw their haka.”
“I felt it too.”
“That's maybe more to the point.” Wiremu rolled the mended hinaki to one side. “I don't think they are actually playing at invasion. The Five are just a bunch of lads, like us. Maybe more a game of domination. Thus, the choice of Wapping Point isn't a meaningless thing. As well as being the people's heartland it is also the closest dwelling that the Northerners could find to their own Island. I mean they could even land there without having to visit the custom house.”
“One could hardly call Gibbstown the best part of the city.”
“No, not nowadays. Maybe they'll be right at home with the sailors and hookers.”
Max gave a snort at that.
“So what is actually there now? On the old Pā site?”
“Beyond Riley's wharf and the shop fronts on Williams Street not a great lot. Some leased warehouses, one of which is the old church, with its windows all boarded up. A couple of pine trees and a fair few wild gooseberry bushes.”
“And the new home of Kingi and his four friends,” added Max.
“So it seems. Grandmother Riria did tell me that there are still some ancestors there.”
“What? Some graves?”
Wiremu gave a rueful smile before answering.
“No, not there. Pou whenua - ancient marker posts carved in the symbolic likeness of some of our ancestors and some of the ancestors of people before us. Some of Grandmother Erena's people.” Then Wiremu stood and stretched. “Oh, well. It's your lucky day. We had a big hangi last night and there are plenty of leftovers. Let's go find some and Grandmother Riria."
After helping themselves to great chunks of tender pork and piles of cold potato and kumara Max and Wiremu wondered though the Pā village in search of Grandmother Riria.
“I still don't get it,” said Max around a mouthful of bright purple Urenika potato. “I mean all the aggression. Aren't all the tribes from the Northern Isle anyway?”
Wiremu thought for a moment before answering.
“I guess it is as simple as saying; why all the aggression between you and Gilbert? You are both from the same tribe.”
“Sure. It's in our nature to covet and to fight. But aren’t we talking about whole people groups here?”
“Right. Well not really. I dare say the majority of the tribes on the Northern Isle don't give a fig about what happens here in Mohua. It only matters to the tribes with links, with people here. To most the bottom of the Northern Isle and the top of the southern is just one big nation. As you say we are all now pretty much of Northern Māori descent. But here is the rub. The Iwi here in the south have long learnt to live with you English. We have become friends. Again, there are many in the north to whom this matters not at all. But there are those who regard their southern brothers as weak because of this, their blood mixed with the invaders. Some would have all the people return north and leave Te Wai Pounamu to the Pākehā. Others would wish to drive you out and restore the tribe’s dominance here once more. I fear Kingi and friends are of this ilk.”
“Really!?”
“It's possible. Remember that they have little idea how well entrenched you are here. You saw how they watched the big guns on Wednesday. None of them have ever lived with white men, while in Mohua there are few still alive who remember the time before white men. The end of The Dominion is a radical’s view, a young man's dream.”
A radical view alright.
“I mean where do they think we could go?” Max was incredulous.
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Wiremu shrugged. He had spotted Riria's hunched form, sitting in the sun on a porch in front of one of the whare.
“Into the ground or the cook pot! South again I guess, into Ngai Tahu lands. There is little love between the north and that great tribe.”
“Into French lands!” said Max with some dismay.
“Sure. I imagine to the Northerners Europeans are all pretty much of muchness.”
“But we aren't,” responded Max. “The Dominion has a treaty with the Northern Isle… with The Confederation of Chiefs. The French don't have anything.”
“Of course radicals don't care about such treaties. And besides...” Wiremu gave a snort “...the treaty states that the English can't go to the Northern Isle. Not that the Northerners can't come here. But don't worry it's a radical view, and the thing about radicals is that there are never many of them. Here come and greet Grandmother Riria.
Grandmother Riria sat sucking on a long wooden pipe, her old tattooed lips drawn around the bit like the mouth of a pull-string bag. Her smoky grey hair tumbled down the sides of her brown head and flowed across the heavy cloak that wrapped her shoulders. She watched the boys approach with quick, sparkling eyes.
Riria was Chief Marino's second wife and thus Wiremu's adoptive step Grandmother.
“Kia ora Grandmother. I have bought you some kai and Max Skilton.”
Riria carefully laid her pipe aside.
“Ah kia ora Max Skilton,” she rasped, her voice ancient but not unkind. With both hands she gestured him forward. Max stooped toward her so she could grip his shoulders with her dry hands. Then bending closer he pressed his forehead to hers. A moment later their noses touched.
“Kia ora karani Riria,” replied Max as they remained motionless, sharing breath in the old greeting. Max smelt smoke and earth, then she let go and he stepped back.
“Tena koe son of Manu-Rau.” She regarded him a moment longer, then flapping her hands impatiently at Wiremu commanded, “Kai, kapi, kapi.” Which is to say food, thank you. Max liked her immediately. But he was puzzled by the title she had given him Manu-Rau. No, the title she had given his father. He knew he had heard it somewhere else recently.
Grandmother Riria, her mouth working earnestly on a great wad of potato and pork, seemed to be ignoring the two young men now. So Wiremu said their farewells and they slipped away.
A moment later, as they strolled down a street of rough sleeping huts, whare puni, Max remembered.
“What does Manu-Rau mean?” he asked Wiremu suddenly.
“Maybe, to flit about,” he answered pausing next to the single post of a food storage hut. The post had climbing notches cut in it, spaced well for human climbers and not for rats. The hut itself was high above their heads and cast a welcoming shadow on the hard packed dirt path. “Or many birds. Maybe both many birds flit about or to flit about like many birds.” Wiremu regarded Max with a raised eye brow. “I think it's probably to do with your father's profession. You know the aviaries.”
“I'm aware of my father's profession,” replied Max, a little tersely. He began walking again. Thinking and walking worked well together for him. “Why then would Kingi have called von Tempsky Manu-Rau?”
“Good question. He did?” Wiremu matched his pace.
“Yes, in fencing class. The Captain had just introduced himself saying that we should call him either Captain von Tempsky or just Captain. Then he asked Kingi his name. Kingi responded and then called von Tempsky Manu-Rau. Not rudely, just said it, almost with a level of respect.”
“How did von Tempsky respond to that?”
“It was a little strange really. He said something about having not been called that for years and instructed Kingi not to call him it again. But it seemed to break his stride for a moment, like someone had walked across his grave, as they say.”
“That is interesting,” agreed Wiremu, before lapsing into thought for a moment or two himself. “From what you have told me of the good Captain, he doesn't sound like one to flit about. Whether he keeps a menagerie of many birds is anyone’s guess. I can't think why the name would be applied to Him. But he did seem to receive it, after a fashion?” Max confirmed this observation with a nod, and Wiremu continued; “But that is only one of two questions. There is another around the fact that Kingi knew Von Tempsky from another setting.” Wiremu let this hang for a moment. “But how so? Apparently Kingi has never been to the Southern Isle before this year and Von Tempsky, like yourself, isn't allowed to the Northern Isle.”
“That is the Treaty...” reflected Max recalling something Dickie had said late the previous year, at the Egyptian Lighthouse; “...no honest Englishman has officially set foot on the Northern Isle for over thirty years. ...all sorts of freebooters, Confederate renegades, Spaniards, Frenchies, Norwegians and the like make regular landfall over there... ”
“But I think the Captain has been to the Northern Isle,” said Max.
“How so?”
“Just a hunch, based on the little I know of him and the fact that he isn't exactly an Englishman. But also, later in the fencing class he referred to Kingi as our long memoried Māori. So Kingi must remember something. A previous meeting... Von Tempsky as Manu-Rau.”
Wiremu clicked his tongue, impressed, and added;
“Or Kingi's people remember a Manurau. Someone they speak of in story or legend.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting in deed.”
Naked brown children ducked and dived in the clear water as Wiremu poled the dug-out canoe across the Aorere River. Their lithe bodies passed under the small boat before they came up again, all smiles and happy, shouting, the water streaming from their round faces. Max glanced over his shoulder at the Pā, silent on its low island mound. As always the life was in the river.
One of the children flirted with the idea of splashing Max, until Wiremu barked something at him, and he dived away again. As they dragged the dug-out across the hot boulders and stashed it in the willows Max asked, “Would you still want to eat shell fish from off Wapping Point?”
Wiremu shook his head.
“Nah, they have tasted like the midden heap for years now. The results from every cowshed and out-house in the valley, not to mention the piss from each of these little river rats..." a nod back toward the swimming children... "...flows right through their filter systems every day.”
They stowed the pole and followed a trail that led from the ferry landing, through good dairy farms, toward the station at Kaituna, and beyond to Chinatin. Wiremu picked up the conversation again.
“It's more that we had the right. The choice. Grandfather Marino had the power to sell our land off to the English as he saw fit. He was happy enough to do this as it helped the people to stay ahead in the new society. The houses in the Pā are strong, built with good pit sawn timber and held together with iron nails. These weren't Māori things, but they serve the people well. Now Marino is dead, without an heir, and all the decision-making power has flowed back to the North. Right back to the feet of Te Rauparaha who first appointed Marino.”
“Who is also dead, right?”
“Yes. So, the power flows back to the tribes. Now we wait to see if their decisions will also serve the people well.”
The pair walked on for a while without speaking. High above a skylark showered them with an unceasing cascade of cheerful notes. Max wondered at what the tribes might do. Wiremu had said that some in the north didn't care (which must equate to acceptance of the status quo), others felt the Māori in Murderer's Bay (which they called Mohua) should return to the Northern Isle, while still others (who Wiremu called radicals) maintained that the English should somehow be pushed out.
“What do you want to happen?” Max suddenly asked.
“Pardon?”
“What do you want to happen? What do you think would be the best way forward for the people?”
Wiremu stopped walking and looked off into the distance. After a minute or two he set off again, Max followed.
“A good number of Mohua Māori have done well from life in The Dominion. They have established reputable companies, grown rich, built themselves fine homes. The Māori are cunning. This is fine, it proves that we are just as good at being English as you English yourselves. But each time this has happened these Māori Pākehā have moved away from their kāinga, their hupu, their marae, both physically and in their hearts. They live alone with their success and their families, behind high fences. But their personal achievements have only weakened their people. I have heard it said that in some homes there are children who do not even speak Te Reo. This has never been the Māori way, to be disconnected from one’s people, from the language. It isn't healthy. I dare say it is the same for you. Your people have just been working at this separation from tribe for longer.”
Max nodded.
“It takes a village to raise a child. They say.”
“Indeed. But even before Europeans came tribalism wasn't working for us. Your guns, in our hands, just made the point more dramatically. I guess to answer your question... I like to imagine a Marae where all people are welcome, whether they be Tumata-kokiri, Nga-ti Ra-rua, Nga-ti Tama, Te Atiawa, Nga-ti Toa or Ngai Tahu. Boy they would even be welcome if they were English or Irish or Chinese, a Muhammadan..."
“That is quite a Marae,” reflected Max, trying to picture what his friend was imagining.
“Such a thing would be Te Ao Marama, a new way.”