Chapter 36

The Northern Isle

The arc of Farewell Spit and the world beyond Murder’s Bay were hidden by sea mist and low cloud. A light drizzle sprinkled the surface of the water as the bow of the steamer ‘Lady Barkley’ cut though slow green waves which, instead of breaking, rolled lazily on the full tide, like cool oil. Out from Collingwood the new day smelt of sea grass, river wood and salt.

Max stood solitary guard, wrapped in his oil skin jacket against the damp dawn. Occasionally a ruffle of wind would drag a strand of dark hair across his grim face and carry the tang of coal smoke down from the ship’s funnel.

It wasn’t long before the green painted hull was joined by a pod of quick dolphins. Max had jumped a little when the first one broke the surface and intruded on his morbid thoughts with a sudden, wet sounding blast from its blow hole. Then they had been all about the bow wave, racing and playing, silver-grey rockets.

Unfortunately for Max the arrival of the inquisitive visitors drew a good number of the other students out from the comfort of the ship’s warm cabin, to lean on the gunwale and shout and point at the reckless creatures beneath the ship. Max withdrew amidships, preferring the stern, but knowing that The Five loitered there, nursing smoking pipes and talking quietly amongst themselves.

Wiremu found him here, just in front of the covered paddle wheels, perched at the water’s edge like a ragged black Shag.

“You are a man changed,” he stated by way off a gentle invitation. Max gave a long sigh but didn’t take his eyes off the distant horizon.

“A cruel conflict,” he said with sudden melodrama. “We are set forth on this new adventure, long looked forward to, a historic journey to a lost land… yet… yet my whole being wishes to remain. The moment is wasted on me.”

“You seemed very much alive to the epic of life just last night.”

“I have been a fool,” responded Max, feeling the dam beginning to crumble. “I had thought that I was free… but now with a gift of harsh clarity I find that the heart strings have all been reattached and I am very much anchored to that Island,” he said stabbing his finger back at the distant shore, now only a blue line on the horizon. “And worse, in my fooling I have been blind and cruel. Thus, in every sense... my ship has sailed.”

Then Wiremu listened quietly as Max told him everything about Harriet. All about the train ride to the Salisbury and the night over in the Pullman, the breakfast on the return journey. Then about Gilbert Lavisham’s sudden appearance on the train and Harriet’s subsequent departure. How he had written her, and how she had never contacted him and how he had taken offence. How he had humiliated her in the sword fight after she had begged him to fight for her. Then finally how Tick had turned it all around just last evening on the train; telling him of Harriet’s suffering and Gilberts abuse, of Coval Leith’s madness, his plans for his daughter and her entrapment, and finally and maybe worst of all; her protection of him from the violence of Gilbert.

They were out in Cook Strait, past the end of Farewell Spit with its red lighthouse and grove of little pine seedlings, by the time the tale was all told. Wiremu didn’t respond, though he was disgusted by what he had heard of Lavisham and Leith senior, but instead he let the story rest now it was said. He knew Max hadn’t spoken it easily. He was in a bad way, truly defeated… and worst of all largely, as he perceived it, by his own actions.

“Thank you for not saying anything,” Max said after a time.

“What’s to say,” said Wiremu with a shrug. “You seem to have the measure of it all.”

“Still many a man would not be able to hold his tongue.” Max tore his eyes away from the horizon, there was nothing left to see beyond clouds and sea, and regarded Wiremu. “So now I invite you to loose yours. I trust you not to give me shallow comfort and false hope, but maybe you find me chastised enough also.”

Wiremu did think that his friend was most likely feeling bad enough, but what was more he really couldn’t fault Max for how he had played his hand. It did appear now that all the cards had never been on the table and the deck stacked against him from the start. Or maybe stacked against them, for it seemed that Miss Leith did in fact have some feeling for his friend.

“What is it you want to happen?” he asked after a couple of minutes. Max only snorted quietly and studied the water before the churning blades. “I mean you haven’t flung everything to the wind and remained in Collingwood to try to make amends… convince her to run away with you… ”

“Because I doubt there is any point,” he muttered, his normal sting gone. “Even if she was not so firm in Lavisham’s grip, I have shown myself most unworthy of her care.”

“That of course is for her to decide.”

“I would count her wise enough to see me for the selfish blackheart that I have been! And to treat me so!”

“Very well. But she may feel just as trapped by circumstances as you. And understand well your blind actions.”

“I asked you not to offer me false hope! Would you have me jump ship and swim back?!”

“If you wish.”

“Time will prove me true.”

“And now you have time. Four nights in Maoriland. What will you do?”

“Meaning?”

“Do you want to wallow or rebuild?”

“Wallow.”

* * *

Premiere Vogal and a small collection of assistants and lesser minsters had turned out, at dawn, to farewell the students. In the wan light Vogal had stood at the edge of the dock, gloved hands behind his back, and made a few remarks of suitable historic importance and general encouragement to the students, calling them, as he did; his emissaries and ambassadors. After which he shook each one by hand and wished them good luck and Godspeed.

The crossing itself was, for the most part, uneventful. The mist cleared in time for the students to eat their lunch out on the deck and receive views of the white cone of Taranaki’s mountain in the north. Then the Northern Isle itself became a dark line on the horizon and grew every minute after that.

Max did want to wallow. Yet despite the punishment he dished out on himself for how he had treated Harriet, and the regret he felt at not doing something, anything different toward her, persistent curiosity invaded and increased with every league that they chugged toward the distant coastline.

Every one of the students on board knew the significance of their voyage, Professor Evans had made sure of that.

“Officially no Englishman had been to the Northern Isle since Governor Hobson and the last of his colonists, your grandparents, were cast adrift for Collingwood by their Māori captors in 1840.”

Max was amused at Evan’s use of the word ‘officially’. Did the Professor also have suspicions about covert comings and goings across the strait? He also recalled that many of those exiles had departed the Northern Isle from its southernmost settlement. A place that they had christened and capitalised after the hero Arthur Wellesley, Lord Wellington.

Wellington never kept its name beyond the exile, but its continual existence remained a constant discomfort to the Dominion. What remained of the harbour-front warehouses, wharves and stone dwellings was now called Freeport, by those few who looked on it with favour, and South Gomorrah by those who didn’t. The place was said to be tapu, forbidden, for the tribes and was ringed about with a high picket and the paths out though the surrounding hills guarded by armed Māori guards. Inside the fence lived all kinds of sea scum; French, Spaniards, Portuguese, Chinamen, Norwegian whalers, Confederate fugitives with no place after the American war, dangerous 'Shagroons' who were escapees from the convict settlements in New South Wales and most worrying of all, according to Professor Evans, Russians.

But Wanganui was the current capital of the Confederation of the United Tribes of Aotearoa and it was to there that the Lady Barkley made her steady way.

“Would you look at that,” exclaimed Wiremu. When Max did look other students were already peering of toward the land. Between the Lady Barkley and the shore, and coming up from the south was something out of a by-gone age, a fully rigged sailing ship.

“Pirates?” gasped one of the young lady students with eyes wide.

“Wouldn’t think so,” responded Max, trying to sound reassuring but knowing that they were in foreign waters now. “Too far off to see a flag.”

All afternoon the pyramid of tan coloured canvas stayed to windward and ran, although a good ways off, abreast to the Lady Barkley. Max found that his eyes often swung back to mark this others progress and noticed that he wasn’t the only one with the preoccupation.

At six bells Professor Evans came out on deck.

“The Captain says it’s nothing to worry about. Yonder crew know what they are doing,” he announced to those nearby, before disappearing back into the bridge. By this time the other ship had come up on the wind and was ahead of the steamer. Then as the students watched the mystery ship came about in one smooth motion, with booms whipping across and sheets quickly refastened. It was plan to see, to those who understood such things, that she was well handled.

Now the ship ran back toward the Lady Barkley and Max gripped the gunwale and seriously wondered if he should alert any crew who were about, to the coming danger. But none seemed concerned and were carrying on with their work as if the sailing ship were but a passing sea gull. He looked at Wiremu who shrugged and shook his head. Soon however it was clear that the sailing ship wasn't on a collision course with them but would pass on the port side.

"I never thought I'd see," exclaimed Max.

"Quite a sight," agreed Wiremu. "Brig, isn't it?"

"I think so. Double-masted."

It wasn't a large ship and would have been dwarfed at the battle of Trafalgar when Cuthbert Collingwood won his fame. But still there was something impressive, almost elemental, about the great fields of taut canvas and the wooden hull, that touched almost all the students on board. For any born in the Dominion, true children of the Industrial Revolution, citizens of iron and steam, it was a sight they had seldom seen outside of a picture book.

Then on a surge of bow wake the brig went past, heeling over so that the Lady Barkley could see the barnacles below her water line. Max took it all in; the clean white stripe painted down the ships side, punctuated by the muzzles of black cannon prodding from open gun-ports, spider-web-like shrouds holding the kauri masts firm and proving quick access to the 'tops' for nimble crew members, and the crew themselves, a great collection of grim looking Māori, lining the opposite gunwale to peer back at them.

In the few seconds that the two ships shared the same strip of sea no one on board either waved or did anything to acknowledge the other. The Māoris just sat and stared, the students somewhat more nervously did the same. Then when the sailing ship was past and the students had read the name Atarata off the stern name plates, it swung about and fell in line behind the little steamer.

* * *

Brown children ran along the beach and up and down the tracks cut into the dunes on either side of the Wanganui River. The Māori Studies students on board the Lady Barkley waved at their laughing escorts. They had never been to the Northern Isle. Maybe the children had never seen a paddle wheel steamer on their river.

In front a large single hulled war canoe, called a waka tuna, with at least eighty men on board, led the steamer upriver and toward its mooring. The brig Atarata which had escorted them to the river mouth now stood offshore, forgotten in the excitement of arriving.

From the deck it was hard to tell much about the land to which they had come. Certainly there were forested hills in the distance, and down on the river bank there were rough huts, small herds of pigs and flocks of sheep or goats. At the water’s edge posts had been driven into the ground to form fishing weirs and eel traps. But the land between the hills and the river bank was hidden to the new arrivals. Although many people lived nearby, if the number of cooking fires that filled the twilight air with their smoky tendrils was any indication.

* * *

Max awoke early, as had become his custom on the previous three mornings. He would now lay on his back and think of Harriet. These were always his first thoughts, coming unbidden, automatic, refreshed for his new day’s consciousness by the night’s sleep. They were bitter thoughts, full of regret, anger and self-loathing, and they would dance in his brain until he could force them away.

Then he would ponder all that he had seen in Maoriland, while trying to ignore the grunts and snuffles of his classmates as they continued to sleep on the floor all around him. Then as their waking became too distracting, he would simply stare up at the ceiling of the Whare Moe, at the carvings half hidden there in the groom.

It seemed a long time ago that the Lady Barkley had first nudged her side against Wanganui town's well-built wharf, and that the strong voices of the waiting Elders had called the students ashore.

As a group they had walked up toward their hosts, solemn, hats off and heads slightly bowed. There had been a haka then and Wiremu had been involved in retrieving a gift that one of the Wanganui warriors had placed on the ground between the two groups. The ceremony was the same as when The Five had first arrived at Victoria, but in reverse and with a little less drama. That event also seemed a lifetime ago.

The Elders who had gathered to welcome the students were a formidable collection of individuals. Some smiled, but most stood in stern silence, their faces so tattooed that the dark ink had run together in their old skin. All of them wore items of European style clothing, but mixed in were traditional kiwi feather cloaks and other pig skin creations.

A number were armed with long, flat bladed Taiaha and Max saw more than one greenstone Mere, and also violin shaped Kotiate. A couple had old muskets which they had also covered in intricate carved patterns and spirals. These they held stock upward, more like a paddle than a firearm. They reminded Max of photographics he had seen in newspapers of North American Indian Chiefs.

Then there had been singing and long speeches, followed by the peculiar practice of hongi. Which is for two individuals and in this case two whole groups of people to greet each other and ‘share breath’ by standing face to face and pressing foreheads and noses together. The young ladies among the visitors had all been well briefed and stood to the ceremony stoically.

After this there had been a great feast of fish, duck and pork, kumara and potatoes, pastry, apples and cape gooseberries. All of which, after a long day in the sea air, were greatly enjoyed. Hapimana, the friend of Wiremu’s Grandfather, had been there at the welcoming ceremony. After the meal Wiremu had sought him out and they had spoken together at some length.

The next morning the Lady Barkley, loaded with potatoes, returned to Collingwood, and the little group of white people, Pakeha, were left all on their own.

Their days in Wanganui had been full and well planned by the hosts, with little time for idleness. The students were housed on the Marae, eating together in the Whare Kai and sleeping in separate Whare Moe. English speaking guides would come to the compound after each meal and escort the students about Wanganui town or out into the surrounding countryside for the sake of their days lesson or activity.

On the first morning a group of youths had ridden on horseback up to the compound gates and The Five, not being actual Māori Studies students, as they had loudly stated once before, mounted up and rode away with them. Max hadn't seen them since and counted this as a blessing.

One of the first things that Max noticed about Wanganui was that, while it's streets were laid out in a very European grid, there was no steam, and very little steel. Nether the smell of coal smoke or the ever-present chug of engines. The air smelt either fresh, of river, sea and mud, or of the tang of wood smoke. The settlement however was nether rudimentary nor squalid.

Here and there the occasional stone building still stood in silent testimony to Wanganui's brief colonial period. The lingering presence of those few European buildings being the only evidence that for a short time, before the Exile, English men and woman had tried to build lives here amongst the Māori. But for the most part the settlement was constructed of timber, in a very sturdy, workman like manner, with good corrugated iron roofs, and glass in the windows.

But on some premises the carpentry went beyond the norm and was simply exquisite, with cunning joints and fixtures, and extra adornments that made the buildings objects of beauty and works of art. Max wondered what Rowan would make of it all. Many a time, when out and about, students would fall behind their quick marching guides as they paused to study the amazing carvings that graced the gables and posts of certain dwellings. Always, it appeared to Max, that such displays were not mere decorations or follies, but served some purpose or told a story that was of some benefit to those who could read it.

Often as Professor Evans, along with his group of students and their guides, moved about the town, Max found himself wondering if he should be feeling scared. The settlement certainly contained some kind of passive threat, but it seemed to come more from its differentness than anything outwardly malevolent that he could observe. He had felt a keener fear in Chinatown, in Wanganui the vulnerability was in being so far from the Dominion.

Because when it did come to the actual people, those Max saw along the way, were all open and friendly. Old people sat in groups on street front porches, visiting with one another, calling and responding to passers-by. Babies slept in their arms and small children played about their feet. Strong bodied men and women appeared to be loosely grouped together for various tasks, within and beyond the town. These also had children draped about them, bundled on their backs or skipping cheekily alongside, their bright eyes taking the world in. And whatever job they were about; tending gardens, building a roof, husbanding animals, dressing timber, smoking fish, never seemed for long to be done without singing.

Two days ago, the students had been taken outside the town to observe a cooperative potato farm. Here large tracts of land had been devoted to the use of communal food production, primarily of root vegetable varieties. At the edge of one vast and carefully managed field a discussion was entered into about the merits of joint ownership or even collective ownership of land and the ability, with many hands, to grow large volumes of food. The concepts were unheard of back in The Dominion, but could not be argued against, when their success, in terms of yield, was so abundantly obvious. In fact, it was from these fields that the weekly 'potato boat' drew its harvest and sailed for Collingwood.

It seemed that much in Wanganui worked along similar principles of generosity, shared duty and community. Max summed it up in his own mind with the conclusion that here citizens were not individuals from whom money could be made, but family members who had rightful needs, that they were supported and joined in the meeting of, within the wider context of a self-supporting community. Wiremu took it all in deeply and was very keen to discuss with Max, at length, what they were learning.

However just yesterday while the students were preparing to depart on their morning's field trip their guide arrived and declared that they could not leave the compound and must stay inside for the rest of the day. They were not told why this was and shortly after two old women and three men arrived with bundles of flax, pieces of timber and carving tools. The students spent the day receiving instruction on the core arts of flax weaving and wood carving. Wiremu, however, being schooled in these disciplines, and gifted with an appropriate disguise let himself out and went for a wander.

"Interesting," he reported, after sitting down next to Max at the lunch bench, having just returned from looking around town.

"What did you hear?" asked his friend around mouthfuls.

"What I heard is that a French trader put in first thing this morning. It's going to spend most of the day off loading wheat and leather boots from Charlie-Maine, before reloading with pigs, potatoes and other small goods. It will depart on the evening tide or first thing tomorrow."

Max felt distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of the Tricolour flying so nearby.

"What's the harm?" he asked.

"Can't see that there is much. We are allowed to be here. Guess our hosts would like to keep things simple. The Northern Isle does a lot of trade with the French..."

"As they do with us!"

"Of course. But they come to us, we don't go to them. Guess that they would rather not have Port Louis-Philippe knowing that they have started welcoming English here."

"Guess."

They had actually seen a number of Europeans in Wanganui. For the most part they had been lone men, often with what appeared to be a Māori guide or interpreter in tow. These had made no attempt to interact with the students, and Hapimana had told Wiremu and Max that they would be traders, either French from Charlie-Maine, Scots from Otago, or renegades from Freeport. But on the odd occasion they maybe missionaries or bible translators, there under sponsorship from the Confederation of the United Tribes. They had also seen a group of Māori women dressed in the grey and white habits of Roman Catholic Nuns.

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"Hey listen Max," said Wiremu, clearly starting a new subject. "Tomorrow I have to do that job Grandfather gave me. Hapimana has managed to find this Ikariki Maunga and arrange a meeting."

"Interesting."

"Maybe, I think it is just a job to get done. And a tradition to honour. But these things can get a little complex. I have requested that you be able to accompany me."

"Oh. Why is that?" asked Max, somewhat alarmed.

"Because you are my friend Max," laughed Wiremu. "I enjoy your company. Hapimana will come along too."

"Yes. Of course," smiled Max, surprised at his own suspicion.

"Anyway that should happen tomorrow afternoon. This afternoon I'm going to have to attend a meeting with some of the Elders. They will be discussing the future of the various tribe's lands in The Dominion. You won't be at that one, but it should prove to be somewhat more interesting for all involved."

That night, as usual, Max, Wiremu and all the other students ate their dinner together in the Whare kai. Wiremu had come back from the afternoon long meeting visibly upset, a rare condition for him. He and Max had taken the chance to talk before the food.

It seemed to Wiremu that the Elders and Chiefly leaders of the Confederation were divided three ways on the issues pertaining to the remnants of tribal land still within The Dominion. An issue that had surfaced with the death of the old chief Tamati Pirimona Marino.

"There are those," said Wiremu. "Who feel that the remaining Māori lands should be retained and strengthened. Obviously I am one of these, along with Hapimana and a small number of others. Then there are those who I think of as Isolationists. These fellows think that all Māori in The Dominion should abandon their homes and return to the Northern Isle. Their goal is total separation from the English and your polluting ways! Thankfully these are few. But they are vocal and a number of them do hold various positions of power within the tribes. I bet more would side with them if it didn't mean losing control of the Green-stone mines on the West Coast. By far the majority are those who... simply don't care. They can acknowledge that there are sacred sites and important lands in the south, but what happens to them really doesn't affect them anymore. They don't hate the English, but nor do they have any special fascination with them... you... either."

"I think I follow," said Max. "Go on."

"Well the council’s judgement... no, more it’s recommendation, is that any of those living in the south, especially in the Murderer's Bay area, who wish to return to their whānau in the north should be encouraged and supported to do so. They do not think that they should be compelled. But belief that the northern tribes should feel free, if they so desire, to sell their lands in the south to the English. In this way those Māori who chose to stay behind would be on their own. Turns out they have been discussing all this for months, years even. Most of the tribal representatives weren’t even present in Wanganui for this particular meeting."

"How does all this affect you?" asked Max carefully.

"I think the members of the council, in general, have no personal interest in the south and see it as a lost cause. For me? I and others like me have no connection with the North. No connection at least that I wish to honour; as you know my true Grandfather was a rapist from this island, but my birth Grandmother, she was of Mohua, of the south. We are people of Te Wai Pounamu. Our roots go deep into that southern soil, you cannot simply transplant us. We are the Tangata Whenua, the people of that land..." he pointed off to the south. "We need our land and our land needs us, English or not!"

"I think I understand," responded Max, before Wiremu continued with a sigh.

"There are those that feel that we cannot live in The Dominion with Victoria as our Queen and also expect to be citizens of this realm. There is no happy medium."

"You don't agree?"

"Just think. All these Northern Māori act like they are somehow more pure, that they hold to the traditions of the ancestors more firmly, that they are free from the influences of Europe. But before the colonists turned up there was never a United Confederation of Tribes of Aotearoa, we all know where the idea came from... it is a way of relating, treating, with the outside world. Blah! Enough talk!" He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "It all turns back on itself. I'm ready to go home."

"That's a relief," laughed Max, breaking the tension.

"Why?"

"Oh I was beginning to worry that you might just be finding it all so very... engaging."

"What? And that I mightn't want to go back home!?"

"Yeah, well."

"Don't worry about that my friend!" Wiremu looked genuinely amused. "You forget that I have never lived in a world without Englishmen. You didn't arrive yesterday. I can count on one hand the old timers who can remember the time before colonisation. I mean you are a rotten bunch, but the stories they tell of the old days... well, grim times indeed. Nope, I'm a true citizen of the new society." The food was being served then. "Just remember no one can be too smug. Nearly every house in Wanganui is held together with iron nails from Onekaka!"

Just then Hapimana came in, clutching a bowl of steaming meat and vegetables, and placed himself in the seat opposite the two friends.

"Go on," he said, nodding toward the serving table which sagged under the weight of recently placed food. The two younger men wasted no time and were soon back with generous portions. Hapimana, Max had found out, had been a long-time friend of Wiremu's adoptive Grandfather, Tamati Pirimona Marino. The two had been youths together in Taranaki country in the central Northern Isle, before Marino raided south with Te Rauparaha, and received his lands in Mohua, Murderer's Bay. Hapimana had never lived in the south but had often visited the Pā at Aorere and maintained contact with his friend. He had white hair that hung to his collar and an old wrinkly brown face that often split into a smile. Compared to others of his generation his face was relatively, though not completely, free of tattoos.

"Another question for you Hapimana," said Max once the first few mouthfuls had settled his stomach.

"Go ahead."

"The other day I saw a group of nuns. I was a little surprised. Are you all Catholics?"

Hapimana gave a good-natured chuckle.

"No, no. Well, some are. Not many. Most of us older folk are simply followers of The Way."

"The Way?"

"Yes. It's an ancient form of Christianity. A way of life. One that is without Priests and religious buildings. It is the way of peace and reconciliation, of living humbly." Hapimana stated this quietly, but unselfconsciously, as if he had nothing to prove or hide. Max found something in his manner both foreign and deeply appealing.

"I see," he said, and again wondered if he really did.

"Listen," said Hapimana leaning in slightly. "This leads into something that I wish to speak with you two about. Do you think you could finish up and meet me outside in a little, where we can talk in private?"

"Sure," they both answered. Hapimana finished up soon after that and standing he returned his platter to the serving table and left the room.

"I guess we'll find out," said Wiremu to Max's questioning look.

A few minutes later the two friends joined the old Māori in the cool darkness of the yard. They were guided to him by the glow of his pipe, as he lent against the wall of an outbuilding.

"The Way for old men," he said without preamble. "And three courses of action presented to the Council on the issue of southern lands. But what of young men?" He puffed out some blue smoke. "Let me warn you of the fourth way, taken by the young amongst us."

"Speak to us old Father," said Wiremu, after a pause.

"Then listen," he replied. "As you know the Council does not hold all tribes under its sway. There are noble tribes who never joined the Confederation and to the north and east of this isle there are wild men who hold to no common laws. And follow not the Way of Christ. They do as they please, warring and even feasting on the bodies of the slain, holding always to the old, darker paths."

"I have heard of these," confirmed Wiremu.

"From time-to-time prophets arise within these tribes, as they do within the tribes within the Confederation. They gain followers and maybe for a time share something worth hearing, as is always the role of the prophet. But a prophet among these cannibals is often a mad man, given to demons and the stirring up of blood lust and war."

A shiver ran up Max's spine at such rhetoric. Although spooky it seemed also vaguely reminiscent of the sort of things Rowan had said. Hapimana seemed to be waiting for something.

"Why do you tell us these things?" asked Wiremu, as if on cue.

"Because one such dark prophet has come among the young men of the Manawatu, Taranaki, Rangitikei, Ruapehu and this Wanganui, whispering in their ears lies that they wish to believe as true."

"What lies are these?" asked Wiremu, and Max realised that he was fulfilling his part in some kind of semi-formal understanding within their dialogue.

"I know not the nature of the lies. But their end is in Take Raupatu."

"Raupatu?" repeated Max.

"Conquest," answered Wiremu. "These things are not new. Why do you tell us?"

Max already knew the answer. He suspected Wiremu did too.

"For while there are those within the Council who would give the lands within your Dominion over to the English. There are now young men who would instead dream of taking it back, by force."

"I had guessed as much," said Wiremu. "Kingi Kuratahi..."

"Is chief amongst them," the old man interrupted quietly. "I have sought to track his deceiving prophet many a time. His name is Rangiwhiro Matetai and he is cunning and as ‘forest wise’ as they come. He always heads away up the river, north-east, but I can never find which way he turns when he leaves her banks."

"What should we do?"

"Be on your guard always. They are not strong in number yet, but everyday more come under the enchantment." Then after a pause. "I hear you may have already moved the Pou whenua from Wapping Point?" Wiremu nodded once in confirmation. "Good."

"What of the others with him? The one called Ihaka?"

"Ihaka Kopere. He is with him, yes. Of the others I don't know."

"What about the woman, Mahuika, whom Kingi keeps with him?"

"She is a dark one, yes. I know her not. She came down the river only last year, appearing suddenly in Wanganui. He found her in the north-east, and they have not parted from that day."

"She worries me the most," admitted Wiremu.

"As she should," said Hapimana, blowing out more spoke. "As she should." Then changing the subject, as if everything that need to be said had been, he announced; "Tomorrow, after the midday meal, I will take you to meet Ikariki Maunga. It has been arranged."

Finally, being fully awake, and sick of the groans and morning noises of his class mates, Max threw off his covers and marched outside to wash his face. The new day was dawning bright with touches of pink and blood red in the east.

* * *

Max and Wiremu followed Hapimana up a dirt track. The part of the settlement they were now in seemed older, more fundamental. The buildings there reminded Max of the Aorere Pā. Little gable-ended whares of unpainted timber, skins hung over dark doorways and high pole-houses for food storage. This, Max realised, was how he had imagined all of Wanganui would be. Not the clean, healthy, prosperous, different yet modern society, that it had, in majority, proved to be. Then in confirmation of his observations their guide said;

"This is the oldest part of the settlement, the original Pā. When I was a young-ling the palisade was about here some place. All down the hill was kumara gardens and up here were the only buildings." It had changed a great deal. There was no palisade were Hapimana had indicated and the vast majority of the settlement's buildings had sprouted where the root vegetables once had.

"What is this Ikariki Maunga to you young Wiremu?" asked Hapimana, watching Wiremu sideways as they walked.

"No one at all. Who is he?"

"Ikariki Maunga is an old man. Sick, bed ridden for years. An old warrior from the dark days. And your business with him, if I may?"

"Just a message, a Christian service for my Grandfather."

Max saw that Hapimana studied Wiremu a long moment after his answer was given.

"Here is the place," said Hapimana, coming to a halt outside an unremarkable dwelling, before clearing his throat loudly. They heard someone moving about inside and then after a short wait a very rough looking woman drew aside the door-curtain and stepped out. She was all brown and rags, dust and wide eyes, though not as ancient as she first appeared.

"You've come?" she rasped, peering at each of them.

"As promised," responded Hapimana. Then extending his arm to Wiremu asked; "May Wiremu come in?"

The woman looked at him a moment, then nodding once drew aside the curtain. Wiremu bowed his head and ducked under the doorway, the pig skin curtain falling back in place once he had gone. The women took a seat on a box next to the door and stared at Hapimana and Max.

* * *

Inside, the hut smelt of age and decay. Wiremu longed to throw open the shutters and let some light and breeze into the place. But instead, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. A short rasping cough alerted him to where the one he sought lay. Edging forward his eyes began to make out the shape of various pieces of basic furniture. Then a pile of blankets stirred, and he saw Ikariki Maunga.

"Want do you want?" wheezed the head in the blankets.

"I bring a message from Tamati Pirimona Marino," answered Wiremu. He could just make the outline of the face of he to whom he spoke.

"Do you? I thought Tamati Pirimona Marino was dead."

"He is."

Maunga was not unlike many old Māori men. Skin like leather, dark with facial tattoos, small rheumy eyes, jowls hanging from his wide face, a great flat nose, scarred, but somehow, like a dormant volcano, still dangerous.

Still as Wiremu watched, the man beneath the blankets was racked by a fit of sudden and merciless coughing.

"Who are you?!" he growled, recovering and wiping spittle from his chin with an unsavoury looking rag.

"My name is Wiremu Ironside Marino," said Wiremu. There was a confused pause as the ancient mind tried to place this name. When it did Maunga's eyes seemed to maybe widen a tiny bit, and he possibly gathered the blanket tighter at his throat and shrunk back a little. Wiremu got the sudden impression that Ikariki Maunga was, in fact, afraid of him, as though he might quickly attack.

"You've come then," he said with a sigh, and then with a hint of resignation added; "Be quick."

"I have a message," repeated Wiremu. "From Tamati Marino."

"A message?" Ikariki Maunga chased hints of fear from his features, and his eyes closed down a bit and Wiremu saw at once that he was a cunning old eel.

"What is it?" he enquired slowly, raising himself up a little once more. Wiremu reached inside his waist coat and again Maunga flinched until he saw that the young man only withdrew a small white envelope. Wiremu held it out to the old man. The neat script on the paper showed his name.

"You read it!" growled Maunga.

"Certainly," replied Wiremu, puzzled at the elder’s strange manner. Opening the envelope and unfolding the paper within, he read out the three words that were written there.

"I forgive you."

Ikariki Maunga blinked once, apparently stunned at what he had just heard. Then he barked a single note of bitter laughter.

"Forgiveness is it?! Ha! Marino always was a follower of the white Christ!"

Wiremu felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. Maybe at the letter's message, certainly at the old man's reaction to it.

"One of the many things that my Grandfather taught me," he bristled suddenly. "Is that Jesus of Nazareth was never a white man. But a better Māori than you or I could ever hope to be!"

The old man looked away, shamed at Wiremu's outburst, for he knew that he was right.

Then staring off to some point fixed in the past he gave a half chuckle and Wiremu noticed that he seemed to breathe a little easier.

"I'm sorry," said Wiremu. But Maunga just shrugged.

"Where is your father?" the old man asked.

"Gone," replied Wiremu simply. "I never knew him."

Ikariki Maunga sighed again, the years seeming to overwhelm him.

"But I see that Tamati raised you well."

"I could hope for no better," replied Wiremu, feeling confused.

"Indeed. But what of you Wiremu Marino? Do you forgive me?" Maunga was gentle now, speaking almost in a whisper.

"Me? I'm just a messenger," shrugged Wiremu.

"Never just a messenger! Never just anything!" said Ikariki Maunga, suddenly grabbing Wiremu's hand. "You are the best of all of us. Of all of us, do you hear me?"

Wiremu nodded frantically and Maunga, releasing his hand, fell back and begun coughing.

When the fit had finally passed the old warrior beckoned Wiremu. "Open the curtain a little would you?" Wiremu did as he was bid and when the meagre light seeped in Ikariki Maunga seemed to use it to study his features. After an awkward moment the old man pointed a claw like hand to a stool by his bed. No sooner had Wiremu taken it than Maunga elbowed himself up and seized his arm with his cold hands. Wiremu fought the inclination to pull away and endured the probing of the old man's fevered eyes. When next his captor spoke it was only a quiet whisper, as if the whole exchange had taxed him greatly.

"You know Paturau?" he asked, pleading. "You know what we did there?"

Wiremu nodded, the bile rising in his throat. Maunga went on haltingly.

"They had there... we found in a cave... there was a golden Taniwha... a Taniwha in a cave... south of the river... you just had to look through the wood. Look though the wood. Find it Ikariki, my... gift to you." He was nearing the end of his strength now. "Find it Marino, Wiremu. Wiremu I'm sorry."

With that he closed his eyes and at the same moment the rough woman poked her head back in the door.

"He needs to rest now," she said, taking one look at the old man in the blankets, before disappearing once more. Wiremu rose and went to the door. Pausing he turned back and said to the old warrior,

"I forgive you."

Then seeing the shining slits of his eyes blink once, Wiremu left.

* * *

Max and Hapimana had kept an unspeaking vigil outside Ikariki Maunga's hut. Initially Hapimana had tried to engage Ikariki's helpmate in conversation. But she starred right though him and the endeavour had proved completely fruitless. Then the door-skin was drawn back and a pale looking Wiremu reappeared. He walked directly to his friends and said,

"Thank you for waiting. I need to be alone now. I'll see you both in the morning." Then with a haunted look on his face, that Max had never seen before, he strode off down the path.

As they set off, slowly behind, Max looked questioningly at Hapimana.

"I think," said the old Māori in slow response. "That our friend has just met his birth Grandfather."

* * *

The tears of nameless emotions threatened Wiremu as he returned to the compound. Once inside he avoided his fellows, quickly gathered up a few possessions and departed again. His feet found a path out of the town and toward the river mouth.

It was dusk before he reached the shingle strand, beyond the last lone hut, the dunes and their rough vegetation. The river, at its joining with the sea, had dragged a great finger of stones out into the ocean. Near the end of this, in its lee and just above the high tide mark, he crouched and made a fire from the drift wood there about. Although he did not yet light it.

Stripping his shirt off and casting it down by the cold fire, Wiremu walked into the setting sun, to the point where the fresh from the Wanganui River met with the salt of the Taranaki Bright, to where the stones stopped, and his feet were washed in the mixed water.

As the burning hot disk of the sun touched the sea in the west, Wiremu unwound the string of his Purerehua. For a long moment he let the flattened and elongated wooden disk hang at his side. Then he spun it in a great circle. Within half a turn the distinctive, unearthly buzzing roar had begun. Now the tears came unbidden, streaking down his brown cheeks like twin rivers, like the Aorere at home and the Wanganui beside him now. And the weakening sun could not dry them away.

On and on Wiremu spun the Purerehua as the world darkened and closed in around him. Gulls returned to their shore roosts and the day's wind dropped away. Clouds turned bronze and gold, pink, orange, grey and then were gone in darkness. The night pushed out the glow of the drowned sun and as darkness came Wiremu fell to the stones next to his unlit fire and cried like he hadn't since Tamati Pirimona Marino, his Grandfather, died.

After a time he collected his empty self and rewound the Purerehua string before striking a bright spark from his flint. When a small fire was crackling in its nest of stones he drew off his breeks and waded out into the flow. His lips moved with the words of silent prayers and ancient songs.

When the warm water reached his chest he paused, the words came a moment longer, then he was under. One second, two, three, as long as he could. But this was not a trial, it was a grace, baptism. So, when the water had touched every part of his body, and the Spirit the very depths of his heart, he arose and strode back to the shore.

Sitting, he let the flames dry his body and staring into their dance he gave the hymns and songs gentle voice. After which he lay down and slept.