Into the River (4 page)

“Ra, tell me about the pirate, about Diego.”

“Aue! You porangi boy! What about your other tipuna? What about their stories?”

“Tell me about Diego.”

Ra chuckled. He knew Te Arepa wouldn’t be denied – and it was a tale he loved to tell.

“Diego!

“The man from the sea, our people called him, or sometimes, Tangaroa’s offering.”

Ra settled back before the fire and Te Arepa nestled on the floor between his legs.

“It had been a time of hardship. The sickness had come and many of our strongest died early on. We had no cure. As if this wasn’t enough, or maybe because of this sickness, the northern tribes began to push their dominance.

“These raids, once rare and timid, now became more frequent and daring. The Ngapuhi had been given guns and now, in their greedy eyes, the rest of Te ika o Maui was theirs for the taking.

“Our iwi had lost many of its best men to the sickness and it was only a matter of time before the Ngapuhi wiped us out
completely
. All the men killed. All the women carried off. We were a people in decline. The mantle of defeat began to settle upon us. We were ripe for the taking.

“Sometimes, before a great event, there are auguries. The first signs are small. Barely noticeable. A certain kuia had complained that someone had been taking kumara from her storehouse. Now this was a serious accusation, one not made lightly. It pointed to a thief within the whanau itself. The elders wouldn’t hear of it. They maintained it was the patupaiarehe, the fairy people. But
this kuia wouldn’t be fobbed off with childish explanations. Her complaints grew louder and more insistent. They were tearing us apart. Ill feeling grew. Something had to be done.

“And this woman was not just any woman. This was Ngahuia, your great-great-grandmother. Her husband had died of the sickness, so she had no man to avenge her. No man to watch out for her. It fell to Ngahuia herself, to lie in wait. But then she was Kahungunu, the daughter of a rangatira … a real wahine toa this one, fearless and haughty. As if we didn’t have enough problems already.”

Ra smiled. He loved stories about this fiery woman.

“All night she waited, armed with a sharpened ko, a digging stick. This was a woman’s weapon: she couldn’t touch taiaha or patu because they were tapu. Mind you boy, a ko in the hands of Ngahuia … whew! … not something to be taken lightly.”

He held up his stick, as if to strike.

“Days passed, but there was nothing. The thefts, which she claimed had been a nightly event, now stopped. Everyone thought she was making a fool of herself. That she had been greedy. Or that she couldn’t count. Maybe even that she had gone mad since her husband died. Of course no one was brave enough to say this to her face. Anyway, after a few nights of wakefulness and bad sleep she was at the point of giving up.

“Then, it happened. In the blackest hour of night there came a terrific crashing and roaring and screaming. In a moment the whole pa was on its feet. The men grabbed their weapons and ran forward. This could mean only one thing: a night raid from the Ngapuhi, the one that would finish us off. But they were wrong.

“Instead all they found was Ngahuia … Ngahuia with her arms and legs wrapped around a man … a Pakeha.”

Ra paused, seeming to recall the events of more than a century ago as though they had happened yesterday.

“He was brought back, this Pakeha, back to the wharenui. Everyone was awake now, the whole kainga. Most of them had seen
white men before from time to time but never one like this. He had long hair like us, not cut short in the missionary fashion, but long and plaited. In each ear there was a gold ring. And his eyes! His eyes were the colour of pounamu.”

Ra seized the moss-green tiki that always hung around his neck and held it out for Te Arepa to look at.

“Yes, Te Arepa, your colour. But this wasn’t all. Something else held the eyes of all those present. His legs: they were shackled in iron chains.

“These shocked our people.

“Chains. The Pakeha tools of capture. These chains in the end set him free. Saved him from a sudden death, from ending up in the hangi pit the next day maybe.

“Those in the iwi who spoke a little English were brought forward to find out who he was and where he had come from. It was a slow business: he spoke only a little English himself, not much more than our people.

“Once we learned he was not Ngapuhi, the fists were slowly unclenched, the weapons put down. In the course of the next few hours, few days, few weeks, his story came out.

“His name was Diego Santos. Born into a noble family near the Spanish city of Barcelona, he was the youngest son, the potiki. He had been deprived of his inheritance as he was born to old parents, long after they divided their vineyards between the two elder brothers. When he was seventeen and facing a life without the benefits that were his birthright, he joined a spice ship that was on the way to the Spice Islands.”

“Where’s that?” Te Arepa asked.

“Indonesia, that part of the world. His ship sailed all over the globe and Diego was on it for seven years. During this time he learned to speak other languages and became rich himself. He had gathered all the trappings of success.

“But this wasn’t enough for him. Inside, his heart was burning with revenge. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his
homeland: to show his parents what greatness he had made of himself, to show them how much more worthy he was than his brothers.

“For years, as he roamed the world, he had kept this dream foremost in his mind. The power of his whakapapa, the beauty of his turangawaewae. In his mind’s eye, his old parents were standing in front of the white-walled hacienda. His brothers were there too. Everyone was waiting for him. It was like the Bible. He was the prodigal son, but better. He hadn’t squandered a fortune, he had made one.

“When the chance came, he returned to Barcelona. He had never envisaged how much things could change. His parents, who were already old when he left, had both died. His brothers had neglected the family vineyards. The slow accumulation of wealth over many generations, and the honour of the family name, had been eaten away in a few short years.

“Nevertheless, when Diego showed up again he was fêted. His brothers fought over him. Whose house should he stay at? Who was the better host? For his part, he was hungry for their adulation.

“Each brother tried to out-do the other with the richness of their guest’s lodgings. Vast bedrooms, scented sheets, feasts every night with Diego at the head of the table. Diego was flattered by their attention as he travelled from one to the other, luxuriating in the attention. He was glad to once again be part of a famous family, this time a celebrated part, not just the potiki. Little did he know that their motives were not brotherly: rather they were after the gold he had laid away during his seven years at sea.

“There was something that they had never considered. However, unlike that of his brothers, Diego’s wealth had come from sweat and hardship. He was not about to squander it on the schemes they suggested. He had lived where lives were risked and fortunes were made or lost. Where knowledge grew out of pain. Where histories were short and written in blood.

“In Barcelona, it was different. The rules had been drawn up generations ago. The father’s role was to ensure that the fortunes stayed where they were. Even today, Te Arepa, Europe is dominated by these old families. They hold onto their land with steel claws. But the older brothers, once freed from their father’s control, were not like that. They were greedy and bitter. Their fortunes had come without effort on their part and they wanted more. So they now grew impatient. Diego was not as easy to win over as they had imagined. Their true natures emerged: they stopped competing and joined forces to trick him of his wealth.

“Diego was told that it had been his dying parents’ last wish that the three brothers pooled their resources to rebuild the family name. To restore the fortunes of their once-great family. The brothers showed Diego the title deeds and documents of all they possessed. They didn’t tell him that they owed vast amounts of money against these.

“The plan was to combine the titles and give him an equal share. In return, all they wanted from Diego was to use his gold to guarantee a loan which would allow them to replenish their run-down estates. Diego could now be the key to restoring the once-great Santos name, to rejoin the families who ruled Barcelona. These families traced their lineage back to Hamilcar Barca, the great Carthaginian who founded the city before the time of Christ.

“Diego’s eyes gleamed. This was a dream even bigger than the one that had carried him around the world. It tied him in to his ancestors. And it gave him something more, something that couldn’t be ignored, couldn’t be bought: mana. The mana that slowly grew from fifty generations living in the same place, growing like a mighty kauri tree amongst the stunted saplings that came and went. At last he knew what he wanted. This plan could satisfy that dull, hungry ache, deep in his gut.

“In due course his name was appended to a multitude of crested documents. Then these were sealed with red wax and imprinted
with the brothers’ signet rings. The next step was to visit the Jewish money lenders. These were the people who underwrote the enterprises of the high and mighty. The city was abuzz with the name of Santos once more.

“To celebrate their pact, a banquet was organised. The great wood-panelled hall of his parents’ home was decked out in finery. This made Diego anxious about their extravagance. The brothers laughed away his fears. Appearances were important in Barcelona. The Santos family was giving notice that they were back: the world should pay attention. The three brothers were about to take their rightful place. This had to be done with confidence and pageantry. Empires were built on little more.

“Diego was flattered that they were making such a fuss of him. It showed him his brothers were sincere in welcoming him back into the family. He knew that at last his destiny had taken a different turn and he could look forward to a life of respect, of stability. Next would come a wife, children, all the trappings of a happy, secure middle-age.

“Diego was seated at the head of the huge table in the mighty feasting hall. All the best families in Barcelona were present. Their titles were long and their histories embedded in the story of the city. It was a circle that he was now part of. One that required more than money as the price of admission. The women were beautiful and the men refined. Their skin was pale and unblemished by the sun. Their clothes were heady confections of silk and damask. Their manner was confident: they had all the easy assurance of people living in a world that had been constructed around their tastes and aspirations. Their conversation was coded and ornate, peppered with Latin, French and English. Diego’s final reservations about throwing in his fortunes with his brothers melted away. How he burned to belong in this glittering assembly!

“After the dinner the hall was cleared and musicians were brought in. There was dancing and laughter. Diego watched from
the side, afraid of shaming himself through clumsy movement. He glimpsed now all that he needed to learn. All the customs and graces he lacked because of his years at sea.

“At the end of the evening there were toasts and speeches: a chance to show wit and learning. The final toast was to Diego. He was given an ancient chalice filled to the brim with dark red wine. His older brother told the assembly of his accomplishments. His voyages. His heroic return. Diego had never felt prouder. His heart was ready to burst.”

Ra leant back in his chair, tired now with retelling the tale. The tale he had been told so many times as a boy. At his feet the two children waited silently for him to resume.

“And that, my mokos, is enough. Your grandfather is tired. It takes a lot to pull this big fish out of the dark swirl of my memory. I will tell you more tomorrow, but only if you get ready for bed now.”

That was the deal and both sides had to honour it. There was no argument to be had.

The following night, Te Arepa and Rawinia were ready after tea for the old man to continue. He seemed to spend longer than usual fiddling about in the kitchen, and there were numerous trips outside. Each time he re-entered the room he pretended not to know what they wanted. Then, just when they were certain they would have to remind him, he raised a finger and exclaimed, “Oh yes, the story, I had forgotten.”

They knew he hadn’t.

“Would you believe my mind is completely blank, the story has gone!”

Not true.

“Are you sure that you have done all your chores? I noticed the wood pile in the shed had fallen over yesterday.”

They had restacked it, and he knew it.

Finally he stopped teasing them and sat down. It was as if only a breath had passed since his last sentence, not a whole day.

“When Diego awoke he knew something strange and terrible had happened. Gone were the lofty-ceilinged bedroom and the scented sheets. The room stank and swayed and was completely black. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry as dust.

“Where was he?

“What had happened?

“Some time later — was it hours or was it days? — the door opened and a flask of water and a bowl were placed on the floor. Moments later it was abruptly slammed and the darkness closed in again.

“The truth seeped into him slowly, like poison. The ceaseless roll and creak had a more sinister meaning. He was at sea. This was a ship. He was imprisoned in a cell so small he could touch all the walls from where he sat. It must have happened during the celebrations. He had been drugged, smuggled aboard ship.
Shanghaied
.”

“What’s that?” asked Rawinia.

“Kidnapped by sailors,” said Te Arepa, eager for the story to continue.

“It was a common thing among the rough seaside taverns that lined every port. A drugged drink or a blow to the head was how many sailors got their first berth on a sailing ship.”

“That’s not fair!” exclaimed Rawinia. “He should call the police!”