Isle of Tears (13 page)

When they eventually emerged from their whare at midday the following day, it was to the amused and indulgent smiles from almost all at Waikaraka. The love between a man and a woman, Isla soon discovered, was a revered thing to the Ngati Pono. They not only enjoyed being in the presence of happiness, but it also boded well for lots of future children, who would strengthen the bonds that held the hapu together, and provide offshoots with whom to one day form allegiances with other hapu and iwi. In this Isla caught echoes of her life among the communities on Skye, and the similarity brought her a sense of peace and belonging.

And, oh, the love she felt for Tai! They lay together so frequently in those first few days of marriage that Isla had to go to Mere and tell her that her private parts were too sore to sit upon, which
made Mere giggle merrily, although she did provide a salve that gave some relief. ‘You will become accustomed to it,’ she had said. ‘And some time in the future the desire will wane a little, so do not worry.’ But Isla secretly crossed her fingers against the notion that her need for Tai might ever ebb, or his for her.

And, in the months since their wedding, it barely had. She still couldn’t look at him without her heart thumping with love and desire, and whenever he was away from the village she yearned for him to return. It had come as no real surprise when she had found herself with child less than three months after they had married, but the discovery, exciting though it was, had also been somewhat dismaying as, initially, she had assumed that because she was pregnant she and Tai could no longer make love. But Mere had told her not to be so silly, explaining that a man and woman could lie together almost until the baby was born if the woman so desired, and that relations could be resumed as soon as the post-birth flow of blood had ceased. And when Isla had asked would that not just get her another baby, Mere had said no, not while an infant was suckling.

So, content, Isla settled down to await the arrival of her and Tai’s first child.

J
UNE
1862

Her back against a porch wall, Isla shifted from one painfully numbing buttock to the other, but couldn’t help smiling. Jamie
and Jean were tearing around the village as usual, leading a great herd of Waikaraka children in one of their chase-and-tag games. Sometimes Isla wondered whether her mother might be turning in her grave at the way the twins were being allowed to grow up, but she always decided that Agnes would probably approve, even though their bright copper hair was now matted into fat sausages, their feet were hardened from going bootless, and they dressed in what Agnes would have considered to be rags. But at almost eight years old they were healthy and happy, and that had always been what Agnes had wanted for her children.

Tired of racing about, Laddie trotted over and collapsed at Isla’s feet: she gratefully wriggled her chilly toes beneath his hairy, warm belly, then waved at Pare, who was approaching with a folded blanket under one arm and her baby in its wrap against her chest.

‘Are you comfortable?’ Pare asked as she sat down.

‘Middling. Ma back’s a bit sore.’

Pare nodded sympathetically. ‘Put this blanket behind you. It will help.’

Isla rolled the blanket and eased it between her spine and the whare’s raupo wall, then rested her hands on her enormous belly and sighed. ‘I have tae admit I’ll be pleased when this wee bairn comes oot.’

The baby was a girl child according to Mere, but Isla, at eight months, was no longer particularly enjoying being pregnant. It had been thrilling when she and Tai had first discovered the fact, but as the months passed and Isla’s breasts and belly had become
steadily larger, and her bladder demanded constant emptying, and everything she ate seemed to burn its way down into her stomach, the wonder had worn off and now she was counting the days to the time that Mere had predicted the baby would arrive. She could no longer run, or ride on horseback as Tai had taught her to do, or go for long walks in the bush—all she could do was swim, and it was too cold for that now.

She looked at Pare, and made a quizzical face. ‘Comes oot. Out.’ The unaccustomed broad sweep of the English vowels felt odd in her mouth, but not as odd as it once would have. ‘Niel said we’re losing oor Scottish way o’ speaking. D’ye think we are?’

Pare flicked her hair out of the way, untied the wrap around her baby and put him to her breast. Not even bothering to open his eyes, he snuffled around her nipple then clamped his mouth over it, suckling happily. ‘Not really. Not to my ears. Although you do not have it any more when you speak Maori.’ She looked up from her infant. ‘Do you still
feel
Scottish?’

‘Aye, I do. Verra much. But I feel Maori now, too.’ Isla frowned again. ‘What will she be, I wonder? Scottish or Ngati Pono?’

‘What do you want her to be?’

‘Here. I’m fed up wi’ carrying her aboot.’

Pare laughed.

‘I want her tae be both,’ Isla said. ‘I’ll tell her stories from both sides o’ her family, and I’ll teach her how tae knit and quilt and dance over the swords,
and
how tae make rewena paraoa and weave a fine cloak and sing eels out o’ the water.’

‘Ae,’ Pare agreed. ‘It is very important that she knows who all
of her ancestors are. Otherwise, how else will she understand who she is?’

Isla shifted uncomfortably again and adjusted the blanket behind her. ‘I only hope the men are back by the time she comes. I dinnae want tae be by masel’ when she does.’

Mere had explained that it was customary for Ngati Pono men to build a small whare somewhere beyond the bounds of the village, in which their wives, who would be in a state of tapu during and after the delivery, would give birth. The men themselves helped to deliver the baby, although a midwife or even the tohunga could attend if necessary. The mother, father and infant would remain isolated until the woman was no longer tapu and the baby had a firm grip on life, so that they both came to know their child together. Isla had found that rather surprising, as on Skye men had had nothing at all to do with birthing. But the men were away at the moment, including Tai and Pare’s husband, Kimiora, attending a hui about the land at Waitara, which the British had still not relinquished.

Pare said, ‘You will not be by yourself. Mere will be with you if you need her.’

Isla knew that, but nevertheless she was feeling increasingly apprehensive as her time approached. She had turned sixteen four months ago and, as Mere had reassured her many times, was quite old enough to have a baby and to mother it properly, but the prospect of the actual birth was still daunting. Mere had also suggested that perhaps Isla wasn’t frightened at all, that perhaps her wairua, her soul, was disturbed because her real mother would
not be at her side, and Isla wondered if that might be true. But, with luck, Tai would be there, and Mere if she needed her, and her brothers and sister wouldn’t be far away, and she was grateful for that.

Tai came home the following week, and the baby arrived five days after that.

Isla felt the first distinct pains one afternoon as she was walking back from the river. Her back had been aching all day, her legs felt heavy and her ankles were puffy, and she felt relief more than anything else that the baby was finally on its way.

At the kumara garden, where Tai was methodically turning the soil now that the kumara had all been harvested, she stopped and told him that she was having pains.

Grinning delightedly, he set aside his hoe and wiped his hands on his trousers. Then he picked her up and began to carry her back towards the village.

‘Put me doon!’ Isla protested, slapping at his shoulder.

Tai took no notice. ‘You cannot walk by yourself if the baby is coming.’

‘Put me doon, ye big galoot. It’s no’ coming yet, it’s just started.’

Tai set her back on her feet and stood back, eying her belly warily. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye. It’ll be ages yet.’ Or so Mere had said. In fact, she had said that babies sometimes took as long as a day and a night to
arrive, a prospect that Isla didn’t at all relish.

Tai slid his arm around her waist and they walked to Waikaraka’s gates. The news, as always, had somehow preceded them and they were met by Jamie.

‘Is the bairn coming oot?’ he cried, hopping from foot to foot and staring at Isla’s belly intently.

Isla was gripped by a sudden sharp pain, which she tried to conceal. ‘No’ yet, leannan. But soon, I think.’

Jamie, oblivious to his sister’s discomfort, raced off delightedly, shouting, ‘Jean!
Jeannie!
Oor niece’s nearly here! Come and see!’

The small whare kohanga, or nesting house, was on the edge of the bush but within sight of the village, and had already been stocked with bedding, supplies for the new baby, and firewood. Their food would be brought daily from the village, delivered halfway and collected by Tai. Mere had ensured over the past months that Isla knew what to expect, and now she helped her to settle onto the mat while Tai lit the fire in the centre of the whare.

Outside, Isla heard Jean grumble, ‘Can we no’ come in?’

‘Aye, we want tae watch,’ Jamie’s voice added.

Mere stuck her head out of the door. ‘No, you may not watch. Go away. Your sister is tapu. You should not be here.’

‘But she’s
oor
niece. We’ve no’ had a niece before,’ Jamie whined.

Mere glanced at Niel, who was standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets a short distance from the whare kohanga. He looked as though he knew he shouldn’t be there, but had been
compelled by concern for his sister to trail through the bracken after them. ‘Take them away, e tama,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘This is not the place for them. Or you. Do not worry, Isla will be fine.’

Looking relieved, Niel nodded curtly, took Jamie and Jean each by a hand and led them, protesting, back towards the village.

‘Have they gone?’ Isla asked, a slightly desperate edge to her voice.

‘Ae. You cannot blame them, though,’ Mere said. ‘They are worried for you.’

‘Niel might be, the twins are just being nosy,’ Isla replied, her pain making her irascible. ‘Ow!’

Tai reached quickly for her hand, and Mere was reminded that this was his first baby, too. ‘Are you prepared?’ she asked, even though she knew he was: his own father would have seen to that.

‘Ae, thank you, whaene.’ The fire having caught, Tai settled himself on the mat next to Isla, his hand now rhythmically stroking her back.

Mere nodded, and stood to go. ‘I will leave you, then. If you need me, you may call for me.’ She bent down and kissed the top of Isla’s head. ‘Go well, e hine, you will be fine.’

And then she was gone.

Isla’s waters broke some time after the moon had risen. The moon was very full, its blue-white light slanting through a gap in the
blanket hanging over the doorway and mingling with the yellow flames of the small fire within.

Tai placed a cloth over the wet patch on the mat between Isla’s legs. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

Isla, sitting up with her knees bent, stifled a groan. ‘I want tae walk.’

‘Outside?’

‘Aye.’

‘It will be cold.’

‘I dinnae care, Tai, I just want tae walk.’

He draped her tartan cloak across her shoulders, eased her feet into her boots, and helped her outside. Where it
was
cold. Isla shivered in her thin chemise under her cloak, but felt better now that she was moving. The pain of the baby coming was not unbearable—she had felt far worse spiritual pain in her heart—but it was uncomfortable, a deep dragging, cramping sensation that surged then receded, surged then receded, each time becoming a little stronger, a little sharper.

Tai walked beside her, an arm around her shoulders and a hand under her elbow, making sure she did not stumble in the bracken and fern, black in the moonlight and already beginning to crunch underfoot from the settling frost. Their breath blew out in plumes before them, and Tai looked at his wife’s beautiful, pale face and thought that the silver from the moon had settled into her hair.

They walked around and around, their feet making tracks
behind them, until Isla was ready to return to the warmth of the whare kohanga.

Inside, she kicked off her boots and sank once more onto the mat, but was unable to get comfortable. Finally, sitting cross-legged, she settled into riding each new wave of pain, rocking and gritting her teeth at its peak, remembering her mother once telling her that McKinnon women did not cry out from pain. She breathed deeply when the contractions ebbed, intoning the karakia that Mere had taught her to calm herself. The swelling, grinding feeling in her lower belly was getting worse. Tai moved to sit behind her, taking her weight against his chest and rocking with her in time to each new contraction. As the minutes passed and the night stretched on, he told her stories, then sang to her.

At last, an hour before dawn, Isla said, ‘I think it’s time.’ She pulled herself into a squatting position and shrugged off her chemise. Tai rose and stood before her, knees bent and bare feet splayed as she gripped his forearms. Her face screwed up with effort, she grunted and bore down, then again.

‘Kia kaha, e whaea,’ Tai murmured. Be brave, o mother.

Isla bore down again, her buttocks almost touching the mat, and suddenly the baby rushed out in a slither of mucus and fluid. Letting out a long, relieved moan, Isla subsided, letting her legs fall apart so that the baby was cocooned between them. The umbilical cord, so engorged with blood it glistened black in the firelight, trailed back inside her. Tai grasped the infant by her tiny feet, for she was indeed a girl, and shook her gently to dislodge any mucus caught in her throat or nose. The shaking
also made her cry, a weak mewling that sounded more like a kitten than a child. Cradling her with one arm, Tai hooked his little finger into her mouth to check that no mucus remained, then tied a piece of twine around the umbilical cord near her belly, and deftly severed the lifeline between child and mother. Finally, he wiped the baby’s face, firmly wrapped her in a soft cloth and handed her to Isla.