Isle of Tears (21 page)

The pa—named Kaputerangi and once the home of the great ancestor Toi, Tarawa proudly told Isla—was magnificent, perched on the farthest edge of the headland overlooking the ocean. To the left was an island, and further out to sea lay another, steam billowing whitely from its peak. From the lookout towers above the tall palisades the view was endless in all directions. Below, along the narrow foreshore, fenced whare sat alongside an array of beached waka, and to the east, on both sides of the Whakatane River, nestled small villages among acres of gardens. The cultivations at Kaputerangi itself were extensive, and Isla was almost envious: to own such beautiful, abundant lands and to also have unlimited access to the sea would bring immense mana to any hapu.

After she had been welcomed into the pa, and had seen to Prince, she sat down with Tarawa, and two of the other women, who were named Parani and Korihi, to talk and to eat the food they had offered her. It seemed that the twins and the Ngati Pono ope had come through Whakatane a little over a week ago. They had been given food and a place to sleep for a night, but had declined further hospitality as they wished to reach Opotiki as soon as possible.

Isla nodded; she knew that Ngati Pono also had familial ties with Te Whakatohea of Opotiki, and it made sense that they would go there. But even Opotiki, Isla reflected nervously, might now not be far enough away from the fighting.

‘Were they all right?’ she asked.

‘Your brother and sister?’

‘Ae.’

‘Ae, they were well,’ Korihi replied. ‘But there was only one boy with the bright red hair, and one girl with the same. You said you had two brothers.’

Isla felt a cold hand squeeze her heart. ‘The other was killed at Orakau.’

‘Mmm,’ Tarawa murmured sympathetically. ‘We did not have any people there, although we lost several at Maketu.’

‘We heard about that, at Gate Pa,’ Isla commiserated.

‘Is it true that the soldiers are coming down this way?’ Parani asked.

‘I am not sure. There is a garrison at Maketu, of course, but the dead soldier I found was further south. At Pukehina?’

Parani nodded.

‘But he was riding north, and I saw two others as well, so they may be moving south. I cannot say for sure.’ Isla took another mouthful of meat, trying not to reveal how hungry she was.

The three Ngati Awa women exchanged worried glances. ‘Ae,’ Tarawa murmured, ‘we have heard that they might.’

‘But maybe not. We defeated them at Gate Pa, ae?’ Isla said hopefully.

But the women said nothing.

Isla was anxious for more news. ‘There was a woman named Pare travelling with my people. Did you speak to her?’

‘Ae,’ Korihi replied. ‘And a kuia named Pikaki.’

‘And was Pare well?’

‘She seemed to be. She had a child with her, and a baby.’

The new baby will be ten months old by now, Isla reflected. ‘And Pikaki? How was she?’

‘She was rude and grumpy,’ Parani muttered, hitching her shawl across her shoulders.

Isla grinned. ‘Ae, that sounds like her.’

‘She did not get on with Miripeka, our eldest kuia. You will meet her later.’

There was to be a small feast that evening. Isla would rather have continued on towards Opotiki, about forty miles farther down the coast, but the feast was for her and it would have been the height of rudeness to decline to stay at Kaputerangi for at least one night.

As the sun set, the hangi were brought up out of the ground. As well as potato, kumara and pork, there was a wide range of kai moana—fish, koura, kina and shellfish. Isla had a bit of each, hoping that her still-delicate intestines would not reject such richness. During the feast there were speeches, and she herself told stories of the Ngati Pono and the deeds of her ancestors on Skye.

There were several hundred people at the feast, and eventually she was introduced to Miripeka, who was perhaps a little younger than Pikaki. She had the same sparse white hair, profoundly wrinkled face, toothless gums and cloudy eyes, but her shrunken old woman’s body was perhaps a little less frail, less fragile. Indeed, Isla wouldn’t have been surprised to have heard that Pikaki had died on the journey between Taranaki and the Bay of Plenty. It was a tremendous undertaking for such an old woman, but clearly
she hadn’t succumbed, and for that Isla was grateful; she had grown very fond of Pikaki.

She did not, however, like Miripeka. Tarawa had warned her that the old kuia was known for her ability to foresee the future, but Isla never considered for a moment that Miripeka would foretell
hers.

But it happened as soon as Miripeka grasped her hand. The old woman became completely motionless—even the apparently involuntary tremors of her head and hands ceased—while her grip became tighter and tighter until Isla almost winced. Then Miripeka let go and sat back.

‘E hine,’ she said in a thin, reedy voice, ‘you will have terrible trials before this year is out. You have already lost many close to your heart, but there is more to come, and you will have to choose whether or not you wish to survive these future tribulations. You hold your future in your own hands. Remember that.’

Isla stood dumbly, shocked and unable to respond. Around her there was an uncomfortable silence; then Tarawa led her away.

‘Do not worry,’ she said quickly. ‘She is not always right. In fact, hardly ever.’

But Isla heard the note of unease in the other woman’s voice, and was unable to repress a shiver of fear.

The following morning dawned grey, and rain threatened as great pewter-lined clouds gathered along the horizon out to sea. It was just after the early meal had finished that the two women entered
the gates of Kaputerangi. They had been travelling all night, they said, anxious to reach their homes near Ruatoki after visiting relatives at Tauriko for the past month. They had stopped only to ask for food and share the news from Tauranga.

A crowd gathered as the women were offered food and drink, Isla among them, hoping to hear something of Ngati Pono. With great relish, the women told of the tremendous Kingite triumph at Gate Pa. Isla had already recounted the details of the battle to her hosts, but every story of victory warranted retelling and she was happy to hear their version of it, even though it was clear they had not been present.

When they’d finished, she stepped forward and asked in Maori, ‘Has there been more fighting since Gate Pa?’

The elder of the two women said, ‘Ae, there has been constant skirmishing between the imperial troops and Ngai Te Rangi. But it is said that Cameron will soon be returning to the Waikato, now that the winter approaches.’

Isla was insistent. ‘Have you heard anything of Ngati Pono? We were at Gate Pa. Do you know how they have fared since then?’

The women shared a glance. ‘Ae, they have taken part in the skirmishing. We were there during one clash. We were travelling from Tauriko to the coast to meet up with the walking track, and saw it.’

Isla felt something prickle at the back of her neck, tiny jabs of unease. ‘Where was it, this clash? And when?’

‘Just west of Hairini.’ The woman consulted with her friend. ‘On the second day of May.’

The place name meant nothing to Isla, but the date did: it was the day after she had left to find the twins. ‘And who were the victors?’

The younger woman looked down at her hands in her lap. ‘The British soldiers.’

Isla felt the prickling at her neck bloom into icy fingers. ‘Were any of the Ngati Pono wounded?’

‘Ae, several of the men,’ the woman admitted reluctantly.

‘Were any killed?’ Isla knew she was being rude, interrogating the women in this manner, but didn’t care.

‘You are Pakeha-Maori?’ the older woman asked. ‘Ngati Pono are your people?’

A horrible tension began to build in Isla’s head. ‘Ae, my husband is Ngati Pono.’

‘Then I am sorry. Ae, a warrior was killed.’

Isla gripped the woman’s shoulder, her fingers digging into flesh. ‘Please, tell me, what was his name?’

Alarmed, the woman wriggled out of her grasp. ‘We did not know his name. We only saw what happened, then we ran away before the soldiers saw us.’

Her companion regarded Isla with sadness, and dawning realization. ‘He was a young man, tall and very handsome.’

The pressure in Isla’s head expanded, and she felt suddenly as though she were no longer in her own body, that she was floating and that her ears were inexplicably stuffed with cotton.

‘He had a scar here,’ the woman said, placing a finger against her temple. ‘Like a fish hook.’

This could not be true. Hearing her voice coming from a very long way away, as though the words were being uttered by someone else’s mouth, not her own, Isla said, ‘How did you know he was dead?’

‘He was shot several times. Here, here and here.’ The woman touched her side, her throat, then her right knee. ‘He bled profusely and the women were wailing. I am sorry, e hine, we saw him and he was dead.’

But Isla, who knew for certain now that the stories surrounding Tai’s birth had been nothing but stupid lies, had started to howl, the awful animal sound rising up and up, beyond the pa’s palisades and into the endless, bright blue sky. Then a black emptiness, an inky silence, claimed Isla hungrily as the strength drained from her limbs and she fell to the ground.

Together, Tarawa and Korihi carried her to a whare, laid her on a mat and covered her with a blanket. Isla’s eyes were open, but they knew she was seeing nothing, at least not in this world.

They sat and watched her, silent and anxious, as the girl’s dog whined anxiously outside.

Eventually Tarawa, weary already of the pain and misery this war with the Pakeha was bringing, sighed and said, ‘Go and get her things, Korihi. She will not be going anywhere for a while.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But not her weapons. Put those somewhere else.’

On the morning of the fourth day after she had heard about Tai, Isla sat up in the whare.

Parani, sitting cross-legged near the doorway mending a pair of trousers with a needle and thread, looked up. ‘You are back,’ she said with a cautious smile, and set her sewing aside.

Isla didn’t answer. She reached instead for her peke and saddlebags and starting digging through them. ‘Where is it?’ she demanded, her voice hoarse and rasping after so many days of silence. She grasped the mug of water by the mat and took a huge drink, feeling dizzy and weak.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Ma knife.’ Still disoriented, Isla spoke in English.

Alarmed, Parani leaned out of the whare door and shouted for Tarawa, who came running. She sat down beside Isla.

‘How are you feeling, e hine?’

‘I want ma knife,’ Isla said flatly. ‘It wis wi’ ma things.’

Tarawa looked into her eyes for a long time, then finally said over her shoulder, ‘Go and get it, Parani.’ When she’d gone, she asked, ‘Why do you want it, e hine?’

To Tarawa, the girl still looked unsettlingly like the wraith that, over the past three days, they had feared she was becoming. Her face was white and her lips bloodless, and the hollows beneath her cheeks and eyes deeply shadowed. She had taken no food at all and no water. It had been as though she had passed into the spirit world, but could not quite take leave of her body. She had not spoken, she had barely moved; she had mimi-ed in her clothes so that Tarawa had had to clean her. The tohunga had come, the
one who dealt with matters concerning sickness of the spirit, and had said karakia over her still, shallow-breathing body, but his ministrations had not seemed to help. But now she was awake, back in the world, and it was time for her to face the hardest part of this new journey of hers.

Isla spoke, more softly now and in Maori. ‘You know why.’

And Tarawa just nodded.

When Parani returned with Isla’s short, sharp knife, Tarawa handed it to her. Isla stared at it for a long moment, then slowly raised it. She took a thick hank of her pale gold, waist-length hair and began to saw at it until it came free, the long strands falling silently into her lap. She cut off another hank, then another, and another. When her hair was only about two inches long she gave the knife back to Tarawa, who squatted behind her and cut off the remaining sections that Isla could not reach.

Parani sat and watched, weeping for the destruction of such beauty and for the poor wounded heart of the little white Ngati Pono girl.

Two days later, when Isla felt at least physically stronger, she asked Ngati Awa’s tohunga ta moko to place a kauae on her chin.

He scratched his scalp under his short white hair and frowned. ‘Are you sure? I have never seen a Pakeha woman wearing a moko.’

‘I am not Pakeha,’ Isla replied shortly. ‘I am Ngati Pono, and I am Scottish. My Ngati Pono father is the rangatira Wira
Tamaiparea, and my Scottish father was Donal McKinnon of clan McKinnon. I am entitled to wear the moko wahine.’

‘It will never come off,’ he warned.

Impatient, Isla said, ‘Will you do it or not?’

‘Ae,’ he said eventually. ‘I will do it. But think hard about what you want to say with it, e hine. It will be with you forever.’

Isla took a stick and drew in the dirt the design she wanted. It was similar to Mere’s and would begin below the centre of her bottom lip, two lines that descended then arced out towards the corners of her mouth before descending again. But whereas Mere’s lines ended in a pair of fish hook patterns, Isla’s would meet just above the point of her chin and merge into a Celtic symbol.

The tohunga pointed at the symbol. ‘What does this mean?’

Isla indicated each of the three spirals. ‘The maiden, the mother and the crone. Their power increases threefold in times of hardship and change.’

‘Ae, that is appropriate. And the ngutu?’

Isla shook her head; if her lips were also tattooed, she would have to wait much longer until they were healed.

‘Then I will place the moko tomorrow morning,’ the tohunga said.

‘I want it done today.’

‘Too bad. I am not available until tomorrow,’ the old man said, and waved her away.

Tarawa and Korihi went with Isla while she gathered the koha, or gifts, that the tohunga ta moko required for his services. She went into the bush for birds and fern root, and down to the sea to
collect kai moana, all the while saying little to either woman. She was terrified that they might expect her to talk about Tai’s death. She had no notion of what had happened to her during the three days after hearing of it, but she suspected that whatever order her mind had imposed to keep her sane, talking might undo it. She knew, though, that something vital inside her had died, and that what had replaced it was blackness.