Erenora hoped that Mete Kingi might have a tribal party travelling to Wellington. When he said, ‘No,’ she was disconsolate, unsure what to do.
‘We can’t go on without protection,’ she told her sisters. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
A week later, however, Erenora heard chanting voices, ‘Toia mai! Te waka! Ki te urunga! Te waka!’ She looked upstream and saw a large sea-going waka from Patiarero coming in to dock at the kainga’s landing.
The captain of the waka was named Aperahama. With him was a group of about forty men, women and children — and some empty seats. He was a cheeky one, looking Erenora up and down. ‘Are you a boy or a girl?’ he asked.
‘Does that matter when I have money?’ Erenora answered gruffly. ‘If you’re travelling to Wellington I will pay for passage for me and my two sisters.’
‘Our destination is Paekakariki,’ Aperahama answered. ‘From there, my people and I will trek inland to kin at Heretaunga.’
At least that will get us halfway there, Erenora thought. ‘Will you take us?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ Aperahama answered. ‘We could do with another paddler, eh boys!’ Obviously, he had decided Erenora was male — or had he?
The following morning, despite gusty winds, the waka cleared the busy rivermouth. Oaths and curses were exchanged as the canoe jostled with Pakeha vessels also wishing to go out on the turning tide.
‘Get out of the way, you heathen bastards!’ a sailor yelled.
‘You don’t own the river yet!’ Aperahama answered. Quickly, because the currents were clashing at the rivermouth, he shouted instructions, ‘Nekeneke! Nekeneke!’
Erenora paddled for all she was worth. Her arms were aching when the waka finally reached the open sea where Aperahama cried, ‘Hoist the sail!’ He winked at Erenora. ‘Do you want to change into a girl now?’
The canoe was soon skimming before the wind along the curve of coast from Putiki to Paekakariki. Out to sea, Erenora glimpsed the South Island — the inland Kaikoura. ‘So,’ Aperahama asked her, ‘who are you? And why are you going to Wellington?’
She told him about Horitana. When she had finished he looked at her with admiration. ‘Your husband is a fortunate man. May you find him.’
Onward the waka sailed, reaching the Manawatu coast. Aperahama pointed out to Erenora the huge fires that ringed the coast with rising columns of smoke. Where the coast was not on fire, it was charred, smoking earth. ‘The Pakeha burns the bush to make way for more settlement,’ Aperahama said.
The wind changed direction. It began to blow from the land and soon the people in the waka were overwhelmed with the swirling wreaths of smoke, ashes and hot embers. Out of the dark clouds, bearing down on them, was a sailing ship making for the rivermouth at Foxton Beach. ‘Kia tupato!’ Aperahama cried. It was too late. The sailing ship scraped past but its powerful wake capsized the canoe. Clinging to it, the occupants struggled through the breakers to the beach.
Aperahama was seething but, as in all transactions with the Pakeha, he was powerless. Erenora stood with him, watching as the sailing ship unloaded its precious cargo: sheep. ‘There are almost 500,000 between Whanganui and Foxton now,’ Aperahama told her. ‘When the Pakeha takes over the land, that’s only the beginning. The towns and roads come next and then the pastures where his sheep may safely graze.’ Then he looked at her and chastised himself for falling in love with women so easily. ‘No need to pay me, Erenora. After all, I didn’t get you to your destination. You and your sisters can travel overland with us as far as Otaki, if you wish.’
Offshore lay Kapiti Island, brooding in a sea of stars. Once, the great Ngati Toa warrior chieftain Te Rauparaha had controlled the region; no longer. And everywhere, other Maori were moving back and forth along the coast, landless, finding their livelihood only on the tidal fringes between land and sea.
‘We go our separate ways now,’ Aperahama said to Erenora when they arrived at Otaki’s large Anglican settlement. It was difficult for him to leave her. He started to lead his people away, then he stopped and called, ‘Erenora! When you get to Wellington, seek shelter at Kaiwharawhara. Tell Auntie Rupi that Aperahama sent you. That will make her laugh!’
4.
‘From Otaki we negotiated the thin coastal plain with its sand dunes and river fans to Waikanae and Paekakariki. Wherever we went among Maori folk we were immediately recognised, not only by the white feathers Ripeka and Meri wore in their hair but also because of our Taranaki dialect. The news had also spread about Mr Bryce’s attack, and the fall of our kainga, and we were shown great hospitality and sympathy. And, of course, our Ngati Mutunga and Taranaki connections secured us shelter among Raukawa and Ngati Toa, the iwi of the region.
‘And then our odyssey took us completely into the throat of the Pakeha. Everywhere were Pakeha settlements, houses, roads and, also, railway tracks, as if a taniw’a had slithered across the land.
‘We arrived at the mouth of the double-armed Porirua Harbour and found shelter at the Ngati Toa marae known as Takapuwahia. It was there that my sister, Meri, made a bad decision.’
Poor Meri! Ever since she had thrown half the sisters’ money at Piharo’s henchmen, she’d been upset. She decided to make good the loss by selling the beautiful pounamu ’eitiki Riki had given her. It was a huge sacrifice; from the time Riki had pledged his troth to her, she had never taken it from her neck. She sneaked off after breakfast while Erenora and Ripeka weren’t looking and went to the local trading post to sell it.
It wasn’t until half an hour later that Erenora discovered she was missing. She was thanking Hariata, one of their hosts at Takapuwahia, for her hospitality, and then she turned to Ripeka and said, ‘Time to go. Where’s Meri?’
‘She left a message that we should meet up with her at the trading post,’ Ripeka answered.
When Hariata heard where Meri had gone, she became very agitated. ‘Arapeta’s place has a bad reputation,’ she said. ‘Nobody from here ever goes there, not since the last time.’
‘The last time what?’ Erenora screamed.
‘I’d better get some of the boys to go with you,’ Hariata answered.
The tone in her voice made Erenora so alarmed that she said to Ripeka, ‘We can’t wait. We’d better go on ahead.’
Erenora ran from Takapuwahia.
‘Wait for me!’ Ripeka cried.
Erenora kept on running. Her heart was pounding when she saw the trading post with its hitching rail outside. A few Maori youngsters were sitting on the verandah passing a whisky bottle between them. ‘Hey, what’s the hurry,’ one of them greeted her. ‘Wanna swig?’
She went up the steps two at a time and entered the store. To one side was a counter with a display of sweets for little children. To the other was a big room filled with saddles, farm equipment and sacks of grain and sugar. A doorway led to a smaller room in which there were cheap cotton dresses hanging on racks, hats and shoes. There was no one in the store. Where was Meri?
The owner came out of a back room. ‘What can I do for you, matey?’ he asked. He was large, swarthy and smiling. ‘You here to buy or do you want a woman?’
Erenora stepped up to him. ‘Are you Arapeta?’ she asked. In her fear for Meri she took up an attacking position; nobody would have thought she was anything but a young boy. ‘I’m looking for my sister. She was supposed to meet us here.’ She kept her voice low and level, pronouncing the words in an emphatic way.
Arapeta held her gaze, unblinking, still smiling. ‘I’m sorry, matey, but I’ve not had a woman in here all morning.’
At that moment, Ripeka burst into the trading post. ‘Have you found Meri?’ she asked, distraught. The expression on Arapeta’s face changed. He reached under the counter for a gun and levelled it at the two sisters. ‘Get out of here, both of you.’
Then Ripeka saw Meri’s ’eitiki around his neck. ‘What have you done with her?’ she screamed.
What was that sound …?
Erenora heard thumping
from the back room. ‘Get out of my way,’ she said as she shoved past Arapeta.
‘Stop or I’ll shoot,’ he roared.
She saw him raise his rifle and sight on her. He would be well within his rights: an unknown boy, wishing to rob him …
Before Arapeta could go further, however, Hariata arrived with two Ngati Toa men, one of whom wrested the rifle from him. ‘Up to your old tricks, eh, Arapeta?’
Meri was cruelly lashed to a bed with ropes. She had a piece of wood in her mouth, tied tightly by a gag to prevent her from crying out. Her eyes were wide with fear, and even while Erenora was cutting through the ropes Meri could not stop trembling. When she was released it was to Ripeka she turned for comfort.
‘Oh, sister,’ she sobbed, ‘I thought if I sold the ’eitiki we would have enough money to pay for our passage from Wellington across Raukawa. But when I got to the trading post the owner …’
Erenora grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. ‘Meri, be obedient to me. Don’t think. It only gets you into trouble.’
They helped Meri out of the back room. Hariata and her men had surrounded Arapeta. ‘A man’s got to live,’ he said, trying to talk his way out of the situation. ‘And the bitch was struggling, see, so I had to tie her up. You understand …’ He began to offer them goods from the store in exchange for letting him go.
Hariata turned to Erenora. ‘Arapeta preys on young women,’ she said. ‘If he discovers they’re travelling alone, he captures them, plies them with grog to keep them insensible and then sells them into prostitution.’ Erenora walked up to him and wrenched Meri’s pendant from his neck. ‘Call yourself a Maori,’ she hissed. She was so enraged — she could have lost Meri to him — that she slashed his face with her knife.
Arapeta yelled with shock and put his hand to the wound. When he saw the blood on his hands, his eyes widened with fear.
‘Somebody should put you out of business,’ Erenora said.
He staggered away, out of the store, crying for help.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Hariata answered, ‘except keep a watch on his activities. We’ve put the police on to him but he always gets off with a warning. And after all, Arapeta’s one of us, he’s getting along well … and we need the trading post. You understand?’
Oh, Erenora understood all right. It was all so futile, really.
‘You’d better go quickly now,’ Hariata said. ‘Arapeta will be sure to report you for what you’ve done to him.’
Meri was still weeping as, on Hariata’s advice, the sisters set out on the old Ngati Toa track that would take them to Wellington by way of Tawa and the Ngaio Gorge. All the way up the track, Erenora refused to give her sister comfort.
Finally, Ripeka stopped Erenora. ‘Our sister was only trying to help,’ she said.
Relenting, Erenora cuddled Meri. ‘Why don’t you sing us a little poi song?’ She smiled, unloosed the poi from Meri’s belt and put them in her hands.
Meri looked at the poi. She was wan and reluctant but then her spirits lifted at having been forgiven and she began to sing a song, tap tap tap, tap tap tap:
‘Titiro taku poi! Rere atu rere mai! Look at my poi! It swings up and it swings down! Aren’t you lucky, Meri, to have sisters to rescue you?’
The sisters crested the Ngaio Gorge. From the top they beheld the harbour below and, encircling it, the city.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Empire City
1.
What were Erenora’s thoughts on seeing Wellington, Whanganui-a-Tara?
In her manuscript she wrote, ‘Such a large kainga! On first glimpsing the city I truly realised the great and overpowering might of the Pakeha. So confident were the citizens of its mana that they had built it without walls or other fortifications to protect it.’
Erenora’s recollection invokes another thought:
Remember the Gustav Doré engraving, The New Zealander from London, 1873? For English men and women, New Zealand was no longer regarded as an outpost of England at the very edge of the British Empire. Could the New Zealander in Doré’s engraving, come to look at a decaying London, have been a Wellingtonian? Was a ‘new’ London being built in the southern land among green and pleasant hills?
No wonder that, from the comfort of their armchairs, the English upper and middle classes could look with pride to Wellington, where British civilisation had begun anew.
They called it Empire City.
The three sisters arrived at Kaiwharawhara just as night was falling. The marae was crowded, and a camp of tents and makeshift huts spilt onto the beach where groups of Maori huddled around campfires.
Erenora immediately sought out Rupi, whom she found in the community kitchen. ‘My name is Eruera,’ she said.
Rupi didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Kia ora, boy,’ she answered. ‘So that good for nothing nephew of mine, Aperahama, told you to come here, eh? It’s usually his runaway girlfriends he sends for me to take care of! Ah well, we may be full up but room can always be found for three travellers from Parihaka. Eat with us and, later, you and your sisters can sleep with me and my w’anau.’
The sisters sat down to a meal of home-baked flour bread and broth. Some people, recognising the feathers in Ripeka and Meri’s hair, came to greet them. ‘Aue, we are all refugees,’ they said. ‘Even here in Wellington, ever since the Pakeha came in 1840 with his deed of purchase, we have been gradually forced out. His is the great white tribe who owns Whanganui-a-Tara now.’
Afterwards, Rupi took the sisters to her family tent on the beach. ‘Put your blankets next to ours,’ she said to them. She introduced them to others sitting at one of the nearby fires. ‘You’, she said to Ripeka, ‘can have a place near the fire.’ She muttered angrily at some who had already taken the privileged position.
Embers from the beach fire burnt tiny holes in the dark. The evening was cold but there was no wind. The moon, shining full in the sky, was reflected in the water. Looking at the sea Erenora wondered, How will my sisters and I get across Cook Strait to Te Wai Pounamu? She began to get a headache, thinking about it. Sometimes a problem, like a knot, took a long time to untie and solve. Meanwhile there was a more pressing difficulty: seeking information at Mount Cook Prison about Horitana, Paora and Riki. The question soon attracted voluble opinions from the refugees at Rupi’s campfire.
‘Political prisoners aren’t allowed visitors,’ said one.
‘No matter how long you wait at the gates, you’ll never be allowed in,’ said another.
‘And if you get inside the prison,’ said a third, ‘how do you know the guards will let you out?’
The overall view was that the venture was hopeless. ‘Don’t listen to them,’ Rupi scoffed. ‘You should place yourself upon the mercy of one of the Maori members of Parliament.’
‘Te Wheoro?’ Erenora asked, her interest stirring.
‘He’s the member for Western Maori, isn’t he?’ Rupi answered grumpily, as if Erenora should know. ‘Go and see him tomorrow morning.’
A vigorous debate began about how difficult it was for Te Wheoro and the other Maori parliamentarians to represent Maori interests in Te Paremata o te Pakeha. Was it their own fault if, in advocating for Maori, some members believed that survival lay in Maori turning to Pakeha ways? After all, if Maori efforts to maintain tino rangatiratanga had so far failed, what other option was there?
‘Aue,’ Rupi said eventually, breaking up the korero, ‘the night is growing late. So you’ll go to see Te Wheoro?’
‘Yes,’ Erenora answered. ‘Thank you for suggesting him.’
Rupi looked around smugly. ‘Everybody around here knows that if you have a problem, Rupi will fix it! Why do you think Aperahama sent you to me?’ She roared with laughter, pleased with herself. ‘But you,’ she added, looking at Ripeka, ‘you should stay behind tomorrow.’
Ripeka coloured. ‘No. Where one goes, we all go.’
Rupi’s remark puzzled Erenora. ‘Why is the kuia so concerned for you?’ she aske
d Ripeka.
‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged.
The next day, Erenora had forgotten the matter. She and her sisters set off for Te Paremata o te Pakeha.
2.
‘My sisters were dazed at the marvellous sights and, although I was in a hurry to get to Parliament, Ripeka pestered me, “Please, Erenora, can we look at the shops?”
‘Of course Ripeka’s reason was so that she could look at the fashions in the windows. However, I did not think that a small detour along Lambton Quay would be amiss. “Very well,” I said.
‘Well! I had completely forgotten that Christmas was coming. The street was crowded with citizens pointing at the Christmastide displays: holly and ivy, sparkling decorations, scenes of families skating on ice or riding sleds through the snow. It was like another world, so entrancing. I thought to myself, Never will New Zealand be a place where, during our hot summers, snow will fall! Then I noticed that our presence among the festive crowd, all dressed in gay apparel, was being remarked upon. ‘‘Don’t linger,” I said to Ripeka and Meri, as they tarried too long before a department store display. Ripeka had stars in her eyes, daydreaming about a particularly lovely gown of purple silk into which she could never have fitted.
‘It wasn’t long, however, before some of the revellers took exception to our passage through their fair city. You might have thought that good will to all men would prevail but some ignorant individuals, clearly affronted by our presence, wrinkled their noses and challenged us, “What are you doing here?” And when, at the corner of Willis Street, a dowager shook her umbrella at us and said, “Be off with you!” that was the last straw.