Isle of Tears, page 22
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.
She had no one left now but the twins. She would find them, and she would make them safe.
Realizing that Tarawa was watching her, Isla deliberately turned her back, feeling ashamed of her discourtesy and ingratitude, but knowing that even a touch from the older woman’s hand might breach the barricade she needed to have around her.
Tarawa watched Isla walk away and her heart ached for her. Seeing her cut off her beautiful hair had been a hard thing, but she understood the girl’s desire to demonstrate the depth of her mourning. It had not taken away her beauty, though, if that had been her aim. Her hair was very short now; it sat out around her head in a pale gold corolla, like the halo Tarawa had once seen adorning the head of an angel in the Roman Catholic priest’s Bible. And her startling blue eyes were huge in her thin face, making her look just like one of the patupaiarehe, the fair-haired fairies whom Tarawa’s mother used to tell stories about.
The girl’s heart had stopped, though; not enough to kill her, but enough to prevent her feeling. And Tarawa thought that that might be a good thing. Tarawa knew that Isla had lost her mother and father, and recently her brother, and she suspected from the faint marks on the girl’s breasts and belly that not so long ago she had given birth, but there had been no mention of a child. And now her husband had also been taken from her. Her path from here would be long and arduous, Tarawa knew, but she felt the girl had the fortitude to walk it.
Isla lay flat on the mat in the whare, staring at the rafters as the tohunga ta moko drew the pattern onto her chin, then readied his tools. Tarawa, Parani and Korihi were nearby, intoning the karakia that would ease the pain of the procedure; Tarawa with one hand resting comfortingly on Isla’s ankle. When the tohunga made the first quick, sharp blow of the mallet against the chisel, Isla didn’t even blink: the jarring pain was excruciating, but she was grateful for it and took refuge in it.
He worked quickly but surely; first, opening the skin with a broad chisel for the straight lines and a smaller one for the curves, then going back with another to apply the charcoal. Isla’s chin and neck ran with blood, the tohunga briskly wiping it away and moving on to the next line. By midday, half of the design had been completed and Isla was given water but no food. Tarawa asked if she was able to bear the pain.
‘Ae, it is no worse than…other things.’
Tarawa nodded, knowing what Isla meant.
When the tohunga had finished his work, he smeared Isla’s chin with a heavy salve and told her how to care for the wounds. She would be tapu until the scabs dried and fell off, and he recommended that she remain at Kaputerangi until that happened.
Isla’s heart sank. ‘I cannot. I need to be on my way before then.’
‘Well,’ the old man said as he began to clean his tools, ‘I cannot be responsible if your wounds become dirty and your blood is poisoned. You will die then, out in the forest alone, and your brother and sister will never know what has happened to you.’
Isla glared at him, but he did not look up. He was deliberately manipulating her fears and she knew it. Nor would Tarawa meet her eye.
Isla spent the next six days working in the gardens by herself, as her state of tapu meant that she could not be in company. When the last of the scabs had come off, with only a little bit of picking on her part, she put down her ko and went to find Tarawa to tell her that she would be leaving in the morning.
A small crowd gathered at the pa’s main gate to farewell Isla. Prince had been well fed during his break at Kaputerangi, and was fidgeting and tossing his head in anticipation of stretching his legs.
Isla, dressed in the dead soldier’s trousers and jacket, said her goodbyes, saving the last one for Tarawa.
‘Thank you for welcoming me to Kaputerangi, and for looking after me. I know I have not been easy to put up with. I appreciate it.’
Tarawa gave her an enveloping hug. ‘Do not worry about that, e hine. We have been honoured and we will all tell our mokopuna about the little patupaiarehe girl who once came to stay with us.’
Disconcerted to feel tears stinging her eyes, Isla furiously blinked them back. ‘I am not sure how I would have managed by myself.’
‘Oh, you would have managed, I have no doubt about that,’ Tarawa replied, squeezing Isla’s fingers. ‘And remember: Miripeka said that you hold your future in your own hands. I do not know what she meant, but I know you will make the right decisions when the time comes.’
‘I hope so.’ Isla climbed into the saddle. Looking down at Tarawa’s kind face, she said, ‘And you remember, Maketu is not very far from here. The British could arrive any day.’
‘And when they do, we will be ready,’ Tarawa replied defiantly.
By midday, Isla had ridden halfway around the harbour to where Tarawa had said the Scottish woman lived. She was half-hoping to come across her, to hear another Scots voice if nothing else, but the only Pakeha-style house she encountered had been abandoned. The hearth was cold and it looked as though no one had been there for weeks. Perhaps the woman had heard of the fighting at Maketu and fled.
The woman had a good crop of carrots in her garden, though, and Isla helped herself, rinsing them off under the house’s pump. She wondered what a Scotswoman was doing living all by herself way out here, but then she supposed that many might wonder what a Scottish girl was doing riding around the countryside alone wearing an imperial soldier’s uniform and a moko. She pumped some water into a bucket for Laddie and Prince, and when they had had their fill, moved on.
Isla had been hoping to reach Opotiki before nightfall, but knew now that she wouldn’t. She had at first thought it best not to ride across country as she didn’t know her way, and had been warned by Tarawa not to go too far inland lest she became lost in the Urewera mountains, the cloud-shrouded lands of Tuhoe, but the track wove around dozens of Ohiwa’s little inlets and seemed to go on forever. So, at the harbour’s most inland point, near the small settlement of Kutarere, she left the track and veered east through the bush, in the direction of Opotiki near the mouth of the Waioeka River.
She was halfway between Ohiwa and Opotiki when the sun began to set, so she stopped and found a place to sleep. She shared her meal of cold meat and kumara with Laddie, made sure that Prince was tethered next to plenty of grass, and settled down for the night beneath a shelter of branches, so tired she didn’t even dream.
Chapter Thirteen
What a way to spend my thirtieth birthday, thought Captain Robert Yale—slogging across miserable, godforsaken countryside in cold, grey drizzle, taking copious notes on every small river and stream, while at the same time keeping an eye out for belligerent natives. He had volunteered himself and his men for this reconnaissance patrol, but that had been when the weather was fair, and now he dearly wished he’d kept his mouth closed.
Up ahead his point rider, Private Collins, came crashing down the track, his horse lathered and snorting.
‘Sir!’ Collins shouted from twenty yards away, ‘Captain Yale! I saw Jensen’s horse!’
Robert Yale stopped walking. Jensen was the dispatch rider who had been found a week ago south of Maketu, dead and stripped of his clothes. His horse had also been stolen, and the contents of his dispatch bag rifled then burnt. ‘By itself?’ he shouted back.
Collins approached, then reined in. ‘No, someone was riding it.’ His mount wheeled overexcitedly, and Collins jerked its head back. ‘Too far away, though. I couldn’t see clearly.’
‘Maori or European?’
Collins thought about it. ‘Not Maori, I don’t think. And a boy, too. He looked pretty small.’
Robert scratched contemplatively at an itchy lump on his cheek. Bloody mosquitoes. A European boy, riding a stolen military horse? A European boy who had murdered an imperial soldier? He had been sure Private Jensen must have been killed by Maori. ‘Did you order him to stop?’
‘Yes sir, but he took off hell for leather. Had a mean-looking dog with him, too. Might even have been a wolf!’
Robert doubted that. ‘Well, get back after him, Collins! Shoot, if you have to. But not to kill. I want to question him about Jensen.’
Private Collins turned his horse and shot off up the track again, his mount’s hooves flinging up clods of mud in its wake. Five minutes later shouts echoed through the bush, followed by the retort of two musket shots. Robert and his men exchanged worried glances, then jogged off at the double after Collins. When they found him, he was lying on his stomach at the top of a bank, aiming his musket at something at the bottom of it, his horse grazing impassively nearby.
Collins glanced over his shoulder. ‘Sir! The bugger’s horse went over the bank! He’s down there taking shots at me!’
Robert signalled to his men to fan out along the bank, then cautiously approached the edge on his belly. Peering down, he saw a slight figure lying at the bottom, face obscured, pointing the muzzle of a carbine directly up at him. He ducked reflexively, then looked again. The boy was indeed European, if the fairness of his mop of hair was anything to go by. And the cheeky cove was wearing Jensen’s uniform.
‘This is Captain Yale of the British Army!’ he commanded. ‘Lay down your weapon!’
The boy fired the carbine again, and at the same time a snarling animal of some sort raced up the bank towards them, landing in their midst barking madly and startling the hell out of them all, then shot off into the trees. They heard it a moment later crashing back down the bank through the undergrowth.
‘Christ!’ Sergeant Wyman swore. ‘I nearly shit me trousers then!’
‘Shut up, Wyman,’ Robert ordered, and squinted down at the boy again. He didn’t want to shoot the lad, but he would have to if the lad didn’t surrender. He had no chance anyway, against twelve armed soldiers. And it looked as though he had been injured; his right leg below the knee appeared to be bent at rather an odd angle. Cupping his hands around his mouth to make sure the boy heard him clearly, he called, ‘I’m sending three of my men down. If you shoot, be assured that we will return fire.’
Below him, the boy seemed to slump.
‘Page, Bonham and Jones, go down and get him.’
‘What about that animal, sir?’ Page asked nervously.
‘We’ll cover you,’ Robert assured him brusquely. These men had faced several hundred extremely irate tomahawk- and shotgun-wielding natives at Maketu, and a boy’s pet dog was putting the wind up them. ‘And bring the horse up, too,’ he added. He could see it, grazing a short distance away upstream.
The three men slid warily down the bank, but the boy didn’t move. He didn’t even look up. The dog appeared again from the undergrowth. Robert could hear it growling, but it made no move to attack. ‘Hold your fire,’ he warned his men.
Page had almost reached the boy when the dog leapt, but not at Page. It landed astride the boy and stood there, head down, snarling menacingly.
Page looked up at his captain.
He didn’t know why, but for some reason Robert felt reluctant to order the dog to be destroyed. ‘Approach very slowly,’ he called. ‘Only fire if you have to.’
Bonham moved past Page, who was hanging back, and, very slowly, bent to raise the boy’s head. He stared in amazement for a moment, then called, ‘Bloody hell, sir, it’s not a boy—it’s a lass!’
Robert frowned, and exchanged puzzled glances with Sergeant Wyman. ‘Say that again?’
‘It’s a lass,’ Bonham repeated. ‘And she’s out cold!’
The dog growled again, and snaked its lowered head at Bonham, who hastily stepped out of range.
‘The leg!’ Robert called. ‘Is she injured?’
Jones peered past Bonham and had a look. ‘Broken, sir, by the looks!’
Wearily, Robert rubbed his hand over his face. What was a girl doing wearing Private Jensen’s uniform and galloping about on his horse? Surely she hadn’t killed him? ‘Bring her up!’ he ordered.
Bonham eyed the dog and thought, You bring her up, Captain. But, as if realizing that they meant no harm now to its mistress, the dog stepped away, even though its hackles were still raised. Bonham lifted the girl’s head again, this time seeing the tattoo on her chin. She was a pretty wee thing, too. ‘She’s got one of them Maori tattoos on her face!’ he called. The girl moaned. ‘And she’s coming round!’
Robert nodded at his medic. ‘Corporal Calvert, go down and give her some laudanum. Enough to keep her out for a while.’
He watched as Calvert slid down the bank and administered the drug, lifting the girl’s head and holding her nose shut so she had to swallow. If that leg is as painful as it looks, he thought, she’ll be grateful for it. But even then, he noticed, she tried to bite Calvert’s hand.
They made a sling from a blanket and dragged her up the bank. Page followed, leading Jensen’s horse. The dog bounded up as well, although it stayed several yards out of reach, still emitting low, blood-curdling growls.
Robert crouched next to the girl’s motionless figure. Her leg was very obviously broken, although the bone didn’t seem to have come through the skin. She was fair-skinned, slender but quite womanly under the baggy jacket, and her hair had been brutally hacked off. Which was a shame, he thought, because what was left was a beautiful, silvery-gold colour. Her face was very pale, her closed eyelids almost transparent, and the tattoo on her chin looked very new. Was she one of these Pakeha-Maori he’d been hearing about? She couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen years old, for God’s sake.
He stood up. What was he going to do with her? She had to have that leg seen to, but technically speaking, because she had Jensen’s clothes, weapon and mount, she was a prime suspect for his murder. He could—he should—take her back to Maketu and hand her over to Major Colvile for questioning, but he was quickly realizing that he didn’t want to. Who was she? And what was she doing out here in the bush all by herself? Such a pretty, delicate little thing, yet before she’d passed out she’d been prepared to shoot it out with them, even with the pain of that injury. There must be some driving reason for her to do that, and he wanted to know what it was.
He reached into his knapsack, retrieved his maps and pages of notes and reviewed them. His orders had been to carry out a reconnaissance of the area between Whakatane and Opotiki, information that would have a bearing on future troop movements, and he had almost completed his survey. The girl needed urgent medical attention, whether she was a felon or not. If he turned back now, it would take them less than a day to reach the coast. The ship that he knew would be coming for them should arrive tomorrow, so they wouldn’t have long to wait. He and his men were due to return to Auckland after this reconnaissance; he would have the girl’s injury seen to aboard by the navy surgeon, then take her back to Auckland with him. If he learned anything useful from her pertaining to Jensen or Kingite activity in this area, he would send word to Colvile at Maketu.
