The Parihaka Woman

1.

‘Oh, valiant heart! Practise the art of forbearance!’

What, I hear you ask, of Horitana during all this time?

Imagine him cast into the deepest and darkest underground cavern, much deeper and darker than any cell in any castellated European fortress. Here, in a dungeon sculpted by nature, is a small stream, bubbling from some underground source. In the background are cold rocky slabs, seeping with moisture and covered in green moss. A flight of stone steps leads up from the cavern to a doorway. There’s a large iron grille in the doorway; it is the only source of light from the outside world. But the sun’s rays have not yet penetrated deeply enough, so Horitana stretches out his arms in entreaty:

‘Aue, e Atua! O God! Kua ngaro a’au i te Po! How dark it is! Aue ’oki te pouri o tenei Ao! How terrible this silence!’

Pity him: he looks half-man, half-monster, the mokomokai appearing to be welded into his neck. Long strands of hair escape from the bottom of the mask like tendrils and it is not so silver now; the salty air has pitted and dulled its surface sheen. As for Horitana’s body, although it is covered with a shredded blanket, you can tell that all the muscles have melted from it, leaving it skeleton thin; the skin is bleached, bleeding and ravaged with sores.

Although he is chained to a pole in the centre of the cave, Horitana is able to move to all its walls. His fingernails are long and curved, but some are broken. Over the years he has got to know well every nook and cranny, every crevice and protuberance. He has wrapped rags around his feet to stop them from being cut as he stumbles over the sharp gravelled floor; they are bruised and bloody where he has slipped and fallen. His toenails curl several inches long, and make it difficult for him to walk.

His sense of hearing is acute; so, too, his sense of smell. He knows that the cave is close to the sea. Even the mask can’t obliterate the salt in the air that pricks his nostrils, or the booming of the ocean when there are storms. Indeed, Horitana’s entombment in the sea cave is probably the reason why he has been able to survive. The foaming sea charges the air with oxygen; how gratefully he sucks the currents through the mokomokai’s salt-encrusted silver lips.

On many occasions the ocean has thundered all the way into the cave, and Horitana has had to cling to the pole as the freezing water has risen. Sometimes the waves have reached right up to the mokomokai, and Horitana has often felt tempted to let the weight of it bear him under. Why should he still live when he already wears the face of a dead man?

Indeed, he tried to drown himself once. He sank beneath the water, screaming, ‘Let me die!’ but, choking and spluttering in unconscious reaction, he found the will to live.

The mokomokai is a terrible burden on his shoulders. To gain occasional respite he lies down. At other times he leans against a rocky outcrop and, right now, has found a ledge that can bear the corroded rim. Again he raises his arms to an unhearing God:

‘Here in this void is my cruel ordeal! But Your will is just. E te Atua, ’omai koe to aro’a ki au. I’ll not complain; for You have decreed the measure of my suffering.’

Horitana is not always alone. Seabirds have sometimes found their ways into the cave and, so also, the occasional barking seal. His most constant companions, however, are tuatara, the small scaly reptiles that move slowly around him. He killed one once, stuffing it through the mouth cavity of the mokomokai — and then he wailed for forgiveness from its brothers and sisters as they suddenly disappeared from the cavern.

‘Come back!’ he cried. ‘Come back!’ He realised they were the only living things that kept him company. After a while, they forgave him, skittering closer and closer.

He opens his manacled arms and sings to them:

‘In the springtime of my life all my joy has vanished! Only truth and these chains are my reward. All my pains I gladly suffer; end my life in degradation; in my heart is this consolation — I have done my duty!’

A waiata addressed to tuatara? Truly this man, Horitana, is possessed of a rapture that borders on madness.

Suddenly the tuatara raise their necks, sniffing the air. They begin to cluster closer to Horitana, in the space where the sunlight will soon pour on him.

It is coming!

They start to clamber up the bony ladder of his breast, to the favoured place on his shoulders. They dig their claws into the parchment-thin skin, balancing one on top of another.

‘Plenty of room, my little ones,’ he chuckles.

And then … the sun.

The daily warmth of the sun and the changing seasons, these are the markers by which Horitana measures his imprisonment.

There are also the moments when his gaoler arrives. Every week, Horitana waits for the sound of footfalls and the squeak of the opening door.

Listen: even now the gaoler approaches.

‘Friend, kia ora,’ Horitana calls.

His gaoler remains silent.

‘Please talk to me?’ Horitana pleads. ‘All this time, and not one word do you give from one human being to another? Have mercy, korero mai, let me hear the sound of another human voice.’

There is only silence. Only blackness. And then comes the sound of the winch as Horitana’s food is lowered down to him in a bucket. Sometimes there is also the swish of an extra blanket falling; the gaoler is not without kindness.

With a sigh, Horitana shares the food with the tuatara. Why do you think the colony has stayed with him? He is a generous master and lord of their domain.

‘Te rangatira o nga tuatara a’au,’ he sighs to himself. ‘Behold, I am the king of the tuatara.’

The thought appeals to him and he begins to laugh and laugh, the sound echoing, chilling, finding no way out.

1.

‘Just before dawn,’ Erenora wrote, ‘I made my way to the port. The Anna Milder was moored beneath a dockside crane. Captain Demmer was watching the stevedores at their work. They had already loaded most of the provisions on board, mainly sufficient fuel supplies to keep the lighthouse operational for three months and food provisions for the same period.

‘I introduced myself to the captain. “I’d been told you were just a young ’un,” he said. “Lad or no, you’d best supervise the loading quickly and don’t take any nonsense from this lot.”

‘The stevedores had already loaded a pony trap and, as the sky turned turbulent red, I saw a frightened Shetland pony being hoisted on a winch from the crane. He was kicking and struggling in mid-air. I shouted to the men, “Wait.” They were all standing on the dock but not one of them was on the Anna Milder to guide the poor creature down. I ran towards the deck and saw that there was a makeshift holding pen. I stood on the railings and motioned to the men to swing the pony out further, and then down — and he came to rest in the enclosure. Even when safely within, however, and despite the presence of bales of hay, the pony still bawled with fear. Quickly, I took off my neck scarf, tying it around his eyes as a blindfold. I was relieved that, after a short while, he calmed down.

‘“You’re the dark young bugger got the job with the German?” one of the stevedores asked. When I answered, “Yes”, he thrust the bill of lading at me and said, “Be so good as to check that all provisions is aboard so me and the mateys can be off. The German’s paying us little enough as it is, and fucked if we want to stay any longer than’s required.”

‘I saw Captain Demmer looking at me, wondering how I would handle this. I knew he was doubtful of my abilities. “Don’t let them pull the wool over your eyes, lad,” he called.

‘The stevedores thought I was ignorant, but they did not reckon with my mission education: six barrels of paraffin oil, some bales and sacks of food, equipment and three boxes marked “Miscellaneous” were not accounted for. “You thieving arseholes,” I said, “I’ll not have the master short-changed.” I saw a lighter next to the Anna Milder and, despite the stevedores’ cries of protest, stepped aboard and spied the missing items. “Put these back where they belong,” I commanded, “or I’ll have the wharfmaster onto you all. You’ll get no pay until the job’s completely and honestly done and, if it isn’t, don’t expect any other captain to employ you.”

‘I heard a chuckling sound. Unbeknownst to me or the stevedores, a carriage had arrived dockside. In it was Rocco and, beside him, a very pale young girl all wrapped in furs against the cold. She was wearing a pretty hat and scarf, and her hands were in a warm muff.

‘‘‘Papa! Papa!” she said with delight, pointing at the Anna Milder. “Ist das mein Pony?” Her voice was light, lilting, and her words came out in a breathless rush. “Du hast es schließlich doch gekauft und den Wagen dazu. You bought him after all, and a cart too!”

‘Rocco alighted from the carriage. Captain Demmer said to him with easy familiarity, “The lad is earning his keep, Herr Sonnleithner.” Rocco appraised me critically, nodded and then turned on the stevedores. He spoke in rapid and guttural German, cursing them for being varlets, rogues and vagabonds, and they quailed before his wrath. “Eruera, confirm the inventory again,” he said. “Are all provisions on board?” He noticed the boxes marked “Miscellaneous” and gave a look at the young girl in the carriage; she smiled. “Yes, the bill of lading is now complete, mein Herr,” I answered. Rocco nodded, “Good. Tell these good for nothing oafs to be off and that their money is waiting at the hotel.”

‘Rocco turned his attention back to the girl. She had a trunk and hatbox which I brought aboard the Anna Milder. Then Rocco picked the girl up in his arms and carried her to where I was standing on the deck. “This is my daughter, Marzelline,” he said. He lowered her down into my arms.

‘His daughter? I could scarce credit it, so great was the difference. He was rough hewn but she was spun of fine silk.

‘“Der Jüngling,” she smiled. She was around sixteen, and her voice was lyrical and light. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, which is why her eyes by contrast seemed so clear and startlingly blue; I had never seen such a colour in all my life. Her face was framed by the pretty hat, so I couldn’t see her hair but I imagined that it would be the same colour as her eyebrows, silver blonde and blending into her skin, making her look somewhat hairless.

‘Flustered, I went to put Marzelline down on the deck. I was unprepared for her gasp of surprise and sharp instruction. “Nein, nein,” she said. She clutched me, as if she would fall.

‘I will never forget that moment as long as I live. Her long skirts ballooned as she slipped helplessly from my arms to the deck. Until that moment it had not dawned on me that she was crippled.’

2.

‘You stupid boy,’ Rocco snarled. He raised his hand and backhanded Erenora.

She fell to the deck but, hot-tempered, quickly got to her feet to defend herself against Rocco’s second blow.

Marzelline put up a hand to stop the fight. ‘It wasn’t the boy’s fault,’ she said to Rocco. ‘He wasn’t to know about my legs —’ she gave Erenora a smile ‘— were you, Jüngling?’ Then businesslike, she turned to Rocco. ‘Now help me to the cabin. Don’t you, the skipper and Eruera have more important matters to attend to?’

At her words, alarm spread over Rocco’s face. ‘Make haste, boy!’ he ordered Erenora. ‘Cast off the bowline!’ The stevedores were jeering — ‘I hope you sink to the bottom of the sea, Rocco,’ — but he ignored them. Once the vessel was free of the dock, he shouted to Captain Demmer to get under way. ‘I’ll not pay you more than contracted,’ he said.

It all happened so quickly; the Anna Milder soon making midharbour. ‘Why must we hurry?’ Erenora asked the skipper.

‘It’s a long sail, lad, and we’ll be battling the waves all the way,’ he answered. ‘We must get to Peketua by late afternoon otherwise it will be too dark and we’ll have to stand off the island until morning — and that won’t do Herr Sonnleithner’s temper any good. Nor my pocket, if his threat holds to pay only for the transportation, and not for the time taken.’

‘I was glad that we were leaving Dunedin behind. I had had enough of Pakeha cities and wanted only to be in the wilderness again. However, Rocco’s temper still stung my cheeks and I knew that I needed to confront him as soon as possible; I ruminated on how I could ensure he never hit me again.

‘For most of the journey, Captain Demmer sailed the Anna Milder close to the coastline, keeping it in sight and hugging it like a lover. Initially, I was forced to keep my wits about me because Rocco had me racing around the vessel checking that the ropes fastening the cargo were secure. Through a porthole I saw that Marzelline was having a grand time in her cabin, looking at herself in a mirror and modelling the lovely clothes she had bought in Dunedin. She had taken off her hat and her hair colour was indeed startling: a mass of silver-blonde curls like a doll’s. You could tell from the way Rocco looked at her that he adored her. Every now and then I caught his glance too, and I knew he was watching me.

‘I finally made my way to the Shetland pony’s pen. The poor animal was looking very sorry for itself. I saw a brush and began to apply it with even strokes and talk to the pony. “Looks like you and I might have to be friends with each other, eh?” To be truthful I was feeling sorry for myself too.

‘I don’t know how long after it was that I saw Marzelline coming along the deck. Rocco was remonstrating with her, “Where are you going? To talk to the boy? Ach, he is nothing.” Rocco wanted her to put on a hat to protect her skin but she shooed him away. She must have fitted herself with artificial limbs, which her long dress obscured; she was using crutches to balance herself. The deck was rolling and the wind was very blustery; I thought it would pick her up and she would be blown away like a delicate dandelion seedhead. I went towards her but she waved away my intentions to help.

‘“We’re both lucky, Eruera,” she said conspiratorially as I arranged a couple of bales of hay for her to sit on. “The three boxes you saved have all of Papa’s newly purchased books in them and three months’ supply of his favourite cigars. And in one of the barrels those men would have stolen, Schnaps!” She grinned, licking the perspiration that beaded her upper lip. “Papa would have been insufferable without reading material and without his cigars and alcohol but, pooh! he smokes in the cabin while he reads, and so drives me out.”

‘Marzelline had brought two apples. She gave one to the pony, which snuffled at the fruit and then gladly ate it. The other apple she polished and gave to me. “Here,” she said. “I am so glad you are young. All of Papa’s workmen have been so old.” She made a face, crossed her eyes and made her tongue loll slack from her mouth.

‘She made me laugh. At the same time, I felt a shiver of apprehension. I shouldn’t get too close to Marzelline or allow her to get too close to me.’

Flights of birds, some high, some low, skimmed across the sky.

Under Captain Demmer’s captainship, the Anna Milder forged on towards the south. The shoreline was spellbinding; truly Te Wai Pounamu was spectacular. Impenetrable forest and high ferns spread from the coastline upward to snow-covered mountain peaks. Sometimes there were wondrous waterfalls, pouring down the ravines, as if the land was still rising from the sea.

And seaward, the vista was just as breathtaking. Schools of dolphins rose to pace the vessel and, every now and then, the surface would boil with shoals of fish. At one point, a huge pod of whales jostled the Anna Milder, finally speeding along an ancient migratory trail towards the Antarctic. Further out on the horizon, sailing in the same direction, were other ships, their canvas billowing as they made for Bluff.

Then the weather changed. Although the voyage had begun in sunlight, by early afternoon the sky had clouded over, the wind had turned cold and the sea was mounting. A storm was coming: the swell was extraordinary, lowering the vessel and lifting it as if the ocean was gasping for breath.

Captain Demmer ordered Erenora to do the rounds of the vessel and when she reported back he muttered, ‘Good, she is nicely balanced as is and we can’t afford to have any cargo shift on deck when we go through the reef.’ He looked at the weather and gave Erenora a pitying glance. ‘This storm is a harbinger of winter, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be living close with Herr Sonnleithner. Don’t let him bully you.’

Suddenly the storm was upon them — violent winds and heavy rain. Erenora went to calm the pony and rig a shelter for him. Together they huddled beneath the canvas.

Then Erenora saw Captain Demmer waving to her. ‘There’s the reef and there’s the island,’ he yelled. ‘Heaven help you, lad.’

Far away, looming high out of gathering gloom was a circle of light, like a full moon with an aureole around it. Below it was something dark and massive and, for a moment, Erenora could have been looking at a gigantic taniw’a, with a jagged backbone and tail threshing the sea.

‘Yes,’ Captain Demmer nodded, ‘Peketua Island.’

3.

The waves were crashing against the ancient slab of the taniw’a’s scaly grey breast. Silhouetted in the darkening sky, the body of the beast thrashed and curved around a small bay, the tail studded with dangerous rocks.

‘Home,’ Erenora heard a voice yell in her ear. It was Marzelline, standing beside her, utterly fearless. ‘Isn’t it wunderbar?’ In preparation for landing she had changed into a seaman’s hat and cape. She lifted her face to the stinging rain and gave a wild Walküre cry.

The taniw’a’s eye transformed itself into the lighthouse’s lantern. The powerful beam played across a sea broken by the exposed sharp points of the reef; waves were foaming around them. ‘Don’t worry, lad, there’s a way through,’ Captain Demmer said. ‘What we have to worry about is on the other side of the rocks.’

Erenora saw what he meant. There was only a small gap in the taniw’a’s tail. Beyond was a glimpse of a quay. ‘You’ve got it easy,’ Captain Demmer continued. ‘You only have to brave the gap once.’ The sea was smashing against the tail but storming through the small space. He lined the Anna Milder up with the gap and waited for the breast of a tide to take them through. ‘As for me, I have to get in — and also get out.’

Captain Demmer never liked to wait. He felt the swell beneath the Anna Milder, went with the surge, ‘It’s now or never,’ and grim faced, spun the wheel and steered the vessel straight for the gap.

A man appeared out of the driving storm from a makeshift shelter on the quay.

‘Jack?’ Rocco roared at him. ‘Make the bowline secure, and now the stern. Danke.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ Jack answered, ‘the faster the vessel is unloaded the sooner I’ll be able to get away from this fuckin’ island.’

Rocco turned to Erenora. ‘Carry your mistress off the boat,’ he shouted. ‘Take her to the shelter.’ But Marzelline struggled in Erenora’s arms. ‘Nein,’ she said impatiently when they reached the quay. ‘Put me down. I will go the rest of the way to the shelter myself.’

Erenora lowered Marzelline onto the quay where she unstrapped her artificial legs; they would only slip in the rain. She pulled on heavy gloves and began to drag herself towards the shelter. When Jack came to help her she said something that sounded strange to Erenora: ‘No, Jack, it’s over.’ She saw that Erenora was eavesdropping and scolded Jack. ‘Go and help Papa,’ she said. As Jack shoved past Erenora he gave Marzelline a bitter glance.

‘I can’t keep the boat steady for too long,’ Captain Demmer yelled.

Rocco appeared almost superhuman as he and Jack threw bales, boxes and sacks onto the quay. Erenora hauled them over to Marzelline to pack tightly into the shelter. By this time she was standing, having strapped on her legs again. ‘Nur hurtig fort,’ she reproved Erenora. ‘Quicker! Quicker!’

Once that was done, the hard work of rolling the barrels of fuel up the gangplank began. A loud series of whinnies disturbed the work. ‘What’s that?’ Jack asked. The pony had broken loose from his ropes and was up on his hind legs, trying to get out of the enclosure. ‘Get the pony, Eruera,’ Rocco yelled. ‘Take him off before he jumps into the sea.’

The terrified creature baulked at the shifting boards beneath his hooves and Erenora had no other option except to ride him off the tossing boat. ‘Don’t do that,’ Captain Demmer yelled, ‘you’ll only get killed.’ But she leapt onto the pony’s back and grasped his mane. Then, leaning down to unlatch the enclosure, she yelled into his ears, ‘’aere!’

With a cry of fear, the pony clattered up the ramp and onto the quay.

Erenora leapt down and slapped the pony on the rump, ‘Good boy.’ He ran along the quay and into the darkness. Erenora knew he would seek shelter somewhere; she would find him later.

‘Now the pony trap,’ Rocco instructed.

Through the icy pellets of rain and squalling wind, Erenora manhandled the trap up the ramp. ‘I’ll take it now,’ Marzelline said, pulling it further into the shelter. Erenora joined Rocco and Jack in pushing the barrels of fuel onto the quay.

It seemed only a second before a warning cry came from Captain Demmer. ‘The tide’s turning,’ he shouted. ‘Get aboard, Jack!’ The sea was rushing out, and the Anna Milder was beginning to strain on the ropes that tied her to the dock.

Rocco pushed the last barrel ashore and sat on it, panting.

‘Where’s my pay, you German bastard?’ Jack yelled, aiming a fist at Rocco’s face.

The big German fended off the blow and pushed him away. ‘I’m a man of my word,’ he said, handing over a wet purse. ‘Every penny is there.’

Jack looked at Erenora before he boarded. ‘All yours, mate, and you’re welcome to it.’ Then he called to Marzelline, ‘I’d have stayed if you’d asked me.’

Rocco was laughing as he let go the lines. ‘Goodbye, Jack,’ he yelled.

The Anna Milder was scraping the bottom, but then a wave rushed in, buoyed her up and she managed to turn on the breast of the outgoing sea. ‘Curse you, Rocco,’ Jack said, ‘you and your stinking island.’

From out of the darkness Erenora saw Captain Demmer waving. Heaven help you, lad. Then the vessel disappeared, sucked out from the shelter of the quay into the stormy dark.

Exhausted, Erenora crouched on the quay, but it wasn’t over yet. Rocco spoke to his daughter. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course, Papa.’ She was soaked through to the skin but seemed undaunted by the rain. Her fair curls were plastered to her forehead. She gathered her skirts together and, aided by her crutches, began to stump up the steps to open the stone cottage on the hillock behind the lighthouse.

Rocco took up a sack and indicated to Erenora that he should do the same.

‘Follow your mistress,’ he said.

1.

From this point I have to confess something.

Throughout the first part of Erenora’s narrative dealing with the history and events at Parihaka, I was able to keep fairly close to the way she told it in her manuscript. Again, when Erenora and her sisters left Parihaka I have kept for the most part to Erenora’s record; my qualifications as a translator from Maori into English and an amateur historian were up to the task.

But I wasn’t aware that Josie had been looking over my shoulder and, well, she’s taken me to task. ‘There’s too much of yourself going into the kuia’s story,’ she said. ‘Sometimes the way Erenora says things sounds more like you than her and, well, that goes for the story she’s telling too. And some of the stuff about Piharo … You make him sound like a really bad piece of work.’

My darling Josie always goes straight for the jugular.

Josie’s observation has made me pause and think for a bit. I’ve come to realise that although I’m writing Erenora’s history I’m doing so, unintentionally, in a fictional way. But just as I’m not a professional translator and historian, I’m also not a novelist. Why then, have I begun to treat history as an ouija board, putting my fingers on a glass and hoping that the spirit will lead the glass in the right direction?

Lying in bed with Josie last night, I was silent. But I felt I had to defend myself, so I waited for her to pay me some attention. ‘All right,’ she said crossly, putting aside the book she was reading, ‘what are you brooding about now? Out with it!’

‘Can I just treat Erenora,’ I began, ‘and her story as if she were some person walking through history — as if history was a book? No! History is a living landscape and Erenora really lived and breathed. She cried, she laughed, she experienced every human emotion. What other way is there to honour her in my version of her manuscript than, therefore, to also imagine how she really was emotionally?’

I pressed home my argument. ‘Can I just treat Erenora factually? No! And Piharo, he was worse than I’ve written him! He was a sadist, but I didn’t want to demonise him in the same way as Pakeha did Te Whiti and Tohu.’

Josie sighed, and I thought I had won, but when she picked up her book, I realised she was sticking to her guns. ‘Your role should be as a recorder,’ she said before she began reading again, ‘not as a creator — or editor, for that matter.’

My darling is like this: stubborn, pedantic, won’t let me hang one on her.

From this point onward, however, Josie will be happy — or happier.

Some years ago there was a development that lessened my need to involve myself so much in my ancestor’s story. Remember that I told you our family’s information about Erenora came from the unpublished manuscript in the St John’s archives? Unfortunately, from the point where Erenora goes to Peketua Island, the manuscript was fragmented. We know that once upon a time she’d written an entire and full account — the binding proves it, with bits of the lost manuscript still attached — but, aue, most of the pages in the final quarter were missing.

Then came a new and surprising source of information that helped me to join the dots, as it were. This has lessened my propensity to imagine what happened and exacerbated my, well, penchant for creativity in fleshing out the characters involved.

Let me take a few moments to tell you about it.

2.

A few years ago I said to Josie, ‘Why don’t we go for a holiday to the South Island?’

Of course, she knew what I was up to: another of the research trips I’d been taking during my retirement to try to expand on my information about the Parihaka prisoners while they were in Te Wai Pounamu, and about the lives of Erenora and Horitana.

Josie has always encouraged my amateur sleuthing. For one thing, it means another holiday in the campervan we bought especially for the purpose; I hadn’t realised that she felt so housebound when I was a teacher. For another, it provides her with the opportunity to bring along one of our ratbag mokopuna and show them the world, as well as to get them away from dope and gangs. This time we took along my son’s no-hoper, Tamati, and Josie gave him the job of driving us to Dunedin. How we got there in one piece, I don’t know. Josie should have known better than to offer the task to a boy racer.

Anyhow, my purpose in going to Dunedin was to follow up a lead on Rocco Sonnleithner. I discovered that there was a Donald Sonnleithner who lived in Maori Hill, a lovely established suburb overlooking the city. The surname was such an unusual one, I was sure there must be a connection. Rather than tell him I was coming — he might have said no — I decided to drop in on him. Maori do this all the time otherwise the person you’re visiting might sneak out the back door while you’re knocking at the front, thinking you’ve come to be paid back the money you lent him.

When we arrived in Dunedin, Josie immediately went to do some shopping for a nice warm coat, using the weather as an excuse. Tamati must have discovered some coven (or whatever) of boy racers, because he soon disappeared on me too. I decided that the walk would do me good so I made my way by foot to the address for Donald Sonnleithner listed in the telephone book. It was a good walk, almost an hour, and when I arrived I discovered a large two-storeyed Victorian building of the kind Dunedin is well known for: you’d call it a handsome house, built for a highly respected merchant family. Solid brick, with a pitched tiled roof and diamond-paned windows, it was understated but with just enough quality to indicate that, actually, it was a cut above the rest.

Nothing venture, nothing win, I thought as I opened the gate, walked along a pathway between attractive gardens and rang the doorbell — it seemed to echo for ages, as if tolling back through time, but that’s me again and my fanciful imagination.

Then, through the glass inset in the door I glimpsed the image of someone walking down the hall stairs … and I stepped back, suddenly embarrassed that I had come without making an appointment. But it was too late: the door opened and a man stood before me, about my own age and height, sprightly with an enquiring air. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

As soon as I saw him, I knew he was Donald Sonnleithner and that I’d come to the right place. His eyes were so blue.

I must say I was so startled by those eyes — so clear, so bright, so deep — that I had to pause, searching for words. ‘I’m sorry to call on you like this,’ I began, ‘but my name is …’

‘I think I know who you are,’ he said, raising his left hand to stop me, ‘or, at least, where you’ve come from. Are you from the Taranaki?’

I nodded, puzzled. How could he guess that?

‘I thought so,’ and he smiled, though as Donald told me later, he also had to regain his composure. ‘You must be a descendant of Eruera. Our great-grandmother, Marzelline, always said that one day someone from Eruera’s tribe might pay us a call.’ He opened the door wider. ‘Do come in.’

Since that time, Donald and I have remained in contact and we have become good friends. One day, he sent me a copy of Marzelline’s diary. Apparently, as for many young girls of her time, writing daily in it was a welcome pastime. It is from her strong, beautiful handwriting — in German, but Donald had translated it all into English for me — that I have been able to fill some of the gaps in Erenora’s own shredded manuscript.

Some, but not all.

The narrative will be as historically seamless as my talent can make it, but be warned that my loyalty may still compel me to repair and gloss over any cracks.

Not only that; I love my ancestor.

1.

Throughout the storm, Rocco and Erenora transferred the stores from the quay to the cottage.

‘Bring them through,’ Marzelline urged Erenora. It didn’t matter to the young girl that she was cold and wet, there was work to do.

Erenora barely had time to look at the interior as she ferried food — grain, molasses, lard, bacon, tea — from the quay to the pantry. Marzelline directed her where to put the other bales and boxes; Erenora marvelled at her energy and spirit as she methodically checked off the inventory.

‘Now go back and get the rest,’ Marzelline said, ‘especially the sacks of flour and sugar before they get wet.’

Once the food had been safely stored, Rocco wanted to deal straight away with the barrels of fuel. ‘I don’t want any to be washed away by the sea,’ he said.

‘Can you manage, Jüngling?’ Marzelline asked Erenora, her bright blue eyes shining with concern. She had finally taken time to remove her seaman’s hat and cape and to wipe the rain from her face with a towel.

‘Of course the boy can manage,’ Rocco muttered. ‘Come, Eruera.’

Lightning was crackling overhead as they braved the storm again. Erenora followed Rocco’s lead, rolling the barrels along the quay and hauling them up a few stone steps to the lighthouse. Rocco opened the door to a wide circular floor. ‘Stack the barrels around the walls,’ he ordered. ‘I am going aloft to check on the lantern.’

Erenora watched him ascend a circular staircase to the floor high above where the lighthouse’s huge lamp was blazing over the sea. Then she went out to collect the remaining barrels. On every return she could hear Rocco stamping overhead and the occasional guttural swearword as he cursed Jack.

‘Now go and find the pony,’ Rocco said when he came down.

Shading her face against the rain, Erenora saw that the pony had found shelter beneath a large tree near the beach. ‘There, there,’ she consoled the shivering beast. She shepherded him to the small wooden barn close by the cottage. A milking cow was already in one stall; Erenora manoeuvred the pony into the second. Seven laying hens, guarded by a fierce rooster, clucked in the bales of hay.

The pony was wet, trembling with fear and cold, and Erenora was rubbing him down when Rocco entered. ‘You sleep in the loft,’ he said. ‘It is comfortable and warm there and Jack will have left bedding for you. You take your meals in the cottage with me and my daughter. Tomorrow night you start your first shift as lighthouse keeper. Good evening.’

As Rocco brusquely took his leave, Erenora kicked him savagely in the back. The German turned to swing at her but discovered a butcher’s knife at his neck. ‘You’ve used physical force against me twice now, mein Herr,’ Erenora said. She knew if she didn’t take a stand against him now he would keep physically challenging her and, possibly, discover her secret. ‘Don’t do it again or I will stick you like a pig.’

Rocco looked at Erenora warily. ‘The Jüngling fights back? So be it.’

They were interrupted by Marzelline; she had changed into dry clothing and pinned up her hair. She hesitated, knowing something had occurred between her father and Erenora — but Rocco made light of it.

He looked at her and smiled, good humoured. ‘Eruera has just shown me he can look after himself.’

Marzelline nodded, ‘I’m glad, Papa.’ Balancing on her artificial legs and crutches, she had a pack slung across her shoulders. She put it down on a bale of hay, took out a large bowl and pitcher and began pouring steaming soup into the bowl. Then she took out two large pieces of bread from the pack.

‘That soup is not for Eruera, is it?’ Rocco objected.

Marzelline gave her father an impudent look. ‘I bring replenishment for the pony, Papa!’ she answered slyly. Her skin was shining, as if the storm had invigorated her. She whispered to Erenora, ‘You have done better than any of the others already.’ Then she turned to Rocco, ‘Come, Papa, get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.’

Later that evening, staring out of the loft window, Erenora saw the storm was abating and the moon leaping high into a cloud-streaked sky. Had she made the right decision? What if the rumours that Horitana had been imprisoned on an island were wrong? If so, she would be the prisoner.

Glancing at the lighthouse, Erenora saw Rocco silhouetted on an exterior balcony below the lantern. She left the barn, ran swiftly through the rain to the lighthouse and made her first ascent of the lighthouse stairs.

‘Show me what to do,’ Erenora said to the startled Rocco, ‘and then join your daughter for the night.’

‘I worked my first shift that very evening,’ Erenora wrote. ‘I intuitively realised that if I didn’t continue to take the upper hand, Rocco would ride me pitilessly morning and night. Better to get him to consider me, if not as an equal, at least not as an underling he could order around.

‘The shift took me through to an hour after dawn when Rocco came to wind the lantern’s operation down. You might have thought that he would be kindly disposed to me for having taken the initiative and worked on my first night on Peketua, but that was not in his nature. No, hard taskmaster that he was, he had me spending the day restacking the stores to his satisfaction. My only respite came when Marzelline took sympathy on me and brought me food again. “You must eat, Jüngling,” she said, wagging a finger. “If you don’t eat, how will you keep up with Papa?”

‘“Don’t call me Jüngling,” I answered. “There are more than ten years between us.” But Marzelline had already decided what and who I was, and she chose not to hear me.

‘It was not until a week later that I was finally able to take stock of my surroundings — the island, the lighthouse, my new employer and his daughter, and my strange circumstances …’

2.

I was finally able to take stock of my surroundings.

Aue, describing Peketua Island is a true test, but from the fragments of Erenora’s papers, and Marzelline’s diary, we can surmise some details of Erenora’s new world and build up a picture of it.

Of course the locational and topographical details of Peketua Island are well known. The name comes from the Maori god who was said to be the progenitor of all reptiles; he sculpted an egg out of clay and from it came the tuatara, Peketua’s physical form. The island lies at coordinates 46° 47’S, 169° 10’E. Its area is 5.1 square miles, comprising a small plateau — the ‘head’ of Erenora’s giant taniw’a — on which the lighthouse stood and a ‘body’ comprising a series of four hummocks each topped with a jagged pinnacle rising to the highest elevation of 240 feet. Although small, the island’s forested interior is difficult to access and, back then, it could not be traversed without difficulty. The quickest means of getting to the other side was in a small skiff with a much-patched but serviceable sail. Contrary winds made such a journey hazardous, however, and the best way was by foot, though walking was slow and meant having to negotiate jutting spurs and craggy cliffs.

As to the south-eastern side, where the lighthouse was, Erenora soon realised why its warning light was required. The outlying jagged rocks were scattered along the coast over a 5-mile stretch.

‘It was Marzelline who was able to connect the myth of the island with reality. When I told her that the island was named after the god of reptiles she clapped her hands and answered, “Then the reefs are like scattered egg shells when the island was born and the foaming sea their discoloured albumen.”

‘I laughed at her cleverness. Yes indeed, in the agony of its birth throes Peketua Island had literally exploded out of its egg and sent thousands of broken shards across the sea. How ever had Captain Demmer navigated his way through the rocks?’

And then there was the lighthouse, Rocco and Marzelline’s stone cottage — attractive in the daylight — and the small wooden barn close to it.

I don’t want to provide a treatise on lighthouses, but some background might be in order, and I hope you’ll indulge me as I’ve always been interested in these buildings. This fascination stemmed from the time when I was a young boy and my father, who liked comics, bought at the same second-hand store a small encyclopedia with highly coloured illustrations designed to enthral the young reader. Among the drawings were those of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World. Can you name them? The Pyramid, the Sphinx, the Great Library at Alexandria, the Colossus of Rhodes, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, pae kare, I can’t remember the sixth one, but the seventh was my favourite: the Pharos of Alexandria, built in 247 BC and 460 feet tall, according to my encyclopedia. Not only could the light be seen 30 nautical miles away but — and this really appealed to my boyhood imagination — its huge lamp could act as a ray gun and burn any fleets attacking Alexandria.

You can see my point, can’t you? From the very beginning of civilisation, lighthouses have been revered and regarded as important to humankind. They were very important to Pakeha when New Zealand was being discovered and colonised. Ships were the primary, and the fastest, means of trade, communication and immigration, but what a treacherous and hazardous coast. It’s hard to credit, but over 1,000 ships were wrecked in the first fifty years of colonisation; that’s, on average, twenty ships a year — imagine twenty planes crashing annually. No wonder that building lighthouses became a priority and that the first one was erected at the entrance to Wellington Harbour in 1848, only eight years after the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi. As for the lighthouse on Peketua Island, it was first lit nineteen years later, and its lantern was able to beam out to 20 nautical miles — not bad, eh. The lantern was fired an hour before dark and remained lit until an hour after dawn, but it also operated when mists or squalls affected visibility. To see a lighthouse, whether by night or day, was to know that a guardian was watching over your progress:

‘I am here, pass by in safety.’

I like to imagine Erenora on duty at the lighthouse.

Snatching moments from her work, I picture her during the evenings going out onto the platform. She must have experienced some of her most sublime moments looking at that vast seascape, the stars above the ocean stretching into blackness. And during the days, peering through the telescope on the platform, she would have spied ships squeezing through the gap between sea and sky. They bucked through the waves, giving wide berth to the rocks and passed into the haze of the horizon.

Sometimes, when Rocco was not watching, she would swing the telescope landward.

If Horitana was here, where would he be imprisoned?

3.

‘Rocco kept me so busy that I scarcely realised that three weeks had gone by. He was a tough taskmaster and he insisted on maintaining a daily routine.

‘Most mornings, for instance, I was awakened by Marzelline’s girlish laughter, “Papa, let me walk!” I watched from the window as, instead, Rocco carried his daughter down the steps from the cottage to the quay. He would seat Marzelline on the edge and, dressed in a voluminous bathing costume, he would leap into the freezing sea. Briskly he splashed around, blowing and puffing like a sea lion. Then he invited Marzelline to jump down into his arms. No matter what the weather, this was their regimen, their daily constitutional.

‘There was a bell affixed to the doorway of the cottage and at 7.30 Marzelline would ring it for breakfast, “Eruera? Komm!” The kitchen was her domain and she cooked all the meals. She refused to let Rocco or me help her as she moved from kitchen range to dining table, ladling porridge or serving tea. Sometimes she was on crutches and other times she was in a wheelchair, always talking to herself. “Be careful now, Marzelline,” she would mutter, “don’t spill the milk! Oh, what a careless girl you are,” she would cry, “you forgot to slice the bread!” I marvelled at her dexterity, though sometimes it failed her. Once I made the mistake of kneeling down to pick up a plate she had dropped. “No, Eruera,” she pouted. “Your place, your job, is the lighthouse. My place, my job, is the kitchen.”

‘Following breakfast, Rocco spent most of his morning in the lighthouse. He liked to take the responsibility of maintaining the mechanism that rotated the lantern and refuelling the sixteen small paraffin oil lamps, each with its own lens, which turned inside. “If things go wrong while you are on duty,” he said to me, “I have only myself to blame and I will not feel inclined to hit you — and invite you to hit me back.” Rocco always had a list of other chores for me to do: keeping the interior of the lighthouse tidy, milking the cow, collecting and chopping firewood and fetching water from the well. The island was fortunate in having fresh water from an aquifer, an underground layer of water-bearing permeable rock.

‘We were always busy in the mornings, even Marzelline, who had a little garden at the front of the cottage for flowers, and a vegetable garden and apple tree at the back. I liked watching her as she sat on a small cushion, pushing herself along the rows and weeding the potatoes, carrots and other vegetables. She was particularly proud of a windowbox where she carefully nurtured the aromatic herbs with which she seasoned our meals.

‘Sometimes, rather than lay out lunch in the cottage, Marzelline would ask me to help her take a basket of food and drink to Rocco at the lighthouse. “Papa? Papa!” she would call, until he appeared on the platform. “Is that my Rapunzel?” he would laugh, forgetting that I was there to eavesdrop on their intimacy. “I let down my hair!” He had constructed a pulley system from the platform with a chair on which Marzelline could sit and be raised to the top.

‘Over lunch of cheese, sausage, bread and drink, Marzelline and her father would chatter away and often they played board games or read. Once lunch was finished, Rocco would rest: sleeping or reading or relaxing with one of his cigars. As for me, I took up fishing from the skiff that was moored at the quay. “Look, Papa! Eruera caught another fish!” Marzelline would exclaim when I arrived at the house with my catch. I think Rocco was jealous that I was such a good fisherman but, to be truthful, the island’s waters were so plentiful that anybody with a hook and line could catch something.

‘Sundays were special days. After lunch Rocco dressed in black coat and white shirt, and Marzelline joined him in the sitting room where they read to each other from the Bible. Come the evening, we would have dinner early in the cottage and, an hour before dark, Rocco lit the lantern and stayed on duty until midnight.

‘Then he would come and wake me. “Eruera! Boy! Do not let the lantern go out or it will be the worse for you.”’

Although the pony had been broken in — Marzelline christened him Napoleon — one of Erenora’s first duties was to make him amenable to the harness and trap. He was not a large animal, but Rocco appeared to have an antipathy to horses. ‘You do it,’ he said to Erenora.

There was a long sandy beach on the other side of the quay. On the first day of training, Erenora introduced Napoleon to the harness while Rocco and Marzelline watched from the hillside. When Erenora placed the harness on the pony’s back he recoiled; pulled across the sand, Erenora hung onto the reins for dear life.

Over the next few days, Erenora tried the harness on Napoleon again and again without success. ‘What if the pony won’t submit?’ Marzelline asked her father.

Rocco gave Erenora a strong glance. ‘Eruera will do it,’ he told her.

It was only a matter of time, especially when Erenora had a brainwave. She took Napoleon into the surf and hitched the trap to him there. The water level was up to the axles and, this time, the pony couldn’t bolt. He gave Erenora a withering, defeated look: unfair.

‘Can I drive him now?’ Marzelline asked. ‘Can I, Papa?’

Rocco lifted her into the seat. When he and Eruera went to walk beside the trap she set her chin with determination. ‘Nein. I go by myself,’ she muttered, as much to herself as to them. With that, she sent the pony trotting down the beach.

Watching her, Rocco looked at Erenora and spoke gruffly, ‘If ever my daughter wanted to go further than the cottage I always had to carry her,’ he said. ‘Now she can ride to the end of the world.’ It was the closest to a thank you that Rocco had come.

The next Sunday, Erenora pressed home her advantage. After lunch, Rocco and Marzelline settled down to reading their Bible to each other. ‘May I join you, mein Herr?’ Erenora asked.

‘I thought you Maoris were heathens,’ Rocco answered, astonished.

‘I was brought up by Lutherans like you,’ Erenora said.

Rocco paused, thinking.

‘Oh please, Papa,’ Marzelline teased him. ‘I get so tired of your droning voice!’

Rocco tried to look disapproving but, eventually, he frowned and nodded his head. ‘But I am master,’ he said to Marzelline, wagging a finger, ‘you are mistress — and Eruera is our servant.’

‘Not in the eyes of God,’ Marzelline said.

And that was that.

4.

‘And so,’ Erenora wrote, ‘ my relationship with Rocco settled into a better pattern of acceptance.

‘He even trusted me enough to pull one of his teeth. I had to use two sets of forceps and he battled me all the way and, at the end, he lifted his fist! And he also began to trust his daughter to me on occasional afternoons. Sometimes when he was resting, I prepared Napoleon so that Marzelline could drive the trap along the beach. “Is that all right, mein Herr?” I would ask. And Marzelline would confront him, “It had better be!” She soon became more adventurous, forcing the pony up the sand dunes into rock caves. One day I forgot she was crippled and chastised her, “You try to walk before you can run.” We both laughed at my innocent remark.

‘Soon afterwards, the ease into which Marzelline and I had grown was illustrated when she asked, “Eruera, would you help me from the trap? I think I will go for a swim.” The day was dull and the breakers were surly, but Marzelline wasn’t deterred. To speak plainly, I suspect she desired physical contact: she had an affectionate heart and loved to have me swing her down onto the sand — “You’re so strong, Jüngling!” On that occasion, Marzelline was wearing her artificial legs but, as she undressed to her underclothing, she nonchalantly took them off in front of me; they were kept on by a tight girdle around her thighs. She unwrapped the bandages from the stumps and, looking at me, said, “You can touch them if you like.”

‘I did not take up Marzelline’s offer. I felt a slight sense of unease. We belonged to different worlds and this offer of intimacy was dangerous.

‘She began to prattle on. “You know, people feel sorry for me but I’m not sorry for myself. After all, I don’t know what it’s like to have legs, this is all I’ve ever known. I only wish …” she bit her lip and her eyes welled with tears “… that I wasn’t such a burden to Papa.”

‘“A burden?” I asked, astonished. Anybody could see that her father worshipped her. His eyes were always upon her, watching her every movement with undisguised wonder.

‘With a cry of self-pity Marzelline propelled herself savagely through the surf. She went so far out into the waves, as if she wanted to drown herself, that I leapt in after her.

‘“Oh, Eruera,” she sobbed as I carried her out of the water, “don’t you understand? Papa gives up his own life for me! Everything, for me! He buries himself away from the world just for me!”

‘She held onto me so tight, and there was such strength in her arms, as if she never wanted to let me go.’

‘Perhaps it was Marzelline’s self-pity that propelled her questing spirit. Wilfully, she wanted to prove to her father that he did not always have to look after her.

‘There was a path from the cottage along a steep cliff-face. One day while we were out on the cart, despite my entreaties she forced Napoleon to mount the path. When we got to the top, the view was breathtaking. But Rocco had witnessed the ascent, and a light began to flash from the cottage: Return immediately.

‘When I delivered Marzelline to the house, he was furious. “Didn’t you see how dangerous the path was, you stupid boy?” he shouted. “And you, daughter, you went too far. You could have been killed.”

‘Marzelline stood her ground. “Papa, you must let me grow up,” she said with determination. “You can’t always tell me what to do and where to go.”

‘That started a fierce argument, the patriarch trying to impose his will on his daughter and Marzelline rebelling against him. I couldn’t follow all their rapid German but at the climax of their altercation Marzelline screamed at him, “And what happens when you die, Papa? How will I manage to survive if you don’t allow me to find my own independence?”

‘The thought shocked Rocco so much that he paled. In vain entreaty, he put his arms out to her.

‘“No, Papa,” she said. “No!” and she pushed him away.’

1.

The first month drew to an end, with winter closing in. Erenora had kept close watch on Rocco, waiting for him to disclose another role, as gaoler on Peketua Island. While out with Marzelline, she had also made quick searches along the immediate beach to see if there were any secret places a prisoner might be kept. But Rocco’s anger when Marzelline had taken the cliff path with Napoleon had put paid to any wider search.

If Horitana was here, where was he?

Finally, with great daring, she decided to raise the subject at supper.

Rocco mocked her. ‘Me, a gaoler for some secret prisoner?’

Erenora almost believed him.

‘Then one day,’ Erenora wrote, ‘ Marzelline drove Napoleon at a fast canter along the beach to the very end.

‘Although there was a spur that blocked any further advancement, there was also a short tunnel to the other side. Most times the sea was too high to allow you to go through it but, on this particular day, it was a very low tide — down to only a couple of inches of water.

‘Marzelline was feeling impatient that day. She was looking particularly pretty and tossed her curls, saying, “Ach, Eruera, don’t you think that sometimes our world is too small?” She was still chafing at the limits her father placed on her independence, and I was cross with her that we had gone so far. “I’m late for my shift,” I said. Pouting, Marzelline turned the trap homeward.

‘We were making our way back to the cottage when, in the distance, there was a flash from the clifftop. Marzelline took out her mirror and replied. “It’s only Papa,” she said. “He hasn’t waited for you. He’s started his long nature walk. He must trust you, Eruera.”

‘I was instantly alert. “Where does he go?”

‘“Once a week he walks to a special place on the other side of the island to watch the seabirds. He likes to look at the birds, the penguins, seals and sea lions — they’re all of intense interest to him.” Then she pursed her lips and watched until Rocco had disappeared. “Good,” she said, “the mice can play!” She looked back at the hole — it was still fairly close — and I could see her scheming. “Let’s go back.” She shook Napoleon’s reins, turned him around and uttered her wild warrior cry.

‘“No!” I shouted. What if we were trapped by the incoming tide? Or if the cart hit a submerged rock and threw Marzelline into the waves? “Don’t go any further,” I called, but Marzelline took no notice. The water sprayed around Napoleon’s hooves and the wheels of the cart, and then, through the hole Marzelline drove the cart. Quickly I splashed after her.

‘“What took you so long?” she laughed when I joined her. “Isn’t it beautiful on this side?”

‘“You could have been killed,” I answered angrily.

‘“Poor Eruera, I scared you.” Taking no further notice of me, she urged Napoleon out of the shallows onto the sand.

‘Ahead was a brackish lagoon separated from the sea by snags and ridged sandbars. It was the kind of place where the detritus of the ocean was brought by swirling currents. Trapped in a bowl made by sheer cliffs leaning against the sky, the currents had no option but to drop their rubbish: piles of driftwood, mainly, and the bones of a giant whale.

‘Marzelline drove Napoleon along the rim of the bowl until we came to a fall of rocks, caused by the eroding sea. “We’d better turn back,” I said to her. “The tide is coming in fast.”

‘She nodded, “Ja, mir ist sowieso langweilig. I’m bored anyway. Nur totes Zeug hier. There are only dead things here.” Then something caught her attention. She shaded her eyes and pointed at it. “What’s that?”

‘I was looking at her and I swear that the first time I saw the remains of the old wreck was when they appeared in her clear blue eyes. I followed the direction of her gaze.

‘The hulk must have been there for many years. It looked as if, once upon a time, it had had three masts. Driven by countless storms, it had been pushed against the cliffs and come to rest in the sheltered hook of the lagoon. Only the stern and part of the upper deck and upper gun deck were exposed; most of the wreck was skeletal or buried in water and sand. On the stern was some faded lettering:

‘“Oh,” Marzelline said, “it must have been a French ship.”

‘Vicomte de Bragelonne. I remembered the rumour about Horitana being held in the hulk of such a ship. Could he have been kept in the stern? I left Marzelline in the cart, then splashed swiftly through the shallow water to the hulk and clambered in.

‘“Eruera?” Marzelline called. She sounded petulant, as if cross that she couldn’t accompany me. I heard her encourage Napoleon to catch up.

‘First I searched the upper deck and gun deck, but it was silted up and awash with water. I then turned to investigate the great cabin at the stern. The floor had collapsed long ago and one side was completely exposed to the elements. Nobody could possibly have been imprisoned there.

‘Then I thought of Rocco — nature walking, once a week a long walk to the other side of the island while I am on duty — and my heart quickened.

Perhaps Horitana had been moved.

2.

‘I took Marzelline back to the cottage.

‘“Won’t you stay and keep me company while Papa is away?” she asked.

‘“No,” I answered. “I had best be about my other chores.”

‘She pouted a little but her moods were always mercurial. “Never mind,” she said brightly, “I’ll make you a lovely pudding for supper.” I left her humming in the kitchen and, with relief, set off at a run along the cliff path. The lighthouse would just have to look after itself.

‘The sky was pearly, washed with pink and purple. When I reached the top of the cliff I thought I’d lost Rocco: after all, he had quite a lead. Then, far off, I saw a faint flash of sun reflecting off the spyglass and realised that good fortune favoured me. I ran, moving fast to make up the time between Rocco and me. About twenty minutes later, perspiring heavily, I reached the spot where I’d last seen him and then, ten minutes later, I was just in time to see him strike purposefully north-west across the island. He must have been this way many times before: the grass was flattened, and he had chipped away scrub and branches to give him easier passage.

‘The physical characteristics of the other side of the island came as a revelation to me. There was a view over the stormy 7-mile passage that separated Peketua Island from the South Island. Oddly enough, the currents must have been as rough there as they were on the seaward side of Peketua. Their eroding force had created a coastline that had collapsed into a series of offshore pinnacles and sea stacks. Thousands of seabirds, obviously nesting there, wheeled above them.

‘Rocco came to a vent going down through a major fracture in the cliff; I presumed it had been created by some age-old volcanic activity. He sat there for a while, then began to look through his spyglass. I was disappointed: so he had come only to do some nature watching after all. But no, all of a sudden he began to carefully climb down a natural staircase in the cliffs. Then he disappeared.

‘I made my way after him to the rocky steps. I was tempted to follow him — but what if I met him on the way back? I decided I had to bide my time and come back another day.

‘But I knew, with certainty, that this was the island.’

1.

Do you want to see a photograph of Rocco and Marzelline?

It was given to me by Donald, and must have been taken about five years after the events I’m telling you about, when Rocco left the island and began an export business in Dunedin.

The photograph was taken for the Otago Daily Times. It shows Rocco as a successful merchant shaking the hand of the mayor and surrounded by employees of Sonnleithner Agricultural Supplies. He is a tall, solid man, with a very serious expression, and he has what was once called a mutton-chop beard — it covers most of his lower face. What is telling, I think, is the way the other men in the picture are standing: like the mayor, they’re not looking at the photographer but, rather, at Rocco. Certainly there’s a softness in his eyes, but he must have been a man whose authority was respected and admired. Judging from some of his public pronouncements that I’ve read, pompous though they are, he had made himself into a man of influence.

Marzelline is standing in front with her father. Her back is straight, and you can just see the walking stick on which she’s supporting herself. She looks as if she has taken a quick deep breath and instructed the photographer, ‘Take the photograph now, sir, in case I lose my balance!’ Despite the strain of maintaining the pose, Marzelline manages to look surprisingly composed, and both the camera and the man behind it are in love with her. They’ve organised a penumbra around her, bathing her in light. She is already other-worldly to look at, but the halo highlights her pale skin and the startling silver-blonde hair. Although the photograph is not in colour, you can tell that her eyes must indeed have been striking. And while all the men are looking at Rocco, his gaze is directed at her.

Marzelline is wearing the latest fashion, a beautiful floor-length light-coloured Victorian gown with a beaded bodice and sleeves; around her neck is a locket, tied high on her neck by a velvet ribbon. There are signs that in maturity she will incline to plumpness but at this moment she’s revealed as having an unusual and singular beauty. There’s something else too: a huge reservoir of strength.

Such a girl would indeed have the Walküre’s cry within her.

2.

How had Rocco and Marzelline come to be in New Zealand?

To tell this story, for which Donald supplied the background, I have to remind you that the dynamic imperialism which marked the New Zealand Company’s colonising zeal was not only attractive to pioneers of English, Scots and Irish extraction. By virtue of the company’s efforts in Germany, two parties of German migrants were attracted to settle at its second town in Nelson.

Most of the Germans in the first party originated from the Rhenish provinces and were led by entrepreneur John Nicholas Beit, with whom they sailed from Germany in 1842 on the St Pauli. Beit had purchased land at Moutere for the purposes of wine production. Unfortunately, their arrival in June the following year coincided with the so-called Wairau Massacre in which, for a long time afterwards, the Ngati Toa chief Te Rauparaha was blamed for murdering a number of prominent townsmen. The incident must have caused the German settlers great anxiety: they had been motivated by economic opportunity and deep idealism — among their number were four Lutheran missionaries of the North German Missionary Society: J.H. Trost, J.W.C. Heine, J.F.C. Wohlers and J.C. Riemenschneider. Of them all, the Reverend Wohlers became the best known, labouring among Maori in the south. The last-named was, of course, the same man who later left Nelson and became Rimene of Warea.

By the way, the second German party disembarked a year later, in September 1844. They were led by Count Graf Kuno zu Ranzau and, unfortunately, their arrival, too, coincided with disaster: the collapse of the New Zealand Company’s operations in New Zealand. Undeterred, and with better capital behind them, the immigrants established a small settlement named Ranzau and added their industry to the making of New Zealand.

Rocco Sonnleithner came to New Zealand on the St Pauli with his family; he was five when they landed. When his parents moved to Ranzau he went to the Lutheran school at nearby Sarau. His love of reading developed there but he was not a good student and drifted into engineering; he worked on bridge construction in the district.

A few years later Rocco met his wife, Lotte, and they married at St Paul’s Church in 1866. He could hardly credit his good fortune: although she was almost ten years older, a schoolteacher in her mid-thirties, she was regarded as a classic beauty. ‘What do you see in me?’ he asked her. She replied, ‘A good man, hard-working, who will make a good father.’ The truth was that Lotte had had many suitors but none had been considered suitable by her repressive, cultured and sophisticated parents. Rocco was her last chance.

Because Lotte had married against her parents’ wishes, there was a falling out. ‘You will either accept my husband,’ Lotte told them, ‘or that will be the end between us.’ Not even her pregnancy appeared to change her mother and father’s view of the marriage, so Rocco decided to leave Ranzau and seek his fortune on the goldfields of Central Otago. He tried to convince Lotte to stay with her parents in Ranzau, but she had had enough. ‘They have already turned their backs on us,’ she said.

Marzelline was born while her parents were panning for gold. From the moment Lotte and Rocco saw their daughter, they were struck by love for her. Lotte had the child she had always craved. As for Rocco, he never ceased to wonder that such a daughter could be the product of loins as rude and ugly as his.

3.

Let me go back to Erenora now.

‘As it happened,’ she wrote, ‘my intention to explore the place where Rocco had disappeared was both thwarted and, ironically, propelled by the arrival of the Anna Milder on its monthly visit. I was pleased to see Captain Demmer but I felt some frustration that time would be taken up with unloading the provisions that had come with him.

‘“How is Herr Sonnleithner treating you, lad?” Captain Demmer asked. I told him, “We’ve reached an accommodation with each other.” Even so, the captain made an offer, “If you want to come back with me, step aboard now.”

‘I shook my head. How could I do that? I was so near to discovering whether Horitana was here. Then Captain Demmer put a hand in his breast pocket and brought out an envelope. “I have a letter for you,” he said to Rocco. At the sight of its seal, Rocco’s face drained of colour.’

After the Anna Milder had been unloaded and made her way from Peketua Island, Erenora took a rest in the barn. When she looked into a mirror she saw that her hair was getting long and decided to cut it before dinner.

‘I was at this task when Marzelline found me. “Would you let me do it?” she asked, her eyes shining. “I trim Papa’s beard and what remains of the hair on his head. Please, Eruera, please!” She was so insistent that I said yes.

‘At the end of the haircut Marzelline gathered the tresses in her palms and brought them to her lips. “Mmmmn, your hair smells beautiful,” she said. Then, just before she left, she asked me a very strange question. “Eruera, do you think I am pretty?” In her voice was all the yearning for affirmation felt by a young girl who does not know that she is, yes, lovely. I wanted to say, “Yes, you’re pretty, Marzelline, and some day some fortunate young man will come along and take you away with him.” But before I could do that she gave a gasp of horror as if she had unmasked something about herself she had not intended — or was frightened that I might say something she did not want to hear. “No, Jüngling, don’t tell me!”

‘She opened the door and stumbled back to the cottage.’

That evening, at dinner, it seemed that everyone was agitated for one reason or another. Among the provisions landed was a very fine bottle of brandy. Despite Marzelline’s remonstrations — ‘Papa, wait until after dinner,’ — Rocco started drinking immediately after the Anna Milder left the quay.

By the time the meal had been served, he was already stupefied with liquor. He began to sing a drunken ditty.

Rocco was also smoking a cigar, waving it around in the air and sprinkling ash all over the food. In a temper, Marzelline pulled the cigar from his mouth and threw it out the window.

‘Du kannst gehen,’ she told him. ‘Geh! You can go, now, and smoke your stinking cigars in your lighthouse.’ She turned on Erenora, her temper overflowing with some imagined slight. ‘And you too, Jüngling, geh doch! I wish I’d never met you.’

The atmosphere was so strained that escaping it was a relief. Erenora went to the barn where, for want of something to do, she began to groom Napoleon. Afterwards, she climbed to the loft. From her window she could see the light in Marzelline’s bedroom and, on the lighthouse’s platform was Rocco, singing his drunken heart out.

Suddenly Rocco gave a yelp; the sound of a crash followed. Rushing outside, Erenora saw that Rocco had tripped and fallen on the platform.

Marzelline opened her window. ‘I don’t care if Papa is hurt. He can stay in the lighthouse for all I care.’ Slam.

Erenora sped to the lighthouse, climbed to the third storey and saw, with relief, that Rocco was okay. He had managed to sit up and when Erenora tried to persuade him to go inside, pushed her away. By now he was maudlin. ‘I don’t want you. I want my Liebling … meinen Liebling …’ He looked at Erenora and pulled her close. ‘My Liebling … such a beautiful baby …’ His breath was reeking with alcohol. ‘What happened to her was all my fault …’

Then Rocco told Erenora how Marzelline came to be crippled.

4.

Rocco was on top of the world.

He had been panning the Shotover River for a year, drawn to his particular claim by the story of two Maori who had found gold nearby. One was a renowned swimmer who dived in to rescue his dog on the opposite bank. Where the dog was, the Maori also found gold, and he took 300 ounces in one afternoon. The location was forever after known as Maori Point.

Rocco’s own pannings were not as substantial but they were sufficient enough for him to take a trip, every now and then, to Charlestown at nearby Skippers Canyon. There, the gold was weighed at the assayer’s office and a note issued for him to deposit in the bank. He wasn’t like other men, greedy for wealth; very soon he planned to sell the claim to someone else and take Lotte back to Ranzau. ‘Perhaps your parents will welcome us back, now that I am a man of means,’ he told her.

‘No, Rocco,’ she answered, ‘the fault was never yours. It was mine for choosing to leave them.’

Nevertheless, Rocco was determined to try for reconciliation with Lotte’s parents. After all, they had a granddaughter now.

Whenever Rocco went into town, Lotte always accompanied him. It was the middle of autumn, and Charlestown was loud and busy. Rocco was delighted at the price he was offered for his gold dust. He set about replenishing his supplies and joined a few other miners who were drinking at one of the pubs. When he rejoined Lotte, he was filled with love at her own delight: at the local dry goods store she had found some pretty fabric to make into a skirt for herself and a matching one for Marzelline. ‘And I found these for you, Rocco,’ she told him as she showed him two cigars.

Rocco saw that the sky was changing colour, blanched, as if it was about to faint. He had left their departure a little late. ‘We had better head home,’ he said. Marzelline was sleeping, so Lotte placed her in blankets on the buckboard and stepped up on the cart beside Rocco.

As they drove out of town, Lotte told Rocco, ‘I have a good husband and a lovely child. No woman could want more in her life.’ She threaded an arm in his.

It was a blessed afternoon and the trees were ablaze with red and golden leaves. Rocco, however, was somewhat disconcerted by the weather. The air had dried out, as if sucked of moisture, and the sky had now turned a virulent white. There was a lot of static in the atmosphere and even the two horses were becoming skittish.

It all happened so quickly. One of the wheels dropped off the cart; it tipped, dragging the rear axle, and Lotte almost tumbled out. She gave a little squeal and then a laugh, ‘What’s happening?’ She heard Marzelline crying. ‘Have you had a fright, Liebling?’ she smiled. While Rocco brought the horses to a halt, she climbed carefully over the seat to comfort her daughter.

The cart had come to rest on a bluff overlooking the river. The road wound around the cliff and, in the distance, Rocco could see his claim. Humming, he stepped down, preparing to prop up the axle and repair the wheel.

The lightning came from nowhere. The air crackled and danced all around the cart, sparking along the iron frame, traces and even the hooves of the horses. The animals took fright and bolted. ‘Nein,’ Rocco screamed, ‘Nein.’ He began to pursue the runaway cart, glimpsing Lotte’s frightened face as she held Marzelline in her arms. ‘Rocco? Rocco!’

There was a corner ahead. The horses, blinded by the lightning, went straight over the edge of the cliff, dragging the cart with them.

For a moment there was silence. The sun came out, flooding the landscape with golden light. A bird even began to sing. And then, faintly, Rocco heard Lotte calling, far away, and he stumbled to the cliff and looked down. The cart had come to rest at the edge of the river. One of the horses had broken its neck in the fall. The other was still in the traces, kicking and trying to get up.

‘Oh, Lotte,’ Rocco whimpered. He clambered and fell down the incline. The cart was lying on top of her and Marzelline. Where he got the strength from he didn’t know but as he pulled the cart off his beloved wife she gave a gasp and blood poured from her mouth. She coughed, labouring to breathe, and words struggled up from her throat, ‘Is Marzelline all right?’

The little girl was unconscious, but breathing — and her legs were crushed.

Tears shone in Lotte’s eyes. ‘I thought I would be here to look after you both always,’ she wept. Every word was accompanied by a small gout of blood. ‘I thought I …’ She was desperate to say more, but the blood was in the way. Rocco was looking into her eyes when she sighed, and then she was gone.

Rocco unhitched the remaining horse, wrapped Marzelline in her blanket and rode as fast as he could back to Skippers. The doctor took one look at her legs and said, ‘I will have to take them off at the knees.’

The next day, Rocco buried Lotte in the cemetery in the town. There weren’t many mourners: the doctor and his wife, a scattering of townspeople who came out of respect. The afternoon after the service, he signed over his claim to a neighbouring miner. ‘I don’t want money for it,’ he told him. When Marzelline recovered from her operation, he purchased a buggy and took her away with him.

So Rocco’s wanderings began. He decided not to return to Ranzau but instead set out for Dunedin. It was difficult for a man with a small child to find a job that suited — he wouldn’t let anybody mind her. Eventually, he found the position of lighthouse keeper. This gave him the isolation he craved for himself and his daughter.

Marzelline didn’t speak until she was six. When she did her first words were clear and concise. ‘Wirst du mir vergeben, Papa? Will you forgive me?’

5.

Rocco’s mood changed from maudlin to morose. He began to sing more wildly, the words spat out with bitterness and loathing.

Having heard Rocco’s story, Erenora was reminded of her own mother, Miriam, deprived, like Lotte Sonnleithner, of the chance to watch her daughter grow into womanhood.

Exhaustion made Rocco turn from his singing and the memories and look at Erenora. ‘I am not a good man, Eruera. Because of me, my own wife died. I crippled my daughter and now … now I am to be made complicit in something just as terrible.’

‘Yes?’ Erenora answered, holding her breath.

‘The rumour is true,’ he said. ‘I am not only a lighthouse keeper, Eruera. I am also a gaoler.’ He was almost asleep on his feet, groaning from drunkenness.

Erenora stifled a cry, then fiercely she began to shake him. ‘You have a prisoner here?’

Rocco stirred, and shook his head to revive himself. ‘I have never liked the job,’ he slurred, ‘but I am well paid. The man was a political agitator, one of your own kind, so that was my reason for agreeing to keep him under my care. He was shipped to the island in great secrecy. His place of incarceration is a cave by the sea, at the bottom of a cliff on the other side of Peketua. I visit him once a week to take food to him. But not for much longer.’

‘What does he look like?’ It was lucky that Rocco was so inebriated. One glance at Erenora, and her love and concern for Horitana would have been revealed.

‘I have never seen his face,’ Rocco answered, belching. ‘He is padlocked into a silver thing. His suffering has often moved me but, after all, he must have done something really serious to merit such punishment. I am strictly forbidden to speak to him or help him. Even so, I have had some moments of weakness for the poor fellow — and I have gladly given him food and drink. It will soon be all over with him. Er sterb’ in seinen Ketten. He will die in his chains.’

With a drunken gesture, Rocco gave Erenora the letter that Captain Demmer had handed to him:

I am sending a man on a chartered vessel who will take care of your prisoner. You are to give him up to my man’s care. It is time for him to be added to my collection. In preparation, dig a grave for him.

The signature made Erenora gasp. Piharo! So he was behind Horitana’s punishment.

‘What is the deed the writer speaks of?’ she asked Rocco.

‘Although he has paid me well to guard the prisoner,’ Rocco began, ‘I draw the line at murder.’

‘Murder?’ The word froze Erenora’s blood.

‘For the past year he has been sweetening my position by offering me an extra purse if I kill the prisoner. In letter after letter he has ordered me to take on the job of executioner. He has fulminated against me, accusing me of lacking courage. I have refused to comply. Now he sends a cut-throat to do his purpose.’

Erenora watched Rocco as he subsided into his self-pity.

‘Whatever happens will happen,’ he groaned, ‘and who knows when this man will come? Tomorrow or the day after? Meantime, I had better attend to the lantern.’

‘No, mein Herr,’ Erenora answered. ‘I will take over looking after the lighthouse for the night. You go to bed.’

‘Where?’ Rocco asked. ‘Marzelline is certain to have locked me out. By the way, she knows nothing of this. Eruera, I warn you, do not tell her. I would not want her to think less of me. I am her father, not a killer.’

‘I will take you to the barn now,’ Erenora nodded. ‘Can you stand up?’ She put her shoulders under his arms to help him. The changed position made Rocco vomit. ‘Ach, I am sorry, Eruera.’ But after that he was better able to stagger with her through the trapdoors and down the stairs. ‘You are a good boy,’ he said. ‘No wonder my daughter is fond of you.’

Together, under the moonlight, they wove their way towards the barn. They paused at an outside pump where Rocco washed his face and mouth, trying to recover.

‘I am sorry, Eruera,’ he said.

Panting, Erenora helped him to the barn, pushed him up to the loft and put him to bed. She hoped he would soon fall asleep. She needed time to think, to come up with a plan. But in his drunken stupor, Rocco looked at her, dazed and puzzled. ‘Eruera …’ Before Erenora could stop him, Rocco kissed her. It was not a kiss of friendship and nor was it pleasant, tasting acrid and bitter. Propelled by some need for expiation, it was deep and long.

And moaning with sexual need and desire, Rocco began to pull Erenora down into his powerful arms.

‘Nein,’ she said. Her voice was sharp, like a rifle shot.

Rocco looked at her, horrified, and then fell back, dead drunk.

1.

You can understand Rocco’s dilemma, can’t you, eh. He had sensed Erenora’s innate femininity.

As for Marzelline, was it any wonder that she had fallen in love with Eruera? She was an impressionable young girl alone on an island where the only other men had been her father and the labourers he employed to help him; none of them had been a Jüngling.

In Marzelline’s diary there’s an entry that shows her feelings for Eruera.

‘Mir ist so wunderbar, es engt das Herz mir ein. I feel so strange, my heart is gripped. I am in love! He is the Jüngling who came to help Papa in his lighthouse duties. His name is Eruera, and he is a Maori. I wish I could draw his portrait: he is slim and has wide shoulders tapering to a small waist. He is taller than me but not as tall as Papa.

‘Despite his dark colouring, Eruera is most handsome to me. He has glowing eyes and full lips and his hair is the shiniest I have ever seen on a man. O namenlose Pein! How I wish he would look kindly on me, not as a friend or as his employer’s daughter but as a sweetheart.

‘Does he have such thoughts for me? I must admit that there are times when he is holding me in his arms and looking into my eyes that I see … tenderness. Die Hoffnung schon erfüllt die Brust. Hope already fills my breast with inexpressible delight! How wonderful to imagine how we could be if we were … dare I say it … man and wife? In the peace of quiet domesticity we would wake in each other’s arms. Each day would be filled with joy and love. And the nights … I tremble to think of the delights we would find in each other! Ja, ja, er liebt mich, es ist klar, ich werde glücklich sein.’

As for Erenora, her mind was in turmoil. In particular, she was seized with rage against Piharo.

‘Monster! How my blood boils at your cruel revenge! Did not the call of pity or the voice of humanity ever touch your vicious mind?’

She began to sob, but then regained her composure. What was the use of spending precious time railing against Piharo? Gathering her strength, she drew courage from what she knew she had to do: rescue Horitana from the assassin and get him away before the chartered vessel arrived. If possible she would do it in the morning. She looked at the turbulent sea, and the dark furious night.

‘Yet, though hatred and anger storm through your soul like relentless ocean waves, Piharo, in me a rainbow arches over the dark sky.’

She saw a star burst in the darkness. And now, look! It was creating a pathway through the dark.

‘Come, Hope,’ Erenora prayed. ‘Do not forsake me. Oh, star, brighten my goal. Let me not falter. Strengthen me in my resolve, Amine.’

2.

Erenora did not know that the government had decreed the release of Te Whiti and Tohu and, therefore, of all other Parihaka prisoners. Piharo must have feared that questions would be asked about Horitana’s whereabouts. It would be only a matter of time before the authorities traced him to Peketua Island.

This was why Piharo decided to send an assassin.

The next morning everyone was subdued. Rocco was groaning with a terrible headache. He heard Marzelline calling for him, ‘Papa? Where are you?’

She was on her crutches and, when she saw him walking unsteadily from the barn she gave a cry of distress. ‘Oh, Papa, are you all right?’

At breakfast, Marzelline was also apologetic to Erenora. ‘Sometimes I can be a bad girl,’ she said. When Erenora rewarded her with a smile of forgiveness Marzelline’s mood immediately lightened.

Rocco was still feeling under the weather and staggered away to retch his guts out. When he returned he said, ‘Eruera! What did I do last night?’ He appeared to have no recollection of taking her in a passionate embrace, but he did recall showing Erenora the letter and taking her into his confidence. While Marzelline was busy in the kitchen he whispered, ‘I must go to the cave this morning,’ he said, ‘to prepare the prisoner’s grave. I am not feeling very well. Ach! It has to be done.’

‘Perhaps I can help you,’ Erenora suggested. ‘Would that make it easier for you?’ Had all her attempts at creating trust between them paid off?

Rocco hesitated for a moment, then nodded. ‘Bring two shovels and a lamp.’

Erenora could hardly believe the turn of events, or conceal her impatience. Once breakfast was over, she ran to the barn to collect the grave-digging implements. Rocco was waiting for her at the door of the cottage.

Just before they left, Marzelline gave a huge cry and flung her arms around Erenora. Her eyes, so blue with the sea and sky, brimmed with tears. ‘Eruera! Eruera!’

Erenora looked at her, uncomprehending, but held her tight and stroked her long, silky hair.

‘I have a feeling I will never see you again,’ Marzelline said plaintively. As Rocco and Erenora left, she waved from the doorway, waving, waving until they could no longer see her.

‘The day turned wet and merciless. All the way across the island, the weather was stormy. Ka patupatu taku manawa, my heart was pounding with fear, joy and trepidation. I could not believe that very soon my quest for Horitana would be over. What would I do if it wasn’t him? It had to be him!

‘I was carrying the two shovels and Rocco the lantern. As we leaned into the driving wind, Rocco shouted instructions. “The prisoner is chained but his hearing is acute. Do not step too close to him, and on no account are you to utter a word to him. When I tell you to dig, do so.”

‘We came to the top of the cliff. From there I could see the wild ocean roaring through the passage. Seabirds were riding on the stormy winds above, crying across the clouded vault of the sky. Rocco motioned me towards the cliff where I saw the steep set of steps. Oh, wilful Fate! If I had been behind him, I could have pushed him and he would have pitched headlong in a long helpless fall to the sea far below. But the opportunity was lost … and I would have to bide my time.

‘Halfway down the steps I saw the entrance to a shaft. A sense of dread overcame me when I saw the door, which had a grille in it. As Rocco opened it my heart heaved with anticipation and fear. I swayed, almost fainting.

‘“Come inside,” Rocco said.

‘For a moment I was overcome by a gust of foetid wind that came up from the cave. I went through and, on the other side, rested against the wall of the shaft, waiting for my vision to adjust to the gloom. I saw that Rocco had cut a staircase to enable our safe descent. “How cold it feels,” I shivered. Rocco, oblivious, had descended.

‘Taking a deep breath, I followed him. The steps were dangerous and wet. Moss lined the sides all the way down. With shock I had a hideous realisation: I had come to dig the grave of my husband. If I did not succeed in rescuing him, it would indeed become the place where he would be laid in the earth.

‘“Stop,” Rocco ordered. We had reached the bottom of the staircase where there was complete blackness. The unbearable stench of animal urine, excreta and putrefaction almost suffocated me. Every now and then came the low boom and hiss of the sea and the crunch of pebbles shifting in the eddying currents, but no amount of sluicing by the sea would ever cleanse the underground latrine. Then Rocco lit the wick in the lantern. It flared in the dark …

‘And I saw the prisoner.’

3.

Erenora stifled a cry. The rumour was true:

Te tangata mokomokai.

He was chained to a post in the middle of the cave. Was he man or beast? His head looked like some corroded thing and he was cloaked with …

Erenora gave an involuntary gasp as the cloak moved. She saw then the tuatara that clothed the prisoner’s body, holding on with their claws, their bellies pulsating against his skin. As soon as they saw the light of the lantern, they began to slip away from him until the floor of the cave was seething with more than a hundred tuatara, like a grey, writhing carpet piled at the prisoner’s feet.

‘Vielleicht ist er tot?’ Rocco muttered. ‘Perhaps he is dead already?’ He lit a firebrand on the wall to give further light in the darkness. He bade Erenora follow him across the floor of the cave.

Their footsteps were loud on the gravel. The tuatara slid away from the sound.

‘Was this the moment that I should kill Rocco?’ Erenora wrote. ‘I raised my shovel to strike him down but …’

The prisoner spoke in the darkness. His voice was muffled. Erenora could not recognise it.

Who has arrived to visit me?’ He sniffed the air. ‘Ah, it is my old friend, my gaoler. But surely you come out of time?’

Erenora’s heart filled with aro’a. She could not resist giving a small cry and, immediately, Horitana was alert, straining at his chains. ‘Who is that? Gaoler, who have you brought with you? Why won’t you speak to me?’

Rocco motioned to Erenora to back away beyond the reach of Horitana’s chains. He kicked at the floor of the cave until he found a spot where the gravel appeared soft. ‘Eruera, dig,’ he ordered.

At the sound of the shovel, Horitana rushed toward Erenora. His chains prevented him from coming further and he gave a cry of pain. ‘Who are you? Speak to me, please, let me hear the sound of a human voice. Take pity. Speak. Korero mai.’

Erenora went to respond but Rocco put a hand over her mouth. ‘No. Keep digging.’

And Horitana exhaled a deep sigh. ‘At long last, death? I thank you, gaoler. But am I not to have a final meal before you kill me? No?’

The tuatara were circling back to him. ‘It sounds as though I will be leaving you all soon,’ he said to them. ‘Who will look after you when I am gone?’ He called to Rocco, ‘Hey, gaoler, I will save you all your labour. After you kill me, leave my body to be feasted on by my friends.’

Suddenly, Rocco gave a cry. ‘O, armer Mann.’ He threw his shovel to one side.

‘I had been wondering how I could overpower Rocco,’ Erenora wrote, ‘when I saw him turning away, his back to me. This was it.’

With a hoarse, guttural moan, Erenora raised her shovel. Screaming for release, she brought it down on Rocco’s head.

He collapsed, stunned. ‘Eruera, have you gone mad?’

‘There was blood on his head and shoulders and arms,’ Erenora wrote. ‘I was screaming and screaming, and the prisoner in his mokomokai was wailing and the tuatara were slithering all over the cave, climbing the rocky walls, trying to get away. But then —’

Erenora began to sob. She put her shovel down.

‘I can’t do it,’ she said to Rocco. ‘I can’t stop a murder by committing a murder.’

She thought of her mother, Miriam, killed so long ago in Warea. Mama, kei w’ea koe?

She looked at Rocco, tears streaming down her eyes. ‘And I can’t make an orphan of a young girl who lost her mother, by killing her father.’

She knelt on the ground. ‘Mein Herr,’ she wept, ‘I place my life and the life of my husband in your hands.’

4.

Rocco gave a cry. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I knew the emotions I had for you were those of a man for a woman. What is your name?’

‘It is Erenora.’

Rocco gave a gasp. ‘And the prisoner … you say he is your husband?’

Erenora nodded her head hopelessly. ‘I have been looking for him for a long time. Even just to spend some last moments with him, to touch his face, to caress his skin, to hold him, has made my search for him worthwhile.’

Oh, even wounded Rocco could have overpowered Erenora easily enough. He could have bound her so that when the assassin arrived he would have two victims, not one, to dispose of. But Rocco had already come to his own decision:

‘O, armer Mann,’ he had said when he threw down his shovel. ‘Oh, you poor man.’

‘I don’t know how long I lay weeping.

‘Rocco had become silent but the prisoner was agitated. “Taku ’oa wa’ine? My wife? Is she here like an angel to escort me to heaven?”

‘Then Rocco spoke to me. His voice was hoarse but the accustomed gruffness had gone. “Welch unerhörter Mut, Erenora,” he said with wonder, “what unheard of courage.” His voice softened further, as if peace was coming to his soul; all this time he had been greatly troubled by his conscience about the prisoner and now he was being delivered from it. “I cannot believe that a woman as you,” he continued, “would go to such lengths to save a criminal with blood on his hands. In my heart of hearts I have suspected this accusation wasn’t true. And now, Erenora, you are willing to sacrifice yourself and him to me and place yourselves at my mercy? That only confirms your and the prisoner’s goodness.”

‘He helped me up and smiled gently. “Your husband has suffered long enough. Perhaps he will forgive me for my role as his gaoler. Here is the key.”

‘All I could do was sob as Rocco put the key into my hands. And then I tried to put the key into the padlock of the mokomokai. Aue, after all these years the padlock had rusted. With a cry of frustration I pushed Horitana against the rocks and, taking up my shovel again, struck the padlock.’

The sound boomed and echoed around the cave, but the deed was done. The tuatara disappeared into the gloom.

‘No, wait,’ Horitana said.

Erenora looked at the man in the mask. He was panting, holding tightly to the pole, whimpering.

‘I have lived so long in the mokomokai,’ he said. ‘It has been like an old friend. Let me say goodbye to it.’ He began to caress it

with tenderness, and then he gave a sigh of acceptance. ‘And now, you who have come to release me of it, lift it off my shoulders.’

Erenora put her fingers under the rim.

‘I took off the mokomokai.’

And Horitana gave a huge, painful sob.

At the final moment when the prisoner’s face was revealed, Erenora became afraid. Again the same doubt: What if it wasn’t Horitana?

His face was entirely covered by a thick beard and his hair was long, lank. The skin beneath was pale, scabrous and scaly. He would not look up. He buried his face in his hands.

‘Horitana?’

At the sound of Erenora’s voice, the prisoner pushed the hair out of his eyes. He gave a cry as the light from the grille of the doorway beat down upon his face and he reeled away from her. ‘Is it really you, Erenora, here? Oh Lord of Heaven, why do you punish me so?’ He was shielding his eyes.

Erenora took a few steps after him but he pushed her away. ‘You’re not dreaming. I am here.’

He cried out again, ‘Erenora?’ and he looked at his hands. ‘You, the first person I have touched in three years … and I push you away?’ He collapsed onto the floor.

All Erenora could think of was that he could not recognise her. ‘My hair will grow again,’ she said.

Then she realised that Horitana was blind.

Did that matter? Horitana and Erenora embraced each other tenderly. In that second touch of skin on skin, Horitana knew it truly was her.

‘We have met again in darkness,’ he said as he pulled her forehead close to his. ‘The first time was when we were together in the darkest pit at Warea. The second came when you rescued me from the dead in the trenches, and now you descend into the darkness to me again. You, my courageous wife.’

Erenora pressed her nose against his and, oh, it was as if all the years melted away. Her heart, how it fluttered, ka patupatu tana manawa.

‘I am sorry it has taken me so long to find you,’ she answered, brushing away their tears. ‘’oki mai taua ki te Ao marama. Let us return now to the world of light.’

With Rocco’s help, Erenora guided Horitana from the cave where he had lived for so long. But at the threshold, the opening to the outer world, he backed away, crying, ‘The sun …’ Erenora ripped off her sleeves and bandaged Horitana’s head.

Only then did they leave the darkness.

Just in time. On the horizon was a ship.

As fast as he could, his head aching, Rocco hastened them down to a cove. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘Hide and, later, I will bring the skiff.’

‘How will you explain to the executioner?’ Erenora was panicking. ‘When you take him to the empty cave he will know Horitana has escaped, and will come looking for him.’

‘I will tell him that Horitana overpowered me today but I was able to fend him off … and a wave, rushing into the cave, swept him away,’ Rocco answered.

‘He will want to see the body.’ Erenora could not quite believe that they would get away with it.

‘That will not be possible,’ Rocco said. ‘The currents … there’s a storm coming too … the tide will have taken him miles away by now.’

‘But he will find the mokomokai in the cave,’ Erenora answered, ‘and realise that your story wasn’t true.’

‘You must go back and get it,’ Rocco said firmly. ‘There is time.’

With a sigh Erenora made herself believe Rocco’s story. ‘But what about Marzelline?’ she continued. ‘When I don’t return with you …’

‘I will not destroy her girlish dreams,’ Rocco answered. ‘I will tell her there was an accident when you and I were returning from the cliffs. I tripped and would have fallen over. You reached out your hand, saved me, but at the expense of your own life. You pitched headlong onto the rocks below. Nobody would have survived the fall.’ He was in a hurry now. ‘Geh, Eruera, leb wohl,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’

Erenora took a deep breath: yes, it could work.

She gave Rocco a grateful look, and then spoke again. ‘Mein Herr, you must take your daughter back into the world.’

Rocco’s eyes widened and he shook his head. ‘Nein! Nein! She would know only heartache. Would a man ever look her way? Knowing that she is a cripple? No. I do not want Marzelline to experience the world’s cruelty.’

‘You are wrong. ‘ Erenora took his hands in hers. ‘You must take the chance. Your daughter is stronger than you think. Give her the opportunity to live.’

And Rocco finally admitted the truth about his fears.

‘What if I lose her … as I did her mother?’

1.

Well, time to tie up the loose ends, eh?

While Erenora was away from Parihaka, William Hiroki — the Maori who had killed a surveyor named McLean and sought protection from Te Whiti — was hanged. His trial had begun on 3 May 1882, and he was found guilty of murder and sentenced to death at 8 a.m. on 8 June 1882.

Te Whiti and Tohu were shipped from Wellington to Addington Gaol in Christchurch, arriving there on the government steamer Hinemoa on 27 April 1882. Regarded as prisoners at large, they were shown the Canterbury Museum and the Kaiapoi Woollen Mills, the Christchurch Railway Workshops and the telephone exchange. When asked what he thought of these wonders, Te Whiti answered that he thought the Pakeha had some useful technology but so did the Maori.

The prophet leaders were moved throughout the South Island to Timaru, Dunedin, Invercargill, Bluff, Queenstown and Oamaru. Wherever he went Te Whiti was called ‘The Lion of Parihaka’ and attracted a large following; some he regarded as nga tangata tutua, ill-mannered. No matter the hospitality, Te Whiti always asked why he had not yet had a trial.

The visit to Dunedin is of special interest. Escorted by their gaoler, John Ward, the two prophets stayed at the Universal Hotel. While there the two prophets were guests at the Kai Tahu meeting house — Te Wai Pounamu — at what was known as Otakou Kaik (a Pakeha contraction of the Maori word Kaika), a couple of miles past Port Chalmers. The house was associated with the wellknown local Ellison family, who had so kindly assisted the first prisoners from South Taranaki nine years earlier. Their journey to the Kaik was to visit their kinsman and relative, Raniera Erihana — Dan Ellison — whose wife, Nani Weller, was from Kai Tahu.

Te Whiti and Tohu ended their travels around the South Island at Nelson, where they were placed under house arrest for eight months. In October 1882, a comet illuminated the sky each evening. I wonder what interpretation Te Whiti made of the comet’s appearance, he whose name meant ‘The Shining Path of the Comet’? The thought haunts me: I can imagine him staring up at that apparition, his face impassive as he watches the comet opening all heaven’s gates, listening to the music of the universe and seeking divination.

Then, in 1883, Te Whiti and Tohu were told that the government was burying the past and letting them go back to Parihaka as free men. Te Whiti was not persuaded. ‘If the grasshoppers find good new grass, they will come,’ he said. ‘Nothing will prevent them.’

On 9 March the prophets saw their beloved Taranaki Mountain from the deck of a government steamer. The dawn came up and, behold, the mounga began to shine with the promise of a new day. Although they were home, however, the government extended the legislation to restrain them for another year; if they kicked up any fuss they could be arrested again.

Their return signalled the further release of hundreds of the Parihaka ploughmen, fencers and farmers still in South Island gaols. Gradually those who had been freed began to arrive back at the kainga. A poi song was composed to honour Te Whiti:

‘Tangi a taku i’u e w’akamaru ana ko au pea e … My sorrow is ended now that I may stand with you, the bargeboard of our house Miti Mai Te Arero … Here the white feather is in its place —’

Harry Atkinson was still around to harass them. He was back as premier for three further terms before finally being ousted in 1891 by John Ballance and the Liberals, the first organised political party in New Zealand.

2.

From the time Erenora had begun her quest, it had taken her two years to find Horitana. They returned to Taranaki at the beginning of 1884. I wish that her unpublished manuscript was intact because it would have given us clues as to her remarkable journey bringing Horitana home. All I have are local South Island Maori sightings and stories that tell of a young Maori — some say a young man, others a woman — leading a blind man northward from Peketua Island to Dunedin and Christchurch and thence, with the aid of Archdeacon Cotterill, by ship to the North Island.

I can imagine them both, approaching Parihaka, and the tataraki’i, sensing their arrival, beginning to open their shimmering wings, whirring in the dazzling sunlight, whirr, whirr, whirr.

Erenora was overjoyed to see Ripeka and Meri. Ripeka was the mother of a son she was passing off to everyone as Paora’s; Meri and Riki’s son, Kawa, was now a boisterous little boy who loved to watch his mother swinging her poi.

‘You got back safely,’ Erenora exclaimed. ‘Ever since we parted, I’ve been so worried about you both. If anything had happened to you, I …’

The two sisters looked at each other. ‘She never thinks we can do anything without her,’ Ripeka sighed. ‘She forgets we are women of Parihaka.’

Although they made light of their odyssey, let me tell you that Ripeka, Meri and Erenora were not the only Parihaka women who made remarkable journeys to the South Island looking for their men.

Some, dangerously, set out alone and never returned.

Happily, Horitana gradually regained sufficient sight to be independent, although he could never go out into the strong light for too long. There were many hot sunny Taranaki days when he preferred to stay inside in the cool, quiet and dark. He bore, for the rest of his life, the scars on his shoulders where the mask had rested. The experience of having spent so long in the damp cave never left him; no matter how valiant his heart, its rhythm was forever weakened, and he was plagued with breathing problems and rheumatism. And sometimes he would murmur softly in his sleep, in a loving way, and stroke the air delicately with his fingers. Erenora was puzzled until he explained:

‘It is just my little tuatara family. They come to me in my dreams and like to nestle against my skin.’

3.

One day Erenora saw Piharo. Although Horitana’s sentence was no longer in force, Piharo still had power and might continue his vendetta against him. She had also heard that Piharo had a reward posted for any Maori to advise him of her own return.

After brooding for a week, Erenora realised that the time had come to pay Piharo a visit. She risked discovery by riding through the twilight, hoping she would not be seen, and making a reconnaissance of the substantial house that he had built: stone and brick, paved with Italian tiles and filled with chandeliers and other sumptuous objets d’art. Even the garden had been finished, with a maze and fountain in the middle of it, appearing as if it had always been there.

The purpose of her visit? In her heart of hearts she would have dearly liked to meet him, persuade him to let bygones be bygones and to cease his vendetta, but she knew he would never do that. In her darkest despair, she thought of killing him, stealing into his bedroom while he slept, but that would lead to a hunt for the murderer — and, anyway, she couldn’t take another person’s life, even Piharo’s. Such an act would have undone everything that Te Whiti stood for, all the suffering his followers had gone through in the name of peaceful protest.

She therefore decided on teaching Piharo a lesson of such power that it might dissuade him from visiting any further vengeance upon herself and Horitana. But how could she gain entry during the day when his farm manager, labourers and servants surrounded him? Even during the evenings there was always candlelight in his bedroom. Did Piharo never sleep?

Erenora could wait no longer. During a bitter cold night filled with a blizzard off the sea, she rode to Piharo’s house again. Shouldering the knapsack she had brought with her, she moved swiftly through a grove of trees at the back of the building. Branches were being flung into the air and the darkness was filled with calling moreporks. The storm made it easier for her to enter unheard through the rear terrace windows. Once inside she made her way up the staircase and stepped into Piharo’s bedroom. It was ablaze with flickering candles, so many of them. How could Piharo sleep with so much light? And yet he did, his eyes shut tight.

He had been reading an elegant volume of poetry. He looked so harmless, his chest rising and falling, yet this man was filled with malevolence.

Erenora gently prised the book from his grasp and went to work.

Piharo tossed and turned in his sleep. He dreamt that spiders were crawling over him and woke up to find that he was already restrained by Erenora’s ropes.

‘I hear you’ve been trying to find me,’ Erenora said. ‘I decided to save you the trouble by coming myself.’

Piharo tried to shout for help but it was too late; Erenora placed a kerchief around his mouth and tied it tight. ‘I don’t plan to kill you,’ she said. ‘After all, if I did that I wouldn’t join Horitana in heaven when we die.’

Erenora moved around the room, cupping the flames of the candles and blowing sharply on them. As each one was snuffed out, Piharo began to moan. The smoke from the candles drifted in the air. She left two alight so that she could see what she was doing — and opened the knapsack. In it was something heavy and monstrous.

‘In Maoridom,’ she said, ‘we always say that you must be careful of any evil you do lest it be returned unto you.’

Piharo’s eyes spilled with tears of terror when he saw the silver mokomokai he himself had designed. His heart began to race and, by the time Erenora lifted his head from the pillow to padlock the mokomokai to him he was in a catatonic state. Even so, he formulated in his head three words:

‘No, please don’t …’

Erenora blew out the first remaining candle. She was not to know that Piharo had a particular affliction, claustrophobia, nor that he was afraid of the dark. Then she blew out the second flame.

‘… not eternal darkness …’

He was dead when his servant found him the next morning.

4.

Erenora and Horitana helped Te Whiti and Tohu to repair the village that John Bryce had desecrated. They were happy and God smiled on them: they had four children.

My w’akapapa goes back to the second boy, Whatarangi.

In 1886, Te Whiti began a new ploughing campaign; he had already resumed the 18th of the month meetings. Despite his limited sight, Horitana led the ploughmen as he had done in earlier days. Te Whiti was gaoled, along with Titokowaru. Oh, this is another story that would make you weep: for instance, during the imprisonment, Hikurangi, Te Whiti’s wife died and he was not allowed to return for her tangi’anga.

Following the imprisonment, Te Whiti and Tohu, with the help of a man named Charlie Waitara, using Maori money, added gas lighting to Parihaka, many fine European-style buildings, a water supply and a metalled road. Dan Ellison continued his visits from the South Island and also subsidised the rehabilitation of the kainga from his own pocket.

One of the great glories of Parihaka became its fine orchestral marching band, playing triumphant fifes, trumpets and drums at tribal gatherings.

On 18 June 1888, the great militarist Titokowaru died. Even so he prophesied, ‘I shall not die, I shall not die. When death itself is dead, I shall be alive.’

Incredibly it was not until 12 July 1898 that the last of the Parihaka prisoners returned home to the kainga, bringing to a close nineteen years of imprisonment of Parihaka men, some of whom had been only boys when they were exiled.

Meanwhile, all John Bryce’s kereru were coming home to roost. In 1886, he took the historian G.W. Rusden, whose work has been quoted in Erenora’s story, all the way to the High Court of Justice in London in one of the most famous libel cases in New Zealand. Specifically, Bryce contested the report in Rusden’s three-volume history of what had happened in 1868, during Titokowaru’s War, when the Kai-Iwi Yeomanry Cavalry unit attacked Hauhau warriors. Rusden had included women and children in the incident; Bryce denied direct involvement.

Bryce may have won the case but for the rest of his life he fought a rearguard action on his crumbling reputation. In 1903, possibly still seeking approval from New Zealanders, he wrote, ‘With the feet of 20th century tourists on the very summit of the mountain, we may well hope that the occult and malign spirits will now retire into a necromantic night and trouble the sunshine no more.’

He still hadn’t got it.