The Parihaka Woman

1

Before I go any further I need to bring on stage a man whom I have already mentioned in this narrative:

John Bryce, enter, sir, and take your bow.

Born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1833, Bryce arrived with his family in New Zealand in 1840, the same year the Treaty of Waitangi was signed between Maori and Pakeha. As a young man in the 1850s, he bought a farm near Whanganui and also went into local and then national politics until ill health put a temporary stop to his career.

But Bryce was a man on a mission: sort out the Maori and get on with the business of settling Pakeha in New Zealand. During Titokowaru’s War he was a lieutenant in the Kai-Iwi Yeomanry Cavalry Volunteers and, in 1868, his detachment was reported as having successfully attacked Hauhau warriors, killing two and wounding others; some reports actually suggest the ‘warriors’ were unarmed ten- to twelve-year-old boys. He re-entered politics and rose quickly to prominence, mainly because his actions were so swift and effective against Maori opposed to the alienation of their land. Called Honest John by his supporters and, mockingly, King Bryce by his detractors, Bryce became Minister for Native Affairs in 1879, the politician with the highest power over Maori — and he did not hesitate to use it. His face became one of the most recognisable in New Zealand: already large, it was made bigger because of his receding hairline, and the small alert eyes could not hide behind whiskers and beard.

G.W. Rusden found him contemptible. Referring to his earlier life as a dairy farmer he wrote:

The occupation of a cow-herd gives scope for the humane and for the brutal. If the lad be kindly he will reclaim an erring cow in a kindly manner. If he be inhuman he will inflict as much torture as he can by hurling stones at the eyes of the patient beast which unwittingly offends him. His admirers have not cared to record much of Mr. Bryce’s boyish days, but his conduct as Native Minister justifies the inference that he was of the inferior order of cow-boy.[9]

What did Maori call him? We named him ‘Bryce ko’uru’: Bryce the murderer. How could we expect to obtain justice from a man who called Parihaka ‘that headquarters of fanaticism and disaffection’?

Bryce served under four premiers: Atkinson, Grey, John Hall and Frederick Whitaker. Whether they liked him or not doesn’t matter, and although John Hall privately criticised him, there was implicit condoning of his work.

He was their familiar.

2

While I’m at it, let me get something else off my chest.

As I mentioned earlier, it wasn’t until the Maori Land March of the 1970s that I woke up to my own history. Josie sometimes liked to say that even though I was a history teacher I had a thick head or, rather, a slow one. You had to go, ‘Knock, knock, is anybody at home?’ a few times before you got an answer.

After I returned from the march I said to myself, ‘Right, I’ll give it a go.’ I decided to present the class with a lesson on the Maori Wars, except that from the very beginning it became problematic. That title, for instance — or ‘Land Wars’ — was a Pakeha definition. What did we call them? The Pakeha Wars!

Can you see my problem?

Now don’t forget this was some forty years ago, and the Maori protest movement was only beginning: clashes with police at Waitangi, Raglan and Bastion Point and the pitching of tents in the grounds of Parliament itself. I should have expected that after the lesson there would be complaints and that I would be called in by the headmaster.

‘Are you going radical on me?’ he asked. ‘What do you think you’re doing! The Land Wars aren’t in the curriculum and, even if they were, it wouldn’t be your version. Go back to teaching British history so that the students can get University Entrance.’

Well, that really got my goat, and I couldn’t have been the only Maori who was pissed off about that other ‘version’ where they won, we lost, end of story. Fortunately, as the decade progressed, other Maori — and Pakeha teachers too — began to make a fuss about the teaching of New Zealand history, including Maori history. Today, thank goodness, it’s now an examination subject. That hasn’t stopped me, however, from spending the rest of my life working out how to rebalance telling the history from a Maori point of view.

Is it difficult? Is it what! Even in this account of Parihaka and my kuia Erenora’s life most of the details that I’m deploying about Parihaka in the narrative are taken from accounts by Pakeha historians. Why? Well, Pakeha wrote things down; Maori didn’t.

Then the problem is exacerbated because of the inadmissibility of oral evidence as historical fact, although that’s changing a bit now. And as far as Erenora’s account goes, some Pakeha historians would question its validity because, although it was written down, there are more reliable sources — apart from which her account is judged subjective, at the very least.

Why should an oral account be suspect? Maori have had hundreds of years to hone the memory. Yes, it’s oral: tough. Get over it. Perhaps the tribes need to resuscitate the old Maori schools of learning with their disciplines of memorisation. Let Maori write the history that we want to, from our own sources and our own perspective, that’s all I’m saying.

3

Let me now add a few words about the fair-haired gentleman.

Had he not ridden into Parihaka that day he, Horitana and Erenora might not have met as foes — and things might have developed differently between them.

This settler was building a large two-storeyed country house from which he planned to rule his estate. The fact that it was grander than most other houses did not bother him; he could afford it. The architecture was typically colonial, square and white with verandahs top and bottom, standing in the middle of a flat expanse that he was planting with English trees and a garden. A drive of loose pebbles led to a turning circle in front, where a flight of steps rose to double doors. Above the doors was emblazoned the motto, ‘Fais ce que tu voudrais, Do what thou wilt.’

Of course I know who he was: Pakeha of the times tell us that he was a man of wit, charm and sophistication. He was single, and it was hoped, among the matrons of Taranaki, that he might marry one of their daughters. As to his personal history, he was the second son of an English lord whose estate had gone to his elder brother, and he had emigrated to Taranaki in the 1860s to the promise of land, riches and prosperity. His desire was to establish his own colonial demesne and breed horses.

Among the settler’s hobbies were two that were highly desirable for a Victorian gentleman to pursue: science and collecting. In New Zealand he had begun to put both to use in the study of the Maori as an anthropological subject and in the collection of our tribal artefacts. Already he had submitted papers to learned British journals on the Taranaki Maori, believing that, in the light of their forthcoming extinction, it was more appropriate to write about them while they were alive and not when they were dead.

I hope you’ll forgive my not giving you his English name; my research on him is unfinished, and I don’t want to unmask him until I’ve completed it.

Erenora, however, had a name for him. In the encounter in Parihaka she had glimpsed the man beneath, the real person glossed over in reliable sources. She called him Piharo, from the Maori word pi’arongo, a very hard black stone, because what she had seen of his i’i, his life force, had been so dark and sinister.

Because she called him that, I shall call him that also.

Let me interpolate a scene from my own imagination as Piharo returns to his estate.

Thunder is booming overhead and lightning cracks the sky apart as he arrives at his house to await the arrival of a doctor who will stitch the places where the lash cut deep.

He still cannot believe the marks on his face are from his own whip. How could this have happened? Not three men but four have been marked on the day that the fugitive Hiroki was pursued into Parihaka.

The fourth is Piharo himself.

While the doctor’s needle criss-crosses the cuts in his face, Piharo’s rage mounts. He groans with pain as the doctor sews together the torn flaps of his left eyelid. When the work is finished, he looks in the mirror at the cicatrice of stitches and waves away the doctor’s apologetic gestures.

‘No,’ Piharo says gallantly, ‘it will be all right.’

All right? Nothing will ever be all right. From this day, for every day henceforth, people will look at his face and know that something happened to him, someone had got the better of him.

Piharo’s obsession grows. The wounds to his face will eventually heal but not the black place the lash has uncovered where unforgiveness dwells. He will make the Maori named Horitana pay — have his pound of flesh — even if he has to wait years to exact it.

1

The fugitive Wiremu Hiroki remained in Parihaka under Te Whiti’s protection. Meanwhile, the predations of the Pakeha surveyors continued, and Te Whiti decided that he had to step up the defensive measures against the Pakeha incursions.

Of these deliberate provocations, G.W. Rusden had this to say:

Confident that the Maoris could easily be crushed by the available forces, the despisers of Maori rights were not displeased at the prospect of collision which might at last sweep away the hated guarantees of the Waitangi treaty.[10]

2

‘Despite our attempts to dissuade them,’ Erenora wrote, ‘the surveyors still kept unlawfully crossing the river into Maori territory, there being no evidence of its legal government purchase. Indeed, when James Mackay asked Te Whiti to cease preventing the surveyors from doing their work, the prophet answered, “You had better go to the government and fix their side first. They are the active parties in the matter, not me. I am living quietly on my land.”

‘Te Whiti came to see Horitana again and his eyes were steely. “If the Pakeha thinks he can still come onto our land as if he owns it, we will go onto his as if we own it. I want you to gather the men and go out, this time with ploughs. I want to plough the belly of the government, and see how they like it.”’

And so the Year of the Plough began, one morning when the wind was coming off Taranaki Mountain.

Erenora watched as Horitana inspected teams of ploughmen, fifty in all, waiting with their bullock teams for the order to move out of Parihaka; after all, Te Whiti had asked for a display that showed he meant business. Indeed, so eager had been the men they had begun assembling before dawn, talking amiably to one another. Some were watching the sacred mountain: it always inspired and guided them. Others, like Ruakere, Rangiora and Whata, were farewelling their families before they left for the sacred work.

Ripeka shivered and said to Paora, ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ And Meri, close to her delivery, told Riki, ‘Don’t forget that you’re going to be a father.’

Erenora kissed Horitana on the cheek. ‘Are you sure I can’t come with you?’ she asked. How she wished she could be one of the ploughmen. ‘If I put my long hair up into a topknot, nobody would know.’

Laughing, he chided her, ‘But I would know.’ He put his hands on the back of her neck and pulled her into an embrace — and she winced. Where Piharo had used his whip on her the skin had broken. Now healing but still hurting, the weals were like a crusted necklace.

Erenora hid her pain. ‘Do your job, husband,’ she said, ‘and bring your brothers-in-law back to my sisters.’ She farewelled the bullocks too, calling, ‘And you, beloved companions, no shirking!’

The bullocks stamped and bellowed, wanting to get on with it. Breath jetted from their nostrils. What noble, strong beasts they were, etched against the sky as it faded, lightened and became streaked with red. And then, lo and behold, ka ao, ka ao, ka awatea, the dawn came over the horizon.

Horitana looked to Taranaki; it shone with morning light. ‘The mounga is watching,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

As the teams left Parihaka one of the ploughmen, Tonga Awhikau, began to sing a passionate waiata:

‘I te raa o mae’e ka iri kei te torona, ka mau taku ringa ki te parau e ’au nei te w’enua. Ka toro taku ringa ki te atua e tuu nei ko w’akatohe; ka puta te ’ae a te kaawana e tango nei w’enua e kore au e taaea, ’e uri noo Hoohepa, noo ngaa tuupuna. On a day in May I was suspended from the throne of God, my hand to the plough as it swept across the land. My hand, also extended to God, is resolute. The ill-feeling of the government emerges in the taking away of the land. It will not deter me, a descendant of Joseph by way of my ancestors!’

The men whistled and stamped, urging the bullocks forward, ‘Timata! ’aere tatou!’ Dogs were barking as, slowly but surely, the bullocks dragged the gleaming ploughshares across the river and into Pakeha land.

3

Te Whiti and Tohu’s ploughing campaign began. Dick Scott describes the reaction to that first ploughing, done at Oakura, in this way:

The settler could not believe his eyes. Long furrows broke his grassland and a team of silent ploughmen was steadily extending the area of upturned soil. This was land only seven miles from New Plymouth, it had been in undisturbed European possession since the wars, the original owners, long ago killed or hunted off, had been forgotten. Courtney, the outraged farmer, rushed to stop them. But the Maori ploughmen who started work before sunrise at Oakura on the morning of 26 May 1879, serenely continued till dusk. And the next day was the same, and the next, until twenty acres were turned under.[11]

In all of this we have to try to look into the prophet Te Whiti’s mind. Why provoke Premier Grey and Mr Bryce?

The prophet’s answer was, ‘You want to come onto our land? See how you like it when we come onto yours!’

Did the government have the right?

In Te Whiti’s eyes, no, it did not, and he wanted to test that right.

But was the prophet aware of the risk?

I like to think so. His biblical vision saw the future of Parihaka in the long term. For instance, back in 1869, when he proclaimed the Takahanga, Maori freedom from Pakeha authority, he also prophesied two crises that Parihaka would have to suffer before the final phase of the kainga’s resurrection and harvest.

The first of these was Akarama, otherwise known as the Aceldama, the transaction of Judas Iscariot, when Parihaka would be betrayed.

Was Premier Grey — or was Bryce — Judas Iscariot?

‘Every day,’ Erenora wrote, ‘our plough teams went out in the bright mornings and returned safe through the twilight. I could always tell, even before seeing the teams, that Horitana and our men were on their way home. How? Our beloved companions, eager to get back to the kainga, would set up a bellowing and trumpeting loud enough to deafen the world. And there would be our men, trying to keep them under control, laughing as the bullocks pulled them over hill and down dale.

‘As soon as they arrived, I would say to the tataraki’i, “Quickly, unyoke the bullocks from their traces and take them to the stream.” You had to be fast because those noble animals wanted to be fed and watered and never liked to wait. While the tataraki’i washed and scrubbed them, I moved among their number patting them and inspecting their hooves but also upbraiding them. “You are all becoming like my husband,” I growled at them, “accustomed to the pleasures of a bath after a hard day’s work.” Oh, how they loved being washed and brushed down and, just like Horitana, they shivered with sensuous delight. And they knew I didn’t mean my grumpy words. After all, did I not also whisper my thanks to them, reaffirm the w’akapapa between us and the times of travail when they sheltered the more’u while we were building Parihaka?

‘A week later, however, I saw that Horitana was becoming worried for the safety of the ploughmen. He came down to the stream one afternoon to stand beside me and wash the bullocks. The tataraki’i were clambering among the noble beasts, climbing onto their backs and diving into the stream. “We continue to take the Pakeha by surprise,” Horitana said, “but, now, they are beginning to arrive where we are ploughing to stop us.”

‘I pressed his hand. “They must have scouts watching the kainga,” I answered. “It won’t be long before …” I began to tremble. I did not want to think about the possibility of the Akarama or to show Horitana how afraid I was. Suddenly, I was sprayed with water as one of the children jumped close to me, and that saved me from showing my concern. “You meant that!” I laughed. But I couldn’t help fearing the coming of any conflict as Horitana and the teams expanded their ploughing.

‘They went onto settler-occupied land along the coast between Pukearuhe and Hawera. At Manaia the great chief Wiremu Kingi Te Matakatea and his Ngati Haumiti followers joined them. Now approaching his eighties, “The Clear-Eyed One” was sick of waiting for the government to give him back his land.’

The conflict mounted as Pakeha settlers demanded immediate action. They held boisterous meetings and organised vigilante groups, and Pakeha tempers soared sharply to war-mongering fever pitch.

One newspaper of the time wrote:

Perhaps, all things considered, the present difficulty will be one of the greatest blessings New Zealand ever experienced, for without doubt it will be a war of extermination … The time has come, in our minds, when New Zealand must strike for freedom, and this means the death-blow to the Maori race![12]

And do you remember Harry Atkinson, ex-premier and now in opposition? At a public meeting on 7 June, he was reported in the Taranaki Herald as taking up the same theme, clearly keeping his enmity against Maori alive. ‘He hoped,’ the newspaper told its readers, ‘if war did come, the natives would be exterminated.’

Undeterred, Horitana followed Te Whiti’s command to stay on the job. He and the ploughmen well knew the risk that they might be subject to lynch mobs. If some were shot, Tohu counselled them: ‘Gather up the earth on which the blood has spilt, and bring it to Parihaka.’

It almost came to that. ‘Someone could have been killed today,’ Horitana told Erenora one night, his face creased and drawn. ‘Why does the government remain silent? Surely it is time for them to negotiate with us over the land. Instead they allow the settlers to organise themselves and outnumber us. And today, for the first time, they arrived bearing arms. They had a flag and, when they came upon us, they took up a skirmishing line with loaded rifles at the ready. I saw murder in their eyes but as they advanced I shouted to the boys, “Keep going. Ignore them.” Their line came right up to our furrows and, when they reached where we were ploughing, the settlers stood and raised their rifles. The others behind them knelt for the reload.

‘I went over to their boss and said, as calmly as I could, “We will finish our job at five o’clock.” I could tell that he was on the knife edge. I added quietly, “We’re unarmed and you wouldn’t want to kill unarmed men, would you?” Although his men called out to him with scorn, “Don’t listen to the black bugger,” he nodded — he didn’t want blood on his hands. So we continued under their watchful and angry gaze for an hour. Then we packed up and left, but I don’t know how long before the settlers lose their heads.’

Erenora kissed him. ‘Everything will be all right,’ she said. She tried to be brave but she trembled for him.

Not long after that, Horitana went out again with the ploughmen. He was not to know that the land he had chosen to work that day belonged to Piharo. This time, the ploughing was opposed with great belligerence and stopped. All the ploughmen were beaten and tied up.

‘Well, well, well,’ Piharo smiled when his farm manager brought Horitana under guard before him, ‘how kind of you to pay me a visit.’

He ordered Horitana and the other ploughmen to be detained, pending arrest. The constabulary arrived to charge them.

‘This time the law is, indeed, on my side,’ Piharo said.

And the Akarama began.

4

On that evening, Erenora was at Meri’s house.

Meri’s baby had arrived. When he slithered into the arms of the midwife, who was Huhana, she cried out, ‘A son for the tribe!’ Tenderly, she blessed the babe and placed him in Meri’s arms. He wailed lustily, waving his fists in the air.

‘We will name him Kawa,’ Meri said.

Suddenly the women heard shouting outside. ‘Something’s happened,’ Erenora said. She ran to the doorway and saw other wives and girlfriends gathering to look down the road where Te Whao, one of the ploughmen, was running towards them. When he saw Erenora he yelled, ‘Horitana and the others have been arrested.’ All these nights Erenora had known that this could happen. Now, the realisation that Horitana wasn’t coming home tonight — and might not come home tomorrow night or the night after — made her double up with physical loss.

‘Look after Meri,’ she said to Huhana and Ripeka. ‘I’m going into New Plymouth to find out what is happening.’ She saddled one of the village’s fastest horses and was soon on her way.

As she approached the outskirts of the town some Pakeha, who had been celebrating the arrests, halted her. ‘Here’s one that we didn’t serve with a warrant, lads!’ one of the men laughed. He tried to grab the reins. ‘Take your hands off my stallion,’ Erenora warned him. When he didn’t obey, she commanded the horse, ‘Kei runga!’ It reared, its hooves flashing, and he and his friends scattered.

Sweating from the wild ride, she arrived at the gaol. As she forced her way through the crowd she saw that Te Whiti and a few other elders had arrived before her to remonstrate on behalf of the ploughmen. ‘Aue, Erenora,’ the prophet greeted her. ‘It is the Akarama after all. So be it.’ The hostility was palpable as she walked into the building with him. ‘What is the charge? ’ Te Whiti asked.

‘Malicious injury, forcible entry and riot,’ was the answer.

‘Can we see our men?’

Erenora’s heart was thundering as she followed Te Whiti and the elders to the compound where the prisoners were held; among them was Horitana. ‘What have they done to you?’ she moaned. His face was bruised and blackened.

Although Horitana saw her alarm, he tried to smile. ‘I was only doing my job,’ he teased. He traced the red marks on her neck, now fully healed; how he had wept when applying kawakawa oil to soothe Erenora’s pain. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he continued, ‘for I have been cast into the pit before and do not fear the darkness.’

But Erenora had good reason to be concerned. As well as the charge for the ploughing, the old matter of the bounty on Horitana’s head might be raised.

If it was, what would happen to him?

Erenora went to the New Plymouth Resident Magistrate’s Court a second time when the forty ploughmen were charged for malicious injury to property.

I beg your pardon? Surely it was the surveyors who should be put on trial for maliciously injuring the land itself.

Meri had insisted on being in the courtroom. When Riki was charged, he gave her a wan smile. She held up Kawa so that Riki could see him. ‘Yes … our son,’ she called to him. Riki’s face shone with pride. How he wanted to hold the babe.

The charges were read out. Horitana responded with a fierce declaration. ‘My weapons were ploughshares,’ he said, ‘but yours were firearms.’

The ploughmen were returned to their cells to await sentencing.

In the interim, settlers showed their satisfaction that justice was being served. Listen to the editor of the Taranaki Herald:

If it should come to fighting then we have very little hesitation in saying the struggle will be a short one, and afterwards this district will never more receive a check to its progress from the same cause.[13]

5

You’d have thought that such a remark was a signal that any further Maori ploughing would end in certain death. But Te Whiti and Tohu had nerves of steel; the Akarama might be at hand but, until the government itself gave a response about the legality of the ploughing, the protest would carry on.

‘Although your brothers are in gaol,’ Te Whiti said to the men of Parihaka, ‘take the bullock teams out. Do as your brothers have done.’

No matter that every new team was arrested, another team took their place. By 5 July ninety men were in custody — this time Te Whao was among them — and the next day 105. Within three months, 200 men had been arrested.

On one matter, how the settlers must have fumed.

Why didn’t the Maori take up arms? If they did, then there would be just cause to raise their rifles and fire on them all. Instead, all Te Whiti and Tohu’s followers did was offer themselves up for arrest! And Te Whiti, too, kept out of reach.

‘If any man molests me,’ he said, ‘I will talk with my weapon — the tongue. I will not resist the soldiers if they come, I would gladly let them crucify me.’

But the Pakeha had their day in court on 26 July with the sentencing of the first forty imprisoned ploughmen.

For the third time, Erenora attended the courthouse with Te Whiti and other elders. ‘I want you to accompany me,’ he told her; how proud she was of his regard for her. She shielded the prophet as they entered the courtroom and abuse was hurled at him. ‘It should be you on trial, Tay Witty,’ a settler called, ‘but we’ll get you.’

The party passed through the crowd to the public gallery where Erenora took a seat. Across the courtroom she caught sight of Piharo, the fair-haired gentleman settler. In a mocking manner he took off his hat and bowed his head to her. It was the first time she had seen him since the whipping and she was not prepared for … his face. Now it was marked by a series of parallel scars across his eyes and nose. And despite the skill of the surgeon who had attended him, nothing would ever repair the loose flap that now functioned as his left eyelid.

Quickly Erenora turned away and tried to keep calm as the first batch of twenty-five prisoners was brought into the courtroom; Horitana, Riki and Paora were not among them.

Settlers in the courtroom began baying for blood. ‘Give them the noose!’ they cried.

The presiding magistrate found the twenty-five ploughmen to have caused damage estimated at 5 shillings. Was that all? Then surely they would only have to pay the fine to be let go. Instead, ‘You are sentenced to two months’ hard labour in Dunedin Gaol,’ the magistrate said. ‘You are also required to pay £200 bail to ensure that on your return to Parihaka you maintain good behaviour for a period of no less than ten months.’

Who had £200? ‘Nobody?’ the magistrate asked. ‘In that case, you are all sentenced to hard labour for a year.’ A loud wailing arose among the Maori women in the courtroom; this was tantamount to a sentence of death.

‘Hip, hip, hoo-raah!’ the locals roared. It might not be the noose but it was good enough.

The remaining prisoners were brought to the dock. Erenora saw Horitana, Riki and Paora among their number. When she gained Horitana’s attention he smiled at her. Cast aside your fears, Erenora, and don’t be sad. I will always look after you.

And then came the sentencing. ‘You will all be taken to Wellington and there you will be held without trial,’ the magistrate said.

The words flowed over Erenora. She swayed with puzzlement and her head started buzzing. ‘That can’t be right,’ she said to Te Whiti. ‘Held without trial?’

The magistrate went on to explain that, to accommodate the prisoners, the military barracks at Mount Cook, a rise on the outskirts of the city, would be removed and the site prepared for a gaol. ‘Hip, hip, hoo-raah!’ the settlers cried.

The magistrate waited for order to restore itself. ‘Would the prisoner known as Horitana step forward?’

Erenora began to panic. She saw the magistrate exchange a glance with Piharo. ‘Because of your previous involvement in the Taranaki Wars fighting with Titokowaru,’ the magistrate said, ‘you have had your sentence reserved pending receipt of all the facts pertaining to your actions against the state.’

Someone shouted, ‘The Maori has a price on his head, Your Honour!’

The magistrate nodded. ‘Until all charges are brought before this court and a separate trial can be organised, you will join the others imprisoned at Mount Cook.’

Erenora looked again in Piharo’s direction; he was smiling in triumph. The smile chilled Erenora’s heart. She rose from her seat and cried out to Horitana:

‘Taku tane! Horitana! Kia tupato te ’e o te tangata nei! Husband! Horitana! Beware the evil of Piharo!’

6

Ah, Piharo.

Erenora was right to be concerned. Piharo had been able to subvert the course of justice and, by brilliance and bribery, had taken his revenge against Horitana.

Let me therefore interpolate another scene as Piharo returns from the trial to his estate. At first he is elated by his triumph, consuming with great gusto the evening meal prepared by his housekeeper. But as the night deepens, so does his excitement diminish.

Think of him now, brooding through the evening and staring into the fire that has been lit for him in his library. He has a goblet of red wine in his hand and he holds it up to the fire’s light, twirling it by the stem. Then, in a sudden movement, he stands and flings the glass into the flames.

‘I thought, Maori warrior,’ he rages, ‘that putting you in prison would give me satisfaction … but it is not enough. It is not … sufficient …’

Piharo paces back and forth and his shadow is like the dark stone that Erenora glimpsed within him, a crookbacked thing pacing with him.

He looks around the room for support. Above the fireplace is the family coat of arms. Along one entire wall are Pakeha classics: Machiavelli, de Sade and popular novels by Poe, Dumas père and Hugo. Lining another wall are items in his developing Maori collection: carvings, weapons of war, greenstone mere and ’eitiki — and three tattooed mummified Maori heads of which Piharo is particularly proud. Trafficking in the heads is so brisk that warriors fallen in the most recent Taranaki battles against the Pakeha have been harvested for purchasers with sufficient money to acquire them; Piharo is such a buyer.

Frustrated, Piharo goes up the stairs to his bedroom. ‘What can I do to punish you, Horitana?’ he asks himself. ‘What will be … what is the Maori word for it … fitting ootoo?’

Throughout the night, he moans, tosses and turns; he cannot let go of the question. Then, around dawn, he takes up a hand mirror and looks at the scars on his face. And though the doctor says his appearance will improve, actually, the scarring looks rather beautiful … like the Maori facial tattoo.

He begins to laugh and laugh. That’s it!

Piharo rings for his foreman. ‘I require a silversmith,’ he says. ‘I wish to give him a particularly intricate and exquisite task. Bring him tomorrow.’

7

Not long afterward, Erenora was able to have a few moments with Horitana before he and the other prisoners were taken away. Among them was Wiremu Kingi Te Matakatea. Too late the government realised the injustice of sentencing ‘The Clear-Eyed One’ and offered him his release; Matakea would accept it only if his men were freed also, a request the government would not entertain.

‘Will I ever see you again?’ Erenora asked Horitana.

‘I will write from Wellington,’ he answered. ‘Once I know when my court case will be held, I will tell you. Have faith, forget your fears and look to the day when we are reunited.’

Erenora tried to smile at his gentle comforting, but tears began to stream down her face. ‘I’m sorry, husband, I’m so afraid.’ She didn’t care that Riki and Hori and other prisoners — Te Whao, Ruakere, Rangiora and Whata — were looking on.

‘Don’t fear,’ Horitana answered. ‘Our imprisonment isn’t a sentence of death. There is always the promise of release and of resurrection. Tell the other wives that, won’t you? We’re all orphans in a storm, but, like all things, even storms do pass.’

The day was darkly lowering when, shackled to each other, Horitana, Paora, Riki and the other men were marched on board the prison transport. Distraught, the three sisters watched as the ship set sail and turned southward. Just as it disappeared into the stomach of the night, strange lights began to illuminate the sky, and seagulls circled and clawed away as if trying to escape. Bitter rain came rushing landward.

‘It’s all Horitana’s fault,’ Meri screamed. ‘If he had commanded Riki to stay home, my husband would never have been arrested.’

Erenora embraced her sister. ‘Our husbands are brothers-in-law and loyal and loving friends,’ she answered. ‘They will protect each other.’

‘And who will protect us?’ Ripeka asked. Like Meri, she was looking for someone to blame for Paora’s imprisonment.

‘We will protect each other,’ Erenora replied.

And still Te Whiti would not bow down.

The next morning at Parihaka he said to the ploughmen, ‘Go, put your hands to the plough, look not back. If any come with guns and swords, be not afraid. If they smite you, smite not in return. If they rend you, be not discouraged — another will take up the good work.’

It was from that moment that the wearing of three white feathers in the hair was widely adopted as a symbol of honour and remembrance for the men sent to prison. When some Pakeha saw the feathers, they were reminded of the three plumes of Bohemia and thought that they may have referred to the days when Riemenschneider was at Warea.

No, the feathers had biblical and Maori inspiration: Glory to God, peace on earth and goodwill to all men. Thus, with God at their shoulders and peace and goodwill within them, the ploughmen, straight away, went back on the job.

And from that time can be dated this fact: all men who were subsequently arrested were gaoled without trial.

1

Aue, I now have to go behind the scenes of Erenora’s story for a little bit.

This is the problem with history. You think it’s one narrative but most often it’s three or four or more, all like a twisted rope, tangled and knotted. But Maori have always known this about history anyway. Look at the way we korero in the meeting house. The talk goes all over the place — backwards, forwards, sideways and circling on itself.

In particular, I have to take you away from Taranaki to Wellington and to the New Zealand Parliament, Pharaoh’s Te Paremata o te Pakeha.

Why? From the time the Pakeha gained the upper hand in Aotearoa, the fate of all Maori throughout history has been decided there in that Valley of the Kings, presided over by Pharaoh’s palace, temples, library, stelae and other memorials and, crouching nearby, his judicial sphinx: the High Court. It was therefore at Te Paremata o te Pakeha, in 1880, that the fate of the Parihaka ploughmen was also decided.

Now, what’s interesting is that Parliament had actually tried to create a voice for Maori by establishing four Maori seats in 1867, albeit, initially, as an experiment for one term only. The seats were the government’s way of fulfilling the third clause of the Treaty of Waitangi — that is, giving Maori the rights of British subjects. During the 1870s and 1880s the Maori parliamentarians included Wiremu Parata, Ihaia Tainui, Hori Kerei Taiaroa, Henare Tomoana, Hone Mohi Tawhai and Wiremu Maipapa Te Wheoro, the Member for Western Maori. Laudable as that was, how much real power did the Maori parliamentarians have? Well, Parliament comprised 88 seats. It refused to give Maori a just proportion of seats based on the value of their communal property rights because then Maori would have dominated.

No wonder Parliament was able to push through legislation about Maori virtually unopposed.

There were three main legal positions Parliament had to address about Parihaka.

First, what was the status of Taranaki land: who owned what and where it was confiscated, what had been the instruments enforcing the confiscations? Second, given these questions, was the government legally entitled to send in surveyors? Third, if it wasn’t, shouldn’t the ploughmen sent to prison be released?

Rest assured there’s ample evidence that the Maori members of Parliament actively tried to resolve the Parihaka problem. They are often maligned today as Uncle Toms or as ineffective but, supported by Maori chiefs throughout Aotearoa, they continued to call for the surveys to be halted. And of course they were not lacking some support from their parliamentary colleagues: some members, acting on their consciences, also protested the process by which the ploughmen had been sentenced.

Then the Maori members and chiefs threatened to test the government’s right to confiscate by taking it to Pharaoh’s own Supreme Court and, if necessary, all the way to Queen Victoria in London.

Parliament quickly moved to stop that kind of legal action. Sir John Hall had taken over from Sir George Grey as eleventh premier of New Zealand on 8 October 1879. He had in his Cabinet Harry Atkinson, as an all-powerful Minister of Finance, and John Bryce — two men who, as has already been demonstrated, lost no sleep over Maori. It was Bryce who now, as Minister of Native Affairs, resolved the third big legal position by introducing the infamous Maori Prisoners’ Trial Act. Not only could prisoners be sent to prison without trial, they could have their trials postponed indefinitely.

Although objections increased in Parliament about denial of justice, conflict with the principles of Magna Carta and suspension of habeas corpus, nothing could overturn the government’s view that such a bill was required to deal with the threat of Te Whiti and Tohu. And after all, were Maori really British subjects?

Then, to deal with the first question, Bryce also introduced the Confiscated Lands Inquiry, which would investigate Maori grievances over confiscated Taranaki land. There was an added sting, however — to keep the Maori prisoners under lock and key, the Act declared that it was ‘indispensable for the peace and safety of the colony that the ordinary course of law should be suspended, and [the trials] should take place under special legislation’.

Pharaoh was harsh, keeping the Children of Israel enslaved unto him forever.

2

Even so, Horitana, when he heard the news in his Wellington prison cell, was able to send a message to Erenora.

‘My darling,’ he wrote, ‘although the prisoners’ chances of any early justice are bad, the overriding news about the Confiscated Lands Inquiry is good. I urge you to attend the first meeting of the commissioners in Hawera on 11 February. Let me know the outcome of their findings. The fate of the land is more important than my own. I am in God’s hands.’

Horitana mistakenly assumed that the inquiry would happen quickly. He also expected it to be fair — but let’s face it, how could Maori obtain such a hearing? Wouldn’t you expect the commission, for instance, to go to Parihaka to talk to Te Whiti and Tohu? They were invited to do so but did they take up the offer? No.

I like the way Rachel Buchanan describes the nature of the hearings:

The commission was working in one kind of reality, Parihaka in another. In one of its three reports, the commission said: ‘As on the Plains, even more so certainly at the doors of Parihaka, the establishment of English homesteads and the fencing and cultivation of the land, will be a guarantee of peace.’[14]

Dream on, commissioners!

As Horitana had requested, Erenora attended the first hearing. She realised with dismay that the sun would rise and set many times before any outcome would be known.

Even worse, Bryce was apparently not planning to wait for the commission to complete its hearings. Confident of sanction, the Armed Constabulary began crossing the Waingongoro River to ensure that the surveying and the associated business of roadmaking would proceed. More ominously, the constabulary were actively rebuilding the old beach road, digging trenches and adding blockhouses and a watchtower. By April 1880, as Buchanan describes it, 600 armed police and labourers were on the job. They had a camp and stockade south of the village and another to the north. The intention, so Bryce said, was to link Hawera to New Plymouth, but why then the fortifications?

Parihaka was in its path.

3

It was during this same time, while incarcerated at Mount Cook, that Horitana was woken in the middle of the night by sounds of consternation and alarm.

‘What is happening?’ he shouted.

He saw guards turning up the gaslights and, carrying lanterns, moving swiftly from cell to cell, rousing the prisoners and shackling them together. ‘We’re to be shipped to the South Island,’ Paora cried to him, ‘either to Hokitika, Dunedin or Christchurch.’

Suddenly, Horitana’s own cell door was opened and a visitor was admitted, a distinguished fair-haired gentleman. Horitana leapt at Piharo but his chains held him back. ‘You have finally come to kill me?’ he asked.

‘Oh no,’ Piharo said, ‘that would be altogether too easy a punishment. Here,’ he continued, ‘I have brought you a gift.’

In his hands he held an object that Horitana at first could not recognise: it possessed a terrible beauty. Then he realised that it was a mokomokai, a tattooed head, plated with silver. It flashed in the light and Horitana put his hands to his eyes to prevent being blinded.

The silversmith who had fashioned the mokomokai must have been a craftsman of the highest order. He had duplicated the mummified face beneath, finely layering it and etching it with the filigree of the original moko. There were no eye apertures and only an open gash for the mouth.

There was a sinister refinement. The skull of the mokomokai had been entirely hollowed and scraped out. It had been hinged so that it could be worn. Once the wearer’s face was enclosed, it would be padlocked tight.

‘You cannot do this inhuman thing,’ Horitana said.

Piharo’s revenge had twisted into something beyond human pity. He called five guards into the cell to restrain Horitana.

‘No. No,’ Horitana cried as the guards pinned him down.

And Piharo wrapped his whip around Horitana’s neck and forced him so close they could have kissed. ‘I vowed you would pay for what you did to me,’ he said. ‘You not only touched me, you marked me forever.’ His words hissed out. ‘You inflicted me against my will with your moko. Now, against yours, wear mine.’

The mokomokai was surprisingly heavy. The silversmith had been required to reinforce the skull with an iron plate. As it was fitted onto his face Horitana groaned at the weight; the bottom edge of the mokomokai cut into his shoulders so that they bled.

And when it was padlocked into place, immediately the temperature inside the mokomokai increased so that Horitana’s face streamed with sweat. How will I be able to live in this eternal darkness? As fear overtook him, his heart accelerated, racing out of control. He began to gasp for air, pressing his lips against the mouth aperture.

Lesser men would have died from terror within an hour or two. Somehow, Horitana managed to calm himself. ‘Oh, valiant heart,’ he cried, ‘practise the art of forbearance.’

‘Still alive, are we?’ Piharo was disappointed at first, hoping for a quick harvest. Then he smiled with joy. ‘All right, live as long as you wish. I will have you imprisoned until you die and then you will be mine. You will never see your wife again.’

From that moment, Horitana disappeared off the face of the earth.

And now the question:

Why, in all the prison records of the time, was there no mention of the mokomokai? You’d think, if it were true, that we would all have heard of a dead man’s face being used to cover that of a living man? Perhaps Piharo’s silver didn’t just cover the mokomokai but also the palms of a few warders to ensure their tongues remained silent.

Another question:

Where did the inspiration come from? Well, I have earlier mentioned some of the authors in Piharo’s library. One of those was Alexandre Dumas père, and it is most likely from L’Homme au Masque de Fer (begun in 1847), the final part of his Three Musketeers trilogy, that Piharo got the idea — or stole it. Other romans of the time relating to torture and cruel imprisonment include Edgar Allan Poe’s The Premature Burial and Dumas père’s Le Comte de Monte-Cristo (both published in 1844) and Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables (1862).

Whatever the influence, the rumour grew among Maori prisoners of the man who lived within the face of another, dead warrior. Just to look upon that face, which sometimes flashed blindingly in the light, was to bring you to your knees in awe at the abhorrent nature of the punishment — and at the prisoner’s great agony.

They called him the man with the face of silver.

Te tangata mokomokai.

1

Meanwhile, at Parihaka, the extraordinary saga of the fences began.

Picture this: the year is 1880 and villagers are working in the gardens of their expansive plantations north-west of the kainga. There is no school today and, early in the morning, Erenora has gone to the complex of barns and high-timbered paddocks where the bullock herds are kept. As soon as they see her, they crowd around her. ‘No, no!’ she laughs as they press in and nuzzle her. ‘I only need two of you!’

She yokes the lucky bullocks to a sled and is soon off to the stream to fill barrels of water for the cultivations. As she passes through the village, some of the tataraki’i jump impulsively onto the sled. ‘Can we come with you?’ they ask. When Erenora reaches the stream the children happily help her fill the barrels; sometimes they playfully splash each other.

Further upstream, a group of kuia is harvesting watercress. They stand in the stream, their dresses stained dark with the water, gossiping as they pluck the cress from the banks.

June is an important month in the Maori calendar. The heliacal rising of the Pleiades star cluster ushers in Puanga, the Maori New Year. Falling at the end of the harvest, it is the time to prepare the land and plant the new crops.

The cultivations are all neatly divided by sod walls and manuka picket fences. They stretch from the citadel to the outer perimeter near the sea; there are also small shelters and huts between. The walls and fences are there not only to protect the crops from the village’s bullocks, horses and pigs but also to contain and define the plantings: melon, potato, pumpkin, maize and other vegetables, oats for horse feed and, also, tobacco. The gardens are tilled on a rotational basis, so every now and then there is an empty plantation, fallow the current year but to be planted next year. Pigs are fenced in. Domestic fowls roam wherever they wish. Small lanes allow the workers to move between the gardens.

An idyllic scene, you think? Not so. Bryce’s roadbuilders are making relentless progress towards the plantations.

‘I was driving my bullock team, taking the water to the gardens, when all of a sudden the children, who had been skipping beside the sled, pointed ahead, “Titiro! Look!”

‘The road Mr Bryce’s labourers were building had reached the outer perimeter of the gardens. How could you not notice it! The roadbuilders were loud and boisterous, and so was the Armed Constabulary protecting them.

‘I saw an altercation taking place between the trespassers and some of our villagers. “Get out of the way,” two of the constables were demanding. The labourers had broken two of our picket fences around fields where we were storing crops and preparing the land for the coming year. The invaders pushed one of the villagers and, with a cry, she fell to the ground. Then the labourers and constabulary pushed right through the fence onto our side. Quickly, I lashed at the bullock team, “’aere! W’ano!”

‘The tataraki’i leapt aside as my beloved companions trumpeted and put their heads down. Oh, they were so inspiring as they approached the invaders; the barrels of water were falling left, right and centre, and the constabulary scattered. “The road is yours,” I said, as I pulled on the reins of the team before they trampled the men, “but the fences are ours.” I think the labourers and constabulary were more frightened of my pawing beasts than they were of me, but they wisely retreated.

‘That evening, Te Whiti came to see me at my house. I expected him to chastise me for my intemperate action. Instead he said, “You are as bad as your husband.”

‘He told me he had called all the villagers to meet on the marae.’

2

The space in front of the meeting house was ringed with blazing firelight. The sun had disappeared, and the temperature had plummeted. The villagers huddled in blankets, trying to keep warm.

Huhana smiled at Erenora. ‘We were lucky to get our seeds planted before winter really arrives.’

Te Whiti and Tohu appeared. ‘What are all you people doing sitting out here in the cold?’ Te Whiti joked, stamping his feet and hugging himself. ‘Waiting for me? Then I had better get on with it. It is makariri, freezing.’

The gathering laughed as the prophet got straight down to business. ‘The government has still not proven its right to come onto our land,’ he began. ‘Why have they not stopped their surveying and roadbuilding until the commission reports on its findings? Although it appears that the inquiry is hostile to us we shall, as we always have done, trust to God’s will.’

The people murmured, ‘Ae. Yes.’

‘Thus I say that until God shows us what that will is, we carry on as usual. Tomorrow, let us return to our gardens and put the fences up again where they belong. Kua pai?’

From the people came a strong, deep chorus. ‘Yes, we are agreed.’

James Cowan describes this extraordinary reaction:

The dispute now assumed a new aspect. A party of forty to fifty men, styled the morehu, or ‘survivors’, marched out from Parihaka almost daily, each man carrying a tree-branch, and on arriving at the road where it entered the cultivation on the south side continued to march along the line, reciting an incantation, until within a short distance of the north boundary of the field, close to the Constabulary camp, and back again to the south boundary, where they planted the branches across the road.[15]

Every morning, the roadbuilders tore the fences down again and pushed on with their road. Came the evenings, however, and while the roadbuilders were asleep, the villagers rebuilt all the fences they had broken. What happened the next day? The constabulary tore those down. So what did the villagers do? Rebuild them again and again.

That’s when Bryce ordered this, on 19 July: ‘Any Maori who puts up a fence that has been taken down by the government will be arrested.’ Why? Surely it was the government that should be arrested for removing the fence in the first place.

3

‘By now,’ Erenora wrote, ‘the winter had burst upon us, with squally rain sweeping across Parihaka from the sea. No matter the weather, Mr Bryce’s challenge was too much for our men not to accept. They clamoured to work at the fences! Te Whiti and Tohu chose who was to go and many men were disappointed when the prophets didn’t pick them.

‘Just as had happened with the ploughmen, the arrests of the fencers began, but to our amusement, the constabulary could only handle on average four arrests a day. Who were they going to choose from the large groups of fencers sent out by Te Whiti? Our men were calling, “Pick us! Arrest us!” When their colleagues were carted away to New Plymouth by the Armed Constabulary, those who remained turned unimpeded to repair the fences and fill the breach.

‘Mr Bryce had no option but to post more constabulary to the area. The number of arrests increased. The men held vigorously to the pickets and wouldn’t let go. Prised away, they would run back and hold tight to them again. It ceased to be a game for the constabulary. Bad weather made for short-fused tempers. After all, what constable would not want to be drinking beer in the mess with his mates instead of dealing in the cold and wet with Maoris? The invaders began to use batons to smash the men’s fingers: the crunch of wood on delicate bone was terrible to hear. In pain, the men were wrested from the fences, handcuffed in pairs and taken to New Plymouth.

‘Still, they refused to give in. One day, 300 men went out. This time, they resowed with wheat the very road the roadbuilders were constructing.

‘In all this time, Te Whiti and Tohu stayed inside at Parihaka. They knew that Mr Bryce was awaiting any opportunity to arrest them. Cleverly they continued to keep out of his reach.’

It was a deadly war of attrition.

The male population of Parihaka was being depleted. Seeing this, Titokowaru sent warriors to reinforce the numbers of men at the village, but Te Whiti and Tohu would not let them go out to the plantations. ‘This is our fight, not yours,’ the prophets said.

The weather turned nastier. Taranaki was snow-covered. From July to the middle of August — an extraordinary space of six or more weeks — most of Parihaka’s able-bodied men were arrested. One man, almost blind, was released. The prisoners were not deterred by the initial sentence of two years’ hard labour and the threat of continuation.

By the beginning of September, the courts had sentenced 150 to be sent to the South Island. On 4 September, the last fifty-nine able-bodied men and thirty-two boys marched through snow drifts to the fences. The men were arrested.

‘Who was left? Our prophets, yes, and aged tau’eke, old men, women and the tataraki’i. All the rest had been taken away to gaol.

‘It would have been so easy to give up. Everywhere, women were weeping. “What shall we do now?” Ripeka asked me. I thought of Horitana and I looked at her. “We must do our job,” I answered. “Rouse the rest of the wives, but not Meri — she will only get in the way. Tell them it’s our turn now.”

‘The snow still lay on the ground. The women wrapped themselves up against the chill. Te Whiti didn’t try to stop us. Instead he came to watch as I marched with the other wives out to the fences. “Good, Erenora, so the women now act as the men,” he said. “Be resolute, be strong.”

‘The constabulary and the roadbuilders were shocked when we arrived. “What do we do now?” Ripeka asked.

‘“Pick up the broken pickets,” I replied. “Weave them together with flax and build the fences again.”

‘Piharo was among the invaders. “Stop those wah-hee-nee,” he ordered. He rode towards me, bent down and with his whip nudged my chin up so that he could look at the weals around my neck. Then he tapped his own scars and, smiling gently, said, “We have such pretty decorations, you and I.”

‘It began to hail, the ice stinging our faces. The constabulary cursed as they moved among us. Their body odour was rancid and bitter. Some of the invaders were lascivious, handling our breasts in an obscene manner. “Ignore them,” I ordered. “Keep making a fence.” One man tried to put his hand into Ripeka’s groin. She spat in his face.

‘And then Meri came running to help, almost slipping on the icy ground; Kawa was strapped to her back. “You left me behind,” she rebuked me. “I know you think I’m hopeless, but I’m not entirely useless.”

‘“It’s too dangerous for you,” I answered.

‘But the arrival of a woman with a baby made the constabulary nervous. I took the advantage and said to Meri, “Sister, sing us a poi song.”

‘“Titiro taku poi!” she began. “’Uri atu, ’uri mai! Watch my poi as it weaves the broken rakau! It goes up, it goes down, it binds the wood together, ’ei ’a ’ei, ’e ’a!”

‘There was such defiance in the song. The constabulary threw up their hands in desperation. Arrest women?

‘“Let them go about their useless work,” Piharo said. “When they leave, as eventually they will, we’ll carry on.” He sidled up to me and asked, “By the way, have you heard from your husband lately?” He laughed and laughed.’

A few days later, Erenora was woken by singing.

She thought she had overslept and that the women were going to the fences without her. When she looked out of her w’are she saw the tataraki’i were walking into the bright morning, over a hundred of them. She ran after them, calling, ‘Children, no!’

They took no notice. They were like little soldiers tramping through the melt-water and splashing through the mud. When they reached the fences, they didn’t even care about the constabulary. Instead they looked around for every branch or twig they could find and laid them across the road.

It didn’t matter that what they erected wasn’t really a fence. What mattered was that they were trying their best. Their chirruping was loud and deafening and the steam from their lips created a large, hovering cloud.

Erenora had never heard them so angry.

4

‘A reprieve came, of sorts,’ Erenora wrote. ‘The government was forced to return some of the men who had been sent to the South Island.

‘The weather was fitful now, sometimes very cold but most times struggling towards spring. In October I went to the port with Ripeka, Meri and other women to welcome the first of the prisoners home from Dunedin Gaol on the SS Hinemoa. Imagine our shock and consternation when, as they came to land, we saw that their time in prison had gravely altered their appearance?

‘And then Huhana noticed a small group of a dozen men who were in worse condition; they looked like koiwi, skeletons. At first they stood stock still, almost disbelieving that they were back in the Taranaki. Then a loud sigh came from them like the moaning of a lost wind. Puzzled, Huhana approached them to give them comfort. Suddenly she gave a sharp exclamation and beckoned to me and my sisters, “Bring water and food. Quickly!”

‘When we joined our mother she had tears in her eyes.’

‘“Who are these men?” I asked her because none were recognisable to me.

‘She answered, “They are warriors who fought in Titokowaru’s war. Many were captured back in 1868 and shipped off to the South Island. These men must have been boys at the time and among the first to travel ‘The Trail of Tears’ to Te Wai Pounamu.”

‘We moved among the men offering them bread, fruit and water.

‘“Weren’t those men released in 1872?” I asked, referring to the warriors from Pakakohe, Ngati Ruanui iwi, sent to Dunedin in 1869.

‘Huhana nodded, “Yes, and those who didn’t return we presumed were dead. Let us rejoice that at least some are among us again.”

‘I saw Ripeka and Meri offering smiles and aro’a to the men. I knew their hearts were breaking that their own husbands were not among the returnees. I was so proud that even so they could turn to welcome others who had been released.

“‘Perhaps next time,” I said to them.

5

The following year, 1881, all the cultivations ringing Parihaka were broken through by Bryce’s men and the road finally reached the citadel itself.

Then Bryce’s illegal process was checked. Questions had mounted in Te Paremata o te Pakeha about the welter of despotic acts afflicting both Parihaka and the exiles in prison. The consequences of such mass imprisonments were now being commented on both overseas and nationally. At this rate, it was said, New Zealand could become a vast prison-house with every gaol a Bastille.

In an effort to ameliorate the bad publicity, the government released four further groups of prisoners from South Island gaols, among them Wiremu Kingi Te Matakatea. Although this appeared to be a magnanimous gesture, many of the men had in fact already served their sentences.

The returnees were landed by ship either at Opunake or New Plymouth. They came mainly by the SS Hinemoa from Dunedin and Lyttelton gaols in January and May, from Lyttelton only in June, and the fifth and last group arrived from Hokitika on the SS Stella in the same month. When they gathered to attend the monthly ’ui at Parihaka on 18 June, they were a moving sight. Some were so broken were they in health and spirit. Others, having been sentenced to solitary confinement for up to seven weeks, were seriously ill and still recuperating from the harshness of their prison conditions. They had not been properly fed. A number had been beaten for not working hard enough; some were whipped for minor or trivial infractions.

Te Whiti praised them for their travails. He reminded them that they had not suffered in vain. ‘My heart is glad to welcome you,’ he said. ‘Though you be halt or blind you have conquered. You were not imprisoned for heinous crime, or theft, but for upholding the words of Te Whiti. In such a case prison-houses lose their disgrace and become houses of joy. You were imprisoned for the land, for the chieftainship, and for godliness. A sea of fish lying dead on the strand taint the atmosphere for miles around but the fact of your unjust imprisonment is now known far and near throughout the world.’

On their return, what did most of the men do? Why they joined the women and children repairing the fences and planting the road. They arrived home only to be arrested and sent back to the South Island again.

‘Of course,’ Erenora wrote, ‘it was not easy for my sisters and I to have our hopes dashed again and again when our husbands were not among those who had been returned. Meri, in particular, took it very badly, mocking me unfairly with my own words, “Perhaps next time, Erenora?” However, we had good news from Whata, one of the men. “The last time I saw Horitana, Paora and Riki,” he said, “they were still alive. That was, of course, almost a year ago, though,” he cautioned, “at Mount Cook before we were shipped to Dunedin.”

‘Although our hopes rose, the rest of Whata’s information was alarming. “Horitana was in solitary confinement. This was because the prison warden regarded him as a ringleader among us and, also, he had fought with Titokowaru. He made matters worse for himself by refusing to wear the prison clothing with its broad arrow insignia, and was thrown into the cell clad only in his loincloth. He must have suffered dreadfully from the bone-chilling cold, but he never thought of himself. He would call out to the other prisoners, ‘Kia ka’a, kia manawanui. Have strength, and be of good heart.’ One night, in an act of rebellion he turned up his gaslight when the order came for lights out. In solidarity with him, some of the other prisoners turned their lights up too. Guards warned him, ‘You’re only making things worse for yourself.’ He was given a lashing for starting a mutiny. Two others, Tamata Kuku and Te Iki, were put in solitary confinement with him and fifteen more men — including Paora and Riki — were on bread and water for two days.”

‘“Do you know if our husbands are still in Mount Cook Prison?” I asked Whata.

‘“No,” Whata answered. “You should ask one of the other men.”’

It was Rangiora who provided further news.

‘I was in a later group of prisoners sent to the South Island,’ he began. ‘What I can tell you is that because Horitana, Paora and Riki were deemed to be resistance leaders, they were split up. Paora was sent with a batch of prisoners to Hokitika …’

‘But all those men are back,’ Ripeka cried. ‘Where is he?’

‘Perhaps he was transferred from Hokitika to another prison,’ Rangiora answered.

‘Do you have news about Riki?’ Meri asked, her lips trembling.

‘He is either still in Christchurch or Dunedin.’

‘What about Horitana?’ Erenora asked. ‘Tell me the worst.’

‘I will not lie to you, Erenora,’ Rangiora answered. ‘One early morning, a Pakeha was seen entering his cell. He had with him some of the gaolers. Horitana was heard screaming, “Kaore au ki roto i te Po, please, not eternal darkness.” That is the last anybody saw of him. He could still be in Mount Cook. He could be in the South Island. He could be anywhere.’

Something in the back of Erenora’s mind brought back Piharo’s words, Heard from your husband lately? ‘Taku tane kua ngaro ki te Po!’ she cried out in agony, ‘Horitana has been swallowed up into the Great Night.’

She fell to her knees in karakia. ‘Oh Lord, protect him,’ she prayed.

6

Parihaka was between the pit below and, above, the pendulum.

And all around the build-up of constabulary and settler forces was escalating. Bryce, confident that the inquiry would find for the government, was preparing to move the recalcitrant villagers out.

Did that bother Te Whiti and Tohu? No, their nerves held. In defiance, they encouraged the people of Parihaka to rally. They embarked on a new construction programme.

To fly in the face of the odds … what a gesture. New houses were built, in the European style, including the imposing two-gabled w’arenui, Miti Mai Te Arero. Its name, ‘To Defiantly Protrude the Tongue’, defined its political role. By the time the new buildings were raised, Parihaka had become a settlement of 350 houses. And despite the deportations to the South Island, new supporters boosted the population to around 2,000.

Te Whiti and Tohu would not submit to the might of the Pakeha.

Nationally, however, matters outside the prophets’ control were spiralling Parihaka into Te Po. The warmongering talk among Pakeha reached the pitch of hysteria, as did the scare tactics that advised an uprising was likely. The consensus was that the time had come to extinguish the Maori citadel.

And closer at hand, mustering at nearby Rahotu, was what the people began to call ‘Mr Bryce’s Army’. It came by ship, along the coast and by road from the north to surround the kainga.

This is how James Cowan described the scene:

By this time [October, 1881] Taranaki was a great armed camp. Redoubts with tall watch-towers studded the face of the land; loop-holed blockhouses stood on commanding hills; Armed Constabulary tents whitened the plains.[16]

Then the Confiscated Lands Inquiry was completed and the ‘betrayal’ was confirmed when the commissioners, instead of affirming Te Whiti and Tohu’s ownership of the land, decided the government owned it.

But don’t worry. Reserves would be set aside for the iwi where they would be resettled to live the rest of their days in happiness.

The inquiry congratulated itself on being able ‘to do justice to the natives’ and continue ‘English settlement of the country’. Legislation was passed to bring the findings of the inquiry into law. To make sure that the law was obeyed, anyone who did not subject themselves to the findings, or who obstructed the continuation of further settlement in non-reserve lands, could be accused of sedition, arrested without warrant and imprisoned for up to two years with or without hard labour.

Regarding Bryce’s roadbuilding, well, the inquiry realised that might have been premature, but their findings validated his action, didn’t they?

Te Whiti and Tohu were ordered to submit to the authority of the Queen and prepare their people to move from Parihaka. Maintaining his position of passive resistance, Te Whiti responded with a message from within the kainga. This was man’s will, not God’s:

‘Though the lions rage,’ he said, ‘still I am for peace.’

His was an act of brinkmanship.

Bryce disregarded it and decided to go in.

1

‘We all knew that Mr Bryce and his army of constabulary and volunteer settlers were coming,’ Erenora wrote, ‘when, on 2 November, some of our villagers, going to a wedding, were turned back on the coast road to Patea. I rode out to the checkpoint to see for myself. A squad of constabulary was manning it. Nobody could get out. Nobody could get in.

‘As soon as the news spread that we were imprisoned, we knew we had to expect the worst. “The man that is come to kill is standing in front of us,” Te Whiti told us. “Behind is the dark.”

‘The next morning, 3 November, Huhana woke us as usual with her karanga. When she finished she said to me, “All these years I have always had a competition with the birds to see whose karanga is the most beautiful and loudest. I won today. There was no birdsong.” Nature itself was showing its disquiet.

‘The day was hot and the sky clear. Despite our anxieties, we all went about our daily duties. The men were still putting the finishing touches to some of the new houses they had added to the kainga. Heedless of Mr Bryce’s army, the women went to tend the gardens. I took the tataraki’i for their school work but, in the afternoon, Te Whiti sent a message that the bullocks were playing up. They were lowing and shifting dangerously in their pens. Would I go to their enclosure and calm the beloved companions? Some of the tataraki’i came with me. We were halfway to the barns when, suddenly, I heard bugles and rifle shots.

‘“What’s going on over there?” one of the boys asked. I shaded my eyes and saw a rifle unit practising mock attacks, bayonets at the ready, raising clouds of dust which drifted over Parihaka.’

‘On 4 November, Te Whiti and Tohu called us all together. There was still no birdsong. How could they sing when their homes as well as ours were being invaded?

‘“Mr Bryce plans to surprise us,” Te Whiti said, “but we know he comes to Parihaka tomorrow.” When he said these words there was a moan of fear. Te Whiti called for us to remain calm. He told us that the best way to defend ourselves was not to take up arms. “If any man thinks of his gun or his horse, and goes to fetch it,” he began, “he will die by it … place your trust in forbearance and peace … let the booted feet come when they like, the land shall remain firm for ever.”

‘Instead, he instructed us to offer peace, and said that the women should bake loaves of bread to offer Mr Bryce’s men. I asked, “Why should we bake bread for them?” He knew I was in a wilful mood and could not be pacified. He turned to Huhana and some of the other women and said, “Gather the tataraki’i together and teach them a song to sing to the troops as they enter our holy citadel, eh? And —” he turned to the assembly “— those of you who are concerned for your safety should leave while you can.” He was referring to secret tracks out of the kainga.

‘I couldn’t help but hear Meri weeping quietly as she held Kawa close to her breast. She had always had a nervous temperament. “You should go, sister,” I said to her. When she nodded, I was relieved; at least I wouldn’t have to worry about her. That evening, Ripeka and I accompanied her and Kawa to the beginning of the track along the Waitotoroa Stream and said goodbye.

‘Just as she disappeared, we saw some strange men and women sneaking towards us. “E a’a to ma’i?” I asked them. “What are you doing here?” The bush telegraph had been busy and supporters from far and wide were slipping through the army’s cordon. “We’ve come to sit with your people,” they said, “and to wait with you.”’

‘That evening, the sky was dark. There was no moon or wind. At 2 a.m., under the cloak of darkness, we had breakfast and karakia.

‘“It is time,” Te Whiti said, “to get dressed in our best clothing and to wait for Mr Bryce and his army. Let him see that his surprise is not a surprise and that we are prepared to greet him in mana and with dignity.”

‘We reassembled on the marae, maybe from 3 a.m. onward. As the dawn rose, changing from deep red to blazing light upon our sacred mountain, Huhana gave her usual karanga, “O’o ake nga iwi ki o tatou ma’i o te ra!” I had never heard her voice so strong and so beautiful. “Rise up, people, and begin the work of the day!” But when she had finished she began to weep. “Will the birds ever return again to join me in welcoming the sun?”

‘Ripeka and I were sitting together, and I pressed her hands. All around, everyone was greeting the person next to them, “Kia ora. Hello. It is so good to be together and to draw courage from each other.” Te Whiti and Tohu were smiling at us. I saw that grand warrior Titokowaru and rushed to embrace him. “Aue, Erenora,” he said, “I weep for you, I weep for all of us today and I weep for Horitana, who I have always thought of as a son.” Nearby was Wiremu Hiroki, the man who had killed one of the surveyors when they had come onto our land. His face was sombre. He knew that once Mr Bryce came into Parihaka, Te Whiti’s cloak of protection would no longer hold.

‘But was that Meri, holding Kawa and stepping through the crowd towards me and Ripeka? Why hadn’t she been obedient?

‘“Don’t be angry with me,” she began. “I had to come back. Even though the soldiers surround us, I’m happier with my sisters.” When she said that, Ripeka started to cry. My sisters both embraced me, knowing I was irritated. I resigned myself; there was a great love between us.

‘And then Mr Bryce and his army came in.’

2

It was 7 a.m., Guy Fawkes Day.

War fever was in the air as Bryce’s army of 644 Armed Constabulary and 945 volunteers prepared for the action ahead.

The Armed Constabulary headquarters was at Pungarehu. Two companies had come from the Rahotu camp, along with the Nelson artillery and volunteers. To give you a better idea of their makeup, here are the units of Timaru Camp, just outside Parihaka: the Wellington Engineers, the Wellington City Rifles, the Wellington Guards, the Masterton Rifles, the Makara Rifles, the Greytown Rifles, the Marlborough Contingent and the Canterbury Contingent under the command of Captain Alfred St George Hammersley of the Timaru Artillery. Also on duty were support units, including a medical corps. A 6-pounder Armstrong gun was positioned overlooking the village on a nearby hill that the constabulary called Mount Rolleston.

The perimeter of the kainga bristled with men. The army’s orders were to provide cover for Bryce as he rode in to arrest Te Whiti and Tohu for non-compliance with the order to submit and move with their people to reserve land.

Throughout the preparations, the army had been hyped up to expect the worst. ‘We are expecting treachery from Tay Witty and Tay Tow-hoo, lads. Be on your guard, as his bloodthirsty warriors have been ordered to retaliate with arms from their cache of secret weapons. Don’t forget, Titokowaru’s with them! He has a squad of 500 warriors in hiding, ready to overcome us.’

Oh yes? The overwhelming army response was, ‘Let the Maoris try! If even one black bugger fires off a shot, we’ll rake the lot of them with covering fire and rip them all to shreds. And if we’re wounded, well, they’ll be honourable wounds. Our medical corps will patch us up good as new, eh lads, and we’ll live to tell our children and grandchildren that we were there the day Parihaka was brought down.’

Around 9 a.m., was that John Bryce preparing to go through the gateway?

‘Look at him, spick and span in his uniform, on his prancing white charger. Raise a cheer, lads, for our leader and the brave men with him as they advance fearlessly into the fanatics’ den. Doesn’t he look like the grand old Duke of York, boys! But what’s this? Are little children guarding the way? Bloody savages! Mr Bryce, they may have weapons concealed on them. Don’t trust the buggers, sir! Mow them down, go straight at them! Who’ll be the first to kill a Maori, lads?’

3

‘I put my hands over my eyes to shade them and, from out of the sun, Mr Bryce was riding.

‘Our tataraki’i awaited him. There were around 200 of the little cicadas. They were arranged in their usual lines of welcome, singing, chanting, skipping and playing with their tops. As usual they had dressed ceremonially in shoulder cloaks and some had feathers in their hair. The boys were in the front and, behind them, around sixty young girls. Among them Huhana and an old tau’eke led them in their song. If you come in peace and greet the tataraki’i with smiles, they spin their songs with brightness and beauty; if you come in anger, their song changes.

‘My heart was in my mouth as Mr Bryce ordered his men to charge straight at the children and the old man. “Be careful, tataraki’i!” I called. I heard the drumming hooves, saw the horses’ flowing manes and I thought the children would be cut down.

‘They didn’t care! They kept to their ranks and the soldiers had to wheel away at the last moment.

‘The cicadas became loud and furious as Mr Bryce ordered another charge. Piharo was among the horsemen. I cried out to him, “They’re only children.” The sun flashed on him and I knew he would give no quarter. After all, was his soul not made of hard black stone, dark and sinister?

‘But the tataraki’i were ready. Again they held their ground. At the last moment they clapped their hands loudly, took off their capes and waved them at the horses. The sharp sound of their hands split the air and the capes created unsettling whirlwinds. Take that, Mr Bryce! The horses reared, whinnying wildly and plunging away, unseating a few of their riders. Furious, Mr Bryce could only call a squad of his constabulary to come forward and bundle the children away. As the men did so, the children began to buzz loudly. Their song was one of prophecy:

‘“Hear the sound of the cicada! Do not assume you have power over us. We filled the skies above Egypt in our millions and brought down the plague upon Pharaoh.”’

Erenora and the women were watching and waiting.

‘Not a good start to Mr Bryce’s invasion, eh?’ Erenora laughed, and the women laughed with her. ‘Now, wa’ine ma, it’s time for us to do our part.’

She put on a brave face for Te Whiti; she was doing this only because he wished it. As Bryce, Piharo and their accompanying contingent proceeded toward the marae, she led the women, carrying 500 loaves of warm bread, gifts for the visitors. The women had smiles on their lips as they held up the food, but Erenora was not smiling. She had no gladness in her heart. It took all her willpower to stop the derisive patere that threatened to rise unbidden to her lips.

Bryce, his horsemen and accompanying constabulary passed by, rejecting the women’s offerings. Bryce’s horse was prancing, its stirrups jingling, such a pretty horse, and Erenora gave a sudden moan. Her memory flashed back to the time when she had been a young girl, watching Governor Grey inspecting the bodies of the dead warriors at Warea. She could not restrain herself. ‘Titiro!’ she called. ‘Bryce ko’uru kua tae mai i roto i a tatou! This is Bryce the Treacherous who comes among us! Beware of him!’

Breaking away from the women’s ranks, she ran after the invading contingent. She wanted to leap up, drag Bryce off his horse and stop him from advancing any further. But she saw Te Whiti on the marae and, all of a sudden, she heard his voice in her mind saying, No, Erenora, what must be will be.

She faced him, defiant. ‘No, rangatira, no.’

4

The sun was spinning, spinning, spinning in the sky. Ahead, Tohu Kaakahi’s marae was shimmering with heat. Fronting it was the meeting house known as Toroanui.

Bryce’s face registered surprise at the large number of Maori gathered with Te Whiti. Two thousand five hundred, maybe more, all most excellently dressed. A good-natured voice from the crowd called to him, ‘Friend, you’re a bit late. We’ve been waiting for you since one o’clock this morning.’

Bryce heard the laughter rippling around him. His throat was parched. He had to sit upright to calm himself. How had the Maoris known he was coming?

Piharo reined up beside him. ‘The fanatics’ den,’ he muttered to his leader.

‘We have lost the element of surprise,’ Bryce said. Suddenly, light blasted from the meeting house, Toroanui, dazzling his eyes. He jerked the reins of his white charger. When the bit pulled at its mouth the horse pawed and stamped the ground.

Since first coming to New Zealand Bryce’s greatest fear was of what he called the ‘sacred medicine-houses’ of the Maoris: the hideous carvings, the three-fingered monsters with their protruding tongues and serpent tails, and the other forms of beings half-human, half-inhuman. The house before him did not have such embellishments but, even so, it was still to be feared. His heartbeat rose as from out of the shimmering heatwaves came three voices, so loud that he put his hands to his ears.

Bring your treachery no further.

Bryce shook his head quickly to clear his hearing. Before him were Te Whiti, with Tohu, Titokowaru and other Maori elders. Wary, he turned to Piharo. ‘This’, he said, ‘is as far as we shall go.’

Taking advantage of the moment, village women, in traditional dress and wearing the raukura in their hair, came singing onto the marae. Right in the front were Ripeka and Meri, with poi in their hands.

‘Titiro nga putiputi!’ the crowd roared as they began to dance: ‘Takiri te raukura,’ the women sang, ‘’aere koe i runga, ’uri ’aere ra i te motu e! Takiri te raukura, ’aere koe i runga, waiho te ture kia rere i raro e! Let the raukura dance, go forth the raukura, fluttering above and arise upwards! Throughout the land let the raukura dance, fluttering above while the laws are fluttering down below!’

Erenora slipped between the many men and women in the crowd. ‘Let me through, let me through.’ Her heart was pounding when she finally joined the ranks of the elders standing with Te Whiti. ‘Must we allow Mr Bryce to come riding into our kainga?’ she asked.

The prophet smiled quizzically at her. ‘I have always relied on you, Erenora, to ask the difficult questions but … tell me … do you know the will of God?’

Chastened by the remark, Erenora bowed her head. Te Whiti kissed her on the cheek, ‘Kei te pai, Erenora.’ He turned to watch as the men took the places of the women to perform an ’aka. Raised to the dazzling sun, their faces were full of pride:

‘Ko te tongi a Noa ’e aka te oranga!’ they sang. ‘Ko te tongi a Te Whiti ’e raukura e! The symbol of Noah is the ark! Likewise the symbol of Te Whiti is the white feather e!’

Te Whiti and Tohu were wearing fine cloaks. Te Whiti’s eyes again alighted on Erenora. Without wanting to, she began to weep with frustration. He shook his head, ‘No, Erenora, don’t cry.’ She heard his voice again, whispering to her like a warm wind through the din around them. ‘Rather, gather your strength for the journey you are soon to undertake to te Pito o te Ao, the end of the world.’

Then the ’aka was over.

‘We expected Mr Bryce to dismount,’ Erenora wrote, ‘so that Te Whiti and Tohu could begin the speechmaking. But what did Mr Bryce do? He remained on his horse. And Piharo and the accompanying constabulary, they also would not dismount.’

Nevertheless, Te Whiti and Tohu stood and welcomed Bryce ko’uru.

They waited for him to reply to their mi’i. But he remained seated on his horse, silent, his eyes looking straight ahead. What was he waiting for?

For almost an hour there was no reciprocal exchange of greetings.

‘Then, at 10 o’clock, Mr Bryce finally made his move. He nodded his head and a Pakeha officer of insufficient mana abused the hospitality of the two prophets by speaking to them with unseemly directness. “What is your answer, Te Whiti, to the proclamation of 19 October?” he asked.

‘When Te Whiti did not reply, Mr Bryce bid his underling to read out the Riot Act: “You are unlawfully, riotously and tumultuously assembled. You must disperse, otherwise you will be arrested. You have one hour to leave Parihaka.”

‘Nobody stirred. The silence remained. The allotted hour passed.

‘And then Mr Bryce took upon himself the conqueror’s right to read out the warrants of arrest for Te Whiti and Tohu. A warrant was also read out for Wiremu Hiroki, who stepped forward when his name was called.

‘A bugle began to play, Tatara-raa! Tatara-raa! And the forest suddenly quaked as Mr Bryce’s army emerged from it and burst into the kainga to execute the arrests. As they rushed in, the birds appeared. Disturbed by the army they shrilled in untimely song, flocking above Parihaka before seeking the safety of the sky.’

5.

O God of Israel, I ask of you, why didn’t you come down from your glorious throne and smite the Pakeha?

You gave your divine assistance to Joshua when he blew his trumpet and brought down the walls of Jericho. You saved Lot and destroyed the twin cities of evil, Sodom and Gomorrah. You gave Samson back his strength so that he could demolish the Temple of Dagon. And you chose Moses, closing the Red Sea over the pursuing Pharaoh and his cohorts of the Egyptians.

O God of Ages, why did you not do the same for your prophets Te Whiti and Tohu and your beloved Maori people?

‘After that,’ Erenora wrote, ‘everything happened quickly. Two Pakeha officers moved up with an arresting party armed with revolvers and handcuffs. The arresting officer was Captain Stuart Newall.

‘Te Whiti said to us, “Be of good heart and patient. This day’s work is not my doing. It comes from the heart of the Pakeha. On my fall the Pakeha builds his work: but be you steadfast in all that is peaceful.”

‘And as Tohu was handcuffed, he turned and said, “Be not sad. Turn away the sorrowful heart from you … Be not dismayed. Have no fear but be steadfast.”

‘The arrests were too terrible to behold. There arose a sound of such grief, such a deep moaning, that you could not stop your own sadness spilling out. A surge like a deep sea swell compelled the people forward to try to stop the arrests. But I remembered that other prophets of the Holy Bible had suffered in the hands of despots, and I saw that as Te Whiti and Tohu were led away, they were not bowed down. I turned to the villagers. “Why are you grieved?” I asked them. “Look, they are smiling as they walk away with the Pakeha.”

‘The two prophets were taken by trap to Pungarehu. As soon as they left Parihaka, the rain came squalling down.’

Let me put it to you.

It didn’t matter that the people of Parihaka were unarmed. All it would have taken was one shot. One rifle raised, one Maori sighted, one trigger pressed and …

Think about it.

And do you remember that Te Whiti had proclaimed four phases in the history of Parihaka? Some people say that the invasion of the citadel was the third one, Tupapaku.

It was the day that Parihaka died.

1.

‘To the victor the spoils,’ Erenora wrote, ‘is a story older than the fall of Troy.

‘For two days, however, the rain kept Mr Bryce’s army at bay. It wasn’t until 8 November that the weather cleared. Only then did the army enter Parihaka again, and the wolf came down on the fold.

‘The pretext was that they were searching for so-called hidden caches of gunpowder, firearms and weapons. All the search parties found were fowling pieces, tomahawks and axes but in the process they stole many pounamu and other taonga, banknotes and savings.

‘Piharo made a special visit to my house. “Aren’t you going to ask me for my warrant?” he laughed.’

‘Mr Bryce appeared on his white charger. “The time has come”, he said, “for all tribes, who came to support the Parihaka people to pack up and leave.” ‘He posted a proclamation to all Waikato, Whanganui, Ngati

Awa and other tribes on the west coast to get out. He called them “strangers” and gave them an hour to comply. If they did not, the Armstrong cannon would be fired on Parihaka. They refused to leave and, instead, sat with us on the marae, disregarding the order.

‘Mr Bryce’s threat was an empty one. The cannon remained silent.

‘But then Mr Bryce began the forcible and savage removal of the “strangers” and the destruction of domestic village w’are — whether they belonged to our visitors or not. He had always considered Parihaka as a sanctuary for criminals and now he took the opportunity to rid himself of it: Maori supporters from Whanganui were targeted first, arrested and moved out. Next were those from the Waikato. Once they were “identified”, rightly or wrongly, they were marched out of Parihaka and, just in case they thought of returning, their houses were destroyed.

‘I was sick at heart as I watched men, women and children lined up and, at the word of a Maori informer, identified as one of us or not. More than 400 from North Taranaki were marched away, some in handcuffs, to New Plymouth; 200 from South Taranaki were escorted to Opunake.

‘Mr Bryce ordered the destruction of the plantations. If any remaining “strangers” wouldn’t leave, he would starve them out.’

2.

By 18 November, just over 1,000 people were left in Parihaka.

They were mostly women and children now, and the tataraki’i had assumed the front line defence on the marae, making loud sounds of anger whenever the constabulary appeared.

Over 400 more people were identified as not belonging to Parihaka and forced to leave. By 20 November, 1,443 people had been thrown out.

Mr Bryce then turned to destroying the wairua of Parihaka. He ordered the pulling down of the ‘sacred medicine-house’.

By 22 November, 2,200 people had been evicted at gunpoint. The remaining villagers were given passes, not only to identify those belonging to Parihaka but also to prevent those who had been forced out from returning and resuming life in the village. ‘Parihaka continued to be looted,’ Erenora wrote. ‘Houses were torched, crops destroyed and livestock — hundreds of pigs, cattle and horses — driven away.

‘Among the livestock were the village’s 100 bullocks. Some refused to be herded from the kainga and, escaping the constabulary, returned again and again to Parihaka. In the end, the decision was made to slaughter them in their enclosures. A small shooting detail was given the task but at the first gunshots the bullocks created havoc, bellowing loudly and crashing against the high wooden fences where the shooters were standing.

‘I ran, crying, to the paddocks. I wrenched a rifle from one of the constabulary. Their shooting was so indiscriminate. They were too far away to give the fatal shot and some of the wounded bullocks were still writhing with terror.

‘“I will do it,” I screamed at the shooters. My will was so ferocious that the men stepped aside for me. They thought I was crazy to go into the paddock but, as soon as the bullocks saw me and heard my comforting voice, they stopped stampeding. And so I was able to move among them, scolding, “Why didn’t you go with your new masters?” I knew, of course, why they hadn’t but, oh, how I wished they had not turned back to the kainga.

‘I gathered my strength and commanded them all to lie down. “Thank you for your companionship,” I told them. “Look into my eyes now,” I said to each one and, while they were looking at me, I put the rifle to their foreheads and pressed the trigger.

‘Oh, what beloved companions they had been.’

‘Within three weeks we were down to 400 villagers, mostly women and the tataraki’i, and we were starving. Ripeka and I would go out at night to pick over the razed crops and bring back kai for Meri’s boy, Kawa, and other children.

‘When the house of my dear adoptive mother, Huhana, was burnt down she decided she had suffered enough. “I’m going back to Warea,” she told us. “Why don’t you girls come with me? We can wait out the troubles there.” My sisters and I said, “No.”

‘By the time Huhana was ready to leave, others had decided to go with her. We wept as they departed: such a small band of men and women. But Huhana called to us, “Don’t cry. This has happened before and, no doubt, it will happen again. We have always been more’u, pilgrims.”

‘The kainga was at the mercy of kites and crows. We were unprotected and exposed to marauders. Not long after Huhana left, some men, their faces hidden, came with a more sinister intent. They stole into some of the houses, muffled the sounds of sleeping women, bound them and put them into carts. But I was roused by nearby screams. I went to Meri’s house and told her, “Protect your son.” Where was Ripeka? I took up a butcher’s knife and went to find our sister.

‘Three men had decided there was time enough to have their way with her. They were raping her, two of them holding her down and the third on top of her, grunting like a pig. Rage possessed me and I screamed at them. I lashed at the man who was taking my darling sister against her will and, howling, he fell away from her. Of course, Meri was never obedient and she showed up with the only weapon she could find — a broom — but her appearance was enough to make the other two marauders take fright. They ran away into the night.

‘Meri comforted Ripeka. Our sister was moaning and swaying from side to side with grief. Then she began to scream, over and over again, “I should have fought harder.” It took us a long time to calm her down. When she had done so, she became still and silent. With perspiration beading her brow, she hissed at us with great fierceness, “This is our secret, you hear, sisters? Ours. Paora must never know. Never.”

‘She became distraught again, so, to calm her down, Meri began to tap her poi and made up a song to go with it:

‘“Titiro taku poi! Tapiri atu tapiri mai, taku poi, tapiri atu! Look at my poi, sister, as it dances up and down. It invites you to sing and dance with it! Come, sister, smile!”

‘I don’t know what happened to the women who were carted away from Parihaka. I hear that some were forced to become wives of settlers. Others were given as sexual fodder to constabulary in other parts of New Zealand. But I now knew how Horitana felt whenever the blood-lust came upon him. I wanted to follow the rapists to the end of the earth and geld them.’

‘On 12 November Te Whiti, Tohu and Hiroki were transferred from Pungarehu to New Plymouth Gaol. They were remanded in custody, to await trial on 1 May 1882. Before that could happen, however, Mr Bryce passed a bill that rendered their trial unnecessary: they were lawfully imprisoned without appearing in court.

‘To make sure that the presence of the prophets in Taranaki would not prove an inspiration to the people, they were taken by ship from New Plymouth to Wellington.’

3.

With the crops razed, Erenora took to slipping at night through the constabulary’s cordon to the sea. There, she would throw her net for fish.

One morning, just as she had managed to get back into Parihaka, she saw a man on a horse riding towards her. It was Piharo. Her first impulse was to run. Instead she threw her catch into flax, moved quickly away from it and stood her ground, her fists bunched.

Piharo reined up beside her and leant down from his saddle. ‘Your scarring has gone,’ he observed. ‘As for mine, never.’ When Erenora tried to move past him he drove his horse into her, knocking her to the ground. ‘Did I ever tell you that I have democratic tastes?’ he asked. ‘I’ll let you starve just a little bit longer. Perhaps that might bring down a pride like yours sufficient for you to make the walk to my gateway, as many have already.’

‘Never,’ Erenora said to him as she stood up. ‘Never.’

Bryce tried to enforce a media blackout. He said he would arrest any newspapermen at Parihaka. His threat didn’t work: two correspondents sneaked in and were hidden by Maori on the marae. Not only that, but photographers were able to take pictures of Bryce’s army as it awaited orders to move against Parihaka. One, from the W.A. Price Collection in Wellington’s Alexander Turnbull Library, shows serried ranks of men, arms at the shoulder, like toy soldiers. In the background among the trees you can see their tented camp. Another photograph shows the villagers of Parihaka in defiant waiata. Yes, the three women in front are Erenora, Ripeka and Meri.

Their mouths are opened as if they have swallowed the sun. ‘Ka manawanui au i ’ei ’a!’ they are crying defiantly. ‘We are indeed of stout heart au i ’ei ’a!’

1.

Flow on, bitter tears, flow on. Weep for the soul of the Maori people, weep. Shadows hide the light, dark as darkest night. Weep, o women, for the more’u, lost to the world.

‘In the aftermath of Parihaka’s fall,’ Erenora wrote, ‘Ripeka, Meri and I thought constantly of our husbands. By now, two years had passed since they had been taken away from New Plymouth. Since then, other men had also been submitted to imprisonment without trial. And when our two rangatira, Te Whiti and Tohu, were taken away from us, well, that was a black day.

‘Piharo was still harassing me, wishing to enslave me. Even though his property was now unimpeded of Maori title, he liked to ride to Parihaka for the express purpose of mocking me with his success. He would follow me as I scrabbled for food, asking, “Are you not hungry yet? I have a place already set for you at my table. Will you not join me one evening?”

‘Bedevilled by him, I sought escape by going down to the sea, and it was there that I had a matakite, a vision, about Horitana. At least I thought it was Horitana, except that all I could see was … a mokomokai, but it was shining like silver. As I was looking at it, the face began to sing, but the voice was Horitana’s. His song was full of pain and agony:

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

‘I did not understand the vision and, although my soul was filled with foreboding, I voiced the thought that came to me: “Horitana is still alive! If he had been dead his spirit would have visited me to tell me he was waiting for me in Te Reinga.”

‘But why was he in so much pain? His agony was so intense that I put my hands to my head, moaning. Even when the vision ended, I could not rid my memory of that tragic voice coming from the mokomokai and the agony that inflected it. What had happened to him?

‘Yes, that was the moment of my decision. I would go and look for him. What else could I do? Ka patupatu taku manawa.’

With beating heart, Erenora began her quest to find Horitana. But how would she, a Maori woman, be able to travel through a hostile Pakeha land?

One evening her glance happened to light upon the book of Shakespeare’s plays given to her by a kind visitor to Parihaka. In Twelfth Night, she recalled, the heroine, Viola, is wrecked on the coast of Illyria and must masquerade as a man to survive in a hostile land.

That made Erenora remember something she had heard from the traditions of another tribe on the other side of Aotearoa — the east coast. Their waka had just landed after having journeyed from Hawaiki and, while the men went to investigate the strange new country, the women waited in the waka. However, the tide came up and the canoe started to drift towards rocks. By tradition, women were forbidden to be paddlers but this was an emergency. Thus, a woman by the name of Wairaka shouted to the gods, ‘Kia whakatane au i ahau. Let me make myself into a man.’ With that, she grabbed the oars and rowed the waka to safety.

‘I shall do the same,’ Erenora said to herself. ‘And I shall call myself Eruera.’