Summer halcyon’s flight

Five

Uia mai koia whakahuatia ake, Ko wai te whare nei e? Ko Te Kani! Ko wai te tekoteko kei runga? Ko Paikea, ko Paikea! Whakakau Paikea hei, Whakakau he tipua hei, Whakakau he taniwha hei, Ka u a Paikea ki Ahuahu, pakia, Kei te whitia koe, ko Kahutia Te Rangi, aue, Me awhi o ringa ki te tamahine, A te Whironui, aue, Nana i noho Te Roto-o-Tahe, aue, aue, He Koruru koe, koro e!

Four hundred leagues from Easter Island. Te Pito o te Whenua. Diatoms of light shimmered in the cobalt-blue depths of the Pacific. The herd, sixty strong, led by its ancient leader, was following the course computed by him in the massive banks of his memory. The elderly females assisted the younger mothers, shepherding the new-born in the first journey from the cetacean crib. Way out in front, on point and in the rear, the young males kept guard on the horizon. They watched for danger, not from other creatures of the sea, but from the greatest threat of all — man. At every sighting they would send their ululation back to their leader. They had grown to rely on his memory of the underwater cathedrals where they could take sanctuary, often for days, until man had passed. Such a huge cathedral lay beneath the sea at the place known as the Navel of the Universe.

Yet it had not always been like this, the ancient whale remembered. Once, he had a golden master who had wooed him with flute song. Then his master had used a conch shell to bray his commands to the whale over long distances. As their communication grew so did their understanding and love of each other. Although the young whale had then been almost twelve metres long, his golden master had begun to swim with him in the sea.

Then, one day, his master impetuously mounted him and became the whale rider. In ecstasy the young male had sped out to deep water and, not hearing the cries of fear from his master, had suddenly sounded in a steep accelerated dive, his tail stroking the sky. In that first sounding he had almost killed the one other creature he loved.

Reminiscing like this the ancient bull whale began to cry his grief in sound ribbons of overwhelming sorrow. Nothing that the elderly females could do would stop his sadness. When the younger males reported a man-sighting on the horizon it took all their strength of reasoning to prevent their leader from arrowing out towards the source of danger. Indeed, only after great coaxing were they able to persuade him to lead them to the underwater sanctuary. Even so, they knew with a sense of inevitability that the old one had already begun to sound to the source of his sadness and into the disturbing dreams of his youth.

Six

Three months after Kahu’s birth her mother, Rehua, died. Porourangi brought her and Kahu back to our village where the funeral was held. When Rehua’s mother asked if she and her people could raise Kahu, Nanny Flowers objected strongly. But Porourangi said, ‘Let her go,’ and Koro Apirana said, ‘Yes, let it be as Porourangi wishes,’ and thereby overruled her.

A week later, Rehua’s mother took Kahu from us. I was with Nanny Flowers when the taking occurred. Although Porourangi was in tears, Nanny was strangely tranquil. She held Kahu close, a small face like a dolphin, held and kissed her.

‘Never mind, girl,’ she said to baby Kahu. ‘Your birth cord is here. No matter where you may go, you will always return. You will never be lost to us.’ Then I marvelled at her wisdom and Rehua’s in naming the child in our genealogy and the joining of her to our lands.

Our genealogy, of course, is the genealogy of the people of Te Tai Rawhiti, the people of the East Coast; Te Tai Rawhiti actually means ‘the place washed by the eastern tide’. Far away beyond the horizon is Hawaiki, our ancestral island homeland, the place of the Ancients and the Gods, and the other side of the world. In between is the huge seamless marine continent which we call Te Moana Nui a Kiwa, the Great Ocean of Kiwa.

The first of the Ancients and ancestors had come from the east, following the pathways in the ocean made by the morning sun. In our case, our ancestor was Kahutia Te Rangi, who was a high chief in Hawaiki. In those days man had power over the creatures of land and sea, and it was Kahutia Te Rangi who travelled here on the back of a whale. This is why our meeting house has a carving of Kahutia Te Rangi on a whale at the apex. It announces our pride in our ancestor and acknowledges his importance to us.

At the time there were already people living in this land, earlier voyagers who had come by canoe. But the land had not been blessed so that it would flower and become fruitful. Other tribes in Aotearoa have their own stories of the high chiefs and priests who then arrived to bless their tribal territories; our blessing was brought by similar chiefs and priests, and Kahutia Te Rangi was one of them. He came riding through the sea, our ancestor Kahutia Te Rangi, astride his whale, and he brought with him the life-giving forces which would enable us to live in close communion with the world. The life-giving forces, in the form of spears, were brought from the Houses of Learning called Te Whakaeroero, Te Rawheoro, Rangitane, and Tapere Nui a Whatonga. They were the gifts of those houses in Hawaiki to the new land. They were very special because among other things, they gave instructions on how man might talk with the beasts and creatures of the sea so that all could live in helpful partnership. They taught oneness.

Kahutia Te Rangi landed at Ahuahu, just outside our village, in the early hours of the morning. To commemorate his voyage he was given another name, Paikea. At the time of landfall the star Poututerangi was just rising above our sacred mountain, Hikurangi. The landscape reminded Paikea of his birthplace back in Hawaiki so he named his new home Whangara Mai Tawhiti, which we call Whangara for short. All the other places around here are also named after similar headlands and mountains and rivers in Hawaiki — Tawhiti Point, the Waiapu River, and Tihirau Mai Tawhiti.

It was in this land that Paikea’s destiny lay. He married the daughter of Te Whironui, and they were fruitful and had many sons and grandsons. And the people lived on the lands around his pa Ranginui, cultivating their sweet potato and vegetable gardens in peace and holding fast to the heritage of their ancestors.

Four generations after Paikea, was born the great ancestor Porourangi, after whom my eldest brother is named. Under his leadership the descent lines of all the people of Te Tai Rawhiti were united in what is now known as the Ngati Porou confederation. His younger brother, Tahu Potiki, founded the South Island’s Kai Tahu confederation.

Many centuries later, the chieftainship was passed to Koro Apirana and, from him, to my brother Porourangi. Then Porourangi had a daughter whom he named Kahu.

That was eight years ago, when Kahu was born and then taken to live with her mother’s people. I doubt if any of us realised how significant she was to become in our lives. When a child is growing up somewhere else you can’t see the small signs which mark her out as different, someone who was meant to be. As I have said before, we were all looking somewhere else.

Eight years ago I was sixteen. I’m twenty-four now. The boys and I still kick around and, although some of my girlfriends have tried hard to tempt me away from it, my first love is still my BSA. Once a bikie always a bikie. Looking back, I can truthfully say that Kahu was never forgotten by me and the boys. After all, we were the ones who brought her birth cord back to Whangara, and only we and Nanny Flowers knew where it was buried. We were Kahu’s guardians; whenever I was near the place of her birth cord, I would feel a little tug at my motorbike jacket and hear a voice saying, ‘Hey Uncle Rawiri, don’t forget me.’ I told Nanny Flowers about it once and her eyes glistened. ‘Even though Kahu is a long way from us she’s letting us know that she’s thinking of us. One of these days she’ll come back.’

As it happened, Porourangi went up to get her and bring her back for a holiday the following summer. At that time he had returned from the South Island to live in Whangara and work in the city. Koro Apirana was secretly pleased with this arrangement because he had been wanting to pass on his knowledge to Porourangi. One of these days my eldest brother will be the big chief. All of a sudden, during a cultural practice in the meeting house, Porourangi looked up at our ancestor Paikea and said to Koro Apirana, ‘I am feeling very lonely for my daughter.’ Koro Apirana didn’t say a word, probably hoping that Porourangi would forget his loneliness. Nanny Flowers, however, as quick as a flash, said, ‘Oh you poor thing. You better go up and bring her back for a nice holiday with her grandfather.’ We knew she was having a sly dig at Koro Apirana. We could also tell that she was lonely too for the grandchild who was so far flung away from her.

On Kahu’s part, when she first met Koro Apirana, it must have been love at first sight because she dribbled all over him. Porourangi had walked through the door with his daughter and Nanny Flowers, cross-eyed with joy, had grabbed Kahu for a great big hug. Then, before he could say ‘No’ she put Kahu in Koro Apirana’s arms.

‘Oh no,’ Koro Apirana said.

‘A little dribbling never hurt anybody,’ Nanny Flowers scoffed.

‘That’s not the end I’m worried about,’ he grumbled, lifting up Kahu’s blankets. We had to laugh, because Kahu had dribbled at that end too.

Looking back, I have to say that that first family reunion with Kahu was filled with warmth and love. It was surprising how closely Kahu and Koro Apirana resembled each other. She was bald like he was and she didn’t have any teeth either. The only difference was that she loved him but he didn’t love her. He gave her back to Nanny Flowers and she started to cry, reaching for him. But he turned away and walked out of the house.

‘Never mind, Kahu,’ Nanny Flowers crooned. ‘He’ll come around.’ The trouble was, though, that he never did.

I suppose there were many reasons for Koro Apirana’s attitude. For one thing, both he and Nanny Flowers were in their seventies and, although Nanny Flowers still loved grandchildren, Koro Apirana was probably tired of them. For another, he was the big chief of the tribe and was perhaps more preoccupied with the many serious issues facing the survival of the Maori people and our land. But most of all, he had not wanted an eldest girl-child in Kahu’s generation; he had wanted an eldest boy-child, somebody more appropriate to teach the traditions of the village to. We didn’t know it at the time, but he had already begun to look in other families for such a boy-child.

Kahu didn’t know this either, so of course, her love for him remained steadfast. Whenever she saw him she would try to sit up and to dribble some more to attract his attention.

‘That kid’s hungry,’ Koro Apirana would say.

‘Yeah,’ Nanny Flowers would turn to us, ‘she’s hungry for him, the old paka. Hungry for his love. Come to think of it, I must get a divorce and find a young husband.’ She and all of us would try to win Kahu over to us but, no, the object of her affection remained a bald man with no teeth.

At that time there was still nothing about Kahu which struck us as out of place. But then two small events occurred. The first was when we discovered that Kahu adored the Maori food. Nanny had given her a spoonful of fermented corn, and next minute Kahu had eaten the lot. ‘This kid’s a throwback,’ Nanny Flowers said. ‘She doesn’t like milk or hot drinks, only cold water. She doesn’t like sugar, only Maori food.’

The second event happened one night when Koro Apirana was having a tribal meeting at the house. He had asked all the men to be there, including me and the boys. We crowded into the sitting room and after prayer and a welcome speech, he got down to business. He said he wanted to begin a regular instruction period for the men so that we would be able to learn our history and our customs. Just the men, he added, because men were sacred. Of course the instruction wouldn’t be like in the old days, not as strict, but the purpose would be the same: to keep the Maori language going, and the strength of the tribe. It was important, he said, for us to be so taught. The lessons would be held in the meeting house and would begin the following week.

Naturally we all agreed. Then, in the relaxed atmosphere that always occurs after a serious discussion, Koro Apirana told us of his own instruction years ago under the guidance of a priest. One story followed another, and we were all enthralled because the instruction had mainly taken the form of tests or challenges which he had to pass: tests of memory, as in remembering long lines of genealogy; tests of dexterity, wisdom, physical and psychological strength. Among them had been a dive into deep water to retrieve a carved stone dropped there by the priest.

‘There were so many tests,’ said Koro Apirana, ‘and some of them I did not understand. But I do know the old man had the power to talk to the beasts and creatures of the sea. Alas, we have lost that power now. Finally, near the end of my training, he took me into his hut. He put out his foot and pointing to the big toe, said “Bite.” So I did, and —’

Suddenly, Koro Apirana broke off. A look of disbelief spread over his face. Trembling, he peered under the table, and so did we. Kahu was there. Somehow she had managed to crawl unobserved into the room. Koro Apirana’s toes must have looked juicy to her because there she was, biting on his big toe and making small snarling sounds as she played with it, like a puppy with a bone. Then she looked up at him, and her eyes seemed to say, ‘Don’t think you’re leaving me out of this.’

We were laughing when we told Nanny Flowers.

‘I don’t know what’s so funny,’ she said sarcastically, ‘Kahu could have gotten poisoned. But good on her to take a bite at the old man. Pity she doesn’t have any teeth.’

Koro Apirana, however, was not so amused and now I understand why.

Seven

The next time Kahu came to us she was two years old. She came with Porourangi, who had a lovely woman called Ana with him. It looked like they were in love. But Nanny Flowers had eyes only for Kahu.

‘Thank goodness,’ Nanny Flowers said after she had embraced Kahu, ‘you’ve grown some hair.’

Kahu giggled. She had turned into a bright button-eyed little girl with shining skin. She wanted to know where her grandfather was.

‘The old paka,’ said Nanny Flowers. ‘He’s been in Wellington on Maori Council business. But he comes back on the bus tonight. We’ll go and pick him up.’

We had to smile, really, because Kahu was so eager to see Koro Apirana. She wriggled and squirmed all the way into town. We bought her a soft drink but she didn’t want it, preferring water instead. Then, when the bus arrived and Koro Apirana stepped off with other Council officials, she ran at him with a loud, infectious joy in her voice. I guess we should have expected it, but it was still a surprise to hear her greeting to him. For his part, he stood there thunderstruck, looking for somewhere to hide.

Oh the shame, the embarrassment, as she flung herself into his arms, crying, ‘Oh, Paka. You home now, you Paka. Oh, Paka.’

He blamed us all for that, and he tried to persuade Kahu to call him ‘Koro’, but Paka he was, and Paka he became forever after.

Being a big chief, Koro Apirana was often called to meetings all over the country to represent us. He had the reputation of being stern and tyrannical and because of this many people were afraid of him. ‘Huh,’ Nanny Flowers used to say, ‘they should face me and then they’ll know all about it.’ But me and the boys had a grudging admiration for the old fella. He might not always be fair but he was a good fighter for the Maori people. Our pet name for our Koro was ‘Super Maori’ and, even now, telephone boxes still remind me of him. We used to joke: ‘If you want help at Bastion Point, call Super Maori. If you want a leader for your Land March, just dial Whangara 214K. If you want a man of strength at a Waitangi protest, phone the Maori Man of Steel.’ Mind you, he wasn’t on our side when we protested against the Springbok Tour but then that just shows you the kind of man he was: his own boss. ‘Right or wrong,’ Nanny Flowers would add.

The meeting that Koro Apirana had attended was about the establishment of Kohanga Reo, or language nests, where young children could learn the Maori language. The adult version was the language school, the regular instruction of the kind which Koro Apirana had established a year before in Whangara. Although we weren’t that well educated, the boys and I enjoyed the lessons every weekend. It soon became obvious that Kahu did also. She would sneak up to the door of the meeting house and stare in at us.

‘Go away,’ Koro Apirana would thunder. Quick as a flash Kahu’s head would bob away. But slowly we would see it again, like a spiny sea urchin. I suspect that Kahu overheard more than we thought. I am certain she must have been there when we learnt that man was once able to talk, to communicate, with whales. After all, Paikea must have had to tell his whale where to come.

The whale has always held a special place in the order of things, even before those times of Paikea. That was way back, after the Sky Father and Earth Mother had been separated, when the god children of both parents divided up between themselves the various Kingdoms of the Earth. It was the Lord Tangaroa who took the Kingdom of the Ocean; he was second in rank only to the Lord Tane, the Father of Man and the Forests, and so was established by them the close kinship of man with the inhabitants of the ocean, and of land with sea. This was the first communion.

Then the Lord Tangaroa appointed the triad of Kiwa, Rona and Kaukau to assist his sovereign rule: Kiwa to be guardian of the southern ocean, Rona to help control the tides and Kaukau to aid the welfare of the sea’s denizens. To the triad, two other guardians from the Kingdom of the Land, Takaaho and Te Pu-whakahara, brought a special suit: their offspring had been given lakes to live in, but they preferred to roam the freedom of the sea. The suit was accepted, and this was how sharks and whales were granted habitation of the ocean.

From the very beginning the whale was grateful for this release and this was why the whale family, the Wehenga-kauiki, became known as the helpers of men lost at sea. Whenever asked, the whale would attend the call, as long as the mariner possessed the necessary authority and knew the way of talking to whales.

But as the world aged and man grew away from his godliness, he began to lose the power of speech with whales, the power of interlock. So it was that the knowledge of whalespeaking was given only to a few. One of these was our ancestor, Paikea.

Then came the time when Paikea asked his whale to bring him to our land, far to the south, and it was done.

As for the whale itself, some people say the whale was transformed into an island; viewed from the highway to Tolaga Bay, the island certainly does look like a whale breaking through the water.

The years went by, and the descendants of Paikea increased on the land and always paid homage to their ancestor and the whale island. In those days there was still communion with the Gods and a close relationship between land inhabitants and ocean inhabitants. Whenever man wished to cross the border between his kingdom and that of the ocean he would honour Tangaroa by making offerings of seaweed, or fish or birds. And when Tangaroa granted man good fishing, man would return the first fish of the catch to the sea god as acknowledgement that his welfare was only by leave of Tangaroa. So it was that ceremonials of respect were employed between man and sea. For instance, fishing was sacred and women therefore did not go out with the men, and fishing grounds became steeped in special rituals to ensure their bounty. And even the shark, in those days, was a helper to man unless man had transgressed a sacred law.

Until the time came when man turned on the beast which had been companion to him and the whalekilling began.

That night, after the school on the whales, I arrived home to find Nanny Flowers out on the verandah with Kahu in her arms, rocking back and forth, back and forth.

‘Rawiri, what happened down there?’ she asked, jerking her head at the meeting house. I saw Kahu rubbing small fists against her eyes.

‘Nothing,’ I answered. ‘Why?’

‘This kid has been sobbing her heart out,’ Nanny Flowers said. She paused. ‘Did the old paka growl at her?’

Ever since the school had started, Nanny Flowers had been chucking off at Koro Apirana. While she agreed that the instruction should take place, she couldn’t help feeling affronted about the exclusion of women. ‘Them’s the rules,’ Koro Apirana had told her. ‘I know, but rules are made to be broken,’ she had replied in a huff. So, every first Saturday of the month, she would start to play up and pick on Koro Apirana. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he would say. ‘Te mea te mea.’

‘He didn’t growl at Kahu any more than usual,’ I answered. ‘he just doesn’t like her hanging around when we have the school, that’s all.’

Nanny Flowers compressed her lips. I could tell that rebellion was ready to boil over inside her. Then she said to me, ‘Well you take this kid with you somewhere because I’m going to have a word with Koro Api when he gets back, the old paka.’

I must admit that I was brassed off, having Kahu shoved at me like that. I was planning on taking my darling Cheryl Marie to the movies. So I phoned her up to explain that I had to look after a baby.

‘Oh yeah,’ my darling said sarcastically. ‘And I suppose she’s not five foot two with eyes of blue.’ Cheryl was jealous of my other darling, Rhonda Anne.

‘No,’ I said. ‘My baby is you. Eyes of brown and lives in town.’

Would you believe it, my darling hung up on me? So what else could I do except take Kahu to the movies instead. The boys laughed when I zoomed up to the Majestic with my substitute ‘date’ under my leather jacket, but the girls loved her. ‘Oh isn’t she gorgeous? Isn’t she sweet?’ Yuk. I could see a mile off that the girls were also assessing whether I had now become marrying material. No way.

The movie had already started. Children weren’t supposed to see it, but the darkness made it easier to sneak Kahu in. What I hadn’t realised, however, was that the main feature was about a whale being hunted through Antarctic waters. Everything was fine, really, for most of the film, because Kahu soon fell asleep. Having her curled up so close to me made me feel protective, like a father, I guess, and I think my bonding to her was confirmed that night. I felt I should look after her till the world ended; every now and then, I would open my jacket and sneak a look at her tiny face, so wan in the light of the flickering film. And a lump would come to my throat and I would think to myself, ‘No, Kahu, I won’t forget you, ever.’

Then the final tragedy of the movie began. The whale, wounded, was dying in its own blood. The soundtrack was suddenly filled with the sound of the whale in its death throes: long, echoing, sighing phrases which must have been recorded from real whales. The sound was strange and utterly sad. No wonder when I looked at Kahu she had woken from sleep, and tears were again tracking down her face. Not even a lolly would help to pacify her.

Nanny Flowers and Koro Apirana had finished their argument by the time I returned home, but the atmosphere was as frozen as the Antarctic wasteland in the film.

‘He’s sleeping in the bunkhouse with you tonight,’ Nanny Flowers told me, jerking her head at Koro Apirana. ‘I’ve had enough of him. Divorce tomorrow, I mean it this time.’ Then she remembered something and after taking Kahu from me, screwed my ears. Ouch. ‘And that’ll teach you to take my grandchild gallivanting all over the place. I’ve been scared to death. Where’d you go?’

‘To the movies.’

‘To a picture?’ Bang came her open hand over my head. ‘And then where!’

‘Down the beach.’

‘The beach?’ I ducked her hand (Ha ha, ha ha, you missed me, you missed —) but kick came her foot to my behind. ‘Don’t you do that again!’ She hugged Kahu tightly and took her into hers and Koro Apirana’s bedroom and slam went the door.

I thought of my darling, Cheryl Marie. ‘Looks like both of us lucked out tonight,’ I said to Koro Apirana.

Half way through the night I suddenly remembered something. I tried to wake Koro Apirana, snoring beside me, but he only tried to snuggle up to me, saying ‘Flowers, darling wife …’ So I edged away from him quickly and sat there, staring through the window at the glowing moon.

I had wanted to tell Koro Apirana that on our way back from the movie, the boys and I had gone up to the Point at Sponge Bay. The sea had looked like crinkled silver foil smoothed right out to the edge of the sky.

‘Hey!’ one of the boys had said, pointing. ‘There’s orca.’

It had been uncanny, really, seeing those killer whales slicing stealthily through the sea, uncanny and disturbing as a dream.

Even more strange, though, was that Kahu had begun to make eerie sounds in her throat. I swear that those long lamenting sighs of hers were exactly the same as I had heard in the movie theatre. It sounded as if she was warning them.

The orca suddenly dived.

Hui e, haumi e, taiki e.

Let it be done.

Eight

The following summer, when Kahu was three, was dry and dusty on the Coast. Koro Apirana was concerned about our drinking water and was considering at one point bringing it in by road tanker. One of the boys suggested that the sweetest water was DB light brown and that the hotel up at Tatapouri would be happy to deliver it free. Another of the boys added that we’d have to escort it to Whangara because, for sure, someone would want to do a Burt Reynolds and hijack it.

Into all this rough and tumble of our lives, Kahu brought a special radiance. Koro Apirana was as grumpy with her as ever but, now that Porourangi was home, and now that the school sessions were attracting young boys for him to teach, he seemed to bear less of a grudge against her for being a girl and the eldest grandchild.

‘Don’t blame Kahu,’ Nanny Flowers used to growl. ‘If your blood can’t beat my Muriwai blood that’s your lookout.’

‘Te mea te mea,’ Koro Apirana would reply. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

In particular, Koro Apirana had discovered three sons from royal bloodlines to whom he hoped to pass the mantle of knowledge. And from the corner of his eye, he could see that Porourangi and his new girlfriend, Ana, were growing very fond of each other. Now she didn’t have any Muriwai blood so, you never knew, Porourangi might come up with a son yet.

Under these conditions, the love which Kahu received from Koro Apirana was the sort that dropped off the edge of the table, like breadcrumbs after everybody else has had a big feed. But Kahu didn’t seem to mind. She ran into Koro Apirana’s arms whenever he had time for her and took whatever he was able to give. If he had told her he loved dogs I’m sure she would have barked, ‘Woof woof’. That’s how much she loved him.

Summer is always shearing season for us and that summer the boys and I got a contract to shear for the local farmers around the Coast. On the first few mornings when Kahu was at home I would see her staring at us over the windowsill as we left. Her eyes seemed to say, ‘Hey, don’t forget about me, Uncle Rawiri.’ So one morning I made her life happy.

‘I think I’ll take Kahu to the shed with me,’ I said to Nanny Flowers.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Nanny Flowers said. ‘She’ll drown in the dip.’

‘No. No. She’ll be all right. Eh, Kahu?’

Kahu’s eyes were shining. ‘Oh yes. Can I go, Nanny?’

‘All right then,’ Nanny Flowers grumbled. ‘But tomorrow you have to be my mate in the vegetable garden. Okay?’

So it was that Kahu became the mascot for me and the boys and it only seemed natural, after a while, for us to take her with us wherever we went — well, most places anyway and only when Nanny Flowers didn’t want her to help in the garden.

But that first night I got my beans from the old lady.

Hoi,’ she said, and bang came her hand. ‘What did you do with Kahu at the shed? She’s tuckered out.’

‘Nothing,’ I squealed. Biff came her fist at my stomach. ‘She just helped us sheepo and sweep the board and press the wool and pick up the dags and —’

Swish came the broom. ‘Yeah,’ Nanny Flowers said. ‘And I’ll bet all you beggars were just lying back and having a good smoke.’

You could never win with Nanny Flowers.

At that time the school sessions were proving to be very popular. All of us felt the need to understand more about our roots. But Nanny Flowers still grumbled whenever we had our hui. She would sit with Kahu in her arms, rocking in the chair on the verandah, watching the men walk past.

‘There go the Ku Klux Klan,’ she would say loudly so that we could all hear.

Poor Kahu, she could never keep away from our school. She would always try to listen in at the doorway to the meeting house.

‘Go away,’ Koro Apirana would thunder. But there was one school that Kahu could not eavesdrop on, and that was the one which Koro Apirana led when he took us out in a small flotilla of fishing boats to have a lesson on the sea.

‘In our village,’ Koro Apirana told us, ‘we have always endeavoured to live in harmony with Tangaroa’s kingdom and the guardians therein. We have made offerings to the sea god to thank him and when we need his favour, and we have called upon our guardians whenever we are in need of help. We have blessed every new net and new line to Tangaroa. We have tried not to take food with us in our boats when we fish because of the sacred nature of our task.’

The flotilla was heading out to sea.

‘Our fishing areas have always been placed under the protective custody of the guardians,’ Koro Apirana said. ‘In their honour we have often placed talismanic shrines. In this way the fish have been protected, attracted to the fishing grounds, and thus a plentiful supply has been assured. We try never to overfish for to do so would be to take greedy advantage of Tangaroa and would bring retribution.’

Then we reached the open sea and Koro Apirana motioned that we should stay close to him.

‘All of our fishing grounds, banks and rocks have had names assigned to them and the legends surrounding them have been commemorated in story, song or proverb. Where our fishing grounds have no local identification, like a reef or upjutting rock, we have taken the fix from prominent cliffs or mountains on the shore. Like there and mark. And there and mark. In this way the fishing places of all our fish species have always been known. And we have tried never to trespass on the fishing grounds of others because their guardians would recognise us as interlopers. In this respect, should we ever be in unfamiliar sea, we have surrounded ourselves with our own water for protection.’

Then Koro Apirana’s voice dropped and, when he resumed his lesson, his words were steeped with sadness and regret. ‘But we have not always kept our pact with Tangaroa, and in these days of commercialism it is not always easy to resist temptation. So it was when I was your age. So it is now. There are too many people with snorkelling gear, and too many commercial fishermen with licences. We have to place prohibitions on our fishing beds, boys, otherwise it will be just like the whales —’

For a moment Koro Apirana hesitated. Far out to sea there was a dull booming sound like a great door opening, a reminder, a memory of something downward plunging. Koro Apirana shaded his eyes from the sun.

‘Listen, boys,’ he said, and his voice was haunted. ‘Listen. Once there were many of our protectors. Now there are few. Listen how empty our sea has become.’

In the evening after our lesson on the sea we assembled in the meeting house. The booming on the open waters had heralded the coming of a rainstorm like a ghostly wheke advancing from the horizon. As I went into the meeting house I glanced up at our ancestor, Paikea. He looked like he was lifting his whale through the spearing rain.

Koro Apirana led us in a prayer to bless the school. Then, after the introductions, he told us of the times which had brought the silence to the sea.

‘I was a boy of seven years’ age,’ he began, ‘when I went to stay with my uncle who was a whaler. I was too young to know any better, and I didn’t understand then, as I do now, about our ancestor, the whale. At that time whaling was one of the great pastimes and once the bell on the lookout had been sounded you’d see all the whaling boats tearing out to sea, chasing after a whale. Doesn’t matter what you were doing, you’d drop everything, your plough, your sheep clippers, your schoolbooks, everything. I can still remember seeing everyone climbing the lookout, like white balloons. I followed them and far out to sea I saw a herd of whales.’

The rain fell through his words. ‘They were the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.’ He made a sweeping gesture. ‘Then, down by the slipway, I could see the longboats being launched into the sea. I ran down past the sheds and the pots on the fires were already being stoked to boil down the blubber. All of a sudden my uncle yelled out to me to get on his boat with him. So there I was, heading out to sea.’

I saw a spiky head sneaking a look through the door. ‘That’s when I saw the whales really close,’ Koro Apirana said. ‘There must have been sixty of them at least. I have never forgotten, never. They had prestige. They were so powerful. Our longboat got so close to one that I was able to reach out and touch the skin.’ His voice was hushed with awe. ‘I felt the ripple of power beneath the skin. It felt like silk. Like a god. Then the harpoons began to sing through the air. But I was young, you see, and all I could feel was the thrill, like when you do a haka.’

He paused, mesmerised. ‘I can remember that when a whale was harpooned it would fight like hang. Eventually it would spout blood like a fountain, and the sea would be red. Three or four other boats would tow it ashore to the nearest place and cut it up and share out the meat and the oil and everything. When we started to strip the blubber off the whale in the whaling station, all the blood flowed into the channel. Blind eels would come up with the tide to drink the blood.’

I heard Kahu weeping at the doorway. I edged over to her and when she saw me she put her arms around my neck.

‘You better go home,’ I said, ‘before Koro Apirana finds out you’re here.’

But she was so frightened. She was making a mewling sound in her throat. She seemed immobilised by terror.

Inside, Koro Apirana was saying, ‘Then, when it was all finished we would cut huge slabs of whale meat and sling them across our horses and take them to our homes —’

Suddenly, before I could stop her, Kahu wrenched away from me and ran into the meeting house.

‘No, Paka, no!’ she screamed.

His mouth dropped open. ‘Haere atu koe,’ he shouted.

‘Paka. Paka, no!’

Grimly, Koro Apirana walked up to her, took her by the arms and virtually hurled her out. ‘Go. Get away from here,’ he repeated. The sea thundered ominously. The rain fell like spears.

Kahu was still crying, three hours later. Nanny Flowers was livid when she heard about what happened.

‘You just keep her away from the meeting house,’ Koro Apirana said. ‘That’s all I say. I’ve told you before. And her.’

‘My blame,’ Kahu wept. ‘Love Paka.’

‘You men,’ Nanny Flowers said. ‘I can show you where you come from.’

‘Enough,’ Koro Apirana said. He stormed out and that ended the argument.

Later that night Kahu kept sobbing and sobbing. I guess we thought she was still grieving about being growled at, but we know better now. I heard Nanny Flowers going into Kahu’s bedroom and comforting her.

‘Shift over, Kahu,’ Nanny Flowers soothed. ‘Make a little space for your skinny Nanny. There, there.’

‘Love Paka.’

‘You can have him, Kahu, as soon as I get my divorce tomorrow. There, there.’ Nanny was really hurting with love for Kahu. ‘Don’t you worry, don’t you worry. You’ll fix him up, the old paka, when you get older.’

In the hiss and roar of the suck of the surf upon the land I listened to Nanny Flowers. After a short while Kahu drifted off to sleep.

‘Yes,’ Nanny Flowers crooned, ‘go to sleep now. And if you don’t fix him,’ she whispered, ‘then my oath I will.’

Hiss and roar. Ebb and flow.

The next morning I sneaked in to give Kahu a special cuddle, just from me. When I opened the door she was gone. I looked in Koro Apirana and Nanny Flowers’ bedroom, but she wasn’t there either. Nanny Flowers had pushed Koro onto the floor and had spread herself over the whole bed to make sure he couldn’t get back in.

Outside the sea was gentle and serene, as if the storm had never happened. In the clear air I heard a chittering, chattering sound from the beach. I saw Kahu far away, silhouetted on the sand. She was standing facing the sea and listened to voices in the surf. There, there, Kahu. There, there.

Suddenly Kahu turned and saw me. She ran toward me like a seagull. ‘Uncle Rawiri!’

I saw three silver shapes leaping into the dawn.

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