SUBTITLE:
This is your doing! Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted? Go and make yourself useful! Get out.
Maraea disappears up the stairs.
INT. KITCHEN — DAY
Maraea cooks at the stove. She cries in silence.
EXT. FRONT GARDEN — DAY
Still in the sling, Paraiti holds the baby close to her chest.
Lost in despair, not knowing how to repair what she now believes is beyond repair, she kneels by the roots of the tree where only a few days before she buried the placenta.
PARAITI
Tohuhia mai, me aha ahau! Me pehea e ora ai i ahau te tamaiti nei? E te Matua …? Tupuna ma …? Awhina mai!
SUBTITLE:
Tell me what to do! How can I help this child? Parents, ancestors …? Help me!
Motionless, Paraiti closes her eyes.
INT. BASEMENT — DAY
Rebecca is sitting on a dilapidated armchair, all alone in the basement, like the forgotten queen of a defeated kingdom.
INT. HALLWAY — DAY
Maraea kneels, scrubbing the wooden floor. A bucket filled with water sits by her side.
Paraiti enters with the baby in her arms.
Maraea stops what she is doing and raises her face to look up at Paraiti.
MARAEA
It takes more than having a baby in your arms to be a mother Paraiti … You would never know about how far one is ready to go for them … That can be known only to those of us who have had our child growing inside our wombs … And that will never be your case …
Paraiti resents what Maraea has said. She is about to answer, but she contains herself and just looks back at Maraea with disdain. She covers the baby with her body and moves carefully to one side to pass by the servant.
MARAEA (CONT’D)
You think you’re so pure, Paraiti …But you and me … we are not so different.
That comment stops Paraiti. She turns to face Maraea for a second.
PARAITI
Katahi koe ka tino hee rawa atu.
SUBTITLE:
You couldn’t be more wrong!
Then Paraiti disappears through the door with the baby, on her way to the basement.
INT. BASEMENT — DAY
Still disturbed by Maraea’s words, Paraiti goes down to the basement.
Rebecca has fallen asleep on the sofa.
Paraiti quietly approaches Rebecca and sits by her side, holding the baby close to her own heart. After long seconds, Paraiti moves towards Rebecca and gently awakens her with a soft nudge. She holds the baby out to Rebecca.
Half-asleep, Rebecca is confused. She looks at Paraiti, puzzled.
Paraiti opens Rebecca’s blouse, undresses the baby, and uses Rebecca’s hands to wrap the baby in her own arms, skin on skin.
Rebecca takes the baby in her arms in an embrace she is not ready for at all …
Rebecca does not move.
Paraiti repositions the baby, softly making the contact more intimate.
Paraiti recites a karakia to bless them all.
PARAITI
E te kaiwhakaora, e tuku atu nei i enei inoi ki a koe, kia aroha mai koe, ki tenei o au i roto i ona mamae, nga mauhere i runga i a ia, whakakotahihia raua e te kaiwhakaora, aroha mai ki ona whakapapa, kia noho tahi, kia kaua hoki raua e wareware ki a koe te Kaiwhakaora, aroha mai ra, aroha mai kia ora tenei whakapapa, aianei mo ake tonu atu. Amine.
SUBTITLE:
I surrender myself in prayer, and I ask to heal the pain that surrounds this woman. Let the sacred bond between the child and her mother be redeemed. And let it be blessed with Your love. They shall never forget Your presence nor You theirs. Now and forever. Amen.
From a profound and old longing, Rebecca allows the blessing of Paraiti to soothe the buried wounds of her skin and her heart.
INT. KITCHEN — DAY
Maraea concentrates on folding with precision a never-ending pile of white linen serviettes.
Paraiti enters the room with the sole and explicit purpose of confronting her.
PARAITI
Kore rawa atu ahau i mohio he aha i taea ai e koe te rukahu i nga tau ko pahemo … Tata tonu koe ka puta … Engari kaore i tutuki …
SUBTITLE:
I don’t know how you managed to deceive everyone for so many years … You almost got away with it … But you did not.
Maraea keeps on folding serviettes obsessively, as if by continuing her absurd task she could hold on to a world that she refuses to accept has just crumbled.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. BASEMENT — EVENING
Paraiti clears the basement with water and a prayer.
Rebecca stands in the middle of the room with her baby in her arms.
Maraea, an exiled ghost, sits far away, at the top of the stairs.
Once Paraiti has finished her ritual, she holds Rebecca with much care and tenderness and helps her walk towards the stairs.
Rebecca walks slowly, not yet sure if she is ready to go back up to the house.
Paraiti gently encourages her.
Step by step, Rebecca goes up the stairs.
Just before passing by her mother, Rebecca turns her body away, preventing any possible contact between Maraea and her baby.
Rebecca leaves the basement with her baby.
Maraea follows.
INT. CORRIDOR — EVENING
Rebecca walks away with the baby in her arms.
Maraea follows, hastening her walk. She is about to put an arm around Rebecca’s shoulder, but her daughter’s sharp look stops her.
REBECCA
Don’t you have duties?
Maraea freezes, her arm falls limp.
Trying not to break down in her own grief, Rebecca leaves with the baby.
No more a mother to her daughter, but now a servant to her master, Maraea obediently goes back to the kitchen.
EXT. BASEMENT — NIGHT
A fire burns in the incinerator.
Nearby are familiar objects from the birth like the mattress and blankets.
Paraiti brings the objects to the fire, places them in the flames and watches until all the objects are consumed.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. REBECCA’S BEDROOM — NIGHT
Rebecca is in her bedroom, comfortably reclined in her marital bed, holding her daughter in her arms. Although she is back in the world where she belongs, she looks more lost than ever.
Paraiti sits on a corner of the bed, watching the mother and daughter. She reaches out and picks up a photograph of Rebecca and her husband.
PARAITI
Is he the father?
Rebecca turns to look at Paraiti. For the first time there is no conflict between the two women.
REBECCA
Yes, he is the father.
PARAITI
Does he know?
Rebecca denies with a silent gesture.
REBECCA
He doesn’t like savages.
Incredibly sad, Rebecca looks back at the little face of her baby.
INT. CORRIDOR — NIGHT
Paraiti prepares to sleep. Oti is by her side.
The old woman can’t take her mind off Rebecca’s words.
INT. REBECCA’S BEDROOM — NIGHT
Rebecca is lying on her bed. Beside her, the baby lies in absolute peace, trust and innocence.
Rebecca stares at the baby girl. Their eyes meet for a long second.
Timidly, almost not daring to, Rebecca reaches out her pale hand and touches the tiny little brown hand of her daughter. It is a gesture that lasts only a second. Rebecca pulls back immediately.
A grimace clouds the remaining beauty of Rebecca’s face, as if a shadow has crossed first her mind and then her heart.
EXT. FRONT GATE — MORNING
Maraea busies herself cleaning the leaded glass windows at the main entrance to the Vickers’ villa.
In the back garden, hitched to a post next to the white car, Paraiti’s mare munches happily from a feed bag hanging by a rope around her neck.
Oti lies between the mare’s feet.
Maraea reacts to the sound of a car approaching slowly. Realising that the car has stopped at the entrance to the villa’s drive, she rushes to see who is there.
An ELEGANT GENTLEMAN gets out of the car and waves the servant to approach.
Maraea obeys.
GENTLEMAN
Mr Vickers will arrive today. He has sent me with instructions that Mrs Vickers be at the station to meet him.
The gentleman reaches into his fine suit pocket and produces a telegram that he gives to Maraea. She receives it with her usual lowered gaze.
GENTLEMAN (CONT’D)
I will be here to pick her up at noon.
MARAEA
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir … But I am sure that Mrs Vickers will be quite happy to drive herself to the station.
Rather taken aback that a servant would have the impudence to make any suggestion whatsoever, the gentleman dismisses her with a wave of his hand.
GENTLEMAN
Give your lady the telegram and tell her of Mr Vickers’ instructions.
MARAEA
Yes, sir. I will do that, sir.
The gentleman gets back into the car and drives off down the street.
Only then Maraea races back to the house.
INT. REBECCA’S BEDROOM — MORNING
Rebecca lies on her bed, holding the baby, who is sound asleep in her embrace.
Seated not far away, Paraiti is watching them.
Maraea rushes into the room with the telegram in her hand.
MARAEA
You have to leave! Mr Vickers will be back today and you cannot be here!
Forbidden to come anywhere near the baby, Maraea waits in the doorway.
MARAEA (CONT’D)
You no longer have any business with us.
Rebecca has been observing both women in silence and motions that Paraiti should bring her the telegram.
Paraiti takes the envelope from Maraea and gives it to Rebecca.
Paraiti leans forward, carefully taking the child from her mother’s arms. She snuggles the baby to her chest. The baby whines quietly and Paraiti places a finger in the child’s hungry little mouth.
Rebecca deliberates a moment before opening the envelope. Finally, she reads it, displaying no reaction at all.
REBECCA
(To MARAEA)
Prepare my yellow dress. It is his favorite … And yours too … Not a single wrinkle!
Maraea smiles at her daughter with genuine relief.
Their old ways are restored. Maraea quickly leaves the room to fulfil her mistress’s wishes.
Once they are alone again, Paraiti approaches Rebecca.
PARAITI
You don’t need to stay here. Start your life again … You, with your daughter …!
Rebecca reaches for the baby and Paraiti replaces the child in her arms. Rebecca closes her eyes. She pulls the child to her breast and smiles very softly.
For the first time, Rebecca and her daughter are one.
Paraiti steps back and, after a second, she goes out of the room.
With sad tenderness, Rebecca holds her baby close to her heart and whispers to her.
REBECCA
It’s all right … It’s all right.
INT. KITCHEN — DAY
Maraea is at the table. Next to her lies a cloth nappy and a mountain of silverware, which she cleans and polishes with a rag, lemons and the same white paste she used to bleach Rebecca’s skin.
Preparing to leave the villa for good, Paraiti enters the room and gathers her few possessions.
She looks at the servant one last time.
PARAITI
Inaara ko marama koe kai whea te paihere o tou whakapapa e nehu ana. Whakanuihia; a tona wa ka murua o hara e nga atua.
SUBTITLE:
At least you know where the sacred bond to your lineage is buried. Honour it; maybe one day God will forgive you.
Maraea doesn’t stop what she is doing and nor does she raise her eyes.
MARAEA
All I did was provide a better life for my daughter … Not the life of a pariah, like me. Not good enough for some, and never pure enough for the others … as if I had been a filthy traitor to both sides …
Behind them, Rebecca listens quietly from the kitchen doorway. She has the baby in her arms.
MARAEA (CONT’D)
But at least my daughter has a life. She has a house, she has land …
Still behind the door and unnoticed by the other women, Rebecca looks down at the peaceful little face of her baby.
MARAEA (CONT’D)
That is much more than what I ever had … Much more than what you have, Paraiti.
Paraiti turns away from Maraea, ready to leave, then notices the presence of Rebecca.
Rebecca approaches Paraiti and, breaking an embrace that now feels an integral part of herself, she hands the baby to her.
Paraiti takes the baby in her arms.
PARAITI
Come with us. Don’t stay here.
Rebecca looks at her. Then she draws with her fingers a line over Paraiti’s scar, just as she did the first time they met. Only this time it is a caress filled with gratitude and respect.
Rebecca kisses the baby and turns away to leave.
Maraea dares to look at her daughter, not sure how far she can go, and timidly asks:
MARAEA
Are you going to take your bath Rebecca?
Rebecca stops and turns towards Maraea for the first time since she came down to the kitchen.
REBECCA
Yes, Mother, I will.
Maraea smiles at her, but Rebecca is already gone.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. DRESSING ROOM — DAY
Rebecca is wearing a beautiful yellow silk dress. She just sits, staring at nothing.
INT. BATHROOM — DAY
Rebecca enters the bathroom.
INT. KITCHEN — DAY
Maraea is finishing preparing the bleaching paste. She places the bowls on the tray and leaves the kitchen.
INT. CORRIDOR — DAY
With her efficient and parecise walk, Maraea disappears down the end of the corridor, towards the bathroom.
INT. BATHROOM — DAY
Maraea opens the bathroom door to the steamy interior.
In the bathtub lies Rebecca. Her body is under the water, arms at her sides, the silk of her yellow dress stained by the blood that flows from her wrists.
Like Sleeping Beauty, she looks beautiful, silent, peaceful, rested.
LONG FADE TO WHITE.
CREDITS OVER:
EXT. LAKE EIGHT YEARS LATER — MORNING
The same lake where many years before, at the beginning of our story, Paraiti was a child.
LITTLE REBECCA, a pretty girl, about eight years old, with curly ginger-red hair and brown skin, is sitting on the ground. She is fully concentrated, looking at a line of herbs, flowers and leaves of different shapes and sizes, which are placed at her feet.
The child’s hand takes one of the flowers and moves it from one place, and then to another.
After a few seconds, as if coming back from a place far away, little Rebecca reacts, she takes the flowers, plants and herbs from the ground and puts them inside the old kete that belonged to Paraiti.
She stands up and runs.
EXT. CAMP BY THE LAKE — MORNING
Older now, Paraiti is outside her camp.
Oti, older as well and as grey as her master, sits by her side.
Little Rebecca runs towards Paraiti and gives her a good squeeze and kiss on the cheek, then sits by her side.
Paraiti smiles at her. She dips a piece of rustic bread in a bowl filled with honey and places it directly in the girl’s mouth.
The girl savours her sweet breakfast. Paraiti gives a piece of bread to Oti and then gets one for herself.
The old white horse is not too far away, munching on some grass.
EXT. LAKE — DAY
Paraiti and Rebecca walk by the edge of the lake.
Rebecca picks flowers and herbs, and shows them to Paraiti so she can examine them. Then the little girl puts the flowers inside the old kete, which now hangs from her shoulder.
The horse follows. Farther back, a bit slower, is the dog.
Ahead of them is the magnificent range of mountains.
THE END
WRITING THE
NOVELLAS
1. A SICKLY CHILD
I was my mother Julia’s first child. I was premature, a sickly baby with chronic breathing problems. According to her, the Pakeha obstetrician who delivered me didn’t think I would live beyond my first year.
This was in the early 1940s, and on her release from Gisborne maternity hospital my mother consulted her doctor, a kindly man named Dr Bowker, and when my breathing problems continued, took me to other Pakeha doctors without telling him. There was a certain amount of desperation about this: she always used to say to me, ‘I held you in my arms’, as if that explained everything.
My breathing problems continued into my third year. My mother bore a daughter, Kararaina, and then a son, Thomas, who died of a hole in the heart. I think this spurred her to finally turn to her own Maori community of faith healers, including a well-known tohunga, a Ringatu priest known as Hori Gage.
My mother always liked to be formally dressed whenever she went to see important people in the community, so she put on a dark blue suit, stockings, gloves and a hat and drove me to Mangatu, I think it was, where Hori Gage was said to be visiting. However, when she arrived she was told that he had already left to return to his own ancestral lands near Whakatane. She sank to her knees, cradling me in her arms. He had been her final hope.
I know all this because survival narratives are always central to any family, and my mother told them to me to try to instil in me the value of life. Although I was the eldest, compared with my brothers and sisters, I was the sickly runt of the bunch; I still am. And, of course, my mother had already lost Thomas and didn’t want to lose another son. I was prone to all the ills and sicknesses of the world, and the stories of my survival were dispensed with all the cod liver oil, malt and other less mentionable concoctions and therapies with which my mother plagued me with as a boy. My siblings did not think of this as special treatment; I made them look good.
Much later, it was intimated to me by another Maori seer that I would not live beyond the age of thirty, which seemed to affirm the doom and gloom with which my early life was surrounded. Of course I am over double that age now, so every year since I have considered a bonus.
My father’s approach to my sickliness was much more practical, if wrong. He has always been robust, refusing to believe in mollycoddling and instead favouring fresh air, open windows, cold baths and the like; when I grew older and still had various ailments he liked to threaten me with a health camp. I was therefore putty in his hands when he applied his own remedies to get me well, including one that was popular among Maori in those days: dabbing benzine on a cloth and getting me to inhale it. It’s a wonder I didn’t turn into a petrolhead.
So there she was, my mother, on her knees in the mud at Mangatu when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulders. ‘You should take your son to the medicine woman,’ a voice told her.
‘My informant was referring to a lady known as Paraiti,’ my mother told me, ‘or Blightface, because she had a red birthmark over the left half of her cheek running all the way from the hairline to the neck. Like Hori Gage, she was a Ringatu and a follower of the prophet Te Kooti’s spiritual ways.’
My mother therefore took this suggestion on its merits and straight away got up, bundled me into my blankets and drove the short way from Mangatu to Whatatutu, where Paraiti was going about her work. Among the stories of babyhood, this was the one that I could imagine fully: stars wheeling above, my anxious white-faced mother speeding down dusty roads looking for a scarred witch doctor, a crying baby in swaddling clothes — you know the sort of thing.
Where was my father? I don’t know; he never figured in the narrative.
This must have been around 1946, and the work of such women (and men) was illegal and frowned upon; I understood that Paraiti had been jailed a few times and she practised in a clandestine fashion. When my mother finally found her and delivered me to her for inspection, was Paraiti welcoming? No. First she intimidated my mother with her scar, and then scolded her by saying, ‘You should have come straight to me instead of going to Pakeha doctors. Why do you think I will be successful when they haven’t been?’
Paraiti must have been in her late seventies by then. She was a girl during the Land Wars and had lived through the flu epidemic of 1918. She had seen many changes as New Zealand became colonised. Grumpy though she was, she looked at me, said she would treat me and, from what Mum told me, for the next week kept me in a makeshift tent filled with herb-infused steam. Every now and then she trickled manuka honey down my throat.
‘Some days later,’ my mother told me, ‘Paraiti began to karakia, to pray, and, as she did so, she hooked a finger into your throat and pulled out threads of phlegm.’