4. AN EVOLVING STORY
There are now two versions of the novella Medicine Woman, which, together with the White Lies screenplay, make three versions of the same story. The following first version of the novella was first published in Ask the Posts of the House (2007), and this is the version on which Dana Rotberg based her White Lies adaptation. The second, expanded and altered version, is published for the first time at the beginning of this movie tie-in.
Those who know my work will understand why: I have a habit of rewriting; for instance, there are two versions of Pounamu, Pounamu (1972 and 2002), two versions of Tangi (1973 and the second substantially revised combined with a sequel called The Rope of Man, 2005), two versions of Whanau (Whanau 1974 and Whanau II, 2003), two versions of The Matriarch (1986 and its major revision 2009), retouching of various versions of The Whale Rider and multiple published versions of some of my short stories.
My last novel, The Parihaka Woman (2011), actually began life as Erenora, an unpublished rock opera libretto, before becoming a novella originally intended for inclusion in The Thrill of Falling, but it grew into a complete novel instead.
The reason?
Well, I have always believed that a fictional piece of work exists in a continuum. It is not static. Stories rarely leave you alone, they sit like backseat drivers in the recesses of your mind, nagging to come back into the driving seat again. Indeed, my publisher Harriet Allan said to me, ‘Witi, you must have a busload of bossy characters at the back of your bus!’ There’s more: they also nag at me, ‘Pay further attention to who we really are and the landscape that you are driving us through.’ And so in most cases I have added historical context or political inflections or sub-textual resonances.
In the case of Medicine Woman there was another reason. This was that from the beginning the novella was always the first part of a two-part story: Medicine Woman and Paraiti’s Daughter. I still have to write the sequel, but its rewrite was evolving in my head at the same time Dana was writing her screenplay adaptation. I like to think that it is a more complex work, and certainly it provides a richer and more substantial — and longer — experience for the reader.
I’m not going to point out the differences between my original Medicine Woman and this current rendition — they will be apparent when you read them — except to say that two characters have a greater part to play in the expanded version: Ihaka the woodsman and the anonymous gardener; this is because they serve a larger function in the sequel. They were also demanding their own stories in the future. My editor Anna Rogers and Harriet, too, also required me with their excellent questions to audit the original and add detail that they felt was missing in it. All this was done without recourse to Dana’s screenplay.
I should also point out that there are now three variations on the ending. In the original novella in Ask the Posts of the House, it is Rebecca Vickers who throws the baby into the river. However, in Dana’s White Lies screenplay, Rebecca commits suicide, which caused me a dilemma as far as writing any sequel was concerned. This is why I was pushed to make Maraea, and not Rebecca Vickers, the one who takes the baby down to the bridge before sunrise. As it happens, this change has brought Maraea out of the shadows, makes us focus on her motivations — and prepares us for her greater participation in the sequel.
I like to think that the reader and viewer of Dana’s film now have the opportunity to choose which ending they prefer. For fledgling writers and filmmakers, the three endings show the different direction ideas can be taken by different artists, filmmakers, publishers and editors working in different media.
They show that the capacity of the artistic imagination is limitless.
Thanks to my friend and colleague John Barnett, whose production company made Whale Rider and who introduced Dana Rotberg to me. Most people won’t know that it took twelve years to bring Whale Rider, directed by Niki Caro, from novel to screen. John introduced me to Niki, too; she is one of my favourite people. The most successful New Zealand stories that appear on film and television in this country are due to his tenacity; I am humbled and grateful that South Pacific Pictures have produced White Lies — Tuakiri Huna.
Thank you also to Dana Rotberg. What an amazing biography she brings to New Zealand: an acclaimed director in Mexico, with a list of international award-winning films to her credit! After a decade-long hiatus, White Lies—Tuakiri Huna marks her return to international filmmaking. From the beginning, I was excited at the prospect of such an acclaimed filmmaker bringing her aesthetic and vision to a New Zealand landscape and narrative; we have usually been seen only through New Zealand or British or American eyes. White Lies—Tuakiri Huna is clearly the work of a major international director; Dana Rotberg’s notes, written with sincerity and radiance, show why. As well, I could not help but feel some strange rightness in the Mexican connection through Merle Oberon’s marriage to Bruno Pagliai.
In her acknowledgements, Dana thanks the many people from Tuhoe, the Ruatahuna valley and those involved in the production for the making of White Lies—Tuakiri Huna. May I add my thanks that you so fulsomely and generously opened the pathway for her, and the cast and crew.
Thanks also to my agent, Ray Richards, and to my publisher Harriet Allan and my editor Anna Rogers for their superb advice and editing; they never let me get away with anything.
Finally, I want to return to my mother and the scar-faced woman she took me to. She was a woman I never knew called Paraiti.
During the making of the film, John Barnett told the story of Paraiti at the blessing at the marae before production began. I was so proud to know that filming was to take place on the Oputao Marae and I make my mihi and pay tribute to the kuia, koroua and whanau for their generosity and aroha. I was not there, but apparently the local people were intrigued about my story. They were aware of local women who practised medicine but not one of them could identify the real Paraiti.
Does that matter? Yes, because one day I would like to visit her grave, wherever it might be, and thank her for her work.
Anointed to the task of honouring life, she saved mine.
Witi Ihimaera
Auckland
1
Another dawn, and she drags her old bones up from sleep.
Her name is Paraiti and when she is sleeping her bones are light and weightless. But as she wakes she is aware of all the stiffness, aches and numbness of a body that has aged. She opens her eyes, listening to her heart thumping away as it pushes the blood through thickened veins. She hears the usual wheeze and gurgle as her lungs force her breath in and out, and she feels a lump of phlegm in her throat. Creaking like an old door on worn-out hinges, she heaves herself into a sitting position, opens the flap of the tent and spits into the cuspidor she keeps for holding her offensive bodily fluids.
Now that she is awake, Paraiti fumbles among her blankets for her Bible and hymnal and starts to chant a karakia. Old habits die hard, and she wouldn’t dream of beginning a new day without himene and prayer. Her parents Te Teira and Hera, if they were alive, would roar with laughter to see her now; in the old days, when the Ringatu faithful were all at prayer in the smoky meeting house, she was the child always squirming and wriggling. ‘Kaore e korikori koe,’ Te Teira would reprimand her.
Although Paraiti went for a few years to a native school, she can’t read very well; she trusts to her memory when quoting from the Old Testament or singing hymns. She raises a hand in the sign of the faithful.
‘Kororia ki to ingoa tapu,’ she begins. ‘Glory be to Thy holy name.’
She lifts her eyes to the sky lightening above her, and gives thanks to God for having made the world. The huge forest canopy has been a protective umbrella for her sleep. Here, at the bend of a river, with giant ferns unfolding in the lower growth, she has had the perfect camping ground.
Karakia over, she whistles out to her stallion, Ataahua, and Kaihe, her mule. They whinny back — good, they have not foraged too far away in the night. Where’s Tiaki, her pig dog? Aha, there he is, on the other side of the river.
She calls to him, ‘Have you brought something for my breakfast or have you been selfish and wolfed it all down yourself?’
No, today Tiaki has been kind to his mistress. He jumps headlong into the water and swims across; he offers a fat wood pigeon, still alive and unmarked in his jaws.
‘Homai te kereru,’ Paraiti asks him. ‘Give me the bird.’ He sighs, knowing she will release it back into the woods. ‘Ae, Tiaki, we let this one go. Give the first to Tane, Lord of the Forest.’ She gives the pigeon its freedom and it creaks and whistles its way back into the trees. ‘Now go, Tiaki, the second pigeon is for us.’
Right-oh, down to the edge of the river to wash herself, get the pikaro out of her eyes, and use a clean rag to wash her neck, armpits and nether parts. While she is at it, she sprinkles water over her head, and looks at her reflection, hoping to see some improvement. No such luck. Still the same old face, only getting older: big Maori nose, heavy upper lip, three chins, and lots of bushy hair. She fixes the hair by pinning it back with two large ivory combs but, aue, now she can see more of her face. Never mind: there’s nobody else around to frighten.
Time for breakfast. Paraiti rekindles the fire and hangs a billy of water on an iron rod supported by two strong branches; she also puts a skillet among the hot embers.
Tiaki comes back with a second bird. Paraiti has a sneaking suspicion that he catches two birds at the same time and, somehow, has learnt the trick of pinning the second bird down with a stone, keeping it for later. Now that he has served his mistress, Tiaki bounds off in search of his own breakfast.
Paraiti plucks the pigeon and puts it in the skillet; very soon it is sizzling in its own fat. From one of her saddlebags she takes some damper bread and honey. There’s nothing like a fresh pigeon and damper bread running with honey to start the day. A cup of manuka tea made in the billy and, ka pai, she is in seventh heaven.
Once she’s breakfasted, she’s keen to get going. Quickly, she dismantles the tent and bedding and stows them in the saddlebag. She goes down to the river to rinse the breakfast implements, then douses the fire and cleans up around her. She buries the contents of the cuspidor in the ground. Nobody would ever know she’d been here.
At Paraiti’s whistle, Ataahua and Kaihe come at the gallop. She loads Kaihe first, then she puts the bridle and saddle on Ataahua and taps him on the front knees. Once upon a time she could get on a horse without trouble, but these days it’s too much for her old bones. Ataahua obliges, going down on his front legs. He waits for Paraiti to settle and then hoists himself up with a whinny of grumpiness; over the past few years his mistress has got not only older but heavier.
‘Me haere tatou,’ she tells Ataahua. ‘Let us go.’
Pulling her mule after her, she fords the river and climbs the track on the other side. By the time she reaches the top of the ridge, Tiaki has joined her with a supercilious look on his face, as if he has given her only the second-best pigeon. The mist has lifted from the valleys and the air is clear. The forest is raucous with birdsong. Far away, Paraiti can see the smoke curling above the village of Ruatahuna, her destination.