6
Normally, Paraiti would have spent the rest of her haerenga on a circuit of the villages closest to Waituhi. The old woman with a dog, horse and mule are familiar sights among the Ringatu faithful in Turanga, which the Pakeha have renamed Poverty Bay.
Paraiti would have travelled throughout the lands of Te Whanau a Kai, Te Aitanga a Mahaki, Tai Manuhiri and Rongowhakaata. Wherever the Ringatu festivals take place, there you would have found her. Where the faithful gather to sing, pray and praise God, there she would be also: Waihirere, Puha, Mangatu, Rangatira, Waioeka, Awapuni, Muriwai and many other local marae. Still avoiding te rori Pakeha, the Pakeha road, she would instead have ridden the old trails along the foothills or rivers, the unseen roads that crisscross the plains like a spider’s web.
But for six days, Paraiti remains in Waituhi, venturing only every second day to Gisborne, and returning at midnight. ‘Where is Scarface?’ her people ask, puzzled at this change in her routine. ‘Is she ill? What will happen to us if she is unable to visit this year?’ And some, worried, come to Waituhi to knock on the door of her kauta. ‘Are you all right, takuta?’
When they are patiently told that everything is kei te pai and that she is only delayed, they leave.
Even so, Paraiti decides to make an appearance at a Ringatu hui at Takipu, the large meeting house at Te Karaka, so that the people will see she’s still alive and kicking. Takipu is so beautiful that Paraiti cannot help but be grateful that her whakapapa connects her to such a glorious world.
The hui incorporates a kohatu ceremony, an unveiling of the headstone of a brother Ringatu healer, Paora, who died a year ago. The obelisk, the final token of aroha, is polished granite, gleaming in the sun. It is a sign of the love for a rangatira. As Paraiti joins the local iwi, weeping, around the obelisk, she reflects on the fragility of life. ‘Not many of us morehu left,’ she thinks to herself.
Afterwards, she spends some time talking to Paora’s widow, Tereina. ‘It was a beautiful unveiling for a beautiful man,’ she says.
‘Ae,’ Tereina replies. ‘A woman must have a good man at least once in her lifetime and I was lucky, he was the best.’ Tereina smiles at the memory. ‘The men may be the leaders, but when they die, it is the women who become the guardians of the land and the future.’
Returning to Waituhi, Paraiti cannot shake off Tereina’s comment about having a man in her life. She has always been alone with her animals, unloved by any man except her beloved father. Would things have been different if she had not been scarred?
Her mood deepens as she thinks of all the changes she has observed in her travels. Since she and her father saw the ngarara, the marks of the new civilisation have proliferated across the land. New highways and roads. More sheep and cattle farms. Where once there was a swingbridge there is now a two-lane bridge across the river. And although the old Maori tracks are still there, many of them have barbed-wire fences across them, necessitating a detour until a gate is found. On the gate is always a padlock and a sign that says ‘Private Land. Tresspassers will be prosecuted. Keep out.’
The changes are always noted by the travellers of the tracks and passed on to other travellers, ‘Kia tupato, beware,’ because, sometimes, horses or children can be ensnared in the coils of barbed wire discarded in the bush after the fences have been built. Paraiti has sewn up many wounds inflicted by barbed wire as pighunters and foresters have rushed after prey in the half light of darkness.
So the travellers keep themselves up to date with the death of Maori country. And Paraiti suddenly recalls Mrs Vickers’ words. You wear your scar where people can see it. I wear mine where they can’t.
Of all the changes wreaked by civilisation, it is the spiritual changes that are the worst. The ngarara is not only physical; it has already infiltrated and invaded the moral world that Paraiti has always tried to protect. She cannot but compare Mrs Vickers’ situation to that of the young girl in Ruatahuna — what was her name again, Florence? — who had lost three babies while they were still in the womb. In one case, the baby is strongly desired; in the other, unwanted.
Perhaps the marks that really matter are, indeed, the ones that can’t be seen.
How Paraiti manages to get through the next six days, she will never know. She prays constantly, morning, noon and night, her karakia unceasing and seamless. All that sustains her as she hastens to Waterside Drive and her rendezvous with Mrs Vickers is her immense faith, and the words of her father, ‘You know what you have to do.’
But every second evening, when Maraea meets her at the side door, ‘Come in, quickly, before you are seen,’ Paraiti feels sick to her stomach that all her efforts might be for nought — that, instead of saving the baby, she will be complicit in its death. And every time she administers the herbal compound, following it up with forceful massaging, and then the rapid blows to the womb, she realises that her anxiety must be as nothing when compared to that of the baby in the womb.
What must it be like to be in the house of birth, a whare meant to nurture and sustain, undergoing the trauma as its walls and roof are caving in? And in that environment, with stitched tukutuku ripping apart, kowhaiwhai panels cracking, and the destruction of all the whakapapa contained therein, what must it be like for the baby? Where can it go when the poutokomanawa begins to collapse and the poisons begin to flood through the placenta that feeds it? Even when fighting back, how can it know that even this is anticipated and is part of its brutal eviction?
‘Forgive me, child, oh forgive me,’ Paraiti whispers as she maintains the treatment. Ironically, Mrs Vickers’ own strength and stamina are working in the baby’s favour.
And on the sixth evening, when Mrs Vickers, groaning in pain, cries out, ‘Now, Scarface, do your work and rid me of this child,’ Paraiti plays her trump.
She has been stalling for time. ‘Your cervix has not dilated sufficiently,’ she says to Mrs Vickers. ‘The door of the whare tangata is not wide enough to enable the baby’s delivery.’ Paraiti has not increased the dosage, nor the massage therapy; every hour increases the chances of the baby’s survival. Turning a deaf ear to Mrs Vickers’ torrent of curses, Paraiti tells her, ‘I will do it tomorrow night.’
‘Kororia ki to ingoa tapu,’ she prays to the evening sky and all throughout the next day. Her animals, sensing her anxiety, honour her fervency with barks, whinnies and brays of their own; otherwise, they stand and wait in silence and on good behaviour.
‘You planned this delay all along,’ Mrs Vickers seethes. ‘Well, two can play at that game, Scarface.’
The final treatment has forced her waters to break. The birth has begun. The contractions are coming strongly — and the baby has slipped from the whare tangata into the birth canal.
Paraiti ignores the accusation. ‘Your trial will soon be over,’ she answers, ‘and it will be advisable for you to focus on the difficulties ahead. A normal birth is difficult enough. One that has been induced as forcefully as this, and before time, is more so.’
Yes, Mrs Vickers has stamina all right but, even so, she is being truly tested. She is dressed in a white slip, the cloth already stained at her thighs. Her skin shines with a film of sweat.
‘How do you wish to give birth, Mrs Vickers?’ Paraiti asks. ‘The Maori way or the Pakeha way?’ She knows the question has a hint of insolence about it but, after all, Mrs Vickers has Maori ancestry and it needs to be asked. Although the Pakeha position is prone, unnatural, Paraiti assumes that this is the way Mrs Vickers would wish the baby to be delivered. Her answer, however, surprises Paraiti.
‘My mother has prepared a place so that I can deliver the Maori way,’ she says. ‘If it was good enough for her illegitimate child, it is good enough for mine.’
Her mother?
Paraiti realises that Mrs Vickers is talking about Maraea. ‘Ki a koe?’ she asks Maraea, and she looks at the older woman to affirm the relationship.
Maraea averts her eyes but nods her head briefly. ‘Yes, I am Rebecca’s mother. But I never thought the pathway would lead to this, Scarface, believe me.’
There is no resemblance at all. One is old, dark, indecisive; the other young, fair, purposeful. What kind of unholy relationship, what kind of charade is this between daughter and mother?
Leading the way, and supporting her daughter as she goes, Maraea beckons Paraiti down the circular stairs and then a further set of steps to a small cellar. She switches on a light and Paraiti sees that Maraea has done her work well. Two hand posts have been dug into the clay, and beneath the place where Mrs Vickers will squat are clean cotton blankets and a swaddling cloth to wrap the baby in.
With a cry of relief, Mrs Vickers shrugs off her slip and, naked, takes her place between the posts in a squatting position, thighs apart. Her pendulous breasts are already leaking with milk. ‘No, I won’t need those,’ she says to Maraea, refusing the thongs that her mother wants to bind her hands with. ‘Do your work, Scarface,’ she pants, ‘and make it quick.’
Maraea has already taken a position behind her, supporting her.
‘Massage your daughter,’ Paraiti commands. ‘Press hard on her lower abdomen and whare tangata so that the baby is prompted to move further downward.’
The whare tangata is collapsing. But there is a heartbeat — faint, but a sign — to reveal that the baby still lives. ‘I am here, child,’ Paraiti whispers. ‘Kia tere, come quickly now.’ She takes her own position, facing Mrs Vickers, and presses her knees against her chest.
‘You will pay for this,’ she says. And suddenly her face is in rictus. She takes a deep breath, her mouth opening in surprise, ‘Oh.’
Paraiti places her hands on Mrs Vickers’ swollen belly. She feels the baby beneath, as it pushes head first against the birth opening. Paraiti’s manipulation is firm and vigorous as she presses and hastens the baby on its way. The contractions are rippling, stronger and stronger, and the first fluids stream from the vagina as the doorway proudly begins to open.
‘Now, bear down,’ Paraiti orders.
Mrs Vickers does not flail the air. Her face constricts and she arches her neck with a hiss. With a gush of blood, undulation after undulation, the baby slides out, head followed by shoulders, body and limbs, into the world. The baby is dark-skinned with wet, matted red hair.
‘A girl,’ Paraiti whispers in awe. ‘Haere mai, e hine, ki te Ao o Tane. Welcome, child, to the world of humankind.’
Quickly, she cradles her, clearing her face of mucus, ready to give her the first breath of life.
‘No,’ Mrs Vickers instructs. ‘Let it die.’
Paraiti does not heed her. Maraea is weeping, restraining Mrs Vickers as Paraiti clears the baby’s mouth and massages her chest. Immediately, she starts to wail. Her eyes open. They are green, shining, angry.
Mrs Vickers falls back, exhausted. She doesn’t even look at her daughter.
Paraiti cuts the umbilical cord and ties it with flax. She places the child at Mrs Vickers’ breast.
Mrs Vickers looks at Paraiti. ‘You broke your agreement to deliver me in six days. I now break mine. This child has no future. Get out.’
‘Have I failed?’
Paraiti’s faith makes her keep watch by the sickle moon on the house of Mrs Vickers. Around two o’clock in the morning, she sees Mrs Vickers and Maraea getting into the Packard.
Earlier, when Maraea showed Paraiti to the door, she said, ‘Rebecca will not kill the baby in this house. She wants to, but I have convinced her of the spiritual consequences of such an act — of having a child ghost destroy the calm of her life. But she will get rid of it. Keep watch and follow closely after us.’
‘E Tiaki,’ Paraiti tells her dog, ‘kia tere. Follow.’ Keeping to the shadows, Tiaki slinks silently in pursuit. Paraiti follows after on Ataahua.
The Packard is travelling fast. Ataahua is at the gallop. Even so, Paraiti has trouble keeping up and has to rely on Tiaki to run ahead, keep watch, return to show Ataahua the way, and run ahead again. Nevertheless, together they manage to hold on to the thin thread of pursuit, and when Paraiti reaches Roebuck Road, she sees the Packard parked on the bridge overlooking the river.
On the other side of the bridge is a small Maori settlement.
Paraiti quickly dismounts and watches from the darkness.
Mrs Vickers gets out of the car and takes a sack from the back seat. She moves very slowly and painfully but with determination. Paraiti hears a thin wail from within the sack. Her eyes prick with tears. She cannot believe Mrs Vickers intends to throw the sack in the river.
But Maraea is objecting. She struggles with her daughter saying, ‘Kaore, daughter, no.’ Mrs Vickers slaps her and she falls to the ground. Then, taking up the sack, she throws it over the bridge as cavalierly as if she is drowning kittens.
‘Aue, e hine,’ Paraiti cries.
She must wait until the car turns and makes its way back to Waterside Drive. Once it has gone past her hiding place she runs to the bridge to look over. The sack is floating away on the dark river; it won’t be too long before it sinks. ‘Haere atu,’ she yells to Tiaki. She points at the sack in the river and he jumps off the bridge and splashes into the water.
Paraiti’s heart is beating as she slips and slides down to the river’s edge. She can hear the thin wail of the child again. ‘Kia tere, kia tere!’ she urges Tiaki. The sack is becoming waterlogged and it is sinking. ‘Quick, Tiaki, quick.’
He is too late. The sack disappears under the water.
With a yelp, Tiaki dives for it — has not his mistress taught him at a favoured lagoon to bring back speared fish from the sea? The depths of the river are dark, so dark. But something flicks across his nose, a trailing piece of twine from the sack as it goes deeper, and he lunges—
Tiaki breaks out of the water. In his teeth, he has the sack. ‘He kuri pai!’ Paraiti calls to him, ‘Good dog. Hoki mai ki ahau. Bring the baby to me.’
Her usually clever fingers are so clumsy! They take so long to untie the knot. ‘Do your work quickly, fingers, quickly.’
And, oh, the baby is so still, with the tinge of blue on her skin. She already has the waxen sheen of death upon her. ‘Move quickly, hands, you have always healed, always saved lives. Give warmth to the child, massage the small heart and body to beat again and to bring the water up from her lungs. Quickly, hands, quickly. And now—’
Paraiti holds the baby by the ankles and, praying again, gives the child a mighty slap on her tiny bottom.
The heart begins to pump, the lungs expel the water and the baby yells, spraying water out of her mouth. She tries to draw breath but starts to cough; that’s good, as she will get rid of all the water from her lungs. Very soon she is breathing and crying, and Paraiti continues to rub her down, increasing her body warmth. Tiaki noses in to see what she is doing. He whimpers with love and licks her.
‘Oh, pae kare,’ Paraiti says to herself, ‘Oh, thank God.’ She takes a moment to calm down. Then she addresses the baby, ‘I will call you Waiputa,’ she says. ‘Born of water.’ She sprinkles her head with water to bless her.
Waiputa is already nuzzling Paraiti’s breasts. ‘You’re not going to have any luck with those old dugs,’ Paraiti tells her. ‘I better find you a wet nurse.’ She looks across the river at the Maori settlement; there’s bound to be some younger woman there, breastfeeding her own child, who owes Paraiti a favour and won’t mind suckling another child.
As for the future? Paraiti smiles to herself. ‘What a menagerie we will make, Waiputa! A scar-faced woman, two old nags, a pig dog and you.’
Others had begun their lives with less.