CHAPTER EIGHT
The star cluster of Matariki has burst into its fullness in the night sky.
How Paraiti manages to get through the second week, 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 every second day is her immense faith, and the words of her father: ‘You know what you have to do.’
But every time Maraea meets her at the side door, saying ‘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. Indeed, as she steps through the doorway she finds comfort in knowing that the Ringatu gardener is watching — somewhere he is out there, going about his work, pretending not to know what is happening inside.
It doesn’t matter if he sees, for he is only a worker; but it does matter if others do, the high-class neighbours, the leaders of Gisborne society, for they are the ones who hold the power.
And so Paraiti continues the regime. First, the administering of the lethal compound designed to shrivel the birth cord and expel the baby from the womb. Second, the deep, forceful, disturbing massage: out, out, come out. She brings Rebecca Vickers from groaning to screaming point, and then those rapid hand manipulations followed by the pressure exerted on the womb.
Paraiti realises, however, her anxiety must be as nothing when compared with 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, as its walls and roof are caving in, as the stitched tukutuku are ripping apart, the kowhaiwhai panels are cracking? Where can the baby go when the poutokomanawa begins to collapse and the poisons begin to flood through the placenta that feeds it? Even when it is fighting back, how can it know that even this is anticipated and is part of its brutal eviction?
As she pummels, she imagines the child trying to retreat into the recess of the womb looking out, as if through a doorway to a world collapsing all around it, facing the terror of the unknowable, its little heart beating hard against translucent skin. What is happening? Help me.
‘Forgive me, child, oh forgive me,’ she whispers.
Ironically, Rebecca Vickers’ own strength is working in the baby’s favour for, whether she likes it or not, her baby has inherited her stamina.
And so child fights mother: I will not let you do this. Indeed, for Paraiti, the long moments after each savage treatment are always frightening. Will the baby rally? Will her heartbeat come back?
Child, fight. Fight.
Meanwhile, Mrs Vickers has bought herself the last two days. Her vanity has persuaded her that after the premature birth she would like time to recover and present herself to her husband as immaculately as she can. She has sent him a telegram on board his ship, to say that she will be unable to meet him in Auckland. A reply has come: although he is disappointed, he will spend the evening in the city before travelling on to Gisborne.
Thus, on the twelfth day, when Mrs Vickers groans, ‘Now, Scarface, do your work and rid me of this child’, Paraiti takes the advantage presented to her.
‘The door of the whare tangata is not wide enough to enable the baby’s delivery.’
Turning a deaf ear to Mrs Vickers’ torrent of curses, Paraiti tells her, ‘I will do it on the morning of the fourteenth day, before sunrise.’ Every hour will improve the baby’s chance of survival.
‘Mr Vickers will be home that evening,’ Mrs Vickers cries.
‘Lock your door. Tell him you are still indisposed.’
Mrs Vickers’ rage pursues Paraiti into the street, but the medicine woman is beyond caring about her. Her thoughts are only with the child. ‘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.
Now has come the fourteenth day, before sunrise.
Paraiti arrives at the side door, where she is admitted by Maraea. Rebecca Vickers waits in her bedroom. ‘You think you have trumped me,’ she snarls. ‘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 threat. ‘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 is more so.’
Yes, Rebecca 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.
‘You wish to be delivered of the baby here?’ Paraiti asks.
‘Here, fool?’ Mrs Vickers asks. ‘In my matrimonial bed where I would be reminded of the birth of an illegitimate child every time I sleep in this room?’ She motions to Maraea to help her up.
‘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. The Pakeha position is prone, unnatural; even so, 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. ‘What does it matter? The child will be born dead anyway.’
It is a slip of the tongue, accidental. However, her next words are not.
‘If it was good enough for my mother’s child,’ she says, looking at Maraea, ‘it is good enough for mine.’
Maraea? Mrs Vickers’ mother?
‘You stupid girl,’ Maraea says, looking at Paraiti.
‘Oh, what does it matter if Scarface knows,’ Mrs Vickers answers. ‘She is of no consequence.’
Who holds the upper hand here? All this time Paraiti had thought that Mrs Vickers was the dominant one. ‘Ko koe te mama?’ she asks Maraea, and she looks at the older woman to affirm the relationship.
Maraea holds her gaze. She nods briefly. ‘Yes, I am Ripeka’s mother. And it would be best if you held this knowledge to yourself …’
‘Or what?’ Within the words is an implied threat.
Maraea retreats, puts on the garb of subservience. ‘I never thought the pathway would lead to this, Scarface, believe me.’ There is no resemblance at all. One is old, dark, seemingly indecisive; the other young, fair, purposeful. Or is the old one as passive as she would lead you to believe? What kind of unholy relationship, what kind of charade, is this between daughter and mother?
Paraiti refuses to let Maraea get away that easily. ‘You call yourself a Maori. You are nothing.’
Maraea rears at her. ‘Don’t you judge me, Scarface. You live safely among your own; you try to survive in a world that is not your own. I have done what every mother, Maori or not, would do: give my daughter every chance at success. Her success is my success.’
Clearly, the painting on the landing is a lie. It is not Rebecca’s mother at all, but simply a ruse to put people off the scent.
Rebecca Vickers gives a guttural moan. ‘Take me to the birthing place. Quickly.’
Leading the way, and supporting her daughter as she goes, Maraea beckons Paraiti down the stairs to the ground floor of the house. Through the kitchen they go to a set of doors leading to an underground basement. There’s a circular staircase and then a further set of steps to a small cellar.
‘This is the place,’ Maraea says, switching on a light. The cellar is a large hole cut out of the dark, wet clay, barely high enough to stand up in. It is where Mr Vickers stores his vintage wine.
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 large sheet to wrap the baby in.
With a cry of relief, Rebecca 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 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 that the baby has survived the rigours of the internal punishment.
‘I am here, child,’ Paraiti whispers. ‘Kia tere, come quickly now.’ She takes her own position, facing Rebecca Vickers, and presses her knees against her chest. In this supreme moment of childbirth, the young woman is truly transformed: Mother Incarnate, her red hair is plastered to her skull, sweat is beading her forehead and her entire body streams with body fluids. She is magnificent.
‘You will pay for this,’ she says. Suddenly her face is in rictus. She takes a deep breath, her mouth opens in surprise and her groan seems to echo down to the very moment of the creation of the world. She is one mother, but she is all mothers.
Paraiti places her hands on Mrs Vickers’ swollen belly. Oh, the baby is too slow, too slow, so she must administer a series of sharp, forceful blows — one, two, three, four — to give it the impetus to kick itself outward with its last remaining strength.
The baby pushes head first against the birth opening.
Paraiti’s manipulation is firm and vigorous. The contractions are rippling stronger and stronger, and the 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 the child, wiping the mucus from her face to give her the first breath of life from one generation to the other.
She feels Maraea’s fingers digging into her, pulling her back. ‘No, let it die.’
Paraiti pushes her away. Alarmed, she notices that the baby is very still. She clears the baby’s mouth and massages her chest.
Still no movement.
Maraea is on her with a growl, but Paraiti pushes her away again. She breathes through the child’s nose and mouth and then gives the ha, the blessing through the fontanelle.
The baby cries. Her eyes open. They are green, shining, angry.
‘Oh,’ Mrs Vickers whispers.
Rebecca Vickers motions for Paraiti to give the baby to her.
When Paraiti looks at her, she realises Mrs Vickers has been surprised into love.
‘Look, Mother,’ she says to Maraea.
Paraiti has brought with her a sharp cutting shell to sever the umbilical cord. ‘Hui e, haumi e, taiki e,’ she whispers. ‘Let it be done.’
She ties the cord with flax. She closes her eyes, feeling suddenly tired. When she opens them, she sees that Mrs Vickers is weeping. Where is the child?
‘My mother has taken it. It had no future anyway.’
All along Paraiti should have realised.
When Maraea had said, on their second meeting, ‘She will kill the baby, make no mistake about it’, what she had really meant was that she, the mother and not the daughter, would kill it. The baby’s birth threatened not only Rebecca’s life but Maraea’s too, and she wasn’t about to let it be destroyed.
Paraiti rushes up from the basement. Behind her, she hears Mrs Vickers calling, ‘My mother will not kill the baby in this house. She wants to, but she knows of the spiritual consequences of such an act — of having a child ghost destroy the calmness of her life. But she will get rid of it.’
Through the kitchen Paraiti runs. The back door is open and she hears the distant crunch of Maraea’s feet on the gravel path. The front gate makes a slight sound as it opens and shuts. Across the garden, the light snaps on in the gardener’s house and he comes to the doorway, silhouetted in the light.
‘E Tiaki,’ Paraiti calls to her dog, ‘kia tere. Follow.’
Keeping to the shadows, Tiaki slinks silently in pursuit. Paraiti follows, watching for a glimpse of Maraea as she flees beneath the moon.
‘She’s heading for the bridge,’ Paraiti says to herself, alarmed. On the other side is a small Maori settlement.
Paraiti hears a thin wail from the baby. She cannot believe that Maraea intends to throw the child into the river.
But she does, as if she is throwing a sack of kittens.
‘Aue, e hine,’ Paraiti cries.
Paraiti could go quickly to the rescue but some inner sense tells her: Wait. Don’t let Maraea know you are in the darkness. Indeed, not long afterwards, Maraea can be heard returning to Waterside Drive.
Once she has gone, Paraiti runs to the bridge to look over. Good fortune has attended the child. The sack has air in it, giving it buoyancy. It is floating away on the dark river; it won’t be too long before it sinks.
‘Haere atu,’ Paraiti 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 fast 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? But the sack has already gone too deep, too deep. Then something flicks across his nose, a piece of twine trailing from the sack as it sinks 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. Whakahokia mai te kete ki ahau.’ But the sack, waterlogged, is too heavy and is dragging Tiaki down with it. ‘Tiaki,’ Paraiti cries, ‘have strength, kia kaha.’
Then comes the sound of someone running past her and diving into the water. It is the Maori gardener. With swift strokes he makes midstream and dives. When he surfaces, he has the sack. ‘Bring it to me,’ Paraiti urges. ‘Quickly.’
The gardener thrusts the sack into Paraiti’s hands. Her usually clever fingers are so clumsy! They take so long to untie the knot. ‘Do your work quickly, fingers, quickly.’
The baby is so still, with a 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—’
The gardener is in despair — ‘The baby is already gone’ — but Paraiti will not give up. She holds the child and gives her three sharp taps on her chest. ‘If you breathe, I promise you that this will be the last time I hit you.’
And the heart begins to pump and the baby yells, spraying water out of her mouth. She 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 and licks her. ‘Oh, pae kare,’ the gardener says to himself, ‘Oh, thank God.’
Paraiti takes a moment to calm down. ‘Thank you,’ she says to the gardener. 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’d 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 infant.
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.