A Canoe In the Mist
Read A Canoe In the Mist Online
Authors: Elsie Locke
For Tim and Jenny
Rotorua Lakes District in 1886
Glossary of Maori Words and Phrases
This book tells of strange happenings a hundred years ago in the thermal wonderland around Rotorua, which was beginning to attract tourists from all over the world. Most famous of all the things they came to see were the Pink and White Terraces of Rotomahana. When hot springs flowed down the hillsides they left behind, as they cooled, step after step of shining crystals, like a high wide staircase from the lake to the sky. Te Wairoa was the village where the tourists stayed, but it was really Maori country, as the story tells.
Many of the people in my story—the hotelkeepers, storekeepers, surveyors and schoolmaster, and the Maori guides and chiefs—were real people.
Lillian and Mattie
L
illian! Lill—i—an!’ called Mrs Perham into the darkness. And such darkness, heavy with the enclosing hills, untouched by light except for the faint gleams from scattered houses. Most girls wouldn’t want to be out in it. How that child went dashing off after every new thing, with her mother always busy and no father to control her! ‘Lillian,’ she called again, ‘where
a-are
you?’
‘Here I am, Mumma!’ Two arms clasped her from behind and the soft words were brightened by laughter. Just like that little monkey to sneak in the back way, fooling her mother and wanting something, to judge by the velvet in her voice.
‘Where have you been?’ demanded Mrs Perham.
‘Only over at McRae’s hotel.’
‘Gawking at the tourists again? And your hair looking like that? I hope you minded your manners and didn’t start
butting in, or Mrs Humphreys will hear about it…’
Lillian let the words roll over her. She’d heard it all before: how lucky they were to get this place at the Temperance Hotel after the ups and downs that followed her father’s death. But they were still on trial, because Mrs Humphreys wasn’t keen on her new helper bringing a girl in tow. If Lillian would only try to fit in, they’d keep the job and never be in want again. Now that the road from Auckland was built, the tourists were flocking here to Te Wairoa on their way to the wonders of Rotomahana. In the summer both hotels were full all the time. But now, in mid-winter, Mr and Mrs Humphreys would be getting away for a holiday and Mrs Perham would have more than enough to do, without having to keep tracks on a girl who should know better.
‘I was only over at McRae’s,’ Lillian repeated.
‘I hope you weren’t being cheeky and staring at people. What does Mr McRae say?’
‘He told me long ago to make myself at home there. He likes me and I like him. He talks to me as a real person and not just a kid.’
‘So what were you doing all this time?’
‘We sat behind the sofa all by ourselves, me and that English girl who came on the coach. Her name’s Mattie Hensley and she’s eleven, the same as me, and she’s nice, but oh Mumma, she’s such a scaredy-cat! She thinks every time a mud pool goes plop, the ground’s going
to open up and swallow her.’
‘Huh! She’s been listening to horror stories in Rotorua, most likely. Guide Sophia will put her right.’
‘The Maori men scared her, too.’
‘Well, she
is
a case! They’ll be running the boat tomorrow on the trip to Rotomahana.’
Lillian chuckled.
‘I didn’t tell her about that. Mumma, she says she won’t be scared if I go with her!’
‘Lillian! You know you can’t. It’s a school day, and we’ve no money to spare, and you haven’t been asked,’ said her mother.
‘I have so! Guide Sophia says I can come.’
‘You little monkey, you haven’t been to Sophia’s place too?’
‘I
had
to, Mumma, because she said ages ago, when we were new here, she said, “You come and tell me, you won’t have to pay.” And that was three months ago, and I’ve never seen those famous Pink and White Terraces, and I never will!’
‘We’ll get our turn, as long as you behave yourself and Mrs Humphreys keeps us on.’
‘But the boat’s always full of tourists except now when it’s winter, and there’s only seven of them at McRae’s and nobody here at all, and Mattie needs me. She needs a
friend
. It won’t matter if I miss a day at school. I can read much better than the Maori kids, and I’m as good at sums as
Adolphus Haszard; Mr Haszard says so. They’ve all seen the Terraces millions of times.’
‘Millions, Lillian? They’d be greybeards if they had.’
But this was said with a smile, and Lillian knew she had won. She gladly set to work on the pile of dinner dishes while Mrs Perham took a lantern and went first to Sophia’s whare, then to McRae’s Rotomahana Hotel, to make sure it was all as Lillian had said.
Mrs Hensley was a surprise. Although she looked the perfect picture of the well-bred Englishwoman who never did a day’s work for money, she was sensibly dressed for travelling. Her smoothly brushed chestnut hair had the fashionable curled fringe in front, but the curls were natural, and little wisps escaped from the coiled plait at the back of her neck. The flounced hem of her blue woollen dress was well clear of the floor and the lace collar and cuffs could be changed as easily as a man’s collar. It was such a beautiful lace that Mrs Perham drew her shawl closer to hide her plain grey linsey. But Mrs Hensley didn’t seem to notice the difference in social class.
‘Mattie was quite taken with Lillian,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy she’s found company of her own age. This thermal country doesn’t suit her at all. We find it fascinating, but she plagues the life out of us with her nervousness. We’ve come a long way to see Rotomahana and we don’t want it spoiled by a discontented daughter. We’ll be delighted to have Lillian join us.’
Unexpectedly she added, ‘My husband has modern views and endless curiosity. He would like to explore the ways and beliefs of every race on earth. He thinks it’s good for Mattie to have these new experiences, but I often wonder if it isn’t too much for a girl of her age.’
‘Lillian’s never seen anything but Auckland and Te Wairoa,’ said Mrs Perham. ‘Mattie should be good for her.’
When Mrs Perham returned she found every last dish tidied away and Lillian already in bed, not needing to be reminded it would be a long day tomorrow.
Matilda Hensley bounced on her bed with joy when they told her that Lillian was allowed to come. At last she had something to be excited about. When she wasn’t frightened out of her wits, she was utterly bored with all these hot springs, geysers and smelly mud pools. But a
friend
! Now there’d be something more than trailing round after her parents and other goggle-eyed tourists.
Ever since she’d left her old friends behind in England, Mattie had put up with an endless string of ships and trains and coaches, and hotels with grown-up people talking their boring talk. She wasn’t even the sort of girl people took much notice of. She had mousy brown hair like her father, and a round moon face, and she never looked smart like her mother even when their dresses were made to match. And her father always looked sadly disappointed when she failed to keep up with his enthusiasms.
Mattie snuggled down under the patchwork quilt and thought about her day. The twelve-mile drive from Rotorua had not taken long, so they’d walked down through the bush to where the Wairoa stream went over the cliff on its way to Lake Tarawera. The waterfall was a beauty. It came through a ferny cleft in one great bound, struck a mass of rock and broke into smaller leaps with a joyous shouting. Trees and ferns filled every cranny and trembled in the spray.
Next they had gone up the hill, past the schoolhouse, to the old mission church of Te Mu. Ivy had covered it from base to belfry since the missionary had left. They had looked at the lake through stained-glass windows, but it was better outside, near the mission house with its gables and shingled roof and its avenue of cabbage-trees. Beyond the blue expanse of the lake rose a steep rocky mountain with three rough table-tops in a row, dark and barren except for the fringe of green bush where the furrowed slopes met the water.
‘What d’you think of that, Mattie?’ Mr Hensley marvelled. ‘I’ve never seen a more magnificent lake, and that solid rock of a mountain sets it off perfectly.’
‘Yet the missionary must have longed for home. Look how they’ve planted oaks and honeysuckle, and the garden still looks cared for,’ said Mrs Hensley.
‘There’s a Maori woman coming out of the house,’ said Mattie.
She was old but firm of step as she came down the avenue wearing a white apron over her dress.
‘I’m Mere Hamiora,’ she said. ‘The mistress is away. She’s the missionary daughter.’
‘Is that a cherry grove?’ asked Mrs Hensley, pointing to the leafless trees.
‘Ae. One time, all Te Wairoa was a garden. The missionary taught our people to grow crops and mill the wheat. But now they have money from the tourists and they buy the flour in a sack.’
‘With a lake like that the tourists will always come,’ said Mr Hensley. ‘What do you call the mountain?’
‘Like the lake. Tarawera.’
‘You must get a grand view up there. Is it hard to climb?’
‘No one goes on that mountain.’ Mere sounded quite shocked. ‘It is tapu. Many chiefs are buried there. No Pakeha, no Maori, will go into the bush even.’
‘What would happen if they did?’ Mr Hensley couldn’t help his curiosity.
‘A misfortune would follow. But no boat will take you there,’ said Mere, quite alarmed.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of intruding,’ Mr Hensley assured her.
He kept the old lady talking until Mattie was weary of it. He always did this when he found natives of any country who could talk good English; and he was polite to them,
not like most travellers. But when Mrs Hensley said it was lunch-time they hurried down, past all the men milling about in front of the hotel, and the women sitting on a grassy bank knitting or sewing or nursing their babies. A young man stopped them at the aukati board—a fat, free-standing carved human figure with a flat belly on which a notice was pinned.
‘You come to see the haka today?’ he asked. ‘Thirty shilling.’
‘Delighted,’ said Mr Hensley. ‘We missed seeing a haka in Rotorua. Aren’t we lucky now, Mattie?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mattie.
‘Of course we are,’ said her mother.
‘It will be at our meeting house, Hinemihi,’ said the man.
Lunch was barely over when a Maori voice was heard shouting outside. Landlord Joe McRae stood up—a big, genial, dark-bearded and blue-eyed man as straight as a post. ‘Yon’s the haka leader rounding up his team. Their performance is nearly as good as a Highland ceilidh, and that’s praise indeed. And they tell me it will be the first you’ve seen, Mattie.’
‘Yes, it will be,’ said Mattie with a smile, pleased that he had addressed her instead of the grown-ups.
There were only seven tourists: the Hensleys, the lanky Dr Ralph from Melbourne, and the Fazackerleys from Dunedin with a nearly grown-up daughter named Eleanor,
who was flashily dressed. They were quite outnumbered by the laughing, chattering Maoris trooping up the road. The performers stood out in their modern clothes: white dresses for the women and white shirts for the men, with woven belts and headbands in Maori patterns. The others were dressed in a mixture of styles; men, women and children.
‘Fancy those women smoking pipes!’ said Mrs Fazackerley in a superior sort of way. ‘And men’s hats on women’s head, and such gaudy colours.’
‘I think the bright colours look well on their dark skins,’ said Mrs Hensley mildly.
Mattie was embarrassed. What if those Maoris could understand English? Making personal remarks about people was rude, and the women weren’t miles away. They were jostling her all the time. It was friendly jostling, though; not like in Egypt or Aden or India, where poor people were always begging or wanting to carry their bags for a few coins.
They came to a stile and reached the meeting house by means of a short track. A dozen people at once began pointing out the special features of Hinemihi. It had been built only six years before in the same traditional style as Tama-te-Kapua, the famous wharepuni of Rotorua. Its posts and pillars and sloping barge-boards were stained dark red and richly carved with symbolic figures. But it had a modern door, glass windows and a shingle roof, and
the eyes of the carvings were shining not with paua shell but with gold and silver coins.
‘I don’t know if that’s meant to impress us, or the other Maori tribes,’ said Mr Hensley with a smile, as they were ushered inside. There was no fire but sunshine came through the windows and each visitor was given a red-and-green checked rug.
‘Look, new stool!’ shrilled a small girl as she wriggled along it. With a few brisk Maori words her mother called her off. Those long forms were for the visitors only. The Maoris sat as they had always done on the flax mats laid over the earthen floor.
The interior of the house was cheerful. Between the wall posts were panels of reeds linked together with strips of vine in striking patterns. Designs painted in red flowed along the white rafters under the reed ceiling. The long ridgepole, a whole tree-trunk surely, was supported by two strong posts in the middle. Carved on to one of these was a strange creature, a sort of cross between a lizard and a crocodile.
The dancers lined up, thirty men, thirty women. Some were quite old, wrinkled and tattooed; others were young with fresh, unmarked faces. A burly young fellow at the end by the door began a chant that was halfway between speaking and singing. Then the bodies began to sway and the feet to stamp in unison; the women broke first into song, then the men. Now, though each remained in place,
the whole group was in motion. Faces and arms and hips and feet were all in time with the voices. It was a song of welcome. Although every word was in Maori, this was obvious from the tone and the movement.
And the fingers, how they spoke! The women had a way of holding their arms perfectly stiff, with every muscle in play from the wrist. Mattie was spellbound. On the hard stool her own hips were swaying, her feet tapped gently on the flax mat, and her fingers quivered on her knees—but not like theirs, as free as the spray of the waterfall.
The song changed and the men stormed forward. Shouting their strange words they bared their chests and slapped them and pounded their feet and pulled hideous faces. In their hands were feathered staffs which shook as if they were alive with menace. Between the ranks went the burly leader with a greenstone club in his hand, turning at the end of the line with his eyes rolling and his tongue hanging out.
Mattie couldn’t bear it. She shrieked and ran outside and was still running when her father caught up with her.
‘It’s a war dance, Papa,’ she sobbed against his chest with his gold watch-chain pressing her cheek.
‘Oh Mattie, it’s all put on just for show! They don’t go to war now.’
‘But they did, they did! That village we saw on the way here—the coach driver said it’d been a military post full of Maoris.’