Isle of Tears (32 page)

M
AY
1865

T
ell me again aboot the dreams,’ Isla said as she plucked an errant weed from Meg’s grave. The puawananga vine had long since passed flowering, and the feathery silver seed heads were ready to fly away, like her daughter’s spirit.

Tai smiled and leaned back on his hands, stretching out his stiff leg, the bone permanently crooked now where the British bullet had blasted through it. Teasingly, because he knew she loved to hear the story, he said, ‘But I have told you a dozen times already!’

‘Aye, but I want tae hear it again,’ Isla demanded, playfully flicking his foot with the weed.

Tai put on his storytelling face. ‘Are you comfortable?’

Isla shifted position so that the poultice of titoki Mere had
bound to her ribs wasn’t digging into her armpit. ‘Aye.’

‘Are you sure?’

Isla flicked him again.

‘From when I was shot, or after I came home?’

‘From when ye came home.’ Isla had heard how Tai had received his wounds, and how he had very nearly died, and had no wish ever to hear it repeated.

So he recounted for her once more how, four months after he and the Ngati Pono taua had arrived back at Waikaraka following Gate Pa, a story had come to them of a golden-haired Pakeha-Maori girl who had been captured and killed by British soldiers near Opotiki. He had not believed it, and had prayed constantly that it was not true, even though his own mother and father had told him, though not unkindly, that it was time for him to get on with his life—to heal the wounds to both his heart and his body.

And then the dreams had begun.

He would see her walking towards him, her hair flowing behind her like a shining pennant. She would be smiling and her hand would reach for him, inviting him, telling him that everything was all right after all. But then the shadow would come and slowly she would start to fade into it and he would shout at the top of his voice that he would be there as soon as he could, but he was always too late. And she would fade and fade, her hair darkening from gold to smoke and finally vapour, until she would be gone entirely, leaving him achingly alone.

‘And then what did ye do?’ Isla prompted.

‘I thought I might be going…’ He pointed at his head.

‘Mad,’ Isla said helpfully.

‘Ae, mad. So I talked to Pikaki about it.’ He thought back to the morning he had gone to speak to her. She had been sitting on her special chair, her bony brown feet in the elegant slippers, even though she could no longer walk unaided; the long trek back from the East Coast had crippled her. He had sat down next to her, grumpily placing his hated walking stick behind the stool where he wouldn’t have to look at it.

‘She said I looked worried,’ Tai related to Isla. ‘And I said it was because of the dreams. And I told her about them, about how real they seemed, and she did not even look surprised.’

‘But there’s no’ a lot that surprises Pikaki, is there?’ Isla remarked.

Tai shook his head and scratched absently at the fat red scar snaking across his throat, the site of the wound that had almost killed him. ‘And then she said, “But your wife is dead, e tama. Dead or lost. There is nothing you can do about it. You must accept what is.”’ Tai leaned closer for this part of the tale. ‘But when I looked at Pikaki,
really
looked at her, I suddenly noticed what I did
not
see. I did not see in her face the sadness I knew should accompany such a pronouncement; I did not see any sign of the sympathy I might have expected from her; I did not see her
unhappiness
for me. And that made me start to wonder, were you still alive? Had the story been wrong? And I blurted out, “Is she coming back? Tell me, Pikaki, please!”’ Tai laughed with delight at the memory of how his heart had grown wings and soared so
high with hope that he almost hadn’t been able to breathe. ‘And all she did was pat my hand, as though I were a child asking when the hangi would be lifted, and say, “Wait and see, e tama. Wait and see.”’

‘But ye didnae wait, though, did ye?’ Isla said delightedly. ‘Ye came looking for me!’

‘Ae, I did. Every day I rode out searching for you, and then one day I found you!’

‘And all because o’ Laddie barking his head off! See, I told ye he’d look after me!’

They shared a grin, although both knew how close Isla had been to death when Tai finally had found her.

She glanced up as Jean and Jamie dodged through the bracken towards them, giggling loudly, followed energetically by the heroic Laddie himself.

‘Guess what?’ Jean exclaimed breathlessly.

Tai and Isla exchanged expectant glances.

Isla raised her eyebrows. ‘What?’

‘Te Katate’s bitch has had her pups,’ Jamie announced gleefully, ‘and they all look just like Laddie!’

Finding this unbearably funny, the twins burst into gales of laughter and raced off again, pushing and shoving each other to be first through the village gate.

Tai reached for his stick and, grunting, stood and offered a hand to Isla. ‘Shall we go back? It is getting cool. I think rain might be coming.’

Isla allowed him to pull her to her feet, barely stifling a groan
of her own; her ribs and wound were still very tender.

For a moment they stood together, then Tai drew her into a gentle embrace and said softly, ‘Kei te aroha au i a koe, Isla McKinnon.’
I love you.

And Isla whispered back, ‘Tha gaol agam ort-fhèin.’
I love you, too
.

And, hand in hand, they walked towards home.

The End

The characters in this story are all fictional, except for the ones already in the history books. This includes the entire Ngati Pono hapu, and their fictional village, Waikaraka. Their customs, practices and world views are an amalgamation of those of several iwi. It also includes all of the Ngati Awa characters in the scenes set in Whakatane, including the kuia Miripeka, although the pa named Kaputerangi is real. The character Te Whaenga, and his village on the shores of Lake Rotoma, are also fictional. My apologies to any descendants of the manager of the New Plymouth Savings Bank in 1860—I’m sure the real person wasn’t as flawed as Mr Heath.

Isla is pronounced ‘Eye-la’, and
mo leannan
means ‘my sweetheart’ in Scottish Gaelic. In sections of dialogue, where Maori characters would in real life probably be speaking in Maori, I have them speaking in English, for obvious reasons.

Of particular use in researching this story were James Belich’s
The New Zealand Wars and the Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict
(Auckland: Penguin, 1988), James Cowan’s
The New Zealand Wars: A history of the Maori campaigns and the pioneering period: Volume I: 1845–1864
(Wellington: R. E. Owen, 1955), Chris Pugsley’s series of articles about ‘walking’ the New Zealand Wars, appearing in
New Zealand Defence Quarterly
between 1995 and 1999, Makereti’s
The Old-Time
Maori
(London: Victor Gollancz, 1938), and
Maori Peoples of New Zealand: Nga iwi o Aotearoa
(Auckland: David Bateman/ Ministry for Culture and Heritage, 2006).

Some historical notes: The second Maori king, Tukaroto Matutaera Potatau Te Wherowhero, was given the name Tukaroto at birth, after which he was baptized Matutaera (Methuselah) by the Anglican missionary Robert Burrows. He was not given the name Tawhiao until it was bestowed upon him in 1864 by Te Ua Haumene, the Pai Marire prophet, but, to avoid confusion, I have referred to him as Tawhiao throughout the story, even before 1864.

Regarding the scenes at Orakau, note that historical records suggest that Ahumai Te Paerata walked out of the swamp after the battle by herself, despite her terrible injuries.

Tauranga was known as Te Papa during the 1860s, but I’ve called it Tauranga for the sake of clarity.

Heni Te Kiri Karamu was actually the only woman allowed to be present inside the pa at the Battle of Gate Pa, although many other local Maori women helped to build it.

Parnell Road, or at least some of Parnell Road and Parnell Rise, was originally known as Manukau Road until approximately 1912–13, but I’ve used Parnell Road in the story to avoid confusion. Thanks to the staff of Parnell Community Library for helping to clear this up.

Thanks very much also to Dr Rosalind McLean in the History Department at Waikato University for her very useful and illuminating background information on Scottish Highland
culture and personal names. Thanks as well to Ian Telfer from the Wellington Gaelic Club, and especially to Mary MacNeill for so kindly providing the Gaelic translations, and pointing out that Highlanders never went around calling each other ‘hen’. Thank you, too, to Dr Chris Pugsley for clarifying whether the British army operated in platoons in 1864. It didn’t.

And, as always, thanks enormously to the team at HarperCollins Publishers—editorial, sales, marketing, publicity, and the ladies in the basement for saying they would have whipped my books out of the pulp bins if they’d known I was coming—for being supportive, encouraging and patient, particularly because this book ended up being a bit behind schedule.

Lastly, but never least, thanks to Anna Rogers for yet again polishing my work to an acceptable standard.