“You are not going to the Pa,” said Pieter later that day. They were sitting over the last of the piglet, nibbling on the bones. Pieter had not believed that the boot belonged to Paul, and had refused to mention it to Hans Christian.
Mette’s eyes widened.
“Excuse me Pieter, but you are not my father. I believe I can do what I want.”
“I am not your father, but if he was still with us he would say the same as I do. You should not go riding off with a strange man to a village of natives who may do who-knows-what to you.”
“Sergeant Frank says they are quite safe. They trade with the people in town, and bring fish and vegetables up the river in their canoes. He says…”
“Sergeant Frank!” exploded Pieter. “Mette what are you thinking. If you spend time with this man people will start to talk. It is worse than dancing with Gottlieb Karlsen at the dance. And look what became of that.”
Mette felt as if Pieter had struck her, and it must have shown on her face. He reddened, then said quietly, “I’m sorry I said that Mette, but I’m right to say you should not be seen with Sergeant Hardy. I know he’s looking for Paul and Jens, and that you can assist him with this, but please think about what you’re doing.”
Mette looked down at her plate, at the piglet that had reminded her of Sergeant Frank each time she had another meal from it. She had been thinking what she was doing, very much so. She was thinking of little else, especially since they had forded the river, with Sergeant Frank’s arm around her holding her tightly. She was feeling something she was not sure of, but it was a good feeling. It made her think of the sounds she heard through the wall in the night, soon after Maren and Pieter stopped talking.
“I’ll think about it Pieter,” she said, not looking at him. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll go to the Paon Wednesday with him and then that will be enough.”
Pieter grunted his approval and returned to the piglet bone.
Frank arrived at the cottage in the clearing early Wednesday morning, shortly after Pieter and Hans Christian had left for work. The sun was rising over the trees at the end of the clearing, making the dew sparkle like the diamond necklace that Mette had once seen at Rosenborg Castle in Copenhagen, where the Danish royal family kept their jewels. Frank was not mounted on his horse, but riding in a two-seater, black-painted pony trap, pulled by a pretty little light grey pony. Mette was disappointed that she was not to ride in front of him on his horse, but at least she would be beside him, and the pony trap would be fast and exciting, much better than riding in a bullock cart.
“I borrowed this from the mayor, George Snelson,” he told Mette as he helped her aboard.
“How kind of the mayor,” said Mette. “To let you use his pony trap.”
Frank grinned. “He’s in Wanganui,” he said. “He has no need of it himself. The pony was sitting in the paddock behind the Royal Hotel and the trap was behind his shop. He’ll never know.”
They rattled off in the pony trap, Mette feeling as if she was royalty, towards the Palmerston Square, which was about two miles from the clearing. Mette hadn’t been into town for some time and was amazed at the number of buildings that now surrounded the Square, even a Bank of New Zealand, an imposing brick building with a high front door and large windows. In no time at all the Square would be surrounded by buildings and the mud in the centre would disappear under grass or a pleasant park. By the end of the century they would be living in a real town and perhaps she would be near the Square, in a house of her own with children. There would be a blonde girl she would name Katerina, after her mother, and a dark-haired boy…she glanced sideways at Sergeant Frank and blushed, hoping he couldn’t read her thoughts.
From the Square, they trotted down towards the river and along the path towards the Pa. Frank sat upright, smiling and flicking the whip to move the horse along quickly. Mette gripped the seat as the bush flashed by, entranced.
The Pa came into sight, raised above the surrounding landscape on a low hill, surrounded by a wooden palisade and a high grassy bank. Mette could see a darker space, which appeared to be a gateway, but without the expected drawbridge, like the one at Rosenborg Castle. As they neared the entrance, a group of women came out and walked towards them. They carried flax baskets under their arms and looked relaxed and friendly. Frank slowed to speak to them, taking off his forage cap and putting it under his arm as his did so.
“Ra pai,” he said. “Kei hea te rangatira o tenei iwi?”
The women giggled and looked at the ground, but one dressed in a long flax cloak, her hair parted in the middle and held back low on her neck, stepped forward and looked at him, her head to one side. “Why must you see our chief?”
“Good morning,” Frank said. “You speak my language very well. Much better than I myself speak the language of the Māori.”
She bowed her head slightly in agreement. Mette thought she looked amused.
“I am Sergeant Hardy, late of Her Majesty’s Imperial Forces, and this is Miss Mette Jensen. I wish to speak with your chief to know if he can tell me anything about two young men, relations of Miss Jensen, who have gone missing. Two young Scandinavian men—Yaya.”
“Ah,” she said. “Yaya. We have not seen any Yaya here. They are afraid of us. They don’t trade with us or buy any of the food we bring up the river from Foxton. A pity, I think.”
Frank glanced at Mette and said carefully, “These young men are probably dead. We believe they drowned in the river but we can’t find their bodies.”
“And for some reason you think my husband, will know something about where the bodies are?”
The wife of the chief. Mette sat up on her seat. Did that make her royalty of some kind?
“If anyone else knows about the young men, I’m certain your husband will be able to find out,” said Frank. “He’ll know all that his people know.”
“True,” she said. “Little happens at this Pa that Hakopa doesn’t know. If you will follow me I’ll take you to him and we will talk to him together.” She smiled at Frank. “As with you and the Māori language, he speaks little English and I must translate for him.”
She gestured to the other women to continue towards the river, and spoke to them sharply. They avoided her eyes and looked at each, heads lowered, as if trying not to laugh.
“What’s she saying to them?” whispered Mette.
“She’s telling them to behave themselves at the river,” said Frank. “They’re on their way to wash clothing, and she usually supervises them.”
The chief’s wife strode briskly back towards the gateway to the Pa. Frank and Mette followed slowly in the pony trap. The gate did not lead immediately into the Pa, but moved in a three-step pattern of fences, which was somewhat awkward to negotiate in the trap.
“Is it difficult to make the horse move around like that?” Mette asked.
“Not after I’ve driven a coach for years,” said Frank. “I’ve always had a way with horses. I can make them do whatever I want.”
Inside the gate, a large open area was surrounded by buildings with elaborate carvings. Young boys tossed sticks back and forth, chanting as they did so, and didn’t missing a single stick thrown to them.
“They’re very good at that,” said Mette. “Each boy throws and catches at the same time.” She jumped down from the trap and approached the boys. Frank followed her.
“It’s like juggling,” said Frank. “Something I could never master.” He held out his hands to one of the boys, who threw him a stick, and laughed behind his hand when Frank failed to catch it.
“We have a game called Koob in Denmark that uses sticks,” said Mette. “Each person throws a stick at the king, or a line of Koobs. It’s an easy game, and not as skilled as that one. But I used to be good at it.” She held out her hands to one of the boys, and caught the stick he tossed to her. She beckoned to him forward, and began exchanging the sticks, managing to keep the game going for several minutes. When she finally missed, she bent and picked up the stick and handed it to the boy. “How do I say thank-you?” she asked Frank.
“Mini koe,” said Frank.
She repeated it, smiling at the boy. He looked back at her without smiling, and said, “Turehu.”
“What’s that?” she asked, half turning to Frank. “What did he say?”
The boy understood her question, and pointed at the river. “Turehu. I kite ahau i te Turehu.”
“He says he saw a ghost,” said Frank. “Near the river.”
Mette nodded at the boy and patted her breast in mock fear. He looked satisfied. He was like the boys in the clearing, seeing things that did not exist. Like boys everywhere, living in worlds of their own imaginations.
She looked across towards the huts which must be the living quarters.“What’s this area?”
“This is the marae,” said Frank, indicating the entire area with his whip. “The place where the hapu gather. The hapu is a family or a group of connected families, and families belong to a larger group called an iwi, which is a tribe of connected families. Māori don’t believe in individual ownership. The family or the tribe owns the land. Over there is the meeting house, with building with the carvings on the front.”
“The marae is like our clearing,” said Mette. “Many of us are related, and we all live in an open space together. Of course, we don’t have a palisade around us, just trees. What are the women doing over there? They look as if they are digging something up.”
“Cooking, I believe,” said Frank.
“But they’re pulling something out of a hole in the ground,” said Mette. “How is that cooking?”
“They’re taking out stones and ash. They’ll put them back later when they’ve built up layers of wood. That’s how they cook, that or on a spit.”
The chief’s wife, who was listening to them as she walked in front of them, turned her head and smiled at Mette, “They are making a hangi,” she said. “The food is buried in the ground, wrapped in leaves inside tete, or baskets, and covered with hot stones. Afterwards, the women will bring it to us in the meetinghouse. The food takes a long time to cook which is why they are starting so early.”
“I would very much like to learn how to cook food in such a way,” said Mette, as Frank helped her down from the trap. “What food are you cooking today?”
“We have a pig,” explained their hostess, causing Frank to smile. “And potatoes and kumara, and puha leaves.”
“I cook puha leaves as well,” said Mette. “But they’re bitter unless I boil them twice. Does this way improve the taste?”
The woman nodded and stopped paying attention to Mette. A tall, handsome older man with gleaming white wavy hair and an erect stance had come out of the meeting house, followed by a group of young men.
“Hakopa,” said Frank. He strode forward to meet the man, and to Mette’s surprise they appeared to kiss. Her escort put her hand lightly on Mette’s arm and said quietly, “They’re greeting in the Māoriway, which is to touch noses together. We call it Hongi, which means to share your souls.”
“Sergeant Hardy has worked with your people before,” said Mette. “He knows so much about everything.”
“Worked with us?” asked the woman. “When was that?”
“During the wars…up in Taranaki I think he said.”
The woman gave her a sharp look. She looked upset.
“I have not introduced myself to you,” she said after several awkward minutes. “I am Moana o Te Maunga of Te AtiAwaiwi. Hakopa’s iwi was not my iwi, but I came here when we married.”
Mette wondered how she should speak to the wife of a chief, especially one with such a long name. It was like meeting the wife of Viggo Monrad, the son of Ditlev Monrad who had once been the premier of Denmark. She had always been nervous about meeting important people. She summoned up her knowledge of royalty and said cautiously, “Madame…”
“You may call me Moana,” said the wife of the chief.
“Madame…Moana how is it that you speak such perfect English? I have been trying hard to learn English and find it to be a difficult language.”
“I was educated in England,” said Moana. “I was sent to Cheltenham Ladies’ College where I learned excellent English, as well as many other things that have not been at all useful, Latin for example, and playing the pianoforte.”
Mette had been about to tell Moana she thought everyone in the Pawould be a savage, but stopped herself.
They could see Frank and Hakopa talking by the river, both gesticulating as if they were having trouble talking.
“I believe they need me to translate,” said Moana. “Would you like to see how we cook?”
“I would like that very much,” said Mette.
Moana called out sharply in Māoriand a woman dressed in a traditional reed skirt and embroidered top came over and smiled at Mette, who stood there wondering if she should rub noses with her. Moana said something to the woman, who took Mette’s arm and pulled her towards to hangi.
“She will show you the hangi,” said Moana. “You will not need to understand what she says, as it will be evident. I will go and translate for my husband and Sergeant Hardy.”
The women were still clearing ash and cold stones from the hole. One came up to Mette and touched her hair, stroking her plaits and pulling them gently forward.
“Hine-raumati,” she said. The first woman nodded, turned to Mette and repeated the other’s words. “Hine-raumati.”
Mette touched her own hair. They were intrigued by the colour, it seemed. The two women returned to the hangi and continued piling stones beside the oven, removing any ash that had accumulated from a previous meal. Once all the stones and ash were removed they began to rebuild the hangi with manuka sticks laid in a crisscross pattern. Then they pushed twigs and dry grasses down the sides and lit the dry grass with a flint struck sharply against a rock. Once the fire was burning they tossed the stones on top and stood back.
A movement between two whare caught her eye and she glanced over. Someone was standing in the shadows watching her; she looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring back. Before she could sneak another look, Moana returned, looking annoyed. The men were managing without her assistance. She nodded her approval at the way the hangi had fired up, and said to Mette, “When the logs burn away and the stones sink, we will place the food in flax tete on the hot stones.”
She spoke briskly, and although Mette had a thousand questions she did not think that Moana cared about answering her. One of the women, the same one who had touched her hair, said something to Moana and pointed at Mette.
“They’ve given you a Māori name,” said Moana. “You are Hine-raumati, the Summer Maid, because of your hair, which reminds us of the summer and the golden corn. Hine-raumati is the wife of Tama nui te ra, the sun god. Sergeant Hardy is not a sun god, however. He is more like the god of war, so we must choose a different name for him.”
“Hine-raumati,” said Mette, relieved that Sergeant Frank was not to be given the name of the husband of the Summer Maid, “What a wonderful name. I’m proud that your women have given it to me.” As she turned to smile at the women, she saw the man between the whare again. He had come out of the shadows and was staring across at Frank and Hakopa.
She felt a jolt of recognition. Surely that was the Hauhau who had tried to take her pig. What was he doing, standing there as if he belonged? It could not be him. But she had seen the blue butterfly on his face. It must be him. She had not seen another Māoriman with a butterfly moko. She held her smile and looked at the women and past them, her head fixed in place, moving her eyes. As she stared, he slipped behind the whare. But as he did so, she realized the man was not bearded. It was not the Hauhau then. But the moko was the same. Did that moko mean something? Was there more than one man with the same design on his face? A gang, perhaps?
“I would show you our gardens now,” said Moana. Mette jumped and turned to her. “But I see my husband and Sergeant Hardy are returning from the river.”
Mette’s heart was pounding. Why would the Hauhau be at the Pa? Had she imagined him and his butterfly moko? Was it him without his beard, or another man with the same moko? She saw Frank separate from the group of men and come towards her telling her it was time to go. I won’t tell him I saw the Hauhau, she thought. He’ll think I imagined it. Perhaps I did imagine it.
She said goodbye to Moana, almost unable to look at her, nodded towards the women and climbed aboard the trap.
“Did you learn anything about Paul and Jens?”
“Hakopa suggested I look down in the estuary, near Foxton,” said Frank. “He said if they drowned and their bodies got caught in the current might travel all that way down past Foxton. He says he’s seen it happen before when the river is running high, and usually the bodies are washed back up on the beach. I’ll ride down there if I don’t find them soon.”
“Was he a friendly man?” asked Mette, thinking of her possible sighting of the Hauhau.
“Friendly?” asked Frank. “He seemed friendly enough. Why do you ask?”
“I mean, do you think he would be friendly to settlers?” she said, struggling with the thought of telling him about the Hauhau. Had she really seen him? “Would he have any reason to lie to you if he had found the boys’ bodies, or even if he had found them alive?”
“He seemed less aware of the world than his wife,” said Frank. “We were his guests, and he treated me as a guest, but after meeting his wife I was expecting him to be sharper.”
“He was blunt?” asked Mette, looking puzzled.
“By sharper, I mean he didn’t catch on well, considering the obvious intelligence of his wife. He’s been a good friend to the government though and is influential with many of the iwi.”
“Ah,” said Mette. “Then he’s a good man who wouldn’t hurt us?”
“I’m sure he would not,” said Frank, looking at Mette, puzzled. She could see he was wondering why she had asked.
“I asked him, through his wife, if he knew of anyone living up behind the sawmill,” added Frank. “He said one of the younger men had mentioned a man called Anahera who visited the Pa at night sometimes, who could be the man I was referring to. But his wife broke in and said Anahera means angel, and they were talking about visions they had during prayer. I didn’t believe her. Did you ask Moana anything about your Hauhau?”
“When she came back from translating for you she was angry about something,” she said. Should she tell Frank about the man she had seen? She would eventually. “She spoke in a sharp manner to the women, and answered my few questions in a very—what did you call it—in a very blunt manner. I didn’t feel I could ask any more questions.”
“I have more questions than answers at this point,” he said. “Not about the boys and where they might be, but about this Anahera who visits the Pa at night. He could be your Hauhau, but there’s also someone from Poverty Bay the Armed Constabulary are looking for. Poverty Bay is a long way from here, but if it’s the same man there could be trouble. Not for you or your people, but for ex-soldiers like me.”
Mette decided to say nothing. It was not possible that she had seen the Hauhau; she remembered his beard clearly. She had described it to Sergeant Frank that first day, when she ran in front of his horse. She must have imagined the resemblance.