Logan went off to work mid-afternoon, leaving Hana alone in the huge old house with Phoenix. She rattled around it feeling lost until she remembered the diary upstairs still in her case.
Hana knew enough to know she shouldn’t put her bare hands on the delicate pages and managed to sort out a pair of new cotton gloves which came with some hand cream. She slipped them on and turned the pages with care, trying not to do any further damage. The writing was childlike and lapsed into unfamiliar dialect. It was highly unlikely Māori women were given schooling in the early 1900s, apart from that informally gleaned but Hana sensed the woman through her writing, despite the poor English grammar and the glaring spelling mistakes. “What are you trying to say to me, Phoenix Du Rose?” Hana mused, stroking the tattered pages and ruing the water damage which made some impossible to unstick.
The first of the diary pages began with Logan’s grandmother as a young woman. She was twenty-two and stated her lineage in the first few lines in a laboured mihi in Te Reo Māori. Hana’s smattering of the language limped her through the woman’s documented heritage. The Frenchman, who drove off the English invaders was her grandfather who married his eldest daughter to a prominent Māori leader - the rangatira from the Ngati Maniapoto tribes everyone spoke of. Phoenix Te Whai-Du Rose was a product of that marriage, also the eldest daughter. There were obvious links to the Ngapuhi tribe also recounted, but Hana’s knowledge of the Māori language failed her. Phoenix listed her waka as the Tainui, which sailed her ancestors from Hawaiki to Kawhia and her river as the Waikato. The mountain or maunga, which Phoenix belonged to was called Mātakitaki and she had been birthed at the summit. A hand-drawn sketch depicted the old kauri tree at the top of Logan’s mountain. “I never knew that,” Hana said to her baby as the little girl wriggled around on the change mat, sucking her toes and gurgling with happiness. “Mātakitaki - the mountain has a name. You were born there too. Daddy buried your afterbirth under the tree.” Hana shuddered involuntarily at the unsavoury thought. It seemed such an un-western thing to do at the time, but Logan performed the rite without a second thought, offering a whispered karakia as thanks for his daughter’s safe arrival and prayer for their safety down the treacherous mountain.
The Second World War wiped out the sons of the family and a rift between successive daughters meant that Frenchman’s estate passed to Phoenix as the oldest granddaughter. The rangatira was of the Te Whai lineage and although he lived on the land with his half-French wife, never lay claim to it even by marriage. After a chunk of rigid pages Hana couldn’t open without damaging them, the diary began in earnest on the day of Phoenix Te Whai’s wedding.
‘I do not want this. Matua insists. He say the world changes. The war has brought hunger for whenua in its wake. I will need the Du Rose name to write on paper, not just to run through my veins so I can keep it. He knows I do this only to obey.’
Phoenix hadn’t wanted to marry Henri Du Rose. Leslie told Hana as much, but to see it written down in the woman’s own heavily slanted hand brought a sadness to her chest. Phoenix did it in return for the French name which would safeguard her land. The diary rambled on for a few pages about how she would do her best to honour her matua - father, but it seemed Henri was damaged somehow in the war and wasn’t the person the rangatira though he was anymore. The fact was sobering and dispelled the ready judgements Hana inadvertently formed against her daughter’s paternal great-grandfather, who was styled by others as a gambler and a drunk. The war destroyed many lives, not only those of the dead but the men left to crawl through life ruined.
Water made the next pages unreadable and Hana sighed in frustration. The wood pulp paper had turned brown as the liquid seeped through, rendering the words illegible; black blood on the pages. The next decipherable words showed an improvement in both the handwriting and use of language and catalogued an event eight years later. It was August 1952 and Phoenix Du Rose’s father was dead. She detailed the tangihanga and named the visitors who came to pay their respects to her father as he lay in state at the homestead. The names formed an endless list of forgotten lives. Phoenix recalled with bitterness, the inappropriately drunken behaviour of Henri and some of his friends during the three-day event. ‘He was kakī mārō!’ The exclamation mark had been written with such force, it punctuated the next two pages.
Hana knew the words meant pig-headed and stubborn in Māori, because she heard Leslie whisper them under her breath when Logan irritated her. One of the other kitchen girls told Hana what the word meant, whispering behind her hand. If Henri Du Rose was stubborn, he had handed that little gem down the generations, at least as far as Hana’s husband and daughter.
‘Aunty try to tell me the homestead is now of her son, Henri. My māmā would be screaming in Hawaiki about now, ready to come from the underworld to slap her heahea face. She is disloyal sister and always was. Matua give me papers. It is mine. Only mine.’
“Heahea means stupid, doesn’t it?” Hana asked her daughter and Phoenix laughed, her mouth making a delicate half-moon in her dribbly face.
More damage. This time the paper completely disintegrated, leaving huge holes in the page as though blasted away. The crumbled pieces were littered throughout the remaining book like decayed autumn leaves. Hana persevered, losing herself in the memories of a woman she never knew, the nuances of the Du Roses slowly becoming clearer.
‘Aunty wants a betrothal between my boys and her girls. Antoinette and Miriam, her mokopuna. Disloyalty cannot be rewarded. My māmā could not forgive how her sister try to get Matua to take her as second wife. Nor can I. The rangatira would not. He have only my māmā. Te aroha. He love only her.’
Hana closed the wooden cover and bit her lip. She sensed conflict swirling through the pages, making her party to things she shouldn’t know. “I’ll take it to Daddy,” Hana told the gurgling baby.” But she knew she wouldn’t.
Logan idolised his grandmother and Hana lay the book on the bed while she played with her daughter. The wooden cover called to her, desperate to involve her in its intrigue. Hana sighed. “Daddy wouldn’t be pleased to know his mother and her sister were maneuvered into marriage with Alfred and Reuben from childhood and his grandmother was against it,” she told her daughter, shaking the rattle and speaking in an engaging baby voice. “No he wouldn’t.”
Māori often took more than one partner in the early days before the English made bigamy a crime. That fact wasn’t astounding. But a woman eagerly seeking the affections of her sister’s mate was an uncomfortable revelation and it was clear Phoenix’s aunt continued to be a problem with the next generation also. “It’s generational sin,” Hana whispered to her daughter. “That’s what’s wrong with this family.” She’d seen enough of life to recognise its dreadful track marks and it raised its ugly head in Miriam’s behaviour with the brothers, Reuben and Alfred. Of course she copied the example of her elders, especially her grandmother, the spurned Te Whai sister.
As baby Phoenix fed, Hana balanced the book in one careful hand but its next revelation left her clutching her chest and fighting for composure.
‘Matua wanted māmā’s aurei with him. It was to go to the urupa. During tangi, I see Aunty trying to take from his dead breast. I make sure she cannot do what she wants. It belongs to my whānau. Not hers!’
Another exclamation mark was scored into the page as though the writer’s fury was fresh on the delicate leaves. Hana sat, riveted to her seat. Phoenix spoke of the cursed ‘thing’ removed from the body during the tangi. Its proximity to the rangatira and association with his burial made it tapu, sacred. Was it possible the Te Whai sister stole it and not Henri Du Rose? It put a whole new perspective on things. The urupa was the burial ground, but Hana had no idea what an aurei was. “How can I find out?” she asked her suckling baby. The little legs kicked but she showed no interest.
Desperate to continue reading, the sound of Tama’s ute pulling onto the driveway caused Hana to jump with guilt. She laid her dozing child on the bed and rushed to hide the diary in the built-in wardrobe in the main bedroom, burying it beneath a stack of pullovers she already stored away. Tama came upstairs to find Hana, following the lights glaring out of the bedroom. “You look loved-up,” Hana teased and he smirked happily, throwing himself down on the bed next to the baby. She squealed with excitement at the rude start and gritted her jaw, looking like a maniac.
“I met Lucy’s parents last night,” Tama said, playing with the baby’s fingers. “I think they liked me.”
“Naw, that’s awesome babe. You’ve passed some unwritten relationship test.”
“Yeah, it’s a whole new experience for me,” he mused, “actually dating a girl properly instead of satiating myself with some stranger against the bins outside a nightclub.”
“Eugh!” Hana pulled a face and chased the comment from her mind. Or bedding a friend’s mother. It was spiteful and she culled the thought as quickly as it settled. “I thought you were leaving today,” she said, attempting to change the subject.
“Na, yeah, na,” he replied, playing hidey with the baby. Hana gritted her teeth at the kiwi-ism. “Sorry.” Tama looked up and saw her squirm. “That means I wasn’t, then I was, then I wasn’t.”
“Oh great, I’m glad that’s so clear!” Hana shoved Logan’s shirts haphazardly on hangers and put them in the wardrobe.
“You know he’ll want to iron all those again now, don’t you?”
“Well, he’s very welcome to,” Hana replied.
Phoenix reached for Tama’s cheeks with dribbly fingers, laughing at the roughness of his stubble. “You’re gorgeous,” he told her, blowing a raspberry on her cheek. He glanced at Hana. “The course starts on Wednesday and I meant to go up today but tomorrow’s fine. I’ve allowed myself enough time to get settled.”
Hana nodded and stopped with the next shirt half on the hanger. “I’ll miss you,” she said with sincerity.
Later, Tama sat with Hana for a while in the huge classroom they tried to disguise as a lounge, feeling the weight of her sadness. “S’up, Ma,” he asked. “Is it the dead guy in the lounge?” To his surprise, Hana shook her head.
“I meant what I said. I’ll miss you.” She struggled to stifle a sob. “I don’t know why, but your leaving feels far worse than any of my other children. It’s probably because I worry more about you.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, feeling gratified. He hugged her and teared up over her shoulder, secure in the knowledge she couldn’t see his weakness. He loved this woman more than anyone else on earth, even Logan, who had backed him since forever. The young man’s downward spiral of self-destruction was single-handedly halted, by the intervention of someone whose closest friendship he destroyed. “Remember how we hated each other?” he mused. “You couldn’t stand being in the same room as me.”
He felt Hana nod against his shoulder. “Yes. I hit you with my handbag. I’m so sorry about that.”
“And you threw me out of the house when Logan said I could stay.” His voice contained none of his juvenile pique.
“You kinda deserved it,” Hana sniffed.
“Yeah, I did. I owe you so much, Ma,” he whispered into her hair. “Everything I do from now on is because of you. You gave me a chance when you didn’t have to and you saw who I could be, not who I was. I’ll always love you.”
Danger and adversity pushed them firmly together countless times since their early clashes and it was as though all the sticking power of the hatred created a different glue. They were cemented closely together and it caused jealousy issues with Bodie recently – and undoubtedly would again.
Hana slept badly, the fact Tama was leaving in the morning weighing on her heart. It didn’t help she kept reliving memories of Lachlan Reynolds, which merged in her sleep with an image of a small sandy-haired boy coveting a large silver trophy in a tennis club cabinet. Lachie Dobbs.
As daylight broke through the curtains of the huge bedroom, Hana was disturbed by the sound of snuffling somewhere by the side of the bed. She lay for a few moments, pretending she imagined it, but the noise came again. As quietly as possible, Hana shifted over to Logan’s side of the mattress and peeked over the edge.
Tama lay on his back on the rug. He must have come in during the night and he had his mouth wide open, snoring. On his chest was a small baby girl, lying on her front and snuffling into his muscles. She seemed to be trying to blow raspberries and a long line of dribble ran down Tama’s side onto the rug below.
“Yukky!” Hana whispered at her daughter and Phoenix craned her neck round to see her mother. As she caught sight of the fuzzy silhouette above her, the baby grinned and turned her face away, splatting her cheek into the puddle of dribble and cooing to herself. She flapped her legs and tried to get up onto her knees and crawl away. Tama had wrapped a blanket around the both of them and Phoenix became unhappy about being cocooned inside. As she waggled her legs and grew frustrated, Tama disturbed. His eyes were ringed by dark shadows of tiredness and his hair was on end. “What a sight!” Hana mocked.
Tama smirked. “Says the woman with hair like a long, fuzzy, red halo and her flannelette granny nightdress making her look like a pensioner.” He lifted his torso off the rug, showing off using only his stomach muscles even with the weight of the child on his chest. Phoenix held her arms up for Hana, demanding a breast feed, reminded now of the presence of the comforting appendages.
“Oh baby,” Hana grumbled as she reached for her wiggling daughter, “aren’t you even going to let me go to the toilet first?”
Tama shuffled off to the kitchen downstairs to boil the kettle and make tea for the nursing mother. He returned some time later with a mug each and sat on the bed in his boxer shorts, pulling faces and distracting Phoenix. Both of them knew the big goodbye was coming, but neither wanted to progress it. “Tama,” Hana started and he stopped her quickly, sliding his arm around her shoulders.
“Don’t say anything, Ma. We did this already, when I left for college after the summer, remember?”
Hana nodded and let out a tiny chuckle. “I remember. But you’re not allowed to quit the fire brigade, ok? You’ve got to keep doing it until you’re so old you have to wrap the fire hose around your wheelchair!”
“I won’t quit, I promise. You and Logan have been amazing over everything. I love you both so much.”
“You wouldn’t let me get mushy and now you’ve gone and done it!” Hana sniffed, wiping at the falling tears with the corner of her sleeve. Tama laughed and tickled her, making Phoenix squeal with excitement as Hana jiggled around to get away from him.
“What’s an aurei?” Hana asked as he cleared the empty mugs away. Tama scratched his head and looked at her strangely. He repeated the word but added the correct punctuation, making Hana feel a stab of irritation.
“It’s a...kind of pin, I guess. Like what you’d put in a cloak or shawl to keep it together. It’s an old word. I haven’t heard it for years. Often they were made of bone and decorated with greenstone or paua. Why?”
Having broached the subject, Hana had no ready reason for her enquiry. She fudged it, muttering something vague about the taonga in the boxes. Tama’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t want to be touching that stuff,” he said sagely. “You know the stories aye? It’s bad news. I don’t know how you can have it in the house. It gives me the sh...” He thought hard about the swearword and managed to prevent its full escape.
Hana craved understanding, realising as she pushed for answers the thing she most desired was acceptance into the Du Rose whānau. In some small way she subconsciously reasoned that knowledge might gain her entry where marriage had failed. “Do you know what was stolen?” she asked. “From the rangatira’s coffin?”
To her great disappointment Tama shook his head. “Na, just something precious to the whānau. They say Henri Du Rose took it off the body and tried to sell it. He was dead within a year.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s in those boxes though,” Hana argued, not believing her own words. Tama shrugged.
“Probably not. It’ll be long gone by now. Nobody knows what it was anymore either, so it could be anywhere or nowhere. Leave it to Uncle Logan to deal with, Ma. Don’t be messing in that stuff.”
The young man left early after loading the box of taonga back into the Honda for Hana. Possibly he hoped she was heeding his warning. “I’m gonna try and hit Auckland between the work and school traffic to avoid getting snarled up in either of the staggered rush hours,” he said. Tama enfolded Hana in a bear hug and felt the fragility of her body in his arms. “Take care, Ma,” he said, a catch in his voice.
Hana waved him off through the front gates in his old ute, proud of Phoenix, who did a perfect little wave at her cousin’s departing tail lights. With a guff of dodgy looking exhaust fumes and a hard rev he was gone, out into the traffic on Maui Street and into the rest of his life. “We’re gonna miss him, aren’t we Phoe?” Hana said with a sniff. She walked slowly back into The Gatehouse, feeling unbearably sad. Her daughter sat high on her hip as Hana tried to ready her mind for the next task. Thoughts of the lovely tennis player attempted to crowd into her brain and she pushed them away, throwing herself into busyness.
Half a kilometre away, Tama drove in through the back gates of the school site and made his way round to the boarding house. He managed to catch his uncle before Logan headed off to tutor group. “Thought I’d better say goodbye to the old git,” Tama smirked. “Just don’t cry on me, I’ve got an image to uphold.”
“Yeah, you have!” Logan laughed. “But it isn’t the one you think it is.”
They chatted for a short while before Logan accompanied Tama to his vehicle. “Hey, I transferred some money into your account,” the older man said as he shook his nephew’s hand in a firm grip. Tama’s hand became still within the handshake.
“Why?” he asked, surprised.
“You might need some stuff when you get up to Auckland. I don’t reckon you’ll be paid for a couple of weeks, so it’s to tide you over.”
Tama let go of Logan’s hand and wrapped him up in a masculine embrace instead. He fought overwhelming emotions of gratitude and the Du Rose men didn’t do tears in their hard, unyielding world. Logan held onto the teenager for far longer than he would have managed a year ago, Hana’s influence softening and blurring his hard lines. He kissed the side of Tama’s shaved face and ruffled his hair, ignoring the stares of the boarders as they headed over to the main building. Both men were well over six feet tall and made an incongruous scene, blocking the pavement to the front door of St Bart’s. The moment became awkward and Tama turned to leave.
Logan stopped him. “Hey, before you go, what’s she up to?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction of The Gatehouse across the field.
“I dunno,” Tama responded, shaking his head but looking concerned. “I couldn’t get it out of her. She cried out in her sleep and was real disturbed. I heard her about four o’clock and went down, but she didn’t wake up. Phoe did though. I cuddled her on the floor by the bed.”
“Hana?” Logan asked roughly, struggling with the image of his randy nephew cuddling his wife on the floor.
“No, the baby!” Tama spluttered. “I laid on the floor with the baby.”
“Oh.” Logan had the decency to look contrite. “She’s up to something. I hoped you might be able to find out what it was before you left.” His dark brows knitted in worry.
Tama slapped him on the back. “Ma will be fine. She’s got more about her than any other woman I know. Whatever it is, it’ll be something good, a surprise to take her mind off what’s happened. It’s been a rough few weeks. Don’t worry about her. She knows what she almost lost and there ain’t nothing gonna make her sacrifice that. Not now.”
Tama couldn’t have been more wrong. The huge ochre-red gate to the marae was open wide, but there was nobody in sight. A big notice pinned to the wall indicated it was a sacred Māori site and entry was prohibited without invitation. Hana stood on the pavement and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. The website said the event which dominated the weekend before and the Monday clean-up was over and Hana gathered her courage to enter the gates. “Oh, what am I doing?” she whimpered to the baby on her hip. This is madness.” Traffic moved quickly past on River Road and she was aware she looked like a random Peeping Tom or worse, a nosy tourist looking for entertainment.
“Kia ora. Can I help you?” The thickly accented voice came from behind and Hana jumped like a scalded cat. Feeling embarrassed, she turned to face the small Māori lady, discovering a tiny wee thing; her brown face wizened and crinkled. A moko tattoo decorated her chin and although it looked momentarily incongruous to the white Englishwoman, the markings added to the elderly lady, defining her in some ethereal way.
“My husband’s Ngapuhi,” Hana began, realising the ridiculousness of statement as it tumbled from her lips. Why on earth would a woman from the Waikato tribes allow her access to a Tainui marae, the seat of the Māori King no less, when she just told her Logan was from the fierce Ngapuhi Northland clan? She took a deep breath and started again, “He’s also...” Hana gulped and the lady raised an eyebrow. The latter tribe took care of Māori driven south by the English and they remained forever welcome on Turangawaewae Marae. She tried to continue, her voice halting. “The thing is, I need advice about some whānau taonga which recently came to my husband. I have an idea about how to care for them, but I want to make sure I’m doing the right thing.”
“Ask your tahu,” the woman replied with a smile, referring to Logan. Hana noticed she had a beautiful smile, undiminished by missing teeth at the front.
Hana cringed and it compounded her awkwardness. “He doesn’t want to deal with it. It reminds him of...of things he’d rather forget for now. I want to sort it all out but...I honestly don’t know what I’m doing.” Hana’s frustration leaked through and her exasperation put itself on show. “I thought someone here might be able to give me some advice.”
“Come,” the woman said with another smile, perhaps taking pity on the Pākehā. before her. The tiny girl in Hana’s arms was appealing and sweet, catching and holding the woman’s attention as the tiny fingers gripped a soft toy horse. The woman stared at Hana and then appeared transfixed by Phoenix’s grey eyes. A softness engulfed her crinkled face and her eyes brightened. “Yes,” she said. “I see now.”
Hana followed the lady as she limped through the marae gate. The roof was slanted over it, ending in an apex at the top. Intricate carvings and painted designs covered the underside and Phoenix looked up at the lines and patterns denoting something important. The green and turquoise colours of paua shell were dotted around, glinting in the light from their position hammered into the wood. Hana emerged into a huge concrete courtyard.
On two sides were seating areas where guests and tribal members would sit facing one another during a hui or powhiri. Hana had been to a few of each at Logan’s marae on the outskirts of the township. They were long affairs where representatives from both sides conducted eloquent speeches in their native tongue. She had heard her husband’s mihi numerous times and it never ceased to fascinate her. It detailed his heritage; who his family was; which waka or canoe his family came to New Zealand on; which mountain he was born in sight of; which river flowed through his birthplace. All these things were essential components in establishing who he was as a man, linking him to the earth with unbreakable threads.
The colour scheme of every surface as always, was the traditional rusty red, black and white, each stroke of the paintbrush signifying some other coded message to the generations. It made Hana tired, thinking about the intricacies and the heritage associated with the place. “Come, come.” Her elderly guide led Hana towards the river path but turned off abruptly into a building on the right. She halted on the porch and kicked off her shoes, waiting while Hana did the same. The younger woman hopped from foot to foot, wrestling with her boots whilst clinging to the baby, eventually laying them down next to several other pairs of shoes littered around the walls of the covered area.
Phoenix, clipped neatly onto Hana’s reached down with her tiny hands and tugged at her little cloth shoe. “Oh, I don’t think yours count,” Hana said, looking for help at the old lady. Hana wondered whether the custom extended to miniature people who couldn’t walk but the little girl seemed determined to disrobe her feet. “Ok, then. Fine.” Hana jiggled around a bit more, yanking off the shoes and stuffing them into the long neck of her boots. One of the baby’s socks came off in Hana’s hand and Phoenix wiggled her tiny toes in the cold winter air. Hana fought down words like disaster and nightmare to describe the visit thus far.
Inside the building the floor was wooden and looked original. Photographs lined the walls of the wharenui, a hall used to house sleeping guests. The roof met in an apex at the top, supported by huge red beams. Carvings decorated them, male and female with the characteristic three fingers and thumb and wide mouth with the protruding tongue.
Mattresses were placed around the room, still in the process of being stacked away. “We celebrated the king’s birthday,” the elderly woman said with a smile. “Whānau slept here.”
Hana nodded and smiled, her green eyes raking the room with interest and fixing on a vibrant male carving above the mattresses on the left. It looked particularly ferocious but Hana’s eyes widened at the sight of the phallic object pointing rigidly from the wood. It was massive. Hana bit her lip with a smirk and looked away, feeling amused at the boastful fertility symbol some unsuspecting visitor had gazed up at all night. The old lady followed Hana’s line of sight and snorted. She jerked her head towards Hana’s olive skinned child and her face creased into a grin. “You know, don’t you?” she chuckled and Hana felt her cheeks flame.
The old lady laughed, not bothering to cover her mirth. Hana cringed, hoping nobody else asked what was so funny. She scurried quickly after the old woman as she shuffled away, fanning her hot cheeks with her spare hand and trying to dispel images of her well hung husband from her mind. At the other end of the long room, a man emerged from a cupboard backwards, wielding another mattress. His hair, once black was in the process of changing through greys to white in honour of the march of time. His wide brown face and squashed looking nose sheltered eyes which were coal black and vigorously alive. “Hey Aunty,” he acknowledged the woman. “We’re nearly done here.”
“This taitamāhine would like some help,” the old lady said and then to Hana’s surprise, she winked at him and limped back towards the door. The man looked after her oddly before switching his gaze to Hana.
“Oh, thank you,” Hana tried to say as she passed, but the woman waved the words away with a trembling hand and a smile. She shuffled along in luminous orange socks and too-large tracksuit bottoms with a curious look on her face.
“I won’t be a minute.” The man placed the mattress in a gap between two others, his solid frame making the action seem effortless. Then he turned his attention to the redhead, as though he had all the time in the world. The ready smile became transformed half way across his face as he noticed Phoenix in Hana’s arms. The baby stared at him, her grey eyes unblinking as she demonstrated the freaky maturity she often seemed to have. “Ah.” The man’s brows knitted and for a moment he looked wrong-footed, until Phoenix did a curious little dip forward in Hana’s arms and bowed her head. The man faltered for a moment and then, with a strange sense of resignation, he leaned towards Hana’s baby and pressed noses with her in a hongi.
“Morena Rangatira,” he whispered. Hana fought the urge to yank her baby away, even though Phoenix started it first.
“Apologies, Mrs Du Rose,” he said, turning to Hana with a smile which was hastily plastered to his face. “Your kōtiro has much mana. I recognise the line of Rueben Du Rose.”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement which left Hana flustered. The elderly Māori instantly identified her child’s genealogy with accuracy and it left her speechless. In her confusion, Hana failed to realise her mouth was open and she gaped unattractively until Phoenix poked her finger between her mother’s lips and grinned. It was a reprimand and Hana felt simultaneously humiliated and irritated.
“Tipene,” the man said, holding his hand out for a European handshake and trying to put her at ease. Hana accepted the large brown fingers with trepidation, already feeling out of her depth and wishing she hadn’t come.
“Hana Du Rose,” she replied, knowing that her naming was academic.
“So, how can I help you?” Tipene asked, but it was clear Phoenix transfixed him, diverting his attention as her gaze locked on his face. He stared between the females with a look of bemusement.
“It all seems a bit stupid now, to be honest,” Hana fumbled. She felt overwhelmed by the cultural gulf between Logan, Phoenix and herself. She had the irrational desire to throw the artifacts into the Waikato River and pretend they never existed. The pressing sense of urgency to deal with it all had driven her out into the miserable rain, urged her up to the marae and then abandoned her. Hana sighed. “Logan’s grandmother gave the family taonga to the local kaumātua for safe keeping before she died, about thirty-six years ago. My husband has recently attempted to reunite the family property and effectively unify the family and Mr Hika brought them back to Logan. Apparently that was old Mrs Du Rose’s wish.”
“Phoenix did that?” Tipene asked and Hana became instantly suspicious. She had credited the man with a spooky paranormal skill, when really he knew the family – and by implication – her.
The tiny Phoenix Du Rose looked at him hard, as though expecting him to speak to her because he mentioned her name. Tipene smiled at the baby and his lips cracked wide with the action, changing his face into that of a jolly man with a ready sense of fun. He nodded in understanding. “Ah, you gave your kōtiro her name.”
The baby smiled with ethereal radiance and Hana felt even more left out.
“Come,” Tipene said, indicating the door. “Let’s walk.”
They retrieved their shoes from the porch and Hana was halfway across the courtyard before she worked out what the uncomfortable bulge was in her left boot – Phoenix’s cloth shoes. They bunched up at the toe, causing her to limp. They went into a ruma-kai – a large dining room and Tipene seated Hana at a long wooden table with low bench seats. He was gone for a while but emerged from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of coffee and some sugar sachets which he laid in front of her. Phoenix sat on her mother’s knee, clutching her toy horse and looking around her with an interested air.
“I must confess to an unfair advantage.” Tipene confessed as he climbed onto the bench next to her. “I came to the tangihanga for Reuben Du Rose. I saw you but didn’t link you with Logan at the time, although there was kōhimuhimu - gossip as you can imagine. I know the Du Rose family, or rather – I knew the older generation. I understood Logan Du Rose married but only saw him to offer my condolences that day. He seemed so shocked I doubt he’ll remember.” Tipene sighed and ran a coarse hand over his face, making a scratching sound against his beard. Hana listened to the rain pattering on the tin roof and watched the grey light kiss the inside of the dining room with ineffectual lips.
“Reuben was my good friend for many years,” Tipene began. “He boarded with an aunt of mine here in Ngaruawahia during term time and we both attended Hamilton High School. He occasionally attended tangis here at the marae, but I hadn’t seen much of him in the last twenty years or so. We wrote to each other regularly though. Not on the computer like you young people, but with pen and paper and stamps.” Tipene laughed at his own outdated persona and Phoenix jumped, disturbing in her light nap against Hana’s chest. Tipene watched her settle with a tight smile. “Perhaps your husband would like the letters Reuben wrote to me? They belong to him now.”
Hana visibly cringed. “Logan only found out Reuben was his father the day after he died in the fire.” She added, “It was dreadful.”
Tipene shrugged and screwed up his face, showing a crease in his nose from a break. “It wasn’t a decision Reuben agreed with, but he respected it. The letters contain many references to his son. Perhaps one day, Logan will find it in his heart to read them.”
“I don’t know,” Hana sighed, aware of the hopelessness of her task. “He’s had his world upended. He’s not who he believed he was and it’s been hard for him.”
“Of course,” Tipene said. “Our mana validates us and he feels his is skewed. It hasn’t changed because it always came from Phoenix and Reuben Du Rose, its essence living through him. But Logan didn’t know that and it’s as though he’s been plugged into the wrong power point his whole life. He’ll right himself but it will take time, taumano, long time.”
The elderly man led Hana around the marae. He pointed out the powerful waka, beautiful canoes which came out once a year for the annual regatta. The legacy and heritage of the tribe decorated them in powerful and stunning patterns and shapes. There were five huge ones and one quite small. Tipene made her laugh. “Each year we look for small men to put in it. It doesn’t matter if they can row or not, as long as their combined weight doesn’t sink it!”
He showed her the outpouring of the spring down near the banks of the Waikato River where the first Māori king bathed decades ago. “It’s a place of great spirituality,” he told her, “and a good place to sit and think. The water is said to have healing properties from the mana of the king.”
Together they strolled in the watery sunshine, enjoying the peace and seclusion of the place and grateful of a break in the rain.
“I am truly glad you want to preserve the taonga,” Tipene said to Hana with a sigh, as they looked at the heavy black doors of Mahinarangi. “Nothing is more important.” He indicated the doors with his outstretched hand. “This was originally intended to be a hospital for the 1918 flu epidemic, so we could nurse our own kin. But the Ministry of Health refused to certify it, forcing our people into white hospitals where they were second class citizens and suffered great neglect. The building now houses all the gifts to the tribe and treasures collected over the last century earlier. It’s all that remains of our heritage.”
Hana studied the carving on the doors, depicting legendary tribal members and detailing the history of the land. She stroked the complicated patterns with a forefinger.
“Sorry I can’t show you,” Tipene said with regret. “Only the king can decide when it’s open for viewing. If you’d like to come another time, I will request it.”
“Thank you,” Hana replied. “I’d like that very much. It would give me an idea of how to display the taonga to its best effect without breaking tikanga and kawa.”
“Ah, customs and tradition,” Tipene agreed and his eyes widened as he smiled.
“I know I have to protect it for my daughter,” Hana sighed, her voice stained with humility. Her fingers lingered on Phoenix’s sleeping back, tracing a gentle circle. “I just don’t feel properly equipped.”
Tipene shook his head, disagreeing vehemently. “On the contrary. Your fascination equips you and your love of Māori, added to your willingness to try. Logan is a fortunate makau. This generation doesn’t care. We oldies used to listen to our elders in the long meetings on the marae as children, learn the stories of our heritage and sing the waiata they taught us. One day the world will wonder what our carvings mean and there will be nobody to tell them. Māori lore and customs are being filtered until they are no more and the special people of our songs forgotten. Marae’s will become overgrown and dusty as my generation passes on. When the spirit of the last custodian leaps from Cape Reinga into the sea and makes their way home to Hawaiki, it will be finished.”
He sounded mournful and Hana touched his arm lightly, offering comfort. The irony wasn’t lost on her, an Englishwoman with a boot full of Māori treasures. “Not the Du Rose’s,” she said, injecting confidence into her voice. “I intend to find out about every single item and if I can get my husband to agree to my idea, perhaps we can preserve it all for my daughter’s line.”
Tipene smiled and his eyes crinkled. He squeezed Hana’s shoulder in a firm but surprisingly gentle grip and felt hope burgeoning in his tired heart. The elderly man accompanied Hana off the marae and out to her car. “Please may I take your phone number, so I can contact you about the letters?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” Hana snorted as Tipene produced an expensive phone from his pocket, technology jarring with his philosophy. “I thought you didn’t use computers like us young people,” she joked.
“Ah, I do and happily, but Reuben, not so. He was a man of tradition and his life moved slowly. The world stopped for him the moment he stepped from his son’s understanding and never restarted.” Tipene looked up at Phoenix, lying in her car seat with a thumb plugged between her twitching lips. “But he was so proud of Logan. You’ll see that from the letters. We all need to be loved, Hana; Logan’s heart will find healing once he sees how much he was adored.”
Hana gave Tipene her number, watching in amusement as the gnarled fingers moved quickly across the smart-phone keypad entering her details. It was an incongruous sight, the arthritic joints flashing speedily across the touch screen.
Tipene examined the contents of the box in Hana’s boot. “Yes, yes!” he nodded. “Your idea is a good one. You’re whānau and within your rights to handle what’s here. I know the kaumātua of Logan’s marae. He will have restored it all to a state of noa. The tapu will not affect you.”
Tipene gave her the name of someone who could deal with the broken picture frames and offered sound advice on archive-keeping. Then he wished her well with a firm handshake and a wave.
“How did you know?” Hana asked his retreating back, needing an answer to the thing which bothered her. The old man turned and looked at her, his eyes filled with mischief. “How did you know Phoenix belonged to the Du Roses?” Hana repeated.
Tipene’s weathered face broke into a smile and his eyes looked to a faraway, time-trodden place. Dragging himself back to the present, he gave a regal nod and wagged a forefinger at the baby’s sleeping face. “The grey eyes,” he said. “Her father is far too serious for his own good, but Reuben...he was not. She has the same twinkle as her tipuna tāne. You’ll have to watch her later.” Tipene gave a low chuckle. “Yes, Reuben Du Rose was a right little bugger!”
He moved back through the gate onto the marae and Hana watched as he unhooked the huge wooden structures and closed them against the world. Inside, life carried on almost as it had for hundreds of years, untainted by the western influence outside which relentlessly sought sameness and destroyed anything of difference. Untainted for now; but the wasteland was coming.