Witi Ihimaera - The Parihaka Woman

‘She opened the door and stumbled back to the cottage.’

That evening, at dinner, it seemed that everyone was agitated for one reason or another. Among the provisions landed was a very fine bottle of brandy. Despite Marzelline’s remonstrations — ‘Papa, wait until after dinner,’ — Rocco started drinking immediately after the Anna Milder left the quay.

By the time the meal had been served, he was already stupefied with liquor. He began to sing a drunken ditty.

Rocco was also smoking a cigar, waving it around in the air and sprinkling ash all over the food. In a temper, Marzelline pulled the cigar from his mouth and threw it out the window.

‘Du kannst gehen,’ she told him. ‘Geh! You can go, now, and smoke your stinking cigars in your lighthouse.’ She turned on Erenora, her temper overflowing with some imagined slight. ‘And you too, Jüngling, geh doch! I wish I’d never met you.’

The atmosphere was so strained that escaping it was a relief. Erenora went to the barn where, for want of something to do, she began to groom Napoleon. Afterwards, she climbed to the loft. From her window she could see the light in Marzelline’s bedroom and, on the lighthouse’s platform was Rocco, singing his drunken heart out.

Suddenly Rocco gave a yelp; the sound of a crash followed. Rushing outside, Erenora saw that Rocco had tripped and fallen on the platform.

Marzelline opened her window. ‘I don’t care if Papa is hurt. He can stay in the lighthouse for all I care.’ Slam.

Erenora sped to the lighthouse, climbed to the third storey and saw, with relief, that Rocco was okay. He had managed to sit up and when Erenora tried to persuade him to go inside, pushed her away. By now he was maudlin. ‘I don’t want you. I want my Liebling … meinen Liebling …’ He looked at Erenora and pulled her close. ‘My Liebling … such a beautiful baby …’ His breath was reeking with alcohol. ‘What happened to her was all my fault …’

Then Rocco told Erenora how Marzelline came to be crippled.

Rocco was on top of the world.

He had been panning the Shotover River for a year, drawn to his particular claim by the story of two Maori who had found gold nearby. One was a renowned swimmer who dived in to rescue his dog on the opposite bank. Where the dog was, the Maori also found gold, and he took 300 ounces in one afternoon. The location was forever after known as Maori Point.

Rocco’s own pannings were not as substantial but they were sufficient enough for him to take a trip, every now and then, to Charlestown at nearby Skippers Canyon. There, the gold was weighed at the assayer’s office and a note issued for him to deposit in the bank. He wasn’t like other men, greedy for wealth; very soon he planned to sell the claim to someone else and take Lotte back to Ranzau. ‘Perhaps your parents will welcome us back, now that I am a man of means,’ he told her.

‘No, Rocco,’ she answered, ‘the fault was never yours. It was mine for choosing to leave them.’

Nevertheless, Rocco was determined to try for reconciliation with Lotte’s parents. After all, they had a granddaughter now.

Whenever Rocco went into town, Lotte always accompanied him. It was the middle of autumn, and Charlestown was loud and busy. Rocco was delighted at the price he was offered for his gold dust. He set about replenishing his supplies and joined a few other miners who were drinking at one of the pubs. When he rejoined Lotte, he was filled with love at her own delight: at the local dry goods store she had found some pretty fabric to make into a skirt for herself and a matching one for Marzelline. ‘And I found these for you, Rocco,’ she told him as she showed him two cigars.

Rocco saw that the sky was changing colour, blanched, as if it was about to faint. He had left their departure a little late. ‘We had better head home,’ he said. Marzelline was sleeping, so Lotte placed her in blankets on the buckboard and stepped up on the cart beside Rocco.

As they drove out of town, Lotte told Rocco, ‘I have a good husband and a lovely child. No woman could want more in her life.’ She threaded an arm in his.

It was a blessed afternoon and the trees were ablaze with red and golden leaves. Rocco, however, was somewhat disconcerted by the weather. The air had dried out, as if sucked of moisture, and the sky had now turned a virulent white. There was a lot of static in the atmosphere and even the two horses were becoming skittish.

It all happened so quickly. One of the wheels dropped off the cart; it tipped, dragging the rear axle, and Lotte almost tumbled out. She gave a little squeal and then a laugh, ‘What’s happening?’ She heard Marzelline crying. ‘Have you had a fright, Liebling?’ she smiled. While Rocco brought the horses to a halt, she climbed carefully over the seat to comfort her daughter.

The cart had come to rest on a bluff overlooking the river. The road wound around the cliff and, in the distance, Rocco could see his claim. Humming, he stepped down, preparing to prop up the axle and repair the wheel.

The lightning came from nowhere. The air crackled and danced all around the cart, sparking along the iron frame, traces and even the hooves of the horses. The animals took fright and bolted. ‘Nein,’ Rocco screamed, ‘Nein.’ He began to pursue the runaway cart, glimpsing Lotte’s frightened face as she held Marzelline in her arms. ‘Rocco? Rocco!’

There was a corner ahead. The horses, blinded by the lightning, went straight over the edge of the cliff, dragging the cart with them.

For a moment there was silence. The sun came out, flooding the landscape with golden light. A bird even began to sing. And then, faintly, Rocco heard Lotte calling, far away, and he stumbled to the cliff and looked down. The cart had come to rest at the edge of the river. One of the horses had broken its neck in the fall. The other was still in the traces, kicking and trying to get up.

‘Oh, Lotte,’ Rocco whimpered. He clambered and fell down the incline. The cart was lying on top of her and Marzelline. Where he got the strength from he didn’t know but as he pulled the cart off his beloved wife she gave a gasp and blood poured from her mouth. She coughed, labouring to breathe, and words struggled up from her throat, ‘Is Marzelline all right?’

The little girl was unconscious, but breathing — and her legs were crushed.

Tears shone in Lotte’s eyes. ‘I thought I would be here to look after you both always,’ she wept. Every word was accompanied by a small gout of blood. ‘I thought I …’ She was desperate to say more, but the blood was in the way. Rocco was looking into her eyes when she sighed, and then she was gone.

Rocco unhitched the remaining horse, wrapped Marzelline in her blanket and rode as fast as he could back to Skippers. The doctor took one look at her legs and said, ‘I will have to take them off at the knees.’

The next day, Rocco buried Lotte in the cemetery in the town. There weren’t many mourners: the doctor and his wife, a scattering of townspeople who came out of respect. The afternoon after the service, he signed over his claim to a neighbouring miner. ‘I don’t want money for it,’ he told him. When Marzelline recovered from her operation, he purchased a buggy and took her away with him.