Witi Ihimaera - The Parihaka Woman

I like to think that Aranga, the day of resurrection and harvest, has arrived.

Indeed, Horitana himself took on this symbolism to explain to Erenora how he had managed to survive his terrible ordeal of the mokomokai and imprisonment. ‘I always lived in hope,’ he said, ‘and when I was brought before the court that was my day of betrayal. The placing of the mokomokai over my face, on that day I died. Then you came and resurrected me. The rest of our lives will be our harvest.’

As for our mountain, the New Zealand Geographic Board decreed in the 1980s that it could be called either Egmont or Taranaki. I’m happy to say that both Pakeha and Maori prefer to call the mounga Taranaki rather than using the name of a man who never visited New Zealand.

Doesn’t Taranaki look beautiful in the twilight? Look at how it is shining ! And below it is Parihaka, triumphant, clustered around the three main houses of Toroanui, Te Paepae o te Raukura and Te Niho o Te Ati Awa.

Stand on, oh great houses, stand always, stand forever.

The mountain has seen it all. People around here always say that if you want to know what happened, ask the mountain.

But … you should always leave the best for the last, eh?

A few months ago I paid a visit to Donald Sonnleithner. Josie and I went down to Dunedin with three busloads of descendants of the eighteen prisoners from South Taranaki who had died there. It was local historian Denis Harold who had some years earlier discovered the men’s burial places and, ever since then, there have been visits to the graves to remind the men that they are not forgotten — nor their connections with Pakakohe and Patea. One of those visits included Bill Dacker and writer Jacquie Sturm — one of the prisoners had been an ancestor of hers — and Janet Frame was with her.

Anyway, on the recent visit — Sir Paul Reeves was with us — we unveiled a memorial and, afterwards, I gave Donald a call to invite myself over for a glass of wine from his fine cellar. He had a lovely warm fire going in the living room and, very soon, between sips of wine, he began to tell me what happened to Rocco and Marzelline following Erenora’s escape with Horitana from Peketua Island.

I say ‘escape’ but, of course, Marzelline didn’t know this. She thought that Eruera had died on the island and, in her diary, she simply writes:

‘Der Jüngling ist tot.’

You can imagine how difficult it was, therefore, to hear Donald on that wintry evening, telling me of Marzelline’s grief when Rocco told her Eruera had drowned.

‘She insisted on searching the coast,’ he said.

I nodded, thinking that when Marzelline didn’t find his body, she surely must have uttered her Walküre cry. If ever she had found Eruera I’m sure she would have taken him proudly to Valhalla.

‘Eventually,’ Donald continued, ‘Rocco took Marzelline away from the island and brought her to Dunedin. Here, he began a company importing agricultural machinery to New Zealand. As you can see from the house’ — Donald waved his hand to take in its understated grandeur — ‘he became very successful. As for Great-grandmother, after all she was sixteen and she began to heal. I don’t think she ever forgot Eruera but life has a habit of moving you along, doesn’t it? Very soon she became immersed in Dunedin society and, when she was nineteen, she caught the eye of, and eventually married, a gentleman from Somerset called Quentin Fellowes. The marriage was, from all accounts, a happy one and from them both branched our family like a lovely spreading tree. Great-grandmother took over the importing business when Great-great grandfather took ill, and he lived with her and Quentin, delighting in his grandchildren, until the end of his life. The oldest male child of every generation has taken his surname, Sonnleithner.’

That evening, Donald and I talked further about Rocco and Marzelline. Donald regaled me with stories of his greatgrandmother’s beauty, charm, wit and huge business acumen. However, he had always sensed that there was more to the story of Marzelline and Eruera than was contained in her diary.

Yes, he had been patient. But this time, he pushed me.

‘There’s always been something that has puzzled me,’ he began.

He got up from his chair, stoked the fire and then went to his bureau. Picking up Marzelline’s diary, and nudging his reading spectacles onto the bridge of his nose, he thumbed through the pages.

‘It’s a diary entry from 1914, in which Marzelline mentions how, with two of their children, she and Quentin were on a motoring holiday through the North Island. They were in the Taranaki and, there, they had an interesting meeting by the side of the road …’

He began to read from the diary.

Im Frühling, komm! Frühling streu ins Land deine Blüthen aus …

O springtime, come! Strew your blossoms over the land …

‘It was a day in spring,’ Marzelline wrote. ‘How beautiful that part of the country looked! It took my breath away, with Mount Egmont cleaving the blue sky apart and the blossoms drifting across the plains.

‘We were driving to New Plymouth and had just passed a small Maori farm. A man was in the field behind a plough being pulled by two bullocks. Following him was a woman whom I presumed to be his wife, bending and planting seeds in the furrows.

‘Ach! Something happened to the car because, all of a sudden there was a bang and it stopped dead in its tracks. Of course Quentin, who was never any good at mechanical matters, tried to fix it. I had to tell him, “Be off with you and find a mechanic!” He took my remonstrations in good humour and was fast down the road. Meanwhile, I had a good novel to read and the children began to play in a nearby paddock.

‘All of a sudden I saw the Maori couple coming along the road. The man must have been in his late sixties, his wife was a little younger. “Tena korua,” I greeted them.

‘The woman said, “Your husband called by to ask if we could look after you and your children while he was away. Well, we were just about finished the ploughing anyway and so …”

‘She had a pitcher of water and she offered some to me. “Thank you,” I said.

‘Her smile was graceful and she hadn’t really seen my face. But when I lifted the pitcher to drink, she gasped and spilled the water. She looked at me as if she were seeing a ghost. “Your eyes! They were always so blue!” I was puzzled and concerned, but she quickly covered her agitation. “It’s nothing,” she said.

‘She gave the pitcher to her husband. “Take some water to the tamariki,” she said. He nodded and went into the paddock where the children were playing. “Are you children thirsty? This is good wai, comes straight off the mountain!” He had brought a spinning top with him and he put it on the ground and showed them how to make it spin by using a whip made of flax. His wife and I stood watching him. “Your husband is so patient,” I told her. She put an arm around my waist in a gesture of friendliness.

‘Very soon, I saw Quentin coming back along the road in a cart with a young mechanic. Thanks goodness he hadn’t had to go too far — and that nothing major had happened to the car. In those days, automobiles were rare in country areas, but at least the mechanic knew what he was doing. After a bit of tinkering, he asked Quentin to get into the driver’s seat while he cranked the car. What a relief! The engine burst into life.

‘“Children, quickly!” I called. They came running from the paddock. Over the loud din of the engine, Quentin tried to give the old Maori couple some money but they wouldn’t hear of it. We thanked them, though. The woman reminded me of somebody. Just as we were leaving, she smiled and cried over the engine noise, “Hasn’t it been lovely to spend a moment together in the sun?” Then she reached for my hand and clung to it. “Are you happy?” she asked. I was startled. “Yes, of course I am.” Then she asked, “Is your father still alive?” I wondered how the kuia had known Papa. “Yes,” I answered. “He was a good man,” she said.