The Forbidden Tree

Te Ao Hou, June 1965, Page 10

The Forbidden Tree by Riki Erihi It was the biggest fruit tree in the whole district, the largest we children had ever seen. Boy, you should have seen the peaches from it. Yet to one and all, this richly desirable tree with its sweet, firm, succulent flesh was beyond reach; forbidden. Every year we would watch the peach tree as it blossomed into a floral pink umbrella Overnight it would burst forth, its hundreds of fragile flowers heralding the spring. Later we would gasp in wonderment as the tiny green bundles of bitterness turned to mouth-watering maturity. We youngsters would stare at it longingly, straining hard against the fence with bulging eyes and hands that were kept from temptation only by the unseen frightening fear of the tapu. Yes there it stood, like the tree of forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. Many were the stories that told how it came to be where it was. Some even said that when the clothes of one of my cousins were returned from France after he had been killed in the First War, a peach-stone had been found in a pocket. As was the custom, these articles were buried in the family plot, and from the stone there sprang this unknown variety of peach. Anyway, nature had reared this solitary specimen in the midst of an old private family

burial ground, and there it flourished, side by side with the bones of some of my ancestors, whose lineage could be traced far back to pre-European times. So sacred and tapu was this ground that only the descendants of the family concerned were ever laid to rest there. From the very first time a baby in our village began to talk and notice objects, he was made to understand in no uncertain way that this cemetery and all within it was something to shun and stay away from. To touch anything that grew there was nothing less than sacrilege. Countless tears have been shed over toys and play-things that accidentally fell there, even once a football. There was a strange ending that time though, one which strengthened the power and mana of the tapu. For a number of years, our local football team had successfully defended a big silver cup, called the ‘Heiwari Cup’ after grandfather. One year, things weren't going too well. The challenging team was leading by three points, with ten minutes left to go, when an accident punctured the ball. The only other available ball was brought into play. Within seconds the home team scored, evening the points. Rallying, the challengers forced the play into our own back line. Excitement was at a pitch. If they scored, the cup would go. Whether this crossed the mind of our full-back Tamiti, and whether he did it in desperation, I cannot say, for he never told anyone. But he scooped up that ball, and with a powerful boot, he kicked it far and high. The spectators' cheers and clapping were loud in praise of his play. Then suddenly, the applause abruptly ceased. The players, trance-like as if in the grip of an evil spell, stood like toy soldiers in battle. A hushed silence stilled players and spectators alike. That kick had done two things. It had removed the danger against the hard-pressed home team, and with the help of a high wind it had carried the ball right off course, right into the wahi tapu. Nothing like that had happened before. No one would move to touch it. It was out of bounds for all time. What a lot of cursing and uncomplimentary things the visitors had to say about us. Seeing the game had to be discontinued for lack of a ball, the trophy remained ours’. ‘Kia mahara hoki koutou, he tohu kino hoki tenei mea,’ called an old kaumatua, and though we were happy, and laughed and sky-larked at the dance that night, we were to remember those words later. Tamiti, a happy carefree chap with an engaging disposition, began to get surly and nasty in the months that followed, showing a total lack of interest in everything. One night, while crossing the harbour bar on horseback, a thing that he had been doing for years, he was swept away and drowned. An accident, the policeman from town had said. But to us children, and to the others who remembered the old kaumatua's prophetical message, it was a living proof that an infringement of the laws of the tapu, intentional or otherwise, had been dealt with. Once a year the older folk, and sometimes a few of the younger ones, entered the wahi tapu to clear away the fern and bracken, and trim the long grass near the fences. Afterwards the implements they had used were washed and left soaking in a drain near the swamp. For those who had taken part in this labour, a cleansing ritual was performed by the oldest kuia, who some people said was related to a very ancient tohunga I had once seen. If any animal in our settlement were seen to reach over and sample the grass that grew within the burial ground, tradition demanded that the owner destroy the beast, or sell it out of the district. This was so uneconomic that most of the inhabitants managed to keep what stock they possessed secure in their own paddocks, but sometimes a gate would get left open. Which reminds me of the time that one of my cousin Ruihi's fowls decided, rightly or wrongly, to lay its eggs in the cemetery. Noticing that her daily collection of eggs was decreasing. Ruihi bribed her children by telling them that if they would watch the henhouse, she would take them to see the monkeys next time the circus came. She suspected a little bit of thieving was going on: but no, the children too were puzzled, until her eldest daughter Maire saw one of the black chooks fly over the fence, then make its way straight to a clump of kaikato in the wahi tapu. After a short time out the old hen came again, ruffled her feathers in a ‘see who cares’ attitude, and quickly flew up over the fence. Not until she was safely on the far side of the paddock did her laying song begin. Maire kept this secret to herself, and when the hen began to absent itself from the fowl-

house at night, she knew that soon the mother would emerge with a brood of fluffy chicks. Great was Maire's happiness when at last the clucky mother and her family of mottled fluff appeared on the scene. Triumphantly she shut them away in the disused tumble-down hapuki. But as these little balls of fluff grew bigger, Maire began to have the most terrible dreams, with fierce-looking animals, and horrid witches who all had mokos like old Rihipete from the Coast. They chased and pursued her, and each time she would run to the wahi tapu and hide in the kaikato where the chicks had been born. Sometimes a horrible great creature, half man and half bird, would swoop down to where she was hiding and drag her away. Ugh. It used to wake her up shivering with fright. One night, piercing screams awoke Maire's parents from their sleep. Rangi rushed to the adjoining bedroom to be greeted by a great din of wailing. All the children had awakened, and joined in the noise out of fellowship for their sister. There stood Maire in the middle of the bed, her innocent face ugly with pain, her body shaking with fright. Seeing her thus, and moved to pity, her father made to gather the child in his strong arms. But the child, on seeing him in his long white undershirt and gaudy pink ‘long johns’, leapt to the bottom of the bed shrieking and screaming with renewed vigour. Dressed like this, he looked too much like that half-man, half-bird in the nightmare. It took the comforting presence of her mother to calm the little one's fright; and then, between sobs, out came the secret of the cemetery. Rangi was aghast, and spent the rest of the night sprinkling the whole house with holy water, muttering prayers and reading texts from the Bible. The third time that he opened the Bible at random, he got quite a shock. Looking for something to soothe his troubled mind, he came upon this text: ‘Why criest thou for thine affliction? Thy sorrow is incurable for the multitude of thine iniquity: because thy sins were increased, I have done these things unto thee.’ ‘Mother of God, save me!’ he cried out. ‘Help me! I am caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.’ What could one do in times like this? They were all going to be punished because his eldest child had tried to defy the tapu. Violating the tapu, they had contracted a hara; a calamity had befallen their home. Now, Ruihi liked to think of herself as a progressive thinker. She was one of those individuals, found in all walks of life, who read a lot; and while she was not well educated, she was very intelligent. Deep in her heart she never believed in all this tapu thing-ma-jig. Times were changing and one must live accordingly. If they found out, some of the old kuias and kaumatuas would insist that her daughter had done wrong. Well, they wouldn't find out from her. Something would be done. Already a plan had began to take shape, a plan that would solve this problem, and with care bring in a little money on the side. With care, she would be the envy of all the other women in her smart red velvet suit at Moana's wedding in a few months' time. Oh dear, if it didn't succeed. No, she must not think like that. Of course it would. Next morning the neighbours looked on in surprise while Rangi and his family rushed around catching squawking fowls. The speculation became serious when all the family set out in their ancient car surrounded by boxes of dazed hens and enough flying feathers to stuff a couple of mattresses. Ruihi and the children shouted and waved in merry acknowledgement, while Rangi hunched over the wheel and drove like the devil himself. An hour or so later the jalopy stopped in a cloud of dust in front of an old weather-beaten shack, whose occupants were related to both Ruihi and Rangi. Let out of their boxes, the shaken hens staggered wearily under the shack. Yes, the generous old couple said, of course they would care for the fowls, and they would willingly save the eggs for them. They were pleased to oblige, for since their house was off the beaten track, visitors to their home had become a rarity. Ruihi explained that three of the fowls were at the clucky stage, and they could place some eggs under them and keep whatever hatched out. No, they were sorry they couldn't stay even for a cup of tea, as they wanted to do some shopping in town. They left in a flurry of haste and dust. Not a mention was made to the kinsfolk about the chooks being contaminated by those which had nested in the takotoranga tupapaku. On the way home Ruihi called on the Dalmatian farmer's wife, whose fame as a baker of delectable cakes was known far and wide.

Asking about the cost of baking for a large number at a not-too-distant wedding. Ruihi hinted that she would be able to supply a quantity of fresh eggs at a cost to be agreed on later. Certainly she would be happy to cater for the cakes, and to take as many fresh eggs as possible, said the cheerful Dalmatian wife. ‘But you make a de sure de eggs are all a fresh. None of dis Maori bizness like a de eggs for fishing de eel,’ she called with a good-natured flourish, as Ruihi laughingly bade her goodbye. When a meeting to discuss the wedding plans was held at the marae, it was an easy thing for Ruihi to get herself appointed to do all the kai arrangements. No one objected, for they knew that if anyone could obtain a few extras from the storekeepers, it was she. All smiles, Ruihi was the image of politeness as she charmingly thanked the committee for choosing her. Yes, she assured them, of course she knew where one could get juicy fowls at five shillings less than the usual twenty shillings Mr Long charged. Cakes, and eggs for everything, she would be able to procure at cut prices. All the simple souls present marvelled at her knowledge of these things, while ever-present in the thoughts of Ruihi was the red velvet suit and its trimmings. Now, Rangi's brother Rewi had a herd of swine of which he was very proud. Two of the best sows were well on their way to littering, and the rest would be away to the freezing works in a month or so. Since Rewi was a close relative of the bridegroom, custom said that he must donate at least one of his pigs to the hui marena. This he accordingly did. But this was not enough for Ruihi the troublemaker, and she started up over the teatable. ‘That stingy old brute of a brother of yours has only given one pig. Selfish and mean, that's what he is.’ Then, as Rangi helped himself to a second helping of pudding: ‘He ought to be ashamed. With all his goods. One lousy pig and a sack of kumaras. I don't know what this district would do without the help of my family.’ ‘Well what can I do about it? They belong to him, not me.’ What his wife had to say to this made his heart beat twice as fast, in fact he felt as though it might have stopped a couple of times. He went out to smoke his pipe and think things over: maybe by the time he came back the missus would have changed her mind. But no: she was at him again. After a solid week of ear-bashing for the sake of peace he finally agreed, as both had known he would. Saturday night. The marae was a scene of activity, for the next day the bride and her people would arrive, also a large crowd of manuhiri related to both bridal parties. In the whare kai a group of men was preparing the meat, sweating from the heat of a vast open fire. Women busied themselves making up clean beds that smelt sweetly of newly-cut hay, and working at the hundred and one other jobs still to be done. The walls of the hall were covered with punga fronds, waewae koukou, green flax and branches of red and white manuka, while strips of multi-coloured crepe paper criss-crossing the ceiling gave a rainbow brightness to the place. On the stage a young schoolgirl vamped a tune from the halfway-to-the-century piano, whilst a ring of shiny small faces scaled the notes of popular songs. Ruihi had produced two jars for the men, saying that her husband had shouted it since he was unable to be there tonight, as one of the children was not feeling too well. But both she and Rangi would be along bright and early in the morning. Meanwhile, Rangi was making his way to his brother Rewi's pig pen. Quietly quietly, just a little sucking noise with your tongue and out from the pen they'll come. Pigs can tell when someone's about. Sure enough they had smelt him and out they came, just as Ruihi had said they would. Now to give them a sniff of what's in the bucket. That's it you beauty—carry on down to the cowshed. The stage was set, and hungry pigs need no prompting. Straight down to the drum of skim milk they grunted. The overflow from it went into a big drum that was buried in the ground. Quickly Rangi lifted its wooden cover, careful to make it appear as if the pigs themselves had done so. Squealing and grunting, the six pigs plunged their snouts into the tasty curdled whey. Don't be hasty. As soon as the milk empties a little lower they'll bend their front legs—he'd never hear the end of it if he mucked this up. Right, the black one: the biggest, as she had said. Continued on page 53