WAIRERE-O-TE-HAU

Te Ao Hou, June 1975, Page 18

WAIRERE-O-TE-HAU by Van Phillips It was Sharon who first saw them. We'd just finished an early tea, when Sharon, washing up in the kitchen, happened to glance out into the gloom of the back yard. There, in the softly falling winter rain appeared koro Petau and koro Mat. Bareheaded they stood, twisting their hats in nervous hands, and looking silently towards the house. There was a moment or two before Sharon recovered from her surprise and called to me. I thought she wanted a hand with the dishes, so I ignored her. At least until I heard a note of panic in her voice. ‘Look!’ she whispered. ‘There!’ I saw them. ‘Hell—they gave me a fright!’. She wiped her hands against her apron and gave a little shudder. ‘What d'you think they want?’ I wondered. It wasn't often anyone from the pa came up to the house. In fact, I'd spoken only briefly to one or two of the locals since we'd moved onto the farm some six months previously. But I knew these two old men. I'd seen them outside the pub at Pihi. Sitting in the weak sun, deep in conversation, with a bottle between them. Now they stood outside in the dusk. Looking towards the house. ‘I suppose I better see.’ Sharon flicked an uneasy glance at me. ‘Look—it's probably nothing.’ Sharon didn't seem so sure, but she made no move as I opened the door and walked out onto the back verandah. The two men shuffled forward. I could sense Sharon standing behind me, partly hidden by the open door. Koro Mat spoke. ‘Good evening sir.’ His eyes briefly caught koro Petau's before he looked back at me. ‘I'm sorry sir.’ He shifted his feet uneasily. ‘I hope we've not come at the wrong time.’ He nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Petau and me would like to speak with you.’ ‘Of course—come in out of the rain.’ I motioned them to enter the kitchen. They seemed shy and uncertain. Petau made as if to remove his boots. ‘A bit more mud won't matter—come on in’. They entered nervously. Sharon appeared, greeting the two men with a forced smile. She was still puzzled by the men's actions. So was I. This matter they wanted to discuss with me. Perhaps it was about the kids from the pa whom I'd caught the previous week, riding the old gelding in the bottom paddock. I was a little worried by the seriousness of the two men. However, they entered the kitchen and I introduced them to Sharon. We all smiled uneasily at one another and sat. To break the ice, Sharon offered the two men a cup of tea. They politely refused. ‘Bad weather setting in.’ They both nodded and shyly examined the room. Sharon glanced secretly at me and raised her eyes ceilingwards. Mat cleared his throat. ‘Ah sir.’ He stopped. Koro Petau looked absently at the door. ‘Sir—the people— our families have talked this matter over and we have come to you.’ He took a deep breath and searched for further words. ‘There is trouble—ah—!’ The kids and the horse. Surely not that. I'd only threatened to boot their backsides if I caught them again. Must be something else. Koro Petau licked his lips. ‘Sir—there's a

problem. Your advice we would like.’ Me. Why me? Sharon shrugged her shoulders. ‘I hope you will excuse us.’ I was becoming impatient. Why the beating round the bush? Sharon looked towards the kettle and I nodded. She began to make tea. Koro Mat sat back in the chair and rested his gnarled hands on the edge of the table. Both men steamed. ‘It's Wairereotehau!’ ‘Wairere-o-te-hau?’ Sharon looked across at me. The old men saw our puzzlement. ‘Wairereotehau—a canoe—an old canoe—he's lying on the bank and now the Pakeha is taking him away.’ So this was it. But I couldn't see why they wanted my help. Petau must have sensed my confusion. ‘We would like you to speak with the Pakeha.’ So this was it. Koro Petau sighed with relief, and both men lapsed into silence. Sharon and I looked at each other. We still weren't much wiser. ‘This canoe—whose is it—who owns it?’ Koro Mat coughed. ‘It belongs to the Wallaces—they lent it to the Moananuis to carry wool, now Moananui has given it to the Pakeha!’ ‘It is not theirs to give—the Wallaces never give Wairere away!’ ‘This man from the city’, muttered Petau, ‘he takes him—he should remain here. This is his river!’ Both men were angry. Sharon placed tea before them. ‘You'd like me to see this man?’ They nodded. ‘The Pakeha—you talk to him for us. It's better that way eh?’ Mat nodded in agreement. ‘Would it be best to check with the Wallaces first?’ Both looked at me quizzically, then Petau nodded. ‘Eee—that's best. They're in the phone book—down the city—Maggie Wallace.’ I left the two men in the kitchen with Sharon, and put through a toll call. Mrs Wallace was at home. I explained who I was, and my reason for phoning. She was uncertain at first—perhaps suspicious. However when I explained that I was phoning on behalf of koro Mat and koro Petau, she warmed immediately and explained the situation. It was her husabnd that owned the canoe, and he had, just before his death, given the canoe to a Mr Davey Rhodes. Mr Rhodes evidently had a small private collection of Maori artifacts, and he intened to repair the canoe and add it to his display. So there we were. There was apparently nothing we could do. I thanked Mrs Wallace and returned to the kitchen. They all looked at me expectantly. I shook my head. ‘I'm sorry’ I said. ‘Mrs Wallace has given permission for the canoe to go.’ The two old men looked at each other in disbelief. Petau slowly shook his head. ‘He must not go!’ A little tear ran from the corner of his eye. Sharon, to cover up her embarrassment, bustled at the kitchen sink. Mat gazed into the distance. ‘I remember when the Health Department doctor came up the river in that canoe.’ He thought for a minute. ‘I was about ten then—I remember him sitting in a ponga whare.’ Mat giggled at the memory. ‘The rain dripped through.’ ‘Could carry two cord of wood,’ added Petau. ‘Used to have a big diesel once.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Think the Moananuis took it out.’ Mat grinned. ‘Think they didn't keep the payments up, eh!’ Petau smiled at the memory, and for a moment both men were once again on the river in days gone by. Sharon smiled sadly at the two old men. ‘We must do something,’ she whispered. Mat looked at her. ‘Why can't the Pakeha leave him alone! Poor Wairere—taken from his river.’

I felt uncomfortable. As if I was responsible. Petau sighed deeply. ‘You see’, he said slowly, ‘Wairere is old—like me. It's better his bones rest here—where he spent his youthful days—than to go away to the city. He's then like a man without a family—te mokai!’ I felt both sad and helpless. Both Sharon and I could sense the frustration of these two men. The loss of the canoe would be deeply felt. It was not just a canoe. To the old men it represented memories and their histories. ‘Ha-well’, said Petau slowly rising, ‘Sir—I thank you for your help—perhaps this is meant to be—! Who knows God's thoughts!’ Yes, who knows. Sharon looked pleadingly at me. I shrugged. There was nothing to be done other than perhaps speaking with Mr Rhodes. Somehow I didn't think that would alter the situation. Mat and Petau stood. ‘Thank you sir.’ ‘I'm sorry I couldn't be of help.’ Mat patted my arm. They had come with hope and I had failed them. The sadness in their eyes disturbed me. ‘Never mind—’ Petau turned to Sharon. ‘and thank you missus.’ They smiled sadly, excused themselves, and vanished into the darkness. The canoe was to be floated down the river on Sunday. At the top of the farm, where the high cliffs overlooked the river, I had often sat during the previous week—watching a group of four or five men uncovering Wairere-o-te-hau. The canoe appeared to have been buried under the silt carried down by repeated floods over the years. Then a blanket of blackberry had added a final covering to the canoe's hiding place. Now the men had slashed back the brush, and dug a shallow trench exposing the long hull once more to the elements. On Sunday I was determined to have a closer look before the canoe was floated away. I walked down the track to a point opposite the bank on which the canoe lay. A member of the group working on the canoe waved across to me. He pointed questioningly at their aluminium dinghy that was tied to the bank. I nodded. At least I could lend a hand. But then should I? The man brought the boat across the slow current and nosed into the bank. ‘Gidday.’ I introduced myself. He gave me a sharp glance. Perhaps he'd heard that I'd rung Mrs Wallace. However he said nothing and introduced himself as Davey Rhodes. ‘Like to come across? Could use another hand.’ He grinned and looked across the river. ‘Yeah—I'd like to have a look—thanks.’ We putt-putted across the sluggish water that flowed slowly in a wide curve. Below, it narrowed into a gorge that ran for four or five miles before widening into the lower coastal valley. The canoe lay parallel to the river, some eight feet above the water level. Wairere-o-te-hau was some thirty feet in length, built from a single tree trunk. It had warped slightly during the time spent in the ground. At one end the wood had begun to split. Two men were busy placing zinc sheeting over the weakness, while a third caulked the split. Davey introduced me to the workers. Two were his neighbours. The third member of the party was his son. Davey explained how they intended to ease the canoe down the slipway they had dug in the clay bank, then mount an outboard motor for the run down the river. Certainly it seemed to me a perilous undertaking, but Davey seemed to have confidence in the scheme. By mid-morning the canoe was ready for launching. Surprisingly, little effort was required. Wairere seemed anxious to once more enter the water. The canoe teetered slightly on the edge of the bank, then with little encouragement, slid gently into the river. Davey looked relieved as he hopped aboard and tied a bow rope. The other three laughed loudly. Proudly Wairere lay against the bank.

For some reason, perhaps a movement caught my eye, I happened to glance upward. There on the cliff, on the opposite side of the river were koro Mat and koro Petau. Watching. Silent. How long had they stood there? How long had they watched? I felt strangely uncomfortable. I bailed out the little water that had entered the canoe. I could feel their eyes. What were they thinking? Davey piled the shovels, axes and ropes into the dinghy and loaded the rest of their equipment into the canoe. The four then donned orange-coloured life jackets and prepared to leave. I was still uncomfortably aware of the watchers on the cliff. Wairere-o-te-hau lay quietly, moving just a little as the current tugged at its bow. Eager to be away. Eager to once more challenge the rapids and float on the long stretches of placid water. I was glad to see Wairere once more where he belonged. But then I remembered Mat and Petau, and my eyes crept up the cliff. They still stood—watching. Watching Wairere as he pulled gently at his tethering rope. A final look at an old friend before he made the long trip to the sea. To the place of strangers. Davey offered his hand. I was uncertain. The watchers on the cliff. Damn them. I shook hands with the men and wished them luck. Davey then returned me to my side of the river. I stood and watched as Davey returned to the canoe and made ready to cast off. I knew Mat and Petau still stood on the cliff above me, waiting. I wondered what they thought of me. Still, it was done. Davey Rhodes and his two neighbours climbed into the canoe. They had fixed a small outboard to a bracket they had built at the stern. Davey's son, in the dinghy, made slow sweeping circles around Wairere as he nosed his way out into the centre of the river. Davey waved in my direction and then set about turning the bow down river towards the gorge. Proudly the canoe moved away. For twenty years he had lain in the earth, and now he was free to travel the old waterways of his youth. Eagerly he ran, picking up speed as he caught the current that channelled in to the upper gorge. Eager once more to fight the foaming waters. Onwards Wairere dashed. As they reached the first rapid, the motor raced madly for a moment, then stopped. The son sped forward in the dinghy and was swept sideways and pinned against the bank by the weight of water that poured over the boulders. The canoe, suddenly without power, shot forward, bucking wildly as it hit the boiling waters. The two men in the bow were thrown violently out. Their heads became bobbing black specks in the white foam. Davey, in the stern, desperately tried to keep the canoe's bow into the mainstream. His orange jacket leaped about, then suddenly was lost from view. I started running up the track, hoping to get ahead of the canoe before it plunged into the gorge proper. Davey had been thrown from the craft and was clinging to an upthrust tree trunk that had been caught in the centre of the river. The canoe, uncontrolled, was swept onwards. Suddenly, the bow shot skywards and momentarily the canoe stood on end—upright and unmoving. Saluted the sky. Saluted the bush. The river hushed. The rumbling of the water faded to the merest whisper. I knew the two on the cliff were watching. There was a split second of silence. And then Wairere-o-te-hau—slowly—very slowly slid backwards into the deep water and was lost from view. I looked up to the cliff. I could just see the backs of the two old men as they walked homewards.