COMPROMISE by R. B. WALLACE The open fireplace, made of twelve-foot lengths of corrugated iron, took up nearly all the front of the whare. Probably more care had gone into building the fireplace than had been taken with the rest of the dwelling. A large old fashioned bed stood in the far corner of the room, alongside a kerosene box which served as a stand for the hurricane lamp. Against the other wall there was a camp-stretcher. Three chairs, a table made of rough pine board and a cupboard completed the furnishings. There was no ceiling, only axe hewn rafters, from these smoke blackened beams hung a variety of objects—some flax baskets, a coil of rope, a bucket. A rainbow coloured flax carpet brought brightness to a drab room. Mark Taite sat on one of the chairs gazing thoughtfully into the fireplace. He seemed almost a stranger in a setting that for most years of his life had been home. In dress and appearance he was similar to most young Maoris—the type seen in any New Zealand city, working in factories, for the council, driving taxis or buses; in their leisure hours dancing, singing, drinking. The kind you see at church, watching football, at the beach, or just strolling along the streets. Perhaps that was why he seemed out of place here—a typical city Maori in a backblocks pa. An ember fell from the fire; he reached down and threw it back then glanced at his wrist watch. “Hell! Still half an hour to go before the truck comes. The cream truck the only transport out of here when I was a kid, and still the only way. No buses, no taxis, a man has to ride to the station in a rattletrap of a truck.” He settled back in the chair. A fire can hold strange hypnotic powers. Under its influence, Mark's surroundings ceased to exist. He saw himself as he was three years ago—the day his greatest dream came true—the day he'd left for the city, a bright eyed youth of seventeen, one hand plucking at his unaccustomed collar and tie, the other clutching a battered suitcase. Nervous? Yes, but not in the least afraid. He was young, and the young see no dark clouds. That was the first time he had left this isolated little valley—the valley that had echoed to the war hakas of his ancestors for centuries. The noise of the victory celebrations. The wailings as the dead were mourned. Peace sounds. Songs of love by wahines as they kept time with the pois. The shrill scream of naked, brown children at play. The babbling of streams and rivers as they hustled off to lose themselves in the mighty Pacific. That same valley had witnessed the arrival of the first Maoris; had seen them emerge victorious from many tribal wars, only to succumb, if gloriously, to the superior weapons of the Pakeha. He thought about the elders and their belief in the Maori way of life; how they praised its traditions, cultures and philosophies, urging young men to cultivate the land, to grow kumaras, rewi, corn and food, instead of going away to work in the cities for wages. “Money isn't everything,” they'd say. “Money becomes your God when you live the Pakeha way.” Respect for his elders was deeply ingrained in Mark; he'd listened all right and at the right times; when they spoke, his face wore the awe, pride, rage, disgust, he thought they expected from him. But when they'd gone, he would mutter, “Silly old fools, always living in the past! When will they wake? When will they realise their way of life is finished?” It wasn't as if he'd been unhappy. No, not by a long way; just that he saw no future, living Maori-fashion. He'd explained to Inga about the way he felt; she'd understood. She always did. He smiled, remembering how he'd been in love with her, and about the time he'd punched his cousin, George Whata. “Why we were barely out of napkins. What was it about again? Yes, I remember, I heard him, I heard him singing, Inga loves George Whata. Strange,” he mused, “she hasn't married. I suppose if I'd stopped here I would have changed her name myself.” And so he'd left the pa, he grinned, remembering how they had welcomed him with open arms