CHAPTER NINE
Seven years later, time has been kind to Paraiti. Although her eyesight has dimmed a little, her memory is as sharp as ever, her medical skills intact, and her hands still do their blessed work. Tiaki has grown a bit greyer and is not as formidable a hunter as he used to be. Both Ataahua and Kaihe are casting a keen eye on the pasture across the road where they can live out the rest of their years.
This morning Paraiti woke as usual at dawn, said her karakia, performed her ablutions, packed her saddlebags and set off down the road. She still makes her annual haerenga and, in the year 1942, she is on her way to a hui at Te Mana o Turanga, Whakato marae, Manutuke, the birthplace of the prophet Te Kooti. Oh, how she loves that meeting house. So full of carvings and stories of the people. Whenever she visits, it is as if the past comes to life before her.
She is looking forward to the hui, too, the celebration of the Passover on November the first, when what has been planted at Matariki is harvested — symbolic of the resurrection of Christ. A special karakia is also planned: with a European war happening on the other side of the world, and Maori soldiers fighting in Italy, Paraiti will join others in praying that the Angel of Death will pass over them without reaping his harvest.
Paraiti usually travels by the side of the Pakeha roads now. Many of the great Maori trails are fenced off, and the last time she travelled on Rua’s Track, she had trouble hanging on when she was negotiating the steepest part. But she still grumbles about the ways that civilisation is advancing through the world, and she is always pointing out more of its marks.
She comes to the fork of the road where roadmen have been constructing a combined road-and-rail bridge. She’s never seen one quite like it. The road has been made of a black and sticky material. Tiaki sniffs at it and growls. Ataahua and Kaihe stand patiently waiting for the order to move across.
‘It might be like the Red Sea,’ Paraiti mutters. ‘We could be halfway across and next minute, aue, the waves will come over us.’
‘No it won’t, Nan,’ a young voice says. ‘It’s called tar seal. Come on, there’s no traffic. Let’s cross now.’
Riding Kaihe is a pretty young girl, fair, with auburn hair. Paraiti has an assistant now, a whangai daughter, Waiputa, to fill her waning years. She is someone to love; the new seed for the future, blossoming from Paraiti’s old life. In turn, Waiputa is someone who loves her matua, her parent.
They make a good team, the scarred one and the unscarred one.
‘Tar seal, eh?’ Paraiti answers. ‘You’re learning lots of big words at that school of yours.’
Not only that, but Waiputa has become a very firm dealer in the transactions whenever Paraiti heals someone; Waiputa makes sure her nan is not shortchanged.
Paraiti pulls Kaihe across the black river. Aue, motorised traffic is faster than an old woman with her horse, mule and pig dog, and a little girl riding the mule. It can come out of nowhere and is onto you before you know it. Now, roaring across the bridge like a ngangara, comes a huge sheep truck and trailer.
‘Quickly, Nan,’ Waiputa says. ‘We have to get to the other side of the road or we’ll be run over.’
Paraiti knows how fast she can go. Quick? She is already at quick. There’s nothing to do except face the ngangara.
‘E tu,’ she says to Ataahua and Kaihe. Together, they turn to the oncoming monster. Paraiti reaches for her rifle.
The truck driver signals to her to get off the road and then, alarmed, sees that she has raised a gun and is sighting it. He slams on the brakes: ‘Shit!’
The truck squeals to a halt, its trailer rattling, wheezing, collapsing before the old woman and her whangai daughter. The driver swears and starts to open the door to give the kuia a piece of his mind. When he sees the old, greying dog snarling and the little red-haired girl baring her teeth, he shuts it again, rapidly. ‘Stupid old woman,’ he yells at Paraiti as she goes past him. He waits until she has crossed the road before starting his truck and proceeding on his way.
Waiputa watches the truck disappearing down the road. She wags a finger at Paraiti. ‘Bad girl, Nan. We could have been killed.’
‘I know,’ Paraiti answers. ‘And I realise it was just a truck. But you know, in the old days, I would have shot it.’
Paraiti peers at the sun and begins to laugh and laugh. Then, looking at the road ahead, she pulls down her hat and says to Waiputa, Tiaki, Ataahua and Kaihe:
‘Looks like we’re just going to have to last forever.’