Free Sound by Sarah Drummond

he pulled at the oars. Otakau. Hearing the name of his home country spoken aloud sent a shock through his body. Gleeson had come from Otakau.

    â€œWe’ll be wintering about these parts,” said Gleeson that evening, settling himself into a comfortable position by the fire. “Going after the humpbacks until October, then offshore after that, offthe shelf after some fin, then home to New Bedford.” He seemed relaxed and pleased with himself. “It’s been a good season.”
    The first mate, a burly white man with woolly hair, gave a small cheer. “That’ll make it eighteen months,” he said.
    Smidmore tuned his fiddle and the second mate took a harmonica from his pocket and grinned at him. Despite the disappointing treatment of them by Boss and the ripening scent of the whalers warming by the fire, the sealers were exhilarated by the strangers after so long in their own company. Sal and Dancer had snared some potoroos and the Americans brought tobacco, rum and fresh vegetables from their itinerant gardens along the coast.
    â€œWiremu Heke,” Billhook said to the North Islander. He grasped his hand.
    â€œJohn te Marama.” The two men touched their noses together, staring into each other’s eyes. Then they squatted on their haunches and began to converse in language.
    â€œWhere is your home?”
    â€œKiri Kiri … but now the missionaries have moved in, we have to go away to make any trouble or fun! The women and the old men, they like the singing in the church. Me, not so much and that Parson … they call him the Flogging Parson.”
    â€œAhh! I’ve heard of him! My country is Otakau.”
    Marama nodded. “I thought so. I saw you when Gleeson said it. And now I know your name …”
    â€œDid you go there, after …”
    John te Marama nodded again. “After we cut Bartley out of the whale, his skin was burnt by the whale’s stomach juices. His fingerprints are gone now but when he came out he looked like he’d been skinned all over. His body was all red. We took him to the village and the women healed his skin with special leaves and smoke. They couldn’t fix his soul though. Fled from his body.”
    â€œWho did you see there? Did you see my father? The old boat-builder. Did you see a woman called Nga Rua?”
    Marama paused. “The woman who healed Bartley was Nga Rua. She’s a good woman, Wiremu.” Marama smiled. “Still cheeky she is. But Wiremu – while we were there, your father died. He died suddenly, in his sleep. Your mother said it was the white man’s fault. That he died in her arms, broken. Nga Rua will never forgive those men who destroyed her husband. She said this thing at the tangihanga
.
I am sorry, Wiremu.”
    Billhook dropped his head into his chest and ran his hands along his scalp. Oh my father … gone.
    â€œThere is more news,” Marama said gently. “We went back to the North after we left Otakau. The Ngāti Toa, Te Rauparaha’s men. They are coming.”
    â€œTe Rauparaha?” Billhook snapped up his head. All he had ever heard of that man was the carnage he left behind, the heads on sticks, children impaled on pikes and left facing out to sea to warn off his foes. Te Rauparaha and his toa were the bogeymen, the angry ghouls that he had only ever heard hushed talk about. Bloodstained teeth and handfuls of women’s hair. “He’s coming?”
    â€œHe wants control of the South Island – and your pounamu. He’s preparing to invade. I know this because he saw the Parson in Port Jackson when he went there to get guns. When he gets to Otakau he will walk the country claiming ownership. Anyone who resists will be slaughtered. His toa are too many.”
    â€œMy people have guns now, from the whalers. Maybe …”
    â€œThere are too many,” Marama said with simple fatalism and felt around in his kit bag. “I am