Free Isle of Tears by Deborah Challinor Page A

blind.
    Pikaki said something else, and Mere replied at length in Maori before turning to Isla. ‘She wanted to know your whakapapa.’ She scowled as she groped for the correct English word. ‘Your family tree. But I can only tell her the little that I know. She asks that you tell her yourself one day, when you are able.’
    Pikaki regarded Isla for a moment longer, then nodded at Niel, frowned at the twins, sat back and returned to puffing on her pipe.
    ‘How old is she?’ Isla asked when they were out of earshot. ‘If that isnae a rude question.’
    ‘Nobody is quite sure. But she has always said that she saw Captain Cook’s ship when it sailed down the coast of Taranaki.’
    Isla nodded politely. Then asked, ‘Who wis Captain Cook?’
    ‘An early Pakeha visitor to this land. He came in 1770.’
    Isla counted backward: so Pikaki was over ninety years old, which wasn’t extraordinarily ancient, in Isla’s experience. ‘Wis she a wee girl?’
    ‘Oh no,’ Mere replied. ‘She was a grown woman, already with five children.’
    Isla blinked. But that would make Pikaki at least a hundred and ten. ‘Are ye sure? She hasnae, er, muddled things in her old age?’
    ‘I do not think so,’ Mere said as she sat back down at their place on the mat. Her voice changed so that it had a sing-song quality to it. ‘Being from the same part of Taranaki, my great-great-grandmother Turotowaenga, who was Ngati Maru-whara-nui, knew Pikaki when they were both young girls, before the Pakeha arrived. Her daughter Pokekohu, my great-grandmother, also knew Pikaki. That friendship was passed to my grandmother, Awhero, although Pikaki was an old woman by then, her own children grown and passed away. My mother, Uhumanea, was also befriended by Pikaki, and it was Pikaki who arranged my marriage to Wira twenty-six years ago, to form an alliance between Ngati Pono and Ngati Maru-whara-nui. Wira is Pikaki’s great-great-grandson.’ Mere’s voice returned to normal. ‘Pikaki is the matriarch of Ngati Pono. Most of us in this part of Taranaki are related to her in some way, through blood or marriage.’
    Amazed that one woman could generate such a spider’s web of kin, Isla asked, ‘But is she the head o’ Ngati Pono? The chieftainess?’
    ‘No, she is too old, and she does sometimes become “muddled”, as you say. Wira is rangatira. But we all take counsel from Pikaki. She is our oldest living ancestor. Would you care for some more bread?’
    The feast went on for several hours, and by the time the women began to clear the dishes, trays and baskets from the mats, the sun had almost set. Isla wanted nothing more than to lie down somewhere and go to sleep, and was relieved when Mere showed her to a hut with a low doorway.
    Ushering her into the dim interior, lit only by a single oil lamp set on the ground in the centre of the hut, she said, ‘This is the whare where the women rest when they have the mate marama and cannot share sleeping places with the men. There will be a handful of other women sleeping here tonight.’
    Isla glanced at the rushes spread across the packed-earth floor and the mats arranged over them. ‘Where will Jean and ma brothers sleep?’
    ‘In the whare moe of my family.’
    ‘Your hoose?’
    ‘Aye, where we sleep.’
    Imagining the twins waking in the night and not being able to find her, Isla asked, ‘What if they become frightened?’
    ‘Then I will wake you,’ Mere assured her. ‘You will also sleep in our whare when you are able. There is plenty of room. Only Harapeta lives with us now—Ngahere lives in the house of her husband’s family.’ She indicated a mat with a neatly folded blanket at one end. ‘You may sleep there.’ Before she turned to leave, she touched Isla’s hand. ‘You may call for me if you need me, Isla. I understand how it must be for you. Sleep well.’
    Isla thanked her, and lay down on the mat with the blanket beneath her head. Then she sat up and removed her