‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘how Purea felt when she heard that Tupaea had died?’
‘I imagine she took the news very badly,’ Koro replied. ‘She would have ascended to the topmost staircase of Mahiatea and looked across the sea towards Batavia, attempting to invoke a pathway for his spirit and Taita’s to return to Hawaiki.’
Then I asked the question that had long been bothering me. ‘Why did Tupaea decide to join James Cook on the Endeavour in the first place, Koro?’
‘Don’t you know?’ he answered. ‘When he left Tahiti he was on a diplomatic mission for Purea.’
Between the arrival of the Dolphin and the Endeavour, Purea had suffered a huge defeat at the hands of the fighting chief Tutaha. At one of the battles, the sand had been covered with the bones of her defenders and Tupaea himself had been wounded by a spear tipped with a stingray’s tail; it pierced his chest.
‘When you reach England,’ Purea said to Tupaea, her eyes burning bright, ‘I want you to be my ambassador and petition King George to support me to regain control of the Maohi nation. An alliance with such a rich and powerful king could help me to oust Tutaha and take back sovereignty. Ask King George in my name, as one sovereign to another of equal standing to me, to give me waka as powerful as the ships I have seen and fill them with cannon and arms so that I might fulfil this task.’
‘And Tupaea too,’ Koro continued, ‘had his own vested interest in obtaining Pakeha arms. With them he could return to Raiatea and take the island back from its conquerors and for ’Oro. Who knows, Tupaea may have realised that the Pakeha would be back in Tahiti again and that, at some point, the Maohi might need to go to war with the pale strangers, using their amazing armaments against them.’
There was one other stop before we resumed our journey to France.
I took Koro on a plane to Porapora and then a small vessel across the lagoon to Hawaiki — or Raiatea, as it’s known. There was mist on the water, but as we approached the island it lifted, and a beautiful rainbow appeared.
I should have known that Koro would be reduced to tears. ‘Thank you, mokopuna,’ he said.
We found the local rangatira. ‘As soon as the rainbow appeared,’ he smiled, ‘I knew somebody was coming.’ We shook hands and pressed noses. Koro was weeping with joy and, for the first time I could recall, speechless.
‘My grandfather and I are descendants of Tupaea, the Arioi,’ I said on his behalf.
The rangatira called a huge meeting, which lasted into the night. Above, the stars were dancing, eavesdropping.
But all that Mum wanted to know when I rang her from Tahiti was: ‘Did Pa give that ironwood and red cloth back?’
‘You’ll have to ask him,’ I said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ARIKIRANGI INCARNATE
Tonight’s the night.
The unveiling of the Cirque’s new production, Oceania.
Mum and Dad have arrived after a long trip from Aotearoa to Paris and thence down to Marseilles. At the airport, the first thing Mum asks me is whether or not I have a girlfriend; she still harbours a hope that I might come back to New Zealand and to Marama — but Marama has found someone better.
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘her name’s Odile Dessaix.’
She looks at Dad. ‘Oh no, what happens if we have French grandchildren!’
He smiles at her. ‘Actually, dear, it’s about time Little Tu started thinking of marrying and … any moko will do.’
The traditional Grand Chapiteau has now become an arena show so that it can play in cities where the big top can’t go and where more people can be packed in. There’s no ceiling however: the darkness is criss-crossed with wires and aerial equipment of the kind that is usually behind the scenes — and the stunts are more perilous.
I’m able to spend a little time getting Koro and Mum and Dad to their seats. They’re sitting with Odile; Mum is telling her lies already, you know, about what a difficult baby I was and all that kind of stuff.
Koro arrives with hair combed to perfection. The women sitting in the same row are overwhelmed by his handsomeness. Mum growls him. ‘Don’t get any ideas. Our plane goes back in three days and you’re not staying in France any longer.’
I leave them because I must start my conditioning. Things go wrong only when you don’t allow enough time to warm up.
Half an hour later.
Good, the daylight has completely faded and the night has fallen. I’m still stretching, limbering up, conditioning and will continue to do so right up to my appearance. While I’m doing this my dresser and make-up personnel are getting me ready: body paint, spandex, costume. ‘Do not forget to check the rope when you are up on the platform,’ Jean-Luc says. ‘Otherwise — ’
‘I know.’
The sound of the deep bass comes rumbling throughout the arena. I watch the beginning of the show from the wings. Not an empty seat in sight. The audience is silent, expectant. The announcer’s voice projects through the inky space. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, bonjour and welcome. Come with us as we take you back to the ancient islands of the Maohi.’
I am still warming up. ‘More stretches,’ Jean-Luc says, ‘more.’ Suddenly the strobe lights are everywhere, creating a kaleidoscope of colour. To the sound of a thousand drums, faery waka begin to enter. They’re in the form of a flotilla of brightly skimming birds, and aboard are beings of exotic and incredibly beautiful appearance.
The crowd erupts into applause. The beings are the Arioi, wreathed and garlanded, they gyrate and dance on the platforms as they skim across the floor of the arena. ‘Homai te tahi mata’i na matou,’ they sing to the great God ’Oro, ‘’ei ahi na muri. Give us a breeze to encompass us from behind so that we may sail as smoothly as upon a bed. Let our prayers take us safely, O God, even into the harbour of the land to which we are going. Look kindly upon us; have pity upon thy shadows. Forsake us not.’
They are quite a spectacle, in their extravagant costumes with tall headdresses. Some are tumblers, others are acrobats, a few are flame-throwers, and they’re all dancing, back-flipping, tumbling and rolling.
Others fly in on aerial silks, ethereal, spell-binding, weaving the colours of the Pacific Ocean together.
‘But the world is changing for the Maohi,’ the announcer interrupts. ‘As foretold by the ancestors, wizards and goblins and strange apparitions are coming to change their world.’
Down go the strobe lights, and up comes that deep rumbling bass again. The audience watches agape as from out of the starlit sky appear two death-defying Russian swings. And from either side of the arena come acrobats to fly across the night like comets, trailing long tails of fire.
The rumbling sounds grow louder, reverberating through the space and juddering every seat. A huge blazing sun begins to rise above the arena. Shimmering behind it, the shadow of a waka.
‘Your conditioning okay?’ Jean-Luc asks me as he prods and pokes me; he’s as bad as Koro. ‘All right,’ he nods, satisfied, ‘up you go.’
I nod as he presses the button and the winch begins to pull me up to the highest point of the arena.
‘Take your position.’
I hear the roar from the crowd as the dazzling globe rises higher and cantilevers over the audience. It’s almost above them, on top of them. If something should go wrong and it should fall …