Amber by Deborah Challinor Page A

Paihia, still wreathed in shreds of mist, and the solid shapes of the mission’s small buildings. There were a few more now, she noticed, and she wondered how many people the tiny settlement supported these days. But then she saw them—a large crowd of people standing motionless on the beach, at the point where the coarse sand succumbed to tough coastal grass. She squinted, but still couldn’t judge how many people were there. A hundred, perhaps? Or was it even more?
    The sight was so eerie and surreal that she found herself whispering as she asked Rian, ‘Why are they all on the beach? What are they waiting for?’
    Rian didn’t reply, but stared towards the shore a moment longer, then motioned to Mick to continue lowering the rowboat. It hit the water with a faint whump , then the rope ladder was released over the rail.
    Mick went down first, followed by Ropata, Gideon, Pierre, Hawk, then Rian one-handed and balancing Wai’s waka taongaon his hip, and finally Kitty. Daniel was told to stay aboard. When Kitty was seated, Rian handed her the box, which she cradled on her knee. Gideon took up the oars, manoeuvred the boat around so that the prow was pointing away from the Katipo , then struck out for the shore.
    No one spoke: the only sound was the rhythmic splash of oars dipping into the sea as Gideon leaned forward and pulled, leaned forward and pulled, his muscles flexing and his face set in concentration.
    The hairs on Kitty’s arms had risen: something out of the ordinary was about to happen. From this distance the faces of the people on the beach were still indistinct, but she thought she could make out a small knot of Europeans standing well to one side of the larger crowd, whose height and shape—and the weapons they appeared to be carrying—suggested that they were Maori. Kitty’s heart sank. Was it a taua, a war party? Had the old wounds from nearly five years ago not healed after all?
    As the rowboat neared the shore, Kitty began to recognise faces she had known, both Maori and Pakeha. She glanced at Rian seated next to her: he rested his hand on her knee and squeezed, and she felt a little better.
    When they were still a hundred yards out, several dozen men detached themselves from the larger group and danced down to the hard sand just beyond the hissing waves. The strands of their piupiu rattled as they advanced, their bare feet making no noise at all. Some wielded taiaha adorned with feathers and dog-hair, and the long thin spears called tao, while others carried feather-tufted tewhatewha, or long-handled battle-axes. A dozen held patu of both stone and whalebone. Their eyes wide and rolling grotesquely, the whites in stark contrast to their brown faces, and their tongues snaking in and out of wide-stretched mouths, they hissed and grunted, not chanting, but not silent either. Backwards and forwards across the sand they came, stabbingwith their weapons and challenging the approaching rowboat, daring the occupants to set foot on land.
    Kitty’s hands felt sweaty and she wiped them on her skirt, then asked Ropata nervously, ‘Is it a wero? Are they angry with us?’
    Without looking at her, Ropata replied, ‘No. The jumping is from side to side so it is a tutu ngarahu, a haka of welcome, not war. But it is still a challenge.’
    The rowboat grounded gently a minute later, and Mick and Pierre, somewhat warily, climbed out and began to nudge the prow up the beach. When they had all disembarked, they stood and faced the taua as the haka continued. Kitty, with the box in her arms, stood behind the men. From the tension in their stances, she could see that Gideon, Mick and Pierre were ill at ease. And not surprisingly: the haka party was, at the very least, alarming.
    The crowd had formed into a horseshoe, and she could see Haunui now, standing in the centre, a small boy next to him. She couldn’t tell if Haunui had recognised her or not: if he had, he wasn’t acknowledging the fact. He stared resolutely