North Island
1897

SOME MAORI WOMEN give birth surrounded by their kinswomen. Others go it alone. Once labor has started, some will take their mats and find a quiet place in the open air. Margaret was gathering stones for the roasting pit when she came upon the laboring mum, partially hidden behind a thicket of ferns. The woman rocked on her haunches, mewling pitifully. Margaret came closer, letting herself be seen, thinking the woman would shoo her away. But the expectant looked up with wet, pleading eyes. Margaret put down the sack of stones and went to her, squatting alongside, encouraging her with gestures to lie back. Birth was not imminent. The perspiring woman rolled onto her side, keening still. Margaret began to rub the woman’s tight neck, gingerly at first, uncertain about tapu. The woman jerked and then quieted. Margaret continued rubbing, kneading her shoulders with both hands, concentrating on the knotty spots, recalling the lovely relief. Henry had done the same for her during the long labor with the twins.

The woman in the ferns delivered a boy. Six months later she was pregnant again. When her time came she insisted that Margaret attend. Another live boy was born. Rumor started that Margaret’s hands pleased the gods. All the women began requesting her presence at their births. Rows occurred, resulting in Margaret being awarded to the highest-ranking mother.

The following summer, Margaret attended the chief’s niece, a big-breasted, pigeon-toed girl of about sixteen. Aroha was gigantic with her first child, long overdue according to her calendar stick. Margaret was summoned the moment she began wailing and went straight from the kumara field to the fetus house. Inside the crude shed, Aroha squatted, naked but for the roimata worn around her neck, a love token made of greenstone, most likely a gift from her husband. The girl clutched the roimata, her lips moving in prayer, her tattooed chin trembling. Other women were present, chanting, rocking to and fro. Margaret made her way through them, mute as a cob, her eyes cast down. In the next moment the girl’s water bag burst, causing the others to yip with glee. Aroha threw back her head and emitted a long, piercing cry, like that of a boiling kettle. Between her legs the baby’s head was already crowning. An old woman was on Aroha in an instant, pushing on her belly. Margaret gasped, fearing for the infant’s soft skull. A baby boy with a head full of black hair slipped out like an eel and Aroha received him, panting happily. His cord was cut with an obsidian chip and the same old woman tenderly rubbed his stump with oil, bandaging it afterward, smiling an ecstatic gummy smile.

Margaret squatted before Aroha in preparation for the afterbirth. She was determined to stay put and protect the girl from further assault. She placed both hands on either side of the navel and felt first a slight wave of movement, then a good solid kick. Margaret patted Aroha’s taut belly for attention, completely forgetting herself.

“Another baby! Another peepe!” She’d broken tapu by speaking, but the women were too excited to make anything of it.

The second wee warrior arrived as alert as the first, screaming lustily, waving his mucousy arms. A single afterbirth followed in a great bloody gush ten minutes later. Aroha sank back against Margaret, but the elders did not allow Margaret to linger. The grandmother began poking her with a long stick, prodding her toward the shed’s opening.

A slave’s presence during birth was traditionally tapu. Margaret vaguely understood that she was an exception. She was brought out of the fetus house and doused with rank water. She returned to the kumara field, released from the tapu earned by helping.

Two of the chief’s daughters by different wives were due the following month, and there was some argument over who would have Margaret should their labors begin simultaneously. But the smallpox came that same month. Josephine was stricken first, then Margaret, Beadie, and two of the other South Island women living with them. Five tribesmen with rifles came to their hut in the night and summoned them all outside. The older slave, the sickest among them, refused to move and was shot in the head where she lay. Margaret cried out, fevered and confused. John spoke sharply. “Hush, Mum.”

They were goaded forward in a tight knot and herded briskly through the village and across the dark field in the direction of the bush. John pulled Oscar and Martha along by the hands. Margaret had a lock on Josephine. She could not think for the slicing pain behind her eyes. She whispered to John, “Where are they taking us?”

He whispered back, “Be prepared to run.”

Margaret stumbled on, blindly concentrating on not falling. From behind came footsteps and shrill female voices. Margaret glanced over her shoulder. In the moonlight the women seemed a single flailing, shrieking entity. The tribesmen stopped to listen to their magpie demands. The biggest, her chest heaving, pointed at Margaret and spoke stridently.

Margaret stood shivering, an arm wrapped around Josephine. John murmured close to her ear. “She says you’re a favored one. Harm to you will bring harm to their sons.”

One of the men argued. The big woman spoke louder, rivulets of sweat running down her breasts. The other women chimed in noisily. Another man spoke over them. The big woman launched into a heated speech. The lead man barked something and she went silent, crossing her arms triumphantly. The same man turned to John, giving an order, jabbing his rifle toward the bush. John snatched up limp Josephine and hoisted her onto his back. “They’re letting us go,” he said, corralling Oscar and Martha. “Come now, Mum. Quickly.”

Margaret did as she was told, falling in behind John, bewildered and cold. He was moving too fast. They entered the trees and she lost her peripheral vision. A moment later shots were heard, three in a row.

“Beadie.” John said her name and nothing more for the longest time.