changed this to his left hand so that he could reach inside his coat. He pulled out something wrapped in muslin.
‘I also bring you food and drink. Well, drink you have, from the rain. But here is some food. And I will patch your head for you, when the daylight comes.’
The Maoris, Jack realized, took the teachings of the Church literally. In the heat of battle, of course, a man would go down under such a blow and probably stay down. He would be a fool if he did not, for Jack was in no state to fight. This Maori had decided after he had struck him that the captain was out of it, and therefore entitled to live under these new articles of war preached by the clergy.
‘Can I know your name?’ asked Jack.
‘It is Potaka. And yours?’
‘Crossman. Jack Crossman.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Potaka stuck out a hand and Jack reached up from his ridiculous lying position and shook it. Then went back to staring at the stars. He had decided he would not move until the morning. If his skull was fractured, as it might be, he knew he still might die. It was better he did not hasten this state of mortality. Limited time was better than no time at all. A man will do much for a few more seconds, even at the end.
‘You are an honourable enemy, Potaka.’
‘I hope so. I try to be. Most of us try to be. There are a few sly ones among us, but I’m sure you find the same.’
Jack thought of Wynter. ‘Indeed.’
Potaka took off his coat and rolled it up, placing it under Jack’s neck.
‘You will be more comfortable that way.’
‘Thank you.’
Potaka nodded at Jack’s empty wrist.
Jack said, ‘In another war.’
‘Ah, my brother has only one leg – also another war. Does it bother you still? My brother’s lost leg still hurts him. He keeps looking for it, in the place where it was chopped off, hoping to find it and tend to it, so the pain will go away. He thinks his enemy ate it.’
‘Ah, the old ghost limb. Not me,’ admitted Jack. ‘I used to feel it still there, but there was no pain.’ Jack paused for a moment, finding a more comfortable position for his head, then added, ‘And nobody would have eaten it, unless they like minced meat.’
‘You have many battle scars on your face, soldier.’
‘Who can tell with you? The tattoos hide everything but your eyes.’
Potaka laughed. ‘Better to get some sleep now.’
‘I think you’re right.’
In fact sleep came very easily.
The following morning Jack woke to the sound of crackling wood. Potaka had lit a fire and was cooking something. After a while he came to Jack with a piece of flat wood and started to spoon a substance out of its shell.
‘Breadfruit,’ explained Potaka. ‘You will like the flavour.’
‘Not bad,’ said Jack. ‘What’s that stick you carry with you all the time? Do you need something to support you?’
‘This?’ Potaka held up the six-foot-long staff. ‘This is a
taiaha,
a fighting stick. But it was this that I hit you with.’ He showed Jack a carved-greenstone bladed club hanging from his waist by a cord. ‘My
patu
.’
‘And don’t I know it,’ said Jack, whose head was still very sore and ached all the way down to the roots of his neck. ‘That stick – our people used to fight with staves once, but that was long ago. As a boy I liked to play single-stick with my brother, but just for fun. I got quite good at whacking him around the legs.’
‘The
taiaha
takes many years to master – it is no ordinary fighting stick. My whole childhood was taken up with learning the art.’
‘Oh,’ replied Jack, feeling he was being taken to task for bragging.
Once he was fed and watered, Potaka washed the wound on his head, which was a painful business, then inspected it.
‘I think the skull is not broken right through, just dented a little,’ muttered the Maori. ‘I am going to put the piece of skin back and tie it down with a strip of cloth. It should take. I have no needle to sew it, so you must keep it
‘I also bring you food and drink. Well, drink you have, from the rain. But here is some food. And I will patch your head for you, when the daylight comes.’
The Maoris, Jack realized, took the teachings of the Church literally. In the heat of battle, of course, a man would go down under such a blow and probably stay down. He would be a fool if he did not, for Jack was in no state to fight. This Maori had decided after he had struck him that the captain was out of it, and therefore entitled to live under these new articles of war preached by the clergy.
‘Can I know your name?’ asked Jack.
‘It is Potaka. And yours?’
‘Crossman. Jack Crossman.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Potaka stuck out a hand and Jack reached up from his ridiculous lying position and shook it. Then went back to staring at the stars. He had decided he would not move until the morning. If his skull was fractured, as it might be, he knew he still might die. It was better he did not hasten this state of mortality. Limited time was better than no time at all. A man will do much for a few more seconds, even at the end.
‘You are an honourable enemy, Potaka.’
‘I hope so. I try to be. Most of us try to be. There are a few sly ones among us, but I’m sure you find the same.’
Jack thought of Wynter. ‘Indeed.’
Potaka took off his coat and rolled it up, placing it under Jack’s neck.
‘You will be more comfortable that way.’
‘Thank you.’
Potaka nodded at Jack’s empty wrist.
Jack said, ‘In another war.’
‘Ah, my brother has only one leg – also another war. Does it bother you still? My brother’s lost leg still hurts him. He keeps looking for it, in the place where it was chopped off, hoping to find it and tend to it, so the pain will go away. He thinks his enemy ate it.’
‘Ah, the old ghost limb. Not me,’ admitted Jack. ‘I used to feel it still there, but there was no pain.’ Jack paused for a moment, finding a more comfortable position for his head, then added, ‘And nobody would have eaten it, unless they like minced meat.’
‘You have many battle scars on your face, soldier.’
‘Who can tell with you? The tattoos hide everything but your eyes.’
Potaka laughed. ‘Better to get some sleep now.’
‘I think you’re right.’
In fact sleep came very easily.
The following morning Jack woke to the sound of crackling wood. Potaka had lit a fire and was cooking something. After a while he came to Jack with a piece of flat wood and started to spoon a substance out of its shell.
‘Breadfruit,’ explained Potaka. ‘You will like the flavour.’
‘Not bad,’ said Jack. ‘What’s that stick you carry with you all the time? Do you need something to support you?’
‘This?’ Potaka held up the six-foot-long staff. ‘This is a
taiaha,
a fighting stick. But it was this that I hit you with.’ He showed Jack a carved-greenstone bladed club hanging from his waist by a cord. ‘My
patu
.’
‘And don’t I know it,’ said Jack, whose head was still very sore and ached all the way down to the roots of his neck. ‘That stick – our people used to fight with staves once, but that was long ago. As a boy I liked to play single-stick with my brother, but just for fun. I got quite good at whacking him around the legs.’
‘The
taiaha
takes many years to master – it is no ordinary fighting stick. My whole childhood was taken up with learning the art.’
‘Oh,’ replied Jack, feeling he was being taken to task for bragging.
Once he was fed and watered, Potaka washed the wound on his head, which was a painful business, then inspected it.
‘I think the skull is not broken right through, just dented a little,’ muttered the Maori. ‘I am going to put the piece of skin back and tie it down with a strip of cloth. It should take. I have no needle to sew it, so you must keep it
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