Big Mere

My father was a giant foreigner, an American Pequot Indian who escaped his homeland by exploiting his strength and stature. Whaling fleets carried him southward to Huriawa, in the days when tohorā still visited these waters.  My mother claimed to have been drawn to his warrior spirit, while her dark hair, eyes and complexion reminded him of the women in his tribe.     At the insistence of the resident missionary they were married and the evidence of their sins – their baby girl, was baptised.  I was christened Mere, a name that was biblical enough to appease the Reverend Watkins and appropriately descriptive of my shared warrior heritage.

My father gifted me his prominent cheekbones, aquiline nose and his stature, features of which I was very proud.  In those days life was hard, to travel we walked and every scrap of food had to be foraged by hand.  Strong arms and legs and a sturdy back were enviable attributes in a time when horses and oxen were unimaginable prizes.  My father's employer Rangatira Jones had recently acquired the very first horses ever to have been seen in this part of the country.  The animals’ arrival created great interest, their usefulness was as undeniable as their value; the horses’ shelters were finer than our own.

Rangatira Jones intermittently welcomed newcomers who would scratch the sour soil as unsuccessfully as their predecessors had done. They arrived by boat and were always reluctant to wet their fine boots.  As a sign of welcome, we assisted and so I allowed a boy to clamber onto my back.  He kicked at my sides, urging me onwards.  I remained oblivious of his insult until he began to whinny.  He was easily dislodged.  As he spluttered and choked we laughed, “Better to be the beast than its burden eh?”