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despise you!
    Merita's told me all the great Maori chiefs had slaves, some destined
for the cooking ovens. Our school books tell us Egyptian slaves built the
pyramids. The lowest of the low who laboured on every great world
monument, like the Taj Mahal — and who remembers their names? Slaves
are to be held in contempt. Better to be dead.
    Go and build something to honour me, slave dogs! A castle, a huge mansion
built atop Totara Hill, so all my subjects can adore me. But you shall be
forbidden to cast your lowly eyes upon my person — look down, slaves!
Do not ever gaze upon me lest you foul my presence.
    Suddenly I mean something in this place dominated by Henry: This
is I, your great warrior chief! Dare look me in the eye and I will hurl you into a
boiling pool!
    Merita tells me not to talk like that or someone will give me a biff
round the ear. But she has told me my mother is of a high-born family,
so that makes me high-born. Merita's spiral tattoo design says she herself
is high-born. No ordinary woman is given such honour. The high-born
endure pain as a mark of their superior status. This high-born kid endures
the pain of living in Henry's house.
    One day I'll make you one of my slaves, Henry Takahe. One day my
father is going to arrive and then we'll see you tremble in front of a real
man. Kneel, slave, my father will say. And you will kneel. Then he will
behead you for how you treated his son.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    THIS SIDE OF THE BRIDGE a rock face spills down to the water from a dirt
road alongside, where early starters mill around, waiting for the decision
on what to do first, hit the cold river or warm up in any one of four
selections of baths. A complex process, not one you can rush. Boys and
girls shuffle bare feet in the dust, swish a foot in a puddle, look down, look
up, at the river, over the main thermal area, at the sky, down at the Smith
house that lost two sons in the war, at each other, away somewhere on
their own; each has his and her own best hope but not theirs to say, not
anyone's, it just happens, the moment you join with a group you become
owned by its mysterious will. Even the strong personalities don't always
decide on where the day starts.
    Not that Yank has a preference; he loves all and any of it in no particular
order.
    It's the river. Boys move down and spread over the rock face like
goats ready to leap, shed of all but shorts, girls in tee-shirts as well, even
those with but a hint of breasts, shivering even if it's summer warm,
arms clutched around bodies, grinning and giving little giggles, eyes only
between the steady flowing water and each other.
    Then someone jumps, letting out a cry as he goes, a big belly-flop
splash to begin the day. The other goats leap through the air after him.
That shock of hitting the cold wet; sweet immersion in a liquid playground.
No time to muck around, there are games to play, old tried contests to
engage in, swimming races above or below the surface, horseplay, tickling
of someone's body parts, a wrestle.
    It's called rattling. The money-hungry ones start immediately, diving
down and whipping up sand and grit till a jingle is heard and up he or she
comes, two joined hand-scoops of material to wash like panning for gold,
so the coin edge emerges like a fulfilled promise especially if it's the largest
denomination, a half crown: feels like God Himself placed it. Puts the coin
find in his mouth, nature's purse, a perfect pouch for holding real cash
treasure and down he and she goes, into the murk if rain has muddied it,
or it's clear and they see each other and smile or glare, predators hunting
down the money prey but friends too.
    A half crown is the silver nugget supreme, two shillings and sixpence,
two and six, with endless buying power as well as certain human drawing
power, kids hoping the luck will rub off or they'll get some of the sweets
and food purchases; a sibling a cousin might buy a ticket to the pictures, pay
the bus fare. Kicking feet protrude