Read Online Isle of Tears by Deborah Challinor - Free Book Online

the wero—the challenge—then the karanga, which imparts information to both the tangata whenua and the manuhiri, then the tangata whenua perform a haka to greet you.’
    The native words Mere had used were meaningless to Isla, but she certainly recognized the last two. ‘That wis a greeting?’
    ‘Ae. Now you may respond if you care to.’
    Isla eyed the crowd, who were watching this exchange with interest; waiting to see, she suspected, whether the strange, palechildren were capable of doing anything more than quaking in their boots. She felt instinctively that it was important that they respond with something, but all she could think to offer was a dance from her native Skye. She had been dancing since she was a tot and had become very accomplished. But to do that she would need two swords, and the Maori didn’t seem to carry them.
    But they did have those intricately carved staffs. She closed her eyes and conjured an image of her da telling her that she could do anything she wanted to do as long as she believed she could, then took a deep breath and opened her eyes again. Niel started to say something as she marched off across the sun-baked ground towards the crowd of onlookers, but she ignored him and kept going, her arms swinging and her head high.
    She stopped before one of the dancers and pointed to his staff. Looking nonplussed, he nevertheless passed it to her. She did the same with the man beside him, then strode determinedly back to the middle of the courtyard. The crowd, engrossed, was utterly silent. Without looking at anyone, she arranged the two weapons on the ground to form a cross, then stepped to one side, untied her boot laces and slipped them off, and, as an afterthought, pulled the ribbon from her hair so that her hair tumbled down her back.
    She stood with her head bowed for a moment, fixing in her mind the beat that would normally be provided by her father’s pipes. She bowed to the crowd, then the crossed staffs, raised her arms and began to dance.
    Beginning slowly and turning always widdershins, she executedthe steps that were those of Highland warriors, who had used the dance to hone their strength, agility and state of mind before battle. Like those ancestors, she soon began to feel the heat rise in her veins and, as she recalled the congealing pools of blood beneath the still bodies of her mother and father, she became gloriously angry and danced with more and more intensity until the sweat dripped off her brow and stung her eyes. Everything around her began to blur, and she knew she was grunting and hissing with effort and emotion, but didn’t care. She danced for her parents, and she danced for all those who had ever fought under the McKinnon banner, but most of all she danced to express her grief and her desire for vengeance. But still she was careful to point her toes and avoid the staffs, because to touch them would mean certain disaster on the battlefield, and her clash with Tulloch was one she had privately vowed to win.
    By the time the dance was nearing its end, the bodice of her dress was soaked and long wisps of her hair stuck clammily to her damp face. She performed the final few steps—three slow, followed by three very quick and a high jump—then moved deliberately away from the staffs and, panting, bowed to the onlookers, then to her brothers and sister. Niel was biting his lip and blinking furiously, and Jamie and Jean were clutching each other with awe and delight.
    Isla grunted with satisfaction, knowing that her da would have been very pleased with her.
    A mutter of approval rippled through the crowd, then Wira, dressed now in a fancy feather cloak over his shirt and trousers,
    stepped forward and addressed the McKinnon children first in Maori, then in rather formal English.
    ‘Haeremai, haeremai, haeremai, e te tamariki, ki tenei marae o tatou. Haeremai, mauria mai nga taimahatanga o te ao. Mauria mai a houtou mate, kia mihia kia tangihia. He tino hanore kua tae mai