His meal finished, he thought why the heck not? and pulled off his pants. His left hand was still dirty, but rather than cleaning it, he let it be, finding himself even more aroused by the odour of the earth. He stroked himself, but this still felt like his own hand, so he fell to his knees and began moulding the soil into a pleasing shape so that he could lie against it. At the last moment, he made a hollow deep into the mound he had formed, and, no longer thinking rationally at all, he inserted himself there.
Well. For a man as inexperienced as Tāne, this was a revelation. It was warm and soft but unyielding enough to cause a pleasing friction as he rubbed himself in and out, astonished by the pleasure of it. He released his seed quickly and lay spent against the earth like a babe on the breast of his mother. Oh, the relief! For the first time in weeks he felt calm deep down to his belly, and his loins did not scream fiery need at him.
For many days after that he experimented with his mound, forming it in different ways each time to see how it best fitted him. He gained much pleasure from coupling with his little plot of sacred soil, but he found it best to do so in the afternoon, once the sun had warmed the earth for the day.
Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and Tāne became frustrated again. The autumn chill brought with it frost and rains that should have pleased him. But his mound turned to watery mud, and he rarely got a chance to lie there. His desire would come to him at night, and he wished for something that could relieve the ache that had moved from between his legs up into his chest.
This ache had all of him now. On the rare occasions he could enjoy the physical delight of his earthy adventures, he would return to his bed spent but still yearning. For all the cold winter he carried a pressure within, a need for more than simple bodily indulgence.
He couldn’t figure out what he was missing.
By the following spring, as the sun’s warmth released sweet blossom buds from hibernation and the insects and birds began emerging from their winter nests, Tāne was desolate. He came to the soil desperately, but without passion. His orchards suffered. He neglected his stock. His house was left unswept. He no longer gained any joy from hunting, gathering and cooking his meals. Instead he ate whatever food he found while he worked—fruit, seeds, the occasional huhu grub.
One day after a sun-shower, Tāne dozed under a tree in his orchard, where it was relatively dry. His eyes were half-closed, his mind drifting. He thought about all the adventure he’d had in his life, all that he had created on his land. But he did so without the pride he was accustomed to experiencing over such thoughts. What is happening to me? he thought.
Slowly he became aware of the fantails in the foliage above chattering excitedly, the cicada buzzing steadily faster, the tūī’s call becoming more melodic and enchanting than he remembered. With his eyes fully closed now, the world around him was a riot of fervent sound, each creature vying for the attention of its peers. I am alone, Tāne thought, that is the problem. But who did he yearn for? He opened his eyes to the flutter of numerous wings, feathered or dry-leaf crisped, clasping talons and searching feelers, buzzing and twittering declarations of love—the ardent couplings of all creatures in the canopy. Oh, he thought, oh. And he laughed, for how could it have taken him so long to realise this?
He called his mother, asking her what he should do about finding a partner. She did not know of any available young women. Indeed, no women were known in the area at all. She felt for her son. Even though she and her husband were separated now, she remembered their time together as the happiest time of her life. ‘You may have to be creative,’ she told him, ‘let your imagination guide you. Do you know of the place called Kurawaka?’
Tāne felt the world tilt for a moment, a path clearing before him. The place his mother had named was the same place he had been visiting all this time.
He made his way to the spot he held in such affection, all the way beseeching the heavens and the earth to help him in his quest. There, he fell to his knees and scooped the soil into his arms, bringing it to his face and inhaling deeply. Yes, he thought oh god yes please let this be it. Then slowly, affectionately, he began to work. At first, it was easy—he wanted the creation to be like him, his mirror, his equal. He formed the arms and the legs, the neck, the head, the shape of the torso. Here, he took liberty; remembering the various forms he had tried the summer before, adding shape in ways that he had found most pleasing. There were things he did not know or understand, so he let instinct guide him—adding folds, a dimple or two. He was enchanted by the figure that emerged under his fingertips.
All that was left was the face of his beloved. This was difficult. He formed something resembling what he knew of his own features—a nose, two eyes, lips. Touching his face, he realised the features he had moulded were softer than his own. He hoped this new person would accept the roughness of his face and body. Laid out before him now, the figure was smooth and rounded, like the hills in the far distance. He was at once excited and anxious. He knew of the old magic, how the life force could be shared, how creatures could be brought into being, but he had never tried to make someone like himself before. Who would she be? Would she even want him? Would the magic work?
His mother had told him to be creative. A leap of faith was required. He opened his mouth, not yet sure of the words, closed his eyes, and attempted to find the sound. If he could just find the right note, the words would come, he was sure of it. His voice sounded awkward at first, so unsure. But he was right. After a moment of hesitation his throat began to hum with vibration, and the chant coursed through him like a powerful shifting tide.
This was it. If it didn’t work he would be crushed. He wanted to prolong the moment of anticipation, the moment of not knowing. And then it was time. He leaned over and looked at her dear face, gathered up all the power of the desire inside him, and blew a warm constant stream of air into her nostrils. He took all of the air in his lungs and blew it into her, sending with it all his intentions.
There was a pause.
And then she sneezed.
‘Tihei mauri ora,’ he whispered. He helped her sit up, break away from the earth beneath her. A layer of soil fell away from her skin, and he could see her in her true form, glistening and alive and the deep red-brown colour of the earth that had formed her. Silent laughter filled him even as tears formed in his eyes. He clasped her to him, pressing his nose against hers so that they could breathe together for a while.
She was smiling as she lifted her face to look into his eyes. He felt heat rise into his eyes. He didn’t know where to look. She was here. Alive.
‘I’m Hine,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you figured it out. I’ve been waiting for ages.’
He was stunned.
‘Aw, look at you,’ she said, ‘you’re all skin and bones. Let’s make a feast. Time for a celebration, don’t you think?’
(2010)
Domestic
Jenny Bornholdt, ‘The Jersey’
A long time ago a friend
offered to knit me a jersey.
Because she was a busy person
we agreed she’d do it
when she found time.
A year went by and I moved away
from Dunedin (this was one of the reasons
for the jersey—it was very cold
and I didn’t have enough
warm clothes).
I did buy a lot of second-hand coats
that year, and made do
with my father’s old green fishing jersey
—one he’d been wearing the day he caught,
then lost, an enormous snapper
off the wharf at Golden Bay.
I was with him then
and remember the excitement
as we watched the fish
swirl up towards the surface
then the disbelief as the hook
came free and the great shape moved
away and down and down
until it became water
once more.
The jersey was a fine one
but rather large, as my father had been.
Fifteen years later the new jersey arrived
wrapped in brown paper and crammed into
our letterbox. It was a beautiful thing—
full of colour and texture. I am a tall person
but this jersey was made for someone much larger
than myself. Because of its size
and because I loved it but couldn’t wear it
I put it in a cupboard while I thought
about what to do.
*
Then my father died and the world became a stopped
unsteady place.
After a time
I got back to doing the things
I’d done before.
Our son started swimming lessons.
In his class was a child named Lyric.
At the end of each lesson
she and my son floated
on their backs
while the instructor towed them
through the water.
There was a weird stillness about the children
when this happened.
It was as if someone had flicked
the sound off
carving a core of silence
into the pool’s
noise and tumble.
*
I got the jersey out and decided to take it apart.
Because a lot of the wool was mohair and had been knitted
two strands together, it took a very long time.
It was complicated and frustrating and sometimes
I had to take to it with the scissors.
But even then I was grateful.
Please don’t read too much into this.
I can imagine the temptation to see this jersey
as my life—here I was unravelling it (see,
already it’s in balls in a bag on the floor)
ready to fashion into something else—
but it wasn’t like that.
I don’t mean to implicate my friend in this either.
She in no way set out to make anything
that would have to shoulder the responsibility
of metaphor. It was a jersey she knitted
and I am the one who took it apart.
Every evening I knitted peggy squares,
which were the simplest things
I could think of. And I would wear my father’s
pyjamas—lovely striped cotton ones—
the kind of cotton that’s so soft it feels
like silk. My mother bought him these pyjamas
to wear in the hospice
but he never even slipped his arm
into a sleeve.
*
After he died we gave away most of his clothes.
Other men in the family fitted his shirts.
His suits we gave to an organisation that helped
immigrant families. Some things we kept—
a man with one foot two sizes smaller than the other, no one could ever step
into his shoes.
What do you do with cufflinks
all the little gold and silver bits
clinking in the dish?
His old green fishing jersey was long
gone. I’d never found it after I moved
from Dunedin.
It returned in a dream though.
A dream that came, I think, because of my friend
Mary, who found four boys’ jerseys
in an op shop
in Milton.
She sent these jerseys to our youngest
son. Beautiful jerseys—striped and flecked
in colours you never see now
mostly because children
don’t wear wool much
anymore.
We’d bemoaned this fact, Mary and I,
and that was when she recalled seeing the jerseys
and vowed to send them.
In the dream, my father’s jersey—very old
and full of holes—was folded
beautifully but belonged
to someone else.
I couldn’t bear to see it on their shelf.
Couldn’t bear to leave it.
I woke, of course, and it
was gone.
*
It’s the closest I’ve come to dreaming
about my father.
When he was ill, I woke one night
when he called my name
but even as I snapped
into consciousness I realised
he was on the other side of town
and I’d manufactured
his need for me.
*
Mary told me that as her mother
lay dying, she made sculptures from sticks
on the lawn outside her window.
All day this daughter
moved about the lawn
placing twigs carefully
on or against each other.
I wish I could have done this.
I wish I could have made something
in the face of my father’s illness.
Instead, it became
a ragged hillside to be crossed,
furious with grief,
wondering at how unfaithful, how
ungrateful, his body seemed.
His illness
unmade me.
I wanted to climb back
inside the arms
of my first, strong, disintegrating
family. It made me fear for my mother.
I didn’t want
to let her out
of my sight.
*
Through that winter
after my father died
I knitted, and the pile
of peggy squares grew.
I took some pleasure
in laying them out
on the floor
to see how the colours
might go together.
*
For my forty-first birthday
I was given a tea towel
by my friend who had knitted
the jersey.
This tea towel features a
Horse Map of the World.
The horses stand proudly.
There’s the Connemara Pony,
the French Coach, the Shetland
Pony, the Mongolian and Polo
Ponies, Prejvalsky’s Horse, the
Darley Arabian, the Clydesdale
and the Kentucky Saddle, the
Mustang and the Suffolk Punch.
It occurs to me that
out of my knitting
I could make a horse
blanket. Not for one of these
Horses of the World
but for a horse my father rode
at Cape Palliser
in a photograph we have of him
as a young man.
My blanket would keep this horse
warm. It would love
it. The thought of this blanket
would mean this horse
would take my father out
over the roughest tracks
and always bring him
safely home.
(2003)
Brian Turner, ‘Semi-Kiwi’
The barn roof needs painting
and the spouting is ruined.
Likewise the roof of this house
in which we live, borer here,
rot there. I’m neither handy,
in the great Kiwi DIY tradition,
nor monied, which rather leaves
us up shit creek without a shovel.
I grub to find what Stevens called
the ‘plain sense of things’
and come up empty-handed
more often than not, but
I’m a dab-hand at recognising,
if not suppressing, self-pity,
and I can back a trailer
(2001)
Kate De Goldi, from The 10PM Question
Frankie opened the back door to the smell of warm honey and toasted walnuts. Baklava. He was expert at figuring the different cakes under construction, usually just from the smell (for which he awarded himself an A+) or sometimes from the bowls and ingredients on the bench (B+).
Ma was brushing the filo pastry sheets with melted butter, a steady painting motion. Frankie stood for a moment watching the white pastry become transparent. It looked like wet brown paper, brittle and eminently breakable, but Ma could wield the ghostly sheets with no difficulty at all.
Frankie liked to watch Ma while she baked. She was like a practised conjuror, her movements sure and splendid. Ma did everything in the kitchen with great calm. No matter how many cakes were in process, no matter how many different tasks needed to be completed in short order—creaming butter, toasting nuts, melting chocolate, greasing pans—she never rushed or panicked. And, as if in response to her unruffled presence, the ingredients seemed always to play their part; they almost never burned or curdled or spilled.
When Gordana baked it was another story. Frankie believed the utensils and ingredients became instantly anxious when Gordana entered the kitchen. The beater stalled and coughed and sprayed the walls, bowls shattered inexplicably, eggs imploded, a burning odour prevailed. Gordana banged and crashed a great deal while she was baking. She slammed pans and cupboard doors. She stomped about in a cloud of flour and sugar and baking soda. She swore at biscuit mix when it stuck to her fingers. It was no wonder, Frankie thought, that her afghans and peanut cookies had a shrunken look about them. They were born frightened, and they never recovered.
He figured his own baking style was somewhere between Ma’s and Gordana’s. The kitchen wasn’t a train wreck or anything, but he did seem to walk an agitated tight rope, darting between bowls, checking and rechecking the recipe nervously, remembering things at the last minute. These days he could do a decent carrot cake and Anzac biscuits, but only if all the planets were in alignment.
Frankie pinched a spoonful of chopped walnuts from one of the china bowls lined up in front of Ma.
She moved the bowl away from him. ‘School okay?’ She kissed his cheek.
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 140