Shooting Stars

by Brian Falkiner

  I hope we don’t have to stay for two nights.

  Oh, and a marae is like a communal meeting place for Maori people, with a meeting hall and a dining hall, stuff like that.

  PS: Moma is not as silly as I sometimes think.

  Before we started walking all the way to Kennedy Bay she went to the general store. I hid in the bush nearby, and she went in. When she came out she was calm, but sad.

  The old lady died this morning.

  But Moma saw the canoe yesterday.

  December 17th

  Today I need to write about the tangi.

  It wasn’t what I expected. I really want to try and describe this as best as I can. It was really awesome.

  We found a vantage point on a hill overlooking the marae. There must have been hundreds of people attending the tangi and the sound of women wailing carried clearly up the hillside to us. One would start, then another would join in, and their voices would entwine and others would join in, knitting a fabric of audible grief.

  Cars and buses were coming and going, dropping off more and more people. I have never seen so many people in one place before. Smoke was rising from cooking fires in large pits. I could hear singing mixed in with the wailing. People were milling everywhere.

  Then Moma sang too.

  I had been so entranced by the scene in the valley below that I had almost forgotten she was here. She stood up, behind me. The wind that was bringing us the sounds from the tangi was riffling through her hair. She stood with her hands upturned, slightly raised in front of her, as if she were addressing an audience.

  She began to sing.

  I don’t know what she sang. The words were Maori. I don’t speak Maori and I didn’t know that she did either. In fact I don’t think she does, I think she just knows the words to these songs.

  She sang softly at first, then at full throat, belting out the songs to the people in the valley. If not for the wind blowing in our direction, and the symphony of noise coming from that direction, I would have been worried that they would hear us.

  She sang with feeling. With raw, ragged emotion that howled from her voice and dripped from her eyes.

  When she finished singing, she was silent for a while.

  I said nothing, and did nothing, sensing that this was a private moment for her.

  Then she began to speak, still as though she was addressing an audience.

  “When my boy was sick, you came,” she said. “You gave him life. When I could no longer carry on, you carried me. When I hungered, you fed me, when I thirsted you brought me water.”

  Her eyes were shut now.

  “You asked no questions and never judged me, or the boy,” she said. “Yet your strength was always there. Without you, I would not be standing here today, talking to your spirit.”

  Then Moma told some funny stories about what the old lady was like when she was younger. Some of the stories were not very complimentary either, and some, I thought, were quite mean. Perhaps brutally honest is the best way to put it. But overall it was clear that she loved the old lady and the old lady loved her.

  Moma’s eyes opened again.

  “You loved without condition, and you kept silent despite what it cost you. You were the best of us. Now Egan and I are the last of us. Haere ra- toku whaea,” she said. “Goodbye, my mother. I will not miss you at all. You will visit in my dreams and you will see the boy turn into a man and what a great man he will be. Haere ra- toku whaea,” she said again. “I will see you in my dreams.”

  When she finished she was silent for a long time.

  I rose and stood beside her and took her hand. She looked at me with red wet eyes.

  “I did not know the old lady was your mother,” I said.

  “She was my aunty,” Moma said. “But she raised me since I was five. She is the only mother I can remember.” Then she cried for a long time.

  I felt bad that I had been so mean to her (in my thoughts) about the eclipse.

  Moma stood on a hill and sang and cried and spoke to the spirit of the woman she thought of as her mother. She could not attend the funeral, because of me.

  When we made camp tonight, she said “Now it is just us, Egan.”

  When she is not so sad I will ask her what she meant by that.

  I gave her a big hug. Even mothers need comforting sometimes.

  December 18th

  Last night we spent another night at Kennedy Bay. Many cars came and went, and the singing and wailing and laughing carried on till late at night.

  I wrote a sonnet about the old lady, like Shakespeare used to write. I don’t know why. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

  Sonnet

  A face I see in dreams of sweat and fear

  A knotted hand to cool my fever’d skin

  The touch of life when death’s hook hover’d near

  The soft dawn of your new day now begins

  I knew you, though I knew not of your name

  A mother to my mother, you did bear

  Our secret, without judgement, fear or shame

  O! Angel bringing light in darkest air

  Unlike weak flesh this truest love can’t die

  Of mother for her daughter, she for I

  As mourners sing and wail and ask Him why

  The great canoe now takes you to the sky

  You kept us safe from those who wished us ill

  And now you sleep, and keep our secret still

  After that Moma took her water bottle, she washed her hands and made me wash mine. Then she sprinkled water on both of our heads. She did not explain why.

  I painted a picture of the old lady, the way I remember her in my dreams.

  I showed it to Moma.

  She cried.

  December 19th

  We walked home.

  We held hands much of the way.

  We camped on the stream bank, less than a kilometre from where J.T. is camping. We must be careful to avoid him.

  I asked Moma about the old lady. If she was her aunt, then is the old man at the store her uncle?

  She said no. Her uncle died many years ago and her aunt remarried. She doesn’t think he will keep the store now that his wife is gone.

  I think Moma is a little worried about this. It may make it more difficult for us to get supplies.

  Moma is deeply sad. I think her heart is broken. I don’t know how to fix her.

  December 20th

  Got home tonight. Too tired to write.

  December 21st

  I finally finished my new story today. I took my story book and went up to the shingle slide to show it to J.T. I also wanted to tell him all about the tangi, and the canoe that Moma saw in the cloud, but he wasn’t there.

  There was nothing there. His campsite had been completely cleaned up, like it was never there. Except for the ashes in the fire-pit he’d made in the shingle.

  J.T. has gone. He never said goodbye.

  I am a little upset by this.

  Things I am afraid of:

  That J.T. will tell everyone about me and Moma and the police will find us.

  That the new people at the general store will report Mum to the police.

  That I will never see J.T. again.

  December 22nd

  It is Christmas in three days.

  I always get a Christmas present. Moma buys something at the general store and wraps it in newspaper so I won’t know what’s inside, although I can usually guess from the shape and the weight.

  It is usually a book, but sometimes it is chocolate. I like chocolate, but usually it only lasts a couple of days. And when you’ve finished it, you can’t eat it again.

  A book lasts much longer, and you can read it as many times as you like. (I have read ‘Of Mice and Men’ about six times, but
I still always cry at the end.)

  The books Moma buys from the store have always belonged to someone else. Sometimes there is a name written inside the front cover. It will say something like: This book belongs to Bernie Collins. When I see that, I always wonder who is Bernie Collins (or whatever their name is).

  Sometimes I make up stuff about them, what they look like, things they like to do, who their friends and family are. I don’t imagine that I get it right, but it’s fun to try.

  Sometimes there are things left in the book, like a bus pass or a Lotto ticket, which is a game where you can win money, according to Moma. She says it’s a silly game and a waste of money, and people who spend money on Lotto should save their money and spend it on important things.

  But both times I found a Lotto ticket I kept them and hid them in my secret place.

  When I am 18 and go out into the world, I will play the game and see if I can win some money.

  Other things I have found in old books:

  A shopping list

  A receipt from a shop for a wheelbarrow

  A yellow post-it note with some numbers written on it

  An empty Durex packet (Moma explained to me what that was, but I don’t want to write about it in my diary)

  I was thinking about J.T. a bit today. I’m glad he’s gone. Now things are back to the way they used to be. To the way they ought to be.

  Book I am reading:

  ‘The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe’.

  Thought for the day:

  Christmas is my favourite thing (after writing).

  Things I am afraid of:

  1.The same things as yesterday

  2.Ravens

  December 23rd

  Nancy is our goat. She doesn’t do much except eat and poo and make milk which Moma sometimes makes into cheese or soap. The cheese is nice. The soap doesn’t taste too good.

  I tried to make ice cream today. Usually I think it is made from cow’s milk, not goat’s milk. We don’t have a cow.

  I found a recipe in a magazine. I didn’t tell Moma because I want to surprise her on Christmas day. So I waited until she went off to the town to get supplies. (And my Christmas present!)

  Anyway, I heated up some goat’s milk (thank you Nancy) on the paraffin stove and stirred in some sugar. I was supposed to add glucose syrup but I don’t know what that is, so I used honey. I whisked some egg yolks (thank you Frances) then added those into the mixture. Then I took the pan all the way up to the Water Works, the spring where the water comes straight out of the ground and is icy cold, even in summer. I put the pan in the little rock pool at the base of the spring and just kept churning while I waited for it to turn into ice cream.

  It was supposed to freeze, but it never did. I guess the water wasn’t as cold as I thought.

  I ate it anyway, so today I had my first Ice Cream, although it was actually quite runny. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.

  I don’t think I will make it for Christmas.

  Thought for the day:

  Ice cream is not my favourite thing.

  Things I am afraid of:

  Moma still isn’t back from the town. I am a little worried. She is always back before dark, and it is after eight. It will be dark soon.

  At sunset I saw a cloud that looked a little like a canoe.

  December 24th

  Moma said when you are frightened of something, write it in your diary. Then, later on, you can look back and see how silly you were, and how there was really nothing to be frightened of.

  But today I am terribly frightened that Moma has been hurt – or worse – and I don’t know if writing it in my diary is going to help. She went to town yesterday for supplies. She has still not come home.

  Maybe the new people at the general store told on her to the police. Or maybe J.T. told the police.

  Maybe she just decided to leave me, like J.T. did.

  Moma has been very sad lately. More sad than I have ever seen her before. Ever since the tangi for her aunt. I hope she hasn’t decided to leave me.

  I am trying to remember the cloud I saw yesterday. Did it really look like a canoe, or was that my imagination?

  Tomorrow is Christmas.

  Things I am afraid of:

  That the police have arrested Moma.

  December 25th

  Walked to town looking for Moma.

  Found skid marks on the road just past the rail tracks.

  Found a brown patch on the dirt.

  Pretty sure it was a blood stain.

  Walked home.

  January 1st

  I didn’t write anything in my diary last week. I was so upset about Moma.

  I wasn’t even going to write anything tonight, but I had to. I think the only way I can make sense of what is happening to me is to write it down at the end of the day. That way I can sort out my thoughts and feelings in my mind.

  I did write a letter to Jesus last week.

  I haven’t had a reply yet.

  January 2nd

  I am going to leave the forest.

  I have to go and find Moma.

  I have been making a list of everything I think I will need in the world:

  •My knife

  •The crossbow

  •Some cans of food

  •Dried venison and pork

  •Jack’s bunny

  •Money

  •My Edgar Allen Poe book

  •My paint set

  •My old Lotto tickets I found in the books

  Our money is locked away in Moma’s locked box where she keeps her secret things.

  She keeps the key on a chain around her neck. I will need to break into the lockbox. I think I can do this with the axe.

  If Moma comes back she will be very angry about this.

  I might wait a little longer.

  January 3rd

  I broke the lock open using the axe and opened Moma’s secret box. I have never opened this before, and Moma has never let me see what was inside.

  The box is small, about the size of a block of fire-wood.

  Our money was in a small tin box on the top of many things. There is exactly $615 dollars. That sounds like a lot of money. In ‘Of Mice and Men’ George earned fifty dollars a month. So that would be a whole year’s pay for him.

  I wasn’t going to look through the other things, but then I thought there might be some clues that would help me find her.

  I may have to rewrite this page because I keep crying and it is making the paper wet.

  I’m sorry about that.

  In the box were many things. These are some of them:

  •A soft toy – a clown in a black and white costume with a tear stitched below one eye. This must have been Moma’s ‘bunny’.

  •Photos of a little girl, I think it is Moma, playing the violin. (I didn’t know she had learned the violin.)

  •Photos of her with the old lady from the store, except the old lady is a young lady, and very beautiful.

  •A photo of Moma at school, sitting in the front row of a class of children, her knees together, her hands clasped into fists and resting on her knees.

  •A ticket to a concert of a singer I have never heard of.

  •A love letter addressed to Moana with hearts drawn all over it. I did not read it. But I looked at the bottom to see who sent it. It was not from my father. It was dated when Moma must have still been in school.

  •A photo of Moma and a man, my dad I think. She is wearing a big white dress and he is wearing a black suit. I think it is a wedding photo. They look happy.

  •Photos of me when I was a baby.

  •Some Get Well Soon cards, addressed to me, dated when I was nine months old.

  •Moma’s birth certificate.

&nb
sp; •Moma’s driver’s licence.

  •My birth certificate.

  •A letter addressed to me.

  •A letter addressed to someone named Acacia Kavanagh. I don’t know who that is.

  It took me a long time to open the letter. I kept worrying that Moma would come back and find that I had opened her locked box and opened her sealed letter.

  Then I realised how silly that was. I would love to be in trouble with Moma for opening her private stuff. That would mean she was here, and okay.

  I read the letter three times.

  I am a good speller, but I guess I got that from reading books. I certainly didn’t get it from Moma.

  Moma’s Letter

  THE CITY PAGES, January 4th - February 15th

  January 4th

  Today I untied Nancy and let her go. She’ll be fine. She’ll hang around the hut for a while, then if she runs out of food, she’ll move on. She’ll become a wild goat. She’ll be free.

  Then I went to the store.

  I know that Moma’s aunt is no longer there, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I thought I might talk to her husband and show him the letter and maybe he would be able to help me find Moma.

  If she is hurt, then she may be in hospital.

  Or maybe she has been arrested by the police.

  Unfortunately the man was not there.

  A new couple was running the store. They are much younger. I think they are from India because the man wears a cloth around his head that I have seen in books on people from India.

  They told me that the man had gone, but they had an address for him. His name is Simon Kavanagh and he lives in Auckland. That is the biggest city in the country and over a million people live there.