by Tihema Baker
The cold becomes fiercer as the night comes down. We women go under the hut-like shelter that stands on the deck. I wrap myself in a cloak and huddle myself against one of the posts that holds up the shelter. For warmth, I sleep with a pregnant dog. Her belly is rounded and her teats prominent. I am hopeful for her that we will find land before the pups come. ‘Driftwood and weed,’ say the older ladies. ‘Those are the signs!’ I share their excitement, but at the same time I worry. I hope my dreams tonight will not be about the rock people. I worry about this so much that I cannot sleep. I put my head out of the shelter and see that all the men are awake, and they are busy. Fishpuke is still at the steering oar, while the captain and navigator are muttering their incantations, which will go on all night. The stars are out, and away at the horizon I can see the soundless flash of distant lightning, a storm far out in another part of this vast ocean.
I go back and lie again with the pregnant bitch. One of the older women is awake too. Quietly, almost below her breath, she sings a dirge for those who have died on our journey and a lament for the homeland left far behind. Her words recall the coconut groves, the warm lagoon, the reef teaming with fish, the mist around the mountain, the billowing clouds and the cloudless days. She recalls how the great chief, my grandfather, died, and how his wicked sons squabbled over the best of his lands. How there was blood spilt. How there was a great council of the people to resolve the dispute without further bloodshed, and how the council found against the older of the two sons. The elder son was the less popular. People said that he was all bombast, and that if he really wished for new land, he should set sail in search of it elsewhere. He brooded on this for months, and, after consulting his advisors, decided that he would indeed take the challenge laid down before him, and head to sea. Better to die on the ocean, leading a great expedition, than to stay home and die in obscurity, a minor chief – so he reasoned. He gathered his men and, with many incantations, felled four great trees from the inland forest. The sound of chipping axes drifted over the lagoon for many weeks. I recall how we women were not allowed near, since the men were under a great state of restriction as they completed the work, which was done under the cover of a great canoe-building house at the forest edge. We finally saw the two ships when they had taken shape and had been dragged to the edge of the lagoon. For each ship, two great canoe hulls had been fixed together with stout poles, onto which the masts had been lashed, and a deck and shelter hut built on top. The sails had been fashioned and already fitted. I remember how there was a full day of prayers and offerings to the sea god when the ships were finally put onto the water. Here, we women began to provision them for the long journey to the land that is supposed to be found under the southern stars, where the sign of the great anchor shines in the night sky. There were stories about the place – it was rumoured that great navigators from our neighbouring islands had found it by accident and returned with stories about its ample land. The distance made the journey a great risk, but worth it if the stories were true.
There were tears from both men and women as we sailed away. People came from all over the island, even from villages on the opposite side, to watch us depart through the gap in the reef. The chief’s elder son stood in a heroic pose on the other ship as we cruised out onto the open sea. We watched as the island diminished to become a distant shelf of land, then a shimmer on the horizon, then a memory.
We had pleasant sailing conditions for a while, but this did not last. The sea and wind gods are not friends; that much we already knew. It was not long before the sea and wind resumed their debate, the wind cursing the ocean like an old witch, and the ocean fighting back with waves like great rolling hills. We held to the woodwork for our lives as we mounted each huge swell, our great vessel suddenly seeming little better than a child’s toy. Wicker cages slid around the deck, and the chickens inside clucked and scrambled in alarm. The navigator held the steering oar, prepared to wait with infinite patience for the storm to blow itself out of breath. The captain shouted instructions at the other men to check every lashing, to work with the bailer to empty the storm water from the twin hulls. When the sea had again levelled out, the wind died completely, and no incantation would raise it again for many days. There had been days and nights full of demoralising paddle work. There was nothing to see on that sparkling broad ocean; only the hammerheads that glide underneath. The other vessel had disappeared completely, and we talked among ourselves about whether they might have been sunk, or whether they might have been blown right to the new lands, and already been planting their crops.
One of our men went mad and jumped overboard, preferring the depths.
Oh, the horrible sameness of the days.
I sleep not a single moment that night. I am awake with the old woman’s lamentations of all these events, and, from outside the shelter, the sacred mutterings of the captain and the navigator.
I emerge from the shelter at first light of the sunrise. We have seen so many sunrises out here on the ocean that I have lost count. The pink light is chilled by another cutting wind. The incantations have finished and the wind remains favourable. The women are up and about on the deck, where the wind blows our hair around, making ears and the tips of noses feel numb and salt-preserved. We go about the morning routine, distributing food from our ever more meagre resources.
‘Hoi!’ shouts the navigator. He points up and we look to see birds, sleek like darts, gliding overhead. ‘Kua, kua, kua,’ the birds call as they speed away towards the horizon. The navigator gets to his feet and strides over to the stern, where he and Fishpuke jointly apply their muscles to the steering oar. We hear it whoosh in the current, and we feel the vessel respond, turning to follow in the birds’ path.
The captain comes around to talk with us. ‘It will be in the next few days,’ he promises us. ‘Maybe even today.’ We smile at the prospect, though none of us is sure that we believe him. People are unwilling to believe, and then find themselves disappointed. I look around at the people and see that they are desperate for land, any land, where they can mark out their gardens and plant the sweet potato and the yam and the breadfruit. They are tired of salt spray and rope callouses.
The navigator stays at the oar, and Fishpuke is ordered up the foremast to keep a watch. He obeys, happy with the chance to show off, sliding up the mast as if it were a coconut tree.
The sun comes out, making for a pleasant warmth in the momentary intervals in the wind. Around midday, a niggling rain sweeps in, hissing across the ocean. Fishpuke slides down the mast and looks about on the deck, his dampened black hair licking down across his forehead. We women scramble to catch the water. We are hopeful that we will not need it; that land is close, with clear mountain-fed rivers. When the shower stops, we inspect the pittance of water we have funnelled into our gourds. The clouds have been frugal with their gift. The sun comes out again and sparkles on the water. The hope of land we had dared to hold in our hearts dwindles again.
But later that afternoon, there is a shout from a woman standing on the prow: ‘Hoi! Cloud! Cloud ahead!’
Not land yet. Just cloud in a low pearly bank, layered on the horizon. This is not storm cloud, but the pale billows that might cling to land. We all stand up to look. There is a new vigour as the captain begins to give orders to the men: get working with the bailer, take a reading of the current; we will do everything we can to increase our speed. I take a gourd and recklessly pour the fresh water over my hair and take the wooden comb to drag it through the tangles and sea-matted ends. I put on my shell necklace. I try to make myself ready to meet the chief of the rock people.
The navigator stands staunch at the oar, his lips pressed together. He does not need to say anything. The spirit fish, or at least his own shark-like senses, have served him well. He is certain now of his success.
Skimming across the waves, we come.
Crushing Butterflies
Ann French
The bus stopped with a hiss of brakes and Mia stood up, win
cing as the pain in her back and legs flared. She ignored it, concentrating instead on the baby swaddled like a papoose, snug against her breasts.
Moving to the door, she avoided looking at the other passengers. With her long black hair and smooth skin, people always stared, but today she was wearing dark glasses, which on such a gloomy day must seem incongruous.
Outside, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs. It felt good after the stale air of the bus and the confinement of bodies squeezed into a small space. The baby murmured, content in his cocoon, and he blew a bubble of milk between his lips.
Mia walked down the road to her mother’s house, taking her time. She enjoyed looking at the houses in the street. They were well kept, with neatly tended lawns and gardens – quiet too. That’s what she noticed most. It wasn’t like that where she lived with broken cars on driveways and lawns – if you could call them lawns, patched with weeds and littered with rubbish. And always the noise, stereos, dogs barking, kids screaming and adults fighting. She was tired of it all.
Almost there, she thought. Number 30, a white house with blue window-sills, set behind a wooden fence. She had helped her father paint those sills and what a pain that had been. He was such a perfectionist. ‘Rub them down properly, Heremia,’ he said, giving her a little block of wood wrapped around with sandpaper. He never called her Mia like everyone else. It was always Heremia. From him she had learned there was only one way to do things. The Right Way.
He’d died six years ago of a heart attack, and she missed him every day. She often heard his voice in her head, especially now, when her aunts, her mother’s sisters, were involved. He had called them ‘the short, the tall and the bloody ugly,’ although never in front of his wife. Aunty Em was the small, quiet one who would slip Mia some money when she had a little to spare and it was Em who knitted a beautiful layette for the baby that must have taken months.
Moe, her sister, was tall, bossy and had been married three times. ‘Poor bastards. Bet they were glad to kick the bucket,’ Dad would mutter. He had never forgotten the day he had called round to take Moe’s last husband, Pete, fishing. He was met at the door by his sister-in-law in her dressing gown and curlers and told that Pete couldn’t go because he had to mow the lawns, clean out the garage and complete a list of other jobs as long as your arm. Mia remembered her father coming home and giving Ma a hug. ‘I got the best of the bunch,’ he’d said.
Finally, there was Fran, the oldest. ‘A real piece of work,’ Dad would say. ‘Tongue like a whip and never a good word to say about anybody.’ Mia agreed with her father and, today in particular, dreaded a meeting with her aunt.
‘Anyone home?’ she called, opening the front door and stepping inside. The house was warm as Ma felt the cold these days, even with summer at its hottest. It had a smell to it as well – lavender air-freshener and something else not so pleasant.
‘In the bedroom,’ a voice said. Mia, squaring her shoulders and straightening her back, walked into the lions’ den.
Her aunties were all there but it was Fran who immediately questioned the sunglasses. ‘Why are you wearing sunnies inside? Walked into a door again?’
Mia could hear her father’s voice, ‘Told you she was a nasty piece of work, didn’t I? Give her time – she’s just warming up.’
Mia went to where Ma lay in bed, covered with a thick quilt, and bending down, she kissed her forehead. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. Her mother smiled and held her hand. ‘Better for seeing you and baby,’ she whispered. It shocked Mia the difference a week had made even, though she knew how relentless cancer could be once it had a grip, and Ma had been fighting the disease for three years now. Her skin was grey and the weight loss was significant, even in seven days. Dark shadows outlined her eyes, and the once plump hand with soft skin was skeletal, dry and cracked. ‘Oh God, let me have her for a little longer,’ Mia thought, and her heart broke. Lowering her head, she kissed her mother’s hand and blessed the dark glasses that hid her tears.
‘I’d like a cup of tea and a biscuit,’ said Ma. There was silence for a second, and then all three sisters made for the door, jockeying for position to be useful. From the kitchen came the sound of cupboards opening and shutting and crockery being set out. Mia’s mother smiled. ‘I may be dying, but I’m still the most cunning of all my sisters. Now show me my grandson while they’re out of the room so we can have some peace and quiet together.’
Mia unwound the baby and held him out to her mother who, although weak, managed to hold him with the skill of someone used to caring for infants. The baby frowned, stretching his arms and legs free from the confines of the carrier, and opened his eyes. Then he smiled at his grandmother, the first real smile, and she smiled back, the young and the old taking each other in.
‘I’ve called him Henri, after Dad,’ said Mia and her mother nodded. ‘A good choice,’ she said, and Mia knew she was pleased.
There was silence for a time and then, ‘Has he been hitting you again?’ her mother asked suddenly. The question she dreaded was here, but Mia couldn’t lie, so she hung her head and the answer was given.
Her mother sighed, then said, ‘I’ve told your brother and he wants to speak to you. He’s outside in the garage, so go and see him. Do it now before those three come back. I’ll look after the baby.’
The thought of what her brother, Kai, might do and say made her heart sink as she made her way slowly out to her father’s old workshop. Kai was hammering nails as though it were more than a piece of wood he was battering. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The walls vibrated with the noise, and the blows shook the work bench. Mia called out, but he was concentrating so hard he didn’t hear. She came up behind him and touched his shoulder. He swung round, the hammer raised, and for a second, Mia thought he would bring it down on her head, splitting her skull.
Kai threw the hammer down and put his arms around her, holding her tight. ‘Ah Mia,’ he said, and when he stepped back, she could see tears in his eyes. ‘Ma told me what’s been happening,’ he said. ‘I’m going to kill the bastard. How could he do that to you?’
‘No, you mustn’t go near him Kai. It will only make things worse if you do. And he’s not always like it. Just when he drinks and …,’ she hesitated, ‘does the other stuff.’
‘You mean take drugs?’ said her brother. ‘How can you stay there? Especially now with the baby. Come home. Ma would love to have you here, and we could look after her together.’
Kai tilted her chin up, making her look at him. ‘You’re frightened aren’t you? That’s why you won’t leave him. What’s he done that you stay with a piece of shit like that?’ Like the thudding of the hammer, Kai’s anger filled the shed.
‘You don’t understand Kai. He’ll come after me like he did before. I even went to the police but that was useless. And he found out – I don’t know how. He took me back to the house and beat me so badly I couldn’t walk for five days. He broke some of my ribs and did other things I don’t want to think about. He wouldn’t let me go to a doctor, so I just lay there wanting to die for a long time. I didn’t die, but I know I was lucky that time, and maybe I won’t be so lucky if it happens again.’
Her brother gripped her arm, staring into her face. ‘Do you remember when I tried to warn you about going out with him? I’d heard things about him even then. They all said he was a vicious bastard, but you wouldn’t listen. Thought you knew better. He’s in a gang, Mia. A fucking gang that peddles booze and drugs to kids. What the hell is wrong with you?’
Kai turned away and picked up the hammer again. ‘I can’t help you if you won’t let me. But when you make your mind up what you want to do, let me know. I’ve got mates that could sort him out, even if he is in a gang, and you could go away somewhere until it’s all sorted.’
Mia looked at her brother’s broad back and shoulders. He loved her; she knew that, but she also knew that if he made a move against Danny Walker, he would die. She went to touch him but pulled her hand back and turned and walked
into the house.
She could hear her aunts talking to her mother in the bedroom but the thought of facing them and making excuses for her black eye was too much after the confrontation with Kai. She made a cup of tea then sat at the table, wondering what she should do.
She was eighteen when she met Danny and was flattered by the attention he gave her. Charming, handsome, intelligent, he made her laugh. It wasn’t until later that the violent, vicious streak that made up so much of his personality became apparent. In black leathers, riding his Harley, an element of danger surrounded him that intrigued her. She was unsophisticated, worked in a small office and had never had a boyfriend. Later, she was sorry he hadn’t met her father, dead two years by then. He would have known immediately what sort of man his daughter was getting involved with and stopped her from having any more to do with Danny Walker.
She moved in with him after a year to a state house in Otara, South Auckland. Love made her blind to the unending poverty, the drugs and alcohol abuse around her. There was no privacy in the cramped, grimy conditions she found herself in. People came and went, some for just a few minutes, others for hours at a time. All of them came to see Danny, some offering to sell him something they thought he might need, others to buy what they couldn’t purchase elsewhere – drugs and guns.