by Tihema Baker
He had forgotten the drawing was there and tried to hide it, making excuses, finally ripping it into pieces and throwing it in a bin. It put a different slant on our relationship, and I felt uncomfortable around him and didn’t trust him the same. We were no longer cousins or friends. I sensed he wanted more, and withdrew. I stopped going with my mother when she visited, and made excuses not to be there when they came to our house.
Maaka probably sensed my renunciation of him and was hurt by it, but I was young and didn’t care.
In the years that followed, I occasionally caught up with him. His mother, my aunt, died a miserable death from cancer. The son she’d favoured ignored her – didn’t visit the hospital even when she asked to see him. Maaka took his mother home, cleaned and washed her as she became incontinent, and wept inconsolably when she died. Pita had to be reminded twice to attend the tangi.
He married in his early thirties, a woman who was an alcoholic. I doubt Maaka knew that at the time, as he didn’t drink at all – the signs may have been there but he didn’t recognise them. His wife grew large with age and drink, but he never abandoned her, nor to my knowledge looked elsewhere. It wasn’t a happy marriage, but then what marriage is when one partner is an alcoholic with no plans for redemption or redemptive measures? ‘A slow jog to hell,’ as my father would have said.
There were three children, two boys and a girl. One boy, Pita, was called after the brother who no longer spoke to Maaka. Wiri, like his father, was happiest tinkering with cars and bikes, and was an artist of ability. The girl, Mereanne, was the apple of her father’s eye. She called him ‘Pops’, and although he threw off at her, he would have walked on hot coals if she’d asked. She never did.
One day I got a call to say that Maaka’s oldest son had been killed. Like his father and brother, he loved motorcycles. He had been riding up the driveway to his parents’ house when a stray dog ran in front of him. Pita braked, came off the bike and hit his head on the concrete curb. He died instantly.
I went to the funeral, held in a small chapel reeking of incense and ripe lilies. My cousin Maaka and his brother, although no longer speaking to one another, talked to me. Sadness hung in the air like a scene from a primeval tragedy. Maaka shed no tears, blaming speed and the errant stray dog for his son’s death.
Two years later, almost to the day, Wiri was dead. As he was driving through the Karangahake Gorge on his beloved motorbike at speed, the chain of his bike came off and wrapped itself through the front wheel, and he was catapulted over the safety barrier onto the rocks below. Maaka had to identify his son. He told me every bone in his body was broken.
The morning of the accident, there had been words. Maaka had recognised the chain was loose, and had given Wiri money to have it fixed. It didn’t happen, and the price, though not in dollars and cents, was paid. Again my cousin didn’t cry at the funeral, blaming fate and circumstances.
Over the years, he would pop up now and then. ‘Tēnā koe,’ the voice on the phone would say. ‘Do ya know who this is?’
Of course I did, but I would pretend not to, and we’d go through the charade of me guessing Brad Pitt, George Clooney, until I got it right, or in desperation and frustration he’d say, ‘It’s your cousin,’ and we’d laugh, though we were too old for such games.
One year he told me his wife was drinking more than ever, and I think, from his tone, he’d given up on her. Visits from the police were regular occurrences, as she often verbally abused the neighbours and physically abused him. He didn’t seem to care, and I thought afterwards it was his way of punishing himself for the loss of his boys.
A Christmas later, a card arrived, not glittery or fancy, not even festive. There was a note from his wife wishing our family a Merry Christmas, and underneath one line to say Mereanne was expecting a baby in the new year. ‘Wonderful,’ I said to my husband.
‘Maaka won’t care,’ he grunted.
‘He will, but he’ll pretend he doesn’t,’ I replied.
The phone rang a few weeks later. ‘Kia ora, cuz,’ a voice said. ‘Know who this is?’
‘Frankenstein,’ I replied, as we began the dance. I wasn’t going to ask, but from a mixture of boredom and curiosity after five minutes and because it didn’t seem like he was going to mention it, I said, ‘You’re going to be a grandfather soon?’
‘Never thought it would happen. Girl doesn’t even like kids. Prefers cows and mucking around with cars.’ And try as I might, he would say no more on the subject. I knew Mereanne was thirty-five, so maybe it was an accident, not something planned or wanted. ‘Please just don’t ever buy it a motorbike,’ I prayed.
It was a long time after that when I heard from him again, and even then it wasn’t a phone call or a card. It was a photograph. Only two words were written on the back – ‘Pop’s girl’ – and it showed my cousin, old now with a beard long and silvery, seated on a bench looking down at a little girl. She was a small twin of her mother, curly brown hair and golden eyes. A small hand was tangled in her grandfather’s beard, and she nestled against him like a snug pocket in a comfortable pair of jeans.
I was never really sure if I liked my cousin Maaka, even though I had known him most of my life. The photograph changed all that. In it, I saw there was someone who was sure she liked him. I was glad.
Pig Sticker
Ann French
The van has stopped when I wake up, and Dad is crying. I’m so shocked, I make a hiccup sound, and he looks at me. I’ve never seen Dad cry; not even when he got a big fish hook stuck in his leg. That time he just swore, went to the doctor and had it cut out.
So it’s a relief when I realise it’s the shadow of raindrops on the windscreen running down his face. If Dad cried, it would be the end of the world.
He reaches over and ruffles my hair. ‘Come on, Tiger. We’re here. Time to go and see your aunty. With any luck she’ll cook us some bacon and eggs for breakfast.’ He doesn’t mention Uncle George, but that’s because Dad doesn’t like him much, and I’ve heard him telling Mum he’s ‘a lazy bastard who wouldn’t do anyone a favour unless he got paid for it’. In Dad’s book that’s not a good thing, because Dad would help anyone, any time.
Mum had smiled and said, ‘Well, he must be good for something, or my sister wouldn’t have married him.’ Dad didn’t like Mum siding against him, and went outside and chopped enough wood to last us all winter and the next one as well. I know because I had to stack it.
I’m glad to stretch my legs. It’s been a long way from Auckland to Ōpōtiki. We only stopped twice, but it was night, so I slept most of the time. Dad let me bring my pillow; he threw a rug over me and I stretched out on the back seat. I’m not big, even though I’ll be ten next birthday, but Dad says then I’ll grow like a bean and be big and tall like him.
Once or twice a year, Dad gets together with some of his mates and they go into the Ureweras, or anywhere there’s bush, pig hunting. He camps out for two or three days, and comes home tired and dirty but real happy, and with a load of either venison or pork. I’ve begged him to take me ever since I can remember, and he has always said he would when I was big enough. Dad never breaks a promise, so I believed him.
Sometimes when he goes, Mum nags him to take Uncle George. Dad never wants to because he reckons George is a piss-poor shot and moans the whole time about being cold and not having enough to eat. Dad says if you can carry it on your back, you can take whatever you want, but otherwise forget it. He takes his shotgun, ammunition, a sleeping bag and some tins of food, and that’s about it. And when he goes pig hunting, he takes his knife.
I love that knife, but it sort of scares me too. It’s long, about half the length of my arm, and the blade is so sharp, you could cut anything with it. Dad sharpens it once a week whether he’s going hunting or not, and you can see your face in the shine of the metal. When he’s finished Dad puts it into a leather sheath with a loop that fits on his belt. He calls it his Pig Sticker.
We go up the steps to th
e back door, and I smell bacon. My mouth waters and my stomach rumbles. Although I had a hamburger on the way, it’s not the same as one of Aunty’s breakfasts. Dad knocks and goes in, and there’s Uncle George and my cousins Bill and Hemi all sitting at the kitchen table. There are eggs, bacon, sausages and big piles of toast, and my stomach rumbles louder than before.
Aunty is pretty big, probably from eating all those breakfasts. She heads over to give Dad and me a hug. Dad’s ok with it, but I think she’s going to crush me and try to skip out from underneath. But I’ve no show, and before I get a chance to escape, she grabs me and gives me a big kiss. ‘You’ve grown, Mati,’ she says. ‘Soon be big and strong like your Dad, eh.’ And I almost forgive her the kissing thing.
Uncle George stands and crosses over to my father. He punches him hard on the arm and says, ‘Hey bro, you’re putting on a bit of weight around the old puku.’ Dad smiles, but the crinkly bits at the corner of his eyes don’t move like they do when he thinks something’s funny.
We sit down and my cousins tell me about the new puppies while I gulp down food and then a big cup of tea with milk and sugar. Uncle George watches me, and says to Dad, ‘Don’t you feed the boy? He sure can stack it away for such a scrawny runt of a kid.’
Dad’s eyes glint at that but he doesn’t say anything, which sort of hurts me, and I decide I really don’t like Uncle George.
Bill, Hemi and I go to look at the puppies, and they’re really cute. There are six of them. I pick up the smallest one. He’s soft like a pillow and snuggles under my armpit and whimpers. I’ve never had a dog – I wonder if Dad would let me have this one. ‘We’re going to get rid of him,’ says Bill. I ask why, but I already know the answer. Uncle George doesn’t like ‘scrawny runts’.
My cousins take me eeling. We catch a big old grandfather, twice as fat as my arm and almost as tall as Dad. Bill cuts off the head and we poke it with a stick to see its teeth. They look sharp, like needles. I imagine what it would be like to have one bite me; to have one sink its teeth into my leg. It would be like the hook in Dad’s leg but one hundred times worse.
We go swimming in the water hole. I try not to think about eels with sharp teeth. ‘It’s a secret place,’ says Hemi. ‘First time you swim here, you get to make a wish.’
Closing my eyes, I make the wish ‘Let Dad take me pig hunting,’ then take a running jump, fly through the air and belly flop in the water. For a moment I can’t breathe it hurts so bad, and all the air has whooshed out of me. I hear Bill and Hemi laughing; see them doubled over and holding one another. ‘Give him one point for effort,’ says Hemi. ‘And one point for stupid,’ says Bill, and they both start laughing again as though it’s the funniest thing anyone’s ever said.
At lunchtime we go back to the house. Aunty has laid out sandwiches as big as doorsteps. They’re filled with ham and – to make sure we eat healthy – some lettuce. I hate lettuce. I slip it out when I think no one’s looking and put it in my pocket.
Dad’s sitting at the table as well, and he’s quiet, as though he’s thinking seriously about something. Uncle George isn’t around, which is good, as I’m sure he would have seen what I did with the lettuce and got me into trouble.
‘Dad,’ I say, and he looks up. ‘Can I have one of the puppies? It’s the smallest one and Uncle George is going to get rid of it.’ I don’t say any more, but my father knows. It’s because it’s the runt of the litter.
I see something in his eyes for a moment, and then he nods his head. ‘But you better look after it boy. Feed it and clean up after it. You hear me?’
I’m so happy. Then he says, ‘We’re going hunting tomorrow, so be ready because we’re going early,’ and I know that no day will ever get better than this.
The next morning it’s raining and cold. Uncle George is moaning and groaning and doesn’t want to go, but Aunty says he has to. ‘We need some pork or venison,’ she says. ‘Get your lazy, fat arse out of bed. Breakfast’s on the table.’ He does, but he’s not happy.
Dad is ready. He’s got on his big boots and hunting jacket, and Pig Sticker is strapped to his belt. He spent a lot of time last night scraping it over and over against the special stone that makes it so sharp it will go through a pig’s skin like butter. He cleaned his shotgun as well; it stands waiting against the wall by the front door.
We’re only going to be away overnight, so we have sleeping bags and tins of baked beans and spaghetti. Uncle George wants to take a load of other stuff, but Dad tells him it would weigh too much and unless he’s prepared to carry it, forget it. I’m so excited I can hardly eat. Even so, I notice there’s something going on between Dad and my uncle – but that’s probably because they don’t like one another much. My cousins are coming too. We have a race to see who can eat the most sausages. I win, but Uncle George says ‘You got worms boy? Is that why you’re so scrawny?’ I think of the puppy and being the runt, him getting rid of it, and I see that funny look on Dad’s face again.
Uncle George has two dogs he uses for hunting. We load them into the van. He calls them Jake and Chopper. Aunty told me once that they’re his babies. He’d hate it if anything happened to them. She stands at the door and waves goodbye. ‘Look after them,’ she calls to Dad, but he doesn’t speak or nod. I wonder if he’s even heard her, but then we turn a corner, she’s gone and it’s too late to say anything.
We drive for a couple of hours. The rain comes down and it begins to blow. I don’t care, because Dad says weather like this is good for hunting – the pigs can’t smell or hear you. We’re snug and warm in the van, but no one talks much, and the only time we laugh is when Hemi farts, loud and long. It’s all those sausages and eggs catching up with him. Dad asks ‘Was that thunder?’ and the three of us laugh and laugh. Uncle George doesn’t. He sits up front not saying much. I see his head drooping every now and again and know he’s sleeping.
We turn off the main road and bump our way along a narrow track that has deep potholes. We eventually come to a clearing where Dad parks the van. ‘Everyone out,’ he says. ‘If you can’t carry it, don’t take it.’ I see him looking hard at Uncle George. We load up. My knapsack is light because I only have my sleeping bag, not even a toothbrush.
The walk at the beginning is flat, like a paddock. We see one or two sheep but Dad says they’re wild ones, escaped from somewhere, and would be as ‘tough as bollocks’ to eat. My uncle is puffing like a train. After a while he puts his knapsack down and unpacks it. He’s not only got a change of clothes but also a small Primus, a saucepan, two forks, a spoon and a kettle. He abandons it all, along with some toilet paper. Dad doesn’t say a word – just keeps walking.
The tree line is where we’re headed. It’s mainly native bush and mānuka. Mum has some mānuka growing at home, but it’s in a pot, a weedy looking thing. This mānuka is huge and thick around the trunk, and there’s a lot of it. It grows close together, and the branches block out the light. It’s still raining, but now there’s mist floating down over us. My cousins make ghost noises. ‘Whoooooo!’ I wish they wouldn’t. There’s something scary about this place. Dad senses it too, because he tells them to shut up.
The dogs bound ahead. We can hear them crashing about, but then they go silent. Dad puts his hand up and we all stop in our tracks. Uncle George catches up. He’s red in the face, breathing in gasps and sweating.
The dogs begin to bark. You can tell they’ve found something because it’s non-stop – if they had voices, they’d be saying ‘Come quick.’
‘Gotcha, ya bastard,’ says my uncle, and he barges through the bush. Like Dad, he has a shotgun. As he walks, he cocks it, ready to fire. My father tries to grab his arm but he’s gone, vanished into the bush and mist.
Suddenly a dog howls, and it’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard. Then comes a scream. I think nothing could make that noise and live.
We stand there, the four of us. Dad is listening, turning slowly one way then the other, but there’s only silence.
We all hear it: a gunshot. Then a dog howling again, but the noise is muffled. We go to move forward, but Dad holds his hand up. ‘Stay here. Don’t move.’ He puts down his knapsack, chambers a round, then, like a ghost, is swallowed by the mist.
Time goes by. Everything feels strange, and when I look at Hemi and Bill, I see they sense it too. Fog covers us, and even though we’re standing close, it’s hard to see one another. I wish I was back at Aunty’s, playing with the puppies and eating one of her breakfasts. ‘You fellas stay here. I’ll go and see if everything’s ok,’ I say. I’m pleased that my voice sounds confident, even if I’m scared shitless. My cousins nod, not saying anything.
Trying not to make a sound, I walk towards the trees. After a few steps I look back, but can’t see them. It’s like they never existed. I get a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. My skin is cold, and goosebumps cover my arms. This is the first time I’ve ever disobeyed Dad. I have a bad taste in my mouth, like sour apples.
I see a dog. There’s blood everywhere: on the ground, the leaves, the trunks of trees. I know it’s dead, even though the back legs are still twitching. Nearby is the other dog – it’s Chopper. It’s him because he’s got a white spot on his chest, but now he’s got a rip in his side and he’s panting. As I watch, he whimpers, tries to get up, then falls back, and I know he’s dead too.
I’m looking at the dogs and feeling sick, and the pig is there, although I don’t see it straight away. It’s lying on the ground, half covered by scrub: a boar. Huge, black, with long, blood-covered tusks. The smell hits me, coppery and sweet. Someone has shot it. I can see the hole in its stomach, and there’s also a long cut under its chin. The eyes are open, red and small, and they blink as I come closer. I lean forward and see myself mirrored in them, then they go black and close.