Huia Short Stories 10

by Tihema Baker

  ‘You awake?’

  Eyelids scrunched together.

  ‘Wakey-wakey,’ he sang, then grinned. Wakey-wakey, hands off snakey. He’d heard this so often, on the inside, that he sometimes murmured it to himself when he was hovering between a state of dreamtime and gentle awakefulness.

  Without warning, the reporter screamed. A blood-souring shriek he hadn’t heard since prison. Better not be wacky-backy. Her eyes were open, but there was no-bloody-one home. Something wasn’t right with her, but what was he supposed to do about that? Over the past few years, nutcases had flourished in the valley. There was the young couple who started a commune in the bush where people danced around in the nuddy, the man who claimed he was incubating a moa’s egg in his garden shed, and, of course, the family with over fifty cats who lived on the border of the National Park and drove the Department of Conservation crazy. If only they hadn’t all been whānau. That’s what made it worse, seeing whānau plastered over newspapers and television as though the entire valley was made up of doongies.

  Worst though were the cock-and-bull terror raids, where armed police set up road blocks on the old confiscation line (still a blistering scab on the skin of his people). But the real terror oozed like black tar from the sanctioned Darth Vader figures who’d raided homes for days. Bear, too, had been a target. He was, after all, an ex-con, a mammoth of a man, and Māori. Luckily, Stella wasn’t with him at the time: many of her cousins were still skittish around strangers. And none of this had helped soften the betrayal Bear felt when Ana hooked up with one of them – one who, Bear was sure, had been one of the masked terrorists who’d questioned him. The man was arrogant enough to have enjoyed playing God and sadistic enough to then shack up with his daughter. The last thing the Rangatira Valley needed was for some reporter to swing the spotlight back onto their homes.

  ‘Hey,’ Bear said, ‘Wake up!’

  The woman blinked several times.

  ‘Mōrena. You sleep here all night?’

  She nodded, wiped the pīkaru from her eyes and began fossicking through the pile of clothes next to her. As she whipped off her jersey and sat there in her bra, Bear scouted for wood pigeons in the cabbage trees. The undressing itself was normal enough. Having spent much of his life on marae, he was used to communal sleeping arrangements – not just farting, snoring, sniffing and coughing, but also bums and boobs slipping out as people dressed. Everyone knew to avert their eyes. But here? On a public road where the protocols of the marae don’t exist? Finally, the woman emerged from her car, barefooted and wearing a thin blouse and shorts.

  ‘Hello, again,’ she said.

  To hell with it. ‘You a reporter?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Not from around here, are you?’

  The woman seemed to ponder his question, then replied, ‘I’m not sure.’

  Not sure? Hah! Bear knew everyone in the valley. Maybe she was a researcher wanting to ‘rough it’ with the natives and observe, scribble and hoard her thoughts, only to expose them all on the international screen. Either way, he had no patience for intruders.

  ‘Best be on your way—’

  ‘I think my grandfather is from here,’ she said.

  Bear’s eyes narrowed. It couldn’t be. Those hazel eyes. That nose. Pawa, Old Boy, what have you done?

  Pawa

  Waves lapped against the sides of the waka. He was barely a man and only permitted on this particular voyage because his whakapapa demanded it – as did the priestess, who also happened to be his aunt. In the darkness, Pawa’s finger found the knot of wood he himself had attempted to smoothen as the canoe was being built. The raised, circular patterns in that particular spot had vexed him so much that he had hidden them from the eyes of the master carvers lest they use it as further proof of his incompetence.

  For three moons now, he’d been sent to sleep while they convened at the opposite end of the double-hulled canoe. He’d gone, reluctantly, and then spent the nights running his fingers over the knot and wondering which mantras his elders scattered amongst the stars. They spoke of him, too, of that he was sure. The knot slid over his fingertips and the palm of his hand, which were far too calloused to feel anything save the bite of a flea or perhaps the sting of a fish bone when he was careless with gutting and filleting. The patterns of the knot swirled above him in the cool, summer air. Would they adorn his face one day? No one would advise him on this, not even the priestess, who cherished him above all other young ones, alive or otherwise. Pawa was ariki, and had to find his own way.

  He wished the honour of chieftainship would be bestowed upon his aunt. If not by whakapapa, then surely it was hers by deed: by the visions and skills gifted to her, skills he agonised would never be his. The other tohunga were visibly disappointed at the lack of talents he had shown during the thirteen winters since his birth. Realising the enormity of their task, they would then insist Pawa recite mōteatea and outline the celestial chart in the skies until the morning maiden kissed their cheeks. None of this was to discourage, they assured him, but to drive him towards excellence. Yet such encouragement did nothing but thrust Pawa further into the backbone of his own uncertainties. Why did he have to be firstborn? What had he done to offend the gods so?

  He turned to his side and positioned his eyes directly over the knot of wood. Mimicking his aunt, he attempted to gaze into the heart of the wood, to see the path of the long-tailed koekoeā as they flew south, to feel the shuddering of unseen life in the oceans and hear the murmuring of their guide, brother whale, beneath them. Yet, try as he might to make sense of it all, the knot remained closed and silent. He sighed and rolled onto his back. His aunt made it seem so effortless. What emerged was meant to be, she’d said. But it was more than that. He knew there was some great secret that no one would tell him. Despite his best efforts, the lessons he was supposed to learn just made no sense to him. His body was a more instinctive instrument than his mind. Why couldn’t he spend his days fishing and hunting, perhaps accompany some of the warriors on their raiding expeditions?

  Instead, he was stuck on a waka, sailing Toi’s ocean, not as captain but as his aunt’s assistant. A girl, one winter his junior, had jeered ‘slave’ at him as they’d departed. He didn’t have the energy to bring her insolence to his father’s attention, fearing perhaps that the girl was more right than wrong.

  His aunt, of course, had chuckled when he spoke of such things. The intricacies of chieftainship, the balancing of emotions and tribal agendas were neither her concern nor of any interest to her. She had more important things to contemplate. And besides, did not the tribe, the chief and all other tohunga obey her now without question?

  It was the priestess who had found the tree that became their waka. The location had appeared to her in a dream, and once it had been found, she uttered the necessary words to release it and allow the master carvers to bring forth its true form. Pawa had been there also, as his aunt’s assistant. More like a flea, the carvers had mumbled, a pest they merely tolerated.

  The carvers relegated Pawa to work on the sleeping quarters, away from the carefully chiseled exterior and nowhere near the figurehead, which was fashioned, at the request of his aunt, by a priest from another tribe. The sure hands of the priest, who was hardly able to straighten his back, mesmerised Pawa. Every step he took, aided by his underlings, pained him immensely. Despite this, as soon as he reached the tree, and had his chisel placed in his hand, a fire ignited behind his milky eyes, and he worked with more agility, precision and confidence than any other master carver. Sometimes, the old man would work into the night. Alone, he would run his fingers over his work, correcting here, adding there, mumbling, until finally, a flawless figurehead emerged. Perfect for a chief.

  He Tohu

  Rongomai Smith

  Ka tākiri te ata, ka puāwai ngā purapura i te kōanga, kei te pāinaina Te wao- nui-a-Tāne i ngā hihi o Tama-nui-te-rā. Kei te rere pai ngā manu ki ngā kōhanga mai i te tāepaepatanga o te rangi. Kua
tau te whenua, kua āio te rangi, engari ka puta tētahi tohu i te taiao, kua hinga te manu ariki whakataka pōkai i te wao, ā, mā reira mōhio ai kāore e roa ka tutū te puehu i te iwi i noho ki te ngāhere.

  Ka tae ki te wā ka whakatinanahia te tohu rā. Ka werohia a Hōkioi te rangatira o te tōna iwi, e Te Ahikauri tōna hoa takatāpuhi, mō tōna tūranga te take. I runga anō hoki i tōna harawene, i tōna pūhaehae ki te rangatira, kua whakakāpunipunihia ētahi tāngata kia wero, kia whawhai mō te hemo tonu atu ki te rangatira tūturu o Ngāi Tūkāriri.

  Nā, ka whakaeke tō Ahikauri taua ki runga i tō Hōkioi marae ātea, whawhai ai. Ka tīmata te whawhai, ka memeha haere te āhua o Hōkioi. Kātahi ka taka ia ki te whenua. Kāti i konā te kakari, ā, ka puta mai tētahi tohunga mākutu, tētahi tohunga whaiwhaiā i muri i tō Ahikauri taua me āna mahi makutu kei te tukuna atu ki a Hōkioi. Mā reira kite ai te tini ngerongero ka toa kē a Ahikauri. Kātahi ka mauheretia a Hōkioi, ā, ka tū a Ahikauri hei rangatira mō te iwi.

  Kotahi tau i mua i tērā pakanga ...

  Kei tētahi atu whawhai a te taua o Hōkioi ki tō tētahi atu mō te whenua i tērā atu taha o te awa. He kakari nui tēnei mō te mana o te whenua, otirā mō te mana anō hoki o Ngāi Tūkāriri, he iwi kaha rātou ki te whawhai. Engari hoki, ka toa tonu a Ngāi Tūkāriri. Nā te kaha, nā te koi, me te manawatītī o Hōkioi ki te whawhai, ka tipu ake te pūhaehae, me te riri ki roto i a Ahikauri, i te mea, i riro i a Hōkioi te mana. Me te mea anō hoki, āmuri atu i taua kakari, ka kaha kōrerotia a Hōkioi. Mā reira whakaaro ai a Ahikauri, ā tōna wā ka wepua a Hōkioi.

  Kua whakaeke mai te taua o Ahikauri ...

  Kei te mura o te ahi a Hōkioi, i te wā e whakaeke mai ana a Ahikauri ki runga ki tōna marae. Ka mea atu a Hōkioi ki a Pūkohurangi, tāna hoa rangatira, ‘Kei te aha kē rātou ki waho i te marae?’

  ‘E hika mā, kua panaia e Ahikauri tētahi o ngā tāngata!’ Te kī a Pūkohurangi.

  Ka puta a Hōkioi ki waho kite ai, me te pātai, ‘Kei te aha kē koe e Ahikauri?’ Ka whakautu a Ahikauri. ‘Nōku kē tērā tūranga!’ Ka whakahaua tōna taua ki te whawhai ki tō Hōkioi taua. Ka tīkina e Hōkioi tōna tewhatewha, ka peke ia ki te ātea whawhai ai. Mea rawa ake, ka whakaaro ia, kei te aha kē tōku tinana? I taua wā tonu, ka memeha haere te āhua me te pakari o tōna tīnana, kua mōhio a Hōkioi kei te pā tētahi mahi mākutu ki a ia, ā, ka mea atu ia ki a Ahikauri, ‘Mōu te pō, mōku te ao.’ Kātahi ia ka hinga ki te papa. Nōna i hinga ai, ka matakerepōtia ia, ka whakamoea anō hoki a Hōkioi.

  E rua ngā wiki kua hipa ...

  Ka oho a Hōkioi. Kātahi ia ka pātai ki te kaitiaki o te wāhi herehere. ‘Kei hea au? He aha māku i kōnei?’ Ka whakautu te kaitiaki. ‘He tangata herehere koe ināianei, ko Ahikauri kē te rangatira o Ngāi Tūkāriri.’ Ka taka te kapa! Engari, i runga anō i tōna āwangawanga, te matakerepōtanga me te ngoikore hoki o tōna tinana i te mākutu, ka noho mū ia. E mōhio ana a Hōkioi, kua tē katoa te koito. Ka tata tonu te rā te tō ki runga i a ia..

  Te wā e whakaeke mai ana a Ahikauri ki tō Hōkioi marae ātea ...

  Ka oho a Nguha, te tamaiti a Hōkioi. Ka rangirua ia, ka tino ohorere ia i te taenga mai o Ahikauri, ko tōna tino matua kēkē e whawhai ana ki tō Hōkioi tauā. Ka puta mai a Nguha ki waho i te whare, ka kite ia i tōna pāpā e hinga ana ki te whenua. Ka mau i a ia tōna taiaha, engari ka mau kē ia me tōna whānau i ngā tāngata o tō Ahikauri taua. Ka tangohia tōna taiaha, kātahi ka tukua rātou ki te wāhi pōhara rawa atu o te marae.

  Kei reira a Nguha me tōna whānau. Ka huri tuara atu te iwi hākerekere ki a rātou. Ka pōnānā, ā, ka wheke hoki a Nguha. Kua ngau tuara tōna matua kēkē i a rātou, kua mauheretia tōna pāpā, kua panaia rātou ki raro i te maru o pōhara, ka mutu, kei ngā rekereke rātou o te iwi whai mana. Ko tā Nguha, he mea whakahoki anō te mana me te rangatiratanga ki tōna whānau.

  I mua tata tonu i te whakaekenga mai a te tauā o Ahikauri ki tō Hōkioi marae ...

  Ka mea atu a Ahikauri, ‘Kia mataara e hoa mā, kāore e roa ka whakaeke tātou.’ Ka upoko māro katoa a Ahikauri, me te whakaaro, e rua e rua te kaha o tōna taua ki tō Hōkioi. Engari, ko tōna kura huna, he tohunga mākutu. Kua tae ki te wā ka whakaeke aturātou ki te marae. Kātahi ka tīmata te kakari. Ka tū a Ahikauri ki muri i tōna taua, mātakitaki ai i te whawhai. Ka puta mai a Hōkioi i te whare, ka tīmata ngā mahi mākutu a te tohunga. Ka kitea a Hōkioi e Ahikauri, ka puta mai te ihi, te wehi me te wana i a ia. Kātahi ka hinga a Hōkioi, ā, ka kaha kataina ia e Ahikauri. Ka mauheretia tō Hōkioi taua me tōna whānau. Ko ētahi ka tukua rātou ki te whare herehere ki tō Hōkioi taha, ā, ko te toenga ka tukua rātou ki te pōharatanga ki te taha o tō Hōkioi whānau. Nā konā, e whakaaro ana a Ahikauri, koia kei a ia!

  E rua ngā marama kuahipa/pahure ...

  Nā, kua heke ngā tuna i te awa, kāore ngā manu i te kaha waiata i te ata hāpara, ka tata pau anō hoki ngā moa o te wao. Kua whakaritea kētia tētahi ope taua e Nguha, kia mauheretia ai a Ahikauri, kia whakahokia mai ai taua tūranga me te mana ki tōna whānau. Nā, kei te whakaharatau tōna taua i ngā mahi a Tū, kātahi ka rongo a Nguha i tētahi karere. Kua hinga te tōtara nui i te wao, arā, ko tōna pāpā. Ka tū mānukanuka te rātou katoa, ka tīmata te ringiringi i te hūpē me te roimata i ngā wāhine, ka puku te rae o Nguha me te kī, ‘Kia rite tāne mā! Tū whitia te hopo! Hoake tātou ki te pae o te ahi!’ Engari, he pōhēhē tōna. Kāore anō kia āta whakaritea e ia tētahi rautaki hei whakautu ki ngā mahi mākutu, i te mea koinā te take i hinga ai tōna pāpā. I mua i tā rātou kakari ki tō Ahikauri tauā, ka taki karakia rātou ki a Hōkioi mō tana haerenga ki Hawaiki nui, ki Hawaiki roa, ki Hawaiki pāmamao, ka mutu kia pai ai hoki tā rātou whawhai.

  Ka tae atu tō Nguha taua ki te marae, ā, i reira a Ahikauri rātou ko tōna taua e tatari ana ki a rātou. Ka tīmata te pakanga ānō nei he mākiri taikare. Ka riro i a Nguha te ika i te ati, kātahi ka tīmata tō Ahikauri tohunga ki te taki karakia mākutu. Ka pērā anō hoki a Nguha i tōna pāpā, ka rangirua ōna whakaaro, ka ngoikore haere tōna tinana, ā, ka whakaaro ia ki tōna pāpa kātahi anō ka hinga, me ka mate ia. Engari tē taea hoki te pēhea! Kua pā kē te mākutu ki runga i a ia. Mea rawa ake, ka puta mai tōna māmā rāua ko tana teina. I te teina te tewhatewha o tōna pāpā. Ko tōna māmā e pupuri ana ia i tētahi rārā, me te mea hoki kei te taki karakia mākutu ia kia ārai atu i te mākutu ka pā kē atu ai ki tētahi atu. Kātahi ka makere iho te taiaha o Ahikauri i a ia, ka makere anō hoki tōna heru i ōna makawe, ā, ka tau ki mua i a Nguha. ‘Auē,’ te kī a Ahikauri. Taro ake, ka hīkoi a Pūkohurangi ki tō Nguha taha, ka taki karakia mākutu tonu ia, ā, ka tīkina e ia tō Ahikauri heru. Ka patua te tohunga mākutu e tō Nguha teina, ā, ka mutu te kakari i reira, ā, ka toa rātou. Te waimarie hoki o Nguha!

  Kotahi marama kua pahure ...

  Kua mauheretia tonutia a Ahikauri, ā, kei te pari o te rua ia e noho ana. Kua whakahokia mai anō te mana me te tūranga ki te whānau o Hōkioi. Inā rā, kua āio anō te rangi, kua tau anō te whenua, ka rere anō ngā manu i te rangi, kua hoki mai ngā moa ki te wao, ā, kua whiti mai anō te rā. Kua tau, kua tau, ā, kua tau te rangimārie!

  Ko te mutunga iho o ēnei kōrero, ka tīkina atu tērā whakataukī – ‘Moea te poi, moea te taiaha’. Ko te whakamārama ia, me noho takatū tātou i ngā wā katoa. Me pupuri koe i tō poi arā ko te maungārongo, ā, i tō taiaha hoki arā ko te pakanga, ao noa, pō noa kia kaua ai koe, ko tō whānau, ko tō hapū, ko tō iwi e riro atu ki te pō.

  Marama

  Aimee Stephens

  Marama understood the meaning of her name. She knew why her kuia had chosen it too. The moon beamed proudly and full the night she was born: one of her children was being delivered into the night, the silky blackness that made all of her maidens feel peculiarly at home. Full moons are a time of celebration and manifestation; Kui knew that. You couldn’t name that child Roimata like her aunty. That was a name for a balsamic moon. You couldn’t name that child Marino. That was a name for a new moon. So the child was to be Marama, and Marama was beautiful.


  Kōwae 1: Marama defeats death

  And so the moon decreed that all of her sacred warriors shall forever be guarded by her servants, the silver cracks of light within the air: they are the moon’s love, left over to be used by day by those in need.

  Marama had trouble sleeping at night. Her teachers thought it a pity that those beautiful orange green eyes were always semi-eclipsed by Marama’s heavy, drooping eyelids. They thought it a pity that her sallow cheeks were not beaming and full in her daily classes. They wondered if nutrition was the problem. ‘Perhaps she is low in iron?’ they would say, floating thoughts at one another on the breeze of staffroom gossip. But Marama did have trouble sleeping at night; in fact, she often didn’t sleep. Night was the time for thinking. The silver blackness was the time for manifesting dreams and harvesting memories. Marama was tired in the day. Sometimes she was so tired, her kui would have to hand feed her, like the children used to do for tohunga who were in their tapu state. Kui would joke about asking Uncle Pahu to carve her a feeding tube like the ones those old men used in the time when men listened to gods.

  Every day, Marama would waft sleepily home. Always the same route, the same route taken by all of the big buses crammed with smelly high school boys, rocketing past so fast that her hair would fly up like a sheet hanging on the line to dry. One day Marama was particularly tired. It was the day after the full moon, and the previous night’s events had included visits to far-off lands in times when warriors were gathered and sacrificed to feed the hungry souls of great mountains.

  She was being marched up the hillside, a captive of angry men, envious of her power. Her legs lifted off the footpath and marched across the dust specks into the sky, climbing and floating. Light and heat pumped through her veins as she approached the mountain top. She was back there; she was not walking home from school any more. She smelled the awful stench of molten earth and human waste; a deep low rumble shivered up through her ankles. The growl came from far away and grew louder. A pūtātara bellow deafened her. Marama was going to be sacrificed. She would be fed to the wicked spirit from which the rumble came.