Huia Short Stories 10

by Tihema Baker

  But she could hear someone screaming to her right, and she could feel herself being dragged away, away from the mountain, lifted up by the silver air and slipping out of the grasp of the angry men. The screaming continued, but she could feel herself being carried away from the heat and light; carried by the cool, crisp moonlight.

  Marama was on the footpath. The woman, the stranger holding her, was trembling and sobbing and wailing. She was beside herself with confusion. ‘You … you were on the road … and now you are here … and I didn’t move; I just screamed. I couldn’t … you couldn’t … and the bus couldn’t … what happened?’

  Marama had cheated death.

  Kōwae 2: Marama and the seals

  And so the moon decreed that all of her sacred warriors would be protected by the gods of earth. It was promised that they would safeguard her property and preserve her untouchable harem, so that they might complete their work when the time came.

  Marama’s mother died the night she was born. The night the moon shone bright and cast shadows in all directions. Her kuia raised her. Kui always said ‘your mother knew her great work in life was to bring you into being; she died happy and peaceful,’ but it didn’t fill the void in Marama’s puku. She thought her tears could fill the whole ocean. Marama loved the ocean; she felt at peace by the sea. Surely if the sea had cried this many salty tears all by himself, he must have known her emptiness.

  She loved swimming in the sea. She could dive down deep, the water rippling off her skin. She could see everything very clearly in the depths of the ocean floor, the light piercing through and projecting off the bottom. She could hold her breath much longer than anyone else in her class could. Kui would take her diving for kina. She would sit down on a rock and say, ‘I know there’ll be kina down there moko, you bet your bottom dollar. Way you go.’ Marama would get two or three kina in one breath. But with Kui, she always had to get double the catch, because the kina would magically disappear while Marama was drifting through the weeds. Kui was never able to explain what happened to them.

  This particular day was different. This time she came to the sea alone. This was one of the days when Marama felt like she could fill the ocean with her loneliness. It was not a day for swimming; the beach stretched out its arms long and wide but not a soul came. She sat on one of Kui’s rocks along the coast and dreamed into the whirling grey sky, tempting the ocean to lick her off and gobble her up. The ocean swelled around the rocks, slapping the coast, the phalanx slowly retreating to prepare another blow. The waves only reflected the angry winds of Tāwhiri on this day. Rangi’s smile could not be found within the choppy grey.

  A colony of seals had shifted to where they could safely ride out the weather. Marama thought she was alone on the coast that day, but she had company on the rocks. A seething bull was staring deep into Marama’s rock-pool eyes. He had a job to do, and he was dedicated. She got up to leave, but that only made him let out a large salty roar and advance; she was caught between a roaring ocean and a bucking bull. Marama decided to take her chances on Tangaroa. Crashing through a wave wall, she plunged deep into the frothing waters. On a still diving day, she could see everything clearly: a vivid dream. Today was a nightmare. Still aware of her hunter, she tried to clear herself of the rocks as far as she could before surfacing for air. When she did come back up, she saw she had been dragged further out and away from the whole coast. Her body was heavy; her light waned. Marama remembered a story Kui had told her about a beautiful whale named Tutunui, who carried his master between coasts, and the magical bond they shared. But Tutunui had been killed a long time ago by greedy men, and he couldn’t come to save her now. A loud ‘Aueeeee’ escaped her lips, but nobody would possibly hear her out here.

  Somebody did, though.

  It felt like a long time to Marama to be sitting out there, but she hadn’t grown cold. She was still too tired to begin swimming to shore, and she felt herself being warmed by the freezing cold ocean. She didn’t shiver. She didn’t cry. She just floated; she controlled gravity. Marama became so comfortable floating on the bed of chopping waves that she drifted down to sleep.

  Marama rose to Kui screaming and wailing in her ear and saying words she never let Marama say. Lying on the beach, she was embraced not by the cold sand but by a bed of neatly woven kelp, so comfortable she didn’t want to rise and follow her kui home. Uncle Pahu was there and he carried Marama home, snuggled into his flannel shirt, her cheek resting on the warm manaia around his neck.

  Later Kui told her about how a fisherman had spotted her floating and had recognised her bright round face. ‘He said he saw you cuddled up in your seaweed bed, way out there past the point, just drifting slowly to the shore. He said you were asleep, moko, and he said you were beaming your beautiful smile! Hika mā, I was a loony lunar lunatic. I know my job is to keep you safe and well; you’ve got big mahi to do in your future, e hine, big mahi.’

  Out there on her bed of weeds, Marama had dreamt that a beautiful man with a fish’s tail had come to her in the ocean. She felt so safe with him, and when he smiled at her, she was warm inside. He took her down to the fathomless floor and showed her the secrets of the ocean. He showed her how the water speaks to the moon.

  Kōwae 3: Marama meets the forest

  And so the moon decreed that each of her maidens would not know the fear of uncertainty. When the time was right, they would know their path and understand the abundance of their gifts.

  Uncle Pahu fancied himself a hunter-gatherer. Yes, it was true, he did not work for money most of the time; he spent his days carving, gardening, fishing and hunting. But from that, he fed himself, his niece, his mother and some of his friends. ‘Ko te kai te mea nui o te ao,’ he would say all the time, and chortle to himself. Pahu was a very gentle and kind man; he was happy as long as he had someone to look after. Uncle Pahu took Marama hunting one day. He shook her shoulder that morning long before the birds had started to sing. She was ready in all of her gear in a flash, and waiting in the truck with Uncle’s Thermos of tea much earlier than he had planned. ‘Tū meke, little girl. OK, we’ll get going then.’

  They trod in silence comfortably for a good half an hour in the blackness of the bush. Marama loved how every tree was different, individual; she would nod to the especially noble looking ones, the moonlight showing their true faces to her. Uncle Pahu heard something. He signalled to Marama to remain as he crept off. Still the dark grey sky of the predawn made the forest spooky. Marama remembered Kui telling her about patupaiarehe and how they could whisper things in your ear and invade your mind until you went insane and wandered the bush for the rest of your life. She wasn’t afraid. When Uncle Pahu came back he was smiling peacefully; he grabbed her hand, and they continued to walk in silver silence. They walked for a long, long time in the bush. He held her hand the whole time.

  After a while Uncle Pahu spoke. ‘You are very special.’ He was so calm; he no longer listened out for animals. ‘You know that you are here to do great things.’ Uncle seemed different. ‘When you were born, part of you came from the great goddess of night. Not Hinenuitepō; I’m talking about that moon up there watching us now,’ and he pointed through the canopy to the smiling goddess. ‘You are a moon maiden; you have a special job to do on earth. You will help many people, and you have gifts to assist you. Do you know of these gifts yet?’

  ‘I think so …’

  ‘Good. You will learn more as you grow. Do you understand what I am saying to you, Marama?’

  ‘Āe.’

  ‘Well done, young one.’ He bent down and gently kissed Marama on the forehead. Cold electric shivers ran into her eyes and through her body. She felt strong; she was oneness, bright as a fleck of a shimmer on a lake. Uncle Pahu was gone again.

  Obediently Marama waited where she was left for her uncle to return. Time passed. The sun was bright and full in the sky and had invaded every layer of the canopy. Warmth flooded the forest floor. Marama could hear panting and stomping in the distanc
e. What could that be moving so noisily in the bush? Surely not a hunter. From the direction that they had already come, Uncle Pahu came thrashing through the bushes, covered in sweat, his face tattooed with bloody red scratches. ‘Where have you been?’ he boomed at her. Uncle’s eyes were darting side to side; he didn’t have his gun.

  ‘I was waiting for you, here.’ Marama was confused, and so was her uncle.

  ‘But I’ve been running to find you for at least a bloody hour! I signalled to you to stay there, don’t you see, girl?’

  Marama started to understand what had happened. ‘I’m really sorry, Uncle.’

  Uncle Pahu turned around and started walking back to the truck. Marama followed quickly. Halfway through the journey, Uncle slipped behind a bush and reappeared with his gun and a good yearling. ‘I’m smiling because I know we’re having a good feed. I’m still not happy with you, little girl.’

  After dinner, Kui asked Marama what she had done to upset her uncle. Marama told her everything about how Tāne Māhuta had come to speak with her in Uncle’s form. She told Kui about her gifts. She told Kui that she had been right about her mum and her great purpose. She told Kui about her dreams. Kui was weeping. Marama was weeping. Both shone with love and light.

  ‘Tonight the moon will be full,’ said Kui, a crescent twinkling in her eye. ‘You have had the kiss of Tāne; you will have a lot of strength.’ Kui beamed. ‘Tonight, I’m taking you for a visit back home.’

  Of Good and Evil

  Mark Sweet

  19

  Only after he hears his father’s car leaving does he come out of his room.

  ‘I don’t want to go to school today,’ he says.

  ‘Do you feel sick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you must go to school.’

  ‘We’ve got swimming practice,’ he says, ‘and I don’t want anybody to see this.’

  He pulls up his pyjama top and shows her his back. The skin is broken in places and crusts of tiny crystals have formed over the wounds.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ his mother says.

  He doesn’t tell her he has scratched the welts to make them appear worse.

  ‘I’m having the Humber serviced today,’ she says, as she dabs his wounds with red liquid poured from a bottle onto cotton wool. He winces and sucks in his breath.

  ‘We must get cracking. The appointment’s for nine o’clock.’

  ‘Can we go to the Farmers’ Tearooms?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The Farmers’ Tearooms are opposite Tourist Motors where they take the car for servicing. His mother always chats with Mr Robinson, and while they’re talking he wanders around the yard looking at the cars for sale. He can’t help sniggering when he sees the big sign saying, ‘Rootes Group’.

  ‘I need to go to Westerman’s first,’ his mother says, and they walk the block to the big department store. While she shops, he stays by the counter and watches people paying. An old woman brings a stack of sheets and pillow cases and pays with notes. The assistant writes up an invoice, which she folds around the money and fastens with a rubber band before stuffing it into a canister. She places the canister in a tube that curls like a snake away from the counter, twisting across the ceiling, ending in a glass-framed office high above. With the push of a button the canister is propelled inside the tube, and by the time the purchase is wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, the canister has returned with the change.

  At the Farmers’ Tearooms he insists on taking the lift even though they have only one floor to travel. As he’s closing the grated metal doors a voice calls out, ‘Wait for me,’ and Mr Grosser’s wife, Pauline, squeezes her ample backside through the gap before he has time to prise the gates open. ‘Have you heard about Beth?’ she says breathlessly.

  ‘Yes, it’s very sad,’ his mother says, ‘but I didn’t know her. Did you?’

  ‘Oh yes, she’s younger, but we were at school together. Always a wild one was Beth.’

  ‘John said it was a car crash. Do you know anything more?’

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Grosser lowers her voice and looks around although there’s no one else in the lift, ‘They would say that, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She was into drugs, didn’t you know?’

  ‘You saying she OD’d?’

  ‘OD’d?’

  ‘An overdose.’

  ‘Most likely, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why not just say so?’

  ‘Oh, you know Anne and John.’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Grosser sighs with a heave of her chest and edges closer. ‘Those accusations about John doing things to her.’

  His mother’s eyebrows crumple, and she shakes her head.

  ‘Just to get money, of course,’ Mrs Grosser says quickly.

  Callum heaves the lift doors open and his mother and Mrs Grosser are bound in chatter as they queue at the long servery in front of glass cabinets stacked with sandwiches and rolls and pastries. He chooses a chocolate éclair and a pink lamington crusted in coconut flakes, then asks Mr Van Bohemen for a banana milkshake.

  When they sit down at a table by an open window overlooking the street below, he counts the cars passing by and quietly names the makes: Consul, Zephyr, Super Minx, Cortina. His attention is drawn to Mrs Grosser when she says, ‘So sorry to hear about GT. Pete tells me you’re putting him into Gonville. For his own good, of course.’

  His mother is shaking her head, a sign for Mrs Grosser to stop talking, but she doesn’t pick up the cue, and says, ‘So sad when they go senile. My poor old father was the same. The war was too much for him in the end.’

  ‘Please, Pauline, not now,’ his mother says firmly as a waitress brings their drinks to the table.

  Mrs Grosser winks and quickly says, ‘That Dutchman makes a good coffee. How’s your milkshake, Callum?’

  He wants to spit some at her through his straw but instead says, ‘His name is Mr Van Bohemen.’

  ‘What a funny name. You’d think they’d change it to make it easier to say, wouldn’t you? Make it easier to fit in.’

  Callum sneers at Mrs Grosser and goes back to counting cars. When he sees Jack Madden’s green Zephyr pulling into Tourist Motors he nudges his mother and says, ‘It’s after eleven. The car will be ready now.’

  Jack Madden is talking with Mr Robinson beside a brand new Chrysler Valiant, and Callum likes the way Jack smiles when he sees them.

  ‘What a lovely surprise,’ Jack says.

  ‘You going to buy it?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘It’s the V8. Five litre. Really good car,’ he says.

  Jack Madden ruffles his hair, and he doesn’t pull away.

  ‘That’s it then,’ Jack says to Mr Robinson. ‘The young fella likes it, so I’ll order one now.’

  ‘What colour you gonna get?’

  ‘What do you reckon.’

  ‘Silver, definitely silver.’

  ‘Done,’ Jack says.

  Mr Robinson seems pleased and says, ‘We’ll go to the office, shall we, and do the paperwork?’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Jack, ‘I have to get out to the beach. I’ll come back Friday, if that’s OK. Same time.’

  ‘That’s just fine,’ says Mr Robinson, ‘I’ll have everything ready for you then.’ Turning to Callum’s mother, he says, ‘All’s well with the Humber, Mrs Gow. I’ll get you the keys.’

  The Humber is parked at the front of the yard. The tyres have been blackened, the paintwork and chrome trim cleaned and polished.

  ‘Callum,’ says his mother, ‘Could you go with Mr Robinson for the keys, please.’

  Glancing over his shoulder he sees her standing very close to Jack, and when he returns his mother is twisting a strand of hair in her fingers. By the way she’s looking at Jack, he knows she likes him, a lot.

  ‘Callum dear,’ she says, ‘Jack’s asked if you’d like to go out to t
he beach with him.’

  He hesitates because uppermost in his mind is the need to tell his grandfather about the plot to put him in a home.

  ‘I have to pick up my crayfish pots,’ says Jack, ‘Could do with some help.’

  ‘In a boat?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK,’ he says.

  20

  As soon as they leave Tourist Motors he asks Jack to pass by Caroline Road so he can warn his grandfather, but Jack says, ‘We’re running late for the tide already. How about I take you on the way back?’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘You bet I promise. And I never break my word, ever. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  The drive takes them under mighty cliffs, and he spots white tufts dotted on rocky faces high above them. He knows these cliffs well, and often he follows the goats along their hoof-worn trails. He likes to explore the caves scarped into the cliffs, mostly alone, but sometimes with neighbourhood boys; the Mackintosh brothers, Ian Jones, and Brett Thompson.

  When alone he simply watches how one billy always leads while another follows the herd, and when they stop to graze the billies place themselves as sentries on the fringes.

  With the boys, he is part of a pack. They harass and chase the goats, barking like mad dogs.

  On the other side of the road and across the river, a whitewashed homestead is shimmering in the midday sun. He’s surprised Jack doesn’t know the story of the house being moved up the river from Clive on a barge, and in the process, being freed of the ghost that had haunted its occupants for years. He’s intrigued when Jack tells him about the man who hanged himself after he ran out of money building a big concrete mansion named Craggy Range.

  They haven’t stopped talking since leaving Hastings, and he appreciates why his mother likes Jack Madden. Unlike his father, Jack seems happy, and he can ask him questions he could never ask his father.