Huia Short Stories 10

by Tihema Baker

‘Koinā tāhau e minamina ai?’ ka tāwhiro anō ōhoku whakaaro ki kā tamariki. Te āhua nei he mārama tēnā ki a ia, i te mea tere tou tāhana whiu kupu mai:

  ‘Me pēhea kē hoki? Me whakatauira rānei au ki tāhaku kera, āna, ki te mahi whērā tāhau hoa, hai aha tōhou ake mana, me whakawhāriki koe i a koe anō, māhana nei te takahi?!’

  ‘Kia tau, e Piki ... Kai kōnei au hai tuara mōhou, ahakoa te aha. Tēnā, he inu māhau? He aha rānei?’ (Āe, e tika ana, i ruka i te tūmanako ka nekehia tōhona aro i ahau!)

  ‘He kapu tī noa. Kia ora rā.’ Ka romiromi te manu nei i kā huruhuru o te kakī, kia tau. Ka memene mai me tāhana kī, ‘Ko tētehi o ōhoku hoa mahi.’

  ‘He aha?’

  ‘He hoa mahi nōhona. Koia te wahine i moe tāhae a Koni.’

  ‘Wiii ... I hea? Pēhea nei?’

  ‘Tō rātou pāti Kirihimete rā. Kāore au i wātea ki te haere, māuiui nei a Maru, kino nei tāhana ruaki i taua pō rā, nā reira ka noho kē au ki te kāika, ko Koni ka haere, ka inu, ka konihi, ka whāwhā atu, ka kitea e te marea. Te mutuka kē mai o te whakamā!’

  Kātahi anō a Maru kia rua tau, ā, maumahara pai au ki taua huakita kau puku i pā ki a ia, kātahi ka hōrapa atu ki te whānau katoa. Te kino hoki o te torohī me te ruaki i te roaka o kā rā e toru! Nui te aroha ki te kōhukahuka rā i pākia e taua mate ... me tōhona hākui hoki.

  ‘Ehara i a koe te māteatea nei, e Piki. Kāore he āhuataka anō i ruka i a kōrua i taua wā?’

  ‘E, kāore ki tāhaku mōhio. Tēnā pea he mataku nōhona i whērā ai, koi pōua haere ia!’ me tāhana katakata, ekari auare ake te koakoa i roto i taua kata.

  ‘Nā reira me aha?’ Ko pao te kanohi. Ka ririkihia e au he waiwera ki tāhana kapu.

  ‘Māhaku e moe ki kōnei nā?’ Ka tūpou tōhoku mahuka. Hai te ata pea ka kitea te ara-a-Tāne puta ai i kā pōkēao e tūtakitaki ana i te wā nei.

  Aoinaake te rā, nāhaku te whakarite he parakuihi marae nei. Memene ana te mata o tōhoku tuahine i te roko ki taua tāwara. Hākoakoa au i tērā.

  ‘E! Tēnei a Hine-tītama te haramai nei!’

  ‘Wiii, e aki! Kai tua o Kapeka te kai e hora nei, ko roa nei te wā ka tūtaki māua ko Arero ki ēnei momo!’ Ka arotau māua tahi nei ki te horokai. Kātahi māua ka huri ki te kaupapa e pātōtō mai nei ki te tatau. I tēnei ata, kua tūkaha ake te wairua o tōhoku tuahine, ko whai pākahukahu a ia i te weheruataka o te pō.

  ‘Ka hoki atu au ki te whare ākuanei.’

  ‘Ko au hai hoa mōhou?’

  ‘E kao. Mehemea kai reira a Koni, ā tēnā, me taki noho māua ki te kōrero. Ki te kore ia i reira, māhaku e whakarite ētahi tūeke kia noho ai au ki wāhi kē atu.’

  ‘He rara mōhou ki kōnei.’

  ‘Kia ora rā, e mōhio ana au. Ehara i te mea ka whēnā mō ake tou atu ... tāhaku e tūmanako ai. Ekari me uru ki roto i a ia pēhea rawa te tioka nei o tāhana kore whai whakaaro mōhoku. Mō ā māua uri hoki. Kātahi au ka hoki atu.’

  ‘Mārama tēnā, e kare. Kā tamariki?’

  Ka noho wahakū. He nui te hā ka whai, ā, ka mea mai,

  ‘Ka matareka noa tāhaku whakamārama atu ki a rātou. E waru noa ō Oraiti tau, hai aha te āta whakapuaki atu kā kaupapa pakeke nei. Me pēnei pea tāhaku; ka whai hararei a Hākui, i te mea ko roa ia e pikau i kā kaupapa maha. Mā Hākoro rātou e tauwhiro, ekari ki te whakaae mai hoki ō tāua mātua–’

  ‘E mea ana koe! Ka kotahi mai rāua ki te tiki i ā rāua tino, ki te paku tawhiri atu nā koe, e Piki.’

  ‘Āna. Waihoki, he whaitake hoki pea taua hararei mō Koni. Tē karo i kā hua o taua mahi rā.’

  ‘Piki ... e pēhea ana ōu whakaaro, ōu āwhero rānei mōhona? I tēnei wā?’

  ‘Taihoa kia kite e aki. Ko okaina au e te hauaitu o tērā hinoka ōna, me te korekore rawa o ōhona whakaaro mōhoku i te tuatahi. Ekari ehara i te mea ko mahiti katoa nei te mariri kai roto i a au mōhona. Kai te kapuka o tōhona rika ināianei; me ka whakapāha mai, ka whakaea tāhaku nei mamae – he manako tou nōhoku ki te piri tahi. Heoti anō, e hika, kotahi noa te putaka mōhona. Whakapono rawa nei au, ki te kore au e tū Aoraki matatū nei, kai raro e putu ana ko āhaku aki, tāhaku kera hoki. Ko te uara matua o tō mātou whānau tae noa ki tēnei wā, ko te pono, ā-kī, ā-mahi hoki.’

  ‘Kā mihi e kō. Ko te tūmanako ia, he rā ki tua. Arohaina koe e au.’

  ‘Tēnā koe tāhaku tino tukāne. Mei kore koe.’ me tāhana awhi mai. ‘Ko haere au, nē. E noho rā.’

  Ka puta atu ia i te whatitoka o tōhoku whare. Ko waiho atu nei au me ōhoku mahara. Ko tāhaku nei, he karakia, ki a Hine-te-iwaiwa, ki a Hine-tītama, kia pai te otika mō rātou katoa, ōhoku huāka nei. He tai ope tēnei mea, te aroha.

  Regrets

  Aaron Ure

  Journal entry: 11 a.m. 22/02/2010

  ‘Hell found me.’ Nope, I don’t like that title.

  ‘Hell will find you.’ No, not that either.

  After narrowing it down and refining it time and time again, I keep coming back to that one thought, ‘Hell found me.’ I am tired of it buzzing around my cerebral vacuum. It has stalked me from the moment I saw him. In my bloody town and at my church.

  Since his untimely arrival, my journal has become a serious novel. So little time has passed since I saw him, and yet there are more entries here since that sighting than there were in the last two years before it. Before his return, life had become settled and divinely routine. Each day was well ordered and timed out to avoid too many hours alone thinking, reminiscing, debating. Did I make the right decision? A single glimpse brought back every second of our lives together, like a needle reopening every wound.

  Three years ago I told him, ‘No more; I can’t do this anymore’.

  I was going to leave that night and return to the church that had raised me, chastised me and poured guilt over me at every mass.

  I still see the look of total disbelief on his face, as if I had just shipwrecked his life on the way to the Promised Land. He stood there in his washed-out denim and crisp white T-shirt. The cashmere scarf I had bought him casually draped over his shoulders. A little god to most, but a sizeable G for me. As the tears welled in his beautiful brown eyes I saw my reflection clearly, and I felt like a monster.

  For three years, his memory has challenged my every idle thought and ignited my dreams, causing sin to spill into my sheets time and again.

  His body, so young and tender, matching my every move as we danced. The electric charge as we touched, at first sparking excitement then energising passion. The afterglow and my head on his chest as it gently rose and fell, as my hands caressed and held him. Yes, my title was right after all: Hell has found me. Only I can call it hell; no one else will understand.

  They will see a mild, shorter man with a wry smile and engaging eyes.

  I will see three years of heartache standing in front of me.

  They will embrace his hand and shoulder as a friend and brother.

  I will stand back for fear of losing my sobriety.

  They will exchange civilities and invite him to stay awhile.

  I will cry for release from my torment with every moment he chooses to stay.

  They will sit beside him in the pew, smiling at the potential new disciple.

  I will burn with rage and jealous desire as they sit so close.

  Hell has found me, and I will know no reprieve.

  As if this is not enough, he now makes his way towards me, smiling; disarming, melting me.

  ‘Marcus, it is great to see you again. How have you been?’ His voice chimes, as if no time has passed.

  ‘Thomas, it has been a while.’ My hand reaches out for his. I feel my heart stumble. Then that spark as our flesh meets, igniting dormant passion. ‘I hope you have a pleasant stay,’ is all I can manage before I turn to leave, again.

  Thank God that’s over. At home amid my statues and candles I feel a dawning respite from the turmoil brewing inside of me. I pace the house in a fog, shuffling in and out of every room scheming, planning how not to fal
l apart.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I am aware of bells ringing. Assuming it is my inbuilt alarm system on full tilt, I dismiss it repeatedly. At last it stops. I slump to the hall floor to find a moment’s reprieve; some breathing space. I hear soft footsteps come to the front door. There’s a small knock, then a hand presses against the glass, before fading away into the afternoon light. A note has been slipped beneath the doorjamb.

  Note to self: repair the gap under the door. I had had my eyes glued to the hand at the window.

  The note is restrained. We need to talk. I will be at the Beat café at three.

  It isn’t signed, but it doesn’t need a signature. Bile rises to my mouth. I cannot hide any longer. I have to face him if I’m ever to be free.

  2.30 p.m.

  OK. Standing in front of the mirror practising my, ‘No thanks, I am truly happy’ speech is a waste of time. Thirty-five minutes of wasted time, to be exact. I look fantastic though. I have chosen a light tan ensemble of three-quarter shorts and a muslin top, with a light knit jersey arranged over my shoulders and tied loosely at mid-chest. I look relaxed and happy, content in everything except my own skin. The outward appearance is dashing, yet underneath I am a mess.

  Walking up to the café, I note the pavements inundated with local parishioners going about their lives. A tip of a hat here, a wave of the hand there, all smiling and unaware of my mounting fears. All very frightening to me, as my mind races through scenario after scenario of what might go wrong in such a public setting.

  Time stands still as my eyes alight on the tender face of love. I drop my head to the side. I blush. Dear God, here I go again: the giddy schoolgirl off for a secret rendezvous.

  I compose myself as I arrive at the table out front of the café. I am back in adult mode.

  ‘Thomas,’ I say, lightly, my voice without a tremble. ‘Are you keeping well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, old friend. Are you OK to talk here?’

  The note of caution and concern in his voice worries me. Thomas is not one given to caution. He is more the gush and overflow sort of guy, emotional and truly out there. This change in his approach is unexpected. I sit back deeper in my chair, studying him. Though still gorgeous as ever, Thomas has lost weight, and is paler than I remember. He is obviously still physically strong, and yet somehow inwardly more frail.

  Waiting a moment before answering, I acknowledge this is an OK place to talk, and we enter into conversations I do not expect.

  ‘Two coffees, please. One white with raw sugar. Marcus will have his black, strong and as hot as you can make it.’ Turning, he manages a weak smile. ‘Some things you just don’t forget.’

  As I smile back, the thoughts run through my mind. ‘And some people you never forget, despite how hard you try.’

  As Thomas talks of his journey of the last three years, I learn of his pain at our break-up, and the devastation my abruptness had caused. Listening to how I had hurt him is painful. I ache to my core. Together, we speak openly, as adults, of his feelings and the changes in his life.

  Then Thomas breaks the news of why he has come here; why he has invaded my solitude.

  ‘I have cancer,’ he says.

  I am silent, unable to speak, as he explains. He has liver cancer, diagnosed eight months after I left him. Now he is tying up loose ends, looking for closure. His voice is shaking, and I know he is desperate for some response from me, but I keep silent. I listen, struggling to hold myself together and remain aloof, professional. Nodding sympathetically, and voicing the occasional ‘oh, how was that?’ as I was trained to do as parish counsellor.

  Tears seep from those beautiful eyes and pool at the corner before flowing down the lines of his face. Unable to maintain any sense of distance, I instinctively reach across the table and thumb his tears away. With my free hand, I clasp his hands. Suddenly, I don’t care who may be watching.

  We talk until the café is due to close, then we walk through town. Silence is interwoven with short conversations and looks that move far beyond physical desire or youthful passion.

  Thomas. I look, and I see a man I can love and respect; a man whose life was once an open book to me. A strong man, yet vulnerable enough to ask for help. I cannot find my giddy schoolgirl response, nor my first thoughts of hell having found me.

  In fact, I think heaven has opened up and smiled at me.

  Journal entry: 9 a.m. 14/08/2010

  I’m amazed that six months have passed. The time has slipped by, and my journal is now fuller than it ever was. It looks like a replica of some old scribbled manuscript: pages worn, with dog-eared edges poking out at odd angles. Photos added here and there, with handwritten notes from a friend and soulmate.

  Thomas and I reconciled quickly. Three weeks after that first cup of coffee, he moved in with me, sharing my home, my heart and my bed. Together, we attended church and community meetings, with the surprising support of our little hamlet. The last few months we have grown beyond ourselves – beyond our labels – and have arrived back where we started. We are just two human beings who have found agreeable company and unconditional friendship in each other’s presence.

  Thomas looks smashing today. The casualness and elegance of cashmere always suited him. His hair, slightly thinner, is brushed neatly across his right brow. Those feature cheekbones, as youthful and clear-cut as ever.

  As for me, I feel a little old and tired, but contented that the decisions I’ve made these last months have all been worthwhile. Tired and older, I am here; dressed as comfortably as I can. We are surrounded this morning by so many people. I can’t remember when I last saw half of them; probably never in a church. Yet here we are. Thomas and me, with family and old friends: church and street mingling. Things are just as they should be.

  10.30 a.m.

  I’m shaking all over as I stand here, wondering if the pulpit microphone will pick up the knocking in my knees. Contemplating the last six months as I look over at Thomas, I am amazed at how he brings out the strength in me. Going public on any matter was never an option for me. I have always preferred the background, and allowing others to bloom was my specialty. Now I stand here, in front of so many people, feeling neither fear nor judgement: only peace. My mind is clear; the aroma of lavender and Chelsea roses fill the room, adding to my awareness of being surrounded by beauty. I gaze at them in all their splendour and consider what wonders the future will hold.

  Then I look at Thomas, his strength still enabling me. I smile, contemplating my good fortune as I step down from the pulpit to be by his side.

  A myriad of hymns and tributes follow our short service. Many well-wishers follow behind as Thomas and I make our way from the church. As the throng gather around us, I kneel on one knee, hands gently resting on his coffin.

  ‘Make sure my coffee is strong and hot when I get there,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget now.’

  Eva

  Helen Waaka

  Eva stood outside my house one night and threw stones at the bedroom window. I knew it was her by the way the stones hit the window, relentlessly, like the beating of a heart. I lay there for a while listening, wanting to get up, but not wanting to. I could be like that sometimes with Eva. Indecisive. But in the end I did get out of bed, pulled the venetians up, wiped a layer of condensation off the glass. There was a fog settling, and Eva was lit up from behind by the hazy orange glow of the streetlight outside our house. I pushed the window open, hooked the lever into its last slot. I could see the outline of her body, how she held herself, stooped and tired-looking, like someone much older than her fifteen years.

  ‘I’m running away,’ she said. I knew by her voice, how quiet it was, the way she seemed to chew her words, that her father had given her another hiding. The hidings were something we shared, a secret that drew us together in the first place. They weren’t something the Prudences, the Alices or the Odettes could even begin to understand.

  ‘I’m going to Plymouth,’ she said. ‘Robbie’s ther
e. Come with me.’ Robbie was Eva’s older brother, good-looking but on the wild side, a bit like Eva. They both lacked boundaries, and without boundaries, they experienced life ten times more than anyone else did. Everything was all over the place. Robbie had left home the year before. He’d hit out at his father, defending himself, and no one had seen him since. We’d heard he was living in a flat, somewhere in Plymouth.

  I thought about the times Eva and I had spent together. No one else I knew did the things she did, like ride Robbie’s horse bareback, with just reins and a bridle. She took me with her once. I’d never been on a horse before, and I clung to her with both arms wrapped tight around her body, my face buried in the man’s shirt she wore. I could smell the sun on her back and in her hair, warm and clean as she galloped the horse along the riverbank.

  ‘Not so tight!’ she yelled into the wind. ‘I can’t breathe!’

  We rode the horse along the banks of the river, strands of her long brown hair flicking across my face, the wind taking my breath away. I squeezed my eyes shut, too scared to look, but once or twice I dared to open them and caught glimpses of the water, a shimmering denim blue, sparks of sunlight dancing across its surface. Eva slowed the horse to a trot, steered it down the sloping grassy banks of the river towards the soft, slate grey sand. She kicked her heels into the horse’s chestnut belly and pulled on the reins.

  ‘Eva!’ I yelled. ‘Let me off!’

  She laughed, ignoring the fear in my voice. The horse pricked back its ears, hesitated for a moment then plunged forward, taking us both into the icy waters of the river. We rode out until we were up to our thighs in water and the horse started kicking its hooves to swim. She turned towards me.

  ‘This is the life, baby doll!’ she yelled. ‘This is what it’s all about!’

  I clung to her, petrified, trying to hang on to whatever it was that made the moment so intoxicating.

  I hadn’t forgotten that feeling, the wildness of it, the recklessness that scared yet at the same time thrilled me. I remembered it now as Eva looked up at me, waiting for an answer.