Weeping Waters

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  As the paramedics help the patrollers remove the stretchers bearing the bodies, Tori steps forward. ‘Please, can you leave them there for a few minutes, on the ground. We need to pay our respects to our dead right now.’

  The paramedics place the ghostly forms, wrapped in sheets and covered in plastic, in a line on the side of the road. Tori can tell from the bulky shape which is Bill. He gently pulls back the makeshift shroud to reveal his face.

  Shona falls on her knees, ignoring the cold hard gravel that cuts through into her skin. ‘He looks like he’s just sleeping,’ she says, stroking his frozen cheek. ‘He’s so handsome.’

  Bill’s mother joins her on the ground. Her shoulders hunched over her lost son, she starts to weep. ‘Aaeee, why him? Why my son? It should have been me! I wish it was me!’

  The mourners gather and Uncle Eruera starts to chant an ancient karakia to release the spirit of the three men into the care of their ancestors.

  A freezing eddy swirls around them and Tori thinks he can hear creaking and groaning coming from the heart of the volcano beneath them. He glances up to the summit where gusting wind blends little pockets of sodden ash with new deposits of snow. He trembles as he remembers the lightning streaking down the mountain the night before, warning of imminent death.

  ‘We pray for the souls of all these men. May they rest in peace for eternity. It is done,’ Uncle Eruera says and steps aside.

  The doctor motions at the paramedics to place the other two bodies into the ambulance. ‘I understand you want to take your cousin’s body home with you,’ he says to Tori. ‘I examined him up the mountain and can officially pronounce him dead. I just need to fill out the death certificate now. And you’ll need to sign a release. The police have agreed,’ he says, handing Tori a form. Quietly, he tells him, ‘They were all asphyxiated. There was no air getting through to the snow cave.’

  Bill’s mother opens the back of the car and with great tenderness the men lift Bill’s body carefully onto the bed of ferns. She hands Tori a plastic bag of Bill’s clothing she has brought from home. ‘He always liked these,’ she says. ‘It’s what we would like him to wear.’

  ‘Uncle and I will take Bill to the undertaker to be prepared,’ he tells her. ‘Don’t worry, we will wait there with him until he is ready. He will never be left alone and we will bring him home for the tangi.’

  The light is fading and it is well into evening when the two men return to the marae with the coffin. When they pull up, four younger men step forward to carry the casket into the wharenui. Already about thirty other family members are milling around, waiting. Hemi and some young cousins are chasing each other around the buildings, shrieking with laughter.

  ‘Taihoa e tama. Stop that, Hemi,’ Tori gently chastens his son. ‘All of you kids quieten down a bit. Follow me.’

  Women who have been preparing food in the brightly lit hall for the three-day tangi that lies ahead, hurry out to join the men who are forming a procession behind the coffin. Inside, they pass rows of mattresses covered in fresh linen and blankets lined up on the polished wooden floor in readiness for the many relatives who will be travelling from towns and cities throughout New Zealand for the funeral. They place Bill’s coffin at the end of the room on the floor and Uncle Eruera moves forward to remove the lid.

  The young boys nudge each other and edge forward. Awestruck, they take in the still features of the man they remember for his boisterousness. He is dressed in a black corduroy shirt, open at the neck, a newish pair of blue denim jeans and polished black leather shoes. Around his neck is the silver chain and greenstone pendant of Tangaroa, the great god of the sea, that he always wore. His short black hair is glistening, his brown face glowing in the soft light.

  ‘You are home,’ his mother whispers as she leans forward to touch his hand. Her tears course down deeply etched gullies on her face as she feels the coldness of her son. ‘We will stay with you, my darling boy.’

  Throughout the evening, cousins, sisters, brothers, aunties and uncles take it in turn to make impromptu speeches about Bill, commemorating his death and celebrating his life. Occasionally, they burst into song, tunes that Bill loved or others of a more sacred nature. The children sit quietly on their beds playing board games.

  Every hour or so new arrivals are announced and the elders file out to the entrance to perform the traditional welcome. Sometimes it is a carload of people; occasionally, just a lone figure who has journeyed for hours. Each must be welcomed. The visitors doze on and off. Bill’s mother, father and sisters barely leave his side except to visit the dining room.

  At two in the morning when the wind has dropped, the lake is gently lapping and the night is at its stillest, a small bus arrives at the entrance of the marae. Eight adults and half a dozen sleepy children spill out onto the lawn. Uncle Eruera walks out to greet the relatives who have driven six hours from the north of the island for the tangi.

  Most of the mattresses in the wharenui are now occupied and the room is full of the living, twisting and turning in a half-sleep while the body of the one they have come to honour lies forever motionless.

  Hemi can’t sleep. He searches for his sister among the rows of mattresses until he sees Moana’s glossy long hair pouring out from under a sheet.

  ‘Moana, I’m scared,’ he whispers, shaking her. ‘The kehua might get me!’

  She lifts the sheet and he crawls in beside her. ‘There’s no ghost here,’ she says quietly.

  He clings to his sister, gratefully inhaling her warmth, but he doesn’t quite believe her. He can see the coffin at the end of the meeting house beneath the rows of photos of people he knows were, and still are, part of his family. Above him the carved likenesses of his ancestors and the great spirit gods seem to be staring right at him and he shivers.

  ‘Will Bill be OK?’ he says in a small voice. But his sister doesn’t answer so he nestles closer to her, closes his eyes and breathes in time with her until his fears fade into sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  On the third and final day of the tangi, Tori drives to the hospital early. Frances is already waiting for him out the front of the building, the crisp breeze from the lake blowing her soft hair. Her arm still supported by a sling, she climbs into the front seat awkwardly.

  ‘So good to get out of there and breathe some fresh air.’

  Her face is pale and her eyes greener than he remembers. They lean towards each other and kiss softly.

  ‘So good to see you.’ She kisses him again.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he searches her face, afraid to mention the flowers.

  ‘As sure as I have ever been,’ she says, and for now he has to be satisfied with the answer.

  ‘I’m sorry this will be a sad day to be going home. Do you mind if we go straight to the marae? Bill’s funeral starts soon.’

  ‘Of course—I want to be there. How is Shona?’

  ‘She’s bearing up. She’s been coming and going to the marae. Not being Maori, she hasn’t stayed all the time but Bill’s close family never leave his side. Today will be very tough for them.’

  When they arrive, the size of the crowd of people filling the grounds takes her aback.

  ‘You can see he has lots of relations,’ he smiles at her. ‘Also quite a few soldiers are here from Waiouru. It will be a big send-off.’

  An elderly priest dressed in a funereal black suit with a purple scapular around his neck is shaking hands with people.

  ‘That’s Father Ryan. Been coming here for years for our funerals.’

  Standing inside the ceremonial gate, Aunty Tui and Moana catch sight of them and wave them over. Aunty Tui kisses Frances’ cheek warmly, gently patting her injured arm. Tori hugs Moana. Shyly, the girl waits for Frances to make the first move, then rushes to hug her when Frances smiles.

  ‘Careful! It’s still very sore!’ Frances is touched by Moana’s affection.

  She hears the now familiar voice of Uncle Eruera calling out the ritual welcome to her and
other small groups of mourners who are arriving at the same time. Moving forward with the group, she presses her nose on his and a line of others leading to the meeting house.

  ‘You’re getting good at the hongi,’ Tori whispers to her as she wrinkles her nose at him. ‘Do you want to see Bill before they close the coffin? There’s time.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She hesitates. ‘Yes, I do.’

  The coffin has been brought outside onto the veranda of the meeting house. The shiny mahogany and ornate silver handles contrast strangely with the muted wood of the building. Like sentries, Bill’s family keep watch. Dressed in black with a scarf covering her head, his mother sits alongside while his sisters hover close by.

  Frances stands back, not sure she is ready to confront death so closely. Sensing her nervousness, Tori squeezes her hand tightly and ushers her close to the body. She glances in at Bill’s face, barely recognising the figure who so recently was bursting with life. Feeling a little like an intruder, she nods a greeting to the family.

  ‘Frances!’ She turns to see Shona, her eyes heavily made up but still red from crying. Her long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, contrasting with the dark Maori women around her. They embrace warmly.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you,’ Shona apologises. ‘It’s just…’

  ‘Don’t. No need. I’m just so glad I was able to get here today. I’m so sorry about Bill.’

  Death has not interfered with Shona’s fashion sense. She wears a tightly fitting black jacket with a low-cut white bustier beneath, a silver and paua-shell pendant Bill gave her for her birthday, a short skirt and high, black patent leather stiletto shoes.

  Tori touches Frances’ arm. ‘I have to leave you for a while. I’m part of the rituals. I’ll catch you later.’

  Shona links arms with her and they drift away from Tori back onto the lawn. Frances, dressed in black pants with a tailored pink shirt and smart leather pumps, murmurs to her friend, ‘You always have the knack of making me feel dowdy.’

  ‘Bill wouldn’t have wanted me to drop my standards,’ Shona replies lightly. ‘Though I don’t think all the family are that impressed.’ She nods her head towards an unfamiliar group of women who are looking at them. ‘By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, the one giving you dagger looks is Tori’s ex-wife, Cheryl.’

  Frances sees a tall, curvaceous woman with thick curly black hair glaring at her. Her dark flashing eyes and the set of her full mouth instantly remind her of Moana.

  ‘I think I’ll just keep out of her way,’ she whispers.

  From the veranda, a loud voice speaking in Maori makes them turn back. The people around them are pressing forward.

  ‘It’s all about to start,’ Shona says. ‘Come towards the front.’

  Standing next to the coffin, a white-haired man in a hound’s-tooth sports jacket and neatly pressed trousers is talking loudly and gesturing wildly.

  ‘That’s Bill’s father. I hadn’t met him before,’ Shona says. ‘He lives a long way from here and just arrived yesterday. I felt a bit strange meeting him. He’s making the first oration.’

  The two women stand side by side, both feeling like outsiders.

  ‘I hope you’re not feeling too tired. This will go for at least an hour. It’s like a long storybook about Bill’s life and calls on the ancestors to care for him in the afterlife.’

  Frances squeezes Shona’s hand. ‘Thanks, I’m fine. But you’re the one I should be worrying about. You must have been through hell.’

  An air of casualness mingles with the solemnity of the occasion. Children wander in and out of the lines of adults, the smaller ones chasing each other. Some in brightly coloured T-shirts and shorts, others in tracksuits, they run barefoot wherever they please.

  A group of bulky Maori men, some with heavily tattooed arms and faces, files to the front and begins a vigorous haka: ‘Ka mate, ka mate,…’

  Frances sees Tori in the middle of the second row. He is taller than many of the others and his handsome features also make him stand out. She notices, too, that his firm chest and stomach contrast with some of the pot bellies flopping around him. She is mesmerised by his sheer physical presence, and by the power and intensity of the chanting.

  ‘It’s their final farewell to Bill, their fellow warrior.’ Frances hears Shona’s voice breaking and sees she has started to cry. She puts her arm around her friend, flinching when her injured shoulder hurts with the movement.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Shona says. ‘I really don’t want to lose it in front of everyone here, but I’ve seen Bill do the haka lots of times with those guys. I can’t stand it that he’s no longer here.’

  As the men leap into the air with a final full-throated cry, then retreat to the side of the crowd, Mata leads out a group of women, with Moana trailing self-consciously at the end of the line.

  ‘There’s the bitch,’ Shona says, regaining her sense of humour when she spots Cheryl in the front row.

  Frances can’t stop herself commenting. ‘She’s very beautiful, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe in a superficial, tarty sort of way. Bad eye make-up and no class. Nothing for you to worry about.’

  Frances suppresses a smile, but she can’t take her eyes off Cheryl and wonders how seriously she is trying to draw Tori back into their relationship.

  Mata’s melodic voice suddenly pierces the silence that has descended on the marae.

  E tangi ana koe, Hine e hine,

  Kua ngenge ana koe, Hine e hine.

  Kati to pouri ra, noho i te aroha,

  Te ngakau o te matua, Hine e Hine.

  The other women join her, their voices rising in sweet harmony. As they draw out the final note, the mourners bow their heads as one.

  Looking relieved, Moana walks over to Frances’ side and surprises her by taking hold of her hand.

  ‘You were wonderful,’ Frances says. ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘Umm, don’t know. Maybe with Mum,’ she says, looking away shyly.

  Frances can’t stop herself turning around. She sees them standing together a few metres away. Cheryl has her arm through Tori’s and as she watches she sees him stroke her hand. Frances quickly looks away. She feels nauseous. If it wasn’t for Shona and Moana still holding on to her hands, she would try to escape.

  ‘Look, Frances, they’re starting,’ the girl tells her.

  As two elders secure the lid of the coffin, the priest steps forward: ‘Let us say Te Inoi a te Ariki, the Lord’s Prayer.’ Then he walks towards the coffin and sprinkles it with holy water. Taking the brass-chained incense holder, he waves it over the coffin, releasing the pungent aroma of burning frankincense and myrrh.

  Frances lets herself be swept along with the crowd as they follow the priest and the pallbearers, who include Tori, up the hill towards the little family cemetery. Frances can see the open grave ahead, freshly dug that morning by the men at the marae. Bill was a heavy man and his friends struggle as they bear him on this final journey. At last they reach the grave and gently lower the coffin next to it. As the priest sprinkles more holy water, Tori steps away from the others and begins to speak, his voice deep and clear. ‘Haera ra, Bill.’ As Frances listens to his farewell he catches her eye and his face softens.

  As the men start to lower the coffin into the grave, Shona stands beside Frances, weeping softly. Suddenly, they hear a woman scream and Bill’s mother lunges forward. She leans down into the dark chasm, wailing and banging her fists into the earth. Her daughters hold her tightly but do not pull her back, allowing her to continue her loud lament. As her voice fades, they ease her up onto her feet. She is covered with mud—her grey curly hair, her face, her black suit—but she makes no attempt to remove it. Her daughters hold her close and this time prevent her from falling down again.

  As the men start to pile the dirt onto the coffin, Frances feels heavy drops of rain hitting her face.

  ‘There’s going to be a downpour,’ Tori says as he appears at he
r side. ‘It’s a good omen but we’re all going to get very wet.’

  She looks into his eyes and he smiles at her.

  ‘Sorry I had to leave you to look after yourself. But I had to concentrate on the ceremony.’

  Frances nods but says nothing.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure.’ Before she has time to say more, Cheryl sidles up to Tori, holding out her arm.

  ‘Tori, coming with me?’ she asks.

  ‘Ah, Cheryl…this is my friend Frances. I’m looking after her for the rest of the afternoon so I’ll catch up with you another time,’ he says as he takes Frances’ arm.

  Cheryl’s face contorts in a look of disgust but she says nothing and walks off down the hill.

  Frances says nothing but Tori presses her. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Of course. It’s just that I feel uncomfortable with your wife around and it looked as though you might have patched everything up with her.’

  Tori laughs for the first time that day. ‘Hey girl, you have nothing to worry about there. She’s history with me but she’s still family and the mother of my children so there are certain things I have to do.’

  ‘Like holding her hand?’

  ‘Only like a brother,’ he says, ‘but I’m flattered that you’re jealous.’ After a short pause he adds, ‘At least I don’t go sending her red roses.’

  ‘Oh those,’ Frances says. ‘They were from my ex—and that’s what he’ll always be.’ She begins to relax, happy to be at his side again.

  As they reach the dining hall she sees family members carrying large trays of steaming food, roasted meats and root vegetables inside to long tables.

  ‘Hope you’re hungry, Frances. You’re going to try the food from your first hangi. All that food’s been cooking since early this morning in the underground oven.’

  ‘I’m not sure I am hungry. It seems a little too soon after the funeral to eat.’

  Tori rests his arms on her shoulders and tilts her face up towards him. ‘Now we leave all the darkness and the sadness at the grave. We walk out into the sunlight and we celebrate Bill’s life.’