Ao Toa

by Cathie Dunsford

  Suddenly, a wailing like a karanga pierces the night air, and Koa watches Mere sink to her knees on the wet sand. She is bent over a piece of cloth. Koa runs down the dunes, her feet digging deep into the thick sand and slowing her pace. The wind whips into her face and it seems as if she will never reach Mere, whose wails are spiralling over the dunes, up into the trees beyond, out over the waves. In the distance, a lone takapu cries back eerily from beyond the breakers, thinking its mother might be near, disturbed by the cries of grief it cannot identify as it is buffeted by the rough ocean, its beak still empty of fish.

  When Koa nears Mere kneeling at the high tide line, she sees a pattern of green sea turtles swimming over the deep blue material locked in her grasp and recognises a piece of Maata’s lavalava, ripped from the side of the cloth and covered in blood. She knows there is only one way this could be here on the beach, still intact, the blood still fresh. Mere holds the cloth to her face and moans into it, still uttering her karakia, still hoping there may be an answer other than the story the ripped lavalava tells.

  Koa rubs her shoulders lovingly as the tears fall down her cheeks and onto the turtles, soaking into the blood and making it run into the blue sea of the lavalava. Koa moves from side to side with Mere as she wails and weeps, holding her as tightly as Mere holds the cloth, her only reminder of her little Maata, the child she’d raised as her own. The green turtle, whose fin has been ripped off with the material, turns red as the blood soaks into its flesh and drips down onto Mere’s knees below. The wind howls into them from the sea as if joining their grief, and the waves pound the shore in anger. Or maybe it’s defiance, that they have finally claimed this child who was once grasped from their reach just as she was offered up to them by Tangaroa, God of the Sea.

  Kuini scrambles desperately over the rocks, heading for the sea cave that Cowrie disappeared into minutes ago. No sign of her emerging triumphant out the other side, nor her crumpled body thrown up by the waves that smash violently against the inner walls of the cavern and spout like a surfacing whale from the cave mouth. The wind rages against her, slowing her progress, and she dreads what she may find inside the cave, that she may have to wait until the tide falls to discover its gruesome secrets. The other surfers have headed back to the ranger’s house, and Kuini cannot leave the cave to get help. Her only hope is to find Cowrie, dead or alive. She slips across the wet rocks, struggling to find ledges wide enough to carry her weight, and clings precariously to the slippery cliff face, praying she will make it.

  A rock slides out from her feet and sends a hoard of smaller rocks after it. Kuini grasps onto a thick pohutukawa root as wide as her wrist that is poking out of the clay cliff above the rocks. It bends with her body, but holds her in place until she can tentatively find another foothold, not daring to look down to the sea thundering into the rocks below her. A surge of water thick with kelp crashes over her, leaving a tangled mass of seaweed locked onto her hair and shoulders. She shivers with the cold and holds onto her sacred pohutukawa tightly. The sea recedes and smaller waves only reach to her knees, granting her a reprieve so she can make her way slowly to the cave entrance. She lies on a ledge above the cave and listens. Nothing but the roar of the sea, the swoosh of the waves as they enter into the cave, smash up against the back wall, swirl around violently and whirl with new fury out the other side. In the distance, aki aki screech their calls into the wind as they swoop past.

  “Cowrie. Cowrie. Are you there? Can you hear me?” Her voice boomerangs into the cave and back again. The echoes resound several times before bouncing back to her as if mocking her calls. Kuini hopes that Cowrie might have found a hidden ledge inside the cave, just enough to provide an air hole – but also realises this is a very faint possibility. Perhaps Cowrie was smashed against the rock wall and hurtled back out to the open sea? Maybe her body was sucked under the wave and Kuini did not see this as she ran down the beach? Fears crowd her mind like bats crashing blindly against rocks in the wet, black night. All she can do is chant, again and again, in her head:

  Ko Hinemoa, ko au … ko Hinemoa, ko au …

  Like Hinemoa, I’d risk all for love … like Hinemoa, I’d risk all for love …

  The underground burial cave on Tony Pratt’s farm is like a body being wired for life. Its belly is rigged with intestines of coloured plastic snakes wriggling from one side to the other. Hooks are attached to the rock ceiling through which the wires can travel. Audio, video and computer wiring decorates the once dark cavern like a Christmas tree covered in gaudy lights, garish speakers and microphones. Steve looks on with delight as his men transform this ugly old cave into an experimental laboratory.

  Then they begin work on the connecting caves, using all that are large enough to stand up in and hold their captive prey for the duration of their experiments. Not that they will be treated as captives. Far from it. These animals will have the very best that modern technology can offer and be monitored day and night, 24/7. Nothing will be spared for their comfort, from the best hay that International Seed Corporation and MagicMilk can provide, via their research funds, to the best vegetables available. The workers have already decided to buy from the local organic collective, just in case. It wouldn’t be good for their cause if any of the animals died from a crop blasted with Roundup or any of its baby toxins. No, this cave will look like a manger by the time they have finished. And they will be the three wise men – Tony, Ray and Steve, who bring frankincense and myrrh and whatever the third thing was – to welcome the birth of the New Christ, the baby Jesus, the brave new world of cloning. This genetic experiment will be like none before. It will be breaking new ground, opening up new worlds, eventually bringing together humans and animals in a holy mergence, where one can save the life of the other. This moment, thinks Steve, will be the end of life as we know it and the beginning of a brilliant, shimmering existence. He is alive, humming, entranced by the enactment of his vision at last. All his training, study and research has led to this moment in time. Finally, he will be recognised as the New Creator, for he will hold the key to a pristine form of life on this planet, a better breed of creature than God or computer engineers could ever dream about, let alone create.

  Mere refuses to stand, is still kneeling down, grasping her life-line to little Maata. The torn rag hangs limply from her hands, the wounded turtle bleeding from its shoulder where the fin was ripped off. She whispers karakia to the cloth, as if her prayers might make her beloved Maata appear magically from the withering piece of lavalava, like Venus from her scallop shell, magnificent in her living glory. Mere would give Maui her jawbone, her teeth, her eyes, her limbs, if only she could have Maata stand beside her now, if only she could surf in safely on the welcoming waves, right here into her arms. She’d willingly relive all those harsh years of coming to terms with her abuse, the hardships it caused her and others, the tears of grief, the hours awake in the dark when little Maata had violent nightmares. She’d embrace every moment of caring for Maata, washing her, her clothes, her dishes, until she was old enough to begin to take care of herself. She’d welcome back the times of stormy defiance as Maata entered into her teenage years, rebelling against the calmness and safety of Te Kotuku marae, of Mere’s cottage, of Cowrie’s care, wanting to sit for hours under those dreadful headphones listening to those awful wailing monsters that Mere had seen on MTV. Right now, she’d hug Maata walking into her lounge on the arm of one of those dread-locked wailing motorbike boys, helmet in his hand, fag in his mouth, so long as he was there with Maata, her Maata, her child, her grandchild, her tamariki, her mokopuna.

  She feels the warmth of Koa’s breath on her neck, hands gently massaging her shoulders, and slowly she stands, still clasping her torn rag. Koa guides her up the beach towards Tipo’s cottage. From there they call the marae to see if Maata and Waka have, by some miracle, defied fate and returned. No such luck. Irihapeti is still at the cottage, waiting to hear from them, puzzled at her missing motorbike but realising, after calling Piripi,
that the tamariki had the van and Koa must have taken Mere on the motorbike. Irihapeti wants to scold them for going alone, but knows she cannot, not in the face of this disaster. Instead, she tells them to come home and assures them she will call the Manawa Toa crew, the coast guard, the police and Rawene Hospital to make sure that they all know and in case anyone has found the bodies of the two teenagers.

  Koa and Mere stay for a warm cup of tea with Tipo, who says that he saw the two earlier, that they’d paddled out beyond the breakers and then he’d gone to smoke some mullet he’d caught in his net. By the time he returned, the kids were gone. He assumed they’d finished surfing, packed up and headed home. There was no sign of them, nor their van, nor that anything was at all wrong. He always keeps an eye out for kids surfing or swimming here because the rip is so dangerous and there can be freak waves. But he knew the marae kids were used to the wild West Coast surf and never gave them another thought. Mere thanks him for his help. Tipo offers them a bed for the night, saying that they’d still be able to keep in touch with the marae, and fearing a trip back in the howling wind on the motorbike, but Mere insists that they must return home, be there for the others. Tipo knows better than to argue with a kuia and agrees.

  Mere and Koa mount the old bike, huddled in jumpers provided by Tipo to keep them warm enough for the return journey. He waves them goodbye and immediately calls Piripi to let him know they are on their way. He’s known Piripi since they were kids at school together and he realises just how frantic he’ll be at this time. Just as well. Piripi is alone and has not yet heard the kids are missing. Tipo fills him in on what he knows and assures him that Irihapeti is doing all she can – and maybe he should join her at Mere’s cottage and both wait for Mere and Koa to return. Piripi can do little else. His van has not returned and there are no other available cars. He talks as long as possible with Tipo, soothed by his voice and knowledge that he feels his son and Mere’s tamariki will be fine. He just has this feeling. Piripi knows to trust this well and heaves a sigh of relief to hear it from a mate he loves.

  The ride home to the cottage is bumpy and rough. Koa’s eyes stream with tears from the cold night air whipping into her face and the grief she feels inside her. Mere is tensely holding onto her waist and her head is slumped into the back of Koa’s neck. Koa has never seen the kuia like this. She’s always so strong, such a wahine toa, that she never imagined anything would knock her back like this. Then again, Koa has no idea what it is like to lose a child you have rescued from abuse and then raised as your own. It’s a special feeling that few could ever know. When they turn onto the clay road to the cottage, they see all the lights glowing and people inside. Mere dreads having to face them, but knows she must. She utters karakia and prepares herself for the long hours of the endless night that lies before them.

  Cowrie is crammed into an upper ledge of the cave, her knee badly bruised and the left side of her body injured as she smashed against the rock wall. She knew she’d never get out alive if she let the wave take her further and clung to the rock crevice until the wave slurped out, taking a mass of sand and seaweed with it. She hauled herself up onto the ledge just as the next wave crashed through the cave. A large crab edged itself further into the slit as she did so, not keen to share its home with this strange creature surfed in by the wave.

  Moments after she’d crawled into the air pocket, she felt a pang of pain as the injuries seeped through her body, and in seconds she was back in the sea in her mind on the day Maata nearly drowned in the waves. She recalled the energy as clear as light and tuned into the power that surged through her like a wave, giving her the courage to carry Maata safely to shore on her back, like a turtle swimming through the waves. She invoked Laukiamanuikahiki to protect her again, as she’d saved Maata then. In that moment, she felt a pang of alarm. Maybe it was Maata in trouble, in a rip tide again? Maybe the fear was not for her but for Maata? She curled into a foetal position, still clinging to the ledge, and focused all her energy on saving Maata. It felt like Maata had collapsed, but she was not alone. Maybe she’d also found a rock ledge to keep her above the water? Maybe she was also waiting for the tide to recede to return to safety? Cowrie lost consciousness for a moment, was surfing in the waves, surfing into the beach at Mitimiti, her little Maata on her back again, safe from harm, safe from abuse, but exhausted and drained.

  Minutes have passed. It could be hours for all Cowrie knows. The tide has receded slightly and, although the waves are still surging through the cave, they are further down the rock wall. Soon, she may be able to lower herself into the water and safely swim out. If her leg allows her to do this. She sends a shaft of light into her bruised knee, willing it to heal well enough to get her out of here. In the distance, she hears a faint voice. It sounds like Kuini. But it can’t be. She left her behind at the ranger’s house when they’d left for their swim. She listens hard. There it is again.

  Kauri … Kauri … Kauri … Cowrie … Cowrie … Cowrie … She tries to answer, but her voice is weak and tired. It is muted and unable to carry that far. Queenie … Queenie … Kuini … Kuini … She gives up, laying her head awkwardly on her arm, and passes out in pain.

  The lights are blazing at Mere’s cottage as they drive up the clay pathway. It looks like a wake. Maybe somebody has died? It’s very late for a gathering and must be an emergency. They park outside and peer in the window. There is Mere, her head in her hands, a piece of Maata’s lavalava still dangling from her fingers. Irihapeti’s arm is around her and Koa’s arm is around Iri’s. Piripi sits next to Mere, holding Waka’s first-ever carving, fondling it and tracing the spiralling lines around the body of wood affectionately, sadly, as if he could conjure his son from the heart of the tree which once stood proudly near the marae before it was felled for their carving. Bill Noa, the local policeman from Pungaru, stands tall, his cellphone to his head, talking quietly as he makes his enquiries to the coast guard.

  The couple walk into the cottage and there is a stunned silence. It’s as if they have all seen a bunch of ghosts.

  “Where the hell have you been?” demands Piripi. He runs toward them and pulls them both toward him, hugging his son with one arm and Maata with the other, tears running down his cheeks.

  Over the next hour, Waka and Maata both try to tell the tale which comes out in bursts and each time the story seems different. It turns out that Maata fainted from exhaustion after her week’s work, study at night, and from dehydration, as she had not had any water since the morning. Waka was relieved as a shark was circling around their boards and her fainting could have saved their lives. If either of them had moved, the shark might have decided to move in for the kill. Waka held Maata closely, keeping her head above the water and all their limbs above the surface so the shark would have to knock them off their boards if it wanted a meal. Just as it seemed to be circling for the kill, a huge school of kahawai surfaced to their port side and swam within a few feet of them. The shark, knowing it could have an easy feast from the swarming fish, and that the present catch would be much more than a mouthful, if tasty at all, veered to the left and in its first gulp hooked a kahawai. Once it had the taste of its dinner, it followed the fish out to sea, allowing Waka to get Maata onto his surfboard, tie her board to his, and surf in, albeit rather awkwardly.

  Once ashore, he ripped her lavalava to cover the bleeding cut on his leg caused by the second board crashing into his shins while he tried to get Maata safely into the shallows. By this time she was coming to, and they both managed to walk and limp, arm in arm, back to dry sand. They then dressed the wound with a clean piece of towelling to soak up the blood and must have left the ripped lavalava behind. Once the boards were back in the van, they drove straight to Rawene Hospital to make sure Maata was okay and to get Waka’s shin dressed properly. That’s when the doctor, Clare Ward, their favourite, told them it was probably a mixture of dehydration and exhaustion that had made Maata faint and might have saved their lives.

  “I felt as if s
ome power larger than me was helping me paddle in,” adds Waka. “I had a strength in my arms as never before. At first I did not think we’d ever make it. Then it was like a dolphin came under our boards and lifted us on its back and powered us in.”

  More like a turtle, thinks Mere, hugging Maata and crooning into her ear, not believing she is still alive, and castigating herself for ever thinking she would not be safe. She wonders where Cowrie is at this very moment. No doubt very pleased with herself for tuning in at the right time. Just as Laukiamanuikahiki protects Cowrie, so Cowrie protects Maata. Maybe this is the sacred taonga I receive for rescuing them both from their abandonment? Perhaps I just need to trust this and know they will always be safe in the end, thinks Mere, relieved neither Maata nor Waka is badly hurt. But she is unaware that her own daughter, Cowrie, is lying wounded on a rock ledge inside a sea cave, the waves washing around her.

  The barn and caves are now ready for work to begin, and Steve invites Tony and Ray to have a look. Best he keeps them sweet and onside, only knowing what he thinks is safe for them to know.

  “Wow! These caves look like Waitomo, all lit up like a bloody Christmas tree!” exclaims Tony, genuinely surprised at their work. Not bad symbolism, thinks Steve, but says nothing. “Maybe I could run a tourist operation after you boys leave? All those Europeans who click their ruddy cameras at that Tane Mahuta, ugly old bugger that it is with half its branches and leaves gone and just a ruddy big trunk to gawk at, they would think all their bloody holidays had come at once if they got to see this. Pity it’s not bigger, or I could screen horror movies from the back wall and have them freakin’ out as a few bush wetas land on their noggins just at the right moment.” He laughs, enjoying the thought very much.