Once Were Warriors

by Alan Duff

  It’s changed, Beth at the old dirt road leading off this main, now sealed. Jake saying, Ya reckon? Looksa same to me. But he wouldn’t know; every time he’d been here he was drunk. And bits of the meeting house, the wharenui, its carved gables visible through the skeleton trees. Houses — and new, some of them — off to the sides of the big main community building, and not traditional but modern. Beth thinking that maybe the 1980s had finally reached her home village. Feeling nostalgia growing.

  The lake there, a sliver of it beyond where a girl’d swam, played by, the usual things. Well, well, well, eh. Beth clicking her tongue. Never thought I’d be here today (or many other days, for that matter; maybe a funeral here and there as the old ones dropped off). Sighing, and hearing it emerge laden with emotion which had her thinking maybe it was her period coming on or maybe this day was too much for a hardened Pine Block housewife, wife of Jake Heke, to expect. Beth informing her kids to their questions of why they’d stopped, the younger ones, that it was where she grew up. And your relations, some ofem, live in there. Looking at her kids for their reactions, three of them showing genuine interest, the fourth, Grace, not giving one thing of what she might be thinking, and Beth getting more and more pissed off with this quiet, still waters running deep attitude of her daughter’s, it’d gone on too damn long. But checking herself despite that. The day. Can’t spoil the day. Then Jake coming in: Relations. Thas all every Maori thinks about. Relations. Ya meet someone in the pub (of course the pub, Jake Heke, where else?) and the first thing he asks is: Whas your name? Then: A Heke, eh? Oh, you muss be related to so-and-so. And ya try and tellem you’re not, they don’t wanna know. Juss wanna shake ya hand: Here, put it here, cuz. You and me are related. Then they ask who your old man is, ya mother, ya fuckin grandparents, every fuckin person ya know. But who cares about who ya related to? I sure fuckin don’t. It don’t buy ya three fuckin cars and a big flash house, does it? Jake gunning the engine, taking them away from here. With his legendary farewell, Fuckem, to the fast-fading stopover in the windscreen mirror.

  Now Beth getting testy: Jake, let’s head off to Ri — Fuck Riverton. I tole you, we got all morning. Only takes half an hour to drive right round, Dooly told me. Anyrate, Boog’s probably been let off whatever shit jobs they getem doin in these joints with us coming to visit. Means he’ll get off a bit longer, was Jake’s very own logic.

  Hey kids. Know what I inherited as a Maori? Jake asking out of the blue, as sheep and cattle countryside sped by on one side, the lake in bits between trees the other. A freshly lit fag in his big left mit. Slaves. (Oh?) Taking the big motor around a hard bend as casual as could be, right driving elbow out the window, big fingertips just controlling the wheel, and a wife thinking her husband, for all these years of being carless, could sure drive. Wonder he’d even had a licence when she went to hire the car, but he did and it was up to date. My family were slaves. Beth waited for the joke. Aw, Dad. It’s true. What you mean, slaves? Slaves. Like I said, kids; slaves. Ya haven’t hearda slaves? And everyone gone quiet. My branch of the Heke line was descended from a slave. A fulla taken prisoner by the enemy when he shoulda — he woulda — been better off dyin. In the fight. Beth hearing the rustle of the kids coming forward in their seat.

  Yep. Slave he was, this ancestor of mine. And Beth getting worried by Jake’s tone.

  When I was a kid — me and my brothers and sisters — we weren’t allowed to play with many other families in our pa. No way, not the Hekes, man. Don’t play with them, you’ll get the slave disease. Thas what they used to say. Jake drawing on his fag, inhaling deeply, blowing out a jet stream of smoke. And Beth in total confusion, wonderment: I ain’t ever heardim mention this before. See, kids, to be a warrior and get captured in battle was the pits. Just the pits, eh. Better to die. So us Hekes — innocent — having to cop the shit from being descended from this weakling arsehole of an ancestor. Jeez … Shaking his head, and everyone able to hear his teeth grating together. Five hundred years, that’s what they used to tell us Heke kids. Five hundred years of the slave curse bein on our heads. Teeth clacking together, jaw muscles pulsing out and in. (You never told me, Jake. You never told me … ) As for the kids related to the chief: if we went within a hundred fuckin yards ofem they’d be throwin stones, yelling and screaming at us to get away, go home, you Hekes’re juss a packa fuckin slaves. Ooooo! Jake letting out a kind of growl yet sounding half like a moan. (Of hurt, my husband? Oh, poor Jake. I never dreamed …) Bullying us. Picking on us. Hitting us. Beating us up — Dad! No! Abe in outburst. How come? How come what, son? How come you got beaten by them? Only when I was little, boy. Jake chuckling grimly. Not when I got to about your age. No fuckin way. Eh son? No fu — no way, Dad. And Beth telling Abe, Lucky for you, boy. And Jake going, Aw, Mum. It’s only a word. We all use it. Even the Maori’s got it in his language: whaka — whatever. It comes natural to us. Maybe so, Jake Heke, but I ain’t having it come natural to no kid a mine till they’re old enough. And that’s final. Poll saying, Dad, but you’re not a slave now eh? Nah, girl. Do I look like one? And the three of them: No way! Their laughter with an edge. (Poor little fuckers: only defending their father, the family name. And who blames them? Oh, but I wish a man’d told me; mighta been able to, you know, help in some way. Or at least understand him better. Oh but maybe he’s tricking us.) Though a look at Jake told Beth no such thing.

  So that’s your family history on your father’s side, kids. So Beth informing them all: Slaves, kids. Us Maoris used to practise slavery just like them poor Negroes had to endure in America. Surprised at the passion, the emotion in her voice. Yet to read the newspapers, on the TV every damn day, you’d think we’re descended from a packa angels, and it’s the Pakeha who’s the devil. Clicking her tongue: Just shows, we’re all good, and we’re all bad. Thinking, Slaves … (How dare they bring my husband up believing he was a slave.)

  Then it felt like an electric shock had hit her. It went racing up her arm from her fingers, into her tummy (where all my little ones got carried, seeded by this man, my man) and tears just sprang from her eyes. At Jake’s fingers warm on hers.

  The road followed the lake all the way, in a big circle. The kids chattering away. Their father coming in with the occasional crack that had them all in stitches, even when it wasn’t so funny. And teasing each other about I ain’t being no slave to no one, to their father urging them on, You got it, kids. Don’t let no bastard treat ya like a slave. Then he was telling them stories of his childhood, of growing up in a small forest settlement way out in the wopwops, but very traditional in their ways. Why the Hekes were treated like shit, I spose. So all us Hekes — even my cousins and uncles and that — all sorta shunted into this one ole shack because, well, you know how people are when they’re being you know, singled out, they stick together. Jake pausing to expel a long sigh. Cept it ain’t natural, is it? What isn’t, Dad? For people to live together in one little ole house, not sort of, you know, loving each other. And drinking. Living only to drink. Working in the forest only to buy beer. Jake sighing again, but smiling too. Oh well, with a shrug. Guess the drinking part weren’t so bad. Once ya learned. Chuckling. Magine some fucka telling your old man he’s a slave, kids? Nooo! And Beth sure even Grace’s voice was in that outcry. Anyone tried that on me now and I’d fuckin deal to im, eh kids? Yay! Deal to him, Dad! Fffff — him! and all a giggle at that. And cruisin, just cruisin. And such a lovely day outside.

  Sign said a hotel was coming up, and Beth looked at her newly bought watch (from the second-hand shop in town) saw that it was just after eleven. The sign had a big picture of a beer mug foaming with beer. Said it was 300 m to go. Beth saw Jake lick his lips. She tensed. Relaxed when he drove straight past the place. Well, well, well. Now she knew everything was gonna turn out today. She knew.

  Back in town. One more cruise down the main street, eh kids? Yay! And the place busier. Kids everywhere. Lunchtime movie. And the rear windows going down, and the kids calling out to others they kne
w. (But not Grace.) They got plenty of pointed fingers from Pine Block kids who knew they were a carless family. Looks of disbelief, like they’d stolen it. Jake tooting the horn at them: Eat ya fuckin hearts out! He turned the volume up on the radio. They got the red at the first set of lights, and he waited patiently; drumming fingers on the windowsill, head moving in time to the music. Green.

  Stopping at the pedestrian, even though he could have driven through. Smiling at Beth: No hurry, no hurry. She back at him. Kids crossing the zebra pattern and Jake telling em watch out the zebra don’t up and bite ya ankles!

  No shops open. Not in Two Lakes. The rest of the country all adopting Saturday morning shopping but not Two Lakes with its white-dominated council, Beth understood, being of a religious persuasion and thinking Saturdays were as near sacred as Sundays. Sumpthin like that. Not that it mattered to Beth. How often’ve I got dough left come Saturday morning?

  Past the Chinese grabbing a bit of lunchtime trade. Then Jake swinging left, and the first thing catching Beth’s eye was the red neon sign. McClutchy’s. Spinning a look at Jake. But him apparently unaware of the sign advertising his first home. Or he wasn’t showing anything.

  The taxi rank: how strange it looked without its line-up of usually older drunks standing there swaying, with packets and crates of beer at their feet. Beth looking at Jake again, Jake …? Hey, hey. Jake returning her look. It’s alright. it’s alright, even though he was slowing. Just gonna pull up so someone can see us. Grinning like a little kid with a new Christmas toy. Fair enough.

  They sat there, engine idling.

  Radio belting out some pop number. No one entering the bar that Jake had a desire to toot at, show off his twenty-four-hour status to. Beth asking the kids if they liked this rubbish playing on the radio and getting a strong reaction in reply that they sure did and where was she living, it sure wasn’t 1990. No way. So she grinned and said no more. Feeling nicely at peace from that deep throb of engine idling, nice-vibrating beneath her. Sky still clear outside but with just a touch of cloud building up on about the Pine Block horizon, where she guessed Pine Block’d be. Otherwise still lovely.

  Two fullas walking down on their side. Stopping. Peering at the car. At Jake sitting there acting like what’s the big deal? But his stomach shaking with suppressed laughter. The two stepping off the footpath and coming round to the driver’s side, Hey, it is Jake. Stepping back in that exaggerated fashion only Maoris can do, asking Jake where’d he pinch the car, and didn’t he know the penalty for car theft? And Jake giggling. Like a little boy. Then one of them asking, Well? Ya comin in or not? And Jake looking at Beth but she shaking her head, No … But her tone not too strong. And Jake raising one finger to her, Just one? Dear?

  The dear winning her, and probably the slave thing too. Okay. But just one, Jake Heke. And one of his mates chuckling, One dozen you mean. But no. Jake promising: One, Mum. Promise. Then he was gone.

  Go get yourselves an ice cream, Beth told the kids. But don’t get yakkin to your mates anywhere. I want you straight back or we’ll leave you behind. Sat there thinking about Jake and this slave tag he’d apparently had to wear his entire growing up. And how unfair it was that one lot got to inherit slave status while another inherited chieftainship. How the Maori system worked. And the English one, come to think of it. Maybe life works like that: you cop what the cards fall for you. And then she thought about drink, being reminded of it sitting out here, how she didn’t miss it, hardly a bit. Surprised herself. Only made a fool of myself, or got Dutch courage with Jake and got belted for my troubles. Nah, who needs it? But as for smokes. She lit up. Ahh. No way could I give this up.

  Kids came back eating ice creams. Grace, as expected, the odd one out with nothing at all. Grace handing her mother her change, Here. What about you? You wanna be one a these anorexics or sumpthin? Beth unable to hide her irritation. But the girl shrugging. And Beth telling the others not to eat those things in here, eat it outside. Thinking of the nice car, of saving its nice condition, not havin Maori kids getting food all over. And that damn Jake, how he was sure managing to make one jug of beer last. Half an hour now. She told Abe. You can drive, Take the car round to the carpark, but careful. You ain’t licensed. Beth not wanting to be sat out here for all the busybody McClutchy’s world to know her business. She went in after Jake.

  It was a world she knew so well. Yet it felt unfamiliar. Jarring on the senses. The three-month sober senses. Hell, just on one o’clock and already some ofem pissed outta their little minds.

  The poor light, the permanent haze of smoke that even to a smoker was yet thick in here. That old BLAST of SOUND hitting a woman in her ears. Been here, done it all. No more. Her name called several times from all over, Hey, Beth! Long time no see. We heard you’d turned Churchy. That kinda shet. Didn’t worry her. In fact, I feel almost superior. Looking at people she knew well, not so well, the all ofem suddenly lighting up in her mind as kinda lost. We’re a lost race. Then the thought was gone (I just want my husband and out of here.) Made for Jake’s corner.

  On the way being stopped by someone, kissed, hugged, asked what she was drinking, being welcomed like a long-lost friend. But no thanks. I’m off the drink. And getting a few funny looks and reactions for it. Who cares? A race commentary starting up. All ears and eyes on the ceiling speakers, and the bookie’s big ghetto blaster radio on his table. So what’s changed?

  At Jake’s table, Oh hello, Mavis. Kissing the huge fat woman. A real friend. Could sing the pants off anyone too. Whatcha having? Nothing, Mavis. I’m off it. Ah, good for you. Come to drag it out of here? Looking at Jake with his ears and eyes glued to the horse commentary. Chatting to Mavis about this and that, the big woman quietly but surely downing beer after beer. (Like I used to.) Beth feeling pious, if she knew the word. Someone — Sam the night-time bouncer, one of them — putting a full jug in front of Jake. Fuckim. Jake? Not even a look. Jake! Still nothing. Come on, dear. But Sam just shouted me a full one, he managed to get out before taking his concentration back to the race in progress. And when it was finished and she could see he’d not won, as usual, Beth thinking it’d be wise to let him finish that second and probably a third jug. But tapping her watch pointedly, and saying see you to Mavis, and going out. The bar three-quarters full already.

  Out in the carpark and the first thing Beth noticed was the number of kids running around. And she clicked her tongue, some younger than her little Huata. Running wild or hung all over bombs of cars bored out of their poor little minds waiting for parents that weren’t gonna emerge for some many hours. Poor buggers.

  When’s Dad coming? Soon. Aw, I bet he’s there to stay. The hell he is. I bet you ten bucks. You ain’t got ten bucks, and if you have I wanna know where from, mista. Abe. Getting a bit too smart for his boots. But Beth starting to feel a little uncertain of Jake too.

  Car pulled up. A typical heap of rusted junk. Kids spilling out of it. And a mother and father. Mother going, Here. Giving her oldest-looking one some money. Thas for fishnchips, and don’t come askin for more cos there ain’t no more.

  A mirror. A fuckin mirror of all our lives. Maori of course. So Beth got out from the front, opened the back door, on Grace’s side: Move over, honey. Grace looking astonished but, Beth hoped she hadn’t read wrong, rapt as well. She put an arm around Grace. Alright, kid? You been quiet lately. And Grace smiling her smile at Mother and twisting away from her arm, but not so hard that the arm fell off. As a mother knew it wouldn’t. Hu asking his mother could he go play with that new lot just arrived, and Beth saying no. You stay put. In here with your family. They’re scum. Just scum. Even though she knew she shouldn’t blame the kids it was hardly their fault, she had to fix on someone. And as the parents were gone …

  Mavis, all plus-twenty stone of her was making fun of her sex life. My non-existent sex life. Laughing that way fat people do, has you following suit because ofem jiggling up an down and the laughter rooooollin out. And someone saying that if she had babies,
Mavis, if’d be a whale that came out, and everyone roaring with that. But the person, Willie someone, going on that Mavis’d have to take her kid to the zoo — no, one a these aquariums, or the thing’d die. And everyone in stitches at that. And this Willie fulla still not finished, telling em or it might come out a fuckin elaphint and Mavis’d have to donate it to the zoo! Rolling all ovah at that. And with that experienced bar timing, someone saying, Who’s buy is it anyrate? just when the laughter was subsiding. And someone else (not so experienced, or maybe just kind) saying he’d buy but Beth sticking her face in, No way, mista. My buy. Pulling a wad of ten-dollar notes from her purse, holding it aloft telling them triumphantly, This’s what you get when you dis-cipline yaself to stay off the booze for awhile. Then leaning against her husband, telling him: Had the hots for you, dear. All day I been hot for you. Leering at him. But not knowing she was. Not as bold and barefaced as that. And swaying a little. Not used to the alcohol in her three-month dry system. But Jake leaning away from her, telling her: Alright, alright, thassa bout the tenth fuckin time you said that, woman. Aww, hun — N’mind the fuckin hun, neither. If you’re buyin, then buy. Juss don’t talk that sexy shet. Giving her one of his snarls. And asking one of his mates, Eh Bub? My own fuckin missus and she’s comin on like a fuckin hotpants or sumpthin. Lookin at Beth. With that look.