Black Marks on the White Page

by Witi Ihimaera

  —Land! Land! Must have more land!

  11. #VETER982114- PTSD Help Line Message Board

  i’m not a hero — i can defuse an IED — Improvised Explosive Device … and i can make one — but no girls need me to take them to school anymore — they asked me to speak at schools back home here — but kids just stare — make jokes about my purple butt face — and it’s a pain for everyone to have to wait for the bus to drop down and all move back to get my chair on — so mostly i stay home and watch movies — watch porn — because what girl is ever going to look at me now? They said they’d pay for me to study a new career — IT is always looking for people — everyone wants to help vets — i don’t want to go back to school — 2 dumb to go back 2 school — U need more people on these phonelines — 2nd time i’ve rung and spoken to a machine — don’t like speaking 2 machines.

  12. #NEWAR345kkk9 -- flag 23- ENCRYPTED DARKWEB BLOG POST

  Night. No more photo ops. We head out to open ocean to dump the black water from the cruise ship so it doesn’t foul the coast. The swell gets up. Ship dips and rolls. I got my sea legs now. Just a big canoe to me. Heavy-Breathing-Asthma Guy is waiting. Waiting in the blindspot. He was at my Wild Woman of the Woods talk earlier. Stuck around like a bad smell. Lingered.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink later? I’d love to hear more of your traditional stories.’

  It happens. Sad old guys, and wolf-feature young dudes, and middle-aged saggy guys. It happens all the time.

  ‘I’m sorry, crew aren’t allowed to socialise with passengers. Come along tomorrow to my talk on native plants with healing properties. You can learn about the Medicine Wheel.’

  ‘I’ll pay extra — for extra. A happy ending? To a traditional story? Two hundred … five hundred?’

  They need healing — We all need healing. I bumped him up to a grand. He gives me this wad but his pants are still bulging. I smile Sexy Squaw, get in close and whisper.

  ‘You seen that old movie, Titanic?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Let’s do it like that. Except you be Kate Winslet.’

  ‘Huh?’ he wheezes, ‘how’s that going to work?’

  ‘Well, you lean out over the rail like she did at the front of the boat. I’ll stand behind you like Leo. Then stick my finger up your butt, and reach around to …’

  ‘Then we switch and I do you?’

  ‘Sure, a grand buys a lot of Pocahontas.’

  ‘I never met anyone like you.’

  ‘No, you never did. Ooooooooh, you have beautiful …’

  ‘Huh?’

  I do my best Celine Dion in his ear — Near, far …

  Reach around, unzip his pants. Then do my best UFC Ronda Rousey Hip Throw and he’s gone. Bombs away. I’ve been practising. Hit the bags in the gym. Spar with the Thai guys.

  Every 6 months, on average, we can lose a passenger overboard. They can write it off as a suicide, drunken accident, death by misadventure. Any more than that and questions would get asked.

  Aurora Borealis is out. I whistle. Ancestors dance. I dance with them on the deck while down there in the dark water he’s choking on his own shit. I’m hungry.

  Head back to the Midnight Chocolate buffet. There’s always someone there who’s feeling queasy but still has to stuff as much as they can down their throat cos they paid their fare and goddammit they’re gonna get their money’s worth! Same folks that are sloshed by 10 am.

  It’s the end of the season. We head to Hawai‘i next. We’ll park up by an active volcano, watch the lava erupt and flow while sipping cocktails that tinkle with pure Alaskan glacial ice. It’s called our ‘Fire & Ice Party’.

  yours sincerely — Wild Woman of the Woods

  WHITE ELEPHANT

  KELLY JOSEPH

  FOR THREE DAYS SLEEP was impossible — the nor’wester yowled through the valley and whined through gaps in windows, as people lay in bed imagining their roof peeled back by its raging fingers. In the morning they woke with dark-ringed eyes, feeling raw. They snapped at each other during breakfast, growled at their kids. And later when they flocked to the twilight school gala, the wind tormented them further — lifted skirts, blew grit into mouths, into hair, into glowering eyes.

  Meanwhile, Hēni slept peacefully. When the wind rattled her corrugated roof it lulled the old woman into dreams and, beyond dreams, deep into nothingness. In the afternoon when she finally woke, she rose with unusual buoyancy. The cloud of black starlings that always flew inside her head had gone, for now.

  She shucked off her nightie and pulled on a green frock, her gumboots and a possum-skin coat her papa had made a lifetime ago. Looking in the hallway mirror she donned a chipped pearl necklace, a present from a small boy who had once saved and saved his milk-delivery money. She stood back and smiled, revealing tea-stained teeth.

  She petted the Jackalope that guarded the house, then slammed the salt-streaked door behind her and whistled for her mutt, who bounded from under the house, swathed in cobwebs. Her bungalow was perched on crumbling rock at the edge of a bay where large waves rolled in like silken sheets. Dolphins sometimes swam there and once, a barnacled whale. But it was a deceptive place where hidden undercurrents sucked and swallowed.

  Walking up the hill towards the school, Hēni leaned against the wind. Her lips moved as she walked, her low mutterings accompanying the tune the wind played in the wires above, a mournful theremin. On the surrounding hills the bush rippled, each gust exposing the silver bellies of shivering leaves. Stands of mānuka creaked and cowered, shedding flowers like fragrant confetti. Low clouds were bullied towards the southern coast where the Cook Strait ferry heaved on whitecaps and waterspouts were conjured.

  The old wooden school buildings were nestled in a stand of pōhutukawa. At the school gates Hēni stopped and looked around with pūkana eyes. She opened her mouth wide, let the rushing air expand her cheeks. Then with a sly smile she snapped her lips closed and took a great gulp. She held her breath. Her hair rose in greasy tendrils towards the pewter sky. She exhaled and giggled.

  The adults heading to the gala tried not to stare at the apparition. Hēni the local bag lady. Mad but harmless, they whispered, gripping their kids’ hands tighter. They had heard the rumours about the old woman — tales of dog-food consumption, hoards of junk, forts of yellowing newspapers and musty books, a mountain of rubbish bags filling the back garden and an inherited collection of creepy stuffed animals. And then there was the disappearance of her son. Some said she went funny after that. Others said she was born with strangeness, that taxidermy chemicals had leached into her mama’s blood, and were absorbed by her in the womb.

  The kids at the gala gawked at Hēni openly. The older ones called her Stinky Seawitch because she smelt like piss and brine, and because after a king tide she prowled the beach lifting bull kelp with a stick, poked around rockpools searching for who knows what, chanting sad, watery songs to herself. But sometimes the younger ones offered gifts, an oblation of sorts. With their hearts thumpitythumping in their chests, they left at her gate knotted driftwood, weightless balls of pumice, baby pāua shells and other sea treasure. Sometimes they gave her wandering mutt a bite from their sandwich when he visited the school at lunchtimes. In return, Hēni made small sculptures on the front lawn from their presents and from pieces of her own junk. Once she fashioned a fleet of tiny ships from wood, shell, stone and china shards from broken teacups. She let them sail upon the high grass, among the dandelions. The younger ones peeped over her punga fence to admire them. See, they said. Magic.

  Hēni felt those same small eyes on her as she ambled towards the school office. She pinched the heads off two marigolds growing in a garden, popped them in her maw and winked at a small girl sitting nearby. The girl’s eyes and mouth sprung open, before her mother yanked her away. Hēni shrugged and walked on. She passed a cake sale, a plant stall and the quickfire raffle. She stopped to admire the children’s craft table with painted pet rocks, and swans made from soap, facecloths and pi
pecleaners. The tombola tent billowed dangerously and two surly teenagers were told to hold down its flapping corners. She made her way towards the school field where the mini-train and talent stage were set up. Nearby lay a deflated bouncy castle, cast aside by worried parents who imagined it flying to Blenheim on air currents. Little ones hyped up on fizzy and lollies darted around the field in a blur, happy to be with their friends. Hēni drank in the sights and smells. She left her mutt to beg at the smoking sausage sizzle and walked on through the school.

  When she arrived outside the hall a crowd was already assembled. A sign was taped next to the glass door — two words cut crudely from coloured paper, glued onto card and embellished with glitter: white elephant. Hēni craned her neck, hoping to get a glimpse of the goods laid out on tables inside. People were pressed against the doors, obscuring the view — mainly old biddies from the church with their pointy elbows ready to nudge competition out of the way, and local second-hand dealers with shifty eyes. More people were lining up behind her. She leaned over to look at another punter’s watch: four minutes to go. The owner of the watch eyed her suspiciously. He was Māori, thirties with a fleshy puku, a beard and a shaved head. His gaze softened and he grinned at her. Hēni recognised those large brown eyes. She looked away. Fingered her pearls.

  ‘Mrs Knight?’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Hēni.

  ‘Don’t know if you remember me—’

  Hēni looked again into those dark eyes and thought, Course I remember. Little Matty. Sweet fatty. Big family, no money. Her gaze fell to the ground.

  ‘Nah, sorry dear. I don’t.’

  ‘Matthew Kopu. I used to hang out with your son Jo. Years ago. Before I was sent off to live with my nana.’

  Hēni grunted a small acknowledgment, felt her good mood trickling away. He bent towards her to give her a peck on the cheek. She stiffened and leaned away so only his whiskers brushed her face. Wiry whiskers like Papa’s. And hungry breath. Matty, always a ravenous boy.

  ‘Yeah, I remember those neat animals you had.’

  Hēni rocked a little on the balls of her feet, scratched at her arm.

  ‘You were always good to me. Let me stay over. Fed me. Man, I remember your muttonbird and watercress boil-ups. Mussel fritters. And creamed pāua.’ He smacked his lips and his eyes unfocused, remembering those rich treats.

  ‘I just moved back. Me and my missus. We’ve got a son. Think he’s wandering around here somewhere. Probably in search of kai. Takes after me, eh.’

  He let out a sharp snort. A few people looked their way. He rubbed his head self-consciously and moved closer to her.

  Hēni looked up at the sky, smelt ozone. Thought she could see the wind currents up there swirling and changing. Threatening to bring back the cloud of birds to rush and dive in her mind. Her fingers reached again for the pearls. She knew what was coming.

  ‘So what’s Jo up to these days?’

  She stepped away from Matthew then, with his bovine eyes and his questions and his hungry breath. Felt a familiar lightness in her head, a spreading ache in her chest. The school bell clanged suddenly, the doors opened and people surged forward, towards the bargains. Hēni let herself be taken by the crushing tide and soon lost sight of him.

  She found herself in the corner of the hall near the stage. Leaning against an old exercise bike, she looked around for Matthew, let out a long sigh when she couldn’t see him.

  ‘Silly silly you,’ she muttered. ‘Forget it, Hēni Penny. Forget him.’

  She plucked at black, feathery thoughts, trying to recall the reason why she’d come there. Ah yep yep, teacups. She needed more teacups. Hers were all smashed, always slipped from shaky hand to wooden floor.

  She squeezed herself into a spot at the nearest table. On the table there was a SodaStream with a rusty gas canister. An assortment of Tupperware. Twisty candlesticks. Nothing Hēni wanted. Unable to move along because people were squashing themselves against the tables, she bent over to see what was in the boxes under the table.

  Nested inside a large boxful of cake tins and frying pans was a smaller box. Hēni lifted it out and opened it. Inside were two heavy mugs, one a rich brown and the other an emerald green. Both were moulded in the shape of a tiki face, with whātero and fierce almond eyes. Hēni crooned to herself, delighted. They were the same ones Mama had in her china cabinet when she was small.

  She placed them carefully back in the box and closed the lid. But a man beside her had seen the mugs and looked at the box with small, coveting eyes. He had a long neck and slicked-back hair — he was a mix of man and mustelid.

  ‘Wharetana, those,’ he said, licking his lips with a tiny pink tongue. ‘Crown Lynn. Worth a few bob.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Hēni.

  ‘I’ll buy them off you.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Look, I’ll give you a fair price,’ he said, his voice becoming reedy.

  ‘Nup, keeping these for meself.’

  The man looked around with those feral eyes to see if anyone was watching. Then suddenly his paws were on the box, trying to tug it from her hands. Hēni had a good purchase on it, pulled the box towards her chest. No one was going to get her mama’s mugs.

  ‘Come on, you crazy cow. You don’t need them,’ he said.

  He yanked the box. As he pulled it away, one of his fingers hooked on Hēni’s pearls. The beads were torn from her neck. Cream orbs bounced and scattered on the wooden floor, rolled under the table and between feet. Low guttural noises burst from Hēni’s mouth. The Mustelid slunk into the crowd with the box under his arm.

  She searched around her for friendly eyes but there were only backs bent over tables. A tremble took hold of her hands, and soon her whole body shook. The bird cloud gathered in her mind.

  HĒNI IS TEN. HER mama lies in an open coffin in the sitting room. She is still pretty, thinks Hēni. Her big brown aunties have come to take her mama’s body back to the family urupā. Papa, a ginger-bearded Pom, is throwing a fit, begs them not to take her. When they do, he uses a broom handle to smash Mama’s cabinet with her crockery inside, and the paper nautilus, the gull feathers and small blobs of ambergris she collected at the beach as a child. Then he storms into his workshop and smashes his own vials of metallic dust, his fossils and rocks, his kauri gum, his bell-jars, his glass eyes, his artificial teeth and beaks, and his clay forms waiting for their skin. Finally, he rips apart his best stuffed specimens.

  Later, when he is calm, he sews them back together but not as they were. He makes a menagerie of hybrids — mermaids, skvaders, griffins and creatures invented from his own madness. They become Hēni’s friends because she isn’t allowed real friends now. She loves the creatures, especially the Jackalope. She dresses them in her clothes, reads them stories and drinks tea with them, but what she really wants is a live dog. These are lonely days.

  Her papa becomes more and more like the animal skins he tans. A husk of a man with desiccated lips and parchment skin. She believes his heart is stuffed with sawdust. He hardly ever takes baths, or drinks water or tea. But he will drink a clear liquid from a bottle that he keeps in his workshop. His breath is acerbic and so are his moods. Inside him is a desert with furious, hot winds.

  Later, when the aunties come back for Hēni, to take her to their warm homes brimming with kids and life, Papa shows them his loaded rifle. After they leave empty-handed, he takes her to the special corner of the small farm where she sometimes talks to the elements, because the wind and rain and sunlight are her friends too. It is dusk and starlings chirp loudly as they flock above the poplars in a great dark cloud. She is mesmerised by the way they collect in the sky, how they undulate like water, how they tumble as one fluttering creature. Her father aims the rifle skyward. Black feathers and broken bodies fall to the ground. He says between shots, ‘You better not leave me, Hēni Penny.’

  When she is older, braver, she does run away from his obsidian rage. Moves beside the sea with its breezes and mists, where she can
watch the weather roll in. She finds a man who loves her, but he has his own shadows and flinty moods. He doesn’t wait around to meet his son. When Joseph is born with his smiling heart she feels she had done something right, she has made magic.

  And much later, the aunties ring her up. Your papa shot himself, they say. Go back, sort out his estate.

  Grief and guilt nibble at the edges of her heart. She becomes the keeper of the animals. She brings her old friends home to meet Joseph. He loves them too.

  WINGS WERE FLUTTERING IN her head. She bent down, intending to scrabble on the ground for the pearls, but her head felt light and her legs threatened to crumple under her. She grunted and growled at herself. Then she noticed a little one watching her. He moved towards the protection of his mother’s legs. Hēni shut her eyes, covered them with her hands. She didn’t want to see his frightened gaze.

  ‘Mrs Knight? You alright?’

  She lowered her hands and blinked. Warm brown eyes filled her vision.

  Matthew led her away from the crowd, out a side door and down a ramp. It was almost dark outside and there was an eerie hush. The wind had finally moved on.

  Her mutt was waiting for her. He licked her hand as she shambled past him. Matthew guided Hēni to a low brick wall and she flopped down. She gulped in the cool air, felt a little better. The sea sighed in the distance. The clouds had gone and in their place a crescent moon sat like a yellow grin on the horizon. The sky itself was the blue of lapis and Egyptian kings, the blue of deep watery graves.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she said, barely a whisper.

  ‘Who?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Joseph.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He went for a swim. Never came back,’ she said. ‘I look for him sometimes but Tangaroa won’t give him back to me.’ Her hands reached to her bare throat, but the pearls were still gone.