Huia Short Stories 10 (2 page)

Kei Wareware Tātou

Tihema Baker

Kei te hinga ōna ringa raupā ki runga i te kūaha, ā, ka whakatā a James Herewini. I a ia e tutū ana ki tana pārongo, ka rangona e ia te haunene, te kōhimuhimu, te katakata ...

 

... Ka haruru te waiwaipū, ka tioro ngā tāne ...

 

‘Kei te pai e koro?'

Ka kite a James i tētehi taitama; e titiro ana te taitama ki a ia, ā, kei ōna whatu tana āwangawanga.

‘Āe,' ko te whakautu o James. Ka ūkui ia i tōna rae mākū ki tōna ringa wiriwiri. ‘Āe, kei te ... kei te pai au.'

‘Māku e āwhina,' ka kī te taitama, ā ka whātoro tōna ringa ki te whakatuwhera i te kūaha. Ahakoa e mauāhara ana a James i te āwhina mai o tētehi tangata atu, ka mihi ia ki te taitama, ā ka kokikoki ia ki roto i te wharekai.

Ka tomo ia i te rūma, ka pupuke te haunene. He rūma tino nui tēnei; ka paoro mai te heihei ki ngā taringa o James. Tokomaha ngā tangata e rauna ana i a ia, engari kāore ia e paku mōhio ana i a rātou. Kōrerorero ana tētehi rōpū i konei, katakata ana tētehi atu i korā, tākaro ana ētehi tamariki i waenganui; ka āpurua ia e te kaha o te tangi. Ka āta titiro a James ki tōna paenga ...

... I a ia e tū ana ki te pokapū o ngā pākarukaru o Cassino, Itari, ka kite ia i ngā tūpāpaku o ōna hoa whawhai; kua ngaro ō rātou ringa, ō rātou waewae, ā, kua pūrikoriko te kōhatu ki ō rātou toto. Ko tērā te kara anake i te ao pouri nei. Te taumaha hoki o te haunga mate.

Ka puta tētehi hōia Tiamana, pakū ana tana pū. Ka whakakipakipatia ia e ōna parapara, kātahi ka poka tana matā ki te manawa tonu o te Tiamana. Ka hinga ia ki te whenua.

Kātahi, ka t
ōtahi ia. E raunatia ana ia e ngā tūpāpaku, ngā tūpāpaku o ōna hoa whawhai me ērā o te hoariri, engari ka tōtahi kē ia. Ka āta titiro ōna whatu ki ngā whare pākarukaru; ko tēhea te piringa o ngā Tiamana? Ko tēnei, ko tērā rānei? E māturu mai ana te werawera i tōna kanohi nā te kaha o tōna āwangawanga. Te tere hoki o tōna manawa kapakapa – kei whea rā ngā Tiamana?

Ko te waiwaipū te whakautu; ka rere ngā matā ki a ia, tata rawa ki tōna mata, nō reira ka oho tōna hinengaro. Me wehe atu ia; kei te haere mai rātou ...

‘James?'

Ka tae mai tētehi tāne ki tōna taha. He tāne purotu ia; he tau tōna hūtu, kua wania pai ōna makawe, ā, he āhua rata tōna āhua.

‘Āe?' ko te whakautu o James.

‘Tēnā koe, e koro,' ka kī te tāne, ā ka toro atu tōna ringa. Ka mau a James i tōna ringa; he kaha rawa tōna pupuri. He rata tērā hoki. Ka hongi rāua. ‘Ko Hōhepa taku ingoa. Haramai.'

Ka āta takina a James e Hōhepa ki raro i te ‘90' ki runga i te kara nui, ki te tēpu roa ki te pito o te rūma. He ātaahua te tēpū; kua whakanikotia te uhitēpu mā, ā, ka takoto tētehi mere pounamu ki runga. Ko te āhua nei, ko tēnei te patu o tētehi rangatira. I a James e titiro ana ki te mere kauanuanu rā, ka kotete a Hōhepa ki a ia, ‘Ka whakatūpato au ki a koe: kua hē kē atu te Dementia. Kāore ... kāore ia e mōhio i a koe.'

Ka wahangū a James; kei te mōhio kē ia.

‘Kaua e pāpouri, James. Inā kei te ora ake tōna hinengaro, ko tōna tūmanako tonu ka haere mai ai koe.'

Ka tungou a James ki a Hōhepa, kātahi ka hīkoi tonu rāua ...

... Kei te mura tōna wairua, akiaki ana i tōna tinana ki te pae o te pakanga. Ka peke ia i runga i ngā tūpāpaku, piki ana i te kōhatu o ngā whare rengarenga, engari ka hinga, ā ka rakurakua ōna ringa me ōna waewae e te kōhatu ratarata. Kāore i ārikarika ngā matā; kāore e kore ki te noho ia ki konei ka mate. Nō reira ka tū, ka rere atu ia.

Engari ki whea? Kei whea tētehi punanga mōna? Arā – he puare i roto i tērā taiapa! Ka oma ia ki te taiapa, tūpou ana i roto i te puare –

Ka pakū te whenua, ā ka whiua ia ki te pōnānātanga. Kua kore e taea te kite, te rongo rānei i te aha; kua pango te ao ināianei ki a ia. Porokawa rawa te toto i roto i tana waha, engari kāore ia e ūkui i ana ngutu nā te mamae o tana ringa – kāore, nā te mamae o te katoa o tōna tinana!

Ka timata ia ki te ngoi atu, ahakoa te ngoikoretanga o tōna tinana. Tōna pōturi rawa, engari ka āta tū ia, tapepe ana ki roto i te kauruki.

Engari, ka tioro ia, ‘Aueeeee!'

Kua werotia tana waewae e tētehi matā i pūhia ai e ngā Tiamana.

‘Auēeeee!'

Ka hinga ia ki te whenua, e papī ana te toto ki roto i tana tarau. Ka whakamātau ia ki te auporo i te heke o te toto, engari auare ake. Tē taea hoki te pewhea – ko tōna whakaaro; ka mate ia ki konei, i roto i ngā tiriti o Cassino, Itari ...

‘Dad, anei tōu hoa tata.'

Ka tū a James ki muri i te tēpu upoko. E ruarua noa iho ngā tangata e rauna ana i te rangatira o te tēpu kei te pokapū e noho ana. He pai rawa ōna kākahu, kua wania ōna makawe mā ki tētehi taha o tōna ūpoko. Kei te titiro ia ki te mere pounamu i runga i te tēpu, otirā ka māroa tōna mata.

Ka āta whakatata a Hōhepa ki tōna pāpā, ka tūturi ki mua i a ia, kātahi ka āta kī, ‘Ko James Herewini tēnei, Dad. I whawhai ia ki tō taha i roto i Te Hokowhitu-a-Tū. Mihi atu.'

Te āmaimai hoki o James i a Hōhepa e tū ana. Ka huri pōturi atu ia, kātahi ka titiro ia ki a James ...

‘Herewini!'

Ka puta a Meiha Ānaru Tūpara ki runga i a ia. Paruparu ana tōna mata, heke mai ana te toto i tētehi haratua kiri i runga i tōna upoko. Ko ia te tino toa o tō rāua taua; tokomaha ngā Tiamana e patua e ia, anō nei ko Tūmatauenga anō ia!

‘Kāore i wareware i a koe e hoa, kāore i wareware,' ka kī a Ānaru, whakahīoi ana ki a ia. ‘Oho mai, boy, kei te wehe atu tāua ināianei.'

Heoi anō, kua ngenge ia. Pai noa tōna waewae ināianei, ā kei te hiahia ia ki te noho kia moe. He pai ake tērā whakaaro ki a ia. Engari kāore i te pai ki a Ānaru, kāore a Ānaru i whakarere ki a ia. Kāore e taea te moe i tēnei rangi.

Ka waihotia e Ānaru tētehi pītara i roto i tana ringa, ā ka kumutia ōna matikara mōna.

‘Kua whawhai ngātahi tāua mō ngā tau e whā; e kore koe e mate ināianei,' ko te kī a Ānaru. Ka rongo i ngā ringa o Ānaru e hiki ana i a ia. ‘Kāore e tino tawhiti kia tae ki te taraka ... pūhia ngā mea katoa e kitea e koe – he pai tērā ki a koe, nē?'

Kāore ia e rongo ana i ngā kōhatu ratarata i a Ānaru e kukume haere ana ki a ia. E tere haere ana tōna hinengaro ki te pō, engari kei te haere mai tonu ngā Tiamana, muramura ana ā rātou pū. Ka hāpaina te pītara e ia, engari te taumaha hoki! Ka tuhi ia i te pītara ki te Tiamana e tino tata ana – PAKŪ! Ka hinga te Tiamana. Ka puhi anō te pītara. Ka hinga tētehi anō. E pupuhi ana te pītara kia pau te hāmanu katoa. Engari hei aha tērā; kei te rongo ia i te taraka me te reo Māori o ōna hoa whawhai. Kua mutu te whawhai ināianei.

‘E ora tonu ana tāua,' ko te kī a Ānaru, katakata ana i a ia e tere haere ana ki te moe. ‘Pae kare, e ora tonu ana boy …'

Ka titiro a James ki tōna hoa tata, tōna kaiwhakaora. I tētehi wā, he toa ia; ko ia te tino toa o te taua o James, kāore he painga i a ia. Engari ināianei, he tangata rerekē ia. Kei ōna whatu te tino rerekētanga; kāore rāua e mōhio, kāore rāua e maumahara.

Ka whakatuwhera a James i te pēke iti i kawea ai e ia, kātahi ka whakaari ia i tētehi pītara. He tino paru te pītara, he tino tawhito hoki. Ka mau i a ia te pītara i ōna ringa wiriwiri, kātahi ka tuku atu ia i te pītara ki ngā ringa o Ānaru.

Ka piki ōna whatu kia titiro ki a James, engari kāore he mōhiotanga, kāore he maumaharatanga.

‘Kāore i wareware i a koe, e hoa,' ka kī a James, i ngā roimata e heke ana. ‘Kāore i wareware.'

Hemi's Gift

TJ Corrigan

The bus pulls into Auckland station and I grip my bag a little tighter in my hands. There's a line of us waiting to get on, and for the thousandth time I wonder how bad it's going to be when I arrive at the other end.

Two nights ago my dad died, and I am going home to Whāngārei for his tangi.

The driver gets off and tells everyone the bus will be leaving in five minutes. Unfolding his list, he begins ticking off names as people shuffle aboard. I get on and go down to an empty seat near the back. I hope to find solace in being alone.

A Māori man gets on board carrying a battered brown bag and an ancient guitar. He's dressed in old, sloppy clothes. His hair has an overgrown, wild look, like unmown grass, and although he has a big smile on his face, he still looks like the kind of person to disturb the peace.

He strides down the aisle towards the back, towards me, and I shrink into my seat and look away, hoping he'll sit somewhere else. No such luck. He throws himself down on the seat just in front of me and, muttering loudly, begins to pluck at the strings of his guitar.

I shrink lower into my seat, trying to make myself small, and I put a pissed-off look on my face to show everybody on the bus that I am not related to – or associated in any way with – this man.

Up front, a Pākehā couple turn around and look back at the noise he's making, at me sitting behind him, then at each other in a ‘typical Māoris' sort of way. That look was exactly why I didn't want him sitting near me. My shoulders slump, and I let my head drop back against the head rest. Now I'm associated with this crazy man just because we both have brown skin – naturally.

The plucking and muttering continues. The bus is permeated by a tense silence that doesn't seem to register with crazy man.

‘Me he manu rere …,' he begins to sing. I am annoyed that I have to put up with this noise till Whāngārei, so I rustle around in my bag and pull out my iPod. I make as much noise as possible plugging in the earphones, making a deliberate show of humming and harring my way through playlists. My intent is to shame him into silence. The singing in front of me stops, and suddenly I feel ashamed. But crazy man is looking out the window, at the green hills flying by, seemingly entranced. ‘Going home,' he whispers to nobody in particular – least of all me – but I feel the same way.

I remember my laptop, and I pull it out of its bag and stare at it as if I'm waiting for it to answer a question. If I were to fire it up and open Outlook I would see one unread email. It arrived two nights ago, just after I finished watching TV. I saw the blue notification box pop up in the lower right of the screen, and I could tell it was a personal message from Dad because it didn't have one of those stupid ‘FWD:' labels on it, and the subject was ‘Hi'. I remember thinking that I couldn't be bothered reading some lame message from him at that hour, so I had turned off my laptop and gone to bed – only to be woken three hours later by my tearful mother.

My fingers tap on the edge of the laptop. So do I read the email? Or leave it? What will it say – or what is it that I want it to say? Did he somehow know he was going to have a massive stroke, and wanted to reach out to me, the only child, and tell me one last time that he loved me? That I was the best thing that happened to him and Mum, and all that bullshit every kid secretly longs to hear but cringes when they actually do? Or was it just a quick ‘Hello, how's uni? Hope you're looking after yourself'?

I snap my laptop shut and put it away. I notice the trembling in my fingers, and I lean back and close my eyes, squeezing them tight; squeezing the thoughts away and momentarily succeeding. But it doesn't stop the tears.

The bus shudders to a halt. I wake up and look outside. Kaiwaka. Thirty-minute food and toilet break, then off on the last leg home. I get off the bus and search in my bag for my cigarettes.

Shit, I've left them on the fridge in my dorm … right on top of … ahh, my wallet! This day just gets better and better. I walk around stretching my legs, and happily I find a stray ciggie at the bottom of my bag. Fag in mouth, I look around for someone with a light. Bugger, crazy man's the only one smoking – typical. I amble over to where he's sitting on the plastic chairs outside the diner.

‘Can I borrow a light?'

‘Hmm?' He peers up at me through a cloud of smoke, one eye screwed shut and the other bloodshot – figures.

‘A light?' I mime the flicking action that people all over the damn world can understand. He smiles at me and laughs, chucking me his lighter, and in an easy tone tells me he thought I said I'd recognised him.

‘Me recognise you?' This oughta be good. ‘From where?'

Crazy man takes on another persona: ‘Jake, hey, Jake! What'chu drinking, bro?' And suddenly I do recognise him from somewhere. It takes a second, then it clicks; crazy man was in
Once Were Warriors
.

‘Me name's Hemi,' says Hemi.

My shoulders relax. I feel relief, like I can trust him now, but I'm not really sure why. I smile. It is the first real smile I've had on my face for days. We sit outside the roadside diner in the small town of Kaiwaka, smoking our cigarettes and looking at the green hills. Cars go by on the main road and the people inside probably just see a couple of horis sucking down tar to make our lungs dark like our skins, but I feel peace in that moment.

‘Hey, do you want some food?' Hemi asks me.

‘Nah, I don't have any money.'

‘You hungry? Come on, I'll buy you food.'

I follow him into the diner and he loads up a tray with sandwiches and cakes.

‘You look like you could use a good feed, girl,' he says.

We go outside with the food and eat it in the sun. Afterwards, Hemi reaches into his battered brown bag and hands me a full packet of cigarettes.

‘Here, take it. I got a coupla cartons,' he tells me. ‘I've just come back from Oz; I been shooting a movie.'

‘Really?' I grin.

‘Yup; I been shooting with some of those peeps from Ngāti Home and Away.'

‘Eh? What are they like?'

‘They're all shit.' He laughs like Billy T, and I can't help but join in.

We spark up another ciggie, and I hear Dad's voice asking me if I still smoke. I remember Dad snapping me and my friend smoking cigarettes in the woodshed when we were fifteen and giving me that look that makes you wither with shame. I remember watching a programme with him when I was ten about a Māori woman who smoked, got lung cancer, lost her hair and died.

I chuck my cigarette away half-smoked, and Hemi looks at me.

A shout erupts from my left as a father pushes his child high in the swing at the diner's playground, and I remember Christmas time when I was about five years old; sitting on my dad's lap in my pyjamas, wearing my brand new jandals, and him reading my new
Henny Penny
book. His hands had looked so big to me, and I remember putting my index finger on top of his and tracing the words on the page. And I remember the look on his face when I told him I was going to uni to get my degree; the first in my family to do so. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

‘Come on girl, time to go,' Hemi says, his voice gentle.

We get back on the bus. Hemi chats to me about working on movie sets with famous actors. He tells me about his family, and what he's planning on eating when he gets home. I sit there and just listen. Buoyed and supported by his words, I am humbled by this man willing to give a stranger food and company and ask for nothing in return.

In between conversation and silence he strums his guitar and sings. They're all Māori songs I know, but I don't join in. I'm happy just to lean back and let myself drift on the sound of Hemi's voice. I've heard Lauren Hill sing at the Logan Campbell Centre with the voice of a thousand angels, and Tina Cross on her knees belting out a flawless solo during
Cats
, but nothing is so memorable to me – feels so soothing – as the melody from Hemi's guitar mixing with the harmony of his voice.

I lean back in my seat. I close my eyes. And somewhere in the midst of Hemi's music I grieve for the father I have just lost. In my pain, I am comforted by this gift Hemi has given me, the solace in sound, born from the unexpected meeting between us. The music builds, holds, releases me, until at last the waves of grief subside and, as I open my eyes, Hemi's voice moans and goes quiet.

‘You'll be alright, love.'