Potiki Page 3

  Absent from among the mourners was Hemi’s and Mary’s mother, but she was present in the photographs against the wall, and what I knew by then was that she was present amongst us in death.

  ‘Tihei maurimate …’

  And twelve years had never been.

  ‘Come forward, come forward. Beach the great canoe of that place. Bring with you the many deceased from there, from that mountain and that river, being the deceased of the many ages of the past and present and the many parts of this land. Many are the dead, as many as the myriads of stars. Assemble the many deceased from there, with the many deceased of the place where we now stand. Assemble them together with the singing bird who sleeps here now, so that they may all be wept for together …’

  The paua-shell eyes are many-coloured and vigilant. They encircle the world of day and the world of dreaming, and they encircle the assembled from all places and from all ages. Twelve years had never been.

  ‘Then go on your way, great ones, loved ones, from the many parts of the land. Return to the Homeland, following in the footsteps of those who have gone ahead, following in the footsteps marked out in the beginning …

  ‘And now let there be joining – the dead to the dead, the living to the living. Let the strands fall together. We greet you the living. This hill calls to that mountain, this sea calls to that river, hear the calling. Let the strands fall together entwining so that we are one …’

  Behind the eyes the seas drummed, white birds lifted into the storm.

  ‘You have gone

  As the song bird

  Flown,

  But my foot is caught

  In the root

  Of the flower tree.

  You have gone

  And here I am

  Alone,

  The flowers fall

  Like rain.’

  Rain plunged against the roof and wind harried the doorway as one speaker followed another. Bodies moved and eyes glared in the known way, as the legacies of words were spoken and the chants were sung.

  ‘We greet you, ground that we traversed. We greet you house of people, house of people from here …

  ‘And now

  Lie here sister

  In this ancestral house,

  Listen to the sea sounds

  And the crying of the hills,

  Wrap death’s fine cloak about you

  And wrap about you also

  Our words and tears,

  Leave us then and go

  Carried by the sounds of waters

  The speakings of words

  Go to the night everlasting

  Where the many gather …

  ‘And living family we hear your call. We greet you and divide sorrow amongst all of us so that it may be lessened.

  ‘We are split and empty

  As the shell of the kihikihi

  Which clings to the bole of a tree

  But hear the cry

  Tatarakihi tatarakihi.

  We give you our greetings. Greetings to all of us.’

  We stood and moved to greet the people, to hongi, to embrace, to tangi for this particular loss and for the fact of death. I moved gradually to greet and to tangi with old Granny Tamihana who had stood to carry out the arduous task of sorrowing, and then I moved to Mary who had not forgotten me. We pressed our noses, we kissed and embraced. ‘Look at Mummy. She’s so pretty. She’s so nice. Is she, Roimata?’

  I looked into the casket at the thin quiet face and dark hair. They had dressed her in a blouse of white chenille and lace, and pinned to it was a Mary of Sorrows medallion that I remembered she always wore. But that seemed so long ago. At her throat was a locket that she wore on special occasions, open now, and showing the tiny photographs of the son and daughter who had died as children. Covering her to the waist was the finely woven cloak with its feather border, and on top of that the mere pounamu. ‘Pretty,’ I said. Twelve years, but I had not forgotten how to talk to Mary. ‘Pretty, and nice.’

  The Sister and the aunts held me to them and we wept for all sorrow that had occurred since last we had met, but especially for this one. Then I greeted the woman and children that I did not know – but knowing that the woman could have been Hemi’s wife, and that the children could be his. Hemi and I greeted each other formally, then held each other closely as we wept for the death of his mother, and for all death. Then I moved to greet his brother and cousins in a similar way.

  As we went out to wash there was another group assembling at the edge of the marae.

  I did not speak to Hemi again until the evening of the day his mother was buried, or at least I did not speak at length to him. It had been a busy time as I set about to help with catering and caring for the many people who came. We set and cleared the long tables and cleaned and refilled the big pots many times a day. Each evening after karakia we worked well into the night baking bread and preparing meat and vegetables for the next day. It was as though twelve years had never been as I fitted myself back into the known routines.

  Hemi stayed mainly in the wharenui where arrangements for his mother were discussed and where decisions were made. He was there to greet and to be greeted by each group and each individual that came.

  That night after the work had been done and many of the visitors had gone he sat by me and said, ‘When did you hear?’ He prompted nothing further from me.

  ‘I didn’t hear,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know …’

  ‘So that wasn’t the reason.’

  ‘Just off the plane … the previous day. Walked from the station, and when I got to the corner I knew it was … someone.’

  ‘So … on your own. Not with that bus, that group. I wondered …’

  ‘Joined them at the gate, next morning.’

  ‘You were coming but it wasn’t because of her.’

  ‘It was night when I got here, it was dark. I saw the lights on … down the end here. It was too late … so I waited.’

  ‘All night.’

  ‘I knew it was … someone, but I didn’t know who. When I got into the house, saw the family, the photos, that was when …’

  ‘But it wasn’t for that. You were coming.’ It wasn’t a question.

  People were singing – songs for the living, as the concerns of death moved to the outer edges of the spiral. Rina and Joyce pulled us up to join in the action songs, which I found I had not forgotten:

  ‘Titiro ki a Rona

  Ki runga i te rangi

  Mo te riri

  O te marama e,

  Titiro ki te rakau

  Mau i te ringaringa

  Ki runga

  I te rangi e …’

  It was as I had thought. One became a sky dweller by accident, or by way of punishment, not on purpose. Rona was a lonely figure up there in her moon-house, holding on to her little tree and her calabashes. Had she grasped a more sturdy tree, a more heavily rooted tree, she could perhaps have stood against the anger of the moon. Joyce was Hemi’s brother’s wife and the children that I hadn’t known were their children.

  ‘So you came,’ he said, but still it was not a question.

  ‘I felt as though I was floating,’ I said, ‘as though there was nothing … important.’

  ‘And you came.’ We did not speak for a long time after that. We joined in the singing and the talk going on about us. Then Hemi said, ‘I didn’t think there would be anyone …’

  ‘I need at least a toehold …’

  ‘Anyone … for me.’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘Everything’s meant,’ he said, ‘I’ve always believed it. And … I’m happy.’

  4

  Roimata

  The sea was grey and calm after a week of wind and bowling waves. There was a humid quiet and a flat grey sky.

  When James and Tangimoana arrived home from school I always put the jug on to boil. We made hot drinks and waited for Mary to come home. When Mary heard the school bus arrive she would fold her cloths and put them into her bucket with the polish
. She would shut the window and the door of the house then come home so that we could all have a cup of tea together. Sometimes she would bring Granny’s cat with her.

  That morning I had worried about Mary because she’d complained of pain, but I had not been able to persuade her to stay home and rest. And that afternoon she had forgotten to come. It is easy for her to forget. By then we should have heard her open the gate, heard her singing or talking as she came round the side of the house, and heard her putting her bucket and cloths away and taking her shoes off in the porch.

  When she didn’t arrive I went to the front window to watch out for her, and saw her walking awkwardly down onto the beach by the meeting-house. She has her own way of walking, moving her short wide body from side to side, but that day she walked differently, more awkwardly – and yet there was something familiar … She did not have her bucket with her but I knew it was easy for her to forget. I saw her sit down, going out of sight behind where the beach stones had piled.

  We drank our tea while we waited for her. I kept going to the window and after a while I saw her stand and walk right to the edge of the water holding something. I wondered what the week’s rough seas had left on the shore to interest her. Mary is a tidier. She will clear debris from the beach, either bringing what she has found home in her bucket, or returning it to the sea.

  ‘Tangimoana,’ I said, ‘run down to the beach and bring Aunty Mary home.’ I expected Tangi to complain but she had been watching too. Curiosity always moves her. She was six years old, small and thin, and had a mean mouth.

  ‘She’s a maddie,’ she said. ‘A maddie-porangi. Aunty Mary’s such a maddie-porangi.’

  ‘You stop that Tangimoana. Don’t you …’ but she had gone. Her red tee-shirt was a flag of colour against the grey sea, grey stones, grey sky.

  I watched Tangimoana as she stood and called to Mary from the top of the beach, but Mary didn’t stop or turn. She walked into the water still holding whatever it was, close to her face, as though she could be eating or licking it. I knew then that I should not have sent Tangimoana to get Mary but should have gone to get her myself.

  Tangimoana stood at the top of the beach stamping her feet and I knew she was shouting at Mary. I saw her go down and follow Mary into the water. Then I saw her thump Mary with her little fist, and pull and snatch at whatever it was that Mary held in her arms.

  Then Tangimoana began to hurry home – running, walking, running, and Mary was still standing to her waist in the sea, looking back.

  I hurried out to meet Tangimoana calling, ‘You’re naughty, you’re mean Tangimoana. Why didn’t you bring her, why didn’t you wait, what were you screeching about?’

  And Tangi called out, ‘Mum, Mum, it’s something ! She was putting it in the water. O Mummy it isn’t a fish!’

  Tangi never cries from anything except temper but I could see she was close to crying.

  What she held out to me, what I took from her, was a misshapen and cauled baby boy.

  I peeled the piece of skin from the little face and there were such small sounds coming from the stretching mouth. The skin was the colour of stone. My hands moved themselves to turn the boy upside down and I shook him lightly so that he began to cry. Then I hurried inside and took a warm towel from the hot-water cupboard to wrap him in.

  ‘She was going to chuck it away. Mum, Mum, in the sea!’

  ‘Where was it …? Where did she …?’

  But Tangimoana was a breath ahead of me.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, I think she borned it.’

  I remembered Mary’s clumsiness as she had walked from the top of the beach, more awkward than her usual awkward manner, and I knew that what Tangimoana had just said was true.

  ‘She’s a porangi. O I told you, I said …’

  ‘Stop that, Tangi. Stop it! You have to help me. You have to get Mary …’

  ‘Uncle Stan’s gone. He was coming out his gate.’

  ‘Tangi, what else …? Was there anything …?’

  ‘She bit it with her wicked teeth …’

  ‘Tangi you behave …!’

  ‘And it slid and dropped right into the sea.’

  ‘Run fast Tangimoana, and tell Uncle Stan to bring Mary and Granny. Tell him to bring them in his car, straight away. Now!’

  James came in followed by Manu. He stopped in fright by the door – not, I believe, because of the wrapped snuffling bundle that I held, but because of the shock that he saw on my face.

  ‘A baby,’ I said. ‘A baby boy. Tangimoana took him … from Aunty Mary and brought him home.’

  I was listening for Stan’s car and wondering and worrying about Mary. At the same time I was feeling appalled at the humpy shape of the child’s back and the turned wispiness of his legs.

  ‘James, go and open the door and the gate,’ I said as I heard the car coming. I spread a rug on the settee and put the baby down.

  Granny Tamihana and Stan held a blanket about Mary as they brought her in.

  ‘Don’t know what she was doing in the sea,’ Stan said. ‘And she’s not herself. Nothing to say. And … there’s blood.’

  ‘Our Mary a little bit sick,’ said Granny.

  ‘Don’t ask her anything, not yet.’ I showed them the baby. ‘She had it, just now …’

  ‘Had?’

  ‘Gave birth to, down on the beach.’

  They looked in some disbelief at the bundle that I held out to them.

  ‘It must be hers,’ I said.

  ‘Well someone done wrong to her,’ said Granny. ‘Come on, darling, you never mind. Someone done wrong to you. Come on Granny put you to bed.’

  It was such a sad thing to see Mary so quiet and so expressionless.

  ‘I’ll help you get her into bed Gran, and you see how she is.’

  ‘Has the rest come?’

  ‘It dropped … into the sea. Tangimoana said …’

  ‘I’ll go and get it,’ said Stan.

  ‘Bring it so we can do right, bury it right,’ Granny Tamihana said.

  ‘I reckon it was that old scrounger,’ said Stan as he went out. ‘Always hanging round here. Well we’ll see about that …’

  ‘Tangi you bring Gran the towels from the cupboard, and James you make a warm milk drink for Mary, please Son.’ Manu was lying by the now-sleeping baby, gently touching the baby’s long, damp black hair.

  It was Mary who had first given the old man the name of Joe-billy. He came every summer with his billy and his bundle to camp for a month or two on the beach. He kept to himself for the most part but he had become a friend to the children and to Mary. They were always excited to wake, and looking out, to see the smoke from his fire and know that he had come. James and Tangimoana had sometimes spent evenings with him fishing from the beach. He would dip tea for them out of the billy and toast slices of bread. He had always seemed a kind man. It was difficult to believe that he would lie with Mary knowing that she really was a child still, and that she would never come to an understanding of it all. I was angry and shaken as I helped Granny Tamihana to attend to her. And Mary was wordless and unmoving as we washed her, then helped her to drink the warm milk that James had brought.

  When we had finished with Mary and made her comfortable Granny Tamihana bathed the baby’s head and blew sharply onto his temples. She blew his mouth and nostrils, and with two fingers lightly massaged his chest until the mucus began to drain freely. She took a pendant from her ear and put it on the blanket beside him. ‘Tokowaru-i-te-Marama. Ko Tokowaru-i-te-Marama te ingoa o tenei,’ she said.

  When she had finished Manu took up his place beside the baby again, and went to sleep.

  5

  Roimata

  When Manu turned five I went with him every day for two weeks and left him in the porch of the school with Tangimoana and James each holding a hand. By ten o’clock he would be running back home along the beach calling to me and to Mary, and to his little brother. He would be trembling and exhausted, and at night he would call out and cr
y in his sleep. If I asked him why he cried, why he ran away from school, he would say there were cracks in the floor, and begin to cry again.

  ‘He’s frightened,’ I said to Hemi, ‘and he’s exhausted and pale.’

  ‘Keep him home,’ Hemi said.

  ‘He says there are cracks in the floor, and the kids fizz like bees. He thinks he’ll disappear.’

  ‘He’d be better here with you. We don’t want to … lose him.’

  ‘He says they’ve got no stories for him …’

  ‘School’s all right for some, but you don’t always find what’s right for you,’ Hemi said.

  ‘He’s scared. And he misses his little brother so much. They’ve never been separated since Toko was born, and it doesn’t seem right …’

  ‘He’s better here with you. Let him stay home. Everything we need is here, and they learn all right with us. Better for Toko too, when the time comes.’ Hemi has a way of seeing clearly the things that matter most.

  So I kept Manu home with me, and Toko, when he was five, decided to stay home too. Despite his physical disabilities and his periods in hospital, Toko could have gone to school if he had wanted to. His learning is so quick and sure, and he is too watchful to allow himself to slip and disappear. All stories belong to him.

  At first when I thought about keeping Manu home I planned that our porch would become a classroom, a miniature of other classrooms I had taught in. I thought of desks and books, blackboards, chalk-dust, and coloured pictures of gardens, beaches and streets. There would be a table, I thought, where we would have potato hedgehogs and wheat people – mother, father and child – with their green growing hair to be measured and cut. There would be eggs and feathers and favourite stones, and beans sprouting in a tray of wet cotton. There would be multiplication tables and number lines, jigsaws, scissors and paint, and an alphabet frieze, and clocks that told us when to start and stop.