Huia Short Stories 9 Read online

  ‘But only for a wee while Koro,’ she said. ‘She can’t stay here; she has to return.’

  After a while of leaving Koro and Popi alone it was time to visit and bring Popi back. But on her arrival Koro was different. There was something hidden, unknown, and just different in him. They walked a way. Popi was happy, and talk was had about the usual things, like distance and what the new home looked like and who would be there and how long this walk was. Koro laughed and answered her questions: ‘Always questions, Moko.’ It was time to leave. Parting was always sad for them both, and as she picked up Popi and began to change into the magnificent ruru that she had become, she felt Popi leave the shelter of her wing. Koro reached up to the sky and snatched her back: his face was full of meanness, and he growled that she was to stay. The young woman flew back down to Koro and said ‘No Koro, Popi must return.’ He wouldn’t let Popi go, and he said he wouldn’t let her go either. His demand didn’t work, and his hold was released. Atawhai was so sad for her koro, and promised him she would return. ‘Please don’t be sad Koro. I will come back. I love you Koro,’ she cried out from high above him, watching this lonely old man with his korowai wrapped around him and his tokotoko in hand, heading towards another bend in the road, who had walked for so long on his own, searching for his home, his resting place. Atawhai was more diligent in her search. With Popi safe in hand she returned to her human life.

  Time passed, as it does, and one night Atawhai found herself walking up a mountain. It was night and all was still: she walked and walked and walked. The path seemed to wind and curve upwards and upwards: always a corner, always a bend. She became aware of company on this walk: two crawling black creatures. They crawled along the ground; their black was feather-like: like wings, but they didn’t fly. Maybe they couldn’t, she thought to herself. They kept well behind her but grovelled with heads low so she couldn’t make them out. They looked like birds but behaved like snakes: worm-like, nasty and hungry, following behind her every step. Atawhai was unable to see their eyes, but knew they were watching her. They repulsed her. She didn’t know why she felt no compassion for them: it was unusual for her, for she had had many an experience where she felt compassion for an ugly creature. However, she disciplined herself to pay little attention to them, and finally reached a marae. There was a wharenui, and there were people there who knew her and welcomed her. She didn’t know who they were but she felt comfortable with them and with being there. She knew that the two creatures behind her were still there. The people of this place were also aware of their sneaky presence and they were sending them on their way: they were not to enter this place. Atawhai saw them crying and scurrying on their bellies down the mountain. Next thing, she saw Popi come bounding up, happy as any little dog ought to be, and behind her a friend of Atawhai’s. Surprised but happy of course to see Popi and her friend, Atawhai spoke with them for a wee bit, but her friend was taken away by the people. He was OK; all was well.

  She took herself to a grassy space that overlooked the valley below. She sat there thinking of her koro. And she realised ‘This is Koro’s home; this is his resting place.’ As quick as she thought it, she was flying: she flew and flew with excitement and abounding joy. Finally, she came upon him. ‘Koro, Koro, I found it!’ – and to her surprise he wasn’t that far from this destination. She landed on his outstretched arm, transformed, and began excitedly to share with Koro her experience of the mountain. She looked at him, and he was tired. His eyes were weary and his walk was laboured. They shared a heavy sadness. She pleaded with Koro to not give up. ‘You’re nearly there, Koro!’ He promised he would keep walking, and Atawhai set to the air, keeping close to him, but with enough distance between them to keep him encouraged to not give up. Before she knew it she was back on the mountain, and a young woman again. She spoke with the people and let them know that Koro was coming, but days passed and there was no Koro; nights passed and there was no Koro. Atawhai sat despondent on her grassy knoll, waiting, waiting, waiting. Then, she heard a krill sound from women along the path up the mountain. People were leaping to their feet and racing about: the women were doing a call never heard before by Atawhai: a sound of joy and thanks and praise and laughter all mixed into one.

  Then she saw a figure coming up the path. She knew this figure: he made it; Koro had made it! The people were cheering and respectfully lowering their heads to not permit their eyes to meet his, as he passed them. Walking next to him was Popi. He had his tokotoko in hand and korowai around his shoulders. Atawhai heard that krill again, so loud and so joyous, and realised it was coming out of her: it was her call of joy, her krill of celebration. All the love she had for her koro was in that sound; all the sadness she felt for his lonely and long walk was in that sound; their lives entwined together were in that sound, and she ran to her koro and saw his beautiful smile. She looked up at him. He seemed so much taller than she remembered him last; she felt small and safe again, and all the love of a little girl was shared between the two. ‘Koro you made it! Where have you been? I have been so worried about you! Are you OK?’

  He looked at her so lovingly, and smiled ‘Questions Moko, always questions.’ They both laughed as they walked together to the whare.

  Atawhai loved her koro and he loved her. The people were his people, her people. They were home; he was so happy. They wrapped their great love for him around him, and in that moment Koro shook his korowai and pointed his tokotoko, and Atawhai exclaimed in awe as she saw this magnificent, strong, well-defined, giant ruru, his wings spread out over the whole width of the marae. His legs were as long and strong as the biggest tōtara tree that ever stood; his talons went deep into Papatūānuku and his eyes were all seeing and all loving as he cocked his magnificent head upwards and gave a krill that reverberated through Atawhai’s whole body. It shook the very ground and opened the clouds. He wrapped his massive wings around his people, around his home, and looked at his moko below him and bent down.

  Atawhai was not to return to that place again, although she longed to. She hadn’t been forbidden to visit; she just didn’t get there, for there were many more adventures to be had, and another giant she was yet to meet. But she kept this memory to warm her heart. She still looks out for her ruru, but he hasn’t visited for a very very long time. She still invites the ruru on her path to rest at her whare and asks after him. They don’t tell her any news of him. She sends her love to him and to them all, and prays for their safety, particularly on cold nights. She still gets to laugh when she goes to her whare and the caretaker says, ‘Your mates are back. You know Aunty doesn’t like them.’ And that night was the night Atawhai saw the white ruru … but that is another story.

  Haowhenua

  Piripi Evans

  The trench Joe had dug in the back yard was the last outrage as far as his wife was concerned. She did not ask for an explanation; she just packed some things in a suitcase and told Joe that she was going to her sister’s house, to get some ‘sanity time’, she said. Joe shrugged and went back to his excavations.

  A week later, a neighbour popped his head over the fence, looked into the six-foot deep trench, and asked, ‘hey Joe, you done away with the missus?’ Joe looked up, leaned on the shovel and spat. The neighbour looked at Joe’s unreadable black face under the silver mane, and at the big hands around the shovel, bunched up with muscle. He decided to ask no more questions.

  Joe’s trench was the last straw for the Council too, especially when it began to extend into the front yard as well as the back. Letters on official letterhead began to turn up in the mailbox. It has come to our attention that the excavation on your property has encroached onto road reserve and is now a significant public nuisance, etc. But still the digging continued and eventually began to undermine the footpath, leaving only a thin biscuit of asphalt to walk on, which became the sagging roof of an under-street catacomb where Joe worked by lamplight. Joe played the good citizen by marking off the hazard with a bright orange cone on the affected footpath, but
it was not long before a council car pulled up. After the slam of the car door, Joe heard the click of black dress shoes on the pavement. Joe peered out over the brim of the excavation at the approaching shoes, and then glanced up to a pair of grey dress trousers, a black uniform vest worn over a business shirt and tie, and a young freckled face with black hair slicked close against the skull. Joe decided he would ignore this visitor. He went back to his work, which at that moment was a delicate scraping operation at one wall of the trench.

  The council worker hovered for a moment with bureaucratic uselessness before he eventually found his voice. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I need your attention. I’ve come to serve a notice on you.’

  Joe looked up. ‘Another notice,’ he said. ‘And they have it delivered by some little sperm sample, barely out of college. Drawn the short straw, have you?’

  The council worker explained that he had been sent because he was a Māori Liaison Officer. He gave his name and said that he descended locally from Te Āti Awa and various of the other Taranaki tribes that were resident around the harbour. Joe responded with a withering stare, and the young man realised that this whakapapa was considered to be not to his credit. Nevertheless, the youngster crept to the lip of the trench with the council envelope held out at arm’s length, like a tourist on extreme safari offering a titbit to a lion. Joe’s fingers closed on it with a snap. He tore the envelope open and gave its contents only the briefest skim through contemptuous huffing breaths, before he crumpled envelope and letter together and stuffed them into the back pocket of his clay-dusted blue track pants.

  The council worker’s thoughts began to turn towards moving off and buying some lunch at the bakery that he had passed on the way up the road. But he felt that duty demanded at least a passing mention of the contents of the crumpled notice.

  ‘Sir, I must point out that your work is a hazard and must cease immediately.’

  ‘It’s not going to cease.’

  ‘Then can I at least ask what the purpose of this excavation is?’

  ‘Paleoseismic investigation,’ Joe replied, without looking up from his work.

  ‘Paelo-what?’

  ‘Paleoseisemic,’ Joe repeated, this time with a brief look up. ‘I’m looking for the fault line. I’m going to prove that you people have mapped it in the wrong place. Come inside and I’ll show you.’

  The council worker’s curiosity was now stimulated. It is not every day that one meets such a dedicated amateur in paleoseismics; and particularly one in such an unexpected guise. He followed Joe into the little cottage. He considered doing the proper thing and taking his shoes off at the door, until he noticed that Joe did not bother to do so. The dark grey carpet just inside the door was stamped with the numerous clay imprints of Joe’s boots. The curtains were drawn and the interior was dusky and cold. Joe flicked on the light and illuminated a row of photographs on the mantelpiece, where the exited wife and now grown-up children smiled from their time-stained black and white backgrounds. Above the mantelpiece hung a clock that ticked loudly. Next to that was a crude, hand-made instrument that was labeled QUAKEOMETER. It was a dial semi-circular in shape and labeled in different segments, from zero, which was painted blue, through low, moderate and high, and ending at extreme, which was painted red. An ice cream stick had been painted black and served as a hand, which pointed at the orange high segment.

  While the council worker looked around his surroundings, Joe went into the kitchen and filled the jug, which began to heat with a roar. He came back out into the dining room and rummaged among a pile of papers that had obviously accumulated on the kitchen table over a very long period. He swept the unwanted ones to the floor; among them a dozen or so unopened council envelopes. Eventually he retrieved an A3 photocopied map from the bottom of the pile. It was headed Fault Rupture Hazard Zone.

  ‘From the District Plan,’ said Joe. ‘You clowns have marked the fault here, up amongst the trees,’ he ran his finger along the shaded area on the map. ‘Actually, it’s here.’

  Joe took a pen from his pocket and marked the street outside his front door with an angry slash, making an ink-lined rift on the page.

  The council worker blinked at the map for a moment, and then asked: ‘how can you be so sure?’

  ‘I know this land, boy.’

  With that, Joe went into the kitchen. He returned with two cups of tea and a packet of gingernuts, which seemed a bit on the old side, and were softer to the bite and more floury on the tongue than was proper. The council worker felt compelled to eat one.

  ‘You are very proud of your whānau,’ the council worker observed, gesturing with his exquisitely stale biscuit at the row of photographs on the mantelpiece.

  Joe snorted, as if he found the comment amusing. ‘They’ve all gone away. The kids both went to live in Aussie. I don’t hear from them, but I’m pretty sure they still love the old man, deep down. Maybe even the wife does. But they got sick of living with an old testament prophet; that’s what they called me. The wife said I was obsessed. It was all the geology books I read. It was the way I knew every fault line, and would let everyone know whenever we drove over one, by saying tick-tock tick-tock. And then we bought this house. She liked it because she said it had character and she could do things with it. I liked it because it was right on the fault, just where I could dig.’

  ‘Except your digging has gone beyond your own property now. What if a young mother is pushing a pram along and the pavement falls away under them? It would be your fault – and the Council’s, unless we act to stop you.’

  ‘Don’t start getting all official again. Property is a fantasy. And the risk to the public of my digging is a small risk, compared to that.’ Joe meant the quakeometer. He drained the last of his tea, then turned and pointed at it. ‘That instrument measures all available scientific data: mathematical probability, the recurrence intervals of nearby faults, the position and phase of the moon. Put it all together and I can estimate the risk factor.’

  There was something slightly strange in the way Joe spoke these words, the council worker thought to himself. The technical terms were very carefully enunciated. It was the wary and slightly defensive tone, perhaps, of a dedicated amateur whose theories had never enjoyed credibility among the boffins.

  ‘But,’ Joe continued, ‘the most scientific instrument of all is here.’ He patted his stomach. ‘All our roads, bridges and buildings remain standing on the sufferance of the land. The land’s not at ease. It’s tired of being abused. Maybe you don’t feel it, but I do.’

  The council worker stared for a moment at the hand that lay settled on the great puku bulge of the ragged white t-shirt. He finished his tea and swallowed the rest of the biscuit. Then he left his business card on the table and politely took his leave of the crazy old man.

  Shortly after, a crew of contractors turned up and filled in part of Joe’s trench. They pumped concrete under the pavement section, with the dual purpose of shoring it up and making sure that Joe’s shovel could get no further access to the underside of the road.

  Perhaps half a year passed after that, and the council worker had almost forgotten Joe, until one day the phone rang. He answered and immediately recognised the deep voice and the laboured sucking breaths that sounded like gusts of wind in the earpiece.

  ‘You listening to me boy?’

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘The quakeometer’s at “extreme”. That fault line outside my house – it’s like an old friend to me – I know its moods and its habits. I stood over it today and got a feeling like an electric current. You’ve got to persuade your bosses to evacuate the city.’

  ‘Are you serious, Joe? You think I should go and ask the Council to evacuate 200,000 people? How do I persuade them to do that?’

  ‘Easy. You need to tell them about Haowhenua.’

  ‘Who or what is that?’

  ‘Haowhenua: the land-gulper. That’s what the old people called the big quake that happened in ancient times, before the arri
val of the white man; before the arrival of your precious Āti Awa; even before Kai Tahu passed through here on their way south. It’s thanks to Haowhenua that we have the airport; it was he who lifted the land up around that part of the coast. Before that airport land was there, it was a sea channel. The old people – the Kurahaupō people, my people – lived on the Miramar Peninsular when it used to be an island. This was the perfect place for them: safe from raiders and close to the shoals where they could collect mussels and kōura and all the fish that they could want. Now, you imagine their shock when, one apparently calm day, the island quivered underneath them. Then they felt the land groan and roar as it lifted itself up, as if the whole island were coming to life! Then, an incredible sight: they saw the surface of the harbour seemingly ripped in half. This was the fault rupture travelling along the seabed at three kilometres a second; it looked as if the water had been traversed by a giant supersonic fish, whose dorsal fin had razored a perfect seam of spray and foam. And then the full force of the shock took hold, and the watchers could no longer keep their feet. Some clung to children and grabbed for any stable fixture within reach. Others were swept away as boulders tumbled down the hillsides in great bouncing rivers, stripping the trees. Tawa and rātā were shaved and centuries-old rimu were either uprooted or bashed to splinters. When the shaking finally stopped, Haowhenua had not finished. The harbour all but emptied out, and the water came back in again, booming against the cliffs and sending seawater gushing up the river valleys, swallowing up the land. Then there were just the trembling, leaping waves, brown with silt. The gulls cawed triumphantly as they perched on floating debris and dolphin corpses and feasted on the banquet of dead fish. The survivors were shaken. They huddled together for that and many more days and nights, while their tohunga muttered incarnations to appease the atua, who still signaled their anger with the ongoing aftershocks. When the people finally dared to venture out, they saw that the channel, along with its rich shellfish beds, had been lifted out of the sea completely, and had formed a desolate rocky bridge, stinking of rotting fish and crabs and seaweed.’