Purakau Page 3

  eyes I never knew I possessed were stung by it

  forcing me to hide my face in the earth.

  It was light, my brothers. Light.

  A most beautiful sight infiltered past

  the armpit hairs of the father. Why, I could

  even see to count all the fingers of my hands

  held out to it; see the stain — the clutch of

  good earth on them.

  But then he moved.

  And darkness came down even more oppressively

  it seemed and I drew back tense; angry.

  Brothers, let us kill him — push him off.

  Papatūānuku

  BY WHITI HEREAKA

  In the end it was their son Tāne that separated them. She knows it’s repugnant to admit that, even to herself. Those who say that it is not fair to blame the children have not met stubborn, tenacious, persistent Tāne. He was always a wilful child.

  All of their sons, at one point or another, had come between them; but it was Tāne who had pushed and pushed until they could no longer embrace each other. And Rangi had left.

  Her boys are strong willed. Tangaroa, changeable Tangaroa — calm one moment, a tantrum the next. Tāwhirimātea, strident in his beliefs, always trying to stir something up. Tū is smart, cunning even, and is always looking for a fight. Haumia is tough and wild, she’s given up trying to tame him; and Rongo, the quiet one, the peace broker, steadfast, stoic and stubborn.

  Perhaps the relationship would have survived if she and Rangi had waited, had spent more time together as a couple alone. Been rational and cool headed: planned their family, prepared themselves. It makes her laugh. How could she have prepared herself for her children? You know what they say about best-laid plans. As if you can plan for love, plan for life.

  Still, perhaps if she and Rangi had been strict with them. Brought them up to be … different. Six perfect little gentlemen, who wouldn’t dream of raising their voices or arguing with each other, or — heavens! — their parents. It is a fleeting fantasy. Those docile, obedient children are blank faced in her mind, the thought of their cloying voices chanting Mummy! Mummy! makes her shiver.

  Ah, my sons. I wouldn’t have you any other way.

  She can’t blame Tāne. Not entirely. There must have been signs before. Sometimes she thinks of herself clinging to Rangi, her grip so tight that her fingernails dug into his skin. Maybe her intense need for him pushed him away. She can’t remember the last time they actually talked — really talked. And they haven’t been alone together since they had kids. Apart from their children, she doesn’t know what they have in common. Rangi was always the one with his head in the clouds. She was always the grounded one.

  Why didn’t they fight harder to stay together? They should have held on until their fingernails were ripped from their beds. Maybe Tāne’s pushing was the excuse they’d both been looking for.

  It’s strange to think about it, but perhaps they started separating the moment they came together. All their past decisions led here.

  She has a terrible crick in her neck — had it for years, but it’s flared up again from the stress, probably, or maybe from the relief. She moves her head left to right and then back again, trying to release the muscle. She reaches for the knot just underneath her shoulder blade, trying to dig in with her fingers, but it is just out of reach. There’s pain in doing nothing and pain in trying to free it. She’s not sure which is worse. Her forehead tightens, another headache is on the way. She’ll lie down until it goes away.

  Her bed is vast and empty.

  They were so cramped before, living on top of one another really. It was no place for growing boys. She heard them grumbling amongst themselves. Perhaps they thought that she couldn’t hear them — their bickering and their plans.

  We need more room!

  I can’t breathe here.

  We should kill them!

  There was a hush after Tū had said it. Of course she didn’t believe he meant it — although, there’s a darkness to him, something in the way he stares like he’s always plotting his next move — of course he didn’t mean it. Of course he didn’t, what would Tū know of death?

  It’s irrational and paranoid to think that her children were plotting against her. Sure, sometimes it felt like they ganged up on her, but that’s what children do, isn’t it? They test the limits and push boundaries, that’s how they grow.

  She closes her eyes as if she is trying to shut the thought out. Why would her own children want to hurt her so badly? Hurt themselves? Because, despite their bravado, she knows that they miss Rangi too.

  Her pillow is wet. She wipes her face with the back of her hand as she sits up. She never was a pretty crier — her eyes puff up immediately and hūpē runs freely from her nose.

  She shivers and pulls a shawl around her. She feels cold all the time now, more if she’s been crying. Maybe the need for warmth is a comfort thing, mental rather than physical. Tāne gave her the shawl. He can be so thoughtful and generous that it makes her feel guilty about dwelling on his flaws.

  Funny, she never thought that green was her colour but this suits her so well. Maybe she doesn’t know anything about herself at all. She looks at herself in the mirror. Really looks — her own face is like that of a stranger, she has trouble recognising herself. She knew Rangi’s face so well, his eyes flecked with light, his nose, his lips … almost every pore and whisker, she knew it so intimately. She studies herself — her smile, her frown. Looking at herself makes her think of what she is missing, his lips on hers, their shared breath. Does she have real sympathy for the woman in the glass? That woman is a stranger to her.

  It is too quiet. With the shawl wrapped tightly around her, she goes in search of her boys. Surely their chatter will chase these useless thoughts away. Where are they? The homestead is empty.

  The boys have scattered — did they hear her crying and flee? No, she can’t imagine that they’d be so callous. They’re exploring, the novelty of having so much room is still new to them. They’ve made this place their own; each staking out their territory, busy with their interests. Rongo will be nearby in the garden, digging neat furrows into the ground. Tāne and Haumia will be in the bush — Tāne has probably claimed the tallest tree and Haumia will be hanging out in the scrub land. Tangaroa will be at the beach. Tū could be with any of them, it depends on his mood or if he’s annoyed his brothers — which he often has.

  She wanders around the homestead, checking each empty room until she’s back in her own. Even if the old place was cramped, at least she wasn’t alone. Who has she to talk to here? Her sad reflection in the mirror? She looks at herself again, tired and sad. Has she always looked this way? She reaches out and touches her reflected cheek: so cold and hard.

  She had thought that her family was all that she wanted, all that she needed. She’s devoted herself to them and now what? What is there left for her now?

  She was happy before. They were happy before, weren’t they?

  She feels numb. She doesn’t know who she is. She has always been defined in relation to Rangi — their love, their embrace, their children. She can’t remember life without him. Did a time ever exist when she was just herself?

  She flops on the bed, stretches out like a starfish and stares at the blank ceiling. That’s what her life is now. Nothing, wall to wall. She can’t remember what life was like without Rangi, in her mind he was always there — before love, partnership and children. If she tries to think of a time when she was on her own there’s a deep void in her memory. He was her light in the dark. There is nothing without him. She is nothing without him.

  And yet, here she is. She still exists, even if their relationship doesn’t.

  The ceiling is so blank. She stares up at it, relaxing her eyes so everything is sort of blurry. There are no edges anymore. There is not an absence of a thing, but the potential for anything.

  No, not yet. I am not ready to stop wallowing.

  Ah, but there is a
flutter within her. It is excitement and hope and …

  ‘No!’

  Her own voice surprises her. She didn’t mean to speak.

  The smell of rain is in the air. It reminds her of Rangi. It is the smell of their love, their lust. Petrichor, the musk of the earth and sky combined.

  Rangi was her first love, her one and only love, but now she wonders if it was real. Had they simply settled for one another? Had they been too scared to live without one another, too scared of the unknown?

  Since the separation, she can finally see Rangi as another being. When they were together it was easy to think of themselves as one organism, or to be frank, one orgasm. Sex had always been passionate, they had always been hungry for one another.

  She can still feel his fingers digging into her hips, the prickle of nerves running right down her spine from his breath on her neck.

  She reaches out her leg and kicks her door closed; it would be just her luck if one of the boys wandered in now.

  Eyes closed, she conjures him. Imagines that they are his rough fingers brushing her nipples, his hands squeezing her breasts. Even though she had been with him for so long, even though they had made love hundreds of times she’s finding it hard to keep him in her mind. She pushes a finger into the cleft of her vulva, seeking out her clit, her sticky pubic hair tangles around her fingers and a clenching warmth spreads from her clit to deep within her.

  And then her mind wanders to all of the jobs she has to do and the moment is gone. She grinds the heel of her palm into her pubic bone — trying to convince herself that it is his weight upon her, determined not to give up …

  She groans and sighs, but it is not from pleasure. How long has it been? She’s showing, so five or so months. Another sigh. It’s been far too long.

  They were never shy with one another. Their love was intense and oppressive. Is that why their boys wanted them to be apart? The disgust one has for the sex life of one’s parents?

  She was happy with Rangi. She felt whole. She was satisfied.

  Now she is apart from him, she has the clarity to ask whether being filled is the same as being fulfilled.

  She looks at her hand. The dent in her ring finger is still there. The skin is pale and smooth, like a scar. She supposes that it is.

  Is it time to finally learn who she is?

  She is a mother.

  So she does what good mothers do — isn’t this what good mothers do? She forgets her own feelings, forgets herself, and concentrates on her children. She focuses on how they are coping rather than how she still yearns for him.

  Her boys are too young to understand, they have no experience of love that is all consuming. She loves their father still.

  It would be so much easier if she hated him — at least then she’d have anger to distract her from the hole he’s left. If she hated him then she wouldn’t miss him right?

  It is so lonely here. She has no one to talk to about her grief. She can’t burden her children with it. Not that her boys have ever considered her feelings; she is their mother, a being who lives only for them.

  Is that all she is, all that she’s ever been, a mother? Now that she has the room to breathe, the room to think, will she find something more? She rubs her temples, guilt pinches between her eyebrows. What kind of mother wishes for something other than her children? She wishes she knew another mother so she could ask — though she never would, no one can know she doubts herself.

  The love she has — had — for Rangi is dwarfed by the love she has for her children, and yet …

  Sometimes she feels like her throat is constricted by resentment — she tries to suppress the part of her that hates those boys of hers. The boys that ruined her love. Her boys, her boys. The story will always focus on her boys.

  No one can understand her loneliness.

  As if in response, the baby in her womb turns, sending tremors throughout her body. She has named her youngest son Rūaumoko. He will be a son: she always bears boys. Poor Rūaumoko. He will never know his father. Not like his brothers have.

  Her only comfort is the thought that it was good for her boys; the separation. Each of their reactions at the beginning had been so different. Tū had brooded, at times it seemed as if he was jealous of Tāne; as if he wanted to be the one who had separated his parents. Rongo had become withdrawn and when she picked up Haumia he held her so tightly like he wanted to be buried in her. Even Tangaroa clung to her. He was always there: at her arm, her knee, her hip. Of course she’s glad he’s found his independence now — that they all have — but when she was focused on them she didn’t have to think of her own pain. Now it seems like there is nothing else to think about.

  Freed from his father’s shadow, Tāne has flourished. He has made a life for himself. She can see that soon he will be ready to pursue a love of his own.

  It is good for them. It is good for us. She repeats the words over and over until it is the truth.

  Most of their boys had stayed with her. Only Tāwhirimātea has gone with his father. The look on his face as he followed Rangi. She had not known her son to be so angry before. He was angry at her she supposed. He blamed her for the break-up.

  Everyone is on edge when Tāwhirimātea visits. He takes pleasure in destroying his brothers’ precious things. When did he become so cruel, so angry? She shields Rongo and Haumia from Tāwhirimātea. The older siblings need to work it out amongst themselves.

  Tāwhirimātea goes after Tāne first, shaking the tree Tāne has climbed — trying to shake him out. Tāwhirimātea tries to get at his brother, ripping the lower branches of the tree. Tāne ignores him, which only fuels Tāwhirimātea’s rage. Should she intervene? Tāne laughs and she’s relieved — just brothers being brothers.

  Tāwhirimātea manipulates Tangaroa to fight against Tāne with him. They hurl water at Tāne, but he doesn’t budge. Tāwhirimātea leaves to get more ammunition and Tangaroa looks at the tree in front of him and then up to his brother in the branches above him. Without Tāwhirimātea’s encouragement, Tangaroa’s anger quickly subsides and he wanders off down to the beach again.

  It is Tū who fights back against Tāwhirimātea. While Tāwhirimātea is spurred by his anger, Tū fights because he enjoys the violence. Tū yearns for the bruises and the blood. The fight is vicious and physical — Tū punching Tāwhirimātea over and over again. She yells at Tū to stop and is grateful that he listens, she’s not sure if she could have stopped him physically. Tū crows at his victory, proud that he has beaten his brother.

  However, Tū hasn’t finished fighting yet. It is like he just can’t stop his rage now that he’s unleashed it. Angry that none of his brothers stood with him against Tāwhirimātea, Tū finds any excuse to argue and fight.

  She is disgusted by her sons — where did the love go? How has she let such cruelty take seed? She cannot bear to see Tāwhirimātea’s rage and humiliation. She cannot bear to see Tū’s arrogance.

  Rangi calls her, pleads for them to be together again. He pours his grief over her and suddenly she feels the weight of him again, pressing down upon her. She didn’t realise that she had been drowning under him. That alone she could breathe. She can’t muster any sympathy — why should she be burdened with his pain?

  She still loves him, will always love him, but she needs to put herself first. She’s not strong enough yet to save them all.

  Her arms are heavy. It’s like she’s spent all this time reaching out for him, trying to cling to what was. For now she must put the things that remind her of Rangi away. She packs the shirt that still smells like him into Tāwhirimātea’s bag — he can take it back to his father.

  She turns the photos of them together around. One day she’ll be able to look at them again. Hopefully, one day soon.

  When he comes to pick up Tāwhirimātea, she turns away before closing the door. She doesn’t have to see him leave again.

  She sits at the window looking out over her land. Her boys are out exploring again, it’s nice to hav
e a moment to herself. Time to think. It’s getting dark, soon they’ll come home and tell her about the things they made and discovered. One day, she’ll tell them about her discoveries too. As the light fades she can see herself reflected in the glass. She reaches out to touch her cheek — the glass is still a little warm under her fingertips.

  ‘There you are, Papa.’

  Yes. It was good for them. It was good for us. We needed room to grow.

  CHAPTER 3

  MANKIND and MORTALITY

  Skin and Bones

  Hine-ahu-one

  Hine-tītama — Ask the Posts of the House

  Skin and Bones

  BY TINA MAKERETI

  He was lonely. It’s what you’d expect really. A man in his situation. He was surrounded by the good earth, his plantation, his stock, a nice river in the valley for fishing. He thought he should be happy. Fulfilled. But something was missing.

  It was spring. He went about the place tilling and planting and from time to time felt an urge. He’d look down and see his own weighty erection and think What am I supposed to do with this?

  He worked hard. There’s a massive amount of work to do when you first start out on a place. He needed to get everything working in rhythm with everything else. He wanted to be self-sufficient. So he added in fruit trees and feed crops, and found he enjoyed the birdlife that came to fossick in his orchards.

  Despite this, at night the urge all but overcame him. He would thrash about in his bed, the mass of the pulsing thing between his legs making it impossible to lie comfortably. Nothing would relieve it. His own desperate fumblings had little effect. He tried dousing it in cold water, strapping it down with bandages. He prayed for relief.

  Even though there was no one else around, he felt betrayed by his own neediness. When he stopped for a breather and a drink he no longer surveyed his land proudly as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He frowned. The birdsong no longer reached his ears. He saw that the shed needed painting, the weeds needed pulling and the trees needed fertilising. He saw that it was not good.