PAPA

Kaea, Issue 1, 1 December 1979, Page 18

PAPA

A short story by Bruce Stewart

Bruce Stewart is founder of Tapu te Ranga marae in Island Bay, Wellington. He is currently President of the Maori Artists and Writers Society, and some of his stories have been published and read on radio.

I stayed all night at the cemetery with Mum. Dad’s people tried to get me to go home. Mum’s people stood around, they didn’t say anything, they fumbled with the fresh earth at times, I think they knew I wanted to be alone with Mum. They left before dark. It was warm lying next to Mum, the night was a blanket, some stars zoomed across the sky. There was so much to talk about, about school, about our fairy glade, about the gardens, about the chookies, cats, dogs, and our birds. Mostly I was worried about what I should do next.

I feel so young, Mum. I know I’ve done well at sport and I’m tall and all that, but really I’m younger than the other boys my age. Like, most of them have girlfriends, and they shave. Mr Matthews tells everyone I’ve got a lovely soprano voice. I hate it when he says that, Mum, because I’m sure the bass singers laugh at me. I haven’t seen them laugh, but they duck behind the tenors so’s I can’t see them. The truth is though, Mum, I love singing the solo bits with the whole choir behind me. But I won’t anymore . . . not singing soprano, I won’t. And there’s another thing too, Mum, I’m shy of girls, when they come close to me my face goes all red. But it was warm on the earth next to Mum. Even when the sky started to flicker, and the change to the morning was warm. But as the blue paled, I felt a bit unhappy, it was like someone was taking off my blankets. What now, Mum? I feel so rickety, what am I going to do? For a moment, just for a moment I looked up ... there was a skylark ... high above me. She hung in a blue sky, singing tweedle songs. I listened, just as Mum taught me to listen at the fairy glade. It’s true you know, what Mum told me, if you listen really hard, and if you want to, birds can tell you things. The skylark did, it was like Mum talking to me, telling me she’d always be with me. And to do what I thought was best.

When I got home I cut the back hedge; Mum had been at me for ages. I cut a big pile of kindling wood too. For the next week I did lots of jobs around home. I didn’t feel like going back to school, but I did because I knew Mum would like that. My form teacher, Mr Bull, stopped me on the way in, he had a clipping from the funeral notices. Simpson, on behalf of the school, please accept our sincere condolences for the recent and, I might say, untimely passing away of your mother er, ah ... he quickly looked at my Mum’s name on the clipping ... er, Mrs Pare Simpson. Thank you Mr Bull, I said and sat down at my desk in the back corner of the class. We all knew Mr Bull’s Second World War off by heart. He’d bought his photo album to school again. He was a tank commander.

Now here’s a shot of myself with my tank. Here’s another one with some of my company, you can see the tanks in the background. Now here’s another one showing all the tanks on the move you can just make out my head sticking above the gun turret. We were on our way to knock out Jerry. I might

say, they were rugged days. We were chasing Jerry across the desert. It was cold, at nights we’d knock the top off a fortygallon drum of petrol and set it on fire to keep us warm. By day it was hot, by God it was hot. We ran out of water once, but luckily we had the tankers full of beer, the Horis loved it. They wallowed in it, even washed in it. Everyone in the class roared except me. It was like saying my Mum washes in beer. I knew my face was red, and I was kind of numb when I stood up. You are always going on about Maoris Mr Bull, I yelled. Everyone stopped laughing. I could feel them staring at me. Some of them were whispering. Mr Bull’s face went white and he took a while to answer. Sit down Simpson, I’m afraid you’re over-reacting, though it’s understandable in the circumstances. I’d like you to know Simpson that one of my aunties married a Maori. He was a well-known chief.

But I wouldn’t sit down. It was like I was standing up for my Mum and myself for the first time, and it felt good. My face was still red, I was still numb as I stomped down the aisle, stood in front of Mr Bull’s desk.

It’s not just this story Mr Bull, you’re always picking on Maoris, why? Why do you? Mr Bull jumped up and leaned across his desk, our faces were inches apart. You’ve gone too far this time Simpson. Leave the room and report to the headmaster. I’ll be there in a minute. On my way out the class sniggered again. Mr Bull’s face was smirky-looking. It was those faces that set me going, I was so mad I wanted to smash them all. Those smirky faces, I’d always seen them from my desk in the rear corner of the classroom. I threw a box full of chalk and some books at the class. I threw a duster, it bounced off Mr Bull’s head, I felt so good. Mr Bull rushed me. I grabbed his blackboard pointer and swung it as hard as I could, it wacked him fair in the guts. He doubled up groaning but he couldn’t have been hurt too bad, because by the time I was at the end of the corridor he was setting his boys out to catch me. I was flying because I was scared, and I felt good somehow. If I got caught the headmaster would make me feel a fool in front of the whole school. He wouldn’t understand me, he never does. By the time I got home I’d run off my angriness, I was trying to work out what to do next.

Some of Mum’s photos and pieces of driftwood were gone. When Father came home I asked him what he had done with them.

I put the photographs in the top cupboard, I threw the driftwood out.

You got no right to throw out those things, you know Mum likes them. He stared at me as if I were simple or something. It’s about time you woke up young man, your mother’s DEAD.

She’s not, I know she’s not. She’ll always be with me. She said so herself. You’re the one to wake up, not me.

I thought he was going to bowl me, but he didn’t. He shook his head and went outside to his car, I followed him.

I’m leaving home. You leaving home, that’s a joke, you wouldn’t last five minutes in the real world. You’re a dreamer, mate, and you’re still a fat puppy. Mind you, I left home when I was thirteen. Any rate y’got compulsory military training coming up, it’ll knock a bit of sense into you. Leavin’ home, he chuckled. He drove off.

I found the driftwood and photos. I put them back the way Mum had them. Two cops and Mr Bull banged hard on the door. I slammed the door in their faces much faster than I opened it. I ran straight out the back way across the paddocks into the swamp and hid there until they were gone. I sneaked back, grabbed my bank book, went the back way to town. I felt good, I’d never been like that, I was always shy and quiet. Now I knew I had to leave home, seemed like my mind was being made up for me, it wasn’t the same any more.

I brought a pack, sleeping bag, boots, woollen bush gear, and as much food as I could carry. I took off to the Tararua mountains. For years I’d been looking at those mountains. It was as if there was something there, I don’t know what it was, the snow, the bush, the bigness: it was that, and more. I kept off the roads so as I wouldn’t be seen. I kept thinking the cops and Mr Bull would be looking for me everywhere. My pack was heavy. A lot had happened in one day, I was tired and I lay down for a while in some shivery grass. I felt good though, like you must feel when you climb out of a wrecked car. As I lay there looking at the sky, the skylark

came again. Keep going, she said, keep going, and then she just seemed to fade out of sight. I made it over the foothills by night. I camped beside a river under some totara. I lit a big fire, because I was a bit scared, a bit lonely too. I sat on a log and swung my tea billy. I swung the billy lots of times, that night. Night time was the worst because I kept getting lonely as lonely. Sitting out there away from everybody. I was a bit frightened too. Frightened because I felt too young. I thought about Mr Bull and the cops, about school, about our home, and father, and what it would be like if we were all together again. It was as though the whole world was against

me and I was wishing the skylark would come back and say something; but skylarks don’t come out at night. In the morning I pushed up through wet ferns. The bush was thick, it was hard to see where I was going, I knew if I kept going up I’d get somewhere.

At times the bush blanket thinned. I saw the mountains. They looked massive. Rearing out of the earth above me, like wild horses. There was one great high one. It was like a giant unbroken stallion. They were a morning blue colour. Then there was the quiet. It was a deep, far-away quiet. Everything was massive. All those peaks, somehow I knew I had to climb them especially that wild unbroken one, the highest one. I decided to call him “Maori”, because he reminded me of a horse my father couldn’t break. In fact, Maori ran right over him, smashed some of his ribs. When he was better he stock-whipped Maori, nearly killed him. Never broke him though. He called him Maori.

I wasn’t so lonely in the day time. There was so much to see, fantails flickering, red flowers, white flowers, and greenness, everywhere there was greenness. Now and again I’d stop and listen, the deep far-away quiet made me feel little. It was just about dark when I found an old hut. It had The Whare carved on a squeaky door. I cooked up some food. I sat on a silent log by the fire, listening to the river chatter. A mouse flicked across the corner of my eye. The more I thought about it, the more I smiled. Now if a mouse dawdled to the centre of the hut and lay down for a snooze, that’d really be something. I made up my mind to be friends with the mouse. Little things seemed so important, things I hadn’t noticed before. That night I dreamed about my posh Aunt Hilda, she was wearing Mum’s greenstone tiki, everyone liked it. They were saying it was valuable. Someone offered her a lot of money and she sold it. That’s my mother’s greenstone, I shouted, but I couldn’t stop them. They couldn’t hear me. They kept on talking as if I wasn’t there. I sulked and sat at my desk in the corner of the classroom.

I woke up, the hut was dark. For a long time I didn’t know where I was. Then I heard the river chatter, the mouse flicked across the corners. I was too frightened to sleep, I got the fire going again.

The next day there was a lot to do and it was good; being busy was good, it kept my mind off the lonely things. I chopped firewood, and caught crawlies and eels, picked watercress. Nothing seemed more important than to climb some of those peaks, those wild horses. Above the hut, a rocky knob stuck out on its own. I wanted to climb it, even though it was late in the day, I took off.

It was a lot further up than I thought, I slipped and slid and went up the wrong way a few times, but I got there. It was nearly dark, but it didn’t matter. Standing on top of that rocky knob, I felt bigger. It wasn’t a high knob at all, the Wild Horses peaks were a long way further up. But it was the highest peak I’d every been on ... and I’d climbed it, on my own. I did feel bigger. Everything was big, especially the silence. There was a close silence and a far-away silence. I stayed there till it got dark. Going up it felt good, going up and up and up. I got puffed and thought my legs wouldn’t go on anymore, but I kept going.

Keep going, keep going, that’s all I said to myself, trying to keep a rhythm as I plonked down each foot. Sometimes it was keeeeeeeep ... goooooooiiiing, and sometimes I was so puffed I couldn’t say it just thought it. I had to climb it. I wasn’t strong like all those other Pakeha boys at school. They always seemed strong.

Standing on top of that “wild pony” I felt stronger. Especially when I looked way down and saw the knob I’d climbed two days before.

I looked up, there was another higher peak. In the next few three weeks, I had no time for anything else. I was breaking in those Wild Horses. “Nelly” was easy. “Mustang” was a

rugged, steep, rock-faced one, he nearly broke me. “Rocky” was a tricky one, I got a bit lost, I had to spend all night out and it took me two days to get over it. But I felt stronger and stronger. The higher I went the stronger I got. The cops and Mr Bull and those posh Pakeha kids in my classroom, they were way down below me. Father went on about me being a dreamer and a fat puppy. I’d like to see him climb Maori. His head was going right into the clouds. But I knew what his head looked like by heart.

I slept well, I was away a long time before morning could see. Five deer chased down into a steep gorge. I didn’t go fast. I kept to the main ridge and kept a steady “Keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going”. It was a clear day. A hot, hot day. Near the bush edge the trees were really stumped and I’d got a bit off the main ridge. I had to get down on my belly and wriggle through. The trees kept me down. They were trying to stop me from getting through. I hated it, got mad with them and I pushed and smashed branches off. I wasn’t getting anywhere very much and I was covered in cuts and scratches. I was using up a lot of energy. I must have fought my way back to the main ridge because I landed on a track. I knew then I’d been struggling for nothing, there was a well-worn track. It had been made by the deer. Through the stunted trees, I crashed out onto the tussock. Wild with myself because I’d used up so much energy. The track must’ve been only about five paces to my right all the time. It took me a long time to get my breath back. It wasn’t just getting my breath back it was getting my fire back. It was hard to overcome the hollow in my guts.

By the time I got cracking again, the sun was bouncing off the bare rock. It was hot. It was hard going. “Keeeeep gooooiiiing, keeeeeep goooooiiiing.” Plod, plod, my singlet was wet through with sweat. I could hardly suck in enough air to keep my legs going. I was dry, all that sweat and nothing to drink and it was hot. Before I got to the top I could see the head above me. Tried to go faster but my legs wouldn’t answer. I started getting ahead of my legs and that made me worse. As soon as I hit the top I stripped off my clothes, hung them over a rock. Stood naked and breathless all in one movement. It took me a long time to get my breath back. I wanted to collapse but I didn’t. It was a complete victory I wanted ... I didn’t want the Maori to see me collapsing, on the finishing line. So I stood there, tottering. Slowly things started to get back into focus.

There was layer upon layer of ruggedness. Patches of wet rock glittering in the sun. Far below rivers winked their way to a green lake. Fuzziness hung low over the towns. From my high place I could see it all. I was above everything. All those wild horses. I’d conquered them. No wonder the skylark said I was doing right and told me to keep going. Of everything I could see, I was the highest. I looked down at my naked body. I wasn’t a fat puppy anymore. I had a body like a man. I’d conquered Maori. Me, Boy, I’d done it. I raised both arms above my head, hands stretched right out and bellowed as loud as 1 could, I’m king, I’m king. I’m king, I’m king. It echoed back off all the rock faces. All those wild mountains shouted back at me, king, king, king, king, king, king, king. I tried again in my new deep voice, but it didn’t echo as much so I changed back to m'y high voice.

Look at me Mum .... Mum ... Mum ... Mum. Look how high lam .... high ... high ... high.

I’m king, Mum .... king ... king ... king. Look at my new body .... new body ... new body. I stayed there raving, letting my hands slide right over my slimness to my toes and back again. Listening to the deep, far-away quiet, and the close quiet. Night covered me. A warm blanket. I lay on the earth. I stayed all night on top of Maori.