Chicken, pipi, puha, kumara, peaches,
all in flax kits piled up on my kitchen table –
this was my welcome back from a week up the coast.
But where was Turi? The family shack was empty.
Worried, I followed the track through manuka
up-hill to the tohunga house. They were all there –
Turi stretched out on a mat in front of the curtain,
a ha’penny tied to his arm in a dirty rag,
pulse weak, sweating, the breath rasping in his throat.
‘Hospital,’ I told them – there wasn’t a moment to lose.
No one answered. No one would meet my eye.
From behind the curtain the tohunga spoke in Maori
with spells, and naming herbs – and then to me:
‘The Maori goes to the Pakeha hospital
only to die. Turi’s people will save him.’
I argued, cajoled, threatened – all no use.
They were sad, frightened, knew how I loved their boy,
but that tapu voice from behind the tatty curtain
had power. In useless rage I returned their gifts.
Today is the tangi. I hongi with Turi’s mother.
We hug one another and weep. When they’ve buried him
they’ll feast and sing all night. They’ve taken a cake
to the tohunga house and left it in front of the curtain.