Wellington. The flat in Baldwin Street, Brooklyn. Close the windows. Along the hallway and out the door. Lock. Now down the steps, beneath the whispering trees, to the car and Mr Ralston waiting. There’s a plane to catch.
Everything all right, Tama?
I nod, Yes, and put the suitcase in the back.
Sure you haven’t forgotten anything? No? Let’s go then.
He starts the car and it moves silently down the street. Time has become so suddenly important. A phone call from home, just over an hour ago and here I am bringing the last moments of a boy with his father to a close. Tomorrow, the world is changed.
E Pā, if I could I would force those ticking hands back from the top of the clock and return them to the faraway side of the hour.
But I cannot. The clock ticks forward.
Don’t worry, Mr Ralston says. You don’t have to check in to the airport until three.
We drive down to the city and take a thoroughfare connecting the central business district with the eastern suburbs. I look upward at the sky. It races with dark clouds. But above them, the sun still shines …
Te Rā, once you moved quickly over the sky, and humankind were angry because you brought night too soon. You rose, raced fiercely across smaller hours, and plunged quickly into the sea. Then Māui came, waited for you to rise and ensnared you with a magic net. You battled against him and scattered the sky with flaming sparks. It was a long battle, and Māui would not give in. Finally, you surrendered and promised him you would move slowly and make the days longer, and only then did the demigod release you.
Āe, Sun: I see the white whorls of light, the remnants of those taut thongs. I see your anguished form, still bent from that battle. But listen: return to your former days and delay your passage so that I may have further time to still my aching heart.
The car turns into Evans Bay where small boats bob and sway in the marina. Among them is a wooden hulk and for a moment it disorients me. Perhaps it’s there to remind me of a waka of mythology: Karamurauriki, the canoe that brought Aituā to Aotearoa. Wherever my ancestors sailed, Karamurauriki shadowed them, the waka of Death.
Your dad wasn’t very old, was he? Mr Ralston says.
Dad? No, about fifty-six, I suppose, Mr Ralston.
And your mother, Tama? She taking it well?
Yes. Rīpeka and Mere, two of my sisters, are with her. Wiki is on her way to the farm from Gisborne where she works. Mārama and Hōne are the youngest. I have another brother, Rāwiri, but he died of pneumonia.
The road unwinds further, curving along the parade. The wind has risen and the sea slaps angrily against the sea wall. Kelp writhes beneath the surface of the water. Sand churns muddy patterns among the waves that break on the shore.
A young boy plays with his small terrier on a stretch of sand. He throws a stick for his dog to fetch and shouts soundless commands to the gale. Further along, a man leans into the gust as he walks along the pavement. He grips his coat tightly and holds firmly to his hat. And there, in a smooth patch of sea, a flock of seagulls calmly waits out the rough weather.
Would you like me to wait with you, Laddie?
No, it’s all right. I really want some time to be alone.
Okay, I understand, Mr Ralston nods. And then he reminds me: You know, I enjoyed meeting your father. Do you remember?
I had forgotten. The All Black game. Dad had come down to Wellington. Mr Ralston had an extra ticket so Dad went with all these Scots fans. They had brought him back half drunk, singing ‘Speed Bonnie Boat’ and swearing kinship with each other.
Yes, soon be there. And the plane will depart Wellington, and Rīpeka will meet me at Gisborne airport. We will exit the terminal where people are laughing and happy and drive to Waituhi. Even before we reach the kāinga, I will hear the women wailing from Rongopai, our meeting house.
Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e. Come to our dead, come.
Dad will be lying in the tent beside the porch. Black-clad women with circlets of greenery on their heads will be sitting round the casket. Already, some flower wreaths will be placed there. His photographs too, showing what he looked like when he was younger, the handsome dog. A feather cloak will cover his body.
The car turns onto the highway leading to the airport. It runs parallel to the runway. A plane is about to take off, gathering speed and lifting into the grey sky. There is a thunderous rumble when it passes overhead. As it disappears across the hills, it leaves a thin, wispy vapour and becomes a red light, winking on and off.
We arrive in front of the terminal. People mill around the entrance.
Here you go then, Laddie. Telephone me whenever you need to. Go well.
Dad had said to me, Those ewes will need a hand birthing their young.
And I remember one cold morning riding the paddocks where we are working on contract to help with the lambing. Dad has had an eye out on some mothers that the boss has a good half-day’s ride away. A couple of them look like they will have twins or triplets.
Here comes the midwife, Dad jests at me. I am sitting in front of him on our horse, holding the reins.
We scan the land for the sheep. I cry out, There’s one!
But we are too late. On that bright morning the mother has given birth to a healthy lamb, but a second one has died in her womb, and her with it.
Dad gets down from the horse and looks at the ewe. I’m sorry, Mum, that I was too late to be your kaiwhakawhānau. I marvel at his mātauranga as an agriculturalist as he picks up the lamb that has survived. Baaaaa! Baaaaa! He cleans off the remnants of its birth sac and lifts it up to me. I hold it tight as it squirms and wriggles.
All morning we carry on with the mahi, checking the sheep and their children. I say to the lamb, Looks like we will take you home with us and feed you milk from a bottle.
Just before lunchtime, however, Dad grunts. Over there, Son. A mother bleating over her dead child.
When we get to the ewe, Dad jumps down from the horse. With the distraught mother looking on, and me holding the orphan, he takes his butcher’s knife from his belt and begins to skin the dead sheep. He slits the pelt at the neck, slices the skin around all four legs and peels the coat off in one piece.
The small skinless body gleams with extraordinary, moist whiteness.
I hand the orphan lamb down to him. Are you sure we can’t take it home, Dad?
No, this is his lucky day.
Dad drapes the coat over the orphan, pushing its legs through the small holes in the pelt to ensure a good fit. Here you go, Mum, he says to the ewe.
The orphan is hungry and goes for her teats, but she’s unsure and butts it away. However, Dad is not going to take any nonsense from her. He holds her so that she can get a better sniff at the bogus lamb and she makes a decision:
Okay.
In the lamb goes and is soon slurping away.
My father is not sentimental about such things. Every newborn saved will maintain the numbers of the flock. He had an orphan lamb to care for and a grieving mother heavy with milk.
A lesson has been passed on to me about the role we sometimes have to take upon ourselves to make sure that while death is absolutely terrible to behold, life is relentless.
It must, and has to, carry on.
My father was like Ranginui. He held dominion over night and day. He was both sun and moon, keeping constant watch over his children. Every day he arose to keep Papatūānuku warm. Every night he cast his wistful light upon her. Sometimes he wept, and the dew of his tears fell softly upon her. She, to console him, grew beautiful with crops and fruit and flowers. And often she would rise with the mist from the hills and reach out to brush his sorrow away.
Now the Sky has fallen. His first children hold sway over the Earth. Rongomātāne, who first endeavoured to separate Rangi from Papa. Tangaroa, Haumiatiketike and Tūmatauenga, who also tried without success. Tāwhirimātea, the wind, who still blasts his brothers with anger for the separation. And Tānemahuta, god of trees and birds, who raised his arms and pushed Sky and Earth apart so that there was light.
But before the light — tempests, storms and fierce winds. Not yet Te Ao-mārama.
Tōna manawa, tōku manawa.
His heart, my heart.
And now that his heart lies still, so also does my world.