Who are these people coming out of the sun?
The mourners are stirring, unfolding, to peer into the sunlight. They look into the red haze of the morning. A black-veiled group is approaching Rongopai. Visitors have arrived, from out of the sun they are coming. The senior women of Te Whānau a Kai open their arms:
Welcome. Welcome. Welcome. Come to our dead.
Is that the karanga again? Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e, haere mai, haere mai.
Te Hinutohu has directed one of the younger women to call the visitors onto the marae. Her call grows more intense, soaring louder and higher. The sound pierces the sun which shatters into ribbons of light as the mourners step through the gateway. The visiting group comes forward to stand, heads bowed, in front of the porch where Dad lies in an open casket, surrounded by weeping women.
On the first day, it is the locals who usually attend: kuia, koroua, whanaunga, tamariki, all those with whom my family shares a kin and whenua relationship. They come; they stay. They know what their role is. It is to help the whānau pani, the grieving family, by mourning with them and then taking the logistical burden of the tangihanga off their shoulders.
Huia, they say to Mum. We are so sorry about Rongo. He was a wonderful provider, not just for the family but for the iwi. How will we get on without him?
Is this still the first day? Yes, it is still the first day.
The family groups, as small as three and as large as thirty or more, are welcomed from the paepae, the place of chiefs. The traditional spokesmen of the iwi are Ringatū elders like Tamati Kota who once served Riripeti, or Nani Tama, Miro Mananui’s husband. They also include the senior men of the Mahana clan like Uncle Pita, or local men like Hepa Walker and Charlie Whatu, kicking and protesting because he has never liked to be in front.
Welcome e te whānau, our elders say. Welcome e te iwi.
In reply, the arriving spokesmen refer to Dad as tō tātou taonga, our treasure, our beloved. They call him Koro. They echo the ritual sentiments:
E te whatukura, haere e Koro, haere atu rā.
Aroha mutunga kore.
Haere ki te kāinga tūturu, haere ki te kāinga rangimārie.
Haere ki te pō nui, ki te pō roa.
Haere ki te pō i ū ai tō moe. Moe mai rā, moe mai rā.
The women in the arriving ope are attired in black, the old men in suits and ties, the younger generation more casually dressed. The families carry their children in their arms. Some of the young fathers don’t speak te reo. They rely on their elder to kōrero for them, watching and listening to him as, after the pōwhiri, he talks on their behalf.
I recognise Bulla, the rabbiter Dad came across when he was out fencing. And look: there comes the Heperi whānau too. Mum and Dad played cards with Hori Heperi and his wife, Gladys: Hori was the roadman up near the Jobson farm, Gladys died a few years back. Even Georgina has arrived: we picked her up in the middle of the night, she’d been kicked out of home because she was pregnant.
Bill Tamatea, Dad’s mate from the Kaiti Freezing Works, arrives with some of the knifehands, their wives and children. In some cases, this is the first time any of the townie tamariki have seen a person in death. Bill is one of those Māori who is in white boiler attire one minute, next minute in a suit and tie as an elder.
Go to Te Rēinga, the world after this life, he says to Dad. Go to Hawaiki, to your ancestors, to your tīpuna, they will greet you there. Heart of the whānau, haere rā. Shelterer from the winds, farewell. Giver of shade, haere rā. Farewell to Tawhiti-Pāmamao. E te taonga, haere rā, haere rā. Haere rā, Rongo. Haere. Haere. Haere.
Later, I see Bill and his knifehand mates taking sides of beef and sausages out of one of their trucks and hauling it around to Auntie Mary. Their koha will be welcome to feed the visitors.
Not all the welcomes are as formal as this. The arrival of the Mahana shearing gangs comes with an exuberant shot of energy. The trucks pull up and Uncles Hone and Joshua jump out in front of the shearers, fleecos and roustabouts. Auntie Ruth and Haromi lead the answering karanga, and when the men haka at the end, they brandish their shearers’ handpieces in the air.
The Mahana Three gang are still hunting pigs out the back of Te Karaka.
After each group has been welcomed, and the mihimihi is completed, the mourners sit beside my mother and comfort her, and many of them kiss Dad.
Ours is a tribal response to death. The loss resonates through the tribal whakapapa, heartfelt, reminding all about bloodlines and how blood links family to family, generation to generation, all the way back to the beginning of the world. The kōrero pay tribute not only to Dad but also to history and the place of all the tribe in it.
What night is this? Let this night be endless. Let the sun never rise.
The darkness falls to bring relief from the day. The night is clear and filled with a deep and utter stillness. Papatūānuku replenishes the indefinable aroha between earth and humankind.
Earlier in the day, Uncle Pita asked me to go with him to buy kai and bring it back to supply the kitchens at Rongopai, Pākōwhai and Takitimu. The ringawera, the hot hands, greet me — especially Auntie Mary. She’s the best cook in the Mahana gang, it’s a breeze for her, and she likes to say: If I have to cook for ten I may as well cook for a hundred.
Following the food distribution, Uncle Pita tells me that we better check that everybody is bedding down well and has enough blankets. And Auntie Rose says the drains are blocked in the ablution block at Rongopai: Bring a plunger.
I’ve already been up to an elbow in a ewe’s uterus, what else is new.
Uncle doesn’t really need me. But this is his way of ensuring that the people see me taking responsibility for their wellbeing. It is whanaungatanga at work.
We’re fine, Boy, they say. Thank you, Tama.
After that, I have just enough time for a kai and then to settle down on the porch for karakia.
Ka tangi te pere, Tamati Kota says.
The bell calls, echoing through the dark.
The moon has risen. The marae is lit only by the electric lights strung along the porch. The ārai, the traditional white veil, has been placed over Dad while he rests in the evening.
The stars spring up and Tamati Kota begins the prayers. Te Hinutohu assists and, with a fervent sigh, the Ringatū faithful begin to intone the hīmene and kupu of the Iharaira. Passionate and eloquent, the sacred kupu bind all together in the spellbinding devotional songs and sagas of the mōrehu, still seeking our millennial dreams of deliverance.
I look at Dad and am transported: Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly. This man is the lord of my life. These, the iwi, are my life’s kings and queens, princes and princesses. They tamed the sun, pulled islands from the sea, and separated the Earth from the Sky so that I could claim my rightful inheritance. This my lord, my father, made me from strong loins so that I would continue the odyssey of Vikings from the sunrise. These my people came to Aotearoa and wrested a living from Hawaiki Hanging Here, the new homeland in the south. Over all these years my ancestors nurtured the seed that had been planted at Ra‘iātea, our original homeland, and kept it safe. When the Pākehā arrived in our country and warred ferociously with us, my tīpuna back to the last man standing. Here, in this valley, we raise the right hand.
No matter who I become or where I go in the world, I will become a prince only because I am from such royal stock.
And now it is the second day. The people are gathering again. Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e.
The sun slants across the brilliant flower wreaths. It flashes upon a portrait of my father. It is a photograph that was taken when he was very young.
And it could almost be a photograph of myself …
In the early morning a car pulls through the entrance to the marae. Mum sees a family group get out.
Look, Rongo, remember the widow Karaka? she asks him.
Then I see her son, Kōpua. I would recognise his dreadlocks anywhere. Big and burly, he helps his mother into a wheelchair. The last time I saw Kōpua was at the airport at Wellington. He had promised he would be here and he has brought his siblings too: Ani, George, Danny, Ron and Roimata.
Even before the karanga starts to welcome the family, Kōpua can’t contain his grief. He starts to cry out to Dad: Pāpā Rongo, Pāpā Rongo, kaua koe tō haere, don’t go.
Later, Kōpua hears Uncle Pita calling the digging detail for Tawhiti Kaahu. He steps forward.
I think one of those spades has got my name on it, he says.
Originally, Uncle Pita had proposed that we go up to the graveyard the day before, but the ground was too compact and hard to dig. I told him Mum and my sisters had agreed to start a new line.
Okay, Nephew, he says. It will stop the argument that’s been breaking out about who will go on top of Teria. Rose thinks she’s going there, but I am.
Uncle Pita has arranged a digging detail working in shifts, five minutes each in rotation.
We have plenty of the boys from the Mahana shearing gangs, he says as we walk up the slope of Tawhiti Kaahu to the graveyard.
You can see all Waituhi from the urupā. The road curving away and the houses of the whānau. This had once been the only world I knew. The surrounding hills defined its limits. In winter, the mist cascaded down the hills, or sheets of rain covered Waituhi with a grey haze. In summer, though, my world extended as the hills receded into the sky. Spring brought green fields and crops of maize, and the orchards grew ripe with fruit. Autumn was the season of falling leaves. But no matter what season, Waituhi remained my world’s axis.
The hill is like a pyramid jutting into the sky, with a pathway to the top. Spade in hand I follow Uncle through the sun and wind and waving green grass. My feet are leaden, my heart is breaking.
There’s around a dozen young men waiting at the graveyard. On the first shift is myself, Hata, Koro, Simeon, George and now Kōpua.
Nani Tama is waiting to do the karakia.
Tamati Kota can’t make it up here; he’s too old, he tells us.
Actually, Nani Tama’s no spring chicken either. He blesses us all, and then Uncle Pita marks out where we should dig the grave. Before we begin, however, he pauses and looks at me:
The ground is still solid. Maybe we should get a mechanised digger up here, what do you think?
He is giving me the opportunity to bond closer with my peers. To go through an important rite of passage for all Māori men who return to the kāinga after being so long away from it.
My country cuzzies are looking at me to see which way I will jump. Whether I have changed. After all, I’m worse than a town Māori, I am a city Māori now.
With a cry I thrust my spade into the dirt. Kia keria, kia keria!
My digging companions take up my words as a chant:
Let’s dig! Let’s dig!
They’ve all been waiting for a moment to get physical. To work out their own pain at the loss of my father.
Let it always be whānau who bury family, let it always be sons or daughters to do the mahi.
While the second shift is at work, Uncle Pita takes me aside.
I’ve bought two crates of beer for you to shout the boys, he says. You can pay me back later. Invite them to drink around the hāngī pit after karakia tonight.
He pauses, his eyes twinkling:
It would help if you get a bit pissed.
See, now! The mōrehu — the remnants of
Te Kooti’s flight across the island evading the soldiers — are coming.
Our people say you can never take the measure of the man or woman or iwi until it is shown to you at the tangihanga.
A large group, the biggest that has come to the tangi so far, is approaching. The earth rumbles as they approach; if it was summer, dust would be swirling like angels in the sky. Already, though they are not even in sight of the marae, Nani Miro orders the women to begin the karanga.
Only one iwi makes the ground quake as they come, she tells us. She yells to Nani Tama: Get more boys in front to do the haka pōwhiri. And you men on the paepae better have your best mihi ready.
The paepae grumble: Who is Miro to order them around. She should concentrate on her job and let them look after theirs.
The travelling mourners appear at the bend of the road. They come to a halt and a backwash of wind swirls over them. They seem to have arrived out of some cyclonic eye of Time. Striking, proud, polished ebony by the sun, their psychic impact is stunning.
They are Ringatū from Ōhiwa. In church history, it was there that Te Kooti our prophet went to live in exile in what we call the sweet Beulah Land. Tamati Kota is so overcome that he jumps out in front of the men performing the haka pōwhiri and urges them to greater passion. As the Ringatū contingent make stately procession on to the marae, he lets rip with an ancient tauparapara:
Children of the Israelites, welcome to Rongopai.
In reply their elders explain why they have journeyed: We heard that the Ringatū of Waituhi suffered the grievous loss of a seed of Teria, younger sister of Riripeti. We come to mourn with you.
They have brought with them books of genealogy so that their whakapapa and ours can be updated and amended. With this new information, the covenant of the Iharaira can be kept.
Nani Tama asks me to report to Tamati Kota that Dad’s grave has been completed and the graveyard prepared for the burial.
Tamati Kota asks: Has it been done correctly and according to our tikanga?
Yes, Nani Tama answers. It is as befitting a man so loved by the whānau.
And you, Grandson, Tamati Kota asks me, has the work been done to your family’s wishes?
Āe, e Tā, I respond. My family thank the young men for their work.
A dog begins to bark. It hurtles across towards the porch.
How did you get off the chain? Mum growls as Bruce dashes onto the porch. He has come to pay his own respects to his master. Putting his paws on the casket edge, Bruce sniffs Dad’s face and knows immediately that he’s gone. He gives a small whine, steps down from the casket, licks the faces of Mum and the two children. And then comes to my side and lies down with his snout between his paws.
Take him away, Mum tells Mārama and Hōne. They play tag with Bruce, the mourners growling them amiably: Hey! You kids! Don’t you come and hide behind us.
The assembly watches and laughs. Other children appear. And, suddenly, it seems that the afternoon sings with laughter. The dog barks, the children scream and scatter in the sun.
And now my mother’s iwi arrives. A packed bus stops on the road outside Rongopai. Passengers step down from it. Mum looks at their kaumātua, gasps, shades her eyes from the sun for a closer look.
See, Rongo? she weeps. My own people of Ngāti Porou have arrived.
The people from the East Coast are a magnificent sight. Vigorous in the karanga and haka, they pull the sky down in their grief. Grandfather Moana approaches the porch. He tells the assembly of the day Dad came to ask for my mother’s hand in marriage. I didn’t want her to go with him, Grandfather says. You people of Te Whānau a Kai have a reputation as ignorant mountain savages, not the types for our girls …
The locals bristle at his words.
… but when I got to know him … and you lot … I warmed to him and you.
Grandfather turns to me, my sisters and little brother.
Your parents made fine and handsome children, he begins. What father-in-law can ask for more than to have fine grandchildren to carry on the line? However, what am I to do now that your father has gone, leave you and your mother here? Who will look after you now?
My sisters and brother look to me to answer Grandad.
Thank you, Koro, for your aroha, I begin. But we plan to stay here in Waituhi. We can look after ourselves and Mum.
You should sell the farm, Boy. And come up the Coast.
Nani Miro has overheard our argument.
Moana, enough, she tells Grandad. Talk about this on a more appropriate day.
Who are these people who come to see Father?
I do not know them. Who are they?
New mourners have arrived.
They are some of our Pākehā neighbours, Uncle Pita says. Go to them, Tama. Tell them not to be afraid. We may have been enemies once, but we rub together as farmers now.
I cross the marae toward the visitors. Two couples stand there. The men are ill at ease. Their wives are hesitant.
I am Tama Mahana, I tell them, and Rongo Mahana is my father. Thank you for coming.
Rongo was our friend, they answer. We’ve brought a wreath with us. What can we say? We respected your father very much.
Has the second night already arrived? Oh, turn time back to the faraway side of the hour.
The night sky at Waituhi is long renowned for its celestial phenomena, and I watch, cradling my mother in my arms, the flights of falling stars across the midnight universe. It is a breathtaking moment of beauty.
While everyone is having kai, an ancient koroua approaches us with his own special greeting for us:
Haruru ana te Tira a Whiro taea ake ahau e te mate e muri nei e, he sings. All the world laments with you. Whakarongo ki te tai, e tangi haere ana, whakarikiriki ai, te rae ki Tūranga. Listen to the tides lamenting as they flow, surging sullenly by the headland at Tūranga. Your beloved is wending his way to Te Rēinga. He has already gone into the clouds, but the universe resounds with his love for you.
The koroua comes to sit with us beside Dad. He strokes Mum’s face and then turns to my sisters and little brother.
You older children can look after yourselves, he tells us, but you must give special attention to your young ones. They must know that you will be here for them forever.
Nani Miro overhears him and joins us.
The koroua is right, she says. You must use the aroha of the iwi to buoy you up. Don’t you feel uplifted by the love of the people for Rongo? Were you not made proud and happy by the tributes paid by the mōrehu of Ōhiwa? Even your own people, Huia, they show their concern, but like heck will we let you go. Take strength from what is happening here. You are surrounded with love. Pass it on to the mokopuna.
E kore e ngaro
He kākano i ruiruia mai i Ra‘iātea
Āe, the children are of the seed that was planted at Ra‘iātea, the original homeland. They must be cuddled and nurtured by those who love them so that they know they will never be lost.
Karakia that evening spills over as the Ringatū from Ōhiwa and the visitors from Ngāti Porou augment our numbers. The karakia brings God’s presence to the tangi. After the karakia come the stories, sung, chanted and spoken through the starry night. They are narratives of Te Kooti and the prophet’s escape from the Chatham Islands. Tales of valour, they describe the flight of the mōrehu as we were pursued throughout the length and breadth of the land, even unto Puketapu Mountain. They are stories of the fall of Waerenga-a-Hika pā and the siege of Ngātapa.
Later, I am to learn that the leader of the Whakatōhea people, Hori Rua, is an old boyfriend of Nani Miro’s. He and Nani Tama have a dust-up, which begins as a slinging match, rising to Hori Rua slagging off Nani Tama’s manhood: Yours is such a short cannon, why she should choose it over mine is such a mystery.
Nani Tama is so apoplectic with rage he lifts his fists and clocks his rival. It’s not a fair fight but nobody has ever said Waituhi plays fair.
I am not the only one to get drunk with the diggers around the fire that night. The boys drag Nani Tama into our circle to celebrate the defence of his manhood.
And then, as I am weaving my way back to the porch, Rīpeka lays her ambush. She’s waiting in the dark, I can’t really see her, but I can hear her voice.
You’ve been avoiding the subject, she begins, but we have to talk about the farm and who will look after Mum.
I’m not avoiding anything, I reply. Hata thought we should get through the tangi first, and I agree. But if you want to kōrero, be my guest. On your first question, however, I should tell you Dad left the farm to Mum.
My sister is not really listening.
So Hata and I have been thinking, she tells me, that we should resign the job he has as the station manager for the Wauchops and come onto the farm. Mum will need an overseer. Dad had some fencing done last year and there’s bills to pay off.
I’ll check the bank account and look at the mortgage, I answer. But I reckon there’s enough income to pay Hata. And there’s my life to settle in Wellington and …
I’m not asking you, Rīpeka says abruptly. I’m telling you.
Her voice turns accusing:
You’re never coming home are you?
What day is this? When will there be an end to the procession of mourners?
In the morning Waituhi is woken up by the yahoos and roar of Mahana Three as they return from the pig hunt. Their three jeeps come hurtling toward the marae. The chase has resulted in their victorious return with three wild boars, proudly displayed on the bonnets.
Keep the racket down, some of the mourners say to them as they unload at the back of the kitchen. Have more respect for the tangihanga. But Nani Miro says: Let them yell and brag about whose rifle brought down the hogs.
She looks across at Dad:
You don’t mind, eh Rongo?
Can we go and look at the pigs? Hōne and Mārama ask me, excitedly.
Come on then, I say.
We are joined on the way by Kōpua. He watches the Mahana Three boys as they begin to carve the boars and he says: Oh, the pain. Let a real knifehand do the mahi.
The children watch him expertly slicing away and scream with horror and delight. And Mārama yells across to our father: Daddy, can you see?
The flower wreaths are so beautiful in the sunlight. They glow with the colour of burning coals, with the crimson flickering of petals. Wild bees come to drink the honey of the wreaths.
From Nani Agnes’s house, next to Rongopai, comes a summons: Nephew, you’re wanted on the telephone! Hurry up, it’s a toll call.
I run to the house and pick up the phone. Hello?
Is that you, Tama? It’s me here, Laura. How are you? I’m thinking of you. I’ve been trying to get a flight to Gisborne to your father’s funeral but they’re all fully booked.
I’m disappointed with Laura’s news but, although I am glad to hear her voice, I’m also hesitant to reply.
Look, Laura, I begin. I’m not too sure what should happen with us when I get back. I might have to pack up and return to Waituhi for good. And I know you want to go overseas … and your folks are not really all that happy with you and me … and …
She stops me firmly. This is the same quarrel about pitching the marquee, she answers, and where the poles will go! In other words, Tama, please don’t make up my mind for me. Let’s talk when you get home, okay?
There is a world outside this world of the tangi. People there are still living, still following the accustomed patterns of their lives. I have superimposed my own koru there that still exists.
And after the tangi? What then? What will happen to the spiral?
There are ambushes being laid everywhere. This time, Uncle Pita brings up the subject about where home is.
When are you coming back to Waituhi? he asks.
Not: Are you coming back?
I’ll be honest, I tell him, I am still thinking that one through. Rīpeka and Hata will move onto the farm meantime. I’ll settle up in Wellington and then I’ll be back soon.
Soon? When is that? The people are looking at you. They are thinking of succession. Who will be the ones of your generation to maintain ahi kā?
There are many of my peers here, Uncle, who can do that. They are all already living on the land.
You’ve been educated though, Boy. You have an extra learning that could be helpful to us.
They come, they still come, the mourners. The karanga echoes from tangata whenua to manuhiri, growing more intense and soaring higher and higher. And, suddenly, the sound seems to pierce the sun. It shatters into ribbons of light whenever the mourners step onto the marae.
They bend toward us, to express their love and grief in the pressing of noses in the hongi.
E Pā … Can you see them coming? Can you see them all? Kaua koe e haere, kaua koe e haere, e Pā? Can you hear Mum whispering to you?
The wailing has torn her heart apart and she is saying: Rongo … Rongo … I will clasp you tightly to me and will never let you go. I will hold you closely and will never let you leave me. Like this, I will kiss your lips. Like this, like this. My tears will cool your body when the sun is high. My warmth will keep you warm when night comes. So, stay with me, Rongo. Don’t leave me yet.
Death comes, but I am
not yet dead.
I breathe
I live …
Later, Mum reaches out and touches my hand. She is sitting with Nani Miro, Te Hinutohu and Auntie Rose.
Always there are women to keep the vigil. Take Mārama and Hōne away from here for a while, Mum says. They need to play. I haven’t heard them laugh for a while. And Mere? Rīpeka? Wiki? You daughters go too. All of you, go. You’re all still the same. Your father and I have no privacy with you around.
The other women nod and chuckle: Yes, that is the way children are.
I say okay and take Mārama and Hōne by the hand. I hug them close to me.
The smallest fern, even the mamaku
that hangs of its own weight down,
is stronger than I, much stronger than I …
But as we are leaving, Mum ambushes us, not just me:
I know you’re all talking about what to do with me, your mother, after the tangi is over. Not only you children but the people around here, let alone my own father. But I will have my own opinion on the matter. So, whatever you’re thinking about what you should do with your lives to accommodate mine, taihoa. Wait on it. Ask me first.
Her eyes have become angry. The eyes of the other women smoulder with her: Yes, that’s how it is for widows.
And that includes you, Tama.
From where do they come, these specks out of the sun? And who are these strangers kua tae mai nei?
Is that the karanga again? Which day is this? Has the sun risen once, twice, or is this its third rising?
The changing weather has warmed the earth and the sky is limitless and without depth. The sun is the sky’s roving eye, swinging from one corner to the other. It beats down heavily on the marae where more people have gathered.
And now, a new group waits at the gateway. Those Māori need a suntan, Kōpua quips.
I walk to the gateway to greet the group and bring them on. Mr Ralston from the office has flown via Auckland with Ray, one of the despatchers, and our secretary Sally. And with them have come Jackson and Sefulu.
We drove straight here from Gisborne airport, Mr Ralston tells me. Unfortunately, we can only stay here for the day, Laddie. Our plane goes back tonight.
But me and Sefulu are staying, Jackson tells me. We’re mates, aren’t we, right?
Jackson … now the Māori metaphysical becomes physical.
I am proud of my Pākehā colleagues. They handle the ritual welcome with assurance and aplomb. When they approach the porch and see Dad in his open coffin, they are respectful. Mr Ralston speaks directly to Tamati Kota, Nani Miro and Nani Tama. And then he addresses Mum:
Mrs Mahana, I had the pleasure of the company of your husband one afternoon in Wellington. We went to a rugby game. It was an honour to know him. May I, and those who come with me, pay you all, as one rebel race to another, my respects to your history?
He coughs and signals to Ray. I was wondering what was in the canvas bag Ray was carrying.
Bagpipes.
The people on the marae laugh as Ray tunes the instrument. And then Ray plays a familiar tune:
Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing,
Onward the sailors cry!
At the cuppa tea later, I watch as Nani Miro speaks with Mr Ralston. I know they are talking about my career in Wellington. After he, Ray and Sally have left to return to the airport, Nani Miro threads an arm through mine and says:
So that is the man who will speed you away from us.
And this is the last night; there is no returning.
The people are gathering around Dad. Around us.
When will your father be buried? Mr Ralston had asked before he left.
I almost couldn’t answer him. The days and nights have become so intertwined, time has flowed in between, the spiral going forward and returning: Tomorrow.
After karakia, Auntie Rose starts a waiata. She sits by Mum and rocks her lovingly within the tune of the song. And Mum closes her eyes and goes into the rhythm, swaying, her eyes closed with acceptance.
E pari rā ngā tai ki te ākau,
E hotu rā ko tōku manawa …
As the tide beats against the shore,
So beats my sorrowing heart …
Another voice, Kōpua’s, joins in the song. It’s picked up by a strummed guitar. And then Rīpeka, Mere and Wiki join in. One by one, the mourners lift their heads to the light, looking toward the place where Father lies. This is the last night of our vigil. We sing to comfort each other through this long night. But most of all, we sing of our aroha for our taonga.
Listen, e Pā. And look, Dad: the waiata has brought others to the marae. Auntie Mary is coming from the cookhouse, Uncle Pita and the shearers from tending the hāngī. They pull their gumboots on and slip jerseys over their shoulders because the night is cold. They come to sit with the night mourners and share their blankets with us.
Tēnā rā, tahuri mai,
E te tau, te aroha …
More people arrive, for the lament is sweet to sing. They come in their pyjamas, they arrive in their nightgowns, to sit on the marae and sing with us.
Haere rā, mahara mai.
E te tau, kia mau ki a au.
Haere rā, ka tūturu ahau. Haere rā …
This is when our world ends; this is when our life ends. This is when our world begins; this is when our life begins. Singing, singing, singing while Time turns forward.
And now the night sky has cleared itself of clouds and is filled with a deep and utter stillness.
The children lie curled near Mum, sleeping with their heads in her lap, their hands tightly locked in hers. The feather cloak that drapes over the casket has been drawn up around Dad’s body. The ārai, the veil over his face, transforms him: in profile he is an ethereal taniwha.
The mourners on the marae have drawn closer to the porch. A car swings around the road and its headlights dazzle across them. And from the direction of our farm, what is that sound? It is the long, clear whistling of a man walking in the hills in the dark.
It must be Hata. Mum asked him earlier to go back home and pick up some of her clothes for … tomorrow. It is the song of the hills, soft and tender, echoing back from height to height. Of clear streams trickling over the earth and leaves rustling in the wind, the indefinable aroha between earth and humankind.
Some of the whānau have returned to their own homes to rest. Wisps of smoke curl from the houses across the face of the moon. Far off, at Pākōwhai Marae and Takitimu Hall, the visitors are already bedded down. Sleep well, e te iwi, rest yourselves.
My mother is dozing, huddled beneath blankets with my sisters and Hōne. I lift the edges around them and tuck them in against the cold. Mum stirs: Thank you, Son. I’m warm, all my children keep me warm.
Over at the hāngī, I can see young men and women sitting around the fire. It looks like Kōpua has found some girl to put his arms around. That’s good: otherwise it would have been a waste of a good man … and woman.
I close my eyes only for a second.
And then I am gently nudged awake.
Tomorrow has come, Nani Miro tells me.
Buoyed up by the aroha, whanaungatanga and manaakitanga of the iwi whānau, my mother, Rīpeka, Mere, Wiki, Mārama, Hōne and I wash ourselves. We dress and embrace each other.
We prepare ourselves to take Dad to Tawhiti Kaahu.
We are the whānau pani.