The mountains are coming closer. Clouds are lowering upon them, swirling down with drifting grace, shedding eternal tears. The earth is a desolate sea, howling in darkness.
The train moves slowly into Palmerston North. For half an hour it stands at the station, then away from the brightly lit city it thunders, toward the towering mountains. Far, far on the other side of them lies Wellington.
Into the darkness. Into the night.
In the morning before dawn, those who want to say a final farewell to Dad move to the side of his casket. Tama, you’ll have to come home. Dad’s dead. I watch them as they come forward to offer Dad the hongi ki te tūpāpaku, the pressing of noses with the dead. They whisper in Dad’s ear of how much he has meant to them. Auntie Rose, so grief-stricken on the first evening, has found her way to the quietude of this moment. So has Nani Tama, Nani Miro, Uncle Pita and even Kōpua.
Ah, Pāpā Rongo, you were the best, he says.
And then it is our turn: the bereaved family. Rīpeka, Mere and Wiki take their leave together as a trio of women. I can’t hear what they are saying, but when my sisters start to giggle I think that has to do with his brown shoes fashion statement. Then it is my turn.
I lean over the casket and press my forehead to his and my nose to his.
Goodbye, Dad. Have you left a trail of twisted grass for me, in the sedge, on the beach approaching Te Rēinga? That way I will not get lost when it comes my time to follow you.
And then Mum lets Mārama and Hōne stroke Dad’s hair. She says her kupu aroha to him and then stands and nods her head. Couldn’t you have waited, Darling, to say goodbye to me? We step back as Tamati Kota and Te Hinutohu complete the ritual. And then they screw the lid down.
Kua tae mai te wā, Tamati Kota says. Time for the final karakia.
Ka tangi te pere. As dawn rises, the prayers for the dead are intoned and the songs and hīmene, Korōria ki Tō Ingoa Tapu. The bell tolls, echoing across the valley. You’ll be wanting to get home then, Laddie. The sun shines on the closed casket. It gleams on the silver inset upon which are inscribed the words: Rongo Mahana Born 1916 Died 1972.
The photographs of Dad, displayed on the porch, flash in the falling sunlight.
The hearse appears, backing onto the marae. Uncle Pita calls the first pallbearers forward. I am among them. We pick the casket up and carry it off the porch.
Feet first, Uncle Pita reminds us. He must leave this world feet first.
The flower wreaths are placed in the hearse with Dad. Some mourners gather at the windows of the wagon, pressing their palms on the glass. Others are already moving towards their cars and trucks. Many prefer to walk the distance from Rongopai to Tawhiti Kaahu.
Haramai, Mum, Rīpeka says to our mother. You’re riding with Dad and I’ll come with you. What will we do now, Brother? What will become of us? Mum reaches for her black scarf and puts it over her hair. Wiki and Mere help her stand.
Another car draws up near the porch. Mere, Wiki and the two younger children step into it.
Just before she steps into the hearse, Mum looks for me: You’ll follow, Son?
I nod my head, and she is reassured. A third car, Nani Miro’s, draws up to the porch. Nani Tama is driving and Nani Miro is in the back. She opens the rear passenger door: Tama, come along. Where have you been all our lives? If you don’t watch out, we’ll forget what you look like.
From the car, I see Uncle Pita scooting off in his truck with the digging crew in it. He is taking the photographs of Father, the feather cloak that has been draped on his casket and the rest of the flowers. As well, because Tamati Kota isn’t fit to climb the hill, he’ll take the old man up in the vehicle and settle him before the mourners arrive. From the back of the kitchen, the boys of the Mahana gang follow quickly behind Uncle Pita. Not before Auntie Mary and the cooks appear, however, untying their aprons: Wait for us.
Elsewhere a motley lot of cars and trucks and two buses jostle for position at the gateway to the road. Headlights are being switched on in the age-old sign of a funeral cortège, a coronet of moons around an eclipsing sun.
Nani Tama looks up at the sky. I thought we had seen the last of the unseasonal weather, he says. It looks like it’s picking up again.
The car bumps through the gate. It turns onto the road, following the hearse. No, Mr Ralston, he was not an old man. Far ahead, the road streams with people walking, stately, crying out to the hill, announcing that my father comes. People are clustering around the hearse as it moves through them, speaking to Dad through the glass.
It’s good for your father to know, Nani Miro tells me, that he is still accompanied in life as he will be, where his tīpuna await him, in death.
I look away. Beyond the road, far from the hill. There, in the distance, is the farmhouse and the eastern boundary where we command a panoramic view of the valley. I imagine myself there, riding Blue Mist, watching the people as they walk along Lavenham Road, which unfolds through the green fields. The houses are strung, mostly, along the road, but a few dot the paddocks beyond. Even in the sunlight, the scene is extraordinary: the line of headlights glow as the cars drive from Rongopai. They are heading for the hill. Mourners are clustering there. Others are streaming up Tawhiti Kaahu toward the graveyard.
This is my home, this is my whānau. This is Waituhi. Where are you going, Cuz? I’m flying home, Kōpua. How fortunate I am to have a valley to come from with a fortress at one end, a sacred mountain at the other, and a river running through it.
Rain clouds rear up from the south. A shadow advances across the landscape. It ripples across the houses. The wind and clouds are gathering at the hill. Our people say it always rains when a Māori dies.
E hika, Nani Miro asks. Where did that huarere come from?
I told you the weather wasn’t done with us, Nani Tama answers. Did you bring your warm coat? You might need it up there.
The coldness strikes with a sudden blast of wind. The sky begins to darken, a shadow across the sun. Rangi comes to embrace the Earth. Tawhiti Kaahu is rising higher. The wind increases and, as mourners climb the hill from their cars, trucks and buses below, they clasp their coats around them.
The sun begins to go out. Time waits for no man … and the cold snap, makariri.
Nani Tama follows the hearse up to Takitimu Hall. People are gathered there for a short whakatau. This marae meant as much to him as Rongopai did, and it would not be appropriate kawa for us to not let Dad pause there before he travels on.
Okay, Uncle Pita says afterwards. Let’s get Rongo up to his ancestors.
I resume my position with the pallbearers. Are you taking the right front, Bro? Hata asks.
I nod, and he moves to the left front. Then Koro and some of my cousins take the rest of Dad’s weight. Somewhat stricken, Kōpua stands to one side.
We’re leaving you to do the heavy lifting further up, I tell him.
I look for Mum: Are you following, Mum?
Yes, she answers. All Dad’s women and yours, and Hōne, are here, Son.
Somebody begins a climbing chant.
Tōia mai, te waka!
Ki te urunga, te waka!
Ki te moenga, te waka!
Ki te takotoranga, iiii,
te waka!
It’s a steep, difficult climb, a bit of a clamber in places. And the path is still slippery from the weather. Dad is so heavy. I can feel his body moving inside the casket.
Don’t forget, other men and boys say to us as we carry Dad through the crowd, we’re here to take over when you need us.
My heart is breaking. There’s a space next to Teria, up at the graveyard. My tears are falling. A storm is gathering across the hill.
Is that snow falling again? No, it is just the sky descending, bringing mist surging and lowering. The day is darkening, becoming ashen. The air is shifting, swelling and subsiding. The mourners must struggle against the currents as they climb the hill. The wind and clouds are coming to the tangihanga.
Beyond the hill, the sun is shafting light upon another world. Shall we start a new line, Mum?
Uncle Pita signals a change of carriers. All of us are panting heavily, the hill is so steep, and I am out of breath.
This is my father, I tell Uncle Pita.
Some of the other pallbearers want to stay the course with me, but Uncle Tama is adamant. The rest of you be generous, he says.
Kōpua seizes his opportunity. He takes a place at the rear of the casket with my cousin George. The back is where most of the weight falls and, well, George is built like a brick shithouse and Kōpua is Extra Extra Large. The weight is transferred.
Okay boys? Uncle Pita asks. On we go.
We begin to climb again:
Drag it upward, the canoe!
To its destination, the canoe!
To its sleeping place, the canoe!
To the resting place, the canoe!
On the skyline, the gate is open. Beyond, in the graveyard, mourners are waiting where headstones and crosses prick at the ashen sky.
Rain begins to fall. It splashes on my mother’s face. It speckles Dad’s casket. Yes, Son, start a new line.
Through the rain, carrying Father. One step. Through the press of mourners. The rain streams from their faces. The path is becoming muddier and trickles with rivulets of rain. On the path lies a fallen chaplet of kawakawa leaves.
Ahead, the mourners gather around the gateway to the graveyard. Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e. They open up before Dad, waving sprigs of greenery in their hands. Their hair is plastered flat by rain, and they lift their faces to the darkening sky. Haere mai, haere mai ki ō tātou mate e. The women sway and keen a lament. They raise their arms toward my father.
So heavy he is; he is so heavy. And as I am carrying him, my feet slip. But Uncle Pita is there:
Steady, Boy, steady. And one step further now. Through the gateway into the graveyard. Here in this place lie my whānau, my family dead. Here, among the flowering gorse they lie. Take Dad past the headstones to the place where he will rest, in the newly dug ground.
Put him down, Uncle Pita says.
Death comes, but I am not yet dead. At the lip of Dad’s burial place, I stand with Mum, my sisters and little brother.
Tamati Kota and Te Hinutohu intone the graveside prayers. When they are over, the mourners press close to witness Dad being lowered into the ground. To one side, Mum is standing with my brother and sisters.
Go to Paerau, Tamati Kota says. Go to the eyes of heaven. Stand on the threshold of the Pleiades. To Antares, go. Go to our ancestors. Join them.
We lower Dad into the ground. Slowly, slowly, the casket descends.
The cord slackens.
The gravediggers start shovelling the soil back into the grave.
They know all our hearts are breaking. It is best to dig fast and strong.
Not prolong the moment.
And the rain and sleet drives without pity across Tawhiti Kaahu. The women clutch their scarves, and the men bow their heads against the wind. Petals fly loose from the flower wreaths. The leaves of the kawakawa chaplets swirl away in the wind. The black skirts of the women flap in the storm. In the driving rain, I see my mother step forward. She gathers some clay and casts it into the grave. The dirt falls, the rain falls. The dirt falls, the rain falls.
Earth reaches for Sky and Sky bends to Earth. One last passionate clasp in rain and wind and wind and rain. One last embrace of rage and fury and helpless grief. One last embrace of joy and love and thankfulness. One last meeting of lips to lips and tears to tears.
Then the slow drawing away, the slow tearing away, the slow wrenching away of Sky from Earth, of Earth from Sky, in the final, sorrowful separation.
Farewell, e Pā. Moe mai rā.