Huia Short Stories 10 (22 page)

He Tai Ope

Karuna Thurlow

Ko te aroha anō he wai e pupū ake ana

He awa e māpuna mai ana i roto i te whatumanawa

Ko tōna mātāpuna he hōhonu ā ina ia ka rere anō

He tai timu, he tai pari, he tai ope, he tai roa, he tai nui

—
Te Wharehuia Milroy

‘E hika!
Tō hia kore kē i whakamā!'
Koirā tāhaku i roko ai mai kō atu i te taiepa nei. Ko te reo tērā a tōhoku tuahine, e tiori haere ana. Kai tū
haha ana au, ka rere mai tētehi hū, tata tukia tōhoku pane. Arā anō te auē a te Piki rā.

‘
Me tō mōhio tonu kai reira a Takaroa piriwhare – tē āta huna i tā kōrua mahi!' Whākanakana nei ō
hoku kamo i tēnā; te āhua nei ko tāhana tāne tāhana te whakaparahako atu rā.
He kutu pī noa ō te tāne, tē roko i a āu he kupu ake āhana.

‘Tō tenetene, e hoa!' Pakaru mai ana aua kupu, kātahi ka puta mai a Piki i te waharoa kai mua nei i a āu, rua mita pea te tawhiti nei. Pītoritori te wai i ōhona kamo, tē paku ririki ki ōna pāpārika. Whērā tōhona āhua mai rānō. Kātahi a ia ka huri, tere tou nei te whanatu atu rā.

Kōtahi atu au ki te waharoa rā, ka kuhu ki tō
rāua kāika. Tērā a Koni e tū atu rā rā. Puku ana te rae, pekea ōhona rika, me he pohū tā
ria nei te uruka mai o te kāpura kai te pito o te taura.
Me aha kē oti? Ko tāhaku nei, he mihi atu.

‘E te tua. Tēnā koe.' Ka unuhia tōhoku whareama, ka tāroi atu te rika marino. Ka harirū māua.

‘Kia ora koe.'

‘Pēhea?'

‘Heoti anō
.'

‘Kai kōnei āhaku irāmutu?'

‘E kao. Kai te karuhi o tōhoku hākoro mō te wiki mutuka nei. Kuhu mai e hoa, ko koropupū
te wai.'

Takitaro mārie, ka noho māua ki te kāuta, he ō moho e hora ana ki te raumaka, he kapu kāwhe ki te rika. Ko tau anō tōhona mauri, tāhaku i kite ai. E tohe ana au ki a āu anō, me aha ānāianei. Neke atu i te kahuru tau rāua ko tōhoku tuahine e piri ana, ā, kātahi anō kia tupu he kakari whēnei nā kai waekapū i a rāua, rātou ko āhaku nei irāmutu.

Ā kati, i ruka i te aroha ki a rātou kā mokopuna rā, me kōrero au, ka tika.

‘E Koni, tēnā, whakamārama mai he aha rā kōrua i tohe ai?' Tiro kau atu ana au ki a ia. Ka mapu ia, ka miria tōhona rae.

‘Wii... Nōhoku te hē, e hoa. Nāhaku anō tāhaku raru i kimi.'

‘Tino pēhea nei?' I taua wā tou, ko toko mai he whakaaro ōhoku, ehara i te mea pai ki a au.

‘I taka au ki te hē.
I paku mahimahi nei māua ko tētahi atu.'

‘Hika!' I k
ōnā, ka pūkauri mai te riri kai roto i a au. ‘Tō poroheahea hoki!'

‘Tō ihu!' Tūt
ū nei māua, kainamu nei ki te meke. Ka paku whai whakaaro au. Ekari anō te tūpore i te whakapātaritari. I te koreka ōhoku i manako kia hē kē atu te raru
, ka whakatakamanawa au, ā, ka noho. Kīhai i taro, ka noho hoki a ia. Mā
rakerake te kitea, ehara i te haka tērā kōwhirika ōhona.
E roko tou ana au ki te hūkeikei e kau mai ana ki roto, ekari mā tēn
ā ka aha.

‘Taku hē,' tāhaku e mea atu nei.

‘Ko riri katoa a Piki.
Koianei te wā tuatahi ko kitea tēnei āhua nōhona.' Kāore āhaku kupu. Ka noho wahakū noa māua, ka inu.
Āwhiowhio nei ōhoku whakaaro, ekari he pai ake pea te pupuri m
ō te wā nei. Hai aha hoki te pahupahu. Taro kau iho, ko mahiti te kāwhe, ā, ka mea atu au,

‘Ko haere au. Māhaku pea e kimi i a Piki.'

‘Ā
e rā. Hai kōnei.'

Ka waiho au i kā whakaaro e pā ana ki te tokorua rā, kia tā te manawa, kia tāoki, kia mahuru anō ai tōhoku hirikapo. Ka hoko kai, ka waihape atu ki te kaika. Kai reira kē a Piki. Ka aumihi atu au, kātahi ka huri noa ki te tunu kai. I muri tata iho, ka tahuri ia ki te āwhina mai. Ka tapahia, ka whakaranumia, ka tunua ētehi kai, kātahi māua ka noho ki te paparahua kai ai. Kāore he paku kupu ōhona. Ka mutu, nāhaku kē te kōrero i tīmata, me tāhaku hokehokeā i tērā!

‘Tuahine.
Nei ko māua ko Tarika hai hoa mōhou. Whakapuakina mai ō
u aha rānei, mā tāua nei e rūnaka, e kōrero.'

‘I kōrero kōrua?' Ko te āhua o tōhona reo, anō nei ko harakukutia tōhona korokoro. Auē te aroha mōhona me te pāmamae tārake ana te kitea.

‘Āe, paku nei.'

‘Nā, kai te mōhio koe. Ko piri atu a ia ki tētahi atu wahine. Nā
hana anō māua nei i māwehe.'

‘Koinā tāhau e minamina ai?' ka
tāwhiro anō ōhoku whakaaro ki kā tamariki. Te āhua nei he mārama tē
nā ki a ia, i te mea tere tou tāhana whiu kupu mai:

‘Me pēhea kē hoki? Me whakatauira rānei au ki t
āhaku kera, āna, ki te mahi whērā tāhau hoa, hai aha tōhou ake mana, me whakawhāriki koe i a koe anō, māhana nei te takahi?!
'

‘Kia tau, e Piki ... Kai kōnei au hai tuara mōhou, ahakoa te aha. Tēnā, he inu māhau? He aha rānei?' (Āe, e tika ana, i ruka i te tūmanako ka nekehia tōhona aro i ahau!)

‘He kapu tī noa. Kia ora rā.'
Ka romiromi te manu nei i kā huruhuru o te kak
ī, kia tau. Ka memene mai me tāhana kī, ‘Ko tētehi o ōhoku hoa mahi.'

‘He aha?'

‘He hoa mahi nōhona. Koia te wahine i moe tāhae a Koni.'

‘Wiii ... I hea? Pēhea nei?'

‘Tō rātou pāti Kirihimete rā. Kāore au i wātea ki te haere, māuiui nei a Maru, kino nei tāhana ruaki i taua pō rā, nā reira ka noho kē au ki te kāika, ko Koni ka haere, ka inu, ka konihi, ka whāwhā atu, ka kitea e te marea. Te mutuka kē mai o te whakamā!'

Kātahi anō a Maru kia rua tau, ā, maumahara pai au ki taua huakita kau puku i pā ki a ia, kātahi ka hōrapa atu ki te whānau katoa.
Te kino hoki o te torohī me te ruaki i te roaka o kā r
ā e toru! Nui te aroha ki te kōhukahuka rā i pākia e taua mate ... me tōhona hākui hoki.

‘Ehara i a koe te
māteatea nei, e Piki.
Kāore he āhuataka anō i ruka i a kōrua i taua wā?'

‘E, k
āore ki tāhaku mōhio. Tēnā pea he mataku nōhona i whērā ai, koi pōua haere ia!
' me tāhana katakata, ekari auare ake te koakoa i roto i taua kata.

‘Nā reira me aha?' Ko pao te kanohi.
Ka ririkihia e au he waiwera ki tāhana kapu.

‘Mā
haku e moe ki kōnei nā?'
Ka tūpou tōhoku mahuka. Hai te ata pea ka kitea te ara-a-Tāne puta ai i kā pōk
ēao e tūtakitaki ana i te wā nei.

Aoinaake te rā, nāhaku te whakarite he parakuihi marae nei. Memene ana te mata o tōhoku tuahine i te roko ki taua tāwara. Hākoakoa au i tērā.

‘E! Tēnei a Hine-tītama te haramai nei!'

‘Wiii, e aki! Kai tua o Kapeka te kai e hora nei, ko roa nei te wā ka tūtaki māua ko Arero ki ē
nei momo!' Ka arotau māua tahi nei ki te horokai. Kātahi māua ka huri ki te kaupapa e pātōtō
mai nei ki te tatau. I tēnei ata, kua tūkaha ake te wairua o tōhoku tuahine, ko whai pākahukahu a ia i te weheruataka o te pō.

‘Ka hoki atu au ki te whare ākuanei.'

‘
Ko au hai hoa mōhou?'

‘E kao. Mehemea kai reira a Koni, ā tēnā, me taki noho māua ki te kōrero. Ki te kore ia i reira, māhaku e whakarite ētahi t
ūeke kia noho ai au ki wāhi kē atu.'

‘He rara mōhou ki kōnei.'

‘Kia ora rā, e m
ōhio ana au. Ehara i te mea ka whēnā mō ake tou atu ... tāhaku e tūmanako ai.
Ekari me uru ki roto i a ia pēhea rawa te tioka nei o tāhana kore whai whakaaro mōhoku. Mō ā māua uri hoki. Kātahi au ka hoki atu.'

‘Mārama tēnā, e kare. Kā tamariki?'

Ka noho wahakū. He nui te hā ka whai, ā, ka mea mai,

‘Ka matareka noa tāhaku whakamārama atu ki a rātou. E waru noa ō Oraiti tau, hai aha te āta whakapuaki atu kā
kaupapa pakeke nei. Me pēnei pea tāhaku; ka whai hararei a Hākui, i te mea ko roa ia e pikau i kā kaupapa maha. Mā Hākoro rātou e tauwhiro, ekari ki te whakaae mai hoki ō tā
ua mātua–'

‘E mea ana koe! Ka kotahi mai rāua ki te tiki i ā rāua tino, ki te paku tawhiri atu nā koe, e Piki.'

‘Āna. Waihoki, he whaitake hoki pea taua hararei mō Koni. Tē karo i kā hua o taua mahi rā.'

‘Piki ... e pēhea ana ōu whakaaro, ōu āwhero rānei mōhona? I tēnei wā?'

‘Taihoa kia kite e aki. Ko okaina au e te hauaitu o tērā hinoka ōna, me te korekore rawa o ōhona whakaaro mōhoku i te tuatahi.
Ekari ehara i te mea ko mahiti katoa nei te mariri kai roto i a au mō
hona. Kai te kapuka o tōhona rika ināianei; me ka whakapāha mai, ka whakaea tāhaku nei mamae – he manako tou nōhoku ki te piri tahi. Heoti anō, e hika, kotahi noa te putaka mōhona. Whakapono rawa nei au, ki te kore au e t
ū Aoraki matatū nei, kai raro e putu ana ko āhaku aki, tāhaku kera hoki. Ko te uara matua o tō mātou whānau tae noa ki tēnei w
ā, ko te pono, ā-kī, ā-mahi hoki.'

‘Kā mihi e kō. Ko te tūmanako ia, he rā ki tua. Arohaina koe e au.'

‘Tēnā koe tāhaku tino tukāne.
Mei kore koe.' me tāhana awhi mai. ‘Ko
haere au, nē. E noho rā.'

Ka puta atu ia i te whatitoka o tōhoku whare. Ko waiho atu nei au me ōhoku mahara. Ko tāhaku nei, he karakia, ki a Hine-te-iwaiwa
, ki a Hine-tītama, kia pai te otika mō rātou katoa, ōhoku huāka nei. He tai ope tēnei mea, te aroha.

Regrets

Aaron Ure

Journal entry: 11 a.m. 22/02/2010

‘Hell found me.' Nope, I don't like that title.

‘Hell will find you.' No, not that either.

After narrowing it down and refining it time and time again, I keep coming back to that one thought, ‘Hell found me.' I am tired of it buzzing around my cerebral vacuum. It has stalked me from the moment I saw him. In my bloody town and at my church.

Since his untimely arrival, my journal has become a serious novel. So little time has passed since I saw him, and yet there are more entries here since that sighting than there were in the last two years before it. Before his return, life had become settled and divinely routine. Each day was well ordered and timed out to avoid too many hours alone thinking, reminiscing, debating. Did I make the right decision? A single glimpse brought back every second of our lives together, like a needle reopening every wound.

Three years ago I told him, ‘No more; I can't do this anymore'.

I was going to leave that night and return to the church that had raised me, chastised me and poured guilt over me at every mass.

I still see the look of total disbelief on his face, as if I had just shipwrecked his life on the way to the Promised Land. He stood there in his washed-out denim and crisp white T-shirt. The cashmere scarf I had bought him casually draped over his shoulders. A little god to most, but a sizeable G for me. As the tears welled in his beautiful brown eyes I saw my reflection clearly, and I felt like a monster.

For three years, his memory has challenged my every idle thought and ignited my dreams, causing sin to spill into my sheets time and again.

His body, so young and tender, matching my every move as we danced. The electric charge as we touched, at first sparking excitement then energising passion. The afterglow and my head on his chest as it gently rose and fell, as my hands caressed and held him. Yes, my title was right after all: Hell has found me. Only I can call it hell; no one else will understand.

They will see a mild, shorter man with a wry smile and engaging eyes.

I will see three years of heartache standing in front of me.

They will embrace his hand and shoulder as a friend and brother.

I will stand back for fear of losing my sobriety.

They will exchange civilities and invite him to stay awhile.

I will cry for release from my torment with every moment he chooses to stay.

They will sit beside him in the pew, smiling at the potential new disciple.

I will burn with rage and jealous desire as they sit so close.

Hell has found me, and I will know no reprieve.

As if this is not enough, he now makes his way towards me, smiling; disarming, melting me.

‘Marcus, it is great to see you again. How have you been?' His voice chimes, as if no time has passed.

‘Thomas, it has been a while.' My hand reaches out for his. I feel my heart stumble. Then that spark as our flesh meets, igniting dormant passion. ‘I hope you have a pleasant stay,' is all I can manage before I turn to leave, again.

Thank God that's over. At home amid my statues and candles I feel a dawning respite from the turmoil brewing inside of me. I pace the house in a fog, shuffling in and out of every room scheming, planning how not to fall apart.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I am aware of bells ringing. Assuming it is my inbuilt alarm system on full tilt, I dismiss it repeatedly. At last it stops. I slump to the hall floor to find a moment's reprieve; some breathing space. I hear soft footsteps come to the front door. There's a small knock, then a hand presses against the glass, before fading away into the afternoon light. A note has been slipped beneath the doorjamb.

Note to self: repair the gap under the door. I had had my eyes glued to the hand at the window.

The note is restrained.
We need to talk. I will be at the Beat café at three.

It isn't signed, but it doesn't need a signature. Bile rises to my mouth. I cannot hide any longer. I have to face him if I'm ever to be free.

2.30 p.m.

OK. Standing in front of the mirror practising my, ‘No thanks, I am truly happy' speech is a waste of time. Thirty-five minutes of wasted time, to be exact. I look fantastic though. I have chosen a light tan ensemble of three-quarter shorts and a muslin top, with a light knit jersey arranged over my shoulders and tied loosely at mid-chest. I look relaxed and happy, content in everything except my own skin. The outward appearance is dashing, yet underneath I am a mess.

Walking up to the café, I note the pavements inundated with local parishioners going about their lives. A tip of a hat here, a wave of the hand there, all smiling and unaware of my mounting fears. All very frightening to me, as my mind races through scenario after scenario of what might go wrong in such a public setting.

Time stands still as my eyes alight on the tender face of love. I drop my head to the side. I blush. Dear God, here I go again: the giddy schoolgirl off for a secret rendezvous.

I compose myself as I arrive at the table out front of the café. I am back in adult mode.

‘Thomas,' I say, lightly, my voice without a tremble. ‘Are you keeping well?'

‘As well as can be expected, old friend. Are you OK to talk here?'

The note of caution and concern in his voice worries me. Thomas is not one given to caution. He is more the gush and overflow sort of guy, emotional and truly out there. This change in his approach is unexpected. I sit back deeper in my chair, studying him. Though still gorgeous as ever, Thomas has lost weight, and is paler than I remember. He is obviously still physically strong, and yet somehow inwardly more frail.

Waiting a moment before answering, I acknowledge this is an OK place to talk, and we enter into conversations I do not expect.

‘Two coffees, please. One white with raw sugar. Marcus will have his black, strong and as hot as you can make it.' Turning, he manages a weak smile. ‘Some things you just don't forget.'

As I smile back, the thoughts run through my mind. ‘And some people you never forget, despite how hard you try.'

As Thomas talks of his journey of the last three years, I learn of his pain at our break-up, and the devastation my abruptness had caused. Listening to how I had hurt him is painful. I ache to my core. Together, we speak openly, as adults, of his feelings and the changes in his life.

Then Thomas breaks the news of why he has come here; why he has invaded my solitude.

‘I have cancer,' he says.

I am silent, unable to speak, as he explains. He has liver cancer, diagnosed eight months after I left him. Now he is tying up loose ends, looking for closure. His voice is shaking, and I know he is desperate for some response from me, but I keep silent. I listen, struggling to hold myself together and remain aloof, professional. Nodding sympathetically, and voicing the occasional ‘oh, how was that?' as I was trained to do as parish counsellor.

Tears seep from those beautiful eyes and pool at the corner before flowing down the lines of his face. Unable to maintain any sense of distance, I instinctively reach across the table and thumb his tears away. With my free hand, I clasp his hands. Suddenly, I don't care who may be watching.

We talk until the café is due to close, then we walk through town. Silence is interwoven with short conversations and looks that move far beyond physical desire or youthful passion.

Thomas. I look, and I see a man I can love and respect; a man whose life was once an open book to me. A strong man, yet vulnerable enough to ask for help. I cannot find my giddy schoolgirl response, nor my first thoughts of hell having found me.

In fact, I think heaven has opened up and smiled at me.

Journal entry: 9 a.m. 14/08/2010

I'm amazed that six months have passed. The time has slipped by, and my journal is now fuller than it ever was. It looks like a replica of some old scribbled manuscript: pages worn, with dog-eared edges poking out at odd angles. Photos added here and there, with handwritten notes from a friend and soulmate.

Thomas and I reconciled quickly. Three weeks after that first cup of coffee, he moved in with me, sharing my home, my heart and my bed. Together, we attended church and community meetings, with the surprising support of our little hamlet. The last few months we have grown beyond ourselves – beyond our labels – and have arrived back where we started. We are just two human beings who have found agreeable company and unconditional friendship in each other's presence.

Thomas looks smashing today. The casualness and elegance of cashmere always suited him. His hair, slightly thinner, is brushed neatly across his right brow. Those feature cheekbones, as youthful and clear-cut as ever.

As for me, I feel a little old and tired, but contented that the decisions I've made these last months have all been worthwhile. Tired and older, I am here; dressed as comfortably as I can. We are surrounded this morning by so many people. I can't remember when I last saw half of them; probably never in a church. Yet here we are. Thomas and me, with family and old friends: church and street mingling. Things are just as they should be.

10.30 a.m.

I'm shaking all over as I stand here, wondering if the pulpit microphone will pick up the knocking in my knees. Contemplating the last six months as I look over at Thomas, I am amazed at how he brings out the strength in me. Going public on any matter was never an option for me. I have always preferred the background, and allowing others to bloom was my specialty. Now I stand here, in front of so many people, feeling neither fear nor judgement: only peace. My mind is clear; the aroma of lavender and Chelsea roses fill the room, adding to my awareness of being surrounded by beauty. I gaze at them in all their splendour and consider what wonders the future will hold.

Then I look at Thomas, his strength still enabling me. I smile, contemplating my good fortune as I step down from the pulpit to be by his side.

A myriad of hymns and tributes follow our short service. Many well-wishers follow behind as Thomas and I make our way from the church. As the throng gather around us, I kneel on one knee, hands gently resting on his coffin.

‘Make sure my coffee is strong and hot when I get there,' I say. ‘Don't forget now.'