Into the River (8 page)

On days when I feel lost or caught between two paths, there is a room I go to. It is a long narrow room and I stand on the threshold,
peering into its darkening depths at the line of figures who await my call. Stretching out from the famous to the nameless, they are my army, my tipuna, and when I turn and once again face the open doorway with this legion standing behind me, I know there is no river that can’t be crossed, no battle that can’t be won
…

By the time the next hour was up Te Arepa had written eight pages. He settled back in his chair, head drained and feeling as light as air, and then, slowly, he became aware of his surroundings again. It was like waking from a pleasant dream.

The papers were collected and he looked around for the man he had borrowed the pen from. It had seemed important that he return it. Te Arepa found him talking to a parent by the door, as the others all fed slowly out of the building.

“So, how was that, Santos?”

“A lot easier once I got the pen.”

“And do you think that you are one of the chosen? One of the elite?”

Te Arepa looked at the boys, filing out. There was no answer to that question. Perhaps, because there were no other Maori present, he was a sort of elite already. He nodded and went out and sat on the steps. All around him was the excited clamour of boys telling their parents about the test. They were heroes today and could rabbit on uninterrupted to their attentive family clusters. He recognised the over-dramatisation. The arms out beseechingly. The hands slapping foreheads: “If only…” He wished he had someone to perform to, someone who would let him milk the situation.

After a while everyone had gone. The big doors behind him were bolted and the man he had borrowed the pen from emerged with a box of papers.

“Are you staying the night here?” he said cheerfully. “Like it that much?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got to wait for my cousin to take me down the line.”

“Down the line.” The man repeated. “It seems that every Maori we have ever had here has come from one of two places. Down the Line or Up North.”

He felt his face redden as the man strode off to his car.

It was nearly five when Paikea’s van swung into the car park.

“So how was that, boy?”

“I thought it was easy.”

She looked at him to see whether he was joking and then said, “You’re a smart fulla; I’m sure that Ra’s right about you.”

After a few stops, they were back on the motorway and heading for the Coast. This time the van was full of parcels and moved sluggishly. It was even slower as Paikea detoured here and there to drop them off. Te Arepa soon found he couldn’t keep his eyes open. It was very dark when they arrived.

Ra came out in his dressing gown and led him inside.

“Well boy, did you do good?”

“Hope so.”

Ra smiled and nodded.

Te Arepa was surprised to see Ra waiting at the gates of Whareiti Primary School. Rawinia was with him and they all walked home together. They made slow progress because Rawinia kept stopping to pick up lucky stones. There was tension at the corners of Ra’s mouth. Something had happened. He knew that Ra would speak in his own time.

Halfway back they all stopped at the bridge, which was their custom. He sat next to Ra on the grassy bank while Rawinia fossicked about in the stream bed, washing her stones.

“You see the awa, boy? It’s something that had to be bridged, and now we cross it every day. So we hardly think about it. Those people in the cars, I reckon they don’t even know the river’s there. But it was always there. When I was your age, there was a ford here and there was no way you got to school without wet feet, unless you were on a horse, maybe. And it’s a pity. Dry feet might be good, but we learned something from every river crossing. The depth and temperature of the water told us what had been happening in the hills. Our journey crossed another journey. And when our feet touched that water for a moment or so … it was a meeting, and in some tiny way, we were both affected.”

A car rushed by across the bridge above their heads and they both looked up.

“People today in their cars, they miss that. It’s the modern way, I know, but they miss that. What began as drops of rain on a leaf in the ngahere one day ends at the sea. So much happens to the water along the way, but the beginning and ends are always the same.”

Te Arepa couldn’t see where the old man was going with this, so he waited. Down near the water’s edge the willow branches and reeds swirled lazily in the current. He thought about the eel. How
its huge blunt head had terrified them, but had excited them too. He remembered the challenge, the greatness of the task. The glory. He thought about the goat cave. The makutu. His nightmares since that day. The feeling that he had been infected. Like his mother, with her TB. Lungs rotting away in the hospital.

“A letter came today. Barwell’s has offered you a place.”

Te Arepa said nothing.

“Think carefully, boy … do you want to go?”

He had thought very little about the big college since the long journey with Paikea. It had been one of those things he had done because he had been told he should. Like going to the dentist.

“Some would say it is a great honour, a chance to make something of yourself. I am sure you have heard all the reasons for you to accept, but I want you to decide.”

He looked at Ra. He could see this was what Ra had been struggling with. It had become a burden.

“If you want me to go, then I want to go.”

The answer gave Ra no relief, he just chuckled and shook his head. “That’s the one thing I hoped you wouldn’t say. Why can’t you just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ like other boys? Then that would be the end of the matter.”

Ra got slowly to his feet and they all walked on home.

That night Te Arepa was awoken by noises outside his window. He got up and peered out into the blackness. Down by the clothes-line, near the horse paddock, he could make out a figure. He tiptoed out the back door and crept up to the wash house. It was Ra. He was chanting. Chanting in the soft rain. The boy knew immediately that this was because of him. Because of his answer. He felt guilty, putting the old man through this. Even though he was sleepy, he knew he had to wait up and listen.

He went back to his room and pulled a blanket off the bed, then returned to sit on the back steps. The chanting continued as Ra worked his way through layer after layer of whakapapa.

He went all the way back to Hawaiki. Then into the dark
generations
beyond.

The regular beat of his voice soothed Te Arepa, and the names he had heard so often before paraded past him like a line of figures. He dozed off in the doorway and in his dream he saw them. The fierce eyes, the moko, the feathers. They gathered in a group before him, staring and shivering and swaying to the beat of the chant. There was one there, paler than the rest, who stood aloof. One with sea boots and a gold ear-ring. His cold green eyes kept drawing Te Arepa away from the group. It was Diego Santos. The pirate. Te Arepa was mesmerised by him: his fearlessness, his arrogance. Nothing could stand against it. He had crossed from one world to another. He had faced down betrayal and risen again. He could not be denied. Te Arepa felt as if a choice had to be made. Join the warriors or go with Diego. He knew immediately what he had to do.

Ra shook him awake and they wandered into the little kitchen. The old man reached under the sink where he kept lumps of pumice floating in their bowl of methylated spirits. Plucking several out, he placed them in the grating of the coal range. Onto this a nest of dry kindling was carefully constructed. Then he lit it and waited for the water to boil. Day was breaking and the chorus of birds was building to its final raucous fury. Te Arepa watched Ra’s plume of white hair as he moved about the kitchen, buttering bread and making tea.

They ate and drank silently. He could tell Ra was waiting for him to say something.

“I saw the pirate.”

“Does that mean ‘yes’?”

He nodded.

Ra seemed relieved. “It was hard, boy, and you didn’t make it any easier for me. What did you see?”

“I saw the tipuna emerging from the darkness and assemble before me. They looked awkward and angry at being called forth. But the pirate was there. Near them but not with them. He was
pleased. He grinned at me.”

“Old Diego, eh? All the way from Spain. His hands soaked with blood. A price on his head. Tired of running, he chooses our whanau to plant his seed in. Our whanau to live out his days with.” He paused. “And now he calls to you, boy, eh?”

“He was there. His green eyes shining like wet mussel shells. He had no fear … no doubt.”

“The tipuna choose their own. We are their servants. They always walk before us.”

His good clothes didn’t fill the old bag Ra had packed for him, so he filled the remaining space with his journals. The Bible went in too, but this was just to please Ra, not because he planned to read it.

Three of them sat across the bench seat in Uncle Jimmy’s pick-up truck: Jimmy driving, Ra by the window and Te Arepa straddling the gear stick. After a while they left the Coast and began to climb inland. Te Arepa could feel his feet heating up on the engine wall. The whine of the diff and the smell of Jimmy’s cigs made him feel nauseous. They had only been travelling a few hours before the sadness began to bite at his heart. When the truck returned it wouldn’t have him in it; he would be in some room, far away, in a strange city.

When they reached the outskirts of Rotorua they turned off down a narrow, muddy road to where an old whare stood amidst the steam. These were his father and Uncle Jimmy’s people: only names to him. He knew that this would mean an hour or two but didn’t mind. It would delay what lay ahead.

Uncle Jimmy’s whanau came out and they all hongied and then went into the kitchen for a kai. Jimmy’s brother and another man were there, along with some women and a few little kids. No one his own age. Two little boys stood looking at him shyly, like he was something to be afraid of.

The adults settled in for a good talk so he slipped outside for an explore. The thick groves of manuka growing around the marae concealed plumes of steam. Te Arepa squeezed through the bush towards the closest one. There was a small clearing and in the middle, some bubbling mud. The grey crust around the edge was built up with endless, frozen high tide marks, and covered in leaves and sticks, but in the centre it was smooth and shiny like grey paint. He stared, fascinated by the slow plop and gurgle. The eggy smell cleared his head. He remembered all the stories about Rotorua: Hatu Patu and the bird woman, Hinemoa and Tutanekai, Maui and the fire sticks. There was something about this place, something about how the earth’s thin skin talked to its fiery heart.

“Te Arepa!” It was Ra, calling.

He picked his way out, taking care not to muddy his shiny black shoes. A group of them had gathered in front of the whare, around an old man who was sitting on the paepae. Ra signalled him over. As he grew closer, the wall of bodies parted and he was confronted by this ancient kaumatua. He was the oldest person Te Arepa had ever seen. His face was wrinkled leather, eyes pale and dribbly. The old hand clasping the tokotoko reminded Te Arepa of a bird’s claw, gripping a perch. It looked hard and bloodless.

They both stared at each other for a long time. The fierceness of the old man’s gaze made it difficult to return but he had no choice. His head was locked solid. Then the kaumatua reached over and drew Te Arepa to him. Te Arepa shut his eyes and felt the old head hongi him, long and hard. Something was happening: it felt like someone had pulled a plug in his brain and everything was pouring out. Then the man released him and turned to Ra.

“Not much to him. Hardly fill a hangi basket.”

They laughed.

“This boy …” the old man said. “This boy … will make a rain that will drench us all.”

Ra seemed pleased by this comment, although the others were not so sure.

There were farewells and handshakes, but Te Arepa felt the old man’s stare boring into him. He writhed before it as he struggled to remember each person’s name. As he moved through the sheltering clusters of bodies, it caught him in steely flashes. He couldn’t hide and it unnerved him.

At last they made the truck, and he and Jimmy waited while Ra went from person to person with a handshake or kiss and a few words for everyone. At last he joined them in the cab, and they were rattling back up the long driveway.

“Who was that old man? He was scary. His hongi … something happened …”

Ra turned. “That man is your father’s grandfather. No one knows how old he is. There are many stories about him all through Tainui.”

“But the hongi …”

“That was your mauri, Te Arepa. Sometimes … how should I say this … sometimes there are people whose mauri talks to your mauri. Spirit to spirit.”

“I didn’t like it,” said Te Arepa.

“It’s the old way. He’s close to the tipuna, that old fellow. He has knowledge that few will ever have. He knows the past, so of course, he knows the future.”

“Still …” Te Arepa began.

“He is many things, this kaumatua, an ariki, a kaitiaki.” Ra continued, “That old head is a storehouse, packed with
whakapapa
. He is a great taonga, and he asked to see you.”

“Because of my father?” It was difficult for Te Arepa to even mention his father, so steeped was he in shame.

Ra shook his head.

“You’re part of his blood, his seed. He asks for himself.”

The journey took a more sombre turn. Each passing power pole seemed to be taking Te Arepa towards some inescapable destiny.

When they once again reached the Bombay Hills, his stomach was spiked by a sharp feeling of dread. The weight of what was
happening sank in. There would be no going back now. The city spread before them now was huge and threatening. Filled with people he didn’t know. People who didn’t care about him. So different from Whareiti.

The boarding house was alive with purpose: boys carrying bedding, little family groups huddled in earnest discussion, younger brothers and sisters peeping into the mouths of open bedrooms. Everyone else seemed excited: pleased to be here, sure of what they were doing. Uncle Jimmy was like Te Arepa, a bit shy in these situations, so the two of them held back and let Ra do all the talking.

Te Arepa was to stay in Marsden House, which was named after an early missionary, Ra said. His housemaster, Mr Simmonds, showed them all to his dormitory. There were four narrow beds and a partition between each and the next cubicle. Mr Simmons explained that this was where the new boys were placed. As they progressed up the school, they moved to two-person dorms and finally to single rooms which were strictly ‘seniors only’.

Te Arepa put his gear down next to a bed but was immediately told to move it to another one, as all the beds were allocated alphabetically. At this point a large, white-haired woman appeared with a note for the housemaster. He read it, grunting quietly, and then barked, “They would!” and hurried off without a further word.

The woman turned to them and smiled. “You must be Te Ireepa. I’m Mrs Wilton, the matron for Marsden. I’m the one you come to when you need something. Why don’t you just settle in here, then come down to the common room to meet all the other new boys at five o’clock.”

As they left, another boy came into the little dorm. He was
red-haired
and crying. His stiff-jawed father trailed awkwardly behind him. It made Te Arepa feel like crying too, and he had to fight the
impulse. The last thing he needed now was to cave in.

Jimmy and Ra strolled around the school with him, filling in time before the meeting. Compared to Whareiti Primary the school was huge. Three-storey brick classroom blocks. Sports fields that seemed to go on forever. Cavernous gym. Out on the field there were two big boys doing kicks and catches. Te Arepa watched in awe. He had never seen a boy kick the ball so high. The other, who wore an All Blacks jersey, caught it easily and launched a rocket of his own. The ball seemed to hang in the sky forever. The three of them stood watching. There was something about these two boys: they were like lords of the school. Te Arepa was an invisible, insignificant outsider. Would he would ever get to their stage?

By the main hall where he had sat the test, there was a memorial plinth to the boys who had gone on to be killed in the two world wars. It drew Uncle Jimmy and Ra, who stood before it for a while, reading the names. There were a few Maori names here, he noticed: more than there had been inside the hall. Ra knew some of the whanau they had come from.

“You’ll be at home here, Te Arepa, our blood and theirs, they run together.”

A bell sounded. It was five o’clock: time to head back to the dining room for a cup of tea. Time to say goodbye to the families. Te Arepa knew that tears were never far away. Ra mustn’t see them. Ra’s last memory of him must not be that.