Once Were Warriors Read online

  She could see he was nervous; he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, in contrast to the imposing figure of the child welfare officer, Mr Bennett, standing huge and unmoving with head only just bowed as if impatient to get on with something. Perhaps a speech, Beth thinking. The host welcome from one of the elders; a reply in turn by Mr Bennett. And a very rich, commanding voice he had too. And for those who understood these things it was plain the big man was well versed in these matters of culture and protocol and that sumpthin else extra, hard to figure, that goes with these traditional Maoris.

  Then Bennett began a waiata, and immediately his voice seemed to fill the room. The timbre in his voice. The self-assurance. Then the boy beside him joined in, and The People, they made an involuntary exclamation of surprise and delight at such a young man versed in such matters. And Mummy, she was just flooding with tears as the ancient lamentation went on, the young harmonising the older. And Auntie Matawai telling Beth of the words: Girl, prepare yourself, get ready your spirit … for the journey to the Spiritworld, it is yours, girl … your journey alone … Aeee, as a mother listened and wept, and understood that Grace was not alone. For she is accompanied by all the warriors and warrioresses who have journeyed before her. (Aeee, my girl, I weep and laugh all at once for you.) So.

  So the man and the chanting boy were joined by the great chief and chosen others; and so the air was afill once more with thirty-two and more voices in rhythmic chant-note; decreeing themselves on the notes of history. And oh with such magnificence you could not believe of the same people that they moved through greatly troubled waters. Oh but you could not.

  A mother looking through her tears at how proud, how ramrod-straight this teaching had made her boy. And thinking of how he yet belonged to the state, was still a ward of Them, and yet looked so … so free.

  And the hour drew nearer, and the hearse drew up outside, and an air of urgency grew, of pain, love and final farewell, climaxing, so did a stranger arrive in a nice car and walk the distance to the meeting house, where he stood awkwardly, alone, not knowing what to do, the protocol (these people are sticklers, I’m told, for protocol); dressed in a suitably dark suit, black tie; people milling around outside the carved-gabled building, a man’d never seen one so close nor realised how magnificently complex was the art of a people he knew, not socially or professionally, a single member of, some of them just sat around, on the parapets either side of the entranceway, kids most of them, and fooling around like kids all over do, except they imparted this rather patent air to the visitor (one can’t help it) of laziness, slothfulness; as if all their drive was channelled elsewhere, perhaps bottled up for ill-directioned expression, was how Mr Trambert saw it, he couldn’t help himself; then spotting the man in a sort of quaint uniform, like an old Home Guard from the war days or on that comedy TV programme, looking very self-important and giving the white stranger a sly look that said he was aching to be asked something, have his position confirmed. Uh, excuse me — Yep? This funeral, am I — Nope. Oh, I see. You coulda come earlier. It was in the paper what time it was. Yes, I’m sorry, I — Wha’, can’t ya read or sumpthin? Gordon Trambert just smiling at the man then, thinking, Oh well.

  Having to stand there as a light drizzle began to fall, hating himself for not plucking up the courage to come earlier so he might pay proper respects to a girl who, after all, had hung herself on his property (like my Penelope … A mirror, God, a bloody mirror of my own daughter) and that official giving a chap the bad eye with inordinate emphasis, and stand amongst slothful kids and (one hadn’t noticed before) ill-at-ease adults who looked as much out of place as he felt — (Pine Blockers, see: with none a this cultural learning, no social precedents, rules, no regulated teaching that’d givem the means to pay their proper respects. So accidentally rubbing shoulders with a man whose sheep they’d stolen, crept out into the night, the drunk and hungry night, and slit the creature’s throat, he won’t know, he’s got thousands ofem, and who cares if he does) — whilst inside the mighty strains of now three hundred and more voices were joined in last hymn.

  And the lid to her last residence was on and screwed tight shut forever (or as long as it takes for the, you know, the worms to break in) no longer that which you could see, take from the sight of whatever you would or could not help but take from it — Just a Weight.

  A Weight in a shiny box with six handles on it waiting to be lifted by four strong men and two of the Weight’s brothers.

  The hymn, adapted to Maori wording, but well chosen for its minor noting thus its strong emotional appeal to an emotional and musical people; and this big fat woman, Mavis someone, doing the lead because, well, the mother of the dead girl had asked the chief that this Mavis be allowed to sing, leading each sad refrain and being answered by the swell of The People. And man, could she damn well sing.

  And the harmonies taken up by The People just a natural arrangement. Uncannily so; from inside an overwhelming force of deliciously melancholy sound. Outside, and one was able to pick out the several different harmonies and be amazed at how well placed they were, the balance of no harmony dominating the main melody, and in particular that solo woman voice (I’d’ve never believed it possible were I not here to hear it, Trambert thinking) and in perfect tune and pitch, and Gordon Trambert comparing it to his Russian choral music recordings (perhaps this a little on the rustic side, though nothing that good training wouldn’t fix), Trambert having difficulties reconciling the files in his head of newspaper readings and TV programmes and TV news figurings, of this race being a people in such trouble, spiritually; and even the culture meant to be shaky, or so he understood. (Really?)

  Trambert scarcely able to believe his ears, the quality: it had him, the hymn, to having to bite his lip, but still his eyes misted over. So he bowed his head.

  … and the Weight was lifted, and borne to outside waiting hearse. And by, and last sad speeches and tears, by, it, the Weight, was lowered into the space created for it. So the earth bore the Weight, and the preacher he said it was where she, the Weight, was sprung from, and that he was handing back the child to where … dust to dust … that sorta message. (Poor bloody kid.) … Why?

  Sextons having their lunch sat on a concrete tomb and notice this kid coming out from behind the line of pines over there on the lakeside boundary … Huh? Walkin a queer way. Watchinim. I think the kid’s zapped. Yeah, looks like it.

  Watchin the kid stagger drunkenly towards the mound of dirt ready to be shovelled in after lunch. Watchin him stop there, stare down into the hole where that suicide kid was, the girl who hung herself at the rich farmer’s place, there musta been sumpthin goin on there — He’ll fall in he doesn’t watch — Hey! Hey, you! Watch ya bloody step! The kid swinging his head the sextons’ way — Oh man, I think he’s been on that glue they use. I reckon. Watchin the kid with real interest now.

  Toot had a flower in his hand; picked from the bed ofem scattered all around G’s grave. And there she was, down there in that wooden box — Man! Man oh fuckin man, I don’t believe it. Then a cupla fullas’d yelled at him. Fuckem. I ain’t doin no harm. Just wanna say goodbye to my mate, G. Starin at her coffin coated in flowers. Lookin at the one he’d picked up: red. Like blood. Which brought emotion hurtling up from inside him. And he went down in a huddle; embracing himself. Howling like a dog to a full moon.

  I think we’d better leave the kid, eh? Yeah, think we better. Maybe he’s not zapped after all? You know, maybe it’s just the grief. Poor bloody kid.

  Watchin the kid. Feelin forim. But what can ya do?

  A light drizzle starting.

  11. The House of Angry Belonging

  YA GOT THAT! YA FUCKIN GOT THAT CLEAR IN YA MUTHFUCKA HEADS, YA GODDIT!!

  Yeow, Jimmy. Have, man. Nig Heke shuffling on his feet, head goin from side to side, dunno where ta fuckin look. On the floor’ll do. (The filthy floor.) What the other pros was doin, who cared. I mean this is heavy as, man. Waiting for Jimmy Bad Horse to bellow hi
s squeaky high voice at a fulla and thinkin: All I want is in, man. Nuthin else maddas. Nuthin.

  Then Bad Horse sayin to the others all around: Whassa FIRS’ RULE, bruthas and sistas? Whassa firs’ rule in this family? A roar erupting: BROWN FIST-SSZZ FIRS’!! THE GANG BEFORE ANYTHING! THE BROWN FAMILY FIRS’!! BROWNFISZZ!! BROWN FISZZ!! BROWN FISZZ!! (Oh, man, juss, you know, overwhelming. Kid c’d hardly think.) Yet Nig desperate for a break, an opportunity to ask Jimmy Bad Horse sumpthin, Sumpthin really urgent, Jimmy’d understand. But the big leader with the funny high voice walkin up and down and Nig despairing of getting his question asked. And the fuckin time marchin on. Any other day but this, man.

  Even yesterday, when Jimmy Bad Horse’d turned up and tole Nig he could be in, but that don’t mean a patch member, just, you know, takin the first step through them big black-painted gates. Like gettin an invite ta heaven, eh Nig? Bad Horse chucklin away in his evil style. Tellin Nig he had a dude arranged to rumble with. It was outta him and this other pros from town sumwhere. Man, just point me to im. Even though Nig’d been just about to go to the tangi, Grace’s funeral, when Bad Horse showed up.

  The rumble turned out a breeze. (Freaked out to start off with till I connected with that left. Then I was right. Wasted the cunt. Man, I moved like I was a boxing champ. God, I was good. Though I didn’t like it Jimmy tellin me to carry on, kick the poor fucka’s head in. But I did. And now look where I am: I’m standing smack in the middle of the Brown Fists’ house, man, thas where it got me.)

  Bad Horse had em all chanting about Brown Fists coming before even ya own family. That this is your family now, to Nig and another pros, Warren Grady, who Nig’d grown up with, and wanting the same membership for as long as he could remember. Now here they were.

  About two dozen ofem; two dozen crazy mad heavy dudes, bout half a dozen ofem sheilas. Who-are-we?! Who-are-we?! Jimmy hadem goin. Had Nig all astir inside except for that feeling of Grace, her funeral. (She’s gettin buried today.) Made him wanna piss himself with the urgency. Yet overcome by this sight, this noise-force in front of him: everyone wearin a scowl (I practised my own for years) and those shades, man: cool. I mean cool. Wraparounds. Make ya look meaner’n a snake. And tats, man, everywhere tats. On faces, arms, hands, you name it. Got my own share ofem. Done em myself. Dint make a sound neither when I was puttin em on. The cutaway woollen gloves — brown for Browns. Man, make ya hands look like clubs, or like chain mail what ya see in comics. Heavy as. (Oh my old lady, she can’t stand the Browns. I told her and told her they’re only trying to look tough, thassa whole idea to look tough, to look mean. But they’re not bad when ya get to know em. And when you’re in withem, as a member, then it’s heaven. Nig convinced of this.)

  But Grace, her face, nagging away in Nig’s mind.

  Then Bad Horse was right beside Nig and hissin in his ear: We let ya in, man, and this is your family. Nig nodding, I know that, Jimmy. I accept that. Bad Horse stepping round in front of Nig: Ya bedda. Bad Horse resumed his pacing. Nig sorta sussed that Bad Horse hadn’t said the same message to Warren.

  The leader’d walk all the way through where the wall’d had a big hole knocked out of it into what used to be a next-door neighbour; from kitchen to kitchen. Then he’d pivot on his heavy (kicking) boots and come back. And the bros and sistas standing there waitin on his next move; a stereo goin in the background but quiet because he, Bad Horse, had said turn it down till he’d finished. The leader’d come right past near a kid’s nose on his return: stridin out, his big bulk massive, man (And yet a Heke boy wondering why his old man’d told him this fulla Jimmy Bad Horse had no guts. Didn’t look like he didn’t.), and them fuckin arms like tree trunks. Man a fuckin alive, who’d be crazy enough to mess with him?

  The picture of Grace grew more urgent in Nig’s mind; so he took a deep breath and got Jimmy his next time past: Uh, Jimmy? I, uh, have to go to — My sister, she’s, uh — But Jimmy cut him short by stopping dead in front of Nig and turning his vast, Brown Fist emblazoned, back. And Nig heardim in a sorta whisper: Wha’ sista’s this? Uh, you know, my — Grace. (Hasn’t he heard about it?) The big frizzy head with its blue and white headband going from side to (worrying) side, Nope. I ain’t heard a no sista called Grace in this family. Then he turned.

  And he was looking up at Nig’s several inches taller face. What sista called Grace, man? Man, I didn’t mean — But the leader turning his back again, and pointing. You mean her? At this skinny bitch, Nig’d seen her around, mean as. Hidden behind her shades she looked meaner’n some a the dudes. Her name ain’t Grace. (I never said she was.) And she’s a sista. Nig twigging at that. (Oh man.) The half-gloved hand swung to another: Thas Cindylu. She ain’t called Grace. And she’s a sista. The head going slowly round at all the faces, Nope, Nope, at each sheila. No Grace here, man. Sorry. But Nig wanting to go see his sister off. Uh, just the way she … you know, how she, uh (Can’t say it, man. Can’t say: died. I can’t.)

  The face again. Big beard. Bit fat face. Big explosion of wild hair. Shades not giving a kid a chance to know how he was goin, where he now stood, now that he’d seemingly broken some code or sumpthin. Oh man, we know bout your sis-ter, Nig. Clicking his tongue. (No eyes a kid can read. For a clue.) Her’s was a, you know, a hea-vee trip, man. It was. Then — (shit! the fuck’s happenin?) at chairs scraping, fallin over, boots stomping towards him it felt like the fuckin world was comin to an end. Yet a voice in Nig’s head tellin him: Keep ya eyes open, man. And keep ya head straight. Don’t madda what they do to ya, just don’t show fear.

  But the banging and crashing and stomping and wide arc of denim and eye-shaded advance hard to stand fast against. Nig wanted to piss — nah, shit. Just let his bowels open and let the fear flood out. Felt his mind shut off.

  … Bad Horse saying how he, all ofus, brutha, were with Nig on Grace … (this a trick?) man, we know who she is — uh, was. Eh, family? And murmurings of yeah, they knew who she was. Seen her around, you know? … not that we actually sorta said nuthin to each other, I don’t mean that … I mean, man, her age, eh, she was only, what, fourteen? That right what they say her only fourteen? Oh man, we can dig the heavy trip she musta been on … Looking up at Nig after shoving his shades upwards on his head. First time Nig’d ever seen the man’s eyes; Nig surprised at how sorta ordinary they looked: just bloodshot brown eyes, nuthin special, nuthin evil bad about em. But then Nig’s blood ran cold at Bad Horse sayin: Ole man like you got, man … Sorta shruggin with his lips how they do. Chuckling. I think anyone’d wanna commit, you know, sideways, they had ta live withim.

  Nig not sure if he felt defensive or hatred for his old man. Maybe both. Jimmy still talking: Yeah, we seen her around, knew she was your lil sis. But she weren’t one of us, eh. I mean not like we thought you were one of us … y’ know, hanging out as a pros all that time. But had to learn to trust you, eh Nig. You know, ya mighta turned out sumpthin we, uh, didn’t like. I mean, we ain’t what you’d call geniuses. Eh Nig? Laughing. Hahaha! geniuses. Man, we ain’t even average. We’re just a packa dumb Maori fullas — oh, and a few sistas — got together. But we got sumpthin most people ain’t, Nig. Know what that is, man?

  Staunchness, Jimmy. Staunchness, Nig. You got it, bro. He’s got it, eh bruthas an sistas? YEOW! Their affirming cry lifted Nig’s spirits.

  Staunchness, Nig Heke. For each other, man, we’d … we’d die. (Oh I’d die, Brutha. You just gimme the fuckin word, man: I’d die for a fellow Brown.) We might — Jimmy cocked his head to one side, acting funny — we might even — HAHAHAHA! — even — HAHAHAHA! — you know, loooove each utha. And laughing so hard it made his shades drop back down to near exactly their right position. Man. Tongue licking out over the mo part of his beard, Well … Dunno whether we’d go that far. Laughin again. And everyone laughin withim; and that word: loooove, echoing over and over from em, the mass, The Gang, as they said it in a dozen different ways: you know, tiptoeing it out, lettin the word sorta plop out, or teasin it out, or spittin it. Lik
e it was some kinda bad-tastin medicine, sumpthin like that, they knew’d cure em. But damned if they were gonna take it, fucked if they were. And Nig could hear the change when their leader yelled: More like belonging! Eh people!

  Next Jimmy was shakin Nig’s hand, tellin im, Welcome, brutha. Welcome. And a boy’s heart filled with that sense of the word Jimmy’d used before: belonging.

  Somehow, with all the members comin up to Nig shakin his hand in the Brown Fist way of receiver holding the right thumb up to be taken in the full hand of the giver, releasing and giving each other a light tickling touch on the palm, somehow Jimmy Bad Horse managed to find Nig’s ear tellim: This is your fuckin family. From now on, this is where you’re at. So I’ll leave it up to you. Melting back into the crowded room. (God in heaven, but I can’t go.) But no time to think. Party time, bruthas and sistas! Jimmy announcing. (I’m sorry, Grace. But what can I do?)

  Clink of beer bottles rattling in their wooden crates, a kid — every kid and adult in the room — had heard it all his life. It’d become the music he wanted to hear himself when he was old enough to play it. Crates and crates of the fuckin sweet stuff bein lugged in dumped on the floor, hands grabbing at the contents; decapping with teeth, a ring, cap to cap, on the edges of anything sharp, a belt buckle, a knuckle-duster, a fuckin big knife, man, bigger’n Crocodile Dundee’s, and one mad dude just smashing the top clean off and guzzling from the broken neck. Oh man. Hea-vee. (Grace … Grace, Grace, they’re burying you. I’m so sorry …) Can’t think bout that. Not any more. To much happenin here.

  The stereo turned right up. Can’t hear myself think. Drink up, Nig. Drinking up. Marley and the Wailers. Oh man. SOUNDS, bruthas! Sounds. And just the hint of things in the movements of hips, hands, groovin bodies. But too soon yet. Too soon.