Once Were Warriors Read online

  So what? he asked them in this booming voice that didn’t need no microphone. Do I accuse the storm that destroys my crops? (Well, come ta think of it that way …) No! No, I don’t accuse the storm. I clean up. THEN I PLANT AGAIN!

  On and on he went in this vein. Sometimes breaking off into this haunting, chanting waiata; and the others with him joining him. Or they let loose with these amazing haka that sent shivers and chills through ya, don’t care who ya are, it just gets to you. And the wind so cold and yet, funny thing, ya only had to be there for a little while and you hardly felt the cold. Just this, I dunno, pride I guess you’d call it, that you’d never felt before, at being … well, I guess, a Maori. Make that Maori warrior. Oh, and Maori warrioress. After all, we ain’t nuthin without our women.

  And the woman, Beth — disowned of her married name. Just Beth — sat there with this glowing look on her face. And people that knew her sayin they’d never seen her looking so well, and when you consider, you know, what the poor bitch’s gone through, it makes you really wonder about this weekly Saturday get-together that she got organised. Like she’s sorta come amongst ya … I dunno, hard to find words when you’re a Pine Blocker. As if she’s gone through all this pain so you, the rest of you rotten ne’er-do-wells, might sorta gain from it. From this.

  From a newly inspired Beth, along with this chief fulla inspiring ya with his speeching and his words of history like he’s showin ya the light but without the Jesus saves ya crap. And as if Beth Heke is some kinda saint but without a god hovering there behind her: you feel if she can do it, more or less alone, then dammit, maybe you, a previously hopeless Pine Block case, can too.

  17. Love Is Where You Find It

  Hey kid? Hey, k — Aw, c’mon, I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Jake shaking his head at the kid backing away out of the light of short-heighted lamps that lit the meandering path through the park. He blew into the air, Smell me, kid. Jake hasn’t even had a beer. Chuckled. Too fuckin broke, that’s why. But tomorrow, boy … He used it as a tantaliser. It’s dole day tomorrow, boy. I might be buying.

  But the kid stayed where he was, in the shadow of a big spread of tree untouched by the lamplight, just visible as a shape. It’s Christmas next week, know that? What ya doing for Christmas day? No answer, not even a breeze rustling through the leaves. Just a few crickets going, and a lonely man and a wary boy. What, your mates leave ya? I thought you streetkids stuck together? They left ya cos ya can’t fight, right? No answer. You useless at stealing things? No response. But Jake knew the kid had been deserted by his fellow streetkids, he’d seen the face when it was a member of a group ofem who’d always kept their distance from his overtures to come talk with him. But now there was a stray sheep.

  Ya like the Chinese food, boy? Maybe. Jake’s heart leapt at the first response in maybe an hour of trying with the kid. Spare ribs, mmm? Jake smacked his lips. Cept I don’t like the Chinks that sell em. Nor me. Another response. (At last!) Want me to buy you some spare ribs Christmas day? Yep, but he’ll be shut. No way, boy; these greedy fuckin Chinks they don’t close on Christmas day. Bet ya a buck they’re open on Christmas. I ain’t got a buck to bet. Well, fifty cents, twenty cents, who cares, just make a bet. Ten cents? Ten cents, fine. But still the boy stood in the shadows.

  Know what? I got kicked out myself. From where — home? Home and then the winos kicked me out. The winos? Them who come and sit in the park here and talk shit? You mean that lot? Yeah, that lot! How come? They didn’t like me. Why not? Cos I’m no alkie, that’s why. Cos a man didn’t wake up and have a drink of sherry withem first thing in the morning. That’s why. How come? How come what? You didn’t want a drink of sherry in the morning?

  Jake had to think a moment … Cos that’s what alkies do, boy, and I ain’t no fuckin alkie. We thought you were. Who, the streetkids? Yeah. You tellem ta say that to my face an — I didn’t think it. But they did. Yeah, sure, kid. Sure. Honest, I didn’t. So what else you fullas been saying about me? That you’re tough. Made Jake smile. That right? Tough as. Tough as, eh? Toughest in Two Lakes, that’s what they said. Are you? I — used to be, boy. What happened? I — Again Jake hesitated: he didn’t want to lie but nor did he want to face the truth. I got older. Can’t you fight now? I can fight alright. You wanna go? No way, mista. Only joking.

  How long you been following me? Bout a week. A week? So you know where I live? Yeah, sure: you live in the bamboos. You got a neat little hut there. With blankets. And a mattress. And you got plastic underneath to keep it dry. The kid stepped partway out of the shadows. But, man, you’re old for a streetkid. I ain’t a street-kid, I’m a — Jake didn’t finish it. Couldn’t. What’s the name, kid? Cody. Thassa a neat name. Thanks. I’m Jake. I know. How do you know that? Everyone knows. Everyone? The streetkids. You fullas been spying on me? We spy on everyone comes here. Had Jake thinking about what he might’ve been up to, masturbating, talking to himself, the usual. Him asking suspiciously, What sorta things you seen? Your hut. You drunk. You asleep on the ground. You grinding your teeth. Man, but do you grind your teeth. Kids say you sound like a horse. A horse? Yeah, a horse. Sorry, mista, but that’s what they say. Fuckem. They don’t mean any harm. I’ll givem harm they call me a fuckin horse. No, only you sound like one. What else you seen? Not much. How much? You know, you being drunk and saying things to yourself … And? And nothing else.

  Jake shrugged, oh well, if he’d been observed in his most private moments so be it. Least he was talking to someone. How old’re you, uh …? Jake’d forgotten the name. Cody. Cody. I’m fifteen. I got a boy fifteen. I know. And you got one in the Brown Fists. How do you know all this, man? Jake getting annoyed. Everyone knows it. And the one in the Brown Fists he can rumble. That right? Jake feeling proud. Who told you that? We seen him. He wasted two dudes on his own in a rumble outside the Palace. Jake grinning all over, Did he just? Thinking: Thas my boy Nig. But he — You spend your life spying on people, kid? Nuthin else to do. Saves thinking about grub. You hungry? Always hungry, Mista Jake. (That’s what the Chink calls me: Mista Jake.) So what they kick you out for? I — No further words. You cry too much, I bet. How’d you know that, man? I know these things. I can’t help it. That’s alright. Jake ain’t saying it’s wrong. Aren’t ya? the kid sounding suspicious. Nah, not me, kid. Everyone has a cry. You musta seen ole Jake here having a cry once or twice, eh? Jake half fishing but no less in earnest. Yeah, we seen you crying. But I’m still a tougharse, eh? You sure are! How do you know I am? Cause everyone’s heard of you, Mista Jake. (Is that right? Well, how about that. People who know who Jake Heke is.) But why’d you let the alkies kick you out if you’re tough as? It’s their place. I was just a boarder.

  Poor you.

  That got to Jake. He could’ve taken the boy in his arms and wept.

  What, they actually kick you when they booted you out? No way, boy. Anyone laid a hand on Jake Heke and he’s dead meat. Man, I thought so, the kid’s voice came excitedly from the half-in-shadow.

  Where you kids sleep? All over; in old houses no one lives in, on sheds on the sites, under bridges, in people’s backyards long as they don’t have a dog. Anywhere. Why don’t you build a hut like I did? Don’t know how. It’s easy. For you, maybe. For everyone. Warmer than sleeping out, boy. Ah, ya get used to it. Not me, kid, I never got used it; why I made myself a hut. But why’d you come here in the first place? My missus told me to get the hell out of it. Whyn’t you waste her then? Couldn’t. Why not? Did it too many times before. And my daughter, Grace, she’d just died; killed herself. Yeah, we heard. You heard everything about me? We heard a lot.

  So’s that why you didn’t waste your missus for kicking you out, only because of the girl — uh, your daughter — killing herself? That’s right. Otherwise, what, you’d’ve smashed her face in? Jake not knowing how he should answer that one, didn’t have an answer anyway. Nah, I got sick of hitting her. No good for the kids, either, Jake just said on instinct. And Cody stepped fully from the shadows.

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sp; They walked. Up and slowly down the winding concrete pathway lit every thirty of Jake Heke’s paces and, Jake’d read somewhere, a hundred and twenty acres of park. They talked. Trust grew as the hours went by and a chill came over the park, and so too did the moon disappear beyond a sky of cloud. So where you sleeping tonight? Oh, around. You can sleep in my hut you want — Suddenly the boy broke away in a sprint, stood off at a distance warning Jake: You touch me and I’ll get the cops. Jake confused at first: Huh …?

  You think I’ll … Chuckling. Kid, I’ll sleep outside you want. Yeah, and then what when I’m asleep? Someone done things to you, kid? None a your fuckin business. So Jake shrugged. Well, you know where I’ll be. Turned and walked off; kind of knowing the boy would follow. Smiling to himself, feeling fatherly.

  Later, they lay side by side under the warmth of several blankets and listened to the distant chime of the town clock striking one o’clock. And the boy yawned, which had Jake do the same.

  They could see just a glimpse of the stars, a tiny pocket from a cloudbreak. See them stars up there, boy? Your ancestors they used em to navigate when they came here on their canoes. Navigate? the boy asked at the same time he slipped his head over Jake’s outstretched arm. What’s navigate mean? It means to guide. The stars guided them. But don’t ask a man how, I’m juss dumb Jake Heke who don’t know much about this crazy damn life. Grinning. Yeah, and I’m just dumb Cody McClean who don’t know nuthin about nuthin.

  Cody snuggled into Jake. Your ole man used to cuddle ya, boy? Jake trying to sound gruff so the kid wouldn’t think he was a softie. No way, Hosay. He just beat me — and my brothers and sisters — and my old lady too, she got it worse. Had Jake wincing with guilt. Well, maybe he was angry at sumpthin, your old man, ya think?

  Angry? Mista, how angry are ya ta smash ya wife to pieces for just, you know, bein there? Nope, can’t tell me it was angry. Well, it musta been sumpthin, boy, or why’d he juss wanna smash you and ya mother? I dunno. Silence. Not even a breeze in their little world.

  Mista Jake? Don’t call me Mista, I ain’t a Mista. I’m juss Jake.

  Jake, I bet you cuddled your kids, did ya? (Nope. I didn’t. Man never thought to. Dunno why. Just never thought to.) Jake sighing, drawing the boy closer to him, sayin nothing.

  The boy’s sigh of contentment making a man feel warm inside. And the smells of their unwashed bodies barely registering.

  Gonna get us spare ribs tamorrow, boy. Thanks, Jake. And a coke. Ya like coke? Yeow. What about Christmas, Jake? You and, uh, me, we gonna be together then? Well, I don’t think I got nuthin else planned for that day, boy. Tousling the boy’s hair. What if I don’t like these rib things, c’n I have sumpthin else? Whatever ya want, kid. Whatever ya want. Long as I got enough left to get drunk on.

  Talking on and the town clock donging two. The boy yawning, Think I’ll go ta sleep now. Yep, me too. Goodnight, boy. But nothing comin back in reply. Kid …? What? I said g’night. But still nothing, and Jake thinking his usual: Fuckim, then. Then Cody askin: Uh, Jake? Ya won’t, y’know, like, do nuthin to me when I’m sleepin, will ya? Fear in his voice. Alarming Jake. Kid I — Having ta suck in a breath or a man’d’ve near sobbed. Won’t touch ya, Cody. Ya promise? Kid, I promise ya. (I promise ya. I’m not like that.)

  Sleep finding Jake some time after the boy’d gone to sleep. And dreaming, as always, except waking up during what was left of the night and being amazed each time that his dreams were alright. Not mad violent. For once. Violent, sure. Life is violent. But nuthin mad, and not ripping people’s eyes out and tearing their arms off and pulverising their faces till they were flat in his hand. Just ordinary ole fights. And winning em too.

  The youth with the tat-swollen face had a dream. It was as clear as the reality of sleeping in the sheetless bed with its stinking blankets; as clear as the floor covered aroundim in fellow Browns sleeping drunk, stoned, pilled, bombed outta their brains and snoring, whistling, wheezing, moaning, thrashing, crying out and even a scream coming from their fucked-up heads. Clearer even than that; for this dream had kinda like this wisdom he didn’t know. Like he was being told sumpthin but he couldn’t get the message.

  He dreamt he came upon several men with facial tats of exquisite design. They were beating someone. Over and over with steady, rhythmic punches going thud … thud … thud into the man’s face. Nig askin em: Are you my Maori ancestors? Because they looked so much like him, mirrors of himself. They paused from the beating to give a kid hostile looks, and one answered, No. We are not of your cowardly blood, for we know you are knowing fear. We are warriors.

  Nig gestured frantically toward his face, his new tattoos just like theirs and freshly swollen from doing. But when he looked into the eyes of them all at once, he saw that terrible glaze of reason gone. Quite gone. And their tattooed faces were deeply etched, whilst his manhood markings were but lightly marked. Then they had blue and white bandanas around suddenly wildly frizzy locks. And they kept punching this face till he rattled. Yes, rattled. Nig could hear it as clear as anything the broken shattered bones like bones in a jar, or a gourd made of skin.

  He asked them: But why are you doing this to him? And one replied: Because he is no longer one of us. And Nig said: Isn’t there a way he can make up? And the warrior said, No. He no longer thinks as we do. And for this he dies. And Nig said: For that you kill a man? You beat him till his shattered bones rattle inside him? Because he does not think like you? And they looked at him and laughed.

  He woke and wasn’t sure where he was, who he was; thinking, thinking hard on that dream; and those bods all around him, on the floor, in the opposite bed; light starting to come in through the curtainless windows; so he could make out the features, by and by, of the sprawled-out bros, pick the tat marks, the stars, the full facial of The Beast, the scowls most ofem wore, even in sleep. And he could still hear that awful rattling in his mind. And looking at his fellow gang bruthas and one sista over there curled up in the corner like a lil babe, and they coulda been the same gang/warriors as in the dream.

  So the sweat broke, because the fear was his own. And so was the face of the bone-rattling victim.

  18. And Still They Cometh

  Now Beth had got Mavis Tatana. Had Mavis place her great frame and singing voice amongst the people. Five nights a week down at the local community hall, which the people’d hardly ever used but had now painted and given new life to, the giant woman (with her unrequited singing talent and years of accumulated fat from years of wanting but unable to have because she was afflicted with the old Maori shyness) had the people in voice, unified voice, learning funeral hymns because, well, a woman figured they were a good starting medium in good old minor keys with a sense of worth to them that the people, these ordinary Pine Block people, could fix their simple outlook to.

  And you could go past the hall and see gatherings outside, even on bad weather days, of kids and adults and even the odd Brown Fist (pretending it was just by accident and that the sounds he was hearing sucked) see them stood there listening; and with looks on their faces that closer inspection revealed as almost joy — it was joy — and that quiet smile of pride in themselves, since it was someone they were related to, close to, inside there doing his and her bit to that wonderful sad singing. Brought ya out in blimmin goosepimples them hymns. And as for that Mavis, could she sing.

  Yet every day word was out that another Mavis’d been found amongst this Pine Block rabble, ya juss wouldn’t believe it. Even three months ago. Ta think that this was Pine Block. And ta think it was one woman started it. And ta think it was the wife of Jake Heke. Ya wouldn’t read about it. Not when ya, you know, added up what that poor woman’d gone through. And now this.

  Word going round all over Pine Block that something good was happening; you know, change. That change was happening to some of the people living there. And every Saturday, nine in the morning sharp, y’c’d see the crowd gathered at Number 27 Rimu, to listen to this high chief fulla, Te Tupaea, tellin the
people of their history. Our proud history. But that wasn’t all he was about neither: he told the people off, shouted and speeched atem to change their ways before the ways changed them; you know, in that funny poetic way he speaks. Nor was Chief into blamin people, the Pakeha, the system, the anything for the obvious Maori problems; you know, our drop in standards just in general. He didn’t care bout no damn white people ta blame, no damn systems meant to be stacked against a people, he just toldem: Work! We work our way out. Same way as we lazed ourselves into this mess.

  Every Saturday, man, y’c’d hear this dude. And could he dress. Different suit every week on a six-week cycle, the observant noticed. Pinstripes. He favoured dark pinstripes. And different ties. Stripy ones, ones with club emblems, like rugby clubs. And he’d turn up with someone well known, a local Maori fulla who’d become an All Black, a Maori lawyer, a Maori doctor, a Maori surgeon; and he’d prance these fullas out before the crowd there on Beth’s front lawn as well as her neighbours’, tellin the crowd, This is what you can achieve.

  And you sitting there, eh, and looking at these Maori fullas and the odd woman, and thinking, Yeah, maybe I can, you know, better myself. If those Maoris can do it, so can I. Not that Pine Block was running full with people all of a sudden wanting to educate emselves, play rugby for their country, things like that. Just this slow change comin ovah the place. And this sense that it wasn’t here today gone tamorrow. No. It gave you a feeling of permanence.

  And each Saturday you turned up or even went past, it seemed more and more faces you knew were up there when this paramount chief fulla was leadin em in their many hakas of the day. And ya’d think, Man, if Smoky can do it then why can’t I? But you know how a fulla is, he gets into these slack habits, can’t get off his arse, so another few Saturdays’d go by and there’d be several more faces you knew up there doin that neat cultural stuff. Their faces glowin with first a mixture of embarrassment and pride, then it was just pride. You could see it, plain as day.