The Bone Tiki

by David Hair

  ‘When I die, Matiu, you should have this tiki. Maybe you’ll know what to do with it. Because I don’t.’ Her eyes had welled up with tears, and she’d turned away into Hine’s arms and sobbed like a child. Soon afterwards Hine had driven Wai away to wherever it was she lived. He’d never seen her again, but Mat still remembered how confused and embarrassed he’d felt.

  So the tiki was rightfully his, whatever Tama and Puarata were cooking up. But how was he supposed to make them see that? He had no idea. And the way Puarata sounded made him feel almost too scared to try.

  2

  Puarata

  They drove some time in silence, until Tama Douglas decided to practise his courtroom skills by dissecting Mat’s most recent school report card. As if Mat was an opponent in court, Tama Douglas built up a head of steam with his questions. Gentle first, until his eyes glinted dangerously, his voice became sharper, his probing more intense. He started with the ‘results’ (the only good one was in art), then built up to ‘effort’. Mat wasn’t trying hard enough. Why not? Didn’t he understand that education was a privilege, that it would enable him to rise among his people? Did he want to be just another Maori drop-out? Mat didn’t finish his maths homework. Didn’t he understand his future was at stake? And why had he dropped out of the rugby team? Why were his best marks in art, of all things? What use was that? That was the past—his people needed men who would embrace the future. Didn’t he understand how much more he could earn in law, or accountancy, and how rare and therefore valued these skills were among Maori?

  Mat squirmed in the passenger seat and tried to explain himself. It was only Year 11, he was only 15, these things didn’t really matter. And what was the point in flogging yourself in subjects you knew you’d drop in sixth form? Why not concentrate on what you were good at? And why get yourself killed playing rugby in the meantime, he nearly added, but Tama Douglas had played for the Bay when he was younger, so he mumbled something about injuries. Mum had understood.

  They had left behind the sea and the vineyards, and were in farming country. At Te Hauke they followed a narrow road toward the sea again, toward Kahunui, the tiny settlement where Nanny Wai would be buried. Winding through parched hills, they began to follow slower cars, and Tama Douglas was distracted, concentrating on his driving. By the time they reached Kahunui, he was tapping impatiently on the steering-wheel, muttering to himself.

  Kahunui was little more than a dozen houses clustered around the marae, a run-down pub and a service-station-cum-store. The houses were timber, the paint mostly gone, and the wood bleached silver by the sun. The corrugated iron roofs looked rusty and most of the windows seemed to be broken. The sky was darkening visibly and the air much cooler as they crawled behind a line of vehicles, all heading for the marae gates. Beside the road there were abandoned cars, mostly old and decrepit. Mat wasn’t sure how closely he was related to Nanny Wai—maybe she wasn’t even a relation—but funerals always attracted lots of relatives who were so distant it was sometimes hard to know the connection. ‘Cousin’ seemed to pretty much cover it.

  Kahunui marae was in a wide flat valley flanked by low hills. It was small and simple—a carved red-painted arch led through a fence into a large open space, before a wharenui, a meeting house, painted cream with more red carvings around the entrance. Seen up close the red paint was peeling, but the carvings were expertly done—strong swirls and vivid snarling faces. At the very top was a tiki figure, similar to his carving. ‘You think it belongs to you?’ it seemed to sneer down at him. ‘Take it if you dare.’ On the lower, eastern side of the road was a stretch of pasture leading towards hills that were already brown, even in early summer. The winter had seen an unseasonal drought, and even the marshy low patches looked as if they’d turn to dust by Christmas. Cars spilled out of the car park and were parked on the side of the road for a kilometre either side of the gates.

  Finally they reached the entrance and were waved through when they were recognised. Tama’s car was the biggest and newest in the car park, and a place had been set aside for him. His arrival drew a mixture of resentful glares and reserved smiles. Mat had always known his father had enemies as well as friends. He just wished those enemies didn’t send their sons to Napier Boys High.

  As he got out of the car, Tama put his hand on Mat’s shoulder. His big face reasserted its usual pugnacious glare.

  ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.

  That school report is nowhere near good enough.’ He straightened, and they looked around them.

  A line of visitors to the marae were inching forward, to where half-a-dozen women stood, of varying ages, one as young as twelve by the look of her, the eldest grey-haired. They wore a motley mixture of traditional Maori woven clothing, and everyday Pakeha clothes. When the latest batch of visitors were within the gates, as one they began a wailing chant. There were words, but Mat didn’t understand them. He seldom felt embarrassed that he didn’t speak Maori well—he hadn’t wanted to learn it at all—but this was one of those times when he wished he knew it better. The song was a karakia, a greeting song, but a sad funerary one. The visitors were silent, flies buzzed about them and cicadas chirupped noisily, and the hum of cars still arriving provided an uneven backdrop to the melody. Mat shifted uncomfortably, but knew better than to not pay attention. There was an array of elders watching the new arrivals, and Mat knew they would give any disrespectful kids a clip around the ear if they felt it necessary.

  After the karakia had finished on a long mournful note, the visitors were led along the line of elders, who murmured kia-ora to each person, and bent forward to press noses in the hongi—the traditional Maori greeting. Mat found himself pressing noses with an array of dark wizened faces, some rheumy and shaking, some hard-looking and grim, most smiling and warm-eyed. He followed his father and noticed the respect and deference they all gave him, and felt a little pride in that.

  When they reached the end of the line of elders, they were free to mingle with everyone else. Tama tapped Mat on the shoulder. ‘I need to see some people. Don’t go far. I want you to meet someone. Be back at the gate in twenty minutes.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mat, as he slid out of his father’s grip. He could see Riki standing by a fence on his own, sucking on a stem of grass. He slouched over in his direction. His dad called something after him, but Mat pretended not to have heard.

  Riki was a lanky dark-skinned youth, the same age as Mat but a head and shoulders taller. He took nothing seriously and the teachers either loathed or despaired of him, but he always looked after Mat when it came to the big stuff.

  Riki pushed his wavy long hair out of his eyes and grinned. ‘Hey, Bro.’

  ‘Hi. What’s happening?’

  ‘Nothing much. You’ve missed all the wailing and singing. Most of the guys are down by the back field, helping open up the hangi. You hungry?’

  Mat’s mouth watered. The thought of fresh hangi food was enough to set a huge rumble off in his belly. Then he paused. ‘I should, you know, go and see Nanny Wai.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I’ll come along if you like. Make sure you don’t faint.’

  Mat looked to see if Riki was teasing.

  Riki had a determinedly serious look on his face. ‘Dead bodies can do that for some guys, eh. They get the jitters and start shaking, then—whomp—they just pass out.’

  Mat decided he was being teased. ‘Uh-huh. Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Some of the girls.’

  Mat frowned, ‘I can handle it, I’m not a girl.’

  ‘True,’ nodded Riki. ‘Although you play rugby like one,’ he added slyly.

  Mat flicked him a rude finger, they grinned at each other and sauntered off toward the meeting house.

  The entrance to the main meeting house, the whare runanga, was lined with carvings, like gargoyles on old English churches, there to protect from evil spirits. Somehow, in the odd light of this cloudy, sun-streaked day, they tingled with energy. Elders hunched past,
greeting each other gravely, casting warning glances at any teenagers making a noise. These elders would have known Nanny Wai. Mat ducked his head, and shuffled into the meeting house beside Riki.

  Inside it was dimly lit—a long rectangle with central pillars and carved panels in red and black. Stylised images of gods and serpentine taniwha with leering eyes and twisted claws crawled over the pillars. A low moaning funeral song, a waiata tangi, filled the hall, lending it a weird, ghost-ridden feeling. The air was musty and damp. The carvings seemed to blink and turn as Mat looked at them. The waiata came from an old woman, huddled in a richly feathered cloak, sitting beside the central pillar. But what drew Mat’s eye was the casket, on a table at the far end, where people gathered about the blanket-covered body of Nanny Wai. Mat swallowed a sour rush of spittle in his mouth. He’d seen dead people before, at other funerals, and he could never explain to himself what it was that he didn’t like about them. Maybe it was the emptiness, where life had been. Maybe the thought that death was somehow contagious. Or perhaps it was that one day he’d be like this too, laid out on a slab. He shivered involuntarily, wondering where that thought came from.

  Mat and Riki shuffled through the old people to the table. Mat saw Aunty Hinemoa standing beside the head of the table, her hand stroking Nanny Wai’s hair. She was short and plump, and always talked in a sing-song way, as though whoever she was addressing was six years old. He always felt embarrassed around her, felt she hadn’t noticed he’d grown up now, but she was kind. He remembered the dark voice of Puarata saying Not as senile as she seems, and was suddenly worried for her. He forced himself forward, while Riki hung back, uncomfortable with the solemnity. Aunty Hine smiled gently as he blinked back tears, and looked down at the still form of Nanny Wai.

  The first thing he noticed was her skin. It seemed waxy and false, empty of the vitality it had held. The impish smile was missing, the one that had made her seem like a girl trapped in an older, frustratingly frail, body. He blinked a sudden stinging tear, wanted to blurt out that this wasn’t her, that they’d made a mistake. But it was her, her eyes closed but so clearly not sleeping. So clearly empty. So clearly dead. He bowed his head, and tried to remember a prayer, but could only remember the ‘Hail Mary’, so he murmured that.

  When he looked up, his eyes fell upon a pale bone tiki on Nanny Wai’s breast. He remembered his father’s conversation with the dark-voiced man, and heard once more, almost as if she were speaking now. When I die, Matiu, you should have this tiki. Maybe you’ll know what to do with it. Because I don’t.

  He looked around. The old ones had drawn back, whispering among themselves. Riki was a few feet back, his head bowed. He coughed then looked at Aunty Hinemoa.

  ‘A man is coming, Aunty Hine. To take the tiki,’ he managed in a throaty whisper.

  She had looked softly at him as he began speaking. ‘What man, Mat?’

  ‘I think his name is Puarata.’ He saw her flinch. ‘He spoke to Dad on the phone, and I heard him.’

  ‘What did you hear, boy?’ asked Aunty Hine, with an uncharacteristic sharpness.

  ‘I heard them talking about claiming a tiki. About having legal papers. I think they mean this one. The one Nanny Wai said I would have when she died,’ he added with a lift of his chin.

  They both looked at the tiki. It was crudely shaped, and lacklustre. He’d seen beautiful tiki in museums, or worn by important Maori elders—greenstone tiki that held an inner light, with smooth, sinuous curves. Some were wearing them today. He wondered what was so important about this one, which seemed so ordinary…though something about it seemed old—very, very old. He realised with a sudden intuition that it was made of human bone and wondered whose bone, and why it had been chosen.

  Aunty Hine breathed softly, frowning. ‘What would he want with it? Wai never spoke of it having any great value. Minnie might know…but she’s not well…’ her voice faltered, as though a sudden fear had struck her. She looked uncertain, the way his father had, and Mat felt suddenly that everything around him was inside a fragile egg, and there was something outside, something he’d never been aware of, that could smash its way through the shell at any second, and change everything. It was like the feeling when his parents had separated, the feeling that a warm, snug blanket he’d grown so used to that he’d forgotten he was wearing it had been ripped away. Aunty Hine’s eyes danced around like a trapped thing, but then she seemed to draw something, some inner strength, from the carved figures on the walls, and she let out a long breath.

  ‘Thank you, child. You have done well. But he cannot enter here uninvited.’ She stroked his cheek and whispered, ‘And yes, Wai did want you to have it. She said so quite specifically. But you must keep it secret.’ She reached down, and tucked the tiki under Nanny Wai’s dress, where it was invisible.

  ‘Why don’t you spend a moment alone with Wai-aroha, paying your respects,’ she said aloud, and then turned away, blocking him from the view of the rest of the hall with her plump body. She began to speak in a low voice to a frail old man standing beside her, whose name Mat knew he should remember but couldn’t.

  Mat turned back to the casket, and hesitated, and then almost of its own volition his hand snaked out, slid under the fabric of the dress, brushing the cold flesh, and twisted around the tiki, lifting it out. It felt oddly warm in his grasp. Strangely, it didn’t seem to have been knotted properly, as he didn’t even need to lift it over Nanny Wai’s head. He slipped it into his pocket. As he looked up, he flinched, felt eyes like knives on him. But when he looked around, there was no one looking, not even Riki. Only the eyes of the carvings, that seemed to bore into him. Feeling dazed and strange, he stumbled past them, and out of the hall.

  ‘What was that all about?’ whispered Riki.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ Mat whispered back. He glanced at his watch. ‘I should get back to the gates.’

  Riki nodded. ‘Let’s go, man. This is way too heavy, y’know.’

  The late afternoon sun seemed dazzlingly bright after the heavy gloom inside. Riki was oddly solemn, and they pulled their shoes on in silence. Riki looked at him oddly, but before he could pull the tiki out and examine it, there was a stir at the gates. He saw his father waving impatiently to him. Beyond his black-suited father he could see a dark car with blackened windows pulling into the crowded parking lot, and a curious crowd beginning to gather. He felt a tingle of something like fear, and his hand sought the tiki in his pocket, squeezing it softly.

  He hurried toward the gate.

  As Mat joined the gathering crowd, he felt a ripple running through the gathered watchers. There were all sorts there—old people, children, tough-looking men in rough clothes, even patched gang-members—but none seemed immune to the chill that fell as the newcomers disembarked from the black cars.

  First came men in black suits. Maori, but dressed like bodyguards. There were eight of them, barely distinguishable from each other, looking out of place, but menacing, as if they’d just stepped off the set of a Hollywood thriller. His father grabbed his shoulder and pulled him forward, and he was suddenly painfully aware of eyes flickering toward him, and a quick muttering directed at Tama. Then a woman stepped from the last limousine, and everyone turned and drew a quick breath.

  She had short blonde hair, and a hard-faced coldness in her manner as she glanced around. Her short dress was brilliant red, and better suited to a nightclub than a funeral. She was clearly Pakeha, but had a small woman’s moko on her chin, worn like some fashion accessory. A low hiss of indignation rose among some of the women, then died as her eyes swept over them. There was something about her, a menacing aura you could almost touch, but then a darker figure rose behind her, and drew every eye. Mat knew instantly this was the man whose voice he had heard.

  He wasn’t as tall as his bodyguards, yet somehow he seemed to tower over them. Clad in an immaculate black business suit, his face was adorned with twisting moko that highlighted his strong jaw, and lent a menacing frame t
o his glittering eyes. His silver hair caught the last rays of the sun, and was washed with red. Mat heard an old man breathe ‘Puarata? But he is too young. He should be dead by now…’

  One of the elders, crotchety old Ranginui Hirini, stepped forward. ‘Puarata! You are not permitted here.’ Ranginui was an old man, and his voice seemed thin and weak. The blonde woman scowled, spoiling the glacial perfection of her face, but the silver-haired Puarata smiled, without humour.

  Mat’s father stepped forward. ‘That is an old quarrel, Ranginui. Mr Puarata is here, as a cousin of Wai-aroha, to mourn his old friend.’ He turned to Puarata. ‘As a member of the marae council, and chairman of the iwi trust, I welcome you to this marae.’ A low hiss ran around the gathering. Mat felt conspicuous at his side.

  ‘Puarata was no friend of Wai-aroha, Tama.’ Ranginui snapped. ‘He has been forbidden from this place, and every other marae in this area. That is our kawa, our custom. He may not enter.’

  Tama Douglas frowned. ‘I know of that. But I also know why—for a quarrel that happened forty years ago between Mr Puarata, and old Mac Hirini who is dead now. No one even remembers the reasons for the quarrel. Why would you deny a man the chance to farewell his kin? That is against everything we believe in.’

  A couple of the elders muttered agreement at this, and nodded their heads, but Ranginui flared angrily. ‘You show your true allegiances, Tama Douglas. You live in a different world to us, since you began your legal career. You do not understand. Hirini was a tohunga, a wise man, and he banned Puarata.’

  Tama flushed. ‘That is a quarrel for another time. This is about whanau, about iwi, and about grief for the loss of kin. Your arguments belong to another age.’

  ‘As do I,’ interjected Puarata in a deep melodious voice that made Mat shiver. ‘My time has long past, and I am near to the grave. I knew Wai-aroha well in her youth, but lost touch when she was…ill. I would pay my last respects to her, in peace, and without acrimony.’ He stepped toward Ranginui, and without effort seemed to dwarf the old man. ‘I have been invited by friends among you, and I would enter. But only if I can do so without conflict. Give me your consent, Ranginui. The welcome of such an honourable kaumatua would mean much to me.’