2023 literary awards winners
1st place Junior Student - Lanie by Kate Lindsay
Lanie got taken away from his parents when he was four months old. An elderly man and woman showed up one day and he was forced to leave his family. For some reason they called him Fred, Lanie begged to be greeted with his proper name but they never seemed to listen. His new bed was concrete in a rusty old shed. Every day he would help around the farm watching them milking the cows and feeding the chickens. One day he got to help round the sheep into another paddock. Lanie was doing amazing, all the sheep were locked up safely, but then he saw a lump of wool sitting alone in the paddock. He must had missed one. He ran over to the wool to see a tiny lamb sitting motionless. After a couple of nudges he came to the conclusion that the poor thing was dead. He picked the lamb up as gently as possible and took him back to the house. That night the man wasn’t impressed. While Lanie was trying to find a good position on the cold floor he entered the room furiously. Lanie jumped to his feet and the man pointed a big black stick at him. Lanie loved sticks, but something about this one seemed different. Trusting his gut he bolted out the door followed by ear blasting bangs!
Lanie ran and ran and ran. He finally stopped as the sun began to rise, sharing its place in the sky with vibrant yellows and reds. He found a spot under a tree and caught his breath. It was only when he saw all the people around him that he realized he was in a park. There were children with their parents having fun on the swings and slides. Lanie had abandoned his family, and it was all his fault. “Oi! Look mum!” said a little guy with brown hair. “Oo! Wow!! Don’t go near it though.” said the lady beside him with matching brown hair. What had Lanie done? Couldn’t they at least call him by his proper pronouns!? Ignoring the lady the boy skipped over to the tree and sat beside Lanie. “Hey!” Lanie greeted the boy. “Are you lost?” the boy replied. “Yeah, I ran away from home.” Lanie explains. “Mum! She should stay with us!” Lanie leaped to his feet and followed the boy and his mum home. He was introduced into the family as an equal. Don Markea! His new family didn’t like the name Lanie either. He lived with Bruce, Willow and little Harold. He proudly slept in a bed. Ate dinner with them. He wasn’t even forced to go to school! He stayed home while Harold went each day. Willow took him for ‘walks’ instead. His walk one time was extra exciting; a bird swooped right near his head. Amazed Lanie happily chased the bird all the way down to the river, but when he looked back Willow was gone.
“Ello boy.” Lanie quickly spun around to face a man and a really hairy child. “Hey you!” said the hairy child. “Uh… hey?” Lanie whispers. “What are you doing all alone boy?” the child asked rudely. “I’m not, my mum is right around here…” Lanies heart dropped as he realized he may never see her again. “You see,” Lanie continued. “I might be a little bit lost at the moment but that's okay, I will just go back. Nice meeting you!” The child rushed to block Lanies way back. “No my dad likes lost things.” he growled. “Oh.” Lanie glanced around looking for a way out. Suddenly he got picked up by the man and shoved in a bag. “HEY! LET ME OUT! WILLOW!” Lanie cried as loud as he could. The man shoved a hotdog into his mouth. It tasted weird though. Kind of funky.
Lanie woke up in a cage. Why was he in prison? He had been- “YO! YO! HEY NEWBIE, YOU UGLY” Wha? Lanie looked around trying to find this voice. “YO! YO! DOWN HERE BRO!” Lanie looked down but there was nothing there. “YAH OTHER WAY BUDDY.” Lanie looked up and- OMPH. “Owwww” Lanie moaned, another hairy child had jumped onto his leg. “WELCOME TO-” “Stop! Please, just stop yelling.” Lanie lay as motionless as the lamb. “I suppose I should get off you then chap.” the child whispers. “Yes, yes please.” Lanie gently stood up and stared the child down. “What do you want from me. Why are so hairy?” Lanie backed away ready to fight. “Oh! Newbie funny and a big dumbie!” the child lifted up one of his legs. “You really wanna fight huh?” Lanie lifts up his leg too, prepared to kick. “Oi! Privacy please. Go find your own corner.” Unexpectedly the child started releasing fluid from his stomach. “EW! What the-” Lanie leaps out of the way in astonishment. “Newbie new to being a dog too?” What in the world was a dog? “A what-” “Hang on let me finish my wee.” The liquid like pineapple juice stopped flowing out of the child and he stood normally. “Boy. You don’t know what you are.?” “Well you have called me a lot of things… let me guess dog is another insult.” “No my child! Dog is a lifestyle! It’s what our kind our called! We are the lowlife! Not as low as rats but we protect our humans who life forever!” Lanie tipped his head to the side. “I believe it’s live forever, not life… and you mean the hairy children type?” “You calling me hairy!? Look at yourself!” For once in his life he looked down at his legs. He knew he was shorter. He knew he was different. But he- “SEE! YOU’RE A HAIRY OLD CHAP TOO! BAHHA!” he laughed and laughed, but Lanie felt empty for once. “They hate us?” he asked gloomly. “Who hate who?” he asked taking a break from laughing. “My mum, Willow, Bruce, Harold, the old man and woman. I neber got treated fairly. They never called me by my name.” After that statement the laughing continued. “BRO! They can’t hear you. How are they supposed to know your name?” “THEY CAN”T HEAR ME?” “How come you can yell? And my names Jason, Jason Hatter. It doesn’t matter what you are here. Dog, human, rat. Everyone is destined for doom here. This is where lost dogs go. You get adopted or killed.” Laine waited in deep thought. He exclaimed to Jason all about his life. No details were missed. It was nice to finally talk to someone. “Okay talkative guy, I’ll be off you take care. The show starts in 2 minutes.” Jason left by jumping over the fence into the other cage. Laine sat silently. All this time. All this time he was just… there? Abruptly an elderly man bursted through the door. A familiar elderly man. He held a black stick in his hand. A familiar black stick. “I would like a little dog!” he yelled to a guy down the hall. He pushed his black stick onto the ground. It must have been updated. “HERE I AM! HERE IS YOUR LITTLE DOG!” Laine screamed at jumped at the fence. “I AM YOUR DOG!” Jason growled next door, “Mate… let some of us beg too!” All the dogs in nearby kennels barked as the man walked by. “Guys!” Laine shouted to the others. “I know that stick. It isn’t one you want to play with. “Yes I know… it’s a boring stick.” replied Jason. Laine rolled his eyes, took a deep breath and using all his strength he managed to lunge over the gate. Catapulting right onto the man. “HELP! THE STUPID DOG TOOK MY WALKING STICK.” the man cried. Laine wasn’t going to stop he ran to the exit clutching the black stick tightly in his mouth. “GO KIDDO GO!” yelled Jason through the gate. “Come on Jason! Come with me!” Laine panted but he had no time to wait. He dashed through the halls until making it out of building through a small open window. If this stick was anything like the one he experienced when he was a kid then it was going to start making a racket. He dropped it and ran away, with no noises to be heard. He saved them! Laine was a hero! Maybe they would stick a photo of him in the newspaper! Front page!! As he ran through the valleys he thought of all the possibilities he now has. “I am a dog!” he kept saying to himself. Running was all he had ever done in his life. He ran away from home, ran away from bad guys, ran for fun, and he was running now! Immediately Laine stopped running. Something deep inside of him said he had to save Jason. He was still locked up. He charged back the way he came. “I’M COMING JASON!” he screamed. He jumped straight through the window to Jason's cage. “Buddy! Why are you here!? Go! Go to your loving family.! WATCH OUT BEHIND YOU!” Laine got scooped up and let’s just say he got taken up to heaven. Sorry forgot to say. It’s me Jason telling this story. You may have remembered he told me everything before. Well, I have nothing else to add. He was quite a noble chap. Came back for me and stuff. Oh and for all my adoring fans worried about me, I am fine. The guy trying to adopt one of us, the one that Laine stole the walking stick from? He adopted me. But Laine taught me that family isn’t always by blood.
Lanie ran and ran and ran. He finally stopped as the sun began to rise, sharing its place in the sky with vibrant yellows and reds. He found a spot under a tree and caught his breath. It was only when he saw all the people around him that he realized he was in a park. There were children with their parents having fun on the swings and slides. Lanie had abandoned his family, and it was all his fault. “Oi! Look mum!” said a little guy with brown hair. “Oo! Wow!! Don’t go near it though.” said the lady beside him with matching brown hair. What had Lanie done? Couldn’t they at least call him by his proper pronouns!? Ignoring the lady the boy skipped over to the tree and sat beside Lanie. “Hey!” Lanie greeted the boy. “Are you lost?” the boy replied. “Yeah, I ran away from home.” Lanie explains. “Mum! She should stay with us!” Lanie leaped to his feet and followed the boy and his mum home. He was introduced into the family as an equal. Don Markea! His new family didn’t like the name Lanie either. He lived with Bruce, Willow and little Harold. He proudly slept in a bed. Ate dinner with them. He wasn’t even forced to go to school! He stayed home while Harold went each day. Willow took him for ‘walks’ instead. His walk one time was extra exciting; a bird swooped right near his head. Amazed Lanie happily chased the bird all the way down to the river, but when he looked back Willow was gone.
“Ello boy.” Lanie quickly spun around to face a man and a really hairy child. “Hey you!” said the hairy child. “Uh… hey?” Lanie whispers. “What are you doing all alone boy?” the child asked rudely. “I’m not, my mum is right around here…” Lanies heart dropped as he realized he may never see her again. “You see,” Lanie continued. “I might be a little bit lost at the moment but that's okay, I will just go back. Nice meeting you!” The child rushed to block Lanies way back. “No my dad likes lost things.” he growled. “Oh.” Lanie glanced around looking for a way out. Suddenly he got picked up by the man and shoved in a bag. “HEY! LET ME OUT! WILLOW!” Lanie cried as loud as he could. The man shoved a hotdog into his mouth. It tasted weird though. Kind of funky.
Lanie woke up in a cage. Why was he in prison? He had been- “YO! YO! HEY NEWBIE, YOU UGLY” Wha? Lanie looked around trying to find this voice. “YO! YO! DOWN HERE BRO!” Lanie looked down but there was nothing there. “YAH OTHER WAY BUDDY.” Lanie looked up and- OMPH. “Owwww” Lanie moaned, another hairy child had jumped onto his leg. “WELCOME TO-” “Stop! Please, just stop yelling.” Lanie lay as motionless as the lamb. “I suppose I should get off you then chap.” the child whispers. “Yes, yes please.” Lanie gently stood up and stared the child down. “What do you want from me. Why are so hairy?” Lanie backed away ready to fight. “Oh! Newbie funny and a big dumbie!” the child lifted up one of his legs. “You really wanna fight huh?” Lanie lifts up his leg too, prepared to kick. “Oi! Privacy please. Go find your own corner.” Unexpectedly the child started releasing fluid from his stomach. “EW! What the-” Lanie leaps out of the way in astonishment. “Newbie new to being a dog too?” What in the world was a dog? “A what-” “Hang on let me finish my wee.” The liquid like pineapple juice stopped flowing out of the child and he stood normally. “Boy. You don’t know what you are.?” “Well you have called me a lot of things… let me guess dog is another insult.” “No my child! Dog is a lifestyle! It’s what our kind our called! We are the lowlife! Not as low as rats but we protect our humans who life forever!” Lanie tipped his head to the side. “I believe it’s live forever, not life… and you mean the hairy children type?” “You calling me hairy!? Look at yourself!” For once in his life he looked down at his legs. He knew he was shorter. He knew he was different. But he- “SEE! YOU’RE A HAIRY OLD CHAP TOO! BAHHA!” he laughed and laughed, but Lanie felt empty for once. “They hate us?” he asked gloomly. “Who hate who?” he asked taking a break from laughing. “My mum, Willow, Bruce, Harold, the old man and woman. I neber got treated fairly. They never called me by my name.” After that statement the laughing continued. “BRO! They can’t hear you. How are they supposed to know your name?” “THEY CAN”T HEAR ME?” “How come you can yell? And my names Jason, Jason Hatter. It doesn’t matter what you are here. Dog, human, rat. Everyone is destined for doom here. This is where lost dogs go. You get adopted or killed.” Laine waited in deep thought. He exclaimed to Jason all about his life. No details were missed. It was nice to finally talk to someone. “Okay talkative guy, I’ll be off you take care. The show starts in 2 minutes.” Jason left by jumping over the fence into the other cage. Laine sat silently. All this time. All this time he was just… there? Abruptly an elderly man bursted through the door. A familiar elderly man. He held a black stick in his hand. A familiar black stick. “I would like a little dog!” he yelled to a guy down the hall. He pushed his black stick onto the ground. It must have been updated. “HERE I AM! HERE IS YOUR LITTLE DOG!” Laine screamed at jumped at the fence. “I AM YOUR DOG!” Jason growled next door, “Mate… let some of us beg too!” All the dogs in nearby kennels barked as the man walked by. “Guys!” Laine shouted to the others. “I know that stick. It isn’t one you want to play with. “Yes I know… it’s a boring stick.” replied Jason. Laine rolled his eyes, took a deep breath and using all his strength he managed to lunge over the gate. Catapulting right onto the man. “HELP! THE STUPID DOG TOOK MY WALKING STICK.” the man cried. Laine wasn’t going to stop he ran to the exit clutching the black stick tightly in his mouth. “GO KIDDO GO!” yelled Jason through the gate. “Come on Jason! Come with me!” Laine panted but he had no time to wait. He dashed through the halls until making it out of building through a small open window. If this stick was anything like the one he experienced when he was a kid then it was going to start making a racket. He dropped it and ran away, with no noises to be heard. He saved them! Laine was a hero! Maybe they would stick a photo of him in the newspaper! Front page!! As he ran through the valleys he thought of all the possibilities he now has. “I am a dog!” he kept saying to himself. Running was all he had ever done in his life. He ran away from home, ran away from bad guys, ran for fun, and he was running now! Immediately Laine stopped running. Something deep inside of him said he had to save Jason. He was still locked up. He charged back the way he came. “I’M COMING JASON!” he screamed. He jumped straight through the window to Jason's cage. “Buddy! Why are you here!? Go! Go to your loving family.! WATCH OUT BEHIND YOU!” Laine got scooped up and let’s just say he got taken up to heaven. Sorry forgot to say. It’s me Jason telling this story. You may have remembered he told me everything before. Well, I have nothing else to add. He was quite a noble chap. Came back for me and stuff. Oh and for all my adoring fans worried about me, I am fine. The guy trying to adopt one of us, the one that Laine stole the walking stick from? He adopted me. But Laine taught me that family isn’t always by blood.
1st Place Senior Student - Hine-nui - te -po by Reiyana Pullen
My Koro is now in the care of Hine-nui-te-po. The endless nights with restless sleep have come to an end. Koro, I am now left with the memories of your presence and thoughts that are so emotionally overwhelming. You have given me strength to hold a spiritual connection with the energy you left behind in this living world, Te Ao Marama, and with your energy in Te Rerenga-Wairua where your soul has gone to rest in our ancient homeland, Hawaiki.
Haere, haere, haere atu ra.
At first, I couldn’t really understand what was happening with my Koro but soon I picked up. After all, I had only been a little girl. At night, I would rest my head on his stiff arm, fiddling with the pounamu that rested against my brown chest as I hummed familiar waiata. I had hoped that by humming his favourite songs he would remember them and have enough energy to sing with me, but it never seemed to work. If he was passing, who would then play the role of a husband, a father and a koro in my whānau? I couldn’t imagine him gone from this world and I know my Nan could never see herself loving another man as much as she loved my Koro.
My Koro had been sick for weeks. The first two weeks of misery went by fast. My Nan Kataraina spoon-fed him kumarahou, just as he did for his mother when she was sick. He told us that growing up, kumarahou was known as a healing food, as it was easy to digest and featured natural tinctures which helped the sick gain energy once again. My Nan began contacting our local tohunga, back in Porangahau, after noticing there was no change in how sick he was. She was desperately in need of help. The tohunga continued chanting karakia over the phone for the following two weeks. I knew being far from home didn’t help our situation, but my Koro knew he was passing, and if he was passing, he wanted to be buried down the road in the local urupa with his mama, Te Ao Reremoana, and his papa, John Black. My heart would sink as I never imagined him walking again. He hadn’t left his bed for four weeks. My Nan was exhausted, and we could all see it.
A week later his time came. It felt weird being in a room with him. He looked different, as if his soul hadn’t left the room. His face looked lifeless but at peace. My Nan sloped in her chair. She sat staring at my Koro. My mother cried with her and with my uncles, aunties and cousins, all standing around him. Nobody said a word. I finally brought myself to talk to him. After weeks of not knowing how to feel or what to say, the words began shooting around in my mind. I could still feel his presence. I bought my face close to his. There was an awkward silence. After the sniffling and wailing had come to an end, all eyes were on me.
“Koro, you are now a child of Hine-nui-te-po. She will look after you now. You are no longer in pain, you are at peace,” I began whispering, feeling the tears dropping off my face onto his. I placed my forehead against his. “Say hello to Uncle Charlie for me, and Nanny Donna.” Our noses touched. “There’s not a day that will go by without me remembering the virtues and values you have taught me. I will never forget the sound of your voice, the way you always got up at 6 o’clock to make your mokos’ porridge, the long hours you spent speaking on the marae. I will never forget you. I promise to carry myself in a manner I see you carrying yourself in, head high, full of pride and mana. Every breath I take, I’ll take it for you.” I acknowledge my koro one last time, inhaling the dull air full of his spiritual presence before I give him one last hongi. That was my way of saying I’m still here, and I will live for you. I drag my feet from the room. “Goodbye Koro.”
We farewelled him through a haka at his tangi. My uncle Tipere was the kaea. I had told my uncle I got goosebumps whilst doing the haka. He told me that was my wairua intertwining with the haka. I always saw him as a reflection of my koro, a strong but humble man. He uses very specific words, and the way he explains things reminds me of what Koro was like.
A week after the tangi we hired a bus and caught a ferry. We were going back to Porangahau for Koro’s unveiling. There were 28 of us, so some of us had to go in cars. We took our favourite, most precious photo of him with us, which would be framed onto the wall next to the other tipuna in our marae. It was a long trip, but we all somehow managed to bind closer to each other through the love of Koro. What was assumed to be a quiet and sad trip turned into a trip filled with storytelling, aroha and waiata. So much waiata. We laughed, we cried and suddenly he became a memory stored in my mind. He left me a loving whanau. He left me knowledge. He taught us wrong from right. He took us into the Urewera and told us stories about Tane Māhuta. He laid with us under the stars and told us stories about Matariki and her children. He taught us to only take enough kaimoana to feed our family. He taught us to look after the whenua. He spent hours acknowledging every single atua you can name. He taught us basic manners. He taught us tapu from noa. I may have thought he hadn’t taught me much, but now I know that his knowledge was stored in me right from the moment he gave me a hongi at birth.
Te Reo kupu to Reo Pakeha/ Translation:
Hine-nui-te-po= Goddess who looks after the deceased
Te Ao Marama= The World of the living
Te Rerenga-wairua= Cape Rerenga
Hawaiki= Where Polynesians came from
Haere haere haere atu ra= Goodbye (used for deceased)
Koro/ Koroua= Grandpa
Pounamu= Greenstone
Kumarahou= A form of plant
Tohunga= Priest
Porangahau= East Coast
Urupa= Graveyard
Mama/ Papa= Mum/ Dad
Moko/ Mokopuna= Grandchildren
Marae= Traditional Maori meeting house
Mana= Honour
Tangi= Funeral/ cry
Hongi= Two noses are pressed against each other to acknowledge each other
Haka= NOT a war dance.
Wairua= Spirit
Kaea= Leader for a waiata/ haka
Tipuna= Our people who passed before us
Aroha= Love
Waiata= Song/ songs
Whanau= Family
Urewera= Bush/ forest
Tane Mahuta= God of the forests
Matariki= Mother cluster of stars
Kaimoana= Seafood
Whenua= Land
Atua= God/ gods
Tapu= Sacred
Noa= Neutral
Haere, haere, haere atu ra.
At first, I couldn’t really understand what was happening with my Koro but soon I picked up. After all, I had only been a little girl. At night, I would rest my head on his stiff arm, fiddling with the pounamu that rested against my brown chest as I hummed familiar waiata. I had hoped that by humming his favourite songs he would remember them and have enough energy to sing with me, but it never seemed to work. If he was passing, who would then play the role of a husband, a father and a koro in my whānau? I couldn’t imagine him gone from this world and I know my Nan could never see herself loving another man as much as she loved my Koro.
My Koro had been sick for weeks. The first two weeks of misery went by fast. My Nan Kataraina spoon-fed him kumarahou, just as he did for his mother when she was sick. He told us that growing up, kumarahou was known as a healing food, as it was easy to digest and featured natural tinctures which helped the sick gain energy once again. My Nan began contacting our local tohunga, back in Porangahau, after noticing there was no change in how sick he was. She was desperately in need of help. The tohunga continued chanting karakia over the phone for the following two weeks. I knew being far from home didn’t help our situation, but my Koro knew he was passing, and if he was passing, he wanted to be buried down the road in the local urupa with his mama, Te Ao Reremoana, and his papa, John Black. My heart would sink as I never imagined him walking again. He hadn’t left his bed for four weeks. My Nan was exhausted, and we could all see it.
A week later his time came. It felt weird being in a room with him. He looked different, as if his soul hadn’t left the room. His face looked lifeless but at peace. My Nan sloped in her chair. She sat staring at my Koro. My mother cried with her and with my uncles, aunties and cousins, all standing around him. Nobody said a word. I finally brought myself to talk to him. After weeks of not knowing how to feel or what to say, the words began shooting around in my mind. I could still feel his presence. I bought my face close to his. There was an awkward silence. After the sniffling and wailing had come to an end, all eyes were on me.
“Koro, you are now a child of Hine-nui-te-po. She will look after you now. You are no longer in pain, you are at peace,” I began whispering, feeling the tears dropping off my face onto his. I placed my forehead against his. “Say hello to Uncle Charlie for me, and Nanny Donna.” Our noses touched. “There’s not a day that will go by without me remembering the virtues and values you have taught me. I will never forget the sound of your voice, the way you always got up at 6 o’clock to make your mokos’ porridge, the long hours you spent speaking on the marae. I will never forget you. I promise to carry myself in a manner I see you carrying yourself in, head high, full of pride and mana. Every breath I take, I’ll take it for you.” I acknowledge my koro one last time, inhaling the dull air full of his spiritual presence before I give him one last hongi. That was my way of saying I’m still here, and I will live for you. I drag my feet from the room. “Goodbye Koro.”
We farewelled him through a haka at his tangi. My uncle Tipere was the kaea. I had told my uncle I got goosebumps whilst doing the haka. He told me that was my wairua intertwining with the haka. I always saw him as a reflection of my koro, a strong but humble man. He uses very specific words, and the way he explains things reminds me of what Koro was like.
A week after the tangi we hired a bus and caught a ferry. We were going back to Porangahau for Koro’s unveiling. There were 28 of us, so some of us had to go in cars. We took our favourite, most precious photo of him with us, which would be framed onto the wall next to the other tipuna in our marae. It was a long trip, but we all somehow managed to bind closer to each other through the love of Koro. What was assumed to be a quiet and sad trip turned into a trip filled with storytelling, aroha and waiata. So much waiata. We laughed, we cried and suddenly he became a memory stored in my mind. He left me a loving whanau. He left me knowledge. He taught us wrong from right. He took us into the Urewera and told us stories about Tane Māhuta. He laid with us under the stars and told us stories about Matariki and her children. He taught us to only take enough kaimoana to feed our family. He taught us to look after the whenua. He spent hours acknowledging every single atua you can name. He taught us basic manners. He taught us tapu from noa. I may have thought he hadn’t taught me much, but now I know that his knowledge was stored in me right from the moment he gave me a hongi at birth.
Te Reo kupu to Reo Pakeha/ Translation:
Hine-nui-te-po= Goddess who looks after the deceased
Te Ao Marama= The World of the living
Te Rerenga-wairua= Cape Rerenga
Hawaiki= Where Polynesians came from
Haere haere haere atu ra= Goodbye (used for deceased)
Koro/ Koroua= Grandpa
Pounamu= Greenstone
Kumarahou= A form of plant
Tohunga= Priest
Porangahau= East Coast
Urupa= Graveyard
Mama/ Papa= Mum/ Dad
Moko/ Mokopuna= Grandchildren
Marae= Traditional Maori meeting house
Mana= Honour
Tangi= Funeral/ cry
Hongi= Two noses are pressed against each other to acknowledge each other
Haka= NOT a war dance.
Wairua= Spirit
Kaea= Leader for a waiata/ haka
Tipuna= Our people who passed before us
Aroha= Love
Waiata= Song/ songs
Whanau= Family
Urewera= Bush/ forest
Tane Mahuta= God of the forests
Matariki= Mother cluster of stars
Kaimoana= Seafood
Whenua= Land
Atua= God/ gods
Tapu= Sacred
Noa= Neutral
1st Place adult - going home by Mary mclean
Every morning at dawn, Josh would climb the hill above his house and beyond the fishing village, to sniff the wind, listen to the sea and regard the sky. He never stayed long. In old age he felt in his bones what the day would bring. His other senses merely confirmed it. Coming down took longer than the ascent. He was not so sure about his balance and toe hold. Jim had been right to sell the quota. His fishing days were over. But it was hard to change the habits of a lifetime. In Summer, Maggie used to growl. He’d manage to get out of bed without disturbing her, but she always woke when he returned. He half expected to hear her grumbling; demanding to know, in her smoke-roughened voice, who, in their right mind would want to get up at 4.30 in the morning. It was Autumn now, and a respectable hour; already he could see smoke rising from a few chimneys.
Maggie had been dead for nigh on two years, but he knew it was his lighting the range that disturbed her. From habit he put newspaper on top, so that he could lift the lid of the firebox and put it down without banging. The oven door was trickier; it always squeaked when he opened it to collect the kindling drying there overnight. He crumpled more newspaper, added the kindling, retrieved the top with the poker and was rewarded with an instant blaze. He left the damper out, while he carefully tore the remaining newspaper into small squares. Later he would take them to the dunny and add them to those already speared on to a 6 inch nail. He knew you could buy toilet paper but that felt extravagent ans wasteful. He added manuka sticks blackened by blight, and turned the damper half back. The manuka burned so fiercely there was no point in having half it go up the chimney. Then he filled the kettle. He still marveled at running water and a sink; in fact felt somewhat guilty that he’d let Maggie use the tap under the tank for so long. When the crayfish had boomed he bought her a washing machine as well. Her delight had been palpable. There was no room in the house, so they put it in the wash-house where the tin bath still stood beside the copper. It wasn’t far to run an extension cord from the house and a hose from the tank, the way they always used to, cold though it was in Winter. And the copper was still useful for boiling up a ham though he hadn't been pig hunting for years. Still, he remembered the thrill of the chase, the skill of the dogs and the fearsome tusks of the boars.
He added split kamahi to the manuka in the range and made his first brew from the boiling water. A teaspoon for him, one for Maggie and one for the pot. It was lethal, strong, satisfying The rest of the boiling water he added to the rolled oats left soaking overnight. It would simmer nicely on the kamahi.
In Winter, he and Maggie used to bank up the range with iron wood even though they knew using the Rata would burn the grate out out every two or three years. He wouldn’t use it now even if he could find some. He blamed the ‘possums for its destruction. Yet, they’d been a livelihood too, when the fishing was lean and the Southern storms raged. There was one brewing now, though the sky was clear above the mist rising off the bush and the sea was calm. He poured his porridge and set the pot to soak. He placed two spoonfuls of golden syrup on the cooked oats and watched it spread to the rim of the plate and then dolloped some cream in the centre.
With a storm coming he should pick the apples. He couldn’t reach them all, and didn’t want to bruise them by shaking the branches. He’d have to use the rake, even though some of the branches might break as he pulled the heavy fruited ones down. But they were old trees and Winter frosts and winds would probably destroy some anyway. He remembered Maggie’s jam. How she filled discarded beer bottles after she’d taken the tops off with hot looped wire, and then covered the jam with brown paper and paste. He’d tried with the plums this year. They were such a bumper crop, but sour and mostly stone. He’d filled a stone crock with the jam but it went mouldy, so he’d given it to Jim for his Kuni Kuni pigs. Jim said the pigs got drunk and thought it funny, but Josh felt demeaned. He was glad he hadn’t seen it. He’d offered the pears to Jim too. He hated seeing them rotting on the ground. Jim’s missus got a few but said they were too much trouble to preserve; all that peeling and they went brown. He’d tried to tell her about placing them in salted water, but she wasn’t interested. She had a freezer too, and was quick enough to store away the fish he gave her on the few occasions he still went out. Mutton birds too, though he doubted he’d go to the Titi islands again. The young ones weren’t that interested in the old stories and you had to be quick to grasp the young birds in their burrows. Too often he’d been shoved aside.
So he’d pick the apples today; they’d last at least until Spring. But first he must shut the calf up so he could milk the cow tonight. Come Winter, the calf would be weaned and the cow dry itself off. He was reluctant to do without the cream, though he supposed he could buy some, tasteless and watery as it was, just like the bought milk and butter which didn't compare with the surplus cream they churned.
He’d do some hoeing later and give some cabbages and caulis to Jim’s missus. Pity how they all came on at once. He was about to scrape out the porridge pot for the hens when he heard the door knob rattle. Jim perhaps, though it was early for him. Since they’d sold the fishing quota he’d not had much motivation to rise early. But Ngai Tahu paid a good price, even if, as he supposed, Jim’s missus had spent most of it. The door opened. Not Jim. He smelled a woman’s scent. Not often Jim’s missus came here.
But the voice when it boomed, lacked the soft drawl of the Deep South. It was sharp, accusing, authoritative.
“Oh, so you’re up. Well, we’ll just put your breakfast here on the side table. Fancy not having breakfast in bed when you’ve got the chance!”
She moved to the trolley, ladled some porridge onto a plate, and placed it on a tray which already held toast, marmalade, margarine, milk and sugar.
“Now, you’re a tea, not a coffee person, aren’t you. Come away from that window and sit at the table. My, but its cold in here. Why on earth have you opened the window? You’ll catch your death of cold.”
She moved to shut it and turned on the heater.
“If you must get up early in the morning, at least turn the heater on. Look! I’ve shown you a dozen times; just turn the knob, so. Now you have your breakfast and mind you don’t spill it on your clothes. We don’t want more laundry. I’ll be back to shower you. You’re rostered third but seeing that I’ll have to undress you again, we’ll make you first. It’s your turn for the en suite anyway and you’ll have time to get to the lounge before the newspaper reading and morning tea. There’s quoits to play before lunch.”
And when there was no response.”Lost your tongue have you?
Oh well, after lunch and after your snooze there’s Housie. You’ll have to speak up then if you want to win!”
Josh had not moved from the window.
“Come on. Chop, chop! Don’t forget there’s Happy Hour before dinner today, and then I bet you’ll be ready to be tucked up before seven, getting up early the way you do.”
She took his arm, moved him forcibly to the table and with a swish of skirts was gone.
Josh stared at the porridge. It was blue round the edges and the milk in the jug was blue too. Fat free they called it. Kept your cholesterol down. Skim milk, he called it. Fed it to the pigs. The toast was cold and soggy even with the dyed, yellow spread. No flavour and he'd never cared for marmalade. Maggie made Gooseberry Marmalade once but they hadn't really liked it. The tartness of the lemons somehow detracted from the tang of the gooseberries. He stirred his tea. That at least was black and hot.
The room was stuffy. He'd always believed heaters dried out the air and made you breathless. But the outside doors were locked when at daybreak, he'd tried to sniff the wind, strain to hear the sea, regard the sky. He and Maggie never locked the door, never thought of doing so. In fact they'd never owned a key. And now that the staff were here this place would be unlocked too.
Cautiously he opened his own door and looked along the corridor. The trolley was abandoned waiting for the trays to be collected All the other doors were closed. There was no one in sight. He shuffled towards the outside entrance then felt his adrenaline surge as he stepped out of the building. He sniffed deeply. No salt, no briny and the sky seemed black. That's right he'd sensed a storm coming. He tried to focus on a tree but it blurred then cleared, and there in the tree like a Cheshire cat was Maggie's face grinning at him. It took a lot to make Maggie smile. He looked for the rest of her stumbliing forward and as he fell he saw her hands, brown splotched and swollen knuckled. She was beckoning. Then he heard her voice, strident as ever.
“This way, you silly old B.” He rushed to meet her.
Further off there were other voices.
“Oh dear! He's fallen! “Can you feel a pulse?” “Turn him over. Mouth to mouth.”
But louder, stronger, sweeter this time was Maggie's voice hammering in his ears.
“This way. Don't dilly dally around. Come On!”
Above her voice was a roaring like the wind and the waves in a Southern storm.
He looked up to the sky, to Maggie's Cheshire grin.
He was going home.
Maggie had been dead for nigh on two years, but he knew it was his lighting the range that disturbed her. From habit he put newspaper on top, so that he could lift the lid of the firebox and put it down without banging. The oven door was trickier; it always squeaked when he opened it to collect the kindling drying there overnight. He crumpled more newspaper, added the kindling, retrieved the top with the poker and was rewarded with an instant blaze. He left the damper out, while he carefully tore the remaining newspaper into small squares. Later he would take them to the dunny and add them to those already speared on to a 6 inch nail. He knew you could buy toilet paper but that felt extravagent ans wasteful. He added manuka sticks blackened by blight, and turned the damper half back. The manuka burned so fiercely there was no point in having half it go up the chimney. Then he filled the kettle. He still marveled at running water and a sink; in fact felt somewhat guilty that he’d let Maggie use the tap under the tank for so long. When the crayfish had boomed he bought her a washing machine as well. Her delight had been palpable. There was no room in the house, so they put it in the wash-house where the tin bath still stood beside the copper. It wasn’t far to run an extension cord from the house and a hose from the tank, the way they always used to, cold though it was in Winter. And the copper was still useful for boiling up a ham though he hadn't been pig hunting for years. Still, he remembered the thrill of the chase, the skill of the dogs and the fearsome tusks of the boars.
He added split kamahi to the manuka in the range and made his first brew from the boiling water. A teaspoon for him, one for Maggie and one for the pot. It was lethal, strong, satisfying The rest of the boiling water he added to the rolled oats left soaking overnight. It would simmer nicely on the kamahi.
In Winter, he and Maggie used to bank up the range with iron wood even though they knew using the Rata would burn the grate out out every two or three years. He wouldn’t use it now even if he could find some. He blamed the ‘possums for its destruction. Yet, they’d been a livelihood too, when the fishing was lean and the Southern storms raged. There was one brewing now, though the sky was clear above the mist rising off the bush and the sea was calm. He poured his porridge and set the pot to soak. He placed two spoonfuls of golden syrup on the cooked oats and watched it spread to the rim of the plate and then dolloped some cream in the centre.
With a storm coming he should pick the apples. He couldn’t reach them all, and didn’t want to bruise them by shaking the branches. He’d have to use the rake, even though some of the branches might break as he pulled the heavy fruited ones down. But they were old trees and Winter frosts and winds would probably destroy some anyway. He remembered Maggie’s jam. How she filled discarded beer bottles after she’d taken the tops off with hot looped wire, and then covered the jam with brown paper and paste. He’d tried with the plums this year. They were such a bumper crop, but sour and mostly stone. He’d filled a stone crock with the jam but it went mouldy, so he’d given it to Jim for his Kuni Kuni pigs. Jim said the pigs got drunk and thought it funny, but Josh felt demeaned. He was glad he hadn’t seen it. He’d offered the pears to Jim too. He hated seeing them rotting on the ground. Jim’s missus got a few but said they were too much trouble to preserve; all that peeling and they went brown. He’d tried to tell her about placing them in salted water, but she wasn’t interested. She had a freezer too, and was quick enough to store away the fish he gave her on the few occasions he still went out. Mutton birds too, though he doubted he’d go to the Titi islands again. The young ones weren’t that interested in the old stories and you had to be quick to grasp the young birds in their burrows. Too often he’d been shoved aside.
So he’d pick the apples today; they’d last at least until Spring. But first he must shut the calf up so he could milk the cow tonight. Come Winter, the calf would be weaned and the cow dry itself off. He was reluctant to do without the cream, though he supposed he could buy some, tasteless and watery as it was, just like the bought milk and butter which didn't compare with the surplus cream they churned.
He’d do some hoeing later and give some cabbages and caulis to Jim’s missus. Pity how they all came on at once. He was about to scrape out the porridge pot for the hens when he heard the door knob rattle. Jim perhaps, though it was early for him. Since they’d sold the fishing quota he’d not had much motivation to rise early. But Ngai Tahu paid a good price, even if, as he supposed, Jim’s missus had spent most of it. The door opened. Not Jim. He smelled a woman’s scent. Not often Jim’s missus came here.
But the voice when it boomed, lacked the soft drawl of the Deep South. It was sharp, accusing, authoritative.
“Oh, so you’re up. Well, we’ll just put your breakfast here on the side table. Fancy not having breakfast in bed when you’ve got the chance!”
She moved to the trolley, ladled some porridge onto a plate, and placed it on a tray which already held toast, marmalade, margarine, milk and sugar.
“Now, you’re a tea, not a coffee person, aren’t you. Come away from that window and sit at the table. My, but its cold in here. Why on earth have you opened the window? You’ll catch your death of cold.”
She moved to shut it and turned on the heater.
“If you must get up early in the morning, at least turn the heater on. Look! I’ve shown you a dozen times; just turn the knob, so. Now you have your breakfast and mind you don’t spill it on your clothes. We don’t want more laundry. I’ll be back to shower you. You’re rostered third but seeing that I’ll have to undress you again, we’ll make you first. It’s your turn for the en suite anyway and you’ll have time to get to the lounge before the newspaper reading and morning tea. There’s quoits to play before lunch.”
And when there was no response.”Lost your tongue have you?
Oh well, after lunch and after your snooze there’s Housie. You’ll have to speak up then if you want to win!”
Josh had not moved from the window.
“Come on. Chop, chop! Don’t forget there’s Happy Hour before dinner today, and then I bet you’ll be ready to be tucked up before seven, getting up early the way you do.”
She took his arm, moved him forcibly to the table and with a swish of skirts was gone.
Josh stared at the porridge. It was blue round the edges and the milk in the jug was blue too. Fat free they called it. Kept your cholesterol down. Skim milk, he called it. Fed it to the pigs. The toast was cold and soggy even with the dyed, yellow spread. No flavour and he'd never cared for marmalade. Maggie made Gooseberry Marmalade once but they hadn't really liked it. The tartness of the lemons somehow detracted from the tang of the gooseberries. He stirred his tea. That at least was black and hot.
The room was stuffy. He'd always believed heaters dried out the air and made you breathless. But the outside doors were locked when at daybreak, he'd tried to sniff the wind, strain to hear the sea, regard the sky. He and Maggie never locked the door, never thought of doing so. In fact they'd never owned a key. And now that the staff were here this place would be unlocked too.
Cautiously he opened his own door and looked along the corridor. The trolley was abandoned waiting for the trays to be collected All the other doors were closed. There was no one in sight. He shuffled towards the outside entrance then felt his adrenaline surge as he stepped out of the building. He sniffed deeply. No salt, no briny and the sky seemed black. That's right he'd sensed a storm coming. He tried to focus on a tree but it blurred then cleared, and there in the tree like a Cheshire cat was Maggie's face grinning at him. It took a lot to make Maggie smile. He looked for the rest of her stumbliing forward and as he fell he saw her hands, brown splotched and swollen knuckled. She was beckoning. Then he heard her voice, strident as ever.
“This way, you silly old B.” He rushed to meet her.
Further off there were other voices.
“Oh dear! He's fallen! “Can you feel a pulse?” “Turn him over. Mouth to mouth.”
But louder, stronger, sweeter this time was Maggie's voice hammering in his ears.
“This way. Don't dilly dally around. Come On!”
Above her voice was a roaring like the wind and the waves in a Southern storm.
He looked up to the sky, to Maggie's Cheshire grin.
He was going home.
