The Bone Tiki (2 page)

The connection was broken. Mat drifted noiselessly back to the stairs, then pretended to be walking down as Tama emerged from his office.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Time to go.’ He made no mention of the phone call, and Mat didn’t ask.

Tama Douglas’ deep green Mercedes purred past slower cars, as they journeyed south. The eastern sky darkened toward evening, and they lost sight of the sea as the road swung inland. They crossed the rivers—the Tutaekuri and the Ngaruroro, and rolled through orchard country. Skirting Hastings, they joined the main highway south. The sun dipped toward the hills as the faint cloud took on a pinkish hue.

Mat tried to imagine what kind of man Puarata was. Tama dealt with gang-members and criminals for a living, so he wasn’t intimidated easily. Puarata must be pretty scary. But mostly he thought about Nanny Wai-aroha.

He’d only met her once, and no one ever seemed to speak of her. He’d been visiting his Aunty Hinemoa—who was actually a great-aunt—his dad’s mother’s sister. He’d gone with his mother, on a day Tama was in court. Hine and Wai were best friends, and Wai was visiting Hine. He only knew that Wai had been sick—locked away in some institution for years—never acknowledged by any of the family except Hine. No one said so, but he got the feeling even Tama didn’t know where she was. She’d been a frail little woman with wide staring eyes and scarred wrists. Her smile had been sudden, and pixie-like, and when Hine made her laugh
it was a strange, tinkling laugh. She’d seemed, well…a little mad, as if she were fourteen years old still, despite her old body. But Mat remembered that afternoon. It was the afternoon he found out what he was good at.

He’d been bored, sketching patterns on pad paper, feeling frustrated because the things inside his head wouldn’t come out right. Wai-aroha had watched him. She’d told him he had talent that just needed to find a way to come out—like a stream blocked by a fallen tree. She’d picked up a pencil, made a couple of small changes to his sketch, and there in front of him was the design he’d been visualising. A koru and a Celtic knot, intertwined, the drawing that was now on his bedroom wall.

‘It would make a good carving,’ she had remarked. ‘Do you like art?’

He’d nodded mutely.

‘When you find what you are good at, you find why you are alive,’ Wai said, before she walked away, as if she had forgotten him already.

Mat had stared at the drawing, feeling a flush of trembling excitement. Already he could see how the two pendants would fit together, expressing something so powerful to his parents they would stop fighting, and remember they loved each other. And more than that, he had a new vision of himself. Instead of a dismal future working in an office, or labouring, or driving a truck or something like that, he began to see himself as an artist—drawing, carving, making things people admired. That vision was still inside him.

Wai had hugged him when he left, her arms thin as gnarled
twigs. She’d shown him a pendant she wore, carved from bone. A hei-tiki—a man-shaped pendant. An ugly thing, but she had clasped it as if it was a holy relic.

‘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.

T
hey 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.