Keri Hulme - The Bone People

childhood pictures are sunk beneath the gorse, the stones…

I cannot warm or heal the woman.-! cannot warm or heal the

child….

Any of them-

Coming home that Thursday, with no idea, no hint of what was to come. What already was. Ae, she'd been sick. But it was the 'flu. Everybody gets the 'flu in winter. And Timote was colicky, but that was probably a virus. Everybody gets a virus in winter. And then the terrible bare unbelief. I had no shield for that mood of death. I could not believe so much of me could be cut out so swiftly, leaving only a gaping depth of anguish.

And there was nothing, no-one to take their place.

I could not cry for days. My chest was tight, my jaw muscles clenched so hard they ached all the time, even when I drank myself into a stupor. It might have been better if I had gone with her, home for the burying but… aie, everything I looked at, thought of, touched or tasted or smelt carried a burden of memories. Reminded me that they were gone. For ever. And only Haimona left behind-

The best part of me was lost then. What remains is a deep ulcer that will not heal, a waste.

I have nothing to give Kerewin that she will have. I have nothing to give Himi, not even the shelter of my arms and heart. I know I exacerbated his reckless wounding of himself, but now I am not allowed to give him even shelter-

I am just a waste… and the worst thing I bear is the knowledge that others have borne far worse distress and not buckled like this under it. They have been ennobled by their suffering, have discovered meaning and requital in loss… O Hana Mere, why did you eat the food they offered you? Why did you not return to me?

Aue, the roots of the tree are long and descend into darkness. The shore is wave beaten, and there is nothing beyond but the unceasing immeasurable sea.

The kaumatua:

He is not a big man, not tall, but he is very heavy. To lever him off his side and wrap the blanket round him, has tested my strength to the limit. I have spread his coat over him, and built the fire a little closer, and rested. His arm is badly broken, and badly set. Shortly, I will undo the cloths and wash away the blood, and reset the bone.

I shall try to rouse him then, and feed him whatever he will eat. Afterwards, there will be time to consider what to do.

He breathed out deeply, and cautiously inhaled. The pains that felt like bubbles exploding in his chest did not return.

He took out his pipe and filled it carefully, picking up the shreds of tobacco that fell into his palm, and returning them to the tin. He smiled to himself as he did it.

"Ah, the habit of frugality is hard to lose," he said softly.

He reached across the still form in front of him, and removed a stick from the fire, and lit his pipe.

"Still, it is nothing to be ashamed of, this being careful of what one has. Just a little ridiculous when one is going to die."

As he smoked, he studied the face before him.

I am glad you're Maori. It would be very hard to explain things if you were a European.

The tendrils of smoke spread over the unconscious man, hang in swathes about himself. The cold at his back is intense, but the rain has stopped, and there is no wind.

The voice is high and husky.

"This is food, a piece of bread. Open your mouth and chew it." He chews obediently, puzzled by the taste. It is slightly fatty, more like a scone than bread.

It's fried bread, but I'm not… where am I?

He opens his eyes cautiously. The face above him smiles. Joe shuts his eyes quickly.

That can't be Kahutea feeding me fried bread. He's a photograph somewhere north and he's been dead for fifty years.

He shook his head side to side quickly. I'm hallucinating.

"He aha tou mate?"

'Who is there?" asks Joe, and his voice sounds loud and harsh to himself. "Who is that?"

There is a long silence.

Sweet Lord, prays Joe beneath his breath, if that is food I should not have eaten, I ate it in ignorance. I don't want to stay dead.

The voice says,

I was Tiaki Mira. But it is a long time since anyone called me that. I think of myself as the keeper."

Joe lifts his hand, passes it over his body. He is solid, he feels lihe himself, and his forearm still aches. His fingers rest on it briefly: «has been rebound, and the fierce pain has dulled.

He exhales and it sounds like a sob.

"Where is this place?"

"On maps, it is the Three Mile beach."

"There are many Three Mile beaches," says Joe doubtfully, his eyes still shut.

But the weird feeling is going. The discomfort of the stones he is lying on is too normal, the hurt in his arm too continuous.

"Tiaki Mira, thank you for the bread. Have you anything I can

drink?" "Ae," says the high voice. There was a scraping sound. "This

is tea, with sugar in it."

It is strong and acrid, and some of it dribbles out of his mouth and down his neck, but the rest flows into him like fresh blood.

He hears Tiaki Mira shift, hears him clear his throat. He draws in his breath, presses down hard with his good arm and levers himself up. He sits, eyes still shut until the throbbing in his head recedes.

"That is good," says the other man. There is a hesitancy to his phrasing, a pause between words as though he must think about what he is saying before saying it.

Joe looks at him.

The old man smiles, and pushes the kete across to him. "Eat," he says, and lights his pipe.

As Joe eats, hesitantly at first, and then with a relish approaching greed, he glances again and again at the man. The same stern time-sharpened face,

only here the features are sharpened by pain as well: the old man's cheekbones press eagerly out, making the brown skin there a yellowish waxy colour;

the eyes are similar, deepset and always seeming to look down on you from above. Only these eyes smile. The hawklike stare of Kahutea is missing.

But the really astonishing thing, he thinks, is the two parallel blue lines across this kaumatua's face. A truly archaic moko, te mokoaTamatea.

He had thought the people who had worn that tattoo dead for

centuries.

The eyes do not flinch under his scrutiny, nor does the expression of benevolence alter. The old man waits.

"Ahh, good," sighs Joe at last. "That was good. Thank you for the food, and for, for," he touches his arm.

Despite the pains — for he can now feel an ache in his thigh and bruises coming out on his shoulders, as well as the nagging throb from the broken arm — and despite the shuddering that shakes him occasionally, he feels well. As though, he dare not think it clearly!

as though an expiation has been made. As though the benumbing burden he has been carrying for years is about to be removed.

The kaumatua smiles again. He knocks the dottle from his pipe, and repacks the kete.

Then he picks it up, and unfolds his tall thin body to its height.

"My home is an hour's walk from here," he says carefully, "I can help you if you need the help to walk."

Joe grimaces. He gestures to his pack.

"If you can help me on with that, I'll be OK," stopping as the old man shows puzzlement, "I think I'll be well enough to walk an hour or two."

Just the food, he thinks in wonder, the food and the drink and the time I slept for. He stands up: he does not feel faint or sick any more. He slides his right arm through the pack strap with extreme care, settles the pack on his shoulders uncomfortably. Too bad, he tells himself, but you can endure a few bruises. You've given enough. Before they leave, he kills the fire, pushing sand over the embers, separating the burning logs. When he is satisfied it is dead, that smoke now rising is the smoke of extinction, he turns away from the kaumatua, and glances up at the bluff.

"Ka maharatia tenei I ahau e ora ana," he says, very quick and soft. "E pai ana."