Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘Can’t keep up, eh?’ I yelled.

The pace was fast enough inside. I was lucky to have Peewee and Mackie’s help. Getting sheep to go through gates was worse than making a donkey trot; unlike donkeys, you can’t entice sheep with carrots.

‘You bloody bitches!’ Peewee was scolding. Peewee and Mackie’s swearing had escalated as the shearing progressed.

Now another of the ewes had baulked, afraid of crossing from sunlight into darkness. The ewe had turned the rest away from the entrance. Alerted, Mick whistled his cross-Collie — ‘Hup, Skip!’ Skip came hurtling over the backs of the sheep to the ones in front. She let off a roulade of barks, startling the sheep to return our way again — and in .

‘Thanks, Mick,’ Peewee called.

The large holding pen at the inside back of the shed was almost full. Just one more sheep — and Peewee was pushing the gate across, flicking the toggle shut. Mick waved good-humouredly. He took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his brow. Already more ewes were being brought down from the back paddocks. Shepherds on horseback whistled their dogs to weave back and forth across the hillsides, driving the sheep relentlessly down the slope toward the shed. No time to talk. Mick put his hat back on. He strode through the dust and the melee to bring in the sheep.

‘Get in behind, Skip!’

By midday the shed was an oven at its highest heat. Outside, you could fry an egg on the inverted V of the corrugated red roof. Inside, the heat radiated mercilessly, amplifying the stench of grease, wool and sheep droppings.

‘Sheepo!’

Mackie and Peewee went scrabbling along the network of railings to Uncle Hone’s pen. Sure of foot, they literally ran along the tops, jumping from one rail to the next.

‘You got it, Uncle!’ Mackie answered.

In a trice, Mackie opened Uncle Hone’s pen. Peewee began to push sheep through from the larger feeder pen behind.

‘Sheepo!’

Another call, this time from Uncle Albie. His black singlet was drenched. Again my two charges went to work. The shearers were cracking on the pace.

A good sheepo had the pens filled before the shearer called. However, we were on the last of the rams. We had to push sheep to the shearers on an equal basis — say, two or three at a time — so that one shearer didn’t end up with an empty pen while the others were still shearing.

‘Sheepo!’ Dad this time.

‘I’ll get him,’ Mackie yelled.

The feeder pen was emptying fast. Behind, the ewes were waiting. Uncle Hone came into his pen to grab a sheep. The sweat was rivuleting down his neck.

‘Do you want to start the ewes after lunch?’ I asked. It was a question, but –

‘You’re the boss,’ he answered.

Mackie and Peewee overheard. They sighed with relief. Great, we would have the lunch break to bring the ewes up into the shearers’ pens.

I went to let Mick and Phil know that we could all take a breather. Peewee went down the board telling everybody that ewes were coming in after lunch. You had to think ahead in shearing — a new wool type meant a complete changeover in handling. The shearers changed their blades. The sweepers, fleecos, pressmen and wool classer cleared their work area. Aunt Sephora was already calculating whether the pressmen would be able to make up complete bales from the rams’ wool. Wool types were never mixed.

‘Sheepo!’

The cry was coming more frequently and my small mates were scurrying back and forth, pushing the rams in each shearer’s pen one at a time and figuring, ‘There’s five in Uncle Hone’s pen, three in Uncle Josh’s, six in Uncle Sam’s, better put one more in Uncle Albie’s —’ I would not have managed without them.

The shearers were down to three sheep each, then two and –

‘Last sheep up!’

Time for Peewee, Mackie and me to start bringing the ewes up for the afternoon’s shearing.

Meantime, one by one, the shearers yanked on the cords to stop their handpieces. They were stretching, bending, massaging tired muscles, taking throatfuls of cordial and waiting for the boss to tally their run.

David stopped the engine. The whining noise as the belt slowed would alert Aunt Molly to start dishing up the kai. Hungry workers liked their food on the plate and not in the pots. Haromi passed by Pani, sweeping the board clear of the rams’ wool. Patches of dark moisture stained her armpits.

‘Hot work!’ Pani said. ‘Plenty to sweat about.’

‘Men sweat,’ Haromi said haughtily, ‘women perspire.’

She picked up the last ram’s fleece and took it back to the table. Did I forget to tell you that Haromi usually never threw the fleece on the table properly? It would land skewered, half off the table, or — when she was in a bad mood — the wrong way up, or — when she was angry with Aunt Ruth for catching her having a smoke — missing the table altogether. This time, no doubt because we were stopping for lunch, she did a perfect throw. Swinging from the hip, she gave a mighty heave , as if throwing a net. The fleece began to unfold in the air and, at the last second, Haromi let it go.

Uncle Hone laughed as the fleece landed right in the middle of the table. He led a smattering of applause. ‘We might make a fleeco out of you yet!’ he called.

‘Hardly,’ Haromi muttered.

One by one the shearers began drifting back to the cookhouse. Then, once Aunt Sephora was satisfied that the fleecos’ work areas were ready for the afternoon, they left the shed too, grabbing Glory up on their way over the paddocks.

‘Come on, Glory!’ Aunt Ruth said.

Peewee, Mackie and I finished our job.

‘You guys are great,’ I commended them. They gulped, grinned and were off.

The only noise left was the press. David and Benjamin were trying to catch up before we started the ewes. It would be good to clear the holding area and get the bales out onto the loading bay.

‘Do you two need a hand?’ I asked.

‘You go on,’ they said.

Except for the sheep baa-ing away, all was blessed silence.

Geordie and I met a week after Mahana Four had arrived at his father’s station. He must have seen me climbing up to the top of the bales where I had stashed my book, Allan Quartermain . I always went there for a spell by myself after lunch. Now he had my book in his hand, and was supercilious. He was a fey, thin boy with a mass of blond curls. His voice was languid.

‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘you’re going to tell me this is yours.’ As if Maoris didn’t, or shouldn’t, read books.

‘That’s right,’ I answered, bristling.

‘And how would you prove it?’

‘Apart from telling you what it’s about, my name is in the front.’ I felt like saying, That proves it wasn’t stolen, either.

‘Oh.’ He handed the book back to me. Then, snobbily, ‘Of course The Ivory Child is a far better book —’

‘I know —’

Yawn.

His eyes sparkled. ‘You’ve read it? You’ve actually read it?’

‘Yes.’ Now get off my hay bale.

‘But I thought I was the only one in the whole western world,’ he yelled, ‘let alone the southern hemisphere, to have read The Ivory Child !’

I looked at him warily, and started to edge away. ‘So what’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ I asked.

He recovered quickly. He could tell that I wasn’t impressed by him.

‘Perhaps we should be formally introduced,’ he said. ‘My name is Gordon George Williamson. Most people call me Geordie.’

‘I’m Simeon,’ I answered, ‘sometimes known as Himiona.’

We shook hands. I was still doubtful about him.

After that, Geordie started to hang out in the shed, though not while we were working. I wasn’t sure whether I was happy to see him or not. At Patutahi the prosperous Pakeha farmers always sent their children off to boarding school, as if the local school wasn’t good enough for them — too many Maoris keeping their children from acquiring a decent education. I wasn’t all that willing to entrust a friendship to someone whose father or mother was of that kind.