Witi Ihimaera - Pounamu Pounamu

That night, Mrs Jones had decided to have a drink before going home. One gin had led to another and she’d remained at the bar, laughing and talking with the farmers and their wives. They’d all been congratulating her about the way she’d finally gotten the best of old Hohepa, when he’d walked in.

Silence had fallen quickly. The people surrounding her had drawn away, just like they do in cowboy pictures when there’s a shoot-out. Their eyes had glistened with fear, yet also with excitement.

I’d been outside the pub at the time. But as soon as I’d seen old Hohepa go in, I’d run to the window to see what would happen. I remember it, even now.

Mr Hohepa walked slowly to the bar.

‘Two flagons of beer,’ he ordered.

The barkeeper edged away, felt under the bar and hoisted out two flagons.

Mr Hohepa paid for them. Then he turned.

His eyes locked on Mrs Jones. A queer look came into them as he surveyed her.

She looked like the beautiful saloon girl of countless western films. She was an oasis in a desert. If she had been a pool of water, she would have been drunk dry. Just looking at her made you feel thirsty. Her beauty was almost unbelievable. She was the world’s desire and she sat there, alone at the bar, swinging a foot and holding her glass to her cheek. Lucky glass, to touch the cheek of Mrs Jones!

Then she sighed, a long, languid sigh which breathed soft perfume on the air.

‘Have a drink with me, Hohepa.’

Nobody moved, but everywhere, eyebrows lifted to the ceiling.

‘Let’s have a truce over Christmas,’ she continued.

Mr Hohepa didn’t answer. He just kept looking at her, with that strange look in his eyes. Then he smiled.

That smile. It grew slowly on his lips, arching into a grin, then slowly lowering and closing.

‘A truce, Hohepa?’

Still he was silent. Then with a brief nod, he picked up his flagons and left the hotel, his tokotoko tapping softly after him.

The noise returned like an explosion. The people in the pub crowded around Mrs Jones, marvelling at her coolness.

‘That’ll show old Hohepa!’ someone laughed.

I wasn’t so sure. That smile. And that wheezy laughter. I can almost hear Mr Hohepa chuckling to himself as he did that night when he passed me in the dark.

Ah! Almost finished my toenails now. Three more to go, and then maybe I’ll be allowed back into bed. I don’t know why my wife insists on my cutting them. They protect my feet. Against hers.

Anyway, to get back to Mrs Jones and Mr Hohepa.

After New Year, the feud was resumed. We still left Mr Hohepa’s stores at his first gate; he was always watching from his verandah. Round after round, it was the same story, and I almost began to believe that Mrs Jones was safe and that Mr Hohepa would make no reprisals against her.

Then a registered letter came from the Minister of Maori Affairs, addressed to Mr Hohepa, which we’d have to take right to his house so that he could sign the receipt for it.

Mrs Jones’ fury knew no bounds. She stamped about the post office arguing with the postmaster, and would have torn out her hair if she weren’t so vain about it. Couldn’t Hohepa come to the post office to get the letter? Or couldn’t she just leave it at the gate with the rest of his stores? No, she had to deliver it into his hands. It was in the regulations.

Mrs Jones was still furious when we started off that day. She kept saying she wasn’t going to deliver it to him personally, she just wasn’t. But as we neared his place, her temper calmed and her eyes twinkled. By the time we arrived at his house she’d accepted her fate.

‘It’ll be worth it, just to see how the old boy’s standing up against the siege,’ she said.

As usual, Mr Hohepa was sitting on his verandah, like a big black cat sunning himself. He must have been startled when he saw the van coming right to his house. By the time we’d drawn up to the verandah, a big smile of satisfaction and triumph had spread across his face.

‘For you,’ Mrs Jones said, snapping out the words. ‘Sign here.’

The transaction took place in a tense atmosphere. Mr Hohepa took his time over signing for the letter. Then it was done. Mrs Jones turned to go.

The tokotoko tapped four times.

Mrs Jones looked at him swiftly, her anger brimming. But before she could say anything, Mr Hohepa opened his arms and said:

‘Woman, have a drink with me.’

I couldn’t believe it! Neither could Mrs Jones. Then the astonished look dropped away from her face.

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ she asked angrily.

‘Asking you, woman,’ Mr Hohepa replied. ‘Come.’ He motioned to the house. ‘Come.’

Mrs Jones stood there a moment, a look of distrust on her face. Then she laughed and said:

‘I don’t mind if I do, Mr Hohepa!’

She beckoned me to follow her, but I stood my ground.

‘I’m not thirsty,’ I said. ‘I’ll just wait out here.’ I didn’t want to go inside because I was scared I might never see the daylight again. Anyway, if anything happened to Mrs Jones, I wanted to be able to get help. I didn’t like the way old Hohepa was looking at her with that funny gleam in his eye. I wanted to caution her, but she just winked at me and went in before I could say anything.

I don’t know what happened inside that house. Thinking back, I wished I had gone with Mrs Jones. Maybe I would have been able to save her. As it was, I remained in the sunlight, my fears bursting around me. I heard them talking in there, then silence, an exclamation, then a giggle. Then silence came again, and there was only the noise of the hens pecking at my feet because my toenails must have looked like maize. I felt like running in and dragging Mrs Jones away and had almost plucked up the courage to do so when she appeared. Her face was very straight, as if she were trying to hide something. She didn’t speak to me. She simply motioned me to the van. Mr Hohepa came to the doorway to watch us go, and his eyes, they were shining brilliantly. He didn’t wave; she didn’t say goodbye. She just started the car and we departed. But I knew something had happened in there. Mrs Jones, she had changed somehow.

And when she later remarked that she’d lost her hanky somewhere, my worst fears were confirmed. For, as we’d been leaving, I’d seen the tip of a hanky protruding from Mr Hohepa’s pocket. He had something belonging to Mrs Jones. All he needed to do was to cast a spell on it, and she would be in his power.

Makutu.

I tried to keep the knowledge to myself. But the days went by and Mrs Jones did begin to change. At first, the change was almost imperceptible. A slight shivering whenever we went past Mr Hohepa’s place. A sudden darting of her eyes toward that shadow on the verandah. Then, the change became more noticeable: Mrs Jones’ eyes began to be filled with a fevered look. Her laughter became more brittle, her manner more wild. Her moods kept changing so rapidly, that I could never keep up with them. And I often discovered her staring into the distance, as if at some invisible face.

Mr Hohepa was asserting his power. It was getting stronger and stronger. And Mrs Jones, she was going to the pack.

In the end, I couldn’t bear it. I had to find some way to rescue Mrs Jones! I couldn’t stand by and see the love of my life being slowly snuffed out. So I confided in Mum.

‘Mum, Mr Hohepa’s got a hanky of Mrs Jones.’

‘Aaaaa!’ Mum sighed.

‘Mum! I’ve got to do something!’ I said desperately.

‘Nothing you can do, Tawhai,’ Mum answered. ‘Nobody can do anything. Not unless you can get that hanky back. But even then, maybe it’s too late. Maybe Mrs Jones is already too much in Mr Hohepa’s power.’

Nevertheless I thought I’d try anyway. I had to do something! Even if it did mean entering Mr Hohepa’s house.