"Come on," says Joe to Joe, "you're here. God knows where, but here. They're, they're anywhere."
He blinks furiously, and scans the room for something to look at.
Opposite him is the range. The cover over the firebox is cracked, and smoke leaks out in pungent clouds. There is a piece of twine strung above the range: a pair of grey socks hang from it. On the mantelpiece above is an ornate black clock. The clock is stopped.
"Figures," says Joe.
There are books on the mantelpiece, but he can't read the titles from here. That used to be a thing Kerewin did, read the book titles in any room she came into. "You want to know about anybody? See what books they read, and how they've been read-" By the door, thinks Joe firmly, by the door, on the same side of the room as the range, is a sink and bench. There are rust stains in the sink where the tap drips. One tap — for hot water, boil it. Hence the two battered iron kettles steaming gently on the stove.
At the far end of the whare there's a wooden bed. Beside it, a tin trunk. Then there's a single window, with spiderwebs growing out from the corners. And lastly, the table he sits beside. One chair, and one stool.
"Ascetical. Or bloody poor."
There are two incongruities.
Above the table, leaning out from the wall as though to remind you they're there, are three black-framed photographs. One is a faded sepia picture of a mother and child: both are Maori, the woman with long hair, the child practically hairless with narrow eyes and sulky downturned mouth. The middle photograph is Michael Joseph Savage, amicable smile, bookish air, mildly looking the world over through wire-rimmed spectacles. The official portrait putout.
The last is a colour photograph, much more recent. A young blond-haired man, long blond hair, ahh Jesus Ngakau, don't look at that one, but he does. The.young man is gaunt and ill-looking, with deep hollows under his oblique eyes. His smile is somehow wildly merry, as though he has fallen into a terrifying joke. Pointed chin and high cheekbones… man, you're getting sick again, seeing him in everyone. He looks hurriedly away, to the other strange thing in the room.
It's a worn hexagonal pincushion made of black velvet. It hangs on the wall above the head of the bed, and is studded with needles and long antique hat pins.
"Odd religion this man must have," and he grins to himself.
The kaumatua, standing hitherto silent in the doorway, says,
"My grandmother always wore a hat when she went to town. Bare feet, but wellclad head. She spent most of her money on hats. A small vanity, and a permissible one."
He adds after a minute of silence,
"This room has been left unchanged since her death, with two exceptions. That I hung on the wall," stabbing a finger at the cadaverous young man, "and this," poking at his barechested body, "sleeps on her bed instead of the floor. She died outside," he says.
He lays the materials he has gathered on the table. The rough bandages have been soaked in a secretion that is powerfully redolent of turpentine. There are lengths of flax fibres, freshly scraped and rubbed into raw string, and two flat footlong shafts of wood. And clear gum in a mussel shell.
From one of the cupboards under the bench, the kaumatua brings a saucepan. He adds a little hot water to the gum in the musselshell, until it slides easily into the pot: he heats the mix on the range. When the gum has melted and blended with the water, he cools it.
"You could call this bush-lotion. Or Maori ointment. It heals well, whatever the name given to it."
Joe has been watching him with growing resentment. After the sudden shock the old man's silent appearance and words had caused, he found his feelings of awe and thanksgiving had somehow been displaced by a strong antagonism with undertones of contempt. He says abruptly,
"I know its healing properties. It's miro gum. The antiseptic was probably tutu. I asked you what it was because I couldn't see what leaves you had in the bowl. The bandages smell like you've expressed oil from miro fruit onto them. The only thing I don't bloody know is where you'd find a miro tree round here."
"Ka pai," says the old man. "In my garden as a matter of fact.
I planted it there forty years ago. It's quite a big tree now. Good for people who fall over bluffs, as well as the pigeons."
He sounds mildly amused.
He brings the melted mirogum over.
"I suppose you know it stings too, o man of wisdom?" He smiles slowly, his lips thinning and edging away from his teeth. It isn't really a smile.
"Yes," says Joe shortly.
The kaumatua is very skilful, both in applying the lotion to the deep wound in his arm, and in rebinding the arm later, so his wrist is immobilised. But the gum burns like fire, and for all the elder's skill, the shattered bone is moved more than once.
"Stand up," says the kaumatua, when he has done bandaging.
"My jeans'll fall down," says Joe, and realises with horror that he has whined like a petulant child.
The kaumatua doubles up with laughter. "Her!" he gasps huskily, between spasms of laughter, "maybe this is a new kind of man after all! E her!" He collapses onto the stool, cackling to himself, brushing tears away from his eyes.
"Her?" asks Joe warily, unsmiling.
The other wipes his eyes again.
"O not 'her'," he says at last. "Just a noise." He grins wickedly. "I'll look the other way, man, until your modesty is recovered, in case I see a sight not meant for mortal eyes."
Joe bends his head. "I'm sorry," he says in a low shaky voice. "My thigh won't stop bleeding. That's why I'm holding it. That's why I didn't want to stand. That's why," he stops, feeling his eyes overflow. God I'm either going to faint or bawl out loud like a baby.
The kaumatua stands quickly, his humour gone as fast as it came. He moves Joe's hand aside, washing over the cuts with his lotion. It stings hard but the bleeding diminishes.
"Now stand carefully, please. I shall do up your jeans for you. Good. Place your arm across your chest. That is right, good. Lift your other arm. He, now you can lower it. Good man. That is firm? Ah, see if you can move the broken arm? No? Very good. Now lean against me. Walk a little more, a little more, just two steps more… e very good."
The soft high voice is receding into darkness. The bands holding his right arm to his chest feel uncomfortably tight, but the arm is secure. He can feel the old man taking his boots off him, can hear him saying, "E, that is good, now lean back. That is the pillow there. Gently now."
The bed is hard but the blankets are soft and warm. A little while of darkness later, he hears the kaumatua say,
"Open your mouth. This is medicine." A soft distant chuckle. "Not a concoction of manuka bark or anything so interesting, e kare, but a modern medicine that brings sleep."
The taste is sweetly familiar.
"Kerewin," he murmurs, "e Kere, I smell like your painting and now I taste like him," and he smiles as he sleeps.
He is swimming down a foul mud-coloured river.
Not really swimming: the water gets so shallow that he can pull himself along, hands walking on the river bottom.
He knows he must not get his hair wet by the foulness. But already the long strands at the back of his neck are contaminated, and he is horrified corruption has touched him. He paddles and handwalks along, head reared high out of the water.
Immediately in front of him, is a very low bridge. He has no choice but to lower his head into the stinking stream. Retching, he slides down, water creeps into his mouth, and to his surprise it is sweet-
Ahead, weeping willows, foreigners, trail into the water. The stream narrows until he has to stand up, for he can no longer float. The water trickles over his feet, sparkling and ice-clear now.
He looks down at Hana, who lies on her back smiling up at him, her face relaxed and full of joy. The stream flows from her vagina in a steady pure rivulet.