"Yet another boozy Friday night on Hood Street in Kirikiriroa…"
Hiro’s dreams had rushed at him like an ambulance at the bottom of the cliff, which, as he stood outside Pegasus Bar, staff ID circling his neck on yet another boozy Friday night on Hood Street in Kirikiriroa, was the only tired metaphor he could muster to describe the flashes of soldiers and tohunga and dead bodies he’d downloaded in his dreams. Being big, brown and matakite was an absurdity on Hood Street. Not that Hiro’s mates, who were mostly whanaunga, truly believed that; they were just protective of Hiro and acutely aware that messages from the wā kāinga via dreams didn’t fit the aesthetic in Hiro’s current line of work.
Almost on cue, a waka tūroro sirened to a slow halt outside Pegasus Bar. Hiro eyeballed the bouncer closer to the raru, who returned Hiro a Coasty wave as if to say ‘We all good here, bruh.’ The brunette looked fucked though. Side-hair slick with liquid upchuck, skin like a cracked-out kēhua and legs splayed forward into the gutter. One foot had lost its matching heeled sandal, so only the golden strap remained cuffed to an awkwardly turned, swollen ankle. Friends of the drunk brunette had perched them atop an upturned beer crate and draped a bedazzled blazer over their shoulders. One friend held the brunette’s hair back and rubbed their back, while the other held an empty Twisties packet to the brunette’s lips. As a gush of watery vomit ricocheted off the bag and splattered the blazer, the ambos angled their masks, gloves and eye protection away in unison. Hiro’s throat began to churn. Fucks-sake. Look away. Focus on your mahi, bro, fow-cuss on ya mahi.
Across the road, club jumpers were out in force, herding from one venue to the next, looking for action, though never seeming to find sat-is-faction. The broke club jumpers lagged close behind, likely finishing off every drop of everyone’s drinks before disappearing down side streets to swig at bottles they’d stashed in cars so as not to lose their highs as fast as their cash. By the Shisha Parlour on the corner, even the brand breathers made their nightly appearance. Heading from one poncey bar to another, they dutifully waited at the pedestrian lights, picking imaginary lint from each other’s clothes and running diamante nails across each other’s labels and lapels like some fucked-up thespian foreplay. Mostly, they ignored Hood Street unless there was a brawl, a crowd or sirens. Tonight’s bright lights, courtesy of St John’s, had the brand breathers taking selfies with drunk brunette featured in their backdrop, no doubt on ex-penny phones with schadenfreude zoom-in functions that could send images into cyberspace alongside captions like ‘OMG, this is the Actual Hood!’ As if they’d know.
At the opposite corner, the unsteady crew swaggered Hiro’s way. Their boisterous energy was reason enough to refuse them entry. Other skulky reasons: tā moko and being born a shade darker than Pākehā. Tonight’s unsteady crew hit the trifecta. They’d come from the rugby and were just looking to extend their night with banter and beers. Slightly slury. Mostly crack-up. Pretty chill. Hiro waved them in, knowing he’d get a verbal ear-bashing later on: "I told you, none of those brown bastards in here." Yet, big brown buffers at the door served the drunken dollar, and Hiro knew there’d be no firing squad waiting for him at the end of his shift.
"Whatcha wanna work as a chucker-out for, boy?" Koko had said. "Waste of your gifts. And those degrees. Go work for the rūnanga. That’s where the mahi is, needs doing, there." But the nighttime distractions, coupled with jogging home from mahi, helped Hiro fall to sleep exhausted. And he needed that right now.
Sweat dripped onto the trousers of the dead soldier slumped over Hiro’s shoulder. Stumbling forward, Hiro extended his elbows to either side of the stairwell and steadied himself. The last thing he wanted was to fall onto the two tohunga ahead of him. Breathing shallowly, Hiro glanced back at the entrance; surrounded by rubble, it was a gaping mouth atop an ancient hill on foreign lands, and into whose narrow throat, Hiro now ventured.
i te ao, i te pō
Distant chanting thrummed off rock walls and spiralled up the stairs to hurry Hiro along. With each shuffle-step down, the dead soldier’s arms swung like Koko’s building plumb, making ghostly, thumping imprints across Hiro’s lower body.
When Hiro reached the tohunga, their lights illuminated the path somewhat, and Hiro fell more easily in step with their collective, steady descent. Solid stone walls widened into carved out cubbyholes, inside which were rows and rows and rows of skeletons. Skulls at the entrances of each cubbyhole faced inwards, and every now and then, Hiro glimpsed a bony rib cage and limbs, with feet stretching into the furthest end of the cubicles. Centuries after construction, the catacombs held little evidence of cave-ins, not even as the entire monastery overhead had been bombed these last few months.
As the four bodies descended into the belly of Papatūānuku, their shadows stretched like inky puhoro towards the entrance behind them. Hiro’s breath settled to the rhythm of his feet. Forward two steps, inhale, down three steps, exhale. Forward two steps, inhale, down three steps, exhale. Forward two steps, inhale, down three steps, exhale.
i te ao, i te pō
Ambo gawkers exited the Irish Rover and hurried towards Pegasus Bar. Earlier that night, Hiro had suggested that the brunette’s mates relocate themselves to the bus stop across the road, which offered shelter from Tāwhirimātea as well as ambo gawkers, but the one with makokōrori lashes had finger-sworded Hiro amidst piercing cries of, "Do not touch them. Do not touch me. You do not have our permission." Hiro backed off and left them with a beer crate and some bottles of water he raxxed from the staff fridge. Then, sure fucken enough, jacked up on vodka and self-loathing, ambo gawkers swarmed the brunette, filming and getting in everyone’s grill. While Makokōrori Lashes flirted, the brunette’s head rolled back and their freakily dilated irises steely-eyed Hiro as if to say "Fat fucken good you are, eh?"
A gawker draped in hickies with haunga breath meandered over to suss out Hiro.
"Sorry, bro. Not tonight, eh," Hiro said. Palms out. Do not escalate.
"Eh? Why can’t I go in?"
"Sorry, bro. Not tonight, eh." Palms out. Push away. Do not escalate. Return palms to a crossed position in front of the body.
The remaining gawkers possie-d up behind their mate, bruising the air with their smartphones and their not-so-smart reckons. Eventually, bouncers working the inside of the bar adopted their usual de-escalation stance behind Hiro. The silent wall quickly swatted fighterish intentions, and Hiro was grateful for the two minutes of collective presence, rather than twenty minutes of rabble-wrestling on his own.
"Pega-piss is rat shit anyway," Haunga Breath yelled and sauntered away, shoulder shoving their mates, jumping at neon signs and up-hyping their reflection in shop windows.
Sweat stains had blossomed across Hiro’s back and flowered at his armpits. Hiro wished to heck he’d left his overcoat at the catacombs’ entrance, but if he had, he knew it wouldn’t be there on his return. Tātou-tātou had currency on this side of the world too, and even though they could all feel the approach of Hineraumati in their bones, the nights remained decidedly cool. Hiro reshuffled the soldier’s weight on his shoulder, whispering ‘aroha mai, e hoa’ as he did. During the descent, Hiro had fallen behind the kaumātua – not too far so that he was in complete darkness, but far enough for anxiety to prick his heels. Rounding a curve, Hiro finally stepped down to the foot of the stairwell as all chanting stopped. Ducking low under a crudely fashioned archway, Hiro and the soldier entered a dimly lit space. No cubbyholes, no skeletons, just dirt and rock in a chamber that led nowhere. Hiro bit at the cracked skin along his bottom lip as the hair on his forearms prickled like static.
A blanket appeared on the ground, and Hiro carefully laid the soldier’s body on it, and as Hiro stretched and shook out his arms, the kaumātua undressed the soldier, then set about meticulously smearing the tūpāpaku with reddish clay and oil, before re-dressing the young man. Curiously, the soldier’s uniform was different from the one Hiro wore, and while he had dark hair and a tanned complexion, the soldier was definitely not Māori. The tohunga began to karakia anō, and Hiro relaxed into the sensation of mānuka oil and wai Māori flowing over and through his body.
Hiro rose through layers of rock and sediment and hovered for the longest time above the ruins of the monastery and its surrounds, then glided over the train station of a nearby town and misted through whānau, navigating debris and stone. Before the images could sharpen, Hiro was lifted further into the air where he emerged through kapua and smoke, only to have his body veer sharply and hurtle downwards into the gaping throat of the catacomb entrance. Hiro’s eyes fluttered open to an overwhelming sense of relief. Strangely, although torches held by the tohunga were still the only light source in the chamber, the room and stairwell beyond were ablaze as if Tama-nui-te-rā had followed Hiro into the catacombs.
The tohunga motioned for Hiro to move, and they climbed towards the entrance together. How otherworldly-bright the cubbyholed bones now appeared. Like fallen whetū who’d hitched a ride with Taramainuku to visit whānau one last time. After five or so breaths, Hiro froze; the skeleton closest to Hiro wasn’t moving, but it also wasn’t static. Hiro watched as muscles appeared along the bones, then the nervous system, and organs formed across the body and finally skin settled across the flesh. Hiro inhaled sharply and looked away, realising he’d been staring at the formation of a young woman’s bare breasts. A few seconds later, he peeked back and saw that the woman was now fully clothed. She wore a long, dusty gown under a soiled tunic, over which a dark vest cinched all garments together and laced at the front. The woman looked about the same age as Hiro, mid-twenties perhaps, and had billowy brown hair, high cheekbones and a beak-like nose, all of which gave her an almost regal appearance, despite her dishevelled clothing. In the cubbyholes surrounding the woman, other skeletons had similarly transformed from bone to muscle to flesh to skin to clothed people, and all of them lay as peacefully as the woman whose transformation Hiro had observed, though like the soldier he’d carried, none of them felt Māori to him.
"Kia tere, e tama." Hiro glanced up at the kaumātua, whose face seemed familiar yet also foreign. They continued climbing upwards. Upwards, towards the light. Upwards, amidst the light. Climbing, climbing, climbing. The descent had taken an age, but the ascent was fleeting. One hundred and forty-two steps to the entrance.
At some point, Hiro knew that he would have to tell Koko about his catacomb visions. And at some point, Koko would send Hiro to Aunty Reta. Even as an adult, the thought of her talons and raspy voice and understandings that burned one’s innards before release still made Hiro shudder. Before he’d been taken to Aunty Reta for the first time as a kid, Hiro’s dreams were nightmares that often saw him climb down his bunk bed in the middle of the night to sleep-thump his cousin awake as he battled his latest taniwha. Sleeping was a terrifying experience, and even after Hiro began to understand what was happening to him, most sleepovers were avoided; the parents of his classmates often thought Hiro was possessed or a danger to their offspring, or both. And there was no sleeping at the pā for Hiro either; while the cuzzies all knew Hiro was special, they still got annoyed at his sleepful antics and kicked Hiro with their feet, hissed ‘fuck off, dickhead’ at him, or whacked him awake when they were explicitly told not to. Now, though, Hiro’s insomnia came not so much from things that scared him in his dreams, but from his inability to decipher the messages. Who was the dead soldier? Was the message about someone else? The tohunga? A secret from someone’s past? A warning? During his wakeful hours, these unknowns bubbled and twisted Hiro’s puku something fierce.
In contrast, the drunk brunette in front of him seemed better. Answering questions with floppy nods. Not upchucking as much. Still couldn’t stand unaided though. The bedazzled blazer slid to the pavement, revealing a MedicAlert bracelet on the brunette’s wrist, which switched the ambos into overdrive for a minute. Heart condition? Diabetes? Epilepsy? Hiro would never know, but he also didn’t need a dream vision to predict that an overnight stay at ED was on the cards for the brunette. The ambulance doors opened as several go-go’s arrived and waited patiently in line with their IDs out for Hiro to check.
Tonight’s go-go’s were fresh uni students whose zest and desire to do the right thing was as infectious as their innocence. They never needed their IDs checked, but they always readied themselves, so Hiro meticulously did check that each driver licence or Kiwi Access card showed them to be at least eighteen. Go-go’s mostly drank wai Māori to keep hydrated and were always on the go: moving, talking, smiling, wide-eyed questioning and remembering to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ all the while engaging in cheeky convos among themselves.
"Hey look," one of the go-go’s said, eyes to the sky. "There’s Te Waka o Rangi!"
"Whatever. You can’t see it from here. Besides, you gotta go somewhere sacred."
"Nah, you can even see it from the field at kura."
"Prolly just a plane."
"Whatever. I know where it is."
"Yeh, well, your vape cloud ain’t gonna feed no stars this Matariki, eh."
"Ngā mihi, matua," they each said to Hiro as he stepped aside, allowing them to single file into the bar.
These past few months, Hiro had forgotten about the stars. "Everything you need to know is up there," Koko had said. Following the go-go’s gaze to the rangi, Hiro could barely see beyond the streetlights, let alone imagine where the stars might be.
As the catacomb lights dimmed to darkness behind him, Hiro emerged to a cool breeze and the softening glow of dusk. Four bodies had entered te ao wairua and three returned. One of the tohunga – sighing heavily as he sat on a makeshift bench that had once enjoyed life as a buttress wall – tossed Hiro a mandarin and motioned for him to sit on a surprisingly lush section of grass near the bench. Together, Hiro and the tohunga peeled mandarins and ate in silence. Hiro placed the plump flesh into his mouth, chewing and savouring the sweet juice, before swallowing. Sinking backwards into the grass, Hiro wiped juice from his mouth with his shoulder and watched the sky above him slow-burn to darkness. With many more bones to gather and care for, the days would be long and the nights brief.
i te ao, i te pō, i te pō, i te ao
Holding things in wasn’t working for Hiro. "It’ll chew your insides till they’re twisted in knots, and that shit will spill into your guts and make you sick as a dog, boy," Koko had once told him. Hiro glanced briefly at the heavens, as if seeking approval from the whetū above and resolved to tell Koko about his dreams later that morning.
Meanwhile, the drunk brunette had been placed onto a stretcher, and the ambos set about pushing the contraption towards the ambulance. Just as they reached their destination, the brunette bull’s-eyed the open door with one last spewy adieu to Hood Street before being pushed, head-first, into the metal cubicle on wheels. One of the ambos set about quickly wiping the door while the other answered the first of many, many questions directed at them by Makokōrori Lashes.
The brunette’s feet stretched towards the entrance, one foot still sandal-less but now with some sort of ankle brace. Their chest rose and fell in more settled breaths under a flimsy blanket. Hiro wondered if the world had been squeezing their sanity, as it sometimes did his. If they’d now found solitude, resting inside their metal box. If they’d been drinking to forget, drinking to sleep or drinking to avoid those softly-softly questions at home – the ones that hovered in kitchen corners, got tangled in spiderwebs and were never quite shaken out with the rest of the washing.
As the ambulance doors closed themselves to te pō, the stars beyond Hood Street tiptoed through alleys carpeted with feijoa skins and smashed Purple Goanna bottles that had idled in potholes for so long the smoothened glass glinted like whanaunga. They journeyed past purring staffies curled up on backyard couches and turned left at the vacant Kāinga Ora lot, which housed a whānau of kiore who were down from the maunga for a tangi. Squeezing through cracks between window glass and frame, and pushing aside curtains knotted for luck, ngā whetū sat at bed edge upon bed edge, reciting ancient lullabies and whispering into the moemoeā of their mokopuna: "Ko ngā whetū ko koutou, ko koutou ko ngā whetū." Taken with kind permission from the latest anthology of new writing by Māori writers Huia Short Stories 15 (Huia Publishers, $25), available in bookstores nationwide. Another story from the book, "kinstugi with the colour pink" by Anthony Pita, appeared last week. Contributors to Huia 15 include Pine Tamahori Campbell, Te Ataakura Swannell-Kaa, Zeb Tamihana Nicklin, Nadine Anne Hura and the author of the number one bestselling novel in New Zealand for eight weeks this year, Airana Ueroa Ngarewa.
