At the River

Te Ao Hou, 1970, Page 12

At the River by Patricia Grace Sad I wait, and see them come slow back from the river. The torches move slow. To the tent to rest after they'd gone to the river, and while asleep the dream came. A dream of death. He came to me in the dream, not sadly but smiling, with hand on heart and said, ‘I go but do not weep. No weeping, it is my time.’ Woke then and out into the night to watch for them with sadness on me, sadness from the dream. And waiting, there came a morepork with soft wing beat and rested above my head. ‘Go,’ I said to the bird. ‘He comes not with you tonight. He is well and strong. His time is not here.’ But it cried, the morepork. Its call went out. Out and out until the tears were on my face. And now I wait and I see the torches come, they move slow back from the river. Slow and sad they move and I think of him. Many times have we come to this place for eels. Every year we come at this time. Our children come and now our grandchildren, his and mine. This is the river for eels and this the time of year. A long way we have travelled with our tents and food stores, our lamps and bedding and our big eel drums. Much work for us today preparing our camp. But now our camp is ready and they have gone with drums and torches down river to the best eel place. And this old lady stays behind with her old kerosene lamp and the camp fire dying, and the little ones sleeping in their beds. Too tired for the river tonight, too old for the work of catching eels. But not he. He is well and strong. No aching back or tired arms he. No bending, no sadness on him or thoughts of death like this old one. His wish but not mine to come here this

year. ‘Too old,’ I said to him. ‘Let the young ones go. Stay back we two and tend our kumara and corn.’ ‘This old body,’ he said. ‘It hungers for the taste of eel.’ ‘The drums will be full when they return,’ I said. ‘Let them bring the eels to us, as they would wish to do.’ ‘Ah no,’ he said. ‘Always these hands have fetched the food for the stomach. The eels taste sweeter when the body has worked in fetching.’ ‘Go then,’ I said, and we prepared. I think of him now as I await their return. ‘My time is here,’ he said in the dream, and now the bird calls out. And I think too of the young ones who spoke to him today in a new way, a way I did not like. Before the night came, they worked all of them, to make their torches for the river. Long sticks of manuka, long and straight. Tins tied at the tops of the sticks, and in the tins rag soaked in oil. A good light they made as they left tonight for the river. Happy and singing they went with their torches. But I see the lights return now, dim. Dim and slow they come and sadly I await them. And the young ones made their eel hooks. Straight sticks with strong hooks tied for catching eels. He smiled to see the eel hooks, the straight sticks with the strong hooks tied. ‘Your hooks,’ he said. ‘They work for the hands?’ But the young ones did not speak, instead bent heads to the work of tying hooks. Then off the young ones to the hills for hare bait as the sun went down. Happy they went with the gun. Two shots went out and we waited their return. The young ones came back laughing. Happy they came with the hare. ‘Good bait this,’ they said. ‘Good bait and good hooks. Lots of eels for us tonight.’ But their grandfather said to them. ‘A hook is good for the eel but bad for the leg. Many will be there in the river tonight. Your uncles, your big cousins, your aunties, your grandpa too. Your hooks may take a leg in place of an eel. Your grandpa he takes an eel with his hand in the old way, it is a safe way and a good way. You waste your time with hooks.’ But the young ones rolled on the ground.