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Te Ao Hou, 1970, Page 13

‘He Grandpa,’ they called. ‘You'd better watch your leg tonight. The hook might get your leg Grandpa.’ ‘And watch your hand Grandpa, the eel might get your hand.’ ‘Bite your hand off Grandpa. You better watch out.’ Did not like their way of talking to their grandfather, it is not our way, but he has patience with the young. ‘You wait,’ he said. ‘You want to know how to get eels then you watch your grandpa.’ They did not keep quiet, the young ones, after that. Called out to him in a way I did not like, but he is patient. ‘Ah Grandpa, that old way of yours is no good. That way is old like you Grandpa.’ ‘You might end up in the river with your old way of catching eels.’ ‘Toes up Grandpa.’ ‘The eel on the bank and Grandpa in the drink, toes up.’ Spoke sharply to them then in our own language. ‘Not for the young to speak in this manner to the old. Not our way to speak like this. It is a new thing you are doing. It is a bad thing you have learned.’ No more talk from these two then, but laughing still and he spoke up for them. ‘They make their torches, the boys, and they make the hooks, and then they go to the hills for hare. They think of the river and the eels in the river, and then they punch each other and roll on the ground. Shout and laugh waiting for the night to come. The funny talk it means nothing.’ ‘Enough to shout and fight,’ I said. ‘Enough to roll on the ground and punch each other, but the talk needs to stay in the mouth.’

Put my head down then not pleased, and worked at my task of kneading the bread for morning. Now I wait and stir the ashes round the oven while the morning bread cooks, and on the ashes I see my tears fall. The babies sleep behind me in the tent, and above me the bird cries. Much to do after a night of eeling When the drum is full. From the fire we scrape away the dead ashes to put into the drum of eels. All night our eels stay there in the drum of ashes to make easier the task of scraping. Scrape off the ashes and with it comes the sticky eel slime. Cut the eels, and open them out then ready for smoking. The men collect green manuka for our smoke drum. Best wood this to make a good smoke. Good and clean. All day our smoke house goes. Then wrap our smoked eel carefully and pack away before night comes and time for the river again. But no eels for us this night. No scraping and smoking and packing this time. Tonight our camp comes down and we return. The dim lights come and they bring him back from the river. Slow they bring him. Now I see two lights come near. The two have come to bring me sad news of him. But before them the bird came, and before the bird the dream — he in the dream with hand on heart. And now they stand before me, the boys, heads down. By the dim torch light I see the tears on their faces, they do not speak. ‘They bring your Grandpa back,’ I say. ‘Back from the river.’ But they do not speak. ‘Hear the morepork,’ I say to them. ‘It calls from the trees. Out and out it cries. They bring your Grandpa back from the river, I see your tears.’ ‘We saw him standing in the river,’ they say. ‘Saw him bend, put his hand round the eel's head and then we saw him fall.’ They stand, the young ones in the dim torch light with tears on the faces, the tears fall. And now they come to me, kneeling by me weeping. ‘We spoke bad to him,’ they say. ‘They were bad things we said. Now he has fallen and we have said bad things to him.’ So I speak to them to comfort them. ‘He came to me tonight with hand on heart. “Do not weep,” he said. “It is my time.” Not your words that made him fall. His hand was on his heart. Hear the morepork cry. His time is here.’ And now we weep together, this old lady and these two young ones by her. No weeping he said. But we will weep a little while for him and for ourselves. He was our strength. We weep and they return. His children and mine return from the river bearing him. Sad they come in the dim light of torches. The young ones help me to my feet, weeping still, and I go towards them as they come. And in my throat I feel a cry well up. Across the night I hear my cry go out. Lonely it sounds across the night. Lonely it sounds, the cry that comes from in me.