to his room where he had been reading. Rawinia came by with her deck of cards. She stared in for a while with that special look on her face. She wanted him to play but he was at a part in his book where it couldn’t be put down.
“When are you going to stop reading?” she asked.
“Half an hour.”
She seemed satisfied and went out to the kitchen.
The following day, after Ra had taken them to school, Te Arepa saw him over by Mr McLintock’s office. He knew the letter had opened a door that couldn’t be closed. All day, as he sat in the classroom, he wondered what it would mean.
That day after school, Ra was at the gate.
“I’ve talked to the headmaster,” he began. He spoke slowly and deliberately, as though his words had been carefully rehearsed. “He says you’re a smart boy. That you need to go where there areother boys like you. In the big city.”
“Are we going to leave Whareiti?” Te Arepa asked. That couldn’t be right.
“No boy, listen. There is a scholarship exam that could get you to a famous school in Auckland. Mr McLintock seems to think that you might have a chance. Evidently this is all because of a poem you wrote.”
“‘Taniwha Dream’?”
“There are others?”
“Lots.”
“‘Taniwha Dream’ is the one he read to me.”
“It’s about that day at Goldsmith’s Bush.”
“Something about the ‘tohunga clawfingers tearing the fabric of time’.”
“Yes. Then it goes, ‘drenching the boy with his poisoned dream,/ blighting his life with an ancient malice,/a thorn-filled garden,/an empty chalice …”
“And how does it finish up?”
“The last part goes, ‘Knowing now, till the end of his days/ He could never alter, never erase/With angry tears, or happy lies/What’s etched on the walls of paradise.’”
“Where did you get these words?”
“I got them from you, Ra.” Then he added, “From the books I read. Some from the Bible. It’s about that day on the river. The eel. The goat cave.”
“I know that, Te Arepa. McLintock says it’s good. It’s more than good. He says a boy your age can’t usually write poems like this. It’s like the poems adults write. But then he said he saw you do it, so he knew there was no mistake.”
“I wrote it.”
“He says you have a gift.”
“What gift?”
“The talent you have with words. You’ve got to use it. To do otherwise would be a crime against God. Remember the parable ?”
Te Arepa nodded.
“Yours has been buried, but it’s out now and we have to do something about it. It’s what your mother would want.”
“You’ve spoken to Ma?”
Ra shook his head.
Te Arepa was stung. He rarely brought up his mother now, it was too huge.
“So there’s an entrance test. If you do well, then they’ll offer you a place. A free place in the boarding house.”
He could see that Ra had been already won over by the idea so he said nothing more. All he could think about anyway was that it would soon be Guy Fawkes and he knew for a fact that they had no fireworks.
******
A few weeks later he was off to Auckland with his cousin, Paikea. She drove the courier van. ‘From the Coast to the smoke, 3X a week’ was written on the door in gold letters. No one messed with Paikea. She had played softball when she was younger and it was as though her short wiry frame was always tensed, as though ready to catch a fast-ball. She would leap from the van, as tireless and springy at the end of a thirteen hour run as she was at the beginning. Her theme was black. Black trousers, black shirt, black jacket and black boots. Her hair, which luckily was naturally black, was cut really short, like a man’s. The only jewellery she wore was a big chunky watch, and a ring in her left ear. She lived with a Pakeha woman called Jinny on a little farm out of town.
It was still dark when the red van pulled up in the driveway. The gleaming wheels and blacked-out windows had made it famous the length of the Coast.
“Kia ora, Ra,
“When are you going to stop reading?” she asked.
“Half an hour.”
She seemed satisfied and went out to the kitchen.
The following day, after Ra had taken them to school, Te Arepa saw him over by Mr McLintock’s office. He knew the letter had opened a door that couldn’t be closed. All day, as he sat in the classroom, he wondered what it would mean.
That day after school, Ra was at the gate.
“I’ve talked to the headmaster,” he began. He spoke slowly and deliberately, as though his words had been carefully rehearsed. “He says you’re a smart boy. That you need to go where there areother boys like you. In the big city.”
“Are we going to leave Whareiti?” Te Arepa asked. That couldn’t be right.
“No boy, listen. There is a scholarship exam that could get you to a famous school in Auckland. Mr McLintock seems to think that you might have a chance. Evidently this is all because of a poem you wrote.”
“‘Taniwha Dream’?”
“There are others?”
“Lots.”
“‘Taniwha Dream’ is the one he read to me.”
“It’s about that day at Goldsmith’s Bush.”
“Something about the ‘tohunga clawfingers tearing the fabric of time’.”
“Yes. Then it goes, ‘drenching the boy with his poisoned dream,/ blighting his life with an ancient malice,/a thorn-filled garden,/an empty chalice …”
“And how does it finish up?”
“The last part goes, ‘Knowing now, till the end of his days/ He could never alter, never erase/With angry tears, or happy lies/What’s etched on the walls of paradise.’”
“Where did you get these words?”
“I got them from you, Ra.” Then he added, “From the books I read. Some from the Bible. It’s about that day on the river. The eel. The goat cave.”
“I know that, Te Arepa. McLintock says it’s good. It’s more than good. He says a boy your age can’t usually write poems like this. It’s like the poems adults write. But then he said he saw you do it, so he knew there was no mistake.”
“I wrote it.”
“He says you have a gift.”
“What gift?”
“The talent you have with words. You’ve got to use it. To do otherwise would be a crime against God. Remember the parable ?”
Te Arepa nodded.
“Yours has been buried, but it’s out now and we have to do something about it. It’s what your mother would want.”
“You’ve spoken to Ma?”
Ra shook his head.
Te Arepa was stung. He rarely brought up his mother now, it was too huge.
“So there’s an entrance test. If you do well, then they’ll offer you a place. A free place in the boarding house.”
He could see that Ra had been already won over by the idea so he said nothing more. All he could think about anyway was that it would soon be Guy Fawkes and he knew for a fact that they had no fireworks.
******
A few weeks later he was off to Auckland with his cousin, Paikea. She drove the courier van. ‘From the Coast to the smoke, 3X a week’ was written on the door in gold letters. No one messed with Paikea. She had played softball when she was younger and it was as though her short wiry frame was always tensed, as though ready to catch a fast-ball. She would leap from the van, as tireless and springy at the end of a thirteen hour run as she was at the beginning. Her theme was black. Black trousers, black shirt, black jacket and black boots. Her hair, which luckily was naturally black, was cut really short, like a man’s. The only jewellery she wore was a big chunky watch, and a ring in her left ear. She lived with a Pakeha woman called Jinny on a little farm out of town.
It was still dark when the red van pulled up in the driveway. The gleaming wheels and blacked-out windows had made it famous the length of the Coast.
“Kia ora, Ra,
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