Huia Short Stories 10 by Tihema Baker Read Free Book Online

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    â€˜Hoi!’ shouts the navigator. He points up and we look to see birds, sleek like darts, gliding overhead. ‘Kua, kua, kua,’ the birds call as they speed away towards the horizon. The navigator gets to his feet and strides over to the stern, where he and Fishpuke jointly apply their muscles to the steering oar. We hear it whoosh in the current, and we feel the vessel respond, turning to follow in the birds’ path.
    The captain comes around to talk with us. ‘It will be in the next few days,’ he promises us. ‘Maybe even today.’ We smile at the prospect, though none of us is sure that we believe him. People are unwilling to believe, and then find themselves disappointed. I look around at the people and see that they are desperate for land, any land, where they can mark out their gardens and plant the sweet potato and the yam and the breadfruit. They are tired of salt spray and rope callouses.
    The navigator stays at the oar, and Fishpuke is ordered up the foremast to keep a watch. He obeys, happy with the chance to show off, sliding up the mast as if it were a coconut tree.
    The sun comes out, making for a pleasant warmth in the momentary intervals in the wind. Around midday, a niggling rain sweeps in, hissing across the ocean. Fishpuke slides down the mast and looks about on the deck, his dampened black hair licking down across his forehead. We women scramble to catch the water. We are hopeful that we will not need it; that land is close, with clear mountain-fed rivers. When the shower stops, we inspect the pittance of water we have funnelled into our gourds. The clouds have been frugal with their gift. The sun comes out again and sparkles on the water. The hope of land we had dared to hold in our hearts dwindles again.
    But later that afternoon, there is a shout from a woman standing on the prow: ‘Hoi! Cloud! Cloud ahead!’
    Not land yet. Just cloud in a low pearly bank, layered on the horizon. This is not storm cloud, but the pale billows that might cling to land. We all stand up to look. There is a new vigour as the captain begins to give orders to the men: get working with the bailer, take a reading of the current; we will do everything we can to increase our speed. I take a gourd and recklessly pour the fresh water over my hair and take the wooden comb to drag it through the tangles and sea-matted ends. I put on my shell necklace. I try to make myself ready to meet the chief of the rock people.
    The navigator stands staunch at the oar, his lips pressed together. He does not need to say anything. The spirit fish, or at least his own shark-like senses, have served him well. He is certain now of his success.
    Skimming across the waves, we come.

Crushing Butterflies
    Ann French
    The bus stopped with a hiss of brakes and Mia stood up, wincing as the pain in her back and legs flared. She ignored it, concentrating instead on the baby swaddled like a papoose, snug against her breasts.
    Moving to the door, she avoided looking at the other passengers. With her long black hair and smooth skin, people always stared, but today she was wearing dark glasses, which on such a gloomy day must seem incongruous.
    Outside, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs. It felt good after the stale air of the bus and the confinement of bodies squeezed into a small space. The baby murmured, content in his cocoon, and he blew a bubble of milk between his lips.
    Mia walked down the road to her mother’s house, taking her time. She enjoyed looking at the houses in the street. They were well kept, with neatly tended lawns and gardens – quiet too. That’s what she noticed most. It wasn’t like that where she lived with broken cars on driveways and lawns – if you could call them lawns, patched with weeds and littered with rubbish. And always the noise, stereos, dogs barking, kids screaming and adults fighting. She was tired of it all.
    Almost