My father—the axeman

By Makiuti Tongia

Vl/dTH the sun sinking slowly, the birds at last nested in their tree homes, ** and the distant fire and home beckoning for me, I ran triumphantly for that plate of taro and rukau,* mixed with coconut sauced fish.

In the comer of my kainga, a lonely pandanus mat, newly-plaited, shines in the evening breeze. It waits for me to sleep on her, but I do not hurry. Instead I put more wood on the fire, watching the fire eat that firewood: “Must be hungry too, this fire”. I then retreated to my special corner.

The beach gravel that is the floor of my kainga defied the night in their brilliance, and I felt safe from the evil spirits.

In the night, I cling to the posts of my dreams and see a falling tree, and Tane the god of the forest, shouting angrily at my father, the axeman.

A rooster warned of the coming sun, and I dwell even more into the warmth of my mat, I think of the day when I would be going away to a new kainga with my wife. O how lovely it would be then where I’ll be the father of my own house. It would be an honour to take part in the decision-making with the other old Papa of the village.

“• • • Papa . . . ? what Papa . . . !” My mama shakes me rudely.

“. . . Papa is . . . gone . . . !”

I looked to the far corner where slept my father. So peacefully, so real. No feeling of pain was evident on his face. He just slept with a satis fied smile as if he had not been a failure in this world.

One rooster walked boldly to the front of our door and, with a proud tilt of the head, crowed.

My Mama only nodded in approval.

And I just sat there thinking, thinking of my father, the axeman. Tane had taken him to compensate for his dead tree. * Rukau—top taro leaves, a delicacy.