Huia Short Stories 10 Read Online Free PDF Page B

is always asking everyone have you seen my hat and no one has but he keeps asking anyway I think he might be crazy. Actually, I heard Uncle Hāmi say he is actually crazy coz once Uncle John was walking around naked at the marae before everyone was up and Uncle Hāmi said what are you doing and Uncle John said I just had a shower and I’m saving my towel, so yeah he is a crazy. Then I did Uncle Joe who grows cherries down south, and then Unc, who wears bow ties to weddings. I don’t know why we call him Unc – I think he has a hard other name to say. Then I drew Uncle Stephen who lives in a blue caravan and after that I put in Uncle Buck who played rugby for Hawke’s Bay and is always telling me to tackle round the ankles. I drew all their faces in the tree with their hats and their ties and the things about them, and they looked like a whole lot of apples so instead of putting their names underneath I gave them all bubbles coming from their mouth like the ones from cartoons and put their names in those so my family tree was full of apple uncles shouting out their names like superheroes when they fight and go wham and bam and stuff, they looked like they were singing their names – a whole lot of apple uncles singing in the tree like birds. I put my hand up to show Miss Davis that my plan was done and to ask if I could go on to using colour pencils for my good copy. Then Miss Davis came over and looked at my picture and did a weird kind of smile thing that she sometimes does and you don’t know if she is going to tell you off or if she is actually happy. She looked at my family tree and my apple uncles yelling out their names and then she said who are these people and so I pointed to them and said that’s Uncle Toki with the white hair and that’s Uncle Stephen and that’s Uncle Buck who is a famous rugby player and that’s Uncle Piripi and Uncle bla bla bla going through all their names and showing their faces and all the things about them. Then Miss Davis went over to her desk and came back with another bit of cartridge and put it down on top of my tree. She said start again please Sam and I said why and she said,
    just write the names.

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    Philip Evans
    We come. Home is far behind, and there is no thought of turning back. The sea is solid grey with the white flecks of breaking foam. The sail cracks and billows with wind, taking us in the right direction. There is no need for the paddles today. The men are happy because they can rest their calloused hands and weary shoulders. Our twin prows bounce on the chop and the spray leaps and travels half the length of the vessel, stinging against my cheeks. The strong masts creak and give with the breeze. The captain sometimes runs to check and reassure himself that the lashings holding the masts in place remain tight and true.
    We come, towards the cold. The navigator is at one with the steering oar. His feet are planted on the boards; his dark calves are firm, his eyes aimed somewhere over the horizon.
    We come, and all I can worry about is my poor hair. When we waved goodbye to home and sailed away from the warm tides, my hair was still black and sleek. Now it has become thick and twined together by the salt, and its ends almost flaxen in colour like sailing ropes. The wooden comb that I brought from home cannot be dragged through. The white flower that I wore as we waved goodbye has long since wilted to a stalk and been cast away into the current. The older women tell me not to fuss about my hair, but I cannot help it. I used to have the hair of a chieftainess.
    My hair is not the only thing that has changed. I used to be plump, but I have lost all my puppy fat. I can run my finger down my side and count my ribs.
    There is a boy who is looking at me. He has been looking at me for the whole journey. Whether he sees me plump or spare, it does not seem to matter to him. He has no business to look. He is not high-born; he is not