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No. 68 (1970)
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– 12 –

At the River

by Patricia Grace

Sad I wait, and see them come slow back from the river. The torches move slow.

To the tent to rest after they'd gone to the river, and while asleep the dream came. A dream of death. He came to me in the dream, not sadly but smiling, with hand on heart and said, ‘I go but do not weep. No weeping, it is my time.’

Woke then and out into the night to watch for them with sadness on me, sadness from the dream. And waiting, there came a morepork with soft wing beat and rested above my head. ‘Go,’ I said to the bird. ‘He comes not with you tonight. He is well and strong. His time is not here.’

But it cried, the morepork. Its call went out. Out and out until the tears were on my face. And now I wait and I see the torches come, they move slow back from the river. Slow and sad they move and I think of him.

Many times have we come to this place for eels. Every year we come at this time. Our children come and now our grandchildren, his and mine. This is the river for eels and this the time of year.

A long way we have travelled with our tents and food stores, our lamps and bedding and our big eel drums. Much work for us today preparing our camp. But now our camp is ready and they have gone with drums and torches down river to the best eel place. And this old lady stays behind with her old kerosene lamp and the camp fire dying, and the little ones sleeping in their beds. Too tired for the river tonight, too old for the work of catching eels. But not he. He is well and strong. No aching back or tired arms he. No bending, no sadness on him or thoughts of death like this old one.

His wish but not mine to come here this

– 13 –

year. ‘Too old,’ I said to him. ‘Let the young ones go. Stay back we two and tend our kumara and corn.’

‘This old body,’ he said. ‘It hungers for the taste of eel.’

‘The drums will be full when they return,’ I said. ‘Let them bring the eels to us, as they would wish to do.’

‘Ah no,’ he said. ‘Always these hands have fetched the food for the stomach. The eels taste sweeter when the body has worked in fetching.’

‘Go then,’ I said, and we prepared.

I think of him now as I await their return. ‘My time is here,’ he said in the dream, and now the bird calls out. And I think too of the young ones who spoke to him today in a new way, a way I did not like.

Before the night came, they worked all of them, to make their torches for the river. Long sticks of manuka, long and straight. Tins tied at the tops of the sticks, and in the tins rag soaked in oil. A good light they made as they left tonight for the river. Happy and singing they went with their torches. But I see the lights return now, dim. Dim and slow they come and sadly I await them.

And the young ones made their eel hooks. Straight sticks with strong hooks tied for catching eels. He smiled to see the eel hooks, the straight sticks with the strong hooks tied.

‘Your hooks,’ he said. ‘They work for the hands?’

But the young ones did not speak, instead bent heads to the work of tying hooks.

Then off the young ones to the hills for hare bait as the sun went down. Happy they went with the gun. Two shots went out and we waited their return. The young ones came back laughing. Happy they came with the hare. ‘Good bait this,’ they said. ‘Good bait and good hooks. Lots of eels for us tonight.’

But their grandfather said to them. ‘A hook is good for the eel but bad for the leg. Many will be there in the river tonight. Your uncles, your big cousins, your aunties, your grandpa too. Your hooks may take a leg in place of an eel. Your grandpa he takes an eel with his hand in the old way, it is a safe way and a good way. You waste your time with hooks.’

But the young ones rolled on the ground.

‘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.’

– 14 –

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.