Words by Kimihia Garcia-Grace
Low-hanging branches brush into Ata’s face as he crawls up through the forest that covers the hills. By this point, his forearms are sore, his pants are torn at the knees, and his nice white flannel shirt is stained red. He’d take it off if not for the snapped tao sticking out of his midsection, catching on the brush and causing more jolts of pain. As if it hadn’t done enough. Worst of all, Ata’s white Air Forces may as well be brown now. He’d just got them last week and hadn’t bought lunch for months, just to afford them. What a waste.
Finally, the ground starts to even out a little, and Ata rolls onto his back to breathe. He started up this hill because he thought he’d be able to see his surroundings from the top, but the trees totally choke out the sky. Nothing to be seen but two pīwakawaka flirting on the lower branch of a rewarewa. Ata really wishes he had some water. Or a pack of gum. He tried to eat a random leaf earlier just to distract himself and the bitter taste still swirls around his mouth.
Ata considers where to go next. On his left the hill seems to go back down. It’d probably be easier on his body, and odds are there’s a stream somewhere down there. But if he slips and starts rolling downhill, the end of the tao lodged in his guts somewhere is probably gonna fuck him up even more. He gets back to his hands and knees and heads in the other direction, up yet another hill.
It’s approaching evening when the trees start giving way to the orange-tinted clouds. After a particularly steep section, it feels like Ata’s reached the crest of the hill that seems more like a mountain. Approaching the edge of a clearing, he fumbles around and finds an old branch about as big as he is. Standing is a pain with his roughed-up legs, but he manages to limp forward using the branch as a support. When, at last, he breaks free of the treeline, Ata comes face to face with an ancient wharepuni sticking out of the hilltop. The wood is battered, and the right side seems to sag into the ground, but Ata is amazed to find the thatch roof intact.
“How the hell did you get here?” he wonders aloud, his voice ragged.
Ata has to crawl again to get through the low entrance, kicking his muddy shoes off behind him. He’s disappointed to find the interior is just a floor of packed dirt, not even a woven mat or leafy bedding to rest on. He sits with his back to the left wall and hangs his head. He’d love nothing more than to sleep for about 12 hours right here. Instead, he reluctantly brings the old branch to his side, stripping it of its twigs and bark. He manages to snap pieces from the thinner end of the branch, leaving it around the size of his arm. With the other end, he digs into the floor on his left side, making a shallow pit where he deposits all the bits of branch.
His phone and wallet are long gone, but from his back pocket, Ata takes a lighter and a packet of rolling papers. He takes a second to thank his vices before carefully spreading the papers at the bottom of the woodpile and setting them alight.
It takes quite a bit of prodding to get the fire going, but as the remaining twilight gives way to night, Ata’s grateful for the small bit of warmth and light. The pain in his torso seems to lessen as he sits completely still, leaning his shoulders and head against the wall.
Then, the very moment Ata starts to consider falling asleep, a shrill voice calls out to him, “Boy, that looks nasty.”
His eyes jump to the entrance, where he finds a weka peeking its head into the whare. It tilts its beak at him and scurries on inside. Ata can only cough as the weka comes up close to him and starts eyeing up his wound.
“Nasty indeed. I’m impressed you climbed all the way up here,” it says. Or not that it says, but rather that Ata hears that shrill voice in his head speaking to him as the weka chitters.
The weka gives a cautious peck to the area where the tao pierces his skin, and Ata yelps as a jolt of pain runs through him.
“Sorry, sorry.” It says, though it proceeds to hop on Ata’s stomach to inspect the top of the wound, the light pressure still causing a throbbing pain. It pokes its head under Ata’s shirt.
“Yup, that’s nasty alright,” it says, its head popping back out.
Ata hardly registers the feeling of its small feet as it treads up to his chest, where it settles down. It’s surprisingly warm.
“Now, how did a nice-looking boy like you get in this state?” it asks.
“What... even... are you?” Ata replies. His throat feels like it’s filled with thorns.
“Nuh uh, I asked first. You answer my question, don’t worry about me.”
“I... ran into... some trouble.” Ata feels uneasy as he looks into the weka’s beady eyes, which stare back into him expectantly. “Picked a little fight. Some guys, they liked to... mess with me.”
The weka cocks its head. “And did you get back at them?”
Ata coughs out a chuckle. “Got my ass beat.”
“Hmph,” the weka pecks at his pecs, “with a chest like this, I thought you would’ve got some good hits in.”
“I never really fought before. And they had a spear.”
“Right. That does seem unfair. Still, you can’t go roughhousing with some tough guys like that. Now look at you. What a shame.”
“Yeah...” Ata hangs his head. The weka still stares at him. “But I don’t regret it.”
“Oh?”
“I can say I went out swinging. I actually... stood up for myself, at least.” Ata feels his body loosen as he speaks, his chest easing as he takes ever shallower breaths. “Hey, bird. What’s gonna happen to me now?”
“Well, you’re almost there anyway. Why spoil the fun?” The weka gets up and hops off Ata’s chest. “Don’t drift off yet though. I’ll be right back.”
Ata watches as the weka scurries out of the whare into the night. The fire beside him has already started to dwindle away, yet he doesn’t feel it getting any colder. His entire focus is on keeping his eyelids from shutting completely.
Thankfully, the weka returns quickly, with a walnut shell clutched in its beak. It climbs up to Ata’s collarbone and sticks out the shell, filled with some sort of liquid, towards his mouth.
“Open up, but don’t swallow,” it says.
Ata does as he’s told, letting the liquid sit in his open mouth. The liquid tastes faintly like a potato. The weka tosses aside the shell and sits back down on Ata’s chest.
“You came to this place a little sooner than you should’ve. And yet, you find yourself at peace with the choices that led you here. Some of us would consider it foolish. I see that as noble,” says the weka. “You can spit it out now.”
Ata manages to let the liquid dribble from his mouth. “Thanks, bird,” he says. He feels his mind-numbing, the walls of the whare seeming to disappear despite the remaining firelight. He no longer registers the pain from his wounds or the ache of his muscles. Just the soothing warmth of the weka as it looks deep into his drooping eyes.
“Rest easy,” it says.
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