a few buildings and rocks outlined against deep blue twilight with a normal moon in the corner

Full moon over Kaikōura, 2020. The eclipse will look different to and more exciting than this. (Photo: Matthew Micah Wright via Getty)

BooksDecember 6, 2020

The Unremembered, a short story by Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

Guest writer

Full moon over Kaikōura, 2020. The eclipse will look different to and more exciting than this. (Photo: Matthew Micah Wright via Getty)

This short story, The Unremembered, appears in the new collection Scorchers: A Climate Fiction Anthology, alongside stories from celebrated Australian and New Zealand writers such as Tulia Thompson, Renee Liang and Witi Ihimaera.

There was this woman named Rona. She was the one pulled up to the moon for swearing.

Rona was ordinary – wife, mother, three kids. (Strictly speaking she had many children because in those days your sibling’s children were your children too. Your first cousin’s kids were also your kids. They were truly yours because they all had the same grandparents. Cousins were not referred to as cousins, but as brothers and sisters).

Anyway, Rona, wife and mother, was also maker of garments, baskets, mats, containers; hunter, gatherer, carrier of water; storyteller, gossip. When men went to war, Rona went with them, providing food and water to fighters, joining in the fray if that became necessary. Maybe she was sharp tongued and quick tempered as well. But, ordinary. Same old same old.

So, what was this ordinary woman doing, sitting up there in the moon? Those who chose to stand in judgement of her said it was her own fault that she’d been taken up, never to see her people or her children again. Brought it all on herself, they said, when, one moonlit night she went running along the tracks to the spring to fill her calabashes with water. She was almost there when she tripped and fell. Most of the calabashes broke. Her ankle broke. Bang.

Rona, in her pain and confusion blamed, not the passing cloud, but the moon, for her being unable to see the tree roots which caused her fall. She looked this most eminent ancestor in the eye and yelled a few bad swear words.

Moon was not going to stand for that. By way of punishing Rona, she wrenched her from her sitting place and took her on a journey to the sky. Rona grabbed a nearby tree in an attempt to anchor herself to Earth, but the tree was uprooted, and there she was, sailing away, the mānuka in one hand and the remaining calabashes in the other. Ka mau te wehi!

That is why, up there, on the night of Rākaunui when Moon is at her fullest, Rona can be seen with her little tree and her water containers.

The anthology is edited by Rosslyn Prosser, HOD of English and creative writing at the University of Adelaide, and climate activist Paul Mountfort, chair of AUT’s creative writing centre (Image: Supplied)

In many accounts this is where the story ends, the moral of the tale being about respect – watch your tongue, taihoa or verbals, disrespect those on whom life itself depends and you’ll be the loser, abuse your ancestors and you abuse yourself.

More extended accounts of this story, while not diminishing the lesson to be learned, throw a more positive light on Rona’s situation. And this is where ordinary becomes extraordinary. This is where the wife, mum, provider and sometime warrior becomes elevated in more ways than one. It’s the time when Rona, in partnership with Moon, becomes the tide controller. Tai timu, tai pari – the tide comes in, the tide goes out, according to the pull and release of Moon-cum-Rona. Seasons come and go under their influence.

So, the wrong-doing on Rona’s part, in time, became a positive for her. She lived down her misdemeanour and though she never saw her kids again, she knew they would be all right with all their other mothers. She would never see her people again, but knew she could be of service to them in her new role. It was a peaceful, war-free existence Rona led.

People, because their life depended on it, understood all these moon phases inside-out, back-to-front and every-which-way. That’s how they knew when to plant or harvest their spuds, corn, etc. It’s how they knew when to fish, gather shellfish or parengo. Calendars, all in their heads. Everyday stuff. When to go to war entered into the calculations. No one wanted to be doing war stuff at planting or harvest time, or when the blind eels were running.

Perhaps the children missed this particular mother. Perhaps the people missed this particular personality and the extra pair of hands, but maybe as time went by, it could be with a sense of enormous pride that Rona’s descendants looked up and whispered that it was their tūpuna, Rona, who rolled and unrolled the tides, ordinary become extraordinary.

That’s the happy ending.

As there is no more on record regarding this piece of storied history to do with Rona, Moon, tides and seasons. If we thought to update or extend it, and if we dared, it would need to be a matter of DIY.

It could start like this:

As the centuries went by Rona couldn’t help noticing all was not well with the world out there. She noticed little things at first, which she didn’t like to draw attention to. Rona watched her tongue these days, didn’t want to speak out of turn or to seem unduly critical, but she became more and more worried. After much thought she decided to share her concerns with Moon.

The conversation could go like this:

“Something’s not right out there on the world,” Rona said to Moon.

“Hmm,” said Moon.

“It’s in disarray.”

“Ahh um … ”

“You don’t have to spare my feelings. I’ve already figured the problem on Earth is to do with my own species.”

“Well, now that you mention it … ”

“Know-alls. They’re wrecking the place.”

“I can’t disagree with that, but … “

“Killing off other life forms who’ve been living together long before they, myself included, came on the scene. Leaving them to die. Pulling the guts out of Earth, the provider, she who sustains all of life. Who in their right mind … ?”

“I agree. Not how it’s meant to be.”

“Killing their tuākana – plant life, all creatures. Out of control, running amok.”

“It’s a development, a malfunction, I believe. A rogue element has taken over the susceptible.”

“Who are?”

“The Unremembering.”

“Unremembering? Unremembering? I think you’re being too polite,” said Rona. “I mean this is serious … ”

“Unremembering about interdependence, unremembering about the mauri of all things, unremembering that all have an important place in the universe. These most junior, last-to-be-made, or last-to-become, knew their place once.”

“Now they’re ravaging forests and waters, despoiling the atmosphere, trampling all over those who are their older brothers and sisters. Unremembering has led to a perceived Eminence, which became Ascendancy, which became Dominance, which became Superiority … ”

“Not to mention Arrogance, Abuse, Avarice … ”

“Which became Rapacity, which became … ”

“Contempt … ”

“Which became Supremacy.”

“It can’t go on. It has to stop,” said Rona. “They need pulling up.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t do that, couldn’t bring them here, they’d trample all over us,” said Moon, “they’ve already visited and thought nothing of going away and leaving all their debris floating about.”

“I was pulled up, punished. I learned my lesson.”

“Or perhaps you were saved, taken away from a worsening situation. And anyway, punishment wouldn’t help.”

“I think you’re being too conciliatory. Someone has to make a call. The way I see it is they’re stealing from their own kids, messing up the lives of their own descendants, taking the futures of their grandchildren from under their feet. With respect I think you’re excusing them, indulging them. Something needs to be done.”

“Earth’s fighting back,” said Moon. “She doesn’t need ngā tāngata for her own survival, but out of kindness, out of love for the pōtiki she sends out warnings – Fire, Water, the Plague.”

“Is anyone listening?”

“There are the bystanders and the deniers, then there are The Voiced, who know they are affected, know they are part of it all. They’re fighting for their lives and the lives of those to follow. Theirs are voices that echo round and round in tunnels without end.”

“And the Unvoiced?”

“They are the innocent, the neglected, the abandoned, the downtrodden, the rawakore, who live with death, who have done no harm, but who are collateral damage within the destructive environment of those who eat the world.”

“But, I too, am of The Unremembering who are self-destructing,” said Rona. “I am also of the Voiced and the Unvoiced. I am all of them. All of them are me.

“I must return to be among my society – ngā tāngata – as we take our leave. None should remain as Earth regenerates … ”

“Without its last born?”

“ … Who will become The Unremembered.”

Scorchers: A Climate Fiction Anthology, edited by Paul Mountfort and Rosslyn Prosser (Steam Press, $29) is available from Unity Books Auckland and Wellington.

Keep going!

Dusty trails. Photo: Michelle Langstone

BooksDecember 6, 2020

When I am farther away

Michelle Langstone

Contributing writer

Dusty trails. Photo: Michelle Langstone

Michelle Langstone runs away to the Marlborough region to find some peace in the quiet.

There are things you can learn from the wild. If you go farther away, the messages get clearer, delivered uninterrupted down the wires of birdsong and through the swift-running currents of rivers. Where I stay, there is no light pollution after dark, and the stars are very bright. There are glow worms in the damp banks that line the forest paths; another set of lights to see by, they don’t interfere with your night vision, but enhance it. Out here with my wilder nature I feel my skin speak to the air, exchanging knowledge in molecules and breath.

I learn everything I need to know from animals. I learn about loneliness from a small feral goat named Stephen who bleats into the afternoon, looking for someone to break up the hours. I learn about comfort when he buries his head under my armpit and nudges me there, his horns blunt implements of reprimand for the time I have been away from him. I feed him fig leaves from the tree he can’t reach from his hind legs, and he yanks at the green stems, insolent with hunger. And then he goes mad, racing around his paddock, leaping onto logs, frisking mid air, turning half somersaults in the afternoon sunshine, his little body caught up in the simple euphoria of being fed something he likes, and having someone beside him. I sit with a cup of tea and he unties my shoelaces and tries to eat my sweater, and bunts me with his hard head, as if he is trying to beat into me that I must not leave it so long before I see him again.

I learn about the daylight hours from a black dog named Dusty, who watches the arc of the sun with me, and meters out my working day between walks along the riverbank, or up the forest road. I am on his schedule. I watch his ears and listen for the things he can hear before me. In the bed at night he sleeps heavy by my side, and I feel the cage of his lungs rise and fall against my hip. Out here alone, at the edge of the wild, he is my eyes and ears. In the dark mornings as we head down the river road, his white front paws flash in the loosening light.

Because I am farther away, I miss a funeral of a beloved childhood teacher. I watch the service online, with the dog beside me, and I let tears fall on his soft ears when I see the casket carried out. The cameraperson turns off the video, and then on again when they have positioned themselves beside the hearse, to where the coffin is carried by the family. I watch familiar faces from my childhood, now aged, come to lay roses on the casket lid. The camera is so close I can just pick up the words they say to her in farewell. I feel I am floating somewhere in the air above the the funeral goers, omniscient for the first and only time in my life, catching these private moments of sadness, craving the intimacy of grief.

I go out into the tangle of garden and pick wild flowers that are losing their best life, and scatter their petals up the forest path for my teacher.

People all over the world are missing the funerals of their loved ones, hunched over live feeds while a pandemic rages on and we are kept apart. I can’t warm up. I feel cold down to my bones from the way we are all spaced out in our grief across hemispheres. I light the fire and watch the paper flare, listening to the whoosh of air suck the orange flames higher. I go out in the rain that has begun to fall, collecting firewood and stepping carefully past the blackbirds that claim the lawn and the worms coming up for air. I am the least important thing here, less necessary than the rain.

The trees are heavy with birds. Their songs are damp, but optimistic.

I get stuck inside the chicken coop when the door shuts and the clasp clicks into place. Crouched in the dirt I feel panic, and try to consider my options. It’s just me and three hens, who have come to tell me off in no uncertain terms, feathered dinosaurs on a scolding mission. I crouch there for ages, unable to move, imagining being found clutching the hens for warmth, nesting in their straw with them, in their house under the trees. I throw my body against the door but it doesn’t budge. In the end I find a long stick, and shove it up through the chicken wire, prodding the latch until I manage to push it upwards, and fling the door open to my freedom.

Outside of my own life, absorbed in the rhythm of another, I forget about the things that trouble me. I forget to be anxious about work, because here the work is the kind that keeps animals alive, and the land turning over, and it seems to matter more than deadlines for a world that keeps grinding on without me. Out here we watch the weather, and the river that runs swollen, and then calm again.

All the river stones are polished round, and when the water is high and full you can hear them rattle along its bed, if you listen.

Farther away it matters just to sleep and wake and rise. It matters to light the fire, and turn on the lamps in the evening, when the dusk windows turn to mirrors and I see myself for the first time in several days, tangled in a jersey, my hair in nests. I always tell myself I will carry the value of these simpler days back with me when I emerge. When I finally wash properly and style my hair, I will keep the wilder version of myself just close enough to still feel it. But the fact of it is, the moment the city takes me back in its possessive, smoggy embrace, I will let it erase the wildness the way I always do. I will let the street lights seduce me when they gleam in the rain, and the crowds in the shops carry me along with the conversations of strangers. I will feed my cat, who is never lonely, and watch her nose an indoor plant on her way to a nap.

But when I lock the door in the evening, in my little unit attached to other little units that hold other humans busy in their lives, I will remember the chicken coop and the panic, and remind myself that we pay for expensive cages and call them homes.