Hiwa’s Wishes
‘The horizon tastes like summer fruits,’ says Tupuārangi, still glowing from the sun.
I look back at that golden cloak hemming the sea, and say nothing. The wind catches us, and one by one we rise like fish pulled from the water. We breach into the night and wait.
‘Hiwa,’ comes the sweet voice of Matariki. Her silvery gaze lights a path to me. I linger behind a pearly cloud, busying myself by fluffing it into a shape—not eyeball-like, I insist.
‘Leave her for one night,’ Pōhutukawa interrupts, her inky fingers tracing a path downwards. I shudder. The winds will guide them to Earth where the humans are, but beneath that is a dark place I cannot reach. Only Pōhutukawa, and she is ready as always. I go back to making the cloud a rather lovely seashell.
And then—sigh. They are gone.
I peek around one fluffy curve to watch. Eight stars spiral down on winter’s wind to where the humans are.
I see a city on the hook tip of an island, lit by amber lights. Ururangi has told me before what they are. Street lights, and car beams, and light bulbs. I remember when it was fireplaces, waxy candles, and little gas burners.
It seems so warm and inviting, as if they’ve caught the shining ends of Tama-nui-te-rā’s cloak in their boxes on the hills. I can imagine them at their windows tonight. Looking … hoping … waiting …
I sink behind a cloud, my fingers knotting together. This’ll be over soon. Then I can go back and—
Clink.
Oh no.
Clink, clink.
No, no!
Clink, clink, clink—
I leap through the cloud to escape. But that icy wind brushes my heels, and with it rolls in those dreaded eyeballs. This year’s wishes. One after another, glistening white. Their pupils spin until they find me. They lock on.
‘Ah, go away!’ I spring up onto a darker cloud, and kick at them. But something nudges my ankle. ‘Matariki! Pōhutukawa!’
Another dozen eyeballs drop in, making the same wet clinking sound. They gather by my feet and look up. Waiting. Some have misty pupils. Some are too dark. Some are too bright, and some are strangely, wetly red. I know where those came from.
‘You need to stop,’ I plead with them. ‘I wish I could help you, but I can’t. So you need to stop coming to me.’
My cheeks burn, my vision blurs, and for a moment I consider fleeing back to Tama-nui-te-rā’s golden cloak. My sisters can do this year without me. No one needs an atua who can do nothing for them.
Tink.
… Tink? I look down.
A new eye has dropped in, blank. No pupil, no colour. It wobbles behind the rest of them, then turns a little to the side, as if trying to look away. But it does not leave.
It sits there, small, and becoming smaller still.
I gently lift it to me.
Paige Grayson is a writer from Tairāwhiti Gisborne. She is of Ngāti Porou and Ngāti Uepōhatu descent and now calls Ōtautahi Christchurch home. She works as a communications and engagement advisor in aviation and studies Māori astronomy. This is her first publication.