this is a true story, at least to the best of my memory…
The view from up here looks across the green valley and out to the sea. From lower down not much can be seen, as there are trees all around. I watched them grow year after year, and enjoy the shelter they give from the wind. No matter from what direction the wind blows, there’s always a warm spot, and place to bed down when it rains at night. Sometimes the wind roars across the top of the trees and barely touches the ground. From north, to east, to west, to south, the wind brings different sounds and different smells. I know them all.
Down below in the green valley there are two rivers, mostly they’re out of sight, but I can hear them. I know them as I know every corner of my home, and all that belong here, the trees, the birds, the other creatures. The sound the rivers make is usually a comforting patter, regular in rhythm. When it’s been raining hard, that patter becomes a gush, and when the rain doesn’t stop, that gush becomes a roar, and that roar drowns out all other sounds. It doesn’t worry me though, it’s just a thing that happens from time to time, and I have a warm coat that keeps me dry.
They say the coat is doing wonders for my arthritis and they’re probably right. I’m not keen to give it up now. I like my coat. These coats have a warm layer on the inside and are waterproof on the outside. The strange little one likes his too. It’s hard to tell though what he thinks, his mind is his own, and he’s usually off by himself. He seems happy enough, so I don’t worry. Not about him anyway. My niece and my nephew who live here with me stick more closely and follow my lead. Both have bad legs, which is why they’re here with me. They’re not my niece and nephew directly, that is they’re not directly of my family line, but are of my group. Their mother died earlier this year, she was old, although not as old as me. She was protective of them to the last. I know they miss her. The strange little one is their nephew. His mother died when he was only one. He’s had it tough that one, yet he never complains.
Follow my lead. It’s not a weight I carry heavily these days. I’m tired. Still, I am the matriarch. Always have been, always will be. Where I go, they go, where I stay, they stay. The others, the strong, fit ones move around more, but they’re never far away. I know where they are and they know where I am. Especially my daughter. She and I are close, inseparable in fact. Even though we presently are apart, we’re within call, within reach, so I am at ease. We always get together again soon enough.
This daughter is not my oldest, nor is she my youngest. It was when my last little boy died that we became so close. That boy was fine at first, and a plucky little thing, yet from day one he seemed to tire easily. Soon he got poorly, but we didn’t give up. I stayed with him, and my daughter stayed with me, and she cared for him when I needed a break. Then one dark, rainy night, he didn’t get up and he slipped away. I think I knew it was going to happen. My daughter and I mourned together, but in our sadness we knew we still had each other and she still had her little daughter, my grandaughter.
I lost my first born too. I couldn’t get him out. The wrong way round he was, and his heart stopped beating before he could get air into his lungs. I was young and healthy, and knew there would be more. But it left me nervous. I wouldn’t let anyone near me when birthing was near. I could fret for hours, days even. I’d forget to eat. It was all I could think of. I’d take myself away, trusting no-one. Of course, it was all fine. A new little princess would be born. She’d be aloof like me, and the cleanest, (I’d never let a speck of dirt stay on her), and the smartest of them all. Hormones can do strange things to minds. A group of females together can turn on each other just as easily as they support each other – when they’re not themselves.
One day when I returned with my new, sparkling little princess, a few of them turned on me. While I was away they decided they didn’t want my crown over them. I was pushed around and my head came down hard on a rock. Everything went dark, I couldn’t lift my head and my body went limp, I thought this was it. But I wouldn’t let it. I had my princess to protect. People were there, holding my head, I let them help. Eventually the world stopped spinning, I could tell up from down. My legs were weak but I got up, found my princess, and walked away.
Before long all was back to normal. It’s how things go. It wasn’t that I decided to be leader. It was just that when we arrived here, here that is now home, we were young, just children. We had been taken from our home and we didn’t know what to do, just that we needed to stay together. I wasn’t the biggest but I guess I was the toughest. I wouldn’t stand for any attempt to separate us and I’d rebel against everything. “Stand strong”, my mother would say, “hold your head high and don’t drop your eyes.” But that there would be times, she told me, to put my head forward and brace my shoulders, and times to run. I remember running with my mother.
We came from the mountains where the winters are cold and summers are hot. Where life is vast and wild; where the rivers run clear, sometimes at peace, other times with danger. When I was born, snow still rested high up, and just as the valleys were beginning to parch, I was taken. I can’t remember much of what happened next, There was the smell of fear, the concern of hunger, the ache for our mothers, but mostly there was bewilderment, and innocence gone.
This place, where I am now, became our new home. When we looked at, and spoke to our neighbours we realised we were lucky where we were. It wasn’t perfect but we could see we had it better than some. We didn’t understand much of what happened in our lives and we didn’t always consent, but somehow, we knew we were cared for, and our needs provided. Even though we had our disagreements at times, ours was a close-knit group.
Thirteen of us originally. As we settled down to our new circumstances everyone fell into a role. One who became nurse kept close to any who were unwell, tended wounds and advised on medicinal plants. Another became the seeker. She knew where food was, and when it was time to move on it was her we followed. When the young ones were big enough to be briefly from our sides, crèche mother was steadfast in her role. She would watch over them while the rest of us fed and rested. As the head, it was my role to protect and maintain cohesion. For this I was first to the food, had the casting vote and the final word. Mothering is hard on the body and our group felt the loss when one of us didn’t follow. We knew it was the way of the world and accepted that life goes on. It was different though, when a baby was lost. Then we cried. Cried tears to the earth.
I’m the only one left now. Over my twenty-two years all of my original group have died, one by one, and some of our daughters too. Other than the two crippled boys our sons are gone, as are their fathers. Life is easier now, more simple. The people who watch over us, our people, make sure we have enough to eat and shelter from the weather. Other than that, we’re left to live our lives in peace. Our people have come to understand. I keep my head high and don’t drop my eyes. I’ve kept my dignity and full set of horns. I have family around me and sun on my back. I have the land I call home.
I was born at Makarora, and they call me ‘944’.
You may suggest I have anthropomorphised 944’s thoughts because of course, all I can do is recount this story in our human way. The other side, and one many of you will relate to, is having spent 22 years living with 944, observing and sharing her life, I have some understanding. Her consciousness will have been different to ours, but I can testify to there being many similarities.
Pictured here, 944 on the left.She died 28 October 2023 aged 22. Her daughter was with her.
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Bice Grace Lapin 