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The Great Outdoors: And other stories
Автор: John Carstensen
Активность, связанная с книгой
Начать чтениеДлина: 219 стр.3 ч
- Издатель:
- Austin Macauley Publishers
- Издано:
- Sep 30, 2019
- ISBN:
- 9781528958936
- Формат:
- Книге
Описание
This highly original collection of stories is a rich, eclectic mix of genres and characters. The stories are immediately engaging and accessible but also deftly layered with symbolism, irony, pathos and humour. They are mostly quintessentially New Zealand stories, with keenly observed insights into NZ culture, both Māori and Pākehā (NZ European). The text includes some Māori language, and glossaries are included. Carstensen is well travelled, and a few stories in this collection are inspired by his experiences in Asian countries in which he has lived and worked. There are disturbing stories of child trafficking in China and Indonesia and modern-day slavery in Southeast Asia. Carstensen is a Christian writer, though not so much a writer of Christian stories, as his stories tend to be more worldly, carnal and gritty than would sit comfortably with many Christian readers. However, his writing does explore some challenging Christian themes.
Активность, связанная с книгой
Начать чтениеСведения о книге
The Great Outdoors: And other stories
Автор: John Carstensen
Длина: 219 стр.3 ч
Описание
This highly original collection of stories is a rich, eclectic mix of genres and characters. The stories are immediately engaging and accessible but also deftly layered with symbolism, irony, pathos and humour. They are mostly quintessentially New Zealand stories, with keenly observed insights into NZ culture, both Māori and Pākehā (NZ European). The text includes some Māori language, and glossaries are included. Carstensen is well travelled, and a few stories in this collection are inspired by his experiences in Asian countries in which he has lived and worked. There are disturbing stories of child trafficking in China and Indonesia and modern-day slavery in Southeast Asia. Carstensen is a Christian writer, though not so much a writer of Christian stories, as his stories tend to be more worldly, carnal and gritty than would sit comfortably with many Christian readers. However, his writing does explore some challenging Christian themes.
- Издатель:
- Austin Macauley Publishers
- Издано:
- Sep 30, 2019
- ISBN:
- 9781528958936
- Формат:
- Книге
Об авторе
Carstensen is a Danish-born Kiwi and has also lived in Canada as a child. He is an English teacher by profession and has worked mainly in New Zealand. He has also lived and worked in China and did stints in Scotland and Indonesian Borneo. He is writing fiction in his semi-retirement and has published short stories in various literary journals and competitions. Also, he disappears occasionally into New Zealand backblocks with a backpack and a fly rod.
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The Great Outdoors - John Carstensen
Terms
About the Author
Carstensen is a Danish-born Kiwi and has also lived in Canada as a child. He is an English teacher by profession and has worked mainly in New Zealand. He has also lived and worked in China and did stints in Scotland and Indonesian Borneo. He is writing fiction in his semi-retirement and has published short stories in various literary journals and competitions. Also, he disappears occasionally into New Zealand backblocks with a backpack and a fly rod.
About the Book
This highly original collection of stories is a rich, eclectic mix of genres and characters. The stories are immediately engaging and accessible but also deftly layered with symbolism, irony, pathos and humour. They are mostly quintessentially New Zealand stories, with keenly observed insights into NZ culture, both Māori and Pākehā (NZ European). The text includes some Māori language, and glossaries are included. Carstensen is well travelled, and a few stories in this collection are inspired by his experiences in Asian countries in which he has lived and worked. There are disturbing stories of child trafficking in China and Indonesia and modern-day slavery in Southeast Asia. Carstensen is a Christian writer, though not so much a writer of Christian stories, as his stories tend to be more worldly, carnal and gritty than would sit comfortably with many Christian readers. However, his writing does explore some challenging Christian themes.
Dedication
To Miep.
Copyright Information ©
John Carstensen (2019)
The right of John Carstensen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528958936 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks for the cover image, which is an original painting by Joanne Burnard and is photographed by Alice Veysey of Paper and Pearl Photography.
List of First Publications:
‘Rocks’ was first published as ‘The Rockery’ in Landfall.
‘The School Bus’ was first published in Education Today.
‘Soon Gone’ was first published in The Rangitawa Collection 2016.
‘The Great Outdoors’ and ’The Phantom’ were first published in Takahe.
And ‘Kokako’ was shortlisted in the 2016 Takahe Short Story Competition.
The Phantom
Tai and Luke are streaking down the hill on their bikes toward the river. Tai edges past Luke, bending low over his handle bars, his black hair pushed back and his towel flapping like a cape off his back. He holds his lead and holds his nerve, not braking till he hits the fine line of not crashing across River Road at the bottom of the hill.
They stop off at the dairy and they’re sitting at the picnic table in the morning sun. Tai’s eating a meat pie and drinking a can of Coke. Luke’s just having a Coke. He’s already had breakfast at home. It’s a fine day and a very fine start to the school holidays. No more school for six weeks. The only thing Tai would miss was kapa haka, doing the school haka and practising the taiaha and the waiata and moteatea: Waikato Te Awa, Rangitapu, E Kore Au E Ngaro.
Tai and Luke go the river for a swim and stash their bikes out of sight in the flax with their clothes. Then they climb a big willow tree on the bank, just up far enough to get the rope swing where they’d hooked it up on a branch last time. This was where they launched themselves on the swing out over a deep pool in the river. The other end of the rope was tied to a high branch of an even bigger tree overhanging the river. It was Tai who had brought the rope and climbed out onto that branch. It was a hard climb, but no sweat for The Phantom. That was Tai’s secret identity. Well, it used to be secret. Maybe it was time for a new identity, maybe The Commando or The Ninja. So it was Tai’s swing and known only to a select few. Tai and Luke had bunked school a couple of times to come here for a swim but now that it was holidays, they could go whenever they felt like it.
Tai grabs the rope and he’s about to jump when he sees the girls coming down the track. He tells Luke to sit tight and keep quiet. He climbs a little higher to get a better look. It’s Naina, Bella and Katie, three of their classmates. It was Naina who narked on him for tagging the library block. It got back from her parents to his parents and he got smacked over at home for it. He wouldn’t be tagging his trademark Phantom insignia around town anymore. But the worst was he had to clean it off. It got back to school and old Williamson made him wear a high vis vest and clean off the graffiti during school time while everyone was around, walking past and giving him a hard time, like Jordan Nahu saying, Hey, it’s the phantom wanker.
The humiliation of it. That was a new word Thai had learned. Humiliation. You could feel shame all by yourself but when it was public, it was humiliating. He’d tried to be staunch and brazen it out, saying Some people just got no appreciation of art,
and with the rags and solvent, made a show of rubbing the penis he had drawn on the wall.
When Naina walked past, he shouted, Hey Naina, what’s the time? It’s Naina clock, time to be a nark. Yeah, there’s the bitch that narked on me.
He wanted to say ‘the ugly bitch’ but that wouldn’t work. It was obvious she was really pretty. Naina, the snooty bitch. She was no better than Tai as a student but she was a bit of a star when it came to sports and kapa haka. First in the cross country, a winger on the girls’ rugby team and the best swimmer in the junior school. Naina’s nickname, Naina Clock, was kind of funny but he needed to think of something better, something worse. Luke had a nickname too, Look Away, because of his wonky eye that was always looking away when he looked at you. Tai had made the mistake of practising his Phantom insignia in art class. He didn’t think anyone else had seen it. The nosy bitch!
So, Tai and Luke are hiding up this tree when the girls come down to the riverbank and change into their togs. Tai’s eyes are fastened on Naina. The T-shirt comes off over her head revealing the swelling, perky tits and the dark, pointy nipples, just as he had pictured them so often outlined under her blouse. They had definitely grown since the start of the year. Shorts and panties off. The little black bush below her belly. Oops, stiffy coming on again. The cold water will take care of that. Tai’s dick was really getting a mind of its own lately. Even once sitting in class, it started stirring and growing. He had to think of something bad. Pāngarau. Equations. Mind over matter. What’s the matter? Nothing. Kore. He hated maths. Numbers, equations, multiplication, addition, distraction, derision.
Meanwhile back in the bush, the girls have got their togs on. Show’s over. Tai shouts, Hey, hey, Look Away, what’s the time?
and Luke responds with, It’s Naina Clock.
The girls cover themselves with their towels and look around. They can’t see the boys but they know who it is. Bella shouts, Piss off, you perverts!
Tai swoops out of the tree, hooting with laughter and drops into the river. Luke grabs the rope on the backswing. The girls swim in the pool just out of range and edge further away when the boys start bombing, dropping off the swing, hugging their knees. They compete, as always, to make the biggest splash. Then it’s acrobatics, doing backflips off the rope. Tai knows the girls are watching. Then the competition becomes who can swing the furthest out into the river.
Luke shouts, I beat your mark.
And then Tai says, No, you didn’t. What mark? Where’s your mark in the water, anyway?
Bella calls out, Ha, I could do better than that.
No, you couldn’t,
Tai shouts, cos you won’t be using the swing. No girls allowed, and definitely no narks.
On Tai’s next turn, he says, It’s all in the timing,
and he swings out holding onto the rope with one hand till he’s nearly at end of the arc. He does get a bit of extra distance, right out into the current. He bobs to the surface, treading water, flicks his hair off his face and presses the water from his eyes. He has to swim back against the current. But his legs aren’t working properly. They’re cramping painfully and he’s struggling as the swirling current pulls him downstream, further out and under. He’s choking, breathless, weakening. With his head under the water, he hears singing, chanting:
Waikato te awa, katohia, katohia, he wai māu, katohia he wai māu, ka eke ki te puaha o Waikato te awa.
River weed brushes his legs, reaches out and grabs at his ankles.
He piko, he taniwha, he piko, he taniwha.
Kia tūpato rā, kei tahuri koe i ngā aukaha o Waikato.
He’s reduced to dog paddling to keep his head above water.
Luke shouts, Hey, Tai, you all right?
No answer. Luke runs along the bank downstream to get ahead of Tai and dives in. As he’s swimming out to him, he sees Naina swimming down with the current and she catches up with Tai. She struggles to get hold of him because he’s desperately grabbing onto her, and she punches him in the face. Luke swims alongside. He can do no better than let Naina do the rescue.
Tai stops struggling, but mentally he struggles with the weakness and humiliation of being rescued by a girl, by Naina, and the thrill of her arm around him. Her free arm grabs the water with powerful strokes across the current. Tai’s on his back, still getting carried downstream but Naina’s towing him, closer to the bank till they get to where it’s shallow enough for Naina and Luke to drag him onto the muddy bank. Tai is on his hands and knees, like a dog, vomiting and coughing. Naina is panting. Nobody speaks. Tai crawls back into the water and washes his face. He gets his breath back and regains his legs and a bit of composure. Then he stands up and says, Yeah, I’m all right. So yous girls wanna have a go on this swing or not?
Glossary of Māori terms
kapa haka
traditional Māori performing arts
haka
traditional Māori war dance
taiaha
a staff used in Māori martial arts
waiata songs
moteatea chants
Pāngarau mathematics
kore nothingness
Rangi tapu sacred sky or sacred day
E Kore Au E Ngaro
I’m not lost.
Waikato te awa, katohia, katohia, he wai māu, katohia he wai māu, ka eke ki te puaha o Waikato te awa.
The Waikato River. When you have plucked the water and taken it to the river mouth, this is Waikato.
He piko, he taniwha, he piko, he taniwha.
Kia tūpato rā, kei tahuri koe i ngā aukaha o Waikato.
At every bend, a taniwha
Be careful, lest you are overturned by the strong current of the Waikato.
taniwha
a river monster or spirit which could also be a guardian
or, alternatively, a powerful chief
Kokako
George had disappeared; that is to say he had gone missing a few months ago. And it turns out I was probably the last person to see him alive. At least that’s what the police say. They seem to think he’s dead. We all searched the bush around his house but there was no sign of him, not even footprints along the muddy tracks. Well, there were some of my footprints, which cast some suspicion on me, but then Sid and Mac, the other neighbours, were suspects too. There were lots of animal tracks: possums, goats and birds, mostly George’s chooks. George’s car was still there but, as I say, no sign of George.
George had the last house on the road, right at the top of the valley, past the farms, just bush for miles. Some days it’s cloudy and drizzly up around his place and clear and sunny further down the road at my place. There are just two houses between my place and George’s and no, we hadn’t seen any strange vehicles going up the road. I’d gone up there to drop off some sweet corn and pick up some eggs, nice free range eggs. George had chooks and I had gardens. We had a kind of barter economy going among the small community in the valley and we traded fruit, vegetables, eggs, beef, pork, fish, weed – whatever.
I’d been to Sid’s place the same day, just a social call. Ally, his wife, had gone to town for the day. Sid was sitting on the sagging veranda of his rundown old farm house, on the bench seat of an HR Holden, whose derelict body served as a pig house under the macrocarpas. Sacks of feed mash were stored in the boot. Last season’s heads,
he said, savouring a deep toke before handing me the joint. He gazed vacantly at his black steers snatching at what grass they could find in the overgrazed paddock and filing through the front gate that hung askew on broken hinges. There were the river flats but most of Sid’s farm was bush and scrub. His stock regularly grazed the roadside, ‘the long acre’, and neighbouring paddocks wherever they could get in. Won’t be much this season,
he said. Some bastard ripped up most of my plants.
Sid had a few plots of cannabis hidden away in the bush up the back, some of them actually on George’s land, and George was very anti-cannabis anyway, so we all knew who pulled up the plants.
Sid’s wandering stock didn’t help to promote friendly relations with neighbours either, especially the goats. His fences were barely adequate for the steers and no match at all for the goats. I kept my garden well fenced against Sid’s animals. The goats went where they pleased, up and down the river, through the bush and onto the farms. Sid lolled on his car seat and didn’t say much but he told me he’d seen a kokako ‘up the back’ the other day, which he thought was pretty remarkable because he’d thought they were extinct. But don’t tell anyone,
he said. We don’t want people snooping around up here, especially not DOC.
¹
George lived on his own but I wouldn’t say he was a hermit; he was actually quite sociable. He lived very simply, without electricity, not that he couldn’t afford it. Sid told me George had a lot of money from when he worked as a stock broker in America before he migrated to New Zealand to escape the impending economic collapse. He didn’t trust banks, so he probably had it stashed away in his house somewhere. You can’t see George’s house from the road. In fact, you can’t see it till you’re right there because it’s all surrounded by trees and the only clearings are around the chook house and fruit trees. It’s a pole house perched on the side of a hill that slopes down to the river, a two-storey wooden structure with lead light windows, three storeys if you count the turret, a small round bedroom which he called the crow’s nest.
One time I went to visit George, I found him sitting on the deck, cross-legged and motionless, meditating, and I sat quietly and observed him for a bit, as though he were some kind of weird specimen in a museum. He was wearing the same clothes I’d always seen him in: a green and black Swandri and jeans. He had a wild and bushy beard with grey streaks running down each side of his chin and a prominent, slightly beaky nose with a scar across the bridge. I was just going to leave again, as I’d done another time when I found him sitting there but ‘not at home’, but he came round, came back to his body as he put it. He took a deep breath, blinked his eyes open, put his glasses on and said, Hey John, would you like a cup of tea?
as though he’d been there all the time. His eyes were magnified by the round lenses of his glasses, grey-blue eyes with a cloudy ring around the irises.
Mac, Noel MacDougal, also lived on his own, since
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