HUIA Short Stories 16 E-Book

Various Authors

• Herausgeber: Huia Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Huia Short Stories
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 157

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Here are the best short stories by adults and young people and poetry from the Pikihuia Awards for Māori writers 2025. This competition, run by the Māori Literature Trust and Huia Publishers, is held every two years to promote Māori writers and their work. This year, the awards sought writing in te reo Māori and English in the categories of poetry and of short stories (fiction and non-fiction) by adults and students in Years 7–13. The competition attracts entries each year from a variety of writers, from those who are starting out to seasoned authors. This collection of finalists' work celebrates Māori writing, introduces new talent and gives an opportunity for Māori writers to shine.

Leseprobe

First published in 2025 by Huia Publishers39 Pipitea Street, PO Box 12280Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealandwww.huia.co.nz

ISBN 978-1-77550-934-9 (print)ISBN 978-1-77550-992-9 (EPUB)ISSN 1177-0848 (serial)

Cover image copyright © Matariki Wilkins-HodgesCopyright © the authors 2025

The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of their respective works.

This book is copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the prior permission of the publisher.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

Published with the assistance of

Ebook conversion 2025 by meBooks.

Contents

Foreword

Eboni Waitere

Short Stories

Te Tohunga me te Pirihi

Hāwea Apiata

When the river is ready

Shelley Burne-Field

The Sea Within

Mark Horsefield

Te Hapori Whanokē

Darryn Joseph

He Kōrero Parāoa

Darryn Joseph

L!PSTICK CALLS

Anthony Kohere

Ko Tōku Tuakana Hou

Atakohu Middleton

Paradise Duck

Toni Pivac-Hohaia

Poetry

Seeding

Shona Barnett

skin

Shelley Burne-Field

Asking for my mokopuna

Di Grennell

taku moko kēnge

Aperahama Te Kapua-I-Waho Hurihanganui

Kia ū, kia mau!

Te Aomihia Kaipara

Te Taniwha Tupurangi

Atakohu Middleton

Miriama

Janet-Liee Pihama

He Oriori Koiora Moana

Mokena Potae Reedy

Calabashes in my mouth

Marama Salsano

Tīpuna go fishing to catch another mokopuna

Jessica Hinerangi Thompson-Carr

Tauira Short Stories

Woman of the Water

Boyd Kahu Archibald

Rollercoaster

Nina Jude Digby

The Price of War

Tamihana Simmonds

White Māori

Maia Waldegrave

Twilight’s Wake

Sarah Rose Mautoka Wilson

The Authors

Foreword

At the 2025 Koroneihana, Te Arikinui Kuīni Ngā wai hono i te pō delivered a powerful call:

“Tino rangatiratangatia tō reo, mana motuhaketia te taiao, tino rangatiratangatia tō hauora, mana motuhaketia tō pā harakeke.”

Her words remind us that our language, our environment, our wellbeing and our whānau are all taonga that must be upheld with sovereignty and integrity. Literature has always been one of the ways we do this, capturing voices, passing on mātauranga and creating stories that nurture identity and resilience for generations to come.

As a publisher, I have the privilege of walking alongside writers at many different stages of their journeys. For some, writing is about giving voice to lived experiences and preserving whānau stories. For others, it is an act of service – passing on knowledge, uplifting their communities and inspiring new generations. And for many, writing is a craft and a career, a pursuit of excellence that aspires to awards, bestseller lists and global readership. Each writer measures success differently, yet all are bound by the courage to put words on a page.

That is the beauty of the Pikihuia Awards, the biennial competition run by the Māori Literature Trust in partnership with HUIA since 1997. They draw writers from across this spectrum, and every finalist represented in Huia Short Stories 16 is part of that legacy. These awards and this series are not just competitions or collections – they are a movement. They stand for foresight, determination and collaboration: the foresight to create a space where Māori stories are recognised and celebrated; the determination to sustain that kaupapa for nearly three decades; and the collective impact of writers, mentors, editors, judges, funders and advocates who ensure it continues to thrive.

These examples remind us that opportunities like Pikihuia are not fleeting moments, but stepping stones on a poutama, a pathway of growth and achievement. Each step shapes futures, opens pathways and builds communities of writers whose voices ripple outward into schools, wānanga, festivals, libraries, international stages and, even more influential, our homes.

The stories in this collection carry that same promise. Some of these names may be new to you now, but I am confident you will encounter them again – on bookshelves, in awards lists and in the conversations that literature sparks. Together, they are part of a growing record of Māori creativity and innovation, a testament to the power of story to connect, challenge and transform.

To every finalist whose work is published here: tēnā rawa atu koutou. Whatever your personal aspirations, this is already a significant achievement. You now join a long whakapapa of writers who have contributed to the Huia Short Stories series – a living record of Māori literature and its impact.

The future of Māori writing is not only bright, it is already here.

Eboni Waitere

Director, Huia Publishers

Te Tohunga me te Pirihi

HĀWEA APIATA

Kāore anō kia takahia tēnei wāhanga o te ngahere e ōku waewae tonu, nā konā i pā mai ai te mānukanuka. I taku urunga atu ki te uru rākau nei, ka tere kite i ngā mōmōhanga o tētahi kahikatea nui rawa atu, kua hinga iho tōna kāuru, ā, i te takoto noa i te taha o te tumu. Nā, kua pirau ngā wāhanga katoa o te rākau nei, ā, i a au e whakatata atu ana ki a ia, ka titiro ki te takiwā huri noa i te rākau me te kite i ngā momo tupu, ngā momo puihi, me ngā rau o ngā rākau hoki e parohea ana, e kurehe ana, ka mutu, kua pango te katoa, ānō nei kua uaina te wāhi rā e te waingārahu.

Nā, i a mātou ko aku kaihana e tamariki ana ka kohetengia mātou e ō mātou karani ina whakatata rawa ki tēnei wāhanga o te puihi. Kua rāhuitia te takiwā nei e ngā tūpuna e hia kē tau ki muri, ā, kua aua atu te wā, ka wareware ai te take mō taua rāhui i ngā reanga o nāianei. Engari, he ngākau mahira tōku.

I te wā i tīmata ai taku mahi ki te whare pupuri taonga, ka tere ruku atu au ki roto i ngā kohinga o reira kia kite mai ai mēnā he taonga, he tuhinga tawhito, he aha atu rānei e pā ana ki tō mātou rohe, ki tō mātou whānau rānei. Nōku e wherawhera ana i ngā tuhinga me ngā niupepa tawhito, ka tūpono ki tētahi atikara me tōna upoko whanokē, 25 AUGUST 1873 – LOCAL PRIEST CURSED BY MAORI WITCH DOCTOR. He mea pukuhohe ki a au, engari ka pānui tonu, ka tere kite ai i te ingoa o te tangata e kōrerohia ana i roto i te atikara, arā, ko taku tupuna matua tērā—te koroua o taku koroua i te taha o tōku pāpā. He tohunga tēnei tangata, e mōhio whānuitia ana i tōna wā.

Hei tā te niupepa nei, kua roa nei taku tupuna e tohetohe ana ki tētahi pirihi e noho ana i tō mātou rohe. Te āhua nei, ko te pūtake o taua riri rā ko te rironga atu o te whenua e tū ana te whare karakia i te ringa nanakia, nā reira he rite tonu tā taku tupuna whakararuraru i ngā wheao Pākehā. Hei tā te pūrongo a tētahi kaiwhakaatu, i tētahi rā, ka kitea te minita me te tohunga e tautohetohe ana i mua tonu i te whare karakia—kātahi te tutūnga o te puehu! Ā, i te mutunga iho ka motu atu te minita nō te waha o te tohunga e hāmumumumu ana.

I ngā rā whai muri tata iho nei, i hinga te minita rā. Te āhua nei, kua mate ia i tōna ringa ake, otirā, he whakamomori. Hei tā ngā heitara a ngā apataki hāhi, nā ngā ‘foul magics’ a taku tupuna i mate ai tō rātou minita. Nā, i ētahi wā ka kitea te koroua nei i te tāone e kawe ana i tētahi pukatuhi—he mea paihere ki te kirikau. E ai ki te atikara niupepa nei, ka whakapae ngā wheao o te hāhi he ‘grimoire’ kē tēnei pukapuka, arā, he kohinga mākutu nā taku tupuna. Nā, ka puta mai te kata nōku e pānui ana i tēnei wāhanga o te atikara, i te mea ki taku mōhio, kāore i raua atu ngā kura o te kete tuatea ki ngā whārangi pukapuka e ō tātou kaumātua, inarā ko ngā whaiwhaiā.

Heoi, ka whakakapia te atikara ki te pūrongo mō ngā wheao e whaiwhai haere ana i te pukatuhi a te tohunga hei whakaatu i āna hē, i āna kinonga, i āna mahi mākutu—engari auare ake. Hoi anō, ka rere tonu ngā toera i waenganui i ngā tāngata o te tāone i tanumia ai te puka rā ki te ngahere, tata ana ki te wāhi i tū ai tō te tohunga whare tawhito. Otirā, ko taua ngahere tonu e tūhuraina ana e au i tēnei wā.

Heoi, ka porotakataka au i te tumu o te kahikatea pirau, e rapu haere ana i ngā ango, i ngā rua rānei i waenganui i ngā pakiaka o te rākau. Nā, ka whakaaro au, kāore e kore kua whakaero te pepa, te miro, te kirikau i ngā whiunga a te taiao i roto i ngā tau. Engari ka rapu tonu au. Whāia nei ka kite au i tētahi o ngā pakiaka e tīwhana ake ana, ko te weri o te wheke tōna rite, me tētahi rua o raro. Ka tere urupou taku ringa matau ki roto i te rua pōuri rā, ā, ka mau taku ringa mauī ki te pakiaka kia tautoko ai i ahau anō, engari kua āhua waipawa te weri rākau nei, ka tata ngawhere i te taumaha o taku tinana. Heoi, nō taku ringa e whāwhā haere ana i raro i te rākau, ka ohorere au i te maroke o te oneone i te rua, me he onepū. Ka hōhonu taku toro atu, kia mau taku ringa ki tētahi mea, ka hūtia ake ai ki runga. E hika—he pukatuhi e paiheretia ana ki te kirikau.

Ka pā wawe mai te āwangawanga i a au e titiro ana ki te pukapuka kei aku ringaringa. Te āhua nei, kāore i pāngia e te wā, e te taiao rānei. Ka whākanakana ngā karu ki te rākau pango rā, ka hoki mai ai taku aro ki te pukatuhi, kātahi ngā tairongo katoa ka ohooho. Ka pupū ake te hiahia kia kite i ngā tuhinga o roto, nō reira, ka okooko au i te puka kia taea ai e au ngā whārangi te wherawhera. Heoi, ka kite au i te tuhi ā-ringa a taku tupuna e whakarākei ana i ngā whārangi, ka tū ai ki te tuhinga whakamutunga kei te puku o te pukapuka. Ka pānui au i ngā kupu kua tuhia ki te wāhanga a runga o te whārangi, ka toimaha taku wairua.

‘Hei whakaeo i te hinengaro o te pirihi’

‘Aiii!’

When the river is ready

SHELLEY BURNE-FIELD

The river reeked, but Sophie needed to net a pātiki mohoao or catch a trout. Especially today. She’d left her sister’s kids at home with a babysitter. She couldn’t bring them here – not yet. The river wasn’t ready. Sophie decided to wait until winter, when a good flood might wash the awfulness away.

Sophie swore. She’d forgotten the flounder net, so she thumbed the brim of her cap and discovered a dry fly, which she tied up on the trace. It was a hare and copper fly – Georgina’s favourite. Sophie couldn’t remember pinning it there, but she waxed the line and whipped a few casts into the cloudy slow-moving pool, trying to draw a trout from the afternoon shadows. At least she was trying since George died.

Something moved behind the bushes, but it was just Chop, her young terrier, snuffling along the edge of the river.

‘You stay over there, mister,’ she called. Something flashed in the bushes again, and this time, Sophie took another look. What was it? Chop’s ears pricked up and he was gone, yelping after a rabbit. She ignored a shiver up her arms. The sun was hot, but she felt dreamy and cool, like she needed to sit beside a fire. She flicked the rod back and forth – one, two, three, four.

‘Lay down straight, now,’ she ordered, and the line did as it was told, settling on the skin of the water, light as a spider’s thread.

She let the flow of the current take it and then flicked the bow out, gently, gently. And again. And again. Just as her mother had taught. The lure floated on the surface and acted its part. Usually, a fishy shadow would cruise out from under the weed – but not today. Sophie wasn’t surprised. She could hardly see the bottom of the river. The gloopy weed clung onto the pebbles like snot. Was that a pātiki lying flat on the bottom? No. The afternoon burned, sluggish in a haze.

‘Stuff it,’ Sophie murmured, feeling as though she’d plunged into a trance. Beth, a much older Border collie, sat by a track entrance. The dog looked up the hill and whined. Suddenly, Chop bounded out of the lupins, and Sophie got such a fright she squealed and dropped her rod. The sound startled Chop, who swerved towards her.

‘No!’ Sophie yelled and held out her hands, but it was too late. Chop skidded in a spray of gravel and bowled into Sophie, who fell backwards, plopping down into the water. As soon as he’d realised his mistake, Chop dug his legs into the wet stones and veered off.

The water was warm. And it stunk. The tears came so fast they stung, and Sophie trembled, then began to shake.

‘Why did you leave me?’ Sophie pounded the sour-smelling water. It was too much. She stood and peeled the clinging tee-shirt away from her stomach.

Over the past year, Sophie had worn only baggy and shapeless clothes. Tee-shirt. Ripped jeans. Anything else and she became the spitting image of her identical twin sister, if a little more brown. Georgina, George for short.

Sophie hauled herself out of the river and sat down beside Beth, who rested her muzzle on her leg. The water pooled around them. It smelled so bad. A bubble of rage rose up into Sophie’s throat, and she screamed at the hills. An echo of a past argument with her sister shouted back.

‘Bearch, you’re wrecking the river,’ Sophie had accused.

‘Bitch, you’re talking pure bullshit,’ said George.

‘Cowshit, you mean. Bloody greedy pricks.’

‘Grow up, Soph. Mum and Dad raised your arse okay pulling tits.’

‘It’s getting worse. The native species are fucked – even poncy trout!’

‘Don’t start. It’s not just us! We’re all trying.’

‘Not hard enough, George. Not like Mum.’

‘Fuck you, little green sister. Love you,’ said George.

‘Love you too, fucking dairy queen,’ replied Sophie.

Sophie could still feel her sister’s silky blonde hair flick across the back of her hand. George’s beautiful crow’s feet and emerald eyes.

Beth ran to the start of the track and whined again. It suited Sophie. Just like her dogs, she needed to run off some energy. Her sneakers were wet through, but she clicked the dogs into their leads and headed up the hill.

She and George knew these tracks. The farm bounded the reserve and the river. They’d grown up there. Brought plates and pots and pans to their play huts. Lived on the river. Their mother had grown up here, too. It was her land.

‘I’ve seen things in the bush, Soph,’ Mum had told her when she was nine or ten years old. ‘People from long ago. Our people.’

Sophie had walked the tracks for years and never experienced anything like it. George didn’t believe in that stuff.

‘Mum believed in too much woo-woo. Don’t get all conspiracy theory on me, Soph. You’re all I have now.’

And you’re all I had, thought Sophie. They’d reached the big tōtara tree and Sophie was out of breath. She stopped in the middle of the track, holding the dogs, who were pulling at their leads. The dogs had seen something in the bush. They stood shivering, pulling, spooked by what seemed to be materialising in front of them. Sophie’s jaw went slack when she saw them: the ghostly figures of two young men a few metres away. They were translucent and shimmering. The dogs whimpered when the air cracked and fizzed. Beth trembled and lay down. ‘Wait.’ Sophie backed up against the tree trunk.

The images of the two young men flickered like frames from a silent movie. They were really only boys, teenagers. Sophie heard talking and twigs breaking. What was happening? They were murmuring something. Sophie couldn’t make out the words. In the background, a swishing sound started, as though she were standing behind a waterfall.

She exhaled and tugged on the dogs’ leads. Should she run? Crouch down? Chop was very quiet, which was odd. He was normally the barker and the bolter. It was Beth who was straining now, her eyes bulging.

The two boys were from another time. Just as Mum had said. A far-off time in the past. They were twins. This was obvious and disconcerting to Sophie who recognised the angle of their two chins, the mirroring movement of hands, even a similar gait. She knew what that closeness meant. Her stomach cramped. She was jealous these twins had each other. It stabbed further into her gut and a cry escaped her lips. She didn’t want to think of her dead sister. Not at all.

The brothers wore matching tā moko, lines rising above their eyes in arches, while thicker etching flowed over angular cheekbones. Their shirts were open to their navels and loose hessian trousers were tied in knots at the knees.

Sophie held her breath. The brothers were joined by three other men who filed behind, bare chested, woven reeds around their waists. The group each carried knots of vines, stringy flax strips and bundles of branches.

One of the brothers stopped, squinted, then seemed to stare directly at Sophie. His eyes widened, and he turned quickly to his brother and whispered something, but when he turned back again his face became confused, as if he’d glimpsed something then lost it again. Something had changed.

Sophie had felt the shift. A tremor began in her little finger and travelled to her elbow, then throughout her body. The colours around her faded and brightened as though whatever aperture they’d all been staring through was opening and closing. The dogs pulled and whined. Sophie swallowed harder. Her grip on the leads was slipping.

The brothers hung back while the rest of the men ran up the hill. They spoke quietly together, staring in Sophie’s direction. She recognised snippets of te reo Māori but couldn’t quite pick out the meaning. The cadence was different. The tone, lilting and clipped. She pressed her lips together, forcing her breath through her nostrils.