Whakahapa, 10

“Okay! He was Jeroboam and he was wonderful. Really, really nice.”

“And?”

“Jeroboam was a boy, my age, in the community where we grew up. Ever since separating from our parents' family rooms we've slept in the same dormitory, but in separate cubicles of course.

We started school together on the same day and I think I loved him even then. No, I know that I did. I've always loved him, ever since I can remember. We were close friends when we were little, but grew apart as we grew older.

No, that's not right either. We didn't just grow apart, I pulled back and withdrew from him, and then he got more distant with me.”

“Why did you withdraw if you loved him?”

“It was because I loved him that I had to. I had to stay away, to not go near him and to have as little to do with him as I could – I just had to!”

“But why did you have to?”

“Because Jeroboam was a good boy. He was blond and beautiful and just very, very good. And pure. He was like an angel living amongst us. I yearned, I ached for him, but I couldn't do anything that might corrupt him, not to Jeroboam. He wouldn't want to anyway.

It was not a good love that I had for him. It was a bad love, a bad, evil, sinful love and he was so good. He'd be disgusted if he knew what I thought when I looked at him, so I stayed away – as much as I could. It was a small community and we all lived together.”

“What made him so special that it was him you loved and not somebody else? I presume there were other boys your age there.”

“There was, lots of them. I don't know why I fell in love with him, but I did. I couldn't help it, I guess I'm just evil.”

“You're not evil! You were IN love? There's a difference you know.”

“I know. I loved him when we were little and it grew as we grew and one day I knew that I was in love with him and I wanted to be with him like a man is with his wife, and that is so wrong!”

“Who says it's wrong?”

“Everybody. Well, they did. The prophets said it, the Bible said it and the Elders said it. It is wrong for a boy to love another boy, so it is a bad love. Bad, sinful and evil.”

“Damm!” She said. “Amos, that is pure and utter bullshit. There is no such thing as bad love; that's just some rubbish that your church has dreamed up. There is love and that is all. Love is all good and it can't be bad.”

“It can't? But . . . how can you say that?”

“Because it's true. Listen to this.” She closed her eyes and concentrated as she recited, “Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, endures all things. Love never fails.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. “There is more, but that's enough. Heard that before?”

“Yes. It's in the Bible.”

“It is, that and more. Anything in there about bad love?”

“Well, no, not there.”

“Not anywhere. Dammit, Amos, there is no bad love.”

“Yes there is. What about lust and greed and coveting and stuff?”

“What about them? They're not love, they are lust and greeds and coveting. They're not patient and kind and all the rest of it. Amos do you believe that God made you?”

“Of course.”

“Of course. You think he made a mistake? God is love and love never fails – never! I'm getting tired of this. I'm the last person to be preaching at you. Love is good, full stop. You loved that boy. Did you want bad things to happen to him?”

“No, never!”

“Of course you didn't. You cut yourself off from him so you wouldn't lead him astray. That was a good thing to do – really stupid, but a good thing. You loved him and there's nothing wrong with that.”

“All right, thanks, Esther. Doesn't make any difference now anyway, does it?”

“Yes it does. What you've done, how you've lived, has helped form who you are and, despite what they might've told you, you're a good person.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

“The Elders didn't think that. They would have killed. . . they killed. . .”

He stopped in mid-sentence and sat staring at the floor in front of him, his mouth hanging open. Esther waited as long as she could, and then spoke up.

“Amos? What's wrong, Sweet?”

“They would,” he said, looking ahead and not at her. “He did. Elder Stephanas, he killed . . . ”

He sat still as a statue, looking down and thinking aloud. “They knew. They found out and he, Elder Stephanas, had the task . . . he was to correct and drive the evil out. It would not go and he, he beat and he beat. . . I fell into the stone fireplace. I struck my head. I died.

Esther, I died!!”

“You're not dead.”

“But I did. I remember. How can I have two different memories of the same correction? Am I insane?”

“No, you're not mad.”

“But how can I remember this and I remember that – waking in the motel in the resort town? How?”

“I – I, yi, yi . I don't know. You're here now. You must've dreamed about the other.”

“Did I? It seems so real.”

“It can't be real, you're here and not dead. It was a dream, it must've been a dream.”

“A dream?” He held a hand in front of his face and flexed and closed his fingers. “I am here. It must be a dream, a horrible nightmare. But it seems so real – I remember.”

“Yeah, well it was not real. You're just remembering a bad dream. The worst ones can seem like they're real.”

“You're right. You must be right, if I'm not mad.”

“You're not mad, Sweetie. You're just confused and that's understandable. The world we knew has gone and that's not easy to accept. I need a drink and I think that you need one too.”

She reached for one of the bottles and the plastic glasses in the Supermarket supplies. She poured out two glasses of the pinkish and bubbly wine. “Here,” she held a glass out to him. “Drink this. It will do you good. Well take it, Boy. I'm not feeding it to you!”

He took the glass and sat looking suspiciously at it. “What is in this?”

“There's nothing in it. It is the fruit of the vine – fermented grape juice - good wine. Drink it, it's good for you. It will settle you and help you get to sleep.”

“It will? But it is strong drink – alcohol.”

“It's just wine. Have you never had a glass?”

“I haven't. It is sinful to drink strong liquors.”

“Sinful to drink wine? Somebody should have told Jesus that. He drank wine and quite often too by the looks of things.”

“Did he?”

“He did. Drink it, Boy. Think of it as medicine – herbal medicine even.”

“I suppose it is, sort of herbal,” Amos grinned. He lifted the glass to his mouth, smelled it, tasted it, and then drank it all. “It's nice, very nice. I like it. The bubbles tickle my nose!”

“They'll do that; you get used to it.” She refilled his glass. “Have another one. Drink up, but slowly this time.”

He drained the glass again, looked at it and giggled. “You have to drink it down to drink it up. That's funny!”

“Yeah, bloody hysterical. We can't leave the bottle half full, it'll go flat. Do you want another?”

“Oh, yes! Thank you.”

They drank another glass, and then yet another, and then opened another bottle. And another.

Time passed as they sat and talked about this and that, nothing serious, and making vague plans for the next day. Esther could see him visibly relaxing, and that had to be good.

She matched him drink for drink but didn't think that she was enjoying it as much as he seemed to. His big, goofy grin faded when he couldn't shake any more out of the bottle.

“Empty! We've run out already,” he complained.

“We have and I think you've had enough, Boy.”

“Just one more. Pleeease! There's another bottle. And, I'm not a boy.”

“Oh, but you are. Okay, we'll have that bottle and then it's time for bed.”

“To bed! To sleep, counting sheep! I, I'm a poet you know it.
I write poems, I'll show you one day. They are very good.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm sure they are.”

They finished the wine. Esther stood and shook her head as she watched him struggling to get up. He didn't look that bad when he was sitting down, as soon as he tried to stand his legs turned to rubber.

She took hold of his arms and hauled him to his feet. “Amos, you're drunk!”

“I, I, I'm not acksher – actual – not drunk. I'm just a bit pished.!”

“You certainly are. Just a bit. Come on, we'll get you to bed.”

He had to use the bathroom, of course, and she had to help him. That was not nice but served her right. She shouldn't have let him get drunk.

In the bedroom, he dived on to the mattress on the floor, and flaked. Esther knelt down, took his boots off and covered him up to sleep in his clothes. She got into her own bed, blew out the last candle and went to sleep.

If there were any noises in the night, they didn't hear them.

Esther woke in the morning and looked down at the boy sleeping, bum-up and face-down, on the mattress on the floor. A line of drool ran from his open mouth to the sheet below him.

'Oh Boy! You're not going to be a happy camper when you wake up.'

She slid out of bed and quietly left the room, softly closing the door behind her. First port of call was the bathroom, to empty her bladder, and then to the other room, for coffee to refill it. Her head was not too bad, she'd had worse. She'd had better too. Did those first-aid kits that they got have aspirins in them? She checked; they didn't. Damm.

It was going to be a good day outside. A good day for flying, if she had a microlight! There was no sign of an airfield around here, they were going to have to backtrack to Hebron, to the fields there, to get another plane.

While waiting for the water to boil, she got the inevitable Gideon's bible from the top drawer of the bedside cabinet and found the passage she was thinking of.

She was sitting savouring her first coffee of the day when a sorry sight came staggering in the door. Amos' clothes looked like they'd been slept in, which they had. His hair was all awry, his face a sickly white colour and his eyes were more closed than open.

“My head hurts! Oww.”

“Ah, you poor wee thing!” Esher actually felt, a bit, guilty for letting him get as drunk as he did, but she wasn't telling him that. “Get yourself a coffee.”

“I will. Have we got any painkillers?”

“Nope. Sorry. We should've got some yesterday, but didn't. We'll do that before we leave town.”

“We're still leaving today? Do we have to? I'm not well you know; I'm really sick and I feel awful.”

“It's just your first hangover, Boy. It won't kill you. Give it a couple of hours and you'll feel human again. Maybe next time you won't overindulge.”

“There won't be a next time! I am never going to drink that stuff again.”

“Yeah, yeah. That's what they all say, but you will.”

“I will not.”

“We'll see. Listen to this.” She picked up the book and read it to him. “Who has woe? Who has sorrow? Who has contentions? Who has babbling? Who has wounds without cause? Who has redness of eyes? They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.

Look not upon the wine when it is red, when it sparkles in the cup. At the last it bites like a serpent and stings like an adder . . . they have stricken me, you will say, and I was not sick; they have beaten me, and I didn't feel it; when will I wake up? I need another drink.”

“Is that really in the Bible?”

“Yep. In the Book of Proverbs.”

“Well they got that right! Would another drink help my head?”

“No, it wouldn't,” she laughed. “You'd just get drunk again. Drink your coffee.”

“Does coffee help?”

“Not really, but it will wake you up. I don't suppose you want fried eggs for breakfast?”

“I do not! I feel sick just thinking about it.”

“It'll get better.”

“Can't get much worse.”

“Oh but you could. I have, many times.”

“You have?”

“Yes, when I was young and stupid.”

“And now you're not so young.”

“And not so stupid too. You need some food in you. If not eggs, do you want to toast some more muffins?”

“That sounds better, thanks. I'll do that.”

“And I will let you do that. We'll eat, load up what we want to take with us, and then go to a chemists shop, for painkillers, before we leave town. Should be back in Hebron by tonight.”