Free Into the River by Ted Dawe
Authors: Ted Dawe
smiled and waited as if he expected a response, then continued slowly and deliberately, as if he was talking to someone very old and deaf, or maybe someone very young.
“I am sure you are all eager to show us what you can do and, believe me, we are eager to find out. The test will take about two hours so I would ask all the parents and guardians to reassemble here at three thirty … and we will give you back your little men.”
Most people had a quiet laugh at this point. Te Arepa didn’t.
The man continued like this for some time, stopping every now and then for the adults to have a chuckle. Te Arepa didn’t listen to most of it; he kept looking around at the big buildings, wondering what went on there.
Then, at some cue given in the man’s speech, all the boys surged up the stairs, as if there was a lolly scramble. Once through the big doors, they all stopped again. A woman at a desk was writing names on name tags and a man was ticking everyone off a list.
When Te Arepa reached the table, he had to say his name three times because the woman couldn’t understand him.
“Your name isn’t there,” the woman said. “There’s some mistake.”
Te Arepa leaned over and pointed to it on the list.
The man intervened, speaking sharply. “So Santos is your name. How do you expect us to find you from your Christian name?” It was as though he had been cheeky. “See if you live up to your saintly moniker.”
The hall was huge and filled with desks like a giant classroom. The walls were lined with dark panels inscribed with lists of names. The names of the fallen. The scholars. The sportsmen. The leaders. And the dates. All the way back to the 1880s. It was more like a wharenui than a school hall: the meeting place for the tribe of scholars and sportsmen who lived out their times here, in the olden days. Handisides, Harris, Harris, Heremaia. Not many Maori names, he noted. Maybe his would be there, and one day, far from now, a boy like him would be reading it, thinking thesame thing.
There must have been two hundred desks and chairs, each a metre from the next. He thought for a moment that someone was going to teach the whole group from the stage with a loudspeaker. The hall was filling up fast so he looked for a lucky spot to sit at. He saw the back of a brown boy near the front, so he went up and sat behind him. The boy turned briefly and smiled. He was Indian. He turned to the front again, ready to go.
After a while an old man — he looked a bit like Mr McClintock — got up on the stage. He was wearing a black robe over a suit. Te Arepa could see the legs of his grey trousers coming out the bottom. He stood for a while in front of the microphone, looking about the hall and waiting for the huge room to settle, then he began to speak.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome to Barwell’s Collegiate. Look around you. This is called Memorial Hall. It commemorates our finest. The achievers, the leaders, the fallen. All like you once, little boys seated on hard chairs in this great hall. Their destinies were mere potentials, waiting to be unlocked and revealed. And that’s what this place does. Has done. And will continue to do.” He waited for everyone to decode his syntax.
“For now, though, it’s a matter of ‘Into the valley of death rode the two hundred’, to re-phrase Tennyson.”
He paused, as if expecting some glimmer of recognition, and then continued. “You are the few, the final few, pruned back from many more, and when you leave this hall we reduce your ranks to a humble ten. It’s a harsh process. I am sure you are all worthy, boys. You have all known academic success. You all deserve to come here. But life is short and cruel and it is our responsibility to ensure that the culling is fair, if nothing else.”
He paused again, giving time for this to sink in.
“This then, is your arena of choice. From this room lead many pathways. Once, long ago, I too sat here, in this room, pen in hand, anxiously
“I am sure you are all eager to show us what you can do and, believe me, we are eager to find out. The test will take about two hours so I would ask all the parents and guardians to reassemble here at three thirty … and we will give you back your little men.”
Most people had a quiet laugh at this point. Te Arepa didn’t.
The man continued like this for some time, stopping every now and then for the adults to have a chuckle. Te Arepa didn’t listen to most of it; he kept looking around at the big buildings, wondering what went on there.
Then, at some cue given in the man’s speech, all the boys surged up the stairs, as if there was a lolly scramble. Once through the big doors, they all stopped again. A woman at a desk was writing names on name tags and a man was ticking everyone off a list.
When Te Arepa reached the table, he had to say his name three times because the woman couldn’t understand him.
“Your name isn’t there,” the woman said. “There’s some mistake.”
Te Arepa leaned over and pointed to it on the list.
The man intervened, speaking sharply. “So Santos is your name. How do you expect us to find you from your Christian name?” It was as though he had been cheeky. “See if you live up to your saintly moniker.”
The hall was huge and filled with desks like a giant classroom. The walls were lined with dark panels inscribed with lists of names. The names of the fallen. The scholars. The sportsmen. The leaders. And the dates. All the way back to the 1880s. It was more like a wharenui than a school hall: the meeting place for the tribe of scholars and sportsmen who lived out their times here, in the olden days. Handisides, Harris, Harris, Heremaia. Not many Maori names, he noted. Maybe his would be there, and one day, far from now, a boy like him would be reading it, thinking thesame thing.
There must have been two hundred desks and chairs, each a metre from the next. He thought for a moment that someone was going to teach the whole group from the stage with a loudspeaker. The hall was filling up fast so he looked for a lucky spot to sit at. He saw the back of a brown boy near the front, so he went up and sat behind him. The boy turned briefly and smiled. He was Indian. He turned to the front again, ready to go.
After a while an old man — he looked a bit like Mr McClintock — got up on the stage. He was wearing a black robe over a suit. Te Arepa could see the legs of his grey trousers coming out the bottom. He stood for a while in front of the microphone, looking about the hall and waiting for the huge room to settle, then he began to speak.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome to Barwell’s Collegiate. Look around you. This is called Memorial Hall. It commemorates our finest. The achievers, the leaders, the fallen. All like you once, little boys seated on hard chairs in this great hall. Their destinies were mere potentials, waiting to be unlocked and revealed. And that’s what this place does. Has done. And will continue to do.” He waited for everyone to decode his syntax.
“For now, though, it’s a matter of ‘Into the valley of death rode the two hundred’, to re-phrase Tennyson.”
He paused, as if expecting some glimmer of recognition, and then continued. “You are the few, the final few, pruned back from many more, and when you leave this hall we reduce your ranks to a humble ten. It’s a harsh process. I am sure you are all worthy, boys. You have all known academic success. You all deserve to come here. But life is short and cruel and it is our responsibility to ensure that the culling is fair, if nothing else.”
He paused again, giving time for this to sink in.
“This then, is your arena of choice. From this room lead many pathways. Once, long ago, I too sat here, in this room, pen in hand, anxiously