It was summer. Not summer that drives everyone to the beach in flocks or the type that makes you want to sunbathe all day long. It was the type of summer where the water was still icy cold and the harsh winds would walk through the gully shaking the thick pines, ridding them of their cones and needles. It was the type of summer where if it wasn’t raining to the point of sleet then the wind was most definitely ripping the tent pegs out of the ground. The bright sun gave off a misleading dim heat.  Barely making it through the gail. upon the stoney terrace sat a small cabin. A wooden structure with two rooms. The only established shelter for the humans. In the first room was a shed of tools. On every wall, there were things hanging on rusting nails. Poles, crossbeams, ladders. Spades and other tools rested, leaning in the corner. The broken door had already started to fall from its hinges and the crinkly round brass doorknob was nearly separate from the door. The other room of similar size was sparse, but there was a small wooden table on which an old black kettle sat waiting to be boiled. In the top corner of the wall that directly opposes the door was a small window, which let one chunky band of light into the musty cabin. Outside, under the large roof that extends out from the main building sat a clump of Mismatching chairs and another table. 

Listen. the wind was still taunting the trees and the breath of dawn yearned for the world around it to be still and silent.  The smell of drying socks lay over the camp in a thick smog; the earth was awake. As everyone started to stir and smokey fires were lit, groups of kids started to gather in various social circles. While in the background some kids were left to hang onto the fringes. An incessant chattering of disgust disguises the words of demons. The solitude crept upon its victim, and all he could do was stay silent and hope for it to go away. All the boy could think was how this didn’t seem right; for a ‘Maori’. ‘They’ don’t camp, ‘They’ don’t compete in such a sport; ‘They’ can’t paddle for this country. But here ‘They’ were, paddling and training alongside demons, with the fern on their backs.

Its midday now and the waters flowing. Training is finished for the morning. The demons taunt once again. ‘Slow, useless, no-hope’ the boy can’t win. In the wailing wind, the trees continue to scream. Under the shelter, a makeshift banquet is laid out. There is food covering the whole table.  Demons sit on the mismatching comfy chairs that scatter across the ground. 

The boy sits on the stones under scrutiny by the demons. 

The boy sits on the stones in mockery.

Court was in session; and the demons were in deep conversation about what made him different. Was it his boat that was 3rd hand and had been repaired more times in its life than it should. Was it, where he lived, out in the countryside, away from the ‘posh’ ‘white’ neighborhoods.  Or was it his skin colour and the fact that for a sport like this ‘his type’ were not usually part of such a community. Under the large pines, the jury of demons already knew the fate of this young Maori boy. He was so very different from them.

Look. The wind had prevailed. Gates swung viciously in the gusts. Dust kicked from the ground, rising up in billows. The demons all pile inside the cabin. Slamming the door in the face of the boy leaving him unnoticed and vulnerable to the forces of nature outside the safety of the small wooden building. The demons hissed their unfriendly remarks from within the boarded walls. The hum of hatred seeps through the thin panes, bouncing off the boy’s face as teardrops.  “Stupid, annoying, poor, “Maori,” they said in jest.

And there you are; in a trance, you stand shocked, sickened and still. Watching the demons victimize young boy. You have the power to protect him, but still, you stand and watch, waiting for the boy to grow up and defend himself. You stand waiting and watching because secretly you share the repulsive and prejudice views of the demons.

Joel Suddaby