The Mills of Keremanu
“. . . some have entertained angels . . . ”
Heb.13.2
The angel Miciah was embarrassed to discover that in the transformation to a human
body he had taken on not only human frailties but, it seemed, human addictions as
well. Here he was in a second-class railway carriage on a bitter night, in the middle
of nowhere, cold, hungry and, worst of all, craving for a cigarette. It was all very
well for a devil to smoke — most did — but for an angel it was unthinkable.
The man next to him had just lit up and exhaled a fragrant stream of tobacco smoke.
It was more than flesh and blood could bear.
“Excuse me, mate,” Miciah said. “You wouldn’t have a spare fag, would you? I’m right
out.”
“Sure thing bro,” said the man handing over the packet. “Didn’t notice you sitting
there. Must have been asleep, I reckon.”
“Ta,” said Miciah, taking one gratefully. He was pleased at how easily he had slipped
into speaking the vernacular, just as though he were a native of the country. But
what country was it? He seemed to recall it was a small country. Possibly an island.
Albania, perhaps? Geography had never been his strong point.
“Going right through to Wellington, are you bro?”
Miciah came to with a start. He realised he had no idea at all of where he was supposed
to be going, or what he was supposed to do when he got there. When he’d been given
instructions for the assignment, it had all seemed quite clear, but he was appalled
to realise that he had forgotten everything. Except that the mission was extremely
important.
He stubbed out his cigarette and was about to offer up an urgent prayer for help
when a sensible thought occurred. He pulled out his ticket and had a quick look.
“No, I get off at Keremanu.”
“That’s where I’m going. Are you after a job at the mills, too.”
“That’s right,” said Miciah, with a surge of relief. The mills, Keremanu, that rang
a few bells. He could even remember the name of the country he was in now. New Zealand
it was called.
“I’m pleased to meet you, bro,” said the man, holding out his hand. “I’m Eru Kingi.”
“I’m Mike. Pleased to meet you.” In the dark, Miciah smiled at the unfamiliar transliteration
of his name.
“I can see you’ve been around a bit, Mike,” said Eru. “It’s not easy for fellows
like us to get a job these days. My cousin’s a foreman at the mills. He said he’d
put in a word for me with the bosses. I’ll get him to put a word in for you too.”
“Thanks,” said Miciah. “I really need that job.”
The train ground to a halt at Keremanu station. Eru and Miciah were among a small
group of passengers to alight. A cold mist shrouded Keremanu, and Miciah shivered
in his light overcoat.
“The first thing we need is a feed,” said Eru. “The station cafe’s open. I could
use a big plate of fish and chips, some sausages, a pie or two and a big jug of coffee.”
He led the way towards the cafeteria. For Miciah, who felt as though he hadn’t eaten
for days, no prospect could have been more welcome. But when he felt in his pockets,
he made the second alarming discovery of the day. He had no money. Someone had slipped
up there, surely. He couldn’t be expected to subsist on charity. Not in this day
and age. Dismayed, he searched his pockets again.
“Don’t worry, bro,” said Eru, guessing his predicament. “They gave me some money
when I left The Mount. Fifty dollars. That’ll buy us both a feed. Come on.”
Miciah needed no further urging. But as he tucked into the huge plate of fish and
chips and drank coffee from the thick railway cups, he wondered what Eru had meant
when he spoke of leaving The Mount. Mount Sinai? The Mount of Olives? Of course not,
that was a different country, wasn’t it?
When they’d finished their meal, Miciah was able to scrutinise his host more closely.
He was an olive-skinned man, powerfully built, with stars tattooed on his cheekbones
— some kind of tribal marking, possibly. He noticed the tattoos on the backs of Eru’s
hands. Among them were the sinister insignia of Gorom-Magon.
“You mentioned you were on The Mount,” Miciah began cautiously. “What mount was that?”
“Mount Eden,” said Eru, in some surprise. “The prison up in Auckland. You’re sharing
a table with a jail bird, bro.”
He laughed. Then he added: “I forgot you were a foreigner, Mike, your English is
so good. But you’ve been inside yourself, haven’t you?”
“Oh yes,” said Miciah. It was true. He’d been in many prisons. Some of the best men
he’d known had been locked up.
“When I was a young fellow I got into some trouble. You’ve heard of the Mongrel Mob?”
“No.”
“It’s a Maori gang. I was the leader of a chapter in Auckland. Many of us Maori join
gangs. They’re staunch fellows, the gang, but they get into trouble with the law.
I was up The Mount for seven years. I’ve done my time and I won’t be going back there
again. We’d better go and find a hotel, Mike. You look ready to drop.”
They crossed the station yard and emerged in the main street. It was nearly midnight
and Keremanu, wrapped in a damp mist, appeared bleakly inhospitable. Miciah had never
experienced such bone-chilling cold. The desire for a comfortable bed was irresistible.
Arriving at the hotel, they knocked on the door. There was no response. Together
they knocked, more loudly. A window above them opened and a man with a torch leaned
out.
“What do you men want?”
“We want a room for the night.”
“We’re full. We don’t take casuals anyway.”
“Where can we find accommodation then?” asked Miciah.
“Try the station.”
“They told us to try here.”
“That’s your look out.”
The window descended with a crash.
“We could try the station again,” Eru suggested. “Maybe we can doss down there.”
Arriving back at the station, they found it in darkness and locked up for the night.
“What about the church we passed?” said Miciah. “We could sleep there.”
Eru looked worried.
“We’ll be in trouble if we’re caught.”
“But it’s a house of God,” said Miciah. “It should be a haven for all sojourners
and strangers.”
He led the way back to the church. The door was locked but he had only to touch the
lock for it to fly open. It was a talent that had proved useful in the past.
They made themselves comfortable by arranging pews to make beds and covering themselves
with some old curtains Miciah found in a cupboard.
“Tomorrow we’ll hitch a ride out to the mills,” said Eru. “We can stay at my cousin’s
place until we get our wages from the mill.”
Miciah noticed Eru swallowing a handful of pills from a bottle.
“Don’t worry Mike, it’s not drugs,” said Eru. “Well, they are drugs, but I have to
take them. I’ve got a bad heart, you see. I had rheumatic fever when I was a kid.
I didn’t know about it until the doctor up at The Mount examined me.”
“What were you in prison for?”
“I killed a man,” said Eru slowly. “In a fight. He was in another gang. A Samoan
gang. The Mount’s a tough place, Mike. They have to keep the gangs apart or they’ll
kill each other. These guys never forgive a wrong.”
“What happened to you in prison, Eru? Seven years is a long time to be inside.”
“At first I was very angry, Mike. I still hated the guy I killed. Sione his name
was. It seemed to me he was to blame for my being locked up, because he had started
the fight. He was dead but I still wanted to get back at him. It used to eat me up.
“Then I met this American guy who used to come and see us in the prison. PK, his
name was. Just a short fellow, with red hair, but he was one tough customer.
“One time there was two guys up The Mount who set on him. Big tough guys from the
Cobra gang. Didn’t like something he said about the way they treated their womenfolk.
Thought they’d work him over. PK laid them both out cold. One after the other. Punch
like a sledge hammer.
“When PK spoke, the guys listened. He had what we call mana. That means respect.
He told us of the years he’d wasted running with a street gang in New York. He got
involved with a big-time mobster and tried to shoot a cop. It seems the cop knew
his parents and didn’t charge him.
“A few years later, PK held up a casino. Would’ve got away with it but someone recognised
him because of his red hair. The cops went after him and the mob that owned the casino
put out a contract on his life. Even today he can’t go back to New York.
“PK got six years in the State Penitentiary. He was a real troublemaker and they
put him in solitary. He said it gave him time to think, and he decided to get his
life together. Started to read the Bible they left in his cell.
“When he came out of prison, he wanted to make his life count for something. He reckoned
if he could help one young fellow before he started on a life of crime, his own experience
would have been worth it.
“PK works with the gangs. Comes to see them in prison, listens to their troubles,
helps their wives and kids. He doesn’t preach but he talks straight from the heart
and they hear him. They respect him.
“PK used to talk to us about anger, Mike. He used to carry a big chip on his shoulder,
what with his red hair and freckles and his dad being a big-time preacher, and the
way people treated him. He made me realise I had a lot of anger in me, too. I was
angry because I had a brown skin, and my dad worked in the freezing works, and people
thought I was just a dumb Maori.
“There was a lot of people I had to learn to forgive. After I got out of jail, PK
took me to see Sione’s parents. They forgave me for killing Sione. It just blew me
away. They were beautiful people, Mike.
“PK’s a great guy, Mike. Wish you could meet him.”
“I’m sure I will, one day,” said Miciah,
A long silence ensued. Miciah guessed that Eru was asleep.
He was soon himself in the pleasant free-associating state between waking and dreaming.
He thought of the mills at Keremanu and the mission he’d been sent on. Just what
this was he didn’t know, but he was sure it involved Eru.
Into his mind there drifted the lines from William Blake’s “Jerusalem” about the
dark satanic mills — it was his favourite hymn, especially when sung by the massed
celestial choir.
He smiled to himself at the incongruity of the connection, but as he passed deeper
into sleep, and his thoughts ranged further into fantasy, the mills became the last
stronghold of the Enemy, the massed forces of Gorom-Magon. The Archangel Michael
led the onslaught but behind him were Miciah and Eru, leading a contingent of tattooed
Mongrel Mob members, brandishing their bows of burning gold, their arrows of desire.
PK was in the thick of the fray, laying the Enemy to waste with his fists.
The mills crumbled and in their place the new Jerusalem rose, not in the Holy Land
but in the middle of a pine forest in this small island nation, pitched on the edge
of the earth.
He woke from this pleasant reverie with a start, sensing something was wrong with
Eru. Swiftly he sprang to his side. As he did so, he was conscious of his earthly
body falling away and the curious sensation as time and space dissolved.
Eru’s face was ashen and he was clutching his chest in pain. His breath came in quick
starts.
“It’s my heart, Mike . . . it’ll pass, don’t worry. It’s time we were off to the
mills, bro, to see my cousin about the job . . .”
“Eru, mate,” said Miciah, and now he remembered the purpose of his mission. “We’re
going now. But not to the mills at Keremanu.”
