The first homeless man of Mahuika appeared, seemingly from nowhere, on the eve of December. One day he was nowhere, the next he was sitting on the bench in front of the bus station. The next day he was still sitting, but with an accumulation of belongings behind the bench: water bottle, blanket, hat. The next day he was an established fixture.
Mahuika had never been inhabited by a homeless man, nor did its residents pay much attention when this one arrived. Their attentions were devoted elsewhere.
Mahuika had seen better days and, some said, the sun was setting on the Taranaki town. If it was, the residents did not know it, which was fitting as they had never recognised sunsets in the same way as most New Zealand towns. Situated east of the great mountain and its city beyond, between Stratford and Inglewood, their view of the descending orb was obscured, noted only by its lingering tendrils as it released its grasp on the day. And so, while they were not ignorant of the true occasion, it could be said the residents only experienced a sun setting as a dusky denouement—a reflection of the thing itself, like the contrails of jet planes on their sky-blue canvas.
While the city had boomed in recent years, buoyed by natural gas and finance industries, Mahuika’s main street had increasingly succumbed to the drab hues of newspaper and plywood in shop windows. The district’s council, admirably, initiated campaigns to rejuvenate the town, but could do little to explain its growing disparity compared to its cousins to the north, south and west. Despair might have deluged the town were it not for Anderson.
Sparks. Again and again, the boy thumbed the lighter’s flint, only manifesting sparks.
“His winnowing fork is in his hand …. ” The voice called out across the congregation inside, out of sight of the boy who sat on the steps of the western entrance of the church.
The boy scoffed. It’s a winnowing fan, he thought and flicked his thumb again, harder, showering his hand with sparks like cheap fireworks. Still, this was new preaching. No more Sunday school for him, or for anyone at the first and only Divinity Church of Mahuika. Anderson had said it was time for graduation, it was time to live on the cutting edge, it was near time for God to move and blow through this town once again. Apparently it was time for Pastor Chris to take a seat each Sunday.
The boy flipped the lid closed and stood. He pocketed the lighter, out of sight of the faces he met as he re-entered the room. He shuffled to his seat near the back. At one time, he had sat near the front with the other teenagers, raucous in their reception of the Word or perhaps in their hormones and mutual separation from parents. There were more of them than ever now—ungodly ones, drawn to the church by rowdy youth nights and promises of lollies and hook-ups; and drawn by the promises of Anderson.
“I’ve seen it happen in Brownsville and in Lakeland. You know what I’m talking about. Amen?”
“Amen,” rumbled the congregation. It was a full house that morning. Benches were overflowing and some adults, mostly men, stood around the periphery and by the back doors of the room. Fans hummed loudly. All eyes were on the man at the front with his two hands on the lectern, his two eyes flickering from a deeply tanned face. He was dressed smartly and rocked gently on his heels between exhortations.
The boy listened too.
Anderson continued, “Now, I know you’ve been waiting … waiting for that next move of God in your town—our town—and I’m here to tell you the time is near.” Another rumble. “For too long, you have paddled in the wading pool of God’s grace, cleansed of the sins of your old selves—but remember the words of the Baptist: “I baptise you with water, but He who is mightier than I will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.” Another rumble, though less certain.
“Hear me now, brothers and sisters—I know you’ve been baptised, but there’s more in God than you’ve known. I’m talking about the next level, I’m talking about new businesses, I’m talking about prosperity, I’m talking about revival, I’m talking about the fire of God.”
“Amen,” chorused the voices, but Anderson wasn’t satisfied.
“There are some here who are not getting this—I’m telling you they are coming. And why would they come? It’s all about the fire of God. Didn’t Luke quote our saviour when he wrote, ‘I came to cast fire on the earth, and would that it were already kindled’? Let me hear you say, fire!”
“Fire!” echoed the room, led by the youths in the corner. The boy listened.
“Fire!” the room resounded. The boy nodded.
Anderson lifted his book above his head and, as he brought it down on the lectern, pressed his teeth against his lower lip to say, with the people and the boy, “Fire!”
Down the town’s side street, the youths loitered outside the pool hall and games room, a satellite mission of the churches of Mahuika. The hall once housed a hair salon and before that a jewellery shop. The outlets on either side had been empty of activity for almost a decade, their windows obscured by the encroaching plywood and newspaper, interiors as inaccessible from view as the ocean this side of the mountain.
The youths loitered and swore and smoked when they could get away with it—when the well-meaning, spirit-filled proprietors leaned on the side of leniency in order to maintain their cool.
As a rule, the boy avoided the hall during his walks and adhered to the main street, head down, his thin hoodie drawn so as not to catch their eyes. Not today. It was Alex who called out, initiating the play for his friends.
“Hey Sparky!” The voice was taunting and the boy, to his chagrin and perhaps out of allegiance to friendships past, turned towards it.
They were there, having advanced from their post, confronting him on the corner. The street was quiet still. Most of the town’s residents were at the sports domain.
“Where’s your lighter Sparky? Cherise needs a light.” Obliging the play, Cherise drew a half-cigarette from her front shorts pocket, her fingers brushing her upper thigh, winning the boy’s eyes. She smiled and held the butt to her lips, waiting.
The boy shook his head, but someone in the back of the group whispered, “C’mon man, help a girl out.” So, he fumbled it from his pocket and flipped the silver top. Cherise leaned close enough for him to smell lipstick and energy drink. His hands were steady and his thumb was strong, but the fuel failed to ignite.
“Far out man.” The boy felt Alex step into him, shouldering him aside. The other had his own lighter in hand, already aflame. Smoothly, he lit the girl’s cigarette. Then he turned to the boy, shaking his head. “It’s just like the man says: you ain’t got it no more.”
Sharon returned the tongs to the bowl of spaghetti bolognaise in the centre of the table and smoothed the serviette on her lap. She smiled at Blake, who had already begun eating. Between mouthfuls he said, “I didn’t see you around at lunch today. Did you go into town again?”
Raising her eyebrows, Sharon said, “No, not today. Were you looking for me?”
Blake laughed, “No, not quite. I was in the city today with Nelson. We arrived back at the Council by lunch and I didn’t see you around. Did I miss you?”
She nodded. “Yes, I took a late lunch. I got caught up in a strange mission. You know that homeless man that’s been sleeping on the bus station bench?”
“Of course. The Bulletin was asking me about him.” He laughed again. “I really didn’t know what to say.”
“Exactly,” said Sharon. “No one does, but some people are saying things to him anyway. He’s being harassed. Some are threatening to get the police on him—or the Council. That’s why he came in today.”
Blake stopped chewing and furrowed his brow. Finishing, he said, “What did he want?”
“He wanted to know if Mahuika has any laws—or ordinances, as he kept calling them—against people like him. You know … homeless men. He was quite agitated, so I spent all of lunch trying to find out for him.”
“And … ?”
“Well, Mahuika doesn’t have any laws or ordinances about homelessness. Apparently this has never been a problem in the past.”
Blake shook his head and spooled some more spaghetti around his fork. “Unbelievable,” he said, “but totally what I’ve come to expect from this place. Isn’t that something son?”
Across the table from his parents, the boy nodded, but did not look up from his plate.
The tears started in the youth corner that morning, but not during the prescribed time of the service. For the first time in several months, Pastor Chris had spoken—a soft message, a message of encouragement. He wanted his flock to know that, despite the hardships, she’ll be right.
But it was Anderson who held court in the aftermath of the altar call. Few people had responded and so, after a final song from the worship team and the release from the pastor, prayer turned to conversation at the front of the room, led by an agitated Mr Sharples.
“There’s more of them in town now—heaps more. One of them’s right across the road from the supermarket, you can see him from the parking lot. There’s another one by the Arts Centre—this one has a golf club with him all the time. He walks around the memorial with it over his shoulder.”
It was true. At least ten more homeless men had arrived in Mahuika in the weeks following the original. They were the talk of the town.
“I saw a new one by the old BNZ building,” interjected Mr Findlayson, “around the side of it, by the kaikōmako tree, where the old garden beds used to be.”
“Is he the one with the long fingernails?” It was young Raima Gould. “He’s disgusting. How can they get away with it? Why aren’t the police or the Council doing something about this?”
Mr Findlayson cast a look across the room at Sharon and Blake who were just walking out to the lounge area for soup and sandwiches. “It’s bad for the town,” he said, looking pointedly at Anderson. “It doesn’t look good for all those tourists and business owners who are coming …. ”
Anderson listened, as he had listened all morning, observing and absorbing until supersaturated with the spirit’s response inside him.
“We’re not ready yet!” The room stopped at his pronouncement. “These men … these men are not meant to be here! So … why are they here?” Some congregants who had left the room shifted back inside, eyes wide and expectant. Sharon and Blake appeared at the back of the group.
“While we gather in our comfortable hall and eat our soup and sandwiches, patting each other on the back, we ignore the enemy in our midst! These men are a sign—we’re not ready yet!”
Sobbing—from the youths in the corner. All standing, none of them having left their patch during their elders’ audience with Anderson, they leaned on one another, sobbing and nodding as Anderson continued.
“This house is not clean enough to receive the glory of God! Don’t you know that our God is a consuming fire?”
Every one of the congregants filed back to their seats. The worship team started playing behind their leader and, as the music swelled with the sobs and Anderson’s voice, the boy cried too at the back of the room, with his eyes closed and his arms raised.
“You don’t have to live this way!” A voice, crying in the wilderness—or at least near the town square. Standing on his bench, the first homeless man of Mahuika had gathered his own congregants.
“It is not a crime to be alive!” he called out to, and over, the heads of ten other homeless men. It was the attentive, motley crowd that had caused Sharon to stop across the street where she watched from behind an awning post.
“What does the law say about lifestyle? In what ways do you acquiesce when no law dictates? Yet, it is not the law that compels you is it? It is fear that drives you. You have more freedom than you know!”
The man’s voice was rich, filled with tone, resplendent in tenor. Sharon shifted imperceptibly to sneak a better view. She was captivated. The man wore the same clothes she had seen him in when he visited the Council—a sleeveless shirt tied around the waist, resembling a tunic and covering a pair of Stubbies. The Friday lunchtime crowd seemed less interested. It was high noon—hot.
“Apparently, he’s been performing like this all week.”
It was Blake and he was beside her. Sharon smiled and touched him on the arm, but then resumed watching the orator. She said to Blake, “I hadn’t heard. Anything being done by the police?”
“Oh, they’ve spoken to him,” Blake said, “but his rants only last ten minutes or so—and, as you know, there’s no law against what he’s doing or what they’re doing. They’re becoming like the roosters in the park—you’d think they’d be classed as some sort of public nuisance, but instead they’ve become part of the woodwork around here, another part of Mahuika’s special character, our very own homeless preacher and his disciples.”
The homeless man continued. “How do you know when you have broken free? How do you know when you have gained true autonomy and self-sufficiency? People move from place to place, carting all their possessions with them—bowls, picture frames, fridges, furniture—because no one has the courage to burn them!”
The men, gathered around their preacher, showed no response. To a man, they stood still, staring at him and ignoring all other activity in the street around them.
The homeless man scanned their faces and, looking above their head, spied the boy by the laundromat, out of his parents’ vision. “But you … ” the man said, “you have it.”
The old BNZ building of Mahuika had not served its community in over 50 years. There had been discussions several years ago, as there have always been discussions in small towns, of refurbishing it, perhaps as the town’s post office or as a house of memories. It was a grand old place—solid brick, the kind of brick that says here to stay, and precisely constructed by the finest masons in that part of the country. However, new national laws around earthquake standards, and the financial ramifications of these, seemed to have ended such discussions forever. The BNZ building, as iconic as it was for the town, would never again be occupied.
And yet, every night, after sunset, after the homeful people of Mahuika had vacated the streets and comforted themselves with their heat pumps, wireless internet and any number of other modern accoutrements, a song could be heard playing from inside the old BNZ building.
It was the boy who heard it first, for he often walked the streets during sleepless nights. He recognized the tune—Dancing in the Dark—from his father’s collection. He stopped briefly to listen to it, before continuing home.
Blake drained the remainder of his beer and sighed with relief as he put the bottle at his feet before opening the next offered to him by Sharon. The couple sat in the shade of their oak tree, positioned perfectly in their backyard between the house and the fence.
“I’ll put the lawnmower away and wash up before we head into church, eh?” he said to his wife.
“Sounds good. Are you sure you’re happy to go tonight as well? We could just go to tomorrow morning’s service.”
Blake nodded. “Yeah, I think it will be good.” He directed his eyes and, with them, Sharon’s attention towards the back of the house. “He seems to be getting something out of these youth services, so I think we should strike while the iron is hot.”
“Has he been talking to you much about things?” Sharon asked.
Blake shook his head. He held the bottle with both hands on his lap. “Not really,” he said. “But that’s OK. I didn’t talk about these things when I was his age. Just watch him while you’re there tonight. See what you think.”
Sharon smiled and surveyed their backyard. “It’s nice here isn’t it? Quiet. We’ve developed this place a lot since we bought it.”
“Yeah, it is. I just wish the market was better. It seems like everywhere else in the country has increased in value. If only we’d bought it a year or two sooner or bought somewhere else—”
“We couldn’t afford somewhere else,” Sharon interjected, placing one hand on his knee. “Don’t worry about it. This place will pick up. Have faith.”
Blake put his hand on hers. “I do—but this place is getting stranger by the day. Have you seen downtown lately? Anderson keeps saying those buildings will be full again someday … with new businesses opening … but not with those men! How can that happen if they’re in there? Somebody’s got to get them out before they … ” Blake stopped as Sharon squeezed his hand. “OK,” he said. “You’re right … never mind.”
“Have faith,” Sharon repeated, still smiling.
Inside his bedroom, the boy listened to his parents through an open window, before covering his ears with his headphones.
Each day during that summer, leading up to the middle of January, the homeless men shifted from their isolated posts to congregate at the town square and listen to their spokesman. The event never lasted long, but the spectacle was always loud and dramatic—and the numbers steadily increased.
“This country doesn’t have a housing problem!” The man’s messages had expanded beyond the personal and into the political in recent days. “At least, not in the way people might think when they look at us! There’s plenty of room for everyone. How could we have golf courses if there wasn’t?”
Some of the men were now familiar enough to have earned nicknames from the residents: Rob Zombie for the man who dragged one foot along as he walked; John Lennon for the man with the rainbow vest and the broken circular-rimmed glasses; Tiger for the man carrying the golf club; Māui’s Grandmother for the effeminate man with the long fingernails; The Boss for the man who wore jeans with a white shirt and carried an old cassette player on his shoulder. Those who frequented the centre of town regularly could have taken a roll and some grew intrigued to see what recent arrivals could be added to the list. They called the spokesman Te Māngai.
“How could we have abandoned buildings if we have a housing problem? Surely an abandoned building is a sign that a new and better option has been built. So, now we have plenty of buildings around for the rest of us!”
While there were some in Mahuika who said they had grown accustomed to their unusual new neighbours, the prevailing mood was one of distrust and suspicion. Rumours were rampant that, while many of the men occupied benches and garden beds, some had inhabited empty shops, hidden behind covered windows.
“And that’s what they think about isn’t it? Buildings! But we choose a different path. Why block out the stars and the sky? Why shield ourselves from the inspiring wind or the thirst-quenching rains?” As he spoke, the group of perhaps forty or so men listened attentively, all watched by the boy across the street. “Why would we want a house to block out the stimulating sounds of the morepork and the riroriro? Why would we want to block out the invigorating rays of our sun? Why would we want any building at all?
The fire siren of Mahuika can be heard in every household—and children are raised to pause whatever they are doing and spare a thought for whoever might be in distress and for the volunteers who tend to the emergency.
Hanover Findlayson, now in his late fifties, had long since hung up his fire hose, but that didn’t quench the hard-earned habit of leaping out of bed at the sound of the siren. That night, he felt compelled (by the Holy Spirit, he would say later) to wander down to the fire station and investigate this call-out.
At first, as he walked down the back street of town, he thought it was the fire station itself that was alight. He crossed the street to approach from a different angle and saw that it was a building two doors down. His heart seemed to leap and sink at the same time as he realised it was the old BNZ building. His younger counterparts had already arrived at the station and were rushing about, arguing whether to take the truck out or simply stretch hoses directly from the station and down the street.
Flames flashed from every orifice in the building. It was quiet. The brick blackened beneath the flames and streetlights, but there was no sound of crackling wood. Whatever was on the inside of that building had been incinerated and all that was left was the brick husk.
Mr Findlayson yelled something at the men at the station, but slowed his steps as he approached. It was too late. He crawled forward, tipsy on his heels, and rubbed his eyes from the smoke and severity of the moment. He did not see the boy mirror his motions further down the street, before he disappeared back towards his own home.
Not all sparks lead to fires and not all fires lead to eruptions, but Mahuika erupted following the razing of the old BNZ building.
Traditionally, residents of Mahuika had aired their upsets in the local newspaper or launched their grievances at Council meetings—attempts to channel annoyance and rage inside civilized walls of brick and procedure. In the summer of that year, a war was waged in the very streets themselves.
Mrs Rilke, exiting the supermarket car park, pulled over to the curb to harangue John Lennon, condemning him to Hell. Mr Sharples, without any protection of a vehicle, threw a full, glass bottle of tonic water at Rob Zombie, who grunted at the blow before hobbling away towards the town centre. By lunchtime of the second day since the fire, a group had organised themselves enough to disrupt the daily congregation around their preacher.
This was the beginning of the end for the homeless men of Mahuika. For, while their spokesperson started several times, he was shouted down by the rate-paying residents.
“We’ve had enough of you people in our town!”
“Go back to where you came from!’
“Who burned down our BNZ?”
And so forth.
Of course, the boy watched as many of these scenes as he could, but even he could not cover all the activity taking place in those dark days.
The fires of revival had finally arrived at the Divinity Church of Mahuika, heralded by Anderson and confirmed by recent events.
The Sunday morning following the BNZ fire, Anderson preached a familiar theme, but with a twist. The fire, he said, was a sign from God. The enemy had entered their midst and done his damage, but God’s fire would soon follow. He explained that the occupation of the vacated buildings by the homeless men was like the birth of Ishmael: a false fulfilment of the promise of God before the true, Isaac fulfilment arrived in the guise of business owners. Even the fires of the enemy could be used by God—to expunge sin and create unity. Hadn’t these events created unity in our town? He quoted from 1 Kings: “I will call upon the name of the Lord, and the God who answers by fire, he is God.” And the congregation agreed that it was well spoken.
After the service, Anderson was approached by newcomers to the church. The first, a woman, introduced herself as the new owner of Radler’s Motel. The second, a man, introduced himself as an entrepreneur from Auckland who had moved to town to establish a mountain bike rental company. A subsequent mini-service developed as Anderson led the remnants of the room in prayer, thanking and worshipping God for fulfilling his promises to Mahuika. The youths cried again when he called for rejoicing and when he compelled them to see God’s plans through to fruition.
The boy watched and listened and recalled Paul’s instruction to the Thessalonians: Do not quench the Spirit.
As the days turned into February, and children returned to school, the homeless men slowly vacated Mahuika, exiting in the same order they arrived, until nine of the original ten remained, still congregating daily around their leader. No one had seen The Boss since the fire.
The first homeless man’s voice had mellowed, his passion seemingly waned. The group were no longer harassed en masse although it was not thought beneath citizens to swear or spit at any of the individuals when the circumstance presented itself. Some suggested the preacher was consolidating his efforts, mustering his remaining troops for another surge at accumulating future followers.
But the numbers continued to decline until there was just Te Māngai with John Lennon, Tiger and Rob Zombie. These men, too, disappeared in the order they arrived, one failing to appear at the town centre each day until only the original man remained.
It was only then that the man raised his voice again. On his first day alone, he called out to passersby on the main street. For the first time since arriving, he directed his message to the homeful residents of Mahuika. He called out to them to examine their lives, to question what it was they were really seeking. Were they seeking prosperity? If so, why? Were they seeking autonomy and freedom? If so, why? Were they seeking comfort and security?
But no one listened. Only the boy watched, across the main street, sitting on a bench, flicking sparks from his lighter.
No fire siren rang out the night Te Māngai was murdered. The police expressed their concern that, as the incident took place only after sundown, surely someone must have witnessed the flaming pyre in the middle of their town.
But no one came forward with any information beyond what the coroner determined: the homeless man had died from blunt trauma to the head, not the fire that consumed his remains. He suggested that a kind of wood alcohol had been used to ignite the poor man and that this would explain the absence of witnesses as that substance burns invisibly.
Regardless, the town had seen the last of the homeless men of Mahuika—and the boy, who was not seen near the site, slept soundly in his bed that night.