Roaring Creek Reserve, West Coast, New Zealand, 1974.
The sharpened blade of the chisel glistened in the early morning sun. Laid out beside it, the ceremonial mallet and the decorative glass jars filled with ink. Alicia watched the women arrange the brutal weapons on the flax-covered table. She heard them joke about ‘instruments of torture’. How could they laugh at something so horrid?
The boys stood in line on the dais in front of the old pavilion, their bodies shaking. Alicia shielded her eyes. She’d witnessed the savage ritual many times before. It hurt as much today as it had the first time her father, Reggie, made her sit through the ordeal.
‘Take your hands away from your eyes,’ Reggie said. ‘You’re the Gang president’s daughter. You’re ten years old. Act your age. Blood and ink! They are sacred to this Gang.’
The sharpened blade of the chisel glistened in the early morning sun. Laid out beside it, the ceremonial mallet and the decorative glass jars filled with ink. Alicia watched the women arrange the brutal weapons on the flax-covered table. She heard them joke about ‘instruments of torture’. How could they laugh at something so horrid?
The boys stood in line on the dais in front of the old pavilion, their bodies shaking. Alicia shielded her eyes. She’d witnessed the savage ritual many times before. It hurt as much today as it had the first time her father, Reggie, made her sit through the ordeal.
‘Take your hands away from your eyes,’ Reggie said. ‘You’re the Gang president’s daughter. You’re ten years old. Act your age. Blood and ink! They are sacred to this Gang.’
—Gang Girl Chapter One