The priest evokes a spirit. -- The consequences. -- A Maori
tragedy. -- The "Tohunga" again.
These priests or _tohunga_ would, and do to this hour, undertake to
call up the spirit of any dead person, if paid for the same. I have
seen many of these exhibitions, but one instance will suffice as an
example.
A young chief, who had been very popular and greatly respected in
his tribe, had been killed in battle, and, at the request of
several of his nearest friends, the _tohunga_ had promised on a
certain night to call up his spirit to speak to them, and answer
certain questions they wished to put. The priest was to come to the
village of the relations, and the interview was to take place in a
large house common to all the population. This young man had been a
great friend of mine; and so, the day before the event, I was sent
to by his relations, and told that an opportunity offered of
conversing with my friend once more. I was not much inclined to
bear a part in such outrageous mummery, but curiosity caused me to
go. Now it is necessary to remark that this young chief was a man
in advance of his times and people in many respects. He was the
first of his tribe who could read and write; and, amongst other
unusual things for a native to do, he kept a register of deaths and
births, and a journal of any remarkable events which happened in
the tribe. Now this book was lost. No one could find it, although
his friends had searched unceasingly for it, as it contained many
matters of interest, and also they wished to preserve it for his
sake. I also wished to get it, and had often inquired if it had
been found, but had always been answered in the negative. The
appointed time came, and at night we all met the priest in the
large house I have mentioned. Fires were lit, which gave an
uncertain, flickering light. The priest retired to the darkest
corner. All was expectation, and the silence was only broken by the
sobbing of the sister and other female relations of the dead man.
They seemed to be, and indeed were, in an agony of excitement,
agitation, and grief. This state of things continued for a long
time, and I began to feel in a way surprising to myself, as if
there was something real in the matter. The heart-breaking sobs of
the women, and the grave and solemn silence of the men, convinced
me that, to them at least, this was a serious matter. I saw the
brother of the dead man now and then wiping the tears in silence
from his eyes. I wished I had not come, for I felt that any
unintentional symptom of incredulity on my part would shock and
hurt the feelings of my friends extremely; and yet, whilst feeling
thus, I felt myself more and more near to believing in the
deception about to be practised. The real grief, and also the
general undoubting faith, in all around me, had this effect. We
were all seated on the rush-strewn floor, about thirty persons. The
door was shut; the fire had burnt down, leaving nothing but glowing
charcoal. The room was oppressively hot. The light was little
better than darkness, and the part of the room in which the
_tohunga_ sat was now in perfect darkness. Suddenly, without the
slightest warning, a voice came out of the darkness.
"Salutation!--salutation to you all!--salutation!--salutation to
you, my tribe!--family, I salute you!--friends, I salute
you!--friend, my pakeha friend, I salute you!" The high-handed,
daring imposture was successful; our feelings were taken by storm.
A cry expressive of affection and despair, such as was not good to
hear, came from the sister of the dead chief, a fine, stately, and
really handsome woman of about five-and-twenty. She was rushing,
with both arms extended, into the dark, in the direction from
whence the voice came. She was instantly seized round the waist and
restrained by her brother by main force, till moaning and fainting
she lay still on the ground. At the same instant another female
voice was heard from a young girl who was held by the wrists by two
young men, her brothers. "Is it you?--is it you?--_truly_ is it
you?--_aue! aue!_ they hold me, they restrain me; wonder not that I
have not followed you; they restrain me, they watch me, but I go to
you. The sun shall not rise, the sun shall not rise, _aue! aue!_"
Here she fell insensible on the rush floor, and with the sister
was carried out. The remaining women were all weeping and
exclaiming, but were silenced by the men, who were themselves
nearly as much excited, though not so clamorous. I, however, did
notice two old men, who sat close to me, were not in the slightest
degree moved in any way, though they did not seem at all
incredulous, but quite the contrary. The spirit spoke again. "Speak
to me, the tribe!--speak to me, the family!--speak to me, the
pakeha!" The "pakeha," however, was not at the moment inclined for
conversation. The deep distress of the two women, the evident
belief of all around him of the presence of the spirit, the
"darkness visible," the novelty of the scene, gave rise to a state
of feeling not favourable to the conversational powers. Besides, I
felt reluctant to give too much apparent credence to an imposture,
which at the very same time, by some strange impulse, I felt half
ready to give way to. At last the brother spoke. "How is it with
you?--is it well with you in _that_ country?" The answer came--(the
voice all through, it is to be remembered, was not the voice of the
_tohunga_, but a strange melancholy sound, like the sound of the
wind blowing into a hollow vessel),--"It is well with me; my place
is a good place." The brother spoke again. "Have you seen ----, and
----, and ----?" (I forget the names mentioned.) "Yes, they are all
with me." A woman's voice now from another part of the room
anxiously cried out, "Have you seen my sister?" "Yes, I have seen
her." "Tell her my love is great towards her and never will cease."
"Yes, I will tell." Here the woman burst into tears, and the
pakeha felt a strange swelling of the chest, which he could in no
way account for. The spirit spoke again. "Give my large tame pig to
the priest (the pakeha was disenchanted at once) and my
double-gun." Here the brother interrupted, "Your gun is a
_manatunga_, I shall keep it." He is also disenchanted, thought I,
but I was mistaken. He believed, but wished to keep the gun his
brother had carried so long. An idea now struck me that I could
expose the imposture without showing palpable disbelief. "We cannot
find your book," said I, "where have you concealed it?" The answer
instantly came, "I concealed it between the _tahuhu_ of my house
and the thatch, straight over you as you go in at the door." Here
the brother rushed out; all was silence till his return. In five
minutes he came back _with the book in his hand_. I was beaten, but
made another effort. "What have you written in that book?" said I.
"A great many things." "Tell me some of them." "Which of them?"
"Any of them." "You are seeking for some information, what do you
want to know? I will tell you." Then suddenly, "Farewell, O tribe!
farewell, my family, I go!" Here a general and impressive cry of
"farewell" arose from every one in the house. "Farewell," again
cried the spirit, _from deep beneath the ground_! "Farewell," again
from _high in air_! "Farewell," once more came moaning through the
distant darkness of the night. "Farewell!" I was for a moment
stunned. The deception was perfect. There was a dead silence--at
last. "A ventriloquist," said I; "or--or--_perhaps_ the devil."
I was fagged and confused. It was past midnight; the company broke up,
and I went to a house where a bed had been prepared for me. I wished
to be quiet and alone; but it was fated there should be little quiet
that night. I was just falling asleep, after having thought for some
time on the extraordinary scenes I had witnessed, when I heard the
report of a musket at some little distance, followed by the shouting
of men and the screams of women. Out I rushed. I had a presentiment of
some horrible catastrophe. Men were running by, hastily armed. I could
get no information, so went with the stream. There was a bright flame
beginning to spring up at a short distance, and every one appeared
going in that direction. I was soon there. A house had been set on
fire to make a light. Before another house, close at hand, a dense
circle of human beings was formed. I pushed my way through, and then
saw, by the bright light of the flaming house, a scene which is still
fresh before me: there, in the verandah of the house, was an old
grey-bearded man; he knelt upon one knee, and on the other he
supported the dead body of the young girl who had said she would
follow the spirit to spirit land. The delicate-looking body from the
waist upwards was bare and bloody; the old man's right arm was under
the neck, the lower part of his long grey beard was dabbled with
blood, his left hand was twisting his matted hair; he did not weep, he
_howled_, and the sound was that of a heathen despair, knowing no
hope. The young girl had secretly procured a loaded musket, tied a
loop for her foot to the trigger, placed the muzzle to her tender
breast, and blown herself to shatters. And the old man was her father,
and a _tohunga_. A calm low voice now spoke close beside me, "She has
followed her _rangatira_," it said. I looked round, and saw the famous
_tohunga_ of the night.
Now, young ladies, I have promised not to frighten your little wits
out with raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories, a sort of thing I detest,
but which has been too much the fashion with folks who write of
matters Maori. I have vowed not to draw a drop of blood except in a
characteristic manner. But this story is tragedy, or I don't know what
tragedy is, and the more tragic because, in every particular,
literally true, and so if you cannot find some pity for the poor Maori
girl who "followed her lord to spirit land," I shall make it my
business not to fall in love with any of you any more for I won't say
how long.