THE AGED CHIEF.
It was dawn when I opened my eyes and saw Kahikatea stooping to get
through the doorway, so as to stretch his limbs outside, where there
was no danger of knocking down articles stuck up among the rafters.
Soon afterwards I joined him in front of the hut.
“Ha!” he said, greeting me with a smile full of early morning
freshness, “I always turn out before the sun gets up, so as to see the
lovely colours on the hills--look!”
He pointed to the roof-tree, the very tip of which was glistening like
velvet in the first crimson flush of sunlight. The wooded hill beyond
was bathed in splendour, and the birds were gliding down umbrageous
slopes, chasing the early dragon-flies and filling the place with
song. The storm of the preceding night had left no trace, and Nature
had emerged all fresh and smiling. Kahikatea walked about enjoying it,
while slowly the sunlight crept lower and lower down his roof-tree
until it flooded on to the top of his log hut, and finally touched his
own head before it reached mine.
“It’s glorious living all alone in the bush,” he said; “I get more
solid satisfaction out of it than out of London, or Paris, or New
York, or Sydney, or--hello! there’s my _korimako_--my little
bell-bird--he always turns up as soon as the sun gets on to his
fuchsia tree.”
I followed his outstretched finger and saw his fellow poet of the
sunrise brushing the dewdrops from among the flowers and scattering
them around as he trilled out a rain of melody quite as liquid as the
many-tinted shower that fell upon the moss beneath.
“His song is sadder than it used to be,” said Kahikatea; “the bees get
most of his honey now, and he is doomed to extinction.”
I had almost made up my mind before that this man was a poet, and one
who could be trusted to catch Nature’s higher meanings from her birds
and flowers and trees, from her dawns and sunsets, and her mid-day
hush, when the bell-bird, assuming the _rôle_ of a solemn, mysterious
clock, strikes _one_ in the lofty, silent spaces of the bush. Now, as
I watched his face under the influence of the morning and the
korimako’s music, I conceived a picture of his nature which has
remained with me to this day--the picture of a clear-souled poet, who
could dream and yet act, who was mad and yet sane.
The sun was not far above the horizon when we made a start for Te
Makawawa’s _pa_. Through the silent grove of palm ferns, along the
well-worn path that I had discovered the night before, and finally by
ways that were new to me, I followed my tall friend down out of the
bush to the sea, where the silver-crested waves were rolling in upon a
grey gravel shore.
After traversing this for some distance we struck inland to avoid a
steep rocky promontory, with bluffs, against which the spray was
dashing high. Then, after several hours’ tramp through flax swamps,
along precipitous ridges, over flooded streams, and through open
dells, where all the rarest ferns in the world seemed to be growing
together, we reached a broad river, and, following it down to the sea,
saw ahead of us, on the summit of a high and bold cliff, the
palisading of Te Makawawa’s _pa_.
“It’s a difficult place to get into,” said Kahikatea. “There are
precipices on three sides of it, and the entrance here at the bottom
of the hill is not particularly obvious. It must have been a fine
stronghold in the early days.”
We raised a peculiar whoop in vogue among the Maoris, in order to
signify that visitors were approaching; then, receiving the answering
cry of welcome: “_Haeremai! Haeremai!_” we began the ascent of the
hill. At the entrance of the first palisaded enclosure we were met by
numerous dogs, which barked out of all proportion to their meagre
size. At the second palisading, which enclosed the _pa_ proper, we saw
an aged chief come through a private opening. It was Te Makawawa
himself, and as he drew near I recognised the _tohunga Maori_ of the
order called _ariki_, which designates the chief, the priest, and the
seer.
“Welcome, O Kahikatea,” he said, addressing my friend in the Maori
tongue. “Welcome, O Pakeha stranger,” he added, turning to me; “the
_pa_ of Te Makawawa is the home of the stranger who comes with my
friend the Forest Tree.”[03]
“Prop and mainstay of the children of Ira,” said Kahikatea--and I was
surprised at his fluency in the native tongue--“well I know that thou
art the _ariki_ who reads things that are hidden from other eyes. We
have come with a strange word to speak before you, O tohunga--a word
that you alone can make plain.”
Te Makawawa waved his hand with a stately grace, and, inviting us to
follow, led the way into the _pa_. Conducting us through fenced lines
dividing the houses of the tribal families, he at length reached his
own elaborately carved dwelling, almost on the brink of a great
precipice which overlooked the sea. He ordered his servants to place
clean mats on the ground in the portico, and he--a _rangatira_[04] of
the old school, stood with well-simulated humility until such time as
we should invite him to be seated. We gave the customary invitation,
and Te Makawawa seated himself opposite to us.
Then, when the food baskets had been placed before us and we had
eaten, we sat in silence, the chief, according to custom, waiting
impassively to hear the object of our visit, and we, also according to
custom, deeply considering the words we should use. As Kahikatea had
undertaken the duty of spokesman I was free to observe more closely
the face of the aged chief. He was beardless, his hair was quite
white, and his bold, high forehead, coupled with his piercing black
eyes, gave evidence of great power and ability. His whole face was
tatooed in a way to denote the highest rank: he had evidently been a
great man among his people--an _ariki_, in whose veins ran the blood
of the Great River of Heaven. He was nearly ninety years old, so I
subsequently discovered, but his age was not written in his eye nor
yet in his proud and erect bearing.
My eyes wandered to the sea below, sparkling in the pathway of the
sun, and holding the little wooded islets in a setting of silver
breakers. Now and again the long rising swell of the Great Ocean of
Kiwa came in with a weird sigh, moaning about the cliffs on the coast
below. Sea birds, uttering plaintive calls, circled overhead and again
swooped down over the face of the cliff. It was a strange spot wherein
was about to be unfolded a stranger tale.
“O wise tohunga,” said Kahikatea at length, “I have dreamed a dream,
and have come to ask you what it means.”
“The wind has whispered some hidden word in the branches of the
Kahikatea,” said the old chief; “lay that hidden word before me, that
I may hold it in my hand.”
“My word is a dream which I will tell--a dream on a night when the
moon was full. It seemed to me that I climbed a great mountain wall by
a high plain yonder towards the setting sun----”
He paused, for he had seen, as I had, a passing movement on the old
chief’s rugged face.
“Do you know of such a mountain wall, O Te Makawawa?” pursued
Kahikatea.
A long silence ensued, and we both watched the aged chief’s face,
while his eyes rested on the ground. He seemed debating in his mind
whether he should answer; but at length, with a craftiness through
which I thought I saw the truth, he raised his eyes and said:--
“I have myself in dreams wandered astray in a forest at the foot of a
mountain wall, by which I know that my death is waiting for me there.
Your words, O Kahikatea, carried me back to my own dream--did you ask
me a question?”
This was artful. He had evidently made up his mind that he knew
nothing of such a mountain wall, at all events not until he had heard
more.
But my friend did not repeat his question. I think he saw with me that
the old chief had been startled, but had extricated himself
gracefully, and that, now he was on his guard, we should have no
further clue.
“I was saying,” Kahikatea went on, “when I saw that the spirit of your
ancestor was speaking to you, that I climbed up a mountain wall, I
know not how, for it seemed to me that no man could have passed that
way before. In my dream, as I stood on a great platform at the summit
of the wall against the sky, a thin crust of rock beneath my feet gave
way and I fell into a narrow cavern. Not being able to get out again I
groped my way along and found that it communicated with a passage cut
in the rock, narrow, but high, as if it had been made by, and for,
giants. I followed this passage, winding in and out in the darkness of
the rock, and at length came out again on the summit of the wall.
“Then my feet were guided to a funnel-shaped chasm, down which--by
means of a long, stout pole, which I slanted from ledge to ledge again
and again across the narrow chasm--I made a perilous descent. At last
I felt a solid floor beneath my feet, and, moving cautiously, made my
way across a dark cavern towards a faint light showing round a
buttress of rock. When I gained this point, O thou prop of the tribes,
I saw a sight which startled me--even in my dream.”
He paused, and I wondered what he was coming to. Te Makawawa’s
piercing eyes were fixed upon my friend in a penetrating scrutiny as
if he would read his inmost soul. But his own rugged, tatooed face
betrayed no thought, no feeling.
After a silence Kahikatea continued:
“It was a form of beauty that I have never since been able to banish
from my mind. There, standing in an open space on the floor of a
cavern of white marble, with the moonlight flooding in upon her from
an opening in the rock, was a figure, white and dazzling. For a long
time I stood gazing at the most beautiful face and form it has fallen
to my lot to look upon. It was a woman in the first years of
womanhood; her arms were raised towards something she could see in the
western sky through the opening; a thin robe covered her form, and a
breath of wind had swayed it gently against her limbs. But, O chief,
mark this: her hair, which fell in rippling folds over her
outstretched arms, was white and glistening, and, though the
expression on her face was that of one who sees a vision of joy, her
eyes were colourless. Her form was full of yearning--of pursuing
prayer towards the glory of her vision, but she moved not. I drew
nearer and stood before her. Then I saw that this woman was an image
in marble, lifelike, beauteous, wonderful; but stone--cold stone!”
Again he paused, and I watched the face of the aged chief. It was calm
and unmoved, but his eyes blazed like polished obsidian reflecting the
sun. He spoke never a word, and Kahikatea continued:
“While I gazed in wonder at this radiant image--in my dream, O
chief--I heard a step behind me, and, before I could turn, a stunning
blow on the head felled me. Then I no longer knew light from darkness.
My dream ended there for a time, but when again I emerged from
darkness I was lying on my back on the bank of a stream at the foot of
the mountain wall a thousand feet below, my clothes wet through, and
my body stiff and sore with bruises. That is my dream, O chief. My
words to you are ended.”
Te Makawawa sat silent and thoughtful, considering his reply. While he
was doing so it occurred to me to add my story to Kahikatea’s
statement, for I now understood why my friend had been startled at my
mention of the word “sculptress.”
“I also have a word to lay before you, chief,” said I.
“Proceed, O Friend of Kahikatea,” he replied.
Then I narrated to him the history of the woman--how it had become a
matter of great moment that news of her should be obtained. How I,
through my knowledge of the Maori tongue, had been sent to look for
her, and how, finally, it seemed to me that what the wind had
whispered to the branches of the Kahikatea was connected in some
strange way with the woman, for was she not wise in the matter of
cutting figures out of stone? In conclusion, I handed him the fragment
of wood. He inspected it carefully, and then asked the meaning of the
words.
“They mean,” said I, watching his face intently, “that a woman named
Miriam Grey was taken prisoner eighteen years ago by a certain Te
Makawawa, that she is near a mountain and a tableland--the meaning
here is washed away--and that she was still alive three years ago. O
chief, my words, too, are ended.”
Silence again ensued, which remained unbroken for a long space, during
which time an artist might have caught the aged chief’s expression
exactly, for it remained unaltered. I knew that if he did not speak
soon he would not speak at all, and we should go back the way we came,
not very much wiser than when we started. I employed the time
wondering how much he knew. Was he considering the terms of his reply,
or was he quietly making up his mind as to whether he should reply at
all? At length he raised his eyes and encountered those of my friend.
“O Kahikatea,” he said solemnly, “like Tawhaki of old thou knowest the
‘way of the spider,’ and, like him, thou hast seen Hinauri, the
Daughter of the Dawn. I can speak of what I know to one with whom the
Great Tohungas of the Earth have spoken. But with thee, O Friend of my
friend the Forest Tree,” he added, turning to me, “I will not speak
except on a condition which I will lay upon the ground before you.”
“Lay thy condition upon the ground, O wild white crane among
tohungas--lay thy condition upon the ground before us, that we may
look at it and take it up or not as it seems good to us.”
“It is well,” he replied. “Lo! the beginning of my word to you is
this: I am growing old; my foot is already searching for firm places
among the snows that encircle the summit of Ruahine; I see those who
are not present, I hear those who do not speak; any day I may look
into the eyes of the green lizard that will summon me to Reinga.[05]
But before I descend by the sacred Pohutukawa root that leads to the
Abode of Spirits I would undo a wrong that I did--an evil deed, cruel
and unfair beneath the eye of Rehua.
“That is the beginning of my speech to you, and this is how it runs
on. Hearken, Pakehas! You, O Friend of Kahikatea, the Forest Tree,
seek a woman concerning whom, if you agree to my condition, the
spirits that linger by night may speak to me: Te Makawawa, whose heart
is in his face before you, seeks a white-faced child whom he cannot
find, for he knows not the speech of the Pakeha.
“Hear the end, O Friend of my friend, the Forest Tree--the end is for
you. When the child is found I myself will teach you concerning the
woman. The tongue of the Maori is known to you as well as the tongue
of the Pakeha; therefore, you can search among the races of the South
for the white-faced child. If this bargain seems good then I will
speak to you and to the Forest Tree. And when the child is found I
will commune with the spirits of my ancestors about the woman.”
“And if I find the child, O chief,” I said, “will you swear upon the
sacred _tiki_[06] that you will find the woman?”
Te Makawawa turned a withering glance upon me.
“The Friend of the Forest Tree speaks the Maori tongue, but surely he
does not know the Maori heart----” he began, but Kahikatea broke in
upon his words.
“It is enough,” he said. “The word of Te Makawawa is good; it will not
snap like the _kohutukutu’s_ branch. Let my brother Wanaki say whether
he will accept the condition.”
I am obstinate by nature, and somewhat cynical, but from Kahikatea’s
manner I guessed that old Te Makawawa, notwithstanding his remark to
the effect that the spirits of his ancestors would enlighten his
ignorance, already knew more about Miriam Grey than we should ever
find out unless we accepted his own terms. Having turned this over in
my mind I said:
“I forgot that the word of the _ariki_ was sworn upon his own heart,
which is sacred. I call back my words, O chief, and I agree to your
condition. Now speak and answer the words of Kahikatea about his
dream, and my own words about the woman.”
“It is well,” he said with dignity, drawing his mat closer around him.
“My heart flows out to both of you; to you, O Dreamer of dreams, and
to you, O Seeker in the dark, I will speak words straight from my
breast, but in hearing them know that they may not be repeated to
other ears while I live. That is understood between us.”