ON THE GREAT TAPU.
On the following day, when, after much up-hill work through thick
bush, we gained what seemed the summit of a line of hills, we sent
Tiki up a tree to search in the distance for the bold mountain wall
which Kahikatea said he could dimly remember. When the Maori reached
the top he called down that he could see a long, high rock running
between two peaks like a great wall. It was far away in the horizon,
but he said we could reach it by sunset. Tiki remained up the tree for
more than a quarter of an hour, but what he was doing we did not learn
until, continuing our march, we discovered that he seemed to know
every tree and gully and fern patch on the way. Soon we realised that
he was a most useful Maori--he had been mapping out the way from the
top of that tree, and was now giving us an instance of the perfection
to which the savage bump of locality can be brought. Without the aid
of Tiki’s mental chart, I think we should never have been able to
thread that mazy labyrinth of dense fern, supplejacks, and tangled
undergrowth; and I am positively certain that if it had not been for
my fluency of tongue in the matter of Maori abuse, Tiki would never
have set his face so resolutely against the dread beings which he
fully expected to encounter at every turn.
At length, late in the afternoon, having reached an elevation of some
3,000 feet above the sea level, we came to a gigantic rift in the
mountains, through which, in a deep, rocky gully, issued the river
which watered the plains far below. Fed by many little mountain
tributaries, it issued from the gorge as a considerable body of water,
but as we traced it back into the mountains it became a mere stream,
frothing between great moss-grown boulders, on which gleamed here and
there a mountain daisy, or a white lily bobbing its head in the
swishing tide. Crossing and re-crossing this stream to avoid the
precipitous rocks that occasionally barred our way, we toiled onwards
and upwards until the vegetation began to grow thin and stunted, and,
about sunset, we passed beneath two red birches that stood like the
gateposts of a meadow land, with their heads woven together in the
sunlight by luxurious clusters and festoons of the native scarlet
mistletoe bloom.
Standing beneath these gateposts we looked out over what we knew was
the Table Land of Te Makawawa’s legend. It was a strange, silent
place--a yellow, rolling plain, some three or four miles across,
sloping off into rounded hills on the west, and bounded on the east by
the peaks we had seen from the distance. The moss-covered plain was
almost bare, save for a few clumps of _toi-toi_, with plumes that
waved all golden in the slanting sunlight, while everywhere in the
yellow moss grew strange wild flowers, and long ribands of lichen,
swept by the wind, trailed from a few stunted and isolated trees. It
was like a piece of summer Siberia set down amid verdant surroundings.
But what caught my eye more particularly was a stupendous wall of rock
that ran up against the eastern sky at a distance of two miles on our
left. It seemed to connect the bases of the two peaks which towered
above it, their summits tipped with snow. This wall--on which there
was now a dark, uneven shadow creeping up as the sun went down beneath
the rounded hills opposite--must have been nearly a thousand feet
high, and, near its topmost crags, veins of obsidian, or mica, caught
and threw back the rays of the sun like the coloured windows of a vast
cathedral front.
“Beyond a doubt this is the place old Te Makawawa spoke about,” said
Kahikatea, gazing at the mighty rock; “and now I am certain that I
have seen it before. That outstanding oblique spur at the base of the
wall, those jagged rocks at the top, and the snowy peaks--I can recall
them well, though the how and the when of it seem gone completely.”
He passed his hand across his forehead, and his face wore a puzzled
expression, as he tried to recall the details of his strange,
dreamlike experience.
“It certainly does suggest a giant’s temple with two grand spires,” I
said. “I wonder if Miriam Grey is there.”
“And I wonder if Hinauri is there,” returned Kahikatea.
“And Ngaraki!”
“Ah, Ngaraki, the fierce guardian priest, with his foes, the Vile
Tohungas of the Pit, and his wild incantations, taken up where Te
Makawawa dropped them.”
The sun’s last ray was now pink upon the snowy summits of the peaks.
As we watched, it faded away and twilight fell upon the Table Land
with a solemn hush, broken only by the murmuring of the river, and the
deep, hammer-on-anvil notes of the tui’s last song. It was time to
look for a camping-place and to gather firewood, for the air was crisp
almost to the point of frostiness, and our blankets were few.
By the time the Southern Cross was visible above the mountain wall we
were comfortably established on a mossy bank of the stream, behind a
clump of outstanding trees, and Tiki was busy cooking our supper in
his own peculiar way. After the evening meal was finished the Maori
rolled himself together near the fire and was soon sound asleep. We
sat awhile smoking, and then followed his example, for we were both
very tired. But scarcely had we settled ourselves on our beds of dry
fern when the moon, almost full, rose above the great rock and
lingered a moment on the edge of the southern peak before passing
behind it.
“That’s very fine,” said Kahikatea appreciatively.
“Yes,” I replied, “but I don’t like the idea of sleeping in the
moonlight. Supposing we move our beds down behind that larger clump of
trees. Tiki appears to have monopolised the only shadowy spot here.”
He assented, and we took up our beds and walked to the spot indicated,
where we re-made them and settled down to our night’s rest. A small
waterfall poured into a pool in the river near by, and, lulled by the
monotonous sound, we lapsed into silence, and then into sleep.
I do not know whether it was the enchanted solitude of the place that
aroused my imagination, or whether I was overtired, but my sleep was
full of dreams based on the strange story of Te Makawawa. I saw the
giant sorcerers of old coming and going out of the great temple with
the two snow-capped spires; I heard their mystic chant echoing down
through the ages; then, the fair queen who came down from the skies
hovered like a misty moon-goddess above the mountains, and I had to
move away from there. But my dreams went on. I saw the great city of
old standing on the site of the yellow plain, its palaces glistening
like alabaster in the moonlight, while faintly to my ears came the
ghostly hum of a phantom race, hurrying through the ways of that city,
bent on the business or pleasure of long ago.
Suddenly this ghostly murmur ceased abruptly, and I awoke with a
peculiar sense of an unnatural silence, and found that day was just
breaking. What had happened? I could no longer hear the waterfall. I
suddenly fancied that I had been struck deaf, and, to make sure of the
fact, I called out:
“Kahikatea! are you awake?”
Relieved at the sound of my own voice, I was still puzzled at his
reply:
“Yes, just woke up. What’s become of that waterfall? River seems to
have dried up.”
In another moment we were on our feet and making towards the spot
where the waterfall had been. It was not there, and the channel was a
mere string of pools. The flowing water had been shut off at its
source, wherever that was.
“It must have been the sudden stopping of that waterfall that woke
us,” I suggested.
“Yes, it must have been,” returned Kahikatea. Then, after gazing
abstractedly at the bed of the channel for a time, he continued: “I’ve
an idea that the drying up of this intermittent stream accounts for
the other one’s spurting up in that extraordinary way. They must be
connected at their source in such a fashion that the shutting off of
the water in this one causes an overflow in the other.”
“I should like to see how it is managed,” I said. Then, having an idea
in my turn, I went on excitedly: “I propose we follow this stream up
and see if we can get to the source--now’s our chance while it is
empty.”
“Ah! while it is empty. But if it has anything to do with the other
stream it probably will not be empty for longer than that was flooded
last night. Besides, it may lead us miles away into the mountains for
no good. I’m more inclined to make the attempt to get round to the
back of those peaks and so on to the top of that precipice. I’m sure
I’ve been there before, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it again.”
“If you are going to look for ‘the way of the spider,’ then,” I said,
“I’ll have a try at ‘the way of the fish,’ and it seems to me that
this stream may be in some way connected with it.”
“Possibly. ‘The way of the fish’ must as certainly be by water as ‘the
way of the spider’ must be by climbing.”
For some time we discussed the possibilities of these two hints old Te
Makawawa had let fall in the course of his story, and finally we
arranged to make a start as soon as possible, with the understanding
that Kahikatea was to take his way round the western end of the Table
Land until he reached the south-eastern side of the peak, and there
attempt the ascent, while I was to follow up the bed of the stream and
reconnoitre the base of the mountain wall. We told Tiki that the
fierce chief Ngaraki dwelt among the mountains, and that he must
remain hidden in a sheltered spot in the bush till our return, to
which he replied that he had once seen the great tohunga Ngaraki, and
would be very pleased to keep well out of his way, for Ngaraki would
certainly kill him if he found him on the tapu.
Then, after a hasty meal, we set out. As I shook hands with Kahikatea
our eyes met, and he said: “When we meet again we shall probably know
more about this mysterious business. Don’t set out to look for me
within three days, but if I reach camp before you I shall conclude you
have fallen into Ngaraki’s clutches--if there is such a person,” he
called back over his shoulder as he strode away.
“If there is such a person,” I repeated to myself, as I set out along
the bank of the silent watercourse. I was very soon to discover,
however, that Ngaraki the Maori was no phantom of Te Makawawa’s brain.