NGARAKI--CHIEF AND TOHUNGA.
In the dim shadows cast by the towering rocks upon the Table Land I
followed the course of the dried-up stream, which, after a distance of
nearly a mile, took a turn and led round towards the mountain wall on
my left. In half an hour I came within the deep shadow of this mighty
pile, and, looking up, saw its tremendous outstanding crags, nearly a
thousand feet above, surmounted on each hand by the snow-capped peaks
clearly defined against the rosy flush of the eastern sky. High up on
the wall, where it united with the base of the northern or left hand
peak, a spur left the parent rock and ran down obliquely from a height
of several hundred feet to within fifty feet of the ground, then,
curving upwards again, terminated in a gigantic crag, which to my mind
suggested a strange resemblance to a huge lion sitting upon the plain
with his head erect, and mounting guard over the approaches to the
mountain.
Following the bed of the stream right up to the base of the great
wall, I saw that this spur hemmed in from the bare plain a small
valley, about a hundred yards across at its mouth, but gradually
narrowing back until it ended in a precipitous ravine in the acute
angle formed by the descending ridge and the main rock. Great pines
grew upon the spur’s inner face, and the varied foliage of the virgin
bush which it enclosed softened its rugged contour. In the broadest
parts of the valley grew smaller trees, isolated and with green grass
beneath them, while further back the creeping vines wove the tree-tops
together and crowned the tangled undergrowth with white flowers and
yellow berries. One or two tall palm ferns nodded their heads over the
lower growth, and some little distance up the valley towered a
gigantic rimu, holding its massive foliage against the deep gloom of
the ravine beyond. On seeing this great tree I immediately recalled
that part of the aged Maori’s story in which he spoke of burying a
stone instead of the child beneath its shade, and determined to visit
the place and see for myself.
But meanwhile the course of the stream was demanding all my attention.
I was beginning to wonder whither it was leading me as I followed it
for another hundred yards towards the valley, its one bank the mossy
turf of the plain sheltered by a little scattered bush, the other the
bare rock itself. Here a little proof of human occupation confronted
me: I almost stumbled over a small stack of firewood, neatly piled
beneath a clump of silver birches and giant _manuka_. A little further
on I came upon a _kumara_[16] patch and some peach trees laden with
ripening fruit.
While I was inspecting these, a far away hollow roar fell upon my
ears, followed by a hissing and a rushing near at hand; then presently
I heard the sound of waters coming down the bed of the stream towards
me, and knew that the mysterious freak of nature was at work again. I
rushed to the edge of the bank and watched the foaming water, flooding
the channel as it poured by, leaping and dancing as if glad to be free
again.
Anxious to find out whence this water came I followed the bank,
concealing myself as much as possible among the bushes, until, just at
the opening of the valley, I found that it curved round at right
angles, enclosing a patch of mossy ground against the rock, and came
to an abrupt halt, as far as I was concerned, at the foot of the
mountain wall. Here the water welled forth silently right out of the
side of the rock, forming a deep pool some seven or eight yards
across. The smooth open bank on which I stood carried its yellow moss
and daisies up to the feet of the precipice, and then sloped away into
the dark shades of the valley to the left.
I could see no opening through which the water issued. Evidently the
current ran far below the surface, but how was the water dammed back
to such an extent? I soon ascertained the cause: after flowing
straight out for about twenty yards the water was obstructed by a
narrow constriction in the rocks, through and over which it frothed
and seethed before swirling round again towards the great wall.
I strained my eyes down into the dark green pool, trying to catch
sight of the hidden opening, but the stream of bubbles which rose to
the surface obscured the depths. I regretted that I had not been five
minutes sooner, but my only plan now was to wait until the stream
stopped flowing again, and then I should see what I should
see--perchance the ‘way of the fish.’
Not knowing the habits of this extraordinary stream, I had no idea how
often it dried up. It might be weeks before the strange phenomenon
happened again, and yet on the other hand it might occur a second time
that very day. I was willing to take the chance of this, and, as it
was evident from the wood heaps and the _kumara_ patch that the place
was inhabited by someone, I resolved to conceal myself among the thick
bushes across the pool on the strip of land which the river enclosed
against the wall of rock.
Accordingly, I jumped across at a narrow part at the end of the deep
pool and crept beneath a large spreading arm of a dwarf tree-fern. The
tip of this leafy arm drooped till it touched the water, so that, as
I lay at full length beneath it on the edge of the pool, I was fairly
concealed from view, although through my green screen I could see the
opposite bank and the edge of the bush at the opening of the valley.
Here I made up my mind to wait and watch all day, for if there was
anyone about I was certain either to see or hear them.
I conjectured many things as I lay, looking now at the bubbles that
came up from the depths of the pool, and now at the blue sky,
brightening with the morning sun. But of all the wild imaginations
that flitted through my mind concerning that mysterious place, none
was so strange as the series of events and adventures which actually
befell. For several hours I lay beneath my fern shield hearing nothing
more unusual than the singing of many birds in the valley, the
frothing of the water among the rocks at the end of the pool, and its
gentle lapping against the granite wall, a yard on my right. There
could be no one in the valley, for if the fierce Ngaraki had been
there he would have been up and abroad long since; there was no sound,
no sign of any human being. What if, after all, Ngaraki dwelt within
the mountain? By what strange and hidden gateway did he pass in and
out of his temple?
While speculating on this matter the southern sun appeared over the
top of the mountain wall, and I knew it must be near noon. The bright
rays flooded down into the pure green depths of the pool, and the
bubbles rose like great shining pearls. About ten feet down I thought
I could distinguish something that looked like an aperture in the rock
through which the stream was pouring. It did not appear to be a very
strong current, for there was no indication of its force anywhere on
the surface of the pool.
As I peered down trying to see it more clearly, some dark object sped
through the opening. At first I thought it was part of a tree; then,
by its movement in the water, it suggested a gigantic fish. Another
second and I held my breath, while my heart beat hard against my ribs,
for the object was now more clearly defined. A cold shiver ran through
me; and now, as I write of that feeling, I must record my firm belief
that there are moments when the wildest superstitions touch us with an
icy finger, if they can but touch us unawares. Tiki’s taniwha flashed
into my mind in that half-second, while I saw the dark monster with
waving limbs rising from the bottom, and then flashed out of it again
as I saw a head and neck, a pair of massive shoulders and two great
brown arms approaching the surface. Now the sunlight glistened on the
wavy black hair and dark brown skin of a Maori not two yards away from
me.
With my heart thumping against my ribs I lay perfectly still, while
the man who had come out of the mountain by ‘the way of the fish’
shook his head angrily, tossing the water from his long black hair;
then he struck out for the opposite bank. He caught hold of some roots
that were growing there, and with a sudden spring, set his foot in a
hanging loop above the surface. In another moment he was standing on
the moss, the water dripping from his hair and from his flaxen waist
garment.
It needed no searching scrutiny to tell me that this was the fierce
Ngaraki, of whom Te Makawawa had spoken. The stately dignity of his
tall form, and the easy grace of his movements as he turned himself
about upon the bank, marked him out as a chief among his people. His
neck was like a pillar of bronze. His hairless face was tatooed in a
way to denote his high rank. In his arched nose there was an untamable
pride, which his piercing, coal-black eyes made fierce and fiery. His
brow bespoke him a learned man of his race--a tohunga versed in occult
lore and ancient traditions, while the long wavy hair that rolled back
from his forehead and fell dripping on his glistening shoulders,
revealed the perfect shapeliness of his head. From my concealment I
marked him down a magnificent savage--a terrible fellow; and yet--and
yet, for all the wrath that slumbered in his eyes, I fancied I
detected something gentle in the lines of his sensitive mouth;
something which imparted to his whole rugged, tatooed face a pervading
expression of melancholy sadness.
He looked up at the sun; then a forcible, nasal-guttural, which seemed
to be spoken by his whole body at once, fell from him:
“Ngha!”
The ferocity of that single word was like the sudden snarl of an angry
tiger. It seemed almost enough to knock a man down. With a quick pace
he turned and strode towards the valley, where he disappeared in the
gloom of the trees.
When he was gone I had time to consider the situation. This opening,
then, was ‘the way of the fish’--“the way a brave man might take to
enter the ancient temple”--but not so fast: a good swimmer might come
out that way with the current, but could he go in against it? The
coming out was evidently not an easy task, for while he had been
standing on the bank, the Maori’s broad chest had heaved considerably
with the exertion of it. What, then, must the going in against the
current be like? Of course, it was possible that Ngaraki, knowing the
habits of the stream, would wait for the water to cease flowing, and
then simply walk in dry shod through the hole in the mountain side. In
this case I determined to follow him, for I knew there must be a
cavern of some sort within. What I should do when I got there I did
not know. The thought of the Vile Tohungas of the Pit came to me and
filled the supposed cavern inside with vague, shadowy horrors. But I
shook them off and held to my resolve.
Presently I saw the chief emerge from the shade of the trees in the
valley, carrying a heavy axe over his shoulder and some other rude
agricultural implements in his hand. I guessed that he was going to
till his _kumara_ patch and cut firewood. In a few minutes I heard the
sound of his axe from the bank of the stream further down, and knew
that I was probably a prisoner until sunset, for I well understood
that if Ngaraki became aware of my presence, my chances of exploring
the mountain were gone.
Therefore, through the long hours of that summer afternoon, I lay
beneath the fern thinking, imagining, wondering what the vast pile
above me contained. For long intervals Ngaraki’s axe was silent, and I
watched for his return, but, as he did not come, I knew his work was
not finished. At length, when the sun was within half an hour’s
journey of the hills, I caught sight of him returning into the valley,
evidently to put his tools away. Arranging a few stray ferns as an
extra precaution against his catching sight of me, I watched eagerly
to see whether he would return to the bank.
In a few minutes his tall form emerged from among the trees. He
approached the pool and stood for awhile looking down into the water
meditatively. Then he raised his eyes and swept them slowly around the
pool. Now they rested on the fern beneath which I was concealed, and I
half closed my own eyes lest they should attract his notice through
the screen.
“Ngha!”
For a moment I fancied he had seen me, but the next I knew that he had
not, for he began striding up and down the bank without looking again
in my direction. He was beginning a chant, for some purpose which as
yet I could not ascertain. As he strode down the bank for half a dozen
paces he hung his head in thought; then, turning, he quickened his
steps and muttered a few low words which I could not catch. Again and
again he repeated this movement, and each time his retreating form
became more suggestive of repose and his on-rushing aspect more wild
and fierce. He was working himself up for something. What it was I
soon guessed, for the words of his chant began to be intelligible to
me in places:
“Thrust aside the running waters,
With one arm beat them aside:
Pierce the heart of the dark.
Like a spear thrown in battle
Cleave the rushing torrent.”
By this, given out with many a fierce gesture, I saw that he was
getting ready in the real Maori style for some deed of daring. Now the
chant was coming to a climax:
“The door of the dark:
The side door of Te Ika:
The concealed door of Maungatapu.
Enter the door of the dark--
Ngha!”
The last word was given on turning suddenly. Then, rushing forward
with a quick run, the Maori shot from the bank like an arrow, and
plunged beneath the pool in the direction of the opening. I watched
the bubbles stream upwards from him as he darted through the sunlit
depths. I strained my eyes and saw him hover in the current. A short
struggle ensued, and for nearly ten seconds something moved far down
between the light and the dark. Then I knew that the fierce tohunga of
the mountain had passed within.
For a moment I indulged the thought of following. Swimming was one of
my strong points. I had not many of those said points, but that was
one, and as for diving, the women of the Sandwich Islands once wagered
their bracelets and anklets in my favour in a surf-riding competition;
and they did not lose, for my antagonist miscalculated the waves, and,
quitting his board too late to dive beneath the oncoming breaker, was
dashed on the rocks and killed. Yet, notwithstanding a certain skill
in the water, I dared not follow Ngaraki; first, because I had never
inspected the passage, and secondly, thirdly, and fourthly, because I
had no idea of what I might encounter inside. “The door of the dark”
was all I could see, and, for all I knew, there might be other doors
to pass through before I could find the surface, in which case I
should probably lose my way and be drowned.
On the whole, I resolved to do nothing overcourageous, and made up my
mind to go a considerable distance down stream and camp on a secluded
part of the bank, whence I could return easily at daybreak, or at
whatever hour of the night the stream might stop again.
Scarcely had I selected my camp at the point where, some distance
away, the stream left the cover of the mountain wall, when I heard a
strange sound far above me. It was a faint, hollow murmur, like that
of a ghostly voice chanting within the mountain. Very weird it
sounded, and, as I listened, I recalled the words of Te Makawawa, when
he had said that high in the forehead of the great rock the guardian
priest chanted the chant of the dying sun before the white form of
Hinauri. The Eye of Tane was half closed beyond the hills, and as his
light crept up the mountain wall the far-off chant died away into the
silence. Later, in the solemn hush of the twilight, a tui sat on the
great rimu up in the valley and rang his vesper bell in deep, liquid
notes, which echoed again from the stupendous sides of the ravine.
After making a good meal off some cold duck I had brought with me, and
some of Ngaraki’s peaches I had borrowed from the tree, I lighted a
small fire and composed myself to a pipe, more meditative than usual.
I felt there was little fear of Ngaraki seeing my fire, as he had
retired within the mountain for the night. Secure enough with my back
to the great wall, I smoked on until about nine or ten, when the
moonlight began to creep nearer and nearer over the plain towards me,
glinting on the waving _toi-toi_ plumes, and casting a silver sheen
upon the moss.
It was a strange spot above the homely levels of the world, this land
of legend and of mystery. Te Makawawa’s story had certainly received
verification in one important point, viz.: there was a ‘way of the
fish’ into the interior of the mountain, for I had seen a man pass
thither. Was there also a ‘way of the spider’ into that high white
cave, where Hinauri stood holding out her arms to the future of the
world? My thoughts turned to Kahikatea, and I wondered if he had found
that way among the mountains. The chanting I had heard far above me
perhaps proceeded from this high cave, and, if Ngaraki could go there
by the ‘way of the fish,’ I did not see why I should not follow him.
But the aged chief had said that no man passing by the ‘way of the
fish’ could find the ascent to the marble cave without a guide. So
imbued was I becoming with the spirit of the place, that I was
beginning to believe in Te Makawawa most firmly, and almost forgot
that as yet I had no proof of the existence of an ancient temple, to
say nothing of Miriam Grey, her daughter, and the statue of Hinauri.
Wondering what light the morrow would throw upon these mysteries I
fell asleep with the sound of the stream in my ears, well knowing that
if it stopped I should awaken on the instant.