NGARAKI’S HOUR OF TRIUMPH.
On the floor of the abyss was a mighty wreck. The falling spar had
snapped the heads from the shoulders of the vile brood, and here and
there a granite torso, topping the ruins, indicated the semicircle
where they had once stood looking up at the moon, each nursing his
stomach and curling his lips in that everlasting smile of calm
disdain. One image alone was spared--and he stood apart facing the
white gleam of the cataract and looking up through the dark with his
back turned upon the colossal débris: the Twelfth Tohunga remained
untouched, and, at his feet, not far from the abyss below the abyss,
was the great round stone, still unbroken.
About the more open spaces of the floor between the shattered ruins
and the sheer wall of the abyss moved Ngaraki--a tall figure clad only
in his undergarment of tasselated flax, girded fast about his waist
with a warrior’s belt. As he paced to and fro he chanted. Then,
whirling his _meré_ round his head, he danced and yelled like a very
savage. His voice rose high with jubilant rage; it was his hour of
triumph, and the fury of it was appalling. The blazing torch in one
hand, the green flashing _meré_ in the other, and his wild,
illustrative gestures from the war-dance invested him with all the
terrors of savagery. But always there was the dignity and masterly
movement of the chief. To me, who loved this great Tohunga, it was a
grand spectacle; to me, who feared him, it was awe-inspiring,
terrible. And through it all, yet heard only in the pauses of the
chant, there came the wailing shrieks and gnashing cries of the wizard
standing far up there in the darkness on the basin’s rim.
In the midst of his wild vehemence the chief espied one of the heads
lying face uppermost on the floor. Its glaring red eyes and the sneer
upon its lips infuriated him on a sudden. In one spring he was upon
it, and, with two mighty blows, each accompanied by a terrific yell,
he brought red sparks from that Vile Tohunga’s eyes, and then broke
forth in a wilder strain than ever. To my wrought mind the whole thing
suggested a symphonic music scored by some Grand Devil of a Master,
whose gamut ran from hell to heaven, whose instruments went raving mad
in the rendering, whose world was earthquake and eclipse, with the
lightning flashing through the dark, and the thunder of the storm gods
roaring round him. Built on a bass of gloom, the triumphant strain of
Ngaraki, the ghoul-motive of the shrieking wizard, the sad murmur of
the rising wind in the giants’ window, and, above all, the unheard
part called up here and there in the chief’s chanting: his love-strain
of Hinauri--these were running through my prosaic soul in a way which
hinted that perhaps the fate in store for me was to go forth from that
awful place madder than that “some Grand Devil of a Master” himself.
After a full half-hour at this initial outburst, the fierce tohunga
became more coherent. He calmed his wild gesticulations and paced to
and fro striving to reduce his feelings to poetry--the poetry of a
life’s labour and final triumph. There was a clear ring in his voice
as he began his more ordered chant. His soul swelled with his voice,
and I knew he felt like a whole victorious army marching steadily in
column. His words came “straight from his breast” with that fluency so
wonderful in the Maori tongue:
“Ngha! none can stand.
Headlong have they fallen.
The Vile _Tohunga_ eat the dust
Their cursing power is gone.
They thought to bind the Bright One--
With a Stone they thought to bind her,
But she arose in all her beauty:
Hinauri, Rival of the Dawn,
Lovely as the mountain lily.
See! she leaps above the darkness.
Lo! the stone rolls from its place.
Down it falls, in anger roaring
Like the voice of Tongariro,
Like the waves that crash in thunder
On the cliffs of Waitariki.
Now it strikes the Vile _Tohunga_;
Snaps their heads from off their bodies--
Grinds them into many pieces.
Ngha! the magic of Hinauri!
Ngha! the cursing of Ngaraki!”
And so he went on, until he had fashioned their teeth into fish-hooks
and their bones into darts to shoot rats; until he had plucked out
their eyes and boiled their heads and eaten them in the course of a
chant in which he summoned all his Maori ancestors by name to come and
partake of the feast. Then he sought out each available head and
triumphed over it separately, smiting with his _meré_ until the
sparks came again. After that he seemed searching for a head that was
missing. For a long time he wandered about with his _meré_ ready. At
last he found what he was looking for--a head that had rolled away to
the brink of the abyss below the abyss--the head of his most hated
foe, the chief of the Vile Tohungas. He looked at it with high
contempt; then crash! and crash! and the red eyes flashed for the last
time. Crash! again, and the leering lips spat blood of fire.
He paused. An idea had occurred to him. He glanced at the awful pit
that yawned hard by, then at his enemy’s head, and then at the great
round stone
[image: images/img301.jpg
caption: “HE ROCKED IT BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS UNTIL AT LAST HE RAISED
IT ON ITS SIDE, AND THERE, WITH A FIRM HAND, HE HELD IT POISED UPON
THE VERY BRINK.”]
some little distance behind. I saw plainly that he would hurl the Vile
One’s head into the bottomless pit, to be boiled and eaten in Porawa,
and, when he had done that, he would roll the great stone on top of it
to keep it down for ever and ever and ever. Having thrown aside his
_meré_, and set his torch against the base of the Twelfth Tohunga, he
placed his shoulder to the gigantic head, and put forth all his
strength. Slowly it moved; for some time he rocked it backwards and
forwards until at last he raised it on its side, and there, with a
firm hand, he held it poised upon the very brink.
It was a great day for Ngaraki. It was not a day for beating his
_meré_ on the ground, but for plucking the very eyes and boiling the
very heads of the gaunt images which were his hated foes. And now in a
supreme moment he stood on the brink of Porawa with his arch enemy’s
head in his hand. He looked into the awful depths, and would have
chanted his crowning triumph. But words would not come. How could he
chant on such a theme without striding up and down? All he could do
was to express his utmost and fiercest contempt for the head of the
Degrader of Women and all his brood.
“Ngha! Upokokohua!” and with his foot he spurned the head from him.
Down, down it went into the silent darkness, and the chief, always
willing to give his enemy the right of reply, leaned over the brink
and listened. A minute passed, but there was no answer. All was as
silent as the everlasting grave of things forgotten, save for the
unfolding of the falling water, save for the wailing shrieks, now
growing fainter, of the wizard far away above. I could see from
Ngaraki’s listening attitude that no sound came up from the
unfathomable gloom.
“_Upokokohua!_”[27] This is the final word of Maori invective--an
insult invocative of the utmost depths of everlasting shame. And it
was in a terrible voice of cursing that Ngaraki hurled it down a
second time after his fallen enemy. Then he turned to the round stone.
A glance showed that it would be a tremendous task, but his face and
manner told plainly that he would roll that stone upon his enemy’s
head if it took till sunrise to do it. The floor was level; if
anything it sloped a little in the desired direction, and if once he
could start the stone he would probably accomplish his object.
He went down into the shadows of the gulf, and soon returned with a
long jade-tipped spear in his hand. With this he made two rough places
in the granite in which to place his heels for a better purchase.
Then, setting his back against the stone, he put forth the strength of
a giant, but the stone did not move. He sprang up with a shout,
snatched up his spear, and paced swiftly to and fro, chanting a
karakia, naming the Samsons of his race, and telling of their mighty
exploits.
Again he returned to the task and bent himself against the stone. By
the light of the flaring torches I saw his face distinctly, the veins
standing out upon his forehead, his nostrils distended. For a full
minute he put forth his utmost strength, adding the power of will to
that of sinew. The great stone began to move. It rolled slightly and
stopped. Ngaraki straightened himself again, panting, and paced the
floor to chant for the strength of a thousand men.
But the strength of a thousand is nothing compared to the power of one
who knows the way. It might have been this idea that struck him, for
he dropped his pacing and walked round the huge mass taking thought.
There was a space of six or seven yards between the stone and the
brink of the gulf, and this space, like all the rest, was strewn with
the dust and grit of ages. Eagerly he set to work, and, with one tool
and another, he scraped and polished the granite floor. At last the
way was fairly smooth, and he seemed satisfied, but, instead of
placing his back to the stone as before, he went off to search for
something he had seen among the _débris_ of the spar. It was the
sprit that had snapped on the rocky ledge far above, and was now lying
on the top of the ruins. It was still long enough for Ngaraki’s
purpose. His ideas were enlarged. The sprit and the spar, with which
he had controlled the round stone in its movements above the abyss,
were still to his hand for a lever. And, to his mind--and mine--it was
a fit and mystic thing that such symbols of his conquest and
adaptation of the giants’ handiwork should now be used to roll the
stone--their image of the ancient world--upon the already parboiled
head of their mighty one.
So with a fragment of spar for fulcrum, he used the remains of the
sprit as a lever against the stone, toiling at it steadfastly, until
at last the great round mass rolled over the brink and disappeared for
ever in the awful depths. Standing on the brink, the Maori hurled the
fragment of the spar after it, and the sprit also; then, not satisfied
with that, he took his spear and _meré_ and sent them hurtling down
with a cry of farewell--almost of lament--to each.
It was over, and he turned to take his torch. As his hand closed over
it he gave a sudden start. There, on a ledge of the pedestal of the
Twelfth Tohunga, something was looking at him. By the horror-struck
face of the chief I guessed it was something of a terrible nature that
he saw there. Then, by an exclamation of his, I knew that it was one
of the little green lizards that run upon the rocks. The chief and the
lizard remained motionless, face to face, and their eyes met. That was
a death summons according to the Maori lore--a call to Reinga distinct
and clear. I knew how it filled him with serious thoughts, which the
excitement of triumph had banished from his mind, how Hinauri’s words
recurred to him, and, finally, how a nameless foreboding took
possession of him as he recalled his own part in the fight--a
foreboding lest the vague alternative mentioned by the Bright One
should have been realised, and he should be doomed to look for her in
vain. Alas! he had not stayed the violence. He had left war and knife
behind him at her feet, and had snatched them up again in the _pa_.
With one gesture of despair the whole tide of his thought and feeling
turned from his late triumph to the person of his goddess. He would go
and search for her. It was at that moment the shrieking of the wizard
suddenly died away. His hour of punishment was over. Ngaraki’s had
just begun.
Driven by a vague fear, the fierce _ariki_ hastened up out of the
abyss, and I, going before, remained in the shadow of one of the
crags, where the path turned back upon itself, until he had passed me.
On, past the giants’ window, along the level path, and by the place
where the spar had stood, he went with long strides, his movements
quickening with a growing anxiety. When he came to the lake he mounted
the stone near the rim, flung his torch away behind him, and plunged
into the depths. I reached the spot and took up the torch and waited.
Again the lake heaved and twisted with the movement of great things
below, and again the black head of the stone under water rose above
the surface. Then the hollow thunder reverberated above, and the
cascade came roaring down from the darkness overhead. He had gone by
the ‘way of the winged fish,’ and I would follow by the rope.
I found it without trouble, and unhitched it from the rock, but the
tube which I still held in my hand was a difficulty in the way of
climbing. What should I do with it? From that my thoughts wandered to
the wizard; what should I do with _him_? I passed round the lake to
see if he was still there, thinking as I went that it would simplify
matters if he had fallen forward over the brink. But when I gained the
basin’s rim he was still standing as I had left him.
I stopped. It was enough. He might be dead, he might be living--I
would leave it at that. If dead, his wickedness was over; if living,
it was not safe to free him from the poisonous spell which held his
will in an iron grip. Besides, after my eerie experience of the voice
in my brain, I was disinclined to have anything more to do with him.
When the poison had lost its power, no doubt he could fall forward
into the abyss and add one item to the lumber of ages on the granite
floor below.
With these thoughts I left him and hurried after Ngaraki. When I had
succeeded in throwing my torch up on to the vantage ground above, I
climbed the rope, and then drew it up after me, for where that wizard
thing was concerned I was certain of nothing. I was anxious to
overtake Ngaraki, and ran on and on through the lofty tunnels, until
at length I came to the Place-of-Many-Chambers.
Just as I was passing through into the tunnel beyond, I stopped, for I
saw, through the opening of one of the side chambers, two figures
standing together. They were Kahikatea and Hinauri. Her hands were
clasped in his, and she was looking up at him, while he, with drooped
head, was speaking to her. They were both oblivious of all else but
each other. Even my flickering torchlight did not rouse them.
“Till death do us part?” he said.
“Nay, Kahikatea,” she returned, “for ever and ever. Here, in this very
place, in an age gone by did I plight my troth to you, and here
again----”
I dashed on, the light of my torch blurred before my eyes, up through
the tunnel towards the marble cave, whither I knew the chief had gone.
When I came to the hewn steps I saw him striding before me; I flung
aside my torch and followed, gaining the uncertain border of daylight
and darkness, whence I could see into the cave, just as he reached the
entrance.
There before him stood the statue of Hinauri, immovable, silent, all
white, with arms outstretched. With a quick step he stood before her
and looked into her eyes. There was no colour there. The living hues
had fled. The tohunga’s lips quivered. He stretched forth a hand and
touched her reverently upon the arm. It was cold stone.
Then despair crowded in upon his heart, and a terrible sorrow came
upon his face. Anguish drew deep lines beneath his eyes, and the power
of his presence dropped from him. His great chest shook convulsively,
and he gave way to a grief as awful to behold as his savage triumph in
the abyss. He prostrated himself at her feet and mingled the tears of
his agony with the white dust of the floor. Raising himself upon his
knees, he held up his arms and implored her to come back. With
bitterness he reproached himself as the cause of this sad end to all
his hopes. His words grew fierce against himself. He raved wildly, and
addressed heart-broken appeals to the statue; but Hinauri answered
not, nor pitied the Maori in his grief.
At last it was driven home into his tortured soul that the end had
come. He had failed to do her bidding, and she was changed again to
stone for ever. He stayed his wild woe and stood motionless, his face
calm, his form erect, and in his eyes the splendid sadness of a god in
pain. As he stood there the aspect of Zun the Terrible deepened on
him. The sorrowful longing on the face of the Twelfth Tohunga was his
again.
I could not stand there and look calmly on when a word of mine might
explain the trick that had been unwittingly played upon him. My foot
was on the step before me, and I was about to rush forward, when again
a cold blast of air struck me in the face, again the thrill darted
down my spine; my flesh crept and my hair rose. I was rooted to the
spot. Then, far within my brain, the Great Tohungas of the Earth spoke
a second time: “Let him alone! It is our will--the will of the One
above us. This man is worthy of correction--may you be as worthy in
your sin. In ages past, to trick the giants of evil, he substituted
the False for the True, to protect the True; and now it comes back
upon him in like manner, and he is tricked. Let him alone!”
Such words as these took shape within me, and I could neither speak to
him nor move to his aid. As I stood shuddering helplessly, his mood
changed, and he began to pace fiercely up and down the cave, passing
and re-passing through the broad flood of twilight that came through
the opening, and fell upon the face of the marble image.
“Ngha! she has withdrawn into the sky,” he said. “I will go to her,
and she shall not return when I am one. It is but a stone that is
here. It shall not remain. The world shall see the Bright One no more.
It is the end; it is the end.”
He disappeared in the darkness of the inner cave, and came out again
with a weapon, a heavy _meré_ of the broad-leaf kind. Whirling this
above his head, he paced to and fro, again chanting the long toil of
his life. Now he stopped before the image and whirled the weapon
within an inch of the lovely face.
“None other shall chant your loveliness,” he cried fiercely, and yet
there was worship in his aspect; “none other shall say, ‘She came
again at my bidding.’ Oh! Hine-tu-a-hoanga--sacred stone on which I
sharpened my curses to cleave the heads of the Vile Ones--you are as a
house that shall not stand. And this great house that holds your house
shall be closed for ever.”
At this point I was sure of his purpose, and resolved to go in search
of Hinauri herself in the Place-of-Many-Chambers. She would stay his
hand if I could not.
The thrall that held my feet relaxed as I turned to descend. More
fierce and high the chant of Ngaraki sounded behind me as I went. My
torch was still burning where I had left it, and I picked it up to
hurry on through the tunnels, sick with a vague fear that, as Hinauri
had said, she and the stone had but one spirit between them; that the
tohunga’s ancient magic, which had glanced from the granite Cazotl to
the real, might--I fled on, striving to run away from the terrible
thought. The chanting voice still reached me faintly through the high
tunnels as I emerged into the Place-of-Many-Chambers. My God! What was
that? A crash! and a yell! and another crash! echoing down through the
tunnels from the marble cave above. My God! What was this? A woman’s
shriek! a moan! and another shriek! coming from the chamber towards
which I was hastening.
As I staggered forward I saw Kahikatea supporting the form of Hinauri
drooping on his arm. Her face was as white as the stone image I had
left in the marble cave. Yet another yell and another crash echoed
faintly down the tunnels, and a tremor ran through the fair form, as
Kahikatea sank upon a rock and supported her head upon his knee.
“She is dying, Warnock,” he said, in a voice of anguish, gazing down
into her lovely face, while I held the torch so that the light fell
upon it. The long lashes showed very black against the pale cheek, and
her whole face and neck, to her cross-girt, white-robed bosom, showed
too deadly white against the enveloping cloud of her hair. It was not
a mere swoon.
“Yes,” I replied hoarsely, and the torchlight trembled as it fell on
the rocks of the chamber, “it is death.”
As we gazed in too great agony for words, Hinauri’s dark eyes opened,
her bosom rose and fell, and a sweet smile rested upon her lips as she
looked up into Kahikatea’s face.
“Be patient, my lord!” she said, raising one arm and placing her hand
against his cheek, “it is but a little time since we planned our work
in this world, and now I have to go. It is hard, my love--but raise me
up--it is sweet even to die upon your breast.” He raised her while she
placed her arms about his neck and nestled to him.
“When I am gone,” she murmured, “take this poor body out on to the
roof of the mountain, and there, on the shore of the crystal lake that
stands against the sky----”
A low groan of agony came from Kahikatea, and she ceased!
“Be patient, my lord,” she said again, drawing his head down and
raising her lips to his. “Hasten the world on to the brighter day when
we shall meet again--kiss me, love, I am going.”
Their lips met. A shiver of joy ran through her last breath. Her head
drooped forward and lay on Kahikatea’s shoulder, shrouded in her hair.
Hinauri had withdrawn into the sky, and at that moment I stood like a
stone among the everlasting stones, and asked myself, What is this
world of many shows, of glimpses, and flitting shadows? And the answer
came from the depths of my despair: A desolation of nothingness, a
barren waste where the bright dead moon smiles down on the sapless
ruin of things once living as herself; where the wild wind wails like
a planetary spirit come back to view the scene of its buried hopes. To
me this was a world where nothing mattered, and I scarcely know why I
moved forward to Kahikatea and placed my hand upon his arm. Perhaps it
was with a confused consciousness that his sorrow was even greater
than mine. I strove to speak his name, but a throb of grief choked it
back. My friend sat with his dead love in his arms, gazing straight
before him. I shook him gently, and he looked up with speechless agony
on his face. I saw his desire to be left alone with his pain, and
stood away.
At that moment I caught sight of a light descending through the
tunnels. It drew near, and I saw Ngaraki striding down. He came on and
emerged into the Place-of-Many-Chambers. I almost barred his passage
as I stood there with my torch, but he did not see me. His flashing
eyes were too bright for the calmness of his bearing. Despair was on
his face; a quick thought told me that I might increase it, but that
thought passed away, and the feeling that nothing mattered was
stronger than ever upon me. I stood and watched him like one
sleep-walker watching another. He approached the strange-looking
lever--the device of the giants, whose purpose in placing it there had
been handed down through the ages.
“It is the end,” he said sadly, as he raised the tapering arm.
It swung to the roof and then fell back and struck the floor. I knew
then that the great rolling stone that had rested on the weight of the
lever was now speeding into the deep gulf below, on the gloomy errand
it was designed to execute. The openings of this vast temple would be
closed for ever--yes, but it did not appeal to me with any force; it
was a matter of no consequence now, for who wanted to go out into that
waste place called the world? I did not, and I was certain Kahikatea
did not. Yet I noted the hollow rumblings that followed the fall of
the stone, and wondered wearily what would happen.