Ma-ui’s mother must have known about fire and the use of fire; else why
should she have been called Hina-of-the-Fire, and how did it come that
her birds, the alae, knew where fire was hidden and how to make it
blaze up? Hina must have known about fire. But her son had to search
and search for fire. The people who lived in houses on the Islands did
not know of it: they had to eat raw roots and raw fish, and they had to
suffer the cold. It was for them that Ma-ui wanted to get fire; it was
for them that he went down to the lower world, and that he went
searching through the upper world for it.
In Kahiki-mo-e they have a tale about Ma-ui that the Hawaiians do not
know. There they tell how he went down to the lower world and sought
out his great-great-grandmother, Ma-hui’a. She was glad to see Ma-ui,
of whom she had heard in the lower world; and when he asked her to give
him fire to take to the upper world, she plucked a nail off her finger
and gave it to him.
In this nail, fire burned. Ma-ui went to the upper world with it. But
in crossing a stream of water he let the nail drop into it. And so he
lost the fire that his great-great-grandmother had given him.
He went back to her again. And again Ma-hui’a plucked off a finger-nail
and gave it to him. But when he went to the upper world and went to
cross the stream, he let this burning nail also drop into the water.
Again he went back, and his great-great-grandmother plucked off a third
nail for him. And this went on, Ma-ui letting the nails fall into the
water, and Ma-hui’a giving him the nails off her fingers, until at last
all the nails of all her fingers were given to him.
But still he went on letting the burning nails fall into the water that
he had to cross, and at last the nails of his great-great-grandmother’s
toes as well as the nails of her fingers were given to him—all but the
nail on the last of her toes. Ma-ui went back to her to get this last
nail. Then Ma-hui’a became blazing angry; she plucked the nail off, but
instead of giving it to him she flung it upon the ground.
Fire poured out of the nail and took hold on everything. Ma-ui ran to
the upper world, and Ma-hui’a in her anger ran after him. He dashed
into the water. But now the forests were blazing, and the earth was
burning, and the water was boiling. Ma-ui ran on, and Ma-hui’a ran
behind him. As he ran he chanted a magic incantation for rain to come,
so that the burning might be put out:
“To the roaring thunder;
To the great rain—the long rain;
To the drizzling rain—the small rain;
To the rain pattering on the leaves.
These are the storms, the storms
Cause them to fall;
To pour in torrents.”
The rain came on—the long rain, the small rain, the rain that patters
on the leaves; storms came, and rain in torrents. The fire that raged
in the forests and burned on the ground was drowned out. And Ma-hui’a,
who had followed him, was nearly-drowned by the torrents of rain. She
saw her fire, all the fire that was in the lower and in the upper
worlds, being quenched by the rain.
She gathered up what fragments of fire she could, and she hid them in
barks of different trees so that the rain could not get at them and
quench them. Ma-ui’s mother must have known where his
great-great-grandmother hid the fire. If she did not, her sacred birds,
the alae, knew it. They were able to take the barks of the trees and,
by rubbing them together, to bring out fire.
In Hawaii they tell how Ma-ui and his brothers used to go out fishing
every day, and how, as soon as they got far out to sea, they would see
smoke rising on the mountain-side. “Behold,” they would say, “there is
a fire. Whose can it be?” “Let us hasten to the shore and cook our fish
at that fire,” another would say.
So, with the fish that they had caught, Ma-ui and his brothers would
hasten to the shore. The swiftest of them would run up the
mountain-side. But when he would get to where the smoke had been, all
he would see would be the alae scratching clay over burnt-out sticks.
The alae would leave the place where they had been seen, and Ma-ui
would follow them from place to place, hoping to catch them while their
fire was lighted.
He would send his brothers off fishing, and he himself would watch for
the smoke from the fire that the alae would kindle. But they would
kindle no fire on the days that he did not go out in the canoe with his
brothers. “We cannot have our cooked bananas to-day,” the old bird
would say to the young birds, “for the swift son of Hina is somewhere
near, and he would come upon us before we put out our fire. And
remember that the guardian of the fire told us never to show a man
where it is hidden or how it is taken out of its hiding place.”
Then Ma-ui understood that the bird watched for his going and that they
made no fire until they saw him out at sea in his canoe. He knew that
they counted the men that went out, and that if he was not in the
number they did no cooking that day. Every time he went in the canoe he
saw smoke rising on the mountain-side.
Then Ma-ui thought of a trick to play on them—on the stingy alae that
would not give fire, but left men to eat raw roots and raw fish. He
rolled up a piece of tapa, and he put it into the canoe, making it like
a man. Then he hid near the shore. The brothers went fishing, and the
birds counted the figures in the canoe. “The swift son of Hina has gone
fishing: we can have cooked bananas to-day.” “Make the fire, make the
fire, until we cook our bananas,” said the young alae.
So they gathered the wood together, and they rubbed the barks, and they
made the fire. The smoke rose up from it, and swift Ma-ui ran up the
mountain-side. He came upon the flock of birds just as the old one was
dashing water upon the embers. He caught her by the neck and held her.
“I will kill you,” he said, “for hiding fire from men.”
“If you kill me,” said the old alae, “there will be no one to show you
how to get fire.”
“Show me how to get fire,” said Ma-ui, “and I will let you go.”
The cunning alae tried to deceive Ma-ui. She thought she would get him
off his guard, that he would let go of her, and that she could fly
away. “Go to the reeds and rub them together, and you will get fire,”
she said.
Ma-ui went to the reeds and rubbed them together. But still he held the
bird by the neck. Nothing came out of the reeds but moisture. He
squeezed her neck. “If you kill me, there will be no one to tell you
where to get fire,” said the cunning bird, still hoping to get him off
his guard. “Go to the taro leaves and rub them together, and you will
get fire.”
Ma-ui held to the bird’s neck. He went to the taro leaves and rubbed
them together, but no fire came. He squeezed her neck harder. The bird
was nearly dead now. But still she tried to deceive the man. “Go to the
banana stumps and rub them together, and you will get fire,” she said.
He went to the banana stumps and rubbed them together. But still no
fire came. Then he gave the bird a squeeze that brought her near her
death. She showed him then the trees to go to—the hau tree and the
sandalwood tree. He took the barks of the trees and rubbed them, and
they gave fire. And the sweet-smelling sandalwood he called
“ili-aha”—that is, “fire bark”—because fire came most easily from the
bark of that tree. With sticks from these trees Ma-ui went to men. He
showed them how to get fire by rubbing them together. And never
afterwards had men to eat fish raw and roots raw. They could always
have fire now.
The first stick he lighted he rubbed on the head of the bird that
showed him at last where the fire was hidden. And that is the reason
why the alae, the mud-hen, has a red streak on her head to this day.