Given in the Fornander Collection, Vol. IV, Part I, of the Memoirs of
the Bernice Pauahi Bishop Museum, with the title He Moolelo no
Aukelenuiaiku, the Legend of Aukelenuiaiku.
Like many another Polynesian hero, Au-ke-le (to cut down his name from
the many-syllabled one which means Great Au-ke-le, son of Iku) was the
youngest born of his family. Fornander thought that his story “has
marked resemblances in several features to the Hebrew account of Joseph
and his brethren, and is traced back to Cushite origin through
wanderings and migrations”—an idea which is wholly fantastic. The story
as I have retold it is very much condensed.
Au-ke-le’s grandmother is a mo-o—literally, a lizard. Dr. Nathaniel
Emerson and Mr. William Hyde Rice translate “mo-o” by “dragon,” and I
fancy that “mo-o” created a sufficiently vague conception to allow the
fantastic and terrifying dragon to become its representative. On the
other hand, “dragon” tends to bring in a conception that is not
Polynesian. I have not rendered “mo-o” by either “lizard” or “dragon.”
I prefer to let “mo-o” remain mysterious. Note what Mr. Westervelt says
about the “mo-o” or “dragon” being a reminiscence of creatures of
another environment.
The story of Au-ke-le is mythical: it is a story about the Polynesian
gods. Au-ke-le and his brothers go from one land of the gods to
another. The “Magic” that he carries in his calabash is a godling that
his grandmother made over to him. There are many things in this story
that are difficult to make intelligible in a retelling. It is
difficult, for instance, to convey the impression that the maids whom
the Queen sends to Au-ke-le, and her brothers too, were reduced to
abject terror by Au-ke-le’s disclosing their names. But to the
Polynesians, as to other primitive peoples, names were not only
private, and intensely private, but they were sacred. To know one’s
name was to be possessed of some of one’s personality; magic could be
worked against one through the possession of a name. Our names are
public. But suppose that a really private name—a name that was given to
us by our mother as a pet name—was called out in public: how upset we
might be! Stevenson’s mother named him “Smootie” and “Baron Broadnose.”
How startled R. L. S. might have been if a stranger in a strange land
had addressed him by either name!
Later on Au-ke-le goes on the quest that was the Polynesian equivalent
of the Quest of the Holy Grail; he goes in quest of the Water of
Everlasting Life, the Water of Kane. The Polynesian thought that there
was no blessing greater than that of a long life. There are many
stories dealing with the Quest of the Water of Kane, and there is one
poem that has been translated beautifully by Dr. Nathaniel Emerson. It
is given in his Unwritten Literature of Hawaii.
A query, a question,
I put to you:
Where is the Water of Kane?
At the Eastern Gate
Where the Sun comes in at Haehae;
There is the Water of Kane.
A question I ask of you:
Where is the Water of Kane?
Out there with the floating Sun,
Where cloud-forms rest on the Ocean’s breast,
Uplifting their forms at Nohoa,
This side the base of Lehua;
There is the Water of Kane.
One question I put to you:
Where is the Water of Kane?
Yonder on mountain peak,
On the ridges steep,
In the valleys deep,
Where the rivers sweep;
There is the Water of Kane.
This question I ask of you:
Where, pray, is the Water of Kane?
Yonder, at sea, on the ocean,
In the drifting rain,
In the heavenly bow,
In the piled-up mist-wraith,
In the blood-red rainfall,
In the ghost-pale cloud-form;
There is the Water of Kane.
One question I put to you:
Where, where is the Water of Kane?
Up on high is the Water of Kane,
In the heavenly blue,
In the black-piled cloud,
In the black-black cloud,
In the black-mottled sacred cloud of the gods;
There is the Water of Kane.
One question I ask of you:
Where flows the Water of Kane?
Deep in the ground, in the gushing spring,
In the ducts of Kane and Loa,
A well-spring of water, to quaff,
A water of magic power—
The water of Life!
Life! O give us this life!
The story of Au-ke-le has a solemn if not a tragic ending, which is
unusual in Polynesian stories. Its close makes one think of that chant
that Melville heard the aged Tahitians give “in a low, sad tone”:
A harree ta fow,
A toro ta farraro,
A now ta tararta.
The palm-tree shall grow,
The coral shall spread,
But man shall cease.