the water, and took his heart away to Hinemoa, and it brought back her
image, as she listened on the shore, and sorrow again grew within him. So
he sent Tiki, his friend, to Hinemoa, to tell her of his great sorrow in
being away from her, and to ask her to come to him and to his heart, that
it might lose its fright and be full of gladness.
Watchful was Amukaria, but Tiki gave his message, and full of gladness
answered Hinemoa: “Eh-hu, is then each of us growing in the heart of the
other?”--and she promised to come to Tutanekai in a canoe, late on a
black night, when he would play his sweetest music to call for her and to
guide her in the darkness.
Amukaria, a great Ariki, was only willing to give Hinemoa as wife to a
Rangatira of a very high mana, for her beauty was like the Morning Sun
over the lake, and he, knowing the power and danger of such beauty, gave
order that all the canoes should be taken off the lake. Thus, when the
sweet music of Tutanekai called for Hinemoa, she wandered boatless on
the shore, her heart full of tears, for she could not answer Tutanekai’s
calling.”
Her eyes full of tears, Ngawai wandered along the rolling waves, telling
herself in low tones, in Maori, of all the sorrows of Hinemoa, her
ancestress. Ngawai accompanies her mutterings with movements which
express despair; presses her hands against her heart; stretches her arms
longingly over the ocean and presses them again to her bosom; then she
speaks with a different voice and rapidly:
“One evening Hinemoa sat listening upon the rock Iri-iri-kapua, and
suddenly the longing to go shook her as an earthquake. The trembling of
love overtook her, and the courage of love overflowed her heart.
She went to the store-house, and took six dry and empty gourds, and tied
them together with flax for floats, and she went to the edge of the
water, called Wai-rere-wai, threw off her mat of kiwi feathers, and cast
herself to swim the long, long way with the help of the floating gourds.
Oh, my friend, behold Hinemoa like a beautiful flying star casting
herself into the water!
Oh, Hinemoa, the brave!”
Silent is Ngawai: her lips are murmuring incantations to Tangaroa; her
hands tremble; her eyes are fixed far away in the distance.
“Ah, there, behold, she is there where the stump of the sunken tree
stands in the lake----
Oh, Hinemoa!
Her arms are weary and her bosom is panting as she holds on to the
branches of the tree.
Ah, now has darkness swallowed her!--oh her heart is brave!----
On she goes, on, on, weary her limbs, her breast panting, darkness
around; but nearer and nearer comes the sweet music, nearer, nearer,
and at last, with all her strength gone, her hands reach the rocks of
Mokoia, where the hot spring is in the cave Wai-ki-miha. In this cave she
took shelter, for she was cold, and trembling like a dead leaf. Trembling
were her hands, but her heart was full of joy! Weary were her limbs, but
her love was great and happy!”
Ngawai is striding with quick steps forward, heaving is her bosom, but in
her eyes is fire and she is murmuring to herself. Her heart and thoughts
are far away among the waves of the lake Rotorua, battling there with the
water, as Hinemoa did, her ancestress.
“Long, long was the way over the water--oh, great was the love of
Hinemoa!--
Whilst she was warming herself in the cave, there appeared at the narrow
edge a slave, sent by Tutanekai, to fetch some water; and when he had
filled his calabash Hinemoa called out to him: ‘Slave, for whom is that
water?’--and the frightened slave answered: ‘For Tutanekai, my ariki.’
Hinemoa spoke: ‘If it is for Tutanekai, then give it to me,’--and the
frightened slave reached her the calabash, and she drank and broke it
on the rocks. The slave called out: ‘Why did you break Tutanekai’s
calabash?’ But Hinemoa never answered.
Again did Tutanekai send the slave, and again spoke Hinemoa: ‘Give me
Tutanekai’s calabash’--and again the frightened slave reached it to her
into the darkness, and she drank and broke it again.
When Tutanekai heard the words of the slave, he reached full of wrath for
his war-weapon of whalebone, calling, so that it sounded all over the
island: ‘Woe be to the man, woe be to the bad spirit, woe be to him who
broke my calabashes! I will make a calabash out of his skull!’”
Harsh come the words from Ngawai’s lips, but full of laughter are her
eyes, and she wanders a while, smiling to herself.
“Tutanekai, in the dark cave, his powerful weapon lifted for a deadly
blow cried fiercely: ‘Who is that enemy, that I may give his name to my
cup which I will make out of his skull?’
A voice answered softly out the darkness: ‘It is I’--and the beautiful
Rangatira, dressed in her flowing hair, stretched longingly her arms
towards Tutanekai: ‘O, Tutanekai, my ariki, kill me, kill Hinemoa.’
Ha! the powerful weapon fell to the ground like a useless stick;
forgotten was the God of War; forgotten the lizards: sorrow and fear and
full of love sounds the voice out of the cave: ‘Hinemoa!’
And from the rocks it echoed over the lake: ‘Hinemoa!’”
Long is Ngawai staring in her hands, squatting down on the beach, then
form her lips one word: “Hinemoa.”
XIII
MAUI AND IRAWARU: A TRADITION
[Illustration: MAUI AND IRAWARU]
The Sun is setting, and our canoe is gliding, slowly, with the tide,
up the river. Hupene, sitting in the prow, is staring to the west, and
mutters lowly to himself; Ngawai plays lazily with the paddle, and is
listening to what the old man is muttering, while the sandhills slowly
pass by.
Hupene is staring into the broad reflexion of the Sun over the sea, but
he has to close his eyes; and, bending his head, he commences a low-toned
chant. Of Maui he sings, yes, of Maui, the hero of his people.
He sings how Maui and Irawaru once went together out to catch fish, and
how Maui could not catch any, and Irawaru caught many.
Lower sinks the Sun whilst Hupene is murmuring, and the mighty spectacle
of the sunset illustrates his chant. There is the Sun God Maui ready to
steer his Sun-canoe into the Lower Worlds again, singing his song of
farewell to his sister Hinauri, the earth.
Irawaru, the husband of Hinauri, had followed Maui in the morning upon
the sea, to catch fish--Irawaru is the reflexion of the sun over the sea,
wandering forth with the sun in the mornings to catch fish--what else
could a man do on the sea?
Maui’s fish-lines are the rays, shining through and between the clouds,
and his sharp-pointed fish-lines may enter deep into the sea among the
fish, but, having no barbs, they are not able to hold and land the fish
in his canoe. But Irawaru’s fishing-lines have many barbs, which you may
see in the ripple of the water, and you may see too, the fish caught, and
playing among Irawaru’s fish-lines.
“Ah” (sings Hupene) “Irawaru caught many fish, a great many, and
therefore Maui, who had not caught a single one became very angry, and in
his wrath he entangled the fish-lines! Irawaru’s line had caught a fish,
and Maui, feeling it tear and try to free itself, hauled up the lines
with all his might. Ha, when he lifts the fish now out of the water, he
sees that it is caught by Irawaru, but he also sees the secret of the
barbs on Irawaru’s fish-hook.”
The Sun is nearly touching the sea; Hupene is smiling cunningly to
himself, and the canoe is gliding noiseless in the broad Reflexion of the
Sun.
“Yes, Maui wanted to kill Irawaru, because he had deceived him with his
barbs. His face becomes red with rage, and he asks Irawaru to help him
land his Sun-canoe upon the shores of the Lower World, for he had reached
Mahiku-rangi, the End of Heaven. Maui is cunning, and Irawaru, not
knowing Maui’s wrath, crawls under the Sun-canoe to help him lift it upon
the shores of the Lower World, when Maui, with all his mighty strength,
began to jump in the canoe, pressing it down, and nearly killing Irawaru.
Then, springing out of his canoe, he jumped and danced upon Irawaru till
his body grew longer and longer and took the form of a tail; and then
with incantations Maui changed Irawaru into a dog.”
So sings Hupene. The blood-red Sun seems to tremble and dance, before he
sinks below the sea: he changes Irawaru into a dog which is now running
as the last shade of light upon the mountains, whilst the Sun is entering
the Lower World.
Our canoe is putting ashore to leave Hupene behind; but his sing-song
is not ended yet, and he is standing on the shore before the golden
evening-sky, and finishes his song, which Ngawai in the noiselessly
on-gliding canoe is listening to and translating:
“Hinauri asked the parting Maui what he had done to her husband, for she
did not see him coming back with him, and Maui answered that Irawaru had
crawled among the bushes on the mountain; that she must go and call out
to him: mo-i-mo-i, Irawaru, mo-i-mo-i. Hinauri did as she was told, and
called and called, till at last a dog came running towards her, and she
knew it was Irawaru, her husband, whom Maui had so cruelly changed into a
dog. She broke out in a great lament, and at last she cast herself into
the sea.”
The earth follows the parting sun into the darkness.
XIV
THE PATU-PAIAREHE: THE FAIRY PEOPLE OF THE MOUNTAINS
[Illustration: TAMA-TE-KAPUA
NGA PATU-PAIAREHE]
The Children of the Mist
By James Cowan.
Far up in the misty mountains dwell the Patu-paiarehe, the fairies of
Maori Land. They are seldom seen; and, indeed, most mortals who have no
gift of imagination and no mana-tapu cannot expect to behold the good
people; and many who know no better deny their existence.
It is supposed by some that they were really tribes of aborigines whom
the Maoris found dwelling in this wild new land when they arrived here
from the isles of Polynesia. But the old Maoris say that they still
inhabit certain of the lofty forest-clad mountains of Aotearoa--a
numerous people, some of them tiny gnomes and elves and pixies, some
of them in the presentment of men and women of this world but smaller
and exquisitely-shaped and with fair hair and fair skins just like
Europeans. They are known to the Maoris by several names: Turehu,
Tahurangi, Maero, and Patu-paiarehe; but their common designation is
Patu-paiarehe. They are a bright, cheerful race, and take great pleasure
in music. They are skilled in charms and the art of enchantment, and many
a strange adventure has happened to the Maori who has had the temerity to
venture into their haunts.
Like the elves of other countries, these fairies of Maori Land dread
daylight, and appear only by night. Sometimes, on dark and gloomy days,
when the thick mists descend and envelop the bare crags and deep ravines
of the mountains of the South, the fairy people will be heard chanting
songs in a thin sweet cadence, and then too will be heard the doleful
sound of the fairy trumpet, and the faint and plaintive music of the
Koauau, or nose-flute, and the voices of the fairy children laughing and
singing above the clouds. But most of all they love the thickly-wooded
mountains of the North, the Fish of Maui, where they live in their little
pas, palisaded like those of the Maoris, and adorned with quaint little
carvings and diminutive figures of fairy ancestors. Few mortals can
discover those pas. They are hidden far away in the shadiest recesses
of the bush, where the mist-maidens hover all day long, and where the
Goddess of the Clouds descends nightly and covers her fairy children
with her loving mantle. A Tohunga alone can perceive those stockades and
houses of the Patu-paiarehe. To ordinary folk who penetrate the fairy
country, those works of the little people are to all appearance mere
trees and rocks and beds of ferns. But, if you have the wise eye and the
Tohunga’s understanding, you will see that the great rimu pine, with its
drooping waterfall of golden foliage, and the lance-like kahikatea, tall
and stately, the knotted and gnarled rata, the graceful nikau palm, and
the lovely tree-fern, swishing gently its broad feather-fronds, are all
part and portion of the Patu-paiarehe dwellings. For the fairies are ever
of the forests: with the forest-trees they live, and with the passing of
the forests they, too, pass away.
Many are the stories told of the fairy people and their encounters with
mortals. One story says that it was from a party of fairies who were
fishing by night for mackerel (tawatawa) in a bay in the far North, where
they were joined by adventurous Maoris, and who, being surprised by
daylight, fled, leaving their nets on the beach, that the Maori people
first learned the pattern and hitch used in making the large seine
fishing-nets.
Harmless as the Patu-paiarehe ordinarily were, they yet could worry
mortals considerably on occasion. Some hapus of fairies, for instance,
were in the habit of making periodical nocturnal expeditions to the homes
of the Maoris and carrying off their wives. The korako, or albinos,
sometimes seen amongst the Maoris are said to be the offspring of these
unions; though in the far North they are spoken of as the children of
kehua (ghostly visitants) and the women of this world. One of these
stories of wife-abduction by the fairies relates to Mt Pirongia.
This beautiful mountain, with its dense woody ridges and valleys, its
cascading brooks and its rocky fastnesses, is in Maori eyes the abode of
hosts of Patu-paiarehe. In the dark moonless nights the lone eel-fisher
out on the Waipa banks would start in affright when on his imaginative
ear broke the sound of the fairies singing in their pas, and he would
promptly fortify himself against their magic wiles by reciting potent
karakia or incantations, and would chant a high quavering waiata to scare
away the goblins of the night.
One day long ago Te Puhi and I were out pigeon-shooting far up the wooded
slopes of Mt Pirongia. Evening had come upon us while we were intent
upon bagging the “wing-flapping children of Tane”, and, as we had a
long and toilsome journey down the bush ridges and across rapid creeks
to make before we reached the old frontier township of Alexandra, my
Maori companion and I decided upon spending the night in the forest. So,
selecting a comfortable nook beneath the spreading branches of a fine old
rata tree, we were soon enjoying a savoury meal of fat pigeons roasted
over the camping fire, with the turnip-like pith of the nikau palm in
lieu of bread. Tama-nui-te-Ra sank down beyond the westernmost peak into
his ocean cave. The evening mists crept up from the murmuring streams
and the gloomy gullies, and stole noiselessly along the dark forest
ranges; and the Hau-ma-ringiringi, the soft fog-born dews, descended on
the earth. And there was something uncanny in the long dancing gleams
of light which shot through the forest from our bivouac fire. The black
shadows of the woodland swayed like ghosts with the flickering of the
flames; and, Puhi, squatting close by the fire, gazed half fearfully down
the gloomy forest aisles. And presently, in subdued tones, as if he were
chary of arousing the genii of the bush by too loud a tongue, he told the
story of the fairies.
“O friend of mine, listen! This is the belief of our people. This peak
of Pirongia is an enchanted mountain; and it is well that you, a pakeha,
are with me, else would I perchance be visited by the fairy tribe who
dwell upon these heights. Pirongia is a Maunga-hikonga-uira, that is
a ‘lightning-flashing peak’. Sometimes, when it is fine weather below
on the plains, thunder will be heard rolling along the summit, and the
lightning will be seen darting downwards upon its topmost peak. That is
a tohu maté, an omen of death or misfortune to the Maoris: some chief of
our tribe will die, or some untoward event will overtake the people. And
high up around the top of the mountain live the Patu-paiarehe.
A great many years ago, many generations before the pakeha came to
these shores and when the plains below us here were covered with the
fires of the Maoris, there lived at the foot of this mountain, near the
Waipa River, a chief named Ruarangi of the tribe to which I too belong.
His wife was named Tawhaiatu, and she was a woman of fine appearance,
a beautiful woman in the eyes of the Maori. And the fairies of the
mountain also considered her a fine wahine, for one morning when Ruarangi
returned to his house in the early dawn, after having been out all night
eel-fishing, he found that his wife had disappeared. He searched long
for her, and called her name aloud, but to no avail. When full daylight
came, Ruarangi, greatly sorrowing, took his spear in his hand and placed
his stone weapon in his belt and went along the track in the direction
of the mountain where the fairies dwelt, for he knew that his wife had
been carried off by a Patu-paiarehe. And, as he paused awhile on his way,
he stretched forth his spear towards the fairy-mountain and wept, and
chanted his song of lamentation for his vanished wife:
‘My message of love blows afar,
Borne on the Eastern breeze,
A token of sorrow from the
Beloved one of your dreams,
Here stand I, in whose fond arms
You oft reposed. Oh, loved one of my
Heart! Return!
My head is bowed with grief.
Return! Incline to me your face;
Like rushing fountains see my tears down fall.’
And lying in wait for two days near the forest pa, Ruarangi performed
the ceremonies and repeated the incantations to recover his ravished
wife. By stratagem he gained the place where she had been taken to by
the fairy--the Patu-paiarehe did not perceive him, else had he been a
dead man; and in haste he took her, before her fairy husband could follow
in pursuit, and they reached their village on the banks of the Waipa in
safety.
But Ruarangi and his wife knew that, though they were back in their
home, the fairy chief or his followers would come by night and endeavour
to regain possession of her. Their hearts sank as they communed long
with one another in the shelter of their raupo house and planned how to
prevent the fairies from again carrying Tawhaiatu away. And at night
there came the spirit of one of their priestly ancestors, and it sat on
the ridge-pole of their house and the thin whistling voice of the wairua
spoke down to them as they sat by the fire in the centre of the whare:
[Illustration: THE MAORIS AND THE FAIRY PEOPLE]
‘Oh, friends, I greet you! Hearken to my words. Smear the sacred paint
of kokowai all over your bodies, and paint the inside of your house and
the door-posts and the door and threshold also with the kokowai, for the
Patu-paiarehe fear the kokowai as they do the fire of man. And, when the
fairies come and see that you have covered everything over with kokowai,
they will be afraid to enter into your house at night to steal the woman.’
So in the morning Ruarangi and his wife went forth and gathered kokowai
earth (the sacred red ochre of the Maoris), and, mixing it, painted the
whole of the inside of the house and the lintel-posts and the door, and
also painted their bodies with it, and as evening came on they lit a fire
in the house and awaited the coming of the fairy.
And at night, in the black darkness, there came to the house of Ruarangi
the fairy chief from the misty mountain-top. He stood in the marae
outside the door, and, as he looked into the house and saw the red
kokowai on the posts and walls and on the bodies of the man and woman
who sat by the fire repeating incantations, he grew afraid, and remained
outside in the courtyard. He raised his voice in a song of lamentation,
for he loved Tawhaiatu, but he could not prevail against the sacred
kokowai and the powerful spells of Ruarangi. And then the fairy returned
sorrowing to his dwelling on lofty Pirongia.”
“And,” said the pakeha, “Ruarangi and his wife lived happily together for
the rest of their days.”
“Ae ra” (“Yes,”) gravely returned the Maori. “And who should know if not
I? For Ruarangi and Tawhaiatu were my own ancestors. And perhaps I am
half a Patu-paiarehe myself. Who can tell?”
[Illustration]
XV
TIHI-O-TE-RANGI
[Illustration]
“The Path of the Spirits”--the mind of the young Maoris runs far now from
battle and bloodshed, and but few bear the blood of the warriors in their
veins, that blood which suddenly boils into powerful deeds.
Few carry the blood of the Rangatiras, who were masters over the
bloodthirsty savages, or of the women, who were slaves, but who were
sometimes Tohungas and powerful masters over the savage passions.
Out on the sea is the tribe, enjoying life and fishing under the
summer sky; the pa (village) is lifeless, and the semi-darkness of the
whare-puni broods lonelily over the past. The past, full of history for
Ngawai--Hine-aroha, the friend: it is the whare-puni of her ancestors.
Carved is there Tama-te-Kapua, the great Chief--Tohunga, her ancestor,
who came from Hawaiki.
Silent is the whare-puni; silent are the carved ancestors; and silent
is Ngawai, watching the mist covering the snow-clad mountains in the
distance.
It is the hour of the fairies and the spells; the hour when the sun
hides; and Tawhiri-matea, the God of the Winds, is resting--the happy
hour when man forgets his wishes, and the path of his mind is guided by
the spirits of his destination: it is the hour when the woman-Rangatira
knows that she is a woman, and will be a slave.
Ngawai’s ancestors live in her veins, and her spirit wanders along the
path of the past. She stretches out her arms commanding the spirits; her
mind perceives; and speaks:
“Look, friend: many men and many women of my people lived and died,
yes, a great many, since Tu-poho came, the great chief of the Nga-puhi
tribe--ah, great was the number of his warriors--they came in the
darkness of night, and their hearts were full of rage. Ah, a very great
many were the slain of my people, and many were offered to the God of War
by Tu-poho.
Day upon day lasted the feasting, for great was the hate of the Nga-puhi
toward my people, and they ate them, and scattered the bones of my
ancestors; ah, my friend!--The joy of the Nga-puhi was great, when they
found Matike the beautiful sister of Tihi-o-te-Rangi; and they made her a
slave.
Tihi-o-te-Rangi, the warrior and ariki, ah, he was in the mountains
whilst this battle happened, and he was hunting for kiwis and pigeons
whilst the women of the Nga-puhi tribe, day after day, were preparing the
food for their warriors off the slain of his people, killing the women
and children to feast the enemy.
Ah, terror would have been Tu-poho’s! Tihi would have offered his blood
to the War God; he would have swallowed his eyes; he would have eaten him
and scattered his bones!--ah, Tihi was in the mountains; Tihi was in the
mountains.--Ah, my friend.
At last a message came to him. Two women of his tribe came to him; they
came naked and torn, the white flower of the clematis in their hair. By
night they came and brought the head of their husband; they lit a fire
before Tihi’s house, and commenced their frightful tale of woe. They were
cutting their faces and breasts with sharp stones, so that blood covered
them all over, and terrible was their weeping and wailing.
Fearful to behold were the blood-covered women, calling for help and
revenge, filling with fire of rage the heart of Tihi-o-te-Rangi.
He killed the little bird Ma-tata, and offered his blood to the War God
Maru, that the war-tapu might come over him, and then he went his way to
find Tu-poho.
Matike, the sister of Tihi-o-te-Rangi, was given to Te-marama, Tuwhare’s
daughter, as her slave, and great was the beauty of the two maidens.
Matike, with her long flowing hair and tall figure, was the flower of the
mountains; but the great eyes and soft swaying movements of Te-marama was
the beauty of the flowers of the Pohutukawa, swaying on the shores on the
North.
Crossing the rivers and walking along the shores of the sea was the tribe
of the Nga-puhi, when they were followed by Tihi-o-te-Rangi.
He had held the Tangi over his burned pa and the bones of his tribe, and
then he went and followed his enemies to free his sister. When he found
the great party, he mingled with the slaves and carried baskets of food,
and did the work of the slaves--ah, my friend, Tiki, the chief of great
mana, carrying food like a slave!