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This volume is intended to be the first of a series designed to illustrate, or rather to exhibit, in as truly a lifelike form as possible, the Maori of the pre-civilisation period.
Having lived from his youth amongst the Maories, the writer has had peculiar opportunities of becoming acquainted with their modes of thought and expression, with their eveeryday life, their legends, their mythology, and even with their sacred language, incantations, and rites, now known only to their few old “tohungas,” or priests. To embalm the knowledge so acquired of a highly developed yet savage race, fast disappearing, has been the object of the writer.
The tale contained in the present volume is not fiction. Though woven together in the form of a tale, as that most convenient for lifelike representation, the places mentioned are all real, as may be seen on the accompanying map; the incidents are all true, and have occurred; the personages are all real, though the names have been slightly altered to avoid unnecessary offence to the living; the native mode of expression has been carefully followed; and the songs, proverbs, and incantations are trustworthy (though, perhaps, in some respects imperfect) reproductions of the ancient originals.
The series of volumes will comprise within it the
Each volume will be complete in itself, exhibiting special characteristics of the Maori character.
The present volume, or tale, exhibits truthfully the everyday life, habits, and character of the pre-civilisation Maori; and as such may be accepted by scientific men as a contribution towards a knowledge of the past from one who, having no pretensions to scientific acquirements, writes from a personal knowledge and observation of the accuracy of the information conveyed.
The writer acknowledges with pleasure the assistance afforded him in explaining native names of plants and birds by the valuable works of Dr. Hooker ‘On the Flora,’ and of Dr. Buller ‘On the Birds of New Zealand.’
Monsters. The reader will please to observe in reference to the pronunciation of all Maori words that In the northern part of Aotearoa (New Zealand) there is a river which had its origin, according to Maori tradition, in the emulation which arose among certain young Taniwhas,every letter is sounded; that the vowel a is invariably pronounced as in the English word father, the vowel e as in bet, the vowel i as e in me, and u as in put. By attending to these simple directions the reader will be able to approximate closely to the proper pronunciation.
Waihou took the lead, leaving his home, a cave fifty feet above the level of the sea, on the coast which faces the setting sun. After he had made considerable progress in his trench-digging, the others followed his track, starting at different times, and branching off to the right or left according to the progress they made or the difficulties they met with. Waihou dug on until he came to a flat country, and finding the climate warmer and more congenial to his feelings than the raw west-coast air, he made a large hole with his tail, and took up his abode there. This was the origin of the Omapere lake.
After leaving Waihou's track, Waima, not knowing the course his brother had taken, went in a southerly direction for some distance, then turning to the northeast, he suddenly found him in his new home.
Orira, while making his way to certain mountains, the interior of which he wished to see, was crossing a low country, where he was met by a giant (there were giants in the land in those days), who questioned him. Orira answered him tartly, upon which the giant gave him a blow on the head, thus ending his life, and preventing any further attempt at trench-making.
Mangamuka followed nearly the same direction as Orira; but, in attempting to get into the interior of the mountains towards which his brother was going, he encountered a Tupua A spirit having the power of transforming itself into any inanimate thing.
Every branch of the river The Hokianga river; vide map.
Early one summer's morning, an aged chief was sitting on his mat in front of his hut. He looked northward, up the Mangamuka river, and mused over the days of his boyhood. “Ah! yonder are the hills where, in the days of my youth, I caught the rat, the kiwi, Apteryx Mantelli, Buller's ‘ N. Z. Birds,’ p. 358. Ocydromus Earli, Puffinus brevicaudus, ibid. p.165.ibid. p. 315.
Tare was thus talking to himself when his son Rou came up to him and said: “Tare, you once promised to tell me the history of our island home. I am going up to Mangamuka with a few young men; but as the tide is full we shall have to wait till low water, and in the meantime let us sit here, and you can teach me all about our island pah, An inclosed fortified place.
“Where have you been to-day?” asked Tare.
“I have just had my morning meal, that is all,” answered Rou.
“I thought you had been out catching fish—hence my question; for had you been out fishing, I should
Incantation.
“I am listening,” answered Rou.
“You must know that a taniwha, named Araiteuru, lived on the south head of the river, and that in olden times she sent her sons to cut trenches all over the country. The eldest commenced at the ocean shore, and as he went on the sea-water followed him; the others went in his track, and thus this river in which is our island pah was formed. Not many summers after, our ancestors came across the sea in a canoe, named Mamari, and arrived in this river; they came in search of a man who had left his home beyond the horizon, whose name was Rui. I will tell you about him some other time. Our canoe met that of another migration of people; their leader was
“That river is where we now live. The canoe Mamari, after entering the river, came up here, where she left her ballast, which formed this island. Such is the origin of our pah.
“You have also seen the rocks at the mata, Promontory. The principal posture of defence with the spear. A long-handled wooden hatchet, from the head of which hangs a tassel of hawks' feathers. A carved wooden spear.
“I then pierced Papa with the tongue end of my hani. He fell, but not dead; I stood over him, he would not ask for his life, but smiled at my uplifted weapon, the next blow of which broke into pieces the lines of the tattooing on his brow. Thus we taught the sons of Rutu not to tread on the ridges where we had the sole right of catching rats. O my son Rou! be like the rat—look all around you in all your travelling, lest at any time an old enemy come upon you. Be on your guard, and on no account forget the incantations I have taught you for your spear in war, for your canoe in a storm, for your legs to have speed to catch your enemies.
“But, above all, in your travels, do not cook or eat food near a place where any of our tribe of Puhi have been left by the priests. Go, my son, and see your brothers, and children, and fathers, at Te Roto. O my son Rou! be careful of Hanpa and Kaito, who life at Otu.
“They are the persons who have to revenge the death of Papa, whom I killed. You know how they obtained the land on which they now live. Being descended from a common ancestor, we once gave a
Te Rou and his companions left for Te Roto, where they arrived without meeting with anything unusual.
Te Roto is a small pah, about three miles from Otu. The inhabitants, who are members of the Kopulra tribe, numbered about seventy-five.
The principal body of the Rutu tribe lived near the heads of the river, in Omanaia, and were very restless and overbearing in their conduct towards the other sub-tribes of Puhi. A small number of the Rutu, consisting of Haupa (the mother of Papa), Kaito, her son, and about twenty-five others, resided in Otu. Tuawera, a ventriloquist, and the priest of the Rutu tribe, a man of superior intellect compared with the generality of chiefs, had often urged Kaito to avenge the death of Papa, saying, “I will becloud the eyes of the Kopura warriors by my incantations, and you can kill them
“What do young men know? I know that there will be a battle ere long; did you not see the star near the moon last night? And has it not been believed from time immemorial by those who must have known better than us of these times, and as the old proverb says, ‘A star to bite the moon is a prognostic of battle’? That there will be a fight or murder soon I am sure.” Thus said Kui, who was the speaker. “Hush! Was not that the war-cry I heard?”
The old woman—for old she was, and decrepit—held her breath, as her heart beat with fear, and her limbs quivered with agitation, when again was heard the death-tolling war-cry, “Whakariki! Whakariki!” The children and women of the pah gave a yell of fear, while the old and infirm crouched themselves into a sitting posture of despair. The young men and those who had been in battle sprang to their weapons of war, and formed in battle square.
The chief Rou addressed them, and said: “Who the enemy may be I cannot tell; but this I do know: we are few in number, which I count a good omen. Last night I dreamt I was spearing pigeons, when a hawk came to take one off the tree; I threw a spear at him, and killed the thief. This speaks for us. Does not the proverb say, ‘A few as a war-party are sure to conquer’? Fear not! The stones of our ovens shall be slaked with the oil of their limbs, which are now so supple and step so firmly towards our pah. Be brave!” Thus saying, he put on a dogskin mat, tied a girdle round his waist, and stood in the centre of the pah, waiting the arrival of the man who had uttered the dreadful cry.
The women were crying to each other in low and plaintive songs composed by those who had, through war, been left widows; while the children sat crouching by their mothers, waiting with savage glee, mixed with an undefined fear, the solution of a dreaded something they had not seen; and the young men were actively employed in fastening the entrances to the pah. The cry came from a forest, and, echoing in the mountains, sounded with awful fulness on the ears of the listening inhabitants of the pah, sending through their hearts a thrill of fear, and a feeling as if death had already possession of them.
The pah was built on a plain of fern, and surrounded by mountains; a pebbly creek flowed by on the south side, on the margin of which it stood. The pah had been secured when one of a party of three, who had
Then straightening himself up, and pacing some twenty yards with his spear firmly clenched in his hand, he continued: “You all know that three of us left you this morning to amuse ourselves in the forest; and where think you the other two are? I stand alone
Native oven.
He then went and rubbed noses with all the people in the pah, and by that time the wailing had become general, and sound of it was heard like a horrible din.
After the noise made by those who wept aloud had partially subsided, Kui rose on her feet, and throwing off all her garments but one, with the sudden impulse of rage she appeared young again. With a stone club in her hand she paced a short distance, and said, “Cursed be the dogs who have thus dealt with me! May their heads be used by children for balls; may
Obsidian.
The old woman, having spent her strength in this sneering speech to her tribe, sat down quite exhausted. She commenced to cry in a low tone, hiding her head in a rough mat.
Then a chief, who had seen his enemy's spear-points in many a battle, rose, and stood looking for some time at the people. He then walked backward and forward, at every turn kicking the dust from under his feet, and in a frenzied passion asked, “Who does our mother call cowards? How dead your memory
Te Rou now rose, and, very slowly pacing a few yards, said, “The sun has set, nor will the moon rise over the top of Tamioha. This is not the time for taunting. Watch well the pah, and at intervals cry the pass-word, to let prowlers know it were not well for them to venture near; for the sons of Puhi never sleep soundly save when blood for blood has slaked revenge. Ere midnight has passed we can each say his word; but let not reckless youth be bold of speecc in the war council.”
The chiefs now assembled in the carved house which stood on one side of the pah, near the grave of Te Ipu, the father of one of the murdered youths. The house was forty feet long by twenty-eight wide, and about ten feet high; a verandah shaded the front; the eave-boards were carved from end to end; in the centre was the face of a man fully tattooed, and the tongue, which protruded, was as large as the rest of the face.
Arundo conspicua, called by the natives Solanum aviculare. Dacrydium cupressinum, the “red pine” of the settlers. Hierochloe redolens.toetoe.
After all were assembled, silence reigned for some time. Te Rou was the first speaker. He said, “We are but few, and our enemy is strong: what we do must be done promptly. To pass over such an unprovoked insult would be to end in the truth of the accusations of cowardice to-day heaped on us by one who never killed but a flea on a dog's back or the vermin
Miro longipes, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 119.
The young man who had escaped from Otu said, “Speak, fathers; if a child were to speak, he would say, that to let them kill without cause, and eat of us without our taking revenge, would but sharpen their appetite, and give them a contempt of our power; and we, before the birds have ceased to feed their young, shall feel the weight of their pride. I consent to pass the darkness of night in a canoe to tell the tale.”
Another spoke. He was an old grey-headed man, fully tattooed, who had seen war in all its aspects. “The proverb says, ‘Cross but my road, and I'll find you.’ I remember the time when I was not old. The fathers of those who have now taken revenge and ours met not far distant from here. There stood a tree, a noble tree, on yon mountain-side. It had been marked for many summers as fit for a canoe by the grandfather of him whom they have now slain. One day we went to spear pigeons, and took the road that led to the tree, and, while resting at its foot, there came ten men from Otu, and in our sight one of them cut off a lock of his hair and hung it on the tree. At the same time, turning round to the other nine, who were sitting down, he commenced to sing a sacred war-song, which
“They stood for a while in the same attitude that they were in when they ended the war-dance. One of our party (Kawe) went and took the hair off the tree, and was going to rample it under his feet, when Haupa (he who led off the war-dance) made a blow at Kawe, who warded it off with his arm, and pierced Haupa through the arm with his spear (a pigeon spear). In the meantime we three closed in with the other nine. I pierced the uncle of Haupa through the body with my spear. He fell, and in agony of rage and pain cursed us as food for dogs. I took his tao, Long spear. Feathers of the gannet. The ceremony on the occasion of removal of bones. Amongst the Maories the dead bodies of persons of rank were not buried, but either hung in trees (as afterwards described) or placed in a sort of rude box till the flesh had decayed. Then the bones were taken out and scraped, and carried to the sacred burial-place of the tribe, generally caves, where they were finally deposited.Ante, p. 7.
Te Rou's wife spoke, and said, “I will speak, since men are worse than those who never had sense. Idiots are not allowed to teach, because they are fools. Idiots are not allowed to speak in a council of war, because they have no sense; yet you are worse than idiots. Strike an idiot; will he not strike again? Which of you has not been hurt by the act of the Otu men? Would idiots talk thus, think you? No, they would ask no aid, but strike and dare the worst, and die like men. Were I young once more, I would rather be the wife of a fool than live in the love of a coward chief. I cannot love a slave;—a coward is a slave. Ye are brave, but your tongues kill all.
Heta, a young chief, stood up, and said, “If women could do in battle as much as they can with their tongues, men would cook and do their work. If women were what they should be, their love would make men brave. What do you know of war? The baptism in which you were baptized did not make you or give you any authority to use the club of war, or even give you the right to speak in a war council. Who ever heard of women being baptized in the name of the great god Tu? If slaves tread on the sacred ground in which our chiefs are buried they intrude, and are killed; but you women intrude on ground where men only are permitted to travel. Had I a wife I would tell her this old proverb, ‘Land and women are the cause of all war.’ I say no more, for I am but a child; old men know what I mean if women do not.”
Te Rou then rose with a loud cough, and said, “I will ask you quick-talking women one question. Where does the snipe bring forth its young? If you answer me this, then knowledge and you have
Silence reigned in the assembly as far as the men were concerned; but the women began whispering amongst themselves. One rose, and said, “We will give you an answer after we consult together.” All left the house and proceeded into the middle of the pah, calling their own sex together. Te Rou's wife informed the assembled women that there was one question they must answer, or never again speak in a council of war. The question is, “Where does the snipe bring forth its young? To ask such a question of women is very wrong; how are we to know where these things are brought forth? the gods do not tell us. If we say we do not know, we own our ignorance; if we say we do, they will not believe the lie, but ask us where.”
At this moment Aramata (a young woman betrothed to Heta; the young chief who answered Te Rou's wife in the assembly), answered “Tell them that they bring forth their young in the sacred mountains, where our fathers are laid. They will not disbelieve this, because they are afraid to go and see.” The women, having agreed to this, returned to the council-house.
Te Rou's wife, being the spokeswoman, said, “The gods only may tell the truth. The sacred hills on which our fathers are laid are the home of the snipe. We boast not of our knowledge. You say you were baptized in the name of the gods, and that we were
“There lived two women in the north, and, as all women are inquisitive, they wished to know what sort of a place Reinga really was, not altogether believing the tales invented by foolish men about the abode of spirits. They dried a few baskets of kumaras, knowing they had a long journey before them, and then went to the point on which grows the pohutukawa tree, down the roots of which the spirits descend. They descended, each with a kit of kaos The dried kumara or sweet potato.
Te Rou said, “I know a stream in which there is a waterfall. It roars all winter and murmurs all summer, but no man yet ever made sense of the sound which comes from it. Such is woman's speech; she roars all her passion away, and then murmurs out a tale about women which all her children know, and men,
February. Mars. The Kiwi; Apteryx Mantelli. Mirolongipes, the N.Z. wren. Puffinus brevicaudus. Apteryx Mantelli. A green-stone ornament, worn only by chiefs. Shark's tooth,It was a cold, cloudless night in the ninth moon,
Heta asked the old man, “Who is the god of war and where does he live?”
“He lives in the wind,” answered the old man; “his name is Tu, and he was the first murderer; he was jealous, and in a passion committed a murder; but before he did it, he tied a band of korari (flax) round his waist; that is the reason why old men always tie a girdle round themselves before going to battle.”
“What offering do old men make to him to obtain his assistance in battle?”
“Why,” answered the old man, “you must have been brought up in ignorance not to know that, or your memory is not good. We offer the matata Sphencecus punctatus, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 128, the swamp sparrow. Incantation.
“My grandfather,” said Heta, “died before I was old enough to attend them.”
“Then you have never eaten the root of the toetoe stalk Arundo conspicua.
“No.”
“On a certain night fixed by the priests, we assemble in a house, into which cooked food has never been taken; for the gods would be offended were food to be taken into a house in which the sacred karakias (and the mythology) are taught, as the words of the karakia are sacred to the gods. We invite all the sons of chiefs to come in; they must all enter and sit naked, leaving their clothes at some distance from the house: every one must bring in his hand a toetoe stalk pulled up by the roots, so that when the old men have done teaching them they may chew the lower end of the stalk, which will make their memories remember what they have heard.”
Heta asked, “Will you teach me a karakia that will help me to gain a young woman's love?”
“Yes, I will teach you one to-night; but you must take care when and where you repeat anything I tell
Heta asked, “But have you not a karakia to cure the stomach-ache?”
“Yes,” answered Takuai (for that was the name the old priest went by), “we have several; I will tell you one now, which you can use, for you may have the stomach-ache with fear in the coming battle. War makes cowards tremble, and nips them nearly double. When a priest is required to cure a stomach-ache we know that it is an evil spirit gnawing the person's stomach; and to make him depart we point with our fingers to the seat of pain and say:
This makes the evil spirit depart. These are sacred words; do not use them in jest near a fire or any such place.”
They were suddenly startled (and ceased to paddle) by a low whistle a short distance from them. The sound came from.the bank of the river. They were only a little way off Te Roto, their own pah. The banks of the river, which had been low up to this point, now gradually closed in until they left but a narrow defile through which the river ran; the mountais on each side were covered with forest trees down to the water's edge, with here and there the branches of a young sapling dipping and lifting in the current,
Again was the whistle heard shriller than before; Takuai put in his paddle, and was tying his mat round his waist, when Heta exclaimed, “I heard a man whisper; I see him there—there.” At the same moment some invisible agent swung the canoe side on to the current, when there was a yell, a splash, a bubble, a rippling on either bank of the creek, and all was still! About a mile farther down the river, on the west bank, in a sudden turn close to the water's edge stood Mangata, an old pah, the posts of which were carved in the shape of men, with protruding tongues as large as the whole head, giving the visitor, as he suddenly turned up this gorge, the idea of a forest of giants, congregated together to defend the pass with demoniac, fierce, and cannibal determination. To this pah, Pare (who sat in front), after their upset, determined to swim? and, with the help of the current, he soon reached it; he walked into the pah, and all were asleep save the watch, the echo of whose voices had kept his spirits up during his watery voyage
The approaching man gained the bank, where he was met by a blow from Takuai's hani, which sent him back reeling into the river with a groan. The old man, not wishing to lose the pleasure of eating an enemy, sprang forward, and, before he sank, seized him by the hair, lifted him up to see if he was tattooed and a chief, but, to his amazement, recognised in him Heta.
In the meantime, Kiro and his party, having to paddle up the stream, were some time in reaching
The old man then bending down breathed three times into the face of Heta, who sat up, the fire having by this time warmed him. They embarked as the day began to dawn, and soon arrived at Maungataipa, where one of the watchers had secured the canoe which had drifted down the stream. Pare informed the in
Nestor meridionalis, a native parrot
Takuai arose, took the shark's tooth from his ear and threw it to Heta, saying, “There is payment for my mistake. I could have laughed at my mistake when I pulled you out of the water, thinking I had got my foe with so little trouble, and was going to cut your head off when you groaned and I recognised you. You were afraid, for you swam towards me so gently.”
“I have touched the mako,” Shark's tooth.
Heta and Takuai, having partaken of some cooked fern-root, again started on their way, leaving Pare
Then with one voice they called out the war-cry, “Te whākariki! te whākariki!” The two landed on the point; no one spoke to them, nor did any one go to meet them; they walked towards the assembly, then, leaning on their paddles, which they had carried with them, wept aloud, while the crowd sat down covering their heads with their mats. Takuai was the first to give any hint of what had taken place in a song, which he half wailed, half chanted in a voice gruff with age, while the tears ran down his withered cheeks:—
The whole tribe now joined in one loud wail, having guessed from Takuai's dirge that a murder had been committed. The old man continued, Heta and himself still leaning on their paddles: “All the people of Te Roto are no more; weep ye for them. The stones of Otu have sharp teeth, and the fire there burns fiercely. Revenge has sharper teeth than those of the shark. We alone are come to tell the tale. Two suns past, three of ours went to sport in the forest, and passed Otu; our foe asked them to stay and eat; young men like them remembered not our past feud; they were killed. Pare alone escaped; he lives, but his life as yet is not his own; he burns with revenge. Let the men of battle say when we are to return and give the answer which we are to take back. Let the priests dream and seek the omens of such times. To-night I will speak in the assembly.”
The old chiefs sat in gloomy silence, while the young men got their spears and danced before each other until they had infuriated themselves into warriors. Others, of fewer years, collected into groups, tattooed
Native ovens.
The day was fast closing, not a breath of air rippled the surface of the river, and only thin wreaths of smoke ascended from the half-burnt embers thrown from the sides of the hangis, and now and then a burst of steam thrown off by the heated stones as the women sprinkled them with water. All was bustle amongst the women; some covered the hangi with retaos, Old baskets made of the phormium, or flax leaf. Covered up. A long line of dark cloud which frequently appears a little above the horizon at sunset. Louse. Haliotis iris.
Speak on, my father,” addressing Takuai, “speak on; I will not dare to interpret the language of darkness; tell us the meaning of my song; you converse with the gods and can tell us what they meant by teaching me this song.” The messengers now return with the tribes for which they were sent. As each canoe landed, the young men of Kopura and Matui met them at the water's edge, and, throwing a few fern-stalks at them, immediately turned and fled, those landing following in full chase; and any one of those who threw the stalks at them being caught by the others, was knocked down, trampled upon, and laughed at. When the newcomers got within the distance of a few yards from the settlement, they formed in a body, as if to attack the pah, and one man, a chief, with a war-club in his hand, paced to and fro in front of them; arranging them in line, he repeated a war-dance; the body of men then joined in the dance, all in time, and, while distorting their limbs and protruding their tongues, they repeated:—
This done, they all sat down, the chiefs each in turn made a complimentary speech, reserving their real intentions to be told in the midnight consultation. After the new arrivals had erected temporary shelters, and dragged up their war-canoes on the shore, most of them retired into their sheds and huts; the young people sitting by the fires, telling tales of love and of deeds unknown save among cannibals. Some young gallant, newly tattooed, might be seen in the centre of a little mixed group of black-eyed maids and young men, who, with riveted attention, drunk in all the incidents of a with, savage courtship which were being told in an emphatic tone, accompanied by contortions of the body and face, so picturing the incidents related to the hearers that it seemed as if the reality was then acted before them. The narration was sometimes interrupted by a bold and pertinent remark from some one of the young listeners, which extorted for a moment a hearty laugh of delight from the group. The old men and the chiefs might be seen lying down, some reclining and others sitting with their chins on their knees in sullen and thoughtful silence, looking only in one direction. Again, at a short distance, might be seen by the glimmer of the fire, half in the light and half in the dark, a group of men and women listening to the tale of a battle in which the narrator was taken prisoner. He was an old slave, grey-headed and bowed down by years, and was relating, in a manner in which no particle of sorrow or regret could be discovered, the bold deeds of his masters, their cruel treatment to the chiefs of his
It was midnight; the young people were still as lively as ever, when a voice was heard calling for attention in the darkness: “Awake ye that sleep! Let your hearts have ears, and let your tongues have long memories; an old man does not speak more than once.”
It was Takuai addressing Tupu. He continued: “Hearken, my father, I will answer thy question.”
“Knowest thou not, my child, that the gods do not answer questions by day? And as is our custom, when we have to tell of future things, I slept, and then I beheld the meaning of the song taught thee in thy dream. I saw and beheld a fight. There was a woman, and by her sat her youthful lover; she was young, and was soon to be a mother; they were hid from the scene of battle by a mound of earth; a forest tree had fallen, and in its fall the roots threw up the mound behind which they sat. I beheld others there, but this young warrior now stood gazing on his wife, who sat as in grief. I heard the battle-cry of victory; the young man was gone. Again I beheld, and she who was in sorrow sat with others; I saw no mark of sorrow on her face; she joined in the joyous laugh while death was all around. Again I looked; there were young warriors in a group, and in their arms they bore a corpse. He
Sacred.
Another chief now came out of a hut and spoke to the whole assembly. No voice but his could be heard in the stillness of the night. It being dark, every one sat near some of the fires, listening with breathless attention. Pacing to and fro in front of the hut, he said, “Speak on; there is no talk. Who knows the art of speaking? All men can talk, but all men are not great in thought. I am but a child; I know nothing yet: it is not the largest bird of the forest that sings the loudest note, nor is it the fattest louse that bites the hardest. Hearken, then, you wise people. If a child spoke, would he not say, ‘What do we wait for here?’ Ere to-morrow's sun shone, it should see us at Te Roto. Why keep in suspense those who are doomed to die? Speak, my fathers; let age tell you what to say. Children are quick in speech; it is for you to say if we speak the thought of men.”
Another young chief now said, “What is the tide
A young chief, Hiona (a cousin of Tupu), who had lately taken a wife, then got up, and pacing in the front of the hut from which he had come, began in a low tone to chant this song:—
“I know not why I sung this song,” said he; “but I could not remember any other of all the songs I ought to know. Speak on, you who ought to have all knowledge. Cowards never want excuse. Were I old enough to command, the dew would be the only oil my hair should have this night; but young heads are warm, and thus it is our hair is black. Old heads show the truth, for they turn pale, thus confessing they have lost the heat of bravery.”
Takuai spoke in answer to this last speech, and said: “Thou art brave, my child; thy head is black with passion. Well was the proverb said of such as thee: ‘The bravery of young men is reckless ignorance.’ And do you not remember the other equally true proverb, ‘The rage of old men is like hidden fire; no one knows where it will burst forth?’ Talk, my child, but do not chatter. Thou art blinded by some ill omen. Thy song is thy own death-dirge. Thou hast wept over thine own death; the god of caution has left thee; thy head will never turn white with the coolness of old age; thy baptismal tree is dead. I weep for thee, my son.”
An old hoary-headed chief now drew the attention of the assembly. When perfect silence reigned, as he paced to and fro in front of his shed, he said: “Why should folly be given to old men to eat? Does daring live with children? Does caution sleep where young men play with laughing women? Does the trembling arm of youth know how to poise the spear aright? We sleep to-night; and on the morrow's twilight let the priests repeat their incantations over the army, and we start with the flood of morning. Childish taunts cannot move the aged to folly. Dream, you priests, and ask the gods how the battle's force will tend. Count out the spirits of the slain, and ask the charm of witchcraft to bedim the eyes of our enemies. Sleep now, and let the watch-cry be heard at intervals all the dark night long.”
The deed was done, and the two bodies lay cold and stiff. Pare had left his companions with their enemies; revenge had been taken, and now for defence. To sit idle would be madness. “The eyes of our enemies are full of the dust of Otu,” said an old savage. “Ah!” said he, addressing the corpses, “where will you next wash your faces? What are your ears worth now? They cannot hear all the lies told about us by your boasting fathers. Where are your tongues now? They cannot tell of great actions, never known but in the brains of your boasting tribe. How dull your eyes look! Wipe them, my sons, and take the dust out of them. The marks on your faces look like so many trenches full of dirt. Go, wash your heads, or how can a lady-love look on you; send not one of those dirty looks to your affianced one. Speak, you sulky slaves, when a chief addresses you! What say you to a warm oven to-night, when the owls can look at you while you sit on the hot stones?”
The old man would have continued his taunting speech, but a woman rose, and, jumping like a maniac, said: “Why keep them? Why look at the dogs? Is their flesh not eatable? What wait we for? Who can sleep to-night before we have eaten the gift so nobly given by Tu?”
“I know that women are ever ready to talk about eating,” answered a young man with a dogskin mat on; “but what will you say to the fathers of the young men you wish now to eat when they come? I think your eyes will look as dull as those of their sons. Do you think they will be as deaf to insult as these whom you have killed? Let men talk of eating them; for they, not you, must give account and pay the debt.”
“Silence!” said a young woman, who rose immediately after the last speaker. She was a daughter of Kaito—a round-faced, black-eyed, curly-headed maiden with pouting lips, who had never seen the man or woman who could curb her headstrong passion for rule. “Silence! or speak like a man. If you cannot speak sense, come to me and I will teach you. Are you not angry because your sweetheart told you that you were a dolt, and but an ugly one? I will go and make love for you, if you will let me put on your dogskin mat. When you next go to make love, first come to me, and I will teach you what to say, and one of my slaves shall pull the hairs from your cheeks with cockle-shells, you hairy stupid! How dare you speak about women? Who is a coward? It was because you are a coward that you could not gain the
“Cook them,” said Kaito, speaking as he sat in his hut. “Now for action. We will entrench our pah. Each man to his work.” He had scarcely given the word of command before they were all actively employed in strengthening their defence.
Otu pah was built on the eastern side of a deep, pebbly creek. Both banks were level for some short distance, then mountains, covered with forest, arose on either side. The creek took its source among the mountains, and, winding its way past the pah, it emptied itself into the main river. The women assisted in the work of fortification, digging with pointed sticks. A trench was soon dug round the pah, and a breastwork formed inside, to defend them from their enemies’ spears. While some were entrenching, others might be seen digging with all their might, as if bent upon completing their task within a set time. Many looked like dogs scratching. Stooping half double, they threw the soil up with their hands out of the trench into the pah, where others beat the soil with sticks, to form the rampart and to make it solid.
The fires which glared all round gave the scene a weird appearance, and it seemed as if fiends had been let loose to work their evil designs upon earth. The
At a distance from the pah were several fires, on one of which was a hangi being heated. Near these fires were men and women young and old; one was a priestess. They laughed and sported round the fires while the priestess divined the omens of war, as seen in the corpses before her.
“How did they die?” asked the priestess.
“One of them shook his head as he died,” answered an old woman.
“Oh, we shall all be killed!” cried the priestess. “That is an evil omen.”
“And,” added the old woman, “the other beat his breast with his right hand.”
“And see how they stare,” said a young girl.
“No omens could be worse; the gods made them do these things.”
The old priestess now stood up, trembling from head to foot, and, addressing the corpses, she cried: “Cursed be the gods of your fathers! What are you now? Know you not that we have a charm in these words, used of old—‘Your spirit is gone; the body alone is left. What can you do now?’” So saying, she left them.
The bodies were now cut into pieces with shells, limb being cut from limb, the dissectors amusing themselves with them as their vengeful feelings prompted. When the limbs had been severed, each
All had worked long, and it was midnight. Now the slaves (who had cooked the night's repast for those employed in strengthening the pah) scraped the earth from the hangis, when an old woman said, “I think the food is not yet cooked.”
A young girl answered: “How stupid you are! They were not so old as you, that their flesh should require to be cooked so long as yours would be to make it eatable.”.
Fires were lighted near the hangis to give light to those who were to feast. When the leaves of the oven were uncovered, an arm or a leg, with contracted fingers or toes, might be seen protruding’ here and there. The warriors, who sat at a short distance from the hangis, watched the women taking the food out, and looked wistfully at that for which they longed. The steam from the heated stones annoyed the old women; and, to cool their half-scalded hands, they would now and then lick them, with a smile of delight, saying, “How nice and fat it is!”
A young chief took a rib, and, while picking it, stood over the old women directing the division of the flesh. A young damsel also took some flesh from a leg, and returned to a group of her young companions, who asked for a taste. The flesh having been divided, the baskets were set before those who were to feast, and soon all were eating, laughing as they picked the bones. Those who had a thigh or an arm-bone would bruise one end of it, warm it again at the fire, and suck the marrow out of the bruised end; and to make sure of getting it all out they would heat a fern-stalk, which they passed through the bone, then draw it across their lips, sucking the marrow off with their curled, protruded tongues. Old Haupa, the priestess, sat alone, eating in sulky silence the hearts, which, as a priestess, were her portion, and had been cooked in a hangi by themselves.
The feast was done; the young men and women had become tired of playing with the two heads, and all were asleep in the pah save the watch, who, with shrill and gruff voices, occasionally gave utterance to the night watch-cry:—
The night air was still keenly cold; the morning star had risen; Tawera (morning star), the messenger
“Woe is me! O my sons, who shall spread over you the branch of the sacred karamu? Coprosma lucida. The baptism of war.
Day was now breaking; the birds sang their morning song. It was not light enough for them to venture on the wing, so they sang as they sat perched on the twigs which had been their support in sleep. The mountains seemed like giants just awakening, their first breath of consciousness being a long, sonorous sigh of wild music, and hill echoed to hill. One voice alone was discordant. Haupa had come out of her hut, a shed constructed of small branches and fern, and was standing in the open space in the middle of the pah, now trembling, then stamping with rage, again pacing the length of the pah with all the contortions her old decrepit limbs would allow, then screaming in a loud
At last she seized a stick which the young men had used to spear the heads of the two eaten men, and having adjusted her mat (the only covering her old limbs required), which was wrapped round her like a bundle of seaweed, she said, while beating her fleshless limbs and breast with one hand, and holding the uplifted spear in the other, “Cursed be the head on which the ear is which does not hear what I say! May the heat of a hangi be the first to melt the ear-wax in it, and may the first sound it hears be the frying of its own flesh! Hearken, O ye, my children! I speak not to the coward—I would not give my words to such a dog. Let my words be written on your hearts. O that I were a man for your sakes! What are you? I could make you yield in the battle tide. A man would never run away: his soul would rather die than ask its body's life from man!”
The name of the ceremony immediately afterwards described. Family or sub-tribe. Supposed to contain the god of the hapu.It was grey dawn; at Te Roto the slaves were all up, some busy breaking firewood, others taking the dirt, ashes, and stones out of the hangis, preparatory to lighting the fires with which to cook the morning meal, and soon the smoke curled up in long columns, like enormous ropes with the ends torn out into shreds. The remainder of the inhabitants and the tribes who had slept at the Tama were by this time all astir. Many of them were putting their canoes into order; some of the children were running here and there in savage glee, with spears in their hands; while here and there groups of them were sitting listening to a child orator and warrior, who entranced his listeners with a wild account of the doings of his ancestors; while others of them might be seen dancing the war-dance with fiendish glee. Takuai still remained in his hut with Tupu and Tare, where they were looking at the omens given by the niu.
The Mahuri had some killed, but were brave; the
Old Takuai was now fed by a slave, and the morning meal of fish and fern-root having been eaten, and the tide being on the first of flood, two canoes were got ready, and started, each holding about fifty men. The women, children, and old men remained behind with a considerable force of men, who by the niu had had evil omens of the coming battle, and therefore remained to guard the settlement at the Tama. When the canoes were on the point of starting, not a word was spoken by either those remaining behind or those who were leaving—all were silent, as if they had suddenly become dumb. Here and there a man and his wife might be seen rubbing noses, or a brother and sister, or a son and his mother; but no good-bye, no sigh, no crying, or tear could be heard or seen. Such custom must be strictly observed; for the sigh, or crying, or tear, especially of those who remain behind, would be for the death of those on their way to battle, and would be a curse on the brave.
As the canoes were passing Motiti, Nga, priest of the Hutai tribe, stood up in his canoe and addressed Tare, who was still on Motiti: “Abide at your place. O father, we are going to see the tattooing on the face of Kaito! Remain in peace; O father, stay!”
Tare answered: “Go, my sons, go; the child cries, and the father is ashamed. The wren often has to feed the young of the summer bird, even after its own chick has been turned out of the nest which
It was not until the canoes had passed Tarahiko Point that any one stood up to sing the canoe song, by which the paddlers kept time, and Ripi arose and sung:—
The men kept time to this song, but without emulation, and in perfect silence, no voice being heard save Ripi's. Even the women in the canoe were silent.
It is customary for a few women to accompany a war expedition as attendants, their duty being twofold: to help the slaves in cooking, and to eat the kai popoa The sacred food.
The Mangamuka river at first winds through low hills, covered with forest to the water's edge, and some distance up the right bank, on a small island, was built the Rata pah, occupied by the son of Otene and his people, who, on the approach of the war party, joined the expedition with fifteen of his men. The river from this pah began to run between high mountains, which closed in, only leaving a narrow defile, with high precipitous banks, over which water constantly dripped into the river, sounding like a heavy shower of rain. The defile is so narrow and shut in that one can only see three or four canoe lengths ahead.
They soon reached Kiroa's pah, Mangataipa, when, while the warriors sat silent in their canoes, he recounted to them what the enemy had done since the two messengers left them, after which he and some of his men also joined them. On arriving at Te Roto they landed in perfect silence, carefully abstaining from making the least noise, the women proceeded to the settlement. When getting out of the canoes, the warriors left their paddles and everything in them to be attended to by the slaves. The two priests, Nga and Takuai, walked naked up the banks of the river, which
The warriors remained in their places until the priests had taken their positions and turned towards the settlement, when they immediately stood up and followed the priests, walking in double file, until they reached a short distance from Te Roto, where they rested, and built themselves sheds in which to sleep. The slaves prepared the food, consisting of pounded fern-root, and placed it before the warriors, who still remained naked, each one having to feed himself with his left hand, their weapons of war being kept at a distance from them while eating. When any one wished to drink, he was assisted by a man slave. The drinker partly closed the palm of his hand, so as to form a trough, which he put to his mouth; the slave poured the water into his hand, until the warrior, by elevating his eyebrows, commanded him to stop pouring.
As soon as the warriors had finished their repast, the slaves brought them their clothing, which they put on, and went in a body and sat down halfway between their encampment and Te Roto, facing the latter; at the same time the females of the pah, especially the young women, came out towards them, waving their mats, and saying, “Welcome! O welcome! Come, O fathers, come!” and with measured step advanced towards
As soon as the song was ended all sat down—some a little distance from the warriors—the men of the pah a little apart, still weeping in silence with their heads bowed down; the women, with pieces of tuhua, Obsidian. A small mat.
In an instant the warriors were on their feet, and, all in perfect time, danced the war-dance, then, turning round, retired to their camp for the night.
The partially-soft fern is placed on a round stone and beaten with a “paoia,” a piece of wood.When the people had returned to the pah, it being time for the evening meal, all were soon busy roasting and pounding fern-root, even those who came up with the warriors having to assist, and, save the chief men and women, who sat apart, every one had to prepare his or her own food. Round one of the large fires sat a group of most of the young women who had taken a prominent part in the making grimaces at the warriors, discussing, as they prepared their food, their attitudes in the whakatoamoa dance, and which had called forth the most praise from the others. The noise made by their paoias
“What do you know about love?” asked a girl of some sixteen summers. “The only love you can talk about is the revenge you hope to obtain for being a slave.”
“You are but a child,” answered Pipo, for that was his name. “When I did fall in love, long ago, it was with one who was a chief's daughter—one who could wear a green-stone hei Carved ornament. Shark's tooth. A large mat with a broad border.
A girl who had not joined in the noise, nor had even cooked any fern-root for herself, said, “If you ever were in love, tell us the tale; we should like to know how you make love in your part of the Ika-a-Maui.” “The fish of Maui,” New Zealand, which is said to have been fished up by Maui.
Pipo replied, “It would have been as great as the mountain you see yonder; but your fathers killed and cooked her.”
“Never mind that part of your love,” said another young woman; “tell us how you acted, and what you said.”
“And,” said another, “what kind of a person your lady-love was.”
“And,” joined in another, “tell us how she refused you, for she was no doubt good-looking. You must have thought that to be taken a slave was a good ending to your rejected offers; and you had your revenge by seeing her cooked and eaten.”
“No,” answered Pipo, “I was not rejected; but your fathers came just as she had consented to become mine, and put hot stones between us.”
“How long did you cry over her?” asked another girl; “I mean over the broken bones, which had once been hers, after all the flesh had been eaten from them. No doubt you collected them all, after the dogs had snarled and battled for them, to keep and cry over.”
“Did you not collect them and put them away in your own land?” asked another female voice.
“I have seen a piece of bone which Pipo has to fasten his mat with on the right shoulder; no doubt, it is one of his lady-love's bones, which he keeps as her love-token.”
“No, it is not,” answered Pipo. “Your tribe must be very ignorant if you think I would touch or carry the bone of one of our people.”
“Who taught you the ancient customs?”
“Do you not know, if any one was to do as you say it would be a kai koiwi, A cause of wasting away of the body—consumption.
The young woman who had not joined in the cooking and laughing, and whose name was Miro, said, “We will ask you another time to tell us all about the tapu; but now tell us about yourself and the cooked girl—I
“Miro,” answered Pipo, “what makes you so inquisitive? You know nothing about me or my tribe, then why ask about a people who were not brave enough to keep me from the inquisitive sneers of girls like you? I am your slave; but my ancestors were chiefs of rank, and they could command the elements, diseases, and even life and death.”
“Oh!” said Miro, “how true you speak. They were cooked, and therefore chose the death that overtook them. If your fathers were priests, how is it they did not know that our people were so near to you? The gods tell priests of coming events.”
“It may be,” answered Pipo, “that the gods do tell what is in the future; and as such facts are more especially sweet to young women, I wonder if you will tell us what your grandfather has told you about your future husband? Do not look so red. But as you wish to hear of my love for one of my people, tell us first what your priest-grandfather has told you about him who is to be your husband.”
At this moment a voice out in the darkness was heard to say in a clear tone, “Pipo, do not ask her whom she loves.” All the women started with astonishment, and looked round in the direction from whence the voice came. Pipo asked, “Who are you?” but received no answer. One of the young
“Ah! Miro,” said Pipo, “I must really tell you my love-tale, for you can learn how to act in your own case. I will not sneer at you girls as you have been sneering at me, for you no doubt think yourselves better than Taranaki people; I belong to the Puketapu tribe, who reside near the Hua, at Taranaki. I am the son of a father who has a name in Maori tales of war, and my mother belongs to the Waitara people.
“We lived in a pah near the beach, where the surf is least heavy; the west side of which is washed by the rollers at high water. A little farther inland, and higher up in the clouds, there is another and larger pah, in which a great many people lived—about three times as many as in our pah—a creek came out to the beach to the north of us, which separated us from them. In the summer the young people of the two pahs used to bathe in the mouth of this creek, and no doubt you know that both boys and girls meet among the crowd of bathers. I need not say I was a boy of high rank then, though but a slave now. Among the crowds who joined in bathing there was a girl; she was the best of all, and often, while bathing, I laughed at her, and made sport of her, in love.”
The voice in the dark said, “Yes, in the same way that Miro now does to you.”
Miro jumped up in a rage, and, with a furious gesture, said, “I will not be made the sport of slaves and common people. Is not the daughter of Te Rou more than a thing to be laughed at?”
“Yes,” answered the voice, “if you will tell us the name of the one you love.”
Miro said to a girl, “Go and ask Aramita if Heta is to be allowed to make sport of me. Tell her to keep him with herself, and let him listen to her love-tale, and not come here where we are listening to the tale of a man of another tribe.”
The voice said, “But I am not Heta.”
“Who are you then?” asked the girl who had just been ordered to go to Aramita.
“I am the man loved by Miro,” answered the voice.
This abashed Miro so much that she said, “Go on with your tale, Pipo; it is a slave who interrupts our amusement.”
“Stay here and be kind to Pipo,” continued the voice.
“You know how to talk; talk for yourself,” answered Pipo.
“Stay here,” again said the voice, in answer to Pipo.
Many of the girls now crowded near the fire, saying, “We are afraid there is something in the voice like the voice of a spirit.”
“Of a spirit!” said Pipo, “who ever heard a spirit talk?” And continuing his tale, he said: “I laughed
The rains at the spring equinox, when the kowhai (Sophora tetraptera v. grandiflora) is in flower.
One of the young girls interrupted him by saying, “But you have never been brave enough, Pipo, to bear the pain of the uhi-a-mata-ora. The tattooing adze.
“You may laugh,” answered Pipo, “if laughing is your food. I know that I was not baptized with the ceremonies of the goddess of women; and but for one of your sex and the intrusion of your fathers, I should have been tattooed as beautifully as you could wish the face of your beloved to be.”
“Let me mark your face with soot and the water of the poporo,” Solanum aviculare.
Miro, very impatiently, said, “Do not mind that chatterer, Pipo, but tell us your tale.”
Pipo again continued: “Koha's father was of higher rank than our family; he was the chief of Whakarewa, the larger pah; ours was called Pukeariki. As I have told you before, our pah was on the seashore, and our people always took to him the best of fish we caught at sea. Thus we admitted Rangi to be our ariki. Lord.
A voice interrupted him by asking, “Are you a judge of beauty?”
Pipo, who knew the voice came from a girl who was darker than usual, answered, “Yes; I should say that the green-stone in Miro's ear is beautiful; but if it was black, and not clear, it would be ugly.”
This reply caused a loud titter, which so annoyed the young woman, that she jumped up, and, in a pet, kicked the one next to her, and retired into the house in which she usually slept.
“Rau,” continued Pipo, “was most beautiful, but she knew it, and in her conceit had often refused those who loved her; thus her fame became known a great distance from our marae. The open space in a pah. The edible fern, Cyathea medullaris.
“Tell us what it is; perhaps we have not heard of it.”
“It is like this,” answered Pipo, taking up a piece of flax which was near him—all the young women gathered close round him to see. “There, you see this piece of flax; I take this end and tie it round the other, making a knot that will draw along the flax; then with the end round which I tied the first knot I make another round the first end, so that should any of you take the piece of flax which now forms a circle, and try to extend that circle, the two knots will draw together, each one sliding along the part round which it is tied, and if pulled hard they will make one tight knot. This is the love-token we send; if it is accepted, then the girl who receives it pulls the two knots tight together, thus consenting to become the wife of the man who sends the love-token. I sent one like this to Koha by Ta, who followed her all over the pah without being able to draw her attention, holding the token under his mat; but he was attracted by the sight of an old woman who was preparing
“The old woman, who saw that he was ignorant, said, ‘Do you ask the name of this fish?’ At the same time she took a guana out of her basket and threw it at him, saying, ‘There, you bird of the forest! Where were you when the sun shines, not to see that fish?’
“The Taupo natives dread lizards more than most tribes; and as the guana came with a slap against his neck, the head and tail meeting round it, he forgot everything, threw up his arms in an agony of fear, dropped the love-token, his mat, and everything he had on, and rushed out of the pah, yelling and screaming in such a manner that he drew the attention of all who were at the feast. I heard his scream, and saw him rush away naked, jumping and yelling down the hill in a direct line for our pah, as if a war party was after him. I thought that Rau had beaten him.
Haliotis Iris.
“He continued in this state many days, growing thinner and thinner. I was very fond of the boy, for I was not many summers older; and I watched and took care of him. The days seemed like so many years. I was so impatient and anxious to know what had become of my love-token, I could not wait any longer, and went to the other pah,
“She asked me ‘What has become of the owl who said to me, “What is the name of that fish?” when I was preparing to cook a kaweu (guana)?’
“‘Oh! it was with you he got the fright?’
“‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘As he wished to know what fish it was I was preparing, I threw one of the lizards at him, and it wound itself round his neck. He screamed, and left his mat and a piece of flax tied into a love-token. As he did not come back, when I had completed my work I took the love-token and with it tied the tails of the things he called fish. Some of our people thought the token was intended for Rau, which so enraged her father that he ordered it to be hung up in the smoke in a cookhouse, and that food should be offered to it every day.’
“This offering of food is intended to show that the sender is of low degree, and, as such, is not the man to obtain a woman of high rank. I then asked her, ‘When are you going to the south?’
“‘To-morrow,’ she answered.
“I returned to our pah, and finding Ta much better, in conversation I told him all I had heard about the lizards. This seemed to make him quite well; he inquired if the woman who had thrown the lizard at him was also going south. On the morrow we both went to see them leave, and stood among those who waved their garments to the departing people. I saw Koha, and she gave one, but such a look. We stood
“We followed and overtook them on the coast, and remained in their company as they went southward, staying with them wherever they stopped for the night; and with them reached the pah Ketenikau, where we were to remain some days. This pah was built some distance from the beach, and inland of it, towards the great mountain called Taranaki. There was some extent of scrub and fern, and then a forest. Ta soon became very friendly with a young man of the place, called Keko. They often went over all the country, catching eels and birds. There were many creeks winding in all directions through the scrub and fern land; and wherever any creek took a sharp turn where the ground was soft it made a deep hole. At these holes the two friends spent much of their time catching eels. Keko told Ta a great deal of the history and the acts of the chiefs, which led him to inquire about Nehu, the old woman who threw the lizard at him. He found that Keko was related to her. She was his aunt, and was a widow; her husband had been killed and eaten, his people having joined the Waitotara and Whanganui tribes against Taupo. The battle took place at Waitotara, where he fell. He had been a good man, and kept his storehouse full of
Miro exclaimed, “Oh, she was a wainamu!”
Pipo answered, “Yes, we all know that. There are men, and women, and children amongst us who cannot eat certain kinds of food. We also call such people wainamu. Nehu was a wainamu with eels; but she liked the kanae Mullet of the North Island. Mugil perusii. Supposed to be one of the coprosmas—doubtful. Veronica. Native village.
One of the girls asked, “What is a kiore? Is it the common rat?”
“You silly girl,” answered Pipo. “How ignorant you people of the north are! No, it is not a rat, although the name is the same; it is a fish resembling an eel; but it has a head like a dog, and is never seen on the surface of the water except in the calmest weather. The kainga was all in confusion; the people were calling, bawling, ordering, all running hither and thither, every one commanding, no one obeying. At last the nets were ready, and the priests repeated
The incantations said over a new net the first time it is put into the sea. An evil omen. Supposed to be a convolvulus—doubtful. Supposed to be a coprosma—doubtful. A sort of tub. Podocarpus totara. Temporary shed.
“While I sat looking at the old lady, I suddenly heard a voice say, ‘Is that you, Nehu?’
“She looked like one just risen from the dead. She answered, ‘Yes. I am here, quite ill. I shall go to where you are.’
“I asked Nehu, ‘Who is it?’
“‘It is my husband Rita.’
“‘Is he here? I never saw him,’ I again asked.
“The voice said, ‘Yes; I am dead, but I am here. You are ill, Nehu, and I have come to cure you.’
“‘O Rita!—is that you, Rita? Come, come!’ cried out Nehu.
“‘No, Nehu; it is you who must come to me,’ said the voice.
“‘Where to, Rita?’ asked Nehu. ‘To the world of spirits? O do not call me there now! If I die here, my friends will not carry my body to our kainga. I shall be buried with the bones of other tribes. O Rita, do not call me now!’
“‘I will go with you,’ said Ta.
“‘And I also,’ said I.
“The voice said, sternly, ‘Come at once; come, and follow me.’
“Just now two girls, one from our own party and one from the kainga, came near; but they had not heard the spirit speak. Nehu got up, and staggered along the road in the direction from which the voice came. I followed her. The two girls, who wanted to see what the stupid old woman was going to do, followed at a greater distance behind with Ta. The voice said again and again, ‘Follow me,’ leading the way. After going some distance Nehu sat down. She was weak, ill, and tired. The voice kept saying, ‘Come on.’
“The two young women, having come near, heard the voice, and asked, ‘Who is that?’ I answered it was a priest, who had promised to cure Nehu. His orders were, she was to go to a place which he would show to her, and where she would be cured. Nehu again started. Our road led us towards some high scrub.
“The voice again called, ‘Come this way,’ calling her to go to the right of the road, into a patch of high scrub.
“Nehu tried to make her way among the scrub, stood still, coughed two or three times, and exclaimed, ‘I cannot go; there is no road!’
“‘Here I am at the place,’ cried the voice. ‘You have not far to go., Nehu proceeded.
“I heard a cough, a noise of twigs breaking, a
“The voice said, ‘Let her drink: that is my medicine—let her drink.’
“I then heard a ‘Bub, bub, bub; cough, cough, cough; Ri, Ri; cough; I am dead!’
“‘No,’ said Ta, who had plunged in, and had taken hold of her.
“I went to the bank, followed by the girls, who asked me, ‘Where is the priest who is to cure her?’
“‘Here I am,’ answered the voice from the other side of the creek.
“I said, ‘O Ta, save her! She is unable to swim, she is so ill.’
“‘Let her drink,’ said the voice on the other side of the creek.
“‘Do not hold my arms, Nehu,’ said Ta, ‘or I cannot swim to take you to the other side.’ Again there was a splash, and Ta rose to the surface and said, ‘She will be drowned; I cannot help her; she will hold my arms.’
“‘Come this way,’ said the voice. ‘Do not hold his arms, Nehu.’
“She obeyed the order, and Ta took her to the bank from which the voice came. When they had landed there we heard a most unearthly yell, which so frightened them that Ta let go his hold of Nehu, who fell down in a fit, and he ran away. The girls and myself
“The girls were so frightened that they kept screaming all the time. We were yet some distance from the pah, when we met a party of armed men in order of battle, headed by the chief. They had heard the terrible yell, and, thinking we were attacked by some murdering party, had come to our assistance. We told them all we knew, and returned to the settlement, while they went on, accompanied by Ta, to bring Nehu. When we reached the pah all was uproar, our people being the only quiet party. The inhabitants, especially the women, seemed as if they were all mad; some rushing here and there, others crying, while many were tying up the entrances to the pah, all trying to do as much as they could. One old woman of rank was pacing up and down the main road shouting hoarsely—her voice was not unlike the sound of water dashing against the hollow banks of the seashore—and urging the people on to deeds of daring; but no one seemed to notice her. All were talking, and no one listening; so that they did not hear voices in the direction from which we expected the men to come who had gone for Nehu. There was so much confusion when we entered that no one asked the news, nor did we ask them to hear anything we had to say. I had already told the two girls it was the spirit of Nehu's husband who had given the loud yell which had so frightened us; and, besides, we wanted to see the fun of people making so much fuss about nothing, no one
“The old lady kicked, said some words, opened her eyes, and sighed many times. When they let her down, then, O then, the words that her tongue gave birth to were innumerable. She said she had been to the world of spirits, and had seen all the chiefs who had died since
“Ta took her to her house, and attended to her until she had recovered, which, like all other good things in this world, took place in three days. One morning after the three days my heart was made dark by Ta informing me the old lady had talked to herself, during her illness, about the day of the great talk which she thought was to take place that day in the great house. He thought the meeting was to learn from the young folk who were their favourites, and the people might take the matter into consideration, and select husbands or wives for each.
“‘If this is true,’ said Ta, ‘why did the gods lead us here? Do they intend to let you see the one you love given to another? The old men are to speak in the evenings; after the evening meal the young people
“‘We must go,’ said I to Ta. ‘We shall hear the words of all the good-looking girls of this pah. Who knows but you and I may be proposed by some of them, if not by some one else.’
“It was in the early part of the day when Ta told me this, and it caused me to sit and look at the sea and its waves, and then inland at the high mountains in the distance. My heart was as rough as that sea, and my spirit as high as the mountains I saw. I suddenly thought, if Koha were to accept some one of the young men of the kainga, I should hang myself. O how glad I was when I found this thought! I could put myself to sleep, and never see her more. It made my heart jump right up to my chin. I got a cockleshell, and went to see old Nehu, and, after some talk with her, I asked, ‘Do you grow the tihore flax here?’
“She answered, ‘Why?’
“‘Because it is the chief of flax, and is so white when made into fibre.’
“‘Have you been blind since you came here?’ she asked, and, holding up a kaitaka mat which she had made, she said, ‘There—the flax of which that mat is made is tihore. Do you not know, or have you not heard from your people, that we not only make the best mats in this island, but that we make them of the tihore? Go and stand at the door of my hut, look over the palisade of the pah towards the south-east.
“‘Yes; I see what you say is true. There is your mat.’
“‘Oh no,’ said Nehu; ‘you must take that. I shall also give one to Ta.’
“What an evil omen, I thought, to be compelled to accept a gift from an invalid. I took the mat, however, and went to the flax-bushes, cut as many leaves as I wanted, and took them to my hut. After having spent some time in looking at my new mat, and thinking of Koha, and what evil would come from my accepting it, with my cockle-shell I cut the back of each leaf half through, then holding it with my right hand, with the cut side downwards, I pressed the shell on its upper side, and scraped the shell along the leaf with a steady pull. This took all the green part from the fibre, and left it clean and white, and soon I had a large bundle of it ready for my purpose. I did not beat the fibre as the old women do, but at once began to plait an eight-plait rope. I was determined not to have a common rope. I had just completed my work when Ta came to tell me the people were all gathering in the great marae, the principal open space in the pah, and if I did not go soon, I should not hear the old chiefs speak. I tied my new rope round my waist
Heteralocha acutirostris, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 63.
“After some time an old chief arose. He had red eyes, and no eyelashes; only a few hairs remained on his head just above his ears, which were left there by the gods to keep them warm. His legs were like the dried stalks of the thistle, and his voice was like the quacking of ducks. Who he was I did not know. He said, ‘When I was young, ours was a great tribe; we were a very numerous people then. My fathers called a meeting like this to ask me what girl I would have as my wife. I did not know what answer to make.’
“I must tell you girls this old chief paced from the centre of the marae to the palisading of the pah while speaking, and he reached the palisade just as he said the last words, when a voice from outside asked, ‘Had you red-ochre in your eyes at that time?’
“The old chief started with rage, and asked, ‘What slave is that who dares to speak when I am speaking to my people?’
“‘Go on, old man,’ said the voice; ‘tell them the name of the girl who would not have you.’
“‘I shall die of rage,’ said the chief, ‘if some one does not go and keep that slave from talking.’ He
“He then continued: ‘If I find him, he shall be cooked for my guests to eat, after my son has said which girl he will have for his wife.’
“‘What woman would have your idiot son?’ asked the voice.
“‘Your head shall be cooked at once,’ cried out the chief. ‘Hold your tongue!’
“The voice answered, ‘I will; but let your speech be short, or the ducks will laugh, your voice is so like mimicking them. If you speak long, you will become hoarse and be like the kakao, the bird of evil omen, whose voice is made gruff by the hairs of the dead, which stick in his throat. Stay here; have done.’
“The old chief sat down in a perfect fit of desperation, his rage making him quite weak. His eyes had become redder than usual. The brother of the last speaker rose up (I learnt from our people that they were the head chiefs of the tribe), and said, ‘Who can it be who thus dares to interrupt our head chief? Truly, this people must be slaves if they do such evil work. When was it ever heard amongst us in days of old that a child dared to cry, or even a dog howl whilst a chief was speaking? What we have heard to-day will be told of us to all the world, and we shall be called a tribe of slaves!’ Addressing his brother, he said, ‘Why sit down, O my eldest brother? Why listen to the talk of one who is mad? Do you forget that mad old slave who some time since went into the forest, and whom we
“‘No,’ answered the son of the red-eyed chief; ‘my father shall not speak again. You are older than I am, and I would not have spoken, had I not felt the truth of the proverb which says, “The gods speak by madmen.” If this madman has spoken, he has no sense of his own, and therefore the gods have seen there is no one here who is to be my wife. Let my name be mentioned at some future Pa-kuha Betrothal.
“Rangi, our chief, now arose, and, after pacing up and down the marae a short time, said, ‘I did not come here to talk. It is not for a stranger to speak. Let your words be known, and let the people hear your thoughts. I am old now, but when I was young, like some of the chiefs I now see, I looked on many a woman's face, and knew which of them I should like for my wife. Speak, O fathers! and tell your thoughts, and let the young people say whom they love. Why should man live alone? Do not the birds build their nests before the summer comes? Do not the lampreys stem the rapids before summer comes, that they may go and prepare a place in which to keep their numbers from decreasing? And are you, O young
“The sun had set, and the slaves began to light the hangi fires, the smoke from which, made the pah look like a small burning mountain.
“The people sat in groups, the girls and young men separate, while the old people in silence sat, some here, some there, not even looking up when a burst of loud laughter came from one or more of the groups of women, who were enjoying the fun arising out of the topics discussed at such meetings. The kai Food. Corynocarpus lœvigata, the berry of which, about the size of a plum, is cooked for food. The large meeting-house of the village.
“He said, ‘I am an old man; I heard what you, the chiefs and the boy, have said to-day; and as there are many who will speak to-night, I ought to teach you how to act when you young people speak and make up your minds to take a husband or a wife. Let me tell you girls, if you take husbands from your own people, you will remain in the tribe, and your children will take the place of those who die, thus keeping up your strength.
“‘Those who take husbands from other tribes, rob us of our power; a young man who takes a wife from another tribe, and she by birth is of a higher rank than he, forsakes his own and follows her, and gives his arm to those who soon may be our foes. This we once have felt. I teach you how to act. But if you will do as you like, you then fulfil the proverb, “Children laugh and old men cry.”’
“Nehu jumped up and said, ‘I did not come here to be told of evil done by Rita; he was one of you; he asked me to love him.’ (Here the old woman straightened herself up as erect as she could. She had a new mat round her waist and another over her shoulders, and a few huia and albatross feathers in her head; and tried to look younger than she was.) ‘You all know that on his account I refused one of our own young
“A young man arose, looked up each side of the house, and then at Nehu; he said, ‘Yes, you are right, and I will give you the opportunity of being revenged; I have three wives, but not one of them can or will make mats. Then consent before all the people to be my wife.’
“‘Why should you talk?’ said a young woman who stood up, and shook the long hair from before her face, first with a jerk to the right and then to the left, which sent the hair like a root, of sea-kelp thrown by a wave, and with uplifted hand she continued: ‘We do not want to hear the words of old men and women; you know the proverb, “When the old net is rotten the new one is taken into use.” You who have spoken are covered with the weeds of Tura (grey hairs). Why should we listen to grey-headed women and grey-headed men? Speak, young people, this is our time. Is not
“An old woman answered, ‘If you do not tell us more of yourself, we must speak, for we shall have to ask questions.’
“‘Yes, you may tell me whom our son loves,’ answered the former speaker; ‘but do not say that he loves me, for I should have to say no.’
“The son of the red-eyed chief, whose mother had spoken, now arose, and said, ‘Why do you talk about me? I have said I did not wish to have my name mentioned at this atahu meeting.’ Betrothal meeting, same as pa-kuha, ante, p. 92.
“He sat down by me. I had become amused by the turn which the talk had taken, and, not being in a nice position, I went and sat down in a corner. In my hurry I left my rope behind, and could not return for it, lest my interrupting the speakers by going to and fro should cause me to be spoken of as a slave.
“A young man now said, ‘I don't want to say much; but listen, O people! My liking is for the daughter of Rangi; let me have Rau, and we will live here. She will come and live with us. Am I not of rank equal to hers? Then why should I not ask her to come and live with our people?
“‘No!’ cried the mother of the son of the red-eyed chief, ‘you cannot have her; my son has been long in love with, her, and she shall be his; you may have Koha, the sister, but Rau is my daughter.’
“Rau's voice at this moment was heard to utter a loud ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ and I saw the son of the red-eyed chief tremble and hold down his head. After I heard the name of Koha mentioned, my heart dried up, and glowworms fell into my eyes. I still sat and looked at the people, yet I neither saw nor heard them, or the words they said. The first voice I heard was the voice of a girl, which said, ‘Let the talk end, and the old people sit by the sides of the house and allow us, the young people, to have a haka A sort of game, consisting of a series of contortions of the body and limbs keeping time to a song or chant. Those who took part in the haka.
“In the midst of one of our rangi haka Haka songs.
“At this rebuke the young chief rose and went and
Food Baskets.
“‘Where is my son? asked the wife of the red-eyed chief.
“‘He is asleep in the corner of the house,’ answered a young man.
“His mother called him, but no answer came; she went to the door of the house and called again, and said, “How long you sleep; do not be sulky because the girl laughed at you.'
“As she received no answer, she swallowed the food she had in her mouth, and rubbed her hands to cleanse them from crumbs which might be there, and went in.
“We were all startled by a scream in the house, and, thinking the young chief was murdering his mother, I sprang up, and was one of the first to enter the house. I saw the old woman tearing the hair from her head and making as much noise as ten men attacking a pah at daylight. She had pulled my mat from the young man, who lay at full length with one end of my rope tied to his big toe, and the other end was tied round his throat with a slip-knot. He was quite dead. I knew the rope, but no one knew that it was mine.
“As I went out I met Rau and Koha, who had been to see him. I said to Rau, ‘He died because you laughed last night.’
“She answered, ‘If he was fool enough to kill himself, he might have been idiot enough to kill me if I had been his wife. A tree is blown down by the storm; it has not sense to keep itself erect. A man need not kill himself because he cannot get the wife he wants. Truly these people are cowards.’
“‘We must go home at once,’ I answered, ‘or there will be enough to do to show we are not cowards.’
“The corpse had been brought out and laid on mats in the marae; and all the people of the kainga with one voice joined in the tangi Wailing.
“In the midst of this the uncle of the dead man (after walking backward and forward for some little time) said, ‘My heart is dead; our bird of sweet song is gone. Who will eat the food I shall get at sea and on the land? Who is to fill his place? He was a man! I shall ask for a girl to be mine to fill his place. Let not my request be refused.’
“Rangi answered, ‘Yes, you are right to cry, but your sorrow is your own. Who brought death to your marae? We came here to see you, O my relations! and you wish to show how brave you are by the act of this your foolish son.’
“Rau, the daughter of Rangi, arose and said, ‘Let a girl speak. You have blamed me, and asked me to live with you as your daughter. Who can answer better than myself? No, O fathers! I will never be your child. There is the heitiki A carved green-stone image worn round the neck, hanging on the breast.
“When we were out of sight of the pah, Rangi called a halt and said, ‘When we may be attacked I know not, but let us be prepared. Let those who can fight divide into two companies; one go behind and one in front; let the women, children, and very old people be in the centre.’
“These orders were obeyed, and we again pushed on as rapidly as possible. By mid-day we had not got over half the distance to our pah; still on we went. I did not wish to die yet, or see my Koha killed. I said to our chief, ‘O Rangi! my feet are the feet of swiftness; let me go and tell our people who live near the creek, and they will come to meet us.’
“‘Yes’ said Rangi, ‘go, O son! and say we shall not die; but we are women, and are not old enough to guard ourselves against our foe. He has been taught the arts of war. Yet we shall not die unavenged. Go, O son! go.’
“I was off like the pingaos Desmoschœnus spiralis, the seed of which is blown along the sand with great rapidity.
“We had sufficient food to stand a long siege, and collected it all into the pah.
“When our preparations for defence were completed our old men became silent, while we young men ofttimes in the day climbed the puwhara A stage erected in a pah, from which outlook is kept for enemies. A dog-skin mat. A small mat. Scouts. War party.
“Day after day we were taunted and called cowards by the taua; words could not kill. We were at home, had plenty of food and water, and I could look at Koha, and put my tongue out at the taua. I could not wish for more. We knew no kumaras had been left in our plantations, and the fern-root growing near our pah was not the kind of which the natives of the south would eat. Good fern-root grows in the south. We thought they must give up the siege for want of food. Moon came and went, and still moon after moon they sat and looked at us. Day after day we heard them laugh and sing, and were now in want of water. For some time we had been able to get water from the spring on the south-east of our pah. One night a party of us young men went out as usual to bring water, each being fully armed and prepared to fight. The foremost man fell into a rua, An old kumara pit.
“No sooner had our man fallen than one of our party who was behind, hearing the calabashes break, cried out, ‘Be brave; there are two skulls cracked; charge—on! on! we are many!’
“At the same moment we met hand to hand with a party of the enemy. I could not see what our young men were doing, but struck a blow on my calabash, and said with a loud voice, ‘There! your skull is cracked,’
“Rau and her father sat together, looking over the palisading at the spring. Rangi saw the young chief Taka walking some little distance from the pah, and he cried in a trembling voice to the enemy, ‘Do you hear? My throat is hoarse from thirst; give me some water.’
“Some of the taua had pity on the old chief, and went and got some water, and were taking it to him; but others (near relations of Kari, the young man who killed himself) broke the calabashes, and nearly caused a fight among themselves.
“Rangi again called to Taka, who had seen the dispute about the water, and asked, ‘What name do your men call you?’
“He answered, ‘I am Taka.’
“Rangi asked, ‘Are you able to calm the surge which heaves with anger on the hidden rocks of Orongo-ta-Kupe?’
“‘Yes,’ answered Taka; ‘my arm the dog dare not bite!’
“‘Live in this world,’ said Rangi; ‘for I and my daughters are now dead for want of water, my thirst is so great. I am not able to say more. Live here; stay in life.’
“Taka, who came to avenge the death of Kari, knew that Rangi was the chief of the pah, and that Rau was his daughter. Her fame had reached his pah. He did not care for Kari, now he had seen Rau, and Kari was not now a man; Kari had become a worm. Kari could no longer speak–why should any fear him? A dead cockatoo cannot bite. Taka took a calabash and filled it at the spring, an act he had not done since he was a boy, and then only because of some childish pet to spite his mother. His men who saw him gave a shout of astonishment, thus drawing the attention of the whole war party to what he was doing. His act was of so strange a character, that all arose silently on their feet and watched his steps as he took the calabash to the spring, filled it, and then ascended the hill towards the palisade where Rau and Rangi stood.
“Our people, who saw Taka coming up, to honour him immediately made opening in the palisading. He was a chief of highest rank. All chiefs of high rank enter a pah by an opening through which no one
“Taka entered, and, going up to the old man, he held out the calabash of water, saying, ‘There, O chief of old age! did I not say the dog durst not bite this arm? This water is for you and your daughters.’ He walked a pace or two from them and sat down.
“A slave came forward and poured the water into the old chief's hand, out of which he drank.
“While he was drinking, Taka looked at Rau, and she in turn looked at the chief who had been kind to her father, and who had himself brought water for them.
“When the enemy saw their chief sit down, a whisper of indignation was heard from the lips of many; others exclaiming, ‘Taka loves war, but Rau he loves better. Now has set the sun of war. Why did we come here to be cast aside for the beautiful face of a girl?’
“After the girls had taken some water, Rangi said, ‘You are Taka, my thirst is quenched; and if your anger towards me is assuaged, let me hear the words of a chief ariki. Speak, O leader of the water party! You are young, and perhaps you were sent by the relatives of Kari, who strangled himself because Rau laughed at him. Why should my relatives ask you to come and attack me and my people for the act of a foolish boy? Are there not enough of them to come and talk with
“Taka arose and said, ‘O Rangi! I have heard your words about the foolish boy; but I was told you bewitched him, so that he lost his own thoughts, hence he killed himself. And then the rope with which he strangled himself was said to have been made by the gods, for no one knew where it came from, and the plait is unknown. I thought you were an evil man, and had practised sorcery on your relatives. And that great evil, the death of his father; who could make that man fear? who ever heard of his being afraid? Has he not been in battle since he was able to carry a worm to fish for eels? And for him to jump off a cliff was a proof that you were an evil man. I came to punish you. I find you are not the evil man they said you were. I know who bewitched that foolish boy, Kari. Tell me, O daughter of Rangi! what priest you invoked to repeat
“Rau jumped up, and, walking a little distance from where she had been sitting with her sister, said, ‘Sit down, O chief! whose name has come over yon mountains and been heard in our marae. You are the birds of fame inland; we of the coast are not birds of fame, hence you speak as you like to us. But, O young chief of fame! we are men and women, who are sons and daughters of men and women, even like yourselves.
“‘You blame us for the death of that stupid boy; you even say that I repeated the sacred incantations of our ancestors to cause his death. You cause me to say great. words. Hearken, then: I would not even have looked on such a man, a gull of the coast; then why should I take pains to repeat incantations to kill him who could cause no annoyance to me? Am I not my own master? Neither my parents nor relatives made me a puhi One betrothed.
“During this time the enemy had become quite furious, and many of them appeared on the beach with bundles on their backs. Seeing them Taka rose, and
A figurative expression for “Peace is made.”
“Immediately after hearing this, Taka's own men came flocking into the pah. They sat down and looked in silent admiration at Rau, who was sitting where she last spoke. I heard some of them say, ‘True, Taka has become the slave of that girl; but she is the only wife he could have: she is as beautiful as the snow-white crane.’
“The tribe of the red-eyed chief left in a rage for their home, and set fire to Taka's camp. When the flames were seen, Taka's tribe rushed down to the camp to save their mats, and wished to follow those who had departed, and punish them for the cowardly act; but Taka commanded his men to return and remain in the pah. After dark, Taka, who had been sitting with his people in the marae, rose and said, ‘Rangi, remain in your kainga, while I, when the sun rises to-morrow, will return to my place. I am ashamed to pass by the tapu where Kari is buried, for his people have insulted me. You see that even my name could not keep their hands from setting fire to my camp where I slept. O Rau! daughter of Rangi, whose fame reached me in my own place, come with me and let me show to my people the woman of whose fame they so often have heard.’
“Rau rose and said, ‘Your name has been known to me for many summers. You shall not go home ashamed. I and some of my people will go with you.’
“Rangi asked, ‘O Rau! do you know the word of Taka? Can you love him?’
“Rau jumped up in a hurry, and answered, ‘O old man! I have spoken. Taka knows what I said. It is for him to ask what I mean, and not for any other man, woman, or child.’
“Taka said, ‘Sufficient is your word, O beautiful bird! who shall sing to my people in the presence of strangers.’
“On the morrow Taka and his people left, accompanied by Rau, now his wife, Koha, Nehu, and myself. Instead of going south to his own place, he went north to visit Waitara. We first called at the Manuhorihi pah; from there we went up the Waitara river into the interior, and reached a pah on the east side of Taranaki Mountains, where some of Taka's relatives lived. While here I told Nehu of my love to Koha; the fight at the water-spring had caused Nehu to like me. She consented that we should return to our people and tell them, that Rangi and the others might know; and Koha agreed to this. We soon left Taka and his friends, and had returned but a short distance towards our home when we were met by a party of Ngapuhi warriors, your fathers, who had been sent by the main body to look for food. They took us prisoners, killing Nehu, Koha, and most of our party. They cooked and ate them. I was made to carry some of Nehu's and Koha's flesh to the main camp, where I had to cook and do such work as I continue to do.”
Miro asked, “Then she was not your wife, Pipo?”
Pipo answered, “No; but I loved her, and she loved me. I hope I shall get revenge to-day for her being killed, and for the insult offered to me, whom your fathers made to carry her mangled corpse.”
When Pipo had finished silence reigned, and all slept till the morrow.
The sweet potato.The day was now breaking; the forest robin, by his “Tou! tou! tou! tou!” told of the coming day; the slaves were busy; and soon the din of pounding the fern-root re-echoed in the forest, rousing all who still slept. The younger boys and girls who had slept near the great fire awoke out of their sleep, and soon all within the pah were stirring. The warriors’ camp again showed signs of life. Old Nga was sitting up in a small shed apart from all the rest, and only large enough for one to sleep in. Takuai had also passed the night in a similar shed, separated from the warriors. The morning meal of fern-root was soon prepared. Only fern-root is eaten by a war party; it only is the food of Tu, the god of war; kumara
After they had finished their morning meal, all the warriors sat looking at the priests, Nga and Takuai. Tupu, who was the first to speak, said, “What are we
Mato, a chief of the Kopura tribe, and also a priest, though yet young, said, “Yes. I dreamt that I saw the face of a female looking at me out of the ground. I know we shall not be beaten to-day.”
“We have not time to talk,” said Ngau. “Let each man repeat his kitao Incantation.
All the warriors now rose, and each one stepped aside into the forest to say his incantation over his weapon. Every man had his own kitao taught to him by his father or grandfather, which was sacred to the use of the family, each repeating his own in an undertone, lest any of his fellow-warriors should learn the words. Mato, the young priest, repeated the following over his weapon:—
As soon as this ceremony was over, the men marched in a line close to each other towards Otu pah. A number of the younger warriors went in advance of the main body, and while yet at some distance from Otu,
The arrow-spear is made of the manuka, which is split into pieces the size of the thumb; one end is allowed to remain of this thickness for half the width of the hand, the remainder, which is about twice the length of the arm, is scraped with a shell or sharp stone until it is about a fifth the size of the head; where the head begins to taper the wood is deeply notched, and to the head is tied a piece of the woody part of the ponga (fern-tree). This is the arrow. The warriors also have a piece of wood, about the same thickness as the arrow-head and about a fathom long, to one end of which is tied a short line made from the prepared fibre of the flax; this line is about a yard long, and the other end of it is made into a knot as large as the end of the thumb. Halfway between the point of the arrow and where the head begins to taper the knot is passed round so as to come to the side of the line nearest the arrow-head, so that when it is pulled tight, and pulled out in a direct line with the arrow-head, the knot is in a line with the arrow-head; the knot keeps the line bound tightly round the arrow. The arrow thus prepared is laid on the ground, the head being put on a piece of wood or stone to elevate it a little, the warrior holding in his hand the stick to which the line is attached, gives it a jerk forward with a force that sends the arrow a great distance. When the arrow has, by the jerk given it, gone until the line is parallel with the thin part, the line being behind the knot loosens itself without any check to the arrow. When an arrow thus thrown strikes a man, the sudden check makes the thin end quiver to such a degree that it breaks off where it had been notched; the ponga is so poisonous that before it can be extracted it has done its work, the wound festering so much that life cannot be saved. Corynocarpus lævigata.
The attacking party having sat down, Ngau said to them, “As our foe is not very powerful, go, O young men! and face them, and let the proverb be fulfilled by you which says, ‘The small grub may fell the large tree.’ If you cannot take the pah, your fathers will follow and teach you.”
This was an order the young men had not expected to hear, and in great glee they at once left the sitting warriors and went out into the open. The grove of karakatrees was the point of a forest which grew on the spur of a ridge coming from the mountains. To the southwest of the grove was the pah, while the kumara plantation was on the west, and between the karaka-trees and the creek. One of the trees had been blown down and the earth torn up by the roots, and the trunk of the tree itself formed a breastwork, behind which sat the women and children, who had come from Te Roto. They were talking and laughing, not seeming to think of war, death, or defeat. The young warriors rushed up to the pah, and attacked it by throwing some of their arrow-spears into it; but as they could not take deliberate aim, there were no casualties at first.
A cry was heard in the pah. One of the arrows had done its work. Encouraged by the wail, three young men hurried up to a small thicket close to the pah. A young Otu warrior stepped cautiously out, and, before his spear was seen, had sent it through the chest of one of their number. The other two defended their comrade until assistance came up. The young man who had done the deed retired unhurt, and in great glee
The corpse was borne to the karaka grove, and laid down behind the fallen tree, in the midst of the laughing women. One of them remarked, “How soon they have killed one of our men!” Another said, “He was here just now!”
But one of them, a young woman who was about two paces from the corpse, sat in mute amazement, looking more like a statue of stone than a being of flesh and blood. She did not move, not a tear was in her eye, the only perceptible sign of life being a slight quivering in the muscles of the neck. Thus she sat for some time.
When the corpse was borne past, Tupu, who was sitting with a group of chiefs near the mound, stood up, looked at the face, and sat down again covering his face with his mat, beneath the folds of which could be seen the heaving of the brave man's chest, caused by the fulness of his sorrow. He rose, took two or three steps towards the corpse, then back to where he had been sitting; he said, “O people! where are you? Where are the sons of my tribe?” Then addressing Nga, “True, O father! were your words when you told us what my words meant. True, what you told my younger brother when he sang a song to us at the Tama, and made his speech. True, you said he sang his own death dirge. True, O father! true was your interpreting of the omens.”
These words had the effect of arousing the young
“Sons of Mahu, to-day I must die! Why should I live when my Heitiki ornament has been plucked from my breast? We have seen the works of Tu ere this. We have been in the tide of war together.” Then addressing the young woman leaning on the corpse: “Weep, my child, and tell your sorrows until I come back with ample revenge. Weep, and let me hear your shrill scream of woe above the din of battle. Tell your grief to the clouds as they pass; let your voice be heard up to the stars; it shall be our word of command. Rise, O sons of revenge! and follow me.”
Thus speaking to his men, who had been leaning on their spears whilst listening to him, he and his men with a few bounds were gone from the karaka grove. They jumped down the bank of the creek, and went half running, half walking up the winding stream towards Otu pah.
Not a word had the young woman spoken, nor had she moved since she looked up at Tupu.
“They are gone,” said a young woman to her, “they are gone; look up, and let us listen for the voices of the warriors in the fight which must at once begin.”
Receiving no answer, she touched the mourner, who moved, but it was to fall as only the dead fall; her
Suddenly the command of Tupu was heard to echo in the mountains; it echoed and re-echoed as the valleys repeated the words,
“Tu, of the sharp face, Charge! ho! charge!”
Then followed the chorus yell of his men,
“Urge on! urge on!”
Only Tupu's own men had followed him; but when his command echoed in the grove, those warriors who had remained behind sprung forward to join the others, and only the women were left behind. All was silent; nothing could be heard save the Riro-riro, The wren Gerygone flaviventris, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 107.
Tupu and his men followed the windings of the creek, walking on the sand and pebbles at the edge of the water, and soon came in sight of the pah, when he repeated the words of the song of attack, and led his men directly up to a breastwork on the bank of the creek, formed by logs laid on each other, and which was one of the outworks of the pah. They were opposed only by a few men, who hurriedly threw their spears without effect among the attacking party. The
Haupa, the old priestess, was the last of the women to leave the pah. Tall and erect, she walked with a hani Carved spear. A long spear, sharp at both ends.
The pah was taken, the dead were not like human beings; so covered with dust and gore, they looked like mounds of earth in the shape of man. Paré now entered the pah. A group of women and children were near the trunk of a large tree which had been hollowed by the fires made in it to give light to those men whose mangled bodies, now so silent in death, had made those fires to light them in their midnight work. Paré, wishing to capture as many slaves as he could before the others came in, ordered the women and children to enter the hollow tree; those who obeyed he protected from the hands of his own party, but those who fled met instant death, with none to pity or spare.
In his glee Paré danced before his captives in front of the hollow tree, whilst the women and children at intervals cut themselves with stones and broken shells; now sobbing, now moaning, now crying and howling for their fathers, brothers, husbands, and relatives, and hugging their children with the frenzy of fiends.
Now might be seen warriors disputing for a woman, girl, or child, and to end the dispute, one would deal
Kaito heard the yell of triumph given by his foes when his mother fell, and, having now no one to protect, he sprang into the creek and gained the opposite bank. A spear pierced his ankle, he lost his hold of a tuft of ti, Cordyline Australis.
“Not death yet, but follow me.”
Kaito did not utter one word as he repassed through his own pah, and coming out the front gate he beheld an old woman partly kneeling and partly lying on her knees and elbows, her face in her hands, and her hands in the dust. Her skull was broken, and her blood had mixed with her white hairs and become clotted; he saw that the body still moved and breathed. It was his mother. He did not speak, but followed on with Rete, and sat down near to the prisoners in the hollow tree.
Tupu issued through the gate, driving before him a blind man, his wife, and three children, whom in the heat of battle, and as they rushed into the pah, he had ordered to take refuge on a house-top. Lives thus saved are tapu, and no one durst touch them.
The victors were reckless with excitement, some danced and grinned at each other; others for their own amusement and to taunt the captives, fought the battle
“The sun has not yet set,” said one. “Why let her live?”
Three youths arose, and with laugh and jeer called attention to their act; they struck each his blow again and then again on her head with his meré. The wrinkled body of the old priestess quivered for a time, and was still for ever.
Tupu, addressing the people, said, “We sleep here tonight; on the morrow we can return to our wives and children, and tell our victory to the warriors left behind to guard Te Roto. Who can speak, if I may not say what is to be done with the bodies of the slain? Our revenge has been great; you say we have killed many people. Let no one ask to eat the slain. Am I not right to speak thus? Is there not a child of mine slain? Ere we sleep, let the slain be put below the face of the earth. We must not sleep while they with sightless eyes look at us. Collect the dead, O my people! and take them out of our sight. They are our relatives; for their evil we killed them; but being our fathers and brothers we will not eat them.”
Nga said, “What my son has said is good. The gods would not like our people to eat those who can
Without uttering a word the men rose, and, taking an arm or leg, dragged the bodies along the ground in silent rage, not heeding stones, or roots, or clods of earth.
The dragging of the bodies over these caused the arms or legs to be thrown hither and thither, and the heads to jump from side to side, opening and shutting the jaws, thus causing the teeth to grind and snap together, like the gnashing of despair at their mortal foes. The bodies were hurled into a trench of the pah. Old and young, men and women, girls and infants were all thrown in together, and logs and stones heaped on them. The last corpse brought was that of a young man who had been pierced in the chest by a spear. He who carried him to the trench said, “This one is warm. He is not dead.”
“Warm or not,” cried Rete, “I am cold, and shall leave him to warm the ground.”
The other bodies were already covered when he was brought. They laid him on the top, and put a few small branches and some grass over him. Stooping down, they pawed the earth into the trench like so many dogs scratching.
Rising erect, Rete said, “I am tired. He can complete his own bed now. If it is not to his liking let his wife or mother get up and help him if he is not satisfied.”
Thus they were left half-buried in the trench
The young people gathered wood for the fires round which all were to sleep; they could not pass the night in the pah, blood having been shed there. The fires soon burned; and round each one men and women sat in a circle. They had no food that night, nor could they again eat until the whangai-o-tu The ceremonies due to the god of war.
Rete was in the midst of a song sung by his mother, which she had composed on account of his father having forsaken her for another wife (he had learnt it from her just before she threw herself over a cliff), when he saw, or thought he saw, a man walking in the pah. He stopped, and looked timidly towards the place where he had seen the object. The other watchmen had been listening to the song with their heads bowed on their knees, for all were in a sitting posture, keeping close to the fire for warmth. The sudden stoppage of the song caused them to look up; and seeing Rete gazing earnestly towards the pah, they looked in the same direction and saw something. Rete silently grasped his spear. All sat in suspense and fear. The person came towards them with the cautious step of one either in dread or weak in
The girl, recognising the voice as not that of her
Pipo answered, “Go to sleep.”
“But why did you not tell her that you loved her in return?” again asked the voice. The girl sat looking at Pipo in amazement.
The risen man went and sat down by the fire where Rete was sitting. He looked like a compound of life and death—the result of war in human form—life without voice, death still alive, sitting among men, women, and children, who knew no pity save to self. He had not sat long, when Rete and one of the watch rose, each taking him by an arm, lifted him up, led him a few paces from the fire, and, while still standing, smote him on the head with their merés. Rete, having satisfied himself this time that he was dead, said, “You must sleep now, for your mother never sang an ori ori (lullaby) that could soothe to sounder sleep than our merés. You may remain where you are; as we are not allowed to eat you, we shall not trouble ourselves to bury you. Remain where you are.”
The awakened sleepers, having seen the cause of their fear and witnessed his fate, were satisfied, and quietly went to sleep again. The principal prisoner, Kaito, was under the charge of Taonui, who allowed
It was grey dawn, and the camp awoke to life. The girl who had nearly strangled Pipo could see whom she had mistaken for her father, and felt vindictively annoyed.
Another girl said to her, “You need not be so angry; a live slave is better than a dead chief. You are a coward; you were afraid of a dead man walking. Why did you come with us if a dead man could make you fear? You tremble to see a whole body walking which ought to have been cooked; but you would not have refused the flesh of any of those limbs of his if it had been cut from other flesh, and come to you from a hangi. Pipo does not think anything of your hugging him, then why should you?” The speaker was Miro.
She was interrupted by the blind chief, who at this moment rose and said: “Listen, O fathers, and women and children! You came here to kill us all; why did you leave any one alive? I, who did not do the evil,
Tupu rose and said: “Who can answer you, O warrior of the world of spirits? As you are in two worlds perhaps you can speak in a way that we men cannot. Your face is in this world, but your eyes see into the next. We cannot answer your speech, for you have been talking to your friends who live where the sun never sleeps. Shall I get Nga to call a spirit to talk with you? I have not that power myself; but I could have sent five to that world yesterday, and I did think of sending you as guardian of the troop. If you are tired of life tell me, and I can cure you; but if not, keep silence, then we shall think you are a god, and are talking with spirits.” Then addressing all the people, he continued: “Hearken, O people! and listen, O ye dead! I shall speak to the dead and the living. We have done what we have done; but now I must act. My son is dead. O, ye warriors! ye did not rise to avenge me. I did not ask you; I was ashamed to do so. I arose, and with my
Rou rose and said, “I am not able to speak. I have not had anything to eat; and a hungry man does not speak but in anger.”
Tupu answered, “I know O Rou! what you mean.” Addressing the people, he continued, “Are the litters ready for the dead, O my people? We now start for Te Roto.”
The corpses of the young wife and her husband had been left in the karaka grove, whilst Nga, as the senior priest, was the only person who slept near them. The litters being ready, eight of the oldest warriors, without being ordered, took them, and went and sat down near the corpses. The young warriors rose first and led the line of march. Next followed the prisoners, then Takuai (the priest), Kete, and other warriors, next went the females, and last of all the eight who carried the two litters, Nga going with them. The advanced body halted as soon as they were near to their former encampment at Te Roto, when Nga ordered the litter-bearers to put their burdens on the side of the path, at some distance from the camp.
The warriors went on until they could be seen from their old camp, when Te Rou's wife and all the old women of the pah came out to meet them. They halted, and the women asked in a shrill voice,
“Whence have you come, great travellers of Tu?” The halting warriors, with one voice, answered,—
The chorus of women—
Chorus of warriors—
Chorus of women—
All the people from the settlement now joined the old women. They had not been visible before, nor could any one have had the least idea they were so near. So many men, women, boys, girls, and children had been hidden, it seemed almost as if they had
The warriors, who were tapu, and therefore could not yet partake of food, went to the stream in which they were baptized to Tu on a former occasion, taking with them everything they had brought from Otu (loot was also tapu, for it had been touched by warriors who had shed blood), and sat down facing the water.
Nga, the senior priest, now picked up a round pebble, and forded the stream, leaving his garments on the side with the warriors. He had also in his right hand some fern-root and a piece of human flesh, all of which he was to offer to Tiki, the creator of man, who must be appeased because of the slaughter of those he had formed. The kumara (sweet potato) is sacred to Tiki, also the right foot, especially the great toe of it. With that foot only does the Maori
He stood up, forded the stream, and went to the tuahu, The sacred place of the settlement.
Hearing this, the warriors simultaneously rose, and, facing towards the pah, they exclaimed, “Tiki and Tu are satisfied.”
As soon as Nga had put on his garments, he advanced in front of them towards the pah, the warriors following in a line, walking two abreast, each one carrying as he chose anything he had. When returning from the battle-field and up to the time of the whakanoa The ceremony of removing the tapu. Freed from the tapu.
Before they entered the pah, Tupu came out from the right side amongst the warriors and repeated the first words of a war-dance song. The warriors immediately took up the words, and danced with a slow and measured tread until they came to the words “It is now glaring at all of us,” when a frenzy seemed to come over them, and they danced furiously, making demoniacal attitudes and gestures—all keeping perfect time with each other, and with the words:—
The god of enjoyment of war.
During this dance the inhabitants of the kainga who had taken no part in the battle kept within the pah, but here and there faces could be seen peeping through the palisading, looking anxiously to see who in life were dancing there and who were left behind.
The dance was done. The warriors marched silently towards the pah. As Tupu, who was the first to enter, came in sight of the inhabitants, who were sitting in
The old men silently rose and leaned on their spears, which were stuck in the ground; while the old women, who sat in front, and therefore were nearest to the advancing warriors, threw their arms about and clawed the air, as a welcome to the gods who reside in the wind. The younger people kept their heads covered with their mats. The warriors continued to advance silently until they were about six paces from the people, then halted, formed into a square, put the ends of their weapons on the ground in front of them, and bowed their heads on the right side of their weapons. They and the people then joined in a general tangi, Wailing lament.
Food.The slaves alone were actors now, and cooked the kai,
The eight who had carried the two corpses rose and went away. The people who had not heard anything sat still, waiting. The eight came back; as they entered the gate with the two litters they were saluted by a general wail of grief from the people. The litter-bearers placed the two corpses in the centre of the marae, and again by themselves took their places a little distance from the warriors. Nga rose, and gave an account of the action taken by the war party, and told them how the bodies became what
Pani, who had continued to stand while he was speaking now said: “I had no wish, O people! to tell of what I received in battle, but if you wish to know then I must show the gift.”
“Speak on, speak on, and tell us,” cried the warriors.
“You remember after we had left our camp and had reached the entrance to the forest, each one went into the scrub, and by himself repeated his kitao over his weapon of war. It so happened that I was not far from Whare, who, being old and deaf, was repeating his incantation in a loud whisper. He is of high rank, and is entitled to know a kitao more potent than that of our family, which is of the younger brother's branch. My inquisitiveness led me, while I pretended to repeat my own incantation, to get nearer to him to learn, if I could, his more sacred and powerful form
A false repetition.
“Sit down, chatterer, when I order you.”
Pani sat down, and Miro said: “O, old men, what are you now? The days were, in olden times, when you would not listen to such men as Pani. Then why waste your ears on a man who has not a line of tattooing on his face, nor has sufficient courage in his heart to bear the pain necessary to enable him to
Rou rose, and said, “You are hasty, O my child! Children often mistake the words of men. Pani did say the words that you have taken umbrage at, but you misunderstood his meaning. He meant that Whare had been in the world so long he ought to have been cautious, old age and caution being nearly always joined, and he, Pani, was young, and had not seen life; he had not been tattooed; he had not taken a wife. Whare had a grown-up family. Pani has no one to cry for him on his death as a wife and children would, hence his mentioning Whare's tattooing and your love. If you had listened until he had done speaking, you would not have been thought foolish. O Pani! continue your tale.”
Pani rose again, and continued: “It is true that I am not tattooed, but if Miro will have me, I will prove my love for her, and have my face fully tattooed
Taiko, the mother of Pani, now rose, took a few steps, then turning to Whare, said: “If you had killed my son, I would have followed him. You have many children who are able to hold you here; but there would have been none to hold me if I had determined to go. You are old, and know that children are not brought up in one, two, or three summers. There was much I had to do before that child of mine whom you have killed could gather sow-thistle for me when I was sick, and with one stroke of your tao you nearly robbed me of him. His flesh is young, he will soon be well again; but my heart is dead because of his death. You must pay me for my death: my heart is old, and will not heal so soon.”
Whare rose and answered: “I will not deny I speared the boy. His was an evil act, to try to steal the sacred words of my incantation, and he made a tapepa in his own. Hence, I say, for his great theft my gods have caused the spear wound he feels. I will not be a slave; I will give the payment to cure your heart.” At the
A green-stone eardrop.
Old Taiko took it, and hung it to her ear.
It was long past noon, and the sun was declining fast, when Tupu rose and said, “The old men of my people know that my son and daughter must be taken home with us. They cannot remain with the dead of this place. Their fathers sleep at Matuakai, and there must they also sleep. We must not take our children home naked. Let the clothing of the dead be ready for them, that when we reach our home they may not look like slaves, and we be thought common people for neglecting our sleeping son and daughter.”
The old men caused new mats to be brought, which they placed on the litters, and the old men and women brought feathers taken from the tail of the huia, and white feathers taken from the wing of the albatross. The oldest among the women decked the head of the dead wife with some of the feathers, while the old men decked the head of the dead husband.
Tupu's men built a house without sides or ends in the centre of the marae, and covered it with the leaf of the nikau. Areca sapida, a palm abundant in the North Island forests.
One of the old men was noted for his silence. His beard, which hung down to his waist, was as white as scraped flax. His head was not quite bald; but the little hair left on it was as coarse as the swamp-rush. As he kept it rather short, each hair stood alone and erect. He did not join in the undertone conversation carried on by the other two. He sat with his heels drawn in close to his thighs, his chin resting on his knees, and his white beard hung halfway down to his feet. He sat facing the fire, with his hands clasped under his beard. In his youth he had been very brave, and was the leader of a company of youths who kept the old people in a constant state of turmoil by their mischief and daring. As a feat of his boyhood, he ate two bunches of the poisonous tutu Coriaria ruscifolia. A comb made of the white bone of a whale.
Turi, who had his long hair tied up in a tuft, asked Kino, who had the uncombed lock, “What do you think of the acts of our warriors?”
“Think?” answered Kino. “Do you ask me what your own stomach knows? Does it not feel as if it could talk to you of hunger? Did you ever know of such a thing as food being given to us by Tu, and we not to eat it?”
“You never told me why you keep that paki-paki taha (uncut lock of hair) on your head?” asked Turi.
“O, why confuse my thoughts?” answered Kino. “If you are ignorant, remain so still.”
“But tell me,” said Turi. “I have never heard why you keep it. Perhaps I can help you to get revenge, and then you could cut it off. I see that it will ever keep your remembrance alive. You do not work harder at anything than you do at slapping and scratching it.”
“Then listen,” answered Kino. “You know that I had a father.”
“Yes,” said Turi. “I know that you are not a god, and gods sometimes have fathers.”
“My father was a fine-looking man—at least, so I am told by those who knew.”
Turi asked, “Was your mother's father an ugly man? If he was, you are like him.”
“When my father was young there was a fine young
Turi here asked, “Did you not get your name, Kino, for being the ugly son of handsome parents? for Kino means evil, or bad. And I must say that your talk about the beauty of your mother makes me look twice at you to see if my eyes tell the truth, that you are really so ugly. Am I right in saying that you are the ugliest man of your tribe?”
“I never asked any one in my youth to tell me what ugliness or beauty was. I only tell you what I have heard, that my mother was very pretty.”
“Then,” said Turi, “you have been living like the hotete, The Sphœria Robertsii in its caterpillar state. The sphœria in its dead state.
“Yes,” answered Kino; “I was hungry the other day, when we came back after we had killed those people we were not allowed to eat.”
“Then did you not, during the time of your hunger,” asked Turi, “think that there was some sight which you would call beautiful for your eyes to look at?”
“Ah!” answered Kino, “now I know. I did think there was one sight I should like to have seen—I would have called it beautiful then—that was a basket of man's flesh cooked, some fat eels, and a cake of fern-root to eat with it. To me those are beautiful to think of. If that be beauty, I know what beauty is. My father and mother lived together three summers, and I was born. When I could crawl about, my father was busy cultivating his land: it was the time for setting kumaras. Not far from where he was working there was a plot of ground belonging to Rou, who was also putting in kumaras. The chief who had not succeeded in gaining my mother had been absent for some time from our settlement; but he had now returned, and was assisting Rou. Mind, I only tell you what I have been told.”
“Yes,” said Turi; “I was thinking that you must have been a man all the time you were a child; and now you are a child, when by age you ought to be a man.”
“Never mind the tuft of hair I keep, Turi,” said Kino. “Is it not manly to get revenge? It is only the act of a child to forgive and forget an insult. But I was telling you my father was one day busy planting for himself, while Rou and his party remained in the settlement to entertain some people who came to see him. My father did not come home in the evening, and after dark my mother and others took torches and went to look for him. They went to his cultivation, and there they found him lying dead on the ground, his face looking upwards to the sky, with his own ko (a spear-like spade) stuck through his bowels, pinning him to the ground, and his body was very much mangled. My mother, who continued to cry as long as he remained unburied, would not let me come near her, and some of my relatives took me and fed me. My father's corpse was taken to the cave in the forenoon, and in the evening the people sought for my mother, but she could not be found. A few summers since her bones were found in the forest: they were recognised by a green-stone eardrop which was found with them. I was too young when she hung herself to know anything about it, and I was often called a poor orphan by my playmates; but I did not resent it then. When my mother's bones were found, it caused the people to lament and talk, and all was heard by me,
The place of departed spirits.
“If your mother had lived,” said Turi, “she would have been very old now; and old age is hard to
A temporary shed open on one side, used by the natives in travelling.
“Yes,” said Kino, “but my mother would not have been as wrinkled as any of these three even if she had been as old as they are; her beauty would have kept her good-looking even in old age.”
“You are an old man,” said Turi, “but not so very old, and yet your face looks like the ground in summer, all cracks, although you are not tattoed. If you are so now, how would your mother have looked had she lived? The youngest of these three is old enough to be your grandmother.”
Poko rose, replenished the fire, and sat down in another place opposite Kino, who looked at Poko and Turi, both of whom had lain down, and appeared to be talking each to himself.
One of the three old women was a very bustling person, and kept the fire in a constant blaze. She had been the wife of no less than six husbands. Besides being very active otherwise, her lips and tongue were constantly at work. And being of high rank, her partners had been kept by her in a constant turmoil of work or argument, and besides, they had also to stand between her and those whom she had maligned with her tongue. Her first husband was cooked and eaten, having fallen while attacking his enemies. Her restlessness would not allow her to cry long over the eaten one, and she determined to marry a young
Podocarpus dacrydioides. An expression of love for the dead, and a propitiation to the gods who caused his death. Leptospermum scoparium. A native receiving an injury which might have caused death will speak of it as if death had actually followed, and representing himself as dead, will demand payment for his death. A large mat made from the best scraped flax, with a wide ornamental border.
Kino, who had been looking at the widow for some time, said: “Her widow's cap does not look like those I saw when I was a boy; the calabash comes too far on her head, and the tufts of hair are not near enough together, they do not cover the whole of her face. Besides, there are not enough of them in the plaits which wind round the rim to the tuft on the top of the calabash.”
“I think there is a design in the matter,” answered Turi. “Had she made her cap of grief, as I should like to have my wife to make hers, when at my death she raises her wail over me, there would have been sufficient hair on the rim to fall down and cover her whole face, so that she could see no one through it, nor could any part of her face be visible. But the old woman yonder does not like to be unseen, and if even Poko were to make love to her she would accept him. What say you, Poko? She has one good eye and one poor one; you have one good eye, so that there would be two good
Poko gave a grunt of amusement as he looked at the widow, who sat near the fire. The bald appearance of the upper part of the calabash, and the hair all round the rim, looked as if all her hair had slipped down from where it ought to grow, and had taken root round her neck.
The other two old women were not of the same active turn of mind as the calabash widow. They sat perfectly still, save that their eyes followed the busy, bustling movements of the widow whenever she replenished the fire. One of them, Koneha, had been a wife and a mother. Soon after the birth of her first-born she had quarrelled with her husband. She had not revenged herself on him, her rank being equal to his own, but she smothered her child. Her husband did not resent her murderous act; but his brother, who came with a taua A robbing party, also used as a war party. A long-handled wooden hatchet from the head of which hangs a tassel of hawks’ feathers.
The third was a woman of great age, whose head had become quite white. Her memory was nearly gone, and she could not understand an order unless given in an authoritative tone. Her form was reduced to a mere shadow. Her food was generally the scraps left by the tribe; and she spent most of her time talking to herself. She seemed as if she considered herself the intimate companion of the dead. She had loved in her youth; but the relatives of her lover would not allow him to have her for his wife. He joined a war party, and did not return alive. He was left behind—that is, all of him except his head, which his comrades preserved and brought back. For years she had been in the habit of sitting and talking to the head, until it had become a second life to her to keep it company. As this woman was making a long harangue addressed to her lover's head, a voice was heard in the pah, calling upon the ears of all the people to receive food from it. I.e., to listen to what would be said.
Poko, for a wonder, said, “Who is that calling to my ears to listen to his talk, just as I was about to tell a tale of the acts of my boyhood? Then there were great chiefs in the world. Since I went to the wars in my youth, men have become girls, chiefs old women, and women are only fit to wail to deaden the howlings of the dogs. Who is that fellow that calls to us, now that it is time to sleep?”
“Do not be angry so soon, Poko,” said Turi. “Your one eye makes you see but one part of the subject;
Astelia Banksii.
“Hearken, all ye winds of heaven!” cried Heta. “Listen, all ye stars, and the moon, and ye clouds that sweep over the Whakatere Mountains! Ye must carry my words to those who are not here to hear my voice. Listen, O chiefs, and ye priests! listen, ye women, and even you children! I have been killed even for you. Each one of you may lament for his own relatives; but I am brave enough to lament over myself for my own
Old Whare was now heard coughing, as he came out of the house in which he had remained since the warriors had eaten. He coughed several times, and then came towards the fires of those who kept watch over the dead; again he walked back, and disappeared in the dark. Poko and the old women watched him attentively, as he kept appearing in the light and disappearing in the dark. At last the old man said, “What did my young kinsman say about death? Did he cry over the dead now before us? How is it I never before heard of his love for Aramita? Has he become brave all at once since he saw my mistake? He has not yet killed a man. No; he has not even attempted to make a third hole in a man's face to assist his eyesight, or to give him a third ear with which to hear more readily the news of war, or the call to a feast or a lovetale. I made love in my day; I did not care for father, mother, priest, or tapu. I loved, and that was all I
Takuai called from his hut, “Whare, I must speak now.” At the same time he came out and said: “Who calls my young relative a coward? Who went to tell you what has befallen us? Are you all so young that I must remind you that the messengers who went for you might have been killed by the Otu people had they wished to do so? Did not Heta go and tell you? Was that the act of a slave when, in my hurry, I killed him, Struck him in the river, see p. 33. Payment.
The woman with an eye and a half, she of six husbands, jumped up and screamed as if in pain, and said: “Sit down, O Takuai! sit down. Why am I told of the just acts of years gone by? Was I not a widow at the time you speak of? And was not Whare without a wife? And I was not so old then. I did ask him for some hair from the tails of his dogs to make a cover for my head beneath which I might weep for my dead husband. Old men are not fools; but he did not or would not understand the meaning of my request; and as his dog injured me, I punished him for not accepting my offer to be his wife.”
Miro came out of a hut in which her mother and other women of her hapu Subdivision of a tribe.
The woman of the dogs'-tail cap threw it to Miro, saying, “There, child, there is the cap for you. I shall die of rage. You may become old like me, and have no son to protect you from the insults of a child girl.”
When divested of her head-dress she looked more like a bundle of bones covered by a mat than a woman. She bowed her face on her knees and began
Miro answered: “Wait; let your cap lie there. Did some say that I was to have Heta if Aramita was not allowed to become his wife? Am I a dog to be thus given to any one you like? I am not a man, I am not a priest. But I tell you, men, women, children, and priests, you may do as you please with your own. You may kill them and even bury them if they have done that for which they ought to be eaten. O Takuai! talk on, and let the birds hear your voice; perhaps some kaka may be persuaded by the power of your words, and when the sun rises in the morning make love to a pigeon. Love those you like, O Takuai! but I shall not allow you to say whom or where I am to love. You are tattooed, but your face is not beautiful; the lines are as crooked as a lizard's leg. Then why do you talk to me of a hairy untattooed face like his whom you have coupled with my name? Look out of your house and see me.”
She put on the widow's cap, and dancing with it on, she called upon Takuai to say whether he and Heta together would not make love to her. Though ugly as she now was, was she not better looking with all the bush of dogs’ tails round her face than ever they were, or ever could be? She took the cap from her head and threw it into the fire; and with a slow and defiant step returned and entered the hut, in which her mother and the other women were still talking in the most rapid and excited manner.
While Miro was dancing and speaking, the old woman who kept the preserved head of her lover sat in astonishment and pleasure, staring at Miro with her mouth half open, and her eyes sparkling with an idiotic glare, while her hands now and then moved as if in deadly struggle with some foe. Now she would partly rise, and then sit down again with a low laugh. But when the widow's cap fell on the fire she sprang up, took a bundle of wood and threw it on the cap, at the same time uttering a scream which caused Miro to look back over her shoulder, but she did not deign to stop or turn round.
The relict of six husbands jumped up, and was in the act of springing to the rescue of her cap, when the blighted one caught hold of her, and the two struggled, screamed, and tore each other. The noise they made roused the inhabitants of the pah, who hastened to see what they thought must be a spirit from the reinga carrying away a living being to that world against her will.
The third of the female guardians, knowing that all the people would come to see the cause of the fearful noise, at the first scream of her struggling companions had taken a firebrand and scattered the burning embers of the fire hither and thither all over the marae. The open space in every village surrounded by the huts. At the side or end of this space is always situated the house or hut of the leading chief of the village.
When silence was partially restored, old Poko rose and said, “Listen, O people! listen to a man who has never made a speech before in his life. Why did you nearly frighten me to death? Why did you come to see these two women fight? Why did any of you ever take a wife? Why did you not do as I have done? Why did you ever fall in love with a woman? Why did you ever have children? Why did you continue to keep men and women in existence? Why did you burn your feet? If you had been like me, there would not have been one of us here to-night. If you had not had children there would have been no death to cry over, and none to keep watch over the dead. If there had been no one alive, there would have been no need of fire to keep them warm. If there had been no fire you would not have burned your feet to-night. I say it is all your own fault. And you, O weeping women! are the cause of it all. You are the mothers of the boys; the boys become men, and the girls look at them; then they talk as the people of past generations talked. Then they become man and wife, and so the evil continues. I say to you, you are to blame for your burnt feet. If you had not been burnt you would not have the pain you now feel. My word is, let every one be as I am. Let no one be husband or wife, and in a few years we shall all sleep, and be away from the evils which have befallen you this night. My words are the words of the gods. The dead are gods. I
While Poko was speaking, mothers who had been weeping under their mats rose, and called their children by name, each answering by a loud yell of “I am burnt,” to which the mother would answer with another scream of motherly grief. Then might be seen hurrying to and fro in the dark half-frantic mothers led by the wail of their burnt children, and in their anxiety rushing against each other, or against children, the sudden contact bruising and knocking many over. And again there would occur a deafening noise of howling, crying, and angry words of scolding women.
The men sat in sullen silence until quiet was nearly restored, for all evils come to an end in time. When they one by one returned to their huts, Poko and his two companions again quietly nodded to the fire around which they sat.
She of the three women who had thrown the embers about said to the other two, “Have you done your work yet? You wished to have some sport, and I thought it would be right to put the fire out, so that you might not be seen by the people who would come. If you want any more sport say so, and I will not light the fire.” As she received no answer, she again made the fire, and whilst doing so she found part of the dogs'-tail cap, which she threw to the owner, saying, “What will he say when he knows the cap you made to weep under for him was put in the fire? I should not like to be a widow and have such
The old woman of six husbands, who had partially recovered from her fatigue of wrestling, got up and called upon all the world, and every person in it, to the rocks and fishes, to the birds and dogs, and lastly upon Whare, saying, “You, O Whare! are the cause of my now being killed. I have no one to protect me. Why should I continue to live alone to be the sport of girls? Go, O people! go and live as long as you can. O Tupu! see that I am buried with your children, whom I will keep guard over till the sun rises, when I will go with them.” She sat down and tried to convey with all the strength of her lungs the idea that her heart was really breaking.
She had cried some time, when a voice was heard from the other end of the pah, saying, “Stay, O mother! stay, and I will keep you from insult. I did not see before what your words meant, but now I do. Sleep, and then we can protect each other.”
The fire burned brightly, and the three old women sat near it to warm themselves. The light danced in flickering rays on the bald head of the now rejoicing wife of her seventh husband. The other two laughed at her bald, shining head, but she said, “You may laugh, but I shall not again be angry. Whare will protect me.”
A voice was again heard from the dark. The speaker was the brother of one of the former husbands of the woman whom Whare had agreed to make his
Having heard the speech of the brother of one of her former husbands, the newly-engaged wife rose to speak, when one of the other two women said, “Mind what you say, old Whare is listening; his eyes may not see the wrinkles in your face, but his ears can hear the cracks in your voice.”
Standing still, she said, “Does my brother ask me where my children are? Do all the people in the world have children? If I never had a child you cannot blame me for any ill names it gave its father's brother. I know that my husband was not a great chief, because whenever he wanted to take two or three other wives I would not allow him; he, according to your own words, was not so great a chief as you are. You have three wives. But I have, year after year, offered to teach your children to make mats, if they were girls, and you have always answered, ‘Taihoa, By-and-by.
Silence had reigned for a short time, when a young woman called on Takuai and all the old men of the pah to listen to her; it was Aramita who spoke. She said, “What evil have I done? You, O fathers! have seen me ever since I was born. Was I a child of evil omen? Did those who gave me life curse me before I came by giving me to the son of some chief unknown to me? Am I a puhi, A woman betrothed.
There was one hut in the pah, the occupants of which had not taken part in what had transpired outside. That was the hut which Rou, his wife, and relatives occupied. On his return from the fight, Rou had narrated all that took place in the battle.
In answer, his wife said, “If you are not fed by others I shall not feed you. Go and get food for yourself. Go feed your good brother Tupu with kumara. Such food is the best for you. Am I to live when those who were killed have not been avenged? Are we slaves, that we are to die like slaves by the hand of any man that likes to kill us, and you are not brave enough to defy the woman words of a man like Tupu? O, why did I remain here, and not go with the old women who went to the fight? Truly you are not as good as my old slave Konehu. She would shame you. You have your eyesight and can see your enemy. You are young compared to her, and you are strong. You are related to those who were killed; and when the god Tu gave you the bodies of the murderers, you put them into the earth. Are they so sacred, common eyes must not look at them? Konehu did not act like that. She was sitting over a hangi in which we had cooked some food for you cowards, and while searching about for the remains of sow-thistle that might have been left by those who had taken the food
The place of departed spirits, nearly synonymous with the reinga.
His wife did not say all this continuously, but with intervals of silence she would utter a few words, and again become silent. The other occupants of the hut sat with their heads covered, crying in a low tone, Rou and his daughter Miro being the only two who sat erect. Miro listened to those who were making speeches outside in the dark, while Rou sat in sullen silence on the right side of the door on entering the hut. No one had attended to him with food, nor had his hunger been appeased since the meal he partook of as the warriors left to attack the pah. What his thoughts were no one could guess. He had not spoken a word, save to tell his wife of the battle.
The fires in the huts burned low, and nearly all were asleep save the watch, whose shrill cry at intervals was re-echoed by the mountains.
Rou, who was sleepless, when all in his hut were quiet, got up, left the hut, and awoke Heta, who followed him to the tuahu, A rubbish heap, which is a sacred place, from the remains of food eaten by sacred persons and other things of that sort being there deposited.
Day was breaking, but Rou still slept with his head covered with a mat. Soon all were astir in the pah, but the guardians of the dead still remained at their post. The slaves and women were all life and bustle, lighting the fires at the hangis with which to cook the morning meal. The warriors had slept in sheds erected along the side of the pah, having the fence of the breastworks for the back of their wharaus, Temporary sheds. Areca sapida. The open space.
It is not customary for cooking to be done in the open air. Every two hangis, or ovens, have a house over them. These houses are built in the following manner: — Four posts are put into the ground, which are the four corners, and upon these four young saplings are fastened for wall-plates. At each end between the two corner-posts a young sapling is put into the ground long enough to project above the wallplates, and to these the ridge pole is fastened. The rafters are tied about the length of a man's arm apart,
Arundo conspicua. Lygodium articulatum. Cyathea dealbata.
The hangis were nearly ready to receive the food, when Rou suddenly appeared, coming out of the hut in which he had slept. He had besmeared the right half of his face with kokowai (red-ochre), and the left with soot. He wore a very old, torn mat round his
When the cooks saw Rou, they became suddenly silent. Before his appearance they had been like a flock of korimako Anthornis melanura or bellbird, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 91. Metrosideros robusta.
The silence was broken by a mother who had not seen Rou. She was the cousin of Poko, and had taken a chief of no energy or name for her husband; but being of a wild and uncontrollable spirit, she spoke on all occasions both for herself and her husband. She
When lifted up, the child screamed. The father came out and said, “Women are the cause of evil. I told you to stay with your children when you heard the tumult last night; but you will always be in the way of mischief, and you took the boy with you. You are the cause of his being burnt. I say, give me utu Payment.
“No,” said Poko; “you two were the cause of my child being burnt, and I must be paid. Give me the kaitaka mat you now wear; and you, my sister, give me that fine mat you lately made. I will teach you to take care of my children, and not allow them to be burnt. Am I not their teacher? Do you forget that if I do not obtain satisfaction for the pain of my
“Yes! yes!” cried the warriors. “You are right, Poko.”
The husband threw his mat to Poko, while his cousin went for the new one, which she laid at his feet. He did not touch them, as he was tapu Sacred.
The food being cooked and taken out of the hangis, some of the cooks were busy making small paro baskets Made of plaited green flax leaves.
At the same time, at some distance from the dead, the old women (the guardians of the dead) were kneeling in a half-bowing posture with their hands behind them, whilst in the midst of them sat an old slave with a paro of food before her, out of which she fed them in their turn. The eaters, being old, could not masticate rapidly; but the slave, who was anxious to be in time to obtain some food for herself, passed her hand round as fast as possible; and it often
The slave did not understand what had happened until she heard Whare's wife say, “Shall I be thus insulted by a slave? Am I to be insulted by water being poured on my head by you?” At the same time she went towards the prostrate slave with a large stone in her uplifted hand. At this moment the eyes of all turned towards the two, for they expected to see the head of the slave broken by the stone; but just as the blow was about to be given, one of the other two old women jumped up and struck the
The warriors having finished their meal, began to prepare for starting on their way home; and all the inhabitants of the pah were in lively motion, when Rou was again seen to come out of his whare. Hut.
He had not partaken of the morning meal. He paced in front of the wharau Temporary shed.
She did this in such a grotesque manner that Poko actually laughed, and said, “I have seen lame parrots walk on the ground; but you would frighten them if you gave them a lesson in walking.”
The old slave who had fed Poko and the other two went and sat by her; and when her rage allowed her to speak she asked him, “How was it the stone fell on my foot instead of on the slave's head?”
“How am I to know?” he answered. “Is the pain great? If it is, why not stoop down and lick it, if your back is not as stiff as mine; you can stoop for once, as your tongue has great power to stop pain. You remember your husband, who was in great pain
“No,” she answered; “nothing can cure it but the knowledge of how I received the blow on my foot.”
“Did you not see how it was done?” asked the slave.
“No.”
“Then surely the gods of the dead,” he continued, “who were offended by your being angry so near the corpses, knocked the stone out of your hands, and you yourself let it drop on your foot. Perhaps the wound will swell or fester, and you will die. The gods do such things, you know, and after all Whare may not become your husband. Hush! Rou is speaking. He seems determined to kill some one; and if your tongue is not used to cure your foot, it may cause the death of your whole body.”
Rou stood facing the people, who sat looking at him in silent expectation. He said, “I am not speaking to children, I talk to you, O my fathers and elder
Yes, to you I speak, O Takuai! You and I are descended from the same ancestor—is not this the proverb of our family? We are called ‘The stuttering sons of Rutaia.’ If we are the stuttering children of such a man, whose fault is it? Am I to blame? Did I do the deed which robbed me of the sacred knowledge of the wise men? Shall I tell you what I know of the history of that about which I am now speaking?
“There was a time when our male and female ancestors lived together, and loved each other. But our grandfather wished to go and see some of his brothers, who lived at a distance, and as he would be away a few days, our female ancestor did not go with him. We are the children of her firstborn, who was then the object of her anxious expectation.
“Our grandfather gathered two bundles of fern-root, which he laid near her, saying, ‘If any of my brothers
Apteryx Mantelli.
“Our ancestor went away, and soon after his departure his brothers arrived. They had come by another road, and therefore did not meet him. On account of the anxieties of her condition, our ancestress did not remember which of the bundles of fern-root was intended for the dogs and which for the men. His brothers were, however, kindly treated by our female ancestor.
“After some time our grandfather returned to his wife. He asked his brothers if they had received a bundle of fern-root, and what kind of a knot it was tied with. Having been told the name of the knot, he exclaimed, ‘Then my orders have been disobeyed, and you have been cursed by my wife, who has fed you with dogs' food. From this time I will go back with you to your place, and that woman will not have me to teach her child. He will have no teacher; for I shall leave her, and her son shall be a stuttering son of Rutaia, as there will be no one to teach him the sacred words. My brothers have been fed with dogs' food, although I pointed out the difference between the two bundles to that woman. She is not fit to be the wife
“Our female ancestor did not go after him, and I love her for her great heart. I am like her: I do not ask any of you to do anything for me. I would rather see the flesh cut from my legs and arms than ask any man to redress my wrongs. Yes, I say I love her who could sit alone, and by herself become the mother of a son from whom we are descended. She uttered no word of sorrow or anger—she sent no word of kindness to the chief who had left her. Did she send and tell him that his child was a son? No! She taught her son—our father—all she knew, and no one ever gained her love again. No! Why should she believe in any man again? Are not men like the wind? Did you ever know the wind to blow from one direction on one side of your pah, and from the other direction on the other side? No! You know that; it always comes from one direction. The wind does not blow gently on one side of your pah and furiously on the other. No, it does not! If the wind is strong, it is all strong; if gentle, it is all gentle. Even so, O fathers! man is like the wind. Wind is one part of created things. At the time that Rangi and Papa Heaven and earth.
“You know that once there was nothing at all. There was no world. Nothing was the only thing that was. From nothing came thought, from thought came seeking, from seeking came darkness, from darkness came the world, which was a ball. In this ball were its children, six in number, being gods. These gods conspired against their parents, Rangi and Papa, Heaven and earth.
“Hence, I say, I am not the first to cause man's flesh to be eaten. If then the gods eat each other, and they were brothers, and were eaten for their cowardice, I ask, why was I not allowed to eat those who killed my child? The pain I feel is on account of the murder. The gods had not such pain. Compared to you, O priests! I am but a child in knowledge; but you know the gods teach me to take ample revenge for any wrong I receive.
“Do you forget Maui? He was a god; he was also a man. He had a wife, Koke, who was a goddess. Maui was very proud, and did not like to be less good-looking than his wife. His envy led him to ask her to exchange faces with him; but she refused, and in his rage he killed her by witchcraft. After three days, by her own power, she caused her life to come back, and killed him by witchcraft. She then died again to keep him company in the reinga. And in her malice against man, for it was the man part of Maui that caused her death, she became the guardian of the entrance to the reinga, and beats all who pass her. She is also the evil spirit
“If the gods teach me to be a man-eater, and to bear malice for ever, shall I, O my fathers! be blamed if I take revenge when and how I can?
“O spirit of my dear child! hearken to the weeping of thy father and mother! Do not enter the inner portion of the reinga, but wait near the door and watch me. Not many moons shall pass before I send a crowd of spirits to keep you company. Listen, O my son! You shall see the dead, and hear their cry, and the noise that their flesh makes whilst cooking. My old teeth are not so blunt but they can bite the flesh of those I kill.
“Go, my fathers, to your own places. I will not dig up the dead you killed and buried. No, my fathers! I could eat them even now, though they would have been better fresh; but they shall be sacred because of your word. Go, and let me sit in my own place. I will not kill myself; I shall not die soon. I do not ask you to help me. You know the proverb that says, ‘The anger of relatives is a fire that burns fiercely;’ and another that says, ‘The hand alone can get food and to spare for its own body.’ I can get ample revenge for my sorrow. Go, O my fathers! go!”
Rou did not sit down, but went at once to his own hut, where his wife had cooked some fern-root during his absence. She placed it before him, inviting him to eat, which he did, saying, “Now that my heart
While Rou was eating, Nga rose and said: “I do not quite understand what my father means.”
“We, your fathers, have taken revenge for you. If you like to burn yourself, do not let the fire touch my house, or I may be scorched, and become angry with you.”
Tupu rose and said: “I know what my brother means. Let me tell him that I sleep with one eye open; and my ears are not like his, so old that they are nearly choked with hair. My ears can hear well. Even my mouth is as good as an ear, for I sleep with it wide open; and as I do not snore, any noise that may be made near me I shall understand.”
Tukai now spoke, and said: “O my relative! what you said about our ancestor is true. But why do you think you have been slighted? We are not chiefs. Had you been a man of low degree we should not have come at your call. Take care, my relative, that your anger does not blind you; but if you must do anything, let your eyes and ears be open; let your heart have a good memory, that you may know how far the blow you give will be heard. There will not be any to help you then.”
Rou's wife now came out, and, after pacing to and fro a short time before the warriors, said: “Yes, my fathers, yes, your words are true; but can you men suckle a child? I never knew a man who kept a child
An imperative order given by the leader of a party for instantaneous action.Nga's voice was heard to utter the words “Kopere taua.”
The warriors to a man immediately stood up, each one having his mat or kit in his hand, and marched out of the pah steadily and in silence. When arrived at the landing-place, they at once pulled out into the stream.
Those who were in charge of the dead had made two litters of young saplings, on which they put the dead, four of them carrying each corpse. They followed the warriors, but some little distance behind them. They had a canoe to themselves, in which they embarked, and as the river was not wide enough for them to go abreast, they followed the other canoes, taking care not to go near them. No emulation was shown by the rowers, who all pulled in silence, keeping time to the
The person who by his song gives the time to the paddlers.
When the fleet arrived at the Mangataipa, Kiro's pah, he and his men landed.
While they were landing Nga, the priest, said, “This is my word to you, O Kiro! Stay at your place. Do not forget that rats will travel in the dark. You were at the taking of the rats’ nests. We took them all, both young and old; but a few of the rats may have been out, and they may come back and swim these creeks in the dark. Let your eyes be open. Revenge makes brave men of cowards. Stay here.”
Kiro answered, “Go, O my fathers, go!”
The fleet passed on, and on coming out of the narrow gorge through which the river ran they reached Puka, where the river widened out into a basin.
Here the blind man stood up and said: “O ye people who pull the canoes, listen to my words! I know this is the Puka. I can hear the voices of those in the other canoes on each side of us. The river is not wide enough all the way down for two canoes to go abreast until we get to Puka; hence I say this is the Puka. Tell me, O Tupu, my relative, is it not so? You remember the time when I could see the trees and clouds, the rain and flowers, and birds of daylight? In my youth you gave us Otu in payment of one of our relatives drowned in this place. This day you
“Yes,” answered Tupu; “it is.”
“Then,” continued the old man, “you must allow us, your slaves taken in war, to sing a song of farewell to our land and to the place where our relative was drowned in times of old. O Kaito! join me in singing. Perhaps I may be able to think that I see this place as I saw it when our tribe had chiefs. Join me in singing, you old men, and women, and children. We know not how long we shall remain together. Our masters will take us, some to one place, some to another—to places which our eyes have never seen. Let me sing a song to the land which my eyes have seen.”
Kaito answered, “Sing your own song. I am a rat; how can I sing unless it be a song of evil omen? There is a rat called hamua, which when heard is an omen of death. I do not wish to sing. I am a hamua. You have said many times that it was through my misconduct you are slaves. If you wish to sing, sing your own song. I will sing with you when we have escaped the vengeance of Rohe in the reinga. We shall not then look forward to being killed, for we cannot die there save as worms, and worms do not suffer much. Sing your own song, O my people! and let me weep tears in my heart while you sing.”
“Wait,” cried a voice, “my voice must be heard by you men.” The speaker was the widow of the young man who had risen after being buried, causing alarm among the sleeping warriors, and who was killed by
Prosthemadera Nova Zealandia, or Parson bird, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 87. A bone ring put on a bird's leg to prevent its escape.
Her tears fell on the nursling's face and partially awoke him, and she said, “O my child! do not stop me in my song for thy father; it is all I have to give him.” Hushing the sleeper for a moment, and wiping the tears from her face with her hair, she continued again:—
With one bound she left the canoe. With a wild scream she plunged into the stream; the sudden chill of the water awoke the infant on her breast, whose voice, though weak, gave one note of horror mingled with the mother's scream. There was a ripple, then a few air bubbles, and all was silent again. The act had been so sudden and unexpected to her companions, that none had attempted to stop her. When the surprise was over, three of the female prisoners plunged into the water to rescue her.
Paré jumped up in a rage, saying, “Why did you let my slave escape? Am I not your master? Live, and let me keep you as mine.”
The three women came to the surface and again dived down.
Pohe said, “Who is that who has gone before us? If she wished to go the road is clear. Why do we wait for her? She will not come back.”
The three women again came to the surface, and Paré ordered them into the canoe. They obeyed, and the fleet moved on in silence. After a short time Paré stood and sang a song to which the paddlers kept time:
The paddlers kept time to this rowing song until the fleet arrived at the Totara, where a few old men lived on the bank of the river.
Tonui called to them, and said, “Come down here, O fathers! to the waters’ edge, and see the wild dog I have captured.”
In answer the old people gave a loud laugh, and one of them said: “Why should we look upon that which is for you only? Did you say they were fat or lean? We do not ask you for any of your food; keep it and let it rot; children do not know the value of a gift.”
Tonui answered, “The ears and eyes often eat for the stomach; we feed them and our hunger is satisfied.”
“But,” said the same old chief, “I never heard of anything which lived on wind save that big bird, the moa, which lives on the wind and sleeps standing on one leg. I did not know that you who went to fight were all moas. Go to your place, O young men! and
“Stay here,” answered Tonui; and the fleet moved on.
The prisoners paddled with the rest, save Kaito, who sat in sullen silence. When the fleet reached the mouth of the Mangamuka, and were coming out into the main river, Nga called a halt, and said: “We will not land at the island pah of Motiti, but you can have the canoe war-dance before Kawe, who will see that his tribe are still men of power. We must now go in a body; let the heads of the canoes be abreast of each other; let no canoe go ahead of the others, but all keep together and go abreast. You, O Tupu! will lead the dance.”
The line was formed, and the fleet came down towards the pah in perfect silence, the paddles not even making a splash; and although no song was sung, yet the paddles kept perfect time.
The inhabitants of the pah, who had been anxiously looking for the returning warriors, saw them. Immediately on coming in sight, the inhabitants of the pah formed themselves into a body, keeping out of view. It being low water there was sufficient room for a war-dance on the beach, outside of the palisading. When the fleet arrived opposite the pah, the inhabitants, with a yell, suddenly sprang from their hiding-place and rushed on to the beach, and, led by an old woman, they danced a war-dance to the warriors; the young
Tupu, still sitting, as were all the warriors in the canoes, slapped the blade of his paddle once with the palm of his hand, at the same time making a hissing noise through his shut teeth as he dipped it again in the water. All the paddlers did the same, and repeated this for some time, finishing by a prolonged hiss and a groan.
Tare, the old chief of the Island pah, now rose and said: “You know we old men amuse ourselves during our last summers by teaching the tui Parson bird.
“I do not ask where Rou is. I do not see him, but
The old chief turned and entered his hut, no one answering him. After some little time Tupu said, “Pull for the Mata.”
The fleet had come down the river with the ebb, but now the flood took them in the direction they wished to go, and they soon reached the Mata, where they landed. They were met by the inhabitants; and the women who were in the front danced a war-dance, which the warriors did not acknowledge or return, but walked past them in silence. Soon after the canoe bearing their corpses also arrived, but the bodies were not removed.
Food was prepared, and the warriors had partaken of it; the moon had risen and was shining clearly.
Tupu now rose and said: “Listen, O chiefs and people! I will not sleep here to-night; I and my dead will return to my own place. We did not come of our own accord, but were sent for; keep the prisoners here with you, and I will go home alone with my dead. I do not know what to say to you. If Tare and his son
Immediately the Mahu The name of a sub-tribe.
They returned down the stream, and entered the Waima river, a tributary of the Hokianga. The tide had begun to ebb, and they pulled against it to reach a small pah on the north bank of the river, called Takapuna, where they all landed; the eight men in charge of the dead, who had not left their canoe since they started from Te Roto, were now allowed to land because it was their own country.
On the west side of the old pah there was a grove of karaka-trees, the foliage of which was so thick and impenetrable that no ray of sunshine ever found its way through; the trunks of the trees were quite clear of branches for about three times the height of a man; the ground was covered by a thick layer of dried leaves, on which the warriors slept soundly close to the fires, which threw a flickering glow, now high now low upon the sleepers.
It was break of day, the tide was flowing, the canoes were on their voyage to the kainga. The eight men in charge of the dead, who had slept by themselves, were again in their places in the rear.
When Kopura point was reached, Tupu called a halt, and said, “We have the dead with us, and we shall be looked at by those who own them. Go, you women and young men, into the forest and pluck the fern which climbs on the decayed trees, called taringa hakeke, Trichomanes reniforme.
The order was obeyed, and the women and young men returned with the ferns; and as they sat in rows, men with men, and women with women, each one plaited the ferns among the hair of the person sitting before him or her, and all were adorned with this token of mourning.
Thus arrayed, they looked at each other and said, “You look quite full of sorrow.”
The fern used on these occasions is about the size of a child's hand, and is nearly round; it is about the same thickness as the leaf of a tree, and is fringed all round the edge with a small seed-pod; the stem is about as long as the breadth of the hand, and is quite flexible, which fits it for plaiting with the hair. The heat of the sun soon caused the ferns to wither and droop, hiding the hair and face of the wearers.
Those left behind at the kainga, Village place of abode.
On and on came the canoes, making for a level point that jutted out on the south bank of the river, close to the house of a portion of the Mahu tribe.
Not a voice was heard until the canoe bringing the dead came in sight. Then the kainga in an instant swarmed with human beings, and a loud wail burst from the people, in which all joined. The warriors landed in silence. As they left their canoes they stuck their paddles into the ground, and, leaning forward on them, wept in silence, while the women and girls of the kainga stood, with their arms hanging down and their heads bowed, weeping silently; but
The people of the kainga remained seated in the little palisading usually put up round the kainga, and the inhabitants of the neighbouring kaingas who had assembled (it being the house of the old priest Takaho), sat down in the open space between the houses and joined in the tangi.
When the tangi Wailing.
When the tangi ceased, those in charge of the dead landed and sat by themselves near Takaho's hut. Not one of the crowd moved, save the little ones who were looking at the corpses, and who now stole round to a group of women, some of whom were their mothers.
One of the children—a boy—went to his mother, who still sat with her hands covering her face, and parting them, he sat on her lap, folded her arms round his neck, and said, “Mother, I saw them; they are in the canoe. I have not seen your cousin, who carried me when we went inland. She has not come back. There are two dead in the canoe. I saw the
This mother was the wife of Namu, a head chief of the Mahu tribes; she was young, slender, and of a delicate body—a being of impulsive nature; she was the only child of her parents, and her rank was equal to that of her husband. She had but one child. She did not answer her boy, but a trembling came over her when she heard what he said.
Tupu, the first to speak, rose, having only a small mat round his waist, and, taking a few steps towards the huts where the principal body of the people were, addressing Takaho, he said: “I am the bird of evil omen. I have to tell of death. Your child went with me. I have brought Miona back, but I alone can speak for him. He did not die the death of a slave; he saw the face of his enemy; but he had to die. The gods tell us in omens. Miona was told at the mata, but he would not heed the warning. We took ample revenge for his death. We did not eat the bodies of our dead relatives. There will be enough to eat at some future time. Your child did not go alone; she, his love from childhood, departed with him. We did not know she had determined to go. We heard no word of a poroaki Last words spoken at departing.
A young chief now spoke, and, addressing the returned warriors, he said: “We are all here, O fathers! we have come from our different places to receive you, the children of Tu; the days of old men were not like these days. Men were not women in those days. Boys do not know what more to say.”
Namu now said: “Welcome, O fathers! welcome with your heavy burdens. I do not wonder you have come back with so much food from Tu. Why did you not send for me to come and help you? Though my back is sacred, I should not have broken the law of tapu if I had carried flesh. When shall the feast be? Will you cook at once the large quantity you have in the canoe?”
Pia now spoke, and said: “Listen, O boys and girls, men and women, old people and children! What do you know of the past? We who have the grass of tura “The grass of tura,” or grey hairs. Consumption. A song sung over the bodies of the slain. The incantation by which the tapu is removed from persons who have touched the dead.
Takaho, an old man bowed with age, having snow-white hair, which was now red as the setting sun—as was all his body and garments—for he had rubbed himself with kokowai, now came out of his hut. He was the senior priest, and it was his place to order and conduct all sacred ceremonies. He said: “Listen, my children. You have all seen the tree on which the shags Phalacrocorax Novæ Hollandiæ, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 325. The incantation removing the tapu. Lygodium articulatum. Remove the bones. The feast on the occasion of removal of bones.
The sun had passed his noonday light, when a voice was heard in the camp of mourners calling for attention. It was the voice of Takaho, who said: “Hearken, O my children! I have slept since I last spoke to you; but my sleep was evil. My arm came against my breast, and I awoke by the blow; at the same time I saw a star flash across my right eye. What such evil omens portend the future alone will show. My arm has told me that evil will come from the death of our son, who was brought back by Tupu. The star I saw indicated forebodings of the death of some near relative of our daughter; and I also see that it is a woman who will die. Her death will be by her own hands, and will not be known until many moons after it has taken place. O my children! I weep and grieve to my marrow over you. You do not tell me what evil there is among you; but the gods have told me in my sleep that even now you burn with feelings of jealousy, hatred, and greediness towards each other.
The old priest bowed his head and wept aloud; the tears chased each other down his red ochre-besmeared face, making lines through which could be seen the dark lines of his tattooing. His chest heaved; and every time he sobbed several among the sitting crowd of people joined him in chorus.
A young mother, with a child partly clasped in her arms, sat reclining with one hand on the ground and her head bowed over the child, who sat by her side on the ground plaiting her long, flowing hair, while the mother's tears dropped on his head. Some of them running down his face so ruffled his temper, that, in childish fury, he dashed them away with a rapid action of his hand. This drew the attention of some of the other women, causing them to remark, a child thus
One girl asked the boy, “Why do you plait your mother's hair while she is weeping?”
“To hang you with,” answered the child.
The weeping mother looked up at this remark, and shuddered from a feeling of dread which caused her weeping to end.
Takaho, the priest, had sat down, and having taken off his garments, tied round his waist an apron made of karamu Coprosma robusta.
“No,” answered one of them; “we have only just finished the shed into which to put the dead.”
The shed spoken of is made with the leaves of the kawakawa Piper excelsum. Entelea arborescens.
At his command the corpse-bearers went naked to the canoe, and the four oldest of them took the body of the man, the other four took the body of the woman; those who carried the man took precedence, the others following some distance behind. The woman was laid along the inner side of the wharau, while the husband was laid with his feet to the side of his wife, and his head outside of the half roof.
The people now gathered round this house of the dead, and those nearest sat down in a circle, about twenty paces from the wharau, while the others remained standing. They sang, as with one voice, a song composed as a dirge for the dead:—
This was an old song, and only known to the old people, whose voices kept perfect time while singing it. The young people did not join in singing; but at the end of each stanza they took up the chorus of sobs, while the others rested for a short time, again to take up the wail.
The old priest stood near his hut, leaning on his tokotoko (a staff about one fathom long, sharp at one end and blunt at the other). While thus leaning on his staff he wept, but uttered not a word until the lament was ended; then with his right hand he dashed the tears from his cheeks, and said: “When the heart weeps, the body loses life and power. A chief is a man, but the power of a chief is his people. Rest here, O children! while I go to the stream and purify those who have touched the dead, that they may eat again. Food is-life to the body, and the strength of the body is the glory of man.”
He stepped to a stage near his hut, and took two pieces from a heap of dried fern-root kept there, and from a corner of the little fence which encircled his hut he took a round pebble. With these in his hand he walked towards a bend of the river, where there was a thick clump of shrubs on the bank, and stood looking across the river.
The corpse-bearers followed, and stood in a row behind him. They were in a state of nudity, for they had dropped their garments when they had moved the corpses. As soon as the men had taken up their position, the priest turned round on his right, facing the men. He then stepped between the middle men, having four on each side of him, and when a few steps behind them, he began to kindle a fire. As soon as he had stepped behind them, the corpse-bearers sat down, resting on the calves of their legs, with their hands on their knees, and facing the river, nor did
In a short time the priest had lighted a fire, on which he cooked the two pieces of fern-root; but he did not pound them. He then took in his right hand the pebble and one piece of fern-root, and in his left only the remaining piece; then with a stick which he held in his left hand, he dashed the embers of the fire here and there, and throwing the stick over his left shoulder, he walked up to the corpse-bearers, and stood at the back of the one on his left, and touched his right shoulder with the fern-root which he held in his right hand. This he did to each one in succession. The priest now stepped back, being still behind the corpse-bearers, until he again stood behind the right-hand man, when, holding out his arms extended in a line with his chest, he repeated the following incantation:—
As he repeated the last sounds, the men sprang to their feet with a bound, and, turning to the right, faced the priest, who again repeated the above incantation, at the same time crossing his arms, being careful that the right should be above the left arm. He touched each man in succession on his right side of the head with the piece of cooked fern-root he held in his right hand, and the left side of the head with the
The priest now put the pebble into his mouth, which he pretended to swallow; but in a dexterous manner he put it back into his right hand, while taking into his mouth the piece of fern-root out of the same hand, which he ate, and then that in the left hand, and with a bound he passed the right-hand man and sprang into the river. The others followed him, diving and coming up some distance from where they had been standing; they then swam about a hundred paces farther up the stream, and landed, the priest being the first. Then they tied a few karamu Coprosma robusta.
During the absence of the priest and corpse-bearers the people remained sitting in the places which each had taken after the dirge had been sung. They sat crouching, listening attentively for the return of the priest; for no one knew by what path he would return to the settlement.
Takabo returned by a different path, and upon emerging from the scrub, he cried out, “Now may man eat, and Hineteiwaiwa The goddess of midwifery.
Hearing this expected command, all the people in the settlement sprang on their feet, and immediately the women were talking and laughing, the children running and shouting, while the men ordered their wives or slaves to prepare food. Now might be seen women leaving the settlement for a short time, and returning with bundles of dry wood on their backs, which they threw near to mounds of black earth, half-charred embers, and black burnt stones. While
Women gathered round the hangis, and were soon busy preparing kumaras for the coming meal. Each one held a cockle-shell between the thumb and forefinger of the right hand, and taking the kumara in the left hand, one end of which was being held against the little finger, with the strength of the thumb, at one scrape, a strip of skin was taken off from end to end.
The stones piled on the wood had, as the wood consumed, dropped one by one into the hole, which was now half-filled with nearly red-hot stones. The hole was about a yard in width, and about eighteen inches in depth. Water was then poured out of a calabash on the stones, which sent up a cloud of steam, rolling away like a white ball in the still air. Round the edge of the hangi were now placed the remains of old flax baskets, which had been previously thoroughly soaked in the stream. The scraped kumaras were placed on the stones, and covered by another lot of old baskets, the whole being covered by mats made of the unsplit flax-leaf. Some water was again poured in the hole; and in the midst of the steam the women might be seen, like so many dogs, scratching the dark earth and charcoal on to the heap of mats until the steam
One woman had taken no part in preparing the food; but since the lament was sung she had sat at the feet of the corpse of the young woman and wept. No one noticed her save her boy, who sat with his head leaning against her clasped hands, which covered her eyes. The tears, oozing between her fingers, trickled down the child's head. He did not heed the tears, but sat silent, looking at the crowd of children (who had been busy ever since the preparation of food had begun) cutting up the corpse of an old man. Once, and only once, did the boy laugh; but in an instant his voice was hushed, as if something had commanded silence.
Some of the elder boys had severed the old slave's head from the body, and it had been taken possession of by one of the girls, the blood trickling down her arm, and bespattering the small mat which was tied round her waist. With the other hand she held the snow-white beard, by which she opened and shut the mouth, making the teeth gnash and snap, at the same time uttering a wild yell. While doing this, she rushed here and there amongst the little children, to the horror of some and the amusement of others. In one of her wild flights she put the head up to the face of a slave who was passing, and made it gnash at him. The slave with a vigorous stroke sent the head out of her hand, and in its fall it knocked a child down. Immediately there was a rush to get possession of the head,
The owner of the arm stepped up to her, and asked, “Why do you steal my food?”
“Your food!” answered the old woman. “It is mine. Those boys threw it to me.”
“Yes,” said one of the other boys, “we did, because you asked for it.”
“No,” said the owner; “it is mine. I threw it at Kaikai, in revenge for his impertinence.”
“What are your words to me?” answered the old woman. “I shall not believe your lies—I will eat the arm. Go away, and do not talk to me. My ears are old, and your noise pains them.”
“Give me my food,” said the boy, “or I will talk to you until the hairs jump out of your old ears, and then the cold air of winter will get in and kill you.”
The old woman, addressing the boys who had the other limbs, asked, “You gave me this?”
“Yes,” they answered with one voice.
“Then be kind to this boy,” said the old woman, “and give him some food, so that I may sit here, and not be killed by his voice.”
“Yes, we will give him enough,” said the biggest of the boys. “Come here, Piu, and be one with us now, and you shall have a long piece of food.”
To keep his promise, the last speaker took up the bowels of the dead man and threw them right in front of Piu, the contents bespattering him and the old woman in a most disagreeable manner.
The old woman jumped up in a rage, and holding the hand of the arm in her hand, she swung it round and round her head, uttering the most furious words of anger at the boys.
Piu, fearing to receive a blow from her weapon, left her, and sat down with the others, who with one voice ordered him away.
One said, “Go and clean yourself. We cannot let you come near us. Who ever sat with a dirty fellow?
All this time the little boy had been looking at the scene, nor had he moved since his short laugh. At last he spoke, taking hold of one of his mother's hands, which he partly pulled from her face, and said, “Look, mother, look! Do you see yon old woman who is in a rage? She is going to kill some one with old Koko's arm. You see yon boys. As soon as old Koko fell down in a fit this morning, because he was full of sorrow for his master's death (over whom you sit and cry so long), yon big boy hit him on the temple with a stone. Why did you not save his life? He is your slave; for your cousin is dead. She was his master. Old Koko might have worked for us. If your cousin had not died, he would not have fallen down in a fit of sorrow; then he would not have been killed. If you cry any longer for your cousin I will cry for old Koko. He was kind to me: he gave me eels and other things which he caught for himself.”
“Hush!” answered his mother; “you are only a child. Koko was a slave, and my cousin was a woman of high rank, and sacred; for the gods protected her. Old Koko was left to his fate by the gods: hence he was taken a slave. When the gods abandoned him, self-protection left him; and as he had no god to guide him, he can be eaten by any one without fear of harm coming to them. The gods reside in and rule the body; and to eat a body which is their house is an
“Then your cousin was left to her fate by her gods,” asked the boy, “or else how did she die, not having been killed by any one? Mother, perhaps the gods killed her. If so, what evil have either of you done? She loved you much, and you were like one. Did you ever do any great evil, mother?”
The mother answered, “Look! Go and see what those boys and Kaikai are doing. Kaikai is my slave; go to him and he will feed you when the food is cooked.”
Moe, for that was the name of the boy, went, not so much in obedience to his mother's command as because it suited his inclination. Children of his age, about eleven summers old, hold it as an undisputed point that they are their own masters, and can do whatever they please, unless thwarted by some one stronger than themselves. Kaikai was expending the strength of his arm, tongue, and voice, to the great amusement of a lot of men, women, boys, and girls. He had made a large circular fire, about two strides wide; around this he placed, on sticks about a yard long and stuck round the fire, the limbs of Koko. A leg was stuck with the foot in the air, the stick having stuck in at the thigh end, and pushed up to the knee; an arm came next, the stick having been thrust right up to the elbow; one side of the ribs was put between the split end of a stick, the ends being tied together to keep the ribs from falling out.
As the heat acted upon the limbs, Kaikai said, “Now, children, old Koko will show you how to use your arms in the kauikaui. The same thing as the haka described in Pipo's love-tale, p. 98.
The limb was again replaced, and Kaikai was kept busily tending the roasting until the women began to open the hangis in which the kumaras had been placed to cook. The young dissectors, being chiefs, could not cook, hence Kaikai had to do it for them; he also cooked the arm which the old woman claimed.
While Kaikai was thus employed, the women were busy making small baskets, called paro or kono, out of which the people were to eat the kumara. Now and then Kaikai would touch a nearly-cooked limb, and, licking his fingers, say to the women, “If you do not make haste, the sweet morsel to eat with what you have cooked will be spoilt. Quick! quick! Make the paros faster!”
Said a young woman who had not yet called any man her master, “Kai, you come from the same place as old Koko?”
“No,” answered Kai. “He came from stupidity,
“No,” said the girl. “I mean that you and Koko were taken at the same time and place.”
“Oh, no,” answered Kai. “I was out catching eels, and had my hands all besmeared with the slime, and could not hold my weapon; hence I was taken. I helped to take old Koko.”
“But you were bought for a dog,” said the girl, “by the man whose corpse lies yonder.”
“No; a dog is a dog,” answered Kai; “but my food is cooked, and you cannot eat food cooked by a dog. Here, Moe,” addressing the boy; “you and I are to have this. It is not very fat; but you shall be a brave man, so come and eat out of the paro which I shall choose.”
Moe gave his consent by lifting his eyebrows.
“Do not go with him,” said the girl. “He will make you a bad man like himself.”
“I will feed you,” answered Kai, “and make you a big man; your father is so small.” Addressing the girl, he continued: “Tell your years not to increase for eight more summers, and then you will break your heart if you cannot call my boy Moe your husband; but Kai will see who gets him. Kai has more than blood in his heart. The bat does not fly by day; and great thoughts, like little stones, lie at the bottom of the river. Sit here, Moe, and see that no one takes that limb,” pointing to one thoroughly cooked and well browned.
Kai soon returned, bringing a paro of kumaras, which he placed pretty near to Moe, but at some distance from the fire. He then took the rest of the limbs, and stuck the sticks on which they were about three paces from the young chiefs who had cut up Koko. They sat in silence, not deigning to thank or in any way recognise Kai's service. To do so would have been an act of supererogation on the part of such young chiefs; being a slave, it was his duty to do anything he was ordered to do.
Not far from the fire sat the old woman who claimed an arm, waiting for Kai to attend to her. She was the cast-off wife of a chief, and being also of high rank and old, she was precluded from going near any fire at which food was being cooked. She could not take the joint she was waiting for.
While Kai was busy taking the different joints from the fire, and sticking the sticks on which they were into the ground before those who should eat them, to keep them from falling down and being soiled by dirt, the lad who had thrown an arm at Kai ran up to the fire, snatched the disputed arm, and said to the old woman, “You have already had twice as much as I have; now the eating is mine. You had your nose filled by the bad smell of the raw meat, and you have had the sweet smell of the arm while cooking; so now eat your kumaras, and let the smell, which must still be in your nose, go down bit by bit with your kumaras into your stomach. You are old, and cannot do much
The woman uttered a scream, and ran after the limb in the boy's hand as fast as her old trembling legs would move.
Kai heard the old woman scream, and turning round he saw what had taken place, and called to her, “Stop! You cannot catch him; you will only fill yourself with wind, and when you eat the food you get you will be ill. If you had not attempted to run after him I would have followed and taken it from him; but as you did not call to me, I will not attempt to get your food. I cooked it for you, and you might have ordered me to take it from any one who stole it; but you said in your heart, ‘Kai is a slave.’ Yes, I am a slave; and now you may eat your kumaras without any nice dainty to sweeten them.”
The old woman sat down, wrapped her mat over her head, and wept.
A young girl came up to where she was sitting, placed a paro of kumaras before her, and said, “Here, old woman, eat with me. Why do you cry?”
“Who wants your food?” she answered. “Let me die. I will not eat any food; I am old, and shall not live long now. Why should I live any longer?”
“But look,” said the girl. “I have a mullet in my basket. Eat it; you can have the whole of it if you like.”
“No; I will not eat unless I can have better flesh than the flesh of fish,” answered the old woman. “I
“You are mistaken,” said the girl; “for I took it from the basket belonging to Namu, while Kai turned his head to look another way. It was a fish which jumped last night into a canoe which was sent with messengers to the Taheke people. Come, old woman, eat it; and Namu may scold Kai, and blame him for eating it, and there may be anger about it; but what do I care? Old Kai did wrong by not keeping his eyes on his master's food. I did not steal it, as I took it out of the basket in his hand. The man was a fool to look another way when he had nice food in his hands. I took it, as he did not keep sufficient guard over it, and that is not stealing.”
“Eat your own food,” answered the old woman. “Kai let a boy take Koko's arm, which he had cooked for me, and now I am dead for want of some flesh to eat.”
The girl no longer pressed her; but with a fern-stalk she took some kumaras out of the basket and laid them down before the old woman, saying, “As you do not want me, I will eat my fish myself.”
Rising, she went to a group of young men, who were laughing and joking while enjoying the cooked limbs, which by this time had been torn joint from joint, and were being passed from one to another of the young men, who sat in a circle round three baskets of kumaras.
The young girl joined the group laughing, and saying, as she put her basket down beside the other three, “Let me eat of yours, and you can eat of that fish.”
“No,” answered her brother, one of the young men; “you cannot eat man's flesh: you are a woman.”
“How learned you are!” she answered. “I am older than you are.” While saying this she snatched a joint from one of the young men, and tearing a large mouthful from it, she continued: “You may tell lies to stupid girls. I know the flesh of men killed in war is sacred, and cannot be eaten by women; but Koko was not ‘a fish of Tu,’ as the proverb says. I can eat of it; and let me see the hand that will try to take this arm from me.” And, while holding the ends of the limb, she tore off the flesh by mouthfuls, leaving the fish to the young men.
One of the young men asked her, “Is the old woman
“O no!” she answered; “I did not like to touch food with my fingers before her, lest she might bewitch me. She is in a furious passion about an arm she has lost.”
Said another young man, “She did not show such spite when she lost arms, legs, body, and all of her husband, who took a younger wife.”
Another one remarked, “What a fool the man was! I would have kept her to cook for me, and so keep my last-taken wife young as long as I could.”
“When are you going to be tattooed?” asked the girl of the last speaker.
“Will you have me when I am?” he answered. “If you will, I will commence to-morrow.”
“No,” she answered. “I only thought from your words that the marks made on your skin remain there for ever, and that your eyes see the black marks on your nose as long as your life lasts; but do not think that woman loves for ever. You may wash and rub your tattooing—it remains; but you can wash the love out of a woman's heart by the tears you cause to flow from her eyes by your contempt and ill-treatment. Why should that old woman love the man who could turn her off in her old age? You asked me to love you. If I were to do so, and you treated me with contempt, I would not act as she has done, but would let you know what a woman's heart can devise and her arm accomplish.”
“What would you do?” asked an old man, who sat a
“I would do that to him,” she answered, throwing the bone she held in her hand at him.
“Surely you do not mean that you would throw bones at him?” asked the old man.
The girl answered, “Yes; but I would not let the bones touch him: it would be the cause of an effect. You are a coward,” added the girl; “you cannot eat man's flesh, and I can. Why do you presume to speak to me, or ask questions?”
The old man answered, “What the gods made me in the other world I shall be in this. I was born a wai-namu A person who has a dislike to certain food.
Moe said to him, “Come and eat with us: there is sufficient for us three.”
“Is not my child a chief?” asked Kai.
“Yes,” answered the old man. “Had he not been of high rank, he would not have asked me to eat with him. Only low blood makes silent tongues when an invitation would be an honour to the giver.”
“Give him some of the flesh,” Moe said to Kai.
The man answered, “No; I never eat the flesh of man; it makes me sick. Even the smell of it, when cooked, offends my nose.”
Moe looked at him in astonishment, and said, “Did you try to dislike it?”
He answered, “No.”
“It is good,” said Moe. “You would like it if you tried some.”
“Would you like to eat me?” asked the old man.
“O no!” answered Moe.
“Then why do you eat Koko?” asked the old man. “He was kind to you.”
“O, Kai told me he could not feel me chewing him now that he is cooked,” answered Moe; “and as his flesh would rot and do no good, but breed blow-flies, there is no harm in eating him. And I shall eat our enemies when I am a man. I can learn to be brave now that I am little.”
The old man asked, “How would you like to eat the flesh of a little boy as big as you are?”
“Why do such children allow themselves to be killed?” answered Moe. “If they cannot keep out of the way when our people go to fight, that is their own fault. If they are cooked and eaten, it is their own fault for not keeping out of the way.”
“How would you get out of the way,” answered the old man, “of an enemy, if we were attacked?”
“I would stand behind Kai,” answered Moe, “and throw a stone and knock out the eye of any one who came near to us. But how is it that you were not killed long ago? You are a coward, and cannot eat the flesh of man. If you are afraid of dead flesh, you cannot dare the living body. Why, what is Raku scolding about?”
The old woman who had lost Koko's arm had thrown
Shark's tooth. A green-stone ornament.
“Do you wish that all the people should investigate the evil you speak of?” asked Manu.
“Yes,” answered Raku. “Let those who took my food say what I am to receive as payment. You have all eaten, and are satisfied: I have not eaten since the bodies of our children were brought here. Let the payment be great. I am killed by shame; you can make me live by joy, by giving me a great payment of something valuable.”
Takaho rose and said: “Hearken, O people! The sun has not yet set on the day on which I told you my heart was sad because of your evil deeds, and now I come to listen to your evil doings. Let those who speak during this investigation speak the words of men. Do not cause strife, and let the end of the talk be for good. I will speak once more on this matter.”
Tupu rose and paced up and down for a short time, holding the small branch of a shrub in his hand, which he kept waving to and fro. He said: “If blow-flies were going to light on my body, I would use this, as I am doing now, to drive them away. I do not mean to say that children, or even slaves, may not speak, if they know anything about the evil of which Raku complains; but do not let the talk be all noise and no meaning. I have no sister; but if I had one, and she and my wife intended to speak during the investigation, I would say to them, let your tongues be taught
Kai, the slave, rose, looked round him, and walked to the front of the people, who had by this time gathered from all parts of the kainga, and were sitting in groups on the level ground, a little distance from the houses; as they had eaten their food outside of the settlement because of the corpses that were in it. Kai paced up and down; holding in his left hand the thigh bone of Koko, which he occasionally swung round his head, he said: “I have never spoken to you, O people! since I was taken a slave; but as I know something of what Raku complains of, I want to know if I am the person she blames. I was the son of a chief; I am now a slave; yet I do not wish to be called a coward, even though my being taken as captive might prove that I had been a coward. I wish to ask Raku if she stole the kanae Mullet, mugil Perusii.
Raku rose and said: “Who told you, slave, to ask me if I stole the fish? What do I know about your fish; I did not eat it. If you ate it, why try to blame me?”
A young girl rose and said: “But that was your fault; you were sulky and would not eat it. But was the fish stolen for you? You do not say it was not given to you.”
Raku answered: “I did not blame any one for the fish. My food was stolen from me. Why should I
The old woman stood still, and, while the tears flowed down her dirty cheeks, she sang:—
A young man now rose, he held a green-stone meré A warlike implement from 9 to 18 inches long, of an oval shape, about an inch thick in the centre, tapering to a sharp edge on each side, highly polished, and only carried by chiefs.
“This world is full of old people; if our old mother likes to kill herself, the number would not appear less. The world of gods likes such people; she might go there and no longer be the sport of children. As for her threat that she would come back and be an evil spirit, she may do as she likes; perhaps the potent spells we men have can send her spirit to the lowest room of the reinga, from whence she could not return. I ask you, people what are we to listen to? The words of a cast-off wife, or her complaint that she has been robbed of her food?”
An old woman rose up; her head was covered by a mass of curls matted into a ball, and it looked as if it had not been combed for years. She had dyed her hair with red-ochre and oil, but it had lost much of its colour through contact with the ground on which she rested her head when she slept. Her eyes were deep black, and her mouth indicated one accustomed to have her own way. She asked, “What did that boy say who spoke last? How many summers has he seen in the world of which he is so mighty a speaker? How many wives has he had that he should speak of women as he does? I was a young woman once, but am not very young now. See,” she
An old man rose and asked: “Raku, what food was it that was taken from you?”
“The left arm of Koko,” she answered.
“Who took it?” asked the old man.
“I do not know,” answered Raku. “I cannot see as I did when I was younger.”
“How was it taken?” asked the old man.
She answered, “Kai had cooked it for me, and while it was on the huki The pointed stick.
A young man now rose and said, “Cease your questions, O old man! and let me question her. You say it was your arm, O Raku! how did you get it?”
She answered, “The young men who killed Koko gave it to me.”
“Did you see them give it to you?” the young man asked.
“Yes,” she answered; “they put it before me and I took it.”
“Did any one see them give it to you?” asked the young man.
“I suppose some one did, for a boy came at once and said it was his.”
A young woman now rose and said: “I will ask Raku a few questions now. You may sit down, O young man! and hold in your mouth all the words you were about to speak; you need not look so ashamed. Your words are not so great that you need fear for your teeth; and if they should fall down your throat again, the time will come when you will not be angry with me, for words so swallowed grow into love, and you will need a double portion of that to obtain the favour of some woman. You think enough of yourself, and no doubt imagine you are the only man since Tu made Onekura.” Addressing the old woman she asked, “Do you know my voice, O Raku?”
“Yes,” answered the old woman.
“How do you know it?” asked the young woman. Raku answered, “You offered me some fish.”
“Where were you when I offered you the fish?” asked the young woman.
Raku answered, “Near where I am now.”
“Do you know the girl's name who offered you the fish?” asked the young woman.
“No,” answered Raku; “she was one of those who came to the hakari Feast.
“You say it was me, because of my voice?” asked the young woman.
“Yes,” answered Raku.
“Did she eat with you?” asked the young woman.
“No,” answered Raku; “she went away, fish and all.” The young woman asked, “Did you see her face?”
“Yes,” answered Raku.
The young woman went up to Raku, and, putting her face close to the old woman's, asked, “Am I the girl?”
“No, you are not,” answered Raku; “your face is rounder than hers, but your voice is like hers.”
“Listen, O Raku!” said the young woman. “You have been dreaming; and as for the arm which you say was given to you, it is all a dream. I never offered you a fish; I never spoke to you before; yet you say you know my voice. I did eat of an arm of Koko; but it was not near you. How it came into the basket out of which I was eating I do not know.”
An old man now rose and said: “Stand where you are, O young woman! and as you seem to know how to speak, we will have a little talk together. From the manner in which you spoke to a young untattooed face, you appear to be a woman of keen sight. Did you ever see a man, woman, or child with three arms?”
“No,” answered the young woman; “but I know a man who has only one eye and one arm, who with his one eye takes a single view of the property of his friends, and with his one arm appropriates it to his own use. Had Koko's arm done such an act, I could not have eaten of it for fear of causing a storm in my stomach; because the food I eat is all my own, and to introduce a thief amongst it would cause an attempt to be made to draw it out of the society of honest things. Any more questions, O old man?”
“Yes,” answered the old one-eyed and one-armed chief. “You say that you ate some of Koko's arm, and it was in a basket into which you do not know how it came. Were your companions men or women?”
“You need not fret yourself,” she answered. “You cannot now sit in the company of those I was with. To see you among us would make folks imagine there was but one glowworm left in the world, and it had hidden itself under a bit of moss beneath a slight projection of stone, which your wife, when she was alive, thought was the eye of a man. Anything else you want to know?”
“Yes,” answered the old chief. “Who killed Koko? Who cut him up? Who cooked him?”
The girl answered, “Stone killed him; Tuhua Obsidian.
“Sit down, O girl!” said a voice from among the crowd of listening people, “or the old people will die with shame; you are so proud and insulting to those who are grey with age, and who know what they know, for they have seen many things.”
“Yes, your words are true,” answered the girl; “but then why do old people question me? You have no question to ask; but if you were a young man you might perhaps have one to ask, and then you would be so stunned by the answer, that all your heap of knowledge gathered under your mass of grey hairs would not avail to keep you on your legs. Stand up, and I will ask one question. Why do you keep hid where you sit? Let the people see you, that the glow of a setting sun may be seen on your face. Who was it that ate the last bundle of fern-root when there was no more to be had nearer than three days’ journey from his place, though his wife and three children all asked
An old man rose and said: “I do not wonder that girls talk as they do to some men. My father was a man, and my mother was a woman, and I am a man. A man is a man, and a woman is a woman; the only difference between them is, that the one is the father and the other the mother. Why do some men treat woman as if she did not think? She does think, even as much as we men; and she knows how to listen to the words of manly truth, and distinguish as soon, if not sooner than men, the deceitful speech from the truth. If you set the kumara in good soil the kumara is good, because it sucks the good out of the good soil. Even so the child. If we men are great and brave, our mothers must have been so, because we only live by the food of our mothers. Cowards are the children of foolish mothers, even as the bad kumara is the fruit of bad soil. I will ask you, O people! some questions; but let not any one answer unless he has knowledge to feed the words his tongue utters. I ask you, Did any one see the arm given to Raku?”
A little boy rose and said: “I saw a man's arm turning itself round and round in the air, and then it came down just in front of Raku, who was sitting, and she at once put out her hand from under her mat and pulled it in under her garment.”
“Was it an arm only?” asked the chief.
“Yes; it was all by itself,” answered the boy. “There was no body with it.”
“Let me speak,” said another boy. “I was making a toetoe Cyperus ustulatus.
“Let me speak,” said a young man, whose face had been fully tattooed. He was of a slender form, had curly black hair, and a fine voice, and appeared to know that he was admired by many of the people. In his right ear he wore a small tuft of albatross down, and in his left the tooth of a blue shark. He held in his hand a hani, A wooden carved spear given to a young warrior for his bravery, in the Waikato dialect called a taiaha.
He said: “Did your father learn anything from the two small boys? I cannot see what evidence he obtained for Raku. I think as our father has such a great love for women, he ought to have proved that the arm was hers, and he ought to get it back even now, although it has been eaten. But in telling us that women knew the true speech from the false, I see in our father's speech a kind word for Raku, two kind
A perfect storm of “Yes, of course,” came from the young women.
He continued: “You know what an old wrinkled woman the widow of Koko is; she cannot even see the end of her hand when she holds it out before her. As our father loves all women, shall he be made to take her also for his wife?”
There was a loud burst of laughter all over the
A young woman rose and came in front of the old chief and women's champion, where she skipped and danced, throwing her arms up and down, holding in her hand a fern-stalk; she concluded with a loud laugh. After slowly pacing before him, she said: “Listen, O people! You have heard what our father said about women. I know that he loves us all. I do not know whether he has told you how he looks with kindness upon you; but it is not many days since he asked me to be his wife. I know our father is a great chief; but who of us is of less rank than he? I did not then answer him. I will now give him a kind word.” Turning to the old chief, she said, “O father! you asked me for a good word; I will give you two. I am but one, and am young. I have not gained knowledge by experience, and you like knowledge. You admire the great thoughts of people who know what they say; accept from me the two great presents I now offer you.” She looked round and called Raku to come and stand beside her; she also called Koko's widow, and made her stand on the other side. Koko's widow was so old that she could not stand upright. Addressing the old chief, she continued: “Now, O father! you know my rank. I am a woman, and you say man is not greater than woman. My father is a great chief, so are you. My mother is not a fool; yours is dead, and I cannot say what she was; but if she was a fool,
There was a subdued titter among the young people, in which the speaker did not join, but stood perfectly still, and waited until it was over. She continued: “All the people, in their great love to you, wish me to give you these two great women; they are great in knowledge, especially this one.” She pushed Koko's widow up to the old chief. “She is a woman of old, an ancient of the days soon after the first man was made. According to your words you say that time makes you wise; this one is so old that there is no one left on the earth, save herself, who can say how long it is since she was a girl; and as you have always filled up any gap death has made among your wives by taking girls, by this time they are all young women, for they always die when they begin to grow a little old. This oldest of the old will give wisdom to your girls, and you will have young wives with old knowledge.” Addressing Koko's widow, she said, “Go, old woman, and sit next to that man; he is now your husband; he is sorry that Raku lost your former husband's arm. You are to give him your love. Go, O Raku!” continued the young girl, “and sit down by that chief. As he has in a long speech tried to persuade them to give you back Koko's arm, he will be kind to you; live with him for ever.” Then, addressing the people, she said, “Is it the wish of you all, O people! that your father should accept these two very learned women as a
The people answered, as with one voice, “We do wish it.”
The girl continued: “And from this day our father must cease to fill any vacant places caused by his wives dying by getting young women?”
“Yes,” answered the people.
“You need not get up to speak,” continued the young girl, speaking to the old man; “there is nothing for you to say. You must keep all you have to say for your new wives.” Addressing Koko's widow, she asked her, “Can you see your husband?”
She answered, “I do not see things as I did in my youth, for now daylight is half dark to me, so that my new husband looks like a big thing which is about the size of a man; I only know it is something because it looks rather darker than the surrounding gloom.”
“I am glad that you can see him at all,” said the girl. “He has never had a wife like you among his many wives; for when you are in the kumara plantation, and meet with a large stone, you will feel as much pleasure in its company as in his, as you will be sure to think it is your husband.”
“I shall not be jealous,” answered the old woman.
Addressing Raku, the girl said, “Now you have obtained more than one arm (if you ever did possess one of Koko's arms), you need not be dark in your
A lively young woman rose and said: “Are we not to be consulted in such a matter as our husband taking these new wives? The people were allowed to talk about the wrong Raku complained of; her losing the half-cooked arm was not proved. But because our husband made a speech in favour of women, and to cheer Raku's heart, he is to have two more wives. I am one of nine already, and I object to Koko's widow being the eleventh. We nine, all being young, can help ourselves; and should our husband be sick, we could attend to him; and it would be light work, for we could do it in turns. What I object to is, in a few moons we may have to nurse that old woman of ancient days. If she is the wife of our husband, who is a chief, we could not kill her if she became sick. I know that she may die any day, or should our husband die, she would be killed to attend him in Paerau; but we will not attend upon her when sick. I also object to her as an assistant in the kumara plantation. If she could not see our husband better than if she were looking at a cloud that was a little darker than other clouds in the sky, instead of pulling up the weeds she would pull up the kumaras. Who then would suffer for breaking the law of growing crops? I will not lend her my eyes, neither would I save her from being killed, because her hands had pulled up the kumara before the time of harvest.”
Another of the old chief's wives rose and asked: “I want to know, O people! who is to give you a feast, as is the custom of chiefs when they take a wife? We nine will not give one bit of food. We have not been consulted in the matter. Our husband does not cultivate with us; the storehouses are all our own; he has nothing. And as you, O people! had all to do with these wives being given to our husband, you can say who is to provide the feast.”
Takaho rose and said: “I am the beginning and end of all talk. You, O people! have heard all the words, and you have given the two women to our father. Let your wish be the end of the matter. I think you have acted in a very just manner. Old Raku said she had lost an arm which once belonged to Koko; her heart was dark; the wife of Koko had lost a husband; her heart was dark; she had also lost her master, who is dead. He and his wife lie in yonder wharau; and as our father, to whom these two women have been given, is a near relative of the dead master of Koko and his wife, he was in duty bound to take the slaves; and as he has always been spoken of, ever since he was a boy, as a man of very large heart towards women, by your act you have done right. You have made him a great chief, you have redressed the wrong done to Raku, and have given life to the dead heart of Koko's widow. As the people have done this, and these women are old and widows, there is no need of the feast of atahu. The agreement to become man and wife. Endynamus Taitensis, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 73. Gerygone flaviventris, Buller's ‘N. Z. Birds,’ p. 107.
The people, and even the children, had sat in perfect silence up to this time, listening to the various speakers; but now the matter having been decided all were in an uproar—laughing, talking, running to and fro, and the children calling to each other to come and join in some game.
During the noise and bustle Moe went to Kaikai and sat down near to him, and said, “I have been with my mother during the whole time the inquiry about Koko's arm was going on, and she has been crying so long that her eyes are nearly as big as my fist.”
“O!” said Kai, “when your aunt is taken to the tuakai An ancient burying-place.
“No, she will not,” answered Moe. “She does not now cry for that.”
“What does she cry for?” asked Kai.
Moe answered: “She told me not to tell any one;
“No, I do not waste more sound out of my mouth than I can help,” said Kai. “I am a slave; and I find that some people have to pay mats and other things for sounds which come out from between their teeth. If I were to make any sounds I might lose my life, or I might kill any one who struck me, and have to run away; and I do not wish to leave you until you are a man.”
“True,” said the boy; “my father is such a little man that I could not go to war in his company, as he is not strong enough to help himself.”
“Ah! but you forget, Moe,” said Kai, “that the small grub eats down the great tree; this is a proverb, and you must remember it.”
“I will,” answered the boy. “My mother told me, while you and I were here eating of the food cooked for the people, my father took some for her, but as she would not go from where she sat weeping at the feet of my aunt, my father took a kumara, which he squeezed into pulp in his hand, and went to her, and daubed her face with it, saying, ‘If your love for the dead is so great, no wonder you do not obey the living, because you do not love them.’ Some girls who saw my father daub her face laughed at her. My mother's heart died at once with shame, and she says she cannot live now, she has been so insulted with cooked food in the presence of the dead, and also laughed at by girls. She sang a song several times
“What was the song?” asked Kai.
“Come with me to my mother, and I will sing it,” answered Moe; “and if I make any mistake she can correct me.”
His mother was not where he had left her. The outside of the mat she had worn, the waist-band of karetu Hierochloe redolens.
“She has gone to get some food,” said Moe. “She is very hungry; she has not eaten anything for a long time.”
“Yes, she has gone to eat at a long feast,” answered Kai. “She was a kind woman and a great chief. Your father was not so kind. When I was first taken as a slave your mother was kind to me; but your father, when he knew that I was a great chief with my people, made me cook a quantity of food, and put it into three small baskets, which he made me carry, one on each shoulder and one on my head. I had then to sit down while he ate out of the baskets; what he could not eat he smeared over my head and chest. The greatest possible insult that can be offered to a native.
Leaving Moe, Kai proceeded to the mouth of a branch of the river on which the settlement was situated. It being low water, he walked up in the bed of the creek until he saw the footprints of some person who had crossed; these he followed, and by the mud which the grass and underwood had brushed off, he tracked the person up to a clump of trees which stood alone at the foot of the level ground which extended from the bank of the branch river where he had left Moe. He followed these marks into the scrub, and on a tree about half as high again as himself he saw the body of his chief's wife hanging dead. He sat down and cried for some time, repeating a lament of his own tribe over the dead, which he sang in an undertone as he wept. Having ceased his mourning, he returned, going through the clump of trees in a direct line with the way by which he had come, which took him on to the main road from the interior to the settlement; this he followed, and found Moe where he had left him.
“Where have you been?” asked the boy.
“I must go and find some food for your mother when she needs it,” answered Kai. “She needs something to help her in her own place. Remain here until I come back; I shall not be long away.”
He went and sought for Namu, and found him sitting by himself, looking at some young men who were wrestling. Kai sat down as near to him as the difference in their ranks permitted, as slaves have to cook food, and chiefs cannot be touched by them without becoming contaminated, and the gods would kill the chief for allowing such a contact; yet a slave woman may become a chief's wife without giving offence to the gods, because the children are the property of Tu, the god of war, and are the tribute to the other gods for transgressing the law of tapu.
Kai said to Namu, “I have seen, and you must see the same. If you go up the main road towards the interior until you come to the koroi-tree on your left, then go straight from it until you reach the clump of kaikomako Pennantia corymbosa.
Kai went a different way; as he walked he plaited a rope with some flax, which he tied round his waist. He arrived at the clump of trees first, and waited for Namu. When he arrived, Kai said, “Follow me,” and led the way to where his kind mistress was hanging. Namu did not look up as he walked until he was just below the body of his dead wife, when Kai stopped and said, “Look up, and see that fine bird. You are
At the same moment, as Namu stood looking up with glaring eyes, Kai seized him by the throat, and laid him on his back, saying, “Look up at her; see her whom you have killed. You shall hang there also.”
Kai, with his powerful grasp, kept hold of Namu's throat, who struggled in vain, until his limbs gave their last quiver. Kai then took the rope which was round his waist, and tied it round Namu's neck with a slip-knot, and hung him to a tree next to that on which his wife was hanging.
Kai returned to the settlement, muttering as he walked, “The child is mine now, and his coward father shall not again insult a chief with cooked food. The dog! My head was as sacred as his. But my revenge is fully satisfied.” As he drew near the creek he said, “I must collect some firewood now.”
He broke off the decayed branches of a tree which stood near the main road, tied them into a bundle, and slung it on his back by inserting his arms into two pieces of flax which encircled it, thus keeping the load of wood on his back hanging by the flax which passed over his shoulders.
Thus loaded, he emerged into the main road just as a number of people were passing on their way to the burial ceremony for the dead. The dead had been guarded in the wharau by two old women ever since they were brought to the settlement.
Kai found Moe crying. He had been ordered to go away some little distance from the corpses; but wishing rather to obey Kai than the two old women, he refused, and they forcibly carried him away by the arms and legs to where Kai found him crying.
“Kai,” asked the boy, am I not the son of a great chief?”
“Yes, you are, Moe,” answered Kai.”
“Then why have these two old things treated me as they have done?” asked Moe.
“They did not call you names, did they?” asked Kai.
“No; but they ordered me away, and I would not obey,” answered the boy. “And why should I obey them, when I have not listened to or obeyed one word or order given even by my father?”
“But those women are sacred women of your tribe,” said Kai; “and they are the keepers of the dead. If you call them names or disobey them they may bewitch
“I was waiting for my mother,” said the boy, “and was keeping my mother's things. Those old women threw them after me when they had carried me here. I would have scratched them, but I was afraid of their wrinkled faces, and their big, red, watery eyes. Kai, they are not like other women; they do not talk, and they have cut their hair so short that their heads look like the back of a singed dog.”
“Yes,” answered Kai; “but that is done to show how they loved your uncle and aunt. You did wrong to disobey them, because they were going to prepare the bodies for the burial-place. Let us sit here and look at them; but you must be silent until I tell you what to say and how to act, for we shall have to take part in the ceremony after the preparation is over. Every one of us will have to tie a piece of flax to your aunt's garment, near to her feet, and at certain words repeated by Takaho, every one must pull his piece of flax until it breaks. The flax breaking is to take away the effects of any disease which killed your aunt, so that such disease may not kill any one of your tribe. Look, the old women are combing your aunt's hair, and putting albatross feathers among it, so as to make her look beautiful. They have now put her feet to the north and her head to the south; for the reinga is to the north, and the priest will send her spirit, which has been here with the body ever since she died, to the northward. See, they have taken your uncle out
Kai had told this to Moe in a low undertone, not to be heard by any one.
The people had formed into a line in perfect silence at the rear of the wharau in which the dead had lain, no person, not even a dog, being allowed to be on the north side of the corpses. When the old women had finished decorating the dead, an old man suddenly appeared from the house of the dead. He had a maro Small mat tied round the waist, hanging down in front.
At this signal all the old men of the tribe formed themselves into a compact square, with Takaho on their right, and advanced silently with an even, steady step, until they arrived on the east side of the corpses, facing towards the male corpse. Every one of them held in each hand a fern-stalk. At the end of each stalk was tied a lock of hair taken from the heads of their enemies (these heads are preserved by the old
The warriors now formed in a chorus, and repeated with him—
At the end of each sentence of the chant they simultaneously raised the fern-stalks to the same height, which went up and down with perfect exactness.
The square now divided into two, and wheeling, one portion to the right and the other to the left, again formed a line on each side of the body, leaving an open space between them, running due north and south.
Again they took up the chant, holding the fernstalks as before, and lifting them up and down:—
The god of revenge.
The god of peace.
One of the mansions of the departed spirits.
Supreme god of the ocean.
God of earthquakes.
As the chant ended, two old men made their appearance, each one carrying a back-load of mangemange, Lygodium articulatum.
The chanting warriors walked backwards from the corpse, and sat down in a half-kneeling position, still holding the fern-stalks up in a line with the chest.
The two old men now lifted the body of the man on to one of the bundles of mangemange, which they rolled round him, so as to make a round bundle, and tied it up tight with the fibres of the kiekie. Freycinetia Banksii.
Their work being done, they sat down, one on each side of the corpse. Takaho, who had stood up to this time at the head of the male corpse, now walked to the head of the woman's corpse, and when near to it, the two old women who had offended Moe came forward, each having a maro Small mat.Vide ante, p. 221.
All the people who had been sitting on the south side of the corpse now came forward, men, women, and little children, without hurry or confusion. As soon as they drew near to the priest they divided into two bodies, one body going on each side of the corpse. Each one of the people, without exception, tied a long piece of flax to one of the uncut ends of the web of the mat, and holding the other end of the flax, stood east and west of north, as far from the corpse as the flax would allow them, with their heads bowed down, not uttering a word.
The chanting warriors, who had laid the pieces of
Pi, the sustaining power of food, and Pa, the power of consuming food, idealised into gods.
Caladium esculentum.
All at the same moment pulled in a northerly direction their pieces of flax, which, having been made very thin in the middle, broke, leaving one half attached to the mat. The people at once returned in silence to the place from whence they had come.
The warriors again formed into two lines, one on each side of the corpse, and while they and Takaho chanted—
the old woman who stood on the left of the female corpse put a piece of taro into the hand of the body, which the woman's spirit was to use for food on her way to the world of spirits, and to plant there for future sustenance. The priest and warriors continued:—
During this time the two old men had tied the man's corpse to a pole, which projected beyond the head and feet.
The two old women wrapped the body of the woman in the mat, and laid it on the other bundle of mangemange, which they wrapped round it, and tied together; they then tied the whole to a pole, which also projected beyond the head and feet. Then the chanting warriors rose and walked to the southward of the two corpses, and sat down in two lines, one behind the other.
Takaho now led the way to the sacred place, which was not far distant, being a clump of trees on high ground on the other side of the stream on which the settlement was built. The two old men lifted on to their shoulders the ends of the pole to which the chief was tied, and followed the priest, carrying the corpse feet first. The two old women carried the woman's
As soon as the corpses were being carried away the whole people, as with one voice, broke out into a loud wail, which they continued until the bodies were hid by the scrub through which they were being carried. They then sat silently, when the old priest was heard to say, “Extinguish all the fires.”
Instantly some of the women went and put all the fires out, and in silence resumed their places among the people, who sat with their heads partially bowed down.
When the priest, Takaho, reached the centre of the olump of trees he stood still, facing the north, and the body of the chief was laid on his right, and that of the woman on his left. The two men who had carried the body of the chief now climbed the nearest tree, and lowered down on the east side two ropes of flax. One of these the priest tied round the head of the corpse and the other round the feet, when it was drawn up, and with three flax ropes it was tied on to a branch. The men descended, and again climbing the same tree, lowered two ropes from another branch on the west side of the tree, and the corpse of the woman being tied in the same way, it was drawn up and fastened to the branch.
When the men came down, they each took hold with the left hand an end of the pole with which they had carried the body of the chief. They stood on the right of the priest; the women, who held their pole in the same way, stood on his left. Takaho repeated the following
Here the men and women lifted up the poles, which they held, and kept them above their heads. Takaho continued:—
The god of tumult, “to eat food with the living who make a noise.”
At the last words the men and women let their poles drop, and put their hands to their noses and smelt them, then to their sides, and in this posture followed Takaho in the same order as they had come. He took them back by a different way from that by which they had come, as it would be death to all were they to return by the road over which, corpses had so recently been carried. Upon reaching the settlement, they
Hedycarya dentata.
When everything was consumed, Takaho rose, and said, “You may light your fires, and cook the food for the evening meal.”
All was now animation, cooking, laughing, playing, and talking. The evening meal having been eaten, and the sun set, all the people gathered together in the different houses of the settlement, and talked over the matters of the tribe.
Suddenly a voice was heard calling for attention, and every ear listened while Tupu said, “I do not wish any one to speak when I have done. I did not allow the bodies of our relatives to be eaten for the death of our children, because we may need all the power of our tribes, and I do not wish that our family quarrels should give power to our enemies. I took the land and am satisfied. Man lives by the fruits of the earth; his flesh is made of the fruits of the earth. I did not take the flesh of man and eat it for revenge, but took the earth which makes his flesh; I have, therefore, taken the flesh of man for the death of our children. You can cultivate the land I have taken, and when you eat the crops from it, eat them with sharp teeth, and by that act you can revenge your great rage.”
Some one else was heard to cough, and again the people listened. Takaho called aloud the names of Namu and his wife, and waited for answer; again he spoke, “O my child, Namu, and you, my child, his wife, you have killed me; you did not come and look on the bodies of your brother and sister! What have I done that you should treat me so in my old age? Am I to lose two by death, and the other two through contempt? What is my sin? Truly, my dream and the omens are fulfilled in your act! In my youth I lost an eye by the blow of an enemy, and my head was broken, still I live; but now you have killed the eye of my heart, and broken the skull of my best image. I see nothing now! My god is dead, and I shall soon follow the setting sun!”
Another voice was heard to say, “Do not let our father think evil of Namu and his wife. While I was wrestling, just before the dead were taken to Tuakai, I saw Namu go in the direction of our inland settlement. Let a messenger be sent this night to see if he is there.”
“I will go,” said Kai; “I am strong, and not afraid to go in the dark, though the dead are so near. I am of another people; and if a spirit does kill me on the road, I am only a slave. I am gone.”
Again were the houses filled with laughter, joking, and sports. In one house were Aramita and Heta sitting with Moe, who had been left in their charge by Kai. There were also a number of girls who were playing with a poi or ball, which they threw round and round by a string. This game consisted in repeating
Moe, who had been looking at them for some time, looked up, and heard Aramita whisper to Heta, “You must tell the people.”
“No,” answered Heta, “you must, for you are the child of this tribe, and you can speak to your people with more effect.”
Moe said, “Yes, those girls do not play the poi in such a good way as the old people; you teach them, Ara.”
Aramita rose, and saying to the girls, “Listen to me,” she walked out of the house and said: “Listen, O people! every one of you; I shall speak to the whole world. Of whom am I afraid, that I should not let my voice be heard? Hearken, O people! and you, our father, O Takaho! I was at the battle in which your two children died, and I then spoke to the other part of our people at that place. But no one was bold enough to say that I might have that which I have loved since my girlhood. I am not like some men who have great teeth, and who, when they say a number of words, bite off that part of them in which a promise or a threat is given and swallow it, and then forget that they taught any one to rely on their word, O father! I did say that I would be my own master. You are a big man, and are as strong as you are tall, yet you were young once, and had your love. You