War to the Knife 26

War to the Knife 26

"All untrue. This pakeha dislikes war, and only fights when men insult

him. He desires to return to Auckland now that he has seen Te Terata,

where he will buy land from the Maoris--perhaps set up a _whare-koko_."

 

"The pakeha's words are good, but who will say that they are straight?

He may return to Waitemata, and tell the man who rides in front of the

soldiers with red clothes that the _pah_ at Rotorua is old and has

rotten timbers, so that it would be easy for the men with red coats and

the men with blue ones to take it. Why is the daughter of Mannering

among the women who are bearing burdens for the pakeha? Will she follow

him, and plant kumeras in his fields?"

 

"She will speak for herself," said Erena, stepping forward with

flashing eyes and scornful mien. "If my father were here he would teach

that evil-minded man"--pointing to Ngarara--"to speak with respect

of his daughter. What can he say? Have I not a right to walk in the

same company as this pakeha, or any other? Is not the daughter of a

war-chief free to choose her friends? Has not that always been the law

and the custom of the Arawa?"

 

Here there was a murmur of assent among the spectators, particularly

from the side where the women of the tribe were assembled, while

contemptuous looks were directed at Ngarara, who stood with lowering

countenance, unable to face the withering scorn with which the

indignant maiden regarded him.

 

Here Warwick took up the argument, not unreasonably considering that

the just anger of the girl might carry her beyond the limits of

prudence, as she stood, with burning eyes and heaving bosom, ready

to invoke the wrath of the gods upon the head of the traitor who had

dared to misinterpret her motives. He pointed out that she had joined

the party with the express sanction of the great chief of the Ngapuhi,

whose written authority and safe conduct she held; that the other

natives, male and female, had been hired for the expedition on liberal

terms; that they had been already paid in part (here he pointed to

certain articles of apparel and ornament which they had lost no time in

purchasing in Ohinemutu); that Ngarara, also, who had proved ungrateful

and mischievous--"slave-like" and "a liar" were the Maori terms--had

benefited by the pakeha's liberality: he had been paid in full. Here

he named the sum, and pointed to a new hat, which the disloyal one

had incautiously bought for himself. Upon him the eyes of the whole

assembly were at once turned, and his countenance changed as a murmur

of disapproval arose. Finally, the pakeha had assured him that he would

send his friends from beyond the sea to see the wonders of Te Terata

and Rotorua; they would bring trade and spend money like water for the

benefit of the Arawa and the Ngapuhi.

 

Having thus spoken, using no mean quality of the oratorical power which

is a natural gift of the Maori race, he produced Waka Nene's passport.

This the chief (fortunately one of those who, like that veteran, had

been taught to read and write by the early missionaries) perused with

attention, while the whole tribe gazed with awe and reverence at the

mysterious paper--the written word; the magic scroll! How often the

herald of fate!

 

In this case, however, a triumphant success followed the perusal of the

few lines in the handwriting, and signed with the name, of the great

chief of the Ngapuhi, who, with more than a thousand warriors at his

back, had formerly raided the Waikato and the Ngatimaru, carrying war

and devastation through the length of the land.

 

"It is enough," he said, handing back the paper to Warwick. "The pakeha

is a great rangatira. He is the friend of Waka Nene, who sent Erena to

show him the great fountain and the hot breath of Ruapehu; he is now

the friend of Hika-iro and all the lake tribes. As for you"--turning to

Ngarara--"you are a bad man, a _kuri_, a _tutæ_. Go!"

 

The discomfited Ngarara slunk away, pursued by groans and hisses from

the converted crowd, who, as is usual in such cases, were more vehement

in their anger in proportion to the feeling of distrust which had

marked their first impressions.

 

Peace having been restored, and the enemy routed with loss and

dishonour, there remained no reason why Massinger should not devote the

few days that remained to the exploration of this fascinating province

of the wonderland. Rarely did the weather in that portion of the island

remain steadfast to "set fair" for so many successive days as in this

halcyon time.

 

Whether it was the excitement of the coming strife, which he could see

by the manner of Warwick and Erena that they expected, the physical

exhilaration produced by the medicated atmosphere, the association

with the half-savage race, who now seemed ready to bow down before him

almost with adoration,--one of these causes, or the whole combined,

certainly found him in a condition of spiritual exaltation such as he

had never before experienced, and in vain essayed to comprehend.

 

"After all," he told himself, "it will be my last holiday for months,

possibly for years. I shall never, perhaps, have such another ideal

wandering through a 'londe of faerye,' certainly never again have 'so

fair a spirit to be my minister.' A region of marvels and magic, a

tribe of simple children of nature, ready to do my bidding! In this

life of ours, so sad and mysterious at times, such conditions cannot

last; why, then, should not one frankly accept a fragment of Arcadia?"

 

He lost no time in communicating his change of plan to Erena, whose

features wore so radiant a smile at the announcement that he saw in it

the fullest confirmation of the wisdom of his decision.

 

"I am so glad," she said, "that you are going to honour _my_ country,

_my_ tribe, by your last visit among them. I was born here, have swum

and paddled in the lake since I could walk; and though my father

changed our abode to Hokianga, and dwelt there latterly, I have always

loved Rotorua best in my heart."

 

For the next few days they roamed over the lakes and woods, the hills

and dales, of this enchanted ground in unfettered companionship and

joyous converse. They went in a canoe to Hinemoa's Isle, rowed by two

Maori girls, and beheld the bath which bears her name to this day. They

saw the beach on which stood the doomed Arawas, confident in the power

of their hitherto inviolate wave. Here had they fallen; here had the

cannibal feast, with all its horrid accompaniments, been held; here,

where the grass grew thick and wild flowers waved to the very margin of

the peaceful lake, had assailants and defenders waded in blood amid the

dead and the dying.

 

And yet now how calm, how peaceful, was the historic water, how

tranquil were all things, how happily flowed on the village life!

Who could have believed that such horrors were transacted in this

fairy isle, where now the voices of children at play, the crooning,

low-voiced song of the girls, as they plaited the flax mats or made

with deft fingers the neat provision-baskets, were the only sounds that

met the ear?

 

Together they climbed the rocky summit of the island, and viewed the

strangely compounded landscape, heard the dire sounds as of groans

and murmurings of imprisoned fire-spirits, while from time to time an

impatient geyser in the haunted valley of Whakarewarewa would fling

itself in cloud and steam heavenwards with wildest fury.

 

Together they stood before the curious stone image, sacred under

penalty of awful doom in the minds of the simple people, as having

been brought in an ancestral canoe from the half-mythical Hawaiki in

the dim traditionary exodus of the race. Together they forced their

canoes up the glittering channel of Hamurama, and held their hands in

the ice-cold fountain at its source, where it flows bubbling out of the

breast of the fern-clad hill.

 

The moon was slowly rising over the dark range of Matawhaura as they

left the further shore to return to Ohinemutu. The air was delicious,

the lake a mirrored water-plain, across which the moonbeams showed

silver-gleaming pathways, as if leading to other happy isles. The

paddles of the Maori girls dipped softly into the placid water as the

canoe stole silently across the lake's broad bosom.

 

"On such a night as this," said Massinger, "it would be most

appropriate for you to tell, and for me to listen to, the legend of

Hinemoa."

 

"It is a silly tale at best," answered Erena, with a tone half of

sadness, half of playfulness, in her voice--"a tale of woman's love and

man's fidelity. They had better fortune in those old days."

 

"And, of course, nowadays," said Massinger, "there can be almost no

love and less fidelity."

 

"The pakeha is wrong," said one of the girls, as they rested on their

paddles, evidently anxious not to miss Erena's version of the legend

(like that of Antar among the Arabs), ever new and deepening in

interest with every generation--"the pakeha is wrong; girls' love is

just the same as ever it was. It is always fresh, like the foliage of

the _pohutu kawa_, with its beautiful red flowers. It does not fade and

fall off, like the leaves of the trees the pakeha brought to the land."

 

"Hush, Torea!" said Erena; "you must not talk so to this pakeha. He is

a great rangatira. And besides, you cannot know."

 

"Do I not?" answered the forest maiden. "If he is a rangatira, he will

know too. But are you going to tell us the _Taihia_?"

 

"To stop your mouth, perhaps I had better; so I will begin. You must

know that there was a young chief called Tutanekai, who resided with

his family on this island of Mokoia. He was handsome and brave, but

because of certain circumstances, and being a younger son, he was

neither of high rank nor consideration in his tribe. He was, however,

gifted in various ways, which made the young women of the tribe look

favourably upon him. He was fond of music. On account of this, he and

his friend Tiki constructed a stage or balcony on the slope of the

hill there, which he called Kaiweka. There they used to sit in the

evenings, while Tutanekai played on a trumpet and his friend upon a

flute, the soft notes of which were wafted across the lake to the village of O-whata, where dwelt Hinemoa.