The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature

by Jane Stafford

  Mr Woodroffe’s glass blowing trophies were really good. I had heard of this gentleman’s skill before, but never had an opportunity of seeing him at work before to-day. My pleasure, however, was not of long duration, for we were hardly inside the pavilion, or tent, when Te Whiti’s attention was attracted by a group of wax figures, representing the Jewish lawgiver, Moses, who is represented in the act of striking the rock that water may flow therefrom, and reproving his followers for their impiety and willfulness. Aaron, his brother, is behind him, and some eight or ten male and female figures are grouped in front, some being kneeling. Te Whiti took the whole group in at once. He left the glass blowing of Mr Woodroffe in disgust, and Tohu followed him, while in less time than I write this there was a scene. The senior Prophet turned a ghastly green, or yellow, his mouth, which commenced twitching, fell at the corners, and altogether it was really wonderful to see how he worked himself up in such a short time. He continued looking from one figure to the other, but the High Priest, Aaron, came in for most of his attention. He told Tohu that Moses was correct, as he (Te Whiti) had seen him, but that Aaron was not according to his representation. He spoke in a very nervous, excited manner, quite different from his usual composed style. ‘Yes,’ he said, those people (the eight or ten outside figures) are correct; this is Zephiniah, this one Reuben, &c., going on giving names to all the figures, but this one (meaning Aaron) is not correct (e kore aia e tikaia) as I saw him last, but the others are very good. Tohu simply answered ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ falling in, as a dutiful disciple should do, with all the views of his master. Of course, my readers are aware that ‘to see visions and to see sights’ such as no common man is granted the power or dispensation to see is a part, and a very great part, of the religious belief of my friend Te Whiti, and, as a matter of course, this feeling is shared by his friends or believers. Mr Beetham was astonished, and beckoned for me to try and get them away; in fact he was most eager to get them away. Fortunately there were only one or two people in the pavilion, and consequently very few were enabled to see the ‘Lion of Parihaka’ in his prophetic mood; but I could plainly see that a few more minutes of this strong excitement he was laboring under would be too much for him or us. I therefore endeavored by gentle means to get them away, but the prophet was deaf to all my kindly admonitions, for was he not under the magic spell of his atua, or, more correctly, an all-powerful fanaticism was getting the better of him, and obscuring his usual kindliness of manner towards myself. I told him not to allude to such sacred subjects in a place like this, but he was heedless to my remarks, his only reply being, ‘They are correct.’ But this one (Aaron) is wrong altogether. He is different, and why? (E tika ana e autau nei, engari e tenei ki kei te rereke ai, hei aha ia e penaki ai.) Ultimately I had forcibly to lead him away, when he was quite weak and trembling. Poor fellow. I have now seen the prophet in his seer’s clothes, or, in other words, in his prophetic mood, and I can’t say I admire him. To me he appeared fallen and degraded, thus exorcised by a group of wax figures dressed up in red and white calico. Oh, Te Whiti, my poor friend, is it possible that you believe that a group like this, meant only as an additional attraction to Mr Woodroffe’s interesting experiments, is or could be any medium between yourself and your Atua or God? How can a man of your mind lend yourself to such gross nonsense? I am ashamed; I am disgusted; I am—well, at all events, I am not converted to the prophet’s way of thinking; but should I ever be overcome by his influence and granted the gift of seeing visions, &c., my readers shall know all about it. As I said, I had forcibly to lead the prophet away from the enchanted spot, and we then went into the refreshment tent at Mr Joubert’s invitation, and sat down to a very nice luncheon, but Te Whiti was too excited and nervous to eat much. After luncheon we continued our inspection of the Exhibition once more. The manager of the Kaiapoi Woollen Factory, who was in attendance, presented each of my friends with a woollen wrap, and they also received a medal commemorative of their visit to the ‘World’s Fair’.

  (1883)

  The Historical Imaginary

  Jessie Mackay, ‘The Noosing of the Sun God’

  ‘Tiraha, Te Ra!

  I am Maui,—

  Maui the bantling, the darling,—

  Maui the fire-thief, the jester,—

  Maui the world’s fisherman!

  I am Maui, man’s champion!

  Thou art the Sun-God,

  Te Ra of the flaming hair.

  Heretofore man is thy moth.

  What is the life of man,

  Bound to thy rushing wings,

  Thou fire-bird of Rangi?

  A birth in a burning;

  A flash and a war-word;

  A failing, a falling

  Of ash to the ashes

  Of bottomless Po!

  I am Maui!

  The great one, the little one,

  A bird that could nest

  In the hand of a woman.

  I—I have vanquished

  The Timeless, the Ancients:

  The heavens cannot bind me,

  But I shall bind thee.

  Tiraha, Te Ra!’

  Ah, the red day

  Of the fighting of Maui!

  How he waxed, how he grew:

  How the Earth Mother shook!

  And the sea was afraid,

  And receded and moaned

  Like a babe that is chidden!

  The rope that was spun

  In the White World of Maui

  With blessing and cursing

  Curled on the dazzling

  Neck of Te Ra.

  ‘A pull for the living

  That gasp in the light!

  A pull for the dead

  In abysses of Po!

  A pull for the babes

  That are not, but shall be

  In the cool, in the dawn,

  In the calm of Hereafter!

  Tiraha, Te Ra!’

  The sky was a smother

  Of flame and commotion.

  Low leaped the red fringes

  To harass the mountains.

  And Maui laughed out:—

  ‘Hu, hu, the feathers

  Of the fire-bird of Rangi!’

  But the rope of the blessing,

  The rope of the cursing,

  It shrivelled and broke.

  He stooped to the coils

  And he twisted them thrice,

  And thickly he threw it

  On the neck of Te Ra.

  ‘Twice for the living!

  And twice for the dead!

  And twice for the long Hereafter!’

  All the heart of the heavens,

  The heart of the earth,

  Hung on the rope of Maui.

  But the red lizards licked it;

  The fire-knives chipped it;

  It frittered and broke.

  Then Maui stood forth

  On the moaning headlands

  And looked up to Io—

  Io, the Nameless, the Father,

  To whom the eyes pray,

  But whom the tongue names not.

  And a thin voice clave the fire

  As the young moon cleaves the blue

  Like a shark’s tooth in the heavens:—

  ‘O my son, my son, and why are thy hands so red?

  Wilt fight the fire with fire, or bind the Eterne with deeds?

  Shatter the strong with strength? Nay, like to unlike is wed:

  What man goes to the river to smite a reed with reeds?

  Soft and wan is water, yet it is stronger than fire:

  Pale and poor is patience, yet it is stronger than pride.

  Out of the uttermost weakness cometh the heart’s desire.

  Thou shalt bind the Eternal with need and naught beside.

  Plait thee a rope of rays: twist thee a cord of light:

  Twine thee a tender thread that never was bought nor sold:

  Twine thee a living thread of sorrow and ruth and right,

  And were there twenty s
uns in Rangi, the rope shall hold.’

  Then Maui bowed his head

  And smote his palms together:—

  ‘Ina, my sister, little one, heed;

  Give me thy hair.’

  Ina, the Maiden of Light,

  Gave him her hair.

  Swiftly he wove it,

  Laughing out to the skies:—

  ‘Thrice for the living:

  Thrice for the dead:

  And thrice for the long Hereafter!’

  The thin little cord

  Flew fast on the wind

  Past the Eyes of the Kings

  To the neck of Te Ra.

  And then was the pull.

  The red lizards licked it;

  The fire-knives chipped it;

  But it stood, but it held.

  And measured and slow

  Evermore was the flight

  Of the fire-bird of Rangi.

  (1909)

  William Satchell, from The Greenstone Door

  In my earliest mental picture of myself I figure as a small creature of unknown derivation, conscious of no void behind me, sure of an eternity in front. Around me, tangling its fronds above my head, is high fern, shutting out the hot rays of the March sun. There are strange creatures moving on the soil, whizzing past among the leaves, filling me with emotions at once fearful and delightful. Stirring uneasily within me is a sense of wrongdoing, yet I push my way on and on, following the black cicadas and huge brown locusts, as they leap before me, frustrating all efforts at capture. But presently I become conscious of something lacking. Wonderful as are the joys of this newly-found freedom, there is a thing here strange to my experience and as awe-inspiring as novel—solitude. I become aware of the absence of human voices, of the need of that mighty and comforting column, the parental leg.

  Here follows an interval of nothingness. Probably sleep brought a respite to my fears, my futile efforts to escape from the tangle of fern, for when I again become aware of myself the sun no longer brightens the leaves overhead. It is still light, but the day is ending, and a chill breeze, harbinger of night, rustles the dry stalks. The insects have ceased their clamour, and save for the rustling all is still. All? No. There is a sound in the air, slowly detaching itself from the silence; a booming, hollow sound, a rhythmic sound, swelling and failing, shuddering through the air, vibrating through the earth. Surely I have heard such a sound before, or why does it conjure up in my brain a definite picture that sets my teeth chattering and causes me to bury my face in the ground? I can see the war-party heartening itself for the attack, the rhythmic stamping of feet, the rolling eyes, the horrible grimaces; I can hear the threatening staccato of the war-song, the voice of the leader, the guttural response of the taua, as a fire crackling from lip to lip, the fierce shout, the deep, blood-curdling gasp, filling the air with a whisper of death—‘Hi! Hi! Ha-ah!’

  After this an interval of silence. The breeze has died away, the very growth around me seems to stand expectant of fateful things to come. At length there is a stealthy rush of footsteps, setting the earth aquake. I hear the deep breathing of the warriors as they rush onward on every hand, scaling the steep slopes of the pa. None comes near me, and God alone knows whence I derive the wit to lie still and make no sound. Presently the last of them has sped on his way, and I am left alone again with the silence and the falling night. But not for long is there silence. High up overhead breaks out the crack of a gun, then a volley. Shouts and screams pierce the air. A voice harsh and dominating rises at intervals above the din and is answered by the exultant, deep-chested ‘Ah! Ha-ah!’ of the attacking warriors. With a whimper of terror, I start from my hiding-place, toddle blindly through the fern, trip over the dense growth, and roll downwards into the arms of two men, making their way with great strides up the hill.

  ‘Hulloa! What’s this?’

  ‘A pakeha child, by the look of him, Mr Wake.’

  ‘Then he must be Tregarthen’s. What is your name, my boy?’

  It is impossible I should remember all this, and I shall no longer make pretence of doing so: but what I have been told is so firmly bound up with what I do remember that it is hopeless to attempt to dissociate them.

  The speaker’s voice was masterful but kindly. He was a middle-aged man, with a pale face like my father’s, and I remember that the circumstance that both men were white alarmed me and set me whimpering afresh. He carried his coat over his arm, and heavy drops of perspiration were running down his nose and trickling to the ground.

  ‘What does he say, Purcell?’ he asked.

  ‘Ewic … Is it Eric, my little man?’

  The other knelt down in front of me, brushed the hair from my eyes with a large hand, and told me not to cry. ‘Why, he’s only a baby, Mr Wake. Where’s daddy, little man? What’s that? Well, well, I can make nothing of it. Hark!’ he broke off suddenly, lifting his face to the hill. ‘They’re in.’

  All this time the firing of guns, the shouting and screaming had gone on undiminished in the sky overhead.

  ‘We must go,’ said Mr Wake anxiously; ‘but what is to be done with the child? Stay here, Mr Purcell, and I will make the journey alone.’

  Purcell laughed and rose to his feet. ‘Yet,’ he said, regarding me with compunction, ‘we cannot leave the baby here for Te Waharoa’s umu. What is to become of you, my fine fellow?’

  I looked up into his smiling eyes and, for answer, twined a chubby arm round his leg.

  ‘The hand of the Almighty,’ said Mr Wake, lifting the hat he had just replaced on his streaming head, ‘has led the child from the pit of death. Come, it will be night before we enter the pa.’

  Without more ado, Purcell picked me up, as a man plucks a leaf by the wayside, and, almost at a run, they continued the ascent of the hill.

  But the way was steep and, when the fern was passed, slippery, and presently there were terraces, twice the height of a tall man, to be surmounted, and when these were overcome and, as the first stars began to twinkle forth, we came in sight of the shattered palisades, smoke and flame were issuing from the houses, and the sound of firing had ceased.

  The men of the attacking party had discarded their guns, as though all concerted resistance were at an end, and, armed with tomahawk and mere, were moving among the burning whares, shouting and laughing in the wild exhilaration of victory. On the farther side of the hill, against the sky, a dense crowd of warriors was assembled, their plumed heads and naked limbs showing black against the light beyond.

  Mr Wake led the way with a firm step into the pa, followed by my protector, bearing me lightly in his great arms. Probably it was due to the confident movements of the two men that their approach was at first unnoticed by the triumphant war-party. Between us and the second line of defence was a ditch and a bank, and another between that and the kiritangata or innermost barricades. A low doorway in front of us stood open, and we crept through and stood among the huddled houses of the village. No doubt it was a scene to inspire horror at which my two companions gazed so intently, but for my part I saw only men and women and children lying asleep in the gathering light of the burning huts.

  ‘Pitty, pitty!’ said I, extending a hand to the leaping flames.

  ‘Pitty indeed,’ said my bearer, looking gravely about him.

  Mr Wake’s mouth trembled and set itself momentarily. His pale face looked whiter than ever, save where the flames tinged it with a ghastly yellow. He moved forward almost at a run and, gathering me closer in his arms, Purcell followed.

  ‘Steady, Mr Wake. Steady, sir,’ he cautioned. ‘Keep your shoulder against mine. We are too late in any case.’

  From somewhere close at hand came a shrill scream, followed by the laughter of men.

  ‘We may yet be in time,’ said Mr Wake, darting round the corner of a building.

  Did I understand the scene that burst on our sight a moment later? At least it lives clearly in my memory to this day, and definite memories, even when they seem pointless and immaterial,
are the reflex of strong emotions. A large whare was burning merrily to one side, and in the lurid light stood three figures. The central was that of a young girl of fifteen, her slim figure swaying in the grasp of two warriors. She had ceased to cry out, and was speaking rapidly and thickly, her dark, terror-stricken eyes turning eagerly from one to the other, seeking some sign of relenting in the fierce yet amused faces.

  ‘Puna!’ I cried suddenly. ‘Puna!’ and stretched my arms out towards her.

  The girl’s face, beaded with the fine sweat of terror, was turned quickly to us at the sound, and in a moment she had slipped from the grasp of her captors and was running fleetly towards us. So sudden had been our advent that surprise for a moment held the warriors spellbound. But only for a moment. In the next instant one had poised and thrown his tomahawk, and the girl, with her skull split asunder, lay dead and motionless at our feet.

  My protector started, took a step forward, then restrained himself, looking at the still body of the young girl with a shake of the head. ‘Steady, Mr Wake,’ he said sadly under his breath. ‘We are too late.’

  The pale face of the missionary was set in stern lines, and his eyes flashed with a fierceness almost fanatical in its intensity as he approached the warriors. ‘Shame on you, men of Ngatihaua,’ he cried in Maori. ‘God will demand utu for the blood of this young girl.’

  The eyes of the two men shifted uneasily at this speech, and for a moment there was silence.

  ‘Why are the pakehas here?’ asked one of them coldly at length. ‘Do they desire to join cause with the Ngatimaru, the enemies of Te Waharoa?’

  ‘We champion no cause save that of the God of Humanity,’ replied Wake sternly, looking at the slayer of the girl; ‘the God who has said He who spills man’s blood, by man shall his blood be spilled.’

  The young brave’s eyes swerved from the unflinching gaze of the missionary, but an instant later, with a laugh of bravado, he strode to the corpse of his latest victim, and, smiting the head from the body with one blow of his sharp tomahawk, whirled it by its long hair into the centre of the blazing whare; then, slinging the trunk, warm and gouting blood, over his shoulder, he moved off through the village.