Minutes later, they are sitting in their wooden hot tub, Hina smiling down on them. Iri massages Koa’s back while Koa sings a waiata to the moon, crooning into the crisp night air.
“Now, my kotuku, comes your treat. I’ll tell you a tale and you tell me what it is really about.” She begins: “This story is called ‘The Woman in the Moon Cries Foul’.
“In Pape’ete, women gather around a fire to finish designs on the tapa mural they are making to protest nuclear tests at Moruroa atoll. A corner of the tapa reveals a child praying. A pattern of stars erupts through the sky of the tapa at the top border, one star for each detonation since nuclear tests began. Maeve begins to count the stars. One, two, three … one hundred … one hundred and fifty. Tears fall down her cheeks as she marks the final stars. She dips her fingers into crushed berries, the colour of ochre, and adds a star from last month’s underwater explosion. All eyes are on her as she presses the imprint into the cloth through the bark stencil.
“At the atoll, a white explosion erupts from the ocean and spans out towards the canoes. Clouds part and the moon glares down on the broken waters. In the distance, a thunderous drumming. Eyes rise to the heavens as waves echo out from the centre of the explosion towards the waiting canoes.
“The last panel is completed on the tapa mural. It depicts Tureia Island after the nuclear tests. Inedible coconuts fall off the trees. Maohi get sick from the fish, vegetables and water. They fall into the sea and become stars, forming the border at the bottom of the tapa cloth. Waves bang against the canoes near the atoll. They threaten to swamp the paddlers, who beat their paddles against the side of the canoes in protest. Thunder rolls out of the skies with a terrifying power and crashes down over the heads of the workers at the nuclear base.
“Fire blazes from the land as the Maohi women show the finished tapa-cloth mural telling the stories of their lives from when they could still eat fish and coconuts to the diseases and contamination that prevent this now. Yet there is determination and power in their faces. As they hold the tapa high, the moon shines onto the bark cloth, illuminating its stories.
“Maeve looks up to see Hina-nui-aiai-i-te-marama, Great Hina beating in the moon. The Goddess who refused to be silenced when she kept beating her tapa cloth at night was sent into the heavens as penance, and tonight she returns to avenge her people. As Hina holds her mallet high and thumps against the tapa cloth, the men raise their paddles in protest and the Maohi women raise their mallets in defiance. Punua bursts thunder onto the nuclear base, shattering the towers in two, and Hina smiles down from the Moon.”
Iri stops her massage a moment. “Well, it’s about the protest against nuclear tests at Moruroa, and it’s voiced through the retelling of the myth of Hina.”
“Yes, partly right. It’s a Tahitian version of the story but I have adapted it to honour the protesters at Moruroa. But how do you think it is relevant here?” Koa grins as she imagines Iri scrunching up her face in thought behind her.
A while later, Iri replies. “Is it about not giving up? That sometimes you have to beat your drum hard to get the message out, in this case, on the tapa cloth, that we must not ever give up the fight just because it gets hard or there are sacrifices along the way? And about protecting the earth and not devastating her with poisons and nuclear waste.”
“Not bad at all, my Clever Earthworm.” Koa and Iri have reclaimed worms for their goodness to the soil and their knowledge they could not do their work without these soil savers. Iri grins. “It’s about not giving up, no matter what. We have to support each other, you and I and all those against GE, because there is no going back once the decision is made. We need to draw on all the stories and mythology and lessons we have learned down the years or we will be doomed to repeat the same tired lessons of history all over again. And we simply cannot leave such a legacy to our tamariki.”
“Ka pae, Koa.” Iri holds her lover close, whispering into her ear. “I love you for being so strong. And for always bringing the joy back to my tired spirit.”
“That is the meaning of my name and why I was called Koa,” her lover replies, running her hand slowly around the back of Iri’s neck and down to her breasts floating gently on the moon-washed water. She bends to kiss her, drawing Iri towards her, folding her legs around her waist as they float under the protective eye of Hina, who knows they will complete her work eloquently on their earthly plane. The stars dance on the moonlit waters, reflecting Hina’s light into the faces of the women.
“You’ll never guess what happened at work today, Waka.” Maata watches as Waka follows in his father Piripi’s steps as a talented carver, curving his hand-hewn chisel up the trunk of the totara log, tracing the swirling design of his fern-leaf pattern. Waka looks up, encouraging her to continue. “Mr Dixon suggested I finish work early on Fridays as he wants me to clean the house of a friend. Said he’d pay really well for it, but it’d be a real mess. At first I was reluctant, as I need the time for further study, but then he told me it was the home of that Tony fella. I figured that I could spy on him much easier if I was working in his home, and then you could come and collect me at the end of each session. That way, I could let you know if the way was clear for a bit of a rekky.” Maata grins, pleased with herself.
Waka looks up from his work tentatively. “You sure you want to get that close to this fella?”
“No. But cleaning his digs isn’t such a big deal. I do this for Mere already and it’d be a breeze. I’d have access to all his records and hear his calls and really find out if anything is going on there after what I heard when he and Mr Dixon were talking at Flyworks that day.”
Waka still looks unsure. “I like the idea of you having this access but I don’t like the feeling that this dirty old man might have further access to you.”
Maata blanches, realising that Waka is being protective of her. “Thanks, Waka, but I am sixteen now and perfectly capable of looking after myself. Besides, if you come and collect me each time, you’ll know if anything is not right, okay? Then you can let the others know. Mere will be so furious that she’d be more than a match for him!”
Waka grimaces. “I’ve no doubt of that, Maata. Your grandmother is very gentle, but she can be fierce when she needs to be.”
“Too right, Waka. So you don’t mind then?”
“What if he hits up on you? I’d mind that.”
Maata smiles to herself, knowing he loves her even though they have agreed to be good friends for the time being. “He already has another girlfriend – Dixon’s daughter – so that should not be a problem.”
“Okay then. Only if I can be there each time to fetch you. I must admit, it’s a bit of a coup, Maata, after our decision to keep an eye on him. Must be someone looking after us, eh?” Waka smiles broadly, sweeping her to his side and planting a kiss on her cheek. “So whad’ya think of the koru so far?” he adds, blowing the shavings away from the design and showing the graceful spiral which reaches up toward the heavens.
“It’s inspiring, Waka. Huatau.” Maata runs her finger along the coil and feels the smoothness of the cut and the rough edges of the indented wood. “Piripi will be really proud of you.”
“I am already,” booms a voice behind them as Piripi walks in, carrying a carving under his arm. He lays it on the table for them to admire.
Maata looks at the work of art, not quite sure what it is. It resembles a musical instrument, but she has never seen one quite like this before. Two long, narrow gourds tied together at the top and bottom, with a face at the head, its tongue leading down to a green and white feather that decorates its shiny, brown body. There are holes either side. Piripi explains it is one of the early Maori flutes, putorino. He places it delicately against his lips and plays and Maata is entranced by the haunting sound that floats out from the hollow belly of the instrument. She has never felt this way since first hearing the bone flute played by her uncle and this moves her deeply.
“I’ve been working with Ta Haumanu, a group de
dicated to the revival of Maori flute and instrumental playing, and this flute was made by a very special carver, Brian Flintoff. His taonga puora are singing treasures that pay homage to Hine Raukatauri, the Goddess of Music. I can see her in his work.”
“Me too,” replies Maata. “This feels like the rounded body of a beautiful woman.”
“Yes, but one who calls for her lover. D’you know the story behind her?” Piripi asks.
“Just that she inspires musicians.”
“All our instruments, especially the flutes, are descended from Hine Raukatauri. She’s represented on our earth as the casemoth. The caterpillar of this unique moth spins an intricate bag, then covers it with tiny leaves from the forest so she can hang from the branches in safety. The males pupate and fly away, but the females stay within their womb-like cases. At night they can be heard crying for their lovers, and this wailing sound is the inspiration for all Maori flute music.”
“Wow! That’s amazing! Do they miss the males that much?” asks Waka, knowing he’ll get a reaction from Maata, who is always under the influence of her Aunty Cowrie.
“Who says they are wailing for their male lovers, Waka? Piripi just said wailing for their lovers. Could be anyone.”
“Ah, maybe, but the balance of male and female is important in creating any of the instruments,” explains Piripi. “The putorino also has a male voice within its body.”
“Could be trans-gendered then,” adds Maata, not to be outdone.
Piripi shakes his head in disbelief. These young kids, they need to have it their way.
Maata suddenly recalls a story her Aunty Cowrie once told her. “Didn’t the kokako bird once ask Maui to grant the ability to sing like Hine Raukatauri? I remember Cowrie telling me something about this.”
“Ka pae, Maata.” Piripi looks pleased. “Maui told the kokako to eat the casemoths. The result was that the bird was able to sing like magic, as if it had swallowed and then recreated the sound of Raukatauri, making this even more mystical and musical in the process. Hence the kokako now has such a haunting melody and a tonal scale like no other bird.”
“Do kokako still eat the casemoths?” asks Waka.
“Sure. That’s why they sing so sweetly,” adds Maata, who has seen them feasting lusciously on the moths and singing to their heart’s content.
Piripi takes a carved bone flute from his chest pocket and shows it to them. “See this end? You blow from here, like this.” He raises the flute to his mouth at an angle and gently whistles into it. A soft cry comes out, like the wailing of a baby kakapo in the distance.
“Wow. Amazing. What’s the carving at this end?” Maata points to the head of the flute near his lips.
Piripi holds the koauau toward them and places his finger at the mouth of the flute. “This end we blow into represents the face of the flute. The eyes, nose and lips are carved around the open mouth. When you blow into its open mouth, then the nose comes close to the musician. See.” He demonstrates.
“Just like you are giving the flute a hongi by touching nose to nose then?” asks Waka.
“Ka pae. Just like that. Now – look here at the other end.” Piripi turns the instrument to face them with the part that is furthest from the lips.
“But that’s also got a face on it,” pipes up Maata.
“Ka pae, Maata. But look more closely. What do you notice that is unusual?”
Maata examines the koauau for some time before she discovers its unique qualities. “The face at this other end has two noses, one above and one below. But why?”
“That’s because this end represents the face of the music and it takes two breaths to make the music, the breath of the musician and that of the instrument, the koauau,” replies Piripi.
“So both rely equally on the other for their existence and their spirit?”
“Yes, Waka. Just as you with this koru carving of yours. Both you and your instrument for carving are one spirit. Just like we are tangata whenua – people of the land. If we abuse the land, we cannot live on it. We are one with the land, just as a musician is one with his or her instrument, and breathes the spirit of Hine Raukatauri with every breath taken.”
“And since the land is Papatuanuku and the spirit of music is Hine Raukatauri, and both are female, then you blokes need our spirit to survive, eh?” adds Maata, looking very pleased with herself.
Piripi looks at Waka and raises his eyebrows. “Whad’ya think, bro?”
“Ah, let her have her way,” laughs Waka, secretly proud of Maata for standing up for her sex. He knows she was abused as a child and the extent of the harm to her then. It has been a long journey to repair her broken spirit. Sometimes she can overreact, but he adores her for her strength in making this journey and her assertiveness now. He can see her as wahine toa, as strong as Irihapeti or Cowrie or Mere in the future, so long as she does not let the past submerge her, as it did when she nearly drowned a few years back. When Maata glimpses his affection, he looks down to his carving and pretends to inspect it more closely.
“So what’s this wavy carving which curves around the finger holes and down over the body of the instrument?” Maata points to the waves of bone.
“The carver calls it te ata o te rangi: the pathway of the music. It depicts our music spiralling into the world.”
“I like that. It looks like soundwaves, rolling across the ocean to the horizon.” Maata fingers the deep curves in the bone lovingly. Waka notices her touch.
“There are usually three finger holes or wenewene, but sometimes there can be five. Most of our music consists of a very compact scale of microtones,” explains Piripi, lifting the koauau to his lips and moving from note to note in a sliding glissando. Maata recalls the voice of Diane Aki from Hawai'i on the tape that her Aunty Cowrie brought back from her other homeland. The sliding notes are hauntingly similar, but here they sound as if from another world, one that knows more than this earth, one full of mystery and wisdom, a world beyond this where an inner knowledge lies in waiting for the soul explorer to discover. Maata never talks to anyone else about this world, but she has known it since she was a child. She was always captivated by the description of the music of the spheres at school, and she associates these haunting melodies with that unknown sound inviting us to a world beyond this. One day, she’ll discover for herself what this truly means.
They are walking through the Waipoua Forest, hand in hand, dwarfed by the giant kauri, kahikatea, the weeping leaves of the rimu, strong black mamaku sheltering the smaller kohuhu, and nikau palms waving their fronds toward the waiting heavens. Piwakawaka flit around their heads, grateful for their presence so they can catch the insects which jump out of their way, their fanned tails allowing them to hover and pounce at just the right time. A stream slithers along beside them, offering up her clean water for their thirst. Just as they bend to drink the water, the ground shakes. A mighty thundering rolls toward them from the sky in waves. They look up to the giant twinned kauri towering above them. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an albatross with a gigantic wingspan flies toward one of the kauri. They can hardly believe their eyes. It looks as if the giant seabird will crash straight into the trunk of the tree, shattering itself. The sun glints across their vision a second and the bird smashes into the tree, sending branches raining down around them. They are saved by a rimu which stands in its path. They gasp, stunned, and hide within a nearby cave to recover. A few twigs have gashed the sides of their faces. They bathe the wounds with their wet towels, refreshed by the stream. Just as they emerge from the cave entrance, another mighty thundering. The sky is shaking and birds are falling from the heavens in their droves. To their left, another mighty albatross swoops down and heads for the second giant kauri. They jump back into the cave. This time the bird hits the tree with such force that the tree is shattered into pieces and crashes down around them, taking the kahikatea, rimu and nikau palms with it. The thundering debris sends up a spray of dust into the forest, clogging their noses and fogging the cave.
They run toward the cave entrance, afraid of being trapped in by the branches crashing around them, but there is nowhere to escape. The forest around them is devastated. Huge trees lie moaning like wounded soldiers, their branches crushed or poking imploringly toward the silent heavens. The dust from their impact has created a fog so thick it resembles the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust. The ground begins to shake in shock. They run, blinded, right into the body of the dead albatross and are suffocated by its feathers …
Irihapeti wakes with a start, gasping for air and shocked by her nightmare. Koa lies beside her, still asleep. Iri rises and walks toward the window. There is a heavy mist over the Waipoua Kauri Forest and she cannot see if it is still standing. She shivers. It’s unlike her to have nightmares. She usually sleeps so well after all the hard work in the nursery. She lights the gas stove and boils the billy for a cuppa, watching the sun begin to rise over the hills and melt the fog. Gradually, the tops of the trees appear mysteriously from the mist and she breathes a sigh of relief. For now.
Tena koutou katoa – Today we walked from Heron’s Flight Vineyard through rolling green pastures and native bush on the Takatu Peninsula. To our right, Kawau Island and further south Motuketekete, Moturekareka, Motutara and Motuora Islands. One of the walkers told us that the outer islands are being replanted with native trees so they can be sanctuaries for saving rare bird species in Aotearoa. She’d sailed out to Motuora with a group from Forest and Bird Association and they’d planted trees and had a walk and a picnic there. Already, several species of rare birds have been raised there, as on Tiritiri Matangi Island, where wild parrots now breed. To our left side, as we walk toward Tawharanui, is the majestic Hauturu Island, rising out of the jade-green and aqua waters like Tahiti. The local Pakeha call it Little Barrier Island, and in the distance, its big sister, Great Barrier Island. Kaka, who knows this area well, tells them that the kakapo have been successfully bred on Hauturu Island and that her great-grandmother, whose ancestors were buried on the island, has swum out there to visit them along with other relatives. That the island is sacred and it is right that it is now protected as a breeding ground for native birds.
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