TRADITION.

Along a narrow path through the flowering manuka-shrub led Ngawai; round groaning, rolling, bursting, and steaming mud-craters wound the path, and steam hissed everywhere from out the ground—now on to the larger crater-basins full of boiling water, green, blue, white, and always wonderfully transparent. Out of the middle of the basins rose vast boiling columns out of the unmeasurable depth to the surface, there to burst, bubbling and boiling. A beautiful but terror-inspiring spectacle are these crater-pools: silent, heartless, death-bringing, boiling from all beginning—from the time that Ngatoro-i-Rangi had called them from Hawaiki by his incantations: boiling, boiling, boiling; crowned with a thin cloud of steam, framed by the dripping, overhanging manuka-bushes.

Pitiless, eternal water-graves are these dark-green boiling seas, and the everlasting gargling of the water is like a death-song of lost souls hovering over them.

Dizzily narrow now led the path between two craters. Silently steamed the large basin to the right, its neighbour gargled and bubbled. Suddenly, as if by enchantment, the gargling water disappeared, and a moment afterwards shot a majestic column of water from out of the funnel, the air filling with vast clouds of steam. The whole column then broke in itself together, roaring and splashing; the boiling water overflowed the Geyser-crater and filled the large steaming basin, which is only by a thin wall separated from the Geyser, with a fresh supply of hot water in which the Maoris and their white friends enjoy their bath, their chat, and their smoke, especially when the winds blow down from the snow-fields of the mountains.

During the night the geysers groaned and burst and splashed all around: the noises accompanied the stories of the old friend—sometimes interrupting his murmurings, and sometimes lending power and truth to his words.

THE FIRST OFFERING TO THE GODS

Ngatoro-i-Rangi e Tama-te-Kapua

Ngatoro-i-Rangi is the Sun.

Tama-te-Kapua, the cloud invites the Sun to travel in his canoe, and Ngatoro-i-Rangi, coming from the east, follows the invitation and brings his wife, the Earth; for with the rising of the Sun out of darkness rises also the Earth.

During the journey Ngatoro climbs up to the Height of the Midday, tying the earth to himby his sun-rays; but Tama-te-Kapua unties the sun-rays which bind the earth to the Sun—the cloud flies over the earth—and takes her to his wife.

When Ngatoro now suddenly descends from on high, and bursts through the clouds, then is it too late: his rays are too feeble to tie them quickly again to the Earth.

Wrathful over the insult Tama-te-Kapua had done to him, Ngatoro now steers the canoe into the western precipice: the Sun is setting, and night swallows the canoe; and in vain does Tama-te-Kapua call for help from Ngatoro: everything is swallowed in darkness. But at last Ngatoro takes pity and saves the canoe: the Sun ascends again in the East, and steers the canoe against the West, to Ao-tea-roa. Far from Hawaiki now they landed.

Ngatoro takes possession of the land.

Wherever he ascends a hill, he stamps water out of the ground, and he puts the fairies, the Patu-paiarehe, upon the hills.

At last he ascends Tongariro, but his companions, whom he had left behind, saw that he became paler and paler as he reached the summit of Tongariro: the sun was frozen in the ice-cold atmosphere of the sacred mountain. At last, nearly dead, Ngatoro offers incantations to the gods at Hawaiki, and they send the fire to him.

It came through the paths of the Lower World and it burst through the earth on many places: at Roto-ehu, Roto-rua, Tarawera, and at many more places; but at last it ascended Tongariro, and created a volcano, and the fire and heat of the volcano saved Ngatoro-i-Rangi from a frightful death.

“Ngatoro-i-Rangi, my listener is the ancestor of the tribe of the Ngati-tu-wharetoa; we all are the descendants of Ngatoro-i-Rangi, and the sacred Tongariro is the guardian of my people.”

Out of a wonderful spectacle of colours springs the new day into life.

The rising sun condenses the steam which is hanging, a large white cloud, over the landscape. Like granades are the geysers shooting into the mass of steam, and from everywhere is steam ascending thickening the silvery mass, which hangs swaying and broadening, and bordered with a golden rim, over our heads. Under the cloud glitters on the near hilltops the fresh fallen snow.

Now the heart of our old friend feels also joy and happiness.

On the edge of the warm crater basin he squats, covered in his mat, and looking far into the beautiful day, he commenced his last narrative—

“The bursting open of the gates of heaven”—so finished the old Tohunga his last song of creation—“was the work of Tamatea.

Dim was the light at first, but faster and more powerful became the blows of Tamatea upon the hangi (oven) in which all that was left of Tu-taka-hina-hina, a mighty ancestor of the Maori people, was roasting; and at last his blows burst the gate that closed in the days. And day came, and the full and long day came. The people of the world, now freed from darkness, looked around, and they could see how many had died during the everlasting darkness; and they could see how very few survived.

At last they saw with wonder how Tamatea, instead of Tangaroa, now took the Dawn of Morning in his keeping, and they knew that the time of the Many Days had come, and they cried full of joy and gladness: ‘Truly, Tamatea, this is the Dawn of our days!’”

Then the old friend pointed with a bony finger towards the Sun and spoke no more.

THE BREAKING OPEN OF THE GATES OF HEAVEN

TE HEU-HEU

Like a filled sponge is the air lying over the pa, heavy and sorrowful—filled with desolate cries. Dismal wails issue from the groups which surround the dead chief, men and women howling, dancing, and distorting their faces.

The wailing lies like a cloud upon the earth, and hangs like fog around the groups. A sharp shriek pierces the air, or a shouted sentence in honour of the dead chief cuts the fog; and again everything unites into a monotonous, heart-breaking lament.

The dead chief was a Rangatira-Tohunga, and deep is the sorrow of his people from the mountains and his people from the lake. The women of his next relatives cut their breasts with sharp-edged shells, bleeding, and howling in their pain and sorrow.

Tribe upon tribe nears with dismal lament: all are received by the old women with the long-drawn, piercing cry of welcome to the Tangi. The women march in front; they have flowers wound around their heads, and wave flowers and twigs and leaves in their outstretched arms up and down, up and down—a sign of sorrow. Crying and sobbing follow the men, whose heads are bent and whose gestures betoken the deepest grief—warlike figures, with tattoed faces bestrewn with tears.

In long lines they approach. Canoe after canoe brings ever new hapus (parties), and each approaches in a long line loudly howling: louder and louder grow the howls till the hapu stands before the dead chief, who is covered with the red feather-mat of his rank; and there the whole mass of people is uniting in terrible dirge, dancing and distorting their faces, in which each new arrival joins. All nature seems to lament: the wide lake, the hills, the forests upon the hills and the cloud-covered heads of the mountains—all is united in grief.

Slowly night descends and covers the dirge in darkness.

Great was the mana of the dead Rangatira; terrible was his death; and great sorrow fills the hearts of his people.

The star-lit night is wonderfully clear, and looks down upon the dead chief in his red garment of the Rangatira, surrounded by the treasures of his people; in his hand the beautiful greenstone weapon, the famous mere Pahi-kaure.

Slowly the moon ascends over the murmuring waves of the lake, and streams peacefully her soft light down upon the thousands who are sleeping around her dead Rangatira.

Moon ascending over a canoe on a lake

The empty forms of men inhabit there;Impassive semblances, images of air.—The Odyssey.

The empty forms of men inhabit there;

Impassive semblances, images of air.—The Odyssey.

In the extreme north of the North Island of New Zealand is the Muri-whenua, the Land’s End, where the never-resting surges thunder at the feet of the bare rocky capes, and the giant sea-kelp swirls in long snaky masses round the fabled gateway to the Maori spirit-land. For here is Te Reinga, otherwise called Te Rerenga-Wairua, or the Place where the Spirits take their Flight. Te Reinga is a long craggy ridge that dips down to the ocean, ending in a rocky point whence the ghosts of the departed take their final plunge into the realms of darkness and oblivion. The souls (wairua) of the dead, the moment they are released from their earthly tenements, travel northwards until they arrive at the Land’s End of Ao-tea-roa. As they near the Reinga, crossing sand-dune and stony cliff, treading with viewless feet the wild precipices whose bases are ever licked ravenously by the wilder ocean, the spirits bethink them of their old homes. And they pause awhile on the wind-swept heights, and gaze backwards over the long and dreary way by which they came; and they wail aloud, and lacerate themselves after the fashion of the mourners of this world, with sharp splinters of volcanic glass (mata-tuhua), and in proof thereof these mata are to be seen there to this day by living man. They deck their heads with paréparé, or mourning chaplets of green leaves, and their weird, ghostly wails for the Land of Light they are leaving mingle with the melancholy voice of the ocean winds. The long flax leaves which spring from the rocky soil on these heights above the Reinga are often found knotted and twisted together in a peculiar manner. The pakeha says this is the work of the ever restless winds and eddying gales which sweep the Land’s End. But to the Maori those knotted leaves are the work of the sad spirits of their departed, tied by the ghosts as they pass along to the gates of Po, to show their sorrowing friends the way they took in leaving this world of day. And the waterfalls cease their sound as the ghosts flit by;

Trembling the spectres glide, and plaintive ventThin hollow screams, along the steep descent.

Trembling the spectres glide, and plaintive vent

Thin hollow screams, along the steep descent.

Down along the narrow ridge to the tideway they move, until they reach the ghostly leaping-place, tapu to themanesof the innumerable multitude of dead. Here grew a venerable pohutukawa tree, gnarled and knotty, with great ropy roots trailing to the tide. By these roots the spirits dropped to the sea, loosing their last grip of Ao-tea-roa to the dirge of the screaming sea-birds and the moaning waves. Below, the tossing sea-kelp opens a moment to receive the wairua, and then the dark waters close over them for ever. This is the Tatau-o-te-Po, the Door of Death, which is the entrance to the gloomy Kingdom of Miru, the Goddess of Eternal Night.

Many an Ossianic concept, many a weird and poetic fancy, is woven by the Maoris round this haunted spot. This is a fragment of an ancient lament for the dead, sung to this day at Maori tangis:

TE REINGA

“E tomo, e PaKi Murimuri-te-Po,Te Tatau-o-te-Po.Ko te whare tenaO Rua-Kumea,O Rua-toia,O Miru ra-e!O tuhouropunga,O kaiponu-kino.Nana koe i makaKi te kopae o te whare i!”(“Enter, oh sire,The gates of that last land,So dread and dark;The Gates of the Endless Night.For that is the dwellingOf Rua-kumea,Of Rua-toia,Of the grim goddess Miru,The ever-greedy one.’Tis she who hurleth theeTo the deep shadows of her gloomy house.”)

“E tomo, e PaKi Murimuri-te-Po,Te Tatau-o-te-Po.Ko te whare tenaO Rua-Kumea,O Rua-toia,O Miru ra-e!O tuhouropunga,O kaiponu-kino.Nana koe i makaKi te kopae o te whare i!”

“E tomo, e Pa

Ki Murimuri-te-Po,

Te Tatau-o-te-Po.

Ko te whare tena

O Rua-Kumea,

O Rua-toia,

O Miru ra-e!

O tuhouropunga,

O kaiponu-kino.

Nana koe i maka

Ki te kopae o te whare i!”

(“Enter, oh sire,The gates of that last land,So dread and dark;The Gates of the Endless Night.For that is the dwellingOf Rua-kumea,Of Rua-toia,Of the grim goddess Miru,The ever-greedy one.’Tis she who hurleth theeTo the deep shadows of her gloomy house.”)

(“Enter, oh sire,

The gates of that last land,

So dread and dark;

The Gates of the Endless Night.

For that is the dwelling

Of Rua-kumea,

Of Rua-toia,

Of the grim goddess Miru,

The ever-greedy one.

’Tis she who hurleth thee

To the deep shadows of her gloomy house.”)

And, again, the tribal bards, lamenting over their dead, chant this centuries-old poem:

“Now like an angry gale,The cold death-wind pierceth me through.O chiefs of old,Ye have vanished from us like the moa-bird,That ne’er is seen of man.O lordly totara-tree!Thou’rt fallen to the earth,And naught but worthless shrubs remain.I hear the waves’ loud tangiOn the strand of Spirit Land,Where souls, borne from this world of light,Cast one last look behind.The rolling seas surge in at TaumahaSinging their wave-song for the deadWho have forever vanished from our eyes.”

“Now like an angry gale,

The cold death-wind pierceth me through.

O chiefs of old,

Ye have vanished from us like the moa-bird,

That ne’er is seen of man.

O lordly totara-tree!

Thou’rt fallen to the earth,

And naught but worthless shrubs remain.

I hear the waves’ loud tangi

On the strand of Spirit Land,

Where souls, borne from this world of light,

Cast one last look behind.

The rolling seas surge in at Taumaha

Singing their wave-song for the dead

Who have forever vanished from our eyes.”

Ngawai’s hut by the mountain-lake as the sun rises

Dreamily is Ngawai staring into the embers, whilst the pale new morning is crawling through the spaces between the fern-stems which form the walls of the mountain-whare (hut).

Cold and pale at first appear the long stripes painted over the floor, till they change slowly into warmer and more glowing colours, lighting up the calabashes, the nets, the paddles, and the mats, which hang on the walls smoke-blackened under the raupo roof. The stripes of daylight are able, too, to light up Ngawai’s eyes, which stare into the nearly burnt-out embers. More fiery glow the stripes, and suddenly they flood the whare with wonderful golden light: it is pure gold, through which, like music, the blue smoke ascends to the roof. Now the Sunshine pours in at the door, and with it the wonderful picture of the mountain-lake, reflecting the mountain giants, to the astonished eye. And in all the beautiful world life commences again with laughter and happiness—the laughter and happiness of the parting day.

Slowly is the sun wandering his way in the skies; up to the height of midday he wanders; the shades grow longer, and Rangi-o-mohio, a very old woman, the daughter of the famous Rangatira Te Heu-heu, is still relating:

“Listen: A great procession is ascending with much noise and shouting and frolic thebarren wilderness around the stone-body of Tongariro—a great procession of Tohungas, warriors, women, and children.

Ah, Iwikau the Rangatira is leader, and they carry the bones of Te Heu-heu, my father.—Ah, Te Heu-heu, he was my father! Ah, with his bones we wander and crawl and climb over the lonely wilderness. Ah, he was the Rangatira over the lands—but, my son, look upon the greatest Rangatira of all the lands: look upon the Tongariro-tapu!”

Ngawai listens to the narrative of the old Rangi-o-mohio whilst her eyes are gazing upon the sacred Tongariro. The moon has risen over the lake, and a fine silvery gleam is glittering upon the snow of the mountain, which is sending its beautiful column of silver high up into the skies. Then once more Ngawai looks sorrowfully back, and goes on her way to her people in the distant pa.

Mountain landscape in the clouds

This is Rangi-a-mohio’s story:

Iwikau, the brother of the dead Rangatira Te Heu-heu, and chief now over the tribe of the Ngati-tu-wharetoa, is the leader of a large procession of sorrowing, weeping people of the tribe. The four greatest warriors of the tribe carried the carved box which contained the bones of Te Heu-heu; it was painted red, and adorned with white albatross-feathers.

The whole tribe had decided to give their dead Rangatira the mightiest burial-ground in all Ao-tea-roa—the crater of Tongariro-tapu!

Truly, the mountain Tongariro shall swallow the bones of the Rangatira, that they never may fall in the hands of man—perhaps enemies.

The sharp-edged coke-rocks cut the feet of the bearers, and the sulphur in the air is the deadliest foe to frolic—and what can be properly done without frolic in Maoriland? The feet of the bearers begin to bleed, the incantations of the Tohungas grow weaker; less overbearing, too, become the songs of defiance which Iwikau is shouting to the gods: silence and ghostly fright fall upon the multitude.

Deeper now are the precipices, steeper the rocks, and hellish the sulphurous fumes; but high above still towers the crater, the summit of Tongariro, the mighty grave of the Rangatira! The sacred mountain shall swallow the bones of the sacred chief—as the base of the mountain, in a frightful landslip, has swallowed his life!

Great is the conception, and bravely they try to carry it into effect beneath the mightycolumn of steam and sulphur which Tongariro is streaming out and which the heaven is pressing down again upon the people, in wrathful defiance of its sanctity.

Distant thunder rolls, shaking the ground, and the sulphur-fumes press fiercely beneath the broadening steam-column. Hard and heavy breathe the bearers; terror at the temerity of the undertaking, which violates the sacredness of the mountain, grows in the heart of their leader.

The vast world stretches all around, and the people who surround the dead Rangatira seem tiny and powerless as the mountain defends his sacred crater with mighty bursts of steam and smoke and rolling thunder and suffocating fumes. Overawed by terror the strength of the bearers fails: they let fall their burden upon a rock; the hearts of the bravest are trembling.

The sanctity of Tongariro-tapu cannot be violated; no, not even by the sacred bones of the Rangatira; and fear grows overpowering beneath the still high-towering, angry crater-summit.

None dares touch the remains of Te Heu-heu again; one and all let them be where they are, upon the rock, overtowered and defended by the majestic summit, with its rolling, thundering, steaming crater—and down they tumble, down, down, helter skelter, in wild and fearful fright they run, a shouting, shrieking body of men, possessed by overpowering terror of the sacred giant. Down, down.

But high up in the sacred regions of Tongariro lie bleaching the bones of the greatest Rangatira of the mountain people——

Maui Pomare, M.D., the grandson of a famous chief, gave me, at parting, this lament composed by the wife of his ancestor:

“Behold! far off, the bright evening starRises—our guardian in the dark,A gleam of light across my lonely way.Belov’d, wer’t thou the Evening Star,Thou wouldst not, fixed, so far from me remain.Let once again thy spirit wander back,To soothe my slumbers on my restless couch,And whisper in my dreams sweet words of love.Oh! cruel Death, to damp that beauteous browWith Night’s cold softly falling dews.Rau-i-ru, Keeper of Celestial Gates,[3]There comes to thee a lovely brideBorne from me on Death’s swollen tide.Belov’d, thy wandering spirit now hath passedBy pendant roots of clinging vineTo Spirit Land, where never foot of manHath trod—whence none can e’er return—Paths to the Gods which I not yet have seen.Belov’d, if any of that host of HeavenDare ask of thee thy birth or rank,Say thou art of that great tribeWho, sacred, sprang from loins of Gods.As stands lone Kapiti, a sea-girt isle,And Tararua’s solitary range,So I to-day stand lonely midst my grief.My bird with sacred wings hath flown awayFar from my ken, to Spirit Land.I would I were a Kawau, resoluteTo dive into the inmost depths of time,To reappear at my beloved’s sideAmidst the throng upon the further shore.Belov’d, I soon will join thee there!I come! Await me at the gates!My spirit frets; how slow is time.”

“Behold! far off, the bright evening star

Rises—our guardian in the dark,

A gleam of light across my lonely way.

Belov’d, wer’t thou the Evening Star,

Thou wouldst not, fixed, so far from me remain.

Let once again thy spirit wander back,

To soothe my slumbers on my restless couch,

And whisper in my dreams sweet words of love.

Oh! cruel Death, to damp that beauteous brow

With Night’s cold softly falling dews.

Rau-i-ru, Keeper of Celestial Gates,[3]

There comes to thee a lovely bride

Borne from me on Death’s swollen tide.

Belov’d, thy wandering spirit now hath passed

By pendant roots of clinging vine

To Spirit Land, where never foot of man

Hath trod—whence none can e’er return—

Paths to the Gods which I not yet have seen.

Belov’d, if any of that host of Heaven

Dare ask of thee thy birth or rank,

Say thou art of that great tribe

Who, sacred, sprang from loins of Gods.

As stands lone Kapiti, a sea-girt isle,

And Tararua’s solitary range,

So I to-day stand lonely midst my grief.

My bird with sacred wings hath flown away

Far from my ken, to Spirit Land.

I would I were a Kawau, resolute

To dive into the inmost depths of time,

To reappear at my beloved’s side

Amidst the throng upon the further shore.

Belov’d, I soon will join thee there!

I come! Await me at the gates!

My spirit frets; how slow is time.”

[3]The god who receives the spirits.

THE BURIAL

THE END

A skull

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