Plume of the Arawas
X. Whisper-Songs
X. Whisper-Songs
Spring up, faint light of dawn!
Ah! See it rush forward!
It is the coming day,
It is the morning light—
Ha! Behold! The dawn!
“N ight !—Night!—Night!”
Slowly, sonorously, a deep voice boomed forth from the darkness, from the blackness at the edge of the forest close to the track where stood the maiden Rerémoa. Then silence—for a while.
“Night!—Night!—Night!”
Again that rich voice boomed forth, and again it caused the heart of the maiden to beat strangely, wildly.
Silence again! Then, without a warning, came the screech of a parrot—followed by the voice:
“ Ka ao ! The dawn approaches !” A mellow clang from a bell-bird, answered by the melodious notes of a tui! Again the voice:
“ Ka ao ! ’Tis breaking day !” More bell-birds, more tuis, chiming and chanting! Still again the voice:
“ Ha! Ka awatea! The dawn!” And with the dawn came a medley of music from the birds in the forest around as they joined their leaders in the brief but glorious tribute of song. Then out from the edge of the forest moved Tuwharétoa.
To an open space on the top of a ferny slope he moved—and there he waited. Joined immediately by Rerémoa, they both waited, waited expectantly—for the sunrise. And while they waited, the Arawa solemnly chanted the sacred ritual of the marriage ceremony required for the union of man and maiden of highest rank.
Suddenly, as the first flashing ray leaped from the east, the meré” Pahikauré was raised on high, and Tuwharétoa cried:
“ Te Ra! Whiti te Ra! The Sun! The Rising Sun!”
Then he turned, and took Rerémoa by the hand, and said:
“Man and wife, man and wife—at last, my Rerémoa!”
Now away down on Taupo Lake the keen-eyed watchers in the war-canoe had seen the flash of sunlight on Pahikauré, and up from them on the morning breeze came, faintly, the roar of a chant:
“Ko Taupo te Moana;
Ko Tongariro te Maunga;
Ko Te Arawa te Iwi;
Ko Tuwharétoa te Tangata!
Taupo is the Sea:
Tongariro is the Mountain;
Te Arawa is the Tribe:
And Tuwharétoa is the Man!”
Again was the greenstone weapon raised on high, this time in greeting; and after a space there sounded upon the air a distant crash, as of paddles raised aloft and struck by hand.
“Yes; at last are we man and wife, O my beloved!” murmured Rerémoa happily, as she allowed his arm to go about her.
Up from the Lake came now another sound—the farcarrying sound of Te Puku's voice:
“Tena korua! Kia ora ra korua! Greetings to you both! Happy life to you both!”
A third time was the meré raised aloft, and then, instead of moving down the slope towards the Lakeshore, Tuwharétoa led the way towards the forest. Surprised, Rerémoa hesitated.
“Go we not to the waka-taua?” she asked.
“No, we go not to the waka-taua,” he replied; and she sighed her relief. Yet she was mystified; for, if not to the war-canoe, then whither? To the rock shelter—perhaps?
Reaching the edge of the forest, Tuwharétoa paused, and listened. Ha! The magnificence of the vocal effort of Te Puku the Fat as he hurled his final words through space! Clearly, and slowly, came his cry:
“O Ariki! O Ariki! Hearken! Hearken! The proverb says that the warrior is killed in battle, and that the scaler of cliffs is dashed to pieces, and that the tiller of fields dies peacefully of old age. But what fate is in store for me, for me, Te Puku the Fat?”
A pause—and then came floating up on the breeze a mournful wail:
“ Aué! Aué! Aué! I am doomed, I am doomed, I am doomed—to marry Niwareka! Aué! Au—”
As they moved off along the forest track, Rerémoa could not help asking the reason for laughing over so queer a lament. But Tuwharétoa only said:
“ Taihoa, my Little One, taihoa! During the long evenings of winter I will tell thee many things about the owner of that voice, and perhaps thou wilt grow to love him too, for truly he is one of the great men of our race—great in body, great in mind, and great in spirit, I think. Taihoa!”
For quite a distance they proceeded along the track, and then turned sharply away from it to the lefthand side, and soon Rerémoa became aware that she was passing through a forbidden or tapu portion of the forest. Ah! Now she knew whither she was bound!
The way grew rougher, and presently Tuwharétoa insisted upon carrying his wife in his arms. Oh, the softness, the yielding softness of her! He trembled, and she trembled. He noticed her trembling, and he questioned her, asking if she feared him, or feared the forest around. But she hid her face against his shoulder, and answered him with a little chant:
” Ko te rité i ahau
Kei te rau o te wiwi,
E wiwiri nei
He nui no te aroha—e!
I am like unto the
Leaves of the wiwi-reed,
Quivering, shaking, trembling,
With the strength of my love—
Ah me!”
To which he replied:
“ Ka nui taku aroha ki a koe. Great is my love for thee.” And she gasped as he crushed her to his breast.
Still carrying her, Tuwharétoa hastened on, thankful continually that a bent sapling here and a bent sapling there saved him from straying off the route which he had set. And such good progress did he make that, long before noon, he emerged into the sunlight and gave to Rerémoa her first entrancing view of her new domain.
There before her, in a hollow upon the shoulder of Pihanga Mountain, nestled a lake of the colour of greenstone—the tapu Greenstone Lake, placid, secluded, heavily wooded to the very shores—except for a small and sandy beach at either end.
With little cries of delight Rerémoa hurried down to the beach at the northern end, and there she found a small bark-canoe, neatly lined with reeds, and caulked with flax, and stayed with cross-pieces of mako wood, and bound round with lengths of karéao vines— altogether a quaint little craft, of which the craftsman seemed inordinately proud as he held it up with one hand to show how light it was.
Setting it afloat in the shallows, he lifted Rerémoa into it and knelt down behind her, and to her surprise it floated buoyantly, even under his weight. Then, with two paddles dipping lightly, the bark-canoe glided out from the shore.
Beautiful Rotopounamu — so peaceful, so serene! Hardly a ripple! Not a sound! Taihoa! From somewhere near a high point at the southern end of the lake, came the flute notes of a tui, followed by the soft and gentle call of a wood-pigeon, ku-kuing to its mate. Then, as Rerémoa looked round and smiled at him, Tuwharétoa said:
“Upon that projecting point, O Loved One, I have built for us a pretty little nest, a nikau wharé. See! There it is! So sheltered! So sunny! And I have named that nest ‘The Abode of the Wood-Pigeons,’ for I want thee to feel that it will be for us both a home of peace. Moreover, lest the tapu of lake and forest be defiled, I will not snare any birds around this lake. Therefore, the birds can freely sing to us their songs.”
“Thou art my friend,” said Rerémoa softly.
Slowly they paddled on, drawing nearer, ever nearer, to the wooded bluff ahead. Almost they seemed to drift in towards the shore, so slowly did they paddle.
“At this sunny spot,” continued Tuwharétoa, “the birds are so happy that they sing to each other all day long.” Then, as the canoe drew up to a landingplace near the foot of the cliff, he said:
“Listen! Even now they are singing to each other in the tree just above our heads.”
“I cannot hear them,” replied Rerémoa.
“Listen again!” said he. “Surely thou canst hear them?”
Ah! From bell-birds and tuis hidden in the foliage above came songs, barely audible songs, but songs infinitely charming, and caressing, and tender, and pure. A moment's hesitation—then back upon her Arawa leaned Rerémoa. For quite a while they remained there, in the little bark-canoe, listening. Then:
“Whisper-songs?” said she.
“Yes! Whisper-songs!” said he.