The Daughter of
 the Dawn

 _A Realistic Story of Maori Magic_

 By
 William Reginald Hodder

 _Illustrated by_ Harold Piffard




 _Boston_
 L. C. Page & Company
 _MDCCCCIII_




 [image: images/img094.jpg
 caption: “HIS LONG FIGURE WAS SUSPENDED ABOVE THE DARK ABYSS.”]




 [COPYRIGHT.]

 _Copyright, 1903_
 By L. C. Page & Company
 (INCORPORATED)

 _All rights reserved_

 Published July, 1903




 [DEDICATION.]

 THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED
 TO AN AGED PAIR
 WHO DWELL AT TARANAKI’S BASE,
 THEIR HAIR AS WHITE
 THEIR LIVES AS PURE
 AS THE SNOW ON TARANAKI’S SUMMIT.




 CONTENTS.

 INTRODUCTION
 WANAKI’S FOREWORD
 I. A SPLENDID MADMAN
 II. THE AGED CHIEF
 III. A SECRET OF ANCIENT NIGHT
 IV. THE HAUNTED REGION
 V. ON THE GREAT TAPU
 VI. NGARAKI--CHIEF AND TOHUNGA
 VII. THE INTERIOR OF THE TEMPLE OF HIA
 VIII. THE VILE TOHUNGAS OF THE PIT
 IX. NGARAKI THE FIERCE
 X. KAHIKATEA AND HIS STRANGE BELIEF
 XI. THE SEARCH FOR ‘THE LITTLE MAIDEN’
 XII. THE MAN-WHO-HAD-FORGOTTEN
 XIII. CRYSTAL GREY
 XIV. THE CHIEF OF THE VILE TOHUNGAS
 XV. THE DARKNESS PUTS FORTH A TENTACLE
 XVI. WHICH REVEALS THE WAY OF THE SORCERER
 XVII. LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT
 XVIII. TE MAKAWAWA IS STARTLED
 XIX. THE DREAD MAKUTU
 XX. CRYSTAL LOVES KAHIKATEA, WHO LOVES HINAURI
 XXI. CRYSTAL AND HINAURI MEET
 XXII. THE TALISMAN
 XXIII. THE DAUGHTER OF THE DAWN
 XXIV. ZUN THE TERRIBLE
 XXV. THE SERVANT OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF HUO
 XXVI. NGARAKI’S HOUR OF TRIUMPH
 XXVII. THE GIANTS CLOSE THEIR TEMPLE
 XXVIII. FAREWELL
 CONCLUSION
 ENDNOTES




 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

His long figure was suspended above the dark abyss (img094.jpg)

“This, O Pakehas, was the legend given me by my father” (img052.jpg)

The light sank lower and showed more. Then to my astonished eyes was
unveiled, inch by inch from the darkness, the massive granite brows of
a gigantic head (img107.jpg)

She seated herself sideways on the hammock, while I resumed my wicker
chair, and told again the story which I had narrated to her father
(img165.jpg)

The flash came, and the sight it revealed I shall never forget. There
stood Crystal in the path before me, draped in her night garments
(img184.jpg)

Another twist and he rolled right across it, his hair and beard
frizzling in the flame (img221.jpg)

At that instant the expected sun ray burst in, and the dazzling beauty
of the Daughter of the Dawn was revealed (img262.jpg)

The second Maori that entered with axe upraised had his head cut clean
off by the first sweeping back stroke (img281.jpg)

I raised the tube, took careful aim, and puffed the dart (img286.jpg)

He rocked it backwards and forwards until at last he raised it on its
side, and there, with a firm hand, he held it poised upon the very
brink (img301.jpg)

Kahikatea stood like a bronze statue, with one arm stretched out. In
the hand of that arm was the throat of the wizard, whose body hung
from it, limp and lifeless (img321.jpg)

With hands crossed upon her bosom, and her shrouding hair drawn over
her like the curtains of the night, Hinauri lay upon the pyre
(img326.jpg)




 INTRODUCTION.

The way in which the record of Wanaki, which it has been my
compulsory task to edit, was placed in my hands forms not the least
remarkable episode between these covers. On a certain night two months
ago I was sitting in my library in Harley Street, writing. It was
late, and I could hear the tinkling of many little bells in the street
as the cabs brought home the gay theatre-goers. As I wrote on, the
tinkling of these little bells grew to a merry chorus, yet it did not
disturb me: I was used to it. But the night advanced, and the bells
seemed to grow tired as the cabs rolled by less frequently. Then
gradually I began to feel that a disturbing element was creeping in
between me and my work. Indefinable at first, this feeling grew, until
at last I recognised it as a vague expectancy, and, as each cab
passed, I caught myself listening to hear if it would stop at the
street door. This struck me as being a very absurd state of mind, for
no one was due, and a patient would hardly call at that time of night.
Yet the strange feeling of expecting someone grew upon me at such a
rate that I put down my pen and listened in spite of myself as the
cabs with the tinkling bells went by. At last, after a longer interval
than usual, my ears fastened upon the bells of a vehicle that seemed
to be approaching from beyond the horizon. They drew near rapidly, and
the absurd feeling of expecting someone grew still more intense.
Laughing at the stupidity of it, I rose from my chair and walked to
and fro, wondering what had happened to my nerves, usually so strong.
Suddenly I stood still. The rapid motion of the horse’s hoofs was
slacking down. Would the cab pull up at the street door? Of course
not--it would pass. It had almost done so when there was the sound of
the scraping hoofs of a horse suddenly reined in, a violent agitation
of the little bells, and then the cab drew up at the street door. I
heard a ring at the bell, and then sat down in my chair to wonder what
this late visitor wanted, and, above all, to ask myself again and
again how I could account for my extraordinary feeling of expecting
someone who was unexpected, and yet had arrived. While I was thus
engaged my man Gapper came in with a face that announced the end of
the world, and spoke in a voice which betrayed, in the same trembling
breath, an overwhelming desire to impart news and a suffocating fear
of being heard.

“There’s a strange man in the ’all, sir,” he said, “as wants to see
you. I gave ’im to understand, sir, as you wouldn’t hever see no one
after eleving, but ’e looks at me ’ard and says quiet like, ‘You will
do as I tell you,’ ’e says.”

“What is he like?” I asked.

“Well, ’e looks to me as hif ’e ’ad just come ’ome from a fancy-dress
ball. ’E’s got feathers in ’is ’air and drorin’s on ’is face, and a
sort of long fur cloak and--but there it is, sir, I can’t describe
’im; ’e’s a-standin’ there hin the ’all just as if the ’ole place
belonged to ’im. Shall I ask him to go away?”

Gapper’s knees were knocking together. I saw that he was morally
incapable of asking this strange visitor to go. I myself felt slightly
unstrung, and it may have been my fear of showing this that prompted
me to say abruptly:

“Show him in, Gapper; I expect it’s some friend playing a joke upon
me. At all events I will see him.”

Evidently relieved by these words, my man retired, and presently, with
a humility born of a fresh access of fear, ushered in my visitor. He
then retreated nimbly and closed the door behind him.

As the stranger stood in the centre of the room I rose from my seat in
unfeigned astonishment. Well might Gapper have thought that he had
just returned from a fancy-dress ball, except for the simple, and to
me obvious, fact that he was not an impersonation at all, but the
genuine thing. In fact, my visitor, who had been, so to speak,
heralded by my inexplicable sensations, was a tall and stately Maori
chief, dressed in a long robe or war-cloak of dog’s hair, which fell
almost to his sandalled feet. He had both spear and _meré_, and in
his hair were the white-tipped feathers of the _huia_. He was young,
almost handsome, and his face was tatooed in a way that denoted an
exalted rank, while in his fierce black eyes, in his noble bearing, in
his profound composure as he waited for me to speak, one might have
read his right to lead men, or else to drive them before him. He
seemed to have come right out of the far King Country into my library
at one stride, so uncivilised was his appearance. My surprise was
immediately giving way to a feeling, half of admiration, half of fear,
for, after my unwonted sensations preceding his arrival, I was
assailed with the thought that there was a mysterious power about the
man--a thought materially strengthened by his perfect ease and
conscious dignity.

“May I ask your name?” I said with a brave attempt to appear
complaisant.

“I am Aké Aké,” he replied, speaking in good English; “Aké Aké
Rangitane, the son of Ngaraki, who was the son of Te Makawawa, who was
the son of----, but O man of another race, who is to do my bidding, I
will not relate to you my ancestry. It would take many moons to do
that; many thousand generation boards would not contain it, for lo! it
stretches back to a far-off age of which your wise men know nothing. O
Pakeha, the blood of the Great River of Heaven, which flowed down from
the skies before the darkness of ancient night fell upon the earth,
runs in my veins.”

I looked at him narrowly. There was no denying that his aspect was
that of a man whose blood knew well its own unbroken channel through
the ages. Something in his eyes, something more in his stately aspect,
and a very great deal in the fierce, sudden nature hidden beneath his
utter serenity, constrained me to take him solemnly.

“You come to me in a strange way, Aké Aké,” I said; “like a man from
another world. Tell me why you have come, and what it is you want of
me.”

Instantly he awoke from his apathy, and his eyes quickened with the
fire that had been slumbering.

“Hearken, then, O man of another land, and I will tell you why I have
come. The Great Tohungas of the Earth spoke to me in my sleep and
said, ‘Aké Aké, thou art the last of our ancient blood; the temple
of the ages is closed for ever and needs no longer a guardian priest
to keep its ancient secrets; therefore thou must withdraw into the
sky, leaving no son behind thee. But thy last act is under our
guidance. Seek out the record of one Wanaki, the “Pakeha Maori,” and
take it beyond the great Ocean of Kiwa to the land of the mighty King
who rules the whole world. There give it to the man whose face thou
hast seen in dreams, and to whom we will guide thee. Bid him make a
book of this record, so that, though thy race is fading away, all
knowledge of its secrets may not die with thee.’ I followed the word
of the Great Tohungas, and when I reached this great city I was taught
your name and the name of your abode. Then, to-night I discarded my
pakeha garments, dressed myself as becomes a Maori chief, and came to
find you. Without doubt I have been guided aright, for your face is
the face that I saw in my dreams.”

He paused, scanning my features still more intently. I was amazed
beyond measure at his strange words. The affair was getting more and
more inexplicable.

“But why,” I gasped; “why have I been selected to make a book of
Wanaki’s narrative?”

“Because you have sought to discover traces of some lost secrets in
our lore,” he replied. “I will speak your own words to you--they are
words which you put into a book. ‘We know not the ancient glory of the
Maori nor yet the wisdom which lies hidden behind his karakia.[01]
Some have said that the strange words of his incantations mean
nothing, but there is reason for believing that they are the surviving
fragments of a priestly language which was spoken many thousands of
years ago by a pre-Maori race dwelling on a great southern continent,
of which the present land of the Maori is but a small remaining part.’
Those are your own words, O Pakeha, and it is because you have had
such long thoughts of the Maori and the race that came before the
Maori that I have been bidden to seek you out.”

“Yes,” I said, “those are my words; I remember them. But what do you
know of the race that was before the Maori’s coming from Hawaiki?”

He was silent, seeming unwilling to speak of that race. At length he
said, “Far back in the ages my ancestors were of that race, but when
the Maori came they joined hands with them. Here is the gulf that you
cannot bridge in the history of our land; and, O Pakeha, it is
unbridged save by the platted rope of our priesthood, woven without
break, and stretching across the ages of Day and Night and Day. Here
before you is what seems the end of this rope; hidden in a great light
of long ago is the rock to which the other end is bound. But I have
not come to you to reveal the ancient wisdom which has come down to me
from the beginning of the world.” He laid his spear in the hollow of
his left arm and drew from within his robe a small bundle, wrapped in
a piece of neatly woven flaxcloth.

“This is the record of Wanaki,” he said, placing it upon the table
before me. “Make a book of it, and let not the moon die twice before
you have completed the task. That is my word, and behind it lies the
word of the Great Tohungas of the Earth.”

“But, my dear, good man,” said I, with rising temper, “Great Tohungas
of the Earth or no Great Tohungas of the Earth, I have other things to
do. I have other books to make; look here”--I turned to the piles of
manuscript on my table and placed my hand upon the largest--“this book
must be made before the moon has died _once_.”

“I care not,” he replied imperturbably. Then there was a flash of
quick anger in his eyes as he added: “You will obey my word, for the
cursing power of Ngaraki, my father, dwells in my eyes, and before him
no man could say ‘I will not!’ and live.”

At this barbarous attempt to browbeat a civilised human being with the
mention of a savage hereditary cursing power I was so amused that I
forgot both my anger and my fear and laughed loudly. But even while my
laugh was at its height my glance encountered that of my visitor, and
I became unaccountably silent. There was a fierce power in his eyes
which backed up his words, and my ill-timed amusement gave place to a
cold fear. What was this? His gaze held me as if in a grip of iron,
and though I struggled inwardly to free myself from its strange hold,
I was unable to do so. I tried to rise from my seat, but could not. I
made a frantic effort to cry out, but my voice refused to act. With
those terrible black eyes burning into mine I shivered and fell back
in my chair. Then I saw, or thought I saw, behind the form of Aké
Aké a line of grim and stately chiefs, standing in an unbroken chain,
which, ascending gradually into the far horizon, finally disappeared
in the distant mists of antiquity. As I looked sleep pressed my
eyelids down with a masterful hand, and I sank into oblivion.

When I awoke half an hour later and found myself alone, my first
thought was that I had dreamed fantastically, and I had almost
confirmed myself in this conclusion when my glance fell upon the
package lying upon the table. I snatched it up and got at the
contents. I soon saw that it was indeed what my visitor had said--the
record of one Wanaki. With this record in my hand I could hardly
dismiss the matter as a dream. I rang the bell, and Gapper came in
smiling, just as he is wont to smile when some caller has been
generous. I questioned him as to whether he had let the visitor out.

“O yes, sir,” he replied; “some time ago.”

“Well, Gapper,” I asked carelessly, “what did you think of him, eh?”

Gapper grinned. It was the grin dedicated to gold, not mere silver.

“In the first place ’e was a gentleman, sir,” he said; “and in the
second place ’e kep’ up ’is disguise remarkable well. ’E looked like a
lord, sir. Might I make so bold as to ask who ’e reely was?”

“He is Aké Aké,” I said severely; “Aké Aké Rangitane, a great
Maori chief. And look here, Gapper, if you had as many pounds in the
bank as that chief has eaten men in his time you would be a rich man.”

My man gaped at me in astonishment; then, when he was fully assured
that I was not joking, he went away and double-bolted all the doors
and windows.

But the record of Wanaki’s adventures--what of it? If the reader will
permit me to stand talking a little longer in another man’s doorway,
as an old writer of prefaces puts it, I have yet something to say in
reference to the ‘Pakeha Maori’s’ manuscript. At first I tossed it
aside as worthless, willing to take my chance of the wrath of the
Great Tohungas of the Earth, for it was written in such an
indecipherable hand that I could not bring myself to bear upon it. I
then set to other work that had to be completed by a certain date;
but, though all was plain sailing with this other work, I could make
no headway. My subject was void of difficulties, but I seemed to be
beating against a heavy wind. Several days passed in this fashion, and
it struck me that if the cursing power of Aké Aké and all his
ancestors was not at work upon me, I was afflicted with some obscure
nervous ailment.

At length, late one night, after many days of unrest, I took up the
manuscript again and managed to get through the first page, from which
I gathered that Wanaki’s adventures were of a remarkable character.
Then I felt drawn to follow his narrative, and would certainly have
done so but for the fact that his handwriting was a thing that made me
long for a cursing power of my own; I could not arrive at its hidden
meaning. When almost in despair, however, a bright idea came to me. I
would send the record to a man skilled in the art of deciphering the
indecipherable--I refer to my typist. I sent it to him, and before one
moon had died I received it back with the mortifying assurance that as
my handwriting had proved considerably clearer than usual, he would be
pleased to make a proportionate abatement of the usual terms.

Now the second moon is nearly dead, and I have prepared the work for
the press. I am resolved it shall leave my hands this very night, for,
after a careful study of this remarkable history of Wanaki’s
adventures, I am fain to admit that, even when I smile most
incredulously at his experiences of the ancient magic of the Maori,
and the terrible cursing power of the hereditary priesthood, I shiver
most coldly at the thought that if the third moon sees my task
unfinished, I shall again be listening for a cab to stop at the street
door, for a bell to ring, and then--and then it will come to facing
the inscrutable eyes of Aké Aké. Reader, I will be frank with you.
The set scientific smile of scorn with which I, as a sane and sober
medical man, am wont to ornament my face at the mention of the cursing
formulæ of savage magic, and at other things contained in the record
of Wanaki, is now a matter of long habit, and will continue until
death comes with a powerful screw-wrench to remove it; but behind that
bold front of second nature there lies a disquieting memory of a
moment when, laughing, I encountered the gaze of Aké Aké, and was
bound by some mysterious spell to do his bidding.

The Maori chief has not visited me again, but I have just received a
letter from him with another, from a third person, enclosed. Both of
these I have inserted at the close of Wanaki’s narrative, which I now
lay before the reader in the following pages.

                                                   The Editor.




 WANAKI’S FOREWORD.

_As I sit down to write this history of strange adventures the words
of my aged friend, the chief and tohunga Te Makawawa, come up in my
mind:_

“_O Son, the word of our ancient law is death to any who reveals the
secrets that are hidden in the Brow of Ruatapu. The secret of Hinauri,
the Daughter of the Dawn; the Mystery of the Vile Tohungas of the Pit,
the traditions of far time preserved in the heart of the Great
Rock--all, everything, is a death-blow returning on the head of him
who reveals it. Yet, O Son of the Great Ocean of Kiwa, I, who was once
the guardian priest of the Temple of Hia and the hereditary curser of
the Vile Ones of the Abyss of Huo, now show these things to you, for I
am weary of climbing the snows of Ruahine and long for rest and Tane’s
Living Waters. The Great Tohungas of the Earth have taught me in my
sleep with words like the voice of the wind in the forest trees: ‘O
Tohunga of the Great Rock, the mystery of Hinauri is not for the Maori
unless thou tell it first to the Sons of the Sea, but know, if thou
tell it, thou must die.’ Therefore, Son, I show it to you, for, what
though I fear the eye of the fierce Ngaraki, I fear not death. Friend!
perchance, when I have descended by the sacred Pohutukawa root, you,
too, will tire of life and tell this thing to your brethren, ‘but
know, if thou tell it, thou must die._’”

_Well may I pause here, for after what I have seen in the Brow of
Ruatapu, in the Temple of Hia, and in the Abyss of Huo, disbelief in
the ancient laws of the priesthood of the Great Rock is not for me.
But for me is the truth of the aged tohunga’s words, and for me also
is the rest that he longed for and the living waters of Tane; for so
clearly do I read the truth of a civilised world in the truth of Maori
lore, that I believe when I am bathed in those Waters of Life and pass
through the darkness into the Light, I shall look into her eyes
again--the dark eyes of Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn, the Bright
One who came out of ancient night to give a sign, and withdrew again
into the skies, leaving my world all desolate. The mystery of her
coming was that sign, and I will reveal it, partly because the sorrow
of her going is such that the penalty of death is welcome to me, and
partly because a voice--I know not if it is the voice of the Great
Tohungas of the Earth--teaches me, too, in dreams, that my brethren,
the Sons of the Sea, of whom the dark-skinned children of Ira might
with justice ask much, should hear and consider this Sign of Power.
Not to be buried at last in oblivion has it been nursed and guarded by
an unbroken priesthood of hereditary succession extending back,
through Maori and pre-Maori races, through the dark night of Time,
even to the glorious sunset of a former Day. Not for naught has it
come down from a remote age, whence, O Reader, you have heard only the
voices of seers telling, in whispered tones, of_


 “_Mighty pre-Adamites who walked the earth_
 _Of which ours is the wreck._”




 The Daughter of the Dawn.

 CHAPTER I.
 A SPLENDID MADMAN.

As this narrative of adventure may possibly fall into the hands of
some who will refuse to accept it as anything but a work of the
imagination, I, Dick Warnock, the narrator (known to the Maoris as
Wanaki), will begin by a slight description of myself, which will
speedily disabuse sceptical minds of any doubts. I am, then, a very
matter-of-fact individual, so ordinary in intellect that my enemies
would without hesitation acquit me of the charge of inventing this
strange history, even if they could prove that I was morally capable
of such deception. So easily will it be guessed that I fall short of
being a creative romancer, that, when the reader looks in vain in
these pages for some exalted eloquence of diction, some graphic
description of scenery, or some rhapsody on a flower, he will hesitate
to cast the blame upon me, the prosaic, especially as here, at the
very beginning, I distinctly state that if there is any kind of
eloquence in my story, it is the eloquence of strange happenings--a
thing which I have endeavoured to keep my pen from spoiling.

It was because I had been born and bred in Maoriland, because I
understood the language and much of the ancient lore of the Maoris,
that I was commissioned by a firm of solicitors in London to search
for one, Miriam Grey. The person in question had sailed from the Old
Country eighteen years before, and had joined her husband, William
Grey, at Wakatu, in the northern part of the South or Middle Island of
New Zealand, known among the Maoris as Te Wai Pounamou, or the Place
of the Greenstone. One letter only had reached her relatives at home,
and that, dated three days after her arrival, told how she and her
husband were about to journey southward, overland, to Hokitika, where
he owned a small farm. But that letter was the last, and all attempts
on the part of her relatives to discover what had become of her and
her husband were fruitless. That they had left Wakatu for Hokitika was
easily proved; that they had never arrived at the latter place was
also duly ascertained; but what had happened to them between these two
points was a matter that had come to be set down among the
inexplicables, where it remained, until it was discovered that Miriam
Grey was the direct heiress to a large estate in Bedfordshire. Then it
became necessary to find, at least, evidence of her death.

For this task I was selected for reasons already stated, and I began
by making inquiries at Wakatu, a quaint little English settlement
nestling in the hollows of the hills by the seashore. There, after
many inquiries, I found a peculiar piece of evidence which excited me
to a belief that Miriam Grey was still living. What that piece of
evidence was I will not say at this moment, for, though it really
constitutes the beginning of my story, its significance was not fully
apparent to me until I chanced upon a certain splendid madman in the
bush, and compared my fact with a far more extraordinary, though
dreamlike, reminiscence of his own. Therefore I will simply state that
in consequence of my discovery I left Wakatu and sailed across the bay
to Riwaka, having as my destination a wild place called Marahau, the
Valley of the Mighty Wind, where, on a high cliff by the seashore, so
I was informed, stood the _pa_[02] of a certain Te Makawawa.
Concerning this aged chief report spoke with awe, for he was more than
a mere tohunga, a priest--he was an _ariki_, an arch-tohunga; and some
said that he was more than _ariki_--he was _matakite_, a seer.

This Valley of the Mighty Wind was some distance round the coast from
Riwaka, and it was possible to reach it by boat, but on the day that I
had planned to set out a gale was rising, and neither Pakeha nor Maori
would put out. Consequently, being both restless and rash, I made the
journey on foot across the hills, following some directions given me
by an old settler, who had once been to Marahau.

Late in the afternoon, after a weary tramp over densely-wooded
mountains, into a region that grew more wild and gloomy as I advanced,
I came to a tremendous flax swamp running up between the hills from
the seashore. As it was impossible to get through this I turned inland
into the virgin bush to avoid it. This detour must have taken me many
miles away from the coast, how far I could not tell, for the sound of
the gale in the great trees overhead altogether drowned the roar of
the sea. As I knew that Te Makawawa’s _pa_ was at the opening of the
lonely valley of Marahau, and that I was already too far inland to
reach it before dark, I determined to push on as far as possible, and
then camp as comfortably as might be under the circumstances.

Towards sunset, after having rounded the great flax swamp, I reached
the summit of a line of high hills where the bush was somewhat sparse
and stunted. Here, to take my bearings, I selected a tall, thin pine,
and climbed to the head of it. By the sight that met my eyes I was a
trifle disconcerted. Many miles away was the sea, white with the gale
that now swayed me violently to and fro in the feathery top of the
pine, while all around, in unending monotony, were the bush-clad
hills, stretching away into the south towards the great snow ranges,
and rolling on for ever into the west, where, beneath the ragged gold
of a stormy sunset, lay the mysterious region of Karamea. But nowhere
in the distance could I see the high palisades of Te Makawawa’s _pa_.

It is strange what a sense of isolation comes to the traveller among
these interminable hills and valleys. I was impressed by the wild
gloom and solitude of the place, and descended the tree to find a
suitable camping-ground by the side of one of the many streams that
made their way down between the ridges. It was not the first time I
had been compelled to spend the night alone in the bush, and I by no
means disliked the solitary feeling of being the only man in a big
wilderness. But it so happened that on this occasion I was not the
only man there, as I was soon to discover.

I descended the range of hills in an oblique line towards the sea,
knowing that among the lower slopes I should easily find a convenient
camping-ground. After nearly half an hour spent in arguing with the
aggravating creeper known as the prickly lawyer, struggling through
interlaced roots up to my chin, and battling with occasional networks
of supplejacks, whose one idea seems to be to string a man up by the
neck until his natural life be extinct, I at last came into a somewhat
broad and open gully, where a stream made its way through groves of
white pines and tree ferns. The character of the bush here was totally
different from that of the surrounding hills. Instead of thick
underscrub I encountered broad spaces here and there, not unlike those
of an English wood. Overhead at intervals towered the giant _rimu_ and
_kahikatea_, the monarchs of the bush, and they roared in the gale as
such trees alone can roar; while under foot the kidney fern decked the
ground and clumped upon the moss-grown tree trunks in profusion. It
was while I was making my way through these ferns that I came,
suddenly and to my great astonishment, upon a well-worn path.

Perhaps this might be the way to some digger’s hut, occupied or
otherwise; perhaps the approach to the abode of some mad “hatter”; at
all events it was more than a wild goat track, and I resolved to
follow it. Before I had gone twenty paces I detected a slightly muddy
patch, and conceived the idea that if these were any recent footprints
they might help me to form some conclusion as to whether this path had
been used by Maoris or Pakehas. Accordingly, I bent down and examined
the ground. There were footprints, not of Maoris’ bare feet, but of
someone with boots--long, well-shaped boots they were, such as would
be found on the feet of a very tall man. One cannot always judge
Hercules by his foot, but when there are two feet, or rather
footprints, situated nearly two yards apart in stride, it is safe to
say that they belong to a man considerably over six feet in height.

As I hurried along, the track became slightly wider, and here and
there a marshy part was strengthened with a corduroy of tree-fern
trunks. Up, on to a slight ridge, through a long grove of white pines
on the top, with the wind shrieking and whistling among their clean
boles, I pursued the path, then down into a valley, and through
another dark grove of tree-ferns, where, losing it altogether on the
soft bed of dry fern dust, I wandered on, thinking to pick it up on
the other side.

I had not gone far in the grove when, between the bare trunks of the
tree ferns, I caught sight of a light twinkling some little distance
beyond. I made towards it, and on coming out into an open space, saw
that it came from a square window in some small abode standing on a
rising ground at the further end of the space. I could just discern
the vague outlines of a log hut with a giant roof-tree towering above
it, while beyond was a wooded hill, whose ridge, fringed with roaring
pines, broke the fury of the gale. This was obviously some digger’s
hut, and here I should certainly get shelter.

Cautiously I made my way over the small clearing towards this secluded
abode in the wilderness, so as to peep in at the window and get a
glimpse of the inmate before asking for a night’s rest. I took this
precaution because solitary “hatters” are often so obviously mad that
the wisest course is to let them alone. But, when I reached the window
and looked in, I got a sudden surprise. By the light of the candle
standing on a rough table near the window, I encountered the face of
one who was surely as much out of place there as a rough digger would
be in the House of Lords. As I looked I saw that the owner of the face
was poring over a large, quaint-looking volume and making notes with
pen and ink in the broad margin. Now, to ponder some point, he leaned
back in his chair and gazed straight before him, so that, by the light
of the candle and the glow of the fire, which touched the edge of his
short, crisp brown beard on the cheek that was turned from me, I saw
his face clearly. It was truly a striking one, with a mouth well
moulded within the shadow of a short, thick moustache, a nose aquiline
and strong, eyes lustrous, half passionate and full of dreams, and a
forehead massive and high, from which the hair rolled back
good-naturedly like a mane. This should be some Waring of Browning’s
portraiture, who had disappeared from his circle to bury himself in
solitude, probably leaving a gap behind him which no other could fill.
If indeed he was mad--and it seemed that he must be to waste his
powers in such a hidden corner of the earth--it was a gentle, poetical
madness, if one might judge by the almost tender expression of his
face, and, withal, of a methodical kind, for, having unravelled his
knotty point, he returned to his broad margin and made certain
emendations.

After my brief glimpse of the remarkable man within, I had no
hesitation in asking him for a night’s shelter. Accordingly I knocked
gently at the door, and a deep voice answered, “Come in!”

I obeyed, and entered the hut.

“Ah!” said my host, rising from his seat and looking down at me--his
dark eyes smiled genially as they met mine--“you’ve lost your way, I
presume.”

“Yes; I started out to find Te Makawawa’s _pa_, but missed it, saw
your light, and ventured to look you up.”

“Quite right. You’re welcome.” He extended his hand and gripped mine
without cracking all the bones as most men who stand six and a half
feet high love to do.

I now had a better view of this recluse, and recognised him again from
his footsteps. He was a man of magnificent build, and his bush shirt,
bush trousers, bush leggings, and, still more, bush boots, hid neither
the fact that he was of good breeding, nor that his limbs were in
perfect proportion, even to the point at which a man might wear a
dress suit successfully. His strong, but sensitive face, with its
deep, passionate eyes, which lighted up when he smiled, appealed to me
as no man’s face has ever done before or since. In the space of time
which it took him to get a chair for me, I had recognised a man who in
every way could carry about three editions of myself under his arm,
and yet in his courteous smile as he addressed me, I saw the gentlest
man alive.

“Come, sit down then, and get out your pipe and tell me how the
outside world’s getting on.” I had refused his offer of supper, as I
had already supped on cold duck and biscuits in the bush.

In a few moments, when he had turned a log on the fire, we sat one on
each side of the hearth as if we had been old friends.

“The outside world,” I said, lighting my pipe with a glowing ember,
“has lost a woman, and I am looking for her.”

“A woman?” he laughed. “Rather a strange place in which to search for
a woman, isn’t it?”

I returned his laugh. “Yes,” I admitted; “but the whole story, or such
of it as I have gleaned, is strange enough for anything.”

“Oh! a romantic story, is it?” His eyes fell from mine to the bowl of
my pipe, from which rings of smoke curled and wreathed irresistibly.
“Wait a minute,” he added after a pause. He rose from his chair and
reached up among the rafters overhead, searching for something. At
last he found it, and, returning to his seat, showed me what had once
been a well-coloured meerschaum which, by the dust and cobwebs on the
case, had evidently lain undisturbed among the rafters for years.

“If you will oblige me with a little tobacco,” he said, “I will keep
you company, though I haven’t smoked for many a long day.”

Presently, when the necessary conditions of storytelling were
established, he turned to me and said: “Now for your romantic story,
if I may be permitted to hear it.”

“The story is a long one,” I replied; “but I am merely in possession
of detached points of it. These I am only too anxious to lay before
anyone I meet, on the chance of their being able to strengthen some
point or add another from their own experience in this neighbourhood.
My own part in the affair is uninteresting. I am merely Dick Warnock,
or, as the Maoris call me, Wanaki, employed by a firm of solicitors at
home to find a more important person named Miriam Grey, or to glean
evidence of her death.”

“Now that you have given me your name,” put in my host, “I must give
you mine. The Maoris, with whom I get on very well, call me
Kahikatea--that is more my real name than any other.”

I saw by his manner that he did not wish to give his English name,
and, realising that it was no business of mine, I forbore from asking
it. Kahikatea was certainly a good name, for, from a life spent mostly
among the Maoris, I was able to see in their quaint way that this man
was as a great “white pine” among the forest trees. Hence his name was
good, and I called him by it.

“Good, O Kahikatea!” I said easily; “I will continue the story, such
as it is. To put things briefly, a large estate in Bedfordshire has
been left to a certain Miriam Grey, who has been missing for many
years. On instituting inquiries, however, it was found that she had
sailed from England and landed at Wakatu, across the bay, some
eighteen years ago, to rejoin her husband, who came up from Hokitika
to meet her. They set off together on the return journey towards
Hokitika, but never arrived at their destination. It is supposed that
they were captured by the Maoris.”

“In which case it is exceedingly unlikely that either of them is alive
at this day,” replied my host.

“Wait a moment,” I replied quickly. “I have an extraordinary piece of
evidence which tends to prove that Miriam Grey was alive and a
prisoner among the Maoris as late as three years ago. When I was
making inquiries in Wakatu I was almost giving it up as hopeless, and
was on the point of starting for Hokitika, when the old curator of the
little museum came up to me one day with the gleam of the clever
discoverer in his eye, and drew me aside.

“‘Did you not say that the woman you were looking for was named
Miriam?’ he asked.

“‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘Miriam Grey.’

“‘Come with me then. I’ve got something which may be a clue.’

“He led me on through the streets until we came to the little museum,
and there in a lumber room of uncatalogued curiosities, he showed me
this bit of carved _akeak_, which he said had been discovered on the
sea beach two years before.”

I drew a small piece of carved wood from my pocket and handed it to
Kahikatea, who took it in his hands and inspected it carefully.

“This is not Maori carving,” he said at once, “it is too delicately
done for that. But it is the work of someone who understands Maori
art--look at this double-spiral work round the border. But what are
the letters? They are almost worn away.”

“Yes; by the scratches on the thing it looks as if it had found its
way down some rocky mountain stream. Ah! you’ve got it upside down, I
think. That way--there now--it’s plain enough. This word is clearly
‘prisoner’; and these are ‘Te Maka,’ which, with the space left after
it, must once have been ‘Te Makawawa.’”

“Yes, and this is ‘mountain,’” he ran on, spelling in advance of me;
“and this is meant for ‘Table Land.’”

“Quite right; and here is the date fairly clear, showing that this was
done three years ago.”

“But by whom?” he asked quickly; “that is the point.”

For answer I pointed to some marks in the corner below the date. “What
do you make of that?” I asked.

He scrutinised them carefully for some minutes, then, turning to me
said: “I can certainly make nothing else than ‘Miriam’ out of it.”

“Nor I,” I replied; “and, if you notice, there is an obliteration
after it which, from the length of it, might once have been ‘Grey.’”

“That is true, but the conclusion that ‘Miriam Grey’ is held a
‘prisoner’ of ‘Te Makawawa’ in a ‘mountain’ near the ‘Table Land’ is
weak in many parts.”

“True, but I can strengthen it,” I hastened to reply. “Do you see
anything in that carving which points to superior talent in the person
who did it?”

“Indeed I do,” he replied with certainty; “this is the work of no
ordinary carver. I should be inclined to say it was the work of a
genius. There are signs of delicate execution about it which no one
could mistake.”

“That is precisely it. Miriam Grey, so said the solicitors, showed
extraordinary signs of genius as a sculptress.”

At the last word my host stared at me with a dreamy look in his eyes.
Had I touched upon the peculiar point of his madness?

“A sculptress!” he said slowly, and gazed for a full half-minute into
the fire, while I watched him. Then, as I did not break the silence,
he resumed: “Yes, there is a Te Makawawa, I know him well; there is a
Table Land not far from here and a mountain near it; and, from what
you have shown me, a woman who is a sculptress is held a prisoner
there.”

He rose from his chair and paced up and down the small hut with his
brows let down in deep and perplexed thought. “Strange--very strange.
But she must be a sculptress of very great genius if----” He paused
abruptly in his pacing the floor.

“Look here!” he said, casting off his abstraction, “if you will accept
my poor hospitality I can put you up for the night, and then, in the
morning, I will go with you to old Te Makawawa’s _pa_.”

I saw from his manner that he knew, or thought he knew, something
about the matter, and asked simply, “Have you an idea?”

He looked down at me, then passed his hand over his brow in
perplexity; finally, smoothing back his wayward mane, he faced the
question and said frankly:

“My idea is a dream that I had a year or more ago--a very absurd
dream, but, nevertheless, one so vivid and clear in all its details
that it had, and still has, a strange effect upon me. That dream
sometimes appeals to me as if it were the _raison d’être_ of my
existence in this solitude. And yet again, sometimes I think that my
dream was an actual experience, but I have no proof that it was.
Wanaki! all men who live alone in the bush as I do are more or less
mad. But that word of yours, ‘sculptress,’ has given me an idea that
after all I may not be as mad as I thought. If, to-morrow, old Te
Makawawa can throw any light upon what has long perplexed me, then I
will discuss my dream with you, as it may possibly have some bearing
on the whereabouts of the woman you seek; to-morrow, not now, for,
uncorroborated, it would appear to you so wild and strange, so
obviously the vagary of an unhinged mind, that you might hesitate to
accept my hospitality.”

As he fixed his fine eyes upon me and smiled, I realised that the fact
of his being puzzled by the strangeness of his dream argued for his
sanity; and if, indeed, his mind was really unhinged, it was upon some
sublime point, some noble idea, having an uncommon object, full of the
deep poetry that burned in those eyes.

As I returned his gaze and his smile I felt drawn towards him with
feelings of a sudden friendship, and it was in accord with these
feelings that in my mind I wrote him down a splendid madman.




 CHAPTER II.
 THE AGED CHIEF.

It was dawn when I opened my eyes and saw Kahikatea stooping to get
through the doorway, so as to stretch his limbs outside, where there
was no danger of knocking down articles stuck up among the rafters.
Soon afterwards I joined him in front of the hut.

“Ha!” he said, greeting me with a smile full of early morning
freshness, “I always turn out before the sun gets up, so as to see the
lovely colours on the hills--look!”

He pointed to the roof-tree, the very tip of which was glistening like
velvet in the first crimson flush of sunlight. The wooded hill beyond
was bathed in splendour, and the birds were gliding down umbrageous
slopes, chasing the early dragon-flies and filling the place with
song. The storm of the preceding night had left no trace, and Nature
had emerged all fresh and smiling. Kahikatea walked about enjoying it,
while slowly the sunlight crept lower and lower down his roof-tree
until it flooded on to the top of his log hut, and finally touched his
own head before it reached mine.

“It’s glorious living all alone in the bush,” he said; “I get more
solid satisfaction out of it than out of London, or Paris, or New
York, or Sydney, or--hello! there’s my _korimako_--my little
bell-bird--he always turns up as soon as the sun gets on to his
fuchsia tree.”

I followed his outstretched finger and saw his fellow poet of the
sunrise brushing the dewdrops from among the flowers and scattering
them around as he trilled out a rain of melody quite as liquid as the
many-tinted shower that fell upon the moss beneath.

“His song is sadder than it used to be,” said Kahikatea; “the bees get
most of his honey now, and he is doomed to extinction.”

I had almost made up my mind before that this man was a poet, and one
who could be trusted to catch Nature’s higher meanings from her birds
and flowers and trees, from her dawns and sunsets, and her mid-day
hush, when the bell-bird, assuming the _rôle_ of a solemn, mysterious
clock, strikes _one_ in the lofty, silent spaces of the bush. Now, as
I watched his face under the influence of the morning and the
korimako’s music, I conceived a picture of his nature which has
remained with me to this day--the picture of a clear-souled poet, who
could dream and yet act, who was mad and yet sane.

The sun was not far above the horizon when we made a start for Te
Makawawa’s _pa_. Through the silent grove of palm ferns, along the
well-worn path that I had discovered the night before, and finally by
ways that were new to me, I followed my tall friend down out of the
bush to the sea, where the silver-crested waves were rolling in upon a
grey gravel shore.

After traversing this for some distance we struck inland to avoid a
steep rocky promontory, with bluffs, against which the spray was
dashing high. Then, after several hours’ tramp through flax swamps,
along precipitous ridges, over flooded streams, and through open
dells, where all the rarest ferns in the world seemed to be growing
together, we reached a broad river, and, following it down to the sea,
saw ahead of us, on the summit of a high and bold cliff, the
palisading of Te Makawawa’s _pa_.

“It’s a difficult place to get into,” said Kahikatea. “There are
precipices on three sides of it, and the entrance here at the bottom
of the hill is not particularly obvious. It must have been a fine
stronghold in the early days.”

We raised a peculiar whoop in vogue among the Maoris, in order to
signify that visitors were approaching; then, receiving the answering
cry of welcome: “_Haeremai! Haeremai!_” we began the ascent of the
hill. At the entrance of the first palisaded enclosure we were met by
numerous dogs, which barked out of all proportion to their meagre
size. At the second palisading, which enclosed the _pa_ proper, we saw
an aged chief come through a private opening. It was Te Makawawa
himself, and as he drew near I recognised the _tohunga Maori_ of the
order called _ariki_, which designates the chief, the priest, and the
seer.

“Welcome, O Kahikatea,” he said, addressing my friend in the Maori
tongue. “Welcome, O Pakeha stranger,” he added, turning to me; “the
_pa_ of Te Makawawa is the home of the stranger who comes with my
friend the Forest Tree.”[03]

“Prop and mainstay of the children of Ira,” said Kahikatea--and I was
surprised at his fluency in the native tongue--“well I know that thou
art the _ariki_ who reads things that are hidden from other eyes. We
have come with a strange word to speak before you, O tohunga--a word
that you alone can make plain.”

Te Makawawa waved his hand with a stately grace, and, inviting us to
follow, led the way into the _pa_. Conducting us through fenced lines
dividing the houses of the tribal families, he at length reached his
own elaborately carved dwelling, almost on the brink of a great
precipice which overlooked the sea. He ordered his servants to place
clean mats on the ground in the portico, and he--a _rangatira_[04] of
the old school, stood with well-simulated humility until such time as
we should invite him to be seated. We gave the customary invitation,
and Te Makawawa seated himself opposite to us.

Then, when the food baskets had been placed before us and we had
eaten, we sat in silence, the chief, according to custom, waiting
impassively to hear the object of our visit, and we, also according to
custom, deeply considering the words we should use. As Kahikatea had
undertaken the duty of spokesman I was free to observe more closely
the face of the aged chief. He was beardless, his hair was quite
white, and his bold, high forehead, coupled with his piercing black
eyes, gave evidence of great power and ability. His whole face was
tatooed in a way to denote the highest rank: he had evidently been a
great man among his people--an _ariki_, in whose veins ran the blood
of the Great River of Heaven. He was nearly ninety years old, so I
subsequently discovered, but his age was not written in his eye nor
yet in his proud and erect bearing.

My eyes wandered to the sea below, sparkling in the pathway of the
sun, and holding the little wooded islets in a setting of silver
breakers. Now and again the long rising swell of the Great Ocean of
Kiwa came in with a weird sigh, moaning about the cliffs on the coast
below. Sea birds, uttering plaintive calls, circled overhead and again
swooped down over the face of the cliff. It was a strange spot wherein
was about to be unfolded a stranger tale.

“O wise tohunga,” said Kahikatea at length, “I have dreamed a dream,
and have come to ask you what it means.”

“The wind has whispered some hidden word in the branches of the
Kahikatea,” said the old chief; “lay that hidden word before me, that
I may hold it in my hand.”

“My word is a dream which I will tell--a dream on a night when the
moon was full. It seemed to me that I climbed a great mountain wall by
a high plain yonder towards the setting sun----”

He paused, for he had seen, as I had, a passing movement on the old
chief’s rugged face.

“Do you know of such a mountain wall, O Te Makawawa?” pursued
Kahikatea.

A long silence ensued, and we both watched the aged chief’s face,
while his eyes rested on the ground. He seemed debating in his mind
whether he should answer; but at length, with a craftiness through
which I thought I saw the truth, he raised his eyes and said:--

“I have myself in dreams wandered astray in a forest at the foot of a
mountain wall, by which I know that my death is waiting for me there.
Your words, O Kahikatea, carried me back to my own dream--did you ask
me a question?”

This was artful. He had evidently made up his mind that he knew
nothing of such a mountain wall, at all events not until he had heard
more.

But my friend did not repeat his question. I think he saw with me that
the old chief had been startled, but had extricated himself
gracefully, and that, now he was on his guard, we should have no
further clue.

“I was saying,” Kahikatea went on, “when I saw that the spirit of your
ancestor was speaking to you, that I climbed up a mountain wall, I
know not how, for it seemed to me that no man could have passed that
way before. In my dream, as I stood on a great platform at the summit
of the wall against the sky, a thin crust of rock beneath my feet gave
way and I fell into a narrow cavern. Not being able to get out again I
groped my way along and found that it communicated with a passage cut
in the rock, narrow, but high, as if it had been made by, and for,
giants. I followed this passage, winding in and out in the darkness of
the rock, and at length came out again on the summit of the wall.

“Then my feet were guided to a funnel-shaped chasm, down which--by
means of a long, stout pole, which I slanted from ledge to ledge again
and again across the narrow chasm--I made a perilous descent. At last
I felt a solid floor beneath my feet, and, moving cautiously, made my
way across a dark cavern towards a faint light showing round a
buttress of rock. When I gained this point, O thou prop of the tribes,
I saw a sight which startled me--even in my dream.”

He paused, and I wondered what he was coming to. Te Makawawa’s
piercing eyes were fixed upon my friend in a penetrating scrutiny as
if he would read his inmost soul. But his own rugged, tatooed face
betrayed no thought, no feeling.

After a silence Kahikatea continued:

“It was a form of beauty that I have never since been able to banish
from my mind. There, standing in an open space on the floor of a
cavern of white marble, with the moonlight flooding in upon her from
an opening in the rock, was a figure, white and dazzling. For a long
time I stood gazing at the most beautiful face and form it has fallen
to my lot to look upon. It was a woman in the first years of
womanhood; her arms were raised towards something she could see in the
western sky through the opening; a thin robe covered her form, and a
breath of wind had swayed it gently against her limbs. But, O chief,
mark this: her hair, which fell in rippling folds over her
outstretched arms, was white and glistening, and, though the
expression on her face was that of one who sees a vision of joy, her
eyes were colourless. Her form was full of yearning--of pursuing
prayer towards the glory of her vision, but she moved not. I drew
nearer and stood before her. Then I saw that this woman was an image
in marble, lifelike, beauteous, wonderful; but stone--cold stone!”

Again he paused, and I watched the face of the aged chief. It was calm
and unmoved, but his eyes blazed like polished obsidian reflecting the
sun. He spoke never a word, and Kahikatea continued:

“While I gazed in wonder at this radiant image--in my dream, O
chief--I heard a step behind me, and, before I could turn, a stunning
blow on the head felled me. Then I no longer knew light from darkness.
My dream ended there for a time, but when again I emerged from
darkness I was lying on my back on the bank of a stream at the foot of
the mountain wall a thousand feet below, my clothes wet through, and
my body stiff and sore with bruises. That is my dream, O chief. My
words to you are ended.”

Te Makawawa sat silent and thoughtful, considering his reply. While he
was doing so it occurred to me to add my story to Kahikatea’s
statement, for I now understood why my friend had been startled at my
mention of the word “sculptress.”

“I also have a word to lay before you, chief,” said I.

“Proceed, O Friend of Kahikatea,” he replied.

Then I narrated to him the history of the woman--how it had become a
matter of great moment that news of her should be obtained. How I,
through my knowledge of the Maori tongue, had been sent to look for
her, and how, finally, it seemed to me that what the wind had
whispered to the branches of the Kahikatea was connected in some
strange way with the woman, for was she not wise in the matter of
cutting figures out of stone? In conclusion, I handed him the fragment
of wood. He inspected it carefully, and then asked the meaning of the
words.

“They mean,” said I, watching his face intently, “that a woman named
Miriam Grey was taken prisoner eighteen years ago by a certain Te
Makawawa, that she is near a mountain and a tableland--the meaning
here is washed away--and that she was still alive three years ago. O
chief, my words, too, are ended.”

Silence again ensued, which remained unbroken for a long space, during
which time an artist might have caught the aged chief’s expression
exactly, for it remained unaltered. I knew that if he did not speak
soon he would not speak at all, and we should go back the way we came,
not very much wiser than when we started. I employed the time
wondering how much he knew. Was he considering the terms of his reply,
or was he quietly making up his mind as to whether he should reply at
all? At length he raised his eyes and encountered those of my friend.

“O Kahikatea,” he said solemnly, “like Tawhaki of old thou knowest the
‘way of the spider,’ and, like him, thou hast seen Hinauri, the
Daughter of the Dawn. I can speak of what I know to one with whom the
Great Tohungas of the Earth have spoken. But with thee, O Friend of my
friend the Forest Tree,” he added, turning to me, “I will not speak
except on a condition which I will lay upon the ground before you.”

“Lay thy condition upon the ground, O wild white crane among
tohungas--lay thy condition upon the ground before us, that we may
look at it and take it up or not as it seems good to us.”

“It is well,” he replied. “Lo! the beginning of my word to you is
this: I am growing old; my foot is already searching for firm places
among the snows that encircle the summit of Ruahine; I see those who
are not present, I hear those who do not speak; any day I may look
into the eyes of the green lizard that will summon me to Reinga.[05]
But before I descend by the sacred Pohutukawa root that leads to the
Abode of Spirits I would undo a wrong that I did--an evil deed, cruel
and unfair beneath the eye of Rehua.

“That is the beginning of my speech to you, and this is how it runs
on. Hearken, Pakehas! You, O Friend of Kahikatea, the Forest Tree,
seek a woman concerning whom, if you agree to my condition, the
spirits that linger by night may speak to me: Te Makawawa, whose heart
is in his face before you, seeks a white-faced child whom he cannot
find, for he knows not the speech of the Pakeha.

“Hear the end, O Friend of my friend, the Forest Tree--the end is for
you. When the child is found I myself will teach you concerning the
woman. The tongue of the Maori is known to you as well as the tongue
of the Pakeha; therefore, you can search among the races of the South
for the white-faced child. If this bargain seems good then I will
speak to you and to the Forest Tree. And when the child is found I
will commune with the spirits of my ancestors about the woman.”

“And if I find the child, O chief,” I said, “will you swear upon the
sacred _tiki_[06] that you will find the woman?”

Te Makawawa turned a withering glance upon me.

“The Friend of the Forest Tree speaks the Maori tongue, but surely he
does not know the Maori heart----” he began, but Kahikatea broke in
upon his words.

“It is enough,” he said. “The word of Te Makawawa is good; it will not
snap like the _kohutukutu’s_ branch. Let my brother Wanaki say whether
he will accept the condition.”

I am obstinate by nature, and somewhat cynical, but from Kahikatea’s
manner I guessed that old Te Makawawa, notwithstanding his remark to
the effect that the spirits of his ancestors would enlighten his
ignorance, already knew more about Miriam Grey than we should ever
find out unless we accepted his own terms. Having turned this over in
my mind I said:

“I forgot that the word of the _ariki_ was sworn upon his own heart,
which is sacred. I call back my words, O chief, and I agree to your
condition. Now speak and answer the words of Kahikatea about his
dream, and my own words about the woman.”

“It is well,” he said with dignity, drawing his mat closer around him.
“My heart flows out to both of you; to you, O Dreamer of dreams, and
to you, O Seeker in the dark, I will speak words straight from my
breast, but in hearing them know that they may not be repeated to
other ears while I live. That is understood between us.”




 CHAPTER III.
 A SECRET OF ANCIENT NIGHT.

For some minutes the aged chief sat silent, looking out far away
over the sea, where the white-winged taniwhas[07] of the Pakeha pass
through Raukawa, to gain the great ocean of Kiwa. His thoughts were as
far away as the blue Isle of Rangitoto, marked vaguely in the horizon.
What thing was he pursuing over the dim trail of the past? Of a truth
he seemed to see those who were not present, to hear those who did not
speak. Would he begin his story at the time when those fierce old
history-makers of yore--the Waitahi and the Ngaitahu--dwelt in the
valley of the “Pensive Water,” and held their land against the fierce
invaders coming down from the land of Tara? No, he turned towards us,
and the words from his breast were of things long, long before the
Waitahi fought their frays upon the sounding shore.

He spoke in a hushed voice; for our ears alone were the secret things
he was about to unfold.

“O men of the great land beyond the mountains and the sea, why should
I tell to you those things which none but our priesthood of ancient
night have known? It is because I have heard the voices of the Great
Tohungas of the Earth speaking to me in sleep, and I have had no rest.
Therefore I will obey the words that have come to me in the whistling
winds of heaven, and reveal a secret of the ancient tohungas of my
race. Yet in doing this I know full well that, by the occult law of
the ages, I shall incur my death.

“Know then, O children of another world, that the blood of the Great
River of Heaven has run through the veins of an unbroken hereditary
priesthood from the further shore of Time to this day that we see
beneath the shining sun. Men who do not know speak of _Te Kahui
Tipua_; a band of man-eating demons, they say, who dwelt here in
Aopawa. Sons! these are no demons, but the powerful priesthood of
which I speak to you, extending back into the far night of the world.
The Rangitane and the Ngaitahu have nursed our priests in their
_wahine’s_ laps; the Ngatimamoe also, and before them the Waitahi,
skilled in spells--all these came and passed away like the leaves of
the _kohutukutu_,[08] but the father blood of the ancient Kahui Tipua
is of the Great River of Heaven flowing down the ages from times when
this land of the Maori was without a shore from the rising to the
setting sun.

“What the west wind has whispered in the branches of the Kahikatea,
what his friend has spoken with his tongue about the woman, and my own
word to you about a lost child, are the head, the back, and the tail
of one story. Hearken to me then, O men from over the sea, while I
show to you a hidden thing which has never been shown to a pakeha
before, nor revealed to any but our own priesthood. Then, when Te
Makawawa has trodden the Highway of Tane, and you see his eye set as a
star in the sky, you will tell this sacred thing to your brethren of
the other side, for it is a word of power to the Maori and Pakeha
alike. But know that whoever reveals this hidden thing to the outside
world must die.

“Not three days’ journey towards the setting sun is a high plain
rolling like a yellow sea beneath a great mountain wall. On that
sacred plain waves now the golden _toi-toi_, and it is desolate; but
there was a time when a great city stood there in which dwelt a mighty
race of long ago. And within that mountain wall is the vast temple of
Ruatapu, cut out of the ancient rock by the giant tohungas of old.
This, O children of the sun that rose to-day, was long before the
_wharekura_[09] of our lesser tohungas, many ages before the Maori
set sail from Hawaiki to find these shores. In that temple of the ages
are strange things preserved from the wreck of the ancient
world--things which one day you shall see, but I now shorten my words
to tell of a sacred stone under the protection of the Good Tohungas of
the Brow of Ruatapu, and yet again of another, an accursed stone, the
plaything of the Vile Tohungas of the Pit.

“In that far time, when this land of the Maori was but a small part of
a vast land now eaten by the sea, the people who dwelt in the city of
the high plain were powerful giants, and they were ruled by a
priesthood of tohungas, among whom two kinds of magic were practised:
the Good and the Vile. The Good Tohungas derived their spells, like
Tawhaki, from the heavens above, where the Great Spider sits weaving
his web around him, and they dwelt in the forehead of the mountain
wall. The Vile Tohungas obtained their spells, like Tangaroa, from the
depths of the sea, and from the gloom of Porawa; they inhabited the
foundations of the mountain. But although both dwelt in the same
temple, there was a deadly hatred between them, and, when they met in
battle, fierce lightnings were seen to issue from the rocks.

“I am not now the hereditary priest of that temple, but many moons
ago, before the snows fell on my hair, I was called by the Great
Tohungas, whose eyes look down from the northern sky, to enter the
mountain and take the place of my father, who was growing old. My
father, worn with doing the will of the tohungas in the temple, came
out to die, and I took his place, even as I, after many years, have
come out to die, while my son, Ngaraki the Fierce, has taken my place.
When I entered the mountain by a path any brave man might find and
follow, and further, when I ascended to the upper part of the
mountain, by a way that no man could find unless he were guided as I
was, I found there the sacred white stone, before which it was the
work of the priest to sing the magic _karakia_, which have been handed
down from the time of the ancient city. For the tradition given to me
by my father, O Pakehas, told that in this stone stood the form of a
woman, beauteous as the dawn; and the prophecy attached to her was
that one day the stone which enclosed her would be broken, and she
would stand free.

“Sons of Kiwa, hear the sacred story of the woman of the ancient city,
and listen well, that my words do not pass by like the empty wind,
for, in revealing this for the good of my race and yours, I give
myself over to the Woman of Death and Darkness--such is the law by
which I, a sometime priest of the mountain temple, will abide. In the
times of which the rocks of that temple alone keep a record, the
bright goddess Hia, or, as we call her, Hinauri, the Daughter of the
Dawn, came down from the skies to restore the divine magic which the
Vile Tohungas had almost driven from the world. She became queen of
the city on the plain, and tried to rule the people by the love-magic
she brought with her. But she failed: the people were being led down
to death by the vile brethren of Huo, or, as we know her,
Hine-nui-te-Po, the Daughter of the Darkness. They would not look upon
the dazzling beauty of Hia’s face, nor would they hear her words. _E
tama!_ none can sin against the Great Spider and live. Lo! Mariki, the
Woman of Pestilence, slid down a silky thread of the vast web and
breathed death on the city. Tu-of-the-Whirlwind came also and smote
the great land.

“But the Tohungas of the Brow of Ruatapu had been taught in dreams
when the great fire of Io throbbed through them and lighted their
heads. They foresaw the destruction of the city, and took the Queen
Hinauri to a white cave in the forehead of the mountain, where she
showed them the last strange wonder of her magic. Standing on the
floor of the cave, with her giant priests around her, she gazed
through the opening towards the western sky above the hills. A ray of
golden light pierced the air and shone into the place. It fell upon
her face and form. It lingered in her eyes and on her dark flowing
hair. The priests fell back dazzled by her glory. Then she raised her
arms towards the western sky and spoke strange words: ‘Lo! in the
distance it is shown to me--the land of my people as it will be in the
far future. I see them living in happiness, ruled by my love-magic.
Ages will pass away before that time will be, but behold, I will leave
my body here waiting and watching for that future when my people shall
come back; and, at the dawn of that bright age, I too will return as a
sign to the world. And you, my priests, will watch my sacred body till
that day. Then, when I return, Huo, the false image of myself, which
will be fashioned in this temple below, shall be hurled down upon the
heads of the Vile Tohungas, her worshippers.’

“She ceased, and the golden ray seemed to be fading from her, while
she stood as if listening to some mellow music from the sunlit slopes
of the far-off future land of peace and love. A light leapt into her
eyes, and a smile broke over her face. Lo! even while she stood there
leaning forward, with her arms outstretched as if to some lovely
vision of the dawn, the sun ray faded quite away, and left her
spellbound, immovable--a radiant statue of expectancy.

“Then, as the Tohungas chanted their mystic song they saw that her
spirit had fled, leaving her body standing like stone. Like stone, I
said, O Kahikatea; but her spirit had not taken away the smile from
her lips nor the joy from her eyes. The lovelight would still dwell
there, and her arms would still remain outstretched in longing until
the ages should have rolled by--in constant yearning until some
distant day should bring her people back to repeat their history with
a happier close. O Pakehas, it was a thing to see: Hinauri the Radiant
One, who rivals the dawn in her beauty, stood there waiting, waiting,
waiting till the far future of the world should come with Ihi Ihi, the
sun ray, to call her back to life.

“O Sons of the Shining Sea, hear how my tale runs on. Summer and
winter came and went for hundreds of years, while in the cave high up
in the silence of the mountains stood for ever the Daughter of the
Dawn, holding out her arms to the unborn future of the South. Far
below upon the plain lay the City of the Southern Cross, deserted,
silent, and crumbling to ruin. A pestilence had fallen upon the land,
slaying the people as one man, and now through the silent streets
wandered the dragons of the desert. By night the moonlight glinted
upon the palaces and domes, showing here gigantic columns, and there a
patch of open square, while sometimes from the shadowy streets arose a
ghostly murmur, as of a phantom race that is dead and gone, whose
spirits linger by night around the desolation of their former homes.
But the Bright One’s gaze was fixed, not upon the city below, but on
the limits of future time.

“How can I show you the wonder of Hinauri’s waiting for the dawn? O
Pakehas, on calm moonlight nights the children of the misty moonbeam
looked in at the opening of the cave and wondered to see her standing
there, a figure of beauty, all shining with moisture, in the clear,
pale ray. The drops that drip so slowly in limestone caves had begun
to deposit their treasures upon her form. Her robes shone with a
thousand crystalline gems. Her hair rippled down like wavy stalactites
laden with sparkling clusters of precious stones. They had gathered
like the dust of diamonds upon her arms, and neck, and brow, while
from the roof of the cave the ever-dripping, crystal-laden water had
tried to place a crown upon her stately head.

“O men of a later day, how can I picture to you the wonder of Hinauri
in that high solitude? The spirits of the wind would pause in their
wanderings round the mountain sides to look in at the silent
inhabitant of the cave. Then they would sigh along upon their way down
the ridges to whisper among the shadows of the deserted city. And on
dark nights, when the anger of Tawhirimatea smote the feet of
Tane-holding-up-the-Sky, that storm-god loved to linger at the opening
of the cave and watch her mysterious beauty, as Taki’s lightning lit
the place; and, while he watched, his fierce heart would melt, and his
wild breath soften into sighs of love.

“On and on sped the years. Ages rolled over this land, and the City of
the Southern Cross crumbled to dust. Other ages came and went, and the
sea lapped about the crags beneath the opening of the cave and rolled
its huge billows over the buried city. And lo! as the moons, gliding
by on the floor of the crystal heaven, chased each other for ever
across the sky, the sea sank back, and there, where once had surged
the hurrying throng of a mighty people, stood the gigantic moa in the
dense fern, and on the rocks crept the three-eyed lizards of old time.
But in the mountain cave the ancient spell had endured. Hear the tale
of the Great Tohungas, who watched one by one in the temple. Slowly,
through the ages, the limestone covered the form of the goddess, but
not to hide her from the eyes of the _matakite_. The expectant look
upon her face had deepened, and her whole body seemed ready to spring
to life at a word. To the eyes of the seer her face shone glorious
from within a crystal stone, but some who saw less clearly passed down
the word that her features were chased as if with the dust of stars,
through which the pink in her cheeks and lips showed like rata through
a glistening mist. But to me, when my father took me to the cave,
there was naught but a large block of pure white marble, roughly hewn,
such as the mighty fingers of the ages fashion from the limestone. Yet
I could see, though my sight was dim, that within the dull, hard stone
stood the wondrous form of Hinauri, waiting to be released from her
age-long prison. My father said that the time was near when Hinauri
should return, and the Great Tohungas had told him in dreams that it
was by the ‘magic of a woman’ that her spirit should come back into
her body. He then instructed me in the ways and duties of the temple,
showing me many things which I cannot speak of now.

“But I said my words to you were also of the accursed stone. When the
spirit of the Bright One had fled, the Good Tohungas withdrew into the
sky, leaving one of their number to protect the sacred stone. Even the
name of this mighty one has come down to us as surely as his blood
runs in my veins. ‘Zun[10] the Terrible’ he was called, and it was he
who concealed once and for ever the secret of the sacred stone. The
Vile Tohungas of the Pit were searching for Hinauri to destroy her,
but Zun tricked them. He cast himself down into the foundations of the
temple and dwelt among them to learn their vile magic. Then, when he
had mastered their secrets, he fashioned a false image of Hinauri as a
great spar, and bound it down to the rock with a round stone. The Vile
Tohungas, believing that this spar, stranded on the shores of Time,
contained the sacredness of Hinauri, cursed it for ever, so that woman
should never rise to the skies, but remain bound down to do their
will. Zun the Terrible then drew a phantom spirit from the spar and
delivered it over to them, saying it was Hinauri, the Daughter of the
Dawn. The Vile Ones took it and bound it to the moon-face, where for
all time they have paid it a sneering worship of disdain. Thus did Zun
the Terrible give them the false for the true, and tricked them with
their own magic. Then he turned his back upon these Vile Ones and set
himself to climb up out of the darkness into which he had fallen. But,
O my sons! the Vile Ones still live upon the earth. The giant
sorcerers of old stand for ever on the floor of the mighty abyss in
the temple, waiting the day when they shall return. Their red fire was
removed by one of their slaves, whom Zun drove from the temple into
the north, and we say it is burning even now, though we know not
where.

“So the sacred stone in the white cave has been preserved to this day,
and to this day the magic of the sun ray may be seen. It is true it
now strikes into the cave at certain times of the year through a
crevice in some outstanding crags, but, O children of a later sun, it
is a ray of the same light that shone there ages since, and bore
Hinauri’s spirit away. _E tama!_ there is a prophecy that one day,
when this ray of Ihi Ihi is upon the sacred stone, her ancient spirit
will return upon it, and she will live. Already is the stone that
bound her broken away; already she stands free, as she stood long,
long ago, with her arms outstretched to the future, and the dawn of a
new age upon her radiant face. This, O Kahikatea, is the truth which
lies behind your dream. This, O Pakehas, was the legend given me by my
father, who had received it from his father in like fashion as it had
been told by father to son from the beginning of the world.

“Now, Friend of the Forest Tree, I will answer your words to me about
the woman Miriami Kerei.

“Many moons of fasting and singing of karakias passed over my head
before the Great Tohungas


 [image: images/img052.jpg
 caption: “‘THIS, O PAKEHAS, WAS THE LEGEND GIVEN ME BY MY FATHER.’”]


began to speak to me in dreams. One night the spirit of my father
stood before me and told me that the woman upon whom the tohungas had
set their true mark was travelling southwards with her husband,
inland, towards Hokitika. She was the woman by whose magic the
age-long fetters of Hinauri should be broken; therefore he bade me
find her and take her to the white cave, where she must dwell as
sacred as Hinauri’s self until the object of her coming was
accomplished. Therefore, I summoned the warriors of my tribe and sent
them to guard all the mountain ways to the south of the ‘Pensive
Water,’ and to take the man and the woman without injury and bring
them to me at the boundary of the Great Tapu, which enclosed the plain
and the sacred mountain.

“At the end of half a moon they returned with the pakeha and his wife.
She was a comely _wahine_, with eyes like those of a Maori
chieftainess, but they held more of the ‘magic of a woman.’ O Pakehas,
have you looked into a dark lake among the mountains and seen the star
Tawera shining there all alone? Like that was the light of Miriami’s
eyes; like that was the spirit far within them. I do not remember the
pakeha’s name, but I remember learning by the signs he made to me,
that he had journeyed from Hokitika to Wakatu to meet his wife, who
had come in a great canoe from the land beyond the sea, and that now
they were on their way back to Hokitika. I was sorry, and my heart
went out to the pakeha, but the word of the tohungas was to be obeyed.
I could not let him go his way, lest he should bring a great army
against the mountain for revenge, so I ordered the tongueless men of
the temple to bear both man and woman to the mountain, for there I
meant to deal with the man according to the customs of our ancient
magic. By a secret entrance at the back of the mountain, which no man
might find--the ‘way of the lizard’--then by the secret ‘way of the
fish with wings,’ which no man can travel without guidance, I had them
taken to the white cave, where I showed them the stone and explained
as much of the ancient story as I could by signs. The woman understood
me, for a clear light came in her eyes as she gazed at the stone. At
that moment the sun ray, coming through a rift in the crags outside,
fell through the opening like a shaft of gold, and shone upon the
white fetters of the Bright One. Then I saw that the Tohungas’ real
mark was on the woman, for her eyes became fixed. She held out her
arms to the stone with a cry, and the pakeha caught her as she fell. I
knew now that she was _matakite_,[11] and had seen Hinauri within the
stone.

“When she came out of darkness she spoke to the pakeha with many
words, and I judged her meaning to be this: that she would stay in the
cave and release Hinauri from the stone, and he would stay with her;
but when they made me understand this I replied by signs that the man
must go, but the woman must stay. He grew angry, and showed me with
his hands that he would go and call the pakehas together and bring
them with guns against the mountain, and take the woman away by force.

“At this I ordered the tongueless men to bind the pakeha again. Then I
signed to the woman that he should be taken down and set free, and
that if she would watch from the opening of the cave she should see
him go. This quieted her, and I conducted the pakeha down through the
secret ways; but before setting him free I tatooed upon his breast one
of the magic signs of the temple--the sign of silence and forgetting,
and rubbed into it an ointment which has power to make a man forget
the events of his life while the tohunga lives who cast the spell over
him. _There is another ointment, O Kahikatea, which will cause a man
to forget only the events of a single moon, or at least to recall them
dimly as dreams._ But it was necessary that the pakeha should forget
everything, and he went forth from the mountain as one in a trance,
from which at sunset he would awake in his right mind, but as a man
who can speak the words that he always spoke, and do the things which
he always did, yet can remember neither his own name nor the face of
his friend. This, O men of to-day, is a word of the ancient magic for
which our lower tohungas seek in vain.

“Then I did many things for the comfort of the woman Miriami--that is
the name by which she bade me call her, O Wanaki. I placed mats within
a recess of the white cave and brought her food and water and
firewood, and in it all I made her understand that she was
_tapu_[12], and she grew to trust me. At her bidding I procured
through my tribe some sharp instruments for her with which to break
the bonds of the Radiant One, and also some books, that she might
learn to speak the Maori tongue. When this was done she showed me the
‘magic of the woman’ by which Hinauri should return. She would break
and cut the stone away from the divine form within, so that it should
stand free.

“When I knew this I fell at her feet and worshipped her. For many
moons she laboured, and though I heard the chipping of the tools upon
the stone--the breaking of Hinauri’s fetters--I set not my foot within
the cave. Eight moons passed away, and the ninth was growing old, when
one day she waited for me outside the entrance to her abode, on the
white steps that lead down into the lower parts of the temple.

“‘O Te Makawawa,’ she said, ‘the work is finished. Hinauri, the Bright
One, stands free, but she does not yet live. Nevertheless, Chief and
Tohunga, there will be another life in this cave before many days.’

“‘Blessed be the child that is born under the smile of Hineteiwaiwa,’
I said. ‘I will go to my tribe and bring back a woman to be with you.’

“I brought the woman, and Miriami’s child was born before another moon
had set out to find the Sacred Isle in the West. Then was I summoned
to the cave to see the magic the woman had wrought upon the stone.
Hinauri stood free. She stood as thou didst see her in thy dream, O
Kahikatea--a thing to wonder at and worship. _E Koro!_ the magic of
the woman was not of earth. It was the Chisel of Tonga--and more than
that, though I know not what more.

“Then for two summers and winters I toiled in the temple, cursing the
Vile Tohungas in the abyss at the full moon, as my father and all my
father’s fathers had done before me, and singing the ancient
_karakias_ in the white cave at sunset. But the spirit of Hinauri
returned not. Yet from that time forward certain men with the fire of
the Vile Tohungas in their eyes found entrance to the temple. My
thought is that they had heard a threatening voice teaching them
strange things. Perchance the ages had told them how they had been
tricked, and they came to learn the secret of our greater magic, and
to destroy the Bright One. But, O Sons of Kiwa, I took their heads,
baked them, and hung them in the abyss.

“But hear me, O Friend of the Forest Tree. These are my words to you,
and this is the thing which keeps me from rest. When the little
girl--Keritahi Kerei was her name--was able to run about and speak her
own tongue and mine, I used to lead her and Miriami down to a place
where the river hemmed them in against the mountain wall. Here the sun
shone upon the moss, and flowers grew, and here the little one would
play. One day I was cutting wood on the bank lower down, when I heard
a scream, and, looking up, I saw Miriami standing on the bank waving
her arms. I hastened to the place, and she pointed to the water, where
I saw, rising to the surface, the little body of the child. O my
brethren of the pale skin, I saw her white face, and in her hand she
held some mountain lilies, in reaching for which she had fallen over
the bank. The current swept her under, and though I plunged in at
once, it was some time before I could find her among the twisting
folds of the water. When at last I laid the little body at Miriami’s
feet, its spirit had fled beyond Wai Ora Tane.[13]

“Have you seen the grief of a mother weeping for her child, O Pakehas?
I hope I may never see it again. I sat down and covered my head, and
my own tears flowed like rain. But not for long. Miriami dashed her
tears away and tried to bring the little one’s spirit back from
Reinga. I knew that a spirit sometimes halts and lingers on the hither
bank of Wai Ora Tane; therefore I worked with her on the little body,
trying to charm the spirit back, and, as we worked, I sang an
incantation, while her tears fell on the child’s pale face.

“But Keritahi’s spirit had passed beyond the waters, from whose
further bank none may return by the way they went. The sun was sinking
when we ceased our efforts, and then Miriami sank down in despair. By
the ancient rites of the temple no dead body must remain within its
inner _tapu_. I told Miriami that I would bury it at once somewhere in
the outer _tapu_ across the stream. She pleaded with me to let her
come, but I would not; I had sworn to my father’s spirit that she
should not go beyond the inner _tapu_. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘bury the
body of my child beneath the shade of the great rimu in the valley,
where the tui sits and sings in the twilight, that when I listen from
the mouth of the cave I may mingle my grief with his singing.’

“I promised this. When she had taken a last farewell of her little
one, she sank on the ground numbed with grief, and I crossed the river
with Keritahi’s body in my arms. As I was hurrying towards the rimu in
the valley, I said in my heart, ‘It is the will of the tohungas--the
child stood in the way of Hinauri. The attention was divided. Now the
child is dead, Hinauri will delay no longer. It is best: the tohungas
have spoken----’

“The tongue in my heart stopped, and I stood still, looking down at
the child. Was it a tremor passing through the little body, or was it
my dream? Who could come back after so long a stay in Reinga?

“I hurried on again into the shades of the valley, and came to a
sudden stop a second time, for the body was trembling visibly in my
arms. There was no longer any doubt. The little lips parted. The child
drew a breath and sighed. Then the eyes opened and closed again. She
was returning from the arms of the Great Woman of Darkness.

“My first thought was to turn back and restore the child to her
mother, but when I had taken some steps I hesitated. Another thought
held me, and I stood still. Miriami would conquer her grief; the worst
of it was over. The tohungas had spoken, and I saw their meaning. The
child was to live, but not, O Pakehas, not with its mother, not within
the _tapu_ of Hinauri. Yes, it was plain. My heart bled for Miriami,
but there was something more important: Hinauri was first.

“Keritahi opened her eyes and looked up at me. Her little lips moved,
and I heard the only part of my name that she could say: ‘Wawa.’ Then
the eyes closed again, and my breast melted. How could I play this
trick upon the woman whose magic had done so much? Miriami’s soft eyes
came up before my mind, and my body shook like the kahikaha’s leaf.
But I must do it. It was for Hinauri. ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘the child
must have the spirit of a great witch--none but a witch could come
back out of the Land of Silence. Yes, the Great Ones have spoken--she
is a witch, and that is why my karakias have been powerless.’

“Need I tell you, O my sons, how I coaxed the child to sleep on a
stone that I had warmed with fire--then how I dug a grave beneath the
rimu and buried a large stone there--and afterwards how I went back to
Miriami with a lie in my throat and took her again into the mountain,
where in the white cave she remained alone with her grief? But I will
tell you, O Friend of the Forest Tree, what I did with the child, for
that word is for you, to guide you in the search.

“I went back to her lying on the warm stone. I bent over her and
listening for her breathing. It was regular and deep.

“‘She is a witch,’ I said, ‘she will live.’

“When she awoke I took her to my tribe, though on the way I sat down
many times to cover my head, for, with her arms round my neck, she
asked me questions that I could not answer. I gave her to a young
chief of my tribe, and said to him, ‘Take a band of warriors and
journey on towards the south, and when you come to a pakeha’s house
leave the child there in safety without any word, so that the one into
whose care the child falls knows neither whence it comes nor who
brings it.’

“They went forth, and the child was under my word of protection.

“O Friend of the Forest Tree, within two moons they returned, and the
young chief spoke a strange thing in my ear. ‘We have ended the work
you set us to do, O Te Makawawa, and lo! a moon ago we came to a hut
on the bank of a river southwards, and within sat a pakeha asleep by a
fire. With my own hand I unfastened the door and set the child inside.
Then I closed the door with a loud noise, and looked in at the window.
The man awoke, and when I looked upon his face I saw that it was the
face of him we captured with the woman many moons ago. That is truth,
O chief.’

“Then I, having heard this, returned to the temple and sought rest,
saying to myself: ‘It is not such a bad deed you have done, Te
Makawawa--you have stolen a child from its mother and have restored it
to its father.’ But no rest came to me, neither did the tohungas speak
to me again in dreams. In the many years that followed I grew weary of
life, for Hinauri came not, and I felt the displeasure of the tohungas
heavy upon me. I still kept the woman a sacred prisoner, and she lived
in peace, for was she not _matakite_,[14] and a lover of solitude?

“At length my son Ngaraki, the Fierce One, arrived at the age when he
should take up the duties of the ancient temple, and I came forth to
die. But lo! I cannot go hence until I have undone the wrong that I
did, until I have restored the child to her mother. Make haste, O
Friend, and find the little maiden in the south. The sun lingers over
the hills, but cannot set--my eyes grow dim, and I see your faces in a
mist--my head is bowed to the ground, but my spirit cannot pass hence
till this is done. O Sons of the Shining Sea, my words to you are
ended.”

The aged chief covered his head with his flaxen robe and bowed himself
to the earth. A solemn silence fell upon us, so astonished were we at
this, his strange story.




 CHAPTER IV.
 THE HAUNTED REGION.

If there were not so much to tell before I lay down my pen, I might
describe the feast which Te Makawawa and his chiefs prepared for us
that evening, or give the substance of the wild, poetical songs that
were sung in our honour, and of the speeches that were delivered--all
bristling with allusions to ancient tradition. But the matter, though
interesting, does not concern this history directly. Suffice it to
say, then, that I had, from the first, developed a slightly sceptical
attitude towards the old chief’s story. This was accentuated by the
fact that, after the feast of which I have spoken, one of the songs
sung by a young chief contained a chance allusion to Hinauri, giving
in a few words the skeleton of a popular legend which differed almost
entirely from Te Makawawa’s tradition of the same person. Even if this
discrepancy could be explained by saying that a popular legend is
often fabricated around the central name of some more ancient
tradition, it still remained to deal with the extraordinary parts of
Te Makawawa’s story, which were not easy of belief without some kind
of verification. Therefore I had many a grave doubt.

On the following day, when we took our departure, the aged chief sent
with us a Maori named Tiki, who had been with the party which had
taken the child, fifteen years before, and left her at the hut of the
Man-who-had-forgotten. This Maori was to be my servant, to aid me in
finding Keritahi Kerei, or, as we should pronounce it, Crystal Grey.
He was to obey me in all things, and not to leave me under any
conditions until the child--now, of course, if living, a girl
seventeen or eighteen years of age--was found and brought to Te
Makawawa.

When we three, Kahikatea, Tiki, and myself, were leaving the _pa_, the
old chief gave us a solemn and sad farewell. Sitting at the doorway of
his house, he said: “Depart, O Kahikatea, Dreamer of dreams! Take not
again the ‘way of the spider’ lest you become even as he who has
forgotten his name and the face of his friend. Depart, O seeker of the
child whose mother awaits you, and forget not my words. Go, my
friends, to whom I have shown the secret of the ages. Go! while I
remain here watching the _kohutukutu’s_ yellow leaf that will not
fall, watching the western sun that cannot set.”

So we left the _pa_ of Te Makawawa, our hearts full of the strange
tale we had heard. When we reached the bank of the river we sat down
on a log and looked at one another.

“Do you believe the old chief’s tale?” I asked Kahikatea.

“It accounted for my dream,” he replied; “but, do you know, I have
never been able to decide whether I dreamed that about the stone woman
in the cave, or whether it was an actual experience I went through.
All I can be certain of is, that on the floor of my hut, two years
ago, I awoke from what I took to be a kind of syncope due to failure
of the heart’s action. I went out and shook myself together, and
recalled a hazy memory of those things I related to the old chief. Of
course, I dismissed the matter as a dream, though that pure white
woman’s face I could not, cannot, and do not wish to, dismiss, for I
admit to you candidly that I would risk my life to see it again: it
has a fine meaning. I say I explained it as a dream, but what
perplexed me some time later was, that in my record of the month from
full moon to full moon I discovered a gap of three days. Then another
thing which puzzled me was that I had a great many bruises that I
could not account for, one in particular: a painful sore on my
back--by Jove!”

He started up in an excited manner and threw off his coat. Then in
another moment his shirt followed, and he stood stripped to the waist.

“Look!” he cried, turning his back to me; “just between the shoulder
blades--is there any kind of mark?”

It was my turn to express surprise now, for there, in the spot he had
indicated, was a peculiar tatooed sign--a square in a circle, with a
small cross in the centre.

I described it to him, and when I had finished he turned round and
faced me.

“The sign of forgetting,” he said.

“The ‘sign of forgetting,’” I repeated, and my scepticism suffered a
shock.

“I thought,” he mused slowly, as he proceeded to dress himself again,
“I thought I could not have spent three whole days in that syncope. If
I went to that mountain temple and was branded with this mark, which
made my adventure seem like a dream, why should not they have branded
Grey in such a way--say by rubbing in a different drug--as to make him
forget his own name and the face of his friend?”

“And yet--and yet--” I said with some hesitation, “the whole of Te
Makawawa’s tale is so remarkable that I cannot say I feel justified in
setting out to look for that child without some more certain proof. It
is quite possible the old chief has invented the story of the child so
as to get us out of the way. The search may lead me to the other side
of the world, whereas the Table Land and the mountain are not three
days’ journey from here. I believe most firmly that Miriam Grey is
there if she is living, but I’m inclined to think that, if there was a
child, it died, or was drowned, and that old Te Makawawa invented the
rest of the story to throw us off the track. What do you think? Is not
our best plan to go and spy out the mountain first?”

“It may be so,” he replied meditatively. “Personally my interest is
neither in the child nor in the woman, but in the existence of that
ancient temple of a forgotten race, with its white goddess who rivals
the dawn, gazing out into the sky with a prayer on her face, and her
arms held up to the daybreak of the golden age. It is a grand symbol
and, as I said before, I would risk my life to verify it; for even the
face of that marble woman appeals to me as no woman’s face has ever
done before. I see it in my mind, not as stone, but as that of a
living woman whose eyes are full of a holy light. I will go with you
to the mountain wall, and, notwithstanding the old chief’s warning, I
will search for the ‘way of the spider.’”

“Agreed,” I said, “and I will look for the ‘way of the fish,’ whatever
that may be, and take my chance of the fierce Ngaraki.”

With our minds made up we decided that it would be better not to
inform Tiki of our purpose until, in our route southwards, we came to
a point where we could branch off towards the Table Land. We took this
precaution lest he should find an opportunity of hurrying back in the
night or sending a chance messenger to Te Makawawa telling him of our
purpose, in which case I felt convinced we should be followed by a
band of his warriors. Having questioned Tiki, I found that the way by
which I was to seek the child lay through Karamea, to the west of the
Great Tapu Land. It would be an easy matter then to change our minds
on the journey, and direct our course towards the forbidden region
which we knew must be the place we wanted.

Of our progress on foot towards Karamea little need be said, except
that it was fraught with all the difficulties of the virgin bush.
Kahikatea had a fowling-piece, and I had my rifle, so that we had no
difficulty in procuring wild duck, with here a pig and there a
_pukako_ or a _kakariki_. We gathered our larder up as we went along,
for we found the bush-clad hills and gullies most plentifully stocked.

On the evening of the third day we saw a high range of snow-capped
mountains far away on our left, and questioned Tiki about them.

“That is the Great Tapu Land,” he said, lowering his voice.

After a conversation over the camp fire in our own tongue, we decided
that the time had come to change our course. Accordingly, in the
morning we informed the Maori that the curiosity of the white man was
great: we wished to see this forbidden country. He looked scared at
this; but, when we told him he must accompany us, his legs trembled
under him, and I verily believe that if they had been any use to him
at the moment, he would have fled for his life.

“Taniwha lives there,” he said, “it is tapu. The Maori must not go
there; it is the place of evil spirits.”

“Why is it tapu?” I asked.

He shook his head. “When the _ariki_ make a place tapu it is because
it is dangerous to go there.”

I was determined to see how much he knew, so I continued to question
him.

“How long has it been tapu?” I asked.

“From the times of Wiwa and Wawa, when men had wings,” he replied. “Do
not venture on it, O Pakehas. The _ariki_ who have been there to
appease the evil spirits have come back and told us of the terrible
monsters that inhabit the land, and of the evil spirits that are on
the watch for anyone who sets foot there.”

“What kind of spirits are they?”

“Listen, O Rangatira! Some men of Ngatimamoe once lost their way and
crossed the high level land beneath those peaks, when they came to a
great wall of rock, out of which a stream ran forth into a deep pool.
Here they stood and watched the bubbles coming up, when they saw
something rising out of the depths. It came to the surface and spouted
the water from its mouth. Then they fled, for they knew that only
_taniwha_ rise out of the depths in that way. It was the evil spirit
of the mountain, and they who had seen it were doomed.”

“What happened to them?” I asked.

“They all died before another moon had passed,” he replied
triumphantly.

“And are you afraid because of a silly story like that?” I said, well
knowing the superstitious dread the Maori has of the demon _taniwha_,
even if it only comes in the shape of a small green lizard. But he was
not to be shaken in his belief.

“Ah,” he replied gravely. “I have heard that the Pakeha is afraid of
nothing, because he believes in nothing. But the Maori knows these
things are true: the whole place is bewitched with devils, Pakeha; do
not go near it.”

Kahikatea, who had been sitting on a log cutting tobacco with his bush
knife, now restored the weapon to its sheath on his hip, and remarked,
as he charged his pipe: “The fact of this tremendous tapu being laid
on the whole place shows very clearly that there is a secret to be
kept by those mountains--a secret known only to the tohungas who
imposed the tapu. And these wild tales I imagine to be a piece of
priestcraft to add additional protection to the secret.”

Then, rising and standing over the Maori, he went on in his forcible
way: “Look here, Tiki! We’re going, and you’ll have to come with us.
Te Makawawa, the _ariki_, has been many a time to this Great Tapu to
appease the taniwha; remember that. And his words to you were, ‘Do not
leave the Pakeha Wanaki until the child is found.’ Now, if you run
away in the night while we sleep, I shall tell Te Makawawa, and he
will turn the whole brood of taniwha loose on you, and they will tear
you to pieces, so that the name of Tiki will be forgotten in the
land.”

This idea was too much for the Maori, and he gave in.

“O Kahikatea,” he said, “I will go with you, but remember my word: he
who goes into the Great Tapu returns not--all that returns is a cry
from the dark.”

So the matter ended, and, after a substantial breakfast, we started,
heading towards the east, where the peaks of the great mountain chain
showed against the sky. But it was like dragging a load of stones,
getting Tiki along against that heavy tapu. Whenever he could get me
alone he improved the opportunity by telling me some of his terrible
tales of taniwha, in the hope of getting me to prevail upon Kahikatea
to turn back from the haunted mountain. But, interesting as his tales
were, he only succeeded in making his own hair stand on end, for
though I may be a lover of Maori lore, I cannot lay claim to an
overwhelming fear of the taniwha.

But we found there was some foundation for Tiki’s spouting monster. It
happened in this way. In the afternoon we travelled along the bank of
a mountain stream, that ran down from the Great Tapu beyond. It was a
small body of water in a deep rocky bed. We followed it up for several
hours, and by sunset reached what we took to be its source--a deep
pool, some twenty yards across, at the foot of a tremendous rocky
cliff, on the face of which grew rare ferns, with here and there the
crimson or white rata vine. The quiet overflow of this pool swept down
beneath high banks, whose flowers and ferns were now flushed and
glistening in the sun, which sent a few struggling rays between the
black trunks of some mountain birches. It was a pleasant spot, with a
broad green bank on the one hand, where the afternoon sun had found an
entrance, while, on the other, where the sunlight never reached, a
perfect grotto of rare ferns grew from the crevices of the rocks that
composed the high overhanging bank.

Here upon the broad green sward we built our camp fire and prepared to
stay the night, and it was here that the strange thing happened which
went a long way to confirm Tiki in his ideas of the haunted mountain
and perplexed us not a little. Twilight was deepening over the gloomy
hills, and the silence in which bush travellers hear mysterious noises
grew deeper and deeper as the late-singing birds stopped their songs
one by one to make way for the little owls. We sat upon the bank of
the pool, smoking after our meal and looking idly at the water, when
the Maori’s quick ear caught some unusual sound. He sprang up and
stood stock still, with a scared look upon his face.

“Is it a taniwha coming, Tiki?” I asked, for I could hear nothing.

Presently, however, a distant moaning sound seemed to come out of the
ground.

“The earth is shivering,” said Kahikatea, rising from his sitting
posture.

“It is nothing, Tiki,” I cried; “it’s only Ru, your restless
earthquake-god, turning in his rocky bed. He is rearranging his mat
and his pillow; he’ll soon settle down again.”

But the sound grew nearer and louder, and the bank on which we stood
trembled visibly. Then there was a hollow roar underground, and Tiki,
without waiting to see what came of it, shrieked “Taniwha!” and turned
to fly.

But Kahikatea was too quick for him. His long arm swept out and caught
the Maori by the shoulder. Then, as he wheeled him round and nailed
him to the spot, a great torrent of water burst forth out of the pool,
and rose to a height of ten or fifteen feet in the air, swelling the
stream level with its banks as it swept away. The noise of this
rushing fountain, as it rose and fell into the pool, drowned all
speech, and for some minutes we stood looking at it, too surprised to
speak. I heard a howl of fear from Tiki, as my friend, gripping him by
both arms from behind, made him face it.

“It’s an intermittent spring,” roared Kahikatea presently, above the
tumult.

We watched the column of water springing now several feet higher, and
then sinking lower as its force increased and abated alternately, and
shouted many conjectures between the howls of Tiki. The seething pool
dashed spray in our faces, and we drew back.

In ten minutes or a quarter of an hour a sudden change came over the
springing column of water. It sank gradually back into the pool. The
tumult ceased, and the water fell to its former level. The small
stream then flowed quietly through the bed of its channel, and all was
still again.

Tiki was the first to break the silence.

“The evil spirits have let the flood loose,” he cried. “Did I not say
the place was tapu? O Wanaki, let us go back.”

A profuse perspiration was on the Maori’s forehead, and his knees
shook. I felt sorry for him, and proceeded to explain an elaborate
theory of intermittent springs, helped here and there by a word from
Kahikatea. At length we took the keen edge off his fear, for he
admitted that our _mana_[15] was great, but he would not accept our
explanation. Taniwhas were more in his line, and his attitude seemed
to be based on this principle: Why invent an elaborate hypothesis like
ours when a simple one like his would account for all the facts?

Some little time later, when our astonishment had worn off a little,
and Kahikatea had begun to gather ferns on the other side of the pool,
Tiki took advantage of the opportunity to urge me even more strongly
to turn back and not venture further into the haunted place. But I
assured him that we had no intention of taking his advice, and he
accepted the inevitable, saying again that our _mana_ was great, and
that when we got out of the tapu we would no doubt reward his bravery
by giving him a pair of trousers and a new pipe--indeed, in
consideration of value received, he seemed almost willing to renounce
his religion altogether. By his reassuring remarks I certainly
gathered the impression that if he were only clad in a complete suit
of European clothes no taniwha could touch him. He was no high-class
Maori to talk like that, for, if Te Makawawa had caught him in
trousers, he would have ordered them off, and thrashed him within an
inch of his life for forsaking the ancient glory of his race.

Nothing remarkable happened during the remainder of that night, unless
it was that Kahikatea moaned in his sleep several times, and I caught
the impassioned words, “Hinauri! Hinauri!” A strong feeling of
friendship had sprung up within my heart for this strange man, with
his passionate love of birds and trees, of snow-capped mountains and
deep, wide solitudes; of great symbols and lofty ideals. His very
stone goddess, set with fantastic meaning in the high solitudes of the
everlasting mountains, appealed to me as the strongest part of the
bond that already existed between us. I lay wondering who he was, and
what his past life had been; and, as I wondered, I fell asleep.




 CHAPTER V.
 ON THE GREAT TAPU.

On the following day, when, after much up-hill work through thick
bush, we gained what seemed the summit of a line of hills, we sent
Tiki up a tree to search in the distance for the bold mountain wall
which Kahikatea said he could dimly remember. When the Maori reached
the top he called down that he could see a long, high rock running
between two peaks like a great wall. It was far away in the horizon,
but he said we could reach it by sunset. Tiki remained up the tree for
more than a quarter of an hour, but what he was doing we did not learn
until, continuing our march, we discovered that he seemed to know
every tree and gully and fern patch on the way. Soon we realised that
he was a most useful Maori--he had been mapping out the way from the
top of that tree, and was now giving us an instance of the perfection
to which the savage bump of locality can be brought. Without the aid
of Tiki’s mental chart, I think we should never have been able to
thread that mazy labyrinth of dense fern, supplejacks, and tangled
undergrowth; and I am positively certain that if it had not been for
my fluency of tongue in the matter of Maori abuse, Tiki would never
have set his face so resolutely against the dread beings which he
fully expected to encounter at every turn.

At length, late in the afternoon, having reached an elevation of some
3,000 feet above the sea level, we came to a gigantic rift in the
mountains, through which, in a deep, rocky gully, issued the river
which watered the plains far below. Fed by many little mountain
tributaries, it issued from the gorge as a considerable body of water,
but as we traced it back into the mountains it became a mere stream,
frothing between great moss-grown boulders, on which gleamed here and
there a mountain daisy, or a white lily bobbing its head in the
swishing tide. Crossing and re-crossing this stream to avoid the
precipitous rocks that occasionally barred our way, we toiled onwards
and upwards until the vegetation began to grow thin and stunted, and,
about sunset, we passed beneath two red birches that stood like the
gateposts of a meadow land, with their heads woven together in the
sunlight by luxurious clusters and festoons of the native scarlet
mistletoe bloom.

Standing beneath these gateposts we looked out over what we knew was
the Table Land of Te Makawawa’s legend. It was a strange, silent
place--a yellow, rolling plain, some three or four miles across,
sloping off into rounded hills on the west, and bounded on the east by
the peaks we had seen from the distance. The moss-covered plain was
almost bare, save for a few clumps of _toi-toi_, with plumes that
waved all golden in the slanting sunlight, while everywhere in the
yellow moss grew strange wild flowers, and long ribands of lichen,
swept by the wind, trailed from a few stunted and isolated trees. It
was like a piece of summer Siberia set down amid verdant surroundings.
But what caught my eye more particularly was a stupendous wall of rock
that ran up against the eastern sky at a distance of two miles on our
left. It seemed to connect the bases of the two peaks which towered
above it, their summits tipped with snow. This wall--on which there
was now a dark, uneven shadow creeping up as the sun went down beneath
the rounded hills opposite--must have been nearly a thousand feet
high, and, near its topmost crags, veins of obsidian, or mica, caught
and threw back the rays of the sun like the coloured windows of a vast
cathedral front.

“Beyond a doubt this is the place old Te Makawawa spoke about,” said
Kahikatea, gazing at the mighty rock; “and now I am certain that I
have seen it before. That outstanding oblique spur at the base of the
wall, those jagged rocks at the top, and the snowy peaks--I can recall
them well, though the how and the when of it seem gone completely.”

He passed his hand across his forehead, and his face wore a puzzled
expression, as he tried to recall the details of his strange,
dreamlike experience.

“It certainly does suggest a giant’s temple with two grand spires,” I
said. “I wonder if Miriam Grey is there.”

“And I wonder if Hinauri is there,” returned Kahikatea.

“And Ngaraki!”

“Ah, Ngaraki, the fierce guardian priest, with his foes, the Vile
Tohungas of the Pit, and his wild incantations, taken up where Te
Makawawa dropped them.”

The sun’s last ray was now pink upon the snowy summits of the peaks.
As we watched, it faded away and twilight fell upon the Table Land
with a solemn hush, broken only by the murmuring of the river, and the
deep, hammer-on-anvil notes of the tui’s last song. It was time to
look for a camping-place and to gather firewood, for the air was crisp
almost to the point of frostiness, and our blankets were few.

By the time the Southern Cross was visible above the mountain wall we
were comfortably established on a mossy bank of the stream, behind a
clump of outstanding trees, and Tiki was busy cooking our supper in
his own peculiar way. After the evening meal was finished the Maori
rolled himself together near the fire and was soon sound asleep. We
sat awhile smoking, and then followed his example, for we were both
very tired. But scarcely had we settled ourselves on our beds of dry
fern when the moon, almost full, rose above the great rock and
lingered a moment on the edge of the southern peak before passing
behind it.

“That’s very fine,” said Kahikatea appreciatively.

“Yes,” I replied, “but I don’t like the idea of sleeping in the
moonlight. Supposing we move our beds down behind that larger clump of
trees. Tiki appears to have monopolised the only shadowy spot here.”

He assented, and we took up our beds and walked to the spot indicated,
where we re-made them and settled down to our night’s rest. A small
waterfall poured into a pool in the river near by, and, lulled by the
monotonous sound, we lapsed into silence, and then into sleep.

I do not know whether it was the enchanted solitude of the place that
aroused my imagination, or whether I was overtired, but my sleep was
full of dreams based on the strange story of Te Makawawa. I saw the
giant sorcerers of old coming and going out of the great temple with
the two snow-capped spires; I heard their mystic chant echoing down
through the ages; then, the fair queen who came down from the skies
hovered like a misty moon-goddess above the mountains, and I had to
move away from there. But my dreams went on. I saw the great city of
old standing on the site of the yellow plain, its palaces glistening
like alabaster in the moonlight, while faintly to my ears came the
ghostly hum of a phantom race, hurrying through the ways of that city,
bent on the business or pleasure of long ago.

Suddenly this ghostly murmur ceased abruptly, and I awoke with a
peculiar sense of an unnatural silence, and found that day was just
breaking. What had happened? I could no longer hear the waterfall. I
suddenly fancied that I had been struck deaf, and, to make sure of the
fact, I called out:

“Kahikatea! are you awake?”

Relieved at the sound of my own voice, I was still puzzled at his
reply:

“Yes, just woke up. What’s become of that waterfall? River seems to
have dried up.”

In another moment we were on our feet and making towards the spot
where the waterfall had been. It was not there, and the channel was a
mere string of pools. The flowing water had been shut off at its
source, wherever that was.

“It must have been the sudden stopping of that waterfall that woke
us,” I suggested.

“Yes, it must have been,” returned Kahikatea. Then, after gazing
abstractedly at the bed of the channel for a time, he continued: “I’ve
an idea that the drying up of this intermittent stream accounts for
the other one’s spurting up in that extraordinary way. They must be
connected at their source in such a fashion that the shutting off of
the water in this one causes an overflow in the other.”

“I should like to see how it is managed,” I said. Then, having an idea
in my turn, I went on excitedly: “I propose we follow this stream up
and see if we can get to the source--now’s our chance while it is
empty.”

“Ah! while it is empty. But if it has anything to do with the other
stream it probably will not be empty for longer than that was flooded
last night. Besides, it may lead us miles away into the mountains for
no good. I’m more inclined to make the attempt to get round to the
back of those peaks and so on to the top of that precipice. I’m sure
I’ve been there before, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it again.”

“If you are going to look for ‘the way of the spider,’ then,” I said,
“I’ll have a try at ‘the way of the fish,’ and it seems to me that
this stream may be in some way connected with it.”

“Possibly. ‘The way of the fish’ must as certainly be by water as ‘the
way of the spider’ must be by climbing.”

For some time we discussed the possibilities of these two hints old Te
Makawawa had let fall in the course of his story, and finally we
arranged to make a start as soon as possible, with the understanding
that Kahikatea was to take his way round the western end of the Table
Land until he reached the south-eastern side of the peak, and there
attempt the ascent, while I was to follow up the bed of the stream and
reconnoitre the base of the mountain wall. We told Tiki that the
fierce chief Ngaraki dwelt among the mountains, and that he must
remain hidden in a sheltered spot in the bush till our return, to
which he replied that he had once seen the great tohunga Ngaraki, and
would be very pleased to keep well out of his way, for Ngaraki would
certainly kill him if he found him on the tapu.

Then, after a hasty meal, we set out. As I shook hands with Kahikatea
our eyes met, and he said: “When we meet again we shall probably know
more about this mysterious business. Don’t set out to look for me
within three days, but if I reach camp before you I shall conclude you
have fallen into Ngaraki’s clutches--if there is such a person,” he
called back over his shoulder as he strode away.

“If there is such a person,” I repeated to myself, as I set out along
the bank of the silent watercourse. I was very soon to discover,
however, that Ngaraki the Maori was no phantom of Te Makawawa’s brain.




 CHAPTER VI.
 NGARAKI--CHIEF AND TOHUNGA.

In the dim shadows cast by the towering rocks upon the Table Land I
followed the course of the dried-up stream, which, after a distance of
nearly a mile, took a turn and led round towards the mountain wall on
my left. In half an hour I came within the deep shadow of this mighty
pile, and, looking up, saw its tremendous outstanding crags, nearly a
thousand feet above, surmounted on each hand by the snow-capped peaks
clearly defined against the rosy flush of the eastern sky. High up on
the wall, where it united with the base of the northern or left hand
peak, a spur left the parent rock and ran down obliquely from a height
of several hundred feet to within fifty feet of the ground, then,
curving upwards again, terminated in a gigantic crag, which to my mind
suggested a strange resemblance to a huge lion sitting upon the plain
with his head erect, and mounting guard over the approaches to the
mountain.

Following the bed of the stream right up to the base of the great
wall, I saw that this spur hemmed in from the bare plain a small
valley, about a hundred yards across at its mouth, but gradually
narrowing back until it ended in a precipitous ravine in the acute
angle formed by the descending ridge and the main rock. Great pines
grew upon the spur’s inner face, and the varied foliage of the virgin
bush which it enclosed softened its rugged contour. In the broadest
parts of the valley grew smaller trees, isolated and with green grass
beneath them, while further back the creeping vines wove the tree-tops
together and crowned the tangled undergrowth with white flowers and
yellow berries. One or two tall palm ferns nodded their heads over the
lower growth, and some little distance up the valley towered a
gigantic rimu, holding its massive foliage against the deep gloom of
the ravine beyond. On seeing this great tree I immediately recalled
that part of the aged Maori’s story in which he spoke of burying a
stone instead of the child beneath its shade, and determined to visit
the place and see for myself.

But meanwhile the course of the stream was demanding all my attention.
I was beginning to wonder whither it was leading me as I followed it
for another hundred yards towards the valley, its one bank the mossy
turf of the plain sheltered by a little scattered bush, the other the
bare rock itself. Here a little proof of human occupation confronted
me: I almost stumbled over a small stack of firewood, neatly piled
beneath a clump of silver birches and giant _manuka_. A little further
on I came upon a _kumara_[16] patch and some peach trees laden with
ripening fruit.

While I was inspecting these, a far away hollow roar fell upon my
ears, followed by a hissing and a rushing near at hand; then presently
I heard the sound of waters coming down the bed of the stream towards
me, and knew that the mysterious freak of nature was at work again. I
rushed to the edge of the bank and watched the foaming water, flooding
the channel as it poured by, leaping and dancing as if glad to be free
again.

Anxious to find out whence this water came I followed the bank,
concealing myself as much as possible among the bushes, until, just at
the opening of the valley, I found that it curved round at right
angles, enclosing a patch of mossy ground against the rock, and came
to an abrupt halt, as far as I was concerned, at the foot of the
mountain wall. Here the water welled forth silently right out of the
side of the rock, forming a deep pool some seven or eight yards
across. The smooth open bank on which I stood carried its yellow moss
and daisies up to the feet of the precipice, and then sloped away into
the dark shades of the valley to the left.

I could see no opening through which the water issued. Evidently the
current ran far below the surface, but how was the water dammed back
to such an extent? I soon ascertained the cause: after flowing
straight out for about twenty yards the water was obstructed by a
narrow constriction in the rocks, through and over which it frothed
and seethed before swirling round again towards the great wall.

I strained my eyes down into the dark green pool, trying to catch
sight of the hidden opening, but the stream of bubbles which rose to
the surface obscured the depths. I regretted that I had not been five
minutes sooner, but my only plan now was to wait until the stream
stopped flowing again, and then I should see what I should
see--perchance the ‘way of the fish.’

Not knowing the habits of this extraordinary stream, I had no idea how
often it dried up. It might be weeks before the strange phenomenon
happened again, and yet on the other hand it might occur a second time
that very day. I was willing to take the chance of this, and, as it
was evident from the wood heaps and the _kumara_ patch that the place
was inhabited by someone, I resolved to conceal myself among the thick
bushes across the pool on the strip of land which the river enclosed
against the wall of rock.

Accordingly, I jumped across at a narrow part at the end of the deep
pool and crept beneath a large spreading arm of a dwarf tree-fern. The
tip of this leafy arm drooped till it touched the water, so that, as
I lay at full length beneath it on the edge of the pool, I was fairly
concealed from view, although through my green screen I could see the
opposite bank and the edge of the bush at the opening of the valley.
Here I made up my mind to wait and watch all day, for if there was
anyone about I was certain either to see or hear them.

I conjectured many things as I lay, looking now at the bubbles that
came up from the depths of the pool, and now at the blue sky,
brightening with the morning sun. But of all the wild imaginations
that flitted through my mind concerning that mysterious place, none
was so strange as the series of events and adventures which actually
befell. For several hours I lay beneath my fern shield hearing nothing
more unusual than the singing of many birds in the valley, the
frothing of the water among the rocks at the end of the pool, and its
gentle lapping against the granite wall, a yard on my right. There
could be no one in the valley, for if the fierce Ngaraki had been
there he would have been up and abroad long since; there was no sound,
no sign of any human being. What if, after all, Ngaraki dwelt within
the mountain? By what strange and hidden gateway did he pass in and
out of his temple?

While speculating on this matter the southern sun appeared over the
top of the mountain wall, and I knew it must be near noon. The bright
rays flooded down into the pure green depths of the pool, and the
bubbles rose like great shining pearls. About ten feet down I thought
I could distinguish something that looked like an aperture in the rock
through which the stream was pouring. It did not appear to be a very
strong current, for there was no indication of its force anywhere on
the surface of the pool.

As I peered down trying to see it more clearly, some dark object sped
through the opening. At first I thought it was part of a tree; then,
by its movement in the water, it suggested a gigantic fish. Another
second and I held my breath, while my heart beat hard against my ribs,
for the object was now more clearly defined. A cold shiver ran through
me; and now, as I write of that feeling, I must record my firm belief
that there are moments when the wildest superstitions touch us with an
icy finger, if they can but touch us unawares. Tiki’s taniwha flashed
into my mind in that half-second, while I saw the dark monster with
waving limbs rising from the bottom, and then flashed out of it again
as I saw a head and neck, a pair of massive shoulders and two great
brown arms approaching the surface. Now the sunlight glistened on the
wavy black hair and dark brown skin of a Maori not two yards away from
me.

With my heart thumping against my ribs I lay perfectly still, while
the man who had come out of the mountain by ‘the way of the fish’
shook his head angrily, tossing the water from his long black hair;
then he struck out for the opposite bank. He caught hold of some roots
that were growing there, and with a sudden spring, set his foot in a
hanging loop above the surface. In another moment he was standing on
the moss, the water dripping from his hair and from his flaxen waist
garment.

It needed no searching scrutiny to tell me that this was the fierce
Ngaraki, of whom Te Makawawa had spoken. The stately dignity of his
tall form, and the easy grace of his movements as he turned himself
about upon the bank, marked him out as a chief among his people. His
neck was like a pillar of bronze. His hairless face was tatooed in a
way to denote his high rank. In his arched nose there was an untamable
pride, which his piercing, coal-black eyes made fierce and fiery. His
brow bespoke him a learned man of his race--a tohunga versed in occult
lore and ancient traditions, while the long wavy hair that rolled back
from his forehead and fell dripping on his glistening shoulders,
revealed the perfect shapeliness of his head. From my concealment I
marked him down a magnificent savage--a terrible fellow; and yet--and
yet, for all the wrath that slumbered in his eyes, I fancied I
detected something gentle in the lines of his sensitive mouth;
something which imparted to his whole rugged, tatooed face a pervading
expression of melancholy sadness.

He looked up at the sun; then a forcible, nasal-guttural, which seemed
to be spoken by his whole body at once, fell from him:

“Ngha!”

The ferocity of that single word was like the sudden snarl of an angry
tiger. It seemed almost enough to knock a man down. With a quick pace
he turned and strode towards the valley, where he disappeared in the
gloom of the trees.

When he was gone I had time to consider the situation. This opening,
then, was ‘the way of the fish’--“the way a brave man might take to
enter the ancient temple”--but not so fast: a good swimmer might come
out that way with the current, but could he go in against it? The
coming out was evidently not an easy task, for while he had been
standing on the bank, the Maori’s broad chest had heaved considerably
with the exertion of it. What, then, must the going in against the
current be like? Of course, it was possible that Ngaraki, knowing the
habits of the stream, would wait for the water to cease flowing, and
then simply walk in dry shod through the hole in the mountain side. In
this case I determined to follow him, for I knew there must be a
cavern of some sort within. What I should do when I got there I did
not know. The thought of the Vile Tohungas of the Pit came to me and
filled the supposed cavern inside with vague, shadowy horrors. But I
shook them off and held to my resolve.

Presently I saw the chief emerge from the shade of the trees in the
valley, carrying a heavy axe over his shoulder and some other rude
agricultural implements in his hand. I guessed that he was going to
till his _kumara_ patch and cut firewood. In a few minutes I heard the
sound of his axe from the bank of the stream further down, and knew
that I was probably a prisoner until sunset, for I well understood
that if Ngaraki became aware of my presence, my chances of exploring
the mountain were gone.

Therefore, through the long hours of that summer afternoon, I lay
beneath the fern thinking, imagining, wondering what the vast pile
above me contained. For long intervals Ngaraki’s axe was silent, and I
watched for his return, but, as he did not come, I knew his work was
not finished. At length, when the sun was within half an hour’s
journey of the hills, I caught sight of him returning into the valley,
evidently to put his tools away. Arranging a few stray ferns as an
extra precaution against his catching sight of me, I watched eagerly
to see whether he would return to the bank.

In a few minutes his tall form emerged from among the trees. He
approached the pool and stood for awhile looking down into the water
meditatively. Then he raised his eyes and swept them slowly around the
pool. Now they rested on the fern beneath which I was concealed, and I
half closed my own eyes lest they should attract his notice through
the screen.

“Ngha!”

For a moment I fancied he had seen me, but the next I knew that he had
not, for he began striding up and down the bank without looking again
in my direction. He was beginning a chant, for some purpose which as
yet I could not ascertain. As he strode down the bank for half a dozen
paces he hung his head in thought; then, turning, he quickened his
steps and muttered a few low words which I could not catch. Again and
again he repeated this movement, and each time his retreating form
became more suggestive of repose and his on-rushing aspect more wild
and fierce. He was working himself up for something. What it was I
soon guessed, for the words of his chant began to be intelligible to
me in places:


 “Thrust aside the running waters,
 With one arm beat them aside:
 Pierce the heart of the dark.
 Like a spear thrown in battle
 Cleave the rushing torrent.”


By this, given out with many a fierce gesture, I saw that he was
getting ready in the real Maori style for some deed of daring. Now the
chant was coming to a climax:


 “The door of the dark:
 The side door of Te Ika:
 The concealed door of Maungatapu.
 Enter the door of the dark--
 Ngha!”


The last word was given on turning suddenly. Then, rushing forward
with a quick run, the Maori shot from the bank like an arrow, and
plunged beneath the pool in the direction of the opening. I watched
the bubbles stream upwards from him as he darted through the sunlit
depths. I strained my eyes and saw him hover in the current. A short
struggle ensued, and for nearly ten seconds something moved far down
between the light and the dark. Then I knew that the fierce tohunga of
the mountain had passed within.

For a moment I indulged the thought of following. Swimming was one of
my strong points. I had not many of those said points, but that was
one, and as for diving, the women of the Sandwich Islands once wagered
their bracelets and anklets in my favour in a surf-riding competition;
and they did not lose, for my antagonist miscalculated the waves, and,
quitting his board too late to dive beneath the oncoming breaker, was
dashed on the rocks and killed. Yet, notwithstanding a certain skill
in the water, I dared not follow Ngaraki; first, because I had never
inspected the passage, and secondly, thirdly, and fourthly, because I
had no idea of what I might encounter inside. “The door of the dark”
was all I could see, and, for all I knew, there might be other doors
to pass through before I could find the surface, in which case I
should probably lose my way and be drowned.

On the whole, I resolved to do nothing overcourageous, and made up my
mind to go a considerable distance down stream and camp on a secluded
part of the bank, whence I could return easily at daybreak, or at
whatever hour of the night the stream might stop again.

Scarcely had I selected my camp at the point where, some distance
away, the stream left the cover of the mountain wall, when I heard a
strange sound far above me. It was a faint, hollow murmur, like that
of a ghostly voice chanting within the mountain. Very weird it
sounded, and, as I listened, I recalled the words of Te Makawawa, when
he had said that high in the forehead of the great rock the guardian
priest chanted the chant of the dying sun before the white form of
Hinauri. The Eye of Tane was half closed beyond the hills, and as his
light crept up the mountain wall the far-off chant died away into the
silence. Later, in the solemn hush of the twilight, a tui sat on the
great rimu up in the valley and rang his vesper bell in deep, liquid
notes, which echoed again from the stupendous sides of the ravine.

After making a good meal off some cold duck I had brought with me, and
some of Ngaraki’s peaches I had borrowed from the tree, I lighted a
small fire and composed myself to a pipe, more meditative than usual.
I felt there was little fear of Ngaraki seeing my fire, as he had
retired within the mountain for the night. Secure enough with my back
to the great wall, I smoked on until about nine or ten, when the
moonlight began to creep nearer and nearer over the plain towards me,
glinting on the waving _toi-toi_ plumes, and casting a silver sheen
upon the moss.

It was a strange spot above the homely levels of the world, this land
of legend and of mystery. Te Makawawa’s story had certainly received
verification in one important point, viz.: there was a ‘way of the
fish’ into the interior of the mountain, for I had seen a man pass
thither. Was there also a ‘way of the spider’ into that high white
cave, where Hinauri stood holding out her arms to the future of the
world? My thoughts turned to Kahikatea, and I wondered if he had found
that way among the mountains. The chanting I had heard far above me
perhaps proceeded from this high cave, and, if Ngaraki could go there
by the ‘way of the fish,’ I did not see why I should not follow him.
But the aged chief had said that no man passing by the ‘way of the
fish’ could find the ascent to the marble cave without a guide. So
imbued was I becoming with the spirit of the place, that I was
beginning to believe in Te Makawawa most firmly, and almost forgot
that as yet I had no proof of the existence of an ancient temple, to
say nothing of Miriam Grey, her daughter, and the statue of Hinauri.
Wondering what light the morrow would throw upon these mysteries I
fell asleep with the sound of the stream in my ears, well knowing that
if it stopped I should awaken on the instant.




 CHAPTER VII.
 THE INTERIOR OF THE TEMPLE OF HIA.

The moon, looking a trifle faded, was just above the western hills
when I started up out of my sleep as if I had heard a sudden noise,
but all was still as the grave. For several seconds I wondered what
had awakened me; then I recollected my whereabouts, and, missing the
sound of the stream, knew that its sudden stoppage had served the
purpose of an alarum clock.

My first thought was to make sure that it had only just stopped, and I
soon settled this, for when I hurried to inspect the channel I found
that the water was still trickling slightly from one pool to another
before ceasing entirely.

Now was my chance. I obliterated all the signs of my camp as far as
was possible, and, stowing my rifle and ammunition in a safe place,
hurried along the bank towards the deep pool. Scarcely had I reached
the last group of bushes, however, when I had cause to start back and
hide myself. There was someone climbing out of the empty pool. Peering
through the branches I saw Ngaraki raise himself to the bank. He had a
large Maori kit in his hand, and with this he walked along the bank
towards me. The light was dim, and I crouched among the bushes while
he passed by within several feet of where I stood. He was evidently
going to fill the kit with kumaras and fruit, and take it within the
mountain again. Why was this lordly chief, whose back was tapu,
playing the part of a slave, if not for the same reasons that had
actuated Te Makawawa before him--to serve the woman with the stars in
her eyes?

I saw my best chance was to enter at once. Accordingly, as soon as
Ngaraki was out of immediate earshot, I slipped from my concealment,
and, climbing cautiously down the bank, dropped on to the shingly bed
of the stream. Before me in the wall of the rock, its lower lip level
with the bottom of the channel, was the now vacant aperture, between
six and seven feet in diameter, and beyond this was the inky blackness
of the cavern within.

I entered the gloomy place, and felt slight gusts of wind upon my
face. Advancing a pace or two on the hard, smooth, rocky floor within,
I looked about me. At first I could see nothing, but presently my eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom, and I found that the cavern--for such it
was--was not as dark as I had thought; I could discern great spaces,
with vast shadows beyond them. Immediately before me, some ten paces
away, was visible the dim outline of a colossal rock, smooth and
rounded. From this a tremendous spar sloped upwards towards the
further wall of the cavern. But these things were towering above me,
and I could get but the vaguest idea of their outline.

I now felt at a loss to know which way to proceed; and, fearing that
at any moment Ngaraki might return, or that a torrent of water might
spring up out of the darkness and wash me out of the mountain like a
bruised rat out of a hole, I made up my mind to risk lighting a match
to see if I could find the source of the stream. I advanced further
into the cavern, testing every footstep, then, striking a match, I
held it up and took a hurried glance round. The floor, worn smooth by
the action of water, sloped up to a huge basin-shaped rock about five
yards in advance of where I stood, and from the lower part of this
rock I caught sight of water trickling as if from a crevice. Quickly
I ran towards this and examined it. In the lower part of the side of
the great vessel was an aperture five or six feet in diameter, which
appeared to be stopped up by a rock fitting the inner edge so neatly
that there was hardly a crevice except that through which trickled the
small escape which had attracted my notice. I could hear the sound of
waves lapping against the rocks above me, and concluded that there was
a large body of water in some reservoir there.

I immediately set to work to find a way up the sheer wall which, with
the great basin, enclosed the space where I stood, making a kind of
rugged courtyard some ten or twelve yards square. The wall which ran
round this space joined with the wall of the cavern on each side of
the aperture by which I had entered, and also with the basin on each
side of the orifice which was stopped by the stone, leaving just
enough of its curved contour to suggest the idea that it _was_ a
basin. It was quite twenty feet high, and at the top there appeared to
run a platform. It was this that I set myself to reach.

A hasty search of the water-worn wall all round, by the light of a
match, revealed, on the left hand as I faced the entrance, a series of
holes in the rock, evidently designed as a ladder. Up these I made my
way and scrambled on to the platform above. Here a strange and
wonderful scene lay spread out before me in a dim, misty light--a
scene whose details appeared indeed to be the handiwork of some giant
race. The vast cavern itself was apparently the work of some
disruptive agency, but it was simpler to believe that the objects
which it contained had been fashioned with human purpose and design,
than that they were the slow work of natural forces during the lapse
of ages. Before me, and occupying the whole of the cavern to my right,
stretched a large lake, with its waters seething as if in a boiling
cauldron. Flung up in a tumult from below, with huge bubbles bursting
on the surface, it rolled outwards to the almost circular margin, and
lapped against the platform on which I was standing. Beyond the foam
and turmoil of this lake was dimly visible the further bank, and above
that rose the craggy sides of the cavern, arching up far overhead into
the darkness. At a glance I saw how the place was lighted. Towards the
left, at the end of a gradually narrowing prolongation of the cavern,
running off obliquely from some outstanding crags straight across the
lake, I could see an opening, with huge perpendicular bars like the
irons of a grating. Through this colossal window, which opened on the
other side of the mountain wall, the rosy dawn was sending its first
messengers into the gloomy place, shedding a soft, diffused glow, in
which everything found a spectral outline.

The topography of this vast cavern was so remarkable and awe-inspiring
that I must describe it here in detail, though briefly. The huge rock
which I had seen from below I now made out to be a bowl-shaped
receptacle some thirty feet in diameter, filled with water from the
lake by means of a narrow channel, so that the flat surface which led
round the top of the basin was continuous with the rim of the lake. It
seemed possible, by means of this continuous and level pathway, to
walk round the top of the basin and strike right across to the other
side of the cavern, upon a narrow partition that separated the lake on
the right from a profound abyss on the left--an abyss which I saw
occupied the whole of the remaining part of the place, including the
gulf with the giants’ window at its far end. It would have been
possible to get across the cavern in this way, had it not been for a
gap in the partition, through which the overflow of the lake rolled
into the depths below. Upon the further lip of the basin which faced
the abyss rested a gigantic spar of granite, the long tapering point
of which sloped upwards for some fifty yards towards the further roof
of the cavern, while its more compact and weighty end lay beneath the
water in the huge vessel. It was evidently the head of this long spar
which now blocked the hole in the bottom and prevented the water from
escaping.

As I was gazing in wonder at these extraordinary stones, I was aroused
by the sound of a footstep crunching on the shingle at the entrance
below. It was Ngaraki coming back. My first impulse was to plunge into
the water and hold on to the rim of the lake, and so conceal myself;
but, thinking there might be some recess near at hand I glanced along
the wall of the cavern to my right, and, seeing a spot nearly half-way
round where the rock seemed to be a shade darker than the general
gloom, I made towards it along the narrow margin of the lake. When I
reached it I found that it was a little recess stocked with what
appeared, by the feel of them, to be pieces of the resinous rimu-heart
which the Maoris use for torches. I could not stay there, as no doubt
Ngaraki would want a torch, and would come to the recess to get one.
Getting a trifle flurried, I continued my way round to the other side
of the lake. There was less light here, owing to the buttress of crags
round which the light from the grating came but faintly, and
consequently I ran less risk of being seen; but if I was to learn
anything of the secrets of the place and of Miriam Grey, as well as
avoid an unnecessary conflict with Ngaraki, I must hide, and that
quickly, for now I saw the dim form of the tohunga moving on the other
side. He was carrying something, probably the kit full of provisions,
along the margin of the lake towards the recess where I knew the
torches were stored.

All this while I was groping among the rocks for some place of
concealment. At length I found a rock about three parts of the way
round, which stood out a little way from the cavern side, offering a
very narrow passage between itself and the main rock. Slipping behind
this, I felt comparatively safe, and stood there awaiting events.

A glance round my barrier showed the shadowy form of the tohunga busy
with something half-way round the lake. It appeared to me as if he was
hanging the basket to a peg on the wall of the cavern, for when he
stood away it remained there. Then he disappeared in the dark recess,
and I conjectured he was going to light a torch. But no--he reappeared
almost immediately with his kaitaka, which he wrapped about him after
the fashion of a Roman toga, and sat down on the margin of the lake.
Apparently he was waiting for something.

The morning light now streamed brighter round the bend of the wall,
and I could see more clearly the great spar sloping upwards to the
roof above. A little beyond my place of concealment was a broad space
of rock, where the partition that held the water up out of the abyss
met the rim of the lake on my side of the cavern. Keeping close in the
dark shadow of the crags I ventured to approach this ledge. A feeling
of awe crept over me as I peered into what seemed to be a vast
bottomless pit--black, profound, and impenetrable. The overflow of the
lake rushing through the gap in the partition made a faint swishing,
hurtling sound as it poured down into the darkness, but no roar as of
falling water came up from below. This fact appalled me: was there,
then, no bottom to that awful abyss? Above the dark, forty feet or
more from where I crouched, hung the gigantic spar, tapering upwards
until its point almost touched the top of the overhanging crags
against the roof. It presented the appearance of a mighty lever, the
fulcrum of which was the lip of the basin on the other side of the
abyss.

A faint glow now struck across past the craggy buttress which at
present concealed the gulf from my view. It hung above the pit and
fell upon the wall of the cavern high on the other side of the lake.
It was the first red ray of the rising sun coming in through the
giants’ window at the end of the gulf. It was this for which Ngaraki
had been waiting, for, with one eye always on him sitting there, I saw
him get up and replace his garment in the recess. Now he was coming
round the lake towards me, and I hurried back to my hiding-place. He
passed on the other side of the rock, which I carefully kept well
between us, and proceeded to climb the crags of the buttress.

While I stood wondering what he was going to do the red glow deepened,
glinting on the long arm of the spar, and falling on the waters of the
lake with a vivid emerald. The deep, high reaches of the cavern wall
showed up in russet light and dark shadow, but most strange and
terrible of all was the lowest shaft, which cut sheer through the inky
blackness of the abyss, and fell upon its steep, smooth wall some
thirty feet below the basin, showing the down-pouring overflow of the
lake like a flying greenstone arch. The light increased, and small
clouds of mist rising out of the abyss threw fleeting rainbows upon
the sides of the basin, upon the under surface of the long spar, and
into the vaulted arches of the vast granite walls.

It was with a hasty glance round that I noted these strange effects,
for all the while I was intent upon Ngaraki’s doings. He had climbed
up the rocks, and was now standing erect upon a narrow ledge high up,
almost on a level with the point in space where the spar’s jagged and
flinty-looking sides tapered off to a fine point. Looking more
closely, I saw that to the extreme end of the spar was lashed a wooden
sprit, which reached a point on a level with Ngaraki’s shoulders, and
about six feet from him. I stood and gripped the rock with nervous
hands, as it slowly dawned upon me what the Maori was going to do.
Surely he was mad--none but a maniac would take such a leap as that!

The sunlight streamed past a corner of the cavern wall beyond, and
tipped the end of the spar with light. The wooden sprit attached now
showed clear and well defined. This was evidently what he was waiting
for. Gathering himself together he took the daring leap without the
slightest hesitation, and in another moment his long figure was
suspended above the dark abyss.

It was with difficulty that I suppressed a cry at witnessing this, but
what followed took my breath away altogether. The long arm began
gradually to swing downwards through space, descending towards the
abyss. Slowly and ponderously the great spar moved until its point,
with the depending figure of the Maori, passed out of the line of
sunlight into the gloom cast by the overhanging crags. Leaning
forward, I strained my eyes towards the dark, moving mass. Surely he
was not going to descend into the abyss! No--he evidently knew what he
was doing. His feet touched a broad ledge of rock a few yards on this
side the buttress, and his body straightened as if for an effort. The
sprit descended upon his shoulder. It bent beneath the weight of the
spar, which quivered at the shock; but the downward course of the
lever was arrested; and, as he stood aside leaving it suspended there
balanced by its own weight, my eye ran along its whole length, and the
cause of this strange equilibrium was at once apparent. A huge round
stone of many tons in weight rested in a hollow of the spar just above
the basin’s rim. The working of the thing was simple, and could be
seen at a glance. The part of the lever in the basin contained a large
hollow, into which the round stone rolled when the arm was raised,
thus forcing the lower part of the head of the spar against the
aperture at the bottom of the basin, and stopping the flow of the
water. When, on the other hand, the arm was lowered, as had just been
effected by the Maori, the stone rolled up from the hollow and settled
in a groove immediately above the fulcrum, thus maintaining the whole
spar in a state of equipoise. So neatly balanced it was that when
Ngaraki let go and stood away, it remained stationary, quivering
throughout its whole length, as the rolling stone oscillated for a few
moments in its socket. In the very centre of the arm that stretched
across the abyss was a narrow constriction. So thin was the rock at
this point that it offered an explanation of the artifice of the
supple sprit at the end, and also of the Maori’s action in steadying
the spar before standing aside, for it was evident that if it were
brought to a standstill by a sudden impact against the rocky ledge,
there was danger of a breakage at the constricted point--in which case
the whole thing, rolling stone and all, would go hurtling down into
the abyss below. As my eye fell on the gap in the partition, I noticed
that there was a change in the overflowing torrent. It was reduced to
half its bulk. This was the work of the stupendous lever; its head,
rising out of the aperture in the basin, had liberated the water,
which was now escaping through the hole in the mountain side, and,
thus relieved of half its flood, the torrent which poured down into
the abyss was diminished accordingly.

Strange thoughts flashed through my mind in the few seconds that had
passed since the descent of the spar. Was this the work of some race
of giants, long since dead and gone? Who had hewn that round stone out
of the solid granite? What giant hand had shaped that colossal bowl
and balanced the long spar so neatly on its lip? For answer I
considered two things: first, the saying of Te Makawawa that the giant
sorcerers of old had fashioned a false image of Hinauri as a long spar
in the lower parts of the temple, and had bound it down with a great
round stone, and, second, that science would call these things freaks
of nature, formed by the age-long action of water.

Between these two things I was unable to choose, for they flashed
through my mind just as Ngaraki was coming along the edge of the abyss
towards me. There was now considerable danger that I should be seen,
for it was fairly light, even in the shadow of the crags. However, the
spot behind the rock was dark enough, and I crouched there thinking he
would pass, but what was my dismay to hear the sound of his footsteps
coming round my barrier. He stood still. Surely he had seen me. I was
preparing for a struggle, to be concluded either beneath the water of
the lake or in the depths of the abyss, when I heard the Maori
climbing up the rock above me.

There was dead silence for nearly a minute. The water in the lake
hissed and boiled, and the torrent of the abyss whiffled down into the
darkness; but, beyond that, there was no sound, for the roaring of the
escape through the mountain side had ceased, by which I knew that the
waters had risen above the aperture, and the current was flowing
silently beneath.

Suddenly I heard a forcible exclamation from the rock above me, and, a
moment later, the sound of a plunge. Darting from my hiding-place I
saw, by the commotion on the surface, where the Maori had gone down
into the bubbling depths. With one hand on my sheltering rock to help
me back into the shadows when he rose to the surface, I stood on the
rim of the lake and watched the unfolding waters. Something strange
was taking place beneath there, for the lake was now twisting and
whirling as if a gigantic fish was turning round at the bottom.

I was prepared for almost anything now, after witnessing the
extraordinary evolutions of the spar, but still I must confess I was
staggered at what took place. If anyone could have photographed me
then they would no doubt have secured a fine sample of a
terror-stricken face, with gaping mouth and staring eyes. The boiling
of the water ceased, and there, near the margin of the lake on the
side opposite to the gap in the partition, a wave heaved up beneath
the movement of something rising to the surface. A dark object reared
its head out of the depths. At the same moment there was a hollow,
booming sound overhead. Then, with a rush and a roar, from the side of
the cavern some forty feet above, issued a frothing cascade, which
fell into the centre of the lake with a sound like thunder, dashing
the spray over my face and churning the water into tumultuous foam.
The lower part of the cascade and the whole of the lake now gleamed
like silver in the light of the rising sun. But the Maori had not
risen to the surface. Had he perished down there, or was this simply
another lever contrivance beneath the water?

Half a minute elapsed, during which I stood in utter astonishment
watching the torrent, whose roar and tumult seemed to drown all
thought and feeling. While engaged in collecting my scattered ideas my
eye caught a movement of some object ascending the wall of the cavern
on the right of the cascade. I looked more closely: it was evidently
the kit of provisions which I had seen Ngaraki attach to something
there. That something I now knew to be a cord, but who could be
drawing it up from above? Utterly at a loss, I could only conjecture
that it was Ngaraki, who had passed by some more secret ‘way of the
fish’ beneath the lake, and had now reached a part of the cavern high
above. Fearing that, if this was the case, he might see me, I withdrew
further into the shadows. Well I knew that this ‘way of the winged
fish’ was a passage which it would be worse than useless to attempt,
for I now saw the truth of Te Makawawa’s words to the effect that none
could pass that way without being taught. I realised that my chances
of reaching Miriam Grey without Te Makawawa’s guidance were hopeless,
and that I must turn my attention to the search for her daughter.
Nevertheless, before leaving that strange place I was resolved to
explore its accessible parts and see what hidden things of forgotten
time it might contain.




 CHAPTER VIII.
 THE VILE TOHUNGAS OF THE PIT.

I must have sat there in the shadows nearly half an hour trying to
understand by what possible means the Maori tohunga had passed from
beneath that lake to the higher part of the cave. I was tolerably sure
that the water which now thundered down into the lake was the
deflected current of that which had formerly welled up from below, no
more no less in bulk, for the overflow into the abyss was neither
increased nor diminished by the change. Moreover, having witnessed
Ngaraki’s manœuvre with the long lever above the abyss, I felt
convinced that he had performed the same feat with a similar lever
under the lake, and I was strengthened in this conviction by the fact
that the dark thing which had reared its head above the water, where
it still remained at the back of the cascade, was obviously the end of
some rock which might serve that purpose.

The sunlight all this time had been slowly descending as the sun had
risen. Now its upper margin had disappeared over the margin of the
lake, and all above was getting dark again. No longer fearful of being
seen in the dim light, I crept round towards the cascade to inspect
the part of the rock which had appeared above the water. It was smooth
and rounded, and covered with black slime, appearing to be a portion
of a spar with hewn characteristics like the others. I was seized with
a wish to bring weight to bear upon this strange contrivance, and see
if it was balanced in any way. Accordingly I passed through the
battery of spray behind the cascade and secured the longest piece of
rimu I could find in the recess. Returning with this, I leaned forward
over the margin and gave a strong, steady push to the rock, but failed
to move it. It seemed as firm as the main rock on which I stood.
Evidently the raising of this lever opened a way for the water to come
down from above, and removed the pressure from some aperture below the
lake, thus leaving it free for the initiated to pass through.

When I attempted to review my position, I came to the conclusion that
until the water was shut off again by the great horizontal spar, I was
a prisoner in the cavern, unless I liked to take that plunge through
the opening in the side of the mountain. I went round the margin of
the lake and looked at it. The water was everywhere within six inches
of the continuous pathway of rock. It meant a dive of nearly twenty
feet before striking the current, and then there was no end of skill
required to avoid being bruised against the rocks in passing through.
I resolved not to try it--not just yet at all events. I had yet to
explore the cavern round the buttress and along the narrowing gulf
that led to the huge grating, so I determined to spend the remaining
time of my detention in discovering if possible what the lower parts
of the temple contained.

With great care I retraced my steps behind the cascade and round the
lake until I regained the darker shadows of the buttress. I made my
way on to the broad ledge, above which hung the wooden sprit of the
spar, and here, as I stood and gazed down into the abyss, I noticed
something which made my flesh creep. It was a simple thing perhaps,
but it touched me more nearly than anything I had as yet encountered
in that gloomy place. There, on the wall of the abyss, some hundreds
of feet below the basin, below the great spar hanging in space, I
could see all that was now left of the sunlight--a bright red patch
glistening upon the granite. Making my way a little further along to
the angle of the buttress, I could trace this shaft of light from the
abysmal depths up to the stupendous grating at the far end of the
gulf. It was the most glorious, and at the same time the most
awe-inspiring thing I have ever seen, this ray from the outer world
cutting through the darkness like a golden bar, and falling, all red,
upon the sheer wall far away below. It pointed to a depth at which my
brain reeled, but the dark which lay above it and the dark which
stretched below suggested a depth beyond the depth which was
positively awful to contemplate. I sat down upon the rocky lip of that
vast mouth of Porawa and gazed stupidly at this clear channel of
golden light running through the solid dark. The patch upon the wall
far down crept lower and lower, but found no floor. Was the place
indeed bottomless then?

As I asked myself this question the light faded away and all was gloom
again, save for a dull daylight that crept in for a little distance
through the giants’ window. A cloud had come before the sun. Now again
the ray came in like the thrust of a golden spear, then it was
withdrawn, and, though I waited for some time, it did not reappear.

With a great weight of awe and darkness upon me, I rose from the rock
resolved to reach that grating at the end of the gulf and there
restore myself with the ungarnished daylight. It was not, however,
without some recollection of what old Te Makawawa had said about the
Vile Tohungas of the Pit that I felt my way along the narrow ledge,
which seemed to have been hewn with design as an approach to the
grating. I felt I was going the right way to be cooked and eaten by
these same Vile Tohungas, wherever they might be in the darkness, but,
although naturally of a nervous disposition, I was always careless
whether I ran into unknown dangers with the right foot first or the
left, so I continued my way, holding on to the jagged points of the
wall with my right hand, while choosing every footstep with the utmost
care, for I was hardly the fool to risk a fall into the abyss, and
look for its ground floor head first without a light.

It took me nearly half an hour to travel that two hundred yards, but
once within fifty paces of the huge grating I could see more
distinctly. Soon I reached a spot beneath those tremendous bars, and,
looking up at them against the clouded sky without, saw clearly that
they must have been fashioned by the hand of man at some remote period
of the world’s history, concerning which our bravest anthropologists
are reticent, or speak only in whispers. Haeckel could show no
photographs of his speechless men of Lemuria, and many would have
laughed him down. Yet, if Haeckel had been with me on that
never-to-be-forgotten day when I explored that colossal place, he
would have wept for joy over those mighty stone bars, obviously hewn
by the hand of man out of the everlasting granite. There were four of
them, each fully thirty feet high. In places the action of air and
moisture had worn them very thin, and, as I seated myself on a broad
ledge that reminded me of a window sill, I heard the rising wind
making strange, weird chords as it swept these vibrating bars like the
strings of a gigantic harp.

The music of the wind playing through the bars of the giants’ window
reminded me of that ghostly hum of a phantom race which I had heard in
my dream. It rose and died away like a voice from the distant past,
calling up that peculiar feeling of “long, long ago,” until in my own
civilised way I became a veritable Tiki, and admitted that the ancient
temple was haunted by the wailing spirits of the giant sorcerers of
old. The men who had bound that great spar down with that huge round
stone--what else could have done it?--the men who had made the secret
way by which Ngaraki had disappeared beneath the lake, who had carved
the pathway out of the side of the abyss and fashioned this stupendous
window--the men of old who had done all this still haunted that
profound darkness down there, in which, perhaps, there were mysteries
of a stranger kind. Perhaps! certainly, at least, there was a pathway
leading down into the darkness on the opposite side to the one by
which I had come. I could see that plainly.

At length I roused myself from my reverie, and passing through the
stone bars, stood on a jagged platform without. Below was a great
fissure, and, facing me about forty yards beyond, was the rock which
formed the further boundary of this fissure. Its crest was just above
the horizon of the outer world. The depth of the fissure I could not
see, but it stretched some distance away to the left, where its
expansion was hidden by a bend in its course. On the left of the rock
on which I stood was nothing but a small crag, and beyond that the
mountain wall, but on the right was a rugged pathway, shelving
fearfully, but still a pathway, leading round the head of the fissure
to the other side.

I determined to see what came of this, and taking off my boots to get
a better foothold on the shelving rock, I followed it. I never fully
realised what a coward I was until I got to the other side and found
the cold perspiration rolling off my face. It was a blind pathway--at
least it seemed so, for it came to a sudden halt, as if the
pre-historic workmen had given it up. I went down on my chest and
looked over, but saw nothing but the gloomy bottom of the gulf far
below. I even took my little pocket mirror and held it so that I could
see beneath the rock below, but could make out nothing except a ledge
and a hole in the rock about twenty feet down. If it ever had been a
secret way it had long since been abandoned. No man could ascend from
below, yet it was possible one might reach that hole by means of a
rope. I retraced my steps and re-suffered my cold perspiration till I
reached the stone bars again.

A glance at my watch showed me it was now nearly twelve o’clock. I had
nothing to eat, so dinner was out of the question. The next best thing
was a smoke. There was no use in going back into the cavern, for I had
explored everything there except the lake, and candidly I did not feel
equal to exploring under water in the pitchy darkness, with a cataract
overhead and an outlet into an abyss below. Accordingly, I sought out
a little recess where the inner pathway joined the giants’ window
sill, and there put on my boots, after which I lighted my pipe and
smoked the smoke of the hungry.

The faint roar of the cataract within the cavern fell upon my ears
with a reassuring sound, for I knew that in all probability its
cessation would mark the time when Ngaraki would come down from his
unknown haunts above, perhaps to put up the spar again and leave the
exit clear. The hours passed slowly, but there was no change. Six
o’clock came, but still the cataract roared on with a dull, muffled
sound.

Whether it was the monotonous murmur of the falling water, or the
wailing music of the wind in the great stone bars, I do not know, but
I fell into a sleep, from which I was awakened some time later by the
full moon, which had just risen above the further boundary of the
fissure, and was shining full upon me. Its pale, silver light flooded
into the far interior of the cavern, and fell upon the crags of the
buttress, the sides of the basin, part of the spar, and the lake
beyond in the distance.

As I looked at these things and collected my faculties, I suddenly
realised that the roar of the cataract had stopped. The wind had
fallen; it no longer moaned in the stone bars. All was as silent as
the grave of things long dead.

My first thought was to see if the passage out of the mountain was
clear. Accordingly I made my way along towards the buttress--part of
the pathway was in the moonlight--but when I reached it I found that
the great spar was still hanging horizontal above the abyss, while the
moon rays flooding on to the surface of the lake showed the water
boiling up from below as when I had first seen it.

For a long half hour I crouched in the shadows there, thinking that
the fierce tohunga would again appear on the scene, but all was quiet:
nothing moving except the overflow into the abyss, and the moonlight
slowly creeping down after it.

At the end of this half hour a happy idea occurred to me. Perhaps the
moonlight would serve me to explore the abyss by the descending
pathway I had noticed on the other wall of the gulf. I retraced my
steps and stood again by the giants’ window. The moon was in a
cloudless sky, and one of the slanting beams fell upon a part of the
path some ten yards down. Beyond that the way continued in darkness,
but from a brief calculation I concluded that in less than an hour the
moonlight would illumine the very depths of the abyss; and if I
started at once on my hands and knees I might be able to keep up with
it.

It was hard work going down that rough road on all fours, but it was
the easiest way in the long run, for a single false step in the
darkness would have been fatal. There were no loose stones, but for
the first fifty yards the way was very uneven; and, though not steep
enough to reach the point where I had seen the patch of sunlight in
the morning, sufficiently downhill to make my progress slow and
laborious.

From time to time I glanced at the moonlight, which streamed past me
on the left, and fell on the perpendicular wall some hundred feet
below the basin. I saw more clearly now that as the night wore on and
the moon rose higher, its light would flood down into the profound
depths of the pit. Already it revealed the outstanding arm of some
crag projecting from the other side of the gulf.

When I had proceeded nearly a hundred yards along the descending way,
I found that by the help of a granite crag which stood out from the
wall, the path turned back upon itself. In this new direction it was
less uneven, and, after traversing its length for some fifty yards, I
discovered that it turned back upon itself again, leading down in the
original direction. It was strange work, crawling along an unknown way
in total darkness, and it was in vain that I endeavoured to make light
of it.

But the moonlight reassured me somewhat. It was now far below, resting
on the perpendicular granite, the bed rock of the world. But still it
crept down and down: where was the bottom of this fearful place?
Higher and higher rose the moon into the sky; lower and lower her rays
sank into the pit. The light was now striking down at an angle of
forty-five degrees to the horizontal, and as I scanned its whole
length it seemed to me like a solid silver bar strong enough to bear
one’s weight from the giants’ window away into the depths below.

The path was now smooth and even, and I gained on the moonlight. When
within sixty or seventy yards of its resting-place I was surprised to
find a blank precipice in front of me. At least, as I groped before me
with my hands, I felt that the rock took a sudden descent. Thinking
that this might be anything from a small precipice of three feet to a
yawning gulf of a thousand yards, I took a small stone and dropped it
over the edge. It fell on solid rock three or four feet below.
Scrambling down I found a level step, and, two paces further on,
another break leading down again to another step. It was not until I
had passed down over several of these that I came to the conclusion
that it was a regular staircase on a vast scale. Each step as I stood
on that below it reached nearly to my shoulder, and its breadth was
quite five feet. Surely I was getting down into the region of the Vile
Tohungas, but I was not yet on a level with the moonlight. Another ten
or twelve steps brought me to a spot where, thirty yards in front of
me, I saw the lower margin of the moonbeams strike upon the grey
granite wall, which as yet gave no hint of where it might find a
basement in the yawning gulf below. I sat down to wait, knowing that
between forty and fifty yards lower down the staircase must meet the
wall and turn back again upon itself in order to continue the descent.

Now that I had nothing to do but to await developments, I felt the
silence and the darkness resting like crushing weights upon my senses.
Not far away on the left I could hear the faint swish of the torrent
from the lake as it fell through the darkness, but no sound came up
from below to tell that it had found a bottom in that profundity
beneath. With my physical eyes I could see little, but the scene as I
viewed it in my mind’s eye was one of stupendous grandeur. Behind, far
above, was the moonlight flooding through the giants’ window, and
striking down through the dark until it fell upon the granite,
glistening with a pale grey before me. High overhead I knew the long
spar hung suspended, and below, shrouded in impenetrable gloom, was a
world of unknown things hidden in the blackness of darkness for ever.

Into this gloom I peered and waited. The edge of the light cut the
dark as sharp as a knife, leaving a surface like jet. By whatever
agency--human, natural, or diabolic--this pit had been hewn out of the
solid rock in the remote past, it seemed that on clear nights the moon
must still hew it out again from the solid dark. Here then was the
Pit: where were the Vile Tohungas?

I was aroused from my dreams of the “giants in those days”--the Vile
Tohungas who, according to Te Makawawa, inhabited this lower part of
the temple--by the moonlight impinging upon something standing up out
of the darkness towards my left. I fixed my eyes upon the object,
thinking it was the


 [image: images/img107.jpg
 caption: “THE LIGHT SANK LOWER AND SHOWED MORE. THEN TO MY ASTONISHED
 EYES WAS UNVEILED, INCH BY INCH FROM THE DARKNESS, THE MASSIVE GRANITE
 BROWS OF A GIGANTIC HEAD.”]


pinnacle of some outstanding crag. The light sank lower and showed
more. Then to my astonished eyes was unveiled, inch by inch from the
darkness, the massive granite brows of a gigantic head. Suddenly the
light flashed back from two bright red eyeballs, which shone like
petrified blood. The nose and mouth and chin then came into view, and
at length the whole head and neck stood out clear above the gloom.

The face of this image, which, if in due proportion, was evidently
thirty feet high, was strong and terrible. The eyes looked up at the
moon from beneath a receding brow, the nose was long and flat, and the
lower lip of the firm, evil mouth was curled as if in disdain. It was
a sinister face that thus greeted the Queen of the Night--sinister,
proud, and contemptuous in its power. This was perhaps the lord of a
fallen race--one of those


 “Mighty pre-Adamites who walked the earth
 Of which ours is the wreck.”


Perchance--who knew?--he might represent the mighty and terrible
Nephilim spoken of in the book of Enoch. Such thoughts as these
crowded through my brain as I watched.

But this giant image was not alone. Slowly, and one by one, other
heads appeared above the darkness, until I counted eleven. Huge
shoulders and chests now gleamed in the light of the moon. Eleven
pairs of red eyes flashed back her rays all bloodshot. The terrible
images seemed to be worshipping the great luminary, but it was the
worship of scorn, for each one looked up and curled his lips with a
calm half smile of masterly disdain. They were set in a semicircle,
and I saw that originally there might have been twelve, for there was
a gap in the line where one was missing. Thinking that this one might
be much smaller than the rest, I waited for the light to fall upon his
head, but the gap remained a gap, and I concluded that one of these
Vile Tohungas of the Pit had fallen from his place.

By this time the moonlight fell full thirty feet below the head of the
tallest statue, and showed that the images were merely busts, carved
only to the waist, where in each case the hands were clasped over the
abdomen. It showed also that the pedestals were each in one piece with
the statue. At last the light reached the floor of the abyss, and the
Vile Tohungas stood out in bold relief, casting great shadows upon the
granite wall behind. I saw their bases, and wondered to find that they
were of a piece with the bed rock. They had been fashioned bodily out
of the very plutonic ground-floor of the earth. Vying with the moon
herself in age, these figures had stood up from the floor of the abyss
to greet her with that scornful sneer upon their faces for untold
ages. My imagination travelled back through vast stretches of time
until I was weary and spent.

Suddenly a voice from the darkness to the left below startled me. A
voice in that dread place! It sent the blood back on my heart as with
crooked fingers I gripped the rock. In another instant, however, I
recognised the chanting of Ngaraki, and remembered the mention Te
Makawawa had made of cursing the Vile Ones of the Pit at the full of
the moon. By the alternations of his chanting with the strange silence
of the place, I knew that he was passing up and down there in the
darkness before the colossal figures. By the increasing vehemence of
his wild song I knew also that he was working himself up into a fury
of wrath. It was a chant more terrible and savage than that which I
had heard on the bank of the pool outside the mountain, more wild and
fierce than the hollow murmurs which had reached me from far above
while smoking at my camp fire. He may have been a savage then, but he
was something more, or something less, now. His words, ringing high
with growing rage, almost infernal in their intensity, struck a note
of horror in my listening soul:


 “Ha! stand out; Lurkers in the Dark!
 Come out of your hiding places;
 Come out and stand up in the light of the moon.
 Bold Taranaki cleaves the sky:
 I call his ancient fire to eat your bones;
 And Tongariro spits his rage aloft--Ngha!
 ’Twill fall and boil your heads in pitch.
 The earth was young, the moon scowled from the sky
 With laden breasts of poisoned milk,
 And ye scowled up at her, vile sneering ones,
 And drank destruction to the world.
 The earth is old--your words are living still:
 I will make you eat your words--Ngha!
 I will make you eat the heads of the words you spoke to men!
 To what shall I place my cursing power?
 To your heads? They’re fit for the feast of a chief.
 To what shall I place my cursing power?
 To your eyes? I will snatch and eat them raw.
 To what shall I place my cursing power?
 To your bones? Ngha! Hooks for the shark god!
 To what shall I place my cursing power?
 To _your_ cursing power? Yes, to your cursing power!
 Cursed in the light, writhe till the sun goes down, Ngha!
 Cursed in the dark, writhe till the sun comes up, Ngha!”


At this point I caught sight of the fierce tohunga as he advanced each
time into the line of light to within a few paces of the granite
figures. His garment swayed about him as he rushed forward, his long
hair was dishevelled, and in his hand was a greenstone _meré_, which
glinted in the moonrays as he whirled it high above his head in the
rising fury of his cursing. Constantly advancing into the light like
an infuriated savage, and retreating again into the shadows with his
chin upon his breast, like a man in profound thought, he chanted
louder and more fiercely as his onward rushes became more terrible in
gesture and his retreating movements more profound in their repose.
Thus with hurricane and calm, hurricane and calm, he approached the
climax when the hurricane should end in frenzy and the calm in trance:


 “Where is the pot shall hold your heads?
 Where is the fire shall boil the pot?
 I’ll spend my life in making it--Ngha!
 Beyond Kaikoura’s rugged crest,
 Beyond Raukawa’s rolling tide,
 Are pots of pitch that seeth and hiss--
 Mountain pots that roar and rage--
 Lakes of fire whose billows roll and dance and leap into the air.
 I hear them calling for your heads.
 But fiercer fires have louder tongues:
 A fire of raging hate is here,
 Fed by deadly cursing--Ngha!
 Here! Vile Lurkers! Here!”


He beat upon his breast to show them where the fire was hissing, and
seething, and roaring for their heads--


 “’Ere Taranaki glowed with love
 For fair Pihanga’s pure embrace,
 ’Ere thundering Tongariro burned
 With angry thought to call her his,[17]
 This fire was made with ancient hands.
 Tawhaki fanned it with his breath
 (His footsteps thunder in the sky
 I curse you with his mighty breath--Ngha!
 Now Taranaki’s fires are low:
 He stands apart.
 His flame is fled, his voice is still,
 But mine will roar with countless tongues
 That shake the earth with Ruaimako.
 Nor storm, nor sea, nor Rangi’s tears
 Can quench this raging fire of hate
 Which leaps with curses at your throats--Ngha!
 The time will come! the time will come!
 Hinauri sleeps aloft and waits--
 Lo! She starts, she moves, she wakes.
 Now she takes the stranded spar
 And hurls it down into the pit.
 The crash is heard through all the earth--
 See! I snatch your heads in triumph,
 And place them in the mighty pot.
 _Whaka ariki_[18]--your heads are mine
 To boil in everlasting pitch.
 Upokokohua--Ngha!”


Giving out the last few words in a voice of thunder that woke strange
rumbling echoes far above, the Maori rushed forward more like a demon
than a human being. I saw his strong face twisted with rage. I saw the
_meré_ gleam in the moonlight. Then with a final curse--a savage yell
which seemed to shake the granite statues of the dead--he hurled the
weapon at the head of the tallest image. Like a flash of green light
it darted through the moon rays. It struck upon the forehead of the
Vile Tohunga, and sparks came forth. With a crashing sound it struck
and then glanced off and fell upon the rock at my feet.

I picked up the _meré_ and looked again at the image. The mark of the
weapon showed clear and distinct above the left eyebrow. But the
sudden silence was unearthly. What of Ngaraki? I looked below, where
I had seen him halt in his last mad rush. He was lying prostrate on
his face upon the granite floor, motionless.

For some minutes I watched him, then, as he did not move, I climbed
down the remaining steps, and, keeping out of the moonlight as much as
possible, reached a point near to the prostrate figure. His hands were
stretched out before him, with fingers bent as if clawing at the rock,
and his head rested on one side, so that the moonlight showed the
glassy stare of one of his wide open eyes. I saw that he was either
dead or in a trance, and, as the tohunga Maori of the old régime was
not unlike Balaam, I concluded that Ngaraki had induced a trance in
the regular way, and would now remain like one dead perhaps for hours.

I lingered in the shadows watching him for some time; then my eyes
wandered mechanically round the semicircle of figures that towered
above. Surely I had made a mistake! Where was the gap left by the
Twelfth Tohunga?

Falling back a few paces I counted them again. Surely I had been
deceived. There were twelve of them, and the one that now stood where
the gap had been, raised his gigantic head above all the rest. His
face was not like those of the other images. There were traces of
nobility upon the brow, and the lips were more sad than disdainful.
But what struck me most was the fact that it seemed less substantial
than the others. Could it be a phantom of the imagination--a thing
conjured up before a mind unbalanced by the awful gloom of the place,
by hunger, and thirst, and fatigue? As I glanced again at the features
of the face, now more distinct than before, I passed my hand over my
forehead and felt it was wet. And well it might be, for the
unsubstantial image that stood before me had features and an
expression closely resembling, though in a gigantic way, those of
_Ngaraki himself_! With an impulse that I could not restrain, I
hurried across the open space, and, approaching the Twelfth Tohunga,
put out my hand to touch it. My fingers closed on empty air, and lo!
there was the gap again unoccupied as before.

At that moment the prostrate figure of the Maori moved upon the
ground, and I darted again into the darkness. Looking back I saw him
get up and shake himself, then move away into the shadows, whence he
presently reappeared with a piece of smouldering punk and a crooked
stick of wood. With these he sat down, and blowing the punk into a
blaze, ignited the wood, which, by its combustible qualities, I knew
to be a piece of the heart of the rimu. At length he held the torch
high above his head and came towards me, but, as he passed by on one
side of the figure near which I was standing, I crept round with the
shadow on the other. Unconscious of my presence, he kept on his way
until the light of his torch shone upon the body of water which fell
through space with mysterious sighs, whipping the air and throwing off
fine, floating spray as it went on its inexplicable course past the
very foundations of the mountain, for I now saw that it disappeared in
a circular opening in the ground floor--an abyss below the abyss.

A few paces before the brink of this road to Porawa the tohunga
paused, and, holding his torch high, shed its light upon the face of
another figure carved out of the granite, and standing apart with its
back turned upon its fellows. Again the eerie feeling assailed me, for
that rugged face gazing upwards through the dark was the face of the
Twelfth Tohunga, having the same strange resemblance to the Maori
himself. It was a noble countenance, and the contour of the lips
expressed, not disdain like the others, but humility and
sadness--perhaps repentance. Unlike the others, too, his hands were
joined over his heart. Perchance this was one of the Great Ones who,
as Te Makawawa had told us, had fallen from his high magic to consort
with the vile to trick them, and, having completed his design, had
turned his back upon their evil faces and set his image there apart to
gaze up through the age-long night towards that distant point far
above where the radiant Hinauri stood and waited. But how could I know
anything? I could only conjecture, for Ngaraki said no word, and I
could not read the strange characters engraven on the granite breast
of this Twelfth Tohunga.

From the chief’s attitude it was evident that this image perplexed him
sorely. Was it that he detected some resemblance of its face to his
own, or was he communing in spirit with the ancient being who had set
his image there with such ideal meaning? I could not tell, for he was
silent, and when at last he turned, torch in hand, and, holding his
arms up towards some vision he seemed to see above the darkness,
chanted some words that were full of tenderness and yearning, it was
in the ancient priestly language which few even of the _ariki_ can
understand. It was an unknown tongue to me, but I recognised it from
its likeness to some of the more ancient karakias or mystic hymns I
had often heard repeated as charms by the lesser tohungas. But the
meaning of Ngaraki’s gestures, and the soft inflections of his voice
showed plainly that he was addressing Hinauri as from the breast of
the Twelfth Tohunga standing in the darkness of the abyss. His cursing
mood had fallen from him like a garment, and in my heart I felt drawn
towards this strange savage; yet I knew that any profane person found
trespassing within the precincts of his sacred temple would find small
mercy at his hands, and therefore I took good care to keep out of his
way. I knew that if my presence was discovered I should be taken for
one of those visitors mentioned by Te Makawawa as “certain men who had
the fire of the Vile Tohungas in their eyes.” I should be accused of
planning the destruction of Hinauri, and then my head would be taken
and hung up in the abyss.

Ngaraki now turned in his ancient chant with a sudden quickening of
his words, and, as most men do when a thing appeals to them in a new
and surprising light, spoke in the tongue which came more fluent to
him:

“See! the city is silent”--he appeared to be interpreting the ancient
characters on the breast of the Twelfth Tohunga--“the great queen
sleeps above the darkness, my fellow seers have withdrawn into the
sky, and I, Zun, with these vile Brethren of Huo, am all that is left
of the people of the South. Mine is the task”--yes, Ngaraki seemed to
speak these words, which had been graven on the breast of the image,
as if they stated exactly his own case--“mine is the task to watch
over the tapu of the Bright One, and to this end I have cast myself
down to consort with the vile, to know them, to know their names, to
understand that of which they are the embodiment. And I record that I
know what I do, and none shall say that I fell through weakness. It is
done. The city is silent. The great queen sleeps above the darkness,
but she sleeps in safety, for I have confounded the Vile Ones with
their own magic. Lo, I have delivered a gross image into their hands
to bind down and oppress, and now in scorn I turn my back upon them
and gaze up towards the future of the world. They will return, and I
shall return, and in the far future Hia will arise and hurl their
gross image of Woman upon their heads. Then shall I conquer and
triumph over the Vile Ones and cast their lord into the pit that yawns
before me. And through the everlasting night I wait for Hia, praying
that life shall be long and death short; praying that the Rival of the
Dawn will obtain for man a life that ever rises again from the
darkness.”

He paused and seemed lost in thought; he had evidently read the words
in a new light. Then, as if seeking more of this new light from a
familiar thing, he passed to the back of the image and held his torch
up again till the rays fell upon the strange characters therealso
engraven. As one who reconsiders what has long puzzled him he read:

“We, the Brotherhood of Huo, laugh in scorn at the windy words of Zun.
He sees a phantom up there in the darkness. Hia is swallowed up in
Huo, whose body we have bound down to the rock for ever. Her spirit we
have bound also to the moon-face, that we may see to work our will. By
her bondage we shall live, but the life of Hia’s people shall be short
and their death long. They shall die and become like soil, and those
they leave behind them shall weep and wail and lament. Therefore we
laugh in scorn at the windy words of Zun. We shall live and rule the
world while our images endure.”

Ngaraki remained silent a space. Then the last I saw of him for many
weeks was characteristic of the man. He slowly approached the brink of
the abyss below the abyss, and stood for a moment gazing down. In a
second his sudden blood boiled over with a return of his former
fierceness and, pointing downwards with outstretched arm, while he
turned his head towards the chief of the Vile Ones, he yelled:

“Ngha! Destroyers of the Woman! My enemies of the ancient night! That
is the way by which your heads go down to the pot.”

A moment the torch was held aloft; then, with a fierce gesture, he
flung it into the depths below, and all was dark again, save for the
patch of moonlight, which had now retreated far along the level floor.

I said this was the last I _saw_ of Ngaraki, and that is quite true,
for though I came into close contact with him that very night, and
felt more of his strength than I have any desire to feel again, it was
all transacted in the darkness of that terrible place.




 CHAPTER IX.
 NGARAKI THE FIERCE.

When Ngaraki had thrown his torch down into the bottomless pit,
there seemed nothing left but the darkness and the silence. Presently
I heard what I judged to be his footsteps hurrying towards me, and, in
my haste to get out of the way, lest by chance he should touch me, I
trod on a loose stone and fell. I was on my feet again in an instant,
and was edging away from the spot, when the chief’s voice, three paces
away, cried, “Ngha! who comes?”

Feeling secure in the impenetrable darkness, I made no reply, but
proceeded to creep silently away towards the foot of the staircase,
listening intently all the while for the tohunga’s movements. But he
was evidently standing stock still. Presently he repeated his
challenge more fiercely, and, receiving no answer, hurried away
towards the end of the gulf.

I felt somewhat relieved at this, as I felt sure I could find the foot
of the staircase, and so get up the pathway; and, if the worst came to
the worst, try the plunge through the aperture in the mountain wall.
But I found it was no easy matter to find my bearings. I could see the
patch of moonlight some distance up the ground floor of the abyss,
and, facing it, knew that the giant statues were behind me. I
proceeded to feel my way from statue to statue in what I fancied was
the right direction, but I had not gone far in this way when faint
sounds of footsteps around me arrested my attention. I stood still,
and all was silent. A minute passed, and, when I moved on, the fall of
these phantom footsteps on every side again brought me to a sudden
halt. Was this some dreadful nightmare, or was I surrounded and hemmed
in by the minions of Ngaraki? The nervous tension of this would soon
have driven me into raving lunacy. I felt I could not stand it much
longer, and tried to steal away quietly on tiptoe, but the footsteps
followed me and I stopped again.

To put an end to this nightmare I thought the best thing I could do
was to kill someone and make a rush. I took my revolver from my
pocket, but merely went through the motion of shooting men down on
every hand just to relieve my nervous tension. After reflection I did
not dare waste a shot in the darkness, for I might want the whole six
later on, and I had left my ammunition outside the mountain; so I
tried to take things quietly. While in the midst of this, something,
not three paces away, collided with something else. “Kuk, kuk!” said a
throat, and another throat answered with a guttural, purring noise,
followed by a long-drawn sigh. After that there was a silence, in
which I was sorely tempted to shoot in the direction of those sounds.
Presently, however, under a further development of the situation, I
thought it was my wisest course to spend at least one of my six
bullets. Standing under cover of the darkness, but haunted by these
ghostly footsteps, I saw, twenty yards on my right, a dim glow. As
soon as this caught my eye I knew what was going to happen. Somebody
was blowing a piece of smouldering dry punk into a blaze; a torch, or
several torches, would be lighted, and I would be hunted out like a
rat. I was determined that this should not be if I could possibly help
it. I much preferred the dark and the ghostly footsteps. Now the punk
was glowing red, and, just above it, the wizened face of someone
blowing it appeared distinctly. I could not bring myself to the idea
of potting at this man out of the dark; it seemed a little unfair; so,
moving about again, I listened for the footsteps and fired into the
thick of them.

The effect was magical. The report rang up through the abyss and
reverberated with a thousand echoes in the high galleries above. But
this was not the only effect. Immediately following the shot there
arose a guttural, inarticulate howl, and a strange clucking noise
began all around. It suddenly dawned on me that these sounds came from
men who had lost their tongues: these were no doubt the speechless men
Te Makawawa had spoken of. But I did not stop to find out any more
about them. Taking advantage of the general confusion, I felt my way
to the last stone figure in the semicircle, and, with a guess at the
position of the foot of the staircase, struck out to find it.

I could now hear no footsteps about me, and thought that if I could
only get up out of the abyss I should feel happier. After proceeding
some twelve or fifteen paces, I touched a rock and felt my way along
it until I came to a corner. A sigh of relief escaped me at the
discovery that it was the lowest step of the giants’ staircase. I was
just about to mount it when a peculiar guttural “Kuk, kuk!” came like
a challenge out of the darkness five feet away on the left. My first
impulse was to spring towards the sound and get at the throat from
which it proceeded. But suddenly I remembered having heard this sound
answered by a kind of guttural purring. It was evidently the
tongueless challenge equivalent to “Who goes there?” Why should I not
give the answer? On the spur of the moment I did so, making the most
guttural purr I could find in my throat, and following it up with a
long-drawn sigh. It was met with silence. My challenger evidently took
me for a friend who, actuated by a cleverness equal to his own, had
conceived the idea of guarding the only way out of the abyss.

It was with a conceited feeling that I was infinitely cleverer than
all of them that I mounted the step and listened before groping my way
upwards. There was still confusion in the abyss. To judge by the
excited noises I heard, someone had evidently been touched by my
revolver shot. There was no sign of the glowing punk, and I gathered
from this that in the presence of firearms they felt safer in the
darkness. That they stood in fear of another shot was also evident
from the fact that gradually the strange sounds ceased, and all was
quiet.

Presently I heard footsteps hurrying towards me. They were those of
other clever mutes who wished to prevent my escaping that way. I was
the first to give the peculiar challenge, which was answered by a
purring and a ghostly chorus of sighs from several throats. Then,
feeling that I had hoodwinked them, I ventured to creep away as
silently as possible, raising myself from step to step. Several times
I stopped to listen, but all was quiet behind me and I went on and on,
up towards the giants’ window.

It must have been nearly an hour before I gained the approaches to the
huge grating. When I reached it I stood for a moment looking up at the
moon, then, turning, I followed the bright ray through the darkness
until it fell upon the floor of the abyss, a patch of light
considerably less in area than an hour ago. It had travelled nearly
the whole length of the gulf.

While I was looking at it before passing on I heard a chorus of
guttural sounds far down. I started and moved away, as it dawned upon
me that my tell-tale shadow had been seen on that patch of light
below. My cleverness now oozed out at the back of my head and ran down
into my heels. In a very short space of time I knew I should have
those phantom footsteps about me again.

My first idea was to stand in the dark and shoot them down as they
came past the window in the moonlight, but on second thoughts I saw
that I could only dispose of five in this way at the very most, and
there were certainly more than a dozen of them, besides Ngaraki
himself. Everything considered, I thought it the best plan to make for
the lake and try the opening.

Another ten minutes, then, found me nearing the buttress. My eyes were
continually on the moonlit window, for my pursuers must pass there,
and I was anxious to count them as they passed. But it was not until I
reached the rocks of the buttress that I saw the first rush quickly
across the light. Another followed and another, until I counted ten.
It was an uncomfortable number, especially as they knew every inch of
the place and I did not. So well, indeed, did they know their way that
I had scarcely reached the ledge beneath the spar when I heard them
coming round the corner of the buttress. I had my hand on the wooden
sprit above my head when they were almost upon me. That they would
search every nook and corner I knew well, and if I could not reach the
other side of the lake first I should have to fire my remaining shots,
and, plunging in, run the risk of being swept down by the overflow
into the abyss. Why should I not cross by the spar? They would never
think of that.

No sooner had I conceived this plan, which was as good as any other,
than I bore my weight on the sprit, and found that, although there was
a trembling motion, the balance of the spar was maintained. In another
second I had raised myself by the “one-legged-doctor” trick everybody
learns at school, and was lying along it.

Scarcely had I accomplished this when I heard the sound of footsteps
below, and someone touched the end of the sprit, for I felt it tremble
beneath me. At this I grasped the points of the granite to which it
was lashed, and drawing myself along, sat up astride of the thing. I
was now well over the brink of the abyss, and began to feel clever
again as the pattering of footsteps went by behind me. By their
movements to and fro I could hear that they were searching for me, and
I did not dare move further lest I should attract attention. To make
up for the absence of their tongues their ears were preternaturally
acute, and the slightest movement might have betrayed me. Even when
the sound of footsteps ceased I remained motionless for a long time,
fearing that there was someone listening near by in the darkness. If
the cascade had still been pouring down from above I should have stood
a better chance under cover of the sound. Everybody knows the peculiar
effect that listening in the darkness has upon one. The muscles become
rigid, the throat grows dry, an irresistible desire to swallow
produces in the act a peculiar noise, and a strange kind of hypnotism
suggests to the limbs that they cannot move. To this add a cold
perspiration, born of the idea that there is a vast yawning pit
beneath one, and a score of ears listening for the slightest sound
near by, and you have my sensations within a little.

How long I sat there astride of that sprit I do not know, but at
length my feelings became unbearable. I determined to move, but it
cost me all it costs one in a nightmare to make a start. With a harsh,
inward laugh, that sounded almost hysterical in my mental ears, I at
last succeeded in throwing off this strange self-hypnotism, and,
stretching my hands forward, grasped a point of rock on the spar
itself. Once having pulled myself on to the granite I felt more
confidence, and, though the long lever quivered beneath me, I sat
astride and worked my way along. I tried to shut out the terrible
abyss beneath me, but the knowledge that it was there in the darkness
was perhaps worse than if it had been visible to physical eyes. It was
like dangling between life and death. But, as the Maori mystic saying
runs,

“_Cling to Life in the light--cling to Life in the darkness!_” And I
clung.

After what seemed several hours, although most probably it was
something like fifteen minutes as clocks go, I reached the constricted
part of the spar, and felt that it was not much thicker than a man’s
body. As I rested on it for awhile I felt the drip of water from the
roof of the cavern, falling now on my bush hat and now on my
shoulders. I wondered how many thousand years it had taken that
dripping water to wear the granite down to its present shape, and how
many more would elapse before the spar gave way at this point, and the
two fragments, with the great round stone, go hurtling down through
space on to the heads of the Vile Tohungas far below. I feared that I
would get there first.

A glance along the gulf towards the giants’ window showed me that it
must be now midnight, if not more, for the moon was no longer shining
in between the bars, and I could see her light reflected from the face
of the wall beyond the fissure without. I found fresh courage in the
thought that if I could reach the further lip of the basin and take
the plunge, the rays of the moon shining down into the pool on the
western side of the mountain would serve to guide me towards the
opening.

But my fresh courage soon gave out, for no sooner had I climbed from
the narrow part on to a broader surface of the spar, than the horror
of my situation reacted upon me. Faint with what I had gone through
since my last meal in the early morning, I felt the darkness beginning
to move around me. Concentric rings of light were converging to a
point in my brain. I had just sufficient sense to spread myself face
downwards on the rock before I swooned away.

 * * * * *

When I awoke to consciousness the faint light of daybreak was
struggling in through the giants’ window. The vast cavern was full of
greater and lesser darknesses, and, as I peered into these, I recalled
the events of the past night. A sickening horror swept through me as I
realised that I had been lying on a narrow bridge above the abyss for
hours, and it was followed by a feeling of thankfulness that I had not
turned in my deep sleep and rolled down into the depths. I felt as if
angels had stood one on each side of me, and sat up, full of the
conviction that I should see the outer world again.

It was strange that I had not been discovered. Evidently my pursuers
had not thought of my hiding place. But in order to get out safely it
would be necessary to make all haste, for no doubt they were still
keeping watch, and the grey, misty light of the far-off day was
growing every minute. Very soon I should make an easy target for
stones, and if Ngaraki could hit the Vile Tohunga’s eyebrow at twenty
yards with his jade _meré_, what could he not do with me? To his way
of looking at things there was no telling what secrets I might carry
away with me if I escaped, therefore the sooner I was wiped off the
face of the rock the better for that ancient temple and all it
contained.

As yet it was impossible to see more than a vague suggestion of one’s
hand before one’s face, but in ten minutes’ time there would be enough
light to shoot by. Crawling along the spar towards the basin, I made
all possible haste. I had not gone far before I heard footsteps
several paces in front of me. I stopped, and all was silent. I could
hear my heart beating, and the ghostly whiffle of the descending
torrent immediately beneath, but no other sound.

It was no time for delay. A plan suggested itself to my mind in a
flash, and I acted on it without a second thought. Drawing a match
from my pocket with my left hand and raising my revolver with my
right, I struck the match on the granite and threw it fizzing into the
darkness before me. The light lasted only a second, but in that brief
space I saw two figures crouching on the spar ahead, fired point blank
at the foremost, and saw him roll over into the abyss. The next
instant something whizzed through the air two inches from my forehead,
turning my hat half round upon my head. I knew that Ngaraki had also
taken advantage of the momentary light to hurl his _meré_. The
involuntary start backwards at this sudden surprise saved my head
again, for, immediately after the missile, came the crashing sound of
a heavy club on the rock a foot before me. This was the work of the
other figure I had seen. Dropping my revolver, I leaned forward and
seized the head of the club with both hands. A struggle ensued, and
each tried to use the club as a means of pushing the other off the
spar. The struggle did not last long. Giving the club a quick twist
from my end, I at the same time pushed it violently against my
antagonist, who made a sound in his throat and fell backwards, still
holding his end of the club. But in doing this I swung and fell
sideways. The next moment we were dangling one on each side of the
spar, with nothing to hold by but the club lying like a cross-bar over
the narrow rock. All this took place in the space of a few seconds,
and it was while I was swaying in the air that I heard from far below
the rattle of Ngaraki’s _meré_ on the floor of the abyss.

Thank Heaven, the mute held on. If he had let go I should have gone
down with him. Never was a man so anxious that his foe should keep his
head.

In moments of danger different people act in widely different ways,
but, in moments of extreme peril, when even fear itself seems
paralysed, most men, I think, would do the right thing automatically.
From what happened I am convinced that the man on the other side of
the rock was doing exactly as I was doing, looking for some point of
rock by which to cling. At all events I felt, by my end of the club,
which I was now holding in one hand, that he was not hanging quietly.
Never were two living beings weighed on a more extraordinary balance
to determine which should be found wanting. One more second determined
it. Failing to find a purchase with one hand, I had grasped the club
with both again and drawn myself up with my chin over the end of it.
Then, to find a good hold on the edge of the spar, I transferred my
right hand while sustaining my weight with my chin and left arm.
Quickly I slid my other hand along the club till it found the rock. It
was done. The club went up as soon as I released it; there was a
guttural exclamation on the other side, and the sound of clawing
fingers on the granite as the man went down into the pit, leaving me
hanging over the side of the spar.

I drew a long breath and proceeded to raise myself. With chin and one
hand supporting my weight again, I reached forward and swept the
surface of the spar with the other. The first thing I felt was my
revolver, but it was little use to me just then. There was a rough
point near it which would help me, but no sooner had I grasped it than
I had to withdraw my hand, for I could just distinguish a shadowy form
coming towards me from the basin end. I could hear him feeling his way
along, and knew that he was looking for me. I would let him pass and
then climb and shoot everything I met on the rest of my journey
towards the basin. With this end in view, I found the revolver again,
and placing it with difficulty in my coat pocket, got my hand back on
the rock and remained hanging till the one who was looking for me had
passed by.

To find the rough point of rock again was easy, but to draw myself up
with nothing to place my knees or feet against was more difficult. At
length I managed to get one foot up on the spar, and then gradually
dragged my weight on to the upper surface. The light had grown
considerably stronger in the last few minutes. I could now see the
grey surface of the rock before me. By the time I had crawled twenty
feet along the widening surface I could discern the vague outline of
the great round stone above the outer lip of the basin, and could hear
the gritting sound it made as it rolled and rocked slightly in its
socket with the motion of the spar, set up principally by the man who
was looking for me at the other end. I needed only a little more light
in order to stand upright and make a rush.

A full minute I waited, straining my eyes before me to see if there
was anyone barring the way. The spar was now quivering violently, and
I knew the one who had passed me was near the further end. Another
minute passed and the motion grew fainter; he was on his way back.
Presently I heard him crawling along on his hands and knees not ten
yards behind me.

Trusting now to the light, I rose and proceeded carefully towards the
round stone. When I reached it I found no one there, but on the lip of
the basin there were several shadows moving. The foremost, evidently
thinking I was the man who had gone along the spar and was now
returning behind me, gave the guttural challenge. There was no time to
waste in purring, so I gave the countersign with my revolver. He
staggered back and disappeared.

Then all was confused. Vague shadows flitted round the rim of the
basin. I pushed one off into the abyss, another I shot as he came at
me, and he fell into the water. A well-aimed stone carried my hat from
my head back into the abyss, cutting the skin of my scalp to the bone
as it passed. I heard feet pattering behind me and ran on round the
lip of the basin. Now I was facing the place where I knew the opening
in the mountain side lay concealed beneath twenty feet of water. I had
two shots left; the one I fired at something I saw moving on my left,
the other I reserved for the one who was running quickly round the lip
of the basin behind me. Turning, I fired at a distance of five yards.
He did not fall, but uttered a fierce “Ngha!” and came on.

With a quick plunge I leapt from the rock and struck out downwards
into the dark with all my strength. Presently I felt the current
rushing through my fingers. Another vigorous stroke would have sent me
into it, but as I drew up my legs something touched my foot. I kicked
back and encountered what felt like solid flesh. I was now head and
shoulders in the current, and could see a round light before me, but
an arm slid along my leg, a hand closed round my ankle, and I was
dragged forcibly out of it again.

I turned in the water to face my antagonist, whom I now knew to be
Ngaraki himself, and, guiding my hands along his chest and shoulders,
caught him by a bronze pillar for all the impression I could make on
the throat. But I might as well have tried to throttle it. The next
thing I knew was that his hand had closed over my own throat with a
grip like iron. He shook me in the water as if I were a mere rat, and
we rose to the surface.

He still retained his terrible grip as he groped along the bank for
the steps in the wall. By the time he had found them my senses were
beginning to go. I could get no breath until he released my throat,
and it was now nearly half a minute since I drew my last. I was
getting confused, but I remember one thing which made a distinct
impression upon me. My hands, in attempting to get at his own throat
again encountered a small stream of something warm trickling from his
chest, and, strange as it may seem, almost my last feeling was one of
remorse that my final bullet had wounded this strange man, for whom,
notwithstanding all his attempts to kill me, I had conceived a kind of
savage admiration. In my dying condition, lying helpless in his grip,
I seemed to lose my own selfish personality; and, in that brief
moment, looking at things from his standpoint, I admitted I was in the
wrong, and found time to wish at least that I had not fired that last
bullet.

We were now on the margin of the lake swaying about. Suddenly a low
moan escaped his lips. His fingers relaxed. He fell back against the
cavern wall. Before he fell, however, he gave me a violent push which
sent me reeling into the lake.

In the second that elapsed before I reached the water I may have taken
in some air. I do not remember doing so, for I was almost gone; but I
think I must have got some oxygen into my lungs, for, to a certain
extent, consciousness revived as I felt myself going down in the
tumultuous depths. Aided considerably by the water welling up from the
bottom I arrested my descent and darted upwards again, but on reaching
the surface and gasping for air, I found myself in a current. Oh!
horror of horrors! I felt I must be going down into the abyss. My
mother’s sweet, sad face rose in the darkness before me, and I called
on God as all men do in their last extremity. For some time--I could
not say how long--I struggled against that current with the strength
of despair, but, wildly as I strained every nerve and sinew, I felt I
was being gradually sucked in. I reached out to catch some point of
rock, but there was nothing. Then with a feeling of blackest horror I
realised all was over. But the horror gave way, and, as I swept down,
I felt myself smiling up at my mother’s face like a child dropping off
to sleep. There was a stunning crash as my head struck against some
rock in the descent, and then I fell down, down for ever and ever into
the black abyss of unconsciousness.




 CHAPTER X.
 KAHIKATEA AND HIS STRANGE BELIEF.

When a man wakes suddenly in the night, he may imagine that the head
of his bed is where the foot should be. When he wakes from a deep
swoon he is willing to admit that he may be anywhere. But imagine the
feelings of a man, whose last recollection was that of being swept
over the brink of an abyss, waking up and finding himself lying on his
back on a mossy bank, with a well-known face bending over him.

Such was my case, and I thought the whole thing was so impossible that
I gave it up, and, closing my eyes, continued my downward career
through the blackness of darkness, wondering when the final crash
would come.

Again my eyes opened and encountered the face of a friend between me
and the blue sky. A pair of dark brown eyes, anxious and kind, looked
down into mine, and I tried in vain to remember the name of that
friend with the mane of flowing hair and the brown-bearded face. I
knew him so well, but could not place him. After an effort I gave it
up and closed my eyes with a sigh. Really it did not matter very much,
for, just after being shattered on the granite floor at the far bottom
of the abyss, it did not seem to signify what was the name that
belonged to that face. I lapsed again into darkness, and I can dimly
recollect having some such grim, absurd thought as this: that the fall
on the rocks below had scattered my ideas and injured my brain in some
way.

A third time I opened my eyes: the same position, the same face as
before. I began to think there was something in it, and was prompted
to put a question.

“Where am I?”

“Where are you?” replied the deep voice of Kahikatea--I knew him
now--“Why, I hauled you out of the pool nearly half an hour ago. You
came up from the bottom like a piece of limp seaweed. I thought you
were dead at first.”

“So did I,” I returned wearily. “I thought I had gone down into the
abyss, but it must have been the current through the basin that I was
struggling against in the dark.”

Kahikatea looked down at me with a puzzled expression on his face, as
if he thought I was wandering.

“Don’t talk now, old man,” he said presently. “You’ve a frightful
bruise on the back of your head and a deep cut on the top; you’d
better keep quiet.”

Thus admonished, I lay with my eyes half shut watching him, as he
prepared a bandage to bind up my wounds--the one on the top and the
one on the back, from both of which I could feel the blood still
flowing.

“Now,” he said, when at last I was bandaged with something like a
tenfold turban round what appeared to me a tenfold skull, “shall we
camp here?”

“Rather not,” I returned; “they might see us from above and drop rocks
on us.”

“Very well, but you mustn’t talk.”

With this he placed his hands under me, and, lifting me up easily in
his powerful arms, strode away down the bank of the stream. I was too
weak to protest, and said nothing. At length, coming to a sequestered
spot enclosed in thick bushy foliage, he put me down gently and set
about preparing a soft bed of dry fern. This done, and myself placed
comfortably upon it, with some turfs of dry moss for a pillow, he
lighted a fire and made this strange sick-room in the wilderness
comfortable. I dozed off into a troubled sleep, and when I awoke my
nurse sat by me, and administered a pannikin of hot broth, the effect
of which was invigorating.

The fear that I had killed the fierce but noble tohunga--the guardian
priest of that ancient temple from which I had just escaped by a
miracle--was weighing heavily upon my mind. In a few brief sentences I
told Kahikatea what had occurred within the mountain, and we
considered the question as to whether, if Miriam Grey were somewhere
in that strange place,--and from what I had seen I firmly believed she
was,--she would starve without Ngaraki. We came to the conclusion that
this was improbable, for if anything happened to Ngaraki, the mutes
would no doubt know what to do, for, in an hereditary priesthood such
as this claimed to be, it was not likely that the order of succession
would be dislocated by a sudden death. Considering these things we
concluded that Miriam Grey, if there, was as safe as ever she had
been. But we knew that the way to her prison far overhead, impossible
without a guide at ordinary times, was even more so now; a strict
watch would no doubt be kept; and ‘the way of the fish’ was a
difficulty, to say nothing of the ‘way of the winged fish.’
Accordingly, after well considering the matter, I determined to follow
the aged chief’s advice, and take up the search of the child, feeling
convinced that if she was living I could find her.

For two days and two nights I lay on my bed of dry fern, and was
attended by Kahikatea. By all the laws of medical science, except
perhaps one or two not yet thoroughly laid down, I ought to have had
concussion of the brain, or some such thing, but, strange to say, on
the morning of the third day I awoke perfectly clear in the head, and
with every sign of fever gone.

I determined, however, to accept Kahikatea’s advice and rest for the
remainder of that day and night. We passed the time in telling each
other our adventures and in drawing what conclusions we could from
them. My friend’s search for the ‘way of the spider’ had not been as
successful as my exploration of the ‘way of the fish.’ He had found
the place where on the first occasion the rock had let him through
into a kind of tunnel, and had followed this for a considerable
distance, only to be stopped by a blank wall of rock which had all the
appearance of a rude portcullis let down from the roof.

“From what you have told me of the strange contrivance in the interior
of the mountain below,” he concluded, in relating this part of his
adventures, “I can quite understand that this rock blocking up the
tunnel might have been so contrived by the ancients that it could be
let down and made to close the entrance to the cave from above. I
don’t know how thick it is, but I am going to find means to cut
through it. By the time you have found the child I shall probably have
got through to Miriam Grey--by-the-bye, did you look for the grave
which old Te Makawawa spoke about?”

I had quite forgotten it. “No,” I replied; “I was too busily employed
inside the mountain looking for my own. But now’s our time--let us
make use of it. There’s only one rimu of any size in the ravine; it is
unmistakable.”

“‘Beneath the great rimu where the tui sings’--those were the old
chief’s words,” said Kahikatea, as we made our way along the bank of
the river and past the deep pool into the valley, which was shut in
against the mountain wall by the descending spur. There was no stream
running out of the ravine, and the place was carpeted with moss and
kidney ferns, upon which the afternoon sun here and there got in a
smile through some crevice in the foliage overhead. At length we came
to a fairly open moss-grown space around a mighty vine-laced trunk,
which supported the dark green velvety foliage of a magnificent
monarch of the bush.

“Splendid tree,” said Kahikatea, taking off his hat and gazing up at
the fantails and tuis chasing the gnats about its sunlit sides.

“Yes,” said I, the prosaic, “but where is the grave?”

For the next five minutes we were searching in the open space around
the tree. At length I found an inequality beneath the moss, and with
our sheath knives we removed the superficial growth of fifteen years.

“There has evidently been something buried here,” said Kahikatea, as
we looked at the grave-like ridge, about two feet in length; “if we
find bones, or all that is left of them, old Te Makawawa’s a fraud,
and you and I together will bore and blast a passage through by the
‘way of the spider;’ but, if on the other hand we find a stone, the
old chief is to be trusted, in which case you must set out to look for
Crystal Grey, and I will bore and blast alone.”

“Unless you will come with me,” I said.

He did not speak for a little while, and I saw he was hesitating. Then
the dreamy look came into his eyes--the look which I knew meant his
strange, mad desire to look into the face of Hinauri, who, lifeless,
but full of meaning, stood praying up there in the forehead of the
mountain.

“No,” he made answer presently. “Crystal Grey is your quest. You must
go alone.”

We were digging into the soft ground with our sheath knives and
scraping out the dirt with our hands. When we were nearly two feet
down my sheath knife grazed upon something hard, and another minute
disclosed the surface of a stone embedded there.

“We’d better get it right out to make sure,” said Kahikatea, and so we
worked away until we had cleared its whole surface. Then, with the aid
of a log for a lever, we hoisted it and placed it upon the moss.

“Without a doubt the old chief is to be trusted,” said Kahikatea.

“Without a doubt,” I rejoined. “There were points that I had made up
my mind to disbelieve. This was one of them. But now I have verified
so much of his story that I am inclined to accept the whole of it as
true. I shall act on the assumption that Crystal Grey is still living,
and I shall search for her.”

We replaced the stone in its grave and covered it up to look as much
as possible the same as before, then found our way back along the bank
of the stream to the camp beneath the mountain wall, where we spent
the remainder of the day and part of the night in discussing our
different undertakings.

Again I put the question to Kahikatea--a question which in after years
I have often pondered as being one which was asked more wisely than I
knew--“Will you not come with me and search for Crystal Grey?” and
again he answered me with the madness of the poet who, in setting his
mind on visionary things, forgets that flesh and blood is the working
basis of all.

“Warnock,” he said, “I have hitched my waggon to a star and I’m not
going to unhitch it now. I have made up my mind to look into the face
of Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn, and you would have me turn aside
to help you search for Crystal Grey, the daughter of a mortal woman.
No, my friend, the daughters of mortal women are not for madmen like
me. Warnock!”--he smiled good humouredly at me--“the mother who freed
Hinauri from her age-long prison must be the mother of a beautiful
daughter. I prophesy that, when you have found the maiden, you will
marry her and live happily ever afterwards.”

“And you?” I asked, smiling back, “you will wed an abstraction and
beget great poems. Now look here, Kahikatea, face the thing squarely.
Suppose, according to the tradition, which was probably hoary long
before Pygmalion and Galatea were thought of--suppose that Hinauri
should become a living, breathing woman, what would you do?”

He did not answer for some little time, but remained looking straight
before him. At length he gave a sigh and said, “Granting for the
moment that such a thing were possible, Hinauri would be more to me
than she is now. I should love her with my whole self.”

“That is to say, from your present standpoint of the impersonal, she
would be less to you.”

“No, no; the greater includes the less as a part of its greatness.”

“That is to say,” I persisted, pressing him hard, but not against his
will, for two in a solitude speak as brothers; “if she came to life
you would still retain your ideal love for her, but would also give
her the love that a man gives to a woman.”

“Yes, I cannot imagine that it should be otherwise.”

“Well now; I begin to think that you are not in love with an
abstraction after all, but that your feelings stand on a basis
essentially human--founded on the life-likeness of the image--on that,
and on the further romantic tradition that she will return.”

Again he was silent. Then he said slowly, half to himself and half to
me, “The yearning desire upon the face was human, it was living; the
tenderness, the compassion, and that something more--a kind of
sorrow-joy which I could not fathom, filled me with the strange
thought that the stone could feel. I thought--I believe I said it
aloud--‘if brightness would only leap into those eyes, if the raven
gloss would only come upon those tresses, if the laced bosom would
only move with the wonderful emotion of the face, what a glorious
woman would be there.’ As I saw her she seemed to be waiting for a
breath or a touch. One sandalled foot, showing beneath the robe, had
been advanced with the outstretched arms and the other seemed to be in
the act of following, while as yet a little breath of wind had pressed
her robe gently against her. Ah! Warnock, you are right; it was not
the cold stone I saw, but the living woman.”

“And it is that living woman you are in love with,” I concluded.

“Yes, and I am not so mad after all.”

“You would not be if only that woman had a real existence.”

“A real existence?” he said in surprise; “a strong idea will realise
itself somehow. My dear Warnock,”--his voice fell almost to a whisper,
and he spoke with a strange eagerness--“you think me mad as it is, but
at what I am going to say you will think me too far gone for argument.
The idea which, according to tradition, has lived in the minds of an
hereditary priesthood from remote ages, has taken possession of mine
also. I mean the strong belief that Hinauri, as she is in that stone,
will return.”

I looked at him aghast. “Can you give a reason for your belief?”

“None whatever!”

“Then you admit it is contrary to all reason, and yet you believe it.”

“I do not admit it is contrary to all reason; it may be in accord with
some reason of which you and I are ignorant.”

“It seems to me, that there can be no reasonable foundation for the
idea that a stone will suddenly turn into flesh and blood.”

“Yet the idea that was made stone might also be made flesh.”

Kahikatea said these words in deep abstraction. I took small note of
them at the time, though afterwards, when everything was made clear to
me, when my own mind had yielded to nothing less than ocular
demonstration, they were burnt deep into my brain as some of the
truest and sanest words ever uttered. So deep was my friend’s
abstraction that he was unconscious of having thought and spoken. This
was evident, for, starting as if recalled from a deep reverie, he
proceeded to reply to my last remark.

“No,” he said; “it is absurd to believe that a stone can turn into
flesh and blood; yet I believe that Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn,
will return. That is my madness, Warnock, and yet it seems so sane
that even now I regard her as a living woman--the only one in the
world for me.”

He rose as he spoke, and knocked his pipe out against the mountain
wall. Turning towards me with a smile, he added: “If your
determination to find Crystal Grey is half as great as mine to reach
the cave where the pure white woman stands, you will find her, and
then--well, I have prophesied what I have prophesied: the woman who
harboured the vision of Hinauri could not have borne an unlovely
child.”

Early on the following morning we left the shadow of the mountain wall
and passed out from the Table Land beneath the red birches crowned
with mistletoe. By Tiki’s guidance we retraced our steps, and by
nightfall again reached the pool beneath the high cliff where we had
witnessed the phenomenon which had so terrified the Maori.

Here we prepared to camp, but when I went to draw water from the pool
to boil the billy, I discovered something which not only threw an
additional light on the inner workings of that temple in the rock
which we had left behind us, but also had the effect of preventing our
camping at that spot. As I was stooping to draw up the water,
something floating on the surface near by attracted my attention.
Taking a dry branch from the bank I fished the object towards me and
held it up.

It was a hat!

I looked at it more closely in the uncertain light and recognised the
article. It was my own hat that had gone down into the abyss in that
terrible fight with Ngaraki and his speechless men in the interior of
the mountain. With my body full of shudders at the thought of what
else had fallen into the abyss on the same occasion, and my head full
of the only possible explanation of this remarkable find, I sought
Kahikatea, and we agreed to move on and camp on the bank of some
tributary stream lower down; which we did.




 CHAPTER XI.
 THE SEARCH FOR ‘THE LITTLE MAIDEN.’

On the following morning I parted with Kahikatea, who was going back
to his hut among the mountains, and thence to the nearest civilised
part to procure such things as he required for his exploration. Tiki
and I continued our way south towards the cottage on the bank of the
stream where his band had left the child in Grey’s care fifteen years
before; not that we expected to find Crystal Grey still there, but for
all that it was the right point at which to begin our search. I may
say here that I no longer had any doubts as to whether the child left
there by the Maoris was Miriam Grey’s daughter, and, as we journeyed
along towards the gap between two lines of snow mountains, I talked
with Tiki about her.

“What clothes had she on when you took her south?” I asked.

“A _kaitaka_ of kiwi feathers,” he replied, with a readiness that
assured me he could recall it perfectly. “She also had _huia_ feathers
in her hair, sandals on her feet, and a small _heitiki_[19] hung
round her neck.”

I pictured the little mite as a kind of “pakeha Maori” chieftainess
travelling south in the arms of a band of cannibals, but as safe as,
perhaps even safer than, a well-guarded child in a Christian family,
for was she not under the word of protection of the _ariki_ Te
Makawawa? Under such conditions she might have journeyed through the
Uriwera, entering it in childhood and emerging at womanhood, without
so much as a hair of her head being harmed.

“What was she like to look at?” I asked again.

Tiki made an expressive gesture of admiration with his hands.

“_He Pakeha!_ She was like a rising star. The young wild swan was not
more beautiful. When it was my turn to carry the little maiden I had
strange feelings, and when she looked at me with her dark eyes a
_waiariki_[20] sprang up in my heart--ah! she had the eyes of a
witch, _pakeha_, but her words were like the sweet hymns of our
ancestress Paré. My heart flies out of my breast, like a bird into
the south, to search for the little white maiden beyond the snowy
peaks there in the distance.”

“But she is not a little maiden now,” I said. “If she is alive she is
grown up--almost a woman. And quite possibly she may have left this
land to cross the Ocean of Kiwa.”

“Ah! wherever she is she will be like the graceful nikau palm among
the trees of the valley, and her laugh will be like running water. I
remember her laugh, _pakeha_! and her lips! they were as red as the
_titoki_ berry in its sheath, but they will be blue with the tatoo
now, if she is almost a woman!”

“I should hope not,” I said, laughing. “They will still be as red as
the cherry, or as the _titoki_ berry in its sheath, if you like that
better.”

“But her black hair will fall upon her shoulders, and she will wear a
_kaitaka_ like our maidens,” he persisted.

I did not wish to damp his ardour in the search for ‘the little
maiden,’ so I said, “Perhaps--we shall see!”

Day after day, as we journeyed on, we talked of the object of our
quest, and I saw from the Maori’s words that he worshipped the memory
of this little maiden as that of a divine thing. What had he seen in
her eyes to produce this lasting impression upon him? I conjured
before my mind the fresh, fair young face of a girl of seventeen or
eighteen, with laughing lips and coal-black eyes, harbouring, perhaps,
a look of the sorceress in them--a look made more emphatic by
enshrouding masses of raven hair. This face glanced down at me between
the fleecy clouds of the far south, but I recall the vision now only
to dismiss it, for it possessed not the dawnlike flush of radiant
beauty that heaven had cast on Crystal Grey.

On the evening of the fourth day we came to the river along the right
bank of which Tiki remembered taking the child. He led the way and I
followed, marvelling at his memory of cliffs and dark pools, and
outstanding trees which he had not seen for fifteen years.

Twilight fell over the bush and the roaring river. I suggested camping
and continuing the journey next morning. But Tiki said we were now not
far from the hut, so we held on for another half mile. Tiki was right,
as he always was in matters of locality, for there, between some trees
a little withdrawn from the bank, we saw a small cottage; but no smoke
came from the chimney, nor was there a light in the window.

“Is it the place?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied, looking about him; “it is the place. There is the
_totara_ beneath which we waited while our chief carried the little
maiden up to the hut.”

As we advanced towards the cottage we soon saw that it was deserted.
The little bridge that spanned a stream was lying with one end in the
water, the gate opening on the garden path was leaning sideways from
one hinge; and, as we passed on up to the door, the overgrown path,
the wilderness of tangles in the garden, and, finally, the broken
windows of the hut itself showed that it had long since been deserted.

Opening the door on its creaking hinges, we went inside. The place was
quite bare, except for a bed of fern in one corner, where some
traveller had camped. There was no evidence of its having been
regularly occupied for, I thought, at least ten years. However, I
resolved to sleep there that night, and in the morning push on to the
nearest sheep run, accommodation house, or digging township, as the
case might be, and make inquiries. Accordingly we swept the floor,
brought in more fern, boiled our billy on the hearth, and slept in
more comfortable quarters than those to which we were accustomed.

A strange thing happened in the night--a thing which was the first in
an extended series of inexplicable occurrences, in the progress of
which I almost began to imagine I was being haunted. I awoke suddenly,
and saw the bright moonlight flooding in through one of the empty
casements, and there, looking in, was what I accepted as a mean trick
of my imagination. It was a face--the most vile and wizard-looking
face I have ever seen. The features were those of a negro, wizened,
withered, evil-looking to a degree. I started up into a sitting
posture, and rubbed my eyes, but when I stared at the open square of
moonlight again the face was gone. I sprang to my feet, went over to
the casement and looked out, but saw nothing. Yet what I heard chilled
my blood. From very far away in the bush came a wild, hideous laugh,
like that of a triumphant devil. Bah! was the place haunted, or was I
ridden by some nightmare which had grown out of my fearful experiences
in the mountain cavern? I could make nothing of it, so I went back to
bed, and when I awoke in the morning I laughed it away as a grotesque
nightmare.

When day came I had a good look round the place to see if I could find
anything that would give me some sort of clue to the whereabouts of
Grey, but nothing that I saw afforded me anything to the purpose.
There was an overgrown and almost obliterated bullock-dray road,
however, which I knew must lead to some run or settlement, and this I
proposed to follow, as it led away to the south-west, and would in all
probability bring us to the West Coast Goldfields, or, at all events,
to the sea; so that, at least, we could find our way to Hokitika.

A last look round the interior of the hut before setting out afforded
a peculiar piece of evidence to the effect that some child, six or
seven years old, had left that hut in, or shortly after, the year
18--. I arrived at this conclusion in the following way. While I was
making a careful survey of ceiling, floor, and walls, my eye fell upon
some horizontal scratches on the bare wall near the fireplace. At
first glance they appeared like markings made by a carpenter, but a
closer scrutiny showed me in a flash what they really
were--measurements of the growth of some child. There were eight or
nine. The first, dated June, 18--, was about three feet six inches
from the floor. The next stood an inch above, and so they ran up, some
with dates and others without, to the height of four feet and a little
over. There at a certain date the measurements stopped, from which I
concluded that the child, whose growth had been registered in this
way, may have left at that time. There were no markings anywhere else
to give the idea that any other children had lived in the hut, so the
only conclusion I could draw was that these referred to the child who
had been left there with Grey some fifteen years since.

But a sudden thought arrested my mind. I was getting along a little
too hastily. There might be another explanation of the sudden
termination of this systematic scale of measurements at the height of
four feet something. That last measurement might have had a black edge
to it, in which case it occurred to me with a shade of sadness that
its date might be found again burnt into some little wooden slab at
the head of a grave four feet something in length, in a sheltered spot
in the garden about the hut.

To exhaust this alternative I explained my discovery to Tiki, and
together we went out and made a thorough search all over the tangled
wilderness of a garden, but, to my great relief, found no such grave
or wooden slab. It was more probable, I thought, judging from the
deserted state of the place, and the growth of the quick-hedges since
they had last been cut, that Grey and the child had left the hut
somewhere about the year specified in the last measurement, nine years
before the time of which I am writing.

“The little maiden is not dead,” said Tiki anxiously, when we had
concluded our search; “no, she is not dead. We should have counted
another star in the sky, if the little maiden had passed over Wai Ora
Tane.”

“She is not buried here at all events,” I replied with dry logic,
which I fear compared but poorly with the poetical thought of the
Maori. Then we found the bullock-dray road and set out on our tramp.

Overgrown, bestrewn with _débris_ from the thick bush, and in parts
almost impassable, it led straight down into the south-west, and when
we had followed it for two or three miles it opened out into another
dray road which was in good repair. Here we found fresh bullock
tracks, with the ruts of dray wheels, and after travelling some five
miles in our right direction with the rising sun behind us, we heard a
sound of ‘language’ ahead. It was the bullock-puncher talking in his
most persuasive tone to his long-suffering team.

Presently, turning a slight bend in the road, we came up with him--a
raw Irishman of the lankiest, boniest type imaginable, with fiery hair
and a nose that had been blunted in Heke’s war in the ’forties. His
trousers were not what they used to be; his boots were eighteen by
four; his shirt should have been at the binder’s in several places,
except where it was fashionably fastened at the collar with a tie of
undressed flax clean that day from Nature’s laundry; his socks, which
one looked for in vain between the bottoms of his trousers and the
tops of his boots, were at the wash; and his clay pipe, stuck like a
dagger in his belt of raw bullock’s hide, looked as if it wanted
renewing; but--his language was divine, I mean profane, and his whip,
as it curled in air and dusted last year’s hair from the leader’s
flank, was eloquent with the sublimity of perfect punctuation.

I was drawing out this bullock-puncher, when the off leader stopped,
and, turning his lowered head to the right, gave a violent snort that
scattered the dust and dry leaves from the ground. In a trice the
great whip was unfolding itself in the air, and, as it came down on
the startled bullock’s flank, the well of Irish much defiled
overflowed its banks; but, in the confusion, I heard distinctly from
far away the same wild, mocking laugh of my nightmare. Again I asked
myself if I was haunted, and if so what earthly or unearthly thing had
scared the bullock at that moment. Again I could make nothing of it,
and dismissed the matter from my mind.

We walked by the side of this son of Erin for a mile, and I learned in
the course of conversation that there was a small digging township ten
miles further on. Seeing that he could not talk to his bullocks
properly with anyone else constantly interrupting the thread of his
argument, and that he neither knew anything about Grey nor could tell
me who had last lived in the hut on the river bank, we soon left him
behind, coming along slowly to the tune of “Woo comother
byke--Skipper! byke--Skipper!! ye (crack) byke! Skipper!!!” which tune
had no “grand Amen” in it, but went on and on until, as we drew ahead,
it died away further and further in the distance.

Towards evening we reached the digging township--a quaint, mushroom
growth of tents and rough wooden buildings. Here I began my inquiries,
but no one could give me any information. The floating population of
the gold diggings was not an easy field in which to find traces of a
man who had probably left the district ten years before. The Hindu
saying, “A piece of wood and a piece of wood may meet in the ocean,
and having touched, float away again--like this is the meeting of
mortals,” is especially true in a gold-seeking world, where men come
from everywhere, and drift about between California, Bendigo, and New
Zealand. But late that night chance favoured me. I dropped into the
tap-room of an accommodation house a little way out of the township,
and put my inquiries to the landlord. He shook his head, then turning
to the ten or twelve occupants of the room who were playing euchre at
a large table, he addressed them collectively.

“Say, do any of you chaps know anything of a man named Grey, who lived
in these parts about ten years ago?”

The diggers paused in their play and looked up. One honest-looking
ruffian--a Scot, with sandy whiskers and quick grey eyes, paused with
his arm upraised in the excited attitude a man assumes when he is
about to plank down the right bower. I saw his eyes pass over me in a
quick scrutiny; then, when the others had answered the landlord’s
question with negatives of various kinds, he spun the winning card on
to the table instead of banging it down with a noisy thud in the usual
way among diggers, and, pushing his chair back, asked another man to
take his place, and sauntered out of the room.

I did not think this had any bearing on the matter in hand until
afterwards, when, on leaving the place and proceeding along the road
that led back to the township, I was surprised to see this rough Scot
step out of the shadows by the roadside and come towards me.

“I heard ye askin’ for Grey up yonder,” he said, “and I thocht maybe
it’s Dreamer Grey ye want.”

“Dreamer Grey?” I repeated, laying stress upon the strange Christian
name as I rolled it over in my mind. “I don’t know him by that
name--in fact, all I know about him is that he disappeared from
Hokitika seventeen years ago, and lived for some time in a small hut
on the bank of the river about twenty-five miles down. He was a tall,
soldierly man, with curly black hair, brown eyes, and a short
moustache----”

“Ay, that’s Dreamer Grey,” he interrupted; “but tell me noo, what are
ye wantin’ him for?”

“Are you mistaking me for a detective on his track?” I asked laughing.

“I’m no so sure,” he said gravely as his keen grey eyes met mine in
the starlight. “I’m no so sure, and until I weel ken what ye’re
wantin’ him for I canna tell ye.”

“All right,” I replied. “Grey’s wife has been left a large estate at
home and a lot of money, and I’m searching for her--if living--or,
failing that, for evidence of her death.”

“Grey’s wife? eh, man, but Grey had nae wife. It canna be the same
man?”

“Oh, yes it is,” I persisted. “He had a little girl named Crystal with
him, had he not?”

“Ay, he had then, a bonny wee lassie.”

“With black hair and black eyes.”

“Ay, I mind the wee lassie weel. Ah! man, but she was bonnie.” His
rough voice softened as he said the words.

“That little girl was his own child,” I went on.

“Eh! What’s that? what’s that? his ain child? Weel noo; he telt me
that the bairn was left at his hut one night when he was asleep by the
fire. Hoo d’ye ken it was his ain bairn? Dreamer Grey wasna the man to
tell his mate a dam lee, an’ I’m no the man to stand by and----”

He was getting excited, and I hastened to explain.

“Now, you listen,” I said, “and I’ll tell you how I know what I know;
and, at the same time, you’ll see that what Grey told you was
perfectly true. I have gleaned from the Maoris that they took Grey and
his wife prisoners when they had only been married a few weeks. They
kept the woman, but set Grey free, having first inoculated him with
some strange poison which clouded his mind, and, as they gave me to
understand, entirely dislocated his memory. In due time the little
girl, his daughter, was born, and when she was two years old one of
the chiefs, not wishing to kill her, but wanting to be rid of her,
sent her with a party of Maoris southwards, with orders that she
should be left with the first pakeha they encountered. They came
across the hut where Grey was living and left her there while he was
asleep. Of course, he adopted the child not knowing it was his own.”

“Ay, ay,” said the Scot slowly. “Man, that’s a strange tale ye’re
tellin’ me. But I mind weel that Dreamer Grey telt me he had forgotten
his past life, and he was sae mysterious aboot it that I thocht he had
done something that he didna wish to mind, and that’s why I heid ma
tongue when I heard ye speerin’ aboot him up yonder at the hoose.”

“Ah!” I said. “And how did he come by his strange name?”

“I’m comin’ to that. He said that when the wee lassie was left wi’ him
she telt him her name was ‘Crystal Grey’ as near as a bairn could say
it; and so he ca’d himsel’ Grey, an’ we ca’d him Dreamer, because
every now and again he would stop in his work and look straight ahead
in an oncanny way, as if he was tryin’ to reca’ somethin’ he had
dreamt. Ay, he was a queer body, and what ye say aboot his mem’ry
explains many and many a thing that I couldna mak’ oot.”

“Well now,” I said, anxious to come to the point, “the Maori tohunga
who doctored him with the poison knows where Grey’s wife is and will
reveal her hiding-place to me on one condition--that I find and bring
back the child. Whether his conscience is troubling him, or whether
some strange superstition is at the bottom of it, I cannot say; but I
have reason to trust him, and, if I return with the child, I have no
doubt I shall find her mother. So if you know where Grey and the child
are and have quite given up the idea that I’m on Grey’s track for
something he doesn’t want to remember, perhaps you can give me some
information.”

At this the honest Scot opened his heart, and told me how he and
Dreamer Grey had worked together on the goldfields; how, some ten
years before, Grey had made his pile, and had bought a large tract of
land at the head of one of the sounds on the south-west coast, where
he settled down with one aim in life, to care for the well-being of
the wee bit lassie; and, finally, how, if I were to go there and say
that old Jim Crichton directed me, I should be welcomed with open
arms.

“And noo ma bonnie lad,” he concluded, when he had told me this much
and more, “it’s a dry tale that doesna end in a drink. Come on!”

As he put his arm through mine and drew me away towards the
accommodation house, a stone rolled from the top of a bank twelve or
fifteen feet high on one side of the road.

“Did that fall of its own accord?” I asked myself, and as if in answer
to my question there came again that wild, unearthly laugh from far
away back in the bush.

“Did you hear that?” I asked excitedly, catching my friend by the arm.

“Yes; someone laughing in the bush--sounds oncanny.”

“I heard it once before,” I replied, “but thought it was fancy--some
mad hatter, I suppose.”

And we continued our way to the house.




 CHAPTER XII.
 THE MAN-WHO-HAD-FORGOTTEN.

Our journey to the coast, first through the dense bush and
afterwards by goldseekers’ tracks, was not marked by any adventure
worth mentioning. Arrived at a village on the coast line near
Hokitika, we booked our passage by a whaler bound southward, and in
less than a week we reached the Sounds.

Grand, solitary, majestic are the bold features of this coast line
which faces the westerly breezes of the Pacific. Gentle arms of the
sea caress and almost entwine great mountain rocks that stand waist
deep in ninety fathoms.

Following the Scot’s directions accurately, I arranged with the
captain of the whaler to put us ashore in a boat as soon as we came
opposite the required Sound, which I recognised at once from
Crichton’s description. The opening was almost hidden by the
perpendicular rocks which stood about the entrance, but, when we
passed between these in the small boat pulled by two sturdy sailors,
we found a broad arm of smooth water within stretching for several
miles between rugged mountains, which grew gradually rounded and
verdant as they sloped away inland.

As we passed over the glassy surface of this still water among still
surroundings, it seemed that we were entering a world where we should
encounter no living thing but penguins and wild fowl.

The steady sound of our oars echoed from the rugged and precipitous
shore; some ducks wheeled by overhead and disappeared round an elbow
some hundred yards beyond, and high up above the towering rocks, the
distant fleecy clouds shone in the rays of the setting sun. It was a
splendid solitude, whose substance and shadow were clearly defined and
divided by the millpond surface of the water.

But immediately on rounding the elbow beyond which the ducks had
disappeared, we came in view of something which jarred upon our sense
of solitude. There, riding at anchor in a little wooded cove before
us, was a large yacht.

“Whose is that?” I asked one of the seamen who had come with us.

“I couldn’t tell you, sir,” was his response; “but there’s a bit of
the Yankee about her. See them there spars”--he broke off suddenly in
his speech to me and addressed the continuation of his remark
excitedly to his fellow seaman--“why, blow me, Bill, if that ain’t the
craft as we seen in Astrolabe Roads nigh on a month ago. What was the
big chap’s name, him as was the owner?”

“Señor Cazotl,” returned the other, regarding the yacht intently. “I
heard the skipper tellin’ the doctor that he was a Mexican with whips
of money and a nasty look in his eye; and what’s more, if a man could
be judged by his crew, he was more like Old Nick himself out for a
holiday than anyone else.”

“What was the matter with his crew?” I asked.

“The matter! why, the skipper said he’d never seed a more hang-dog
lookin’ lot; a man with a crew like that ought to be hanged on general
principles, he ought. Some was half-castes; there was two Spaniards
with murder scribbled all over ’em, and a Portuguese hunchback with a
face like a wild gorilla; but the worst and curst of the whole swag
was a grey-headed, skinny wisp of a nigger what gave our skipper
fantods, and made him think of Thugs and Areois, and them sort of
uncanny sarpints.”

“The skipper evidently didn’t care for Señor Cazotl and his crew,” I
said.

“You’re right there, sir. He ups anchor an’ gets away the very next
mornin’ before the Mexican had a chance of returning his visit.”

By this time we were abreast of the yacht, but we could not discern
anyone on board; and, after weighing the remarks of the sailors, I did
not feel greatly inclined to have anything to do with the strangers.
But it fell out contrary to our inclinations, for, having avoided the
yacht, we had no sooner reached the next bend than we nearly ran into
its owner and two of his crew in a small boat coming down from the
upper part of the sound. We were within twenty yards, when the man who
was steering, evidently Cazotl himself, called upon his two rowers to
cease pulling, and waved his hand to us, evidently wishing to speak.
The sailors reluctantly obeyed the intimation, and, as we drew up
within two oars’ lengths of each other I observed the huge, ungainly
proportions of Cazotl sitting in the stern, and his evil face, whose
low forehead, square protruding jaw, and leering lips were half
concealed by a wealth of glossy black hair. His long, flat nose lent a
peculiar interpretation to his face, and filled me with the strange
fancy that if one of his first parents may have been a fiend, the
other might certainly have been a giant ape. Moreover, there was a
peculiar suggestion of red fire in his eyes which riveted my
attention. As he drew nearer and was about to speak, I found myself
wondering where I had seen that face before. The general cast and
expression were familiar to me, but I could not recall where or when I
had seen it.

“Good day to you,” he said. “Do you live in these parts, or are you a
wandering star like myself?”

“Going to the head of the Sound for a time,” I replied shortly; “got a
friend living there. Just come off a small sailing craft outside.
That’s your yacht down there, isn’t it? You, I presume, are Señor
Cazotl?”

“Yes, at your service. I should be very pleased if you and your friend
at the head of the Sound would do me the honour of looking me up some
evening.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I will mention your kind invitation to my
friend, but his house is some miles up the Sound. We must push on if
we hope to reach it before dark.”

The two sailors were not slow to ply their oars, and, as we began to
move off, Señor Cazotl said: “I shall be very pleased to see you, if
you care to come.”

But I did not reply, for my glance had fallen for the first time on
the two who were handling the oars in his boat--and what I saw
deprived me of speech for the moment. The one was a Spaniard with
“murder scribbled all over him,” and the other was the white-haired,
skinny, Thug-like wisp of a negro. I stared in amazement, for I
recognised his wizened face as that which I had seen in the moonlight
at the window of the hut on the bank of the river. In another moment
I jerked out some reply--I cannot remember what--and we passed on
towards the head of the Sound, while Cazotl’s boat continued its way
towards the yacht.

The sailors, as they rowed on, talked to each other in a manner not
flattering either to Cazotl or his crew, but I sat silent. Two things
troubled me. Had that lithe negro tracked me through the bush, and, if
so, why? And where had I set eyes on Cazotl’s face before? His yacht
had been seen some weeks since in l’Astrolabe Roads, which locality
was not far either from Te Makawawa’s _pa_ or from the place where I
first landed from Wakatu. A shudder ran through me as I asked myself
if it was possible that the Thug-like creature I had just seen had
tracked me from the moment when I landed until now. In answer to my
question there came into my mind that far-away laugh which I could not
understand, as in each case it had followed some false step or
semi-exposure of someone near at hand. The more I thought the more I
was convinced that I had been tracked by this thing with the evil
face; and, as it dawned upon me that, if it was so, there must be some
connection between that fact and the appearance of the yacht down
there near our destination, I felt forebodings which I could not
dispel. I was aroused from these dark thoughts only to be plunged into
darker by Tiki, who, gazing steadily after Cazotl’s boat, remarked:
“Wanaki! if that _taepo_[21] catches the little maiden he will roast
her in the oven. _Oa!_ I have heard the _ariki_ say, ‘Beware of the
children of the Great Woman of Death and Darkness; and by this you
shall know them: they have the gleam of the red fire in their eyes.’”

It was dark when the two sailors landed us at the head of the Sound,
and made their way back to their ship. As far as one could see by the
uncertain light of the stars, the rugged characteristics of the place
here sloped off into rounded hills enclosing a broad, fertile valley,
which widened out considerably before being lost among the hills
inland. There were banks of trees not more than a quarter of a mile up
the valley, and there I concluded we should find Grey’s house.

It was not very long before we struck a path leading up from the
water. This, as we followed it, took us through green fields, where
sheep and horses were grazing. Then before us we saw the great banks
of trees. Coming at last to some slip bars beneath high blue-gums, we
gained a square enclosure some acres in extent, in the midst of which,
embowered in trees, we discerned vaguely the gables of a house. In the
upstairs window of the gable facing us a light was showing through the
close-drawn blind. Someone was going to bed.

Our path led us round an umbrageous orchard and brought us out on to a
well-kept lawn, where, passing beneath some cedars which stood apart,
their boughs moving gently between us and the stars as they whispered
in the night wind, we approached the picturesque old country house.

“You stay here beneath the trees,” I said to Tiki, thinking his
appearance might frighten the inmates; “and I will come for you
presently.”

Then, finding my way round the verandah, I sought out the front door
and knocked. Presently, through the glass panel at the side of the
door, I saw a light approaching along the hall, and a moment later the
door was opened by a tall man with a candle in his hand.

“Are you Mr. Grey?” I asked, recognising him from Te Makawawa’s
description--a soldierly man with curling hair, brown eyes, and short,
black moustache.

“That is my name,” he replied, holding the candle up and scanning my
face.

I said, “I am a stranger to you, but I come from Jim Crichton, whom I
met in the Karamea; and I have something important to tell you.”

“From Jim Crichton!” he said, with pleased surprise. “You are welcome,
then, if your news is good or bad. Come in.”

He led me into a room that looked like a library, and proceeded to
light the lamp.

“Everybody’s gone to bed,” he said, as he turned the wick up, “and I
was just going myself. We’re early to bed and early to rise here. Take
a seat, Mr.--let me see, you did not tell me your name.” He smiled at
me kindly. In the smile and the expression of his face anyone could
see that he was a man with a large heart.

“Warnock--Dick Warnock.”

“Ah! sit here, Mr. Warnock, and before you tell me your news let me
get you something to eat; I daresay you’re hungry.”

He went out of the room, and I glanced around at the pictures on the
wall, the books in the shelves, and the delicately arranged flowers on
the table. It was the room of a successful man with refined tastes,
and in many places there were gentle evidences of a feminine hand.

In a few minutes he returned, bearing a tray with various things to
eat and drink, and while I was partaking of these he talked about his
old friend Crichton, recalling incidents of the goldfields.

When I had finished my meal, and had tuned my pipe to his cigar, I
leaned back in my chair and said: “Now to my news.”

“All in good time,” he replied with a pleasant smile; “is it good or
bad?”

“It is good, but I have no doubt it will startle you, even to the
extent of leading you to doubt my sanity, or at least my story.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked steadily at me for a while; then,
blowing forth a cloud of smoke, he remarked quietly: “All right. I’m
not easily startled. Proceed.”

“In order to find the exact point at which I must begin,” I said, “I
shall have to ask you a few questions. In the first place, do you
remember the hut on the bank of the river where you lived?”

“Yes, perfectly well.”

“Good. Do you remember your first coming to that hut through the
Karamea bush?”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“Well now, one question more; can you remember the place you set out
from on that occasion?”

Grey took his cigar from his lips and fixed his eyes on the lamp,
while a dreamy, puzzled expression came on his face. At last, drawing
his hand over his brow, he turned to me and said: “Perhaps it will be
your turn now to doubt either my sanity or my story; but,
nevertheless, what I am about to tell you is the sober truth. Four or
five days before reaching that hut something happened to me, I don’t
know what, but at all events I have never been able to recall anything
that transpired previously. The last I can remember, and it is a very
dim memory, is that I found my way down from a high place among the
mountains. All beyond that is a blank in my mind--a blank containing
nothing but the consciousness of something forgotten.”

“I doubt neither your sanity nor your story,” I hastened to reply.
“Besides, I have ample evidence of the truth of what you say; and not
only that, but I can set before you various important details of your
past life which, as I said, will startle you.”

He scanned my face again more eagerly than before. “Are you an old
friend whose face and name I have forgotten?” he asked wistfully.

“No, not that,” I replied. “I have my information from the Maoris. Do
you know that you have a wife and daughter, Mr. Grey?”

He started. Then leaning forward over the table and looking earnestly
in my face, he asked, hoarsely:

“Still living?”

“I have every reason to believe that your wife Miriam is still
alive----” I paused, wondering if in his oblivion he had married
again, and if, perhaps--it was a painful thought--the woman of his
choice was at present the head of his household. His face, wrought
with nervous emotion, told me nothing of this kind; and if I had not
paused he would have interrupted me in his excitement.

“Thank Heaven!” he said, striking the table with his fist, and rising
from his seat to pace the carpeted floor; “thank Heaven I have never
married again. And my daughter--speak, sir--my daughter?”

“Was left at your hut fifteen years ago while you were asleep by the
fire.”

He stopped in his pacing to and fro on the other side of the table and
faced me with a countenance from which all traces of excitement had
fled. Slowly a fine light began to burn in his brown eyes. Like a man
walking in his sleep, he felt his way round the table, and, seating
himself again in his chair, said in a deep, hushed voice, which had a
strange ring of sweetness in it: “Crystal Grey my own child--the
mother whom she has led me to love above all other
women--my--own--wife. I, I, Warnock!”--he started from his chair
again--“can you prove this? Quick! or I shall go mad; man, it is more
than I ever dared to dream.”

Then, as clearly as I could, I laid before him the facts which the
reader already knows, telling the story of Te Makawawa, but, in
accordance with our understanding with the old chief, omitting all
mention of the legend of Hinauri and the statue in the marble cave. As
I proceeded I strengthened point by point with evidence derived from
my own adventures in the mountain, with the carved piece of wood,
which I handed him across the table, and with that part of Kahikatea’s
adventure which involved no mention of the sacred stone.

“It is strange,” he said, when I had finished; “but for the last
seventeen years, which is the only part of my life that I know, there
has passed scarcely a day without some flitting reminiscence of giant
rocks, with an additional dream-glimpse of something which has always
eluded me. In the midst of my work, or perhaps when I am in
conversation with someone, I will suddenly see in my mind’s eye a
woman’s face--ah! very often that woman’s tender face--then a patch of
grey rock, a smooth white stone, or a gigantic crag against the blue
sky; but, beyond that, nothing, except a vague consciousness of some
long chain of events which will not disclose themselves.”

When I continued my tale, and concluded with the statement of Te
Makawawa’s express condition that when I returned with the child he
would inquire of his ancestors concerning the whereabouts of Miriam
Grey, but not before, Dreamer Grey’s eyes sparkled with purpose and
resolve.

“We will go, Warnock,” he said, “we will go, the three of us together,
and find my wife, if she is still alive.”

“The three of us?” I said. “You, I, and----?”

“Why, Crystal of course; she went to bed before you came. But, by
Heaven! I must go and wake her and tell her this news.”

Before he had finished speaking he was out of the room and half way up
the stairs. Suddenly remembering Tiki waiting beneath the cedars, I
went softly out of the house with half a loaf of bread in one hand and
a large piece of cold pork in the other, with which, having found him,
I advised him to regale himself. But, hungry as he was, he did not
begin until he had asked the question which probably he had asked
himself a hundred times since I had left him: “Is the little maiden in
there?”

“Yes,” I replied, “she’s in there; you’ll see her to-morrow, perhaps.
Stay here and I’ll come out again soon with Pakeha Kerei, and he’ll
find you some place where you can pass the night.”

“_He Wanaki_,” was all he said, but it meant a great deal. It meant
that eating and sleeping were matters of no moment now that he knew
‘the little maiden’ was alive.

Leaving him, I returned to the house and waited for Grey. When he came
back some time later his face was full of a gentle happiness. The
discovery that Crystal Grey was not an adopted child, but his own
daughter, had touched the very depths of his soul.

“Warnock,” he said, grasping my hand, “how can I ever repay you for
this?”

“I am already a paid servant,” I faltered, “drawing my salary from
certain trustees of a large estate at home.”

“Ah! yes,” he replied, “money might repay you for your trouble, but
how can I discharge the debt of gratitude I owe to you, who have
brought me this great happiness?”

“I give it up,” I said laughing; “and I advise you to do the same. In
the meantime, I have a Maori waiting outside, and I took the liberty
of taking him some food while you were away. He’s a bit of a savage,
and perhaps it would be best for him to sleep in the barn--he would be
more comfortable.”

“Yes, yes; where is he?” he asked. Then, as I led the way, he added
with a merry laugh: “I suppose he’d never forgive us if we put him
between sheets in a feather bed--he’d think his days were numbered,
eh?”

I laughed in reply. I was becoming infected with my host’s happiness.

“Do you talk Maori?” I asked, as we found Tiki finishing his meal
beneath the cedars; “this fellow can’t speak a word of English.”

“No, I can’t,” he replied, “but Crystal can. She’ll put him through
his facings in the morning. Where shall we bed him down, in the barn
or in the hay loft?”

“I think a bundle of straw in the corner of the verandah would be a
luxury to him.”

“Right! you wait here. I’ll soon fix him up.” And he disappeared, to
return presently with a lantern and a large bundle of straw which he
deposited in the most sheltered part of the verandah, where, following
my instructions, Tiki made his bed and turned in. We then went inside
the house; and when, after a long, earnest talk, my host had shown me
into the best bedroom, he said “Good-night,” and retired to rest.

Until long after everything was quiet I leaned upon the window-sill
gazing at the stars, and basking in the atmosphere of happiness which
had fallen upon that house. The cloth of gold roses that clustered
round the window gave a faint odour, which stole softly out upon the
quiet air, for the night wind had died away in the blue-gums, and the
garden below was very still. The sound of a breaking twig, the sighing
of the guilty aspen as its leaves turned restlessly in their sleep,
the chirping of a cricket on the lawn, the munching of the horses in
the stable, the hooting of an owl in the plantation, and the baying of
a shepherd’s dog on the hills--these were the sounds that emphasised
the stillness of the night. But suddenly, from far away, came the
faint refrain of a wild, heathenish chant, rising and falling on the
still night air in weird, barbaric changes. As I listened it chilled
my blood, breaking through the sweet, happy silence of the place like
a note of horror. I knew it came from the direction of Cazotl’s yacht.
With a shudder I closed the window to shut it out.




 CHAPTER XIII.
 CRYSTAL GREY.

So long accustomed to rise at the first signs of day, I was unable
to break myself of the habit suddenly. Consequently, according to long
custom, I awoke next morning just as the faint grey of dawn was
appearing above the eastern hills. To wake and to get up were the same
thing to a man of my abandoned restlessness. In less than twenty
minutes, therefore, I was dressed. Picking a dew-covered rose-bud from
the clusters about the window, I went downstairs fastening it in my
buttonhole, passed out at the front door, and on to the verandah.

Taking the opposite direction from that in which Tiki had retired for
the night, I found my way round the verandah to the back corner of the
house, where, beneath heavy festoons of flowering vines, some wooden
steps led down into a well-planned wilderness of a garden. There I
roamed beneath the trees in the dim light and strange hush of early
dawn. The faint twittering of a thousand birds came from the tall
native trees that walled the place in from the outer world. It was a
wonderful garden, and had evidently been laid out by some early
settler with English ideas, long before Dreamer Grey came to the
place. There were well-worn paths between umbrageous native _matapo_,
_titoki_, and _ngaio_; and leaf-strewn sward beneath isolated fruit
trees, which were quite forty years old.

Wandering about in this old-world garden, with now a glimpse of the
rosy sky between the wall of native trees, and now the taste of a plum
or cherry that hung low on the dewy branch, I came at length upon a
curious grove of hazels planted in short rows, at right angles to a
hawthorn hedge in such a way as to form a suite of five or six rustic
rooms, roofed above by the arching boughs of the nut trees, walled in
behind by the hedge, and screened from the rest of the garden in front
by the drooping foliage of some branches trained for the purpose.

I saw all this in a first glance through the leafy screen of one of
them, for the now crimson sky beyond, showing through a gap in the
tall native trees and flooding in over the hedge, suffused the
interior with a dreamy light. When I had pushed my way in I found that
this garden retreat showed signs of occupation. There was a hammock
slung across it from the stoutest stems of the hazels. A small table
stood against one wall of stems, a rough seat against the other. An
easel and palette reclined against the hedge, which was almost covered
with the profuse pink bloom of geraniums; and, on the floor, carpeted
with last year’s leaves and nuts, stood a cushioned wicker chair.

The dry nuts cracked beneath my heavy boots as I walked towards the
hammock and picked up a book that lay there on a cushion. It was a
well-worn volume of Shelley’s poems, and on the flyleaf was written,
“Crystal Grey, her book.” I put it down and glanced round the quaint
place again, murmuring to myself, “Crystal Grey, her studio.”

It seemed a place of dreams, and it suited my mood, so I placed the
wicker chair against the hedge, and sat down to watch the delicate
hues which were beginning to glorify the screen of leaves that shut me
off from the garden. As the sun showed signs of his rising behind me
these leaves, catching the flush, stood out against the shadows
beyond. They changed from dark green to light, then glistened into a
pale yellow. Finally, as the sun’s first ray struck through the pink
geraniums on the hedge, they were glorified with delicate rosy hues,
and all the place was suffused with the fresh dewy pink of early dawn.
How beautiful it was, that glorious sunlight glistening on the silk
pattern of the cushion in the hammock, touching the stems of the
hazels with light and shadow, and striking the leaf-strewn ground with
a deep russet as it fell even to the foot of the leafy screen, all
fresh and dewy through the sparkling air.

I awoke from my dream at some sound that reached my ears. It was a
footfall on the grass outside. It drew near. I heard the rustle of a
skirt. In another moment the sunlit leaves about the entrance were
drawn aside, and a girl entered. The boughs swung to behind her, and
she stood in the sun ray, still holding one branch with her hand,
while she regarded me for a moment with hesitation. I said a girl, but
my first impression of Crystal Grey was that she was something between
a proud goddess and a sweet angel: the former aspect slumbering in her
coal-black eyes and wavy black hair, the latter wide awake upon her
lovely face and perfect form, clad, as all angels are, in white. The
mysterious eyes of deep night, and the hair of deeper night contrasted
strangely with the innocent wistfulness of the rest of the face. If
the eyes were those of some severe sage, made young again by a draught
of his wondrous elixir, the sweet girlish lips looked as if they had
kissed the early morning dew from a ripe peach and carried away the
freshness of it. I rose from my wicker chair and stood facing her,
with the hammock between us. I was too dazzled by this sudden
apparition of girlish beauty, beyond my power to describe, to stammer
out a single word; and, while I was trying to begin an apology for my
rough appearance in her garden sanctum, she spoke first.

“Are you the stranger that brought the good news?” she asked, as she
let go the branch and advanced a step towards me.

“I am,” I replied; “but that hardly excuses my trespassing here
perhaps.”


 [image: images/img165.jpg
 caption: “SHE SEATED HERSELF SIDEWAYS ON THE HAMMOCK, WHILE I RESUMED
 MY WICKER CHAIR, AND TOLD AGAIN THE STORY WHICH I HAD NARRATED TO HER
 FATHER.”]


She extended her fair, white hand, and, as I took it in my rough brown
one, looking into her eyes the while, a combination of feelings took
possession of me. I can only liken it to the laying of the
foundation-stone of a love which would mount upwards for ever and
ever, like a crystal staircase leading to the far-off heaven of her
soul.

Her sweet lips moved, then trembled, but no words came. Only her eyes
spoke unfathomable things, as they burned with feelings, tender and
mysterious; only a sigh escaped her as she turned her head away.

“What is it affects you so in the news I bring?” I asked.

“My mother,” she replied; “is she still living? Do you think we can
find her? Oh! tell me the story of your adventures again; perhaps
there was something my father left out.”

She seated herself sideways on the hammock, while I resumed my wicker
chair, and told again the story which I had narrated to her father the
night before.

When I had finished, she said, “May Heaven reward you for all you went
through.”

“I am rewarded already,” I replied.

“You mean that Heaven has rewarded you in advance by giving you a
disposition that gets its happiness from making other people happy.”

I was ashamed of my poor attempt at a compliment and said, “Yes, that
is what I meant”--though it was nothing of the kind--“only I am not
clever at expressing myself.”

“Do you think that last shot of yours killed Ngaraki?” she asked, with
a gentle concern in her voice, for I had told her more about the chief
than I had to Grey the previous evening.

“I hope not,” I replied; “he was a noble fellow, and had a fine hatred
of the Vile Tohungas, because, as he said, they were the Destroyers of
Women.”

A slight change of expression passed over her face, and with a quick
intuition she said:

“There is something you have kept back. Almost my only memory besides
that of my mother’s face is what I think must have been an image
carved out of marble, all white and beautiful. Did you see any such
thing?”

“No, I did not see what you speak of, but I saw Ngaraki hold up his
arms and gaze--like the Twelfth Tohunga I have told you about--up
through the darkness to something which he knew was far above, and I
judged from the chief’s manner that the object he was addressing was
sublime and beautiful.”

There was a silence, during which Crystal was evidently engaged in
trying to recall more of this earliest memory, while I was considering
whether, if I spoke of Kahikatea’s experience, I should be breaking my
promise to Te Makawawa. At length, proceeding on the argument that his
discovery was independent of the old chief’s revelations, I concluded
that I was on safe ground.

I said, “Now that you have mentioned the matter, I might tell you that
I have a friend who says he has seen that beautiful image in a high
cave in the mountain. How he got there I hardly know, and how he got
out again he does not know himself, but he says he saw the marble
statue of a lovely woman, young--almost a girl. She was standing near
the mouth of the cave with her arms outstretched, as if to some vision
in the western sky, and on her face was stamped a divine and radiant
beauty, while her form, still and cold, yet full of motion, seemed
ready to spring to life at a touch. The prayers of all women who lift
their eyes unto the hills were upon her lips. The sightless eyes
derived their love-light from the longing expressed by the whole
figure yearning forward to some glorious future of our race when----”

I paused, for while I had been speaking Crystal’s hands had clasped
themselves together in her lap, a rapt look had come to her eyes, and
my thoughts wandered from the statue. However beautiful, however
dazzling it might be, it could not be more so than this girl before
me. Therefore, as I said, my thoughts wandered from the statue; I
paused and she, with a start, turned her eyes upon me with looks of
serious wonder.

“What a symbol of the ideal woman!” she said. “All white--standing far
above the world--waiting, with a prayer upon her lips, for the dawn of
a brighter day. She is the higher self of all women who wait and pray,
and try to be white. What did your friend think?”

“He thought just what you think. Indeed, he even went so far as to
fall madly in love with that ideal woman in his own strange, poetical
style, and he now swears he will find his way to that cave to look
upon her face again. Pygmalion and Galatea make a very pretty story
between them, but don’t you think it’s rather a wild kind of poetry
for a man of the nineteenth century to love a stone?”

She smiled a sweet, sad smile at one of the little leaves overhead, as
it opened and shut its tiny door against the blue. “Surely it is not
the stone your poetical friend has fallen in love with,” she said
presently; “it is the beauty and meaning depicted on that stone--how,
and by whom, is a mystery.”

The breakfast bell rang vigorously from the verandah, and covered the
silence with which I greeted her last remark. It was not because I saw
any reason for secrecy that I kept this part of Te Makawawa’s secret,
but simply because it had been tacitly understood between him and me
that it was not a matter for repetition.

Crystal rose from the hammock, and saying that her father would be
waiting for us, led the way towards the house.

As she hastened before me among the trees of the garden, and, later,
when she stood and waited for me on the verandah steps, looking down
between the clustering vines, I thought that any man, no matter how
poetical, was a fool to fall in love with the beauty depicted on a
stone, when the world of living things contained such loveliness in
the flesh. Truly it was as Kahikatea had said: the woman who had
conceived the image of Hinauri and reproduced it upon the stone could
not have borne an unlovely child. Yet to say that Crystal Grey was
“not unlovely” would be a very inadequate description. More positive
statements than that would have fallen from lips more matter-of-fact
than mine. If eyes were made for seeing, then Crystal Grey had her own
excuse for being, as someone somewhere sings, but if words were made
for description, the subtle charm of this child of dreams could find
no vehicle but music.




 CHAPTER XIV.
 THE CHIEF OF THE VILE TOHUNGAS.

Having made up his mind to accompany me with his daughter on our
search expedition, Dreamer Grey began setting his sheep-run and his
household matters in order, in view of an absence which might prove
prolonged. It was necessary to engage a competent manager to look
after things, and this meant a delay of at least a week, which,
however, would afford ample time to prepare for the journey. During
the first two or three days of this week I saw much of Grey, helping
him with his sheep and various other things that had to be seen to. As
a consequence we got to know and trust each other well.

Tiki, who worshipped ‘the little maiden’ as if she were a divine
being, and, when she spoke to him in his own tongue, replied
invariably with a mixture of acquired politeness and native poetry,
half comical, half grand to listen to, had made himself and me
thoroughly uneasy about that _taepo_ he had seen in Cazotl’s boat.
With the wisdom of a savage, who, long accustomed to intertribal wars,
knows almost intuitively _when_ he is being tracked, if not _why_,
Tiki had it firmly fastened in his mind that the people on the yacht
ought to be watched. As I had not informed Tiki of my suspicion that
we had been tracked along the whole course of our journey, I regarded
his independent view more seriously than if he had known and
exaggerated my own weird feeling in regard to that wizened negro.

“Very well, Tiki,” I said, the day after our arrival, when he spoke
about it, “if you think ‘the little maiden’ is in danger from those
people you might keep your eye on them.”

He needed no second permission. From that time I saw very little of
him for several days, but I knew he was keeping a strict eye on the
movements of Cazotl and his crew. It was not until the evening of the
fourth day after our arrival that my suspicions received verification,
and his watchfulness nearly cost him his life.

In the evening of that day, when Grey was busy with some
correspondence in his library, I strolled down into the garden, where
I knew I should find Crystal, for I had seen her go out some time
before with her sketching book. I had dreams of a heaven on
earth--indeed, I should have been less than human if more than three
days had passed over my heart without bringing my ‘love at first
sight’ to a stage in which I felt that the garden where Crystal moved
and had her being was a sacred place. Sweetness lingered in the air.
The dreamy trees, as they rolled in the summer zephyrs, made music
which could not be written down; the rustic retreat beneath the hazels
was full of an influence which I can only describe as the presence of
angels lingering in an atmosphere which has been purified for them.
Sitting here alone late at night, I had been able to cast aside the
littleness of my life and feel that by right of an ennobling love I
might remain there awhile on sufferance. I was aware that a great
change had taken place in me. A new world had sprung into being, and
the splendour of its sun, moon, and stars was centred in Crystal.

It was with a feeling that all this must soon come to an avowal of
love, as surely as water boils at a given temperature, that I sought
her that evening in the garden; and, I reflected, it would in all
probability reach a sudden end just as surely as the same water under
different conditions freezes at a given degree, for in all sober
reason, who or what was I to deserve the love of such a girl? But I
went to find her all the same, and making my way to the retreat
beneath the nut-trees, held aside the leaves about the entrance and
looked in.

Crystal was sitting in the wicker chair with an open book on her
knees. Her hat was laid aside, and a wisp of her raven hair, fanned
loose from the good-natured mass, half screened her cheek.

“May I come in?” I asked.

“Yes, of course you may,” she laughed, looking up and brushing the
wayward wisp back into its place again. “Come and read me some of
Kawana Kerei’s legends in the original Maori.” She held up the book as
she spoke.

“In the original Maori?” I said, seating myself on the rough bench
against the hazel stems. “That reminds me. I saw a picture in an
out-of-the-way corner of the drawing-room to-day with something in
Maori written beneath it: ‘Degrade the pure one! Whose is the task?
Mine! Mine!’ Did you paint that picture?”

“Yes,” she replied simply; “I painted it quite lately.”

Seeing by her manner that she was a little confused, I asked: “Is it
founded on some Maori legend?”

“No; it is--it is----” She hesitated, with her eyes cast down; then,
after a pause, looked up with a shy smile and asked: “Have you ever
had a very vivid dream, of which you can remember every detail so
accurately that it seems like a real experience?”

“No,” I said; “my imagination is not strong enough for that; but if
you are going to say that picture was painted from a dream of your own
I shall believe you.”

She leaned forward in her chair and half whispered: “Yes, it was; I
saw it as plainly as I see you now, Wanaki,”--she had caught my Maori
name from Tiki--“even more distinctly, if that is possible.”

“Tell me your dream,” I said. “I could not see the faces of the men in
the picture, as the light was not good, but I judge from the legend
that they were evil. It is strange that you should see unlovely things
in your dreams. Will you tell it me?”

“It is rather a terrible subject,” she said, “and I don’t think I
quite understood it even when I had painted the picture. Perhaps you
will tell me what it means. I dreamed that I went away over the sea
for thousands of miles. The silver-tipped waves shone beneath in the
bright moonlight, and the little islands, fringed with palms and
belted with coral, were studded everywhere on the ocean. At last I
came to a vast country, where, in the interior, there were great hills
and mountain lakes, impassable swamps and deep wildernesses. I saw
ancient ruins and long lines of what looked like giant cactus----”

“Mexico,” I said, thinking aloud.

“It may have been; it was vast and it was tropical. In my dream I
found myself standing among the ruined pillars of what must once have
been a colossal temple. Now, it usually happens in a dream that one
sees things vaguely, but in my dream it was different. I saw every
detail. The scale-like feathers on the huge stone snakes that were
coiled up the pillars, the glittering eyes of the vampire bats that
clung about them, the huge green lizard that basked in a patch of
moonlight on the stone floor--all these were clear and distinct, and
on the heavy, broken stonework overhead, supported by the pillars,
were shadowy masses of creeping plants, with here and there a
glistening aloe or clump of white flowers catching the moonlight
through the crevices.

“As I was looking at these things in my dream a murmur of voices came
from within. I advanced between the treble row of pillars and saw a
large inner space where there were a number of figures moving about a
tall column. They were men of different nationalities, and they
chanted a strange song while they looked up at the full moon which
poured its rays down into the open space. These men had strong, evil
faces, with eyes that flashed red in the moonlight; I can remember
each one perfectly, and have drawn them as I saw them.”

She paused as if she were recalling the vivid scene, and, in the few
moments’ silence, my mind flew back to the Vile Tohungas of the Pit
gazing up at the full moon, nursing their stomachs and curling their
granite lips disdainfully as they worshipped. Ngaraki, no doubt, would
have read in this dream a word from his Great Tohungas of the Earth to
the effect that the Vile Brotherhood of Huo still existed, striving to
work out the age-long degradation of Woman, and, above all, to destroy
his ancient goddess, when, as the Daughter of the Dawn, she should
return. Just as the sacred fire of Hinauri had been nursed in the
breasts of her guardians through pre-Maori races up to the present, so
the baleful red fire of the Vile Tohungas, taken into the north by
their servant fleeing from the wrath of Zun, may have been kept
burning through pre-Toltec civilisations even unto this day. In spite
of myself, this idea was growing upon my mind, when Crystal continued.

“While I watched, their chant to the moon ended; and, as the last
notes fell, I fancied I could hear them rolling back into the distance
like the close of a song sung by a great multitude in the open air.
Then a large black mirror was brought out of the darkness and fixed in
position so that the moonray was reflected high up on to a dark part
of the smooth stone wall of the ruin. They began a wild orgy round the
pillar. It came to a sudden silence, and all stood still, gazing at
the moonlight on the wall. I looked also and saw, not on the rock, but
in the distance through the rock, what looked like the central
thoroughfare of some great city. By the glare of many lamps, high and
low, I saw carriages crossing and re-crossing, while omnibuses for
ever stopped and moved on again. I saw people moving to and fro upon
the broad pavements; all about were women--many of them proud-looking
and beautiful--who appeared to be waiting for someone. I did not
understand what they were doing there, but when the men in the open
space of the temple cried ‘It is well! It is well!’ I knew that the
vision had shown them the working out of some great wrong.

“The picture vanished, and they returned to their orgy, which grew
more terrible and furious, then stopped suddenly as before, while they
remained gazing fixedly at the moonlight on the wall. A second time
there came a scene--not the same place, though the people acted in
just the same way--and this also was greeted with the cry, ‘It is
well! It is well!’

“It vanished, and a third time the wild orgy was carried on. It
reached a pitch of fury which horrified me, and, when it stopped
suddenly, and they stood gazing at the wall, the vision came again.
But this time it was the white figure of a woman standing among the
trees of a garden far away. The place was bathed in peaceful sunlight.
It was a sun-picture reflected by the moon from a distant spot. I
could not see the features of the woman, but her arms were raised to
the sky, and she seemed to be praying. Then, as if in answer to her
prayer, there came, out of the blue, beings that seemed more like gods
and goddesses than men and women. They came thronging down towards the
world--men with noble looks and perfect forms, and women with serene,
heavenly faces full of all the tender goodness that should belong to a
woman. They appeared to separate to the four quarters of space, and I
thought that here was a race of more perfect beings coming to people
this earth in answer to the cry of the woman.

“At a sound of murmuring and confusion, I turned to the other watchers
in the open space, and, as I did so, one among them, who seemed to be
chief, stood out from the rest and held up a threatening hand towards
the far-off vision. He laughed, and his voice was more animal than
human. Then he roared out the words you saw beneath my picture:
‘Degrade the pure one! Whose is the task? Mine! Mine!’ and with these
words ringing in my ears I woke. That was the dream; was it not
strange?”

“Very strange,” I said; “but your father called me as I was glancing
at the picture, and I had not time to examine it very clearly. I
should like to have a good look at it if I may.”

“Yes, I’ll run and get it now.”

“Let me go,” I volunteered. But she was before me, and ran up to the
house. While she was gone I cast my memory over the extraordinary
dream she had related. Matter of fact as I was, I could not but see
that if ever there was a meaning in a dream there was a meaning in
this. The Destroyers of Woman exulting at the slow undermining of
mankind in the mass, their threat hurled at Woman as the Mother of a
nobler and more godlike race, their resolve to degrade her as such, so
that this world should be peopled with dull, coarse forms, informed by
vile minds, such as their own evil faces portrayed--all this, I
reflected with astonishment, was indeed the tale of Ngaraki the
savage, retold from the heart of an innocent girl.

My reflections were cut short by the reappearance of Crystal with the
picture.

“See!” she said, holding it up to the full light; “that is the man who
roared out the words. Why--what is--oh! Mr. Warnock, what is the
matter?”

I had turned from the picture with a gasp, and had sat down on the
wooden bench with my face buried in my hands. I looked up as she
repeated her words and saw mingled bewilderment and concern on her
lovely face.

“It is the face of a fiend,” I said, “not of a man.”

“But why are you so strange? And why do you clench your teeth like
that? You’re as pale as death--surely, Wanaki, the face of a fiend on
canvas cannot be so terrible to look at!”

“It is the face of a fiend,” I repeated fiercely, half beside myself
with maddening fears, “not of a man.”

_It was the face of Cazotl._ And, in those evil features, I traced a
resemblance which had eluded me on my first sight of the Mexican in
the flesh--a resemblance to the bold granite features of the chief of
the Vile Tohungas of the Pit, so fiercely cursed by Ngaraki.

Very weird to me was this strange, circumstantial suggestion that the
legendary chief of the Vile Tohungas had returned to be the actual
head of a brotherhood whose aims and objects were identical with those
of ancient time. Yet forcible and valid seemed the conception that as
the guardians of Hinauri had brought their protecting curses down from
the remotest past, so her enemies, who, although driven far into the
north as the aged chief had said, had preserved their continuity as a
Vile Brotherhood through the ages, had handed on even into the present
their hatred of the Pure One, always with the aim of destroying her or
causing her to forget her Sign of Power. For awhile my shrewd,
practical scepticism struggled against a strong unity of evidence
derived independently from different sources. The aged chief’s belief
that the Vile Ones would return, Crystal’s dream picture of the
Destroyers of Women, the undeniable resemblance of their chief to
Cazotl and to the granite image in the abyss--these things pointed my
mind to strange conclusions; but when I reviewed the conflicting
purposes of the Good and the Vile of ancient time and identified them
with the conflicting purposes of Ngaraki and Cazotl, I was for a
moment almost tempted to throw my common-sense to the winds and say
that the ancient giants of the two priesthoods had returned again and
again to the earth to continue the fierce struggle begun at the very
foundations of the world. But if Cazotl were the arch enemy of Ngaraki
and the would-be destroyer of Hinauri, why should he have appeared to
Crystal Grey in a dream? And why, again, should he seem to be in
pursuit of her? A vague apprehensive shuddering within me was the only
answer to these questions.




 CHAPTER XV.
 THE DARKNESS PUTS FORTH A TENTACLE.

That night, long after the house was quiet, I remained leaning on
the sill of my bedroom window, looking down on the peaceful garden
below and turning matters over in my mind. The night wind sighed and
died away in faint puffs upon the trees. A midnight hush was falling
upon everything--a midnight hush and something more: great black
clouds were banking up seaward, and the roses round my window were
sending out heavy odours, such as flowers do before a thunderstorm.
The air became sultry as the inky clouds banked higher and higher.
Then the land wind fell altogether and dead silence ensued, in which I
could hear the titoki-berries opening on their little hinges, and a
strange sound of a going in the high tops of the native trees in the
plantation, while always the leaves of the aspens tossed and turned in
sad unrest.

It may have been the oppressiveness of the air that weighed me down
with a vague presentiment of evil, though now I look back upon it I am
inclined to think my feelings were owing to a strong antipathy to an
evil thing. This antipathy must have been aroused and strengthened by
the discovery recorded in the last chapter. Crystal’s dream had filled
me with feelings even keener, I thought, than those which had taken
possession of Ngaraki, for he, so I reasoned in my ignorance, had to
do merely with inert stones, one sacred, others cursed; whereas I had
to do with flesh and blood. I had little doubt that Crystal’s dream
was one of those strange instances of second sight which sometimes
come to people who live pure lives in quiet places, where they are in
close touch with the nature they can see, and in closer touch with the
nature which they cannot see. The likeness of the face in the picture
to the face of Cazotl was no mere fancied resemblance. It was
striking. It was real. The details of the picture, too, were true to
life, and such as no amount of study from books could produce. This I
coupled with the knowledge that Crystal had never been away from home
except for seven successive years spent at school in Dunedin. I was
driven to the conclusion that there was something in this dream, and,
if something, why not everything? As I leaned over the window-sill I
pondered many things deeply. Whatever might have been the reason of
tracking us all the way from the Table Land the Mexican’s presence in
the Sound appeared to me to be the speedy carrying out of the threat
he had delivered in the dream. I could well understand that Crystal,
with her high ideals and living energy, was of those women whose very
existence is a nail in the coffin of the fiend in human shape whose
glance first strikes the lily from your hand, and then the truth from
beneath your feet. Consequently, on the one side deepened my love for
this perfect woman with the eyes of night, and on the other blazed a
terrible hate for her would-be destroyer.

With these feelings I entered into the spirit of the brooding
thunderstorm, and, knowing that sleep was impossible, I resolved to go
out of the house, and take my thunder and lightning in the garden. I
had always been fond of a thunderstorm--for in a land where there are
few isolated trees and many bold mountain tops, the danger from
lightning is very small--but on this occasion I welcomed it with a
kind of vivid pleasure, as it was in strict accordance with my mood.

Going downstairs, I found a mackintosh on the hat-stand in the hall
and put it on. Then, making my way quietly out of the house, I went
round the verandah to see if Tiki was asleep. I was not surprised to
find his mattress of straw unoccupied. He was on the war track.
Probably he had slept by day, and was not watching the yacht in the
interests of ‘the little maiden.’

As I found my way on to the lawn I heard the first rumble of the
thunder over the hills in the distance. The fan-like branches of the
cedars were moving restlessly, as if the terrified air did not know
which way to turn. I could just see their vague outlines against the
blacker sky.

While I stood listening to the ominous whispers of the cedar-branches,
a blinding flash lighted up the place, throwing the wall of pines
above the plantation into clear relief. Then, some miles away, the
thunder crashed and rattled among the hills. In the silence between
the lightning and the thunder, however, I heard what I took to be a
dog or a cat running softly on its four feet across the lawn from the
plantation. My mood of dark hate blinded my usual wariness, and it
never occurred to me that it might be something else. After the
thunder came silence, and then another flash scribbled down the indigo
sky into the hills, and, while it lighted my surroundings as clear as
noonday, my glance happened to fall upon some gnarled, twisted, and
charred remains of a patch of scrub which had lately been burnt, about
twenty yards distant, and just midway between the plantation and the
trees beneath which I stood. One of the grotesque fragments, a trifle
thicker than the others, was twisted in such a peculiar way that its
weirdness caught my attention, and when the flash had passed I
sauntered carelessly towards it and waited. The peal of thunder was
scarcely over when the vivid lightning streamed down again, and when I
looked for the weird effect of the charred patch, it seemed to me that
the grotesque-looking twist was gone. At the same instant something
struck my hat behind--something which I mistook for the first large
drop of the thunder-shower--and, dismissing the apparent change in the
burnt-out patch of scrub with the passing explanation that it was
owing to my change of position, I sauntered on towards the path that
led out beneath the wall of trees into the fields of the valley. As I
went I certainly thought it strange that one drop of rain should fall
alone, and wondered vaguely what it was that had struck my hat during
the vivid flash.

Passing through the plantation and the wall of pines, whose leaves
threw out a resinous odour in the sultry air, I turned and walked back
along the outside of the plantation, intending to re-enter the
enclosure by a small gap which led directly on to the lawn. As I drew
near this, and flash after flash lighted up the place, I saw from time
to time something, which at first I took for a post, standing in an
open space some thirty paces away from the plantation. When I came
nearer to it, however, the lightning’s glare brought out the object in
bold relief, and it looked more like a man standing bolt upright in
the open field. The thunder now followed sharp on the heels of the
lightning with a deafening crash right overhead, and the heavy rain
came down without warning. Buttoning the mackintosh close up under my
chin, I struck out into the field towards the spot where I had seen
the object that had aroused my curiosity.

When I calculated that I was fairly near it, I stood still and waited
for the flash, for in the darkness I could see nothing. The flash
came, and there, a few steps before me, with the rain dancing from his
hair and glistening shoulders, stood Tiki like a statue, gazing
fixedly at that part of the plantation where the gap led through on to
the lawn.

In the brief interval between the lightning and the thunder I called
his name:

“Tiki!”

The words left my lips as the darkness clapped down like the door of a
vault, and in the two seconds that ensued I listened and called again,
but there was only the ready reply of the thunder breaking like an
avalanche overhead.

The next moment I reached the Maori’s side in the darkness, touched
him, shook him, called him, but he made no answer. I could hear the
rain pattering on his bare shoulders; I could hear my own voice
against the final echo of the thunder; then, as the rain held up a
moment and a weird shuddering afterthought of the elements ricochetted
across the sky, I stood still, wondering what strange state the Maori
had fallen into that he stood there like a dead tree-trunk in the
field.

The next flash startled me. It showed Tiki with his teeth set and his
eyes fixed. He appeared like one in that strange cataleptic state in
which the mind and senses are more or less alive, but all volition is
gone. As my eyes rested upon him I detected on his shoulder a slight
stain of blood, which slowly trickled from a wound in which a small
reed dart of two or three inches in length was still sticking. All
this was imprinted upon my eye while the light lasted, but it was not
until darkness supervened that the picture was developed. I found the
dart and pulled it out. Then, as the heavy tread of Tawhaki again
shook the rafters on the House of Tane overhead, I came to the
horrible conclusion that this was the work of that wizard negro--that
the thing which had struck my hat by the cedars was a poisoned dart of
the same kind--that the gnarled and twisted fragment was the negro
himself, that----

A shudder ended my train of reasoning. The door of the house was
unbarred!

That wizard devil must have been on his way to the house when he
discharged that dart at me!

With terrible thoughts surging through my brain, with the phantom cry
of Cazotl, “Degrade the Pure One!” ringing in my inner ears, and the
passing conjecture that he was now waiting with a boat on the beach
for the return of his wizard minion with Crystal, bereft of all
volition like Tiki, I dashed across the space that separated me from
the gap which led towards the house. No helping flash favoured me on
the way, and when I reached the trees I had to grope about for the
opening. At last I found it and proceeded to make my way through, but,
just as I reached the centre of the plantation, the lightning forked
down right on to the lawn and ran along the ground. For quite five
seconds a dazzling light revealed the way on to the lawn, and in that
brief space of time things happened which five seconds will not
suffice to tell.

Straight before me on a narrow path between two pine trunks, was the
lithe figure of the hideous negro in the act of groping his way
through from the house as the lightning fell. In one hand he held a
reed tube several feet long, and with the other he was feeling for the
tree trunk on his right. Behind him I had a dim idea of a white-robed
figure; but I did not shift my eyes from the negro, for he saw me as
soon as I saw him, and the tube was moving towards his wizened lips.
With a spring I was on to him, and, catching the tube with one hand
just as he set it to his lips, I turned it aside, gave him a violent
thrust in the mouth with it, wrenched it away, and flung it on the
ground. Then I gripped him by the throat, and it was just as we rolled
back together into the bushes that the bright light went out, and our
brief struggle went on in the darkness.

It was brief, for I defy any man to hold a creature of that kind
unless his hand, like Kahikatea’s, could meet right round his neck. He
twisted and turned like an eely fiend, wrenched his throat out of my
grasp, and wriggled away, leaving me snatching at air and tree trunks.

The thunder rolled off in an angry growl. As it ceased the same wild
laugh that I had heard before came from somewhere far away.
Mistrusting that laugh, and thinking that the negro was in hiding near
by, waiting to make a dash to snatch up his deadly weapon, I quickly
scrambled towards the place where I had thrown it, and soon found it
among the leaves in the darkness.

Then I remembered the figure in white that I had seen following the
negro, and stood peering before me, listening and waiting for the next
flash. I would have called, “Who’s there?” but I knew it was best to
preserve perfect silence with that wizard thing, for there was no
telling what he might do with his infernal poisoned darts, even
without a tube. However, I could not resist throwing out a gentle hint
that I was prepared for him, and that his safest plan was to beat a
retreat. Taking my revolver from my hip pocket, where I always carried
one, I fired a shot up into the trees. It was answered by the hideous
laugh from far away down the Sound, but it followed so quickly on the
report that I knew the author of that laugh, now a confessed
ventriloquist, was near at hand. He was evidently waiting for the next
flash to recover his tube which I held in my hand.

The flash came, and the sight it revealed I shall never forget. There
stood Crystal in the path before me, draped in her night garments
soaked through and through. Her long black hair, in which flashed
countless diamonds of rain, fell loose about her like a veil. Her
mysterious eyes, now like polished obsidian, were fixed in a glassy
stare. Her face was set and pale, like a piece of beautiful marble.
She was in the same state as Tiki, conscious of much that was passing,
as I learned afterwards, but obedient only to impressions that had
been set upon her by the will of another, who had taken control of her
own. On her shoulder, showing through a rift of her hair, was a stain
of blood upon the white linen, but the dart had been withdrawn.

No sooner had the flash of light passed than that controlling will was
expressed by a voice, harsh and hollow, coming from a little distance
outside the plantation, and pronouncing a strange word in a


 [image: images/img184.jpg
 caption: “THE FLASH CAME, AND THE SIGHT IT REVEALED I SHALL NEVER
 FORGET. THERE STOOD CRYSTAL IN THE PATH BEFORE ME, DRAPED IN HER NIGHT
 GARMENTS.”]


language unknown to me. At the sound Crystal attempted to move past me
in the darkness, evidently impelled by the suggestion that she must
follow. But with one arm I caught her round the waist and held her
back. She struggled violently with all her strength to follow the
voice as it repeated the strange word from further in the field, and
it dawned upon me, from what little I knew of this old and new world
black magic of control by suggestion, that if I restrained her by
force the result might be some strange twist of the brain or
aberration of the nervous centres. So I let her move on, retaining one
of her hands and walking by her side for a short distance into the
field. A flash revealed a figure gliding ahead of us, and in order to
make him glide a little quicker, I fired four revolver shots in
succession after him. Then, acting upon an idea which had occurred to
me, I tried to imitate the voice and the strange word he had used.
After two or three attempts beneath my breath, I made the peculiar
sound, coming to a halt at the same time.

It was effective: Crystal stopped also and turned towards me.

Repeating the word I drew her gently back towards the plantation, and
she followed obediently. It was with the idea that her sense of sight
might contradict her sense of hearing that I pressed her eyelids down
and bound my handkerchief over her eyes, lest, when the lightning
flashed, she should see me and become aware of this deception within a
deception.

Thus reiterating the guiding sound which, by the bond of suggestion
placed upon her by the infernal negro wizard, represented his will, I
wrapped the mackintosh about her and led her through the plantation,
over the lawn, and into the house. There, obedient to my instructions,
given to her in the harsh voice of the negro, she remained in the care
of Grey and the servants, with whom I succeeded in placing her in
touch, while I, having hidden the reed tube in a safe place, hurried
out to look for Tiki.

The storm had passed over, and was grumbling itself out in the
distance. A bright star shone down through a break in the clouds, but
it was still too dark to see clearly, and it was with difficulty I
made my way to the place where Tiki had been standing.

After searching about for a long time and finding nothing, I was
favoured by the moon in its last quarter rising over the hills inland
and showing through the heavy cloud drift. By this pale light I
corrected my position and searched again. But there was no sign of
Tiki. Had he recovered and gone after the negro to kill him, or had he
followed obediently under the influence of the poison and the voice?




 CHAPTER XVI.
 WHICH REVEALS THE WAY OF THE SORCERER.

After a restless night, gladdened somewhat by the thought that I had
saved Crystal from a terrible fate, but for the most part troubled by
fears of further danger, I rose early, and, passing through the gap in
the plantation where I had encountered the wizard negro, walked over
the field and down the valley towards the beach, thinking that perhaps
I might learn something of Tiki’s fate.

Finding nothing to guide me, I climbed a high hill seaward, which
overlooked the lower part of the Sound. From that vantage ground I
could see nearly the whole of the slender arm of the sea which reached
inland, the failing breath of the land breeze ruffling its waters. A
glance at the sheltered cove where the yacht had been anchored told me
that Cazotl had either shifted his position or put out to sea. I
scanned the whole length of the Sound, and at last discerned the yacht
passing into the shadows of the high cliffs which opened on to the
Pacific. Her sails were swelling out to the breeze, and it was with a
feeling of great relief that I watched her disappear between the high
rocks. But my relief did not outlive reflection, for I soon saw that
it was not at all probable that Cazotl would relinquish his object
after one failure.

The sun had risen high in the sky by the time I had returned to the
house, and while waiting for the breakfast-bell I strolled round the
verandah. When I came to the corner dedicated to Tiki, I was surprised
to find that faithful Maori coiled up on his bed of straw, wrapped in
his mat, and fast asleep. He must have returned in my absence.

With an inconsiderate impatience to know what had befallen him I
stooped down and touched him on the shoulder, knowing from experience
that the slightest thing would wake him But he did not stir. I then
shook him soundly, but he made no sign. With a sudden apprehension I
bent over him and listened for his breathing. It was regular and deep;
he was evidently sleeping off the effects of that strange poison, and,
as far as I could judge, he was best left alone.

On going inside I encountered Grey coming downstairs.

“Good morning, Warnock,” he said, as he grasped my hand. “That was an
extraordinary affair last night--can’t think what possessed the girl:
she’s never done anything of that kind before. Good job you saw her,
or there’s no telling what might have happened.”

“Yes, it was lucky I happened to be abroad,” I replied; “I went out to
enjoy the thunderstorm.” Then I explained briefly how it had occurred,
but omitted all mention of the negro and his infernal arts, as I
thought it was better to keep that mysterious and alarming part of the
matter to myself.

“Is she up yet?” I asked in conclusion.

“No; I’ve just been in to see her. She’s fast asleep and seems
perfectly all right.”

“Ah! yes,” I said with assumed carelessness; “that’s the way out of
those peculiar fits: to let them sleep as long as ever they will.”

With that we went to breakfast, and discussed at length the details of
our proposed journey north, which was now finally fixed for the
following day. Grey’s manager was to arrive on the morrow, and, the
day after, we were to proceed overland to a seaport some thirty miles
to the north, and there take our passage in a sailing ship which Grey
had ascertained was bound for Golden Bay, the coast line of which was
situated not fifty miles from the Table Land.

From time to time during the day I learned by repeated inquiries that
Crystal was still sleeping peacefully, but my mental state was one of
extreme tension; for, being ignorant of the after effects of the
strange poison, I was tormented with a thousand apprehensions. Every
half-hour I paid visits to Tiki, for in his condition I felt I had
something to go by. It calmed my fears a little to find that his pulse
was uniformly regular, that his breathing was normal, and that there
were no signs of anything more alarming than a very deep sleep which,
as far as I could judge, was perfectly natural. In this way, taking
Tiki’s state to represent hers, I watched over Crystal in my
imagination the whole day long, now tortured with fears for the issue,
and now relieved by the healthy symptoms.

In my wanderings in and out and about the house I remembered the
wizard’s reed tube, and found it again in the place where I had hidden
it. It was a strange-looking reed, seven knotted, and marked with
peculiar characters and signs. The darts were arranged in little
receptacles round the mouthpiece. Three were left. I extracted one and
inspected it. There was a blood-red tip to it, and this crimson dye I
knew was the poison. The safest course would be to burn the accursed
things, lest they should do damage by accident. Accordingly, I took
them to the kitchen grate and burnt them. What the poison was I have
no idea, but, as I threw them in one by one, each emitted a jet of
some gas, which burned many colours in succession, giving a peculiar
wail, like the cry of a tortured dumb animal. So horrible, and yet so
plaintive and pathetic was this faint sound, that I was inclined to
confess there was more than poison in those accursed messengers of
evil. Then I burned the tube and returned to my restlessness.

At length, late in the afternoon, I was standing beneath the
nut-trees, whither I had wandered in my anxiety, when, hearing a
rustle of a dress outside, I looked up and encountered Crystal as she
parted the screen of leaves and came towards me. My fears bounded off
in an instant, for her face was the picture of buoyant health, and the
flush of confusion on her cheeks made her look radiant.

She extended her hand to me and said, “It’s very absurd for people to
walk in their sleep, but I am very grateful to you all the same.”

“What are you grateful for?” I asked, wondering how much of the affair
she remembered.

“Why, father told me you found me walking in the garden and brought me
in,” she replied, looking hard at me with unwavering eyes, though her
cheeks were crimson.

“Oh! he told you that, did he?”

“Yes, but not until I made him. He wouldn’t tell me anything about it
at first.”

“You remembered something of what happened, then, and questioned him
for the rest?”

“Yes, I remembered a little and insisted on being told the whole
story.”

“Will you tell me what you remember?” I urged.

She passed beneath the head of the hammock, and walking up to the
hedge, plucked a piece of the pink geranium-bloom. Turning to me with
a shy smile she held it out towards me.

“I will give you this pretty flower,” she said lightly, “if you will
never speak about it again--it was all so absurd.”

“I’m not joking, Miss Grey,” I said half angrily; “I must know--I
_will_ know.” I had a horrible fear that could only be dispelled by
the knowledge that she could account for all the acts of that infernal
wizard.

The smile faded from her lips. She drew herself up and anger darted
from her black eyes.

“You dare to ask me what I do not choose to tell?” she said, and never
was a man so withered in spirit by a look from a woman’s eyes as I was
then. What was the mystery in them? They seemed to belong not to this
age, but to be looking at me from the beginning of the world. For a
moment I could hardly understand that they should be set in the lovely
face before me.

But the flash of anger passed, and, before I could falter a
crestfallen apology, she said, “Forgive me; I was forgetting all I owe
to you. My temper was too hasty.”

“I think I was too hasty in demanding to know what did not concern
me,” I ventured. “Perhaps I have been too hasty all along in meddling
with affairs that----”

“Ah! don’t say that,” she broke in, with a sharp pain in her voice;
“you have found me a father, you will give me back my mother, and I--I
have spoken angrily to you.” A tear glistened on her lashes; her bosom
heaved beneath the white folds of her dress, and in her eyes was a
tender light of love.

A wild thrill passed through me. In another moment I should have done
a rash thing--indeed, in after years I often wished I had done that
rash thing, that I had clasped that lovely one in my arms for a brief
second and then been struck dead. But the lapse of half that time
showed that the love-light was not for me. She raised her eyes, but
not to mine, and said with sweet repetition, “My mother! My mother!”

With a slight start she recalled herself and turned to me.

“Do you know, I feel there is hardly anything I could not tell to
you,” she said. “That was why I told you my dream, which I have never
told to another living soul, not even to my father. And now, if, after
what I said a minute ago, you would care to hear what I remember of
last night I will tell you--but it is all very stupid.”

“If I think it is stupid I will say so,” I said.

Crystal seated herself upon the hammock, and, taking off her hat,
placed it in her lap, where she proceeded to fasten the geranium-bloom
among the other fresh flowers therein, as an excuse for keeping her
eyes cast down in shyness at what she considered the stupidity of her
story. I remained standing, for my suspense was keen, and I felt that
I should understand it better than she did.

“Well,” she said, “I dreamed that I was sitting on a bank, when a
black snake suddenly hissed and darted at my shoulder. The pain of the
bite and the horror of the thing woke me, or I suppose I dreamed that
it woke me, for what followed was exactly as if I had been awake,
though of course it was nothing more than a vivid dream. Is it
possible to dream that you are sitting up in bed, wide awake? It was
very strange, but I thought that I was awake, and that I had lost all
power to move. For a moment I listened to the thunder. Then I heard a
voice--a peculiar, harsh, hollow voice, telling me that I must follow
its directions, and be oblivious of all other things--for this, the
voice, was the only thing. It may seem strange, but I did as it
directed without the slightest hesitation. It seemed the most natural
thing in the world to get up and walk downstairs in obedience to this
ugly voice. Out of the house and across the lawn I followed it, until
I came to the way that leads through the plantation. There for a
moment I seemed to be at a loss. Then something--I cannot tell what,
except that it was not the voice--must have stood in my way and held
me, for, when I could again hear the only thing there was in the
world, I was unable to follow, although I struggled to do so. At last
the obstacle let me pass, and soon afterwards I caught up with the
voice, which guided me back again into the house, where it told me
that it had no further authority over me, and that other voices should
command me for awhile. After that I heard it no more, and I have
confused memories of taking a hot bath, with Jane and Mary fussing
about me. Then I must have gone to bed, but I can remember nothing
more till I awoke an hour ago. Was it not absurd? But some of it must
have been real, for I did walk out into the garden.”

I reflected a moment before I spoke. Her memory evidently covered
every inch of the ground. The pain in the shoulder, which must have
been the prick of the negro’s dart discharged during the first flash
of lightning after he gained her room; the falling under the influence
of the poison a moment later; the hearing of the voice in the
darkness, and the ready obedience to its suggestions; the struggling
with an obstacle which was not the voice, but myself, and subsequently
the finding of what she mistook for the voice and followed back to the
house--these were the points of a story, the details of which must
have taken place in the few minutes which elapsed between my missing
the grotesque fragment in the burnt patch of scrub, and walking round
the plantation to re-enter the grounds again through the opening where
I had encountered the embodied “voice” and its would-be victim.

I glanced up from my rapid reflection, and, encountering Crystal’s
smile at what she supposed was the absurdity of her story, said: “Your
dreams affect me just as if you were recounting an adventure that had
really taken place. Why do you make them so vivid?”

Then we both laughed the matter away.

Later in the evening I visited Tiki again, and found him sitting up
with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Is the little maiden safe?” he asked on seeing me.

“Quite safe,” I replied, and narrated briefly what had happened.
“Where were you all last night?” I inquired when I had finished.

“_He_ Wanaki,” he replied, shaking his head slowly, “I have it
somewhere in my mind where I was, but it slips away from my grasp like
an eel from the hand. I have the head of the lizard, but the tail is
cut off, and, though I can hear it rustling among the leaves, I cannot
find it. This is the head of the lizard, O Wanaki. I watched the great
canoe from sunset on into the night, and, when it was very dark, I
heard a small canoe leave it and take its way towards the end of the
water. I followed it along the shore, and when it came to the beach
down there I stood near by in the darkness and heard some voices. Then
someone made his way up the beach, and I followed the sound of his
footsteps. He must have heard me, for he stopped and made a noise like
the word of the _weka_[22] when it is hiding. _E Tama!_ I was mad to
take his head, for I knew he was going to steal the little maiden. I
rushed towards the ‘word’ and laid about me with my stick. Again and
again I did this, rushing at the ‘word’ in the dark to take the head
of it and lay it at the feet of the little maiden. But every time I
beat the air and nothing more, and every time I heard someone laugh
far away in Reinga. _Eta!_ my only fear was for the little maiden, so
I followed the footsteps again up the valley until we came to the
field out there. The footsteps stopped. Tawhaki was beginning to move
overhead. The light of his eyes would soon show me where to strike.
The light came. I saw the _taepo_ near at hand and rushed at him. He
raised a long stick to his mouth, and some stinging thing struck me in
the shoulder. Then, O Wanaki, I rushed on and on over all the earth,
and the darkness of Porawa closed on me as I went.

“That is the head of the lizard, O Wanaki, but the tail of it is cut
off and wriggles away when I stretch out my hand to grasp it. What has
happened to me between that and this is gone--gone like last year’s
_kohu_ leaves.”

For a space neither of us spoke, but my thoughts were busy. At length,
jumping to a conclusion I said:

“Tiki! did you know that we are to leave here the day after
to-morrow?”

“Yes; the little maiden told me so.”

“Did you know that we are going to land in Golden Bay?”

“Yes, and go overland to the Great Tapu.”

“Ah! all right--very well--now you’d better go and get something to
eat.”

I rose and walked round the verandah, sick at heart. It was as I had
feared. That infernal wizard had, without a doubt, gleaned all our
plans from Tiki while in the obedient condition, and then sent him
home to sleep, with the assurance that on waking he would remember
nothing of what had taken place from the moment he fell under his
influence up to the time he came out of it. There was but one
conclusion to all this. Cazotl had sailed for Golden Bay to await our
arrival.




 CHAPTER XVII.
 LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT.

It was the last day at the home of Crystal, and it was the last day,
too, of my fool’s paradise, from which I was driven by a fact as
startling as a flaming sword. Love at first sight was a thing I well
understood, but love at ‘second sight’ was a matter which before that
day I should have rejected as a wild impossibility--a thing to be
sworn to only by a class of visionaries who will swear to anything,
even on hearsay, provided it be sufficiently marvellous. The tale of
my love at first sight, its beginning, its hopes, its fears, and its
fate--not its ending--may be inferred from the brief attention I have
called to it here and there in this history of adventure; but Crystal
Grey’s love at ‘second sight’ for another, whom she had never seen in
the flesh, but who stood none the less surely between her and me, must
be told in detail.

It was scarcely surprising that a deep love which sprang up in full
tide in the brief space that it requires for the senses to transmit an
image to the brain and impress its meaning on the heart, should not
flow silently for very long. Up to the day of which I write it had not
entered Crystal’s mind that she was as a goddess in my eyes; it had
not occurred to her that when, filled with thoughts of the great
happiness which I, as a mere instrument in the hands of a loving
Providence, had brought her, she let her dark eyes meet mine with the
warm regard of a pure soul in them, I should be blinded by love into
the fatal conclusion that she could return my love. But something
occurred to Grey. That very morning, as we stood alone on the verandah
after breakfast, he had said to me: “Warnock, my friend, I like you--I
seem to have known you a long, long time. Listen to me. I have found
my daughter; Heaven may will it that I shall find my wife; and then,
when times are more settled, it may chance that, in the man who will
have been instrumental in restoring these two greatest blessings, I
may find a son.” He placed his hand on my arm, as he added with a
smile, “My dear boy, I know what I am talking about. I may have
forgotten nearly half of my life, but I can see what I can see. Speak
to her, Warnock. Speak to her, my dear boy. Nothing would please me
more than to call you my son.” With a final hearty clap on my shoulder
he left me wondering how on earth he could have found out what I had
revealed only to the stars and the setting sun. It is strange how
people in love fancy that no one can know the fact until they are
told.

So I spoke to Crystal, and in accordance with the matter-of-fact
bed-rock of my nature, I did not waste many words in doing it. After
spending most of the day in reviewing mazes of words which might
possibly hold my feelings and convey them, I scattered everything to
the winds, emptied my brain, and, with a full heart, strode down to
the nut-trees, where I stood before her with my hat in my hand and
said, “Crystal! I want to tell you something.”

She looked a little surprised at my first use of her Christian name,
but, looking up, said sweetly, “What is it, Wanaki?”

“It is this,” I said. “I love you more than anything else in the
world: so much that--that----”

I paused, for a look of pain flitted across her brow and the colour
left her cheeks. She rose from her seat and stood facing me, with a
soft, despairing sorrow in her eyes, while to her lovely face was
added a sadness that made it more lovely still; for even in that
moment, while I seemed plunged for ever into outer darkness, the sweet
soul of tender pity and pain suffusing the face of the woman I loved
was like balm to my crushed spirit.

“Wanaki, oh, Wanaki!” she said, “I am more sorry than I can say. I owe
you everything, but I cannot return your love. Oh! I could take my
heart out and crush it for what it tells me--that I cannot turn it to
you: that I cannot love you, Wanaki.”

Her words sounded in my ears like a plaintive lament sung over my dead
hopes, over the ashes of my heart. I knew not what to say; for awhile
I stood dumb, trying to conceal my pain. But she, watching me with
anxious eyes, searched it out, and turned away with a low moan. Her
bosom heaved beneath her white dress--I knew it was with sorrow for
me--but she said no more.

“Why?--tell me why!” I said at length, with a vague feeling that this
terrible state of things required some explanation; “do you love
someone else?”

She looked at me for a moment without answering. Then she said: “Yes,
but--but he--I have never seen him.”

She averted her eyes and hung her head in a manner which showed me
that she considered I had a kind of right to question her as to the
cause of my misery.

“You love a man you have never seen?” I said quickly, feeling there
was a ray of hope.

“You hated a man you had never seen,” she replied just as quickly;
“the man in the picture whom you called a fiend--you hated him because
his face revolted you. Then why should I not love a man I have never
seen?”

“But I saw the face depicted, and I hated the meaning of it.”

“Well, I too have seen a face, and I love the meaning of it.” She
spoke still sadly, but like a woman who means to hold her own.

“In the same way as you saw the other?” I asked with a gleam of
intelligence.

“Yes; in dreams--in many dreams. For years my heart has been given to
the heart of the man whose face I see in dreams.”

“But do you believe that man exists in the flesh?”

“Yes; I believe I shall meet him some day.” A light chased the sadness
from her eyes--a light like that of a star when night is darkest.

“But you rejected the idea that the vile one, whose face you have
pictured, had any original on earth--why deny to the one what you
grant to the other?”

“I do not fear the vile one enough to believe in him, but my love for
the other compels belief.”

“It is a phantom of the brain,” I urged on hearing this. “What proof
have you that it is the presentment of a living man?”

“None, except a strange feeling I have in regard to it.”

I was silent for a little. I felt an uncompromising belief in her
strange feelings.

“Listen, Wanaki,” she said after a pause. “You told me of a man who
saw his heart’s desire depicted in a sculptured stone, and when you
spoke of his love I said I quite understood it. I meant that his love
was similar to mine: he loved the ideal woman--I love the ideal man.”

I bent my brows and tacitly admitted the similarity.

“Tell me what he is like,” I said presently, “so that I may try to
understand.”

She placed her hand within the bosom of her dress and drew forth a
cameo attached to a golden chain.

“Honestly,” I said as I drew near to examine it, “I do not see why a
mere face should carry such conviction with it. And why,” I added to
myself, as she unfastened the chain and placed the cameo in my hand,
“why should a mere dream face, an unsubstantial vision of the brain
stand between me and----”

There I paused, for my glance had fallen upon the face which I had
just assured Crystal was a phantom of the brain.

Heavens! It was the face of my friend Kahikatea! The lofty, massive
forehead, surrounded by his orderly-disorderly mane, his brows
slightly bent with thought, his nostrils dilated in the way I knew so
well, his lips set firm with purpose, and his eyes, full of his
inexplicable love, gazing into space and slightly raised, as if to
some distant mountain top--this was the picture of my friend, even
down to his short brown beard and moustache--this was the man whom
Crystal loved, yet had never seen in the flesh. His look recalled the
moment, when, by the false grave beneath the great rimu, I asked him
to come with me to search for Crystal, and he replied that he had
hitched his waggon to a star, that he had made up his mind to search
for Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn, and would not turn aside to
look for the daughter of a mortal woman.

As I gazed in silence at the face of my friend, a wicked lie rose up
out of the ashes of my heart, and threatened to gain the mastery. Then
I looked up and met Crystal’s eyes burning into mine, and felt my love
leap up again and light the way through the dark. Thoughts crowded
tumultuously through my brain, and clearest of all was the thought
that Kahikatea, worshipping his ideal as depicted in the image of
Hinauri, had renounced all other women, Crystal among them. Therefore
it would be cruel to tell her that she was in exactly the same
position as I was.

I said, “I have the same feeling about it as you have, I will regard
it as the face of a living man. It is my love tells you this from the
centre of my heart, for my love for you is the grandest thing I have
ever known. But what should you do if, when you meet him in the flesh,
you find that his love is given to another?”

“I do not know,” she replied slowly, “but my heart tells me I should
be plunged into the dark.”

“But what if you found, as I have found with you, that he loves an
abstraction--something less real than yourself----”

She looked up quickly. “You mean if he was like your friend, who loves
the ideal woman in marble?”

Before I could reply, and while she regarded me attentively, I felt my
eyelids flutter together as if the light were too strong. Then I said,
“Yes, supposing he were like that friend of mine--would you despair?”

“I should not attempt to stand between him and his ideal,” she replied
decisively.

I handed her back the cameo, saying, “Neither will I attempt to stand
between you and yours, while you love it as you do.”

There was a pause, in which Crystal remained looking straight before
her as if she had not heard my last words. Presently she turned to me
with a perplexed expression and asked quickly:

“Why did you compare him to your friend? Why did you start when you
saw his face? Why did you--Wanaki! there is something you are hiding
from me.”

She stood before me, her bosom heaving with emotions that showed upon
her face as pain and joy struggling together. I saw that it was
useless for me to attempt to conceal what her quick intuition had
already grasped.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I would have concealed it from you, because you
would be happier not to know it. But my tongue carried me too far. The
face you have shown me is the face of my friend Kahikatea, who has
renounced the love of woman for love of a symbol of pure womanhood--an
ideal beauty wrought upon a piece of cold marble which he has seen,
and you have seen, in the mountain cave where you were born.”

The struggle between joy and pain upon her face came to an end, and
joy sat there triumphant in her eyes.

“Oh! you have explained the meaning of his face. His love is far above
the world. I see in his eyes the prayers of all great men for
something more divine in woman--the demand for some higher strength
and beauty of being than has hitherto been required of us. Ah! Wanaki,
if one woman can do anything in this great world, I will see that the
prayer of the man I love shall be answered to some extent in the
hearts of women.”

On the plane of this high love she was safe, but I knew that there
would be times when her more direct and personal love for Kahikatea
would rebel against the fact that she herself was to him merely as one
in a great multitude. She did not know, neither did I tell her, that
although Kahikatea never lost sight of the symbolic meaning he had
attached to Hinauri, yet he, in his turn, had a direct and personal
love for Hinauri herself. Once, when we had been discussing that part
of the legend which told of her return in the future he had said, “You
call my fascination a piece of extravagant poetry, a love for a mere
abstraction, but I tell you, Warnock, that if the marble Hinauri were
suddenly transformed into a living woman, she would still be my ideal,
but at the same time as real to me as any woman can be to the man who
loves her.” Had I told Crystal flatly that the man whom she loved
loved another, I could not have put more accurately what I knew; but
not wishing to lessen the power of her resolve to work her love out in
the world, I merely said: “Your nature is good and strong: you will
carry out your resolve in the way that your star directs, but for
myself, you must forgive me if during our journey north I am a sadder,
if a better, man for this great love of mine.”

She looked at me sorrowfully, while a tear came from the black depths
of those eyes of night and glistened in her lashes. It trembled and
fell. She turned in silence and passed out through the screen of
leaves. That tear was more to me than any words could have conveyed.




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 TE MAKAWAWA IS STARTLED.

It was a fortnight later, when after various stoppages on the way
north, we sailed down across Golden Bay towards Wakatu. Mindful of my
conclusion that Tiki had unknowingly divulged our plans to Cazotl, I
kept it to myself, but argued with Grey that it would be better to
land on the western side of Tasman Bay, proceed to Te Makawawa’s _pa_,
and thence to the Table Land. Grey fell in with this proposal, and
accordingly we passed down the coast, round Separation Point, and were
landed at the mouth of the river above which the _pa_ stood.

It was a clear, quiet morning when the boat took us in from the ship.
Dreamer Grey, the brim of his buff bush hat drawn over his eyes to
keep off the glare of the early sun, sat in the stern dreaming, not of
a forgotten past, but of the possibilities of the near future. He
flicked the ash quietly from his cigar; it fell with a hiss into the
smooth water and drifted astern.

“There is the _pa_, look,” said Crystal, touching his arm with one
hand, while with the other she pointed to the ridge of the cliff a
mile away on the coast.

I followed the direction of her finger and saw, standing against a
thin fleecy white cloud with a strip of summer blue beneath it, the
palisading of Te Makawawa’s _pa_.

“It is a good omen,” I said merrily, turning towards them; “there is
the _pa_; there is the fleecy cloud beyond it, and there in the
further distance is the clear blue sky.”

Grey turned up the brim of his hat and let the sun shine on his happy
face as he gazed up at the _pa_.

“And what is it you see in the clear blue sky, Miss Grey?” I asked,
catching the now well-known look of longing in Crystal’s eyes beneath
the shadow of her sun bonnet.

She looked across to me and smiled, while her hand slid down her
father’s coat sleeve and pressed his own on the gunwale of the boat.
Then her lips moved, and, though she said nothing, the movement could
have been only the two words, “My mother!”

“A good omen let it be,” said Grey, and threw his cigar away.

“With all my heart!” I replied, knocking the dottle from my pipe and
standing up, for the nose of the boat was running on to the sandy
shore in a convenient place to land.

With what buoyant steps we followed Tiki along the way he knew beneath
the fern palms and overhanging trees that skirted the beach! It was
one of those clear, bright mornings which, on a shelving shore between
the glistening bush and the sparkling sea, are only to be interpreted
by the liquid song of the korimako, sipping dew and honey as he sings
in the flowering trees, or by the merry fantail’s laugh, as with tail
outspread she chases the gnat, which twists and turns in the sunlight.

“Tiki,” I said presently, “you go on ahead and tell Te Makawawa we are
coming. We can find the way all right.”

On board the ship the sailors had fitted the Maori out with a
civilised costume, and he looked supremely ridiculous, for neither had
he been made for the clothes nor the clothes for him. As he vanished
ahead of us I smiled, wondering what sort of a reception he would get
from the old chief, whose ideas were of a most conservative nature.

“I should like to be present when Tiki stands before Te Makawawa in
those clothes,” I said. “The old chief’s a gentleman of the old
school: he will be scandalised.”

Hardly were the words out of my mouth when sounds of someone talking
fell upon our ears, and presently we turned a bend of the path and
came full upon Tiki face to face with the old chief. The latter had so
warmed up to his subject that he did not see us, and partly shielded
by the trees we stood and watched them in the open space before us. Te
Makawawa’s attitude and picturesque garb, from the feathers in his
white hair to the flowing fringe of his kaitaka, were in themselves a
rebuke to Tiki; but his words added a sting to the rebuke, which made
my poor faithful Maori look even more ridiculous than I had thought
possible.

“Eta! you have not the dignity that belongs to our race. What have you
done with it? Exchanged it for that pair of trousers, and they are put
on wrong way now. What have you done with the _mana_ of your
ancestors? Given it away for that old coat, and it’s splitting under
the arm. What have you done with the bravery and prowess of your
tribe? Traded it for that shirt without any buttons, that collar
fastened with a piece of flax, that hat which makes you look so
beautiful. What have you done with the blood of the Rangitane which
runs in your veins--of Toi our ancestor, and of Kupakupa, who made us
Maori? I expect you have bartered it all for a bottle of _waipiro_.
Eta! did our ancestors make scarecrows of themselves like this? Did
they go to such foolishness to frighten the birds? Tiki, you’re a big
fool. You’re like the stupid ones, trying to bring about the time when
the Maori cannot hold up his head at all. You’re weak in the knees,
and you put those trousers on to hide it. I think your whole backbone
would scarcely make one good fishhook.”

“What a contrast,” whispered Crystal, who had understood the chief’s
words perfectly. “I like the old fellow, even if he did steal my
father and mother and myself. But don’t you think Tiki has had
enough?” The poor Maori was trembling beneath the scorn of the aged
one.

“I think so, yes,” I replied. “You stay here till I call you.” And I
stepped out into the open space.

“Te Makawawa!”

He turned on the instant and came towards me. “_He Pakeha!_” he said,
“the Friend of the Forest Tree. I saw the canoe coming in and came
down to meet it. You have found the little maiden, Keritahi
Kerei--good! Where is she?”

“O Chief! I have found the little maiden, and I have also brought the
man who has forgotten the faces that he knew.”

I called to them, and they came from behind the trees.

Crystal stood before him looking like a mountain lily in her white
dress. As soon as Te Makawawa’s bright eyes rested upon her he
started, and, drawing back the step he was taking, remained in an
attitude of astonishment. His eyes wandered from her face and form to
me, and there was a question, a perplexity, almost a doubt written on
the lines of his rugged visage.

“Friend of the Forest Tree! is this wild white swan, such as a man
sees once in a lifetime, the little maiden?--or have you deceived me?”

“The Friend of the Forest Tree does not deceive,” said Crystal, before
I could speak. “If you are Te Makawawa I am the little maiden of many
moons ago whom you carried on your shoulder. Do you not remember the
_heitiki_ round my neck, and the little _kaitaka_ of kiwi feathers I
wore? See! my black eyes and hair! do you not remember them?”

She threw off her sun bonnet as she spoke, and stood facing him, as if
half conscious of her sculpturesque loveliness.

The question, the perplexity, the almost-doubt deepened upon his face.

“_Eta!_” he said, turning to Grey; “is this your daughter with the
eyes and hair of ancient night? Speak, O Man-who-has-forgotten; does
Te Makawawa dream in the daytime?”

Grey, knowing nothing of the language, turned to me and we spoke
together, while the chief gazed long at Crystal.

“O Chief,” I said at length, “the Man-who-has-forgotten says this is
the little maiden left by Tiki in his hut while he slept. But why do
you doubt my word, O Tohunga? Do you think the little white Children
of the Mist have changed the child? Kahikatea and his friend have ever
spoken the truth to you.”

“I do not doubt,” he replied quietly, showing me his palm. “These last
days are full of dreams to me. My eyes are growing dim, and I see
strange things against the setting sun. O people of the Great Tribe,
take no heed of an old man’s dreams. Tiki!”--he turned to the
be-trousered one with a return of his indignation--“hasten to the _pa_
and bid them prepare a feast, and tell my maidens that a mountain lily
will take root among them. Go, O Tiki, and tell them not to waste
their time in laughing at a man who was once a warrior, with the blood
of the Tane-nui-a-Rangi in his veins, but is now a thing that has been
hatched from an egg like a bird.”

Tiki did not wait for the point of this piece of satire. He and his
trousers vanished in all haste, and Te Makawawa, bidding us follow,
strode before in silence.

“What a lordly savage,” said Grey, as we followed on; “but why did he
seem so startled at the sight of my daughter?”

“He seemed to doubt my identity,” said Crystal.

“Perhaps it was his way of demanding proof,” I suggested, but I could
not conceal from myself that there was something to be cleared up in
his strange behaviour.

When we reached the _pa_ on the high cliff Grey and I were allotted a
house to ourselves, while Crystal was handed over by Te Makawawa to
the charge of the maidens of highest rank, who were forcible in their
expressions of joy when they found she could speak their own tongue. I
caught sight of her standing among a little group, like a fair white
queen among her dusky maidens. I saw by the gestures of the Maori
girls that they were asking her to let down her hair. She hesitated a
moment, then, withdrawing the pins, let it fall and shook the long,
heavy masses out over her shoulders, till they rippled down almost to
her knees. Loud cries of admiration came from the girls as they took
up the loosened tresses in their hands and stroked and patted them
tenderly, likening them to the undulating seaweed called _rimu rehia_,
long, shining, glistening; and again to the darkness of the furthest
caves, where the winds were bound by Maui. Thus they lifted it up and
stroked and talked to it, while it awoke their simple hearts to
poetry. Then, as Crystal gathered it all together again and fastened
it up, they stood wide-eyed, with many expressions of wonder that
pakeha women should do this strange thing.

As a result of a private talk with the old chief, I learnt that
Ngaraki had paid him a visit some days before, and had told him
strange things. The Great Tohungas of the Earth had spoken to him,
saying that the return of Hinauri was near, and that he must lay the
foundations of a new priesthood in the temple, and gather the tribes
upon the Table Land. Messages had been sent to many tribes, and some
had already settled upon the high plain under the rule of Ngaraki. Te
Makawawa assured me they were gathered for peace, and not for war.
Within the space of a few days his own tribe would journey on to the
Great Tapu.

“And what is your plan for restoring Keritahi Kerei to her mother?” I
asked.

“Listen, Pakeha!” he replied, lowering his voice. “The Great Tohungas
do not speak to Ngaraki only. I too have heard their words--when all
the world was dark and still. I will guide you and the maiden, and the
Man-who-has-forgotten to the white cave where the woman still lives.
But I would not meet the eye of Ngaraki, for he is fierce and
terrible, and I could not explain this thing to him. Because of these
things, friend, we must wait until Ngaraki goes into the islands of
the south to gather together the men to whom he will teach the ancient
wisdom. That will be on the morning after the full moon, for you must
know, O son, that an ancient rite of the temple requires the presence
of the priest on the night when the moon is full. We shall set out
then on the third day from this, so that we shall reach the Table Land
as Ngaraki leaves it.”

I agreed to this plan, and it was settled. In the meantime it occurred
to me that, unknown to Crystal, I might take a journey to the hut of
Kahikatea. Accordingly, early on the following day, I set out and
arrived at the hut just as my friend was preparing for a journey.

“Have you found her?” were his first words as he came down the slope
in front of his hut to meet me.

“Yes,” I replied; “she is at the _pa_, and I want you to come and see
her. Then we could all journey together to the mountain--with Te
Makawawa as a guide.”

“When are you going to start?” he asked.

“The day after to-morrow.”

“That’s too late,” he said; “I’m going to start now, as soon as I can.
I’ve almost worked my way through the rock, but ran out of powder, and
had to go across the bay for more.” The look in his eyes was far away
and abstracted as he added: “It’s a strange undertaking, Warnock, and
it is a strange madness that has laid hold of me; but there’s method
in it, and I mean to see that perfect face and form again.”

I saw that the desire of the poet for the symbol of his dreams was
still strong within him, but nevertheless, I fulfilled the object of
my visit.

“If you wish to see a perfect face and form,” I said, “come back to
the _pa_ with me. I cannot imagine anyone more perfect than Crystal
Grey. Come back and let us all go together. The ‘way of the fish’ is
easier than the ‘way of the spider.’ My dear Kahikatea, long solitude
has made dreams and visions too real to you.”

“I know it, Warnock, I know it,” he said fiercely. “I am as mad as a
mystic in this one thing--and yet there’s a meaning in it--a grand
meaning!”

He paused in a contemplative way, then, recalling himself, continued,
“No; there is no woman of flesh and blood for me--only Hinauri, the
Daughter of the Dawn, and she is not flesh and blood--at least, not
yet.”

He was tying up a great coil of rope as he spoke. Now he raised it on
his shoulders, and I saw that he was ready to start.

“You’ll excuse my being in a hurry,” he said, and added with a smile,
“such old friends as we are need not stand upon ceremony, need we? I
seem to have known you for years, Warnock. Let me see--I come your way
for a little and then branch off. Come along, I want to reach a
certain camping-ground before dark.”

We parted where a fallen tree spanned a branch of the river. With one
foot on this bridge he extended his hand to me.

“Good-bye, Warnock,” he said, wringing my hand and giving me a
lingering farewell look. “If I succeed by the ‘way of the spider’ and
you by the ‘way of the fish,’ we shall meet up there”--he pointed
towards the mountains--“if not, then up there!” And with a movement of
his head he indicated the clear blue sky.

I stood and watched him as he entered the bush on the other side of
the stream, and then turned with a sigh to make my way back to the
_pa_.

“My perfect man and my perfect woman may never even meet, much less
mingle,” I said to myself. “Perhaps he will find the marble Hinauri,
and then come down to earth again wedded for ever to this ideal and
clothe its sublime meaning in a poem which will raise the level of the
world.… and perhaps I--who can tell?----”

I dared not conclude my sentence, for beside my perfect man I felt too
poor a thing to deserve the love of my perfect woman.




 CHAPTER XIX.
 THE DREAD MAKUTU.[23]

On the morning of the third day after our arrival at the _pa_ we set
out for the Table Land. Te Makawawa proposed that ‘the little maiden,’
whom he treated with a consideration and a quiet, dignified respect
that almost amounted to worship and awe, should be carried in a kind
of litter by slaves, but Crystal would not hear of it. She assured the
chief she could travel twenty miles a day on foot, and Grey himself
laughed at the idea of her being carried on a litter. Accordingly, as
we had ample time to travel by easy stages, she walked on equal terms
with the rest of us. Our party consisted of seven--we three pakehas,
the chief, Tiki, and two slaves, who carried blankets and provisions.
Grey and I insisted on bearing our own swags.

The aged chief went before us with a swinging stride, and very soon we
struck a path which he knew: it was the very one he had often
travelled between the _pa_ and the Great Tapu in the early days when
he had been guardian priest of the ancient temple. This path
simplified our journey, and there was no such thing as battling with
supple-jacks or struggling through fern breast high.

They held happy hours for me, those three days in the bush. To be near
Crystal was all I could expect, and the little incidents of the
journey are written in my memory--if not here. It is sufficient to say
that day by day she was always in sight, and, by night, when we
camped, we three formed a party round one fire, while, at the instance
of the chief, the four Maoris had two to themselves at a little
distance. When bedtime came we rolled ourselves each in a blanket in
bush style, with our feet to the fire, and slept in triangular
fashion. It was sweet to lie awake, looking up at the moonlit sky
between the trees, to hear Crystal’s breathing as she and Grey fell
off to sleep before me. Once I heard her murmur “Mother” in her sleep,
and once again she moved with a sigh and said the name of the one she
loved--“Kahikatea.”

I must not dwell upon those days and nights beneath the summer sky and
the growing moon. They passed--as all fair days and nights must
pass--and at length we pitched our camp upon the edge of the Table
Land, hiding our fires behind a clump of high bush, lest they should
be seen from the mountain wall on the other side. It was the open
space of a little gully running down from the rounded hills that
skirted the west of the plain.

When we had finished our evening meal, Te Makawawa took me aside round
the clump of trees, and pointing to the mountain wall looming gigantic
in the twilight, said: “The full moon is rising behind the brow of
Ruatapu, as it has ever risen since that sunset long ago, when Hinauri
said, ‘Here will I wait!’ Ngaraki will curse the Vile Tohungas of the
Pit to-night, as they have ever been cursed since the day when the
mighty city stood upon this rolling plain. When he has done that, I
know not how soon he will leave the mountain. Therefore Tiki and I
will go forward and watch for his going.”

“Good, O Chief,” I replied; “but tell me again why does he curse the
Vile Tohungas of the Pit to-night?”

“The tradition says they will return in the flesh to destroy Hinauri;
that is why from the beginning they have been cursed when the moon is
full, for at that time their power is strongest.”

“But what will the curses do?” I asked, trying to penetrate into the
depths of his belief.

“They will destroy those who would destroy Hinauri,” he answered
simply, “even as the _karakia_ sung before her in the stone will
protect her when she moves to life. Our ancestors have taught us that
a curse heaped upon a man’s image will find that man in the flesh.
Many of these Vile Tohungas have returned, but they have never
succeeded in their object. _He Pakeha!_ Their heads are hung up in
yonder mountain. Others will return, but when they do they will find
the curse ready for them if they should stretch forth so much as a
hand against the sacred person of Hinauri.”

“What is the result of the curse?” I asked again.

“_Eta!_ O Pakeha! The result is _makutu_--not of the modern kind,
which requires the belief and fear of the person bewitched, but the
hidden magic of the ancients, which finds its mark like the weapon of
a warrior crying ‘_Utu! Utu!_’[24] When it strikes it seethes like
molten pitch in the vitals till sunrise or sunset. Then the cursed one
dies. He leaves no star in the sky among those of the watching chiefs,
but goes down, down to Porawa, with the curses of all time upon his
head.”

He called to Tiki, and together they went into the night across the
shadowy plain. If there was any doubt in my mind regarding this
strange _makutu_ the chief had spoken about, it was entirely dispelled
before I saw him again.

Grey, Crystal, and myself remained by the camp fire, and a little
distance away up the gully the two slaves cowered very close over a
small heap of embers, such as the Maoris delight in. Grey, whose
supply of cigars had not yet given out, sat smoking on the opposite
side of the fire, smoking, dreaming much, and saying little, as was
his wont. He was looking into the fire, and, as the glow lighted up
his gentle face, I forecast the happy hour when his long-lost wife,
the bride of two short weeks so long ago, and the mother of his only
child, would tell him all the sweet things he had forgotten. Then my
eyes wandered to the white figure of Crystal standing some little
distance away in the darkness. She was looking at the mountain wall,
where her mother was a prisoner. With the old chief’s consent, I had
told her the legend of Hinauri that very day, and many other things as
well, and she was no doubt building that city of long ago again upon
the plain, or thinking of Kahikatea’s quest of the pure white woman
who stood in the forehead of the mountain wall holding out her arms in
her age-long petition to the sky.

I rose from my log near the camp fire, and walked round the clump of
high trees. There I thought long thoughts of the many issues that
crowded about the unknown cave in the great rock on the other side of
the plain. I wondered where Kahikatea was. I thought of Cazotl and his
wizard minion with a creep of horror. Then, by association of ideas,
my thoughts ran down to the Vile Tohungas in the abyss. As the rising
moon threw his light up into the sky above the mountain wall I stood a
second time, in imagination, on those giant steps in the Pit, and
watched the head of the tallest image hewn out again from the dark by
the descending ray of the moon flooding down through the giants’
window. How like the vile granite face was that of the fiend of
Crystal’s pictured dream! How very like the receding brow, the long
flat nose, and the leering lips were those of Cazotl himself! Ngaraki
was waiting there, in the darkness, ready to add his awful curses to
those which extended back into the past--how far the aged moon
herself, who had looked in upon it from the beginning of the human
world, alone knew.

With an inward shudder at these thoughts I turned and retraced my
steps to the camp fire, where I found Grey and Crystal sitting side by
side, and hand in hand. I seated myself on the other side of the fire
and said nothing. The moon, concealed by the trees behind me, had
risen above the mountain wall, for I could see the silver light on the
tip of a pine that towered above the gloom of the gully. It crept down
into the rolling foliage of the lower trees, and touched a crag that
stood out from the hillside. Just below this crag I could see the two
slaves crouching over their fire, the glow of the embers on their
faces and bare shoulders. Suddenly one of them uttered a sharp
exclamation and made a movement. A moment afterwards the other clapped
his hand to his chest and said something I could not catch. Then they
remained looking into the fire as before.

While I was idly wondering what had startled them I heard a twig snap
in the darkness on my right, just beyond the light of the fire. Almost
at the same moment there was a faint hiss, and Grey started, moved his
hand to his shoulder, withdrew it, and inspected a small object, which
finally, with an expression of surprise, he threw into the fire, where
it burned rapidly with changing colours, emitting with its escaping
gas a weird little moan that I remembered too well. Another hiss
followed, and Crystal gave a little cry, raised both hands to her
right breast, sprang up and staggered some paces away, where she
remained standing motionless like one in a trance. The firelight
showed her face as I had seen it by the lightning’s glare on that
other terrible night with the wizard.

In an instant I leapt to my feet, snatched my revolver from my hip
pocket and fired three shots into the darkness where I had heard the
twig snap. In reply came the hissing sound again, and something struck
me in the chest. Then the wild laugh of the wizard negro sounded in my
ears from far away among the hills.

Quick as thought I plucked at the dart in my chest and drew it out.
Then, raising my hand I was about to fire again, when a deep voice
from the darkness said, “You cannot fire! My voice is the only
thing--you cannot fire!”

Quick thrills passed up and down my spine. The back of my head seemed
as if it had been removed. In vain I strove to pull the trigger, but
could not. In an instant I realised I was helpless. Then I saw the
powerful figure of Cazotl advance into the light of the fire. His
shining eyes, his long flat nose, his leering lips, on which rested a
sneer that seemed to flow down his glossy beard, were revealed by the
leaping flames. Yes, he was a fiend of ungainly but tremendous frame.
As he towered there by the side of the fire the sight of him conveyed
a horror to my soul. I tried to gnash my teeth, but could not.

“You can cover me with that revolver,” he said in a careless tone,
which nevertheless carried conviction with it; “but you cannot fire.
You can watch me, but you can neither move from where you stand nor
cry out. Don’t you believe me? It is quite true--see here!”

He came towards me, and placing his great chest against the muzzle of
my revolver, said: “Your finger is on the trigger, and if you were
able, a touch would send a bullet through my heart; but you can’t do
it, not even to save that pure and lovely girl.” He pointed to the
white figure of Crystal, standing motionless at a little distance.

Heaven knows how I tried to pull that trigger and send the ball
through his heart, but my powers of volition were gone--I was helpless
under the powerful influence of the drug and the voice which was ‘the
only thing.’

He moved away, and, as he had said, I found I could keep him covered
with my revolver and watch his movements, but that was all. He turned
and said something in a harsh, foreign tongue to someone in the
darkness, and presently, in answer to his order, the wizard negro came
within the light, and, putting an armful of sticks on the fire,
hurried away for more. Cazotl bent over Grey, and, smoothing his
eyelids down, said “Sleep!” Grey sank back immediately and lay still.
He also was under the power of the drug.

With my finger on the trigger of my revolver I covered Cazotl as he
walked round to the other side of the fire, and I prayed that just one
little nervous twitch of my forefinger might do the deed. But if there
was any one thing in the world of which I was absolutely certain at
that moment, it was that I could not shoot.

I saw him approach Crystal, and their two figures were clearly lined
against the background of shadow--the one like a slender lily, the
other like a giant--powerful, majestic, but vile.

With a bow and a polished grace that marked him a man of cities, he
bent his head and spoke to her words which revolted my very soul; for,
sweet, musical, and poetical as they seemed, I knew them for the
world-wide lie by which the basest passion gains its end. The tones of
his voice were rich and deep, as he spoke slowly and distinctly.

“I am the one you love; the one you have longed for. You called me and
I came. This is the garden where love meets love. The scent of roses
is wafted about. Sweet music fills the air. Honeysuckle climbs over
the bowers, and the soft beds of moss are full of violets. You hear
the birds sing in the dreamy trees; they are saying, ‘I love you! I
love you!’ and your bosom throbs with delight, for those are the words
of your own pure heart.”

He paused, and by the growing light of the fire I saw her face. It was
half raised to his with a wistful expression, and her bosom rose and
fell as a sigh escaped her parted lips. Heaven forbid! but, by the
cunning suggestion of his words, following the strange effect of the
drug, she thought herself standing with Kahikatea in ideal
surroundings, listening to his confession of love. The rich voice went
on.

“You hear the cascade pour into the shaded pool, leaping and dancing
in the sunlight: so rushes your quick blood with strong desire--a wild
cascade of love’s delight. Listen! the wind murmurs through the trees:
it is your own sweet voice whispering ‘yes’ a thousand times, ‘yes,
yes!’ You are all a-tremble with love. Your passion thrills within you
like honey and fire. It darts into your eyes like love lightning. All
your desires and aspirations, your deep inward purity, your joy of
laughter and speech, your power of song, and every intense longing for
what is good and beautiful--all are thronging in your bosom to swell
the tide of love. Now your eyes are on fire with the intensity of your
being. You give yourself to me body and soul--come!”

With horror I saw the truth of his words. Crystal’s hands were clasped
over her bosom. She turned to him, and all he had spoken was in her
eyes. Her purest prayers were there, the essence of all her music and
poetry and rippling laughter, the splendour of her world of dreams and
the beauty of her love of beauty--all were there combined in a moment
of supreme love and within reach of a devil in angel’s guise. A great
wave of horror surged through me as I looked on at this terrible
thing, and, if ever I came near to pressing the trigger and sending a
bullet through that vile heart it was then. But the words, “You cannot
fire!” seemed to have me in a vice, and the torment of an age in hell
crowded into my consciousness while I watched.

The vile one looked down at the love he had wrought in his victim.
Triumph appeared on his evil face and he gave a low, coarse laugh. He
drew nearer to her. His leering lips approached hers; they bore a calm
half smile of masterly disdain--a satisfied sneer for all that is
good, and pure, and true, and beautiful. His hand touched her waist to
draw her towards him. Then, suddenly, even as I gazed with unspeakable
agony in my helplessness, a weird thing happened. With a bellow like
that of a wild beast in pain, Cazotl sprang erect and threw up his
great arms, as if a dart of horror had pierced his vitals. A hideous,
awful cry it was that rang out over the plain, as he staggered and
fell heavily to the ground, where he writhed and twisted and fought
against some master hand which held him down.

Had I fired? No! I was sure of that. Then what had struck him. In a
flash it came into my mind that this was the dread _makutu_, the
fierce ancient magic which Ngaraki, the terrible guardian of the
temple, was even now hurling at the granite images in the abyss. A
profound awe took possession of me as I realised that the ancient
curse had found its mark.

My eyes and revolver were still fixed on Cazotl, as his huge form
rolled about, his bloodshot eyes starting from his head and his body
doubled up as if there were seething pitch within his vitals. His
hissings and groanings were terrible. Now and again hoarse cries, like
those of a soul in torment, rang out--deep curses in some hellish
tongue unknown on earth. And through it all I had a vague side picture
of Crystal standing in the same attitude as that in which I had last
seen her, and I pictured on her face the entranced longing of pure
love, undesecrated by this fiend of lust.

An hour passed, and the gigantic form still rolled and writhed in
agony upon the open space about the fire. Once my eyes came on a level
with the two slaves sitting over their fire some paces beyond the
_makutued_ man. They were fixed like statues in the position in which
I had last seen them. When next he tossed and rolled past Grey on the
other side of the fire I saw that the latter was fast asleep.


 [image: images/img221.jpg
 caption: “ANOTHER TWIST AND HE ROLLED RIGHT ACROSS IT, HIS HAIR AND
 BEARD FRIZZLING IN THE FLAME.”]


As time passed, my brain began to wander. I saw places that I had seen
long ago; I heard the voices of those long since dead. Clear visions
held my attention for a moment, then vanished. At length one vision
came and displaced all the rest. It was the wall of the abyss, on
which glistened the clear light of the moon, which, flooding through
the giants’ window, seemed to illumine the whole of the interior of
the mountain. I saw, as if behind me, the granite statues smiling up
with disdain at the great luminary; I saw Ngaraki lying face downwards
upon the floor of the world; but what absorbed all my attention was
the wall of the abyss before me. There--oh horror! who or what were
those gigantic shadows contending in a deathly struggle? I looked up
at the great window to see what cast them. There was nothing there;
the bright moonlight flooded in uninterrupted, and yet, upon the wall
before me, the two giant figures rocked to and fro in a grim,
tremendous battle. The air grew thick and heavy, as if surcharged with
some dread power. An awful silence settled down, broken only by a
roaring sound as of a mighty wind through the great stone bars. The
fury of the combat rose to a pitch of terror. Then from the stifling
air went forth a flash of light between the shadowy combatants. A
distant cry came out of the gloomy reaches of the abyss--a ghostly
voice, like an echo from a bygone age, and one of the shadows reeled
and staggered for a moment. Then the fight went on again, and I awoke
to find myself following the form of Cazotl with eyes and hand round
the edge of the fire.

The moon was now overhead, and I saw the Vile One’s face as he still
writhed in agony, unable to rise. His brow was twisted with torment,
and great drops rolled from it, but nothing could distort the leering,
bloodstained lips from their original expression: they still sneered
at all that was good and pure and beautiful. As I watched, his head
nearly touched the fire. Another twist and he rolled right across it,
his hair and beard frizzling in the flame. When he emerged on the
other side his face appeared more than ever like the grey, granite
face of the Vile Tohunga.

I cannot quite account for the hours that passed between that and the
first light of dawn, but I know that the whole of that time I must
have followed the writhing form of the doomed man with my eyes and
revolver--the full tether of my muscular ability--for when my mind
again cast off its visions I found myself still acting in obedience to
his words. Cazotl’s cries were now growing faint, but his quick,
hoarse breath, and his still desperate struggles, told that he was
wrestling in the throes of a long and agonising death. The full moon,
growing pale against the approach of dawn, was just sinking behind the
hills. Crystal had sunk upon the ground, where she lay still--a vague
outline of white upon the moss to the left of me. These things I saw
indirectly, for my eyes were fastened upon Cazotl.

The moon passed down and daylight came, revealing to my horrified gaze
a face with eyes that glared and rolled in unspeakable agony, teeth
that gnashed in unremitting pain, while the limbs, their force now
almost spent, still quivered in merciless torture. The rising sun
tipped the hills above. I was aware the light was creeping down
towards us. And now there was a brief respite, almost silence, made
still more clear by the harsh, monotonous cry of a _kiwi_ in the gloom
of the gully behind. The Vile One raised himself upon his hands and
knees, and his glaring eyes were fixed upon the form of Crystal
sleeping on the moss five paces from him. He seemed to be able to
think and act. Struggling to his feet, he stood for a moment, his
fingers crooked nervously; his teeth made a grinding sound, and there
was hate, revenge, and murder in his eyes. I saw his purpose. He would
spring upon that fair form and strangle the life out of it. He
staggered towards her, and I felt that even now my bullet would save
her--but alas! my body was like dry wood, and all my nerves were
non-conductors. I could not press the trigger.

Cazotl stood still as if to steady himself for a spring. But only for
a moment. The pallor of death overspread his now hideous face. He
raised his hand to his brow as if struck, then reeled, and with a last
grating shriek of pain and rage, fell heavily backwards, where he lay
extended and motionless. At that moment, even as he was falling, my
finger pressed the trigger, and the bullet sped. At that moment, too,
as the sunlight flooded down over glistening birch and pine, my body
relaxed, and I fell unconscious to the ground.




 CHAPTER XX.
 CRYSTAL LOVES KAHIKATEA, WHO LOVES HINAURI.

It was early dawn when I awoke. By the light of the fire, which had
evidently been freshly made up, I cast my eyes round the camp scene.
Everything was as it should have been. Grey was asleep on the other
side of the fire; Crystal was sitting up against a fallen tree trunk,
not far from me, in the attitude of one who had dropped asleep while
watching, for her cheek was resting on her arm, which was laid along
the rough support. Near the other fire I could discern the forms of Te
Makawawa and Tiki, while at a little distance the slaves lay huddled
up. Was it possible that nothing unusual had happened--that I had
merely dreamed a frightful dream? The chief and Tiki had evidently
returned in the night, but why was not Crystal rolled in her blanket?
I swept my eyes round the open space of the camp, and asked myself
what had become of the body of Cazotl, which, in my mind’s eye, I
could see so distinctly lying face upwards on the other side of the
fire.

I got up and shook myself; then felt for my revolver. It was not in
its usual place. I clapped my hand to my chest and found a painful
spot where the dart had struck me. Then I knew it was no dream.
Stepping quickly to where Crystal was sleeping, I bent down and
touched her on the shoulder.

She raised her head, wide awake on the instant.

“What has happened, Miss Grey?” I asked hurriedly.

“A strange thing,” she replied, standing up and facing me; “yesterday
morning----”

“Yesterday morning?” I said in surprise; “then I’ve been asleep for
nearly twenty-four hours?”

“Yes, and we have been taking it in turns to watch you. It was my
turn, but I must have dropped off--forgive me.”

But I was busy wondering how much of the awful occurrence of the night
she knew. I said: “Yes, well; yesterday morning----”

“Ah! just at sunrise father and I were awakened by a pistol shot, and
I saw you fall to the ground. We both ran to you and found your
revolver still smoking in your hand. But we could not rouse you--you
seemed to be fast asleep, at least father said that you were, and that
there was nothing whatever the matter with you. While he was feeling
you all over I looked to see what you had fired at, and oh! Wanaki, I
saw a horrible thing. On the other side of the fire a huge man with
his clothes all torn, his hair and beard burnt, and his hideous face
upturned, lay on the ground. When father had finished examining you,
he searched the body of the horrible thing, said it was dead, and that
there was a bullet wound right over the heart.”

“Thank God!” I said, for, as she seemed to know nothing of his
terrible throes, I would not shock her mind with them.

“Wanaki!” she said, looking earnestly at me, “why did he come, and why
did you kill him?”

“Do not ask me why he came?” I answered; “and I shot him for reasons
best known to myself.” I turned my head away to say that.

“Don’t be angry with me,” she pleaded. “I have told you many things. I
heard Tiki say that he came to steal ‘the little maiden’--he meant me,
of course. Is that why you shot him?”

“Oh! Tiki said that, did he?” I asked quickly, and waited for an
answer.

“Yes, but Te Makawawa, when he first arrived and saw the huge body,
looked at the face a long while, shook his head at what Tiki said, and
muttered to himself something about the ancient magic of Ngaraki. Then
he walked up and down, gesticulating wildly and singing a chant about
Ngaraki the Terrible. He stopped in the middle of it abruptly, walked
to where I was standing, scanned my face as if it puzzled him, and,
shaking his head, slowly walked away. Now what do you make of it?”

“I don’t make anything of it,” I said shiftily, for I saw that if I
was not careful she would drag the whole story from me. “I know the
man came and threatened you and I shot him. What have they done with
him?”

“Te Makawawa and Tiki and the slaves took him to a mud swamp over
there and sank him in it. Then the old chief sang another long, wild
chant about Ngaraki, Hinauri, and the Vile Tohungas.”

I saw she was thinking of something at the back of her words as she
said this. After a pause she resumed, speaking very slowly: “Do you
know that when I looked at the dead man’s face I had a feeling that he
was like the man in my dream who cried ‘Degrade the pure one! Whose is
the task? Mine! Mine!’ There is something strange in it all, Wanaki.”

My eyes met hers, and we stood looking at each other until at last I
said: “Miss Grey; there is something _very_ strange in it; but if I
were to attempt to explain it in any way, I should only make it more
mysterious. In the meantime we have much to think of. You will
probably see your mother to-day.”

At this moment Grey awoke and staggered to his feet yawning.

“Ah! Warnock,” he said, coming towards me; “you’re awake at last. None
the worse, eh? By Jove, that was a good shot of yours--right through
his heart. What did the fellow want?”

I moved my head towards Crystal and raised my eyebrows.

“Eh? Eh?” he whispered, drawing me aside; “would have drugged her and
carried her off, eh?”

I nodded.

“The deuce,” he said, wringing my hand, while he regarded me with an
expression of horror on his gentle face. “Thank God you saw him in
time. Warnock, my friend! I’m beginning to look upon you as a special
Providence.”

The events of that night had so horrified and perplexed me that I
could enter on no explanation of them. I preferred to let things
explain themselves as they would--as they had, in fact--yet I knew
very well that I had not killed Cazotl with my poor bullet; it was his
death from another cause that had unbound the spell from my will, and
released my trigger finger from obedience to the controlling voice.
There was some mysterious power, more unerring than that, which had
struck him like the wrath of Heaven. Remembering a part of Ngaraki’s
awful cursing chant in the abyss, I moved aside with some excuse to
Grey and muttered to myself:


 “Cursed in the light, writhe till the sun goes down;
 Cursed in the dark, writhe till the sun comes up.”


 * * * * *

Impatient at the delay caused by my long sleep, Te Makawawa insisted
on an early start, and after a hurried breakfast we set out for the
mountain wall on the other side of the plain. The old chief informed
me briefly that Ngaraki had left the mountain the morning before at
sunrise, and would probably be away for another day. I tried to draw
him out upon the mysterious affair of the _makutu_, but he stopped all
further efforts of mine in that direction by the remark: “The flax
that ties the tongue of the _ariki_ is not loosened even by the sun”;
by which, taken together with an expression of perplexity I had seen
several times upon his face, I gathered that something troubled him.

As we passed along I noticed many rough buildings placed by twos and
threes near the streams that crossed the plain and sheltered by the
various clumps of stunted bush. I overtook the chief and spoke to him
again.

“O Chief, whose hair is the snow of Ruahine, these are not the abodes
of the ‘children of the mist’ who come hither to snare the _kakariki_.
What then are these houses that strew the plain?”

“It is as I said,” he replied absently. “The tribes are gathering from
far and near; Ngaraki has spread a rumour that Hinauri will return
shortly, and they are here to do her bidding when she comes.”

“Is there not danger in this?” I asked, for I saw that so warlike a
people, led by violent chiefs, would be apt to differ among
themselves; or, if not, some false prophet would surely arise and work
them up to frenzy with the idea that they were now to drive the
pakehas into the sea.

“There is small danger,” he said. “They are gathered for peace; but,
if any should stir up among them, my warriors, who are now on the way
to this place, will take their heads and restore peace.”

“But some violent chief,” I persisted; “some false prophet will
certainly arise, saying he has been commanded by Hinauri in a dream to
rouse the people to fight, and they will do it, Te Makawawa--I know
the hearts of your people.”

“O Friend of the Forest Tree,” replied the old chief, “your words are
not the dry leaves of foolishness scattered by the wind; yet, if it be
even as you say, who can stand against Te Makawawa? And, if they
should rise as the sands of the sea and cover the whole earth, could
they escape the wrath of Ngaraki the Terrible?”

His eyes flashed and I felt answered, for though I smelt war very
strongly I could not imagine the aged chief and the fierce Ngaraki on
the losing side.

When we reached the Lion Rock that terminated the descending spur, the
secluded valley and the stupendous outer wall of the temple were still
in deep shadow. Dreamer Grey looked down at the stream welling out of
the mountain’s side, then up at the everlasting granite, and finally
turned to me.

“You know,” he said, “you know how sometimes you have a kind of vivid
impression that you have seen some given thing before--well, that is
exactly the feeling I have when I look at these rocks. I wonder if I
shall remember as much of my wife’s face.”

I smiled at him as he gazed up at the rocks. “You will have one memory
between you,” I said, “or perhaps her face will appeal to you ‘like
glimpses of forgotten dreams,’ as Tennyson says.”

He did not answer: he was forecasting his happiness with his eyes
fixed upon the mountain wall as if he could see through it. As I
turned away to where Crystal was standing, she moved towards me and
pointed to the aged chief sitting upon the mossy bank near the rock,
buried in deep thought.

“He says that he will soon take us by the ‘way of the fish,’” she
said; “but that for the present he has long thoughts to think--that
the sun will set ’ere long, and that these last moments are for him.”

“He expects to die for revealing the secrets of this mountain to us,”
I said. “Do you know, he seems to me like a man who is following some
commanding voice, which draws him on and on, even to what he believes
to be his death.”

“Yes, he seems to have altered strangely. Even to me he is different.
Often he looks at me with those piercing black eyes of his as if there
was something he did not understand. At times I think that he doubts
if I am the same person that he stole away from my mother in his zeal
for Hinauri. Perhaps he still thinks I am a witch.”

“Ah! that reminds me,” I said. “While he is thinking his long
thoughts--and I think that perhaps they are stranger than you or I can
guess--while he is setting his face to the dying sun I will show you
the place where you were not buried fifteen years ago.”

Leaving Grey with an unlighted cigar between his lips, still looking
up at the great wall, and the aged chief, sitting motionless on the
bank, we turned into the forest glade that led up into the valley and
the ravine. When we gained the open space beneath the great rimu, and
I showed her the spot where the tohunga had buried the stone, Crystal
turned to me with a sudden thought in her face.

“Ah! Wanaki!” she said, touching me on the arm, “may all in us that is
base as that coarse stone you have told me about remain buried here in
the shadows.”

I was about to reply, but at that moment a dull roar, like the sound
of a distant explosion, fell upon my ears.

“What was that?” she asked.

Well I knew what it was. Should I tell her? Why not? She had a right
to know.

“It is Kahikatea,” I replied; “he is blasting the rocks high above the
mountain wall. He hopes to clear a passage through the rocks to the
cave where----”

“Where my mother is,” she broke in eagerly.

“Where Hinauri stands,” I said slowly. “Hinauri, the Daughter of the
Dawn, the Bright One who holds her arms out to the future of the
world--Hinauri, whom he loves.”

Crystal moved her eyes slightly from mine. Was it a flash of jealousy
or only pain that I saw in them as she steadfastly regarded a clump of
daisies in the moss?

“He is mine!” she said suddenly, with a fierce blaze of passion that
lighted her face as if with fire; “no one can take him from me--oh!
what am I saying to you?--you, to whom I owe everything in the world:
you, whom I would spare any pain--oh! forgive me, Wanaki!” The sudden
fire, which in the depths of her eyes was like a threatening light
flashed out of ancient darkness, concealed itself, leaving her face
full of tenderness beyond my poor power of words.

I did not speak.

“Tell me,” she said again, swept on by the tide of her feelings, “tell
me--if he believed this marble statue would return to life, according
to the legend, would he love it in the same way as--as----”

“As I love you?” I suggested.

“Yes--as you--love--me.” She cast her eyes down, halting between the
words as if she were measuring their exact meaning and influence upon
her.

There was a brief pause, in which I felt like a man who, in some
underground prison, can see daylight through a far small opening, and
stumbles towards it. But it was no time for any but a fool to stand
and think.

“Yes,” I said; “there is a personal element in his love for this
legendary woman. Her face is the only face in the world for him, and
he longs to look upon the fair form of the Bright One. When at last he
does so, and touches the cold marble lips with his----”

I paused there with my eyes searching her face. My words had roused
the natural woman in her. Between her parted lips I saw the pearly
teeth set, as the colour fled from her cheeks. Clenching her hands,
she turned to me with flashing eyes that had robbed her face of life,
but not of a beauty that now was terrible in its anger.

“Do not tell me any more,” she said. “Oh! if my love should come to a
blind end!” She drooped her head and was silent, mightily troubled in
her bosom.

“What would you do?” I asked quietly.

She looked up and faced me calmly, but did not speak.

“Crystal,” I cried, seizing her hand and pressing it passionately to
my lips, “may I hope that if--if----”

“Ah! Wanaki,” she said slowly and sadly, “I owe you everything in the
world. I do not know what a woman will do. I never knew till now that
it was possible I should feel as I have felt. Oh! tell me--is Hinauri
so _very_ beautiful?”

“They call her the Rival of the Dawn,” I said, releasing her hand as
she drew it away.

“The Rival of the Dawn,” she echoed with a pathetic ring in her voice;
“Kahikatea loves the Rival of the Dawn; I, who am nothing in his eyes,
love Kahikatea; and you----”

“Yes, I, who am nothing in your eyes, love you.”

There was a pause, in which the west wind pressed gently against the
bosom of the rimu, and the tui sang on in the high solitude of the
ravine.

“That you are nothing in my eyes is not quite true, Wanaki,” she said
softly; “but at present I cannot say how false it is. Let us go back
and see if Te Makawawa has finished his long thoughts.”

We retraced our steps for the most part in silence, and as we went I
felt that perhaps--who knew?--there would be a daybreak to my
darkness. I read into her words the possibility that she might give me
some of the love that Kahikatea would most certainly thrust aside
without ever dreaming of its existence.




 CHAPTER XXI.
 CRYSTAL AND HINAURI MEET.

When we reached the open space about the stream Te Makawawa was
still sitting there on the bank with his head bowed. Dreamer Grey, on
catching sight of us, threw away his unlighted cigar and came to meet
us.

“I am the most patient of men,” he said, “but--I suppose the old chief
there knows what he’s about.”

“We can do nothing but wait,” I said, and we all sat down on the mossy
sward to do so.

But we had not to wait long, for presently the chief started to his
feet and began striding rapidly up and down the bank. His head was
erect, his step was firm, and but for his grey hair and aged face one
would have said he had not grown old. His pace quickened to a run. He
stopped and performed an imaginary fight with the empty air, thrusting
with his spear and shouting battle cries as he had done in his early
years. Then he dashed down his spear with the air of a man whose mind
is made up, threw off his outer robe, and, with a short run, plunged
from the bank.

We rose from the ground and ran forward to see if the ancient one was
really equal to this daring feat. Two, three, four minutes we stood
looking at the dark pool, and then Grey said:

“If he hasn’t got through he certainly won’t come up alive now.”

“He must be through,” I said, “he must be through.” But I was getting
anxious.

“Look! Look!” cried Crystal; “the water’s growing less; see! it’s
sinking--it’s drying up.”

I gave a sigh of relief, for I saw the water was rapidly diminishing,
and knew that the old chief had gained the ledge inside, passed round
the lake, and pushed the great lever up to stop the flow of the water.

Gradually the surface of the pool sank below the aperture in the
mountain wall and, finally, left the way perfectly clear. Grey made a
movement as if to climb down and go in through the black opening, but
I restrained him.

“We must wait till he returns,” I said. “We can do nothing without
him.”

Accordingly we waited with our eyes fixed upon the dark round opening,
level with the bed of the channel as to its lower margin, while its
upper part was considerably higher than a man’s head. Presently there
was a glimmer of light approaching through the darkness of the
interior, and then a figure appeared in the aperture, standing erect
with a blazing torch in his hand. The sight startled me, for the
figure was enveloped in a large war cloak made of dog’s fur, and the
whole solemn bearing of the wearer, as he held his torch aloft and
stood looking at us, was that of the guardian priest of the ancient
temple.

In another moment, however, I recognised Te Makawawa as he might have
been eighteen years before, when he first brought Grey and his wife to
this strange place. He beckoned to us, and we climbed down the bank as
quickly as possible, and hurried along the shingly bed of the channel
towards him.

“Speak few words, O pakeha people,” he said solemnly; “but follow in
my footsteps.”

He turned and led the way. Grey went first in his wake, Crystal
followed, and I came last. When we had gained the level rock above, by
means of the rough, but not difficult, niches in the wall, the
torchlight shed a fitful glare upon the nearer rim of the great basin,
and upon part of the lake. The water, flung up tumultuously in the
centre, boiled and effervesced and lapped against the rocky rim on
which we stood. Far away at the end of the narrowing gulf could be
seen the giants’ window, through which the sunlight streamed like
silver, but grew golden as it fell obliquely into the denser darkness
of the abyss. The wall of the cavern beyond the lake was lost in
gloom, into which I knew the great spar was tapering off to its wooden
sprit near the overhanging crags of the vaulted roof.

But we saw these things in a glance, for Te Makawawa passed on along
the margin of the lake, bearing his torch, and we followed. He halted
at the part of the cavern wall by the lake side, where I had seen
Ngaraki’s kit of kumaras ascend by a cord.

“O Friend of the Forest Tree,” he said, drawing me a little aside,
“the mysteries of this ancient temple are great and wonderful. I am
going by the ‘way of the fish,’ which no man can find without a guide,
nor, if he found it, could he pass that way without being taught. Now
stand there close to the wall, and hold the mountain lily by the hand,
lest she fall in the darkness. I go. And, when you hear the roaring of
the sea overhead, and the great god Tangaroa lets loose the flood,
then you will know that Te Makawawa has passed in safety, that his end
is not yet.”

“And what then, O chief? Do we follow, or will you return?”

“I will let a rope down from above by the wall where you stand. Climb
up the rope, O Friend. Then the Man-who-has-forgotten will tie the
mountain lily to it, and together we shall draw her up, and let the
rope down again for the Man-who-has-forgotten to ascend. Is my word
clear?”

“Yes, O Chief,” I replied; “but if you fail, what then?”

“Then my end will have come,” he said, “and the ancient spell I cast
over the Man-who-has-forgotten will return to me, his memory of all
these years will be blotted out, and his new thought will link on to
the old as if it were but yesterday. He will remember all--even the
secret of the ‘way of the winged fish,’ for he has passed through it
from above. Most clearly he will remember the ‘way of the lizard’
beyond the giants’ window, for by that path did he leave before
forgetting the things he knew. Thus, if I perish, you shall escape
through him.”

“It is good, O Tohunga,” I said, wondering at his strange words.

He turned and, torch in hand, passed round the lake to the rock behind
which, on a former occasion, I had hidden while Ngaraki had plunged
from it into the depths. I went back to the spot where Crystal and
Grey were standing, close to the wall.

“Let me hold your hand,” I said to Crystal, and explained briefly to
them both what strange thing would happen. I found her hand in the
darkness, and as I held it in mine even the thought of Kahikatea did
not intrude. Thus in silence we watched the movements of the tohunga
across the lake. He removed his war-cloak and hung it somewhere in the
shadows of the wall. Then he approached the edge of the lake and
dipped the end of the torch in the water. The faint hiss reached us
over the seething tide, and then there was darkness, in which, as I
held Crystal’s warm hand, it seemed to me that we two were alone in
space.

A sudden plunge in the lake aroused me; then all was still, except for
the ghostly movements of the welling flood. Half a minute went by, in
which my thoughts were with the chief who had undertaken I knew not
what dangerous task in the depths. Would he fail?

As I asked myself the question my ears detected a change in the sound
of the water. The boiling, seething motion ceased gradually, and there
was a commotion in the depths of the lake--a commotion conveyed
suggestively by a wave rolling round the margin, flapping over as it
went, and again by the peculiar sucking sounds of whirling eddies
which seemed to close together with little claps of the water here and
there.

Ah! there was a sound I could interpret in the darkness. It was made
by the water rolling off the sides of some object which had risen
above the surface not four yards from us. It was, I knew, the head of
the great stone lever in the depths. Then the profound silence which
followed was broken by a hollow roar like that of some wild beast pent
in a cave within the roof. Louder and louder it grew until, with a
booming sound like thunder, the waters gushed from an opening above,
and, their forefoam showing vaguely in the darkness, fell with a
deafening tumult into the lake. The spray dashed up in our faces and I
drew a long breath, for I knew that Te Makawawa had passed by the ‘way
of the winged fish.’

Against the din of the cascade I heard Crystal trying to make herself
heard.

I raised the hand I was clasping, and, placing her finger and thumb on
the lobe of my ear, bent my head towards her.

“He is safe!” she cried, and I felt her warm breath on my cheek. Then
she guided my hand to her own ear, and I cried back: “Yes; he will
soon let down the rope.”

My hand still retained hers, and as I spoke in her ear a wisp of her
hair strayed across my lips. I forgot everything. The roar of the
cataract seemed to drown all except my passion, and that overwhelmed
me. Suddenly I enclosed her in my arms and, drawing her to me, kissed
her wildly on the brow and cheek and lips. For a moment she lay still
in my arms, then she pushed herself gently away from me as if she were
saying, “I do not know what a woman will do.… I owe you everything,
but not this--at least not yet.”

At length, after waiting several minutes, I felt something swing
against my shoulder. I stretched out my hand and caught it. It was the
rope. When I had shouted the old chief’s directions again in the ears
of my companions--that Crystal was to come second and Grey last--I
tried my weight on the rope, and, finding it firm, climbed up. It
seemed a long way in the darkness, and I was nearly exhausted when at
length a hand slid down over the rope and touched me. Another hand
found my other wrist and, as I climbed a little further, both gripped
me beneath the armpits, raised me over a barrier of rock, and set me
on my feet on a level foothold.

“_He Pakeha!_” said the deep voice of the chief; “is the mountain lily
safe?”

“Quite safe,” I replied.

My first thought was to strike a match to see what space there was to
move about in. I did so, and found that the old chief and myself were
standing on a level platform let into the wall of the cavern. He went
into the shadows and returned with a torch, which I lighted from the
match, and set in an upright position in a crevice. He then unwound
the rope from a rounded knob of rock on the inside of the barrier, and
let down a few more yards for Grey to make a kind of swing for
Crystal. A rough flax mat protected the rope from the irregularities
of the rock, and the barrier itself projected far enough from the wall
to enable her to keep clear of it in the ascent.

It was not until, by our united efforts, she was drawn up and stood
safely beside us, that I breathed freely. The rope was let down, and
Grey came up soon afterwards like an acrobat. Te Makawawa then made a
sign to me to draw the rope up again, and, as I was doing so, it
resisted my efforts for a moment, as if someone was holding it;
however, it came loose, and I thought that perhaps a knot on the end
must have caught on some projecting piece of rock. Yet the matter
puzzled me a little, especially when I felt the end of the rope soon
afterwards and found there was no knot there.

But it was no time for fancies. Te Makawawa took the torch from
Crystal, and showed the way into a high tunnel which, as we followed
him, led us right into the backbone of the rock, and gradually took
the form of a spiral ascent, though I could only guess at this from
the somewhat steep grade, and the continual curve to the left. We soon
lost the roar of the cataract as we circled up higher and higher into
the silent heart of the mountain.

After toiling up in this way for some time we came to a hollow place
of many chambers. Here also was a lever-like structure similar to the
great spar in the lower part of the cavern, though very much smaller
and more delicately fashioned. Upon the arm of the lever I saw, by the
light of the torch, some peculiar figures. I drew Te Makawawa’s
attention to them and asked him what they signified.

“There is an ancient tradition,” he said doubtfully, “that this stone
will be raised when Hinauri returns, and that when it is done all the
ways of the temple will be closed; but its secret has been lost. See!
the end hangs over an abyss--the secret is hidden in the depths.”

It was balanced on a breast-high ridge of rock, and beyond was a gulf
which the light of the torch could not span.

“Remain here, O white people,” said the chief, after we had wondered
at this strange contrivance; “wait here in the Place-of-Many-Chambers,
and I will go and speak with Miriami, and bring her to you. But,” he
added, drawing me aside, “I will say nothing of the little maiden. I
cannot face the stars in her eyes.”

Leaving us the torch, he vanished through another tunnel, and left us
in this Place-of-Many-Chambers to await his return with the lost
Miriam Grey. Crystal stood with her hand on the tapering end of the
stone lever, which stretched its arm horizontally into the centre of
the chamber in which we stood.

“It would be easy to raise this,” she said. “I wonder that no one of
the long line of priests, which you say has guarded the secrets of
this place for ages, has had enough curiosity to try it.”

“According to Te Makawawa,” I said, “it seems to be a means of hiding
the temple and its secrets for ever when the ancient queen returns,
the reason being perhaps that there is immense wealth hidden somewhere
here. Let us see what the other end of the lever is like.”

I held the torch over the barrier, and we peered into the gloom.
Resting in the hollow of the head of the lever, some little distance
out, we discerned a large round stone of many tons in weight, its
outline dimly defined against the blackness beyond. Below this yawned
a pit, in which the rays of the torch were lost.

“It seems to me like a system of rolling stones,” I said. “If this
lever were raised and that stone launched into the gulf below, there
is no telling in what way it might carry out some design originated by
the founders of this strange place. No doubt there are levers below,
balanced in such a way that this stone would move them and liberate
other rolling stones, which would run in grooves prepared for them to
execute some errand connected with the various openings into the
mountain. Why not? Could anything be more gigantic and wonderful in
design than the great levers in the cavern below?”

“There were giants in those days,” said Grey, joining us and glancing
round as he spoke. “This must all have been hewn out with design.
There are six little caves, I have counted them by matchlight, all
opening into this larger one, and some of them contain the openings of
other tunnels leading goodness knows where.”

Little by little Crystal and her father gravitated towards the opening
through which the old chief had disappeared, and by which he was soon
to return with the one for whom we had undertaken our journey. Hand in
hand they stood together with their eyes fixed on that opening. I
placed the torch so that its fitful glare fell upon their now pale
faces, and retired into the shadows, where I stood leaning upon the
arm of the lever to watch this reunion between husband and wife,
between mother and daughter.

The two stood silent and motionless. I saw, by the uncertain light
which revealed their faces, that their feelings were too deep for
speech; I saw by the nervous clasp of their hands that their suspense
was great.

But it came to an end. Grey made a sudden movement and bent his head
forward. I knew his ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps.
In another moment Te Makawawa issued from the darkness, and, standing
aside, folded his arms and remained with his chin on his breast. By
the brief glance I caught of his features I saw that his expression
was even more troubled and perplexed than before.

Presently in the opening of the tunnel appeared one whom at first
glance I took to be a Maori woman of high rank. She was clothed in a
rich silky kaitaka, her feet were sandalled, her bare left arm and
breast glistened through the masses of dark hair which fell loose
about her. As she stood there a moment between the dim light and the
darkness, like a tall Maori chieftainess, a leaping flame of the torch
showed her face more clearly. It was like the pale face of a madonna,
sweet, tender, and good. The high brow, the magnetic-looking eyes,
with delicately pencilled eyebrows, gave a look of tremendous artistic
and concentrative power to the face; and this power seemed only
equalled by the pervading tenderness of her expression. I saw at a
glance that this “woman with the stars in her eyes” must without doubt
be the remarkable creator of that remarkable work in the marble cave
above.

But Dreamer Grey had taken a step towards her and stood gazing at the
woman who, it was slowly dawning on him, must be his wife. She drew
near to him, at first hesitatingly; then, without passion, but with a
ring of great tenderness in her voice, she cried: “My husband!” and,
placing her arms about his neck, laid her cheek upon his. Held in each
other’s arms, they remained silent for a moment, while, in the shadow
near by, Crystal stood watching them with I know not what emotions in
her heart, what dawn of joy upon her face.

At last a little cry escaped her: “Mother!”

It came like a note of pathetic music, like the last beat of a
long-sustained chord before it is resolved, and all is plain to the
listener. Te Makawawa raised his head. A tremor shook some depth of my
matter-of-fact being, which had never been touched before. Husband and
wife who had found each other lifted their faces at the word, and
their eyes met. Grey disengaged one arm, and, stretching it out
towards Crystal, said in a voice unsteady with emotion:

“It is our daughter!”

Slowly, and as if she did not understand, the mother turned her face
towards the white figure standing near by. In the half light she
scanned Crystal’s features. Then she started, giving a quick
interjection in the Maori tongue. The hand which had rested on Grey’s
neck slid down and clutched his arm. “My daughter? hush! our daughter
is dead, dear. Te Makawawa!” she gasped hoarsely, speaking again in
his own tongue, “the light! the light! quick!”

Why was she so eager? She knew, or thought she knew, that her child
was dead, and yet she was gazing at Crystal’s face like one struck
dumb with astonishment.

The chief drew near with the torch and held it up so that its light
clearly showed the faces of all. Crystal was holding her arms out to
her mother with a yearning look upon her face.

“I live,” she said sweetly; “I live, dear mother--why do you not take
me in your arms?”

As the light fell upon the lovely face and form, all white and
sculpturesque, Miriam Grey drew a quick breath--I heard it as I stood
in the shadows--a gasp of unutterable astonishment. Her free hand
clutched at the air, then swept quickly across her brow, while I
wondered, for how could there be anything in that face for her to
recognise after so many years? Yet it seemed there was something.

“Ah! God in heaven!” she cried. “Am I mad--or is this thing true? Te
Makawawa, Chief and Tohunga! are you blind?”

I walked from the shadows round to where Crystal and Grey were
standing, and together we watched this strange scene. I motioned
silence to them, whispering that the chief would explain.

“I am not blind, O Miriami,” he said quietly; “but what my eyes see my
thoughts put aside. My two eyes and your two eyes may speak false
words in this dim light. The Light of Tane is in the cave above, and
here are many eyes that may see and judge.”

He waved his hand towards us as he spoke. I was perplexed by his
words, for as I understood the matter it was not a question of seeing
clearly, but of simple confession on the part of the old chief.

“Your words are wise, O Friend of the Great Tohungas,” she said
thoughtfully, with an almost terrified look at Crystal. “Give me the
torch.”

He handed it to her and she moved towards the tunnel, holding it
before her, and motioning us to follow.

“What did the chief mean?” asked Crystal, when I had translated his
words to Grey; “he did not explain. My mother still thinks that I died
when I was three years old. I do not understand.”

“Nor I,” said Grey. “Why was my wife so startled? I can understand her
refusing to accept my statement when she had such good evidence that
Crystal was dead, but why did she look so amazed? Surely she could not
have imagined that Crystal had risen from the dead!”

“Yet she seemed to recognise me in some way,” said Crystal again.

“That is impossible,” I exclaimed. “The colour of your eyes would be
the only thing that would not have altered, and in torchlight all dark
eyes would look black. No! there is something to be explained. Do you
know where we are going?”

“To the white cave you told us about?”

“Yes, the marble cave where Hinauri stands--Hinauri, the Daughter of
the Dawn.”

Crystal was silent. Presently she said: “I don’t see how she can help
us.”

The tone of her voice told me that the bitterness of her heart had
come uppermost again. But I did not reply, for at that moment we came
to some smooth white steps cut in the rock. Te Makawawa stood aside
upon these steps, and as we passed him I saw, by the light of the
torch moving into a dim but growing daylight before us, that he fixed
his piercing eyes upon Crystal’s face in a long, bewildering scrutiny.

The steps led round to the right, and finally we stood upon the
threshold of a pure white marble cave, lofty and spacious. Beyond the
facts that the level floor was covered with snow-white dust, and that
there was a large opening communicating with the outer air, I took
small note of the details of the place, for there, standing where the
fine, clear morning light flooded in, was the marble image of Hinauri,
her arms held out in longing towards some vision she could see in the
western sky through the opening of the cave. Her face was concealed
from the side view by some of the waves of sculptured hair that fell
over her left shoulder, but the lifelike pose of the figure showed the
perfect body and lovely soul of one who had seen a vision of joy long
sought, and, in yearning towards it, had for the moment “forgot
herself to marble.”

Miriam Grey had now thrown down her torch, and was standing beyond the
image with her hands clasped together, waiting. I was the first to
move into the daylight and gaze into the face of Hinauri. What I saw
there dashed to the ground my hopes of a heaven on earth. For one
brief moment I looked upon that lovely face, startled, bewildered,
dazed--but not at its loveliness. Then I staggered back into the
shadow of the rocks and leaned against them, looking on at the scene
in a helpless fashion. Grey, too, after one quick glance, started back
and passed his hand over his brow, as if he doubted his senses. Then
Crystal, who followed him, paused before the image. With a little cry
she took a step towards it and stood in mute wonder. For a time they
remained facing each other, the girl of to-day and the goddess of
ancient night, for whom the giants of old had fought their grim
battles--the pure woman whom the vile Cazotl had sought to degrade by
his magic, and Hinauri who, from the time of Zun the Terrible, had
been fiercely guarded from the Vile Ones of all time by a greater
magic--Crystal Grey, who loved my perfect man, and the cold white
being, which, set in the high solitudes of the world, my perfect man
had loved. Crystal raised her arms to the radiant Daughter of the
Dawn, and a single word fell upon the silence of the place:
“_Myself!_”

Like a note of heavenly music the word fell from Crystal’s lips; like
a discord of the tuneless earth it rankled through my brain. Then for
a moment--so paramount is self--life and love forsook my heart,
leaving it cold, like the stone on which I leant despairingly.

For some seconds no one stirred, and during that time I, grasping at
the matter-of-fact, cast about for an explanation of this strange
thing. Instantly there rolled through my mind that time when, before
Crystal was born, Miriam Grey worked at the stone, absorbed in the
contemplation of the vision she had seen--the vision of Hinauri. Was
it possible that her work had been twofold? that, while her whole
being, with all the concentrative power one might read in her eyes,
was absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful image of her
imagination, she had “found” that image at once actually in the marble
and potentially in her unborn child? Kahikatea was right, but only
half right, for the mother who had conceived the beauty of Hinauri in
the stone had also conceived her wondrous image in the flesh.

Then came the same dull roar that we had heard from beneath the rimu
in the valley, thundering down from the roof of the mountain above us.
Crystal heard it, and as she raised her face I saw the love-light leap
into her eyes and a radiant smile spread over her face. I saw her lips
move, and the unspoken word seemed to fall like lead upon my heart:
“Kahikatea!”

I turned my face away and laid my cheek against the marble wall. There
was nothing between them now.




 CHAPTER XXII.
 THE TALISMAN.

Miriam Grey moved out of the shadows into the daylight that flooded
in through the opening of the cave and paused by Grey’s side, while
they both gazed and marvelled at the wondrous thing that was now made
clear.

“It is Crystal herself,” said Grey, when he had partly recovered from
his astonishment.

“Crystal!” cried his wife quickly; “that was our daughter’s name, but
I tell you, dear, she died; she was drowned, and Te Makawawa himself
buried her. I will call him and he will tell you the same.”

She went to the top of the marble steps and called, but there was no
answer. The aged chief who would face warriors, even if they covered
the whole earth, had now clearly fled to avoid either facing the woman
with the stars in her eyes, or confronting a matter through which he
did not see his way clear.

As he had obviously left me to tell the tale of his deception,
perchance of his sin against the Bright One, I gathered my thoughts
together and went forward.

“Miriam Grey,” I said, “when first I undertook the search for you, Te
Makawawa told me the story of the child, which, of course, you know up
to the point where he took the little body away to bury it beneath the
_rimu_. The part of the story he kept from you is this. Your child
Crystal revived in his arms; he did not bury her but sent her away
with a band of Maoris, whose instructions were to leave her with the
first pakeha they met. The first white man they found was your
husband, who, nevertheless, up to a month ago did not know she was his
own daughter.”

“Not until Warnock here----” began Grey, but he stopped as he turned
towards his wife, for, as was natural, my words had moved her greatly.
She now stood looking at Crystal with a tender light of motherhood on
her gentle face.

“My darling child!” she said slowly and hesitatingly, as if still
unable to comprehend it.

“My own mother!” cried Crystal quickly--she had no hesitation in the
matter--and, like a bird, she flew to, and nestled in, her mother’s
arms. And they stood for a moment in a close embrace.

Crystal held back her head, and, smoothing her mother’s glossy locks
away from her brow, looked at her lovingly, saying with a sweet
repetition:

“Mother! Mother! Mother! My own mother!”

As Miriam Grey looked again on the lovely face so near to hers, and
saw the dark eyes gazing into her own, there came once more the
expression of bewilderment and awe which I had seen at their first
meeting in the Place-of-Many-Chambers. Could she not account for this
perfect likeness to the stone, as I had done? Surely she did not think
that Hinauri’s ancient spirit had come back in the flesh?

No sooner were these questions asked in my mind than they were
answered in a way that mystified me. As the look of awe deepened on
the mother’s face she spoke in hushed tones:

“I saw your image in the stone before I was a mother. ‘Out of the
distant past I will come to you,’ you said, as you held out your arms
to me from the stone. Is it possible that the ancient prophecy is
fulfilled in this way?--that you are Hinauri, the Daughter of the
Dawn, who has returned according to her promise, out of the distant
past? O dear and lovely one, your eyes gaze down on me from the
beginning of the world.”

Crystal seemed to be attaching her mother’s words to the feelings of
which she had once spoken to me--the feelings of a “long, long ago,”
hidden in some inmost tomb of memory. She was silent; but I, not
willing to admit this thing by my silence, and moreover, having
another explanation, spoke my thoughts.

I said: “That Crystal is your daughter is beyond doubt; but it seems
to me that in the matter of the perfect likeness there is an
explanation other than the one of which you speak. Of two marvels we
must choose the less. My explanation is this: you yourself created an
image which, in moments of deep concentration, you saw as if within
the stone. Then, as day by day you visualised it more clearly,
striving to give it visible shape in the marble, your desire was
realised not only on the lifeless stone, but also on the face and form
of your unborn child. Your idea was made stone, why not flesh?”

“Warnock is right, my dear,” said Grey, “no one believes in previous
existences nowadays.”

Miriam Grey turned to me, leaving Crystal listening to her father, as
he attempted to uphold and justify his view.

“Mr. Warnock!” she said gently, touching my arm; “what you say
explains only the means employed. I recognise the law that we become,
more especially in our offspring, what we contemplate; yet would I say
that this was merely the means by which Hinauri’s spirit clothed
itself in flesh.” She had lowered her voice almost to a whisper, and
now she drew me further aside. A breath of the rising wind wailed
about the ancient crags as it swept the side of the mountain without.
It awoke strange feelings in me, as I stood in that high cave where
Hinauri had waited through the ages. “There are strange things in this
ancient temple,” she resumed, “things which point to the possibility
of beings, who lived when the temple was founded, returning to earth
again.”

I remembered the Vile Tohungas and replied: “Yes, I have seen a
granite image and its living replica--do you mean that?”

“The one who stands apart I mean,” she said. “His face is that of
Ngaraki, and what is more, the meaning of that granite statue that
gazes ever upwards through the dark is the meaning of Ngaraki’s life.”

I was silent, wondering if this could be. I recalled the other thing
in favour of her belief--the resemblance that Cazotl had borne to the
chief of the Vile Tohungas, not only in face, but in purpose. I did
not speak of it, but I began to detect a deep underlying connection
between things that seemed formerly to be isolated. The ancient
traditions, the happenings of the past month, the more immediate
revelations of that very day--all seemed to be woven together in a
definite pattern, real and visible to my inner eyes. I realised that,
given this belief of Miriam Grey’s, the whole matter was a unity such
as is made by independent witnesses who speak the truth. I could now
understand, too, Te Makawawa’s bewilderment and hopeless confusion in
finding what he regarded as a discrepancy in this unity, viz.: that
Hinauri seemed to have moved to life, while yet the image remained
immovable. These thoughts, which take so long to write, passed through
my mind while the woman before me was dwelling on her last words.

“Come here!” she said again, leading me into the darkness round a
buttress which divided the cave into two apartments; “you have
matches. I will show you one of the strange things this place
contains--a thing which will prove, if anything can, whether my child
is that ancient one reclothed in flesh.”

I struck a match, and she lighted a torch that stood upright in a
crevice in a ledge of rock. By the glow of the clear-burning pineheart
I glanced quickly round the place. The jagged stone walls were not of
marble, but of fine granite, and the furthest ray of the torch
revealed no closing in of the rocks overhead. Dim reaches and shadows
I could see, but no roof--indeed, by the freshness and purity of the
air alone it was evident that there was an outlet above. That was
surely the way by which Kahikatea had first entered the cave. As I
swept my eyes round the lower walls and floor of this inner apartment
I saw that in former times it must have been the abode of some of the
savage priesthood who had in turn guarded the sacred stone. Thick
Maori mats were laid about the level floor. Maori spears occupied the
recesses of the rocks, and _merés_ of jade rested on the ledges. Rich
garments of dog’s-hair or woven flax hung from points upon the walls,
and ranged around the place were the grotesquely carved wooden gods of
the Maori, lolling their tongues and caressing their bodies with
three-fingered hands, while their eyes of _paua_ shell glistened in
the torchlight.

While I had been engaged in looking at these things Miriam Grey had
withdrawn a little stone box from a part of the wall. With this in
both hands she approached, and, saying it was heavy, bade me place it
on the ledge where the torch blazed. I did so, and the light of the
pineheart revealed the frosty glitter of gold dust. She plunged her
hands into this and withdrew a curiously wrought circlet of gold, set
with a large diamond at one part and with a brilliant sapphire at
another.

“This,” she said in a whisper, “so legend tells, is Hinauri’s crown.
The very ancient giant priests took it from the city which stood on
the plain below, and, when they brought the queen to this cave, it was
placed in this receptacle, where it has remained until now.”

I took it in my hands. This actual tangible relic of a bygone
civilisation helped me to understand those emotions of “long, long
ago,” about which Crystal had spoken. I looked at the circlet and then
at the walls of granite, and a feeling of extreme age possessed me.
Had I, too, perchance lived in that far time when Hinauri, the Bright
One, had attempted to rule a violent people by the law of love? Had I
been among her counsellors in that long ago--a man of humble aspect,
nursing an unrequited love for his dark-eyed queen?

I cast out the thought, for my unrequited love for Crystal was a thing
of which I could not yet think calmly,

“This,” I said, “conveys to my mind no proof except that it once had a
wearer.”

“Wait,” she replied. “Tradition says it is a talisman whose virtue is
restricted to the one for whom it was made. See! there are some
characters engraven inside which are supposed to relate to this
tradition. In times long since it pressed the brows of the ancient
queen, and the legend runs that, on her return, it will not be until
it is placed upon her head that she will recall the memory of her
ancient life.”

“Let us place it on Crystal’s head now,” I said quickly, making a
movement towards the outer cave.

“No,” she returned, detaining me by the arm; “not now. At sunset
to-night Ngaraki returns to sing his karakias before the statue. It is
the time of the year when for a few days the sun-ray strikes in
through a rift in the outstanding crags. We will remove and conceal
the statue, and when he comes he will find Crystal posed in its place;
then, while I place this circlet upon her head, he and the event shall
decide if she be Hinauri or only my child.”

“If the talisman should have lost its power!” I objected.

“Then the tradition will not be of a piece with the general body of
tradition which has been handed down within the ancient walls of this
temple,” she said. “I have learned step by step, by proofs which I
cannot show you now, that there is truth in these priestly traditions.
I will tell you one thing briefly: in a circular recess in the side of
the wall of the great abyss are the preserved heads of men who at
various times have found their way into this mountain to destroy the
sacred stone which was supposed to contain the form of the Pure One.
The faces of these I have recognised by their resemblances to the
faces of the Vile Tohungas of the Pit--the Destroyers of Women--and I
believe firmly that the ancient brotherhood of sorcerers exists to
this day, their initiates returning again and again in the flesh to
work out their destiny. Even quite lately one found his way into the
lower part of the mountain, but he escaped after nearly killing
Ngaraki, whom I nursed for many days, thinking he would die.”

“If they had caught him what would they have done with him?” I asked.

“His head would now be hanging among the others, where it ought to
be.”

I felt very thankful that I had not killed Ngaraki with that last
bullet of mine, and still more thankful that my head was still on my
shoulders. But I did not waste time in correcting her mistake. She
concluded:

“That chamber of preserved heads, with many other things over which I
have had ample time to think, has led me to believe in the traditions
of this place, strange as they may appear to you of the outer world.”

I was silent, but in my silence I wished that I had kept the head of
Cazotl to place among that gruesome collection.

At that moment Crystal, followed by Grey, came round the buttress.

“I want to kiss you again,” said she; “I have lived nearly sixteen
years without a mother, and now I have found you I am so happy that I
think I must cry.” She placed her arms round her mother’s neck, and
drawing her down to a low ledge of rock near by, seated herself at her
feet and buried her head on her lap and sobbed for very joy. Her
mother placed one hand on Crystal’s hair, while Grey, seating himself
beside her, took the other between both of his, and, leaving them
thus, I walked back into the marble cave.

Again I stood before the statue of Hinauri and lingered over Crystal’s
loveliness in stone. I felt a wild desire to kiss the beautiful cold
lips, but I remembered that look of hers when she realised that
Kahikatea loved her, and I held back. If ever a woman was pledged to a
man Crystal was pledged to my friend. It was different now. I
withdrew, and turned towards the opening.

This mouth of the marble cave was a little more than two yards in
width, and nearly ten feet high. It admitted the lights of heaven on
to the face of Hinauri. The outer surfaces of granite were worn by the
age-long action of air and water, but the inner edges, of pure white
marble, were accurately hewn with two parallel grooves, one on each
side, similar to those down which a window might slide. Calling up the
picture of the huge stone grating in the lower part of the temple, I
remembered that the same grooves on a gigantic scale were there also.
For a moment I wondered if these apertures were really so constructed
in the first place that they could be barred with massive granite
shutters. But it was useless to wonder, and I turned my attention to
what was passing on the plain below, which was clearly visible to me
as I advanced and stood in the opening.

On the left some outstanding crags shut out the view, but towards the
right I could see, far below, the secluded valley, hemmed in against
the mountain wall by the spur and the Lion Rock. On the further flank
of the Lion was a small plateau of some forty yards square. On the one
side of this was a precipice overlooking the plain, and, on the other,
the open space was separated by a deep fissure from the thick bush
that clothed the bases of the less precipitous mountains sloping off
round the Table Land on the right. To this small plateau there led up
a narrow path--a path which, as it ascended, became at one point so
constricted by the steep precipice on its right and the yawning
fissure on its left, that there was scarcely room for three men to
stand abreast. The natural advantages of this position had been seen
by the Maoris at a glance, and they had already set a high palisading
round it, thus marking it for a stronghold. Scattered about on the
yellow plain were small collections of rough dwellings--as many as
might account for the presence of several hundred natives. And they
seemed to be still flocking in, for, coming down off the spur of one
of the rolling hills on the other side of the plain I saw a line of
warriors.

In the _marae_[25] of the fortified _pa_ on the Lion’s flank was a
chief striding up and down haranguing a crowd of savages. By his wild
gesticulations and the fury of his words, whose connected meaning I
could not catch, he was evidently a violent savage with a violent
idea. As I asked myself what that idea could be my eyes fell on
another figure in the open space near him. I sprang up and ran to the
part of the cave where I had seen Grey set down his field glasses.
Returning with these I looked long and steadily at the other figure.
Yes, it was the wizard negro. Another of his infernal reed tubes was
in his hand, and it at once occurred to me that he had this turbulent
Maori under his influence, hoping, through him, to use the whole
savage force for his own purposes.

While this was going on a tall chief, white-headed, and clothed in a
dog’s-hair war-cloak, strode out of the _pa_ and across the plain to
meet the warriors, who were now banding themselves together on the
level. He stopped them and then led them past the _pa_ to the strip of
bush that skirted the mountains to the right. As far as I could judge,
the chief was Te Makawawa and the warriors were of his own tribe. I
watched the scene on the plain for more than an hour, and the
conclusion I came to was that the Maoris were gradually dividing
themselves into two camps--the one under Te Makawawa and the other
under the turbulent chief, who was evidently ruled by the negro
wizard. From a few words that I had caught of the chief’s harangue in
the _pa_ I guessed that the wizard had depicted Ngaraki’s goddess as a
pakeha, and had urged that the Maoris should rise in arms against such
an imposture. In addition to this I saw clearly how the subtle wizard
would erect another and a dark-skinned goddess on the pedestal and
enlist their sympathies with her. Very gravely I noted how my fears
had been only too well founded.

At length I rose and sought out Miriam Grey in the inner cave. The
three were still sitting talking together in low tones, and I
hesitated before disturbing them. But I felt that the matter was
urgent.

“I’m afraid there will be a battle among the Maoris before long,” I
said, standing before them. “They have arranged themselves into two
hostile camps, and look as if they mean fighting.”

Miriam Grey rose to her feet.

“I knew it,” she said; “I knew there would be trouble, but Ngaraki
would bring the tribes together. He has told them too much, and now
they have the idea that they are to win their land back and drive the
English into the sea. But Te Makawawa knows better. Is he there?”

“Yes,” I said. “He controls one camp, and another warlike chief who
occupies the stronghold commands the other.”

“There may still be time when Ngaraki returns at sunset,” she said.
“He will know nothing of it, for he will come by the secret entrance
at the back of the mountain--the ‘way of the lizard’; but he will
quiet them if Te Makawawa cannot. When he comes and sees what he shall
see he will be like a thousand men, and at ordinary times he is
terrible enough, for I have watched his face while he has chanted his
karakias in this cave.”

Under Miriam’s direction Grey and I removed the statue from its place
and concealed it among the wooden gods in the darkness of the inner
cave. It appeared that this removal was only rendered possible by the
fact that, some years before, Ngaraki, impatient at Hinauri’s delay,
had, with great toil and by means of an old sword--apparently the gift
of an early explorer to some ancestor of the Rangitane--found among
the weapons in the inner cave, achieved the difficult task of sawing
through the base of the statue, where it was in one piece with the
marble floor. This was to loosen one more of the fetters of Hinauri,
for, as he said, “How could she move to life when her feet were fast
bound to the rock?” Thus the place where Hinauri had stood through the
ages was now left vacant, so that her living image might stand there
with her arms outstretched to the western sky, with the same
loveliness of old upon her face, and the same age-long prayer upon her
parted lips. This, Miriam maintained, was not a trick, but a test, for
none knew as well as Ngaraki the form and features of his ancient
goddess! None could say with him, “This is she for whom I waited, for
whom I prayed and toiled my whole life long.”




 CHAPTER XXIII.
 THE DAUGHTER OF THE DAWN.

Towards sunset I stood at the opening of the cave and looked down
upon the rolling plain below, with the Lion Rock enclosing the little
valley against the mountain wall. About the banks of the stream the
afternoon sun, obscured from me by some crags that stood out upon my
left, slumbered upon beds of moss, and all was hushed. Thistle-down
floated along the slow currents of the air; gnats and bright-coloured
beetles winged their way above the tops of the dreamy trees, while
here and there a tui flashed out from the foliage to chase them in the
sunlight. And in the bosom of the quiet was felt at intervals the
single bell-like note of the korimako--a drop of liquid sound falling
into the deep well of silence--the ping of some little heart of air
bursting in a single throb of pure delight. These sights and sounds
below were to me the points of a great hush which reigned beneath the
cloudless sky, as if Nature, like a fair quietist, had fallen into a
trance, yet having her blue eyes wide open.

As I leaned against the side of the cave’s mouth and gazed down upon
the dreamy scene, the melancholy of it all laid hold upon me--that
melancholy, I mean, which is at once the matrix of joy and sadness,
and which, like beauty, is far within the eyes that see it, deep
within the heart that feels it. In its atmosphere our souls may almost
bridge vast gulfs of time and enclose far-sundered points in space.

It was so with me. I wished that those feelings which seemed to come
to me out of the long-lost past might abide with me for ever, or I
with them. Knowing them as the enemies of littleness, I loved them,
not because they were mine, but because they were not. In this still
air of melancholy the things of ancient night breathed at my side, and
the things of to-day were set far back in the dim recesses of eld. The
pre-Adamite city of the plain which Time had trodden in the dust was a
present reality, but the murmur of my friends’ voices from the inner
cave was a ghostly echo from a bygone age.

The silence deepened on my soul, the melancholy mood forgot itself,
and the mellow poetry of “long ago” vanished like the glamour of a
dream. “All things happen here and now,” I said, and the sound of my
own voice disturbed the stillness. Time rolled itself out into ages.
Space unfolded into vast stretches. The melancholy brooding of my
dream returned, but with something added: a thread of fleeting memory
connected with some old-world life. I tried to assure myself that it
was a mere freak of the brain, which may be able to dress a present
thought in the past tense in such a way as to deceive even its own
father.

But it was in vain. I shall never forget the deep impression made upon
me by my instantaneous dream that all things happen here and now. When
it had passed I regarded it as the true waking state, and this other
the dream into which I had slipped once more. An eternal dreamer
dreaming non-eternal dreams had been aroused for a moment, and then
had slept again with less reverence for the clumsy, sprawling
consciousness of his dream. I had laid hold of some evidences of a
life buried beneath the strata of memory: a monstrous tooth of an
old-world passion, a blunted flint-head of some dart of high desire, a
tablet inscribed with a deed of darkness, a clouded stone in labour
with a gem for a sometime crown--these were unearthed at random as if
from some pre-tertiary strata of recollection; and so I dreamed on and
on into the past until, turning my head at a slight sound within, I
saw a white figure advance from the shadows of the inner cave into the
daylight, and pause on the spot where, with her giant priests around
her, Hinauri, the Queen of the City of the Southern Cross, had set her
feet. I passed my hand quickly across my brow and said to my senses,
“Fools! it is merely a girl of to-day draped in the style of the queen
of ancient night to cheat a Maori chief.” But these words did not
multiply, for I saw at a glance that Crystal’s lovely face was full of
those wistful dreams of long ago which had come to me. Her form was
burdened as if with a sweet, but heavy sadness, and her head drooped,
so that her long, black, rippling masses of hair enveloped her arms
and shoulders like a shroud of darkness, in the depths of which was
the veiled light of her eyes. She was abstracted and did not observe
me as I passed before her gaze and found my way into the shadows of
the inner cave, where Miriam and Grey were standing watching her.

“Is this to trick Ngaraki?” I asked of the former, with a return of my
former scepticism.

“Hush!” she replied, “it is no trick. She is like one walking in her
sleep. Within the unhewn marble I saw the queen of old stand like that
in deep abstraction before she held out her arms to me and the future.
It is no trick. In ten minutes Ngaraki will be here, and he shall
judge if this is the one he has toiled and prayed for all his life.”

Her hand trembled on my arm, and I was silenced. I looked into her
sweet face in the vague light, and saw there again my own strange
dreams of “long ago.” At that moment the thunder of Kahikatea
reverberated far away overhead. He was blasting the rocks to force a
passage through the tunnels. Crystal heard the sound as if it had been
a chord of music in her dream, for she raised her head, crossed her
hands upon her bosom and stood there, rapt, serene, expectant. The
daylight, now falling full upon her upturned face, revealed a pallor
and a look of endless waiting which did not pass away, but remained
unaltered, as if her spirit had flitted from her body and left them
there. Minutes passed and she did not move. I called her name, but she
did not hear. I stepped from the inner cave and stood before her. She
did not see me. Her deep black eyes of night, wide open and full of
mystery, seemed sad and tired of waiting through the ages, and upon
her cheek, pale as the moon-face in the light of day, her long lashes
cast heavy shadows of weariness. It was the beauty of the marble
Hinauri, touched with the conscious stress of her long and lonely
vigil. Awed and silent, I returned to the gloom of the inner cave to
watch and wait.

Sunset was drawing near. The exact moment when the sun ray would
strike in was known to the woman who had spent the best part of her
life in this cave. “A few minutes more,” she whispered to me; “but it
will not come before Ngaraki. He must be already approaching through
the tunnels.”

I heard a slight movement in the darkness among the Maori gods, and
was about to ask who was there, when Miriam clutched my arm and
pointed towards the head of the marble stairs which led up into the
cave. There, framed in the rugged archway, stood the tall figure of
Ngaraki the Terrible, clad in his flowing robe--a magnificent Maori,
whose flashing eye was hard to meet, whose proud, fierce, but noble
bearing marked him out as a ruler of men. His eyes were fixed upon the
white figure in the centre of the cave, standing where Hinauri had for
ever stood. The thick tresses of hair that fell about the graceful
form of his goddess were now jet black. He passed his hand across his
eyes and hit his breast a sounding blow.

No, he was not dreaming. But was it a trick? Had Miriami blackened the
statue’s hair?

He took quick strides and stood before the form in white. Ngha! the
eyes were no longer dull, white stone, the parted lips were faintly
red, and the cheeks, though white as death, were those of a living
soul.

He stepped back with a stately gesture of heroic feeling, chanting in
an awed and subdued voice:


 “It is not Hingarae I see,
 Not Ihungarupaea,
 ’Tis Hinetuahoanga
 Standing there!
 The axe is sharpened,
 The axe unloosened by the sun,
 And now the tree which stifles Tane
 Shall be laid low.”


He ceased with the poetry of his fierce heart unspoken in his eyes,
for at that moment Miriam Grey advanced from the shadows with the
circlet of gold in her hands. Motioning Ngaraki to stand aside and be
silent, she drew near and placed the talisman with its sparkling gems
upon the head of the living image. As she did so the pallor and
abstraction, the weariness and sadness, fell from the face and form of
Crystal. She no longer drooped. The warm blood mounted to her cheeks
and sparkled in her eyes. Power and stateliness came into her pose.
She awoke. And at that instant the expected sun ray burst in, and the
dazzling beauty of the Daughter of the Dawn was revealed.

In all my dreamings I had never dreamt of beauty as divine as that. My
poor words fall on their faces in helpless confusion. Miriam Grey
caught her breath and stepped back, the limit of human wonder upon her
gentle face. The Maori chief stood erect, his eyes shining like stars,
but his countenance motionless with a control that seemed more than
human. Grey moved a sudden step forward, and, as I turned my head, I
saw in the shadows beyond him the vague outline of a giant figure I
knew. It was Kahikatea, standing with one hand on the buttress, his
head bent forward to view the form of Hinauri in the sun ray. He had
come


 [image: images/img262.jpg
 caption: “AT THAT INSTANT THE EXPECTED SUN RAY BURST IN, AND THE
 DAZZLING BEAUTY OF THE DAUGHTER OF THE DAWN WAS REVEALED.”]


by the ‘way of the spider,’ and had arrived at a moment when he well
might stand there speechless with amazement, shaken with the sudden
realisation of desires which seemed impossible of fulfilment.

As the sunlight wrapped Crystal about with splendour, sparkling in the
gems of the golden talisman, glistening on her raven tresses and
close-girt raiment of white, a mysterious change came over her. She
dropped her arms to her side and shivered slightly. Then the sweet
longing deepened upon her form. The lovelight leapt into her glorious
eyes as she gazed into the western sky. Yearning forward, she held out
her arms to some vision which seemed to call her pure soul out of the
depths to array itself in light upon her radiant face.

Surely this was no acting! None could imitate so faithfully the pose
of longing and expectancy which had been so startling in the marble.
No; as I gazed with all my soul, wonder forced the settled conviction
into my mind that it was in reality Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn,
waking from her age-long trance. Reclothed in flesh, it was the
ancient spirit of the pure one who, in a far-off period of the world’s
unwritten history, had come down from the skies to rule the people by
the Law of Love. A storm of deep feeling swept doubt from my mind and
gave me clear-seeing eyes to view this thing. Hinauri had returned.
The Daughter of the Dawn had taken up the thread of memory where she
had dropped it in the ages that Time has buried in the Eternal Sea.

Still bathed in the glowing light she stood motionless, her arms
outstretched to her vision. A little breath of wind sighed without,
then came in at the opening of the cave and swayed the edge of her
skirt till it revealed one sandalled foot. It rippled her raven
tresses and caressed and pressed them gently about her form. Then her
beauty became unearthly in its splendour. Her bosom heaved, her eyes
sparkled with a holy light, and her parted lips uttered a cry of joy
in an unknown tongue--strange, and wild, and sweet, like an echo of
forgotten song. It thrilled the place with music for a moment; then
the sun ray fled and bore it on its bosom away, through all the happy
fields of space.

Hinauri’s arms fell to her side, and she turned to the chief, who
stood silent. With a swift glance she scanned his stately form, and,
when her eyes met his, a look of recognition came upon her face. In
the half-bewildered way of one who is linking the memory of a dead
past on to the living present, she said in even, solemn tones,
speaking in the Maori tongue:

“I know thee. I know thy name. I know that of which thou art the
meaning. Zun! my counsellor in an age gone by; the one who stood by me
in the darkest hour of danger; but stooped from the high magic that I
taught my priests--stooped, and sinned, and fell, to save me when all
seemed lost. Lo! the gross image of myself--the stranded spar bound
down with a stone!--whose was the splendid lie that gave that image to
the Vile Ones to oppress, saying ‘This is Hia’s real self’? The lie
was thine, O Zun! the substitution of the false for the true to save
the sacred stone from their polluting hands. Misguided friend of long
ago! thou hast suffered for love of me and still must suffer----”

She broke off suddenly, and my thoughts, which were recalling
Ngaraki’s interpretation of the characters on the breast of the
Twelfth Tohunga, found a sudden ending; for, at that instant, there
came from the plain below a sound that shook the air. A sudden tramp
of many feet as one, then silence and a short sharp yell, harsh and
terrible, rending the silence like a savage spear thrust--these were
the signs that told the first terrific movements of the Maori
war-dance on the plain.

Ngaraki’s hand closed tightly on his _meré_, and he advanced one
foot; but Hinauri’s eyes were sad, and her face sorrowful, as she
mutely questioned him, while we all stood silently by in the shadows,
feeling it was not for us to speak or act.

At length the fierce chief spoke:

“Hinauri has returned, and her people are ready to fight for her.
Ngha! they will fight the whole world and drive them into the sea.”

The sound of the war-dance--evidently a sudden surprise to him--had
half aroused his fierce nature, and for the moment his great joy could
plan no higher tribute to his goddess than to fight for her. But in
another moment he was recalled from his wild impulse, for Hinauri’s
face grew sad beyond words as she answered:

“Zun--Ngaraki--my word is peace, not war; my rule by love, not
violence. Ah! I have awaked too soon from my long sleep. Thou wert
ever fierce and too ready to fight for me. Well did they call thee
Terrible. But hear me, Zun--they may heed my words. If they would be
my people they must live by the law of love and not by that of war. Go
to them. Tell them that my message is peace, and stay their violence.
They make war, not for me, but against me. Go with all speed, lest it
be too late, _and thou return to look for me in vain_.”

The chief’s fierceness fell from him at these words, and there
appeared upon his face a look of wondering worship, softening his
aspect with the high poetry which lingers long in the heart of his
race. He bowed his head in submission and moved to go. But Hinauri
called him back.

“Ngaraki! Depart in peace: leave war and knife behind you!” She
pointed to his weapons as she spoke, and there was a command in her
voice and eyes.

The chief turned and laid his spear and _meré_ on the white dust
before her, saying: “Not only his spear and _meré_ will the Maori lay
at the feet of the Daughter of the Dawn, but his heart and life also.
He was startled by the sound of war, and thought only of fighting for
his queen. He will go to his people and tell them that the word of the
Bright One is peace and love.”

He turned, and was about to descend the marble steps when his
controlled emotions broke loose. Facing round he held forth his arms
to her, while the answer to his lifelong prayers shone out upon his
rugged face.

“The world is glad!” he cried; “no more shall Papanui’s daughters
weep. Ihi-Ihi has come from the west. Hinauri has burst from her
ancient tomb. By the magic of a woman has she burst her bonds. And now
the long-sealed fountains of the Maori’s breast leap and dance and
sparkle in the sun with music sweeter than the korimako’s joy. Ngha! I
will hasten to my people: my heart is breaking with a mighty song.”

He hurried away, and his stately form was soon lost in the shadows
below the stairway.

Then Hinauri, the daughter of Miriam Grey, turned to her mother with a
strange blending of emotions upon her face. The dazzling glory of the
ancient queen was now softened by the pure and tender light of a
daughter’s love. She drew near to Miriam, and, placing her arms about
her neck, folded her close, saying in a soft, low voice: “Mother! my
mother! It is all clear to me now. I know myself; I know my name--it
is written on the rocks that are buried beneath the dust of ages on
the plain below, and upon the walls of this everlasting temple. Now I
know the meaning of all my vague yearnings for some forgotten glory,
some mellow splendour of the past, some memory of my ancient self. Now
I know why the thought of ‘long, long ago’ brought tears to my eyes
and yearning to my soul; and why I longed to fill the hearts of women
with great thoughts and prayers, for it is by the high magic of Woman
that my giants will come back. Look at me!” She stood away and held
her arms aside, while there rested upon her face a perfect certainty
that none could find a defect in her person. “Am I not as I came to
you at the very first, perfect as the image that was reflected in the
depths of your pure soul? Am I not the one who came to you and touched
your highest thoughts with fire, who led your soul to the father of my
choice? Yes, it was I that fanned that double flame with the breath of
my desire. I gave my life to you and you preserved it by your constant
prayers. Nay, more--I came to you because you were the only one in
whom I could find myself. In your great love for what is pure and
beautiful you held out all that belonged to me, and I came and took
it, for it was mine to take as well as yours to give. And yet there
are some who would say that I was not; that the full extent of this
sign of power is that you fashioned me according to the model of your
mind; that I was one with formless substance, and you moulded me to
this form by the power of your imagination.”

She smiled and placed her arms again about her mother’s neck. Miriam
Grey’s lifelong prayer for what is pure and beautiful was answered.
She drew her child to her, and the beating of her heart against her
daughter’s bosom spoke first. Then she said:

“You were the love that came to me out of the distant past--a ray of
light from the golden skies of long ago. You are Hinauri, the Bright
One, and yet--and yet you are my child.”

Her goddess stepped back, and again the dazzling regal beauty flashed
out, but with a softened splendour, as she cried: “Ah! pure mother,
whom I chose to be my guide! The stars in your eyes foretold my
birth.” Her beauty changed to loveliness, and, as she drew nearer and
continued, we in the shadows bent forward to catch her words, they
were so low and tender: “Mother, sweet mother!”--she was nestling to
Miriam’s bosom now--“if every woman mounted to the gates of heaven to
find her child, and bore it from the skies sheltering it all the way,
as you have done, there would be no more sorrow, no more death--only
a coming and going of gods descending and ascending, from heaven to
earth, and from earth to heaven. For long ages men have been only
half-born. Earthward-bound souls have striven with their mothers for
whole and perfect expression in flesh, but Motherhood has fallen from
its grandeur, and they have striven in vain. The Bright Ones ever come
to earth, but when their witless mothers misconceive their power and
beauty, what godlike likeness can they bear? Alas! that women should
have forgotten that their ideals may rule the world. Alas! too, that
they should caricature the gods. It is to restore Motherhood to its
first sublimity and power that I have come, and the mystery of my
coming is the ground-plan of a mighty race.”

Hinauri paused and placed her hand to her forehead, as if she feared
her memory was flitting.

“Though I can recall the past,” she said sadly, “I have no knowledge
of what my future is to be; yet I feel that this clear memory will not
be mine for long. Before the world’s oblivion closes in upon me again
I would search out and look upon certain things in this ancient
place--symbols of constant love for the higher things of beauty, and
symbols, too, of the downward progress of those Vile Ones who have
made stepping stones of their dead selves to grosser and to grosser
worship. And when we go down to work and pray in the world, should we
not leave the pure white image here as a symbol of our higher selves,
for ever holding out its arms to the glory of the future?”

I glanced at the shadowy figure of Kahikatea, half expecting that he
would make some sign, but he stood motionless, straining forward, with
one hand clutching a projection of the buttress. Obviously he was too
thunderstruck by this fulfilment of his dreams to act, to move, to
speak. I went to him, and grasping his hand, said:

“Your dream is fulfilled. Wait a little longer and you will
understand.”

He answered by a silent pressure of my fingers. Then Grey and I, in
answer to the wish we had heard expressed, brought forth the marble
statue from the recesses of the inner cave and placed it in its former
position. I remember noting that, as we stood away leaving it there,
the sounds of the war-dance on the plain sounded louder and more
furious; but all thoughts, all sounds were for the time set aside by
what followed.

As Hinauri stood before the stone gazing for a moment upon the finest,
loftiest expression of herself, I heard a deep breath taken in the
shadows near me. Then a hand trembling with a bodyfull of excitement
gripped my arm, and a voice whispered hoarsely, “God, Warnock--I
understand!”

Then Hinauri spoke, and her words seemed to gather to themselves all
the loving prayers that have risen from the lips of women since the
human world began. The thrilling music of her voice struck some
invisible but responsive harp-strings in the air of the silent cave,
and the song of it went singing on and on, coalescing with the sweet
tones that underlie the universe of women’s hearts--on and on until
the Great Tohungas of the Earth quieted the music of their deeds to
hear the strain, and, listening, to whisper: “Hush! we toil in vain. A
woman prays and all is done. Gentle hands knock at the door of heaven,
and the Sons of God come forth to walk among us”--on and on, a voice
made universal, welling from the heart of every woman and falling on
the ear of That-which-Listens in the throbbing heart of all. Her black
eyes--dark with excess of light--were fired with all the intensity of
a woman’s love, as she raised her arms and voice to the image that was
to remain in the high solitudes of the mountain:

“My pure white Higher Self! I go down to the world, but thou must
stand for ever gazing out into the future, thy very look a prayer for
all that Heaven holds back. Pray on, pure self, and may thy prayer be
ours. When we weak women of a darkened world lose heart, and almost
fall into forgetfulness, then may we look up to the everlasting hills
and see the age-long hope upon thy face, the vision of the Golden Age
within thine eyes, and crystal purity upon thy brow. Symbol of ideal
woman! In every deed may we live always in the silence of the age with
thee, for thou art in the stillness, and the stillness is with beauty,
and beauty is with God. Thine arms are raised in constant longing;
thine eyes look forth into a further and a further sky. So may our
arms be raised for ever; so may we look beyond the level of the earth
and pray that we may always know that, far above the world’s loud
roar, our pure white Higher Self stands ever as we might stand--clear
seers of a pristine beauty, seekers of a further God and, like thee,
crowned with precious gems of womanhood.”

She removed the circlet from her head, and, approaching the image,
paused before it with the talisman in her hands.

“This will link thee and me together in one life, so that there shall
be one spirit between us. For long ages have we been spoken of as one:
let us so remain, and I, below upon the earth, will never stain thy
glistening white, for all the holy blessings that have fallen on thee
since the world began will fall on me and hold me up. So I remain
while thou remainest, breathing this same pure air. Lo! in token that
we are one life and one spirit, I place my crown upon thy brow.”

She raised it, but her eyes fell upon the characters engraven upon the
inner surface, and, with hands arrested, she read aloud:

“_Thou, Hia, shalt return at the dawn of a new age, but ere the sun
has shone twice upon this, thy crown, thou shalt withdraw into the
sky._”

She paused, while this strange prophecy wrought a sadness very human
on her face. Then she placed the circlet upon the head of the image.

Something now prompted me to lead the woman I loved to the man whose
face she had seen in her dreams. Acting on this sudden impulse, I
emerged from the shadows and said to the one so far above me, “He is
there in the inner cave. He is there--my perfect man!”

As I pointed towards the buttress she turned her dark eyes on mine;
her lips trembled, and her eyes burned with a light that was not for
me. Then with a troubled and sorrowful sigh--yes, that sigh was for
me--she said, “Wanaki! he was always mine.”

She moved slowly in the direction of my outstretched hand. She seemed
to pause and flutter a moment on the verge of the shadows, then, with
the same joyous cry in an unknown tongue that she had uttered in her
vision, she flew to him, and, from the darkness, I heard her murmur
his name, dwelling upon it as lovingly as her head now dwelt upon his
breast.

“Kahikatea! Kahikatea!”

I turned and hastened down the marble steps, leaving Grey and his wife
to make what they could of it. I would go out and kill someone--that
negro wizard by choice--or be killed by someone, it mattered little.
But at the thought of the Destroyer of Women--the Poisoner--I pulled
up short in my chaos. Yes, everything mattered. From that evil source
danger might still threaten the woman I loved. What meant the prophecy
engraven on the talisman, that before the sun shone twice upon it she
must withdraw into the sky? The other prophecies had been fulfilled,
why not this? It was not fate. It could not be fate. It was a warning.
Filled with a dread presentiment as dark as the utter darkness I
passed through, I went down through the tunnels and reached the place
to which we had climbed from the margin of the lake. The rope was
still there, drawn up as I had left it, and the cataract was no longer
thundering down from above. By this I knew that the hidden contrivance
beneath the water had again been set in motion, and that both Te
Makawawa and Ngaraki had passed out by the ‘way of the winged fish.’
For me there was no way but to descend by the rope, and when I stood
on the margin of the lake below, I feared to leave the rope hanging
there. Accordingly, I swung it over a projection near the recess where
the torches were kept, so that no one could find it in the darkness.

When, a minute later, I passed out at the opening in the side of the
mountain, the hideous yells of the savages beyond the Lion Rock told
me that fierce battle was near, if it had not already begun.




 CHAPTER XXIV.
 ZUN THE TERRIBLE.

To reconnoitre the position of the two camps I determined to mount
the back of the Lion from the valley side. I ran across the open space
and climbed half-way up the flank of the great rock, but, finding it
was impossible to reach the summit, I selected the tallest pine that
grew on the side of the spur and went up it in all haste. When I
reached the feathery top I found myself above the level of the Lion’s
back, swayed by the wind to and from the topmost ledge. Here I had a
clear view of the plain, where the savages of both camps were drawn up
in two long lines facing each other. The war-dance was over, and the
time had arrived for single warriors of each side to rush out, and,
with wild gestures illustrative of the coming slaughter, to hurl
taunts at the other.

But my attention was directed more particularly to a scene that was
being enacted in the open space of the enclosure on the plateau not
twenty yards from me. Ngaraki, who had evidently been unable to quiet
the savages on the plain, had found his way into the hostile _pa_,
where he now stood confronting a small band of chiefs, who, by their
violent manner and occasional bursts of savage laughter, looked as if
they had been drinking _waipiro_ to rouse their utmost ferocity for
the coming conflict.

The violent chief whom I had seen haranguing them was there, seated
upon the ground, while the others stood behind him. His aspect was one
of treacherous hatred as Ngaraki, calm and careless, yet a savage of
terrible presence, stood before him. Then, before a word was exchanged
the tohunga of the temple burst forth into his message, delivering it
in a half song, half speech, while he paced to and fro with dignified
mien in the open space. He told them that Hinauri had returned, and
that he was her messenger. He told them that her word was peace and
love, that she had sent him to stop the approaching battle, that, if
they fought, they would fight, not for her, but against her. While the
yells of mutual defiance came up from the plain like the manifold
voice of Tu--that god of war who ate his own brothers--Ngaraki’s tones
resounded within the _pa_, impassioned and eloquent. But his words
would find a heart of peace in the rocks themselves sooner than in the
breasts of the savages before him.

He ceased, and the violent, blustering chief, whom he had addressed as
Amukaria, sprang to his feet.

“He says Hinauri has come,” he yelled, brandishing his axe. “Can he
show her to us? No; he says she is white as the mountain lily: then we
don’t want to see her. Hinauri is no _wahine pakeha_; she is Maori
like ourselves. I have seen her spirit: she is no pakeha. She bade me
collect a thousand canoes. I have done so, and they will land at
Wakatu to-night. Curse the pakeha! A pot for his head. This is my word
to him.”

He turned and, rushing towards an effigy of the white man, which stood
at one end of the enclosure, its head already half severed from its
body, he struck a furious blow with his axe. The blow completely
severed the head, which fell and rolled upon the ground. At this a
shout arose from the other chiefs; then Amukaria took the effigy’s
head in his hand, and holding it up cried, “A pot for the pakeha’s
head!”

Ngaraki stood looking on in silence. Would his fierce blood stand this
test? When the chiefs were quiet again he said calmly:

“O Amukaria, your words are wild. Your plans will come to nothing.
Those who were to come in the thousand canoes are on my side. I have
spoken to them and they have listened to my words. They come, but they
leave war and knife behind them.”

A savage yell from Amukaria announced his baffled rage on hearing
this. Maddened by drink and lust of blood, he appeared like a demon,
with tongue protruded in deadly insult. He danced with rage before
Ngaraki, who stood silent, regarding him with his stern black eyes.
Verily the spirit of Zun the Terrible slumbered within him. A smile of
contempt curled his lip, and Amukaria saw it. Unable to contain his
fury any longer he rushed at Ngaraki with axe uplifted, saying, “I
will cleave your head as well, and heat the oven for you.”

The wary chief did not move. He was unarmed, but he had left his outer
robe within the mountain, and his limbs were free. For a moment only
the axe was poised in the air, but that moment was the last of
Ngaraki’s most unnatural forbearance with such a foe. His face
changed. He would have said “Ngha!” but there was not time--so sudden
was his spring. He caught the axe by its handle and wrenched it with a
sudden twist from Amukaria’s hand; then, bounding off a pace, he
whirled it far away beyond the palisades of the _pa_. Before his
antagonist could grasp another weapon he had sprung upon him, and in a
moment they were locked in a terrible struggle, in which I marked down
Amukaria as already a dead man.

But as they rocked and swayed in the open space, one of the watching
chiefs took a long-bladed knife and threw it carelessly upon the
ground a few paces from the combatants. It would have been fair enough
if it had been done openly, but the moment chosen was when Amukaria’s
quick eye alone could notice the act. He had Ngaraki by the hair, but
the _ariki_ had his antagonist by the throat with one hand, and by the
wrist with the other. Fully aware that no man could live many minutes
with his throat in such a hand as his, he was content to keep his grip
and wait. But all the while they were swaying to and fro nearer and
nearer to the knife which he had not seen.

The other chiefs stood by in silence. They saw their leader’s face
grow livid, but they knew that he would get the knife. His eyes were
starting from his head, and his tongue was lolling, still in insult,
from his mouth; but they saw, as I did, that he would reach the knife,
and they did not interfere. I drew my revolver, determined to risk a
shot at twenty yards if a good chance presented, but I held my hand,
thinking that Ngaraki was not the kind of man to need my assistance in
a single combat. I would only fire at the last possible moment; but I
could warn him, and I thought to do so by shouting at the top of my
voice. But my words were lost in the general uproar of savage yells on
the plain, and were unheeded.

Amukaria was near the knife now. His rolling eyes had marked its
position. His fingers slackened from Ngaraki’s hair, and mine sought
the trigger, while I steadied myself. His body drooped as if he were
falling. At that instant, judging by what followed, Ngaraki must have
seen the hand which had held him reach out and grasp the haft of the
knife. A yell of triumph came from the watching chiefs, but it was
quickly silenced. As the knife was grasped firmly in the murderous
hand, Ngaraki suddenly let go his fatal grip; then, as the lolling
tongue was protruding still further in triumphant insult, his knee
came up with a terrific crash against his antagonist’s chin. I heard
Amukaria’s jaws clap together like a trap. It was a death-blow. His
neck was broken. He fell back like a log and lay there with the lower
half of his tongue bitten off by his own teeth.

“Ngha!” said Ngaraki at last, as he picked up his half of the tongue
that had insulted him and tossed it to some dogs that were in the
enclosure. As he did so the chiefs sprang upon him unawares, and after
a prolonged struggle he was overpowered, and was soon lying bound hand
and foot with flaxen thongs. Among these chiefs there was one who
urged the others not to kill Ngaraki, but to bind him to the stake on
which the headless effigy stood, so that when they returned with the
pakehas’ heads they might hold a triumph over him before preparing him
for the oven.

“Now let us hear you call on Hinauri to come and set you free,” said
one of them, when the deed was done. Their tongues were protruded at
him, and they taunted him in a manner that is hard for a Maori chief
to bear. But Ngaraki stood in silent contempt, yet his black eyes
blazed with wrath, and his flesh quivered with the indignity of his
position. He tugged and strained at his bonds, and I saw that if he
could but free himself it would be a bad day for his foes.

At this time the battle broke with a rattle of musketry and a rising
babel of yells on the plain, and the chiefs that were still in the
_pa_ hurried down for the fray. The two lines which had been sending
out single combatants for some time now fused in one mass, the muskets
were cast aside after the first few shots, and the fighting was
carried on hand to hand in the grim savage style. In the midst of the
throng I could see the grey-haired Te Makawawa fighting fiercely. Even
as I singled him out he killed his man, and, whirling his club round
his head, raised the savage war-cry, “_Whaka ariki!_” He and his
warriors were now driving the opposing force back against the
stronghold. As soon as I saw this an inspiration struck me to liberate
Ngaraki, or they would certainly kill him when they were driven back
into the _pa_. In a very few minutes I was down the tree and rushing
round the great rock. The fighting was close upon me as I reached the
path that led up from the plain, and when I gained the narrow strip of
rock in front of the _pa_ I looked back and saw that some of them had
turned and were retreating rapidly up the path by which I had come.
There was no time to lose. I darted in through the opening left
between the palisades and rushed across the open space towards
Ngaraki, who seemed to be trying to tear the flesh off his bones in
his efforts to free himself and get at the foe.

In less than ten seconds, and just as the foremost Maori entered the
_pa_, the thongs were cut. The chief turned his fiery eyes upon me,
said “_He Pakeha!_” and bounded off to strangle the only foe he could
see--the savage who had just entered the _pa_. Stepping quickly aside
from a fierce blow, he seized the unfortunate man by the throat with
both hands, lifted him off his feet and shook him like a rat in the
air, after which he broke his skull against one of the palisades.
Then, picking up the weapon of his foe, a large greenstone _meré_, he
turned to the opening of the _pa_ to meet two who were rushing in.
Both of them continued their rush into Reinga, the abode of spirits,
with a clear understanding that they were to leave the door open, for
more were coming that way.

Ngaraki now stood in the opening and fought grimly against the savages
that Te Makawawa and his warriors were driving in. To help him I shot
one here and there as occasion demanded, and at last he stood on the
narrow strip of rock--an object that struck terror to the hearts of
his enemies, for they only faced him as they were compelled by the
fierce onslaught of Te Makawawa and his warriors behind. For the most
part they were demoralised, and were pushed headlong into the fissure
by the press of the throng. Some of the bolder chiefs rushed yelling
on to the narrow way, but Ngaraki’s terrible club whirled and flashed
like green lightning all about him, and they went down. At last one
brave fellow sprang forward and closed with Ngaraki, and I had to hold
the narrow way myself; but not for long, for, before I had emptied my
revolver, I saw bare legs whirling in the air near by, and in another
moment a Maori was hurled into the fissure. It was not Ngaraki, for
that fierce _ariki_ was again standing on the rock--a majestic figure,
dealing death. In the side-glance that I caught of his flashing eyes
and commanding front, I understood what it meant to a Maori to have
the blood of the Great River of Heaven running in his veins. Verily
the spirit of Zun the Terrible was awake within him.

In the midst of this I saw moving round to the left at the base of the
Lion Rock a large band of savages who had not retreated up the path to
the _pa_, but were evidently bent on some other object. They were led
by a tall fierce fellow, and I thought I saw the negro wizard darting
to and fro among them. Could they be heading for the opening of the
mountain? I fired at a foe who seemed one too many on the narrow strip
and looked again. The leader pointed his club towards the mountain,
and with a yell pressed forward. At the same instant a rifle shot
echoed from high up in the mountain wall, and the savage fell forward
on his face. Thank Heaven! Kahikatea was on the alert, but if that
band got into the mountain, what could two men and two women do
against them? It was with a sickening sensation that I had remembered
I had descended by the rope and left it there. Would anyone think to
draw it up? Again, I shuddered as I reflected that in all probability
the negro wizard had been into the mountain while we were in the
marble cave. Could it have been he that tried to hold the rope when I
pulled it up?

Filled with apprehension, I noted with one eye that Ngaraki and Te
Makawawa’s warriors were nearly through their terrible work, and with
the other that the band heading round the Lion Rock were in some
confusion and hesitation. There was yet time to gain the mountain
before the negro wizard could urge them into the precincts of what
many of them regarded as the stronghold of the _taniwha_.

I knew that in every _pa_ there must be a way of escape by the back,
but, failing to find it, I made for the back of the Lion, and
presently stood on the steep rock near the top of the pine from which
I had watched the curtailing of Amukaria’s offending tongue. The
tree-top was six feet from me, and a glance to right and left showed
me there was no other way down. Every moment was precious if I were to
have a hand in guarding the woman I loved from that most subtle tool
of the Vile Ones--the Poisoner. Gathering myself together, I sprang as
the tree-top swayed towards me, and, passing through the feathery pine
foliage, found myself clasping the slender top of the stem with arms
and legs. For the moment I thought it would break, and there would be
an end, but it held good, and I made my way rapidly down the trunk,
bruising and scratching myself in my haste. Once on the ground, I sped
across the mouth of the valley as fast as my legs would carry me, but
I had scarcely gained the bank of the channel when I was overtaken by
a Maori running at full speed, with a musket in each hand and a kitful
of something heavy round his neck. At first I thought he was an enemy,
and I prepared to meet him as such, but when we came face to face on
the bank I found to my surprise that it was Tiki.

“That _Taepo_ is coming to take ‘the little maiden,’” he said
fiercely. “Here, Wanaki--lead the way.” He handed me one of the
muskets and motioned me to proceed. In a very short space of time we
were standing inside the opening, and then Tiki disburdened himself of
the kit which I found contained a goodly supply of cartridges.

While I was filling my coat pockets I heard footsteps coming down the
rock from the ledge above, and soon afterwards Kahikatea strode
forward into the light, with the sword of the early explorer between
his teeth and Grey’s rifle in his hand.

“Are they coming?” he asked coolly.

“Yes, fifty or sixty of them,” I said. “Where is she?”

“Waiting on the ledge above. But I don’t know where Grey and his wife
are. I don’t think they know anything about this.”


 [image: img281.jpg
 caption: “THE SECOND MAORI THAT ENTERED WITH AXE UPRAISED HAD HIS HEAD
 CUT CLEAN OFF BY THE FIRST SWEEPING BACK STROKE.”]


I looked up through the darkness, and saw the vague, white form of
Hinauri standing on the ledge above.

“We can do better up there,” I said; “we can see without being
seen--come!”

“All right, you go first.”

Feeling it was foolish to waste time I complied, and made my way up
the rock, thinking Kahikatea was close on my heels. But he made Tiki
follow me with the kit of cartridges, and before he himself set his
foot in the first niche there was a chorus of yells immediately
without.

In the dim light I darted on to the rim of the basin just in time to
see the first savage fall to Kahikatea’s rifle. Then, as they crowded
in with wild yells that echoed strangely in the great cavern, I saw my
giant friend, who now stood before the opening, throw his rifle aside
and set to work with the sword. The second Maori that entered with axe
upraised had his head cut clean off by the first sweeping back stroke:
it rolled on the ground at Kahikatea’s feet. The third was run through
the body, and the fourth I picked off to give Kahikatea a chance to
settle down to it. Then it grew grim as death, for they crowded in two
and three at a time; but Tiki had now got to work also, and, between
the three of us, we kept them at bay until there was a ghastly pile
before Kahikatea. But they crowded in, urged on from behind, and
Kahikatea was beginning to let out with his left hand, in addition to
doing fiercely with his right. It was getting serious now, for I
foresaw that if anyone got past him into the shadows he would be
struck down from behind. I shouted as much to him, and he answered as
his sword swished through the air: “All right! as soon as one gets
past I’ll come up.”

In less than half a minute, at a moment when Tiki and I both killed
the same man, two of them did get past, and Kahikatea, true to his
word, drew back and ascended the rock. I had reserved my revolver for
this, and until he was out of their reach, four out of six Maoris
failed to follow him. Then they flocked in over the fallen bodies, and
I began to fear that if once they found the way up the wall and gained
a footing, we should have to beat a retreat. Even now I heard them
climbing the rock, but Kahikatea was on the ledge with his sword, and
the foremost fell with a thud on to the floor below. Tiki and I still
directed our attention to the opening, as those already inside were
mostly in the darkness. Presently I heard sounds as of men climbing on
their fellows’ backs to mount the wall near me, and realised that very
soon it would be a hand to hand fight in the dark on narrow and
slippery places.

While destroying several of these formations by mere guess work, I was
suddenly startled by a light on the other side of the lake. I turned
my head and saw Hinauri walking round the margin bearing a torch in
each hand. From time to time I glanced at her and wondered greatly
what she was about to do. Presently I saw her leave one torch on the
ledge below and hurriedly ascend the rocks of the buttress, beyond the
abyss, which led up to the point high on the cavern wall where the
tapering spar reached towards the overhanging crags. She had now
nearly gained the narrow standing place from which I had seen Ngaraki
leap out to catch the sprit of the spar. Surely she was not going to
take that awful leap! In a flash I saw her purpose and cursed myself
that I had not forestalled her. I stood on the rim of the basin, and
with a hoarse cry called to her, but she did not heed. She had placed
her remaining torch upright in a crevice of the rock, and now stood
erect in the narrow niche high up on the cavern wall--a frail, white
figure outlined against the darkness by the light of the torch. I held
my breath, rooted to the spot. There came the quick panting of the
Maoris below as they struggled to gain the level on which we stood;
there came the steady swish of Kahikatea’s sword, and I felt that I
should be doing my part in that grim defence; there came, too, a cry
of “Ngha!” outside the opening, and I knew that Ngaraki the Terrible
was splitting skulls outside. But all these things seemed like the
points of an instantaneous dream, the one reality being that the woman
I loved was about to take that daring leap above the abyss.

While I watched she crouched for the spring, and my heart stood still.
I recalled the prophecy engraven on the golden circlet, and a choking
horror entered my soul as she sprang out above the abysmal gulf. My
head grew dizzy and my sight blurred. For the moment I reeled and
clutched at the air, but steadied myself and looked again. The long
spar, a dark heavy mass, was moving slowly downwards through space.
The rock beneath my feet trembled as, with a mighty roar, the sluice
gates were opened, and the water, now released by the action of the
lever, gushed through the opening in the basin below. At that moment,
and while the dim daylight from the opening served, I glanced round me
at a sharp cry of “Wanaki!” and saw the last of my faithful Tiki. A
Maori had just gained the ledge. His club was descending on my head
when Tiki, who must have sprung through the air to do it, jerked him
back by the neck. The club whizzed down past my face, and both of
them, friend and foe, fell back into the sweeping torrent as the
daylight from the opening was flooded out. Tiki the Maori had given
his life for me, but his end was peace, with his hand on his enemy’s
throat.

There was wild confusion in the darkness then. From the savages came
gurgling cries of dismay as they were carried away by the sudden
flood. But the swift happenings of that moment, when the rushing water
gave us the victory, came to me through the back of my head, for my
eyes were again fixed on the moving spar, whose track through space
was lighted by the two torches, one above and the other below. The
white form clinging to the end of the sprit swept down out of the
intervening gloom into the light of the torch left burning on the
margin of the abyss. Quick feet found the level rock, and Hinauri
sprang aside. The great round stone rolled into its groove above the
basin’s rim with more than its wonted impetus, for the end of the spar
in its unchecked downward career ground violently against the rock
where Hinauri stood. Sparks flew from that end as the round stone,
looming near me against the light, rose on the outer lip of the groove
and remained in momentary balance. But the long arm of the lever
snapped at its thinnest part. The stone hesitated no longer. It rolled
from its poise and overbalanced. Then those three colossal
fragments--the two parts of the broken spar and the great round
stone--fell down, down into the darkness, while the white figure
beyond the abyss bent over the brink and listened. A dull, crashing
sound of thunder came up from the depths and reverberated through the
whole gloomy place, echoing from the stupendous crags overhead and
rolling away into the vast reaches of the cavern. The false image of
the woman, with the heavy stone which oppressed it, had at last been
hurled down, and now lay among the ruins of old-world things on the
granite floor of the earth.




 CHAPTER XXV.
 THE SERVANT OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF HUO.

Hinauri took up her torch and came round the lake towards us, but
Kahikatea met her half-way, his dripping sword still in his hand. I
heard the sword clink as he cast it on the rocks--he had no further
use for it as they stood facing each other in the torchlight. At this
moment my attention was diverted by something brushing against my
sleeve. I put out my hand and clutched what seemed to be a stick
pointed towards the spot where the two stood. A quick horror shot
through me, for at the instant I touched it I heard a peculiar hiss
that I knew only too well. It was the reed tube of the negro wizard.
But I had spoilt his aim, and before he knew what had happened I had
thrust him backwards and wrenched the tube from his hand as he fell
into the water, which had now risen above the aperture and was rapidly
finding its level. My first impulse was to fling the accursed weapon
of the Poisoner into the abyss; my second to keep it and use it
against him, for I remembered how the darts had been arranged around
the one I had taken from him at our first encounter. But, in case of
accidents, Hinauri must be placed out of danger. With all my lungs I
roared across the lake.

“Kahikatea! for God’s sake, and for her sake, get out of this infernal
place as soon as you can.”

“Is it urgent?” he called back.

“Yes,” I yelled excitedly, “do as I say; go up the rope, quick!”

“All right,” he returned, and I knew he would not go alone.

Then I struck a match and directed my attention to the wizard, whom I
could see struggling in the water below, surrounded by ghastly
corpses. Not without an inward misgiving, even a feeling of dread, at
what I was about to do, I turned away, and, detaching one of the
poisoned darts from its receptacle, placed it in the tube. By the
dying light of the match I saw the glistening of his skinny black back
as he pushed his way between the floating bodies and made for the
further wall. I raised the tube, took careful aim, and puffed the
dart. The match, which was burning my fingers, fell into the water
with a hiss, and all was dark. The wizard pushed on a little before he
spoke, and then it was in a hollow guttural voice that rattled in his
throat: “He got me!” he said, and this was followed by a harsh grating
shriek which sounded like the final curse of an incarnate fiend who
knew his time had come. Yet it seemed a trifle strange to me that he
should not have cried out directly he was struck. Such an accurate aim
with an untried weapon was a matter for self-congratulation, and
having succeeded so far I went on to use his own black art against
himself.

“You are powerless,” I said; “powerless to act except in obedience to
my voice. Keep on swimming--you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear--and obey,” came from the wizard in meek, obedient tones.

I struck another match, and walked along the rim of the basin to the
ledge of rock which Kahikatea had held against the Maoris. There I
held the light so that he could see to ascend, and presently we were
standing face to face. By still another match I examined his
countenance. Hideous, repulsive it was, hate and malice written on
every line, and in the piercing eyes was a suppressed alertness which
did not seem natural in one in the passive state.


[image: img286.jpg
caption: “I RAISED THE TUBE, TOOK CAREFUL AIM, AND PUFFED THE DART.”]


“Who are you?” I asked, fixing my eyes on his; “and why are you here?”

“I am the servant of Cazotl,” he replied in fairly good English; “and
I have come here to look for gold hidden in this mountain.”

“Why did you attempt to carry off the white maiden?”

“She has the power of spirit-sight,” he said again. “A witch described
her to us, and I have been looking for her for years among the Maoris.
When I had found her my master came from Mexico, for she could tell us
where the gold is hidden--many, many tons of gold--and sparkling
stones.”

I was nonplussed. Was it merely a matter of gold after all? I paused
and, while I paused, the match went out. As I drew another from my
waistcoat pocket I heard a faint movement before me; it was very
faint, but I heard it and stepped back. Then as the lucifer fizzed--I
remember it was a double-headed one--I saw the negro in the act of
springing towards me with arm uplifted and a small pointed thing in
his hand. In a flash I saw that he had been shamming so as to take me
unawares, that my dart had never struck him at all, that he had a
spare one in his hand, that--but the end of this lightning grasp of
the situation was finished in the air, and the whole was checked point
by point beneath the water, for I had sprung aside into the lake to
avoid the possibility of a prick with that poisonous thing. That
spring saved me so far, and when I reached the surface, still grasping
the reed tube, I realised it was now a level fight in the dark--a
weird, subtle, creepy contest to be determined by a mere prick of the
skin.

The hissing of the water as it welled up from below, laden with
bubbles that burst all about me, made a cover of sound sufficient to
conceal my movements from the listening ear of my enemy. Still I made
no more noise than was necessary in reaching the margin. But in
grasping the rock, which was scarcely a foot above the water, the tube
in my hand came in contact with it and made a slight click. Instantly
I pushed it back in my armpit, and made my way a yard or two further
along, knowing that he must have heard the sound. My next move was to
push off a little again and extract two darts from their places. With
one I loaded the tube, and the other I retained in my left hand ready
for use at close quarters. Then I held the rock with one finger and
strained my ears to catch the faintest sound. The ceaseless seething
of the water disturbed the silence as little as it lightened the utter
darkness, and here in this terrible suspense I recalled a moment, not
long since, when my arms had enclosed the form of Crystal not many
yards away on the rock. At that time I had felt with a wild thrill of
delight that the whole heaven of a world contained only us two, but
now the same thing came over me with shudderings, and it was again as
if the whole hell of a world held only the thing of evil and myself,
both watching in the dark.

Suddenly something touched my finger on the rock. Instantly I threw
myself back on the water and, raising the tube to my mouth, puffed a
dart at a venture. No sound followed, and I cautiously approached the
bank again at a different spot, loading the tube with my spare dart as
I went. But a better idea occurred to me. A light would give me a
great advantage, for, having the tube, I could fire from a short
distance, while my antagonist could only strike at close quarters. I
remembered that the smouldering punk was kept near the heap of
pinehearts in the recess in the wall; perhaps with care I should be
able to get a light before I was seen. Accordingly I struck out across
the lake, guessing the direction as nearly as I was able, and finally
grasped the rock at a distance which conveyed to me the idea that I
had cut off a considerable arc of the lake’s circumference. With great
care, and a horrible feeling that at any moment I might feel the prick
of the skin which would place me and everything else in the power of
the wizard, I raised myself on to the ledge and groped along the wall
to find the recess. The vividness with which I could see my
surroundings--all except the position of my enemy--in my mental eye,
surprised me: yes, the recess should be just here; no, it was not
there, and for a moment I grew giddy and lost my bearings. I recalled
myself with an effort, and continued my way. Suddenly I stopped, and
selecting another dart from the tube, held it at arm’s length before
me with one hand, while I felt the wall with the other, and suspended
the tube from between my teeth. It seemed hours before I found the
recess, and hours more before I crouched, with the punk in one hand
and a torch in the other, gently blowing to get a flame; and all that
time I endured the most frightful suspense lest the light, carefully
as I sheltered it in the furthest corner of the recess, should be seen
too soon.

At last the pineheart ignited, and the resinous wood began to hiss and
blaze. I held it aloft, and placing the tube ready to my lips,
advanced on to the side of the lake. The light fell on the swelling
bosom of the water, on the rocky wall above, and on the narrow margin
at my feet, but I could not see any enemy at first. Yet I knew I had
now the best of the situation, and proceeded boldly round towards the
basin. When I had gone some dozen paces I stopped suddenly, for there
was the figure of the wizard crouching down on the ledge, with his
eyes fixed on the water and his arm upraised as if about to strike. He
seemed unconscious of the light, and, as I advanced nearer, remained
fixed in the same position. Had the dart I fired before striking
across the lake reached its mark, or was this another piece of
cunning? I drew still nearer, covering him with the tube, and saw that
his frame was rigid, while on his set face there rested a look of the
most diabolical hatred.

I was not in a mood to trust to appearances, however, and, to make
certain, I puffed another of his own poisoned darts at him. It pierced
his shoulder, but he did not move. Then I realised that at last he was
at my mercy.

I passed behind him, told him to stand up and follow me, for my voice
was the only thing, and he would obey it. He prepared to follow me
like a dog.

“Throw away that dart,” I said, pointing to the small thing he still
held in his hand.

He did so without any hesitation.

“Now follow.”

I went before him with the torch, past the landing-place, and on to
the rim of the basin, where I made him proceed first to the outer lip.

“Stand there on the very brink and do not move from it,” I said, and
held the torch so that he could see.

He obeyed. Now I would have the truth, for I was convinced the
information he had volunteered before was false. I drew near him and
stood at his side.

I said, “Again, who are you? Speak, and speak the truth, and nothing
but the truth.”

No sooner had I spoken than I heard the most extraordinary scheme of
echoes imaginable. My last word--truth, multiplied from crag to crag
about the vaulted roof, ended in strange gurgling sounds, in which the
meaning was wholly lost. I had not heard this echo from any other spot
of the cavern, and I wondered if this, too, was a mysterious device of
the ancient giants, or whether it was one of Nature’s more accurate
calculations, with mighty pebbles, in acoustics. When the wailing
sounds had almost died away the wizard answered:

“I am one of the Brotherhood of Huo,” he spoke in deep, hollow tones,
“and I have come here at their command to carry out their will--to
degrade and destroy one who threatens their power in the world.”

“What is their power? Answer from your own knowledge and
intelligence.”

The terms in which he answered astonished me; they were those of a man
well versed in occult things.

“The power of the Brotherhood of Huo is the power of the Single Eye
looking downwards. They strive for what men call Evil--Pure Evil; and
when they attain it, they become one with all Evil on the earth, with
increased powers to further it.”

“And why,” I asked, “why was it worth your while to come half-way
round the world to do this particular piece of evil?”

“It was revealed to us in the great mirror of the Daughter of
Darkness, whom we worship, that the ancient spirit of Hia would return
to this temple with a magic sign of motherhood which would undo our
work in the world. Cazotl, our chief, and I, his servant, then came to
degrade and darken the maiden Hia, so that she might forget, as other
women have forgotten, this sign which threatens our power. But the
magic of this place is stronger than ours: Cazotl was overpowered by
his own evil flung back on him by one stronger than our strongest--one
who must have mastered our own magic to do it. Many of our number have
set out to find the magic which controls our own in this place, but
none of them has ever returned. I, too, was struck and crawled away to
die, but recovered, and came here to find Hia and destroy her.”

“The sign is already given,” I said. “Hear me and understand: the sign
of motherhood, of birth and remembering, is already given. What does
that mean to you?”

“It means that our power is doomed. Our ancient enemies, the giants in
what men call Good, will be born again upon the earth. These strong
ones can only come back by means of the pure white magic of the woman.
It has been the aim of our Brotherhood from earliest times to bind
woman down in darkness, to narrow her mind, to degrade and blind her
lest she should recall this magic. But now the sign is given, and we
are doomed.”

“And what is your punishment?”

“We have no punishment,” he said. “Punishment exists only for those
who have a spark of good left in them. We have severed all connection
with that. Remorse, the hell of those who vacillate between good and
evil, has no existence for us.”

“But you can suffer physical pain?” I exclaimed.

“Yes; pain and pleasure are in our bodies,” he replied.

“Then before you go out into darkness”--my words hissed out in a voice
that sounded strange to my own ears--“you must suffer. You cannot act
except in obedience to my voice; but you are conscious, acutely
conscious in all your body, to feel what my words will work in you.
You cannot stir from this spot, neither can you move a limb nor yet
cry out. Servant of the Vile Brotherhood of Huo, hear your punishment.
You have a raging fire in your vitals, so that your blood seethes and
hisses through your veins. For one hour as we count time, this fire
will rage through your being with the most horrible pain. In the
darkness before you, you will see the face of a great timepiece, and
every second as marked there shall seem to you like the time that
passes between sunset and sunset, fully stretched out and crammed with
agony. Yet you will neither faint nor fall, but endure the whole.”

My voice was the voice of cursing, and, as the last words echoed round
the cavern walls and finally died away on shapeless granite lips in
the high vaults overhead, I recoiled at the awful nature of the thing
I had uttered. The torch fell from my fingers; then, in the darkness
that ensued, I staggered and fell backwards into the water in the
great basin.

I struck out for the rim, but no sooner had I drawn myself up than I
was startled by another voice than my own in the darkness near by.

“Ngha! the lizard looks in vain into Ngaraki’s eyes,” it said
fiercely.

At the sound, I knew that the terrible chief, having, in consideration
of the indignity heaped upon him, accepted _utu_[26] from Tu, the
war-god; and, having, moreover, left a full receipt and acknowledgment
thereof on the cracked and battered heads of his foes outside, had now
just come in by the ‘way of the fish.’ I heard him shake the water
from his hair and climb on to the ledge. The drops dripped, pattering
on the rock as he stood up, and then his quick footfalls passed away
round the margin of the lake. Presently I saw a faint glow in the
recess, and in another minute he came out holding a blazing torch
above his head, and stood looking across the lake towards the abyss.
But the light of the torch did not carry far enough, and he passed
with rapid strides round the further side.

When he reached the ledge by the partition between the lake and the
abyss, and held his flaring torch out and gazed forward at the empty
air where the spar had been, a wild yell of triumph came from his
great chest, ringing like a clarion through the spaces of the cavern
above and below. Hinauri had hurled the long spar and the rolling
stone down upon the heads of his granite enemies of old time in the
pit. His _meré_, still in his hand, was whirled again and again round
his head. Then his furious outburst was checked and, with a sudden
fierce pant of the breath like an escaping throb of energy at bursting
pressure, he stood still. He would take it more methodically. A high
triumph over the broken heads of the Vile Tohungas of the Pit was now
for him, and he would hold that triumph in due form. This was in his
manner as the _meré_ shook fiercely in his grasp, and he turned and
strode, with head held high, along the path that led down into the
abyss.

I knelt on the rock and watched him go, while my heart went out to him
across the gulf. More than ever, the heroic bearing, the grand, fierce
spirit, the noble and graceful dignity of this savage had my
admiration. I would go and witness his triumph and hear the words he
would speak to the Vile Tohungas.

Carefully I made my way round the lake, lighted another torch in the
recess, and proceeded after Ngaraki; but when I came to the ledge
where he had stood I began to wonder if the wizard negro on the other
side of the abyss was suffering all the torture I had suggested. I
stopped and pondered my doubt awhile. At last I determined to speak to
him across the darkness, for the light of the torch fell short, and I
could not see him standing there on the basin’s rim.

“Servant of the Brotherhood of Huo,” I called, “listen! my voice is
the only thing. You cannot move from where you stand nor can you fall
forward into the darkness, but your tongue is loosened for me to hear
what you suffer and----”

But I proceeded no further, for as the words left my lips there came
out of the darkness on the further side a sudden harsh roar, rising to
a shriek, that seemed to strike and grate against the rocks of the
gloomy place, wringing harsh echoes of an indescribable agony from
their time-worn sides, and calling hollow murmurs of woe out of the
abysmal abode of the Vile Tohungas. Weirder and more terrible came the
cries of the tortured wizard, mingled with articulate gnashing of
words that sounded like curses in a barbarous tongue. From the echoes
of his cries the whole place seemed filled with the shrieking and
moaning and dismal wailing of the vile ones of far time come back to
be torn by fiends in the darkness. Had every granite facet of every
crag on the walls and roof of that terrible place been a rack on which
was stretched a living, shrieking victim, the effect could not have
been more awful. My God! What had I done! Who was I to judge this man?
The voice of mercy rose up in my soul, and I thought to retrace my
steps in the hope of undoing this horrible curse, but before I could
turn to carry out my purpose a strange thing happened. A chill blast
of air came from across the abyss and struck my face. A thrill shot
down my spine. My flesh crept and my hair rose. Then, far within my
brain--it seemed to come from an immeasurable distance--a voice spoke,
“Let him alone! it is our will, the will of the One above us. Who are
you to show mercy when we, the Lords of Compassion, have set our seal
to this man’s doom?”

I passed my hand across my forehead: it was cold and wet. Awed and
full of tremblings, I turned and walked swiftly towards the giants’
window, hurrying away from those awful sounds which were still ringing
in my ears like the imagined cries of hell. In the twilight that
pushed the thick darkness back from the huge grating, I partly
recovered myself and stood for a moment on the sill, looking out. I
wanted a breath of air--some tonic sign of human life from the outside
world, and chance gave it me in a small sweetened draught, for which I
was thankful.

It came in this way. While I was looking out into the blue sky and
listening to the faint music of the wind across the great stone bars,
I heard a murmur of voices without, speaking in low tones. I set down
my torch and stepped outside to listen. The sounds came from behind
the rock on my left. It was the sweet, plaintive, happy-sad voice of a
woman that spoke:

“And through all these long years you have forgotten me. I have had no
existence to you, no part in your life, no place in your heart. I know
the reason of it only too well, dear--Te Makawawa offered me the same
forgetfulness, but I would not.” The owner of this voice evidently
knew nothing of the terrible things which had just taken place in the
interior of the cavern.

“I had no option,” replied a man’s voice, which I knew to be Grey’s;
“but I did not wholly forget. Many times in the day and night a
strange reminiscence of a tender face flitted across my memory like
the face of an angel I might have seen long ago in dreams. They called
me ‘Dreamer Grey,’ because at odd times I would stop in what I was
saying or doing, and look into the air, trying to follow this fleeting
glimpse which was all I knew of some forgotten heaven. But, as I told
you just now, the memory of these intervening years is fading away,
and I recall these things but dimly. It is beginning to seem but
yesterday when I came with you a prisoner to this place. Strange--but
I almost think that soon those eighteen years without you will be
crowded out, and I shall take up my life again where I left it off--my
old life and my old love for you, dear.”

The voice ceased and a happy sigh, breathed all about the one word
“Husband!” fell upon my ears. It dismissed the faint, far-off wailings
that came from the interior of the mountain; it swept away even the
consciousness that I was playing the part of a paltry listener. When
this did occur to me some time later the lump that had risen in my
throat, and the mist that had gathered in my eyes seemed to take away
the paltriness of my part.

Again the sigh, again the tender word as the happy wife replied: “When
you saw my face it was when I, too, paused in what I was doing or woke
from sleep and stretched out my arms to you. Oh! how I have loved you
night and day through all these long years of my imprisonment, and now
we are together again, never to be sep----”

The voice stopped, arrested perhaps by some sudden doubt.

“What is it, dearest?”

“You told me just now”--her words had a ring of pain in them--“that
your old memory was coming back and the intervening years were
slipping away.”

“Yes, they are almost gone. It seems as if some powerful hand is
slackening its hold on my brain, and long-forgotten memories are
flooding in and taking up their old places. Even now the eighteen
years is a mere blank covered with flitting dreams.”

As I listened I remembered the aged chief’s words concerning the spell
he had cast over Grey, and a strange thought came to me. I said within
my breath, “Te Makawawa is dying. His aged face is turned to the
golden west. Soon the lights of heaven will come out in the depths of
the sky; soon the eyes of the great chiefs gazing down to see what
noble needs are done among mortals will be opened, and Te Makawawa’s
eye will shine there--a new star.”

But Miriam Grey spoke again, and her voice was like a moan of pain.

“Dear husband, tell me--I did not think of it before--and forgive me
for thinking of it now--but when you forgot me--forgot that--that you
ever had a wife, dear--did you--was there anyone----”

“Good God!” said Grey suddenly, “it’s too late; it’s all a blank--I
remember nothing--nothing!”

And then I knew that the aged chief Te Makawawa was dead.

“No, it can’t be,” she cried, in answer to his words. “I should have
seen it in your face before. I am certain it can’t be; I should have
felt it. Dear husband! take me in your arms again and call me wife. No
one has ever come between us.”

“And no one ever shall,” he replied.

In the silence that followed I withdrew, and when the manifold sound
of agony and wailing, coming out of the far darkness of the interior,
again fell upon my ears, I felt toned up to endure it. But another
voice, rising up out of the abyss, high and jubilant, told me that
Ngaraki was there holding his grim triumph. I picked up my torch and
made my way down.

When at last my feet found the great granite steps at the bottom of
the vast place, I saw lights flickering below. The chief was preparing
many torches and placing them all about, chanting in measured tones
the while. I put out my own light and crept down almost to the lowest
step, where I stood and witnessed a scene of a savage drama so wild
and strange that I must lay down my pen awhile before attempting to
describe it.




 CHAPTER XXVI.
 NGARAKI’S HOUR OF TRIUMPH.

On the floor of the abyss was a mighty wreck. The falling spar had
snapped the heads from the shoulders of the vile brood, and here and
there a granite torso, topping the ruins, indicated the semicircle
where they had once stood looking up at the moon, each nursing his
stomach and curling his lips in that everlasting smile of calm
disdain. One image alone was spared--and he stood apart facing the
white gleam of the cataract and looking up through the dark with his
back turned upon the colossal débris: the Twelfth Tohunga remained
untouched, and, at his feet, not far from the abyss below the abyss,
was the great round stone, still unbroken.

About the more open spaces of the floor between the shattered ruins
and the sheer wall of the abyss moved Ngaraki--a tall figure clad only
in his undergarment of tasselated flax, girded fast about his waist
with a warrior’s belt. As he paced to and fro he chanted. Then,
whirling his _meré_ round his head, he danced and yelled like a very
savage. His voice rose high with jubilant rage; it was his hour of
triumph, and the fury of it was appalling. The blazing torch in one
hand, the green flashing _meré_ in the other, and his wild,
illustrative gestures from the war-dance invested him with all the
terrors of savagery. But always there was the dignity and masterly
movement of the chief. To me, who loved this great Tohunga, it was a
grand spectacle; to me, who feared him, it was awe-inspiring,
terrible. And through it all, yet heard only in the pauses of the
chant, there came the wailing shrieks and gnashing cries of the wizard
standing far up there in the darkness on the basin’s rim.

In the midst of his wild vehemence the chief espied one of the heads
lying face uppermost on the floor. Its glaring red eyes and the sneer
upon its lips infuriated him on a sudden. In one spring he was upon
it, and, with two mighty blows, each accompanied by a terrific yell,
he brought red sparks from that Vile Tohunga’s eyes, and then broke
forth in a wilder strain than ever. To my wrought mind the whole thing
suggested a symphonic music scored by some Grand Devil of a Master,
whose gamut ran from hell to heaven, whose instruments went raving mad
in the rendering, whose world was earthquake and eclipse, with the
lightning flashing through the dark, and the thunder of the storm gods
roaring round him. Built on a bass of gloom, the triumphant strain of
Ngaraki, the ghoul-motive of the shrieking wizard, the sad murmur of
the rising wind in the giants’ window, and, above all, the unheard
part called up here and there in the chief’s chanting: his love-strain
of Hinauri--these were running through my prosaic soul in a way which
hinted that perhaps the fate in store for me was to go forth from that
awful place madder than that “some Grand Devil of a Master” himself.

After a full half-hour at this initial outburst, the fierce tohunga
became more coherent. He calmed his wild gesticulations and paced to
and fro striving to reduce his feelings to poetry--the poetry of a
life’s labour and final triumph. There was a clear ring in his voice
as he began his more ordered chant. His soul swelled with his voice,
and I knew he felt like a whole victorious army marching steadily in
column. His words came “straight from his breast” with that fluency so
wonderful in the Maori tongue:


 “Ngha! none can stand.
 Headlong have they fallen.
 The Vile _Tohunga_ eat the dust
 Their cursing power is gone.
 They thought to bind the Bright One--
 With a Stone they thought to bind her,
 But she arose in all her beauty:
 Hinauri, Rival of the Dawn,
 Lovely as the mountain lily.
 See! she leaps above the darkness.
 Lo! the stone rolls from its place.
 Down it falls, in anger roaring
 Like the voice of Tongariro,
 Like the waves that crash in thunder
 On the cliffs of Waitariki.
 Now it strikes the Vile _Tohunga_;
 Snaps their heads from off their bodies--
 Grinds them into many pieces.
 Ngha! the magic of Hinauri!
 Ngha! the cursing of Ngaraki!”


And so he went on, until he had fashioned their teeth into fish-hooks
and their bones into darts to shoot rats; until he had plucked out
their eyes and boiled their heads and eaten them in the course of a
chant in which he summoned all his Maori ancestors by name to come and
partake of the feast. Then he sought out each available head and
triumphed over it separately, smiting with his _meré_ until the
sparks came again. After that he seemed searching for a head that was
missing. For a long time he wandered about with his _meré_ ready. At
last he found what he was looking for--a head that had rolled away to
the brink of the abyss below the abyss--the head of his most hated
foe, the chief of the Vile Tohungas. He looked at it with high
contempt; then crash! and crash! and the red eyes flashed for the last
time. Crash! again, and the leering lips spat blood of fire.

He paused. An idea had occurred to him. He glanced at the awful pit
that yawned hard by, then at his enemy’s head, and then at the great
round stone


 [image: images/img301.jpg
 caption: “HE ROCKED IT BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS UNTIL AT LAST HE RAISED
 IT ON ITS SIDE, AND THERE, WITH A FIRM HAND, HE HELD IT POISED UPON
 THE VERY BRINK.”]


some little distance behind. I saw plainly that he would hurl the Vile
One’s head into the bottomless pit, to be boiled and eaten in Porawa,
and, when he had done that, he would roll the great stone on top of it
to keep it down for ever and ever and ever. Having thrown aside his
_meré_, and set his torch against the base of the Twelfth Tohunga, he
placed his shoulder to the gigantic head, and put forth all his
strength. Slowly it moved; for some time he rocked it backwards and
forwards until at last he raised it on its side, and there, with a
firm hand, he held it poised upon the very brink.

It was a great day for Ngaraki. It was not a day for beating his
_meré_ on the ground, but for plucking the very eyes and boiling the
very heads of the gaunt images which were his hated foes. And now in a
supreme moment he stood on the brink of Porawa with his arch enemy’s
head in his hand. He looked into the awful depths, and would have
chanted his crowning triumph. But words would not come. How could he
chant on such a theme without striding up and down? All he could do
was to express his utmost and fiercest contempt for the head of the
Degrader of Women and all his brood.

“Ngha! Upokokohua!” and with his foot he spurned the head from him.
Down, down it went into the silent darkness, and the chief, always
willing to give his enemy the right of reply, leaned over the brink
and listened. A minute passed, but there was no answer. All was as
silent as the everlasting grave of things forgotten, save for the
unfolding of the falling water, save for the wailing shrieks, now
growing fainter, of the wizard far away above. I could see from
Ngaraki’s listening attitude that no sound came up from the
unfathomable gloom.

“_Upokokohua!_”[27] This is the final word of Maori invective--an
insult invocative of the utmost depths of everlasting shame. And it
was in a terrible voice of cursing that Ngaraki hurled it down a
second time after his fallen enemy. Then he turned to the round stone.
A glance showed that it would be a tremendous task, but his face and
manner told plainly that he would roll that stone upon his enemy’s
head if it took till sunrise to do it. The floor was level; if
anything it sloped a little in the desired direction, and if once he
could start the stone he would probably accomplish his object.

He went down into the shadows of the gulf, and soon returned with a
long jade-tipped spear in his hand. With this he made two rough places
in the granite in which to place his heels for a better purchase.
Then, setting his back against the stone, he put forth the strength of
a giant, but the stone did not move. He sprang up with a shout,
snatched up his spear, and paced swiftly to and fro, chanting a
karakia, naming the Samsons of his race, and telling of their mighty
exploits.

Again he returned to the task and bent himself against the stone. By
the light of the flaring torches I saw his face distinctly, the veins
standing out upon his forehead, his nostrils distended. For a full
minute he put forth his utmost strength, adding the power of will to
that of sinew. The great stone began to move. It rolled slightly and
stopped. Ngaraki straightened himself again, panting, and paced the
floor to chant for the strength of a thousand men.

But the strength of a thousand is nothing compared to the power of one
who knows the way. It might have been this idea that struck him, for
he dropped his pacing and walked round the huge mass taking thought.
There was a space of six or seven yards between the stone and the
brink of the gulf, and this space, like all the rest, was strewn with
the dust and grit of ages. Eagerly he set to work, and, with one tool
and another, he scraped and polished the granite floor. At last the
way was fairly smooth, and he seemed satisfied, but, instead of
placing his back to the stone as before, he went off to search for
something he had seen among the _débris_ of the spar. It was the
sprit that had snapped on the rocky ledge far above, and was now lying
on the top of the ruins. It was still long enough for Ngaraki’s
purpose. His ideas were enlarged. The sprit and the spar, with which
he had controlled the round stone in its movements above the abyss,
were still to his hand for a lever. And, to his mind--and mine--it was
a fit and mystic thing that such symbols of his conquest and
adaptation of the giants’ handiwork should now be used to roll the
stone--their image of the ancient world--upon the already parboiled
head of their mighty one.

So with a fragment of spar for fulcrum, he used the remains of the
sprit as a lever against the stone, toiling at it steadfastly, until
at last the great round mass rolled over the brink and disappeared for
ever in the awful depths. Standing on the brink, the Maori hurled the
fragment of the spar after it, and the sprit also; then, not satisfied
with that, he took his spear and _meré_ and sent them hurtling down
with a cry of farewell--almost of lament--to each.

It was over, and he turned to take his torch. As his hand closed over
it he gave a sudden start. There, on a ledge of the pedestal of the
Twelfth Tohunga, something was looking at him. By the horror-struck
face of the chief I guessed it was something of a terrible nature that
he saw there. Then, by an exclamation of his, I knew that it was one
of the little green lizards that run upon the rocks. The chief and the
lizard remained motionless, face to face, and their eyes met. That was
a death summons according to the Maori lore--a call to Reinga distinct
and clear. I knew how it filled him with serious thoughts, which the
excitement of triumph had banished from his mind, how Hinauri’s words
recurred to him, and, finally, how a nameless foreboding took
possession of him as he recalled his own part in the fight--a
foreboding lest the vague alternative mentioned by the Bright One
should have been realised, and he should be doomed to look for her in
vain. Alas! he had not stayed the violence. He had left war and knife
behind him at her feet, and had snatched them up again in the _pa_.
With one gesture of despair the whole tide of his thought and feeling
turned from his late triumph to the person of his goddess. He would go
and search for her. It was at that moment the shrieking of the wizard
suddenly died away. His hour of punishment was over. Ngaraki’s had
just begun.

Driven by a vague fear, the fierce _ariki_ hastened up out of the
abyss, and I, going before, remained in the shadow of one of the
crags, where the path turned back upon itself, until he had passed me.
On, past the giants’ window, along the level path, and by the place
where the spar had stood, he went with long strides, his movements
quickening with a growing anxiety. When he came to the lake he mounted
the stone near the rim, flung his torch away behind him, and plunged
into the depths. I reached the spot and took up the torch and waited.
Again the lake heaved and twisted with the movement of great things
below, and again the black head of the stone under water rose above
the surface. Then the hollow thunder reverberated above, and the
cascade came roaring down from the darkness overhead. He had gone by
the ‘way of the winged fish,’ and I would follow by the rope.

I found it without trouble, and unhitched it from the rock, but the
tube which I still held in my hand was a difficulty in the way of
climbing. What should I do with it? From that my thoughts wandered to
the wizard; what should I do with _him_? I passed round the lake to
see if he was still there, thinking as I went that it would simplify
matters if he had fallen forward over the brink. But when I gained the
basin’s rim he was still standing as I had left him.

I stopped. It was enough. He might be dead, he might be living--I
would leave it at that. If dead, his wickedness was over; if living,
it was not safe to free him from the poisonous spell which held his
will in an iron grip. Besides, after my eerie experience of the voice
in my brain, I was disinclined to have anything more to do with him.
When the poison had lost its power, no doubt he could fall forward
into the abyss and add one item to the lumber of ages on the granite
floor below.

With these thoughts I left him and hurried after Ngaraki. When I had
succeeded in throwing my torch up on to the vantage ground above, I
climbed the rope, and then drew it up after me, for where that wizard
thing was concerned I was certain of nothing. I was anxious to
overtake Ngaraki, and ran on and on through the lofty tunnels, until
at length I came to the Place-of-Many-Chambers.

Just as I was passing through into the tunnel beyond, I stopped, for I
saw, through the opening of one of the side chambers, two figures
standing together. They were Kahikatea and Hinauri. Her hands were
clasped in his, and she was looking up at him, while he, with drooped
head, was speaking to her. They were both oblivious of all else but
each other. Even my flickering torchlight did not rouse them.

“Till death do us part?” he said.

“Nay, Kahikatea,” she returned, “for ever and ever. Here, in this very
place, in an age gone by did I plight my troth to you, and here
again----”

I dashed on, the light of my torch blurred before my eyes, up through
the tunnel towards the marble cave, whither I knew the chief had gone.
When I came to the hewn steps I saw him striding before me; I flung
aside my torch and followed, gaining the uncertain border of daylight
and darkness, whence I could see into the cave, just as he reached the
entrance.

There before him stood the statue of Hinauri, immovable, silent, all
white, with arms outstretched. With a quick step he stood before her
and looked into her eyes. There was no colour there. The living hues
had fled. The tohunga’s lips quivered. He stretched forth a hand and
touched her reverently upon the arm. It was cold stone.

Then despair crowded in upon his heart, and a terrible sorrow came
upon his face. Anguish drew deep lines beneath his eyes, and the power
of his presence dropped from him. His great chest shook convulsively,
and he gave way to a grief as awful to behold as his savage triumph in
the abyss. He prostrated himself at her feet and mingled the tears of
his agony with the white dust of the floor. Raising himself upon his
knees, he held up his arms and implored her to come back. With
bitterness he reproached himself as the cause of this sad end to all
his hopes. His words grew fierce against himself. He raved wildly, and
addressed heart-broken appeals to the statue; but Hinauri answered
not, nor pitied the Maori in his grief.

At last it was driven home into his tortured soul that the end had
come. He had failed to do her bidding, and she was changed again to
stone for ever. He stayed his wild woe and stood motionless, his face
calm, his form erect, and in his eyes the splendid sadness of a god in
pain. As he stood there the aspect of Zun the Terrible deepened on
him. The sorrowful longing on the face of the Twelfth Tohunga was his
again.

I could not stand there and look calmly on when a word of mine might
explain the trick that had been unwittingly played upon him. My foot
was on the step before me, and I was about to rush forward, when again
a cold blast of air struck me in the face, again the thrill darted
down my spine; my flesh crept and my hair rose. I was rooted to the
spot. Then, far within my brain, the Great Tohungas of the Earth spoke
a second time: “Let him alone! It is our will--the will of the One
above us. This man is worthy of correction--may you be as worthy in
your sin. In ages past, to trick the giants of evil, he substituted
the False for the True, to protect the True; and now it comes back
upon him in like manner, and he is tricked. Let him alone!”

Such words as these took shape within me, and I could neither speak to
him nor move to his aid. As I stood shuddering helplessly, his mood
changed, and he began to pace fiercely up and down the cave, passing
and re-passing through the broad flood of twilight that came through
the opening, and fell upon the face of the marble image.

“Ngha! she has withdrawn into the sky,” he said. “I will go to her,
and she shall not return when I am one. It is but a stone that is
here. It shall not remain. The world shall see the Bright One no more.
It is the end; it is the end.”

He disappeared in the darkness of the inner cave, and came out again
with a weapon, a heavy _meré_ of the broad-leaf kind. Whirling this
above his head, he paced to and fro, again chanting the long toil of
his life. Now he stopped before the image and whirled the weapon
within an inch of the lovely face.

“None other shall chant your loveliness,” he cried fiercely, and yet
there was worship in his aspect; “none other shall say, ‘She came
again at my bidding.’ Oh! Hine-tu-a-hoanga--sacred stone on which I
sharpened my curses to cleave the heads of the Vile Ones--you are as a
house that shall not stand. And this great house that holds your house
shall be closed for ever.”

At this point I was sure of his purpose, and resolved to go in search
of Hinauri herself in the Place-of-Many-Chambers. She would stay his
hand if I could not.

The thrall that held my feet relaxed as I turned to descend. More
fierce and high the chant of Ngaraki sounded behind me as I went. My
torch was still burning where I had left it, and I picked it up to
hurry on through the tunnels, sick with a vague fear that, as Hinauri
had said, she and the stone had but one spirit between them; that the
tohunga’s ancient magic, which had glanced from the granite Cazotl to
the real, might--I fled on, striving to run away from the terrible
thought. The chanting voice still reached me faintly through the high
tunnels as I emerged into the Place-of-Many-Chambers. My God! What was
that? A crash! and a yell! and another crash! echoing down through the
tunnels from the marble cave above. My God! What was this? A woman’s
shriek! a moan! and another shriek! coming from the chamber towards
which I was hastening.

As I staggered forward I saw Kahikatea supporting the form of Hinauri
drooping on his arm. Her face was as white as the stone image I had
left in the marble cave. Yet another yell and another crash echoed
faintly down the tunnels, and a tremor ran through the fair form, as
Kahikatea sank upon a rock and supported her head upon his knee.

“She is dying, Warnock,” he said, in a voice of anguish, gazing down
into her lovely face, while I held the torch so that the light fell
upon it. The long lashes showed very black against the pale cheek, and
her whole face and neck, to her cross-girt, white-robed bosom, showed
too deadly white against the enveloping cloud of her hair. It was not
a mere swoon.

“Yes,” I replied hoarsely, and the torchlight trembled as it fell on
the rocks of the chamber, “it is death.”

As we gazed in too great agony for words, Hinauri’s dark eyes opened,
her bosom rose and fell, and a sweet smile rested upon her lips as she
looked up into Kahikatea’s face.

“Be patient, my lord!” she said, raising one arm and placing her hand
against his cheek, “it is but a little time since we planned our work
in this world, and now I have to go. It is hard, my love--but raise me
up--it is sweet even to die upon your breast.” He raised her while she
placed her arms about his neck and nestled to him.

“When I am gone,” she murmured, “take this poor body out on to the
roof of the mountain, and there, on the shore of the crystal lake that
stands against the sky----”

A low groan of agony came from Kahikatea, and she ceased!

“Be patient, my lord,” she said again, drawing his head down and
raising her lips to his. “Hasten the world on to the brighter day when
we shall meet again--kiss me, love, I am going.”

Their lips met. A shiver of joy ran through her last breath. Her head
drooped forward and lay on Kahikatea’s shoulder, shrouded in her hair.
Hinauri had withdrawn into the sky, and at that moment I stood like a
stone among the everlasting stones, and asked myself, What is this
world of many shows, of glimpses, and flitting shadows? And the answer
came from the depths of my despair: A desolation of nothingness, a
barren waste where the bright dead moon smiles down on the sapless
ruin of things once living as herself; where the wild wind wails like
a planetary spirit come back to view the scene of its buried hopes. To
me this was a world where nothing mattered, and I scarcely know why I
moved forward to Kahikatea and placed my hand upon his arm. Perhaps it
was with a confused consciousness that his sorrow was even greater
than mine. I strove to speak his name, but a throb of grief choked it
back. My friend sat with his dead love in his arms, gazing straight
before him. I shook him gently, and he looked up with speechless agony
on his face. I saw his desire to be left alone with his pain, and
stood away.

At that moment I caught sight of a light descending through the
tunnels. It drew near, and I saw Ngaraki striding down. He came on and
emerged into the Place-of-Many-Chambers. I almost barred his passage
as I stood there with my torch, but he did not see me. His flashing
eyes were too bright for the calmness of his bearing. Despair was on
his face; a quick thought told me that I might increase it, but that
thought passed away, and the feeling that nothing mattered was
stronger than ever upon me. I stood and watched him like one
sleep-walker watching another. He approached the strange-looking
lever--the device of the giants, whose purpose in placing it there had
been handed down through the ages.

“It is the end,” he said sadly, as he raised the tapering arm.

It swung to the roof and then fell back and struck the floor. I knew
then that the great rolling stone that had rested on the weight of the
lever was now speeding into the deep gulf below, on the gloomy errand
it was designed to execute. The openings of this vast temple would be
closed for ever--yes, but it did not appeal to me with any force; it
was a matter of no consequence now, for who wanted to go out into that
waste place called the world? I did not, and I was certain Kahikatea
did not. Yet I noted the hollow rumblings that followed the fall of
the stone, and wondered wearily what would happen.




 CHAPTER XXVII.
 THE GIANTS CLOSE THEIR TEMPLE.

Ngaraki passed down through a side tunnel, and I returned to the
place where Kahikatea still sat with his dead. After gazing at the
scene awhile I withdrew again, mindful of my friend’s unexpressed
desire to be left alone. Then Grey and Miriam floated into my mind;
since I could do nothing else I could at least see that they were
safe. Acting on this thought, I made my way down through the main
tunnel, and at length reached the vantage ground high up in the wall
above the lake. The cascade was silent again. Ngaraki had gone down by
‘the way of the winged fish’ beneath the water. Presently there was a
flickering light below, and soon afterwards the chief, bearing a
torch, passed round the lake and paused upon the ledge above the
abyss. As mechanically and wearily as I had found my way down to this
point, I now stood and watched him.

Pacing to and fro upon the rocky ledge, he chanted his last karakia--a
lament in which the poetry of his despair struggled through all his
fierceness.

“_Ihungarupaea! Hine-nui-o-te-po! Thou art hurled down, a sunken
rock._

“_Thou canst not rise. Shattered into fragments; never will your dust
be gathered from its everlasting grave._

“_Hinauri, Rival of the Dawn! thou too art gone for ever._

“_Alas! what melting sorrow fills my breast to overflowing._

“_Hinauri, Daughter of the Light! for whom I cursed and toiled--for
whom I waited all my life--for whom my bosom yearned with love, alas!
thou too art gone._

“_The gentle brooks of Marahau poured laughter down the sunlit
slopes--ran glad with songs to Tinirau--with love songs to the Ocean
Lord._

“_But now their waters flow like tears--while on Kaiteriteri’s shore
the penguin wails with sobbing cry--_

“_Tears of Rangi and of Papa flowing to the lake of tear-drops where
the waves of woman’s weeping rise against the sky._

“_Hush! those billows roll for ever, swollen with our lifelong
tears--_

“_On and on into the distance till they break in lamentations on the
far off Sacred Isle--_

“_Break with many mourning voices at the feet of Tinirau--_

“_Kiss those feet with sobbing tidings: Hinauri is no more._

“_She will never come again. No distant dawn will bear her feet, no
sun ray bring her back to life._

“_Alas! Alas! the wild white crane against the cloud a moment shows
her shining wing, then all is dark and all is lost._”

He paused for a moment on the brink of the abyss--a torchlight picture
framed in the gloom of his ancient temple. For a moment his eyes were
raised as if his glance could pierce through the darkness and beyond
the cavern’s roof; then his voice rang out again in fiercer tones:

“_She stays not! neither will I stay! I’ll fling me to the dark!
Ngha!_

“_Down, down into the black abyss, that I may gain the sparkling stars
and look into her eyes once more._”

As a soul plunges down into the world of spirits from the heights of
gloomy Reinga, so he hurled himself headlong into the abyss, lighting
the way to death with his blazing torch. The sight of it wrung a cry
from me. I slid down the rope and made my way to the brink of the
abyss, where I leaned forward, gazing into the darkness. Far down a
light burns still and clear--a night-lamp by a hero’s bedside. For a
moment I think I see its ray light up the image of Zun the Terrible,
for ever gazing upwards through the night. The love that does not die
is stamped upon the granite face. “I will return,” is graved indelibly
upon his breast, and the hands that graved it are clasped above his
heart. The leaping flame springs up, and all is dark again. _Kia
kotahi ki te Ao: kia kotahi ki te Po_: Ngaraki is dead, but clings to
Life in the darkness.


While I remained standing on the brink of the abyss, full of a savage
pathos for the noble Maori chief, as well as with sorrow for his
goddess, my ear caught something unusual. A dull roar came up from the
depths, faint and far away; could it be that the overflow from the
lake had found a bottom at last? I listened intently, and even as I
did so the sound seemed to deepen. Was this the work of the rolling
stone which Ngaraki had launched from the mysterious lever in the
Place-of-Many-Chambers, or had the great round rock which he had
rolled down after the Vile Tohunga’s head blocked the channel and
dammed the water back?

Whatever was the cause, I soon came to the conclusion that the water
was rising rapidly in the abyss below the abyss. It would fill the
gulf, and then would flow out through the giants’ window into the
fissure beyond. But while concluding the matter thus there came back
into my mind the words of Te Makawawa in reference to the ancient
tradition of the mysterious lever: “When it is raised all the ways of
the temple will be closed.”

I was about to follow this matter up and see for myself, when there
was a sound like a great gush of water in the lake as if another
sluice gate had been unbarred in its depths. Then I heard the increase
of the flood as it hissed and tore through the aperture in the
partition and fell into the darkness of the abyss. Presently the
change was marked again by a louder thunder from the depths. In the
midst of this I heard a shout from the direction of the gulf. I
hastened towards it, and, midway on the path that led to the giants’
window, encountered Grey and his wife. Grey, the man who had
forgotten, looked into my eyes without the slightest sign of
recognition and said:

“Look there! What is to be done? That is the way out--I travelled it
quite lately--and it’s closing up--my wife tells me there are two more
here besides yourself. Where are they?”

I followed the direction of his finger, and saw what startled me. The
moon was just showing above the sill of the giants’ window, and its
light glinted on the under surface of a tremendous hewn stone that had
already descended half way down over the upright bars like a colossal
shutter.

“I know what has happened,” Miriam Grey was saying hurriedly; “the
lever in the heart of the mountain has been raised, and all the
apertures will be closed. Where is Crystal--Hinauri--where is she?”

“High up in the mountain,” I said slowly, for I had not the heart to
tell them that she was infinitely higher than the highest mountain on
earth. “Kahikatea will take her up through the roof by the way he came
down. There is yet time for you to escape by the giants’ window.”
Turning to Grey I added, “You say there is a way?”

“Yes,” he replied; “I remember the way perfectly, but it requires a
rope.”

I glanced at the opening which still remained as the great shutter
seemed to be descending slowly, and guessed there was time.

“Wait here,” I said to Miriam, “and, for the present, good-bye. If we
meet again it will be at Wakatu.”

There was much more to say, but no time to say it. I grasped her hand,
and with “Follow me, Grey, I will find you a rope,” I turned away.

She was a brave woman. “Good-bye, and God bless you; I trust you with
my child.” This was all she said as she stood there against the rock
to wait for her husband’s return.

With all haste I hurried along the level path, followed by Grey. Round
the buttress on to the margin of the lake we went, and there we came
to a halt, for the water flung back from the fountain, which now rose
several yards high in the centre of the lake, was washing over our
feet. But the halt was only for a moment. Knee deep in the wash and
ripple that swamped the margin, I led the way round until we reached
the place where the rope was hanging. There I handed the torch to Grey
and said: “Wait here; I will cut the rope above and throw it down.”

With feverish haste I climbed up, and, when I had gained the upper
landing, drew my sheath knife and severed the rope.

“Hold your end and stand away round the wall,” I shouted down to Grey.
“Stand away, and I will drop it.”

I heard his answer from below, signifying that I might heave it down.
I did so, and then heard him call up: “But what about you?”

“Make haste,” I yelled down; “damn it all, make haste. Save your wife,
never mind about me.” Well I knew that my life was worth very little
either to myself or anybody else.

He made some reply which I could not catch, then shouted “Good-bye!
good-bye!” and something else which was lost in the tumult of the lake
below. I watched his torch disappear round the buttress, and then fell
to gazing at the small stream of moonlight that now pierced through
the darkness above the abyss. Would Grey and his wife get through the
giants’ window before that ray was darkened altogether? I prayed that
it might be so.

In less than three minutes I was sure of it, for something obstructed
the ray for a moment, and then it shone on clear as before, though
perceptibly less. They had passed through, and now in a few minutes
the giants would close their window for ever.

But before the ray died out it fell above the outer lip of the huge
basin, and revealed the form of the wizard negro still standing there
spellbound.

What would be his end? I knew the abyss was filling; by the roar of
the falling water I judged it was filling rapidly. The picture of that
figure in the moonray standing, as soon he must, with nothing but his
head above water, unable to stir hand or foot to save himself, moved
me strangely. I would release him from his bondage and let him have at
least a rat’s chance of drowning on his own responsibility. But I
feared it was too late. Would he hear my voice against the roar of the
waters? At least I could try. Standing up, I shouted to him across the
intervening space:

“Servant of the Brotherhood of Huo! My voice is the only thing--you
are free to save yourself if you can.”

He heard me. I saw him crouching down on the rock. Then, as the
moonray dwindled away to nothing, there came from the darkness the
same wild, unearthly laugh I had heard so often before. It echoed from
a thousand crags in the walls and roof of the vast cavern, and was
finally bandied about in the central vault like the voice of a fiend
chuckling to himself. But he could do no harm now; sooner or later he
must drown like any rat.




 CHAPTER XXVIII.
 FAREWELL.

Louder and louder came the thundering roar from the abyss. The sound
seemed to have risen several tones in pitch, and from this fact I
strengthened my conclusion that the vast cavern was gradually filling.
There was now no way out except that by which Kahikatea had come
in--the ‘way of the spider.’ Should we scale that way, or should we
sit in darkness, with the body of Hinauri between us, and wait while
the rising water surged up through the tunnels and covered us? I
thought the latter grim alternative would be the end; at least I felt
like it as I turned and toiled again up through the tunnels.

The way was dark and I had no light now, but with slow and heavy
footsteps, groping my way with both hands, I at last gained the
Place-of-Many-Chambers. Even there all was dark and silent. I fell
over the arm of the lever on the stone floor, and Kahikatea cried out,
“Who goes there?”

“I, Warnock; strike a light--my matches are wet.”

As I gathered myself up I heard him strike a match on the rock, and,
by its light as he held it up, saw that he was still sitting where I
had left him, holding Hinauri to his breast. He did not speak; his
face was set with grief, and I was moved with a great sympathy towards
him. In the endeavour to show this I went up to him, and, placing my
hand on his arm, looked into his eyes, saying nothing.

He understood. “Thank you, Warnock,” he said softly and sadly; “have
you ever lost someone who was all the world to you--someone whose
going left a dreary darkness, which you wrapped closer about you while
longing for death?”

“Yes,” I replied slowly, “I have.” The match went out. My hand slid
along to his, and they met in a clasp of silent sympathy. He did not
know--I think he never knew--that the one I had lost was the one lying
cold and still upon his breast.

“Stay here, Warnock,” he said presently; “stay here and lighten my
darkness. I have given way beneath this load of grief, and must rouse
myself. Stay here and talk; I will listen, and try to struggle up out
of my black despair.”

“I will,” I said, though it occurred to me that my own feelings were
scarcely such as would lighten anyone’s darkness. “But first give me
the matches, and let’s dispel this outer gloom.”

He handed them to me, and I went in search of a pile of pineheart
torches which I had seen on my first exploration of the place. I
lighted one, and then carried an armful into the open space and set a
light to them. Soon there was a blazing fire, which cast a ruddy glow
on the rocky walls and ceiling of the Place-of-Many-Chambers. Tenderly
Kahikatea disengaged the fair arms from about his neck, and, bearing
the white form into the open space, laid it gently down upon the rocky
floor not far from the fire. Her head rested upon the soft pillow of
her floating hair, and her limbs fell into the beautiful pose of one
who is sleeping sweetly. As I looked down at her peaceful face, and
saw still resting upon it the last smile of joy that had marked her
spirit’s flight, I could scarcely realise that she was dead.

Then Kahikatea and I sat down one on each side of her, but neither of
us spoke; it was a kind of vigil, and I could not break its silence. I
had made the fire, and that was all I could do towards lightening the
darkness of my friend. But I will not say what thoughts came to me in
the presence of the lovely dead. They were strange thoughts of another
world, where, in some inexplicable way, eternal love means eternal
possession of the thing loved, where beings that love the same are one
with their beloved. But these are not thoughts we can explain.

I know not how long we sat there; it was probably a matter of hours,
and we might have sat for other hours had not something aroused me. It
was a vague shadow moving like a tentacle of the darkness about the
opening of the lower tunnel.

“Who’s there?” I shouted sharply, and Kahikatea raised his head
inquiringly.

The answer to my challenge came from a very long way off; it was the
wild and hideous laugh of the wizard. I sprang to my feet and stood
looking into the gloom, where all I could see of him was his eyes,
which caught and reflected the glare of the fire. He was crouching in
the shadows as I advanced towards him.

“Servant of the Vile Brotherhood of Huo,” I said, “you are no longer
free to move; you are----”

But the harsh laugh, sounding again nearer than before, cut my words
short, and I knew the power of the poison had passed. He was again the
powerful agent of evil, a thing to be feared, and, if possible, to be
strangled.

“Come out here!” I said, “and I will fight you on equal terms now that
your infernal poisoned darts are gone. But, first, what are we to
fight about? You have been punished, and Hinauri, the Bright One, is
dead--her body lies there.” I pointed to the open space by the fire
where Kahikatea sat almost unheeding by the side of his lost love.

The negro came out of the dark at my words and stood before me. I saw
his eyes rove quickly over me, and they bore a devilish glint of
triumph as he saw that his reed tube was not in my hand.

“We will fight for the body of the Bright One,” he said, “and when I
have bound you I will bind your friend there. Then”--he concluded by
pointing his skinny finger at the white form of Hinauri.

I ground my teeth, but, before I could spring at him, Kahikatea’s deep
voice arrested me.

“Stop!” he cried, springing to his feet and coming forward with
fingers crooked and brows let down; “it is my privilege to strangle
this black villain, whoever he is.”

In three strides he was upon him, and in another moment the negro was
twisting and twining in a strong grasp from which his soul, if he had
one, might possibly find escape towards hell, but his body never.
Kahikatea had gripped him by the arms. Now he transferred one hand to
the wizard’s throat, and the end began. As I stood by and watched, I
thought it strange that the negro did not use his liberated arm and
hand to clutch at the one which gripped his throat. Instead of doing
that, as they swayed to and fro, he was feeling with it for something
in his hair. His eyes were starting out of his head, but his fingers
were still searching through his hair as Kahikatea shook and strangled
and shook him again.

Presently the fingers drew forth a slender thing--a small, reed-like
dagger, only large enough to give a needle’s prick, but I knew it was
poisoned. With a quick shout of “Take care!” I darted forward just as
the negro was raising his arm. I caught him by the wrist, but, with a
quick side twist, he wrenched loose, scratching my skin with the
cursed thing as he did so. Then, swift as lightning, before I could
intervene, he raised his arm again, and drove the point into
Kahikatea’s shoulder.

A last horror swept through me as I realised that in less than three
seconds we should both be at his mercy by virtue of the swift poison;
and the form lying still in death behind us--great God! should


 [image: images/img321.jpg
 caption: “KAHIKATEA STOOD LIKE A BRONZE STATUE, WITH ONE ARM STRETCHED
 OUT. IN THE HAND OF THAT ARM WAS THE THROAT OF THE WIZARD, WHOSE BODY
 HUNG FROM IT, LIMP AND LIFELESS.”]


the body of the Pure One pass into this foul wizard’s hands after all?
In another moment all would be over. I felt my senses going, when I
saw that the negro was trying to speak, but Kahikatea’s hand was still
too tight on his throat. Not until it relaxed under the influence of
the poison could he speak the words which would take command of our
failing wills. Then, when I saw that, a lightning thought flashed
through my mind: the commanding voice should be mine. I was going
fast, but I still had strength enough to cry: “Kahikatea! my voice is
the only thing! You cannot let go! Kill him! Kill him! You cannot let
go!”

The last words seemed to come from everywhere. Myself seemed blotted
out, and my own words sounded like many voices crying as one from
beyond the horizon: “You cannot let go!” Then I know not what
happened. Consciousness fled to this extent--I was conscious of
nothing but a blank.

 * * * * *

When I awoke I found myself on the stone floor. I sat up and gazed
about me. The fire was burnt low, and I could see only the form of
Hinauri still lying where it had been. The place was too dark to see
more. I rose hastily, and kicked the remains of the fire together. A
bright blaze sprang up, and I turned towards the spot where I had last
seen the wizard in the grip of my friend. They were still there.
Apparently the fight was not yet finished, for I could see vaguely the
two figures standing together in the gloom. How could this be? The
fire could not have burnt down in less than two hours.

I snatched a piece of smouldering pineheart, fanned it to a blaze,
and, hastening to where they stood, held it up. The thing that I saw
was as grim as it was weird. Kahikatea stood like a bronze statue,
with one arm stretched out. In the hand of that arm was the throat of
the wizard, whose body hung from it, limp and lifeless. Kahikatea’s
face was set, his teeth clenched; the command, “You cannot let go!”
was written on iron in every feature, muscle, and limb; and, with his
eyes fixed on the lifeless thing he held suspended by the throat
before him, he was still strangling that wizard, whose last twisted
hideousness was too frightful to describe.

A pale ghost of a “Thank God!” fell from my lips; then I set about
undoing the voice-and-poison spell.

“Kahikatea!” I said; “my voice is the only thing; you are yourself
again; wake up! you can let go.”

His fingers relaxed, and the wizard corpse fell in a huddled heap upon
the floor. Kahikatea turned to me with a look of amazement on his
face.

“What happened?” he said; “I felt my senses going when I heard you
shout ‘Kill him! you cannot let go!’ and then I seemed to be spending
a long lifetime in strangling him with all my strength.”

As briefly as possible I explained the strange action of the wizard’s
poison and the power of the first will that came into possession by
means of the voice. I had not finished when, at a sound from the
darkness in the direction of the lower tunnel, I suddenly broke off,
and we both faced round to listen. Again the sound came to our ears;
it was the soft splash of water against the rocks. I advanced with the
blazing wood in my finger tips, and saw with dismay that the flood was
rapidly rising in the tunnel. It was already within ten yards of where
we stood, and was encroaching visibly.

I turned to Kahikatea. “Quick!” I cried; “all the outlets are closed,
and the place is filling. Up through the tunnels to the marble cave. I
will follow.”

He turned and tenderly lifted the body of the Bright One in his arms;
then, taking up a fragment of burning wood, he proceeded into the
tunnel which led up into the marble cave. I remained, and dragged the
body of the Vile Thing of Darkness towards the breast-high barrier
upon which the lever had rested as on a fulcrum. Then, raising my
burden above my head, I heaved it into the gulf that yawned on the
other side. Something of the triumphant feelings of Ngaraki, when he
had hurled the Vile Tohunga’s head down to Porawa, came over me as I
listened, fancying that I should hear that wild laugh again echoing
from the depths of Darkness. But there was no reply; the Poisoner had
gone down for ever.

I was aroused by the wash of the water rising on the rocks where I
stood. Even as I sprang forward and caught up another blazing
fragment, the tide surged in and swamped the fire with a quick hiss. I
darted into the tunnel with the waves lapping at my heels, and
followed Kahikatea.

When I reached the marble cave I stood and surveyed the scene before
me with feelings of regret, dismay, and despair. A great slab of stone
had slid down in the grooves that I had noticed on each side of the
opening, and the place was closed even to the moon and stars; but what
called up all my grief afresh was a thing of which I had been
convinced ever since I left the cave to find Hinauri. The marble
statue no longer stood in the centre of the cave with its arms
outstretched. There, on the floor, broken and shattered, were the
fragments of the lovely image which Miriam Grey, as a sculptress, had
hewn out of the sacred stone; and there, a little beyond, lying upon a
soft Maori mat, was the still cold form of the lovely spirit which
she, as a mother, had led out of the distant past.

As I made my way among the fragments, I picked up the golden circlet,
and, bending down, gently placed it upon Hinauri’s brow. At once the
prophecy came to my mind--the prophecy she had read after solemnly
identifying herself with the statue: “_Thou, Hia, shalt return at the
dawn of a new age, but ere the sun shall have shone twice upon this,
thy crown, thou shalt withdraw into the sky._”

Kahikatea was in the recess of the inner cave, holding in his hand the
rope by which he had descended.

“I will go first,” he said; “then I will let the rope down a little so
that you can make a double loop for her, and I will draw her up. After
that I’ll let the rope down again for you. But wrap her in the mat,
Warnock, and fasten the rope securely.”

He began to climb as he gave these directions, but he was scarcely
five feet from the ground when the strands broke far up above and he
fell heavily, the whole of the rope rattling down into the cave about
us.

“Must have frayed on the edge of the rock,” he said, struggling to his
feet. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing to do now, my friend, but sit
down here quietly and wait for the end, for the water will be here
presently, and there’s no other outlet. Certainly we might float up,
but for my part I don’t think it’s worth while.”

So weary of life was I that I was tempted to agree with him; but I
chanced to glance round the cave before I spoke, and my eye fell on
the grotesque wooden gods grinning at our hopelessness as they nursed
their stomachs serenely. A sudden idea struck me: why not make a raft
of these wooden deities, and so float up on the rising flood? I
mentioned my idea to Kahikatea, and he greeted it with a half-smile.
Such a slight thing changes the course of mortals, and I believe it
was the mere happiness of this idea that led us to combat what was at
that time a great temptation to leave our bodies with that of the one
we both loved, and go out into the starry sky with Zun to find her.

With a spontaneous movement we sprang up and set to work. I remembered
that in the Place-of-Many-Chambers there was a deep gulf to fill, and
consequently it would be some time before the water reached us.

So we took Tiki, the Progenitor of Mankind, and Tangaroa, the sea god,
and Tawhirimatea, the god of storms, and Tanemahutu, and Rongomatane,
and several others, and, laying them side by side on the floor of the
cave, lashed them together with the rope. There was a store of torches
in this as in all the other centres of the temple, and we set several
going to light us in our work.

At length it was finished, and we laid the dead upon soft mats in the
centre. I also placed on our raft the remainder of the torches, and an
axe I found among the weapons. Then we sat and waited, Kahikatea at
Hinauri’s head and I at her feet, both bearing torches in our hands.
In time the water flooded in with gurgling sounds, and we rose on our
raft of gods up through the opening in the roof of the mountain. When
we had mounted some fifty feet I looked up between the dark crags that
still towered above us and saw the stars in an indigo sky. Slowly we
floated up with our fair burden until, upon a crag above us, we saw
the silver moonlight glistening. In a few minutes we reached that
crag, and found we were on the broad summit of the mountain temple,
the twin peaks rising one on each side of us, their snowy summits
standing up like sentinel spirits as the moonlight touched them in the
clear, cold silence of the sky.

The raft now floated into a small oblong basin, and as the water rose
in this I saw that it would flow out through an aperture beyond. Here,
then, was our highest point. I stepped out on to the roof of the
mountain temple. Kahikatea followed, and together we lifted our raft
of gods with its burden out on to the rough rocks. As we did this the
water escaped at the other end of the oblong basin, and I advanced
with my torch to see what became of it. Beyond the aperture its
surface shone in the moonlight, making a loop like a silver horseshoe;
then it disappeared again into the rock at a spot not very far from
where it issued.

I looked up at the southern peak, and then at Kahikatea, who stood
beside me. “Yes,” he said, interpreting my thought, “there is a large
lake up there. I came across it in my wanderings. It is no doubt the
source of all this water.”

“The crystal lake that stands against the sky,” I said, slowly
repeating Hinauri’s own words; “is there a way to it?” I glanced
towards the raft as I spoke, and my voice was lowered almost to a
whisper.

“Yes, there is a tunnel,” he replied softly. “Come! our raft is now a
bier. Let us carry out her wish.”

So we severed Tiki, the Progenitor of Mankind, and Tanemahutu, the
strong god of light, from the others, and, using them as a bier,
passed up through a narrow but lofty tunnel in the direction of the
Southern peak. After we had ascended some hundreds of feet by a fairly
steep incline, we came out on the margin of a large circular lake held
in by towering crags against the side of the peak. The clear waters
were still and pure, as befitted that high solitude, and in the
crystal depths were reflected the lights of Heaven. We descended to
the shelving, sandy shore, and set our burden down in the shadows.
Then, by mutual understanding, we went back and carried up the rest of
the gods and the pinehearts and the axe. And Kahikatea himself hewed
the gods in pieces to supply the wood for the funeral pyre.

I cannot linger over that last sad scene by the silent lake. I cannot
write of Kahikatea’s last kiss of farewell on those pure maiden lips.
I stood apart, bareheaded beneath the moon and stars, gazing my last
upon the serene white face as, with hands crossed upon her bosom, and
her shrouding hair drawn over


 [image: images/img326.jpg
 caption: “WITH HANDS CROSSED UPON HER BOSOM, AND HER SHROUDING HAIR
 DRAWN OVER HER LIKE THE CURTAINS OF THE NIGHT, HINAURI LAY UPON THE
 PYRE.”]


her like the curtains of the night, Hinauri lay upon the pyre. Then
the pinehearts blazed up, the bones of the gods crackled and hissed,
and soon the form of the one we had loved and lost was enveloped in a
clear, glowing pyramid of flame, which burned up to heaven like the
light of a great lamp set in a spot well sheltered from the wind.

 * * * * *

I recall but dimly our leaving that crystal lake against the sky, and,
in the grey light of dawn, reaching the Table Land below by ways
difficult and dangerous. Suffice it to say that the ‘way of the
spider’ by which Kahikatea had scaled that mountain was such that no
man who valued his life would attempt it. How we passed in safety is a
matter that I can only account for by the fact that we did not value
our lives at all.

The yellow, rolling plain was deserted when we passed across it, and
none greeted us from the _wharés_ dotted about here and there. We
stopped nowhere until we reached the further end of the Table Land,
and there we turned to gaze for the last time on the mountain wall
that shut out half the eastern sky. It was a grand and solemn tomb of
things forgotten; stupendous, majestic, threatening in its gloom. But
on the snowy peaks above there rested a flush of sunrise--a rosy pink
which touched them with a pure and radiant glory as they stood against
a background of white rifted clouds. Though the giants’ temple, with
beetling brows, frowned darkly at us, it seemed as if the rosy peaks
were showing the sun which path Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn, had
taken.

A day’s march brought us to the place below the great cliff in the
hillside, where we had seen the water spout up in a fountain, and
where, subsequently, I had found my hat which had fallen into the
abyss. The channel was dry, and the pool from which it issued had sunk
several feet. I conjectured that if that underground stream could be
followed, the explorer would come up against the great round stone,
stopping the water’s flow somewhere in the bowels of the earth.

Two days’ march brought us to Kahikatea’s hut, where he put a few
papers together, and announced his intention of journeying with me as
far as Wakatu, and thence taking a boat for the north, and finally for
England. When he informed me of this I looked at him inquiringly. He
saw the question in my eyes, and said:

“Friend! my dreams have ended sadly, but the strange madness that drew
me to this solitude was, I know now, full of hidden method. You heard
what she said: ‘Hasten on the world.’ Warnock! if ever a man tried, by
putting his shoulder to the wheel of time, to hasten the dawn of a
brighter age, I am going to try. She told me many things that you did
not hear and that I cannot tell you--things throwing light on the
world’s failure in the past to grasp its opportunities--plans to pave
the way for an inborn greatness of a coming generation. When you think
of me, Warnock, think of me as one who is toiling incessantly with
dull, heavy foundation stones at the bidding of a voice which to him
is the sweetest thing in all the world.”

At Wakatu we found Grey and his wife, and together we helped one
another through the story of Hinauri’s death. The
Man-who-had-forgotten heard it as a thing far off; it touched him like
the sadness of a dream, for eighteen years were struck from his life,
and he remembered neither his own daughter nor the Daughter of the
Dawn. But Miriam’s grief, the grief of such a mother for such a child,
was beyond words. For many weeks after Kahikatea’s departure she
lingered between life and death in Wakatu, and it was not until three
months after the events narrated in the foregoing pages that I told
Grey all I knew about his forgotten years, and sailed with them both
to the Sounds--to the home and the garden where I had first met
Crystal Grey. In due time they went home to claim the property, which,
as I have somewhere stated, had been left to Miriam. I remained behind
to take care of the old place until they returned a year later, when
they refused to let me go.


Here, then, in the rustic retreat beneath the nut-trees, where the
sweet influence of Crystal Grey seems to linger round me, I have spent
the summer days in writing these pages. Now it is finished, and again
I recall the words of my aged friend the chief and tohunga, Te
Makawawa:

“_O Son, the word of our ancient law is death to any who reveals the
secrets that are hidden in the Brow of Ruatapu. The secret of Hinauri,
the Daughter of the Dawn, the mystery of the Vile Tohungas of the Pit,
the traditions of far time preserved in the heart of the great
Rock--all, everything, is a death-blow returning on the head of him
who reveals it. Yet, O Son of the Great Ocean of Kiwa, I, who was once
the guardian priest of the temple of Hia and the hereditary curser of
the Vile Ones of the Abyss of Huo, now show these things to you, for I
am weary of climbing the snows of Ruahine, and long for rest and
Tane’s living waters. The great Tohungas of the Earth have taught me
in my sleep with words like the voice of the wind in the forest trees:
‘O tohunga of the Great Rock, the mystery of Hinauri is not for the
Maori unless thou tell it first to the Sons of the Sea, but know that
if thou tell it thou must die.’ Therefore, Son, I show it to you, for
what though I fear the eye of the fierce Ngaraki, I fear not death.
Friend! perchance, when I have descended by the sacred Pohutukawa
root, you, too, will tire of life and tell this thing to your
brethren; ‘but know that if thou tell it thou must die._’”

I am content that it should be so. Last night I dreamed that I
wandered astray in the forest, and that is an omen that no Maori could
misinterpret. Perchance it is the shadow cast before a welcome event,
in terms of the Maori lore so dear to my heart. And now as I write,
another and more striking omen is vouchsafed me in the same quaint
terms. A ray from the golden sun of the autumn evening slants through
the broken screen of yellowing leaves and falls upon the woodwork of
my rough table placed against the hazel stems. Suddenly a little green
lizard runs from a bundle of papers I have but lately lifted from the
ground and placed on the corner of the table. It reaches the sunlight
and pauses, moving its head strangely in the air. In another moment
its bright little eyes meet mine, and for some seconds it remains
motionless. A cloud comes before the sun, the ray fades, and the
little creature wriggles off the table on to the ground, where I hear
its faint rustle among the leaves. Well I know this is a call to
Reinga, thence to the living waters of Tane, and thence to the bright
Beyond--a summons, clear and sweet, to the Living Waters of Tane,
where mortals fling off their garments of clay, and, plunging deep,
renew their strength. Oh! let it be soon. How often have I longed,
with the great chief who now clings to Life in the Light, to throw my
body headforemost into the jaws of Darkness, that I, with him, may
gain the sparkling stars, and look into her eyes once more!

 THE END OF WANAKI’S NARRATIVE.




 CONCLUSION.

 (_A letter from Aké Aké Rangitane, the son of Ngaraki, to the
 Editor._[28])

 O Friend of the Maori Race,--These are my last words to you, for
 while you remain here among the chills of winter, I go to the land
 which laughs beneath the southern sun. My experience of the will of
 the Great Tohungas of the Earth teaches me that it will be obeyed
 concerning the record of Wanaki. When you have done my bidding and the
 book is made, then you will remain at peace. I send to you with this a
 letter that has been given to me by the Pakeha Kahikatea. Set it at
 the end of Wanaki’s record, but do not write the Pakeha’s other name,
 for it may be that he has the spirit of one of the Great Tohungas of
 the Earth whose names are _tapu_. When your task is done, fear not
 that the fate of Wanaki will overtake you. Now I go, but you remain.
 Follow me not with your thoughts. When I see the book that is made the
 love of my heart will flow towards you like a mountain stream. There
 is no Maori word to tell of “gratitude,” but, O Pakeha, in the Maori
 heart there are feelings which cannot be hidden behind a word. My
 letter to you is ended. Farewell.


 _A letter from Miriam Grey to Sir… Bart.,…
 St. James’ Chambers, London._

 Dear Kahikatea,--It is with feelings of deep regret that I write to
 tell you of the death of our dear friend Wanaki. The circumstances of
 his end were very strange. It was a night when a thunderstorm was
 brewing, and Wanaki, instead of going to bed, put on his mackintosh
 and went out to look at the storm. But it did not break till near
 midnight, and then there was only a single vivid flash, followed by a
 peal of thunder directly overhead. In the morning, finding our dear
 friend’s room unoccupied, we searched the garden and the plantations,
 and at length discovered him lying dead on the grass at the foot of
 one of the great bluegums. That he had been struck by lightning while
 standing with his back to the tree was evident, for the grass where he
 had stood was burnt, and his watch chain was fused. But the strange
 thing that I have to tell you is this: On the trunk of the tree
 against which Wanaki had been standing, the lightning had left a mark
 which is evidently a duplicate tracery of the course the electric
 fluid took through his body, but at the same time--this is no woman’s
 fancy--I recognised it as an exact picture on a small scale of the
 principal ways of the ancient temple, from the marble cave to the
 foundations. I say again, this is not my fancy, for if anyone could
 recognise the diagrammatic representation of the spiral tunnels and
 spaces of that ancient place it would surely be myself. Is this
 another instance of the strange magic of that terrible priesthood of
 the ages, which has now left its sign to show that Wanaki has suffered
 the penalty for revealing the secrets of their temple, or is it
 capable of a simpler explanation? Is it possible that the lightning
 followed some occult line of least resistance through that temple of
 the ages--that mysterious epitome of the universe, the human body, and
 left the track of its passage burnt in on the tree behind? But I
 cannot do more than merely suggest the mystery of this exact
 correspondence, for both my husband and myself are heartbroken at the
 loss of our dear friend, the story of whose snow-white hair and
 gentle, weary face, you already know.

 I will not write more now except to add, as ever, that my heart is
 with you in your work--with you as constantly as my thoughts are with
 her whom we love, and as earnestly as my prayers are with those of all
 women who stand in the “Brow of Ruatapu” and raise their arms of
 longing to the heaven where greatness waits to be revealed on earth.

                                             Yours sincerely,
                                             MIRIAM GREY.

 THE END.




 ENDNOTES.

[01] _karakia_] Philosophical and meditative hymns used as
incantations.--Editor.

[02] _pa_] A _pa_ is a fortified village, a stronghold.

[03] _Kahikatea… my friend the Forest Tree_] The Maoris regard the
Kahikatea, or white pine, with much poetical feeling.--Editor.

[04] _rangatira_] Gentleman.

[05] _the green lizard that will summon me to Reinga_] The Maori
believes that when the little green lizard looks at him meaningly it
is a summons for him to depart for the spirit world within three
days.--Editor.

[06] _tiki_] An ornament of jade fashioned in the image of Tiki, the
first man, and worn round the neck.--Editor.

[07] _white-winged taniwhas_] The taniwha of the Maoris is a mythical
monster of the deep. When they first saw the Pakehas’ ships they set
them down as taniwhas.--Editor.

[08] _kohutukutu_] The wild fuchsia--the only deciduous native
tree.--Editor.

[09] _wharekura_] An ancient Temple of Mysteries.--Editor.

[10] _Zun the Terrible_] Wanaki has a note here to the effect that,
although the Maori’s pronunciation of this name was ‘Tunu,’ he prefers
to preserve it in what he avers was its original form, _viz._,
‘Zun.’--Editor.

[11] _matakite_] Clairvoyant.

[12] _tapu_] Sacred.

[13] _its spirit had fled beyond Wai Ora Tane_] The bourne from which
no traveller returns.--Editor.

[14] _matakite_] A seer--a clairvoyant.--Editor.

[15] _mana_] Power, prestige.--Editor.

[16] _kumara_] The kumara is a kind of sweet potato.

[17] _Taranaki glowed… thundering Tongariro_] According to ancient
legend Tongariro and Taranaki, standing together, were rival volcanoes
for the hand of a smaller mountain near by, named Pihanga. They
fought, hurling great rocks at each other, until at last Taranaki
withdrew to the seashore, where he now stands.

[18] _Whaka ariki_] A battle-cry.

[19] _heitiki_] A small image of polished jade, held very sacred.

[20] _waiariki_] A warm spring.

[21] _taepo_] Devil--the hobgoblin of the night.--Editor.

[22] _weka_] The Maori hen--a rare ventriloquist.

[23] _Makutu_] Bewitchment.

[24] _crying_ ‘_Utu! Utu!_’] _Utu_ is payment, compensation for
injury.--Editor.

[25] _marae_] The open space.

[26] _utu_] Payment, compensation--an eye for an eye.

[27] _Upokokohua!_] “Boil your head.” All Maori curses relate to
cooking or giving in cookery, to boiling or being boiled.--Editor.

[28] This letter, with its enclosure from Miriam Grey to Kahikatea,
reached me just as the task of editing this work was
finished.--Editor.




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

The Hodder & Stoughton edition (London, n.d.) was consulted for
most of the changes listed below.

Minor spelling variances (_e.g._ lovelight/love-light, nut-trees/nut
trees, etc.), the inconsistent italicization of foreign words, and
redundant footnotes (matakite, utu) have been preserved.

Plain text edition only: note markers are given in [square] brackets.

Alterations to the text:

Convert footnotes to endnotes.

Punctuation: quotation mark pairings/nestings, missing commas, etc.

[Chapter IV]

Change (“_Tanawha_ lives there,” he said, “it is tapu. The Maori) to
_Taniwha_.

[Chapter XII]

“Arrived at a village on the coast line near _Hokitiki_” to
_Hokitika_.

[Chapter XIII]

“An easel and _pallette_ reclined against the hedge” to _palette_.

[Chapter XXI]

“the narrowing gulf could be seen the _giant’s_ window” to _giants’_.

[Chapter XXIII]

“descend the marble steps when his controlled emotions _brake_ loose”
to _broke_.

[Chapter XXV]

“Yet it _semed_ a trifle strange to me that he should not” to
_seemed_.

 [End of text]