The Legend of the Wailing Woman.
By D. W. O. Fagan, of Mangapai, Whangarei, Auckland, New Zealand.
The author writes: "In a cave under the cliffs of Manaia is a 'blow-hole' only actuated once in every month, at the time of the highest spring tides, when it sends forth a wailing shriek. Below I have set down the native legend concerning it, as told to me by my old Maori friend Puketawa. Allowing for idiomatic differences, the narrative is in his own words."
We beached our boat on the shore of the islet and waited the coming of the flood-tide to help us against the river current in the harbour narrows. Night had already fallen, but the sands were still warm from the heat of the sun, and though the sky was clear and full of stars, the shadows were very dark under the Pohotokawas, where we lay. Our fire had sunk to a few dull embers, and Puketawa's pipe glowed like a red eye from the darkness. Across the channel opposite, a quarter of a mile away, rose the dark mass of Manaia, its crags among the stars. Presently, the moon, rising from the sea behind us, lit the dark rocks with a flood of silver light.
On three sides of the headland cliffs rose sheer from the water to a height of two hundred feet. On the flat, table-like top a cone-shaped mass of limestone rocks, piled one above the other, rose to a further height of a hundred feet or so. The cliff of the seaward face was pierced at its base by a dark cave, into which the swell broke with gurgling echoes. On the fourth side the ground fell away in a grassy slope from the base of the rock-cone to the white sands of the bay.
At the top of the slope were the mound and ditch of an old "pah" (fort). Whence I wonder did those old-time Maoris obtain their knowledge of military fortification? Vallum and fosse, scarp and counter-scarp, the place looked like a Roman "castrum." It needed no great stretch of fancy to imagine the glint of moonbeams on brazen armour, the clang of shields and steady tramp of the legionaries on the ramparts.
I glanced at Puketawa, and saw by the sheen of his eyes through the shadows and the fierce short puffs at his pipe that his mind was back in the old legendary days, when these same cliffs rang to the clash of weapons, the fierce shouts of contending warriors, and the dying screams of the vanquished.
As the tide rose and a heavier swell rolled into the cave, there came from its dark mouth a long, sobbing cry—half wail, half shriek—the anguished cry of a woman in distress.
So sudden and startling was the sound in that lonely place, that I half sprang to my feet. Though reason told me that what I had taken for a cry of distress was but the jugglery of air and water in the rock-crevices, I remained half erect, ready, at a repetition, to launch the boat to aid. It came again, more sorrow-laden, more piercing than before.
Puketawa must have divined my thoughts, for he laid his hand upon my arm.
"It is Heruini who cries for her lover," he said.
"Who is she?"
"Listen. This is her story as it has come down through the years from mouth to mouth of the 'Tohunga,'[2] even unto this day." And then he told me the following narrative:—
[2] Priests, who preserve the oral traditions of the tribes.
Ere the first of the Pakeha (white men) set foot in Aoa-te-Aroha (New Zealand), and before the tribes of the north were welded into one nation, Kokako was chief of Ngatitoa. Here, at Manaia, was the stronghold of the tribe. Their lands lay broad and fertile from Waikara in the west, through Parna, even to Tukaka in the north. Flanked on three sides by the sea and the precipice, the place was a strong one.
By the slope alone could the enemy approach, and that was guarded by the "pah," whereof, as you see, the wall and ditch remain to this day. Look also how the back of the "pah" is set against the rock face. Through the rock behind runs a steep path leading to the shelf below the crags. Narrow, walled by high rocks on either side, this path was also guarded by a stockade. Beneath the topmost crags is a cave. From the cave's mouth to the cliff edge the space is narrow—scarce a spear's length in width. Up this path, should the "pah" fall, the Ngatitoa could retreat, when all was lost, to the cave, where, in the floor, there was a pool of water.
Before that time of which I speak the Ngatitoa was a tribe numerous and warlike. Now, half the fighting men had fallen in long wars, and the tribe was much weakened. Yet was Kokako still a great chief, and five hundred warriors followed him to battle.
Peace had endured for a year, but still the warriors kept ward on the ramparts. The times were evil; tribe fought with tribe, chief with chief, and none knew when the foe might come against them.
Southward across the bay lay the "hapu" (settlement) of Ngatahi, of which tribe Parema was chief. Now Parema was a man of guile, crafty and faithless. When words were fairest on his lips, then treachery was blackest in his heart. Bitter had been the feud between the tribes, but for a year there was peace.
Kokako was old, and weary with much fighting. His strong sons had fallen in battle, and of his children there remained to him but one daughter, and she was very near to his heart.
Heruini, a maiden of seventeen, beautiful as the dawning, loved her cousin Taurau, and they decided to wed. Already preparations for the marriage were being made.
Kokako was glad that the youth had found favour in Heruini's sight, for Taurau was his dead brother's son, and he thought: "It is well. Taurau will be chief at my death, and after him the son of Heruini. Thus shall my seed not perish from the land."
Now it befell that Parema and certain of his followers, to the number of two hundred, came to visit Ngatitoa. That they were uninvited did not matter—the ovens were heated and a feast was made for the visitors. Afterwards, as the chiefs talked in the "Whare-runanga" (house of assembly), Parema rose, saying: "Greeting, Kokako. It is peace between Ngatahi and Ngatitoa. Miami, my wife, groweth old. Give me, therefore, thy daughter Heruini. I would make her my second wife. Thus shall peace be strengthened between the tribes."
The insult was great. That Kokako's daughter, their "wahine-nui" (chieftainess), should be sought as a mere secondary wife fired the blood of the younger warriors. Taurau and many other Ngatitoa sprang erect, their weapons in their hands. Yet Parema was safe, for he was their guest, and the laws of Maori hospitality forbade violence. Kokako stilled the tumult and answered scornfully:—
"Parema mistakes. He has feasted too well, and talks with a proud stomach. He is not now in the 'hapu' of the Hakerau tribes, who sell their women like pigs. (Parema's wife was of the Hakerau.) To-morrow Heruini weds Taurau, my brother's son. Let Parema and his followers attend the 'hiu' (wedding-feast)."
The sleeping "whares" of the single women occupied one side of the "marae" (open space in the centre of a "pah"). Here Heruini, with two of her favourite women, slept in a separate "whare." The Ngatahi visitors camped without the walls.
In the middle of the night, towards the dawning, when sleep is heaviest on the senses, Taurau, where he slept in the men's "whare," sprang from his couch. In his ears rang a woman's scream, shrill and piercing. He heard his name called in affrighted accents. Love's ears are quick to distinguish. It was the voice of Heruini.
With a shout to his comrades to follow, he raced across the "marae" to see, in the moonlight, Heruini struggling in the arms of Parema and some of his followers! All unarmed as he was, he sprang on Parema and bore him to the ground. In the confusion the trembling girl escaped.
Taurau was dragged from Parema's throat. Yet, ere they could slay him, the Ngatahi were borne back by the rush of the enraged Ngatitoa. A comrade thrust his forgotten weapons in Taurau's hand, and he leapt into the fray.
Then there rose on the still night air a confused clamour of shrieks, yells, the clash of weapons, and screams for mercy. Kokako raged in the midst. Taurau's "mere" (battle-club) drank its fill of blood. "Slay, slay! Let not one escape," was the cry. The gates of the stockade were closed, preventing egress, and the work of death went on, whilst the sobbing women clung together, shuddering, in their quarters. A party of the Ngatitoa had meanwhile sallied forth to fall upon the sleeping camp beyond the walls. It was done. Through a broken gateway some twenty of the Ngatahi broke from that riot of blood and death to struggle, fighting, to the shore. Launching one of the canoes, battered, broken, and wounded, with scarce ten men at the paddles, they made their limping way across the bay. Of the Ngatitoa, some fifty had been slain.
It was dawn. The first rays of the sun lit the dark waters. High on the rock-shelf sat Taurau and Heruini. Behind them lay the mouth of the dark cavern, before them the precipice. He had been on watch since the midnight hour, and his love came to him with the morning.
Night and day had the sentinels looked across the bay from the lofty cliff. Six months had passed since the deed was done, yet had Ngatahi made no sign. Nevertheless, Ngatitoa knew that they would surely come to seek "utu" (vengeance) for the slaying. So, in the dawning, Heruini listened to the "korero-tara" (love-talk) of her lover.
Suddenly, with a cry of "Ai, Ngatahi, Ngatahi!" she pointed across the sea. Far away under the distant headland appeared a dark blot upon the face of the waters. As they gazed, the blot became a line of little dots, that grew as they came.
Taurau sprang up. Shouting, "E tana, e tana!" (the foe, the foe), he raced down the narrow path.
At once the sleeping "pah" stirred to preparation. The outlying folk were gathered within the walls, and Ngatitoa sat grimly down to await the enemy.
"THE CANOES ADVANCED IN LINE—A THOUSAND PADDLES, STRIKING AS ONE, BEATING THE WATER TO FOAM."
In twenty great canoes, each carrying a hundred men, they came. Parema had, with promises of slaves and plunder, enlisted the tribes of the Hakerau to his cause.
Who shall tell the fury of that oncoming? The canoes advanced in line—a thousand paddles, striking as one, beating the water to foam. The rowers, straining every muscle, panted on their stroke. The grinning figure-heads hissed through the foam of their coming, and in the centre of each canoe, aloft on a platform, stood a chief who chanted his "waiata" (war song), swaying his body as he beat time with his spear above his head.
The canoes raced for the beach. The speed of their onset carried them high upon the sand, and the warriors leapt to shore. Parema moved at once to the assault. The Ngatahi warriors and the wild men of the Hakerau swarmed into the ditch. On them rained a hail of spears and stones from the defenders of the "pah." They fell by scores, and were trampled, shrieking, underfoot by their onrushing comrades. Like the sea beneath the breath of the tempest, to and fro in the ditch surged the heaving, struggling mass of men under that pitiless shower.
With ladders and logs of wood, some mounted the wall to hurl themselves against the gate, attacking the stockade with axes in a vain endeavour to tear it down. The gate opened, and, Taurau at their head, out poured two hundred chosen Ngatitoa in a splendid sally. Shouting their war-cry, "Hai-o! Hai-o!" they swept the assailants from the wall and across the ditch. Naught remained in the ditch but the dying and the dead.
Then Parema changed his tactics. With trunks of trees, bags of earth, and the bodies of the dead the ditch was filled. Over these, piled pell-mell on their shrieking, wounded comrades, the Ngatahi rushed again to the assault. Then, whilst some engaged the defenders, others carried brushwood and dry fern, piling it in a great mound against the stockade. Fire was put to it, and soon the whole face of the "pah" was ablaze.
THE HEADLAND, SHOWING ENTRANCE TO THE SEA CAVE—THE CAVE'S MOUTH IS BEHIND THE INTERVENING ROCK MARKED WITH A BLACK CROSS. THE WHITE CROSS HALF-WAY UP THE CLIFF SHOWS THE ENTRANCE TO THE UPPER CAVE AND THE LEDGE FROM WHICH TAURAU FELL. From a Photograph.
Then, when the fire had done its work, came the final assault. The weakened stockade fell before the rush, and the weary defenders found the enemy amongst them, hacking and hewing. Out-numbered, out-matched, out-generalled, Ngatitoa was broken and driven back.
Kokako was slain, but Taurau still fought. Scarcely forty men struggled up the steep path and gained the shelter of the second stockade. After them swarmed the enemy to repeat their stratagem. But the women were watching on the cliffs. Down on their heads thundered an avalanche of rocks. A moment, and the narrow path before the stockade seethed with shouting, exultant men; another, and it was bare of living thing.
Parema, seeing the slaughter, drew off his men, saying:—
"Now hunger fights for us."
For the Ngatitoa there was no food. Their food was all in the "pah" from which they had been driven. Weary with fighting, spent with hunger, the warriors yet manned the stockade. With them stood also the women. There was no thought of surrender. Well they knew what to expect—torture and death for the men, insult and slavery for the women.
Three days had passed—for the Ngatitoa, days of misery and want; for the enemy, of feasting and merriment. Many of the warriors died, hunger gnawing at their hearts. Scarcely a dozen remained capable of bearing arms. The women and children had taken refuge in the cave. With them was Heruini. One by one they died in the dark, as famine slew them. Now three yet lived; now two; next, Heruini was alone among the dead.
The air amid the corpses was dank and fetid. Affrighted at the presence of the dead, the girl crept to the mouth of the cavern. Weak and fainting, she leant against the wall of rock.
That night came the final assault. Ere it was delivered Taurau, seeing that all was lost, bade his men make good the defence to the utmost, and climbed the path toward the cavern. If, haply, Heruini were alive, he would take her by a secret though perilous path that he knew, and, entering the bush, make a bid for safety by flight.
Cautiously, warily, he made his way upward, keeping ever in the shadow. As his foot touched the edge of the shelf, Heruini, dazed with hunger, half blind with misery, thinking him one of the hated foemen come to take her, flung out her arms and thrust with all her might.
"TOTTERING AN INSTANT, CLUTCHING AT EMPTY AIR, EVEN AS HE FELL TAURAU CALLED HER NAME."
The blow, though feeble, was yet enough on that dizzy verge. Tottering an instant, clutching at empty air, even as he fell Taurau called her name. The moon broke through the flying scud. She saw his face for an instant, and then it was gone. The Ngatahi, rushing up to seize her, heard a cry, "Aie-e-e, Taurau!" They beheld her stand a moment on the brink, and, with a second cry, leap out into the dark. The bones of the women and children remain yet in the cavern. Therefore the place is "tapu."[3]
[3] "Tapu"—sacred, accursed.
The fish swim, uncaught, under the cliff; No fisherman's line plumbs the deep water that covers the bones of the lovers. Once in every moon the spirit of Heruini returns to wail for the lover whom she slew. For one hour she sits in the weed-grown cavern beneath the cliff, and sends her cry across the waters. Men, hearing the voice, called the place 'Tangiwahine (the place of a woman's wailing). Even so it is named to this day.