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.