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.