“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.”[3]
“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[4] 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——”