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.