I looked at him narrowly. There was no denying that his aspect was that of a man whose blood knew well its own unbroken channel through the ages. Something in his eyes, something more in his stately aspect, and a very great deal in the fierce, sudden nature hidden beneath his utter serenity, constrained me to take him solemnly.
“You come to me in a strange way, Aké Aké,” I said; “like a man from another world. Tell me why you have come, and what it is you want of me.”
Instantly he awoke from his apathy, and his eyes quickened with the fire that had been slumbering.
“Hearken, then, O man of another land, and I will tell you why I have come. The Great Tohungas of the Earth spoke to me in my sleep and said, ‘Aké Aké, thou art the last of our ancient blood; the temple of the ages is closed for ever and needs no longer a guardian priest to keep its ancient secrets; therefore thou must withdraw into the sky, leaving no son behind thee. But thy last act is under our guidance. Seek out the record of one Wanaki, the “Pakeha Maori,” and take it beyond the great Ocean of Kiwa to the land of the mighty King who rules the whole world. There give it to the man whose face thou hast seen in dreams, and to whom we will guide thee. Bid him make a book of this record, so that, though thy race is fading away, all knowledge of its secrets may not die with thee.’ I followed the word of the Great Tohungas, and when I reached this great city I was taught your name and the name of your abode. Then, to-night I discarded my pakeha garments, dressed myself as becomes a Maori chief, and came to find you. Without doubt I have been guided aright, for your face is the face that I saw in my dreams.”
He paused, scanning my features still more intently. I was amazed beyond measure at his strange words. The affair was getting more and more inexplicable.
“But why,” I gasped; “why have I been selected to make a book of Wanaki’s narrative?”
“Because you have sought to discover traces of some lost secrets in our lore,” he replied. “I will speak your own words to you—they are words which you put into a book. ‘We know not the ancient glory of the Maori nor yet the wisdom which lies hidden behind his karakia.[1] Some have said that the strange words of his incantations mean nothing, but there is reason for believing that they are the surviving fragments of a priestly language which was spoken many thousands of years ago by a pre-Maori race dwelling on a great southern continent, of which the present land of the Maori is but a small remaining part.’ Those are your own words, O Pakeha, and it is because you have had such long thoughts of the Maori and the race that came before the Maori that I have been bidden to seek you out.”
“Yes,” I said, “those are my words; I remember them. But what do you know of the race that was before the Maori’s coming from Hawaiki?”
He was silent, seeming unwilling to speak of that race. At length he said, “Far back in the ages my ancestors were of that race, but when the Maori came they joined hands with them. Here is the gulf that you cannot bridge in the history of our land; and, O Pakeha, it is unbridged save by the platted rope of our priesthood, woven without break, and stretching across the ages of Day and Night and Day. Here before you is what seems the end of this rope; hidden in a great light of long ago is the rock to which the other end is bound. But I have not come to you to reveal the ancient wisdom which has come down to me from the beginning of the world.” He laid his spear in the hollow of his left arm and drew from within his robe a small bundle, wrapped in a piece of neatly woven flaxcloth.
“This is the record of Wanaki,” he said, placing it upon the table before me. “Make a book of it, and let not the moon die twice before you have completed the task. That is my word, and behind it lies the word of the Great Tohungas of the Earth.”