*CHAPTER II.*
*THE WHARE BY THE LAKE.*
A deep fellow-feeling for his wild, high-spirited guide was growing inEdwin's mind as they rode onward. Nga-Hepe glanced over his shouldermore than once to satisfy himself as to the effect the Maori's warninghad had upon his young companion.
Edwin returned the hasty inspection with a look of careless coolness, ashe said to himself, "Whatever this means, I have nothing to do with it."Not a word was spoken, but the flash of indignant scorn in Nga-Hepe'sbrilliant eyes told Edwin that he was setting it at defiance.
On he spurred towards the weather-beaten walls, which had braved so manya mountain gale.
A faint, curling column of steamy vapour was rising from the hot waterswhich fed the moat, and wafted towards them a most unpleasant smell ofsulphur, which Edwin was ready to denounce as odious. To the Maori itwas dear as native air: better than the breath of sweet-brier and roses.
Beyond the bridge Edwin could see a pathway made of shells, as white andglistening as if it were a road of porcelain. It led to the centralwhare, the council-hall of the tribe and the home of its chief. Throughthe light haze of steam which veiled everything Edwin could distinguishits carved front, and the tall post beside it, ending in a kind offigure-head with gaping mouth, and a blood-red tongue hanging out of itlike a weary dog's. This was the flagstaff. The cart had stopped besideit, and its recent occupants were now seated on the steps of the whare,laughing over the big letters of a printed poster which they wereexhibiting to their companions.
"Nothing very alarming in that," thought Edwin, as Nga-Hepe gave hisbridle-rein a haughty shake and entered the village. He threaded hisway between the huts of mat and reeds, and the wood-built whares, eachin its little garden. Here and there great bunches of home-growntobacco were drying under a little roof of thatch; behind another hut adead pig was hanging; a little further on, a group of naked childrenwere tumbling about and bathing in a steaming pool; beside anothertent-shaped hut there was a huge pile of potatoes, while a rush basketof fish lay by many a whare door.
In this grotesque and novel scene Edwin almost forgot his errand, andhalf believed he had misunderstood the hint of danger, as he watched thenative women cooking white-bait over a hole in the ground, and saw thehot springs shooting up into the air, hissing and boiling in so strangea fashion the English boy was fairly dazed.
Almost all the women were smoking, and many of them managed to keep ababy riding on their backs as they turned their fish or gossiped withtheir neighbours. Edwin could not take his eyes off the sputteringmud-holes doing duty as kitchen fires until they drew near to thetattooed groups of burly men waiting for their supper on the steps ofthe central whare. Then many a dusky brow was lifted, and more than onecautionary glance was bestowed upon his companion, whilst others saw himpass them with a scowl.
Nga-Hepe met it with a laugh. A Maori scorns to lose his temper, comewhat may. As he leaped the steaming ditch and left the village by a gapin the decaying wall, he turned to Edwin, observing, with a pride whichbordered on satisfaction: "The son of Hepe is known by all men to berich and powerful, therefore the chief has spoken against him."
"Much you care for the chief," retorted Edwin.
"I am not of his tribe," answered Nga-Hepe. "I come of the Ureweras,the noblest and purest of our race. Our dead men rest upon the sacredhills where the Maori chiefs lie buried. When a child of Hepe dies," hewent on, pointing to the mountain range, "the thunder rolls and thelightning flashes along those giant hills, that all men may know hishour has come. No matter where the Hepe lay concealed, men always knewwhen danger threatened him. They always said such and such a chief isdying, because the thunder and lightning are in such a place. Look up!the sky is calm and still. The hills are silent; Mount Tarawera rearsits threefold crest above them all in its own majestic grandeur. Well,I know no real danger menaces me to-night."
"I trust you are right, Nga-Hepe, but--" began Edwin quickly. The Maoriturned his head away; he could admit no "buts," and the English boy madevain endeavours to argue the question.
A noisy, boisterous jabbering arose from the village as the crowdoutside the grand whare hailed the decision of the elders holdingcouncil within. Dogs, pigs, and boys added their voices to the generalacclamation, and drowned Edwin's so completely he gave up in despair;and after all he thought, "Can any one wonder at Nga-Hepe clinging tothe old superstitions of his race? In the wild grandeur of a spot likethis it seems in keeping."
So he said no more. They crossed the broken ground. Before themgleamed the waters of the lake, upon whose bank Nga-Hepe's house wasstanding--the old ancestral whare, the dwelling-place of the Hepesgeneration after generation. Its well-thatched roof was higher than anyof the roofs in the pah, and more pointed. The wood of which this wharewas built was carved into idol figures and grinning monsters, now blackand shining with excessive age.
The garden around it was better cultivated, and the ample store of rootsand grain in the smaller whare behind it told of the wealth of itsowner. Horses and pigs were snorting and squealing beneath the hoarytrees, overshadowing the mud-hole and the geyser spring, by which theMaori loves to make his home. The canoe was riding on the lake, thelovely lake, as clear and blue as the sky it mirrored.
The sight of it recalled Edwin to his purpose, and he once morequestioned Nga-Hepe as to the whereabouts of the ford.
"Enter and eat," said the Maori, alighting at his low-browed door.
The gable end of the roof projected over it like a porch, and Edwinpaused under its shadow to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. Beneaththe broad eaves huge bundles of native flax and tobacco were drying. Inthe centre of the long room within there was a blazing fire of cracklingwood. But its cheerful welcome seemed to contend with a sense ofdesertion which pervaded the place.
Nga-Hepe called in vain for his accustomed attendant to take his horse.No one answered his summons. He shouted; no answer. The wooden walls ofthe neighbouring pah faintly echoed back his words. All his men weregone. He muttered something in his own tongue, which Edwin could notunderstand, as he led the way into the long room. In so grand a wharethis room was divided into separate stalls, like a well-built stable.An abundance of native mats strewed the floor.
The Maori's eyes fell upon the corner where his greenstone club, thetreasured heirloom of many generations, leaned against an English rifle,and on the boar's tusks fixed in the wall at intervals, where his spearsand fishing-rods were ranged in order. By their side hung a curiousmedley of English apparel. The sweeping feathers of a broad felt hatdrooped above a gaudy table-cloth, which by its many creases seemed tohave done duty on the person of its owner. Edwin's merriment was excitedby the number of scent-bottles, the beautiful cut-glass carafe, and manyother expensive articles suspended about the room--all bearing a silenttestimony to the wealth of which Nga-Hepe had spoken. Two happy-lookingchildren, each wearing a brightly-coloured handkerchief folded acrosstheir tiny shoulders in true Maori fashion, were grinding at abarrel-organ. One fat little knee served as a pillow for a tangle ofrough black hair, which a closer inspection showed him was the head of asleeping boy.
Nga-Hepe's wife, wearing a cloak of flowered silk, with a baby slung ina shawl at her back, and a short pipe in her mouth, met him with softwords of pleading remonstrance which Edwin could not understand.
Her husband patted her fondly on the arm, touched the baby's laughinglips, and seated himself on the floor by the fire, inviting Edwin tojoin him.
The sleeping boy gave a great yawn, and starting to his feet, seemed toadd his entreaties to his mother's. He held a book in his hand--ageography, with coloured maps--which he had evidently been studying; buthe dropped it in despair, as his father only called for his supper.
"Help us to persuade him," he whispered to Edwin in English; "he maylisten to a pakeha. Tell him it is better to go away."
"Why?" asked Edwin.
"Why!" repeate
d the boy excitedly; "because the chief is threatening himwith a muru. He will send a band of men to eat up all the food, andcarry off everything we have that can be carried away; but they willonly come when father is at home."
"A bag of talk!" interrupted Nga-Hepe. "Shall it be said the son of thewarrior sneaks off and hides himself at the first threat?"
"But," urged Edwin, "you promised to row back for Mr. Bowen."
"Yes, and I will. I will eat, and then I go," persisted Nga-Hepe, ashis wife stamped impatiently.
Two or three women ran in with the supper which they had been cooking ina smaller whare in the background. They placed the large dishes on thefloor: native potatoes--more resembling yams in their sweetness thantheir English namesakes--boiled thistles, and the ancient Maoridelicacy, salted shark.
They all began to eat, taking the potatoes in their hands, when a wildcry rang through the air--a cry to strike terror to any heart. It wasthe first note of the Maori war-song, caught up and repeated by a dozenpowerful voices, until it became a deafening yell. Hepe's wife torefrantically at her long dark hair.
The Maori rose to his feet with an inborn dignity, and grasped thegreenstone club, taking pride in the prestige of such a punishment.Turning to Edwin he said: "When the ferns are on fire the sparks fallfar and wide. Take the horse--it is yours; I give it to you. It is thelast gift I shall have it in my power to make for many a day to come.There lies your path through the bush; once on the open road again theford-house will be in sight, and Whero shall be your guide. Tell theold pakeha the canoe is mine no more."
The woman snatched up the children and rushed away with them, uttering awailing cry.
Edwin knew he had no alternative, but he did not like the feeling ofrunning away in the moment of peril.
"Can't I help you, though I am only a boy?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Hepe's wife, as she almost pushed him out of the door inher desperation; "take this."
She lifted up a heavy bag from the corner of the whare, and put it intohis hands. Whero had untied the horse, and was pointing to the distantpah, from which the yells proceeded.
A band of armed men, brandishing clubs and spears, were leading off thewar-dance. Their numbers were swelling. The word of fear went roundfrom lip to lip, "The tana is coming!"
The tana is the band of armed men sent by the chief to carry out thisact of savage despotism. They had been on the watch for Nga-Hepe. Theyhad seen him riding through the pah. All hope of getting him out of theway was over.
Father and mother joined in the last despairing desire to send offWhero, their little lord and first-born, of whom the Maoris make somuch, and treat with so much deference. They never dreamed of orderinghim to go. A freeborn Maori brooks no control even in childhood. Buttheir earnest entreaties prevailed. He got up before Edwin. He wouldnot ride behind him, not he, to save his life. He yielded for the sakeof the horse he loved so well. He thought he might get it back from theyoung pakeha, but who could wrest it from the grasp of the tana? PerhapsNga-Hepe shared the hope. The noble horse was dear to father and son.
"Oh, I am so sorry for you!" said Edwin as he guessed the truth; "and sowill father be, I'm sure." He stopped in sudden silence as anotherterrific yell echoed back by lake and tree.
He felt the good horse quiver as they plunged into the safe shelter ofthe bush, leaving Hepe leaning on his club on the threshold of hiswhare.
Edwin's first care now was to get to Mr. Hirpington's as fast as hecould. But his desire to press on met with no sympathy from hiscompanion, who knew not how to leave the spot until his father's fatewas decided. He had backed the horse into the darkest shadow of thetrees, and here he wanted to lie in ambush and watch; for the advancingwarriors were surrounding the devoted whare, and the shrieking womenwere flying from it into the bush.
How could Edwin stop him when Whero would turn back to meet his mother?The rendezvous of the fugitives was a tall karaka tree--a forest kingrearing its giant stem full seventy feet above the mossy turf. Aclimbing plant, ablaze with scarlet flowers, had wreathed itself amongthe branches, and hung in long festoons which swept the ground. Thepanting women flung themselves down, and dropped their heavy burdens atits root; for all had snatched up the nearest thing which came to handas they ran out. One had wrapped the child she carried in a fishing-net;another drew from beneath the folds of the English counterpane she waswearing the long knife that had been lying on the floor by the dish ofshark; while Whero's mother, shaking her wealth of uncombed hair abouther like a natural veil, concealed in her arms a ponderous axe.
The big black horse gave a loving whinny as he recognized theirfootsteps, and turning of his own accord, cantered up to them as theybegan to raise the death-wail--doing tangi as they call it--over theoutcast children crying for the untasted supper, on which the invaderswere feasting.
"May it choke the pigs!" muttered Whero, raising himself in the stirrupsand catching at the nearest bough, he gave it a shake, which sent ashower of the karaka nuts tumbling down upon the little black heads andfighting fists. The women stopped their wail to crack and eat. Thehorse bent down his head to claim a share, and the children scrambled totheir feet to scoop the sweet kernel from the opened shell. The hungryboys were forced to join them, and Edwin found to his surprise that leafand nut alike were good and wholesome food. They ate in silence andfear, as the wild woods rang with the shouts of triumph and derision asthe rough work of confiscation went forward in the whare.
With the much-needed food Edwin's energy was returning. He gave backthe bag to Whero's mother, assuring her if her son would only guide himto the road he could find his own way to the ford.
"Let us all go farther into the bush," said the oldest woman of thegroup, "before the tana comes out. The bush they cannot take from us,and all we need the most the bush will provide."
The weight of the bag he had carried convinced Edwin it was full ofmoney.
Whero's mother was looking about for a place where she could hide it; sothey wandered on until the sun shone brightly between the opening trees,and they stepped out upon an unexpected clearing.
"The road! the road!" cried Whero, pointing to the gleam of water in thedistance, and the dark roof of the house by the ford, half buried in thewhite blossom of the acacia grove beside it.
"All right!" exclaimed Edwin joyfully. "You need go no farther."
He took the bridle from Whero, and turned the horse's head towards theford, loath to say farewell to his strange companions. As he went at asteady trot along the road, he could not keep from looking back. He sawthey were burying the bag of treasure where two white pines grew neartogether, and the wild strawberries about their roots were ripening inthe sun. The road, a mere clearing in the forest, lay straight beforehim. As Nga-Hepe had said, an hour's ride brought him to Mr.Hirpington's door.
The house was large and low, built entirely of corrugated iron. It wasthe only spot of ugliness in the whole landscape. A grassy bank higherthan Edwin's head surrounded the home enclosure, and lovely white-wingedpigeons were hovering over the yellow gorse, which formed animpenetrable wall on the top of the bank. A gate stood open, and by itsside some rough steps cut in the rock led down to the riverbed, througha tangle of reeds and bulrushes. Like most New Zealand rivers, the bedwas ten times wider than the stream, and the stretch of mud on eitherside increased the difficulties of the crossing.
Edwin rode up to the gate and dismounted, drew the bridle through thering in the post, and entered a delightful garden, where peach andalmond and cherry trees brought back a thought of home. The ground wasterraced towards the house, which was built on a jutting rock, to be outof the reach of winter floods. Honeysuckle and fuchsia, which Edwin hadonly known in their dwarfed condition in England, rose before him asstately trees, tall as an English elm, eclipsing all the white and goldof the acacias and laburnums, which sheltered the end of the house.
The owner, spade in hand, was at work among his flower-beds. His dresswas as ro
ugh as the navvy's, and Edwin, who had studied Mr. Hirpington'sphotograph so often, asked himself if this man, so brown and brawny andbroad, could be his father's friend?
"Please, I'm Edwin Lee," said the boy bluntly. "Is Mr. Hirpington athome?"
The spade was thrown aside, and a hand all smeared with garden mouldgrasped his own, and a genial voice exclaimed, "Yes, Hirpington is here,bidding you heartily welcome! But how came you, my lad, to forerun thecoach?"
Then Edwin poured into sympathetic ears the tale of their disaster,adding earnestly, "I thought I had better come on with your messenger,and tell you what had happened."
"Coach with a wheel off in the gorge!" shouted Mr. Hirpington to a chumin-doors, and Edwin knew he had found the friend in need, whose value noone can estimate like a colonist.
Before Edwin could explain why Nga-Hepe had failed in his promise toreturn with his canoe, Mr. Hirpington was down the boating-stairs,loosening his own "tub," as he called it, from its moorings. To theMaori's peril he lent but half an ear. "No use our interfering there,"he said. "I'm off to your father."
A head appeared at a window overlooking the bed of rushes, and two mencame out of the house door, and assisted him to push the boat into thewater. The window above was thrown open, and a hastily-filled basket washanded down. Then a kind, motherly voice told Edwin to come in-doors.
The room he entered was large and faultlessly clean, serving thethreefold purpose of kitchen, dining-room, and office. The desk by thewindow, the gun in the corner, the rows of plates above the dresser,scarcely seemed to encroach on each other, or make the long dining-tablelook ashamed of their company.
Mrs. Hirpington, who was expecting the "coach to sleep" under her roofthat night, was preparing her meat for the spit at the other end of theroom. The pipes and newspaper, which had been hastily thrown down atthe sound of Mr. Hirpington's summons, showed Edwin where the men hadbeen resting after their day's work. They were, as he guessed, employeson the road, which was always requiring mending and clearing, while Mr.Hirpington was their superintendent, as well as ford-keeper.
His wife, in a homely cotton dress of her own making, turned to Edwinwith the well-bred manner of an English lady and the hearty hospitalityof a colonist.
"Not a word about being in the way, my dear; the trouble is a pleasure.We shall have you all here, a merry party, before long. There are worsedisasters than this at sea." She smiled as she delayed the roast, andplaced a chop on the grill for Edwin's benefit.
The cozy sense of comfort which stole over him was so delightful, as hestretched himself on the sofa on the other side of the fire, it made himthink the more of the homeless wanderers in the bush, and he began todescribe to Mrs. Hirpington the strange scene he had witnessed.
A band of armed men marching out of the village filled her withapprehension. She ran to the window overlooking the river to see if theboat had pushed off, and called to the men remaining behind--for theford was never left--to know if the other roadmen had yet come in.
"They are late," she said. "They must have heard the coachman's 'coo,'and are before us with their help. They have gone down to the gorge.You may rest easy about your father."
But she could not rest easy. She looked to the loading of the guns, putthe bar in the gate herself, and held a long conference with Dunter overthe alarming intelligence.
But the man knew more of Maori ways than she did, and understood itbetter. "I'll not be saying," he answered, "but what it will be wise inus to keep good watch until they have all dispersed. Still, with Hepe'sgoods to carry off and divide, they will not be thinking of interferingwith us. Maybe you'll have Nga-Hepe's folk begging shelter as the nightdraws on."
"I hope not," she retorted quickly. "Give them anything they ask for,but don't be tempted to open the gate. Tell them the coach is coming,and the house is full."
A blaze of fire far down the river called everybody into the garden.Some one was signalling. But Dunter was afraid to leave Mrs.Hirpington, and Mrs. Hirpington was equally afraid to be left.
A great horror fell upon Edwin. "Can it be father?" he exclaimed.
Dunter grasped the twisted trunk of the giant honeysuckle, and swunghimself on to the roof of the house to reconnoitre. Edwin was up besidehim in a moment.
"Oh, it is nothing," laughed the man--"nothing but some chance travellerwaiting by the roadside for the expected coach, and, growing impatient,has set a light to the dry branches of a ti tree to make sure ofstopping the coach."
But the wind had carried the flames beyond the tree, and the fire wasspreading in the bush.
"It will burn itself out," said Dunter carelessly; "no harm in that."
But surely the coach was coming!
Edwin looked earnestly along the line which the bush road had madethrough the depths of the forest. He could see clearly to a considerabledistance. The fire was not far from the two white pines where he hadparted from his dusky companions, and soon he saw them rushing into theopen to escape from the burning fern. On they ran towards the ford,scared by the advancing fire. How was Mrs. Hirpington to refuse to openher gates and take them in? Women and children--it could not be done.
Edwin was pleading at her elbow.
"I saw it all, Mrs. Hirpington; I know how it happened. Nga-Hepe gaveme his horse, that I might escape in safety to you."
"Well, well," she answered, resigning herself to the inevitable. "Ifyou will go out and meet them and bring them here, Dunter shall clearthe barn to receive them."
Edwin slid down the rough stem of the honeysuckle and let himself out,and ran along the road for about half-a-mile, waving his hat and callingto the fugitives to come on, to come to the ford.
The gray-haired woman in the counterpane, now begrimed with mud andsmoke, was the first to meet him.
She shouted back joyfully, "The good wahini [woman] at the ford has sentto fetch us. She hear the cry of the child. Good! good!"
But the invitation met with no response from Whero and his mother.
"Shall it be said by morning light Nga-Hepe's wife was sleeping in theIngarangi [English] bed, and he a dead man lying on the floor of hisforefathers' whare, with none to do tangi above him!" she exclaimed,tearing fresh handfuls from her long dark hair in her fury.
"Oh to be bigger and stronger," groaned Whero, "that I might play mygame with the greenstone club! but my turn will come."
The blaze of passion in the boy's star-like eyes recalled his mother tocalmness. "What are you," she asked, "but an angry child to court theblow of the warrior's club that would end your days? A man can bide hishour. Go with the Ingarangi, boy."
"Yes, go," urged her companion.
A bright thought struck the gray-haired woman, and she whispered toEdwin, "Get him away; get him safe to the Ingarangi school. Nothing canreach him there. He loves their learning; it will make him a mightierman than his fathers have ever been. If he stays with us, we can't holdhim back. He will never rest till he gets himself killed."
"Ah, but my Whero will go back with the Ingarangi boy and beg a blanketto keep the babies from the cold night wind," added his mothercoaxingly.
"Come along," said Edwin, linking his arm in Whero's and setting offwith a run. "Now tell me all you want--blankets, and what else?"
But the boy had turned sullen, and would not speak. He put his handsbefore his face and sobbed as if his heart would break.
"Where is the horse?" he asked abruptly, as they reached Mrs.Hirpington's gate.
"In there," said Edwin, pointing to the stable.
The Maori boy sprang over the bar which Dunter had fixed across theentrance to keep the horse in, and threw his arms round the neck of hisblack favourite, crying more passionately than ever.
"He is really yours," put in Edwin, trying to console him. "I do notwant to keep the horse when you can take him back. Indeed, I am notsure my father will let me keep him."
But he was speaking to deaf ears; so he left Whero hugging hisfour-footed friend, and
went in-doors for the blankets. Mrs. Hirpingtonwas very ready to send them; but when Edwin returned to the stable, hefound poor Whero fast asleep.
"Just like those Maoris," laughed Dunter. "They drop off whatever theyare doing; it makes no difference. But remember, my man, there is agood old saying, 'Let sleeping dogs lie.'"
So, instead of waking Whero, they gently closed the stable-door; andEdwin went off alone with the blankets on his shoulder. He foundNga-Hepe's wife still seated by the roadside rocking her baby, with hertwo bigger children asleep beside her. One dark head was resting on herknee, the other nestling close against her shoulder. Edwin unfolded oneof the blankets he was bringing and wrapped it round her, carefullycovering up the little sleepers. Her companions had not been idle. Tothe Maori the resources of the bush are all but inexhaustible. Theywere making a bed of freshly-gathered fern, and twisting a perfect cablefrom the fibrous flax-leaves. This they tied from tree to tree, andflung another blanket across it, making a tent over the unfortunatemother. Then they crept behind her, under the blanket, keeping theirimpromptu tent in shape with their own backs.
"Goo'-night," they whispered, "goo' boy. Go bush a' right."
But Edwin lingered another moment to tell the disconsolate mother how hehad left Whero sleeping by the horse.
"Wake up--no find us--then he go school," she said, wrinkling the patchof tattoo on her lip and chin with the ghost of a smile.
Doing and Daring: A New Zealand Story Page 2
