Huia Short Stories 10 (19 page)

‘Hello, again,' she said.

To hell with it. ‘You a reporter?'

‘Why do you ask?'

‘Not from around here, are you?'

The woman seemed to ponder his question, then replied, ‘I'm not sure.'

Not sure? Hah! Bear knew everyone in the valley. Maybe she was a researcher wanting to ‘rough it' with the natives and observe, scribble and hoard her thoughts, only to expose them all on the international screen. Either way, he had no patience for intruders.

‘Best be on your way—'

‘I think my grandfather is from here,' she said.

Bear's eyes narrowed. It couldn't be. Those hazel eyes. That nose. Pawa, Old Boy, what have you done?

Pawa

Waves lapped against the sides of the waka. He was barely a man and only permitted on this particular voyage because his whakapapa demanded it – as did the priestess, who also happened to be his aunt. In the darkness, Pawa's finger found the knot of wood he himself had attempted to smoothen as the canoe was being built. The raised, circular patterns in that particular spot had vexed him so much that he had hidden them from the eyes of the master carvers lest they use it as further proof of his incompetence.

For three moons now, he'd been sent to sleep while they convened at the opposite end of the double-hulled canoe. He'd gone, reluctantly, and then spent the nights running his fingers over the knot and wondering which mantras his elders scattered amongst the stars. They spoke of him, too, of that he was sure. The knot slid over his fingertips and the palm of his hand, which were far too calloused to feel anything save the bite of a flea or perhaps the sting of a fish bone when he was careless with gutting and filleting. The patterns of the knot swirled above him in the cool, summer air. Would they adorn his face one day? No one would advise him on this, not even the priestess, who cherished him above all other young ones, alive or otherwise. Pawa was ariki, and had to find his own way.

He wished the honour of chieftainship would be bestowed upon his aunt. If not by whakapapa, then surely it was hers by deed: by the visions and skills gifted to her, skills he agonised would never be his. The other tohunga were visibly disappointed at the lack of talents he had shown during the thirteen winters since his birth. Realising the enormity of their task, they would then insist Pawa recite mōteatea and outline the celestial chart in the skies until the morning maiden kissed their cheeks. None of this was to discourage, they assured him, but to drive him towards excellence. Yet such encouragement did nothing but thrust Pawa further into the backbone of his own uncertainties. Why did he have to be firstborn? What had he done to offend the gods so?

He turned to his side and positioned his eyes directly over the knot of wood. Mimicking his aunt, he attempted to gaze into the heart of the wood, to see the path of the long-tailed koekoeā as they flew south, to feel the shuddering of unseen life in the oceans and hear the murmuring of their guide, brother whale, beneath them. Yet, try as he might to make sense of it all, the knot remained closed and silent. He sighed and rolled onto his back. His aunt made it seem so effortless. What emerged was meant to be, she'd said. But it was more than that. He knew there was some great secret that no one would tell him. Despite his best efforts, the lessons he was supposed to learn just made no sense to him. His body was a more instinctive instrument than his mind. Why couldn't he spend his days fishing and hunting, perhaps accompany some of the warriors on their raiding expeditions?

Instead, he was stuck on a waka, sailing Toi's ocean, not as captain but as his aunt's assistant. A girl, one winter his junior, had jeered ‘slave' at him as they'd departed. He didn't have the energy to bring her insolence to his father's attention, fearing perhaps that the girl was more right than wrong.

His aunt, of course, had chuckled when he spoke of such things. The intricacies of chieftainship, the balancing of emotions and tribal agendas were neither her concern nor of any interest to her. She had more important things to contemplate. And besides, did not the tribe, the chief and all other tohunga obey her now without question?

It was the priestess who had found the tree that became their waka. The location had appeared to her in a dream, and once it had been found, she uttered the necessary words to release it and allow the master carvers to bring forth its true form. Pawa had been there also, as his aunt's assistant. More like a flea, the carvers had mumbled, a pest they merely tolerated.

The carvers relegated Pawa to work on the sleeping quarters, away from the carefully chiseled exterior and nowhere near the figurehead, which was fashioned, at the request of his aunt, by a priest from another tribe. The sure hands of the priest, who was hardly able to straighten his back, mesmerised Pawa. Every step he took, aided by his underlings, pained him immensely. Despite this, as soon as he reached the tree, and had his chisel placed in his hand, a fire ignited behind his milky eyes, and he worked with more agility, precision and confidence than any other master carver. Sometimes, the old man would work into the night. Alone, he would run his fingers over his work, correcting here, adding there, mumbling, until finally, a flawless figurehead emerged. Perfect for a chief.

He Tohu

Rongomai Smith

Ka tākiri te ata, ka puāwai ngā purapura i te kōanga, kei te pāinaina Te wao- nui-a-Tāne i ngā hihi o Tama-nui-te-rā. Kei te rere pai ngā manu ki ngā kōhanga mai i te tāepaepatanga o te rangi. Kua tau te whenua, kua āio te rangi, engari ka puta tētahi tohu i te taiao, kua hinga te manu ariki whakataka pōkai i te wao, ā, mā reira mōhio ai kāore e roa ka tutū te puehu i te iwi i noho ki te ngāhere.

Ka tae ki te wā ka whakatinanahia te tohu rā. Ka werohia a Hōkioi te rangatira o te tōna iwi, e Te Ahikauri tōna hoa takatāpuhi, mō tōna tūranga te take. I runga anō hoki i tōna harawene, i tōna pūhaehae ki te rangatira, kua whakakāpunipunihia ētahi tāngata kia wero, kia whawhai mō te hemo tonu atu ki te rangatira tūturu o Ngāi Tūkāriri.

Nā, ka whakaeke tō Ahikauri taua ki runga i tō Hōkioi marae ātea, whawhai ai. Ka tīmata te whawhai, ka memeha haere te āhua o Hōkioi. Kātahi ka taka ia ki te whenua. Kāti i konā te kakari, ā, ka puta mai tētahi tohunga mākutu, tētahi tohunga whaiwhaiā i muri i tō Ahikauri taua me āna mahi makutu kei te tukuna atu ki a Hōkioi. Mā reira kite ai te tini ngerongero ka toa kē a Ahikauri. Kātahi ka mauheretia a Hōkioi, ā, ka tū a Ahikauri hei rangatira mō te iwi.

Kotahi tau i mua i tērā pakanga ...

Kei tētahi atu whawhai a te taua o Hōkioi ki tō tētahi atu mō te whenua i tērā atu taha o te awa. He kakari nui tēnei mō te mana o te whenua, otirā mō te mana anō hoki o Ngāi Tūkāriri, he iwi kaha rātou ki te whawhai. Engari hoki, ka toa tonu a Ngāi Tūkāriri. Nā te kaha, nā te koi, me te manawatītī o Hōkioi ki te whawhai, ka tipu ake te pūhaehae, me te riri ki roto i a Ahikauri, i te mea, i riro i a Hōkioi te mana. Me te mea anō hoki, āmuri atu i taua kakari, ka kaha kōrerotia a Hōkioi. Mā reira whakaaro ai a Ahikauri, ā tōna wā ka wepua a Hōkioi.

Kua whakaeke mai te taua o Ahikauri ...

Kei te mura o te ahi a Hōkioi, i te wā e whakaeke mai ana a Ahikauri ki runga ki tōna marae. Ka mea atu a Hōkioi ki a Pūkohurangi, tāna hoa rangatira, ‘Kei te aha kē rātou ki waho i te marae?'

‘E hika mā, kua panaia e Ahikauri tētahi o ngā tāngata!' Te kī a Pūkohurangi.

Ka puta a Hōkioi ki waho kite ai, me te pātai, ‘Kei te aha kē koe e Ahikauri?' Ka whakautu a Ahikauri. ‘Nōku kē tērā tūranga!' Ka whakahaua tōna taua ki te whawhai ki tō Hōkioi taua. Ka tīkina e Hōkioi tōna tewhatewha, ka peke ia ki te ātea whawhai ai. Mea rawa ake, ka whakaaro ia, kei te aha kē tōku tinana? I taua wā tonu, ka memeha haere te āhua me te pakari o tōna tīnana, kua mōhio a Hōkioi kei te pā tētahi mahi mākutu ki a ia, ā, ka mea atu ia ki a Ahikauri, ‘Mōu te pō, mōku te ao.' Kātahi ia ka hinga ki te papa. Nōna i hinga ai, ka matakerepōtia ia, ka whakamoea anō hoki a Hōkioi.

E rua ngā wiki kua hipa ...

Ka oho a Hōkioi. Kātahi ia ka pātai ki te kaitiaki o te wāhi herehere. ‘Kei hea au? He aha māku i kōnei?' Ka whakautu te kaitiaki. ‘He tangata herehere koe ināianei, ko Ahikauri kē te rangatira o Ngāi Tūkāriri.' Ka taka te kapa! Engari, i runga anō i tōna āwangawanga, te matakerepōtanga me te ngoikore hoki o tōna tinana i te mākutu, ka noho mū ia. E mōhio ana a Hōkioi, kua tē katoa te koito. Ka tata tonu te rā te tō ki runga i a ia..

Te wā e whakaeke mai ana a Ahikauri ki tō Hōkioi marae ātea ...

Ka oho a Nguha, te tamaiti a Hōkioi. Ka rangirua ia, ka tino ohorere ia i te taenga mai o Ahikauri, ko tōna tino matua kēkē e whawhai ana ki tō Hōkioi tauā. Ka puta mai a Nguha ki waho i te whare, ka kite ia i tōna pāpā e hinga ana ki te whenua. Ka mau i a ia tōna taiaha, engari ka mau kē ia me tōna whānau i ngā tāngata o tō Ahikauri taua. Ka tangohia tōna taiaha, kātahi ka tukua rātou ki te wāhi pōhara rawa atu o te marae.

Kei reira a Nguha me tōna whānau. Ka huri tuara atu te iwi hākerekere ki a rātou. Ka pōnānā, ā, ka wheke hoki a Nguha. Kua ngau tuara tōna matua kēkē i a rātou, kua mauheretia tōna pāpā, kua panaia rātou ki raro i te maru o pōhara, ka mutu, kei ngā rekereke rātou o te iwi whai mana. Ko tā Nguha, he mea whakahoki anō te mana me te rangatiratanga ki tōna whānau.

I mua tata tonu i te whakaekenga mai a te tauā o Ahikauri ki tō Hōkioi marae ...

Ka mea atu a Ahikauri, ‘Kia mataara e hoa mā, kāore e roa ka whakaeke tātou.' Ka upoko māro katoa a Ahikauri, me te whakaaro, e rua e rua te kaha o tōna taua ki tō Hōkioi. Engari, ko tōna kura huna, he tohunga mākutu. Kua tae ki te wā ka whakaeke aturātou ki te marae. Kātahi ka tīmata te kakari. Ka tū a Ahikauri ki muri i tōna taua, mātakitaki ai i te whawhai. Ka puta mai a Hōkioi i te whare, ka tīmata ngā mahi mākutu a te tohunga. Ka kitea a Hōkioi e Ahikauri, ka puta mai te ihi, te wehi me te wana i a ia. Kātahi ka hinga a Hōkioi, ā, ka kaha kataina ia e Ahikauri. Ka mauheretia tō Hōkioi taua me tōna whānau. Ko ētahi ka tukua rātou ki te whare herehere ki tō Hōkioi taha, ā, ko te toenga ka tukua rātou ki te pōharatanga ki te taha o tō Hōkioi whānau. Nā konā, e whakaaro ana a Ahikauri, koia kei a ia!

E rua ngā marama kuahipa/pahure
...

Nā, kua heke ngā tuna i te awa, kāore ngā manu i te kaha waiata i te ata hāpara, ka tata pau anō hoki ngā moa o te wao. Kua whakaritea kētia tētahi ope taua e Nguha, kia mauheretia ai a Ahikauri, kia whakahokia mai ai taua tūranga me te mana ki tōna whānau. Nā, kei te whakaharatau tōna taua i ngā mahi a Tū, kātahi ka rongo a Nguha i tētahi karere. Kua hinga te tōtara nui i te wao, arā, ko tōna pāpā. Ka tū mānukanuka te rātou katoa, ka tīmata te ringiringi i te hūpē me te roimata i ngā wāhine, ka puku te rae o Nguha me te kī, ‘Kia rite tāne mā! Tū whitia te hopo! Hoake tātou ki te pae o te ahi!' Engari, he pōhēhē tōna. Kāore anō kia āta whakaritea e ia tētahi rautaki hei whakautu ki ngā mahi mākutu, i te mea koinā te take i hinga ai tōna pāpā. I mua i tā rātou kakari ki tō Ahikauri tauā, ka taki karakia rātou ki a Hōkioi mō tana haerenga ki Hawaiki nui, ki Hawaiki roa, ki Hawaiki pāmamao, ka mutu kia pai ai hoki tā rātou whawhai.

Ka tae atu tō Nguha taua ki te marae, ā, i reira a Ahikauri rātou ko tōna taua e tatari ana ki a rātou. Ka tīmata te pakanga ānō nei he mākiri taikare. Ka riro i a Nguha te ika i te ati, kātahi ka tīmata tō Ahikauri tohunga ki te taki karakia mākutu. Ka pērā anō hoki a Nguha i tōna pāpā, ka rangirua ōna whakaaro, ka ngoikore haere tōna tinana, ā, ka whakaaro ia ki tōna pāpa kātahi anō ka hinga, me ka mate ia. Engari tē taea hoki te pēhea! Kua pā kē te mākutu ki runga i a ia. Mea rawa ake, ka puta mai tōna māmā rāua ko tana teina. I te teina te tewhatewha o tōna pāpā. Ko tōna māmā e pupuri ana ia i tētahi rārā, me te mea hoki kei te taki karakia mākutu ia kia ārai atu i te mākutu ka pā kē atu ai ki tētahi atu. Kātahi ka makere iho te taiaha o Ahikauri i a ia, ka makere anō hoki tōna heru i ōna makawe, ā, ka tau ki mua i a Nguha. ‘Auē,' te kī a Ahikauri. Taro ake, ka hīkoi a Pūkohurangi ki tō Nguha taha, ka taki karakia mākutu tonu ia, ā, ka tīkina e ia tō Ahikauri heru. Ka patua te tohunga mākutu e tō Nguha teina, ā, ka mutu te kakari i reira, ā, ka toa rātou. Te waimarie hoki o Nguha!

Kotahi marama kua pahure ...

Kua mauheretia tonutia a Ahikauri, ā, kei te pari o te rua ia e noho ana. Kua whakahokia mai anō te mana me te tūranga ki te whānau o Hōkioi. Inā rā, kua āio anō te rangi, kua tau anō te whenua, ka rere anō ngā manu i te rangi, kua hoki mai ngā moa ki te wao, ā, kua whiti mai anō te rā. Kua tau, kua tau, ā, kua tau te rangimārie!

Ko te mutunga iho o ēnei kōrero, ka tīkina atu tērā whakataukī – ‘Moea te poi, moea te taiaha'. Ko te whakamārama ia, me noho takatū tātou i ngā wā katoa. Me pupuri koe i tō poi arā ko te maungārongo, ā, i tō taiaha hoki arā ko te pakanga, ao noa, pō noa kia kaua ai koe, ko tō whānau, ko tō hapū, ko tō iwi e riro atu ki te pō.

Marama

Aimee Stephens

Marama understood the meaning of her name. She knew why her kuia had chosen it too. The moon beamed proudly and full the night she was born: one of her children was being delivered into the night, the silky blackness that made all of her maidens feel peculiarly at home. Full moons are a time of celebration and manifestation; Kui knew that. You couldn't name that child Roimata like her aunty. That was a name for a balsamic moon. You couldn't name that child Marino. That was a name for a new moon. So the child was to be Marama, and Marama was beautiful.

Kōwae 1: Marama defeats death

And so the moon decreed that all of her sacred warriors shall forever be guarded by her servants, the silver cracks of light within the air: they are the moon's love, left over to be used by day by those in need.

Marama had trouble sleeping at night. Her teachers thought it a pity that those beautiful orange green eyes were always semi-eclipsed by Marama's heavy, drooping eyelids. They thought it a pity that her sallow cheeks were not beaming and full in her daily classes. They wondered if nutrition was the problem. ‘Perhaps she is low in iron?' they would say, floating thoughts at one another on the breeze of staffroom gossip. But Marama did have trouble sleeping at night; in fact, she often didn't sleep. Night was the time for thinking. The silver blackness was the time for manifesting dreams and harvesting memories. Marama was tired in the day. Sometimes she was so tired, her kui would have to hand feed her, like the children used to do for tohunga who were in their tapu state. Kui would joke about asking Uncle Pahu to carve her a feeding tube like the ones those old men used in the time when men listened to gods.

Every day, Marama would waft sleepily home. Always the same route, the same route taken by all of the big buses crammed with smelly high school boys, rocketing past so fast that her hair would fly up like a sheet hanging on the line to dry. One day Marama was particularly tired. It was the day after the full moon, and the previous night's events had included visits to far-off lands in times when warriors were gathered and sacrificed to feed the hungry souls of great mountains.

She was being marched up the hillside, a captive of angry men, envious of her power. Her legs lifted off the footpath and marched across the dust specks into the sky, climbing and floating. Light and heat pumped through her veins as she approached the mountain top. She was back there; she was not walking home from school any more. She smelled the awful stench of molten earth and human waste; a deep low rumble shivered up through her ankles. The growl came from far away and grew louder. A pūtātara bellow deafened her. Marama was going to be sacrificed. She would be fed to the wicked spirit from which the rumble came.

But she could hear someone screaming to her right, and she could feel herself being dragged away, away from the mountain, lifted up by the silver air and slipping out of the grasp of the angry men. The screaming continued, but she could feel herself being carried away from the heat and light; carried by the cool, crisp moonlight.

Marama was on the footpath. The woman, the stranger holding her, was trembling and sobbing and wailing. She was beside herself with confusion. ‘You … you were on the road … and now you are here … and I didn't move; I just screamed. I couldn't … you couldn't … and the bus couldn't … what happened?'

Marama had cheated death.

Kōwae 2: Marama and the seals

And so the moon decreed that all of her sacred warriors would be protected by the gods of earth. It was promised that they would safeguard her property and preserve her untouchable harem, so that they might complete their work when the time came.

Marama's mother died the night she was born. The night the moon shone bright and cast shadows in all directions. Her kuia raised her. Kui always said ‘your mother knew her great work in life was to bring you into being; she died happy and peaceful,' but it didn't fill the void in Marama's puku. She thought her tears could fill the whole ocean. Marama loved the ocean; she felt at peace by the sea. Surely if the sea had cried this many salty tears all by himself, he must have known her emptiness.

She loved swimming in the sea. She could dive down deep, the water rippling off her skin. She could see everything very clearly in the depths of the ocean floor, the light piercing through and projecting off the bottom. She could hold her breath much longer than anyone else in her class could. Kui would take her diving for kina. She would sit down on a rock and say, ‘I know there'll be kina down there moko, you bet your bottom dollar. Way you go.' Marama would get two or three kina in one breath. But with Kui, she always had to get double the catch, because the kina would magically disappear while Marama was drifting through the weeds. Kui was never able to explain what happened to them.

This particular day was different. This time she came to the sea alone. This was one of the days when Marama felt like she could fill the ocean with her loneliness. It was not a day for swimming; the beach stretched out its arms long and wide but not a soul came. She sat on one of Kui's rocks along the coast and dreamed into the whirling grey sky, tempting the ocean to lick her off and gobble her up. The ocean swelled around the rocks, slapping the coast, the phalanx slowly retreating to prepare another blow. The waves only reflected the angry winds of Tāwhiri on this day. Rangi's smile could not be found within the choppy grey.

A colony of seals had shifted to where they could safely ride out the weather. Marama thought she was alone on the coast that day, but she had company on the rocks. A seething bull was staring deep into Marama's rock-pool eyes. He had a job to do, and he was dedicated. She got up to leave, but that only made him let out a large salty roar and advance; she was caught between a roaring ocean and a bucking bull. Marama decided to take her chances on Tangaroa. Crashing through a wave wall, she plunged deep into the frothing waters. On a still diving day, she could see everything clearly: a vivid dream. Today was a nightmare. Still aware of her hunter, she tried to clear herself of the rocks as far as she could before surfacing for air. When she did come back up, she saw she had been dragged further out and away from the whole coast. Her body was heavy; her light waned. Marama remembered a story Kui had told her about a beautiful whale named Tutunui, who carried his master between coasts, and the magical bond they shared. But Tutunui had been killed a long time ago by greedy men, and he couldn't come to save her now. A loud ‘Aueeeee' escaped her lips, but nobody would possibly hear her out here.

Somebody did, though.

It felt like a long time to Marama to be sitting out there, but she hadn't grown cold. She was still too tired to begin swimming to shore, and she felt herself being warmed by the freezing cold ocean. She didn't shiver. She didn't cry. She just floated; she controlled gravity. Marama became so comfortable floating on the bed of chopping waves that she drifted down to sleep.

Marama rose to Kui screaming and wailing in her ear and saying words she never let Marama say. Lying on the beach, she was embraced not by the cold sand but by a bed of neatly woven kelp, so comfortable she didn't want to rise and follow her kui home. Uncle Pahu was there and he carried Marama home, snuggled into his flannel shirt, her cheek resting on the warm manaia around his neck.

Later Kui told her about how a fisherman had spotted her floating and had recognised her bright round face. ‘He said he saw you cuddled up in your seaweed bed, way out there past the point, just drifting slowly to the shore. He said you were asleep, moko, and he said you were beaming your beautiful smile! Hika mā, I was a loony lunar lunatic. I know my job is to keep you safe and well; you've got big mahi to do in your future, e hine, big mahi.'

Out there on her bed of weeds, Marama had dreamt that a beautiful man with a fish's tail had come to her in the ocean. She felt so safe with him, and when he smiled at her, she was warm inside. He took her down to the fathomless floor and showed her the secrets of the ocean. He showed her how the water speaks to the moon.

Kōwae 3: Marama meets the forest

And so the moon decreed that each of her maidens would not know the fear of uncertainty. When the time was right, they would know their path and understand the abundance of their gifts.

Uncle Pahu fancied himself a hunter-gatherer. Yes, it was true, he did not work for money most of the time; he spent his days carving, gardening, fishing and hunting. But from that, he fed himself, his niece, his mother and some of his friends. ‘Ko te kai te mea nui o te ao,' he would say all the time, and chortle to himself. Pahu was a very gentle and kind man; he was happy as long as he had someone to look after. Uncle Pahu took Marama hunting one day. He shook her shoulder that morning long before the birds had started to sing. She was ready in all of her gear in a flash, and waiting in the truck with Uncle's Thermos of tea much earlier than he had planned. ‘Tū meke, little girl. OK, we'll get going then.'

They trod in silence comfortably for a good half an hour in the blackness of the bush. Marama loved how every tree was different, individual; she would nod to the especially noble looking ones, the moonlight showing their true faces to her. Uncle Pahu heard something. He signalled to Marama to remain as he crept off. Still the dark grey sky of the predawn made the forest spooky. Marama remembered Kui telling her about patupaiarehe and how they could whisper things in your ear and invade your mind until you went insane and wandered the bush for the rest of your life. She wasn't afraid. When Uncle Pahu came back he was smiling peacefully; he grabbed her hand, and they continued to walk in silver silence. They walked for a long, long time in the bush. He held her hand the whole time.

After a while Uncle Pahu spoke. ‘You are very special.' He was so calm; he no longer listened out for animals. ‘You know that you are here to do great things.' Uncle seemed different. ‘When you were born, part of you came from the great goddess of night. Not Hinenuitepō; I'm talking about that moon up there watching us now,' and he pointed through the canopy to the smiling goddess. ‘You are a moon maiden; you have a special job to do on earth. You will help many people, and you have gifts to assist you. Do you know of these gifts yet?'

‘I think so …'

‘Good. You will learn more as you grow. Do you understand what I am saying to you, Marama?'

‘Āe.'

‘Well done, young one.' He bent down and gently kissed Marama on the forehead. Cold electric shivers ran into her eyes and through her body. She felt strong; she was oneness, bright as a fleck of a shimmer on a lake. Uncle Pahu was gone again.

Obediently Marama waited where she was left for her uncle to return. Time passed. The sun was bright and full in the sky and had invaded every layer of the canopy. Warmth flooded the forest floor. Marama could hear panting and stomping in the distance. What could that be moving so noisily in the bush? Surely not a hunter. From the direction that they had already come, Uncle Pahu came thrashing through the bushes, covered in sweat, his face tattooed with bloody red scratches. ‘
Where
have you
been
?' he boomed at her. Uncle's eyes were darting side to side; he didn't have his gun.

‘I was waiting for you, here.' Marama was confused, and so was her uncle.

‘But I've been running to find you for at least a bloody hour! I signalled to you to
stay there
, don't you see, girl?'

Marama started to understand what had happened. ‘I'm really sorry, Uncle.'

Uncle Pahu turned around and started walking back to the truck. Marama followed quickly. Halfway through the journey, Uncle slipped behind a bush and reappeared with his gun and a good yearling. ‘I'm smiling because I know we're having a good feed. I'm still not happy with you, little girl.'

After dinner, Kui asked Marama what she had done to upset her uncle. Marama told her everything about how Tāne Māhuta had come to speak with her in Uncle's form. She told Kui about her gifts. She told Kui that she had been right about her mum and her great purpose. She told Kui about her dreams. Kui was weeping. Marama was weeping. Both shone with love and light.

‘Tonight the moon will be full,' said Kui, a crescent twinkling in her eye. ‘You have had the kiss of Tāne; you will have a lot of strength.' Kui beamed. ‘Tonight, I'm taking you for a visit back home.'