RESURRECTION TO ALL THOSE WHO MOURN MAHA

Te Ao Hou, December 1960, Page 37

RESURRECTION TO ALL THOSE WHO MOURN MAHA by S. ASHTON-WARNER Te Ao Hou is very pleased to print this moving tribute, by the celebrated author of Spinster. It appears with the permission and approval of Mrs Winiata. A hearse leaves the Tauranga hospital, moves slowly through the gates and out upon the street. At the time the Autumn day is dry enough but as the casket is carried away from the town out into the suburbs the sky darkens for some reason. Rain comes first, then lighthing and in no time follows the thunder. Does he hear all this, the still sleeper in the casket? By the time he has arrived at the Judea Meeting House he must be able to hear it, so loud has the storm become, bursting overhead to drown the lamenting. But no, he cannot hear it. As the casket is lifted out and set down in the shelter Maharaia Winiata still sleeps. Something wakes me; a stroking, a fingering. I try to open my eyes but I must have been sleeping long. To the sound of weeping I sink back into oblivion. But something wakes me again; this same stroking, and a fingering with human longing in it. Who is disturbing my slumber? But my eyelids are still heavy and cold and will not open. So am I heavy and cold, oh how heavy. My bed is very hard too, and narrow. Wherever am I sleeping? Somehow I must wake up; somehow I must life the weight of these lids. What a strange bed I am in. Here I am lying enclosed in narrow walls, the sides padded with satin. These scents too … what are they? They're like the perfume of many flowers. This sound of weeping, this scent of flowers … it makes me think of death. But who could be dead near me? I look upward. Above me I see the rafter patterns of a distinguished Meeting-house; the ceiling

of some verandah. But don't I recognise these patterns? Is this not my own Judea Meeting-house, Tamateapokaiwhenua? No doubt some departed one is lying here in state below these rafters amid the weeping and flowers. Who can it be, I wonder? The stroking again and the fingering; conscousness sharpens and I see more clearly. This bed I'm in is a coffin! The rafters, the lamenting and the flowers are for me! My God, it is I lying here … I, Maharaia Winiata! I sit up at once, no longer heavy. All about me on the entrance-way are the mourning kuias, the garlands of grief on their heads, thousands of people banking out on the marae and, clustered about me, my family. Thousands and thousands of living eyes all turned towards me. Without any weight whatever I stand in my shallow bed. Look at me everyone, I cry. I am alive. Cease this lamentation. Take the flowers away! But the weeping continues and the flowers remain, and a rough wind sweeps the marae. It lifts the corners of the flax mats spread out before, it stirs the petals and a large belt of dust swings by. Don't you see me, everyone? Here am I, Maha, alive and speaking to you. Why cannot you see me? I look down and discover the reason, of course they cannot see me; the spirit is not visible to the mortal eye. There lies my earthly body still prostrate in the casket, its eyes still closed, its face pale and its features still and, although I am rising above it, there it remains motionless. Ah, weary body I have worked so hard, sleep on; you have served me as well as you could. And here is the stroking and fingering that woke me; the fingers of one of my sons. Still stroking the side of the casket I've left and fingering the korowai cloak. But see me, my son; here I am risen beside you. You do lift your face a little it seems as though some thought has moved you, and when I lay my hand on your black head you do turn a little; but I know you do not see me. Now I hear another Voice. It is like the sound of the thunder-storm when they brought my body here; the thunder-storm that greeted me when they brought me home to the pa. I heard it in my slumber, now I hear it awake. It is some great Voice calling me. These wreaths flow a long way into the wind and on the casket are three. Stooping to read the cards I find one from the Prime Minister, one from the Government and the third from my family. But is all this honour for me? How can such a thing be? I, humble Maha, the most ordinary among men. My gaze follows the flowers frothing all colours upon the flat mats spread out upon the marae, their petals fluttering in the wind, reaching to the people beyond. All these flowers and all these tears, how can they be for me; for me the most humble of men? Is this really what you all thought of me in the lifetime I have so recently departed? I knew that many of you did love me, I felt it at the time and still do, as I indeed love you, but all this honour … no, no. Once more in wonder I look down upon my body beneath the cloak, lying amid the wreaths and for the first time I study it. That is not the face I knew in mirrors; that is not what it was in life. It wears a serenity now that I seldom knew then. I see none of those wrinkles deepening over the years, none of the pain of those last days and nights and none of the stress of foreknowledge. But I hear the Voice again, calling above and beyond the marae; greater yet softer than all of these and speaking greater longing. I must move on … soon … and follow. Wait, good Lord, I'm not ready. I pass over my discarded body in its beautiful casket and sit among my family. How can I tell them I'm well? I stroke each head and soothe their hands but still they do not see me. Maybe they feel me, though. Eyes glance suddenly as of those whose hearts are wide open so I enter there and breathe within them. Once more I rise and look out upon you, my people. Some of your faces are from very far parts. Look over there, the East Coast, and on this side the Waikato; and here the Bay of Plenty and over there North Auckland. Look there, and there—from all the North Island; all come so far to take leave of me. Good friends I appreciate it. How could I know you thought so well of me? But the Voice is calling me and I have an urgency to move on somewhere. But wait, good Lord, I have things to do. I must ensure the continuance of my work, of your work I should say. As singing arises from the marae from the choir I began years ago, its faces both young and old, I wonder who will continue with that. There is no time to lose and I pass over and above the flowers, over the flax mats lifting in the wind, unseen, and my hands join the hands conducting. Do I detect an added intensity? Look after my choir, good friend, I say and I breathe in his throat and leave him. Behind me now is the illustrious Meeting-house; who will supervise the building? Wait good Lord, I'm coming. I seek among the thousands of brown mourning faces for those classes in carving, tukutuku and weaving, many of them from this pa and others. I drift, invisible, intangible among them wherever I find them in the crowd, touching them and breathing into them and saying in their ears, look after our culture, friends. Who will see to my Welfare work? There's the very man. He's come a long way but I see him. He is speaking at the microphone but I still tell him what I want. As he speaks I stand directly before him looking into his face and although neither he nor anyone else can see me I recognise my own image in his eyes. I hear you Lord: I'm coming. Now the Maori schooling, and the Maori Adult Education. I seek among thousands though time is short. Here, here he is. And the racial equality. Who will that be? Who will fight as I fought for the principle of equality? Many, many, both

brown and white, I go and touch and talk to and breathe myself into. And the religion. There's my Church in a solid body, right up near and the Head of it at this moment speaking. “With the death of Dr Winiata,” he is saying into the microphone, “one of God's good men, a prince has fallen; the loss is indescribable, Dr Winiata has made a great contribution to New Zealand and has seen his influence grow and his ideas begin to spread. A man of many qualities,” he continues, “he was fearless in acknowledging what he believed to be right and because of this his stature will grow with the years. He found his religion and his works a release for his great energies and abilities, both of which were given without stint. His gifts of humanity and sincerity have helped him break down many barriers. He had love in his heart and compassion in his soul. He died bravely and well and we say farewell with gratitude for the long days we were privileged to spend with him. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” Oh these words and this singing, this weeping and these flowers, the hair blowing in the wind, this honour: cease it all. I am well and my work will be well. We bring nothing into this life and we take nothing away; not even our breath do we take away and I leave mine in the ones I have chosen. All you speakers tracing the history of the Maori people back to the canoes, you representatives of tribes springing from all these canoes, paying your respects to me, you representatives of municipal government and you Cabinet Ministers, listen! I take nothing away. The pall-bearers, all of them the young people of my people, are moving across the marae and on goes the lid of that coffin over there. Poor tired body, you served me and the Lord well. Even I pay you my respects. Bear that unlikely serenity on your face to the tomb. ‘At the coming, with high and decorated prow, your last canoe. Take then thy paddle named Kautu-ki-te-rangi, and paddle to thy far home Hawaiki….’ ‘Upon thee, thy fine flaxen cloak….’ But the honour of this cloak cannot be for me, for me so humble a human. Such honour is for an Idea; the Idea of Maori progress. From deep in the hushed crowds, unseen, I watch them lift high upon their young shoulders the casket bearing the cast-off body of Maharaia Winiata, but not the freed Idea, the everlasting Idea of the Maori moving forward; that remains here in my Chosen. I am almost coming, Lord. The casket circles the marae and as it returns and approaches the tomb my life flashes behind me. My babyhood without books, the love of my family, my schooling with the difficulties of language, the faith in me of others, the flash of the sense of purpose, the Universities, the Theological College, the pastorate on the West Coast, the Teachers' Training College, the years of study in Edinburgh and the pain of exile there, periods of nine hours at a stretch of study behind a locked door, the arduous Philosophy Doctorate, my wife, my children and our hopes and plans for them, the visit to China, my Church, many and many the maraes, many converses into the night, arguments, voices raised in debate and exhortation into the dawns; all those cities, those far-flung Maori villages, and that travelling, roads, roads and roads. I'm coming Lord, I'm coming. Here they are lowering the casket into the tomb padded in velvet, think of it. My family at the head and the Minister reading the glorious words of the burial service; dust to dust, ashes to ashes, Maha, for your defeated cold body; but not for my spirit, the dust. I'm coming. The singing around and above me, the thousands filing past, I'll remember all this. Into eternity I'll remember. I'll remember the hand of my son that woke me stroking the casket and fingering the strands of the korowai cloak, and the fluttering of flowers in the wind, and the corners of the mats lifting, and the dust blowing and the hair, and the garlanded kuias lamenting. Into eternity I will. Good-bye my Maori people, and my white friends good-bye. I am well and my work will be well. I have left my breath within you and I take nothing away. Now I'm coming Lord. I'm here.