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Te Ao Hou, September 1968, Page 14

blankets talking about these signs and their meanings, and if by chance some startled puriri moth or night-flying insect would bang against the window-panes, or a cricket should jump through the open window and break into its high-pitched morse-like serenade, there would be a mad rush to pile into one bed, secure in the mistaken belief of security in numbers. I learnt many fascinating things, and each year, I used to count the months till the Christmas holidays would come, and I would set out on my all-day journey to the back-blocks. I once heard my father saying to my mother that I was becoming a proper little devil; and ‘all you can get out of him is eels, rotten corn, Maori bread, horses, bullocks, bang bang pictures, huis, all this mumbo-jumbo in Maori, like a real little savage’; and he thought it best that I should pay more attention to going to Mass and in seeing the sisters taught me my catechism; was he doing the right thing in letting me spend too much time with the folks in the country?; I was acquiring all sorts of bad habits (I had told the neighbours how to plant water-melon at night, that we ate huhu bugs and sea-urchins, kina). Believe me, there was an awful lot of head shaking and of making the sign of the cross, and whispered utterances of ‘Father have mercy on us’, and ‘Mother of God save us’ from shocked mothers. One of the parents wrote a note to the sisters, and one of them took me to the convent chapel to kneel and say extra prayers. But I knew my mother, and that year I went as usual to the country. That was the year of the Spanish civil war, and each day we were told at school about the atrocities against the church in the name of war. I was so filled with sorrow for these victims, that I told the sisters and my parents that I was going to be a priest when I grew up, and everyone was pleased to think I'd be saving souls. But fate had other things in store for me, and not even the priests could save me. Back in the back-blocks I completely forgot about the civil war in Spain, about Mass, and about abstaining from eating meat on Fridays or feast days. Heathen or not we ate well and lived well. Besides, here, ruru and other dark mysterious omens ruled the roost. Grand-uncle Wiremu introduced me to the healing qualities and medi-

cinal remedies of Maori herbal treatments. I found out the plants that were best for poultices and boils, and those that were suitable, when the bark was boiled, for internal ailments, and also what leaves when boiled were used for bathing the skin, and for washing sores. Flax root when boiled, though very bitter, was the ideal cure for constipation. And if cut in the bush, the remedy was to take a small length of the ake vine, hollow one end, place that end in your cupped palm and blow on the other end by placing it in your mouth. The sap that came out was used as one would use iodine for cleansing and killing germs. The older ake was the best for making wooden mauls. Soon my mind was full with the knowledge of what berries and plants were edible. Tawhara and patangatanga were delicious, provided one beat the hungry bush rats to it. Somehow they instinctively knew when these plants were ready to eat. Some of the people gathered these plants to make a kind of alcoholic drink which was quite palatable and also very potent when drunk in large quantities. Another cure used widely was to urinate on cuts, gashes and wounds on the arms, hands, and lower parts of the body. Lastly, after I could name the trees by sight, and memorized them off by heart, I was allowed to go for long walks in the bush by myself, though sometimes my teacher would purposely leave something behind on one of our trips and send me back miles to fetch it. I loved being in the bush, amongst all the singing of the birds, watching the sunlight peep through the towering treetops, thinking that the handiwork of Tane was as beautiful as the inside of any church I had been into. Here primitive man must have felt a oneness with his gods, just as I was feeling a closeness to mine. Most evenings after our meal I would read something from a book, or if it was mail day, the newspapers, to Grand-uncle. He liked to hear about the war in China, Spain, and what was happening in other parts of the world. If I didn't understand a word, he would explain its meaning to me. Other times I would sit on the floor beside his bed while he enjoyed his kai paipa, and between puffs and clouds of ‘Tasman Dark’, he would tell me of his childhood days, of sailing ships that came to Mangonui harbour, Herekino, Houhora, Whangape, Kohukohu, and of seeing some of these go up the Mangamuka river, whalers, sealers, and men of adventure. The first time I saw a tohunga was at a hakari (feast), and I was surprised to see he was just an ordinary aged man, I was a bit disappointed, as my cousins had spoken of him in terms of awe and fear, and I was expecting to see some impressive character that would be like pictures of evileyed mandarins, with inches-long fingernails, and long pointed whiskers, that stole, plundered and killed, especially little Pakeha kids. This is what my city playmates and I used to think about them. Where we got the idea from, I can't even remember, unless it was from the comics that were popular those days, ones that used to picture evil as ‘the yellow peril’. So steeped were their lives in these traditional beliefs and customary ways that to children reared in Maori settlements at the time, the words tohunga and tapu, were synonymous with life and death. A tohunga was someone held in esteem and reverence, as being gifted with visionary foresight, and possessing extraordinary powers of exorcism. In fact so highly was their mana regarded among the people, that had any of these tohunga cared to use their influences and power for mercenary purposes and personal gain, it would have been quite easy for them to have become rich. The few I came into contact with never abused this gift, but impressed me by the way their knowledge and skill were put to use assisting people in need of help. Waata was one. Old and stooped, he walked with the aid of a carved tokotoko. His skin was wrinkled like fine old parchment, and he was very vain about his gingery moustache which perched under a long hawk nose, flanked by bushy brows that sheltered eyes as black as the night, that amazed me with their youthful zest. His fame for removing wayward spirits that had gatecrashed, uninvited, into the bodies of disillusioned people, was well known. After a tangi at the marae, Waata came to stay with us. at Uncle's invitation. One day, not long after his arrival, while sitting outside under the shade of the fruit trees talking about things in general with the older ones of the family, Waata suddenly without any reason, gave a loud cry of pain and rolled over on the mat. Holding his

head, he cried out over and over again. Everyone sat still. Dead silence reigned. Only their eyes followed the grotesque movements, watching as he tossed, moaning, from side to side. Wide-eyed, I felt terrified, and was about to take to my heels, when I felt Aunty Miriama's reassuring hands on my shoulders, and my fears disappeared. No one spoke, or broke the silence, until he lay still and then sat up rubbing his head and asked for a drink of water. This was quickly brought from the kitchen, and he drank it slowly in gulps. ‘Aue! e Hemi’, he said, looking at Uncle. ‘He raruraru kei te haere mai.’ ‘There is trouble coming,’ he continued. ‘Some strangers from a great distance are coming to see me. One is very sick and still a child. He is very sick, and is wrapped in something bright. A woman and a man with him are very concerned, and the woman is without a wedding ring, and has never had one. Altogether there are five people travelling and they should arrive before the birds settle for the night.’ He then said he was very tired and spread a blanket over himself, put a cushion under his head and promptly fell asleep. Uncle set to and erected a tent near the karaka tree. Mattresses, clean bedding and flax mats covered the ground. A kerosene lamp stood on a box, ready to provide light, and alongside it was Waata's much-used Bible. Waata slept soundly until an hour or so after sunset, then sat refusing any food, content to puff away at his pipe. In the kitchen, Aunty and her elder daughter prepared extra food. No one doubted the old man's prophecy. They were used to such things. For was not Ratana the ‘Mangai’—the ‘Prophet’ of his people? Waata retired to the tent, taking his rug with him, to await the arrival of his visitors, and the shadows of day began to blend into the twilight of the evening. A strange car came up the drive, followed by our excited dogs, barking and yelping. Uncle met the visitors at the gate, and after acknowledgements and queries had been completed, he led them to the lamplit tent. There were five people, and one was a sickly-looking boy about 14 to 15 years old. He was carried wrapped in a red tartan rug. With gentle and tender care, they laid him on one of the mattresses. Waata greeted his manuhuri, guests, in the appropriate fashion and then they spoke to him in hushed tones of reverence. Yes, the boy had been to three doctors, and at their own request the district nurse had visited him weekly. But none of the doctors had been able to discover what he was suffering from. In desperation they had been told by the old people in their district to seek the services and advice of a tohunga. Was the boy suffering from makutu, a spell? If so, what must be done to conquer it? The boy had been like this for months and was getting worse. Waata asked Uncle to say a prayer, then asked the others with the exception of the boy's parents and Uncle to leave. The two strangers were taken to the house to be fed. Outside in the darkness, beyond the path of light, I stood watching, waiting to see what would happen. Moths attracted to the lamp cast larger-than-life shadows on the canvas walls. The old man was talking to the parents, both of whom looked very downcast and glum. By his manner I could see he was lecturing them over something but as he was speaking quietly I was unable to hear what was being said, though he emphasised his words with great gestures of his hands, pointing to him and then to her, and now and then at their son. Then they both nodded their heads as though in agreement. Opening his Bible, he read out a text, then closed it and placed it by the youth's head. He asked the mother to uncover the sick boy's body, and from where I stood, I gasped at what I saw, His body was scaly and covered in lumps; some had swelled to the size of a bantam's egg. The eyes of the tired, weak patient had shrunk into their sockets, while the skin over his face was stretched tight over the bones. The old man bent low and spoke to the boy, telling him not to be afraid, and when he had finally gained the young fellow's confidence, he asked the parents to place their hands over their son's and to begin praying. Placing his hands on the boy's head, he closed his eyes and bowed his head and began reciting some incantations that were strange to me, but included some words I understood. The hissing of the lamp became a swan song to the fluttering moths, compulsively lured to their fate by the dancing flames. The shadows of moths

and man on the tent, formed some grotesque shapes while the old man called upon the powers of his tribal gods, and appealed to the spirits of his ancestors who dwelled in the ‘whare o Manga Reia’ to hasten his petition and prayers to IO, the Supreme Being, who dwelleth in the highest of heavens. Mother and father bowed their heads in humble supplication, imploring charity from a Creator whom they had forsaken. All this time the youth lay bathed in sweat, to all appearances dead, with not even a flicker or twitch of his eyelids. Was he still alive? Did he move then? Or was I imagining things? I was sure his body was trembling, or was he shivering with fright or cold? The sky darkened and a breeze blew and I involuntarily shivered with it, as the moon, veiled by clouds and trees, lost its silvery glow. A weird kind of moaning began in the tent, giving me more than just shivers. It came from the sick boy, who was now shaking and shuddering, and the moaning rose to a pitch. Visibly trembling, the old man continued his sing-song chantings. Now it was easy to see that the patient was suffering, as his body was in convulsions, and all the time his moanings rose and fell in agony. The ancient one and the young one seemed locked together in some demonic conflict—man pitting his faith against the devilish forces of Satan. I was sweating, hot and sticky, wishing this would end, wanting to leave, yet unable to, for I was caught, held spellbound, in this struggle for supremacy. He, the tohunga, was shaking with deep spasms. Suddenly there was a whirr of wings, and a loud screech. My heart missed a beat. Ruru, the evil messenger of ill omen was there and much too close for my liking. ‘Morepork’, he called again. I crept closer to the tent, nearly inside in fact. A loud anguished cry pierced the night. It came from the tohunga, while from the boy's mouth blobs of fluffy froth flowed white against the brown of his skin bubbling like the sap of newly sawn timber. The boy's body jerked up to a sitting position with his eyes wide open, and in a loud, clear voice he called to his mother, ‘Mama’. Then like a sack of potatoes he fell back. Was he dead? Not a muscle moved, the eyelids stayed shut and it even seemed he had stopped breathing. Had ruru come to accompany his soul on its way to Rerenga Wairua at Reinga? With a face running with sweat, the tired old man reached down and grasped the mother's hands. She looked at him, her eyes brimming with anxiety and unable to ask that burning question. ‘Waihoki ko te wairua hei hoa mo tatou e ngoikore nei; kahore hoki tatou e matau me pehea e tika ai ta ta ou inoi: otiia ko te Wairua tonu ano te inoi ana mo tatou ki ona aue e kore nei e taea te whakahua. (Romans 8. 26) Give thanks to the Almighty. Your son lives, and is freed from his bondage. He sleeps, resting his body, but when he awakens he will eat well.’ With his free hand the tohunga brushed the sweat away from his brow. ‘But remember, both of you, what I have said. Go to your minister and be married in the eyes of God. A boy as brave as this deserves the cloak and prestige of his father's ancestors. And see that you make your peace with your families. I know we Maoris have a passion for bearing grudges. Let the past be the past.’ The boy's face no longer wore a strained look and around the corners of his lips a faint smile seemed to bud. For the first time Uncle spoke, ‘Let us go into the house and eat,’ and seeing the mother glance anxiously at her son, ‘Someone will watch over the boy.’ And I knew my cousin Rahera would sit and watch over the child till the parents retired I was glad it was all over, and glad to be away from ruru's preying eyes. I had no wish to visit the home of the ‘pleasure king’ yet. Besides, I wasn't a good swimmer. My spirit would drown in the angry seas at Reinga if I jumped, and I would never reach the home of the spirits. By the time the visitors left the following afternoon, the swelling and the lumps had almost disappeared and the boy was eating in a way he hadn't done in months. I was to see many similar acts of ‘tohungaism’ as time went by but the witnessing of this first one, and the amazing results, became an impression that has stayed with me all these years. My respect, or was it awe, grew for the old gentleman. So much so, that when I returned to school at the convent, I told the others that I had seen a tohunga (I actually used

the words ‘witch doctor’, that being the only name they understood) bring back someone from the dead like Lazarus. Was I popular? Like heck I was. I was made to say extra ‘Hail Marys’ as an act of penance for a whole week, each day in class. Some mornings I would be up with the sparrows, and walking across the paddocks to Grandfather's place to watch the workers yoke up the bullock teams. They would make a swipe at some dozy beast, and flick and crack their long whips with ear-splitting sounds. The leaders would heave and strain, and then with a creaking of yokes, and rattling of pins and chains, the 12 pairs of bullocks would plod away for whatever task was in store for them. Every now and then we would slip away to fish for sprats and cockabullies. To catch the sprats we would collect worms, usually from under old heaps of cow manure, select a strong green reed and tie a worm on the end with a couple of knots. The sprat swallowed this and began to choke on the knot so we had to be quick to ship the reed and the sprat onto the bank. We called these karewaka. We would sit on the edge of lazy flowing drains, chanting in unison, ‘Karewaka, Karewaka,’ over and over again. Ever on the prowl, we hunted kewai underneath rocks and stones in small creeks, cooking them on the embers of fires we lit. Maoris used the flesh to massage the gums of teething babies. While old Daisy the winter house cow stood in the small overnight paddock, I nervously and gradually found that if I squeezed her teats properly, I'd have fresh milk. I found out these things and many more, though there are still things I'm none the wiser about today. Why, for instance, do Maoris frown upon the use of floral garlands for crowning their heads, when the rest of the Polynesians delight in doing so? The only times I have seen garlands used by our people are at tangis, and then only leaves and greenery are used. As for planting by the phases of the moon, this has proved its worth over the years. Astrology is one of the jewels of civilizations that reach back into antiquity, an ancient science, treasured and studied by early men of wisdom, and passed on down to their descendants to this very day. Certain ceremonies, not unlike those held by the ancient Greeks, were staged by our ancestors to greet the arrival of special stars in the celestial highways. Sociologically and religiously, astrology played an important part in old time Maori tribal life. I was six years old, when I first stayed with Uncle Hemi and his family. Much water has flowed under the bridges of time since then. All over the country, many maraes and wharehuis stand silent and empty, and ancestral buildings decay and rot through the neglect and apathy of our own people. Hardly a day goes by without one reading or hearing of some other link with our past being destroyed for all time in the name of progress. My cousin and his family live in a fine home, about a mile from where I stand. His home has all the most modern comforts of living, but to me, it is stark and ugly. They have no time for trees, flowering shrubs and beauty. There is money to be made, and one must try to ‘keep up with the Joneses.’ My thoughts flee away from the present, back into the nostalgic past. I wander away from the old crumbling house, standing alone with all its fading memories. I wonder if my cousin ever feels as I do? Does he ever think of the past? What will he leave his children? So many of our people enrich their lives with a wealth that knowns no permanency, leaving their children heirs to a name, without visible substance. Have our lives been influenced by an over-indulgence of European paternalism to such an extent that our Maoritanga is lost? … … I leave, for I too am guilty of doing nothing constructive for my people, guilty of living contented in a world surrounded by dreams of yesterday.