It was a fortnight later, when after various stoppages on the way north, we sailed down across Golden Bay towards Wakatu. Mindful of my conclusion that Tiki had unknowingly divulged our plans to Cazotl, I kept it to myself, but argued with Grey that it would be better to land on the western side of Tasman Bay, proceed to Te Makawawa’s pa, and thence to the Table Land. Grey fell in with this proposal, and accordingly we passed down the coast, round Separation Point, and were landed at the mouth of the river above which the pa stood.
It was a clear, quiet morning when the boat took us in from the ship. Dreamer Grey, the brim of his buff bush hat drawn over his eyes to keep off the glare of the early sun, sat in the stern dreaming, not of a forgotten past, but of the possibilities of the near future. He flicked the ash quietly from his cigar; it fell with a hiss into the smooth water and drifted astern.
“There is the pa, look,” said Crystal, touching his arm with one hand, while with the other she pointed to the ridge of the cliff a mile away on the coast.
I followed the direction of her finger and saw, standing against a thin fleecy white cloud with a strip of summer blue beneath it, the palisading of Te Makawawa’s pa.
“It is a good omen,” I said merrily, turning towards them; “there is the pa; there is the fleecy cloud beyond it, and there in the further distance is the clear blue sky.”
Grey turned up the brim of his hat and let the sun shine on his happy face as he gazed up at the pa.
“And what is it you see in the clear blue sky, Miss Grey?” I asked, catching the now well-known look of longing in Crystal’s eyes beneath the shadow of her sun bonnet.
She looked across to me and smiled, while her hand slid down her father’s coat sleeve and pressed his own on the gunwale of the boat. Then her lips moved, and, though she said nothing, the movement could have been only the two words, “My mother!”
“A good omen let it be,” said Grey, and threw his cigar away.
“With all my heart!” I replied, knocking the dottle from my pipe and standing up, for the nose of the boat was running on to the sandy shore in a convenient place to land.
With what buoyant steps we followed Tiki along the way he knew beneath the fern palms and overhanging trees that skirted the beach! It was one of those clear, bright mornings which, on a shelving shore between the glistening bush and the sparkling sea, are only to be interpreted by the liquid song of the korimako, sipping dew and honey as he sings in the flowering trees, or by the merry fantail’s laugh, as with tail outspread she chases the gnat, which twists and turns in the sunlight.
“Tiki,” I said presently, “you go on ahead and tell Te Makawawa we are coming. We can find the way all right.”
On board the ship the sailors had fitted the Maori out with a civilised costume, and he looked supremely ridiculous, for neither had he been made for the clothes nor the clothes for him. As he vanished ahead of us I smiled, wondering what sort of a reception he would get from the old chief, whose ideas were of a most conservative nature.
“I should like to be present when Tiki stands before Te Makawawa in those clothes,” I said. “The old chief’s a gentleman of the old school: he will be scandalised.”
Hardly were the words out of my mouth when sounds of someone talking fell upon our ears, and presently we turned a bend of the path and came full upon Tiki face to face with the old chief. The latter had so warmed up to his subject that he did not see us, and partly shielded by the trees we stood and watched them in the open space before us. Te Makawawa’s attitude and picturesque garb, from the feathers in his white hair to the flowing fringe of his kaitaka, were in themselves a rebuke to Tiki; but his words added a sting to the rebuke, which made my poor faithful Maori look even more ridiculous than I had thought possible.
“Eta! you have not the dignity that belongs to our race. What have you done with it? Exchanged it for that pair of trousers, and they are put on wrong way now. What have you done with the mana of your ancestors? Given it away for that old coat, and it’s splitting under the arm. What have you done with the bravery and prowess of your tribe? Traded it for that shirt without any buttons, that collar fastened with a piece of flax, that hat which makes you look so beautiful. What have you done with the blood of the Rangitane which runs in your veins—of Toi our ancestor, and of Kupakupa, who made us Maori? I expect you have bartered it all for a bottle of waipiro. Eta! did our ancestors make scarecrows of themselves like this? Did they go to such foolishness to frighten the birds? Tiki, you’re a big fool. You’re like the stupid ones, trying to bring about the time when the Maori cannot hold up his head at all. You’re weak in the knees, and you put those trousers on to hide it. I think your whole backbone would scarcely make one good fishhook.”
“What a contrast,” whispered Crystal, who had understood the chief’s words perfectly. “I like the old fellow, even if he did steal my father and mother and myself. But don’t you think Tiki has had enough?” The poor Maori was trembling beneath the scorn of the aged one.
“I think so, yes,” I replied. “You stay here till I call you.” And I stepped out into the open space.
“Te Makawawa!”
He turned on the instant and came towards me. “He Pakeha!” he said, “the Friend of the Forest Tree. I saw the canoe coming in and came down to meet it. You have found the little maiden, Keritahi Kerei—good! Where is she?”
“O Chief! I have found the little maiden, and I have also brought the man who has forgotten the faces that he knew.”
I called to them, and they came from behind the trees.
Crystal stood before him looking like a mountain lily in her white dress. As soon as Te Makawawa’s bright eyes rested upon her he started, and, drawing back the step he was taking, remained in an attitude of astonishment. His eyes wandered from her face and form to me, and there was a question, a perplexity, almost a doubt written on the lines of his rugged visage.
“Friend of the Forest Tree! is this wild white swan, such as a man sees once in a lifetime, the little maiden?—or have you deceived me?”
“The Friend of the Forest Tree does not deceive,” said Crystal, before I could speak. “If you are Te Makawawa I am the little maiden of many moons ago whom you carried on your shoulder. Do you not remember the heitiki round my neck, and the little kaitaka of kiwi feathers I wore? See! my black eyes and hair! do you not remember them?”
She threw off her sun bonnet as she spoke, and stood facing him, as if half conscious of her sculpturesque loveliness.
The question, the perplexity, the almost-doubt deepened upon his face.
“Eta!” he said, turning to Grey; “is this your daughter with the eyes and hair of ancient night? Speak, O Man-who-has-forgotten; does Te Makawawa dream in the daytime?”
Grey, knowing nothing of the language, turned to me and we spoke together, while the chief gazed long at Crystal.
“O Chief,” I said at length, “the Man-who-has-forgotten says this is the little maiden left by Tiki in his hut while he slept. But why do you doubt my word, O Tohunga? Do you think the little white Children of the Mist have changed the child? Kahikatea and his friend have ever spoken the truth to you.”
“I do not doubt,” he replied quietly, showing me his palm. “These last days are full of dreams to me. My eyes are growing dim, and I see strange things against the setting sun. O people of the Great Tribe, take no heed of an old man’s dreams. Tiki!”—he turned to the be-trousered one with a return of his indignation—“hasten to the pa and bid them prepare a feast, and tell my maidens that a mountain lily will take root among them. Go, O Tiki, and tell them not to waste their time in laughing at a man who was once a warrior, with the blood of the Tane-nui-a-Rangi in his veins, but is now a thing that has been hatched from an egg like a bird.”
Tiki did not wait for the point of this piece of satire. He and his trousers vanished in all haste, and Te Makawawa, bidding us follow, strode before in silence.
“What a lordly savage,” said Grey, as we followed on; “but why did he seem so startled at the sight of my daughter?”
“He seemed to doubt my identity,” said Crystal.
“Perhaps it was his way of demanding proof,” I suggested, but I could not conceal from myself that there was something to be cleared up in his strange behaviour.
When we reached the pa on the high cliff Grey and I were allotted a house to ourselves, while Crystal was handed over by Te Makawawa to the charge of the maidens of highest rank, who were forcible in their expressions of joy when they found she could speak their own tongue. I caught sight of her standing among a little group, like a fair white queen among her dusky maidens. I saw by the gestures of the Maori girls that they were asking her to let down her hair. She hesitated a moment, then, withdrawing the pins, let it fall and shook the long, heavy masses out over her shoulders, till they rippled down almost to her knees. Loud cries of admiration came from the girls as they took up the loosened tresses in their hands and stroked and patted them tenderly, likening them to the undulating seaweed called rimu rehia, long, shining, glistening; and again to the darkness of the furthest caves, where the winds were bound by Maui. Thus they lifted it up and stroked and talked to it, while it awoke their simple hearts to poetry. Then, as Crystal gathered it all together again and fastened it up, they stood wide-eyed, with many expressions of wonder that pakeha women should do this strange thing.
As a result of a private talk with the old chief, I learnt that Ngaraki had paid him a visit some days before, and had told him strange things. The Great Tohungas of the Earth had spoken to him, saying that the return of Hinauri was near, and that he must lay the foundations of a new priesthood in the temple, and gather the tribes upon the Table Land. Messages had been sent to many tribes, and some had already settled upon the high plain under the rule of Ngaraki. Te Makawawa assured me they were gathered for peace, and not for war. Within the space of a few days his own tribe would journey on to the Great Tapu.
“And what is your plan for restoring Keritahi Kerei to her mother?” I asked.
“Listen, Pakeha!” he replied, lowering his voice. “The Great Tohungas do not speak to Ngaraki only. I too have heard their words—when all the world was dark and still. I will guide you and the maiden, and the Man-who-has-forgotten to the white cave where the woman still lives. But I would not meet the eye of Ngaraki, for he is fierce and terrible, and I could not explain this thing to him. Because of these things, friend, we must wait until Ngaraki goes into the islands of the south to gather together the men to whom he will teach the ancient wisdom. That will be on the morning after the full moon, for you must know, O son, that an ancient rite of the temple requires the presence of the priest on the night when the moon is full. We shall set out then on the third day from this, so that we shall reach the Table Land as Ngaraki leaves it.”
I agreed to this plan, and it was settled. In the meantime it occurred to me that, unknown to Crystal, I might take a journey to the hut of Kahikatea. Accordingly, early on the following day, I set out and arrived at the hut just as my friend was preparing for a journey.
“Have you found her?” were his first words as he came down the slope in front of his hut to meet me.
“Yes,” I replied; “she is at the pa, and I want you to come and see her. Then we could all journey together to the mountain—with Te Makawawa as a guide.”
“When are you going to start?” he asked.
“The day after to-morrow.”
“That’s too late,” he said; “I’m going to start now, as soon as I can. I’ve almost worked my way through the rock, but ran out of powder, and had to go across the bay for more.” The look in his eyes was far away and abstracted as he added: “It’s a strange undertaking, Warnock, and it is a strange madness that has laid hold of me; but there’s method in it, and I mean to see that perfect face and form again.”
I saw that the desire of the poet for the symbol of his dreams was still strong within him, but nevertheless, I fulfilled the object of my visit.
“If you wish to see a perfect face and form,” I said, “come back to the pa with me. I cannot imagine anyone more perfect than Crystal Grey. Come back and let us all go together. The ‘way of the fish’ is easier than the ‘way of the spider.’ My dear Kahikatea, long solitude has made dreams and visions too real to you.”
“I know it, Warnock, I know it,” he said fiercely. “I am as mad as a mystic in this one thing—and yet there’s a meaning in it—a grand meaning!”
He paused in a contemplative way, then, recalling himself, continued, “No; there is no woman of flesh and blood for me—only Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn, and she is not flesh and blood—at least, not yet.”
He was tying up a great coil of rope as he spoke. Now he raised it on his shoulders, and I saw that he was ready to start.
“You’ll excuse my being in a hurry,” he said, and added with a smile, “such old friends as we are need not stand upon ceremony, need we? I seem to have known you for years, Warnock. Let me see—I come your way for a little and then branch off. Come along, I want to reach a certain camping-ground before dark.”
We parted where a fallen tree spanned a branch of the river. With one foot on this bridge he extended his hand to me.
“Good-bye, Warnock,” he said, wringing my hand and giving me a lingering farewell look. “If I succeed by the ‘way of the spider’ and you by the ‘way of the fish,’ we shall meet up there”—he pointed towards the mountains—“if not, then up there!” And with a movement of his head he indicated the clear blue sky.
I stood and watched him as he entered the bush on the other side of the stream, and then turned with a sigh to make my way back to the pa.
“My perfect man and my perfect woman may never even meet, much less mingle,” I said to myself. “Perhaps he will find the marble Hinauri, and then come down to earth again wedded for ever to this ideal and clothe its sublime meaning in a poem which will raise the level of the world.… and perhaps I—who can tell?——”
I dared not conclude my sentence, for beside my perfect man I felt too poor a thing to deserve the love of my perfect woman.
On the morning of the third day after our arrival at the pa we set out for the Table Land. Te Makawawa proposed that ‘the little maiden,’ whom he treated with a consideration and a quiet, dignified respect that almost amounted to worship and awe, should be carried in a kind of litter by slaves, but Crystal would not hear of it. She assured the chief she could travel twenty miles a day on foot, and Grey himself laughed at the idea of her being carried on a litter. Accordingly, as we had ample time to travel by easy stages, she walked on equal terms with the rest of us. Our party consisted of seven—we three pakehas, the chief, Tiki, and two slaves, who carried blankets and provisions. Grey and I insisted on bearing our own swags.
The aged chief went before us with a swinging stride, and very soon we struck a path which he knew: it was the very one he had often travelled between the pa and the Great Tapu in the early days when he had been guardian priest of the ancient temple. This path simplified our journey, and there was no such thing as battling with supple-jacks or struggling through fern breast high.
They held happy hours for me, those three days in the bush. To be near Crystal was all I could expect, and the little incidents of the journey are written in my memory—if not here. It is sufficient to say that day by day she was always in sight, and, by night, when we camped, we three formed a party round one fire, while, at the instance of the chief, the four Maoris had two to themselves at a little distance. When bedtime came we rolled ourselves each in a blanket in bush style, with our feet to the fire, and slept in triangular fashion. It was sweet to lie awake, looking up at the moonlit sky between the trees, to hear Crystal’s breathing as she and Grey fell off to sleep before me. Once I heard her murmur “Mother” in her sleep, and once again she moved with a sigh and said the name of the one she loved—“Kahikatea.”
I must not dwell upon those days and nights beneath the summer sky and the growing moon. They passed—as all fair days and nights must pass—and at length we pitched our camp upon the edge of the Table Land, hiding our fires behind a clump of high bush, lest they should be seen from the mountain wall on the other side. It was the open space of a little gully running down from the rounded hills that skirted the west of the plain.
When we had finished our evening meal, Te Makawawa took me aside round the clump of trees, and pointing to the mountain wall looming gigantic in the twilight, said: “The full moon is rising behind the brow of Ruatapu, as it has ever risen since that sunset long ago, when Hinauri said, ‘Here will I wait!’ Ngaraki will curse the Vile Tohungas of the Pit to-night, as they have ever been cursed since the day when the mighty city stood upon this rolling plain. When he has done that, I know not how soon he will leave the mountain. Therefore Tiki and I will go forward and watch for his going.”
“Good, O Chief,” I replied; “but tell me again why does he curse the Vile Tohungas of the Pit to-night?”
“The tradition says they will return in the flesh to destroy Hinauri; that is why from the beginning they have been cursed when the moon is full, for at that time their power is strongest.”
“But what will the curses do?” I asked, trying to penetrate into the depths of his belief.
“They will destroy those who would destroy Hinauri,” he answered simply, “even as the karakia sung before her in the stone will protect her when she moves to life. Our ancestors have taught us that a curse heaped upon a man’s image will find that man in the flesh. Many of these Vile Tohungas have returned, but they have never succeeded in their object. He Pakeha! Their heads are hung up in yonder mountain. Others will return, but when they do they will find the curse ready for them if they should stretch forth so much as a hand against the sacred person of Hinauri.”
“What is the result of the curse?” I asked again.
“Eta! O Pakeha! The result is makutu—not of the modern kind, which requires the belief and fear of the person bewitched, but the hidden magic of the ancients, which finds its mark like the weapon of a warrior crying ‘Utu! Utu!’24 When it strikes it seethes like molten pitch in the vitals till sunrise or sunset. Then the cursed one dies. He leaves no star in the sky among those of the watching chiefs, but goes down, down to Porawa, with the curses of all time upon his head.”
He called to Tiki, and together they went into the night across the shadowy plain. If there was any doubt in my mind regarding this strange makutu the chief had spoken about, it was entirely dispelled before I saw him again.
Grey, Crystal, and myself remained by the camp fire, and a little distance away up the gully the two slaves cowered very close over a small heap of embers, such as the Maoris delight in. Grey, whose supply of cigars had not yet given out, sat smoking on the opposite side of the fire, smoking, dreaming much, and saying little, as was his wont. He was looking into the fire, and, as the glow lighted up his gentle face, I forecast the happy hour when his long-lost wife, the bride of two short weeks so long ago, and the mother of his only child, would tell him all the sweet things he had forgotten. Then my eyes wandered to the white figure of Crystal standing some little distance away in the darkness. She was looking at the mountain wall, where her mother was a prisoner. With the old chief’s consent, I had told her the legend of Hinauri that very day, and many other things as well, and she was no doubt building that city of long ago again upon the plain, or thinking of Kahikatea’s quest of the pure white woman who stood in the forehead of the mountain wall holding out her arms in her age-long petition to the sky.
I rose from my log near the camp fire, and walked round the clump of high trees. There I thought long thoughts of the many issues that crowded about the unknown cave in the great rock on the other side of the plain. I wondered where Kahikatea was. I thought of Cazotl and his wizard minion with a creep of horror. Then, by association of ideas, my thoughts ran down to the Vile Tohungas in the abyss. As the rising moon threw his light up into the sky above the mountain wall I stood a second time, in imagination, on those giant steps in the Pit, and watched the head of the tallest image hewn out again from the dark by the descending ray of the moon flooding down through the giants’ window. How like the vile granite face was that of the fiend of Crystal’s pictured dream! How very like the receding brow, the long flat nose, and the leering lips were those of Cazotl himself! Ngaraki was waiting there, in the darkness, ready to add his awful curses to those which extended back into the past—how far the aged moon herself, who had looked in upon it from the beginning of the human world, alone knew.
With an inward shudder at these thoughts I turned and retraced my steps to the camp fire, where I found Grey and Crystal sitting side by side, and hand in hand. I seated myself on the other side of the fire and said nothing. The moon, concealed by the trees behind me, had risen above the mountain wall, for I could see the silver light on the tip of a pine that towered above the gloom of the gully. It crept down into the rolling foliage of the lower trees, and touched a crag that stood out from the hillside. Just below this crag I could see the two slaves crouching over their fire, the glow of the embers on their faces and bare shoulders. Suddenly one of them uttered a sharp exclamation and made a movement. A moment afterwards the other clapped his hand to his chest and said something I could not catch. Then they remained looking into the fire as before.
While I was idly wondering what had startled them I heard a twig snap in the darkness on my right, just beyond the light of the fire. Almost at the same moment there was a faint hiss, and Grey started, moved his hand to his shoulder, withdrew it, and inspected a small object, which finally, with an expression of surprise, he threw into the fire, where it burned rapidly with changing colours, emitting with its escaping gas a weird little moan that I remembered too well. Another hiss followed, and Crystal gave a little cry, raised both hands to her right breast, sprang up and staggered some paces away, where she remained standing motionless like one in a trance. The firelight showed her face as I had seen it by the lightning’s glare on that other terrible night with the wizard.
In an instant I leapt to my feet, snatched my revolver from my hip pocket and fired three shots into the darkness where I had heard the twig snap. In reply came the hissing sound again, and something struck me in the chest. Then the wild laugh of the wizard negro sounded in my ears from far away among the hills.
Quick as thought I plucked at the dart in my chest and drew it out. Then, raising my hand I was about to fire again, when a deep voice from the darkness said, “You cannot fire! My voice is the only thing—you cannot fire!”
Quick thrills passed up and down my spine. The back of my head seemed as if it had been removed. In vain I strove to pull the trigger, but could not. In an instant I realised I was helpless. Then I saw the powerful figure of Cazotl advance into the light of the fire. His shining eyes, his long flat nose, his leering lips, on which rested a sneer that seemed to flow down his glossy beard, were revealed by the leaping flames. Yes, he was a fiend of ungainly but tremendous frame. As he towered there by the side of the fire the sight of him conveyed a horror to my soul. I tried to gnash my teeth, but could not.
“You can cover me with that revolver,” he said in a careless tone, which nevertheless carried conviction with it; “but you cannot fire. You can watch me, but you can neither move from where you stand nor cry out. Don’t you believe me? It is quite true—see here!”
He came towards me, and placing his great chest against the muzzle of my revolver, said: “Your finger is on the trigger, and if you were able, a touch would send a bullet through my heart; but you can’t do it, not even to save that pure and lovely girl.” He pointed to the white figure of Crystal, standing motionless at a little distance.
Heaven knows how I tried to pull that trigger and send the ball through his heart, but my powers of volition were gone—I was helpless under the powerful influence of the drug and the voice which was ‘the only thing.’
He moved away, and, as he had said, I found I could keep him covered with my revolver and watch his movements, but that was all. He turned and said something in a harsh, foreign tongue to someone in the darkness, and presently, in answer to his order, the wizard negro came within the light, and, putting an armful of sticks on the fire, hurried away for more. Cazotl bent over Grey, and, smoothing his eyelids down, said “Sleep!” Grey sank back immediately and lay still. He also was under the power of the drug.
With my finger on the trigger of my revolver I covered Cazotl as he walked round to the other side of the fire, and I prayed that just one little nervous twitch of my forefinger might do the deed. But if there was any one thing in the world of which I was absolutely certain at that moment, it was that I could not shoot.
I saw him approach Crystal, and their two figures were clearly lined against the background of shadow—the one like a slender lily, the other like a giant—powerful, majestic, but vile.
With a bow and a polished grace that marked him a man of cities, he bent his head and spoke to her words which revolted my very soul; for, sweet, musical, and poetical as they seemed, I knew them for the world-wide lie by which the basest passion gains its end. The tones of his voice were rich and deep, as he spoke slowly and distinctly.
“I am the one you love; the one you have longed for. You called me and I came. This is the garden where love meets love. The scent of roses is wafted about. Sweet music fills the air. Honeysuckle climbs over the bowers, and the soft beds of moss are full of violets. You hear the birds sing in the dreamy trees; they are saying, ‘I love you! I love you!’ and your bosom throbs with delight, for those are the words of your own pure heart.”
He paused, and by the growing light of the fire I saw her face. It was half raised to his with a wistful expression, and her bosom rose and fell as a sigh escaped her parted lips. Heaven forbid! but, by the cunning suggestion of his words, following the strange effect of the drug, she thought herself standing with Kahikatea in ideal surroundings, listening to his confession of love. The rich voice went on.
“You hear the cascade pour into the shaded pool, leaping and dancing in the sunlight: so rushes your quick blood with strong desire—a wild cascade of love’s delight. Listen! the wind murmurs through the trees: it is your own sweet voice whispering ‘yes’ a thousand times, ‘yes, yes!’ You are all a-tremble with love. Your passion thrills within you like honey and fire. It darts into your eyes like love lightning. All your desires and aspirations, your deep inward purity, your joy of laughter and speech, your power of song, and every intense longing for what is good and beautiful—all are thronging in your bosom to swell the tide of love. Now your eyes are on fire with the intensity of your being. You give yourself to me body and soul—come!”
With horror I saw the truth of his words. Crystal’s hands were clasped over her bosom. She turned to him, and all he had spoken was in her eyes. Her purest prayers were there, the essence of all her music and poetry and rippling laughter, the splendour of her world of dreams and the beauty of her love of beauty—all were there combined in a moment of supreme love and within reach of a devil in angel’s guise. A great wave of horror surged through me as I looked on at this terrible thing, and, if ever I came near to pressing the trigger and sending a bullet through that vile heart it was then. But the words, “You cannot fire!” seemed to have me in a vice, and the torment of an age in hell crowded into my consciousness while I watched.
The vile one looked down at the love he had wrought in his victim. Triumph appeared on his evil face and he gave a low, coarse laugh. He drew nearer to her. His leering lips approached hers; they bore a calm half smile of masterly disdain—a satisfied sneer for all that is good, and pure, and true, and beautiful. His hand touched her waist to draw her towards him. Then, suddenly, even as I gazed with unspeakable agony in my helplessness, a weird thing happened. With a bellow like that of a wild beast in pain, Cazotl sprang erect and threw up his great arms, as if a dart of horror had pierced his vitals. A hideous, awful cry it was that rang out over the plain, as he staggered and fell heavily to the ground, where he writhed and twisted and fought against some master hand which held him down.
Had I fired? No! I was sure of that. Then what had struck him. In a flash it came into my mind that this was the dread makutu, the fierce ancient magic which Ngaraki, the terrible guardian of the temple, was even now hurling at the granite images in the abyss. A profound awe took possession of me as I realised that the ancient curse had found its mark.
My eyes and revolver were still fixed on Cazotl, as his huge form rolled about, his bloodshot eyes starting from his head and his body doubled up as if there were seething pitch within his vitals. His hissings and groanings were terrible. Now and again hoarse cries, like those of a soul in torment, rang out—deep curses in some hellish tongue unknown on earth. And through it all I had a vague side picture of Crystal standing in the same attitude as that in which I had last seen her, and I pictured on her face the entranced longing of pure love, undesecrated by this fiend of lust.
An hour passed, and the gigantic form still rolled and writhed in agony upon the open space about the fire. Once my eyes came on a level with the two slaves sitting over their fire some paces beyond the makutued man. They were fixed like statues in the position in which I had last seen them. When next he tossed and rolled past Grey on the other side of the fire I saw that the latter was fast asleep.
As time passed, my brain began to wander. I saw places that I had seen long ago; I heard the voices of those long since dead. Clear visions held my attention for a moment, then vanished. At length one vision came and displaced all the rest. It was the wall of the abyss, on which glistened the clear light of the moon, which, flooding through the giants’ window, seemed to illumine the whole of the interior of the mountain. I saw, as if behind me, the granite statues smiling up with disdain at the great luminary; I saw Ngaraki lying face downwards upon the floor of the world; but what absorbed all my attention was the wall of the abyss before me. There—oh horror! who or what were those gigantic shadows contending in a deathly struggle? I looked up at the great window to see what cast them. There was nothing there; the bright moonlight flooded in uninterrupted, and yet, upon the wall before me, the two giant figures rocked to and fro in a grim, tremendous battle. The air grew thick and heavy, as if surcharged with some dread power. An awful silence settled down, broken only by a roaring sound as of a mighty wind through the great stone bars. The fury of the combat rose to a pitch of terror. Then from the stifling air went forth a flash of light between the shadowy combatants. A distant cry came out of the gloomy reaches of the abyss—a ghostly voice, like an echo from a bygone age, and one of the shadows reeled and staggered for a moment. Then the fight went on again, and I awoke to find myself following the form of Cazotl with eyes and hand round the edge of the fire.
The moon was now overhead, and I saw the Vile One’s face as he still writhed in agony, unable to rise. His brow was twisted with torment, and great drops rolled from it, but nothing could distort the leering, bloodstained lips from their original expression: they still sneered at all that was good and pure and beautiful. As I watched, his head nearly touched the fire. Another twist and he rolled right across it, his hair and beard frizzling in the flame. When he emerged on the other side his face appeared more than ever like the grey, granite face of the Vile Tohunga.
I cannot quite account for the hours that passed between that and the first light of dawn, but I know that the whole of that time I must have followed the writhing form of the doomed man with my eyes and revolver—the full tether of my muscular ability—for when my mind again cast off its visions I found myself still acting in obedience to his words. Cazotl’s cries were now growing faint, but his quick, hoarse breath, and his still desperate struggles, told that he was wrestling in the throes of a long and agonising death. The full moon, growing pale against the approach of dawn, was just sinking behind the hills. Crystal had sunk upon the ground, where she lay still—a vague outline of white upon the moss to the left of me. These things I saw indirectly, for my eyes were fastened upon Cazotl.
The moon passed down and daylight came, revealing to my horrified gaze a face with eyes that glared and rolled in unspeakable agony, teeth that gnashed in unremitting pain, while the limbs, their force now almost spent, still quivered in merciless torture. The rising sun tipped the hills above. I was aware the light was creeping down towards us. And now there was a brief respite, almost silence, made still more clear by the harsh, monotonous cry of a kiwi in the gloom of the gully behind. The Vile One raised himself upon his hands and knees, and his glaring eyes were fixed upon the form of Crystal sleeping on the moss five paces from him. He seemed to be able to think and act. Struggling to his feet, he stood for a moment, his fingers crooked nervously; his teeth made a grinding sound, and there was hate, revenge, and murder in his eyes. I saw his purpose. He would spring upon that fair form and strangle the life out of it. He staggered towards her, and I felt that even now my bullet would save her—but alas! my body was like dry wood, and all my nerves were non-conductors. I could not press the trigger.
Cazotl stood still as if to steady himself for a spring. But only for a moment. The pallor of death overspread his now hideous face. He raised his hand to his brow as if struck, then reeled, and with a last grating shriek of pain and rage, fell heavily backwards, where he lay extended and motionless. At that moment, even as he was falling, my finger pressed the trigger, and the bullet sped. At that moment, too, as the sunlight flooded down over glistening birch and pine, my body relaxed, and I fell unconscious to the ground.
It was early dawn when I awoke. By the light of the fire, which had evidently been freshly made up, I cast my eyes round the camp scene. Everything was as it should have been. Grey was asleep on the other side of the fire; Crystal was sitting up against a fallen tree trunk, not far from me, in the attitude of one who had dropped asleep while watching, for her cheek was resting on her arm, which was laid along the rough support. Near the other fire I could discern the forms of Te Makawawa and Tiki, while at a little distance the slaves lay huddled up. Was it possible that nothing unusual had happened—that I had merely dreamed a frightful dream? The chief and Tiki had evidently returned in the night, but why was not Crystal rolled in her blanket? I swept my eyes round the open space of the camp, and asked myself what had become of the body of Cazotl, which, in my mind’s eye, I could see so distinctly lying face upwards on the other side of the fire.
I got up and shook myself; then felt for my revolver. It was not in its usual place. I clapped my hand to my chest and found a painful spot where the dart had struck me. Then I knew it was no dream. Stepping quickly to where Crystal was sleeping, I bent down and touched her on the shoulder.
She raised her head, wide awake on the instant.
“What has happened, Miss Grey?” I asked hurriedly.
“A strange thing,” she replied, standing up and facing me; “yesterday morning——”
“Yesterday morning?” I said in surprise; “then I’ve been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours?”
“Yes, and we have been taking it in turns to watch you. It was my turn, but I must have dropped off—forgive me.”
But I was busy wondering how much of the awful occurrence of the night she knew. I said: “Yes, well; yesterday morning——”
“Ah! just at sunrise father and I were awakened by a pistol shot, and I saw you fall to the ground. We both ran to you and found your revolver still smoking in your hand. But we could not rouse you—you seemed to be fast asleep, at least father said that you were, and that there was nothing whatever the matter with you. While he was feeling you all over I looked to see what you had fired at, and oh! Wanaki, I saw a horrible thing. On the other side of the fire a huge man with his clothes all torn, his hair and beard burnt, and his hideous face upturned, lay on the ground. When father had finished examining you, he searched the body of the horrible thing, said it was dead, and that there was a bullet wound right over the heart.”
“Thank God!” I said, for, as she seemed to know nothing of his terrible throes, I would not shock her mind with them.
“Wanaki!” she said, looking earnestly at me, “why did he come, and why did you kill him?”
“Do not ask me why he came?” I answered; “and I shot him for reasons best known to myself.” I turned my head away to say that.
“Don’t be angry with me,” she pleaded. “I have told you many things. I heard Tiki say that he came to steal ‘the little maiden’—he meant me, of course. Is that why you shot him?”
“Oh! Tiki said that, did he?” I asked quickly, and waited for an answer.
“Yes, but Te Makawawa, when he first arrived and saw the huge body, looked at the face a long while, shook his head at what Tiki said, and muttered to himself something about the ancient magic of Ngaraki. Then he walked up and down, gesticulating wildly and singing a chant about Ngaraki the Terrible. He stopped in the middle of it abruptly, walked to where I was standing, scanned my face as if it puzzled him, and, shaking his head, slowly walked away. Now what do you make of it?”
“I don’t make anything of it,” I said shiftily, for I saw that if I was not careful she would drag the whole story from me. “I know the man came and threatened you and I shot him. What have they done with him?”
“Te Makawawa and Tiki and the slaves took him to a mud swamp over there and sank him in it. Then the old chief sang another long, wild chant about Ngaraki, Hinauri, and the Vile Tohungas.”
I saw she was thinking of something at the back of her words as she said this. After a pause she resumed, speaking very slowly: “Do you know that when I looked at the dead man’s face I had a feeling that he was like the man in my dream who cried ‘Degrade the pure one! Whose is the task? Mine! Mine!’ There is something strange in it all, Wanaki.”
My eyes met hers, and we stood looking at each other until at last I said: “Miss Grey; there is something very strange in it; but if I were to attempt to explain it in any way, I should only make it more mysterious. In the meantime we have much to think of. You will probably see your mother to-day.”
At this moment Grey awoke and staggered to his feet yawning.
“Ah! Warnock,” he said, coming towards me; “you’re awake at last. None the worse, eh? By Jove, that was a good shot of yours—right through his heart. What did the fellow want?”
I moved my head towards Crystal and raised my eyebrows.
“Eh? Eh?” he whispered, drawing me aside; “would have drugged her and carried her off, eh?”
I nodded.
“The deuce,” he said, wringing my hand, while he regarded me with an expression of horror on his gentle face. “Thank God you saw him in time. Warnock, my friend! I’m beginning to look upon you as a special Providence.”
The events of that night had so horrified and perplexed me that I could enter on no explanation of them. I preferred to let things explain themselves as they would—as they had, in fact—yet I knew very well that I had not killed Cazotl with my poor bullet; it was his death from another cause that had unbound the spell from my will, and released my trigger finger from obedience to the controlling voice. There was some mysterious power, more unerring than that, which had struck him like the wrath of Heaven. Remembering a part of Ngaraki’s awful cursing chant in the abyss, I moved aside with some excuse to Grey and muttered to myself:
“Cursed in the light, writhe till the sun goes down;
Cursed in the dark, writhe till the sun comes up.”
* * * * *
Impatient at the delay caused by my long sleep, Te Makawawa insisted on an early start, and after a hurried breakfast we set out for the mountain wall on the other side of the plain. The old chief informed me briefly that Ngaraki had left the mountain the morning before at sunrise, and would probably be away for another day. I tried to draw him out upon the mysterious affair of the makutu, but he stopped all further efforts of mine in that direction by the remark: “The flax that ties the tongue of the ariki is not loosened even by the sun”; by which, taken together with an expression of perplexity I had seen several times upon his face, I gathered that something troubled him.
As we passed along I noticed many rough buildings placed by twos and threes near the streams that crossed the plain and sheltered by the various clumps of stunted bush. I overtook the chief and spoke to him again.
“O Chief, whose hair is the snow of Ruahine, these are not the abodes of the ‘children of the mist’ who come hither to snare the kakariki. What then are these houses that strew the plain?”
“It is as I said,” he replied absently. “The tribes are gathering from far and near; Ngaraki has spread a rumour that Hinauri will return shortly, and they are here to do her bidding when she comes.”
“Is there not danger in this?” I asked, for I saw that so warlike a people, led by violent chiefs, would be apt to differ among themselves; or, if not, some false prophet would surely arise and work them up to frenzy with the idea that they were now to drive the pakehas into the sea.
“There is small danger,” he said. “They are gathered for peace; but, if any should stir up among them, my warriors, who are now on the way to this place, will take their heads and restore peace.”
“But some violent chief,” I persisted; “some false prophet will certainly arise, saying he has been commanded by Hinauri in a dream to rouse the people to fight, and they will do it, Te Makawawa—I know the hearts of your people.”
“O Friend of the Forest Tree,” replied the old chief, “your words are not the dry leaves of foolishness scattered by the wind; yet, if it be even as you say, who can stand against Te Makawawa? And, if they should rise as the sands of the sea and cover the whole earth, could they escape the wrath of Ngaraki the Terrible?”
His eyes flashed and I felt answered, for though I smelt war very strongly I could not imagine the aged chief and the fierce Ngaraki on the losing side.
When we reached the Lion Rock that terminated the descending spur, the secluded valley and the stupendous outer wall of the temple were still in deep shadow. Dreamer Grey looked down at the stream welling out of the mountain’s side, then up at the everlasting granite, and finally turned to me.
“You know,” he said, “you know how sometimes you have a kind of vivid impression that you have seen some given thing before—well, that is exactly the feeling I have when I look at these rocks. I wonder if I shall remember as much of my wife’s face.”
I smiled at him as he gazed up at the rocks. “You will have one memory between you,” I said, “or perhaps her face will appeal to you ‘like glimpses of forgotten dreams,’ as Tennyson says.”
He did not answer: he was forecasting his happiness with his eyes fixed upon the mountain wall as if he could see through it. As I turned away to where Crystal was standing, she moved towards me and pointed to the aged chief sitting upon the mossy bank near the rock, buried in deep thought.
“He says that he will soon take us by the ‘way of the fish,’ ” she said; “but that for the present he has long thoughts to think—that the sun will set ’ere long, and that these last moments are for him.”
“He expects to die for revealing the secrets of this mountain to us,” I said. “Do you know, he seems to me like a man who is following some commanding voice, which draws him on and on, even to what he believes to be his death.”
“Yes, he seems to have altered strangely. Even to me he is different. Often he looks at me with those piercing black eyes of his as if there was something he did not understand. At times I think that he doubts if I am the same person that he stole away from my mother in his zeal for Hinauri. Perhaps he still thinks I am a witch.”
“Ah! that reminds me,” I said. “While he is thinking his long thoughts—and I think that perhaps they are stranger than you or I can guess—while he is setting his face to the dying sun I will show you the place where you were not buried fifteen years ago.”
Leaving Grey with an unlighted cigar between his lips, still looking up at the great wall, and the aged chief, sitting motionless on the bank, we turned into the forest glade that led up into the valley and the ravine. When we gained the open space beneath the great rimu, and I showed her the spot where the tohunga had buried the stone, Crystal turned to me with a sudden thought in her face.
“Ah! Wanaki!” she said, touching me on the arm, “may all in us that is base as that coarse stone you have told me about remain buried here in the shadows.”
I was about to reply, but at that moment a dull roar, like the sound of a distant explosion, fell upon my ears.
“What was that?” she asked.
Well I knew what it was. Should I tell her? Why not? She had a right to know.
“It is Kahikatea,” I replied; “he is blasting the rocks high above the mountain wall. He hopes to clear a passage through the rocks to the cave where——”
“Where my mother is,” she broke in eagerly.
“Where Hinauri stands,” I said slowly. “Hinauri, the Daughter of the Dawn, the Bright One who holds her arms out to the future of the world—Hinauri, whom he loves.”
Crystal moved her eyes slightly from mine. Was it a flash of jealousy or only pain that I saw in them as she steadfastly regarded a clump of daisies in the moss?
“He is mine!” she said suddenly, with a fierce blaze of passion that lighted her face as if with fire; “no one can take him from me—oh! what am I saying to you?—you, to whom I owe everything in the world: you, whom I would spare any pain—oh! forgive me, Wanaki!” The sudden fire, which in the depths of her eyes was like a threatening light flashed out of ancient darkness, concealed itself, leaving her face full of tenderness beyond my poor power of words.
I did not speak.
“Tell me,” she said again, swept on by the tide of her feelings, “tell me—if he believed this marble statue would return to life, according to the legend, would he love it in the same way as—as——”
“As I love you?” I suggested.
“Yes—as you—love—me.” She cast her eyes down, halting between the words as if she were measuring their exact meaning and influence upon her.
There was a brief pause, in which I felt like a man who, in some underground prison, can see daylight through a far small opening, and stumbles towards it. But it was no time for any but a fool to stand and think.
“Yes,” I said; “there is a personal element in his love for this legendary woman. Her face is the only face in the world for him, and he longs to look upon the fair form of the Bright One. When at last he does so, and touches the cold marble lips with his——”
I paused there with my eyes searching her face. My words had roused the natural woman in her. Between her parted lips I saw the pearly teeth set, as the colour fled from her cheeks. Clenching her hands, she turned to me with flashing eyes that had robbed her face of life, but not of a beauty that now was terrible in its anger.
“Do not tell me any more,” she said. “Oh! if my love should come to a blind end!” She drooped her head and was silent, mightily troubled in her bosom.
“What would you do?” I asked quietly.
She looked up and faced me calmly, but did not speak.
“Crystal,” I cried, seizing her hand and pressing it passionately to my lips, “may I hope that if—if——”
“Ah! Wanaki,” she said slowly and sadly, “I owe you everything in the world. I do not know what a woman will do. I never knew till now that it was possible I should feel as I have felt. Oh! tell me—is Hinauri so very beautiful?”
“They call her the Rival of the Dawn,” I said, releasing her hand as she drew it away.
“The Rival of the Dawn,” she echoed with a pathetic ring in her voice; “Kahikatea loves the Rival of the Dawn; I, who am nothing in his eyes, love Kahikatea; and you——”
“Yes, I, who am nothing in your eyes, love you.”
There was a pause, in which the west wind pressed gently against the bosom of the rimu, and the tui sang on in the high solitude of the ravine.
“That you are nothing in my eyes is not quite true, Wanaki,” she said softly; “but at present I cannot say how false it is. Let us go back and see if Te Makawawa has finished his long thoughts.”
We retraced our steps for the most part in silence, and as we went I felt that perhaps—who knew?—there would be a daybreak to my darkness. I read into her words the possibility that she might give me some of the love that Kahikatea would most certainly thrust aside without ever dreaming of its existence.
When we reached the open space about the stream Te Makawawa was still sitting there on the bank with his head bowed. Dreamer Grey, on catching sight of us, threw away his unlighted cigar and came to meet us.
“I am the most patient of men,” he said, “but—I suppose the old chief there knows what he’s about.”
“We can do nothing but wait,” I said, and we all sat down on the mossy sward to do so.
But we had not to wait long, for presently the chief started to his feet and began striding rapidly up and down the bank. His head was erect, his step was firm, and but for his grey hair and aged face one would have said he had not grown old. His pace quickened to a run. He stopped and performed an imaginary fight with the empty air, thrusting with his spear and shouting battle cries as he had done in his early years. Then he dashed down his spear with the air of a man whose mind is made up, threw off his outer robe, and, with a short run, plunged from the bank.
We rose from the ground and ran forward to see if the ancient one was really equal to this daring feat. Two, three, four minutes we stood looking at the dark pool, and then Grey said:
“If he hasn’t got through he certainly won’t come up alive now.”
“He must be through,” I said, “he must be through.” But I was getting anxious.
“Look! Look!” cried Crystal; “the water’s growing less; see! it’s sinking—it’s drying up.”
I gave a sigh of relief, for I saw the water was rapidly diminishing, and knew that the old chief had gained the ledge inside, passed round the lake, and pushed the great lever up to stop the flow of the water.
Gradually the surface of the pool sank below the aperture in the mountain wall and, finally, left the way perfectly clear. Grey made a movement as if to climb down and go in through the black opening, but I restrained him.
“We must wait till he returns,” I said. “We can do nothing without him.”
Accordingly we waited with our eyes fixed upon the dark round opening, level with the bed of the channel as to its lower margin, while its upper part was considerably higher than a man’s head. Presently there was a glimmer of light approaching through the darkness of the interior, and then a figure appeared in the aperture, standing erect with a blazing torch in his hand. The sight startled me, for the figure was enveloped in a large war cloak made of dog’s fur, and the whole solemn bearing of the wearer, as he held his torch aloft and stood looking at us, was that of the guardian priest of the ancient temple.
In another moment, however, I recognised Te Makawawa as he might have been eighteen years before, when he first brought Grey and his wife to this strange place. He beckoned to us, and we climbed down the bank as quickly as possible, and hurried along the shingly bed of the channel towards him.
“Speak few words, O pakeha people,” he said solemnly; “but follow in my footsteps.”
He turned and led the way. Grey went first in his wake, Crystal followed, and I came last. When we had gained the level rock above, by means of the rough, but not difficult, niches in the wall, the torchlight shed a fitful glare upon the nearer rim of the great basin, and upon part of the lake. The water, flung up tumultuously in the centre, boiled and effervesced and lapped against the rocky rim on which we stood. Far away at the end of the narrowing gulf could be seen the giants’ window, through which the sunlight streamed like silver, but grew golden as it fell obliquely into the denser darkness of the abyss. The wall of the cavern beyond the lake was lost in gloom, into which I knew the great spar was tapering off to its wooden sprit near the overhanging crags of the vaulted roof.
But we saw these things in a glance, for Te Makawawa passed on along the margin of the lake, bearing his torch, and we followed. He halted at the part of the cavern wall by the lake side, where I had seen Ngaraki’s kit of kumaras ascend by a cord.
“O Friend of the Forest Tree,” he said, drawing me a little aside, “the mysteries of this ancient temple are great and wonderful. I am going by the ‘way of the fish,’ which no man can find without a guide, nor, if he found it, could he pass that way without being taught. Now stand there close to the wall, and hold the mountain lily by the hand, lest she fall in the darkness. I go. And, when you hear the roaring of the sea overhead, and the great god Tangaroa lets loose the flood, then you will know that Te Makawawa has passed in safety, that his end is not yet.”
“And what then, O chief? Do we follow, or will you return?”
“I will let a rope down from above by the wall where you stand. Climb up the rope, O Friend. Then the Man-who-has-forgotten will tie the mountain lily to it, and together we shall draw her up, and let the rope down again for the Man-who-has-forgotten to ascend. Is my word clear?”
“Yes, O Chief,” I replied; “but if you fail, what then?”
“Then my end will have come,” he said, “and the ancient spell I cast over the Man-who-has-forgotten will return to me, his memory of all these years will be blotted out, and his new thought will link on to the old as if it were but yesterday. He will remember all—even the secret of the ‘way of the winged fish,’ for he has passed through it from above. Most clearly he will remember the ‘way of the lizard’ beyond the giants’ window, for by that path did he leave before forgetting the things he knew. Thus, if I perish, you shall escape through him.”
“It is good, O Tohunga,” I said, wondering at his strange words.
He turned and, torch in hand, passed round the lake to the rock behind which, on a former occasion, I had hidden while Ngaraki had plunged from it into the depths. I went back to the spot where Crystal and Grey were standing, close to the wall.
“Let me hold your hand,” I said to Crystal, and explained briefly to them both what strange thing would happen. I found her hand in the darkness, and as I held it in mine even the thought of Kahikatea did not intrude. Thus in silence we watched the movements of the tohunga across the lake. He removed his war-cloak and hung it somewhere in the shadows of the wall. Then he approached the edge of the lake and dipped the end of the torch in the water. The faint hiss reached us over the seething tide, and then there was darkness, in which, as I held Crystal’s warm hand, it seemed to me that we two were alone in space.
A sudden plunge in the lake aroused me; then all was still, except for the ghostly movements of the welling flood. Half a minute went by, in which my thoughts were with the chief who had undertaken I knew not what dangerous task in the depths. Would he fail?
As I asked myself the question my ears detected a change in the sound of the water. The boiling, seething motion ceased gradually, and there was a commotion in the depths of the lake—a commotion conveyed suggestively by a wave rolling round the margin, flapping over as it went, and again by the peculiar sucking sounds of whirling eddies which seemed to close together with little claps of the water here and there.
Ah! there was a sound I could interpret in the darkness. It was made by the water rolling off the sides of some object which had risen above the surface not four yards from us. It was, I knew, the head of the great stone lever in the depths. Then the profound silence which followed was broken by a hollow roar like that of some wild beast pent in a cave within the roof. Louder and louder it grew until, with a booming sound like thunder, the waters gushed from an opening above, and, their forefoam showing vaguely in the darkness, fell with a deafening tumult into the lake. The spray dashed up in our faces and I drew a long breath, for I knew that Te Makawawa had passed by the ‘way of the winged fish.’
Against the din of the cascade I heard Crystal trying to make herself heard.
I raised the hand I was clasping, and, placing her finger and thumb on the lobe of my ear, bent my head towards her.
“He is safe!” she cried, and I felt her warm breath on my cheek. Then she guided my hand to her own ear, and I cried back: “Yes; he will soon let down the rope.”
My hand still retained hers, and as I spoke in her ear a wisp of her hair strayed across my lips. I forgot everything. The roar of the cataract seemed to drown all except my passion, and that overwhelmed me. Suddenly I enclosed her in my arms and, drawing her to me, kissed her wildly on the brow and cheek and lips. For a moment she lay still in my arms, then she pushed herself gently away from me as if she were saying, “I do not know what a woman will do.… I owe you everything, but not this—at least not yet.”
At length, after waiting several minutes, I felt something swing against my shoulder. I stretched out my hand and caught it. It was the rope. When I had shouted the old chief’s directions again in the ears of my companions—that Crystal was to come second and Grey last—I tried my weight on the rope, and, finding it firm, climbed up. It seemed a long way in the darkness, and I was nearly exhausted when at length a hand slid down over the rope and touched me. Another hand found my other wrist and, as I climbed a little further, both gripped me beneath the armpits, raised me over a barrier of rock, and set me on my feet on a level foothold.
“He Pakeha!” said the deep voice of the chief; “is the mountain lily safe?”
“Quite safe,” I replied.
My first thought was to strike a match to see what space there was to move about in. I did so, and found that the old chief and myself were standing on a level platform let into the wall of the cavern. He went into the shadows and returned with a torch, which I lighted from the match, and set in an upright position in a crevice. He then unwound the rope from a rounded knob of rock on the inside of the barrier, and let down a few more yards for Grey to make a kind of swing for Crystal. A rough flax mat protected the rope from the irregularities of the rock, and the barrier itself projected far enough from the wall to enable her to keep clear of it in the ascent.
It was not until, by our united efforts, she was drawn up and stood safely beside us, that I breathed freely. The rope was let down, and Grey came up soon afterwards like an acrobat. Te Makawawa then made a sign to me to draw the rope up again, and, as I was doing so, it resisted my efforts for a moment, as if someone was holding it; however, it came loose, and I thought that perhaps a knot on the end must have caught on some projecting piece of rock. Yet the matter puzzled me a little, especially when I felt the end of the rope soon afterwards and found there was no knot there.
But it was no time for fancies. Te Makawawa took the torch from Crystal, and showed the way into a high tunnel which, as we followed him, led us right into the backbone of the rock, and gradually took the form of a spiral ascent, though I could only guess at this from the somewhat steep grade, and the continual curve to the left. We soon lost the roar of the cataract as we circled up higher and higher into the silent heart of the mountain.
After toiling up in this way for some time we came to a hollow place of many chambers. Here also was a lever-like structure similar to the great spar in the lower part of the cavern, though very much smaller and more delicately fashioned. Upon the arm of the lever I saw, by the light of the torch, some peculiar figures. I drew Te Makawawa’s attention to them and asked him what they signified.
“There is an ancient tradition,” he said doubtfully, “that this stone will be raised when Hinauri returns, and that when it is done all the ways of the temple will be closed; but its secret has been lost. See! the end hangs over an abyss—the secret is hidden in the depths.”
It was balanced on a breast-high ridge of rock, and beyond was a gulf which the light of the torch could not span.
“Remain here, O white people,” said the chief, after we had wondered at this strange contrivance; “wait here in the Place-of-Many-Chambers, and I will go and speak with Miriami, and bring her to you. But,” he added, drawing me aside, “I will say nothing of the little maiden. I cannot face the stars in her eyes.”
Leaving us the torch, he vanished through another tunnel, and left us in this Place-of-Many-Chambers to await his return with the lost Miriam Grey. Crystal stood with her hand on the tapering end of the stone lever, which stretched its arm horizontally into the centre of the chamber in which we stood.
“It would be easy to raise this,” she said. “I wonder that no one of the long line of priests, which you say has guarded the secrets of this place for ages, has had enough curiosity to try it.”
“According to Te Makawawa,” I said, “it seems to be a means of hiding the temple and its secrets for ever when the ancient queen returns, the reason being perhaps that there is immense wealth hidden somewhere here. Let us see what the other end of the lever is like.”
I held the torch over the barrier, and we peered into the gloom. Resting in the hollow of the head of the lever, some little distance out, we discerned a large round stone of many tons in weight, its outline dimly defined against the blackness beyond. Below this yawned a pit, in which the rays of the torch were lost.
“It seems to me like a system of rolling stones,” I said. “If this lever were raised and that stone launched into the gulf below, there is no telling in what way it might carry out some design originated by the founders of this strange place. No doubt there are levers below, balanced in such a way that this stone would move them and liberate other rolling stones, which would run in grooves prepared for them to execute some errand connected with the various openings into the mountain. Why not? Could anything be more gigantic and wonderful in design than the great levers in the cavern below?”
“There were giants in those days,” said Grey, joining us and glancing round as he spoke. “This must all have been hewn out with design. There are six little caves, I have counted them by matchlight, all opening into this larger one, and some of them contain the openings of other tunnels leading goodness knows where.”
Little by little Crystal and her father gravitated towards the opening through which the old chief had disappeared, and by which he was soon to return with the one for whom we had undertaken our journey. Hand in hand they stood together with their eyes fixed on that opening. I placed the torch so that its fitful glare fell upon their now pale faces, and retired into the shadows, where I stood leaning upon the arm of the lever to watch this reunion between husband and wife, between mother and daughter.
The two stood silent and motionless. I saw, by the uncertain light which revealed their faces, that their feelings were too deep for speech; I saw by the nervous clasp of their hands that their suspense was great.
But it came to an end. Grey made a sudden movement and bent his head forward. I knew his ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps. In another moment Te Makawawa issued from the darkness, and, standing aside, folded his arms and remained with his chin on his breast. By the brief glance I caught of his features I saw that his expression was even more troubled and perplexed than before.
Presently in the opening of the tunnel appeared one whom at first glance I took to be a Maori woman of high rank. She was clothed in a rich silky kaitaka, her feet were sandalled, her bare left arm and breast glistened through the masses of dark hair which fell loose about her. As she stood there a moment between the dim light and the darkness, like a tall Maori chieftainess, a leaping flame of the torch showed her face more clearly. It was like the pale face of a madonna, sweet, tender, and good. The high brow, the magnetic-looking eyes, with delicately pencilled eyebrows, gave a look of tremendous artistic and concentrative power to the face; and this power seemed only equalled by the pervading tenderness of her expression. I saw at a glance that this “woman with the stars in her eyes” must without doubt be the remarkable creator of that remarkable work in the marble cave above.
But Dreamer Grey had taken a step towards her and stood gazing at the woman who, it was slowly dawning on him, must be his wife. She drew near to him, at first hesitatingly; then, without passion, but with a ring of great tenderness in her voice, she cried: “My husband!” and, placing her arms about his neck, laid her cheek upon his. Held in each other’s arms, they remained silent for a moment, while, in the shadow near by, Crystal stood watching them with I know not what emotions in her heart, what dawn of joy upon her face.
At last a little cry escaped her: “Mother!”
It came like a note of pathetic music, like the last beat of a long-sustained chord before it is resolved, and all is plain to the listener. Te Makawawa raised his head. A tremor shook some depth of my matter-of-fact being, which had never been touched before. Husband and wife who had found each other lifted their faces at the word, and their eyes met. Grey disengaged one arm, and, stretching it out towards Crystal, said in a voice unsteady with emotion:
“It is our daughter!”
Slowly, and as if she did not understand, the mother turned her face towards the white figure standing near by. In the half light she scanned Crystal’s features. Then she started, giving a quick interjection in the Maori tongue. The hand which had rested on Grey’s neck slid down and clutched his arm. “My daughter? hush! our daughter is dead, dear. Te Makawawa!” she gasped hoarsely, speaking again in his own tongue, “the light! the light! quick!”
Why was she so eager? She knew, or thought she knew, that her child was dead, and yet she was gazing at Crystal’s face like one struck dumb with astonishment.
The chief drew near with the torch and held it up so that its light clearly showed the faces of all. Crystal was holding her arms out to her mother with a yearning look upon her face.