Portent

Lyttelton (Bay of the Raupo Reeds), New Zealand

December 1850

High summer. The rich, heady fragrance of the harakeke red flax flower fills the air, the majestic kauri trees bleed sticky, viscous gum from weeping wounds, and the sooty black beech trees attract swarms of industrious bees with intoxicating, honey-scented inducements. A petite native green parrot screeches and calls bossily from his perch in the kowhai tree, his emerald feathers a perfect complement to the bright yellow flowers whilst kereru, the plump native pigeon, preens his iridescent purple and jade plumage from his vantage point in a spiky-headed ti kouka or cabbage tree. From somewhere unseen, the bellbird chimes her musical, lilting tune and a friendly tui answers her back.

Tama crouched down and peeked through the sharp, lance-like leaves of the horeoeka tree, unsure if he were seeing things. Only last night, as the embers of the cooking fires died their slow, orange death, Father had warned him about his propensity for telling tall tales and his penchant for living in his dreams rather than getting on with the serious business of hunting. Tama, sullen and unrepentant, had stared down at his feet whilst his father ranted and his mother silently entreated him with imploring brown eyes to pay attention.

After a restless night spent tossing and turning, running towards and then away from wisps of barely snatched dreams, Tama made up his mind. Early this morning, as the sun made her drowsy pink and yellow entry into another new day, he crept away from the huts intent on proving himself. He knew his dreamy ways disappointed his father, a brave and much honored warrior, but Tama’s character was woven of very different materials than that of his father. Since birth, Tama had favored his mother’s attributes, echoing her introspective nature and her genial, accepting approach to the challenges of life. Besides, it wasn’t as if Tama had any control over his dreams. They were just there, waiting for him whenever he slipped into the warm, affectionate arms of sleep.

However, he now had a plan that would prove his merit and reignite his father’s pride in his oldest son. This morning, before Father awoke, Tama would hunt and capture the elusive and shy kakapo, a bird whose feathers were much revered for the pleasing softness of their texture and the magnificience of their colour. He would proudly take his catch back to the whare, modestly brushing off the admiring cries and exclamations of his peers. Mother’s clever fingers would weave the kakapo feathers into a cloak for Father to wear and he would always have with him a reminder of his son Tama’s fine, unrivaled abilities as a hunter.

Tama winced as the piercing thorn of a matagouri bush stabbed through the sole of his bare foot. He irritably pulled the vicious prickle from his tender flesh, his eyes still fixed on the azure blue of the bay. This viewpoint generally allowed a panoramic view of the serene waters, the indigo and fawn hills, and Awaroa, the headland guarding the entrance to the harbor. However, today there was more. Today the pale-skinned strangers had arrived in their giant ships, their wakas as large as mountains with decks adorned with oddly white foliaged trees, just as his dreams had warned him. He could see three of the wakas already, trailing into the bay as if they were a row of ducklings on the languidly flowing Opawaho River, but his dreams had told him that a total of four wakas would make landfall and bring with them changes never before anticipated.

He glanced back at the hills behind him, hills bearing the name Okete Upoko or Place of the Basket of Heads after the ferocious war once fought on their temperate slopes. Many years ago, Te Rangi Whakaputa and his savage warriors slaughtered large numbers of the gentle local tribespeople and adorned the hillside with the horror-stricken, decapitated heads of their captives as a warning to others of his mighty power. Tama shivered, feeling the ghosts of long dead warriors, war-like and merciless, crouched alongside him as the great ships drew closer. He needed to warn the others. Too many of his people had already died here and too many drops of his ancestors’ blood mingled with the loamy soil beneath his feet.

His heart beating as loud as the Ngai Tahu warriors’ war cries in his ears, Tama turned and pushed his way back through the clumps of scratchy, feathery ferns, intent on finding his father. This was his chance. He could warn his fellow tribesmen, allowing them time to prepare for the intruders and in doing so, he would regain his father’s respect. Propelled by the urgency of his mission, his feet given wings by the whispers of the ancient ones, Tama jumped over the fallen, rotted remains of a totara log and broke into a run.

The End