wyrdwind

Once was a great chief

there at Ōwhata along the shores

of Lake Rotorua, back when

the forest was vast and people fewer.

He held important meetings of the tribe

who traveled from all around,

and certainly every young man of rank

contended for his beautiful daughter’s hand.

A Māori was marked first with their lineage,

seniority within this, power and sacredness,

status may be marginally increased

through such means as leadership, bravery,

generosity and craft.

Men’s pedigree made quite plain, still,

all of these suitors summarily rejected.

From a small island far away,

in the center of that lake,

Tūtānekai came. Though he be

of good family, he had low rank,

declined to participate and yet

feats upon feats attained, a man possessed

from the very first glance. His heart winged

in pursuit of the deep waters

of Hinemoa’s eyes. He simply couldn’t resist,

as sure as the Pāpango must dive,

and like the Pūtangitangi stately and fine

would mate for life.

Knew his mate on sight.

It was hopeless.

He let it all out with his instrument,

a poet’s wind in his flute and well,

he bore the marks of that too.

Sensitive swirls upon muscle bellies, something

both soft and hard. This man tuned heads.

And yet and yet though he mooned

anguished and content

from afar

for quite some time,

it seemed his glances were returned.

Slowly realized

no wishful trick of the light,

Hinemoa’s carefully swept gaze

made her interest quite plain,

created an intimate space.

Tūtānekai dared

a single message.

Who knows what it said.

Until this point,

the pair had both been too shy.

She replied,

“Have we each then

loved alike?”

He wasted no time,

made good on all those years

they pined,

bid she join with him

on Mokoia Island, his home,

for though it was small

it was lush and free

from predators. So very many

birds, imagine the cloaks

sleek, shimmering, vibrant and warm.

He would take care of her.

Hinemoa promised

she would go.

At night, he told her,

listen for my flute. It is I,

come in your canoe.

She would seek him

under cover of darkness,

against her tribe’s wishes.

That chief didn’t miss a thing,

wasn’t born yesterday, had a sense

of her plans.

Her tribe pulled all the canoes back.

And every night Hinemoa wept

bitter black

as her love played on, her song,

heart hurled against the bars

of her ribs, she wished to join in,

did he wonder why

she hadn’t come? Think himself

spurned? Unwanted after all? She would go,

she would go, she would go.

Where she belonged.

Hinemoa didn’t give up.

She snuck off

and strapped gourds to herself.

How great could be this distance?

She would simply swim,

walked into the dark water

met by dark horizon

and listened.

The lake was very cold

and very deep, seemed endless.

She grew tired

and scared, the gourds chaffed.

Still he played.

And she swam.

Only the tenuous curling notes

of their promise to navigate by.

There was no turning back.

The shore at last.

Wracked with shivers

she shed her sodden clothes, sore,

and sought a volcanic pool. Warmth.

The moon from behind clouds,

she awaited his song once more.

Instead, a slave came down

to fetch Tūtānekai some water,

parched from the wooing of her.

She hid and called out in a man’s voice,

who goes there? Give me that gourd.

He complied. She drank and shattered it.

The slave returned empty handed.

Baffled, Tūtānekai sent him back.

She did it again.

Now he was pissed,

marched to that pool square,

ready to beat some naked man’s ass.

Hinemoa hid

as he grasped about the bushes

all come on out and get your whoopins,

oh ho what’s this?

A woman’s wrist.

She slipped out, now bathed

in crepuscular rays, it is I.

Hinemoa.

Striking as the white hawk,

gracefully wading as the crane,

bare before him, abrasions soothed

in the moonlight.

He ceased to function

for several minutes.

The he wrapped her in his cloak,

his hand beneath hers leading

through dense wood

towards his village. Home.

Past the threshold at last

and well

that’s all that was required then

to be man and wife.

Slow and careful, a secret

between them, quiet,

he made her properly warm.

The gig was up come morning

as he never slept in so late,

indeed usually the first to wake,

his father sent a slave and spied

not one

but two pairs of feet, family is nosy,

announced to the whole village

who looked on with gaping disbelief

as Tūtānekai emerged with Hinemoa beside him.

Oh this was sure to cause an incident,

but that’s a story for another time.

Of course, their descendants

inhabit Mokoia to this day,