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,
wyrdwind 