Spanning five centuries, New Zealand: A Novel is a sweeping tale of discovery, destiny, and forbidden love in which the old and new worlds collide. While this novel may not always convey exactly what happened during the discovery and settlement of New Zealand, first by Pacific Islanders and later by Europeans, I believe it captures the spirit of those sometimes romantic, always fascinating and often bloody times. –Lance Morcan (Author)
CHAPTER 5
Hawaiki, Spring, 1301 AD
The morning after the big feast in Hotu’s village, Ronui led Tautira toward the narrow gap in the reef that separated them from the open sea. Around eighty people – passengers and crew – occupied almost every bit of available space on the decks of each canoe.
First places aboard the craft had been allocated to the rangatiras and their extended families. These included Hotu’s wives and their young children aboard Ronui, and Ra’s wives and even younger children aboard Tautira. Some of the children were only babies.
The rangatiras’ extended families accounted for about twenty people on each vessel. Other places had gone to a cross-section of villagers with special skills. High on the list were navigators, sailors, fishermen and boat-builders. Most were fighting men as well. Last but not least were their womenfolk. In some cases children had had to stay behind. They’d be looked after by grandparents and other close relatives.
Hotu hadn’t even considered taking his own ageing parents, so frail were they. Besides, they considered themselves too much a permanent part of Hawaiki to consider leaving. Saying goodbye to them proved an unbearable sadness for the rangatira.
Many of those departing wailed mournfully as they sailed away from their beautiful island. Men chanted to their island gods while their wahines cried out despairingly. Oblivious to their sadness, naked children scampered over the decks. Behind them, Hawaiki’s palm trees swayed in the balmy breeze and the jungle-covered peaks were framed by a tropical blue sky.
On the black sand beach, villagers looked on forlornly as their loved-ones sailed away even though many of them were hoping to depart soon aboard the other seven canoes. Those vessels were now within ten days of completion.
Crewmembers aboard the departing craft were too busy to look back. They worked frantically adjusting the triangular sails in readiness for the open sea beyond the reef. The cries of those ashore faded amidst the constant boom of waves crashing on the reef. Ronui led Tautira through the small gap. In the space of a few heartbeats they were into the open sea.
Aboard Ronui, a thousand different emotions racked Hotu as he eyed the southern horizon. Lost in thought, he rubbed the stub of the extra finger on his right hand. Alongside him, Kafoa emulated his father, rubbing the stub of the extra finger on his left hand, a habit the boy had acquired without even realising it. Behind them, Ra followed aboard Tautira, never more than a stone’s throw astern.
In the weeks ahead, the crews of the two craft would strive to maintain this formation through torrential rain and high winds and every other challenge the sea could throw at them.
#
Spring gave way to summer and the voyagers found themselves at the point of no return – the point reached in every ocean voyage where to continue and not find land meant certain death. Hotu and Ra instinctively knew they had reached that point.
It had been four weeks since they’d set sail for Kupe’s land aboard Ronui and Tautira. In that time, the giant craft had been battered by almost everything except a tidal wave or full-blown cyclone. Still they’d never been more than fifty yards apart, secured to each other by a length of platted twine fashioned from strong jungle vines. Without it they would have been separated very early on in the voyage.
The canoes were barely recognisable as the proud craft they’d once been, such was the terrible hammering they’d received from the elements. Their crews and passengers looked even more pathetic. They were in the early stages of starvation; the signs of malnutrition could already be seen in the children. All on board were cold, wet and tired, and many had developed hacking coughs. The coughing sickness they called it.
The first storm had struck only a week into the voyage, and in that early test of the travellers’ fortitude, two of Tautira’s passengers had been lost, swept overboard. Successive storms claimed another two lives – one from each canoe – and the loss of vital provisions as well. Those provisions included all the pigs and half the dogs. To make matters worse, both craft had been dismasted and the replacement makeshift masts were precariously insecure.
The previous day they had been hit by the tail-end of a cyclone. Fortunately, they missed the worst of it. No Polynesian craft had ever survived the full might of a cyclone at sea. As it was, those aboard Ronui and Tautira barely escaped with their lives. Only quick-thinking by the canoe captains prevented total disaster. As soon as the winds hit, the crews collapsed the masts and semi-collapsed the canoes themselves – a desperate manoeuvre but a life-saving one in those conditions. In their semi-submerged state, the craft became almost impossible to capsize and therefore less likely to sink. When the storm passed they were reassembled so they could once more function as canoes, no mean feat given the task had to be entirely carried out at sea.
This latest catastrophe had seen much of the remaining food being lost overboard, but at least no more lives had been lost. Most of the rats on board appeared to have survived, too. These previously unwelcome stowaways were already being used to supplement the meagre rations.
Still the Hawaikans sailed on – ever southward.
The challenges of recent weeks had not been totally unexpected. Hotu knew, like Kupe before him, they were going against Polynesian seafaring tradition by sailing south. To find Kupe’s land meant sailing across the wind, and, worse, downwind. Thousands of years of Pacific exploration had involved sailing upwind, against the prevailing easterly tradewinds. While sailing upwind was slower, the return journey was always faster. This was a critical factor if sailors were out of food and at the limit of their endurance. Downwind voyages were far more dangerous. Sailors had to be able to judge when to turn back before it was too late.
Hotu realised they may have made a serious error of judgement regarding the weather. Although they’d avoided the worst of the cyclone season, they had not anticipated the cold temperatures they were now experiencing. As they continued south, each day seemed cooler than the last. Their bark cloth breechclouts, mat lava-lavas and ponchos of overlapping ti leaves were not warm enough. Even the dog-skin or feathered cloaks worn by the rangatiras and navigators failed to keep the cold at bay. No-one was to blame for this oversight for this was the first time any Polynesian had willingly ventured this far south since Kupe’s day. Any reports from back then had been long forgotten.
At Hotu’s command, the line connecting the two canoes was shortened to around thirty yards. Their survival could well depend on the flimsy vessels staying together.
#
Aboard Ronui, Hotu and Ra sat staring at each other in silence, each weighed down by the gravity of the decision they had to make. They always met at first light each day to discuss their progress. On this occasion, Ra had crossed over to Hotu’s canoe.
More than a week had elapsed since the storm that caused the near capsize of the two vessels. More deaths – four aboard Tautira and three aboard Ronui – had occurred since then, the meagre food supplies had all but been exhausted and the remaining passengers and crew were starving. Worse, the condition of the canoes, which somehow miraculously remained tethered together, was deteriorating by the day. They wouldn’t survive many more storms.
The rangatiras were only thankful their wives and children were still alive. Even so, the uncertainty each man felt was mirrored in the other’s eyes.
It was Ra who spoke first. “I say we turn back.”
Hotu remained silent.
“We have angered the ocean gods,” Ra continued. “They have been voicing their displeasure since the day we left Hawaiki. If they had wanted us to find land, we would have seen the signs by now… Land birds or driftwood… or something.”
Still Hotu didn’t speak. The big rangatira could hear his friend, but he was listening for another voice. Kupe’s voice. Sometimes, when he needed advice, he imagined he could hear his great ancestor’s spirit talking to him. He desperately wanted to receive a message from Kupe’s spirit today. Unfortunately, all he could hear was the wind in the rigging. Always the wind. Disappointed, he turned his attention back to Ra, resigned to receiving no help from the spirit world. “We must continue to Kupe’s land,” he said at length.
Ra was about to remonstrate, but restrained himself when he saw the determination in his opposite’s eyes.
Hotu continued, “If we had sufficient food and provisions, and if our craft were still seaworthy, I would consider turning back. Look at the state of your canoe,” he said, pointing at Tautira, which trailed close behind Ronui’s stern like a permanent shadow.
Ra looked back at the other vessel. It bobbed along in the moderate seas, perilously low in the water, its foremast barely holding together since the last repair job, and its occupants lolling about listlessly on deck, cold and hungry, clinging to life in the hope they would reach their elusive destination. To supplement their food rations they caught what fish they could, but the quantities were never enough to satisfy their hunger.
“You are right,” Ra said resignedly. “We would not survive the return journey.”
Hotu nodded gravely. “It would take six weeks or more, sailing into the wind, to reach Hawaiki. Our remaining food rations will last a few days at most…”
There was no need to speak further. Both men knew what had to be done. Kupe’s land was still somewhere ahead of them. They had to find it quickly before it was too late.
A feeling of calm descended on Hotu. He felt the pull of the southern land stronger than ever. The feeling gave him renewed confidence. Maybe Kupe’s spirit had communicated with him after all.
#
Ronui and Tautira maintained steady progress as the prevailing winds carried them ever southward. Several days had elapsed since Hotu and Ra made the sobering decision to continue their journey to what could well be the end of the world. In that time temperatures had further dropped, adding to the challenges the surviving voyagers faced – starvation not the least of them. Everyone on board prayed they’d find Kupe’s land before they died of hunger or drowned, or before they reached Earth’s edge.
Storms continued to batter the two canoes every two or three days. Still the craft shadowed each other, never more than thirty yards apart thanks to the makeshift lifeline that had somehow held fast.
At the stern of Ronui, Kafoa sat alongside Hotu who was steering the canoe in order to give the craft’s navigator Rangi some well-deserved sleep. The boy was never far from his father’s side. Despite the risks and hardships facing them all, Kafoa remained in his element, happy to be following in the wake of his great ancestor Kupe. Even in the face of disaster, he could not contain his excitement.
Hotu observed his son with pride as he adjusted the tiller to compensate for a big ocean swell. The rangatira had seen the boy grow in courage and maturity in recent weeks. It saddened him to think he would perish, along with everyone else, if they didn’t find land soon. Apart from half a dozen scrawny dogs and the last of an uninvited colony of rats, the food reserves were almost gone. Survival could now be measured in days.
“Papa,” Kafoa said, interrupting Hotu’s thoughts, “where did our people come from?”
Hotu smiled to himself. His son’s thirst for knowledge constantly amazed him. “Our distant ancestors ventured out of vast lands to the west and –”
“What were these lands called?”
Hotu shrugged. His people had long forgotten their Asian roots.
“Well, what did the people look like?”
“Some say they had yellow skin and slit eyes.”
Kafoa looked incredulous. “Truly, papa?”
Hotu nodded. “Some say it was because they angered the gods who punished them by changing their appearance. As our ancestors travelled eastwards, from island nation to island nation, they pleased the gods who then changed them back to how they used to look.”
“Like we look today?”
Hotu nodded.
“Ah.” Now Kafoa understood.
Hotu explained how their ancestors had become great seafarers, first sailing as far as Samoa and later Hawaiki and then on to Tahiti. “They followed the signs to find new lands.” He looked keenly at his son. “Now it is your turn… Tell me about the signs our great Hawaikan navigators follow at sea.”
Eager to reveal all that he’d learned, Kafoa said, “The stars guide them by night and the sun by day.”
“What if the day is cloudy and the sun is hidden?”
“The sun and stars are not the only signs. There are many others.”
“Tell me about them.”
Kafoa described other signs like the sighting of land birds, the direction of the wind, waves and currents, and how the equatorial current swept west past most Pacific islands – something early voyagers had used to their advantage.
Hotu struggled to conceal how impressed he was by his son’s knowledge. “You did not mention how ocean swells signal the presence of land.” He spoke so gruffly it almost sounded like a rebuke.
Kafoa frowned. “What do the ocean swells show?”
“Within a day’s sailing from land, the swells die down.”
Kafoa considered this for a moment. The seafaring and navigational skills of his people never ceased to amaze him. He would be even more impressed when he learned about the formation of clouds over high islands and how the opalescent colour of lagoons was reflected in those same clouds, which could be seen from far out at sea; and how bright lights flashed backwards and forwards in deep water, pointing to land – a ghostly phenomenon that could be seen up to a day’s sailing from shore, especially on dark, wet nights. But that would be revealed in another discussion on another day. After a short silence, he asked, “Papa, are we going to find Kupe’s land?”
Hotu hesitated for a moment. “Yes, son,” he said with more confidence than he felt.
The boy looked relieved for he believed his father without question. “When?” he persisted.
“Maybe tomorrow,” a grim-faced Hotu murmured as he scanned the southern horizon. “Maybe the next day.”
Satisfied, Kafoa scampered off toward the bow, leaving his father deep in thought.
Now alone at the tiller, Hotu pondered his son’s last question. He was aware that all he could be certain of was if they did not find land soon, they would die.
#
Every day now the Hawaikan voyagers were burying someone at sea. Usually it was the children who succumbed first. Now, as hunger and cold took their toll, more adults were being condemned to a watery grave as well. Already Ronui’s eighty passengers and crew had been reduced to seventy, and Tautira’s human cargo had fared almost as badly.
In the two days since Hotu explained to his son where Hawaikans originally came from, the weather had worsened. The big storm the rangatira had feared hit soon after nightfall and almost without warning. In barely the blink of an eye, the easterly squall which had dogged the voyagers became a howling gale. Again, the capsizing of the canoes was only avoided through the quick actions of their respective crews who expertly dismantled and semi-submerged their craft. Even so, it had been a close-run thing.
Throughout the night, the frightened voyagers had clung to each other as the storm raged about them. Several were swept into the boiling sea and all but one of those were lost.
It was almost inevitable that Ronui and Tautira became separated. Once, when a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the sky, Hotu thought he saw the other canoe on the horizon, but he later realised he might have imagined it. He and his fellow voyagers aboard Ronui would never see the others again.
Dawn and the storm’s passing occurred simultaneously.
In the early morning light, the only sign that Tautira had ever existed was a length of frayed twine trailing in the water behind Ronui.
***
CHAPTER 6
Aboard Ronui, only Hotu remained fully alert as yet another day dawned. He sat at the stern, manning the tiller and scanning the horizon in search of land. Kafoa slept fitfully close by, his head resting on his father’s lap. Their fellow voyagers, who now numbered less than sixty, lay sprawled before them, occupying much of the free space on the craft’s deck. Many were near death and…
NEW ZEALAND: A NOVEL continues next week…
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Morcan Books & Films 