Part One
NEW HORIZONS
*
CHAPTER 1
Hawaiki, Autumn, 1300 AD
Kafoa snuggled close to his father as Hotu and the rangatiras of the other villages of Nuku Hiva, together with tribal elders from his own village, continued debating through the night. They sat outside around a roaring campfire midway between the beach and the village meeting house, which had been rebuilt since the invasion of the previous year. Collectively, the forty or so men present represented the fifty thousand residents who occupied the numerous settlements scattered throughout Hawaiki’s largest island.
The campfire’s soft glow lit up Hotu’s strong features as he spoke. “We either go or we perish!” the big rangatira said, scooping up a live gecko and throwing it onto the fire to emphasise his point. The lizard-like creature, which had made the fatal mistake of walking over Hotu’s bare foot, instantly shrivelled in the flames. “Every year we grow weaker while the Dogfaces grow stronger.” This time he spat into the fire. His spittle sizzled for an instant.
A tense silence settled over the meeting. This was the third time the rangatiras and elders had met since the last raid. In that time, Hotu’s village had been rebuilt, the only obvious legacy of the invasion being the reduced number of villagers – warriors in particular – and the extra graves in the sacred burial ground close by. Although the raiders had bypassed other villages on that occasion, most had been invaded before, and, as everyone knew full well, the risk of future invasion was very real. Even so, Hotu found there was little sympathy for his views in the ongoing debate. He reminded them of his ancestor Kupe’s discovery of a new land far to the south, but even that fell flat.
The purpose of these interminable meetings was to come up with a solution to the age-old problem of invasion by the Hawaikans’ enemies. Unfortunately, this meeting was going the same way as the others. Kafoa sensed it would likely end in total disagreement and everyone would stomp off, highly disgruntled, before repeating the process in another round of debates at some later date.
Irimia, the host village’s senior priest and its oldest resident, stood to speak. The effort of standing was almost too much for him, and his bandy legs shook as he directed his comments at Hotu. “The brave exploits of the great Kupe are not in doubt,” he rasped. “Nor is the fact that he returned to our island to tell of his discovery.”
Those who considered Kupe’s discovery of a new land to be nothing more than a myth shook their heads in silent disagreement.
“If Kupe…” A coughing fit interrupted the old man’s discourse. Irimia’s listeners waited respectfully until he recovered his breath. “If Kupe did discover land to the south, where is it and how would we find it?” the priest asked.
“Exactly!” exclaimed Ra, one of Hawaiki’s most respected rangatiras, and, as it happened, a close friend and ally of Hotu’s. Unfortunately, on this matter, the two friends were not in agreement. “Even if the land exists,” Ra argued, “it would be like looking for a tadpole in an ocean.”
Others murmured their assent.
Ra, whose muscular, tattooed body bore the scars of past battles, turned to face Hotu squarely. “How would you find this land of Kupe’s, my friend?”
All eyes turned to Hotu.
“I would do what our ancestors did,” the host rangatira said. “I would follow the signs.” He reminded everyone of their great heritage, of their seafaring ancestors who, four thousand years earlier, had left a land mass somewhere to the north and west of Hawaiki, and progressively populated the islands of the South Pacific.
Just as Hotu had done when he was young, Kafoa soaked up these stories of his people’s magnificent past. He never tired of hearing about the daring explorers whose skilled crews island-hopped from islands far to the west all the way to Hawaiki in the east, Hawaii in the north and Tahiti in the south, sometimes travelling many hundreds of miles in their voyaging canoes.
In particular, Kafoa loved to hear about Kupe. He was the bravest of them all, and, most importantly, the boy was directly descended from him. This was a great source of pride to him and his entire family – indeed to all who shared the belief that the explorer had discovered a distant land. Through a wonderful feat of memory, his father could recite his lengthy genealogy from Kupe right down the blood-lines to the present day. Kafoa vowed he’d be able to do the same one day. His father’s voice brought him back to the present.
“Deep down, every one of us here knows Kupe’s land exists!” Hotu challenged his fellow warriors. “If he was able to find it then so can we.”
His supporters nodded in agreement. Others murmured their dissent and some voiced their doubts.
“We could all perish trying to prove what you say is true!” Ra shouted. His supporters concurred. “We do not know how many times the sun rises and sets before the migrating cuckoos find land. It could be located at the end of the world for all we know!”
Now the support for Ra’s viewpoint became more vocal. Much shouting and fist-waving followed. Kafoa wasn’t alarmed. It always happened at these meetings.
Hotu leaped to his feet and called for silence. As the host and one of Hawaiki’s most celebrated rangatiras, his words carried weight. Silence descended on the meeting as Hotu paced before them. The others could sense his frustration building. The silence dragged on. No-one dared break it. Hotu’s bulky presence commanded respect from friend and foe alike. Now, as he prepared to speak, he raised himself up to his full imposing height. As he glared at his seated audience, even Kafoa shrank back before the onslaught that followed.
“Why do we argue?” Hotu cajolled them. It was more of a challenge than a question. “The Dogfaces keep returning and we keep arguing among ourselves. They must find that amusing. No wonder they have no fear of us!” He paused to let his scathing words have the desired effect. “Every time the Dogfaces come they kill our people, burn our villages and take our crops. They even steal our wahines!” He paused again, letting his last words sink in.
Everyone present was aware the rangatira’s young daughter had been abducted some years earlier. Those whose wives, sisters or daughters had been taken by the raiders, stirred angrily.
Hotu lowered his voice. “We know the Dogfaces will return. It is ordained.”
His audience nodded as one.
“We know also we are not strong enough to withstand their onslaughts. And we know our island can no longer sustain us.”
Again there was common agreement. With each passing season Hawaiki’s over-exploited soils became less fertile and yielded less food for its ever-growing population. The previous summer, and the one before that, had seen widespread crop failures and poor fishing as well, and many had gone hungry.
It was Irimia, the priest, who dared to speak next. “Great rangatira, we know what you say is true, but this island is the only home we know,” the old man reasoned. “We have survived crop failures and enemy raids before, and we will do so again. Hawaiki is the land of our ancestors. Their spirits live here. We are not like the cuckoos. We cannot fly away.”
Irimia’s words rallied the dissenters and once again the meeting disintegrated into a shouting match.
Just as Hotu feared, the debate ended as had the others before it. Everyone agreed to disagree and part company until the next time. The frustrated rangatira picked up his now-sleeping son and walked dejectedly back to his bure.
Kafoa awoke almost immediately, but sensing his father’s black mood he remained silent. He wasn’t to know that despite the meeting’s outcome, Hotu had made a decision – a decision that wouldn’t sit well with everyone.
As the rangatira often did, he sought solace in the arms of his youngest wife, and, as Kafoa often did, he listened to the sounds of their love-making in the darkness of their bure. In his dreamy state, the boy didn’t know what to make of the groans and other sounds that disturbed the silence, but somehow they comforted him and quickly lulled him to sleep.
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The sounds grew louder. Kafoa was drawn out of his bure and into the jungle by the distant ringing of stone axes chopping into wood. As he drew closer, he recognised his father’s voice. Stepping into a clearing, he saw Hotu and two other men chopping down a tree so high it towered above all other trees on the island.
“Papa!” the boy voiced his alarm. “What are you doing? Why are you chopping down that tree?” For as long as he could remember he and his friends had climbed this particular tree for the panoramic views it afforded.
Hotu’s face creased into a grin when he saw his son. He lifted him up and sat him on the branch of a nearby breadfruit tree so their faces were level. Adopting a grave expression, he asked, “Can you keep a secret?”
Matching his father’s conspiring tone, Kafoa confirmed he could.
Hotu continued, “You have seen the cuckoos that fly south from our island every spring.”
The boy nodded.
“Well, your ancestor Kupe saw them, too. He knew they were land birds and would only leave Hawaiki if there was land waiting for them at journey’s end.”
Kafoa’s keen mind quickly registered what his father was getting at. “Are we going to follow the cuckoos like Kupe did, papa?”
“Yes, son,” Hotu smiled. “Just like Kupe did.”
***
CHAPTER 2
Hawaiki, Winter, 1300 AD
Hotu’s twin-hulled canoe was the biggest of all the double voyaging canoes ever seen in Hawaiki – bigger even than the giant catamarans favoured by their enemies…
NOVEL CONTINUES NEXT WEEK…
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Morcan Books & Films 