2022-07-24 - Tā Moko

The most northern point of the South Island of New Zealand is Wharariki Beach— o te wairua o nga tangata o te Waipounamu, the place from which the spirits depart. The Ngāti Tūmatakōkiri, the iwi who originally settled about this remote part of the island are gone now, lost in their entirety during the Musket Wars. Perhaps it's that that opened the ārai, that made it whakatīaho. It was only one hundred and fifty years ago, but that history is lost.

The Ngāti Tama, Tui's people, have lived in this region since, protecting this most sacred place. She grew up here, coming in to the first growth of her power as a child on a sheep farm, always within easy reach of the sea that provided her people so much. She knew the call of the wind at Wharariki, knew the voices of the tiramākā as they ventured onwards to their next life.

It's been more than forty years since she lived here, but this place is still hers.

It's Mikaere's, too. Every summer, she brought her children here, to live with their people for a time, while James continued to work back in Auckland. Nikau and Maia pulled away early, preferring the comforts of the city, the loose supervision of their father, but Mikaere, she knew, was more aware of where he'd come from. She'd known he would have power, long before he did. Not Maia, not Nik, but Mikaere, oh yes. Her child, and not so much of his father.

Of course, he'd fallen out of the visits, in his youth, as rugby and girls took precedence in his mind. Laura hadn't encouraged him in it either, and the distance had grown— this, she suspected, was why it had taken so long for him to get to this point.

But he was here, now. He was here.

They sang waiata, first. Waiata tangi, to commemorate those gone before; waiata aroha, to honor each other; waiata koroua, too, to connect themselves to the land and sea and sky.

And then it was time.

Mikaere focused his breathing. He lay, naked, on his belly, his head pillowed upon his hands, and tried to relax— tried, and failed.

And yet— the low-level fear that had been haunting him for days, now, began to dissipate. He took in another deep breath, closed his eyes, and dove into his power. Easy; it was so easy to do it, now, no more complicated than taking that breath.

He could still feel his physical body, now, and hear the waiata, but it came at a distance. Instead, he flew free above his own mental beach, feeling the sun upon his feathers and scales and skin.

The first tap of the uhi threatened to disturb his equanimity, but he rose above it: he was safe, here, flying free amidst the brilliant blue.

It still hurt, but it hurt at a distance, and that was enough. Idly, he found himself wondering how this worked for others: for those with ngākau and tinana, who could not escape their physical bodies to the safety of te pohewa.

(He could hear Tui in his head, see the way she smiled that enigmatic smile of hers: "That is not yours to know, my son.")

At times, the pain lurked far closer to the surface: an exquisite agony that brought the sky closer, and sent him hurtling down towards the waves.

At times it retreated, too, and let him spread his wings wider and further: free and clear.

Later, he lost consciousness altogether.

It was on the third day that he registered that he was no longer alone within te pohewa.

It was a taniwha, he realised, circling above the shark-shaped creature in the waters below.

<< What do you want? >> he demanded.

<< I have a message, >> replied the taniwha, calmly. << And there's a turnaround of events, eh? A message for the messenger, though no doubt you'll carry it on with you too. >>

<< I'm listening. >>

<< Are you? >>

<< Of course I am! >>

<< We shall see. >> The taniwha dove, and as it did, Mikaere found himself doing likewise, abandoning the skies he had been making his own for the world of his own fish tail. Beneath the waves, where the world retreated even further, insulating him from everything.

<< Good, >> said the taniwha, approvingly. << Now. Listen. >>

The days rolled in upon one another.

The pain— instead of getting easier to cope with, it became more difficult. At one point he screamed, tumbling out of te pohewa and getting lost in the agony of it.

Someone— Tui?— put their hand upon his head, and it grounded him: he draw back what power he could find, diving back into his mental landscape, and this time, straight back into the depths of the sea.

And then, finally, it was over.

There was feasting and celebrations, though Mikaere found himself struggling to separate himself from his own mind, still half-lost in the escape that had kept him safe. But there was Tui, placing one hand upon each shoulder, and then pulling him down to her to press a kiss to his forehead.

"Kei te oti te reira. Kei te whakahihi ahau ki a koe, e taku tama."

Yes, he supposed.

It was done.

Did he feel different? He could scarcely tell, at first.

Except— yes. Sometimes, yes. That heightened awareness; that deeper sense of something.

Tui gave him a knowing smile, but said nothing.