He Taniwha!

My upbringing was almost totally devoid of things Māori; it was only later in life that I became keenly interested in, and supportive of, Māori culture and its role in our society. 

My family were regular visitors to the South Coast and I recall one Māori cultural concept being being passed on by my parents: Taniwha.

They pronounced the word with full Pākehā flavour – Tanny-waa – but told me the gurglings of the seas in certain sports on the rocks were the noise of a Taniwha and to be careful. They had little else to offer in elaboration but I picked up two accurate points about the idea of Taniwha: they were associated with places, often with water, and their very existence was a warning.

I now understand more about the traditional and modern use of taniwha as a point of reference in Māori knowledge. A taniwha is a being of power beyond that normally expected who influences human lives and events. A person can be a taniwha – and a select few are so described in life, and more in death as farewell speeches are made about them. If a taniwha is associated with a place it demonstrates that the place has long-held significance for local iwi – it can be said that places are valued not because a taniwha lives there but that a taniwha lives there because the place is valued. Many places are named for the taniwha associated with them, such as the steam Tutaenui which flows through (now under) the parliamentary precinct and the suburb (W)haitaitai.

Taniwha also appear in many proverbial sayings such as that of Tainui: ‘Waikato taniwha rau, he piko he taniwha, he piko he taniwha’ – Waikato of many taniwha (chiefs), at every bend )of the river) there is a taniwha. And ‘Kaua e unu taniwha’ – leave well alone – literally ‘don’t pull the taniwha out of its lair’.

It is certain that there were many taniwha stories about the Southern Bays but few are well known and some may have been lost forever. 

In the last year I have come across two local taniwha stories. One, recorded by the prolific and ethnographer Percy Smith who wrote down, sometimes reliably, what he was told by Māori experts in the 19th century and the other what I take to be an attempt by (probably) a Pākehā writer attempting to capture the essence of taniwha in story-telling. It appeared in the Victoria University magazine Spike in 1934 with its author identified as ‘BAS’. 

Percy Smith’s story appears as an aside in his work History and Traditions of the Maoris of the West Coast North Island of New Zealand Prior to 1840 Published by the Polynesian Society in 1910. It seems vanishingly unlikely that Smith would have invented such a brief paragraph and that therefore it came to him from a Māori source. It is a good story and worth re-telling especially as our communities face the threat if rising seas. Ignre the taniwha at your peril!

In Ngāti-Ira times there dwelt at Ō-te-rongo, between Island Bay and Cape Te Rāwhiti, a famous ngarara, or taniwha, who, however, was not of the man-eating variety. Whenever any traveller lit a fire near its abode, the monster came up from the sea and extinguished the fire and always, directly afterwards, arose a great tonga or south-easter. Such is one of the old-time stories that give an interest to these places when they are known.

The second taniwha story, by ‘BAS’ is intriguing as an example of the lifting of a Māori cultural concept and its re-telling in a Pākehā context – a more literary example of my parents’ taniwha discussions with me. The story’s references to Pariwhero, Red Rocks, don’t seem to be based in any authentic Māori traditions which associate the colour of the rocks with the explorter Kupe, his children, and the shedding of blood. As far as I know BAS’s story has not been republished since 1934.

RED ARE THE ROCKS

They were walking round the coast from Island Bay, had crawled round above the Run-around, and were negotiating Fly Rock Bay. As they scampered across from rock to rock, above the noise of sea, there rose a rattling growl from the throat of the Bay.

"Did you hear that?" roared the Big Brother, waiting for the Small Brother to catch up to him —"Did you hear that growl? That's the tantwha."

"Sez you," riposted the younger brother, breathing with difficulty.

"He always does that," pursued the Big Brother seriously. "When he tries to bring down the passers-by and fails, he always growls like that."

"Well I'll give him one." And the Young Brother hurled a stone full at the white horses capering at the entrance of the bay. A wave was just receding, and immediately there followed that low, malignant yarrrrl, so well known to visitors round the coast. Young Brother dropped his second missile, and looked sheepish as his Big Brother grinned at him.

"Made you jump," observed Big Brother.

"Bah," said Young Brother, half confused, "It's only the stones rattling on the bottom."

They passed from Taniwha's territory into Meston's Bay. There are baches there. "Listen," urged Little Brother, jogging Big Brother's elbow, "Tell us a story with lots of ghosts and taniwhas and things—all creepy. You can."

The "you can" did it. Ten-year-old youngsters know more of the psychology of the adult than any professor knows of children—and capitalise accordingly. Big brother appeared to ponder weightly. At last: "Donkey's years ago," began he, "there was a Māori whare just about where you see those baches now. It was owned by two brothers, Kapi and Roa. Nobody knew why they wanted to live in this desolate spot, but live here they did, and they cultivated roots SQ diligently that very rarely did they have to go back to the settlement for food. But one year they ran short of kumara, and set off to Wellington-proper to work for a few baskets of kumaras. As they were well known though regarded as eccentric, they had no difficulty in getting what they wanted. So they returned to their whare, on the beach where the winds wail all night, and the sea chops down the cliffs with a white mere, and were much astounded to find the bach had gone. Yes, gone!

They gasped. Not a stick, not a straw remained. At first they suspected Māori marauders. Then Kapi found in the sand right by the water a definite hoof-print. With an expression of dread expectancy he pointed it out to Roa. Roa turned white. "Patupairehe!" Kapi nodded vigorously.

Now any sensible Māori would have left the cursed spot as quickly as possible, but not so Kapi and Roa. Did I not say that they were eccentric? They determined to wage war against the fairy folk. Sleeping that night on the bare sand, one keeping watch, they built next morning a new whare, all woven with dry manuka and grass. They prepared a heavy mass of the stuff and laid it down beside the doorway.

When evening came, Roa walked along the beach away from the whare, half carrying, half dragging an effigy he had made of his brother. Kapi stayed under the pile of dry manuka near the door, with his fire pot barely glowing and half buried in the sand.

The moon was chasing along behind the clouds, trying to find a spot, a rift through which it could watch. The wind that always wails at night was sighing gently; the tender wavelets were creaming up the beach, in an effort to escape, and then falling back exhausted right into the mouth of the avid ocean. Roa was lying in the sand half -way up this hill, when both the brothers saw the waters of the bay ripple, and there appeared four patupairehe, fairy folk. Red hair they had, and a white skin; they mounted up the beach on nimble hooves. What a whispering and discussing there was among them when they saw the new whare—Kapi, holding his breath in half-horror heard it all. Then they went inside and began to ransack.

Kapi rammed his firepot into the wall and as Roa came racing down the beach, thrust the pile of brush into the doorway, Roa helped him ram it home.

What cries rose from the throats of the patupairehe as they saw themselves trapped in the burning whare—for the fairy folk are impervious to spear thrust or to blow of club, but fear and detest fire. And as they shrieked, the two foolish brothers capered round the whare, shouting triumph.

Next morning they buried all the ashes, and began to build a new whare a few yards away. And it happened that on the first night they slept in it, Roa, who was a light sleeper, was awakened by the cessation of the wailing of the winds. He arose and looked outside, and saw a curious light. It wavered, and danced, and waxed, and waned in a truly gruesome manner, until Roa, who was a brave man, though foolhardy, shivered with fear, and seized his weapon. "Spirit or man," vowed Roa "we shall meet in battle." And forgetting his recumbent brother, he gave chase. A merry dance did the spirit lead him, over the very roughest and thorniest ground until he was far away from the whare, and then it disappeared. Roa looked in all directions, but saw nothing until he looked toward the whare and there was the light, blazing eerily on the top of it, and forming itself into a hideous face. Roa shouted, remembering Kapi, and charged, but when he reached the whare, the spirit was gone and so was Kapi. He shivered, and revived the fire, and set some coals in the fire-pot. He had an idea he would need them.

By and by he dropped into a half sleep, and was awakened by a strong light shining in the doorway. "Stand back, Taipo," he cried poising the fire-pot," or I throw.'

The Taipo smiled. "I have Kapi. I have come for Roa." And at the feet of the horrified Māori he dropped Kapis hands, his head and his feet.

Seizing a lump of bushy manuka, the Māori lit it at the fire pot, and set off down the beach, driving the Taipo from the doorway with the flaming torch. The Taipo laughed loudly, and followed, walking calmly, flap, flap, flap, although the Māori was running as runs none but an athletic man in extremity of terror. And presently they came to a track between high rocks, where Roa seized more brush and sticks, and built a fire on the rock, lapped as it was by the sea. The Taipo snarled. The lump of brush had been a thing of short duration, but this fire bade fair to last till morning light, when the hour of the spirit world is ended. And Roa, safe behind the security of a blazing fire, laughed once more, and waved aloft a burning branch, and shouted curses.

But once again the Taipo was smiling. Roa watched in dread now, dimly conjecturing. Suddenly: "Taniwha!" roared the Taipo. Immediately the Māori heard the swish and gurgle of the waters behind him. He turned and raised again the fire stick, but the great claw reached blindly out of the ocean, and struck, and the Blood of the Māori splattered and stained the rocks.

So ended Roa, the second of the foolhardy brothers. And to this day the Māoris have called those rocks: "Pariwhero," or rocks of blood. And to this day they are empurpled with the blood of that too-daring Māori."

Young Brother was obviously impressed, but still critical. "There's a hole in that story," he remarked.

"Where abouts?"

Young Brother grinned and lifted his hands in Hebraic gesture. "Produce your rocks."

"Look," said Big Brother.

And just ahead, showing over the rise in the path, like the gory tooth of a waiting sea-monster, was a point of red stone. And beyond it, all the rocks were red.

—BAS.