Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. "War to the Knife;" or, Tangata Maori by Rolf Boldrewood (top 10 novels of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: Rolf Boldrewood
Book online «"War to the Knife;" or, Tangata Maori by Rolf Boldrewood (top 10 novels of all time .txt) 📖». Author Rolf Boldrewood
Next morning Massinger was surprised at Erena's altered expression. Her usually bright and mirthful manner had given way to one of brooding depression; he in vain attempted to rally her.
"Surely you do not accept this natural occurrence as a command from Heaven? What possible connection can it have with the war, which I think unlikely to take place, in spite of Warwick's opinion."
"He knows more than you do," she answered—"possibly more than I myself, though of course the natives talk to me freely. But something tells me, in a manner that I cannot describe, that there will be war. And what the end of it may be for you, for me, for all of us, no mortal can tell."
"But surely it must be short," he answered. "Troops and ships will come from the other colonies—from [Pg 161] England, even—if war is once declared. Then what chance will these misguided natives have?"
"You will see—you will see," she said. "Pray God it may not be so; and, indeed, my father's daughter ought to fear nothing. It is not for myself. No!" she said, raising her head proudly, "if I could die, like the women of old, for my country, for my people, all would be easy. But I see worse things in the future—burning houses, women and children lying dead, the young and old; the settlers driven from their farms, after all their hard work and care; among our people the slaughter of warriors, the chiefs lying dead, the women and children starving! Oh, it is a terrible picture! I dreamed that blood had been shed, that more was to come."
"Why, you must be a prophetess!" said he, still striving to lead her from such dark forebodings. "You have been over-excited. I would not ridicule your ideas for a moment, but, as we can hear and do nothing till we get to Rotorua, suppose we agree to put off the mention of terrible things which may never come to pass, and enjoy what time we have among these lovely terraces."
"After all," she said, as a smile rippled over her expressive countenance, effacing for the moment every trace of depression, "perhaps it is the better way. Life is short at the best, and we need not cloud it more than we can help. We are now close to Tarawera, in some respects the most wonderful place of the whole collection. Isn't there a peculiar grandeur about it? The name means 'burnt cliffs.' Look at the rocky bluffs, shaded by those beautiful pohutus! That is Tarawera Mountain, with a crown of trees. [Pg 162] And see, that is our path that leads to Rotomahana, by the south shore of the lake."
"We have now," said Warwick, "about ten miles to travel before we reach Rotomahana. The path is well marked but steep, and a fair climb."
The famous lake, when reached, was to Massinger somewhat disappointing. It owed nothing to mere extent or picturesque surroundings—a verdant-appearing sheet of water, with marshy shores, surrounded by treeless hills, covered with low-growing fern. But its marvels were strongly in evidence. Its title to distinction rests upon its high temperature and intense, incessant thermal activity. Boiling water on either shore issues from the soil. Pools of hot mud were frequent in the marshes; gas-bubbles in the open lake indicated a higher temperature near certain parts. There it was dangerous to bathe (according to Warwick), though at no great distance the water was merely lukewarm. Springs of various characters abounded, totally different from each other—alkaline, saline, arsenical, sulphurous. The feathered tribes of swimmers and waders, protected by the tribe until the appointed season, were in flocks innumerable, various of size, hue, and habit. The splendid pukeha (Porphyrio melanotus), the graceful torea, or oyster-eater (H�matopus picatus), the beautiful white-necked "paradise" duck, with countless congeners, held high revel, after the manner of their kind.
Here might one fancy that one of great Nature's laboratories had been arrested until its beneficent purpose was fulfilled; that, until the missing cycle of centuries had rolled by, some high and glorious development of the Almighty Hand had been delayed; [Pg 163] that vain man had intruded upon the scene, with his accustomed assurance, before the creative scheme had been declared complete.
As the little group stood on Te Terata, or "tattooed rock," projecting with terraced marble steps into the lake, Massinger held his breath in wonder and admiration while the glories of this unequalled pageantry of the elements broke upon his senses. Earth and air, fire and water, were here represented in strange propinquity and hitherto unknown combinations.
A hundred feet above them, on the slope of the fern-clad hill, they came to a huge boiling caldron, enclosed in a crater with walls forty feet high, open only on the lake side. The basin, spring-fed, is nearly a hundred feet long, and more than half as wide. Brimful was it with translucent water, which, in that snow-white incrustated basin, was of an intense turquoise blue. Cloud-masses of steam, reflecting the lovely colour and confining the view, while enhancing the effect, were pierced with the ceaseless sounds, which are almost cries, of the tormented water. The silicious deposit presented the appearance of a cataract, which, dashing itself over a succession of gradually lowered platforms, has been suddenly turned into stone. The effect has been deliciously rendered by Mr. Domett in his glorious poem, "Ranulph and Amohia"—
[Pg 164]
The silicates deposited from the ever-flowing water had formed on the slope a succession of terraces of purest white imaginable, such as no Parian marble could surpass—delicate, pure, polished as of glass, the lines of tracery like the finest lace, the colouring of a lustre and variety unique and unparalleled.
The system of terraces and basins covered several acres. Centuries, nay �ons, must have been required for the slow accumulation of these exquisite formations. Commencing at the lake with shallow basins, while farther up, the higher terraces, from three to six feet high, are formed by a number of semicircular stages varying in height. Each has a raised margin, from which the slender stalactites hang down upon the lower stage, encircling one or more basins, filled with water of the purest, most resplendent blue. The smaller cups represent so many natural baths, which connoisseurs of the most refined luxury could scarce have equalled—of different size and depth, too, with every degree of temperature.
On reaching the highest terrace, they arrived at an extensive platform, upon which were other basins of temperature equally high.
A rocky island, covered with ferns and lycopodiums, enabled them to view at ease the steaming water of the caldron, and to mark the varying colours and strong effects—the virgin white, the turquoise blue, the vivid green of the surrounding vegetation, the crude red of the bare walls of the crater, with the whirling clouds of steam, the delicate shapes of the pure marble-seeming stalactites, the incrustated branches, with every leaf and twig snow white, all combined in phantasmal, unearthly beauty.
[Pg 165]
"What do you think of my country now?" said Erena, as they stood side by side, gazing at this enchanted scene.
"The most marvellous play of light and colour that my eyes ever rested on," said he. "I shall recall it to my dying day. It is a privilege to have lived through such an experience. Our old friend of the Arabian Nights uses the only forms of description that can approach it."
"I have been here more than once," said Erena, "but I never felt its charm so keenly as on this occasion. My father has a poetic soul and much scientific knowledge; he carefully explained to me its various beauties. But he was of opinion that some day a tremendous convulsion would take place and ruin all these glories for ever."
"What a dreadful idea! I am afraid you must have inherited a turn for prophesying evil. I must confess, however, that these imprisoned fire-spirits, whatever they are, must have very little of the Maori nature in them, if they let us off without a burst up. And now, I suppose, it is 'Hey for Rotorua!'"
"I fear so," said the girl, with a half-sigh. "This fairylike wayfaring is too pleasant to last. We may hear news at Rotorua which will alter your plans."
"My plans are quite unfixed at present; but if war breaks out it is hard to say what one may have to do. I dare say I shall be in the thick of it."
"We must not forget that the pink terrace is yet to be seen, and we may never have another opportunity of seeing it together."
"I feel as if my mind would not contain any more of wonder and admiration, but we dare not [Pg 166] leave any of the wonders of this unearthly region unexplored."
Together, then, leaving Warwick to arrange for an early morning departure, they watched the great fountain of "Otuka-puarangi," on the west side of the lake, discharge his azure overflow into a series of terraces and basins. The fountain sprang from a platform sixty feet above the lake and a hundred yards long. The flooring on the terraces was of a delicate pink hue; hence their name. In the background was the great hot spring, a caldron of forty to fifty feet in diameter, its naked walls, like the first seen, coloured red, white, and yellow. At the foot of the terraces they saw the great solfa-terra Te Whaka-tara-tara.
The three principal personages remained in converse long after the usual time of separation. The night was fine, and the surroundings were foreign to the idea of early repose. The sounds of the fire-breathing agencies, above and below, grew more distinct in the hush of night. An occasional steam jet shooting into the air appeared like an emissary sent to warn of approaching danger.
"I should like to have seen the terraces by night," said Massinger, "but it is not a country for late travelling."
"No, indeed," said Warwick; "a false step, a stumble into the wrong pool, has before now cost a man his life. I once saw a poor dog scalded to death in a moment. I think you will find Rotorua and the Valley of Geysers sufficiently interesting. If you care for Maori legends, you should ask Erena to tell you the tale of her ancestress, the beautiful Hinemoa."
[Pg 167]
"What a pretty name! And was she an ancestress of yours? What did she do to acquire immortality?—for I have heard her name, as a heroine, without being told the legend."
"When we reach Rotorua, I will show you Mokoia, the island to which she swam," said Erena, with a smile. "Also the point Wai-rere-wai on the mainland, from which she started; besides the hot spring which she reached, close to her lover's village. It is a long swim, but I suppose the girls of her day were more accustomed to the water than we are now."
The third day was nearing its close when the little party, having skirted the three-cornered deep blue lake of Taka-tapu, threaded the tangled forests over the Waipa plain, and ascended the bare hills of the range which looks on Rotorua. The lake, gleaming in the sunlight, lay beneath them, with the fumaroles, steam-hammers, and geysers of Whakarewarewa in full blast.
[Pg 168]
It was decided to camp on the border of the lake between the village of Ohinemutu, where the old historic pah, with its grim carven giants of the Wharepuni, looks frowningly down upon the little Roman Catholic chapel. Clouds of steam arose in all directions above them, while the scattered pools exhibited the pervading warmth combined with sulphur fumes.
"We are now on historic ground," said Warwick; "for, without counting Hinemoa—there is her island—all manner of legends abound; some of them horrible enough in all conscience, ghastly to a degree," he continued, gazing across the lake. "Mokoia looks peaceful enough now, with scarcely a hundred people on it all told. Yet what tales those rocks could tell! The island was a grand resort for the tribe in the days before gunpowder. In war-time they could paddle over from this side, and defy any enemy that had arrived on foot. There was no waterway to Rotorua. However, Hongi-ika-kai-tangata taught them a lesson."
"What was that?"
"When the tribe retired there, as usual, they did not [Pg 169] reckon on an unexpected move of the fiercest and most crafty
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