>>1985126 She was Maori, she had a ta-moko on her chin and green-stone earrings, and was beautiful in a way that I haven’t seen a woman look like in the real world. The Chief helped his wife from the canoe. The whole thing was very dignified.
Then I was again looking at the sky, and on the river were two groups of figures fighting.
Next I was again looking through that same figures eyes. I do not know how I know it was the same man. I could smell blood. There had been a battle on the river with people who were clearly Maori, and while the Maori had been defeated the tribe had also lost men. I was in a group of the red-headed tribesmen assembled at the house of the Chief, they were angry and gesturing to his Maori wife, who the Chief then relented and turned on. She looked very young then when the tribe of red-haired men came in on her.
Then the memories shift to being back looking at the sky. Now above the image of the river is the silhouette of Mount Pohaturoa, looking like a tombstone. And then from the
peripheries of the horizon blackness began to seep in in the shapes of hundreds of men with spears, and the smoky red sky surrounding the mountain was then alive like it was on fire. There was the sensation that everything was throbbing with the beat of drums.
Once again in the perspective of the tribesman, the drumming was as loud as if it was behind me, and I was climbing that steep gully up the side of the mountain just like I had before, only now my arms were brown and I was surrounded by other fleeing people all scrambling up the mountainside as something chased us. There was a heavy smell of smoke. Even recalling that memory my heart speeds up a bit.
