Maori Tales/The Murmur of the Shell

The Murmur of the Shell

Honi was among the young people whose tribe had paid a visit to the tribe of Rau-huia. To be sure, he was an expert wrestler and thrower of the spear, and excelled in all youthful sports; he was also good-looking, and the heart of Rau-huia warmed when she thought of him;—but of what use was all this?—he was her inferior in rank, and would never be allowed to take her as his wife; and besides, he had gone away with his tribe, and had never even told her that he loved her. No; but love has other speech than that of the lips, and his eyes had not been silent.

The kowhai had flowered and fallen, and the white clematis was hanging its garlands in the trees; the shining cuckoo was beginning its call of kui, kui, kui, and the tui was sounding his love-song. All this tingled the heart of Rau-huia, and her eyes grew dim as she thought of Honi. Did he care at all, away there beyond the bush?—She wondered.

She was walking slowly along the beach, the waves washing up shells and broken weed. She saw a rare white shell, and hastened to pick it up; but its lip was broken, and she threw it back into the sea. Again she saw a rare white shell, again picked it up, but it was the same one, and impatiently she again threw it into the sea. A third time the shell was washed up, and she was about to crush it when she seemed to hear a murmur coming from the broken lip. She held it to her ear, and her heart beat faster when she heard the voice of Honi, the voice of her lover.

“Is it true?” she said as she listened; “is it true that he loves me?”

The voice in the shell assured her that it was true; and it urged her, if she loved Honi, to leave her home and come to him, since he might not come to her.

“But I do not know the way,” she objected, as her heart urged her; “I do not know the paths through the bush, do not know where to find him.”

She kept the shell, and all day it murmured, but only to her; all night it murmured, as she lay restless, not knowing what to do.

“She heard the voice of Honi.”

With the light of day came courage; and she thought, “If he could send me word to come to him, he can also direct my feet the way they should go”; and unobserved she slipped away, entering the bush fearlessly, and going on and on.

At mid-day she was still in the bush, light of heart and unafraid. She laughed to hear the tui, making his wise remarks as he sang scraps of song; she chattered in reply to the cheerful whiteheads, moving in noisy flocks about her; she greeted the watchful robins, and mocked the noisy kaka. All were singing or screeching as the sun was dropping to the west; and in the midst of it Rau-huia began to be apprehensive, for the bush was still dense, and there was no pathway to guide her.

Shadows began to creep from the shaded depths; she hurried, but hurrying helped her little, for she stumbled over roots, and fallen boughs, and must go cautiously, and her breast began to sob, more through coming fear than breathlessness. Soon her heart started to hear the mournful cry of a morepork. A dread took her; she was caught by the night in the lonely bush,—and imagination began to people it with terrors.

She reached a more open space, but all around looked dark and forbidding: she could go no further, and tears began to dim her eyes. She crouched on a mound of dry leaves between the roots of a great totara and drew her cloak about her, her ears straining to catch every sound, and the darkening bush was full of them.

She heard a voice,—surely the voice of a maero, the wild man of the woods;—she caught a glimpse of the faint glow of a newly-lit fire. She looked, half in hope and half in fear,—it was no maero, but a traveller like herself.

Who was the stranger?—she shrank back when she thought he might be quite unknown to her;—as well might she have met a maero. But fear of the night urged her nearer and nearer to the fire. She could not see the man’s face; his back was towards her. Fear both urged her on, and held her back. A dry stick cracked under her foot;—the man sprang to his feet, grasping his weapon.

He saw her, seized her, dragged her to the fire. She cowered under his hand. “Who are you?” he asked. The voice was the voice of the shell; she looked up timidly. The fire shone on his face,—her fears melted away, her heart sang, and she answered softly,—“I, Honi!—I am glad it was you who found me.”