Once, where trailing fingers of marran grass now cling to the crests of the sandhills, there were gardens. Broad swards of rich black soil bulged  with the flourishing taro. There were tall stands of manuka too and here and there nearer the sea, a stately pohutukawa, whose gnarled roots grasped the rocks to lean against the easterly gales which sometimes swept the coast.  Then, the sea was as a lake which lapped against a natural sandstone breakwater. For these were the days before tragedy and disaster overtook the small settlement of Māori, who laughed and fished and in season toiled in the gardens from one slow year’s beginning to another.

The beginning of it all, although auspicious in itself left no hint of what was to occur as a result. It happened thus:

Early one morning a lookout stationed upon a raised point near the sea, which lay about three hundred yards from the settlement, awoke the villagers with loud shouts for assistance. Those who arrived first saw him bending over a roughly-hewn canoe, of a strange wood, which was grinding gently against the sandstone in the soft swell of sea. They saw with amazement that a small dark-skinned, pitifully thin girl, clad in a skirt fashioned from plant  fibres lay within, upon a bed of leaves. Beside her was a supply of dried fish. She lay inert, beautiful and fragile.

          Karikari Beach, Northland, with Puheke top right

But the strangest thing of all was the presence of a great white bird which swept upon black tipped wings in wide circles above the excited gathering. They stood in awe, these early superstitious Māori, ducking violently as the bird passed close overhead until Haku, the chief, came puffing onto the scene and thrust himself  to the forefront of the gathering.  Haku, an ageing veteran of many wars and skirmishes quickly glanced at the canoe and its occupant and at the great white bird as it swung past with no other sound other than the rush of air beneath the mighty wings.

A vague, persistent thought kept tugging at some chord in the back of his mind as he watched the bird. The thought suddenly burst into reality. He remembered his father had told him many years ago of his journey from a distant land. Then, such a bird had circled his canoe when he was beset with storm and the people were near to exhaustion and death. He recalled how his father had  vowed it was a spirit come to guide him, for shortly after the bird was gone the seas subsided and following the direction the bird had taken, the voyagers found the haven where the village now stood.  

This then, was a spirit bird, and looking closely at the child,  he knew that the strange canoe which bore her had been sent by the spirits for some reason which he neither understood nor questioned. He knew the child was dangerously ill for he could feel the heat upon her brow and he saw the dampness of her long hair. Haku turned to his people. At his rapid explanation the women wailed with excitement and the men looked apprehensively about them at the sky. Haku ordered the canoe with its occupant to be carried bodily to the village and instructed the women to heat stones and to light the fires necessary to enable the tohunga to read the omens and to restore the failing girl to life.

For days the villagers carried out no work other than was absolutely essential. All efforts were concentrated upon assisting the recovery of the girl. She was fed special potions, the fires were kept burning, the strange chants did not cease and all the while the Tohunga sat, immobile, upon his heels in the dust, staring unblinking  into the canoe which lay in the shade of a specially constructed shelter.

The great bird had landed and also kept vigil by the canoe, occasionally waddling awkwardly about and gulping greedily at what fish he was offered. Seven days later  in the early dawn the girl awoke and her coal black eyes, accentuated now by the pale drawn face, looked confusedly about her until she saw the bird. She uttered a small cry of joy and sat up shakily. She saw that she had been draped in several cloaks and immediately began to pull at them, finally throwing them off. Suddenly she sensed the power of the tohunga's stare and turning, gazed unflinchingly into his eyes. “Karikari” he muttered  “It is good. The omen is one of peace for she shows she carries no weapons.” He rose and stalked off between the huts to his own, and disappeared inside. 

Karikari, as the girl became known, was given into the care of Puheke, Haku's tall and shapely head wife. She was treated as a princess and in due course came to speak the language and to live as did her benefactors - with one vital exception. Every few months the great bird would stumble down to the sea with  Karikari  following. He would plunge into the water, swim out until he felt the breeze under his wings and would begin a long, slow take-off, his great wings beating the sea into foam until he finally became airborne. Then he would complete a wide circle to gain height, sweeping over Karikari’s waving figure before disappearing into the haze.

Every day thereafter, Karikari would wander disconsolately down to the sea and the villagers listened spellbound to the sweet, mournful song which drifted to them as she sang and called to the absent bird. Always, on the seventh day, the bird dropped soundlessly from the heavens and the two made much of each other.

Life continued without any great change and Karikari grew into the most beautiful maiden ever seen. Warriors came from afar to the feasts in her honour and to gaze covetously at her, over their food. Puheke came to idolise Karikari and she in turn loved her foster mother. But not as deeply as she did Piri, the son of Haku and Puheke. Piri was a splendid specimen of a Māori Warrior. He had been blooded in battle and was far ahead of others in wrestling and athletics. He it was who now comforted Karikari when the bird was absent and soon the three of them became inseparable. Now, Karikari, sang for Piri too and they were promised to each other in marriage.

However, Piri had first to prove himself a worthy successor to his father who was now growing old and feeble, and he had decided to endeavour to retrace his grandfather's steps to his ancient homeland which lay many days over the sea towards the hiding place of the sun. Piri led a team of cutters to the forest where he selected the tree for his canoe and not until a whole year had passed did the finished vessel float gracefully at the water's edge awaiting provisioning for the journey. Karikari and Piri spent as much time as possible together, away from the prying eyes of her chaperone. Piri told her of his hopes and of the importance of success and Karikari would rock on her knees in sorrow, her head bowed, as she thought of the time when she would be alone waiting for him to return and make his life with her. She never spoke to Piri of the manner of her coming. They both knew she was a Spirit Princess in earthly form. They had learned this from the Tohunga and believed him implicitly. “You must take the bird, Piri,” she said  one day as they sat at the edge of the sea. “He will guide you and guard you." Piri was secretly tremendously relieved but he endeavoured to dissuade her as she would be even more lonely with neither he nor the bird.  “Ah Piri” Karikari whispered “Rangiputa, I have escaped from Heaven to a place made more beautiful by our love. As no one ever wishes to escape from Heaven you must know what you mean to me. Only to you do I give this bird, for without him I cannot live for long. He will return to me when he must, so I beg you watch him always and when he turns, turn also. Remember he is my Keeper and I, his.”

The chaperone was later to tell of this conversation and was never to forget that she had learned the secret of Karikari.

In due course the canoe was provisioned. Karikari and Piri were allowed only formal farewells and amidst shouting, waving and chanting, the canoe drew way from the shore, clusters of flowers rolling in her wake. No one had noticed that the great bird was already aloft until it swept in from the sea and circled Karikari’s lone figure on the point. The villagers heard her shrill cry and the bird swung away and hung over the canoe.

Thus Piri departed into the north-east. The days grew into long months. Karikari spent her time as before, singing to the waters and the sky and when she could no longer see because of the gathering dusk, she returned to the village and talked with Puheke of her love and her dreams. Daily, Karikari became thinner and more drawn, her songs were now hardly audible and almost indistinguishable from the singing of the sea. There came the day when she whispered that they were coming and she asked that a feast be prepared in their honour. There was great rejoicing and much dancing until late into the night. But shortly after midnight the wind started to moan and blow strongly off the shore.

By dawn the wind was a full gale. Dark clouds hid the sun and Karikari asked to be carried to the shore to watch for their coming. The gale continued all day as she searched sea and sky with failing eyes. Just on dusk, the great bird emerged from the murk. He levelled  off and began to turn for his usual sweep over the shore, then watchers saw him stagger in mid air and plunge earthwards to land in a heap almost at Karikari's feet. She dragged herself to him and cushioned his bedraggled head upon her lap, crooning softly to him. Those who were near saw his last twitching as  he died  and then they hurried away. Only Puheke remained to plead with Karikari to be carried to her hut, but to no avail. "They are both dead" she whispered,  “I must go to join them, Puheke, I am going whence I came, but first I would ask you to do two things for me. "The first is this. Tell the men to carry my canoe to the water's edge and to lay me and the bird in it. Then they must push the, canoe into the sea where my father awaits me. The second is this. Let no one leave his hut until daybreak, for strange things will happen in night.  I will make this a place where Piri’s Spirit and mine can always rest, a place of peace and tranquillity. Remember Puheke, do not allow anyone to leave his hut." The two embraced, weeping softly. After a time Puheke ran sobbing to the village and gave her instructions. 

But Puheke's grief was so great that after her three remaining sons had pushed off the canoe bearing the dying Karikari and the dead bird into the darkness, she ordered them to launch another canoe and to follow, so that when Karikari was dead she could be brought back to be laid in a sacred place and forever honoured. She herself went to the edge of the sea and on hands and knees, wept bitterly, calling to Karikari to return.

The villagers shortly afterwards cowered in terror as lightning tore at  the sky and there came a great roaring  and rumbling to their ears. The ground rolled and shook and then all was still, save for a new and unusual sound like a rushing of water over great boulders.

In the morning the villagers emerged into the dazzling sunlight of a clear new day. They stared about them in utter amazement. Where at dusk there had been gardens and grass, now was a gently sloping expanse of white  sand which stretched a great distance in the shape of a huge crescent. At either end of the curve were headlands like arms outstretched to receive.

The rushing sound was made by the sea, which, instead of lapping the shore, now tumbled to the sands in a confusion of waves, one following the other. Of Karikari, the bird, Puheke and her three sons, there was no sign. But at one end of the headland there was a tall new hill, shaped like a woman crouched in prayer. Upon the horizon there were three new islands shaped like warriors floating upon a calm sea  and upon the edge of the waves was a solitary rock shaped very like a small canoe - Karikari's canoe!

And so to this day, the waves tumble and dance in the sunlight like liquid fire, flinging upon the white sands their offerings of coloured shells, coral and sponges, whilst at the foot of the rocks where Puheke kneels in prayer, they throw up a constant veil of white spume so that  although, if one listens at her feet one can hear the trickling of her tears forever flowing from a distance. Sometimes upon a still night, even now, if one listens very, very carefully the soft voice of Karikari can be heard as she sings to Piri of her love for him, whilst from the heavens comes the distant beat of mighty winds thrusting the dark skies. □