Read Online Coiled Snake (The Windstorm Series Book 2) by Katie Robison - Free Book Online
Authors: Katie Robison
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stay.”
“What are those?” I whisper to Paika.
“Meetinghouse and dining hall,” he says. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
We walk toward the meetinghouse. It’s a beautiful wooden building with a peaked roof supported by two pillars on each side. The roof and the pillars are etched with swirling engravings, and a carved figure dons the gable.
“That’s Māui,” Paika says, pointing to the statue. “He landed here after making the voyage from Rangiātea. After sailing around the South Island, he fished up the North Island.”
I stare up at the sculpture, but I can’t see its face.
“Let’s go inside,” Paika says.
Paika and the others take off their shoes outside the meetinghouse, so I do the same. Inside the large room, we’re greeted by more beautiful woodwork, more carvings.
“This is where they hold community events and celebrations,” Paika says in a quiet voice, “and where the members honor their ancestors. Whare tipuna literally means ancestral house.” He points to carved statues along the walls. “These are some of their forebears.”
I look around at the figures staring down on us and remember that Miri said my dad’s job was to decorate meetinghouses—not for the Māori, of course, but for the Rangi. The dark polished wood and the statues’ leering faces close in on me until it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m going back outside,” I say abruptly. I leave the meetinghouse, grab my shoes, and walk out of the marae , across the highway, onto the beach. I sit down on a rock and stare at the gray horizon and foaming waves.
A moment later, Paika sits down next to me. He says nothing, just watches the ocean.
“I don’t like all this talk about family,” I say. “About belonging, knowing your place. I don’t want—” But my voice breaks, and I can’t finish.
“S’all right,” Paika says.
We sit there for a while longer before he asks if I want to go home. I nod, and we get back in the car.
We drive for about twenty minutes in silence. Then I ask, “Why did you take me there?”
“Same reason I knew you wouldn’t run when I gave you the key. You’re looking for answers.”
A guilty flush spreads over my cheeks when I recall how I was tempted to do exactly that.
“Lucky for me, you didn’t,” Paika continues cheerfully. “Miri would have flogged me within an inch of my life. Then Henare would have packed my poor, bloody remains in a box. And burnt it.”
I smile in spite of myself. After another silence, I say, “I don’t get it. Why do you call your meetinghouses whare tipuna ? I thought they were called wakenus. ”
“Ah,” Paika says, “ wakenu is the Kohangaere word for meetinghouse. Whare tipuna is the Māori word.”
“Oh, right.”
“However,” he says, looking at me, “Māori is the closest language to Kohangaere, so many of our words are similar or even the same. Take hongi , for example, the traditional Māori greeting. Pressing your nose and forehead together to exchange the breath of life, create a bond. That’s a direct descendent of honga , that is.”
“Why is Māori the closest language?”
“Because everyone began life on New Zealand.”
I frown. “Everyone?” That’s not what Rye said , I think.
“Yeh. First Parents sent us all down on a cloud, which became this beautiful island.”
I remember Miri saying something about that. But then I think about what Rye told me. “I thought the Rangi came down on the cloud on their own, after the other windwalkers. And that after the war you were exiled here.”
“Who told you that rubbish?” Paika asks.
“Uh … ”
“A Yakone?” He spits out the car window. “They’re liars. Everyone came to Earth at the same time, but most of them left Aotearoa, wanting more space. Only our ancestors remained. They asked the others to stay, to remain close to First Parents, but they refused. So we guarded our sacred land until centuries later humans—who had of course forgotten their
“What are those?” I whisper to Paika.
“Meetinghouse and dining hall,” he says. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
We walk toward the meetinghouse. It’s a beautiful wooden building with a peaked roof supported by two pillars on each side. The roof and the pillars are etched with swirling engravings, and a carved figure dons the gable.
“That’s Māui,” Paika says, pointing to the statue. “He landed here after making the voyage from Rangiātea. After sailing around the South Island, he fished up the North Island.”
I stare up at the sculpture, but I can’t see its face.
“Let’s go inside,” Paika says.
Paika and the others take off their shoes outside the meetinghouse, so I do the same. Inside the large room, we’re greeted by more beautiful woodwork, more carvings.
“This is where they hold community events and celebrations,” Paika says in a quiet voice, “and where the members honor their ancestors. Whare tipuna literally means ancestral house.” He points to carved statues along the walls. “These are some of their forebears.”
I look around at the figures staring down on us and remember that Miri said my dad’s job was to decorate meetinghouses—not for the Māori, of course, but for the Rangi. The dark polished wood and the statues’ leering faces close in on me until it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m going back outside,” I say abruptly. I leave the meetinghouse, grab my shoes, and walk out of the marae , across the highway, onto the beach. I sit down on a rock and stare at the gray horizon and foaming waves.
A moment later, Paika sits down next to me. He says nothing, just watches the ocean.
“I don’t like all this talk about family,” I say. “About belonging, knowing your place. I don’t want—” But my voice breaks, and I can’t finish.
“S’all right,” Paika says.
We sit there for a while longer before he asks if I want to go home. I nod, and we get back in the car.
We drive for about twenty minutes in silence. Then I ask, “Why did you take me there?”
“Same reason I knew you wouldn’t run when I gave you the key. You’re looking for answers.”
A guilty flush spreads over my cheeks when I recall how I was tempted to do exactly that.
“Lucky for me, you didn’t,” Paika continues cheerfully. “Miri would have flogged me within an inch of my life. Then Henare would have packed my poor, bloody remains in a box. And burnt it.”
I smile in spite of myself. After another silence, I say, “I don’t get it. Why do you call your meetinghouses whare tipuna ? I thought they were called wakenus. ”
“Ah,” Paika says, “ wakenu is the Kohangaere word for meetinghouse. Whare tipuna is the Māori word.”
“Oh, right.”
“However,” he says, looking at me, “Māori is the closest language to Kohangaere, so many of our words are similar or even the same. Take hongi , for example, the traditional Māori greeting. Pressing your nose and forehead together to exchange the breath of life, create a bond. That’s a direct descendent of honga , that is.”
“Why is Māori the closest language?”
“Because everyone began life on New Zealand.”
I frown. “Everyone?” That’s not what Rye said , I think.
“Yeh. First Parents sent us all down on a cloud, which became this beautiful island.”
I remember Miri saying something about that. But then I think about what Rye told me. “I thought the Rangi came down on the cloud on their own, after the other windwalkers. And that after the war you were exiled here.”
“Who told you that rubbish?” Paika asks.
“Uh … ”
“A Yakone?” He spits out the car window. “They’re liars. Everyone came to Earth at the same time, but most of them left Aotearoa, wanting more space. Only our ancestors remained. They asked the others to stay, to remain close to First Parents, but they refused. So we guarded our sacred land until centuries later humans—who had of course forgotten their
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