father and grandfather walking along a beach not far from the cave. They wore sealskin coats to protect themselves against the biting cold…
Ata was at the rear behind his grandfather. His father was at the front, carrying a rolled-up wooden fence. The brothers were next, each with a basket, a stone adze and a spear; one had a long narrow sack hung round his neck. Both Ata and his grandfather carried coils of rope and a spear.
Ata was nervous. This was his first moa hunt. Yet it could also be his last. There were so few moa left. He could remember only two other hunts; the last had been five years before, long ago enough for him to worry that he would never have one. Now his brothers had seen a moa at the far end of the beach grazing in the sandhills.
After half an hour, they left the sea to climb the first ridge of sand. From the top they could look back to home where the women were preparing for the anticipated feast. Behind the ridge they moved into a flat-bottomed valley with a small shallow lake. In some places the track was completely covered with water and they were forced to detour. Flax was everywhere, often blocking the way.
They were tense in anticipation of the hunt. Every reed broken under foot increased their nervousness.Twice they scared ducks out of the raupo: the birds flew noisily across the lake skidding to a stop on the other side. Ata’s heart was beating as fast as the flapping wings.
They found Ata’s eldest brother lying on a sand ridge at the other side of the lake. He’d been tracking the giant bird.
‘It’s been moving around quite a bit.’
‘Where is it now?’ asked Ata’s father.
‘Grazing at the far side of the flat.’
‘What’s it like over there? Is there any swamp?’
‘A small lake up by the dunes but I don’t think it’s swampy enough. The swamp’s in the next valley. If we can force it over there we should get it.’
Ata’s father was silent for a time. ‘Father, take Ata to the ridge on the far side of the next valley. Ata, you patrol the top of the ridge. Keep it within the valley.’ He touched his son’s arm: ‘Remember, son, it’s more scared of you than you are of it.’ Ata doubted whether that was possible.
Ata and his grandfather set off while his father instructed the others. It was to be a simple U-shaped attack with the swamp at the open end. There would be a man at the top of both ridges, one at the bottom of each ridge and two in the valley. The first task was to drive the bird over the intervening ridge. Ata and his grandfather had to prevent it going any further.
When they reached the top of the first ridge Ata’s grandfather put his hand to his lips for silence. Ata peeped over the top. The bird was down by the lake several hundred metres away. Even at this distance it looked huge, much higher than the flax flowers and almost as high as the cabbage trees.
Quietly they crept across the valley, keeping upwind of the animal. Looking back they saw the others moving into the valley behind them. The moa had its head raised, aware that something was happening. It started moving towards the ridge. Ata and his grandfather ran down the other side and across the valley. Each was determined that he would not be the one to fail: Ata because it was his first test of manhood, and his grandfather out of pride for his great deeds of the past.
The bird quietly moved down the ridge and across the valley floor, stopping every now and then to sense the air. Ata could hear a deep ‘tuk, tuk’ sound coming from the nervous bird.
It was moving in Ata’s direction. Even though it was still fifty metres away, he thrust the spear out, more for his own benefit than to scare the bird. The others moved closer forming a semicircle to force it down the valley into the swamp. The moa saw what was happening and looked for the easiest way out; and that was up the ridge past the boy.
Ata yelled at it waving his spear in the air, but the bird knew there was only one
Ata was at the rear behind his grandfather. His father was at the front, carrying a rolled-up wooden fence. The brothers were next, each with a basket, a stone adze and a spear; one had a long narrow sack hung round his neck. Both Ata and his grandfather carried coils of rope and a spear.
Ata was nervous. This was his first moa hunt. Yet it could also be his last. There were so few moa left. He could remember only two other hunts; the last had been five years before, long ago enough for him to worry that he would never have one. Now his brothers had seen a moa at the far end of the beach grazing in the sandhills.
After half an hour, they left the sea to climb the first ridge of sand. From the top they could look back to home where the women were preparing for the anticipated feast. Behind the ridge they moved into a flat-bottomed valley with a small shallow lake. In some places the track was completely covered with water and they were forced to detour. Flax was everywhere, often blocking the way.
They were tense in anticipation of the hunt. Every reed broken under foot increased their nervousness.Twice they scared ducks out of the raupo: the birds flew noisily across the lake skidding to a stop on the other side. Ata’s heart was beating as fast as the flapping wings.
They found Ata’s eldest brother lying on a sand ridge at the other side of the lake. He’d been tracking the giant bird.
‘It’s been moving around quite a bit.’
‘Where is it now?’ asked Ata’s father.
‘Grazing at the far side of the flat.’
‘What’s it like over there? Is there any swamp?’
‘A small lake up by the dunes but I don’t think it’s swampy enough. The swamp’s in the next valley. If we can force it over there we should get it.’
Ata’s father was silent for a time. ‘Father, take Ata to the ridge on the far side of the next valley. Ata, you patrol the top of the ridge. Keep it within the valley.’ He touched his son’s arm: ‘Remember, son, it’s more scared of you than you are of it.’ Ata doubted whether that was possible.
Ata and his grandfather set off while his father instructed the others. It was to be a simple U-shaped attack with the swamp at the open end. There would be a man at the top of both ridges, one at the bottom of each ridge and two in the valley. The first task was to drive the bird over the intervening ridge. Ata and his grandfather had to prevent it going any further.
When they reached the top of the first ridge Ata’s grandfather put his hand to his lips for silence. Ata peeped over the top. The bird was down by the lake several hundred metres away. Even at this distance it looked huge, much higher than the flax flowers and almost as high as the cabbage trees.
Quietly they crept across the valley, keeping upwind of the animal. Looking back they saw the others moving into the valley behind them. The moa had its head raised, aware that something was happening. It started moving towards the ridge. Ata and his grandfather ran down the other side and across the valley. Each was determined that he would not be the one to fail: Ata because it was his first test of manhood, and his grandfather out of pride for his great deeds of the past.
The bird quietly moved down the ridge and across the valley floor, stopping every now and then to sense the air. Ata could hear a deep ‘tuk, tuk’ sound coming from the nervous bird.
It was moving in Ata’s direction. Even though it was still fifty metres away, he thrust the spear out, more for his own benefit than to scare the bird. The others moved closer forming a semicircle to force it down the valley into the swamp. The moa saw what was happening and looked for the easiest way out; and that was up the ridge past the boy.
Ata yelled at it waving his spear in the air, but the bird knew there was only one
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