way of escape. Without warning it started to run directly at him. Ata yelled as loudly as he could. Abruptly the bird stopped and stared defiantly down at the boy. Ata jabbed the spear at its breast. The moa’s right foot slashed through the air catching Ata’s arm with its sharp claws. He screamed in pain, desperately throwing his spear as he fell. The spear touched the giant bird in the eye before falling to the ground.
The moa was not badly injured but just enough to make it panic. It turned and ran down the hill towardsthe swamp. The rest of the hunters closed in, shouting and waving their spears. Without pausing it ran into the swamp and in ten strides it could move no further. Slowly, it sank until its legs were trapped in the mud. The hunt was over; all that remained was the kill.
Two of the brothers ran back for the gear that had been left at the bottom of the middle ridge. Their grandfather tended to Ata. The boy had been lucky, suffering only a gash down his left forearm. There would be no permanent damage, except for a scar that he could use to skite about his adventures. By the time his brothers returned he was back on his feet with the wound covered in toetoe plumes bound with flax.
Ata’s father removed the tie from the rolled-up wooden fence. Standing near the edge of the swamp he skilfully flicked his arms, unrolling it onto the swamp. Now its purpose was obvious: the wooden slats formed a pathway out to the now still bird. Carrying only an adze and the long narrow sack he carefully stepped onto the path. Water oozed between the wood but it held his weight. When he reached the moa it made a few desperate lunges with its beak. On the fourth he slipped the sack over its head. Immediately the bird was quiet. Three slashes at the neck with the adze were enough to cut the windpipe and artery. The dying bird responded by violently swinging its neck around in an arc, catching the man in the chest and knocking him into the swamp.
He scrambled back onto the wooden pathway and stood facing the rest of the hunters, blood over half his body, mud over the rest. ‘Ai, ai, ai,’ hooted one of the brothers. Then they were all shouting and laughing and hugging each other, releasing the tension that hadbuilt over half a day. Ata was patted on the head, the back and even, playfully, his backside, his face almost split in half by his smile.
Eventually they calmed and set about recovering the limp bird. Ropes were attached to the head and legs and the carcass hauled from the swamp. Its huge size was now obvious. It was as big as moa ever got, a wily old bird that had survived all its mates.
Stone blades were used to cut the skin from the neck, down the breast to the crotch. By pulling, punching and a bit of cutting, the skin was removed. This was considered more valuable than the flesh. The meat would last for a few days; the warmth of the skin and feathers would last for many winters.
The gut was opened from the rear. Ata’s grandfather identified it as a female, although he said it had not laid eggs for many years. The large liver was removed and put in one of the baskets. Then the heart was taken out and passed around. It completely filled Ata’s cupped hands. He found the feel of the thing somehow disturbing and only held on to it long enough to hide his thoughts.
Finally the gizzard was removed. Ata’s father hacked it open and washed it clean in a pool that had formed at the edge of the swamp. Suddenly all were quiet as Ata’s father stepped up to his son, holding the gizzard in front of him. Ata knew the tradition, having dreamed of it many times. He bowed, clapped his hands once and then carefully picked the polished stones from the organ. They would be his, a symbol of his mana, his strength and his courage, a prized possession for him and his children. His father dropped the gizzard and hugged the boy in a display of affection that fewwere ever allowed to see. They parted, neither of them ashamed by the
The moa was not badly injured but just enough to make it panic. It turned and ran down the hill towardsthe swamp. The rest of the hunters closed in, shouting and waving their spears. Without pausing it ran into the swamp and in ten strides it could move no further. Slowly, it sank until its legs were trapped in the mud. The hunt was over; all that remained was the kill.
Two of the brothers ran back for the gear that had been left at the bottom of the middle ridge. Their grandfather tended to Ata. The boy had been lucky, suffering only a gash down his left forearm. There would be no permanent damage, except for a scar that he could use to skite about his adventures. By the time his brothers returned he was back on his feet with the wound covered in toetoe plumes bound with flax.
Ata’s father removed the tie from the rolled-up wooden fence. Standing near the edge of the swamp he skilfully flicked his arms, unrolling it onto the swamp. Now its purpose was obvious: the wooden slats formed a pathway out to the now still bird. Carrying only an adze and the long narrow sack he carefully stepped onto the path. Water oozed between the wood but it held his weight. When he reached the moa it made a few desperate lunges with its beak. On the fourth he slipped the sack over its head. Immediately the bird was quiet. Three slashes at the neck with the adze were enough to cut the windpipe and artery. The dying bird responded by violently swinging its neck around in an arc, catching the man in the chest and knocking him into the swamp.
He scrambled back onto the wooden pathway and stood facing the rest of the hunters, blood over half his body, mud over the rest. ‘Ai, ai, ai,’ hooted one of the brothers. Then they were all shouting and laughing and hugging each other, releasing the tension that hadbuilt over half a day. Ata was patted on the head, the back and even, playfully, his backside, his face almost split in half by his smile.
Eventually they calmed and set about recovering the limp bird. Ropes were attached to the head and legs and the carcass hauled from the swamp. Its huge size was now obvious. It was as big as moa ever got, a wily old bird that had survived all its mates.
Stone blades were used to cut the skin from the neck, down the breast to the crotch. By pulling, punching and a bit of cutting, the skin was removed. This was considered more valuable than the flesh. The meat would last for a few days; the warmth of the skin and feathers would last for many winters.
The gut was opened from the rear. Ata’s grandfather identified it as a female, although he said it had not laid eggs for many years. The large liver was removed and put in one of the baskets. Then the heart was taken out and passed around. It completely filled Ata’s cupped hands. He found the feel of the thing somehow disturbing and only held on to it long enough to hide his thoughts.
Finally the gizzard was removed. Ata’s father hacked it open and washed it clean in a pool that had formed at the edge of the swamp. Suddenly all were quiet as Ata’s father stepped up to his son, holding the gizzard in front of him. Ata knew the tradition, having dreamed of it many times. He bowed, clapped his hands once and then carefully picked the polished stones from the organ. They would be his, a symbol of his mana, his strength and his courage, a prized possession for him and his children. His father dropped the gizzard and hugged the boy in a display of affection that fewwere ever allowed to see. They parted, neither of them ashamed by the
Similar Books
