Lands of Red and Gold #61: A Time For Harmony
“Ta mal-pa Pliri, ni gapu-pa Bula Gakal-girri marang.” (There is but one Harmony, and only the Sevenfold Path will give it balance.)
- The traditional affirmation of faith made by the Nangu school of Plirism
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May-December 1637
Ngamotu, Lands of the Ngati Apa iwi, Te Ika a Maui, Aotearoa [New Plymouth, Taranaki, North Island, New Zealand]
Every land has its own rhythm. Its own cycles, its own patterns and ways of conduct into which every man and woman would find themselves falling. Cycles of months and years: the turning of the seasons, the collections of the harvest. Cycles of proper times for conduct: times for festivals, times for restraint, a time for war, and a time for peace. Cycles of life itself: birth to childhood to adolescence to adulthood to marriage, creation of a fresh generation, aging, death and finally rebirth.
Or so it seemed to Nameless the priest. He had quickly found the rhythm of the Maori lands. Even before he had learned much of their language and their ways, he found himself fitting into their rhythm.
Much of this land’s rhythm he found familiar. So many crops and spices were the same: red yams, wealth-trees [wattles], murnong, sweet peppers, river mint, and many others. The cycle of planting, tending and harvest was the same on both sides of the Gray Sea [Tasman Sea]. Ducks and noroons [emus] were the same too, both in their behaviour and their taste, though he missed the geese of the Cider Isle [Tasmania], especially food fried in goose fat.
Yet much of the land’s rhythm was strange, too. Their rituals and worship were entirely alien: acknowledgement of their genealogy and bloodlines; long recitations of deeds, both their own and their ancestors; poetry both spoken and chanted to music; dances and music of most peculiar form.
Unusual, too, was how their entire town’s life focused around the open, paved area which they called the marae. Everything except eating seemed to happen here: not just their rituals and dances, but everyday discussion of events, welcoming or rejection of visitors, the place to practice their crafts like their odd form of tattooing, and where they had held two weddings and one mass funeral that he had seen so far.
Or, rather, everything except eating and weaving. Even on the Island, people knew of the superior form of flax which the Maori grew on Aotearoa. On the Cider Isle, he had seen that textiles and rope woven from that flax were the major trade good which the Maori exchanged for bronze and spices. Here in Aotearoa, he saw how it formed the largest part of their lives, at least for the women and slaves: cultivating and harvesting the flax was part of the rhythm of the seasons, while washing, bleaching, fixing, softening, dyeing and drying the completed fibres became part of the rhythm of many individual lives [1].
In all, living in Aotearoa had quickly shown Nameless that this land had its own rhythm and customs, and that the Maori used this to bring themselves into their own form of marang [balance]. Not a perfect balance, naturally; only the Sevenfold Path could bring that to a land. But still, living here had reminded him that many peoples had part of the truth.
The Maori king and his chieftains here, for instance, considered it a mark of their mana to harshly punish someone who acted outside of their station. Death could come quickly to anyone who transgressed the unwritten codes of Maori life. A woman who spoke out of turn, a low-ranking person who failed to show proper respect, or a slave who committed even a minor infraction. All of them could face death.
On the Island, or the Cider Isle, or any place which had learned much of the true path, death would be considered too severe an action. Yet for all of that, all Maori understood their station in life. They had grasped part of the Second Path, that everyone should act in accordance with tradition and station.
Indeed, it seemed to him that the Maori were closer to the truth than some other peoples. Take the barbaric Atjuntja, as Nameless had discovered when he resided for a time in the Nangu Quarter of the White City [Albany, Western Australia]. The Atjuntja had grasped a little truth, no matter how they concealed it in their fables of Lord and Lady. Even part had a pain in life, Nameless knew. Some priests spoke of a world in perfect harmony as being one without pain, but he knew better. Pain can help, or can be necessary, much as a Gunnagal physician caused pain when removing a diseased tooth.
The Maori, too, with their endless cycle of revenge and retribution, knew that every action has consequences. What they had not yet learned – though perhaps he might teach them – was how to choose the best response. Sometimes violence must answer violence, but at other times the answer would be not to respond. The Maori had to balance their knowledge of the Second Path with the guidance of the First and Third Paths.
So Nameless had remained among the Maori to learn their ways, as he done among the Atjuntja and Kurnawal before them. The weeks turned into months, and he found the rhythm of the land, and he learned. The Kalendi had conducted their trade mission and gone, and while Nameless cared little for the minutiae of commerce, that young captain seemed to have done well for himself. The captain had made various intimations that he or another Kalendi captain would return. Perhaps they would; it did not matter. There would be a way home if Nameless needed one. There was always a way, for one who followed the Sevenfold Path properly.
When the Kalendi traders had departed, they took the interpreter Nardoo with them. The interpreter was a coward – though he concealed it well enough that anyone who was not a priest might not recognise it – but still, the man had been very helpful in communicating with the Maori. His departure left Nameless much more hard-pressed to understand the people of Aotearoa.
Nameless persisted, though. He had never been a man to lose hope easily, and the Third Path dictated that an action, once commenced, should not be lightly abandoned. He learned the Maori language as quickly as he could, aided by those here who knew something of the Nangu language.
Soon enough, he found himself in a position where he could give proper advice, to those who sought it. A considerable number of people wanted his guidance. For these Maori, who called themselves the Ngati Apa, had a surprising number of Plirites. Distressingly, most of these adherents were men and women of lower classes. That would never do, in the long run. All must be Plirite for a society to be properly harmonious, but most notably the rulers. The head controlled the body, and the rulers set the tone for the land.
None of which stopped him giving proper advice to all who asked. Sadly, those who called themselves priests here were but half-trained locals, bereft of communication with other more experienced priests on the Island who could help them along the Seventh Path to improve their own understanding. He found out, eventually, that the last Island-born priest had died five years before, and the people here had been lacking in guidance ever since.
Nameless had expected to be in a position to give advice to individuals. Respectful of Maori custom, though, and mindful of the maxim that counsel is usually best given alone, at first he gave his instruction away from the marae. What surprised him –though, on reflection, it should not have – was when the Maori started to call on him to speak during the discussions at the marae.
He struggled with that concept, at its inception. A community needed to work together to be in proper harmony, but nonetheless the road to understanding was one each individual must tread alone, at their own pace. But the Maori were much for speaking at the marae, at least for individuals who were deemed to have mana. The Maori king eventually made his decisions privately – or in conference with his high kin – but he usually first informed himself by letting the high-ranking men and women of the community offer their views.
So, for all that it went against his preferences, Nameless adapted to the rhythm of this land, and began to speak at the marae, offering his counsel on matters as they arose. He spoke at times of the Paths and how they offered guidance, though he was careful never to couch his views as absolutes, only as part of what would help the community reach understanding. He offered choice quotes from Oora Gulalu [The Endless Road] where he found its eloquence greater than his own.
And the Maori listened. Nameless was one voice among many, at first, but as he found more of the rhythm of this land, he found that his voice was heeded more and more.
One day, the marae saw a particularly vigorous debate about how to manage a dispute between two subkings. Or ariki hapu, as the Maori called them [2]. Nameless offered his views, as he always did, about how best to avoid turning the dispute into a vendetta. The debate ended, as it usually did, with King Arapeta withdrawing into the wharenui, the great hall which formed the more private part of his palace. As normal, the king invited a number of the high-status speakers to join him. More unusually, the invitation was extended to Nameless.
Inside the wharenui, the king said, “Tell me more about why you believe that I should end the conflict between Pomare and Henare Kaihau... equally, you say?”
“Without favouring one side over the other,” Nameless said.
One of the younger chieftains said, “A leader must be strong and reward those who show the greatest mana.”
The king held up a hand. “Let Bana [Nameless] speak. I would hear him.”
Nameless said, “Pomare and Henare Kaihau lead different hapu, but they are part of the same iwi. Part of the same community. Fighting between them only weakens the iwi as a whole. Favouring one over the other would bring disharmony to the iwi.”
“If I order them to stop fighting, then their warriors will be deprived of war, of the chance to prove themselves and their deeds. Do you say that warriors should not fight?” the king asked.
“Sometimes war is proper. Sometimes it is not. I have not heard anyone say what Pomare and Henare Kaihau have done that makes war proper, only that each fights because the other does.”
“Once the first blow is struck – for whatever reason – the other must respond,” the king said.
The lack of a clear explanation could only mean that no-one really knew which of the two hapu had the right of it. Which was why this dispute must be ended. “And then the other must respond to the second blow, and again and again.”
“That is how life works,” the same younger chieftain – Ngata – said.
“And so should they fight each other in perpetuity?” Nameless said. “Both are of this iwi; if their hapu are weakened by endless warfare, the iwi is diminished.”
The king said, “And is this how your people solve disputes on your Island?”
Nameless said, “Sometimes. Many things must be considered. Feuds and vendettas are part of our history.” More frequently than Nameless would have liked, in fact, but he glossed over that. “Sometimes they are necessary. Sometimes they are not. And even when they are necessary, in time they must be ended. Or the whole Island would be harmed.”
Ngata said, “A feud ends when one side concedes the superior mana of the other.”
“Or when the fighting between them goes on for so long that another iwi invades,” Nameless said. “One who is not weakened by infighting between its hapu.”
The king gave Nameless a long, steady gaze. The priest returned it calmly. At length, the monarch said, “I would speak with the priest alone.”
After the others departed, the king said, “You held back many of your thoughts. Speak plainly now.”
Nameless said, “What we have learned on the Island is that the response to a vendetta is one of the measures of a true leader, rather than a mere man who gives orders. Sometimes vendettas must happen. What marks a true leader is one who can determine when such feuds must end. Sometimes a feud or raid must be done, for honour, to ensure that men learn that their actions have consequences.”
“And so?”
“What you must remember is the consequences of your own actions. If those actions mean that what follows will be worse for you and the iwi who depend on you, that is when you must consider what must be done to end a vendetta.”
The king shook his head. “I will consider this.”
Nameless bowed, and started to withdraw, until the king held up a hand.
“I would like to hear more of your Island, in the days ahead,” King Arapeta said.
Nameless almost offered to give the king a copy of The Endless Road, to let the king find out for himself. Then he decided against it. That book contained too much truth for the king to absorb at once. Too many things which a Maori mind would need to unlearn, and to hear all of them at once might be too repelling.
Besides, he was not even sure if the king could read. Some Maori could, but most did not. The role of scribe was not particularly prestigious in this land, no matter how essential they were to running the kingdom.
Instead, Nameless said, “I will tell you more.”
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[1] Historically, the Maori in Aotearoa made extensive use of textiles created from New Zealand flax (Phormium tenax and P. colensoi), creating everything from clothing to fishing nets to cooking utensils to baskets to cordage to lash together ocean-going canoes. However, the plants were abundant enough that the Maori simply harvested what they needed from the wild; they rarely (if ever) cultivated the plants. Despite this, cultivation of New Zealand flax is quite simple, and the plant has been established overseas as a fibre crop, e.g. the island of St Helena had an economy which was basically dependent on a monoculture of New Zealand flax for much of the twentieth century.
Allohistorically, the much higher population in Aotearoa means that the Maori have taken up active cultivation of New Zealand flax, and also conduct more slave raids to secure slaves to work it. The greater demand means that the gender divide about working the plant has also been reduced; the historical Maori regarded weaving of flax as women’s work, and Maori men did not take up weaving flax until the development of an export trade in the nineteenth century.
[2] Each Maori iwi, or kingdom, is divided into a number of hapu (roughly translated as clans), which in turn are further subdivided into whanau (roughly translated as localities). An ariki, or leader, rules each of these subdivisions: ariki whanau lead a locality, ariki hapu lead a clan of various whanau, and the ariki iwi is more or less a king.
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Thoughts?
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