WIREMU

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 851, 20 December 1929, Page 7 (Supplement)

WIREMU

By

RODEN HATHAWAY

NSIDE the whare it was stuffy and U'ZA hot : Everyone was unhappy and inn a ht , Ue 2 lystericaL Tht: ancient jUJJ grandmother—or was she the greatgrandmother?—seated on a long Ksgj flax mat which graced the floor was rocking herself backward and forward to the accompaniment of muttering and long drawnwa,'B’ , Her * ace . scored and wrinkled like the shell of an old walnut, and bluelv tattooed of chin, was almost completely covered by the about W he°rself whlcfl she had drawn tightly Now and then the eerie wails would be Interrupted by a shrill torrent of words uttered bv one or other of the three women who, also seated on the floor, were obviously as grief! stricken as the ancient crone. K 1 In the corner of the room there lay a dark £ un s dle • w, tle Nlwa - Who «ick 7 . dying By her side. Wiremu. her brother, sat and watched ‘nteresved, but startled eyes, the despair of the old woman. y Wiremu was nine years old. He loved little Mwa, who was four, as he loved no one or nothing else on earth, unless, perhaps his hooks . for Wiremu attended the State school and could read and write in English' So the little brown face was' anxious and sad. Wiremu knew that nothing could save Nlwa . . . nothing but money, coins with which to buy medicine and food and 'comfort for the tortured little body.

The air was thick with tobacco smoke now, for the grandmother was smoking an ancient pipe as she rocked backward and forward, backward and forward. Wiremu's head was aching He felt sick and dizzy. With a last glance at hiiwa, he struggled to his feet, and taking a book under his arm, stumbled to the door.

Outside, the world was brilliant with sunshine .. . for It was September and springtime. The boy breathed deep of the sweet air, redolent with the dampish, earthy fragrance of the native hush. Then, with a sigh, he settled down to the study of a new story ... a very wonderful new story.

He spelt his way slowly through the intricacies of a fairy-tale. Suddenly, however, he startled to his feet, his brown eyes ablaze with a joyful light. Eagerly he rushed into the whare, and to the bewildered and tearful Maori women poured forth his news.

"Gold!" he stammered, “there’s gold at the foot of every rainbow. The book says so.’’ He pointed to the story he had been reading. “Gold' For Nlwa . .

But the women, having heard his tale, turned aside and continued their mournful noise. What rubbish this child talked ... ha was a dreamer, and would surely come to no good.

So Wiremu, eager and vibrant, was despised. Slowly he wandered back to the door, and once again he settled down to his book. But somehow it was not the same. Poor little Nlwa, so chubby, so friendly, was suffering, and money would save her. Gold, piles and piles of it, lay at the foot of every rainbow . . and they did not believe, those women, but Wiremu knew. In the book It was written for everyone to see. Butthoso old ones, they could not read! Day after day the little boy watched for a rainbow, but each morning the sun shone forth in a cl mdless sky . , . and Nlwa grew worse. Then a day dawned, grey and still. The rain drifted down, feathery and scattered, light rain that wet nothing, but dampened the world

Alone, for the women had wandered away seeking neighbourly condolences in (fceir grief Wiremu, big eyed and wistful, sat by Niwa . . a’ thin little Niwa with feverish hands. ... Let 8 wish for a rainbow, Niwa,” he whispered. A rainbow and gold!" Ent Niwa only whimpered her replv . . . for Niwa was very tired. Wiremu swallowed the lump that would grow in his aching throat, and so that Niwa might not see hia tears, he crossed to the window and looked, with blurred eyes, out at the grey world. Looked and looked, for before him -was the perfect arc of a glorious rainbow! Right across the valley It spanned, its colours brilliant against the sombre background of the sky . . . and Wiremu noticed with excitement that it dipped into the verdant bush which surrounded the valley. The gold would be there, beneath the white-leaved iangiora and the ruddy, ragged houghs of the konltii. Not daring to hesitate, he rushed from the house, leaving the door wide open behind him. Niwa, hearing his frantic departure, managed to struggle from the close confines of the heavy shawls which enveloped her, and breathing heavily, she sat up and viewed the empty room. Somehow she was feeling very much better - . . the air which poured in through the open door was sweet and clean. For days the whare had been shut, up for fear that cold would reach the sick child. Tobacco smoke and the smell of food was stale in the room, but now, Niwa sighed with relief . . . for she could breathe. Wiremu’s quest was not as easy as it appeared. The faster his legs carried him, the farther away the rainbow became. On and on he went till, depairing, he decided to go no farther. Little brown feet were bruised and torn, and his whole body trembled and ached with the intensity of his search. Sobbing wildly, for Niwa would never be made well now, he flung himself on the ground, which, carpeted with the decaying leaves of the bush, made a welcome resting place. Minutes passed. The silence of the bush was disturbed by the cries of a little boy whose heart was broken. Then, with amazing suddenness, the cries ceased. As if in answer to a call, Wiremu struggled to his feet, and again began to push his way through the tangled undergrowth. The rainbow was no longer visible to him, for the bush was dense above his head, but he continued with steadfast determination, till, with a squeal of delight, he found himself in an open valley . . . and before his enraptured gaze there dipped the rainbow, a profusion of mingled colours. And at its foot, was gold . . . the clear bronze gold of a blossoming kowliai tree. * » » Little Niwa was feeling better. The Maori women murmured and muttered among themselves. It was lucky that they had returned when they did, though, for that dreamer, Wiremu, had gone out and left the whare door open, so that the cold draughts might enter with evil intent and chill their Niwa. Wiremu was a good-for-nothing! So they gossiped and muttered. Then into their midst there tumbled a little figure, his clothes torn and bedraggled, his legs and feet scratched and bleeding . . . but his eyes, shining and happy. “Gold!” he cried gleefully. In his little arms he carried his offering of love to little Niwa . . . golden kowhai blossoms.