“Here,” he said, with a weak smile that faded on his lips. “It’s small, but it’s jade.”
Hana held back her tears. “Thank you, Grandfather.”
Pita Witkaire took a step back to look at her. It was Hana who would now keep the old woman’s mana and carry the memory of her soul.
“Tihe mauriora,”27 he said in a firmer voice. Repeating the sacred gesture of his ancestors, he planted beneath the funeral mound the tiri: the rod that would allow the soul to separate from the body to join Papa the earth or Ranginui the sky, whichever Wira chose.
Hana clutched the pendant tight in her hand, her body quivering all over. “What do you want me to do?” she murmured.
The old man spoke on behalf of the Tainui tribe, whose emblem and pride had just disappeared.
“This is the end,” he said, “the end or the beginning. It is for you to choose the way. For it is now linked to the memory of the tribe. It is you whom your grandmother has chosen. It is you who now bear the honor of the tribe, it is you who now bear its knowledge. Make good use of it.” He raised his eyes to the sky then gripped her hand holding the jade tiki. “Kia koa koe.”28
The wind ruffling his gray hair, Pita turned one last time toward the grave where the kuia lay. His voice was a mere breath now.
“E taku hine, e taku hine.”29
Behind him, Glenn grimaced with sorrow. The coffin was placed in the ground. Hana stood erect, imprisoned by her grief, her eyes as dry as ice.
The elephant’s graveyard does not exist. To die, the weary animal comes and throws itself on the mercy of the younger ones. And after it has died, they all weep together, in a circle . . .
“How did you know I was here?” Hana said, clearly not in a good mood.
Pita sat down on the sand beside her. He had finally found his granddaughter on the beach at Rangiwhakaea Bay, sitting in the shade of a flowering pohutukawa. The contrast between the tree and her face was striking. Her hair was full of salt, and her eyes had lost their gleam. Had her beauty, the splendor and pride of the Tainui tribe, fled?
“I’ve been looking for you for weeks,” Pita replied. “Weeks.”
Hana grabbed a handful of sand and let it fall through her fingers, head bowed. “The reason I’m here is that I didn’t want anyone to find me,” she said curtly.
Hana was avoiding his moist eyes, as if he had caught her doing something wrong. He sighed. The road had been long, and he felt the weight of the years on his back. He placed a hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you come back to the marae?” he said gently. “Your place is there, with your own people. Not here.”
Hana scowled. Wira’s tiki still hung from her neck, and she was kneading it between her fingers. Something had changed deep in her eyes. They seemed empty. Terribly empty.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Waiting,” she said.
“For what?”
Pita didn’t want to upset her. He could sense how fragile and vulnerable she was, a cracked glass that asked only to break and cut his hand.
“I’m not waiting for anything,” Hana replied. “Not anymore.”
She was trying to keep her voice firm, but it quivered in her throat. Hana was moved by the fact that her grandfather had come all this way to find her, and the sad look on his face broke her heart. But she wouldn’t give in.
Sensing her nervousness, Pita hugged her a little tighter. Her shoulders were smooth and sturdy but trembled in the warm breeze. Pita was unhappy for her, for Wira, for himself.
“Come with me,” he murmured. “There’s no point in going over all that.”
“I’m not going over anything, I’m living.”
“Not very well.”
“Which of us does?”
White waves rose from the ocean. He had to get her out of here.
“Hana,” he said. “It is you who bear the tribe’s mana. Without you, we are nothing, merely scattered fragments. Come back. You must—”
“I don’t bear anything anymore,” she cut in.
“You’re wrong. Your grandmother chose you to spread your people’s knowledge, not keep it prisoner. The Tainui need you.”
She laughed. Her eyes were the color of jade but the anger in them was black. “Go away.”
“Hana—”
“No,” she hissed. “It’s too late. Too late for everything.”
Hana pushed his hand away, and it fell to the sand like a dead branch. Despair had disfigured her. Pita made a vague gesture toward her but she stood up abruptly.
“Go away,” she said again. “Leave me alone.”
Her dress was fluttering in the breeze. Her lips too were shaking. Hana turned away before she cracked, and disappeared under the flowering trees, without a word of farewell.
