🌊 Chapter Three — Te Ūnga Tuatahi (The First Landfall)

The night released its grip,

and Rā rose fierce and golden across the horizon.

Mist lifted from the rivers,

revealing their restless strength.

Birdsong pierced the stillness — sharp, unfamiliar —

as if the manu were guardians of this land,

calling us to tread carefully.

🌊 Chapter Three — Te Ūnga Tuatahi (The First Landfall)

Feet pressed into damp soil,

hands traced the rough skin of towering trees.

The ngahere breathed heavy,

its shadows both inviting and warning.

The people spread across the whenua,

each seeking places that answered their wairua.

On the ridges, smoke curled into the morning.

Near the steaming pools, patience was learnt

from the hiss and rumble of the earth.

Gardens stirred beside the rivers,

while nets shimmered in the surf.

On the wide plains, silence stretched like sky.

And along the beaches, shells glowed like moons.

Everywhere, the whenua spoke.

Sometimes with aroha —

kai hidden beneath fern fronds,

wai bubbling clear from stone.

Sometimes with challenge —

storms rising without warning,

rivers swelling with fury,

paths blocked by tangled bush.

One child was nearly taken that day —

swept by a river that surged too fast.

Hands locked, voices rose,

and with a chant to Tangaroa,

he was pulled back gasping.

The tohunga lifted him high, dripping, alive,

and said:

“The river is not our enemy,

but neither is it our pet.

Treat it as whanaunga — or it will drown you.”

That night, by the fire,

the tohunga spoke of Ōkoro nights —

how they bring strength and balance if we work with care.

“Plant with the marama, fish with the tides,

sleep when darkness asks it of you.

Ignore the tohu, and the land will remind you.”

The people nodded,

not all understanding,

but feeling the weight of the words.

The maramataka was already becoming

the unseen map of survival.

The fires burned openly,

not for fear, but for gratitude.

Smoke lifted skyward,

a signal to the whetū:

We are here.

We are listening.

We are becoming tangata whenua.

I lean closer to the fire, eyes reflecting flame.

“E moko mā,” I whisper,

“never forget — the whenua is not owned, it is greeted.

Not conquered, but embraced.”

Whatungarongaro te tangata, toitū te whenua — people pass away, but the land remains.