The Children of Rangi-potiki

In the first time, before daylight had found a path across the world, Rangi-potiki stood at the meeting place of the unseen powers. He took three wives, and each wife opened a different doorway into creation.

His first wife was Hine-ahu-papa, the woman who shaped the foundations. To her were born four children of the upper realms: Tu-nuku, Tu-rangi, Tama-i-koropao, and Haronga.

Haronga married Tongo-tongo, and in time Tongo-tongo bore two children: Te Ra, the Sun, and Marama, the Moon.

Te Ra grew bright and strong, and wherever he travelled the world opened its eyes. But Marama was pale, and there was no light for her when she walked the night.

Haronga looked upon his daughter and felt pity. “A child of the night should not be left without companions,” he said.

So he gave Te Kohu, the Mist, in marriage to Te Ikaroa, the Long Fish of the heavens. From them were born the Stars. They scattered themselves through the darkness, each one a small lamp for Marama, the sister of Te Ra.

And even now, when people speak of the Sun and the Moon together, they remember them as Nga tokorua a Tongo-tongo—the two children of Tongo-tongo.

Rangi-potiki’s second wife was Papatuanuku, the Earth Mother. From her came many children, and each carried a portion of the world within them.

Rehua came first, a bright star who watched from above. Then came Rongo, keeper of the kumara and guardian of cultivated food. Tangaroa followed, ancestor of the fish and of pounamu, the green stone that sleeps in the rivers and mountains. Tahu came after him, presiding over peace, hospitality, and the feasts by which people bind themselves together.

Then came Punga and Here, the twins; Hua and Ari, also twins; Nukumera and Rango-maraeroa; Marere-o-tonga and Takataka-putea; and at last Tu-matauenga and Tu-potiki, the final pair.

Punga became the ancestor of creatures that crawled, creatures with sharp teeth, and creatures that many people found unpleasant to look upon. The lizard, the shark, and all ill-favoured beings carried his blood. Thus, when someone was rough or ugly, people might call him an aitanga-a-Punga—a child of Punga.

Tu-matauenga became the god of war, fierce in anger and fearless in battle. But all the children of Papatuanuku had their own authority, and none could command the whole of creation.

Tangaroa took Te Anu-matao, the Chilly Cold, as his wife. Their children filled the waters: Te Whata-uira-a-tangaroa, Te Whatukura, Poutini, and Te Pounamu. From them came the countless fish, and the shining green stone found in deep rivers and remote places.

Rangi-potiki’s third wife was Papa, the Earth herself.

In those days the boundaries between beings were not yet firm. The earth, the sky, the waters, and the living powers moved close together, and desire sometimes crossed the places where it should not have gone.

Tangaroa was accused of seeking Papa’s affection. When Rangi-potiki heard this, his anger rose like a storm. He lifted his spear and went to confront Tangaroa.

Tangaroa sat beside the entrance to his house. When he saw Rangi-potiki approaching, he did not seize a weapon. Instead, he struck his right shoulder with his left hand and began a karakia:

“Tangaroa, Tangaroa,
unravel what is tangled.
Untwist the cord.
Though Rangi is far above,
he may still be reached.
Let darkness remain above,
and let light return below.
Give freely,
so that the bright day may come.”

The words had scarcely left his mouth when Rangi-potiki thrust at him. Tangaroa turned the spear aside. Then Tangaroa struck back, and his spear pierced Rangi-potiki through the thigh.

The great ancestor fell.

While he lay wounded, Rangi-potiki fathered a child called Kueo, the Moist One, because his sickbed was wet with the fluids of injury. After Kueo came Mimi-ahi, named for the water he made beside the fire.

Then Rangi-potiki began to heal.

When he could stretch his legs again, another child was born: Tane-tuturi, Straight-leg Tane. When he could sit with his knees bent, another came: Tane-pepeki, Bent-leg Tane. When his neck straightened and he could raise his head, Tane-ua-tika was born. When his neck grew strong, Tane-ua-ha followed.

Then came Tane-te-waiora, Lively Tane, because Rangi-potiki had recovered his strength. After him came Tane-nui-a-Rangi, Tane the Great Son of Rangi. Last of all came a daughter, Paea.

She was named Paea because she closed the line. With her, the birthing of Rangi-potiki’s children came to an end.

Yet the children were not content.

They lived pressed against their parents, Rangi above them and Papa beneath them. There was no room to stand, no horizon to look toward, and scarcely any light. The children moved in darkness, their shoulders rubbing against one another, while the world remained folded shut.

One day Tane-nui-a-Rangi saw a narrow gleam shining beneath his father’s armpit. It was the light of the Sun, trapped where Rangi’s body curved against the darkness.

Tane called his brothers together.

“Let us kill our father,” some said. “He has shut us away. Let us leave Papa as our only parent.”

But Tane-nui-a-Rangi shook his head.

“We should not destroy him. We should raise him. Let Rangi become the sky, and let the light enter the world.”

The brothers agreed. They twisted ropes and bound them around Rangi-potiki. Paea took him upon her back. Beneath him they placed two great props, Tokohurunuku and Tokohururangi.

Then they pushed.

Slowly, painfully, Rangi was lifted away from Papa. His body rose, and the darkness opened. Space entered the world. Air moved between earth and sky. Light poured into places where no living thing had yet seen.

As Rangi rose, Papa called after him:

“Farewell, Rangi! Alas, that we must be separated!”

From above, Rangi answered:

“Remain here, Papa! Alas, that we must be separated!”

So Rangi came to dwell in the heavens, and Papa remained below with her children.

But separation did not end longing. Rangi still looked down upon Papa, and Papa still felt the warmth of Rangi’s tears falling as rain.

Tane, meanwhile, began to search for a partner who could help fill the new world with life. At first he turned his thoughts toward Papa, but Papa warned him:

“Do not turn your desire toward me. Trouble will follow. Go instead to your ancestor Mumuhango.”

Tane obeyed. Mumuhango bore the totara tree, tall and enduring, but no child of humankind.

Disappointed, Tane returned to Papa.

“Go to Hine-tu-a-maunga, the Mountain Maid,” Papa said.

Tane did so. Hine-tu-a-maunga conceived, but her offspring were rusty mountain waters and monstrous reptiles that haunted the high places.

Again Tane returned.

“Go to Rangahore,” said Papa.

Rangahore gave birth to stone.

“Go to Ngaore,” said Papa.

Ngaore brought forth toetoe, its pale plumes bending in the wind.

“Go to Pakoti,” Papa instructed.

Pakoti bore harakeke, the flax whose leaves cut the hands and whose fibres could be woven into rope, mats, and clothing.

Tane took many other wives, but each gave him trees, grasses, stones, waters, or creatures of the wild. These were worthy children, but none was the child he sought.

At last Tane came before Papa with his heart heavy.

“Old lady,” he said, “there will never be any descendants for me. No child will come who can live as we live.”

Papa looked toward the distant sea, where Ocean muttered against the shore.

“Go to your ancestor Ocean,” she said. “He is grumbling there in the distance. When you reach the beach at Kura-waka, gather up the earth and shape it in the form of a person.”

Tane went to Kura-waka. He knelt beside the shore and scraped the earth into a mound. First he shaped the body. Then he made the head, the arms, and the legs. He smoothed the belly and pressed the limbs into their proper places.

When the form was finished, he returned to Papa.

“The body is complete,” he said.

“Not yet,” Papa replied. “Go to Mauhi, who will give you what is needed. Go to Whete, then to Taua-ki-te-marangai, and then to Pungaheko. Each will give you a different gift.”

Tane visited them one by one. Mauhi gave him the first part; Whete gave him the second; Taua-ki-te-marangai gave him the third; and Pungaheko gave him hair.

Tane carried all these gifts back to Kura-waka. He placed them carefully upon the earth-shaped body, completing the form.

Then he gave the woman a name: Hine-ahu-one, the Earth-formed Maid.

Tane took Hine-ahu-one as his wife. Their first child was Tiki-tohua, the egg of a bird, from which all the birds of the air would descend. Afterward came Tiki-kapakapa, a daughter.

And then, for the first time, a human child was born to Tane.

Tiki-kapakapa grew under Tane’s care. When she became a woman, he gave her another name: Hine-a-tauira, the Pattern Maid. She bore a daughter called Hine-titamauri.

But one day Hine-a-tauira looked upon Tane and asked, “Who is my father?”

Tane laughed and said nothing.

She asked him again.

Then Tane made a sign, and Hine-a-tauira understood.

The knowledge struck her like a spear. Her heart darkened, and grief took hold of her. She fled from the world of daylight, travelling downward through the places of shadow: Rikiriki, Naonao, Rekoreko, Waewae-te-Po, and finally Po, the night itself.

As she went, she bowed her head.

From that time she was known as Hine-nui-te-Po, the Great Woman of Night.

Before she disappeared, she turned to Tane.

“Remain above,” she said, “and draw our descendants upward toward the day. I will go below and draw them downward toward the night.”

Tane mourned her departure. He cared for Hine-titamauri, and when she grew older he gave her to Tiki as a wife. Their first child was Tiki-te-pou-mua, the first pillar of the human line.

But Hine-nui-te-Po did not remain without children in the realms below. She gave birth to Te Po-uriuri, the Deep Dark, and Te Po-tangotango, the Very Dark. Later she bore Pare-koritawa, who became the wife of Tawaki, one of the descendants of Rangi.

When small clouds gather across the sky, people say that Pare-koritawa is tilling her garden.

One day Tawaki climbed toward Heaven with Pare-koritawa. As he rose, he recited the ancient karakia:

“Ascend, Tawaki, by the narrow path,
the path once followed by Rangi.
Climb the narrow way,
then climb the broad way,
the path of your ancestors:
Te Aonui,
Te Ao-roa,
Te Ao-whititera.

Now rise into your authority,
into your mana,
among the thousands above,
among the ariki,
the tapairu,
the pukenga,
the wananga,
and the tauira.”

When Tawaki and Pare-koritawa reached the sky, they left behind a token of the mortal body: a black moth, fluttering at the edge of the world.

Pare later gave birth to Uenuku, the Rainbow, whose colours bridge earth and sky. After him came Whatitiri, Thunder, whose voice still rolls across the heavens.

And so the world became divided and joined at once.

Rangi remained above, watching with longing. Papa remained below, nourishing all that lived. Tane lifted life toward the daylight, while Hine-nui-te-Po gathered the weary into the night. Tangaroa kept the fish and the green stone in his deep places. Rongo guarded the kumara. Tu-matauenga carried the spear. Rehua watched as a star.

Nothing was lost. Every child became a pathway, every wound a beginning, every separation a space where life could grow.

And whenever rain falls from the sky, the elders say it is Rangi remembering Papa.

Whenever the stars shine around the Moon, they remember the children of Tongo-tongo.

Whenever a person walks beneath the Sun and later enters the night, they follow the ancient road between the two great powers: the road upward toward light, and the road downward toward darkness.

Between them, the descendants of the first ancestors continue to live.