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Koro Apirana hesitated. Far out to sea there was a dull
     booming sound like a great door opening, a reminder, a memory of something downward
     plunging. Koro Apirana shaded his eyes from the sun.
    ‘Listen, boys,’ he said, and his voice was
     haunted. ‘Listen. Once there were many of our protectors. Now there are
     few. Listen how empty our sea has become .’
    In the evening after our lesson on the sea we
     assembled in the meeting house. The booming on the open waters had heralded the coming of a
     rainstorm like a ghostly wheke advancing from the horizon. As I went into the meeting house
     I glanced up at our ancestor, Paikea. He looked like he was lifting his whale through the
     spearing rain.
    Koro Apirana led us in a prayer to bless the school. Then, after the
     introductions, he told us of the times which had brought the silence to the sea.
    ‘I was a boy of seven years’ age,’ he
     began, ‘when I went to stay with my uncle who was a whaler. I was too young to
     know any better, and I didn’t understand then, as I do now, about our ancestor,
     the whale. At that time whaling was one of the great pastimes and once the bell on the
     lookout had been sounded you’d see all the whaling boats tearing out to sea,
     chasing after a whale. Doesn’t matter what you were doing, you’d drop
     everything, your plough, your sheep clippers, your schoolbooks, everything . I can still remember seeing everyone climbing the lookout, like
     white balloons. I followed them and far out to sea I saw a herd of whales.’
    The rain fell through his words. ‘They were the most
     beautiful sight I had ever seen.’ He made a sweeping gesture. ‘Then,
     down by the slipway, I could see the longboats being launched into the sea. I ran down past
     the sheds and the pots on the fires were already being stoked to boil down the blubber. All
     of a sudden my uncle yelled out to me to get on his boat with him. So there I was, heading
     out to sea.’
    I saw a spiky head sneaking a look through the door.
     ‘That’s when I saw the whales really close,’ Koro Apirana
     said. ‘There must have been sixty of them at least. I have never forgotten, never.
     They had prestige. They were so powerful. Our longboat got so close to one that I was able
     to reach out and touch the skin.’ His voice was hushed with awe. ‘I felt
     the ripple of power beneath the skin. It felt like silk. Like a god. Then the harpoons began
     to sing through the air. But I was young, you see, and all I could feel was the thrill, like
     when you do a haka.’
    He paused, mesmerised. ‘I can remember that when a whale was
     harpooned it would fight like hang. Eventually it would spout blood like a fountain, and the
     sea would be red. Three or four other boats would tow it ashore to the nearest place and cut
     it up and share out the meat and the oil and everything. When we started to strip the
     blubber off the whale in the whaling station, all the blood flowed into the channel. Blind
     eels would come up with the tide to drink the blood.’
    I heard Kahu weeping at the doorway. I edged over to her and when she
     saw me she put her arms around my neck.
    ‘You better go home,’ I said, ‘before
     Koro Apirana finds out you’re here.’
    But she was so frightened. She was making a mewling sound in her
     throat. She seemed immobilised by terror.
    Inside, Koro Apirana was saying, ‘Then, when it was all
     finished we would cut huge slabs of whale meat and sling them across our horses and take
     them to our homes —’
    Suddenly, before I could stop her, Kahu wrenched away from me and ran
     into the meeting house.
    ‘No, Paka, no !’
     she screamed.
    His mouth dropped open. ‘Haere atu koe,’ he
     shouted.
    ‘Paka. Paka, no!’
    Grimly, Koro Apirana walked up to her, took her by the arms and
     virtually hurled her out. ‘Go. Get away from here,’ he repeated. The sea
     thundered ominously. The rain fell like spears.
    Kahu was still crying, three hours