(short)

Unrefined and unfinished. (primarily a recreational piece)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7HL5wYqAbU

The wind catches his braids as he stands stalwart at the edge of a cliff - each gust carries gallons of salt water against the stone's wide face and each break hits in conjunction with the twisting of those braids. It is overcast, deep blue-green beneath the horizon line and thick gray over the top. Beneath him the mist floats... it mixes with the breeze and salt finds a home along his porous and tattooed face.

He is bare chested, apart from an iron-rust dyed sash - dull blood to mark his location, and long healed ink weaved beneath its fabric. Veterans are not permitted even a single patch of unmarked skin... and the scars that break the intricate patterns act as a testament to that.

His eyes are fixed upon the horizon line, while peripherals await the first sign of cotton white sails. They are stark black, and the pupils hide beneath near alien irises. Over his brows, cheeks, nose, and chin... is the aforementioned Tā moko that illustrates in a literal fashion, his heritage, ancestry and status.

Scattered dots between swails 

and crosshatches over whirlpools

Around his waist, and despite the cold, is a thick, freshly tanned and softened animal pelt - hand stitched and flowing alongside his braids. Tied in place and hanging at his right hip, is a grotesque club - into which had been set animal bones and broad flint teeth. The weapon is ornamented and decorated to fit the occasion - with an array of holy feathers, carved statues and human hair. In his left hand and held white knuckled, is a sizable, painted conch - a shell with a history of warfare, lined colorfully with the same motifs that cover his entire, unflinching frame.

He doesn't blink, he leans against the wind to maintain his position and apart from the goose-bumps scattered along his forearms, one would never guess that that saline breeze contained a bite. Beneath his feet sits wet grass, and plastered prints trace his trail back to the treeline behind him. Thick brush, curling in layers beneath a diverse arrangement of branches and leaves, rustles with the breath of anticipation. 

As the wind whistles and the waves break, a white peak peers over the skyline. 

The man takes his first sharp breath as the sail is followed by another, then another and another. Four Men of War catch the wind at a tilt and coast slowly towards his feet - as they approach... the wind turns from gust to howl. 

He doesn’t smile, but he knows his Gods are watching. 

Patiently, he brings the conch to his lips, fills his cheeks with sound, and blasts - one long, clear, piercing and extended note... the call cuts through the wind and the cliff seems to shake in response. Behind him the branches anthropomorphize, and he is swiftly joined by a vast collection of painted, tattooed and teeth baring warriors... the Tā mokos range from linear to circular, from circular to diagonal, and from diagonal to jagged. Artifacts of protection dangle alongside blood red banners - and the cliff becomes occupied by a unified and unwavering people. They stand resolute as wooden, tar bound vessels break into pairs and tack; though they are closing distance, the band holds fast to their soil.

Flashing through each mind are pictures of combat, memories of rolling stone and the coinciding dull thud as weapons find marks... teeth fly from unsuspecting jaws... and limbs fall from unsuspecting shoulders. They all picture blood lust, as is customary for those ready to die; jaws tighten, brows curl and thighs twitch as unheard drums sound behind each set of jet black eyes. 

Before imagination can grow into fruition, cannon shots ring out in sequence - sixteen by twenty four  and thirty two by twelve. 

The cannons drum and the line of painted faces leap beneath the thunder of European fire. The shots strike against the cliff’s ridge - showering the already torrential sea with shale, shrapnel and powdered stone. The occasional ball finds a home amongst feet and ankles; those unlucky roll with the absence, while carvings fall soundly down the embankment. Those remaining are quick to recall sacred oaths and though less eager, reform a few paces further from the cliffs edge. 

Those injured are dragged by companions towards the relative safety of the tree line and those remaining exchange breaths of doubt between sidelong glances. Before the pause could evolve into fear, a single war cry rolls from an unshakable tongue and the painted conch is hurled in an infuriated act of resolute rebellion. 

“ChheeeeaaAAAAAHHHHH!!!!” 

His shoulders striated with the fling, and loose ornaments dropped unknowingly. 

Howls erupt along either side, whoops and faith-bound wails echo the first; while the twice paired sea wolves realign with the wind.

Powdered stone twisted with the constancy of that tide, and puddles of red snaked towards the sea before channeling over the cliff.

There is a pause, the sound of flapping sails is now barely audible over the crying of the wounded. 

The war leader, the one chosen by family and tribe, raises a fist wrapped around an ancestral war club. He begins speaking, the intricacy of the language mirrored the complexities of the varying tattooed faces receiving his orders. His words are met with blinks, scowls and then nods... and the group begins to separate, back into the deep green of that familiar undergrowth.

An organ chain of cannon shots followed, but the targets they sought were lost among the cracking of tree trunks and the empty scattering of leaves - as the third volley is pumped behind cloth powder cartridges, the first drops of rain fall from the heavens. 

Generations of Polynesian dead spit from sky-bound graves and the overcast quickly turns to tempest.

Finis pt.1