‘Ignoring the ominous storm clouds approaching from the north, Parema Te Pahau kept staring out to sea; the expression on his face stern, his stance defiant. He was preparing himself for what he knew would be a fateful day not only for himself but also for his iwi, his tribe. As he lifted his face to greet the sun rising hesitantly out of the morning mist, the sun’s first rays illuminated his striking Pukanohi, his full-face tattoo, giving his handsome, yet frightening features an almost surreal glow.

The Māori warriors standing respectfully behind him watched in awe as their chief raised his arms and began to chant. He was addressing Tumatauenga, the god of war, asking for victory. As a revered Tohunga Matakite not only could Te Pahau foretell the future, he could communicate with the gods.

Even in his twilight years, he was an imposing figure, his long hair tied into a traditional knot on top of the head accentuating his striking moko. Tall, powerfully built, with massive arms and legs like tree trunks, his prowess on the battlefield was legendary, and his cunning battle tactics had led his iwi to victory on many occasions. 

Five years earlier, Te Pahau had persuaded his iwi, Ngāti Mutunga, and their allies, Ngāti Tama, to leave their embattled territory near Wellington and find a new home on Wharekauri, the Chatham Islands.

Conquering and enslaving the docile Moriori, the local natives, had been spectacularly successful, further enhancing Parema Te Pahau’s reputation as an outstanding leader and visionary who had the ear of the gods.

However, squabbles over land and slaves between Ngāti Mutunga and Ngāti Tama developed over the years, with younger warriors asserting themselves in the hope of becoming leaders, making it increasingly difficult for Te Pahau to assert his authority. 

Matters came to a head when one of his sons was ambushed and killed during a visit to an Ngāti Tama marae to resolve a dispute involving a Moriori slave girl. This soon resulted in a declaration of war between the two tribes who had once been allies and friends. 

 Te Pahau looked across the beach to where the Ngāti Tama war party was assembling and making preparations to perform the haka to intimidate their enemy. This was a traditional war dance with aggressive gestures to instil fear in the enemy and lift morale in the kaitoa, the warriors, about to go into battle.

 Choosing the beach for the showdown had been a shrewd tactical move by Te Pahau who knew just how important footwork was in hand-to-hand combat with traditional weapons. He had carefully trained his warriors to become proficient in fighting on sand, well aware that this would give them the upper hand when the time came.

Slowly, Te Pahau raised his massive taiaha, his preferred close-quarters combat weapon, and turned to face the men standing behind him. A long staff made out of whalebone, the taiaha was used for stabbing thrusts and short, cutting strikes. In the hands of an experienced fighter like Te Pahau whose almost acrobatic footwork made this weapon into an awesome, deadly force, the taiaha became a devastating weapon that had killed many an enemy on the battlefield.

‘You know what to do,’ said Te Pahau. ‘Tuamatenga will grant us victory if you show courage.’

With that, Te Pahau pointed his taiaha at the opposing war party performing the haka and began to jog towards them, his facial expression intimidating and fierce, his shrill war cry bloodcurdling.’