Each Elder speaks their truth, sharing stories of the healing springs, the ancient groves, the burial grounds, and meeting places. The places where our ancestors first made peace with rival tribes.
When it’s my turn, I accept the canvas, even though I am not an Elder. Kit asked me to lead our story as the keepers of the royal line.
“In the name of my ancestor grandmother, I speak of the warrior’s path.” My voice carries across the sacred space as I trace the route along the map. “My blood comes from many tribes and many places. We are entrusted with the care of Astipia, with the protection of our people. And so my tribe settled here, in the centre ofruminka.” I touch the earth under me in emphasis.
I pick up a red tinted brush, the paint made from the ochre soil. Each of these paints is made naturally—as it was when my ancestors first began to tell their stories on stone walls.
“I tell the story of theRumingha, the protector tribe who was tasked by the gods to oversee all that is, was and will be.”
I feel Rangi’s gaze on me as I speak of the establishment of the royal line, of the daughter chosen by the tribes to lead them. I speak of the merging of my many greats-grandmother’s blood and hand with that of the foreign prince. Of the stillness and wisdom in our meditation spaces, of the blood and grit that coats our training grounds, of the ancient places where we might seek guidance.
Rangi watches me, his dark gaze never leaving me as I paint the stories and mark these places. Heat rises along my spine under that unwavering attention, and I find myself speaking more to him than to the gathered circle. I find I have to force my hand not to tremble as I mark the map.
His gaze becomes a physical weight—a touch I can feel through the air between us, electric and unsettling. My pulse quickens beneath my formal attire, and I can feel a flush warming my cheeks. When I chance a glance at him, the intensity I find there nearly steals my words. Recognition. Appreciation. And a hunger that makes my stomach tighten with a familiar, dangerous longing.
His presence reminds me of nights where rank and duty fell away and we were simply two people sharing our people’s songs.
“The time has come,” Kit announces when I am done, “for the closing. Let us do so with a blessing.” She turns to where Rangi and I stand. “Will you honour us?”
My heart thunders in my chest. We haven’t practiced, haven’t chosen a song. But as Rangi stands, his eyes meet mine and I know—just as we always knew in the field—exactly which song to share.
It begins low, almost a whisper.
“Hei mar ullniak,”I say, calling for our sacred land.
Rangi’s voice answers, deep and sure.“Mar gagado hikeru hu.”
Our spirits hear us.
The harmony builds as we trade lines, singing back and forth the blessing.
“From mountain to sea
From earth to sky
Our blood runs deep
Our hearts beat true
We honour those before
We guard those yet to come
Now and always, we remain”
The call and answer flows between us.
“Guide our path
Light our way
Grant us wisdom
Grant us strength”
Until finally our voices join as one.
“We are children of this land
