Māui was restless. As was his custom, when preoccupied, he paced up and down in front of his mother's house, frowning in concentration. On seeing him so withdrawn, his friends debated among themselves what to do to raise his spirits. But something in his face, so stern and forbidding, held them back. Even the village dogs slunk past, as if expecting him to turn on them without warning, and send them yelping with a kick.
What was the cause of his unrest? His mother, wiser than all women, had her suspicions, but she sighed and went on with her basket weaving, and said nothing.
Māui turned at the end of his walk and irritably whacked his thigh with his greenstone club. Ground to a translucent edge, superbly polished, it was a deadly weapon – fit for the greatest warrior. But to Māui, the beautiful club, thonged loosely to his wrist, might well have been a child's toy, for all the pride he took in it.
Again he turned in his walk, and continued striding. Yes, it was true he had his magic spells and incantations, but what he needed most was a magic weapon – one so potent he could quell the evil spirits and demons that thronged the bush and the fishing places, and made man's life intolerable.
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