by Sarah Lark
Clusky did not seem to think highly of his daughter. But for Kathleen, his story explained much: Alice’s good breeding but lack of experience with servants, her pleasure in playing the lady of the house, and her affectation. A pastor’s daughter who had escaped the triste life in a backwater like Treherbert, a girl who surely had already been halfway promised to a younger colleague in a neighboring parish, Alice had fled with the first man to come along, ready to pay the price for that. Kathleen could not condemn her.
“Despite what happened, that’s no reason for Alice’s, well, stepson to seize other people’s houses,” she said.
Reverend Clusky nodded. “Of course not, but young Mr. Burton raged when his father married her.” He ran his fingers nervously through his hair and then went to a cabinet from which he took a bottle of whiskey. “Dear Lord, please do not force me to tell the whole ugly story. Would you care for a drink?” He took glasses from the cabinet when Peter nodded. “And a sherry for the ladies?”
His guests were silent as the pastor poured the drinks.
Reverend Clusky took a large gulp before continuing. “It seems to have been the younger Burton who first promised my Alice he would take her with him to Cardiff,” he began. “Well, and the way things look, the elder gave him cuckold’s horns to wear. And then tightened the purse strings when he got angry.”
Perhaps even before that, Kathleen thought. For Alice Clusky, that her young beau no longer had the means to spoil her might have been a strong argument in Joseph’s favor.
“As I said, please let me spare you the details. But that was when Randolph came back here, held his great-uncle responsible for all his misery—and provided increased revenues to all the pubs and billiard halls in the area. James Burton did not have much strength left to restrain him. He died shortly thereafter.”
“Without changing his will, correct?” Peter asked.
“Without changing his will, of that I’m certain,” Reverend Clusky declared. “I was witness at the drafting of his final will and testament, which was then given over to the notary. Your uncle was a very proper person, Reverend. He would not have slipped some handwritten note into a legacy hunter’s hand. Not to mention that he was anything but happy with young Randolph. Nor any more so with my, well, son-in-law, Joseph.”
Peter sighed. “So, we’ll now have the unpleasant task of kicking the boy out,” he said. “Wonderful. And here I’d hoped to be able to set sail again in a month at most. I hope you don’t get seasick, my dears. Our return trip may not be until winter.”
Chapter 5
Lizzie Drury was proven right. The canoe containing Matariki and Kahu Heke’s men might as well have been swallowed by the earth. Nevertheless, the Dunedin police organized patrols, the settlements’ fishers and former whaling stations were put on the alert, and what was more, the Maori tribes on the east coast of the South Island kept an eye out for the interlopers. At least, the iwi of the Ngai Tahu did, but the warlike Ngati Toa tribe, which occupied a few small enclaves on the northern tip of the South Island, protected the kidnappers.
The two men of the Ngati Pau had set sail right at high tide—after they had forced Matariki to take her place under an awning at the front of the boat. Dingo had leaped in with her, which precipitated a renewed discussion about the animal. Again Matariki heard the word tapu, but also “guardian”—although she did not understand whether this referred to Dingo’s dubious aptitude as a guard dog or to some sort of magic.
When the men spoke quickly and quietly, she had difficulty following their Maori. Many words were different or at least pronounced differently than among the tribes on the South Island. The men seemed to have difficulty, too, when it came to her dialect, so it might not always have been rudeness when they did not answer her questions.
This confirmed Matariki’s first impression: her father may have sent his strongest and most reliable warriors, but not his smartest. On land, she would surely have succeeded in tricking them and fleeing, but on the open sea, that was impossible. And even after the men hid her in the land of the Ngati Toa after a relatively short sea journey, there weren’t any opportunities to escape. The warriors of the Ngati Toa worked hard to please the Hauhau, and they guarded Matariki around the clock. Yet she soon asked herself why they did not simply tie her up or lock her away somewhere. It would have made life easier for the guards. But no one touched her. It was almost as if a sort of invisible barrier that no man dared cross surrounded Matariki.
On the third day of her imprisonment, as her initial fear of the massive men who always formed a circle around her subsided, Matariki attempted to overcome the barrier herself. She nonchalantly went over to the warriors and stepped between them. And again their behavior astonished her: instead of driving her back determinedly, the men at first gave way in terror. One of them fired his gun only after the ring around Matariki had almost opened wide enough that she could have run into the fern forest. The bullet pelted the ground in front of Matariki’s feet, and the men directed her to return to her area.
So, they would use their weapons—and she had better not let it come to the point of being injured.
What was more, over the next few days, it became apparent that among the Ngati Toa were a few men who were more cunning than Matariki’s two abductors. It did not take them long to figure out that Matariki almost cared more for Dingo than for herself. Whenever she contradicted them or tried to exceed her boundaries in any way, they took aim at the dog, and Matariki could only behave.
Her worry for Dingo made her regret she had brought him, though he did keep her warm under the blanket at night. She had only the one blanket, and the men would not allow her at their fires. They placed wood and food at Matariki’s disposal, but she had to light her fires and prepare her meals herself. Since her abduction, Matariki had not seen anyone other than the warriors. Probably the tribe did not even know that it had a prisoner. These were just a few young warriors currying favor with rebels they admired from the North Island.
Matariki did not understand any of it, and it hurt to be shut out in this way. Her own tribe in Otago was welcoming. After the appropriate greeting ceremonies, it bade welcome to any other Maori and most pakeha to its fires. Here, on the other hand . . . According to what her kidnappers said, Matariki was supposed to recognize the Ngati Pau as the tribe to which she belonged and had responsibilities to fulfill. But her “tribal brothers” sat laughing and chatting together with their friends from the Ngati Toa while she sat alone by her fire.
After they had set off again and Matariki was sitting in the canoe, watching the South Island slowly disappear behind them, the term “untouchable” occurred to her; she recalled her childish pride in knowing the word and Haikina’s laconic information about the life of a chieftain on the North Island. Could it be that it was not disdain for her that kept the Hauhau at a distance but rather something like awe?
Matariki slowly began to long to see her father. She had a few words for him.
Matariki’s abductors certainly did not distinguish themselves in whaikorero, the art of eloquence, but they were good seamen and conquered the Cook Strait without difficulty. Still, Matariki was a bit afraid when no land was visible, so she was relieved when the southern point of the North Island appeared on the horizon. However, her kidnappers did not stop near Wellington; instead, they sailed farther along the west coast to come ashore in the land of the Te Maniapoto.
Matariki wondered whether her parents had alerted the officials on the North Island, and she hoped they were not too worried about her. She was sure the Ngai Tahu trackers would have been trusted with scouring the coast and that they would have found her note.
Matariki estimated that their canoe had rounded half of the North Island when the craggy coast gave way to gently rolling hills. Here and there, coves, which would make excellent harbors, came into view. Finally, the men steered the canoe closer to the shore, and they were visibly cheered by the sight of a river mouth—so much so that one of them ev
en informed Matariki of the river’s name.
“The Waikato River,” he said, pointing to the mouth. “We’re almost there.”
Matariki sighed with relief and allowed herself to eat her last piece of flatbread at noon. As she nibbled on it, she watched the coast. Green forested hills, the river’s current—it all looked beautiful, but there were no human settlements in sight. Not that it was unusual. Even the marae, the gathering places of the Ngai Tahu, often lay hidden. Finally, though, the men steered the canoe into a cove. The entrance was not easy to find, as it could not be seen from the sea. This hiding place was surely chosen carefully. At first, Matariki worried because the strong breakers tossed the canoe dangerously close to a crag, but the landing itself proved simple, and as soon as they rounded the cliffs, a sandy beach appeared. The sand was dark, and Matariki knew this was from volcanic activity many thousands of years ago. At some point, the mountains must have spat fire.
Matariki’s captors indicated that she should remain in the canoe until they had pulled it ashore. Yet she would gladly have swum, and Dingo seemed to feel the need as well. He leaped happily into the shallow water.
At first glance, the cove appeared desolate, but then Matariki noticed movement in the bushes above the beach. Finally, a Maori warrior emerged—as impressively muscular and lightly clothed as Matariki’s kidnappers. Those two waved enthusiastically up to him and made gestures likely equivalent to the pakeha’s victory signs. The man displayed his joy, but he made no move to help his tribal brothers unload the canoe. Her kidnappers exhausted themselves pulling the boat onto land while the Maori warrior did not lift a finger. Eventually, he raised his spear as if in greeting and left—likely to notify the rest of the tribe of the canoe’s arrival.
Matariki’s captors finally ordered her to climb out and wait. Matariki wondered whether a greeting ceremony was planned and whether they would request a recital of her pepeha. The telling of one’s life story belonged to the powhiri, the formal greeting ritual, which, among other things, determined whether the visitor came with friendly or hostile intentions. A young girl was hardly a danger to a tribe, or so important that she would be honored with dances, prayers, and welcome ceremonies. But, she reminded herself, this tribe was awaiting a chieftain’s daughter.
Matariki went back through the facts for her pepeha in case she needed to recite it: Her mother, Lizzie, grew up in a London orphanage. Her birth father’s ancestors had come to New Zealand—Aotearoa—in canoes. Then Matariki had to describe the region from which she came, perhaps the path she had taken to arrive there. Matariki had no desire to do all that—at heart she shared Michael’s view that the tribes overdid it with their greeting rituals. Besides, she was hungry.
Suddenly, there were noise and movement in the forest of trees that bordered the beach, and people came toward them. Matariki expected curious women and children, but this group consisted exclusively of men with a warlike appearance. They strode stiffly to the beach, marching like an army with spears and war axes. If this had been aimed at filling her with fear, it had succeeded. She felt queasy and recalled her parents’ and fellow tribe members’ comments about the Hauhau’s attitude toward cannibalism. Might the cooking of a chieftain’s daughter have a place in the cult?
Matariki was determined not to let her fear show. She stood up, squared herself, and stared defiantly at the procession. The men lined up facing her; then a tall, muscular Maori warrior emerged from the ranks, which respectfully parted for him. He was slender for a warrior, but his face was covered in tattoos like the others, and his gleaming black hair was tied in a warrior’s knot. He seemed vaguely familiar to Matariki, and in looking closer, she recognized that his hairline was the same as hers. His eyes stood slightly aslant and were amber colored, similar if a bit darker than Matariki’s. The man carried the insignias of a chieftain: the battle ax and the staff, as well as a valuable black-and-white striped shawl.
Matariki approached him with as much dignity as he did her.
“Kahu Heke?” she asked. “Father?”
The man almost twisted his mouth into a smile but then mastered himself. Smiling at the sight of his daughter was probably not compatible with the mana of a warrior chieftain. Nevertheless, he moved toward Matariki and bent down to exchange the traditional greeting of the Maori, the hongi. Matariki laid her forehead and nose on her father’s hard, tattooed face.
“Kia ora, Matariki,” said Kahu Heke. “Haere mai.”
Welcome. That probably wasn’t how they would greet their lunch. Matariki could not help herself from struggling with a certain amusement. It was all so strange—the dignified chieftain, the silent warriors—where otherwise the tribes tended toward such lively greetings. Among the Ngai Tahu, Matariki’s kidnappers would long have since exchanged jests and hongi with their old friends. Here, however, the two sailors stood just as isolated from their tribe as Matariki had from them the whole journey. Untouchable: Matariki vacillated between shuddering and giggling hysterically.
Kahu Heke turned to the kidnappers. “Hanu, Kahori, haere mai. You’ve completed your task. You can be certain of your tribe’s thanks and the blessing of the gods. You can now go and clean yourselves.”
Matariki furrowed her brow. Both men had just been swimming. They were surely cleaner than Matariki herself and the sweat-covered warriors. Hanu and Kahori bowed briefly before disappearing inland.
Kahu Heke, who noted Matariki’s confusion, smiled. “That’s part of it,” he said, speaking curtly and, to the girl’s amazement, in English unaffected by a Maori accent. “They had contact with a chieftain’s daughter—for days, they were too close. Had they died after this offense against all these tapu, they probably would not have been permitted to enter Hawaiki.” The souls of deceased Maori wandered across the sea to Hawaiki, the myth-shrouded land of their fathers. “There is, however, a cleansing ceremony, which they’re undergoing now. Do not worry about them.”
Matariki rolled her eyes. “I’m not worried,” she answered angrily, also in English. “They kidnapped me. Their souls can wander somewhere else for all I care. What’s this about, Father? If you wanted to see me, Otago Girls’ High School is no prison, and my parents would surely have welcomed you to our farm, or in the marae of the Ngai Tahu.”
“We’ll speak of this later, child.” He turned back to his warriors. “Greet Matariki, daughter of the stars, chosen of the gods.”
The men raised their spears and let out a sort of war cry. Matariki once again fought back a hysterical fit of laughter. For a moment, she thought it looked as if the girls from her school were staging the Treaty of Waitangi. Finally, she smiled at the men and made a gesture that approximated a Roman salute. The warriors seemed content with that.
“Follow me, Matariki.” Kahu Heke’s request sounded quite formal. “Be sure my shadow doesn’t fall on you, and yours doesn’t on anyone else. We’ll be alone soon. Then we can speak.”
The troop of warriors formed a solemn procession and led Matariki to the Maori camp. Kahu Heke’s peculiar tribe did not, however, have a fenced-in marae with a meeting lodge, kitchens, and storage huts. Instead, there was a camp with tents, which surrounded a giant flagpole. There were no women or children. An army camp, Matariki thought, feeling her amusement give way to an inner coldness. Naturally, Kahu Heke was a warrior chieftain, not a paternalistic tribal elder chosen by the whole tribe, including the women. But what was she supposed to do here? Matariki tried desperately to remember what Haikina had once told her about chieftains’ daughters.
Back at the camp, the warriors turned their attention to the fires on which sweet potatoes and meat were roasting. Apparently, they had broken off their mealtime preparation to organize a suitable reception for Matariki. Matariki’s mouth watered. Surely now someone would give her something to eat.
Kahu Heke remained on the edge of the camp, careful not to come so close to the fires or tents that his shadow could fall on them.
Then he began a speech. “Men! Today
is a day of joy for all who believe in the Pai Marire—and even if they do not know it, for all of God’s chosen people.”
The men reacted with an enthusiastic cry. “Rire, rire, hau!”
They chanted the meaningless words again and again while Matariki reflected on where she had heard the expression “chosen people” before. Not in the Maori language to be sure, but often in Reverend Burton’s church and during the devotion and Bible study in school. God’s chosen people were the Israelites, enslaved by the Egyptians. But what did that have to do with the Maori?
“You all know,” Kahu Heke immediately clarified, “that the archangel Gabriel once appeared to our great leader, Te Ua Haumene, to give him his message on his way: freedom for God’s chosen people. To fulfill God’s will, the Maori nation must throw off the shackles of the pakeha. Enough with the exploitation and land theft. Enough with robbing Papa of her mana.”
Matariki’s head spun. Her father was somehow mixing up everything she had ever heard about religion. He was jumbling the Old Testament, the Israelites, and the archangel Gabriel with the legends of the Maori about the creation of the world through the separation of Papa, the earth, and Rangi, the sky. She found all of it pretty nonsensical, but it seemed to excite the men. They forgot their fires and the preparation of their meals and began, as if in a trance, to run around the flagpole in the middle of the camp while continually chanting, “Rire, rire, hau, hau.”
“We have a duty to rid ourselves of the pakeha’s priests and false teachings,” Kahu Heke yelled. “Only tikanga is truly pleasing to God—the old customs of our homeland, our people, make us unconquerable. Tikanga makes us immortal. Let us think of the natural priesthood of the chieftain and his children. Atua—God—has sent us his priestess today. Blood from the blood of a long line of proud ariki.”
