by Sarah Lark
“They called me Kurt in the orphanage.”
Matariki laughed. “They called me Martha at school,” she revealed. “Kupe is a nice name.”
His eyes beamed at her comment. At times Kupe seemed almost childlike, though Matariki thought he was a good three years older than she was.
Matariki now had to ask some practical questions. “Where can I bathe here, Kupe? Preferably without violating any tapu. There must be a stream or a lake around here, right? I need to wash my hair, at least. As best I can without touching it.”
An hour later, Matariki had washed herself in a clear stream. Kupe had been sure to look away when she took off her blouse. Another sign of his pakeha upbringing. Maori girls did not think twice about baring their upper body to their tribe members. Matariki found Kupe’s behavior touching—especially when, blushing, he handed her a small bowl of soapy water.
“If you just pour it over your hair and then wash it out, you don’t need your hands.”
Matariki found these tapu bizarre, but she did as he instructed. She lay flat on her back and let her hair fall into the water. While the stream washed away the soap, she stared up at the lush green tops of the kauri tree, which rose majestically beside the stream. She wondered how long it had needed to grow to this height—supposedly kauri trees could live to be four thousand years old. If this one had held watch over the stream for only a quarter of that time, its seed would have sprouted before the first Maori had settled the land. It was possible no white person had ever laid eyes on it. Matariki did not know exactly where she was, but if there were pakeha settlements in the area, Kahu Heke would surely have sought another location for his camp. If her father got his way, the trees and ferns here would never give way to a pakeha ax.
The girl tried to imagine an Aotearoa without the whites, without the brick buildings, schools, and sheep herds. She could not quite do it, and it was nothing for which she longed. Still, she liked it in the here and now. Matariki’s hip-length black hair floated in the water, the current stroked her scalp, and she thought she could feel the stream playing with her locks from roots to ends.
“Like that, you really look like a sorceress,” Kupe said as he looked at Matariki’s abundant black hair surrounding her like a mermaid’s.
Matariki sat up when she heard Kupe’s voice. “I’m not, though,” she asserted. “I’m a completely normal girl. But, since we’re talking about magic, do you have any idea what I’m supposed to do to make you and the other members of the tribe invulnerable?”
Kupe shrugged. “Your father will probably tell you. He wants to see you—before the ceremony this evening.”
Matariki wondered how to dry her hair without touching it. She could have used her riding dress, but she had no desire to sit all night by the fire in a wet skirt—assuming there was a fire for her. The dress was dirty and ragged anyway. She desperately needed new clothes. And warmer ones. After all, winter was looming, and every night was already freezing.
Matariki ignored any thoughts of tapu and wrung the water from her heavy black locks with her bare hands. As she was returning to her father’s lodge, a provisional shelter in the clearing caught her eye. Was she supposed to live there? They certainly would not let her into the chieftain’s hut.
Kahu Heke stood in front of his lodge. “You’ve had time to collect yourself, Matariki,” he said. “Do you feel spiritually prepared to take part in our ceremony this evening?”
Matariki shrugged. “Depends on what I’m supposed to do,” she replied. “See, I still don’t have any magic against bullets.”
Kahu Heke seemed to be losing his patience. “I told you, girl, you need to view it metaphorically. We don’t need to start with a grand ceremony.”
“Father, once again, I’m not a tohunga,” Matariki said, making her position clear, “and I’m not going to be one. When I was little, I went around with Hainga a little and know a few medicinal plants. And I can dance different haka.”
“Well, that’s something,” Kahu Heke said happily. “You’ll dance, of course; that’s part of it. For summoning the war gods too. But as I said before, we won’t start with that; we’ll do that by, hmm, by the new moon?”
Matariki raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Father, I don’t know when one does this, or what exactly this is. I need help. Is there a tohunga who can stand at my side?”
Kahu Heke bit his lip. “Well, Hare says he once participated in such a ceremony when the tribes still fought against one another in his youth.”
“Hare is a priest?” Matariki used the English word. In Maori, she would have said tohunga, but that meant someone who had specialized knowledge in a particular subject, not necessarily just the spiritual. One could, however, be a tohunga in spiritual matters but at the same time be a carpenter or midwife. “Priest,” on the other hand, meant someone who had totally committed his life to the spiritual, so “priest” seemed the more appropriate term for what she was asking in regard to Hare.
Kahu Heke ran his hand nervously through his full hair, and Matariki noted again with amusement that he forgot to breathe in Rauru afterward. “He’s, hmm, well, I’d call him tohunga in whaikorero. He leads the ceremonies when I’m not present. He gives very moving speeches.”
Matariki shook her head. “Hare is a master of eloquent speech,” she specified. “You could also say a storyteller. And he’s supposed to reconstruct such an important ceremony? Based on what he saw once as a boy? Or maybe not?”
Kahu Heke now remembered Rauru, and he inhaled reverently. “Matariki, I told you. The precise procedure of the ceremony isn’t important. What’s important is stirring the men’s hearts. Their own spirit makes them invulnerable. Not this or that god.”
“And if the gods see things differently?” she asked impertinently. “Perhaps we’re angering them by simply making something up. Anyway, Hainga would never do something like that. That would really be tapu.”
Kahu Heke began to pace in front of his lodge. Matariki stood defiantly where she was, without dodging his shadow.
“Just leave what’s tapu to me,” the ariki finally said, aggravated. “You don’t do anything but dance. Today, anyway, some haka you know.”
“Like this?” Matariki asked, looking down at herself. “Father, I don’t have a piu piu or poi poi. It’s not going to work.”
The young girls’ dances did not make an impression through grace of movement alone. The traditional dancing skirts made from hardened flax leaves produced a rustling sound to accompany the girls. In addition, the girls swung flax balls on long strings. They, too, made noises and underscored the rhythm. Matariki knew how to make piu-piu skirts as well as poi-poi balls, but it would take weeks to harden the flax for them, not to mention sewing the tops in the tribal colors.
“I can’t exactly dance in an old riding dress.”
Kahu Heke could not dispute this. Although he was not sure whether the chieftain’s daughter was to be naked during the decisive ceremony. Hare had hinted as much. However, by no means did he want to risk more stubbornness from Matariki.
“Very well,” he finally said. “You will not dance tonight. I’ll send a warrior to the next village. He will acquire your dancing clothes. You need to dress like one of us, anyway.”
“Always?” Matariki asked, horrified.
Traditional Maori clothing was attractive but not especially warm. For that reason, the Ngai Tahu preferred pakeha clothing when there was no imminent festival or ceremony.
Kahu Heke did not answer. Instead, he again raised the matter of tattooing.
Matariki’s eyes flashed angrily. “I already told you once, I don’t want moko. For one, I don’t like them. And they hurt. And the ink can inflame the skin.”
Hainga had told the Ngai Tahu girls about various plants that had once been used to soothe inflammation after the tattooing procedure. Yet the remedies had not always worked, which was probably another reason that the practically minded Ngai Tahu now largely did without
moko.
“You’re a chieftain’s daughter,” Kahu Heke said sternly. “The pain—”
“That’s just it.” Matariki smiled triumphantly. “I’m a chieftain’s daughter, and no one can touch me. So, no moko. Who’s supposed to stick me?” She glared mockingly at her father. “And who stuck you? Did they not take it so seriously back then among the Ngati Pau, or are you not even truly a chieftain’s child? Wasn’t Hongi Hika just your uncle?”
“I have royal blood enough,” Kahu Heke declared, leaving the question of his moko unanswered. “Now, come, Matariki. The men await. They will dance around the niu, and you should at least show yourself. Even if you don’t join in the ceremonies tonight.”
Chapter 8
It was growing dark, and Violet was slowly becoming scared by her own courage. The trip from Treherbert to Treorchy stretched on, and she was carrying Rosie because her little sister had long been tired. What was more, the light drizzle that afternoon was slowly turning into a downpour. Violet was soaked to the bone, and her old shoes were falling apart when she finally reached the village’s first houses.
In contrast to Treherbert, Treorchy had not come into being solely with the founding of mines. There had been a town here before the first mines opened, so there were more freestanding cottages, and the streets did not all look the same. Treorchy had originally been tiny, and even now, after it had grown enormously through mining, Ellen’s stories were enough to help Violet find the Seekers’ house.
Violet’s heart was pounding when she put Rosie down and opened the garden gate. There were a trellis fence and well-tended flower and vegetable beds. Violet made sure Rosie did not step in the beds as they walked up to the door. There, she stared at the door knocker shaped in the form of a lion’s maw. A brass door knocker—that was a luxury. In the mining houses, no one could afford something like that, nor did anyone need one. Most of the time, miners’ families left their doors open; otherwise, a simple rap was enough to announce a visitor.
Everything here was so different from back home in Treherbert. The mailbox was made of brass, too, with enamel designs. And in front of the door was a colorful mat with lettering: “W-E-L-C-O-M-E,” Violet spelled out. That gave her courage.
“I want to go home,” Rosie whined.
Violet took a deep breath and knocked. Then she took Rosie by the hand.
“Can’t you smile at least?” she muttered.
The door opened, and Violet squinted into the light of an oil lamp. The man who opened the door was lean and pale with a bearded face. His eyes, which were just as blue as Violet’s, showed complete bewilderment.
“Ellen?” he asked.
A few moments later, Walter Seekers had overcome his confusion. Of course, it could not be Ellen standing in front of his door. But, in the dim light of the lamp, young Violet bore an uncanny resemblance to her mother. Now, the cobbler could not get his fill of looking at her—Violet Paisley, Ellen’s daughter. Walter Seekers could hardly believe his visitor was flesh and blood.
Nevertheless, he soon recovered his thoughts enough to bring his granddaughter and the little one with her in out of the rain. Now Violet sat in front of the fire with Rosie in her arms. She was trying to dry her clothes and not to look too inquisitively while Walter made tea.
“And what’s the little girl’s name? She’d like a cup of hot chocolate, wouldn’t she?” Walter asked uncertainly. “She’s not your child, is she?”
Violet chastised her grandfather with her expression—something he knew all too well from his daughter. “Of course not. I’m thirteen years old. This is Rosemary, my sister.”
Walter Seekers—My grandpa, thought Violet—had tears in his eyes.
“Rosemary,” he whispered, “after my wife who’s departed. Ellen named her after her mother.”
Violet knew about the naming but not that Rosemary Seekers had passed.
“She died a year ago,” Walter told her sadly. He placed a steaming cup of tea in front of Violet and a hot chocolate in front of Rosie, then opened a tin of tea cakes.
“I wish she could have seen this. We always thought Ellen would come back. Rosemary was so sure. That devil—sorry, dear, he’s your father, but he was always a good-for-nothing. And Ellen had to see that someday.”
“Mother’s ashamed,” Violet said.
Walter sighed. “She got that pride from my Rosie too. But tell me, Violet. Why are you here? What can I do for you?”
Violet reported Jim’s unemployment and the eviction notice while Rosie stuffed herself with one cookie after another.
“But now Father has a foreman’s job digging a level,” Violet concluded, so as not to make her father look all that bad. “Only, he hasn’t gotten his pay yet. When he does, he’ll be able to pay the rent easily. Perhaps . . . perhaps you can help us with a few shillings?”
Walter Seekers sighed and then expressed the same considerations that had plagued Violet the last two weeks. “Oh, child, if your father doesn’t have the money now, then he’s never going to. What sort of mine is that supposed to be: broke two weeks after opening? Besides—a level in Treherbert?”
Walter Seekers was a cobbler, not a miner, but he had lived long enough in the region to learn the most important facts about coal mining.
Violet shrugged.
“I think, first thing, I’ll drive you two home now. Your mother doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”
Violet shook her head, embarrassed. “She said I shouldn’t come, but, Mr. Seekers, I—”
“Grandpa,” Walter said, a broad grin on his face. “I’ve waited long enough to hear it. And it doesn’t matter what your mother said. She’ll surely be worried to death about you and little Rosie.”
Rosie had meanwhile climbed into his lap. She was cautious toward men, but Walter Seekers’s beard fascinated her, and his voice was calm and friendly, not loud and aggressive like their father’s and his friends’. Walter gently stopped her from tugging on his beard.
“We can walk back,” Violet said.
It was surely an imposition to have the old man hitch a horse in the pouring rain. Besides, by now her father would be home, and when he saw her grandpa bringing them home . . .
“Oh, nonsense.” Walter was already reaching for his coat and then went into his bedroom, emerging with a rain-tight cloak. “Here, this was my Rosie’s. You’ll both fit nicely underneath it. It’ll be like a tent. Rosemary, look, you can hide in there.”
Rosie laughed and began at once to slip underneath the cloak, popping out again with a cheerful “coocoo” as Violet wrapped it around her.
“Thank you,” Violet said. “Can I, can I help in some way? Maybe with the horse?”
Violet had never come within more than a few yards of a horse, but she offered anyway.
“Can we take the cookies with us?” asked Rosie.
Walter furrowed his brow when he saw Violet’s expression at her sister’s request.
“Tell me, Violet,” he asked thoughtfully. “Are you going hungry?”
When the horse was finally hitched and Walter Seekers had thrown a few tarpaulins on the wagon to protect his young passengers at least somewhat from the rain, he also heaved in a basket of foodstuffs he had been able to assemble quickly: bread, cheese, some dried meat from which Violet could hardly look away, butter, and milk. The girl could scarcely recall the taste of butter. She pictured her mother’s face when she unpacked these treasures.
Lucy, Walter Seekers’s old but well-cared-for cob mare, trotted as soon as she was on the paved road to Treherbert. Likely she hoped to put the journey through the deluge behind her as quickly as possible. In the meantime, the evening had grown completely dark.
“Are there stables to rent in Treherbert?” Walter asked, pulling the tarpaulins over himself and his granddaughters. It did not help much. “I don’t think I’ll make it back tonight. But Lucy will need someplace dry to sleep, and so will I.”
“You can sleep in my bed,” Rosie generously offere
d her grandfather. Violet bit her lip.
“I don’t know,” Violet murmured.
Walter Seekers smiled at her. “I know well enough,” he said. “Your father and I are not exactly friends. And by this time, he’s probably long past sober.”
Violet nodded, relieved that her grandfather had saved them the acknowledgment that a drunk Jim Paisley was not exactly pleasant.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find a place. I know the Davies’ coachman quite well—been making his boots for years.” David Davies was among the largest mine owners in Rhondda. His coachman traveled a lot. “If you tell me where the Davies’ villa is, I can hole up there.”
Violet had no idea where the incredibly wealthy Mr. Davies lived, but now the weak lights of Treherbert had come into view, and she first had to direct her grandfather to Bute Street, where they lived in the oldest section of town. In truth, she had expected to find the house unlit, or at most a candle burning in the window. Then again, her mother must be worried. Indeed, they could see from the street that something was happening at home. The lamps were burning in the living room and bedroom, and loud voices rang out.
“I’ll kill you and that little slut.”
“Let go of her, Dad,” Fred shouted.
“You leave your wife alone, or we’ll fetch the police.”
The courageous Mrs. Brown from next door sounded considerably more determined than the audibly drunk Fred.
Mr. Brown would probably have been even more convincing, but he never involved himself in others’ affairs.
“Daddy’s hitting Mommy,” whispered Rosie as she burrowed into the cloak.
Violet could not leap down fast enough from the wagon box. However, her grandfather was even more spry than she would have thought. He simply left the wagon on the street and ran to the entrance. The door was locked. Behind it, they heard Ellen’s choked screams. Walter Seekers threw himself against the door, causing it to swing open. Violet wanted to run in, but Mrs. Brown stopped her and took Rosie, who had run after her sister and grandfather, in her other arm.
