Beneath the Kauri Tree (The Sea of Freedom Trilogy Book 2)

by Sarah Lark

  “I’ll take the little one; she doesn’t need to see this.”

  Violet muttered a thank-you and stormed into the apartment—where she glimpsed her grandfather laying out the twice as heavy but drunk and confused Jim Paisley with a powerful right-handed punch.

  “Don’t you dare touch my daughter again,” roared Walter.

  Fred, who had tried halfheartedly to pull his father off his mother, watched the scene, dumbfounded.

  Ellen was curled up whimpering in a corner, holding her hands protectively in front of her face. She was bleeding from cuts over her eye and from her lip, and one of her eyes was swollen shut, but she did not seem seriously injured.

  “Mommy.” Violet helped her up.

  Ellen stared disbelieving at the apparition who, full of self-confidence, was beating her husband.

  “Dad,” she whispered.

  “You’re not staying another night in this house.”

  Walter Seekers needed a little time to catch his breath, but then he looked in astonishment around the dilapidated miner’s apartment out of which he had just beaten Jim Paisley. The cobbler was not easily riled, but when he was angry, he raged. Many years before, Ellen had experienced that herself. And now so had Jim. Fred had followed his father without another word; he was drunk enough that he might have taken Walter Seekers for some sort of avenging spirit out of hell.

  The Paisley men were likely headed back to the pub. Violet attempted to put the apartment in order. That was rather hopeless. In his rage, Jim had destroyed half of the little furniture they had.

  “He lost his job again,” Ellen reported, still completely out of breath. “And for some reason he blamed you, Violet. I don’t know why. I should have left him alone. Maybe he would have fallen asleep and forgotten it in the morning. But I had to tell him about the notice.”

  She pointed helplessly to the eviction notice, or what was left of it. Jim Paisley had torn up the paper and strewn the pieces across the floor.

  “Leave him alone? Nonsense!” Walter Seekers worked himself up. “Don’t act as if it had anything to do with you. How often did he beat you, Ellen? Once or twice a month? Every week? For heaven’s sake, child, why didn’t you come home?”

  He took his daughter in his arms, very carefully, so as not to hurt her. “No matter, I’ll take you all with me now. You won’t stay here another minute. Those devils will be back as soon as the pub closes. Take what you want, Ellen, and you too, Violet. We’ll be gone before he returns.”

  “But Fred, what about him?” Ellen was still too taken by surprise to think of fleeing. “He is my son, after all.”

  “Tonight, he was the accomplice to your abusive husband,” Walter replied harshly. “When he’s sober tomorrow, you can speak with him. He’s welcome in my house, too, if he behaves. But tonight, he’ll have to make do for himself.”

  Violet did not need more than a couple of minutes to pack her few pieces of clothing, a barrette Heather had given her, and a cheap notebook in which she occasionally wrote. Violet’s greatest wish was to learn to read and write properly. But she had never gone to school, and the bits her mother or the Sunday school pastor taught her did not take her very far.

  “Done,” she said, “and now I’ll pack for Mom and Rosie. Grandpa, if you take them to the wagon, I’ll be right there.”

  Violet threw Ellen’s sparse wardrobe and a few clothes for Rosie in a basket. She took the doll Kathleen Burton had made for Rosie by sewing together rags and making a stuffing from sawdust. Rosie, who had never had a proper doll, was exceedingly proud of it.

  Outside, Walter Seekers draped his daughter and youngest grandchild in the tarps. Ellen shivered and looked unsure. Her injuries hurt as well. However, her father and Violet would not hear any more objections. Walter was finally bringing his daughter home after all these years. And Violet saw her future more optimistically than ever before. In Treorchy, she would surely not need to work and could go to school. She would not be a poor, dirty coal miner’s daughter but the granddaughter of the cobbler. She would live in a proper house with a garden all around, a house that belonged to her grandfather. Ellen would never need to worry again about whether her drunk of a husband paid the rent.

  Violet would have liked to laugh and sing, but the weather was too depressing. The rain poured down from the sky. As Walter steered the wagon out of Treherbert, the effect of the torrential rain could be seen on the roads. He had to avoid mud holes everywhere and maneuver Lucy and the wagon carefully over the washed-out sections. In places, the road was completely flooded by the river, which had overflowed its banks, and they had to make a detour.

  “Do we really want to try for Treorchy tonight?” Violet asked when Walter once again had his passengers climb out at an especially precarious juncture. Ellen was leaning on her daughter for support, and Rosie was crying again.

  Walter looked at Violet wearily. “Where else can we go?” he asked. “The four of us won’t be able to shelter at the Davies’ stables.”

  “We could stay with the Burtons,” Violet said. “If we go right here, it’s only about a mile to their house. They’ll take us in.”

  The thought of a house in which a warm fire was surely burning lifted Violet’s spirits.

  “That’s the family you said you work for, correct?” Walter was somewhat mistrustful. “He’s not a pastor who’ll convince your mother to go back to that violent devil, er, husband because of her marriage vows, is he?”

  Violet shook her head. “Certainly not. Reverend Burton isn’t like that. Besides, we can’t keep going this way.”

  That was true. The next thing would have been to cross the river, but the torrents of water had torn away the bridge. Walter Seekers considered briefly what other options might be open to him. However, the thought of several hours’ driving in this weather helped him make a decision quickly.

  “All right, so be it, girl. This way? Climb back in, Ellen. It’ll be all right. And you, Rosie, stop that crying. Look, here, in this basket, there’re still cookies. Didn’t you want to eat these?”

  Rosie contented herself with a few soggy cookies, and Walter Seekers steered the reluctant Lucy toward the Burton house. They moved forward slowly on the rutted field path, which had transformed into a muddy wasteland. The wagon inched up the mountain where Randolph Burton had made his level. Lucy pulled the wagon uphill, struggling valiantly against the rocky, slippery ground.

  And then it happened: Walter Seekers saw too late the deep, rocky gully the water had cut when it washed away the road. Lucy overstepped the depression with a bound, but the wagon slammed into it, its axle splitting.

  The cob mare remained where she was when the wheels jammed.

  Walter Seekers cursed. “Looks like we’ll have to continue on foot,” he sighed, moving to unhitch Lucy. “Sorry, girls, all I can offer you now is the horse.”

  Neither Ellen, who was dead tired, nor the girls wanted onto the dripping wet horse. Violet thought with dread about walking through the mud. They still had a long way to the Burtons’. Walter took the oil lamp and used it to light their way. Violet took the basket of provisions. After all, one never knew.

  “If we could at least find some woods or something where we could take shelter,” Walter muttered.

  After just a few steps, it became obvious that neither Ellen nor Rosie would make it all the way to the Burtons’. Their soaked dresses were heavy and freezing.

  “I could go on ahead and maybe get a wagon or horses,” Walter said.

  “I can go,” Violet offered, trying to determine by the landscape how much farther it was. The path and the mountain seemed strangely altered to her. There were countless footprints and wagon ruts, and rubbish lay to the side of the path. Then she saw the entrance to a shaft in one of the hillsides.

  “Grandpa, look, we can take shelter there.” Violet pointed excitedly to the dark maw gaping before them—not like a threat but rather as a refuge from the horrible weather. “There’s a tunnel in the mounta
in.”

  “A tunnel?” Walter asked, amazed, and stopped right at the shaft’s entrance. “Seems to belong to a mine. Be careful you don’t fall if there’s a shaft.”

  Violet had already run ahead.

  “A level,” she announced. “This must be the new one Father worked in.”

  Ellen nodded tiredly. “And that the reverend closed today. That’s why Jim was so angry. He’s—”

  “He’s a bastard,” Walter remarked curtly. “Can you enter there, Violet? Is it safe?”

  All Violet saw was shelter from the weather. The tunnel led at least one hundred feet into the mountain, and it was dry. Walter followed her with the oil lamp, which illuminated the smooth walls and the ceiling, which was slightly taller than an average man.

  Walter sighed with relief. “We can stay here,” he decided, “until the weather improves, even if that’s not till morning.”

  Violet wanted to say something, but her grandfather bade her be quiet. “No, Violet, I’ll not hear of you going out and trying to get to your employers. For one, something could happen to you, and for two, it would be an imposition on them to hitch a team in this weather—and who knows if the path is fit for driving. No, we’ll remain here and set out on foot tomorrow.”

  He moved determinedly to lead Lucy into the tunnel, but while Ellen and the girls staggered with relief out of the wet, the horse refused to take even one step forward. Walter tried halfheartedly to force the mare inside, but Lucy would not be convinced.

  “Then stay outside, you stupid nag,” Walter cursed, and let go of the reins. “I’ll tie her outside. In the meantime, you all settle in. Over there, Ellen, as far inside as possible—it’s warmer there.”

  Ellen warmed her hands over the oil lamp, and Rosie comforted herself with the contents of the food basket. Never in her life had the little girl seen food like this, and she chewed with her cheeks full of cheese and dried meats. Violet made sure that her mother ate something. Ellen looked very pale, her wounds had started bleeding again, and her eye was still swollen shut. Reverend Burton surely would have called a doctor or treated Ellen himself. He was supposed to have led a field hospital in the goldfields. For now, there was nothing to be done, and Ellen would not die of her injuries.

  “I just need rest, dear,” she said as she noticed Violet’s concerned expression. “We’ll just lie down to sleep, and—”

  Her words were swallowed in a thunderous roar, and it felt as if the earth were shaking beneath them. Another storm now? Violet gave up once and for all the thought of reaching the Burton house that night.

  “I feel sick,” Rosie announced. “I think I’m going to throw up, Mommy.”

  Violet sighed. “That’s what happens when you stuff yourself,” she said. “Just don’t throw up here. It’ll smell all night.”

  “I’ll take her out,” Ellen said, already half-asleep.

  Violet shook her head. “Nonsense, I’ll go. I’ll also see to the horse, Grandpa. Maybe she wants to come out of the rain now.”

  She did not like the thought of Lucy dripping wet. She had already grown fond of the horse—and she wondered why the animal seemed so set against entering the tunnel. After all, the mare had hardly wanted to leave the stables.

  “I need to throw up.”

  Rosie’s whining grew more urgent, and there was another roar of thunder. Violet picked up her sister and carried her outside. Lucy whinnied at her. The horse sounded fearful—or insistent? Her grandfather had tied the mare to as protected a place as possible at the entrance to the tunnel. Lucy, however, seemed to want to get away. Violet was afraid of the stomping mare. She carried Rosie far from the entrance to the edge of the road, where she threw up at once. Violet held her hair and wished she were out of the rain—and then everything happened very quickly.

  The thunder roared again. However, somehow it did not seem to come from the sky but from the mountain itself. Violet saw from the corner of her eye how Lucy, with a final desperate effort, tugged on her line and freed herself as a powerful mass of mud and rock collapsed in front of her. If the horse had not freed herself, she would have been buried. While Violet stared in shock at the tunnel entrance, it thundered some more, more masses of earth fell from the hillside into the entrance, and a boulder rolled toward Violet. She pulled Rosie away from the slope and heard Ellen screaming. Or were those her own screams? Or Rosie’s? A torrent of water poured down the hillside, washing away earth and debris with it. The tunnel’s entrance was no longer visible. The whole world seemed now to consist only of rain, collapsing earth, and thunder.

  Suddenly the thundering stopped, and the collapsing earth came to a standstill. Violet ran to the mound of rock and earth behind which the tunnel’s entrance lay. She began to dig with her bare hands.

  “Mommy,” she screamed and sobbed, but no one answered. Violet finally gave up. “We need to fetch help,” she said flatly. “Come with me, Rosie. You have to come along.”

  Violet pulled herself together. Part of her wanted to remain to cry and scream and even to die. But another part of her remained coolheaded, looked at the disaster site as someone only casually involved, and knew above all that she needed to get Rosie out of the cold and rain. She cautiously approached Lucy, who had stayed nearby and was now picking at grass on the side of the road. The old mare looked at her amicably.

  Violet lifted Rosie onto the horse. “You’ll ride for now. No back talk. Hold on tight. You can do it. We need to get help for Mommy and Grandpa. And if I carry you, it’ll take hours.”

  Lucy dutifully padded along next to Violet and even allowed her to hold on to her mane when the path became slippery. Nevertheless, it took an eternity for the Burton house to come into view. Everything was dark. Naked fear took hold of Violet. What if the Burtons were not home? Or if no one opened the door? Or . . . ?

  She left the horse untethered in the garden, pulled the still-whimpering Rosie with her up the front stairs, and hammered desperately on the door. The knocking didn’t seem to rouse anyone. Violet looked for rocks to throw at the windows.

  Then she heard footsteps. The door opened, and she threw herself, sobbing, into Peter Burton’s arms. “Reverend, Reverend, the tunnel, the level, my mother, my grandfather.”

  Chapter 9

  The Hauhau’s evening devotion was similar to what Matariki had seen at midday, though everything seemed more martial in torchlight, and this ceremony lacked her father’s rousing speech. After his militant words, the warriors’ monotone “Rire, rire, hau, hau” had sounded like a battle cry—but of the sort that reminded Matariki of school hockey games.

  Now, however, the men’s grim expressions and their cries frightened Matariki. The men, in sacred seriousness, surrounded the pole—called a niu—in the middle of the camp and chanted the syllables. Kahu Heke and Hare, the “master of eloquent speech” and self-proclaimed spiritual expert of this strange tribe, occasionally added names and comments. Some were taken up by the warriors, who shouted, “Pai Marire,” “Hau, hau,” “Te Ua Haumene,” or “In the name of Gabriel” or “Atua.” A call for “freedom” was answered by the Hauhau with even louder cries. The noise in the clearing was deafening. Matariki could not believe that the civilian village of the Te Maniapoto could be that close.

  The ceremony lasted hours, and Kupe looked completely exhausted as he stomped around the pole for perhaps the hundredth time. Most of the warriors seemed, however, to fall into a violent trance. Their cries spurred them on. A few swung their spears; others beat themselves on the breast. They seemed to desire nothing more than to finally have the foe before them.

  To Matariki, it all appeared strange and terrifying—much more so than the martial haka her own tribe occasionally danced to stay in practice. That served as deterrence, but this was something else. This changed the warriors, and it was dangerous.

  The men finally finished, and Kahu Heke withdrew to his lodge, followed by the cheerful Kupe who fed him before eating something himself. Matariki had lost her appe
tite; she only wanted to sleep, once she finally succeeded in getting the echo of the war cries out of her ears.

  Matariki listened to Kupe’s footsteps as he laid food in front of her hut. She expected him to move away again immediately, but he paused. Matariki sensed he was struggling with himself. His pakeha upbringing won, and he called out to the venerated chieftain’s daughter.

  “Good night, Matariki,” he said in English.

  For some reason, Matariki felt better as she answered him. “Good night, Kupe.”

  The next morning, the warriors’ cries woke Matariki. Apparently, they conjured the spirit of Hauhau or whomever at least twice daily. She pulled her blanket over her head and tried to shut out the noise, but sleep was impossible. Around midday, she found poi-poi balls and a dress in front of her hut. It resembled the dancing clothes of the Ngai Tahu, but the sleeveless top was patterned differently—as would be the case since patterns varied according to tribe.

  Matariki was happy to have a top to wear; she had feared that the ceremonies would require nudity. Though she was still boyishly slender, her figure was starting to become more womanly. Nevertheless, the dancing dress was too big on her. Matariki asked Kupe to find her some sewing implements, and as she altered the outfit, she wished she were in the village, where the women and girls would have helped her while making bawdy jokes about how Matariki’s breasts were as tiny as the grapes from her mother’s vineyard. Afterward they would all have admired her in her new outfit and laughed and danced. Matariki yearned for the normalcy of an average Maori village, and at the same time, she feared for these unknown neighbors. While the village did not lie within earshot, it could be reached within a few hours. Through the proximity of his camp, Kahu Heke was endangering this village much the way Kupe’s tribe had been in the past.

  Finally, it was evening, and Matariki uneasily followed her father into camp. The warriors had already begun to circle the pole.