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

by Sarah Lark

  Matariki reached the town two days after her flight from the Hauhau camp, yet she found the sight disappointing. She had been hoping for a city and always had something like Dunedin in mind, but in truth, Hamilton was no bigger than Lawrence in Otago. There were settlers on both the eastern and western banks of the river. Here, everyone was guaranteed to know everyone else, and surely it wouldn’t take long before word made its way to Kahu Heke that Matariki was in town. This made it all the more important to organize her onward journey as soon as possible.

  Matariki pulled the chieftain’s cloak on over her dancing dress and made her way into town. After her days of lonely wandering and her time among the Hauhau, it was almost unreal to see pakeha and one of their typical settlements. Victoria Street, the main street of Hamilton, was occupied by two-story, brightly painted wooden houses with porches or storefronts on the ground floor. Matariki peeked into a grocery store. Somewhere there had to be a post office and a police station. Matariki had decided to seek the latter. She wanted to tell her story and ask that her parents be informed. She didn’t care about revealing Kahu Heke and his people. Clearly, the authorities knew that there were Hauhau in Waikato anyway and had already cleared her father and his warriors from their camp.

  It proved difficult to track down the local police, especially since people were not particularly helpful. The first woman she asked for help gave her a filthy look. The next woman spat at her, and others just gave her a wide berth. Three men standing in front of a pub seemed to be making derisive remarks. Nonetheless, Matariki went to speak to them.

  “Pardon me, I’m looking for the police, or the Armed Constabulary.”

  On the South Island, this mixture of militia and police was not all that common. In Dunedin, there were just police stations. On the North Island, however, the armed constables seemed to be omnipresent, and although Matariki feared them a bit after the fight in the Hauhau camp, she was prepared to entrust herself to the officers.

  “Look at this one; it can talk,” one of the men shouted. “And not just that pagan gibberish.”

  Matariki glared at him. “I can speak English quite well, sir, and I’m not an ‘it.’ I’m a girl, more specifically, and I’ve been kidnapped.”

  The second man snatched at Matariki’s cloak with lightning speed. The cloak did not have any fasteners, so Matariki had been holding it together in front of her chest. Now it opened, offering a view of her little piu-piu skirt and top. Dingo growled angrily but hid behind his mistress as he did.

  “Well, I can guess who kidnapped you.” The man yelled into the pub. “Hey, does Potter offer Maori girls?”

  A bent little man—the proprietor presumably—stuck his head outside.

  “Pardon me, sir, your guests appear to be drunk,” Matariki said with dignity, turning to the pub owner. “But perhaps you could tell me where I could find a constable who—”

  “She sure is a cute one,” remarked the owner. He did not respond to Matariki; instead, he turned to the other men. “If she’s one of old Potter’s, watch out. They say the savages still ain’t selling their girls. It’s not like in India.”

  “Bet it depends on the price.”

  Matariki tried again. “Please, my good men, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But as far as I know, the slave trade is forbidden in New Zealand. I’m Matariki Drury of Elizabeth Station, Otago. And I’d like to speak with the local police.”

  “Oh, all the constables are Potter’s customers too,” the first man said. “They won’t help you, sweetheart. But maybe if you do all of us here for free, we’d hide you.”

  Matariki turned on her heels. She had to find someone who would help. And she needed to get her hands on pakeha clothing as soon as possible. Perhaps she should try her luck among the shopkeepers.

  Matariki crossed the busy road and entered a general store. A few women backed away from her as if she were a leper.

  “We don’t serve savages here,” the shopkeeper said.

  Matariki rolled her eyes. “I’m not a savage,” she replied, “just dressed a little differently. I was hoping you might sell me some regular clothes.”

  The shopkeeper, a tall, scrawny fellow with bright, watery eyes, a crooked mouth, and bad teeth, shook his head. “You’d be the first rat that could pay,” he said.

  “I was hoping to trade,” Matariki said. “Or sell something first and then buy.” She removed the valuable cloak and laid it on the counter, revealing her dancing clothes, which drew shocked noises from the women. “This is a korowai, a chieftain’s cloak. It’s very valuable. The feathers come from rare birds, the pattern is sewn laboriously by hand, and the coloring is distinct. Only a few women in a tribe can make something like this. And in truth, a korowai is never given to pakeha. There’s probably even a tapu about it. I’m willing to sell you the cloak. Can we do business?”

  Matariki tried to make her voice sound firm, and to use the same words as her father when he praised the most valuable breeding ewes. The customers seemed to find that funny. Their laughter, however, was no friendlier than that of the men at the pub.

  The shopkeeper eyed the cloak more intensely; his expression was devious. “It’s used,” he said.

  Matariki nodded. “Chieftain’s cloaks are part of the regalia,” she explained, “like a queen’s purple cloak.”

  The women laughed even louder. Matariki tried not to let herself be distracted. She let the mockery run off her like she did Alison Beasley’s comments at Otago Girls’ High School.

  “They’re handed down from generation to generation. Though, naturally, they’re handled with care.”

  “And just where did you get the thing?” asked the shopkeeper. “Steal it?”

  “I’m a chieftain’s daughter.”

  Matariki had not finished saying the words when it became clear she had made a mistake. That had impressed the girls at school, not to mention the Hauhau, but at best, it aroused suspicion here.

  “You look more like a bastard,” laughed the shopkeeper. “But let’s not be like that. Give it to me, and you can pick out one of the dresses. I can’t just look on as an upstanding Christian man while a girl runs around so scantily clad.”

  Matariki shook her head. “The cloak is worth a lot more than a shabby dress.”

  The man shrugged. “Then go sell it somewhere else.” He pointed to the door.

  Matariki bit her lip. It was unlikely that there was a second store like that in town, but she had to look anyway. She left the shop without a word. Dingo leaped up to comfort her. In the meantime, he had discovered a butcher shop and peered over at it. From inside his shop, the butcher looked at Matariki. His offerings reminded the girl that she would eventually also need something to eat. Dingo whined.

  “We need money,” Matariki explained.

  Meanwhile they had almost completely crossed the western half of Hamilton. At best, there would be a buyer for her cloak on the other side of the river. The bridge, however, was still being built, and people were crossing by means of two canoes tied together that were dragged from one bank to the other by a pulley system. The whole thing did not look very trustworthy, and the river had a strong current. And what if she needed a little money for the crossing? Matariki gave up the idea.

  She looked across the street where a postal service carriage was stopped. No doubt it went straight on to Auckland. She was more likely to get an audience in the big city. Was there any possibility of smuggling herself inside?

  What about stealing clothes? Dusk was approaching, and if she looked around, she would surely find a clothesline with pakeha garments drying on it. But if she couldn’t find anything her size, she’d stand out in clothes that were too big almost as much as she would in her Maori clothes. Plus, someone might recognize stolen items.

  Defeated, Matariki wandered back into the store she had just left.

  “Thought it over?” The shopkeeper grinned.

  Matariki nodded. “But I need more than just a dress. Also unde
rwear, shoes and stockings, a shawl, and a few coins for a telegram to the South Island.”

  “Maybe a handbag and a pearl necklace too?” the man teased her.

  Matariki sighed. “Please, I need help!”

  “A dress, underwear, shoes—well, I suppose you can also have the old shawl there.” The man pointed to an already rather ragged shawl. He also traded in used clothing. “But no money, sweetheart. Who knows what road that would take me down? Maybe I’m risking jail by helping you. Who’d you run from, anyway, heh? Your master probably. Or old Potter?” He laughed. “Probably took the cashbox with you?”

  Matariki rolled her eyes. “In that case, wouldn’t I have money instead of a chieftain’s cloak?” she asked. “I didn’t steal anything, sir, and I didn’t run away from a”—she did not want to say the word—“from an establishment,” she finally finished. “I was kidnapped. That’s why I’m looking for the police, and that’s why—”

  “Fine, fine, save your breath. Even if it sounds like a good story, but you all do know your way around a lie. So, do we have a deal, sweetheart?” He grinned.

  It took some time for Matariki to find a dress that came close to fitting her. The female citizens of Hamilton all seemed to be well fed. For petite girls like Matariki, the only items available were children’s clothing, and then they were too short. Finally, she found a well-maintained green housedress. The shopkeeper, Mr. McConnell, as she gleaned from a sign in the display window, allowed her to change in the store’s backroom and did not follow her. Matariki sighed with relief when she finally stood in front of the mirror in pakeha clothing. She still would not pass for a pure-blooded white, but she felt better when she halfheartedly thanked the man and prepared to go.

  “What are you going to do now?” asked the proprietor.

  Matariki shrugged. “Look for work,” she answered. “I do need to earn money. We need something to eat.”

  “We?” asked the man alertly.

  Matariki pointed to Dingo, who was waiting patiently in front of the shop. “And I need to send a telegram,” said Matariki. “My parents, they—”

  “Sure, sure,” Mr. McConnell laughed. “Well, see if you find anything. But I’ll tell you now that we don’t suffer your ilk here gladly. What do you even have in mind?”

  “Be a maid?” Matariki said. “My mother used to be a maid, and she liked it.”

  McConnell slapped his forehead. “But your type doesn’t even know what tidy is.”

  Matariki refrained from enlightening him on how much emphasis Otago Girls’ High School placed on the subject of homemaking alongside other studies.

  “I can also take care of horses,” she said instead, “and sheep.”

  She could still hear the man laughing when she stepped onto the street. She hated Hamilton more and more. She needed to get away soon—and not just because Kahu Heke could find her trail.

  Over the next few hours, Matariki knocked on every door in the western half of Hamilton—and then thought about swimming over to the eastern half. It seemed hopeless she would find work in this tiny town—even a pakeha girl might not have had luck. People were quick to show Matariki the door and to speak unkindly. The people of Hamilton seemed to hate the Maori—she did not find any who lived there, and there wasn’t any evidence of a nearby Maori village.

  Night was falling, and Matariki was hungry and tired enough to fall over. She would have to go back into the woods in the morning to fish or find edible roots. Unfortunately, the flora on the North Island, as she had feared, was only generally comparable to that on the South Island. At least the warmer temperatures offered their advantages. In Otago at this time of year, it would already be too cold to spend the night outside, but on the North Island she could manage.

  The girl dragged herself once more through the streets, Dingo following her. She could still ask for work in the stables—perhaps the owner would at least let her sleep in the straw.

  “Are you the Maori girl?”

  Matariki was walking past the McConnell store again when a voice startled her. The woman to whom it belonged was just as thin as Mr. McConnell, who was presumably her husband. She was occupied with locking up the shop under the light of a gas lamp.

  Matariki turned to the woman. “My name’s Mata, Martha Drury.”

  After she had been thrown out of the first few houses in Hamilton, she had resorted to using her pakeha name.

  “It does sound like you’re a Christian girl,” said the woman snidely. “Are you baptized?”

  Matariki nodded.

  “Speak loud and clear. My husband says you talk normal. Step into the light.”

  Normally, the woman’s commanding tone would have sparked rebellion in Matariki, but exhausted as she was, she obeyed.

  “English is my mother tongue,” she said.

  The woman snickered. “You can braid your hair and put on a proper dress, so it seems you’ve got a little civilization. I told my Archibald straightaway that if she really can talk like a Christian, then she’s from an orphanage. What did you do, girl? Did they throw you out, or did you run away?”

  The woman was curious; perhaps she would at least listen to her story. And then offer her some bread? Matariki was prepared to beg.

  “I really did run away, madam,” she said politely, curtsying. “But not from an orphanage, from a Maori camp. I—”

  “I might be able to use a girl like you.”

  Matariki’s heart almost skipped a beat. Was that a job offer?

  “I was telling Archibald before: my parents in Wellington, they also had a girl out of an orphanage. She didn’t work so bad. Sure, got to keep an eye on you all—and the cashbox locked. But otherwise, come on in, girl.”

  Matariki followed the woman into the shop, sighing with relief—Dingo, who wanted to run inside after her, however, only earned a kick. He yelped. Matariki was sorry, but she was not worried. Dingo would wait for her somewhere.

  She stood across from the haggard Mrs. McConnell, who eyed her closely. That gave the girl time to study her future employer herself. Mrs. McConnell was not yet very old; Matariki guessed she was younger than her parents. But wrinkles had already carved themselves into her face, pulling down the corners of her mouth. Her eyes, as watery blue as her husband’s, sat close together. Her eyebrows were sparse, and even Mrs. McConnell’s hair seemed thin and colorless. She wore it in a stern bun, not a strand in her face. Mrs. McConnell was pale but had surprisingly full red lips. Her mouth reminded Matariki of a frog’s, but when the image shot through the girl’s head, she was too tired to laugh.

  “You’re devilishly pretty,” the woman finally observed. “You’ll be a constant temptation for Archibald.”

  Matariki swallowed. Her mother had only hinted at the problems she had experienced with employers. However, it was enough to make her nervous now.

  “I’m no . . . ,” Matariki ventured, looking the woman in the eye. “If I wanted to lead someone into temptation, I’d be over at old Potter’s.”

  Mrs. McConnell snickered. “Very well, and I’ll keep an eye out. You’ll help around the house, clean, wash, cook. I’ll show you how if they didn’t already in the orphanage. You’ll stay out of the shop, understood? I’ll show you your room.”

  Matariki followed her through the shop and, to her horror, downstairs to a cellar. Here, a portion of the goods were stored. A closet was separated from the main room, similar to a potato cellar. Mrs. McConnell opened the wooden door.

  “You can sleep here.”

  “That, that looks like a prison,” Matariki blurted out in horror after peering into the tiny chamber, which contained a pallet bed and a chair. More would hardly have fit. A tiny window looking out at the yard at ground level was barred.

  Mrs. McConnell snickered again. “Well, we used it for one too, when our sons were little. If one of them misbehaved, a few hours in here, and they regretted it.”

  Matariki stepped back in shock. Her instincts told her to quickly put distance bet
ween her and a couple who would lock up their own children. But it was warm and dry, and, exhausted as she was, the pallet was like a four-poster bed. Surely Mrs. McConnell would give her something to eat. They could negotiate everything else in the morning.

  “I’m hungry,” said Matariki.

  Mrs. McConnell made a face. “First you work, then you eat,” she replied, but she looked again at Matariki’s gaunt face and reconsidered. “I’ll bring you some bread,” she muttered. “Make yourself at home in the meantime.”

  Matariki sank down onto the pallet.

  She felt utterly alone.

  Chapter 3

  Violet and Rosie waited in front of the harbor pub in Dunedin until it grew dark. They watched as the first-class travelers boarded cabs or were picked up by friends or relatives, and observed the immigrants from steerage getting their bearings. Lastly the sailors disembarked—some of them heading into the pub where her father had also disappeared. Violet ventured speaking to a steward whom she had seen at church service. He promised to look for her father and brother and remind them of the girls in front of the pub, but it was several hours before he came out.

  He shrugged his shoulders when he saw the girls. “I’m sorry, miss. I told him once when I came in and then again before I left. But he just grumbled something like, ‘Aye, aye.’ He was already drunk when I got there. He’s not good for anything else today.”

  That did not surprise Violet, but she didn’t know what to do. Her father would remember them when he left and punish her if he did not find them right away. After all, she was watching his luggage too. Helplessly, she kept waiting, long after Rosie had fallen asleep on the duffel bag.

  Finally, the last few customers staggered out of the pub, and a man moved to shut the door. Violet gathered all her courage.

  “Pardon me, sir.”

  She approached the barkeeper. She hoped he did not mistake her for a loose girl and, more importantly, that he was not looking for one.