by Sarah Lark
With that, he tipped his hat and walked outside. Kupe followed him.
“I don’t want to see you here again,” McConnell yelled after the Maori.
“Looks like your nose led you right, Kupe,” Sam said. “Something’s rotten here. We should have left the sheep to themselves and come here sooner. But there’s nothing for it. They can’t lock the girl up, and she must be healthy or she couldn’t work. So, let’s just wait and see.”
Sam treated himself to a cigar at the local import store and bought two pastries for himself and Kupe, along with a growler of beer from the nearest pub.
“You need to relax,” he said, handing Kupe the jug. “Here, drink; it’ll calm you down. She’s not going to run away from you again. In a few hours, you’ll be holding her in your arms. So, start thinking about whether you’re going to kiss her or exchange hongi.”
Kupe blushed as Sam had intended and then, somewhat embarrassed, told Sam about their first kiss. “But it’s true, Maori don’t kiss. Why did she let me kiss her?”
Sam listened, amused, as Kupe considered whether he had really kissed Matariki or maybe Martha. Whether she really liked him or if she had only wanted him to help her escape. Whether she perhaps did not want to see him at all.
“It could be she told that man to get rid of me. Maybe she’s had enough of the Maori for good and—”
Sam slapped his forehead. “We’ll know soon enough, Kupe. The sun’s going down. And if I haven’t missed my guess, those charming McConnells are about to close up their shop. But not before I’ve spoken with them again.”
Kupe stayed with Dingo in the cart while Sam went to the shop door. Mrs. McConnell threw herself against the door to try to keep him out, but Sam pushed it open.
“Under no circumstances will we allow you to see Martha,” she said sharply. “The girl can’t come and go here as she pleases. She abused that privilege. Martha owes us money, Mr. Drechsler. We clothed her and fed her, and as thanks, she tried to rob us.”
Sam scratched his head. He had taken his hat off and now, like a well-mannered supplicant, he held it in his left hand in front of his body.
“You sure must have dolled up the girl if she’s been working this long for a few duds. And the money she robbed, did she spend it before the police caught her? Wouldn’t she be in jail, then?”
“It’s our Christian duty—,” began Mr. McConnell.
His wife held up her hand to silence him. “Martha is still very young,” she explained. “That’s why we decided to give her a second chance, though under close supervision. She did break out of an orphanage, didn’t she? Or was it from a reformatory?”
Sam put on a friendly smile, but rage flickered in his eyes. “I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. McConnell,” he said with the sweetest voice he could muster. “Matariki Drury was abducted from Otago Girls’ High School in Dunedin. She’s a chieftain’s daughter—and what we pakeha might call a sheep baroness.”
After Sam had disappeared into the McConnells’ store, Dingo got increasingly agitated. Kupe held the dog firmly between his legs, so he wouldn’t get away, but Dingo was whining and trying to break free. Eventually, Dingo became so angry that Kupe let him go. Dingo bolted around the row of houses. Kupe took off after him.
The houses on Victoria Street stood tightly side by side. Kupe and Dingo had to round a whole block before they reached the back of the houses. Most of the houses had gardens or backyards; a few were delimited by low barriers, others with high picket fences. Dingo aimed at one of the latter and left Kupe behind when he disappeared through a hole under the fence. Kupe looked at the fence more closely. It seemed likely that the yard behind it belonged to the McConnells. And he was sure Matariki was in their house. Kupe did not think long. He reached for his war club and struck the fence hard. The already somewhat rotten wood gave way immediately. After the second swing, the hole was big enough to allow Kupe through.
Kupe heard the same enthusiastic yipping with which the dog had greeted him earlier. And then a girl’s voice calming him, praising him, sweet-talking him. Kupe ran after the voice.
“Matariki!” He was close to bursting into tears when he saw her face gleaming in the last light of day behind the barred window. “Matariki, I’ll get you out.”
Kupe quickly found an iron pipe, and with one powerful movement, levered the bars out of the window.
“Will you fit through?” he asked.
Matariki was already pulling herself through the window. “Like a warrior between a chieftain’s daughter’s feet. How did that go again? It removes compunction about killing and makes you invulnerable? I’ve been dreaming of it a long time.”
Kupe took her arm and pulled her the rest of the way. Only Matariki’s hips stuck for a moment. She was no longer as slender and childlike as she had been a year before.
Kupe stood dumbfounded by the transformation of his little friend to a young woman. He thought his heart would burst with happiness when she suddenly hugged him.
“I’m so happy you’re alive,” Matariki whispered. “I was so afraid for you. And I never thought that you’d come looking for me.” Matariki laughed. “Listen, I’ve thought through just about everything in all this time, but a tattooed fairy-tale prince—I didn’t think of that.” She ran her finger gently over his moko.
Kupe smiled. “You’re very pakeha,” he replied hesitantly.
Matariki shook her head. “No. I’m Maori. I wasn’t before, but I am now. And I’ll never be anything else. Now, how do we get out of here?”
Kupe led Matariki to the hole in the fence while Dingo jumped on her, full of excitement.
“Do you want to take off or kill these McConnells?” he asked.
Matariki looked up at her massive defender. Kupe, too, had changed in the last few months. A grown warrior stood in front of her.
“The latter,” she decided. “My mother has a mere of pounamu jade. I believe, I believe she killed someone with it.”
With a shrug, Kupe handed her his waihaka. “Dog leather, you know,” he said apologetically.
“That dog,” Matariki exclaimed, “will take revenge for Dingo.”
Kupe forced open the door to the shop once they had rounded the block.
Mr. McConnell, full of hate, looked at him. “You—”
“He’s allowed to be here. I invited him,” Matariki interrupted. “He’s a Hauhau warrior, you know. And I’ve asked him to enforce all the tapu you’ve violated. The spirits, Mrs. and Mr. McConnell, you see, are quite angry.”
Matariki went into the shop, let her eyes glide over the shelves, and swept all the pots and all the earthenware for sale to the ground.
“I touched all of that, Mrs. McConnell, and moreover, as a chieftain’s daughter, cursed it. Everything’s very tapu. Be happy I’m freeing you of it.”
With her next swing of the waihaka, she knocked a few bottles from the shelf, and they smashed on the ground. Matariki cast a wrathful glance at them and then at the used clothing in the next corner. “Those actually need to be burned,” she remarked.
“No.” Mrs. McConnell’s voice sounded choked. She and her husband seemed completely demoralized. Sam Drechsler’s words had already made them fearful enough—war clubs and raging spirits did the rest. It was one thing to lock up an anonymous Maori girl, but a sheep baroness from the South Island? And now worse seemed to be coming.
“Here, however, it’s not so bad,” Matariki said calmly. “Here, I didn’t touch that much. You’re in luck, Mr. McConnell.” She strolled through the store, taking up an ax. “But in the house, there I toiled away.”
Matariki kicked open the door to the living quarters. Kupe followed her like a colossal angel of vengeance. Sam vacillated between amusement and concern.
“The furniture here—I had to polish that, an unbelievable tapu. Kupe, would you be so nice as to sacrifice it to the gods with me?”
Matariki assumed a pose and with all her might roared out a curse. Had she really no
t believed she could let out the karanga a year ago? Now she could. She raised the ax and let it fall on Mrs. McConnell’s carefully preserved buffet. Then she gave the tool to Kupe.
“Would you please complete the work of the spirits for me? It’s time a proper sacred fire was lit in the fireplace.” She laughed as she swept Mrs. McConnell’s beloved tea service onto the ground with one swing of the war club. “I occasionally drank from it,” she said apologetically, “when you weren’t looking, Mrs. McConnell. I shouldn’t have done that, only—now it’s tapu. But don’t you worry. Once we throw everything into the sacred fire, it won’t bring nearly as much bad fortune. And now—”
Sam shook his head. “That’s enough now, Matariki,” he said amicably but firmly. “I think the spirits are quite satisfied. If these people pay you your wages, I believe you’ll be done, won’t you?”
“Her wages?” screamed Mrs. McConnell.
Kupe raised the ax, and Mr. McConnell retreated in horror.
“No, leave it,” Matariki said, trying for the broad, ponderous tone of a priestess. “These two are toenga kainga.”
With that, she turned away.
Kupe looked at her reverently. “Tapu?” he asked, confused.
Sam Drechsler struggled not to laugh. “In a certain sense,” he said. “And now, let’s go. I hope there’s still a coach for Auckland. Mr. McConnell, would you now please pay Miss Drury. We really must leave.”
Matariki could hardly comprehend her luck. In all seriousness, she held ten pounds in her hand as she left the McConnells’ house. Beyond that, Sam Drechsler had discovered the chieftain’s cloak in the shop and immediately reclaimed it.
“Tapu?” grumbled Archibald.
Matariki smiled gently. “Very, very tapu,” she replied, and allowed Sam to wrap the cloak around her shoulders. In the manner of a true princess, she left the shop with her head held high.
Sam couldn’t stop laughing when she boarded the mule cart with just as much grace. “Hopefully there really is a coach now. Otherwise, tomorrow they’ll get the idea of suing us,” he said. “But my compliments, little lady. You’ve got mana enough for three. Someday you’ll be ariki.”
That was not out of the question. There certainly were female chieftains of other tribes.
“What did you say to them?” asked Kupe. “That was a curse, wasn’t it? You set the spirits of the ancestors on their heels, right?”
Matariki shook her head. Now, she had to laugh.
Sam launched into an explanation. “Toenga kainga is more of a curse word. Or an assertion. It’s a traditional way of telling someone what you think of them.”
“What does it mean?” Kupe asked impatiently.
Matariki giggled. “You’re not worth eating.”
She wondered why Kupe did not find the saying funny.
Chapter 7
The train ride to the west coast was a nightmare. Jim Paisley dealt roughly with Violet, threatening her until she had to give up half of her money. The other half was still hidden, fixed with a safety pin to Rosie’s undershirt. Jim remained sober in Christchurch long enough to find a cheap hotel. Probably he did not want to risk losing the girls and the luggage again.
“Make yourselves comfortable. We’re going to go see about the rest of the trip,” he said after depositing the girls and the bags in the sleazy room. Rosie stared ahead of her as fixedly as she had on board the ship.
Violet was not surprised when her father locked them in the hotel room. She had never managed to fool him, and she was sure he sensed there was more money. Until then, Violet had never planned an escape. If she had been alone, she would have gathered all her courage and made an escape plan. With Rosie, however, it was hopeless.
Naturally, her father and the boys had spent most of the money by the time they came back that night. In the pubs, the men had hardly received encouragement that they could easily get to the west coast on foot and without money.
“Make sure you go with someone,” a farmer from the plains advised. “I’m driving to Darfield, and I have space in my wagon, but how you’d make it farther is a question of luck.”
The next day, the man had departed long before Jim and the boys got out of bed. However, they soon found a wood trader bound for Springfield; he offered to take them along if they helped him unload his wagon.
The wood trader was surprised when along with Jim, Fred, and Eric, the two girls climbed into his open wagon. There were no seats except on the box. The other riders had to arrange themselves around the load, and Violet and Rosie froze half to death even though they were huddled up in Kathleen’s blankets.
“Just wait until we get to the mountains,” the driver said when they stopped for a rest. He lit a fire and was making tea. Clearly, he felt sorry for the girls. “In truth, it’s madness to travel now, in the winter,” he said to Jim. “Why don’t you look for some kind of work in the plains and go to Westport in the spring?”
Violet wondered what sort of work there was in the area. They had yet to see villages or even houses. The Canterbury Plains seemed to consist solely of grassland, interrupted now and again by a copse of trees or a lake, and as they got closer to the mountains, there were boulders strewn here and there. It was similar to Wales: grass, sheep, hills, and mountains. Even Treherbert was nothing more than a great sheep pasture before the coal mining began, but in Wales, everything was contained and fenced in, and you knew which land belonged to whom. Here, there were no fences—just land and more land, over which the wind whipped the rain and which seemed contained only by the mountains that jutted up somewhere in the fog.
“I, for one, could use some help,” said the wood trader as if he had heard Violet’s unspoken question. “There’s a lot of building along the future train tracks. My business is going well; a few extra hardworking hands would be more than welcome.”
Jim Paisley and the boys murmured something incomprehensible. It was clear to Violet that they had fixed the coal-mining towns in their heads and did not want to deviate from their plan. Plus, miners were paid better than construction workers.
It didn’t matter anyway. When he saw Jim, Fred, and Eric’s “hardworking hands” in action, the wood trader reconsidered his offer. The three men were lazy, clearly more committed to the bottle than work. Springfield did not have a bar, so Fred acquired a bottle of whiskey at the local grocer’s, and the bottle emptied more quickly than the wagon. Another circumstance arose that only encouraged the men to stop working completely.
A few hours before the wood trader’s heavy rig, a wagon of coal miners had arrived, bound for Greymouth. Joshua Biller, owner of the Biller mine in Greymouth, had hired the men in Lyttelton, which was the port for Christchurch and closer to the coal-mining locations than the Dunedin port. Still, few men took the arduous road over the mountains. Most of them sought work in Christchurch or the plains first—only adventurers made it to Greymouth on the west coast. Biller intended to change that and all summer had offered transportation. In the winter, there were fewer wagons, and though this one was already full, the driver knew the mine could not pass up three strong men like Jim, Fred, and Eric.
“Everybody squeeze in,” he ordered the men already in the wagon, and then waved the Paisleys to get inside.
Jim and the boys jumped in without a care that the wood trader’s wagon was only half-unloaded.
“Please excuse my father, sir,” Violet said. “I can offer you a bit of money for the ride.”
“Oh, it’s all right, girl. Hold on to your money. Your men won’t earn much, not here and not in Greymouth. I’m already sorry for the foreman who has to deal with them. But for you, this wagon is a blessing. Alone with those three do-nothings, the little one might have frozen in the mountains.” He pointed to Rosie. “You’ll need provisions, though.”
Violet looked over at the store. Should she run over and buy something with the money she had worked so hard to hide? Violet was torn. At that moment, the wood trader’s wife came running up and press
ed a packet into Rosie’s hand.
“Here, I just baked some bread. I cut a few pieces for you, for the trip.”
Rosie looked at the woman like she was Santa Claus. Violet thanked her. She was ashamed of her father and of having to start off in this new country as a beggar.
She pushed Rosie into the wagon and saw the next danger. Aside from an old, careworn woman in the front, only men were on board. And most of them were young men who began immediately to look Violet over and then make crude comments.
For Violet, it was an early sign of what Reverend Burton had warned her about on the west coast: “There are practically no women there, so watch out, especially at night. Stay home. Don’t let anyone convince you to a rendezvous. I know about it from the goldfields: a girl is lured into the wilderness, and then six men attack her.”
Violet sat beside Rosie, and the sisters ate the bread ravenously. Violet did think about saving some, but then she would have had to share it. It was better to eat while the three men were still full of whiskey. As they ate, they looked out at the landscape, which grew increasingly bizarre and beautiful and frightening. They went up into the mountains through beech forests in Arthur’s Pass. The rain turned to snow, and Violet and Rosie looked with fascination at the trees, seemingly dusted with rock sugar, and at the partially frozen ponds and streams. The higher they went, the worse the road became. At times, the passengers had to get out because the road was too icy for the horses to pull a fully loaded wagon.
So far, though, the other travelers were still in good spirits. They were strong, young men, and Jim Paisley was not the only one who had stocked up on whiskey. Violet, who had carried Rosie over the worst stretches of road, was exhausted by the first evening. They weren’t prepared for the weather either. It was too cold for their clothing, and neither of the girls had shoes that kept their feet warm and dry.
Violet was relieved when they reached that day’s destination, a primitive hut in the woods even though there was hardly space for the twenty-seven men and three women. The husband of the older woman insisted on his wife’s sleeping close to the fireplace. Violet’s own shy request that she and Rosie join the woman was met with lude responses from the men about how they would keep her warm.
