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

by Sarah Lark

  Matariki and Kupe cheered with the others while Lizzie and Michael looked at each other skeptically. They had not always had the experience that the world belonged to peaceful people. Usually it was the opposite.

  Te Whiti smiled at his audience. “I’m happy that many of you understand me and hear the admonition of the gods. But I also see fretful faces. In many of your hearts, darkness still reigns, and I understand that. I feel your sorrow when you see your land ravaged by the gold digging and coal mining of the whites. I feel your rage when they devour more and more from the ground that is sacred to your tribes. It is a justified rage, and I agree that we must stop them. But not with violence, not by taking up arms. The weapons of the pakeha are stronger. You cannot win a war against them with your mere and waihaka and taiaha and the few weapons for which you’ve traded with the enemy. The British Crown has fought for centuries, friends. It has subjugated as many people as there are stars in the sky.”

  “Not all that many,” Michael grumbled.

  Lizzie shrugged. “When he’s right, he’s right,” she said. “Taiaha, as important as the speared clubs are for the Maori warrior, can’t hold up against cannons. That uneven fight results in dead Maori and land for the whites. The question is what to do instead. The Maori can’t wish the pakeha away.”

  “The pakeha are sure that they’ll gain victory with their weapons,” Te Whiti continued, “but I, friends, I am sure that we can win by the strength of our spirit. Our spiritual strength illuminates this land, and from this village the light will emanate. We will show the pakeha how we live. We will invite them to call the spirits with us. We will convince them that peace grants strength, much more strength than the violence of all the weapons in the British Empire.”

  The audience cheered as Te Whiti finished. Many of them, Matariki and Kupe included, sprang up singing and dancing.

  Lizzie raised her eyebrows. “As long as it doesn’t go awry,” she remarked.

  Lizzie Drury had her own experiences with a life pleasing to God. As a young woman, she had often tried praying, but she came to the conclusion that God largely stayed away from her affairs. Lizzie had been forced to lie and deceive. Once she had to use force to save her life. Though in that case, she had the Maori spirits on her side. When she had smashed the war club into the temple of her attacker, she believed her hand had been guided by one of the legendary female warriors of the tribes.

  “You can’t eat illumination,” Michael said. “We Irish didn’t lack for priests during the famine.”

  Matariki looked at her parents. “You don’t understand him,” she said. “Even though it’s so simple. It’s wonderful, I—”

  “Shh, Te Whetu’s speaking now,” Kupe admonished. “He’s imposing, isn’t he?”

  Te Whetu was younger and taller than Te Whiti, his voice more resonant. He introduced himself as a relative and confidant of Te Whiti and as a veteran of the Taranaki Wars. Then, he spoke to his concerns. “Te Whiti, our great chieftain, has heard the voices of the spirits. You, however, hear the voices of the pakeha, and I know they are often masters of eloquence. The spirits counsel us peace, friends, but they don’t counsel us to give up. So, be watchful, be friendly, but not trusting. The pakeha will try everything to move you to give up your land, and sometimes their reasoning cannot be cast lightly aside. Trains now connect people across the country. Pasturelands assure the supply of meat. We know that these were concerns for our forefathers and that the tribes went to war for the sake of their hunting grounds. But all this should benefit us as much as the pakeha. There is no reason their sheep should graze on our sacred sites or even on land that simply belongs to us. If they want our land, they must pay fairly for it. And they must ask if we even want to sell it. Be smart, friends, and do not fall for the bribes offered to your chieftains. Don’t let them pressure or convince you; don’t let them drown out your voices. Show the whites that we have dignity. Receive them with politeness, but do not give an inch when it comes to what your tribe has decided about its land.”

  Te Whetu also earned loud applause—even from many tribal members who had still been skeptical before. After his speech, the visitors and villagers separated into smaller groups to discuss what they had heard. Then everything flowed into a festival with song and dance, food and whiskey and beer.

  “A whiskey distillery would be worthwhile here,” said Michael with an expert glance around. Matariki glared at him.

  “You don’t take any of it seriously,” she said bitterly. “What’s with the two of you? Don’t you believe Te Whiti?”

  Lizzie arched her brows. “It’s not a question of belief. The man certainly has honorable intentions. But I fear he’s not going to convince Her Majesty’s army.”

  “If we receive Her Majesty’s army with flowers and children’s laughter, they will sing and celebrate with us just like the warriors of the tribes,” Pai said. “Look, over there: the Ngati Pau dance with the Ngati Porou, and the Te Maniapoto exchange hongi with the Ngati Toa. That’s the wonder of Parihaka, the wonder of Te Whiti.”

  “I’d attribute it more to the effect of the whiskey,” said Michael. “But either way, it’s better than the pakeha and Maori fighting. I don’t really believe in wonders, and instead of spirits, I’d seek out lawyers to represent the tribes against the government. But Parihaka is a nice village, and I like Te Whiti a lot more than Kahu Heke.”

  “Then you won’t have anything against my staying here,” Matariki said sharply.

  “You want to do what?” Michael yelled. “Have you lost your senses?”

  Lizzie sighed. “No. I’m afraid she’s found them.”

  Michael glared at mother and daughter. “Forget the expression,” he said sternly. “Matariki, you can’t stay here. You’re too young to get by on your own. You—”

  “I’ve had to get along on my own for months,” Matariki interrupted, “and I’m not alone here, anyway.”

  “So that’s the direction the wind’s blowing. You’re in love. This Kupe—”

  Michael looked around, and he saw Pai and Kupe together not far away.

  “Kupe has nothing to do with it.” Matariki threw back her hair wildly. “I just want—”

  “What about school, Riki?” Lizzie asked calmly. She had known since their arrival in Parihaka that her daughter had made her decision, but she wanted to at least talk it through. “Don’t you want to finish school before you decide to be solely Maori?”

  “I can go to school here,” Matariki said. “I already discussed it with the teachers. And I’ll even get to teach English to the little ones.”

  “Can the teachers here bring you to the same level as finishing high school?” Lizzie was skeptical. “You should think everything through once more, Matariki. Anyone can work the fields and show the pakeha how diligent and proper the Maori people are. But you can go to university. You know Dunedin accepts women in every subject. You can study medicine and work as a doctor here, or specialize in land sales as a lawyer. You could really change things, Matariki. In a few years—”

  “It might be too late in a few years. I want to change things right now.”

  Matariki walked away confidently, every inch a chieftain’s daughter. Her father’s korowai hung on her shoulders. Lizzie finally recalled where she had previously seen the cloak. The great chieftain Hongi Hika had worn it when he gave Kahu Heke permission to take the pakeha wahine to safety from her pakeha pursuers in the chieftain’s canoe. Everything had begun with that. And now her daughter was grown, and she strode with sure steps to the fire in the middle of the gathering place. Calm and self-assured, Matariki approached Te Whiti and bowed before him.

  Lizzie watched him address her in a friendly manner, and she held her breath when her daughter took off the valuable feather cloak and laid it in Te Whiti’s hands. Kahu Heke had wanted to use it to declare war and stoke hatred. Now, instead of a goddess of war, a prophet and peacemaker would wear it.

  Lizzie did not believe in Te Whiti’s messag
e, but when she saw the dignified old chieftain in conversation with her daughter, she teared up with emotion.

  Michael likewise observed the gesture.

  “A present chosen smartly,” he observed. “She’s introducing herself as a chieftain’s daughter from the first.”

  Lizzie frowned. “I don’t think she has hidden motives. She’s completely under his spell.”

  Michael bit his lip. He watched as Matariki bowed to Te Whiti once more and then went back to her friends. The girl sat down at ease beside Pai and Kupe.

  “Do you think she’ll marry him?” Michael asked.

  Lizzie looked at her husband as if he’d lost his mind. “Te Whiti? For heaven’s sake—”

  “Lord, no.” Michael waved that notion away. “Kupe, the boy. He’s head over heels in love with her.”

  Kupe was just then handing Matariki a cup of wine. She thanked him with a laugh.

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “But she’s not for him,” she observed. “She doesn’t have any feelings for the poor boy. But maybe he can hold his breath and hope longer.” She smiled and cuddled against her husband. She, too, had to struggle for her at first hopeless-seeming love. “Who knows the ways of the spirits, after all?”

  Michael put his arm around her, and for a while they watched their daughter. She did not look back at them. She joked with the others and finally began to dance with them. Her body swayed in the moonlight.

  “Do you think we’ve lost her?” Michael asked. His voice sounded choked.

  Lizzie shook her head. The night over Parihaka was beautiful. Starlight made the snow on Mount Taranaki shine like silver, and where earlier it had been the last sun’s rays, now the moon’s kiss brushed against the sea. It grew cold. And Lizzie mistrusted the magic.

  “No,” she said with another look at Matariki. “She’ll come back. Someday she’ll wake up from this dream.”

  Chapter 2

  Seven-year-old Caleb Biller proved a much better teacher than Reverend Clusky in Violet’s old Sunday school or even Heather Coltrane. Maybe it was because he recently had learned to read, or perhaps it was natural talent. From him, Violet learned reading and writing at breathtaking speed. Granted, she had plenty of time for it. Caleb showed little interest in typical boys’ games. He did not climb trees, thought racing childish, and preferred analyzing grasshoppers with the help of a reference book rather than ripping off their legs. He left the house only when he had to, and even then, he took a book with him. Violet followed suit.

  During Caleb’s preferred activities like reading and piano playing, he did not need company, and he was pleased that Violet liked to read while he pored over reference books.

  Violet preferred newspapers. Though she liked to read stories, she wasn’t yet a proficient enough reader for great literature, and Caleb’s children’s books and Hermine Biller’s women’s journals were too different from her daily life. Violet was not interested in princesses and did not believe in heroes. She wanted to discover what was happening in the real world. She made a habit of taking the Christchurch and Dunedin daily newspapers off the Billers’ breakfast table when she retrieved tea from the kitchen for herself and Caleb. Joshua Biller had already looked through the papers by then, and Hermine did not read them, so it did not bother anyone when Violet made off with her “instructional reading.” Caleb patiently helped her through them once they finished their morning tea.

  “‘Dunedin. Renewed pro-protests before the public houses.’” Violet sounded it out. “‘Last Saturday evening, three large taverns in Dunedin became targets of the ab-abstinence movement.’ What is that, Caleb?” Violet looked up from the newspaper.

  “Abstinence.” Caleb said the word fluidly and looked it up in his dictionary. “‘Anti-alcoholism.’ Those are people who want to ban whiskey.”

  Violet understood, but she could hardly believe it.

  “Seriously, Caleb? There is such a movement? Will it ever happen? I mean, can it be that they’d really outlaw the stuff?”

  Caleb shrugged. “I don’t know. Keep reading. Maybe they say.”

  “‘The, the emotional women around Mrs. Harriet Morison pat-patrolled from opening until closing in front of the public house entrances after joining together at the Anglican church in Caversham and breaking into groups. The alco-alcohol opponents preached against whiskey and violence. They see the frequent visits of their husbands to the public houses as the root cause of their poverty and the destruction of their families. While singing the hymn “Give to the Winds Thy Fears,” they waved banners and tried to prevent drunks from visiting the establishments. Two of the barkeepers requested help from the police, who could do no more than warn the bell-bell-i-bellicose women.

  “‘“No wonder their husbands flee to the pubs,” the police officer in charge said, “but as long as they remain on public streets and do nothing more to draw attention than sing church songs out of tune, our hands are tied.” The officer appealed to Reverend Peter Burton, who offered his church as a meeting point for the women, to no avail.

  “‘“The intentions of the women are serious and respectable and completely in line with our parish,” said Reverend Burton. “If fewer men took their money to the pubs, fewer needy mothers and children would be seeking relief.”’

  “Hey, Caleb, I know him, the reverend.” Violet beamed. “And if Reverend Burton throws himself into it, then maybe they really will ban whiskey drinking.”

  “My dad drinks a glass of whiskey every night,” he said. “What’s bad about it?”

  Violet sighed. How could she explain to him what whiskey did to a man who was not content to stop at one? She tried it first with cautious words, but then the truth burst out of her.

  “It’s not just that they’re drunk in the evening.” Violet fought back tears. “Sometimes in the mornings, they don’t wake up right when they’ve overdone it. Recently my father was sent home from work because he still couldn’t walk straight. That’s dangerous in a mine. He was angry because that cost him his pay for the day. Usually he’d beat me, but I was here, with you, so his anger fell to Rosie because she did not want to make him lunch, even though she can’t do that yet, and besides, there was no food in the house. The teetotalers and Reverend Burton are completely right: men drink their pay away, and women and children go hungry.”

  Caleb chewed on his lip. Clearly, he had never heard of such difficulties before.

  “You should bring her with you,” he said.

  “Who?” she asked, confused, wiping her nose. Under no circumstances could Mrs. Biller see that she had been crying.

  “Your sister,” said Caleb. “How old is she? You can say she’s here to play with me.”

  Violet looked at him, uncomprehending. “You want to play with a little girl?”

  Caleb rolled his eyes. “I don’t play with anyone. I am not a baby,” he repeated his standard line. “Though my mom seems to think so. She’ll be overjoyed, since I don’t ever play with anyone. Look.” Caleb opened one of the cabinets in his playroom, and an array of stuffed animals, wooden horses, and toy trains tumbled out. “She can have all of it,” he said generously. “She won’t scream all day, will she?”

  Caleb was suspicious of other children. With the invitation to bring Rosie, he was swallowing much of his pride. Violet appreciated that. She was touched. “Rosie doesn’t scream at all,” she assured Caleb. “She’s a well-behaved girl and almost six years old now. You’ll hardly notice her, believe me.”

  Rosie did indeed prove herself impeccably well behaved, and at the sight of the toys, she fell into a sort of stupor. Besides her little doll, she had never owned a toy. Naturally, she did not go unnoticed in the house. Mrs. McEnroe fell in love with her at first sight.

  “Just call me Auntie,” she cooed. “Will you come visit me in the kitchen sometimes?” The cook added a third kind of jam to the breakfast tray. “You could even help me. Do you like to bake scones?”

  Rosie did not know what scones were and was so intimi
dated by the fat, warmhearted woman, the giant house, and the unbelievable breakfast that she did not answer.

  Mrs. McEnroe did not take offense. In fact, she baked some scones that afternoon, which even excited Caleb, who loved scones.

  “Why doesn’t she ever make them just for me?” he asked, stuffing scones into his mouth at almost the same rate as Rosie.

  Violet laughed. “Because you’ve managed to make her stop thinking that you’re cute. When you were still a baby, I’m sure she spoiled you.”

  Violet had feared the first encounter between Rosie and Mrs. Biller, but Hermine was enthusiastic. “Violet, you truly do apply yourself on Caleb’s behalf. You noticed that he was lonely, didn’t you? He really must play with other children. A little boy would have been better.” Somewhat mistrustfully, she eyed Rosie, who had shyly curtsied but now turned her attention to the train set, which Caleb was building for her on the floor. He even lowered himself to call out, “Toot-toot.” “But you don’t have a little brother, and we don’t want some stranger’s child, do we? Thank you, Violet. It really is touching that you go to such lengths.”

  Caleb rolled his eyes when his mother rushed out.

  “I told you. She thinks I’m a baby,” he said, leaving Rosie to play with the train herself.

  Violet breathed a sigh of relief and glanced happily at her sister, who just then murmured a barely audible “toot.”

  Over the next few months, Violet and Rosie finally found peace again. The nights were still horrible. Violet got too little sleep, since she was always nervously awaiting Jim and Fred’s homecoming. As she had planned, she bought a lock to keep out drunken neighbors. Jim had a key, but when he was drunk, he often couldn’t find it and accused Violet of locking him out. Naturally he punished this offense with a beating, so Violet half slept as she listened for her father’s steps and ran to open the door before he even tried to open it. Usually that worked, but sometimes he accused her of waiting for a lover at the door. There were blows for that as well.