by Sarah Lark
“Well, at least he has an eager defender, Your Highness.” Colin smiled. “And very well, I don’t want to be like that either, but one hand washes the other.”
Matariki glared at him. “You want, you want me to, damn it, I wouldn’t have thought that. An officer. You should be ashamed, Sergeant Coltrane.”
Dingo growled, and Colin grinned. So, she had noted his name. Not bad, one could build on that. But for the moment, he had something completely different in mind than spending a night with Her Highness.
“Miss Drury,” he said curtly, “you insult me. I am an officer, as you rightly noted, and a gentleman. I don’t want you, Miss Drury. What I need is your—what do you call it?—mana, your influence over your people. Use your status as a chieftain’s daughter to help me end this.”
Chaos broke out throughout Parihaka. Though the majority of the residents held still, the soldiers’ destruction was now unrestrained. The women under attack screamed and resisted, and men came to their aid. Sheep, cattle, and horse stables had been opened, and the animals ran freely around the village, further irritating the soldiers, who occasionally fired their weapons.
The men’s leaders faced the situation rather helplessly—most of them were hardly better schooled than their subordinates, and very few of them had a horse.
If something did not happen soon, there would be fires and panic.
Matariki stared at Colin. “You want peace?” she asked. They still stood in the wharenui.
Colin nodded. He had neither the time nor the inclination to explain his motives to her. He did not even know exactly how to take hold of the situation, but he needed to gain recognition—and the girl was ideal for that.
He forced himself to be patient. “Miss Drury,” he said in his most sincere tone, “we all want peace. Believe me, the majority of pakeha regret these events, but our army is not exactly the elite of Aotearoa.” Colin noted that the girl’s ears pricked up when he used the Maori name for New Zealand. “We must stop them. I, my people, and you, yours. So.”
He made a welcoming gesture while regarding Kupe with a warning look.
Matariki followed Colin outside as if in a trance. Only her dog showed a spirit of resistance and snapped at Colin. But Colin was disciplined. It was not in line with his plans to kick the dog, let alone shoot it.
Colin’s black horse was in front of the wharenui. The young sergeant swung into the saddle and helped Matariki up in front of him. He was surprised at how light of foot and skillfully she slid on. Clearly, she had experience with horses.
“Please, touch me as little as possible,” she said, and grabbed the horse’s mane to balance herself.
Colin urged the horse into a gallop, and then a jump into the middle of the gathering place, which was slightly elevated. The Maori stared as if spellbound at the rakish blond young pakeha and the chieftain’s daughter. Colin noticed that the weather was also contributing to the scene’s impact. The sun had just set over the sea, the air was clear, and Mount Taranaki rose like a tragic memorial behind them. The sergeant reared up his horse and fired his gun as a signal. The Maori ducked; the plundering soldiers paused briefly.
Matariki used the time. She focused hard to try and touch the spirit of the gods—the karanga had to come from her innermost being; otherwise it would not reach the people. At least, that was how Arona had explained it to her, though she agreed that breathing technique played an important role. Matariki hoped that her long practice would finally pay off—and that the gods would listen.
Indeed, her cry filled the camp. It froze the plunderers, and it gave the women time to escape their attackers. It called the men who had gone to rescue the women back to the circle, and it urged the other Maori to rise up as well. The old tohunga bade the children sing. A troupe formed for the haka powhiri, the greeting dance.
Colin waited patiently, but before more ceremonies could begin, he raised his hand. “Peace,” he said with a voice that carried, “and war to those who would break it. We will now restore proper order. The men of the Armed Constabulary will return at once to their units, confiscated weapons will be brought to the collection point, and all plunder will be returned.” This last point was a fantasy, but it sounded good, and that was what mattered. “The rebellious Maori under arrest will be placed in that building”—he pointed to the wharenui they had just left—“gathered together, restrained, and transported away tonight. The rest . . .”
Colin’s speech faltered. If he called upon the people to disperse, they would not follow his orders.
Matariki spoke up. “Go home,” she said calmly. “It will be necessary to clean and to catch the animals. Sleep. Pray. We all need rest. But tomorrow we’ll be here to call the spirits again. Our power secures peace.”
In truth, there was no reason for the people to follow the girl’s directions, but they must still have had Te Whiti’s words about the value of the chieftain’s daughter in their heads. And they needed someone to whom they could listen. To Matariki’s complete amazement, the village residents rose up and silently returned to their homes. With relief more so than amazement, Colin watched as the soldiers and volunteers also obeyed. His calculations usually bore out, but not always.
“Most of all, it looked beautiful,” Koria said later as Matariki, completely drained by the events, curled up on a mat beside her. She was seeking explanations. “It was like, like a picture, like a fairy tale. That pakeha looked like a prince. Seriously, don’t laugh, Riki, but with his golden hair and his handsome, serious face, and then you, the princess who fit right in front of him, so delicate and as if saved. Your hair was blowing in the wind—I was just waiting for the prince to kiss you. And behind you, the mountain, a backdrop from a dream. Shakespeare could not have thought up something more beautiful.”
“But it wasn’t a performance,” Matariki insisted. “I had goose bumps myself. It was strange. It was as if some power, some spirit came over us.”
“That is how it’s supposed to be,” Arona said, but she sounded skeptical.
Arona was deeply religious, but she was also a priestess of the third generation. She had been taught how to impress people. Moreover, she had studied Shakespeare, the master of all staging. Arona knew how to summon spirits.
And Colin Coltrane—a horse trader since childhood—knew as well.
That night, Matariki dreamed that he took her into his arms.
Chapter 10
Rosie fell completely silent the night Violet gave birth.
The cheerfulness the girl had regained during her time in the Biller household had disappeared since Violet’s marriage. Rosie now stared blankly for hours and whimpered when the noises came from Violet’s bed at night. She slept poorly and sometimes wet the bed, which made Violet anxious.
Violet found it hard to remain calm and endure Rosie’s complaining. She really ought to be more understanding now that she was almost seven. But instead, she seemed to revert farther and farther back to the level of a very young child. With Caleb, Rosie had already read her first sentences, but now she sometimes had difficulty answering simple questions sensibly. Fortunately, Eric hardly noticed. He did not speak to Rosie. In general, he viewed her as hardly more than a piece of furniture as long as she did not, as had happened a few times in the beginning, crawl into his and Violet’s bed at night. Then he slapped her and sent her back to her bed, where Rosie then cried the whole night long.
Violet regretted it, but she knew their father would have punished her more brutally. Eric, at least, did not look for excuses to let out his anger on the child. He was predictable. If Rosie behaved calmly and did not bother him, he did not do anything to her either. Violet pointed this out to Rosie, but she didn’t answer.
None of that, however, was about the horrors of the birth—a terror for which neither sister was prepared. Naturally, Violet had been told it would hurt. Friendly Mrs. O’Toole, her former neighbor, had mentioned what awaited her.
“You’re going to need help,” she said w
ith concern. “Can you pay Mrs. Travers? Otherwise, I’ll come. I’m not a midwife, it’s true, but I have brought six of my own into this world. I know the most important things. Your husband just needs to come get me.”
“By the time Eric reaches you, the baby will long since have arrived,” Violet said.
“I hope so for your sake, girl,” Mrs. O’Toole said, “but when I take a good look at you, such a delicate little person and your first baby, I suspect it won’t be easy, Violet, and it won’t go fast.”
Mrs. Travers, the midwife, expressed herself with far more concern. “Dear, you are so small and have such a narrow pelvis. I just hope the baby will pass through.”
Violet did not ask what would happen if it did not fit. Eric, however, brushed her concerns aside with a laugh.
“Particularly since you’re so young, it’ll be simple,” he declared, bursting with confidence. “Don’t listen to the old crows. A young mare foals easy. Everyone knows that.”
Violet tried to believe her husband. There was not much else she could do. She had not been able to save a penny in the months of her marriage, so there was no question of calling Mrs. Travers. As for Mrs. O’Toole . . .
When her contractions began on an ice-cold autumn day in May 1881, Eric was at the pub. Violet had just brought in wood to light a fire and drive the dampness out of the house a bit, when she felt a sharp pain and water ran down her leg.
“I think the baby’s coming.” Violet tried to remain calm. Rosie looked confused and afraid at the puddle that was forming beneath Violet’s dress. “Don’t worry, Rosie, we’ll wipe that up in a moment.”
Another pain made her collapse. She managed to clean the floor before hauling herself to the bed, and she thought feverishly as she did.
It was early and, worse, it was Saturday night. Billertown was swept clean: the miners were celebrating the weekend at the Wild Rover. Rosie wouldn’t know where to find help.
Violet tried to relax, but against the pain of the contractions, it did nothing. She wanted to be brave and not scream, and she managed that for a whole hour. Then it became too much. Violet allowed herself a groan, and she sighed when Rosie snuggled against her.
“I’m scared,” the little girl murmured. “I want to sleep next to you.”
Violet pushed her sister gently away. “Rosie, you can’t anymore. You have to be grown-up now, Rosie. Can you do that? Look, today you’re the big sister. Get me—” Another contraction made Violet groan. “Get me a glass of water, would you?”
Rosie went to the pitcher where Violet kept the drinking water. “There’s not much left.”
Now this. Violet had asked Eric to fetch water before he went to the pub, but he must have forgotten. Of all times.
“I’m cold, Violet, really cold.”
Rosie was crouching next to the bed. Violet was rather warm herself. Her futile attempt not to show her pain made her break out in a sweat.
“Will you make a fire?”
Violet shook her head. “Take a blanket from your bed, Rosie. I can’t make a fire now.” Desperately, she tried to estimate the time since the last contraction. Eric would come back from the pub and could then fetch help. Violet was slowly giving up the idea that she could do it alone. The time between the contractions was getting shorter and shorter. Mrs. O’Toole had said something about that. Yet the baby did not seem to move. Nothing moved. It was as if someone were sticking knives in her abdomen.
And then, after several more hours during which Violet barely managed to choke down her cries by biting her blanket, the baby was pushing against her pelvis. It seemed to want to come out, but Mrs. Travers had been right: the passage appeared to be too narrow. Violet was sure the baby would rip her up.
Maybe, maybe if she stood up and walked around? The baby did have to go downward. Maybe it would tumble out if she got up? Violet sat up. She was dizzy, but she tried to haul herself from the bed to the table, supporting herself on a rickety chair, but she fell to the ground. Rosie whimpered, and Violet began to cry—until a new contraction made her scream. She needed to get up; she needed to get back into bed or prop herself up on the table, or . . . Violet screamed again.
She forgot about Rosie entirely. She only felt pain still and a maddening thirst. Then her thirst passed, and she forgot that she had ever felt anything but pain. Violet screamed. Then she became one with the pain, a whimpering, screeching bundle of flesh. She turned on the floor of the hut, pressed her legs to her body, spread them, and she ripped her dress in tatters from her body. The wood of the floorboards chafed her back, but she did not feel it. She only felt the something that was ripping up her abdomen. Then blood shot from her body.
Rosie watched all of this, her eyes open wide, her lips forming a silent cry. When something bloody and blue appeared between Violet’s legs, Rosie could no longer stand it. She fled.
Rosie ran blindly through the rain-soaked settlement and the outskirts of the fern forest. She knew almost no one, only the women who lived together in the house just outside of town. Rosie could not have named her destination, but she found herself in front of the hut that belonged to Clarisse and her friends. She flung open the door without knocking—only to be horrified anew.
From one of the beds came the same grunting noises that she heard from Violet’s corner when Eric lay with her. Here, though, an oil lamp was burning, and in the oven a fire flickered. The house was dimly lit, but Rosie still made out a big man who had hair covering his whole body. He lay on top of Miss Baton, wheezing, and seemed to be trying to kill her. So that was what was happening every night with Violet. She was fighting with Eric for her life.
Rosie screamed. The tortured lament startled Clarisse and her customer.
“What in heaven’s name was that?” asked the man.
Clarisse covered herself as fast as she could. “Put on your clothes, Geordie,” she called to the man. “Dear Lord, you see that the little dear’s scared. What is it, Rosie? Did you come here on your own? Where’s Violet? Rosie, is something wrong with Violet?”
Rosie did not answer. Her cry was the last noise she would make for many years. Now, she simply stared straight ahead, seeming to see neither Clarisse nor her customer.
“Something must have happened.” Clarisse closed her dress and threw on a shawl. “Come along, Geordie. We might need help. You don’t need to pay this time. But come with me, and take the kid.”
Clarisse did not know if that was the right decision, but she could not let Rosie stay there, and the little girl did not seem capable of moving herself in any direction. She was on the ground, with her legs pulled close to her body, rocking herself back and forth.
Geordie carefully loosened her grip and picked her up. Clarisse sighed with relief. Geordie was a good man; he had a wife and children in Wales to whom he sent money. Whenever he took a whore every few weeks, he always decided on Clarisse. Apparently, she looked like his wife, Anna. Clarisse hoped his fatherly feelings spoke to Rosie.
For now, he followed her at a quick pace through the forest and the settlement, talking calmly to the little girl. A weak light shone outside Violet’s hut. The door stood half-open; wind and rain blew inside. Rosie pressed her face into Geordie’s chest. Sobs shook her body, but she made no noise.
Clarisse found it difficult to orient herself in the hut. The light of the sole lamp was weak, and in the room, it looked like a fight had taken place. The bedsheets lay on the floor, a chair had fallen over, and there on the floor lay Violet. She did not move, but between her legs, in a puddle of blood, something stirred. The bloody, slimy baby was still attached to the umbilical cord. It did not let out a sound, but it moved its little arms. Clarisse ran to it, wrapped it in her shawl, and wiped the blood and slime from its little face. Only then did it take on human features. It balled its tiny fists and seemed to look at Clarisse. Clarisse smiled.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked Geordie.
Geordie nodded. “In my pants’ pocket.”
H
e could not reach in himself. He needed both hands to hold Rosie. Clarisse laid the baby on the ground, took the knife, and inhaled deeply before she cut through the umbilical cord. Then she picked up the infant again. At that moment, it began to cry loudly.
“What about the girl?” Geordie asked.
He was still standing in the doorway, uncertain whether he should help or continue protecting Rosie from the sight the room offered. She had fallen asleep in his arms but was now sobbing and shaking again after hearing the newborn’s cry.
Clarisse laid a hand on Violet’s cheek. She was pale as a corpse. Her face was strangely sunken with dark rings under her eyes. Her lips were chewed and bloody.
“She’s bleeding; she’s alive,” Geordie observed. The lake of blood between Violet’s legs was growing. “But when a woman is still bleeding after the birth, she’ll not live long.”
That sounded knowledgeable but not encouraging. Clarisse wondered whether Geordie had stood by his own wife in childbirth. Could he have helped Violet?
“Water,” whispered Violet, choking. “Thirsty.”
Clarisse stood up. Would she rely on Geordie’s smattering of knowledge, or should she try to reach the midwife before Violet died?
“Fetch the midwife, Geordie,” she said. “The wife of the gravedigger. Take the little girl with you. I don’t need her here. I’ll look after Violet.”
Geordie frowned. “But you need help, the way it looks here. And I have—”
“Are you a doctor?”
Clarisse had to exert herself not to yell at him. He shook his head, chastened.
“We need someone here who knows a lot more about all this than you or I. So, go on. I’ll manage here.”
Geordie left but was there again in a few minutes. Clarisse had just had time to establish that there was no water there to give Violet to drink, let alone with which to wash herself. She tried unhappily to get at least a few drops from the pitcher, but there was nothing there.
