by Sarah Lark
Kahu smiled tenderly when he returned and saw Lizzie sitting by the fire. She had let down her hair and untangled it. It hung halfway down her back, unruly and stiff from saltwater but dry, at least. Her slender body was wrapped in a blanket held in place somewhat securely by a belt around her hips. She was grilling fish on sticks and sweet potatoes in the embers, and she had built a frame out of fern wood on which their clothes now hung to dry. To him, she was no longer a pakeha wahine but a Maori girl he would gladly have taken in his arms.
Kahu brought skin bags of fresh water and a bird he had killed. They would eat royally that day. He plucked the bird, rubbed its meat with sea salt, and then laid it on Lizzie’s improvised grill.
“How did you shoot that thing?” Lizzie asked, amazed. Kahu had set out unarmed; he only carried the small knife he always did. “What kind of bird is that anyway? The feathers looked more like fur.”
Kahu nodded. “Aye, at first glance. And I didn’t shoot him; I dug him out. Don’t look so surprised. Kiwis are nocturnal. During the day, they dig themselves holes in the woods. Once you have a bit of experience, you can find those holes and dig them out and kill them. The English would surely find that dastardly, but we’re hungry.”
Lizzie did not care how Kahu had caught the bird; it was delicious. She was dry and felt better when they finally took the canoe back out to sea.
“How much farther is it now?” asked Lizzie.
Kahu shrugged. “We could be there in a day or two. Depends on how the wind blows. And where exactly we want to go.”
“Maybe to Nelson?” Lizzie said.
Kahu furrowed his brow. “That’s the last place I’d go ashore,” he said. “There are hardly any Maori left in the area since the whole thing with Wairau.”
“There was war there, right?” Lizzie looked fearful. “The German settlers talked about it. Are the, the Ngai Tahu very aggressive?”
Kahu shook his head and laughed bitterly. “Quite the contrary. They’re much too peaceable. Not a single uprising against the whites beforehand. The Ngati Toa lived in Wairau—they actually come from the North Island, but they once had a very warlike chief who expanded their domain as far as the South Island. There were a few fights with the Ngai Tahu then too. The Ngati Toa are not especially patient. When the pakeha measured their land before there were even negotiations for sale, the Ngati Toa attacked. Twenty-two dead on the whites’ side, four on the Maori’s. I wouldn’t call that a war.”
“You’re not dead, though,” said Lizzie. “No one takes it seriously unless they’re in the middle of it.”
Kahu smirked. “A pronouncement worthy of Tepora. But apart from all the wars, fights, conflicts, or whatever you want to call them, do you really think it smart to go back into hiding where once Busby hired you? They’ll look for you there first.”
Lizzie chewed on her lip. “But are there even other cities? I mean . . .”
Kahu rolled his eyes. “The South Island is considerably bigger than the North Island, although less densely populated. The Ngai Tahu number perhaps two thousand. Thus, they also tolerate more pakeha. From where we are, the closest area is the West Coast. However, I don’t like the idea of leaving you there alone with whalers and seal hunters, a savage heap of the vilest sorts your England has to offer. Those towns are still growing too—the only things finished so far are the taverns.”
Lizzie sighed. She could well imagine the options for women to earn money in these towns.
“On the East Coast, there’s Dunedin and Christchurch. Both are rather far; we’d need to sail a few days. But God-fearing people live there.” He winked.
Lizzie waved him away wearily. “I know. The Canterbury Association. And a Scottish organization . . . I can’t remember the name . . . Mr. Busby knows them all. We always had representatives come visit. Kahu, I don’t dare go to Christchurch. I’d probably run right into another man like Smithers.”
Kahu nodded. “Or even the man himself,” he said. “They build roads on the South Island too. Do you intend to work as a housemaid again?”
“What else?” Lizzie let her hand dangle over the edge into the water. “I can’t do anything else. Perhaps in a less important family, though. A smaller house; a farm if I have to.”
“You could stay with the Ngai Tahu,” Kahu suggested.
Lizzie shook her head. “No, no, don’t be mad, Kahu. I, I like you Maori. But I’m a pakeha. I liked it at the Busbys. And the Ngai Tahu won’t want me anyway. What would they do with me? No, we . . . Are there other towns?”
Kahu thought. “Kaikoura,” he said reluctantly. “Another whaling station, really. But there are supposed to be more farmers settling there now—though certainly no gentlemen like Mr. Busby. No one will look for you there.” He smiled. “And you’d be closer to me. The legend says the demigod Maui caught the mighty fish that later became the North Island near Kaikoura.”
Lizzie looked at Kahu. This time she succeeded at her soul-warming smile. “Like that, we could easily catch a fish and have an island for just the two of us.”
Kahu shrugged. “Alas, only the gods have that option. People take their canoes and sail the seas until they find land. Like Kupe and Kura-maro-tini once did. So if you want, Elizabeth . . .”
Lizzie lowered her gaze when she saw the love in his eyes.
A few days later, they were just off the shore of Kaikoura. The peninsula on which the town lay fascinated Lizzie even from the sea. The beaches, the hills, the daunting mountain landscape of the southern mountains, which almost reached to the sea—everything seemed even bigger and less civilized than in the north. She was startled when suddenly a whale emerged in front of her.
“It, it, it could gulp us down in one bite,” gasped Lizzie as the giant whale performed coltish leaps.
“But he won’t,” Kahu soothed her. “He’ll be happy if we don’t do anything to him. The people here are slowly killing them. There aren’t as many as before.”
It was clear to her where the legend of Maui and his fish came from. One could imagine that such a giant beast really could become an island.
Kahu suggested presenting Lizzie in the local Ngai Tahu settlement, but she preferred to go straight to town.
“I can go myself and say hello to the tribe if it’s necessary,” she said. “But I need to find employment and lodging in Kaikoura, and they can’t help with that.”
More than anything, she did not want to enter the Maori settlement with Kahu. Everyone—at least every woman—would clearly see during his introduction what Kahu felt for her. People would believe she was his wife, or at least his lover. The natives would not imagine a platonic relationship, and Lizzie did not want to begin her new life with misunderstandings.
“You’ll need money,” Kahu said.
Lizzie shrugged. “Will the Ngai Tahu give me some?” she asked.
With a sigh, Kahu drew a money pouch from the bag in which he kept his things. “I’ll give you some. But it’s not much. You won’t be able to live more than a day or two from it.”
Lizzie blushed as she took the small pouch. “This is . . . you don’t need to do this, Kahu.”
He waved her objections away. “You have nothing to give back, at least nothing you’d be willing to give and I could accept. Don’t say it, Elizabeth. It’s fine. If the gods desire it, we’ll meet again. Then you can pay me this amount back, if you’re rich by then. Haere ra, Elizabeth.”
He meant to bow slightly, but Lizzie pressed against him and put her nose and forehead on his. Hongi—the Maori salutation. “Why, why do you still call me Elizabeth, anyway?” She didn’t want to drag out their good-bye farewell, but she had wanted to ask him that for a long time.
Kahu looked at her seriously. “Because that’s your name. Maybe not Portland. But not Lizzie, either. Lizzie is a name for a servant. Elizabeth is a queen’s name.”
Lizzie bit her lip. Did he really see her that way? As a queen? Michael had only seen the whore in her. She did not know why she th
ought of Michael just then.
Lizzie raised her hand and gently stroked the tattoos on Kahu’s cheek. The symbol of a chieftain. “Haere ra, Kahu Heke,” she said softly. “I hope the gods mean well by you.”
Chapter 8
Lizzie waded onto land—Kahu had not wanted to sail the conspicuous chieftain’s canoe into the small harbor of Kaikoura, so he let her out on a beach near the settlement. Now she put her shoes back on and made her way to town. Or was it better to call it a village? From the sea Kaikoura had looked very attractive in the sunlight. Up close, the sun also shone on dirt and squalor.
Kahu had told her it had originally been a whaling station, and that was exactly what it looked like. Of course Lizzie had never seen a whaling station, but she knew the docks in London, and she knew how a place looked when primarily men—and young, lost, and not very domestic girls—lived there. Kaikoura consisted of cheap, thrown-together wooden houses, many in various states of disrepair. People had not settled here in the same way they had in Nelson. Everything was tailored to providing temporary roofs over the heads of men who whaled and skinned seals. No one stayed long, no one took a woman for longer than a few hours, and no one had anything of his own. Housemaids weren’t likely in demand at the fishermen’s huts. A general store sold all sorts of goods, from food to fishing hooks, but the owner shook his head when Lizzie asked about work.
“I manage with just my wife,” he said, “and—good heavens—a maid, with a bonnet and apron, I’ll bet. Allison’d laugh herself to death if I brought you to her.”
“I’d throw you out,” responded the gruff, squarely built woman who was just coming out of the shop’s backroom. She was a head taller than her rather dwarfish-looking husband and, no doubt, held the reins. “Everyone knows what goes on in grand houses between the masters and the chambermaids.”
Lizzie wondered how everyone was supposed to know that. She blushed again. “I’m an honest girl,” she said. “And I, I have references.”
She did in fact—written by Kahu Heke, whose education in the missionary school ensured he had covered everything. Lizzie had been deeply touched when she discovered the letters in the pouch Kahu had handed her. And she had not even been able to thank him for them.
The merchant laughed. “They won’t help you make a sale, either, girl. Honest or not, no one here needs a maid. Maybe the sheep farmers farther inland. Though there aren’t any homes as grand and fine as those in the plains. The farmers were all whalers and seal hunters before. If they need a housecleaner, they take on a Maori girl—she’ll stick around for bed, too, and not make a production of it. Nah, sweet. Look for another town or another job.”
That was discouraging, but Lizzie continued through the town. Kaikoura, however, had only one shop, one smith, one carpenter (who was also the undertaker), and three taverns. In front of one of the taverns, she met a girl, somewhat younger than her and heavily made-up.
“Do you work here?” Lizzie asked. “On, on the street or in a house?”
The girl looked at Lizzie, amazed. She was blonde, her hair put up in a complicated coiffure, her dress too shiny and red for an honest merchant’s daughter. Lizzie, on the other hand, looked exceedingly demure in her neat, dark maid’s uniform.
“In the tavern,” the girl answered. “No one walks the street here. Too cold and wet. Besides, the barkeepers always need new blood. And pay halfway fairly too. Are you looking for work?”
Lizzie nodded. “Yes, but not that kind.”
The girl laughed. “Sure, I hear you. You’re picturing a convent’s kitchen, or do you mean to become a nun yourself? Your dress would suit that. There ain’t any proper convent nearby, alas. Otherwise, I’d already be there. I’m Irish and a good Catholic.”
Lizzie furrowed her brow. She did not know anything about convents, but the girl, doubtless, was teasing her.
“I worked as a housemaid before,” Lizzie said. “And as a milkmaid too.”
“Well at least the stench from the customers won’t scare you off,” the blonde said. “Honestly, sweet, they stink like animals here. Blubber, blood, who knows what all. Whalers aren’t for delicate sensibilities.” She looked at Lizzie appraisingly. “But you ain’t got no delicate sensibility, do you, little sister? Now what is it that tells me you’re not new to the profession?”
Lizzie sighed. So people could see it on her. She had always thought that was the case. “I haven’t done it in a long time,” she said.
The girl waved that away. “You don’t forget how.”
Lizzie bit her lip. “I don’t want to do that anymore.”
The girl snorted. “Sweetheart, I don’t do it because it’s such great fun either. But look around: there’s nothing but this backwater for far and wide. Right behind’re the mountains; a little to the south, Waiopuka; and the whaling station on the coast. That’s where the customers mostly used to come from. But now less and less; they need ships if they want to go after the critters. They anchor here, and we serve the lads. It was nicer with regulars. They would wash up occasionally. What can you do? The Fyfes, who ran the whaling station, now raise sheep too.”
Lizzie grasped at straws. “I heard that on the big sheep farms, well, that there were fine people who might need servants.”
“The Fyfes are old salty dogs. They need good whiskey and the occasional girl, but certainly not to clean. And they’re not big farms, either, around here. The big ones are in the plains. And there are supposed to be rich people’s houses in Christchurch too.”
“I simply can’t go there,” said Lizzie wearily.
“I can’t either. I robbed a customer,” the blonde said. “Wasn’t even my fault. The fellow didn’t want to pay, so I smashed a chair over his head and took off with his wallet. Stupid me, it was the brother of a police officer. Anyway, they’re looking for me. But Christchurch is too pious to make anything there anyway. And Dunedin is worse, full of Calvinists.”
“There has to be something else. I’ll work hard. I know how to fish. Do you think I could make something at one of the whaling stations?”
The blonde shook with laughter. “A girl on a whaling station? I’d like to see you wade around half naked in blubber and blood to butcher the beast. Lands, sweet, you don’t want to do that. You’re cute enough; you’ve got work experience. What do you mean to do, ask around if the fishermen need help with crawfish?”
“Crawfish?”
“Aye, they drag loads of them out of the sea. They taste great too. But I don’t think the fishers’d hire a girl. Even if they take their wives out now and again, the poor, overworked little things. If you’re set on it, maybe one of them will marry you. They’re all crazy for women. Whenever they can scrape the money together, they come to the taverns, and the girl they call upon gets a marriage proposal straight away. But is that what you want?”
Lizzie confessed that it wasn’t. The fishers’ huts looked dilapidated and impoverished. Their wives probably wore themselves to the bone, first at sea with their husbands and then at home, and likely with children waiting for them too. That might please God, but Lizzie’s piety had its limits.
“I’ll think it over,” she told the girl. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Claudia. And you?”
“Lizzie.”
Another world in which first names sufficed.
She tried her luck with the coffin maker, who told her she was indeed very nice but his customers did not need encouraging anymore. She strolled once more around the fishermen’s huts and then went on to the Maori village.
The Ngai Tahu were friendly, and considerably more open than the tribes on the North Island. Lizzie felt comfortable with them at once, in part because they wore more Western clothing and only a few young people were tattooed. Apparently the Maori on the South Island acclimated more willingly to the customs of the pakeha than those on the North Island. Economically, however, things were going badly for the tribe. Many men had worked at the whaling station, always as day laborer
s. Now that there was less whaling to do, they had no earnings. For the women there was little to do anyway. A few helped on sheep farms, but only occasionally in the barns. As for house servants, the reports of the pakeha in town were confirmed: no one had ever taught a Maori to be a butler, gardener, or coachman, let alone a chamber or kitchen maid.
Lizzie stayed the night in the village, which resembled a campsite more than the proper marae of the Ngati Pau. It seemed the Ngai Tahu had to abandon their settlement often.
“In the spring, when the stores are low,” one of the tribe members said, “we wander to better hunting grounds in the mountains. If you want, you can come along, but there are hardly any pakeha and certainly no large houses.”
Being so close to the sea, the tribes could always feed themselves with fish, but the pakeha were competing with them more and more for the fishing grounds. Lizzie was surprised that their response was not like that of the tribes on the North Island, but the Ngai Tahu had a different perspective.
“Before the pakeha came, things were actually worse for us,” the women reported. “True, there were fish, but no seeds, no sheep. It is cold in winter. Now we have warmer clothing, we tend our fields, and for a long time, we received work from the whites.”
The connection with the pakeha could be seen in the way the tribe lived. They had comforts that were more familiar to Lizzie: the women weaved wool, so there were blankets and mats. Their diet seemed more varied, and they cooked their food in pots and pans purchased from the pakeha rather than in earthen ovens or with sticks over the fire. Of course, their geographic situation was also different. Lizzie noticed at once that it was colder here than on the North Island. Surely it was more difficult to make it through the winter.
Lizzie did not want to live at the tribe’s expense for too long. After two days, she gave the women some money, said good-bye, and returned to town.
