by Sarah Lark
“He needs a doctor,” Captain Wakefield said. “You could show your goodwill by letting him leave first.”
The chieftain ignored him. “Where is the man who speaks our language?” he asked in Maori, his gaze wandering over the group of prisoners.
Cat’s heart pounded. She hadn’t expected that. The warriors who had guarded the enclosure apparently hadn’t either, and now one of them stepped forward, shamefaced.
“That one escaped, ariki,” he confessed. “He must have had a knife. We found his ropes.”
“He did what?” Te Rauparaha’s brow creased, but he was far from losing his composure. After all, one had to expect that something like that could happen. A good man would always try to escape from a dangerous situation. The chieftain himself had escaped from his enemies more than once. “Didn’t you search the prisoners and confiscate their weapons?”
The guard lowered his eyes guiltily. “We must have missed the knife,” he replied doubtfully.
Steel knives were valuable, and every warrior was interested in obtaining one. They had searched Wakefield and his men several times.
“He didn’t escape, he was freed!” Te Rangihaeata stepped forward from his accustomed position behind the chieftain and stood in front of him. “I blame Poti, the pakeha who lives among us. I saw her coming from the direction of the enclosure yesterday, and she was startled to see me. She said strange things . . . I’m sure it was she who did it.”
For one heartbeat, Te Rauparaha seemed to be wondering if he should call her forward, but then he rejected the idea.
“We’ll talk about that later.”
Instead, he went to Captain Wakefield and raised his ax with the greenstone blade and intricately carved handle, part of the chieftain’s regalia and one of the tribal treasures. He touched the pakeha leader with it and let out a shrill cry. His warriors no longer restrained themselves. Fifty Maori men, armed with spears, clubs, and knives, pounced on the prisoners, screaming. The massacre that a stunned Chris witnessed from a fern thicket on the edge of the clearing was over in a matter of minutes. The men died quickly, but it wasn’t enough for the warriors to simply strike them down. They vented their anger on the lifeless bodies.
“Hack them into pieces!” Te Rangihaeata encouraged them, and he began to dance in the bloody clearing, fueled by his hatred.
“That’s enough!” Te Rauparaha cried. “Don’t mutilate them beyond recognition, or we will be accused of eating them. And they really aren’t worth that.” He spit on Thompson’s corpse.
“Hainga.” The chieftain called the tribal elder, and she stepped forward. Wordlessly, she raised Wakefield’s head, and one of the warriors cut the head off the body with the stroke of an ax. Then she laid a piece of bread beneath it.
Cat knew the meaning of the custom: a true chieftain may not touch anything trivial or mundane. By laying the captain’s head on a piece of bread, the tribal elder expressed her disdain for the man. This man had called himself captain, but had failed as a leader and dignitary.
“The men shall purify themselves now.” Te Rauparaha pointed to the river. “You, too, Te Rangihaeata. Then we will gather in the village square.” He turned to Cat. “Poti . . .”
The girl lowered her head. For the chieftain, it was already an admission of guilt.
“You will now answer to the tribe.”
Te Rangihaeata repeated his accusations as soon as Te Rauparaha had called Cat to the center of the village square.
But the chieftain turned directly to the young woman. “Did you free the pakeha tohunga?” he asked, his voice hard.
Cat was determined not to let herself be intimidated. She raised her head and looked Te Rauparaha in the eye.
“Yes, ariki. But I didn’t do it because—I mean, it had nothing to do with the color of my skin, or because my ancestors came to Aotearoa in different canoes than the Ngati Toa. It was because I heard my mother’s voice. I was guided by Te Ronga’s spirit.”
A few of the tribal elders made sounds of surprise—but most of the other villagers laughed.
“You don’t even believe in our spirits!”
The attack from the group of young women came sharply, and as a total surprise. Cat looked at the speaker in amazement. She had always thought of Haki as her friend.
“I saw her collecting rongoa flowers without saying the right prayers to the spirits of the plants.”
“And she ate at Te Waikoropupu, even though it’s tapu to eat there,” another girl said.
“I—I didn’t know that the spring was tapu,” Cat stammered. “I—”
“That’s just it! There’s plenty you don’t know!” an older woman said angrily. “You call yourself a daughter of the Ngati Toa, but you don’t belong to us.”
Cat looked around the group uncomprehendingly. Just yesterday they had been her family, the women her mothers, the girls her sisters and friends. Now in many of the faces she saw only resentment and hatred.
“Te Ronga called me daughter!” Cat cried desperately. “She took me in—”
“And what good did it do her?” one of the elders asked, so angry it was as though Cat had fired the musket at her foster mother. “Te Ronga is dead, and you are loyal to her murderers!”
“But I’m not, not at all!” Cat couldn’t understand what was happening. Her world had just been shaken, and now the tribe was pulling the ground out from under her feet. “I just—I just reacted the way Te Ronga would have. She wouldn’t have wanted the pakeha tohunga to be executed.”
“Te Ronga was one of us, and she would have done what the elders decided!”
The tribal elder had spoken again, and Cat saw with horror that the circle of villagers was beginning to close more tightly around her. Not all of them seemed to be hostile, but the only sign of real empathy came from Te Puaha’s eyes. His friendly face lent her courage, and she was able to gather enough inner strength to speak again.
“The elders would have never made that decision if Te Ronga had been there!”
“Perhaps you would have influenced her, daughter of the pakeha!” Haki’s mother said, practically spitting the words at her.
Now Cat suddenly understood the resentment that must have been building from the very beginning. If Cat hadn’t come, perhaps Te Ronga would have chosen Haki to follow her on the path of the tohunga. Perhaps she would have taught Omaka and Maputa how to harvest the bark of the kowhai tree and which sicknesses could be healed with the dried leaves of the koromiko plant.
“The pakeha girl bewitched my wife!” Te Rangihaeata raged. “Te Ronga had no children, and who knows whose fault that was! She should meet the same fate as the other pakeha, she—”
“Enough!” Te Rauparaha raised his ax threateningly. Then he stepped between Cat and his daughter’s husband.
“I will not allow Te Ronga’s spirit to be so dishonored even before she has been laid in her grave. My daughter was tohunga. She was a wise woman, and she could speak to the gods. How could a little pakeha girl have possibly bewitched her? Who knows, perhaps she is even speaking through the mouth of her chosen daughter.”
Cat looked up at him in amazement. Was he really helping her restore her standing in the tribe? But she knew it would be impossible. The women’s words had ruined everything.
“Te Ronga didn’t differentiate between Maori and pakeha,” she announced, regardless. “Do you remember the song she taught us? He aha te mea nui o te ao? He tangata! He tangata! He tangata! The people are the most important in the world, they—”
The chieftain nodded. “It’s good, child, we knew her. When this is over, the tribe will remember her again for who she was.”
When this is over? Cat looked at him uncomprehendingly. When what was over? Her trial? Or her time with the Ngati Toa? Was the chieftain thinking of executing her?
Te Rauparaha walked in a wide circle around her, and the people drew back. It was considered tapu for the shadow of the chieftain to fall on any of his people.
“You c
an’t stay here,” he said then, and Cat felt a chill go through her. “Yesterday, you proved where you belong. Whether it was of your own doing or you were guided by my daughter’s spirit, it doesn’t matter. But now you must return to your people. You can see it either as a punishment or as an obligation; it’s up to you. You may leave here driven by Te Rangihaeata’s hatred or by Te Ronga’s spirit. No one will follow you, and no one will hurt you. But there is no way back. Haere ra, Poti.”
The chieftain briefly bowed his head respectfully, a gesture that he made only to the tohunga. Then he raised his hand, and the circle parted for Cat.
The young woman had to force herself to move, but she left with her head held high. Very slowly, she walked across the village square toward the main gate to the river. She wouldn’t sneak away like a thief. Only after she’d left the village did she reach for the comfort of her hei tiki, a pendant carved from pounamu jade that Te Ronga had given to her. It was the only thing she took with her, the only reminder that she would ever have of Te Ronga. At least it was more than she had to remind her of Linda Hempleman. Cat kneeled down when she reached the river and wiped the tears from her eyes. What should she do now? She’d have to follow the river to Nelson. But then?
“Poti?”
Cat started in surprise as she heard Christopher’s voice. “Chris? What are you doing here? You should be on your way to Nelson!”
She was shocked and worried, but relieved as well. At least she wouldn’t have to walk to Nelson on her own.
Chris stepped out of the shadow of the ferns. “I couldn’t go. I had to see what they did with Wakefield and the others. And I couldn’t just let them hurt you.”
Cat smiled bitterly. “What could you have done? And how could you see what was going on, anyway?”
The thought that he might have snuck in again to be close to her made her shudder with apprehension, but it also made her strangely happy.
“I climbed a tree, a kahikatea. Poti, I’m so sorry! They banished you from the tribe, didn’t they? I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but—”
“They can’t disown someone who was never actually one of them,” the girl said unhappily. “And they made it very clear to me that I wasn’t. I’ve been living a lie for six years.” She tore the headband out of her hair, which flowed over her shoulders like a golden stream. “But we should go now. I don’t want to think about what would happen if they found you here.”
Cat pushed her hair back and turned onto a barely visible path that disappeared into the woods. Chris followed.
“So, you’re really pakeha?” he asked after they’d left the village safely behind them.
Cat led Chris along the river, far enough from the water and on such a hidden path that they wouldn’t be seen either by people in canoes or the Ngati Toa scouts. She knew the way; she’d been there countless times with Te Ronga. Every now and then she touched a familiar tree or bush for comfort.
At first, Cat didn’t answer his question. Only after a long pause did he hear her tired voice.
“I’m nothing.”
Chris stopped her, put his hands on her shoulders, and turned her to face him. “That’s not true. You are incredibly beautiful—and you are tohunga. You’re smart. You were Te Ronga’s daughter. You saved my life. Now tell me your real name.”
“I don’t have a name,” she said stiffly.
“But you must have lived with the pakeha,” Chris insisted. “You speak perfect English. And they must have called you something. It would be a lot easier if I could introduce you with an English name in Nelson, especially now. They won’t be saying nice things about the Maori after this. What should I call you, pakeha tohunga?”
He smiled encouragingly, and caught himself wishing that he could choose a name for her himself. It would have to be the name of a flower, a beautiful, delicate flower that carried the spark of life inside it. Rata, perhaps. It was a red, flowering plant that also wasn’t quite sure what it was, and got its nourishment from other plants. On infertile soil, it grew into a bush that could withstand any storm, and sometimes it grew into a huge, strong, beautiful tree. It was so indestructible that it was also called ironwood.
“Cat,” the young woman said after a while. “Just call me Cat.”
Chapter 20
The disheartened refugees from the Victoria arrived in Nelson late at night. They had spent the journey on the river in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, perhaps reliving the terror of the escape or thanking God for having gotten away with their lives.
Karl stayed with Tuckett. He asked the crew for a few blankets, and the sailor who’d tended to the surveyor’s wounds helped Karl make a somewhat comfortable place for him on deck. But Tuckett couldn’t relax. He was desperate to arrive in Nelson so he could do something for the prisoners.
“You hurt,” Karl said. “Shot leg, can’t do anything. And who governor, now Wakefield prisoner?”
Tuckett shook his head. “Captain Wakefield isn’t the governor, young man. Didn’t you know that? He only represents the governor, as the head of the New Zealand Company in Nelson. At the moment, his brother is filling in for him. He’s a colonel, but both of them are hotheads. No, the governor is currently sitting in Auckland, on the North Island. And that’s where I will go, as soon as possible.”
Karl’s brow creased. “You hurt!” he repeated. “Where North Island? Is far?”
Tuckett smiled. “You don’t know anything yet. Just arrived, did you? For starters, New Zealand consists of two main islands, which are separated by the Cook Strait. We’re on the South Island, but the North Island has been more densely settled for a long time. By the Maori, too—there are many more tribes there. And Auckland is a proper city, much larger than Nelson. Crossing the Cook doesn’t take long, it’s only fourteen miles, but it’s often turbulent because the area is prone to storms.”
Karl nodded, trying to commit all this to memory. He hadn’t known that his new home was split in half. But then he remembered Fenroy saying something about the North Island as well.
“The climate on the North Island is warmer,” the surveyor said. “At the northern end it’s practically subtropical. You know that our weather is reversed here, don’t you? Warmer in the north, colder in the south, opposite of Europe—which is where I assume you’re from. Whereabouts? And what’s your name, by the way?”
Karl introduced himself and told the surveyor about the Sankt Pauli and his status as a free immigrant.
“I look for job now,” he said. “And learn English.”
Tuckett smiled at him. “Considering the fact that you’ve only been a British citizen for what—four days?—you speak excellent English. And as far as a job goes, would you be interested in working for me? You could be my assistant—I think you’re quite clever. If you’re interested in working as a land surveyor, that is.”
Karl looked at the man in amazement. He could hardly believe his luck. “Land interests me much!” he exclaimed.
Tuckett smiled. “The ideal prerequisite,” he said approvingly. “It would be best if you come with me to Auckland immediately. You can give me a hand, in the literal sense. You can see for yourself that I’m slightly disabled at the moment.”
Karl helped Tuckett disembark. The surveyor and his companions had been renting rooms from a sailor’s widow before the expedition to the Ngati Toa, and since Cotterell and Fenroy hadn’t come back, Tuckett offered their room to Karl. Mrs. Robins, the landlady, was a light sleeper. At the sound of Tuckett searching for his key, she appeared and even cobbled together something for the men to eat.
The next morning she insisted on tending to her guest’s wound and protested vigorously when he refused to stay in bed.
“If this gets infected, it could kill you!” she warned as she skillfully changed the bandage.
Tuckett shrugged and repressed a groan.
“Mrs. Robins, if I don’t do something fast, my men may die in Wairau. Not to mention Captain Wakefield and a dozen trusting s
ettlers. I have to take care of the situation. Please go to the harbor, Jensch, and find out if there’s a ship sailing for Wellington today. We’ll go by land from there.”
Excited by his first assignment, Karl ran to the pier and soon returned to inform Tuckett that a whaling ship was about to leave.
“They take us to governor,” he said proudly.
Tuckett nodded. “Good. First, I’ll just have to speak with Wakefield’s brother and convince him not to send a second round of armed idiots to Wairau. You can help me walk again, Jensch, and get me a cane. No, you’d better make it a pair of crutches. Then I won’t need help anymore. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out where to find some.”
Not without an ulterior motive, Karl tried first at the Partridges’ shop, but he didn’t see anyone from the Lange family. He would have loved to tell Ida about his new job. Even if she didn’t want to meet secretly with him anymore, she certainly wouldn’t ignore him if he just happened to cross her path. Then he would be able to say goodbye to her.
Unfortunately, the Partridges didn’t have any crutches. “Perhaps at the apothecary,” Mr. Partridge suggested, but Karl dismissed the idea. Instead of crutches, he bought a whittling knife.
An hour later, he surprised Tuckett with a pair of crutches that he’d whittled from some forked branches he’d found in the sparse woods that bordered the town.
“Strong enough?” Karl asked worriedly. “Look like tree in Germany, like—”
“Probably like a beech tree,” said Tuckett, obviously impressed. “We call it southern beech, and there are a lot of them here. Not so many on the North Island.”
As the two of them boarded the whaling ship, the surveyor told Karl about the vegetation in his new home, and used the time during the journey to sketch various kinds of trees and bushes. He had a degree in civil engineering and was a talented artist—and obviously a born teacher as well. He enjoyed passing on his wisdom about New Zealand to the young immigrant. He spoke slowly and took the time to describe new terms or even looked them up in Karl’s already-tattered little dictionary.
