The Fire Blossom (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

Ida remained silent as she closed the stall door behind the horses and began to distribute the dried tussock grass between the cow and the horses. She seemed agitated and insecure, and Cat’s remark seemed to have cut her to the quick. For her part, Cat was sorry that she’d even brought up the subject of gods. As she put oats in the horses’ manger, she wondered if she should apologize.

  All at once, Ida broke the silence. “I’ve never lied before,” she said quietly. “At least, not until today, at the meeting.”

  Cat didn’t know at first what she was expected to say. But Ida’s miserable expression woke empathy in her.

  “In that case, you did it very well,” she said with a little smile. “But you didn’t have to do it for me. I’m very grateful to you and Ottfried for getting me out of Nelson. But from here, I could have made my way somehow.”

  “Perhaps you would have been better off,” Ida whispered. “The river . . . and Ottfried . . .”

  Cat shrugged. “Perhaps,” she said. “But don’t worry about me. I can swim.” She smiled encouragingly. “As for the rest, I’ll get by somehow.”

  Ida had finished her work, and sat down in exhaustion on the beam that separated the cow stall from the horses. “I didn’t do it for you,” she admitted.

  Cat looked expectantly at the young woman and noticed her drooping shoulders, her despondent face, and the strands of dark hair that had escaped from her bonnet.

  “I wanted you to stay,” Ida said.

  Cat smiled again. “That was obvious. But why? You aren’t really worried about my—how did you put it? My salvation? I don’t really know what that means.”

  “It’s supposed to be predestined,” Ida said with a sigh. “I don’t know if I meet the requirements. I should work harder . . .” Her words trailed off as she played with a piece of straw. “I only wanted you to stay because I can talk to you,” she confessed.

  Cat sat down next to her. “But, Ida,” she said gently, “you can talk to anyone here. They all speak your language.”

  Ida shook her head. “But they don’t,” she whispered. “I—I think no one here understands me. That’s crazy, isn’t it? I felt that way before, even, in Raben Steinfeld. When I was little, at school. I was somehow different. We were different. Karl and I. We always looked at everything differently. But now I’m being arrogant again. We always got better grades than the others, and it’s sinful to be proud of that. Especially for a girl. The teacher once told my father that I was a rare whim of nature. And somehow, I’m still proud of that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, today I’m committing one sin after another.”

  “Maybe it’s my bad influence,” Cat joked.

  Ida shook her head. “It’s just—if I can’t find someone to talk to, then—I have the feeling I’ll drown, whether the river rises or not.”

  Cat gently put her arm around Ida and felt her bony shoulders under the woolen dress. “I’d be glad to talk to you,” she said kindly, “although I don’t really know if I speak your language. The thing you said about school, for example. I never went to school. I don’t know if I can save anyone from drowning either. At the most, I could teach you to swim. But I can’t speak the language of the spirits, neither the ones of the river nor any of the others that are plaguing you.”

  Chapter 32

  Cat realized quickly that it wasn’t just gods and spirits that were plaguing Ida. For one thing, Ida and the other women and girls got up at sunrise, made breakfast for their families, and then immediately went out to their fields. Garden work traditionally fell to the female members of the family, as nearly all of these men had historically made a living with their crafts. But in Raben Steinfeld, the lots had been small and the gardens had been arable for several generations. The women had easily managed to care for their patches of ground, and if necessary, day laborers were employed to plow or help with the harvest. But here, each settler owned twenty acres of land and was determined to make it yield a harvest as quickly as possible. So the women had to start with the backbreaking labor of clearing the land. Very few men would lower themselves even to digging drainage ditches. Of course the older women could enlist their sons’ help. A strong thirteen- or fourteen-year-old made a huge difference. But Ida could depend only on herself. Worse off was Elsbeth, who was already standing on Ida’s doorstep crying, just a day after Ida had moved in.

  “Anton is gone!” she sobbed. “He had an argument with Father yesterday. Ottfried gave the young men some—booze.” The last word came hesitantly. It wasn’t something Elsbeth would have known anything about in Raben Steinfeld. “Father smelled it when Anton came home. He tried to force Anton to pray and beg God for forgiveness and all that, but he refused!” Her voice rang with incredulity. “He said he was sick of the hard work in the fields, especially if everything was going to be washed away in the floods again. And besides, he doesn’t want to marry Gudrun Brandmann.”

  Ida sighed audibly. The plans for Anton to marry Ottfried’s sister had been laid while they were still in Raben Steinfeld, but they had been too young at the time. Anton had always insisted that he couldn’t stand Gudrun, who was a nondescript but pious and obedient young woman.

  “Did Father hit him?” Ida asked wearily.

  Jakob Lange had never beaten his daughters. At the most, the girls had gotten a slap in the face. But he believed in harsh discipline for the boys. Ida had been very careful to protect little Franz.

  Elsbeth nodded. Ida could imagine the rest for herself. Anton must have withstood the beating one last time, then crept into bed before disappearing under the cover of the night.

  “He left us a note,” Elsbeth said. “He’s going to work as a street builder in Nelson. Or with the surveyors, like Karl. Of course Father was livid. Especially because Anton mentioned Karl as though he were some kind of role model. But I don’t think the surveyors will accept Anton. You have to be very clever for that. Besides, he spelled ‘surveyors’ wrong.”

  Ida almost laughed. Anton had never been the brightest. But he was strong and dependable, and in street construction, he’d surely be able to hold his own. Would God really punish him for disobeying his father? He would probably have a much better life now. And a much prettier and gentler wife than Gudrun Brandmann.

  Ida didn’t want to admit it, but she could understand her brother and hoped he would be happy. But for Elsbeth, his escape was a catastrophe. So far, their father had insisted that the young man help Elsbeth in the garden, chop wood, and fetch water after his usual day’s work was done. Anton had grumblingly done so because he could see for himself that his delicate fourteen-year-old sister was hopelessly overburdened. Now, Elsbeth said, her father had ordered Franz to take on Anton’s responsibilities in the household.

  “But Franz is only nine!” she complained. “Besides, he’s sick again. I sent him to school today just to get rid of him, but I think he’s got a fever.”

  Cat offered to help. She promised to check on the boy in school, and immediately set out to search for medicinal plants to soothe his cough and lower his fever. Elsbeth joined her enthusiastically, which surprised Ida. Her sister had never shown interest in the healing arts.

  However, Cat figured out Elsbeth’s motivation immediately.

  “Speak English with me!” the girl demanded as soon as they’d left the village behind. “I’m already starting to forget everything I knew, but I practice in bed at night or while I’m working in the garden. I want to be able to speak properly. Oh yes, and please call me Betty.”

  Franz’s cough was soon better, but that didn’t make the child into a full-fledged worker. Elsbeth struggled through the garden work on her own, and her father showed a relative amount of patience. Ottfried, on the other hand, drove Ida harshly and scolded her when the fruits of her labor didn’t meet his expectations.

  “The beans were sprouting in my mother’s garden long ago! And the potatoes are already planted. What have you been doing all day? Especially now that you have help?”

  Cat noticed
, not for the first time, that Ida went silent in the face of his accusations instead of defending herself. She knew now that this was another reason for Ida’s general exhaustion: the evil spirit that plagued Ida was Ottfried. Ida was terrified of him, both of his verbal debasement of her during the day and his physical violation of her at night. From her place in the barn, Cat heard everything that happened in their bedroom. She would have very much preferred to sleep through Ottfried’s groaning and self-congratulatory comments, and his snoring and Ida’s quiet tears when he was finally finished. But Chasseur reacted with extreme alarm when Ottfried took his will, yowling and whimpering. Cat would pull him close and comfort him, the way she couldn’t comfort Ida. Even the slightest attempt to broach the subject of her nightly martyrdom resulted in shamefaced blushes and avoidance.

  Cat wasn’t an expert either. She knew from her Maori friends that the union of man and woman should actually be a pleasurable experience for both, but she could understand Ida’s reluctance and horror only too well. She had no suggestions about how they could have a happier relationship. But perhaps she could give the young woman something for her pain. It wasn’t normal that she could hardly move the next day and hardly got any sleep. The dark circles under her eyes were getting deeper all the time.

  Cat was also worried about Ottfried’s growing alcohol consumption, though this seemed to be less of an issue for Ida. Since most of the huts behind the missionary station were now abandoned, Ottfried had been given the job of tearing them down. After a normal day’s work, he gathered the young male members of the community there, and they partook of the whiskey Ottfried had brought back from Nelson. Then Ottfried would come staggering home. If he was too drunk to have his way with Ida, the young woman would hurry to the barn with relief, and nestle close to Cat and Chasseur.

  Cat didn’t begrudge her friend the reprieves, but unfortunately, the increased drunkenness had given Ottfried the courage to approach Cat. A few nights, before he swayed into the house, he’d snuck into the barn and made drunken comments. But at least he’d kept his distance since his recent attempt to “awaken her with a kiss” had ended with her knife at his throat. The razor-sharp blade had sobered him up quickly, and the next morning he acted as if he remembered nothing. Afterward it was enough when Cat meaningfully put a finger on her throat as soon as he began to use obscene language with her.

  Both women found the most peace when Ottfried went to Nelson on one of the community’s errands. That happened often. As before, many building materials and everyday items still had to be purchased. The settlers’ savings were slowly shrinking, and the poorer families already had to try to make ends meet with fishing and hunting. The women were desperate for the first harvest, which was close for several of them. In the slightly higher parcels of land, such as the elder Brandmanns’, the last rains hadn’t destroyed very much, and now winter vegetables like kale and rutabagas were ripening. The women were already excitedly exchanging recipes for stews.

  But then the flood came.

  One cold, rainy winter morning, Cat heard the growing rush of the river. She usually got up just before dawn to milk the cow. At first, she had been a little scared of the big animal, but had soon discovered that the bony black-and-white Berta was basically good-natured. On this day, the sun didn’t seem to want to rise. Cat wasn’t woken by growing light as usual, but by an ominous gurgling sound. One glance out the barn door at the flat landscape around the river told her everything. The Moutere was churning, about to breach its banks.

  Cat quickly threw a cloak over the dress she’d slept in. Ida and Ottfried must be informed, and everyone else in the village, if they hadn’t already noticed. Ida was just setting the breakfast table when Cat entered.

  “The Moutere?” she asked tonelessly when she saw Cat’s face.

  Cat nodded. “We’d better take cover by the missionary station.”

  “That’s impossible,” Ottfried said, entering the room. Cat wondered if the lack of sleep was having an effect on him. He looked dead on his feet. “We have the new drainage ditches. And your father—”

  “Just go outside and look!” Cat said brusquely.

  Ottfried scowled and rubbed his head, but reluctantly followed the two women outside.

  “Merciful God!”

  Ida stared in desperation and Ottfried in disbelief at the water that was bearing down on their house. The small drainage ditch was still withstanding the deluge. But it was no serious hurdle for the Moutere.

  “So, do you see?” Cat shouted above the din. “Can we free the animals and get out of here now?” Her cloak and dress were already soaked through. The hike up to the missionary station would be difficult.

  Finally, Ottfried reacted. “The ditches!” he shouted. “Come on, Ida, we need shovels and sandbags! We have to save the house!”

  “We have to get out of here!” Cat shouted back.

  But neither of the Brandmanns listened to her, and now she saw the neighbors beginning to take action as well. The citizens of Sankt Pauli Village wouldn’t run away. They would stand unified against the flood as they already had twice before.

  “Take the animals to safety!” Ida cried to her friend. “And then help us! The garden, all of the work . . . We can’t lose all that again!”

  To Cat, this was clearly folly, but she obediently ran to the barn and tried to convince the unwilling Berta to leave her comfortable stall and trot out into the rain. It was easier with the horses. They were desperate to get away from the balefully roaring river. Cat felt as though she was being torn apart between the animals as she led them to the station. The horses strained ahead while she had to use all of her strength to tow Berta behind. Fortunately, she soon got help. The settlers living on higher ground had become aware of the situation and were hurrying to help their neighbors. They were also protecting their own land. One of the boys who had been helping to mind the cows after school took Berta from Cat.

  “You should go get the other cows,” Cat told him after he’d secured the unhappily mooing creature in a shed behind the missionary station. “Oh yes, and you should milk them too.”

  As she was tying up the horses in the lee of the mission house, two women came and asked her for help. They were supposed to bring down a handcart full of sacks that the missionaries were rushing to fill. Of course they weren’t filled with sand, but with stones and light yellow soil from the hillside. The force of the water would surely wash the light sacks away immediately, but that didn’t stop the women. So, Cat struggled with them back down the muddy path. She knew the eight or nine sacks wouldn’t make the least bit of difference against a raging flood. Whether ten sacks or a hundred, it wouldn’t stop the Moutere.

  It was more likely to be stopped by the drainage ditches that scores of men and women were currently widening with the courage and strength born of desperation. At least they diverted some of the water away from the houses and gardens and kept the coming harvest from being washed away completely. Back on the valley floor, Cat decided to take up a shovel rather than return to the missionary station with the two women to get more sacks. In the pouring rain, up to her knees in mud and flowing water, she worked side by side with Ida and Ottfried.

  Toward noon, old Mrs. Brandmann and a few other women who couldn’t manage to dig anymore brought coffee and bread. The settlers devoured both between strokes of their shovels. Ida sobbed when, in spite of all their efforts, a house slightly upriver was washed off its foundation and collapsed. Her own house was sticking up out of the water like an island. In the barn, the muddy water was ankle-deep.

  In the delirium of exhaustion, Cat barely noticed when the rain began to ease. In the early afternoon, another house had to be given up for lost. It was built at a bend in the river, and the ditches couldn’t withstand the avalanche of stones and soil that washed up there. The owners, a family with children, watched in stunned disbelief as their home filled chest-deep with water and mud. At least it didn’t collapse like their neighbors’ house
had. By four o’clock, Cat thought she noticed the water level dropping, and one or two hours later, Jakob Lange declared that it was over. They had survived, and the Moutere was receding into its bed.

  “All in all, not bad!” Ottfried said cheerfully. “A little water in the barn—well, in the house, too, but you can clean that up easily tomorrow. We can thank God for his mercy!”

  “But the garden is destroyed again,” Ida moaned.

  Her vegetable patches were still underwater, and it was clear that nothing would be left after it was gone. And this time, the fields on higher ground hadn’t gotten away so lightly either. After all, not only the Moutere but also the streams that fed it had swollen quickly.

  “You can fix it tomorrow,” Ottfried said, unconcerned. “Hardly anything was ripe, anyway.”

  “Nothing will ever ripen here!” Ida insisted. “We can try and try—”

  “It’s completely pointless.” Cat finally expressed the resentment she’d been feeling for the entire horrible day. “Everything we do here is pointless. I don’t understand why you didn’t give up the village after the first flood!”

  Ottfried glared at her. “Like your people? The Maori?” He practically spit the words at her. “Those cowardly, lazy people who didn’t know what this land was worth?”

  “But Ottfried, you have to admit—” Ida stopped abruptly because Jakob Lange and Peter Brandmann were approaching with the farmers and a couple of the older men.

  “The planted fields are all safe,” Farmer Friesmann announced. “Hardly any losses. But we have to take drainage more seriously. Starting tomorrow, we will improve the network of ditches.”

  “No, not first thing tomorrow!” Peter Brandmann said, raising his voice like he was leading a prayer meeting. “Tomorrow, the first thing we will do is join forces to repair the Busches’ house and rebuild the Schiebs’. You’ll have a roof over your head within a week, Manfred!” He patted the shoulder of the young man whose house had been washed away.