The Fire Blossom (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  “That was the cookhouse,” Cat said.

  Ottfried shrugged. “I don’t care what the savages were using it for. I looked at it last night, and it’s big enough for the horses. There’s a shed next to it; you can sleep there, Cat. I’ll even build you a proper bed when I have time. There’s plenty of wood—we can just use parts of the other buildings. Joe gets the house by the trees, there. It needs a lot of work, but it’s very beautiful. If he ever finds a wife, she’ll like that. And Ida and I will take the meetinghouse, because there’s more space for the child, later. Is that all right, Joe?”

  Joe mumbled his agreement, but Ida looked stricken. So the men were planning to live here permanently, after all. Cat whispered that the house Joe was planning to move into had been the chieftain’s. It wasn’t very large, but it had the most intricate carvings. Unfortunately, it was quite damaged.

  The women didn’t want to think what had happened to the man who’d lived there, and perhaps to his wife and children. Ida, whose avid imagination had been nourished after the Wairau affair by the malicious gossip in Nelson, couldn’t shake off the notion of cannibalism. She would probably dream for weeks about severed limbs cooking in cauldrons.

  After breakfast, she nervously followed Cat, who hoped to find the old gardens and fields. Ottfried had unequivocally demanded that the women make themselves useful. Being pregnant was no excuse. In Raben Steinfeld, farmers’ wives had always worked until the day their children were born.

  “Look, Ida, at least good spirits have been at work here!” Cat joked when she found a kind of garden where low plants with dark green leaves were growing. “Sweet potatoes. The Maori call them kumara. Have you ever eaten one? We’ll have kumara stew for lunch today!”

  Ida discovered more plants, among them grains and corn. “I thought the Maori weren’t farmers,” she said with surprise.

  Cat shrugged. “The women plant gardens and fields. That’s a tradition. But most of the plants that came with the first canoes from Hawaiki wouldn’t grow here. It was much warmer there. Only the kumara survived. This here,” she said, pointing to the oats and corn, “came with the English. Seeds are coveted trade goods. And as you can see, the Maori women who get some use them well!”

  “It seems strange to take their harvest now,” Ida said softly when Cat immediately began to test the plants for ripeness. “I mean, it doesn’t belong to us. We’re harvesting the fruits of someone else’s labor.”

  “No one has worked here for a long time,” Cat said. “These plants surely seeded themselves from the remains of the previous years. And besides, what good would it do to let the vegetables rot? But if you like, we can say a prayer of thanks. To your God, and to Te Ronga’s gods. For the tribes, planting and harvesting always goes with a karakia. Let me see if I can still sing one.”

  Her gentle, bright voice calmed Ida, and the young woman began to hum along as they both dug up the root vegetables. Afterward, Cat willingly folded her hands in a prayer of thanksgiving to Ida’s God, and thought lovingly about Te Ronga as she did so. She was beginning to understand her foster mother’s beliefs, which were always open for new gods and spirits. Te Ronga would have been proud of her foster daughter, despite the violation of the tapu.

  The Maori spirits continued to suggest that they weren’t holding a grudge, and the longer Ida and Cat spent in the old pa, the more everyone’s bad feelings dissipated. Ottfried was in a hurry to make the necessary repairs, which made Ida feel a little kindlier toward him. She also noticed with relief that he wasn’t bothering Cat anymore. Ida would never forgive this man, nor love him, but with the children coming, she felt she’d have to get along. What else could she do?

  Cat saw things more realistically, however, and wasn’t planning to stay in Purau any longer than she had to. Ottfried and Gibson were burning to get out to the plains to begin their first transactions with the Maori. Of course that wouldn’t work without an interpreter, and Cat insisted that she wanted to stop traveling at the end of her seventh month. Surprisingly, both men seemed to respect her wishes. They probably were terrified of being caught in the wilderness with a woman giving birth prematurely. But Cat had been thinking of Ida. She herself wouldn’t have minded bearing her child in a Maori village. On the contrary. The natives would be able to offer knowledgeable assistance, while Ida’s only experience was the birth of her youngest sibling—a birth that had been fatal for their mother. Ida was terrified of her own impeding childbirth, and for that reason, Cat would have to be with her. Ida certainly wouldn’t be able to bring her child into the world alone in the pa, surrounded only by the spirits of the dead.

  That meant the men had every reason to fix up the houses quickly, and Ottfried managed to get Joe moving. Cat and Ida helped too. Four weeks passed, and at least part of the dilapidated village was transformed into a proper little farm with a barn, two houses, and a horse pasture. Ida had weeded the Maori fields, had removed dead plants, and despite Ottfried’s protests, had planted a few of the seeds Gibson had purchased as trade goods. They rebuilt the fence around the garden and removed most of the old stockade. Just before the departure, Cat and Ida were even able to harvest some grain. Ida’s pantry was well stocked, and Joe had also ridden down to the Redwoods once more to buy some cheese and jerky.

  “In any case, you won’t go hungry,” Cat joked as she packed provisions the evening before the journey. “But I still don’t feel comfortable about leaving you alone. Are you really not scared?”

  Ida shrugged. “I’ve never been alone before. But I have Chasseur.”

  The brown-and-white dog came and nestled against his master.

  Cat had suggested that perhaps they could take Ida with them. The Maori certainly wouldn’t mind. When tribes visited each other, they traveled with their families. But Ottfried and Joe had vehemently vetoed the idea. Ottfried wanted to be sure that his precious heir was safe, and Joe was afraid that Ida could hinder their progress.

  “I’ll find something to do,” Ida said bravely. “I can spin the wool that Laura Redwood brought, and cook the berries that you picked for jam. Laura will surely come by sometime.”

  Laura was a confident rider and had visited Ida and Cat twice.

  “Mostly I’ll be busy in the spring, during the lambing,” she had explained to them happily during her last visit. “I do enjoy that. So you have an experienced midwife close by, Ida!”

  Ida had nodded, agonized. She would have liked nothing more than to have Laura help with the birth but couldn’t risk her finding out about Cat’s pregnancy. She would be able to invite her to come see the “twins” only when everything was over.

  “Nothing will happen to you here,” Cat said, trying to convince them both. “That is, if you take it easy and don’t overexert yourself. There’s more than enough wood already.”

  Part of the old stockade had been too brittle to reuse for building, so Ottfried had begun to chop it up for firewood. He hadn’t finished, but there was enough stacked by the door to keep Ida’s stove burning while they were gone.

  Ida bit her lip. “I won’t,” she promised, although she had been planning to chop wood, along with anything else that would keep her from worrying and make her forget her loneliness.

  “Maybe—maybe I’ll even like being alone a little,” she said then. “I’ve never been alone in my life, you know. I was always with my parents and siblings, and in the community . . . and then with Ottfried . . .”

  “I’m sure you’ll miss him terribly,” Cat said with a laugh.

  Ida tried to smile. “Chasseur definitely won’t.”

  Thankfully, Ottfried had continued keeping his distance. Even though he shared a bedroom with Ida again, he didn’t touch her. He didn’t bother Cat with obscene comments either. The dog had begun to feel safe again, and he growled at Ida’s husband when he thought he was getting too close to his mistress. Then he was promptly thrown out of the house, even though Ida protested. Rats were proving to be a nuisance in the pa. Ida assumed that
they had come in the covered wagons, or that they had come with earlier deliveries by traveling merchants. Perhaps with the seeds that the grain had grown from, which Ida was now baking into bread.

  “We won’t be away for very long.” Cat couldn’t stop trying to comfort Ida. “The plains are wide and flat, and we’ll be able to travel fast. I think we might be able to do it in three or four weeks. You’ll be able to manage that long!”

  Ida tried to roll her eyes sarcastically. “I could manage longer than that!” she said. “I’ll have to get used to it anyway, especially once the children are born. Right now, I could come, but with two little infants . . . no, everything will be fine, Cat.”

  Cat was worried anyway when they left at sunrise the next morning. Ida waved at them bravely and even smiled, but there was something sad in her face. Cat wished she didn’t have to leave her alone.

  “Yes, they’re gone now,” Ida said to Chasseur with feigned cheerfulness. “And we have to figure out what to do today. What do you think, shall we dig some sweet potatoes?”

  Ida told herself that she enjoyed the quiet as she sat in the sunshine peeling the potatoes. She cooked a tasty stew just for herself and said a long prayer before she ate it. Praying was good. It was comforting to talk to God, even if he didn’t answer.

  Ida brought the potato peels and other garbage to the new compost heap. Then she got ready to wash the wool that she wanted to spin later. Cat had given her a few recipes for making dye from plants. They were traditionally used with flax, but why shouldn’t she use them to make the wool prettier? Ida went into the woods to search for the plants, and was proud that she wasn’t frightened to death when a weta sprung up in front of her and landed briefly on her shoulder before hopping off into the bushes. Cat had told her about the giant, harmless insects. Their Maori name meant “god of the ugly things.”

  As though a god would be necessary for that! Ida wondered if her thought was heathen, and said a prayer for God’s forgiveness in case she’d offended him. He didn’t answer. It was very quiet in the forest, and she’d heard that one only had to listen to silence to hear his voice. If Ida hadn’t heard him yet, perhaps she just hadn’t ever had enough silence around her.

  But now Ida began to think the silence was eerie. With a pounding heart, she took her herbs and went back to the pa, where Chasseur was barking loudly as he hunted rats. It was soon evening. Ida prayed again and again without getting an answer. Finally, the silence gave way to night sounds. Ida heard screeches and cries. She knew they were birds. Or were they the cries of Maori warriors? Had the tribe just been waiting until the men left to take revenge for the deconsecration of the tapu place? But no, Cat had assured her that there were no Maori living anywhere nearby. Otherwise, she would have found their tracks at some point during the last four weeks.

  Then Ida remembered the ghosts. Somehow, they must have banished the voices of the people who had lived in this place before. After Cat had sung the karakia during their first kumara harvest, she’d accompanied all their other jobs with invocations too. She’d said that it reminded her of her foster mother and that it appeased the spirits. Ida had enjoyed listening, even if she had to beg for God’s forgiveness afterward. But now . . . now Cat was gone, and the ghosts were shrieking in the night. And God didn’t answer . . .

  Ida spent the night trembling in a niche between the wide, new bed and her wardrobe. She clung to Chasseur, who whined nervously.

  She was so alone, and God didn’t answer, and the child . . . the child in her belly didn’t move. Wasn’t it supposed to? Was it even alive, or did it know—or did God know—that she hadn’t really wanted it, and now it would be prey to the ghosts, and its mother with it?

  Ida rocked back and forth, whimpering. Chasseur licked her face, pleased that she didn’t push him away.

  And that was just the first night.

  Chapter 43

  Cat thought that the Canterbury Plains were aptly named. They were truly wide plains covered with tussock grass, and only occasionally relieved by small groups of trees, clear lakes fed by little streams, or large rocks that looked like they must have fallen from the sky. Beyond the grasslands rose snow-covered mountains, the Southern Alps. The mountains could be seen from almost everywhere Cat had ever been. But here they seemed closer, their outlines clearer. No forest or hills blocked the view, and the air almost seemed to be clearer, the sky wider, and the clouds lighter and more feathery than in other places. The Waimakariri River, which Ottfried and Gibson were following with their wagons, was wide and vigorous. Cat watched the banks for signs of Maori villages, but on the first day, they passed only an occasional pakeha farm.

  “They probably settled farther away, in case the river flooded its banks,” Ottfried said, eyeing the water skeptically. He had refused Gibson’s suggestion of borrowing a boat from some settlers and hauling the goods inland on the river.

  “I’ve never heard about any flooding here,” Gibson said. “You just have Sankt Pauli Village stuck in your head. You’re going to have to forget about it!”

  But Cat suspected that Ottfried’s refusal to travel by water wasn’t about Sankt Pauli Village. A boat trip to a Maori village surely reminded him of the events in Wairau. Ottfried seemed to be getting more nervous the farther he got from the last English settlement. He’d never admit it, but Cat was convinced that he was afraid of a confrontation with the natives.

  “I think it’s a good idea to leave the river, anyway. Maybe we should follow a stream,” she said. “These tribes may prefer not to settle on open plains. Otherwise, their villages would be easy targets. Places in the woods or next to lakes are more protected.”

  “But they could attack us more easily there,” Ottfried said worriedly.

  Cat raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to find them and make deals or not? You’ll never be completely safe, even if you can see for miles. They could simply slit your throat at night.”

  She almost laughed when Ottfried went pale and reached under the seat for his weapon. Cat knew that Gibson had one too: a hunting rifle. But his didn’t bother her. He wasn’t excessively afraid of the natives and was unlikely to shoot randomly out of fear. Unlike Ottfried.

  She brought up the subject with Gibson when Ottfried was out of earshot. She always opted to ride in Gibson’s wagon, although she didn’t trust him either. But he was more predictable than Ottfried, and on the first evening of the journey, she had overheard him reprimanding the German. Cat had asked the men to set up her tent while she roasted the fish. Ottfried had responded with an obscene suggestion—departing from the relative decency he’d managed over the past months in front of Ida.

  “Ottie, do you have a screw loose?” Gibson demanded after Cat stormed off. “You know she doesn’t want anything to do with us. How often does she have to wave her knife under your nose?”

  Ottfried snorted and laughed his ugly laugh. “Come on, Joe. What girl do with little knife against two big men?”

  Gibson slapped his forehead. “I could think of a few things. I’ve seen her throw that thing, and I don’t want to be the one who gets it between the ribs. And anyway—God, Ottie, we need her! Without an interpreter, we’ll have no chance with the savages. And don’t say we could force her to come with us. She’d just talk that gibberish and tell them what’s going on. So be polite and act like a gentleman, even if you aren’t one. The world is full of women you can stick your cock into. But this one is—what’s that word she’s always using? She’s tapu.”

  Since then, Ottfried had left Cat alone, and Gibson always treated her with careful politeness. The man was surely a racketeer, but he wasn’t stupid. And he’d already noticed that Ottfried was nervous about encountering the Maori.

  “It’s all right if he’s armed—the warriors will be,” Cat said. “But you have to make sure that he doesn’t shoot. What kind of weapon does he have, anyway? A hunting rifle too?”

  Gibson shook his head. “A musket. A weapon of war. I have no idea where he got i
t. I’ll keep an eye on him, don’t worry. I would prefer not to show our weapons at all, actually, so no one thinks they’re trade goods. Or aren’t the native fellows interested?”

  Cat smiled sadly. “Apparently, every man in the world wants something that makes a loud noise and kills. I was surprised that you didn’t buy any guns to trade.”

  Gibson grinned. “First of all, there weren’t any available in Nelson, and second, Ottie was totally against it. He was probably afraid they’d try the things out on him. The boy has no talent for heroics.”

  “Then make sure he doesn’t even try,” Cat said, ending the conversation.

  When they finally met a group of Maori on the sixth day, Ottfried’s hand did reach reflexively under his seat, but he didn’t take out his weapon. They had followed Cat’s suggestion and turned away from the river after two days, following a stream to the southwest. They were looking for woods and other protected areas when they met two Maori boys who were fishing.

  The boys were around fourteen years old, and seemed to be more curious than alarmed or aggressive. When Cat spoke to them, they answered animatedly. And when Gibson gave them each a pocketknife, they were obviously excited.

  “They would be glad to bring us to their village,” Cat said. “This is the first time they’ve ever met pakeha, but they’ve heard about us. People from their village have met missionaries before. The missionaries gave someone in the tribe a blanket, and his wife is very proud of it.”

  Joe grinned. “Things are looking good,” he said. “Looks like we’ll be welcomed with open arms!”

  He was right. Their dealings with this Ngai Tahu tribe were simple and pleasurable. The members of the tribe were more trusting than the Ngati Toa were, leading Cat to conclude that, so far, they hadn’t had bad experiences with white settlers. In any case, the welcoming committee was not made up of warriors, but mostly of women and children who gazed at the arrivals in amazement. They were fascinated by the horses, and also by Cat’s blonde hair. Cat took it down and traded a cooking pot for a traditional headband. The woman who had woven it could hardly contain her joy. They all eyed the covered wagon curiously, but of course minded their manners, and first organized a formal powhiri in honor of the guests.