Fires of Change (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  Father O’Toole smiled. “I don’t think it matters how the Maori find their way to God. The important thing is that we manage to get them to stop praying to heathen idols.”

  “The important thing is that everyone is peaceful,” Karl grumbled.

  Mara knew he was also anxious to be home, not wanting to leave Cat and his friend Chris Fenroy alone with the shearing. “Come now, Father, you can count your flock later.”

  The men set off, and Ida and Mara followed the young woman who had shown them her cross. She invited them to help prepare a big evening meal. The women of the tribe chatted excitedly, and some brought sweet potatoes and raupo roots to the meeting ground to peel and chop. Others brought birds and fish to roast over open fires.

  Ida automatically reached for a knife and began to peel vegetables. Mara noted how naturally her mother fit in. Ida Jensch had smooth, dark hair, which she wore pinned up in a style that was becoming more popular among Maori women as well. The North Island sunshine had tanned Ida’s skin; she was no longer as pale as she had once been. But her porcelain-blue eyes made her immediately identifiable as an outsider—as did her difficulties with the language.

  “Do I understand correctly, Mara, that they are planning a feast?” she asked her daughter. “I mean . . . of course that’s very nice. But it’s a little strange, isn’t it? They greeted us with a war dance. Does the chieftain really wish to honor those farmers?”

  Mara had already asked a few girls her own age about it, and their answer had been a relief. A feast would have meant they’d have to spend the night with the Ngati Hine.

  “The feast isn’t for us, Mama,” she replied. “They’ve been planning it for a while. Kawa, the chieftain’s wife, is very excited about it. They are expecting a missionary to arrive tonight, a preacher. Te Ua Haumene is Maori, from a tribe in the Taranaki region. He was raised in a mission there and studied the Bible. Then he served in other missions, and now he will probably be ordained as a priest. Apparently, he’s seen as a kind of prophet. Some of their gods told him something important. He wants to give a sermon about it today.”

  “But there are no new prophets,” Ida said sternly. “If there were, then . . . the Bible would have to be rewritten.”

  Mara shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out soon, assuming Mr. Johnson doesn’t get into a fight with the chieftain. The women have already invited us to the sermon. And Father O’Toole will surely want to stay for it. Even if Te Ua Haumene is Anglican or whatever.”

  “Oh yes, Father O’Toole is great man, good Christian,” said a Maori woman who’d been peeling vegetables next to Ida. She seemed very proud to show off her English. “We read stories from Bible in our language. And now even better! Now Te Ua Haumene own prophet for Maori. Write own Bible for own people.”

  Chapter 2

  The men returned just two hours after they’d left. The chieftain and the tribal elder, who were walking next to the pakeha on their horses, smiled broadly, and Kennard Johnson and his men looked relaxed. Even Carter seemed to be satisfied. Only Simson was brooding.

  “I won’t let them get away with it,” he grumbled to Karl and Father O’Toole. “I’ll involve the governor, and even the Crown. England has to protect a man’s rights!”

  “You can’t go out and cut down your neighbor’s trees in England either,” Kennard Johnson said bluntly. “Though maybe they wouldn’t immediately threaten to kill you for trying. The chieftain did rather overreact.”

  “That tree is holy for the tribe,” Karl said. “And you saw it yourself. It’s a splendid kauri tree, hundreds if not thousands of years old.”

  “Worth hundreds if not thousands of dollars!” Simson cried. “It’s the best wood. They’re drooling over it in Wellington. And the old lady said herself that they didn’t even want the land.”

  He pointed rudely at the tribal elder, who was walking calmly next to the chieftain, not dignifying Simson with a glance.

  “She didn’t say that,” Karl replied. “I keep telling you: they have a claim to that land, which they made clear when the rest was sold. I drew the map for them. All she means is that the land is not for their use but for the spirits who own the tree. That must be respected.”

  “I thought they were baptized!” Simson persisted.

  The men got off their horses and tied them to a post.

  Mara moved closer. If her father didn’t unsaddle his horse, there was a good chance that they would soon be on their way. Perhaps they would get around the sermon somehow. But Karl patted his horse on the neck and took the saddle off.

  “Don’t you think it’s wrong, Reverend?” Simson asked.

  “Father,” O’Toole said, correcting him. He looked as though he’d just bitten a lemon. “To be honest, I’m a little torn. My beliefs tell me to chop down a tree like this, in the tradition of St. Boniface. The Lord says we should not bow down to false idols. On the other hand, it’s a beautiful tree, and a glorious example of the wonder of his creation.”

  “Mr. Simson, it doesn’t matter what Father O’Toole says about it,” Karl said, interrupting the priest’s sermon. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a special tree either, or a southern beech like all the others. The only thing that matters is if the tree is standing on your land or the neighbors’ land. In this case, the land clearly belongs to the Ngati Hine. The tree belongs to them, too, so do what’s right and leave it alone.”

  “And don’t go thinking you’ll get away with it somehow if you just chop it down anyway,” Kennard Johnson added. “The Crown doesn’t want to start a war if Maihi massacres you for it. There are precedents. Remember Wairau!”

  In Wairau, many Europeans had lost their lives after a pakeha man shot a chieftain’s wife. The governor later accepted responsibility for the colonists and apologized to the Maori instead of avenging his people.

  Simson finally rode away in annoyance, and the chieftain invited the remaining men to the party and to the prophet’s sermon. Carter accepted. For him, the decision had been positive. Carter took a bottle of whiskey out of his saddlebag, sent it around the circle to celebrate the peaceful resolution, and then took a few deep swallows. Afterward, he sat by the fire with the English soldiers, surrounded by giggling Maori girls.

  Mara saw her hopes of a quick departure melting away.

  “Does that mean we’re staying the night?” she said, turning to her father as he looked around for Ida.

  Karl shrugged. “Father O’Toole is determined to hear the prophet’s sermon, and Mr. Johnson is moving as though he’s in pain. It’s not likely that he’ll want to get back on a horse tonight.”

  Mara frowned. “I thought—”

  “I can’t change it, Mara,” Karl replied. “You know I’m just as keen to get to Rata Station as you are. And for more important reasons, my dear. You just want to see Eru as soon as possible, and that will present its own set of difficulties. Jane will defend her son with tooth and claw.”

  Mara glared at her father. “I can be tough too, if I want.”

  Karl laughed. “When you and Eru are grown, Mara, you can fight his mother for him. Or you can just let him choose for himself. But now you’re only fifteen, and he’s fourteen, if I remember correctly. You’ll just have to comply with Jane’s wishes. Your mother and I are of the same opinion, by the way. Eru is a nice boy, and perhaps someday you’ll be a couple. But at the moment, you’re both much too young.” His eyes lit up. “Oh, there’s your mother.”

  Knowing her parents would pay no attention, Mara bit back a few tart words about her father’s opinion of her relationship with Eru. She listened grudgingly as he reported the day’s events to Ida.

  “Simson can be glad that he survived his misdeed,” Karl said. “A priestess caught him red-handed as he was about to swing the ax to cut down her holy kauri tree. She made a huge scene, and a few warriors caught wind of it and stopped him. I don’t want to think about what might have happened if he had managed to do it.”

  Ida nodded. “What about the
other farmer?” she asked. “Why was there trouble with Mr. Carter?”

  Karl smiled. “In his case, the mistake was the tribe’s. You know how they think. For them, the land belongs to whoever uses it. Since Carter had neither sown the field nor used it for grazing his sheep, one of the women decided she wanted to expand her kumara garden. She didn’t understand why he was so upset. But he shouldn’t destroy her garden either! Now we have clarified matters, and they all reached an agreement. This year, the woman can harvest her sweet potatoes and give half of them to Mr. Carter. Next year, she won’t plant in the field again. It was only a misunderstanding. The farmer wasn’t even particularly concerned about the half acre she used. He was just afraid that the tribe would continue that way.”

  “Then at least in that case everything worked out for the best.”

  Karl took Ida’s arm, and the two of them walked between the cheerfully glowing fires. Mara followed. The women had begun their cooking and roasting. Delicious aromas were spreading through the village, and they made Mara hungry. But before they could eat, they’d have to listen to the sermon.

  As twilight fell, a little boy announced that three warriors were approaching the village. “Te Ua Haumene is coming!”

  Ida furrowed her brow. “What is the man, anyway? A warrior, a priest, or a prophet?”

  Father O’Toole, who was sitting at a nearby fire, shrugged. “I don’t know. But I hope he’s an asset to Christianity in this country. The issue with the tree today that the Maori were praying to . . . they probably wouldn’t understand, but for me, it’s like a slap in the face. It’s as though my life’s work was for nothing. I’ve known this tribe for decades. I’ve taught their children, baptized their people . . . and now this! Perhaps I should go back to Ireland.”

  The missionary looked depressed. Karl handed him the whiskey bottle.

  “Come now, Father,” he said. “They just can’t give up their gods and spirits so fast. After thousands of years of Christianity, don’t the Irish still have ‘lepichans’? Isn’t that what they call the little spirits they build huts in their gardens for?”

  A smile stole over the priest’s face. “You mean leprechauns. And those huts . . . I suspect they are used by my countrymen to hide the extra whiskey from their wives. But yes, I suppose the old beliefs sometimes survive alongside the new ones.”

  “That’s exactly how you have to look at it,” Karl said. “So don’t be upset with the Maori. Personally, I think Simson’s behavior was far more scandalous. He actually believed he could do whatever he wanted to the tribe and still be protected by the English Crown.”

  O’Toole sighed. “Yes. Our white countrymen aren’t all good Christians. Sometimes—oh, don’t listen to me, sometimes I think too much. There are also Maori who are baptized and then still do whatever they want. There have been senseless battles in recent years because one stubborn, probably drunken chieftain cut down a flagpole, and the public authorities took it as a personal attack on the Crown. And the natives are understandably defending themselves against their land being seized by people like Simson. If a Maori Christ has appeared and wants to be a teacher, I will accept him as a shining light in the darkness. I only hope I won’t be disappointed.”

  Te Ua Haumene was a stately man of middle age. The prophet had a wide face and no tattoos. He had sideburns, and heavy brows over his sleepy-looking dark eyes. His garments were neither the cassock of a Catholic priest nor the traditional black suit of an Anglican missionary. His was the attire of a well-to-do Maori: a finely woven top over a skirtlike loincloth made of flax, and an elaborate cape worthy of a chieftain. His companions were more simply dressed in traditional warrior garb.

  Father O’Toole watched, his face impassive. The women of the tribe approached Te Ua Haumene just as enthusiastically as they had the priest, and devoutly asked for his blessing.

  The Maori men mostly hung back. Two of the village elders exchanged hongi with the prophet, as did a relative of the chieftain, but not Maihi himself. North Island chieftains often kept a symbolic distance from their subjects.

  The chieftain’s wife offered Te Ua Haumene and his men a place by the central fire, which they accepted. They were obviously hungry after their journey. The prophet came from Taranaki, but he preached to a different tribe every few days, accepting each one’s hospitality. The Ngati Hine obviously enjoyed providing it to their guest. The tribe honored their visitor with a delicious meal and a complex greeting ceremony. Every now and then, the chieftain’s wife would gesture to Father O’Toole, and several villagers showed Te Ua their crosses. But the prophet made only a vague gesture of greeting in O’Toole’s direction.

  “Perhaps he has something against Papists—I mean, Catholics,” Ida said, trying to comfort the slighted clergyman. “He was trained by Anglicans, after all.”

  Father O’Toole shrugged sadly. Karl handed him the whiskey bottle, and he accepted it gratefully.

  Mara wished she could take a swallow too. In the meantime, she had eaten her fill, and she was bored again.

  When Te Ua Haumene finally stood to speak, it was already dark. The moon was shining, and its light, together with that of the flickering fires, lent the scene an almost ghostly atmosphere. The wind blew the prophet’s long hair back from his face.

  “I welcome you, wind!” Te Ua Haumene said. He didn’t look at his audience as he spoke; his eyes were fixed on the sky. “Your messenger greets you!”

  Father O’Toole translated for Karl and Ida.

  “Messenger?” Ida asked.

  “Haumene means ‘man of the wind,’” Mara remarked and then stood up to get some water, disturbing the reverent silence. The prophet looked at her sharply.

  “Hear through my mouth the words of God. The wind blows to us his spirit, the good news, the new gospel. I bring it to believers!”

  “Pai marire,” chanted the two warriors who accompanied the prophet.

  “Pai marire!” Te Ua cried, and his listeners repeated it in chorus.

  “That means ‘peace,’ doesn’t it?” Karl asked his daughter and the priest.

  They both nodded. “Goodness and peace, to be exact,” O’Toole said. “That’s what they call their religious movement. Or sometimes Hauhau.”

  “But what does he mean by ‘the new gospel’?” Ida asked doubtfully.

  A morose expression came over the priest’s face.

  “I greet you, my people, my chosen people . . .” Te Ua Haumene paused for a moment to allow his words to take effect.

  O’Toole sighed quietly.

  “I am here to bring you together in his name,” Te Ua continued. “I call you, as I was called myself by the greatest of all chieftains—by Te Ariki Mikaera, commander of the forces of heaven.”

  Karl looked confused. “Huh?”

  “He means the archangel Michael,” O’Toole said in annoyance.

  “See, I am one of you. I am Maori, born in Taranaki, but the pakeha took my mother and me to Kawhia. I served them like a slave, but I am not angry at them, because it was God’s will that I learned their language and their writing. I studied the Bible, God’s word, and I allowed myself to be baptized, because I was sure that the pakeha could lead me to a better life. But then Te Ariki Mikaera appeared to me and told me I should not be one of the sheep but the shepherd. As Moses once led his people out of servitude, so have I been chosen. I have been chosen to tell you about God’s son, Tama-Rura, whom the pakeha call Jesus. I tell you this, even though I have been told that Tama-Rura is another name for the archangel Gabriel.”

  “The man is out of his mind,” Ida murmured.

  “The man is dangerous,” Karl hissed.

  “And they are all waiting with spear and sword in their hands, to lead their chosen people to freedom.”

  “Pai marire!” the men cried, and the villagers repeated it loudly.

  “Goodness and peace—with swords?” Ida asked.

  Mara raised a sarcastic eyebrow—a gesture that she had recently adopted t
o communicate to adults what she thought about their ideas.

  “For you are not free, my chosen people!” Te Ua thundered to the crowd. “You share your land with the pakeha, and often enough, you have believed they were your friends because they gave you money and things you could buy with it. But truly, I say to you: they give nothing for free! They take your land, they take your language, and they will also take your children!”

  The women reacted with shocked cries, and some of the men with shouts of protest.

  “You did not invite these people here. They only came to take your land!”

  Karl was about to speak, but Father O’Toole had already leaped to his feet.

  “We also brought you God, whom you are currently blaspheming!” the priest shouted.

  Te Ua Haumene glared at him. “You may be the canoe that brought the true God to Aotearoa,” he spat at the missionary, “but sometimes one must burn the canoe in order to truly feel at home. God will still be here long after we have driven the pakeha out of our country. Long after they have been blown away by the wind! Pai marire, hau hau!”

  Father O’Toole sank back to the ground in stunned disbelief. He rubbed his brow painfully as more and more of the people he had converted and baptized evoked the Holy Spirit in the wind.

  Next, Te Ua Haumene set the gathering in motion. He had his followers erect a pole that he called a niu, which was supposed to represent the good news he’d brought. His men danced around the pole almost in the manner of a war dance, and encouraged the crowd to join them. Te Ua Haumene chanted as they did so, and continued to proclaim other fundamentals of his new religion. More and more young villagers sprang up and joined the warriors as they danced around the niu.