Fires of Change (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  “Maybe I really did have too much wine,” Fitz said with a smile.

  Linda didn’t understand the correlation, but was also far from complaining. It would have hardly been possible to make a woman more lustful than Fitz had done that night. Finally, she nestled against him, warm and satisfied, and fell into a deep sleep with his arms around her.

  The next morning, Linda would have liked to repeat the experience immediately, but Fitz awakened her before the first light of dawn. He harnessed Brianna while Linda was groggily unwrapping herself from the quilts. Amy, who had slept under the covered wagon, danced excitedly around it.

  “Can’t we have breakfast somewhere first?” Linda asked with a yawn. “I’m still not properly awake.”

  Fitz pulled the blankets away with a laugh. “We can stop on the road somewhere and make coffee,” he promised, although it had already begun to rain again. To light a fire in such weather would take much longer and be much more difficult than looking around Christchurch for a café. “This is the beginning. Can’t you feel it, Lindy, sweetheart? Can’t you hear the gold calling our names?”

  Part 4

  SIGNS

  CANTERBURY PLAINS AND OTAGO, NEW ZEALAND (THE SOUTH ISLAND)

  WELLINGTON, TARANAKI, WHANGANUI, OPOTIKI, AND MAKETU, NEW ZEALAND (THE NORTH ISLAND)

  1865

  Chapter 29

  Eru became more and more incensed the closer he got to Rata Station. Georgie, who was bringing him up the Waimakariri, had confirmed Mara’s story.

  “Your mother was very unkind. The other sheep breeders are quite angry,” the boatman said. “But the lawyers say nothing can be done. Iron Janey is within her rights. It’s good luck for you, Eru—or do I call you Eric now? You’re going to inherit a huge farm one day.”

  Georgie’s assumption that Eru could somehow be happy about Linda and Carol’s eviction was the last straw for the young man. As soon as they’d pulled up to Rata Station’s pier, Eru set off for the Ngai Tahu village, burning with rage.

  The village was humming with the usual bustle of activity. Children were playing, and the women were weaving and peeling sweet potatoes and raupo roots. Te Ropata, the old rangatira, was coaching the young warriors as they practiced swinging their clubs. The sight made Eru a little wistful. But he would surely be part of the group again soon. He waved to the old man respectfully, and Te Ropata nodded back.

  At one fire a little ways from the others, Te Haitara sat with Makuto. The old woman was burning ritual herbs, and Eru knew he should wait until she finished. But he was too upset.

  “Ariki . . . Matua . . . Chieftain . . . Father . . .” Eru approached the fire.

  Te Haitara leaped to his feet. “Eru!”

  A smile spread over his tattooed face when he saw his son. He reached him with one step, put his hands on Eru’s shoulders, and greeted him with the hongi. Te Haitara squeezed him so tightly that it hurt.

  “May I still call you Father, or do you have doubts about my parentage?” Eru asked stiffly. “Or have you already agreed that I’m Chris Fenroy’s son? A little lie in exchange for a few thousand sheep? Let me guess, Mother told you that a birth certificate is just a piece of paper.”

  “In this case, it is just that,” the chieftain said. “Eru, that is no way to speak to your father—which I am. There isn’t the slightest doubt. If you want, we can take that cursed birth certificate and burn it.”

  Eru laughed bitterly. “Mother would hardly leave it around for us to find. And besides, the magistrate in Christchurch will certainly have a copy. The pakeha are very careful about such things. I’m sorry for speaking so disrespectfully, but why haven’t you done anything to stop what’s happening here? You can’t possibly approve.”

  Te Haitara lowered his eyes. “There’s nothing I can do. Jane’s soul is poisoned, and Makuto is trying to purify it.” He gestured to the fire and the herbs. “But the spirits of money are strong.”

  “Where is Mother now?” Eru asked defiantly. “I’d like to see if I could drive away a few of those spirits.”

  “She’s at Rata Station. She’s—preparing the stone house.”

  “She’s doing what?” Eru cried. “Father, maybe you can’t force her to give up the inheritance, but you certainly can’t allow her to leave you and live in Chris’s house.”

  The chieftain shook his head. “No, she lives with me. She comes home every evening. She says she has to get the house ready for—I don’t know, some pakeha ceremony.”

  “She’s probably planning a ball or something like that to celebrate her takeover. Fine, I’ll go back and talk to her. And I’ll tell her very clearly what I think about all this!”

  Snorting with anger, Eru left the village. He found Jane in the barn at Rata Station, where she was busy giving orders to some of the shepherds. She wore a practical but attractive linen dress, with her hair up in a nice bun.

  Eru was surprised when his mother sent the men away and greeted him with an open smile.

  “Eru, my boy! How wonderful to see you,” Jane cried. She even kept smiling as he responded with an avalanche of accusations.

  “I don’t understand why everyone is so hung up on that birth certificate,” she said, shaking her head. “Sure, it helped the lawyer take the wind out of the Brandmann sisters’ sails. But I wouldn’t have used it. It’s enough that I’m still married to Chris on paper, and you were officially born into that marriage, Eric. I only had the certificate made back then so you could study in England someday. Oxford or Cambridge would be far more likely to accept a Fenroy than a Te Haitara. And maybe we should apply to those universities soon. After all, the farm doesn’t need another shepherd as much as it needs a veterinarian or a lawyer. You could be much more useful here after getting a degree like that.”

  “So you can cheat more friends and neighbors?” Eru asked, incensed.

  Jane stared at her son uncomprehendingly. “Eric, my dear, I did this all for you. You should be grateful. The world is at your feet . . . Come, have a look around!”

  Eru shook his head. “I know Rata Station.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Of course you know the outside. I meant the stone house. As far as that goes, Chris really outdid himself trying to please me.” She grinned. “He was terrified of me. In any case, it’s a proper little manor house. Good enough for social events!”

  “You really want to dance on Cat’s and Chris’s graves?” Eru couldn’t believe his ears. “I can assure you, none of our neighbors will come. You’ve made yourself a pariah, Mother—and Father and me with you. No one will talk to you anymore, and they certainly won’t do business with you.”

  Jane laughed. “Don’t be so melodramatic. Of course everyone is upset now, even though I didn’t do anything but claim what was mine. Eru, this farm was once my dowry.”

  “There are different versions of that story, Mother,” Eru shot back.

  He knew the story of the farm. Jane’s father, John Nicholas Beit, had cheated the Maori out of this land in order to use it as Jane’s dowry for her marriage to Christopher Fenroy. He had traded a few pots and blankets for hundreds of acres. The trade had never been confirmed by the governor, and the Maori didn’t honor it either once they realized they’d been taken advantage of.

  Of course Chris had quickly realized what had happened. In order to keep the peace, he had given up ownership of the land and paid Te Haitara a yearly rent. When the chieftain had married Jane, he had given Chris the land as utu—compensation for taking his wife away.

  “The farm belongs to me,” Jane repeated. “The other farmers on the Waimakariri are going to have to accept that. What could they do about it, anyway? Hire their own shearing brigades because they don’t want to work with the same people I do? Sell to different distributors? That would be ridiculous, Eric. And as far as the house goes, I’m not planning any festivities there for the time being, but it will be very useful not to have to make deals with wool distributors and agricultural machinery makers in a marae. Try to
see the house as a kind of office for now. Later, when you have a wife—”

  “I’m not going to marry some silly sheep baroness just because you like her father’s breeding animals!” he said, enraged.

  Jane smiled again. “You won’t have to, boy. Just wait. After you’ve been in England for a few years, maybe you’ll find yourself a real baroness. After all, you’re a chieftain’s son.”

  Eru slunk back to the village. He was still determined not to go to England or to help Jane with Rata Station. But once again, he hadn’t succeeded in making his mother listen. She was so convinced by her own righteousness that Eru didn’t have a chance. Nor did Te Haitara. The chieftain was a warrior, a man of deeds. Rhetorically, both of them were hopelessly outgunned.

  But Eru was at least happy to be back in the village. The next morning, when Te Ropata called the young warriors, Eru rejoined his taua. The rangatira welcomed him by singing a karakia of joy: “Our tribe is stronger. The warrior who was far away has returned. Thank the gods and the ancestors! Our enemies will know fear again.”

  Eru blushed with pleasure and self-consciousness as the other young men accepted him as part of their community again. He’d missed out on parts of his training, but his natural strength would help. In the mock fights that followed, he beat two opponents, and the rangatira praised him.

  Eru felt happier than he had in a long time. This was where he belonged. He would stay here until he was grown, and then he’d bring Mara here and marry her. It didn’t matter what his mother had to say about it.

  His elation only lasted until Jane saw the young warriors returning to the village, laughing and singing.

  “I can’t understand it, Eric! You’re the manager of a huge sheep farm, and soon you’ll be playing an important role in the Christchurch Sheep Breeders’ Association. Everyone will respect you. Good Lord, I’ve even got papers for you that will be accepted in every pakeha court. And what do you do? You run around half-naked in a grass skirt like a dancing girl, singing silly songs and swinging ridiculous weapons.”

  Eru held her gaze steadily. “I am a warrior, Mother.”

  Jane snorted. “You don’t have any enemies here, Eric! And thank goodness, because even Ida Jensch could put an end to your ridiculous band of warriors with a few shots from her pistol. We aren’t in the Stone Age anymore, using spears and clubs. Now, get dressed properly; we need to check on some of the sheep. Besides, it would be a good idea for you to choose a horse. There are a few at Rata Station, and you can ride, can’t you? It would make things much easier if we had a few shepherds on horseback.”

  Eru pressed his lips together, torn between anger and shame. “I’m not a very good rider.”

  Mara had occasionally put him on a well-trained horse and had taken him with her into the plains, but he’d never really enjoyed it. Maori warriors always walked.

  Jane frowned. “Time to learn. At least that would be one useful skill. Come now.”

  Eru left his taua with his eyes lowered. At least the others didn’t make fun of him the way his fellow students back in Tuahiwi surely would have. Jane was known as a woman with much mana—courage and strength—and also as an adviser to the chieftain. The tribe knew they had her to thank for their prosperity, and every one of the young warriors was as deferential to her as Eru was. But the tone in which she spoke to him was not appropriate. The young man could only hope that the others hadn’t understood everything she’d said. But Eru had no illusions. Miss Foggerty hadn’t held her classes in Maori, and even though Mara or one of her sisters had almost always translated, every boy and girl in the tribe knew some English.

  Eru followed his mother sullenly, and spent an awful day inspecting the sheep pens and shearing shed. He was tired and depressed when he finally returned to the village that evening. But suddenly he felt himself coming back to life. Behind the trees between the chieftain’s house and the boundary fence of the marae, exactly where he had met Mara that one night, he saw a shadow.

  Te Ropata, the rangatira, was waiting silently. His form blended seamlessly into the landscape and plants that surrounded him. Eru was proud of being able to spot him. After Jane disappeared into the house, he snuck over.

  “Rangatira,” Eru said, “are you waiting for my father?”

  “No, I’m waiting for you, Te Eriatara. I want you to follow me.”

  Eru bit his lip. “Do I—do I need to be appropriately dressed?”

  The old teacher usually insisted that his students wear traditional warrior garb when they practiced fighting or meditation. Like Makuto, he never wore pakeha clothing himself. Even in winter, he stood before his students with his chest bare. A warrior, he explained, could drive away the wind’s chill with the heat of battle.

  Now Te Ropata shook his head. “You can come as you are, so you will remember who you are,” he said calmly.

  Te Ropata left the marae and headed for a pond that the tribe considered to be a place of power. Eru could barely keep up with him. Te Ropata wasn’t young anymore, but he was wiry and muscular, and his body glided through the grass and thickets. His tattoos, which covered not only his face but his entire body, seemed to dance with his movements, making the warrior look both fascinating and dangerous. Eru tried to adapt his steps to the man’s rhythm.

  They arrived at the pond and kneeled at the edge. Te Ropata was quiet, seeking connection between his spirit and the gods.

  It was Eru who finally broke the silence. “Rangatira, I’m sorry about what happened this morning. If my mother offended you—”

  Te Ropata shook his head. “I’m not offended by a woman. But I would kill a man for what she did. This is not about me, Te Eriatara, it’s about you. Who are you?”

  Eru blinked in confusion. “You know that, rangatira,” he replied. “I am Te Eriatara, the son of Te Haitara of the Ngai Tahu tribe that lives between the river and mountains and—”

  “I don’t need to hear the pepeha. I know who your parents are, and I know which canoe brought your ancestors to Aotearoa.” The rangatira looked out over the pond, where the shadows of twilight were now falling. “Te Eriatara, you have the blood of both pakeha and Maori inside you. Your body comes from both; your spirit is touched by both. But what makes up your soul?”

  “I am Maori!” Eru cried without hesitation. If he’d had any remaining doubt, it had been driven out of him by the missionary school. “I want to be a warrior. Please don’t turn me away, Te Ropata. Let me be part of my taua. Even if there are no enemies.”

  The old man gazed at Eru intently for a long moment. “There are always enemies, my son. The first enemy a warrior has to conquer is the enemy inside himself.”

  Eru considered his teacher’s words. “That means he has to learn courage?”

  Te Ropata nodded. “In the old days, he had to prove his courage. Long before he had to stand before an enemy for the first time.” He ran his fingers over the tattoos on his face.

  Eru stared at the old warrior, and his eyes went wide.

  Chapter 30

  In Te Haitara’s village, there wasn’t a real tohunga-ta-oko anymore. Te Ropata had said that one of the tribal elders understood the art, but when Eru asked the man, he declined.

  “Te Eriatara, you are the chieftain’s son. You should entrust your moko only to a master—not an old man who hasn’t tattooed a face for twenty years.”

  Such a master lived in another Ngai Tahu village, not far to the northwest in the foothills near Lake Whakamatua, which the pakeha called Lake Coleridge.

  “We will visit that iwi when we fetch the sheep from the mountains at the end of summer,” Te Ropata said. “I will join the herding with my young warriors. That should please Jane Te Rohi.”

  Jane didn’t know whether she should be happy about the unexpected help or not. She thought it was very strange that an old warrior tohunga suddenly wanted to lower himself to such a practical chore. At least, that’s what she told Eru, who remained stoically silent. But Jane couldn’t refuse Te Ropata’s o
ffer. After all, she had always complained to the chieftain how little support she had from the tribe when it came to the farming business. The fifteen strong young men would be extremely helpful. They could practice their tracking and help find escaped animals in the mountains.

  And in light of Te Ropata’s decision to take his warriors on the sheep drive, half of the village decided to join them. Te Haitara finally admitted to Jane that they wanted to combine the drive with a visit to a friendly iwi.

  “We could go along too,” he suggested. “You’ve never gone before.”

  “I don’t intend to now either,” Jane retorted sourly. “It’s a sheep drive, not a family outing. I have to get the farm ready for the animals and then sort them into the barns, pens, and pastures. I’ll need help for that. It will take more than just the three pakeha shepherds I have.”

  All of Rata Station’s staff had quit when Linda and Carol were driven out. Then Patrick Colderell had returned and gotten his job as head shepherd back. He had also hired two other pakeha men. Both of them had rather bad reputations among the local sheep breeders, but no one else was willing to work for Jane.