Fires of Change (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  “What are all those Maori doing here, for example?” Mara asked.

  She found it strange to see so many dark, tattooed faces in New Zealand Army uniforms. Some of the warriors combined the blue wool uniform jackets with their traditional skirts of dried hemp.

  “They are all volunteers,” the general said, and signaled to a uniformed steward to refill the wine glasses. “They join in order to fight rival tribes.”

  “Do they do a good job?” Bill asked.

  The general toyed with his wine glass. “There’s an Arabic proverb: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ If you pit those men against the right opponents, they will fight like berserkers. It’s strange with these people. If their ancestors came here eight hundred years ago in the same canoe, they still see each other as brothers and they’ll do anything to protect one another. But woe to anyone who paddled here in a different boat! To be honest, I don’t really like to use them in direct combat. They are too, hmm, barbarous for my liking. But that is certainly not a subject to discuss in front of young ladies.”

  “I’ve heard the Hauhau cut their enemies’ heads off,” Mara remarked casually while her plate was being refilled. After the sparse rations on their journey, Carol and Mara were delighted with the seafood cocktail and stuffed kiwi breast with kumara. “The food is delicious, by the way. Please convey my compliments to the cook, General.”

  Cameron stared at her indignantly. “Yes, some of the Maori do such things,” he admitted. “They have a method to preserve the heads by smoking them. Then they carry them around and show them off.” The subject was visibly uncomfortable for the Englishman. “Of course we don’t allow them to do that in the army. After all, we’re civilized men. I mostly employ the Maori volunteers as scouts and trail finders here in the woods.”

  “Then they probably aren’t doing much interpreting,” Bill said thoughtfully.

  Mara repressed a giggle. Carol kicked her shin under the table.

  The general shook his head. “So far we haven’t had any need for interpreters.”

  Bill told him about the Maori tribes in Whanganui, and about Carol and Mara’s roles in negotiating with them.

  The general rubbed his temples. “I didn’t know about that, and I’m sorry to hear it. I didn’t intend to send those people into enemy territory. You could help us, Miss Brandmann, Miss Jensch. Of course you would be properly compensated. And we wouldn’t put you in any danger. You’d only be asked to work after the battles are won.”

  “If they negotiated from the start, perhaps they wouldn’t have to fight in the first place,” Carol said later to her sister, whose stilted silence was getting on Carol’s nerves. “Mara, I don’t know if it’s right to take part in this, but the general seems to be a reasonable man with good intentions. He’s much more decent than that officer in Whanganui. I’m going to help him. It’s not as though we could make it any worse for the people being displaced. And if we’re lucky, we can help.”

  General Cameron had the task of commandeering the land on both sides of the Patea River. Every Maori tribe there had to be removed. According to Governor Grey, all of those iwis had fought against the pakeha during the war.

  “How can he possibly know that?” Mara asked.

  She had finally agreed to at least accompany Carol during her interpreting duties. They were getting bored after two weeks in Cameron’s camp. There was nothing for the sisters to do there, and they didn’t want to explore the area alone. It wasn’t particularly dangerous, but the sight of the young women distracted the men who were clearing trees and building roads. Cameron took his troops up the river and ousted the Maori who were living there. He secured the area with cannons and forts, which kept the advancing troops safe and hindered the return of the Maori. All this building required a constant supply of wood, and the path along the river had to be made passable for supply wagons. After all, the troops still required ammunition and provisions. The military settlers’ new commanders preferred to employ the recruits less suited to combat as builders. In Bill’s mind, that didn’t align with the intentions of the Settlements Act. “They’re precisely the ones who should be getting used to the scent of gunpowder,” he said. “And they couldn’t go too far wrong with the general’s offensive.”

  At first, the pakeha troops met with almost no resistance. The maraes they came across were wealthy fishing villages. The people had large houses with colorful roofs and elaborate carvings on the gables and walls, watched over by majestic statues of gods. In most of those maraes, they found only women and children. The men had disappeared.

  “They spot us long before we find them,” said one of the pakeha scouts, a member of the special Forest Rangers unit that Cameron had put together. The man had been born on the North Island, and was very experienced at navigating through the woods. However, his abilities didn’t compare to those of a Maori warrior. “Then the fellows leave, and probably go to some kind of Hauhau pa. I don’t know if it’s the right strategy to let them run away—they’re much less controllable that way. If we used the Maori scouts more often, we’d catch some for sure. But the general has reservations about that.”

  The women and children usually waited for the pakeha stoically. They had often already packed their belongings. If they hadn’t, the soldiers would rudely demand that they do so before they set about burning down the houses and destroying the crops. The older women wailed and lamented, but the young women, girls, and little boys took up clubs and attempted to defend their homes.

  “Why don’t you at least wait until they’ve left?” Carol asked disgustedly, after it had almost ended in bloodshed again.

  “That’s part of the punishment,” the young colonel replied, unimpressed. “They’re supposed to watch and tell the others what happens when they support the rabble-rousers.”

  “Are you sure that these tribes really fought in the war?” Bill asked doubtfully.

  The maraes seemed so peaceful. There weren’t any protection measures in place at all, not even a fence.

  “If they didn’t have anything to hide, then the men wouldn’t run away,” the colonel insisted.

  As it turned out, it made no difference to the pakeha forces whether the men remained in the villages. The warriors of the next tribe that Cameron’s scouts found were obviously not guilty of anything. The chieftain greeted the army in festive traditional garb, followed by his warriors—it was the peaceful prelude to a powhiri.

  Carol was horrified when the soldiers attacked anyway, disarming the warriors and herding them together like animals. Of course, a few tried to fight, but they had no chance against the superior weaponry. Cameron went so far as to fire one of his cannons. Finally, the villagers were captured and held as prisoners at the military base. The next morning, Carol was red with shame as she approached their pen to deliver a message. She was greeted by a chorus of “Pai marire, hau hau!” Several warriors had managed to escape during the night.

  “Now we’ve created even more enemies,” Mara remarked. “Carol, can’t you see what you’re doing? You aren’t helping the Maori; you’re only making yourself into one of the pakeha henchmen.”

  After that, Carol withdrew for a while, but soon began to obey the general’s orders again. Later, everyone would claim to have known nothing about the ruthless “cleansing,” and Carol thought it was important that someone bear witness. Grey’s policies weren’t universally accepted. In Auckland, several newspapers were said to be very interested in what was happening in Taranaki.

  “Sure, back in Auckland,” Mara said, scoffing, when Carol shared her thoughts. “We’re very far from there now, and the roads aren’t getting any safer.”

  Chapter 34

  Eru and his two friends planned to make their way to Blenheim and take the ferry to Wellington from there. Jane had always felt it was important for her son to learn to manage his finances, and he’d taken all his savings with him to Lake Whakamatua. He’d given most of it to the moko master, and now he needed to spend the
rest in Christchurch on new clothes.

  “Fifty years ago,” Eru complained, “it would have been normal to travel from one marae to another dressed as a warrior. But now? It is truly as Te Ua Haumene says: our land has become their land. We’re ashamed of our own traditional dress.”

  Tamati, one of his friends, nodded. “You’re right. Unfortunately, there aren’t any canoes that travel regularly between the South and North Islands. We’ll have to take the ferry, and the pakeha won’t let us on board that way.”

  So Eru reluctantly bought a pair of canvas trousers and a plaid shirt, and the three men earned the money for the trip with odd jobs. Eru’s moko proved to be an impediment. The pakeha farmers viewed him mistrustfully, and sometimes fearfully. Even his perfect English and feigned submissiveness weren’t enough to change their minds. That made Eru angry; he interpreted it as a lack of understanding of his people’s traditions. However, the resentment of the people of the South Island was still minimal. Very few of the pakeha there had had bad experiences with the natives. But on the ferry to the North Island, a woman and a little girl were terrified of Eru’s face, and the captain of the vessel asked the three Maori to stay below deck during the crossing.

  “I can’t order you to stay away, but listen: The little one and her mother are survivors of a Hauhau attack. The father died. They just spent six months with relatives on the South Island to recover. But as you can see, the girl is still scared to death. So, if you would be so kind . . .”

  Eru complied, gritting his teeth. On one hand, he wanted to be proud of his moko, and on the other, he didn’t want to terrify children. The old Eru felt sorry for the child who cried hysterically at the sight of him and hid behind her trembling mother’s skirts. But the new Eru should be happy about the pakeha’s fear. It meant they would leave Aotearoa sooner.

  In Wellington, people reacted to the young warriors with more aggression than fear. They spat on Eru and his friends and insulted them. As a result, the young men had to give up their plan of trying to earn some money there before making their way into the wilderness. Just one day after their arrival, they set off for Taranaki, avoiding the newly improved roads. They relished the adventure of it. Like their ancestors, they were finally living from only what they could hunt, fish, and gather. There were no more sheep farms, no luxuries like blankets and cooking pots, soap, or warm clothing. Kepa only had a bottle of whiskey that he’d bought in Blenheim. The three of them drank it around the campfire on their first evening, delighted to be all on their own. No parents, no rangatiras, no tohungas who wanted to share their wisdom.

  Kepa laughed and imitated Makuto, and Tamati imitated the chieftain. With his heart racing a little, Eru attempted Jane’s voice.

  “You are a chieftain’s son!” he quacked, reproducing her accent with uncanny accuracy.

  “And you will marry a sheep baroness!” Tamati added.

  “He’s more likely to marry a sheep,” Kepa said with a grin.

  All three of them collapsed in gales of laughter. They were dressed as warriors again, and proud of themselves for being able to traverse the woods without being noticed by the pakeha. In truth, they were just lucky. The area around Wellington had long since been “cleansed” of all Maori settlements. No one bothered to patrol the unsettled areas here.

  That didn’t change as they passed Porirua and Paraparaumu, always staying deep in the woods. The rimu trees, miro trees, and matai trees were often so close together that their tops blocked the view of Mount Taranaki. That made it difficult for the companions to find their way toward the snow-covered volcano.

  “Te Ropata called it a sacred mountain,” Kepa said, remembering the rangatira’s words. “He said its soul once lived on the South Island, together with Tongariro and Ruapehu and the other volcanoes. But then Tongariro and Taranaki fought over the goddess Pihanga, and Tongariro destroyed the peak of Taranaki. When he escaped, he made a crack in the North Island. That’s how the Whanganui River was formed.”

  “The peak is still missing!” Tamati exclaimed.

  Eru grinned. “That’s because it’s a volcano. That’s where the lava comes out when it erupts.” The young man spun around. “Did you see that? It looked like a dragon!”

  The friends gawked at lizards and gold-striped geckos. On the South Island, there were no reptiles. Eru managed to capture a tuatara, but released it after studying it carefully. No one wanted to try to eat the lizard with scaly, leathery skin and a spiky ridge on its back. They preferred to set traps for birds and roast them over their campfire.

  It wasn’t until the three companions reached the area of Otaki that they saw people again. Some haggard-looking Maori in pakeha clothes were digging for edible roots in the woods. Only one older warrior dared to speak to the strangers.

  “Stay away from the town,” he warned. “The missionaries report every Maori who’s seen in the area. They’re terrified of being attacked, even though there haven’t been any maraes here for a long time. The Te Ati Awa were resettled somewhere. Now there are only a few dispersed members of other tribes. They aren’t doing very well. Where are you planning to go?”

  “We are looking for Te Ua Haumene,” said Eru, daring for the first time to share what had brought them to Taranaki. He glanced at his friends. “Pai marire.”

  “Hau hau!” Kepa and Tamati replied enthusiastically. They were careful to keep their expressions serious, but their eyes betrayed their lust for adventure.

  The elder nodded solemnly. “The prophet is in Weraroa. That’s the large pa near Waitotara, to the north. It’s a few days’ journey from here. Be careful. If you make as much noise as you did last night, scouts will find you. We won’t give you away, but there are tribes that are enemies of the Ngati Taahinga and work for the pakeha. Good luck.”

  The companions stayed where they were for a while, their pride hurt. They had overestimated their stealthy progress through the forest.

  “Who are the Ngati Taahinga?” Kepa asked in a small voice after the old man was gone. Previously, none of them had wanted to admit their ignorance about the North Island.

  “They’re probably the tribe that owns the pa in Weraroa,” Eru said. “There are many tribes on the North Island. Many are enemies with each other. That’s why my father didn’t really want to send me to the school in Wellington. Most of the tribes there don’t like the Ngai Tahu.”

  “Then, would it be better not to tell anyone where we’re from?” Tamati asked uneasily.

  Eru shook his head. “Our accents would give us away. No, the easiest solution is just not to let ourselves be seen until we reach the pa. To the prophet, there are no tribes. He says we are all one people.”

  After that, the companions took to heart the lessons that Te Ropata had drilled into them. They moved silently, peered carefully down every path, and in that way arrived unharmed on the outskirts of Whanganui. The town was an important pakeha army base. Every offensive for the Taranaki War started there, and the three warriors were very proud when they managed to skirt around the settlement at a healthy distance. They felt safe again. The forest here was much too large for the pakeha to control all of.

  “They’ll never find the prophet,” Tamati said as he sat with his friends around the campfire, roasting a kiwi he’d hunted with his spear at twilight. “They’d have to bring thousands of settlers.”

  “And they’d have to be able to shoot very accurately!” Kepa said with a laugh. “No, this is Maori land, and it will stay that way. No matter what the governor says.”

  The next day, the trio encountered a patrol of Maori warriors, and were lucky that the tribe was sympathetic to Te Ua Haumene.

  “We aren’t fighting for him, but we won’t betray him either,” the elder told them, echoing the old man in Otaki. But he kept a stern eye fixed on his own young warriors, who seemed to be itching to joining in the adventure. “His gods are not our own, even though our goal might be the same. We would also like the pakeha to leave Aotearoa. But we’ve seen
what their muskets and cannons can do.”

  “Pai Marire will make us invulnerable,” Kepa replied.

  The elder shook his head. “Not even Maui could conquer death,” he said calmly.

  According to legend, the demigod had attempted to lead the goddess of death astray, but his friends betrayed him with their laughter. Despite feeling invincible, it was finally he who fell victim to death.

  “But Maui was no Hauhau,” Eru said thoughtfully.

  The elder didn’t reply. He just raised his eyebrows, making his moko dance. His entire face was tattooed like Eru’s, but an entire lifetime of wisdom was written beneath the designs. He had doubtlessly looked death in the eye more than once. The old warrior didn’t believe in invulnerability.

  The young men of his tribe had enough reverence not to follow Eru and his companions. But they did tell them how to get to the pa.

  “It’s in Waitotara, you can’t miss it,” they explained.

  The adventurers thanked them and continued northward.

  Two mornings later, tantalizingly close to their destination, the young men woke up to find their camp surrounded by grim-faced warriors.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” the leader asked sternly. He wore the garb of a warrior and carried the traditional weapons, but he also had a pistol in his belt.

  Eru’s head spun. They had spent so much time selecting their hidden camp and making it secure.

  “We, um, we are Hauhau warriors!” Kepa announced, and was met with howls of laughter.

  “He means that’s what we want to become,” Eru said, and cast his friend a reprimanding glance. “We are going to the pa at Weraroa to join the prophet’s troops.” He met his companions’ eyes. “Pai marire,” he chanted.

  “Hau hau!” the two answered obediently.

  The men laughed even louder.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” the leader said sarcastically.