Fires of Change (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  “Have you ever heard of the missionary station at Waikanae?” the bishop asked.

  Franz’s hopes fell. “Samuel Williams worked there,” he said. Williams had been one of the first and best-known representatives of the Church Missionary Society. “But aren’t they planning to give it up?”

  The bishop nodded. “That’s right. It’s not worthwhile anymore since the Te Ati Awa tribe moved away. They had land in Taranaki that the governor wanted to give to English settlers. In order to prevent it, the chieftain moved there.”

  “And there was a flu epidemic, wasn’t there?” Franz shivered at the memory of the typhoid epidemic in Opotiki. “Many of the Maori died.”

  The bishop waved this away in irritation. After all, it seemed clear that illnesses such as influenza, typhoid, and measles had been brought to New Zealand by the pakeha, and perhaps by the missionaries themselves.

  “Do you want to reopen the mission?” Franz asked quickly to change the subject. “Are people there again?”

  The bishop shook his head. “No, the Maori are gone. But their houses are still there. And the governor has nothing against us using them.”

  “As mission buildings?” Franz asked.

  “Not exactly.” The bishop toyed with his quill and inkpot. “There’s an old Maori pa, ten miles to the southwest of Otaki. It would be ideal for our purposes, and well fenced.”

  “A prison?” Franz inquired, horrified.

  The bishop laughed. “No, of course not. An orphanage. You, Reverend Lange, will manage it. As a result of the war and land disputes in the past few years, we are finding more and more Maori children. Orphans and abandoned children, dispersed over the entire area.”

  “But surely they wouldn’t abandon their children!” Franz objected.

  The bishop shrugged. “Let us say that in the process of war trials, children are often separated from their parents. Forcibly. Someone has to take care of them, and the settlers’ interest in adopting Maori children has declined. They’re all afraid they’ll be raising a little Hauhau warrior. So, we need a place for them to go. Otaki is in the right place. It’s part of the Kapiti Coast District, which was never fought over, but close enough to Taranaki and Waikato to be able to bring the children there without great effort. So far there are about ten orphans in Otaki, being taken care of by local clergy. They are completely out of their depth. So, go on your way as quickly as possible, Reverend Lange. Have a look at the pa—”

  “Is it really deserted?” Franz asked. “I don’t have to worry about a regiment of crazy Hauhau warriors attacking and trying to take it back, do I?”

  The bishop shrugged again. “One has to worry about the Hauhau attacking all over the North Island,” he said impatiently. “Times are hard. It never used to be a problem. Someone should have smoked out that false prophet much sooner. But the Te Ati Awa, who built the fort, left of their own free will. There’s nothing to be taken back. What’s more, the mission land was a gift from that chieftain—what was his name? Te Rauparaha. As far as that is concerned—”

  “The chieftain gave us the land that his fort was built on?” Franz inquired skeptically.

  The bishop pursed his lips. “We see it that way, and the governor supports us. Don’t be so fainthearted, Lange. Go there, make the pa habitable for the children, and recruit more personnel in the area. You will be given a small stipend. I will also send one or two missionaries to help you as soon as I can. But at first, you’ll have to make do on your own. Will you be able to manage?”

  It wasn’t really a question, and Franz suppressed a sigh.

  “With the help of God, I will manage,” he said, resigned to his fate.

  The bishop nodded, cast a glance at the crucifix on the wall, and folded his hands. “Let us pray together for his assistance. And also for Reverend Voelkner’s soul. He was taken from us so cruelly while serving the Lord. Lord, have mercy upon us.”

  Franz tried to join him in prayer, but in his mind, there was nothing but an echo of the Hauhau warriors’ cries of mai merire. They, too, had pleaded for mercy.

  A few days later, Franz was on his way to Otaki. In order to avoid the still-turbulent inland areas of the North Island, he first took a ship to Wellington and continued with a military convoy. The road from Wellington to Waikato was well maintained. Franz felt safe during the journey, and he didn’t feel threatened in Okati either. He hardly saw any Maori at all. Apparently, only a few elderly people had stayed there when their tribe had relocated. There were white settlers for the most part, who kept farms in the area or had small shops in the town. The central point of the settlement was Rangiatea Church. It had been built at the initiative of Te Rauparaha, and its architecture united the building styles of the Maori and the settlers. Franz went there briefly to pray and then to the parsonage to meet Reverend Bates. Here, he expected to get a look at his future charges. After all, the bishop had told him that the reverend and his wife had taken in some of the children for the time being. So Franz steeled himself for the sight of potentially hostile Maori adolescents. But the door was opened for him by a strawberry-blonde girl wearing a tidy house dress with an apron and bonnet.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Her eyes were blue, and there were freckles sprinkled across her small nose. She was clearly English. On one hand, Franz felt more relaxed, and on the other, he was confused. The house seemed terribly quiet. He wondered if there were really children staying there.

  The girl frowned when Franz told her his business. “I’ll tell my father right away,” she said kindly. “Or my mother. I think my father has gone out.”

  A few moments later, Franz was sitting in an orderly drawing room drinking weak tea with a gaunt, stern-looking reverend’s wife. Louisa Bates didn’t have much in common with her pretty daughter. She herself had brown hair and dark eagle eyes. She reminded Franz of his father, somehow.

  “The children are so stubborn,” she was saying. Since Franz had explained about his new assignment, she had been giving voice to the exasperation that she and her husband experienced daily with the Maori children. “They refuse to eat, refuse to talk, and are dirty. They relieve themselves wherever they happen to see fit. The entire barn stinks—”

  “You’re keeping children in a barn?” Franz asked. It was the middle of winter. A cheerful fire was burning in the Bates’ hearth.

  “Yes, do you expect us to bring them into the house?” Mrs. Bates retorted. “You will see them soon, Reverend. They’re little savages. Completely uncivilized.”

  Franz rubbed his temples. “Isn’t that precisely our job, to civilize these children?”

  Mrs. Bates glared at him as if he were out of his mind. “If it’s anyone’s job, it’s yours! We want nothing to do with them. Of course we’ve done our Christian duty and have offered them shelter. But now that you’re here—take them with you, Reverend, and civilize them. Leave first thing tomorrow morning, if possible.”

  Franz was taken aback, and felt sorry for the children. He would have wished for a kinder foster mother for children who’d been separated from their tribes and were being confronted with new customs and a new language.

  “I don’t know if I will be able to make the pa habitable by tomorrow,” he said cautiously. “But I would like to meet the children. Today, if I can. Is that possible?”

  Mrs. Bates glanced at a finely crafted grandfather clock that must have been imported from England. “Actually, we won’t be able to avoid it,” she said. “In half an hour, my husband will hold the evening sermon, and we always require the children to attend. As well as our houseguests. You will be staying the night, I assume, Reverend? And after that, I will bring the children their dinner. Come with me if you want, and you’ll see right away what I’ve had to deal with.”

  Franz wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the Bateses’ hospitality. Just the thought that he couldn’t attend the evening sermon of his own volition, but instead was expected to do so, spoiled the joy of it for him.
On the other hand, he had no money for a guesthouse, and there didn’t seem to be one in Otaki anyway. It was already too late to go to the pa that evening and tidy up a few rooms.

  Franz thanked her for the invitation and moved into an austere guest room in the back of the house. It was possible to see the barn from there. It had no windows, and the doors were closed. How could they keep children in there? He considered going over directly and perhaps even renouncing the comforts of the house to spend the night with his future charges. Surely at least some of the children were afraid of the dark. But then he decided to get a closer look at them first. For all the pity and kindness he felt, these were Maori children. Since Voelkner’s murder, the mere idea of Maori filled him with fear.

  Instead, Franz preferred to use the short time before the evening sermon to wash his face and hands and comb his hair. He hoped to make a good impression on Reverend Bates.

  The pastor turned out to be a ginger-haired, round-faced little man. He was quite different from his gaunt wife, but just as strict in his beliefs and spoke of the children in terms just as derogatory.

  “I never saw anything like it with the Te Ati Awa,” he declared after he’d welcomed Franz. “Actually, they were quite pleasant. They’d been Christianized for twenty years; that makes a difference. These children, on the other hand . . . We’ve heard that the tribes deep in the woods, unreached by missionaries, are cannibals. I never used to believe it. But now, well, you’ll see for yourself.”

  The pastor put on his robe and strode purposefully toward the church with Franz. It was mostly empty. Only a few, mostly older, people came to an evening sermon during the week. There were many seats left on the front pews, but when Mrs. Bates led in the ten Maori children, she directed them to take seats in the back. The four boys sat to the right, and the six girls to the left. The children immediately began to squabble. Apparently, one of them didn’t want to sit next to another. Two girls were arguing in Maori, and two of the boys seemed to be close to hitting each other. During Franz’s time in Opotiki, they’d had to keep the children from giggling and chatting during the sermon, not keep them from brawling.

  What was more, the children’s appearance had nothing in common with that of the missionary-school students in Opotiki or Tuahiwi. The boys and girls—whose ages Franz guessed to be between five and twelve—wore pakeha clothing, but most of it didn’t fit them. The youngest girl, a tiny thing with matted black hair and terrified eyes, wore nothing but a skirt. Her upper body was bare. Franz was shocked. The child must be freezing, and what was more, the attire was absolutely inappropriate for a visit to church. Franz couldn’t stop himself. He left his seat in the third pew, took off his jacket as he walked to the back, and wrapped it around the little girl’s shoulders. An older girl immediately tried to take it away, but Franz stopped her.

  “No! This for her. She cold,” he said in broken Maori.

  The children regarded him curiously.

  “Ingoa?” He asked the little girl what her name was, hoping she would understand.

  “Pai,” the girl whispered.

  Franz smiled at her. “Kia ora, Pai,” he said kindly, and then turned to the other children and introduced himself. “My ingoa is Reverend Franz Lange. I will come and talk to you afterward. Now, let’s all listen to the sermon.”

  The children’s faces were blank. Mrs. Bates was right; they didn’t understand a word of English. Accordingly, they had no interest in the sermon. But now that Franz was sitting with them, they didn’t dare to keep quarreling. They limited themselves to casting surly glances at their neighbors. Franz observed the children discreetly. They were very dirty, and smelled unwashed. But Franz didn’t find that reprehensible the way Mrs. Bates obviously did. Many were simply too small to take care of themselves. There didn’t seem to be any siblings among them either.

  After the sermon, Mrs. Bates herded the children back into the barn like sheep. “Your dinner is coming soon,” she called as she closed the door behind them. “Din-din! And you, come with me.” The words that she directed at Franz sounded no less severe. “You can help me carry the pot. Usually I have to ask my daughter to do it, but I don’t like to expose her to the savages.”

  Franz followed her into the kitchen. The stew for the children had obviously been simmering for hours.

  “May I try it?” he asked.

  Mrs. Bates shrugged and handed him a spoon. The thin broth of vegetables and very little meat tasted bland.

  “Spices are expensive,” the pastor’s wife said in reply to his unspoken question. “Besides, they wouldn’t appreciate them anyway. Their table manners . . . Well, you’ll see in a moment.”

  Franz helped her carry the pot into the barn, and was horrified at what he saw. The children had built forts out of the bales of straw to protect themselves from each other. They seemed to be living in the spaces by themselves or in pairs. Only after Mrs. Bates had placed the stew pot on the one table in the room did the group hesitantly come closer.

  “Make a proper line!” Mrs. Bates ordered, her voice loud.

  She obviously thought she could compensate for their lack of English with volume. The children seemed to know what she wanted, but still tried to shove their way in front of one another as they waited. During the distribution of the food itself, survival of the fittest seemed to be the rule. Mrs. Bates was careful to give every child a bowl of soup and a piece of bread, but little Pai had hers taken away by an older child before she could slip into her hiding place to eat it. All of the children ate as quickly as possible in order to keep their portions safe, which, of course, made them sloppy.

  “Now do you see?” Mrs. Bates asked Franz. “No culture, no manners.”

  She gave second helpings to anyone who stood in line until the pot was empty, so the children were forced to rush with their food if they wanted more. Little Pai and the other young children had no chance. It was no wonder that they were so thin.

  “Well, do you want to get to know them or not?” Mrs. Bates asked impatiently.

  Franz regarded the children thoughtfully. He’d already given up on his original intention of gathering them all in a circle and at least getting their names and a greeting out of them.

  Now he had another idea. “You,” he said to one of the older boys in Maori. “What called your iwi?”

  The boy, who must have been around twelve years old, answered immediately. “Ngati Tamakopiri.” He then let out a tirade, and pointed to a couple of other boys. “Ngati Toa!”

  Franz pressed his lips together. His suspicion had been confirmed. “Mrs. Bates, the way it looks, someone has put children from enemy tribes together in one group,” he said. “The little ones likely don’t understand that well, but the older ones know where they came from and how bitterly their fathers fought against each other. We desperately need someone who speaks Maori well. Is it possible to find an interpreter here?”

  Mrs. Bates snorted. “There are countless Maori in town. But none of them want to help here.”

  Franz sighed. Most likely, the local Te Ati Awa were also enemies with these children’s tribes.

  “I will try to take care of it tomorrow,” he said unhappily. “And I will have a look at the pa. The children have to get out of this barn as quickly as possible. If they continue to be locked in here together, someone may get hurt.”

  Chapter 50

  The next day, Franz went to see the old fort. The palisade fence was still intact enough to keep the children from getting away. Until the previous day, he would have objected to making an orphanage escape-proof. Now he worried that the older ones might try to make their way back to their tribes. And Franz didn’t want to imagine what could happen if they had to travel through enemy land, alone and terrified. It was better to force them to stay at first.

  The arrangement of houses in the pa reminded Franz of the mission at Opotiki. Only a central church was missing. The quarters were much less unfriendly than barracks. The houses were still habitable for the m
ost part, and only a few improvements would be necessary. Franz could easily manage it by himself with the help of the older boys, as long as he found a way to communicate with them. Language was clearly the biggest problem, and Franz had already attempted to find an interpreter that morning. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bates had been right. His first inquiries to the Maori members of the pastor’s congregation after the morning sermon had met with negative responses. No one in the town wanted to translate for Franz. That had partly to do with hostility between the tribes, but also because the various Christian missionaries had put so much emphasis on English. Most of the older and needier of the Maori who were still there simply didn’t dare to acknowledge their language.

  “They’re Hauhau children!” one Maori woman told Franz. “We don’t want to have anything to do with them. They’ll kill a missionary or something, and we’ll be blamed.”

  The story of the fate of the Te Whakatohea had obviously gotten around.

  Feeling discouraged, Franz continued until he was distracted by one of the three pubs that Otaki had to offer. Of course Franz normally preferred to make a wide berth around such establishments. Recently he may have been doubting the foundations of his faith, but alcohol had always been described to him as the greatest temptation of the devil. So far, he had never taken a sip of it, and to him, a pub was the doorway to damnation. But he simply couldn’t walk past this one. An argument was unfolding between the pubkeeper of the Blue Horse and an unwanted guest.

  “Get out of here, Kahotu. I don’t have any whiskey for you! Here, can’t you read?” The short, spry Irishman pointed to a sign next to the establishment’s entrance that read “No Alcohol Served to Maori.”

  “I’m not Maori,” the stocky, dark-skinned man said. “Could be that I have a drop of Maori blood from my mama—”

  “That drop is oozing out of every pore,” the pubkeeper said. “But even if you were pure English, you wouldn’t get anything here. Because you never pay for it!”