Fires of Change (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  “Come on, Stan! Last week I paid for my beer,” Kahotu pleaded.

  Franz could now see the man’s face. He had the bloated, red-nosed look of a habitual drinker.

  “No, Harolds paid that tab after you translated the description of his miracle medicine,” the pubkeeper said accusingly. “His racketeering will provoke vengeance someday. In the pakeha villages, in any case, they certainly won’t trust him twice.”

  “Actually, the stuff isn’t so bad,” Kahotu said. “Maybe it won’t actually heal illnesses, but it makes you forget them for a while.”

  “And afterward, you have a headache on top of it all. Look at it this way, Kahotu: you’ll be saving yourself a headache tomorrow if you go do something else now instead of boozing it up.”

  Kahotu’s brow creased. Franz noticed that he wasn’t tattooed. He was wearing dirty denim trousers and a plaid shirt under a ragged leather jacket. His boots looked worn out, and Franz suspected he lived on the street.

  “I can’t think of anything else to do,” Kahotu murmured, and turned toward the next pub.

  Franz needed a few heartbeats to overcome his distaste, but then he followed the man and, for the first time in his life, entered a public house.

  “Mr. Kahotu?” Franz approached before the next pubkeeper could throw the man out. “May I—would you accept if I, uh, invited you for a drink?”

  The old tippler regarded him briefly and then grinned. “A delinquent reverend?” he asked with a glance at Franz’s collar. “Since when do the likes of you preach in pubs? Well, I don’t mind. I’d take a glass from the devil himself if it had whiskey in it. And God made the stuff, anyway—at least that’s what the Irish say. Whiskey means the water of life. Did you know that?” Kahotu edged closer to the bar.

  Franz hadn’t known it, and didn’t believe it either. He had to repress the impulse to cross himself. After all, he’d just managed to convince himself that the man had been sent to him from heaven. He couldn’t very well scold him immediately for blasphemy.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with, um, Mr. Stan,” he began, and then dismissed the pubkeeper when he attempted to place two glasses of whiskey on the bar in front of him. “Just water for me, please.”

  The pubkeeper shook his head. “The only water here is for horses. Outside in the trough. Doesn’t cost a thing. For men, there’s whiskey or beer.”

  “Both for me, Jim,” Kahotu said.

  Two tall glasses of beer joined the whiskey on the bar.

  “So?” Kahotu asked.

  “I thought I understood from your conversation that you might speak the Maori language. Is that right?”

  Kahotu looked around suspiciously, but couldn’t find a sign that forbade native drinkers.

  “Of course, Rev. My mama was Maori. You can see it.” He grinned. “I grew up in a marae, and then later in the mission. Reverend Williams was there then. He wanted to save us all. Didn’t really work, though, at least not with me. And it worked too well with the others—just look at that Haumene.”

  “So you’re an interpreter?” Franz asked eagerly.

  Kahotu shrugged. “If you want the Bible translated, it’s already been done. But you must know that. Or aren’t you a missionary? It looks like you’ve come too late. The mission here is closed, you know.” He laughed loudly at his own joke.

  “Mr. Kahotu, I’m from Mecklenburg, in Germany. Punctuality is part of our nature,” Franz retorted without humor. “As is reliability. I would greatly appreciate it if you would decide to work for me.”

  Kahotu knocked back his whiskey. “What can I do for you, then?” he asked with a grin.

  Franz explained the job. “If you agree, I can offer you accommodation in the orphanage. I would need you close by to interpret every day, and also to help with other tasks. The houses have to be repaired, and we have to cook and do laundry for the children. So far, it doesn’t look as though I’ll be able to find female help here. The people don’t want anything to do with the Maori children. I sincerely hope that you feel differently.”

  Kahotu rubbed his brow and then drained his beer glass. “I’m not afraid of the Hauhau, anyway,” he said, “and certainly not of such small ones. And I don’t care what the people in the town think. But I have some conditions, Reverend: I won’t pray with you, and I won’t become a teetotaler either. I want a bottle of whiskey every day.”

  “An entire bottle?” Franz exclaimed.

  “The stuff is cheap,” the pubkeeper interjected. “I’ll give you a quantity discount.”

  “But—but won’t you be permanently drunk, then?” Franz asked skeptically.

  Kahotu shook his head. “No, not until early evening. By then the little ones will already be in bed. And believe me, you’ll like me better when I’m drunk. I only get into a bad mood when I don’t get my water of life. So, deal?”

  Franz sighed and wondered if God would listen if he immediately said a prayer of penitence. “I don’t really have a choice,” he muttered.

  Kahotu slapped him on the shoulder. “You take things as they are, I like that. So, let’s drink to good teamwork!”

  “I don’t drink,” Franz said defensively.

  Kahotu grinned. “And I don’t pray. But still, you’ll be having me translate all kinds of prayers soon, won’t you? Let’s make a deal: you drink a whiskey, and I’ll say a prayer!” He raised the glass that the pubkeeper had just refilled.

  Franz reached reluctantly for his own. Perhaps this was the first step on the road to buying a soul for God.

  He managed a mouthful of whiskey and was surprised at the comfortable, warm feeling that spread through his stomach.

  “Very good, Reverend,” Kahotu said. “Then off we go to your pa. Or shall we go get the children right away? Do you want to preach to them today?”

  Franz had yet to figure out what he wanted to say to the children, so first he brought his new employee to the pa. Kahotu laughed at Franz’s worries that the children might run away.

  “The Maori never lock up their prisoners,” he said. “They can’t go back to their tribes, anyway. The fact that they allowed themselves to be caught causes them to lose mana. Their tribes would never accept them again.”

  “But these are children!” Franz said, scandalized. “Orphans.”

  Kahotu shook his head. “They certainly aren’t orphans. It’s much more likely that they were kidnapped, as retaliation or some such. We can ask the older ones. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a few princes and princesses under your wing.”

  Kahotu’s guess wasn’t far off the mark. The two oldest boys burst out with their stories as soon as someone asked in their language. Both were chieftains’ sons and belonged to tribes who were enemies. Their fathers had fought one another before the war with the pakeha had begun, and they had never been followers of Te Ua Haumene.

  “But then, why were their tribes punished?” Franz asked uncomprehendingly.

  Kahotu laughed bitterly. “Because the governor wanted their land, I’d wager. The little one, Paimarama”—he pointed to the youngest girl, who had shyly introduced herself to Franz as Pai—“is also a chieftain’s daughter, and in her tribe, she is considered to be so tapu that no one is allowed to touch her. That’s why she seems so neglected. Before those children can comb their own hair, no one will do it for them. That’s surely also the reason why none of the older girls will help the little thing in any way. Technically, she should be fed with a horn. If she touches food, it becomes tapu. That’s why Pai gets her food last.” Then Kahotu pointed to one of the chieftains’ sons. “Ahuru feels sorry about that, but he doesn’t want to break any tapu. The others certainly don’t either.”

  Franz shook his head in amazement. “Where are they all from?”

  Kahotu spoke to a few more children and introduced Franz to another boy, perhaps ten years old, and a girl of the same age.

  “Hani and Aku really are orphans,” he said. “Their parents were killed after they resi
sted the forced relocation of their villages. They are very scared. They believe they will be killed. As for the others, all their tribes had their children taken away as a punishment. The children from any given tribe were divided between separate homes and missionary stations so they wouldn’t band together. And of course, these kids all belong to different tribes who more or less hate one another. This is going to be difficult, Reverend.”

  Franz pressed his lips together, and then he turned to the children. “My name is Franz Lange—Reverend Lange. I have been sent here to—” He swallowed. It wouldn’t work this way. The children didn’t know what an orphanage was or maybe even what a school was, and they certainly didn’t want to become civilized. Franz started again. “I’m Reverend Lange. I come from Mecklenburg, far, far away over the sea. The ship that I came to Aotearoa with was called the Sankt Pauli. But that isn’t so important for us pakeha. Some of us came from England or Scotland or Ireland. But here, we are one tribe. And I was sent to you to also make you into one tribe.”

  The children protested when Kahotu translated. Ahuru definitely didn’t want to belong to the same tribe as Aika, one of the older boys. Two girls also voiced complaints. Franz heard the word tapu several times.

  “I understand that none of you want that,” Franz continued, “but it’s not going to work any other way. I’m told you can’t go back to your tribes. They might not take you in; you’ve lost your mana. But I will give you new mana! I will make you strong through the love of God. I bring you a new God. You don’t have to be scared anymore about breaking tapu.” Franz went demonstratively to little Pai and took her by the arm. “Here, you see? Nothing bad is happening—to the contrary, in fact. My God says, ‘Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”

  “Is that why you kidnapped us, so we could get you into heaven?” Aika asked, and Kahotu grinned as he translated his words.

  Franz sighed. “What happened to you was terrible,” he admitted. “But perhaps something good can come of it. If you now learn to live in peace with each other, that’s not only pleasing to God, but will also help your people. My God, too, wants all Maori to become one, just as the pakeha have all become one people on Aotearoa. God is saying: I want you all to be my people.”

  “Te Ua Haumene says that too,” Kahotu remarked. “Shall I really translate that?”

  “It’s written in the Bible,” Franz said helplessly. “Dear Lord, Kahotu, what else should I tell the children?”

  Kahotu shrugged. Then he turned back to the children. “Boys and girls, we could talk for a long time, and argue for even longer. But then you won’t have anything to eat, and I won’t have anything to drink. Instead, let’s start again from the beginning. The reverend and I are going to get a canoe. We will paddle upriver with it to our new marae. Then we can arrive there together and say that the canoe we came with was called . . .” Kahotu glanced at Franz. “What shall we name the little boat, Reverend? If possible, let’s not name it after the Virgin Mary.”

  Franz almost smiled. He cleared his throat and gave the first name that came to his mind. “Linda.”

  “Good. Nice name. Immaculate, one could say.” Kahotu grinned and turned back to the children, speaking Maori again. “So, you can say that you all arrived with the Linda at your own special part of Aotearoa. So, boys, which of you are able to row?”

  It took some time before Franz was able to find a rowboat large enough to carry twelve people. But then, Kahotu actually managed to convince all the children to get into it. The oldest boys, Ahuru and Aika, both came from mountain tribes. They only knew about canoes from their grandparents’ stories. They were so excited about the idea of rowing that they suddenly didn’t care anymore whose shadow fell on whom. Pai splashed cheerfully in the water and sprayed the others.

  “Now we just need a haka,” Kahotu said. “A song for the tribe.”

  Franz thought for a moment, and began to sing “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.” An American missionary who’d visited Opotiki had sung it with the children.

  By the time they had reached the pa, all the children knew the word “hallelujah.” They sang it contentedly as Kahotu helped them light a fire. Franz thought it was also a good start for the word of God, and the first thing he did was to erect a large cross, in front of which he built an altar.

  “Hallelujah!” the children cried as he stood in front of it to welcome them to the pa.

  Two hours later, they were all enjoying a feast of fish and sweet potatoes. Kahotu and the older boys had caught the fish, while the older girls had searched the old fields around the pa and had been able to dig some remaining kumara from the cold winter ground. Franz made sure that everyone got enough, and was pleased when one of the older girls sat down with little Pai.

  “Hallelujah!” she said enthusiastically when he praised her.

  All at once, the children seemed to be having fun breaking various tapus. Kahotu sat next to Franz by the fire and pleasurably poured the contents of a whiskey bottle down his throat.

  “And now you take a swallow,” he said to Franz. “After all, we have something to celebrate.”

  “What about the prayer?” Franz said sternly. “Are you going to say a prayer too?”

  Kahotu laughed. “I can translate ‘Michael, Row the Boat Ashore’ into Maori. But be careful. The children have their new war cry now, and Archangel Michael is already involved. And that, there,” he said, pointing to the cross in the middle of the camp, “is very much like a niu. If you start to get visions, I’m leaving!”

  Part 6

  TANE

  CHRISTCHURCH, NEW ZEALAND (THE SOUTH ISLAND)

  THE PATEA RIVER AND WAIKOUKOU, NEW ZEALAND (THE NORTH ISLAND)

  1865–1866

  Chapter 51

  Linda had once enjoyed Christchurch, but now she got to know the city’s darker side. Fitz had no money for a hotel or guesthouse, so they continued to sleep in their covered wagon. Linda froze half to death. Even in the plains, the winter had been too cold for such a primitive shelter. What was more, no one wanted the Fitzpatricks anywhere near their farms or houses. They looked ragged and desperate after their journey of many weeks. No one liked traveling folk. Linda was horrified the first time they were scorned as drifters, albeit after Fitz had been caught stealing a chicken. He had barely been able to get away from the angry farmer.

  The only place in Christchurch where they were tolerated was near a slaughterhouse on the edge of town. Slaughterhouse Road led down to the Avon, and they set up the covered wagon near the river, somewhat hidden by a small grove of trees.

  “It’s nice here,” Fitz had said when they arrived. But the trees just barely blocked the view of the slaughterhouse, and the animals’ terrified bleating and the stench of blood and butchery made its way through to them unhindered. It followed Linda into her dreams.

  The area also offered refuge for other unwanted people from the city. Whores sold themselves on the street corners between the city center and the slaughterhouse. Tricksters and beggars who went about their business in the city during the day rolled up in blankets in the shadows by the buildings. No one chased them away. The butchers and the other workers went home immediately after their shifts. Stillness ruled, apart from Amy’s tragic whining. The dog seemed to be in permanent mourning for the animals that lost their lives there. Of course the grove of trees didn’t protect Linda’s camp from the cold, rain, or wind. Linda was constantly chilled, and after a few days, she would even have preferred Arthur’s Pass to where she was now. In the mountains at least, the air had been dry, and it certainly hadn’t smelled bad. But the path over the Southern Alps was impassable. Given the current weather, attempting it was tantamount to suicide. They wouldn’t even find the road under the snowdrifts, let alone be able to guide the wagon along it.

  Fitz escaped from the depressing conditions to the pubs as often as possible. The only way for him to get money now, he insisted, was gambling. Now i
n winter there were hardly any possibilities for work on farms or with craftsmen. When Linda complained, he comforted her with the promise that he’d use the money he won for their crossing to the North Island.

  “We can try our luck in Wellington. We can also survive the winter there,” he insisted.

  Linda tried not to think about what kinds of risks Fitz was taking at the poker table. The crossing wasn’t cheap, especially not if they had to start from Lyttelton. The shortest way was via Blenheim, almost two hundred miles away. They would have to take the coast road and then a ship to the North Island. And Linda wasn’t at all sure she even wanted to go to Wellington. It would hardly get her closer to the longed-for reunion with her family—she’d still need to traverse the whole island from south to north, and traveling through Taranaki and Waikato was still quite dangerous. She would have preferred to book a ship all the way to Northland, but Linda couldn’t lie to herself: the fare for two people, a covered wagon, a horse, and a dog would be a small fortune.

  The young woman tried desperately, against all odds, to remain optimistic, even if it was constantly becoming more difficult. She could barely manage to keep her disappointment and anger hidden from Fitz anymore. While he was off gambling, she lay awake half the night with Amy in her arms, trembling with cold and fear. The creature always barked when she sensed something was amiss, and Linda knew that none of the dark figures would be deterred by a little sheepdog. So, she hysterically held Amy’s mouth shut with one hand and kept her knife ready in the other. If someone attacked, she would use the moment of surprise and defend herself.

  Fortunately, there seemed to be a kind of honor among thieves, now that the Fitzpatricks had been accepted as such. Fitz saw no reason to stay away from them. To the contrary, he had excellent relationships with the neighbors. He couldn’t understand Linda’s fears. When he came home in the middle of the night and cheerfully waved five shillings that he’d won, after having spent at least ten on whiskey, Linda’s relief was often mixed with accusations. For his part, Fitz complained because she insisted on keeping Brianna in a cheap livery stable. In his mind, it was a waste of money. Linda argued that the valuable horse would be stolen immediately in the slaughterhouse district.