by Sarah Lark
“I’m afraid under these circumstances, you’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Hobbs. I need to see what’s going on. If someone is digging, I would like to know who and why.”
“Sooner or later they have to find something.” Randolph Burton turned, annoyed, and spoke to his foreman.
“We’re not all that far,” Jim Paisley assured him, “but soon we’ll have to support the tunnels. I’m not concerned myself”—Paisley looked at the roof of the roughly thirty-foot-wide passage carved into the mountain—“but others say the thing could collapse.”
Randolph Burton instinctively ducked and looked with concern at the four people with pickaxes and shovels straining to dig the tunnel deeper into the mountainside. Here he had just been happy to have escaped the rain, which seemed to fall more heavily from one moment to the next. But what if it was not safe here? Until then, he had never spared a thought to the possibility his tunnel could collapse.
“You’ll need to order wood, Mr. Burton. I could do it for you if you gave me the money. And while we’re on the subject of money, the pay, well, I’m not so greedy myself, but the others . . .”
Randolph Burton eyed the passage’s walls grumpily. Perhaps this Paisley had missed some coal seam. Randolph was proud of his freshly acquired knowledge of mining. Even before his great-uncle’s death, he had sought the company of foremen in pubs and even sounded the mine owners themselves for information. After all, they met at social functions—at least, they had always invited Randolph while his great-uncle was still alive. Randolph had tried to convince his uncle James to make a foray into coal mining. It must, after all, have been laughably easy. Supposedly the South Wales Coalfield was the largest in all Britannia.
“There’s coal everywhere here,” Randolph had pressured his great-uncle. “We only need to dig it out and get rich.”
James, however, had only laughed at that. “It’s not just lying in the road, boy, but often very deep beneath it. I’m not about to turn my land into a coal pile—if that’s what you all do after my death, I can’t change it. But just look at the river, the hills, the forest. It’s all beautiful, Randolph. I treasure it. And I’d like to die with just this view out my window and with the birds’ song in my ear. Not with a fat balance sheet in hand.”
It cost a pile of money to dig a level like this into the mountain, but one could afford it easily with the Burton inheritance. Randolph only hoped to mine the first wagon of coal before his uncle Peter caught on. Then everything would look different. Surely the reverend would no longer want to sell and instead would leave management of the Burton mine to him, Randolph Burton. That sounded marvelous: the Burton mine! The thought alone raised Randolph’s spirits. He would live here like the Webbers and the Hobbs—or acquire an estate near Cardiff like the Marquis of Bute. He could send the reverend some money every month. For the poor in New Zealand or wherever else. After all, his uncle was always droning on about how he would use the proceeds from his inheritance for charitable ends.
If only so much investment did not lie in front of these wonderful dreams. Tools, pay, now wood. Randolph was getting in over his head, particularly since Peter and his family took possession of the house before he had been able to sell the furniture and valuables to further his ambitious mining project.
“But you’re sure there’s coal in this mountain?” Randolph asked Paisley once again.
Perhaps his father could be convinced to provide an advance on his inheritance. After all, that man ought to have a guilty conscience. He had just informed him in a letter that Alice was expecting a baby.
Jim Paisley nodded. “There’s coal everywhere here.”
Outside, the rain was whooshing down with such intensity that the men could not hear the hoofbeats of Peter’s horse. Only when the pastor entered in a soaking-wet coat, water dripping from his hat’s brim, did Randolph and Jim look to the tunnel entrance. Peter had heard Paisley’s last words.
“You’re right, Mr. Paisley,” he said. “It doesn’t surprise me to see you here. Your daughter told me of your new foreman position. She mentioned besides that your employer couldn’t be the brightest.”
Paisley needed a few moments to grasp this remark. Then he grimaced. “I’ll beat the hussy black and blue.”
Peter shook his head. “That’s not going to conjure the coal from below, Mr. Paisley. That’s where it lies, or at least where it would if it existed. It’s not up here in the mountainside, Randolph. Who gave you this ridiculous idea of a level? You’re making yourself a laughingstock. And me along with you; it is my land, after all, in case that’s still not clear to you. How are you paying for this digging? You’ve”—Peter counted quickly—“hired five men. Or wait, are those women, Randolph?”
Peter looked horrified at the rather delicate forms just then shoveling away the rubble that Fred Paisley’s pickax had left behind.
Randolph shrugged. “Women are cheaper,” he explained. “They’re often employed in levels. While in the mines—”
“Women bring bad luck belowground,” Jim Paisley affirmed.
Peter Burton rolled his eyes. “Girls, you can stop with the shoveling now. And you, too, Fred Paisley. What you’re doing is dangerous on top of everything. This could collapse, especially now in this rain. Dear God, Randolph, this isn’t rock and coal; these hills are nothing but earth.” He turned to the workers. “Naturally, you’ll get your pay.”
“All of it?” asked one of the women. “Including from last week and the week before?”
Peter rubbed his forehead as Randolph glared at the woman. “Our agreement was quite clear that you would be paid when we found coal, Mrs. Carlson.”
“We need the money,” another said.
Peter breathed in deeply. “You’ll receive your payment, madam. Don’t worry. The same does not apply to you, however, Paisley. According to what your daughter Violet tells me, you’ve been working in Treherbert for more than ten years. You should know how deep underground the coal is buried here. So, if you get into nonsense like this, you need to face the consequences.”
Paisley did not seem to have done much work, anyway. Peter noted that the foreman was the only one not covered in dirt but was instead clean and well dressed.
Paisley and Randolph both started to reply, but Peter bade them be silent with a gesture. “We’ll speak later, Randolph, before your departure for Cardiff. You’ll be on the next train. And you, Paisley, take Fred home—or better, to Mr. Webber. Tell him he’ll receive a small discount on this land if he hires you and your son. And then try and keep that job for your wife and daughters’ sake. My good women, please come by the Burton house tomorrow. I don’t have any money on me now, you understand. Early tomorrow, I’ll arrange everything with the bank. You can help my wife in the garden for the rest of the week, so you won’t lose any of this week’s pay.”
The four women departed, grateful. Resigned, Peter looked out into the pouring rain. “Hopefully your father will pay me back the money,” he said in Randolph’s direction. “And now, everyone out before the entrance collapses.”
Peter led his horse out into the rain now falling in a deluge. He longed for a cup of tea or a whiskey. And for Kathleen’s face, her smile, and understanding. Had Randolph loved Alice Clusky just so? Did his crazy ideas perhaps only aim at winning the young woman for himself, after all? Peter sighed and watched the women go. No warm fire, no tea, no whiskey, and no comfort awaited them. Instead, there would be housework, children, and men unashamed to send their wives and daughters into the mines.
Chapter 7
At first, Kahu Heke wasn’t definitive about what his daughter could do to save the Maori people. This was partly because their privacy was interrupted by a young warrior who had been cooking on the edge of the clearing. He approached them shyly, a strange device in his hand.
“Ariki, the food is prepared,” he said reverently. “First for you. For daughter is cooking on fire.”
Matariki was amazed by the difficulty the warrior had exp
ressing himself. This wasn’t a new dialect, but it sounded as if the young Maori had only recently learned the language of his people. However, she forgot all about linguistic issues the moment Kahu Heke sat down by the fire. The young warrior was careful not to cross his shadow when he stepped beside him and put the strange device to his lips. It looked like a sort of horn with an opening at each end. The warrior shoveled food into the opening at the top, and it ran through the smaller hole into Kahu Heke’s mouth.
“I cannot touch the food; it’s tapu,” the chieftain explained. “If I were to use bowls and spoons like the others, that would require an elaborate cleansing ceremony that would be cumbersome and a mockery of the gods. Hence, the feeding horn. You get used to it, Matariki.”
Matariki grabbed her forehead, but she was careful not to touch her hair so she didn’t have to embarrass herself by breathing in Rauru afterward.
“He’s not going to feed me,” she said curtly with an eye on the young warrior.
He was quite handsome. He had only a small tattoo near his nose, which made him look more amusing than dangerous. Matariki thought it emphasized his dimples. The young man had an oval face, short dark hair that he seemed to be growing out so he could tie it into a warrior knot, friendly brown eyes, and a beautiful, full mouth. Matariki would have pictured him more as a poet than a warrior. To become a warrior, he would have to practice filling people with fear.
In fact, he seemed to be fearful himself. He looked shocked by her decisive words.
“I made mistake?”
Kahu Heke shook his head. “Everything is all right, Kupe,” he soothed the boy—in English. The warrior relaxed.
“He doesn’t need to feed you, Matariki.” The chieftain switched back to Maori. “For the children of the ariki, the tapu are not as strict. Your food must be cooked separately, but you’re spared the feeding horn. So, calm yourself. Are you hungry? Your food will be done soon.”
Now it was clear why her abductors had avoided her the whole journey. Apparently, no one could come within three feet of a North Island ariki’s family without bumping into tapu.
As for the cleansing of Matariki’s traveling companions, there seemed to be a problem, which was presented to the chieftain by an agitated messenger. “Hanu and Kahori have begun the cleansing ceremony. We lit a holy fire and cooked food. Then we rubbed it on the hands of the sullied like you said. But who’s supposed to eat it now? I mean . . .”
Kahu Heke bit his lip.
“You said,” the warrior recapitulated, “the highest-ranking woman in the tribe must eat that food. But there are no women here. Only . . .” He cast a shy look at Matariki.
“I am most definitely not eating anything those two had between their fingers,” she said. “Besides, I would have to touch what the men have already touched, and I cannot.”
“She’s right. That cannot be,” the chieftain said seriously. “Send them here. I will free them from the curse by spreading my cloak over them.”
The warrior’s eyes widened. “That is a most gracious, ariki,” he said.
Kahu Heke shrugged. “Hanu and Kahori have performed for their people a great service,” he said, and turned to go.
Matariki bit her lip as he disappeared into his lodge. She had thought he would keep her company while she ate and reveal a bit more of the mission for which she had been brought here. Yet it was probably tapu for a chieftain to watch his daughter eat. Once again Matariki did not know if she should laugh or be outraged.
The young man, Kupe, approached her shyly and spoke in Maori. “You eat now. I cooked bird. But you take yourself, otherwise tapu.”
Matariki stood up with a sigh. She understood: she would not be served. Hopefully he was a good cook—although “cooked bird” did not sound promising, and the stew, which had sweet potatoes swimming in it, did not look very appetizing. Matariki made a face of disgust.
Kupe noticed her reluctance. “It’s kiwi,” he said. “Roasted tastes good. Cooking like this is better. Evil spirits don’t like.”
Matariki rolled her eyes. “You really think the spirits could gobble up this stuff if you made it a little tasty? You are wrong.”
The young man blushed. “Can you maybe say again? I not have understood.”
“It’s nothing,” Matariki murmured, a bit embarrassed. Her parents had raised her to respect the religion of the Ngai Tahu in the same way the tribe respected Lizzie’s Christianity. “But why don’t you understand Maori? Are you from a different tribe? The warriors here are of different tribes, right?”
Kupe shook his head, and it seemed he didn’t understand much of what she said. Maybe Matariki’s South Island dialect was hard for him. But then she had a flash of insight. Kupe differed in every respect from the others. Hardly any tattoos, his short hair . . .
“You speak English, right?” she asked.
He nodded, beaming. “Oh yeah, yes. But,” he said, slipping back into Maori, “I should speak not that. Is language of enemy. I must our language learn.”
Matariki sighed again. “Tell you what, you’ll learn tomorrow. We’ll make a trade, all right, Kupe? I won’t tell anyone we spoke English, and in exchange, you’ll keep me company while I eat.”
“It’s tapu,” he said, but didn’t look worried.
Hanu and Kahori had always shown fear when Matariki came too close to them. Kupe, however, only seemed to fear breaking protocol and falling out of the chief’s good graces.
Matariki grinned at him. “Afterward I can spread my cloak over you,” she offered. “Or my blanket. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my jacket on me when your charming tribal brothers took me captive. But I’ll make do.”
Kupe now smiled too. In English he said, “I think when it comes to tapu, you sometimes have to improvise a bit.”
Matariki sighed with relief. Finally, here was someone with whom she could talk. And not just because they spoke the same language.
“Where do you come from?” she asked as she ate the kiwi soup. The Ngai Tahu cooked better. “You are Maori, right?”
Neither Kupe’s facial features nor his body type indicated a mix of pakeha and Maori.
The young Maori nodded. “I’m from Poverty Bay,” he said. Matariki noticed he used the English name for the bay. Her father would surely have chided him for that. “From Gisborne; I was in an orphanage there.”
Matariki looked up at him, confused. In the meantime, Kupe had taken a seat beside her but now scooted a bit to the side in order not to risk her shadow falling on him. He did not look at her either, but he no doubt noticed that she found his story strange. Maori children generally did not land in an orphanage. Even if their parents died, the children were lovingly cared for by their respective tribe.
“All the children of my tribe grew up in the orphanage. In 1865 there was a typhus outbreak in Opotiki, and many tribe members died there. Te Ua Haumene determined they needed to be avenged. He dispatched warriors who killed a missionary.”
Matariki had heard this story. She wondered if her new friend knew that her father had to answer for the murder of Carl Völkner.
“After that, they wanted to drive out all the pakeha from Poverty Bay,” Kupe said.
“Which they did not appreciate.” Matariki knew that too.
Kupe looked at the ground. “The whites beat the Hauhau back. And then they came to our village. We had nothing at all to do with it. We didn’t know anything about the Hauhau. But they did not want to hear it. They killed the chieftain and pushed out the tribe, confiscating its children.” Kupe spoke dispassionately, as if he had recounted the tale often, but then his rage surfaced. “We were to be raised as respectable Christians.” He spat out the words.
“They put the whole village’s children in an orphanage?” Matariki asked, horrified.
Kupe nodded. “I can’t remember our old village at all anymore. I was very little. But the older children told us about it. Before they separated us. We went to various homes, so that we no longer spoke Maori
with one another. We little ones quickly forgot the language. That’s why I have to learn it again.”
Matariki would have liked to lay her hand on her new friend’s arm to comfort him, but he would pull away from her: tapu. Matariki played nervously with the jade pendant she wore around her neck, a hei-tiki, a Maori god in miniature. Haikina had given it to her for her last birthday.
“It was terrible,” Kupe said, continuing his story. “In the orphanage, they beat us all the time. We were always told the Maori weren’t good for anything. If someone spoke even a word of Maori, they would lock him up for a day, even though we had long since started acting like pakeha children. I could not even remember my tribe, and I wasn’t stupid or lazy. I always had good grades. I might have gone to university. There were scholarships for theology. But then I heard about the Hauhau in King Country.” That was the pakeha name for Waikato and its surrounding districts. “To the missionaries, it sounded like the devil resided here, but for me it was a chance. Ultimately, I fled. And I did find it: my tribe.” He sounded proud.
Matariki could understand Kupe’s joy, but she also thought the whites surely were not the only ones to blame for Kupe’s bad childhood. Without the Hauhau’s provocations, the pakeha would never have thought to attack Kupe’s village.
“I also have a new name,” the young warrior announced enthusiastically. “Kupe—a hero’s name. Kupe was the first settler on Aotearoa.”
Matariki knew the legend; however, the story of Kupe and his family’s settling of New Zealand could be seen multiple ways: no doubt it had been brave of him to leave Hawaiki and steer his canoe into the unknown. Yet there was not much left for him to do but flee. Kupe had murdered a tribe member and stolen his wife. Then later, he left Kura-maro-tini and their children to seek new adventures. Matariki’s stepfather, Michael, might have called Kupe a hero, but her mother spoke with disdain of fortune hunters. Though, it was better not to tell her new friend all that. Kupe looked happy when he spoke of his life among the Hauhau.