Flight of a Maori Goddess
Page 1
ALSO BY SARAH LARK
In the Land of the Long White Cloud Saga
In the Land of the Long White Cloud
Song of the Spirits
Call of the Kiwi
The Caribbean Islands Saga
Island of a Thousand Springs
Island of the Red Mangroves
The Sea of Freedom Trilogy
Toward the Sea of Freedom
Beneath the Kauri Tree
Other Titles
A Hope at the End of the World
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2012 by Sarah Lark
Translation copyright © 2018 by D. W. Lovett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Die Tränen der Maori-Göttin by Bastei Lübbe in Germany in 2012. Translated from German by Dustin Lovett. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2018.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904231
ISBN-10: 1503904237
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
Contents
Family Relationships
Prologue
Gifts of the Gods
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Strong Women
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
For the Sake of Love
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
The Blessing of the Gods
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The wonderful wizard of oz
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Awakening
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
The Return of the Stars
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Translator
Family Relationships
Prologue
Parihaka,
New Zealand
1894
Twilight spread slowly over the mountains and the sea. The low winter sun slid toward the water, and its last rays bathed majestic Mount Taranaki in red-golden light. The snow-covered peak offered an impressive backdrop for the village of Parihaka.
It’s like a guardian, Atamarie’s mother liked to say. We enjoy its beauty and feel safe in its shadow.
Atamarie found that a little strange. After all, Mount Taranaki was a volcano, and theoretically it could erupt. But her mother always dismissed the possibility. Of course not, Atamarie; the gods will keep the peace. The time of wars is past, she’d say. And then she would tell Atamarie and the other children the legend about the god of Mount Taranaki who battled another mountain god for the love of Pihanga, a forest goddess. When Pihanga ultimately chose his rival, Taranaki retreated angrily to the coast. And that was how war entered the world. However, there was hope. At some point, Taranaki would relent, and if the gods got along again, mankind could count on lasting peace.
Most children listened to these stories wide-eyed, but Atamarie was more interested in the mountain’s volcanic activity. Her favorite subjects at school were mathematics, physics, and geography.
This evening, too, Atamarie had little interest in the stories the old people of Parihaka were telling about the constellation that would soon show itself: Matariki, viewed as either the eyes of the god Tawhirimatea or a mother with six daughters on their way to help the exhausted sun to rise anew after the winter. For Atamarie, the constellation was not magic, but simply the Pleiades, which came into view in late May or early June. It was useful for determining when the winter solstice would occur and also for navigating the ocean between Hawaiki, the original Maori homeland, and Aotearoa, the country in which they now dwelled and which the whites called New Zealand. Naturally, the constellation’s stars were pretty to look at, but Atamarie only ever half listened to the fairy tales that surrounded them.
What did interest her were the hangi, the earthen ovens that glowed with the heat of Taranaki’s volcanic activity. She peered into the holes the men had dug earlier as part of the New Year’s festival. Meat and vegetables were wrapped in leaves, piled in baskets, and placed in the hot ground. Then they were covered with wet cloth, and the holes were sealed with dirt. The buried food would cook slowly and be ready in time for Matariki—the Pleiades—to appear in the sky.
Atamarie had come from Dunedin to the North Island expressly for the festival. It was not certain that the Pleiades would show themselves during her short winter vacation, but Matariki and Kupe, Atamarie’s mother and stepfather, had taken their chances.
“You have to experience the New Year’s festival in Parihaka,” Matariki, who was named after the constellation, had insisted. Many Maori names were inspired by nature—Atamarie was named for the sunrise. “It has a particular magic here.”
Atamarie had rolled her eyes a bit. For her parents, everything about Parihaka had a particular magic. Long before Atamarie’s birth, they had lived in the famous village, back when the prophet Te Whiti had preached peace between the Maori and the whites, the pakeha, there. Kupe had been imprisoned after the whites stormed the village and relocated the residents. And Matariki had run away with the man who was Atamarie’s father.
Much later, Te Whiti had returned to Parihaka, and many of his loyal followers with him. They had rebuilt the village and were in the process of making it once more into a spiritual center for New Zealand’s first settlers. This time, though, they were supported by treaties and not just dreams. Kupe and Matariki had bought a piece of land, though they still did not think it right to give the whites money for their own tribal land. Kupe, now a lawyer, had brought several suits. It was likely that Te Whiti and his followers would receive compensation and, in time, get their land back.
People were coming to Parihaka again, and onc
e more there were children for Matariki to teach. For the time being, however, there was no high school, so Atamarie attended boarding school in Dunedin and spent her weekends either with her grandparents or her friend Roberta’s family.
Atamarie could visit Parihaka only during vacations, and that was fine by her. She looked forward to time with her parents and to an escape from the strict rules and routines of school; however, a few weeks of weaving flax, dancing, playing traditional instruments, fishing, and working in the fields were plenty. Although she agreed with Parihaka’s motto, “We want to make the world a better place,” Atamarie’s interpretation of it didn’t match the town’s. Whenever the girl made an effort to improve something, whether a loom or the fishing weirs, the tohunga, the experts in traditional arts, rejected her suggestions indignantly. Sometimes they even let slip unkind words about Atamarie’s pakeha ancestry, which upset Matariki. Atamarie herself couldn’t care less about how much of whose blood she had. She just didn’t want to spend any more time weaving than was strictly necessary, and she didn’t want to lose fish because the weir didn’t close properly.
By the end of vacation, she was always happy to return to Dunedin. Otago Girls’ High School was an exceedingly modern establishment, and the teachers supported their students’ inventiveness.
Tonight in Parihaka, however, Atamarie scanned the skies for the constellation that would mark the New Year’s festival. The old people had sat up watching for three whole nights already.
“It’s a time for waiting and remembering,” Matariki explained. “The old people take this time to think about yesterday, today, and tomorrow, about the old year and the new.”
Atamarie watched as the sun sank into the Tasman Sea. The light over the fields waned until only the mountain’s peak still glowed. The sky quickly darkened—and suddenly Atamarie saw them. Bright and clear, the Pleiades climbed up over the sea, led by the greatest of the seven stars, Whanui.
The children began at once to greet the constellation with the traditional song their teacher, Matariki, had taught them:
“Ka puta Matariki ka rere Whanui
Ko te tena o te tau e!”
Matariki is back! Whanui begins its flight.
The sign of a new year.
“And a good sign.” Atamarie’s mother happily took her husband and daughter in her arms.
Kupe had traveled back from Wellington, where he often had business. Among other things, he was campaigning for one of the Maori seats in Parliament. Now, he kissed Matariki and Atamarie, and listened as his wife interpreted the sign.
“When the stars appear so brightly in the sky, that means a short winter, and we can plant seeds as early as September,” she instructed her family and students. “When they look dim and huddled together for warmth, then winter will be hard, and planting can’t begin until October.”
Atamarie furrowed her brow. If they had not been able to see the stars clearly, her teachers in Dunedin would probably have just attributed the poor visibility to clouds.
“Mom, why are the old people crying?” she inquired. “It’s good that the stars appeared, isn’t it? It’s a new year.”
Matariki nodded and pushed back her long, black hair. “Yes, but the elders are still thinking of the past year. They name the people who have died since the stars’ last appearance, and pray for them. They mourn the dead for the last time before the new year begins.”
The old people had now also begun opening the hangi, and Kupe and the other men rushed to help. Steam rose from the earthen ovens into the sky.
“The aroma is rising to the stars,” Matariki explained, “giving them strength after their long journey.”
Atamarie’s mouth watered, but before they could eat, there were various greeting ceremonies for the stars. Young and old sang and danced the traditional haka. The adults passed around beer and wine jugs and bottles of whiskey, and Matariki and Kupe grew wistful, as always, reminiscing about the old days in Parihaka. If they were to be believed, life back then was one long festival. The village had been full of young people from every corner of Aotearoa, and every night brought music, laughter, and dancing.
Atamarie and the other children fell asleep at some point, but they went right back to celebrating in the morning. On New Year’s Day, there were dancing, singing, games, and, most importantly, kites. Making kites was one of Aotearoa’s traditions kept alive in Parihaka. The Maori word for kites was manu.
A few kite-making tohunga had been teaching in the village the last few weeks, but by the time Atamarie arrived from Dunedin, the men and boys had already finished their work. Now she stood empty-handed while the others waited for the big moment when they would send their manu into the sky as mediators between the stars, the gods, and mankind. Atamarie could hardly wait. It wasn’t the colorful decorations of feathers and mussel shells or the painted-on faces that she cared about. No, Atamarie yearned to understand how these heavy contraptions of wood and leaves could soar into the air.
She approached one of the boys, who was readying a particularly large kite, lovingly decorated with diamond shapes and tribal symbols.
“It doesn’t have a tail.”
The boy frowned at her. “Why would a manu have a tail?”
“Pakeha kites have them,” Atamarie said. “I’ve seen it in pictures.”
The boy shrugged. “The tohunga didn’t say anything about that. Just that you need a frame and string—or two if you want to steer it. He said steering was too hard for kids, but I added two strings anyway.”
“But first of all, the thing needs to fly,” Atamarie said. “How does that work?”
“By the breath of the gods,” the boy answered. “The manu dances with their life force.”
Atamarie furrowed her brow. “So, the wind, then. But what if there’s no wind?”
“If the gods withhold their blessing, it won’t fly,” the boy answered. “Unless you let it glide down, like off a cliff. But it can’t take any messages to the gods that way. And besides, then you’d lose it.”
Atamarie helped him stand the contraption on its end.
“It’s almost as big as I am,” she said. “Do you think someone could maybe ride it?”
The boy laughed. “Supposedly, at least one person has! Nukupewapewa, a chieftain of the Ngati Kahungunu, wanted to conquer the Pa Maungaraki, but his warriors couldn’t breach the walls. So, he built a giant manu of raupo leaves in the shape of a bird. He tied a man tight to it and let the kite glide down from a rock above the fortress. It landed inside, and the man opened the gates for the conquerors.”
Atamarie listened with shining eyes. “Yours is also a manu raupo,” she said with a smile. “You must have gone out of your way. I don’t even know where raupo grows around here.”
The boy smiled impishly. “Yeaaah, it wasn’t easy to find. But maybe it’ll be worth it.”
“Rawiri! What are you doing? Don’t you want to fly your kite?”
The boy spun around at the sound of the tohunga’s voice. They’d missed the start. Most of the boys had already tossed their kites to the wind and were now watching with fascination as they flew. The priests of Parihaka prayed and sang in accompaniment. The kites were to take their wishes and their blessings up to the stars. Atamarie lost herself for a few heartbeats in the gorgeous sight of the colorful manu against the clear winter sky. The master, too, had sent his massive manu aute into the air now, steering it skillfully between his students’ smaller kites.
Rawiri, however, was struggling with his two cords and with managing the very large kite by himself.
“Want me to hold it up?” Atamarie asked.
The boy nodded. She reached for the kite and was almost bowled over as the wind snatched it out of her hands. The kite climbed sharply into the sky, but when Rawiri made his first attempt to steer, it dove just as sharply downward.
Atamarie and Rawiri raced to the fallen kite.
“At least nothing important is broken,” said Atamarie. “Just a little
bit of decoration.”
Rawiri frowned as he attempted to fix the damage. “The tohunga says it’s really important. The shells are the kite’s eyes, and the paint is our message to the gods.”
“Well, the gods must be smart enough to figure out what you meant,” Atamarie said. “Let’s try it again.”
She peered into the sky and concentrated on the kite of the tohunga who was eyeing Rawiri’s crashed bird with sadness mixed with satisfaction, thinking he’d been proven right about steering. But now, Atamarie’s ambition was roused.
“You need to attach the lines closer to the outside,” she suggested, “and deeper in the frame. And it would be even better if we had four lines.”
Rawiri’s pride seemed hurt, but after a second unsuccessful attempt to get his kite in the air, he followed Atamarie’s direction.
The kite once again flew up quickly, but this time it hovered much more surely in the air, and when Rawiri made a cautious attempt at steering, it obeyed his tug on the cord.
“It works! It flies! It’s going where I want it to,” Rawiri cheered. His birdlike kite took its place proudly beside the master’s triangle.
“Do you want to try?” he offered.
Atamarie took the strings without hesitation. She was the only girl holding the lines of a manu here, but that didn’t bother her. In great curves, she guided the huge kite through the sky.
“I bet it’s true, that legend about the Ngati Kahungunu,” said Rawiri. “The kite just needs to be big enough and the gods on your side.”
Atamarie nodded. Of course you could ride a kite. The wind had just now almost pulled her into the air.
“But I want to make one that works without wind,” she declared.
Gifts of the Gods
Dunedin, Christchurch,
Lawrence, Parihaka,
New Zealand
1899–1900
Chapter 1
Roberta’s education class was located in an outbuilding of the University of Otago, and Atamarie found the structure simply hideous. Fortunately, she wouldn’t be studying here. The college that had just accepted her was a great deal bigger and more imposing. Canterbury College was all Gothic style, her aunt Heather had said, but imitation, designed long after the Gothic period. New Zealand hadn’t yet been settled by whites back when they were building real Gothic cathedrals in Europe.