The Fire Blossom (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  The ariki nodded. “Or we did self. No need much words to make trade.”

  Jane shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Look, I’ll come to the village tomorrow, and then we’ll see what you have to sell. We should begin producing wares with a goal in mind, or there will be a demand but no supplies. And when the tradesman comes, I’ll translate.”

  Chapter 49

  Jane and the tribe were ready when Carpenter drove his covered wagon into the Ngai Tahu’s marae two months later. He was mostly hoping for a free meal, a safe place to sleep, and maybe even a woman’s arms, rather than actual trading. There hadn’t been anything very exciting in this tribe other than the exchange of a knife for a few medicinal herbs or seeds for some tea tree oil. This time, however, things were different. Instead of friendly Chris Fenroy, with whom Carpenter liked to chat, on the morning after the trader’s arrival, a stately young pakeha woman came to the village, dressed formally in a dark red suit, her thick brown hair pinned up underneath a hat. She greeted the merchant in a measured tone.

  “My name is Jane Fenroy-Beit, and it is my honor to talk business with you at the behest of ariki Te Haitara.”

  “What?” Carpenter grunted.

  Jane smiled confidently. “Yes, Mr. Carpenter. Chieftain Te Haitara and his people have decided to initiate a small manufacturing operation to strengthen their economic position. They would like to do business, perhaps on a commission basis to begin with. But I’m sure that our offers will be attractive to your other customers—especially the settlers. As you should be aware, complaints over medical care are ubiquitous in the settlements. There are countless traditional remedies, but settlers usually adopt a skeptical perspective when they are offered herbs directly by the natives. Here, for example, we have yellow blossom essence—excellent for treating injuries and contusions. And here, our veronica powder, named after the shrub whose leaves it is gained from. It’s effective against diarrhea.”

  “Diarrhea powder?” Carpenter echoed. “Not bad, I’m sure there’d be demand for it.”

  “Undoubtedly, sir!” Jane said. “This is our syrup against coughing and lung complaints. We call it Grandmother’s Cough Syrup.”

  Carpenter grinned. “Because you couldn’t find an English name for rongoa?”

  Jane smiled shrewdly. “You’ve understood our tactics, sir. Customers should develop trust in our remedies, and they’re more likely to do so if the names don’t sound too exotic. As you can see, we’ve also bottled up the remedies into charming hardwood vessels; they’ll keep for quite some time. So, I would simply suggest you buy, say, twenty of each remedy from us, and—”

  “I’m not buying that lot on the off chance that it works,” Carpenter said, interrupting her.

  Jane shook her head indulgently. “As I said before, we can begin by agreeing on a commission basis. You would still, however, have to pay a small amount per unit.”

  “How much do you want, anyway?” Carpenter asked, turning to Te Haitara. “Maybe, if I give you, let’s say, a bale of denim for the lot . . .”

  He pointed at the collection of medicines. It hadn’t been easy to get the tribe’s tohunga, who usually produced musical instruments, bowls, and spoons, to carve jars for the salves and tinctures. Additionally, the women only reluctantly used the linens that Jane found in her dowry chest to sew little bags for the powder instead of making them into shirts for their children. But in the end, all the packaging had turned out quite appealingly, and Jane had sacrificed her stationery to provide them with neatly lettered tags.

  But the chief looked to Jane. She shook her head resolutely.

  “No, sir, we don’t do exchanges. This is a manufacturing operation, as I said, and we work for profit—or, at least, that’s what we’re trying for. Our fixed price is a sixpence for every item; what you add on top for sales is your own business. And we’re well aware of the fact that you want to explore the potential market first. We’d be happy to accept an advance of a penny per item. We’ll take care of the settlement when you come around next time.”

  Carpenter looked stunned. The chief nodded in confirmation.

  “Fivepence per item!” Carpenter began to bargain. “And a ha’penny advance.”

  Jane thought for a moment. “All right, fivepence, but we’re sticking with the advance of a penny. Oh, by the way, I have something else to show you here . . .”

  Before Carpenter could continue haggling, she pulled a bag out of one of the crates and removed pendants carved from pounamu jade from it. Carpenter gave the grimacing little deity figurines a wary glance.

  “What are those supposed to be?”

  “They’re called hei tiki,” Jane explained. “You wear them around your neck. They’re good-luck charms. These are especially good for whaling.”

  “Really?” Carpenter’s gaze wandered to the necks of a few of the Maori present. “Do they hunt many whales here?”

  “They’re also lucky for catching smaller fish,” Jane said, improvising. “You should sell them. Perhaps not quite as openly. At night in a pub, for example, as an insider’s tip.”

  “Here also river god!” Te Haitara interjected, holding up another amulet. “It bring—”

  “Money!” Jane explained, beaming, and winked at Te Haitara. “Because money, as you know, is in constant motion—just like a river. And, uh, this god—dammed one, once! A river, I mean.”

  “Aha.” Carpenter grinned. “Let me guess: You want a sixpence for each of those?”

  Jane shook her head. “No, tenpence. And a twopence advance. You won’t find money any cheaper than this.”

  Carpenter ended up paying one hundred pence, which amounted to eight shillings and fourpence as an advance for sixty packages of medicine and twenty hei tiki.

  The ariki realized in surprise that for that amount alone, he could buy more than just the bale of denim that Carpenter had originally offered as payment.

  “As you can see, the exchange would have been less favorable,” Jane explained with satisfaction. “But it’s time to get the tribe to make more merchandise now.”

  “You think buy more?” Te Haitara asked.

  “I’m certain of it!” Jane said. “But don’t bargain with him on your own! He doesn’t get another drop of cough syrup before we’ve cleared the accounts.”

  “And then we rich!” Kutu, Chris’s farmhand, was beaming.

  “Easy, there,” Jane said. “Carpenter will be going around to a few farms, and then to Port Cooper, and from there he’s off to Nelson. It’ll be months before he comes back.”

  In fact, the trader’s cart rolled into the Maori gathering ground only two weeks later. Te Haitara sent out the fastest runner of his tribe, a scrawny boy, to find Jane immediately.

  “Ca-pin-ta back!” the little boy said excitedly. “Whit no rongoa!”

  Rongoa was the Maori’s umbrella term for medicines.

  Jane set out immediately and found the eager merchant in a wild haggle with Te Haitara.

  “He sell everything. But want give less,” the chief summarized.

  Jane gave the merchant a strict glare. She wasn’t dressed quite as formally that day; she was wearing a simple housecoat without a corset. Yet the obvious success reinforced her confidence and dignity—as well as disapproval.

  “Well, if you’ve sold all the goods, it amounts to forty-one shillings and eight pence. From that, we subtract the eight shillings and fourpence that we’ve received already, so now you owe the chieftain exactly thirty-three shillings and fourpence. If you’d be so kind as to pay immediately, we can all stay friends.” Jane made an effort to smile winningly, but she felt like a satisfied, grinning shark. “And now, do tell us how business went, Mr. Carpenter. And tell us how it is you came back here again so quickly. The tribe’s money was hardly burning a hole in your pocket, was it?”

  Te Haitara’s eyes grew steadily larger as Carpenter actually began handing over the cash, aware that Jane wouldn’t buy any of his sandbagging. And then he s
lipped. He forgot his intentions of robbing the “savages” blind and told them excitedly about the deal of his life.

  “People were tearing the goods from each other’s hands. I passed three farms on the way to Port Cooper, and each of the women bought medicine. I was told to ask you if the powder also helps with nausea when a woman is, um, expecting. The whalers and sailors bought the rest. I could have sold three times the amount of everything! By the way, there’s also demand for a remedy against boils and joint pains. The skippers all have gout from the humidity on board. In any case, I was already sold out in Port Cooper. The hei-thingies too, those pendants; each of the whalers wanted one—and the skippers too. I gave them the little demons that stick out their tongues so peculiarly. I told them it’s a sign of disrespect toward storms. Makes for a safe crossing.”

  Carpenter grinned, clearly expecting applause. Jane hoped the chieftain hadn’t understood that last part.

  “Anyway,” Carpenter continued, “I came back for a refill. How quickly can you make the stuff again? Or more, even? I’ll take all I can get in, say, two weeks’ time. I’d camp here for the time being.”

  “Certainly!” Jane beamed. “We charge a penny a day for board and lodging, and another one for your horses; we’ll accommodate them in my husband’s barn. I think it’s safe to assume that we can produce another hundred units of medicine in a week. Maybe not in such elaborate packaging, but I’ll order little glass bottles soon. And the hei tiki . . . I’m sure fifty should be possible.”

  Te Haitara was abuzz with excitement—the tohunga of his tribe, however, less so.

  “I can’t work that fast!” the herbwife complained. “Even just the rongoa blossoms that have to be picked . . . and I can’t have anybody else do it; that would be tapu. And for the kowhai bark brew, we need to sing a karakia. And also when we harvest the koromiko!”

  Jane rolled her eyes as Chris, whom the old woman had consulted as a mediator, translated her words.

  “Rongoa can only be harvested by tohunga,” he told her. “And they need to be careful with the kowhai; parts of the plant are poisonous.”

  “Then she should take on some new students and consecrate the ones she has as priestesses, or whatever it is they do. And they should start singing their karakia a little faster so everything can start going with the flow.”

  Chapter 50

  Karl Jensch received his mail in Wellington, but he came to the city only every few months. During the last few years, his jobs had taken him to the remotest corners of the North Island. From the Bay of Islands in the north to Wellington in the south, he had initially surveyed land for Tuckett, and then, after Tuckett was called to Nelson as a successor to Wakefield, for other clients. He often worked for the government, but also for private clients or even Maori tribes who wished to sell their land and wanted to handle things correctly.

  And so, Karl was now thoroughly acquainted with the island. He had explored its forests and marveled at its gigantic kauri trees, measured land for sheep famers in the Waikato Plains, and gazed in awe at the vast, fire-breathing mountains with names such as Ngauruhoe, Ruapehu, and Taranaki. According to the natives, the mountains and trees were inhabited by deities and spirits, and Karl often wished he could understand the Maori language better so he could hear all the folktales firsthand. He swam in the clear waters of Lake Taupo, the local tribe taught him the art of trout fishing, and he wandered the wide, sun-kissed eastern beaches. The sight of the sea always made him a little sad, because it reminded him of Ida and Bahia.

  How different everything could have been if she would have just run away with him then! Or later even, after the settlers’ fateful decision to build their village by the Moutere. In the far north of New Zealand, in summer at least, it was almost tropically warm, and in Waipoua, palm trees and ferns created a jungle almost comparable to the ones in the Caribbean. Karl still imagined finding a home somewhere for Ida that lived up to her dreams of warmth, sunshine, and a bright blue sea, far from the rainy South Island.

  But Ida was gone, lost to him forever, and Karl had to face it.

  Karl learned all he could about Australia since Tuckett told him about the departure of the German immigrants. It was an entire continent, vast and confusing. Even if Karl gave up everything and went to search for her, he knew he’d never find a trace of the Langes or the Brandmanns. Karl could only hope that Ottfried didn’t make Ida too unhappy, and that the people of Raben Steinfeld had found their promised land on the second try. Perhaps even in a milder climate. If Ida’s life had to consist of humiliating self-abandonment at the side of a man she didn’t love, Karl at least wished for her to have a house with a view of the ocean and a white beach. Without crocodiles, if possible!

  Karl sighed and unlocked his mailbox, hoping, as usual, to see Ida’s somewhat childlike script on one of the envelopes. She didn’t have his address, of course, but if she’d just tried “Karl Jensch, Wellington,” it might have worked. Karl often spoke to the postman, saying that such a letter might arrive for him soon. However, as usual, there was no auspicious letter among the ones Karl received. A letter from Tuckett; one from Christopher Fenroy, who wrote every few weeks; and one or two letters concerning his work. The latter could wait. Karl wasn’t terribly keen on new jobs.

  Maybe it was just the renewed disappointment of the Australia news and continuing sadness over his loss of Ida, but in the last few months, the young man had lost interest in surveying. However much he’d enjoyed it in the beginning, he was starting to get tired of traveling all the time. He would have liked to settle down—to finally have his own land, and he could even afford it! Over the last few years, Karl had earned a lot of money and had barely spent a penny of it. When he stayed in Wellington, he indulged in a good hotel and proper meals, but he otherwise slept in a tent and sustained himself with fish and flatbread. His many Maori guides had taught him which roots and fruits were edible, and he’d complement his meals with these. And so, the money he earned went to a bank in Wellington, and his credit was growing steadily; there had been enough for a plot of land for quite some time.

  But Karl couldn’t decide where to settle. All alone, without a family, it didn’t make much sense to him either. He considered staying in Wellington for a few months and looking for a wife. There had to be a girl for him; Ida couldn’t be the only one he would ever love! So far, however, he hadn’t managed to find anybody, although he’d tried to develop feelings for the Maori girls who slipped into his tent when he stayed with the tribes. Sometimes he even found a girl with dark but not quite black hair, a heart-shaped hairline, and gentle eyes. But as beautiful as those girls could be, it was almost worse to wake up next to someone who looked a little like Ida—but wasn’t. He resolved to look for a blonde girl who wouldn’t remind him of her.

  Karl tucked away his letters and left the post office. On the other side of the street, a café beckoned with tables and chairs in the sun out front. The colorful venetian blinds over the entry read “Petit Paris.” French immigrants, perhaps? Or somebody trying for cosmopolitan flair? Karl lowered himself onto the upholstered seat of one of the dainty metal chairs. The tables were also wrought iron, and the young girl who came out to take his order was pleasant to look at. She was blonde too. Karl smiled as he looked into the waitress’s face. And what he saw there made him gasp.

  “You—that’s impossible! Excuse me, you look so much like a girl I knew once, you—” Karl floundered.

  The blonde laughed at him cynically. “Nice try. But I’m not going out with you. I can drink as much coffee as I want here.”

  The young girl spoke English fluently—but with a German accent.

  “Forgive me,” Karl said, but suddenly he was sure. “Aren’t you—it’s impossible, but it has to be you. You’ve grown, of course. Aren’t you Elsbeth Lange? Ida’s sister?”

  “Betty,” she said with a wary look. “How did you know that?”

  Suddenly, a look of recognition flitted over her face.

&n
bsp; “You’re Karl Jensch! I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right away. I don’t usually look guests directly in the face; Celine says it’s too provocative. But where did you come from? Where were you when the rest of Raben Steinfeld was drowning with a prayer on their lips?”

  Karl laughed. Elsbeth had always been the bolder of the two sisters. She may have prayed for courage at times, but never for humility. And it seemed that God had heard her prayers. She looked pretty and happy in her uniform, a trim black dress with a little lace apron and a lace bonnet sitting coyly on her blonde hair. A far cry from the prim, starched bonnets of Raben Steinfeld.

  “I warned the community!” Karl said, theatrically raising his hands. “But they wouldn’t listen to me, of course. By the way, you have an ungodly way of expressing yourself.” He winked.

  Betty giggled. “God wasn’t there! Though perhaps the river spirits had a hand in that. That’s what Cat said, anyway. Or Cat’s foster mother. She told her tribe not to sell the land to us. Anyway, you won’t catch me crying for Sankt Pauli Village. We worked from dawn until dusk, and then there were all the floods . . . And I was supposed to marry Friedrich Hauser. Can you imagine?”

  Karl smiled. “But what are you doing here in Wellington? I thought you were with your family in Australia. Didn’t you all go, and the Brandmanns too?”

  Betty pouted. “Long story,” she said. “Now I have to get back to work. Celine, the boss, is peeking out through the curtains. She’s very nice, actually. I think she used to—I’ll tell you later! I have another hour of work. Do you want to wait here?”

  Karl nodded. “Of course. I’d like a cup of coffee and a slice of cake, please. I still need to read my letters anyway.”

  Betty returned again soon, placing a steaming cup of coffee with milk and some kind of sweet puff pastry on the table in front of him.