Shaking his head to dispel the black thoughts, he grabbed the sweet potatoes from their garden, and put them to boil. He chopped up a handful of bright green puha, before preparing a simple dough to make fried bread to serve with their meal.
THE RESPONSE
‘You’d think these provincial ministers would have more than enough time to look after the only thing of worth entrusted to their care!’ raged the man clothed in the decadent robes of a bishop.
His assistant waited, nib poised to record the portly Bishop’s words of reply to the letter received from the wayward minister stationed at Bruce Bay.
‘Spreading God’s word seems to be nigh on impossible when the lesser servants of God are imbeciles. How could he allow such magnificent candelabra to be stolen from his own home? Defies belief. No word of this must reach England. The embarrassment would ruin any chance of us leaving this cess pit.’ Slamming his hammy fist on the desk, he continued, ‘No, we must bury this disaster. By all means reply to the idiot, but keep no copy of his letter, nor of our reply.’
‘Of course, Bishop. Should I perhaps suggest that he look to the local community for funds for a replacement? A project for the settlers perhaps?’ the diminutive assistant suggested, his nasal voice a symptom of hay fever, caused by an abundance of vases filled with lilies in the Bishop’s study.
‘Yes, yes, whatever seems appropriate.’
The Bishop waved his assistant away, his mind on something of far more import than missing silver candelabra. He was still incensed the Church had seen fit to send such exquisite silverware to some muddy heathen-filled settlement, instead of keeping it for the newly formed diocese of Dunedin – his diocese – and now those pieces were lost. Thieved, no doubt by a digger, and bartered for Heaven knows what. And this diocese needed more than a candelabra to pull it out of the cesspit it seemed to be.
Bishop Thomas Dasent gazed out the parsonage’s window, faced with the glorious colours of gladioli, carnations and calendulas. His eyes failed to appreciate their beauty, his mind fogged with fury and frustration at this backward nation. He could half hear the choir rehearsing next door – indifferent but improvable, if he’d felt so inclined to help, which he did not. His energies were best spent preaching the glories of God, not singing them.
He was due to travel the provinces later, a whole host of baptisms and betrothals to bless. The faster this country was populated with God-fearing folk, the better, which was why baptisms were almost the favourite part of his job. That and preaching.
Kissing the heavy gold crucifix slung around his neck, he bellowed for his housekeeper.
‘Mrs Lester!’
THE HOUSEKEEPER
Annabel Lester leapt from her chair at the kitchen table – it felt like she’d only just sat down! As housekeeper at the parsonage of the newly appointed Bishop of Dunedin, hers was a job which had no down time. No tea breaks, nor leave. Her master, her lord, was as much a slave driver as the overseer on a southern cotton plantation. And there was nothing she could do about it.
When she’d first come to the parsonage, she was employed by Howard Cummings. A kind, jovial minister, his personality was eminently suited to the rigours of a new country. But he’d been displaced by the new bishop, under some duress from the local congregation. The Bishop had wasted no time in sending Reverend Cummings to an outpost far away from the rising city.
Annabel shook her head. Waimate was as foreign to her as North Korean cafés. And the Bishop was making her life unbearable, constantly questioning her about Dunedin’s decision-makers, influencers and troublemakers. He’d asked about her, and her family. The worst of questions. She wasn’t overly religious, but lying to a man of God still didn’t sit comfortably. Cummings never questioned her history, he’d merely taken her in, his Christian duty above all else. The Bishop’s duty, above all else, was to himself, and that went doubly for his weasel-like assistant, Norman Bailey, who scurried silently about the house.
When the Bishop first arrived, Bailey appeared as if out of thin air, and had barely left the prelate’s side since. He had the innate ability to sense when the Bishop was on the move, and within moments would be loitering at hand. When he wasn’t shadowing the rotund cleric, he was under her feet – watching her, judging her, questioning her.
The brief moment at the table felt like it’d been the only time she’d had to herself in weeks, and now the Bishop wanted her, again. Hurrying to his office, she practically tripped over Bailey, lurking as he was in the dark hallway.
‘What the hell!’ she exclaimed, rubbing her shoulder as she eyed the shorter man in the gloom.
He’d recoiled at her use of the expletive, his pock-marked skin flushed with the indignation he had no chance to express, as she turned away from him and hurried into the Bishop’s office. She is definitely possessed, he decided, for the umpteenth time. He crossed himself for protection, and stepped out of the shadows, hurrying towards her room at the back of the house. A parcel had arrived for her today and he needed to know what was in it, to protect the Bishop from the evil she had within her – and to satisfy his own curiosity.
THE ESCAPE
Sarah bent over the sack of potatoes, counting them slowly in her head, checking each knobby blob for blight – the weeping burn on her cheek a reminder of what her captors would think of her serving up anything less than perfect. She’d balked at lathering butter on the burn – silly old wives tale – but it had helped somewhat. She’d have preferred a tube of Silvadene, but at that point beggars couldn't be choosers, so butter it was.
Jimmy sat perfectly still in the kitchen, eyes resolutely on his empty plate. He hated Joe being away when the girl was let out to cook for them. He could sense her feminine wiles from his side of the sparse room. He knew if he looked at her, she would ensnare him with her evil magic. Joe had told him women were all like that – only after the brothers’ money – and that they had to protect each other from ‘scented vultures’. What Joe really meant was that he needed to protect Jimmy from gold-diggers. Jimmy was slower than his older brother; Joe knew that he was easy to snare, and there was no way he was going to let his ‘baby’ brother fall into the clutches of some low-born scullery maid, fresh off the boat from the penal colony in Australia.
Jimmy sniffed the air. He could almost taste daisies. There hadn’t been daisies in this house since their mother died, so it must be her. He shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair; its legs scraped against the floor.
Sarah jerked back from the potato sack. Used to the silent treatment from Jimmy, any sound from him took her by surprise. There were times she almost forgot about his presence. Joe was the only person she ever conversed with. Her life was a lonely one, though not for want of trying. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d tried to slip away, but Joe Jowl seemed to anticipate her every move, regardless how surreptitious she tried to be.
This was the first time she’d been left alone with Jimmy, and she was experienced enough to know that Jimmy was as uncomfortable with her in the house as she was herself.
Sarah tried engaging the young man. ‘Jimmy, could you help me move this sack of potatoes back to the pantry? It’s really in my way here.’ He responded by moving his chair further away – its wooden legs protesting once more – and turning away from her as if her mere proximity was causing him physical pain.
Deciding a different tack might be more effective, she tried again, ‘Excuse me, Jimmy, I really need your help to move the sack. It’s too heavy for me. Normally Joe carries it in and out for me, but, well ... since he isn’t here to put it away, could you please help?’
Joe sniffed, clamping his huge hands over his ears to block out her words. Women are the devil. Women are the devil, he chanted silently to himself, wishing his brother hadn’t left him alone with her. The last time he’d been left alone with a woman ... well that didn’t bear thinking about.
Sarah stood, hands on hips, trying to decide whether to risk one more request when she reali
sed Jimmy had closed his eyes. With barely a second’s delay, she took her chance. Silently backing out of the kitchen, she pivoted on her toes and raced down the darkened hallway. Weeks of cleaning the house made it easy to navigate. The front door was the only obstacle in her way now.
Jimmy rocked himself in the chair. The voice in his head almost loud enough to drown out the temptresses words, whose echoes sent ripples through his mind. He pressed his hands harder against his ears, the vibrations of his chanting adding to crowded noises in his skull.
Sarah fumbled at the door. The old iron door handle refused to turn. Grasping it with both hands, she tried again. Surely Joe wouldn’t have locked it when he’d left his own brother as a guard?
Suddenly, silence – Jimmy took his hands away from his ears, and opened his eyes. Peering over his shoulder he fully expected to see the witch still waiting for help. Gone.
He swung his head towards the pantry. Empty.
Then he heard the striking, rasping sound from the hall – realisation hit him with the force of a jackhammer. Enraged, he leapt back from the table, sending his chair careering backwards, to bounce and smash against the wall.
Wiping sweaty palms on her filthy skirt, Sarah tried a third time.
Bellowing, Jimmy launched himself towards the hallway, unhindered by the murkiness. The faint outline of the woman at the door provided the only target he needed.
Her sweaty hands finally found purchase on the door knob. She simultaneously twisted the handle, and pulled the banded door towards her. Slipping through the narrow gap, she tumbled down the stairs of the stoop. Like a rabbit, she hopped up and sped down the path.
She could hear Jimmy behind her. He was not as fit as his brother, despite being no less bulky. That was hardly surprising – Joe rarely let him out of the house, apart from church on Sundays or to make their regular deliveries.
She zigzagged her way down the hill, hoping there’d be a high street of sorts at the bottom. Her lungs devoid of air, the stitch in her side threatened to immobilise her. A fork in the road ahead, a split second decision; she chose left – and ran headlong into Joe Jowl.
THE MILLER
Wiremu left his wife and baby reluctantly. Around the shores of the Manukau harbour, soldiers were mustering, ships docking and scavengers loitering. Throughout history, someone has always profited from war. It was the profiteers that most concerned him.
There was one thing you could say about the British; for the most part, their officers kept their men on the straight and narrow. Once the troubles down country were dealt with, he was sure things would be different but, for now, the soldiers billeted around town, were kept busy drilling and training. The staccato sounds of rifle shots rang through the settlement, reverberating off the water and the surrounding hillsides, recently denuded of all their rich forestry, birdsong replaced with the shouts of forestry crews sawing and swearing in equal parts.
He had to go to the mill. Today the shaft for the grindstone was going to be repaired, and he could get back to milling the flour destined to feed an army. He laughed mirthlessly at the irony of feeding men who, in all likelihood, were going to kill the native warriors of New Zealand, undoubtedly blood relatives of his, many generations past.
There was no fancy carriage for him, or even a horse to ride. His transport was on foot – and he needed to hurry – to meet Vaughan Hughes, the English miller who’d been the only white man to treat him as an equal. Perhaps it was the solidarity of their profession, or perhaps Hughes was one of those rare men who believed all men are created equal.
Hurrying to the mill, he pulled up sharp at the sound of bottles smashing on the metalled road. In front of him, at the intersection, was the source of the sound. The innkeep, Joe Jowl, with a wooden crate at his feet, was bellowing at his halfwit brother and holding a writhing girl under his arm, one hand clamped firmly across her mouth. She was struggling ineffectually against his bulk.
The sound of breaking bottles had brought half the neighbourhood out to watch the fracas. The sight of Jimmy Jowl lumbering down the hill was enough to get tongues wagging. And Joe Jowl taking the Lord’s name in vain as he restrained a young woman in public, was so disturbing that several men looked as if they might intervene.
One unbroken bottle, an escapee from the crate, rolled to a stop at Wiremu’s feet, its branding visible on the thick opaque glass, “Jowl Bros. Auckland”.
He briefly debated the wisdom of his next action. Walk away? It was nothing to do with him. Leave it to others. ‘Don’t get involved,’ his wife always told him – but fate decreed that he ignore her advice. Scooping up the bottle, he carried on toward the brothers.
Aware of their audience, Joe had fallen silent. Being a public laughing stock was shameful, and he glared at the onlookers, daring them to interfere. His anger at his brother simmered under the surface. He’d deal with him later. Family business was for behind family doors, he berated himself. He’d tamed the now-docile Sarah, and would punish her in due course. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Wiremu. His rage-clouded mind mistook the bottle for a weapon and, flinging the girl to the ground, he swung himself around, his arms now free to defend himself against the ‘savage’ approaching him.
Joe threw himself at the would-be attacker, his hands clenched to form a pair of massive weapons. The native staggered under the onslaught, and the clunky glass bottle fell from his grasp. Oddly, it bounced intact on the road and landed next to Sarah. She was lying there winded, watching in terror as Jimmy stomped towards her, an unnatural light shining in his eyes.
Jimmy had known from the start the girl was trouble. Never in his life had his brother sworn at him. He’d taken the Lord’s name in vain. Their souls would forever be marked as blasphemers. Jimmy shuddered. There was only one thing for it. She was a pox on their family and had to be dealt with. He was oblivious to the stares of the womenfolk from behind their fences, and not worried by the men around him. His size, and his brother, had made him untouchable growing up. No one ever challenged them, together they were too strong. Until this witch magicked herself into our cellar. He’d prayed for answers as to how she’d arrived. He hadn’t put her there – not this time, anyway. God knew that there were other women buried in their cellar. Occasionally Joe brought home some entertainment for himself. Jimmy had watched his older brother play with his living toys, but had never partaken. He did like to help get rid of them, though. Which was why keeping Sarah to cook and clean for them was against the natural form of things. But now it was time for Sarah to join the other scented vultures in the cellar.
Wiremu ducked the first punch that flew past his head. Enraged, Joe lined up for another shot, fists up by his square jaw, stance more like a professional fighter in the ring than a street brawler.
Wiremu went into survival mode. This unexpected turn of events was exactly what his wife had warned him about. There wasn’t time to think ‘what if’. He couldn’t rely on the watching crowd for any help. Most of them held the opinion that the Maori were no better than dogs, and now that the fight had gone from between a man and a woman, to one between a man and a dog, it was much more entertaining to watch. Had Wiremu looked more closely, he might have noticed some of the men placing wagers on Jowl to thrash the native.
A vicious upper cut from Joe’s left hand caught Wiremu by surprise, and he reeled backwards. The crowd circled round the two men and the cheering intensified. Always good to see a darky getting a thrashing. They’d all lost interest in the woman on the ground – all of them except Jimmy.
He’d slipped past the crowd. He knew his brother didn’t need his help. Their father had taught them both how to box by belting the living daylights out of them. That was his way of showing them his love – or so their mother had explained. Until the night he’d beaten her to death in a drunken haze while showing her his love. That’s what love did for you. After her death, the boys stood side by side, and showed him their brotherly love, with their four fists and four boots.
Jimmy moved towards Sarah. Bloodied hands, elbows and face made it difficult to pull herself together. Pushing herself up, she winced in pain, tiny grains of gravel embedded in her hands like needles. Her foot nudged the glass bottle. It tinkled on the ground, a merry sound amidst the taunts and jeers of the crowd witnessing a fight between two men who’d never met, and who were nothing to each other. The hand of fate, and a fork in the road, were the only ones responsible for their meeting – and Sarah.
Jimmy crept closer, his bulk oddly agile in his wary approach. You could never be too careful; she’d already proven herself to be unpredictable, like a cornered beast. How else could she have escaped his careful watch back at the house? He primed himself to grab her. He knew he had to be quick; had to get her back to the house before Joe had a chance to punish him for his mistake. No, not his mistake, hers.
With her back to Jimmy, Sarah bent down to pick up the glass bottle. Jimmy’s subconscious queried why she was bending down but he was too intent on his course of action to give it any rational thought. The raised lettering was slippery in Sarah’s bloodied hand, and rubbed painfully against the embedded gravel – but why was her head so sore as well?
She disappeared.
THE SHOP
A loud thump from upstairs echoed in the empty shop. Dust motes danced down the stairwell on the disturbed air.
Sarah stirred on the floor of her lounge. The thin layer of grime over the furniture showed that this time she’d been gone longer than any of her previous experiences. Her heart constricted in fear. How long have I been away?
She let go of the old glass bottle, watching it roll away on the uneven floor until it stopped against the leg of the coffee table. A glass bottle. Hardly the most valuable of items and the last thing she would have expected to bring her home. She made a mental note to look up the bottle online, later. Much later.
The Last Letter Page 8