Fires of Change (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  To overcome his annoyance, Oliver tried to think about Carol’s passionate kisses, the soft fullness of her breasts under his hands, and the flowery scent of her hair. But he had to fight against the image of her impertinent little sister, who kept sneaking her way into his head.

  Chapter 7

  Chris was waiting in the barn with a flask of whiskey, but Karl grinned at him as he pulled a bottle of amber-colored liquid from his own saddlebag.

  “Here, this is single malt. To celebrate. Unlike champagne, shaking doesn’t ruin it.”

  Chris laughed, put down his flask, and willingly uncorked the bottle. “Can you still afford that after buying the house?” he said with a grin.

  Karl sighed. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you and Cat about that.”

  Chris nodded. “Do you need an advance against your share of Rata Station?”

  Karl rubbed his temples. “Not really,” he said. “We were thinking more of . . . Chris, this is a little difficult for me to say. I love Rata Station; we built it together. But our decision to move to the North Island is final.”

  Chris raised his eyebrows. “So, you’re totally serious? You want to settle down so Ida can milk twenty sheep? Or do you intend to keep traveling as a surveyor? You surely have many years of work ahead of you, and Ida probably wouldn’t like staying alone in Russell.”

  Karl took a sip from the whiskey bottle. It was part of the men’s tradition that they didn’t bother to bring glasses to the barn. After all, the origin of their secret meetings was Chris’s fear of his ex-wife’s unkindness. Before Jane had left him, he’d endeavored to escape from her almost every evening.

  “I wouldn’t like that either,” Karl said. “Of course I’ll be helping Ida, especially while the cheese dairy is getting established. Afterward, I will be traveling sometimes, but not for months on end as a surveyor. Recently I’ve been doing more, hmm, mediating. The situation between the pakeha and the Maori on the North Island is heating up again, Chris.”

  “I thought there was peace in Taranaki now,” Chris said in surprise.

  Three years before, in the Taranaki region, there had been an actual war prompted by the sale of land at Waitara. Both sides had been furious, but most sensible New Zealanders now agreed that the British government had taken things way too far when it had sent 3,500 heavily armed soldiers from Australia to fight around 1,500 primitively armed Maori warriors. Afterward, an uneasy truce had been negotiated, both sides concluding that the war was not really winnable for anyone. For the pakeha, the economic damage caused by the fighting outweighed the benefits. Compromises had been made, and the fighting had stopped. But no one knew for how long.

  “First of all,” Karl replied, “the land disputes are ongoing. As before, the government confiscated land as a ‘punishment’ for the fighting in recent years. That gave the impression that the owners of the best land were the most rebellious—but I think it was basically an excuse to redistribute the land to their own advantage. And now this Maori preacher is traveling around and encouraging the villagers to throw the pakeha off their land. War could flare up again at any time, no matter how much the government is trying to avoid it. That’s why there’s a very large demand for mediators. I’ve been asked by both the Maori and the pakeha to accept the role. I have a good reputation with both sides, and it helps that I can also speak a little Maori.”

  Karl smiled at his friend. After all, it was mostly Chris he had to thank for his skill. Fenroy spoke the language fluently.

  “Isn’t it dangerous when you wind up on the front lines?” Chris wanted to know.

  Karl shook his head. “So far, it’s always been very civilized, even though of course they are all rattling their sabers. I think it was more dangerous for me as a surveyor. Don’t forget Cotterell.”

  Cotterell, a surveyor with whom Chris had worked as an interpreter, had lost his life in the Wairau conflict.

  “Of course, I’ll be able to decide for myself where I do and don’t want to go,” Karl continued. “It’s common knowledge which chieftains tend to be hotheaded.” He laughed grimly. “And also which pakeha officials. As you know, some of them are much worse.”

  Chris nodded knowingly, and the men fell deep into discussion about their memories of volatile military strategies, ignorant government officials, and the hotheaded settlers they had encountered during their work for the land claims agency.

  Karl told him about his recent adventure with the Ngati Hine.

  “How well do you get paid for that kind of work?” Chris asked.

  Karl shrugged. “It doesn’t pay as well as sheep farming,” he admitted. “But together with Ida’s income, we should have enough. We don’t need very much, and you know Ida. She’ll feed us with her labor in the garden and fields. She’s already getting excited about what can be made into jams and chutneys, and is asking for an oven to bake bread in. This house will make her happy, Chris. She’ll finally have everything she’s dreamed of: a home she can care for, like she had in Raben Steinfeld, a community she can join—not Lutheran, of course, but Russell has a pretty Anglican church with a kind priest and an enthusiastic women’s group. They exchange more recipes than Bible verses, if you ask me. They’re good people, and very tolerant. Ida will love them. And most of all, the climate, the sea, the beach—”

  “And you,” Chris finished for him. “I hope it makes you just as happy. That brings me back to the financial question. What about Rata Station?”

  Karl took another swallow of whiskey. “We want to offer to sell you our share,” he confessed. “If that’s possible. Of course we don’t want to drive you to ruin, we—”

  Chris silenced his friend with a wave. “Karl, we’re sheep barons!” he said, laughing. “The wool business is booming, and the English can’t get enough. Our profits are increasing every year, and most of our investments have been amortized. Everything is in good shape here, from the barns to the shearing shed. Of course, we don’t have a lot of savings—but you know that yourself.” Cat, Chris, and the Jensches had reinvested most of their earnings in further development of the farm. “But we can take out a mortgage at any time. The banks—” Chris paused, looking around. “What was that? I thought I saw someone pass by the window.”

  Chris stood up and took the flickering lantern from its hook, then stepped outside the barn door. He peered over toward the stone house, where the lights were already out, and at Cat’s house, where they were still lit for Ida and Cat’s own discussion.

  Chris sat down again, but still listened suspiciously.

  “Maybe you’re just a bit jumpy?” Karl said, teasing. “Or perhaps you haven’t spent a night outside in a long time? Some night bird, surely, an animal. I didn’t see anything.”

  “Your back’s to the window,” Chris grumbled. “But back to the banks. It’s no problem at all.”

  Mara Jensch held her breath. She knew very well how to move silently. After all, she had spent half of her life with Maori children playing at being warriors and hunters. Supple and slender as she was, she had outdone even Eru at stalking. However, she’d assumed her father and Chris would no longer be in the barn. How long could it take to make a last check on the horses? Mara thought she’d waited long enough before sneaking out of her room, tiptoeing down the stairs, and closing the front door so quietly behind her that not even Fancy reacted. Once outside, she’d stopped being so careful. That had been a mistake.

  From behind a rata bush, Mara watched Chris peer into the darkness before finally walking back into the barn. She let out a quiet sigh of relief. Now, more carefully, she slipped between the outbuildings, keeping an eye out for other unpleasant surprises. Like Carol, for example. She seemed to be determined to keep her good-looking fiancé in suspense, but perhaps that was just a masterful diversion and the two of them were actually meeting somewhere in the moonlight.

  Mara didn’t like the moonlight. It would have been easier to slip out on a dark night. Actually, there wasn’t any reason for her to
sneak away. The Maori village would still be there the next morning. But Mara wasn’t the least bit tired. She was wide awake, and she couldn’t and wouldn’t wait any longer!

  Finally, she left the buildings of Rata Station behind and ran as quickly as her skirts allowed. She had taken the path so many times she could have walked it in her sleep. Mara had been away with her parents for five months. She knew that she’d grown, and to a certain extent had become an adult. But here, everything was still the way it had always been. Mara didn’t know if she found it annoying or comforting.

  She finally saw the tikis guarding the gate. The red-painted wooden statues of gods could look frightening in the darkness, but they had been familiar to her since childhood. Mara walked between them and entered the marae. It was completely dark, and the last fires had long since died. Unsure of herself, she glanced hesitantly between the kitchen and storage houses and the communal sleeping house, and finally to the chieftain’s dwelling. It was a beautiful building decorated with intricate carvings, almost as large as the wharenui, the tribe’s meeting and sleeping house. Te Haitara lived much more luxuriously than was normal for the Ngai Tahu.

  Usually, Maori chieftains lived alone in relatively small houses. Their wives visited them occasionally, and often within the contexts of ceremonies that were centuries old. However, Jane had done away with those traditions when she had married Te Haitara. In her mind, it was important that he make a few concessions to her pakeha origin. Among other things, she had insisted that she and her husband live under the same roof, and raise their child there together. She never would have tolerated sleeping in the meetinghouse with all the other members of the tribe.

  But where would Mara find Eru that night? At almost fifteen years old, he counted as a young warrior, and he should be living with his friends and not still under his mother’s roof. On the other hand, there were at least ten unmarried girls who slept in the meetinghouse, all of whom were eager to have their first experiences with love and, Jane suspected, “to nab the chieftain’s son for themselves.”

  Mara had once heard Cat say that Jane was still thinking like a pakeha, with fairy-tale notions of sought-after princes. But Eru’s status as the chieftain’s son didn’t necessarily make him any more attractive to the Maori girls. Tribal leaders were traditionally no richer than any of the other villagers, and the role of chieftain wasn’t exclusively heritable. Te Haitara had many nephews and other relatives. The likelihood that the villagers would pick his half-pakeha son to be his successor wasn’t very high. And as a chieftain’s wife, Jane didn’t have any special privileges. The opposite was true, and even more so on the North Island, where traditions were followed much more strictly. There, the chieftains’ families were completely tapu, and were subjected to major limitations. In those tribes, aristocratic marriages were still arranged, just as they were in European noble families. So, if a girl was interested in Eru, it would only be because he was a kind person, a good hunter, and very affectionate. Although Mara hoped that he hadn’t let other girls know that yet. She was extremely jealous. And Eru’s mother was irritatingly stubborn.

  Mara decided not to search for Eru in the meetinghouse, but instead to focus on his parents’ house. It stood a bit apart in the shadow of a southern beech grove and was surrounded by a fence made from raupo reeds. The fence wasn’t necessary, however, as Jane had neither planted a vegetable garden nor kept any animals. Mara leaned against one of the trees and pulled a little flute out of her pocket. She raised the small, beautifully decorated koauau to her nose. A soft, delicate melody came out, not unlike the call of a night bird.

  Actually, the koauau was played to attract birds, and to welcome newborn children. It was said that the sound of the flute was supposed to awaken faded memories. Mara smiled as she thought about it. Eru’s memories wouldn’t be all that faded after just five months. She herself remembered every detail of the last time they’d been together.

  As she repeated the melody for the third time, something stirred in the house. Mara recognized the husky young man’s shadow. She had been sure that his thick black hair would be loose and falling below his shoulders. He’d been so proud that he was finally allowed to let it grow so he could make a warrior’s knot. But either he hadn’t taken out the knot before going to bed, or he’d cut his hair again. Eru had a blanket wrapped around him, and was otherwise only wearing a loincloth. Mara’s heart beat faster as she took in his supple gait and tall silhouette.

  She played the melody one more time to let him know where she was, and then he finally appeared in front of her. She grinned, enjoying her successful surprise. Te Eriatara stared at her in disbelief.

  “Ma—Mara!” he stammered. “Marama, the moonlight! Am I dreaming?”

  Mara reached out her arms to Eru, and he took her hands. Carefully, and ready to let her go at any second, he pulled her close and rested his forehead against hers tenderly, his nose touching her nose. It was the hongi, the traditional greeting. Mara breathed in his familiar scent, a strange mixture of the earthy-smelling sweat of a young warrior and the flowery soap that his mother insisted on. Mara felt as though she were coming home.

  Eru, on the other hand, noticed many new things. The scent of salt and the sea were caught in her hair from the journey. Her skin smelled of exotic flowers and spices; and somehow, her own body scent had changed. The girl he’d said goodbye to, who was somewhere between a trusted sister and a lover, had become a woman. Mara smelled divine, and she glowed like a goddess in the moonlight. Eru was reminded of a traditional love story in which Hinemoa guided her lover to the island with the sound of a koauau. Hinemoa and Tutanekai, a couple that had the whole world against them . . . He sighed.

  “You just got back?” he asked as they released each other, and the magic subsided a little. “And you walked here?” He smiled at her. “You’re mad.”

  Mara shrugged. “I know. I could have waited until tomorrow, but I wanted to see you, and not the whole village at once. And I wanted to know if everything is still . . . the way it was before. If we can still—”

  Eru took Mara’s hand and led her deeper into the little glade. “So you didn’t practice with any other boys?” he asked her seriously. “With pakeha boys?”

  Mara shook her head, feeling a little insulted. “Of course not. I promised. And you didn’t either? I know other girls in the tribe don’t kiss, but you could have done other things with them . . .”

  Eru shook his head determinedly. “I promised too! And I kept my word. I dreamed only of you. I—I practiced in my dream, again and again.”

  Mara smiled. “Me too,” she admitted. “So, shall we try it?”

  She gazed up at Eru and offered him her lips. He was taller than she, which wasn’t true with every boy her age. But both Eru’s father and mother were tall and stocky. He would soon be taller than all the other Ngai Tahu men, and he was already stronger than most of them. Now he bent down to Mara, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed his lips against hers. They remained that way for the space of a heartbeat, unsure about who was meant to initiate this pakeha custom. Then they both parted their lips almost simultaneously and allowed their tongues to explore each other’s mouths. Mara’s delicate hands wandered over Eru’s naked back, while his caressed her through the fabric of her riding habit. The buttons stopped him, and he tugged a little—and Mara stepped back abruptly.

  “Don’t ruin my dress!” she scolded, but then gave him her most radiant smile. “That was good, wasn’t it?”

  “That was—” He paused to search for the right words. “That was unbelievable. Much nicer than in my dreams.”

  “So, we can both still do it,” Mara said happily.

  They kissed again and again, walked arm in arm through the glade, and finally found a side gate in the fence around the marae and followed the path that led along the banks of the river. Their next kiss was bathed in moonlight.

  “I will never do this with anyone but you,” Mara promised.

  Eru no
dded. “I won’t either!” he assured her. “So we’ll have to get married.”

  Mara laughed. “That was the plan. Unless you changed your mind.”

  She looked at him appraisingly. Only now in the shimmering moonlight could she see Eru clearly. His childish face had become more sculpted and defined. Eru looked like his father, but had slightly lighter skin. The only other thing he had inherited from his mother was her green eyes, which gave him an exotic look. His dark hair wasn’t in a warrior’s knot.

  “What happened to your hair?” she asked. “I thought you were letting it grow.”

  Eru sighed heavily. “My mother,” he murmured. “She was fussing at me every day about it. ‘Eric, a young man shouldn’t walk around looking like a girl! Everyone will laugh at you!’” He captured her tone of voice perfectly, but it wasn’t funny. He sounded bitter.

  “Who would laugh at you?” Mara said in surprise. “All the other boys are letting their hair grow too. Well, almost all of them. A few are determined to become pakeha.”

  The tribes of the South Island were increasingly influenced by the customs of the white settlers. Unless they were taking part in an important ceremony, most of the Ngai Tahu wore Western clothing, mainly because the garments offered more warmth in the cool plains. In addition, most of Te Haitara’s tribe now also declined to get moko, the tribal tattoos that had been obligatory two decades ago. Many of the girls braided their hair, and the boys were starting to cut theirs short. But it certainly hadn’t gone so far that the traditional hairstyles would be a reason for ridicule. Young warriors were proud of their traditional knots.