by Sarah Lark
“This is tapu,” she told Fitz with a pained expression. “The spirits of the exiled tribe live here. We shouldn’t be camping here.”
Fitz was assigned to take the next watch. Other settlers were building fires, setting up tents, collecting water, and cooking. Major McDonnell kept his people busy.
Vera overheard Linda and grimaced scornfully.
Fitz just shrugged. “Spirits don’t bite. Especially not us, since we weren’t the ones to chase those people away.”
“We’re taking their land,” Linda insisted.
Now that they were here, the reservations she’d had from the start grew stronger.
“You take what you can get,” Vera said.
Fitz pulled Linda into his arms. “Darling, you’re worrying too much again. This land belongs to the Crown now. If we don’t take it, somebody else will. And haven’t the spirits given us their blessing so far? We’re going to have a baby! And we’ll have a farm again, and the sun is shining.”
That much was true. Spring was emerging everywhere. Even the tree stumps on the side of the road were sprouting new twigs, and the weather had been beautiful all day. Not even the approaching sunset could put a chill in the air. The North Island was noticeably warmer than the plains.
Linda wished she could feel comforted in Fitz’s embrace, but the burning sensation of shame and worry remained. After Fitz had returned to his guard post, she lit a fire. She couldn’t find all the herbs she needed, but she imitated Makuto’s ritual for the dead as best she could. She evoked and pacified the spirits, and she really did begin to feel better as she sang the old songs and prayers. With deep earnestness, Linda asked the spirits for forgiveness for her people and offered her apologies for the burns they had inflicted on Papa as well as the trees that had been cut down, whose death must have angered the forest god, Tane. Then she begged for the blessing of Rangi, the sky god, for her unborn child.
“My baby will have to bear this burden, just like all the children of my people,” she whispered. “Don’t let it break my child. Don’t let me break under the curse that lies on this land.”
When Fitz returned after his watch, Linda was still sitting by the fire, brooding over the dying embers. He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked inquiringly into her pale face.
“What are you doing there?” he asked gently. “Are you feeling sick? Did you have anything to eat? You didn’t cook here, did you? There was some stew for the men. Vera, run over to the kitchen wagon and see if there’s any left.”
Vera had been perched on the wagon’s seat, looking down at Linda. “Your wife is making a fool of herself,” she said coldly. “You didn’t tell me she was mad.”
Once again, Linda set up camp inside the wagon when Fitz said he had to leave. They were probably playing cards at more than one fire. Vera rolled up in a blanket under the wagon. She and Fitz seemed to sense that it would be too much for Linda if she had to share her bed with the girl too. A few sleepless hours later, he returned. Linda’s only consolation on this awful day was that he had sought out her company, not Vera’s.
Traveling onward the next morning, Linda no longer tried to strike up a conversation with her future lady’s maid. There was a wall between her and Vera, although she didn’t know how she’d earned the girl’s animosity. Granted, perhaps Vera sensed her instinctive disapproval, but there was nothing she could say against Linda. To the contrary, Linda hadn’t fought against taking her in; she had tried to be kind. But all it had earned her was unrelenting sullenness.
When the settlers stopped to rest around noon, Vera went to speak to Fitz. He came over immediately and scolded Linda. “You shouldn’t treat the girl like that. Vera’s been through so much. You must be nicer to her.”
Linda immediately began to feel guilty, though she despised herself for it. “Did she complain?”
Fitz shook his head. “Of course she didn’t. She’s glad to be with us. But still, she’s suffering from your disapproval, I can tell. Just the way you look at her . . .”
Linda gritted her teeth. “I’ll try to look friendlier. And maybe Vera can deign to smile too.”
“She doesn’t have to smile,” he remarked coolly. “She doesn’t have to ingratiate herself with anybody.”
Linda could hear the reproach in his words. Vera would never approach a neighbor with a welcome gift.
It was almost evening when they reached the town of Patea. Much like Whanganui, it was first and foremost an army camp. The only civilians were wives and children of the military settlers, as well as officials who oversaw the allocation of land.
The land earmarked for Fitz’s regiment was secured by several stockades built by Cameron’s men. The wooden fortresses on both sides of the river were intended to be used as watch stations by the settlers. In between, parcels of land of various sizes had been surveyed. The next day, they were going to be assigned to the settlers.
Most of the plots were covered by trees; only the parcels that had formerly held Maori settlements were already mostly cleared. These were reserved for high-ranking officers.
“The rest of us have to clear the trees ourselves and build our own houses with the wood,” Fitz said.
He didn’t seem particularly excited about the idea. Linda, on the other hand, was relieved. She would have been horrified to build her farm right on top of a burned-down marae.
The next morning passed with agonizing slowness. The land allocation planned for noon was no reason for Major McDonnell to skip his crew’s drill. While the military settlers trained, Linda sat waiting on the wagon. She would have preferred to explore the township or the surrounding land, but she didn’t dare leave. There was no way she was going to do anything else that Fitz or Vera could blame her for later. Vera sat on the back of the wagon like a dark shadow and watched the soldiers throw themselves to the ground, jump up, run, aim, and fire their rifles at targets.
Linda noticed that Fitz didn’t particularly distinguish himself in the process. He was fit and agile, but his legs were rather short. He made a fine rower, but he was no runner. Additionally, he seemed entirely unfamiliar with firearms. Linda was more than surprised. Ever since somebody had brought rabbits to New Zealand, every farm child had learned to use a rifle from the time they could hold one. The animals had no natural predators here; they multiplied incredibly quickly and overgrazed entire pastures. The rabbit plague could only be controlled with regular hunting. It was a part of everyday farm life, and Linda and Carol had received their first air rifles at ten years of age. The young woman could have hit the target that had been set up for the military settlers without batting an eyelash.
Yet Fitz obviously had no idea how to handle his gun. Of course, it had been explained to him in earlier training sessions, and he was already loading the weapon capably enough, but his movements were neither graceful nor natural. Fitz looked as though he had to force himself to fire every time. Accordingly, his marksmanship suffered, and Linda’s husband seemed downright repulsed by the act of attaching a bayonet, running at a straw puppet, and piercing its chest. It was clear that Fitz was holding up his unit’s progress.
“Get on with it, Private Fitzpatrick!” shouted his sergeant. “How long do you think the Hauhau warrior is going to stand there and wait for you to finish him off?”
Fitz was about to reply, but then he thought better of it. He gave his superior an angry look, wiped the sweat from his brow, and continued. He didn’t manage to do much better the second time.
Fitz’s failure was all the more obvious because most of his comrades handled their weapons well. The former prospectors, whalers, and other adventurers were no strangers to fighting. Some might even be on the run because they’d used weapons one time too many or too well. Linda wondered if these ruffians were as apt at farming their land as they were at defending it.
Shortly before noon, Major McDonnell ended the drill, but not without giving his men a thorough dressing down first. All had been too slow for his liking, and he accus
ed them of hesitation and laziness.
“You’ll have to do much better than that!” he said. “And I warn you, even if Te Ua Haumene’s tattooed bastards never dare to attack our settlement, as military settlers you are members of the army. You can be drafted for special operations. It may only be four weeks a year, but that’s plenty long enough to get killed. So, get yourselves in bloody order and learn to fight! Now, come here and draw your tickets.”
McDonnell led his regiment over to a table and had them take up their posts. Fitz was among the last to draw. Afterward, the men gathered around a large map where the parcels were drawn. Fitz only gave it a quick glance before returning to the wagon.
“The very last parcel,” he complained. “Farther up the river than any of the others. It’s damn bad luck. Our land borders right on the wilderness.”
He showed Linda a small drawing and a slip of paper with his number on it. It was true that their parcel only had neighbors on one side, not both sides like the others. However, one of the forts sat at the end of the settlement area, and there would be fences.
Linda shrugged. “That’s not necessarily bad,” she said. “It will be easier to buy additional land later. They’re going to develop more of it, no doubt.”
“It’s almost an hour into town,” Fitz grumbled. “By horse. Even longer on foot.”
Which meant perhaps he’d spend less time at the pub and more time building their house that way, Linda thought. But she bit her tongue.
“The major has something against you,” Vera said. “The sergeant too. You can tell. They’re trying to bring you down, Fitz.”
Fitz seemed to perk up at her words. “Exactly! No doubt about it!” he crowed. “The man’s harassing me. All this damned pressure, and then the lottery ticket—”
“But you drew that ticket yourself,” Linda said. “And they pressure everyone in the army. Bill Paxton told us all about it.”
“Bill Paxton, Bill Paxton . . . ,” Fitz mimicked. “He can talk; he started as an officer. He’s probably from a rich family.” He snorted.
Linda knew better than to say more, but when Fitz started feeling sorry for himself like this, things could only get worse. “We can do some target practice if you want,” she suggested. “I can help you. When we move in tomorrow, we can set up a bull’s-eye. All you have to do—”
“Oh, really?” Fitz snapped at her. “And what else can you do better than me, Linda? Perhaps flirting with the sergeant? Or the major, even? The officers have it in for me.” He looked to Vera, who nodded vigorously. “Right, and now let’s see if we can’t change a few things. Some of the others probably aren’t very happy either.” He folded up the piece of paper with the parcel number and shoved it in his pocket.
He brushed the dust from his uniform and got to his feet. With every step away from Linda, Fitz seemed to gather more hope and self-esteem. Vera tagged eagerly behind.
Linda wondered if she should say something to stall the girl. All she did was confirm his skewed perspective. On the other hand, Vera wouldn’t let Linda tell her what she could and couldn’t do, anyway. Linda would only be provoking another biting remark that she couldn’t defend herself against. She let the girl go on her way and decided not to get any angrier than she was. It was a beautiful day, and the river sparkled in the sunshine. The land parcels were arrayed along the riverbank, and she, Linda, owned one of them! Whether Fitz was happy about it or not, they were landowners! Linda would have a new farm. She could plant a garden, and perhaps they could get some sheep next year. Ida and Karl would surely lend her some money if she wrote to them, and she had her own connections with sheep barons on the North Island too. She could open a cheese dairy, just like Ida had. There would certainly be a market for it. Patea was a growing town, and it wasn’t that far to Whanganui either. The large army base was in constant need of provisions.
Linda’s heart grew lighter the more she thought about it all, and she could hardly wait to see her new land. Without a moment’s hesitation, she saddled Brianna. Fitz could do what he wanted. She’d go have a look at their land right now. She was reasonably sure that he wouldn’t manage to swap with anybody. The border parcels were probably unpopular, and who knew if the army command would even allow such an exchange?
In a better mood than she’d been in all last month, Linda glanced at the little drawing with the parcels, memorized where theirs was, and cantered off to the north. Brianna, apparently glad to be rid of the wagon, moved along at a lively pace. Amy followed, barking happily. After a short while, Linda had left the army camp behind. She passed a few men who had set off on foot to explore their own new land, and then she was alone with her animals in a luscious, green, fertile stretch of fields between the hills and the river. Linda felt like she could breathe for the first time in months as she rode over the floodplains, recognizing raupo and beech trees, ferns, rimu, and pohutukawa, which bloomed deep red like the rata back at Rata Station. Massive kahikatea and pukatea stretched their limbs toward the sky. There would probably be kauri here too. Linda thought uneasily of the Maori for whom the giant trees were sacred. The high mountain in the distance behind the lazily flowing river was sacred to them too: Mount Taranaki, the volcano that had given this region its name. It shimmered bluish in the sun, its peak covered in snow.
The landscape in Taranaki was dotted with hills, not flat like the plains had been. But the land sloped gently toward the river, and on both sides of the Patea, some areas were almost flat. Linda thought they would be good for fields and pastures. The house itself should probably be built on one of the hills.
Linda oriented herself by the river’s curves and the forts that rose up every few miles on the right or left side of the river. She greeted the watchmen and felt relieved when they immediately acknowledged her. The men were watchful, though Linda wasn’t sure if they’d be able to spot a troop of trained Maori warriors in the undergrowth. The settlement was yet to be secured by embankments and fences, in any case. Linda decided not to worry about it. Finally, she reached a prominent bend in the river. On the other side of the Patea, perhaps a quarter mile away, she saw the fort tower that marked the last corner of settlement land. Here it was—her land!
Linda looked around ecstatically. Their parcel was beautiful, much nicer than all the others she’d passed on the way. The land sloped down slightly toward the river, and there were no trees on the bank. It would be easy enough to plow. The land opened up into rolling hills in the distance, and one reminded her of the hill at Rata Station where Chris had built the stone house for Jane. In her mind’s eye, Linda’s new house took shape there. A much humbler one, of course: a sturdy log cabin. It would have a terrace facing the river, and one would be able to look down at the Patea to see if a boat was passing. It would also be good to build a pier for the mail boat to stop at, just like they’d had at home.
Linda thought contentedly of her new permanent postal address. She could write to Ida and Carol. She wouldn’t feel as lonely as she had the past year. Maybe she could get closer to Fitz again. And soon she’d have a little girl or boy! Linda felt a sudden rush of excitement about her baby. She daydreamed that she was sitting on the patio of her new house, rocking the little one in her arms. She could see the child playing in the garden and splashing around in the river. He’d have a childhood like hers and Carol’s after all.
And Fitz would surely be a good father. He was such a child himself that he’d probably make his son or daughter laugh all day long. The happier Linda felt on her own land, the more her trouble with Fitz seemed to fade into the background. Once they were here and working on the farm together, they’d get along better. To hell with the army! The three years Fitz had committed himself to would go by quickly. As a military settler, he was really only expected to defend his own land. And here, with this parcel, they were far from where any action would be. After his basic training, Fitz would surely be assigned guard duty at the fort next door instead of having to go into Patea every day. He’d rarely s
ee Major McDonnell.
Linda guided her horse away from the river and a little deeper into her land. The parcels were long and narrow—perhaps two of the twenty acres bordered on the river, and the rest went inland in the shape of a long rectangle. Linda explored the hills. There were places without woodland growth here too; how lucky they’d been! Linda could easily imagine fat sheep nibbling away the undergrowth, and the year after that, green grass would cover the hills like a thick green carpet.
“What do you think, Amy? A hundred sheep?” she asked the small dog. “Why don’t we start with a hundred sheep?”
Amy tilted her head, seeming to think it over, and then barked once.
Linda laughed. “It’s a deal, then.”
Amy didn’t go back to frolicking around, but instead turned her head, catching a scent. Linda followed her up a hill and stopped Brianna on the knoll to enjoy the view of a valley dominated by an enormous kauri tree. It was so high that it would surely tower above Cameron’s fortress, and the trunk’s circumference must have been more than five yards around. The kauri tree stood all alone, either because no other trees would grow around it or because somebody had cut them down to give it some space.
Amy’s curiosity, however, wasn’t directed at the tree, but at a woman sitting in front of it. She was holding kawakawa leaves in one hand, and a tiki wananga, a staff carved with idols, in the other. She was singing. Linda wasn’t sure if the sharp sounds she uttered were maimai or manawawera, laments for the dead. In any case, the woman was pouring out her sadness, anger, and loss.
Linda led her mare down the hill. As she got closer to the woman, she dismounted. Others might have thought this risky, but Linda knew better. Maimai and manawawera hakas had to be sung by multiple voices and accompanied by dancers. If this woman was singing her lament by herself, then she was alone. And she was old. Her face was sunken and deeply creased, and there were only a few dark strands left in her white hair. Linda couldn’t see any tattoos. She might well be a priestess, her rank so high that not even a moko master would dare to spill her blood. Her tiki wananga, with many tapus placed on it, also indicated this. A common woman wouldn’t have even dared to touch one.