Kiwi Strong (New Zealand Ever After Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  I said, “You’re right. That’s how Mount Zion works. You don’t feel like you have a choice. That’s what they do to you. And if she left without force … there’s a reason. She wanted to go to high school, but more than that. She wanted to leave Gilead. She wanted to be free.”

  “Hence,” Hayden said, “the plan.”

  55

  The Plan

  Daisy

  It was six o’clock on Sunday morning. Another sunrise, the lowering clouds promising rain and streaked with red. And a caravan of vehicles driving up the road to Mount Zion, turning down the cinder track. Not over the electric fence this time. Driving all the way to the back gate, where the hostels and the dining room and the laundry were, and stopping there.

  Gray and Honor and I were the first to climb out, because we’d led the caravan. Behind us, Iris and Oriana got out of an ancient SUV. And then there were the rest of them.

  Dorian and Chelsea, because when I’d called, my twin had answered. His first time back on this ground. He was scared, but he was here. Drew Callahan, who’d taken his family home, then climbed into his car at two in the morning and driven through the night with us. Kane and Victoria, and Luke and Hayden. Matiu and Poppy and the kids, coming straight off Matiu’s evening shift. Everybody we’d called. Everybody who’d turned up in answer.

  And all the others.

  Six women from Honor’s cleaning crew. Single mums with their kids, women with their partners. A young girl just starting out, and a grandmother. The woman who owned the café, too, whom I’d seen opening up her restaurant on the day the girls had got out. Two clerks from the supermarket, and the manager of the hardware store. Gray’s mate Rangi and his family, and the others he’d brought along. Half of Wanaka, it seemed, was here, one person calling another.

  And the rugby players. Twelve members of the Highlanders squad, standing in a single row, facing the fence, arms crossed like they were about to do the haka. That big, and that menacing. Kane and Luke took a place at the end of the row, and the average height and weight got a little higher.

  A scramble, then, as cameras and sound equipment were hauled out of vans and set up. A cameraman from a local TV station, the reporter out front, her back to the fence, testing the mike while the cameraman panned over the gathered crowd. And a man from the newspaper, with another photographer.

  Everybody Gray and Honor and Drew Callahan and I could call on was here, and they were still coming. Car doors slamming, people spilling out.

  On the other side of the fence, figures in brown and white were starting to come out of the hostels, the kitchens, the barns. Women adjusting caps and retying aprons, standing back close to the buildings, arms folded tight around themselves, whispering to each other. Kids standing beside them, quieter and more still than kids would have been anyplace else. Anyplace where obedience wasn’t prized above everything.

  And from the milking shed, men running fast.

  Including my father.

  Gray walked over to the media people for a word, then came back to me and asked, “Ready?”

  “I’ve been ready for twelve years,” I told him. My heart was beating harder than it ever had in my life, and every muscle was tense. But I wasn’t scared, not this time. I wasn’t sixteen, and I wasn’t friendless.

  My name was Daisy Nabhitha Kittredge. I’d chosen it myself.

  Gray pulled a loud-hailer out of the back seat, and the light in the sky continued its slow, spectacular progression from red to orange. A backdrop to a drama.

  Showtime.

  Gray’s voice boomed out. “Attention Mount Zion. We’ve come to talk to Frankie Kittredge. Bring her out.”

  The figures in caps and aprons got a little more animated, shifting from foot to foot. The men formed up into a row in front of them. And then both lines parted, because the Prophet was making his way through them.

  My great-uncle, Steadfast Pilgrim. White shirt. Brown trousers. White hair and spectacles. Looking strong in his righteousness. Looking holy.

  I wanted to shrink back. I didn’t.

  Directly behind the Prophet, Uncle Aaron stood, his hand on the shoulder of his oldest son. My cousin Gabriel. Twenty-four years old, his blond hair shining, looking like the archangel for whom he’d been named.

  The Prophet walked forward, and the rest of the community moved with him like a wave until he stopped fifteen meters on his side of the fence and raised his voice to cover the distance. It projected easily. He was used to addressing a crowd.

  “It’s the Lord’s day,” he said. “No day to sin.”

  “You’re right,” Gray said. “That’s why we’re here. There’s nothing more godly than this.”

  “You say that,” the Prophet said. “Heathen.” His voice rose higher and rang out in the morning stillness. “Worshipers of worldly temptation. Painted women and fornicators, here to tempt the worthy. You have no place here. You have no home here.”

  A nervous shuffle of feet behind him. A stirring of something.

  Gray said, “Bring her out. Bring Frankie.”

  We knew she was here. Uncle Aaron had rung back at midnight and told us so. The six hours between then and now had been agony.

  The Prophet said, “There is nobody by that name here.”

  I took the loud-hailer from Gray and said, “Bring my sister out. Fruitful Warrior. Bring her out to talk to us.”

  “She is in the hands of her appointed husband,” the Prophet said. “That is his decision to make, not mine.”

  “She was abducted by him, you mean,” I said. “The eyes of New Zealand are on you. There’s nowhere to hide. If she wants to be here, bring her out to tell us so.”

  “The eyes of New Zealand are on me?” he said. “I see a band of sinners who have forsaken God’s ways. I see heathens and whores. I see nothing but the wicked and the damned.”

  Movement behind me, and I turned to find Drew Callahan standing there. Sir Andrew Callahan, once and always captain of the All Blacks.

  “Give it to me,” he said.

  I did.

  He said, “Come on, boys,” and his team walked over to join him, then formed up in their row again.

  Huge. Formidable.

  Drew held the loud-hailer to his mouth and said, “This is Drew Callahan. Bring that girl out to talk to her sister, or you won’t answer to Daisy. You’ll answer to Gray Tamatoa. You’ll answer to the law. And you’ll answer to me.”

  “I answer to nobody but God,” the Prophet said.

  “Eventually,” Drew said. “In the short term, answering to me hurts more.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, the list Victoria had drawn up for him the night before. He held it up to show the Prophet, and then he read from it. Slowly, and with emphasis.

  “Section 128 of the Crimes Act,” the voice that had launched hundreds of epic battles rang out. A voice New Zealand would listen to. A voice they’d care about. “Rape. Fourteen years. Section 189. Injuring with intent. Five to ten years. Section 189A. Strangulation or suffocation. Seven years. Section 194A. Assault on person in family relationship. Two years. And violation of a protection order. Three years.” He lowered the loud-hailer, then raised it again. “And accessory after the fact to crime. Five years, or half the maximum term of imprisonment. That would be you.”

  The Prophet said, “A fine list. But nobody has laid a complaint.”

  I took the loud-hailer from Drew and said, “That isn’t Frankie’s list. That’s mine. And it’s not the complaint I will make. It’s the complaint I already have. I went to the police and did it last night. Twelve years too late, and not a minute too soon. I imagine you’ll be seeing them here later today. Another good use of the Lord’s day. Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

  “The Prophet said. “Blasphemer. Liar. Whore.”

  Gray was all but quivering beside me. In another minute, he was going through the fence. I said, “No. The truth. Unless you bring Frankie out here, I’ll ta
ke you down along with Gilead. I’ll tell them everything. And then I’ll write a book.”

  A long, long moment, the only sounds the far-off barking of a dog, the rumble of generators, the lowing of a milk cow who hadn’t been milked. And two hundred people holding their breath. I stared at my great-uncle, and he stared back at me. I could see my father on his right. “The strong right hand of the Prophet,” he’d have called it. I could see my mother, too. Standing behind him, shrunken and silent and small. My throat ached to see her. The first time in twelve years.

  A flurry in the crowd, and running feet. Frankie, bursting through. And somebody else, holding her hand. The taller girl shouted, “It’s Prudence. I got her, Daisy. I got her out.”

  Frankie’s face was swollen. Not just from tears. From blows. He’d slapped her. Back and forth, over and over.

  The crowd was silent. The cameras kept filming. I stepped forward until I was a bare half meter from the fence and called to my sister. “All you have to do is come with me. All you have to do is come.”

  She took a step, then stopped. She said, “He said … he said …”

  A struggle, behind her. Gilead, being held back by Uncle Aaron. And by Gabriel, tall and strong. Gilead was shouting. Spewing the words. Ugly. Brutal.

  I said, “He told you he’d come after Oriana. That he’d come after Honor. That he’d come after me. That we’d have no safety and no peace unless you came back.”

  She didn’t say anything. She choked back a sob and nodded.

  I said, “It’s not true, baby. It’s not true. We’re here. We’ve got the law behind us. We’ve got strength and protection and power behind us. He’s got nothing. He’s going to prison. All you have to do is say that you want to leave, and you’re free.”

  Frankie was clutching Prudence’s hand. The two of them, peas in a pod, always. Prudence was crying, and she was pushing Frankie forward, saying, “Go. You have to go, Frankie. The minute I can, I’m coming, too. Go.”

  The Prophet shouted, “Hell awaits the ungodly woman.”

  Frankie didn’t even look at him. She turned and hugged Prudence hard, then walked to the gate. She stood there a minute, a meter away from freedom, and then she took off her cap and dropped it on the ground. She untied her apron, stripped it off, and dropped it. She worked the ugly white shoes off her feet, kicked them aside, and stood there, the brown dress shapeless around her, and pulled the pins out of her hair. And the cameras recorded it all.

  “I want to go,” she said, her dark eyes burning in her face, where the marks of slaps stood out, livid. “I want to leave.”

  Gray had the loud-hailer again. “Open the gate,” he said. “Open it now.”

  The Prophet stood still.

  I never saw who hit the button. I suspected it was Uncle Aaron. There was a buzz, and the gate retracted. And Frankie stepped across the line.

  Barefoot. Pockets empty. Carrying nothing, and owning nothing.

  Free.

  Gray

  Oriana gave a cry and ran forward, throwing her arms around her sister. Mum was there, and so was Daisy. I wasn’t.

  I lifted the loud-hailer again and said, “The rest of you have a choice, too. You’re hard workers. Skilled laborers. There’s a world of work out there, and it’s waiting for people like you. I’m a builder. In Dunedin, just down the road, but I was born in Wanaka, just like all of you. I’ve got good jobs going begging. Too much work, and not enough labor, so if any man here wants to give it a go, I’m willing to give him a try. All you have to do is step across the line. I’ve got people to help get you started, ready to hook you up with agencies and with churches that are waiting for you. They’re out there. They believe in God, too, just like you. They believe in goodness and compassion and service given from a willing heart, and they’re there for you.”

  “Deceiver,” the Prophet shouted, losing some of his holy-man equanimity. “Serpent.”

  “Daisy has done it,” I said. “So has her brother. So have her sisters. There’s money in your pocket, a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work. There’s a house of your own and a life for your daughters and your sons. All you have to do is step across the line.”

  Mum was beside me, grabbing the loud-hailer without so much as a by-your-leave. She said, “I know you women know how to keep a house. There are jobs going begging out there for you, too. That, and more. You can learn a trade of your own. I’m Honor Tamatoa, and I’m here to help you do it.”

  The Prophet said, “Harlot. You’ll burn in Hell.”

  “No,” Mum said. “You will. So come on, ladies,” she called out, dropping the loud-hailer and projecting from her considerable depths. “Come on and try it. It’s a beautiful world. All you have to do is join it.”

  The Prophet said, “Stay where you are. All of you.”

  A man stepped forward. “Uncle Aaron,” Daisy said from beside me, but I could have guessed. He raised his voice and said, “My family stays or goes as they please. I’ll hold no one prisoner.”

  A long, tense silence, and a young man said, “Radiance and I choose to go.” His wife, with a baby in her arms, took a step, and he took her hand. Then he picked up a toddler and said, “Let’s go.” And walked across the line.

  The blond who’d been holding Gilead back, one of Aaron’s sons, I guessed, handed him off to another man and did the same. All alone.

  Nobody else moved. And then Aaron nodded to a woman, and they stepped forward together, a teenage girl with them.

  “You’re not leaving,” the Prophet said. “You’re my blood.”

  “I’m sorry,” Uncle Aaron said. “But it’s time to go.”

  When he stepped across the line, the crowd behind the Prophet stepped back, the confusion and fear so thick, you could nearly smell it. A click, a grinding sound, and the fence began to slide back into place.

  I called out, “That doesn’t have to hold you in. Any of you. There’s a whole new life waiting, just down the road. All you have to do is cross the line.”

  A stronger stir, there at the back, and somebody was pushing and shoving his way through the crowd. And then he was running.

  Not somebody trying to leave. Gilead. Sharp face, all angles and planes. Aggression on him like a stink.

  The gate was closing. He made it through the gap. And by the time he did it, I was there.

  He came for me like a bull, but I was the one with the red mist in my vision. So many reasons to hurt him, and every excuse in the world. Self-defense. Defense of Daisy, and of Frankie. On camera, with a couple hundred witnesses.

  He was going to barrel into me, throwing punches all the way.

  I let him come. And then I sidestepped.

  It took him three steps to turn, but when he did, he went for my face.

  I turned my body at the last moment, and the right jab went past me. And I caught the left hook that was coming along with it, my hand meeting his fist with all my hundred Kg’s of weight and a lifetime of strength behind it. I caught it, and I held it.

  Impasse.

  That left me face-on to him, one hand occupied, and he saw his chance. He was going for it. I could see his right arm going back for the punch of his life. A king hit to the face. In his dreams.

  I kept my eyes on his and sent a fist straight and hard into his solar plexus, and he stood stock-still, like a steer stunned in the slaughterhouse. And then he started to go down.

  Immense pain. Paroxysm of the nerves. A little retching. He’d be fine. No lasting harm done.

  I’d passed the test.

  I put an elbow into his nose on the way down, though. It broke.

  I never said I was perfect.

  56

  You and Me

  Gray

  We caravanned to Mum’s place, because there was too much to sort out, and we couldn’t do it in sight of Mount Zion. The ones who were leaving would be doing it the same way Daisy had that first night, I was sure. Like the hounds of hell were on their heels. Everybody bundled back into
cars and headed out. Daisy and I put Frankie in the back seat of the ute with Mum on one side and Oriana on the other, holding her hands, and when we got to the house, the women took Frankie inside. To clean up, I hoped. To cry. And to know she was safe.

  It was a matter of logistics, then. “Does anybody prefer to stay here?” I asked. “In Wanaka? The jobs I was talking about are in Dunedin with me, but there’s work here as well.”

  Rangi called out, “Speak for yourself, mate. I could use a good man or two.”

  I said, “Shut up. They’re mine.” Which caused some laughter.

  Aaron said, “We’ll go to Dunedin. This is too close.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s one thing sorted. Now—temporary housing. I can get a caravan, for now, and park it on my section.”

  Poppy, Matiu’s wife, said, “We have an apartment, empty for now. It’s attached to the house, but separate, with your own entrance. Walking distance to town. That would work, especially for kids. Built-in playmates, eh, and clothes and toys to borrow. Also, my dad’s a builder himself. I imagine he has work as well, if any of the others want to leave.”

  “What did I say,” I told her, “about poaching on my turf?” And she laughed.

  “Are you sure?” Aaron asked soberly. “That’s a commitment, even for a short time.”

  Poppy glanced at Matiu, who turned a laughing gaze to me, with a tiny shrug, like he was saying, Two years ago, I was a carefree bachelor, and now I’m going to be living in a house with, what, six kids? But she’s pregnant, and I love her. What’s a man to do? Which I understood.

  Poppy smiled herself, sunnily, as if she knew exactly what her husband was thinking, but he was going to have to get used to it, and said, “Yes. I’m sure. It’ll be fun.” She asked the woman with the little kids, Radiance, “Would you like to come stay with us for now?”

  “Very much,” Radiance said shyly, after a glance at her husband, a nod from him.