The men set off, and Ida and Mara followed the young woman who had shown them her cross. She invited them to help prepare a big evening meal. The women of the tribe chatted excitedly, and some brought sweet potatoes and raupo roots to the meeting ground to peel and chop. Others brought birds and fish to roast over open fires.
Ida automatically reached for a knife and began to peel vegetables. Mara noted how naturally her mother fit in. Ida Jensch had smooth, dark hair, which she wore pinned up in a style that was becoming more popular among Maori women as well. The North Island sunshine had tanned Ida’s skin; she was no longer as pale as she had once been. But her porcelain-blue eyes made her immediately identifiable as an outsider—as did her difficulties with the language.
“Do I understand correctly, Mara, that they are planning a feast?” she asked her daughter. “I mean . . . of course that’s very nice. But it’s a little strange, isn’t it? They greeted us with a war dance. Does the chieftain really wish to honor those farmers?”
Mara had already asked a few girls her own age about it, and their answer had been a relief. A feast would have meant they’d have to spend the night with the Ngati Hine.
“The feast isn’t for us, Mama,” she replied. “They’ve been planning it for a while. Kawa, the chieftain’s wife, is very excited about it. They are expecting a missionary to arrive tonight, a preacher. Te Ua Haumene is Maori, from a tribe in the Taranaki region. He was raised in a mission there and studied the Bible. Then he served in other missions, and now he will probably be ordained as a priest. Apparently, he’s seen as a kind of prophet. Some of their gods told him something important. He wants to give a sermon about it today.”
“But there are no new prophets,” Ida said sternly. “If there were, then . . . the Bible would have to be rewritten.”
Mara shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out soon, assuming Mr. Johnson doesn’t get into a fight with the chieftain. The women have already invited us to the sermon. And Father O’Toole will surely want to stay for it. Even if Te Ua Haumene is Anglican or whatever.”
“Oh yes, Father O’Toole is great man, good Christian,” said a Maori woman who’d been peeling vegetables next to Ida. She seemed very proud to show off her English. “We read stories from Bible in our language. And now even better! Now Te Ua Haumene own prophet for Maori. Write own Bible for own people.”
Chapter 2
The men returned just two hours after they’d left. The chieftain and the tribal elder, who were walking next to the pakeha on their horses, smiled broadly, and Kennard Johnson and his men looked relaxed. Even Carter seemed to be satisfied. Only Simson was brooding.
“I won’t let them get away with it,” he grumbled to Karl and Father O’Toole. “I’ll involve the governor, and even the Crown. England has to protect a man’s rights!”
“You can’t go out and cut down your neighbor’s trees in England either,” Kennard Johnson said bluntly. “Though maybe they wouldn’t immediately threaten to kill you for trying. The chieftain did rather overreact.”
“That tree is holy for the tribe,” Karl said. “And you saw it yourself. It’s a splendid kauri tree, hundreds if not thousands of years old.”
“Worth hundreds if not thousands of dollars!” Simson cried. “It’s the best wood. They’re drooling over it in Wellington. And the old lady said herself that they didn’t even want the land.”
He pointed rudely at the tribal elder, who was walking calmly next to the chieftain, not dignifying Simson with a glance.
“She didn’t say that,” Karl replied. “I keep telling you: they have a claim to that land, which they made clear when the rest was sold. I drew the map for them. All she means is that the land is not for their use but for the spirits who own the tree. That must be respected.”
“I thought they were baptized!” Simson persisted.
The men got off their horses and tied them to a post.
Mara moved closer. If her father didn’t unsaddle his horse, there was a good chance that they would soon be on their way. Perhaps they would get around the sermon somehow. But Karl patted his horse on the neck and took the saddle off.
“Don’t you think it’s wrong, Reverend?” Simson asked.
“Father,” O’Toole said, correcting him. He looked as though he’d just bitten a lemon. “To be honest, I’m a little torn. My beliefs tell me to chop down a tree like this, in the tradition of St. Boniface. The Lord says we should not bow down to false idols. On the other hand, it’s a beautiful tree, and a glorious example of the wonder of his creation.”
“Mr. Simson, it doesn’t matter what Father O’Toole says about it,” Karl said, interrupting the priest’s sermon. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a special tree either, or a southern beech like all the others. The only thing that matters is if the tree is standing on your land or the neighbors’ land. In this case, the land clearly belongs to the Ngati Hine. The tree belongs to them, too, so do what’s right and leave it alone.”
“And don’t go thinking you’ll get away with it somehow if you just chop it down anyway,” Kennard Johnson added. “The Crown doesn’t want to start a war if Maihi massacres you for it. There are precedents. Remember Wairau!”
In Wairau, many Europeans had lost their lives after a pakeha man shot a chieftain’s wife. The governor later accepted responsibility for the colonists and apologized to the Maori instead of avenging his people.
Simson finally rode away in annoyance, and the chieftain invited the remaining men to the party and to the prophet’s sermon. Carter accepted. For him, the decision had been positive. Carter took a bottle of whiskey out of his saddlebag, sent it around the circle to celebrate the peaceful resolution, and then took a few deep swallows. Afterward, he sat by the fire with the English soldiers, surrounded by giggling Maori girls.
Mara saw her hopes of a quick departure melting away.
“Does that mean we’re staying the night?” she said, turning to her father as he looked around for Ida.
Karl shrugged. “Father O’Toole is determined to hear the prophet’s sermon, and Mr. Johnson is moving as though he’s in pain. It’s not likely that he’ll want to get back on a horse tonight.”
Mara frowned. “I thought—”
“I can’t change it, Mara,” Karl replied. “You know I’m just as keen to get to Rata Station as you are. And for more important reasons, my dear. You just want to see Eru as soon as possible, and that will present its own set of difficulties. Jane will defend her son with tooth and claw.”
Mara glared at her father. “I can be tough too, if I want.”
Karl laughed. “When you and Eru are grown, Mara, you can fight his mother for him. Or you can just let him choose for himself. But now you’re only fifteen, and he’s fourteen, if I remember correctly. You’ll just have to comply with Jane’s wishes. Your mother and I are of the same opinion, by the way. Eru is a nice boy, and perhaps someday you’ll be a couple. But at the moment, you’re both much too young.” His eyes lit up. “Oh, there’s your mother.”