Knowing her parents would pay no attention, Mara bit back a few tart words about her father’s opinion of her relationship with Eru. She listened grudgingly as he reported the day’s events to Ida.
“Simson can be glad that he survived his misdeed,” Karl said. “A priestess caught him red-handed as he was about to swing the ax to cut down her holy kauri tree. She made a huge scene, and a few warriors caught wind of it and stopped him. I don’t want to think about what might have happened if he had managed to do it.”
Ida nodded. “What about the other farmer?” she asked. “Why was there trouble with Mr. Carter?”
Karl smiled. “In his case, the mistake was the tribe’s. You know how they think. For them, the land belongs to whoever uses it. Since Carter had neither sown the field nor used it for grazing his sheep, one of the women decided she wanted to expand her kumara garden. She didn’t understand why he was so upset. But he shouldn’t destroy her garden either! Now we have clarified matters, and they all reached an agreement. This year, the woman can harvest her sweet potatoes and give half of them to Mr. Carter. Next year, she won’t plant in the field again. It was only a misunderstanding. The farmer wasn’t even particularly concerned about the half acre she used. He was just afraid that the tribe would continue that way.”
“Then at least in that case everything worked out for the best.”
Karl took Ida’s arm, and the two of them walked between the cheerfully glowing fires. Mara followed. The women had begun their cooking and roasting. Delicious aromas were spreading through the village, and they made Mara hungry. But before they could eat, they’d have to listen to the sermon.
As twilight fell, a little boy announced that three warriors were approaching the village. “Te Ua Haumene is coming!”
Ida furrowed her brow. “What is the man, anyway? A warrior, a priest, or a prophet?”
Father O’Toole, who was sitting at a nearby fire, shrugged. “I don’t know. But I hope he’s an asset to Christianity in this country. The issue with the tree today that the Maori were praying to . . . they probably wouldn’t understand, but for me, it’s like a slap in the face. It’s as though my life’s work was for nothing. I’ve known this tribe for decades. I’ve taught their children, baptized their people . . . and now this! Perhaps I should go back to Ireland.”
The missionary looked depressed. Karl handed him the whiskey bottle.
“Come now, Father,” he said. “They just can’t give up their gods and spirits so fast. After thousands of years of Christianity, don’t the Irish still have ‘lepichans’? Isn’t that what they call the little spirits they build huts in their gardens for?”
A smile stole over the priest’s face. “You mean leprechauns. And those huts . . . I suspect they are used by my countrymen to hide the extra whiskey from their wives. But yes, I suppose the old beliefs sometimes survive alongside the new ones.”
“That’s exactly how you have to look at it,” Karl said. “So don’t be upset with the Maori. Personally, I think Simson’s behavior was far more scandalous. He actually believed he could do whatever he wanted to the tribe and still be protected by the English Crown.”
O’Toole sighed. “Yes. Our white countrymen aren’t all good Christians. Sometimes—oh, don’t listen to me, sometimes I think too much. There are also Maori who are baptized and then still do whatever they want. There have been senseless battles in recent years because one stubborn, probably drunken chieftain cut down a flagpole, and the public authorities took it as a personal attack on the Crown. And the natives are understandably defending themselves against their land being seized by people like Simson. If a Maori Christ has appeared and wants to be a teacher, I will accept him as a shining light in the darkness. I only hope I won’t be disappointed.”
Te Ua Haumene was a stately man of middle age. The prophet had a wide face and no tattoos. He had sideburns, and heavy brows over his sleepy-looking dark eyes. His garments were neither the cassock of a Catholic priest nor the traditional black suit of an Anglican missionary. His was the attire of a well-to-do Maori: a finely woven top over a skirtlike loincloth made of flax, and an elaborate cape worthy of a chieftain. His companions were more simply dressed in traditional warrior garb.
Father O’Toole watched, his face impassive. The women of the tribe approached Te Ua Haumene just as enthusiastically as they had the priest, and devoutly asked for his blessing.
The Maori men mostly hung back. Two of the village elders exchanged hongi with the prophet, as did a relative of the chieftain, but not Maihi himself. North Island chieftains often kept a symbolic distance from their subjects.
The chieftain’s wife offered Te Ua Haumene and his men a place by the central fire, which they accepted. They were obviously hungry after their journey. The prophet came from Taranaki, but he preached to a different tribe every few days, accepting each one’s hospitality. The Ngati Hine obviously enjoyed providing it to their guest. The tribe honored their visitor with a delicious meal and a complex greeting ceremony. Every now and then, the chieftain’s wife would gesture to Father O’Toole, and several villagers showed Te Ua their crosses. But the prophet made only a vague gesture of greeting in O’Toole’s direction.
“Perhaps he has something against Papists—I mean, Catholics,” Ida said, trying to comfort the slighted clergyman. “He was trained by Anglicans, after all.”
Father O’Toole shrugged sadly. Karl handed him the whiskey bottle, and he accepted it gratefully.
Mara wished she could take a swallow too. In the meantime, she had eaten her fill, and she was bored again.
When Te Ua Haumene finally stood to speak, it was already dark. The moon was shining, and its light, together with that of the flickering fires, lent the scene an almost ghostly atmosphere. The wind blew the prophet’s long hair back from his face.
“I welcome you, wind!” Te Ua Haumene said. He didn’t look at his audience as he spoke; his eyes were fixed on the sky. “Your messenger greets you!”
Father O’Toole translated for Karl and Ida.
“Messenger?” Ida asked.
“Haumene means ‘man of the wind,’” Mara remarked and then stood up to get some water, disturbing the reverent silence. The prophet looked at her sharply.
“Hear through my mouth the words of God. The wind blows to us his spirit, the good news, the new gospel. I bring it to believers!”
“Pai marire,” chanted the two warriors who accompanied the prophet.
“Pai marire!” Te Ua cried, and his listeners repeated it in chorus.
“That means ‘peace,’ doesn’t it?” Karl asked his daughter and the priest.
They both nodded. “Goodness and peace, to be exact,” O’Toole said. “That’s what they call their religious movement. Or sometimes Hauhau.”
“But what does he mean by ‘the new gospel’?” Ida asked doubtfully.
A morose expression came over the priest’s face.
“I greet you, my people, my chosen people . . .” Te Ua Haumene paused for a moment to allow his words to take effect.
O’Toole sighed quietly.
“I am here to bring you together in his name,” Te Ua continued. “I call you, as I was called myself by the greatest of all chieftains—by Te Ariki Mikaera, commander of the forces of heaven.”