Toward the Sea of Freedom (82 page)

“But that’s surely too taxing for a girl like you,” objected Mrs. MacDuff, as she filled her guests’ saddlebags with provisions.

Mr. MacDuff had reluctantly declared himself willing to present them with a young Maori for a guide. He did not want to ride into the highlands himself.

“If he’s left it to his shepherds all year, that explains the reductions among the ewes,” remarked Kathleen as they left the farm the next morning. “I’ll bet all the Maori villages around here have a quite the flock of sheep.”

“What reductions?” Michael asked.

“The losses,” said Kathleen. “I took a look at the books last night while you were comparing Scotch and Irish whiskey with Mr. MacDuff. They have horribly high losses—and that doesn’t just have to do with the careless Merino breeding.”

“Merinos produce gorgeous wool,” Michael said.

Kathleen nodded. “Fine wool, but the animals are unfortunately very sensitive. You can’t just herd them into the highlands. They sometimes have difficulty lambing, don’t breed so quickly, and are not hardy. They’re not suited to the farms here.”

“Mr. MacDuff has good-looking sheep,” Michael said, trying to assure her.

Kathleen shrugged. “Could be. I just haven’t seen them yet. The little rams were mediocre. Not so bad; you could certainly sell them, but . . .”

“Kathleen, the sheep we had in Ireland weren’t any better.”

“So? Just because Lord Wetherby didn’t know anything about sheep, we’re supposed to produce lower quality wool now? People moved past crossbreeding Merinos years ago. We once had a really cute flock of crossbreds on the farm, but Ian could hardly get rid of them because the breeding results simply varied too much.”

Michael grinned and tried to make a joke of it. “Are you talking about your Mr. Darwin?” he asked.

Kathleen arched her brows. She looked very pretty when she furrowed her forehead so seriously, but for the first time Michael recognized more stubbornness than beauty.

“No,” she ultimately answered. “I’m talking about Kiward Station, Barrington Station, Lionel Station—all of which you want to compete with, if I understood you rightly. And they have excellent breeds now: Cheviot, Welsh Mountain, Romney, Corriedale—that’s a new breed.”

Michael interrupted her. “Listen, I was the foreman at Mount Fyffe Run. I know . . .”

Kathleen thought for a moment. “That’s the farm near Kaikoura, right? I think Ian even sold them their first flock. Decent sheep, similar to these here.” In the foothills the first ewes, with their fluffy lambs, were coming into view.

Kathleen turned to the Maori shepherd, who seemed rather unskilled to her. “Can you herd them together for me?”

MacDuff’s men were not usually mounted, which no doubt made the herding in spring and fall more difficult. Nor were this man’s efforts satisfactory. Finally Kathleen set her own horse in motion, quickly bringing a dozen sheep together.

“Where did you learn all this?” Michael asked as Kathleen dismounted and approached the first animal.

Kathleen looked up at him, irritated. “I already told you: Ian and I had a farm, although Ian was only there every few days. He rode around selling animals. I took care of the livestock. Alone at first, then with Sean and Colin. Sean never enjoyed it. Now, look at the wool—do you see the differences between the individual animals? Even in terms of color . . .”

Michael shook his head in disbelief. He was barely listening. It was much too hard to comprehend what had become of his delicate goddess, Kathleen. She rode for hours, herded sheep—and now was even turning a sheep skillfully onto its back to make Michael aware of this or that peculiarity in its wool.

“If you ask me, I would not buy the sheep from MacDuff. You don’t know what you’re getting. He hasn’t even counted the livestock, and the wool quality is not uniform. The land has been overgrazed. They’re not making good use of it, and the workers don’t seem the best to me either.”

Michael’s head was spinning by the time they were ready to leave for Queenstown. Kathleen had wanted to take a look at the city, but now she was critical about the fact that it was ten miles away.

The Maori worker did not seem to feel much better than Michael about his possible new mistress, but he looked more awed than angry. “Your lady much
mana
,” he said as the men briefly rode beside each other.

Michael sighed. That was the last thing he had wanted to hear.

Chapter 2

“Forgive us if we’re disturbing you, Reverend.” The Maori girl spoke perfect, almost accent-free English and even offered a polite curtsy to Reverend Peter Burton. “We were told you might know where to find Elizabeth Portland.”

The girl was perhaps seventeen or eighteen, tall and slender for a Maori and quite pretty. Her dark-black hair was surely thick as a curtain when she wore it down. Now, however, she had bound it at the nape of her neck—a style that suited the tailored school dress she was wearing. As a missionary student in Waikouaiti, the Maori girl seemed self-assured in the whites’ city of Dunedin.

This did not apply to her two companions. The man—young and adorned with tribal tattoos, which was rare in his generation—seemed nervous, almost aggressive. He looked around Peter Burton’s cozy living room like an animal in a trap. The third of the trio was an older woman, who seemed only slightly more at peace with herself in the reverend’s living room. She, too, wore Western clothing, but her dress was too big. The strong, stout man, on the other hand, was bursting out of his shirt and pants. He carried a spear and a few jade pieces. While Peter couldn’t exactly identify them, he assumed the pieces were traditional weaponry, or related to some Maori ritual or custom. No doubt the man was a warrior, even if Peter did not find him very frightening.

Before Peter had a chance to answer about Lizzie, the girl made introductions. “I’m Haikina Hata of the Ngai Tahu tribe. My
iwi
lives above Tuapeka. This is my mother, Hainga,
tohunga
of our village, and this is Kuri Koura, son of our chief. Kuri speaks only imperfect English, but he can write his name.”

Peter wondered why she emphasized that.

“Please, excuse us, but we need to speak with Lizzie.”

The reverend nodded. “How did you come to look for her here?”

Haikina shrugged. “I asked in all the hotels, so I learned about Michael . . . And my mother knew that Lizzie is a friend of yours.”

“Miss Portland is staying with my housekeeper,” Peter explained. “But right now, she’s probably at the church. She mostly helps distribute food to the poor. There are many in need here.”

As far as that went, Peter had all but come out of the frying pan and into the fire. The new arrivals often camped in the hills near his church before making their way into the mountains. They were a thrown-together heap of men from Australia and families from England, often without any means. Some erected tents; others seemed to have completely misjudged the weather in New Zealand and were trying to sleep outside without any shelter. Of course, in summer, that was possible, but when winter came, Peter and his few assistants from the still-growing parish would have to put up tents—at least to offer women and children a shelter over their heads. Most of the families had come with the notion that gold was just lying in the streets of Dunedin. The realization that they needed money to buy equipment first, and that they would have to travel miles farther to Otago, brought many to the edge of despair. Peter distributed food, clothing, and other supplies, and he wondered if he would ever lead a life in which tents and emergency provisions and care would no longer have a part.

The old woman said something. Haikina blushed but translated dutifully. Peter looked at her questioningly.

“She says people should not run after fulfillment but instead seek gold with their own tribe. They cannot expect something will grow when they haven’t planted.”

Peter agreed but spread his arms helplessly. “I can’t change anything about it,” he said.

Haikina nodded. The chieftain’s son now uttered something as well, but Haikina didn’t translate. “So should we go to the church to look for her? We don’t mean to be a bother.”

In Dunedin, people hardly ever saw a native, and the newly immigrated had certainly never laid eyes on one. If Peter sent these three to the church now—especially the chieftain’s son, with his spear—chaos would ensue.

“I’ll fetch her if it’s all the same to you,” he suggested. “You’re welcome to wait here. That will surely be more comfortable for your mother, and then you can speak with Lizzie in private.”

Haikina translated, and the others apparently agreed.

“It won’t take me long, but how about some tea while you wait.”

Haikini nodded and followed him into the kitchen so he could show her where the pot and cups were.

“Is Lizzie sad?” she asked quietly.

Peter nodded. “I hope you don’t have bad news for her.”

Haikina shook her head. “We just want to ask her for something,” she said.

Peter saw that the Maori were not going to reveal much more to him, but he did not need to rein in his curiosity much longer.

Indeed, Lizzie was in the sacristy, where she was portioning out soup. Helping out in the church obviously provided her joy and distracted her from her worries—just as waxing and polishing his furniture seemed to. He knew she loved taking care of beautiful things, and she was able to lose herself in the tasks. Peter envied her this ability. He was always thinking of Kathleen no matter what he busied himself with. He prayed and worked until he was ready to fall over, but he could not move on from his disappointment, let alone his violent jealousy. A priest really should not be plotting murder, after all. Peter Burton was shaken to his core. He doubted his faith and the meaning of his life.

“You have visitors, Lizzie, Maori from the highlands.”

Lizzie greeted Haikina with a heartfelt embrace, the
tohunga
with a formal but thoroughly intimate
hongi
, and the chieftain’s son with a swift bow. The Ngai Tahu had long since given up the untouchability of their chieftain’s children, but one still showed them respect.

Haikina handed both Lizzie and the reverend a cup of tea. Peter took this as a sign that he was welcome in this circle. It was just a shame he did not speak any Maori.

Haikina asked the
tohunga
a question in Maori. Hainga nodded and spoke a few words in the reverend’s direction.

“She has nothing against me translating for you,” the girl said. “You know the land near the waterfall and the five spears.”

“She means the rocks that look like needles,” Lizzie added, “and really she means the gold mine, not the land itself.”

Peter nodded.

Hainga started speaking directly to Lizzie. “Right now,” Haikina translated, “the tribe is exceedingly unsettled. The gold mines on the Tuapeka River seem to be running dry, and more and more men are coming farther into the mountains to stake new claims. Our warriors have already seen such men three times on our land, men who are moving their gold pans around in the streams. So far, they have not found the waterfall. But when they do . . .”

“If they stumble on gold, they’ll overrun your land,” said Peter.

Haikina nodded. “We’d like to beat them to it by offering to give the land to Elizabeth Portland.”

“How much land?” Lizzie asked, taken aback. “Surely not all the tribe’s land.”

The chieftain’s son gesticulated violently.

“We had been thinking of the land between the waterfall and the old Drury-Timlock claim,” explained Haikina.

“But that’s, that’s well over one hundred acres.” Lizzie almost choked on her tea. “I didn’t even know that our claim belonged to the tribe. You never said anything.”

Haikina shrugged. The Ngai Tahu were traditionally generous. If there was no
tapu
on the land and it was not turned into a wasteland like Gabriel’s Gully, they did not stop anyone from setting up a tent.

“Why do you even want to give your land away?” asked the reverend. “If it clearly belongs to the tribe?”

“As long as it’s just land, it clearly belongs to us. The
pakeha
don’t want any trouble, after all. They accept that someone has to pay for the land on which they mean to settle. But gold mines? They don’t belong to anyone. Everyone would dispute our claims.”

“And they won’t do that to Lizzie?” asked Peter.

Haikina gave him a look that spoke volumes. She obviously thought him naive.

“Reverend,” she said patiently, “if Lizzie Portland places border markers and puts a gun under the nose of anyone who sets foot on her land, she’s defending her property, and everyone will applaud her. If we do the same, it’s a Maori uprising, and they send soldiers.”

Peter bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Haikina shrugged. “It’s not your fault. And Hainga was not happy to see Lizzie go anyway. The elders agreed to give her enough land for a farm. That was her plan after all. Michael wanted to breed sheep. The way it looks now . . .”

Lizzie looked completely stunned by the generous offer. “I, I’m happy to accept, of course,” she said. “At least officially, so the land has a
pakeha
owner.”