Toward the Sea of Freedom (45 page)

Smithers insisted on the whole night, but did not demand much of Lizzie. It nauseated her, but he mauled her with wet kisses and asked her repeatedly to curtsy in her apron and bonnet and say phrases like: “Dinner is served.” His advances hardly caused her pain. He was rather an unimaginative lover. Nevertheless, Lizzie did her best to make the night special for him. She held up her end of the bargain and proved more active, tender, and willing than in Campbell Town.

Early in the morning, Smithers fell asleep. Lizzie lay next to him a while longer, as if on coals. She wanted to go home. The sooner she took a vinegar douche, the better. And a little sleep before work would be nice, of course. She was deathly tired. But she could hardly hope for rest. It was five in the morning, and her work began at half past six.

Lizzie cast a final glance at the man in bed as she gathered her bag and stole quietly from the room. She hoped never to see him again.

Unfortunately, the innkeeper was already awake and busy in the kitchen wing. The back door was blocked, and Lizzie did not dare slink out the front. She waited impatiently until the innkeeper went into the front of the house, then she ran back to the Busbys. It was cold on the road and in the kitchen, but Lizzie took a pitcher of icy water to her room and washed herself as thoroughly as she could. She had forgotten the vinegar. Once, she had always kept a small bottle on hand, but this was her first douche in years.

Lizzie ran to the kitchen, hoping to get the vinegar before the cook arrived. If she had to she could make up some story for the cook, but a pregnancy could not be hidden. On the way back to her room from the kitchen, she suddenly heard voices.

“At this hour, Mr. Smithers?” James Busby’s aggravated voice came from the receiving room. “Could your urgent news not have waited a bit? You’ve dragged us from our beds, sir.”

“By the time you woke on your own, the criminal might well be on her way to the next town,” Martin Smithers said.

That bastard! She had given him his night, but here he was to betray her.

“I was not sure yesterday if it really was the girl, but when she came to my hotel last night . . .”

Lizzie felt sick. All Lizzie had was the desire to weep. She had not managed to protect her virtue. Worse, she had sold herself anew.

But for now she was still free. By the time the sleepy Busby had made sense of Smithers’s frantic telling of the story and taken action to seize her, she could be gone. If only she had a destination. Lizzie could not hide in Russell, or Kororareka as the Maori called it. Though it was not far, it was too small, and in a whaling camp, a woman on her own was fair game. She might get by as a whore, but as soon as there was a small bounty for her, her next customer would hand her over.

The Maori village
, she suddenly thought, and a great relief washed over her. Why hadn’t she thought of this the day before? Her Maori friends would not betray her, and the
pakeha
would not dare press into a Ngati Pau village on suspicion alone.

Lizzie couldn’t risk returning to her room, but on her way out of the house, she met the cook, Ruiha, and Kaewa, the other kitchen girl.

The three women listened to Lizzie’s confused story. She did not know if they understood everything, but at least there was no doubt that she was welcome in the village.

“You can stay as long as you want,” said Kaewa.

“Could you . . . my things?”

Lizzie wanted to ask the girls to bring her bag, but she was so exhausted and overwhelmed, her ability to express this in Maori faltered. The bag she had packed the night before was still in her room. She somehow made herself clear enough, and Ruiha nodded gently and thoughtfully, as was her manner.

Despite the early hour, the tribe’s
marae
was already bustling with activity: the women were preparing flatbread on an open fire and feeding the
hangi
ovens, the children were playing, and the men were caring for the livestock—the tribe now kept sheep. Lizzie was received with excitement. No one asked what she was doing there on a workday, but the women noticed her confusion and fear.

“Are you sick?” Ruiha’s mother asked. “Go to Tepora. She’s speaking with the gods, but afterward, surely she’ll have time for you.”

Tepora was the village midwife. She also knew about healing and served the gods as a priestess. Lizzie did not completely grasp the range of duties of a
tohunga
, as they called Tepora, but Lizzie knew Tepora to be helpful and calm. She received Lizzie without many words, roasted bread for her, and heated water and herbs. Lizzie felt better as she ate and drank. Then she began to tell—of London, of Australia, and finally of the previous, horrible night.

Tepora gently stroked her hand. “I know you suffered through yesterday,” she said kindly. “All of that defines your life today, but you must not let it rule you.”

“Is that supposed to mean that it’s my fault?” Lizzie said angrily. “I never desired that bastard.”

Tepora shook her head. “You don’t understand, child. You don’t see the difference between
taku
and
toku
.
Taku
tells you how important you are for your story. And
toku
tells you how important your story is for you. You are not important to London or to Australia. And this man is not important for you.”

“I’m running away from him anyway,” said Lizzie bitterly. “And I have to leave a life that I like well.”

“Perhaps you are running to a destination that waits for you in the past,” said Tepora quietly. “All times are one, Lizzie. You can define them for yourself.”

Lizzie sighed. She didn’t understand Tepora—even if she knew the meanings of the words. Clearly the old woman could not help her. Or could she?

“Do you know of any herbs that will keep me from getting pregnant?” Lizzie asked hopefully.

Tepora shrugged. “Not completely sure but somewhat sure,” she said. “Wait, I’ll fetch something for you. It will cause a bleeding.”

Lizzie waited patiently in front of the wise woman’s house. She was not permitted to enter. That, too, counted among the tribe’s many taboos. Tepora soon appeared with a cup, and Lizzie drank the bitter brew with a sigh of relief.

Just as she was leaving the wise woman, Lizzie saw a possible ally who was likely anchored in the here and now. Kahu Heke strolled, self-assured, through the camp. The young warrior smiled at Lizzie as she approached him.

“There you are, Elizabeth,” he said happily. He always called Lizzie by her proper name, although she thought it sounded strange from his mouth. “I was sent to find you. The chief wants to speak with you. The women say you ran away from the
pakeha
.” Kahu’s whole face shone, making the blue tattoos on his cheek seem to dance. “As it should be. Perhaps now you understand why I don’t like them.”

“It was something completely unrelated.”

Kahu arched his brows. “If I understood the women correctly, the
pakeha
sold you to an old lecher.”

Lizzie once again felt the blood rise to her cheeks. It was difficult to explain in the foreign language what had happened to her. But, of course, Kahu spoke fluent English, like most of the younger Maori. He accompanied her to the chieftain’s house, and she was happy he did—regardless if it was as protector, as interpreter, or simply out of curiosity.

Kuti Haoka received Lizzie in front of the
wharenui
, the village’s meeting house. It was not raining that day, so he spared them the extensive ceremonies necessary, according to Maori custom, to admit a visitor. The setting was awe-inspiring enough as it was. Kuti Haoka, an old warrior, stood in traditional clothing in front of the
wharenui
, which was richly decorated with thousands of carvings. Against the wintry cold, he had wrapped himself in a voluminous shawl, which made him look like a powerful, dangerous raptor. The mountains reared up behind him and the village, and, despite the rain the day before, the air was crystal clear.

Lizzie, Kahu, and an audience from the village kept a respectful distance. The tribal chieftain was
tapu
as well. He could not be touched.

“You are here,
pakeha wahine
, to ask our aid?”

Lizzie swallowed when she heard his deep, husky voice. She nervously began to tell her tale, but Kuti Haoka soon bade her to stop and, with a few curt words, asked Kahu to translate.

“Just speak English,” Kahu encouraged her. “That will make it easier for everyone. The chief appreciates that you speak our language, but he also sees that yesterday’s burdens are weighing on your speech today. I’ll translate for him.”

Lizzie smiled gratefully. Then she began to explain in English what had happened to her. Kahu translated, and the chief listened to everything quietly and carefully.

“As a punishment, they took you from your tribe to an island with strange stars?” he asked. “Because you wanted to feed children and so took a few flatbreads from a neighbor’s fire?”

“Something like that,” said Lizzie. Kahu’s translation had sounded rather free to her as well. “Only, I don’t really have a tribe.”

“And then a man you did not want took you, and the other women did not intervene?”

Lizzie nodded.

“Any woman would have run away,” Kahu said.

The chieftain nodded but then reflected a long time before offering Lizzie a response.

“I would very much like to help you,
pakeha wahine
, but I don’t want any trouble,” he finally said—or at least this was how Kahu translated his flowery expressions. “There is ever more bad blood between Maori and
pakeha
lately, and arguments among the tribes as well. So, it is difficult to send you to another tribe. Perhaps to the Waikato; they now host our king. What do you call that, Kahu? Asylum?”

Some time ago the Maori chieftains had voted on a king from among moderate leaders like Hongi Hika. They hoped to be able to negotiate better with the whites if they could oppose their queen with a
kingi
. However, it had been hard to find volunteers for the office of
kingi
, and Queen Victoria had so far mostly ignored Potatau I of Aotearoa.

Kahu Heke shook his head. His eyes flashed willfully, as if he were planning another strike against the
pakeha
just then. “Potatau won’t even understand what this is about, Uncle!” He paused a moment so the chief could consider this. “Besides, he doesn’t have the slightest influence. This will only lead to aggravation, believe me. If you lend me the big canoe, the chief’s canoe, I’ll take her to the Ngai Tahu.”

“To whom?” asked Lizzie. She had never heard of the tribe.

“On the South Island,” Kahu said quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb the chief in his consideration of the bold proposal. “They’ll never find you there.”

“But, but . . . the South Island. That’s where I came here from. We’ll have to cross the whole country.” Lizzie grew dizzy when she thought of the days of traveling with James Busby. “We’ll never manage that without them finding me.”

Kahu shook his head but gestured for her to be quiet. “What do you say, Uncle? It would increase both our
mana
to bring the
wahine
to safety. All the tribes will speak of us.” The Maori recognized a warrior’s influence and renown with
mana
.

The chieftain looked severely at his nephew. “The men around the fire may amuse themselves with such a story, Kahu, but will the spirits grant that your
mana
will grow? Isn’t the battle we wage for Aotearoa too serious and too holy to be decided by escaped women and broken flagstaffs?”

Kahu shrugged his shoulders. “Depends on the spirit,” he said in English. “Chief Hone Heke in Hawaiki will slap his sides at it.”

His forebear Hone Heke had died a few years before and now, according to Maori belief, held court on the legendary island Hawaiki.

Kahu winked at Lizzie but then pulled himself together and reformulated his response somewhat more eloquently in his own language.

The chief did not seem impressed. “Do you also carry the blame for something, Kahu? Do you want to go? Will we see the canoe again? Why would you take part in a journey like this that may cost you your life?”

Kahu laid his hand on his heart. “Uncle, what are you thinking? Of course the canoe will come back. Nor will this cost me my life. I’m a good sailor. And why do I do it? Well, why did Kupe steal Kura-maro-tini?”

Lizzie did not understand these last words, but she did see the chieftain grin. “So the voyage would lead us to new islands blessed by the gods,” he said. “But Kupe also returned, as is well known.” The chief seemed to eye Lizzie critically.

“What did you tell him?” Lizzie whispered to Kahu. “Why do you want to take me?”

The young Maori looked at her innocently. “Because we have a common enemy,” he explained. “And there’s no better friend than the enemy of an enemy.”

Lizzie frowned. None of that involved words she did not know in Kahu’s language. Really she ought to have understood better. Perhaps the Maori were speaking in allusions. They often did that, and Lizzie thought it would take more than a lifetime to hear all the legends and stories about Aotearoa and its ancient heroes, and to understand their meaning.