Fires of Change (The Fire Blossom Saga #2) - Sarah Lark Page 0,1

the marae came into view.

For Mara, the colorful totem poles framing the village gate were familiar. But seeing them for the first time could be intimidating. Kennard Johnson and his men had certainly never been in a marae before.

“They mean us no harm?” the government official repeated nervously. “They look anything but friendly.” He pointed agitatedly at the warlike welcoming committee that was now approaching the riders.

Mara was surprised, and her parents looked alarmed. In a Maori marae, one would usually see children playing and men and women calmly going about their daily work. But here, they were greeted by the chieftain himself, flanked by a proud phalanx of warriors. His bare chest and his face were tattooed, and the richly decorated loincloth made of dried flax leaves made his muscular body look even more imposing. A war club hung on his belt, and he held a spear in his hand.

“They won’t attack us, will they?” asked one of the English militiamen.

“Don’t worry,” Father O’Toole replied. The priest, a gaunt, aging man, calmly got off his horse. “It’s simply a show of strength.”

As the white men came closer, Maihi Paraone Kawiti, ariki of the Ngati Hine, raised his spear. His warriors began to stamp rhythmically with their feet planted wide, moving back and forth and swinging their weapons. Then they raised their voices in a powerful chant that grew stronger and louder the faster they danced.

Johnson and the farmers ducked behind the bodyguards, who reached for their weapons.

Mara’s father guided his horse between the soldiers and the warriors. “For goodness’ sake, don’t draw your weapons!” he ordered the Englishmen. “Just wait.”

One warrior after another stepped forward, pounding spears on the ground, grimacing and shouting at the “enemies.”

Mara, the only member of the expedition who understood every bit of the war dance and songs, rolled her eyes. These North Island Maori were so old-fashioned! The Ngai Tahu tribe she’d grown up near had long since given up such displays at every confrontation. Since Eru’s pakeha mother, Jane, had married the chieftain, the Ngai Tahu greeted their guests with a simple handshake. This greatly simplified their dealings with visitors and trading partners. Eru’s mother and his father, Te Haitara, had founded a successful sheep-breeding business, which had helped make the tribe wealthy.

“According to the ritual, we should now, hmm, sing something,” Father O’Toole said quietly, as the warriors completed their dance. “That’s part of the exchange, as it were. Of course, the people here know that pakeha don’t usually do such things. These tribal rituals look very savage, but actually the people are quite civilized. Heavens, I baptized the chieftain myself.”

His words were intended to be comforting, but it sounded as though O’Toole was surprised, and not a little worried about Paraone Kawiti’s backslide to the old tribal rituals.

Mara perked up. If the ritual could be finished quickly, perhaps she could ride back to Russell that evening and take a ship to the South Island the next morning. But if there was an argument, and if the men had to discuss the next steps at length, she could be stuck here for ages.

Mara dismounted her horse, handed the reins to Karl, and pushed back her hip-length dark hair. She had worn it loose, the way the Maori women traditionally did. She stepped forward confidently.

“I can sing something,” she offered, and pulled her favorite musical instrument, a little koauau, out of a bag.

The pakeha looked just as startled as the warriors, who had been snarling and baring their teeth. Mara raised the flute to her nose in the traditional way and played a short melody. Then she began to sing. It was a lovely and strikingly simple song, nothing like the warriors’ dramatic cries, about the Canterbury Plains on the South Island. She described the endless swathes of swaying grass, the rivers bordered with thickets of raupo, and the snow-covered mountains that hid glass-clear lakes full of fish. The song was intended for a powhiri, the formal greeting ritual in which an arriving tribe would introduce themselves to their hosts by describing their home, and served to join the hosts and their guests into one group. Mara sang with calm self-assurance. She had a pure, alto voice, and both Ngai Tahu musicians and her English tutor back home had been pleased with her performances.

On this day, too, her listeners were impressed. Not only did the chieftain and his men lower their weapons, but a stirring came from the decoratively carved wooden houses ringing