The Fire Blossom Read online

  ALSO BY SARAH LARK

  In the Land of the Long White Cloud Saga

  In the Land of the Long White Cloud

  Song of the Spirits

  Call of the Kiwi

  The Caribbean Islands Saga

  Island of a Thousand Springs

  Island of the Red Mangroves

  The Sea of Freedom Trilogy

  Toward the Sea of Freedom

  Beneath the Kauri Tree

  Flight of a Maori Goddess

  Other Titles

  A Hope at the End of the World

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2013 by Sarah Lark

  Translation copyright © 2019 by Kate Northrop

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Die Zeit der Feuerblüten by Bastei Lübbe in Germany in 2013. Translated from German by Kate Northrop. First published in English by Amazon Crossing in 2019.

  Published by Amazon Crossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542044820

  ISBN-10: 1542044820

  Cover design by Faceout Studio, Jeff Miller

  Cover photography by Richard Jenkins Photography

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part 2

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 3

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part 4

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Part 5

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part 6

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Part 7

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Part 8

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Part 9

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Afterword

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  If you were to ask me what the most important thing in the world is, this is what I would say: the people, the people, the people.

  Maori proverb

  Part 1

  GROWING UP

  RABEN STEINFELD, MECKLENBURG, GERMANY

  PIRAKI BAY, NEW ZEALAND (THE SOUTH ISLAND)

  1837

  Chapter 1

  Thirty-five pupils between the ages of six and fourteen rose from their simple wooden benches.

  “Good morning, Teacher!” they chorused.

  The schoolmaster’s eyes wandered briefly over their faces. He hadn’t held class for a week, but most of the children didn’t seem to be refreshed. They were haggard and exhausted. It was no wonder. The children of the day laborers and the farmers, at least, had spent the “potato vacation” harvesting the fields. Master Brakel knew that they had been crawling through furrows from sunrise to sunset, digging the vegetables out of the earth. The cottagers’ children looked a little better. The craftsmen, too, had potato fields, but they were smaller and more easily harvested than those of the farmers.

  “Good morning, children,” Brakel replied, and indicated that they should take their seats. He was surprised when Karl Jensch, a tall but wispy thirteen-year-old, didn’t follow his instructions.

  “What’s wrong, Karl?” the teacher asked sternly. “Do you mean to attend the lesson standing up?”

  The boy shook his head unhappily. “No,” he said. “It’s just, I’m only here to say—I won’t be coming anymore, Master Brakel. It’s not possible. There’s so much work in the fields, and we have to work for the squire too. My father is sick, and we need the money. So I can’t—I can’t come to school anymore . . .”

  Karl’s voice sounded as though it would break any second.

  The teacher, too, felt a pang of regret. He had known it was coming—the day laborers’ children never attended lessons for more than a few years—but he was particularly sorry about Karl. The boy learned quickly, and Brakel had even considered talking to the pastor about him continuing his education at a seminary. But he was still too young, and his father would certainly not allow it. Karl was right. His family needed the money he earned. And the squire had his own demands.

  The village of Raben Steinfeld was part of a grand duchy. Brakel might have been able to advocate for clever Karl with the duke and his squire, if only the boy’s father hadn’t been so stubborn. If only he hadn’t constantly been at odds with the duke, like most of the villagers were.

  The squire was a member of the Reformed Church, as were the king and most of the noblemen. However, most of the villagers were devout Lutherans, and they took every opportunity to provoke their sovereign. Fortunately, he didn’t punish his subjects for this indiscretion, as the previous king of Prussia had. But the friction between the peasantry and their pastors put the squire in an ill humor. He certainly wouldn’t finance the education of one of the most quarrelsome peasants’ sons.

  Brakel sighed. “That’s a pity, Karl,” he said kindly. “But it’s decent of you to at least give your notice. Go with God, my boy.”

  As Karl packed his pencils, chalk, and slate, Brakel turned to the second model student in his class, Ida Lange. She was an unfortunate whim of nature. Brakel had asked himself repeatedly why God had punished Lange’s older son with a rather weak intellect, while his daughter Ida, the oldest sibling, sucked up knowledge like a sponge. It would have been enough to bless her with beauty and charisma, both of which had also graced Ida. The twelve-year-old had shiny dark brown hair, eyes the color of blue porcelain, and even features. Her heart-shaped face reflected kindness and docility, the result of her father’s careful upbringing.

  Jakob Lange was a blacksmith, owned a smallholding, and kept his family under a firm thumb. Unlike Karl’s father, he could have afforde
d to keep Ida in school longer, but of course for a girl it was out of the question. She would doubtlessly leave the class before her thirteenth birthday.

  But for now she could still profit from the lessons—and at the same time bring a little bit of joy into Brakel’s otherwise lackluster daily routine. Brakel had a teacher’s soul, and students like Karl and Ida made him happy. It wasn’t nearly as much fun to teach the dull farmers’ children, who had little interest in learning to read or write. Sometimes he felt as though his only measure of success with them was how often he was able to keep them from falling asleep during the lessons.

  “You’ve brought us a new book, Ida—I mean, Anton?”

  A thin booklet, The Three Voyages of Captain Cook Round the World, lay on the desk of Lange’s older son. Ida had excitedly told the teacher on the way to church the day before that her father had brought a new book from Schwerin, the closest city to Raben Steinfeld. Jakob Lange was interested in exotic countries and occasionally attempted to awaken his sons’ curiosity about them. His attitude was unusual for a craftsman, and above all for a traditional Lutheran. Brakel assumed that Lange was considering emigration. The blacksmith, who was also known for being a knowledgeable horse enthusiast, was loudly discontent with insular village life. For that reason he was constantly at odds with the squire, and someday he would be thrown out, no matter how highly his work was valued. In the past decade, many Lutherans had gone to America. It was possible that Lange had similar long-term plans.

  His son Anton nodded disinterestedly and pushed the book over to Ida. But the girl didn’t reach for it as enthusiastically as the teacher had expected. Instead, she gazed sadly at Karl, who was lingering at his desk, obviously interested in the book.

  “Ida,” Brakel said, in a mildly reprimanding tone.

  The girl turned her eyes toward the teacher. “It’s an unusual book,” she explained in her gentle, sweet voice, which captivated even the most listless students when she read aloud. “It’s about a captain who goes to sea and discovers new countries. And imagine, Teacher, it was written in another language! It had to be trans—translated first, so we could read it. The author is a man named John Hawkesworth.”

  “Was it translated from Greek?” Karl asked.

  The boy couldn’t control himself. He should have left already, but the new book reminded him of other sailors’ stories that Brakel had told them about. Among them was the story of Odysseus, who’d had fantastic adventures in ancient Greece.

  Brakel shook his head. “No, Karl. John Hawkesworth wrote Captain Cook’s story in English. And it’s not a saga like The Odyssey, but a factual report. But you must make up your mind now, Karl. If you want to stay, please sit down. Otherwise . . .”

  Karl went to the door. His last glance at the class hovered somewhere between regret and envy, and his eyes took on a kind of gentleness as they passed over Ida. He liked her. Sometimes, when he was working in the fields, he allowed himself to daydream. He saw himself as a young man courting Ida Lange, and then marrying and starting a household with her. Every evening, if God allowed it, he would return home to her. Every day he would hear that sweet voice; every morning he would see her smooth, soft hair and beautiful, gentle face. Other, sinful thoughts would mix with those daydreams, but Karl strictly forbade himself to dwell on them. To be fair, he probably should have also forbidden himself from dreaming about any kind of future with the girl. After all, the dreams would never come true. Even if Ida returned his affection someday, her father would never agree to a union with the son of a day laborer. But Karl had no quarrel with Jakob Lange; he could understand his position completely. Karl wouldn’t want Ida to have to live the way his own mother did either.

  The Jensch family was barely able to scrape by. Karl’s father, his mother, and from now on he himself toiled every day in the squire’s fields or did odd jobs when they could find them. The payment was one copper penny, a pfennig, for the men, for an entire day of work. Sometimes the overseer didn’t even pay in coin but compensated the day laborers with goods. Today, too, Karl probably wouldn’t see a pfennig, even if he spent ten hours digging out the last of the harvest. The owner of the field would likely just send him home with a sack of potatoes.

  Karl dragged himself away from the schoolhouse and, his spirits low, began his work in one of the cottagers’ fields. Peter Brandmann’s carpentry business allowed him no time to attend to the harvest himself, and his sons Ottfried and Erich hadn’t managed to finish during the potato vacation. This was odd, because the cottagers had only a single acre of land apiece, divided between a potato field and a vegetable garden that Brandmann’s determined wife managed by herself. Karl wouldn’t need more than a day or two to harvest a field so small, but Erich was still quite young, and Ottfried was rather lackadaisical. Probably, Karl reflected, they just hadn’t tried very hard.

  Karl swung his hoe even faster. At least that way he could work off some of the anger that was building up inside of him. He had felt a growing sense of resentment ever since his father had ordered him to give up school the day before. Of course he had nothing against working; he knew how badly his family needed the money. But couldn’t he make up for morning lessons by working harder in the afternoon or evening? And there was the coming winter too. He flung the newly dug potatoes defiantly into his basket.

  Half an hour later, Karl was beginning to feel calmer. He wiped the sweat off his brow and bit his lip. No, he had no right to resent his father. If he were honest, he would have to say his father was right: during the winter months it was hard enough to find work, even during the short daylight hours. When the sun set, people left their fields and workshops. And in the latter months, there wasn’t much work for day laborers anyway. The cottagers labored in their workshops alone or with one partner, and after school their own children assisted them, learning their fathers’ trades. But he himself would never have a chance to learn anything . . .

  Feeling discouraged, Karl swung the hoe into the black earth again. His only hope had been the seminary school Master Brakel had once mentioned. But now it was out of the question. Although he fought to harden himself against disappointment, Karl’s eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away quickly. Boys didn’t cry. And good Christians accepted their destiny with humility.

  By this time, the sun was high in the sky. Children were walking home from school past Brandmann’s field—mostly farmers’ children, because the farms were situated between the village and the squire’s manor house. Most of craftsmen’s houses, workshops, and smallholdings were huddled in the village center around the church and school. But Jakob Lange’s smithy was at the farthest corner of the village. Karl caught himself keeping an eye out for Ida. If she didn’t walk a different way today to do errands for her family, then she would pass by on her way home.

  Soon, Karl saw Ida’s younger sister, Elsbeth, who was skipping happily, and her brother Anton, who followed with a cantankerous expression on his face. He was doubtlessly obligated to spend an afternoon in the field, or at least working in the smithy. Mr. Lange had no patience for idleness, and his children worked almost as much as those of the day laborers. But at least they had a future.

  Karl looked away from the road, disappointed that Ida hadn’t appeared. He began to swing his hoe again—and then jumped when someone called his name. Someone with a sweet, gentle voice.

  “Ida!” Karl whirled around and almost smiled, but then he changed his mind and settled on the neutral, rather sullen expression expected from a day laborer at his work.

  “What do you want?” He hoped he didn’t sound too impolite. In truth, he would have loved to talk to Ida. But then she would have looked at him—and would have noticed the tears in his eyes.

  Ida held something out. “Here,” she said. “You forgot your notebook.”

  Karl didn’t come any closer. He actually hadn’t forgotten. It was his composition book, which Master Brakel had collected before the potato vacation. It had been lying on the teacher’s d
esk with the others, but Karl hadn’t dared to ask for it. Normally, he treated his notebook like the greatest of treasures. He had never owned one before Master Brakel had given it to him a year ago.

  “You got an A,” Ida said. “It was the best essay in the class.”

  Karl couldn’t resist seeing a “very good” written in Master Brakel’s clear handwriting in red ink just one more time. He took a step closer and pulled off his cap, running a hand through his mane of tangled blond hair. He’d smoothed his curls with water before school, but the wind had made a mess of them in the meantime. It was no way to approach the girl he dreamed about. He was just as ashamed of his threadbare shirt and dirty trousers.

  Ida gave him the notebook. She looked pretty in her dark dress and white pinafore. Her clothing was simple like his, but cleaner and less worn out. Ida, who had no older sisters whose hand-me-downs she had to wear, even got completely new clothes once in a while.

  “I told Teacher I’d bring it to you,” the girl said as Karl opened the cover. “I . . .”

  She wanted to say more, but she couldn’t tell him how she’d dawdled after school until all the other students were gone before she’d asked the teacher for Karl’s composition book.

  “I don’t need it anymore,” the boy said, sounding discouraged. “You should have left it there.”

  Ida fidgeted with her almost hip-length braids. “If it were me, I would have wanted to have it,” she explained with an unhappy expression.

  It instantly became clear to Karl that Ida understood him very well, and that his departure from school had made her think of how soon she’d be forced to leave too.

  Karl couldn’t repress the smile that stole across his face. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he murmured. “I just—thanks. I did want it.”

  Ida lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry you have to stop.”

  Karl shrugged. “There’s nothing anyone can do about it. But the story of Captain Cook . . . I really would have liked to hear that.”

  Ida’s face lit up, and her bright eyes glowed. “Oh yes, it’s a marvelous story!” she sang. “Just think, there was an association of scholars in England who provided him with a ship so he could sail to the South Seas and observe the stars! The stars, can you imagine? They spent so much money for that!”