Call of the Kiwi (37 page)

“That’s precisely why he ran away,” he said with clenched teeth. “In a way it’s all our fault.”

“So Wellington or Auckland?” Elaine asked.

“If you want to find them, I’d advise you to get a private detective,” Greenwood suggested.

“What do you mean
if
?” Tim asked. “Naturally we’re going to bring them back. They’re just children.”

“If we wait another few weeks, they’ll probably already be married,” Elaine said. “If they aren’t already. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lilian moved up Ben’s date of birth.”

“But this is madness,” Tim cursed. “Something like this won’t last a lifetime.”

Elaine frowned. “I wasn’t much older when I came to Greymouth. That didn’t stop you.”

“Please, Lainie, they’re sixteen and seventeen.”

“First loves can sometimes take a rather impetuous course,” George Greenwood said.

“We could have the marriage voided,” insisted Tim.

“Then what?” asked Elaine. “Are we going to send Lily to Queenstown where we can hope they find some way to wall her in while Ben ends up in the mines? That’s completely unrealistic. Tim, as much as I would like to know where Lily is hiding and what she’s doing, the best thing would be to leave her alone. They should try standing on their own two feet. It can’t do any harm. When things go sour, they’ll come back.”

“Lilian could get pregnant,” Tim remarked.

Caleb blushed.

“She might already be,” said Elaine. “All the more reason to give them time to get married. Look at it this way, Tim: the baby would inherit the Biller Mine. Can you think of anything that would upset Florence more?”

That same day Lilian and Ben got married at the civil registry office in Auckland. Their parents’ declaration of consent was forged, as was the birth date on Ben’s passport. Tim Lambert’s consent for Lilian to marry looked particularly authentic since it was written on his custom letterhead. It was a little wrinkled, but the registrar did not ask any questions.

5

M
rs. McKenzie, what’s wrong with the young Miss Martyn?”

Maaka had obviously been struggling with the question for a while, and Gwyneira had been expecting it for some time.

“We all try to be nice to her, but she’s simply rude. Earlier I thought she was going to hit Frank, when all he did was try to help her onto her horse.”

Gwyneira had gotten a bad feeling when she saw Gloria riding away as if hounded by the furies—much too quickly for the unexercised horse. Granted, the horse Gloria had chosen was vivacious and difficult, and Gwyneira had made clear that the mare wasn’t a good choice after Gloria’s long hiatus from riding, but she had ignored Gwyneira’s advice. Frank Wilkenson even made an extra effort to be kind to the girl. Gwyneira thought he might be in love—and that Gloria couldn’t handle that. Not that Wilkenson was in any way importunate. But Gloria was invariably rude, and according to Maaka had even raised her riding crop against him. If things continued this way, Frank would quit, and Gwyneira would lose a valuable worker.

The other shepherds, most of whom were Maori, had less trouble with the young mistress. But they, too, kept their distance after Gloria had spat at them the first few times.

“I don’t know either, Maaka. Kiri and Moana would like nothing more than to spoil her, but she’s no different in the house. Make it clear to Frank that she’s serious. If she doesn’t want to flirt with him, he’ll have to accept that.”

Maaka nodded.

“How does she do with the sheep?” Gwyneira asked. She didn’t particularly want to discuss Gloria’s problems with her foreman, but his opinion interested her greatly. After all, in Nimue Gloria had an exceptional sheepdog, and she had always enjoyed working with animals.

“Well, she doesn’t have much experience, but that’s not really the problem. Nimue can read every command just from her looks, and she has a talent for handling animals, always has had—just like Jack. Have you heard from him yet?”

Maaka was clearly trying to change the subject.

Gwyneira merely shook her head despondently.

“Still no word. Just that notice a few months ago that he was wounded in the battle at Gallipoli. And that’s all after three requests to the high command. Gallipoli isn’t something they want to talk about. They’ve scattered the ANZAC forces to the four corners. So we’ll have to wait until Jack writes himself. Or unti
l . . .
” She kept the rest to herself. Gwyneira tried to think about the alternative as little about it as possible. “So what was it you want to say about Gloria?” she asked.

Maaka took a deep breath. “She’s very good with the animals, Mrs. McKenzie. Just not with the people. She won’t listen to anything and isolates herself. But she has to realize that we must work as a team, especially with the cattle. She’s not dumb, after all. But she seems incapable of teamwork.”

“So be it, Maaka. Talk to Frank; he needs to step back. And keep Gloria busy with the sheep and dogs. Nothing can go wrong there. And one more thing, please take the riding pony to the stallion. You know, Gloria’s pony, Princess.”

Gloria had Ceredwen gallop until both horse and rider were out of breath. Nimue ran with her tongue hanging out behind them. Normally Gloria made allowances for the dog, but that day, all she wanted was to get away, as fast as possible. She knew that she had overreacted; she should not have struck out at Frank Wilkenson. But when he had gripped Ceredwen’s reins and reached for her stirrup, something in her had exploded. This was not the first time it had happened, but until then her lightning-fast reactions had always been useful for keeping men at bay. On Kiward Station, however, such behavior would get her into trouble—Maaka might already be talking to her great-grandmother.

She had intended to herd a few ewes to a winter pasture, but she had forgotten about the animals in her confrontation with Frank. Now it would be senseless to turn back. She would rather check on the outposts—or ride to the circle of stone warriors. She had only been there once since her return, to visit Grandpa James’s grave. But Gwyneira had accompanied her then, and Gloria had felt watched and self-conscious. Did Gwyneira have to constantly correct her form sitting on a horse and holding the reins? Had she not watched Gloria too searchingly, displeased that Gloria did not cry at her husband’s grave? Gloria always found herself fighting her insecurity when she was with Gwyneira. In fact, there was no one on Kiward Station in whose presence she felt secure. Maaka wanted to tell her how to herd the cattle; Frank Wilkenson thought he knew which horse suited her best. Everyone picked on her. It was just like at Oaks Garden. She could not do anything right.

Caught between rage and brooding, Gloria reached the rock formation. Mighty stone blocks formed a circle that was almost comparable to the menhir formations at Stonehenge. But here it had been nature at work, not the hand of man. The Maori saw in the ring a sign from the gods that this land was sacred. Except during specified days or times, they tended to avoid such places. So Gloria was surprised when she noticed smoke rising from the ring. As she approached she saw a small fire. A young Maori sat beside it.

“What are you doing here?” she yelled at him.

The young man seemed to awaken out of a deep meditation. When he turned toward her, Gloria was startled to see that the man’s face was covered in
moko
, his people’s traditional tattoos. Lines wound out from his nose, extending above his eyebrows, over his cheeks, and along his chin. Gloria knew this pattern, as Tamatea liked to paint it on Kura’s dancers every evening. Unlike traditional Maori, he wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and a leather jacket.

“You’re Wiremu,” Gloria said.

The man nodded. The only young Maori in his tribe to still bear the tattoos of his ancestors, the chieftain’s son wore his name like a badge. Most young Maori had dropped the tradition when the whites arrived, but as Tonga’s son, he had been marked with the designs at a young age.

Wiremu threw another piece of wood into the fire.

“You can’t light a fire here,” Gloria informed him. “This place is
tapu
.”

“I can’t eat anything here,” he corrected her. “If I were to stay here a long time, I’d have to go hungry. But no one’s forcing me to freeze while communing with the spirits.”

Gloria tried to hold fast to her anger, but she could not stop herself from smiling. She steered her horse into the circle and was thankful that Wiremu refrained from asking her what she was doing. She was not sure if the
tapu
allowed someone to ride there.

“Weren’t you going to university?” she asked. She vaguely recalled a letter from her great-grandmother explaining that Wiremu had attended high school in Christchurch and was then planning to attend either Christ’s College or the university in Dunedin.

Wiremu nodded. “I went to Dunedin.”

“But?” Gloria asked.

“I gave it up.” Wiremu’s hand ran seemingly unconsciously over his tattoos.

Gloria did not ask him anything more about it. She knew how it felt when people stared at you. Surely it made no difference whether they did it because you did not look like your mother or because you too closely resembled the stereotypes of your people.

“What are you going to do now?” she inquired.

“This and that. Hunt. Fish. Work on my
mana
.”

A Maori man’s
mana
defined his influence within his tribe. If Wiremu distinguished himself as a warrior, dancer, storyteller, hunter, and gatherer, he had a good chance of becoming chief, despite the fact that he was the youngest son. Even a girl could lead a tribe, though that was rare. Most Maori women exercised their power behind the “throne.”

“You’re Gloria,” Wiremu said. “We used to play together as children. And my father wanted us to marry.”

“I’m not going to marry.”

Wiremu laughed. “That will deeply upset my father. Good thing you’re not his daughter. Otherwise he’d surely find some
tapu
that bound a chieftain’s daughter to the hand of some chieftain’s son. There are a great many
tapu
concerning a chieftain’s daughter.”

“Among the
pakeha
too, even if it’s called something else. And you don’t even need to be a princess.”

“Heiress will do as well,” Wiremu said perceptively. “How was America?”

“Big.”

Wiremu seemed satisfied with that. Gloria was thankful that he did not ask about Australia.

“Is it true that everyone is equal there?”

“Are you joking?”

Wiremu smiled. “Don’t you want to come down from that horse?”

“No,” Gloria said.

“A
tapu
?” Wiremu asked.

She smiled.

The next day Wiremu was waiting at the fence that enclosed the winter pasture. After calling to Nimue to herd some ewes into a nearby corral, she rode Ceredwen over to Wiremu.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice softer than when she’d asked him the same question the day before.

“I’m enforcing a
tapu
. In all seriousness. It’s almost embarrassing. You’re going to start to believe I’m the tribal witch doctor, but my father sent me to make sure you’re keeping the sheep within the borders.”

Gloria frowned. “Isn’t the stream the border?”

“Yes, but my father discovered a sacred site behind that corner. Or something like that. A couple of people fought there ages ago. Blood flowed and that sanctified the ground. He wants you to respect that.”

“If it were up to your father, all New Zealand would be
tapu
,
” Gloria said, becoming agitated.

Wiremu grinned. “Exactly.”

“But then you would not be able to eat anywhere.”

“Indeed.” Wiremu laughed. ”You should tell him that. Come down to the village, Gloria. Marama thinks you visit her too rarely as it is. I just caught a few fish in a completely
tapu
-free stream. We could roast them and, who knows, talk about
tapu
in England?”

Gloria found herself in a bind. Gwyneira, too, had suggested that she visit Marama since she was riding in that direction.

“If you don’t want to get down, I can hand the food up to you.”

Gloria almost had to laugh. Albeit a little reluctantly, she directed Ceredwen toward the Maori village.

Though Gloria had no talent for chitchat, she eventually made an attempt at conversation as she slowed her horse to an amble alongside him. “What did you want to be?” she asked. “At the university, I mean.”

Wiremu frowned. “Doctor. A surgeon, actually.”

“Oh.” Gloria could almost hear the whispering. They had probably called him “medicine man” behind his back.

Wiremu lowered his eyes when he saw her looking down at his tattoos. He was embarrassed, even here on his land among his people. Not that the blue-black tendrils disfigured him in any way; on the contrary, they softened his somewhat square face. But to have Wiremu in a Western operating room? Impossible.

“My father wanted me to study law,” he continued to break the silence.

“Would that have worked out better?”

Wiremu snorted. “I would have had to limit myself to Maori affairs. I would have made a living, though, since there are more and more legal disputes. ‘A task fit for a warrior.
’ ”