Call of the Kiwi (41 page)

Gwyneira glared at her. “Kura is happy.”

“Kura is a wanderer in a foreign land,” whispered Marama. “Without rest. Without tribe.”

Gwyneira was convinced that Kura saw it completely differently, but in the eyes of Marama, a full-blooded Maori, who lived with and off the land, her daughter was lost.

“And Gloria . . .” Gwyneira trailed off.

“Let Gloria go, Gwyn,” Marama said softly. “Don’t make any more mistakes.”

Gwyneira nodded, resigned. She suddenly felt old. Very old.

Marama pressed her forehead and her nose affectionately to Gwyneira’s in parting.

“You
pakeha
,” she murmured, “all your streets must be straight and even. You tear them from the earth without hearing its groans. And yet the winding, rocky ways are the shorter ones if you take them in peace.”

9

G
loria followed Marama through the wet knee-high grass. It had been raining unceasingly for hours, and even Nimue was no longer enjoying herself. The laughing and chatting that usually prevailed during the migration had long since ebbed, and each man and woman forged on stoically, lost in their own thoughts. Gloria wondered whether she was the only one yearning for a dry place to sleep or whether some feeling of camaraderie that she could not feel strengthened the others. After a three-day march through largely wet weather, she had almost had enough adventure. And yet she had been so excited about the migration, longing to set out ever since Gwyneira had finally given her approval. Gloria had wanted to consider her acquiescence a triumph, but her great-grandmother had looked so sad, old, and hurt that she had almost considered staying.

“I’m letting you go because I don’t want to lose you,” Gwyneira had said, which sounded like something Marama would say. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Living together had only become more difficult after that. Gloria wanted to feed off Gwyneira’s rejection but she was guilty instead, and it angered her that she felt like a child again.

She would not let herself be embraced by Gwyneira when she left but exchanged a heartfelt
hongi
, which was the more intimate gesture. She felt Gwyneira’s dry but warm skin on her own and breathed in her scent of honey and roses. She had used the same soap when Gloria was small, and it reminded Gloria of her comforting hugs. Jack had smelled like leather and hoof grease. But why was she thinking of Jack?

Gloria had sighed with relief when they finally departed, and the first hours of the migration had been wonderful. She had felt herself free and open to new impressions—but also safe and secure with her tribe. The women and children traditionally walked in the middle of the group with the heavy tents and cooking equipment, while the men walked on the flanks with their spears and hunting gear. After a few hours Gloria began to wonder whether that was right.

“But they have to be able to move,” Pau explained to her, “if someone attacks us.”

Gloria sighed. They were still on the grounds of Kiward Station. And even in the McKenzie Highlands, there were no enemy tribes. No one threatened the Ngai Tahu. But maybe she needed to stop thinking like a
pakeha
.

Before setting out, Gloria had given no thought to the hardships of the journey. She believed herself tougher than everyone else; after all, she had crossed the deserts of Australia, often on her own two feet. But back then she had been driven by sheer desperation, possessed by nothing but her goal.

The Canterbury Plains, however, which were now slowly transitioning into the foothills of the southern mountains, were a different story. It had begun to rain a few hours into the migration, and Gloria was completely soaked through. When the tents were erected in the evening and everyone else began to curl up with each other for warmth, Gloria retreated nervously to a corner, wrapping herself in a clammy blanket. She had not considered what it would be like to sleep in the communal tent. She lay awake for hours listening to snoring and even to the occasional covert giggling and suppressed cries of lust from couples making love. Gloria wanted to flee, but it was still raining outside.

The bad weather continued for several days. Gloria wondered fleetingly how Gwyneira and her workers meant to bring in the hay, but she had her own more immediate problems. Her jodhpur boots—which were well-suited to riding and farmwork—were slowly coming apart in the constant moisture. The Maori went barefoot and recommended that Gloria do the same. Though she eventually shed her wet boots, she was unaccustomed to extended hikes in her bare feet.

By the fifth day, she could no longer comprehend how she could have given up her tranquil, dry room on Kiward Station for this and gratefully accepted the tarpaulin that Wiremu brought her. Though he would never admit it, he looked just as unhappy and cold as she did. But Wiremu also had enjoyed a
pakeha
upbringing. His years at boarding school in Christchurch had left their mark. Gloria sensed that perhaps he, too, regretted his choice. He had wanted to be a doctor, but instead found himself walking through the wilderness with his tribe. She cast an eye at Tonga, who walked ahead of his people, undeterred.

“Could we not rest earlier?” Gloria asked desperately. “I don’t understand what drives all of you onward.” She fell silent when she realized her faux pas. She should not have said “all of you.” She had to learn to think of herself and the Ngai Tahu as “we” if she wanted to belong. And she did want to belong.

“Our supplies are running low, Glory,” Wiremu explained. “We can’t hunt. No rabbit will risk leaving its warren in this weather. And the river is too fast, so the fish won’t swim into the traps. So we’re moving toward Lake Tekapo.”

They would camp for several weeks at the lake, where there were plenty of fish and nearby forests rich with game.

“We’ve made camp there since time immemorial,” Wiremu said, smiling. “The lake is even named for that—
po
means ‘night,’
taka
means ‘sleeping mat.
’ ”

In the evening the rain finally abated.

“It rarely rains at the lake,” Rongo explained. “How could Rangi weep at the sight of such beauty?”

Lake Tekapo was indeed a breathtaking sight in the last light of day. The grassland of the plains waved in the wind on the northern shore while the southern mountains rose majestically beyond the lake. The water shimmered a dark turquoise in the sunlight. The tribe’s women greeted the lake with song and laughter. Rongo festively ladled out the first of the water, and they managed to build a fire. The men left to hunt, and even if the game was scant, there was roasted fish and flat bread made from the last of the flour reserves. Marama and a few of the other women retrieved their instruments and celebrated their arrival at the lake. Though the tents and sleeping mats were still clammy when the tribe retired for the night, the little celebration had revived the tribe members. As many of the men and women began to make love, Gloria felt sick. She had to leave.

Gloria slipped out of the tent, wrapped in her blanket. The sky above the lake was a deep black, but snow still blanketed the tops of the mountains. She looked up and tried to become one with everything as Rongo had advised her. With the sky, lake, and mountains all around, it was not difficult. With the tribe, however, she would never really succeed.

She startled when she heard steps behind her. Wiremu.

“You can’t sleep?”

Gloria didn’t answer.

“In the beginning it was hard for me too. When I came back from the city, that is. But I loved it as a child.” She heard in his voice that he was smiling. “We would crawl from one woman to the next. Their arms were always open.”

“My mother did not want me,” Gloria said.

Wiremu nodded. “I heard about that. Kura was different. I hardly remember her.”

“She’s beautiful,” Gloria said.

“You’re beautiful.” Wiremu stepped closer to her and raised his hand to touch her face, but she shrank back.

“
Tapu?
”
he asked softly.

Gloria could not make jokes about it. She backed up toward the tent.

“You can turn around if you want. I won’t attack you from behind. Gloria, what’s wrong?” Wiremu approached and put his hand on her shoulder, but Gloria’s reflexes could not separate a friendly touch from a hostile one—especially not at night. Before she even knew what she was doing, she’d reached for her knife. Wiremu ducked when he saw it flash, threw himself to the ground, and rolled away. He sprung back to his feet and looked at her.

“Glory.”

“Don’t touch me. Never touch me again.”

Wiremu heard the panic in her voice.

“Gloria, we’re friends, aren’t we? I didn’t mean to do anything to you. Look at me. I’m Wiremu, don’t you recognize me? The would-be medicine man?”

Very slowly Gloria’s composure returned.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “but I, I don’t like it when people touch me.”

“You only needed to say that. Gloria—I accept
tapu
, you know that.” Wiremu smiled again, raising the palms of his hands in a gesture of peace.

She nodded shyly. Side by side, but without touching, they reentered the tent.

Tonga saw them walk in. He lay back down content.

Though the weather at the lake was better than in the plains below, it nevertheless rained a great deal. But there were fish and game in abundance, and they enjoyed themselves. Gloria accompanied Rongo in search of medicinal plants. She learned to work flax and listened to Marama’s stories of Harakeke, the god of flax, a grandson of Papa and Rangi. The women told stories about the gods of the lake and mountains, describing the travels of Kupes, the discoverer of Aotearoa and his battles with giant fish and land monsters.

Sometimes they met with other tribes, organizing a protracted
pohiri—
an elaborate greeting ceremony—and celebrating afterward. Gloria danced with the others and blew the
koauau
for the women’s war-
haka
. She forgot her constant fear of doing something wrong. Marama and the other women did not chide their students, explaining patiently instead. Squabbles among the girls never became as acrimoniously drawn out as at boarding school, in part because the adults never took sides. Gloria learned to differentiate the Maori girls’ good-natured teasing from the merciless ridicule of her former classmates, and eventually could even laugh along when Pau teased her that her self-made
poi poi
ball looked like the egg of some strange bird. Because she could not make it properly round, it wobbled in peculiar ellipses while she danced, and when it struck Ani in the head, she declared it to be a new magic weapon.

“It’s just a little soft, Glory; you need to try to make them from
pounamu
.”

They looked for these in a stream, and in the evening Rongo showed them how to whittle the stones into small god figurines that they wore as pendants. Gloria and Ani gave each other their
hei-tiki,
which they wore proudly around their necks. Wiremu later surprised Gloria with one, saying he hoped it would bring her luck. Though the other girls gossiped about it, she trusted Wiremu. He was nothing but a friend.

Although Gloria began to enjoy her days in her new family circle, she still found the nights in the communal tent painful. As often as the weather allowed, she slipped outside and slept under the stars, even if every noise gave her a start. Sometimes, Wiremu appeared. He sat at a distance from her, and they talked. Wiremu told her about his time in Christchurch. How alone he had felt at first and how he despaired when the others teased him.

“But I thought you liked it!” Gloria said, surprised. “You even wanted to stay and study more.”

“I liked school. And I’m a chieftain’s son. I was big and strong, and I taught fear to the
pakeha
boys.
Mana
, you know how it is.” He smiled.

Gloria understood. He had won influence in his tribe.

“But you were lonely,” she said.

“
Mana
always makes a man lonely. A chief has power but no friends.”

Later, Wiremu continued, he had earned respect in the
pakeha
high school through his scholastic achievements. Matters only escalated at university, where he met students who had never become acquainted with his fists. He had, by then, become “too civilized” to thrash them.