Call of the Kiwi
ALSO BY SARAH LARK
In the Land of the Long White Cloud
Song of the Spirits
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.
Text copyright © 2009 by Verlagsgruppe Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG, Bergisch Gladbach
English translation copyright © 2014 by D. W. Lovett
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.
Call of the Kiwi
was first published in 2008 in Germany by Verlagsgruppe Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG as
Der Ruf des Kiwis
. Translated from German by D. W. Lovett.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
Cover design by Paul Barrett
ISBN-10: 1477820264
ISBN-13: 9781477820261
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921788
I
N MEMORY OF
E
INSTEIN AND
M
ARIE
C
URIE
Contents
Rearing
C
ANTERBURY
P
LAINS
, G
REYMOUTH
, C
HRISTCHURCH
,
AND
C
AMBRIDGE
1907–1909
1
C
ome on, Jack, I’ll race you to the circle of stone warriors!”
Not even waiting for Jack’s answer, Gloria brought her pony into starting position next to his horse. When Jack nodded, Gloria lightly pressed her legs into the mare’s sides and took off.
Jack McKenzie, a young man with curly red-brown hair and serene, green-brown eyes, likewise brought his horse to a gallop and followed Gloria over the seemingly endless grassland of Kiward Station. Jack had no chance of catching up to Gloria on his relatively slow cob gelding, but he let the girl have her fun. Gloria was awfully proud of her horse, which had been shipped from England. Swift as an arrow, she looked like a Thoroughbred in miniature. If Jack’s memory served, it was the first birthday present from her parents that had made Gloria genuinely happy. The contents of the other packages that arrived for her at irregular intervals had not impressed her: a flouncy dress with fan and castanets from Seville, gold-lamé shoes from Milan, an ostrich leather purse from Pari
s . . .
nothing of much use on a sheep farm in New Zealand and even much too extravagant for her occasional visits to Christchurch.
But Gloria’s parents never considered such things—quite the opposite, in fact. William and Kura Martyn probably would have thought it amusing to shock the rather provincial society of the Canterbury Plains with a taste of the larger world. Shyness and restraint were foreign to both of them, and they took it for granted that their daughter felt as they did.
As Jack rushed at breakneck speed down the country road to keep the girl in sight, he thought about Gloria’s mother. Kura-maro-tini, the daughter of his half brother Paul Warden, had been blessed with an exotic beauty and an exceptional voice. She owed her musicality to her mother Marama, a Maori singer, rather than to her white relations. From a young age Kura had nursed a desire to conquer the world of European opera. Jack had grown up with her on Kiward Station and still looked back with horror on the countless hours she’d spent banging away on the piano and practicing her singing exercises. Initially, it had looked as though she would have no opportunity to realize her dreams—until she met William Martyn, now her husband, who knew how to make good on her talents. The two had been touring through Europe with a group of Maori singers and dancers ever since. Kura was the star of the ensemble, which combined traditional Maori music and Western instrumentation in unique compositions.
“I win!” Gloria skillfully brought her pony to a halt in the middle of the rock formation known as the circle of stone warriors. “And the sheep are back there too!”
The small flock of ewes was the real reason for Jack and Gloria’s ride. The animals were grazing near the stone circle, a piece of land sacred to the local Maori tribe. Though the land belonged to Kiward Station, Gwyneira McKenzie, who managed the farm, respected the religious feelings of the natives. There were enough pastures on the property that there was no need for the sheep and cattle to roam on Maori holy sites. Hence she had asked Jack at lunch to bring the sheep in, which had drawn energetic protests from Gloria.
“But I can do that, Grandmum! Nimue still has to learn!”
Ever since Gloria had begun training her first sheepdog, she had pushed for more responsibilities on the farm, much to Gwyneira’s delight. She smiled at her great-granddaughter and nodded.
“Very well, but Jack will help out,” she consented. She could not even say herself why she would not let the girl ride alone. In principle, there was no cause for concern: Gloria knew the farm like the back of her hand, and all the workers on Kiward Station knew and loved Gloria.
Gwyneira had not been nearly so cautious with her own children. Even as an eight-year-old, her daughter, Fleurette, had ridden four miles to the little school Gwyneira’s friend Helen had run on a neighboring farm. But Gloria was different. All Gwyneira’s hopes rested on the only recognized heiress of Kiward Station. Since Gloria’s blood flowed with that of the Wardens—the founders of Kiward Station—and of the local Maori tribe, she was acknowledged to belong to both worlds. A strong rivalry had always existed between the Wardens and Tonga, the chieftain of the Ngai Tahu; Tonga hoped to bring the land more firmly into his control by means of a marriage between Gloria and a Maori of his tribe. This strategy had, however, already failed once with Gloria’s mother, Kura. And thus far Gloria had demonstrated little interest in the life and culture of the tribes. Though she spoke fluent Maori and loved to listen to her grandmother Marama’s tales of their people’s past, her primary tie was to Gwyneira, Gwyneira’s second husband, James McKenzie, and above all, their son, Jack.
A special connection had always existed between Jack and Gloria. Though he was a full fifteen years older than his half grandniece, he had always shielded Gloria from the caprices and disinterest of her parents. Jack had never cared for Kura or her music, but he had liked Gloria from first sight. Even as a baby, she had started crying as soon as Kura struck the first notes on the piano, and Jack understood completely; he took Gloria with him wherever he went like he might a puppy.
Gloria’s border collie, Nimue, was panting when she reached the stone circle and looked up almost reproachfully at her mistress. She did not like it when Gloria took off ahead of her. The dog had been happier before the swift-as-an-arrow pony had arrived from England. Nevertheless, when Gloria whistled sharply, she set off for the sheep that were grazing among the rocks. After Nimue had herded the sheep together, Gloria deftly led the flock in the direction of home.
“See, I could have done it alone!” the girl said, beaming triumphantly at Jack. “Will you tell that to Grandmum?”
“Of course, Glory. She’ll be proud of you. And of Nimue.”
More than fifty years ago, Gwyneira McKenzie had brought the first border collies from Wales to New Zealand, where she bred and trained them. She was delighted to see Gloria interact so skillfully with the animals.
Andy McAran, the farm’s old-as-dirt foreman, watched Jack and Gloria as they drove the sheep into the pen. It had been a long time since Andy actually had to work, but he liked to keep himself busy around the farm and still saddled his horse almost every day to ride from the village of Haldon to Kiward Station.
“Almost like the old days, Gwyn.” The old man grinned knowingly when Gloria closed the gate behind the sheep. “The only thing missing is the red hair an
d . . .
” Andy left the rest unspoken; after all, he did not want to annoy Gloria. But Jack had heard similar remarks too often not to be able to read Andy’s thoughts: the old hand was sorry that Gloria had inherited neither her great-grandmother’s delicate figure nor her narrow, pretty face—which was strange because Gwyneira had passed on her red locks and petite frame to almost all her other female offspring. With her angular face, close-set eyes, and tightly drawn mouth, Gloria took after the Wardens. Her lush, light-brown hair overwhelmed her face more than it framed it. Styling that wild luxuriance was so hopeless that she had cut it off in a fit of spite a year earlier. Although everyone had teased her, asking whether she just wanted to be a boy—she had already taken to pilfering the breeches her grandmother Marama sewed for the Maori youths—Jack thought Gloria’s short hair looked wonderful on her and the loose riding pants suited her stocky frame better than dresses.
“She really didn’t get anything from her mother,” James McKenzie remarked as he observed Jack and Gloria from the bay window in Gwyneira’s bedroom. Ever since James had turned eighty, his age had begun to cause him difficulties. He had been suffering from joint pain for a while, but he hated using a cane to get down the stairs to the salon. He claimed he could keep an eye on the goings-on of the farm better from his place at the bay window.
Gwyneira knew better: James had never really felt comfortable in Kiward Station’s elegant salon. His world had always been the workers’ quarters, and he had only acquiesced to living in the manor and raising his son there for Gwyneira’s sake.
Gwyneira laid her hand on his shoulder, likewise looking down at Gloria and their son.
“She’s beautiful,” Gwyneira said. “If the right man ever turns up for he
r . . .
”
James rolled his eyes. “Not again! Thank God the fellows aren’t chasing her yet. When I think back on Kura and that Maori boy who gave you such a headache—how old was she then? Thirteen?”
“But she blossomed early,” Gwyneira said, defending her granddaughter. She had always loved Kura. “I know you don’t care for her. But her problem was simply that she didn’t belong here.”
Gwyneira brushed her hair before putting it up. It was still long and curly, but the red was increasingly shot through with white. Though her face was now lined with a few wrinkles—she had never protected her skin from the elements—she remained as slender and wiry as in her youth, and no one would have guessed that she was almost seventy-three years old.
“Kura’s problem was that no one taught her the word ‘no’ when she could still learn,” James grumbled. They had had this discussion about Kura a thousand times; it was the only subject that had ever given them any reason to fight.
Gwyneira shook her head disapprovingly. “You’re making it sound like I was afraid of Kura,” she said. That accusation was nothing new either, though it had originally come from Gwyneira’s friend Helen O’Keefe, not James—and just the thought of Helen, who had died the year before, stung Gwyneira.
James raised his eyebrows. “Afraid of Kura? Never,” he said. “That’s why you’ve been pushing that letter Andy brought in this morning around the table for three hours. Open it, Gwyn. Eighteen thousand miles lie between you and Kura. She can’t bite you.”
Gwyneira’s fingers trembled as she opened the letter—postmarked this time from London. Kura had never displayed any interest in her daughter, and Gwyneira prayed it would stay that way.
James could see by his wife’s reaction that the letter contained upsetting news.
“They want to take Gloria to England,” Gwyneira said tonelessly when she’d finished reading. “They”—Gwyneira sought the place in the letter—“they appreciate the work we’ve done raising her, but they’re worried about whether Gloria’s ‘artistic-creative side’ is being sufficiently developed here. James, Gloria doesn’t have an ‘artistic-creative side.
’ ”
“And thank God for that. How exactly do those two plan to awaken this new Gloria? Is she supposed to join them on tour? Singing, dancing? Playing the flute?”
Kura’s virtuosic mastery of the
putorino
flute was among her program’s highlights, and so Gloria naturally possessed one of her own. To her grandmother Marama’s dismay, however, the girl had not even been able to call forth one of the flute’s “normal voices,” let alone the famous
wairua
, “the spirit voice.”
“No, she’s to be sent to boarding school. Listen to this: ‘We have chosen a small, idyllically situated school near Cambridge that boasts a multifaceted girls’ education with a special focus in the intellectual-artistic field.
’
” Gwyneira paused. “Girls’ education! What’s that supposed to mean?”
James laughed. “Cooking, baking, sewing?” he suggested. “French? Piano playing?”
At Gwyneira’s anguished expression, James stood up laboriously and took her in his arms.
“Come now, Gwyn, it won’t be all that bad. With the steamships, the journey to England is a snap. Lots of people send their children to boarding school. It won’t do Gloria any harm to see the world. She’ll be with girls her own age and play field hockey or whatever it is they do there. She’ll have to get used to a sidesaddle. A little more social polish wouldn’t be the worst thing, given that the livestock barons here are only getting more sophisticated.”