In the Land of the Long White Cloud (30 page)

“Wood isn’t…for every taste.” Gwyn recalled one of her mother’s answers. “And it becomes unsightly after it’s been used a few times.”

Moana shrugged. “Then just cut new ones. Is easy, I can show, miss.”

The New Zealand natives were great masters in the art of carving. A few days earlier, Gwyneira had seen the Maori village that was part of Kiward Station. It was not far but lay hidden behind rocks and a copse of trees on the other side of the lake. Gwyneira would probably never have found it had she not noticed the women doing their laundry and the horde of almost-naked children bathing in the lake. At the sight of Gwyneira, the little brown children retreated shyly, but on her next ride she distributed sweets to them, thus winning their trust. The women invited her with big gestures into their camp, and Gwyneira marveled at their houses and grill pits. She was
most impressed with their meetinghouse, which was adorned with plentiful carvings.

Slowly she began to understand her first bits of Maori.

Kia ora
meant hello.
Tana
was man,
wahine
woman. She learned that you did not say “thank you” but showed your gratitude through actions and that the Maori did not shake hands in greeting but rubbed noses instead. This ritual was called
hongi
, and Gwyneira practiced it with the giggling children. Lucas was appalled when she told him about it, and Gerald reproved her: “We should under no circumstances get too close to them. These people are primitive; they need to learn their boundaries.”

“I think it’s always good when people can understand each other better,” Gwyneira disagreed. “Why should it be the primitives who learn the civilized language? It must be much easier the other way around.”

Helen crouched next to the cow and attempted to cajole her. The animal seemed friendly, which wasn’t a given, if she had correctly understood Daphne on the ship. Apparently, you had to be careful with some dairy cows that they did not attack you while you milked them. Yet even a willing cow could not effect the milking herself. Helen was necessary—but could not make it happen. No matter how much she tugged and kneaded the udders, she never released more than one or two drops. It had looked so easy when Howard did it. But he had shown her only once; he was still in a bad mood after last night’s disaster. When he had returned from milking, the stove had turned the room into a smoky hell. Helen squatted before the iron monstrosity in tears, and, of course, she hadn’t managed to sweep yet either. In sullen silence, Howard had lit the stove and fireplace, cracked a few eggs in a skillet, and set the food on the table for Helen.

“Starting tomorrow, you cook!” he declared as he did so, sounding as though he would accept no further excuses. Helen wondered what she should cook. There wasn’t anything in the house but milk
and eggs the next day either. “And you have to bake bread. There’s grain in the cupboard there. Besides that, there’s beans, salt…you’ll figure something out. I know you’re tired, Helen, but you’re no good to me otherwise.”

That night Helen repeated the experience of the night before. This time she wore her prettiest nightgown and lay between clean sheets, none of which made it any more bearable. Helen was sore and horribly ashamed, and Howard’s face, reflecting naked lust, made her fearful. But this time she at least knew that it would be over quickly. Afterward Howard fell right asleep.

That morning he had gone out to inspect the flocks. He let Helen know he would not be back before evening. When he returned, he expected a warm house, a good meal, and a clean room.

Helen could not even manage the milking. But now, as she once more tugged desperately on the udder, a furtive giggle sounded from the direction of the stable door. Then somebody whispered something. Helen would have been afraid of the voices had they not sounded so high-pitched and childlike. As it was, she simply stood up.

“Come out; I see you,” she said.

Fresh chuckling.

Helen went to the door but saw only two little dark figures disappear quick as lightning through the half-open door.

Well, they wouldn’t go far; they were much too curious for that.

“I won’t hurt you!” Helen called. “What did you want, to steal some eggs?”

“We not stealing, missy!” A wounded voice. Helen must have piqued someone’s honor. A small, chestnut-brown figure emerged from around the corner of the stable, dressed only in a short skirt. “We milk when Mr. O’Keefe away.”

Aha! Helen had them to blame for the scene the day before.

“But you didn’t milk her yesterday,” she said sternly. “Mr. O’Keefe was very angry.”

“Yesterday
waiata-a-ringa
…”

“Dance,” the second child elaborated, a boy dressed in a loincloth. “All people dancing. No time for cow.”

Helen refrained from giving them a lesson on the need to milk cows daily without regard to festivals, seeing as she hadn’t known that until the day before herself.

“But today you can help me,” she said instead. “You can show me how to do it.”

“How to do what?” the girl asked.

“How to milk. What you do with the cow,” Helen sighed.

“You not know how to milk?” Fresh giggling.

“What you then doing here?” inquired the young boy, grinning. “Stealing eggs?”

Helen had to laugh. The kid was sly. But she couldn’t be upset with him. Helen thought both children were sweet.

“I’m the new Mrs. O’Keefe,” she introduced herself. “Mr. O’Keefe and I got married in Christchurch.”

“Mr. O’Keefe marry
wahine
who no can milk?”

“Well, I have other qualities,” Helen said, laughing. “For example, I can bake sweets.” And she could; it had always been her last resort when she needed to convince her brothers to do something. And Howard had syrup in the house. She would have to improvise with the other ingredients, but first she had to get the two children into the cow’s stall. “But only for good children, of course.”

The term “good” did not seem to mean much to the Maori children, but they knew the word “sweets” and the deal was quickly finalized. Helen then learned that the children were named Rongo Rongo and Reti and lived in a Maori village farther down the river. They milked the cow with lightning speed, found eggs in places Helen had not even thought to look, and then followed her curiously into the house. Since cooking the syrup for candy would have taken hours, Helen decided to just serve them pancakes with syrup. The two observed, fascinated, how she stirred the batter and turned the cakes over in the pan.

“Like
takakau
, flat bread!” Rongo Rongo exclaimed.

Helen saw her chance. “Can you make that, Rongo? Flat bread, I mean? Can you show me how?”

It turned out it was rather easy. She needed little beyond water and grain. Helen hoped it would meet with Howard’s approval, but at least it was something to eat. To her amazement, there were also things to eat in the neglected garden behind the house. On first inspection, she had not been able to find anything that fit her idea of a vegetable, but after Rongo Rongo and Reti dug around for a few minutes, they proudly held out a few mysterious roots to her. Helen made a stew from them that tasted astoundingly good.

That afternoon she cleaned the room while Rongo and Reti inspected her trousseau. Her books especially piqued their interest.

“That’s a magic thingy!” Reti said weightily. “Don’t touch it, Rongo, or you’ll be eaten!”

Helen laughed. “What makes you say that, Reti? Those are just books; there are stories in them. They are not dangerous. When we’re finished here, I can read to you from them.”

“But stories are in head of
kuia
,” Rongo said. “Of storyteller.”

“Well, when someone can write, the stories flow out of their heads through their arms and hands and into a book,” Helen said, “and anyone can read it, not just the person the
kuia
tells his stories to.”

“Magic!” concluded Reti.

Helen shook her head. “No, no. Look, that’s how you write your name.” She took a piece of letter paper and set down first Reti’s and then Rongo Rongo’s name on paper. The children followed her hand with gaping mouths.

“See, now you can read your names. And you can write down anything else, as well. Anything you can say.”

“But then you have power,” declared Reti seriously. “Storyteller has power.”

Helen laughed. “Yes. Do you know what? I’ll teach you two to read. In exchange you’ll show me how to milk the cow and teach me what grows in the garden. I’ll ask Mr. O’Keefe if there are books in your language. I’ll learn Maori, and you’ll learn better English.”

I
t looked like Gerald would be proved right. Gwyneira’s wedding was the most glamorous social event the Canterbury Plains had ever seen. Guests began arriving days before from remote farms and even from the barracks in Dunedin. Half of Christchurch was on hand as well. Kiward Station’s guest rooms were soon completely full, but Gerald had had tents erected all around the house so that everyone had a comfortable place to sleep. He engaged the cook from the hotel in Christchurch so that he could offer his guests a meal that would be both familiar and exquisite. Meanwhile, Gwyneira was supposed to be schooling the Maori girls in how to be perfect servers; however, she was in a bit over her head. Then it occurred to her that in Dorothy, Elizabeth, and Daphne, there was a well-trained staff to be had in the area. Mrs. Godewind was happy to lend her Elizabeth, and the Candlers, Dorothy’s employers, had been invited anyway and could just bring her along. Daphne, however, could not be found. Gerald had no idea where Morrison’s farm was, so there was no hope of making contact with the girl directly. Mrs. Baldwin maintained that she had attempted to contact them but had received no answer from Mr. Morrison. Gwyneira thought sadly once again about Helen. Maybe she knew something about her lost pupil. But she had yet to hear anything from her friend, nor had she found the time or opportunity to make inquiries.

Dorothy and Elizabeth looked happy, at least. In their blue serving dresses with white lace aprons and bonnets that had been tailored for the wedding, they looked very tidy and sweet, and they had not forgotten any of their training. However, in the excitement, Elizabeth dropped two of the most expensive porcelain plates, but Gerald did
not notice, the Maori girl did not care, and Gwyneira ignored it. She was more worried about Cleo, who only partially responded to James McKenzie. Hopefully everything would go well during the sheepdogs’ show.

The weather was exceptional and the wedding took place under a richly ornamented canopy specially erected in the lush and blooming garden. Gwyneira recognized most of the plants from England. The fertile land seemed receptive to all the new plants and animals that the immigrants brought with them.

Gwyneira’s English wedding dress garnered many admiring looks and comments. Elizabeth, in particular, was beside herself.

“I’d like to have one like that when I get married,” she sighed longingly, no longer swooning over Jamie O’Hara, but Vicar Chester now.

“You can borrow it, then,” Gwyneira said generously. “And you too, of course, Dot!”

Dorothy was pinning Gwyneira’s hair up at that moment, which she did much more adeptly than Kiri or Moana, if not as capably as Daphne. Dorothy did not respond to Gwyneira’s gracious offer, though Gwyneira had seen how she looked after the youngest of the Candlers’ sons with interest. They were a good fit age-wise—perhaps something would develop in a few years.

Gwyneira made a beautiful bride, and in his black-tie wedding suit, Lucas did not look bad either. While Gwyneira twice stumbled over her words, Lucas spoke his vows confidently and with a steady voice before placing an expensive ring on his wife’s finger and kissing her modestly on the lips when Reverend Baldwin encouraged him to. Gwyneira felt strangely disappointed but quickly pulled herself together. What exactly had she expected? That Lucas would take her in his arms and kiss her passionately like the cowboys in the penny dreadfuls did with the lucky heroines they’d just saved?

Gerald was hardly able to contain his pride. Rivers of champagne and whiskey flowed. The multicourse meal was delicious, the guests excited and full of wonder. Gerald shone with happiness, while Lucas remained astoundingly even-keeled—which annoyed Gwyneira a little. He could at least have pretended he was in love with her.
But that couldn’t really be expected of him. Gwyneira was attempting to put her unrealistic romantic ideals behind her, but Lucas’s casual aloofness made her nervous. Then again, she seemed to be the only one who noticed her husband’s strange behavior. The guests expressed only admiration for the lovely couple and gushed about how well the bride and groom suited each other. Perhaps she just expected too much.

Finally Gerald announced the sheepdog demonstration, and the guests followed him to the stables behind the house.

Gwyneira looked despondently over to Igraine, who stood with Madoc in a paddock. She had not been able to ride for the last few days, and it looked unlikely to happen for the next few days as well. As was customary, some of the guests planned to stay a few days longer, and they would have to be catered to and entertained.