In the Land of the Long White Cloud (98 page)

“I now take you for my husband!” she announced seriously. “I’m lying with you in a sleeping lodge—even if the tribe is not present. A few of our ancestors will be here to witness it. I, Marama, descendent of those who came to Aotearoa in the
uruao
, take you, Paul Warden. Isn’t that how your people say it?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Paul said. He did not know what to think, but Marama was beautiful that day. She wore a colorful headband, had wound a sheet around her waist, and her breasts were bare. Paul had never seen her like this; she had always worn modest, Western clothing in the Wardens’ household and at school. But now she stood before him, half-naked, with gleaming light brown skin, a soft fire in her eyes—and he looked at her as
papa
must have looked at
rangi
. She loved him. Unconditionally, regardless of what he was and what he had done.

Paul put his arms around her. He did not know whether the Maori kissed at such moments, but then she rubbed her nose lightly against his. Marama giggled when she had to sneeze afterward. Then she removed her sheet. Paul’s breath caught as she stood fully naked before him. She was more delicately built than most of the women of her race, but her hips were wide, her breasts large, and her buttocks ample. Paul swallowed, but Marama serenely spread the blanket on the ground and pulled Paul down to her.

“You do want to be my husband, don’t you?” she asked.

Paul would have to answer, without ever having thought about it. Until that moment, he had hardly given marriage a thought, and the few times he had, he had imagined himself in an arranged marriage with a white-skinned girl—maybe one of the Greenwoods’ or Barringtons’ daughters. That would be suitable. But what expression would he see in the eyes of a girl like that? Would she abhor him like his mother did? At the very least, she would have reservations. Especially now, after he had murdered Howard. Would she really be able to love him? Wouldn’t he always be on his guard and suspicious?

To love Marama, on the other hand, was simple. She was there, willing and tender, fully submissive to him…no, that wasn’t right. She had her own will. He would never have been able to force her to
do something. Be he also would never have wanted to. Maybe that was the nature of love: it had to be given freely. A love forced on someone, like his mother’s, wasn’t worth anything.

So Paul nodded. But suddenly that did not strike him as good enough. It wasn’t fair to confirm their love only according to her rituals. He wanted to acknowledge it according to his, as well.

Paul Warden tried to remember what little he knew of wedding vows.

“I, Paul, take you, Marama, before God and man…and the ancestors…to be my lawfully wedded wife…”

From this moment on, Paul was a happy man. He lived with Marama as though they were a Maori couple. He hunted and fished while she cooked and attempted to cultivate a garden. She had brought some seeds—there had been a reason that her heavily laden mule could not keep up with his horse—and Marama was as happy as a child when the seeds sprouted. In the evening, she entertained Paul with stories and songs. She told him about her ancestors who had come long, long ago in the
uruao
canoe to Aotearoa from Polynesia. Every Maori, she explained to Paul, was full of pride for the canoe on which his ancestors had come. At official events they used the name of this canoe as a part of their own names. Naturally, everyone knew the story of the discovery of the New Country. “We came from a land called Hawaiki,” Marama explained, and her story sounded like a song. “At the time there was a man named Kupe who loved a woman named Kura-maro-tini. But he couldn’t marry her because she had already lain with his cousin Hoturapa in the sleeping lodge.”

Paul learned that Kupe drowned Hoturapa, and for that reason he had to flee his country. And how Kura-maro-tini, who had fled with him, saw a beautiful white cloud sitting on the sea, which revealed itself to be the country Aotearoa. Marama sang of dangerous fights with krakens and ghosts when they seized the land and of Kupe’s return to Hawaiki.

“He told the people there of Aotearoa, but he never went back. He never went back.”

“And Kura-maro-tini?” Paul asked. “Did Kupe just leave her?”

Marama nodded sadly.

“Yes. She remained alone…but she had two daughters. That might have comforted her. But Kupe was certainly not a nice fellow!”

With these last words, she sounded so much like Mrs. O’Keefe’s little model student that Paul had to laugh. He pulled the girl into his arms.

“I will never leave you, Marama. Even if I haven’t always been such a nice fellow.”

Tonga learned about Paul and Marama from a boy fleeing from Lionel Station and John Sideblossom’s hard regime. He had heard about Tonga’s “uprising” against the Wardens and was eager to join the would-be guerillas in their fight against the
pakeha
.

“There’s another one living over there in the highlands,” he reported excitedly. “With a Maori wife. I mean, they were nice. The man is hospitable. He would share his food with us when we wandered by. And the girl is a singer.
Tohunga!
But I say: all
pakeha
are rotten. And they shouldn’t have our women!”

Tonga nodded. “You are right,” he said seriously. “No
pakeha
should defile our women. And you will be my guide and precede the Chieftain’s Ax to avenge this wrong.”

The boy beamed. First thing the next day, he led Tonga into the highlands.

Tonga and his guide encountered Paul in front of his house. The young man had been gathering wood and helping Marama to clear out a cooking pit. This was not common practice in her village, but they had both heard of this Maori custom and now wanted to try it
for themselves. Marama happily gathered stones while Paul stuck his spade in the soil, still soft from the last rain.

Tonga stepped from behind the rocks that Marama believed pleased the gods.

“Whose grave are you digging, Warden? Have you shot another man?”

Paul spun around and held his spade out in front of him. Marama let out a quiet whimper of fear. She looked beautiful; once again she was wearing only her skirt and had her hair tied back with an embroidered headband. Her skin glistened from the work, and she had just been laughing. Paul stepped in front of her. He knew it was childish, but he didn’t want anyone to see her so lightly dressed—even though he knew the Maori would find nothing offensive about it.

“What do you want, Tonga? You’re scaring my wife. Get out of here; this isn’t your land!”

“More mine than yours,
pakeha
! But if you want to know the truth—your Kiward Station won’t belong to you much longer either. Your governor has decided in my favor. If you can’t buy my share, then we’ll have to split the land,” Tonga declared, leaning casually on the Chieftain’s Ax, which he had brought with him to make an appropriately grand entrance.

Marama stepped in between the two men. She recognized that Tonga was wearing warrior’s jewelry, and he was not only wearing paint—the young chief had had himself tattooed in the traditional style over the last few months.

“Tonga, we will negotiate fairly,” she said softly. “Kiward Station is big; everyone will receive his share. Paul does not want to be your enemy anymore. He is my husband; he belongs to me and my people. So he is also your brother. Make peace, Tonga!”

Tonga laughed. “Him? My brother? Then he should also live like my brother. We will take his land and level his house. The gods should reclaim the land on which the house stands. You two can live in our sleeping lodge, naturally.” Tonga approached Marama, his gaze roaming salaciously over her bare breasts. “But then again you might want to share your bed with someone else. Nothing has been decided yet.”

“You damned piece of shit!”

As Tonga reached his hand out to Marama, Paul pounced on him. A moment later, the two were rolling, brawling, screaming, and cursing on the ground. They punched and grappled at each other, scratched and bit, did whatever they could to harm the other. Marama observed the fight apathetically. She had lost count of how many times she had seen the two rivals in a similarly ignoble confrontation. Children, both of them.

“Stop it!” she finally screamed. “Tonga you’re a chieftain! Think of your dignity. And you, Paul…”

But neither one of them listened to her. Instead, they stubbornly continued to strike each other. Marama would have to wait until one of them had pinned the other down, though both of them were about equally strong. Marama knew that the fortunes of battle hung in the balance—and she would wonder for the rest of her life whether everything would have turned out differently if fortune had not been on Paul’s side, for Tonga finally found himself pinned down. Paul sat on him, out of breath, his face scratched and beaten bloody. But he had triumphed. Grinning, he raised his fist.

“Do you still want to question whether Marama is my wife, you bastard? Forever and always?” He shook Tonga.

Unlike Marama, the youth who had led the chieftain there watched the fight full of rage and consternation. For him, this was no petty fistfight but a power struggle between Maori and
pakeha
—tribal warrior versus oppressor. And the girl was right: this sort of fight did not befit a chieftain. Tonga could not tussle like a boy. And he had been beaten too. He was just about to lose his last shred of dignity…the boy could not allow that to happen. He raised his spear.

“No! No, boy, no! Paul!” Marama screamed and tried to seize the young Maori by the arm. But it was too late. Paul Warden, crouched over his pinned opponent, fell over, his chest pierced through by a spear.

J
ames McKenzie whistled happily. The mission that lay before him was delicate, but there was nothing that could ruin his good mood today. He had been back in the Canterbury Plains for two days, and his reunion with Gwyneira had left no desire unfulfilled. It was as though all the misunderstandings and all the years that had passed since their then-young love affair had never existed. James smirked when he recalled how hard Gwyneira had worked to not ever talk about love back then. Now she did so openly, and there was no trace left of the Welsh princess’s prudery.

Who was to make Gwyneira feel ashamed now? For the time being, the Wardens’ manor belonged to them alone. It was strange to enter the house not as a barely tolerated employee but as someone taking possession of it—of the chairs in the salon, the crystal glasses, the whiskey, and Gerald Warden’s first-class cigars. James still felt most at home in the kitchen and in the stables—which were, after all, where Gwyneira spent most of her time. There still was no Maori staff, and the white shepherds were too important and above all too proud to perform simple household tasks. So Gwyneira carried the water, harvested vegetables in the garden, and gathered eggs in the chicken coop. She rarely had fresh fish or meat anymore. Gwyneira did not have time to fish, and she could not bring herself to snap the chickens’ necks. The menu expanded when James began living there. He was happy to make her life easier, even though he still felt like a guest in her feminine bedroom. Gwyneira had told him that Lucas had furnished the room for her. Although the playful lace curtains and the delicate furniture were not really Gwyneira’s style, she kept them as mementos of her husband.