Song of the Spirits (71 page)

He felt for her hand, but then he saw her face and could have slapped himself. The soft, trusting expression in Elaine’s eyes had turned to suspicion and fear. She drew her hand back as though she had burned it. Naturally, she would stay with him; after all, she had made a promise to Berta. But she would certainly not be resting her hand in his that day.

The next day, however, she asked herself ruefully how she could feel such fear toward Timothy and why, moreover, she had not succeeded in masking it. She had treated him coolly the rest of the day, and he had
been visibly deflated when she left him—this despite the fact that he could have used all the hope and optimism he could get. Elaine sensed the calamity before she even saw him. She ran into Nellie Lambert, who was sitting next to Berta Leroy and crying into her teacup.

“He’ll never be healthy again,” she whimpered to Elaine. Over the last few days, the two women had run into each other several times in the doctor’s office, but Timothy’s mother evidently had no idea what Elaine’s relationship to Timothy was. Nor did she seem to really notice Elaine, who might just as well have been a piece of furniture in the little hospital.

“The doctor from Christchurch has the same fears as my husband,” Berta said. “He put casts on the broken bones, but they’re splintered and compressed. And of course we can’t look inside—at least not yet, although some man named Röntgen is supposed to have recently invented a machine in Germany that can do just that. Dr. Porter was very excited about it, but alas, it won’t help anytime soon. So righting the broken bones comes down to a matter of luck, and the likelihood that everything will hold together perfectly is practically zero. He hopes he got the hip in place right at least, which should enable him to sit again. But we’ll just have to wait and see. Tim was very brave though. Go on in to him, Lainie. He’ll be happy to see you.”

“But don’t upset him,” Nellie Lambert demanded. “I don’t actually think he should receive any more visitors today.”

The first thing Elaine did upon entering the darkened room was pull the curtains open. It was not late, and it was summer—why the devil did Timothy’s mother always feel the need to block out the sunlight?

Timothy looked at Elaine gratefully but did not manage a smile. His eyes were glassy. Though he had taken morphine that day, it did not look like it had been sufficient to mask the pain, for he appeared drained and sick. Even immediately after the accident, he had not looked so haggard.

Elaine sat next to him but did not touch him, since she sensed that
he
was the one who would shrink from any contact that day.

“What did the doctor say?” Elaine finally asked. The new plaster casts around Timothy’s legs were covered with a blanket, but they seemed much bulkier than Dr. Leroy’s splints. She knew that Timothy would refuse to show them to her, so she did not even ask.

“A load of nonsense,” Timothy said gravely. The morphine made him seem sleepy and subdued. “Just another pessimist like our good doctor. But what do we care about that, Lainie? I’ll be able to walk again someday. We can’t have me being wheeled through the church. I want to dance at our wedding, after all.”

Elaine did not answer. She did not even look at him. But Timothy almost found that comforting. It was much better than the indulgent and empathetic looks that his other visitors gave him whenever he contradicted the doctor’s prognosis. Elaine seemed, rather, to be fighting with her own demons.

“Lainie,” Timothy whispered. “About yesterday… I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I was being ridiculous.” She raised her hand as though she wanted to stroke his forehead but then could not bring herself to do it.

Timothy waited until he could no longer bear it.

“Lainie, today was a… rather hard day. Could we maybe… try it again? With the hands and going to sleep, I mean?”

Without a word, she took his hand.

K
ura-maro-tini was vexed. She could give several reasons why. For one, she had hardly earned a cent the previous week. There was no business during the mourning period after the mining accident, but she’d heard that Madame Clarisse’s girls continued to get paid. Paddy Holloway’s did not; if Kura did not play, there was no money to be had. The problem was that Mrs. Miller still wanted her rent, as did the stable owner. Kura had considered selling the horse, but she had grown fond of the animal.

Though she was irresolute and restless, she was relieved that the funeral service was over. She had enjoyed playing the organ—all the more so since she had been able to get the better of her obnoxious cousin Elaine—but it had been a genuine pleasure to play music again seriously. Even if Caleb Biller was the only one who rightly knew how to appreciate what she was capable of.

Perhaps, Kura conceded, her distressed state of mind had something to do with Caleb. Kura was far from being in love with him, but she yearned for a man. While she had been on the road, preoccupied with finding lodging and organizing performances, she had been able to repress it. But now not an hour went by that she did not think of William and the joy she had found in his arms. Looking back, she even recalled Roderick Barrister in a better light. This Caleb Biller who seemed to admire her was likewise interesting.

The boy was peculiar, though. One the one hand, he had behaved very gallantly at the funeral service; on the other, he had remained as cold as a fish, even when she leaned on him in apparent need of consolation. During her tour, Kura had come across men who preferred
“Greek love,” as people whispered. But Caleb did not behave like they did. Perhaps he just needed a little push.

He turned up again as soon as Kura had resumed her place at the piano, and once again required his two glasses of single malt to work up the courage to talk to her.

“Miss Martyn, I must once again thank you for introducing me to Maori flute playing. It made quite an impression on me. I find the music of the… of the ‘natives’ fascinating as a whole.”

Kura shrugged. “You don’t need to sound so apologetic about the Maori being natives,” she replied. “Besides, it’s not even entirely true. They emigrated here in the twelfth century from an island in Polynesia they called Hawaiki. Though no one knows precisely which one it was, the names of the canoes they arrived in have been passed down. My ancestors, for example, came to Aotearoa on the
Uruau
.”

“Aotearoa is their word for New Zealand, right? It means—”

“Big white cloud,” Kura said, bored. “The first settler here was a man by the name of Kupe, and his wife, Kura-maro-tini, compared the island to a cloud as they approached it. In answer to your next question, yes, I’m named after her. Can I play something for you?”

Caleb’s eyes were radiant, though his response seemed to have more to do with the information she had relayed than with her person. The man was a puzzle to Kura.

“Yes… No. So, I don’t imagine anyone has written down the music of your people, have they?”

“In music notes?” Kura asked. “No, not that I know of.”

Though her mother was one of the best musicians on the island, Marama could not read music. Even Kura had only ever learned her tribe’s songs by ear. She had never thought to write them down. Besides, her talent in that area was limited. Though she could write down a simple melody in notes, most of the tribe’s repertoire for multiple voices would have been beyond her.

“That’s a shame, don’t you think?” Caleb inquired. “Might I ask you to perform a war song for me? What are they called again?
Haka
, is that correct?”

“A
haka
is not necessarily a war song,” Kura replied. “It’s more a sort of musical play. You express feelings through song and dance, and often there is a simple plot as well. As a rule, the song features multiple singers.”

“Then you must simply sing all the parts for me one after another, Miss Martyn,” Caleb said eagerly. “Though it would naturally be difficult with the male parts. Or are there
haka
that are performed only by women?”

Kura nodded. “There are all sorts of
haka
. Usually with shared roles.” She played a few notes on the piano. “This one, for example, is performed at burials. There’s no special choreography. Everyone dances however they want, and the singers can either be both men and women, or just men or just women.”

She then began to sing in her enchanting voice. The melody suited the current depressed mood in the pub. Kura’s voice expressed the sorrow of the song so poignantly that all conversation in the Wild Rover soon came to a stop.

When Kura finished, an old miner raised his glass to the victims of the Lambert Mine. After that, the men requested “Danny Boy.”

Caleb waited patiently until every last alcohol-addled Irishman had given voice to his sorrow. It took hours. Kura, however, was not displeased. The endless string of sad songs got on her nerves, of course, but the men were buying her drink after drink. That evening, she would refill her pockets.

“Have you thought about it, Miss Martyn?” Caleb finally asked, casting an almost fearful look at the door.

A strapping blond man of a ripe age entered and greeted Paddy in a booming voice.

“Holloway, you ol’ scoundrel! I heard the caterwaulin’ out on the street, and I thought I’d better grab my son before he gets weepy. It is a tragedy, all that business with the Lambert Mine, but the boys only have themselves to blame. They could have signed on with me after all. Like all the good, sensible coal miners in this pub! A round for the men of the Biller Mine!”

With these last words, he turned to the drinkers in the pub, savoring the predictable applause. Kura recognized him: Joshua Biller, Caleb’s father. She had seen him briefly at the funeral service. Caleb, however, did not look enthusiastic about his sudden appearance. He gave the impression of wanting to disappear with his whiskey glass from where he was standing near the piano.

Joshua Biller drank a quick toast to his men and then joined Caleb. He seemed to quite like what he saw.

“Well now, boy, I thought you were playin’ accompaniment to the general whining. Pardon me, miss, but whenever my son reaches for the keys, it always sounds like a funeral. You, however, are a sight for sore eyes at least, and I’d wager you could play something more cheerful too.”

Kura nodded stiffly. This man was just the type who almost always tried to fondle her, after building up to it so crudely that even a more sociable girl would retreat into her shell.

“Of course,” she said. “Your son and I were just speaking about the music of the Maori, particularly the
haka
. This, Mr. Biller, is an example of a joyful dance. It tells the story of the rescue of Chief Te Rauparaha, who hid in a hole in the ground to escape his foes. At first, he expects to be cornered by them, but then a friend—who is represented in some versions by a woman—tells him that the men have left. The song expresses first his fear and then his joy.”

Kura struck the keys and began to sing:
Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora…

Caleb listened rapturously, his father indifferently.

“The way it sounds, even the Maori write about nothing other than dark holes and tunnels underground. But your little friend is lovely, Caleb. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Kura could hardly believe it, but Caleb did indeed rise to the occasion to present Kura to his father.

“Kura-maro-tini Martyn.”

“Josh Biller,” boomed the old man. “Very pretty indeed. Can I get a whiskey, Paddy?”