Call of the Kiwi (55 page)

With an iron will, Gloria held out in the storm until the last sheep had crossed through the stone gate. Only then did she ride into the valley herself. The caves were warm and almost completely sheltered from the wind. Gloria risked a head count while she warmed her frozen hands on a cup of tea, which had been reserved from the first pot—for “the boss,” as they all now called her.

“Is it bad?” Jack asked quietly. Wiremu had unsaddled his horse, and Jack now sat at the fire leaning against the saddle on the ground.

Gloria pursed her lips. “We didn’t lose as many lambs as I thought. Probably because the horses were moving so slowly. But still, it will be a poor year to have been born. At this point we have no more than two-thirds of the mature animals. The rest are out in the storm. We’ll see how many survive. How are you?”

“Good.” Though Jack’s lungs burned with every breath and he was frozen to the bone, his reply sounded honest. During the last few hours he had not thought he would survive the storm. He had only ordered the descent to the cabin in the hope that the men might reach the calmer land below before the worst of the storm hit. But Jack would not have ridden with them anyway. Not without Gloria. Now he felt profound gratitude.

Wiremu brought him and Gloria meat and fresh tea, which he had spiked with a generous shot of whiskey. The men sat at their own fire, drinking it straight from the bottle and toasting their “boss.” They also raised their glasses to Rihari—and to spirits, as they got more drunk.

“They should put up the tents before they’re too drunk,” Gloria said. She had retreated to be near Jack, who sat near a smaller fire. “Will we be able to get the stakes in the ground? Or is it stone?”

Wiremu sat down with his meat next to the two of them.

“You can’t eat anything here,” Gloria reminded him spitefully.

Wiremu smiled. “I eat where I want. I’m leaving the tribe, Gloria. I’m going back to Dunedin.”

“To continue your studies?” Gloria asked. “Despit
e . . .
” She pointed to her face as if tracing invisible
moko
, the designs painted onto the skin.

Wiremu nodded. “I don’t belong here or there, but I like it better there. I’ll reformulate my
pepeha
.” He looked at her. “I am Wiremu, and my
maunga
is the University of Otago in Dunedin. My ancestors came to Aotearoa on the
Uruau
, and now I cross the land on the bus. In my skin the history of my people is written, but my story, I will write myself.”

Wiremu set up Jack’s tent and helped him inside. He had heated stones again to warm him, and after a new herbal poultice, Jack’s breathing became more regular. Wiremu accompanied Gloria on a final inspection of the animals. It took a while as three sheep lambed. One ewe didn’t survive.

Jack awoke as Gloria slipped into the sleeping bag next to him. This time she was the one trembling with cold. Jack would have liked to pull her close to him, but scrupulously avoided touching her.

“Was there no one to put up your tent?” he asked.

“Wiremu is sharing it with two abandoned lambs. He’s going to be a good doctor someday. But I don’t think he’ll be specializing in birthing. When the ewe died, his face turned green.”

“So we lost another sheep?” Jack asked.

Gloria sighed. “We’ll lose a few more. But not all of them by a long shot. It’s a hardy breed.”

“Not just the animals,” he said softly.

Gloria curled up, once again with her back to him.

“You looked at the pictures?” she asked quietly.

Jack nodded, but then remembered that she could not see him. “Yes. But I already knew.”

“You, how? How could you know?” Gloria turned around. In the glow of the lantern Jack saw that first she blushed, then turned deathly pale. “Can you tell just by looking at me?”

Jack shook his head. He could not help himself; he raised his hand and stroked the hair from her face.

“Elaine,” he said. “Elaine knew. Or rather, she had a feeling. She couldn’t have known the details, of course. But she said that no girl in the world could have done it any other way.”

“She didn’t”—Gloria wrestled for the words—“sell herself.”

Jack arched his eyebrows. “If I understood her correctly, she only owes her virtue to the circumstance that the local madam was looking for a pianist more than another prostitute. If you had been given the choice, you would have taken the piano too.”

“No one would have wanted to hear that,” Gloria whispered in a moment of gallows humor.

Jack laughed, and then dared to put a hand on her shoulder. Gloria did not protest.

“Grandmum?” she asked breathlessly.

Jack stroked her reassuringly. He could feel her bony shoulder under her thick pullover. Another person who needed to eat more. “My mother doesn’t need to know everything. She believes the story about you making it as a cabin boy. That’s better for her.”

“She’d hate me if she knew.”

“No, she wouldn’t. She wanted more than anyone else for you to come back. She’d save her hate for the bastards who did that to you. And for Kura-maro-tini.”

“I’m so ashamed.”

“I’m ashamed too,” Jack said. “But I have much more reason to be. I occupied a foreign beach, disfigured it with ugly trenches, and beat its rightful owners to death with a shovel. That’s much worse.”

“You had orders.”

“You too,” Jack said. “Your parents wanted you to stay in America. Against your will. Saying no was the right thing. You can look in the mirror, Gloria. I can’t.”

“But the Turks shot at you,” Gloria said. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I could have stayed on Kiward Station counting sheep.”

“I could have stayed in San Francisco ironing my mother’s clothes.”

Jack smiled. “You need to get some sleep. May I put my arms around you?”

That night Gloria leaned her head on Jack’s shoulder. When she awoke, he kissed her.

12

T
imothy Lambert avoided the train whenever he could. Even in first class, the compartments were so narrow that he could not sit comfortably after he removed his leg splints. And though the train passed through gorgeous landscapes, the jolty ride through mountains and valleys caused him excruciating pain.

George Greenwood, however, had not backed down. For whatever reason, the people from the University of Wellington who wanted to introduce some groundbreaking innovations in mining to them insisted on meeting in Christchurch.

Tim shifted his weight for the umpteenth time and looked over at his wife. Elaine would not hear of his going without her. If they were going to be in Christchurch anyway, she had argued, they could also visit her family on Kiward Station. She looked particularly attractive that day. A simple visit to her grandmother’s seemed to bring her to life. Her eyes were shining, and her face was slightly flushed. She’d made a real effort. Her red locks were tied into a new coiffure. Her green dress hugged her still slender figure, and her skirt was shorter than usual.

She noticed his gaze and smiled. As if to entice him, she pulled her skirt a little higher, though not without making sure that Roly was fast asleep in the opposite corner of the compartment.

This little bit of flirting had a considerable enlivening effect on Tim, and Elaine sighed with relief. She had observed with concern as he shifted around in a desperate search to get comfortable. She was glad when the train reached Arthur’s Pass, and the passengers could get out and stretch their legs. Tim only managed with Roly’s help, a sign that he was doing really poorly. The opportunity to stand up and walk a bit seemed to provide him some relief, however, and Elaine smiled when he put his arm around her and admired the mountain vista. Though the weather was clear, dark clouds were gathering behind the steep mountain massifs, making the snow-covered peaks glow almost unnaturally, and the air seemed electrically charged. The calm before the storm.

Just then, Elaine saw Caleb Biller approaching them. His presence was no surprise to her—but could he not have stayed in his compartment? It was a childish thought. Even Tim felt no enmity toward Caleb. After exchanging a few friendly words about the weather, the group reboarded the train. Caleb came to sit with them, and bored them with tales of Maori musical research until the train finally pulled in to Christchurch. George Greenwood was standing on the platform with his wife, Elizabeth, who was enthusiastically rocking a toddler in her arms.

Tim frowned when Elaine leaped up so quickly after the train came to a halt that she knocked his crutches to the floor. She was among the first off the train. Even Caleb stared eagerly at the platform and looked impatient to get off.

“Which of the Greenwoods still has such young children?” Tim asked grumpily as he left the compartment. Roly shrugged.

Elaine descended nimbly from the train and greeted George with a few words. Then she turned to Elizabeth and the baby. A red-haired little boy.

Tim did not know what to make of it. Elaine was a good mother, but she had never shown much interest in strangers’ babies.

“Hi, George,” Tim said, giving Greenwood his hand. “What sort of progeny do you have here? Elaine’s crazy about him.” Tim took a closer look. “Almost looks a little like her.”

George grinned. “Actually, I think he looks more like you.”

Tim furrowed his brow. But it was true. The little boy had his angular face and a decidedly dimpled smile.

“He certainly didn’t get anything from Florence.” That was Caleb Biller, and he sounded very pleased. The inkling that had been budding within Tim crystallized.

“George,” he said severely. “Tell me the truth. There are no researchers from Wellington. This is a conspiracy. And this i
s . . .
”

“Galahad,” Elizabeth purred. “Say hello to your grandpa, Gal.”

The boy looked indecisively from one person to another. Then he smiled at Roly, who was making a face.

Tim suddenly found it difficult to maintain his balance.

“There is a researcher from Wellington,” George said. “You know I would never lie to you. He even knows a little bit about mining, if you count the mining of
pounamu
at Te Tai Poutini, whose history and reverberations in Maori myths he presented to me in a long, impressive dissertation over breakfast this morning.”

Elaine suppressed a giggle, to which Galahad responded with a chortle. Elaine took him from Elizabeth.

“Oh yes, there’s even a
hak
a
. . .
” Caleb seemed to want to add a thing or two to his son’s presentation. But then he recalled his duties as a grandfather. He produced a tiny
putatara
from his pocket and held it out to Galahad. “It’s made from conch shell,” he explained to the boy, “from a variety found on the beaches of the East Coast. The bigger the shell, the deeper the sound.”

“Caleb,” Elaine sighed. “Just blow into it.”

All of the adults covered their ears, but the boy squealed with delight when Caleb drew a piercing note from the instrument.

Tim suddenly felt like an idiot. He needed to give the child a present. Just then, Roly pressed a toy train into his hand.

“You?” Tim was about to scold Roly, but Roly merely pointed at Elaine, who was lost in play with the baby. Tim wanted to be mad at her but could do nothing but grin broadly at her. When Galahad discovered the train, he let out a sound of rapture.

Elaine gave Tim an apologetic look, but Tim did not want to discuss Elaine’s secret plot just then.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled. “Where’s Lilian? And how did the child get a name like Galahad?”

Elaine and Lilian, like Caleb and Ben, could hardly leave each other’s side. While mother and daughter chatted endlessly about life on the North Island, father and son discussed the visual representation of myths in Maori art. They almost came to blows over whether the representation of Papa and Rangi in the natives’ jade and wood carvings should be called “static” or not. Tim conversed a bit stiffly with George and Elizabeth, sipped some whiskey for his pain, and finally went to bed, taking with him Lilian’s latest novel—
The Beauty of Westport
. A half hour later Roly brought him the rest of the bottle.

“Mrs. Lambert will be coming a little later. She’s taking Lily home and is helping put Gila—Galo—er, the baby to bed.” The Greenwoods had placed their guest room at the Lamberts’ disposal; the Billers were staying at a nearby hotel. “But she says you could use the rest of this bottle, and that you should look at the funny side of all this.”

Tim gave him a pained look. “Go to bed, Roly. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow. You’re going to help me bend my daughter over my knee.”

“I’d love to keep you here, of course,” George Greenwood said during breakfast. “But it’s better that you drive to Kiward Station today. I’m worried about Gwyneira; she was rather beside herself on the telephone earlier. If I understood rightly, she’s completely alone on the farm except for a Maori boy who’s helping her with the animals. Jack and Gloria are in the highlands trying to herd the sheep. In that storm. Your grandmother is terribly worried. And not without reason; they’re expecting the very worst kind of weather.”

Tim and Elaine nodded. They had feared as much when they had seen the dark clouds and strange light at Arthur’s Pass. But what were Kiward Station’s sheep doing in the mountains so early in the summer?

Lilian did not say anything. She hid behind the strands of hair that had stolen out of her very adult-looking chignon. Tim had brought her book downstairs that morning and placed it next to his plate with a telling expression. Lilian turned red as a tomato. She was not exactly hoping for a catastrophe to distract him from her book, but she was not opposed.

“We can talk about it in the car,” Tim remarked sternly. “You’d better consider how to explain what you were thinking. George, can you lend us a car, or can we rent one? A large one, if possible. I need a little legroom.”

After the train ride, his legs still hurt, and he would have liked to lie down in bed with another of Lilian’s books. Naturally it was trash—and moreover a scandal exposing the Lamberts’ family history—but nothing had ever so completely distracted him from his pain before.

George nodded. “Come with me, Roly. We have several company cars.”

Lilian saw her chance. “No, I’ll drive. Oh, please, Uncle George. I’ve always chauffeured my daddy.”

Elaine sighed. “Act like a lady now and then, Lily, and don’t steal Roly’s work.”

“But I’m much faster,” she declared. “Roly won’t feel unnecessary, will you?” She gave Roly a pleading look, which, as expected, left him wrapped around her little finger.

“Of course not, Mrs. Biller,” replied Roly. “I’ll keep an eye on the baby. What’s his name again?”

When the travelers reached Kiward Station, Gwyneira hardly noticed her great-great-grandson. For the first time in all her years there, she was completely undone.

“They’re going to die up there,” she repeated again and again, “and it’s all my fault.”

Elaine saw to it that Moana and Kiri made tea for everyone. They seemed to be in a similar state of unrest, muttering something about a fight between Marama, Rongo Rongo, and Tonga that was shaking up their world as much as the storm was Gwyneira’s.

Moana muttered, “Marama say, if die Glory and Jack, then Tonga’s fault, and Rongo say spirits would be angry.”

“No one’s dead yet,” Tim said, as Elaine poured him some tea. “And if my eyes were working properly in the car, the first sheep are back, aren’t they?”

Gwyneira nodded. Tane had indeed come home safe and sound with the young rams. The animals had already broken out again, however. The paddock into which Tane had driven them was not very secure.

“If someone tells me where the tools are, I can repair that,” Roly said, wanting to make himself useful.

“Mostly it has to do with the lack of fodder,” Gwyneira said. “Nothing’s left in the paddocks, and if we herd them to the last grassy area
s . . .
”

Tim and Elaine listened to her story with a frown and tried to comprehend the confusion around the promise,
tapu
, and spirits.

“One minute, do I understand this correctly?” Tim finally asked. “This circle of stones does belong to your land, right? But in exchange for permission to bury Grandpa James, the chief demanded the right to exclusive use of other land that did not belong to him either?”