Call of the Kiwi (40 page)

Lilian giggled. “He’ll probably toss her right out of his mine.”

While Lilian typed out
The Heiress of Wakanui
on the typewriter Thomas Wilson had given her at the birth of her son, little Galahad lay in his crib next to her, occasionally being rocked or sung to sleep with romantic songs. At night he lay between his parents, temporarily preventing the creation of another baby. Lilian was now taking precautions anyway. Ben had finally summoned the courage to ask his fellow students about safe contraceptive options and actually bought the recommended condoms. Though it was annoying to put on the thick rubber devices before making love, Lilian had no desire for further encounters with the sergeant-like nurse in the Auckland hospital. That was fine by Ben; he was just happy to have finally put working on the docks behind him.
The
Mistress of Kenway Station
had been feeding the whole family for half a year. Ben graduated at the beginning of 1918 as the youngest PhD in the British Empire and received a visiting professorship in Wellington.

Lilian and Ben were happy.

8

W
hat’s Gloria doing with the Maori all the time?”

Although reluctant to discuss family problems with Maaka, Gwyneira had no one else to turn to with her concerns. Gloria said little, Marama equally little, and she still had not heard a word from Jack. However, Roly O’Brien, who occasionally wrote to Tim and Elaine, had accompanied the transport of wounded that had taken Jack from Gallipoli, and mentioned his friend often in his letters. At first his news had sounded foreboding—“Sergeant McKenzie is still hovering between life and death,” but more recently, he’d written that “Sergeant McKenzie is doing a bit better,” and, “Sergeant McKenzie can finally stand.” The background of the story remained unclear.

Gwyneira comforted herself that Jack was alive at least, even if he had lost an arm or a leg. Why he did not write himself or dictate letters to anyone was a puzzle to her, but she knew her son. Jack did not like to communicate. When he was struck by a stroke of fate, he withdrew into himself. After Charlotte’s death, he hadn’t said a word for weeks.

Though Gwyneira was hurt, she tried to suppress it. Gloria was, for the moment, the more urgent problem. Though the girl no longer chafed against the shepherds or snubbed the help, she disappeared almost every day to the Maori village with her horse and dog. What that signified, Gwyneira did not know since Gloria said little to her and only rarely appeared at mealtimes. She mostly ate with the Maori, not seeming to grow tired of their cuisine, which consisted of little more than sweet potatoes and flat bread if the hunters were unsuccessful. But Gloria seemed to prefer that to any meal with her great-grandmother.

Little by little the drawings and toys from her childhood disappeared from her room, making way for decorative items of Maori art, some of which were so awkwardly made that Gwyneira concluded that Gloria was trying her own hand at carving ornaments.

Maaka confirmed this.

“Miss Martyn is doing what the women do this time of year—sit together, sew, carve, cultivate the fields. Gloria is often with Rongo.”

That was not bad news. Gwyneira thoroughly cherished the Maori midwife.

“They speak with the spirits.”

That made Gwyneira nervous. Gloria had been acting strangely since her return. If she were conjuring spirits now, was she on her way to going mad?

“Take hold of the tree calmly; feel its strength and its soul.” Rongo then directed Gloria to speak to the tree while she prepared to harvest the
rongoa
, or medicine, from the
kohekohe
leaves. Only a
tohunga
was permitted to touch the hallowed plants used for
rongoa
. Gloria, however, had been permitted to help with the picking and drying of the
koromiko
leaves, which were effective against diarrhea and other digestive problems. Gloria obediently noted what Rongo told her, but talking to the tree was too much for her.

“What makes you think the tree has less of a soul than you?” Rongo asked. “Because it doesn’t talk? Gwyneira says the same about you.”

Gloria laughed awkwardly.

“Or because it does not defend itself when someone strikes it with an ax? Might it have its reasons?”

“What sort of reasons?” Gloria asked. “What sort of reasons are there for letting yourself be knocked down?”

Rongo shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Ask the tree.”

Gloria leaned against the southern beech’s hard bark and tried to feel the strength of the wood. Rongo had her do this with every kind of plant, as well as with rocks and waterfalls, and Gloria did it because she enjoyed the peace that coursed through all these—these what? Beings? Things? She liked spending time with Rongo and all her spirits.

Having completed her harvesting ceremony, Rongo began lecturing on the distillation of extracts from the
kohekohe
leaves and bark.

“It’s effective against sore throats,” she explained, “and you can cook honey out of it.”

“Why don’t you write that down?” Gloria asked, leaving her tree and walking through the sparse woodland at Rongo’s side. “Then everyone could read it.”

“Only if they’ve learned to read. Otherwise, they’d have to ask me anyway.” She smiled. “But when I was as old as you, I thought the same thing. I even asked my grandmother, Matahorua, to write it down.”

“But she didn’t want to?”

“She didn’t see the sense in it. Whoever did not need the knowledge did not need to burden themselves with it. Whoever wants to learn must take the time to ask. And so becomes a
tohunga
.”

“But if you write it down, you keep the knowledge for those who come later.”

“That’s how
pakeha
think. You always want to keep everything. Write it down and you end up forgetting it more quickly. We keep the knowledge inside us. In every individual. And we keep it alive.
I nga wa o mua
. Do you know what that means?”

Gloria nodded. Literally it meant “from the time that will come.” In truth, though, everything in the past was denoted that way—to the endless confusion of all
pakeha
who ever attempted to learn Maori. Gloria had never really thought about it before. But now she felt angry.

“Live in the past?” she asked. “Stir up again and again what you’d most like to forget?”

Rongo drew Gloria next to her on a rock and tenderly stroked her hair. She knew they were no longer talking about preserving knowledge such as how one made
rongoa
from blossoms and bark.

“When you lose your memory, you lose yourself,” she said softly. “Your history makes you what you are.”

“And if I don’t want to be that?” Gloria asked.

Rongo took her hand. “Your journey is still far from complete. You’ll continue to gather memories. And change. That’s another reason we don’t write anything down, Gloria. Writing something down is writing it into dogma. And now, show me the tree you were speaking to earlier.”

“How am I supposed to find it again? There are dozens of beech trees here. And they all look the same.”

“Close your eyes, daughter. It will call to you.”

Gloria was still angry, but she followed the wise woman’s directions. A short while later, she ran, sure of her goal, straight to her tree.

Rongo Rongo smiled.

Although Gloria’s memories remained difficult for her, life was easier with her Maori family. Though Gwyneira did not ask questions and was clearly trying to withhold criticism, Gloria thought she detected disapproval in her eyes and heard accusations in her voice.

Marama shook her head when Gloria confessed this to her. “Your eyes and Gwyn’s eyes are the same. And your voices might be confused one for the other.”

Gloria wanted to object that this was nonsense. She had porcelain blue eyes while Gwyneira’s were azure. And Gwyneira’s voice was considerably higher than Gloria’s. But she had long since learned that Marama’s words were not to be taken literally.

“You’ll understand it soon enough,” Rongo said calmly when Gloria complained about it to her. “Give it time.”

“Why don’t you want to let her go then? Nothing will happen to her with us,” Marama said in her singsong voice. She sat across from Gwyneira in the village meeting hall. Normally, she would have received her mother-in-law outside without ceremony, but it was raining. Gwyneira knew the etiquette and had mastered the
karanga
, the greeting ritual, before entering a meeting hall. She had taken off her shoes without prompting and not complained about her arthritic joints when she lowered herself to the ground.

The tribe was planning a migration, and Gloria had insisted on joining it.

“I know that. But she’s supposed to get used to living on Kiward Station again. And she can’t do that if she wanders around with all of you for months at a time. Marama, if it’s out of financial nee
d . . .
”

“We don’t need alms!” Marama rarely raised her voice, but Gwyneira’s last comment wounded her pride. The tribes of the South Island migrated because the crop yields were often meager. When their stores began to decline, they set out to live for a few months from hunting and fishing. Marama and her people would not have spoken of it in terms of “need.” The land offered enough nourishment—just not when they were in the village. It was an adventure and a pleasure, at least for the younger members of the tribe. There was also a spiritual component to the migrations. They grew closer to the land, becoming one with the mountains and rivers that offered them food and shelter. The children got to know sacred grounds that lay further away and renewed their connection to Te Waka a Maui.

“I know, but, what’s this about Wiremu, Marama? Maaka says she speaks with him.”

“Yes. I’ve noticed that too. He is the only man with whom she even occasionally speaks. I find the latter point more disconcerting than the former.”

Gwyneira took a deep breath. She was finding it difficult to remain calm. “Marama. You know Tonga. This is not an invitation to take a walk with the tribe. This is a marriage proposal. He wants to make a match between Gloria and Wiremu.”

Marama shrugged.

“If Gloria loves Wiremu, you won’t separate the two of them. If she doesn’t love Wiremu, Tonga won’t marry them. He can’t force them to sleep together in the communal hall. So leave it to Gloria.”

“I can’t do that. She’s the heiress. If she marries Wirem
u . . .
”

“Then the land still won’t belong to Tonga and the tribe but to Gloria and Wiremu’s children. Perhaps they’ll be the first sheep barons with Maori blood. Perhaps they’ll give the land back to the tribe. You won’t be around for that, Gwyn, nor will Tonga. But the mountains will still stand, and the wind will play in the tops of the trees.” Marama made a gesture of submission to the power of the gods.

Gwyneira sighed. She had never been particularly even-tempered. And now she felt a deep desire to smash something. Preferably Tonga’s treasured chief’s ax, the insignia of his power.

“Marama, I can’t allow this. I have t
o . . .
”

Marama bade her be quiet with a graceful gesture. Again she seemed sterner than usual.

“Gwyneira McKenzie,” she said firmly. “I left both children to you. First Kura, then Gloria. You raised them in the manner of
pakeha
. And look what has become of them.”