Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “At first I was, sir. When his policy started working and the country began to rise out of depression my admiration knew no bounds. Even now I am ambivalent about his work. It is true there are more jobs and more work and on the whole we are better off. But the people at the lower end of the economic scale haven’t the kinds of gains we have. The small farmers and tradesmen see the rich growing richer while they stand still. They don’t find that equitable, sir.”

  “I see.” Coffin looked thoughtful. “What would they have us do? Play Robin Hood? Rob from the achievers to give to the failures, like that crazy English chap—what’s his name? Marx?”

  “Not exactly, sir. All the common man sees is that the country itself is deeply in debt, and that they all share in that debt without having shared in any benefits.”

  “Some people are never satisfied, Elias.” Coffin put his hands behind him as he turned back to the window. “Ten years ago the ones who are complaining now would have been overjoyed to have any kind of work at all. Now that most of them have work it’s not enough for them.”

  “The work is good enough for them, Mr. Coffin, sir. It’s the system that’s failing them.”

  “That’s because they can’t see things over the long term, Elias. Such people don’t have the overview available to you and me. Many of these constant complainers are young, so I suppose we should look on them tolerantly.” He turned back from the window.

  “I’ll give you an example of how spoiled they are. Everyone takes refrigerated shipping for granted now. Some of your howling liberals forget that the first shipment of refrigerated lamb went to England barely four years ago. That made marginal ranching profitable. Do they give credit for that? No.” Goldman said nothing.

  “Think of it, Elias. Thousands of tons of perfectly good meat wasted down through the years because there was no way to preserve and ship it. Now we have not only a whole new-industry but one that will come to dominate the economy. And we can still sell all the wool we can raise. We’re using the entire animal now.

  “Remember all the land I bought on South Island? Those ‘useless’ mountain ranges? We’ll put an ocean of sheep on them, supply the whole world with mutton. We have the best land and the best people for doing that.”

  “The people I’m speaking of can’t afford great estates, sir, like you and Miss Hull and Angus McQuade.”

  “There’ll be plenty for all,” Coffin insisted, refusing to let Goldman darken his vision. “But only for those willing to work. These utopian radical socialist schemes your liberal friends keep proposing bear no relationship to reality.”

  “Nevertheless, the sentiment is there, the feeling that something has to be done to ensure a more equitable distribution of income.”

  “Well, sentiment never harmed anyone, I guess.”

  What was this, Goldman thought? A concession from the immovable Robert Coffin? An expression of concern?

  “Sir, may I inquire why you are in such a pleasant mood? I think I know, but I’d like to be certain.”

  “Implying that normally I’m not in a good mood, Elias?”

  “No sir, not at all, but.…”

  Coffin interrupted him with a laugh. “Rest easy. I’m off tomorrow to Tarawera. First light.” He made a quick scan of his desk. “I’ve taken care to put everything in order.”

  “What about the Corinthian?”

  “Cap’n Skaggs will be delighted if I’m not there to harry him with questions when he docks. You can handle the details. You know, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen the lake house, Elias. You and Kamine and the children should visit there more often.”

  “I would, sir, but then who would run Coffin House? Patrick?”

  “Ellsworth’s a good man, but he’s not Elias Goldman.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Astonishing how Coffin could wound a man deeply one moment and lift him to the heights the next. “How are Merita and the boy?”

  Coffin sat down in the leather chair and put his legs up on the desk. When he was completely relaxed like this, Goldman mused, he looked anything but the merchant tycoon. His employer’s face was lined now, but he was still in remarkable physical condition. The heritage of so many hard years at sea. Had he wished to, Coffin could still outwrestle or outload any longshoreman.

  “Merita, you know, Merita doesn’t age.”

  “So I have heard, sir. So your pictures show. A most remarkable lady.”

  “Yes.” Coffin’s voice lowered thoughtfully. “Most remarkable.”

  Coffin did not publicize his relationship with Merita, but neither did he need to keep it secret any longer, Goldman knew. Not since Holly Coffin had died. Coffin could speak of her death now, years later, without the bitterness that had first attended it. The woman had simply faded away. No one had been able to explain why.

  She’d been ill for years following the death of her son Christopher, but then there’d been a period when she seemed to be recovering. Just when prospects for a complete recovery had been strongest she’d suffered a serious relapse, falling into a coma from which she’d never emerged.

  Coffin had been a terror to be near in those days, and for a time everyone feared he might have suffered irreparable mental damage himself. Gradually, very gradually, he’d returned to a semblance of his old self. Goldman gave the credit for that to his Maori mistress. He had yet to marry her, but he had gone so far several years earlier as to give their son the Coffin name.

  Goldman knew the young man well. Andrew was a tall, lanky whirlwind who reminded him of the young Robert Coffin, though much darker of appearance because of his half-Maori ancestry. Andrew had a good head for figures, but whenever Goldman or his father tried to persuade him to learn something of the business, the young man would vanish the instant their backs were turned. He wasn’t ready to settle down, he kept telling them. Goldman thought twenty-five was old enough to commence a career, but it wasn’t his place to press the matter.

  Nor did Coffin. He was delighted simply to have Andrew around, expanding proudly in his son’s presence. Nor did Andrew seem to mind the revelation that the man he’d known as a child as “Uncle” Robert was really his father. Perhaps that was the Maori in him, Goldman mused. It might also explain why there was no resentment toward Coffin for not marrying Merita.

  It wasn’t as though Coffin hadn’t proposed. It was Merita who had turned him down, explaining that she was happy with things as they were. She did not wish to complicate his life, and she had no desire to be shunned by “proper” Auckland society. Coffin remonstrated with her but she was insistent. Better to let things stay as they’d always been. She loved the lake house at Tarawera and had little use for the city anyway. Eventually he acceded. As he’d so laughingly mentioned on more than one occasion, in addition to being the most beautiful woman in New Zealand, Merita was probably also the most stubborn. So she remained at Tarawera, visiting the city but rarely, and Coffin went to her every chance he had.

  He’d sold the great house on the hill and moved into a spacious group of apartments in the city’s best section. It was more convenient to Coffin House’s headquarters and had a masculine air very different from the mansion. There was no question, Goldman knew, but that his old friend and employer was happier than he’d been in a long time.

  “You’d think she’d get lonely, out there in that big place all by herself,” Coffin was saying, “but she never does. As for Andrew, well, you know what he’s like.”

  “Yes sir. Very much like yourself at that age, if I may say so, only not nearly so grim.”

  Coffin laughed, ran a hand through his still thick, silvery mane. “At least he got his mother’s hair and won’t have to play the old man before his time like I did.”

  “You never looked as old as you thought, sir.”

  “Perhaps. I expect I worried about it top much, but then I worried about everything too much, didn’t I?”

  Goldman said nothing.

  “Anything that will concern you while I’m gone? An
ything you can’t handle, Elias?”

  “I think not, sir,” Goldman replied dryly. “Everything seems to be in order. If you could review these papers from the manager of Goldview Farm before you leave I would appreciate it.” He handed Coffin a neatly clipped sheaf of letters. Coffin began scanning them rapidly, mumbling and nodding to himself. “Also there is the matter of the new general store in Wellington.”

  Coffin looked up thoughtfully. “Redline Company’s putting that one in, aren’t they?”

  “Redline, yes sir. I remind you we still haven’t been able to find out who’s financing that lot. Neither has anyone else. There has been much talk of secret mergers and buyouts, but Redline’s books are closely guarded. Meanwhile they continue to expand, primarily into our territory and regardless of their realistic commercial prospects. I wish we had that kind of liquidity. We no longer will have that portion of the Wellington market all to ourselves.”

  “It’ll hurt,” Coffin agreed, “but it won’t be fatal. We’ve fought Redline’s predatory pricing practices before. Sometimes I think those people aren’t as interested in making money as they are in a good fight. Anything else?”

  “Not really, sir, unless you change your mind and decide to wait for the Corinthian.”

  “Don’t worry about Skaggs. He’ll be here tomorrow, or the next day. There’s always the possibility of a disaster, but none of the other arriving transpacific ships have reported dangerous weather. Skaggs hardly knows how to put two words together but the man’s got salt water for blood. He’ll be here.”

  Coffin’s expression softened. “Christopher could’ve been a Captain like that. Would have been if he’d been given the chance. Now.…” He sighed and looked up.

  “I know, sir.” Goldman politely lowered his gaze.

  Coffin tried to recover his good spirits. “What’s done is done, and we go on with our lives. Right, Elias?”

  “Very right, sir. I may not see you in the morning so I’ll wish you a pleasant journey now. Say hello to Merita for me.”

  “I will that. I’ll be on my way before sunup. The older I get the more precious the days at Tarawera become to me. I don’t want to waste any of them.”

  “I understand sir. You need not worry for the business.”

  “I know that, Elias.” There was a long pause, then, “I never will get you to call me Robert on a regular basis, will I?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. It doesn’t sound right and I’m never comfortable with it. Besides, that would cheapen the effect it has when I choose to employ it.”

  “You’d think I’d have figured that out by now.”

  Coffin chuckled as he took his top hat and coat from their places on the carved Kauri rack and headed for the door. “Well, you know me, Elias. Stubborn to a fault.”

  True enough, Goldman reflected as he watched his mentor depart.

  2

  Andrew Coffin tried to stay off the road as much as possible. Usually that wasn’t a problem, since the places he preferred to ride were devoid of anything more elaborate than animal tracks. He delighted in picking his own way through the bush, whether it was behind Lake Rotomahana or along the rugged shores of the Tarawera River.

  A few times he’d climbed the mountain itself. Those expeditions were a source of worry to his Maori friends. They told him that Tarawera was home to demons and devils and all kinds of indescribable monsters, not to mention fractious ancestors. Andrew just laughed and called them natives, which made them furious until they saw he was laughing with them and not at them. Then they too would laugh.

  Today, however, he was compelled to ride a more frequented path. His mother needed certain supplies that were available only in Rotorua, so he’d agreed to make the ten-mile journey and pick them up for her. Though it slowed him, he kept to the woods as much as possible.

  He’d risen early, even before his father was up, and had stopped at the McRae’s hotel for breakfast. He tried not to play favorites. Next time he would eat at the other tourist hotel, the Terraces. You never knew who you might meet or strike up a friendship with. Because of his mixed parentage he was something of a curiosity to the many tourists who now visited the area. European women in particular were attracted to him. Being the polite, obliging fellow that he was, he was more than willing to satisfy the curiosity of the younger, prettier ones.

  His numerous conquests were facilitated by the fact that the last of the Maori “troubles” had petered out some years earlier. There’d been no actual fighting for some time and he no longer suffered the occasional ignominity of having to identify himself to patrolling soldiers. Not that he’d ever had any real problems. His last name took care of that. Everyone in the country knew the name Coffin.

  Seeing a cloud of dust approaching he nudged his mount deeper into the trees, watched as a tourist coach came rumbling up the road. It was filled to capacity with sightseers on their way to view the Pink and White Terraces on the far side of Lake Tarawera. The Eighth Wonder of the World, people had taken to calling the spectacular silica formations. To Andrew, who’d grown up on the lakeshore and had often canoed over to the terraces with his Maori companions, they were no longer unique.

  His opinion was not shared by the owners of the two modern hotels which had been built at Te Wairoa specifically to house European tourists. Nor was it shared by those local Maoris who’d given up farming to convey visitors to those two natural wonders. Some of the families who shared ownership of the land on which the terraces stood were clearing more than four thousand pounds a year in tourist fees.

  He grinned at the irony of it. No pakehas had been interested in that steaming, inhospitable, unfarmable land. There must be early land speculators who were turning over in their graves for having passed on the opportunity to purchase it. It would have galled them to see how the Maoris were profiting from their oversights.

  As the coach bounced past he tried to see if there were any attractive young women inside, but there was too much dust. When it began to settle he urged his mount back onto the road and continued on toward Rotorua. He hardly lacked for feminine companionship. To the European women the fact he was half Maori was exotic and exciting, while the fact he was half pakeha made him an object of intense interest on the part of the local Maori maidens. Those who thought his mixed ancestry subjected him to the worst of both worlds had it exactly backward, he knew.

  It wasn’t just the combination of races which made him attractive, though. It was the fact that the best of both seemed to have merged in him. He had his mother’s sensitivity, black hair and fine features to go along with his father’s height and strength and dark-blue eyes. It was a startling combination and as soon as he was old enough to recognize it he began using it to full advantage whenever possible.

  School had been awkward. He was too impatient to sit and study. Too wild, according to his tutor. Only his mother’s insistence had made him endure the long hours he’d spent with texts. That, and his father’s obvious love for the fine books which filled the shelves in the library.

  “I didn’t have much time to read when I was your age,” the man he’d known for years as “Uncle” Robert used to tell him. “Don’t you go making the same mistake.”

  Though he was close to Ohinemutu, the Maori part of Rotorua, it was difficult to make out through the mist. The village sat on the great thermal plain which bordered seven-mile-wide Lake Rotorua. Living here was very much like living on a piece of toast floating in a cookpot, he knew.

  The analogy went farther than that. Down through the centuries the Maoris had adapted their Hades-like land to their own needs. As he passed one house he saw a woman placing a pot full of chicken into the steaming pool that filled her backyard. In a little while it would be ready to eat, thoroughly cooked through.

  You had to watch your step in Ohinemutu. The same pools that readily cooked supper had also parboiled not a few Maoris and the occasional careless pakeha.

  There were other pools, not quite as hot or stinking of su
lphur, where people went to bathe. “Taking the waters,” the Europeans called it. He’d first heard the term spoken by a visiting gentleman of German extraction.

  Andrew didn’t believe in the supposed therapeutic values of the waters, though bathing in them was relaxing. As a child he and his companions had gone swimming in similar if less extensive pools along Tarawera’s shores. It was a simple matter for mindless young boys to find out which pools were cool enough to bathe in. They would find a frog and toss it into the water. If the frog swam it was safe. If it turned belly up it was time to seek elsewhere.

  More houses became visible as he rode on. It was still early. If he made it back to Te Wairoa in time he could stop at the hotels to inspect the latest group of arrivals.

  His mount balked unexpectedly. There was a startled scream ahead and he wrenched on the reins. Not even enough time to curse, he thought angrily.

  When he finally got his horse under control again and saw who’d stepped out in front of him, all thoughts of upbraiding the unknown pedestrian were forgotten.

  The girl stared back at him, breathing hard at the near miss, one hand pressed to her bosom. No, not a girl, he corrected himself. She looked to be about eighteen.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in perfect Maori. “I didn’t see you.”

  “It’s—it’s all right. It was my fault. I was running and didn’t look.” She swallowed. “I should have been more careful while crossing the road.”

  A small bundle peeped out from beneath her left arm. She was tall and curvaceous and bold enough to have cut her hair short in the pakeha manner. Her face reminded him of the pictures of the Madonna in Father Spencer’s books.

  “Then we are both at fault,” he replied with a smile. “Where are you going?”

  “To bathe.”

  “Really. Don’t let me stop you.” He sat on his horse, waiting.

  “Who are you? Where do you come from? I’ve never seen you before.” Her tone was open, disingenuous.