Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  “Did he not write you to say he was coming?” the professor asked. “You do exchange letters with him, don’t you? Did I misunderstand?”

  Atamarie hastened to assure Dobbins that Richard wrote regularly. The truth was, after the excursion, they had exchanged only two letters. Furthermore, Richard’s had been short and vacuous. Of course, it had been harvesttime, and he’d surely been busy. Still, Atamarie began to fear he had forgotten her. But then she received a rather euphoric letter, in which Richard raved about the new workshop he had set up in his barn. He could now concentrate again on new technologies. Atamarie answered amiably, and, from then on, could not complain about a lack of mail. Richard vividly depicted his plans for the light-frame bike and reported assiduously on every attempt, every bit of progress, every setback. Atamarie commented knowledgeably and provided suggestions for improvements. The integrated air pump for the wheels was one of her innovations.

  “I expect he wanted to surprise me,” she said.

  Atamarie squirmed under Dobbins’s penetrating gaze. The professor rubbed his cheek, a gesture that always betrayed his uncertainty. Was there something he wanted to say?

  “Is he going to come back here today?”

  Atamarie knew this question gave her away, but if Richard was in Christchurch, she wanted to see him. It was bad enough he had not announced himself to her.

  Dobbins nodded reluctantly. “Of course, Miss Turei. I told him—er, he wants—he’s going to pick you up after class. To celebrate.”

  Atamarie beamed, and in fact, Richard was waiting for her at the college gates. Though he only greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, that was surely most proper in public anyway. He was visibly pleased by her solicitousness, invited her to dinner, and after two bottles of wine, held her hand as he walked her home. The patent for the bicycle, however, was not much on his mind. He spoke the whole evening about his newest project: an aeroplane.

  “And not a glider, Atamarie, a propeller aeroplane. It must—”

  “It must work even without wind,” she laughed. “I’ve always said so. Simple wings or a double-decker?”

  They discussed the advantages and disadvantages as they strolled along the Avon. Atamarie was perfectly happy—or almost. Other couples they passed did more than just hold hands, after all. The boys would put their arms around the girls, and the girls snuggled against them. Atamarie pressed closer to Richard, who understood at once. He pulled her closer while he talked of operating power and propeller size.

  “Twenty-five horsepower, I’m thinking. Do you suppose that’s enough? Or am I overdoing it? I don’t want the machine to get out of control.” Somewhat at a loss, Richard stopped in front of Atamarie’s house.

  Atamarie wrapped her arms around his neck. “A little loss of control isn’t always bad,” she said, looking at him and parting her lips.

  Richard Pearse hesitated briefly but then kissed her. Afterward, Atamarie danced up the stairs. He loved her. Of course, he loved her. And it was very thoughtful not to take her to his hotel. It would have been too embarrassing if they’d caught her sneaking in.

  Although—no, it was better not to think about it. Atamarie reined in her inventive spirit. She would not admit to herself that Richard might have other reasons for not asking her to spend the night.

  But now that the university had closed for the summer, Atamarie was determined to visit her friend. Richard’s farm was about fourteen miles from the nearest train station. Surely, she could find a ride. Of course, Richard could have picked her up—Atamarie thought about writing. But then he might find excuses, such as the lack of a chaperone. It sounded as though Richard was alone on the farm. Atamarie would compromise herself by visiting him, especially overnight. She did not care about that herself—she saw herself as Maori and only held to the mores of the pakeha in order not to scandalize. On this isolated farm, she would do what she wanted. Atamarie was looking forward to it—and she was convinced that Richard would feel the same, once he overcame his inhibitions. This time, no one would bother them when they finally consummated their love.

  So, Atamarie climbed aboard the train bound for Timaru. From there, she would be able to continue straight on to her grandparents’. It was an unusually clear day, and the snow-covered southern mountain peaks floated over the vastness of the Canterbury Plains. The knee-high tussock grass waved in the wind like a green-brown sea.

  The train pulled into Timaru late that afternoon. The sun was shining, and the small town looked familiar and homey, like so many towns on the South Island. Atamarie strolled along the harbor and through town a bit. Finally, she decided to ask in a general store about how to get to Temuka, where Richard’s farm lay. The proprietress, a plump, friendly lady, gave her rucksack an odd look, but then smiled.

  “Well, you’re in luck, girl. See that wagon outside? That’s one of Pearse’s neighbors. His name’s Toby Peterson—just wait here, and we’ll ask him as soon as he comes in to pay.”

  Toby Peterson, a tall, scrawny man in worn farmer clothes, was loading feed sacks into the bed of his hay wagon. Atamarie hoped he would let her ride along on the box. She was wearing a stylish travel outfit and didn’t want to sit on the dusty sacks in it. For the moment, however, she had to answer to the merchant. The woman was curious about this beautiful girl who was visiting Richard all alone and carrying such unconventional luggage.

  “You’re not family, though,” the woman began. “There are a lot of Pearse children, but they don’t have a blonde one like you.”

  Atamarie briefly considered identifying herself as a cousin, but to what end? Even cousins were considered compromised if they spent a night alone. Simpler just to be honest.

  “I study engineering, you see, like Richard.”

  To Atamarie’s surprise, no commentary on her unusual field of study followed. Instead, the woman began to talk about Richard.

  “Oh aye, he’s always had crazy ideas, Dicky Pearse. We know the family well. Sarah Pearse used to work here, you know. And Digory with his farm, a massive property in the Waitohi Plains. So, he came shopping here, and”—she giggled—“now they’ve got nine children. Life’s funny like that.”

  Atamarie nodded, confused. Richard had made it seem like the farm he had inherited was by no means a large estate. If half the Waitohi Plains really belonged to his family, they surely could have afforded Richard’s studies.

  “And now Richard’s taken over the farm?” Atamarie asked. She had never quite understood why the gifted engineer absolutely had to become a farmer.

  The merchant laughed. “No, no, dearie, the Pearses aren’t that old yet! They gave him a farm of his own. Very generous, about a hundred acres, and a house already on it. Now he just needs to take a wife and lead a God-fearing life.”

  The woman looked at Atamarie as if determining whether she might be in the running for this position. Atamarie looked back innocently.

  “I think Richard would rather be an engineer,” she said. “An inventor.”

  Renewed giggling. “Aye, as I said, just crazy notions. His parents were almost driven to despair. Even in school, he’d dream all through class and was always building little machines no one understood. His brother, Tom, he’s the total opposite. Determined, clever—studies medicine in Christchurch, you know. He’s going to be a doctor one day!”

  So, it wasn’t education itself that Richard’s parents didn’t support but rather his choice of subject. Still, a hundred acres of land—if he sold it, he could pay for school himself.

  Toby Peterson now entered the store, interrupting the merchant’s happy gossip. Atamarie stole a glance and decided he seemed trustworthy.

  “Tobbs, this little lady wants to go to Dicky’s. She’s another of them engineers. Can you take her?”

  The man considered Atamarie with a wide grin. “If she doesn’t fly away from me,” he joked, “or blow up my wagon. We’ve had our share of inventing around here, missy. Don’t you frighten my dog.”

  The collie leape
d up to greet Atamarie, who laughed as the dog tried to lick her face.

  “I promise not to blow anything up,” she declared, raising her hand to swear. “I can’t fly either, or I wouldn’t need a ride.”

  Mr. Peterson nodded. “Then climb up right onto the box! I’ll settle accounts here, and then we’re off. It’s about fourteen miles to Richard’s. We’ll make it before dark, no problem.”

  The roads to Temuka were dusty after a few days without rain, but they were well traveled, and the wagon made good time. Mr. Peterson proved a pleasant traveling companion. He told Atamarie everything about Waitohi, where—once again contradicting Richard’s reports—people primarily raised sheep.

  “Sure, we work a few fields, too, and that’s mostly what the Pearses do. They don’t care much for sheep. Still, all that land sure would lend itself to it. I’ve told Cranky near a hundred times.”

  “Cranky?” Atamarie asked.

  Peterson tugged on his hat brim. “Oh, sorry, no offense. That’s what we call Dick. Others call him Mad Pearse, but that’s not fair. He knows his stuff, you see. Last year, my plow was busted, and he got an idea for an improvement. His fix held until I was able to sell a few sheep and could afford a new one. I gave Dick the old one. He collects old machines, tries to make something grand out of them—with motors and the like. Farm’s full of scrap. But he’s a good fellow, really. What business do you have with him? Is it serious?”

  Atamarie had to laugh. The farmer’s openness was refreshing.

  “I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “We haven’t talked about it.”

  Peterson chuckled. “I believe that. He never talks about anything normal. When he does talk, it’s all technical nonsense. Boy’s got his head in the clouds.”

  “He does want to fly someday,” Atamarie replied. “So, that’s not a bad thing.”

  Peterson shook his head. “But not especially good for the body. Mark my words, one of these days he’s going to get himself killed with his crazy machines. If God wanted men to fly, he would have given them wings.”

  Atamarie shook her head so heartily that Peterson looked over at her with concern. He could not know, of course, that now they were addressing her own dream.

  “One day, people will fly, Mr. Peterson,” she said earnestly. “They already do. Think of Lilienthal gliding, of hot-air balloons, of Maori manu aute. The legend says people already flew hundreds of years ago. We just need to figure out how to do it without wind. And all signs point to combustion engines, like in cars.”

  Peterson waved this off. “Sure, those contraptions,” he said. An automobile had been driven on the South Island for the first time the previous year and been duly admired. “But are they going to catch on?”

  Atamarie smiled. “I’d bet on it. In fact—”

  She broke off abruptly when something big and unwieldy came rolling down a hill in front of them. The thing was pulled by four horses, which looked frightened to death.

  Peterson roared, “Whoa,” and steered his own team off the road with lightning speed. The wagon shook threateningly, and the collie hid its head in Atamarie’s skirt. She clung to her seat as she watched the three-wheeled monstrosity trundle toward them. The horses had now freed themselves. Atamarie took it that a mechanism in the machine released their reins as soon as it had gathered enough speed. The animals fled heedlessly into the field while the rattling, kitelike machine made a sort of hop. Then, however, it veered sideways and crashed into a broom hedge.

  Toby Peterson stopped his team. “Like I said, one of these days . . .”

  Atamarie leaped from the box and ran to the flying machine.

  One of the canvas-covered wings had ripped off, but Atamarie saw with a glance that they had only been attached by wire to the carriage. That could easily be repaired. The sight of Richard caused her considerably greater concern. The inventor was hanging forward in his seat, blood streaming over his face.

  “Richard! Richard, can you hear me? Is it bad? Mr. Peterson, come help.”

  Richard, however, was already stirring. The main problem seemed to lie in getting out of his precarious position.

  “Just a scratch,” he demurred as Peterson sauntered over.

  “Stay calm, little lady. The hedge broke Cranky’s fall,” Peterson said while the young woman tried to help the flier out of his seat. “This isn’t the first time, you know.”

  “What?” Atamarie asked, supporting her wobbly friend. “You’ve done this before? Are you crazy?”

  Richard wiped the blood off his face with the sleeve of his coveralls. He looked frightful, but the only serious injury seemed to be to his foot. He could hardly stand.

  “I need to get the hang of the climbing speed and a better grip on the motor,” he muttered. “It stalls, which—”

  Peterson slapped his forehead.

  “Cranky!” the farmer said. “That’s not how you greet a lady. The right way would have been: ‘Miss Turei, what a lovely surprise! Forgive my somewhat inappropriate dress, but I’m so terribly pleased you’ve found your way here.’ That’s how you act when a lady comes to visit.”

  Richard turned toward Atamarie. “Atamie, you, oh! I hadn’t, well, I didn’t realize it was—but I’m happy you’re here, of course. It’s quite grand, you—”

  “Wait, why does it stall?” She eyed the motor critically. “Something to do with the combustion?”

  Peterson rolled his eyes. “Now I see the attraction. And I’d love to leave you to your flirting, Dick, but I’m afraid your mother would kill me. That foot is probably broken. So, where do you want to go? To the doctor or to your mom?”

  Richard balked at this, and Atamarie was likewise unenthused. She would have preferred to doctor Richard quickly herself in order to more quickly transition to the romantic portion of the visit—not that she would have objected to taking the motor apart first. It was obviously his own construction, and Atamarie was dying to analyze the problem.

  “Can you move your foot?” she asked.

  Richard did so, then nodded.

  “Good, then to your mom,” Peterson decided. “Climb up, miss. I’ll help Dicky up. Or wait, we should catch the horses first and get ’em back to the farm.”

  Atamarie was startled when she laid eyes on Richard’s farm. The barns and stables looked dilapidated. A few pigs and chickens made their way between rusted plows and harrows, bicycle parts, and creative conglomerations of canvas and aluminum. One barn had clearly been transformed into an aeroplane hangar. In one corner, new cylinders and crankshafts were meticulously arranged alongside old cigarette packs and cast-iron drainpipes. Atamarie tried to divine the constructions to which Richard had screwed them.

  Peterson, unimpressed, drove the pigs and chickens into the hay barn with his dog. Two goats followed, bleating.

  “It’s the only structure around here that shuts properly,” the farmer explained. “Now, if we can just find some feed . . . Dicky’s critters sometimes get the desire to wander, y’see. And my wife’s vegetable garden is just half a mile off. These goats paid a couple visits recently. You can’t even mention Dick’s name to her anymore.”

  Atamarie was surprised. Richard had kept such scrupulous order when they were surveying. Yet, here, he seemed in over his head. Although it threw her plans into disarray, she was now curious to meet his family. Were they also such hopeless farmers?

  When Peterson had secured all the animals, he and Atamarie returned to the wagon. Richard, who’d been resting there, whined that his foot was already better, but Peterson said they were going to his mother’s whether he liked it or not.

  “Your inventing is all well and good, Dicky, but you can’t run a farm like this. Have you even hired harvest workers yet? Most will be spoken for by now. And I can’t keep on helping you forever. I have my own harvest to bring in.”

  Richard did not answer, merely staring despondently ahead at his parents’ house. It was not showy, just a nicely painted farmhouse in good condition. Alongside it wer
e a tidy windmill, barns, and reaping and threshing machines, likely already prepared for the harvest. As they approached, dogs began barking, and Digory Pearse stepped out the door at once. Richard’s father was taller and squarer than his son, his face harder and more angular. Richard must have gotten his hair and soft features from his mother. And perhaps also his rather dreamy, patient manner. Digory exchanged only a few words with Peterson before exploding.

  “You did what? Again? I don’t understand it, Dick. You put all your money into nonsense, and in the end, it’s going to get you killed. I’m going to have a chat with your friend Cecil Woods, too, next week. He supports you in your madness, I know.”

  “Cecil Woods?” Atamarie asked. “Didn’t he build the first combustion engine in New Zealand? You’re friends with him?”

  Richard started to reply, but his father spun toward the young woman.

  “And who are you? No doubt the Maori girl who planted even more ideas in this dunce’s head? Not that you much look it.”

  “This is Atamarie Parekura Turei,” Richard announced. “We know each other from the expedition to Taranaki.”

  “And she’s the only girl Richard ever talked about,” exclaimed a far friendlier voice. Sarah Pearse came out of the house behind her husband and considered all present with a winning smile. She did indeed have the same brown locks and soft eyes as her son. “A pleasure to meet you. Now, Digory, don’t frighten the young woman. Ask her inside. Oh heavens, Dicky, what happened this time? Another attempt to take to the air in that infernal machine? Come in, we’ll wrap your foot right away. And, wait, Mr. Peterson, I’ll give you something to take to Joan as a little apology for the business with the goats. We made marmalade today. Jenny, go grab a jar.”

  This last comment was directed at a lanky twelve- or thirteen-year-old who had watched the scene from the entrance to the farmhouse. Along with at least five other children. Atamarie smiled at them.

  Sarah Pearse seemed to be one of those uncommonly capable women who could do everything at once. She swept Peterson and Richard into the house and put each child to work attending to their guests. Within short order, she had Peterson and her husband installed on the porch with homemade blackberry soda, and now she turned to Richard.