Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  “Teach the girls something useful. Then the mothers will send them,” she said. So far, hardly any Boer children had come to Roberta’s outdoor schoolroom. When any did, it was only boys, and they usually proved themselves quite defiant.

  “What could be more useful than reading and writing?” Roberta asked.

  Doortje laughed mockingly. “Sewing, spinning, and weaving, to start.”

  Roberta suppressed a sharp response and accepted the advice. She could not spin thread herself, and the carpenter would first have to make looms. She had a good mastery of sewing, though. As a young girl, her mother had worked a short time at the Gold Mine Boutique. She had sewn Roberta’s childhood dresses herself and raised her daughter to mend or alter her clothes as necessary. So, the young teacher took a few dolls out of the toy donations and cut up an old dress for cloth. She let it be known that she would teach the girls to make little dresses for the dolls—and they did so with verve. The words “sew,” “doll,” and “dress” stood on the board, and the children learned to pronounce them as they worked.

  In short order, Roberta took her little students’ hearts by storm. The boys, too, slowly fell in love with the openhearted young teacher. Roberta told funny and romantic stories in which princesses and adventurers appeared—no slaughtered Zulu warriors and rivers red with blood. While she was teaching, there was even occasional laughter in the camp. And the death rate sank, not only due to the nourishing school lunches. Roberta noticed immediately when one of her charges was ailing, and marched the student to the hospital at once. Not every mother appreciated that. Roberta occasionally lost a student because of it, but at least the child remained alive.

  For her part, Jenny made incredible strides at the blacks’ camp. She oversaw the hospital, now staffed with the trained assistants and visited regularly by doctors, conducted school when Roberta could not make it over, and spurred the guards to action until the criminals and pimps could not conduct business. That put her life in danger. After Jenny was threatened several times, she agreed to live in the whites’ camp and was accompanied there by two guards every evening. In the morning, she would ride back together with Roberta—on captured Boer ponies. When had Jenny expressly asked Vincent for riding lessons, Roberta could no longer put it off herself.

  “It can’t really be that you don’t like horses,” remarked Vincent. “I’ve seen that little stuffed horsey of yours.”

  He was surprised when Roberta turned beet red.

  “It’s, um, lucky,” she stammered, “a, um, present.”

  Vincent did not press further, instead introducing her to a gentle little gray mare.

  “Here, see, the animal’s quite tame, and you can even give her a name.”

  He did not mention that the Boer commando to which the pony had belonged had been annihilated a few days before. The British strategy was slowly showing successes. As stubborn as the Boers were, being constantly on the run demoralized them, as did the knowledge of their wives’ and children’s internment. They had also begun to run low on weapons and ammunition—the British had brought in more troops, who patrolled the veld and crippled lines of communication. More and more Boer guerillas were shot down or simply gave up. High command was already talking about dissolving the concentration camps soon. The remaining men would then have to return to their farms—after all, they could not leave their wives and children alone in the smoldering ruins of their lands.

  Roberta stroked the pony hesitantly. She smiled when it rubbed its soft nostrils on her hand.

  “I, of all people, shouldn’t be afraid of horses. I’m even named for one,” she admitted, and told Vincent and Jenny of the miracle mare Lucille who had brought her father high returns on his bets, forcing her mother to move to Woolston and give birth on the road—Lucille was Roberta’s middle name.

  “Well then, go on and name this little gray Lucie,” Jenny suggested.

  Jenny let Vincent show her how to saddle her gelding and christened him George, after an uncle he apparently resembled.

  Vincent meticulously instructed Roberta in handling the saddle and reins, and cherished every smile she gave him. And, in the end, Roberta let herself enjoy both spending time with Vincent and riding. Lucie was exceedingly gentle and never shied. Roberta was radiant when she returned from her first ride in the veld, having seen zebras and gnus. Vincent beamed like the happiest man in the world when she thanked him from the bottom of her heart.

  Kevin was also making progress in his courting of Doortje van Stout. Roberta’s comment about her covert interest in books had given him an idea. He began leaving books lying around in the hospital, watched Doortje, and then approached her after she’d had some time to read a bit of one of them. He lent her the books and later tried to talk about them with her, noting that her English got even better with each one. When the rainy season set in and it became impossible for her to withdraw to the river to read, he offered her his office.

  “No one goes in there except Nandi. And she won’t bother you or tell anyone.”

  Doortje resisted at first, but the chance to escape the mud and clamor for a short time proved too enticing. New families had moved into Doortje’s tent, and it pained her to see the strangers lying on her brothers’ and mother’s mats. Doortje also found the noise in the tent unbearable—the two new women had loud, shrill voices and were constantly bossing their children around. She knew it was weakness, but lately, every little thing got under her skin.

  Doortje longed for quiet and suffered from a constant, aching hunger, despite devouring all her extra rations herself instead of sharing them with the children in the tent as her mother would doubtlessly have done. Nor did she always live up to her duties. She felt too tired to sing and pray with her fellow sufferers. Fortunately, there were many fewer funerals of late. Kevin’s attempts to get close to her sometimes made her blood boil, only to touch her strangely the next day. Doortje had the definite feeling that something was wrong with her. Perhaps, she reasoned, she would feel better if she escaped camp life for a few hours now and again. What was more, Kevin’s books took her to a strange world. She devoured novels like Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre. Later, though, she chided herself for her enthusiasm over these superficial love stories, especially so soon after the deaths of her family members. What was the heartache of an English governess to the sorrows of the Voortrekker? To soothe her guilt, she switched to scientific and historical books. Kevin smiled one evening when he found her in a recliner in his office, her blonde head bent over a picture book about New Zealand.

  “Do you like my country, Doortje?” he asked gently. “The fauna is not as varied as here, nor nearly as impressive. But in turn, the creatures are harmless.”

  Doortje turned to him. It grew harder and harder for her to hate him, but finding a British doctor attractive was even worse than amusing oneself with English novels.

  “Is that why you came looking for war in our country?” she asked. “Because it’s too peaceful in your country?”

  Kevin pulled over an armchair and sank into it. “No, though I admit I was running away from something. From a woman, to be specific, before you start imagining crimes. As for the war, I’m a doctor. I came here to help. I’ve only saved people, not killed them.”

  Doortje arched her eyebrows. “What about my brothers and my mother? All the deaths here? You’re responsible for them, regardless of what you say.”

  “The leadership of the British Army is responsible,” he insisted. “And the obstinacy of your guerillas, who want to drag on a war they know they can’t win. Nonetheless, you should not have been interned and your farms burned. I completely agree with you about that. I can’t change it alone, however. No more than open-minded Boers like Cornelis could stop the guerillas. Couldn’t you and I, at least, make peace, Doortje? You know I don’t mean you any harm.”

  He held out his hand to her helplessly. Doortje did not take it. But she blushed.

  “Peace is not possible,” she declared. �
��This is our land. You are not supposed to be here. You—”

  Kevin buried his face in his hands dramatically. “Not this again, Doortje. Not this exasperating business of who should be where. Let’s just talk about the two of us.”

  Doortje exhaled sharply. “Trying to seduce a second member of my household? Is Nandi not enough for you anymore? Even with your wild ideas of equality, white skin is more attractive to you, isn’t it, Doctor?”

  Kevin clenched his jaw in frustration.

  “I don’t mean to seduce anyone,” he replied heatedly. “Nor do I need to. I have never needed to convince women to go to bed with me. There are plenty of volunteers.” He bit his lip when Doortje stared at him in revulsion. Of course, her people did not speak openly of sexual love. Added to that came her horrific violation, which Kevin imagined she might never come to terms with. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I did not mean to speak so bawdily. But you needn’t always provoke me. It hurts me when you don’t believe me. It insults me when you—”

  “When I’m not excited about your dalliance with my maid?” she asked. “When it insults me that a white man fornicates with a she-Kaffir?”

  Kevin sighed. But he would not let himself be provoked again. Especially because he suspected this was less about race and more about jealousy.

  Kevin had an idea of how to vex the young woman a bit himself. “With respect, Doortje, I’ve explained to you repeatedly that there is nothing between me and Nandi,” he said at ease. “I did so because it’s the truth. If I really loved Nandi, there’d be nothing to clarify. As a matter of fact, it would be none of your concern.” He noted with contentment that she was staring at him, stunned. “I’m not tied down, and neither is she. So, we wouldn’t need to make any secret of it if we wished to be married.”

  “Married?” Doortje squeaked.

  Kevin nodded. “Is that not the proper way? If I loved Nandi, naturally I’d ask her to marry me.”

  “But she’s black.”

  Kevin laughed. “I couldn’t care less whether my wife is black or white. As long as she’s smart, eloquent, and passionate.” He moved to the edge of his seat and leaned closer. “Nandi’s a dear girl, Doortje. And she’s survived great hardship, just as you have. She was also abused; her family is also dead. If it made her feel better to sleep in my kitchen a few nights, who can blame her for that? I didn’t even know about it until she woke me up when you came. I’m telling you this for the last time, so believe me or don’t. Regardless, I must beg you to be kinder to her. You two have no one else left.”

  Kevin looked Doortje in the eye and watched her vacillate between anger and the desire finally to admit to the feelings with which she had so long struggled. Did he dare kiss her? Or at least touch her hand?

  “Kevin?”

  Violent knocking came from the front door, and they heard Vincent Taylor’s excited shout. Doortje jumped as if someone had caught her out. Or perhaps just in fright at a strange man’s voice.

  “It’s all right, it’s only Dr. Taylor.” Kevin stroked her hand, which was white knuckled around the chair’s arm. “Did you hear that, Nandi?” he called. “Open the door.”

  Vincent did not wait for Nandi to lead him in. Instead, he threw off the waxed jacket that had protected him from the rain.

  “Kevin, good news! Oh, Miss van Stout, good evening. How nice to see you here. Then you shall hear it too. Kitchener is dissolving more camps. And this time, Karenstad’s included! The area around Wepener has been pacified. The men are returning home to their farms, and the women and children are to be repatriated. Pretoria is sending a cavalry unit to escort them.”

  Doortje, who had smiled at first, stiffened. “Escort us?”

  Kevin shook his head. “Oh, Doortje, no. I won’t allow any further assaults. I shall petition to accompany you myself. It will take some time to organize things, anyway. And if my petition hasn’t been approved by then, I’ll come without permission.”

  He smiled at her encouragingly. That smile died, however, when he wondered what he was supposed to take her back to. The farm no longer existed; the van Stout family no longer existed. What were Doortje and Nandi supposed to do alone on a few acres of burned-up ground?

  “We—we’ll talk more about it later,” he said helplessly.

  Doortje, who had similar thoughts going through her head, was silent.

  “I must leave now,” she said. “I thank you, Dr. Taylor, Dr. Drury.”

  Kevin leaped to his feet and wrapped Vincent’s coat around the woman before she stepped out into the rain. “Or you’ll be soaked to the bone before you get to your tent, Doortje.” Doortje did not say anything but accepted the coat. Kevin looked at Vincent apologetically once she had gone. “Sorry. I’ll lend you mine for the way back.”

  Vincent grinned and went to the cupboard where Kevin kept his whiskey. “Doortje? Not ‘Miss van Stout’? Did I miss something?”

  Kevin gladly accepted a glass of whiskey. “Let’s say I’m making progress,” he replied. “Or I was. But now, now it’s all over.”

  Vincent looked just as somber. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll all be heading home soon. The nurses too.”

  Kevin grinned at him. “You mean the teacher.”

  Vincent sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid you can tell by looking at me. In any case, I don’t think Miss Fence will be traveling back in a troop transport. Besides, they’ll still need teachers, I imagine. The children are supposed to learn English. Miss Fence might be sent far away, and I’ll be out of sight, out of mind.”

  Kevin emptied his glass. “Doortje won’t forget me. But she’ll hate me again. I wonder which is worse.”

  Chapter 13

  Atamarie did not tell Richard anything about the attack at the dance, and she tried not to hold the lonely night afterward against him. However, she was now bound and determined to dissuade him from haphazardly running a farm alongside his inventing work. And she would no longer support him on this false path by playing the martyred housewife.

  The very next morning, she followed Richard into his barn. Luckily, Hamene, one of the Maori men, had shown up again to help and took over the feeding of the animals.

  “And what about the fields, Atamarie?” the young man inquired. “They need to be plowed. And the new planting?”

  “You’ll need to check with Richard about that,” she replied, “but I think he’ll happily pay you to take it off his hands.”

  Richard was fervently occupied in taking apart his motor for probably the hundredth time and had not the slightest interest in replanting the fields. When Hamene offered to do it, he agreed but was distracted and impatient.

  “Thank you so much, Hamene,” Atamarie told the willing worker, who was clearly insulted by Richard’s behavior. She would have to work to counter that—it did not bear thinking about the young man not coming back and leaving everything dependent on Richard again. “You know which fields are Richard’s. Go ahead and plow them, and sow whatever you see fit.”

  To be honest, Atamarie was just as uninterested as Richard. Next year, by the time the grain or whatever Hamene planted was ripe, she wanted to be long settled back in Christchurch—with Richard.

  And then, Atamarie was finally rewarded for her efforts. Richard welcomed her into his inventor’s barn, showing her everything and discussing his results with her. Over the following days, she took apart his aeroplane’s motor a few more times and refined the tension of the canvas on the wings. They discussed takeoff speed and displacement, whereby Richard put his practical experiences ahead of theory, preferring to try things rather than engage in long calculations. He couldn’t seem to sit still. It made Atamarie uneasy when he ran hectically around the workshop, moving items from here to there compulsively. His decisions were often made too hastily and then were hard to reverse. And many of the cheap fixes he thought up to solve problems seemed downright dangerous. During the excursion to Taranaki, Atamarie had gotten to know Richard as a very even-tempered and considerate man, b
ut now, he seemed possessed.

  “Nothing serious will come of it like this, Richard,” she ventured after a few days. “If you really want to make the thing fly, you need to invest some money. You need a proper engine, not this piecemeal thing, which is also far too heavy. You need an automobile engine. And high-quality canvas. You do have money from the harvest.”

  Richard snorted, and Atamarie knew it had been a misstep. While Richard always listened to her suggestions, he reacted fiercely to direct critiques.

  “Money from the harvest, if only!” he ranted. “With that, I have to buy a tedder. You heard my father. My parents gave me the farm, sure, but not the equipment. Some of the other machines aren’t even paid off.”

  He leaped to his feet again to pace.

  Atamarie summoned her courage. “Okay, then. Sell the farm. Take the money and build a flying machine that, well, really flies. Build a proper runway. The best thing would be for you to come with me to Christchurch and look for a suitable piece of land outside of town. You can keep studying and work on your machine on the side.”

  Richard cackled and fidgeted with his improvised motor parts. “And what will I live on?”

  Atamarie raised her hands imploringly. “Well, at first, you’d have the money from the farm. And then, Richard, if you’re the first person to put a motorized aeroplane in the air, then, then you’ve won, Richard. Then the world will be your oyster. You’ll be supported from all sides.”

  Richard looked at her as if she were out of her mind. “My father would kill me.”

  “Your father would disapprove,” she corrected him. “As he disapproves of everything you do. This way you can get it out of the way all at once. But it’s one thing or the other. You’re not a good farmer, and you can’t be a good aeroplane builder simply because you lack the means. Make a decision, Richard. Do what you really want to.”

  Richard shook his head and finally seemed to come to a rest, at least for a moment. “I can’t,” he said sadly. “It’s not just my father. It’s also my mother and my siblings. If I break away from them, I’ll be all alone.”