Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  Atamarie felt the words like a blow to the stomach. She wanted to scream, to accuse him of not loving her. But the desperation on his face kept her from that. Maybe she had it wrong. Maybe he believed she did not truly love him—or only loved him when he “functioned,” as was apparently the case with his family.

  Atamarie suddenly needed to get away. She put her hand on Richard’s shoulder before she left.

  “You would never be alone,” she said softly, “but even if you were, wouldn’t it be worth it? Richard, if you don’t leap, you’re never going to fly.”

  Atamarie left the barn behind and ran out into the plains, at first somewhat aimlessly, but then she directed her steps toward the Maori village. Out here, the hills around Temuka transitioned into flatlands. Atamarie was soothed by the sight of the vast green plains, behind which the southern mountains rose so close, you could almost touch them. She asked herself for the first time whether she might somehow be able to live in this area—because now it looked as if her soul mate might never leave.

  Until then, she had assumed that Richard’s life as a farmer was just an episode. After all, the man was a gifted engineer. He belonged in a city, at a university. And it was the same for Atamarie. Life on the farm was like life in Parihaka for her: it was nice for a while, but she did not want to grow old among chicken coops and tedders or hand looms and haka. Atamarie wanted to build machines, or, at least, survey land. She wanted a proper workshop and to exchange ideas with like-minded people. She wanted to finish her studies and take part in all the exciting innovations the new century had to offer. Atamarie did not just want to be with Richard. She wanted to fly with him.

  By the time the young woman had finally reached the marae of the local Ngai Tahu tribe, she had calmed down somewhat. She greeted the old people who were keeping an eye on the children while their sons and daughters were working in the fields, and then ran into a few women her age who were in the process of digging out kumara from a garden. Atamarie gladly helped with the harvest of the tasty sweet potatoes and was soon drawn into a conversation. The women wanted to know everything about the pakeha with whom Atamarie lived. And as always, with the tribes, no one minced words.

  “Aren’t you supposed to marry pakeha if you want to share a bed with them?” one of them asked.

  “I don’t want to marry yet,” Atamarie replied. “Nor does Richard. But I, I would like to go away from here with him.”

  The girls nodded.

  “He’s a tohunga,” one of the oldest mused. “He needs to wander to learn. But I don’t know if he will. The pakeha here, they don’t wander.”

  Atamarie sighed. No one could have said it better. Richard needed to go. In Temuka, people worked the fields; they did not conquer the sky.

  On the way back to the farm, she set about making plans. They had foreseen trying the motor again the next morning—Atamarie had insisted on testing it in the workshop first and incorporating it back into the aeroplane only later. If it ran well, however, then nothing stood in the way of a flight attempt. Maybe they would even manage it before her vacation ended—though that would mean giving up on visiting her grandparents in Lawrence. Even if they achieved only minor successes, once they showed Dobbins the schematics for a finished flying machine, the professor would truly advocate for Richard. No doubt there was a position at the university, perhaps a research grant.

  Atamarie got lost in her dreams of a fellowship for Richard and a final departure from the farm—until the stillness of the countryside was interrupted by an infernal racket. Then followed the clip-clop of hooves, and Atamarie only just managed to fling herself to the side as a mule team dashed past her. The animals dragged a plow behind them, to which a cursing Digory Pearse clung fast, trying desperately to control the animals.

  Atamarie feared the worst. She began to run and spotted the trigger for the animals’ panic just around the next bend. On a low hill above Richard’s farm, the engine roared—and Atamarie saw to her shock and anger that Richard had reinstalled it in the aeroplane. The wings had only been provisionally repaired, and Atamarie’s improvements had not yet been incorporated. Richard must have summoned monstrous energy to install the engine and pull the aeroplane up the hill in the few hours she was gone.

  Atamarie wondered what this was all about. Did he want to prove something to her—or to himself or to his parents? It was plainly crazy to try taking off in the same contraption he had crashed a few weeks before. And, of course, he had harnessed the horses again. Atamarie screamed and waved for him to stop, but the horses were beside themselves with fear of the screaming motor. They pranced miserably in place while Richard climbed into his machine, then rushed in panic down the slope the moment Richard released their reins. Behind them, the flying machine trundled down the bumpy runway—which upset the air-to-fuel mixture, as Atamarie had learned. Attempts at flight in such machines had to happen on smooth roads, at least until carburetor technology improved.

  Richard’s attempt had no hope of success, but nevertheless, Atamarie followed the machine’s acceleration with bated breath. It actually was now making a sort of hop, but Atamarie attributed that more to a bump on the path than true liftoff. The poor horses ran heedlessly, steering the machine in the direction of that same broom hedge before their lines disconnected and they could flee. The massive hedge then arrested the three-wheeled vehicle’s motion once again, but this time, Richard crashed with much greater force. The deafening sound of the motor died, and the sudden stillness seemed almost unreal. Nothing stirred beneath the wings.

  Atamarie felt fear rising within her. She sprinted to the site of the accident and found Richard slumped forward in his seat. He was bleeding from lacerations on his forehead.

  “Richard!”

  Atamarie’s heart raced. She hastily undid the belt that held him in his seat, but he still did not budge. Atamarie dragged him out but could not stop him tumbling from her arms.

  “Don’t die, Richard. Please, don’t die.”

  Atamarie cried as she opened his shirt, unsure what to do. Richard’s heart seemed to be beating, but she had to get him to a hospital.

  “What’s wrong with him? Is it bad?” Atamarie shook with relief when she heard Peterson’s voice behind her. “Dear Lord, girl, is he dead?” The farmer bent over his neighbor. “Not yet, anyway. He does have an awfully hard head. Now, come on, Dick, wake up.”

  He shook the injured man, which frightened Atamarie even more. Richard did not react. Atamarie insisted on laying him down flat on the ground.

  “He needs a doctor, a hospital. Is there a hospital here?”

  Atamarie looked around as if one could somehow be hiding in the next barn.

  “In Temuka,” Peterson said. “Wait here. I’ll pull up the wagon if the nags are brave enough. They’ve started getting used to Cranky’s machines. A few more crashes, and they’ll pass by like it’s nothing.”

  Atamarie cradled Richard’s head in her arms while Peter brought his hay wagon. The farmer laid the wounded man on a few old sacks. Atamarie rode with Richard, holding him tight as the wagon rumbled over the uneven pastures before they reached the relatively even paths and then the roads. Sitting in back spared Atamarie from having to answer Peterson’s commentary on Richard’s renewed attempt at flying.

  “He can’t leave it alone. I thought as much when I heard the engine. And then the jades running through the brush as if chased by the furies. Hope somebody catches them before they break a leg. Anyway, I came straight. Got lucky, old Dick did, that I was only three fields off. But his dad must have been somewhere nearby too.”

  Atamarie could have confirmed that, but, for the moment, she was not worried about Digory and his riled-up mules. The miles to Temuka stretched on endlessly, and Peterson did not drive very fast. He laughed when Atamarie implored him to speed up.

  “If we break an axle, that won’t get us to town any quicker,” he noted with equanimity. “And Dick, he’ll wake up. It’s the luck of the Irish, girl. Probab
ly, the kid’ll outlive us all.”

  Still, Atamarie thanked the gods when they finally reached the little hospital and two orderlies loaded Richard onto a stretcher. The doctor’s eyes grew wide as Atamarie breathlessly told him the story.

  “He flew? So, he fell?”

  Atamarie shook her head. “Not exactly, but it doesn’t matter. Please do something. He might have cracked his skull.”

  The doctor disappeared into his treatment room with Richard but soon returned with a question.

  “Are you his wife? Or a relation?”

  Peterson stepped in. “No, she’s just a Maori girl who lives with him.”

  Atamarie looked at the man in shock. She was what? That made it sound like she was some kind of girl of easy virtue with whom Richard was enjoying himself a bit before entering a serious relationship.

  “An employee?” the doctor clarified.

  Peterson shook his head and grinned. “Nah,” he said again, and made a hand gesture so obscene that the blood shot to Atamarie’s face.

  “I’m—” she started.

  At that moment, the door opened, and Richard’s mother rushed inside, followed by her husband, who looked badly scraped up himself. His wild ride on the plow must have ended in a hedge too.

  “How is he? How’s Dick? Is he—? He’s not—?”

  Sarah Pearse was pale as death, whereas Digory Pearse simply seemed angry. He seemed to share Peterson’s belief that a family never lost its black sheep.

  “A bad concussion and a broken arm, but he’ll recover, not to worry. But, again, how did this happen? The young woman seemed a little confused. Or is it the language? She’s Maori? Doesn’t look like it.”

  He eyed Atamarie with a probing, almost lecherous gaze. Atamarie felt rage welling up within her. Once again, people were treating her as if she were not even present, or at most, an object. She glared at the doctor.

  “I’m a fellow student of Mr. Pearse,” she explained as calmly as she could, “a student of engineering at Canterbury College in Christchurch. And yes, this happened in an attempt to get a flying machine to take off. We—”

  “Don’t listen to her. The girl’s as mad as my son,” Digory Pearse interrupted her, turning to his wife. “I told you from the start we shouldn’t tolerate their living in sin. But no, you said it was better that people talk about him whoring around than being crazy. And now it’s both! Soon, we won’t be able to show our faces in public. But I’m taking a different tack now. For starters, get gone, young lady. You weren’t very helpful, you know.”

  “I wasn’t what?” Atamarie asked, too astounded to argue.

  Sarah Pearse turned a pale, haggard face to her. She did not seem hateful like her husband, only resigned.

  “I thought you’d prevent things like this,” she said to Atamarie. “I thought—dear Lord, I wouldn’t even have had anything against you two getting married. Whether you’re Maori or not. You don’t look it, anyway. If only he—if only he’d finally be normal. But my husband’s right. You’ve only made everything worse. Go, Miss Turei. And stay away. It’s better if he never sees you again.”

  Atamarie let herself be turned out of the hospital without resistance. She knew she should have put up a fight, but after the last few hours, she lacked the strength. That the people here rejected her, she could have lived with that—if only they were not so underhanded. Atamarie recalled their feigned friendliness, but also what she had felt since the beginning: they had only accepted her because she seemed useful. And Richard’s parents would never be able to accept him as he was. Yet, this fact, which before had filled her with pity, now made her angry. Richard, too, had betrayed her. His senseless, doomed-to-failure flight attempt had been meant to show her that he could do it without her. That he did not need her, that her ideas regarding his life did not affect him any more than her suggestions for improving his aeroplane. He did not love her. Clearly, he did not love her.

  Blinded by tears, Atamarie ran down the street. She would have preferred to jump on the next train, but she had to return once more to Richard’s farm for her things and her money. So, she walked for hours, hiding at the edge of the road when a wagon rolled by. She refused to see that cad Peterson again. She still felt sick, thinking about his obscene gesture.

  It was night before she reached Richard’s farm. The horses had returned and were waiting at the stable doors. They did not seem very hungry. As Atamarie unharnessed and locked them up, she vengefully hoped they had eaten their fill in Joan Peterson’s garden.

  After she’d packed up her things, Atamarie took a last look at the flying machine, which hung in the hedge like a broken bird. Should she take the plans she had sketched and show them to Dobbins? She decided against it. Richard would have to fight his battles himself. With regret, she cast an eye over the workshop. She had been so happy there.

  The Blessing of the Gods

  Karenstad,

  Africa

  Dunedin, Parihaka,

  Christchurch, Temuka,

  New Zealand

  1902–1903

  Chapter 1

  “Well, at least he’s not a dowry hunter.”

  Heather Coltrane’s remark surprised Atamarie. She’d needed to talk to someone at home about Richard, and Roberta was in South Africa. Aunt Heather and Chloe were more worldly than most. They might even have an explanation for Richard’s bizarre behavior. She had expected every possible reaction except for Richard practically finding grace in Heather’s eyes.

  “But why would he? I don’t—” She stopped. Her aunt was right: from a financial standpoint, Richard could not have done any better than asking for Atamarie’s hand. Atamarie had never given much thought to money, but of course, her family was well off. Kupe made good money as an attorney and member of Parliament, and Matariki was paid for running the school in Parihaka. Neither ever spent much, so they had significant savings. Atamarie could count on a proper dowry—and support for her research besides. Though Kupe and Matariki lived a life focused on the traditions of their people, they were not narrow-minded like the Pearses. “Damn it, you’re right. I could have helped him!”

  Chloe groaned, surely thinking of Colin Coltrane, who’d abandoned Matariki to marry Chloe for her money.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t think of it,” she said drily. “I don’t want to imagine what would have happened if you’d financed him too. Now at least you know where you stand. Richard doesn’t care about you. So, forget him and find someone else. Or build your own aeroplane if you know how! Why waste all your talent building a man’s for him?”

  “But I need him. I’d never be able to do it without him,” Atamarie said plaintively.

  Heather laughed. “I believed that once, Atamie,” she said. “My Richard was named Svetlana. And in a certain sense, she was good for me. She helped me find out who I am and what I can do. But people like that—just think of them as engines. They help us get going. But if we get too close, they run us over. Besides, this Richard strikes me as weird—a man who never sleeps, who everyone else believes is crazy, who is calm for months and then can’t get a grip on himself? Chloe’s right. Forget him. Are you hoping to go to Parihaka too? Isn’t your vacation over in a few weeks?”

  Atamarie nodded, lost in thought. Maybe her relationship with Richard would have developed differently and could still develop if he only left Temuka. Maybe he needed to be out of sight of his farm in order to realize he was better off without his family.

  “Three weeks is tight, for sure, particularly with all the time it takes to get there,” she finally managed. “But I’m going to go anyway. I need a little of the ‘spirit of Parihaka’ after the small-town fug.”

  Chloe laughed. “Sounds like your Parihaka spirit frightened the small town. You could at least have rented a hotel room pro forma, you know. Or pretended to stay with the Maori or something.”

  Heather shrugged. “Eh, subterfuge would just have incited the villagers more. Stop brooding, Atamarie. Go to Parihaka
. And not just for the spirit’s sake. The village is full of good-looking young Maori men. One of them will help you forget Richard.”

  The very next day, Atamarie was back on the train without having visited anyone else in Dunedin—she needed to get to Parihaka. Her heart was pounding when they stopped at the station in Timaru. She wanted so badly to know how Richard was doing. But getting out and asking in the hospital was unthinkable. And his injuries had not been life threatening, after all. He could write to her himself if he wanted to be in contact. If not—Atamarie felt like crying, but she controlled herself. Her next steps had to lead away from Richard.

  “People treat flying like a joke,” Atamarie complained to her mother. Together they watched as colorful kites climbed above Parihaka. “But these are such fabulous manu. Is it my imagination, or do they stay in the air much better than they used to? And isn’t kite flying just for New Year’s, anyway? I thought it was tapu the rest of the time.”

  Matariki laughed. She was thrilled to see her daughter, although she could tell something was wrong. She hoped Atamarie would talk to her about it later.

  “Nonsense,” she answered her now. “You can fly manu anytime, as long as you sing the right karakia for it. And aside from conversing with the gods, people used to do it regularly, to send messages between the tribes. After the death of the founder of the Ngati Porou, the people in Whangara are supposed to have sent a manu into the sky that people saw all the way on the South Island. That way, Porourangi’s brother, Tahu, the patriarch of the Ngai Tahu, would know to mourn him.”

  Atamarie looked somewhat skeptical. She had heard of such giant manu, which supposedly required thirty men to control. But were they just legends?

  “Anyway, today’s kite festival is just because Rawiri happens to be here,” Matariki explained. “He’s back from his wanderings in the north, where he studied with just about every tohunga famous for the construction of manu. Now he’s considered a tohunga himself, and is instructing the village children this week—adults, too, if they’re interested. You’re surely welcome to participate.”