by Lark, Sarah
Atamarie nodded. Rawiri seemed to be serious about flying. Or was it more about messages to the gods for him? Atamarie could no longer quite recall what he had told her back when she and Richard had pulled him out of the water, but at least some of it had sounded like spiritual nonsense to her. On the other hand, Rawiri was like her: he wanted to fly. Surely it would be interesting to hear what he had learned about kites. Maybe it would give her some insight into Richard’s flying machine.
Rawiri’s eyes shone when Atamarie reported as a student that evening. But she had eyes for only the kites, which the children were sending up to the stars with their messages to the gods. Atamarie made a face when the young tohunga instructed her with great seriousness in the singing of the proper karakia.
“As if that would change the laws of nature,” she remarked to her mother later. “If the thing has the right aerodynamic form, it flies. If not, then it doesn’t.”
Matariki laughed. “Rawiri knows that as well as you. But look at it this way: the karakia serve to remind us of the laws of nature, to thank nature for giving us solid footing, but also for setting rules.”
“But the rules are exactly what we’re trying to overcome,” grumbled Atamarie.
Matariki shook her head. “You were just saying that’s not possible. And it’s not. You can’t conquer nature. But you can understand it better and make use of its laws. The dialogue with the gods helps with that—regardless of whether we send manu into the sky or say prayers while we harvest medicinal plants. All of it is right, Atamarie. Rawiri knows what he’s doing. Trust him.”
Rawiri was less sure of himself than Matariki. That night he asked the gods for their blessing, not for his kite but rather for him and Atamarie. He did not know if he should greet it as a coincidence or a gift from the gods that she had come back to learn the art of manu construction, but he knew he loved her. At the first sight of her beautiful, clever face, that warm, happy feeling he’d experienced after his failed glider flight welled up within him again. Since then, he had carried her image in his heart, and to his own dream of flying was added the dream of making her happy. Everything Rawiri had done since that day was in the name of this. It was not enough to experiment with kites he had made himself. He had to learn from the best. He had to become a tohunga just like Atamarie. For that was what she was going to be. Atamarie was learning the wisdom of the pakeha—and Rawiri would now offer her the wisdom of the Maori.
Rawiri could hardly wait for Atamarie’s visit to his workshop now. Already before dawn, he was preparing aute bark and raupo leaves, as well as manuka and kareao wood for the frame. At first, only a few children appeared. Rawiri was bent over their work and so failed to notice Atamarie approaching. He started when he heard her voice.
“A hawk, a pinion, and a canoe,” Atamarie said, listing the forms of the children’s kites. “So, which flies best?” She lifted a manu pakau and eyed it critically. “The area of the sails on a flat kite is completely different from, for example—”
“The wind lends its power to every manu,” Rawiri declared gently. Atamarie seemed particularly beautiful to him that morning. She wore her hair down over a traditional woven top, which she had paired with a wide green skirt. “But the manu does not steal the wind’s strength. It merely channels it over his wings. The manu dances on the wind, or the wind pulls it upward.”
“It rests on the airflow or uses the lift across its sail area,” Atamarie translated into the language of science. “I want to know more about the latter. We also need that for the development of aeroplanes. And this box-shaped construction is interesting. The kites consist of several squares, right? To give them stability.” Rawiri looked a bit uncertain, and Atamarie smiled apologetically. “It doesn’t matter how one expresses it, of course,” she said. “Just show me how it works.”
She listened attentively to Rawiri’s explanations, although he did not tell her much she did not know. In truth, she could have easily reconstructed the kite if someone had placed a prototype at her disposal. But she liked to listen to Rawiri’s voice—melodic and soft, it reminded her a bit of Richard’s. True, Richard had mostly spoken in frantic, staccato sentences, whereas Rawiri sounded almost like he was singing, but still. Atamarie let herself be charmed by the young man’s passion for flight and almost felt as if she were back in Richard’s barn.
Atamarie’s kite was already finished by evening, a fact that Richard or Professor Dobbins would surely have admired, but which seemed to disappoint Rawiri. Though she had followed his technical advice, she had done her level best to ignore the spiritual side of kite building. The young tohunga transmitted the songs, invocations, or meditations traditionally bound up with each stage of work. The spirits of the winds and clouds wanted to be conjured. Now and again, one called on the power of the bird god and pleaded for his blessing.
Atamarie still wasn’t having it. “The raupo leaves will grow back whether or not I earn the grace of the spirits of the bush.”
“But it’s about the principle,” Matariki argued, and quietly sang to the turu manu:
“Fly on from me, my bird,
dance restlessly on high,
swoop down like the hawk upon his prey.”
“It’s beautiful, Atamie, really.”
“It’s a question of the oncoming airflow against the kite’s sail,” Atamarie replied. “And the thing’s not supposed to dance at all. It would spin out too quickly. Help me a second, Rawiri. Should I have made the wings wider? For more stability?”
Atamarie had decided on the form of the birdman partly out of sentimentality, since it was Richard’s name among the Maori, but also because it was the most similar to the pakeha gliders and so to Richard’s future aeroplane.
Matariki rolled her eyes but was pleased to see that Rawiri was not discouraged by Atamarie’s lack of spirituality. He continued his prayers, but also listened with interest to her scientific expositions.
“There, you see,” Rawiri said as they both finally left their kites to test the previously discussed point of balance. “If the manu stands proudly upright and speaks with man, then you need more strength to hold it, though it will not truly climb. Like a man, who shows off his mana but does not possess the blessing of the gods. When the manu gives itself to the wind and bows to the spirits, then it will climb quickly.”
Atamarie laughed. “That’s what I said: the higher the kite’s point of balance, the stronger the drag! When it lies flat, lift increases.”
Matariki, who sat with her friend Omaka, laughed. “Everyone says prayers in their own language.”
Omaka nodded. “But these two,” she said, “are undoubtedly praying to the same god.”
Atamarie had enjoyed her day with Rawiri and did not withdraw when, later at the fire, he began to court her. He chatted with her, fetched her food and drink—and with every sip of whiskey, Rawiri’s poetic compliments touched her more deeply. After all, the young tohunga not only knew how to steer kites and flatter the gods with beautiful words but also how to describe his delight at Atamarie’s gold-blonde hair, her eyes, which he compared to dark amber, and her hands with their long, skillful fingers.
“You must fly my kite. Your fingers will speak with it; they’ll lead it and send it up into the realm of the gods. And it will convey to them my wish that one day you will also want to touch and lead and raise me to the peaks of love.”
Under other circumstances, Atamarie might have let herself soften, lean on her admirer, accompany him on a walk in the hills, grant him a kiss. She might even have made love to him. She was, after all, no longer a virgin, and Richard’s embraces had made Atamarie desire more. After her experiences in Temuka, though, she had grown suspicious. She knew that Rawiri would not condemn her if she offered him her body for a few nights. Maori women did not wait for their wedding nights to experiment with love, and before they had decided on a man, unequivocally and in front of the entire tribe, no one demanded monogamy of them. But the behavior of the villagers in th
e Waitohi Plains had shamed and hurt Atamarie. She did not want anyone to believe that she’d give herself to someone she did not truly love. And she was not in love with Rawiri.
The two did get closer over the next few days. They developed new kite designs together and researched the behavior of the various manu forms while gliding, but whenever Rawiri went to touch Atamarie, she pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said on the last night of her stay, “but I was with a pakeha man, and I can’t simply forget Richard so easily. He, I, we had so much in common. We wanted—I simply can’t start anything new yet.”
Rawiri nodded. “You two wanted to fly,” he said understandingly. “You wanted to fly with him. Conquer the sky. Whereas I don’t even speak your language. But I’ll learn it, Atamarie.” He indicated the copy of Scientific American Atamarie had loaned him, and which he had been studying ever since. “I’ll learn to make manu according to your fashion and ask the gods to invite me to share the sky with them.” He smiled mischievously. “I’ll compete with your pakeha, Atamarie. And we’ll see whose ‘aeronautical devices’”—he pronounced the words from the magazine very slowly and precisely—“find grace in the eyes of the spirits.”
Atamarie did not completely understand what Rawiri meant, but she still had his smiling face, framed by his long, dancing black hair, in her mind when she boarded the train a day later.
Chapter 2
The news of the concentration camps’ dissolution spread like wildfire in Karenstad. It unleashed joy but also new anxieties about the future. Like Doortje, many women would find neither home nor husband nor father when they returned to their land. Cornelis moreover feared ostracism or worse, especially as his leg had fully healed. There was no urgent reason for Cornelis to return to his village, anyway; though he would inherit his father’s land, he had never felt called to be a farmer. Still, he wavered between his desires and his sense of duty: his mother had survived and saw it as a given that he would rebuild the farm, look for a wife, and possibly take other older relatives into the household.
This idea was frightful to Cornelis. He would prefer to apply for a post, maybe as an interpreter, to earn a little money for a college degree. Perhaps even the veterinary studies he so yearned for. Daisy supported him in that dream—even if she would have preferred to see him become a doctor. To general amazement, she requited his affection. No one would have expected the lively woman to fall in love with the serious man. But it seemed to please Daisy to have the reins, and she directed Cornelis softly but decisively.
“I could consider staying here,” she declared one day. “It’s a lovely country. But I wouldn’t want to live in the middle of the veld. It would have to be one of the cities. You can decide, Cornelis: to Cape Town, Johannesburg, or Pretoria with me—or with your mother on a farm.”
Daisy flirtatiously brushed back a strand of her black hair, which had fallen loose from her demure nurse’s bonnet. No one doubted what Cornelis would choose. No one except Doortje van Stout.
Doortje viewed Cornelis’s courting of the young nurse with suspicion, but she could not really imagine that it was anything serious. She had begun to make her own marriage plans. For all the hesitant feeling Doortje nursed for Kevin Drury, when she looked at her future realistically, really only a marriage to Cornelis was possible. It presented obvious advantages to her and to him: Doortje would be taken care of, and Cornelis could decide whether he wanted to rebuild his or her farm. The van Stout farm was closer to Wepener, which would surely become an agrarian center again once the English withdrew. No one there knew Cornelis well, so they would not accuse him of cowardice. He could live esteemed in the parish and no doubt even deck himself in church offices.
Doortje would surely forget Kevin Drury in the shortest of times and be a good wife to her cousin. She could live with her aunt Jacoba as a mother-in-law. Martinus’s mother had also been very demanding, and Doortje had been prepared to marry into his household. For Boer girls, this was expected. Several generations lived together on the farms without complaining. No women lived alone in Boer society—Cornelis had obligations to his cousin on this point as well. If he and his family did not take her in, Doortje stood before the void.
But then came the news that Cornelis wanted again to betray his people. Doortje was in the hospital cleaning syringes when Daisy gleefully reported her engagement. The young woman did not even notice the awkward silence of the Boer nursing assistant—she merely glowed at Dr. Greenway’s friendly well-wishes.
“And I’ll talk him out of veterinary medicine,” Daisy declared, beaming. “He can become a proper doctor, you see, and then we can open a practice together or work in a hospital.”
Daisy herself had absolutely no intention of giving up her profession. On the contrary, if Cornelis was going to start his studies, she needed to be the one making money for the first few years.
For a Boer woman, such an arrangement was unthinkable. Doortje grew dizzy as she considered the consequences of Daisy’s cheerful revelation. Pale as a ghost, she dropped the tray with the syringes. Everyone looked at her as the glass broke on the ground.
“But that’s not possible,” stammered Doortje. “He has to know that I—he is, after all—”
Doortje wanted to speak of the obligations of her only living male relative, but she stumbled and fell to the ground, grateful for the merciful oblivion.
However, her awakening was to prove even more frightful.
“Nurse Daisy, if I’m interpreting correctly what Miss van Stout wanted to say, I must ask, as much as it pains me: Is your affianced the father of her baby?”
Doortje heard Dr. Greenway’s voice as if from far off as she slowly came back to consciousness. A baby? This English hussy was already pregnant? Doortje groaned. If Daisy was pregnant, there was no way out. Cornelis really would go away with her, and—
Daisy, however, protested indignantly.
“Most certainly not. If there had been something between her and Cornelis, I would have noticed. And she still seems cross with him.”
Doortje was confused. About whom were they speaking?
“Perhaps for reasons of a failed, uh, relationship?” Dr. Greenway speculated.
“Nonsense.”
Doortje felt Daisy arranging something in her bed. Was she giving her an injection? Was she ill? Would she die too?
“Anyway, Doctor, you said yourself she was six months or so along. Has Cornelis even been here that long? And why did she keep it a secret?”
Doortje summoned all her strength and opened her eyes. She tried to sit up, but Dr. Greenway pressed her gently back into the bed.
“Lie back, Miss van Stout. Rest. You need to think of the baby.”
Doortje shot up. “The what?”
“I can’t believe we didn’t notice.” Kevin paced restlessly. “Fifth or sixth month?”
Greenway uncorked the whiskey bottle. “Calm yourself, Drury. The young woman didn’t even know herself. I was there; her surprise was genuine. And it certainly is possible. The women hardly ever undress in their cramped tents. Not to mention, bloated stomachs are common with malnutrition. That wouldn’t have stood out to us. The period can fail to occur for the same reason, but you know that. We don’t have anything to blame ourselves for. That is, as long as neither of us is the father.”
Kevin let out a pained grunt. “Not this time,” he remarked, and took a gulp of whiskey. “But the paternity is obvious, Greenway, when you consider how Doortje and Johanna arrived here. We know they were raped.”
Greenway slapped his forehead. “Of course. And idiot that I am, I suspected Cornelis.” He poured more whiskey. “Heavens, that only makes it worse. Any child out of wedlock would complicate Miss van Stout’s life monstrously. But the fruit of such violence—”
Kevin rubbed his temples. “Is there at least someone with her now? To ensure she doesn’t do herself harm like her poor sister?”
Greenway nodded. “Miss Fence. We had her sent for. Nur
se Daisy was available, but the two women have a somewhat, hmm, unsettled relationship. Apparently, Miss van Stout wanted to marry Cornelis herself.”
“She wanted to do what?” Kevin shouted. “Doortje van Stout wanted to marry Cornelis Pienaar? Who told you that?”
Greenway shrugged. “Mrs. Vooren, the nursing assistant. You know, the little Boer girl who’s not even twenty years old and already has three kids? A very bright young woman and not as bullheaded as the others. Miss van Stout passed out from a circulatory disruption while Nurse Daisy was announcing her engagement, and I wondered if there was a connection. Mrs. Vooren confirmed it. That’s why I assumed—but it seems to have been more a question of familial duty than of love.”
Kevin set his glass on the table. “I’ll go to her,” he said. “She must be in complete despair. Perhaps I can help.”
He acted as if he did not see Greenway’s inquisitive looks as he rushed to the door, but then turned around at the last moment and grabbed the book about New Zealand.
“It might distract her a bit.”
Greenway smiled. “Well, good luck, then, Drury.”
It was already dark when Kevin walked over to the hospital, but the main rooms were lit by oil lamps. One of them was also burning in the screened-off room where Doortje lay. Roberta sat beside the bed, reading a book.
“Don’t ruin your lovely eyes reading in such miserable light, Roberta,” Kevin remarked amiably.
Roberta looked up when she heard his voice, and he was charmed anew by how cute and earnest she really was. When he saw Doortje’s narrow face on her pillow, framed by the luxuriance of her unbound hair, however, he forgot Roberta. He beheld Doortje without a bonnet for the first time, bewitched by how much younger the long, blonde strands made her look. Doortje had her eyes shut, but her face was tense.