In the Land of the Long White Cloud

by Sarah Lark

  And there she was. In the third row, half-hidden behind a few burly shepherds who presumably planned to provide testimony as well. She was peeking at him, turning her neck a bit to keep him in view, which she managed effortlessly, slender and flexible as she was. Oh yes, she was beautiful! Just as beautiful, lively, and engaging as before. Her hair was already falling out of the austere coiffure she had tried to force it into. Her face was pale, her lips slightly open. James did not try to lock eyes. That would have been too painful. Perhaps later, when his heart was not thumping so wildly and when he no longer feared that his eyes would give away everything he still felt for her…he forced his gaze away and continued to let his eyes drift over the audience. Next to Gwyneira he expected to see Gerald, but a child sat there, a boy, maybe twelve years old. James held his breath. Naturally, that would be Paul, her son. The boy would certainly be old enough to accompany his grandfather and mother to these proceedings. James looked him over. Maybe his features would reveal who his father was…Fleurette didn’t resemble him in the least, it was true, but that was hardly unusual. And this one here…

  James McKenzie froze when he looked at the boy’s face more clearly. It couldn’t be! But it was true…the man Paul most closely resembled was sitting right next to him: Gerald Warden.

  McKenzie saw that they shared the same square jaw; the alert, close-set brown eyes; the fleshy nose. Both had clear features, and the older face displayed an equally determined look as the younger one. There could be no doubt: this boy was a Warden. James’s mind raced. If Paul was Lucas’s son, why had he hightailed it to the West Coast back then? Or…

  The realization knocked the wind out of James like a sudden punch to the stomach. Gerald’s son! It couldn’t be otherwise: the boy showed no resemblance at all to Gwyneira’s late husband. And that might also have been the reason for Lucas’s flight. He had not caught his wife committing adultery with a stranger but with his own father…but that was utterly impossible. Gwyneira would never have given herself freely to Gerald. And if she had, she would have handled it with the utmost discretion. Lucas would never have gotten wind of it. So that meant…Gerald must have forced Gwyneira into his bed.

  James was struck by a pang of profound remorse and anger at himself. It was finally clear to him why Gwyneira couldn’t talk about it, why she had stood before him sick with shame and helpless with fear. She could not have admitted the truth to him, or he only would have made things worse. James would have killed the old man.

  Instead he, James, had abandoned Gwyneira, had made everything even worse by leaving her alone with Gerald and forcing her to raise this unfortunate child, whom Fleurette had only spoken of with abhorrence. James felt despair rising within him. Gwyneira would never be able to forgive him. He should have known or at least accepted her refusal to talk about it without question. He should have trusted her. But so…

  James furtively directed his gaze once more at her narrow face—and was alarmed when she raised her head and looked at him. And then suddenly everything was extinguished. The courtroom melted away before his and Gwyneira’s eyes; there had never been a Paul Warden. James and Gwyneira stood across from each other alone in a magic circle. He saw her as the young girl who had taken up her New Zealand adventure fearlessly but who was hopeless before the problem of scaring up the thyme to make English food with. He still remembered exactly how she had laughed when he handed her the bundle of herbs. And then her strange question: would he be the father of her child…the days together at the lake and in the mountains. The unbelievable feeling when he had seen Fleur in her arms for the first time.

  In this moment a bond, long broken, sealed Gwyneira and James to each other, and it would never dissolve again.

  “Gwyn…” James’s lips formed her name inaudibly, and Gwyneira smiled faintly as though she had understood him. No, she didn’t hold anything against him. She had forgiven him everything—and she was free. Now, finally, she was free for him. If only he could speak with her. They had to try again; they belonged together. If only it weren’t for these unfortunate proceedings. If he were likewise free. If only they wouldn’t hang him.

  “Your Honor, I think we can cut this business short!” James McKenzie spoke up, just as the judge was about to call the next witness.

  Judge Stephen looked up hopefully. “You want to confess?”

  McKenzie nodded. Over the next hour he calmly gave an account of his thefts and how he had taken the sheep to Dunedin. “You have to understand that I can’t give you the name of the man who took the animals off my hands. He never asked for my name, and I didn’t ask for his.”

  “But you have to know who he is,” the judge said, unsatisfied with this.

  McKenzie shrugged again. “I know a name, but whether it’s his…? Besides, I’m no snitch, Your Honor. The man never turned on me; he paid me properly—please don’t expect me to break my word.”

  “And your accomplice?” someone in the court roared. “Who was the fellow who slipped through our fingers?”

  James looked in the direction of the voice with a confused expression. “What accomplice? I always worked alone, Your Honor, except for my dog. I swear, so help me God.”

  “So then who was the man who was with you when you were captured?” the judge inquired. “Though some seem to think it was a woman.”

  James nodded with his head lowered. “Yes, that’s right, Your Honor.”

  Gwyneira winced. So there was a woman. James had married or at least lived with someone else. Still…when he had just looked at her…she had thought…

  “What does that mean, ‘Yes, that’s right’?” the Lord Justice asked, again unsatisfied with his answer. “A man, a woman, a ghost?”

  “A woman, Your Honor.” James kept his head lowered. “A Maori girl I lived with.”

  “And you gave her the horse while you sat on a mule, and then she rode away as if the devil was on her heels?” someone in the court called out, setting off laughter. “Tell it to your grandma!”

  Judge Stephen called the court to order.

  “I have to admit,” he remarked, “your story sounds a bit far-fetched to me as well.”

  “The girl was very dear to me,” McKenzie said calmly. “The…most precious thing that ever happened to me. I always gave her the best horse; I would do anything for her. I would give my life for her. And why shouldn’t a girl know how to ride?”

  Gwyneira bit her lip. So James had found a new love. And if he survived this, he would go back to his girl.

  “I see,” said the judge drily. “A Maori girl. Did the pretty little thing have a name and a tribe?”

  James seemed to think for a moment. “She didn’t belong to a tribe. She…it would be too much of a digression to explain here, but she came from the union of a man and a woman who never made their bed together in a meeting hall. Their union was blessed anyway. She was born so that she…she…” He searched for Gwyneira’s eyes. “So that she could dry the tears of a god.”

  The judge frowned. “Well, I didn’t ask for an introduction to heathen conception ceremonies. There are children in this court. So the girl was banished from her tribe and nameless.”

  “Not nameless. Her name is Pua…Pakupaku Pua.” James looked Gwyneira in the eyes as he spoke the name, hoping that no one was looking at her just then because she turned pale then blushed. If what she believed was correct…

  When the court recessed for deliberation a few minutes later, she hurried through the rows without excusing herself to Gerald or John. She needed someone who could confirm what she thought, someone who spoke better Maori than she did. She ran breathlessly into Reti.

  “Reti! What luck you’re here! Reti, what…what does pua mean? And pakupaku?”

  The Maori laughed. “You should really know that by now, miss. Pua means ‘flower’ and pakupaku…”

  “Means ‘little’…” Gwyneira whispered. She wanted to scream, cry, dance with relief. But she merely smiled.

  The girl was named
Little Flower. Now Gwyneira understood what James had meant with his entreating look. He must have met Fleurette.

  James McKenzie was sentenced to five years in prison in Lyttelton. Naturally, he was not allowed to keep his dog. John Sideblossom was to take care of the dog if he was so inclined. Judge Stephen could not have cared less. The court, he emphasized, was not responsible for pets.

  What followed was horrible. The bailiff and court usher had to tear James away from his dog by force. The dog bit John Sideblossom as he was putting a leash on her. Afterward, Paul described with perverse delight how the thief had cried.

  Gwyneira did not listen to him. She had also not been present for the reading of the sentence; she was too agitated for that. Paul would have asked questions had he seen her in that state, and she dreaded his often frightening intuition.

  Instead, she waited outside under the pretense of needing fresh air and to stretch her legs. In order to escape the mass of people who were waiting in front of the building for the judgment, she strolled to the other side of the courthouse—and had a final, unexpected encounter with James McKenzie there. The condemned was twisting in the grip of two burly men, who were dragging him by force to a waiting prison-transport coach. Until that moment, he had been struggling bitterly, but at the sight of Gwyneira he calmed down.

  “I’ll see you again,” he mouthed. “Gwyn, I’ll see you again!”

  10

  Hardly six months had passed since James McKenzie’s trial when an excited little Maori girl disturbed Gwyneira, who was in the midst of her daily work. As usual, she had had a busy morning, clouded by yet another confrontation with Paul. The boy had offended two Maori shepherds—and right before the shearing and the herding into the highlands, when they most needed every available pair of hands. Both men were irreplaceable, experienced, and reliable, and there wasn’t the slightest reason to offend them simply because they had used the winter to take part in one of their tribe’s traditional wanderings. That was normal: when the stores the tribe had laid up for the winter had been used up, the Maori moved on to hunt in other parts of the country. Then one day the houses on the lake were deserted, and no one came to work with the exception of a few trusted members of the help. New arrivals among the pakeha found it odd at first, but the more established colonists had long since gotten used to it. It wasn’t that the tribes just disappeared at random; they only left when they could not find anything more to eat near their villages or had earned enough working for the pakeha to buy something. When it was time for sowing the fields, and there was plenty of shearing and herding work to be had, they returned—as had Gwyneira’s two workers, who had no idea why Paul was rudely berating them for their absence.

  “Mr. Warden has to know we come back!” one of the men said angrily. “He shared village with us so long, was like a son when little, like brother for Marama. But now…always angry. Only because angry with Tonga. He says we not listen to him, listen to Tonga. And Tonga wants us to go. But that nonsense. Tonga not yet wearing tokipoutangata, Ax of Chief…and young Mr. Warden not yet master of farm.”

  Gwyneira sighed. For the moment, Ngopini’s last remark gave her a good foothold to appease the men. Just as Tonga was not yet chief, the farm still did not belong to Paul; he was not entitled to reprimand anyone, let alone let them go. After receiving ample crop seeds by way of apology, the Maori declared themselves once again prepared to work for Gwyneira. But if Paul ever took over the business, people would walk off on him. Tonga would probably uproot the whole camp when he eventually bore the chieftain’s honors so as to never have to see Paul again.

  Gwyneira sought out her son and reproached him, but Paul merely shrugged. “Then I’ll just hire New Zealanders. They’re much easier to give orders to anyway. And Tonga won’t have the guts to leave this place. The Maori need the money they earn here and the land they live on. Who else will let them settle on his property? All the land now belongs to the white farmers anyway. And they don’t need any troublemakers.”

  Though annoyed, Gwyneira had to admit that Paul was right. Tonga’s tribe would not be welcome anywhere. However, the thought did little to reassure her, and instead gave her cause to fear how it would all end. Tonga was a hothead. No one could say what would happen when everything Paul had just said became clear to him.

  And here was this little girl coming into the stables where Gwyneira was just saddling her horse. Another obviously shaken Maori, hopefully not with further complaints about Paul.

  But the girl did not belong to the nearby tribe. Instead, Gwyneira recognized one of Helen’s students. She approached Gwyneira shyly and curtsied like a well-mannered English schoolgirl.

  “Miss Warden, Miss O’Keefe sent me. I’m supposed to tell you someone is waiting for you at the O’Keefe farm. And you should come quickly before it gets dark and Mr. O’Keefe comes home—in case he doesn’t go to the pub tonight.” The girl spoke impeccable English.

  “Who could be waiting for me, Mara?” Gwyneira asked, taken aback.

  “It’s a secret!” she declared importantly. “And I’m not allowed to tell anyone, just you.”

  Gwyneira’s heart raced. “Fleurette? Is it my daughter? Has Fleurette come back?” She could hardly believe it. After all, she had hoped her daughter had long since married Ruben and started a life in Otago.

  Mara shook her head. “No, miss, it’s a man…um, a gentleman. And I’m supposed to tell you they want you to please hurry.” With these last words she curtsied again.

  Gwyneira nodded. “Good job, girl. Go, quick, grab yourself something sweet from the kitchen. Moana baked some cookies earlier. I’ll hitch up the chaise in the meantime. Then you can ride home with me.”

  The girl shook her head. “I can walk, miss. Go ahead and take your horse. Miss O’Keefe said it’s very, very urgent!”

  Gwyneira did not understand, but obediently continued saddling her horse. So she would be visiting Helen today instead of inspecting the shearing sheds. Who could this mysterious visitor be? She bridled Raven, one of Morgaine’s energetic daughters. Raven set out at a brisk trot, quickly leaving the buildings of Kiward Station behind. The shortcut between the two farms had been so well traveled by now that Gwyneira hardly needed to hold her horse by the reins, even along the difficult stretches of the path. Raven leaped over the stream with one mighty bound. Gwyneira thought with a triumphant smile of the last hunt that Reginald Beasley had hosted. The farmer had since married again, a widow out of Christchurch closer to his own age. She managed the household splendidly and cared for the rose garden with never-ending diligence. She did not seem very passionate, however—thus Beasley continued to seek his pleasure by breeding racehorses. All the more reason it rankled him that Gwyneira and Raven had so far won every drag hunt. He planned to build a racetrack in the future. Then her cobs would no longer leave his thoroughbreds behind.

  Just before arriving at Helen’s farm, Gwyneira reined in her horse so that it would not run over the children coming home from school.

  Tonga and a couple of other Maori from the lakeside village greeted her grumpily. Only Marama smiled, as friendly as ever.

  “We’re reading a new book, Miss Warden!” she declared, pleased. “One for grown-ups! By Mr. Bulwer-Lytton. He’s very famous in England. The book is about a Roman camp. The Romans are a very old tribe in England. Their camp is near a volcano, and it erupts. It’s sooo sad, Miss Warden…I hope the girls survive, at least. For Glaucos to fall in love with Jone there! But the people really should have been smarter. You don’t set up camp on the burning mountains. And certainly not a big one with sleeping houses and everything. What do you think: would Paul like to read it? He hasn’t been reading much lately. Miss O’Keefe says that’s not good for a gentleman. I’ll find him later and take the book to him.” Marama skipped away, and Gwyneira smiled to herself. She was still grinning when she stopped in Helen’s yard.

  “Your children show a lot of common sense,” she teased Helen, who rushed out of the house w
hen she heard hoofbeats. She looked relieved when she saw that it was Gwyneira. “I never knew what I didn’t like about Bulwer-Lytton, but Marama put it succinctly: everything the Romans did was a mistake. If they had not built on Vesuvius, Pompeii never would have been destroyed, and Mr. Bulwer-Lytton could have saved himself five hundred pages. You should just make sure the children understand that the whole thing doesn’t take place in England.”

  Helen’s smile seemed forced. “Marama is a clever girl,” she said. “But come now, Gwyn. We can’t waste any time. If Howard catches him here, he’ll kill him. He’s still angry that Warden and Sideblossom passed him over when they were putting together the search party.”

  Gwyneira frowned. “What search party? And who’s killing whom?”

  “Well, McKenzie. James McKenzie! Oh, that’s right, I didn’t tell Mara his name—to be safe. But he’s here, Gwyn. And he wants to speak with you urgently!”

  Gwyneira’s legs seemed to buckle. “But…James is in prison in Lyttelton. He can’t…”

  “He broke out, Gwyn! Now go; give me the horse. Mr. McKenzie is in the barn.”

  Gwyneira practically flew to the barn. Her thoughts tripped over each other. What should she say to him? What did he want to tell her? But James was there…he was there; he would…

  James pulled Gwyneira into his arms as soon as she entered the barn. She could not pull away and did not want to either. Letting out a sigh, she burrowed into James’s shoulder. It had been thirteen years, but it felt just as wonderful as it had back then. She was safe here. No matter what happened around her—when James put his arms around her, she felt protected from the world.