by Sarah Lark
Jane took a sharp breath. “Are you giving the orders here now, Cat?”
Cat’s brow creased. “I only thought—”
“I’ll write to them,” Chris said. When it came to defending Cat, he had no compunction about standing up to Jane. “My wife isn’t known for her diplomacy, Cat. She’s generally suspicious of joint undertakings. Someone other than herself might profit from them.”
Jane glared at him. “I have no problem with the primus inter pares principle,” she snapped. “But I rarely find anyone who is my equal.”
“The what?” Cat asked. “You’ll have to say that again in English, Miss Jane; otherwise, I won’t be able to translate it for Te Haitara. It was he who wanted to ask you to write to Mr. Morgan, in the name of the Ngai Tahu. He would like to sign the letter, and he has a right to do that, if we’re inviting the people to his land. After all, he’s the chieftain.”
Chris laughed. “So much for ‘first among equals’! Te Haitara wouldn’t be amused to hear that you think him inferior, Jane.” He was surprised when Jane blushed.
“Of course I don’t think he’s—I mean, of course Te Haitara is different, he—” Jane stopped and quickly composed herself again. “I’d be glad to write the letter for him.”
Cat exchanged confused glances with the men.
“How nice that at least the chieftain meets Jane’s famously high standards,” Chris said. “Good, then we’ll take care of it that way. But what about the Deans brothers and the Redwoods? Does anyone know if they want to go in on it with us?”
Cat shook her head. “I thought one of you could ride there. Someone has to go to Port Cooper again soon, anyway.”
She expected Ottfried to volunteer, but to her surprise, he remained silent. Chris nodded, instead.
“I’ll go. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. The Deans brothers were already complaining about the work last year; they said shearing is a trial of strength. And the Redwoods must have recovered from the loss of their sheep by now, although it was surely hard for them. Whoever stole the animals got the best of their breeding stock.”
“The Redwoods won’t let that drag them down,” Cat said. “They just asked Butler if he’d heard anything about sheep for sale. Or herding dogs.”
Jane wrote the letter to Australia first thing the next day, and used the occasion as an excuse to walk to the Maori village and ask Te Haitara to sign the letter. She herself had taught the chieftain to sign his name very tidily on contracts and letters, and it was a task that he always performed pleasurably, filled with feelings of importance. Makutu insisted, however, that they should sing a karakia in order to include the spirits in the decision. Since there wasn’t a specific karakia for the occasion, she resorted to the prayer that one said when flying a kite to make contact with the gods.
“That’s very similar,” she declared solemnly. “The kite makes the raupo leaves speak, and you send words on your paper.”
Jane had stopped getting upset about Makutu’s religiosity a long time ago. In fact, the opposite was true. She had learned the kite karakia by heart, and sometimes she said it herself before she sent a letter. At some point it occurred to her that not one of the letters she had sent that way had gotten lost.
On this warm spring day, however, she didn’t find the chieftain. There were only older adults in the village. The others were working on the fields. Cat was sitting in a circle with about twenty students, listening patiently as a girl recited her multiplication tables.
“One times seven is seven. Two times seven is fourteen. Three times seven is twenty-two. Four times seven—”
“Twenty-one!” Jane said, correcting her. She still only spoke broken Maori, but she knew her numbers by heart. “Three times seven is twenty-one! Are you asleep, Cat?”
Cat shrugged. “I didn’t catch it,” she admitted. “Come on, Kiri, let’s find three times seven pebbles and count them so we can see who’s right.”
“What do you mean, who’s right?” Jane squawked. “That’s just basic arithmetic!”
Cat made an appeasing gesture. “I’m not very good at math, Miss Jane. I never went to school. But I do know that the children understand multiplication better when we use stones to show them. If you can do it better, go ahead. I’m not that crazy about teaching math. I’d be glad if you took over the lessons.”
Jane glared at her. The last thing she wanted to be was a teacher. Ironically, it was the only profession that would have offered her an alternative to marriage.
“I’m looking for the ariki,” she said.
Jane watched Cat closely. Would she give herself away at the mention of Te Haitara? She’d heard that you could tell when someone was in love. And if there were plans for marriage, wouldn’t Cat be bragging about it? Jane told herself she was only afraid of losing all her influence on the chieftain and the business of the tribe. But business matters didn’t usually make her heart race this way.
But Cat didn’t look up from the stones that her student had just laid out in rows in front of her. “The chieftain is by the river,” she said calmly. “He’s communing with the spirits. He has a lot to think about. The deal with Butler impressed him a lot, but I believe the thought that our little sheep farm could develop into something big makes him afraid.”
“Afraid?” Jane repeated. “But why? That would be—”
“I think you’ll know where to find him,” Cat said, ending the conversation. “It’s true, Kiri, twenty-one. Who would have thought? And now, how many is seven times four?”
Jane took the direct path to the grove of trees on the river where Te Haitara liked to pray. She was still brooding about the chieftain’s relationship with Cat. The young woman didn’t seem to care very much if she would soon be the head of a flourishing business, or would just teach the village children. Or did she only want Te Haitara? But then why was she sending Jane to him alone? Shouldn’t she be jealous? For the first time, Jane wished she had a better understanding of human feelings. Perhaps she should have read a few of those ridiculous love stories her sisters had always wasted their time with.
Te Haitara was sitting on his heels among the raupo reeds, the way he had been the first time Jane had seen him here. He stood up immediately as she approached.
“Kia ora, Jane.” He smiled. “I was just thinking about you, and now the gods have sent you to me.”
The chieftain spoke in Maori, very slowly so Jane could understand. When they were alone together, that was what he usually did now. He knew that having a successful conversation in his language would make her proud, but she hated not being able to follow the quick-paced discussions in the village.
“Cat sent me,” Jane replied in Maori. “I look for you in village.”
“The gods choose their tools carefully,” Te Haitara said, and walked ahead of her to the stones they’d sat by together that first time. He indicated that Jane should sit down.
Jane didn’t understand completely. “Cat is tool for you? I thought woman.”
Te Haitara’s tattoos shifted as his brow creased. “Of course Poti is a woman,” he said. “What else? I just meant that the gods were working through her when she sent you here. It’s not so important.”
“But Cat very important to you!” Jane argued. “Helps you with pakeha.”
Te Haitara nodded. “Yes, she speaks my language fluently, and the pakeha language. That’s very useful.”
“She helps you with business too,” Jane added.
Te Haitara looked unsure. “But it’s you who helps us with the business,” he said. “Or would you rather not do that anymore, because the tribe doesn’t want to . . . invest?” He’d paused for a moment, looking for a word that existed only in English.
Jane smiled. “No, no, I want to help. But I think you want more to do it with Cat.” She stopped. “Cat,” she said hesitantly, “is beautiful woman.”
Te Haitara looked at Jane as though she were out of her mind. “Poti? Beautiful?” He seemed to be considering it. “
Yes, her hair is a nice color, like gold coins. Is that why you think she’s beautiful? I know the pakeha love gold. But we prefer jade.”
For an unexplainable reason, Jane felt better. “I do not like gold hair at all,” she told him.
“But then, why are you asking?” Te Haitara said. “Are you worried because—your husband likes her?” His voice sounded agonized.
Jane laughed in disbelief. “My husband?” She switched to English. “Chieftain, I really couldn’t care less if my husband likes her!”
Te Haitara paused and thought about her words. “You don’t care about your husband?” he inquired, still speaking Maori.
Jane shrugged. She hoped Te Haitara wouldn’t scorn her for what she had to say. She wasn’t clear on Maori ideas about the holy sacrament of marriage. But the chieftain was her . . . confidante. Once more, she was taken aback by the strength of the feelings that welled up inside of her. She just couldn’t lie to Te Haitara.
“Chieftain, when my husband and I got married,” she said in English, “it was only about his name and my land. It wasn’t about love. I’m not very interested in him, and he’s not very interested in me. That’s the way it is.”
“But you are a woman with much mana!” the chieftain said in surprise.
Jane smiled again. “Exactly,” she said. “That’s why neither of us knows what to do with one another. He’s a nice fellow, but he doesn’t have much mana.”
“You would rather have a husband with more mana?” Te Haitara inquired.
He casually picked up his chieftain’s regalia. He had worn his feather-adorned cape for his consultation with the gods.
“That would depend on the man,” Jane said, and suddenly felt a strange kind of tension. “I’d have to like him for other reasons too. And he’d have to like me.”
They were each speaking their own language, and they seemed to be able to understand each other better than ever before.
“Who could not like you? You have eyes like jade, and your hair is brown and soft like raupo tops. Raupo would be my name for you! A gift from the gods. You know what the plant means to us.”
The Maori used the cattail-like reeds to make mats as roofing material for their houses and sails for their canoes. They ate the roots and made the dried leaves into ceremonial dance dresses and poi, little balls attached to each other with string that were used in traditional dances and for play. The stands of raupo reeds on the banks of rivers and lakes were also homes for waterbirds.
“You are a beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman, for me.”
Jane blushed, and searched for words in his language. “And you are a strong man, a big man . . .”
“You like me?” Te Haitara asked.
Jane nodded. She wondered what would happen next. She knew the Maori didn’t kiss. But she watched without fear as the chieftain stood up, even though she was still sitting, and pulled her to her feet. Then he leaned his face gently against hers. She had exchanged the hongi with him once before, but back then, it had been nothing more than an annoying duty.
Now she felt Te Haitara’s warm skin, enjoyed his scent, and shared his breath.
“The gods are giving me what I prayed for,” he said as he picked Jane up and laid her on a bridal bed of reeds.
Jane hadn’t prayed, but everything inside of her sang and laughed and danced as Te Haitara made her body his own. He was strong and fast, and not careful and gentle like Chris. He was a man with mana.
“Do we have to sing a karakia now?” Jane asked after she had caught her breath. “It would seem—appropriate.”
Te Haitara smiled and pushed her hair out of her face. She was lying on top of him, and the heavy brown locks fell over both of their bodies.
“Not now. This isn’t the time for karakia. But I would like to sing waiata aroha for you—love songs. I will compose one for you. For the woman who was made for me from the raupo. I will sing it, if you will be mine completely.”
“I am already,” Jane said. “But nothing more can come of it. I’m married.”
Te Haitara shrugged. “We’ll have to say some karakia,” he said simply.
Chapter 65
Chris Fenroy was shearing a sheep as Te Haitara entered his farmyard. The Maori was dressed ceremonially, carrying the traditional warrior weapons and wearing his chieftain’s cape. Chris was embarrassed to have to greet him in his sweaty, dirty work clothes if there was something formal to discuss. Chris could only hope that this surprise appearance didn’t mean something bad had happened. Perhaps Ottfried had made more trouble.
“You are doing the shearing yourself?” the chieftain asked. Chris let go of the sheep, which leaped away with relief and ran off. “I thought the men from Australia were coming to you too.”
Chris nodded, relieved that the chieftain had begun with polite conversation. If he had been angry, he wouldn’t have bothered.
“Yes, of course they’re coming to us,” Chris replied. “But I don’t want to be completely clueless. Karl showed me how to shear, and now I’m practicing a little, even though I may never be as good at it as the Australians.”
He paused for a moment and gave Te Haitara time to say why he’d come. However, the chieftain seemed hesitant. Chris wondered why. Shyness was generally not a trait of Maori chieftains.
“What can I do for you, ariki, my friend?” he finally asked. “Did something happen that inspired you to don the garb of a warrior? You aren’t here to sing war songs, are you?”
“No,” Te Haitara said. “There is peace between us, we are one tribe. It is my greatest wish that it will remain so. That’s why I want to make you an offer.”
Chris raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what could disturb the peace between us,” he said. “But tell me! Whatever this is about, I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”
The chieftain took a deep breath, and to Chris, all at once he seemed like an awkward young man asking a girl’s father for her hand in marriage.
“I wish to offer you a trade. In the name of the Ngai Tahu, I would like to give you the land that your farm stands on, and the land your sheep graze on.”
Chris stared at Te Haitara.
“In return, you will give me Jane, your wife.”
Chris swallowed. “But, ariki, that doesn’t work.”
“Yes, it does.” The chieftain had gathered his dignity and self-assurance again, now that he’d spoken his piece. “I want to make her mine. In exchange, you can have the land.”
Chris didn’t know what to say. He rubbed his forehead nervously. “Ariki, I can’t believe that we’re having this conversation! I can’t sell or trade Jane. She isn’t a slave.”
“Of course not,” the chieftain said, sounding offended. “A chieftain of the Ngai Tahu rarely seeks a wife among captives. A slave would not be worthy of me. I want a beautiful woman with much mana. I want Jane.”
Chris shook his head. “It really doesn’t work. Even if I would agree to such a—deal. You have to understand, Te Haitara, Jane is married to me in the eyes of God and our people. It’s tikanga with the pakeha. Marriages cannot be broken.”
Te Haitara shrugged. “But she wants it too. I am not stealing your wife, do you understand? This isn’t about war.”
“She wants it too?” Chris asked in amazement. “You spoke to her?”
The chieftain gave a small smile. “More than spoke,” he remarked. “Of course that wasn’t right. I know you could demand retribution for that. But Jane says there is no love between you. She says it’s more like tamou.”
Tamou was the word for an arranged marriage, usually between offspring of chieftains. Of course it hadn’t been exactly like that between Chris and Jane, but Chris understood what Te Haitara was trying to say.
“There’s attraction between you?” he asked in disbelief. “Between you and Jane?”
Te Haitara nodded solemnly. “For me, she is the light and the sun. She drives the darkness out of my soul. The tribal elder has nothing against it either
. I asked her, and she said you could have the land. Jane is of high status. Is it not true that her father is a kind of ariki among the pakeha?”
John Nicholas Beit, a chieftain? Chris almost laughed, but the chieftain was already continuing.
“We would also like to give Poti to you in exchange for Jane,” Te Haitara said. “If she agrees. When she came to us, Poti said she was nervous because you looked at her. But Makutu said her eyes spoke another language. And we have all seen your eyes for her. Perhaps you should send her a miromiro sometime.” The chieftain grinned.
In Maori mythology, the miromiro was a bird that sang love songs to a woman who had strayed from the man who loved her. Chris felt the blood rising in his cheeks. For the space of a heartbeat, he lost himself in the dream of being able to court Cat openly while Jane was happy with the Maori chieftain. If he were free, Cat would want to be with him. She loved him just as much as he loved her. But of course it was impossible.
“Te Haitara, it doesn’t work,” he repeated regretfully. “Pakeha marriages last until death; they can’t be broken. At least, I don’t know how to do it.”
The chieftain’s eyebrows drew together in consternation. Te Haitara was a very large, powerfully built man. Chris wondered why he hadn’t noticed until this moment how physically suited he was to Jane.
“I can tell you how to break a marriage,” the chieftain said calmly. “It’s not hard. You only need to ask a tohunga to sing a karakia toko. That separates man and woman, just as Papa was taken away from Rangi. Then both of them are free to make new bonds.”
Chris laughed nervously. It was too tempting, a dream come true. To be free of Jane, and never hear her nagging or mockery again, and instead to be with Cat, hear her gentle voice, her laugh . . .