Song of the Spirits (In the Land of the Long White Cloud saga)

by Lark, Sarah

  “Monday’s fine,” the young man said in a distracted tone. “Just leave the program here, and bring me a whiskey, single malt.”

  A few of the men sitting nearby rolled their eyes. Single malt—that stuff cost a fortune.

  The young man spent the next few hours slowly drinking three glasses of whiskey, watching Kura all the while. That did not surprise her, as she was used to that sort of admiration. What took her aback was the look in the man’s eyes. Though he observed her face, hair, clothes, and her fingers dancing over the piano keys with interest, he did not have a lascivious look in his eyes. Instead, he appeared to be appraising her objectively. Sometimes she got the impression he wanted to get up and come talk to her, but then he would change his mind. Was he shy? He didn’t seem like he was. He neither flushed at every provocation, nor drank to bolster his courage, nor grinned idiotically when Kura looked over at him.

  Finally, Kura decided to draw him out of his seat. The man looked like an indubitably well-bred concertgoer interested in the technical aspects of her performance. Perhaps he knew how to appreciate talent. Indeed, he was all but gaping when she sang the “Habanera.” He finally approached her.

  “Bravo!” he said enthusiastically. “That was Carmen, wasn’t it? Wonderful, simply wonderful. You sang it last year when you visited with the Greenwood ensemble. At first, I wasn’t sure it was you. But now, that voice…”

  The man looked almost ecstatic, but Kura felt a little insulted. Could she have changed so much that a concertgoer from a year ago could not recognize her? What was more, a man? Normally she made an unforgettable impression on men.

  In the end, Kura decided to blame it on her makeup. Every entertainer had made themselves up heavily before going onstage, and, as Carmen, she had worn her hair up whereas she was now wearing it down. Perhaps that was what had confused the man. In any event, she gave him a gracious smile.

  “How flattering that you remember me.”

  The young man nodded energetically. “Oh of course, and I remember your name too. Kura Marsten, was it not?”

  “Martyn,” she said, correcting him, but nevertheless impressed. A peculiar man. He remembered her voice, her name—but not her face?

  “I thought you a great talent even back then. But I thought the troupe had returned to England awhile ago. My name is Caleb Biller, by the way. Forgive me for not immediately…”

  The man bowed as though neglecting to introduce himself before exchanging a few words with her had been a major faux pas.

  Kura took a closer look at him. He was tall, slim, and quite handsome; his face was perhaps a little pale and expressionless, almost childishly innocent. His lips were thin but well shaped, and he had high cheekbones and blue eyes. Everything about Caleb Biller looked a little colorless. He had, however, been well brought up.

  Kura smiled again.

  “Is there any song in particular you’d like me to sing for you, Mr. Biller?” she asked. Perhaps he would order her a single malt too. For twenty percent of a drink in that price range, she could get used to drinking cold tea.

  “Miss Martyn, every song that comes from your lips thrills me,” Caleb said politely. “But, tell me, what is that?”

  He was pointing at the putorino Kura had laid on the piano.

  “Is that one of those Maori flutes? I’ve never held anything like it before. May I?”

  Kura nodded, at which Caleb carefully picked up the instrument and cast an expert eye over it.

  “Would you play something on it?” he asked. “I would love to hear it, especially the spirit voice.”

  “Wairua?” Kura smiled. “I can’t make any promises here, as the spirits do not generally pass through pubs. It’s beneath their dignity.”

  Telling a few mysterious stories about the spirit voice always went over well. Yet in secret Kura wondered how he knew about the spirit voice. Only a few pakeha knew about the instrument’s peculiarities. This young man here must be interested in Maori culture.

  Kura stood up and played a simple song, first in the high-pitched female voice of the instrument. A few customers booed. Without question, the majority wanted to hear more drinking songs, not Maori music.

  “Without accompaniment, it sounds a little thin,” Kura said apologetically.

  Caleb nodded fervently. “Yes, I see. May I?”

  He gestured to the piano bench, and a confused Kura made room for him. Right away, he began playing a lively accompaniment. Kura followed him with the flute, switching from the female to the male range, to which Caleb responded with lower notes. When they finished, the miners applauded.

  “You don’t play the tin whistle by chance?” a drunken Irishman asked.

  Kura rolled her eyes.

  “But perhaps you could play something else in the style of the Maori?” Caleb inquired. “Their music fascinates me. And the dancing, the haka. Wasn’t it originally a war dance?”

  Kura explained a few peculiarities of Maori music to him and sang an illustrative song. Caleb seemed excited. Paddy Holloway less so, however.

  “Now stop that racket,” he yelled, decidedly upset after three songs. “The men want to hear something lighthearted. They get enough whining from their wives.”

  Kura exchanged a look of commiseration with Caleb Biller and returned to the drinking songs. The young man did not stay long after that.

  “I must take my leave,” he said politely, bowing again formally to Kura. “It was exceptionally stimulating to be permitted to listen to you, and I would very much like to do it again when an opportunity presents itself. How long will you be staying in Greymouth?”

  Kura explained to him that she planned to stay in town for at least a few weeks. Caleb expressed his delight.

  “Then we’ll most certainly find an opportunity to make music together,” he remarked. “But now I must be on my way. I have to be up early in the morning. The mine.”

  Caleb left unsaid to what degree the mine was dependent on him but bowed once again and disappeared.

  Kura decided to ask Paddy about him. The opportunity soon presented itself when he placed another “whiskey” on the piano for her.

  “That fellow a miner?”

  Paddy roared with laughter. “No, dear, he’s on the other side. The Biller Mine belongs to his dad, one of the two biggest private mines in town and one of the oldest in the district to boot. Very rich family. If you land that one, you’re set. Doesn’t seem to be easy though. They say he don’t like girls.”

  A few months before, this explanation would have confused Kura, but after the tour with Roderick’s ensemble, she had learned about life’s diversity.

  “He seems to be interested in music,” she said.

  Paddy grinned. “A nail in the coffin of his old man. The boy’s interested in just about anything except coal mining. He would have liked to study medicine, but in the end, they settled on geology. Devil knows what that is, but it’s supposed to have something to do with coal. The foremen say the younger Biller knows nothing about mining and is a good-for-nothing as a businessman too. And if he bets on a horse, you can be sure it’ll come in last. That boy’ll be costing his old man money until hell freezes over.”

  “But does he come to the pub often?” Kura asked. In her experience, regular visits to the pub did not fit with a man who avoided the society of women. Men seemed to recognize such proclivities in other men immediately and singled the bearer of those proclivities out for universal ridicule. Sometimes, there were even serious hostilities. A dancer in Roderick’s group had once been beaten in a pub.

  Paddy shrugged. “Every now and then, he’ll walk in and place a few bets. I don’t know if that’s what he really feels like doing or if his daddy chases him out of the house. Occasionally, they stop in together, and then the old man buys a few rounds for everyone and acts chummy. But that seems to be more awkward for the boy than anything. When he comes alone, he drinks his malt whiskey—I always keep a bottle ready for him—and doesn’t talk to anyone. St
range guy. Makes you almost feel sorry for the elder Biller. But like I said, keep at it! The post of Mrs. Biller is still up for grabs.”

  Kura rolled her eyes. Trading her sheep farm in the Canterbury Plains for a mine in Greymouth did not appeal to her in the slightest. Whatever problems Caleb Biller had—Kura-maro-tini was not interested.

  10

  The relationship between Elaine and Timothy had, according to a gossipy Matt Gawain, markedly improved since the Saint Barbara’s Day race. Their recent evening exchange of greetings no longer consisted entirely of “Good evening, Miss Keefer” and “Good evening, Mr. Lambert.” Instead, Timothy braved a “Good evening, Lainie,” which was answered with a more or less indifferent “Good evening, Timothy.”

  “If things keep up like this,” Ernie Gast chimed in with a grin, “it won’t be five years before you’re allowed to sit next to her in church.”

  Timothy Lambert let his friends tease him. He himself felt—and had provoked—many subtle alterations in their interactions. For example, after Saint Barbara’s Day, he had ceased to request “Silver Dagger” every night. Instead, he asked for a different ballad—“John Riley”—which was about a young sailor who, after seven years at sea, finally woos his beloved.

  At first, Elaine had thought it was just a passing mood. But after three days, she asked him.

  “‘John Riley’ again? What happened to ‘Silver Dagger,’ Timothy?” Elaine looked a little braver and more approachable that day. It was the Saturday after the race, and Timothy had ordered a round for everyone in the Lucky Horse to celebrate his win and hers.

  “To our beautiful Lainie, the real winner of the Lambert Derby!”

  Naturally, Elaine had been expected to drink with them, and was now tipsy. She had even eyed Timothy a bit mischievously over the piano when he placed his musical request.

  Timothy laughed and winked at her conspiratorially.

  “The ‘Silver Dagger’? Oh, I’d rather you learned to do without it, Lainie. It would make me nervous to have my wife always carrying a dagger around.”

  Elaine frowned. “Your wife?”

  Timothy nodded seriously. “Yes, Lainie. I’ve decided to marry you.”

  Elaine, who had been just about to take a sip of tea from her whiskey glass, almost dropped it.

  “Why?” she asked flatly.

  Timothy rescued the glass. “Watch out for that good whiskey of yours. I think I might have to order you a real one. You look a little pale.”

  “Why?” she repeated. The continuous alternating of her face between flush and pale reflected her inner turmoil.

  “Well,” Timothy finally said, his eyes twinkling as he spoke, “I’ve had my eye on you for a few weeks. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re brave, you’re the woman I’ve dreamed about my whole life. I’ve fallen in love with you, Lainie. Should I get down on my knee in front of you now, or shall we wait a bit?”

  Fear shone in Elaine’s eyes, which she suppressed only with great effort.

  “I’m not in love,” she blurted out.

  Timothy nodded.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said calmly. “But that will change. And I’m not looking for a straw fire. Just take your time falling in love, Lainie. Don’t get all worked up.”

  “Not in this lifetime!” Elaine’s voice now sounded a bit shrill. She hid herself behind her curtain of hair and lowered her head over the piano keys. Timothy was concerned. If he didn’t manage to draw her out of her reserve now, he was afraid she would withdraw back into her shell.

  Timothy pursed his lips, but his eyes smiled. “That makes things a little more difficult, of course,” he said. “I’ll have to talk to the priest about our prospects for getting married after the resurrection. Perhaps we’ll exchange our vows on a cloud? And yet I imagine a married life like that would be rather monotonous. And indiscreet. I wouldn’t care to have the whole world eyeing me on the cloud.”

  He cast a side glance at Elaine, who was sitting up straight now.

  “So it might work out better if we picked a different religion,” he continued. “One that grants us more than one life. They believe in reincarnation somewhere. In India, right?”

  Elaine blinked behind her hair. “But you’d probably be born again as an animal. As a horse or a dog.”

  Her voice sounded normal again. She had clearly decided not to take Timothy and his proposal seriously.

  Timothy sighed with relief and laughed. “That would be pretty romantic too. I can picture it now: a couple that doesn’t find its way together in life on two legs is reunited in the stables. Like Fellow and Banshee.”

  Elaine had gotten ahold of herself and found her wit to boot. She brushed her hair from her face and gave Timothy Lambert a sweet if dishonest smile. “Then watch out that someone doesn’t make a gelding out of you by mistake,” she said loudly.

  Timothy let the roaring laughter of the men wash over him and ignored all the other mockery brought on by his apparently hopeless flirting. He lived for these moments, when Elaine’s true self flared up from behind her facade. Lively, intelligent, and mocking, but sensual and loving too. Her defensive walls would collapse someday. And Timothy would be there when they did.

  “Who’s going to sacrifice himself and go spy on the Wild Rover?” Madame Clarisse was asking around just as Timothy sat down at his regular table where Ernie, Jay, and Matt were already sitting.

  All the customers could talk about that day was the mysterious new pianist in the pub down the street. It was supposedly some Maori girl with the voice of an angel. That seemed as strange to Madame Clarisse as it did to those few among her customers who had seen a bit more of the world than most miners. Maori girls did not generally learn to play the piano, and they rarely traveled alone outside of their tribe. Even in the brothels, one rarely came across a Maori girl, though there were a few girls of mixed birth with tragic histories.

  Madame Clarisse’s curiosity had been awakened. The restless bordello owner set a pitcher of beer down in the middle of their table and filled the men’s glasses, grinning at them. “Of course, I’m only speaking to the morally sound and devoted regulars of the Lucky Horse. Anyone else exposed to Paddy Holloway would run the risk of falling into gambling. I could never look the pastor in the eye again if I let that happen.” Madame Clarisse clutched her hand to her heart theatrically.

  “That the boys might become regulars over there never crossed your mind, of course,” Matt teased her. “You’re only worried about our eternal souls, isn’t that right, Madame Clarisse? Thank you, we appreciate the concern.”

  “But what about fornication, Madame Clarisse?” Jay inquired. “Isn’t that a sin too?” The smith looked at her with apparent sincerity, clutching his hand fearfully to his own heart.

  Madame Clarisse could only shake her head disapprovingly. “Where is this fornication happening, Jay?” she demanded with a note of moral outrage. “I only see a group of marriageable young gals gettin’ to know in their openhearted way a group of marriageable young men. I manage a highly successful matchmaking service. Just last month, I lost another girl. And what’s with you and Charlene, Matt? There’s sparks there; admit it. And don’t forget Mr. Lambert and Lainie.”

  The men snickered. Charlene, who had just been about to sit down next to Matt, blushed. Something did indeed seem to be developing there.

  Timothy raised his beer glass to Madame Clarisse. “In that respect,” he said with a grin, “Mr. Gawain and I are sound enough for an evening at Paddy Holloway’s. Tomorrow we’ll embark on a secret mission.”

  Elaine only caught scraps of the conversation, but she too had heard of the Maori singer at the Wild Rover, of course, which caused the image of her cousin to flash unavoidably before her eyes. But that could not be. Kura lived with William on Kiward Station. And she would never lower herself to singing in a bar for coal miners.

  Kura derived little joy from her job at the Wild Rover. The customers were difficult. The men drank mo
re as the weekend approached, making them correspondingly importunate. Paddy Holloway only halfheartedly kept them from touching her. He evidently didn’t want to offend anyone and was very lenient with the boys as a result. Kura had to fend him off too when she didn’t manage to slip out of the pub with the last wave of guests at closing time.

  The only bright spots were the almost daily visits of Caleb Biller—though the young man still puzzled her as much as ever. Caleb always appeared early in the evening, apparently drinking to give himself more courage before coming over to join her in playing music. If the pub was not packed, and the men did not protest, Paddy allowed Kura to play the putorino while Caleb took over the piano accompaniment or to sing traditional Maori songs that Caleb would take and transform into ballads. Kura’s respect for Caleb grew from one day to the next. He was highly gifted without question. He was quite a decent pianist, but as an arranger and composer, he had an extraordinary talent. Kura liked working with him and wondered whether there might be other opportunities to do so away from the sleazy Wild Rover and its out-of-tune piano.

  One Friday afternoon, several hours before the pubs would open, Kura made her way to the Lucky Horse. From outside she could hear someone playing the piano—though it wasn’t exactly what she would have expected to hear in a pub. Someone was practicing church songs. Rather ambitiously too. The pianist was attempting Bach’s Easter Oratorio—and doing a mediocre job of it. A few months earlier, Kura would have accused it of being “horrendous.” Since then, however, she had learned that she had always set the bar too high. Most people did not share her pursuit of artistic perfection. Kura had always known that, but it no longer filled her with pride and disdain. Perfect pitch and musical perfection did not sell around here. She had been blessed with a gift no one knew how to appreciate. And so there was no reason to puff herself up about it too much.