Kiwi Strong (New Zealand Ever After Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  She was neat, she was compact, she was the opposite of me in every possible way, and she was—well, that thing you liked. Pick-up-able. Most women were pick-up-able for me, but she was … especially so. I didn’t think she’d appreciate my telling her that. I wasn’t planning to share. I was going to keep thinking it, though. No choice.

  I’d never had a thing for little women. Clearly, I’d missed out. It was the contrast of all that energy and determination stuffed into that tiny package, or maybe it was just Daisy. She radiated life like some women radiated perfume.

  Just now, she stood up smiling and said, “Hi. Awesome beach run.”

  “It is,” I said. “How far did you go?”

  “A few more kilometers.” Not trying to impress me, then.

  “Have you been to Tunnel Beach yet?” I asked.

  “No. Where is it?”

  “Let’s run back together,” I suggested, “and I’ll show you.”

  “Have you gone far enough?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Maybe 8K here and back, plus a bit more for Tunnel Beach. Good enough for now. I have to get to work anyway.”

  “Just don’t tell me the thing about running to match my speed,” she said, as we started off again, “even if you’re doing it.”

  I laughed. “OK. I won’t.” She smiled, and then she stretched out, and I did run to match her speed and didn’t mind a bit.

  She said, after a minute, “A friend of mine’s coming to visit tonight, so you know. Around six. With his extensive family. Pregnant wife. Three kids. Probably their dog, too, because why not. Also, he wants to meet you. It’s to check you out and make sure you don’t have evil designs on me, fair warning. Stupid, but there you are. On the plus side, they’re bringing pizza. Also, the kids are cute.”

  “Oh.” I considered that. “He heard that some rando pushed your car into the river, then told you and the girls that never mind, you could move in and he’d take care of you. And they’re sixteen and seventeen. Well, yeh. Understandable. Though I’d have expected it from your brother.” I didn’t tell her that I did have designs on her. It didn’t seem like my best move.

  “Ha,” she said. “Trust me, it may as well be the same thing, with Matiu. And Dorian isn’t much like that. He is with his wife, at least a bit. Just not with me. I’m the … older sister.”

  “By twenty minutes.”

  “Close enough.”

  I said, “If I turn up, do I get to share the pizza?”

  She laughed. “I thought you’d be insulted.”

  “Nah. Makes sense. I’d do the same thing, I guess.”

  “Isn’t it wrong, though,” she asked after a minute, “that kind of protectiveness? I’m struggling with that. I am.”

  I waited a second, but she didn’t go on, so I said, “Explain.”

  She glanced at me, then looked ahead again and said, “Beautiful sunrise.”

  “Sun’s going to be blinding in a few minutes,” I said, “down here on the beach. If we go a bit faster, we can get up onto the road and amongst the trees before it happens.”

  She said, “You’ve got no soul, boy,” and I laughed.

  It was pretty. The clouds were shaded from yellow to orange to pink to purple, and the sky above was violet. I said, possibly just to annoy her, “It’s likely to rain, with that much cloud. Bugger.” When she was annoyed, I smiled and said, “Go on and explain it to me. Best way to work out how you feel, explaining it.”

  “That’s oddly sensitive,” she said.

  “I didn’t say I did it,” I said. “I heard it, that’s all.”

  “Right,” she said. “OK. You know how women talk about ‘the patriarchy?’”

  “I’ve heard of it. Not sure any woman’s ever talked about it to me. Like I told your sisters, I’ve spent my life in some pretty male-dominated spaces.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’ve lived the patriarchy. I’ve lived where women do what they’re told, where their lives are absolutely constrained by what men decide is their place. I don’t want that. I’m all clear on that. It’s not comforting. It’s stifling. It’s limiting. It’s making a woman into a child, except it never changes. She never gets to grow up.”

  I said, “Makes sense. I’m sure my mum would agree.”

  “But it’s not just a thing for women to agree on,” she said. “Women don’t live in this society by themselves. Do you agree, that’s the question.”

  “Oh.” I considered. “Well, yeh. Obviously. I don’t expect a woman to do what she’s told. Why should she? Except …”

  “Well, see?” she said. “See? Exactly. You’ve got an ‘except.’”

  “Ah …” I scratched my nose and devoutly wished I’d been less honest. “Could we call it ‘role playing’? Sounds better.”

  “Oh,” she said, then went on like she was determined not to be embarrassed, “You mean in bed.”

  “Well, yeh. Sorry. That’s what flew into my mind.”

  “I talked about the patriarchy, and you flashed straight to, ‘Hmm, how about if I give her orders in bed?’”

  “Well, yeh,” I said. “Obviously. Men are dogs.”

  She laughed, and I grinned. “And that’s not what you’re talking about,” I said. “But, right, even in bed … don’t you want him to be protective there? Face it, he’s likely to be bigger than you. Stronger than you.” That conjured up a pretty powerful mental image. Beside me, the pale-brown skin of her shoulder gleamed, reminding me of how soft the skin of her face had been when I’d touched it, and I could see those wisps of hair at the nape of her neck, the bumps of her spine, the narrowness of her waist.

  Bone structure of a sparrow.

  Distracting.

  “I’m not talking about in bed,” she said. “Why would I?”

  “Because you have an opinion? Obviously you do, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “I didn’t bring it up. You brought it up. I so do not have an opinion, you cannot imagine. No. Drag your mind away. I’m talking about assuming she’s not competent to assess danger. About, all right, climbing in the window for her. Coming by to stare darkly at the man living next door and letting him know she’s under your protection.”

  “Going into danger to make somebody else safe,” I suggested. “Getting one hell of an electrical shock so the people you love can get away.”

  “That’s different,” she said.

  “Is it? Isn’t it just wanting to help somebody you care for, with the tools you have to do it? Maybe that’s physical strength. Maybe it’s courage. Maybe it’s being able to argue so well, a man gets all confused.”

  “You are not confused.” I thought she might be trying not to smile.

  “You’ve had me confused since the day I met you,” I said. “Here we go. Hard part. Up the hill.” We ran the track up to the footpath, skirting the quarry, and I said, “How many girls do you think I’ve invited to live in my yurt? Other than Iris.”

  “You think you’re making your point,” she said. “You’re not.”

  “Right,” I said. “Then I’ll say that I can’t promise not to be protective, sorry. And I’m definitely going to be protective of your sisters, but then, so are you. I’m as interested in being not protective of you, though, as I’m interested in protecting you. Why wouldn’t they cancel each other out? And, yeh,” I went on fast, since that had probably been too honest again, and I didn’t want to wait for her to work it out, “I do think a man’s that way. I think he should be. If that’s wrong, I’ll be wrong. Maybe a woman’s protective of a man, too, did you think of that? Reading him, maybe better than he reads himself sometimes. Letting him be weak if he needs to be, since he can’t do it anywhere else but with you, and letting him know he’s safe doing it, because you have faith that he’ll be strong again soon. Isn’t that protection?”

  “You’re confusing me,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t agree with you. I’m just not sure how to win.”

  I laughed. “We’re even, then. How’s
Fruitful? Speaking of protectiveness.”

  “Bad strain. Like I thought. She’ll be on crutches for a while.”

  “Not broken, anyway. That’s good. And cheers for dinner, by the way. It was awesome. Who cooked the main?”

  “Me.” She looked disconcerted again, I thought, like she didn’t want me to know she’d taken care.

  “What was in it that made it better?” I asked.

  “Dunno. Crushed tomatoes, obviously, and maybe you noticed the parsley oil. Parsley mashed with salt in the olive oil. Gives it sort of a green taste, complements the tomato. It’s simple. Quick, other than the cooking time. Cheap. Lamb shoulder, that’s all, and frozen gnocchi. We had to do something positive, because the rest of our afternoon wasn’t. I thought we’d go clothes shopping. I thought it’d be fun. It wasn’t.”

  “Overwhelming?” I suggested.

  She shot a quick look at me. “Stop being sensitive. It throws me. Yeh, overwhelming. Too many choices. Too much new. We bought them each a pair of cute trainers, and that’s as far as we got. No worries, we’ll try again today, but that was why we had to come home and cook. Cooking, they know all about.”

  “Well, cheers,” I said. “You made me dinner when I’d had a late night. Helped me, eh, especially because if I don’t eat, I get migraines. You could call that protective, if you like. Also, I’m getting the better of this so far. You’re using a place I wasn’t using anyway, and I get dinner.”

  “Good,” she said. “We’ll do that, then. Though it’s not a fair trade and you know it. Also, why didn’t you tell me you were famous?”

  “I’m not famous,” I said. “I’m a builder.”

  “Gray,” she said. “You’re famous. There’s no hiding. There was never going to be any hiding. Anyway, Matiu told me. My friend. The one who’s coming tonight.”

  “It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.”

  “And yet you wore your sunglasses in that restaurant. And your baseball hat.”

  “Yeh, well, Wanaka. Are we done talking about this? Tell me something else. Tell me about how you arranged to get those girls out. Tell me about Uncle Aaron. Spy story, eh. Tell me that.”

  27

  Spy Story

  Daisy

  We ran along the road with the sandstone cliffs and the blue sea below us and the sun rising before us. The tide was high, the sea foamy. I could hear the crash of waves faintly, even up here, like the barely audible low-register rumble of elephants calling in the distance. A storm, out there, maybe, that would sweep in from the sea like a fringed gray curtain, lashing the waves to greater heights, battering the trees. I could watch it happen from the window in the tatami room.

  That thought was much too attractive. This wasn’t my home. It wasn’t anything close. It was for a couple weeks, until Fruitful’s ankle healed enough for her to walk without crutches.

  Gray was running, I realized, on my outside. The road side. I was sure that was intentional. I tried to be upset by it, and failed. It was like the yurt, like being around him in general. Too comforting to resist.

  I said, “My Uncle Aaron is my father’s brother. Not my mum’s. My mum came from India. A spiritual journey, you could call it, because she found what she wanted and stayed. No relations here.”

  I still missed her. I was dead to her, but I missed her.

  “How about your father’s parents?” Gray asked.

  “My Grandad is the Prophet’s brother.”

  “Oh,” Gray said. “I see.”

  “Yeh. Well. Uncle Aaron is different. Quiet, but he … goes his own way. Lets the stuff he doesn’t agree with wash over him, I think, and focuses on what he likes. He didn’t choose a new name when everybody else did, for example. He’s trusted, though, because he’s steady, and he’s clever, which is why he’s the one who comes to Dunedin for meetings and supplies. He’s in charge of all the big projects. Dunno what you’d call them.”

  “Capital projects?” Gray suggested. “Equipment? Construction?”

  “That’s it. Not in charge of the farms, you know. The alpacas, the lavender, the honey—no, though he helps with the contracts. More of a … business person. Logistics person, I guess. He’s like a mechanical engineer, or maybe an architect, because he can work out any sort of solution, but he doesn’t have the training. He’s just clever.”

  “So you got in touch with him,” Gray said.

  “No. Are you joking? I didn’t get in touch with anyone. I’m dead, don’t you see? I’m dead.”

  Gray’s steps faltered, then picked up again. “How?” he asked, and there was a note in his voice I hadn’t heard before. Grim, maybe.

  “When you leave,” I said, “you’re excommunicated. They can’t talk to you. They can’t talk about you. They don’t mention your name. You’re among the Damned now, and you don’t exist anymore.” The remembered terror of it made me want to shake, so I ran faster.

  “Even to your family,” Gray said, keeping up, not even sounding like he was breathing hard.

  An All Black. A very well-known All Black. Part of a band of brothers. With a mum he loved, who loved him back.

  The familiar loneliness washed over me like a wave, and I thought, No. You have Fruitful and Obedience now, and you have Dorian. You’re not alone. You are not alone.

  “Especially to your family,” I said. “Other extreme religions do that, too, I found out. The Amish, in the States. Some Hasidic Jews. And cults. That’s why I can’t believe anymore. Too much about pain and punishment, and anyway, I don’t know what’s true. But it works, you know, the shunning. People can’t bear to be shunned. When you grow up in it, when the community is all you know—it’s losing your place in the world. It’s losing everybody who loves you. It’s losing everything. It’s too hard to do.”

  “But you did it anyway,” he said. “You and Dorian. Was it his idea?”

  “No. He was all right. Uncle Aaron had him working with him even before he left school. His apprentice, you could call it, because Uncle Aaron needed help, and Dorian was the cleverest. Everybody knew that, but there’s no being the best at Mount Zion. Everybody is the same. Everybody is a cog in the machine, moved around from one place to another, wherever they need a cog.”

  “Except the Prophet.”

  “Yes. And men are above women, of course. But among men, among women … everybody is the same. There’s no competition. There are no sports. There’s no leadership, either, not really. There’s the Prophet, and there’s everybody else. But that’s not how people are. People are different. They have different talents.”

  “Yes,” Gray said. “I’m not one to say, maybe, as I wouldn’t know how not to be competitive, but you’re right, people are different.”

  I went on, “Dorian hated it when school ended. They put him on the farm at first, and when Uncle Aaron would ask for him, it was like getting out of prison. He helped more and more, but he needed more maths. Algebra, geometry, things like that. Uncle Aaron had a computer, and he had the Internet, because he needed it. He taught Dorian what he knew, and on one of their trips, they bought a couple of textbooks so Dorian could learn more. They kept them in the office so our father wouldn’t know. So the Prophet wouldn’t know.”

  “So Dorian was escaping already, in a way,” Gray said. “But not you.”

  “No. Not me.”

  I could tell he wanted to ask me more. I couldn’t tell him. I’d never told anyone. I said, “After we left, after we came here, I saw Uncle Aaron. I was in the Octagon, and there he was in front of me in his brown trousers, his white shirt, his Mount Zion hair. I froze. I wanted to run, and I wanted to stand my ground. I didn’t do either. I just stood there.”

  “If you stood there,” Gray said, “you stood your ground.”

  I tried to think of it that way. It wasn’t easy. I’d been so terrified, as if a flock of shrieking harpies would come up from Hell, summoned by the Prophet’s fury, and pull me down into the fiery pit. All the torments the Prophet had described to
us, Sundays without end. The stench of boiling tar. The screams of the damned. The Devil, nine feet tall and grinning, sending out his dark energy like a cloud and pulling our souls from our writhing, naked, burning bodies.

  I didn’t believe it. I didn’t. But standing there with Uncle Aaron before me—I nearly did. My flesh was already shrinking, my soul shriveling. And still, I stood.

  “Chastity,” he’d said, seeing me, speaking to me, even though I was damned. Even though I was dead.

  “D-Daisy,” I somehow had the courage to answer. “I have a … new name. And you can’t make me go back. Nobody can. I won’t go.”

  He looked down at the ground and sighed, then looked up, his blue eyes mild, and said, “How are you? And Dutiful?”

  “D-Dorian,” I said. “We’re … well. Going to school. We’re well.”

  He sighed again, then said, “Let’s get a coffee.”

  That shocked me even more. We didn’t use caffeine at Mount Zion. Caffeine was like alcohol, an intoxicating substance. On the other hand, I was damned already, and I’d found I quite liked coffee.

  He didn’t ask me where I wanted to go. I wasn’t surprised. He took me, though, to a bright, friendly place with gleaming brass lights and seafoam-green walls, with a menu written on a chalkboard and open wooden tables, and when we were sitting there, he didn’t comment on my jeans or my bare arms or my strappy sandals or my makeup or my hair, which at the moment was a messy cross between a bob and an undercut, with the longer hair swept over on one side. Instead, he said, “Tell me about school.”

  I did. Haltingly. How I was studying chemistry and physics, and how next year, I’d be doing biology. I said it and waited, half-trembling, half-defiant, for him to tell me I was wrong. That I was nothing. That I had to come back, where my duty lay, because I knew in my heart that it was right. Instead, he said, “And Dutiful?”