Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  And still there were men to be found among the pakehas, even among the well-meaning ones, who shrugged it all off. It was no more than another unpleasant and regrettable incident in a long and increasingly debilitating conflict, they said. Hadn’t the Maoris, under barbarians like Alexander Rui, committed similar atrocities? The line between Maori and European had grown blurred. Some of the pakehas began to wonder aloud and in public what the war was really about, and to debate which side was the more civilized.

  She rolled over in the bed, the clean white sheets highlighting her coffee-colored skin. “I wish you didn’t have to go, Robert.”

  He looked back down at her as he fastened his belt. “I don’t want to go, Merita. I never want to go when I’m here with you. Sometimes I think this is the last place in the world where I can really be happy. But I have to go. You know that.”

  “I know it,” she said softly.

  His visits were growing longer and for that she was grateful. At the same time they had to be increasingly careful. Te Wairoa was still a small community, but new families kept moving into the area. Pakehas were beginning to settle in the vicinity as well. It was harder to keep their true relationship a secret.

  There were times when Coffin no longer seemed to care, when he teetered on the edge of abandoning his previous life altogether. When he talked of giving up everything he’d worked for to settle here in the central highlands with her. It remained only talk and nothing more. His wife needed him more than ever, needed his care and attention. Coffin House needed him, now that his son was gone. The colony needed the military expertise he’d gained fighting the Kingites.

  He would say these things to her as he reluctantly mounted his horse and rode away northward, alone, as if daring the rebels to attack him. Perhaps somewhere deep inside he hoped that they would, thereby putting an end to his personal agony. Only a Kingite bullet could resolve his insoluble problem. It never came.

  She knew as she watched him ride away that she would never truly understand him. He was too complex for her, too complex for anyone perhaps. She would have to be satisfied with loving him.

  She stood on the porch and waved until he was out of sight. Once he turned to wave back at her. Then he was gone. As always she stood staring for a long time and as always he did not reappear. Only then did she turn away from the road that led northward to face the lake.

  Tarawera shone in the sun, a vast blue mirror that reflected the mountain it was named after. The mountain itself climbed to its ultimate height in several gentle, surging rises, miles to the south. This was a fine place, a beautiful place, here by the great lake. She was surprised more pakehas had not chosen to settle here. Robert told her it was too remote for most. The pakehas loved their towns and cities, even as they loved the ocean. All of their largest pas were built on the coast. It was almost as if the sea provided some kind of tenuous tie to the mother colony of Australia and to distant England.

  She looked away from the lake and its mountain in the direction of Te Wairoa. If she sent word Flynn would be at her side by tomorrow.

  If only she could somehow combine both men in one. Now that was an intriguing thought. Merge the wealth, the confidence and experience of Robert Coffin with the fiery nature, the intensity and youthful joy of Flynn. What a man that would make! Something else that could never be, she knew.

  There had been times when she was comforting Robert over the loss of his son and the indifference of his wife when she’d been tempted to tell Flynn not to come again. To tell him she was committed to serving Coffin in whatever capacity he would have her: as mistress, as second wife, or just as housekeeper and confidante. Then winter would settle in. The big house on the lakeshore would stand empty for long periods of time. She would pace the hallways and rooms until her own footsteps began to follow her and little Andrew’s cries became oppressive instead of joyful.

  And Flynn would come, to warm and comfort her, to work at her side keeping the house in good repair, a task he went at with a dedication that amazed her. It was almost as though he was working not for his salary, which she paid from the household account, but for himself. It was good during the cold nights to have someone else to carry the wood and keep the stove and fireplaces blazing, better still to have someone to keep her warm regardless of what burned in the stone firepits.

  She felt so different when she was with Flynn. You never knew what he was going to say or do next. His very unpredictability was exciting. She stayed alert and alive in his company. He was always ready to try something new, do something different, whereas in Robert’s presence there was quiet strength and reassurance, the calm power of a man who could wave his hand and accomplish anything.

  I am very lucky, she thought. She had not been in the village and so had escaped the massacre that had taken the lives of most of her friends and family. And she had not one but two extraordinary lovers. Most women would never have one such in a lifetime.

  She wondered how long she could maintain her dual life, how long she could keep Robert ignorant of her relationship with Flynn. It hurt her to think about it, so most of the time she did not.

  11

  “Hello, Holly.”

  She was sitting motionless in the same chair, staring out the same window. She lived there, he thought to himself. The only time she moved was when one of her friends came to visit. Only then would she show flashes of the old Holly, of the vivacious, determined, seemingly indestructible woman he’d married. Spying on her and her friends at such times his heart would jump, only for the hope such visits raised to vanish when they left and she slid back into her former apathetic state, turning again to staring silently out the window, not wanting to talk, to go out, not wanting even to eat.

  At such times one of the maids would have to feed her by hand, almost as one would feed a child. Holly would eat then, chewing and swallowing, indifferent to the food itself no matter how much effort Cook devoted to the meal. “Terminal depression” the doctor called it, and nothing could shake the mood. His wife wore gloom like a second skin.

  Coffin turned the Auckland house into a veritable palace, filling it with every possible amusement and diversion. For a while he tried giving gala parties, which he personally detested, in the hope it would bring Holly back to something approaching normal. They worked no better than anything else. Eventually the list of those willing to attend grew smaller and smaller until the few people who came clustered tightly around the mountains of food and drink Coffin provided, chatting in low voices and whispers as they tried not to stare at their host and silent hostess. When Coffin realized he was the only one talking, he declared that he’d thrown his last party.

  Quietly he walked over toward her window. She was still beautiful sitting solemnly in her chair, a blemishless wax effigy. She wore black, as usual. Attempts to dress her in anything brighter provoked violent fits.

  “Holly. Christopher’s not coming back. Nothing can change that. So why do you continue to keep watching for him?”

  Usually she didn’t respond. Now she turned slightly in the chair to look up at him. “Because it is all I can do.”

  “Dammit, it’s not all you can do.” He tried and failed to make it sound important, knowing even as he spoke his words would have little effect on her.

  In the beginning he’d begged, pleaded with her, abased himself as he never would before any other human being, done things he’d never thought he’d do for anyone. All this proved he still loved her. He told himself that repeatedly, but could never bring himself to admit whether he did so to convince her—or himself. It was difficult to love someone who’d voluntarily withdrawn from life, yet love her he did.

  What made him keep trying were those rare, isolated instances when she would unexpectedly respond, when she would abandon the death-chair and ask to go for a ride through the country or into the city, or simply to play a quick hand of cards. At such times, though quiet as a ghost, she could look and act almost normal. Then when he dared to hope, she would re
vert to her somnambulist self. Those were the crudest moments of all.

  “It’s not the only thing you can do,” he repeated. When she didn’t respond he turned away in disgust. “I have to go to the office. Elias needs me.”

  “I know. You go ahead, Robert. I’ll be all right.” She tried to smile. Once she’d had a smile brighter than the lighthouse that now lit the way for ships entering Auckland harbor. Now even that tiny suggestion of happiness was an effort for her.

  He did his best to hide how he was feeling. “I’ll be home as soon as I’m able.”

  “I know you will.”

  He started for the door, suddenly whirled on her, his voice tight and intense.

  “Look, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have done anything even if I had been. Hundreds of families have lost sons in this miserable war!”

  She sat and stared out the window, neither smiling nor frowning, not responding at all.

  Things were going to get better, he knew. George Gray, their esteemed and revered former Governor, had heard of the trouble afflicting his old command and had agreed to return from Cape Town colony to take charge. It was unheard of for a former Governor to return to a previous post but Gray was determined to do it. If anyone could find a way out of the morass New Zealand had plunged into, could make a just end to the Maori war, then Gray was the man to do so. The Maoris, the old chiefs, even those who had set their course irrevocably against that of the pakehas, would remember Gray’s fairness and wisdom. They would trust him where they trusted no one else. Gray would put an end to the fighting.

  “Did you have a good time at Tarawera?”

  “What?” Her words unnerved him badly for a moment, then he relaxed. A perfectly natural question considering he’d spent the last two weeks at the lake house. There was nothing suggestive in her tone. Tarawera was too remote, too little visited by colonials for gossip to work its way up to Auckland. Many of their friends knew Sydney and Melbourne better than they did the Tarawera district. She couldn’t know, and even if she did he doubted in her present state that she was capable of drawing conclusions.

  “It was a useful stay, as always. Our sheep ranches in the region are prospering, though of course they’d do better if the war was ended.” He hesitated for the barest instant. “Wouldn’t you like to take a ride down there again? The weather’s good. I built the place for you, you know.”

  “Yes.” She let out an ethereal sigh. “For Christopher and me.” He had to strain to hear her. “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll go sometime soon.”

  “Yes. Soon.”

  Suddenly he had to get out of the room, out of the house. Once it had been a cheerful, stately place, the finest residence in the whole city, nay, in the entire country. Now it was a gray ghost of its former self, not unlike its mistress. The darkness that had enveloped her had extended itself to the building and surrounding grounds. From home to tomb, he thought angrily. Well, he was damned if he was going to bury himself here.

  For a weekday the streets were unusually quiet. There was little traffic. He walked past unattended wagons whose dray animals pawed boredly at the ground. Puzzled by the silence, he lengthened his stride. What had happened in the two weeks he’d been away? Today wasn’t a holiday. Something unusual must be going on, perhaps a real fight down by the waterfront. Serious brawls were rare these days. Anyone who wanted to fight joined the militia to do battle with the Kingites; there was no need to fight with one’s neighbors.

  Even Coffin House was muted, only a few people using the front doors. The normal rush and bustle was absent. He entered frowning.

  A few clerks glanced up at him before resuming their work. Coffin’s jaw dropped. More than half the desks were deserted. He should have stopped someone in the street and questioned him, but he’d been so caught up in his own personal problems he’d shrugged off the absence of activity. By the time he burst into Elias Goldman’s office he was all but running.

  It was an impressive chamber, as befitted the number-two man at Coffin House. The heavy wooden desk was piled high with papers. Of Goldman himself there was no sign.

  He entered from a back closet a moment later, looking in surprise at his unexpected visitor.

  “Mr. Coffin! When did you get back, sir?”

  “Just this morning, Elias. Haven’t had much sleep.” He went silent, listening. It was much too quiet. He missed the noise of people walking the halls, the steady hum of pencils and pens on paper, the underlying murmur of men and women active at their positions.

  “What’s going on, Elias? Where is everybody? If our competitors get wind of this we’ll be in for some real trouble.”

  “No we won’t, Mr. Coffin, because our competitors are in as bad or worse shape than we are.” Goldman moved to gaze out the window that overlooked the city’s new financial district. “Everyone has the same problem.”

  “What are you talking about? Elias, what’s been going on here?”

  Goldman turned to gape at him. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “Dammit, man, I’ve been two weeks in the interior! You don’t get much news at Te Wairoa.”

  “Then you really don’t know.” Goldman relaxed in his chair, looking thoughtful. “It’s quite astonishing, really. There was of course nothing I or anyone else could do to stem the exodus. Not once the word came in.”

  Coffin sat down in a chair opposite, trying to stay calm. “What word might that be, Elias? You still haven’t explained what’s happened to everyone.” Had the whole world gone completely mad in his absence, Coffin wondered? No, not the whole world. Elias was still here.

  “Gone.” Goldman spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “They’ve left. Most of them, at any rate.”

  “Left? What do you mean, ‘left’? Don’t they know this will cost them their jobs?”

  “The ones who’ve gone don’t care about jobs anymore. Oh, I expect some to begin trickling back in a few months, but in the meantime it’s going to be difficult to run things properly. Our only consolation is that every other merchant in the country is in the same position. Or will be, once the word has spread everywhere. The situation’s no better in Wellington or Christchurch, I’m sure. And Dunedin.” He shook his head. “Ah, Dunedin! That’s where they’ve all gone, you see.”

  “Why would anyone go to Dunedin, much less everyone?” Dunedin was a sleepy fishing port on the cold southeast coast of South Island.

  “It’s actually quite funny,” Goldman replied. “Once you get past the fact that we’re going to have trouble running things. Here good old George Gray is returning to take charge of the government, the war is gradually being won, even the Taranaki Rebellion in the west is winding down, and then this has to go and happen.”

  “What has to go and happen, Elias? I’m tired of trying to guess.”

  “Something we used to joke about. That’s what’s so amusing. Gold.”

  Coffin knew he hadn’t heard right, asked again.

  “Gold. Don’t you remember?” Goldman prompted him. “We used to talk about the possibilities, years and years ago. Everyone always said there was nothing worth digging out of the ground in this country except greenstone and amber. Well, it seems they were wrong. It seems we were all wrong. Gold has been found in the Otago country on South Island. And there, Mr. Coffin, is where most of the able-bodied men, not to mention clerks, accountants and messengers, have run to.”

  Coffin absorbed this astonishing pronouncement. Then he rose and walked around Goldman’s desk to stare out over the strangely empty city. Goldman swiveled to watch him.

  “It can’t be,” he said finally. “It’s got to be some kind of false alarm. There’s no gold in New Zealand.”

  “Try telling that to the man who arrived by ship from Dunedin just last week, sir. He had two saddlebags with him and both were filled with gold. I know. When I heard, I went to the bank to see for myself. Nuggets and dust. Thirty or forty pounds of the stuff. I was there when Longmount himself assayed i
t out. It’s real enough, Mr. Coffin.”

  There was silence in the office. Finally Coffin turned back to face the desk. “Well, we aren’t going anywhere, at least. You’re not, are you, Elias?”

  “Who, me?” Goldman smiled up at him. “Do I look like a gold miner, Mr. Coffin? I wouldn’t last ten days in the Remarkables. Besides, I know where my fortune lies.”

  Coffin nodded. “Your gold’s always been in your head, Elias.”

  “And lately in my teeth.” Both men laughed.

  “They’ll be back,” Coffin told him with assurance. “It was that way after the Australian rush and it’ll be that way here.”

  “I agree, sir. But until they do start returning it is going to be hard to find even barely qualified people to do the most basic work.”

  “We’ll manage. We’ve done so before and we’ll do so again.”

  Coffin turned to stare out across the new buildings toward the forest of masts that dominated the harbor. Many vessels but few sailors, he suspected. Seamen would be among the first to run for the gold fields.

  Having struggled and fought to build Coffin House into the dominant commercial enterprise it was, he’d expected at this point in his life to be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of his labors. Now he was going to have to plunge back into the routine of long days once more. He should have been disappointed. Instead he found himself oddly elated. Work was going to require his full attention again. There would be no time for sadness and frustration, no room for the dark malaise that had settled like a cancer on his soul. The only thing he regretted was that he would not, for a while at least, be able to make as many visits to Tarawera, or stay as long when he did. Not until he and Elias wrestled the business back onto its feet.

  They would be desperately short of personnel, but as Elias had pointed out so would their competitors. If they acted correctly this debilitating discovery might even offer opportunities to gain on their opponents.

  Rose Hull, he thought, would be having more trouble than most retaining her male employees. Not long ago he’d promised to show her no quarter. Now was the time to do exactly that. One way or the other he’d get control of Hull House. Let her compete with him now, with half her best people racing wild-eyed toward the gold fields. Let her try and stop him.