Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  Flynn stopped a foot in front of her, two steps down. “Hello, Merita.”

  “Come inside.”

  The door hadn’t finished closing when he crushed her to him. She could smell the newness of his fancy clothes, the subtle yet distinct scents of silk and linen. Stepping back, she studied him in disbelief.

  “Where on Earth did you find that outfit?”

  “You like it?” He spun on his heels for her, grinning. When he was facing her again he gave the brim of his hat a flip, cocking it at a rakish angle. He stood posing for her, one leg crossed slightly in front of the other, both hands resting atop the amethyst-and-diamond tipped cane he carried.

  “It’s just fine, just fine, but it’s not you. How did you ever afford such a get-up?”

  He straightened, smiling down at her. “Merita, where do you think I go when I’m not with you?”

  “I don’t think about it. You’ve always told me you go and work. Rotorua, I always assumed, or Taupo.”

  He shook his head. “When first I came here that was where I worked. Then they discovered gold in Otago. Have you ever been to South Island?”

  She clapped her hands together. At thirty-six she could still display the enthusiasm and delight of a little girl. “No, never, but I’d love to. The old chiefs speak of it many times.”

  “One day I’ll take you there. I’ve been spending a lot of time on South Island, Merita. At first I was all alone, but that was all right. I don’t mind being alone.

  “After a while I fell in with some young fellas. They knew even less about gold mining than I did, but we watched those who knew and learned from them. And we worked. It’s cold in Otago, Merita. Colder than you can imagine. It didn’t stop us. The harder we worked the more we learned. We took chances the other miners wouldn’t.

  “One day we decided to go dig far up a creek no one else had tried. The older miners laughed at us. They said since there was no gold in the lower reaches of the creek there wouldn’t be any higher up. And you know what we found?”

  She shook her head, wide-eyed as she listened to the story.

  “We found a sharp bend in the creek where the water slowed. In the middle of that bend was a big pool full of sand, and that sand had so much gold in it, Merita, you didn’t even have to pan it. You could pick it out with your fingernails. Gold that had been washing down off this one mountain for a million years, all of it slowing, falling, and collecting in that pool. Enough gold to make even rich men tremble.

  “We packed it carefully, mixed with pyrite to fool the curious. Then one of us would convoy it to New South Wales and bank it there while the others stayed behind. Three of us did all that, Merita, and to this day none of the other miners down there suspect we found anything at all. They just kept laughing at us, and we had to fight with ourselves not to smile when we passed them.

  “Charlie Bigelow’s taken his share and gone back to America to buy himself a farm in Virginia. Ho Teek’s set himself up like a damn mandarin in Hong Kong. And me—I’m still here. Still here.”

  “You never said anything, Flynn. I never guessed—you stayed the same. The same clothes, everything.”

  “It wasn’t easy not telling you, Merita. I think that was harder than working through some of the snows we had down there. But I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “It certainly is.”

  A sound made her turn. Flynn looked past her. A back door slammed and footsteps could be heard ascending the back stairs. Small footsteps.

  “How is the boy?”

  “Growing like a fern,” she said proudly. “He looks much like his father.”

  “Yes. Like his father.” Flynn was staring off into the distance. Then he remembered his manners and looked down at her, said in a more normal tone of voice, “I think he looks like you.”

  “Like both of us, I imagine.”

  “What have you been telling him about us?”

  “That you’re just a ‘pretend’ uncle, a friend from Rotorua. Like Father Spencer or ‘Aunt’ Leola.”

  Flynn nodded. “How old is he now? Must be all of eight.”

  “Nine,” she corrected him.

  “He’s going to have to be told why I come around so much. It won’t be enough to say I’m a ‘friend.’ He’s too smart for that.”

  “One of these days he will, but not right now.”

  “I’ll leave that to you.” He grabbed her shoulders. “Merita, you have to come someplace with me.”

  “Now? But I can’t. Robert will be here in a week.”

  “A week is plenty of time. I only need you to come for a few days.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Away from Tarawera? For what? What would I do with Andrew?”

  “Send him to stay with the Spencers like you do when I stay in the house, or another of his friends’ families. I have something very important to show you.”

  “A surprise? I love surprises. This has been a day for surprises. Dear Flynn, that’s one of the things I love about you. I never know what you’re going to do next.” She reached back to begin untying her apron. “I’ll do it! Andrew can stay with the Trapnells. He gets along so well with their two boys. It’s practically a second home to him.”

  “Good. I have a little business to attend to in town and then I’ll meet you back here. We can go in my coach.”

  “What kind of surprise is it to be? What shall I wear?” she asked excitedly.

  “Wear something comfortable for riding.”

  “All right.” She halted in mid-spin. “Wait a minute.” She nodded past him. “You said we’d go in your coach. That’s your coach out there?”

  “All mine, yes. As well as the four horses drawing it and the coachman. I own it all, down to the smallest piece of tack. There was a lot of gold in that creek, Merita.”

  “I’m beginning to believe you.”

  He turned and headed for the door. “Get yourself and the boy ready. I’ll be back for you in an hour.”

  “Where are we going? Rotorua, where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The ride took longer than she expected, but the sight of the ocean raised her spirits as it always did. The ocean had brought her people to Aotearoa, in the Long Canoes, from the mysterious land called Raiatea. It was the Maoris’ connection to their past, to their ancestors.

  They’d followed the Kaituna River much of the way before crossing it to turn northward. When they were within the very shadow of Mount Maunganui Flynn moved close to her.

  “Almost here.” His hand was on her knee, sliding upward.

  “Stop that!” She slapped at his roving fingers. “Not in the coach.”

  “Why not?” he asked mischievously, nodding in the direction of the driver. “He sees only the road, and the wheels are making too much noise for him to hear anything.”

  “Because if that’s what you’ve brought me all this way to see it was a waste of time. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Are you saying it isn’t worth a coach ride to see again?”

  She closed her eyes partway and smiled over at him. “Do you really want me to answer that question?”

  He removed his hand, grinning. “Never mind. I’ve brought you to show you something more substantial still.” He reached for the speaking tube and directed their driver to stop.

  The coach slowed until it was silent in the cab for the first time in hours. Flynn let himself out, walked around to open the door on Merita’s side and help her to the ground.

  She saw it right away, and was struck speechless.

  It was one of the most beautiful places she’d ever seen. Off to the left rose the towering bulk of Mount Maunganui. To the right the unspoiled coast stretched southward toward the open sea.

  Directly ahead lay a small, perfect beach nestled between rising masses of wave-weathered rock. Inland from the sand stood something that looked as if it had been lifted from the top of a wedding cake. It was all turrets and domes, gingerbread trim and bright white porches, a spun-sugar confec
tion come to life.

  “What a wonderful house!”

  “You like it?”

  “Like it? Who wouldn’t like it? It’s like something out of a pakeha fairy tale.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder. “Would you like to see the inside?”

  “Won’t the owner mind?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s a good friend of mine.”

  At the base of the winding path that led to the house a pair of elderly Maoris stood waiting. Both bowed politely.

  “This is Naputo and Anane,” Flynn told her. “They’re your servants.”

  Merita hesitated, looked from the old servitors to Flynn and found him grinning down at her. “What do you mean, my servants?” She turned back to the house. “Where is the owner?”

  “Right here. This is your house, Merita. Really your house. I built it for you.”

  She stared at the beach home the equal of which was to be found nowhere else in the South Pacific. She took a couple of uncertain steps toward the front porch, then whirled, the anxiety she was feeling unmistakable in her expression and her voice.

  “Flynn, I can’t go in.”

  “Why not? It’s yours. No one else need know.” He rejoined her and grabbed her shoulders, lowering his voice. “Merita, this can be our house. Yours and mine—and yes, Andrew’s, too.”

  When she looked up at him there was so much pain in her eyes he almost stepped away from her. “Flynn, it’s—it’s so beautiful. It’s the most beautiful place I ever saw, the most wonderful present anyone ever offered me. But I can’t live here. You know that. I have to stay at the house at Tarawera.”

  “Why?” he said caustically. “Let the great Robert Coffin find himself another housemaid.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then at least let me hire someone to take your place when Coffin and his family aren’t at the lake, so you and I can spend our time together here, in our own house.”

  “Flynn, you have to understand, I can’t.”

  He turned away angrily. “I won’t believe that, Merita. You forget how well I know you. You can do anything you want, if you wish it enough. If you want to leave the house at Tarawera all you have to do is pick up your belongings and move.” He spun to face her again. “Don’t tell me you can’t.”

  There were tears in her eyes now. “I know I can do that, Flynn. I can do it with my body, but hot with my heart. Don’t make me say the other thing.”

  “What other thing? Tell me, damn it! You owe me that much.”

  “I can’t do it because I won’t do it.”

  It was silent then save for the lapping of the waves on the perfect beach. The two elderly Maoris stood motionless off to one side, enigmatic as graven tikis.

  “I see. That’s clear enough even for me.” He turned sharply and started up the path toward the waiting coach. She ran to catch him, putting both hands on his arm.

  “Please, Flynn, please! Don’t be mad. It’s a wonderful house, a house in which to dream happy dreams. We could come here sometimes. I’m sure I could manage that. Yes, many times! Just you and I. I can’t bring Andrew because he might speak of it to others. But don’t ask me to move here with you. I can’t abandon Tarawera and what I have there.”

  He halted abruptly to stare down at her, tight lipped and tense. “Does he love you more than I? Or is it that you love him more than me?”

  She retreated a step, frightened by the uncharacteristic venom in his voice. “I—I love you both, but differently, in different ways. You know that, Flynn. I’ve never tried to hide it from you. When we came to love each other you said you could understand that, that it wouldn’t trouble you.”

  “Well it troubles me now. Merita, I don’t want to share you anymore. Not with him, not with anyone. Especially not with him.”

  Her fear and concern suddenly turned to curiosity. “Why not especially with Robert?” He looked away but she moved to where she could still see his face. “What is it about Robert that so angers you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m upset. Forgive me. The thought of having to go on sharing you is driving me crazy.”

  “No.” She was tugging insistently at his arm, trying to drag him down so she could peer into his eyes. “No, there’s more to it than that. Something about Robert specifically. What is it, Flynn.” Her voice was rising. “What have you been hiding from me all these years? Why are you trying to conceal this?”

  “Very well. I’ll tell you. I don’t like rich people. I know that’s ironic since I now find myself in the position of being one myself, but it’s true. I’ve always been that way. I don’t like people like Robert Coffin who use it to play God. Who puff themselves up full of false importance so they can push the rest of us around on their private little chessboards. Like he’s done to you.”

  “He hasn’t pushed me,” she shot back. “No one pushes me around. My relationship with Robert Coffin is a willing one.”

  “Well then,” he said with a sigh, trying to change the subject as well as defuse her curiosity and anger, “if I can’t have you all to myself then I guess I’ll have to continue sharing you.”

  “That is the way of things.” She sounded mollified.

  “One thing I must know. If you did have to choose between us some day, who would you choose?”

  Now it was her turn to look away from him. She stood staring out to sea, the wind toying with her long black hair. “I honestly don’t know. I only hope that day never comes. Since I am the one to make these choices I can say only that I love and will continue to love you both. It was my choice to love Robert Coffin when my father sent me into his service, and it was my choice to love you when you came to my door and stole a part of my soul.” Her eyes shifted to the gleaming white house, the little palace above the beach.

  “You know I mean what I say, Flynn. So you know I am being truthful when I tell you that I love this house. But I can only visit it. I cannot make it my home.” When she turned back to him she was smiling apologetically.

  “I am sorry. I’ve spoiled your grand surprise. We will come here often, dear Flynn. But don’t ask me to live here.”

  “Very well. I accept that because I must.” He put his arms around her. “Now—no more arguing, no more confrontations. It’s too fine a day. I’ll have as much of you as you’ll let me as often as I can and will satisfy myself with that.” He bent to kiss her gently.

  She pressed her mouth to his, drew back slightly and said huskily, “When we are together, Flynn, you have all of me. Isn’t that enough?”

  “As I said, it will have to be. Now will you come inside?”

  She skipped back from him, pursing her lips naughtily. “Only if you will too.”

  But his thoughts were elsewhere as he let her lead him down the path laughing and happy again. He would be satisfied with what she gave him, yes.

  For now.

  8

  Holly Coffin looked up from the book she was reading and called to the maid. “Is’bel, where are you? There’s someone at the front door.”

  “Sorry ma’m.” A few moments later the sprightly lass entered the room.

  “It was a delivery boy, ma’m.” She set a tightly wrapped package on the nearest table. “He said it was for you.”

  “For me? You’re sure he said it was for me?”

  “Yes ma’m. I asked if he didn’t mean Robert Coffin and he said no, his instructions were to deliver it to Mrs. Holly Coffin sure.”

  Holly put the book aside and rose to inspect the package. “How strange. It just has my name on it. See here?” She indicated the writing on the top of the box. “No address or return address or anything. No stamps, either. This didn’t arrive via the post office.”

  “No ma’m. That’s what I was thinkin’, too. May I go now? I’ve cleaning to do.”

  “Yes, of course.” She waved the girl out of the room.

  Most peculiar. Who would be sending her something so inexplicable and mysterious? Her birthday was well i
n the past, the holidays far in the future. It might be her good friend Frances, she decided. Frances was a devil, always playing little jokes on her and the other ladies at church.

  It was very slim. She picked it up, hefted it, and thought it must be a book of some kind. Better to see than to speculate. Taking a pair of scissors from the drawer table she cut the twine, only to find another package similarly bound within the heavy brown paper. Now she was smiling. One of Frances’s tricks for sure. Buried inside all the twine and paper would be a dinner invitation or some such personal message.

  When it became known Mrs. Coffin was going out again, albeit infrequently and only as her strength permitted, the invitations started to pour in from people she’d all but forgotten. An identical barrage arrived from her husband’s business associates, all seeking to curry favor. Amused by his new social standing, he turned them all over to her. There was a time when Robert would never have thought of attending anything as stuffy as a formal dinner, but over the years he’d changed. Having adopted the accoutrements of luxury and wealth he’d decided reluctantly it would be worthwhile to accept some of the social conventions that went along with his status in the community. That meant dining alongside people he might not like but wanted to do business with. Anything to get her out of the house, as he’d said.

  No dinner invitation inside the final envelope; only a letter written in a hand she didn’t recognize. That, and what appeared to be a bundle of photographs. She was delighted. Photographs were still something of a novelty, especially the new kind printed on paper. An expensive as well as mysterious package, then.

  She recognized the first picture the instant she turned it over. It was the house at Tarawera, shown from a distance with a bit of lake and mountain in the background. It had been taken from a little hill that rose behind the house. Quite a charming scene.

  The second was also of the house, only the camera was much closer this time. Lake and mountain had been excluded. The third picture was nearer still. It showed the back of the house, the garden, and the fence that surrounded the yard. The photographer was still high enough on the hill to shoot over the fence. He’d focused on the sitting bed that occupied the screened-in rear porch. That was where one slept in the summertime when it grew too hot on the second floor of the house.