Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  Juliet’s own dress was floor length and tight. Kevin saw it was the same dress in which she had seduced him in Lawrence. He struggled not to flush.

  “Juliet, please,” Patrick interjected, “you’re embarrassing your sister-in-law. Doortje, forgive us. You look absolutely charming.”

  Juliet nodded and screwed up her pretty face—Doortje realized with astonishment that she wore makeup.

  “Yes, forgive us. I always become unbearable when my throat is dry. Kevin, do fetch us some champagne? Or do you still drink milk, Doortje?” She now pronounced the name quite correctly.

  Doortje bit her lip. She had never drunk alcohol before. But she was not about to let this hussy score any points.

  “I would gladly have a glass,” she said quietly.

  When Kevin returned with the champagne, Doortje looked unhappily at the bubbly liquid in the crystal flute. She carefully took a sip—and was pleasantly surprised. She had always imagined alcohol burning the tongue, but this pricked softly and tasted slightly acidic, a bit like watered-down blackberry juice. Maybe it did not fall under the sinful, intoxicating drinks about which her pastor had always warned. Doortje triumphantly downed it just as quickly as Juliet.

  Meanwhile, Kevin and Patrick struggled to converse politely.

  “Are you going to work for the Ministry of Agriculture again?” Kevin asked his brother. “I mean, is that what brings you here?”

  “No, no, I’m staying in Otago. We’re just here for a few days. After a while, you get cabin fever on a farm, you know.” He smiled sadly. Everyone knew Patrick Drury adored Elizabeth Station. “And the practice? No problems with Folks? I mean, first to South Africa and back, then Otago and back again.”

  “Oh, Christian is flexible. And I more or less have my own patients.” He laughed nervously. “Christian mostly gets the young families, and I get the hysterics. And it can’t be denied that the hysterics pay better. So, it means more income—for him as well.”

  “Mr. Drury?” Nandi approached nervously, little May in her arms. “Mr. Patrick, you said, I tell—” Patrick furrowed his brow a little. “I mean, you told me I should tell if May cries,” she corrected herself. “And she was. So, I thought—”

  “Beautifully said.” Patrick took the little girl from her arms.

  May seemed to have already calmed down. She babbled happily at those around her—she loved social affairs.

  “Ba—Mr.—Dr. Drury.”

  Freed of the child, Nandi curtsied to her former employer. He looked around for Doortje, but she had disappeared with Juliet. This startled Kevin, but at least she was approaching other people without him.

  “You look lovely, Nandi,” Kevin said, smiling at her neat maid’s dress with apron and bonnet. Almost the uniform Doortje had worn on the farm. “And you speak English so well.”

  “I thank you, Dr. Drury. You are not mad at me?”

  Kevin thanked heaven Doortje was elsewhere. “For taking a better job? We regretted it, to be sure, but it was your choice, of course. Do you like working for Juliet?”

  “I like it very much,” she said, “with little Miss May—and Mrs. Drury.”

  The second name came a bit late, for Juliet was the drop of wormwood in Nandi’s happiness. Nandi was used to being chastised, but she’d always known what to expect from the van Stout family, whereas Juliet Drury’s moods changed from one moment to the next. Sometimes she gave Nandi lovely hand-me-down dresses and hats. Sometimes she cursed her for the smallest mistake. For Nandi, that was just as irritating as New Zealand’s fickle fall weather, where sunshine quickly followed pouring rain, and the reverse.

  “Please, not ‘Miss May,’ Nandi,” Patrick said. He was glowing at the child, but Kevin noticed that he also kept an eye on Nandi—with a similarly loving expression. “It’s bad enough Juliet bedecks her like a princess.”

  Kevin looked at the child closely for the first time. May looked like Juliet, but also like him and Michael. She took less after Patrick and Lizzie. Kevin decided to withdraw before other guests noticed. And Patrick was busy with May and Nandi, anyway. He was bouncing the little girl in his arms and conversing happily with her nanny. Kevin excused himself, saying he wanted to look for his wife.

  Before he found Doortje, however, he ran into Reverend Burton.

  Peter Burton was standing around, looking bored. He attended events like this for Kathleen’s sake. He preferred quiet gatherings with a few close friends to making shallow conversation at parties like this. Now, he smiled at Kevin.

  “Do you have a moment, Reverend?” Kevin asked. He had been meaning to speak with him for a long time. “Though, maybe it’d be better if I visited you in your church.”

  “Whatever you have on your mind, it usually gets said better over a glass of whiskey than by candlelight. Of course, my church has had electric lighting for some time now.”

  “But still no whiskey shelf, I take it,” Kevin teased. “Just wait; I’ll fetch us a couple glasses.”

  “The terrace recommends itself,” said Burton, “since it’s not raining at the moment.”

  Kevin came back with the whiskey, and the two men stepped outside and took a few sips in silence. As they did, they looked out over the dark, still garden, which offered a soothing contrast to the brightly lit house.

  “So, what’s going on, Kevin?” the pastor asked. “Troubles with your brother? I’m told things have been tense.”

  “Just misunderstandings. That’s not what this is about. I wanted to ask, what do you know about Calvinism?”

  The reverend smiled. “A theological lecture? Now, that I was not prepared for. Let’s see: Calvin was a sixteenth-century Swiss theologian, quite influential. The Presbyterians refer to his teachings, the Church of Scotland—and, of course, your wife’s Dutch church. The Five Solas form its fundament—”

  “The simplified version, please. I’m just trying to understand what they think about damnation and being chosen.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, the sola gratia, it claims that man is saved by the grace of God alone, and not, as we preach in my church, because of good and bad deeds in life or through forgiveness and atonement. Calvin taught that mankind was divided from the beginning into the chosen and the damned. Which group you belong to was determined long before your birth.”

  “But that’s madness,” Kevin argued. “Why would someone behave well if it didn’t matter either way?”

  The pastor arched his brow. “I hope the Commandments have value to you on their own, and you don’t just follow them because you’re afraid of hell.”

  Kevin laughed. “Well, heaven does have a certain charm. But if you could behave however you wanted—”

  “Life would certainly be easier sometimes,” Reverend Burton admitted, and emptied his glass. “It was smart of you to bring the whiskey bottle. Even if it means neither of us are chosen. But about Calvinists’ behavior—it’s kept firmly in check. The community can impose punishments on anyone who steps over the line. More importantly, in their eyes, a God-fearing, ascetic life proves one is chosen. It’s a sort of reverse conclusion: we assume that we’re saved if we sin as little as possible. The Calvinists assume that salvation shows itself in sinning as little as possible.”

  “So, it comes down to the same thing?” Kevin’s head was beginning to spin.

  “Well, there are a few differences. For example, the way the chosen treat the unchosen. One sees a certain, hmm, cruelty in it.”

  Kevin groaned. “Let me guess: Zulu, Maori, mulattoes, Indians, they’re all assumed to be unchosen.”

  “Exactly,” replied Burton. “And they believe that being chosen also reveals itself in economic success. So, one doesn’t care for the poor because they must be damned. Not to mention the slaves our Calvinist fellow Christians work to death on their plantations. Slavery and murder, but the sugarcane sells well, so it must be pleasing to God?” He smiled weakly. “I’m sorry, Kevin, you can tell I don’t approve. Surely most Calvinists are good, upright pe
ople who never harm anyone but themselves. Some deny themselves even the smallest luxuries, any leisure, any joy in life. It must be terrible to be allowed to feel contentment only in self-righteousness.”

  Kevin pondered and refilled his glass. “And if one of them had always believed he was chosen, and then something happened that made him think he was damned after all?”

  “That’s a good question. In truth, I don’t know anyone from that community. At least no strict adherents. There are surely those in Dunedin who profess to be of the Church of Scotland, but they nonetheless drink champagne and have their clothes tailored by Kathleen. The person you describe, well, I’d say he—or she—must feel like their world has collapsed. Kevin, are we talking about your wife?”

  Kevin set his glass on the terrace table. “I need to go back inside, Reverend. Thank you. Things are clearer now, I think.”

  “You’ll need lots of patience. And Doortje will need a new faith. But when you consider that her people crossed oceans and mountains and fought wars—”

  “In big groups supporting one another,” Kevin retorted, “and believing they were all chosen, of course. While Doortje—” His voice softened. “Doortje is all alone.”

  Chapter 8

  Doortje Drury was having a grand time. She had now drunk her second glass of champagne and escaped from her wretched sister-in-law. Sean Coltrane and his wife, Violet, were charming, despite their terrible last name, but “Coltrane” seemed as common here as “Hövel” was in South Africa. Sean even explained that business about Dorothy.

  “Dorothy and her dog Toto are the main characters in an American children’s book called The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. It’s rather new, and Roberta is quite taken with it. I’m sure she’d lend you her copy. In any case, Dorothy lives in the American countryside. But then, a tornado takes her away to a magical land where four witches and a wizard rule. There she has adventures with a lion without courage, a scarecrow without a brain, and a tin man without a heart.”

  Doortje giggled. The champagne was going to her head, and she had never felt so light and relaxed.

  “A cowardly lion?”

  “Yes, but as the story goes on, it turns out that the lion can be brave when he sees his friends in danger, and the tin man has great sympathy, and the scarecrow is clever. They only believed they were damned.”

  Doortje blanched.

  Violet looked at her with concern. “Are you all right, dear? Everything here must still be rather stressful and foreign. And Juliet was wrong to make fun of you, even if the comparison to Dorothy from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz isn’t insulting. She’s a wonderful girl.”

  “Wait here,” added Sean. “I’ll fetch you another glass of champagne. That’ll revive your spirits. And you, too, Violet. I don’t see anyone from the abolitionists’ coalition. You can let your hair down a bit.” He winked and turned in the direction of the bar.

  “Abo—what?” Doortje asked.

  She could not remember ever asking so many questions or chatting so fluently. At least, not since her old life in Transvaal. Of course, at prayer meetings and communal handicraft evenings, the Boer women had not gossiped about children’s books or dresses.

  “Abolitionists,” Violet explained. She regaled Doortje with a history of the women’s movement in New Zealand, which had begun with the uprising of matriarchs against their husbands’ alcohol abuse and had led to the women’s right to vote.

  “And, just imagine, the world didn’t end!” she concluded cheerfully. “You just watch, one day we’ll have a female premier.”

  “Sure, when South Africa has a black president,” teased Jimmy Dunloe, who was approaching with Sean. “Enough with the speeches, Violet. It’s a party.”

  He pressed champagne flutes into the women’s hands, then disappeared with a wave back in the direction of the bar.

  “Our host insisted on bringing you champagne himself,” Sean remarked. “Sorry, Violet, I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that. Naturally, I’d welcome both a female premier and a black governor at the cape. But the people there aren’t ready for—”

  “A Kaffir as governor?” Doortje asked. “But they—they don’t have any brains.”

  Violet almost dropped her glass, but Sean jumped in before she could make a scene. “That’s what they said about the scarecrow in the land of Oz too!” he quipped. “But in the end, the wizard names him as his successor. Read the book to your son when he’s bigger, Doortje. We can all learn something from it.”

  When Kevin finally spotted Doortje, she was standing with Heather and Chloe Coltrane—and she was laughing wholeheartedly. He could hardly believe it. And, as he approached, Doortje’s countenance didn’t even harden. She smiled at him.

  “Heather was in the Netherlands!” she announced to Kevin. “In Amster-dam!”

  Heather smiled indulgently. “I think it’s about time you took your wife home,” she whispered to him. “She’s more than a bit tipsy. But also charming. I never would have thought she could be so funny.”

  “Just think, you can meet people there like Mijnheer Rembrandt,” Doortje gushed. “He paints like Heather. Heather would like to paint me too. Do you think that’s allowed?”

  Kevin smiled and linked arms with her. “That’s an outstanding idea, and of course it’s allowed,” he said. “Mijnheer Rembrandt is already dead, though. He was a great artist and very diligent. Maybe you could pay Heather a visit sometime. I’m sure she has copies.”

  Chloe nodded. “She copied Rembrandt’s pictures herself,” she declared. “But whoever sees them understands why we don’t hang them up.” Heather pretended she wanted to throw her glass at her girlfriend. Chloe giggled. “But now, of course, she’s long since surpassed him.” She offered Doortje her hand. “It was so nice getting to know you better, Mrs. Drury.”

  Heather and Chloe said their good-byes warmly, but with emphatic looks at Kevin. Doortje’s tipsiness was still cute, but if she and Kevin stayed any longer, things could go south.

  “May I escort you home, my love?” he asked hopefully. “You know I need to get up early tomorrow.”

  “But I don’t,” declared Doortje triumphantly. “I can sleep in. But that’s a sin, of course.”

  Swaying slightly, she allowed Kevin to guide her in the direction of the exit. On the way, they encountered Juliet and Patrick. Nandi was likely putting May to bed.

  “Leaving already?” asked Juliet with a smug smile. “You used to last longer, Kevin.” She cast a glance at Doortje and recognized her state at once. “Was the champagne to your liking, Dorothy? Well, let me warn you. When you come back from fairy-tale land, you’ll have a monstrous headache.” Juliet’s gaze wandered over to Kevin and turned mocking. She pressed closer. “A fleeting fairy tale for you,” she whispered in his ear. “Watch out, she’ll fall asleep before you get started.”

  Doortje pulled her husband away.

  “I’m not in a fairy-tale land,” she declared. “No lions here and no scarecrows. Just a she-Kaffir without a heart.”

  Kevin took his wife for a stroll through town. They could have taken a cab, but the apartment was not very far from the Dunloes’, and the fresh air would do Doortje good. The rain, too, which had set in again.

  “It’s always raining in this country,” Doortje complained.

  Kevin thought for a moment; then he told her the story of Papa and Rangi. Doortje listened with unaccustomed alertness. Usually, she shut down at talk of Maori legends.

  “It doesn’t rain so often at home,” she said finally. “One doesn’t cry so quickly there.”

  “But look, Doortje,” he offered. “If the gods don’t cry, the earth dries out. Now and again, a person can show a little emotion.”

  They had reached the practice, and he pulled her inside the doorway and took her in his arms. Doortje was close to coming back to herself, but decided to stay hidden behind the bubbly wall of champagne between her critical faculties and her feelings of guilt. It was nice to be kissed. She vagu
ely recalled Martinus’s kisses. She had returned those too. And Martinus had almost reprovingly said she was wild. But Kevin did not seem to have anything against it. She let him pick her up and carry her up the stairs to their apartment.

  “What about Abe?” she asked as he tiptoed down the hall with her.

  “He’s been asleep for a while now,” Kevin whispered, and quietly opened the nursery door.

  Abe was not in his crib, but next to it in the rocking chair in which slept Paika, Claire’s child-loving maid whom they’d hired to babysit. Abe slumbered peacefully in her arms, his little head nestled in her breasts, his little body stretched out on her belly.

  “But she shouldn’t—”

  Renewed resistance stirred in Doortje. She had strictly forbidden Paika from rocking the baby to sleep in her arms. Abe should learn from early on to sleep on his own. But Kevin shut the door as quickly and silently as he had opened it.

  “Let them sleep tonight. Tonight, we’ll forget everything. Education, the gods, England, South Africa. Tonight, there’s only us.”

  Doortje did not resist as he undid her dress and began to cover her neck in kisses. As he pressed into her, she thought fleetingly about being damned. But really, it wasn’t so bad in hell.

  Chapter 9

  The next day, however, Doortje’s view of hell had changed. She awoke with the most atrocious headache she’d ever known, and when Kevin pushed tea on her, she threw up at once.

  “I’m sick,” she gasped. “Everything hurts. What is this?”

  “It’s the aftereffects of too much champagne,” Kevin assured her. “Don’t worry, it’ll soon pass.”

  “You mean, I was drunk?” Doortje asked in horror. She remembered now how she had shamelessly fraternized with the English.

  “Only a bit tipsy. You’re just not used to alcohol. But it wasn’t bad, dear. On the contrary, you were quite enchanting.” He sat down next to her on the bed and tried to kiss her. Doortje sprang away in disgust.

  “You can’t! Not when I’m sick.”