by Sarah Lark
“This’d be us,” Howard said, stopping the team in front of a hut. If feeling generous, one might also call it a blockhouse. It was made of unfinished logs that had been bound together. “Go on in, I’ll take care of things in the stable.”
Helen stood as though paralyzed. This was supposed to be her house? Even the stalls in Christchurch were more comfortable—not to mention London.
“Well, get going. It’s not locked. There’re no thieves here.”
It wasn’t like there was anything to steal either. When Helen, still speechless, pushed open the door, she entered a room that made even Margaret’s kitchen seem livable. The house consisted of two rooms—the first was a combination kitchen and living room, sparsely furnished with four chairs and a chest. The kitchen was somewhat better supplied; unlike in Margaret’s home, there was a proper stove. At least Helen wouldn’t have to cook over an open fire.
Nervously she opened the door to the neighboring room—Howard’s bedroom. No, their bedroom, she corrected herself. She would simply have to make it more comfortable.
It held only a timber-frame bed, which was sloppily made with dirty linen. Helen thanked heaven for her purchases in London. With new bed linens, it would immediately look better. As soon as Howard brought her bag in, she would change the sheets.
Howard entered with a basket of firewood under his arm. A few eggs were balanced on the logs.
“Lazy rats, these no good Maori!” he cursed. “They milked the cow yesterday all right, but not today. She’s standing there with bursting udders, the poor animal, moaning her heart out. Can you go on and milk her? That’ll be your job from now on anyway, so go on now and figure it out.”
Helen looked at him, confused. “You want me to…milk? Now?”
“Well, wait till tomorrow and she’ll kick it,” Howard said. “But you can put on some dry clothes first; I’ll bring your things right in. You’ll catch your death of cold in this room as it is now. Here’s some firewood.”
This last comment sounded like an order. But Helen wanted to resolve the matter of the cow first.
“Howard, I can’t milk a cow,” she admitted. “I’ve never done that before.”
Howard frowned.
“What do you mean, you’ve never milked a cow before?” he asked. “Aren’t there any cows in England? You wrote that you were responsible for your father’s household for years!”
“Yes, but we lived in Liverpool. In the middle of the city, next to the church. We didn’t have any livestock!”
Howard looked at her coldly. “Then see that you learn how. I’ll do it today. You clean the floor in the meantime. The wind’s blowing all this dust around. Then get the stove going. I’ve already brought the wood in, so you just need to light it. Mind that you stack the wood carefully; otherwise, it’ll smoke us out of the cabin. But surely you can do that. Or do they not have stoves in Liverpool?”
Howard’s contemptuous expression made Helen drop any further objections. It would just anger him further if she told him that in Liverpool they’d had a maid for the heavy housework. Helen’s tasks had been limited to raising her younger siblings, helping in the rectory, and leading the Bible circle. What would he think if she described the manor in London? The Greenwoods kept a cook, a servant who lit the stove, maids who anticipated their every wish, and Helen as governess. Though she was certainly not considered one of the masters of the house, no one would have expected her to so much as touch a piece of firewood.
Helen didn’t know how she was supposed to manage everything. But she didn’t see a way out either.
Gerald Warden could not hide his delight that Gwyneira and Lucas had arrived at an agreement so quickly. He fixed the wedding day for the second weekend of Advent. That was the height of summer, and part of the reception could take place in the garden, which still needed to be fixed up, of course. Hoturapa and two other Maori who had been hired especially for the purpose worked hard to plant the seeds and seedlings that Gerald had brought back from England. A few native plants also found a place in Lucas’s carefully planned garden design. Since it would take too long for maple or chestnut trees to grow big enough, southern beeches, nikau, and cabbage trees were planted so that Gerald’s guests could take a stroll in the shade in the foreseeable future. That didn’t bother Gwyneira, who found the native flora and fauna interesting. It was finally an area where her proclivities and those of her future husband overlapped, though Lucas’s research focused primarily on ferns and insects. The former were found primarily in the rainy western region of South Island. Gwyneira could only wonder at their diverse and filigreed shapes from Lucas’s own well-executed drawings and in his textbooks. However, when she saw a living example of one of the native insects for the first time, even hard-bitten Gwyneira let out a scream. Lucas, ever the most attentive of gentlemen, rushed immediately to her side. However, the sight seemed to fill him with more joy than horror.
“It’s a weta!” he said, getting excited, and poked at the six-legged creature that Hoturapa had just dug up with a twig. “They are perhaps the largest insects in the world. It’s not uncommon to see specimens that are eight centimeters long or more.”
Gwyneira could not share in her fiancé’s joy. If the bug had only looked more like a butterfly or a bee or a hornet…but the weta most closely resembled a fat, wet, glistening grasshopper.
“They belong to the same family,” Lucas lectured. “More precisely to the ensifera suborder. Except for the cave weta, which belongs to the rhaphidophoridae.”
Lucas knew the Latin designation for several weta subfamilies. Gwyneira, however, found the Maori name for the bugs more appropriate. Kiri and her people called them wetapunga, which meant “god of ugly things.”
“Do they sting?” Gwyneira asked. The bug didn’t seem particularly lively and only moved forward sluggishly when Lucas poked it. However, it had an imposing stinger on its abdomen and Gwyneira kept her distance.
“No, no, they’re generally harmless. At most they sometimes bite. And it’s no worse than a wasp sting,” Lucas explained. “The stinger is…it…well, it indicates that this is a female, and…” Lucas turned away, as always, when it had to do with anything “sexual.”
“It’s for laying eggs, miss,” Hoturapa clarified casually. “This one big and fat, soon lay eggs. Much eggs, hundred, two hundred…better not to take in house, Mr. Warden. Not that egg laying in house.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Just the thought of sharing her living quarters with two hundred of this unattractive bug’s offspring sent chills up Gwyneira’s back. “Just leave her here. If she runs away…”
“Not walking quickly, miss. Jumping. Whoops and you have wetapunga in lap!” Hoturapa explained.
Gwyneira took another step back, just to be sure.
“Then I’ll draw it right here on the spot,” Lucas gave in reluctantly. “I would have preferred to take it into my study and compared it directly with the images in the field guide. But I guess my drawings will have to do. You’d also like to know, no doubt, Gwyneira, whether we have a ground weta or a tree weta here.”
Gwyneira had rarely cared so little about anything.
“Why can’t he be interested in sheep like his father?” she asked her patient audience, consisting of Cleo and Igraine, afterward. Gwyneira had retreated to the stables and was grooming her mare while Lucas sketched the weta. The horse had worked up a sweat during the ride that morning, and the girl did not want to pass up the chance to smooth her coat, which had since dried. “Or birds! Though they probably don’t hold still long enough to let themselves be sketched.”
Gwyneira found the native birds considerably more interesting than Lucas’s creepy crawlies. The farmworkers had shown and told her about a few types of birds since her arrival. Most of them knew quite a lot about their new homeland; the frequent nights out under the open sky had made them familiar with the nocturnal birds. James McKenzie, for example, told her about the European settlers’ namesake: the kiwi bird was
short and plump, and Gwyneira found them quite exotic with their brown feathers that almost looked like fur and their much-too-long beaks, which they often used as a “third leg.”
“They have something else in common with your dog,” McKenzie explained cleverly. “They can smell. Which is rare for birds.”
McKenzie had accompanied Gwyneira several times on her overland rides the last few days. As expected, she had quickly earned the respect of the shepherds. Her first demonstration of Cleo’s shepherding abilities had inspired the men from the first.
“That dog does the work of two shepherds,” Poker marveled and stooped to pat Cleo’s head in recognition. “Will the little ones grow up like that?”
Gerald Warden had made each of the men responsible for training one of the new sheepdogs. In theory, it made sense to have each dog learning from the man with whom it was supposed to shepherd. In practice, however, McKenzie undertook the work with the pups almost alone, supported occasionally by Andy McAran and young Hardy. The other men found it dull to go through the commands over and over again; they also thought it gratuitous to have to fetch the sheep just to practice with the dogs.
McKenzie, on the other hand, showed an interest and a marked talent for handling animals. Under his guidance, little Daimon soon approached Cleo’s skill level. Gwyneira supervised the exercises, despite the fact that it displeased Lucas. Gerald, by contrast, let her do as she pleased. He knew that the dogs were accruing value and use for the farm.
“Maybe you could put on a little show after the wedding, McKenzie,” Gerald said, satisfied, after having watched Cleo and Daimon in action once again. “Most of the visitors would be interested in seeing that…I say, the other farmers will turn green with envy!”
“I won’t be able to lead the dogs properly in a wedding dress,” Gwyneira said, laughing. She savored the praise, as she always felt so hopelessly inept in the house. She was still technically a guest, but it was already clear that as mistress of Kiward Station she would have the same things demanded of her that she had hated at Silkham Manor: the direction of a large, noble manor with servants and the management of the whole charade. To make it even more difficult, none of the employees here were even educated. In England one could overcome a lack of organization by hiring capable butlers and matrons, by not scrimping when it came to personnel and hiring only people with first-class credentials. Then the household would practically run itself. Here, however, Gwyneira was expected to show her Maori servants the ropes, and she lacked the enthusiasm and conviction for that.
“Why clean silver every day?” Moana asked, for example, which struck Gwyneira as a perfectly logical question.
“Because, otherwise, it tarnishes,” Gwyneira answered. She at least knew that much.
“But why take iron that changes color?” Moana asked, turning the silver over unhappily in her hands. “Take wood. Is simple, wash off, clean!” The girl looked at Gwyneira, expecting praise.
“Wood isn’t…for every taste.” Gwyn recalled one of her mother’s answers. “And it becomes unsightly after it’s been used a few times.”
Moana shrugged. “Then just cut new ones. Is easy, I can show, miss.”
The New Zealand natives were great masters in the art of carving. A few days earlier, Gwyneira had seen the Maori village that was part of Kiward Station. It was not far but lay hidden behind rocks and a copse of trees on the other side of the lake. Gwyneira would probably never have found it had she not noticed the women doing their laundry and the horde of almost-naked children bathing in the lake. At the sight of Gwyneira, the little brown children retreated shyly, but on her next ride she distributed sweets to them, thus winning their trust. The women invited her with big gestures into their camp, and Gwyneira marveled at their houses and grill pits. She was most impressed with their meetinghouse, which was adorned with plentiful carvings.
Slowly she began to understand her first bits of Maori.
Kia ora meant hello. Tana was man, wahine woman. She learned that you did not say “thank you” but showed your gratitude through actions and that the Maori did not shake hands in greeting but rubbed noses instead. This ritual was called hongi, and Gwyneira practiced it with the giggling children. Lucas was appalled when she told him about it, and Gerald reproved her: “We should under no circumstances get too close to them. These people are primitive; they need to learn their boundaries.”
“I think it’s always good when people can understand each other better,” Gwyneira disagreed. “Why should it be the primitives who learn the civilized language? It must be much easier the other way around.”
Helen crouched next to the cow and attempted to cajole her. The animal seemed friendly, which wasn’t a given, if she had correctly understood Daphne on the ship. Apparently, you had to be careful with some dairy cows that they did not attack you while you milked them. Yet even a willing cow could not effect the milking herself. Helen was necessary—but could not make it happen. No matter how much she tugged and kneaded the udders, she never released more than one or two drops. It had looked so easy when Howard did it. But he had shown her only once; he was still in a bad mood after last night’s disaster. When he had returned from milking, the stove had turned the room into a smoky hell. Helen squatted before the iron monstrosity in tears, and, of course, she hadn’t managed to sweep yet either. In sullen silence, Howard had lit the stove and fireplace, cracked a few eggs in a skillet, and set the food on the table for Helen.
“Starting tomorrow, you cook!” he declared as he did so, sounding as though he would accept no further excuses. Helen wondered what she should cook. There wasn’t anything in the house but milk and eggs the next day either. “And you have to bake bread. There’s grain in the cupboard there. Besides that, there’s beans, salt…you’ll figure something out. I know you’re tired, Helen, but you’re no good to me otherwise.”
That night Helen repeated the experience of the night before. This time she wore her prettiest nightgown and lay between clean sheets, none of which made it any more bearable. Helen was sore and horribly ashamed, and Howard’s face, reflecting naked lust, made her fearful. But this time she at least knew that it would be over quickly. Afterward Howard fell right asleep.
That morning he had gone out to inspect the flocks. He let Helen know he would not be back before evening. When he returned, he expected a warm house, a good meal, and a clean room.
Helen could not even manage the milking. But now, as she once more tugged desperately on the udder, a furtive giggle sounded from the direction of the stable door. Then somebody whispered something. Helen would have been afraid of the voices had they not sounded so high-pitched and childlike. As it was, she simply stood up.
“Come out; I see you,” she said.
Fresh chuckling.
Helen went to the door but saw only two little dark figures disappear quick as lightning through the half-open door.
Well, they wouldn’t go far; they were much too curious for that.
“I won’t hurt you!” Helen called. “What did you want, to steal some eggs?”
“We not stealing, missy!” A wounded voice. Helen must have piqued someone’s honor. A small, chestnut-brown figure emerged from around the corner of the stable, dressed only in a short skirt. “We milk when Mr. O’Keefe away.”
Aha! Helen had them to blame for the scene the day before.
“But you didn’t milk her yesterday,” she said sternly. “Mr. O’Keefe was very angry.”
“Yesterday waiata-a-ringa…”
“Dance,” the second child elaborated, a boy dressed in a loincloth. “All people dancing. No time for cow.”
Helen refrained from giving them a lesson on the need to milk cows daily without regard to festivals, seeing as she hadn’t known that until the day before herself.
“But today you can help me,” she said instead. “You can show me how to do it.”
“How to do what?” the girl asked.
“How to milk. What you do with the
cow,” Helen sighed.
“You not know how to milk?” Fresh giggling.
“What you then doing here?” inquired the young boy, grinning. “Stealing eggs?”
Helen had to laugh. The kid was sly. But she couldn’t be upset with him. Helen thought both children were sweet.
“I’m the new Mrs. O’Keefe,” she introduced herself. “Mr. O’Keefe and I got married in Christchurch.”
“Mr. O’Keefe marry wahine who no can milk?”
“Well, I have other qualities,” Helen said, laughing. “For example, I can bake sweets.” And she could; it had always been her last resort when she needed to convince her brothers to do something. And Howard had syrup in the house. She would have to improvise with the other ingredients, but first she had to get the two children into the cow’s stall. “But only for good children, of course.”
The term “good” did not seem to mean much to the Maori children, but they knew the word “sweets” and the deal was quickly finalized. Helen then learned that the children were named Rongo Rongo and Reti and lived in a Maori village farther down the river. They milked the cow with lightning speed, found eggs in places Helen had not even thought to look, and then followed her curiously into the house. Since cooking the syrup for candy would have taken hours, Helen decided to just serve them pancakes with syrup. The two observed, fascinated, how she stirred the batter and turned the cakes over in the pan.
“Like takakau, flat bread!” Rongo Rongo exclaimed.
Helen saw her chance. “Can you make that, Rongo? Flat bread, I mean? Can you show me how?”
It turned out it was rather easy. She needed little beyond water and grain. Helen hoped it would meet with Howard’s approval, but at least it was something to eat. To her amazement, there were also things to eat in the neglected garden behind the house. On first inspection, she had not been able to find anything that fit her idea of a vegetable, but after Rongo Rongo and Reti dug around for a few minutes, they proudly held out a few mysterious roots to her. Helen made a stew from them that tasted astoundingly good.
