by Sarah Lark
Helen named the mule Nepumuk and spoiled it with carrots and sweet potatoes. After just a few days, a deafening greeting call filled the air every time she stepped out the door, and in the paddock the mule pushed to have her put a halter on it—after all, it knew there would be a treat both before and after. By the third riding lesson, Gwyneira was quite satisfied, and soon thereafter Helen found the courage to saddle Nepumuk and head into Haldon. She felt that she’d crossed no less than an ocean by the time she guided the mule onto the town street. It moved purposefully toward the smith since it expected to be rewarded there with some oats and hay. The smith proved friendly and promised to put the mule up while Helen visited Mrs. Candler. Mrs. Candler and Dorothy praised her endlessly, and Helen basked in her new freedom.
That evening she spoiled Nepumuk with an extra portion of hay and corn. He snorted happily, and suddenly Helen did not find it so difficult to think of him as a pleasant animal.
8
Summer was coming to a close, and they could look back on a successful breeding season at Kiward Station. All the ewes were pregnant; the new stallion had covered three mares, and little Daimon had all the farm’s female dogs in heat—as well as several from other farms. Even Cleo’s belly was swelling. Gwyneira was excited for puppies. As for her own attempts to get pregnant, there had been no change—especially since Lucas attempted to sleep with her only once a week. And it was always the same: Lucas was polite and attentive and apologized whenever he believed himself to be going too far in any respect, but nothing hurt and nothing bled. Gerald’s jibes slowly began to get on her nerves. After a few months of marriage, her father-in-law said, you could count on a healthy young woman conceiving. This only reinforced Gwyneira’s fear that something was wrong with her. In the end, she confided in Helen.
“I wouldn’t care myself, but Mr. Warden is horrible. He talks about it in front of the help, even in front of the shepherds. I should spend less time in the stables and more time caring for my husband, he says. Then there would be a baby. But I won’t get pregnant just watching Lucas paint!”
“But he…doesn’t he visit you regularly?” Helen asked carefully. Though no one had confirmed that she was pregnant, she was now rather sure that something was different about her.
Gwyneira nodded and tugged at her earlobe. “Yes, Lucas puts in the effort. It’s up to me. If I only knew whom I could ask…”
An idea came to Helen. She had to go to the Maori settlement soon, and there…she did not know why, but she was less ashamed to talk to the native women about her possible pregnancy than with Mrs. Candler or another woman in town. Why shouldn’t she take the opportunity to talk about Gwyneira’s problem at the same time?
“You know what? I’ll ask the Maori witch doctor, or whatever she is,” she asserted. “Little Rongo’s grandmother. She’s very friendly. The last time I visited, she gave me a piece of jade as a token of thanks for teaching the children. The Maori look at her as a tohunga, or wise woman. Maybe she knows something about female troubles. She can’t do more than turn me away.”
Gwyneira was skeptical. “I don’t really believe in magic,” she said, “but it’s worth a try.”
Matahorua, the Maori tohunga, received Helen in front of the wharenui, the meeting hall that was so richly decorated with carvings. Rongo had explained to Helen that the airy building’s form was modeled after a living creature. The ridge of the roof formed the backbone, the roof battens the ribs. In front of the hall was a covered grill, the kauta, where food was cooked for everyone, as the Maori were a close community. They slept together in huge sleeping houses that were not divided into individual rooms and had almost no furniture.
Matahorua motioned for Helen to sit on one of the stones that jutted from the grass next to the house.
“How can help?” she said without introduction.
Helen ran through her Maori vocabulary, which mainly consisted of Biblical terms and papal dogma. “What do when no conception?” she inquired, hoping she had left out the “immaculate.”
The old woman laughed and showered her with a torrent of unintelligible words.
Helen made a gesture of incomprehension.
“Why not baby?” Matahorua then attempted in English. “You do receive baby! In winter when very cold. I coming help, when you want. Beautiful baby, healthy baby.”
Helen could not comprehend it. So it was true—she would be having a baby!
“I coming help, when wanting,” Matahorua reiterated her friendly offer.
“I…thank, you are…welcome to,” Helen formulated with difficulty.
The witch doctor laughed.
But now Helen had to return to her original question. She tried again in Maori.
“I conception,” she explained and pointed to her stomach, hardly blushing this time. “But friend not conception. What can do?”
The old woman shrugged and again repeated her comprehensive explanations in her mother tongue. Finally she waved to Rongo Rongo, who was playing nearby with other children.
The little girl approached and appeared more than happy to offer her services as an interpreter. Helen turned red with shame at the thought of discussing such things in front of a child, but Matahorua seemed untroubled by it.
“She cannot easily say,” explained Rongo after the tohunga had repeated her words again. “Can be many reasons. With the man or woman or both…she must see the woman, or better man and woman. She can only advise then. And advising no good.”
Matahorua gave Helen another piece of jade for her friend.
“Friends of Miss O’Keefe always welcome!” Rongo remarked.
Helen took a few seed potatoes from her bag as thanks. Howard would throw a fit at her giving the precious seeds away, but the old Maori woman was visibly pleased. With a few words she instructed Rongo to grab a few herbs, which she handed to Helen.
“Here, against sickness in morning. Put in water, drink before getting up.”
That evening Helen revealed to her husband that he would be a father. Howard gave a contented hum. He was obviously pleased, though Helen would have liked a few more words of recognition. The one good consequence of announcing the news was that from then on Howard left his wife in peace. He did not touch her anymore, instead sleeping next to her like a brother, which was a huge relief to her. It moved her to tears when, the next morning, Howard came to her in bed with a cup of tea.
“Here. The witch said you should drink this, right? And the Maori women know something about these things. They litter children like cats.”
Gwyneira was likewise happy for her friend, but at first resisted going with Helen to visit Matahorua.
“Nothing will come of it if Lucas won’t be there. Maybe she’ll cast a love spell or something like that. For now I’ll take the jade stone—maybe I can hang it in a little bag around my neck. It brought you luck, after all.”
Gwyneira gestured meaningfully at Helen’s stomach, looking so hopeful that Helen did not want to break it to her that the Maori did not believe in magic or good-luck charms either. The jade stone was just supposed to be viewed as a token of thanks, as a sign of recognition and friendship.
Nor did the magic work when Gwyneira could not bring herself to place the jade stone anywhere clearly visible or even in her bed. She did not want Lucas to tease her for being superstitious or to become upset with her. In recent days, he had tried doggedly to bring his sexual efforts to a successful conclusion. With little tenderness, he attempted to force his way immediately into Gwyneira. Sometimes it hurt, but Gwyneira still felt that she wasn’t doing it right.
Spring arrived, and the new settlers had to acclimate to the idea that March heralded the onset of winter in the Southern Hemisphere. Lucas rode with James McKenzie and his men into the mountains to herd the sheep together. He did so under protest, but Gerald insisted. For Gwyneira, it represented the unexpected opportunity to take part in herding the sheep into the low pastures. She took charge of the refreshment cart with Witi and K
iri.
“Get your Irish stew!” she announced to the men, pleased, when they returned to camp the first evening. After that first time, the Maori knew the recipe inside and out, and Gwyneira could now all but cook it by herself. However, she had not spent the day peeling potatoes and cooking cabbage. Instead, she had ridden out with Igraine and Cleo to look for a few sheep who had gone astray in the mountains. James McKenzie had asked her to do so, pledging secrecy.
“I know that Mr. Warden doesn’t look on it fondly, miss, and I’d do it myself or get one of the boys to. But we need every man for herding; we’re hopelessly shorthanded. The last few years we always got some help from the Maori camp. But since the young Mr. Warden is riding with us this time…”
Gwyneira knew what he meant, and likewise understood what went unsaid. Gerald had saved on expenditures for additional hands and was overjoyed about it. She had heard that much at the family dinner table. Lucas, however, could not replace the experienced Maori shepherds. He wasn’t suited to farm work, and he wasn’t tough enough. He had already grumbled to Gwyneira while they were pitching camp that every part of him down to his bones ached—and the herding had just begun. Of course, the men did not complain openly about the their junior boss’s lack of skill, but when Gwyneira heard comments like, “It would have gone much quicker if the sheep hadn’t broken out three times,” she could piece the rest together. If Lucas were lost in the observation of a cloud formation or an insect, he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by a few sheep trotting by.
As a result, James McKenzie had him work only with other shepherds, which left them at least one man short. Of course, Gwyneira enjoyed helping out. As the men returned to camp, Cleo was herding an additional fifteen sheep that Gwyneira had found in the highlands. She was a little concerned what Lucas would say, but he didn’t appear to even notice. He ate his stew in silence, then retired to his tent.
“I’ll help clean up,” Gwyneira announced, as though there were a five-course meal’s worth of dishes to clean. In reality she left the few dishes for the Maori and joined the men, who were telling stories about their adventures. Naturally, a bottle was making the rounds, and with every round the tales became more dramatic and dangerous.
“By God, if I hadn’t been there, the ram would have run a horn through him!” Young Dave chuckled. “Anyway, he’s running toward him, and I call, ‘Mr. Warden!’ but he still doesn’t see the animal. So I whistle for the dog, and he dashes between man and beast, driving the ram away…but do you think the fellow is thankful? As if! He rails at me! He was looking at a kea, he says, and the dog drove the bird away. The ram nearly had him, I’m telling you! If I hadn’t been there, he’d have even less in his pants than he already does.”
The other men bawled with laughter. Only James McKenzie looked uncomfortable. Gwyneira saw that she had better retire if she did not want to hear any more embarrassing stories about her husband. James followed her when she stood up.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said as she stepped into the shadows beyond the campfire. The night was not dark: the moon was full, and the stars were shining. Tomorrow would be clear too—a gift for the shepherds, who often had to slog through rain and fog otherwise.
Gwyneira shrugged. “You don’t have to be sorry. Or did you almost let yourself be skewered?”
James stifled a laugh. “I wish the men would be a bit more discreet.”
Gwyneira smiled. “Then you would need to explain to them what discretion means. No, no, Mr. McKenzie. I can picture only too well what happened up there, and I understand why the men are disgruntled. The young Mr. Warden was…well, he wasn’t made for these things. He plays the piano marvelously and paints beautifully, but riding and sheep herding…”
“Do you even love him?” The words had hardly slipped out before James wanted to slap himself. He hadn’t wanted to ask that. Never—it wasn’t his business. But he’d been drinking; he too had had a long day, and he had cursed Lucas Warden more than once over the course of it.
Gwyneira knew what her good breeding demanded. “I respect and honor my husband,” she said by way of an answer. “I married of my own free will, and he treats me well.” She should also have added that it was none of James McKenzie’s business anyway, but she didn’t manage it. Something told her he had a right to ask her.
“Does that answer your question, Mr. McKenzie?” she inquired softly instead.
James McKenzie nodded. “Sorry, miss. Good night.”
He did not know why he held out his hand to her. It was not customary and certainly not proper to take leave of someone so formally after a few hours around the campfire. After all, they’d see each other again in the morning at breakfast. Still, Gwyneira took his hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her small, slender hand, hardened from riding and working with the animals, rested lightly in his. James could hardly overcome the impulse to raise it to his lips.
Gwyneira kept her gaze downcast. It felt good to have his hand wrapped around hers, and it gave her a reassuring sense of security. Warmth spread throughout her body—even there, where it was anything but proper. She slowly raised her gaze and saw an echo of her joy in James McKenzie’s dark, searching eyes. Suddenly, they both smiled.
“Good night, James,” Gwyneira said softly.
They managed to complete the herding in three days, faster than ever before. Kiward Station had lost only a few animals; most of the remaining animals were in excellent condition, and the mutton fetched a good price. A few days after the return to the farm, Cleo had her pups. Gwyneira watched the tiny puppies in their basket with fascination.
Gerald, however, seemed to be in a bad mood.
“Seems that everyone can—except you two,” he grumbled, casting an evil look at his son. Lucas walked out without a word. Things had been tense between father and son for weeks. Gerald could not forgive Lucas his ineptitude at farm work, and Lucas was angry with Gerald for making him ride with the men. Gwyneira often felt that she was standing between two fronts, and she increasingly sensed that Gerald was angry with her.
In winter there was less work in the pastures and little that Gwyneira could help with. Cleo was indisposed for a few weeks anyway. Gwyneira, therefore, directed her mare more often in the direction of the O’Keefes’ farm. During the herding, she had found a considerably shorter way between the two farms and she now visited Helen several times a week. Helen was grateful. The farm work was becoming more difficult as her pregnancy advanced, as was riding her mule. She hardly ever went to Haldon to drink tea with Mrs. Candler anymore, preferring instead to spend her days studying the Maori Bible and sewing baby clothes.
She continued teaching the Maori children, who took over many of her chores. However, she still spent most of her day alone. Howard had taken to riding to Haldon for a beer in the evening and did not return until late. Gwyneira was concerned.
“How are you going to let Matahorua know when the birthing begins?” she inquired. “You can’t possibly go yourself.”
“Mrs. Candler wants to send Dorothy here. But I don’t like the idea…the house is so small that she would have to sleep in the stables. From what I understand, children are always born at night. That means Howard will be there.”
“Are you sure?” Gwyneira asked, confused. “My sister gave birth to her child around midday.”
“But the pains would have set in at night,” Helen explained with conviction. She had learned the basics of pregnancy and birthing. After Rongo Rongo had told her several wild delivery stories in broken English, Helen had mustered her courage and asked Mrs. Candler for enlightenment. She had a very technical mastery of the subject. After all, she had given birth to three sons and not under the most civilized conditions either. Helen now knew how a birth announced itself and what needed to be done to prepare for it.
“If you say so,” Gwyneira said, unconvinced. “But you should really consider having Dorothy come to stay. She’ll survive a few nights in the stables, but if y
ou have to birth the child all on your own, you could die.”
As the birth approached, Helen became more inclined to take Mrs. Candler up on her offer. Howard was at home less and less. Her condition seemed to embarrass him, and it was clear that he no longer liked sharing the bed with her. When he returned from Haldon at night, he stank of beer and whiskey and often stumbled around so much getting ready for bed that Helen doubted he would even be able to find the Maori village. So Dorothy moved in with them in early August. Mrs. Candler refused, however, to let the girl sleep in the stables.
“Though I wish it would, Mrs. O’Keefe, that won’t do. I see in what condition Mr. O’Keefe rides away from here at night. And you are…I mean, he has…he might miss sharing a bed with a woman, if you understand my meaning. If he arrives in the stables and comes across a half-grown girl…”
“Howard is a man of honor!” Helen declared in defense of her husband.
“A man of honor is still a man,” Mrs. Candler replied drily. “And one drunk man is as dangerous as the rest. Dorothy will sleep in the house. I’ll talk to Mr. O’Keefe.”
Helen worried about this discussion, but her concerns proved unfounded. After he had picked up Dorothy, Howard simply carried his bedding into the stables and made his camp there.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” he said gallantly. “I’ve slept worse places before. And the girl’s virtue has to be guarded; Mrs. Candler’s right there. There can’t be any talk.”
Helen admired Mrs. Candler’s sense of diplomacy. Apparently, she had argued that Dorothy needed a chaperone and would not be able to look after Helen and the baby with Howard in the house.
So in the days leading up to the birth, Helen shared her home with Dorothy, during which she spent a great deal of time trying to keep the girl calm. Dorothy was deathly afraid of the delivery—so much so that Helen suspected that her mother had not died of some mysterious disease but rather while giving birth to a sibling.
