by Sarah Lark
So Paul nodded. But suddenly that did not strike him as good enough. It wasn’t fair to confirm their love only according to her rituals. He wanted to acknowledge it according to his, as well.
Paul Warden tried to remember what little he knew of wedding vows.
“I, Paul, take you, Marama, before God and man…and the ancestors…to be my lawfully wedded wife…”
From this moment on, Paul was a happy man. He lived with Marama as though they were a Maori couple. He hunted and fished while she cooked and attempted to cultivate a garden. She had brought some seeds—there had been a reason that her heavily laden mule could not keep up with his horse—and Marama was as happy as a child when the seeds sprouted. In the evening, she entertained Paul with stories and songs. She told him about her ancestors who had come long, long ago in the uruao canoe to Aotearoa from Polynesia. Every Maori, she explained to Paul, was full of pride for the canoe on which his ancestors had come. At official events they used the name of this canoe as a part of their own names. Naturally, everyone knew the story of the discovery of the New Country. “We came from a land called Hawaiki,” Marama explained, and her story sounded like a song. “At the time there was a man named Kupe who loved a woman named Kura-maro-tini. But he couldn’t marry her because she had already lain with his cousin Hoturapa in the sleeping lodge.”
Paul learned that Kupe drowned Hoturapa, and for that reason he had to flee his country. And how Kura-maro-tini, who had fled with him, saw a beautiful white cloud sitting on the sea, which revealed itself to be the country Aotearoa. Marama sang of dangerous fights with krakens and ghosts when they seized the land and of Kupe’s return to Hawaiki.
“He told the people there of Aotearoa, but he never went back. He never went back.”
“And Kura-maro-tini?” Paul asked. “Did Kupe just leave her?”
Marama nodded sadly.
“Yes. She remained alone…but she had two daughters. That might have comforted her. But Kupe was certainly not a nice fellow!”
With these last words, she sounded so much like Mrs. O’Keefe’s little model student that Paul had to laugh. He pulled the girl into his arms.
“I will never leave you, Marama. Even if I haven’t always been such a nice fellow.”
Tonga learned about Paul and Marama from a boy fleeing from Lionel Station and John Sideblossom’s hard regime. He had heard about Tonga’s “uprising” against the Wardens and was eager to join the would-be guerillas in their fight against the pakeha.
“There’s another one living over there in the highlands,” he reported excitedly. “With a Maori wife. I mean, they were nice. The man is hospitable. He would share his food with us when we wandered by. And the girl is a singer. Tohunga! But I say: all pakeha are rotten. And they shouldn’t have our women!”
Tonga nodded. “You are right,” he said seriously. “No pakeha should defile our women. And you will be my guide and precede the Chieftain’s Ax to avenge this wrong.”
The boy beamed. First thing the next day, he led Tonga into the highlands.
Tonga and his guide encountered Paul in front of his house. The young man had been gathering wood and helping Marama to clear out a cooking pit. This was not common practice in her village, but they had both heard of this Maori custom and now wanted to try it for themselves. Marama happily gathered stones while Paul stuck his spade in the soil, still soft from the last rain.
Tonga stepped from behind the rocks that Marama believed pleased the gods.
“Whose grave are you digging, Warden? Have you shot another man?”
Paul spun around and held his spade out in front of him. Marama let out a quiet whimper of fear. She looked beautiful; once again she was wearing only her skirt and had her hair tied back with an embroidered headband. Her skin glistened from the work, and she had just been laughing. Paul stepped in front of her. He knew it was childish, but he didn’t want anyone to see her so lightly dressed—even though he knew the Maori would find nothing offensive about it.
“What do you want, Tonga? You’re scaring my wife. Get out of here; this isn’t your land!”
“More mine than yours, pakeha! But if you want to know the truth—your Kiward Station won’t belong to you much longer either. Your governor has decided in my favor. If you can’t buy my share, then we’ll have to split the land,” Tonga declared, leaning casually on the Chieftain’s Ax, which he had brought with him to make an appropriately grand entrance.
Marama stepped in between the two men. She recognized that Tonga was wearing warrior’s jewelry, and he was not only wearing paint—the young chief had had himself tattooed in the traditional style over the last few months.
“Tonga, we will negotiate fairly,” she said softly. “Kiward Station is big; everyone will receive his share. Paul does not want to be your enemy anymore. He is my husband; he belongs to me and my people. So he is also your brother. Make peace, Tonga!”
Tonga laughed. “Him? My brother? Then he should also live like my brother. We will take his land and level his house. The gods should reclaim the land on which the house stands. You two can live in our sleeping lodge, naturally.” Tonga approached Marama, his gaze roaming salaciously over her bare breasts. “But then again you might want to share your bed with someone else. Nothing has been decided yet.”
“You damned piece of shit!”
As Tonga reached his hand out to Marama, Paul pounced on him. A moment later, the two were rolling, brawling, screaming, and cursing on the ground. They punched and grappled at each other, scratched and bit, did whatever they could to harm the other. Marama observed the fight apathetically. She had lost count of how many times she had seen the two rivals in a similarly ignoble confrontation. Children, both of them.
“Stop it!” she finally screamed. “Tonga you’re a chieftain! Think of your dignity. And you, Paul…”
But neither one of them listened to her. Instead, they stubbornly continued to strike each other. Marama would have to wait until one of them had pinned the other down, though both of them were about equally strong. Marama knew that the fortunes of battle hung in the balance—and she would wonder for the rest of her life whether everything would have turned out differently if fortune had not been on Paul’s side, for Tonga finally found himself pinned down. Paul sat on him, out of breath, his face scratched and beaten bloody. But he had triumphed. Grinning, he raised his fist.
“Do you still want to question whether Marama is my wife, you bastard? Forever and always?” He shook Tonga.
Unlike Marama, the youth who had led the chieftain there watched the fight full of rage and consternation. For him, this was no petty fistfight but a power struggle between Maori and pakeha—tribal warrior versus oppressor. And the girl was right: this sort of fight did not befit a chieftain. Tonga could not tussle like a boy. And he had been beaten too. He was just about to lose his last shred of dignity…the boy could not allow that to happen. He raised his spear.
“No! No, boy, no! Paul!” Marama screamed and tried to seize the young Maori by the arm. But it was too late. Paul Warden, crouched over his pinned opponent, fell over, his chest pierced through by a spear.
16
James McKenzie whistled happily. The mission that lay before him was delicate, but there was nothing that could ruin his good mood today. He had been back in the Canterbury Plains for two days, and his reunion with Gwyneira had left no desire unfulfilled. It was as though all the misunderstandings and all the years that had passed since their then-young love affair had never existed. James smirked when he recalled how hard Gwyneira had worked to not ever talk about love back then. Now she did so openly, and there was no trace left of the Welsh princess’s prudery.
Who was to make Gwyneira feel ashamed now? For the time being, the Wardens’ manor belonged to them alone. It was strange to enter the house not as a barely tolerated employee but as someone taking possession of it—of the chairs in the salon, the crystal glasses, the whiskey, and Gerald Warden’s first-class cigars. James
still felt most at home in the kitchen and in the stables—which were, after all, where Gwyneira spent most of her time. There still was no Maori staff, and the white shepherds were too important and above all too proud to perform simple household tasks. So Gwyneira carried the water, harvested vegetables in the garden, and gathered eggs in the chicken coop. She rarely had fresh fish or meat anymore. Gwyneira did not have time to fish, and she could not bring herself to snap the chickens’ necks. The menu expanded when James began living there. He was happy to make her life easier, even though he still felt like a guest in her feminine bedroom. Gwyneira had told him that Lucas had furnished the room for her. Although the playful lace curtains and the delicate furniture were not really Gwyneira’s style, she kept them as mementos of her husband.
Lucas Warden must have been a strange man. Only now did James realize how little he had known him and how close the shepherds’ mean-spirited remarks had come to the truth. But something in Gwyneira had really loved Lucas, or at least respected him. And Fleurette’s memories of her would-be father were also full of warmth. James began to feel regret and sympathy for Lucas. He had been a good, if also a weak man, born in the wrong place at the wrong time.
James directed his horse toward the Maori village on the lake. He could have gone on foot, but he was here on an official mission, as Gwyneira’s negotiator, so to speak, and felt safer—and above all, more important—on the four-legged status symbol of the pakeha. Besides, he liked the horse. Fleurette had given it to him: it was the son of her mare Niniane with a riding horse of Arab lineage.
McKenzie had been expecting to run into a blockade between Kiward Station and the Maori village. After all, Leonard McDunn had reported something to that effect, and Gwyneira was also aggravated by their attempts to cut her off from the road to Haldon.
James, however, entered the village unmolested. He was just passing the first buildings, and the great meeting hall was coming into view. But the mood in the camp was decidedly strange.
There was none of the antagonistic defensiveness and defiance that Gwyneira, but also Andy McAran and Poker Livingston, had spoken of. Most surprisingly, there was no sense of triumph over the governor’s decision. Instead, James got the sense that they were tensely waiting for something. People did not crowd around him, amiably looking to chat as they had during his previous visits to the village, nor did they seem threatening. Though he did see the occasional man with warrior tattoos, they all wore shirts and pants, rather than traditional outfits and spears. A few women were taking care of the daily chores, trying hard not to make eye contact with the visitor.
Finally Kiri stepped out of one of the houses.
“Mr. James. I hear you here again,” she said formally. “That is great joy for miss.”
James smiled. He had always suspected that Kiri and Moana knew the truth.
But Kiri did not return his smile. Instead, she looked up at James earnestly as she began to speak again. She chose her words with care, almost caution. “And I want to say…I’m sorry. Moana also sorry and Witi. If peace now, we happy to come back to house. And we forgive Paul. He changed, Marama says. Good man. For me good son.”
James nodded. “That’s nice, Kiri. For Paul too. Mrs. Warden hopes he’ll come back soon.” He was surprised when Kiri turned away.
No one else spoke to him until James reached the chief’s lodge. He dismounted. He was sure Tonga must have heard of his arrival, but the young chief was apparently going to make him beg.
James raised his voice. “Tonga! We need to talk. Mrs. Warden has received word from the governor. She would like to negotiate.”
Tonga stepped slowly out of his lodge. He was wearing the outfit and tattoos of a warrior but not carrying a spear. Instead, he held the Sacred Ax of the chieftain. James recognized the traces of a brawl on his face. Was the young chief’s position no longer definitive? Did he have rivals within his own tribe?
James held out his hand to him, but Tonga did not take it.
James shrugged. OK then. In his eyes Tonga was behaving like a child, but what else could you expect from such a young man? James decided not to play his game and to remain polite no matter what. Perhaps he could appeal to the man’s sense of honor.
“Tonga, you are very young and yet already chief. That means your people regard you as a reasonable man. Mrs. O’Keefe also thinks highly of you, and what you’ve achieved with the governor is remarkable. You’ve shown courage and tenacity. But now we must come to an agreement. Since Mr. Warden isn’t here, Mrs. Warden will negotiate in his stead. And she vows that he will stand behind whatever she agrees to. He will have to. After all, the governor has given his decision. So end this war, Tonga! For the sake of your own people as well.” James held his hands out to the side. He was unarmed. Tonga must see that he came in peace.
The young chief stood up even straighter in his already tall frame, though he was still shorter than James. He had also been shorter than Paul, which had bothered him his entire adolescence. But now he carried the title of chief. He need not be ashamed of anything. Not even for Paul’s killing.
“Inform Gwyneira Warden that we are ready to negotiate,” he said coolly. “We entertain no doubts that her agreements will be kept. Mrs. Warden has been the voice of the Wardens since the last full moon. Paul Warden is dead.”
“It wasn’t Tonga,” James said, holding Gwyneira in his arms as he told her of her son’s death. Gwyneira heaved dry sobs. She found no tears and hated herself for that. Paul had been her son, but she could not cry for him.
Kiri silently set a pot of tea on the table for them. She and Moana had accompanied James to the house. As though it had been agreed upon, the women took possession once more of the kitchen and office rooms.
“You can’t blame Tonga for it, or the negotiations might break down. I think he blames himself. As I understand it, one of his warriors lost control of himself. He saw the dignity of his chief under threat and stabbed Paul—from behind. Tonga must be ashamed to his core. The murderer did not even belong to Tonga’s tribe. So Tonga had no control over him. That’s why he wasn’t punished. Tonga only sent him back to his people. If you want, you could have the incident investigated by the police. Tonga and Marama were witnesses and wouldn’t lie in court.” James poured tea and a good deal of sugar into a cup and tried to hand it to Gwyneira.
Gwyneira shook her head. “What would that change?” she asked quietly. “The warrior saw his people’s honor threatened; Paul saw his wife threatened; Howard felt insulted…one thing leads to another, and it never ends. I’m so sick of it all, James.” Her whole body trembled. “And I would have liked so much to tell Paul that I loved him.”
James pulled her close. “He would have known you were lying,” he said softly. “You can’t change that, Gwyn.”
She nodded. “I’ll have to live with it, and I’ll hate myself for it every day. Love is so strange. I couldn’t feel anything for Paul, but Marama loved him…as naturally as she breathed air, and unconditionally, no matter what Paul did. She was his wife, you say? Where is she? Did Tonga do something to her?”
“I take it that she was officially Paul’s wife. Tonga and Paul fought over her in any case. So for Paul, it was serious. Where she is now, I don’t know. I don’t know the Maori’s mourning ceremonies. Probably she buried Paul and then withdrew. We’ll have to ask Tonga or Kiri.”
Gwyneira squared herself. Her hands were still trembling, but she managed now to warm her fingers on the teacup and to raise the cup to her mouth. “We need to find out. I won’t let anything happen to the girl as well. I need to go to the village as soon as possible. I want to put all of this behind me. But not today. Not tonight. I want tonight to myself. I want to be alone, James…I need to think. Tomorrow, after sunrise, I’ll talk to Tonga. I’m going to fight for Kiward Station, James. Tonga isn’t going to get it!”
James took Gwyneira in his arms and carried her gently to her bedroom. “Whatever you want, Gwyn. But I won’t leave you alone.
I’ll be there, tonight as well. You can cry or talk about Paul…there must also be some good memories. You must have been proud of him occasionally. Tell me about him and Marama. Or just let me hold you. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But you’re not alone.”
Gwyneira wore a black dress when she met Tonga on the lakeshore between Kiward Station and the Maori village. Negotiations were not carried out in closed rooms. Gods, spirits, and the ancestors would act as witnesses. Behind Gwyneira stood James, Andy, Poker, Kiri, and Moana. Twenty warriors looked on grimly behind Tonga.
After a few formal greetings had been exchanged, the chief expressed his regret over the death of her son—in measured words and perfect English. Gwyneira could hear the traces of Helen’s schooling. Tonga was a strange mixture of savage and gentleman.
“The governor has decided,” Gwyneira said in a steady voice, “that the sale of the land now called Kiward Station did not correspond in every respect to the policies outlined in the Treaty of Waitangi.”
Tonga laughed mockingly. “Not in every respect? The sale was against the law!”
Gwyneira shook her head. “No, it was not. It occurred before the ratification of the treaty that assured the Maori a minimum price for their land. One could not violate a treaty that did not yet exist—and that the Kai Tahu, moreover, never signed. Nevertheless, the governor finds that Gerald Warden cheated you when he bought the land.” She took a deep breath. “And after a thorough examination of the documents, I have to agree with him. Gerald Warden paid you off with pocket money. You only received two-thirds of the minimum sum you were entitled to. The governor has now determined that we must either pay the rest of this sum or give back a corresponding portion of the land. The latter seems more just to me since the land will fetch a higher price today.”
