by Sarah Lark
Tonga looked her over, leering. “We feel honored, Mrs. Warden,” he remarked, and hinted at a bow. “You really mean to share your valuable Kiward Station with us?”
Gwyneira would have liked to give the arrogant brat an earful, but now was not the time. So she got a hold of herself and continued with as much composure as she had begun. “As reparation, I would like to offer you the farm known as O’Keefe Station. I know that you often wander across it, and the highlands there are richer in hunting and fishing grounds than Kiward Station. On the other hand, it’s less suited to raising sheep. Thus we would all be served. In terms of area, O’Keefe Station is half as large as Kiward Station. You would thus receive more land than the governor granted you.”
Gwyneira had formulated this plan almost as soon as she had heard the governor’s decision. Helen wanted to sell it. She was going to stay in Queenstown, and Gwyneira could pay her for the farm in several installments. That way Kiward Station would not take a hit from the reparation payments, and no doubt it was more in keeping with the late Howard O’Keefe’s desires, for the land would go to the Maori and not the hated Wardens.
The men behind Tonga whispered among themselves. It looked as though they took great interest in her suggestion. Tonga, however, shook his head.
“What grace, Mrs. Warden. A piece of less valuable land, a dilapidated farm—and the stupid Maori should feel lucky, eh?” He laughed. “No, I pictured things a little differently.”
Gwyneira sighed. “What do you want?” she asked.
“What I want…what I really wanted…was the land on which we stand. From the road to Haldon to the dancing rocks.” That was the area between the farm and the highlands that the Maori called the stone circle.
Gwyneira frowned. “But our house is on that land! That’s impossible.”
Tonga grinned. “I said that’s what I wanted…but we owe you a certain blood debt, Mrs. Warden. Your son’s death is my fault even if he did not die by my hand. I didn’t want it, Mrs. Warden. I wanted to see him bleed, not for him to die. I wanted him to watch while I tore his house to the ground—or took up occupancy myself! With Marama as my wife. That would have caused him more pain than any spear. But so be it. I have decided to spare you. Keep your house, Mrs. Warden. But I want all the land from the dancing rocks to the stream that separates Kiward Station and O’Keefe Station.” He looked at her presumptuously.
Gwyneira felt as though the ground was giving way from under her feet. She turned her gaze from Tonga and fixed it on James. Her eyes reflected confusion and desperation.
“Those are our best pastures,” she said. “The three shearing sheds are there. It’s almost all fenced in.”
James stepped forward and put his arm around her. He looked at Tonga sternly.
“Maybe you two should take some time to think things over some more,” he said calmly.
Gwyneira straightened. Her eyes sparked.
“If we give you what you want,” she exclaimed, “we might as well just hand Kiward Station over to you. Maybe we should do it too! There won’t be another heir. And you and I, James, we could just concentrate on Helen’s farm.”
Gwyneira breathed deeply and let her gaze wander over the land she had protected and taken care of.
“Everything will fall apart,” she said as though to herself. “The breeding schedule, the sheep farm, the longhorns now too…and so much work has been put into them. We had the best animals in Canterbury, if not on the whole island. Damn it, Gerald Warden had his faults, but he did not deserve this!” She bit her lip to keep herself from crying. For the first time, she felt like she could cry for Gerald. For Gerald, Lucas, and Paul.
“No!” The voice was quiet but piercing. A songlike voice, the voice of a born storyteller and singer.
The group of warriors behind Tonga separated to make way for Marama. The girl stepped serenely between them.
Marama was not tattooed but had painted the symbols of her people on her skin that day: they decorated her chin and the skin between her mouth and nose, making her narrow face look like one of the gods’ masks that Gwyneira recognized from Matahorua’s house. Marama had tied her hair up, like adult women did when they dressed themselves for holiday celebrations. Her upper body was naked, though she wore a cloth around her shoulders and a wide white skirt Gwyneira had once given her.
“Do not dare to call me your wife, Tonga! I have never lain with you and I never will. I was and am Paul Warden’s wife. And this was and is Paul Warden’s land!” Marama had been speaking English so far; now she changed to her own language. No one in Tonga’s retinue should misunderstand her. She spoke slowly enough that not a word should escape Gwyneira and James. Everyone on Kiward Station was to know what Marama Warden had to say.
“This is the Wardens’ land, but it is also the Kai Tahu’s. And now there is to be a child whose mother comes from the tribe of those who came to Aotearoa on the canoe uruao. And whose father from the tribe of the Wardens. Paul never told me what canoe his father’s ancestors rowed, but our union was blessed by the ancestors of the Kai Tahu. The mothers and fathers of the uruao will welcome the child. And this will be his land.”
The young woman laid her hands on her stomach and raised her arms in an all-encompassing gesture, as though she wanted to embrace the land and the mountains.
The warriors behind Tonga raised their voices. Approving voices. No one would fight over the land with Marama’s child—especially not when all of the land of O’Keefe Station would fall to the Maori tribes.
Gwyneira smiled and composed herself for a response. She was a little dizzy, but more than that, she felt relieved; now she hoped that she chose the right words and that she spoke them correctly. It was her first speech in Maori that went beyond daily matters, and she wanted everyone to understand:
“Your child is from the tribe of those who came to Aotearoa on the Dublin. The family of this child’s father will also welcome it. As heir of this farm called Kiward Station on the land of the Kai Tahu.”
Gwyneira attempted to imitate Marama’s gesture, but in her case, it was Marama and her unborn grandchild whom she held in her arms.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my editor, Melanie Blank-Schröder, who believed in this novel from the start, and most of all to my ingenious agent, Bastian Schlück.
Thanks to Heike, who put me in touch with Pawhiri, and to Pawhiri and Sigrid, who answered my endless questions about Maori culture. If I have still made errors in my depiction, the fault is mine alone.
Many thanks to Klara for a great deal of precise and specialized information on wool quality and sheep breeds, help with Internet research about immigrants to New Zealand in the nineteenth century, and professional “test reading.”
Finally, thanks, of course, to the cobs who always galloped my head free—and to Cleo for thousands of adoring collie smiles.
Sarah Lark
About the Author
Photo © Gonzalo Perez, 2011
Sarah Lark, author of several bestselling historical fiction novels in Germany and Spain, was born in Germany’s Ruhr region, where she discovered a love of animals—especially horses—early in life. She has worked as an elementary school teacher, travel guide, and commercial writer. She has also written numerous award-winning books about horses for adults and children, one of which was nominated for the Deutsche Jugendbuchpreis, Germany’s distinguished prize for best children’s book. Sarah currently lives with four dogs and a cat on her farm in Almería, Spain, where she cares for retired horses, plays guitar, and sings in her spare time.
About the Translator
Photo © Sanna Stegmaier, 2011
D. W. Lovett is a graduate of the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign from which he received a degree in comparative literature and German as well as a certificate from the university’s Center for Translation Studies. He has spent the last few years living in Europe.
the Land of the Long White Cloud
