Call of the Kiwi (17 page)

“Why would I be angry with you?” Jack asked. “And where is Charlotte? Is she with the others? What’s going on,
wahine
?”

“She wanted to show her spirit the way,” Irihapeti said, turning to face to him. “She told me it was afraid of the separation from her body because there would be no Hawaiki for it. But here it needed only follow the others. You could not have helped her.”

The old woman turned back to the sea.

Jack’s head began to work. The spirits, the cliffs, the doctor’s vague words. He had wanted to deny it, but Charlotte had known she would die.

But not like this! Not alone!

“She’s not alone,” Irihapeti said. Jack did not know if she was reading his mind or if he had spoken those last words aloud.

“I have to look for her.”

Jack felt an overpowering surge of guilt as he ran toward the rocky path. How could he have slept? Why had he not noticed anything?

“You can wait for her here too,” said Irihapeti.

Jack did not listen. He rushed up the steep path as if the furies were at his heels, stopping only occasionally to catch his breath. He had no eye for the beauty of the rocks or the sea. But he couldn’t help but notice that the sky was cloudy, and everything seemed sunk in a strange blue twilight. Haunted light? Jack forced himself to move faster. Maybe he could still catch her. He should have asked the old woman when Charlotte had gone. But she probably did not know. For Maori
tohunga,
time passed differently.

When Jack finally reached the light tower, it was midday, but the sun still had not completely emerged. The lighthouse keeper greeted him cheerfully—until he saw the state Jack was in. There was no sign of Charlotte.

“There are dozens of places she might be,” the lighthouse keeper said after Jack had explained his fears. “Maybe you’re getting all worked up for nothing. These Maori grandmothers talk a lot when the days are long. Your wife may very well be with her friends, safe and sound. Frail as she looked, it’s hard to believe she managed that ascent on her own.”

Jack went to the cliffs above the
pohutukawa
tree. That’s where she must have done it. He thought he could still feel Charlotte’s presence. But no, that could not be. Her soul should long since have reached Ohaua.

Jack sent a silent greeting to the islands. He did not know why he felt no despair, but there was only emptiness in him, an ice-cold emptiness.

As though in a trance, he clambered back down the path. What if he were to stumble now? But Jack did not stumble. He was not ready for Hawaiki, not yet. Though filled with cold and darkness, he noticed the sun come out from behind the clouds, and his feet felt the path surely.

Irihapeti was still there when he returned to the beach.

“Come,
tane
,” she said calmly and waded into the water.

Jack soon caught up to her, and then he saw it too. A blue dress tossed by the waves. Long blonde hair swaying in the tide.

“Charlotte!” Jack began to swim.

“You can simply wait,” Irihapeti said. She remained standing far out in the water.

Jack embraced his wife’s body and fought with the sea to bring it back to land. He was out of breath and at the end of his strength when he reached Irihapeti. She helped him carry Charlotte to land without a word. They laid her down on a blanket Irihapeti had spread out.

Jack pushed the hair out of his wife’s face—and saw for the first time in a long time an expression of perfect peace. Charlotte was free of pain. And her soul was following the path of the spirits.

Jack shivered.

“I’m freezing,” he said.

Irihapeti nodded.

“It will be a long time before the cold passes.”

6

S
o is that a
haka
?”

Gloria was standing next to Tamatea behind the improvised stage in the Ritz and listening to Kura’s farewell concert. Marisa was feeling better and had just accompanied through the ballad that Gloria had tried unsuccessfully the day before. The girl would not have recognized the piece—Marisa brought the piano to whisper alongside the spirit voice of the
putorino
and acted as a bridge between the stomping rhythm of the war dance in the background and the ballad Kura was performing. Gloria had never heard anything like it in the Maori villages. Normally, those were simple rhythms accessible to people without much musical talent. These were much more complex, with diverging melodies and instruments. Hoping that Tamatea would not laugh at her, she asked about the difference.

“It’
s . . .
art,” Tamatea explained, reaching for the English word.

Tamatea chose her words carefully, but nevertheless managed to imply that she did not entirely approve of Kura’s interpretation of Maori music.

William Martyn, who had overheard Gloria’s question, cast a disapproving glance at Tamatea. He only spoke a little Maori, but knew from the two English words the meaning behind her reply.

“We’re not purists on that point, Gloria,” he said. “Who cares whether it’s original Maori music or not? What matters is that people can follow it. We’re even considering translating Kura’s lyrics into English.”

“But it says in the program that they’re authentic.” Gloria did not know exactly what bothered her, but she felt that something important to her was being betrayed. Maybe she was just too thin-skinned. Earlier she had caught herself affectionately striking the
tumutumu
, comforted by the reminder that her country on the other side of the globe really did exist.

William rolled his eyes. “The program says lots of things,” he said. “We saw a performance of this Mata Hari in Paris. Very pretty, very artistic—but she’s certainly never seen the inside of an Indian temple. She’s not even Indian. But the people don’t care. They want exoticism and bare skin. We’ll need to work on that if we want to keep people’s attention.”

“Even more bare skin?” Gloria asked. The dancers’ costumes already displayed plenty of cleavage, and their
piupiu—
flax-leaf skirts—ended well above the knee, showing off the girls’ naked legs.

“Don’t be such a prude, dear,” William laughed. “We’re just thinking of shorter skirts, and doing away with this face-painting business,” he said, casting an almost sullen look at Tamatea. “At least for the girls. The men should look fearsome. Particularly in America.”

But Gloria had stopped listening. She was indifferent to her mother’s work. What little of New Zealand she had once been able to find in the shows had disappeared. She was beginning to dread America.

The following day, she boarded the steamship listlessly. It had taken forever for all of Kura’s stage props to be loaded onto the ship, but the singer insisted on overseeing it all herself. It was pouring down rain, and Gloria looked like a wet cat when she finally entered her first-class cabin, which she was thankfully sharing with Tamatea.

The passage from London to New York passed calmly. Gloria’s parents mostly left her in peace. Kura reveled in her celebrity among the passengers, while William drank with the lords and danced with the ladies. The captain bombarded Kura with requests to sing for his passengers and officers, and she finally gave in. Naturally the concert was a total success—and Gloria suffered through the usual onslaught of shame: “Are you as musical as your mother? No? How unfortunate. But you must be very proud of your mother, Miss Martyn.”

“How can people live here?” Tamatea asked as the ship passed Ellis Island and New York came into view. “The buildings are too tall to see the sky. The ground is sealed, the light artificial. And the city is filled with noise. I can hear it from here. That drives the spirits away. These people must be restless, uprooted.”

It was true. New York was even bigger, louder, and darker than London; and if Gloria had been a spirit, she would have fled.

Kura, however, could hardly wait to venture out into this new, peculiar city. Her concert manager had sent her telegrams on the ship. There was enormous interest in her performances, and the first shows were already sold out. A few things still needed to be done beforehand, and Kura burned with desire for action. After disembarking, the Martyns took one of the new automobiles to the Waldorf Astoria. Gloria liked neither the rattling vehicle nor the intimidating elegance of the hotel lobby.

Gloria was largely left to her own devices during her first days in New York. William and Kura suggested she visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she indifferently perused the many paintings her teachers had tried to make her excited about for years. She found the weapons and musical instruments somewhat more interesting, but in the end, she fled to Central Park and got lost in the expansive gardens. At least one could see the earth and sky there. But Manhattan’s skyscrapers cut off the horizon and a haze lay over New York. On Kiward Station it was now spring. When Gloria shut her eyes, she saw newly shorn sheep in pastures green from rain, ready to be driven into the highlands toward the mountains. Jack would be riding with the animals, perhaps accompanied by his wife, Charlotte. Gwyneira had written that their marriage was a happy one. But who could be unhappy on Kiward Station?

George Greenwood could not accompany Lilian as far as Greymouth. Urgent business was waiting for him in Christchurch—as was the news of Charlotte’s death. Gwyneira, who had come to pick up her great-granddaughter from Lyttelton, informed him that Elizabeth was expecting him at the hotel. Gwyneira, too, was in mourning but did not want to spoil Lilian’s homecoming.

Lilian did not notice Gwyneira’s subdued mood. The girl was delighted to be almost home, and she beamed when Gwyneira told her that she would see her mother that day. Unable to wait, Elaine had taken the night train from Greymouth, and Lilian and Gwyneira were on their way to retrieve her. After that mother and daughter were going to spend a few days on Kiward Station.

“What about Daddy?” Lilian asked. “He’s not coming?”

“It seems he can’t get away. The war and all. But, come. Let’s head to the station.”

“I’m not going to say you’ve grown,” Elaine teased her daughter after finally releasing her. “That was to be expected, after all.”

“I’m not that big,” Lilian protested. “I’m not even as tall as you.”

“I’m expecting you’ve grown mentally,” Elaine joked. “After so many years at an English boarding school, you should be a walking dictionary.”

“At least she can still ride,” Gwyneira said, feigning mirth.

Gwyneira appeared strained and seemed to have aged greatly since Elaine’s last visit. Elaine squeezed her grandmother’s hand silently. She had learned of Jack and Charlotte’s tragedy just before her departure.

“Is Jack still in the north?” she asked.

Gwyneira nodded. “Elizabeth would like to have Charlotte brought over, but how they’re supposed to arrange that, nobody knows. They’ve been waiting for George—what a homecoming for him!”

“No telegram on the ship?”

“Would that have changed anything? Elizabeth wanted to tell him herself.” Gwyneira broke off with a sidelong glance at Lilian.

“Is something the matter?” the girl asked.

Elaine sighed. “Your uncle Jack is in mourning, Lily, and bad news is likewise awaiting Uncle George. His daughter Charlotte, Jack’s wife, died.”

Gwyneira prayed Lilian would not ask for the details, but the girl did not seem much affected by the news. Lily hardly knew Jack, and she had never met Charlotte. After briefly expressing her regret, she began chattering away again. After telling Gwyneira about her friends’ horses in England and Elaine about the sea journey, she began describing her plans to help her father run the mine.

Elaine smiled. “He’ll need you. The mines are working at full capacity. Tim predicted it when the war broke out, but it’s all happened so quickly. They’re saying that the war will be over soon, so the industry has to hurry and make as much profit as possible. Florence Biller is carrying out massive upgrades on the Biller Mine, and the others have to see that they keep up. Are we really going to be able to fit all our baggage in this little chaise, Grandmum?”

The women had left the train station and walked to Gwyneira’s buggy in front of which waited an elegant cob mare.

“No, we have a delivery wagon here that will take our things. But I thought you two might prefer a quick ride. And I don’t want to leave James alone for too long. Charlotte’s death struck him hard. We all liked her very much. And James, well, I’m very worried.”

James McKenzie was restless. He should have been sad, but what he felt was closer to anger. Charlotte had been so young, so full of joie de vivre. And Jack had loved her immensely. James knew how it felt to love so dearly—he felt the same way about Gwyneira. Where had she gone again? James’s memory had begun to fail recently, and he sometimes found himself waiting for the young girl who had raced her brown pony like a whirlwind over the Canterbury Plains. Then he would be surprised when Gwyneira’s face was suddenly covered in wrinkles and her hair almost white.

He decided to go downstairs and welcome Gwyneira in front of the stables. Though his heart beat heavily, his limbs did not hurt that day. He could almost have gone riding. Yes, a ride would be nice.

James supported himself only lightly on his cane as he went down the steps. The horses whinnied as he entered the stables. Maaka, Jack’s best friend and Kiward Station’s foreman in Jack’s absence, was puttering about. He laughed when James appeared.