Call of the Kiwi (38 page)

“Your father?”

Wiremu nodded. “I just don’t like to fight with words.”

“What if you studied herbal medicine?” Gloria suggested. “You could become a
tohunga
.”

“And spend my days extracting tea-tree oil?” he asked bitterly. “Or becoming one with the universe? Listening to the voices of nature?
Te Reo?
”

“You tried it,” Gloria said, venturing a guess. “That’s why you were in the circle of stone warriors, right?”

The blood shot to Wiremu’s face. “The spirits were not very open.”

“They never are,” Gloria whispered.

“Just let your breath flow. No, Heremini, try not to wrinkle your nose. That’s better. Ani, you’re not going to become one with the
koauau
by changing; it’ll accept you as you are. The
nguru
wants to feel your breath, Heremini.” Marama sat in front of the meeting hall teaching two girls how to play the flutes. Ani’s and Heremini’s efforts to produce the notes were making Marama and the other women around her laugh.

Gloria was horrified, but the girls giggled too. They did not seem to think it such a tragedy that they could only draw a few squeaky sounds from the flutes.

“Gloria,” Marama said, standing up when she saw her granddaughter. “How nice to see you. You come here so rarely we ought to dance a greeting
haka
for you.”

Normally only honored guests—and therefore mostly outsiders—were greeted with a dance. But Ani and Heremini leaped up, raised their flutes and began playing their instruments like
mere pounamu
—war axes. When they began to chant verses, Marama asked them to be quiet.

“Now, stop it. Gloria’s no outsider. She belongs to the tribe. Besides, you ought to be ashamed of your croaking. Better try it again with the flutes. Gloria,
mokopuna
, don’t you want to come down from your horse?”

Gloria blushed and slipped down from the saddle. Wiremu grinned and moved to take her mare away.

“May I take the throne of the chieftain’s daughter to graze somewhere, or would I be trespassing on a
tapu
?” he whispered to her.

“Horses eat everywhere,” Gloria said. She was surprised when Wiremu understood it as a joke and laughed.

“Horses live in gods’ good graces,” he added as he removed Ceredwen’s saddle.

“
Taua
, here are fish for dinner. I’ve invited Gloria,” Wiremu said, turning to Marama.

“We’ll roast them later. But Gloria does not need an invitation; she is always welcome. Sit with us, Gloria. Can you still play the
koauau
?”

Gloria blushed. Marama had shown her how to make music with the flute as a child, and she had proved quite adroit at breath management. Though she had less of a talent for melody, she did not want to decline in front of the tribe. Nervously, she reached for the flute and blew into it with her nose as she had been taught, startling herself as she did so. The
koauau
let out a sort of moan that became a cry. Marama picked up the
nguru
, put it to her mouth, and began to provide a wild, stirring rhythm. Gloria winced when someone joined in with the
pahu pounamu
. The girls, Ani and Heremini, got up and began to dance again. They were still so small that their war-
haka
did not look particularly martial, but they nonetheless demonstrated the self-assured movements of the Maori warrior women of old.

“Does Kura perform this
haka
? How do you know it?” Marama asked her granddaughter. “It’s a very old piece—from the time when Maori men and women still fought side by side. It’s better known on the North Island.”

Gloria reddened. She had not known the dance before, having struck the opening note by accident. But the
koauau
had screamed out her rage—and Marama had led her into battle. Gloria had the feeling not so much of having made music as of having lived it.

“
Kia ora
, daughters! Should I be afraid? Has war broken out?” A deep voice vibrated behind them as dusk began to fall, and Rongo Rongo stepped into the light of the fire that Wiremu had lit.

“I must warm myself, children; let me by the fire, unless you need it right now to temper your spear points.” Rongo rubbed her short, powerful fingers over the fire. Behind Rongo, Gloria recognized Tonga, the chief. She had not seen Tonga since she’d been back, and his dark, tattooed face almost scared her.

But Tonga smiled. “Look, Gloria daughter of those who came to Aotearoa on the
Uruau
and on the
Dublin
.”

Gloria blushed. She knew the introduction ritual of the Maori—on important occasions, a person would name the canoe on which his ancestors had come to New Zealand hundreds of years before. Gloria’s
pakeha
matriarch had traveled to New Zealand only sixty years before aboard the
Dublin
.

“Have you come here to claim your inheritance? That of the Ngai Tahu or that of the Wardens?”

Gloria did not know how to respond.

“Leave her alone,” Marama said. “She’s here to eat and talk with us. Don’t listen to him, Gloria. Why don’t you help Wiremu and the girls prepare the fish?”

Gloria fled gratefully to the stream that flowed beside the village. She had not gutted fish since she was a little girl and had learned to fish from Jack. At first she was awkward, but to her amazement the other girls did not laugh at her. When Wiremu came over to show her how to do it, Gloria backed away from him.

“Would you rather dig up some sweet potatoes?” asked an older girl named Pau who had noticed Gloria’s reaction. “Come with me then.”

Pau linked arms with her in a friendly way as they walked to the field.

“Wiremu must like you,” she laughed. “He never usually cooks with us, just plays the great warrior. And he took care of your horse too.”

“I don’t like him,” Gloria said gruffly.

Pau raised her hands defensively. “Don’t be mad. I only thought, well, he’s a good fellow and the chief’s son. Most girls would like him.”

“He’s a man,” Gloria blurted out as if that justified her condemnation.

“Yes,” Pau said calmly, handing Gloria a shovel. “Dig in that bed to the right. And pick the smaller ones; they have a stronger flavor. We’ll wash them in the stream afterward.”

“Don’t pick on the girl, Tonga. It’s best you just leave her alone. She has suffered much.” Rongo Rongo watched Gloria as she left with the other girls to prepare the food.

“Is that what the spirits tell you?” Tonga asked, half-mockingly. He respected Rongo, but as much as he liked to appeal to tribal tradition, communing with the spirits of his ancestors did not work any better for him than for his son.

“My memory of the globe Mrs. O’Keefe had at school tells me that,” she said. “Do you no longer remember where America is located, Tonga? Or how big Australia is? Ten times bigger than Aotearoa. Gloria walked, or rode, through that. No one knows how she managed it. A
pakeha
girl, Tonga.”

“She’s half-Maori,” Tonga said.

“A quarter,” Rongo corrected him. “And not one raised with the knowledge of how to survive in the wilderness. You have heard of Australia, haven’t you? The heat, the snakes. She would not have been able to do that all alone.”

“She could also hardly have swum across the ocean herself,” Tonga said, laughing.

“Exactly,” said Rongo, and her face reflected her sorrow.

Marama didn’t press her granddaughter for details of her travels or Kura that evening. She simply allowed the girl to sit peacefully by the fire and listen to the conversation and stories unfolding around the fire. When Gloria was finally saddling her horse—after declining Wiremu’s offer of help—Tonga approached her. She was startled and kept her distance.

“Daughter of the Ngai Tahu,” he said at last. “Whatever was done to you, it was done by
pakeha
.”

6

A
fter the first few exciting weeks of marriage, Lilian Biller realized with a shock that their cash reserves had shrunk considerably. Although their rent was affordable, food and clothing, books for Ben’s studies, and even basic used furnishings, silverware, and linens had cost a great deal more than she’d anticipated. Turning her attention to how to make money, Lilian spoke to her husband first.

“Can you take on some work at the university?”

Ben looked up from the book he was reading, irritated. “Dearest, I work every day in the university.”

“I was referring to paid work. Does your professor need any help? Aren’t there some courses you could teach or something?”

Ben shook his head apologetically. The linguistics department at the University of Auckland was still small. The number of students hardly justified a full professor’s attention, let alone an assistant. And subjects like “the comparison of Polynesian dialects for the purpose of locating the Maori settlers’ region of origin”—though of great interest to his professor—would hardly fill a lecture hall.

“Well, then you’ll just have to look for something else,” Lilian said, interrupting his long-winded explanation of the situation. “We need money, dearest, there’s no way around it.”

“But my studies! If I concentrate on them now, then late
r . . .
”

“Later we’ll be starving, Ben. Find something you can do alongside your studies. If I work too, we’ll manage.”

Lilian kissed him encouragingly.

Lilian was able to find a respectable number of piano students in no time. She concentrated her efforts on the artisans’ quarter, steering clear of academic families, since the housewife might play better than Lilian could. Among the hardworking second-generation immigrants who had often achieved more than modest wealth with their flourishing workshops, there was a desire to imitate the rich, and this included a basic musical education for their children.

Lilian’s notices, which she’d hung in grocery stores and pubs, garnered an unexpectedly large response, and Lilian quickly won over nervous parents as easily as her students. It was obviously impressive that she had studied music in England, but they were most reassured by the fact that they could speak comfortably with her. In addition, Lilian did not precisely follow the classic precepts. She reduced finger exercises and études to a minimum so that her students could often hammer out a simple song by the third or fourth lesson. And since her clientele preferred singing to attending piano concerts, she placed emphasis on simple accompaniments to popular songs and patriotic pieces. Her strategy paid off: nothing convinced her students’ parents of their child’s talent and their teacher’s genius more than the fact that they could gather around the piano at the very next family gathering and wail “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.”

Ben found it considerably more difficult to earn money and had to rely on his physical strength to make ends meet. Unskilled labor jobs could be found at practically any time of the day or night in the harbor. So Ben loaded and unloaded ships and freight wagons, mostly in the morning before his lectures began.

The couple got by without too much trouble for a few months. They even earned enough for a proper table and two chairs. Their apartment over the pub remained unsatisfactory, however. It was still loud, stank of beer and old grease, and Lily complained that she could not take on any piano students in the evening because she was afraid of walking through their neighborhood alone. The bathroom in the hall was a disaster—it never occurred to any of the other tenants to clean it. Lilian would not and could not stay for long—especially not once she began to struggle with morning sickness.

“So the time’s finally come,” giggled her thoroughly degenerate neighbor when Lilian, pale faced and still in her bathrobe, lurched out of the bathroom and back to her apartment. “I was wondering if you had a bun in the oven.”

The woman had four children herself, so she knew of what she spoke. Lilian, nevertheless, managed a trip to the doctor, which devoured the remainder of her savings. Elated, she danced her way to the docks to pick up Ben.

“Isn’t that grand, Ben? A baby!” Lilian said as she arrived on the quay. He was carrying a few sacks from one of the ships to a freight wagon and looked completely exhausted. Lilian took no notice. She was overjoyed and full of plans.

Ben could not share in her joy. He had begun work at five that morning, spent the day at the university, and now found himself back on the docks. After putting in two shifts, he had been hoping to be able to study undisturbed for the next few days. Lilian’s pregnancy would now force him to push himself even harder. Their family had to be supported, after all, and he would have to take that on alone for the foreseeable future.

“It won’t be that bad, Ben,” Lilian comforted him. “I can teach for a few more months. And you can just hurry your dissertation along a bit. Once you’ve earned your doctorate, they’re sure to give you a paid job. Your professor is awfully excited about your work.”

That was indeed the case, but one couldn’t live off academic accolades alone. Ben did not see much hope for a second linguistics chair at the University of Auckland. Especially not for such a young graduate.

“But you don’t make enough working in the harbor,” she noted, “especially not if we’re going to look for a new apartment.”

“I’ll think of something,” Ben promised vaguely, then smiled. “We’ll manage. Lily, a baby! And we did it all on our own.”

Lilian loved Ben with all her heart, but she had long since discovered that his sensational mental dexterity applied more to the syntax and word melody of Polynesian relative clauses than to solving the challenges of daily life. Not trusting him to “think of something” on his own, she tried to figure out herself which of his talents they might use to their profit. One day, on the way to meet a piano student, she passed the offices of the
Auckland Herald
. A newspaper. And Ben was a poet. Writing ought to come easily to him. And it had to pay better than unloading freighters.

Lilian entered the building and found herself in a medium-sized office space where several men were hammering away on typewriters, talking on the phone, and filing stories.

Lilian addressed the nearest person.

“Who’s in charge here?” she asked with her sweetest smile.

“Thomas Wilson,” the man answered without really looking at her. He appeared to be editing an article and alternated between chewing on his pencil and dragging urgently on a cigarette.

“There.” The man pointed with his pencil to a door with a plaque that read “Editor in Chief.”

Lilian knocked.

“Come in, Carter. And I hope this time you’re ready,” a voice thundered from inside.

Lilian pushed open the door. “I don’t mean to disturb you,” she said softly.

“You’re not disturbing anything until the boys out there give me some text to review. But seems like that’ll take a while. What can I do for you?” Though the man behind the desk made no motion to stand up, he offered Lilian a seat with a sweep of his hand. His wide, slightly flushed face was dominated by a hammer nose, and his dark hair was beginning to gray. Though his gray-blue eyes were small, he sized up Lilian with youthful energy.

Lilian sat down in the leather chair on the other side of his messy, paper-strewn desk.

“What does one have to be able to do to write for your newspaper?” she asked, not bothering with introductions.

Wilson grinned. “Write,” he said simply. “And thinking would be a plus. But as that lot out there proves daily, it’s not a necessity.”

“My husband is a linguist. And he writes poetry.”

Wilson observed with fascination the way her eyes brightened.

“That should cover the basics,” he remarked.

Lilian beamed. “That’s wonderful, that is, if you’re hiring. He desperately needs a job.”

“There’s no fixed position vacant at the moment, though I might well throw someone out today. But I can always use freelance writers.” Wilson took a drag off his cigarette.

“He’s looking for a job that he can do alongside his university work,” Lilian specified.

Wilson nodded. “One doesn’t make much as a linguist, eh?”

“So far nothing at all. And yet Ben’s brilliant, according to his professor. Everyone says it. He even had a scholarship to Cambridge, but with the war and all . . .”

“Your husband doesn’t have anything in print he can point to yet?” Wilson asked.

“No. But like I said, he writes poetry.” She smiled. “Wonderful poetry.”

Wilson snorted. “We don’t print poetry. But I’d be willing to read one of his poems. Maybe your husband has something to teach me.”

“Here!” Lilian said and began rummaging in her handbag. Triumphantly she pulled out a tattered piece of letter paper. “I always keep the most beautiful one with me.”

She looked at him, expecting approval as Wilson unfolded the page and perused the text. The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly as he read.

“At least he doesn’t make any spelling errors,” he concluded.

“Of course not. Besides that, he speaks French and Maori and a few Polynesian dialects tha
t . . .
”

“Fine, fine, young lady. I get it. He’s nature’s crowning achievement. Maori, you say? Then he should know a little something about the spirit world, eh?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“It was a joke. But if your husband’s interested, we have here an invitation to a séance. A certain Mrs. Margery Crandon out of Boston and a few of Auckland’s notables are planning to conjure a few spirits this evening. She’s a medium and does this for a living. We’d like someone to cover the event—might be something for the culture pages. But all my boys have declined. Not a one of them wants to wake the dead with Mrs. Crandon. And I’ve sent my freelancers elsewhere. If your husband would like to step in, this would be an ideal test piece. After that, we’ll see.”

“What, uh, does it offer financially?” inquired Lilian.

Wilson laughed. “Summoning spirits or the article? Well, our workers are paid by the line. As for mediums, I have no idea—by the number of spirits summoned maybe?”

Before Lilian could ask any more questions, one of Wilson’s workers whipped the door open.

“Here are the proofs, boss.” He threw a stack of messy-looking pages onto the desk.

“Took you long enough,” Wilson growled. “So young lady, what’s your name anyway? Here’s the invitation. I want the text on my desk by tomorrow at five, the earlier the better. Understood?”

“Ben Biller,” she said. “That’s my husband’s name, I mean.”

Wilson was already busy with other things. “I’ll see him tomorrow.”