Call of the Kiwi (59 page)

At midnight Elaine’s sons set off fireworks. The guests, most of them already tipsy, greeted them with cheers.

Gwyneira, however, headed to the stables. She knew that the horses were locked in. She would not find James there hurrying to bring in the mares before the noise scared them. Nor would anyone be playing the fiddle near the barn, as there had been on her own wedding night. Back when Gwyneira had first gotten married, the shepherds had twirled the maids to the music of an accordion, fiddle, and tin whistle while a string quartet had played for the guests in the festively lit garden. Gwyneira could still see the fire before her and James’s beaming face as she joined the men and granted him a dance. She had almost kissed him then.

But even now a couple was kissing in the stables. Jack and Gloria had fled the commotion and were holding each other close while thousands of artificial falling stars lit the sky.

Gwyneira did not say a word. She simply slipped away into the darkness and left them to each other. They were the future.

“This is my last wedding on Kiward Station,” Gwyneira said nostalgically. She had declined the sparkling wine and was sipping some whiskey. She drank to James. “I won’t live to see the next generation.”

Lilian, the wine having bubbled to her head and so quick to get teary, embraced her great-grandmother. “Nonsense. Look, you’ve already got a great-great-grandson.” It sounded as if she counted on Galahad getting married the next day. “And besides, we could really stand to get married again, Ben. It was pretty sad at the civil registrar’s in Auckland. This was so much better. Especially the fireworks. Or we’ll do something different and marry according to Maori customs. Like in
The Heiress of Wakanui—
that was so romantic.” She beamed at Ben.

“Dear, Maori tribes don’t have romantic weddings.” Ben looked afflicted; he had probably given this lecture to his wife several times before. “Most formal marriage ceremonies have a function in dynastic alliances whereby a clerical union is also assumed.” He wanted to go on but noticed that his audience was no longer listening. “You simply invented the ritual in
The Heiress of Wakanui
.”

Lilian shrugged. “So? What’s wrong with that? At heart it’s always just about a really good story.”

Afterword

E
ven a historical novel needs a good story, but a serious author should steer clear of Lily’s carefree approach to history and mythology. I have worked hard to embed my fictional characters’ story in a well-researched web of facts. In the case of the Battle of Gallipoli, that was relatively easy. The story of the ANZAC troops can be found in countless forms—from eyewitness accounts to narratives for young people to stories on the Internet. However, the suffering of the men in the trenches is almost invariably painted in a heroic light.

The reinterpretation of this catastrophic military blunder and subsequent defeat into a heroic epic hardly has its equal. Gallipoli was one of the bloodiest battles of the First World War, and the only credit to the high command lies in the successful withdrawal of their troops with an astoundingly small blow to morale. Though a few critical journalists asked piercing questions about the sense of the battle back then—thereby perhaps shortening the disaster—all that gets celebrated now is the heroism of the soldiers who were mercilessly delivered up. One exception is Eric Bogle’s song “And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda,” which impressed me much more than all the parades on the annually celebrated ANZAC Day.

I have tried to represent the mood and the course of the struggles at Gallipoli as authentically as possible. The characters of the soldiers and their superiors are, however, fictional. The medical officer Joseph Lievesley Beeston and his mixed-breed dog so disinclined to military discipline, Paddy, are the only exceptions. Their adventures can be read on the Internet. Beeston’s war journal provides a great deal of information, as well as the background for my story. Unfortunately no pictures of the two have survived. Thus I had to use my imagination, although in the case of Paddy, the image of my own, also largely discipline-resistant dachshund mix, imposed itself. Thanks, Buddy, for constant inspiration.

The Maori tribe on Kiward Station played a role in my previous books, but this time I had Gloria delve deeper into their ideas and way of life. Research of Maori culture is not easy—in part because there is no such thing as a unifying Maori culture.

Every tribe had and has its own customs and
tapu
. They can vary greatly and depend largely on the community’s circumstances. For example, the South Island was much poorer in resources and more thinly populated than the North Island, so there were far fewer military confrontations between the tribes there—laws,
tapu
, and concepts of value therefore have been much less marked by militarism.

Only the pantheon and aspects of the mythical world are held in common by practically all the inhabitants of the North and South Islands. With almost all the better universities in New Zealand offering Maori studies now, academia serves as a good source. Academics tend to study certain aspects of Maori culture in order to try then to fit them into the larger whole, where possible. Less serious publications pick and choose what seems to fit neatly into their view of Maori culture or whatever can be easily marketed. A German alternative healer, for example, devoted a whole book to tea-tree oil as a supposed panacea among the Maori, while official Maori organizations do not even mention the
manuka
tree as a medicinal plant.

Mystics have also begun tapping into the apparent wisdom of the Maori. This at least sets their previously preferred target—the Aborigines of Australia—free. After all, the Aborigines do not show much enthusiasm for the miracle powers ascribed to them by delusional Westerners. Rather than crude publicity, they would have preferred greater acceptance, better educational opportunities, and higher paid jobs. In principle it can be said about all publications on Maori culture (not to mention that of the Aborigines) that reasonable doubt is more than appropriate. Since the authenticity of sources is hard to verify, I have largely limited my research for this book to the testimonies and publications of Maori or Maori organizations. Though that does not guarantee absolute authenticity (understandably one tends to leave the darker aspects of one’s own culture off of the “About Us” page), it nevertheless avoids risky speculation.

It must also be noted here that on the subject of the study of Maori culture, I have skipped ahead a little in time. There was not yet a Department of Maori Studies in Auckland in the early twentieth century.

The gulf between Maori and
pakeha
, however, was never as deep as that between natives and colonists in other parts of the world. This is especially true of the South Island. There were never notable confrontations between the Ngai Tahu—to which not only my fictional tribe but also practically all
iwi
of the South Island belong—and the immigrants from Europe. According to the testimony of a Maori culture researcher who was kind enough to converse with me on the subject, the tribes willingly adapted to the Western way of life because, at least at first glance, it offered a higher quality of life. Only later did doubts about that emerge, and in that sense, Tonga, too, is a little ahead of his time. Today there is a strong movement among Maori, particularly those on the North Island, that pushes for a return to their own culture and encourages young
pakeha
to engage with it as well.

As for Lilian’s story, the reader may ask whether the story of her wedding is credible. In fact, one could and still can take one’s vows spontaneously in New Zealand—as long as one has a passport and has reached the minimum age. The written approval of the parents for those under eighteen was, and remains, a formality.

The
Auckland Herald
did indeed exist in Lilian’s day. The paper was owned by the Wilson family. However, Thomas Wilson, my relaxed editor in chief, is fictional—unlike the medium Margery Crandon, who was world famous in her day. Whether the lady took her nonsense to New Zealand, though, is doubtful, at least during the war years, when she was making herself useful driving an ambulance in Boston. Though Crandon did wrap Arthur Conan Doyle around her finger, the great magician Houdini shared Lily’s estimation of the medium and revealed Crandon to be a fraud. It did no harm to her reputation as a mystic. It does not always have to be a good story.

Acknowledgments

A
s always, I would like to thank my friends and editors for advice and help with the production of this book, especially my miracle-working agent, Bastian Schlück. Klara Decker did the test reading as usual, and Eva Schlück and Melanie Blank-Schröder contributed to the discussion of the often somewhat unwieldy character of Gloria. It is undoubtedly a little unusual for the heroine of a novel to get in her own way as often as Gwyneira’s great-granddaughter does, and the girl even got on my nerves occasionally. But that is just how she was: a human in a story about humans.

Rob Ritchie helped me with information about the life of British soldiers and even checked the whole Gallipoli chapter for accuracy. It surely took him many hours. The authentic feeling of being shot at unexpectedly I owe to those modern, rather undisciplined hunters I once encountered on a stroll, to whom, however, I am not really grateful.

As I worked on the first chapters, my border collie Cleo, who lent her inspiration again and again to the first volumes of this trilogy, was still sitting beside me. Then she took her leave, after twenty years, with the spirits to Hawaiki.

As far as heaven, Cleo, and a few stars beyond.

—Sarah Lark

About the Author

Photo © 2011 Gonzalo Perez

S
arah Lark’s series of “landscape novels” have made her a bestselling author in Germany, her native country, as well as in Spain and the United States. She 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 © 2011 Sanna Stegmaier

D
. W. Lovett is a graduate of the University of Illinois at 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. This is his third translation of Sarah Lark’s work to be published in English, following
In the Land of the Long White Cloud
and
Song of the Spirits
.