a tongue twister. It’s best you begin with simpler words. Kia ora , for example.”
“Which means hello!” Charlotte smiled.
“And haere mai ?”
“Welcome!” Charlotte translated, apparently having gotten a head start. “Woman is wahine .”
Jack smiled. “ Haere mai, wahine Charlotte.”
Charlotte wanted to reply, but was trying to think of a word. “And what’s the word for man?” she asked.
“ Tane ,” James said.
Charlotte turned back to Jack. “ Kia ora, tane Jack.”
James caught Gwyneira’s gaze. She, too, had been closely observing the interaction between Jack and Charlotte.
“Looks like they don’t need to make a detour by way of Irish stew,” Gwyneira said, alluding to the first blush of her love for James.
“But bible verses might be important soon,” James quipped. When Gwyneira had first come to New Zealand, the only book that had been translated into Maori was the Bible. Whenever she needed a specific word, she had to think about where she might find it in there. “For where you go, I will go.”
While Gwyneira and James chatted with George and Elizabeth Greenwood, Jack gave Charlotte a tour of the farm, which was bustling now that the sheep had been herded down. All the stables were packed with sheep in their prime—well-nourished and healthy, with clean, thick wool that would keep them warm through the winter until shearing time. Talking about the sheep was easier for Jack than making polite conversation, and he gradually recovered his self-assurance. He and Charlotte wandered over to the Maori village, and Jack’s easy interactions with the natives gave him a chance to impress Charlotte. She enjoyed the idyllic village on the lake and admired the carvings on the public buildings.
“If you want, we can ride over to O’Keefe Station tomorrow,” Jack said. “Only the people who come to work at the farm every day live here. The tribe itself has moved to Howard O’Keefe’s old farm. The Maori received that land as reparations for irregularities in the purchase of Kiward Station. Marama lives there. And Rongo, the herbalist. Both of them speak good English and know lots of moteateas .”
“Those are songs that tell stories, right?” Charlotte asked.
“There are lamentations and lullabies, stories of revenge and of tribal feuds—just what you’re looking for.”
Charlotte looked up at him with a slight smile. “No love stories?”
“Of course there are love stories!” he said reassuringly. But then he understood. “Would you like to take down a love story?”
“If one presents itself,” Charlotte said, embarrassed. “But, I mean, it may be too early to take anything down. I think first I need to, to experience more. I’d like to be better acquainted first.”
Jack felt the blood rush to his face. “With the Maori? Or me?”
Charlotte blushed in turn. “Won’t one lead to the other?”
Charlotte planned to stay on Kiward Station for three months to research Maori culture. Elizabeth and Gwyneira exchanged conspiratorial looks as the arrangements were made. It was clear to both of them what had sprung up between Jack and Charlotte, and both approved. Even if Gwyneira did not always grasp right away what Charlotte was talking about, she found the girl charming.
She rode around the farm with Jack, let Gwyneira explain the finer points of the wool trade to her, and laughed as she practiced the various shrill whistles the shepherds used to direct the collies. At first the shepherds and Maori treated her with reserve—the young lady just back from England with the latest fashions and perfect manners had an intimidating effect. But Charlotte knew how to break the ice. She attempted the hongi , the traditional Maori greeting, learning that here it did not involve the mutual rubbing of noses but rather a light touching of one’s nose to the other’s forehead. Her elegant riding dress soon looked worn, and she quickly turned in her sidesaddle for one of the
“Which means hello!” Charlotte smiled.
“And haere mai ?”
“Welcome!” Charlotte translated, apparently having gotten a head start. “Woman is wahine .”
Jack smiled. “ Haere mai, wahine Charlotte.”
Charlotte wanted to reply, but was trying to think of a word. “And what’s the word for man?” she asked.
“ Tane ,” James said.
Charlotte turned back to Jack. “ Kia ora, tane Jack.”
James caught Gwyneira’s gaze. She, too, had been closely observing the interaction between Jack and Charlotte.
“Looks like they don’t need to make a detour by way of Irish stew,” Gwyneira said, alluding to the first blush of her love for James.
“But bible verses might be important soon,” James quipped. When Gwyneira had first come to New Zealand, the only book that had been translated into Maori was the Bible. Whenever she needed a specific word, she had to think about where she might find it in there. “For where you go, I will go.”
While Gwyneira and James chatted with George and Elizabeth Greenwood, Jack gave Charlotte a tour of the farm, which was bustling now that the sheep had been herded down. All the stables were packed with sheep in their prime—well-nourished and healthy, with clean, thick wool that would keep them warm through the winter until shearing time. Talking about the sheep was easier for Jack than making polite conversation, and he gradually recovered his self-assurance. He and Charlotte wandered over to the Maori village, and Jack’s easy interactions with the natives gave him a chance to impress Charlotte. She enjoyed the idyllic village on the lake and admired the carvings on the public buildings.
“If you want, we can ride over to O’Keefe Station tomorrow,” Jack said. “Only the people who come to work at the farm every day live here. The tribe itself has moved to Howard O’Keefe’s old farm. The Maori received that land as reparations for irregularities in the purchase of Kiward Station. Marama lives there. And Rongo, the herbalist. Both of them speak good English and know lots of moteateas .”
“Those are songs that tell stories, right?” Charlotte asked.
“There are lamentations and lullabies, stories of revenge and of tribal feuds—just what you’re looking for.”
Charlotte looked up at him with a slight smile. “No love stories?”
“Of course there are love stories!” he said reassuringly. But then he understood. “Would you like to take down a love story?”
“If one presents itself,” Charlotte said, embarrassed. “But, I mean, it may be too early to take anything down. I think first I need to, to experience more. I’d like to be better acquainted first.”
Jack felt the blood rush to his face. “With the Maori? Or me?”
Charlotte blushed in turn. “Won’t one lead to the other?”
Charlotte planned to stay on Kiward Station for three months to research Maori culture. Elizabeth and Gwyneira exchanged conspiratorial looks as the arrangements were made. It was clear to both of them what had sprung up between Jack and Charlotte, and both approved. Even if Gwyneira did not always grasp right away what Charlotte was talking about, she found the girl charming.
She rode around the farm with Jack, let Gwyneira explain the finer points of the wool trade to her, and laughed as she practiced the various shrill whistles the shepherds used to direct the collies. At first the shepherds and Maori treated her with reserve—the young lady just back from England with the latest fashions and perfect manners had an intimidating effect. But Charlotte knew how to break the ice. She attempted the hongi , the traditional Maori greeting, learning that here it did not involve the mutual rubbing of noses but rather a light touching of one’s nose to the other’s forehead. Her elegant riding dress soon looked worn, and she quickly turned in her sidesaddle for one of the
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