In the Land of the Long White Cloud

many lamb births that the shepherds had helped with as she watched in secret. That experience might be helpful here too. Taking heart, she reached for the little head, tugging while Helen wheezed and screamed in pain. This drove the little head all the way out. Gwyneira pulled when she saw the shoulders—and suddenly the baby was there, and Gwyneira was staring into its wrinkly little face.
    “Cut now,” Rongo said calmly. “Cut cord off. Beautiful baby, Mrs. O’Keefe. Boy!”
    “A little boy?” Helen moaned, attempting to sit up. “Really?”
    “Looks that way,” said Gwyneira.
    Rongo reached for the knife she had laid out earlier and cut through the umbilical cord. “Now must breathe!”
    The baby did not just breathe; it started bawling right away.
    Gwyneira beamed. “Looks like he’s healthy!”
    “Surely healthy…I said, healthy…” The voice came from the door. Matahorua, the Maori
tohunga
, entered the room. As protection against the cold and wet, she had wound a blanket around her body, securing it with a belt. Her many tattoos were more clearly visible than usual, as the old woman was pale from the cold, maybe from weariness too.
    “Me sorry, but other baby…”
    “Is the other baby healthy too?” Helen asked languidly.
    “No. Dead. But mama live. You beautiful son!”
    Matahorua now took charge in the nursery. She cleaned off the little one and charged Dorothy with heating water for a bath. Before doing anything else, though, she laid the baby in Helen’s arms.
    “My little son,” whispered Helen. “How tiny he is…I’ll name him Ruben, after my father.”
    “Doesn’t Mr. O’Keefe have a say in that as well?” Gwyneira asked. In her circles, it was customary for the father to at least agree to the name of a male child.
    “Where is Howard?” Helen asked scornfully. “He knew the baby would be born any day now, but instead of being here for me, he’s bent over the bar in some pub, drinking away the money he earned with his mutton. He has no right to give my son a name!”
    Matahorua nodded. “Right. Is your son.”
    Gwyneira, Rongo, and Dorothy gave the baby a bath. Dorothy had finally stopped weeping and now could not tear her gaze from the infant.
    “He’s so sweet, miss. Look, he’s already laughing!”
    Gwyneira was thinking less about the baby’s facial expressions than about the business of his birth. Aside from the fact that it took longer,it hadn’t been all that different from the birth of a foal or a lamb, not even in the discharge of the afterbirth. Matahorua advised Helen to bury this in a particularly beautiful place and to plant a tree there.
    “
Whenua
to
whenua
—soil,” said Matahorua.
    Helen promised to honor the tradition while Gwyneira continued her musings.
    If the birth of a human child was like that of an animal, then in all likelihood conception was too. Gwyneira blushed as it all became clear to her, but now she had a pretty good idea what wasn’t working with Lucas.

    Finally Helen lay happily in a freshly made bed, her sleeping baby in her arms. He had already eaten—Matahorua had insisted on placing the baby on Helen’s breast, though the business of nursing was embarrassing to her. She would have preferred to have the baby grow up on cow’s milk.
    “Is good for baby. Cow milk good for cows,” Matahorua declared decisively.
    Again, the parallel to animals. Gwyneira had learned a great deal that night.
    Meanwhile, Helen found time to think of others. Gwyneira had been wonderful. What would she ever have done without her support? Now she had the opportunity to repay her.
    “Matahorua,” she turned to the
tohunga
. “This is the friend we recently spoke about. With the…the…”
    “Who thinks she not have baby?” asked Matahorua, casting a searching gaze over Gwyneira, her breasts, and her nether regions. What she saw seemed to please her. “Yes, yes,” she announced finally. “Beautiful woman. Very healthy. Can have many babies, good babies.”
    “But she’s been trying so long now,” Helen said doubtfully.
    Matahorua shrugged.
    “Try with other man,” she advised placidly.

    Gwyneira wondered whether she should ride home at this hour. It had long since turned dark, cold, and foggy. On the other hand, Lucas and the others would be worried to death if she didn’t return. And what would Howard O’Keefe say when he arrived home, most likely drunk, to find a Warden in his house?
    The answer to the latter question seemed