In the Land of the Long White Cloud

the handling of the sheep barbaric. He felt for them when the animals were seized, thrown on their backs, and shorn, often getting cuts on their skin if the shearer was inexperienced or the sheep fidgeted excessively. Lucas also couldn’t stand the overwhelming odor of lanolin that pervaded the shearing warehouses. As a result, hewas constantly letting sheep escape instead of pushing them through a bath after the shearing, which was supposed to clean out any cuts and kill off parasites.
    “The dogs don’t listen to me,” he said, defending himself against a new fit of anger from his father. “They answer to McKenzie, but when I call—”
    “You don’t call these dogs, Lucas! You whistle for them,” Gerald exploded. “There are only three or four whistles, all of which you should have learned long ago. You think so highly of your musical abilities!”
    Lucas recoiled, insulted. “Father, a gentleman—”
    “Don’t tell me a gentleman doesn’t whistle. These sheep finance your painting, piano playing, and so-called studies.”
    Gwyneira, who caught this conversation by chance, fled into the nearest warehouse. She hated it when Gerald took her husband to task in front of her—and it was even worse when James McKenzie or the other farmworkers witnessed the confrontations. They not only embarrassed Gwyneira, but moreover, they seemed to have a negative effect on her and Lucas’s nightly “attempts,” which went awry with increasing frequency. Gwyneira had taken to viewing their efforts together only as the first stage of reproduction, since ultimately it was no different from what took place between a stallion and mare. Yet she harbored no illusions: luck would have to be very much on her side. She gradually began thinking of alternatives, though the image of her father’s old ram—one that he had had to retire due to a lack of success in mating—came back to her time and again.
    “Try with other man,” Matahorua had said. Every time Gwyneira recalled those words, she felt a pang of guilt. It was inconceivable for a Silkham to cheat on her husband.

    Then came the garden party. Lucas devoted himself energetically to the preparations. Planning the fireworks show alone required days, which he spent poring over the catalogs before placing the order inChristchurch. He took on the landscaping of the garden, as well as the arrangements of the tables and chairs. Instead of a grand banquet, lamb and mutton were going to be roasted over the fire; vegetables, poultry, and mussels would be prepared on cooking stones, according to Maori tradition. Salads and other dishes rested on long tables and were to be presented to guests on request. Kiri and Moana had mastered this task and were once again to wear the uniforms that had been made for them for the wedding. Gwyneira made them promise to wear shoes.
    Otherwise, they kept out of the preparations; between father and son, it required great tact and diplomacy to get any decisions made. Lucas enjoyed the preparations and longed for recognition. Gerald, however, felt that his son’s efforts were “unmanly” and would have preferred to leave everything to Gwyneira. Nor did the workers approve of Lucas’s domestic occupations, which did not go unnoticed by Gerald or Gwyneira.
    “Limp dick’s folding napkins,” Poker Livingston replied when James McKenzie asked him where Lucas was hiding this time.
    Gwyneira pretended not to understand. She had developed a rather precise idea of what the term “limp dick” meant but could not fathom how the men in the stables were drawing their conclusions about Lucas’s failures in bed.

    The day before the party, Kiward Station’s garden shone in full splendor. Lucas had had lampions brought out, and the Maori set up torches. As the guests were being received, there was still enough light for them to marvel at the rose borders, the cleanly cut hedges, and the twisting paths and lawns, laid out according to the classic model of an English garden. Gerald had also arranged a new dog demonstration—this time not only to show off the now legendary talents of his dogs but also as a sort of promotion. Daimon and Dancer’s first offspring were available for sale, and the local sheep breeders would pay handsomely for purebred border collies. Even the mixed breeds withGerald’s old sheepdogs were in high demand. Gerald’s employees no longer needed Gwyneira’s and Cleo’s help to stage a perfect show. At James McKenzie’s