In the Land of the Long White Cloud

her husband left. Or did Lucas leave because there already was a lover? Helen could not imagine that. Gwyneira was a lady. Certainly not faultless, but faultlessly discreet.
    “The baby is a Warden,” Gwyneira answered firmly. “There can be no doubt about it. But I still don’t want it!”
    “But it’s not something that requires your approval,” Helen said helplessly. She could not follow Gwyneira’s thoughts. “When you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant.”
    “Nonsense! There has to be some way to get rid of the baby. Miscarriages happen all the time.”
    “Yes, but not to healthy young women like you.” Helen shook her head. “Why don’t you go to Matahorua? She can surely tell you whether the baby is healthy.”
    “Maybe she can help me,” Gwyneira said hopefully. “Maybe she knows a potion or something. Back on the ship, Daphne said something to Dorothy about ‘abortives’…”
    “Gwyneira, you can’t even think of such a thing!” Helen had heard rumors of “abortives” in Liverpool; her father had buried some of their victims. “That’s ungodly! And dangerous. You could die from that. And why, in heaven’s name…”
    “I’m going to Matahorua!” Gwyneira declared. “Don’t try to stop me. I don’t want this baby!”

    Matahorua motioned Gwyneira to a row of stones behind the communal houses where the two could be alone. She too must have seen from Gwyneira’s face that something serious had happened. But this time, she would have to sort it out without a translator—Gwyneira had left Rongo Rongo at home. The last thing she needed was another conspirator.
    Matahorua made a noncommittal face as she offered Gwyneira a seat on one of the stones. Her expression was no doubt meant to be friendly, perhaps it was even a smile, but it looked threatening to Gwyneira. The tattoos on the face of the old witch doctor seemed to alter every facial expression, and her figure cast strange shadows in the sunlight. “Baby. I already know from Rongo Rongo. Strong baby…much power. But also much anger.”
    “I don’t want the baby!” Gwyneira cried out without looking at the witch doctor. “Is there anything you can do?”
    Matahorua sought eye contact with the young woman. “What should I do? Kill baby?”
    Gwyneira winced. She had not yet dared to phrase it so explicitly. But that’s what it came down to. Feelings of guilt rose up within her.
    Matahorua looked her over attentively, studying both her face and her body. As always she seemed to be looking through the person and into some distant place known only to herself.
    “Is important to you baby die?” she asked quietly.
    Gwyneira suddenly felt anger welling up inside her. “Would I be here otherwise?” she burst out.
    Matahorua shrugged. “Strong baby. If baby die, you die too. Important enough?”
    Gwyneira shuddered. What made Matahorua so sure? Why did no one ever doubt her words, no matter how nonsensical they might be? Could she really see into the future? Gwyneira considered. She felt nothing for the baby in her womb, at most repugnance and hatred, just as she felt for its father. But the hatred was not so violent as to be worth dying for. Gwyneira was young and enjoyed life. Besides, shewas needed. What would become of Fleurette if she lost her second parent as well? Gwyneira decided to let the matter rest. Perhaps she could give birth to this unfortunate child and then forget about it? Gerald should be the one to care for it.
    Matahorua laughed. “I see you not die. You live, baby live…not happy. But live. And will someone be who want…”
    Gwyneira frowned. “Who wants what?”
    “There will be someone who want baby. In the end. Makes…rounds…” Matahorua outlined a circle with her finger, then rummaged around in her bag. Finally she dug out an almost round piece of jade and handed it to Gwyneira. “There, for the baby.”
    Gwyneira took the small stone and thanked her. She did not know why, but she felt better.

    None of that stopped Gwyneira from attempting every conceivable method of inducing a miscarriage. She worked in the garden to the point of exhaustion, bent over as often as possible, ate unripe apples until the indigestion nearly killed her, and trained Igraine’s newest daughter, a remarkably difficult foal. To James’s astonishment, she even insisted on teaching the unruly animal to accept a sidesaddle—a last, desperate effort, since Gwyneira was naturally aware that the sidesaddle did not