In the Land of the Long White Cloud

them. His gags were not always funny. Ruben had gotten rather upset recently when Paul had poured an inkwell out on his newest book. That had been aggravating not only because the boy had wanted this law compendium for a long time and only just received it from England thanks to George Greenwood, but also because the book was exceptionally valuable. Although Gwyneira had reimbursed him for it, she was just as shocked by her son’s deed as Helen.
    “He’s not all that young anymore!” she exclaimed, working herself into a state while the eleven-year-old Paul stood, unremorseful, nearby. “Paul, you knew what that book was worth! And that was no accident. Do you think money grows on trees at Kiward Station?”
    “Nah, but it does on the sheep,” retorted Paul, not entirely wrong. “We could afford to buy a stupid, dusty old book like that every week if we wanted.” He glared spitefully at Ruben. The boy knew exactly what the economic situation in the Canterbury Plains was. True, Howard O’Keefe was doing much better under the aegis of Greenwood Enterprises, but he was still a long way from Gerald’s honorary title of sheep baron. The flocks and the wealth of KiwardStation had also grown over the past ten years, and for Paul Warden, hardly a wish went unfulfilled. He had little interest in books. Paul would rather have the fastest pony, loved toy weapons like pistols, and would surely already have had an air rifle if George Greenwood had not “forgotten” it every time he placed orders to England. Helen observed Paul’s development with concern. In her opinion, no one set enough boundaries for the boy. Both Gwyneira and Gerald bought him expensive presents but otherwise hardly concerned themselves with him. By this time, Paul had largely outgrown the influence of his “adopted mother,” Kiri, as well. He had long since adopted his grandfather’s opinion that the white race was superior to the Maori. That was also the cause of his endless fights with Tonga. The chieftain’s son was just as self-assured as the sheep baron’s heir, and the boys fought bitterly over to whom the land on which both Tonga’s people and the Wardens lived belonged. That too disconcerted Helen. Tonga would most likely take over as his father’s successor, just as Paul would inherit from his grandfather. If their enmity lasted, then things might become difficult. And every bloody nose that one of the boys went home with deepened the rift between them.
    At least there was Marama, who reassured Helen somewhat. Kiri’s daughter, Paul’s “adopted sister,” had a sort of sixth sense for the boys’ confrontations and tended to show up at every battleground to arbitrate. If she was there, innocently playing hopscotch with a few friends, then Paul and Tonga avoided trouble. Marama then gave Helen a conspiratorial smile. She was a charming child, at least by Helen’s standards. Her face was narrower than that of most Maori girls, and her velvety complexion was the color of chocolate. She did not have any tattoos yet and probably never would be decorated according to custom. The Maori had increasingly abandoned the ritual and rarely even wore traditional clothing anymore. They were obviously making efforts to fit in with the
pakeha
—which delighted Helen in some ways, but which also occasionally filled her with a vague feeling of regret.
    “Where’s Paul, Marama?” Helen now turned directly to the girl. Paul and Marama usually came to class together from Kiward Station.If Paul had gotten upset about something and ridden home early, she would know it.
    “He rode away, miss. He’s on the trail of a mystery,” Marama revealed in a clear, loud voice. The little girl was a good singer, a talent treasured by her people.
    Helen sighed. They had just read a few books about pirates and treasure hunts, hidden countries and secret gardens, and now all the girls were looking for enchanted rose gardens while the boys excitedly drew treasure maps. Ruben and Fleur had done the same thing at this age, but when it came to Paul, she knew that the secrets might not be so innocent. He had recently driven Fleurette into a frenzy of worry by leading her beloved horse Minette, a daughter of the mare Minty and the stud Madoc, away and hiding it in Kiward Station’s rose garden. Since Lucas’s death, that part of the garden was hardly kept up, and no one thought to look for the horse there. Besides, Minette had not been taken from her stall but