In the Land of the Long White Cloud

on which the settlement lies—” Reti began, which immediately set off protests from Gerald and Paul.
    “The land right next to the farm? Impossible!”
    “I don’t want that bastard for a neighbor! That will never come to any good.”
    “Otherwise, he would take money,” Reti continued.
    Gwyneira considered. “Well, money would be difficult. We need to make that clear to him. Better land. Perhaps we could arrange an exchange. Having two mortal enemies living next to each other is certainly not wise.”
    “I’ve heard enough!” Gerald boiled over. “You don’t really believe that we’ll negotiate with that brat, Gwyn. I won’t hear of it. He won’t get money or land. At most a bullet between the eyes!”

    The conflict escalated when Paul knocked down a Maori worker the next day. The man insisted he had not done anything; he had perhaps carried out an order a little too slowly. Paul, however, declared that the worker had become insolent and had made reference to Tonga’s demands. Several other Maori corroborated their tribesman’s story. Kiri refused to serve Paul dinner that evening and even gentle Witi gave him the cold shoulder. Gerald, once again fall-down drunk, dismissed all of the house staff in a blind rage. Though Gwyneira had hoped that they would not take him seriously, neither Kiri nor Moana showed up for work the next day. The other Maori too stayed away from the stables and gardens. Only Marama tinkered ineptly in the kitchen.
    “I can’t cook very well,” she apologized to Gwyneira, but she still managed to whip up Paul’s favorite muffins for breakfast. By lunch, though, she had reached the limits of her abilities and served sweet potatoes and fish. In the evening, there were sweet potatoes and fish again, and at lunch the next day, fish and sweet potatoes.
    Gerald stomped angrily in the direction of the Maori village on the afternoon of the second day. When he was only halfway there, he was met by a watch patrol, armed with spears. They could not let him through at the moment, the Maori explained gravely. Tonga was not in the village, and no one else had the authority to handle negotiations.
    “This is war,” one of the young watchmen said calmly. “Tonga says, war, starting now!”

    “You’re just going to have to look for new workers in Christchurch or Lyttelton,” Andy McAran said to Gwyneira regretfully two days later. The work on the farm was running hopelessly behind schedule, but Gerald and Paul only reacted with rage when any of the men blamed the Maori’s strike. “You won’t catch a glimpse of the people from the village around here until the governor has decided this land business. And keep an eye on that son of yours, miss, for God’s sake! Young Mr. Warden is about to explode. And Tonga is raging in the village. If one of them raises a hand against the other, there will be blood.”

12
    H oward O’Keefe was looking for money. He was angry, as he had not been in a long time. If he didn’t get to go to the pub tonight, he would suffocate. Or beat Helen to death—though she really wasn’t at fault this time. Gerald Warden was to blame for getting his Maori so riled up. As was Howard’s ill-bred son, Ruben, who was fooling around who knew where instead of helping his father with the sheep shearing and herding up into the highlands.
    Howard searched desperately through his wife’s kitchen. Helen must surely be hiding money somewhere—her rainy day fund, as she called it. The devil only knew how she skimmed it from their meager household budget. No doubt it wasn’t going to the right things. And besides, it was really his money. Everything here belonged to him.
    Howard ripped open another cabinet, this time cursing George Greenwood, the wool trader having been the bearer of more bad news that day. The shearing gang that usually worked in this part of the Canterbury Plains, first visiting Kiward and O’Keefe Stations, would not be coming this year. The men wanted to go straight to Otago after they had finished their work at Reginald Beasley’s. This was due in part to the many Maori who belonged to the crew who refused to work for the Wardens. Though they did not have anything against Howard personally, they had felt so unwelcome at his farm and had had to undertake so much supplemental work in the past that they had decided against making the detour.
    “Spoiled brats!” Howard ranted, not entirely without reason—the sheep barons coddled their