In the Land of the Long White Cloud

We’re sending for Mr. Hanson.”
    Peaceful little Haldon still did not have its own officer of the law.
    “Screw Hanson! It was self-defense. Everyone here can testify to that. And he killed my grandfather!” Paul knelt next to Gerald. “I avenged him! It was only fair. I avenged you, Grandfather!” Paul’s shoulders bobbed in time with his sobs.
    “Should we tie him up?” Clark, the owner of the pub, asked the group quietly.
    Shocked, Richard Candler dissuaded him. “No way! Not while he has that gun…we’re not that eager to die. Hanson will have to deal with him. First let’s get a doctor in here.” Haldon did have a doctor at its disposal, and he had already been informed. He appeared in the pub right then and quickly established Howard O’Keefe’s death. He did not dare approach Gerald while Paul held his grandfather in his arms, sobbing.
    “Can’t you do anything to make him let go of the body?” Clark asked, turning to George Greenwood. He was obviously keen to have the corpses removed from his establishment as soon as possible. If possible, before closing time; the shooting would no doubt liven up his business.
    George Greenwood shrugged. “Leave him. At least he’s not shooting while he’s crying. Just don’t do anything to agitate him further. Ifhe says it was self-defense, then that’s what it was. What you tell the officer tomorrow is another matter.”
    Paul eventually got a hold of himself and allowed the doctor to examine his grandfather. With a last glimmer of hope, he watched as Dr. Miller listened for the old man’s heartbeat.
    Dr. Miller shook his head. “I’m sorry, Paul, there’s nothing to be done. Fractured skull. He struck the table’s edge. The blow to the chin didn’t kill him; it was the unlucky fall. It was an accident, boy. I’m sorry.” He patted Paul comfortingly on the shoulder. George wondered whether he knew that the boy had shot Howard.
    “Let’s take these two to the mortician. Hanson can look at them tomorrow,” said the doctor. “Is there someone who can take the boy home?”
    The citizens of Haldon appeared reluctant, so George Greenwood offered himself. People were not accustomed to shootings here; even bar fights were a rarity. Normally they would have separated the belligerents right away, but in this case the exchange between Gerald and Howard had been too riveting. Every man there was probably already looking forward to telling his wife what had been said. Tomorrow, George thought, sighing, it would be the talk of the town. But that was irrelevant. A Warden in a murder trial? Everything in George resisted the thought. There had to be some other way to settle the matter.

    Gwyneira normally slept through Gerald and Paul’s return from the pub. The last few months she had been even more exhausted in the evening than usual because, aside from the work on the farm, she was now responsible for the housework as well. Gerald had perforce consented to hiring white farm laborers, but not house servants. Thus only Marama still lent her a hand—and a rather clumsy one at that. Though the girl had helped her mother, Kiri, around the house since she was little, she had no talent for the work. Her skills lay in the artistic sphere; she was already regarded as a little
tohunga
by her tribe,instructing other girls in singing and dancing and telling imaginative blends of her people’s sagas and the
pakeha
’s fairy tales. She could manage a Maori household, making fires and cooking meals on hot stones or in embers. However, she was not suited to polishing furniture, beating rugs, and serving dishes with discretion. Since the kitchen nevertheless remained important to Gerald, in order not to anger him Gwyneira and Marama had been attempting the late Barbara Warden’s recipes themselves. Fortunately, Marama could read English fluently, so the Bible was no longer necessary in the kitchen.
    That evening, however, Paul and Gerald had eaten in Haldon. Marama and Gwyneira had settled for bread and fruit for themselves. Afterward they sat together by the fire as a reward.
    Gwyneira asked whether the Maori held her strike-breaking against her. Marama said they did not.
    “Naturally, Tonga is mad,” she said in her songlike voice. “He wants everyone to do as he says. But that’s not our custom. We decide for ourselves, and I have not yet lain with him in the meeting hall, even though he thinks I will someday.”
    “Don’t your mother and father have