In the Land of the Long White Cloud

some say?” Gwyneira asked, still not entirely clear on the Maori custom. She simply could not comprehend that the girls chose their husbands themselves and often changed husbands several times.
    Marama shook her head. “No. Mother only says that it would be strange if I were to lie with Paul because we were nursed at the same breast. It would be indecent if he were one of us, but he is
pakeha
and very different…he is certainly no member of the tribe.”
    Gwyneira almost choked on her sherry when Marama spoke so naturally of sleeping with her seventeen-year-old son. However, the suspicion now dawned on her that this was why Paul reacted so aggressively to the Maori. He wanted to be kicked out. So that he might sleep with Marama someday? Or simply no longer to have the reputation as “different” among the
pakeha
as well?
    “So you like Paul better than Tonga?” Gwyneira asked carefully.
    Marama nodded. “I love Paul,” she said sincerely. “Like
rangi
loved
papa
.”
    “Why?” The question crossed Gwyneira’s lips before she could stop it. Her cheeks reddened. She had finally admitted that she could not find anything to love in her own son. “I mean,” she softened her tone, “Paul is difficult and…”
    Marama nodded again. “Love is not simple either,” she declared. “Paul is like a roaring river you have to wade through to get to the best fishing grounds. But it is a river of tears, miss. It must be calmed with love. Only then can he…can he become human.”

    Gwyneira had thought about the girl’s words for a long time. As she so often was, she was ashamed of what she had done to Paul by not loving him. But of course she had little reason to be. While she tossed and turned in bed, Friday began to bark—which was strange. True, she heard men’s voices coming from the ground floor, but normally the dog did not react to Gerald and Paul’s return home. Had they brought a guest?
    Gwyneira threw on a dressing gown and left her room. It was not yet late; perhaps the men were still sober enough to inform her of their success in finding sheep shearers. And if they had returned with some drinking companion, then at least she would know what awaited her in the morning.
    In order that she might retreat without being seen if the men looked inclined to be troublesome, she crept noiselessly down the stairs—and was astonished to discover George Greenwood in the salon. He was just leading an exhausted-looking Paul into Gerald’s study and lighting the lamps. Gwyneira followed them.
    “Good evening, George…Paul,” she announced herself. “Where’s Gerald hiding? Has something happened?”
    George Greenwood did not return her greeting. He had purposefully opened the display case and pulled out a bottle of brandy, which he preferred to the omnipresent whiskey, and filled three glasses.
    “Here, drink, Paul. And you, Mrs. Warden, will also need a glass.” He handed one to her. “Gerald is dead, Gwyneira. Howard O’Keefe beat him to death. And Paul killed Howard O’Keefe.”

    Gwyneira needed some time to take it all in. She drank her brandy slowly while George described to her what had happened.
    “It was self-defense!” Paul declared again. He vacillated between sobbing and being stubbornly defensive.
    Gwyneira looked inquiringly at George.
    “You could look at it that way,” George said hesitantly. “There’s no doubt that O’Keefe was reaching for his weapon. But in reality it would have taken ages for him to raise the thing, release the safety, and pull the trigger. By then the other men would have long since disarmed him. Paul could have stopped him with a well aimed punch, or at least taken the gun from him. I’m afraid the witnesses will describe it that way as well.”
    “Then it was revenge!” Paul crowed, gulping down his brandy. “He drew blood first.”
    “There a difference between a punch with unfortunate consequences and a shot aimed at a man’s chest,” George replied, now a little riled up himself. He confiscated the brandy bottle before Paul could pour himself more. “O’Keefe would have been charged with manslaughter at most. If he was charged at all. Most of the people in the pub would testify that Gerald’s death was an accident.”
    “And as far as I know, there’s no such thing as the right to revenge.” Gwyneira sighed. “What you’ve done, Paul, is taken the law into your own hands—and that’s punishable.”
    “They can’t lock me up!”