In the Land of the Long White Cloud

when there was more work to do. That was risky, however: while some of the men remained and later remembered the money they had been paid, others took the money and disappeared, and still others forgot about the advance after the shearing and rudely demanded full payment. For that reason, Gerald and Paul had not permitted it the last few years. Let the Maori go. They would be back for the shearing, and if not, they could find other help. Paul had forgotten that he had once been a victim of this practice.
    “Kiri laid you in your mother’s arms, but you cried and screamed. And your mother said she didn’t mind if you came with us, but Mr. Warden swore at her for that. I don’t remember it all anymore, Paul, but Kiri told me about it later. She says you always held it against us that we left you behind. But what could we do? Mrs. Warden did not mean it like that either; she was fond of you.”
    “She never liked me,” Paul said coldly.
    Marama shook her head. “No. You were just two streams that did not flow together. Perhaps someday you’ll find your way to each other. All streams eventually flow into the sea.”
    Paul only planned to make a simple camp, but Marama wanted a proper house.
    “We don’t have anything else to do, Paul,” she said easily. “And you will have to stay away for a while. So why should we freeze?”
    There was an ax in the heavy saddlebags Marama’s mule carried, so Paul chopped down a few trees. With help from the patient mule, he dragged them to a clearing by a brook. Marama had chosen the place because several powerful rocks jutted up from the ground nearby. The spirits were happy here, she declared. And happy spirits were well disposed toward new settlers. She asked Paul to make a few carvings on their house so that it would look nice and
papa
would not feel insulted by it. When it finally met with her approval, she led Paul ceremoniously into the large, empty inner room.
    “I now take you for my husband!” she announced seriously. “I’m lying with you in a sleeping lodge—even if the tribe is not present. A few of our ancestors will be here to witness it. I, Marama, descendent of those who came to Aotearoa in the
uruao
, take you, Paul Warden. Isn’t that how your people say it?”
    “It’s a little more complicated than that,” Paul said. He did not know what to think, but Marama was beautiful that day. She wore a colorful headband, had wound a sheet around her waist, and her breasts were bare. Paul had never seen her like this; she had always worn modest, Western clothing in the Wardens’ household and at school. But now she stood before him, half-naked, with gleaming light brown skin, a soft fire in her eyes—and he looked at her as
papa
must have looked at
rangi
. She loved him. Unconditionally, regardless of what he was and what he had done.
    Paul put his arms around her. He did not know whether the Maori kissed at such moments, but then she rubbed her nose lightly against his. Marama giggled when she had to sneeze afterward. Then she removed her sheet. Paul’s breath caught as she stood fully naked before him. She was more delicately built than most of the women of her race, but her hips were wide, her breasts large, and her buttocks ample. Paul swallowed, but Marama serenely spread the blanket on the ground and pulled Paul down to her.
    “You do want to be my husband, don’t you?” she asked.
    Paul would have to answer, without ever having thought about it. Until that moment, he had hardly given marriage a thought, and the few times he had, he had imagined himself in an arranged marriage with a white-skinned girl—maybe one of the Greenwoods’ or Barringtons’ daughters. That would be suitable. But what expression would he see in the eyes of a girl like that? Would she abhor him like his mother did? At the very least, she would have reservations. Especially now, after he had murdered Howard. Would she really be able to love him? Wouldn’t he always be on his guard and suspicious?
    To love Marama, on the other hand, was simple. She was there, willing and tender, fully submissive to him…no, that wasn’t right. She had her own will. He would never have been able to force her todo something. Be he also would never have wanted to. Maybe that was the nature of love: it had to be given freely. A love forced on someone, like his mother’s, wasn’t worth anything.
    So Paul nodded. But suddenly that did not strike him as good enough. It wasn’t fair to