In the Land of the Long White Cloud

the first time, she felt like she could cry for Gerald. For Gerald, Lucas, and Paul.
    “No!” The voice was quiet but piercing. A songlike voice, the voice of a born storyteller and singer.
    The group of warriors behind Tonga separated to make way for Marama. The girl stepped serenely between them.
    Marama was not tattooed but had painted the symbols of her people on her skin that day: they decorated her chin and the skin between her mouth and nose, making her narrow face look like one of the gods’ masks that Gwyneira recognized from Matahorua’s house. Marama had tied her hair up, like adult women did when they dressed themselves for holiday celebrations. Her upper body was naked, though she wore a cloth around her shoulders and a wide white skirt Gwyneira had once given her.
    “Do not dare to call me your wife, Tonga! I have never lain with you and I never will. I was and am Paul Warden’s wife. And this was and is Paul Warden’s land!” Marama had been speaking English so far; now she changed to her own language. No one in Tonga’s retinue should misunderstand her. She spoke slowly enough that not a word should escape Gwyneira and James. Everyone on Kiward Station was to know what Marama Warden had to say.
    “This is the Wardens’ land, but it is also the Kai Tahu’s. And now there is to be a child whose mother comes from the tribe of those who came to Aotearoa on the canoe
uruao
. And whose father fromthe tribe of the Wardens. Paul never told me what canoe his father’s ancestors rowed, but our union was blessed by the ancestors of the Kai Tahu. The mothers and fathers of the
uruao
will welcome the child. And this will be his land.”
    The young woman laid her hands on her stomach and raised her arms in an all-encompassing gesture, as though she wanted to embrace the land and the mountains.
    The warriors behind Tonga raised their voices. Approving voices. No one would fight over the land with Marama’s child—especially not when all of the land of O’Keefe Station would fall to the Maori tribes.
    Gwyneira smiled and composed herself for a response. She was a little dizzy, but more than that, she felt relieved; now she hoped that she chose the right words and that she spoke them correctly. It was her first speech in Maori that went beyond daily matters, and she wanted everyone to understand:
    “Your child is from the tribe of those who came to Aotearoa on the
Dublin
. The family of this child’s father will also welcome it. As heir of this farm called Kiward Station on the land of the Kai Tahu.”
    Gwyneira attempted to imitate Marama’s gesture, but in her case, it was Marama and her unborn grandchild whom she held in her arms.

Acknowledgments
    Many thanks to my editor, Melanie Blank-Schröder, who believed in this novel from the start, and most of all to my ingenious agent, Bastian Schlück.
    Thanks to Heike, who put me in touch with Pawhiri, and to Pawhiri and Sigrid, who answered my endless questions about Maori culture. If I have still made errors in my depiction, the fault is mine alone.
    Many thanks to Klara for a great deal of precise and specialized information on wool quality and sheep breeds, help with Internet research about immigrants to New Zealand in the nineteenth century, and professional “test reading.”
    Finally, thanks, of course, to the cobs who always galloped my head free—and to Cleo for thousands of adoring collie smiles.
    Sarah Lark

 
About the Author
     

    Photo © Gonzalo Perez, 2011
    Sarah Lark, author of several bestselling historical fiction novels in Germany and Spain, was born in Germany’s Ruhr region, where she discovered a love of animals—especially horses—early in life. She has worked as an elementary school teacher, travel guide, and commercial writer. She has also written numerous award-winning books about horses for adults and children, one of which was nominated for the Deutsche Jugendbuchpreis, Germany’s distinguished prize for best children’s book. Sarah currently lives with four dogs and a cat on her farm in Almería, Spain, where she cares for retired horses, plays guitar, and sings in her spare time.

 
About the Translator
     

    Photo © Sanna Stegmaier, 2011
    D. W. Lovett is a graduate of the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign from which he received a degree in comparative literature and German as well as a certificate from the university’s Center for Translation Studies. He has spent the last few years living in Europe.