In the Land of the Long White Cloud

the way. We just have to get up there, then the worst will be over.” With that, he bravely set off on the next leg of the trail. The girls followed him over the rocky terrain.
    During the climb, Helen had little time to study the landscape, but what she did see was demoralizing. The mountains looked bare and gray, with only sparse vegetation.
    “Volcanic rock,” explained Mr. O’Hara, who had worked in mining. But Helen could only think of the “Mountains of Hell” from a ballad her sister used to sing. When she had pictured what eternal damnation might look like—barren, wan, and infinite—it had been just like this.

    Gerald Warden did indeed have to wait until all the other passengers had disembarked to unload his animals. The men from the transport company only just had the mules ready then.
    “We’ll make it before dark,” they said reassuringly as they heaved the anxious women onto the mules. “It takes about four hours. We’ll arrive in Christchurch around eight in the evening. Just in time for dinner at the hotel.”
    “Did you hear that?” Gwyneira asked Gerald. “We could join them. Although we’d be faster alone, of course. Igraine won’t like trotting behind the mules.”
    To Gerald’s annoyance, Gwyneira had already saddled the horses while he was monitoring the unloading of the sheep. Gerald restrained himself from expressing his anger. Regardless, he was in a bad mood. Nobody here knew what to do with the sheep; the pens had not been prepared, and the flock was spreading itself out over the hills of Lyttelton like in a painting. The animals were enjoying their freedom after their long spell in the belly of the ship and were frolicking like young lambs on the sparse grass outside the settlement. Gerald cursed two of the sailors who had helped him with the unloading and gave them strict orders to herd the sheep together and watch them until he had organized the construction of a provisional pen. The men, however, saw their job as done. After insolently remarking that they were sailors, not shepherds, they hurried to the just-opened pub. After the long drought on board, they were thirsty. Gerald’s sheep did not concern them.
    Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded that not only made Lady Barrington and Mrs. Brewster flinch in fright, but Gerald and the mule drivers as well. Moreover, the sound had not come from some street urchin but rather from a blue-blooded young lady they had considered until that moment to be ladylike and well bred. Another Gwyneira was making herself known. The girl had recognized Gerald’s dilemma with the sheep and immediately sought help. She whistled piercingly for her dog, and Cleo followed enthusiastically. Like a little black bolt of lightning, the dog dashed up and down the hills and rounded up the sheep into a tight flock. As though guided by an invisible hand, the animals turned to Gwyneira, who was waiting calmly. Gerald’s puppies, waiting in a kennel nearby and set to be delivered to Christchurch, went so wild at the sight of the sheep that the wooden box split open. The six little collies tumbled out and shot immediately toward the flock. But before the sheep could catch fright, the dogs lay down in the grass as though by command. Panting excitedly, theirclever collie faces directed tensely at the flock, they lay there, ready to spring into action if a sheep should wander out of place.
    “Well, all right,” Gwyneira said with composure. “The whelps really know their stuff. The big one there, we’ll start a breed with him that’ll make people back in England wish they had one. Shall we be going, Mr. Warden?”
    Without waiting for his reply, she climbed up on her mare. Igraine pranced excitedly. She too was eager to be able to move again. The sailor who had been holding the young stallion handed the nervous animal over to Gerald with a sigh of relief.
    Gerald vacillated between rage and amazement. Gwyneira’s performance had been impressive, but that did not give her the right to defy his commands. However, Gerald could hardly put a halt to things without losing face in front of the Brewsters and Barringtons.
    He grudgingly took the small stallion’s reins. He had conquered the Bridle Path more than once and knew its dangers. Taking the path in the late afternoon was always risky. Even when you didn’t have shepherds with you and were sitting on a well-trained mule instead of on an unbacked stallion.
    On the other hand, he didn’t know what