In the Land of the Long White Cloud

introduced herself. “Mr. O’Keefe and I got married in Christchurch.”
    “Mr. O’Keefe marry
wahine
who no can milk?”
    “Well, I have other qualities,” Helen said, laughing. “For example, I can bake sweets.” And she could; it had always been her last resort when she needed to convince her brothers to do something. And Howard had syrup in the house. She would have to improvise with the other ingredients, but first she had to get the two children into the cow’s stall. “But only for good children, of course.”
    The term “good” did not seem to mean much to the Maori children, but they knew the word “sweets” and the deal was quickly finalized. Helen then learned that the children were named Rongo Rongo and Reti and lived in a Maori village farther down the river. They milked the cow with lightning speed, found eggs in places Helen had not even thought to look, and then followed her curiously into the house. Since cooking the syrup for candy would have taken hours, Helen decided to just serve them pancakes with syrup. The two observed, fascinated, how she stirred the batter and turned the cakes over in the pan.
    “Like
takakau
, flat bread!” Rongo Rongo exclaimed.
    Helen saw her chance. “Can you make that, Rongo? Flat bread, I mean? Can you show me how?”
    It turned out it was rather easy. She needed little beyond water and grain. Helen hoped it would meet with Howard’s approval, but at least it was something to eat. To her amazement, there were also things to eat in the neglected garden behind the house. On first inspection, she had not been able to find anything that fit her idea of a vegetable, but after Rongo Rongo and Reti dug around for a few minutes, they proudly held out a few mysterious roots to her. Helen made a stew from them that tasted astoundingly good.
    That afternoon she cleaned the room while Rongo and Reti inspected her trousseau. Her books especially piqued their interest.
    “That’s a magic thingy!” Reti said weightily. “Don’t touch it, Rongo, or you’ll be eaten!”
    Helen laughed. “What makes you say that, Reti? Those are just books; there are stories in them. They are not dangerous. When we’re finished here, I can read to you from them.”
    “But stories are in head of
kuia
,” Rongo said. “Of storyteller.”
    “Well, when someone can write, the stories flow out of their heads through their arms and hands and into a book,” Helen said, “and anyone can read it, not just the person the
kuia
tells his stories to.”
    “Magic!” concluded Reti.
    Helen shook her head. “No, no. Look, that’s how you write your name.” She took a piece of letter paper and set down first Reti’s and then Rongo Rongo’s name on paper. The children followed her hand with gaping mouths.
    “See, now you can read your names. And you can write down anything else, as well. Anything you can say.”
    “But then you have power,” declared Reti seriously. “Storyteller has power.”
    Helen laughed. “Yes. Do you know what? I’ll teach you two to read. In exchange you’ll show me how to milk the cow and teach me what grows in the garden. I’ll ask Mr. O’Keefe if there are books in your language. I’ll learn Maori, and you’ll learn better English.”

5
    I t looked like Gerald would be proved right. Gwyneira’s wedding was the most glamorous social event the Canterbury Plains had ever seen. Guests began arriving days before from remote farms and even from the barracks in Dunedin. Half of Christchurch was on hand as well. Kiward Station’s guest rooms were soon completely full, but Gerald had had tents erected all around the house so that everyone had a comfortable place to sleep. He engaged the cook from the hotel in Christchurch so that he could offer his guests a meal that would be both familiar and exquisite. Meanwhile, Gwyneira was supposed to be schooling the Maori girls in how to be perfect servers; however, she was in a bit over her head. Then it occurred to her that in Dorothy, Elizabeth, and Daphne, there was a well-trained staff to be had in the area. Mrs. Godewind was happy to lend her Elizabeth, and the Candlers, Dorothy’s employers, had been invited anyway and could just bring her along. Daphne, however, could not be found. Gerald had no idea where Morrison’s farm was, so there was no hope of making contact with the girl directly. Mrs. Baldwin maintained that she had attempted to contact them but had received no answer from Mr. Morrison.