when Faelin advertised handsome pay in metal goods. Not until he and Simon took a turn in a few building parties did help materialize, and then for free.
The laborers even brought treats—sweets and veggies and summer ale—to augment the fish-fry Simon and Faelin had supplied, and that evening their quiet claim echoed with laughter and the skirling notes of Erland Totaranui’s fiddle.
Faelin hated it, hated the pressure of obligation which seemed far more binding than any law—after all, laws could be circumvented, reinterpreted, or simply ignored. He hated it even more when he saw how Simon was being seduced from him.
When they had arrived in Aotearoa, Simon had been completely ruled by Faelin. He let Faelin dictate practically everything he did, and was never happier than when dogging Faelin’s heels. By July, the heart of the local winter, Simon was making excuses to do things on his own. He’d made friends with not only the Dutchmans and other pakeha neighbors, but also with members of a local Maori clan to the east who were associated with, but not precisely part of, the Richmont settlement.
Many a wet afternoon when Faelin thought they should be mending nets or carding wool or any of a thousand other jobs, Simon would make an excuse to go riding off to visit a neighbor. Roto the puppy—named after the Maori word for lake, since he’d been so hard to house train—would happily trot after Simon.
Nor could Faelin really complain that Simon was shirking. He always brought something back with him as payment for his day’s labors elsewhere—honey and wax from a neighbor’s hives, salt, tanned hides, rope. Once, incredibly, he’d even secured them the long-term loan of a Maori waka, or canoe, in return for giving sailing lessons to the local clan.
Faelin’s dislike of Chapin and his influence came to a head that spring at the sheep shearing. Like so many things Faelin thought should be handled by trade and barter—or by a bit of strong-arm persuasion—the shearing was a community event, as much an excuse for a party as a means of getting work done.
With a calm persuasiveness Faelin wouldn’t have suspected the other man of being capable of a year before, Simon had explained how much less labor it would involve for them to drive their small flock—now thirty strong with trade and lambings—over to town.
After pointing out that they didn’t have shears, that they didn’t really know what they were doing, and that they might as well see if they could trade a lamb or two for a piglet, Simon had clinched the matter by saying, “And if you’re not going, well, then I am anyhow. There’s to be dancing when the work is done and a cook-off and a horse race. Farmer Lamont is donating a pig in honor of his first grandchild’s birthday and it’s to be pit barbecued.”
“I never said I wasn’t going,” Faelin snarled, though in fact he’d been planning on staying home. This spring he was hoping to put in a small kitchen garden, despite the fact that he’d never grown as much as an onion in all his life. He’d thought to start turning what looked to him like a promising bit of land.
Faelin trailed the flock into town in a sour mood, watching Roto drive the sheep along with effortless ease. He wished he could figure out why his own course was never so easy. He’d expected that in a land without government and binding regulations he’d prosper.
He wasn’t lazy, nor was he intimidated by bad weather. He was strong and before had always met those who—like Simon—would cling to him because of that strength. To top it off, he had skills most of the others never dreamed of. He’d been shocked to learn that Farmer Lamont had been a lawyer in faraway New York before chucking it all and coming to homestead in Aotearoa over twenty years before.
Now Lamont was a pakeha of the pakeha. In fact, the Richmont settlement was Lamont’s second claim. He’d sold his first at what everyone knew was a tremendous profit because Auckland was getting too built up for him. Lamont said he wanted his sons and daughters to be able to raise their families in less developed land, just as he had them.
Such thoughts put a sour taste in Faelin’s mouth, but that sour turned to honey at his first sight of Jocelyn.
Tall and arrow-straight with golden-brown skin and shining black hair, she glided through the Richmont town square like a princess. Clearly, her parentage was mixed—there was Polynesian in her and Chinese, but the lapis lazuli of her laughing eyes spoke of some European heritage as well.
When Faelin first saw her, Jocelyn was holding a toddler by the hand and his spirits plummeted. Then the little one tore his hand free and calling out, “Mama! Mama!” went waddling across to a woman Faelin vaguely recognized as one of the Lamont girls.
This then must be the much celebrated Lamont grandchild. At that moment, Faelin would have added every sheep in his flock to the barbecue in his joy at realizing this goddess was not the baby’s mother.
He nudged his buckskin alongside Simon’s bay.
“Who is
Simon looked and smiled. When he replied his voice was warm with affection.
“That’s Jocelyn Lee. She’s a cousin of the Dutchmans, came up from Auckland over the winter. She’s been staying with them since August. I’m surprised you haven’t met her.”
Simon clipped the end off that last sentence, suddenly uncomfortable. The fact was, Faelin had become more and more a hermit over that winter. Simon did almost all their trading, even picking up the butter and cheese from the Dutchmans. Faelin had done the fishing, building, even the sewing—anything that gave him an excuse to let Simon be the one to go out.
Faelin felt a faint regret for lost opportunities. Then suddenly he didn’t care. Jocelyn Lee was here. So was he. There was to be dancing that evening. He would dance with her. He would woo her. He would win her.
Faelin worked that day with a constant awareness of Jocelyn’s graceful presence. When the day warmed, he stripped off his shirt, knowing his muscles would show to advantage. He did every job with a smile on his lips, knowing he’d shine better in her eyes. He even avoided the horse race—though he longed to try his buckskin against the cooper’s black—lest the old tale of their scrap go round and cheapen him in her eyes.
All that day he listened as the flirting note of her laughter, sweeter than any music, carried across the bleating of indignant sheep. When Jocelyn carried around cold water for the shearers’ refreshment, Faelin introduced himself, then found himself too fumble-tongued to carry on.
When the shearing was done, Faelin retired to the room he and Simon had taken for the night and scrubbed down with care. He dressed in his best clothes, glad now that Simon had insisted they pack them along.
Like most sailors, Faelin had learned to tailor and embroider. The bleached cotton shirt he wore fit to perfection and was graced with tiny blue stars. After tying his freshly washed hair back in a sailor’s queue and donning newly polished boots, Faelin inspected himself in the mirror and was pleased with the sight.
Faelin’s grooming had taken so long that Simon had left without him. When he entered the torch-lit circle where three-quarters of the area’s population had gathered, Faelin felt strangely shy, aware that he was still a stranger in a group of friends.
To cover his discomfort, he put a sailor’s swagger into his walk and joined Simon by the buffet. The food was free—donated by all the participants and transformed into a feast by those who hadn’t actually been working with the sheep. The centerpiece might have been Farmer Lamont’s barbecued pig, but there was such a variety of food spread around it that even its vast bulk was dwarfed.
Faelin ate lightly, waiting impatiently for Jocelyn to arrive. Even after the dancing had started, she didn’t come. Gruffly, Faelin refused an invitation from saucy Debbie Dutchman, waiting like an eagle for Jocelyn lest he not be free to dive upon her when she arrived.
When Jocelyn did come in, the dancing was in full swing. Even so it seemed to Faelin that Jocelyn brought her own music with her. In workday trousers and shirt, she’d been eye-catching. Now, dressed for a party, she was everything he had dreamed—lovely as springtime itself in a floor-length frock of deep red silk embellished with scattered golden flowers.
That silk gown should have been a warning to Faelin, but he was too besotted to think. Jocelyn stood poised near the edge of the circle of light and the swirl of dancing. Contrary to Faelin’s expectation that she would be pounced on as soon as she arrived, she remained alone, though by far the finest woman in the place.
Why it’s just like with me, Faelin thought. No one will have anything to do with her because she’s so far above the rest. They want to lower her to their level—to transform that lovely princess into a wallflower as they’ve tried to make me every man’s lackey.
Faelin strode over to her, the beating of his heart in his ears louder than the combined fiddles and guitars,
