Dance of Soldiers by Tania Roberts

Author:Tania Roberts [Tania Roberts]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Red Rose Publishing
Published: 2024-07-20T00:00:00+00:00

For the next fortnight, Moira’s routine involved moving the sheep in the morning, each day to a paddock closer to the yards and cleaning the woolshed in the afternoons, spreading the accumulated muck over the paddocks as fertiliser. She could finally see the end of the task; the relief renewed her energy as she disappeared beneath the slatting of the woolshed floor for the last time.

Melodic singing drew her out some hours later. She wondered if delirium had set in. It was as if a choir of angels had come to rescue her. She couldn’t recognise the song, the words formed in a foreign language flowed together with an eloquence she longed to mimic.

Her throat was parched, coated with a veneer of dust she’d inhaled. She struggled to straighten, imagining she’d be permanently bent at ninety degrees. She’d heard people say farming was back breaking work, she’d never believed it would relate to her literally.

A rusty truck came over the brow of the hill, the same track by which Barry and Moira had arrived, the only way into and out of Moira’s new dilemma. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. That’s what she’d done, left the nastiness of Anne to come to the end of the earth, perhaps the end of her, she was expected to work so hard.

Peering into the sunlight, the truck looked driverless, a darkness pierced by hovering white lights. Moira rubbed her eyes. Was she seeing things? Had she already died and gone to heaven? She poked her finger into her ribs. Ouch! No! The vision was real.

When the truck pulled up beside the woolshed and half a dozen Maori jumped down from the back, she laughed at her mistake. Three more Maori filled the cab, cheerful white smiles amidst dark wiry hair, and skin the colour of chocolate, their language native not foreign. They weren’t angels but perhaps the shearers would provide an escape route. She’d have to get friendly with them and see where they were heading next.

“Kia ora.” The driver of the truck appeared to be in charge. “Kei konei a Barry?”

Moira heard Barry’s name and pointed like a mute to the cob cottage.

“She look like red-headed Waikato wahine.” An older woman spoke, her thick grizzled hair woven in a plait hung down over her breast. “But she no speak te reo.”

The women’s dark eyes looked straight through Moira as if she was seeing into her very core, judging her essence. A shiver ran down Moira’s spine.

The group shrieked with laughter and Moira realised her skin, caked in dirt, was coloured as if she too was Maori. She hurried to the trough to wash her face and arms, removing the source of their amusement.

“Kia ora, Tama.” Barry and the truck driver clasped hands, leaned in, and touched foreheads and noses.

Moira blinked and shook her head slowly, disbelieving. She’d heard of a hongi, the traditional greeting but she’d never witnessed it, never thought Barry would engage in such a reverent moment.

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