The Crossing

The sun cast a glistening silver veneer over the white-capped waves breaking onto the sand bar of the river mouth, and black-back gulls swooped in endless pursuit after shoals of small fish that were stranded in shallow pools created by the ebbing tide.

Patti, holidaying in a quaint, whitewashed, fisherman’s cottage with scarlet geraniums growing near the door, opened the blinds and breathed deeply; a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Two days of persistent fog and cool winds had until now jeopardised her chances of crossing the wide expanse of sand to explore the island that was accessible at low tide for only a few days each year. Today the correct combination of sand bar, tides, and the welcome sight of the sun creeping above the horizon made an expedition feasible. After hurrying through breakfast she quickly packed a lunch, a water bottle and a muesli bar into a waterproof backpack, unchained Buster, her elderly golden retriever and together they ran down the narrow gravel path to the river’s edge. Beyond the vast expanse of wind rippled sand and tiny pools stood the island, a rocky sentinel guarding the river-mouth.

“Come on Buster”, Patti called. “If we are going to make this crossing today we had best hurry before the tide begins to turn. I suppose I should have told them at the shop where we were heading for the day. It’s too late now.”

Slipping of her sandals and buckling them together Patti began the trek towards the island. She knew great grandfather had manned a whaling station, last century, on the far side and she understood there were still signs of habitation from those bygone days. The island also housed an expanding colony of white herons, which Patti hoped to take a photo of, if time allowed. She looked back. The village appeared miles away, but she knew the island, at low tide, was about a mile from the mainland. Not far to go now, she thought. Buster raced ahead sending flocks of gulls and terns into the air. Patti strode onto the island, threw her bag and shoes onto the sand, and ran in decreasing circles yelling out “I’ve made it! I’ve reached the island!” She executed a full cartwheel; she ran towards an outcrop of jagged rocks, climbed to the top waving her hands wildly, and joined Buster in a crazy bird chase. An adrenalin rush fueled her sense of achievement making the trip worthwhile.

The noise of a huge wave crashing on the shore turned her attention to the tide. Not only was it on the turn, but it was also filling the pools. Patti was anxious. What to do? Should she camp on the island until the next tide, or risk the journey back? In the distance dark clouds were gathering behind the hills … a sure sign of rain. She grabbed her pack, whistled to Buster and hastily retraced her steps across the slowly filling passageway with the incoming waves crashing gently at her ankles. Buster splashed ahead, but Patti decided she would feel safer if he stayed at heel, and called him in. Together they headed homewards, Patti keeping up a running conversation with the dog in an attempt to calm her rising panic.

They had retreated half way. Patti did not like the sight, or feel, of the seaweed swaying on the tide and wished she had not been so foolhardy. Why hadn’t she checked the exact time of low tide? If they had left an hour earlier this would not have happened. Buster swam as he attempted to catch a piece of wood drifting by. The water was up to Patti’s knees, and there was still some distance to travel. A rogue number seven wave hurled seaweed onto Patti’s thighs and she felt a rising sense of terror. She couldn’t swim, and while Buster was an excellent swimmer, she knew it was beyond his capabilities to rescue her should she be swept off her feet. The water crept up and desperately she rolled her loose-fitting trousers even higher. No way did she want to have the weight of saturated clothes pulling her down. A waist high wave rolled in catching her unawares. Patti held in check a scream as fear threatened to completely overwhelm her. When the wave finally curved into debris-laden foam Patti spied dry sand, and safety, only meters away. She stumbled to the shore and ran up the beach collapsing onto the warm sand and whispered to Buster, “Shall we do this again tomorrow old boy?”

Buster looked at her, tail between his legs, as much to say, “You must be crazy”.

Across the Bridge

It has been many years since I last thought about the bridge. Recently, on a nostalgic journey to my childhood home, I wandered across the dew-laden grass in search of that bridge to another world. Sadly all traces have been obliterated; by time, and floods, and willows that grow and wither only to be replaced by others.

The bridge was narrow with rails on either side, rails that I thought were old railway lines until corrected. I have been informed they were constructed from timber, three by three inch lengths. No photos appear to have been taken, and while many of us remember the bridge, few of us have the same recollections.

The bridge was wooden with many gaping holes in its decking. I disliked walking across the bridge and resorted to crawling on hands and knees past the holes through which the dank dark waters of the lagoon beckoned with their livestock of slippery slimy eels lurking in the shadows. I did not relish the thought of falling through the holes and gashing my limbs on the way down as numerous cross branches of willows created a natural barrier through which it was possible to fall only to land in shallow water that barely moved over the muddy bottom.

While no one was able to accurately pinpoint the reason for the construction of this pathway to the other side it is generally presumed that my father and uncle had a hand in the enterprise. These men of a similar age combined their do-it-yourself talents several times over many years to build tracks and bridges and huts, none of which would find their way into the house of the year, or the bridge of the year competition, but all of which were solid and dependable in construction and eminently well suited for the task they were intended.

On a fine day the bridge emitted a golden ambience as dappled sunlight shone through willow leaves, and combined with the call of tuis and bellbirds and the occasional flash of a wood pigeon as it swished overhead, it oozed character. I am sad no remnants remain. I am sad that so few have memories of that wooden structure. On a cold day I never ventured near.

Shark Attack

I was walking along the beach, the tide was well out and while I may have been engaging in a little daydreaming, as I looked inland at the towering cliffs I did wonder where I would run to if a tsunami hit our shores. Maybe I would experience a sudden adrenalin rush and be able to climb the cliff face and manage to scramble past the rubbish dump where seagulls screeched incessantly as they scrounged for scraps to the safety of the farm.

It had only been in the previous week that a sea lion had chased a horse exercising on the sand. The stables situated a mile or two outside the town frequently gave their charges a run on the sand as it strengthened their leg muscles. It wasn’t only the danger of a tsunami I needed to watch out for, but also an attack by a sea lion. That thought was only momentary. There is little sense in indulging in a little panic attack if danger is not immediate. I didn’t like sea lions and should one come pounding up the beach I would simply turn tail and head back to the safety of the motel.

It was a lovely late summer’s day, and I was taking my daily stroll to the restaurant that over-looked the ocean. Once there I would climb the wooden steps, wander into the tearooms and order a coffee and a cake. Most days I sat in a window seat and scribbled notes about the birds or the flora and fauna on this coastal strip for the magazine I freelanced for. There was no sign of the breakers rushing out a mile so I realised that thoughts of a tsunami were ill founded, and by now I was back onto an area with no cliffs.

Beyond I could see the main highway and the main trunk railway line. The sand ran a long way back at this point as it followed the banks of a small creek. Usually I jumped from one little sand island to the next, but today the creek was running fuller … there had been rain overnight. It was a case of taking off my shoes and carrying them, laces tied together, and slung over my shoulder.

A pale skinned youth dressed in black swim shorts suddenly appeared from out of the lupines. In my reverie I hadn’t noticed him. I murmured, “Nice day”, to him as he walked by, restraining a smile as he high stepped on the warm sand. I didn’t think he was a ‘beach person’, but it was obvious he was making the most of the warm day.

A dog is what everyone needs when they go for a walk along an almost deserted beach. It gives a reason for conversation, but not having a dog for company, I resorted to talking to myself. I must add that I do not normally talk to myself! I may on the odd occasion, but there is always a good reason! I was trying to puzzle out what those fish were frolicking in the shallows. There were quite a few swimming and diving on the now incoming tide.

“Shark! Shark!” the cry came from the pale skinned youth as he hurriedly high stepped over the sand towards the car that I hadn’t previously noticed parked beyond the dunes. His swim shorts were still dry … poor lad; he hadn’t even put a toe into the briny. He almost ran past me and I notice his face was even whiter than his body, and I was almost positive there were a tear or two squeezing from the corner of his eyes.

“Where?” I asked. I wondered if perhaps I had spent too much time worrying about tsunamis or sea lions when the real danger was sharks.

He never replied as he moved towards his folk’s car, and safety from monsters of the deep.

I peered towards the ocean and found I had to take of my glasses to wipe them as a sea fog had swept in from beyond the horizon. I could see no shark. Surely he wasn’t hallucinating? Maybe he feared sharks, as much as I feared being caught by a tsunami in a spot where there was no quick path to escape?

Through the haze I noticed the fish frolicking, and now that I was closer I could easily see they were dolphins. Dolphins often came close in and played in the water, showing off to the audience they invariably gathered.

The Dream

I had a dream. I dreamed a story.

The family were living in Norway, a foreign country. Father had a one-year transfer to a veterinary clinic as a small animal specialist, while Mother and daughter Anna settled into their new home amongst the spruce trees, which was a short drive to the nearest town and school. The scenery was breathtaking but Anna was finding it difficult to settle into school life. Her language skills were hesitant and although she tried hard to converse she found it difficult to make friends. Many days she came home from school unhappy.

One day her mother noticed the sadness in Anna's eyes, and asked what was the problem. Anna, eyes downcast, murmured she was OK. Mother knew her daughter better than that. Gently, settling her on her knee she asked again what the problem was. Anna's tale came out haltingly with sniffling and uncertainty.

Slowly she managed to tell her mother that she didn't have any friends … that the children laughed at her because her Norwegian was not fluent. Mother, a wise lady, asked Anna if there was anything she could do better than the other children. Anna's eyes brightened ... she could crochet and none of the other children had mastered that craft.

Mother laughed gently, soothed Anna's sadness away with a biscuit and a drink. Next day, when Anna was at school Mother drove to the shopping centre and bought up several balls of wool and some crochet hooks. She then designed some invitations, featuring crochet as the theme, and gave them to Anna to give out to some of the children at school. Two days later a troop of eager children appeared at the door. Mother who had sandwiches, small cakes and milk shakes ready, introduced herself.

She sat the children down; let them choose which colours of wool they wanted, and handed out crochet hooks before demonstrating how to make a square. The children, quiet at first, slowly picked up the basics and by teatime they had mastered the art of simple crochet.

Anna was able to go round each child and help out with the harder parts such as turning a corner, and soon all were laughing and chattering as though they had known each other for years. Next day at school Anna had many friends, and the crochet lessons continued for several Thursday afternoons until everyone was proficient.

Another Mum decided to show the group how to do origami and these simple little craft afternoons became a wonderful way for children's friendships to develop.

One day, many months later, when Anna was telling her mother about the many friends she had, her Mother said, "Anna, do you remember when you hated school because you had no friends?"

Anna frowned. It seemed such a long time ago. "Yes," she replied, that was ages ago."

"It was," agreed her mother. "But the thing is, it wasn't that you never had any friends, it was just you hadn't yet met them. Life is like that. We go to new places, we know no-one, and so we have to look for a common meeting place."

Addiction

A confession. I have an addiction. It consumes my day and interferes with my night.

Not for me the time consuming, not to mention health-depriving addiction of smoking: no that is common and ordinary. If one is to have an addiction one should at least cultivate something that is different. Or is any addiction different? All addictions envelope the person until their life is taken over.

I know of many who are addicted to work. They have my deepest pity. All day, some every day of the week and for more than the forty hours considered 'normal', these people let the work ethic rule their lives. Should one dare to ask why, they are met with blank stares of incomprehension. They declare they work to pay the bills, to have a better lifestyle, to pay for a long awaited holiday, while some even confess to liking the pain it inflicts upon their soul. One could go as far as to say they enjoy being a paragon.... not of virtue. In my opinion, be it ever so humble, these folks are afraid of the time they might have if they stopped working so hard. They have nothing to fill their lives apart from work.

Then there are the many millions addicted to smoking. Some, bless their little cotton socks, even sue cigarette companies for enticing them to not only purchase the nicotine impregnated weed but also for forcing the tissue wrapped article to their lips and coercing them to draw the life threatening fumes into their lungs. Every week I witness the pathetic picture of a woman riding a mobility scooter who, after parking her vehicle outside a shop door, will struggle to the counter, breathless and gasping for oxygen, and ask for 20 cigarettes of her favourite brand. In her twilight years her addiction holds her in its tentacles.

Witness also those others addicted to the bottle. They swagger around breathing alcoholic fumes which if captured should power a motorcar. That’s an idea worth considering! Gas for cars! And as recycling is all the rage, what better than recycled gas. Fumes from the alcoholic would substantially cut down on the amount of petroleum needed by the world. In fact, going just one step further down that road, the nations' drunks would have cheap fuel.... unlike the rest of us. The sad irony is that once the drinker partakes of too much of his or her favourite tipple their nature changes. Arguments get out of hand. Rash statements are made, and often punches are thrown. The headaches and the delicate state of their constitution can only be eradicated by swallowing more of the same.

Of course other addictions are equally consuming. All addictions are consuming ~ otherwise they cannot be properly called an addiction.

One hears, though personally I do not know one, of people who pursue some obscure line of enquiry. They read books about their subject, they write page after page in the hope of persuading others to be equally interested. They are very interesting people should you wish to listen to the long-winded discussions they feel compelled to launch into at the slightest provocation.

I do know genealogists. They are a dime a dozen in my family. Hour upon hour is spent scraping the dredges of my mind for aunt Alice's second cousin's husband's name. Does it matter? To the genealogist it is of utmost importance as it fills a gap on a page of the family tree. When, a few weeks later, another meeting with the family scribe occurs it is so disheartening to have to relate the same piece of information again. Why? Because the original piece of paper on which the initial information was written has been lost in the filing system. The filing system! A box of paper would be a better description. It would be true to say that many of us who are not genealogists have more information on their computer under the scalp about who is who within the family than the aforesaid genealogist. However as an addiction, genealogy is harmless.

But, back to the point. I have an addiction. It is ..... now wait for it ..... WORDS! Every waking hour my mind runs amok with words. Should I hear a new word I am instantly curious as to its origin. A trip to the dictionary is a trip to the movie theatre. I spy a word.

Instantly I have a mental picture running through the brain of that word and all its concepts. I make a movie from a word.

Once I never knew words. I was but a child then. I learned to read. I learned to write, and from that moment on my addiction has grown in magnitude. It is harmless. Hopefully it isn't life shortening, and under proper control it can be useful.... some of the time anyway!

Life Support

Rose's clambering embrace gave life support to weathered and near crippled Fence.

Years ago Fence was erected to replace a more ancient structure. Families living on either side spent endless hours oiling Fence, and spraying weed-killer on his foundations in an earnest endeavour to preserve his aged facade. Mother Nature had another agenda. Slowly, relentlessly, lichens took up residence on Fence's silvered exterior, attaching themselves to exposed regions. That coat gave him an almost distinguished appearance.

Rose's lineage was impeccable. Sturdy White Briar with feet firmly planted in the ground suckered sweetly perfumed, blowsy, Blush Pink. When severe pruning of the thorn-encrusted limbs destroyed Blush Pink, White Briar flourished. Spreading her arms she smothered Fence and edged her way towards the delicate lemon and cream honeysuckle clinging nearby.

One cruel winter's night a storm brewed from the west; wild winds gathered strength and hurtled debris through the darkened sky. Rose and aged Fence clung together against the onslaught of the screaming intruder, battling to remain upright as branches of their taller neighbours, and errant plastic bags, whipped by.

The calmness of the dawn revealed the devastation, in the centre of which Rose and Fence lay together, entwined in death as in life.

The Spirit stone

Manilla folders, bursting at the seams with copies of birth and death certificates competed for space on the aged work-stained table where numerous scraps of paper covered in scribbled notes were stacked haphazardly. The three cousins endeavoured to piece together the trail of their forebears who had arrived in New Zealand before the influx of Pakeha settlers. Several months earlier in idle conversation about life in the olden days, the idea was hatched that a Family Tree should be tackled before the remaining elderly aunts and uncles departed this world. Maggie launched into the self-imposed task with vigour bulldozing Lily and Cathy, who were younger, into acting as gatherers and collators of information.

Cathy, who prided herself on her extensive computer skills, was assigned the task of assembling the information into chronological order. Lily, the proud possessor of several faded sepia-toned photographs from a bygone era and who was privy to many family stories, assumed the compilation role. Lily enjoyed her duties. She was well known amongst the family as the one who kept in touch with relatives near and far, and it was to her that family secrets and desires were divulged. Lily was curious by nature and should a whisper of a tale reach her ears she would sit and write a long chatty letter unobtrusively placing her query in the middle, thus not making her curiosity apparent. She didn’t consider it nosey, and consequently her knowledge of family stories was incredible. The folders and notes amassed to mammoth proportions until it became essential they take time out from everyday interruptions to concentrate on the proposed contents of ‘The Family Tree’. They resolved to spend three days at The Crib in the Catlins where they would be assured of relative peace and quiet.

Cathy and Maggie leaned over the table engrossed in their latest discussion. Had great-grandfather chosen his life as a whaler, or was it thrust upon him because his parents had been convicts deported to Botany Bay? Maggie had almost convinced them that he had chosen that way of life, but secretly Lily, who didn’t think it important, had some doubts. Who, in their right mind, would choose to sail across the Tasman Sea to distant, almost uninhabited New Zealand, to chase whales in a small boat? Lily, who preferred the comforts of home, failed to see how any ancestor of hers could possibly choose a life of hardship over that of living in a civilised country. She had to admit that perhaps Australia was not all that civilised in the mid 1800’s, but she was positive life must have been easier than harpooning migrating whales in the inhospitable Southern Ocean.

At this particular moment a deliciously tempting aroma rising from the battered black enamel pot on the coal range was of greater importance. She was hungry. Breakfast had been a hit and miss affair as they had hoped to catch a fish on the incoming tide. No fish had taken the bait. A slice of over-cooked toast spread with marmite, and a cup of tea was not the type of breakfast Lily was used to. At home on the dairy farm, breakfast consisted of porridge, eggs and toast, followed by at least two cups of strong, sweet, milky coffee.

Perched above the river estuary with an expansive view of beach and bush, the Crib had undergone extensive alternations and additions, which updated the old dull green tin shed that had occupied the site for over fifty years into a comfortable, if somewhat, isolated, holiday home. With the coal range for cooking and heating, and a generator for lighting, it provided the extended family a welcome escape from the hustle and bustle of daily living. Lily preferred city lights; the Art Gallery, the Museum or a shopping Mall, when in need of an escape, but had agreed to travel down the dusty highway and along the muddy potholed track as her contribution in hurrying along the completion of this historical document. Maggie and Cathy, convinced of the importance of a complete Family Tree to place in the archives of family history, were serious as to its final content.

Lily’s eyes roamed the room as Maggie and Cathy energetically debated the pros and cons of a convict’s life in Sydney. The range radiated warmth that enveloped the cousins. An elderly kettle, its marble rolling gently hissed steam as the lid jiggled, and the hand-knotted fabric mat fashioned by their grandmother covered a blotchy paint mark made by Maggie’s grandson when he accidentally knocked over an almost empty paint can with his fishing rod. Fleetingly she wondered who made the cushions on the rolled back sofa, but that thought became irrelevant when a glow in the distant cabinet captured her attention. The cabinet, which had originally been display shelves in the local chemist, had been consigned to the local tip after being replaced by a modern glass and chrome unit. Maggie, dumping garden rubbish noticed the cabinet and carted it home where she painted the exterior a deep teal and the interior pale sky blue. Not a colour scheme for a home in the town, but here in this remote Crib on the southern coast it fitted in perfectly.

Lily’s mind began to drift. That cabinet held an inexplicable attraction. She attempted to ignore it and tried concentrating on the conversation of her cousins, but to no avail. Botany Bay, Sydney, stolen handkerchiefs, deportation; none of these held her attention. Her gaze kept returning to the cabinet.

Lily wandered around the room, stirred the stew simmering on the stove and noted that it was ready for eating. She looked out the window at the cheeky seagull that was perched on the clothesline pole. “Fly away Peter, fly away Paul”, she intoned quietly to herself. The seagull fluttered its wings, twisted its head in a comical way and stayed on the pole.

“I’ll bet that seagull caught all our fish this morning,” Lily said to Maggie and Cathy.

“Mmmmm, pardon, what did you say?” asked Cathy.

“Nothing, nothing of importance,” replied Lily.

Their only interest at the moment was finishing the Family Tree. Lily moved the old earthenware crock that her mother had used for pickling onions, and pulled out some of the dead greenery that leaned haphazardly over its edge all the time trying to ignore the cabinet and the irresistible drawing force it held. Moving slowly around the room she edged closer to the cabinet.

Several stone adzes held pride of place on the two top shelves. Great-grandfather had married a local Maori woman whilst whaling at nearby Tautuku Peninsula and these adzes had been in the family since those early days. Lily barely noticed a dried sea horse lying in solitude near a fragment of ambergris that had washed onto the adjacent beach after a southerly storm. On the bottom shelf she could see a stone, and it was this grey stone that glistened, and glowed, and attracted her. Fancy a stone glistening! For a moment Lily imagined the stone spoke to her, but shook her head in disbelief. She must need food. She was becoming lightheaded.

Maggie and Cathy sat at either end of the table absorbed in their discussion, totally oblivious to the dense sea fog drifting into the Crib and forming a curtain between them and Lily.

Lily opened the cabinet and quietly removed the stone with the hole in the centre. The fog swallowed up the room leaving Lily alone. The stone felt warm in her grasp and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise. She shivered without feeling cold. A moving shadow to the left caused her to swing around. Uttering a muffled cry of amazement she glimpsed, through the haze, a young woman standing near the door.

"I never noticed you before," she murmured. “Where did you spring from?”

Lily stared! This woman was not dressed like anyone she had ever met. She was a young Maori woman wearing a traditional flax skirt with a feather in her hair. A huia feather! Lily wondered where she found the feather. The huia had been extinct for years. The Maori prized huia feathers and wore them as adornment, or for ceremonial occasions. Lily wondered why the woman was there. Why she was dressed as in days of old? What did she want in this off the beaten track part of the Catlins? Perhaps she should ask? So many questions crowded her mind, but foremost Lily wanted to know why was she dressed like that?

Lily smiled in a friendly way. The young woman nodded her head in acknowledgement. Suddenly her eyes clouded in pain and Lily, kind hearted and gentle, hurried over and laid a friendly arm around the woman’s shoulder. The woman looked startled and squatted on the floor near the couch. Staring in surprise Lily realised the nature of the young woman's pain. She was in the throes of childbirth! Lily felt panic rising and called urgently to Maggie and Cathy. No reply came. She could neither see, nor hear her cousins. She could not see beyond that misty screen that hid the rest of the room. The coal range was not visible. She could not smell the aroma of the stew pot. There were no droning voices of her cousins discussing the Family Tree. There was only this stranger and herself. What was happening?

Assessing the options available Lily knew she must assist in the imminent birth, and with that decision made a serene calmness descended upon her. The young woman's face grimaced in pain. Lily was unsure of the correct procedure. Shouldn’t she have boiling water available? No doctor or midwife were on hand; no nurse; no clothes for the baby; nothing, only this thick fog; and Lily and the mother to be. Gently she eased the labouring maiden onto the couch, placed a multi-coloured crochet cushion behind her head and taking the throw from the adjacent armchair laid it carefully over the pregnant form.

"What is your name?" Lily enquired.

Haltingly the young woman replied, "I am Te Haukawea."
Lily eyes flew open in astonishment. Her great-grandmother, Te Haukawea, had lived on this isolated coastline and was married to the whaler, of convict parentage, who emigrated from Australia. Lily’s Christian names were Lily Te Haukawea, as she had been christened in memory of her great-grandmother.

When another spasm of pain crossed Te Haukawea's face Lily rubbed her back slowly until the contraction passed. Te Haukawea looked grateful and smiled a tremulous smile.

“Is this your first birthing?” asked Lily.
“Yes,” replied Te Haukawea. “But I have helped family members to deliver their babies. I do know what happens.”

Lily smiled. She was glad someone knew what to do as she herself had given birth to her three children in the clinical environment of a hospital with nurses in attendance and the gas mask handy for when the labour grew stronger. Here they were miles from civilisation, and seemingly without assistance of any type.

"The baby is coming," Te Haukawea gasped as she gave a grunt.

Lily sprang into action. As the baby's head made its appearance Lily carefully eased it into the world. The baby was a little girl, with soft tendrils of black hair clinging damply to her brow. Lily felt a rush of emotion overwhelm her as she gazed upon the newborn.
"You have a daughter Te Haukawea. You have a beautiful baby girl."

Te Haukawea, a proud smile on her face, lay back exhausted by the effort. Lily reached into the tea chest beyond the couch, and searching deep to the bottom found a soft blanket, edged with white satin ribbon, that she wrapped the baby in. She carefully handed the infant over to Te Haukawea who placed her to the breast for her first milk. Lily looked on in wonderment.

This trip had been arranged for the sole purpose of making solid progress on the Family Tree, and here she was assisting in a birth. She had no idea of the whereabouts of Cathy and Maggie. They had been here in the room with her, but now the room was veiled in mist. Lily smiled to herself as a fleeting thought crossed her mind. Cathy and Maggie had missed the excitement of participating in this birthing; they would scarcely believe her when she told them what she had witnessed.

After Te Haukawea fed the child, and slept a time, she smiled at Lily and whispered shy thanks before rising to her feet, babe in her arms.
"I am naming this girl Mere," Te Haukawea told Lily. "I am grateful for your help, but I must go now."

Lily, reluctant to let her leave so hastily, handed Te Haukawea another blanket and embraced her, but before she could utter a word Te Haukawea and Mere disappeared into the mist. Lily was very close to tears. Her great-grandmother was named Te Haukawea and her first daughter, Lily's Grandmother, had been called Mere. Tears slid silently from Lily's eyes as the significance of what she had witnessed hit home. A trip back in time! Had she witnessed her own grandmother's birth?

Lily rubbed her eyes as the mist rolled back, and there at the table, still deeply involved in their discussion, sat Maggie and Cathy. The cushion on the couch showed a small indentation where Te Haukawea’s head had rested; the lid of the tea chest was open and the linen and blankets dishevelled as though disturbed.

Lily, holding the stone with the hollow centre, could sense it pulsating in time with her heartbeat.

“Maggie?”

“Yes Lily?” replied Maggie. “Lunch is almost ready. If you have nothing to do maybe you could set the table?”

“Maggie?” said Lily. “What is this stone?”

“Oh that,” shrugged Maggie, “that’s a spirit stone. It’s supposed to have supernatural powers; if you believe in that sort of thing.”