‘Let’s see.’ I began edging towards it, bracing myself against the bank with both hands. The water only reached up to my ankles here, but it was so fast, so full of power, that it tugged me sideways. We stared at the dark wooden shape wedged on the ledge just ahead. I could see more details now: raised hands, legs astride, patterns like tree-trunks at the sides.

I sloshed forward another step. ‘Be careful,’ Tipene muttered.

‘It’s OK. The water’s shallow.’

My friend shook his head. ‘I don’t mean that.’ His eyes were fixed on the carving just three steps away; his lips were parted.

I gazed at the carving again, and a shiver ran through my body. The paua eyes seemed to glitter straight at me.

The river surged, and washed around my shins. I gripped the bank harder. Another step. I started to crouch, still bracing myself with one hand, reaching for the carving.

Then I paused. I straightened up and moved aside. I heard myself speaking to Tipene. ‘You — you take it.’

It must have sounded stupid, like I was scared or something. But my friend just nodded once. His eyes stayed on the carving. I thought I heard him murmur something in Maori, and words he’d taught me were in my head, too. He stooped and reached both hands forward, took hold of the little panel gently, easing it out of the crack just above the ledge, where the Waimoana had swept it. He stayed crouched for a few seconds, holding it. Then, very slowly, he rose to his feet.

The water frothed over our ankles. Just a couple of yards away, the river crashed past, gouging at the bank. But around us, everything seemed to have gone silent.

The carving … Whorls and diamond patterns. Rows of tiny teeth shapes, each one exactly the same size. One of the hands held a club, just like a picture Mr McDougall had shown us at school once. Even that was covered with tiny scrolls and circles. The other hand rested across the figure’s stomach. The wood was dark with water, but it seemed to glow golden under the grey sky. The silver-blue eyes glittered, and I realised Tipene’s hand was trembling.

He turned to gaze at me. Neither of us spoke, but I knew that even if I lived to be 200 (OK, not likely), I’d never forget this moment. And I felt so pleased we’d found it together.

My friend began to speak, swallowed, tried again. His fingers moved across the wood, following the winding patterns. It’s like the river, I realised: the shape of the river.

‘I — we’ll take it to Mum. To Nana Ahorangi. They’ll know what to do.’

I stared at him. Do what? Yet I already half-knew what he meant. This was so special. Special people had to decide about it.