Silence. Nobody moved; nobody spoke. Even the river’s roar seemed to dwindle. Seven pairs of eyes (this place is like the main street in town, I suddenly thought) gazed at the little panel. Pale sunlight gleamed through clouds, and the paua eyes gleamed.

Only then did Finola gasp and my father start murmuring ‘Dear God … Dear God.’ Mum went ‘Oh, Tipene!’ Auntie Whina was murmuring in Maori. I knew some of the words: ‘… water … our people’.

‘It was stuck on the ledge,’ I told them. ‘The river must have carried it there.’

Tipene’s fingers stroked whorls and diamond shapes. ‘… the swamp?’ I heard him say.

Grandad Duncan nodded. ‘Your Nana and Great-nana said … there were stories.’ He sighed.

My mother put her arms around me again. I’d stopped crying now, and I hoped nobody would mention it — ever. ‘Honestly, Whina — should we kiss these boys, or skin them alive?’

Tipene’s mum smiled, touched the greenstone at her throat. ‘Both.’ She knelt, kissed Tipene gently on the cheek, and I could see him hoping nobody would ever mention that again, either. Dad and Granddad Duncan stood grinning.

Auntie Whina touched the carving once again. ‘Nana Ahorangi and the others must be told.’ She bent her head, murmured again. I heard ‘taonga’. I knew that word, too; felt proud that I did.

‘All right, people.’ Dad took my arm, nodded at Finola to help Tipene. ‘Let’s get these two back home and dried out.’

We began moving towards the road and bridge. The Waimoana growled and swept by a couple of yards away, savage and wonderful. I’d always feel different about it now.

My legs trembled. My back and shoulders felt as if someone had run our farm truck over them. I shuddered with cold and exhaustion.

I glanced over at Tipene, stumbling along beside me, with Finola and Grandad Duncan gripping his arms. He looked even worse than I did, but he flicked a feeble grin at me. Auntie Whina walked behind him, holding the little panel in both hands.

We climbed the fence — that is, five of us climbed; Tipene and I were half-lifted over — and reached the bridge. It was less than an hour ago that I’d been standing near here, thinking how I wanted to stay in this valley, make my life here.

It’s life that’s the real treasure. I knew it now. The carving was amazing, and it would be even more amazing if the swamp held others. But the most precious things could be inside you as well as outside.

We started trudging along the wooden deck of the bridge. I lifted my sore, aching head again, and gazed around. I’d never felt so happy and hopeful in my life.

AILSA 1981