Chapter 23
Paturau Pa
Guinan McCreedy hadn’t left his tower workshop for days. Nor had he washed and seldom had he eaten. But he had whistled and at times laughed out loud. Such privations mattered little to him. When he got too hot near the furnace he dragged off his manky ushanka and ran a grubby paw over his balding pate. He never got cold.
If he was taken by one of his migraines the small steam engine on the back of his wheelchair would carry him out onto the landing. Here in the fresh air, he would try to rest and recover as the bright lights danced before his eyes and the blacksmith's tongs squeezed his brain. Below him the waters of the Parapara Inlet came and went, the great wheel beside the Haematite Paint Works ever turning.
But mostly he worked. And beneath his skillful hands and modified tools a great, ugly combat robot grew. When he needed help, an extra pair of hands, he would summon workmen from the paint works. They always came quickly; they were after all his employees.
Long before there was water in its tank or the flame in the firebox gave it life, he had named his creation; Cuchullan, the Hound of Ulster.
* * *
“You smell a little... ripe,” said Max to Wiremu, as the latter boarded the carriage, accompanied by a slight 'farmy' smell, and sat down in the seat next to him.
“Morning gentlemen,” responded Wiremu, apparently ignoring Max. Dickie and Wang, who were sitting opposite and deep in conversation about Dirigibles, paused to greet the new arrival.
“Maybe of cow?” continued Max.
“Indeed. That would be right,” confirmed Wiremu finally. “I have taken an early morning job.” Max looked at him sceptically, eyeing his chest for a moment.
“I didn't think your udders would be big enough for that.”
There was silence for a moment. Then all four of them fell about laughing freely, before adding their own cow jokes. Unsaid was the small celebration of Max's return to comic form.
“They get me every time... those big brown eyes. Your tongue shooting up your own nose!”
“How much are you bringing in this season... WiraMoo?”
When they had settled down a little Dickie enquired; “But seriously what's the job?”
“Oh, nothing much. Mr Riley has taken me on as a shed hand for the morning milking.”
“You can fit that in?” asked Wang.
“I'll need to if I want to come back to university next year. I'm up at five thirty, in the shed at quarter to six and out again by seven.”
“Maybe I should get a cow shed job,” reflected Wang.
“You are going to need to make time for a wash as well,” said Max. “But that is tough, all the same.”
“I think the smell has a certain earthy sweetness to it.”
“It won't by four o'clock this afternoon!”
Wiremu nodded.
“It's just as well that we are going to be outdoors all day then isn't it?”
“What's that?” asked Wang. “Outdoors?”
“Today is the combined Māori Studies and Archaeology field trip to the dig at the mouth of the Paturau River,” informed Max.
"I see," replied Wang. "Does milking cows pay alright?"
Wiremu shrugged.
"Everything helps."
“I'm sorry to change the subject Wang,” said Dickie. “Well maybe not. We've probably about milked Wiremu for all he's worth.” He afforded himself a small smile and then smoothing his moustache with his forefinger and thumb grew more serious. “I saw something interesting on Monday in The Revolution Industrial.”
“Was it Alice?” asked Max at once.
“No. It was her day off.”
“Oh well. At least you noticed.”
“Anyway. Gilbert Lavisham and Mr Stewart had their normal places at the back table and with them were a couple of Stewart's bilge rat crew from the Elizabeth, and two others.”
“I'm sorry Dickie,” interrupted Max holding up his hands. “The comings and goings of Lavisham and Stewart are no longer of interest to me.”
Dickie looked a little confused, then asked, “Harriet?”
“Old news,” answered Wiremu.
“Oh I see. Well, that simplifies the issue a little. But does not however stop my telling of this story. Although it may now however only be of interest to Wiremu.”
“How so?” asked Max.
“Because these other two taking afternoon tea with Stewart and Lavisham were a Māori couple. I believe their names are Kingi and Mahuika.”
* * *
Dickie and Wang waved the other two goodbye on the platform at Central Station before heading off into the city together, in the direction of the University. Wiremu and Max waited for a steam tram to take them down to Haven Station. Other students, also heading for the field trip, started to fill the platform.
“What do you think?” said Wiremu without preamble.
Max shrugged
“Hard to say. But one could guess at all sorts of sinister purposes. Of course, they may have just been having a serendipitous cultural exchange.”
“An artefact exchange would be more like it," spat Wiremu. "If what Dickie told you about Stewart is true.”
“Who knows?” said Max shaking his head.
The Steam Tram rolled in then and as the students piled on board Max added;
“I am getting a little sick of all the little dramas. Let's just enjoy a day out of the city and away from it all.”
“Easy for you to say,” observed Wiremu as the bell sounded and they began to rumble back down the tracks, through the botanical gardens, under the Horatio and Lyons Street bridges, and around to Haven Station by the water’s edge.
The Western Line carried more freight than the Valley Line. For where the Valley had timber, gold, stone and dairy to bring to Collingwood Port, the western hills and the coast beyond produced these, but also coal, dolomite, flax and a small amount of graphite. It was a true mixed line. Even the train on which the students rode to their field trip was a 'composite'; two passenger carriages, followed by a mail wagon and two goods cars.
Once over the Aorere Bridge, the one Gerald had joked about putting a torpedo in the piles of, they arrived in Ferntown. The town was separated naturally from the rest of Collingwood by the river they had just crossed and the wider estuary and haven. It did not however suffer from this detachment and had for some time maintained something of a status as a quaint destination for tram-riding shoppers and city-side day trippers.
Of the settlement there were two parts. Immediately off the bridge end the visitor found himself first on Ongaio Island, a close built, rather rustic, village set apart from the larger Ferntown by not one, but two steep-sided, muddy bottomed, tidal streams. The island’s wooden buildings crowded together and those on the edge of the backwaters sported small jetties, each held up by hardwood piles driven deep into the mud. Beneath these dinghies and other rough boats were moored with long ropes to allow for the daily rise and fall.
The taverns and pot shops on both banks served eel, crab, oysters, and patties of juvenile 'whitebait', the little black eyes of which, staring out of egg batter, put many a fine lady off her meal. It was not however its colourful menu options that gave Ferntown its life, but the role it played as a supply and dormitory town for the nearby subterranean mineral industry. Despite this close association with the roughest of industries and its nearness to swamp, river, and sea level, which reminded Max of some place from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, most of the main street shop fronts were well maintained and the backdrop of bright green weeping willows lent the town a pretty aspect.
The train rumbled respectfully behind the main street buildings. Bright billboards had been hammered up on the back of a number of line-side buildings, in order to catch the eye of train passengers, so that no opportunity for promotion was missed. A number announced the premises of gem stone retailers, for which the town was well known, but Max hoped that the crude artworks thereon were pale hints at the sparkling treasures within.
A moment later when they drew into Ferntown station, the commuters waiting there appeared, in the most, to desire transport in the opposite direction and the train was only burdened with a further two travellers.
Max couldn't escape from the knowledge that Harriet's family lived in Ferntown, and despite himself he spent a few minutes, as the train drew away again, studying the better-looking homesteads and wondering which one, if any, was Leithhome.
Soon they were running north along the slim stretch of coastal land at the base of the mountains. Native bush climbed away steeply on the left, while the mudflats and shell-banks of Murderer's Bay on the right quietly succumbed again to the moon's rhythms.
Every couple of miles they would pass evidence of the massive extent of the coal mining operations being undertaken within the mountains; a siding or shunting yard, hoppers and gantry cranes, or indeed giant piles of the pitch-black fuel itself. First came Gorge Creek with its aerial ropeway, then Mount Burnett, where there was both a mine for coal and a larger one for Dolomite.
Max's eye swept up the bush-clad sides in search of the Armstrong guns on top. But they were too close to the monster’s feet, the angle all wrong and the top in cloud. Next was a Graphite mine whose lode became pencil lead and was shipped all over the world.
Wiremu told Max how the entire western side of the bay was a rich shell fish gathering area for the Māori who lived along the coast, and from time to time, as they passed them by, he would point out tribal lands, detailing who lived where and other points of interest. Often however, he would add that a particular parcel of land had recently gone up for sale and had now passed out of Māori hands and into those of an English company or rich settler.
Three more people boarded the train at New Brighton, known to the Māori as Pākawau. Here the rich of the Dominion had built their summer homes next to the sea, and there were shops and nice parks and a pier that went out into the bay. The recent addition of a pavilion and theatre hinted at the town's connection with its namesake back in the mother country.
“What's this!?” said Wiremu, suddenly. He was looking out of the carriage window and on up the line. Then they all saw, on the right-hand side, sitting steaming in a siding, a remarkable, large, rather ugly, black locomotive. The students all rushed to the windows for a better look. It was clear that none on board had seen it, or anything like it, before. Their excited exclamations began at once.
“Would you look at that beast!”
It was a massive engine, covered in snaking pipes and at this very moment, workmen.
“She's a 4-4-4-4! That's a lot of wheels!”
Indeed there were a great number of iron wheels beneath the bulk of the big boiler. Four small wheels at the front on their own boogie, followed by four big driving wheels, that is two each side, then another four driving wheels, ending in another small set of four mirroring the first.
“I bet she is an entry for the Haast race! Out for a test run!”
“Has to be,” agreed another.
“But which company?”
There was a pause while students looked for some indication of who owned the locomotive.
“Rotheram and Scott! Look that has to be Joseph Rotheram standing on top. The fellow with his hands on his hips.”
“Could be. Boy it's a strange looking thing. Say which end is the front?”
Max had been wondering the same thing. At first he thought that they had been coming at it from behind. For where there should have been a coal and water tender coupled on the rear-end there was instead a triangular cowcatcher and the 'back' of the cab was not open as usual with a footplate, but glazed with a windscreen, as if it travelled in reverse the majority of the time. Then when they reached the 'front' where the funnel came out of the round smoke box there was no cowcatcher but, as if to confirm the growing theory, couplings and an eight wheeled tender.
“I reckon she travels cab first,” said someone in a tone close to amazement.
There was another pause as people took this in. The 'Double Fairly' locomotive which drew the student's train chugged respectfully past the resting giant, humble in its shadow, though proven on the rails.
“She is not travelling anywhere at the moment,” reflected Max sarcastically as the locomotive in question disappeared behind them.
“Still got weeks. I'd pay good money to see that thing running.”
The world had been 'mad for locomotives' for over thirty years now. The public continually waited on the great companies, craning their necks, as such, to see what new innovations would steam from their factories, speculating on how particular specifications would affect their own lives. Primarily shorter trips; London to Edinburgh in ten hours, New York to Baltimore in...
Max yawned.
“We keeping you up?” asked Wiremu, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Not at all,” replied Max. “If I'm honest I faked that. I just find that whole subject very... well frankly very Harriet Leith.”
“Thanks for your honesty. I trust that one day you will tell me what happened with that.”
“One day,” confirmed Max. And it wasn't that he felt that he had anything to hide from his friend, but more that he really couldn't be bothered with the recital. He stifled another fake yawn and gave Wiremu a wink.
A couple of minutes later they crossed the bridge at the mouth of the Pakawau inlet and taking the left-hand switch swung inland. Before them, cleft though the bush clad hills, was the Pakawau Gorge.
Here the Seaford Coal company had set up its operation and all about the northern side of the lagoon, whose outlet they had just crossed, right down to the water’s edge, was littered with the machine and plant and spoil of its working. Rail yards and tramways. Sheds, workshops and bunkrooms. Piles of wire rope, timber, and mountains of coal. Gantries, hoists, and winches. Iron buckets, bins, and wagons. Amongst it all plumes of steam and smoke rose from machines both stationary and self-propelled. Wiremu indicated the scorched earth beneath all the industry and commented; “Once there was a kāinga here. A food gathering camp.”
Max watched a line of miners, clearly a new shift starting, walking to their pit. In the rank there were both Māori and Englishmen. Ironically by the end of their shared time at the coal face all would emerge united in colour, as black men.
“If we had continued on the northern line up to Puponga we would have passed Te Rae, the home of Te Koihua,” added Wiremu.
“Te who?”
“You might have heard of him as Billy King. He was a friend of my grandfather. A real man eater. Face full of tattoos and a big greenstone Mere patu always in his lap.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“Not really. But we might need to call on him one day.”
“Can't wait.”
The train toiled its way up the incline and entered the gorge. The ancient forest that had once stood here had long been milled and now the area was barren but for gorse, bracken, and pig fern. This suited the miners well and they had hacked at the earth with little regard, making the entrances to their subterranean delvings clearly visible to the passing passengers.
Though the little Double-Fairly locomotive puffed hard to reach it, Pakawau Saddle was probably the gentlest mountain crossing on the island long Southern Divide. As they crested the low summit, the sparkling waters of the Westhaven Inlet suddenly dominated the view before them.
“Welcome to the wild west,” remarked Max, as they began their descent. For him the sense of crossing into a more basic, pioneering frontier was strong.
However, the train was not robbed at gunpoint by outlaws but made the whole journey south across the small bays of the Westhaven Inlet without event. Although there was much to see, including the skeleton of a tall ship, stuck in the sand and leaning its remaining masts dangerously over the settlement at Rakopi.
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Now, out the left-hand window, they viewed Mount Burnett and Mount Hardinger, and the forested range of which the two peaks were the highest, once more, but from behind. Long, bush draped, foothills ran down from those tops to the Inlet's salty edge. Of the numerous rough settlements built in the folds and on the wooded ridges of the hills there was little to see. These towns, if it was right to call them that, were known by names like Littleworth and Dogtown, and were the dormitories of lumber camps, gold mines and lower down, flax mills.
The rail shot from headland to headland, over mud flats and brackish bush rivers, on hard won stone causeways, built for the purpose. At times the old low tide 'corduroy' road, constructed of wooden logs laid side by side, could still be seen mouldering in the mud.
Again, Wiremu pointed out the sites of ancient Māori settlements, gardens and camps. On one headland a faint line of blue grey smoke still rose from the middle of the small collection of mean huts.
Finally, the train passed though Mangarakau town, with its own coal mine and swamp, and joined the Paturau River on its final leg to the sea.
* * *
“Who of you can tell us what happened here?” asked Professor Wynyard of the assembled Māori Studies and Archaeology students. Professor Evans stood next to him on the grassy rise, hands clasped behind his back. Behind them, across the river, the little settlement of Karaka could be seen, its huts seeming to exist in harmony with the trees from which it drew its name. Although both were dominated by the sheds of the Prouse and Saunders Flax Mill.
Beneath the students' feet, they had been told, were the remains of the old Paturau Pā; The Department of Archaeology's principal training dig.
Max watched a small stream punt in the distance, as it moved across the river, between the Flax Mill and the near side. Others of his peers studied the high lime stone bluffs beyond or glanced off at the restless Tasman Sea.
“No one?” continued Wynyard. “Paturau can be translated either as 'to lie in a long heap' or more dramatically 'killed by the hundred.' The meaning is the same both ways. Master Marino then, enlighten us if you will. I assume you at least will know your history.”
Next to Max, Wiremu stiffened, as all eyes swung to him.
“Indeed,” he replied, with little enthusiasm.
“Go on then,” prompted Evans. Wiremu cleared his throat.
“Just out there," Wiremu begun, pointing toward the sea. "And a little to the north there is said to be a reef of hard stone.” Heads turned to look. But there were only the endless rollers coming in from the west. “It is said that under that reef live the kings of the Kōura, the mightiest of crayfish. Legend also has it, that if you time it right, you can fill your canoe to sinking with a catch of kōura, in the time it takes for the tide to go out and return again.”
Wiremu gave a great sigh at this point. “After his conquest of the south the Ngati Toa chief Te Rauparaha established in Murderer's Bay, at Parapara, his puppet, the warrior priest Te Puoho. This Te Puoho was a... a savage, warlike individual, much like his master. In 1833 he sent a canoe-load of men around the coast to make a harvest of the kōura, for he desired to feast his warriors on the delicacy. But the canoe foundered on the reef. Those who lived here,” said Wiremu pointing at the earth between his feet, “...went to the cliffs to watch, but for some reason did not choose to help. Eventually the canoe broke in two and all that Te Puoho's men could do was cling to the halves and wait until the waves carried them ashore. The sun was down before they reached land again. Exhausted, they crossed over the Te Hapu bluffs, waded the inlet and walked all the way back to Parapara via the Pakawau Saddle.
On hearing his men's sorry report, and not receiving his hoped-for crayfish, Te Puoho went into a black rage. At once he rallied his war party and returned to Paturau to seek his revenge, saying “If I and my men cannot eat the flesh of kōura, we will feast instead on Ngati Rarua. When Te Puoho reached this place he killed everyone he could find.”
Wiremu's final words seemed to hang in the air as his listeners gave them their full attention. For although his oratory was well executed it was the weight of the growing revelation that they stood on the site of a massacre, or in the least a battle, that pressed sudden and heavy on them.
“The story does not finish there,” announced Professor Evans. “In the summer of 1836 Te Puoho led a force of maybe only 70 men south, again by canoe, down this coast. He crossed over the Southern Alps through Tiori-patea, which we are now suddenly calling Haast's Pass and entered Ngai Tahu lands. Here he moved about and made various troubles for the local people until he arrived near what is now the Scottish town of Gore in the Mataura Valley. Here he sacked Tuturau Pā. But news of his actions reached the great chief Tuhawaiki, at his Ruapuke Island stronghold. Soon he and his large war party arrived and brought the invaders to heel. Te Puoho and his party were killed. This combat was the last act of Māori warfare on the South Island.”
“To date,” added Wiremu under his breath. At once Max thought of The Five and all their warlike rhetoric. And then a bit later about their own upcoming raid on Wapping Point.
Wiremu and the Māori Studies students were led off by Professor Evans then. He would discuss with them issues pertaining to the Paturau river mouths suitability as a site for Māori inhabitation. Their talk would cover such essentials as climate, geography, defensibility and availability of both food and raw material sources. Only the ten Archaeology students remained on the Pā.
Professor Wynyard now had his students next to a rectangle of earth, maybe ten square yards in size, that had been roped off with pegs and heavy twine. Within the rope, the short sheep-cropped grass and the thin layer of dark brown top soil that had supported it, had been completely removed to a depth of about half a foot. There were a number of other such plots, likewise fenced off, spread across the top of the rise. In these worked, unsupervised for now, five or six second- and third-year students. In this one however Professor Wynyard currently stood, hands on hips.
"This site has been worked for some time," he began, pointing at the large number of pot holes that had been burrowed still deeper in the floor of the dig. “And it has yielded some of the more interesting finds.” He carefully moved to one side and cupped his chin in his hand. “Obviously it is the foundation of some kind of building. There are the remains of burnt posts in each corner. Whether it was a store room, a simple dwelling, or the house of a chief, we do not know. It was burnt down with the rest of the Pā at the time of the aforementioned raid or shortly after. At that same time, it was also quickly looted of its valuables. I say quickly because while the majority of these holes were empty, not all were.” Pacing about he indicated a couple of the deeper diggings. “This, class, is the detective side of Archaeology. You see we did not so much as dig these holes here, but more simply reopened them." He paused to see if this news would have any great effect on his students. The response was not overwhelming. "No? Well, it appears that beneath the dirt floor of this building the Māori of Paturau hid their treasures.” At these words however the small class all leant closer to peer hopefully over the rope. “But Te Puoho's raiders also discovered this and beat us to it. So as we cleaned out this foundation we found that the majority of the holes were empty, but not every one. As you can see there are many holes.”
The Professor turned and retrieved a canvas sheet and a wooden box. He spread the sheet on the ground and opened the sliding lid of the box.
“See here,” he said, withdrawing his hand from the box and holding up a small white u-shape. “A prized bone hook. A good hook had immense practical value. It could keep you alive.” Wynyard laid the hook on the canvas and began to produce other finds from the dig; Argillite flecks from d'Urville Island, an adze head, bone spear points for birding, sharp volcanic glass from the Northern Isle and a crude Greenstone tiki which the Professor claimed had the greatest value. He also produced a couple of large chunks of unworked Greenstone. These were quite unremarkable to the untrained eye, their rough exterior doing little to hint at the richness within. “Such as these are to be expected in a village like this. For as you know we are standing right on what was once the north-south Greenstone, or more correctly Pounamu, trading route.” Professor Wynyard stood from arranging the discoveries. “This site is almost done. But we have left three unexplored holes for you to learn proper extraction method on.”
Wynyard moved back in front of his students and pointed at an area of undisturbed dirt.
“It appears that the caches at this corner have remained untouched. Maybe a section of fallen roof covered them and the raiders deemed it not worth their while to investigate. We shall see.”
The students crowded closer still but remained on their side of the cordon. All of them knew not to cross into the excavated area uninvited. Doing so would be an almost instant course fail.
“Martin, my tools,” commanded the Professor. Martin, being one of the third-year students who had previously worked the site and now accompanied the field trip, passed Wynyard his tool box.
In the hot midday sun Max leant in to try and catch every detail.
This is the real thing. They were actually doing archaeology. Digging in real dirt with real tools.
“A little more light please students,” called Professor Wynyard, not unkindly, as he worked away, only a couple of feet from their toes. Max and the others drew back. “Thank you.”
As Max readjusted to give Wynyard his desired light, he caught the eye of the Chinese student, Jasmine, and saw that she had been taking as much interest as him. He tried to acknowledge her with a friendly smile but knew at once that it looked timid and awkward. Looking away he consoled himself with the observation that she seemed to have this same effect on all her classmates.
“You can see, even as I start out, that the soil here as not been disturbed for a good many years. It is softer, less dense than the surrounding, showing it has been removed and returned at some stage. But there is no plant matter or top soil in its structure. These have both had enough time to rot away or settle out.” Max could see that the substrate was in fact hard packed grey sand, consistent with the geological information that they had been given about the Pā’s foundation being an ancient sand dune. Wynyard used a small trowel to remove sand from the deepening hole.
“If this cache had been raided recently, even within the last forty years, there would be more detritus within the refill. Maybe broken wood, ash from the building above it, organic matter. I think we may be in luck.”
Sure enough within quarter of an hour Professor Wynyard had lifted out a small collection of dark volcanic glass and lain it on the canvas. He said that the glass was not remarkable for such a site and was consistent with finds at other locations. The fragments were handed out among the students who examined them for a moment. Most seemed unaffected by the small smooth shards and returned them to the mat quickly. Max however turned his over and over in his fingers. He cleaned off the sand and watched the sun catch on its surfaces.
An artefact from the past. Placed in the earth by people unknown.
This thought had a lasting effect on him, and it was a long moment before he added the shard to the pile on the rug, breaking the connection with the forgotten Māori of Paturau.
Then Professor Wynyard let out a disappointed sigh. It was clear by the soft sand and other 'junk' within it that the second hole, on which he had begun to work, had already been raided.
“Disappointing,” he muttered moving to the final depression. “But it can't be helped.” Wynyard explained the particular tools he was using as he worked. Now he selected a hand shovel and started in on the last hole.
“This feels more promising,” he said almost at once. But then a moment later his arm froze before he jabbed down a couple of times into the hole with his shovel. “No, no good.” Then quite suddenly he tore the top layers of the supposed cache away with seeming disregard. Putting his shovel aside, he shoved his hand in, and there was a dry crunching sound. A few seconds past and he withdraw a fist full of white shells. “It's just a midden heap!” This time the disappointment in his voice was more final. “Just a dump for kitchen waste.”
Max shared the Professor's defeat. The shells were tossed away on the grass. Wynyard looked up at his students.
“That's the way it is some of the time, well really most of the time. I'll still clear out the rest just in case there is some scrap amongst it. And then I'd say we are for lunch.” The student's mumbled their agreement but seemed disinclined to move away. The Professor returned to his knees and continued to scoop the shells and sand from the hole.
“Cockles and pipis” he remarked as he worked. “Most likely harvested from the mudflats of the inlet at low tide. The shells quickly formed a small pile at the student's feet. Finally...
“Nothing else,” said Wynyard, confirming what they all knew would be the case and dropping his trowel into the hole as if to punctuate the point.
But it struck the bottom which a strange sound, and the look of puzzlement on Wynyard's face was plain to all. He groped back in the depths with one hand, stabbing deeper with his trowel a couple of times. Then after a moment or two drew out a ragged, sandy, scrap of brown leather.
“Seal skin,” he declared as he brushed it off. “Cut and folded many times to fit the bottom of the hole. Very interesting. Martin my brush.”
Martin handed his professor a coarse dusting brush, but instead of applying it to the skin, he returned to the hole, laying on his belly so that his eyes, noise and one arm hung over the edge. Martin added the skin to the canvas as Wynyard began to firmly brush the bottom of the hole.
With the Professors bulk no longer obscuring his work the students suddenly had, in the most, an unimpeded view right to the bottom, a drop of about a foot and a half. Max's breath held in his throat, his hope was unbridled, maybe he would witness the discovery of some priceless artefact, a Greenstone Mere Patu perhaps or some complex carving. Then as Wynyard brushed away, a thin white arch began to show under the fast-moving bristles. He paused for a moment, then began brushing away again in earnest. At first Max thought that it might be a piece of bone, but it was too white. Then the arch became a full circle, a perfect circle, about the circumference of a small desk clock or a large coffee mug.
“Strange,” muttered Wynyard as he cleared away more sand.
“What is it,” asked one of the students.
“I... I don't know,” came the slow response. He laid his brush aside and reaching in with his newly freed hand, took hold of the white circle and lifted. Then with something cradled in his hands the Professor of Archaeology sat back in the middle of the dig site. Slowly the dirty hands opened and in them was cradled a small, equally dirty, white bowl.
“A china bowl,” exclaimed somebody.
“Not only that,” said Wynyard, gently turning the sand filled vessel before his eyes. “A Chinese bowl!”
There was a long moments silence, followed suddenly by expressions of disbelief and astonished questions. In those first few seconds of amazement Max slowly turned his eyes to regard Jasmine. He was sure she had gone pale. She certainly chewed on her lower lip and her eyes were wild with shock... for a second or two. Then she took hold of herself, and the cold expressionless mask fell back into place.
“I don't understand,” the Professor was saying to nobody in particular.
“What does it mean?” called one of the students.
“The Māori didn't use porcelain! Did they?”
“A joke!” claimed another. “The third year' beat us to it!”
But the look of complete loss on the Professor's face said it all.
“This is no joke,” he mumbled. “The soil in that hole hasn't been disturbed in hundreds of years.” Max could see between Wynyard's fingers pale blue patterns on the side of the bowl. “There is no precedent for this,” he was saying. “None at all.”
Then with a scoop of his hand he tried to clean the soil out from inside the bowl. The dry sand fell away easily enough, but when he withdrew his hand and held it up, he had clasped in his fingers a thick, metal disk with a square hole through its middle. Max gasped, for he had seen such a coin before, but this one was not bronze. It shone with the unmistakable yellow of gold!