fairy lights in the pines waved in a gentle sea breeze. He looked at the statue. There was a plaque on the rock. He read it idly.
Pania of the Reef
An old Maori legend tells how Pania, lured by the siren voices of the sea people, swam out to meet them. When she endeavoured to return to her lover, she was transformed into the reef which now lies beyond Napier Breakwater.
To perpetuate the legend the thirty thousand club presented this statue to the city—1954.
He thought the girl looked a bit like the statue. For a moment he imagined that… but, nah, she’ll go to Napier Girls High and watch dumb telly programmes like any other girl …still, weird, though.
Pania returned with a burger and milkshake each. They took them down to the beach, and ate and slurped as they walked beside the waves.
‘What school do you go to? Girls High?’ he asked between mouthfuls.
Pania shook her head. ‘No. Do you go to Boys High?’
‘Yeah.’ He told her about school all the long trudge around the port lands—about art, and what he liked doing, and even about his parents. It felt odd, to be talking to someone about everyday things after such a strange day. He never got around to asking Pania about herself; she always seemed toanswer his questions with questions of her own. Behind the port, they had to return to the road, and cross the bottom of Bluff Hill. Empty seashore north of the port gave way to a park where teens still played on the swings and shouted to each other, though it was gone nine o’clock. The air was getting colder, and Mat was shivering.
‘You should change into a dry T-shirt,’ Pania advised, so they stopped at the toilets in the playground, and he went inside the Mens, went to the toilet and changed. When he emerged, Pania was talking to a tough-looking Maori man, but she said something that made him laugh, and he wandered off chuckling to himself. Then off they went again, past the Iron Pot shops, and around the fishing-boat docks.
The Iron Pot is an inlet area north of Napier Hill. Fishing boats come and go, and the yacht club marina is further along the channel. Warehouses line the south side of the channel, most renovated into pubs and restaurants looking out over the water. On the north side, around one hundred and forty metres away, stood well-lit waterfront properties at Perfume Point, at the south end of Westshore. Mat walked with Pania past the restaurants, with tables of laughing people. The smell of food and drink carried from the open windows.
Mat was feeling tired. He glanced at his watch—it was after nine o’clock, and he’d been walking or running since he fled home a couple of hours ago. Pania still stepped lightly as if at any moment she might break into a dance. They walked through the playground on the verge of the seashore,where groups of teens huddled about the play equipment, smoking. They went around into the old port area, where the fishing boats still tied up, passed an old wooden building that had once been Napier’s Customhouse, and rounded a bend that took them right to the wharves. The sea gleamed darkly before them, one or two metres below. Across the water, maybe 90 metres, were houses; to their left, a marina, and beyond that, half a kilometre away, the bridge they had to cross.
Mat knew his way around this area fairly well. Once the inlet reached the marina, the water flowed under the bridge, and then broadened into a wide tidal estuary, behind Westshore and Pandora. The bridge carried the only road north, which then curled in behind Westshore, out to the airport, then Bay View. Beyond that, it forked, offering either the trek over the ranges to Taupo, or the twisting road up the East Cape to Wairoa and Gisborne.
They trudged on, with a tingle of apprehension. Anyone going north would cross the bridge—they had little choice—and if Puarata had guessed where he was bound, the bridge would be guarded.
By the time they were within a few hundred metres of the
Pania of the Reef
An old Maori legend tells how Pania, lured by the siren voices of the sea people, swam out to meet them. When she endeavoured to return to her lover, she was transformed into the reef which now lies beyond Napier Breakwater.
To perpetuate the legend the thirty thousand club presented this statue to the city—1954.
He thought the girl looked a bit like the statue. For a moment he imagined that… but, nah, she’ll go to Napier Girls High and watch dumb telly programmes like any other girl …still, weird, though.
Pania returned with a burger and milkshake each. They took them down to the beach, and ate and slurped as they walked beside the waves.
‘What school do you go to? Girls High?’ he asked between mouthfuls.
Pania shook her head. ‘No. Do you go to Boys High?’
‘Yeah.’ He told her about school all the long trudge around the port lands—about art, and what he liked doing, and even about his parents. It felt odd, to be talking to someone about everyday things after such a strange day. He never got around to asking Pania about herself; she always seemed toanswer his questions with questions of her own. Behind the port, they had to return to the road, and cross the bottom of Bluff Hill. Empty seashore north of the port gave way to a park where teens still played on the swings and shouted to each other, though it was gone nine o’clock. The air was getting colder, and Mat was shivering.
‘You should change into a dry T-shirt,’ Pania advised, so they stopped at the toilets in the playground, and he went inside the Mens, went to the toilet and changed. When he emerged, Pania was talking to a tough-looking Maori man, but she said something that made him laugh, and he wandered off chuckling to himself. Then off they went again, past the Iron Pot shops, and around the fishing-boat docks.
The Iron Pot is an inlet area north of Napier Hill. Fishing boats come and go, and the yacht club marina is further along the channel. Warehouses line the south side of the channel, most renovated into pubs and restaurants looking out over the water. On the north side, around one hundred and forty metres away, stood well-lit waterfront properties at Perfume Point, at the south end of Westshore. Mat walked with Pania past the restaurants, with tables of laughing people. The smell of food and drink carried from the open windows.
Mat was feeling tired. He glanced at his watch—it was after nine o’clock, and he’d been walking or running since he fled home a couple of hours ago. Pania still stepped lightly as if at any moment she might break into a dance. They walked through the playground on the verge of the seashore,where groups of teens huddled about the play equipment, smoking. They went around into the old port area, where the fishing boats still tied up, passed an old wooden building that had once been Napier’s Customhouse, and rounded a bend that took them right to the wharves. The sea gleamed darkly before them, one or two metres below. Across the water, maybe 90 metres, were houses; to their left, a marina, and beyond that, half a kilometre away, the bridge they had to cross.
Mat knew his way around this area fairly well. Once the inlet reached the marina, the water flowed under the bridge, and then broadened into a wide tidal estuary, behind Westshore and Pandora. The bridge carried the only road north, which then curled in behind Westshore, out to the airport, then Bay View. Beyond that, it forked, offering either the trek over the ranges to Taupo, or the twisting road up the East Cape to Wairoa and Gisborne.
They trudged on, with a tingle of apprehension. Anyone going north would cross the bridge—they had little choice—and if Puarata had guessed where he was bound, the bridge would be guarded.
By the time they were within a few hundred metres of the
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