The Carver of Okarito
The fog rolled in off the Tasman Sea, thick and silent, swallowing the already-grey sand of Ōkārito beach. Leo clutched the piece of pounamu in his pocket, its smooth surface the only thing that felt real in the disorienting mist. He was meant to be meeting his grandfather back at the cottage half an hour ago, but every direction looked the same—an endless swirl of white. The only sound was the rhythmic sigh of the waves, a slow breath in the throat of the fog. He was, he reluctantly admitted, completely and utterly lost.
It was then that he saw it. A flicker of light, warm and orange, dancing in the distance. It wasn't the harsh beam of a torch, but the gentle, unsteady glow of a fire. As he stumbled towards it, the shape of a person emerged from the gloom, sitting on a huge piece of driftwood, back to the sea. The figure was hunched over a piece of wood, and the air filled with the scent of salt and burning mānuka. The person didn't seem to notice him approach. They were focused on their work, a small, sharp tool moving with hypnotic grace, peeling away curls of wood to reveal a shape within.
Leo stopped a few metres away, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The carver looked up, and his eyes, dark and ancient, seemed to hold the same swirling mystery as the fog itself. He wasn't smiling, but there was no menace in his gaze. He simply nodded towards the fire, an unspoken invitation. "You're a long way from the track, boy," the carver said, his voice a low rumble like stones shifting in the tide. He held up the piece of wood. In its centre, a perfect, intricate spiral—a koru—was taking shape. "Sometimes," the old man murmured, more to the wood than to Leo, "you have to get a little lost to find out what you're really looking for."