FICTION FOR THE SEASON
Pohutukawa Magic
The New Zealand Christmas Tree
Frothy-tipped wavelets washed in, gently caressing the golden sand and shushing it into submission. “Whish, whish, whish,” it whispered; a lover’s gentle command. Then, energy spent, the foam subsided to allow a new onslaught of lap-lap kisses.
I dug bare toes into the warmth of the beach, finding damp relief merely an inch or so under the baking surface. The sights and sounds of the siren sea absorbed my senses and I was consumed with a longing that had never really vacated my soul.
My endless days of childhood summers were spent right here, on this beach, where even as a ten-year-old, I felt a poignancy and delight in nature’s offerings. The familiar feel of damp sand, the alluring, gentle slap, slap, as wavelets flowed in, the smell of tangled rainforest and damp ferns clinging to the hills which rose straight from the beach, enticing exploration and adventures.
It had been years and yet little had changed, except for the holiday house — a “bach” we had called it. The little dwelling had belonged to my aunt and uncle who lost it when a major landslide in ’68 washed the bach from its perch halfway up the hill, annihilating future holiday plans with its muddy broil and changing an era in the worst of ways.
I often thought of him — the boy from the bach next door. He had been two years older than me, with nutty brown skin and big doe eyes. We sought each other’s company every day, swimming, rowing the dinghy, walking through mud flats, always afraid of what was squishing between our unprotected toes. Sharp shells, bitie crabs and miscellaneous discarded items lay in wait for the unwary.
Sometimes, a stray stingray washed up on the beach and we spent hours trying to avoid its deadly tail to drag it with a rope back to the safety of the ocean.
Other days we manhandled an old ladder across treacherous rocks to navigate around a small promontory; destination, a grove of wild cherry trees whose fruit grew high, out of reach. Somehow, we managed to pillage the fruit and spent happy days lolling beneath the trees in the cool of the day, munching the sweet/tart fruit and spitting slippery seeds at one another. Being a precocious child, I imagined that we were indulging in young love play but if we were, Brian never let on.
There had been no news of Brian after the landslide and I often wondered if he was holidaying here when the hillside eroded due to flooding rains. There had been a few casualties but we had moved to the city and received few updates from our relatives.
Reminiscing about Brian and the baches, I turned from the sea to stare up the hill to where our respective holiday homes had resided, nestled in man-made clearings with steps cut into the face of the hill for easy access to the beach.
Even the steps had been reclaimed by nature but as I stood, brushing a small nostalgic tear from my cheek, something caught my eye, twinkling in the sunlight.
I peered a little more intently. Another flash. Surely, I thought, there must be a small mirror or something embedded in the hill, catching the brilliant sunlight.
“Whish! Whish!” the lap-lap kisses whispered.
“Dream! Dream!” screeched the gulls, although I suspected my fanciful mind was playing tricks.
Flash. Flash. Sunlight light glinted, urging me to make haste. Investigate!
I struggled across the sand, retrieved my sneakers, and grimaced as I pulled them onto sandy feet. Then, momentarily assessing the foolishness of my proposed attempt at climbing a hill at my age, I breached the ferns and struggled through the tangled undergrowth a few feet.
“Whish! Whish! Dream! Dream!”
I shook my head to restore clarity and grimaced. “Okay then, where’s that damned path that used to be here?”
Silence.
“Lawk! Lawk!” cawed a crow, scaring me as it rose noisily from a branch above me.
“I’m going mad,” I thought, rubbing at my face, and stumbling forward a few more feet before tripping on a half-buried root and slowly, ingloriously, tumbling into an awkward heap amidst a group of native ferns.
Rubbing at a grazed elbow, I checked myself for further injuries and wondered at the sanity of trying to negotiate the hill. I was not very fit and being in my seventies, that was not a surprise. My family was always warning me of my impetuous nature, including my inclination to drop everything and visit this place of happy childhood memories, hundreds of miles from home. At Christmas time!
But Christmas had lost its joyousness since the passing of my dear husband, and although they would deny it vehemently, my children grew weary of my somewhat depressed attitude when all was supposed to be sweetness and light.
And who could blame them?
“Lawk! Lawk!” The crow resettled in a tree nearby.
I grimaced at my scratched elbow, obeying the crow’s command, as I applied a clean handkerchief to assess the damage. Minimal, as it turned out.
Can crows sigh in exasperation? I am certain it did.
“Lawk! Lawk! Cark!” and it took to the alluring skies above the green canopy under which I sat, with a heavy flapping of large wings.
Deciding I should probably abandon my excursion in search of sparkly bits, I placed my hand on the ground to assist my standing and felt something that seemed out of place.
A wooden plank buried lengthways beneath the organic detritus.
It dawned upon me that I had discovered the manmade side of the steps that had once led up the hill. Further scrabbling around, revealed the still-existing steps — steps I had missed when I began my climb.
With a little caution and careful foot placement, I was able to ascend much more quickly. It was a no-brainer — I decided to continue my adventure in search of the mysterious twinkly phenomenon.
Ten minutes later, I grew disillusioned with my decision. The hill was steep, the steps were difficult at best to negotiate and I began to feel as if I had reached the limits of my aged endurance.
“Whish! Whish!” the white caps urged, now somewhat less intrusive.
“Dream! Dream!” squawked the gulls, little more than soaring white dots visible through the green umbrella.
“Alright, then,” I capitulated loudly. “I wish for an end to this fruitless journey. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.” Stupid, I admonished. “I take that back! I’m dreaming of a dream come true.” Followed by the thought that my dream request was equally dumb; a fancy of no substance.
And then, I half-stepped into a clearing.
In a heart-stopping moment, I understood that I was standing where, decades earlier, my family’s holiday bach had stood. I closed my eyes and heard, echoing through Christmases past, sounds of music, laughter, and games of cricket in the summer sun, excited youngsters racing down the steps to splash into the incoming tide.
Memories of boats, ladders propped against cherry trees, Monopoly in the weak light of a lamp powered by a generator well into the evening. The sweet taste of chewy toffees, the smell of the real pine tree proudly decorated by small, clumsy hands, standing tall on the back porch.
I slowly opened my eyes and drew a deep breath. For a dazzling minute, my over-active imagination visualized a Christmas tree from all those years ago, winking and blinking in the summer sun.
“Whish! Whish!” murmured the ocean down on the beach below.
When sanity returned, the Pine tree of yesteryear faded and slowly morphed into a beautiful Pohutukawa tree in full blossom. I knew it was growing right where the pines of Christmases passed had stood, adorning the once-upon-a-time front porch. But this beautiful addition to the countryside was freshly decorated in a style much more attributable to adult hands.
And the owner of those hands was seated beneath the tree, legs drawn up to his chin, knees cradled by weather-worn arms. The man’s silver head was slumped forward, in sleep, I supposed.
I gently cleared my throat. Brian raised his head and softly smiled.
“I was dreaming,” he offered, “that my love from long ago would find me.”
“I know,” I whispered, moving tentatively forward, “and I was wishing for a Christmas miracle!”
To the Maori, pohutukawa is a sacred tree, for it is from the ancient trees on the cliffs at Te Reinga that the spirits of the dead left this land. Legend tells us that the red of the flowers comes from the blood of the mythical hero Tawhaki, who fell to his death from the sky.
However, it is probably in areas of tradition and nostalgia that pohutukawa plays the greatest role in our lives today, for images of the tree appear in photographs, paintings and Christmas cards.
I remember, at the time of the photograph, I was holding my dress in preparation for a curtsy, imagining I was about to be visited by the Queen.
Wishing all my wonderful Medium friends the delights of the Festive Season.🎄💙💦
