It was discovered by two of our more energetic blokes who had been digging a trench to drain water away from our oldest building, Hastie’s hut, which probably dates back to at least the 1860s.
Until we know more, we’re calling it ‘‘The Thing’’ and great minds have been arguing about its origins for a week now.
‘‘Can’t be an egg. Imagine laying a thing shaped like that. Anyway, the shell is pretty solid. No chick could peck its way through that.’’
‘‘Could be ancient horse droppings. Or droppings from some breed of giant rabbit.’’
These last suggestions came fairly late in the convivial evening.
The ever-practical George suggested we send it to the museum to identify.
‘‘No, don’t do that,’’ countered Norm. ‘‘Museums hang on to things and we’d never see it again.’’
Then came a suggestion that The Thing was not of this world and that Patearoa has been the landing place for aliens.
‘‘Well, what about Nasa? They get into extraterrestrial stuff, don’t they?’’
‘‘Nasa? No way. They’re American and Trump would claim he found The Thing and sell it off to the highest bidder.’’
George had been busy. ‘‘I can make out some letters. M. A. I. N. This is scary. I think it’s spelling out ‘Martian’. This thing is from the planet Mars. Look at those lines on the surface. They look pretty much like the canals they reckon are on the surface of Mars.’’
‘‘Don’t underestimate the Martians. If they can get to Earth from Mars they’ll be brainy enough to sort out our languages. I’m surprised they didn’t use te reo. Hey, maybe it’s an early Maori artefact. Lots of moa hunting went on in this very spot.’’
‘‘Maybe Ngai Tahu should have a look at it.’’
‘‘No. Let’s keep it here. It could make the place famous.’’
George produced a magnifying glass, the one he uses when he’s watching those odd websites he often visits.
‘‘Ah, I can see the words now. It says, ‘Made in England’.’’
‘‘Well, that’s a change. Everything seems to be made in China these days.’’
‘‘Yeah, but The Thing is old, very old. Probably from a time when England led the world in making whatever it is.’’
‘‘I reckon it’s made of Bakelite,’’ announced Ben the pipe smoker. ‘‘Pipe stems are usually made of it and it’s just like my pipe stem.’’
‘‘I’m looking up ‘Bakelite’,’’ muttered Tom — who is never away from his phone — scrolling through enough rubbish to fill the Green Island tip.
‘‘It says here that Bakelite was used from about 1910 for dozens of items including, wait for it, children’s toys.’’
Old Bob picked up The Thing, sniffed it, ran a hand over the surface and then held it up to his ear and shook it.
‘‘Nothing there,’’ said Bob.
‘‘Try your good ear.’’
Bob tried again and from inside The Thing he heard a sound. There was something moving about in there.
‘‘Could be a small stone or a bit of metal,’’ Bob suggested. ‘‘Maybe it’s a baby’s rattle.’’
‘‘A rattle? Rattles have handles for the kid to hang on to and whatever’s inside this thing doesn’t really make much noise. Kids need a noisy rattle. Anyway, what’s a baby doing at Hastie’s hut?’’
‘‘Well, shepherds had their families with them sometimes and there’s plenty of room for a family in the hut.’’
‘‘Rubbish. It’s no place to bring up kids. Forget about rattles. The Thing is something else altogether. But what? Maybe we should open it.’’
‘‘No. No. Don’t open it,’’ screamed George, ‘‘There may be organisms inside which could spread like wildfire and destroy the planet as we know it.’’
Of course, no-one was keen on destroying the planet as we know it, so The Thing remained unopened.
It was old Norm who calmed things down.
‘‘Look. Fate, or the gods or some mewling infant have decided The Thing would end up at Patearoa so let’s keep it here. What about a small display cabinet with a glass front? Put it up near the Patearoa info board near the hall. We could give it a label telling of the discovery of The Thing and maybe stick a donation box underneath. Could be a nice little earner.’’
By the time you make your next visit to Patearoa The Thing might well be on display in the cabinet as Norm suggested.
Look out for it and don’t forget the donation box. Glass-fronted display cabinets don’t come cheap you know.
- Jim Sullivan is a Patearoa writer.
