The truck’s headlights cut through the mist off
the Whangarei heads, tyres chewing the old
gravel of Pākākā Road — the one the locals still
call Te Ara o te Taniwha. It’s 1983. Rogernomics
has gutted the dairy coops, but the bush still
holds its breath.
Tama Rātana doesn’t speak. He hasn’t since the
night his father vanished at the old gum dig
site, mouth full of kauri resin and teeth like
broken pounamu. The truck’s cargo isn’t just gum
— it’s the last unregistered haul from the
forbidden ridge, where the soil still sweats
after rain, and the trees weep sap that smells
like burnt honey and old blood.
The rule: no truck heavier than 3.5 tonnes on
Pākākā after dusk. Not because of the potholes.
Because the land swallows anything that carries
what it’s not meant to. Tama’s rig weighs 8.1.
He knows. His father’s boots still sit by the
door, caked in red clay from the ridge — the
same clay that now stains his own gloves.
He hits the first bend where the kauri lean in
like watching elders. The engine coughs. Not
mechanical. Like something inhaling. The rear
axle groans — not metal, but bone. The gum
crates shudder. One cracks open. Black resin
spills, steaming on the gravel. It doesn’t melt.
It moves. Slithers. Crawls toward the ditch.
He doesn’t stop. Can’t. The pact was made in ’18:
the diggers took the gum, the taniwha took the
men. The land didn’t forget. It just waited. Now,
the trucks are the new diggers. And the road?
It’s the throat.
At the third bend, the headlights die. Not the
bulbs. The light — sucked sideways into the bush.
He’s driving blind. The dashboard lights flicker
— not electricity. Reflections. Faces. His
father’s. Three others. All with resin in their
hair.
He slams the brake. The truck fishtails. One
crate flies open. The resin floods the road,
thick as tar, rising. It climbs the tyres. The
gearstick. His wrist.
He doesn’t scream. He remembers his father’s
last note: Don’t let it take the whole road.
Tama pulls the emergency lever. Not to stop. To
dump.
The back doors burst. Six tonnes of gum blast
into the gully — a black tide swallowing the
track. The road exhales. The trees shudder. The
air clears.
The truck starts again. Barely. The engine’s
quieter now. Lighter.
He drives on. No more cargo. No more rules
broken.
But the road? It doesn’t forget.
It just waits for the next one dumb enough to
carry what belongs beneath it.
And Tama? He doesn’t sleep anymore.
He drives.
Every night.
With no load.
Just the smell of resin in his nostrils.
And the road — always hungry.
