Every Tuesday at 4am, Tama Hēni pulls his 1978

Freightliner through the mist off Hinekura Road,

hauling timber no one’s allowed to touch since

the ’87 Crown land order. The road doesn’t just

twist — it shifts. Trees lean closer when he

passes the old pōhutukawa with the hollow that

used to hold a carved tiki. Last winter, his

mirrors showed a figure in a woven cloak

standing where the ditch ended. No footprints.

Just wet ferns, still trembling.

He doesn’t mention it to the depot. Not since

the last driver who did — found his cab filled

with kōwhai petals, his logbook filled with

Māori names he’d never learned, and his licence

revoked for “unverified cargo irregularities.”

The rule’s simple: no kōwhai out of the bush.

Break it, and the land takes a year of your life.

No court. No fine. Just… gone. Tama’s been

driving it for eight years. He knows the cost.

At the warehouse, Riria Pōhutukawa signs his

waybills with a pen that never runs out of ink.

She wears her hair in a single braid, always

tight, always clean. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t

ask how the road was. But every Tuesday, she

slips a small woven kete into his glovebox —

dried kawakawa leaves, a single pounamu bead,

and a note in te reo: Kia tūpato. Heke kākāriki.

Be careful. The green is watching.

Last week, he took a detour. Just past the old

mission station, where the road splits and one

fork disappears after rain. He loaded two extra

logs — one for his sister’s new baby, one to

burn in his shed. That night, his truck wouldn’t

start. The radio spat static in a rhythm that

matched the tīvaevae pattern on Riria’s apron.

By dawn, his left hand was numb. Not cold.

Hollow. Like the space where his wedding ring

used to be.

He drove back to the warehouse at 5am. Riria was

waiting. She didn’t look up. Just slid a new

manifest across the counter. Her pen hovered.

“You know what happens if you keep taking it,”

she said. Not a question. A ledger entry.

He didn’t answer. Just signed with his right

hand. The numbness crept to his wrist.

She didn’t flinch. Just stamped the form. The

ink pooled like tar. Outside, the first light

hit the kōwhai trees. They were blooming. All of

them. In January.

He drove out with three logs. The kete was

heavier. And this time, there was no note.

The road didn’t shift. Not this time.

It waited.