A PLACE OF GHOSTS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3196, 16 June 1915, Page 73

A PLACE OF GHOSTS.

By F. B. Fouesxeh,

The beach is reached by a steep, narrow, dangerous path, winding down the lace of the cliffs, or, more correctlv. down that of the canon in miniature, its walls covered with ferns and New Zealand flax, through which, by a tortuous course, the little river Inaha makes its way to the sea On the high ground above is a stretch of paddock, akin, in extent and tenceiessness, to downland at Home; and here, secured to a convenient rail the niare and gig are left, to await the return of their owners from the shore below. Looking south, the river flows across the sand seaward to the left; and away bejond, as far as the eye can see, stretches a dim perspective of cliff line, merging at last in the misty horizon where skv andsea meet. Beneath the feet is a stretch of smooth, blackish sand, still glistening ami ripple-marked by the ebbing tide, bounded landward by the same range of siecp cliffs, these last clothed, even down o high-water mark, by a luxuriant tangle of greenerv ; and beyond the sand, foaming and hissing among a scattered stretch of sullen black rocks, is a smother of thundering breaker's, “hoary with the foam of their countless years,” heating ceaselessly on the desolate shorp. Not a sound, save the never-ceasing roar of the S i l i i an s* n °k a si § n of life, except for a double track left by naked feet upon the sand, telling that since high-water mark some other wanderers have passed along tfle shore. But it is useless to look for them, for upon all that stretch of beach not another sign of humanity is to be seen, with the single exception of a long, narrow boat, drawn up in a sheltered hollow under the cliffs, in which the Maoris who own her are in the habit of going to fish for shark and schnapper. Not a bird flies overhead, not the sound of other human voices breaks the stillness; and the signt of a doad seagull, evidently fallen from its nest on the cliff above, onlv adds to the already existing sense of dreariness inspired by that desolate shore. For a mile or so one follows the coastline, the white turmoul of surf never ceasing its booming thunder seaward: and then, suddenly rounding a headland, there directly in front is the goal of the walk. Here the coastline takes a sharp curve inward, almost as if a- huge mouth had bitten a piece out of the- cliffs; and, that done, had for some reason or other abandoned the severed portion, so far tom from its original place as to leave a crescent-shaped gully intervening, the rent, so to speak, made by the destructive teeth. Or, to use another illustration, it would seem as if a giant child, at play on the shore, had amused itself by erecting, in this hollow of the curving cliffs, close to the spot where the Kapuni River runs seaward—a huge castle in sand. Tire flanks rise 'abruptly from the beach, and the summit is hollowed by numerous pits, in part filled up, and in places covered by such long grass as to crave wary walking. Rifle pits they have been at one time, evidently; and it is not strange to find them here, for this lonely, outstanding cliff was once an old Maori redoubt. Sheer and bare rise the walls of this natural fortress; and there is something grimly desolate about it as it stands, lonely and dismantled, between sky amt sea, still telling its story of bygone days in pit and mound, and the winding, narrow tracks by which it is possible to reach the summit. . Yet concerning its history there is little to be learned, beyond the fact of its having borne its part in the Maori wars, and possibly at a still remoter period in New Zealand traditions. But an intimate knowledge of the place is not needed: the strange attraction exercised by the spot and its surroundings draws the visitor irresistibly closer for a nearer view: It is a. well-chosen natural position, and at high tide the place must he almost an island. Southward the waves wash the foot of the cliffs, and a few steps from the beach, after a low rampart of sand is surmounted, bring one to a sheltered hollow, beloved of picnics parties. Beyond this, at the distance of another score of yards, is a crescentshaped pool of fresh water, evidently the drainage from the high land to the rear, occupying the gully, and curving ronnq. the natural fortress almost to the shore beyond. Black and sullen this water looks, seen beneath the leaden grey of the sky ; and as a stone thrown in sinks with the heavy solemn plunge that tells of deep water, it is easy to believe the saying that in one spot the depth _ is unknown. Somehow, at the sight of this pool, lying there dark and stirless, with no visible outlet, one is conscious of a sense of something sinister, and is glad to turn away. Yet the redoubt itself is not so easy to leave, for there is something weird, uncanny, yet strangely fascinating, about this time-worn place of the past. It is as if the brooding history of the spot clung to it still, creating an atmosphere of its own, and impressing all who may come within its influence. Seen in the snnny, gloom-defying radiance of a summer’s day, the scene Avould wear a different aspect, and this impression be less powerful, for the ghostly influences haunt* ing the spot would to some extent have lost their force. But to-day, seen under the grey cheerlessness of sky and sea, there is something uncanny about the scene, as if all the grim happenings of the past had left an impression stamped there for ever.

One pictures the old redoubt in bygone days, manned by its dusky garrison, with the surf booming for ever seaward, and, the dark pool on the landward side, furnishing the defenders with an inexhaustible supply of fresh water. Once again the past seems to live, and over the lip of the sandy rampart, past the black water, and across the curve of the gully, comes the attacking forces to take the defenders in the rear. Again in one’s ears ring the alarm of the awaking garrison, the shock of the desperate onslaught, the wild tumult of shouts and cries. ... A

haunted q>ot, certainly, and it is with a sense of relief that one turns away, to climb the cliff at the rear to the downs above, and walk back over the springy turf to the waiting mare and gig. Yet even at night, in the snug shelter of the house, amid the warmth and glow of fire and electric light, one’s thoughts go back irresistibly to that old redoubt on the lonely shore. Again ore sees it as it stands, deserted and dreary, with the white light of the moon gleaming on abandoned rifle pit and bastion, and the stretches cf glistening wave-washed sand at its foot, while the surf breaks in white foam on the tangle of black rocks beyond. And if, while recalling it. the mental picture should show the red übt still tenanted by its dusky garrison, there is ample excuse, for it is assuredly a-place of ghosts.