Third Prize Story Winner
2026 Short Story Competition 

HĪKOI
By Bronwyn Elsmore 

Her feet hurt. Pulling on her socks this morning she finds five blisters. Pale and puffy, little balloons filled with water. A big one on each heel where her shoes rubbed with every step they took yesterday. Others too, on the fleshy pads where she treads.

Yeah, says Aunty Tia, we’ve all got them. Right sis?

Her mother laughs. 

Sure have. Got to have blisters – it’s part of the experience.

That’s right. Part of the price. A few on the feet is nothing compared with the blisters of the past.

The grown-ups keep saying things like that. Then they sigh and say things like he tika, or ain’t that the truth. Her mother too – she’s been different since they moved here, and sometimes she can’t understand her. Back in their last place, with her dad, they spoke English.

Can I ride in the car today?

You can walk. Your legs are big enough.

My feet are too sore.

Here, these sticking plasters will help. Peel off the backing and stick them on.

She places the pink plasters onto the worst parts though she knows they won’t stay there. Her feet are sweaty, and the shoes will rub them off in no time. Sticking plasters that don’t stick. What she needs is to give her feet a rest. Let them heal.

Asher’s allowed to ride in the car.

Ahera’s only little.

Big enough to walk to school.

This is a lot further than te kura.

Yeah. That’s why I’ve got blisters.

You’ve got an answer for everything.

Course, I’m clever.

Not clever enough not to get blisters. You should wear two pairs of socks. Like me, see!

Now they tell her. But if she did that her sneakers wouldn’t fit.

Come on. On your feet, girl.

Can’t I go in the car?

There’s no room. Puni’s got to drive, Eru and Nanny are too old to walk, and you think Charlie can hop all the way on one leg?

I wish I’d stayed home.

We all could have stayed home. But for some things you need to get off your bum and get out there. To show how important they are.

Some things give you blisters.

You’re right there. It’s because of the blisters that you need to stand up and walk.

That doesn’t make sense.

It’s because of the blisters of the past we’re here. One day it will make sense to you.

There they are again, saying things like that. One day in the future won’t help her feet now. She bets next time they stop her feet will be one big blister. Pale and puffy all over.

Yap yap yap. What is it about walking that makes them talk so much? Yakkety yak. Can’t they shut up. Then there are all the people they keep talking about.

Uncle Pita would be chuffed to see us.

Yeah, he’d be rapt.

He’d be with us if he was still with us – if you know what I mean.

And Polly, and Jackson. Wally up front, leading the singing.

They’re always going on about dead people. What’s with that! You know I can’t share your ghost chips.

Your tupuna would be really pleased to know you are on this march. I bet they’re here, walking alongside us…

I can’t see them!

…supporting us, every step we take.

It’s all right for them. Ghosts don’t walk, they float, they don’t get blisters.

Believe me, those people got lots of blisters in their lifetime, one way or another.

Can’t we stop? I can’t walk any more. My feet are too sore.

Jeez, are you still on about that. When we get to the next stop, I’ll see what we can do.

Paka. She’s not supposed to say that word. Even though grown-ups use it. Uncle Nathan does. Outside, where Mum can’t hear him. People say Uncle Nathan’s a bit odd, but he looks all right to her. And he says it.

Paka, paka, paka, paka. A paka for every step. How many steps to the next stop? Ten thousand? That’s ten thousand pakas. They’ll be sorry when her feet drop off. Sorry they kept talking and didn’t listen.

You remember the hīkoi in 2004?

I sure do.

Paka, paka, paka, paka.

We walked five days of it.

Paka, paka, paka, paka.

Yeah. I’m glad I did it.

Me too.

Paka, paka, paka, paka.

A hand on her shoulder.

I hear you’ve got blisters. Sit down. Let me look.

Uncle Nathan points to the grass verge. She limps to the side, sits, pulls off her shoes then removes her socks carefully. A strip of plaster falls with the left sock.

See, the plaster doesn’t stick.

He lets out a chuckle.

I see what your problem is. It’s pink plaster and you’ve got brown skin. I reckon pink plaster’s no good on brown skin.

My skin’s not brown.

Looks it to me.

Not as brown as yours.

Maybe not, with that daddy of yours. But we’re related, so it must be brown. Hmm. They’re blistered all right.

That’s what I’ve been saying.

Looks like plaster’s not enough any more.

Uncle Nathan waves at the car that’s trailing them, and is now waiting down the road behind them. It starts up and comes towards them, left wheels on the grass verge.

Yay. At last. She can ride the rest of the way. She can fit in the back with Charlie and Asher.

But Uncle Nathan goes to the boot, raises the lid and pulls out his duffel bag.

Paka.

Just as well I brought spare socks.

They’re too big. I won’t fit into my shoes.

We’ll work something out. First, fresh plasters. Lucky I’ve got a pack.

She looks at the picture on the box.

They’re pink too. You said pink plaster’s no good for brown skin.

He tika. The trouble is, they don’t make brown ones for brown skin. Only pink.

He tips out some strips.

See this blister here – I could use this as a pillow tonight.

He holds a strip close to one of the sore spots.

 I don’t know if they’re big enough. One size fits all. That’s another thing they get wrong.

With all the pale pillows covered, he sits back.

You want your shoes back on?

They’ll just rub again.

Pink plasters, brown skin, shoes – bound to be friction there. Hey, we’ve got an expert right here. Might as well take advantage of that.

Uncle Nathan goes to the car, leans in the front passenger window. Now she’s off her feet the pain has subsided, the sun is warm, things feel better.

Just as I said. Your Nanny says what we need is growing all around us.

He stoops to pick leaves from the verge. Returning, he uncaps his water bottle and pours it over the leaves. The car moves down the road following the walkers who have disappeared into the distance.

They’re dock leaves!

Bloody docks her mother says when she’s hoeing the garden.

Ae. Blisters, burns, stings – your Nanny says they’re the best thing for anything like that.

He squats and lifts her leg.

Better than plasters, Nanny says. You want me to take these off?

She shakes her head. That might make them hurt again.

Then we’ll put the docks over top. Green leaves and pink plasters –

get the best of both systems, nei?

They lay the leaves on her soles and heels, then stretch her socks over them, letting them settle into place.

Uncle Nathan picks up her sneakers and puts them in his duffel bag. He looks at her, sizing her up.

I can’t piggy-back you all the way.

He fishes some thick work socks from the bag. They’re black with yellow fluoro heels and toes.

Fresh from the shop. Untouched by human foot.

He pulls one over her sock-covered foot, then pulls the other over the top of the first.

That should do, I reckon.

Paka. What about the other one? She can’t hop down the road. If Charlie couldn’t, she can’t either. Uncle Nathan sees her frown and laughs, then pulls out another pair. These have orange toes and heels.

They’re a bit different. You mind being odd?

She shakes her head. Nah. Odd is okay – you stand out from the crowd.

With both socks in place she stands, testing her new footwear.

We’d better get going. If we don’t catch up before lunch they’ll eat it all.

What about your socks? They’ll be worn out.

No worries. Plenty more in the Warehouse.

She steps onto the roadway gingerly at first, then more confidently.

How does that feel?

Better. Thank you.

No need for that. Let’s get on,

They begin again down the road, his boots clumping with each step, she padding noiselessly beside him.

Uncle Nathan?

Ae.

Did you know Great Uncle Pita?  And Polly, and Jackson?

Ae. Sure did.

Who were they?

You want to know?

Maybe. Yeah. Tell me about them.