That morning Puarata had been quite explicit about her husband's shortcomings, making pointed reference to his lack of prowess as a provider. “Useless one,” she had observed, “if I had to rely on you I would starve. If the rest of the people didn't give me my share of the common catch of bush and swamp and sea shore, I would fade quite away. I have to work like a slave in the kumara field to make up for what you don't do, Fat One, Useless One, Man of Little Merit…” And so on in the manner of women kind of all ages in similar plight. Tiputoa knew all too well the futility of replying. He picked up a spear, three-pronged, and waddled off. Moi, his little white dog, trotted silently at his heels. As he passed through the narrow gate in the palisade the sentry grinned at him. “Going far?” he asked, partly in fun, for he knew Tiputoa was in the habit of going out ostensibly to catch eels and of then dozing on an old log in a sunny hollow of the swamp, and partly because it was his duty to know where all the able-bodied men of the pa were if the alarm had to be raised. The fat man stopped. “Today,” he said, “I am going to kill a taniwha.” “I'll be bound that not even a little eel will fall to your spear,” checkled the sentry. “Be off with you before that woman of yours hears what you are boasting about.” Tiputoa moved on, through the three gates, down the long slope and along the path past the kumara field. The sentry turned away. “Taniwha indeed,” he muttered. On the hill top Te Maunga-i-tawhiti watched the fat man pass through the gates and willed that the kura should follow him. No one but the old man saw the mist move across the pa to hover over Tipitoa, to follow him past the field and into the bush and down the valley to where the swamp lay with its pools of water, its fresh green raupo and its half buried logs. Tiputoa entered the swamp and probed under the first log he could find, half-heartedly, knowing deep inside that no one ever caught an eel like that. He splashed through the raupo to an old log he knew and without even pretending to look under it, climbed up and sat down. Here he was in his own world, away from all he disliked and yet could not do without, locked away amid the green rushes and the grey logs where he could sun himself under the blue sky and think great and beautiful thoughts. All that reminded him of the other world was a far-off call now and again drifting from the kumara field where a woman called to a wandering child and a glimpse over the trees that bounded the swamp of the summit of Karakatahi where the sacred place lay and where no one went anyway, no one, that is, except the old tohunga or his assistants. Perhaps the old man was up there now, thought Tiputoa. Yes, something moved up there. Moi splashed through the water and scrambled up the log. He scratched himself and curled up beside the fat man. And then the little grey cloud came down and fell around them and they slept. When Tiputoa woke it was nearly dark. A single star was peeping out to watch the day die and in the bush a strange bird called a shrill warning note as it hurried through the trees. It made the man feel ill at ease for he had never in his life listened to so strange a call. The dog stood up quickly and watched where the bird had disappeared into the blackness of the bush. Tiputoa picked up his spear and slid off the log. He was cold and worried too that he had slept so long. He hurried away toward the place where he had entered the swamp. Then, suddenly, he stopped. A cold, terrible realisation came to him that things were not as they should have been. The land he was walking on was dry. The place seemed much the same, the old log was still there but the water was gone and the raupo was gone. He stood now no rough grass. Small bushes grew here and there where that morning had been shallow pools of water. Before him was a ditch about a spear's length deep and half as wide. He could hear water running in it. He leaped the ditch and in a sudden ecstasy of fear plunged towards the bush where lay the path to the kumara field and home. He had known this path from childhood, its every twist and turn, so fled as if Te Reinga had opened and Hine-nui-te-po herself were at his heels. Then something cruel and sharp lashed across his shoulder and chest and threw him to the ground. He lay there, half dead with fear. Moi panted up to him and licked his face. Slowly, out of the black dread that engulfed him rose the spirit of the man he had dreamed he was. Slowly he rose to his knees. He reached for his spear which had been hurled down with him and peered into the gathering darkness. He saw nothing. There was no sign of man or animal or of the evil thing which had torn at him. He wondered for a moment whether he had imagined it all and felt almost happy as he became aware of the pain of the lacerations across his chest and of the blood dripping from them. He stood up and, spear held ready, inched forward. He saw a short post, touched it. Beyond it, almost out of sight in the gloom he saw another. Between them was something that gave an errie ring as he probed at it with his spear. He walked up and reached out cautiously with his left hand. On the thing, which was like a cord but hard and cold, were sharp projections at intervals. He saw that below it was another of the same kind, barbed at intervals like some terrible bird spear. It rang softly as he drew his hand away. Anger boiled up within Tiputoa. He flung himself at the thing, plunging his spear with all his