of some verandah. But don't I recognise these patterns? Is this not my own Judea Meeting-house, Tamateapokaiwhenua? No doubt some departed one is lying here in state below these rafters amid the weeping and flowers. Who can it be, I wonder? The stroking again and the fingering; conscousness sharpens and I see more clearly. This bed I'm in is a coffin! The rafters, the lamenting and the flowers are for me! My God, it is I lying here … I, Maharaia Winiata! I sit up at once, no longer heavy. All about me on the entrance-way are the mourning kuias, the garlands of grief on their heads, thousands of people banking out on the marae and, clustered about me, my family. Thousands and thousands of living eyes all turned towards me. Without any weight whatever I stand in my shallow bed. Look at me everyone, I cry. I am alive. Cease this lamentation. Take the flowers away! But the weeping continues and the flowers remain, and a rough wind sweeps the marae. It lifts the corners of the flax mats spread out before, it stirs the petals and a large belt of dust swings by. Don't you see me, everyone? Here am I, Maha, alive and speaking to you. Why cannot you see me? I look down and discover the reason, of course they cannot see me; the spirit is not visible to the mortal eye. There lies my earthly body still prostrate in the casket, its eyes still closed, its face pale and its features still and, although I am rising above it, there it remains motionless. Ah, weary body I have worked so hard, sleep on; you have served me as well as you could. And here is the stroking and fingering that woke me; the fingers of one of my sons. Still stroking the side of the casket I've left and fingering the korowai cloak. But see me, my son; here I am risen beside you. You do lift your face a little it seems as though some thought has moved you, and when I lay my hand on your black head you do turn a little; but I know you do not see me. Now I hear another Voice. It is like the sound of the thunder-storm when they brought my body here; the thunder-storm that greeted me when they brought me home to the pa. I heard it in my slumber, now I hear it awake. It is some great Voice calling me. These wreaths flow a long way into the wind and on the casket are three. Stooping to read the cards I find one from the Prime Minister, one from the Government and the third from my family. But is all this honour for me? How can such a thing be? I, humble Maha, the most ordinary among men. My gaze follows the flowers frothing all colours upon the flat mats spread out upon the marae, their petals fluttering in the wind, reaching to the people beyond. All these flowers and all these tears, how can they be for me; for me the most humble of men? Is this really what you all thought of me in the lifetime I have so recently departed? I knew that many of you did love me, I felt it at the time and still do, as I indeed love you, but all this honour … no, no. Once more in wonder I look down upon my body beneath the cloak, lying amid the wreaths and for the first time I study it. That is not the face I knew in mirrors; that is not what it was in life. It wears a serenity now that I seldom knew then. I see none of those wrinkles deepening over the years, none of the pain of those last days and nights and none of the stress of foreknowledge. But I hear the Voice again, calling above and beyond the marae; greater yet softer than all of these and speaking greater longing. I must move on … soon … and follow. Wait, good Lord, I'm not ready. I pass over my discarded body in its beautiful casket and sit among my family. How can I tell them I'm well? I stroke each head and soothe their hands but still they do not see me. Maybe they feel me, though. Eyes glance suddenly as of those whose hearts are wide open so I enter there and breathe within them. Once more I rise and look out upon you, my people. Some of your faces are from very far parts. Look over there, the East Coast, and on this side the Waikato; and here the Bay of Plenty and over there North Auckland. Look there, and there—from all the North Island; all come so far to take leave of me. Good friends I appreciate it. How could I know you thought so well of me? But the Voice is calling me and I have an urgency to move on somewhere. But wait, good Lord, I have things to do. I must ensure the continuance of my work, of your work I should say. As singing arises from the marae from the choir I began years ago, its faces both young and old, I wonder who will continue with that. There is no time to lose and I pass over and above the flowers, over the flax mats lifting in the wind, unseen, and my hands join the hands conducting. Do I detect an added intensity? Look after my choir, good friend, I say and I breathe in his throat and leave him. Behind me now is the illustrious Meeting-house; who will supervise the building? Wait good Lord, I'm coming. I seek among the thousands of brown mourning faces for those classes in carving, tukutuku and weaving, many of them from this pa and others. I drift, invisible, intangible among them wherever I find them in the crowd, touching them and breathing into them and saying in their ears, look after our culture, friends. Who will see to my Welfare work? There's the very man. He's come a long way but I see him. He is speaking at the microphone but I still tell him what I want. As he speaks I stand directly before him looking into his face and although neither he nor anyone else can see me I recognise my own image in his eyes. I hear you Lord: I'm coming. Now the Maori schooling, and the Maori Adult Education. I seek among thousands though time is short. Here, here he is. And the racial equality. Who will that be? Who will fight as I fought for the principle of equality? Many, many, both