greeny-grey eyes. ‘Yes, you,’ called the old man, ‘come here, I want to talk to you.’ The young boy slowly turned towards the old man. His hands were stuck in the pockets of his trousers, which were miles too big for him, and he trailed his bare feet in the dust as he shuffled over to where the old man had squatted himself. They looked at each other, and for a time neither spoke. ‘What's your name?’ asked the old man at last, and spat in the dust. ‘Boy Boy,’ was the laconic reply. ‘Who are you staying with boy,’ continued the old man. ‘With my Aunt Luey,’ replied the boy. ‘I notice you are not playing with the other kids,’ the old man began quietly. At this the boy's body began to shake, and tears came into his eyes. ‘Whenever I come to the Pa, all the other kids tease and chase me for nuthin’,' he sobbed. ‘And when I go home my auntie gives me a hiding for nuthin' too,’ he went on fiercely, surreptitously wiping his eyes with the back of his arm. The old man listened to the boy's words. ‘Seems to be getting the rough end of the stick,’ he thought. ‘Skinny, snivelling brat, but I like the way he holds himself, and his jaws have a determined set about them. He's got the makings of a good leader. Born a mongrel, but with the right teachings and background he'll have the qualities of a pure bred. ‘You don't know it yet boy, but you are going to rise above me, and those of us who have the arrogance to boast and live in the glory of our ancestors. Who says so, I say so, I the Ariki of my people, the renowned and respected elder of both Maori and Pakeha. I, who know myself to be a confused, proud, arrogant, worthless body of a man. The title of leadership is mine through birth, but not through striving. I don't deserve it; give it to someone who does.’ ‘Would you like to come and stay with me?’ asked the old man. The boy dropped his eyelids and looked slyly at the old man. He hoped that this was not another of his numerous uncles and cousins. He was so used to being shuffled from one place to another. At first he was glad to go, to be rid of that particular place and people, but he found that all that his so-called relations wanted was for him to keep an eye on the kids and bring in the cows, weed the kumara patch, and fetch water from the creek or the well. If he ate too much, a cuff under the chin would put him in fear of asking for more. The chores varied from place to place but they were always much alike. ‘I don't wanna go,’ he thought, ‘I'm getting used to all the blows and screamings of my relations. It don't hurt me no more, nuthin’ hurts me now. I suppose I'll end up going if he asks Auntie Luey.' ‘Well,’ grunted the old man—‘coming?’ The boy looked at the old man, startled. ‘Was I talking to him, he thought, or can he hear me talking inside of myself?’ ‘Yeah, all right,’ he stammered. ‘I'll get my coat.’ He ran to where he had left it, slung it over his back and made his way back to the old man. The old man and boy made their way to where the carts and gigs were standing. Putting his thumb and forefinger to his lips, the old man gave a piercing whistle. Immediately one of the horses that were feeding nearby cocked up his ears and made his way towards them. ‘Good on you, Nugget old boy,’ chuckled the old man. He hitched the horse to the gig and both climbed aboard, and made their way to the back of the eating house. As they drew level with the back door of the tin-roofed punga shack, the old man sang out to a group of women who were busily preparing food for the evening meal, ‘Who's the mother of this kid?’ ‘She's inside,’ one of the women shouted back. ‘Hey Luey,’ she called through the open door, ‘you're wanted’. A rather pretty girl whose figure was beginning to run to fat poked her head round the door. ‘How 'bout letting your boy go with me,’ asked the old man, looking at her. ‘But that's my Auntie Luey, how can she be my mother,’ the boy wondered. ‘You take him with you, for a mate for you Uncle,’ whined his Auntie Luey, as she made her way towards them. ‘And you be a good boy for Uncle won't you—and you help Uncle, won't you—and you do what Uncle says, won't you?’ The boy cut off her droning and concentrated on the straps lying on the rump of the horse. And as her voice droned on and on he became aware of himself, sitting there and yet not being there. He felt as if he was able to speak to her, scream at her, laugh at her, make faces at her. Everything that he had bottled up inside of him was streaming out of him, the things he wanted to do and say; the good thoughts seemed to be jumbled up with the bad. ‘Are you listening to me?’ Aunt Luey's voice cut in on his thoughts. ‘Bugger,’ whispered the boy under his breath. ‘Why does she have to