burial ground, and there it flourished, side by side with the bones of some of my ancestors, whose lineage could be traced far back to pre-European times. So sacred and tapu was this ground that only the descendants of the family concerned were ever laid to rest there. From the very first time a baby in our village began to talk and notice objects, he was made to understand in no uncertain way that this cemetery and all within it was something to shun and stay away from. To touch anything that grew there was nothing less than sacrilege. Countless tears have been shed over toys and play-things that accidentally fell there, even once a football. There was a strange ending that time though, one which strengthened the power and mana of the tapu. For a number of years, our local football team had successfully defended a big silver cup, called the ‘Heiwari Cup’ after grandfather. One year, things weren't going too well. The challenging team was leading by three points, with ten minutes left to go, when an accident punctured the ball. The only other available ball was brought into play. Within seconds the home team scored, evening the points. Rallying, the challengers forced the play into our own back line. Excitement was at a pitch. If they scored, the cup would go. Whether this crossed the mind of our full-back Tamiti, and whether he did it in desperation, I cannot say, for he never told anyone. But he scooped up that ball, and with a powerful boot, he kicked it far and high. The spectators' cheers and clapping were loud in praise of his play. Then suddenly, the applause abruptly ceased. The players, trance-like as if in the grip of an evil spell, stood like toy soldiers in battle. A hushed silence stilled players and spectators alike. That kick had done two things. It had removed the danger against the hard-pressed home team, and with the help of a high wind it had carried the ball right off course, right into the wahi tapu. Nothing like that had happened before. No one would move to touch it. It was out of bounds for all time. What a lot of cursing and uncomplimentary things the visitors had to say about us. Seeing the game had to be discontinued for lack of a ball, the trophy remained ours’. ‘Kia mahara hoki koutou, he tohu kino hoki tenei mea,’ called an old kaumatua, and though we were happy, and laughed and sky-larked at the dance that night, we were to remember those words later. Tamiti, a happy carefree chap with an engaging disposition, began to get surly and nasty in the months that followed, showing a total lack of interest in everything. One night, while crossing the harbour bar on horseback, a thing that he had been doing for years, he was swept away and drowned. An accident, the policeman from town had said. But to us children, and to the others who remembered the old kaumatua's prophetical message, it was a living proof that an infringement of the laws of the tapu, intentional or otherwise, had been dealt with. Once a year the older folk, and sometimes a few of the younger ones, entered the wahi tapu to clear away the fern and bracken, and trim the long grass near the fences. Afterwards the implements they had used were washed and left soaking in a drain near the swamp. For those who had taken part in this labour, a cleansing ritual was performed by the oldest kuia, who some people said was related to a very ancient tohunga I had once seen. If any animal in our settlement were seen to reach over and sample the grass that grew within the burial ground, tradition demanded that the owner destroy the beast, or sell it out of the district. This was so uneconomic that most of the inhabitants managed to keep what stock they possessed secure in their own paddocks, but sometimes a gate would get left open. Which reminds me of the time that one of my cousin Ruihi's fowls decided, rightly or wrongly, to lay its eggs in the cemetery. Noticing that her daily collection of eggs was decreasing. Ruihi bribed her children by telling them that if they would watch the henhouse, she would take them to see the monkeys next time the circus came. She suspected a little bit of thieving was going on: but no, the children too were puzzled, until her eldest daughter Maire saw one of the black chooks fly over the fence, then make its way straight to a clump of kaikato in the wahi tapu. After a short time out the old hen came again, ruffled her feathers in a ‘see who cares’ attitude, and quickly flew up over the fence. Not until she was safely on the far side of the paddock did her laying song begin. Maire kept this secret to herself, and when the hen began to absent itself from the fowl-