head, he cried out over and over again. Everyone sat still. Dead silence reigned. Only their eyes followed the grotesque movements, watching as he tossed, moaning, from side to side. Wide-eyed, I felt terrified, and was about to take to my heels, when I felt Aunty Miriama's reassuring hands on my shoulders, and my fears disappeared. No one spoke, or broke the silence, until he lay still and then sat up rubbing his head and asked for a drink of water. This was quickly brought from the kitchen, and he drank it slowly in gulps. ‘Aue! e Hemi’, he said, looking at Uncle. ‘He raruraru kei te haere mai.’ ‘There is trouble coming,’ he continued. ‘Some strangers from a great distance are coming to see me. One is very sick and still a child. He is very sick, and is wrapped in something bright. A woman and a man with him are very concerned, and the woman is without a wedding ring, and has never had one. Altogether there are five people travelling and they should arrive before the birds settle for the night.’ He then said he was very tired and spread a blanket over himself, put a cushion under his head and promptly fell asleep. Uncle set to and erected a tent near the karaka tree. Mattresses, clean bedding and flax mats covered the ground. A kerosene lamp stood on a box, ready to provide light, and alongside it was Waata's much-used Bible. Waata slept soundly until an hour or so after sunset, then sat refusing any food, content to puff away at his pipe. In the kitchen, Aunty and her elder daughter prepared extra food. No one doubted the old man's prophecy. They were used to such things. For was not Ratana the ‘Mangai’—the ‘Prophet’ of his people? Waata retired to the tent, taking his rug with him, to await the arrival of his visitors, and the shadows of day began to blend into the twilight of the evening. A strange car came up the drive, followed by our excited dogs, barking and yelping. Uncle met the visitors at the gate, and after acknowledgements and queries had been completed, he led them to the lamplit tent. There were five people, and one was a sickly-looking boy about 14 to 15 years old. He was carried wrapped in a red tartan rug. With gentle and tender care, they laid him on one of the mattresses. Waata greeted his manuhuri, guests, in the appropriate fashion and then they spoke to him in hushed tones of reverence. Yes, the boy had been to three doctors, and at their own request the district nurse had visited him weekly. But none of the doctors had been able to discover what he was suffering from. In desperation they had been told by the old people in their district to seek the services and advice of a tohunga. Was the boy suffering from makutu, a spell? If so, what must be done to conquer it? The boy had been like this for months and was getting worse. Waata asked Uncle to say a prayer, then asked the others with the exception of the boy's parents and Uncle to leave. The two strangers were taken to the house to be fed. Outside in the darkness, beyond the path of light, I stood watching, waiting to see what would happen. Moths attracted to the lamp cast larger-than-life shadows on the canvas walls. The old man was talking to the parents, both of whom looked very downcast and glum. By his manner I could see he was lecturing them over something but as he was speaking quietly I was unable to hear what was being said, though he emphasised his words with great gestures of his hands, pointing to him and then to her, and now and then at their son. Then they both nodded their heads as though in agreement. Opening his Bible, he read out a text, then closed it and placed it by the youth's head. He asked the mother to uncover the sick boy's body, and from where I stood, I gasped at what I saw, His body was scaly and covered in lumps; some had swelled to the size of a bantam's egg. The eyes of the tired, weak patient had shrunk into their sockets, while the skin over his face was stretched tight over the bones. The old man bent low and spoke to the boy, telling him not to be afraid, and when he had finally gained the young fellow's confidence, he asked the parents to place their hands over their son's and to begin praying. Placing his hands on the boy's head, he closed his eyes and bowed his head and began reciting some incantations that were strange to me, but included some words I understood. The hissing of the lamp became a swan song to the fluttering moths, compulsively lured to their fate by the dancing flames. The shadows of moths