I felt uncomfortable. As if I was responsible. Petau sighed deeply. ‘You see’, he said slowly, ‘Wairere is old—like me. It's better his bones rest here—where he spent his youthful days—than to go away to the city. He's then like a man without a family—te mokai!’ I felt both sad and helpless. Both Sharon and I could sense the frustration of these two men. The loss of the canoe would be deeply felt. It was not just a canoe. To the old men it represented memories and their histories. ‘Ha-well’, said Petau slowly rising, ‘Sir—I thank you for your help—perhaps this is meant to be—! Who knows God's thoughts!’ Yes, who knows. Sharon looked pleadingly at me. I shrugged. There was nothing to be done other than perhaps speaking with Mr Rhodes. Somehow I didn't think that would alter the situation. Mat and Petau stood. ‘Thank you sir.’ ‘I'm sorry I couldn't be of help.’ Mat patted my arm. They had come with hope and I had failed them. The sadness in their eyes disturbed me. ‘Never mind—’ Petau turned to Sharon. ‘and thank you missus.’ They smiled sadly, excused themselves, and vanished into the darkness. The canoe was to be floated down the river on Sunday. At the top of the farm, where the high cliffs overlooked the river, I had often sat during the previous week—watching a group of four or five men uncovering Wairere-o-te-hau. The canoe appeared to have been buried under the silt carried down by repeated floods over the years. Then a blanket of blackberry had added a final covering to the canoe's hiding place. Now the men had slashed back the brush, and dug a shallow trench exposing the long hull once more to the elements. On Sunday I was determined to have a closer look before the canoe was floated away. I walked down the track to a point opposite the bank on which the canoe lay. A member of the group working on the canoe waved across to me. He pointed questioningly at their aluminium dinghy that was tied to the bank. I nodded. At least I could lend a hand. But then should I? The man brought the boat across the slow current and nosed into the bank. ‘Gidday.’ I introduced myself. He gave me a sharp glance. Perhaps he'd heard that I'd rung Mrs Wallace. However he said nothing and introduced himself as Davey Rhodes. ‘Like to come across? Could use another hand.’ He grinned and looked across the river. ‘Yeah—I'd like to have a look—thanks.’ We putt-putted across the sluggish water that flowed slowly in a wide curve. Below, it narrowed into a gorge that ran for four or five miles before widening into the lower coastal valley. The canoe lay parallel to the river, some eight feet above the water level. Wairere-o-te-hau was some thirty feet in length, built from a single tree trunk. It had warped slightly during the time spent in the ground. At one end the wood had begun to split. Two men were busy placing zinc sheeting over the weakness, while a third caulked the split. Davey introduced me to the workers. Two were his neighbours. The third member of the party was his son. Davey explained how they intended to ease the canoe down the slipway they had dug in the clay bank, then mount an outboard motor for the run down the river. Certainly it seemed to me a perilous undertaking, but Davey seemed to have confidence in the scheme. By mid-morning the canoe was ready for launching. Surprisingly, little effort was required. Wairere seemed anxious to once more enter the water. The canoe teetered slightly on the edge of the bank, then with little encouragement, slid gently into the river. Davey looked relieved as he hopped aboard and tied a bow rope. The other three laughed loudly. Proudly Wairere lay against the bank.