While I was writing this up last night, the words to describe the visions came to me because I felt them. Other descriptions and details came because I believed them. They lifted themselves out and put themselves on the page. I admit I surmised some of what I have written. I mean, I don’t really know for sure what the kids were chanting to Chappy while they were hurling stones, but I could guess because I’d heard it all before. I don’t know if they went home and told their parents about the naked man and the cockabullies. All I know is Chappy was catching tiny fish and eating them and that kids threw mud at him when he was standing in the creek washing. He rushed out of the water to grab his clothes because boys were running down the bank to snatch them. I don’t really know how the townspeople felt or what they said to their kids. It’s conjecture. So those are my doubts, Grandson. When you go to type this up, you can edit some of it out if it seems like humbug. Later I did proper research into the rest of Chappy’s journey. We’ll catch up with that later. O.S.]

Oriwia kept all her daily activities going at once, moving from one job to another and back again, talking all the while, going from topic to topic, weaving the threads of her stories together. Aki, however, did one thing at a time, his pace leisurely. After a full breakfast of meat, potatoes, vegetables, bread and tea, he didn’t stop to eat throughout the day, though he took a moment here and there to make a cigarette and drink a cup of tea. One task was completed before another was begun. Once all else was done, the recorder was turned on and telling his stories became his sole task until he decided enough had been said.

He was seldom indoors when I arrived. I would look for him on one of the pathways he’d made for his tractor and pickup, and find him in the bush cutting wood for the fire, up the creek checking his hīnaki for eels, or he’d be closer to home, scrubbing his dunny, clearing the spring, mending a fence, shearing a sheep or even killing and butchering one.

My grandmother was always scornful of his lifestyle. ‘Only the ghosts to talk to. He could stay here with me if he wished. No, I’m all right he says. Just leave a space in your freezer for our meat. So he comes with his parcels of mutton and pork, enough for both of us, enough for our families, and we pack them away. He’s silly. His garden’s big enough to feed an army.’