Nana told me once how a special funeral service was held for Great-uncle Angus on the Waimoana Marae — the ‘pa’, people used to call it — because we’ve always had so many friends there. I want to make them proud of me, I suddenly thought. I’m going to be careful, but I want my own family and my friends’ families to feel I’ve done something good up in Auckland.

Some of our cousins’ cousins’ cousins, or something like that, live a couple of hours’ drive from us. One of them brought his bagpipes across to my great-uncle’s funeral, to play a farewell. As soon as Ahorangi and the other old Maori people saw them, they started chuckling. Their ancestors thought the pipes were a monster shrieking. I don’t blame them!

A few of those Scottish rellies are driving up to the Auckland protest, too. Maybe we’ll see them. I’ve got a cousin — all right, a cousin’s cousin’s etc — about my age. I met him once; he was skinny and pretty boring.

Our Waimoana Marae is quite famous. Like I said, the panel Dad and Tipene found is kept there, and people come to learn carving and weaving and stuff. Tipene is a really good carver. He did this incredible thing with the walking stick that Great-grandad Duncan used, and that’s on the wall of my grandparents’ cottage.

The stick used to be the handle of Duncan’s axe. It helped save him after he hurt himself really badly, and Nana Florence says it saved Dad and Tipene when they got stuck in the flood that time. After he began carving, Tipene ‘borrowed’ the stick, carved it with patterns like the ones from the panel they’d found, and gave it back to our family.

There could be other things in the swamp. After Dad and Tipene found the panel, there was a lot of talk on the marae about whether to search for more. A university group got permission to dig in one part, near the river, where the panel might have come from. They didn’t find anything, and people decided they didn’t want our valley’s special place dug up any more.

We reached the motor camp about three o’clock. We weren’t staying in a tent: Dad had booked us a couple of cabins. I felt quite excited; I’d never slept in a cabin before.

The manager or whoever looked at us when we trooped into the office. ‘You people going on that protest nonsense?’

I saw Tipene frown and my father glare. My face went hot, and I opened my mouth. But it was Mum who spoke first. ‘Protest, yes. Nonsense, no. Looks like you’re nice and full. What a pretty campground.’