Hana’s eyes flashed with pleasure at her father’s thoughtfulness. She struggled not to jump up with excitement and clap her hands. Logan nodded with little hesitation. “That’d be great, yes please.” He looked relieved as though asking God into the site would expunge the devastation of its past.
“The Māori kaumatua visited even before the fire investigators vacated,” Hana said, pushing her plate away. “He banished the spirit of death and the tapu, returning it to a state of noa, or normality for the family.”
Logan smiled at her understanding of his customs, his grey eyes appreciative. It was a kind thing the old man did, trudging through the ash and stench of burnt electrics and melted rubber on Christmas Eve. He was a gentle Māori named Arama, whose mana oozed from him in waves. Hana met
