COVER

A family boards a ship bound for New Zealand. What will they find there?

Tests lie ahead — war, earthquakes, brushes with death. And so do some thrilling discoveries . . .

Master storyteller David Hill traces the fortunes of two New Zealand families over seven generations and through 130 years of adventure and discovery, tragedy and triumph.

DEDICATION

To Puketapu, and all my people there.

Thanks to Massey University, where this novel was begun.

AGGIE 1886

The September days are shorter and cooler now. Autumn is here, and the purple heather flowers have nearly finished blooming.

My little brother Niall and his friends are playing Soldiers while we wait on the wharf. They march up and down and pretend to fire rifles. Niall wears the red woollen vest our Grandma Coira knitted. He says it makes him look like a real army man.

Just after we reached the wharfs this morning, Niall and the other boys began shouting and pointing. A great steel shape was slicing through the water, fifty yards from shore, smoke pouring from its funnels. ‘’Tis the Ajax!’ someone called. ‘The new battleship!’ We could see the huge gun barrels, the bow built to ram enemy vessels. (Niall is just seven, but he loves to talk about such things.)

Scores of people sit or stand around us. Some smile at me. Are they feeling the excitement that stirs in me when I think of the adventure ahead? Other faces are sad. We are leaving our beloved Scotland for a new land on the other side of the world.

We hear that faraway New Zealand has clean air and rivers. Children will grow strong there. The small farms here in Scotland have been swallowed up by big English landowners, and the cities do not have enough work. Shepherds like my father, or carpenters, ditch-diggers, factory workers, have to make different lives in a different land.

A breeze sighs past. I pull my shawl around me, and something touches my wrist. My silver bracelet. Every time I see it, my heart beats faster. It is so beautiful, with its plaited patterns and clasp like a tiny thistle.

My Auntie Flora gave it to me four days ago, while Mother, Father, Niall and I stood waiting for the wagon that was to carry us away from our farm for ever.

‘This belonged tae your Great-great-grandmother Maidie,’ she whispered. ‘Take it wi’ ye, Aggie, my darling niece. ’Twas meant for your cousin Nettie, had she lived. I dinna ken what treasures you will find in New Zealand, but here is one of ours tae carry across the seas. Every time ye touch the thistle, think of the purple flowers o’ Scotland.’