A few years after we reached New Zealand, another steamship with families from the Highlands arrived. Mother’s cousin Hamish stayed with us for the winter, before travelling on to look for land. He had brought his bagpipes all the way from Scotland. I was just a lad of eight or nine then, but I remember the first fine morning Hamish was with us, when he stepped outside our hut into the clear, cold air, drew a deep breath, and began to play.

‘A Song of the Morning’, the tune was called. But the Maori people who were cooking breakfast or fetching water from the river didn’t sing. At the first ‘Whaaa-ooo!’, children screamed, and ran for their parents. I saw Hahona staring with her mouth open, Ngaio’s terrified face, Haare springing forward to protect his sisters.

‘Whaaa-oooo!’ Men rushed out with spears or stone clubs, and stood in front of their families. Magpies and other birds exploded squawking from the trees.

Hamish saw what was happening, took the pipes from his mouth, and the sound died away. For a few seconds, nobody moved or spoke. Then Father began laughing. Some of the Maori men joined in, and soon everyone except a few scared babies was giggling and shouting. Haare and I rushed around, calling ‘Whaaaa-oooo!’

Areta and her people wanted to touch the pipes, but when the bag made a sighing sound, they jumped back, then laughed again. Ngaio clung to her mother and wouldn’t look, until Janet took her hand and placed it on the chanter pipe.

After that, Hamish began to play — very softly — another tune, a lament at leaving home. Father put a big arm around Mother, and they stood together until Hamish had finished. She dabbed her eyes; Maori women murmured and nodded.

‘That is your taonga?’ one asked. ‘Your treasure?’

‘Aye, it is that,’ Father said, and they nodded again.

That treasure left with Mother’s cousin, but people here still talk about it. The Crying Tah-nee-wha — monster — they call it.

A few nights after we talked about it being nearly eleven years since we arrived, more people stood in the doorway of our house. Haare, Ngaio, Hahona, and the young man who will be the father of her child. ‘Greetings, friends.’ Haare nodded to us all. ‘John Brady comes tomorrow to take flax to town. Are there other things he should carry? Do people wish to travel with him?’

Hahona whispered something to Aggie, and my big sister blushed. My parents smiled at each other. ‘Aggie, dear,’ Mother said, ‘I’m thinking we need some flour and salt from town. Would ye mind too much riding in with John tomorrow?’ My sister blushed again, while Hahona tried to hide her smiles.