As the Princess Louisa carved its slow furrow across the ocean, sickness broke out on board. Fever: a terrible burning that grew into a red rash covering faces, chests, the inside of throats. Those who had it begged for water, yet could scarcely swallow or even breathe. Children suffered most. Three wee ones died.

I was lucky. I was sick for days, then recovered. Aggie was lucky, too — or so it seemed. After a week, when she showed no sign of catching the fever, my brave ten-year-old sister begged Mother to be allowed to look after the sick children, to hold wet cloths against their hot skin, give them sips of water. Mother was unhappy, but gave in. Two days later, Aggie lay on her mattress, unconscious and burning.

For nearly a week, she hovered on the black edge of death. Mother and Father took turns sitting beside her, holding her hands and praying, heedless of catching the sickness themselves. Finally, Aggie sank into a deep, restful sleep. The fever had broken, and all seemed well.

Then two mornings later, when sunlight streamed through the open portholes of our deck, and the world seemed flooded with light, my sister woke, stretched her hands out, and murmured ‘Why is it still dark?’ The fever had taken her sight.

I thought my heart would stop. I was still only a bairn then, but I knew I would give all the treasures that Haare’s people say are hidden in this land if it could only make Aggie see again. She had felt such excitement at sailing to our new home; now she would never see it.

Yet she does so much. She milks our cows, while Auntie Flora’s silver bracelet glints on her wrist. She says that when I finally get the horse I am saving up to buy, she will ride it with me. She washes clothes and bed linen, carries them to dry on the bushes behind our house.

She and Hahona spend hours together, weaving the hara-kay-kay, the long flax leaves, into baskets for carrying food and other goods. John Brady takes them on his wagon to sell in town. I like the way he talks to Aggie. He never mentions her blindness; instead, he jokes and teases her as a man might do with any young woman.

Hahona is probably the same age as my big sister; she doesn’t know her years. She was a little girl, too, when her people came to live by this river. Now she has a man, and soon will have a child of her own. And there is Janet, too — our bonnie wee sister nearly ten years old. As I said, she leads Aggie down to the river for washing the clothes or to fetch drinking water, although Aggie knows the way so well, I believe she could find it in the dark. What am I saying? Everything and every time is dark for my brave elder sister.