Coming into the government strip, which sloped up from the water, the plane circled out, low over the reef, and seemed almost to float back in, scattering sea birds, touching lightly on the grass and rolling to a stop near trees at the edge of a small creek. The kiap, a balding Australian with large knees, was waiting for them.

‘Sorry, folks,’ he said. ‘There’s some delay. I had to send the dinghy up to Spear Point. There’s a kid who needs to come into the hospital. Nasty accident.’

‘That’s okay,’ Aaron said, shaking his hand. ‘Gives us time to talk.’

‘There’s the house, if the ladies want,’ the kiap said, extending an awkward hand to Rika and Martha. One of those whose wife gave up years ago, Martha supposed. ‘And George came up from the school,’ he was saying to Aaron. ‘Says you know him. Asks if you can come and talk to the kids. You know. Seeing you were once there yourself. Motivate them. Pep talk sort of thing.’

The sun was dipping towards the west when at last they walked down the steep path from the government station to the fjord, which opened to the small harbour that eighty years before had drawn in the Merrie England, the governor’s ship, on its exploratory journey along the coast. A dinghy was waiting at the end of the jetty, and while the kago was being loaded, Aaron looked across to the dense, vibrant green of the opposite peninsula and the outline of the mountains beyond. A thin column of smoke was rising from a village somewhere among the trees, and canoes were rippling the still water. The way he stood there, the relaxing of his shoulders and the tilt of his chin, gave a glimpse of its power for him; the redemptive power of place and home.

‘See,’ Rika said. ‘It changes him.’

Inside the fjord, the air was velvety and the water a clear, dark green. When the dinghy came out into open sea, the air chilled and the water turned an inky indigo. Rika sat forward like a figure-head, looking east along the purple bulk of mountains set against the darkening sky. Aaron, beside the boatman at the tiller, called out to canoes making their way home into the fjords. He pointed to new gardens cleared from the wreckage of the cyclone, and to the bare grass along the ridge tops. ‘That’s where the cyclone hit,’ he shouted over to Pete. ‘Each time the wind comes, it sweeps more soil from the top.’ The word for ridge in his language meant barren, without fruit.

By the time the dinghy rounded the last point and they heard the drums, there was a reddish glow to the west and enough light to catch the plumes of the headdresses of the men who danced in welcome. Women with densely tattooed faces kept time with the drums. Small children with soft, pale feathers in their hair ran to Aaron and led him across the dance ground as his own feet tapped out the rhythm of the drums. An old man stepped forward to greet him. His face was deeply lined, the creases of his chest hung like an ancient garment, but his back was straight and his dry white hair swelled from his head like a stationmaster’s cap. He was wearing a soft loincloth and he held a tall staff in one hand. This was afa Noah, the last of Aaron’s father’s brothers, and he stepped forward to greet Aaron with an expression of such tender pride that Pete turned and touched Martha’s arm. Aaron leaned towards the old man and took in the aroma of patrimony. All around, women and children were calling out, clapping their hands. Whaa! Whaa! Behind the houses, at the edge of the village, chickens flew to the top of the trees to roost, squawking as if they too rejoiced at Aaron’s return.