Thomas and Rose. John Aitkenhead

      Prologue

      My name is Thomas McCallum and my story is about a journey through sixty years. I am writing this prologue last as my memory is beginning to falter, and I am not sure if I will be able to complete my story. It is a wonderful story about the passage of my life through joy and sadness, high mountains and deep ravines – the testimony of a life which leaves me with few regrets.

      My journey begins as a small boy with much love for his family and a passion for all things in nature, growing up on the family farm with his companion dog Skipper. I am going to tell you about meeting Rose, the love of my life, and how our love overcame our differing beliefs and in time merged them into a wonderful understanding of spirituality. I am also going to tell you how a little boy came into our lives in circumstances beyond our control, but with an extraordinary conclusion.

      I am going to take you to several countries and to an amazing place where events took us to terrifying heights of emotion as we risked our freedom. These events had a long-lasting impact on the rest of our lives, and those of our families. There are weddings and there are funerals in the magnificent settings of Queenstown, Wanaka and the Crown Ranges of New Zealand’s South Island.

      Even though I am writing this now, my story is unfinished. I am really sorry about that, but my health is failing me and I think that I may soon depart this life. It has been a life of colour and fragrance, like the changing seasons of Otago, the winter snow, the emerging life of springtime, the warm glow of summer, incredible colours of the deciduous trees in autumn, and our wonderful lake surrounded by magnificent mountains. I am now happy to die a contented man.

      My story begins in April 1949. I was aged ten and lived on a farm in Otago, New Zealand, with my mother, father and sister Rachel.

      Chapter One

      Was it my imagination? An unusual sound amongst the background of the fast-flowing river and chorus of bird noises. It sounded strange, but there it was again, a tiny whimper. I leant my bike against a tree, hung my schoolbag over the handlebars and slid down the track towards the river. The sound was a little louder and appeared to be coming from the far side of a large blackberry bush. I followed a goat track beside the bush to a barbed wire fence, the only thing separating me from the river below. Then I saw it: perched on a ledge only a few inches above the water, a pitiful and very soggy black and white puppy, which could only have been a few weeks old and had obviously been in the river. It was about ten feet below me and looking up with big pleading eyes.

      I climbed over the fence and made soothing noises. Its little tail began wagging furiously, but there was no way above for it to go. I knew I had to rescue that helpless creature. The river was rising after several days of relentless rain, and by the time I went for help, it would probably have been washed away to its certain death. There was nothing between me and the poor little fellow. I could probably slide down the slope to where he was, but there was no way I could get back. There were, however, some willow saplings directly above the puppy, which if bent over may reach it.

      I made my way along the top of the bank, holding onto the fence, and grabbed the first and longest willow. Holding the fence with one hand, I grasped the willow and found it bent easily, and after several minutes of manoeuvring, I held the base of the sapling and let go of the fence. I looked down, and even in the time I had spent positioning myself, the river had risen, so the puppy’s little feet were now in the water. I began working my way down the willow, taking care to cling to the strongest part but also not to damage it too much, because like the helpless puppy below, this would be my only escape.

      By the time I reached the little fellow, the water had risen to its belly, and he was at risk of again being swept away. I picked up the soggy little bundle and was amazed at how light it was. I opened my shirt and stuffed him inside, tightened my belt and did up the buttons, knowing I would need both hands to haul us both up the willow to safety.

      The climb back up was more difficult than I had expected as, unlike coming down, I had to use my feet, which put me at a steep angle with the bank, exerting a huge amount of pressure on the willow sapling. I was almost within arm’s reach of the fence, and then it happened. The sapling came out by the roots and flung me and my little friend into the air. We hit the freezing water backwards, and I remember seeing bubbles as we began to surface. I reached frantically for roots on the river bank, but the current was too strong. For several minutes, we were carried downstream, and my mind went into a delirious vision of our dead bodies being found draped over tree roots when the river subsided.

      The water became shallow, and I could feel pebbles under my feet, so I slid my little passenger up as high as I could to give it a chance of survival, only to be swept on again. I was numb with cold and wondered whether I was going to die, either by drowning or freezing. We were then back into a deep part of the river and forced under by the current for what seemed an eternity. I thought by now my little friend was surely dead, and I wondered if my own chance of survival would be better if I discarded him. Again, I felt pebbles under my feet as we went under a bridge. I faintly recall seeing faces as I struggled for a foothold. For the next few minutes, I bounced up and down, as the water gradually became shallower then deeper, for such a long period that I was only partially conscious and unaware of how far we had gone. There was a bend in the river forcing us into the river bank. I grabbed a tree root and crawled to a sandy little beach. I could hear cars going past, so I knew we were close

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