Daughter of Australia (5 page)

A
blur of hands, of people and homes, of men in uniform, dotted the months. Another journey and a policeman unlocked the buggy door. “Out yeh go.” Grunting, he pushed his hat high upon his forehead, the rim cutting a pale line into his red skin. “Come on, child; we ain't got all day.” He took her by the hands and swung her to the ground.

A tree stretched across their path, its bark stripped, the torn roots reaching toward the sky like bony fingers. Broken glass littered the stones at her feet, gleamed white between blades of grass. Next to the church, a pile of debris—stacks of broken chairs, loose bricks caked with mortar, books fanning out with moldy centers. The policeman dropped her hand. Her mouth went dry. The sea roared in the distance, drowned out her thundering heartbeat.

A priest exited the wide church doors. Dressed in black from shoes to chin, he seemed to float across the gravel like a dancing shadow. “Good morning, Constable,” he greeted flatly.

“Mornin', Father McIntyre.” The officer scanned the tarps and broken windows of the orphanage, rubbed his round belly. “Och, the cyclone did a number on yeh, Father. How yeh going to fix it all?”

The priest sighed, tapped his shoe. “I've written the Bishop. The money will come.”

“Hope yer right. Geraldton took a beatin', but whew . . .” The policeman wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and set his gaze on the decimated pile of twisted trees. “Weren't nothin' compared to this. Yeh got the brunt of it, I'm afraid.” He scratched the inside of a nostril absently, then scraped his knuckle across his nose, snorted away the talk of weather. “Anyway,” he said, tilting his head at her. “Got another one for yeh.”

“So I see.” The priest's face was stiff, his tone stern. “Would have appreciated a bit more notice. You said she wasn't coming for another month.”

The sweaty officer shrugged. “Outta my hands. Child's been through two foster homes already. Drivin' 'em crazy way she don't talk. I've been stuck with her for a week.”

She swallowed, dropped her eyes to the pebbles at her feet. The burn crept up her stomach and spread to her face.

Father McIntyre cleared his throat, then knelt on one knee. Gently, he tapped her chin until her eyes leveled with his. The burn faded. His face was soft and calm. His eyebrows sloped without tension. He took her hand, held it in his warm palm. “We're pleased to have you. It's Leonora, right?”

“Not her real name,” the policeman interjected as he picked at the nostril again. “Named after some bush town. Call her whot yeh like.”

The priest's gaze did not waver, but his lips pinched. He pressed her hand and his mouth relaxed again. “I think Leonora is a beautiful name. Shall we keep it?”

With the request of speech, her mouth filled with cotton. She stood as still and quiet as stone. But unlike the cold stares and short huffs of the others, Father McIntyre's smile widened. He leaned in and spoke solely to her ears: “This is a good place.”

She scanned the broken church, the ravaged grounds. The priest followed her gaze and nodded. “We'll get better, Leonora. Time heals all wounds.” An old Scottish accent curved the words, their sincere lightness loosening her throat and shoulders.

“We'll take good care of you.” He stood then, his graceful black body reaching into the Heavens as he held out his hand. “I promise.”

F
ather McIntyre carried his morning tea outdoors. A slight breeze blew from the sea, bringing the familiar brininess and timely certainty of waves crashing against the cliffs. The thick indigo sky greedily held on to the last of its stars, each one gradually disappearing in the widening line of morning light. There was vibrancy to this hour—God's time; God's place.

The boys' dormitory lay quiet, the tarped roof barely strong enough to keep the dew out. The storm had blown out every window; thin wood bandaged the openings. Little feet still had to walk upon broken glass embedded in the grass. The girls' hall hadn't fared much better. The dormitories branched off the church in wings and the storm had clipped them.

Father McIntyre turned the corner to the outline of mortar and old bricks that was once his personal library. The devastated site still pitted his stomach. A lifetime collection of books—Shakespeare, Dickinson, Poe—blown to sea or impaled on trees, soaked beyond recognition.
Only paper and ink,
he reminded himself. The children were not harmed, not a single one. Flesh and blood had won out. Flesh and blood—the paper and ink of life.

He finished his tea as the light of dawn plucked away the last star and flooded the cliffs. He thought about the little girl who arrived earlier in the week and his throat closed. Another orphan. A child without a voice but with the light of purity in her gaze. The brass bell chimed and he listened with closed eyes—eyes of reverence. For this was the call of those within, the ones who could not speak for themselves, the nameless and the lost—a beacon of anonymity.

Seven rings. His sliver of quiet over. The children would be done with breakfast now. Chores would begin. Soon the noise of little voices and feet would surround every inch of the orphanage and his work would begin.

 

By noon, the sea's scent enveloped the fields, escorted Father McIntyre over the stone trail, mingled with syrupy, rotting nectar that curved through the orchard. Apple trees, wizened in branch and plucked of fruit, clustered so close limbs intertwined and sewed the line of trees together. Picking season was over, the last bushels of stoned fruit carted to town, the rest blown out to sea from the storm. Birds, now free from competitive fingers, pecked at the old pulp that hung from pits and stems. Wasps and fruit flies crawled over the ground, their wings wet and bellies besotted on the sweet juice.

Father McIntyre stepped gingerly over the smashed fruit. An older boy with rolled-up sleeves stood midway up a ladder, steadying his balance as he pruned the limbs with shears. A smaller boy sat at the base, inspecting a rotten apple for ants.

“Dylan!” the priest called out. “Have you seen James?”

The boy on the ladder turned, rested the shears on his shoulder. “In the barn. Last time I seen 'im.”

“He's doin' his chores!” the bug inspector chimed helpfully.

“You finish yours?” Father McIntyre asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

He moved evenly over pebbles bleached white and carried from the sea, his black frock starkly bold above them as he made his way to the barn in the lower paddock. There Father McIntyre quietly leaned against the old, warm wood and watched the boy push the shreds of hay into the back of the stall. The broom, still too long for the child, slipped in his hands as he cleared the ground around the horse's hooves.

James was growing up—still a child, but less and less one every day. Father McIntyre stepped into the barn, the heat trapped oppressively within the rotten wood. James rubbed his forehead against his sleeve, then gently petted the mare's nose. The horse reared, stepped away violently.

Father McIntyre grabbed the harness. “Whoa! What's gotten into her?”

James looked up in surprise. “Don't know. She's not herself.”

“Did you check the stall for snakes? Lost that little nanny goat to one last week.”

James's eyes lit up. He exchanged the broom for the pitchfork and shoveled through the high pile of hay. A long, brown snake erupted from the disturbed mound and slithered through his legs. The horse panicked, batted her front hooves into the air.

“I've got him cornered!” James shouted.

Father McIntyre shivered. “Don't get near that snake, James! Just finish him quickly!”

The boy's face opened with pure bewilderment. “I can't hurt him, Father.” With one quick scoop he caught the snake between the pitchfork prongs, carried the wriggling creature to the door and flung him to the grass.

“For Pete's sake, James!” Father McIntyre held one hand to his chest. “Don't ever do that again. The world can live with one less snake, you know.”

James knit his brows deeply. Bits of grass and seed stuck to the sweat on his forearms and crown. Father McIntyre shook his head, laughed at the boy's weighty seriousness and patted his hair, sending puffs of hay into the air. “Fearless. Always have been.”

James rubbed the horse's nose softly and she calmed. He began work with the pitchfork again, pushing the disrupted hay back into place.

Father McIntyre stopped him. “Come outside and sit with me for a bit.”

“What about my chores?”

“They can wait.”

Father McIntyre and James left the strong smell of animals and hay behind and sat outside against a sun-soaked boulder. Father McIntyre handed him a brown package. “Happy birthday.”

The boy held the gift in his hand. “We're not supposed to get presents.”

The Father chuckled. “There are some exceptions. Go on, James. Open it.”

Reluctantly, the boy untied the twine and pulled off the paper. His face did not change as he stared at the thick leather Bible.

“It's a new book, not a used one from the church,” Father McIntyre explained. “Look, I know you wouldn't have picked this for yourself, but”—he struggled for the right words—“maybe you'll look to it for answers. Maybe not now, but someday.”

James looked at the book in his hands. “Thank you, Father.”

Father McIntyre couldn't decide if he wanted to shake or hug the boy. He settled on pinching his chin. “Why do you always look so serious, my son?” James didn't answer, nor did the Father expect him to.

Father McIntyre followed the stone trail with his eyes, his crow's-feet wrinkling in memory. “I taught you to walk on this path.” He pointed near the end of the barn. “That smooth spot there. As soon as your legs were strong enough, we came down here every day and practiced. You would grip my index fingers with your whole fist, hold on so tight that my fingers turned white.” He looked at his fingers, still seeing it. “You were so determined to walk. No sooner were you crawling than you were trying to stay upright on wobbly legs.”

The sun glowed warmly and etched the boy's amber crown in gold. “I remember when they put you in my arms, not more than a week old. You turned bright red and screamed so hard I thought you'd burst.” He rubbed his hand through his hair, his eyes wide with the memory. “I was so scared. My hands trembled till I thought I'd drop you. Hadn't been here more than a month myself.” He smiled softly at James. “You and I grew up here together, my son. Held each other up along that path.”

He watched James's profile and wondered at the thoughts the boy kept hidden. He was a fine boy. A fine, wonderful boy and he loved him like a father would a son—not an ordained father but a natural one.

James had a good life at the orphanage; this he was sure. He was fed, educated, taught to speak properly, without the slang used by other children. He was never bullied, a favorite of the nuns. But the boy had no friends and showed little interest in making them, more at peace with the animals or alone. A hollowness had lived in James since birth, and in nine years Father McIntyre still hadn't a clue how to fill it.

He pulled James to his feet, gave him a wink. “Go on. It's your birthday. Chores can wait until tomorrow.” He knew where the boy would go. “James!” he called out to the figure already speeding toward the sea. “Remember, not too close to the cliffs!”

J
ames leaned against the trunk of the weeping peppermint tree, the shade wispy and uneven. His chin pressed on one bent knee while the other leg lay straight. His toe peeked from the shoe's crack like a worm fresh from the ground. He pulled the toe in and the crack closed. A ball broke clumsily through the branches, nearly landing on his head.

“Over 'ere!” a boy hollered from the field. “Send it back!”

James chucked the ball into the sky.

“Yeh want t'play, James?”

“Naw.” James resettled under the tree, moved his attention back to his hide-and-seek toe. He traced shapes in the soft brown dirt with a crooked stick. The drone of children hummed all around, melting like the drum of insects.

Meghan Mahoney's shadow fell across his foot as she sneaked past, snickering with two other girls. “There she is!”

James sighed and poked harder at the ground, wishing their voices were far enough to merge with the rest of the insects.

“Leonora! Hey, Leonora, whot yeh doin'?” Meghan's voice, sweet as rancid butter, surrounded the little girl hidden in the shade.

“Oh! I forgot. She don't know how t'talk. Poor thing! Would yeh like a lesson? I'm a very good teacher.” The girls giggled. “Repeat after me: ‘I'm a dumb, ugly girl.' Say it wiv me: ‘I'm a dumb, ugly girl.' ”

James kept his chin tucked to his knee and did not look, didn't need to. He could see Meghan's freckled face clearly enough behind the voice as she tortured the new girl. He dug hard into the dirt until the stick cracked in his fingers.

“S'not talkin', eh? How 'bout singin'? Got a good song. Made it just for yeh.

The words sickened James's insides like sour milk. He shot daggers at the girls, caught a glimpse of Leonora's eyes as they flickered to his. There were no tears, no anger—only softness. A swift heat ignited his nerves. James chewed his bottom lip, his limbs tight. He could stop it. But it would be back tomorrow and the day after. It would be worse because they loved a fight. Their eyes sparkled for it. They'd pick harder. He closed his eyes, focused on the rustle of willowy leaves until the laughter died and Meghan and her crew bustled away.

He sat idly now, his toe tucked back into its hole, his stick broken in the dirt. The silent girl in the shadows sat and settled her chin upon her small fist. And James hated this place—the only home he had ever known—and he wanted nothing more than to leave it. He couldn't sit any longer and there weren't enough sticks in the world to break. Springing from his seat, he ran from the field, ran over the path that swung around the church, ran so hard his head bent forward and his legs blurred through the wildflowers and boulders that traced the way to the cliffs.

The smell of the sea smacked as he crested the hill and stood at the very edge. He settled atop a patch of brittle grass, sharpened to points and entrenched in sand. His legs hung over the sheer mountain ledge, his toes dangling hundreds of feet above the swirling waves. James leaned back and dug his elbows into the ground, closed his eyes and raised his chin to the clouds. The orphanage disappeared. The roar of water drowned the voices, the taunts; the briny scent of fish and sea flushed away the smell of sweat and dirt and mildew. The callousness, the cruelty of the orphanage lingered for a moment before the currents tore and diffused it.

The sea stilled him. The bounce of water far below hypnotized and quieted his mind. The steeple bell chimed two hollow rings and a weakness tugged his insides. He did not belong at this place. He knew this before he was old enough to
know
it. This was not meant to be his life and yet it was his life and he didn't understand and it made him want to crack sticks and throw rocks into the sea until his shoulder hurt.

From his waistband, James pulled out the Bible Father McIntyre had given him. The Father said it would give him answers, and one came, but certainly not one the priest would approve. James opened the cover and rubbed his hand over the tiny printed words, the paper thin and opaque. Slowly, he pinched the corner of the paper and tore it straight down its seam. He grabbed more pages, ripping evenly so they hardly frayed. The last few pages fell out on their own and James rubbed his finger over the naked seam, bare but for a few red strings. The limp cover collapsed into the back, the substance gone.

James gathered the ripped pages, held them for a moment, the edges flapping in the warm breeze before being released over the cliffs where they danced upon the wind, waved like milky hands and glided down to the frothy ocean. Beside him, a cypress tree with worn and knobby roots hung to the edge of the cliff and James picked through a pyramid of stones at its base until he found the buried black book. In the sunlight, the gold-embossed lettering glowed white and his heart raced just as it had the first time he found it in Father McIntyre's library. The name “O'Connell” shone brilliant. His name.

The Father had hidden the book from him, but the cyclone had returned it, the wind leaving the book fanned and exposed in the rubble until he'd snatched it.

Now James blew away the bits of dirt that filled the veining leather creases. He placed the book into the shell of the Bible and pressed hard. Not a perfect fit but good enough not to be questioned. Her words were safe now, protected in God's cover. He tucked his mother's diary safely under his shirt.