The Exiles

by Christina Baker Kline

  A sea change. Perhaps that was true for all of them.

  After Dunne’s ship was released from its moorings, Hazel meandered up Campbell Street, making a mental list of all the things she needed to do. It was a Sunday; the practice was closed. When she got back to the house, she would read a chapter in a medical book Dunne had suggested and prepare some remedies with the herbs she’d hung to dry. Perhaps she and Maeve would take Ruby to Mount Wellington for a picnic supper: cured ham, boiled eggs, cheese, apples. They’d bring the currant cake Maeve had baked that morning and left on the table to cool.

  As she approached the house, Hazel saw Maeve kneeling in the herb garden. It was a perfectly ordinary scene, Maeve gathering mint. But something seemed amiss.

  Hazel felt a finger of fear run down her back. Why wasn’t Ruby with her?

  “Maeve,” she called, trying to keep her voice steady.

  Maeve turned with a smile. “There you are!”

  “Where’s Ruby?”

  Maeve sat back on her heels and dusted off her hands. “In the back, with a friend of Dr. Dunne’s. I told him the doctor was away, but he wanted to meet her—said he was on the ship when she was born. I told him I’d make tea. He asked for mint.” Maeve held up a sprig.

  Hazel’s skin felt clammy. She couldn’t quite catch her breath. “What is his name?”

  “Tuck. I think.”

  “Buck,” Hazel breathed. “No. No.”

  “Oh dear,” Maeve said, seeing Hazel’s stricken expression, “did—”

  Hazel ran up the steps and flung open the front door. “Ruby?” she called. “Ruby!”

  No one was in the parlor or the examining room or the kitchen. She threw open the door to Ruby’s room. Empty. She looked in Dunne’s bedroom, then in the small room Maeve was staying in. She could hear her own jagged breathing. Her thudding footsteps.

  Maeve, behind her now, said, “I’m sorry, Hazel, I didn’t—”

  “Shh.” Hazel held up a finger and stood very still, her head cocked like a hound’s. She went to the back door and looked through the pane.

  There he was, about fifty feet back in the long garden, standing beside Ruby as she bent over the fairy houses. Too close. His sandy hair was slicked back from his forehead, his beard roughly trimmed. His shirt and trousers looked clean. Respectable, even. But there was a strangeness to his look, something off-kilter. He was painfully thin. Gaunt. As if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  Hazel saw the glint of a knife in his hand. “Stay here,” she told Maeve. Stepping outside, she called, “Hello!” Fighting to keep her voice calm.

  Ruby flapped her hand. “Come see my new fairy house!”

  Buck gave Hazel a long look across the grass.

  Her heart tick-ticking in her chest, Hazel walked toward them. She felt like a deer in a clearing, aware of the hunter, every fiber of her alert. She saw the scene in front of her with heightened clarity: a cluster of insects above the lavender, two orange-breasted kingfishers swooping among the trees, the tiny green shells looped around Ruby’s neck. Buck’s grimy fingernails. The dirt that rimmed his collar.

  “Your hair’s still short,” he sneered. “And them breeches. Ye look like a boy.”

  Steady, Hazel thought; don’t react. “It’s been a while.”

  “It has. I been biding my time.”

  “I heard ye escaped. Are they after ye?”

  He made an odd stuttering sound, a kind of snigger. “Maybe so. But I know how to disappear.”

  “It’s rough out there in the bush.”

  “Ye got no idea.” He vibrated with a kind of maniacal energy. “Ever eat kangaroo?”

  She shook her head. She’d heard stories about the ex-cons and fugitives who lived like savages among the snakes and wild dogs and wallabies in the bush. Bushrangers, they were called. Pirates who roamed the land instead of the sea. They raided farms and small businesses, stealing horses and rum and weapons.

  “Ye smoke ’em over the fire. Bind ’em to sticks.” He held his arms wide, demonstrating. “After they’re dead, usually.” When he laughed, she saw his small gray teeth. “Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get ahold of a lamb.”

  Buck ran the tip of his knife down the side of Ruby’s small head. She didn’t notice, didn’t even see the blade as she crouched over her stick houses. He sliced off a curl and held it out toward Hazel. “See how easy that was? Ye can always use a sharp knife. As ye know yourself.”

  He dropped the curl in the grass.

  Hazel breathed through her nose, feeling the air fill her lungs. She smelled the lavender in the garden, and even from here, blocks from the harbor, the briny scent of the sea. Glancing toward the house she smelled the currant cake fresh from the oven.

  “Ye must be hungry,” she said. “Maeve made a cake. We have fresh butter. She said ye wanted tea.”

  Buck gazed at her. “It’s true I haven’t eaten in a while. And I confess I’m thirsty. Ye got any sugar?”

  “We do,” she said.

  She thought about the twice-a-day tirades in the chapel at the Cascades, enough sermons to last a lifetime. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him. Buck had been an infant once. A child. Maybe he was cast out, or betrayed, or beaten. Maybe he never had a chance. She didn’t know, would never know. All she knew was her own hard story. How easy it would’ve been to sow bitterness, the way he did. To nurture it until it bloomed like a noxious flower. “We believe in forgiveness here, Mr. Buck,” she said.

  “Vengeance tastes better to me,” he said.

  Ruby looked up, sensing a change in tone. “Mama?”

  “That’s what she told ye?” Buck reached out and grabbed Ruby’s arm, yanking her to her feet. “She’s not your mama, little girl.”

  Hazel couldn’t help it; she gasped.

  Ruby made a small sound, a whimper.

  Hazel had to fight the urge to lunge at him. She knew it would be foolhardy; there was too much at stake. “It’s all right, Ruby,” she said, her voice wobbling only slightly.

  With the knife, Buck motioned toward the house. “Lead the way.”

  Hazel raised her eyebrows at Maeve as they entered the gloamy kitchen. She saw Maeve taking it all in: Buck holding the knife, his other hand on Ruby’s arm.

  The kettle was on a tripod over the hearth. The knives were in a drawer. The cast-iron skillet and pots were hanging from hooks on the other side of the room.

  Buck looked back and forth between them. Gazing directly at Hazel over Ruby’s small head, he whispered, “Don’t even think about tryin’ anything. I’ll slit her throat as quick as I’d kill a lamb.”

  Hazel was aware of each breath passing through her. Her eyes flitted over the knife in Buck’s hand, Maeve standing at the table, the green sprigs of mint behind her. “Maeve,” she sighed, “your eyesight has gotten so bad. Ye picked the wrong herb. The mint’s in a different part of the garden, remember?” She turned to Buck. “Ye asked for mint, yes? Not sage?”

  Nodding slowly at her, Maeve slid the mint into her pocket. “Oh, dear. What was I thinking? Would you be an angel, Hazel, and get a few sprigs? I’ll put out the cake.”

  “Nope,” Buck said. “She’s not leaving.”

  Maeve set the currant cake and the slab of butter in front of him. He cut into the cake with the knife he still clutched in his hand, then roughly sliced a chunk of butter and smeared it on the cake. For a few moments the only sound was of him chewing. The click of his jaw.

  “I don’t mean to blow me own trumpet, Mr. Buck, but I make a lovely pot of mint tea,” Maeve said.

  “I’ll take water.”

  “Cold water’s in the cistern in the shed. I have hot here. Boiled for tea.”

  His mouth twitched. “Get the mint, then. You, not her.” He pointed the knife at Maeve, then Hazel. “Don’t even think about yellin’ for help.”

  “She’s right, though. Me eyes aren’t what they used to
be.” Maeve ran a hand back and forth in front of her face. “It’s all fuzzy. Mint looks like every other green herb to me, I’m afraid.”

  “Let me do it, Mr. Buck. I know right where it is,” Hazel said. “You’ve got Ruby,” she added quietly. “Why would I try anything?”

  Ruby gazed at her with her big brown eyes. Hazel gave her a tremulous smile.

  Looking straight at Hazel, Buck held the knife near Ruby’s cheek, pointing the tip toward her temple. “Make it quick,” he said.

  Hazel took a small earthenware bowl from the counter and went outside and down the steps. Bending over the herb patch, she collected several sprigs of mint with quaking fingers. Then she stood and turned back toward the house, toward the green bush with floppy leaves and pale pink, trumpet-shaped flowers that sat by the front door.

  Maeve filled a cup from the teapot and handed it to Buck. “Sugar? Or honey?”

  “Sugar.”

  She pushed the pot of sugar in front of him. He added two heaping spoonfuls and stirred it. Ruby, beside him, asked, “May I have some?”

  “Ye already had your tea,” Hazel said. “How about a piece of cake?”

  Ruby nodded.

  “Our mint is strong, Mr. Buck,” Maeve said. “Better with lots of sugar. There’s nothing nicer than sweet tea, is there?”

  Buck added two more spoonfuls. He took a sip, then drank noisily. Sliced off another hunk of currant cake and ate it in gulps.

  “Can I play with my dollhouse?” Ruby asked.

  “She’s not leavin’,” Buck said.

  “It’s only in the next room,” Hazel said.

  “I want her where I can see her.”

  Ruby shifted restlessly. “I’m tired of sitting here.”

  “I know,” Hazel said. “Our friend will be leaving soon.”

  Buck leaned back in his chair. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He lifted the knife in the air, ran a finger along the blade as if examining its sharpness.

  Hazel looked at him, at his thin sandy hair and sunburnt lips, the tail of the red-and-black mermaid on his forearm disappearing into his sleeve.

  Buck rubbed his eye with a finger and blinked a few times. “Ye got some meat? Long as it’s not kangaroo.” He grunted a laugh. “Too gamey for my taste.”

  Maeve took the cured ham from the larder and he carved off two large slabs and ate them with his fingers. That’s right, Hazel thought, quench your thirst with salt.

  He gulped a second cup of tea and asked for a third. When she handed it to him, he drained it and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I was thinking,” he said to Hazel, “we might finish what we started on the ship.”

  She watched a bead of perspiration roll down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. “Ye were thinking that, were ye?”

  He wagged his head toward the front of the house. Sweat dappled his upper lip. “One of them rooms would do fine.”

  She watched him closely. He took a deep breath, then another. He rubbed the hair back from his scalp, and then, with curiosity, glanced at his hand. It was shiny wet. He stared, opening his eyes wide as if to allow in more light.

  “The thing is, it’s too late for that, Mr. Buck.”

  “What?” He took a gulp of air. “What in the . . .” He stood up fast, knocking over his chair. His legs buckled and he sagged against the table. “Don’t move,” he barked, holding the knife out like a sword.

  “Mama?” Ruby looked up. “What’s wrong with the man?”

  “He’s feeling poorly.”

  Ruby nodded. It wasn’t unusual to see people in the house who felt poorly.

  Turning to Maeve, Hazel said, “Take her out.”

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Buck shouted, choking oddly on the words.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone with him,” Maeve said to Hazel. “He still has the knife.”

  “Look at him. He can barely stand.” Hazel stepped closer to Buck. When she reached over and touched his wrist, he swung the blade at her wildly. Then he grimaced and sank sloppily onto a chair. The knife slid from his hand and clattered on the floor.

  Buck shook his head as if trying to wake from a nap. “What—what’s happening?”

  Hazel picked up the knife, watching him, and touched the blade. Sharp, indeed. She placed it on a shelf.

  Maeve nodded. “All right.” Turning to Ruby, she said, “Let’s go to the harbor and see if we can spot some seals on the rocks.” She grasped the girl’s hand and led her out of the kitchen.

  When they were alone, Hazel sat in the chair across from Buck. His pupils were huge and black, his shirt soaked through with perspiration. She reached for the earthenware bowl on the sideboard behind her. Inside it were some sprigs of mint and three long, pale pink flowers with pointed tips, elegant as bells. She set the bowl on the table.

  “There’s a saying among healers and midwives, Mr. Buck. ‘Hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, mad as a hatter.’ Have ye heard it?”

  He shook his head uncertainly.

  “Well, it describes a set of symptoms. Starting with ‘hot as a hare.’ You’re feeling quite warm right now, aren’t ye?”

  “It’s broilin’ in here.”

  “No it isn’t. Your body temperature is rising. Next is ‘blind as a bat.’” She pointed at her own eyes. “Your pupils are dilated. Things are getting blurry, yes?”

  He rubbed his eyes.

  “Dry as a bone.” She touched her own throat. “You’re parched.”

  He swallowed.

  “You’re not quite as red as a beet, but your skin is awfully flushed. And ‘mad as a hatter,’ well . . .”

  It seemed to require a great effort to dredge himself out of his stupor. “What’re . . . ye . . . talking about?”

  She tipped the bowl so he could see. “These pretty blossoms are called angel’s trumpet—though some call them breath of the devil, and for good reason. We have a plant just outside the front door. I’m sure you’ve seen it before; it’s fairly common. There’s a bush in the neighbor’s garden across the street. Even a few at the governor’s house.” She set the bowl back on the sideboard. “If you’re lucky—and I think there’s enough poison in your bloodstream that ye are—you’ll become delirious before the convulsions start. You’ll probably end up in a coma before ye die. So that’s a mercy.”

  “Ye—ye nasty bunter!” he gasped.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as drowning. From what I hear. Though maybe it is.” She shrugged. “Do ye feel spoony? Short of breath?”

  He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “It shouldn’t take long. By morning . . .” Her voice trailed off. She held up her palms as if in apology. “There’s really nothing anyone can do.”

  He lurched forward, struggling to pull himself to his feet. Sagging against the table, he knocked the empty teacup onto the floor, where it shattered. He collapsed in a heap beside it. “You’ll pay,” he groaned.

  Looking down at him, she said, “I don’t think so, Mr. Buck. Ye came in to the practice complaining of stomach pains. Turned out you’d eaten a poisonous flower, probably to feel its effects. I didn’t judge ye for it. Only God can do that. Sadly, there’s no antidote. All we could do was try to make ye comfortable.”

  He lunged toward her, wrapping his hand around her ankle. Leaning down, she peeled his fingers off her leg one by one. “Ye are no longer strong enough to overpower me, Mr. Buck. That moment has come and gone.”

  By the time Maeve and Ruby returned, Buck was in the shed out back. Hazel had led him, panting, drooling, to the cistern for fresh cold water, and then she’d locked him in. Every now and then, over the next few hours, they heard an odd noise, a shriek or a cry, but it sounded very far away. The walls of the shed were made of sandstone and lined with wood that Dunne had cut and stacked to get them through the winter.

  Later that evening, Hazel opened the back door of the house and walked out into the dewy grass. She gazed up at the moon,
a smear of yellow in the purple bruise of the sky. Then she went to the door of the shed and stood quietly, listening. She heard the purring of insects in the undergrowth, the lazy chirping of birds singing themselves to sleep. There was no sound from inside.

  When she and Maeve unlocked the door of the shed the following morning, Buck was dead.

  The authorities were glad to put the matter to rest. Buck was an escaped criminal, after all. A convicted murderer and a hardened fugitive. He was known to be an alcoholic and an addict; it was no surprise he’d overdosed on a readily available hallucinogen.

  Two days later, a pair of convict laborers transported Buck’s body in a cart to St. David’s Park, a formal English garden with sandstone walls. At the far end of the park was the prisoners’ cemetery, surrounded by shrubbery and foliage, including a commonplace but lovely bush with pendulous pink flowers. They buried Buck without ceremony in an unmarked grave.

  Hobart Town, 1843

  For so long, fear had cramped Hazel’s heart. Now she felt only relief, as if she had killed a venomous snake that was lurking under the house. Even so, she was afraid to tell Dunne the truth about what had happened. She could live with it, but she didn’t know if he could.

  “I don’t know how he’ll react. He’s so . . . moral,” Hazel said to Maeve.

  “And we’re not?”

  She thought about this for a moment. “I’d say we live by a different code.”

  Maeve shook her head. “I’d say ye can’t know what code ye live by until it’s tested. You’re afraid he’ll go to the authorities?”

  “No, no.” She hadn’t even considered that. But—might he?

  “He’s no saint. He altered that birth certificate,” Maeve pointed out.

  “True. But that’s hardly murder.”

  A week later, when Dunne’s ship was scheduled to arrive from Melbourne, Hazel was standing at the bottom of the gangplank with Ruby, waiting for him.