The Artisan Heart

by Dean Mayes

  Clutching the child, Hayden skidded on the bitumen and he gaped, unable to stop himself from crashing into the bush. He collided with a thick branch, taking in a mouthful of hibiscus flowers and foliage as he collapsed to the ground, landing squarely on his behind.

  Hayden shook his head as the child wriggled from his grip.

  The door of the four-wheel drive snapped open behind him and a heretical voice shouted from within. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais?!”

  Planting his hands on the road surface, Hayden pushed back, extricating himself from the bush. Once free, he tried to get to his feet but his hands slipped and he flopped uselessly like a fish out of water.

  Is everything in this place wet!?

  Suddenly, Hayden found himself glaring up into a wild and muddy face framed with wild ginger hair and a large, bushy moustache.

  The rage that had infused the new arrival’s expression vanished and was instead replaced by a look of amazement. “Mon ami! C’est toi! Hayden! Tu es ici!”

  Chas Kraetzer grabbed his arm in calloused hands and dragged him to his feet. Hayden had no choice but to let him.

  Finally upright, the world began to spin as he steadied himself against the exuberant Frenchman, the stench of halitosis and alcohol emanating from his bucktoothed grin. Hayden batted his hand in front of his face. “My God, Charlie! Do you bathe in a whisky still?”

  Chas Kraetzer broadened his stupid grin, slapping Hayden’s shoulder. “Bloody hell, it’s good to see you, Doc!” he crowed in his thick accent. “I saw your Holden just the other day. Looks like I did a better job on your fence than you did, eh?”

  Hayden glared at Kraetzer. “Did you not see a child in the middle of the bloody road? You didn’t think to slow down?”

  The Frenchman’s visage fell and his expression morphed into a pained mortification, as though realisation had just hit him square in the chest. He opened his mouth to give voice to it, but Hayden turned on his heel.

  Max jogged into view around the bend from the town centre with Sam trotting along beside him, barking joyfully. People from the houses nearby appeared in their gardens, peering out to see what all the commotion was.

  The child was no longer in Hayden’s arms. Shaking his head, he searched around him.

  “Where’d that—”

  A flash of yellow caught his attention and he squinted, seeing a form crouching low in the hibiscus. Bending low, he leaned through the foliage.

  The wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over the child’s face and the jacket covered the small frame. It was clear he, or she, was trembling.

  “Are you all right?” Hayden asked, moving sideways and back again in attempt to see him or her.

  There was no response. Glancing to his right, Hayden saw Chas’s look of amusement, as though this was nothing more dramatic than a game of hide-and-seek.

  Hayden leaned in further. “Hello there,” he called, keeping his voice low. “Everything’s okay. You can come out now. We just want to make sure you’re not hurt.”

  The child did not move.

  “Maybe offer him a sweet or something,” Chas suggested. “I don’t think that’s going to make matters any—”

  Without warning, a bloodcurdling scream tore at the air and the child exploded from the bush. Reacting belatedly, Hayden backpedalled, but he fell as the half-wall of yellow came at him. He yelped as one end of the broomstick thwacked down hard on his head. Chas’s cheeks bulged as he leapt out of the way.

  Hayden brought his hands up to protect himself from the relentless blows. The child seemed determined to beat the living daylights out of him. He tried to escape but he slipped on the bitumen.

  A small booted foot smashed down dead centre in his groin and he croaked.

  Chas’s loud cackle ceased abruptly and he sucked in a breath at seeing Hayden crumple. He was compelled to action. As he grabbed the child up and away from Hayden, the yellow hat flew off, revealing a cherubic face with wide, dark eyes and a mop of auburn curls.

  Max rushed to Hayden’s aid as the child bucked and kicked in Chas’s grip, screaming in fury. She swung the makeshift weapon, clocking Chas in the side of his head.

  “Oww!” he cried, as she struggled free and dropped to the road in a heap.

  Hayden had recovered enough to clamber to his haunches with Max’s assistance. He winced, holding his groin. Looking down at the road, he saw the girl’s discarded weapon, with its sodden paper mask and bright marker colours now running. He turned to the child, who was panting where she sat, glowering at him.

  Max glanced across at Chas. “Get on the UHF and radio Isabelle,” he snapped.

  The Frenchman complied without protest.

  Hayden glared at the child. “That hurt,” he growled. “Why did you do that? I was trying to help.”

  The girl stared at him.

  “Not much use asking her questions,” Max offered. “She won’t be able to answer.”

  Hayden looked blankly at Max.

  “She’s deaf,” Max continued. “Has been most of her life.”

  Max leaned in and helped Hayden to his feet, then stepped across to the child and held out his hands. Much to Hayden’s surprise, the child got to her feet and stood close to Max’s side.

  “This is Genevieve Sampi,” Max introduced with a formal flourish. “Genevieve is Isabelle Sampi’s daughter.”

  Hayden appeared puzzled, as though the name didn’t immediately register

  “Isabelle Sampi,” Max repeated. “Surely you’d remember her. Rex and Charmaine’s granddaughter. They bought the old bakery building after it closed down.”

  “No,” Hayden wheezed, resting his hands on his knees. “Can’t say I do.”

  Chas returned from the truck. “She’s on her way,” he said cheerily, rocking on the balls of his feet.

  Hayden bit his lip against the lie he had just told.

  Great, he thought darkly, indeed knowing that name very well once the connection had been made.

  Isabelle Sampi.

  Max waved at the residents opposite. “Everything’s all right, Hermione! All sorted here.”

  He stooped to pick up a cooler bag he’d dropped on the road, along with Genevieve’s abandoned weapon. He held out his hand to her. “Perhaps we should get off the road in case any more drunk drivers come barrelling out of the mountains.”

  Chas fidgeted as they stepped over to the grass in front of the cottage.

  “In fact, if I were you, Charlie Kraetzer,” Max continued. “I would make yourself scarce before Isabelle gets here and kicks your arse.”

  The colour drained from the Frenchman’s face. Without another thought, he turned and climbed into his vehicle.

  The truck started and he was able to reverse it back onto the road without trouble. Beaming through the window, Chas Kraetzer pointed. “Don’t worry about your fence, Doc! I’ll bring some timbers up to you tomorrow. I’ll repair it myself. A bientôt!”

  With a theatrical salute, Chas gunned the engine and took off in a cloud of diesel smoke.

  Brushing himself down, Hayden limped over to the front steps and sat down. “That girl has a killer kick,” he hissed.

  As they appraised the child, Max brought his hands together in front of him and began twisting and turning his fingers. She studied him while Hayden cocked his head. At the conclusion of this strange little dance, Max looked to her, as if to question the adequacy of his gestures. The child’s face broke into a cheeky grin and she gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Seems she appreciated your comment about her kick.” Max observed. “I picked up a fair bit of Auslan from your mum over the years, but I’ve let my skills lapse since…you know.” He gestured towards the girl. “Genie is teaching me again.”

  Hayden’s brow flickered. Bringing his hands up, he held them out towards her.

  “What did you think you were doing, marching out into the middle of the road?” he signed.

  Genevieve Sampi blinked and she was unsure of where to look. She was surp
rised at his ability to sign. She retreated further behind Max, though she kept her eyes on Hayden.

  Max signalled at Hayden’s hands. “Whatever you said, it put the wind up her.”

  Hayden sat straighter, examining the quivering child. “Are you all right?” he signed with less rancour.

  Genevieve blinked, but did not respond.

  “Max!”

  Both men turned to see a woman jogging towards the cottage from the road.

  She was of average height and thin, though the true measure of her lithe frame was concealed under a pair of paint-spattered bib-and-brace overalls. Her features were shadowed underneath the brim of a hat, similar to Max’s own, while her leather work boots scuffed the bitumen as though they might be too heavy for her.

  Stopping on the grass before them, Isabelle Sampi pushed her hat back on her head. Worry was etched into her features, though it was tempered by her panting. Isabelle hunched over, resting her hands on her knees.

  Hayden stood, while Max went over to greet Isabelle. Genevieve stayed at the older man’s side, gripping his trouser leg. Her expression was fearful.

  Isabelle rose to her full height and removed her hat, revealing a pixielike shock of short blonde hair that stuck out in multiple directions. Hayden immediately recognized the high, angular cheekbones and the piercing brown eyes from his childhood days, but there was a key difference: the years in between had made her strikingly beautiful, while giving her a hard, determined edge.

  Hayden felt an old, familiar dread turn inside him.

  “I had Chas Kraetzer on the radio, babbling like an idiot,” Isabelle managed. “What happened?”

  Max patted Genevieve’s head. “Everything’s all right. Seems Genie here jumped out from a hidey-hole in the bushes and right into Chas’s path. Hayden here rescued her just in time.”

  Hayden covered his mouth with his hand.

  Isabelle dropped to her knees and held her arms out to Genevieve. Gingerly, the child stepped forward, allowing her mother to gather her into an embrace and plant a reassuring kiss on her forehead. “You’re a duffer,” she signed between them. “What were you thinking?”

  Genevieve lowered her head to her mother’s shoulder.

  Isabelle ruffled her hair. “She treats this town as her own personal playground. I keep telling her not to wander but she never listens.”

  Max smirked. “Lucky the doc was here. He’s quite the hero, actually.”

  Isabelle hesitated before raising her eyes to Hayden, and as soon as she did, he baulked and averted his gaze away from her.

  Placing her hat atop her head, she acknowledged him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hayden replied, studying his feet.

  Max looked from one to the other.

  Isabelle manipulated her fingers in front of her daughter and spoke aloud for the benefit of the hearing people present. “Come on, ragamuffin. Let’s get you home and make you some lunch. You’ve caused enough drama for one day.” Taking her daughter’s hand, Isabelle regarded both men. “Again, thank you. Both of you.”

  Mother and daughter turned and stepped down onto the road. Genevieve looked back, pulling a face at Hayden.

  He scoffed silently. What did I do?

  “I better be heading off, too.” Max pointed at the cooler bag. “You better get that meat into your fridge before it starts to thaw.”

  Shaking his head, Hayden regarded Max. “I appreciate that.”

  Max turned away from him and hurried after Isabelle and Genevieve. “I’ll see you later,” he called over his shoulder.

  They stopped and waited for Max to catch up. In doing so, Isabelle’s eyes drifted towards Hayden.

  Her expression, though flat, hinted at recognition.

  ~ Chapter 10 ~

  GENEVIEVE RETURNED TO THE HIBISCUS BUSH OPPOSITE THE COTTAGE THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON. HAVING BEEN INterrupted so dramatically yesterday, she had been thwarted in the quest that had brought her here in the first place.

  Ducking and weaving along the creek line below the roadway, Genevieve pulled herself up adjacent to the bush and crouched low in her makeshift cubbyhole inside. She looked out at the cottage from her vantage point.

  The intruder had returned to the roof.

  Straddling a ladder, he tended to a ruined section of roof guttering. Genevieve inched out from the cover of the bush, keeping her little body crouched low so as not to reveal herself too quickly. As he focused on his work, Genevieve’s courage emboldened her and she moved to the edge of the roadside and stood.

  He gave no hint he was aware of her. He was absorbed in the task of freeing a section of twisted metal. Genevieve scanned the road in both directions for approaching vehicles, then crossed over to stand a few feet from the cottage gate.

  Pausing, the intruder adjusted his footing on the ladder and appeared to reach out once more for the roof. Instead, he turned and faced Genevieve directly.

  Genevieve flinched and felt her courage wither as quickly as she had recruited it. She was unsure whether to turn and run or hold her ground, and yet, as their eyes locked, she felt as though she couldn’t move. It was as though his stare had the power of a freeze ray. He kept his expression neutral, revealing nothing, though Genevieve reasoned that he must be angry with her. She bit her lip, and began to turn her hips back and forth as she considered bolting.

  Leaning into the ladder, he raised his hands in front of him.

  “Where’s your scary weapon?” he signed furtively, finishing his question by lifting his right hand above his shoulder and mimicking the action of throwing a spear.

  Genevieve blinked and gulped as though she’d swallowed a fly.

  She wiggled her fingers on either side of her and brought them forward.

  “It broke. I had to put it in the rubbish bin.”

  “Shame,” he responded. “It seemed like you’d put a lot of effort into it.”

  Genevieve didn’t know whether to smile or grimace.

  Whoever this trespasser was, he knew Auslan very well—perhaps just as well as the instructors in her videos. She hesitated. “Are you okay?” She indicated towards his groin.

  The intruder lifted his thumb to his forehead and rubbed a spot there. “I’ll live, but only just. You know you must never kick someone there—ever.”

  Genevieve squirmed, but acquiesced.

  “Uncle Max said you’re not really scary,” she signed.

  He scoffed. “What would he know?” Genevieve’s pulse began to race as he climbed down the ladder, then descended the steps to the gate.

  “I have a lot of work to do,” he signed. “Did you come here for something in particular?”

  Genevieve shifted from one foot to the other. He seemed very gruff and unhappy.

  Her gaze went over his shoulder towards the cottage. She scratched her nose and raised her finger. “You have my friends.”

  He tilted his head. “Friends? What friends?”

  Genevieve shook her head and jabbed her finger twice. “My cubby house. Out the back.”

  “Your cubby house?” he retorted with forceful movements of his fingers. “You mean my work shed. The work shed I haven’t been able to open since I arrived.”

  Genevieve felt the last of her courage melt away. But she couldn’t leave—not yet. She stood her ground, while he continued to stare.

  “Who are these friends of yours?”

  “Rameeka America and Lily,” Genevieve answered, rubbing her fingers together at the conclusion of signing their names. “They were guarding the house while I was away but they got trapped in there when you came.” Genevieve pointed at him for emphasis.

  Genevieve thought she saw him stifle an urge to smile. “Guarding it from what?” he asked.

  She clicked her fingers, searching for an answer, then extended her arms out in front of her, dangling her fingers down, effecting a crude imitation of a zombie. “Ghosts.”

  “Ghosts? There are no ghosts here.”

  Genevieve t
ried to recruit some of her previous bravado by jutting out her chin and pursing her lips.

  The intruder studied her, as though considering her explanation. While Genevieve teetered on the brink of abandoning her quest, she wasn’t going to go willingly.

  He tilted his head and scratched his cheek. “You know the shed is locked, don’t you?” he signed.

  After a pause, Genevieve nodded.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he signed. “If you show me where the key is, you can rescue your friends. But I don’t want you snooping around here anymore.”

  Genevieve felt a rush of excitement sweep through her, but in the next instant, she froze, and her shoulders slumped as she processed the implications of his deal.

  She would no longer have her cubby.

  With a reluctant twist of her lips, Genevieve agreed. As he held the gate open for her, she stepped through it and trooped up the steps.

  She passed through the side gate into the rear garden and crossed the veranda, rounding the table with the record player. In the far corner, she moved aside a pair of dusty picture frames to reveal a small box secured to the wall. She opened it, reached in, turned around, and held up a brass key.

  A disparate memory struck Hayden—Russell’s hand reaching into that very box. He had completely forgotten this ritual of his father’s, one Hayden had seen repeated over and over again.

  Of course! he thought, gnashing his teeth behind his lips.

  The child presented the key to him and he took it, his mind lingering for several moments before he shook himself back to the present. Hayden went to the work shed.

  The scent of timber greeted him as he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  A single window covered with a tattered curtain permitted ruddy shards of light to pierce the gloom. Hayden pushed the material aside, allowing diffuse daylight to puncture the dust-covered panes. A single workbench stood beside the entrance, upon which sat a large wood lathe.

  He lowered his hand to it as he surveyed the work shed.

  A tool rack mounted high on the wall held a neat set of lathe chisels, alongside a shadow board with a myriad of hand tools hanging from it. Floor-to-ceiling shelves behind him housed the additional tools of a carpenter. There were small crates stacked on the lower shelves, containing all sorts of additional ephemera: nuts, bolts, and screws Hayden knew would be sorted by size and type.