Something hard and straight hit Ghan in the back of the knees, his hand slipping from the doctor’s throat as he buckled. In another instant, the piece of wood was shoved under his chin, blocking his airway. Strong hands held his elbows backwards.
Dr. Carlton’s face blotched as he rubbed his throat, put a hand up. “Stop.” His voice was hardly audible through gasps. He pulled himself up and tugged at the wood. “Stop! Let him go.”
No one loosened a grip on Ghan, his windpipe smashing in his throat. “We’ll take care of this cripple for yeh, Doc!” panted the man closest to his ear. Ghan’s eyes rolled into his head, the dizziness leaving his limbs numb, the black parts growing with the pain.
“No!” Dr. Carlton’s voice was hard and stern now as he pulled sharply at the man’s arm. “It was my fault. I insulted him. Let him go!”
Instantly, the wood disappeared and Ghan crumpled to the ground. The air rushed to his starving lungs and he grabbed the edge of the table, the thrust of returning air torture as much as relief. He closed his mouth and sucked through flared nostrils. The smells returned, rose up from the floor where his bent knee rested—old beer that made his stomach pinch; layers of packed, rotten earth—sharper now than before. Worn boots shuffled away. Conversations and the clink of glasses started up again from the bar.
A pale hand extended. Ghan slapped it away and sucked in hard, grabbed the edge of a table and hoisted himself back onto his feet.
Ghan scanned the room, his vision crisp with fresh oxygen. Not a man looked his way. His lungs labored while his body stood limp and numb down to the bones. The whiskey in his veins was gone now, the fire from anger and drink extinguished.
The doctor pointed to a chair, his face gray and aged. “I apologize. Please sit. Please.”
Ghan sat. He was worn. Violence tempered his anger like a choke collar on an attack dog.
Silence swirled amid the cigarette smoke that clouded above their heads as neither man spoke or made a movement. Two new whiskeys showed up at the table. “No hard feelin’s, eh, mate?” chirped the bartender. The fight was already filed away into the grains of the worn wood.
The doctor took one glass, his hand shaking, sloshing the drink against the rim. Instead of putting it to his lips, he put it back on the table, lowered his head and reached into his hair, clutching handfuls of it between fists. “I’m sorry. I can’t think straight anymore.” His voice was siphoned of life.
“Would have been so perfect.” The doctor hunched in the chair, his eyes scurrying back and forth in their sockets. “If you were the girl’s father, Elsa would understand her going away. She would be sad, but she would understand. She wouldn’t hate me for sending her away.”
Dr. Carlton tapped the glass to the table, each word increasing the beat. “I told her over and over again she was getting too close, that it was just a matter of time before the child would go. But she had it in her mind that I was going to come around and we could adopt her.” His voice grew rough. “That’s not an option.”
Ghan’s eyes blinked in question and the doctor read him. “I hate this place. Hate it.” His open lips were wet, trembled at the corners. “We’re leaving the day my contract is up. I can’t afford another mouth to feed and I don’t want a single reminder of this place, especially an orphan.”
He leaned forward again, his face tight with clarity. “I need the authorities to take the girl, and when I do, Elsa will hate me.” He let out a short, hollow laugh. “I’ve grown to scorn that little girl. Sometimes I think I actually hate her. Isn’t that sick? But you see, don’t you? You see I don’t have a choice?”
The men grew silent as thoughts replaced speech. A blazing sun lowered outside and peeked in the top of the pub entrance, caught the edge of an old mirror nailed to the wall. The doctor’s profile reflected in its glass and he was nothing more than a picture on the wall—detached and flat—an artist’s tribute to a lost man. Silently, Dr. Carlton pulled out his wallet, dropped folded bills onto the table and left Ghan alone.
The sun dipped and turned the mirror to a rectangle of white blinding light. Its blaze exposed a thick line of dust in the air, turning each dot to silver. Ghan’s thoughts turned to the child and a hollowness filled and turned soft.
They would take her away. They would rip her from that home and put her back out in the dust. Alone. She had no voice, no voice of sound or say. He thought he had saved her. She would have died. But death is quick; it ends. She didn’t ask to be saved, didn’t ask to suffer from burns or bounce from place to place, hand to hand, like a used gunnysack.
Every sound in the pub fell to a dull drone. The breeze of the child wafted around him; the light of her rolled into his thoughts; the freshness of her washed away the grime of the bar stink. No, he saved her and there was no regret.
The butterflies came from the eaves then and fluttered to his shoulders, flapped an image to his mind—an image of him whistling toward work, the little girl riding on his shoulders, hugging his neck, laughing, reaching for the delicate butterflies that danced around them. He held her stockinged ankles gently and she knew she was safe; he knew she was safe. The picture softened the creases in his forehead and lost him in the silver dust that enveloped his sight.
A body entered the bar and eclipsed the sun. The quiet broke with drunken greetings. The sparkled dust vanished and the orb of light dulled back to a gray mirror. And in that mirror, his face peered back—a hard face with dark eyes and high forehead, with patchy stubble over scars; a warped face, uneven with one ear, a nose wide and crooked. The butterflies hid from him, fled as quickly as their wings could carry them. He saw a new picture now. He saw an angel perched atop a monster. Saw a man who fumbled under her weight as his crippled leg twisted with each step. Saw the gray paint-chipped walls of his dank boarding room she would have to share with him. Saw the fear in her eyes as drunken miners fought under his window amid crashing bottles. Saw the way the single miners eyed any female out of diapers.
He saw many things now, saw them clearly. Saw he shouldn’t have come back here. Saw the ridiculousness of the new shirts and the time off from work. Saw that this part of his life needed to end—this dream needed to fall and drift away. His body turned hard again and filled heavy as lead. It was time to go.
Ghan looked at the child’s face asleep on the pillow—he knew he would never see her again.
The stairs creaked loudly under his weight and he cursed them as he made his way through the dark. Like a slow-breaking dawn, the hall brightened in one corner with a kerosene lantern. “Yeh leavin’?” asked Mirabelle.
He rubbed his cheek, tried to look casual. “Forgot a shipment’s comin’ down from Murrin Murrin. Thought I’d help out,” he lied.
“Well, I’ll grab yer money. Yeh paid for the week.”
“Keep it.”
“At least I owe yeh for the repairs yeh did around the place.”
“I won’t take it.” His voice left no room for argument and Mirabelle nodded.
They were silent for a moment and then Ghan mentioned the person on both their minds. “She’ll be gone soon. He’s sendin’ ’er away.”
“I know.” Mirabelle straightened her back quickly. “It’s for the best.”
Ghan nodded. Awkwardly, he handled a wide envelope in his hands, wrinkling it at the edges, the money clinking inside. “Could yeh see this goes wherever she does?” He handed it to Mirabelle. “It ain’t much, but maybe it’ll help.”
In the shadows, he couldn’t make out her expression, but when she spoke her voice was softer, like a woman’s. “I will.”
He could leave now. The child would not weigh on him, pull at him like his dead leg. Hell, maybe he’d have the butcher take the limb off now once and for all—the less of him in this world, the better.
CHAPTER 6
She waited in bed for Elsa, but the woman did not come. Her empty stomach hissed and spit with a churned ache that grew since the first rays of dawn. She folded her arms against the pain,
dropped her feet to the floor, made her way down the stairs draped in silence. A dress hung on the coatrack at the bottom of the steps, a small white cotton dress, pretty and crisp, its tag still on the sleeve. She tasted something sour in her mouth.
A familiar sound tinkered down the hall. She followed it to the kitchen where Mirabelle labored over the sink scrubbing a pot. She watched the woman quietly, half-peeking from behind the doorjamb. Mirabelle washed the pot hard, over and over again even though no grime spotted the metal sides. Her elbows moved roughly and hair strayed from her bun with the effort. Then she stopped and, with a sudden burst, flung the soapy scrubber at the window. Mirabelle lowered her head between shoulders that didn’t look so strong anymore.
The stomach acid stung and she leaned closer to the wall. Mirabelle turned and jumped when she saw her standing in the room. The woman’s eyes were tired and red.
Mirabelle straightened and rubbed her hands on the wet apron double rolled around her waist. She sawed thick slices from a loaf of bread, then grabbed a bowl of peaches and did not look at her face. “Make sure yeh eat it,” Mirabelle said softly.
The bread crumbled dry in her mouth. She didn’t want to eat but finished every crumb, the food fueling the fire instead of extinguishing it. Mirabelle came over and gently placed her hand on her shoulder, her voice too soft. “Come, let’s get yeh ready, eh?”
As she held Mirabelle’s hand, her body numbed and chilled—the pull of the hand, the vacant look, the silence. Mirabelle led her to the sitting room, undressed her and slipped the new dress over her tiny shoulders. From the closet she pulled out shiny black shoes with silver buckles at the straps. Mirabelle dressed her absently, her lips pursed, her eyes avoiding her own. “Won’t be so bad. Yeh’ll see.” The woman’s voice cracked. “It’s for the best.” A rush of blood pumped to her temples with the words.
Mirabelle’s fingers were unsteady, clumsy as she slid the stiff shoes over her stockings, then rubbed out the fabric creases on her arms. She looked her in the eye and spoke with finality. “Come. Let’s show Elsa how pretty yeh look.”
The new shoes sounded hollow as they entered the bedroom. Elsa sat up in bed, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed into a handkerchief. When she saw the girl, she wiped her nose quickly and tucked the cloth under the pillow. A smile spread across Elsa’s lips and she spoke in chopped English, “Oh, so pretty! So, so pretty!”
Elsa motioned for her to come closer, arms outstretched.
The front door slammed.
Floorboards and steps creaked. The voices of men hummed below.
Elsa pulled her close in a frantic embrace, fresh tears in her hair.
A rush of sound filled the room.
Panic surrounded, crushed against her flesh and throbbed in every corner of her body. Elsa squeezed her violently and her chest hurt for air. A wave of heat flashed through her insides and her mind snapped closed like a clam, every part of her retreating, curling tighter and tighter together. Muffled sounds bounced against the blinded shell—crying, yelling, begging.
Her arms pulled from two different directions; her feet lifted off the ground in a sudden sweep. She pinched her eyes.
She was carried quickly through the house, down the stairs and out the door, which slammed away Elsa’s screams in one hard whack. Strong arms held her tight; a man panted in her ear while her face pressed hard into the scratchy fabric of a uniform. Every thought closed amid the earsplitting throb between her ears. Senses livened—the smell of horses, the sound of boots against the dirt, the taste of blood as she bit her lip—everything else deadened.
The man dropped her on a smooth leather seat and she blindly scrunched into the corner. Wheels propelled and jostled her head between seat and carriage door. Every inch burned and throbbed. From under her eyelids, distantly, she caught a glimpse of the new shoes strapped to her feet, already scuffed and spotted with red dirt.
She left the lonely desert town behind in a cloud of dust—a town that would give her little more than a name: Leonora.
PART 2
CHAPTER 7
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.”
CHAPTER 8
Father 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 e
mbedded 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.
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