Daughter of Australia

by Harmony Verna

  Mrs. Shelby looked at him a moment and nodded, then reached behind an old squatter chair for the rifle. “Shoot it twice if you need us.”

  James took the gun and strapped it to his saddle with the whip, then set off down the dirt road, the dust clouding the Shelby homestead.

  The dry had lasted and marked signs all along the route. Stingy grass held green near the roots while the tips gave up and dried to razor points. Where puddles had once formed under the ghost gums, cracked earth now veined. Hoofprints paved the trail with bumps, for the trek of the beasts to find the deepest water holes had lengthened.

  James focused ahead to the smoke billowing white and swirling under the stars, clouding their points. The smell of charred wood strangled the air. The horse raised and lowered her head. James clicked his tongue, moved the horse at a trot past the rows of dead fields, the forgotten stalks blue in the moonlight that defined the O’Reilly property lines. He rode past the rusted plow, tilted on the edge, inert since the day the drinking began so many years ago.

  The growing smell of flames signaled the fire was beyond the ridge. Black smoke mixed with black night; orange sparks rose and flickered. A small sigh left his lips. It wasn’t the house. Flames would have licked the sky; the sound of cracking beams would have reached him by now. He crested the next ridge and touched the gun to make sure it was still there.

  A few minutes more and the house became visible. The misery of the shack and the poverty of his childhood sank down to his heels. One half of the shack was black as night; the other glowed, illuminated by the bonfire. The horse stepped back with the heat and James dismounted, tying her to a tree. The gun showed hot with reflected flames. He reached for it, then took his hand away and walked empty-handed toward the fire.

  Junk lined the ground under and around the fire—bottles, a flat tire, a hand drill, a broken chair. A wheelbarrow lay on its side, the front wheel in the flames.

  The screen door slammed. Shamus stumbled out of the house, his arms filled with pots and spoons and hand towels up to his chin. He walked right up to the burning pyramid and dumped it on top, hardly flinching from the raised flames. He turned back to the house.

  “What are you doing, Shamus?” James asked from the shadows.

  The man turned and peered blindly past the light. “Who’s that? Who’s out there?” Then with a laugh, “Couldn’t be me dear lost boy, could it?” Shamus walked toward the flames. His face lit white, his eyes dark rimmed and black. His beard hung scraggly against his neck.

  James fought every urge to turn back and walked forward until he faced him.

  “There he is! Surprised I ain’t starved yet, eh?” Shamus opened his arms to give James full view of his body, his clothes dirty, his shirt ripped at the stomach. “What? Took me wife, now checkin’ t’see if the ol’ man’s still ’ere?”

  James bit his bottom lip and looked heavily at the man he didn’t recognize. He held no more anger toward Shamus, only a rough pity. “Let’s put the fire out, Shamus. I’ll make you some dinner. Help you get cleaned up.”

  “ ’Twas ye who killed her, ye know!” Shamus growled, and stomped closer. “Only fittin’ ye help burn her memory.”

  The sparks reflected in the man’s dark, wet pupils. The smell of him—drink, vomit and excrement—was hard to stand. James turned his face away.

  “Can’t face it, can ye? Can’t face what ye done, boy! But I’ll remind ye, I will!” Shamus stumbled backwards, turned and hurried back to the house, returning with a bureau drawer between his arms. He threw it on the ground and bent forward, his body almost falling with the gravity. He held up a book. “Brontë shit! Last words she heard ’fore ye killed her.” He threw the thick volume onto the flames and reached back to the drawer. “See these photos.” He fanned them across his face. “Dead. Dead! Dead!” Shamus screamed, and flung them onto the fire.

  “Stop it!” James went to grab the pictures, but they were already curling in flames. His breath came quickly now and his fingers folded into his palms, his nails cut into the skin.

  “So, am I finally gonna see some fire from ye, son? Eh?” Shamus beat at his chest, clawed at it. “Come on, boy! Show me if ye turned a man yet.”

  James closed his eyes. “I’m not going to fight you, Shamus.”

  “Fight me? Huh! Fight me?” he screamed into the night. “With yeer sissy hands? I beat ye till I was too tired t’move me arm an’ what ye do? Fight back? Naw! Ye laid there like a hacked chicken!”

  The anger shook him, shook him so hard that his muscles nearly broke in two. “I’m not going to hit you,” James exhaled the words, a command to his own hands.

  Shamus glared at him, his top lip twitching. Slowly, he reached back into the drawer and held up a small black book. “Well, well! Finally found it!” He laughed and raised the book in the air, waving it back and forth. Flames highlighted the gold lettering. James froze.

  “Yeer precious Bible! But it ain’t the word o’ the Lord, is it?” Shamus opened the book and thumbed the pages with dirty fingers. “ ’Tis the word of yeer whore mum!”

  His mind went black. James lunged for the book, struggled to pry it from the man’s claws. But Shamus was a man possessed, fought till his arm was free to chuck it to the fire.

  “No!” James pulled it from the flames, tossed it to the ground, kicked out the embers.

  Shamus laughed, held his side. “Stomp it all yeer like, she’s still burnin’ in Hell!”

  The fire of anger moved to James’s chest, thrust down his arm as he pushed the filthy body away. Shamus wobbled on his feet, stepped back, lost his footing and fell into a pile of trash.

  James held the book tight in his hands, squeezed it to calm his pulse and stop the rage pulsing through his veins. He walked to the horse, tucked the damaged book into the saddlebag, then removed the rifle. He pointed high into the air and shot—waited a moment—shot again. The sound reverberated through the night. He wrapped the rifle back into the whip, his energy sapped. The anger left with the crack of the gun and all that remained was weariness.

  James walked around the fire to where Shamus lay. “Get up.” He lowered his hand to pull him up, but the man’s arms stayed still.

  James knelt down and slapped the man’s hairy cheeks. “Get up, Shamus.”

  James reached under Shamus’s head, curving the man’s limp neck. A long sucking sound came from under his hair. A gush of warmth flowed over James’s fingers, ran down his wrist and into his sleeve.

  James dropped the man’s head and fell back. A square scrap of wood lay next to Shamus’s ear, the pointed nails black and dripping. “No.” James looked at his hands, red and tightening with drying blood. “No!”

  Blood flowed in a black puddle toward his boots and he scooped at the horrid liquid, pushed with his fingers to stop it, grabbed Shamus’s head to force it back in. “God, no! ”

  Shamus’s face tilted distortedly to one side, staring at him with faraway eyes. James let go, dropped the head into the ground with horror, crawled backwards on his palms to get away from the blood that chased him. His hands convulsed as he raised them to his face, covered his eyes. But the smell of iron blood was too strong and he pulled his hands away, rolled them into fists and shoved them under his legs.

  The fire snapped and burned near his right shoulder; on the other side, his body shivered with the cold body sprawled only inches away. “No.” James crossed his arms at his knees, pressed his forehead hard against them and closed his eyes to the fire, the blood and the death.

  “Stand up, James.” Mrs. Shelby had her arms around his shoulders. He didn’t know how long she had been talking to him, how long she had been there. He looked up suddenly at her face, her steady eyes. “Get up, son,” she said softly.

  James stood slowly, his legs cramped. The smell of smoldering fire and wet wood was everywhere. He noticed the pile of debris smoking behind her, the staring moon. He remembered where he was and the nightmare slid back. He jerked his head around, but Shamus’
s body was gone, a dark rust stain etched in the dirt.

  Tom came around the corner to his mother’s side, a shovel in his hand. He didn’t look at James, asked quietly, “Where you think?”

  “The far field.” She pointed with her chin. “Put the plow on top t’keep the animals away.”

  Tom stepped behind the house and Mrs. Shelby put her arm around James again. “Tom’s takin’ care of it. Makin’ it go away.” She tried to walk with him. “Let’s get you home.”

  James stayed rigid and looked at the spot again. He turned to her, his throat raw. “I pushed him.” He blinked with the memory, flexed his hand with the feel of pulling at the book, pushing Shamus in the chest. “He burnt everything. Her pictures. Everything.”

  James saw his hands, brown with blood up to the elbows. “He fell. But . . . there were nails,” he rambled. “I didn’t mean to . . . tried to stop the bleeding . . .”

  “James . . .” Her voice was distant, came from a far tunnel.

  “He fell on the nails . . . the blood.”

  “Look at me, James.” Mrs. Shelby’s voice was soaked with tears and he looked up and met her eyes. “You did not do this!”

  He shook his head, but she squeezed his shoulders. “Listen to me, James. Listen to me! Shamus died the day Tess did. He was just waitin’ until his body caught up.”

  “I shouldn’t have left him,” James muttered. “I should have helped him.”

  “You couldn’t save him, James. That man had only one ending comin’ to him. This, this!” she cried, and pointed to the bloodstain. “Was an accident. That’s all. Shamus was gonna end his life one way or the other. Through drink or gun. This was not your doin’.”

  Mrs. Shelby pulled him to her, pushed his head against her shoulder and hugged him. “This ain’t your doin’, son. This ain’t your doin’.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The rain lashed the side of the New York City hotel, deafening against the stone. Despite the width and depth of the balcony, the water spilled to the very edge, only inches from the open doors of Leonora’s suite. It was early afternoon, but the sky was nearly black, muting the shades of the buildings to gray. Not a soul was out. No lightning or thunder bombed the sky, only the solid sheet of rain.

  Leonora was glad to keep the doors open—a window in the stifling walls. She sighed and folded her hands over her stomach. From behind, Alex put his strong arms around her. “Are you cold? I could close the doors,” he offered.

  “No. I like watching the rain.”

  Alex kissed her cheek. “I like watching you.”

  Her uncle had met with Alex first, told him she had taken ill. Not used to the city, he had said. Women were fickle creatures. Emotional. Feverish. Must have caught a bug from the help. Owen had calmed Alex so completely that when she finally accepted his proposal he did not bat an eye at the reversal and slid the ring on her finger like it had always been there.

  Alex’s hands inched around her waist, clasped at her stomach. He rested his chin on her head. Humid air damply textured the room so it became warm and heavy, almost tactile. Alex’s thighs pressed against the backs of her legs; something hard stirred at the small of her back. He pulled aside her hair and kissed the back of her neck. “Have you heard of the Kama Sutra?” he whispered behind her ear.

  She glanced back quickly. “No.”

  “It’s an ancient Hindu text. About pleasure.” He twirled her hair in his fingers. “Sex, to be specific.”

  A blush moved up her neck, through her cheeks. His fingers pressed in pulses.

  “Describes the many ways a man and woman fit together. The details are quite graphic.” He kissed her neck again. “Sixty-four positions in all.” His lips moved down until they reached the collar of her dress. “I’d settle for just one.” Gripping one hand to her waist, Alex reached up with the other and nimbly undid the top button on the back of her dress.

  “Alex . . .”

  “Shhh . . .”

  Leonora did not protest, tried to control her breathing as he went down the line of buttons, moving his lips over each inch of exposed skin, his breath hot against her back.

  Alex twisted her to face him and pressed his lips against hers, his tongue darting in her mouth as he pushed the sleeves off her shoulders. His body shoved against her and she stepped back with the pressure until her back touched the wall. She wanted to slink down, escape through the door, but realized with a hollow pang that he would soon be her husband. Worse things were yet to be endured, and so she did not struggle.

  With her body steadily affixed against his rib cage, Alex pushed the dress easily down the silk slip and over her hips to her feet, then kicked it away before she could reach it.

  “Alex, I can’t breathe!” she gasped against his open mouth, but he did not hear her. He pushed his palms over her breasts and moaned into her neck. With one bent knee, Alex pried her legs open while his right hand slid under the hem of the slip. She recoiled and turned her head from him, reached down to grab his hand away, but it was moving upward, squeezing the flesh of her thigh. His finger etched the lines of the garter belt, his nails clenched in the skin.

  Leonora struggled then, didn’t care that he would soon be her husband. She shimmied her elbows under his chest, pushing futilely against his weight. “That’s enough.”

  He chuckled against her neck. “No, it’s not.”

  Her heart pounded with his inching fingers. “We’re not married yet,” she stalled.

  His teeth touched against her skin as he smiled. “Times have changed, darling. There’s a war on, you know.” He brought his other knee between her legs. “This might be our last chance.”

  Alex’s thighs pinned her hard to the wall. “I won’t think less of you; I promise. Besides, you owe me. You’ve caused me quite a bit of distress of late.” He looked up at her then, sharply, before returning to the quest under her slip.

  Leonora twisted her hips, which were widening without her will. Alex slipped his hand between her legs, moved it up her inner thigh and into the edge of her panties. With a thrust upward, his index finger entered her. She froze. He met her eyes, held her gaze, smiled in satisfaction, moved his finger in and out of her. She whimpered and flung her body back against the wall, but there was no retreat. The more she struggled, the harder and rougher he pushed. She closed her eyes, paralyzed.

  Abruptly, Alex stopped, clutched her buttocks with two hands and carried her a few steps to the bed. Her mind could not catch up. Before she realized she wasn’t tied to the wall any longer, her slip was off and he was on top of her, straddling, while he peeled off his shirt and unbuttoned his pants.

  Leonora shook her head, started to plead with sounds, unable to utter words any longer. Cold panic seized and she turned desperate. She leaned up and pushed him in the chest, beat at him with tight fists. Alex grinned, pushed her shoulder down with one hand and removed his pants with the other. Terror swept across her as his penis came into view, stiff and throbbing. She reached for his face, scratched his shoulder, tried to scream, but her throat closed.

  Alex grabbed both her wrists with his left hand and held them above her head. The next moment, his full weight topped her, sinking between her thighs. And then with a groan and a swift thrust, he was inside. She arched her back with the force, biting her lip from the pain. His bare chest rubbed against hers as he rocked against her body, her pelvis spreading in cracking aches. Her mind closed down and quivered in the corner; her eyes shut tight. And it went on and on for short or long periods, she did not know which, until his body suddenly stiffened. A wounded moan left his throat. He shuddered, pulled out and lowered his head to her torso.

  Alex rolled to his back, stared at the ceiling, his slick chest rising and falling, his penis limp against his thigh, hanging like a dog’s panting tongue. Lazily, he turned on his side, propped up on an elbow. He looked at her and smiled, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you all right?”

  She swallowed, molded her sight to the plaste
red ceiling.

  “It only hurts the first time. You’ll see.” Contented, he rubbed a palm over her breast, stomach and hip and spoke to them. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  Her chin trembled as she fought back tears.

  “Ah . . . the virgin remorse. Don’t be ashamed, darling.” He rubbed her arm with the backs of his fingers. “Waiting for the wedding night is a bit outdated, don’t you think?” He circled her nipple with his finger, his voice low. “At least now you can’t change your mind.”

  Leonora turned her neck and faced him, his eyes shining with a hard glint.

  “Wouldn’t want you backing out of our wedding with the next fever, would we?” he said. The look passed in an instant and he grinned, kissed her gently on the forehead. “Good night, Mrs. Harrington.”

  Leonora turned back to the ceiling. Her chest rose and fell slowly, the rest of her body still and naked upon the cotton sheets. Soon Alex’s breathing mellowed in sleep. The curtains floated into the room and then sucked back to the balcony. The rain had stopped. Warm, moist air grew thick. The buzz of insects stretched from under bushes and scraggly city trees. And her future took shape—one prison for another. Inside her heart a light flickered, and she begged it not to go out, cupped it with her hands and cradled it against the darkness.

  The melancholy song of a siren rose from the window. Leonora listened to the wail, did not move as warm tears released from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks to the sheets.

  CHAPTER 37

  Shamus’s funeral would be held in drought, under blue, piercing sky—a canopy of dry tears.

  James sat on his haunches, his worn boots creased permanently at the toes, the hems of his moleskin breeches stained orange with dirt. He rubbed his fingertips across the ground and picked up the fine dust, rubbed the granules with his thumb before letting the powder fall from his palm. He stood, his tall body stretching from its folds, his back broadening under the white, ironed shirt, only now relaxing from starch. He wiped his hand on his trousers. With legs straight and slightly open in a V, he was the tallest form for a mile under the cloudless blue sky. The sun beat mercilessly atop his leather hat. Only mulga scrub, spinifex and the occasional lizard brought any life to the spot. Life but no comfort.