Daughter of Australia by Harmony Verna Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
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    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.
    â€œDylan!” 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.”
    â€œHe’s doin’ his chores!” the bug inspector chimed helpfully.
    â€œYou finish yours?” Father McIntyre asked.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œGood 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.”
    â€œDid you check the stall for snakes? Lost that little nanny goat to one