Outside, signs of life burst forth. Prospector tents of the transients dotted the landscape. Through an open tent flap, a bent man cooked over a blue flame. At another, a sleeping man’s feet stuck out from under the canvas. Then came the more permanent homes, the humpies, constructed by the prospectors who decided to stay. Humpies, exaggerated tents reinforced with flattened cyanide drums and corrugated metal, miserable structures that held in the heat during the summer and the cold in the winter. If a fire caught, the canvas would burn on the inside while the iron held in the inferno like a covered pot. Life in the diggings. Here a man builds his palace from scraps of steel and canvas, holds it together with green hide and stringy bark.
People. Ghan exhaled for the first time in hours. People. Help. The road was smoother now. The humpies transitioned to shacks surrounded with rudimentary wire fences or old rusty bed frames, only strong enough to keep the chooks from wandering off. Feral goats roamed the streets, the animals looking more at home than the human inhabitants. At first glance, it was hard to tell if the town was up and coming or one that was on the brink of desertion.
The wagon pulled into Leonora under a blinding ball of orange setting over the plain, silhouetting the few trees in the distance. Neely stopped the camels and came around, glanced at the girl. “She still alive?” The question came out too easy, too quick, and Neely lowered his eyes. “There’s a pub up ahead,” he offered. “Want me t’go?”
“I’ll go.” Ghan got out, his legs so tight he gasped. He stretched his neck, fully aware that Neely watched him. He took a crippled step and bit his lip. Damn it, he hated this leg.
A few steps more and he found his stride, made his way to the pub. Two metal doors, pulled back and tied with wire hangers, flanked the opening. Lamps flickered across the bar, but the recesses of the room were black as night. Two dusty men sat on stools. The barkeeper greeted him with a bored nod. “Look like yeh need a good drink, mate. Whot can I get yeh?”
Ghan worked to control his sizzling nerves. “Lookin’ for the hospital.”
“No hospital, mate.” The man wiped out a glass with an old cloth. “Sorry.”
Ghan’s mouth went dry and he fumbled on his words. “I heard . . . thought there was a hospital . . . drove all this way.”
The barman chewed a wad of tobacco in his cheek but slowed his jaw at the rising pitch. “Yeh sick?”
“S’not me.” The day raced through his head, but talking took time. “There a doctor somewhere?”
The man tucked the rag into his belt and addressed a slumped figure at the bar: “Andrew, ain’t that young Swede a doc?”
“Believe so. Stayin’ at Mirabelle’s.”
The barman slid around the counter. “Come on; I’ll walk yeh over to the boardinghouse. Drew, watch the bar for me, eh?” Andrew gave a listless nod and went back to his pint.
The man noticed the wagon parked out front. “Up from Menzies?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Work in the Bailen Mine then?”
“Used to,” Ghan answered numbly. “Run transport up t’Laver-ton now.”
The man brightened and spit out a rust-colored wad of phlegm. “Carryin’ any cases of whiskey wiv yeh? Give yeh a good price.”
Ghan shook his head, balled his hands into fists. Yabber. Everybody always talking. His heart throbbed in his ears.
“Figured as much.” The man shrugged, then pointed at a yellow brick house on the corner. “Orright, that’s Mirabelle’s.” He turned away with sudden urgency. “Gotta get back ’fore Drew finishes all the grog in the pub.”
Ghan climbed the short stair to the verandah, his dead leg thumping. A woman appeared behind the screen. “All filled for the night,” she said with hands at her hips. The hard woman scanned his features, didn’t try to hide her distrust.
“Not lookin’ for a room.” He skipped the manners. “Need a doctor.”
“Yeh don’t look sick,” she said gruffly.
“S’not for me. It’s a child.” His voice cracked helplessly. “A little girl.”
The face softened behind the gray screen and the woman opened the door, her features now clear without the shadow of wire mesh. “Doc’s in the back havin’ dinner wiv his wife.”
Ghan followed the woman down the hall, her heavy footsteps echoing on the smooth floor planks. She brought him through the sitting room to the rear verandah, where a well-dressed blond couple watched the sunset. “Dr. Carlton,” she said with the same short tone. “Man’s ’ere t’see yeh. His girl’s sick.”
“She ain’t mine!” Ghan snapped. The words rattled him. “Found ’er on my route, lyin’ in the dirt, fryin’ under the sun.” Just saying the words, remembering her out there, flamed panic up and down his chest. Don’t lose it. Not here.
The blond man dabbed at his lips with a napkin before dropping it on his plate. “Where is she now?”
“In my wagon. Got ’er under the canopy.”
“I’ll help bring her in,” the doctor said calmly. “Mirabelle, do you have an extra bed?”
“Top of the stairs. Just need a minute t’put the sheets on.” Mirabelle lumbered up the carpeted stairs, holding her skirt above her toes.
Ghan retraced the steps down the hall and left the house, the Swede following silently behind his heels. “Where did you find her?” asked the doctor, his voice as soft as a woman’s.
“Middle of the bush. Maybe fifteen miles east.” Ghan pointed to the wagon. “She’s in there. Tried t’make her drink but can’t get in more than a few drops.”
Neely heard the voices and came out from the wagon, dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his boot. The doctor pulled back the canvas flap, his eyes drooping at the first glimpse of the child. “Let’s move her quickly.”
Ghan cradled the limp body, as light as a jute sack, against his chest and carried her back to the boardinghouse. Mirabelle peered over the upstairs banister at the floppy form, her throat muscles tightening and her chin set hard as she rang like a general, “Bring ’er up. Bed’s ready!” It was the first voice that gave him any comfort.
Ghan placed the child on the bed with the fluffed pillow and starched white sheets. The room was plain but clean, cleaner than any hospital. Within minutes Mirabelle had the dirty stockings and dress removed and gently wiped the grime off the girl’s face and neck. She placed a cold cloth on the child’s forehead, all the while making tsk-tsk sounds and shaking her head.
The doctor felt the girl’s pulse. He pried apart her eyelids, checked the pupils and then let go, the lids snapping shut. Ghan slid his hat off the pressed, sweated hairs of his head and squeezed it in his hands. The tiny girl, hopelessly burnt, appeared lifeless.
Dr. Carlton soaked a sheet in water, then wrapped the girl loosely in its folds. “We have to get her temperature down,” he said to no one in particular. He opened a small vial of smelling salts and put it under her nose. The little girl moved her head uncomfortably. Her eyes opened, then flitted across the faces before landing on Ghan. His back flattened against the wall. A wave of gratitude fluttered his chest. Then her eyes closed and she winced from pain, her moan raspy and sore.
Mirabelle gently pushed her head back. “Try not t’cry, love.”
“I’m going to apply a salve to the burns,” stated the doctor blandly. “It would be better if you all wait downstairs.”
“Whot’s yer name?” Mirabelle asked as they entered the kitchen.
“Claudio Petroni. But everyone calls me Ghan.”
She scrunched her forehead and looked at him oddly. He shrugged his shoulders. “I got a way wiv camels, like the Afghans.”
Camels. Neely. Transport. The world hovered distantly. Ghan sat at the small, round table, conscious of his dirt-covered clothes and boots in the spotless house. The panic that had held his shoulders tight under his ears for hours dissipated, leaving every cell exhausted. He sank into the hardwood chair. The girl would live. He could breathe again.
Mirabelle heated the
teapot and crossed her arms. She was a strong woman, not a pretty one. Ghan stretched his elbow onto the oilcloth. “Thank Gawd the doc was ’ere. Don’t know whot I would’ve done,” he said. “Heard Leonora had a hospital. Reason I came all this way.”
“Hospital? Oh no!” she huffed. “Good two years away. Been all tied up in Perth. Men just sittin’ around talkin’ ’bout it. Like t’see some doin’ for a change.” A strand of hair dropped down her face and she blew it upward with a gust more powerful than necessary.
A whistle hollered from the teapot. Mirabelle pulled out a mug and the sugar and turned off the flame. “Doc works for the Plymouth Mine. Another year an’ they’re movin’ out near the camp. Feel for his wife. Gets lonely out there all day, especially for a woman. That pale skin of hers is gonna cook faster than a slab of bacon.” She pushed the mug at him and poured the tea, the steam rising between their faces. “Yeh want cake wiv that?”
His stomach rumbled. “If it’s no trouble.”
Mirabelle slid a piece of flat yellow cake onto a chipped plate. The Carltons returned and took seats at the table. Mirabelle brought more mugs and plates and cake.
The doctor’s face was tired, sallow. “Her temperature is level. She’s sleeping now.”
“She’s gonna be orright, then?” Ghan asked, his eyes wrinkling in relief.
“Her burns are severe. She’ll be in a lot of pain as she heals.”
Mirabelle snorted. “Where she came from is whot I want t’know. Like to ’ave a go at whoever did this to her, I would!” She turned to Ghan. “Where’d yeh find her?”
“In the bush. ’Bout four hours east.”
“Just lyin’ there?” The disgust in her voice echoed the sharp pounding in his chest.
“Maybe she wandered away from home, got lost?” asked the doctor.
“Dead land. Ain’t no homes out that way,” said Ghan. “Just saltbush an’ dust.”
“Girl comes from a bad lot. No denyin’ that! Her clothes ain’t more than rags.” Mirabelle wrung a towel in her thick hands like it was a neck. “Those damn prospectors don’t care a lick ’bout nothin’.”
“Well, in any case, we’ll need to alert the authorities,” said the doctor. “How long will you be staying in Leonora?”
“I’m not.” Ghan finished his tea with a gulp, suddenly aware of the time. “I’m late as is.”
Dr. Carlton’s eyes widened. “You can’t move her; she’s too weak.”
Ghan looked at Mirabelle, then at the doctor, his nerves frayed. “Course she’s too weak! I’m not takin’ her wiv me, for Gawd’s sake.”
Silence hung in the room, surrounded the four people set around the table. Mrs. Carlton squeezed her husband’s arm, her whole expression begging. Dr. Carlton sighed in defeat and addressed Mirabelle: “May we keep the girl here?”
The muscles in Mirabelle’s neck stretched and tightened like a celery stalk. “I feel for the girl, but I got an inn t’run. I can’t take care of a child.”
“My wife would care for her. Temporarily.” He stressed the last word, looked at his wife’s hopeful face, and his eyes grew weaker. “We would pay for the room. Would that be all right? Just for a while.”
“Of course.” Mirabelle’s neck softened. “Long as yer payin’ for it.”
Mrs. Carlton smiled, clapped her fingertips.
“I’ll wire the constable in the morning.” The doctor fished for a piece of paper and handed it to Ghan. “We’ll need your information in case the police want to speak with you.”
Ghan stared at the pen and paper, as useless to his illiterate mind as it would be to a goat. He handed it back. “It’s the Bailen Mine in Menzies. John Matthews is the manager. He can track me down.” The room fell silent again.
Ghan didn’t want to stay, the ticking clock of the transport already nagging. He’d be fired if the supplies were late. Wouldn’t be able to find another job—no one hires a cripple. Yet he couldn’t stir his body to rise, didn’t know how to leave this place, how to leave the girl. He rubbed the stubble at his jaw. All eyes rested on him. The girl would live; shouldn’t that be enough? After all, he did all a man could be expected to do. These people would care for her. His part was done.
Ghan swallowed the unfamiliar lump lodged in his throat. “Be goin’ then.”
“Whot about yer cake?” Mirabelle asked.
“Not as hungry as I thought.”
The doctor rose. “We’ll contact you if the police have questions.”
From the kitchen, Ghan stared at the dark hallway leading to the stairs, his stomach hollowing. “Orright if I say g’bye to her?”
“Of course,” allowed the doctor. “Just don’t wake her.”
Ghan climbed the stairs to the bedroom and opened the door, the hinges creaking. The child was sleeping, her light brown hair strewn about the pillow, her tiny fist curled under her chin. Her skin glowed hot with the terrible burns, all the redder from the salve. Sadness lumped his throat while gratitude that she was alive swelled it. His prayer for her, if there was even a God to hear it, was razor sharp. He hoped that the rest of her days would not be as harsh—that she would not have a life steeped in the unthinkable—that the burns would not leave scars.
Ghan left the room as silently as he had entered and stepped heavily down the worn and bowed stairs. He gave a short nod to the doctor on the way out, feeling more a stranger now than when he had arrived.
Ghan entered the cool dark of Leonora’s main street. He was halfway across the road when Mirabelle called out, “Hold up a minute!” She shuffled after him, her big hips swaying like the haunches of a packhorse. “Brought yeh some meat pies an’ the rest of the cake.” Mirabelle handed him a basket covered with cheesecloth. “Thought yeh might get hungry.”
“Kind of yeh, Mirabelle. Real kind.”
She touched his arm then and looked hard into his eyes. “That girl would ’ave died if yeh hadn’t found her.” She squeezed his fingers. “Yeh saved that little girl’s life.”
Ghan nodded briefly, stared down at the food. The strange lump rose in his throat again. “Thanks for the tucker, Mirabelle.” She seemed to know that lump and patted his arm before turning around without a word.
Despite the thick black sky, the moon lit the sleepy street and energized the constellations until they popped. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. He would ride through the night to Kookynie, hope the supplies still waited and then rest in the heat tomorrow.
At the wagon, Neely’s snoring wheezed under a blanket heap. The shift from unyielding heat to brittle cold was clear as the transition from light to dark. Ghan had numbed to both.
Neely woke to the footsteps, rubbed his eyes. “How’s the girl?”
“Good.” The lump itched his throat again. Ghan handed the basket of food over.
“Thank Gawd!” Neely snatched the food. “Bloody starvin’.” Then he paused and raised an eye. “Want me t’drive?”
“Naw, I’m awake. Get some rest an’ yeh can drive some tomorrow.”
Neely and his bundle of blankets hobbled under the canopy. Ghan gave a whistle and a whack to the camels. As they moved, Mirabelle’s words trickled. Yeh saved that little girl’s life. He let the words rest in his thoughts, reverberate in his mind. Something inside awakened from the shadows. Yeh saved that little girl’s life. A grin formed on his lips and his hunched shoulders straightened; a live wire pulsed through his body. The wagon rolled in front of the boardinghouse. A lamp burned in the child’s window. Yeh saved that little girl’s life. Something in his chest, something that had been crushed and buried deep, peeked through the blackness and blinked at a glimmer of light.
CHAPTER 4
The heat woke her; the sun seared her face. But this burn was different. It flowed with her, hid under covers and bit at the tiniest movement. The place was different, too. Her body did not lie on rocks and roots but instead rested on cushioned softness, until she moved, and then it all sharpened to broken glass.
She slowly unpinch
ed her eyes from the glare of sun, only to find no reason to squint. There was no sun, only a room not quite light and not quite dark. She touched her cheek, the stinging pain immediate. She did not touch it again.
Her fingers rounded against the smooth white covers, the outline of her feet stuck out in front. There was a small window with pulled curtains. Furniture, large and dark, pressed against the walls. In currents too subtle to notice, the room shed its gray. She lay there awake and burning and tried not to move.
The door creaked, drew a triangle of light across the bedcovers. A blond woman stepped noiselessly across the rug and sat on the edge of the bed, sinking the mattress. “Your name?”
The woman waited, then thumped her chest. “Elsa. My name Elsa.” She cocked her head to one side. “Can you say? El-sa.”
No response. Elsa patted the white sheet. “It all right. Will come. Time. Time.” The words sounded like the ticks of the clock that sat next to the bed.
Elsa reached a hand toward her, cautiously, and she could tell her burns would not be touched. The woman stroked her hair with her fingertips, tucking it behind her ear, the sensation more breeze than touch.
“You stand?” Elsa asked. “All right for you?”
She pushed the covers off. The nightgown she wore was new and reached all the way to her bare feet. She turned onto her belly and slid to the edge of the bed through the fire and let her feet drop to the wooden floor. It hurt but could not compete with the flames of her face.
Elsa crouched until their eyes were level. The woman’s were wet but not sad; she was smiling. “Goot. Very goot.” She stood and extended a hand. “Come. We eat.”
The little girl took the hand offered. No matter that another hand drew her to a place of suffering only a few days ago. No matter that the pale, outstretched hand calling to her now was unfamiliar. She took the hand because a child does not have a choice.
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