Daughter of Australia (2 page)

G
han, Neely and the burnt child inched across miles, ticked through hours too drowsy to quicken. Ghan chewed a hard sliver of cuticle along his thumbnail. Through the canvas flaps, the dust pillowed around the back wheels, every turn impossibly slow. Each minute that passed in the desert brought her closer to death. He chewed the cuticle farther until a drop of blood squeezed in response.

Tucked between boxes of explosives, the child's body swayed with the wagon's rocking. Desperation tightened Ghan's muscles to sinew. Emotions—weak, stingy pulls that choked his throat and sat on his chest—threatened to take over. He slapped them away like blowflies and only glanced at the girl long enough to trickle water into her chapped mouth.

With a sudden fury, Ghan hated this place, this country. Madmen lived here. Men who left jobs and cities to live in the bush, sick and dry with drought. Not a handful of men, but men by the trainload. Spurred by rumors of alluvial treasures, the men flocked, dragging their families in tow or leaving them behind to fend for themselves. But wealth wouldn't fall for these men, just as the rain wouldn't fall for the burnt shoots of wheat. Only the churning beasts, the large mining companies, found the gold.

Ghan turned to the child, lightly pushed a strand of hair away from her face. His large fingers, stubby and filthy, were monstrous near her tiny features. She was covered in rags and the fury shot hot again.
Madmen.
The hardships of life under the sun, without money or hope, a brutal existence that could turn sane men to madmen. Ghan scanned the scars along his arm. This was a place where a madman leaves a girl to die and a crippled madman is left to save her.

As the wagon rolled, intermittent signs of civilization appeared. The road widened, dirt settled solid and compact. The ruts deepened. The occasional broken bottle signaled the familiarity of human litter. Ghan leaned out of the wagon. “How much longer?”

“Comin' on Gwalia now. Mount Leonora's up ahead.” Neely whacked the camels and the wheels lurched.

The white canvas overhead dimmed to beige as the sun descended, each inch toward the horizon a small reprieve from the day's swelter. Ghan put the water bag back to the girl's lips. This time they parted slightly. For a moment her eyes opened, and he stopped dead, the canteen suspended half-tipped in the air. Her listless pupils locked with Ghan's, a fleeting moment of communion before rolling into unconsciousness. His throat constricted. If she died, that look would haunt him until his last days.

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.”