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 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.
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.
“Dylan!” 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.”
“He’s doin’ his chores!” the bug inspector chimed helpfully.
“You finish yours?” Father McIntyre asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good 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.”
“Did you check the stall for snakes? Lost that little nanny goat to one last week.”
James’s eyes lit up. He exchanged the broom for the pitchfork and shoveled through the high pile of hay. A long, brown snake erupted from the disturbed mound and slithered through his legs. The horse panicked, batted her front hooves into the air.
“I’ve got him cornered!” James shouted.
Father McIntyre shivered. “Don’t get near that snake, James! Just finish him quickly!”
The boy’s face opened with pure bewilderment. “I can’t hurt him, Father.” With one quick scoop he caught the snake between the pitchfork prongs, carried the wriggling creature to the door and flung him to the grass.
“For Pete’s sake, James!” Father McIntyre held one hand to his chest. “Don’t ever do that again. The world can live with one less snake, you know.”
James knit his brows deeply. Bits of grass and seed stuck to the sweat on his forearms and crown. Father McIntyre shook his head, laughed at the boy’s weighty seriousness and patted his hair, sending puffs of hay into the air. “Fearless. Always have been.”
James rubbed the horse’s nose softly and she calmed. He began work with the pitchfork again, pushing the disrupted hay back into place.
Father McIntyre stopped him. “Come outside and sit with me for a bit.”
“What about my chores?”
“They can wait.”
Father McIntyre and James left the strong smell of animals and hay behind and sat outside against a sun-soaked boulder. Father McIntyre handed him a brown package. “Happy birthday.”
The boy held the gift in his hand. “We’re not supposed to get presents.”
The Father chuckled. “There are some exceptions. Go on, James. Open it.”
Reluctantly, the boy untied the twine and pulled off the paper. His face did not change as he stared at the thick leather Bible.
“It’s a new book, not a used one from the church,” Father McIntyre explained. “Look, I know you wouldn’t have picked this for yourself, but”—he struggled for the right words—“maybe you’ll look to it for answers. Maybe not now, but someday.”
James looked at the book in his hands. “Thank you, Father.”
Father McIntyre couldn’t decide if he wanted to shake or hug the boy. He settled on pinching his chin. “Why do you always look so serious, my son?” James didn’t answer, nor did the Father expect him to.
Father McIntyre followed the stone trail with his eyes, his crow’s-feet wrinkling in memory. “I taught you to walk on this path.” He pointed near the end of the barn. “That smooth spot there. As soon as your legs were strong enough, we came down here every day and practiced. You would grip my index fingers with your whole fist, hold on so tight that my fingers turned white.” He looked at his fingers, still seeing it. “You were so determined to walk. No sooner were you crawling than you were trying to stay upright on wobbly legs.”
The sun glowed warmly and etched the boy’s amber crown in gold. “I remember when they put you in my arms, not more than a week old. You turned bright red and screamed so hard I thought you’d burst.” He rubbed his hand through his hair, his eyes wide with the memory. “I was so scared. My hands trembled till I thought I’d drop you. Hadn’t been here more than a month myself.” He smiled softly at James. “You and I grew up here together, my son. Held each other up along that path.”
He watched James’s profile and wondered at the thoughts the boy kept hidden. He was a fine boy. A fine, wonderful boy and he loved him like a father would a son—not an ordained father but a natural one.
James had a good life at the orphanage; this he was sure. He was fed, educated, taught to speak properly, without the slang used by other children. He was never bullied, a favorite of the nuns. But the boy had no friends and showed little interest in making them, more at peace with the animals or alone. A hollowness had lived in James since birth, and in nine years Father McIntyre still hadn’t a clue how to fill it.
He pulled James to his feet, gave him a wink. “Go on. It’s your birthday. Chores can wait until tomorrow.” He knew where the boy would go. “James!” he called out to the figure already speeding toward the sea. “Remember, not too close to the cliffs!”