CHAPTER 6

In the study, Grandpa paces up and down before slumping into his wing chair by the fire. Evie kneels at his feet nursing the burk burking Albine. She stares up at him, her eyes as large as dinner plates.

“It’s all right, dear girl. I just need a moment.”

The wind whistles around the chimneys of Lunar House. It’s an eerie sound but Evie’s lived here so long, she loves it. It means winter is coming. Last month, when the winter storms began, Grandpa boarded up all the upstairs windows. Yet they’re still rattling and banging.

“Blast the south-easterlies,” says Grandpa. “I hope that wind doesn’t blow any more tiles off the roof. I have a list of repairs a mile long.”

The color returns to his face and he rubs the whiskers on his chin.

“Where on earth has it come from?”

Evie opens her mouth, but as usual nothing comes out. She’s been like this since Mama and Papa’s funeral, when she couldn’t cry. It feels like something is wedged in her throat and every time she goes to say something it seizes. Grandpa tells her it’s because of shock, that grief can sometimes do that to a person. He says her voice will eventually return and she mustn’t worry about it. But at times like this, it would definitely make things easier if she could just use her words.

“Beyond the break, there’s a shipping channel used by steamships coming from and going to Asia and England. I bet that’s where it’s come from. Did you see any signs of a shipwreck, Evie?”

Evie nods, her hair a tangled bird’s nest.

“Lead the way,” says Grandpa rising from his chair.

Down at the beach, Evie points out all the things washed in by the storm. They wade through floating wooden planks and ropes and barrels and bottles and hessian bags.

Grandpa doesn’t say so, but Evie knows he’s looking for survivors.

She wishes she could tell him she’s already checked and it’s as if he’s read her mind when he says, “Don’t worry, Evie. I’m sure the crew managed to get themselves into a lifeboat or clung to a piece of wreckage – the current would’ve brought them ashore. Come on, let’s see what else has washed in.”

They found nothing else of note, so Evie and Grandpa walk back to Lunar House.

“I need to find Mr Duffer so he can take me into Breamlea to report the shipwreck. But while he’s getting the buggy ready, let’s check on the rhinoceros,” suggests Grandpa.

Mr Duffer, their farmhand, has worked for Grandpa for over thirty years. Evie can’t recall a time he hasn’t been there. He’s quiet and amiable and knows a great deal about the farm and the weather. His eyes are always looking skyward, and in his attempts to predict rain, he lets Evie know about any birds he’s spotted. She often meets him walking the paddocks checking on the cattle, patting their fat, glossy rumps and talking to them like children. Mr Duffer cares for Lunar House as if it were his own, and he and Grandpa discuss the farm and the weather for hours.

Near the stables, Grandpa and Evie find him repairing a fence. A gust of wind blows his tartan cap off and as he snatches it back he catches sight of them and gives a cheery wave.

“Mr Duffer, I need to go into Breamlea,” says Grandpa.

“Are yer sure yer want to attempt it, Mr Strahan?” says Mr Duffer, looking up at gray stormy clouds.

“I understand, Mr Duffer, but unfortunately I need to send an urgent telegram.”

Mr Duffer nods and heads off to catch Bernard the old coach horse and prepare the buggy.

At the stables Evie and Grandpa find Rhino sound asleep, snoring peacefully.

“It doesn’t look like he’s stirred much,” says Grandpa.

The water bucket is empty and Evie refills it as Grandpa checks over Rhino.

“He’s got a few cuts and scrapes, hasn’t he?” he says, pointing at Rhino’s legs, torso, and flanks. “Evie, can you get your father’s salve from the tack room?”

Evie’s papa was a veterinarian and his pots of remedies still sit in neat rows on a shelf in the tack room, as if he’s still here. She often went with him on his rounds to treat sick animals. She remembers watching him clean a leg wound of a prized breeding cow. She listened as he explained the importance of flushing it with clean water to remove all the dirt so infection didn’t set in. He taught her how to apply bandages at just the right pressure for healing, how to suture without pulling the stitches too tight and the best way to drain an abscess.

Evie had seen Papa’s affinity with animals. She’d studied his ways, noted his calm soothing voice and witnessed his steadiness. He always made eye contact with animals and was gentle and methodical in his treatment, always moving his hands slowly, never scaring them. Never rushing them.

“Let them sniff you,” Papa always said to Evie. “It’s an important part of any introduction. Blow in their nostrils so they can smell you, so they can see you. Show yourself, be open-hearted and they’ll trust you.”

Evie watched and listened.

“An animal will tell you what’s wrong,” Papa told her. “Watch their body language. A wide-eyed animal is alarmed. A fixed stare, a rigid stance, flattened ears, a frantic swishing tail, or repetitive licking are all telling us something.”

Discomfort, nervousness, pain.

Evie watched and listened and learned. She is remembering everything Papa taught her and her stomach flips. Grandpa has said on more than one occasion, she has his gift, his affinity with animals.

She reaches for the special antiseptic ointment Papa made for healing wounds, a boiled mixture of melaleuca, calendula, pine, and arnica, strained and mixed with bees’ wax.

Twisting the lid off the jar, Evie inhales. His hands always smelled of this ointment. She closes her eyes and hugs the jar to her chest, waiting for the memories to shatter into sadness. She can remember his voice, his face, his laugh. How can a smell do that to you? Help you remember? Evie’s mouth forms a wobbly smile. This is the first time it’s felt good to think about him.

Rhino snuffles in his sleep. With the ladies perched above him, Evie and Grandpa smear salve on all his wounds. They remove several splinters with tweezers, and bathe encrusted salt from his eyes.

“That’s about all we can do,” says Grandpa, ruffling Evie’s hair. “When he wakes up, mix him a bucket of bran and molasses, that’ll get him as fit as a fiddle again. Be careful around him, Evie. As placid as Rhino appears, he’s exhausted and in unfamiliar surroundings. It might take time for him to settle in. I’m off to Breamlea.”

Evie nods and Albine burk burks. She knows Grandpa is concerned, but Rhino has shown nothing to be fearful of during his wakeful times.

The rain starts to tumble down and Evie sits in the straw next to Rhino, with Albine nestling in her lap, burk burking. The ladies roost in the beams above and Evie feels an odd sensation wash over her. She feels calm. Peaceful. She dwells on it, and recognizes these feelings for what they are. She’s happy.

Rhino wakes only the once, lifting his sleepy head to look around his stall. He feels confused, thinking he’s still on the ship. But there’s no swaying and rolling from side to side. He’s lying on dry, sweet-smelling straw. He just feels so tired; every muscle in his body aches. But then he remembers, he can’t be on the ship, it broke apart beneath his very feet and he swam ashore. He blinks and as he’s trying to focus, a delightful aroma fills his nostrils. It’s so familiar, it makes his heart squeeze. It reminds him of home and his throat aches. It’s the dusty, earthy smell of feathers. A chicken appears before him. It’s a very small one, and she’s standing there making soft, welcoming sounds. Reassuring sounds.

Burk burk.

Rhino introduces himself by blowing air from his nostrils. The chicken is a tiny ball of black and white-speckled feathers. Two beady eyes stare up at him. He can tell she’s brave by the way she stands with her shoulders back and her wings neatly tucked in. She eyes him off directly without flinching. Chickens can be like that. Rhino has met chickens like her before. She’s a bossy one, but he immediately likes her and she pecks his horn.

Rhino realizes his tongue is plastered onto the roof of his mouth; he’s parched and desperate for a drink of water. And that’s when he half sits up and sees her. The golden-haired child. He gazes at her and she him. The human child knows things, he senses. She too has seen suffering and he blinks both eyes at her. She disappears and he wants to bellow for her to come back but instead croaks like a frog. She returns as quick as the wind with a bucket of water and he drinks deeply. It’s icy cold and delicious, tasting of minerals and green moss.

The human child disappears again, but this time Rhino doesn’t panic. Somehow, he knows she will return. When she does, she feeds him something so delicious and delectable, his heart expands with his stomach. He can’t help himself and gobbles it down quickly, licking the bucket clean. Fully sated, sleep calls him and his eyelids begin to droop.

Rhino knows the next time he wakes, the human child and the tiny chicken will be there and the little flickering light of hope inside of him grows.

Evie watches Rhino take in his surroundings. He seems dazed, but calm and accepting of his situation. He seems comfortable with Albine who won’t leave him alone.

Rhino stares at Evie and blinks both eyes at once in acknowledgement. She’s pleased he enjoyed the bran and molasses and she rubs his cheek and scratches his neck.

Burping loudly, Rhino slumps down into the straw, falling straight back to sleep.

Evie knows the fact he’s eating and drinking is a good sign, but as she strokes his head and whispers into his hairy ear, Rhino begins a sleep that will last for three days and three nights.