Free Daughter of Australia by Harmony Verna Page A

because we age doesn’t mean old demons can’t strike.”
    â€œMy demons have long been dealt with, Robert. I’m among angels here.”
    â€œThen let me help you keep it that way,” he urged. “There is an answer here, at least a temporary one. You need to use that girl’s money.”
    Father McIntyre’s neck flopped against his collar.
    â€œListen to me.” The Deacon danced in his seat. “If the orphanage closes, where will she go? She’ll be sent to a hospital or put in a work home or worse. You said yourself she has no future. Here the child is safe. Here she will be fed, nurtured, schooled as will the other children. An individual’s need must be sacrificed for the betterment of the whole. You see? You have no other choice.
    â€œLet me help you, Colin. If you’re no longer a liability to the church, I can sway the Bishop to let things stand. But you must understand this money is only a bandage. This place is stagnant; there are no children leaving. You need to find adopters, donors, it’s the only way.”
    Father McIntyre lowered his eyes and nodded, the fight gone.
    Â 
    Bishop Ridley and Deacon Johnson left at first light. The smell of salt air, no longer tainted by the car’s trail of exhaust, entered Father McIntyre’s veins, freshened the blood.
    Father McIntyre stepped upon the path to the sea, sought shade below the pepper tree and closed his eyes. He pressed his palms against the blue-black dots of hair beneath the surface of his chin and cheeks, felt their points under his fingertips. When he opened his eyes, James was there, standing with his strange seriousness and silent dignity. The priest smiled at the boy, patted the ground. “Sit. Sit.”
    James folded his legs, bent his spine over the triangle of limbs.
    â€œHaven’t seen you much lately. Everything all right?” he asked. James nodded.
    Father McIntyre focused on James’s face, the frowning young lines. The Bible stuck out from the boy’s shirt. He tapped James on the knee. “So, tell me what’s got you reading the Good Book so intently these days.”
    James lowered his chin, shadowing the grass with the oval of his head. “I don’t know.”
    â€œThen read me a passage that interests you. Surely, you’ve found some favorites.”
    The boy did not move; his chest did not rise or fall.
    Father McIntyre laughed, plucked the book from the boy’s waistband. “Fine. I’ll choose one.” He pulled out his glasses, opened the book to the middle. At first, his eyes blindly stared at the page, confused by the slanted, elegant handwriting. He flipped several more pages with his index finger, saw the dates listed in the corners. He closed the book, turned his face away. “How long have you had it?” he asked, his voice dim.
    The boy’s silence was long and pained. “Since the storm.”
    â€œHave you read it?”
    â€œNo,” James answered. “Well, some.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have kept it.”
    â€œYes, Father.”
    â€œAnd I shouldn’t have kept it from you.”
    James’s mouth fell. Father McIntyre put the book in the boy’s hands. “I was wrong to keep it from you.” He gazed at the child. “I never read it, James. I hope you believe me. This was never meant for anyone’s eyes but yours.” The two sat among the rustle of sparse leaves for several minutes.
    â€œDo you think . . .” James ventured, then stopped, bit his bottom lip.
    â€œWhat is it, son?”
    â€œDo you think I have relatives . . . in Ireland?”
    He thought of that for a moment. “Hmmm. It’s possible.”
    â€œMy father was from there. Maybe I have uncles?” His voice pitched higher. “Maybe they would bring me to live with them?”
    Father McIntyre pursed his lips and tapped his foot. “There’s no way to know that,