Читать книгу The Mystical Swagman - Gary Blinco - Страница 11

Chapter

1

Brennan followed Aunt Ede reluctantly, hanging back a little as they pressed through the sea of people that crowded the wide bare earth of the street. A procession of heavily-laden wagons, sulkies and bright four-wheeled cabs jockeyed for space on the road with dozens of riders on horseback. People on pushbikes were forced to the safety of the footpath, drawing loud cries of protest from the pedestrians.

As smoke billowed from a thousand chimneys, the heavy aroma mingled with the smell of horse manure and the stench of rotting vegetable matter and other garbage piled on every street corner. Shopkeepers and hawkers plied their wares from dingy doorways, and hungry-looking barrow boys fought to out-spiel one another as they called out their bargains to the passing tide of humanity. This was a raw, new land, one that attracted people who were good, bad, and all shades in between. Some were running to a new life and opportunity, others were running away from shady pasts: all had hopes of making a fortune by means fair or foul.

This was Brennan’s first day of school and he did not want to go. After all, he could read and write better than anyone else he knew, and surely he could therefore learn all he needed to know from books.

He was not sure if Aunt Ede was aware of his reading skills, though. She was a complex old lady who often drifted off into a world of her own, living in her mind in another place and time. He had learned to read from Ede, perhaps without her even knowing it. For as long as he could remember, Ede had read to him as she put him to bed each night, following the words on the page with her gnarled old finger. Once he was put to bed and she began to read, he would snuggle against her breast until he had tucked himself protectively under her arm. His heart and body were warmed by the closeness of the old lady, his nostrils savoring the mustiness of fresh-baked bread on her apron and the sweet, clean smell of soap on her hands.

Ede was barely educated, and she read slowly enough that his eyes could focus on the letters under her finger. By listening carefully to the words she read, Brennan had quickly learned to read, until in a short period of time, he could glance at a page of print and record the words in his mind within a matter of seconds. Soon he was reading well ahead of Ede in the books, often spoiling the story for himself as a result.

After a while he realised that if he shut his eyes and settled back to rest his head on old Ede’s shoulder while she read, he was able to enjoy the story much more. He liked to listen to her voice as she read; she would often even act out the story a little, adopting different voices for some of the characters. As she read to him, he would imagine her sharp green eyes peering at the pages over her long hawk-like nose. Her wiry grey hair, of course, would always be drawn back in a severe, tight bun at the nape of her neck. Some people might have thought her ugly, with her gangly bird-like limbs and features; but to Brennan she was beautiful, because he could see past the old and jaded physical being to the wonderful vibrant person within.

She would read him the classic works of the old English Masters, as well as the raw and exciting new books and poems from local writers. He particularly loved the bush poets of the day. Their poems painted images of the Australian bush that burned clearly in his mind, until he longed to leave the city and see the bush for himself. Ede herself seemed to enjoy the nightly readings as much as her audience of one, watching the love of her life drift off in his mind until at last his eyes grew heavy with sleep. Then she would tuck him snugly under the covers and kiss his forehead, leaving him to his dreams; where he would embellish and extend the tales he had just heard until his small bed became a magic machine that transported him to wonderful far-off places and events. In time sleep too would come, reality somehow losing its grasp as he went from waking dreams to deep dreams in sleep.

Of his uncle, John Greenway, Brennan had only the vaguest recollections; though he’d been told that he had been killed in an accident when Brennan was still very small. Likewise, he had no memories of his parents. He did not know if they had died or just disappeared, or even if they’d ever existed at all. Aunt Ede was the one who cared for him, feeding, clothing and showering him with love and attention, the only real parent he’d ever known. She’d promised, though, that she would reveal all she knew of his origins when he was old enough to understand and accept his mysterious past.

But she’d also said that he would have to be patient until the time was right. She appeared to be waiting for some kind of signal, but he could not fathom what it might be. All he knew was that before his death, his uncle had told her that Brennan could only be told of his past when he began to display strange skills; and that this would probably not happen before he reached his early teens. “You have a strange and wonderful past, Brennan,” she often said, always filling him with wonder over his beginnings. “And one day I will tell you all I know about it, but not until you are a bit older.” He sometimes thought of her words when he found himself comparing himself to others, but in a land that held such a diverse range of inhabitants, it was difficult to know what normal really was.

However, even so young, he’d quickly become sure that he saw the world from a different perspective than others. Most of the people he knew seemed so focused on their own personal needs and ambitions that they failed to see the wonders of the world about them. The animals and birds, trees and flowers seemed to somehow be able to speak to him, and at times he felt he could actually hear their silent voices in his head. At the same time, he related to the people around him in a deep and intense way as well, sharing their emotions and sensing their pains, often understanding more about them than they did themselves.

This was a beautiful new land, a clean canvas waiting to be painted, a blank page to record the future. He knew that the land itself already had a long history, but one that, unlike so many others, was not cluttered with the evolution of hundreds of civilizations, of wars and conflict, of diverse cultures. In many ways it was also a harsh and unforgiving land. The climate here was uncertain and the ways of nature were new to the settlers; they could no longer depend on the relentless succession of the four seasons, or the regularity of crop and harvest. Consequently, many of them suffered when they attempted to relate to this new world in the same way they had related to the old country of England.

He often saw those who had failed to be able to eke a living from the land return to the city, only to be forced to beg in the streets. There they were joined by others who had recklessly charged headlong into the bush in search of gold without appropriate preparation or knowledge, only to return, beaten and dejected, to join the growing tide of the homeless, penniless and unemployed who idled away their days in the increasingly crowded city, dreaming of England or some other homeland far away. Most were too poor or too afraid to return. Many had fled their own countries to escape punishment for some black deed they had committed, while others had been sent to this far-off colony in chains as punishment for their crimes. For these, to return to the relative ‘comfort’ of captivity would mean to be flogged, or hanged, or both. It mattered little that many had been innocent victims of a cruel justice system, or that the crimes themselves had often been petty. Now they had either served their time or escaped from their jailers, only to find that the land was a prison in itself.

The only option remaining to these sorry souls was to exist as best they could, and city life was the only form of existence they understood. The boy often fell in with these people. His heart and mind reached out to them, and he soon learned that he was able to comfort and inspire them, encouraging them with a smile and a warm glance from his deep blue eyes. They took heart from the attention of this strange, quiet boy. He would spend countless hours with the homeless men and the cruelly treated and overworked animals of the city. The crowded city sat in the midst of a limitless and unexplored land teeming with life and opportunity, but few seemed able to take the time to see it and be willing to adapt to it; and so the richness and freedom of the world around them remained largely untouched.

For those who were bold enough to listen to him, his message was simple. “Open your eyes and see the world,” he would say. “Nobody need be hungry in this land. The local people have existed here blissfully for thousands of years. You can too, if you adapt to the country rather than demand that it adapt to you.”

He saw many of his friends exchange knowing glances as he followed Ede along the busy street this day. A group of dirty-looking homeless men, gathered around a small fire on a vacant block of land near one of the stores, waved to him and called out greetings. “Why be ye so glad-ragged up this day, young Brennan?” one of the men called out.

The boy smiled and waved back. “I am starting school today,” he replied. “My aunty has bought me all new clothes and a schoolbag.”

“Well, good on yer, lad,” the man called back, “and good luck ter ye an’ all. But don’t forget to still come and have a yarn with us sometimes.”

Brennan assured them that he would as he increased his pace to keep up with Ede, his mind already drifting back into his daydreams.

He couldn’t remember when he had decided that he must have come from another world. Where this other world might be or how he came to leave it behind was a mystery that seemed to continually set him apart. Even so, this vague explanation for his unique abilities gave him some measure of comfort, allowing him to be able to concentrate on his life and set aside his apparent differences. His lack of knowledge of his past therefore did not trouble him greatly. He could see no point in fretting about things that he could not change, and anyway he knew Ede would explain it all to him one day. He smiled whenever he thought of Ede. Turning his attention back to the street, he watched her striding out briskly up ahead, pausing now and then to peer into a shop window while he ran to catch up with her.

Brennan loved Ede very much, and he especially loved their quiet, private kind of life. Very few people ever called at the cottage, and he preferred it that way. In the serenity of their home, she had often told him stories of her early life in the ‘old country’, how she had travelled across the sea in a great boat to this land, how John Greenway had built a successful business empire in this rough, new land. He clutched his new leather school bag tightly. The pleasant smell of the new leather quickly filled his nostrils, blocking out the pungent stench of the overcrowded city. The bag contained his pencils, some cheese sandwiches and an orange.

Then the small sandstone schoolhouse finally stood before them. Of course he’d known this day would eventually come. Ede had said he was already quite a few years late in going to school: he was about ten years old, she thought, and he should have started school when he’d been six. But her mind was easily distracted. It was a wonder to Brennan that she had remembered to drag him off to school today at all, though he had hoped she would forget again. But somehow she had remembered, so there was no turning back now. He broke into another run and caught up with her just as she arrived at the schoolyard. There she introduced him to the teacher, a severe-looking man named Mister Hill, who intimidated the boy at once. As Brennan stood shyly beside his aunt, the teacher’s critical gaze began to make him self-conscious about his ill-fitting new clothes and his long, unkempt hair.

Ede then looked about the schoolyard at the squealing children. “Why are there boys and girls together here?” she asked sharply. “I thought they had to attend separate schools.”

Hill snorted, glaring fiercely at the old woman. “Perhaps they should, madam,” he growled. “But you will see that I am only one man, and teachers are hard to find in this wild land. Either you accept things as they are, or you can take the boy away and educate him yourself. It is all the same to me.”

Ede stared back at him for a moment before shrugging her bony shoulders. “As you say then,” she agreed. “I don’t suppose it makes any difference in the long run.”

“Off you go now and play with the other urchins then, boy,” Hill snapped sharply. “I need to get some details from your guardian. Just be sure to come running to the classroom with the others when you hear the bell to start the lessons.”

After being dismissed, Brennan wandered about the schoolyard for a while, watching the other children at play and generally idling about. When the bell rang, he followed the teeming mass of children into the small schoolhouse and quickly found himself a seat on the hard wooden bench seat. The long desk in front of him had little slots at the front for his pencils, and a deep recess for his writing slate and a ruler. The other children seemed friendly enough, and he soon relaxed. After finding the place confusing at first, he soon began to find it amusing to sit and listen to the teacher speak of reading and writing, geography and arithmetic. The books on these subjects were issued to him before the first lesson. Excited, he started at once to leaf through the well-thumbed, grubby pages. Oblivious to the tittering of his classmates, he scanned through them eagerly, reading the contents and looking at the pictures. The huge store of knowledge the books contained teased his hunger to learn.

“Please close that book at once and pay attention,” Hill suddenly snapped, striking the desk top with his long cane and making Brennan jump with fright. “You will have plenty of opportunities in the future to read the books, boy,” the teacher added in a gentler, kinder tone. “For now, however, you must listen to me, and I will guide the entire class through the lesson together.”

Brennan closed the book and stared straight ahead, waiting for Mister Hill to return to the front of the class and begin the lesson. “We have a new boy with us today,” the teacher began. “You must all make him welcome; his name is Brennan. Stand up, boy, so we can all see you.” Brennan rose uncertainly. A few giggles rippled about the room until Hill’s stern gaze froze the student body once again to silence. “Brennan is a little late in beginning school,” he continued when the room was again quiet. “We will need to be patient with him until he catches up with the rest of us.”

He then took up one of the books and surveyed his small charges. “Now let us read from Charles Dickens. The story is David Copperfield and we will begin on page thirty-two. Laura, please start us off.”

A red-haired girl stood up and began to read clearly and confidently until Hill told her to stop. He then called on each of the other students in turn to read a few lines from the story until at last it was Brennan’s turn.

Not wishing to embarrass the boy, Hill was about to pass him by when Brennan rose and began to read easily, acting out the speaking parts and ‘living’ the story as Ede had taught him. Hill was clearly impressed, allowing Brennan to read two whole pages before calling him to silence. When Brennan sat down, he noted the mixed looks of envy or resentment that passed among his fellow pupils.