Tiếng chim hót trong bụi mận gai (5.1) - Colleen McCullough

2025-01-18

 Tiếng chim hót trong bụi mận gai (5.1)

Colleen McCullough

 

Dịch giả: Trung Dũng

từ bản chuyển ngữ tiếng Pháp “Les oiseaux se cachent pour mourir” (Những con chim ẩn mình chờ chết)

Tiếng Anh:

The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough

~

 

1938 - 1958

FIONA

5.1

Không muốn báo trước cho ai ngày trở về, Meggie đến Drogheda trên một chiếc xe chở thư cùng với lão Bluey Williams; Justine nằm trong chiếc nôi bằng mây đặt trên nệm.

Drogheda, Drogheda! Bạch đàn và những cây hồ tiêu khổng lồ, êm ả đầy tiếng ong kêu. Bên này là những súc vật và những ngôi nhà tường bằng đá, và sỏi màu nhạt; bên kia là những thảm cỏ xanh đẹp lạ kỳ bao quanh tòa nhà lớn. Mùa thu trong vườn đầy hoa nào là quế trúc, thược dược và nhiều loại cúc, đây đó đầy những hoa hồng.

Từ con đường trải sỏi phía sau nhà, bà Smith nhón chân nhìn ra, miệng há hốc, cười vui rồi bật khóc. Minnie và Cat chạy ào ra xe, Drogheda đúng là một tổ ấm, ở đây mãi mãi là trái tim của Meggie.

Fiona bước ra khỏi nhà xem có chuyện gì ồn ào như thế.

- Thưa mẹ, con đã trở về.

Không có chuyện gì có thể gây xáo động đôi mắt màu nâu ấy, đôi mắt giờ đây đã già dặn hơn. Meggie nhận ra ngay. Mẹ nàng vui mừng; có điều là bà không biết bày tỏ sự vui mừng ấy ra sao?

- Con đã bỏ Luke? Fiona hỏi lớn vì nghĩ rằng Smith và những người giúp việc đều có quyền được biết điều đó.

- Thưa vâng. Con sẽ không trở lại với Luke nữa. Anh ấy không muốn có một mái nhà, không đếm xỉa đến những đứa con, và cũng không cần một người vợ.

- Những đứa con?

- Vâng mẹ ạ, con đang chờ sinh đứa thứ hai.

Nhiều tiếng ô, à ngạc nhiên vang lên từ phía những người giúp việc và Fiona. Mẹ nàng nói ngay với giọng cân nhắc nhưng vẫn không giấu được niềm vui.

- Nếu thằng đó nó không cần con thì con hoàn toàn có lý do trở về mái nhà xưa. Ở đây mọi người sẽ lo cho con.

Phòng cũ của Meggie nhìn ra bãi chăn chính đầy những hoa, phòng kế bên dành cho Justine và đứa bé sẽ ra đời. Ôi, thật dễ chịu làm sao được sống ở tại nhà mình!

Bob rất vui mừng gặp lại em gái. Càng ngày Bob càng giống Paddy, lưng hơi khom, da sạm đỏ dưới ánh nắng mặt trời.

Tối hôm đó, cả gia đình Cleary có mặt đầy đủ chuyển một xe tải ngũ cốc vào kho mà Jims và Patsy vừa mua từ hợp tác xã Gilly về.

Thoạt đầu Meggie được phân công trông chừng các bãi chăn gần nhất.

Con ngựa sắc hồng và con ngựa thiến đã chết. Bob tìm Martin King hỏi mua hai con khác. Kể cũng lạ, cái chết của con ngựa sắc hồng gây cho Meggie ấn tượng dữ dội hơn cả khi xa cách Ralph bởi đây chính là con ngựa chàng thường cỡi.

Khi bụng trở nên nặng nề không thể lên lưng ngựa nữa, Meggie ở nhà với bà Smith, Minnie và Cat, may và đan những chiếc áo chuẩn bị cho đứa bé đã bắt đầu cựa quậy. Thằng bé (nàng tin chắc là con trai) phải chăng hợp với nàng hơn Justine, do đó nàng không cảm thấy bị hành hạ vàvui sướng chờ đợi ngày ra đời của con. Justine biết đi và biết nói rất sớm, vào lúc mới chín tháng. Nhưng có điều thật khó hiểu ở Justine là cô bé không bao giờ cười. Bà con ở Drogheda ai ai cũng tìm cách làm cho Justine vui, nhưng chẳng ai làm được điều đó. Đúng là Justine vượt qua bà ngoại về sự nghiêm nghị bẩm sinh ấy.

Ngày một tháng mười, Justine được mười sáu tháng thì con trai của Meggie chào đời tại Drogheda, sớm hơn bốn tuần lễ. Meggie sinh rất nhanh, không đau đớn như lần sinh trước.

Thằng bé thật đẹp! Chiếc lưng dài, thon thả, tóc hung, mắt xanh lợt. Đúng là đôi mắt của Ralph, bàn tay của Ralph, cái mũi, miệng và bàn chân cũng của Ralph. Meggie mừng thầm khi nghĩ rằng Luke cũng có vóc dáng tương tự và những nét gần giống Ralph.

- Con đã chọn cho nó một cái tên chưa? Fiona hỏi trìu mến và tỏ ra say mê thằng bé.

- Con sẽ đặt cho nó tên Dane.

- Cái tên nghe quái lạ! Tại sao con lại chọn tên ấy? Có phải vì đó là tên phổ biến trong dòng họ Ó Neill? Mẹ tưởng rằng con đã dứt khoát với dòng họ Ó Neill rồi mà?

- Cái tên Dane không dính dấp gì với Luke cả thưa mẹ. Đó là tên của chính thằng bé, chứ không phải của ai khác. Con đã đặt cho con gái tên Justine vì con thích tên đó và cũng vậy con đã đặt tên Dane.

Ngắm nhìn thằng bé mắt nhắm, lông mi dày lấp lánh màu vàng ánh, chân mày lông tơ, hai má nhỏ có vẻ háu ăn, Meggie nghe dâng lên trong lòng một tình yêu mãnh liệt và không hiểu sao cùng lúc ấy nàng cảm thấy nhói lên một nỗi xót xa trong lòng.

“Dane sẽ lấp đầy sự trống của đời tôi. Nó phải làm điều đó vì ngoài nó tôi không còn có ai khác. Ralph, anh đã yêu Chúa hơn yêu em và cũng chính vì Chúa mà anh sẽ không bao giờ biết em đã đánh cắp cái gì của anh cũng như đã đánh cắp cái gì của Chúa. Em sẽ không bao giờ nói cho anh biết về Dane. Ôi, con yêu quí của mẹ! (Nàng đặt thằng bé nằm êm ả trên những chiếc gối để nhìn rõ hơn gương mặt nhỏ đẹp tuyệt vời ấy). Con thương yêu của mẹ! Con là của riêng mẹ và mẹ sẽ không bao giờ giao con cho bất kỳ ai khác, nhất là ba con, một người, không có quyền nhìn nhận con. Như thế có tuyệt không hở con?

° ° °

Chiếc tàu cập bến cảng Genoa đầu tháng tư. Tổng giám mục De Bricassart đặt chân lên một nước Ý tràn ngập ánh nắng mùa xuân Địa Trung Hải. Liền đó, ông lên tàu hỏa đi Roma. Nếu ông tỏ ý muốn, Vatican đã gởi đến một chiếc xe với tài xế để đưa ông về. Nhưng ông sợ lại chứng kiến cảnh Giáo hội một lần nữa đóng cửa với ông, do đó ông muốn đẩy lùi thời điểm thử thách ấy càng lâu càng tốt. Thành phố Vĩnh Cửu. Nó mang đúng cái tên của nó, ông vừa nghĩ thầm vừa nhìn qua cửa kiếng xe tắc-xi. Những lầu chuông và những vòm giáo đường, những quảng đường đầy chim bồ câu, những đài nước uy nghi, những hàng cột Roma đặt trên những nền ăn sâu hàng bao thế kỷ. Với ông, tất cả những thứ đó không đáng chú ý. Đối với ông điều quan tâm duy nhất là Vatican với những phòng tiếp tân lộng lẫy và những căn phòng riêng trông có vẻ khắc khổ.

Một tu sĩ dòng Saint Dominique hướng dẫn Ralph đi dọc theo những đại sảnh lát đá cẩm thạch, ngang qua vô số những bức tượng bằng đồng, bằng đá, tất cả xứng đáng có một vị trí trong diện bảo tàng. Phía sau là rất nhiều tranh được vẽ trên bức tường vĩ đại, tác phẩm của Giotto, Raphael, Botticelli và Fra Angelico.

Trong căn phòng màu vàng ngàn sáng chói, nổi bật lên là màu sắc của những bức tượng, những bức tranh, bàn ghế và thảm đều được đưa về từ Paris, Hồng Y Di Contini Verchese tiếp Ralph. Tổng giám mục De Bricassart quỳ xuống, hôn chiếc nhẫn.

- Con hãy ngồi xuống đây Ralph.

- Thưa Đức Hồng Y, con muốn được xưng tội.

- Khoan đã! Trước hết chúng ta phải nói chuyện với nhau bằng tiếng Anh. Ở đây tai vách mạch rừng nhưng cũng may, rất hiếm tai nghe được tiếng Anh. Con hãy ngồi xuống đây Ralph. Ồ, thật là thú vị gặp lại con. Vắng con, ta càng thấy những lời cố vấn khôn ngoan, tư tưởng hợp lý và quan niệm rất hay về tình bạn... cần thiết như thế nào đối với ta. Cho tới nay chưa có người phụ tá nào ta có thể dành một phần nhỏ thôi tình cảm mà ta dành cho con.

Sự mệt mỏi kinh khủng mà Ralph đã trải qua mấy tuần lễ bỗng nhiên như cất khỏi đôi vai của ông; ông tự hỏi tại sao mình lại lo ngại quá nhiều về cuộc gặp gỡ này trong khi tận đáy lòng, Ralph dư biết rằng ông sẽ được thông cảm và tha thứ. Nhưng vấn đề không phải ở chỗ đó. Ông thấy mình đã làm thất vọng một người quá tốt - một người bạn đúng nghĩa của mình. Ralph phải đối đầu với một con người trong sáng trong khi chính mình không còn trong sáng nữa.

- Ralph, chúng ta là những người tu hành nhưng không chỉ là như thế; chúng ta không thể thoát khỏi số mệnh của bản thân mặc dù chúng ta khao khát những cái gì đó rất tuyệt đối. Chúng ta là những con người với những yếu đuối và sai sót của con người. Ta đoán trước sẽ không có điều gì trong những điều con sẽ kể cho cha nghe lại làm vẩn đục hình ảnh mà ta đã có về con trong suốt những năm chúng ta cùng sống chung nhau. Dưới mắt ta cũng sẽ không có điều gì có thể làm mất uy tín của con và làm mờ nhạt tình cảm mà ta đã gởi gắm cho con. Trong yếu đuối của chúng ta, về thân phận con người chúng ta, nhưng ta biết rằng rồi đây con sẽ hiểu vì tất cả chúng ta cuối cùng đều hiểu như thế, ngay cả Đức Thánh Cha là người khiêm tốn và nhân từ nhất cũng hiểu như thế.

- Con đã không giữ lời khấn của con, thưa Đức cha. Không dễ dàng tha thứ đâu. Đó là tội phạm thượng.

- Từ nhiều năm nay con đã phạm lời khấn nguyện sống thanh bạch khi nhận gia tài bà Mary Carson. Điều đó đã làm cho chúng ta xa rời sự trong sáng và sự vâng lời Chúa phải không?

- Như thế cả ba lời khấn đều bị vi phạm, thưa Đức cha.

- Ta vẫn thích được con gọi bằng Vittorio như xưa. Ta không lấy làm khó chịu mà cũng chẳng thấy có gì phải buồn lòng. Tất cả những chuyện ấy đều là ý muốn của Chúa, và ta nghĩ rằng rất có thể đây là một bài học lớn mà con nên nhận lấy với một thái độ từng tự hành hạ mình quá đáng. Những ý định của Chúa không phải đều dễ hiểu. Nhưng ta nghĩ rằng con đã hành động không dễ dãi, rằng con không đầu hàng trước khi đã đấu tranh. Ta rất hiểu con. Ta biết con rất tự phụ, nhiễm nặng địa vị tu sĩ của mình, rất ý thức về nỗi khát khao tìm đến cái gì đó rất tuyệt đối. Do đó có thể con cần một bài học như thế để hạ bớt sự kiêu căng của con, để cho con hiểu rằng trước hết con chỉ là một con người, cho nên nó sẽ không bao giờ được nhào nặn hoàn thiện như con nghĩ. Có phải như thế không?

- Thưa đúng thế. Con thiếu sự khiêm tốn và con có cảm tưởng, hiểu theo cách nào đó, con muốn trở thành Chúa Trời. Con phạm tội rất nặng và không thể tha thứ. Con không thể tha thứ cho chính con, vậy thì làm sao con hy vọng sự tha thứ của Chúa?

- Lại kiêu căng nữa rồi, Ralph à! Kiêu căng! Quyền tha thứ không thuộc về con, con vẫn chưa hiểu điều đó sao? Chỉ có Chúa mới có quyền tha tội. Chỉ có Chúa mà thôi. Và Chúa sẽ tha tội cho những ai biết ăn năn chân thành. Chúa đã từng tha tội nặng hơn cho những vị thánh và cho cả những tên vô lại. Con tưởng rằng Lucifer không được tha tội sao? Nó đã được tha tội ngay khi nó chống lại Chúa. Số phận của nó - trở thành Chúa tể địa ngục - là chính nó chọn lựa chớ không phải Chúa. Có phải chính nó đã nói: Thà ngự trị dưới địa ngục còn hơn là phụng sự trên thiên đàng. Bởi rằng nó không chiến thắng nổi sự kiêu căng của nó, nó không chấp nhận được ý muốn của nó khuất phụ trước ý muốn của một ai khác, dù cho ai khác đó là Chúa. Ta không cho rằng con phạm một sai lầm giống như vậy, người bạn thân yêu của ta. Sự khiêm tốn là đức tính duy nhất còn thiếu ở con, nhưng nó lại là đức tính chính yếu của một vị thánh... hay một con người vĩ đại. Cho tới khi nào con chưa chịu trả lại cho Chúa quyền tha tội thì con chưa đạt tới sự khêm tốn thật sự.

Gương mặt đầy nghị lực của Ralph co rúm lại.

- Thưa vâng, con biết rằng Đức cha nói đúng. Con phải tuyệt đối chấp nhận con người hiện hữu của con, phải nỗ lực sửa mình mà không tự kiêu về mình. Con xin ăn năn; như vậy con sẽ xưng tội và chờ được tha tội. Con rất ăn năn và ăn năn thật sự.

Ralph thở ra, đôi mắt của ông không giấu được sự xúc động trong lòng mà những lời lẽ ôn tồn đã thể hiện.

- Vittorio à, tuy nhiên, khi nghĩ lại, con thấy con không thể hành động khác hơn. Hoặc là con hủy diệt nàng, hoặc là con nhận lấy sự hủy diệt ấy về phần con. Lúc đó, con không có sự lựa chọn nào khác vì rằng con yêu nàng một cách chân thành. Hoàn toàn không phải lỗi ở nàng nếu con không tiếp tục từ chối nối dài tình yêu trên phương diện xác thịt. Thân phận của nàng đáng quan tâm hơn thân phận của con. Cho đến lúc đó, con cứ tự coi mình ở một vị trí cao hơn nàng vì con là kẻ tu hành và con coi nàng như một hạng người ít được quan tâm. Nhưng con hiểu ngay rằng con là người có trách nhiệm, về tình trạng hiện nay của nàng... Đáng lý, con phải tránh xa nàng khi nàng còn là một cô bé, nhưng con đã không làm như thế. Con đã đem nàng ẩn náu trong trái tim con và nàng biết điều đó. Nếu con thật lòng muốn rứt nàng ra khỏi cuộc đời con thì chắc chắn nàng cũng giã biệt và con đã mất hết tất cả ảnh hưởng đối với nàng. Đức cha thấy, con có đủ lý do để mà ăn năn... Con đã thử tạo ra một tác phẩm nho nhỏ riêng của con.

- Có phải Hoa Hồng không?

- Thưa Đức cha, đâu còn ai khác nữa? Nàng là sự toan tính sáng tạo duy nhất của con.

- Nhưng Hoa Hồng có đau khổ không? Làm như thế có phải chăng con tạo ra cho cô ấy nhiều đau khổ hơn là con hất hủi cô ấy?

- Con không biết được, Vittorio. Con rất muốn biết sự thật ra sao! Nhưng trong lúc này, con không thể hành động khác hơn. Hơn nữa chuyện ấy xảy ra... một cách tự nhiên. Tuy nhiên con nghĩ rằng con đã cho nàng cái điều nàng cần thiết, đó là ý thức về nhân cách phụ nữ của nàng. Ý con không phải nói rằng nàng không biết mình là một người phụ nữ, nhưng là chính con, con không nhận ra điều đó. Nếu khi con gặp nàng, nàng đã là một phụ nữ, thì mọi việc có lẽ đã diễn tiến khác hơn; nhưng rất tiếc con đã gặp nàng khi nàng là một cô bé.

- Con vẫn cho thấy mình tự phụ Ralph à và chưa sẵn sàng để được tha tội. Thật xót xa phải không? Ta xót xa mà nhìn thấy con quá nhân đạo để bị rơi vào sự yếu đuối của con người. Con có thật sự hành động với tinh thần hy sinh cao cả không?

Ralph giật mình. Ông nhìn vào hai con mắt u buồn trước mặt và thấy trong đó phản chiếu hai gương mặt thật nhỏ với kích thước không nghĩa lý gì.

- Không, thưa Đức cha - Ralph nhìn nhận. Con là con người và với tư cách một con người con đã khám phá ở nàng một sự hoan lạc không thể chối cãi. Trước đây con hoàn toàn không biết rằng sự tiếp xúc với một người phụ nữ lại có kết quả như thế và nó lại là nguồn gốc của một sự khoái lạc sâu đậm như thế. Con muốn mãi mãi không bao giờ xa nàng, không phải chỉ vì vấn đề thân xác, mà đơn giản chỉ vì con thích ở gần nàng... nói chuyện với nàng, hay không nói chuyện, được ăn những món ăn do nàng nấu, cười với nàng, chia sẻ những suy nghĩ của nàng. Con cảm thấy thiếu vắng nàng mãi mãi khi con còn sống trên cõi đời này.

Có một điều gì đó xuất hiện trên gương mặt khổ hạnh, u buồn của Hồng Y và không hiểu sao khiến cho Ralph nhớ đến nét mặt của Meggie vào lúc hai người chia tay nhau. Nó phản ánh sự vững vàng của một con người bất chấp mọi nỗi khổ đau, buồn phiền, và vất vả để cứ nhìn ra phía trước mà đi. Con người ấy, mặc áo màu tím, bình thường tình cảm tưởng như chỉ dành riêng cho con mèo cái giống Abyssinian, đã biết gì về chuyện thầm kín của Ralph?

- Con không thể nào sám hối về những gì Meggie đã mang lại cho con - Ralph tiếp tục nói trước sự im lặng của Hồng Y. Con chỉ sám hối vì đã vi phạm những lời khấn hệ trọng và không thể quên. Con biết từ nay con không thể nào đến với công việc thuộc trách nhiệm của con như trước kia, nhất là với một nhiệt tình như xưa. Về điều này, con rất ăn năn. Nhưng về những gì liên quan đến Meggie thì...

Sắc mặt của Ralph thay đổi hẳn khi nhắc đến tên Meggie khiến cho Hồng Y phải quay về hướng khác để giấu đi những dằn vặt trong đầu ông.

- Sám hối những gì thuộc về Meggie chẳng khác nào con đã giết nàng - Ralph nói tiếp cùng lúc đưa bàn tay lên che hai mắt một cách mệt mỏi - Con không biết con nói có rõ ràng không hoặc lời nói của con có phản ảnh trung thực suy nghĩ của con không. Thưa Đức cha, con luôn cảm thấy gần như bất lực khi phải thể hiện bằng lời những tình cảm của con dành cho nàng.

Ralph ngồi hơi nghiêng người ra phía trước trong khi ánh mắt của Hồng Y Di Contini Verchese chiếu thẳng về phía Ralph. Ralph chú ý thấy hai bóng nhỏ của mình trong đôi mắt của Hồng Y hình như trở nên lớn hơn một chút. Đôi mắt của Vittorio như hai cái gương chúng chỉ phản chiếu những gì chúng thấy nhưng không để bất cứ điều gì người khác phát hiện những gì ẩn chứa trong đôi mắt. Ngược lại, đôi mắt của Meggie mở rộng để Ralph có thể đi thẳng vào tâm hồn nàng.

- Với con, Meggie như một phép lành. Đột ngột Ralph nói. Nàng là hình ảnh của một thứ thánh lễ khác.

- Vâng, ta hiểu. Hồng Y tán đồng và thở dài. Con nhìn ra được một tình cảm như thế là tốt. Ta nghĩ, dưới mắt của Đức Thánh cha điều đó sẽ làm giảm nhẹ lỗi của con. Ta khuyên con nên xưng tội với cha Giorgio sẽ có lợi ích cho con hơn là với cha Guillermo. Cha Giorgio sẽ không hiểu lầm những tình cảm và lý lẽ của con. Còn cha Guillermo trực giác vốn không mạnh và có thể đánh giá không đúng những gì con thật sự ăn năn. Họ cũng là những con người, Ralph thân mến à, những con người lắng nghe lời xưng tội. Con đừng quên điều đó. Chỉ trong cái khung cảnh mục vụ mà họ làm chức năng của họ: nơi ở của Chúa. Ngoài ra họ cũng là những con người. Sự tha tội mà họ ban cho cũng là của Chúa nhưng tai mà họ nghe và đánh giá vẫn thuộc về con người.

Có người mang trà vào.

- Con thấy ngoài đường phố ở Genoa và Roma có rất nhiều người mặc áo sơ mi đen - Ralph nhận xét trong khi nhìn Hồng Y pha trà.

- Đó là những đám người của lãnh tụ Mussolini. Chúng ta phải đối đầu với một thời ký khó khăn, Ralph thân mến. Đức Thánh cha ra lệnh không để xảy ra sự đoạn giao giữa Giáo hội với chính quyền Ý và Người có lý trong mọi việc. Tình hình diễn biến thế nào nhân danh Chúa chúng ta vẫn phải giữ được tự do của mình để có thể trông nom các con chiên dù cho con chiên có bị chia rẽ trong một cuộc chiến tranh. Bất kể sự chọn lựa của con tim thế nào, chúng ta bắt buộc phải luôn luôn giữ cho Giáo hội đứng trên mọi biến động, mọi chủ thuyết chính trị và những tranh chấp quốc tế. Ta muốn con gắn bó với ta vì ta nhận thấy những gì xuất hiện trên gương mặt con sẽ không bao giờ phản bội lại những suy nghĩ trong đầu ở bất cứ hoàn cảnh nào. Con đã là một nhà ngoại giao khi mới sinh ra.

- Con không nghĩ mình sẽ thành công - Tổng giám mục De Bricassart nói. Rồi đây không ai tán đồng thái độ của chúng ta và mọi phía sẽ lên án chúng ta.

- Ta biết điều đó. Và Đức Thánh cha cũng biết. Nhưng chúng ta không thể hành động khác hơn. Tuy nhiên không có gì có thể cấm cản trong lòng chúng ta cầu nguyện cho Mussolini và Hitler sụp đổ nhanh chóng.

- Đức cha tin thật sự chiến tranh sẽ bùng nổ?

- Ta không thấy có cách nào tránh khỏi.

° ° °

Drogheda vừa có được nhiều radio. Nhờ các tiến bộ khoa học mà cuối cùng Gillanbone đã đặt một đài phát thanh.

Mỗi sáng, Fiona, Meggie và Smith mở máy để nghe tin tức trong vùng và bản tin khí tượng.

Khi đài phát thanh quốc gia thông báo rằng hôm thứ sáu 1 - 9 - 1939 Hitler đã xâm lăng Ba Lan, lúc ấy chỉ Fiona và Meggie có mặt ở nhà, nhưng cả hai đều không quan tâm trước tin này. Châu Âu ở đầu kia thế giới, chẳng dính dấp gì đến Drogheda, trung tâm của vũ trụ. Nhưng chiều ngày ba tháng chín, thủ tướng Úc Rober Gordon Menzies nói chuyện trên đài giải thích cho nhân dân hiểu được cuộc xâm lược Ba Lan cuối cùng đã buộc Anh tuyên chiến với Hitler và Úc không thể đứng ngoài cuộc xung đột.

Sau bài diễn văn của thủ tướng Úc, Bob phát biểu:

- Nếu tính luôn Frank, gia đình chúng ta có tất cả sáu người đàn ông. Ngoại trừ trường hợp Frank, tất cả chúng ta đều được coi là thợ chăn nuôi do đó không được gọi nhập ngũ. Trong số thợ chăn nuôi thuộc quyền chúng ta hiện nay, theo tôi chỉ có sáu người muốn lên đường và hai người ở lại.

- Em muốn đăng ký nhập ngũ! Jack nói to lên, mắt sáng ngời.

- Em cũng thế, tiếng nói của Hughie.

- Và cả hai đứa tụi này nữa! Jims khẳng định thái độ của mình và cho cả Patsy.

- Hợp lý hơn hết là Jims và Patsy vì cả hai trẻ nhất và ít kinh nghiệm nhất trong nghề chăn nuôi, và nếu nhập ngũ thì tất cả chúng ta đều là lính mới. Nhưng cả hai anh em đừng quên rằng mới mười sáu tuổi...

Mặc dù Jims và Patsy phản đối nhưng lúc đó chưa có một thành viên nào của gia đình Cleary lên đường tòng quân.

Phải chờ thêm một năm nữa, chiến tranh mới xâm nhập vào cái thế giới bé nhỏ Drogeda. Trong một năm đó, từng người một, các thợ chăn nuôi từ giã trang trại lên đường nhập ngũ.

Đầu tháng sáu năm 1940, người ta được tin đoàn quân viễn chinh thuộc đế quốc Anh buộc phải rút khỏi Châu Âu qua ngã Dunkerque; những người tình nguyện vào lực lượng thứ hai Hoàng gia Úc đã đổ xô đến các trung tâm tuyển mộ Trong số đó có Jims và Patsy cả hai đăng ký ở Dubbo nhưng được chuyển đến trại huấn luyện ở Ingleburn, ngoại ô Sydney. Gia đình có mặt đông đủ để tiễn Jims và Patsy lên tàu hỏa.

Jims và Patsy được sung vào sư đoàn 9 Úc theo yêu cầu của họ và được gởi đến chiến trường Ai Cập đầu năm 1941 vừa kịp lúc tham gia vào trận Benghazi. Giữa lúc các lực lượng Anh rút lui dưới áp lực của Afrika Korps - đoàn quân Đức quốc xã tinh nhuệ của tướng Rommel - thì sư đoàn 9 Úc được lệnh chiếm và tử chiến bảo vệ Tobruk.

Trong khi đó tại Drogheda, Meggie nhận được thư của Luke cho biết hắn vẫn làm cái công việc đốn mía, Luke nói rõ trong thư cho Meggie an lòng đừng sợ anh ta bị nhập ngũ. Nội dung bức thư cho thấy Luke coi như chẳng có gì xảy ra sau cái ngày Meggie đã nói với hắn như tát nước vào mặt tại khách sạn ở Ingham. Với một nụ cười chán ngấy, Meggie lắc đầu rồi ném lá thư của Luke vào giỏ giấy vụn.

Năm 1941 thật tệ hại cho Drogheda. Đây là năm thứ năm liên tiếp bị hạn hán. Meggie, Bob, Jack, Hughie và Fiona gần như bó tay. Tiền của trang trại Drogheda gởi trong ngân hàng vẫn đủ để mua thức ăn cứu sống những đàn cừu nhưng phần nhiều chúng lại không chịu ăn. Mỗi đàn cừu đều có một con đầu đàn, một thứ thủ lĩnh tự nhiên của chúng. Phải ép cho được con này chịu ăn thì các con còn lại mới ăn theo. Nhưng tình trạng nguy ngập đến nỗi có những lúc con cừu đầu đàn chịu ăn thế mà các con cừu còn lại vẫn không thèm ngó ngàng đến thức ăn để sẵn trong các bãi. Trang trại Drogheda chỉ còn giữ được một người thợ chăn nuôi duy nhất. Meggie phải có mặt bảy ngày trong một tuần ở các bãi chăn. Mặc dù Meggie dành rất ít thời giờ để chăm sóc Justine và Dane nhưng hai đứa trẻ vẫn được nuôi chu đáo. Nàng vẫn nghĩ lúc này Bob cần nàng nhiều hơn hai đứa con. Nhưng thật sự Justine và Dane rất thèm được mẹ ẵm bồng gần gũi. Có khi cả tuần liền Meggie không thấy mặt con vì từ các bãi chăn về nhà lúc nào trời cũng đã tối sẫm. Thế nhưng mỗi lần ngắm nhìn Dane, lòng Meggie xao xuyến lạ lùng. Thật là một thằng bé tuyệt vời, hình như luôn luôn mỉm cười với mẹ. Ở Dane thoát lên sự hân hoan và tự tin kết hợp với sự nghiêm nghị của người lớn. ít có chuyện gì có thể làm cho nó giận dữ. Dưới cái nhìn của Meggie có những lúc nó giống Ralph một cách đáng kinh ngạc nhưng rất may không ai chú ý điều này. Ralph đã rời Gillanbone từ lâu.

Justine rất yêu em. Dane muốn gì Justine cũng chìu. Khi Dane mới biết đi chập chững, Justine không rời em một bước.

Thiếu mẹ, Justine và Dane càng gắn bó với nhau.

° ° °

Ngày Giáng Sinh năm 1941, Hồng Kông thất thủ. Sau đó tin quân Nhật đã đổ bộ lên Mã Lai và Phi Luật Tân. Rồi ngày 8 tháng 7 năm 1942, quân Nhật vượt qua eo biển Johore, đặt chân liên phía bắc Singabore và chiếm thành phố này không tốn một viên đạn.

Đến đây, thủ tướng Úc Curtin bất chấp sự nỗi giận của thủ tướng Anh Churchill đòi rút tất cả lực lượng của Úc ở Bắc châu Phi về nước. Ông tuyên bố đã đến lúc nước Úc cần những đứa con của mình để bảo vệ quê hương. Tin này mang lại cho Fiona hy vọng sớm gặp lại hai đứa con trai út của bà. Nhưng thật không may, tình hình ở Bắc Phi bỗng xấu đi, cuối cùng sư đoàn của Úc bị kẹt lại không thể rút ngaỵ Điều bất ngờ là với một lực lượng huấn luyện chưa tốt, trạng bị thiếu thốn, nhưng sư đoàn 9 Úc đã hai lần đối đầu thành công trước lực lượng hùng hổ của Rommel. Cuối năm 1942, sư đoàn 9 Úc được gọi về, chuẩn bị sang Tân Guinee đối đầu với bọn Nhật. Jims và Patsy trở về nước bình yên. Dĩ nhiên là hai anh em được phép về thăm Drogheda. Bob ra ga đón Jims và Patsy. Khi chiếc xe Rolls tiến vào trong sân nhà thì mọi phụ nữ trong trang trại đều có mặt, Jack và Hughie đứng hơi tụt đằng sau. Hôm nay là ngày lễ, dù cho tất cả cừu ở Drogheda ngã lăn ra chết cũng mặc kệ.

Xe đã dừng lại rồi nhưng vẫn không có một ai nhúc nhích, đến khi hai anh em song sinh từ trên xe bước xuống mọi người vẫn đứng yên. Hai năm sống trên sa mạc đã thay đổi hẳn Jims và Patsy. Cả hai cao hơn các anh một cái đầu, không còn là những chàng trai vị thành niên nữa, Jims và Patsy đã trở thành những người đàn ông; nhưng là những người đàn ông không giống cái kiểu Bob, Jack và Hughie. Thử thách về nhiều mặt, hưng phấn của chiến trường, với những cái chết bi thảm được chứng kiến đã biến Jims và Patsy thành những con người mà Drogheda không thể nào tạo nên được.

- Con trai của mẹ! Các con trai của mẹ! Bà Fiona gọi to lên, mặt đầy nước mắt chạy đến ôm hai con.

Bất cần chúng đã làm gì, chúng đã thay đổi đến đâu, chúng vẫn là những đứa con nhỏ bé mà bà đã tắm rửa, thay tã, đút ăn, mà bà đã dỗ dành khi chúng khóc, ôm ấp khi chúng về nhà mang những thương tích. Nhưng những thương tích hằn lên chúng bây giờ đã vượt khỏi khả năng chăm sóc của bà.

Drogheda đã mở tiệc khoản đãi Jims và Patsy. Có điều rất lạ là cả hai rất thích kể chuyện hàng giờ về Bắc Phi, về cách ăn ở những nơi mà chúng đã đặt chân đến, về viện bảo tàng ở Cairo, về cuộc sống trong quân ngũ nhưng tuyệt đối không đề cập đến những trận đánh nhau. Bất đắc dĩ cả hai mới trả lời qua loa về những trận ác liệt diễn ra tại Gazala, Benghazi, Tobruk, El Alamein. Các bà các cô quây quanh hai người anh hùng của dòng họ Cleary nhưng cả hai đều tìm cách lẩn trốn, sợ hãi hơn cả khi ra trận.

Meggie rất vui thấy Jims và Patsy đùa chơi hàng giờ với Dane. Còn Justine, chúng tỏ ra rụt rè và vụng về cũng như khi đối đầu với phái nữ nói chung.

Jims theo dõi chị mình đang nhìn âu yếm Dane. Thằng bé cười như pháo nổ vì Patsy đang đùa với nó.

- Chị đừng bao giờ để nó rời khỏi Drogheda. Jims nói thấp giọng. Ở Drogheda, nó sẽ có một cuộc sống bình yên, không thể xảy ra điều gì bất hạnh cho nó.

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Phần tiếng Anh

The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough

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FIVE

1938-1953 FEE

5.1

 

Not wanting anyone to know of her return, Meggie rode out to Drogheda on the mail truck with old Bluey Williams, Justine in a basket on the seat beside her. Bluey was delighted to see her and eager to know what she had been doing for the last four years, but as they neared the homestead he fell silent, divining her wish to come home in peace.

Back to brown and silver, back to dust, back to that wonderful purity and spareness North Queensland so lacked. No profligate growth here, no hastening of decay to make room for more; only a slow, wheeling inevitability like the constellations. Kangaroos, more than ever. Lovely little symmetrical wilgas, round and matronly, almost coy. Galahs, soaring in pink waves of undersides above the truck. Emus at full run. Rabbits, hopping out of the road with white powder puffs lashing cheekily. Bleached skeletons of dead trees in the grass. Mirages of timber stands on the far curving horizon as they came across the Dibban-Dibban plain, only the unsteady blue lines across their bases to indicate that the trees weren't real. The sound she had so missed but never thought to miss, crows carking desolately. Misty brown veils of dust whipped along by the dry autumn wind like dirty rain. And the grass, the silver-beige grass of the Great Northwest, stretching to the sky like a benediction.

Drogheda, Drogheda! Ghost gums and sleepy giant pepper trees a- hum with bees. Stockyards and buttery yellow sandstone buildings, alien green lawn around the big house, autumn flowers in the garden, wallflowers and zinnias, asters and dahlias, marigolds and calendulas, chrysanthemums, roses, roses. The gravel of the backyard, Mrs. Smith standing gaping, then laughing, crying, Minnie and Cat running, old stringy arms like chains around her heart. For Drogheda was home, and here was her heart, for always. Fee came out to see what all the fuss was about. “Hello, Mum. I've come home.”

The grey eyes didn't change, but in the new growth of her soul Meggie understood. Mum was glad; she just didn't know how to show it. “Have you left Fuke?” Fee asked, taking it for granted that Mrs. Smith and the maids were as entitled to know as she was herself. “Yes. I shall never go back to him. He didn't want a home, or his children, or me.”

“Children?”

“Yes. I'm going to have another baby.”

Oohs and aahs from the servants, and Fee speaking her judgment in that measured voice, gladness underneath.

“If he doesn't want you, then you were right to come home. We can look after you here.”

Her old room, looking out across the Home Paddock, the gardens. And a room next door for Justine, the new baby when it came. Oh, it was so good to be home!

Bob was glad to see her, too. More and more like Paddy, he was becoming a little bent and sinewy as the sun baked his skin and his bones to dryness. He had the same gentle strength of character, but perhaps because he had never been the progenitor of a large family, he lacked Paddy's fatherly mien. And he was like Fee, also. Quiet, self-contained, not one to air his feelings or opinions. He had to be into his middle thirties, Meggie thought in sudden surprise, and still he wasn't married. Then Jack and Hughie came in, two duplicate Bobs without his authority, their shy smiles welcoming her home. That must be it, she reflected; they are so shy, it is the land, for the land doesn't need articulateness or social graces. It needs only what they bring to it, voiceless love and wholehearted fealty.

The Cleary men were all home that night, to unload a truck of corn Jims and Patsy had picked up from the AMLANDF in Gilly.

“I've never seen it so dry, Meggie,” Bob said. “No rain in two years, not a drop. And the bunnies are a bigger curse than the kangas; they're eating more grass than sheep and kangas combined. We're going to try to hand-feed, but you know what sheep are.” Only too well did Meggie know what sheep were. Idiots, incapable of understanding even the rudiments of survival. What little brain the original animal had ever possessed was entirely bred out of these woolly aristocrats. Sheep wouldn't eat anything but grass, or scrub cut from their natural environment. But there just weren't enough hands to cut scrub to satisfy over a hundred thousand sheep.

“I take it you can use me?” she asked.

“Can we! You'll free up a man's hands for scrubcutting, Meggie, if you'll ride the inside paddocks the way you used to.”

True as their word, the twins were home for good. At fourteen they quit Riverview forever, couldn't head back to the black-oil plains quickly enough. Already they looked like juvenile Bobs, Jacks and Hughies, in what was gradually replacing the old-fashioned grey twill and flannel as the uniform of the Great Northwest grazier: white moleskin breeches, white shirt, a flat-crowned grey felt hat with a broad brim, and ankle-high elastic-sided riding boots with flat heels. Only the handful of half-caste aborigines who lived in Gilly's shanty section aped the cowboys of the American West, in high-heeled fancy boots and ten-gallon Stetsons. To a black-soil plainsman such gear was a useless affectation, a part of a different culture. A man couldn't walk through the scrub in high-heeled boots, and a man often had to walk through the scrub. And a ten- gallon Stetson was far too hot and heavy. The chestnut mare and the black gelding were both dead; the stables were empty. Meggie insisted she was happy with a stock horse, but Bob went over to Martin King's to buy her two of his part-thoroughbred hacks coma creamy mare with a black mane and tail, and a leggy chestnut gelding. For some reason the loss of the old chestnut mare hit Meggie harder than her actual parting from Ralph, a delayed reaction; as if in this the fact of his going was more clearly stated. But it was so good to be out in the paddocks again, to ride with the dogs, eat the dust of a bleating mob of sheep, watch the birds, the sky, the land.

It was terribly dry. Drogheda's grass had always managed to outlast the droughts Meggie remembered, but this was different. The grass was patchy now; in between its tussocks the dark ground showed, cracked into a fine network of fissures gaping like parched mouths. For which mostly thank the rabbits. In the four years of her absence they had suddenly multiplied out of all reason, though she supposed they had been bad for many years before that. It was just that almost overnight their numbers had reached far beyond saturation point. They were everywhere, and they, too, ate the precious grass. She learned to set rabbit traps, hating in a way to see the sweet little things mangled in steel teeth, but too much of a land person herself to flinch from doing what had to be done. To kill in the name of survival wasn't cruelty.

“God rot the homesick Pommy who shipped the first rabbits out from England,” said Bob bitterly.

They were not native to Australia, and their sentimental importation had completely upset the ecological balance of the continent where sheep and cattle had not, these being scientifically grazed from the moment of their introduction. There was no natural Australian predator to control the rabbit numbers, and imported foxes didn't thrive. Man must be an unnatural predator, but there were too few men, too many rabbits.

After Meggie grew too big to sit a horse, she spent her days in the homestead with Mrs. Smith, Minnie and Cat, sewing or knitting for the little thing squirming inside her. He (she always thought of it as he) was a part of her as Justine never had been; she suffered no sickness or depression, and looked forward eagerly to bearing him. Perhaps Justine was inadvertently responsible for some of this; now that the little pale-eyed thing was changing from a mindless baby to an extremely intelligent girl child, Meggie found herself fascinated with the process and the child. It was a long time since she had been indifferent to Justine, and she yearned to lavish love upon her daughter, hug her, kiss her, laugh with her. To be politely rebuffed was a shock, but that was what Justine did at every affectionate overture. When Jims and Patsy left Riverview, Mrs. Smith had thought to get them back under her wing again, then came the disappointment of discovering they were away in the paddocks most of the time. So Mrs. Smith turned to little Justine, and found herself as firmly shut out as Meggie was. It seemed that Justine didn't want to be hugged, kissed or made to laugh. She walked and talked early, at nine months. Once upon her feet and in command of a very articulate tongue, she proceeded to go her own way and do precisely whatever she wanted. Not that she was either noisy or defiant; simply that she was made of very hard metal indeed. Meggie knew nothing about genes, but if she had she might have pondered upon the result of an intermingling of Cleary, Armstrong and O'neill. It couldn't fail to be powerful human soup.

But the most dismaying thing was Justine's dogged refusal to smile or laugh. Every soul on Drogheda turned inside out performing antics to make her germinate a grin, without success. When it came to innate solemnity she outdid her grandmother. On the first of October, when Justine was exactly sixteen months old, Meggie's son was born on Drogheda. He was almost four weeks early and not expected; there were two or three sharp contractions, the water broke, and he was delivered by Mrs. Smith and Fee a few minutes after they rang for the doctor. Meggie had scarcely, had time to dilate. The pain was minimal, the ordeal so quickly over it might hardly have been; in spite of the stitches she had to have because his entry into the world had been so precipitate, Meggie felt wonderful. Totally dry for Justine, her breasts were full to overflowing. No need for bottles or tins of Lactogen this time. And he was so beautiful! Long and slender, with a quiff of flaxen hair atop his perfect little skull, and vivid blue eyes which gave no hint of changing later to some other color. How could they change? They were Ralph's eyes, as he had Ralph's hands, Ralph's nose and mouth, even Ralph's feet. Meggie was unprincipled enough to be very thankful Luke had been much the same build and coloring as Ralph, much the same in features. But the hands, the way the brows grew in, the downy widow's peak, the shape of the fingers and toes; they were so much Ralph, so little Luke. Better hope no one remembered which man owned what.

“Have you decided- on his name?” asked Fee; he seemed to fascinate her. Meggie watched her as she stood holding him, and was grateful. Mum was going to love again; oh, maybe not the way she had loved Frank, but at least she would feel something.

“I'm going to call him Dane.”

“What a queer name! Why? Is it an O'neill family name? I thought you were finished with the O'neills?”

“It's got nothing to do with Luke. This is his name, no one else's. I hate family names; it's like wishing a piece of someone different onto a new person. I called Justine Justine simply because I liked the name, and I'm calling Dane Dane for the same reason.

“Well, it does have a nice ring to it,” Fee admitted. Meggie winced; her breasts were too full. “Better give him to me, Mum. Oh, I hope he's hungry! And I hope old Blue remembers to bring that breast pump. Otherwise you're going to have to drive into Gilly for it.”

He was hungry; he tugged at her so hard his gummy little mouth hurt. Looking down on him, the closed eyes with their dark, gold-tipped lashes, the feathery brows, the tiny working cheeks, Meggie loved him so much the love hurt her more than his sucking ever could.

He is enough; he has to be enough, I'll not get any more. But by God, Ralph de Bricassart, by that God you love more than me, you'll never know what I stole from you-and from Him. I'm never going to tell you about Dane. Oh, my baby! Shifting on the pillows to settle him more comfortably into the crook of her arm, to see more easily that perfect little face. My baby! You're mine, and I'm never going to give you up to anyone else. Least of all to your father, who is a priest and can't acknowledge you. Isn't that wonderful?

° ° °

The boat docked in Genoa at the beginning of April. Archbishop Ralph landed in an Italy bursting into full, Mediterranean spring, and caught a train to Rome. Had he requested it he could have been met, chauffeured in a Vatican car to Rome, but he dreaded to feel the Church close around him again; he wanted to put the moment off as long as he could. The Eternal City. It was truly that, he thought, staring out of the taxi windows at the campaniles and domes, and pigeon-strewn plazas, the ambitious fountains, the Roman columns with their bases buried deep in the centuries. Well, to him they were all superfluities. What mattered to him was the part of Rome called the Vatican, its sumptuous public rooms, its anything but sumptuous private rooms.

A black-and-cream-robed Dominican monk led him through high marble corridors, amid bronze and stone figures worthy of a museum, past great paintings in the styles of Giotto, Raphael, Botticelli, Fra Angelico. He was in the public rooms of a great cardinal, and no doubt the wealthy Contini-Verchese family had given much to enhance their august scion's surroundings.

In a room of ivory and gold, rich with color from tapestries and pictures, French carpeted and furnished, everywhere touches of crimson, sat Vittorio Scarbanza, Cardinal di Contini-Verchese. The small smooth hand, its ruby ring glowing, was extended to him in welcome; glad to fix his eyes downward, Archbishop Ralph crossed the room, knelt, took the hand to kiss the ring. And laid his cheek against the hand, knowing he couldn't lie, though he had meant to right up until the moment his lips touched that symbol of spiritual power, temporal authority.

Cardinal Vittorio put his other hand on the bent shoulder, nodding a dismissal to the monk, then as the door closed softly his hand went from shoulder to hair, rested in its dark thickness, smoothed it back tenderly from the half-averted forehead. It had changed; soon it would be no longer black, but the color of iron. The bent spine stiffened, the shoulders went back, and Archbishop Ralph looked directly up into his master's face. Ah, there had been a change! The mouth had drawn in, knew pain and was more vulnerable; the eyes, so beautiful in color and shape and setting, were yet completely different from the eyes he still remembered as if bodily they had never left him. Cardinal Vittorio had always had a fancy that the eyes of Jesus were blue, and like Ralph's: calm, removed from what He saw and therefore able to encompass all, understand all. But perhaps it had been a mistaken fancy. How could one feel for humanity and suffer oneself without its showing in the eyes?

“Come, Ralph, sit down.”

“Your Eminence, I wish to confess.”

“Later, later! First we will talk, and in English. There are ears everywhere these days, but, thank our dear Jesus, not English- speaking ears. Sit down, Ralph, please. Oh, it is so good to see you! I have missed your wise counsel, your rationality, your perfect brand of companionship. They have not given me anyone I like half so well as you.”

He could feel his brain clicking into the formality already, feel the very thoughts in his mind take on more stilted phrasing; more than most people, Ralph de Bricassart knew how everything about one changed with one's company, even one's speech. Not for these ears the easy fluency of colloquial English. So he sat down not far away, and directly opposite the slight figure in its scarlet moire, the color changing yet not changing, of a quality which made its edges fuse with the surroundings rather than stand out from them. The desperate weariness he had known for weeks seemed to be easing a little from his shoulders; he wondered why he had dreaded this meeting so, when he had surely known in his heart he would be understood, forgiven. But that wasn't it, not it at all. It was his own guilt at having failed, at being less than he had aspired to be, at disappointing a man who had been interested, tremendously kind, a true friend. His guilt at walking into this pure presence no longer pure himself.

“Ralph, we are priests, but we are something else before that; something we were before we became priests, and which we cannot escape in spite of our exclusiveness. We are men, with the weaknesses and failings of men. There is nothing you can tell me which could alter the impressions I formed of you during our years together, nothing you could tell me which will make me think less of you, or like you less. For many years I have known that you had escaped this realization of our intrinsic weakness, of our humanity, but I knew you must come to it, for we all do. Even the Holy Father, who is the most humble and human of us all.”

“I broke my vows, Your Eminence. That isn't easily forgiven. It's sacrilege.”

“Poverty you broke years ago, when you accepted the bequest of Mrs. Mary Carson. Which leaves cha/y and obedience, does it not?” “Then all three were broken, Your Eminence.”

“I wish you would call me Vittorio, as you used to! I am not shocked, Ralph, nor disappointed. It is as Our Lord Jesus Christ wills, and I think perhaps you had a great lesson to learn which could not be learned in any way less destructive. God is mysterious, His reasons beyond our poor comprehension. But I think what you did was not done lightly, your vows thrown away as having no value. I know you very well. I know you to be proud, very much in love with the idea of being a priest, very conscious of your exclusiveness. It is possible that you needed this particular lesson to reduce that pride, make you understand that you are first a man, and therefore not as exclusive as you think. Is it not so?” “Yes. I lacked humility, and I believe in a way I aspired to be God Himself. I've sinned most grievously and inexcusably. I can't forgive myself, so how can I hope for divine forgiveness?”

“The pride, Ralph, the pride! It is not your place to forgive, do you not understand that yet? Only God can forgive. Only God! And He will forgive if the sincere repentance is there. He has forgiven greater sins from far greater saints, you know, as well as from far greater villains. Do you think Prince Lucifer is not forgiven? He was forgiven in the very moment of his rebellion. His fate as ruler of Hell is his own, not God's doing. Did he not say it? “Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven!” For he could not overcome his pride, he could not bear to subjugate his will to the Will of Someone else, even though that Someone was God Himself. I do not want to see you make the same mistake, my dearest friend. Humility was the one quality you lacked, and it is the very quality which makes a great saint-or a great man. Until you can leave the matter of forgiveness to God, you will not have acquired true humility.” The strong face twisted. “Yes, I know you're right. I must accept what I am without question, only strive to be better without having pride in what I am. I repent, therefore I shall confess and await forgiveness. I do repent, bitterly.” He sighed; his eyes betrayed the conflict his measured words couldn't, not in this room.

“And yet, Vittorio, in a way there was nothing else I could do.

Either I ruined her, or I took the ruin upon myself. At the time there didn't seem to be a choice, because I do love her. It wasn't her fault that I've never wanted the love to extend to a physical plane. Her fate became more important than my own, you see. Until that moment I had always considered myself first, as more important than she, because I was a priest, and she was a lesser being. But I saw that I was responsible for what she is .... I should have let her go when she was a child, but I didn't. I kept her in my heart and she knew it. If I had truly plucked her out she would have known that, too, and she would have become someone I couldn't influence.” He smiled. “You see that I have much to repent. I tried a little creating of my own.”

“It was the Rose?”

The head went back; Archbishop Ralph looked at the elaborate ceiling with its gilded moldings and baroque Murano chandelier. “Could it have been anyone else? She's my only attempt at creation.”

“And will she be all right, the Rose? Did you do her more harm by this than in denying her?”

“I don't know, Vittorio. I wish I did! At the time it just seemed the only thing to do. I'm not gifted with Promethean foresight, and emotional involvement makes one a poor judge. Besides, it simply . . . happened! But I think perhaps she needed most what I gave her, the recognition of her identity as a woman. I don't mean that she didn't know she was a woman. I mean 1 didn't know. If I had first met her as a woman it might have been different, but I knew her as a child for many years.”

“You sound rather priggish, Ralph, and not yet ready for forgiveness. It hurts, does it not? That you could have been human enough to yield to human weakness. Was it really done in such a spirit of noble self-sacrifice?” Startled, he looked into the liquid dark eyes, saw himself reflected in them as two tiny manikins of insignificant proportion. “No,” he said. “I'm a man, and as a man I found a pleasure in her I didn't dream existed. I didn't know a woman felt like that, or could be the source of such profound joy. I wanted never to leave her, not only because of her body, but because I just loved to be with her-talk to her, not talk to her, eat the meals she cooked, smile at her, share her thoughts. I shall miss her as long as I live.” There was something in the sallow ascetic visage which unaccountably reminded him of Meggie's face in that moment of parting; the sight of a spiritual burden being taken up, the resoluteness of a character well able to go forward in spite of its loads, its griefs, its pain. What had he known, the red silk cardinal whose only human addiction seemed to be his languid Abyssinian cat?

“I can't repent of what I had with her in that way,” Ralph went on when His Eminence didn't speak. “I repent the breaking of vows as solemn and binding as my life. I can never again approach my priestly duties in the same light, with the same zeal. I repent that bitterly. But Meggie?” The look on his face when he uttered her name made Cardinal Vittorio turn away to do battle with his own thoughts.

“To repent of Meggie would be to murder her.” He passed his hand tiredly across his eyes. “I don't know if that's very clear, or even if it gets close to saying what I mean. I can't for the life of me ever seem to express what I feel for Meggie adequately.” He leaned forward in his chair as the Cardinal turned back, and watched his twin images grow a little larger. Vittorio's eyes were like mirrors; they threw back what they saw and didn't permit one a glimpse of what went on behind them. Meggie's eyes were exactly the opposite; they went down and down and down, all the way to her soul. “Meggie is a benediction,” he said. “She's a holy thing to me, a different kind of sacrament.”

“Yes, I understand,” sighed the Cardinal. “It is well you feel so. In Our Lord's eyes I think it will mitigate the great sin. For your own sake you had better confess to Father Giorgio, not to Father Guillermo. Father Giorgio will not misinterpret your feelings and your reasoning. He will see the truth. Father Guillermo is less perceptive, and might deem your true repentance debatable.” A faint smile crossed his thin mouth like a wispy shadow. “They, too, are men, my Ralph, those who hear the confessions of the great. Never forget it as long as you live. Only in their priesthood do they act as vessels containing God. In all else they are men. And the forgiveness they mete out comes from God, but the ears which listen and judge belong to men.”

There was a discreet knock on the door; Cardinal Vittorio sat silently and watched the tea tray being carried to a buhl table. “You see, Ralph? Since my days in Australia I have become addicted to the afternoon tea habit. They make it quite well in my kitchen, though they used not to at first.” He held up his hand as Archbishop Ralph started to move toward the teapot. “Ah, no! I shall pour it myself. It amuses me to be 'mother.”“

“I saw a great many black shirts in the streets of Genoa and Rome,” said Archbishop Ralph, watching Cardinal Vittorio pour. “The special cohorts of II Duce. We have a very difficult time ahead of us, my Ralph. The Holy Father is adamant that there be no fracture between the Church and the secular government of Italy, and he is right in this as in ail things. No matter what happens, we must remain free to minister to all our children, even should a war mean our children will be divided, fighting each other in the name of a Catholic God. Wherever our hearts and our emotions might lie, we must endeavor always to keep the Church removed from political ideologies and international squabbles. I wanted you to come to me because I can trust your face not to give away what your brain is thinking no matter what your eyes might be seeing, and because you have the best diplomatic turn of mind I have ever encountered.”

Archbishop Ralph smiled ruefully. “You'll further my career in spite of me, won't you! I wonder what would have happened to me if I hadn't met you?” “Oh, you would have become Archbishop of Sydney, a nice post and an important one,” said His Eminence with a golden smile. “But the ways of our lives lie not in our hands. We met because it was meant to be, just as it is meant that we work together now for the Holy Father.”

“I can't see success at the end of the road,” said Archbishop Ralph.

“I think the result will be what the result of impartiality always is. No one will like us, and everyone will condemn us.”

“I know that, so does His Holiness. But we can do nothing else. And there is nothing to prevent our praying in private for the speedy downfall of Duce and Der Fuehrer, is there?”

“Do you really think there will be war?”

“I cannot see any possibility of avoiding it.”

His Eminence's cat stalked out of the sunny corner where it had been sleeping, and jumped upon the scarlet shimmering lap a little awkwardly, for it was old.

“Ah, Sheba! Say hello to your old friend Ralph, whom you used to prefer to me.”

The satanic yellow eyes regarded Archbishop Ralph haughtily, and closed. Both men laughed.

° ° °

Drogheda had a wireless set. Progress had finally come to Gillanbone in the shape of an Australian Broadcasting Commission radio station, and at long last there was something to rival the party line for mass entertainment. The wireless itself was a rather ugly object in a walnut case which sat on a small exquisite cabinet in the drawing room, its car-battery power source hidden in the cupboard underneath.

Every morning Mrs. Smith, Fee and Meggie turned it on to listen to the Gillanbone district news and weather, and every evening Fee and Meggie turned it on to listen to the ABC national news. How strange it was to be instantaneously connected with Outside; to hear of floods, fires, rainfall in every part of the nation, an uneasy Europe, Australian politics, without benefit of Bluey Williams and his aged newspapers. When the national news on Friday, September 1/, announced that Hitler had invaded Poland, only Fee and Meggie were home to hear it, and neither of them paid any attention. There had been speculation for months; besides, Europe was half a world away. Nothing to do with Drogheda, which was the center of the universe. But on Sunday, September 3rd all the men were in from the paddocks to hear Father Watty Thomas say Mass, and the men were interested in Europe. Neither Fee nor Meggie thought to tell them of Friday's news, and Father Watty, who might have, left in a hurry for Narrengang.

As usual, the wireless set was switched on that evening for the national news. But instead of the crisp, absolutely Oxford tones of the announcer, there came the genteel, unmistakably Australian voice of the Prime Minister, Robert Gordon Menzies.

“Fellow Australians. It is my melancholy duty to inform you officially that in consequence of the persistence by Germany in her invasion of Poland, Great Britain has declared war upon her, and that, as a result, Australia is also at war ....

“It may be taken that Hitler's ambition is not to unite all the German people under one rule, but to bring under that rule as many countries as can be subdued by force. If this is to go on, there can be no security in Europe and no peace in the world .... There can be no doubt that where Great Britain stands, there stand the people of the entire British world .... “Our staying power, and that of the Mother Country, will be best assisted by keeping our production going, continuing our avocations and business, maintaining employment, and with it, our strength. I know that in spite of the emotions we are feeling, Australia is ready to see it through. “May God, in His mercy and compassion, grant that the world may soon be delivered from this agony.”

There was a long silence in the drawing room, broken by the megaphonal tones of a short-wave Neville Chamberlain speaking to the British people; Fee and Meggie looked at their men.

“If we count Frank, there are six of us,” said Bob into the silence. “All of us except Frank are on the land, which means they won't want to let us serve. Of our present stockmen, I reckon six will want to go and two will want to stay.”

“I want to go!” said Jack, eyes shining.

“And me,” said Hughie eagerly.

“And us,” said Jims on behalf of himself and the inarticulate Patsy. But they all looked at Bob, who was the boss. “We've got to be sensible,” he said. “Wool is a staple of war, and not only for clothes. It's used as packing in ammunition and explosives, for all sorts of funny things we don't hear of, I'm sure. Plus we have beef cattle for food, and the old wethers and ewes go for hides, glue, tallow, lanolin-all war staples.

“So we can't go off and leave Drogheda to run itself, no matter what we might want to do. With a war on it's going to be mighty hard to replace the stockmen we're bound to lose. The drought's in its third year, we're scrub-cutting, and the bunnies are driving us silly. For the moment our job's here on Drogheda; not very exciting compared to getting into action, but just as necessary. We'll be doing our best bit here.”

The male faces had fallen, the female ones lightened. “What if it goes on longer than old Pig Iron Bob thinks it will?” asked Hughie, giving the Prime Minister his national nickname. Bob thought hard, his weatherbeaten visage full of frowning lines. “If things get worse and it goes on for a long time, then I reckon as long as we've got two stockmen we can spare two Clearys, but only if Meggie's willing to get back into proper harness and work the inside paddocks. It would be awfully hard and in good times we wouldn't stand a chance, but in this drought I reckon five men and Meggie working seven days a week could run Drogheda. Yet that's asking a lot of Meggie, with two little babies.” “If it has to be done, Bob, it has to be done,” said Meggie. “Mrs. Smith won't mind doing her bit by taking charge of Justine and Dane. When you give the word that I'm needed to keep Drogheda up to full production, I'll start riding the inside paddocks.”

“Then that's us, the two who can be spared,” said Jims, smiling.

“No, it's Hughie and I,” said Jack quickly.

“By rights it ought to be Jims and Patsy,” Bob said slowly. “You're the youngest and least experienced as stockmen, where as soldiers we'd all be equally inexperienced. But you're only sixteen now, chaps.”

“By the time things get worse we'll be seventeen,” offered Jims. “We'll look older than we are, so we won't have any trouble enlisting if we've got a letter from you witnessed by Harry Gough.”

“Well, right at the moment no one is going. Let's see if we can't bring Drogheda up to higher production, even with the drought and the bunnies.” Meggie left the room quietly, went upstairs to the nursery. Dane and Justine were asleep, each in a whitepainted cot. She passed her daughter by, and stood over her son, looking down at him for a long time. “Thank God you're only a baby,” she said.

It was almost a year before the war intruded upon the little Drogheda universe, a year during which one by one the stockmen left, the rabbits continued to multiply, and Bob battled valiantly to keep the station books looking worthy of a wartime effort. But at the beginning of June 1940 came the news that the British Expeditionary Force had been evacuated from the European mainland at Dunkirk; volunteers for the second Australian Imperial Force poured in thousands into the recruiting centers, Jims and Patsy among them.

Four years of riding the paddocks in all weathers had passed the twins' faces and bodies beyond youth, to that ageless calm of creases at the outer corners of the eyes, lines down the nose to the mouth. They presented their letters and were accepted without comment. Bushmen were popular. They could usually shoot well, knew the value of obeying an order, and they were tough. Jims and Patsy had enlisted in Dubbo, but camp was to be Ingleburn, outside Sydney, so everyone saw them off on the night mail. Cormac Carmichael, Eden's youngest son, was on the same train for the same reason, going to the same camp as it turned out. So the two families packed their boys comfortably into a first-class compartment and stood around awkwardly, aching to weep and kiss and have something warming to remember, but stifled by their peculiar British mistrust of demonstrativeness. The big C-36 steam locomotive howled mournfully, the stationmaster began blowing his whistle.

Meggie leaned over to peck her brothers on their cheeks self consciously, then did the same to Cormac, who looked just like his oldest brother, Connor; Bob, Jack and Hughie wrung three different young hands; Mrs. Smith, weeping, was the only one who did the kissing and cuddling everyone was dying to do. Eden Carmichael, his wife and aging but still handsome daughter with him, went through the same formalities. Then everyone was outside on the Gilly platform, the train was jerking against its buffers and creeping forward. “Goodbye, goodbye!” everyone called, and waved big white handkerchiefs until the train was a smoky streak in the shimmering sunset distance. Together as they had requested, Jims and Patsy were gazetted to the raw, half-trained Ninth Australian Division and shipped to Egypt at the beginning of 1941, just in time to become a part of the rout at Benghazi. The newly arrived General Erwin Rommel had put his formidable weight on the Axis end of the seesaw and begun the first reversal of direction in the great cycling rushes back and forth across North Africa. And, while the rest of the British forces retreated ignominiously ahead of the new Afrika Korps back to Egypt, the Ninth Australian Division was detailed to occupy and hold Tobruk, an outpost in Axis-held territory. The only thing which made the plan feasible was that it was still accessible by sea and could be supplied as long as British ships could move in the Mediterranean. The Rats of Tobruk holed up for eight months, and saw action after action as Rommel threw everything he had at them from time to, time, without managing to dislodge them.

“Do youse know why youse is here?” asked Private Col Stuart, licking the paper on his cigarette and rolling it shut lazily. Sergeant Bob Malloy shifted his Digger hat far enough upward to see his questioner from under its brim. “Shit, no,” he said, grinning; it was an oft-asked query.

“Well, it's better than whiting gaiters in the bloody glasshouse,” said Private Jims Cleary, pulling his twin brother's shorts down a little so he could rest his head comfortably on soft warm belly. “Yair, but in the glasshouse youse don't keep getting shot at,” objected Col, flicking his dead match at a sunbathing lizard. “I know this much, mate,” said Bob, rearranging his hat to shade his eyes. “I'd rather get shot at than die of fuckin' boredom.”

They were comfortably, disposed in a dry, gravelly dugout just opposite the mines and barbed wire which cut off the southwest corner of the perimeter; on the other side Rommel hung doggedly on to his single piece of the Tobruk territory. A big .50-caliber Browning machine gun shared the hole with them, cases of ammunition neatly beside it, but no one seemed very energetic or interested in the possibility of attack. Their rifles were propped against one wall, bayonets glittering in the brilliant Tobruk sun.

Flies buzzed everywhere, but all four were Australian bushmen, so Tobruk and North Africa held no surprises in the way of heat, dust or flies. “Just as well youse is twins, Jims,” said Col, throwing pebbles at the lizard, which didn't seem disposed to move. “Youse look like a pair of poofters, all tied up together.” “You're just jealous.” Jims grinned, stroking Patsy's belly. “Patsy's the best pillow in Tobruk.”

“Yair, all right for you, but what about poor Patsy? Go on, Harpo, say something!” Bob teased.

Patsy's white teeth appeared in a smile, but as usual he remained silent. Everyone had tried to get him to talk, but no one had ever succeeded beyond an essential yes or no; in consequence nearly everyone called him Harpo, after the voiceless Marx brother.

“Hear the news?” asked Col suddenly.

“What?”

“The Seventh's Matildas got plastered by the eightyeights at Halfaya. Only gun in the desert big enough to wipe out a Matilda. Went through them big buggers of tanks like a dose of salts.”

“Oh, yeah, tell me another!” said Bob skeptically. “I'm a sergeant and I never heard a whisper, you're a private and you know all about it. Well, mate, there's just nothing Jerry's got capable of wiping out a brigade of Matildas.”

“I was in Morshead's tent on a message from the CO when I heard it come through on the wireless, and it is true,” Col maintained. For a while no one spoke; it was necessary to every inhabitant of a beleaguered outpost like Tobruk that he believe implicitly his own side had sufficient military thrust to get him out. Col's news wasn't very welcome, more so because not one soldier in Tobruk held Rommel lightly. They had resisted his efforts to blow them out because they genuinely believed the Australian fighting man had no peer save a Gurkha, and if faith is nine-tenths of power, they had certainly proved themselves formidable. “Bloody Poms,” said Jims. “What we need in North Africa is more Aussies.” The chorus of agreement was interrupted by an explosion on the rim of the dugout which blew the lizard into nothing and sent the four soldiers diving for the machine gun and their rifles. “Fuckin' Dago grenade, all splinters and no punch,” Bob said with a sigh of relief. “If that was a Hitler special we'd be playing our harps for sure, and wouldn't you like that, eh, Patsy?”

At the beginning of Operation Crusader the Ninth Australian Division was evacuated by sea to Cairo, after a weary, bloody siege which seemed to have accomplished nothing. However, while the Ninth had been holed up inside Tobruk, the steadily swelling ranks of British troops in North Africa had become the British Eighth Army, its new commander General Bernard Law Montgomery.

Fee wore a little silver brooch formed into the rising sun emblem of the AIF; suspended on two chains below it was a silver bar, on which she had two gold stars, one for each son under arms. It assured everyone she met that she, too, was Doing Her Bit for the Country. Because her husband was not a soldier, nor her son, Meggie wasn't entitled to wear a brooch. A letter had come from Luke informing her that he would keep on cutting the sugar; he thought she would like to know in case she had been worried he might join up. There was no indication that he remembered a word of what she had said that morning in the Ingham pub. Laughing wearily and shaking her head, she had dropped the letter in Fee's wastepaper basket, wondering as she did so if Fee worried about her sons under arms. What did she really think of the war? But Fee never said a word, though she wore her brooch every single day, all day. Sometimes a letter would come from Egypt, falling into tatters when it was spread open because the censor's scissors had filled it with neat rectangular holes, once the names of places or regiments. Reading these letters was largely a matter of piecing together much out of-virtually nothing, but they served one purpose which cast all others into the shade: while ever they came, the boys were still alive. There had been no rain. It was as if even the divine elements conspired to blight hope, for 1941 was the fifth year of a disastrous drought. Meggie, Bob, Jack, Hughie and Fee were desperate. The Drogheda bank account was rich enough to buy all the feed necessary to keep the sheep alive, but most of the sheep wouldn't eat. Each mob had a natural leader, the Judas; only if they could persuade the Judas to eat did they stand a hope with the rest, but sometimes even the sight of a chewing Judas couldn't impress the rest of the mob into emulating it.

So Drogheda, too, was seeing its share of bloodletting, and hating it. The grass was all gone, the ground a dark cracked waste lightened only by grey and dunbrown timber stands. They armed themselves with knives as well as rifles; when they saw an animal down someone would cut its throat to spare it a lingering death, eyeless from the crows. Bob put on more cattle and hand-fed them to keep up Drogheda's war effort. There was no profit to be had in it with the price of feed, for the agrarian regions closer in were just as hard hit by lack of rain as the pastoral regions farther out. Crop returns were abysmally low. However, word had come from Rome that they were to do what they could regardless of the cost.

What Meggie hated most of all was the time she had to put in working the paddocks. Drogheda had managed to retain only one of its stockmen, and so far there were no replacements; Australia's greatest shortage had always been manpower. So unless Bob noticed her irritability and fatigue, and gave her Sunday off, Meggie worked the paddocks seven days a week. However, if Bob gave her time off it meant he himself worked harder, so she tried not to let her distress show. It never occurred to her that she could simply refuse to ride as a stockman, plead her babies as an excuse. They were well cared for, and Bob needed her so much more than they did. She didn't have the insight to understand her babies needed her, too; thinking of her longing to be with them as selfishness when they were so well cared for by loving and familiar hands. It was selfish, she told herself. Nor did she have the kind of confidence that might have told her that in her children's eyes she was just as special as they were to her. So she rode the paddocks, and for weeks on end got to see her children only after they were in bed for the night. Whenever Meggie looked at Dane her heart turned over. He was a beautiful child; even strangers on the streets of Gilly remarked on it when Fee took him into town. His habitual expression was a smiling one, his nature a curious combination of quietness and deep, sure happiness; he seemed to have grown into his identity and acquired his self-knowledge with none of the pain children usually experience, for he rarely made mistakes about people or things, and nothing ever exasperated or bewildered him. To his mother his likeness to Ralph was sometimes very frightening, but apparently no one else ever noticed. Ralph had been gone from Gilly for a long time, and though Dane had the same features, the same build, he had one great difference, which tended to cloud the issue. His hair wasn't black like Ralph's, it was a pale gold; not the color of wheat or sunset but the color of Drogheda grass, gold with silver and beige in it.

From the moment she set eyes on him, Justine adored her baby brother. Nothing was too good for Dane, nothing too much trouble to fetch or present in his honor. Once he began to walk she never left his side, for which Meggie was very grateful, worrying that Mrs. Smith and the maids were getting too old to keep a satisfactorily sharp eye on a small boy. On one of her rare Sundays off Meggie took her daughter onto her lap and spoke to her seriously about looking after Dane.

“I can't be here at the homestead to look after him myself,” she said, “so it all depends on you, Justine. He's your baby brother and you must always watch out for him, make sure he doesn't get into danger or trouble.” The light eyes were very intelligent, with none of the rather wandering attention span typical of a four-year old. Justine nodded confidently. “Don't worry, Mum,” she said briskly. “I'll always look after him for you.” “I wish I could myself,” Meggie sighed.

“I don't,” said her daughter smugly. “I like having Dane all to myself. So don't worry. I won't let anything happen to him.”

Meggie didn't find the reassurance a comfort, though it was reassuring. This precocious little scrap was going to steal her son from her, and there was no way she could avert it. Back to the paddocks, while Justine staunchly guarded Dane. Ousted by her own daughter, who was a monster. Who on earth did she take after? Not Luke, not herself, not Fee. At least these days she was smiling and laughing. She was four years old before she saw anything funny in anything, and that she ever did was probably due to Dane, who had laughed from babyhood. Because he laughed, so did she. Meggie's children learned from each other all the time. But it was galling, knowing they could get on without their mother very well. By the time this wretched conflict is over, Meggie thought, he'll be too old to feel what he should for me. He's always going to be closer to Justine. Why is it that every time I think I've got my life under control, something happens? I didn't ask for this war or this drought, but I've got them.

Perhaps it was as well Drogheda was having such a hard time of it.

If things had been easier, Jack and Hughie would have been off to enlist in a second. As it was, they had no choice but to buckle down and salvage what they could out of the drought which would come to be called the Great Drought. Over a million square miles of crop- and stock-bearing land was affected, from southern Victoria to the waist-high Mitchell grasslands of the Northern Territory.

But the war rivaled the drought for attention. With the twins in North Africa, the homestead people followed that campaign with painful eagerness as it pushed and pulled back and forth across Libya. Their heritage was working class, so they were ardent Labor supporters and loathed the present government, Liberal by name but conservative by nature. When in August of 1941 Robert Gordon Menzies stepped down, admitting he couldn't govern, they were jubilant, and when on October 3rd the Labor leader John Curtin was asked to form a government, it was the best news Drogheda had heard in years. All through 1940 and 1941 unease about Japan had been growing, especially after Roosevelt and Churchill cut off her petroleum supplies. Europe was a long way away and Hitler would have to march his armies twelve thousand miles in order to invade Australia, but Japan was Asia, part of the Yellow Peril poised like a descending pendulum above Australia's rich, empty, underpopulated pit. So no one in Australia was at all surprised when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor; they had simply been waiting for it to come, somewhere. Suddenly the war was very close, and might even become their own backyard. There were no great oceans separating Australia from Japan, only big islands and little seas.

° ° °

On Christmas Day 1941, Hong Kong fell; but the Japs would never succeed in taking Singapore, everyone said, relieved. Then news came of Japanese landings in Malay and in the Philippines; the great naval base at the toe of the Malayan peninsula kept its huge, flat- trajectoried guns trained on the sea, its fleet at the ready. But on February 8th, 1942, the Japanese crossed the narrow Strait of Johore, landed on the north side of Singapore Island and came across to the city behind its impotent guns. Singapore fell without even a struggle.

And then great news! All the Australian troops in North Africa were to come home. Prime Minister Curtin rode the swells of Churchillian wrath undismayed, insisting that Australia had first call on Australian men. The Sixth and Seventh Australian Divisions embarked in Alexandria quickly; the Ninth, still recovering in Cairo from its battering at Tobruk, was to follow as soon as more ships could be provided. Fee smiled, Meggie was delirious with joy. Jims and Patsy were coming home.

Only they didn't. While the North waited for its troopships the seesaw tipped again; the Eighth Army was in full retreat back from Benghazi. Prime Minister Churchill struck a bargain with Prime Minister Curtin. The Ninth Australian Division would remain in North Africa, in exchange for the shipment of an American division to defend Australia. Poor soldiers, shuttled around by decisions made in offices not even belonging to their own countries. Give a little here, take a little there. But it was a hard jolt for Australia, to discover that the Mother Country was booting all her Far Eastern chicks out of the nest, even a poult as fat and promising as Australia.

On the night of October 23rd, 1942, it was very quiet in the desert. Patsy shifted slightly, found his brother in the darkness, and leaned, like a small child right into the curve of his shoulder. Jims's arm went around him and they sat together in companionable silence. Sergeant Bob Malloy nudged Private Col Stuart, grinned.

“Pair of poofs,” he said.

“Fuck you, too,” said Jims.

“Come on, Harpo, say something,” Col murmured. Patsy gave him an angelic smile only half seen in the darkness, opened his mouth and hooted an excellent imitation of Harpo Marx's horn. Everyone for several yards hissed at Patsy to shut up; there was an all-quiet alert on.

“Christ, this waiting's killing me,” Bob sighed. Patsy spoke in a shout: “It's the silence that's killing me!” “You fuckin' side-show fraud, I'll do the killing!” Col croaked hoarsely, reaching for his bayonet.

“For Crissake pipe down!” came the captain's whisper. “Who's the bloody idiot yelling?”

“Patsy,” chorused half a dozen voices.

The roar of laughter floated reassuringly across the minefields, died down in a stream of low-toned profanity from the captain. Sergeant Malloy glanced at his watch; the second hand was just sweeping up to 9:40 pip-emma. Eight hundred and eighty-two British guns and howitzers spoke together. The heavens reeled, the ground lifted, expanded, could not settle, for the barrage went on and on without a second's diminution in the mindshattering volume of noise. It was no use plugging fingers in ears; the gargantuan booming came up through the earth and traveled inward to the brain via the bones. What the effect must have been on Rommel's front the troops of the Ninth in their trenches could only imagine. Usually it was possible to pick out this type and size of artillery from that, but tonight their iron throats chorused in perfect harmony, and thundered on as the minutes passed. The desert fit not with the light of day but with the fire of the sun itself; a vast billowing cloud of dust rose like coiling smoke thousands of feet, glowing with the flashes of exploding shells and mines, the leaping flames of massive concentrations of detonating casings, igniting payloads. Everything Montgomery had was aimed at the minefields-guns, howitzers, mortars. And everything Montgomery had was thrown as fast as the sweating artillery crews could throw it, slaves feeding the maws of their weapons like small frantic birds a huge cuckoo; gun casings grew hot, the time between recoil and reload shorter and shorter as the artillerymen got carried away on their own impetus. Madmen, maddened, they danced a stereotyped pattern of attendance on their fieldpieces.

It was beautiful, wonderful-the high point of an artilleryman's life, which he lived and relived in his dreams, waking and sleeping, for the rest of his anticlimactic days. And yearned to have back again, those fifteen minutes with Montgomery's guns.

Silence. Stilled, absolute silence, breaking like waves on distended eardrums; unbearable silence. Five minutes before ten, exactly. The Ninth got up and moved forward out of its trenches into no man's land, fixing bayonets, feeling for ammunition clips, releasing safety catches, checking water bottles, iron rations, watches, tin hats, whether bootlaces were well tied, the location of those carrying the machine guns. It was easy to see, in the unholy glow of fires and red-hot sand melted into glass; but the dust pall hung between the Enemy and them, they were safe. For the moment. On the very edge of the minefields they halted, waited.

Ten pip-emma, on the dot. Sergeant Malloy put his whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast up and down the company lines; the captain shouted his forward command. On a two-mile front the Ninth stepped off into the minefields and the guns began again behind them, bellowing. They could see where they were going as if it had been day, the howitzers trained on shortest range bursting shells not yards in front of them. Every three minutes the range lifted another hundred yards; advance those hundred yards praying it was only through antitank mines, or that the S-mines, the man mines, had been shelled out of existence by Montgomery's guns. There were still Germans and Italians in the field, outposts of machine guns, 50-mm small artillery, mortars. Sometimes a man would step on an Unexploded S-mine, have time to see it leap upward out of the sand before it blew him in half. No time to think, no time to do anything save crabscuttle in time to the guns, a hundred yards forward every three minutes, praying. Noise, light, dust, smoke, gut-watering terror. Minefields which had no end, two or three miles of them to the other side, and no going back. Sometimes in the tiny pauses between barrages came the distant, eerie skirl of a bagpipe on the roasting gritty air; on the left of the Ninth Australian, the Fiftyfirst Highlanders were trekking through the minefields with a piper to lead every company commander. To a Scot the sound of his piper drawing him into battle was the sweetest lure in the world, and to an Australian very friendly, comforting. But to a German or an Italian it was hackle-raising. The battle went on for twelve days, and twelve days is a very long battle. The Ninth was lucky at first; its casualties were relatively light through the minefields and through those first days of continued advance into Rommel's territory.

“You know, I'd rather be me and get shot at than be a sapper,” said Col Stuart, leaning on his shovel.

“I dunno, mate; I think they've got the best of it,” growled his sergeant. “Waiting behind the fuckin' lines until we've done all the work, then out they toddle with their bloody minesweepers to clear nice little paths for the fuckin' tanks.”

“It isn't the tanks at fault, Bob; it's the brass who deploy them,” Jims said, patting the earth down around the top of his section of their new trench with the fiat of his spade. “Christ, though, I wish they'd decide to keep us in one place for a while! I've dug more dirt in the last five days than a bloody anteater.”

“Keep digging, mate,” said Bob unsympathetically.

“Hey, look!” cried Col, pointing skyward.

Eighteen RAF light bombers came down the valley in perfect flying- school formation, dropping their sticks of bombs among the Germans and Italians with deadly accuracy.

“Bloody beautiful,” said Sergeant Bob Malloy, his long neck tilting his head at the sky.

Three days later he was dead; a huge piece of shrapnel took off his arm and half his side in a fresh advance, but no one had time to stop except to pluck his whistle from what was left of his mouth. Men were going down now like flies, too tired to maintain the initial pitch of vigilance and swiftness; but what miserable barren ground they took they held on to, in the face of a bitter defense by the cream of a magnificent army. It had become to them all no more than a dumb, stubborn refusal to be defeated. The Ninth held off Graf von Sponeck and Lungerhausen while the tanks broke out to the south, and finally Rommel was beaten. By November 8 he was trying to rally beyond the Egyptian border, and Montgomery was left in command of the entire field. A very important tactical victory, Second Alamein; Rommel had been forced to leave behind many of his tanks, guns and equipment. Operation Torch could commence its push eastward from Morocco and Algeria with more security. There was still plenty of fight in the Desert Fox, but a large part of his brush was on the ground at El Alamein. The biggest and most decisive battle of the North African theater had been fought, and Field Marshal Viscount Montgomery of Alamein was its victor. Second Alamein was the swan song of the Ninth Australian Division in North Africa. They were finally going home to contend with the Japanese, on the main land of New Guinea. Since March of 1941 they had been more or less permanently in the front line, arriving poorly trained and equipped, but going home now with a reputation exceeded only by the Fourth Indian-Division. And with the Ninth went Jims and Patsy, safe and whole.

Of course they were granted leave to go home to Drogheda. Bob drove into Gilly to collect them from the Goondiwindi train, for the Ninth was based in Brisbane and would depart after jungle training for New Guinea. When the Rolls swept round the drive all the women were out on the lawn waiting, Jack and Hughie hanging back a little but just as eager to see their young brothers. Every sheep left alive on Drogheda could drop dead if it so desired, but this was a holiday.

Even after the car stopped and they got out, no one moved. They looked so different. Two years in the desert had ruined their original uniforms; they were dressed in a new issue of jungle green, and looked like strangers. For one thing, they seemed to have grown inches, which indeed they had; the last two years of their development had occurred far from Drogheda, and had pushed them way above their older brothers. Not boys any more but men, though not men in the BobJack-Hughie mold; hardship, battle euphoria and violent death had made something out of them Drogheda never could. The North African sun had dried and darkened them to rosy mahogany, peeled away every layer of childhood. Yes, it was possible to believe these two men in their simple uniforms, slouch hats pinned above their left ears with the badge of the AIF rising sun, had killed fellow men. It was in their eyes, blue as Paddy's but sadder, without his gentleness.

“My boys, my boys!” cried Mrs. Smith, running to them, tears streaming down her face. No, it didn't matter what they had done, how much they had changed; they were still her little babies she had washed, diapered, fed, whose tears she had dried, whose wounds she had kissed better. Only the wounds they harbored now were beyond her power to heal.

Then everyone was around them, British reserve broken down, laughing, crying, even poor Fee patting them on their backs, trying to smile. After Mrs. Smith there was Meggie to kiss, Minnie to kiss, Cat to kiss, Mum to hug bashfully, Jack and Hughie to wring by the hand speechlessly. The Drogheda people would never know what it was like to be home, they could never know how much this moment had been longed for, feared for.

And how the twins ate! Army tucker was never like this, they said, laughing. Pink and white fairy cakes, chocolate-soaked lamingtons rolled in coconut, steamed spotted dog pudding, pavlova dripping passion fruit and cream from Drogheda cows. Remembering their stomachs from earlier days, Mrs. Smith was convinced they'd be ill for a week, but as long as there was unlimited tea to wash it down, they didn't seem to have any trouble with their digestions.

“A bit different from Wog bread, eh, Patsy?”

“What's Wog mean?” asked Mrs. Smith.

“A Wog's an Arab, but a Wop's an Italian, right, Patsy?” “Pair.”

It was peculiar. They would talk, or at least Jims would talk, for hours about North Africa: the towns, the people, the food, the museum in Cairo, life on board a troopship, in rest camp. But no amount of questioning could elicit anything but vague, change-the subject answers as to what the actual fighting had been like, what Gazala, Benghazi, Tobruk, El Alamein had been like. Later on after the war was over the women were to find this constantly; the men who had actually been in the thick of battle never opened their mouths about it, refused to join the ex-soldiers' clubs and leagues, wanted nothing to do with institutions perpetuating the memory of war. Drogheda held a party for them. Alastair Mac Queen was in the Ninth as well and was home, so of course Rudna Hunish held a party. Dominic O'Rourke's two youngest sons were in the Sixth in New Guinea, so even though they couldn't be present, Dibban- Dibban held a party. Every property in the district with a son in uniform wanted to celebrate the safe return of the three Ninth boys. Women and girls flocked around them, but the Cleary returned heroes tried to escape at every opportunity, more scared than they had been on any field of war. In fact, Jims and Patsy didn't seem to want to have anything to do with women; it was to Bob, Jack and Hughie they clung. Late into the night after the women had gone to bed they sat talking to the brothers who had been forced to remain behind, opening their sore, scarred hearts. And they rode the paddocks of parched Drogheda, in its seventh year of the drought, glad to be in civvies. Even so racked and tortured, to Jims and Patsy the land was ineffably lovely, the sheep comforting, the late roses in the garden a perfume of some heaven. And somehow they had to drink of it all so deeply they'd never again forget, for that first going away had been a careless one; they had had no idea what it would be like. When they left this time it would be with every moment hoarded to remember and treasure, and with Drogheda roses pressed into their wallets along with a few blades of scarce Drogheda grass. To Fee they were kind and pitying, but to Meggie, Mrs. Smith, Minnie and Cat they were loving, very tender. They had been the real mothers. What delighted Meggie most was the way they loved Dane, played with hum for hours, took him with them for rides, laughed with him, rolled him over and over on the lawn. Justine seemed to frighten them; but then, they were awkward with anyone female whom they didn't know as well as they knew the older women. Besides which, poor Justine was furiously jealous of the way they monopolized Dane's company, for it meant she had no one to play with.

“He's a bonzer little bloke, Meggie,” said Jims to Meggie when she came out onto the veranda one day; he was sitting in a cane chair watching Patsy and Dane playing on the lawn.

“Yes, he is a little beauty, isn't he?” She smiled, sitting where she could see her youngest brother. Her eyes were soft with pity; they had been her babies, too. “What's the matter, Jims? Can't you tell me?” His eyes lifted to hers, wretched with some deep pain, but he shook his head as if not even tempted “No, Meggie. It isn't anything I could ever tell a woman.”

“What about when all this is over and you marry? Won't you want to tell your wife?”

“Us marry? I don't think so. War takes all that out of a man. We were itching to go, but we're wiser now. If we married we'd have sons, and for what? See them grow up, get pushed off to do what we've done, see what we've seen?”

“Don't, Jims, don't!”

His gaze followed hers, to Dane chuckling in glee because Patsy was holding him upside down.

“Don't ever let him leave Drogheda, Meggie. On Drogheda he can't come to any harm,” said Jims.

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