Soon he began to smuggle items of produce back from the farm so that he could sell them for Sly Joe. When Joe finally gained his freedom, he would be able to sell his wares on the open market, earning the money to buy his equipment and pay rent on the farm, which would then have been granted to him as a perpetual lease. Until his ‘ticket of leave’ was up, however, Joe was forbidden to sell any of his crop or to earn money by any means; he had to rely exclusively on the little the troopers gave him, and all of his crop and equipment was owned by the Governor. Brennan’s little bit of marketing provided a few extra shillings for tools and other things Joe would need for his upcoming wedding and eventual freedom, but it was a risk: if their little enterprise were ever to be discovered, it would definitely land him back in chains.
For his part Brennan kept Sly Joe and the little farm a secret, though Ede surely must have wondered where he was able to find all of the fresh fruits and vegetables he brought home. Not only did he fear to compromise Sly Joe’s position with the authorities, but the continued success of their little bit of shared black-marketeering also relied on keeping the source of the produce a secret. If he were discovered, he would say he had stolen it. Only with Laura did he share his secret; and soon she soon began to accompany him on his visits to the farm, much to Joe’s delight. They took to meeting with Joe every fortnight after he delivered his consignment to the garrison, meeting him along the wagon track and riding back to the farm with him in the Governor’s wagon.
Today they were drinking sarsaparilla and munching fruit and sweet melons as they rode along, with Joe lifting his rich voice in rough convict songs, pausing often to tell stories of his travels; but Laura was uncharacteristically silent. While she stared at the wattle blossoms and wildflowers that adorned the side of the bush track, Brennan watched her from the corner of his eye, wondering what was going on inside her head.
“Have you ever seen people die, Joe?” Laura asked suddenly, interrupting the man’s happy whistling.
He regarded her closely, a little surprised by her question. “I have an’ all,” he said slowly. “My life has been full of death and violence in the past. But why do you ask such a question on such a beautiful day, when all is well in our world?”
“I was just wondering what it is like to die,” she said thinly, staring at the bush somewhere beyond Brennan’s frown. Even the singing of the birds seemed to have come to a stop, waiting for her words. “How people face it when they know it’s coming to them; and if they can see a world beyond this one.”
Joe was thoughtful for a time. “Well,” he began at last, looking steadily at the girl, “I have seen men done to death without any warning; one minute they are alive and the next they are dead, even before they fall down sometimes. When it’s like that, I don’t know how it is.
“But when they know the end is near, it’s very different.” He paused for a minute or two, perhaps trying to remember something; then he continued, “I’ve watched some starve to death, others die of a black disease of one kind or another, or even some from the wounds of battle, but it’s always the same. When they have time to find their peace it is very restful like; they become very calm at the end.”
It was Joe’s turn now to stare at the flowers and the wonder of the beautiful bush that was passing by them as they jostled along in the wagon. “A great peace comes over a person as they end this life.” He was whispering now. “Even the worst pain and fear seems to pass in those final minutes. It’s as if they can see another life beyond the rim of death, a world that a man can only see in that last minute before he goes.”
They were all silent for a time. Then the wagon wheels creaked, the horse snorted, and the birds began to sing again. “I have no fear of death after the things I have seen,” Joe said gently, no longer whispering. “But I hope when it does come for me I have the chance to see it coming, so I can share with someone else that quiet peace I have seen come to so many others.” Laura began to smile; she seemed pleased with his words. As Brennan reached for her hand and squeezed it gently, her smile grew even wider.
* * *
Although Brennan had effectively finished with school himself, he still paid frequent visits to Laura at her big house in Anchor Street. While her parents thought her studies too important for her to be distracted and would not allow her to go wandering during the week, they never attempted to curtail the children’s friendship. Laura’s father, a huge, loud, kindly man who worked as a barrister at the courthouse, liked Brennan, even though he must have been bitterly disappointed that the boy had set a bad example for his daughter by leaving school. Brennan, in turn, enjoyed the man’s society and took every opportunity to learn from him. He would often sit with the children at the small wrought iron table while they talked and sipped cool lemonade, encouraging them to form their own views on the world.
As he was finishing delivering his papers one weekday morning, he was surprised to see Laura sitting at the small table on the porch. It came to him that she had not been on an excursion with him for a long time, even to Joe’s farm; and he knew how much she loved those visits. Even in the sunlight, she seemed frail and weak. As he made his way through the front gate and down the path through the colourful rose garden to the porch, she waved feebly to him. “Hello, Bren’,” she said, and it seemed a struggle to speak at all. “I was not expecting you until this afternoon, but I thought if I sat out here in the sunshine, you might come by after your rounds.”
He joined her at the table, smiling into her face through his underlying concern. She looked very drawn. “You haven’t been down to Joe’s farm in a long time,” he said. “Are you ill? I have been meaning to ask about your health; you seem a bit faded.”
She reached out and patted his hand gently. “Dear Bren’,” she whispered, and as her eyes met his own, he could see a deep, brooding wonder on her face. “I am not very well at all. I have not been to school for a long time now. I did not want to tell you, but I don’t think I am going to get better; so you should know how it is with me.”
“What is the matter?” he asked, gripping her hand tightly, only releasing the pressure when she grimaced. “Have you been seeing a doctor for it?”
“The best there is in the city. You know Daddy is very rich. But they don’t seem to know too much about what ails me; all they say is that I have bad blood.” She then fell silent; and in silence they watched the procession of people and animals that moved in a steady stream along the street.
“What are they giving you for it?” Brennan asked at last, breaking the silence.
“They give me some vile potion to drink several times a day,” she said. “And every few days the doctor drains off a lot of my blood. He says that when I make new blood, it may be good; but I don’t think that any of it is working. I am supposed to eat a lot of good food, to help me make new blood, but I can’t seem to keep much of what I eat down.”
Brennan looked into her deep blue eyes again, and his heart wrenched a little when he saw the tears there. He longed to help her, to comfort her. As he stared deeply into her eyes, he suddenly felt a strange sensation pass through his body. It caused him to shiver as if a sharp cold wind had passed over him; then, a second later, he realised he could see behind her eyes right into her head, see her blood flowing through her veins as a moving stream. He could also see, now, that sometimes there appeared to be a dirty orange glow mixed in with the healthy blood. He blinked in surprise and the strange feeling left him at once; he could no longer see past her eyes. He was disappointed; he felt he had somehow been on the verge of actually being able to help her. Try as he might, though, he could not summon up the feeling again.
Laura was staring at him in wonder, having seen a strange white light kindle for a few seconds in his eyes. “You are a strange one, Bren’,” she said at last. “I often have this dream that you are not of this world; there is just so much about you that is different.” She stroked his cheek lightly, weakly, as they sat together in the sun.
He took her hand again, looking into her small, tired face. “Are you afraid?”