THE ORPHANS
Sister Teresa snores. It wakes me up early, and I lie with a tangle of knots in my stomach, listening to her. Twice in the night I had reached for Nanay and found only emptiness. We are all red-eyed and reluctant when she strides up and down the room ringing a little bell. The room looks even sparser in the grey morning light. It is bigger than I realized, and there is a whole row of empty beds against the windowless back wall. The shutters on my side open on to the scrubby courtyard where we arrived.
Sister Teresa instructs us to change out of our travel clothes. All of us fell asleep in them and we look rumpled as rags. She collects them into a pile and gives them to Tekla.
‘The first chore is laundry. We will organize a rota. There is soap in a box on my desk. You must ask permission before you use it, as we are not quite prepared for this number of children. I will get some more supplies today, but even then we use our resources sparingly, yes?’
I am uncertain how to answer after being the only one to speak last time, but Sister Teresa is looking at me expectantly so I reply, ‘Yes, Sister Teresa.’
‘Thank you, Amihan. Girls, please follow her lead. Otherwise it sounds like I am talking to myself.’
Tekla nudges one of the two Igmes and they snicker quietly. ‘Goody two shoes,’ hisses Tekla. Heat rushes to my face, but Sister Teresa doesn’t hear her.
‘After we have made you presentable, you can meet the other children. They are anxious to make your acquaintance.’ I remember the whispers and the scuffling and hope she is telling the truth. ‘Let’s get started, then. Follow me.’
We do so, Tekla wrinkling her nose at the dirty clothes in her arms. The door to the boy’s dormitory is closed, so Sister Teresa opens it and stands in the doorway ringing her bell until we hear them wake up.
‘Change into clean clothes, then join us outside,’ she says. ‘Mr Zamora?’
His face appears suddenly around the door. By the look of his bloodshot eyes and his yesterday clothes it seems he hasn’t slept.
‘You will need to ensure the boys rise earlier in future. We can’t fall too far behind the day.’
Sister Teresa does not go up the stairs, so we have to wait to meet the other children. We follow the nun outside, leaving Mr Zamora looking very much like he got out of the wrong side of bed, if he laid down at all.
The cart is still there, the driver asleep in the back. Sister Teresa leads us quietly past and I suspect she believes he deserves a rest more than Mr Zamora does.
When the boys join us, rubbing their eyes in the early morning light, we set off across the courtyard and down a narrow track through thick forest.
Kidlat keeps close behind me. His brown eyes are wide and frightened, fringed with lashes starfished together from crying. He has put his tunic on back to front and I crouch to turn it the right way around. He watches me closely, whimpering when I pull his thumb from his mouth so I can manoeuvre his arm out and back into the correct sleeve. I take his pudgy hand and we run to catch up with the others.
‘This is the way to the river,’ Sister Teresa is explaining. ‘You can come here as often as you wish, so long as you never miss lessons, and tell someone where you are going.’
The day is already full of a sticky, wet heat that hovers under the trees and makes their shade uncomfortable. The light dapples everybody a deep green, like lily pads. I follow behind one of the Igmes, but she seems to be interested only in being friends with the girl called Lilay. They walk close together, heads bowed and bodies turned slightly towards each other to fit down the narrow path. Nanay is the only person I ever told secrets to, and a horrible sinking feeling drags at my legs. She is my only true friend, and no one here seems interested in talking to me. Unless you count Kidlat, who doesn’t talk.
I blink rapidly as we approach a wide, shallow river. It makes a splashing sound as it runs over rocks, and on the opposite bank the forest nudges right up to the edge, trailing branches and leaves along the surface. Flowers spread out here and there like fans.
‘This is where you can do laundry, past this point.’ Sister Teresa indicates a large rock, then pulls out the box of soap from her habit. ‘Take it in turns to wash. We will establish a proper rota soon. Kidlat, you first.’
It takes an hour for all of us to get clean and dry off with the rags Sister Teresa pulls from yet another pocket. I help Tekla with the laundry until it is my turn to bathe, swilling the clothes and then scrubbing them on the large rock with soap, but she still does not smile at me. I suppose this is her way of dealing with the weight in her chest.
Mine is to remember all the things I see and do, so I can write them in my letter to Nanay. So far I have the journey here – cart, boat, cart – the little bell Sister Teresa uses and her seemingly endless pockets. I hope the way Sister Teresa treats Mr Zamora will make Nanay laugh.
There is no sign of him when we get back, but the cart driver has lit the firepit and is cooking a large omelette. There is a small mountain of eggshells at his feet. My mouth waters as he throws in a handful of wild chives.
‘This is Luko,’ says Sister Teresa. ‘I doubt he introduced himself to you, he doesn’t talk much. Luko is our cook, though soon we will have more staff arriving from the mainland.’
Luko turns on his haunches and nods at us. He is built like Bondoc, and has hair that grows straight up and out from his head. I add the fact that we have a cook to my mind-letter.
‘I shall go and fetch the other children, and you can make your introductions over breakfast. Luko, can you fetch Tildie for me.’
Luko moves the pan off the fire and heads around the side of the building. Igme and Lilay set to whispering as Sister Teresa disappears into the shade of the orphanage. In the daylight I can see that it has two floors like Doctor Tomas’ house, but it is at least six times wider and has no balconies. It is painted a muted yellow, with the newer section a richer shade, and above the door in thick black letters it says CORON ORPHANAGE. At the very top a bronze cockerel turns in the wind.
The shutters are open at the top-right window, and I wonder if whoever had seen us arrive last night had watched us leave for the river this morning. We hear the tramping of many feet on the stairs, and Sister Teresa leads two lines of children blinking into the sunlight. They all wear worn but uncreased clothes, and their faces are clean, their hair brushed and parted perfectly. Sister Teresa stands in the middle and they separate in a straight line either side of her, boys on one side, girls on the other. It feels as though we are about to start a game, and our Culion side would lose. Kidlat slips his hand into mine.
All of them look straight ahead, except one girl at the far end of her line. She is paler than the others, paler than any of us, her hair light and flyaway, making a halo around her head. She scans us as we scan them, and stops on me. Her eyes are huge and widely spaced. I blink and she looks away.
‘Children, meet your new companions. I am going to town to collect some more supplies – as you can see Luko has used all the eggs. Mr Zamora?’ Sister Teresa calls into the shade of the building. Mr Zamora comes outside in clean clothes, his tie knotted tightly and his straw hat pulled low. ‘Can you please keep an eye on the children until I return.’
‘I am nearly done setting out my samples—’
‘Please,’ Sister Teresa’s voice is careful. ‘Just while I’m away.’
‘No,’ snaps Mr Zamora, a ropy vein in his neck taut. ‘You can wait for me to finish.’
Luko returns with one of the horses that collected us from the harbour. This must be Tildie. Sister Teresa purses her lips while Mr Zamora goes back inside. We wait in silence for several minutes. Sister Teresa’s foot taps impatiently. As soon as Mr Zamora re-emerges the cook leans down, making a cradle of his hands and Sister Teresa swings herself up on to the horse easily. Without another word she digs her heels into Tildie and they take off at a gallop down the long drive. Watching a nun on a horse is like watching a dog walk on its hind legs: like a trick.
Mr Zamora hovers uncertainly outside the orphanage. It seems as if he does not want to come close to us. He drags a chair from the schoolroom and sits on the threshold, eyes flicking over us as though we could attack any moment. I think of the samples, the live butterflies somewhere inside. Nanay would have loved watching them escape back in the forest, the twisting, colourful rope of them darting beyond Mr Zamora’s fingers.
Luko squats by the fire again, throwing in something diced that scents the air with a mouth-watering sharpness. The orphanage children are still lined up like Mr Zamora’s butterflies, neat and impenetrable. After a few more long seconds Datu steps forward and holds out his hand to the tallest boy in the line.
‘I’m Datu.’
The boy wrinkles his nose and brushes past Datu. The other orphans follow him to sit in a neat circle by Luko, making the logs they sit on look like thrones. They leave no spaces for us. Datu drops his hand.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I was just introducing myself.’
Silence from the orphans.
Luko raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘I think he’s talking to you, San.’
The tallest boy sniffs. ‘I don’t want to catch it.’
‘Catch what?’ says Luko.
‘The rotting disease.’ San shudders. ‘They’re from that island. They’re dirty.’
My stomach flips. They are not going to be kind. They speak like Mr Zamora. I hear a creak as the man leans forward in his chair to watch.
Luko cuffs the boy lightly over the head. ‘They don’t have it, that’s why they’re here.’
‘You can never be too careful,’ Mr Zamora says, his hands plucking at his sleeves.
‘Nonsense,’ says Luko, then checks himself as Mr Zamora glares. ‘No disrespect, sir, but it’s not like catching a cold.’
‘Anyway, we just washed,’ Datu says, and all of the orphans’ heads turn towards him. ‘Sister Teresa took us to the river.’
‘Great,’ says San. ‘Now we can’t use the river.’
‘Why not?’ one of the other orphans asks, eyes wide.
‘The rotting disease hides in the water,’ says San in a low voice. It is suddenly silent – even the trees stop rustling, the fire stops crackling. ‘It waits on the drying rocks, in the moss, waiting for unsuspecting victims to come and—’ Luko gives him another clip around the ear as Mr Zamora leans back in his chair, the corners of his mouth turned up. He’s enjoying this, I realize.
‘You’re talking nonsense, talking ghost stories,’ Luko snaps, taking the pan off the fire and sharing out the eggs.
San laughs, but it is an unkind laugh. I don’t think he means all of what he says, but he believes it enough for his meanness to spread over us. The other orphans laugh too, but uneasily, and turn back to the meal. All except the pale girl. She takes her bowl and brings it to our huddled group. She sets it down in front of Kidlat.
‘Here,’ she says, and holds out a spoon. He takes it like a present.
She goes back and gets another bowl and places it in front of Datu. ‘Here.’
The girl walks back and forth until we all have bowls. The orphans watch her in silence, not eating, and we watch her too. I wonder why she only brings one bowl at a time until I notice her right hand. It is curled and hangs limp at the wrist. I try not to stare as she puts the final bowl down in front of me, then she goes back and fetches hers. She holds up a spoon and says, ‘Last one. We’ll have to share.’
‘You’ll catch it, Mari!’ calls one of the orphan girls.
‘Or they’ll catch what you’ve got,’ shouts San.
‘She doesn’t have it,’ says Mari, her voice carrying between our two circles. She turns to me. Her eyes are the colour of honey, a deep gold. ‘Do you?’
I shake my head.
‘And you can’t catch this.’ She holds up her limp hand and smiles. ‘So let’s eat.’