THE ORPHANAGE
Being on the sea is like the minutes after spinning around as fast as you can – walking straight is difficult when your body remembers turning. Everything tilts when it shouldn’t, even when you are sitting still. My neck aches and my eyes itch but I don’t sleep and I don’t stop looking back towards Culion even when it is only a direction somewhere across the sea. I lose track of time but it is long enough for the bruised sky to deepen into darkest blue. The moon is bright as a smile and the stars are so many and fall so often it makes my chest pang with missing Nanay.
A few times the tall shape of Mr Zamora strides past the large window as he paces around the deck. He walks with his hands behind his back, leading with his head. He talks constantly to himself, but silently, his lips moving quickly behind the glass. He’s sick. Capuno’s words had been filled with pity, and now I feel it, briefly, as I watch the Director of Health’s authorized representative walk alone and talk to no one.
When Mr Zamora, out of sight at the front of the boat, calls, ‘Land ahead!’ I finally face forward, rubbing my sore neck as the others stir. There are lights in the distance, much like the harbour on Culion. When we dock there is a cart with two horses waiting, as if we have done a slow circle and come back to our start. But the horses are a different colour, the driver a different man, and the harbour is backed by a town, the houses more uniform than on Culion, the roads wider. We are unloaded from the boat and reloaded on to the cart. There is no forest here, only a broad dirt street that has been well flattened and cleared of stones. Some of the houses still have lights on but shutters close sharply when we pass.
My chest is full of a heavy ache. Every step the horses take drags me further from home and deeper into a new life. It feels nothing like an adventure.
The road curves right and we climb a steep hill, the horses straining and blowing. When the road levels we are at a pair of wooden gates. The horses stop, snorting as the driver swings down to open them.
After the gates there are trees again, and ahead the shape of a large building spreads across the ground. A door opens at the centre, and a figure steps out, backed by light. I see another muffled light twitch at the top right-hand window, but then the light disappears and I hear shutters closing. Perhaps the other children are watching us arrive. My chest tightens. I hope they will like us.
The figure turns human-sized. It is a woman, her face stern, a moon floating in her grey habit. My heart leaps, but of course it is not Sister Margaritte. This woman has bigger cheeks, and her lips are pursed, a bit like how a squirrel looks when chewing.
‘Sister Teresa,’ says Mr Zamora expansively as he steps stiffly from the cart. ‘How nice to see you again.’
‘Mr Zamora.’ Sister Teresa nods. Already I can tell she doesn’t approve of him. She scans us as we step down from the cart. I don’t think she approves of any of us. My leg has gone to sleep and I have to hit it a couple of times before the blood comes tingling back. We stand in a line as if for inspection, though no one has told us to.
‘You are well trained,’ says Sister Teresa drily, then walks slowly along the line, asking our names.
‘It’s late,’ says Sister Teresa after we have introduced ourselves. ‘You must be tired.’ Kidlat yawns as if on cue, and she raises her eyebrows at him. ‘Cover your mouth next time. For now, I will show you to your beds. Tomorrow I will explain the rules. Tonight, two will suffice: no talking after bedtime, and no getting out of bed in the night unless you need the privy. Understood?’
Everyone nods except me, who says, ‘Yes, Sister Teresa,’ in a sing-song, like in school. A couple of the girls giggle, and the nun’s eyes flash over me. I do not know if I am being praised or not.
‘Boys, follow Mr Zamora. Girls—’ she motions inside and to the right. ‘Follow me.’
Mr Zamora clears his throat. ‘Sister Teresa, am I to understand I will be sleeping in the dormitory?’
Sister Teresa had turned away but now she pivots back, very slowly and on her heels, so it looks as if the ground has moved rather than her. She is a bit terrifying.
‘Yes,’ she says in a clipped tone. ‘That is what you are to understand.’
Mr Zamora is undeterred. ‘I was led to believe I would have my own quarters.’
Sister Teresa’s lips twitch. ‘So you do.’
She points to a shadow to the right of the building, which resolves itself into a pile of bamboo sticks. ‘You’re welcome to stay there if you wish.’
A few of the others laugh and Mr Zamora glares around at us. ‘Why is it not ready?’
‘Because you were in such a rush to take these children from their families, you have arrived early. Come, girls.’
But before she can lead us inside Mr Zamora steps in front of her. His voice is sickly sweet, but has the edge of a blade embedded in it. ‘Sister, let’s not get off to a bad start. Do I need to remind you that the funding for this place is entirely reliant on my plans to bring the Culion children here? That the government paid to build the new storey at my command?’ He gestures at the orphanage behind him.
I notice that the top part of the building does look newer, its paintwork brighter, and there is glass in the windows whereas on the lower floor there are only shutters.
‘And if we cannot get along,’ continues Mr Zamora, ‘it will not be my position in jeopardy. Do we understand each other?’
I cannot see Sister Teresa’s face, but her voice comes out just as sweet and dangerous as his. ‘Perfectly.’ With this she sweeps around him and inside as if she wore a silk cloak and not a cotton habit.
I snatch a glance at Mr Zamora before I follow with the others. His lips are pressed together so tightly they are white. He notices me looking and a hissing sound escapes his mouth. I drop my head.
The light comes from candles in the central room. Its details are picked out by the thin brightness – desks, chairs, a smudged blank blackboard. There is a door leading off each side of the room, another beside the board, and a set of narrow stairs disappearing up into darkness.
We turn right and enter our dormitory, with pallets and thin blankets for beds. Someone sniffs loudly. Sister Teresa shows each of us to a bed in the gloom, and indicates the direction of the privy. A sudden scuffling comes from above our heads and I think it is mice until Sister Teresa frowns and sets off upstairs. We hear her muffled warnings, and climb into bed quickly and quietly.
My bed is at the far end of the room. It is lumpy in all the wrong places, and smells faintly stale. There are etchings in the wall next to my head – a stick figure with long hair, and the letter ‘M’. As the night settles, I can hear waves hitting rock, as though I’m sleeping on top of the sea. The whole night feels unmoored, the strangeness sharp and uncomfortable as thorns. It is only by pressing my fingers into my ears and humming one of Nanay’s lullabies that I can begin to fall asleep.