Chapter Text
Ned O’Reilly was nursing a slight headache as his beat-up pickup truck bumped and thumped down the dirt track. Bloody jet-lagged, he supposed, on top of having to navigate several big cities and their confusing airports over the past two weeks. He was a simple farm bloke after all. It had been hard enough flying to London, but returning with an ankle-biter in tow? At least Harry was a quiet, well-behaved tiddler.
“How ya doing, Harry?”
A mumbled reply from the child in the passenger seat. The boy was fidgeting restlessly, crossing and uncrossing his legs.
“Do ya need to go?’ A desperate nodding. Ned pulled up under a thicket of ghost gums.
“Watch out for snakes!” Ned warned as Harry leapt down from the vehicle. He engaged the handbrake before joining his ward at their trackside toilet. Number one done, Harry pulled up his pants and plodded back to the pickup. Somewhere a kookaburra laughed. Ned grinned as he hoisted the lad back into his truck. He barely weighed anything. Poor mite.
The phone call to the farmstead a month back had been a surprise. Some lawyer from London calling about his distant cousin killed in an accident and a child needing a home. Dreadful thing what happened to Cousin Petunia and her bloke, even if he barely knew them. He had last been in England more than twenty years back, to attend Aunt Mavis’ wedding. His mom had pointed out two little girls slightly younger than he was, daughters of her cousin Lydia. As he understood it, Harry was the younger girl Lily’s son and had been orphaned in a car accident when still a baby. It was sheer luck Petunia had left young Harry with a neighbour the day the Dursleys’ car broke down on the rail crossing. The Dursleys did not have the time to leave the car before the 9.10 came.
Missed the bloody funeral of course. The family home went to some unmarried sister, who had no desire to take in a little boy. They could have shuffled little Harry into foster care, but somehow, they had found that tenacious family link between the O’Reillys down under and one Harry Potter. He knew precious little about Harry’s parents, or even the family who had the care of him until a month ago. Ned did notice the watchful look in his eyes, the fading bruises and scars on his arms, and how any sudden moves made little Harry shrink away. Like Old Man Walters’ long-suffering mutt once did. No one in Cobbler Creek missed the mean old man when he finally passed. Old Buster lived out his days on the porch of the General Store, kindly treated by Ma Kelly. Up to the day he went to the Great Sheep Run in the sky.
Someone had not been treating the boy right, but that was past now.
They were passing the billabong now, a flock of lories soaring overhead like a colourful flag in the setting sun. They passed the cattle pens and rumbled up to the gate before the farmhouse. Mathilda was just stepping out onto the veranda to ring the dinner bell. She waddled clumsily thanks to their latest child, expected within the next two months if not sooner.
Ned killed the engine and glanced over to the boy. He was fast asleep. Poor tiddler must be tuckered out. Gently, he lifted Harry into his arms. Bath and a hot meal could wait for now.
Ned noticed the old man, gnarled as an ancient tree in the shade of the shed. Watchful, waiting and still.
“Good to have you back, Mister Ned,” old Albert Murray stepped out into the fading dusk.
“Good to see you too, Murray…” Ned called out as he carried the slumbering child into the farmhouse. The old Aboriginal’s milky blind eyes seemed to follow him and the child.
In the Dreamtime, the Rainbow Serpent crawled across the night sky… The Song it left in its wake sank deep into the red earth becoming part of the land. Migrants seeking new homes, by canoe, sailing ships, steamships and more recently on manmade birds… The native song of the land was then overlaid by each new generation as they came into their own.
Albert Murray hummed softly. Raised with the strictures of the Mission Schools, Ned O’Reilly cannot see or feel the heartbeat of the land so readily. But he was a good man at heart, a worthy chieftain – strength tempered with kindness. He will be a good father to the boy. Someone else was needed to show him the Song-paths.
Mathilda O’Reilly tutted as she scrubbed little Harry. He was seven but could pass for a five-year-old. Too scrawny for her liking. And she had seen such children when she was still an outstation nurse, neglected by parents or relatives who simply could not cope. He had shivered as she filled the battered tin tub and took a flannel to him. Not from the cold, for she had put the kettle on for his bath. These were scars and bruises not from rough play as she had often seen on her children. Bruises in the shape of a large hand on his arm, healing welts and scars to his back and legs. Ned and her brothers had similar marks on their legs from being flogged in the Mission Schools before they did away with corporal punishment. But on a child as young as Harry? Her mother’s heart broke. Gently, she dried her new foundling off. They might have some clothes Perry had outgrown that might fit. They might not have much, but they had enough to go round.
“F-for me?” Wearing one of Perry’s old shirts and pants, Harry stared at the bowl of stew before him in wonder. It smelled delicious. Surely it could not be for him.
“Yes, it is for you… Eat up, mate,” Ned called out cheerfully. He met his wife’s eyes across the table. The rest of the household had already eaten as Harry slept and bathed. They could introduce him properly at breakfast. Mathilda had saved a bowl of beef stew in the oven to keep it warm for Harry. This she had served with a crust of damper. Harry hesitantly took a spoonful and almost cried. It tasted so good, far better than the leftovers he scrounged from the Dursleys, the greasy burgers or dry, bland airplane meals. And he was allowed to eat it all.
“Perry, Josh, this is Harry. He will be living with us…” Ned introduced him to his sons. The brothers were dark-haired and tanned as their father. Harry clung shyly to Uncle Ned. Aunt Mathilda had found a blanket and pillow for him.
“Hiya…” the younger boy smiled. “I’m Perry…”
“Josh… Nice to meet you…”
“Off to bed now… Harry, where’re you going?” Uncle Ned asked as Harry started walking to the closet with his blanket and pillow.
“C-cupboard?” Harry gave a puzzled look. He had seen only one bunk bed. There was nowhere for him. Freaks did not deserve a room or bed…
“We share!” Perry insisted as he pulled Harry into the lower bunk. He moved his own pillow and blanket over a bit, so Harry had space to crawl in alongside him. Josh clambered up into the top bunk.
“We’re family now, Harry… Family watch out for each other,” the older boy whispered. “G’dnight, Dad!”
Ned switched the light off, thankful to have such kind, understanding boys.
Breakfast brought its own challenges and chaos. Farmhands nipping in for coffee or a bite. The Kelly girls bringing over some jam and tarts from their Gran. Someone shouting that old Bill has fallen into the mudhole, can someone help them pull him out? It was confusing for Harry watching so many different people come and go. A dozen happenings were going on at once in the small kitchen. He caught sight of his new cousins and smiled. They had not beaten him up like Dudley did. There were nine of them, Perry told him. The three oldest – Eddie, Alice, Benny - were away at boarding school in Darwin. Clara was to start next year. Now she was helping feed the twins. The rest of them took lessons by wireless, except the twins Steve and Irwin, the babies of the family until Mom gives them a new sister or brother.
This was the beating heart of the farmstead. Harry felt the rhythmic flow and ebb of life. A girl his age was gesturing with her hands. Perry explained that she was their little sister Helen. She was asking him to pass the orange juice. Something went wrong when she was born. Helen was profoundly deaf. Alice had brought home a book on sign language when she came back for the hols and tried to teach her siblings. They had to teach her lessons separately.
What if he did the bad freaky stuff Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always punished him for? He must be grateful, behave, no freakiness. It was the least he could do for the family that had taken him in.
A leathery-skinned old man with snowy-white hair and milky eyes. He took a chair vacated by one of the young farmhands and thanked Aunt Mathilda when she ladled out his porridge. Blind, Josh whispered to Harry. Just watch out for old Albert and help him get around, will you? As Harry watched Albert spoon porridge into his mouth, he thought the old man nod at him. Then Uncle Ned was asking Harry and his sons if they would like to come with him to see the calves before they pick up the tractor parts from O’Rourke.
Life on the farmstead had its rhythm, and it was nothing like Little Whinging. Frenetic activity from dawn to dusk, with a lull in the midday heat. The quiet stillness in the hours of darkness after sunset, though these might be deceptive. Ned and the farmhands had been roused from their slumber before by alarms – dingos or wild dogs trying to break into the calving pens.
Harry worked hard alongside his cousins doing the chores. Fetching water, gathering eggs, sweeping up the porch. He must earn his keep… He would have offered to cook in the kitchen, but Aunt Mathilda was very firm about him being too young to work over the stove. Instead, she set him to peel potatoes when she was sure he could handle a peeler, and to knead dough for the oven. Clara and Helen helped in the house. When Harry’s stronger, he can join Perry and Josh in the cattle pens. Does he know how to ride? Maybe they could show him how.
Old Albert sat in the shade of the house most days as Harry busied himself in the yard or kitchen. Blind yet watchful. He would often hum a droning tune and Harry often found himself humming along as well.
It was odd sitting at the kitchen table in the mid-afternoon and taking his lessons over the wireless. Harry had only been in Little Whinging’s elementary school for about six months before he came here. Miss Wattle lived in Alice Springs, four hours away by truck. Harry heard her voice but never met her. She would teach them over the air. Aunt Mathilda or Mrs Kelly from the down the track would help tutor them and send out their homework when they were done.
Perry could not spell or read so well. Harry soon realized that. Uncle Vernon had hit Harry with a belt for doing better than Dudley, for making him look bad in class. So, Harry started spelling his words wrong too. When Aunt Mathilda saw Harry’s homework slipping, she took him aside.
“Harry, we know you know how to spell Kangaroo and Kookaburra. Why are you spelling it wrong?”
“B-because Perry can’t. I don’t want to make him unhappy if he did badly…”
He did not wish to lie to Aunt Mathilda.
“Harry dear, wouldn’t it be better if you help him with his spelling instead? Like Clara and Josh help Helen? That’s a good boy…” Aunt Mathilda gasped sharply as the contractions started suddenly. She motioned for Clara to take charge of the kitchen-classroom while she waddled out to where Uncle Ned was chopping wood. Ten minutes later, the old truck was speeding off in a cloud of dust.
Aunt Mathilda needed to go away for a bit. Mrs Kelly and Mrs O’Rourke came over to help Uncle Ned with the children until she came back with baby Myra. The bonfire burned in celebration. The men toasted Uncle Ned on becoming a father again. Aunt Mathilda sat on the veranda nursing her daughter, looking as serene as the Madonna. Other women came then - Mathilda’s great-aunts, dark like river mud or brown like honey, to bless the birth. Bright skirts flashing in the firelight as they sang and danced.
There was something inside their song that made Harry gasp. It was like a heady buzz. It was like the time Josh snuck them some porter beer even though they were too young for it. Women’s magic, old Albert explained to Harry, invoking protection for the baby in the old ways before they baptise the baby the next time the pastor came to Cobbler Creek. Harry flinched at the word ‘magic’.
Old Albert listened, felt the boy’s unease at his primal reaction to the magical protections the women were weaving over mother and child. The boy fears his magic, that it would set him apart from his kin. The old man hummed, singing calmness into Harry.