Teresa Medeiros: Once An Angel

Barney nodded smugly. The twilight wind blew cooler as brother and sister gazed at each other in a moment of silent accord. With a resourcefulness born of surviving a motherless childhood in the East

End of London, they rushed her.

Barney caught one leg, Doreen the other. Emily balled up her fist and smashed it into Barney's face. Blood spewed, and she knew she had broken his nose. She enjoyed a fierce second of triumph. Then

the sky and water swapped places as they heaved her up and over the rail of the steamer into the darkening sea.

Emily sank like a stone. The narrow double skirts twined around her legs in serpentine cords, cutting

off her feeble kicks. The weight of the whalebone bustle dragged her down, deep into the murky depths until the shimmer of the sunset on the water faded to black.

God? Her voice was shy and hesitant, as it had been when her father was alive before she learned that swearing and stomping got more attention than tugging politely on someone's skirt.

No answer.

God? Are you there? Louder this time, more strident. The crushing pressure in her chest worsened.

I know I haven't been very nice the past few yean. Miss Winters says I'm quite a naughty girl,

especially after that sordid incident with the gardener's son.

Her skirt wrapped around her face in choking folds. Perhaps this was an inopportune moment to be reminding God of her sins.

She clawed the skirt from her face. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'd be very grateful if you

would let me live. Not really for myself sir. Just to spite Barney and Doreen. And Justin Connor,

that dirty, no-good, thieving wretch who stole my daddy's gold mine.

The familiar litany was a prayer all its own. She had breathed it, dreamed it, and feasted on its bitterness for seven years. Her legs pummeled the water with new ferocity. She tore at the buttons of her bodice, wrenched the bustle's tape from its mooring. Her head pounded. Tiny dots of light danced before her eyes. Still she clawed at the heavy garments, shedding each layer like musty skins. Finally, she was able to shoot toward the surface, strong and lithe in the simple cotton chemise issued each of the girls at the seminary.

Her hands pressed on with a life of their own, ripping the chemise as if they could somehow tear

asunder not only the garment, but all the drab, lonely, soot-stained years since she had sat in Miss Winters's library and been told her daddy was never coming back.

The buoyant water bore her upward. Her head split the surface with a splash. She sucked in a

shuddering breath. Life and air tingled through her blood all the way to the tips of her toes. The brilliant orb of the sun lay flat on the water, and for a dazzling instant Emily couldn't tell where the exploding rainbow of the sunset ended and she began. She dove beneath the waves and turned an exultant flip.

She emerged from the water, shaking sun-gilded drops from her hair. "Thank you, God," she whispered fiercely. "I shall try to be nicer. I swear I will."

At that moment she saw the steamer chugging toward the far horizon. A faint cry floated on the wind. Barney waved his arms and Emily knew he had spotted her.

Noble intentions forgotten, Emily thumbed her nose and wiggled her fingers at him in a gesture seldom practiced at the seminary. Blowing him a final taunting kiss she kicked herself around, rolling and

bobbing like a sleek seal. The silvery curve of the shoreline beckoned. She quenched a flare of trepidation. Before he'd gone off on his quest for gold, she and her father had rented a modest cottage

at Brighton each summer. She'd become a strong swimmer. It couldn't be as far to land as it looked. Could it?

The cool water caressed her bare skin. A wave of heady delight coursed through her. She drew in a

deep breath and struck for the shore with long, graceful strokes, free at last.

As Justin prowled the deserted beach, the bloated moon laved the peak of each swell in molten silver.

The waves broke on the sand and rushed over his feet in a swirl of foam before the sea could suck

them back. He felt the inexorable tug against his bare soles as if the sea held the power to melt the

very shore beneath his feet.

He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. The breeze whispered of a respite from his aching restlessness, but for Justin it was a taunting refrain. He couldn't even still his thoughts long enough to hear the night's music calling to him. The only thing more elusive than sleep was peace.

Damn the tenacious Miss Winters and her letters! It had been months since he had been jolted from

sleep by the bright, merry edge of a child's laughter. Tonight the mocking echo had driven him stumbling and groaning from his pallet to seek the brighter darkness of night.

He paused, rocking back and forth on his heels, and stared blindly out to sea. Cool spray misted his skin. It had been seven years since he, Nicholas, and David had come to New Zealand to seek their fortunes. Seven years since Trini had dragged his boat ashore and pried David's stiffening body from his grip. But when Justin closed his eyes, time melted like the sand beneath his feet.

If the smooth-talking Nicky had been their wit and Justin their brains, it was David who had been their heart.

After weeks of fruitless panning for gold in the cold shadow of the Southern Alps, it had been David's relentless optimism that had given them the cheer to continue. David had hope enough for all of them; David had dreams of the future; David had Claire.

Claire . Long after Nicky was snoring, Justin would lie awake in the dark and listen hungrily as David talked of his baby daughter. As he would drift into sleep, it was almost as if the scent of her tousled

curls and the echo of her irrepressible giggle would warm their lonely camp. He had even dreamed of

her once. She had toddled from the sea, her plump arms outstretched, the lilting timbre of her voice crying for her father. In the dream it had not been David but Justin himself who soothed her puckered brow against his shoulder.

The stringent cry of a kiwi shattered his memories. Justin sucked in a breath, half expecting the beach

to erupt in a welter of Maori natives, their tattooed faces twisted in frenzied cries for utu , their sun-browned hands twined around the deadly hilts of their taiahas . From behind him came only the

flurry of wings as a startled gannet took to the sky.

Justin opened his eyes. He stood on a different shore now. The salt-tinged breeze of the North Island

was kinder and balmier than the stiff winds of the South Island. The palms swayed in lulling rhythms

and the sea sang instead of roaring. He had created a life for himself here. A small and simple life

stripped of snarls and entanglements. But the stench of gunpowder and blood still haunted his nostrils, mingling with the rich, sweet scent of the crimson-flowered pohutukawas.

It had been Trini, with his innocent wisdom, who had told him he still carried with him the body of his friend.

Justin kicked at the waves and started down the moon-drenched ribbon of beach. If he didn't return

soon, Penfeld would come searching for him. His valet believed him too absentminded and too

immersed in his music to find the hut once he wandered far from it.

He turned his face to the wind, abandoning his senses to the seductive beauty of the night. Stars misted the smudged charcoal of the northern sky. His hair danced against his shoulders like a dark cloak as he ambled along, lost in the pounding symphony of sand and surf.