Land of a Thousand Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page B

account of one small community in the remote west. Here, then, was the stark, bitter truth, a truth to counter England’s denial and professed innocence in the evil that had been wreaked upon an entire nation.
    Because of his rapidly failing health and utter exhaustion, the priest’s entries were often little more than a hasty scrawl—a few terse wordsscratched out in the throes of fatigue or desperation. Yet the depths of the man’s soul pulsed through his words.
    In the pages of the journal, Morgan had discovered a side to the gentle priest he had not known. Joseph had made no attempt to hide his own anguish, his horror, his grief—even the occasional faltering of his faith. At times Morgan could almost hear his old friend’s spirit straining, his heart breaking, one fragile piece at a time.
    Removing his new reading glasses—a rueful concession to the encroachment of middle age—Morgan rubbed the bridge of his nose, then drained the last of the coffee from the cup. As he stacked the entries he’d just completed, it occurred to him there had been no new pages from Joseph for a number of weeks now. Knowing the burden of work under which the priest labored, the impossible hours he kept, Morgan supposed he shouldn’t be unduly alarmed. Yet a nagging shadow crossed his mind as he sat staring at the stack of pages in front of him.
    After another moment, he opened the right-hand drawer of his desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and reached for his pen. He would get a note off to Joseph yet this morning, before early classes or interviews.
    He managed to pen only a few words before Sandemon entered the room. “She has arrived, Seanchai .”
    Morgan looked up. His black West Indies companion stood at ease, powerful arms at his sides, the sleeves of his favorite purple shirt flowing free. As always, the broad brow was smooth, the eyes dark pools of untroubled waters. In contrast, the gold-toothed smile hinted of some vague, anticipated pleasure.
    â€œBy she, I expect you mean the NUN,” Morgan said grimly, replacing his pen on its brass stand.
    Sandemon gave a nod, and the smile widened. “Sister Louisa, yes. She is waiting in the entryway.”
    Morgan gave a deep sigh. “We might just as well have done with it, then.” Convinced now that the black man was indeed prepared to enjoy himself, Morgan glared at him. “I still think it’s a mistake, hiring a NUN.”
    Sandemon inclined his head. “But you agreed to the wisdom of employing a woman, that her influence could be invaluable, both for the child and for the Academy.”
    â€œAye, and I still agree that a woman on the premises might be a fine thing for Annie and for the school. That in no way means I think it wise to hire a NUN.”
    Sandemon shook his head. “It seems an ideal solution to me. Sister Louisa comes with classroom experience and the calling to a holy life. Surely both will serve as a positive influence for the child.”
    Morgan straightened slightly in the wheelchair. “Sister Louisa ,” he contradicted sullenly, “also comes highly suspect. I can’t quite help wondering why the order would be so eager to send her off to a stranger’s house outside the city.”
    Sandemon pretended not to notice Morgan’s testiness. “The sister requested permission to interview, as you know.” He paused. “She indicated God’s guidance in the matter, I believe.”
    Morgan’s only reply was another sour frown. He had nothing against nuns in general. He admired their self-sacrifice, appreciated their life of service, and acknowledged their usefulness to the church. Sandemon need not know the truth: that he tended to stand somewhat in awe of the sisters, indeed could be all too easily cowed by the smallest slip of a woman in a black habit. Nuns were saintly beings, lived holy lives—in general, bore no likeness to most of the women in