Ghosts of Otago

By Georgiana Andersen

Maggie O’Fallon’s will to live has died along with her lover. More alone than ever, all she wants is to find a way to ease her pain. And Maggie finds it…losing herself in the darkest of places and ignoring the ghosts of her past with their silent warnings.

Maggie’s first taste of opium in a shantytown shack places her on the path toward destruction. Ultimately, she becomes a regular at Arrowtown’s Chinese meeting house, firmly in the clutches of ‘the Dragon’.

Maggie’s chance for rescue comes in the most unlikely form, and she is dragged back from the edge of ruin to face a life with remarkable new promise. But can she overcome her personal demons and find the strength to fight for a chance at happiness, and protect the one thing dearest to her heart?

Maggie must realize the healing power of love and forgiveness to discover a new life at peace with the Ghosts of Otago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483433059

Book preview

Ghosts

of Otago

Georgiana Andersen

Copyright © 2015 Gina Robinson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3306-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3305-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015909408

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 08/27/2015

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

For my Mum

And my beautiful daughters

Ainsley, Liadhan and Brecken

Who taught me about

The strength of a mother’s love

Thank You

Troubles without number surround me;

My sins have overtaken me, and I cannot see.

They are more than the hairs of my head,

And my heart fails within me.

Psalm 40:12

Chapter One

I returned to Arrowtown like one waking from a beautiful dream only to find that the ugly world had been circling round all the while. Everything looked the same…dirty, cheerless, gray. Everything unchanged except for me, and as it turned out, even I had existed only in the dream. Maggie beloved, safe and free…she was vanishing as quickly as a sleeping vision flees the waking mind.

I avoided Buckingham Street, reluctant to encounter anyone I might know. I couldn’t bear the prospect of informing Lilly or the girls of Mack’s death. Indeed, I was unable to even formulate the dreadful words on my tongue.

Instead, I drifted toward skid road, and the company of others as miserable as myself. As darkness fell, I found an empty doorwell and crouched in it, protected only by a thin saddle blanket. I hitched Mack’s gelding to a post a few feet away, where he now stood stamping his feet occasionally, no doubt wondering when his dinner would be served.

The frigid air penetrated the thin blanket and my clothes, sending a chill deep into my marrow. I shivered, but made little effort to protect myself from the dangerous clime. Had I been sitting before the warmest hearth, still the chill would have persisted. I pulled my knees against my chest, and bowed my head to rest upon them. From time to time, voices approached then faded into the distance as people passed on the muddy footpath. None spared me even a passing glance.

I had huddled in my scant shelter for hours when I heard shuffling footsteps approaching. I was aware that they stopped just before me, but I did not look up.

Yee’ll freeze to death if ya stay there all night, a woman’s rough voice came out of the darkness.

I raised my head to look at her with eyes bruised by grief and exhaustion. A stooped old crone with wild gray hair and ragged clothes stood in front of me. I realized that it was Old Jo, the pathetic streetwalker who once had been evicted from the Prospector Hotel in the dead of night. This fact registered in my mind, but aroused no interest beyond a mild feeling of surprise that she was still alive.

So what? I replied, bowing my head to my clasped knees once more.

Don’t I know yee? She said, bending over me.

The smell of rotting teeth and filth assaulted me, and I leaned away, revolted. I saw that she studied my face, and wanting to prevent her from coming any closer, I answered, Yes, I was the chambermaid at the Prospector Hotel.

She stood up and let out a raucous laugh. I couldn’t tell if the sound contained mirth or derision. Aye, aye, she said, baring a toothless grin. And look at ya now! You’re the little girl brought my money back to me. Well, then come on! With a jerk of her head she beckoned me to follow her.

I scowled at her, and stayed where I was.

Seeing that I made no move to rise, Old Jo said, I knows how to return a kindness. I’ve got a place you can stay for the night. It’s nothin’ fancy, but at least it’s warm. Come on.

I rose reluctantly, saying nothing to her as I unhitched my horse. Finally, I looked at Old Jo. I’ll follow you, I said.

She led me through the back alleys of skid road, where scores of rats parted like the sea as we passed. Stinking garbage and sewerage ran underfoot, and I had to press my hand over my nose and mouth to quell my nausea. Even among this wretchedness, we passed more than one couple engaged in lewd acts against a wall. I pressed my body tightly against the horse, and averted my eyes.

Old Jo approached a row of shacks that I would have thought to be abandoned. She went to the last door in the row, and pushed it open on rusty hinges. Ducking her head, she disappeared into the darkness within.

I hesitated outside, certain that this was a terrible idea. I shuddered to imagine the conditions inside Old Jo’s hovel. Furthermore, I hated to leave the gelding tethered in the alley, certain he would be gone by morning. But, I could think of nowhere else to go, and when I heard the beginnings of a fire crackling inside I squared my shoulders and stepped toward the door.

Old Jo inhabited a single small room with a dirt floor and rough-hewn wooden walls. A pile of stones, ostensibly a fireplace, was piled in one corner. There was no chimney; rather the roof above was left open to allow smoke to escape. An iron spit and cauldron spanned the fire, and here Old Jo was already at work cutting onions into the pot. In another corner of the room, a pile of blankets on a straw tick mattress passed for a bed. Otherwise, the room was devoid of furnishings.

She looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. You can put your blanket here in front of the fire. Privy’s out back.

I grimaced, surprised that there were toilet facilities at all. From the look of things, the open gutters along the alleyways sufficed just as well for most of the inhabitants of the skid road area. I became aware of voices leaking through the wall from the adjacent shack and chewed my lip, shocked that anyone could live in such conditions.

Outside, I heard the horse shaking his bridle, and went to attend to him. From the saddlebag I withdrew a parcel of grain and a feedbag, which I affixed to his muzzle. I also removed some bread and a hunk of cheese for myself, suspecting that Old Jo’s hospitality did not extend so far as an offer to share her meal. Finally, after tying the reins as tightly as I could to the post outside the shack, I gave the gelding a reluctant pat, and went inside.

While Old Jo shuffled around her shack, I piled my blankets on the floor and sat cross-legged, watching her. I knew her to be a desperate old whore, and an opium addict as well, and I was not entirely sure that her intentions were as benevolent as she would have me believe. I pressed my fingers against the sgian dubh affixed to my thigh, and was momentarily comforted by the feel of the steel blade beneath my skirt. However, even this simple act brought a wave of memories that drew forth an unintentional moan of agony from my lips. I leaned my back against the wall behind me; tilting my head back with my eyes squeezed shut. Desperate for a respite from my pain, I forced myself to concentrate on the sound of Old Jo noisily slurping her onion soup in the far corner.

While I remained motionless against the wall, I heard Old Jo once more moving about the room. A clang as she tossed her tin bowl into a pail caused me to jump in alarm, and I opened my eyes to see her extracting a loop of twine from between her sagging breasts. She fumbled with the twine until she held a small tin key in her hand, which she then used to unlock a rough trunk at the foot of her makeshift bed. She extracted a long wooden pipe from the trunk, and a small brown paper parcel. As she began to pack the bowl of the pipe, I once again closed my eyes, disinterested.

Soon, a strange-smelling smoke began to drift upon the stagnant air. Realizing that it was not tobacco in her pipe, I lifted my head to look at her through slitted eyes. She puffed contentedly on the pipe for several moments, and then appeared to remember me. With a cavernous smile, she stood and wove her way toward me.

It’s nice to have a bit o’company, she said. Despite my obvious revulsion, she settled herself onto the pile of blankets I had prepared for myself. She leaned toward me with a conspiratorial wink. Us girls gotta stick together, eh?

I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t help the feelings of disgust that she roused in me. Trying not to inhale too deeply, I leaned away from her. I watched without speaking as she took another long draw from her pipe, and then extended it to me.

Care for a hit? she asked, beaming as if she were offering me the most elegant gift.

I shook my head, and resumed my previous posture, eyes shut tight.

Old Jo nudged me. C’mon, one hit of this and you’ll be feeling no pain.

My eyes opened, and I turned slowly to look at her. I studied the craggy old face that now held a look of utter peace and tranquillity. True enough, she had been transformed.

‘No pain?’ I thought, and as I watched her behind the swirling haze of smoke, my broken heart pleaded for release. Not at all concerned with the possibility of my own destruction, I reached for the pipe.

I made no attempt to disguise my actions as I wiped Old Jo’s spittle from the mouthpiece, and then placed it to my lips. Closing my eyes, I took a long draw, feeling the sultry smoke enter me like a lover. Warmth infused my body, and my limbs went instantly weak. I listened to the pulsing of my heart in my ears, heard it slow, wondered if it would stop altogether.

A second pull on the pipe sent me slouching down the wall, until I lay on my side with my head resting on my bent arm. I felt the feelings of fear, grief and anxiety melting from my body. So physical did their exodus seem that I found myself looking at the ground beneath me, expecting to see them puddled there like water. The plaid pattern of my blanket caught my eye, and I traced it with my finger. Rainbows of light followed the movement of my hand through the air, and I extended it in front of me. I wiggled my fingers before my face, transfixed.

From a great distance, beside me Old Jo laughed. There now, isn’t that better? she said.

With a monumental effort I raised my eyes to look at her. This tiny movement felt as if I had been pitched about on a rough sea. I rolled onto my hip, and vomited onto the dirt floor in front of me before drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The pain was back. I felt the crushing weight of sadness even before I was fully conscious. Something in the room had awakened me, and as I blinked my eyes open I had difficulty focusing in the dim light of the shack. Was it the same night, or another? I felt as if I had slept for days.

Without rising from my recumbent position on the floor, I tilted my head back to look into the corner of the room where Old Jo’s disheveled bed sat. I squinted into the darkness, and realized that there were two people there. An old man, nearly as ragged and filthy as Old Jo herself, stood beside the bed. He held in his hand a pipe, similar to the one Jo and I had shared earlier. After taking a long draw from it, he handed it to Old Jo. She smiled a toothless grin, took the pipe and sucked at it hungrily. She closed her eyes, letting the euphoria wash over her, and then raised the pipe to her lips again.

Oy, that’s enough now, the man said, snatching the pipe from her hands. Maybe I’ll give ya another hit afterwards.

As I watched, Old Jo unbuckled the man’s trousers and leaned toward him. Revolted, I struggled upright, and began to hastily gather my belongings. I had to search in the half-darkness for one of my boots, but at last I found it. As I pulled on my coat and quickly laced my boots, I heard the man let out a shuddering moan. He stepped away from Old Jo, pulling his trousers up before handing her the pipe once more. I shrank back against the wall, trying not to be seen.

He allowed Jo only a single hit from his pipe, then took it and tucked it away inside his grimy coat. He turned, and saw me hiding in the shadows. As he walked across the dirt floor in my direction, I pressed even harder against the wall.

Next time I reckon I’d prefer the pretty girl, he said, leering at me. If the price is the same.

I could only stare at him with wide eyes, praying he would come no closer. But he was apparently sated for the night, and merely blew me a kiss as he passed on his way to the door. When he was gone, I turned my eyes back to Old Jo.

She rocked slowly back and forth on her bed, humming softly to herself. The opium had done its trick, and Jo seemed to have left the squalid presence of her pitiful shack. I wondered if she believed herself to be in a better place, and for a moment the feelings of peace and delirium I had experienced the night before flickered through my brain. How easy it had been to escape my suffering, how welcome—

Did ya get some too? Old Jo asked in a hollow voice, when finally she opened her eyes and noticed me.

I stared at her, and slowly shook my head.

Ah, well, she said, resuming her rocking motion. There’ll be others come knockin’ soon enough, don’t you worry.

As I realized the meaning of her words, a feeling of horror engulfed me. I snatched up my belongings and left Old Jo to her opium laced dreams as I fled out into the hostile night.

Reluctantly, I sold Mack’s gelding at the town livery stables and used the money to secure a room in a boarding house far from Buckingham Street. It was a seedy establishment, home to migrant miners and indigents, but it was anonymous. For now, that was my only requirement. I wanted only to sequester myself in a darkened room, clinging to my grief and loneliness. For days I remained curled upon my lumpy bed, rising only when hunger drove me to explore the depths of my saddlebag for what remained of the supplies I had brought with me from the cabin.

Only when my supplies finally ran out did I realize that I would have to reenter the world. I dragged limbs weighted with sorrow through the streets of Arrowtown, and viewed my surroundings with jaded eyes. Was it any wonder that every door was closed in my face, every request for work met with an abrupt denial? After several days, I began to fear that I would be forced to leave Arrowtown in order to find employment.

As I trod listlessly homeward one afternoon, I saw a shingle bearing a painted shamrock swinging above a tavern door. I paused, squinting at the letters as I tried to force them to form themselves into legible words. Finally, I could make it out … Shaughnessy’s Tavern. Recognizing a name from my homeland, I pushed open the swinging doors and entered the dim establishment.

Even at this early hour, the place was bustling with activity. Tall stools surrounded a square bar in the room’s center, and every one was occupied. Tables scattered across the rough plank floor staged numerous card games. There was no dance floor, nor did I hear the tinny music of a Hurdy Gurdy to remind me of my sordid days. Mildly encouraged, I approached the bar.

A thin, harried looking woman busily tended the bar, and it took several moments to draw her attention. Finally, she wiped her hands on her apron and came over to where I stood.

Yes? she said brusquely.

I raised my voice in order to be heard over the din. I was wonderin’ if you might be in need of help.

Her mouth turned down in a frown, and I detected the bitterness of a woman long overworked. Aye, wouldn’t I love to have some help around here? But we can’t afford it. I run the place on my own … well, with some occasional help from Paddy over there, when I can drag him away from a game of cards. She pursed her lips and cast a hard look at a silver haired man engaged in a boisterous round of poker.

Right, I said, turning to go. Thanks for your time.

You’re Irish, are you? she called to my retreating back, and I looked back over my shoulder.

Aye.

She came out from behind the bar and with a tilt of her head beckoned me to follow her. She led me through the tavern toward a rear door. We passed through this into a private kitchen, and I assumed that we were in the Shaughnessy’s residence. Mrs. Shaughnessy pushed the door closed behind us, and turned to face me.

We can’t use you in the tavern, but I am in need of someone to help out with me mum, she said. She’s an invalid, and between caring for her and the bar, it’s more than I can handle. I couldn’t pay you much more than room and board, maybe a few shillings a week for your pocket.

I studied her as I considered the offer. Surely there could be no more virtuous work than caring for an elderly invalid. It took me only a moment to decide.

Yes, ma’am, I said. That sounds fine.

You’ll want to meet her then, Mrs. Shaughnessy said as she opened a door leading to a narrow staircase. We climbed up to a room beneath the rafters. Lace curtains hung before dormer windows, allowing the afternoon light to pervade the room. A braided rug lay upon the bare planks, and in one corner of the room a brass bed sat adorned with an Irish wedding ring quilt. The room was simple but pleasant, and it was obvious that some care had been given to aesthetics.

A diminutive lady dressed in a pristine white nightgown slept