by Barbara Wood
After Joanna had received letters from the various colonial governments requesting money, she had sent off the required fees, and now anxiously awaited the arrival of maps and records. She had also written to all the missionary societies she could locate. So far, five had replied: None had any record of the Makepeaces.
"Here you go, Adam," she said, handing him the envelope, as she usually did. "Would you like to open it for me?"
"Off to a party, are you?" said Mr. Shapiro. "I've seen others on the road. Must be big goings-on over at Lismore. There'll be lots of food, I reckon. And plenty of beer, too."
He smiled shyly, as if suddenly embarrassed by himself. No one knew Mr. Shapiro's story—he seemed to have been a part of the Western District since anyone could remember. People guessed his age at somewhere between seventy and ninety, and he spoke with traces of an accent. He didn't have a lucrative trade, and often he had to resort to asking for food, but he was known for his kindness. There were rumors of a wife and baby, long ago in the old country, who had been murdered by soldiers.
"Mr. Shapiro," Hugh said, "what kind of flowers are those?" He pointed at the bouquet in a bucket on the seat next to the old man.
"They're English primroses, Mr. Westbrook. Fresh out of Widow Barns's garden this morning, in payment for some thread."
"How much do you want for them?" Hugh asked, reaching into his pocket.
Mr. Shapiro's clouded eyes widened behind his thick spectacles. "For you, Mr. Westbrook, twopence."
"Here's threepence for your trouble, Mr. Shapiro. There you go."
The old man looked at the coins in his hand. Then he closed his fingers around them and said, "God rewards a generous man, Mr. Westbrook." Shapiro took up his reins and moved on.
Hugh passed the flowers to Joanna and took up his own reins. "They're for you," he said.
She looked at him.
"Hair, Joanna." Adam pointed to her head.
"All right," Joanna said, a little confused by Hugh's unexpected gesture. She handed the bouquet to the boy, taking the tiny flowers from him one at a time and tucking them into her chignon.
When she was finished, Adam handed her the opened envelope and she read the brief letter enclosed. To her disappointment, the people at the Church of England headquarters in Sydney said that they had no record of the Makepeaces having served in any of their Australian missions.
"Is it good news?" Hugh said.
"I'm afraid not. My grandparents apparently did not serve with the Church of England missions." She folded the letter into her purse. It would be put with others, in a growing file.
As they rode along the country lane, Joanna glimpsed homesteads through the trees, and Hugh told her their histories. Just a generation ago, he explained, the landscape through which they were riding had been as mysterious and unknown to Europeans as the landscape of the moon. When the first explorers reported what they had found here and the news reached England, where there was no "new" land, where it was all owned already and jealously guarded by an old aristocracy, there had been a great migration to the Australian colonies. They had come from England and Scotland and Wales, the Camerons and the Hamiltons and the MacGregors, with their broods of children and their threadbare dreams. They had fought the native Aborigines who had lived here for thousands of years, and pushed them away or killed them off; they cut down the forests and dammed the streams; and they introduced sheep and wheat. They had become rich. They had built mansions and their wives wore expensive gowns; they had formed hunt clubs and private gentlemen's clubs and forgot or lied about the fact that they had once been coal miners and street sweepers.
Now they lived on impressive-looking estates with impressive-sounding names, like Monivae and Barrow Downs and Glenhope, houses built in Georgian and Elizabethan and Gothic styles, some designed to reflect the country of origin of the owner—such as Kilmarnock's Scottish castle—others to showcase the taste of those who lived there, as in the Mediterranean "villa" that sat on Barrow Downs, and the vaguely Moorish curiosity Hugh said was inhabited by a branch of the Cameron family. No two houses in the district were alike, Joanna discovered, but all, in their way, looked as if they belonged someplace else in the world.
Even the gardens, what she could see of them, seemed to be made up of trees and flowers imported from England or Scotland or Ireland. She glimpsed rabbits and deer, which she had learned from Hugh were not native to the Australian continent, but had been brought over from Britain. There were birds, too, starlings and sparrows and goldfinches, which Joanna knew were not native to Australia. It struck her that the people living on these magnificent estates seemed determined to create the illusion that they lived, not in Australia, but in Suffolk or Yorkshire or Cork.
And Lismore, Joanna saw at last, was no exception. As Hugh guided the wagon off the main road and down a drive lined with elms, Joanna saw up ahead an English manor house that reminded her of the stately homes she had seen near Aunt Millicent's village. A formal English garden was laid out in front, and gardeners toiled with rakes and clippers and hoses in an attempt to keep the lawn an English green as it baked beneath the Australian sun.
There was a line of carriages in front, and Hugh maneuvered the wagon into a place among them, handing the reins to a boy who had come running up. They followed a flagstone path to the rear of the house, and came upon a vast, green lawn, where a party was in progress.
There were so many people scattered over the lawn, sitting at tables or standing beneath shady trees, drinking and eating and murmuring quietly among themselves, with children of all ages running about, that Joanna realized most of the wealthy families of the district must be represented here. Long, food-laden tables covered with white cloths were attended by uniformed maids. Thick cuts of beef and lamb sizzled over five large outdoor grills, and huge kegs of beer and wine filled an endless supply of glasses. Adults played croquet on one lawn, badminton on another, and for the children, there was a miniature merry-go-round driven by a donkey. Musicians played beneath a striped canopy. Joanna thought it looked more like a small fair than a garden party.
When she saw a beautifully dressed woman come toward them, she guessed that she must be Hugh's fiancee. And she did not look at all as Joanna had imagined. Unlike her brother, whom Joanna had met briefly in Melbourne, Pauline Downs was tall, with thick blond hair, and she was dressed, despite the heat, in a striking green velvet gown and matching feathered hat.
"Hugh darling," she said when she came up, taking his arm and kissing his cheek. "We've all been anxiously awaiting your arrival. Everyone is eager to meet your little boy."
"Pauline," he said. "I'd like you to meet Joanna Drury."
Joanna felt cold eyes meet hers. "How do you do?" Pauline said, then she bent down and said, "And you must be Adam. How do you do?" She held out her hand. "I'm going to be your new mother. What do you think of the party, Adam? All this is for you."
When Adam drew back, Joanna said, "Say hello, Adam. And give Miss Downs your hand." She nodded and added gently, "Go on, it's all right."
Pauline slipped a hand through Hugh's arm and said, "We must find Frank, he has been anxious ever since he received a telegram from Melbourne. It seems your lanolin venture is going to prove very profitable."
"We have Miss Drury to thank for that," Hugh said. "It was her idea."
"Really?" Pauline said, her smile turning hard. She glanced at Joanna, her eyes flickering to the primroses in Joanna's hair. "How nice," she said, and turned her back. "Come along, we have to introduce Adam to his new friends."
A large man with a ruddy complexion suddenly appeared, saying in a booming voice, "There you are, Westbrook. I've been wanting to talk to you about that new wool-washing machine. I hear it's—"
"Not now, John," Pauline said. "Hugh is mine today. I want you to meet Adam, he's the guest of honor, you know."
As Hugh said, "You're welcome to come over anytime and take a look at the machinery, John," more people came up, asking to hear about Westb
rook's latest innovation.
Joanna watched Hugh and Adam become the center of attention, with Pauline at their side. And suddenly she realized she had made a mistake in coming. Clearly she was out of place here, and not welcome.
She walked among the guests, who either did not acknowledge her or gave her curious looks, until, remembering the map Hugh had spoken of, she decided to go into the house. She entered the kitchen, which was crowded with maids and chauffeurs, who seemed to be having a small party of their own. They fell silent when she came in, and looked at her oddly. An older woman in a stiff black dress with a ring of keys at her belt, said, "May I help you with something, miss?"
Joanna saw how the others stared at her; one man even stood up and put his jacket on. Joanna said, "No, thank you," and quickly passed through and entered the house. As soon as the kitchen door closed behind her, the laughter and talk resumed.
Joanna found herself in a dark hallway, with rooms branching off either side. She walked down it until she came to an open door, and when she looked inside and saw shelves of books from floor to ceiling, deep leather furniture and a Turkish carpet, she realized she had found the library. Then she saw the map.
It was as Hugh had described it—a map of the entire continent of Australia, showing the coastal towns and cities and settlements, and the great blank in the center, which was over a thousand miles across. Joanna was suddenly excited as she examined it, hoping to see place names that might resemble Karra Karra, or the "Bo—Creek" that was written on the deed. She studied particularly carefully harbors and rivers where her grandparents might have landed, hoping that they had not traveled too far into the interior. But she found nothing even close to what she was looking for. She stared at the empty space in the center, where there were no names, rivers, landmarks indicated, as if a vast cloud engulfed it, hiding what lay below. Karra Karra could be somewhere in there, she thought disappointed.
When Joanna stepped back from the map, her gaze fell upon the desk below it, and she saw a piece of paper covered in familiar handwriting. It was a poem, written in pencil on the back of a dry-goods-store receipt. Joanna knew by now that Hugh wrote at odd moments, when he was inspecting fences, or mustering sheep, and that he wrote on whatever paper was handy. She realized that this must be his latest ballad; it was titled "The Swagman."
As she read it, the door to the library opened, and someone walked in.
"There you are, Miss Drury," Hugh said. "I've been looking for you. I see you found the map. Did you find anything on it?"
"I'm afraid not."
He saw what she had in her hand. "My poem. What do you think of it?"
"It's lovely," she said. "But I don't fully understand it. What, for instance, is a swagman?"
"Swagmen are men who roam the outback with all their belongings wrapped up in a swag—a blanket carried on their backs."
"And 'waltzing Matilda'?"
"Matilda is another word for swag. Waltzing Matilda means carrying the swag, or, in other words, vagabonding about."
"Why is it called that?"
"I have no idea. It goes back to the convict days."
They stared at each other across the sunlit library. Then Hugh said, "I've just been talking to Frank, who told me some good news. The day after you came down to the river, I began to wonder if there might not be a market for the lanolin that we wash out of the fleece. I discussed it with Frank—he knows every businessman from Adelaide to Sydney. He contacted two pharmaceutical companies that expressed an interest in our offer. They say they'll buy all the lanolin we produce!" He paused. "So I will have a profit this year after all. Thanks to you, Miss Drury."
Joanna was suddenly struck by how well Hugh fitted into these elegant surroundings. The homely cabin and muddy yard of Merinda seemed to have nothing to do with this tall man in the handsome suede jacket. She realized that here was a side of him she had not seen before—the gentleman grazier. And she thought: This is the kind of house he should have, this way of life.
"Shall we rejoin the party?" he said.
Hugh held out his arm and Joanna slipped hers into it.
"How is Adam getting along?" she asked as they left the library. "I was afraid that so many people might frighten him."
"Well, he really doesn't seem to know what to make of it all."
Out in the hall, Joanna noticed something she had not seen earlier—a curious painting hanging on the wall. She stopped and stared at it.
It was no ordinary painting done on canvas or wood. It looked like a large piece of tree bark on which concentric circles and wavy lines, clusters of dots and rows of dashes, had been painted.
Seeing her looking at it, Hugh said, "That's a bark painting. Frank told me once he bought it from an old Aborigine who came from one of the northern tribes."
The more Joanna stared at it, the less chaotic it became; shapes started to emerge. She could make out a human face; a woman with large breasts and a man with exaggerated genitals; a kangaroo with a baby in its womb; something that might be a tree, and clouds and a river, and finally, she saw something large and grotesque encompassing it all—a serpent, Joanna realized, that appeared to be about to devour everything.
"It's frightening," she said, stepping back.
"I guess it was meant to be frightening. The old man who sold it to Frank claimed it was a painting of something called a poison-song."
She gave Hugh a startled look. "A poison-song!"
"It was a way of punishing someone. The Aborigines had very strict codes of conduct, and anyone who broke one of their many laws and taboos was condemned to death. One way to die was by being 'sung.' Do you see the figures in the center of the painting? They represent all of creation—the humans and the animals, the trees and the rivers, the clouds, and so forth. And this figure, around the edge, is the Rainbow Serpent which is about to devour them all. A song-man or song-woman would be able to look at this painting and chant the poison-song that goes along with it. And they believe that whoever they 'sing up' will die."
Joanna felt herself go cold. "And do they die?" she asked.
"I've heard of stories in which they did. Poison-songs are known to be very powerful magic. The thing is, once a man has been 'sung' he can't reverse it. There is no medicine that can cure him, because doctors are helpless against the power of singing."
She looked at Hugh. "Could this be," she said, finding it difficult to speak, "could this be the poison my mother was afraid of? Had she heard a poison-song being sung—over her grandparents, or even herself, maybe? Was that what she witnessed as a child, what she could never remember? Mr. Westbrook, could a poison-song have killed my mother?"
"Oh, I doubt it, Miss Drury. You said she was very young at the time. She could hardly have understood what was happening."
Suddenly, Joanna remembered her grandfather's notes. "What if my grandfather recorded a poison-song? What if he sent it out of Australia with my mother, not realizing what he was doing? What if those papers I've been trying to decode are the poison-song that killed my mother?"
"Miss Drury," he said, "it's all superstition. Surely we're too civilized to believe that a song can kill someone." But even as he said it, Hugh heard the hollowness of his own words. His years spent in the outback, when very often his only companions were tribal Aborigines, had taught him that there were powers and mysteries that defied rational, or "civilized," explanations.
And then he was recalling the argument he had had two days ago with Ezekiel. The old Aborigine was claiming that Joanna should leave Merinda. "I see spirits around her, boss," Ezekiel had said. "She got strong power, strong magic. She upset the balance. The Ancestors tell me in dreams: make the girl go."
When Hugh had again told the old man that he was talking nonsense and that he didn't want to hear any more about it, Ezekiel had said, "Your mob got lice, boss, no wool clip. More bad things coming." And now apparently Ezekiel was telling the native station hands that they were working a bad-luck station. So far, four of Hu
gh's best workers had taken off, and the rest were getting nervous.
When he saw the fear in Joanna's eyes, how she stared at the painting, he suddenly realized that he couldn't let her find out what Ezekiel was saying, that he would have to keep the old man away from her. "Miss Drury," he said, touching her arm, "let's go and see what Adam is up to, shall we?"
When they stepped into the sunshine, Joanna was momentarily blinded, and she put her hand over her eyes. She was still seeing the painting in all its grotesque beauty. She couldn't get the images out of her mind, or the words "poison-song."
Pauline came to claim Hugh and as Joanna watched them walk across the lawn, she heard someone say her name.
She turned and saw Dr. David Ramsey coming toward her. He was wearing a dark green frock coat and black cravat; he was bareheaded; his hair shone red-gold in the sunlight.
"Miss Drury, how nice to see you here," he said.
"Hello, Dr. Ramsey."
"How are you? And how is Adam doing? Have you been able to get him to talk a little more?"
"Yes, a little," she said, searching the crowd for Adam, and seeing him with a group of children.
"Unfortunately, we know so little of the human brain, but surely your kindness and patience will help. He is lucky to have you, Miss Drury. Come, let's have a glass of champagne."
As they started across the lawn, Ramsey said, "I have been reading Darwin's On the Origin of Species. Are you familiar with it?"
"I haven't read it," Joanna said, suddenly feeling that she was being watched. "But I know about it. I believe my grandfather, whose whereabouts I am seeking, was at Cambridge at the same time as Darwin."
She looked at the people scattered around the lawn, sitting in chairs, or standing in groups. No one was looking at her, and yet she had a very strong feeling of being watched.
"I envy Mr. Darwin," Ramsey was saying. "It must be wonderful to know that you're actually making history. There is so much going on in science and medicine today, so many discoveries, so many great men. Pasteur, Lister, Koch—they will be remembered. My ambition, Miss Drury, is to make that kind of contribution to medicine."
