by Barbara Wood
And then she saw Ezekiel standing at the edge of the garden. He wore the familiar tattered shirt and dusty pants, and he stood so still that he could have been a statue, except that his long white hair and beard stirred in the breeze. He was watching her the same way he had watched her before, down by the river.
"Are you all right, Miss Drury?"
"Yes," she said, smiling. "Of course. Doesn't the sun feels good?" She turned away from Ezekiel's stare and saw that Adam was the center of attention in a small circle of people. They were making a fuss over him, and trying to put a party hat on his head.
"I wish they wouldn't crowd around Adam like that," Joanna said. "He still doesn't trust people, or crowds. Who is the pretty little blond boy talking to him?"
"That's Colin MacGregor's son, Judd, and that's Colin standing behind him. His father is some sort of Scottish noble."
Joanna looked at the darkly handsome man who was overseeing the boys' shy attempt to become friends. "Oh yes, Christina MacGregor's husband. And how is she?"
"If she's careful, she'll carry the baby to term. By the way, do you see that rather imperious lady over there, the one in black, who appears to be holding court?"
Joanna saw a woman of imposing stature, wearing a voluminous crinoline and dominating a circle of women who were seated on chairs and drinking tea.
"That's Maude Reed," Ramsey said. "She is what you might call the matriarch of the district—eight daughters, twenty-three grandchildren, and an odd number of great-grandchildren with, I believe, three more on the way. Mrs. Reed is the wife of that man over there, John Reed," Ramsey said, pointing to where Hugh was standing with Frank Downs and the large man who had met them when they first arrived.
Joanna saw Hugh glance in Ezekiel's direction, and then she saw him scowl suddenly. While David Ramsey continued to tell Joanna about the other guests at the party, she watched Hugh walk across the lawn, and go up to the old Aborigine. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she thought Hugh looked angry. Ezekiel's face remained impassive; but he was shaking his head and gesturing.
"Dr. Ramsey," Joanna said.
"Please call me David," he said.
"David, do you see that old man over there?"
"Yes, Ezekiel. People around here use him as a tracker when they go hunting."
"Does he live here at Lismore?"
"Oh no, no one knows exactly where he lives. He just appears now and then, and people hire him. We don't know where he goes in between tracking jobs. Why?"
"Why is he staring at us?"
"I imagine he's curious."
Joanna saw how Ezekiel's face remained expressionless while Hugh was clearly angry. She wondered what they were arguing about; if it was because of her. She remembered the poison-song painting again, and the dreams. And her cold feeling returned.
"I was wondering, Miss Drury," Ramsey said. "Might I have your permission to call upon you sometime? I mean formally. For instance, there is going to be a Christmas Eve ball at Strathfield. You would do me a great honor if you would accompany me to it."
"I'm afraid I don't know if I shall be able to go. It might be better for me to be with Adam then."
"Well, perhaps a picnic some Sunday?"
Joanna looked into his pleasant face, at the green eyes framed by red-gold lashes, the splash of freckles across his cheeks, and she was struck by how young he seemed, although she judged he was at least five years older than she.
Then she saw Hugh returning to the party, and Ezekiel walking away through the trees. When Joanna saw Pauline go up to Hugh and slip her arm through his, she heard herself say, "Yes, David. A picnic sounds very nice."
Suddenly, Adam screamed. Joanna ran to him and took him in her arms. A man dressed in a clown suit was saying, "I didn't do anything. I was just trying to make the boy laugh."
"Oh, Adam," Joanna said. "It's all right. It's all in fun."
"Well really!" said Maude Reed, who came up with a swishing of her enormous crinoline. "Why would a great grown boy like that be afraid of a clown?"
"He doesn't understand," Joanna said. "He doesn't know about parties or clowns. He'll be all right though, won't you, Adam?"
"Miss Drury is right, Maude," another voice said, and Joanna turned to see Pauline coming through the cluster of people. "Come on now, Adam, let's have some ice cream. I'll bet you've never had ice cream before, have you? Miss Drury, would you care for something to eat?"
They walked to the buffet tables where cakes and puddings, salads and cold meats, cheeses and fruits were being overseen by servants, while chefs carved hams, roast beef, and venison. After giving Adam a dish of ice cream, which he tasted tentatively, and then began to eat in earnest, Pauline said, "Will you try some of this pudding, Miss Drury? I'm told it's made from a recipe that is uniquely Australian—something the convicts invented, I believe. Hugh tells me you're from India. Victoria must seem very alien to you. I have heard that India is so"—she paused—"well, so barren. Are you sure you will fit in here? After all, you will find life quite different in Australia. We of the Western District aren't like other people. It is always difficult for outsiders to adjust. Sometimes they simply cannot."
Pauline spooned small amounts of potato salad, chilled oysters, and slices of cold roast beef onto their plates.
"There was a young woman not too long ago," she said, "who came out from England. She was very much like you, in fact, young and inexperienced. She married one of our local graziers and she lasted exactly one year. She found she hated life here and went back to England on the very next boat."
"I am only temporarily in Victoria, Miss Downs," Joanna said. "I came to Australia to look into some things about my family. And I believe I have inherited some land."
"Indeed?" Pauline murmured. She saw that Adam's bowl was empty, so she set the plates down and said, "Come on, Adam, there is something I would like to show you. You, too, Miss Drury."
The three went into the house. "I am told that environment is so important in raising a child," Pauline said as they mounted the grand stairway. "I am only too familiar with the cabin at Merinda, very unsuited for a child. And that yard! You must agree that it is not the best place for a young person."
"Adam is used to living on a farm," Joanna said.
"Yes, but he won't be living on one any longer. As soon as Hugh builds our house, Adam will be living a more genteel way of life. Here we are." She opened a door and stood aside.
Joanna and Adam looked into a child's bedroom, with a canopied bed and dresser, flowered wallpaper, and sunlight streaming through the high dormer window. It was filled with toys—stuffed bears, wooden soldiers, a train set, an easel and paints, a rocking horse—everything a child could want.
"I bought these things myself," Pauline said. "Everything you see in here, I chose especially for Adam." She bent down and said, "What do you think of your new room, Adam?"
Joanna looked around the room. She wondered how the boy would adjust to such confinement, after so much freedom by the river.
"I want us to make friends as soon as possible, Adam," Pauline said to him. To Joanna, she said, "He will stay here at Lismore beginning today. He won't go back to Merinda after the party."
"But Mr. Westbrook said nothing to me about this."
"Hugh doesn't know yet, but he will agree with me. Adam and I must have some time to get used to each other."
"I understand that," Joanna said. "But Adam has had a lot of changes in his life recently. He has suffered a terrible loss, and other things we don't know about."
"Yes, I know. Hugh has explained everything. I intend to hire a private tutor who will give Adam lessons in how to speak properly. Would you like that, Adam?"
Joanna was horrified at the thought of Adam being kept in a school room. And then another emotion gripped her as well: possessiveness—not only of Adam, but also of Hugh.
They returned to the buffet table, where Hugh and Frank and John Reed were helping themselves to English trifle and s
trawberries. "I tell you, Hugh," Reed was saying, "it's madness to think you can develop a breed of sheep that can be run in parts of Queensland and New South Wales, which are frankly too hot and dry to run sheep. It's been tried, and no one's been successful so far."
Hugh said, "I intend to succeed."
"You Queenslanders are a stubborn lot."
Hugh smiled and said, "To be a Queenslander is to be a survivor."
John looked at Frank and said, "You've been awfully quiet today, Downs. That's not like you."
"Just have a few things on my mind, John." Frank had wanted to invite Ivy Dearborn to the party today, but Pauline had said no. Ivy was still refusing to go out with him, which baffled him, because she had put his picture up on the wall at Finnegan's. He didn't blame her for wanting to protect her reputation; he suspected she wanted to be treated respectably, not the way barmaids were usually treated. So what could be more innocent and respectable than a party for a little boy? But Pauline had been adamant about it, and Frank had backed down. If he had insisted and brought Ivy to the party, Pauline would have made her miserable, and then Frank might lose his chances with the woman altogether. But he was not giving up. The more she turned down his invitations, the more attractive she became. Frank found himself revising his initial impression of her as being rather plain and no one special. During the past weeks, on his frequent visits to Finnegan's pub, Frank had discovered that Ivy had a subtle attractiveness; she was desirable by virtue of being unavailable. But Christmas was coming, and he suspected that the right gift would win him some time with her.
John Reed said, "I say, Hugh, I saw you talking to Ezekiel a few minutes ago, and you didn't look pleased. What's the old devil up to now?"
Hugh looked at his drink and said, "Just sheep business, John."
"I think you should know, Hugh," Frank said, "that I overheard some of my station hands talking about Ezekiel going around saying that Merinda's come into some bad luck. What do you make of that?"
"I don't make anything of it," Hugh said, glancing at Joanna. "I had the bad luck to have a lice infestation just before shearing, I imagine that's what he's referring to."
"Oh, Miss Drury," Frank said to Joanna. "I hope you remember me. We met briefly in Melbourne. What did you ever find out about that deed?"
"Of course I remember you, Mr. Downs," she said, and then she told him about her visit to Hugh's lawyer in Cameron Town.
"Yes, he's right," Frank said. "Until you can determine which colony the deed was granted in, I'm afraid you've got a worthless document on your hands."
Joanna thought of her grandfather's coded papers, and the very strong possibility that the key to what she needed to know was contained in them. But the book Hugh had given her—Codes, Ciphers and Enigmas—had proven to be of no help. Whatever code the papers had been written in, it was not a commonly known one.
"Let me see what I can do," Frank said, as he took a small notepad out of his pocket. "As anyone will tell you, I love a mystery. If you will permit me to run a small item on this in my paper, maybe someone will read it and ..."
Joanna watched as he wrote, and when she saw the lines and squiggles, she said, "What is that you are writing, Mr. Downs?"
"It's called stenography. I require everyone on my staff to know it."
"Stenography?"
"Yes, or shorthand, as some people call it. It's a way of writing rapidly by using symbols and abbreviations. There are various types of shorthand; this particular system was invented by a man named Pitman back in 1837. As you can see, it is very efficient. It enables a reporter to get a complete story down. Martin Luther wrote all of his sermons in shorthand, you know."
"May I?" Joanna said, and Frank handed the notebook to her. She drew the symbols she had come to know so well, symbols that had eluded even the detailed Codes, Ciphers and Enigmas, "Mr. Downs, would you happen to know this code?"
He looked at it, and said, "This is no code, Miss Drury. This is another form of shorthand. And it looks vaguely familiar, although I am not sure where I have seen it."
"Mr. Downs," Joanna said, excitement creeping into her voice, "my grandfather left some papers that were written in this shorthand. I believe that if I can translate them, I will be able to find out where my grandparents lived and where the land is that was deeded to them. Would you happen to know how I can find out which shorthand system his was?"
"I have a book on various shorthand systems that you are welcome to take home, Miss Drury. I also recommend that you write to the Shorthand Society of London, and send them a sample of it." Frank returned the notebook to his pocket and said, "I'll run your story in the Monday edition. Your identity will be kept a secret, of course. I'll simply state that if anyone has information regarding—what was their name?"
"John and Naomi Makepeace. They were here from 1830 to 1834, at a place called Karra Karra."
When Pauline noticed that Adam was looking sleepy, she said to him, "Why don't we go up to your room and you can take a little nap?" Hugh said, "What room is that, Pauline?"
When she explained, Hugh said, "The boy's not staying here. He's going back to Merinda."
"But this is a much better place for him, darling."
"Merinda is his home, and that is where he is going to live."
"I think we should let Adam choose where he wants to live."
"We will not let the boy choose. He goes back to Merinda."
Pauline smiled graciously. "Well, all right, darling. After all, four months isn't very long. And then I shall be his mother."
As they left, with Hugh carrying the sleeping child, and a footman carrying the presents Adam had received, Joanna realized she was exhausted. The vision of the bark painting hung over her, as well as worry for Adam, and the fear of Pauline's cold manipulation. And she realized she was filled with an emotion she had never felt before—jealousy.
EIGHT
A
DAM LOOKED AT THE PICTURE SARAH HAD DRAWN, OF A bird in flight, and tried to describe what he saw. But when he put his lips together, the words would not come out. He said "W—" and gave up in exasperation.
Sarah gave him a long, thoughtful look. "Why don't you talk, little boy?" she said. "What spirit holds your tongue?"
Her looked at her with apologetic eyes, and Sarah put her arm around his shoulders. "It's all right," she said.
They were sitting on the veranda, having their morning English lesson, which had been Sarah's idea. But it hadn't been as easy as she had thought it would be. Adam's difficulty in speaking wasn't the same as her own, which was the result of having lived at a Christian mission among Aborigines who couldn't speak English. Sarah knew that she would eventually speak as properly as Joanna, but Adam's problem, she had realized in the short time she had been trying to help him, stemmed from other, mystifying causes. Adam looked at the picture again and tried very hard to form the words. He wanted to please Sarah. She was kind, and she never scolded him for not being able to say things. He wanted to say them; he even knew what it was he was supposed to say. But he couldn't get his mouth to work. It was just like the time when—
But he didn't want to remember. Something had happened, and he had tried to talk, but the words wouldn't come, and policemen in uniforms had gotten impatient with him, and Adam had cried, and they had gotten angrier, and then they had taken him away and put him alone on a ship.
He tried again. "Wallow," he said. "Swallow!" He looked at Sarah. "Swallow," he said, pointing to the picture.
"Yes," she said, hugging him. "Very good. Now tell me where the swallow is going—"
Suddenly, she froze.
Out in the yard a collie lay in the dust, swishing his tail at flies. It was a languid December morning, hot and somnolent, the earth dry in summer's fierce power.
Sarah looked at the sky, and sent her thoughts up, trying to feel out what it was that had just come to her. She turned her gaze to the fields that stretched far away from Merinda to the eastern horizon. She thought: Someth
ing is happening.
"Sarah?" Adam said.
She looked at him; his voice had sounded too loud. Something was wrong, she could feel it.
"Sarah," Adam said, tugging at her skirt.
She closed her eyes and searched inward.
This had happened to her before, warnings suddenly sounding in her mind. Back at the mission, Old Deereeree, one of the women elders, had told Sarah that it was because someday she was going to be like her mother, who had had the Knowing.
But Sarah's "knowings" were often frustrating, incomplete; they were vague and unspecific. Old Deereeree had said that it was because Sarah's initiation had been interrupted. If she had been allowed to be fully initiated by the women elders, then her Knowing would be sharper and clearer, as her mother's had been. And so now, as she sat in the shade of the veranda, looking at the strange light around the yard and the buildings, Sarah did not know what it was she was sensing. Only that it was urgent. And that it had to do with Joanna.
Sarah thought about last night, how she had been awakened suddenly by a cry. She had peered through the window and had seen Joanna sitting up in bed, shaking. Sarah had remained there, watching Joanna pace back and forth in the darkness as if trying to drive away a bad memory. She had seen fear on Joanna's face, and she had wondered if Joanna had had a nightmare, and what it had been about.
"Adam," she said, rising and taking his hand. "Let's go for a walk."
As they headed toward the trees by the river, Sarah tried to measure her fear. Was this a real "knowing," or was it just her own apprehension about Joanna's visits to the ruins?
There was so much Sarah wanted to understand. If only she could talk to Old Deereeree. But Reverend Simms had forbidden Sarah to see the women elders. Old Deereeree knew everything. She would be able to tell Sarah how and why Joanna was different from other white women. Sarah had known that Joanna was different the first night she came to Merinda and saw her with the book, which Joanna read every night and sometimes wrote in.
