by Barbara Wood
The afternoon sun beat down through the trees; flies and mosquitoes filled the air with buzzing and droning. Joanna tried to keep her thoughts clear. How am I able to see these images? she wondered. And then she was recalling a passage in her mother's diary, another of the perplexing memory dreams: "I dreamed last night of kangaroos, great herds of them sweeping across a red plain. The red mountain is there again, the one that visits me in other dreams. And I see the dark outlines of people against a red sun. Could I possibly have once witnessed such a fantastic scene?"
When Sarah was finished singing, Joanna said, "What can you tell me about the Rainbow Serpent?"
Sarah said, "The Rainbow Serpent is very powerful—belong to women's secrets, to women's Dreamings."
"Do women have separate Dreamings?"
"Yes," Sarah said. "Women have their own songlines—more powerful than men's, because we have life in us. I can tell you this, Joanna, because you are a woman. Boys have many trials before they become men. They suffer cutting and bleeding. But girls do not, because life is already within them. They become women on their own." She paused, then she looked at Joanna and said, "My mother was a song-woman. She kept women's secret myths and rites, and she sang women's ceremonies. If the white man had not come, I would be a song-woman, too."
"Are you also a member of the Kangaroo Clan?"
"No," Sarah said. "My ancestor was the Fur Seal, and so I have the Fur Seal Dreaming, which is far from here. Someday I will follow my songline. I will walk in the Ancestor Tracks and find my Dreaming."
"You say your ancestor was the Fur Seal," Joanna said. "Do you mean that you are descended from a fur seal?"
Sarah smiled and said, "In the Dreamtime, the first Fur Seal ancestor sprang from the southern waters. She sang herself into existence, and then she sang the islands and the rocks into existence. She taught her children the Fur Seal Song. The song was passed on, from generation to generation. The same song, down through time, and it came to me."
"But," Joanna said, "why aren't you a fur seal now?"
"Because we changed. We came up on the land and slowly we became human. But my Dreaming is still Fur Seal, even though I am human. Do you know Ezekiel, the old tracker? He has the Emu Dreaming. And Old Deereeree at the Mission, she has the Cockatoo Dreaming. We come from these Ancestors. Ezekiel may never eat emu or wear emu feathers. Old Deereeree may never eat cockatoo. And I may never kill a fur seal, or eat her flesh, or wear her fur."
Joanna grew thoughtful. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I still don't understand what the Dreaming is."
"The Dreaming," Sarah said, "connects us to mothers who came before us, and to daughters who have yet to be born. My mother sang me her Dreaming, just as her mother did before her, and all the way back to when the Ancestors sang the first songs. I will sing to my daughters my Dreaming, and so they will be connected through me to all their previous mothers, all the way back to the Fur Seal Dreaming."
Joanna said, "That is not the way it is with my people. My mother never sang me her Dreaming."
Sarah smiled. "But she did. You have your mother's Dreaming. It is in the book you write in."
"You mean her diary?"
"Yes, it is her songline. And you put your songs into it. You continue her Dreaming. You must prepare this for your own daughter."
Joanna was spellbound. When Hugh had explained songlines to her, she had imagined that they were physical things, like roads carved through forests and marked with signposts. But she was beginning to understand that they were far more—that they could be something as simple as a diary, or letters exchanged between a mother and her daughter. Songlines were the passing along of spirit and wisdom and feelings, like soul-links. Lady Emily had once observed in her diary, "When I write about my mother, I feel as though she is with me, alive still, even though I can't remember her." And Joanna began, for the first time, to understand the meaning of "singing up creation."
"Where is your mother now?" she asked Sarah.
"She ran away from the mission, to go to her clan. But a song-man said she had told whitefella our secrets, so he sang her bad magic."
Joanna stared at her. "Do you mean a poison-song?"
"Yes."
"And ... did she die?"
"I don't know. Maybe she will come back. Song-women do."
"Sarah," Joanna said slowly, "my mother spoke of poison. I wonder if perhaps she died because of a poison-song. But it would have been sung to her mother, I think—not to her—to my grandmother."
Sarah said, "Grandmother spirit is very powerful."
"When you look at me, Sarah," Joanna said, "do you see bad luck around me? Do you see a poison-song?"
"Wait," Sarah said suddenly, holding up her hand. She looked around, and then slowly got to her feet. Joanna also stood, and saw Ezekiel coming through the trees. He was carrying a boomerang, similar to the ones Joanna had seen hanging in the study at Lismore. He came up to Sarah and said, quietly: "Taboo."
Then he turned to Joanna and said, "Go away. This place is not for you. You hear taboo things. You bring bad magic."
Sarah said, "No, Old Father, it is not taboo," and there was a flicker of surprise in the old man's eyes.
"You speak taboo things, child," he said.
Joanna saw that Sarah was shaking; and there was a look of both fear and defiance in her eyes. She also saw by the way Ezekiel was looking at Sarah that he was not used to being defied.
"Bad things come now," he said, and although Ezekiel didn't raise his voice and his face was mask-like Joanna sensed his anger, and his own special fear. Joanna thought that he was all the more formidable for his quietness.
He looked at Sarah and Joanna for another moment, then he continued on into the woods.
NINE
C
HRISTMAS! PAULINE THOUGHT. A TIME FOR GIFTS AND CAROLS, for friends and mistletoe and spiced wine. A time, she thought as she smiled at her reflection in the mirror, for seduction.
She looked again at the clock over her bedroom fireplace. It was eight-thirty, and Hugh had said, before he left for Melbourne two weeks ago, that he would pick her up at nine o'clock tonight for the Christmas Eve ball at Strathfield. She had received a telegram from him three days ago, when he had left Melbourne. He would be at Merinda now, getting ready.
Just as Pauline was getting ready.
She couldn't stop smiling at herself in the mirror. Hugh was going to have a surprise. He did not yet know it, but Pauline had decided that tonight, and not a night three months from now, was going to be their wedding night.
She was wearing the peach-satin peignoir that was part of her trousseau. Her ball gown was still laid out on the bed, the bustle and petticoats still hanging in the wardrobe.
The plan to seduce Hugh had come to her that morning, when she had wakened to sultry December sunshine. She had lain in bed, awash in a sea of perfumed satin sheets, savoring the after-effects of an erotic dream she had had about Hugh. She had ached for him, wishing he were in bed with her, wondering how she was going to last another three months until her wedding day. And it was then that the idea had come to her. The answer was simple: She wasn't going to wait.
But there was a dispassionate, pragmatic side to her reasoning as well. Pauline had decided that Joanna Drury was a real threat. She couldn't stop thinking about how Joanna had looked at the garden party. Those primroses in her hair! What an unsubtle ploy! Pauline thought. But a clear sign that Miss Drury was out to get Hugh. Pauline had decided then to wage a real campaign against her. After tonight, after her seduction of Hugh, Pauline's victory would be guaranteed.
It was hot, the air heavy with the perfume of gardenias and mimosa. Pauline felt the satin whisper against her bare skin. She moved her hand along her thigh, and thought about her plan. The servants had all been given the night off, with the exception of Elsie, her lady's maid, who was in on the conspiracy. When Hugh arrived, Elsie was to bring him upstairs. He would be expecting to find Pauline in her gown, ready for the ball. Instead, he w
ould find her just as she was now, seductively dressed, ready for his embrace. It was going to be perfect. He would not be able to resist; and afterward, Hugh would be hers forever.
When there came a knock at the door, Pauline gave a start. She looked at the clock again. Hugh was early.
But it was Frank, dressed in evening clothes. "I just came by to say goodnight. I'm off to Finnegan's."
"You're not going to the ball?"
"I have other plans. There's going to be a private party at Finnegan's. Just us bachelors," he said with a wink.
Pauline knew what her brother was up to. She had seen the diamond bracelet he had secretly purchased and wrapped in gold paper. "It sounds like a rather dreary way to spend Christmas Eve," she said in a teasing tone.
Frank said, "You never know," thinking about the private room he had reserved at the Fox and Hounds Inn. His plan was to wait for a discreet moment to give Ivy Dearborn her Christmas gift. And when she saw it, she would be unable to resist his invitation to a late-night supper.
He looked at Pauline. "I thought you were expecting Hugh at any minute. Why aren't you dressed?"
"You will be here for Christmas dinner tomorrow, won't you?" she said, ignoring his question. "Surely even Finnegan will want to spend Christmas Day with his family."
"I'll be here," Frank said as he went to the window and looked out. The glass, imported from England, was old and splintered the hot moonlight into tiny prisms. He wondered what Miss Dearborn was doing for Christmas dinner. Where did barmaids go, on such days?
"What do you know about her?" Frank had asked Finnegan a few days ago. "Where did she come from?"
"Don't know," Finnegan had said. "She just showed up one day and said she needed a job. Now, any woman can work a bar, Frank. And I saw that she was no beauty, and I know my customers like to look. But she showed me some drawings she had made, and I saw potential in that. I'm glad now that I hired her. She's cheerful and works hard, hasn't had a sick day in four months, and she's not the sort to give my place a bad name—not like Sal over at Facey's, with her fifteen-minute bed in the back room."
They had had the conversation on the day Frank had gone into the pub and had been shocked to see Ivy with red and swollen eyes, as if she had been crying. He had been further surprised to find himself suddenly full of rage—against whomever or whatever had hurt her, and rage, too, at his inability to help her.
As he surveyed Lismore's gardens bathed in the light of the December moon, Frank realized that he felt sad, an emotion he rarely experienced.
"What is it, Frank?" Pauline said. He heard the swish of satin, and felt her hand on his shoulder. "Something is troubling you. Is it the expedition?"
That was part of it. Frank had received word the day before from the rescue team he had sent in search of the expedition that had hauled a boat to the Never Never. They had found all members of the expedition dead, with the exception of one man, who appeared to have gotten away. Apparently they had been massacred by Aborigines, and Frank felt responsible. The expedition had been his idea, funded by his money. Now he vowed personally to take care of the men's widows and families.
"You'll send another expedition, Frank," Pauline said, "and next time they'll be successful. They'll find the inland sea, and they'll name it after you."
"Not with the Aborigines out there, we won't."
"Why did the blacks kill them?"
"Apparently they walked on a sacred site or something."
"That will all end. Such incidents are becoming rarer and rarer. Someday soon, the whole continent will be safe for white people."
"Yes," Frank said. "But at what expense?"
Pauline looked at her brother. "Frank," she said, "you're in a strange mood. What is it? It's not just the expedition that's on your mind, is it?"
Why couldn't he get anywhere with Miss Dearborn? And why did he care? They exchanged words over the bar; she laughed at his jokes. And sometimes, when he took a glass from her, their fingers touched. Why couldn't he get her out of his mind? Why couldn't he go back to Melbourne, where he should be right now, and take care of his newspaper? Frank had had plenty of women in his time, and he didn't fool himself, he knew it was his money they were attracted to, and not him. But Miss Dearborn seemed attracted to neither.
Was there perhaps a husband somewhere? Was she a runaway wife? Was Dearborn her real name even? He thought again about her tear-stained face, how she had smiled, trying to hide a pain that he could only guess at. It infuriated him to think that perhaps one of the patrons—one of his own friends—might have insulted her. What had someone done or said to make her cry?
Suddenly he was thinking of the diamond bracelet in his pocket. When he had bought it he thought it was beautiful, a compliment to Ivy. But now it seemed to be too much, too gaudy, and so obvious in its purpose that it might seem an insult to her. What on earth had he been thinking! He couldn't possibly give her such a thing—out of the blue like this.
"Pauline," he said, turning. "What do women want?"
Her eyebrows rose. "The same thing men want, I suppose. Happiness, success—"
"No," he said, walking away from her. It was nearly time to be getting over to Finnegan's, and he suddenly no longer felt he had anything he could offer to Miss Dearborn that she would accept. "I mean, supposing you were a woman who had nothing. What would you like to receive as a gift?"
"If I had nothing?" she said. "Then I would want everything!" When she saw his scowl, she said more gently, "Women don't really want things, Frank. If a woman cares for you, she'll want only you."
But he had been offering himself to Ivy for three months, and so far she had not accepted.
Pauline didn't know much about her brother's latest interest, but she was beginning to see that it was more than his usual passing flirtation. She was sorry to see him so distressed when she was so happy with Hugh. "What do you know about her?" she said.
"She's a barmaid."
"Then give her the one thing other men won't give her."
"What's that?"
"Respect."
Frank stared at his sister. He thought about the diamond bracelet, and the private room he had reserved at the Fox and Hounds Inn. And then he remembered something about Ivy: she always wore a small gold crucifix around her neck. Suddenly he knew what he was going to do.
"Thank you, Pauline," he said, kissing her cheek. "And a Merry Christmas to you. Let's hope both our Christmas wishes come true."
Pauline laughed as she closed the door behind him. She had no intention of depending upon wishes. Tonight she was going to make sure her dream came true.
Hugh was only a mile from Merinda, riding through the moonlit countryside, when he saw something at the side of the road that made him draw his horse and packhorse to a halt.
Mr. Shapiro's wagon was tilted in a ditch, with Pinky still harnessed to it, calmly grazing. Hugh looked inside, but the old peddler was not there. He looked around at the fields that lay like platinum counterpanes over the landscape. There was no sign of Mr. Shapiro.
As he mounted his horse and continued on his way, Hugh made a mental note to send word to the constable in Cameron Town.
When he arrived in the yard, finding it deserted and still, he glanced toward the cabin, where golden light spilled from its only window. He hesitated, then decided to go on to the bunkhouse and bathe and change for the Strathfield Christmas ball before letting Miss Drury know he was home.
He had the bunkhouse to himself. The station hands had either gone to a Christmas party at Facey's on the highway, or home to families. Hugh took care in dressing. One of the purposes for his trip to Melbourne had been to stop at a tailor's and pick up evening clothes he had been measured for months ago. Pauline had been with him; she had chosen the cloth and the cut of the suit, and the red satin lining for the opera cape. When he was dressed, and he saw himself in the mirror, he was struck with the feeling of looking at a stranger. How curious it was to see himself in such an outfit, complete
with silk top hat and a black-pearl stick pin, also picked out by Pauline.
As he gathered up the parcels he had brought from Melbourne, he remembered Mr. Shapiro's wagon at the roadside, and wondered where the old peddler had gone to.
Inside the cabin, Joanna was preparing a Christmas cake, while Adam and Sarah sat at the table, making drawings. When Mr. Shapiro the peddler had stopped at Merinda a few days ago, he had complained of a headache and Joanna had given him some willow-bark tea. In return, he had given Adam and Sarah a paint box, and Sarah was using the watercolors to help Adam. The window was open to the warm summer night, and the aroma of spiced cider filled the air. As Joanna stirred dates and nuts into the cake batter, she first listened to Sarah go over words with Adam, and then she looked at the door, anticipating Hugh's visit. She had heard him ride into the yard a short while ago; she expected to see him at any moment.
"That's a nice farmhouse you paint," Sarah said to Adam. "You put people in it now."
But Adam said, "No. No people."
Joanna glanced at the door again, both anxious to talk to Hugh and fearful of it. Since the encounter with Ezekiel by the river two weeks ago, and the nightmare about the poison-song painting that hung in the hall at Lismore, Joanna had wrestled with the idea of leaving Merinda. Her feeling of dread was growing; she sensed that something bad was about to happen.
Finally, there was a knock at the door. Joanna paused to dry her hands, and to try to hide her nervousness before seeing Hugh.
"Hello," he said, standing on the threshold with packages in his arms. "Merry Christmas."
Joanna stared at him. She had never seen him dressed this way. The top hat and opera cape made him seem taller, more broad shouldered. The black tail coat and striped trousers gave him a worldly elegance and sophistication. His handsomeness caused her almost physical pain. How could she possibly leave?
"Hello, Mr. Westbrook. Welcome home."
He couldn't take his eyes off her. She was wearing a pale pink gown with an apron over it. Her sleeves were rolled up, there was flour on her hands, and her cheeks, he noticed, burned hotly. He thought that she had never looked more beautiful.
