The Dreaming

by Barbara Wood

  When Sarah resumed her song, Ezekiel sniffed and looked up at the sky. Love-singing was women's magic; he didn't know about it. Maybe it worked, maybe not. He thought for a moment, then he turned and moved off through the trees toward the main road. Love-singing might be strong, he decided, but the elders knew that sometimes magic needed to be helped by human intervention.

  Hugh and Pauline walked among the headstones, placing flowers beneath familiar names: Bill Lovell, David Ramsey, and countless others named Cameron, McClintock and Dunn. Pauline paused before the stone marker that said only "Baby" Hamilton—January 22, 1872. Louisa had not come down with the typhoid, but the stress had brought on premature labor. As Pauline placed some flowers on the small grave, she wondered if Louisa had been able to learn the secret of birth prevention from Dr. Ramsey before he died.

  Pauline was not dressed in full mourning, as many of the women visiting the cemetery were, but in gray edged with black, out of respect for others. She and Frank had escaped the epidemic. Although, she realized, her brother had been in a way touched by the typhoid: Miss Dearborn had disappeared. Frank had spent days searching for her, believing in the end that she must have died of the typhoid. He was back in Melbourne now, back to the business of running his newspaper, putting time and work and distance between himself and painful memories.

  As Pauline walked among the graves, her arm through Hugh's, feeling the cleansing February sunshine on her, she thought: We must turn our faces to the future now. We must put tragedy behind us and carry on with the business of living. But the subject of the wedding, which was only a month away, had still not been brought up.

  She fanned herself and said, "My, but it is hot today. I hope it won't be this hot for the wedding!"

  "Pauline," Hugh said.

  She felt it coming; it had been coming for days; she wanted to ward it off, keep it from being brought into existence. "Let's get away from this dreary place, darling," she said. "Let's go for a ride in the mountains. They look so cool and green."

  "Pauline," Hugh said. "We have to talk."

  So here it was, the thing she had been running from ever since the afternoon she had gone to Merinda and found Hugh with Joanna in the cabin.

  "Don't sound so serious, darling," she said with a smile. "I think this dreadful cemetery has spoiled your mood. Why don't we go to the Fox and Hounds Inn, and have a cold—"

  "Pauline," he said. "You have never known me to be anything but honest with you. And I have to be honest with you now. It's about Joanna Drury."

  "Please don't," she said.

  "It wouldn't be fair to you to enter into our marriage by keeping the truth from you. It would be dishonorable, and a poor reflection upon my high regard for you."

  Pauline stiffened. "You're going to tell me that you're in love with her."

  "Yes."

  She turned cold blue eyes upon him. "And do I take it then that you intend to keep her on to take care of Adam?"

  "No. That would not be fair to any one of us. Joanna is going away. She has her own life to lead, and you and I have ours."

  "Then why did you have to tell me about your feelings for her?" Pauline cried.

  "Because the truth is there; because you know it anyway. I could not become your husband knowing that you and I had kept this truth unacknowledged."

  Pauline's jaw was tight as she looked at him and said, "And what about me? Do you love me?"

  He looked at her—she was so beautiful, so elegant. But he was thinking of Joanna, of kissing her, and the passion that had shocked them both. He took Pauline's hands between his and said, "I respect you and admire you, Pauline. I have the highest regard for you."

  "But you don't love me."

  "I'm very fond of you, Pauline."

  "Hugh!" she said. "I want you to love me!"

  She turned away from him. Why couldn't they have left this a dark little secret between them? What would have been the harm in that? She could have gone on pretending, and perhaps in time she could have come to believe that he loved only her. Perhaps in time he would have.

  She felt rage welling up inside her, and she recalled how she had seen Hugh with Joanna, how tenderly he had touched her, how his eyes had lingered on her face. And Pauline wanted to shout at Joanna, Go away! You don't deserve him! You haven't earned him! You haven't loved him since you were fourteen. You didn't put your arms around his neck and kiss him when you were sixteen years old and he had won the grand trophy at the Graziers' Show. You didn't cry for days when you were seventeen and Hugh was brought home from a hunting accident, his face white as death, his shirt covered with blood. You never stood at the sidelines of a horse race, praying with all your might that Hugh would win. I did all those things! Hugh is supposed to be mine!

  "You told me this," Pauline said in a controlled voice, "because you want to cancel the wedding."

  "No, Pauline. That was not the reason."

  "But it's what you want, isn't it?"

  "No. And what I want is not the issue here."

  "God, Hugh, I don't want a martyr for a husband! I don't want to marry you under such conditions—just because you're an honorable man!"

  "Pauline," he said. "I will be a good husband to you. I will give you a good life. I will always be faithful to you. I promise that."

  Pauline closed her eyes and thought: But you don't love me!

  "And when will the hate and the resentment begin?" she said. "As soon as the minister pronounces us husband and wife, I will look at you and wonder at what moment, and in what circumstances, you will look at me and hate me. For not being Joanna."

  "I will never hate you, Pauline."

  "Then you will grow bored with me, and that would be worse!"

  Pauline thought of her love for this man, of the planning she had done to claim him for herself. The picnic in the rain, her proposal to him. She thought of the campaign she had waged against Joanna Drury, to make her feel unwelcome here, to drive her away. Pauline looked back and saw how coolly and logically and with what determination she had run her race, and now she looked at Hugh and realized that although she had won his loyalty, his honor and affection, and would even win his name, she had not won the man himself. In the end, it was an empty victory.

  "Hugh," she said. "I want you to want me. To marry me because you want to, unconditionally and willingly and out of love. Not out of some noble sentiment, but because you desire me as much as I desire you."

  "I can't give you that right now, Pauline."

  "Then I think we should call off the wedding," she said.

  When he didn't say anything Pauline felt something stab deeper into her heart.

  Why was love so hard? she wondered. There was Colin MacGregor, locked away in his castle, grieving for his dead wife. And Frank, how furiously he had searched for the woman called Ivy. And now ...

  "It isn't just Joanna," Pauline said, instinctively protecting herself. "There are other problems as well. The house isn't built, and I cannot bear the thought of living in that cabin. You don't want to live at Lismore, you want to be right there at Merinda, overseeing everything. And I realize now that no matter how I have tried, I ... I just can't warm up to Adam. He doesn't like me much, and I don't want the burden of a child right now, especially another woman's child."

  "Now who's being noble?" Hugh said.

  She tipped her chin. "Grant me the privilege of ending this with dignity and in good taste, Hugh. We should deserve that at least."

  "Are you sure about all this?"

  No, she cried in her heart, I'm not at all sure about all this! I want you to take me into your arms and say you love me and that you will marry me no matter what I say. "Yes," she said, turning away from him. "This is best."

  When he reached for her she said, "Please Hugh, if you don't go now, then we will not have such a dignified finish, but rather a scene that we will both later regret."

  "Let me take you home."

  "I'll walk, it isn't far, and I have a lot of thinking t
o do. Plans will have to be canceled, explanations made ..."

  She removed her engagement ring and started to hand it to him, but he said, "Keep it, Pauline. We are still friends."

  Tears, like diamonds, glittered in her eyes as she walked away. She realized the enormity of her loss, she saw everything that was never going to be hers: the feel of Hugh's body making love to her, placing their first child in his arms. Pauline saw two futures, the one that could have been hers but which would now be Joanna Drury's, and the one that might be hers now—a future of long, empty years filled with loneliness and regret, as she became a hard, embittered woman who measured every man she met against Hugh Westbrook, and found each one lacking. A woman, she realized as the tears held, who was going to be like "Poor Miss Flora," pitied by her friends because she had been "passed over."

  But such was not going to be Pauline's future, because there was a third alternative; and as it began to form in her mind, her sadness hardened into a new resolve; she turned her eyes eastward, toward Kilmarnock. And she thought of the handsome Colin MacGregor, locked away, and grieving over the loss of his wife, Christina.

  "My dear Mr. Westbrook," Joanna wrote. "By the time you receive this letter, I will be on my way to Melbourne."

  She paused and looked at the overland coach that was getting ready to leave. She was sitting outside the Fox and Hounds Inn with other passengers waiting to board the coach; the luggage was being strapped on top. Joanna's trunk had gone on first.

  She resumed writing: "Since we both knew that I could not stay at Merinda once you were married, I decided to leave now, and spare us a difficult farewell. You have your new life, and I must get on with my purpose for coming to Australia. Perhaps I was not responsible for the things that happened at Merinda—the deaths of good people—but I know that I am caught up in forces beyond my control. I made a promise to my mother, and I owe it to my future children to find out what plagues our family, and somehow seek to disempower it."

  She paused again, thinking about Hugh—of when he had found her by the river and taken her into his arms; the life and heat that had suddenly surged through her body; the kiss, the kisses. How strong she had felt at that moment.

  And she thought: I came here not to fall in love and put down roots, but to claim my legacy, to find Karra Karra, to put to rest the demons that pursue the Drury women.

  She tried to focus on what she was going to do next. Five months of searching had not brought her any closer to Karra Karra or the mystery of her grandfather's papers. She had heard from Mr. Asquith, the gentleman who had been appointed to the Board of Aboriginal Affairs, and whom Joanna had hoped might know about the natives, give her some information. But Mr. Asquith, it turned out, was a banker, who had been appointed for political reasons, and who had never even visited an Aboriginal mission or reservation. The Land Office in Melbourne had likewise been unable to help. There was not enough information on the deed, they had told her, for them to locate the land. She had received no response from Patrick Lathrop in America, who might have once known her grandfather.

  Joanna had to begin all over again, searching for new clues, new signs that would put her on the right path.

  She continued to write: "It is with great sadness that I leave Merinda, Mr. Westbrook, but my reason for being there—to help Adam—no longer exists. He is on the way to recovery. On the night you found me by the river, and you explained to Adam that he was not responsible for his mother's death, that he could not possibly have saved her, I saw the healing begin. Sarah will help him through the rest of it. And you and Miss Downs.

  "I will never forget the time I spent at Merinda; I will certainly never forget you. I wish you health and happiness for all your days."

  "All right, miss," the coachman said, "we're ready to go now."

  Joanna sealed the letter and dropped it into the postbox at the coach stop. Then she took a seat with the other passengers, and as people waved good-by, the drivers picked up the reins and the coach lurched forward.

  While the other passengers introduced themselves and remarked on what a hot summer it was, and what a blessing it was that the typhoid was over at last, Joanna stared out the window, saying a silent farewell to the familiar countryside, knowing that she might never see it again. And she thought: Maybe someday, years from now, I'll come back, and see how Adam has turned out, and what became of Sarah. And Hugh.

  But the coach was stopping unexpectedly. They heard voices outside, and one of the passengers said, "A latecomer." And an elderly woman said, "Oh dear, we've no room."

  They were startled when the door was suddenly opened, and Joanna saw Hugh standing there, looking furious. "I met Ezekiel on the road. He told me you'd left. Joanna, you were leaving without saying good-by."

  "Hey there, mate," one of the drivers called out. "We've got to get going."

  "I thought it would be best," Joanna said. "What you would prefer."

  "Good God, if it hadn't been for Ezekiel, I would have missed you! Joanna, come out of there. You can't leave." To the driver he said, "Fetch Miss Drury's trunk down, please. There's been a mistake."

  "But Mr. Westbrook—" Joanna began.

  "I won't let you go, Joanna," he said. "Not like this. I want you to marry me. I love you."

  She felt the eyes of the other passengers on them. "I don't understand," she said. "Miss Downs—"

  He held out his hand. "Come back to Merinda with me, Joanna. Please."

  "But we agreed ... I mean, the trouble—"

  "Joanna, for God's sake. Whatever it is, we'll fix it. I love you, Joanna. I love you and I can't live without you. I need you. Adam needs you."

  "Yer holding up the coach, miss," said one of the drivers. "Either yer coming with us or you ain't, but make up yer mind. I got a schedule to keep."

  She looked at Hugh's outstretched hand, and at his handsome face. She slipped her hand into his and stepped down to the ground.

  She started to speak, but he drew her into his arms, and kissed her, and she put her arms around him and kissed him back.

  PART TWO

  1873

  TWELVE

  A

  STRANGER WAS WALKING THROUGH THE TREES. SARAH remained hidden as she followed his progress along the river bank. When he stopped, she stopped; when he walked, she walked, like a shadow. She had never seen the man before.

  She had come down to the billabong to harvest dandelion roots for Joanna, and she had glimpsed the man at the water's edge—a man strangely dressed. His trousers were made of buckskin, his shirt was of white linen, with billowing sleeves. He wore no jacket and no tie, and he was bareheaded. Sarah saw light-brown hair that was almost as long as her own, tied at the nape of his neck in a ponytail. He was carrying a large, flat book, and he stopped every so often to write in it. She saw that his hands were long and slender. A gentleman, she decided.

  He paused to inspect a tree, squinted up at the sky between the clustered branches; then he wrote something down. Sarah saw a bright, metallic flash on his right wrist.

  Her body was tense; the man didn't belong here. This spot was special to women—to Joanna, and to herself. They grew their herbs here, and it was where they talked and learned from each other, and exchanged women's secrets. Joanna told Sarah about the greater world, where ships sailed on vast oceans, and military men danced correctly and stiffly with beautifully dressed young ladies, and Sarah told Joanna of the ancestors' beliefs, and how they had created the world.

  Sarah thought of this place too as her initiation site. Reverend Simms had interrupted her initiation by the old ones at the mission, and so she had not completed learning the secrets, but she learned other secrets now, about life, and just as sacred. "When you put this seed into the earth," Joanna had told her, "and you add water and sunshine and love, it will grow, just as a human being grows." Sarah's people had never put seeds into the ground; they had not made plants grow. This was magic—good magic.

  And now, on this March day when summer was gi
ving way to autumn, a strange man walked over their ground. Sarah felt uneasy; she had a feeling she couldn't put a name to. Perhaps it was because he was a man.

  He might bring bad magic to this place; he might disturb the song-line. Now he was dangerously close to the sacred ruins. Sarah realized she would have to stop him.

  She watched as he walked past the billabong. His tall, thin body was briefly silhouetted against the opalescent surface of the water. And now he was headed toward the ruins. Sarah crept along softly, her eyes never leaving him. When he stopped at the edge of the old ruined walls, she stopped too.

  At the sacred stones, he dropped down on one knee; he reached out to touch them. Sarah cried out.

  As Joanna stared at the drawing of the Rainbow Serpent, she felt a chill go through her. It looked exactly as her mother had described it in the diary—the giant snake that had haunted her dreams. To look at such a grotesque and frightening creature, and yet feel such familiarity with it, disturbed Joanna. The snake's one sharp eye seemed to be staring at her, mocking her, defying her.

  "I know you're interested in Aboriginal things, Mrs. Westbrook," Mr. Talbot, the owner of the Book Emporium, said, "and so whenever I come across something I think you might like, I set it aside for you. This book is rather rare, you know, and quite fascinating, I think."

  Joanna read the title: My Life Among the Aborigines, by Sir Finlay Cobb. It had been written in 1827, just forty years after the first white men set foot in Australia, and three years before her grandparents had arrived. "Yes, Mr. Talbot," Joanna said, staring at the disturbing image of the Rainbow Serpent. "It looks very interesting indeed."

  She couldn't stop looking at the serpent's mesmerizing eye. She suddenly realized that, for some reason, the single eye of a serpent had figured largely in her mother's dreams—not just in the nightmares but, surprisingly, in the memory dreams as well. "I see my mother coming out of what might be a cave," Lady Emily had written, "and in the next instant, a giant snake bursts out of the cave, and its single eye terrifies me. Strangely, the woman who is holding me is not frightened. And the dark-skinned people all around me seem to be happy."