This Golden Land

by Wood, Barbara

  As she poured the new mixture in a small bottle, she thought of the strange workings of fate. Had she not had her bag snatched that afternoon, and had Mr. Jamie O'Brien not rescued it for her, she might never have found the note with the formula written on it.

  The wind picked up outside, making shutters bang and tree limbs scrape the brick walls. Suddenly her bedroom windows burst open, swinging inward on their creaking hinges, the curtains whipping about. Hannah rushed to close them. But as the wind stormed into her room, sending papers flying, blowing out candles, threatening to topple fragile lamps, Hannah found that the windows would not stay latched. She closed them and the wind pushed them open again, and when Hannah felt the first cold drops of rain on her face, she knew a storm was coming.

  She shut the windows once more, but as soon as she let go, they flew open. When a strong gust sent a lamp crashing to the floor—luckily it was not lit—Hannah remembered the key in the door lock. It also locked the windows. She ran to the door, seized the key and ran back to the windows. Fighting wind, curtains and swinging window frames, she managed to get them closed again and was able to turn the key in the latch before they blew back open.

  As the wind raged outside while the windows remained shut, Hannah straightened the curtains and then stepped back to survey the damage to her room, thankful that she had remembered that the key locked both the door and the windows.

  She froze. Feeling the cold iron key in her hand, she looked down at it, and was flung back to another windy night, two years ago. "This is the key, Hannah," her father had said with his dying breath as he had pressed the bottle of iodine in her hand.

  Hannah gasped as the enormity of her discovery began to dawn on her. Could the iodine formula possibly be a cure-all? Was that what her father had been trying to say with his dying breath? Had he unwittingly opened the way for a whole new revolutionary form of medicine?

  Hannah held her breath. She felt as if a doorway had suddenly opened, and on the other side lay an infinite number of possible paths. If her father had indeed invented a universal cure . . .

  In rising excitement, Hannah had to curb her sudden eagerness to plunge ahead with new tests, new experiments. She knew that she must give this more thought, more analysis and examination, and then determine how best to proceed. She did not know where this discovery was going to take her, she knew only that she must pursue this unexpected change of events, step through that open doorway to follow those infinite paths wherever they might lead.

  The sandstorm raged into the evening and most of the night, pinning Neal beneath an oilskin as he fought for breath and thought for sure he was being buried alive.

  By the time the wind died down and the night was quiet again, Neal could not hear the shouts of men nearby, nor the sounds of horses. He found himself half-buried under a tarpaulin that had been carried on the storm from the camp, to slap against him like the errant sail of a ship. Neal hauled himself out of a sand dune that hadn't been there before, and staggered to his feet to look around. But all he saw was night blackness, for the stars were blotted out. He tried to call to his comrades but his throat was too parched to support a voice. Although badly shaken, Neal kept a level-head. No doubt the other members of the expedition were nearby but, like him, were unable to shout. He recalled the many times his adoptive father had taken him wilderness hiking, Josiah Scott having a passion for painting watercolors of woods and waterfalls, and saying: "If we are ever separated, if you ever get lost, remember that the number one rule is to stay where you are." Neal and Sir Reginald's men would never find each other in this utter darkness, so he would stay where he was and assess the situation at daybreak. He curled back into the warm tarp and drifted into a deep sleep.

  When light broke over the edge of the world, it pierced his eyes and pulled him back to consciousness. Shaking off the sand, Neal crawled out from under the oilskin and squinted with gritty eyes. The dawn sun cast golden light upon a queer landscape. Not a tree or bit of scrub remained. Reddish-orange sand drifts had been sculpted where none had been before.

  Neal turned in a slow circle, not believing his eyes. Where were the horses? Where was the camp? Where were Sir Reginald and the others? He hadn't gone far on his horse when the sandstorm struck. Everyone should still be here, tents and wagons and horses.

  And then he realized: they must have reconnoitered in the dark, collected everything by lantern light, and moved on. He saw not a single remnant of the impressive expedition that was to have taken him the thirteen hundred miles to Perth. Gone, too, were his scientific instruments and tools and aids, the modern technology that would have shown him the way.

  And he knew why. When Sir Reginald had let slip a comment about the Seminoles of New York, and Neal had caught the error, he had seen a brief look on the older man's face that had been as good as a naked confession. Oliphant was a fraud. He had never lived with the Seminoles. Neal wondered if the old man had set foot outside England, even. It was the only explanation for why the others would pick up and sneak off under the cover of night, leaving him for dead! Reginald Oliphant was worried Neal would expose his secret.

  And now Neal was alone in a vast, dry wilderness, with no sight of a single soul or beast from horizon to horizon. The sky was filled with a strange haze—sand particles high up in the atmosphere, his scientist's mind surmised—and so he could not pinpoint the sun, nor determine east, west, south or north. He had no compass or sextant, no food, and no water. And no hat to protect his head from the sun.

  Finally he began to walk, stumbling along, putting one foot in front of the other, having no idea where his steps were taking him.

  19

  A

  LTHOUGH MICHAEL MAXBERRY QUESTIONED HIS FRIEND'S judgment in sending for this sheila, Mikey did as Jamie asked. For one thing, Jamie was in a bad way, and for another, who else could he fetch? Not with Jamie O'Brien sporting a bounty on his head.

  "Hannah Conroy won't turn me in to the coppers," Jamie had said through a haze of pain. "She'll make me right and none will be the wiser."

  Mikey hoped so, as he climbed the wooden steps of the Australia Hotel, because if she wouldn't come, or if she did run for a constable, then Jamie was a goner for sure.

  Hearing the bell over the front door, Liza Guinness emerged from the back office, patting her hair to make sure it was up and tidy, and running her hands down her crinolined-skirt, likewise in attention to tidiness. You never knew who was going to come through the door, was Liza's philosophy.

  Her smile broadened. The gentleman in the black jacket, black trousers, white shirt and tall stovepipe hat was dusty and sweaty to be sure—weren't most of her patrons?—but he was a man and not half bad looking if you looked past the puckered scar that seemed to bisect his face. Pub brawl, Liza surmised as he approached the desk. Got the business end of a knife and lived to tell the tale. "Good morning, sir, want a room and a bath?" She turned the register around for him to sign.

  "I'm looking for Hannah Conroy. I've been sent to fetch her. A mutual friend is hurt. North of here, on the road."

  Her eyebrows arched. "Mutual friend?"

  "Yeah, she knows him. They're good friends."

  A man! And a good friend. "Mr. Scott?"

  "Yeah, that's who. Mr. Scott."

  Liza snapped her fingers to catch the attention of a maid who was watering the potted plants. "Trudie, run into the kitchen and tell Miss Conroy there's someone here to see her."

  Jacko Jackson had come into the kitchen looking for gloves as his hand had gotten blistered while chopping wood. But when Ruth Guinness, who was smitten with the happy-go-lucky young man, had seen the terrible blister, she had sent for Hannah. Taking one look at the enormous, painful bubble on the heel of Jacko's palm, Hannah had insisted that it must be drained and covered.

  While she worked, with Jacko sitting on a stool and Hannah in a kitchen chair, she explained to Ruth how it was done. Liza Guinness's daughter had expressed a keen interest in pursuing a career like Hanna
h's, saying that she fancied traveling around the district, helping people. Hannah had even taken the eighteen-year-old on some calls, an experiment that was proving beneficial to both as Hannah discovered that she enjoyed teaching, and Ruth was glad to get away from the hotel.

  "To relieve blister pain," Hannah said, as Ruth watched closely, "drain the fluid while leaving the overlying skin intact. But first we will put some of this medicine on it."

  "Why?" Ruth asked.

  During her last trip into to town, Hannah had paid Mr. Krüger a visit and in the course of their conversation, as she had stocked up on supplies for her midwifery kit—camphor, willow bark, ammonium carbonate—she had mentioned her suspicion that the iodine formula might be a cure-all. Mr. Krüger had then shared with her a letter from his brother, a medical researcher back in Heidelberg, who had written about the recent discovery of a microscopic organism that had been named bacterium, after the Latin for "little staff?' and the theory that bacteria might cause disease and infection. It was a radical idea embraced by few men of medicine and science, but the news thrilled Hannah because it meant that her father was right, and the more microbiotes that were discovered and identified, the closer medicine would get to conquering disease.

  She voiced none of this to Ruth and Jacko, however, saying simply, "This medicine will make the blister heal faster."

  Ruth had not inherited her mother's prettiness, but was rather plain with a round face and short, turned-up nose. But her personality sparkled, and Hannah could tell that Jacko was flattered by the feminine attention.

  She swabbed the blister with the iodine preparation and then sanitized a needle by dipping it into the iodine. "Aim near the blister's edge. Now let the fluid drain, but leave the overlying skin in place. Apply some more iodine to the blister and we'll cover it with a bandage. In a few days, we will cut away all the dead skin after several days and apply a fresh bandage."

  "I thought you was supposed to pop a blister, peel off the skin and leave the underneath exposed," Jacko said to Hannah although he was smiling at Ruth.

  "That is an old remedy that needs a good burial," Hannah replied as she gently cleansed the flattened blister without disturbing the collapsed film. Hannah had seen blisters get so infected that her father had had to amputate fingers and toes.

  As Hannah showed Ruth how to properly bandage the hand, she thought of all the old remedies that were going to fall by the wayside as medical science made breakthroughs and advances. Before her revelation with the key, Hannah herself would not have thought to apply her father's compound to Jacko's blister. Even now, she was only guessing that the iodine would protect the hand from infection. This was an experiment. But she didn't tell Jacko or Ruth that.

  On that windy night four days ago, Hannah had been excited to think that the iodine might be a cure-all. But then a new problem had settled in: how to prove it? She knew she needed to find ways to test the preparation, but how could she do it without causing harm? A blister was a far cry from conquering all the diseases that plagued humankind.

  "Miss Conroy?" Trudie said from the doorway. "There's a gentleman asking for you."

  She went into the lobby where Maxberry swept his stovepipe hat off his greasy hair and said, "Miss Conroy, a mutual friend is hurt and asking for you."

  "Mutual friend?"

  "Yeah. Mr. Scott."

  Hannah gave him a skeptical look. "Mr. Scott is hundreds of miles from here."

  He reddened. "Yeah, well, I figured the truth might not get you to come. It's Jamie O'Brien."

  She stared at him. "Where is he?"

  "Two days north of here, along the gulf. Got hurt bad. I'm to take you to him. Don't worry," Maxberry added quickly, "I brought my missus with me. Everything's proper. You won't be going off with a stranger."

  "What happened?"

  "He broke his leg and it hurts like the devil."

  "He needs a surgeon."

  "Can't do that, miss, and I think you know why."

  "Yes," she said, meeting his eyes. "I'll have the buggy hitched up."

  "Carriages take too long, miss, we gotta move fast. By horseback. I got me own horse and took the liberty of hiring one for you. It ain't got no side saddle, though."

  "Just let me get a few things."

  Hannah hurried upstairs to fetch her carpetbag. She also picked up the leather satchel that she kept in readiness for overnight cases, as childbirth labor could sometimes last days. The satchel contained a hairbrush and comb, a bar of Pear's soap, toothpaste, rose scented cologne, handkerchiefs, wash cloth and towel, a spare candle and matches, clean stockings and fresh underdrawers. Finally, she took Neal's photograph from the nightstand and slipped it into the carpetbag.

  At the last minute Hannah reached under her skirt to untie the whale-bone crinoline, letting it drop to the floor. Then she collected her bonnet and cape, for the nights were growing cold, and she rushed downstairs where she found her impatient escort pacing to and fro.

  Liza Guinness was at the front desk. "I don't know how long I'll be," Hannah said. "But don't worry."

  Liza was used to Hannah being suddenly called away, and then being gone for a spell. "Take your time, dear," she said, and punctuated it with a wink.

  As Hannah and Maxberry went through the front door, Hannah looked back. "Why did she do that, I wonder?"

  "I told her I was fetching you for a friend. She asked me if it was Mr. Scott, and I said yes. Well I couldn't very well tell her the truth, could I?"

  Hannah thought she should go back and set Liza straight, and then decided that it would be impossible to make Liza, with her active imagination, understand. Hannah could picture her friend, who possessed a flare for the dramatic, sending a militia after her.

  Mr. Maxberry's horses were tethered to a hitching post in the yard, and Hannah received a mild shock. His "missus" was a native woman.

  "Her name is Nampijinpa," Maxberry explained, "but we just call her Nan. She's a member of the Kaurna tribe, but she speaks English good. I think some missionaries got to her. She was wearing kangaroo skins when I first met up with her, but I managed to get her into a lady's dress."

  Hannah could not guess Nan's age. She was very plump with a broad grin that revealed missing teeth. Her hair was long and straight and as black as her skin. Hannah had never seen an Aboriginal before, as they had all been rounded up years ago and moved to reserved lands.

  Hanging her carpetbag and satchel from the pummel, Hannah accepted a lift from Maxberry with his fingers webbed, and managed as delicately as she could to get her leg over the other side of the saddle. Not since she was a girl had she ridden this way and it felt, at first, very improper and unladylike. But then she thought of Mr. O'Brien lying in pain, and all thoughts of impropriety vanished.

  20

  I

  HAVE WONDERFUL NEWS FOR YOU, SON," JOSIAH SCOTT SAID AS he rested his arm on Neal's shoulders. "Your mother is here." Neal sobbed with joy as he plodded across the limestone wasteland, nearly blind with sandy grit and brilliant sunshine. It had been four days since the sandstorm. He had lost his hat and so he wore his white linen jacket draped over his head. He was thinking of the place on his map circled in red: Galagandra. When he had asked Sir Reginald the significance of it, Oliphant had said that some inland surveyors had reported abundant sweet water there. Neal knew the expedition was headed in that direction. If he could just get his bearings. But the map, along with absolutely every single other of his possessions—including Hannah's glove—was gone.

  "You thought I was lost, didn't you, Mother?" Neal said out loud, speaking to no one but shimmering specters rising from the sand. He was aware that he was either dreaming or hallucinating, but he didn't try to shake it off because it was a pleasant fantasy, and he wondered where it would take him. Although vaguely aware that he was parched with thirst, that his lips were cracked and bleeding, and that there was nothing but scrub and sand, and the occasional twisted limestone formation, for as far as the eye could see, Neal was
more sharply aware of his father's den back in Boston, with the law books, a world globe, an astrolabe, a bust of Aristotle.

  He smiled at his adoptive father. Josiah Scott was a handsome man. Neal often wondered why he remained a bachelor. "Was it because of me, Father?" he asked the shimmering image of Josiah. "Were women not interested in marrying a man who already had a child—a bastard child at that? What a burden I must have been. But now that Mother is back, you can marry that nice widow lady who visits once a week to go over her property holdings with you."

  Neal dragged the back of his hand across his blistered mouth. He squinted at a clump of mulga bushes and saw his mother standing among them. Her image wasn't as distinct as Josiah's. Her face was a blur, her gown plain and old fashioned, her hair done up in the ringlets mode of twenty-seven years ago. He was trying to reach her, but no matter how he kept his forward momentum going, she remained beyond his reach.

  Neal sobbed. He was starving. He had tried to find food and water in this landscape that Edward Eyre had described a belonging in a nightmare. To no avail. A sick ache gripped his stomach. His legs screamed with pain. He had slept each night, curled in a ball, to dream of rescue and Hannah, only to waken to desolation with each dawn.

  I'm going to die out here. I'm not even thirty years old. I should have asked Hannah to marry me. Why didn't I tell her I love her? She wouldn't reject me the way Annabelle did. The way my mother did. Hannah's different. The way she kissed me back, and held onto me . . .

  He forced himself to plod along as he kept a keen watch on the bleak terrain, looking this way and that. The sun played tricks on a man's eyes: it made the desert look as if it were dotted with silvery pools of water. The low mulga bushes stretched and widened in a bizarre optical illusion, the sunlight so distorting them at times that they resembled men.