Dreamscapes

by Tamara McKinley

  Catriona and her parents huddled against the onslaught, the light-weight waterproofs no match for the sheer ferocity of the rain. Jupiter dipped his head, his sodden mane clinging to his streaming neck as he splashed through the mud. He had to work harder now, for the wagon-wheels were becoming bogged down. Kane, dressed in a stockman’s thick waterproof coat that covered him from neck to foot, sat astride his own horse, chin tucked into his collar as the water poured in rivers from the brim of his bush hat.

  ‘Get into the back,’ shouted Declan, his voice almost drowned out by the thunder of the rain. ‘Before you catch your deaths.’

  Catriona and Velda clambered over the buckboard and through the narrow doors into the relative safety of the wagon. They towelled their hair and swiftly changed into dry clothes. It was impossible to talk, for the small space was echoing with the sledgehammer blows of the rain on the roof.

  Catriona sat on the kapok mattress and, with one of the narrow doors ajar, kept watch on her Da. His shoulders were hunched, his clothes soaked through as he tried to keep a firm grip on the slick reins. The cabbage-leaf hat that had been woven by one of the Chinese coolies back on the cane fields was drooping, the water sliding off it in miniature waterfalls.

  From her high vantage point behind the buckboard, she could see the broad palm leaves being bent beneath the weight of the rain, and noticed that the stream they had been following was swelled and now rushed over the dark red rocks that had so recently been high and dry.

  Catriona snuggled up to her mother as they peered out at this watery world of twilight. She felt warm and safe in this cocoon that was home – contented to be a child again in her mother’s arms as she laughed at the antics of the birds.

  The galahs and rosellas were hanging upside down, spreading their feathers, squawking and squabbling as they rid themselves of ticks and lice. The white cockatoos fanned their sulphur yellow combs and shouted abuse as they flapped their wings and fought for purchase on the slippery branches. Kookaburras fluffed their feathers and sank their beaks into their chests, their chortling muted by the sheer volume of the rain.

  Catriona shivered with anticipation as she heard the thunder approach. The rumble was deep-throated, penetrating the all-encompassing thud of the rain. Sheets of brilliant light illuminated the surrounding bush, bringing into sharp relief the towering black boulders that stood like sentinels amongst the trees. She had a healthy respect for storms, but she didn’t fear them. They were as much a part of her life as the heat and the dust – and this one promised to be a beaut.

  The growl of the thunder was deeper now, coming closer. The lightning flashed broad sheets of blazing white across the racing, purple clouds, turning the rain into a sparkling curtain. The dark, red earth clung to his sturdy feet as Jupiter gamely plodded through the widening puddles and the hurrying, scurrying rivulets of water that streamed from the hills and swept across the parched land.

  The crash of thunder rocked the earth beneath them as their world was illuminated by a fork of lightning that spat and hissed and ripped through the sky to hit a nearby tree. With a rifle-crack, the timber exploded into a pillar of flame.

  Jupiter reared up onto his hind legs, pawing the air, screaming in terror.

  Declan shouted as the wagon pitched and rolled and he fought to maintain his balance.

  Catriona and Velda were tossed about, their sharp cries lost in the mayhem of the storm as they crashed against the wooden sides and jarred elbows and knees on the hard floor.

  Kane clung on to the saddle and shortened the reins as the gelding reared and danced on his toes. The animal weaved in a tight circle, ears flat, eyes rolling in terror as it tried to rid himself of the man on his back and escape the sights and sounds of a world gone mad.

  Jagged forks of lightning split the sky as the thunder crashed and boomed overhead. The pillar of flame burned brightly in the gloom, reaching out hungry tongues to lap at the nearby kindling of fallen branches and dry leaves which lay sheltered beneath the overhanging trees. With the dexterity of a snake it slithered through the undergrowth and climbed the frail, white bark of the sheltered saplings and began to feed.

  Jupiter fought the restraints of the traces – fought the reins and the man who held them. His great front feet hit the earth with a shuddering crash – dug in – and in his terror, his mighty strength propelled him in a headlong rush down the muddy track.

  Declan clung to the reins, his feet jammed against the front board to give him greater purchase. He could barely see, could barely feel the reins in his cold, wet fingers. Struggling to maintain his balance, he shouted to Kane. But his voice was lost in the doomsday booms of thunder.

  Jupiter shook his head and raced for cover, his great legs stretching into a lumbering gallop along the muddy track. He wanted to escape and was heedless of the wagon that bounced along behind him like a child’s toy.

  The boulder was at the side of the track. It was big and jagged and right in their path. The ironclad wheel hit it with a juddering blow that sent shockwaves through the wagon.

  Declan was tossed into the air. Flung like a rag doll into the rain, he landed heavily against another boulder, his bones snapping like twigs.

  Catriona screamed as she too was thrown off balance. She landed on the wagon floor with a thud and felt something sharp stab her wrist. Velda was clinging to the wooden door at the front of the wagon, screaming for Kane to do something as the wagon careered out of control.

  With a shouted curse, Kane kicked his horse into obedience and forced the animal to catch up with the terrified Jupiter. Leaning across, he judged the distance and swiftly grabbed the driving reins, pulling on them with all his might as he was dragged from the saddle and hauled unceremoniously through the mud.

  Free at last, the gelding bolted.

  Jupiter was an old horse and not built for such a headlong flight. He resisted the persistent drag on the reins and shook his head, but soon realised he’d never be rid of the weight of the crippled wagon, or the man who held on so grimly. He finally ran out of steam and came to a trembling standstill, his great sides heaving from the effort.

  Velda was out of the wagon and running back down the track.

  Catriona’s wrist was a circle of throbbing fire. She saw the glimmer of bone pushing through bloody skin and her stomach clenched as the bile rose in her throat. Determined to be with her father she swallowed and took deep breaths as she cradled her arm and clambered down into the mud. Black clouds filled her head and threatened to overcome her as she tried to run – but she fought against them, pushing herself to hurry to her father’s side.

  Declan lay still, his face grey as the rain splashed his closed eyelids and streamed down his cheeks. Velda knelt in the mud beside him and took his hand. Her hair had come loose from its pins and lay in a wet mass down her back and over her shoulders. Her dress clung to her, showing the knots in her spine and the sharpness of her hip-bones as she swiftly ran her hands over his body.

  Catriona sank into the mud. She felt sick from the pain of her wrist – sick with the anxiety of what had happened to Da. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’ she asked fearfully. She had to repeat the question for her mother hadn’t heard her over the thunder of the rain.

  Velda shook her head. ‘No, but he’s hurt badly,’ she shouted back. ‘Fetch me a blanket, and that little bottle of brandy from my basket,’ she ordered.

  Catriona stood up. The agony tore through her and the black clouds filled her head again and blotted out the scene before her. She tried to call out, tried to fight them, but this time they would not be denied. As she felt her legs buckle and the ground rise up to meet her, she heard her mother scream.

  *

  Catriona felt the chill needles of rain on her face and opened her eyes. She was confused. Why was she lying in the mud? Where was she, and what was that searing, throbbing agony burning in her wrist?

  She blinked against the deluge of water and realised Kane was bending over her, his hands delving in
the mud beneath her, lifting her up. Her feeble protests were ignored as he held her close and swiftly carried her through the rain to the canvas shelter that had been strung beneath the trees. Then she remembered. ‘Da,’ she cried out, wriggling to be free. ‘Where’s Da?’

  ‘Keep still,’ Kane shouted above the downpour. ‘He’s all right.’

  Catriona squirmed and wriggled until he was forced to set her down. She splashed her way through the mud and, with her throbbing arm curved against her chest, she almost fell into the shelter.

  Da was lying on a blanket, his head resting on a pillow stained with his blood. It spread across the cotton like the hideous, dark red flowers that bloomed around his ankle and his ribs. His face was ashen, his eyes were closed. The only signs of life were the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the strangulated gurgle as he struggled to breathe.

  Velda left his side and swiftly gathered Catriona into her arms and gently examined her wrist. She pulled a long silk scarf from her voluminous carpet-bag, made a neat sling for the damaged wrist and eased Catriona down on to the blanket next to her father. She put her mouth close to Catriona’s ear so she could hear what she was saying.

  ‘It’s a good thing you fainted,’ she said. ‘Kane managed to put the bone back in place while you were out, and it was only his quick thinking which stopped you from bleeding to death.’

  Catriona eyed her wrist. A strip of cotton had been bound just below her elbow, a sturdy stick keeping the material so tight, her arm throbbed. There was another strip of cotton around her wrist, fixed with a large safety pin. Thankfully there was no blood and no glimmer of bone to make her feel giddy again.

  She reached for the stick and her mother pushed her hand away. ‘Leave it,’ she ordered. ‘It’s there to stop the blood flowing.’

  ‘What about Da?’ she asked, as she looked at the spreading blossoms on his clothes. ‘Why can’t you stop him bleeding too?’

  Kane finished tying splints to Declan’s shattered leg, and rested back on his haunches. ‘The bandages won’t hold,’ he said. ‘I can’t put enough pressure on them.’ He checked the bandage around Declan’s midriff and stood up. ‘We have to get them both to a doctor, and quick,’ he shouted above the thunder. ‘Come on Velda, you’ll have to help me fix the wheel.’

  Catriona lay next to her father, her small hand in his as he struggled for breath and fought to stay alive. The tears mingled with the remnants of the rain on her face as she watched her mother and Mr Kane splash through the mud, their heads bowed by the weight of the rain. Mam’s dress was soaked, it clung to her legs as the mud captured her shoes and tore them from her feet. Kane, better equipped to cope with the weather, strode out in his long waxed drover’s coat, his boots squelching in the mud.

  She looked across at her father. He was making strange gurgling sounds in his throat, and there was a bubble of bloody mucus at the corner of his mouth. She gripped his hand, trying to instil some of her own youthful energy into him as encouragement. He must not be allowed to die.

  The world was grey outside the canvas cover, and the two figures battling with the wagon looked so small and vulnerable Catriona wished she could help. But it would be impossible, for the pain was taking over again – drumming through her in tortuous waves – bringing the blackness and the welcome oblivion. She held on to Da’s hand and let them take her over.

  *

  Francis Kane hammered in the last nail and with Velda’s help, managed to get the wheel back on the axle before fixing the hub over the top of it. He was sweating inside the heavy coat, and his discomfort was aggravated by the icy rainwater teeming down his neck from his hat.

  His hand slipped, the head of the nail neatly slicing a deep gash in the fleshy part of his palm. He swore softly and quickly wrapped the wound in a none-too-clean handkerchief. This was a god-awful country, he thought grimly as he splashed through the mud to the canvas shelter. The sun boiled and burned, the humidity smothered and the rain threatened to drown him. What the hell did he think he was doing here? He should have left them months ago, gone off on his own and found something better to do with his life than this.

  He stood for a moment and looked down at the injured man and his daughter. The questions were rhetorical – he already knew the answers. There was no other life, no other choices; his money was gone, he was doomed to remain in this exile for as long as his family paid him to be here.

  He scooped the child into his arms and carried her back to the wagon. Settling her on the kapok mattress, he covered her with a dry blanket. Squatting back on his haunches he looked at the pale little face, and with a gentle finger, traced the curve of her cheek. She looked so innocent, so fragile – like a china doll, and he couldn’t resist lightly placing his lips on her hot little forehead.

  ‘Mr Kane. Hurry. We have to hurry.’

  With a grunt of impatience he turned at the sound of Velda’s voice and climbed back into the rain. He strode through the mud, mourning for his expensive riding boots that were no doubt ruined. He struggled to mask his bad temper by plastering on a smile of concern as he found Velda shivering with cold and fear in the shelter, and was sickened by the look of gratitude she gave him as he once again took charge. If only she didn’t rely on him so much – if only he’d had the will-power to leave with the others. A surge of anger tore through him and he pushed it away – it was too late now, the die was cast.

  ‘Take one end of the blanket, and I’ll take the other. But try not to jolt him.’

  Declan was no lightweight and they struggled to carry him on the blanket through the rain and the mud to the wagon. It was impossible to lift him inside in this way, so Francis took the man in his arms and as gently as he could hoisted him up and onto the mattress beside his daughter.

  He still ached from his time in the cane fields, and the effort of mending the wheel and carrying Declan had exhausted him. He rested his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath as Velda clambered up into the back of the wagon and tended to her wounded. He glared out at the rain. At least it had put the bush fire out, he thought grimly. But that was about the only good thing about it.

  He straightened as he heard the thud of hoofs. The gelding had decided to return, no doubt more afraid of being alone than with company during the storm. Halfwitted beast, he thought as he swiftly caught the reins and gentled him. That was the trouble with highly bred horses, didn’t know when they were well off. If he’d been such a beast, he’d be long gone by now, he mused as he tied the reins firmly to the rear of the wagon.

  ‘We have to go now, Mr Kane,’ shouted Velda from the wagon. ‘Declan’s getting worse.’

  He tipped his hat, his smile almost a grimace as he ducked his head and headed for the buckboard. Climbing up, he grabbed the reins and slapped them across the broad back of the shire. It was time Velda was made to understand he wasn’t her lackey – time to assert his position and review his plans.

  *

  The thunder crashed and rumbled as the lightning ripped through the sky and the rain teemed down in a never-ending sheet of grey. The sound of the rain on the roof was a thunder in itself, drowning out all other sound, enclosing them in the small space like prisoners trapped in a cell.

  Catriona was shivering with the cold despite the blanket. Her dress clung to her and her hair stuck to her face in damp tendrils that dripped icy water down her neck and soaked the pillow. She could hear Kane cursing as poor Jupiter struggled to pull them through the swirling, watery mud, and wondered how long it would take to return to Bundaberg. It felt as if she’d already spent hours in the back of the wagon – she longed to escape the narrow confinements of her home.

  She lay on the mattress next to her father and tried not to whimper when the agony in her wrist became almost too much to bear. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on Declan’s face as they were jolted and bumped over the rough track they had so recently come along. He too was in terrible pain. She could see it in the greyness of his face, and in the deep hollows a
t his cheeks and temple – could hear the keening in his throat as each jolt, each roll and jerk of the wagon sent shock waves of agony through him.

  Velda sat between them, but most of her concern was for Declan. She tried to soothe him with her voice, tried to make him comfortable by stroking his brow and wiping away the sweat and the blood from his face. She bent over him, her sodden dress clinging to her slender frame, her hair tangled wetly into a rough knot at the nape of her neck as her tears traced tracks through the grime on her face.

  Catriona experienced a warm rush of love for her mother, and yearned to be held, to be comforted – but she knew she was being selfish, for Da needed her more. She drifted in and out of the darkness, coming awake only when her father cried out, or the jolting sent a stab of pain through her wrist.

  *

  She opened her eyes as she felt the hands lifting her out of the wagon. She looked for her father. He was gone.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ said Kane as he carried her through the rain and into the long wooden house that was almost hidden by overhanging trees. ‘He’s with the doctor.’

  ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ she asked through the feverish haze that seemed to have taken her over. ‘He will be all right?’

  ‘Let’s get you fixed up, and then you can go and see him for yourself,’ he replied as he carried her into a room at the back of the building.

  The country hospital sprawled amongst the trees on the very edge of Bundaberg. Constructed and financed by the owners of the cane plantations, it was well equipped, efficiently run, and served the widespread community that surrounded it. Cane cutting was dangerous, and the men were always getting sick or injured, so the two doctors and three nurses were kept busy.

  The building consisted of a large ward for the cutters, two side-wards for the women and children and a small operating theatre. A wide verandah ran along the front of the building, sheltered by the sloping corrugated-iron roof that was almost smothered in bougainvillea – this was a favourite spot for the convalescents who would sit in the cane chairs and yarn as they smoked their cigarettes and passed the time until they were released back into the fields.