Whispers Through the Pines

by Lynne Wilding

  ‘Oh, thank you, Captain.’ There was sincere gratitude in Sarah’s voice, even though the fears remained. She would not rest easy until Waugh was permanently removed from this island, and that meant another six weeks or more of his presence here.

  ‘Rest assured, you will be quite safe. Cynthia, Mrs Stewart, has great need of you, Sarah,’ he said gently, ‘in her…ahhemm…delicate condition, you are the only one she trusts to care for her.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, sir.’ She curtseyed and, as she left the parlour, tried to garner comfort from the Captain’s words. His dear wife’s health was of the utmost concern to him, and she was sure he would do all in his power to assure that Sarah was happy in her service to him.

  Jessica woke with a start and yawned. The bedside clock read four am. She yawned again. Running her hands through her hair, she stretched and then glanced at Simon, who was snuffling softly in his sleep. Almost as a reflex action, she drew the sheet and blanket up over his shoulders.

  God, she felt tired, as if her limbs were weighed down with pieces of lead. With a weary grunt she pulled herself out of the bed and then wondered: why was she getting up? The answer was that, tired as her body might be, her brain was wide awake. She threw a robe about her shoulders and padded out to the kitchen. Whatever tranquilliser Simon had given her, it had zonked her out, but then the dream had come and now she was, if anything, overstimulated, by that dream.

  She wanted to think more about those images…

  It had all been so vividly real, and she knew she had to review the mental pictures before they faded. She couldn’t recall having a dream as clear as that one. In it she appeared to be an observer, viewing what the characters in the dream did, but she had also experienced the thoughts and emotions of the woman, especially her fear, and the hatred directed by the soldier towards her. to an extraordinarily sensitised level. As well, there had been colours, an unusual facet of dreaming. She was sure she had read somewhere that most dreams were portrayed in black and white, yet she could picture the soldier’s red tunic, though his face had been in shadow, and the little girl in her blue dress with a yellow ribbon around her hair, and the dark green of the pines…and the woman’s grey frock.

  But…why was she dreaming about the past again, about a time long gone? And with names and scenes that had no relevance to her? She knew that she dreamt often and realised that nocturnal ramblings rarely made sense, but this dream went beyond the ordinary, and she wanted to know why.

  The woman. The red hair. A glimmering of recognition came to her and, putting down the glass of milk she’d poured for herself, she went onto the verandah. Where had she put that sketch?

  For several minutes she searched amongst the untidiness she had created as she’d become immersed in painting again. She sighed with frustration when she couldn’t find the sketch of the face she had seen in the window at Nan Duncan’s. She was almost certain it was the same woman who had been in the dream. Her puzzlement increasing, she moved to the easel to study the painting.

  How many times had she looked at what had been done, trying to fathom the mystery of it, trying to remember having painted any of it? Simon wanted to destroy the painting but she, for some inexplicable reason, would not allow it. Deep down, while she had no understanding of the reason, she sensed that there was a purpose for it and she prayed—something she rarely did—that the intention was not to drive her insane.

  Jessica smiled as she thought that. Simon had told her that tomorrow Marcus was coming to talk to her. He, like Simon, probably believed she was somehow mentally unbalanced. And the evidence, she had to admit—the painting, and the other happenings—strongly supported that possibility.

  At a near-subconscious level, she became aware of a chill in the air and closed the verandah windows. There was too, the faintest smell of something sweet. She had smelled it somewhere before, but couldn’t remember where. A yawn escaped her and she half-smothered it with her left hand. She should go back to bed. Instead, as if she couldn’t help herself and had no control over her actions, she went to the table which held her painting implements. She picked up a brush and then a tube of white paint. Squeezing an amount onto the paint board, she mixed a little ochre with it and began to stroke the colour onto the painting.

  In the morning Simon found Jessica on the verandah, curled up asleep in the easy chair. Her features in repose, her chestnut hair splayed about her face, she looked perfectly peaceful. He had almost decided to leave her as she was, until he saw the dabs of paint on her fingertips. He looked at the painting and saw that the second face had been fully fleshed out.

  ‘My God!’ His jaw went slack with shock. Not again!

  It showed a man whose features could best be described as plain. Of a ruddy complexion, he had stringy hair the colour of wet sand, was beady-eyed and unshaven and, as with the first face, the collar and top of his uniform were red, with a single diagonal white leather strap.

  Grimacing, he shook his wife by the shoulder until she stirred. ‘Jessica, wake up.’

  She stretched and gave a little moan as muscles unkinked themselves. Her gaze focused on Simon, saw that he was dressed for work. ‘I must have dropped off here,’ she stated the obvious. ‘I’ll make some breakfast, I feel ravenous.’ She stood up and, without looking at the painting, turned towards the kitchen.

  ‘Jess, before you go, look.’ Simon pointed at the easel.

  Jessica came and stood in front of the painting. She tilted her head at an angle, the expression in her eyes mirroring consternation. Another man’s face had been fully painted. She looked at her fingers, saw they were spattered with paint. A frown furrowed her brow. Oh, no, how could she have done this and not remember doing it? But as she stared at the painting, some memory came to her. The man’s face. Oh, God! She recognised it from her dream.

  ‘That’s Thomas, Thomas Dowd,’ she said quietly.

  Simon stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she’d said what she had said. ‘What? Who did you say it was?’

  Then it all spilled out. Her dream, and its clarity. The vivid colours, sharing the people’s emotions.

  ‘This is getting weirder and weirder,’ Simon acknowledged. Then he had what he thought was an inspiration. ‘Maybe the memory of the dream was so strong that you just came out and painted Thomas’ face while you were in a post-dream trance.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ she asked. She didn’t tell him that she remembered waking up, getting out of bed, pouring herself some milk, and closing the verandah windows…and that odour, a sweet smell. What was it? If she had been in a trance, would she recall those things? She thought not.

  Simon shrugged his shoulders, his features taut as he stared at the painting. ‘I don’t know. It might be.’ He came close to her and gave her a hug. ‘Look, let’s allow Marcus to sort it out. There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. He’ll be here at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Good, that gives me time to make breakfast and to tidy the house,’ Jessica said, with a brightness that amazed her. Why wasn’t she in a trough of depression over the second face? It was almost as if she were coming to accept that she was doing weird things for which she could find no logical explanation. Did that mean she was on the brink of going mad? Had the madness always been there, lurking deep within her until the trauma of Damian’s death brought it to the surface? If that were so, could Marcus or Nikko or anyone stop her from getting worse? Or, would she simply slowly regress into a state of permanent insanity? No-o-o…

  A trembling began in her legs and travelled up her back and into her arms and hands. She gave a convulsive sob and almost collapsed. Simon caught her before she fell to the floor.

  Marcus was too much the professional to let his suprise show when Jessica led him to the painting. With his historian background he easily recognised the uniforms as nineteenth-century British soldiers—probably around the eighteeen fifties. The uniform had a high standing collar in a yellow fabric, with triangular yellow bars at t
he shoulders. The jacket itself was bright red, and a double row of brass buttons held it together. There was also a single, diagonal white leather strap which began at the right shoulder. Very distinctive. It wouldn’t take much effort to pin down which British regiment the uniform belonged to. And that prompted an embryonic theory to take shape in his mind, but it was too soon to voice the possibilities. He could see by Jessica’s tense expression that what she needed was understanding and compassion. That he would give her, and encourage Simon to do the same in full measure.

  ‘This one,’ Marcus pointed to the second face, ‘has a name, I believe?’

  ‘Oh, Simon told you. Yes, in my dream his name was Thomas Dowd. Of course, I don’t know if that’s a real name or if he is or ever was a real person. I do know that I’ve never seen either of them before.’ The corners of her mouth lifted in a tentative smile. ‘If that’s any help.’

  ‘What about the first face?’

  ‘I’m…not sure. He might be the other soldier. I’m beginning to lose the detail of the dream.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell me what you do remember,’ he said gently, steering her off the verandah and into the living room, so that the painting would not dominate their view as they talked.

  He took notes as she spoke and didn’t interrupt until she finished. ‘You said the woman’s name was Sarah, right? And the daughter’s was Meggie?’ He watched her nod her head. ‘And their surname?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten. But…and this is very strange, Marcus, I’m almost positive hers, Sarah’s, was the face I saw in your kitchen window. I did a sketch of her, as you suggested, though portraiture isn’t my forte. Now I can’t find it.’

  ‘I’m sure it will turn up. Perhaps you just haven’t looked in the right place,’ he soothed, watching her agitation grow.

  ‘Well,’ she began, her blue eyes on him, ‘am I a nutcase, as Simon’s workmate, Sue Levinski announced to everyone at your home?’ She almost held her breath waiting for an answer—if he would give her an answer.

  ‘Do you think you are?’ he countered.

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. I think something’s happening to me that I don’t understand and can’t control, but I don’t believe I’m crazy.’ She gave him a surprisingly cheeky grin. ‘Is that what most crazy people say? That they’re definitely not crazy?’

  ‘Some do,’ he conceded. ‘I think it’s early days to diagnose that you’re mentally unbalanced,’ he softened the words with a smile. ‘I’ve read the notes Nikko faxed across, and it’s undeniable that you suffered an emotional as well as a nervous breakdown. Whether these latest happenings are related to that, or whether there’s a certain amount of paranoia from a different source is something it will take time to discover.’

  She smiled back at him. ‘That sounds like a polite way of saying, “I just don’t know”.’

  ‘You’re right, Jessica, I don’t. I need to look at and analyse everything that’s happened to you since you came to Norfolk Island and judge whether it’s some post-effect of the emotional trauma you suffered after your son’s death.’ He added, ‘Or whether it’s something else entirely.’

  ‘So what do I do?’ She looked away, her gaze roaming about the room which had become so familiar to her. ‘Simon says we should leave, go back to Perth.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second before she said, ‘No’. Her shoulders squared and she stopped clasping and unclasping her fingers. ‘That would just be running away from the problem, wouldn’t it? And who knows, if I am unbalanced, I’ll take the same problem home with me.’

  He couldn’t help but think how brave she was. He’d seen patients who’d retreated into themselves, who’d tried to run away from their problems rather than confront them, who’d become increasingly irrational because they didn’t have the mental strength to even try to work their way through their difficulties, but not Jessica Pearce. He sensed that she was frightened by what was happening to her, that she didn’t understand why it was, but still she chose to face it. Her courage made him determined to get to the bottom of her problem and find a solution, though it would mean putting his historical work at the cemetery on hold. Nothing, he realised with a suddenness that almost took his breath away, was more important than restoring Jessica’s mental health.

  ‘I think that’s the right decision. Running away rarely solves problems anyway, whether they be mental or emotional.’

  ‘So…where do we go from here?’

  ‘Continue doing what you normally do. Start a new painting, keep up your jogging. Get out and about. Nan would love you to drop in for another pottery lesson.’

  ‘But what if I have more dreams? And…there are two more faces still to be completed. Whatever is making me do it won’t stop until they’re finished, I just know it.’

  ‘It’s best to take things one day at a time. What I’d like you to do is to keep a notepad and pen with you at all times. Write down when you’re feeling strange that is, not normal and—this is very important—if you have any more of those dreams, and I believe you will, as soon as you wake, write down as much detail as you can remember.’

  ‘Maybe we have the makings of a book here,’ she joked. ‘It’s certainly as strange as some fiction I’ve read.’

  ‘Reality often is,’ he agreed. Without forethought he reached across and took her hands. ‘I know it’s hard for you. I know that you’re scared, but I believe that between the three of us, you, me and Simon, we will find a solution.’

  Just the touch of her was doing amazing things to his body, his heart and his soul. He could feel a singing in his veins as the blood pumped faster through him. She really was a very special person but, he admonished himself as quickly as his reactions had got out of hand, she is not your special person. You have a job to do, to make her whole again, and that is what you, Marcus Hunter, must focus your expertise on. Anything more would be absolute folly.

  She squeezed his hands, then gently removed them from his grasp. ‘I believe you, Marcus.’

  When Nan Duncan popped out of her pottery studio for a cup of tea in the afternoon, in the living room she found Marcus surrounded by a pile of books, folders of notes and an old map of Norfolk Island.

  ‘You look as happy as a pig in mud,’ she observed as she put his mug of tea on the coffee table, next to his notes. ‘You enjoy a good mystery, don’t you? I think that’s half the reason you practised psychology in the first place. No doubt there was a touch of a mystery in many of your patients’ complaints.’

  ‘It is interesting,’ he admitted. ‘Jessica’s problems started when she went to the old part of the cemetery. That’s when she had the strange turn and almost fainted.’

  ‘Which means?’ Nan queried as she muched on a biscuit.

  ‘Several things, possibly. She came to Norfolk still emotionally fragile. Perhaps something she did in the cemetery, reading a headstone and becoming depressed, triggered a reaction deep within her psyche.’ He looked at his sister, glad to be able to discuss things with her and know she had more than a glimmering of understanding. ‘Who knows what we have locked in our brains? Memories of the past, and the present. But with the past, how far back is past? Does past start with our birth, or before it, while we’re still in the womb, even further back than that?’

  Nan frowned at him, her grey eyes widening as her interest rose. ‘Are you talking about reincarnation?’

  ‘I may be, I’m not sure. One thing that puzzles me about the theory of a reincarnated spirit is the coldness that comes over Jessica just before something happens. The cold, or the feeling of being very chilled, appears to be the catalyst which creates the…memories, the visitations, perhaps even the mental blackouts.’

  ‘So why are you poring through all these books and stuff?’ Nan wanted to know.

  ‘Well, Jessica gave me two names, three if I include the child. I’m doing a little detective work, trying to learn whether they are real names or whether,
they, too—possibly like her dream, are figments of an overactive, disturbed imagination. So far I haven’t been able to corroborate any of the names, but I may need to go down to the legislative assembly and poke around down there. They have more complete listings of the convicts and free setllers who’ve come to Norfolk since it was first inhabited. Otherwise I can make contact with a friend in Sydney who can get the information.’

  ‘Is she disturbed, our Jessica?’

  ‘Something beyond normal—maybe paranormal, maybe reincarnation, maybe even delusional—is occurring. That can’t be denied.’

  ‘Well, we both know of many strange happenings on the island, don’t we? Ghosts, spirits, unearthly bodies, call them what you will,’ Nan said, with a chuckle, as she sipped her tea. ‘Every third family who’s been here for a hundred years or so probably has a ghost or two in the wardrobe.’

  Marcus thought for a moment before saying, ‘Nan, I can’t help but feel, and it’s only a gut feeling, with no concrete proof, that what is manifesting itself in Jessica is a product of Norfolk’s past. God knows there’s been enough violence, what with the convict settlements and the like. It’s a mystery I’m going to enjoy solving.’

  ‘Are you sure you can?’

  He looked at her and his rugged features became serious. ‘I have to, for Jessica’s sake.’

  Nan got up and took the empty cups with her. ‘Then I’ll leave you to it. Oh, by the way, Rory and Kate rang. Donna wants them to come here for a short break, before school goes back. It would be nice to see them, wouldn’t it? I said you’d call them tonight.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Marcus sighed. There it was, reality coming to the fore again. His children. He hadn’t seen them for over three weeks. He chewed on his lower lip, thinking that the timing wasn’t the best, what with Jessica and her problem, but he couldn’t put them off. Besides, he missed them like crazy, and they loved pottering around the old settlement at Kingston. Rory was developing into a keen golfer, even though he still tended to put chips into his set of clubs more than he appreciated. And Kate was exhibiting an inclination to psychoanalyse everything. Maybe it was just her age, or maybe she would make a good psychologist one day.