The Dreaming

by Barbara Wood

  "It's getting late," he said. "I'll take you and Adam to the house."

  "Let the grasshopper go, Adam," Joanna said, and as they started to walk back to the homestead, she looked back at the river, where the old Aborigine, Ezekiel, continued to stand and stare.

  The cabin was plain, as Hugh had warned, consisting of little more than a fireplace at one end, a bed at the other, with a table in between. But Joanna didn't mind. It would do for the short time she was going to be here.

  Hugh left her and Adam there, explaining that he had more flocks to inspect, after which he was going to ride over to Lismore. Joanna unpacked her trunk with Adam's help, and then settled him down by the fire with the stuffed animal she had inherited from her mother, a funny-looking toy made of kangaroo fur, which was one of the few things Lady Emily had brought out of Australia with her when she was four years old. A station hand whose nickname was Stringy Larry came in with bathwater and wood for the fire, explaining with a laugh that he was called Stringy Larry not because he was tall and thin but because he had once tripped over a string that was stretched between two fenceposts, falling facedown in the mud. Joanna gave Adam a bath, and they ate the dinner that had been sent over from the cookhouse—a generous meal of lamb chops, peas, fresh bread, and custard, accompanied by a pitcher of milk, and a pot of tea for Joanna, so welcome after food cooked over campfires.

  Finally, Adam was asleep in the bed, which he would share with Joanna tonight, another bed being promised for tomorrow. He lay curled on his side, his arms around the stuffed animal Joanna's mother had christened Rupert.

  It was late, night having settled over the homestead, and a light spring rain was beginning to patter on the iron roof. Joanna had changed out of her traveling clothes, bathed, put on a fresh nightgown and combed out her long hair. Now she turned to the things she had placed on the table, where an oil lamp gave off a warm, reassuring glow.

  She opened the small bundle which the steward had given to her on the dock, when he had left Adam with her, saying that it had been put aboard with the boy in Adelaide. Joanna had expected to find shoes inside, a toy or two, but to her surprise, the wrapping, which looked like a piece of blanket, fell away to reveal a black leather Bible, an ivory comb, a folded handkerchief and strangest of all, a printed tea towel from Devon, England, that had never been used. Joanna opened the Bible and saw four entries inscribed on the "Family Record" page. The first read: "Joe and Mary Westbrook, wed on this day, September 10, 1865." The next was: "Born January 30, 1867, Adam Nathaniel Westbrook." The third entry: "Died, Joseph Westbrook, July 12, 1867, of gangrenous injuries." And the last: "Died, Mary Westbrook, of pneumonia, in the month of September, 1871."

  Someone had wrapped a thin, gold wedding band in a handkerchief and tucked it inside the Bible.

  Joanna looked at Adam, whose closed eyes flickered in restless slumber, and she thought: This is all he has to remember his mother by—a ring, some dates in a Bible, a Devon tea towel and an ivory comb.

  She picked up her own mother's diary and held it for a long moment before opening it.

  There was comfort in feeling the familiar rich leather binding between her hands; she imagined that it was almost alive with the currents and tides of her mother's lifetime. The diary also contained Joanna's life, her past. And she thought now about those years when she had been so happy, when, as a child, she had lived in an enchanted world of make-believe and innocence, when she had thought of her mother, Lady Emily, as a fairy princess, as pale and delicate as the white peacocks that strutted on the immaculate lawns of the viceroy's mansion, and she had imagined that her father, the colonel, in his tall white helmet and dashing uniform with brass buttons and his polished boots, was the man who commanded all of India. He was gallant and true, like the heroes in fairy tales, and what had been even more wonderful in Joanna's young mind was that he had been passionately in love with his wife.

  Petronius Drury had grown up among a class of people who believed in being guarded in speech and actions, in which there were rules to follow and where propriety was insisted upon, even between married couples, and the love he bore for his wife was legendary. Joanna had many times overheard remarks while she was growing up: "Lucky Emily, Petronius so devoted to her ... Never looks at another woman ... If only my Andrew were like that."

  Which was why, Joanna believed, her father had been unable to go on living after Lady Emily died.

  Joanna opened the diary and read by lamplight.

  The pages covering the early years were filled with excitement and beauty, descriptions of balls at palaces and the visits of Indian princes. There were recipes for herbal remedies, and passages where Lady Emily became more philosophical. When she was twenty-four, she had written: "If you must, you can." When she was thirty: "Optimism empowers." There were remarks on fashion—"British ladies have taken to wearing saris over their hooped skirts."—and customs—"I felt sorry for the poor young bride who spoke out of turn to the senior officer's wife." But there came a day, after Lady Emily had been recording in the book off and on for almost nine years—thirteen years ago—when the tone of the writing suddenly changed.

  It was the entry marking Joanna's sixth birthday, and Lady Emily had written, "Joanna turned six today. We had a lovely party, twelve children and their parents." It was then that she had begun to write about the nightmares.

  "The nightmares have returned," Lady Emily had written on the next page. "I have not dreamed these dreams since I was a child. I had thought I was free of them forever, but now they have come back—wild dogs are chasing me, a great serpent with rainbow-colored scales is trying to devour me. Petronius says that I wake up screaming. If only I could remember! I sense that what is contained in my father's satchel might be the key to the answers, but I am afraid to open it. Why?"

  As Joanna read, the fire hissed. Adam cried out once in his sleep, and then was quiet.

  Then, an entry from nine months ago: "Strangely, the shock of our encounter with the rabid dog has made me remember things," Lady Emily had written. "The name Karra Karra runs through my head like a melody. I feel a tremendous significance linked to it. Was I born there, perhaps? Is that where my parents' land is? There is another name, too—Reena. I wonder, could that be the young Aboriginal woman I remember holding me in her arms? But there is something else, the strange feeling associated with Karra Karra—that I was supposed to have gone there long ago, but that my path was diverted.

  "I sense that a secret is locked away somehow in my mind," Lady Emily had written later, after she had fallen ill. "I cannot shake the feeling that something was hidden, and that I must unearth it. But I cannot remember! The doctors say there is nothing wrong with me—but there is. Something is poisoning me, and I am powerless against it. And I fear for Joanna, too."

  In the days that followed, before Lady Emily grew too ill to write, she filled the diary with her obsession that "another legacy" awaited her at Karra Karra, something which she was under compulsion to claim. She was obsessed with the growing fear that something was trying to destroy her, something from the past. In the last entry, Lady Emily wrote, "I no longer fear for my own sake, but for Joanna's. I believe that whatever is now claiming me does not end with my death. I am frightened that my daughter will inherit it, too."

  Suddenly, there was a sound at the window. Joanna looked up, startled, and saw a face, dark-skinned with large eyes, peering into the cabin. Joanna stared for a moment, then, realizing that it was a young Aboriginal girl, she got up and went to the door. But as soon as she opened it, the girl turned and ran down the veranda steps.

  "Wait!" Joanna said. "Please, don't run! Come back!"

  She dashed out around to the side of the cabin, where the girl had disappeared, and ran straight into Hugh.

  "What—" he said, catching her as they stumbled.

  "Oh, Mr. Westbrook! I'm sorry! I didn't see you!"

  "Miss Drury," he said, laughing, "don't you know it's raining out here?"

  They h
urried back into the shelter of the veranda, and Joanna said, "I'm sorry for running into you like that, but I saw someone at the window, a girl, looking in. I wanted to talk to her, but she ran away."

  "That was Sarah," Hugh said. "The Aboriginal Mission near Cameron Town hires their girls out to the big houses in the district to learn domestic work. Sarah's fourteen, and I imagine she is very curious about you. I'm sorry if she startled you. I was just coming by to see if there is anything you need." He suddenly realized that she was in her nightdress, and he felt a shock rush through him, a swift, startling stab of desire.

  "Adam and I are fine, Mr. Westbrook," Joanna said, also suddenly aware of how she was dressed. "Will you come inside?"

  "I can't, I'm on my way to Lismore. I only just now finished inspecting the stock."

  "And how are the sheep?"

  He looked away, stunned by the arousal that had so quickly and unexpectedly gripped him. "I'm afraid it's bad," he said. "The success of a sheep station depends upon the yearly wool yield, and a widespread lice infestation would mean financial trouble. We can't determine the cause. It came on so suddenly. What's really puzzling is it seems that only Merinda is affected."

  He didn't tell her the rest—that old Ezekiel had approached him out in the field where he was inspecting the stock, and had stood around until finally Hugh had asked him if he wanted something. Ezekiel had warned him then, saying that he saw bad luck around Joanna; he couldn't, or wouldn't, explain why.

  Hugh thought of how her body had felt a moment ago, when she had run into him. "I'll have one of the men take you into Cameron Town in the morning to buy some clothes for Adam," he said, "and anything else you need. I have accounts at several shops. I'll give you a letter of introduction to a lawyer there, who's a friend of mine. He could look at your deed, and see what he can do to help you." He looked again at Joanna, at the way her long brown hair lay against her back, and a strange ache grew deep inside him. He felt as if he had suddenly been caught off balance. He wanted to leave, and yet he didn't want to. "I would go into town with you myself, but I'm needed here at the station."

  "I understand," she said. "Thank you."

  "Are you and Adam fixed all right in there? I know it's rough—"

  "We're fine, thank you."

  "One of the men will bring in another bed tomorrow. And I'll take you around the station. We've got some baby lambs that I'm sure Adam would like to see."

  He paused, and looked into her eyes, struggling against his newly born desire, denying it, pushing it away. He thought of Pauline, who was soon to be his wife, and how passionately she had declared her love for him. He said, "Good night," and forced himself back into the dark and the rain.

  Joanna watched him go, then she quietly closed the door.

  She looked first at Adam, then she returned to the table and the puzzle she was trying to solve.

  Thirty-seven years ago, her mother had been taken away from her parents and delivered to an aunt in England, possessing only a fur toy and a leather satchel. The flight had apparently been in haste, which indicated danger. And as the satchel had been sent with her, it meant someone had thought the contents were worth saving. Joanna undid the silver buckles, and took out a sheaf of papers.

  All Lady Emily had been able to learn from her Aunt Millicent was that she had been picked up by an English sea captain when a merchant marine had passed her on to him in Singapore. Of that long journey, Lady Emily recalled nothing. Her earliest memory was of playing in Aunt Millicent's garden. She had been unaware of the existence of the satchel until Millicent had given it to her, on the day she married Petronius. Emily had seemed to remember it instantly, or rather to recognize its significance, and the sight of the satchel had so struck her with dread, that when she had taken it with her to India as a bride, she had hidden it away.

  Joanna stared at the hundred or so pages spread before her. They were covered with writing, but it was like no writing she had ever seen. It wasn't English, it wasn't even a proper alphabet, but row upon row of cryptic symbols....

  What were these papers, she wondered, and why had they been entrusted with a little girl who had been taken away from her parents? More significantly, what could these papers have to do with Australia, and with the journey Lady Emily had wanted to make? Was there in here, somewhere among all these strange symbols, an explanation of her fears, of her dreams of wild dogs, of snakes, of the past and the future?

  Joanna slowly went through them, but found only page after page of mysterious symbols. Whatever this was, it had been written in some sort of code. But whose code, what code, and why?

  She was too sleepy to think.

  She dimmed the lamp and got into bed, taking care not to waken Adam. When she laid her head on the pillow, a familiar scent instantly brought Hugh Westbrook to her mind, and she realized that it was his scent that she had caught, in the pillow—the sharp smell of shaving cream, and the gentler fragrance of hand soap, mixed with a trace of tobacco and wool and something else. She was startled by her reaction to such intimacy—to be sleeping in his bed—and she realized that it suddenly excited her, to be lying here, where Hugh normally slept. A strange new feeling swept over her, one she had never experienced before, or perhaps only fleetingly, when she had danced in the arms of the handsome young officer.

  She tried not to think about Hugh, about the way the furrow between his eyebrows deepened when he was concentrating, making him look even more attractive. Or about the way he would laugh unexpectedly. Or the habit he had of frequently removing his hat and running his hands through his hair. Or the feel of his hand holding hers when he had helped her down from the wagon. And their encounter of a short while ago, when she had run into him and he had caught her.

  She had been sleepy when she had gotten into bed, but now she was wide awake, her body betraying her, her thoughts on Hugh, as she wondered what it would be like to be with him now, in this bed.

  She forced herself to remember that he was going to be married soon, that she had come only to help Adam get adjusted, and to establish a place from which to begin her search. She knew she must not allow herself to think of Hugh Westbrook in that way. She concentrated on her reasons for being here: to find her inheritance, to seek out the legacy her mother had believed awaited her at Karra Karra, to put an end to the dreams.

  But, in the end, though she tried to focus her thoughts on these things, her mind and body brought her back to Hugh, and the desire she felt for him.

  FIVE

  V

  ILMA TODD IS BOASTING THAT SHE IS GOING TO RUIN YOU, Pauline," Louisa Hamilton said, as she stared enviously at Pauline's hair.

  Pauline Downs looked at her friend's reflection in the glass behind her, and laughed. "My dear Louisa, Vilma Todd hasn't the courage to challenge me."

  They were sitting in Pauline's bedroom, and as Louisa watched the maid arrange Pauline's hair, she raised a hand to her own elaborate coiffure, as if to reassure herself that it was still there.

  The latest fashion was to wear one's hair in a complicated knot that projected an astonishing twelve inches straight from the back of the head, so that one's hat was tilted forward, almost down to the eyebrows. But few women had enough hair of their own to create such a knot, and so they padded their chignons with hidden cages and cushions. Louisa Hamilton was lucky; her husband was rich enough and generous enough to provide her with a real hairpiece, which a reputable importer had assured her "did not come from the head of a dying hospital patient or destitute street woman as so many do, but from the head of a young novice entering a Catholic convent." Louisa's mammoth chignon was her pride and joy, but her pride was short-lived when she watched Pauline's long, platinum tresses flow like ribbons through Elsie's hands, reminding Louisa that every strand of that pale blond hair was Pauline's own.

  Louisa felt a second stab of jealousy when Pauline was helped out of her peignoir and into the hoops and bustle and petticoats that were to go under her dress. Louisa could remember when
her own waist had been as slender as Pauline's, seven years of marriage and six children ago. But now, at the age of twenty-five, she was matronly plump, and she had to resort to excessive corseting and, occasionally, morphine, to dull the pain of tight lacing, in order to have any sort of waistline at all.

  As Elsie fastened the many tiny buttons down the back of Pauline's dove-gray silk dress, Louisa caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She wanted to hurl something at what she thought she saw—a typical fat grazier's wife, a useless woman with no purpose in life other than to spend her husband's fortune and produce babies. She felt instantly guilty; her thoughts horrified her.

  "I've heard, Pauline," she said, turning away from the vision in the mirror, "that Vilma Todd has been in training all winter. I should think you might be a little nervous."

  "The day that I am intimidated by someone like Vilma Todd is the day you can bury me, Louisa. She won't stand a chance against me on the archery range. I have held the undefeated title for four years, and I intend to make it five."

  Pauline was secretly pleased that Vilma was going to compete against her in the summer archery trials. She was an excellent archer, and Pauline already knew about her intense training. It promised to be a delicious contest. Competition brought no pleasure if the opponent was no match; for Pauline, the greater the skill of her competitor, the greater the joy in the sport.

  "I don't know how you do it, Pauline," Louisa said. "I get nervous if I enter one of my cakes in the baking contest of the Annual Graziers' Show. And if I were ever to win, I think I should have to retire to my bed for a week!"

  "Competition makes one feel alive, Louisa," Pauline said, as she inspected herself in the mirror. "Winning is everything, it's the ultimate stimulation. Any fool can be a loser, any fool can walk away from a contest. To win is to validate one's existence."