by Barbara Wood
She looked at the bottles lined up on the table, glinting in different colors in the sunlight—milk bottles, beer bottles, bottles that had once contained medicine. They had been rounded up and brought to Lismore, where they had been washed and boiled and were now waiting to be filled with sterilized drinking water. Pauline rolled up her sleeves and, despite heat and fatigue, got to work filling them.
Louisa looked up and saw a woman hovering at the edge of the garden.
"I'll go and see who it is," Louisa said.
"Is there something I can do for you?" she said to the woman.
"Are you Miss Downs?"
"I am Mrs. Hamilton. That is Miss Downs over there. Who are you?"
"My name is Ivy Dearborn. I would like to help."
Louisa looked at her, taking in the conservative dress and the bright red hair swept up under a modest bonnet. Louisa knew who she was. She had overheard her husband mentioned the new barmaid at Finnegan's. "I'm sorry, but we have enough help."
Ivy looked at the tables piled with food and bottles and sheets, and she saw that there were not nearly enough people to manage it all. She looked at Pauline, so tall and beautiful, not at all like Frank. She pictured the man she had thought about all these months, ever since the night she had sketched him. She recalled how she had watched for him, hoping he would come into the pub, wanting to accept his invitations, but afraid to, because of what had happened to her before. And then the invitation to go to church, and Ivy had allowed her hopes to soar—dashed now, in the bright daylight of reality.
"I see," she said, and went away.
When Louisa returned to the table, Pauline said, "Who was that?"
"No one," Louisa said. "Just a barmaid. She wanted to help."
"And you sent her away?"
"We don't need her kind here."
"Louisa, this is my house, and I say who will be admitted and who will not." She rolled down her sleeves and prepared to go after the woman.
But before she could do so, a man whom she recognized as a footman from Kilmarnock appeared. "Mr. MacGregor wants you to come right away, Miss Downs."
Pauline called for her carriage and rode to Kilmarnock, where she found Colin at Christina's side; she was delirious and bright red with fever. The little boy, Judd, stood whey-faced in the corner.
"I can't find Ramsey anywhere," Colin said. "And the woman who was taking care of Christina fell ill this morning. Will you watch her for me? I'm going to ride over to Merinda and fetch Miss Drury."
Pauline was shocked by the way he looked. Colin MacGregor was always so robust, and impeccable in appearance. But this man was far too thin and pale to be the boastful next laird of Kilmarnock. "It's better if you stay here, Colin," Pauline said. "I'll go and fetch Miss Drury."
Hugh rode into Merinda's silent and deserted yard, jumped down from his horse and went into the bunkhouse, where he found Joanna drawing a sheet over the face of one of the station hands. She looked at Hugh, dark circles under her eyes. Her dress seemed to hang on her. She said, "Hugh," and then she collapsed.
He carried her across the yard to the cabin, laid her on the bed, looked at her.
"Joanna," he murmured, touching her face. Her eyelids fluttered. She breathed deeply. She was asleep.
He continued to watch her. She was beautiful, but she was so fragile; he thought her skin looked as if it was stretched too tightly over her bones.
Pauline stood in the open doorway. She watched them for a moment, Hugh bent over Joanna, a look of concern on his face. "Is she sick?" Pauline said.
He looked up. "Pauline," he said in surprise. "No, but she's exhausted. She desperately needs to sleep."
"Colin MacGregor is asking for her. Christina is gravely ill."
"Tell him Joanna will come in a little while, after she's had some sleep."
Pauline looked at the way Hugh was bent over Joanna, the way his eyes were fixed on her. She turned and left.
When she was back at Kilmarnock, in Christina's bedroom, she said to Colin, "Miss Drury will come later."
"Why can't she come now?"
Pauline hesitated. She couldn't get the image out of her mind, the way Hugh had sat by Joanna's side, the way he had gently touched her face. So Pauline said, "She's busy taking care of the station hands," and was amazed at how easily the lie had come to her.
When Christina died three hours later, taking with her the unborn child, Colin clutched his wife's body, sobbing. Six-year-old Judd, who was still standing silently in the corner, knew that the thing he had always dreaded had finally happened—his mother had joined the ghosts in his father's study.
Joanna awakened to the sound of someone knocking at the door. It took her a few seconds to struggle out of her deep sleep, and when she tried to sit up, she found that she was very weak. She looked around the cabin and realized that it was late afternoon. She tried to remember how she had gotten here. And then it came to her: she had collapsed in the bunkhouse.
When she heard the knocking at the door again, she said, "Who is it?"
"There's a message for you from Dr. Ramsey, Miss Drury," said the person on the other side. Joanna recognized the voice of one of the station hands.
"Just a minute, please," she said. She couldn't remember when she had felt so weak.
When she opened the door, the station hand held out a letter; a messenger from Cameron Town had just brought it, he said.
The note was from David Ramsey's landlady, saying that the doctor had fallen ill and was asking for her.
"Tom," Joanna said to the station hand, "would you please hitch up the wagon for me? I have to go into town."
"Mr. Westbrook's out with the wagon, miss."
"Then have one of the stableboys saddle a horse for me, please. Do you know where Sarah and Adam are?"
"The little boy's in the cookhouse helping Ping-Li, and the girl said she had to run an errand."
Joanna washed her hands and face, and combed her hair, and started to feel a little stronger, although still exhausted. Wondering what errand Sarah had gone on, she wrote a note, saying where she was going, and left it on the table.
She rode as swiftly as she could in the gathering twilight, and when she arrived at Ramsey's boardinghouse, she found him in bed. The room was filled with the smell of disease and death. She took one look at Ramsey's face, and knew by the blue lips and strange pallor that he was in the grip of an illness other than typhoid: He had taken poison—the experimental "cure." Bottles of carbolic acid and iodine stood on the nightstand.
She sat at his side and placed a damp cloth on his forehead.
The landlady stood in the doorway, wringing her hands. "I didn't know what to do," she said. "Him being a doc and all."
Ramsey opened his eyes, looked at Joanna and smiled. "I had the symptoms ... that last day I saw you, Joanna," he said, speaking with difficulty. "When ... I diagnosed Bill Lovell's peritonitis. I knew I had the typhoid."
"Shh," she said. "Don't talk. I'll take care of you."
His head rolled from side to side. "No, Joanna," he said. "I know what I have done. I knew ... all along that I couldn't experiment on others. I had to try the cure on myself first." He lifted a hand toward the bottles of poisons. "I ... wanted to make a contribution to medicine. I wanted to be like Jenner and Pasteur. But ... these don't work, Joanna. All I have done is kill myself. I'm sorry I failed ..."
He died with his eyes still open. Joanna gently closed them.
She rode slowly back down the country road toward Merinda with the image of David's face before her. She felt lifeless inside; as dead as the men she had seen carried off by the typhoid. Night was rapidly approaching, but she was unaware of it. She felt the weight of all those lives on her shoulders. What did she have to do with all these things that were happening? Was the old Aborigine Ezekiel right? If she had never come here, would this disaster never have occurred?
She began to feel dizzy; she remembered that she had not eaten since the day before. She peered ahead
at the darkening road and tried to get her bearings. How far was the Merinda homestead? She knew that the road curved southward before turning northward again to Merinda, adding extra miles that she wasn't sure she was up to traveling. She looked at the fields to her left, which lay in the last pale glow of dusk, and she tried to estimate how much light remained.
Her dizziness increased; she felt light-headed and weak. She was suddenly afraid that if she stayed on the road she might not make it to Merinda. Her best hope, she decided, was to cut across the fields and head straight for the homestead.
She spurred the horse into a gallop, and soon was riding swiftly over fields of dry grass. It felt good to be going so fast, to be moving, to be doing something. She thought of David and began to cry.
Finally, she saw the lights of the homestead up ahead through the trees. She made the horse go faster.
When Joanna had decided to take the shortcut to Merinda, she had not calculated the river being in the way, and so when the horse saw the water at the last minute, and suddenly reared, she was taken by surprise. She lost her grip and was flung from the saddle. She gave out a cry, and fell to the ground.
Adam was frightened. He had been helping Ping-Li in the cookhouse, where Sarah had told him to stay while she paid a secret visit to the Aboriginal Mission. He had been told not to go to the cabin, because Joanna was sleeping and he mustn't disturb her. But when Ping-Li had fallen asleep on his cot in the cookhouse and Adam had gone to the cabin, Joanna wasn't there—no one was there. He had gone to the bunkhouse, but a station hand had told him to stay away, because there was sickness inside. And now it was night and he was alone.
He didn't like being alone. It made him think of the other time he had been alone, and he didn't like to think about that, he would not. He wouldn't let it come into his mind when it tried to, or when Joanna or Sarah tried to coax him to talk about it. He would not think or speak about it. But now he was frightened, and it was just like that last time, when he had come in from outside and found Mama lying there looking so white, and he had tried to wake her up and she wouldn't, and he had tried and tried to get her to wake up, calling to her over and over, and his panic had turned to terror when he had realized she had gone to sleep and was never going to wake up again.
Adam looked around at the silent yard and wondered if Sarah and Joanna were down at the river. But when he reached the woods, he found no one there, and his fear grew; he had never been here at night before.
And then he saw a horse on the other side, saddled but without a rider. He splashed across the narrow part of the river, and when he saw a figure, a woman lying on the ground nearby, he was suddenly back inside the farmhouse and the bad thing was happening all over again. "Mama!" he cried, running to Joanna. "Mama, wake up! Don't sleep! Mama, Mama!" He tugged at her, but she did not respond.
He tried to think. He should go for help. He should run and get somebody. But he was too afraid. He threw himself down and banged his head on the ground. "No, no, no!" he cried, feeling helpless and terrified. "Mama! Wake up!" He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. He was a bad boy; he couldn't wake Mama. He couldn't move, or go for help. He just stayed there and cried.
Finally, the crying subsided and he looked at Joanna again. Her eyes were closed, her hair was spread on the grass.
And he realized: This wasn't Mama.
He got to his knees and said, confused, "Joanna? Joanna, wake up. Please wake up." He shook her shoulder. "Wake up now, Joanna."
He stood up and stared down at her, gripped with terror and indecision. He looked over his shoulder and saw the lights of the homestead. He looked at Joanna again. He didn't want to leave her, he was afraid to leave her. But if he didn't go for help, then she might go to sleep forever. The way Mama had.
He turned and ran.
"Help, help, help," he called as he ran into the yard. "Help! Joanna's hurt! Joanna's hurt!"
He ran up the veranda steps, but there was no one in the cabin. He ran to the cookhouse; a pot bubbled on the stove, but he could not see the Chinese cook anywhere about. "Help, help," Adam cried as he ran to the bunk-house. He stopped at the blanket-covered doorway, the smell of carbolic stinging his nose and eyes.
Then he turned and ran out of the yard and down the drive toward the main road.
Hugh was glad to be nearly home; he couldn't remember when he had been this tired. Sarah rode silently at his side; he had picked her up along the road. She had said that she had gone to the Aboriginal Mission, hoping to visit Old Deereeree, only to be told that the old woman had died of typhoid.
"I'm sorry, Sarah," Hugh said now, sensing the magnitude of her grief. "I'm sorry about Deereeree."
"She was old," Sarah said, but nothing more, because it was taboo to speak of the dead. Sarah knew that she would carry Deereeree's death with her, and think about it, for the rest of her life. And the fact that all the old woman's secrets, her magic, her songs, and the wisdom of her ancestors had died with her.
"Hello," Hugh said, "who's that up ahead? Why, it's Adam!"
He brought the wagon to a halt and jumped down. "What is it, Adam? What's the matter?"
"Joanna! Joanna's hurt!" Adam cried. "Back there! At the river! She fell off a horse! She won't wake up!"
Hugh drove the wagon as fast as he could, going off the drive and plunging across the fields. When they reached the trees, he jumped down and ran the rest of the way. "Joanna!" he called. "Joanna!"
Then he saw the horse grazing, and when he reached Joanna, she was sitting up and rubbing her head.
"My God, Joanna," he said, falling to his knees.
"The horse threw me—"
"God, Joanna," he said again. And then he took her into his arms and kissed her, and drew her tight against him.
She put her arms around him, held him, and kissed him as urgently as he had kissed her. He took her face in his hands and saw the tears. "David's dead, Hugh," she said. "This is all such a nightmare." He helped her to her feet, and they held on to each other for a long moment. Then Adam came up and said, "Are you all right, Joanna? I was so scared. You wouldn't wake up. Like Mama. But it's all right now, isn't it? I brought help, didn't I?"
"Yes, Adam," Joanna said, suddenly feeling alive as she held on to Hugh, no longer weak or exhausted, but feeling his strength, and never wanting him to let her go. "You did just the right thing."
ELEVEN
S
ARAH COLLECTED HER STONES AND FEATHERS AND BRACELETS made of human hair, and took them down, again, to the river. Her magic had worked, the typhoid was gone. And although many in the district had died, Joanna and Hugh and Adam had been spared.
Everyone was saying that it was Mr. Shapiro who had brought the disease to western Victoria, but Sarah believed that a poison-song was part of it, too. She believed this because her singing seemed to have sent it away. And now the objects of ritual had to be buried, because they were powerful; they had lives of their own, and must be shown proper respect. As she dug into the soft clay of the bank of the billabong, she sang one last song. But this was a song of love.
Sarah had seen the love that had been growing between Hugh and Joanna, and the love they both shared for the little boy who had been so wounded, and who was now starting to heal. But Hugh was getting married, and Joanna had said she must leave. But it was wrong for Joanna to go, Sarah thought. She belonged here. Her songline had brought her to this place.
The song Sarah sang was a powerful one. She had learned it from her mother long ago, before her mother had gone into the desert, never to return. Sarah sang it to bring Hugh and Joanna together.
When she had buried all the things, making sure they wouldn't be found, she sat back and realized the old man was again standing among the trees. He was holding a boomerang, the kind that rich people came to the mission to buy, to hang on the walls in their houses, and for an instant Sarah saw him as a ghost. Ezekiel wore the shirt and trousers the mission had given him, but around his head he wore a hairstring headb
and, and she could see on his bare arms the old tribal scars that had been etched into his flesh many years ago.
He came through the trees toward her, now that her ritual was over and it was not taboo to approach. Sarah rose and stood respectfully. They looked at each other in the dappled sunlight of the clearing.
Sarah said, "There is strong magic here, Old Father. There is song-woman magic, and there is poison-song magic. They are at war. I need your help."
He looked at the boomerang in his hand; it was the "killing" kind, not the "returning" kind. He had carved it himself, long ago, its body engraved with the magic symbols of his youth. As Ezekiel contemplated it, he thought about what it might mean that he had done more thinking in the past few weeks than he had for most of his life. He had watched and waited, as he had told Sarah he would, and he was still baffled. Nothing was simple any more. In the old days, there were rules governing everything, such as the law that determined when a mother-in-law may speak to her son-in-law; the law that said while a son is undergoing initiation, his mother must speak a special language; the law that dictated who sat where around a campfire, who would carry water. And in those days, before the coming of the white man, everyone knew the laws, they respected the laws; the world was orderly, chaos was avoided. Now the laws were breaking down, people were forgetting the old order, and elders like Ezekiel no longer had the answers.
He had wrestled within himself about the white woman at Merinda. He had watched her, feared her, and had been confused and impressed by her. Now he considered what Sarah had said about her. He had seen how Joanna had worked magic, saving men from the sickness, even herself and Hugh, whom Ezekiel respected and admired and considered a friend.
"Why do you sing the love-song?" he asked.
"To make Joanna stay. She went away this morning. Hugh must bring her back."