by Barbara Wood
She looked at her visitor, guessing that he was in his early thirties; he had smoky gray eyes and an attractive vertical furrow between his eyebrows. There was a faintly pleasant fragrance about him which she realized after a moment was the scent of lanolin. She had encountered it before in sheepmen; it seemed to get under their skin. And there was a robustness about him that one often found in men from the outback. But from there she saw that he differed with other men of his kind; he was mannered and possessed a polish that she rarely saw in country men.
She laid the deed before him and pointed with a long, delicate hand. "I concentrated first on this passage here," she said, "Two days' ride from something unreadable, and twenty kilometers from what looks like Bo—Creek. Let me show you how I finally worked them out." She produced a sheet of paper that illustrated how she had solved the puzzle. "You see on the deed this swirl here, and this line here. I traced over the words as best as I could, following the lines that are discernible. I then wrote them different ways, as you can see on this paper, filling in the illegible parts with letters, altering them in various ways until a feasible word came clear. Here, Mr. Westbrook, this is the letter 't'. This looks like an '1,' but when written so, it makes no sense. But if you assume that letter to be an elongated 'e,' then we have a real word."
Hugh compared the experimental samples against the faded writing on the deed. "The first word, Mr. Westbrook," she said, "is Durrebar."
"Yes," he said, nodding. "I can see that now."
"The second example proved to be a little more difficult, but I was in the end able to work it out. Bowman's Creek. Here is how I arrived at it." She brought out a second sheet of paper covered with various words and spellings.
"There is no doubt in my mind, Mr. Westbrook, that this is a deed to land located two days' ride from Durrebar, which I suspect is an Aboriginal place name, and twenty kilometers from a place called Bowman's Creek."
"Yes," Hugh said excitedly, "Of course. Were you able to discern in which colony this deed was issued?"
"I'm afraid I was not. It is apparent that the document was exposed to water at some time. The official seal and date are nearly washed away. I scrutinized them most carefully, Mr. Westbrook, but I cannot make them out. And, as you can see, the signature is illegible."
"Bowman's Creek and Durrebar," Hugh said, anxious to get back to the hotel and Joanna. "I can't thank you enough, Miss Tallhill."
She smiled. "Anyone could have done it, really. It just takes time and patience, and as you can see, Mr. Westbrook"—she laid a hand on one of the wheels of her invalid chair—"time is something I have in abundance."
"Were you able to do anything with John Makepeace's shorthand?"
"I have studied it, Mr. Westbrook, and you are correct that it is shorthand. But I have so far been unable to break the code. If you would care to leave the paper with me, I will devote more time to its study. I can send my findings to you through the mail."
When he tried to pay Miss Tallhill for her work, she refused, saying, "It was my pleasure. And we are not finished yet, Mr. Westbrook. I shall commence to study the shorthand at once."
After he left, she wheeled herself to the window, parted the drapes and looked out at the rainy street, watching him get into a carriage. Miss Tallhill was amazed at how much Hugh Westbrook had reminded her of her beloved Stephen, who had left twenty years ago for the gold fields, and never returned. Adele had never given up hope that he would come back to her someday.
She wheeled herself away from the window and back to the fire. "Hysterical paralysis," the doctors had said. "There is nothing physically wrong with your legs, Miss Tallhill. You can walk if you want to."
But that was nonsense. What did medical men know of afflictions that had their deadly roots in the heart?
Yes, she thought with a sigh. Mr. Westbrook had reminded her so of her dear Stephen. And that was why she had been unable to send him away with nothing. She couldn't have stood to see the disappointment on that face that was so like Stephen's, if she had told him the truth: that she hadn't been able to make anything out of the words on the deed and that probably no one ever would. Bowman's Creek had a realistic sound to it, and what harm, after all, if she had made it up, and Hugh Westbrook believed there was such a place? What did it matter that Durrebar was her own invention? His smile had been just like Stephen's.
Mystery, Frank Downs thought as he looked out over the city of Melbourne. That was what this country was all about—mystery. As he stood in his tower high above the city, looking out over the rooftops and bridges and factory chimneys, Frank envisioned the great outback that sprawled in the distance. So many stories out there, he thought, so much adventure and excitement. That was why he had gotten into the newspaper business, in order to be close to the pulse of this mysterious continent. Frank knew what people wanted, they were passionate for a "good yarn." From outback campfires to Melbourne drawing rooms, nothing satisfied an Australian more than a good story. And the Times provided those stories. Now that education was compulsory in the colonies, Frank saw in the next two decades a whole new generation of readers, people who were going to be young and schooled and hungry for entertainment. And the Melbourne Times, under the energy and creative thinking of Frank Downs, was going to bring it to them.
Frank had purchased the paper seven years ago for two thousand pounds. And he had used tricks to salvage it and turn it into a popular newspaper. He was an innovator. When he had taken over the Times, he had discovered that it was the last paper to come out with the news. Knowing that in order to survive he would have to find a way to get the news out on the streets before his competitors did, Frank came up with the idea of sending reporters on fast boats out to intercept incoming sailing ships, where they purchased English newspapers from passengers and crew. The reporters then raced back to the city to get out a hastily printed "extra," an edition that carried news brazenly copied word for word from those English papers. When his competitors began doing the same thing, Frank again came up with a new idea. He sent reporters to Adelaide to meet the ships that stopped there before coming to Melbourne. Those men would hurriedly read the papers from England, and then telegraph news stories to the Times. Soon, the other newspapers also had reporters in Adelaide. And when Frank thought of contracting with the postal service to deliver the Times free to rural customers, shipping editions out by train and the fast coaches of Cobb &Co. and thereby tapping into the news-hungry countryside, the Age and the Argus followed.
Frank's success was evident in the Times Tower, the tallest structure in Melbourne. It rose a monumental five stories above the dirt streets and, with gaslight glowing in every window, it stood over the city on this misty April night like a beacon. Frank's office was on the top floor. His colleagues had laughed when he had first installed himself here, "up with the cockatoos," they had said. Everyone knew that the higher floors of a building were the least desirable, because who wanted to climb all those stairs? Men in substantial positions, such as Frank's banker friends, always had offices on the ground floor; it was folly to go up in a building! But Frank, always intrigued by novelty, had made a great spectacle of opening the brand-new building and carting his friends up to his office in a steam-powered elevator!
Now, as he stood at his window, Frank imagined the machinery of his paper throbbing beneath his feet. Steam-powered presses thundered day and night, while nearly a hundred hand compositors worked at their racks, laboriously setting tomorrow morning's stories in long metal columns. The editorial offices bustled with activity as messengers came running in with reports from Parliament, from police stations, from the harbor, while an enormous clock, set high on the wall and watching the harried staff like a single eye, ticked away the minutes over a sign that read: the Times never sleeps.
He looked at that clock, and realized he should be getting to the King George Hotel, where he was meeting the Westbrooks for dinner.
Joanna Westbrook, he thought, now there was a mystery! He sometimes felt
he was as eager as she to find out what strange and violent thing had taken place thirty-nine years ago at a location called Karra Karra. What sudden and terrible calamity had befallen a young white man, his wife and their small daughter? What was the curse, or poison-song or whatever it was, that had haunted Emily Makepeace for the rest of her life, and the dreams about the Rainbow Serpent? And how had that young couple managed to live with a race that had only just become aware of white men?
Stories were always surfacing about a "wild white man" or a "wild white woman" being discovered living among the natives. Australia's brief history was full of such tales. Even now, rumors were circulating about a "wild white man" having been found living with a tribe in western Queensland. Frank wondered if it could be the missing member of the ill-fated expedition of 1871. A police expedition had found him living with Aborigines near Cooper's Creek, and he claimed to be that missing member. The man was also saying that it was not the Aborigines who had killed the members of the expedition, but that the men had fought among themselves over the issue of turning back. The police were bringing the man to Melbourne, and Frank was going to interview him personally.
As Frank was about to leave the office, his secretary came in, carrying an envelope. "Mr. Downs," he said. "This just came for you."
It was from his lawyer—the contract turning five thousand acres of land over to Colin MacGregor.
Frank was glad his sister was getting married at last. Although he might have chosen someone other than MacGregor for her, the fact that she was so happy made him happy too. And so when she had asked if he would make a wedding gift of the five thousand acres to Colin, Frank had been unable to refuse. He couldn't imagine what MacGregor would want with the land—it was quite useless. But Pauline was pleased and that was all that mattered. Ever since she had broken off her engagement to Westbrook, Frank had feared she was committing herself to a life of spinsterhood. But everything had, in fact, turned out well for all parties concerned.
Now if only, he thought, he could do something about his own situation.
In the year that he had been living in Melbourne, ever since the typhoid epidemic, Frank had made the acquaintances of various young and eligible women. But he had found himself unable to go beyond a polite friendship with them, and he rarely saw a woman after two or three meetings. He just couldn't seem to get interested.
Frank had thought about Ivy Dearborn occasionally, and the mystery of her disappearance continued to bother him. After searching the Western District for her, he had placed a notice in the Times, similar to the ones he had run for Joanna asking about Karra Karra. But no one had come forward with information.
Perhaps she had died of the typhoid after all, he told himself again as he stepped into the elevator that everyone else refused to ride. Or perhaps she had gone back to England. Whatever had happened, Frank was determined to put her from his mind. He had other things to think of now.
FIFTEEN
T
HERE IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE," SARAH SAID, "WHICH NO ONE sees. A valley filled with green grass, trees, streams. It is the valley where the Moons live." She was telling a story as she worked at the stove, making tea for Philip McNeal and Adam. She spoke softly: "The Moons are very happy in their valley, but sometimes the Moons, they get restless. They explore the sky when night comes. But only one Moon goes at a time. Now, the Moons, they don't know a giant lives on the other side of the mountains. And what happens is: That giant, he catches each wandering Moon, and every night cuts a slice out of it until there is only a sliver left. Then he chops up the last slice and scatters the pieces so that they become stars. And then ..." McNeal and Adam waited. When Sarah didn't say anything more, Philip said, "How does the story end?"
Sarah thought a moment, then said, "I don't remember."
"It's a good story," McNeal said. "You know many good stories. Perhaps you should write them down."
Sarah shook her head. "Taboo to write them," she said.
Philip watched her as she worked, tall and slender at fifteen, with long bones and dark skin. He wondered what she was going to be like when she was a woman. Then he thought of Pollen on the Wind, and his nights and days with her. Was she, too, he wondered, like Sarah, starting to forget the myths of her people?
Aware of his eyes upon her, Sarah concentrated upon measuring the tea into the teapot. Thunder cracked in the distance. She looked toward the window and frowned. Bad magic tonight, she thought.
As if he read her thoughts, Philip said, "We've had storms before. It'll be all right."
But Sarah shook her head, and frowned.
"Do you think tonight will be worse than others?"
Sarah didn't know how she knew. Sometimes she just knew things. Like the times when she would recall an Aboriginal story or myth, and she couldn't remember actually hearing the story from the elders at the mission, and yet she knew it all the same. Like the story of the Moons. She couldn't recall Old Deereeree at the mission ever actually telling it to her. But how else, Sarah wondered, could she know it? And sometimes she saw visions, quick flashes in her mind of people, events, scenes that made no sense. She knew they weren't memories—at least, not her own memories. And there were moments when Sarah just knew something, like the time she had told Joanna that the leaf of the wild geranium stopped an insect bite from stinging, and Joanna had said, "Who taught you that?" But Sarah had not known.
At times these half-memories frightened Sarah. They seemed to take over; she had no control of them. At other times, she drew comfort from them, knowing in some deep part of herself that they were part of her heritage.
She wished she could go to the mission and talk with the elders. She had gone back a few times, leaving without telling Joanna where she was going, cutting across the countryside to avoid the main road, and skirting the town so that she wouldn't be seen. She would sneak into the mission compound and seek out the elders, and they would talk for a time, until it became too dangerous—if Reverend Simms found Sarah there, he would be angry with the old ones.
It was getting hard to visit the mission, harder for Sarah to maintain a link with her people. Old Deereeree was dead, and the others were afraid of punishment if they were caught teaching the old ways. So that now, when Sarah made her way to the mission, she was met with fearful looks and silence.
It frightened her. She didn't want to lose touch with her people. Already, she was starting to forget many of the stories. She wasn't sure of all the rules and taboos. She needed the elders to guide her. Sometimes she sat and listened to old Ezekiel, but he belonged to a different Dreaming, and he was a man; he could not teach her women's secrets. More and more, Sarah wished she had been initiated into her clan.
She heard Philip McNeal moving around the cabin. He spoke quietly to Adam, leaned into the fireplace to add logs, checked the shutters over the windows against the rising wind. She liked the American; she felt calmed and reassured whenever she was around him. She wondered if she could tell him about her fears, about the poison-song that followed Joanna, the bad magic that might have brought typhoid to Merinda, that might now be bringing this storm that somehow frightened Sarah; she felt that it was going to be unlike any other storm.
McNeal came and stood next to her at the stove, and watched as she worked. "Americans don't drink tea," he said quietly. "Mostly they drink coffee. Do you know what that is?"
Sarah spooned tea into the teapot and said, "No. I don't know coffee."
She was conscious of every detail of him—the soft laugh, the relaxed and easy way in which he stood next to her. "Pollen on the Wind was like you," McNeal said.
"She knew things. She couldn't explain it. She said it was her ancestors talking to her. But she said it felt more like a memory. And she sometimes had premonitions. She could tell when something was going to happen. Is that how it is with you, Sarah?"
She looked at him. Yes, she thought. That is how it is.
Thunder rolled in the distance, and McNeal, looking at the window, s
aid, "Perhaps you're right, Sarah. We might be in for a bad night." He looked at her. "I'm going to go down to the building site and send my work crew home. You know that it will be bad for them if I don't, don't you?"
She regarded him with a steady gaze.
And what else, he wondered as he reached for his jacket, do you know?
As Joanna drove the wagon into the farmyard, she looked at the distant mountains, a curious blue-green at this late afternoon hour, with clouds gathering at their summits. An unusual light seemed to cover the sky; the air felt strange, as if the barometric pressure were rapidly dropping. A storm was coming.
She had ridden into Cameron Town to see if there was a letter from the shipping company that owned the Pegasus and the Minotaur. She had also been hoping for a letter from Patrick Lathrop in San Francisco. But there was only one letter—from Aunt Millicent. Joanna had gone alone because of the weather, and the trip had taken longer than she had expected; the hour was late, the sky looked threatening. She searched the deserted yard. Normally the men would be down the road at Facey's pub, or in their quarters, drinking and talking. Tomorrow was Sunday, and Hugh always gave his men Saturday afternoons off, the only grazier in the district to do so. But she heard no voices coming from the men's quarters, no sounds of Jew's harp and banjo. And she saw no horses in the stable.
"What's going on, Matthew?" Joanna asked the stableboy who took the wagon from her.
"They've all gone to the paddocks, missus. Mr. Westbrook says we might have a thunderstorm. Makes the sheep nervous. Sometimes they bolt."
Joanna looked out over the plains that stretched beneath a gray sky. It was June, the season for winter crutching. For the past week Hugh and his men had been out in the paddocks shearing the tails and hind legs of ewes who would soon be giving birth. It was done for cleanliness purposes, especially where lambing was concerned, but also to protect the sheep from blowfly and infections. It was a difficult job, the men struggling with frightened ewes and trying not to cut the animals or themselves, and such a back-breaking task that the men had looked forward all week to their Saturday-night rum. But now, because of the threat of a storm, they were out riding watch over the nervous flocks.