Dream Time (historical): Book I

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Amaris had put from her mind later tonight, when she would go to bed with Francis. That one time, when he had taken her virginity there on the Paramatta River, she had been overwhelmed by all the discoveries and revelations that had only been whispered about by both women who had husbands and those at the home who had already been “deflowered.”

  Only Pulykara had addressed her question of how a man and woman make a baby. “Watch the dogs and cats and sheep and horses. No different, Miss Priss.”

  Pulykara had been right. After all the impassioned words, the act itself was little more.

  After Elizabeth left, Amaris knelt where the creek pooled over a bowl of shale and scrubbed her arms and face. The water smelled stale.

  By the time she finished, Celeste was already rebuttoning her sleeves. She reached out and touched Amaris on the shoulder. “You’re happy aren’t you, Amaris?”

  She stared down at the young bride. In the moonlight, she was like a pale blossoming flower. “I’m tired,” she told the younger woman. “Let’s go on back.”

  But returning to the wagon wasn’t exactly something to which she was looking forward. Honesty compelled her to admit that she had bartered herself for the opportunity not only to seek retribution against Nan but also to escape the mundane life: her writing was mediocre: her social work was less than fulfilling. She feared she had Nan’s grandness of vision.

  A sheep station! How grandiose of her to think she and Francis could create an empire out of unseen, infinite stretches of the Never-Never.

  Francis had trusted her wisdom. Had married her. She knew she owed Francis devotion. Any more than that she did not know if she was capable of giving.

  When she returned to the camp, he was kneeling to spread out their bedrolls beneath their wagon, where it was cool. Molly was already inside, seeking sleep as a relief from her hard day.

  Amaris glanced back over her shoulder. Strange, to be looking to Celeste for reassurance. The girl stood, her hand in Sin’s, peering at whatever it was he pointed out on the dark-fringed horizon.

  Resolutely, Amaris switched her gaze back to Francis. When she knelt beside him, he said, “Tired?”

  She saw the desire in his eyes. Her smile was forced. “No.”

  In the deep darkness beneath the wagon, she peeled down to her petticoat and chemise. The nightgown she tugged overhead was voluminous— and hot. As she divested herself of the remaining underclothes, she couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would be to sleep naked on the prairie, at one with nature, as Pulykara had once told her she had always done until being sold off to the white man’s lumber camp.

  Far in the distance a dingo howled. Looking out at the night sky, she felt pulled upward into that shimmering immensity. She experienced a certain affinity for its stars. She felt a reassurance seeing the Southern Cross tilting on its side, its points ever northward. She had a personal position on infinity.

  Francis gathered her against him. “The others,” she protested.

  “There were others nearby that day on the river,” he said, kissing her neck, “and that made it all the more exciting.”

  She steeled herself. His kisses were no less hungry. If anything, he seemed more ravenous for her. She was amazed to find herself responding.

  Quickly, it was over. Afterward, she lay beside him as he slept. She stared at the wagon bottom’s knotted pine boards and wondered at the mild distaste she felt for the intimacies of marriage with Francis.

  She felt as if she had somehow given away something precious of herself but was at a loss to explain what.

  § CHAPTER FOURTEEN §

  If Amaris thought her journey the day before had been dusty, she felt buried in dust today. On that second day, the Marlborough wagon was last in line—all because Francis had insisted on shaving at the creek that morning.

  She slid a sideways glance at her husband. She supposed she should feel pride at his fastidiousness, when the rest of the men were looking unkempt in their dirty dungarees and matted, scraggly beards.

  Even Sin, who wore no facial hair, sported a shadowed jaw this morning. Thinking about her run-in with him at dawn, she shuddered.

  She had risen in the dark, when only two or three others were stirring in their bedrolls, quietly dressed, and walked down to the creek. Cool, fresh water had been the one vision in her mind, and she had not detected any movement in the brush until she was caught fast from behind and her mouth silenced by a hand.

  She struggled, kicking at her captor’s shins and elbowing him in the ribs, but she was held fast. Her screams came out mere groans.

  “Amaris!” Sin spit the name as if he had tasted something rotten.

  In that lax moment, she sprang free of his grasp, but not far enough. Instantly, his hand latched onto her wrist. “Stop!”

  The harshly whispered word had its effect. Like a snared rabbit, she went still.

  He pointed just beyond her feet. Her gaze followed the direction of his finger. Tracks of bare feet cut the damp earth. “Aborigines,” he said in a hushed voice.

  She stared at the prints, then looked up at him. “So?”

  “You are accustomed only to Pulykara. The bush aborigine is something different.”

  She resented his superior tone. He hadn’t grown up in Australia. He didn’t understand and love the land as she did. “How would you know?”

  With that uncanny ability to read her mind, he said, “I may not have been born here, but ’tis many things I have seen that you can’t even begin to imagine.”

  “Such as?” Why did she dally here with this man she didn’t even respect?

  “A coal mine camp . . . the aborigines ran in packs of a hundred odd, so that their numbers compensated for their primitive weapons. They surrounded the huts. Then with blood-curdling yells and the growling of their kangaroo dogs, they clubbed some of the workers’ heads to jelly. Most of us were lucky enough to hide in the bush until they left—and then the overseers’ mastiffs caught up with us.”

  She shrugged. “Savages, all of you.”

  His hand tightened on her wrist. “A savage, Amaris? Aye, I suppose I have become one. And yourself?” He studied her in the gray light that preceded sunrise. “A scavenger, methinks. Aye, a savage and a scavenger. What a disgusting pair we are! Now, go on back to camp, while I track down these prints.”

  She jerked her wrist from his grip. “I don’t know what Celeste sees in you.”

  She could have sworn he smiled. “I don’t know what you see in Francis.”

  “Francis? Francis is a gentleman, but then you wouldn’t understand the meaning of that term.”

  “I can’t risk acting like a gentleman. Gentlemen don’t survive out here.”

  A superior smile had tugged at her mouth. “Oh, I don’t know. Francis managed to provide fresh meat for our supper last night.”

  The bridge of his nose had creased in a frown. “His hunting spree also managed to call down a pack of aborigines on us and endanger everyone in the wagon train.”

  Frustrated, she had shouldered past him. Heading back to the wagons, she had run into Major Hannaby, who had looked as startled as she. Why hadn’t his ability as a leader been questioned? If the wagon train had to depend on an Irish ex-convict for information, then the pioneers were indeed in trouble.

  She asked Francis, “Did Major Hannaby give you an idea of how long it would take to reach the Darling and Murray rivers?”

  “Maybe six weeks—if we make it over that.”

  She stared at what was causing his dour expression. The wagons and drays in front had already prepared for the steep ascent of the passage through the Blue Mountains. Long chains were linked between a wagon, and pullies built into the rocks. Celeste and Sin’s wagon was even now being drawn up the almost sheer incline.

  As Amaris watched, one chain popped loose. A tremendous whirring sound echoed between the foothills. The wagon began rolling back. She heard Celeste scream. At the same moment, Sin leaped from the wagon.


  Bloody coward! Amaris’s mind cried out even as she jumped down from her wagon and sprinted up the hill toward the runaway wagon. What in God’s name did she think she could do? Another sixty seconds and the wagon would smash her flatter than a johnnycake, then smash itself and Celeste to oblivion on the rocks below.

  All at once, Sin was flinging himself at the second pulley station. A grinding screech of the chains reverberated throughout the pass. The wagon, as if running up against a rock wall, stopped immediately, then jerked forward with the backlash of momentum before coming to a halt. Two wheels spun off in opposite directions. The wagon lurched drunkenly to one side.

  Before Amaris could reach the wagon, Celeste jumped down and started running up the hill toward the second pulley station and Sin. He pushed himself off the pulley and straightened. At her shout, “Sin!” he turned toward her. Blood covered his arm and shirt. He took a step, staggered, and fainted.

  Celeste pushed her way through the men who rushed to his side. “Oh, my God!”

  Amaris, just behind her, saw the reason for her outcry. Sin’s left hand was mangled. Blood pumped furiously from finger joints that were nothing more than bare bone and shredded flesh. Amaris’s breath sucked in. Her stomach knotted.

  “Move aside,” Major Hannaby said, crowding his bulk past the others. “I’ve dealt with things like this on the battlefield. Hands shattered by rifle fire.”

  He stooped over the inert Irishman. The old man made noises that sounded to her like a bumblebee droning. He glanced up at the blanched faces above. “No doubt about it, gentlemen. At least two of the fingers will have to be amputated.”

  “No!” Celeste cried.

  Amaris put her arm around her friend’s waist. “Come away. Tis best to let them do what they can.”

  “But he hasn’t come to yet! What’s wrong, Amaris?”

  She tried to sound convincing and patted her friend’s shoulder because she didn’t know what else to do. “His body has simply received a shock to its system. He’ll come around soon.”

  Four men shouldered the limp body and carried Sin away from the dusty, rutted path to a small, grassy clearing bounded by boulders. “Start a fire,” the major said as he began rolling up his shirt sleeves to reveal bony arms sprinkled with gray hair.

  Amaris followed Celeste to the clearing, where she sat down beside her unconscious husband. Seeing Sin like that, his face in repose, Amaris thought he was not nearly as fierce.

  Celeste stroked his dust-coated hair back from his face. “It will be all right, my Sin.” Tears rolled from her cheeks to clear paths through the dirt caked on his beard-stubbled face.

  His eyes fluttered open. The pain must have struck immediately, because he winced, then groaned. At once, his eyes glazed over.

  “Any water?” Amaris heard a man call out behind her. It was Jimmy Underwood. “We’ll need water.”

  “Rum’ll do just fine,” Thomas Rugsby said. The Welshman’s baby face was starting to grow peachfuzz.

  “The things we’ll need to watch for,” the major was saying as he knelt between her and Celeste, “are infection, shock, and hemorrhage.”

  “Amaris,” Francis said, shouldering through the onlookers to her side. “Is Sin all right?”

  The major looked up from the knife he was holding over the flame. “He will be if he survives the operation.” His expression was bleak.

  “Give the Irishman a liberal dose of the stuff,” said a bean pole of a man called Sykes. He was an ex-convict who had worked as a stockman and now wanted his own run.

  So many people were crowding around that Amaris found the lack of fresh air nauseating. Or maybe it was the spectators she found nauseating. They were treating this like it was a circus.

  Francis surprised her by squatting beside her. In his hand he held a bottle of rum. “Here you go, friend,” he said, lifting Sin’s head to pour a stream between his slack lips. “A round of drinks on me.” Then Francis tilted the bottle to his own mouth, took a deep draught, and returned the bottle to Sin’s. The amber liquor spilled over the man’s lips and ran down his neck and under his sweat-stained collar.

  “Let me through,” the major said. The knife he held rapidly parted the onlookers.

  Amaris stared up at the red-hot blade. A strangled, “No!” escaped Celeste’s pale lips. Her face was as white as the dust on Sin’s.

  A chubby young squatter named Lemuel followed the major. Benny, a clubfooted man, carried a torch. Realizing the awful act that was about to come, Amaris swallowed hard. “Come with me, Celeste.” Arm around her waist, she propelled Celeste away. “Let the major take care of Sin.”

  “Let me up,” Sin mumbled behind them.

  Celeste pulled away from her. “No, Sin needs me.”

  The major whispered, “Lemuel, strap a tourniquet on his arm. Mrs. Tremayne, talk to him, distract him.”

  She knelt beside Sin and propped his head on her lap. “Darling, how are you feeling?”

  His brow was sheened with sweat, and pain whitened his lips. “Like hell.”

  He glanced down at his mangled hand, lying on his stomach. Blood gushed into a pool around the splayed fingers—or what was left of them. The ghastly sight made even Amaris want to wretch. The major bent over him, and he asked, “Me hand? It has to come off?”

  “Only a couple of fingers. Nothing to fret about.”

  “In that case, let’s have ourselves a party,” he rasped with a wry smile.

  As deftly as a sailor, the cherubic Lemuel knotted a leather cord from a bedroll around Sin’s forearm, then, with a grunt of satisfaction, stood back to watch.

  “Marlborough,” Sin said, his voice ragged with pain, “give me another couple draughts of that nectar.”

  “Here, Francis,” Celeste interposed, “I’ll give my husband a drink.”

  As if she were serving tea, she took the brown bottle and, supporting Sin’s head, daintily tilted the bottle to his dry lips. “There, my darling, you’ll feel better in no time.” With a tremulous smile, she returned the bottle to Francis, who made way for the major.

  Sin swallowed, then said, “Get on with the party, Major.”

  The old man glanced at Amaris, kneeling opposite him. She also had the misfortune to be closest to the major. “Push back his sleeve, Mrs. Marlborough, and hold his hand steady for me.”

  Her heart missed a beat. She had thought one of the men, maybe Jimmy or Sykes, would assist the major. In front of her behind the line of kneeling men, Eileen Hannaby, Molly, and Elizabeth watched with worried faces.

  Swallowing back her queasiness, she half tore, half pushed the frayed sleeve up Sin’s forearm as far as the tourniquet would allow. The muscles in the forearm stood out like pulley chains.

  “Tremayne,” the old man said, “the last two fingers are coming off. You ready?”

  Sin nodded.

  Celeste cradled his head in her lap. She was smiling brilliantly at him. The tears in her eyes were hard diamonds. “Did I ever tell you what a handsome rake you are?”

  Thinking Celeste had picked a poor moment to make a tasteless joke, Amaris rolled her eyes. Then, seeing her friend’s adoring expression, she realized Celeste really meant what she was saying.

  Sin’s laugh was brittle. “The fairies have been whispering nonsense to you while you sleep, Celeste.”

  At that instant, a harsh breath came from deep in his throat. His arm shook. His eyes closed. “God . . . damn!"

  A vibration traveled from his wrist into her fingers. Against her will, she glanced down. The major was sawing into the base of the shattered finger bones. He worked with concentrated intent.

  The noonday sun seemed unmercifully hot. Boiling hot. She closed her eyes, and Sin said, “Don’t you dare go”—he winced at the renewed shaft of pain, then finished—“weak on me, Amaris!”

  “Not Amaris,” Celeste defended, her voice a light humming in Amaris’s ears. “Amaris is the strongest of us all. Why, she nursed the convict women at the home through t
he cholera epidemic. Do you remember, Sin, when Amaris stood up to the port official because—”

  Whatever it was Celeste was recalling, Amaris didn’t hear. There was a terribly loud droning in her ears now. She forced herself to think about the run she and Francis would be claiming. With luck, it would have a good flowing creek. Was Rogue staying with the sheep below?

  “Take another drink,” the major was saying. “You’re going to need it, man.”

  Francis bent near and passed the bottle to Celeste, who once again tipped it to her husband’s mouth. At that same moment, the major laid his knife onto the torch Benny held ready, until the blade glowed once more with a pulsating red.

  Sin had no more swallowed than the major laid the knife over the two bloodied stubs. She heard a hiss, then smelled the stench of burning flesh. What would have been a shriek issued from Sin in a muffled groan, and then he fainted again.

  Sin Tremayne lost the next day due to the amputation. Amaris handled the Tremayne wagon reins, while Sin rested fitfully. Elizabeth’s home concoction might not have made him sleep as promised but it did keep down his fever.

  Celeste counted that a blessing. Sitting in the back of the wagon, she smoothed back his hair from his face as he dozed that next evening. “We’re both so lucky, Amaris. It could have been so much worse. I— I might have lost him.”

  Amaris, standing outside the wagon, leaned against its drop-down door and peered through the dark at her friend. “Did it ever occur to you that you might have died in that accident?”

  “Better me than Sin. He’s strong. He could go on without me. I wouldn’t want to live without him.”

  Amaris couldn’t understand this sort of rationale. “Look, why don’t you get out and stretch your legs. Wash off the day’s dust. You’ll feel better.”

  “I can’t leave—”

  “Yes, you can leave Sin. I’ll spell you.”

  Celeste paused, then said, “All right. But come get me if he—”

  “I will, I will, I swear.” She had to smile. “Now go on.

  After Celeste left, she climbed inside the wagon. The canvas top was folded back to catch the evening breeze, and by sitting just so she could watch the twinkle of the clear stars that made up the Southern Cross.