Dream Time (historical): Book I

by Parris Afton Bonds

Here it was again, the aborigines’ amazement that a woman with child should assume activities normally relegated to the male realm. She smiled. “Aye, ‘tis sure I am.”

  The slender young woman nodded solemnly. “I clean the breakfast dishes now.” She retreated from the room on silent, bare feet, her dark skin melding with the corridor’s shadows.

  Feeling as if she were straining every muscle in her body, Amaris mounted Wind Runner and rode with Baluway and three hands out to the paddock where a flock of new lambs were to be marked.

  The men, all ex-convicts, accorded Baluway a respect that few white men did for the aborigine: His skills as a spear thrower and sheep rancher were well known. He was not as brutal as many white overseers, and the grateful ex-convicts worked diligently.

  She worked alongside the men, envying their brief attire. Hampered by her clothing, her movements were constrained. As the sun rose higher, she grew hotter.

  When lunchtime came, she climbed a grassy slope to sit where she could catch a breeze. She was toying with a dandelion, watching its fluffy seeds take sail on the breeze, when she sighted several figures moving at a steady pace on the distant plains. At first she thought they might be wallabies, the medium-sized kangaroos.

  With awkward movements, she pushed to her feet and, shading her eyes with her hand, watched as the figures drew closer. They turned out to be three aborigine runners.

  With careful steps she made her way down the hill and joined Baluway and the hands just about the same time the runners arrived. Despite the distance they must have run, they were breathing lightly. Ignoring her, they spoke with Baluway in a rapid, excited patois.

  Baluway nodded several times. Beneath his wide nose, his mouth was flattened in a solemn line. He turned to her. “The Gagudju tribe makes war on mine. Much death.”

  At first, the import of his words didn’t sink in. Then she realized. Her parents were in danger—if not already murdered. “How far is your tribe from here?”

  “Maybe one—two days to Hollow Hill.”

  “We’re going back to the house.” She swung around and started for her hobbled mount, all the while she talked. “We’ll need more ammunition, food rations, bandage strips and ointment—”

  Her mind raced on, calculating all that would be needed, how long she might be gone. Francis would have to watch the station.

  By the time she reached the house, she was in a fervor to make the provisions and ride out. “Francis!” she called out and hurried inside. In contrast to the hot, sun-bright afternoon, the house was cool and dark.

  Francis stumbled from their bedroom. “You’re back already?” he asked, his hands busy pushing in his shirttail.

  Something was amiss in his voice. Even in the dimness of the room, she could tell his hair was mussed. Then she knew, as Ryku coalesced behind him in the doorway. She was adjusting her long skirts. Her eyes met those of Amaris. At once, Amaris guessed what had taken place. The smug expression in Ryku’s gaze confirmed what she surmised.

  She intertwined her arms and stared hard at Francis. “Well?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  She was trembling inside, but her voice was steady. “What do I think?”

  “For the love of God, Amaris, it’s been almost two months since I’ve touched you. A bloke could go crazy with—”

  “I never said no to you.”

  He tunneled his fingers through his sun-gilded hair. “I know, I know. But how can a man get aroused when he fears hurting the—”

  Fury, sorrow, guilt all surged through her veins at once, threatening to burst them in an overload. She knew she hadn’t been receptive to Francis’s advances the last few months. But it had been so hot, and she had been so miserable with her size, and felt so unattractive, even repulsive.

  Worse, she felt somehow she was betraying Sin when she submitted to Francis. If that wasn’t a sign of someone who belonged in Bedlam, she didn’t know what was. That must be it. She was going mad, living virtually alone in the outback as women did.

  Behind Francis, Ryku slipped past them to disappear into the darkness of the house. Amaris tried to pull herself together, but darts of nerves were assaulting her stomach. Everything was coming down on her at once.

  “Look, Francis, we will discuss this later. Baluway’s tribe has been attacked by another. Apparently, he thinks my parents may be in danger. We’ve got to get there as soon as possible.”

  “Of course,” Francis said, obviously glad to shift the focus from himself. He crossed to the mantel and took down the rifle and leather pouch of balls. “We can—”

  “Ohhh!” A dagger-sharp pain ripped through her stomach, and she doubled over, sinking to her knees.

  “Our baby?” Consternation contorted Francis’s face. “It’s time?”

  She nodded. “It’s early . . . two weeks by my . . . calculations.”

  He crouched beside her and gingerly lifted her to her feet. Slipping her arm up around his neck, he said, “Let’s get you into bed.” A contrite grimace stretched his lips. “I’ve never been a father before. With Rose away, you’ll have to tell me what to—”

  “Listen to me, Francis. Waiting for a baby to be born can take days. These could be false pains. You must take Baluway and the hands with you and ride to their village to help Mother and Father.”

  He sat her down on the bed. “I can’t leave you here alone to go through—”

  “Ryku can help me with the delivery should the baby come before you can get back.”

  Reluctance showed in his face. His jaw tensed, as if he were preparing to argue with her.

  “Francis, if you don’t go, I will—if I have to dismount and squat and have our baby alongside the trail. Besides, I haven’t had any more pains. It could well be another two weeks. Now do as I ask. Go with Baluway. Do this for me, please.”

  He drew a deep breath. His lips tightened. Finally, he nodded. “All right, but I don’t like leaving you here alone. Ryku has no knowledge about delivering babies.”

  She managed a wan smile. “Neither do you.”

  He dropped a good-bye kiss on her cheek, then straightened. “I’ll be back as soon as possible, if it means galloping all the way.”

  “Francis,” she called to his departing back.

  He stopped at the doorway. “Aye?”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  After he left, she lay there, watching the shafts of sunlight slip down the walls. Tiny pains nagged her stomach—and nagged her baby, apparently, because it kicked its displeasure just often enough to make her keep to her bed.

  She placed her hands on her enormous belly and concentrated on the baby. By the time it reached school age, she would have to hire a tutor. Sin could teach it to ride like a true Irishman. She was sure the child was a boy. Not that she cared, just so it was healthy and perfectly formed.

  She would not let herself think of her parents’ safety or of that of Francis—or, most of all, of his betrayal. Not now. Later, when she had the strength of all her resources. Later, when the baby was born and Francis and her parents were safe back at home, then . . .

  Ryku appeared in the doorway. Her expression was uneasy. In a neutral voice, she asked, “You want me make dinner?”

  “No. I’m not hungry. Go on to the hut. I’ll be all right.”

  But she wasn’t. As the room settled into early evening shadows, her pains began to intensify. Cramping contractions made her gasp in agony. She managed to get out of bed and stagger to the front door. Clutching it to stand erect, she called out, “Ryku!”

  Only the cooing of a dove broke the silence.

  “Ryku!”

  Another pain attacked Amaris. Her hands slipping down the door frame, she sagged to the floor. “Oh, my God,” she whimpered. She was going to give birth to her baby alone.

  She rolled onto the floor and lay on her side, her legs drawn up in their own fetal position. Her fingernails dug into her palms, and she moaned. Another pain struck her, and she screamed
out her anguish. Suffering with each bolt of pain, she rolled from side to side, her arms wrapped around her enlarged stomach.

  She didn’t even hear the booted spurs clank on the veranda’s planking; she only felt the arms gather her, lifting her, cradling her.

  “Sssh, me luv, it’s going to be fine,” Sin whispered against her forehead as he carried her back to her bedroom.

  “What . . . are you doing here?” Each word was a monumental effort to get out.

  “I brought over the weaned colt I had promised you.” He laid her gently on her bed and started unbuttoning her high-top shoes.

  She gasped as another pain racked her. She felt as if she were being torn asunder. “The baby is coming. Now!”

  A vein ticked at his temple. “Where is your mother? Francis?”

  Her breathing seemed rapid in her ears. “He’s on his way to. . . Baluway’s village. Aborigine attack. My parents . . . oh, God, Sin, I hurt!”

  “Ryku?”

  “She might . . . be in her hut.” Amaris felt so alone, so weak, so vulnerable. She wanted to unburden the pain of her discovery of Francis’s treachery. Instead, she compressed her lips, even as smarting tears trickled from the comers of her eyes. “I called . . . she didn’t . . . answer.”

  Sin leaned over her and brushed away a tear streaming along her cheekbone. He stared down at her. “Did something happen before I got here?”

  He was so damned perceptive. “No.” She tensed as another pain began and bit back her moan.

  “Then it’s you and me, luv.” He began rolling up his sleeves. “I’ve never helped a wee one into life, but there is always a first time for everything. Me mother did a lot of midwifing. Me sister, too. But they always shooed the men out, which doesn’t give me much headstart on midwifing for this one, does it now? Still, this promises to be a grand adventure.”

  She knew he was talking to keep her mind off her misery, but when he began removing her clothing, she exclaimed, “No! I don’t want you to see . . . me . . . like this!”

  “Don’t be foolish.” He stripped her skirts from her legs, so that her stomach protruded like a creamy dome just below her chemise.

  All she could think of was how embarrassed she was. Then another pain chased away her embarrassment.

  With a tenderness that amazed her, he encircled her swollen belly with his large, callused hands and began massaging its contracting muscles. “The village folk would say that you have an outy, Amaris.”

  His saturnine face was so grave, so contemplative, that she became alarmed about her condition, which was unusual for her. She had always taken her good health for granted. “A what?”

  “An outy.” His finger traced concentric circles around her navel. “Your belly button . . . it pops out. But I imagine it shall change to an inny once this one makes its appearance.”

  She saw the mischievous gleam in his eyes. She smiled, then began laughing.

  “You are the most beautiful I have ever seen you, luv.”

  Her dimpled grin changed to a grimace. “Oh God, Sin, it’s coming.”

  “I recall something about clean linens for the wee one and yourself, but I don’t think there’s time.”

  She latched on to his hand and squeezed, as the part of her she had given life to demanded the right to draw breath.

  “Push, Amaris. It can’t be too much different than foaling, after all.”

  His attempt at jocularity elicited a weak smile from her; then she gasped as a wave of pain blackened everything around her. When her vision coalesced, mystification, astonishment, disquietude, were all playing across Sin’s marvelously mobile face.

  “It is coming, luv! I can see a small part of its head. Come on now. Push. Let the wee one enter our world. That’s it. Shhh, it’s decided it’s tired of waiting.”

  “I’m tired of waiting, too,” she complained, hurting too much to be excited. Her hands crumpled the sheet as another shattering thrust extended her pelvis.

  “One more push. There you go! Why, look what we have here, me luv.”

  She heard a sputtering little cry, like a kitten’s mew, but couldn’t muster the curiosity or strength to raise her head and look.

  “A fine boy, it is.”

  At the weight on her chest, her eyes snapped open. A reddened, wizened, wet little human flailed tiny arms and kicked and cried.

  Sin proceeded to cleanse the infant with a soft cotton cloth, then he edged up her chemise and cupped her breast. “Give the mite what he wants, and maybe he’ll hush that infernal shrieking.”

  Her gaze shifted from the baby suckling at her nipple to Sin's face. Tears spilled down his beard-shadowed cheeks.

  § CHAPTER NINETEEN §

  Dream Time station had become a village of sorts, a fact which never failed to amaze Amaris. How had so many years passed since she and Francis set up housekeeping in what amounted to little more than a shed?

  Gathering spring’s wild flowers, she stood on the slope of the ridge and gazed down upon the station: the house, the barns and dairy and all the outbuildings, the men’s quarters and the row of married-worker’s cottages, their dining room, the kitchens, the store, and now a chapel and a graveyard. More than forty people were on the Dream Time payroll.

  No wonder just keeping the books had become a full-time job for her. But she missed the adventure that came with working outdoors.

  Picking her way down a footpath, she headed for the graveyard. Her parents had been the first to be interned within the picket-fenced enclosure, located beneath a leafy canopy of gum boughs. The aborigines’ mutilation of their bodies three years before had made Francis’s return from the burned out village a horrendous affair.

  Entering the gate, she stopped between the two graves, each marked with a large, white wooden cross. One day she planned to erect something more substantial with fitting epitaphs. The day her parents left the world, Robert had entered.

  One door closes, another opens.

  Sighing, she rose to return to the house. Her gaze fell on Francis, who plowed behind the plodding bullocks in the west pasture. Astride his shoulders perched Robert. She had to acknowledge the boy made a better man of the father. For Robert’s sake, Francis worked harder. The nobleman had become a common man, a man of the soil.

  He was trying harder to be a good husband, also. Two days after Robert’s birth, Ryku had returned to the station. Baluway told Amaris that while she was still abed, Francis had ordered Ryku off the premises. Apparently, the station hands believed the punishment was the result of Ryku’s desertion when the mistress was in need of aid.

  For Robert’s sake, Francis was also involving himself in the community. He had volunteered to accompany Sin on a wagon train headed to Sydney with the wool baled from the various stations. The local station owners had requested Sin to negotiate with a Sydney agent to send the wool to the London sales.

  Since wool could be sold only once a year, this presented a cash-flow problem. A broking company in Sydney paid the sheep rancher an advance on the wool’s value and arranged the shipping and sale—the benefit to the station owners and squatters being that they received their money much sooner, almost a year in most cases, than if they sent it to London themselves.

  Francis spotted her and stopped his plowing. Grinning, he beckoned her to join him. As she drew nearer, Robert called out, “Mama!” and wiggled this way and that atop his father’s shoulders in an attempt to get down.

  “Whoa, son,” Francis said. Sweat was dripping off of his brow and beard, bleached almost white by the fierce sun.

  “Why not take a break?” she suggested. She slipped her hands underneath Robert’s arms to transfer him from his father’s shoulder to her hip. “One of the workers could be doing this.”

  Francis wiped the back of his arm across his perspiring forehead. “I like working with my hands. It’s something my father would have frowned upon.” Strange, she thought, that the salon-raised Francis enjoyed more working with the earth, and Sin, who had so t
oiled most of his life, found greater pleasure in people and ideas.

  Francis shaded his eyes, fanned with wrinkles, against the harsh sunlight. “Going to be the best crop yet, Amaris.”

  “If the rains ever come.” Robert was getting restless and heavy, and she shifted him to her other hip. “Don’t forget Robert’s birthday party. The Tremaynes will be here this evening.”

  She looked forward to seeing Celeste and Sin, who would stay the weekend. Celeste adored Robert. When Amaris watched her hug and talk to the three-year-old, her heart went out in sympathy to her friend. Celeste yearned so for a child but apparently had resigned herself to remaining childless.

  How was Sin dealing with a wife who risked her life each time she made love? Amaris’s imagination was fertile. She visualized Sin and Celeste in bed, their limbs entangled in the throes of lovemaking.

  Did he withdraw before spilling his essence into her? Or perhaps he didn’t even take that risk. Perhaps he sought out the arms of another woman for release, taking to bed one of the aborigine women as Francis had done.

  Or, worse, maybe he found solace in the arms of a white woman in Sydney on those journeys on behalf of the syndication of local stations.

  Jealousy, hot, explosive, and blinding, roared through her. She pivoted away from Francis before she could betray her volatile fury and stalked back to the house. Her anticipation of the Tremaynes’ visit was dampened.

  As she prepared the birthday dinner, Francis sat playing with Robert. A small replica of Francis, the toddler was blessed with a riot of blond curls and large beautiful brown eyes.

  At the moment, Rogue was tugging on one of his stockings, and the toddler was laughing. His chubby cheeks were a cherubic pink. He was so precious to her. She missed that first year and a half that she had nursed him. Sin had been the first to put her son to her breast.

  Sensing her deflated mood, Francis tried to engage her in light conversation. She had to admit he had been penitent and sensitive to her needs ever since the incident with Ryku. “There is talk that the major is pushing Sin to run for a territorial seat.”

  “I doubt Sin wants to get involved in politics. His law student days cured him of battling for the masses.”