Cleary Ranch, Strangewalker Creek
The birds poured every part of themselves that could make noise into their morning songs and left the bush ringing. James Gill was riding back from checking up on their poor drought-hit cows, surrounded by his thoughts as much as the sound of the bush and his half-instinctive shared awareness with the horse.
Indeed, his mount's ears turned before James caught movement: Margaret Cleary hurrying towards him, something cloth-wrapped in her hands and her fair face aflush with worry. She called him as she trotted over, as though being heard as well as seen would assure her of a swifter soloution to her concerns.
"James!"
Dream fragment:
For an instant, James has not so much a memory but an impression of an anxious dream of restlessness immobility with his chest pressed to the earth. Foreboding. A blankly sardonic look exchanged with a goanna, a gaze ancient as dragons, before the reptile turned and let him be. Dry, dry skin. Dust and blankness.
Since Cleary was a generous man, one who recognised the mark of some terible thing upon a young man when he saw it, Thomas Daniels had been allowed to make his bed in the storage space for ready grain, effectively private quarters. It was James Gill's turn to take the earliest shift and Martin Scorsey was off somewhere, he didn't remember where. Despite the extra rest, Thomas felt tired, and the eternal racket of Australian birdsong sent the remnants of his dreams to shreds.
Memory:
Thomas had dreamed of anxious running in the bird-roaring hellscape of the bush. He'd dreamed Jack Duggan from the tavern spread had tried to kill someone (Sally Jane? He knew she had been nearby, yet now was lost), and that O'Leary was with him, yelling at him to get down the ridge, out of the mountains. His dead friend was sharp and living-like to look upon, though his heart and a good chunk of his sternum were gone, leaving a great hole in his chest, and his eyes were bottomlessly sad. Go. Go down, get out of here, O'Leary had said. Protect yourself. He'll come down again. Go!
He did not remember if, in the dream, he had run. He remembered a face seen through a thicket, a flash of white teeth and bristled beard and white eyes rolling in a face blood red.
That, and he seemed to have been sleeping on something that was currently digging into his side. It was not the mockup of his beloved badge, since he could see that on the shelf serving him for a bedside table. Further thoughts were disrupted by the urgent voice of Cleary's niece, somewhere far away outside:
"James!"
Henry Cotton stood outside in his shirt and breeches and breathed the dry, clean air, marvelling at how it felt to do so without sickness. He had been meant to accompany Alexander Calder the botanist up past these level trees and into the mountains looming high and blue beyond, but a fever had left him barely able to stand at the last. He'd felt slightly abandoned when Jake Cadlow had taken his gear and left with promises of notes and a later trip, but it was understandable that the expedition wanted to avoid contagion, and he trusted the other apprentice.
Though he had lost track of time somewhat in the weird echoed timespan of delerium - water brought to him, his brow cooled, water leaving him, mostly as sweat - he thought the expedition would return today. Possibly it should have returned yesterday, but he tried not to think of that. It was good to feel all right again.
Memory:
Henry recalled a fevered dream of staggering out into a dawning day, aching with a wild knowledge of presence. There were angels in the earth, wheels of fire and swords and he wanted to be with them (the open mouth.) (the forms like serpents) (the seven tongues, holy flame) so badly right then his soul wept. He'd reeled into the front pasture, drunk with awe and need (so close, the makers of the hills), and fallen to his knees, digging, digging into the landscape, nails aching, hands nicked, blood starting at stones. He'd dug, weeping, and crammed earth into his mouth, rocks, twigs, roots: tasting for the first time this foreign place, tasting of the unknown, of miracles. His teeth and jaw ached, he coughed, but the earth was in him and the stones were in him and the angels were under the earth and it was good. Dusted red to the elbows he had found moisture, smeared and sucked at it. His breathing was fast, his heart thumping like a trapped bird until he was certain he must die or disgrace himself...and then he pitched forward and there was nothing. Only calm and the earth against his lips and tongue and skin. He did not remember if he breathed.
One of the big black and white birds the colonists had nicknamed "magpies" startled him with a burst of beautiful warbling from the edge of the Clearys' roof. Even as he was reminded how close he was to human beings, he saw Margaret Cleary hurrying up the track leading out of the yard to meet one of the stockmen.
"James!" she called, and it sounded urgent.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:35, Fri 26 Feb 2021.
