Tavern Yard, Danger Bend
Birds shrieked and whistled the day into being. The sun had seared the bright dome of the sky from molten bronze to a dulled copper-blue by the time those who dwelled at the tavern had pulled themselves into the land of the living. Heat filtered with the light through the outbuildings and shivering eucalyptus leaves, bringing the scent of warmed earth. The slim sinuation of a snake curved itself away around the tavern as the workers came out to wash at the horse trough, or at least cool the skin.
Brigitte stood in the tavern doorway, dressed and breakfasted long before to avoid the heat. She watched her maid Peggy bustle and sway her way over to the men who helped with the sheep with her tray of breakfasts and iron kettle, tea leaves brewing in its depths.
The day before yesterday, Brigitte had told Mary Ryan out on the squatter spread she would head over this morning with a couple of sacks of raw wool and a small cheese in exchange for that offered share of patterned cloth. The stuff was a subtle wind of printed roses that would make a fine light dress, and Brigitte knew Peggy was eager to set her hands to tailoring.
It would be good to get out there before the heat licked the land to a shimmering hell. Jack Duggan had some buisness out there with Mr. Ryan and barrels, she knew, and it would be wise to have company. A rider stranded by misfortune even on these relatively civilised trails had their odds of survival sharply cut.
Memory:
Standing there, she remembered she had dreamed of trudging through that landscape in the blue hour before dawn, the birds shrieking their chorus from the bush, all sound muffled and distorted as though underwater. Her hands and the cloth at her knees had been scraped and dirty, as though she had been crawling along the ground. She did not know why, in her dream, nor gave it any thought, only drifted along like a ghost swinging a skeleton, her flesh cold yet unshivering, palely luminous in the dawn. She walked with glazed eyes and did not think. It was peaceful. Her hands were dirty.
Peggy Sullivan brought bread with salted beef fat, some precious grapes and a smile for Jack Duggan where he stood. Jack was feeling pretty fit and hale this morning, the dry air sweet with the scent of nearby water and the shade trees whilst the wind was from this direction. His right calf hurt for no reason he could remember, but other than that it was the top of a fine morning, and he had first pick of tea and breakfast whilst Swarbrick the Essex poacher was scrubbing about with cold water.
Dan Gallager the trader was still sleeping off last night in the barn somewhere. Since the man had spent the latter part of the evening demanding what everyone's problem was in a very strange fashion, without any intention of an honest good-natured fight, no-one was eager to wake him. A sheep blared her existence to the world at large from some undetermined point off on the land, even more discordant than the birds.
Dream fragment:
Jack recalled that he had dreamed himself lying with his chest to hard ground somewhere in the bush, his focus hazy, unable to move. The birds screamed and hollered in the trees overhead and the scene seemed to flicker between day and night. There was a burnt stump in his field of vision, its blackness the only true constant. It felt like all reality moved around that tree. He'd felt disconnected from himself, uncertain if he was conscious and half aware of dreaming, as a man about to surface. Yet he had not woken, then. Trying to move was important. His leg ached.
At last he had managed to command his left hand that lay before him to curl on the litter of eucalyptus. He remembered the feel of the leaf fragments and dust distinctly. There was blood on his fingers. A devil siezed him by the collar and dragged him a long way over sticks and brush, leaving him on his back. Jack remembered the dizzying depth of the sky, and the demon grinning just out of his paralysed sight beside him, a suggestion of white teeth, bristled hair, and a face all red.
He remembered of a sudden that that party of fancy scientists and such that had ascended into the mountains a week ago should have been back yesterday. A kookaburra broke into cackling from somewhere behind the tavern and Jack noticed 'Countess' d'Anjou was looking over at him, perhaps wanting to talk.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:31, Fri 26 Feb 2021.
