Ironbark (23 page)

A front window at the MacAlisters' farm was boarded over. The rusty front gate hung by a single hinge. The barn leaned so precariously that only the trunk of a tough ironbark tree prevented its collapse.

In an adjacent paddock where a field of corn struggled to survive the drought, Keziah was halted by the sight of a scarecrow planted in the centre to ward off magpies. Garbed in a man's cast-off slop clothing and frayed straw hat, its arms rested horizontally on a broom and its straw hair blew in the wind, giving it an oddly lifelike appearance.

When a dog ran up and chewed a trouser leg the scarecrow called out, ‘Piss off!'

‘
Mi-duvel!
It's Bruce!' she whispered in horror.

A woman ran from the house towards her. ‘Come to spy on us have you, Miss High and Mighty?'

Mrs MacAlister's face was burnt by the sun and furrowed like a dry field but her dank hair had no signs of grey.

Life has worn her down. She probably isn't a day over thirty.
Keziah faltered. ‘I am so sorry for your trouble. Bruce is my brightest student – he's been so kind to me.'

‘You've seen the last of him.' Mrs MacAlister hastily untied her apron to reveal her shabby black mourning and eyed Saranna's dress with ill-concealed envy. ‘He's man of the house now. Got to work to keep bread on the table.'

Keziah's eyes turned toward the scarecrow.

The widow's voice was shrill. ‘Don't you dare judge me! The likes of you ain't never been hungry. He's doing only work he's fit for. Sprained his ankle carrying the coffin.'

Keziah said gently, ‘My people in Wales were no strangers to hunger, Mrs MacAlister, but I only brought this because you have more important things to attend to.'

The widow's eyes blazed. ‘We ain't no paupers! We don't need your charity.'

Keziah's hands shook as she placed the bowl on the veranda. ‘I'm sure you don't.'

She retreated in haste, tears stinging her eyes. Bruce's father had wanted him to be literate but a son's first duty was to feed his mother. First she felt angry she had wounded the widow's pride then startled to realise her gaff.
My people in Wales.
Saranna is from Chester!

• • •

Joseph Bloom blinked in surprise over the rim of his spectacles when he opened the door to Keziah.

She blurted out the reason for her call. ‘Bruce MacAlister is working in the field as a human scarecrow. Don't blame his mother – the poor woman's desperate but too proud to accept charity. Can nothing be done to help them survive and keep Bruce in school?'

Through her tears the image of Joseph Bloom quivered like a figure under water.

‘Do not despair, Miss Plews. I have already given thought to the matter. It is said the best form of charity is to give a family work so they don't
need
charity.'

Keziah nodded her thanks and fled down the track. She angrily blew her nose and admonished her unborn babe. ‘This is all your fault. Since you've been inside me I've been unable to control my tears or laughter. Everything seems either terribly sad or terribly funny.'

• • •

The following Friday was a surprisingly hot, lethargic day. Keziah underlined the words she had written on the blackboard. The heat made the children unusually restless and the two small Collins brothers argued over the use of their last stub of chalk. Keziah quietly supplied a fresh one.

‘All right, all you clever children. Who would like to read for me? You don't have to be perfect. Just have the courage to try. That's how we learn.'

Her pointer froze at the first sentence. All three members of the triumvirate stood in the doorway headed by Hobson. Gilbert Evans didn't wear a clerical ‘dog-collar' as he was only a lay preacher, but his hands were folded in an attitude of prayer. He eyed the schoolroom as if on the lookout for sinners to save. Keziah now firmly agreed with Polly's initial warning. Evans never talked – except when paid by the traps to be their informer. Or when he preached hellfire and damnation from Bolthole Valley's pulpit.

Joseph Bloom's eyes twinkled at Keziah as he ushered Big Bruce MacAlister inside. Wearing his late father's jacket the lad resumed his former place with a self-conscious grin.

Keziah gave Joseph Bloom a special smile of thanks. She was aware that unofficially he had assigned one of Ironbark Farm's government men to work the MacAlister farm and that washing baskets of Bloom's household linen were discreetly delivered to Mrs MacAlister each week to provide her with paid work.

George Hobson peered at the blackboard. ‘A for Australia, B for Bandicoot, C for Cockatoo? How unorthodox. When I was a lad it was A for Apple, B for Ball, C for Cat.'

Joseph Bloom leapt to Keziah's defence. ‘Yes, George, but things are different here.'

‘My son tells me there are no school rules,' Gilbert Evans said. A faint smiled played on his lips. ‘How do you punish wrongdoers, absentees and laggards?'

‘Fear is a poor teacher, Mr Evans,' Keziah replied. ‘Children who run happily to school learn faster, yes?'

Joseph Bloom was determined to have the final word.

‘Indeed so. Well, gentlemen, Miss Plews has already doubled the attendance. How can we argue with success? Shall we allow her to continue her good work?' Ready or not, he gestured for the triumvirate to make their exit.

• • •

It was a scorching December afternoon. The little creek that ran behind her tent was a double blessing. It enabled Keziah freedom to practise her Romani women's tradition, separating the clothes for the upper half of her body from the lower half to wash them upstream or down. The creek also allowed her to conserve the rainwater – God's precious blood.

Scrubbing clothes on the creek bank she sang a Romani love song her father had played. The passionate words reminded her how starved government men were for the sight of a woman. Some had openly stared at her voluptuous body. If only they knew her secret.

She felt uneasy when the distant figure of a man dismounted from a black horse and entered Gilbert Evans's homestead that lay on the rise of the hill a few hundred yards away on the far side of the creek.
No doubt someone is up to no good. As my grandmother used to say, ‘Clean water never came out of a dirty place.'

After she draped her washing over the bushes to dry, she paddled up to her knees in the creek, her skirt bunched up in one hand. There was no one in sight but with her usual custom of precaution she had placed a horsewhip nearby. Suddenly her spine stiffened, her ears pricked like a hunted animal.

A few feet across the shallow creek a man was crouched, spying on her. A stranger. Black hair, black beard, virile body. She shuddered when he playfully flexed his fingers like claws, ready to pounce on her. Not another soul was in sight.

Her hunter had now edged close enough for her to see the pupils of his eyes – no light was reflected in them. Nothing but lust.

Keziah inched her way towards the horsewhip, hampered by the weight of the wet skirt that clung to her legs. Conscious of his slightest movement she lunged towards the whip.

In one leap he grabbed her from behind and twisted her arm behind her back. His hand gagged her mouth and pressed her head against his chest. She tried to bite his hand but her teeth only closed on air.

‘You won't scream!' he said with maddening confidence. ‘Because you know what's good for you, don't you!'

She nodded vehemently. He freed his hand to paw at her breasts. His breath was hot and urgent in her ear, his soft voice was like thick honey.

‘I've been watching you. You're a bitch on heat, girl.'

The blood pounded in her ears. ‘Let go. My husband will hunt you down like a dog!'

He gave a curt laugh. ‘Little liar. I know you. No man of your own. And you're a woman who's hungry for it,
Miss
Plews! You're single and you're English. But if you're a good girl to me, I'll be forgiving you the English.'

She tried to coax him. ‘I'll forgive you your mistake if you tell me your name.'

He laughed pleasantly. ‘The devil has many names.'

The friction of his hands on her body excited him and Keziah felt his erection against her skirt.

‘God, you smell good enough to eat, girl. You're going to love this! The biggest and best you've ever had.'

When he lifted the back of her skirt Keziah slumped against him like a willing partner. Then she wrenched free and forced her knee into his groin with all the violence she could muster.

He doubled over in pain, and she grabbed her horsewhip and slashed his face.

‘Mr Hobson!' She screamed out the name knowing full well that he was far away in Berrima Courthouse on jury duty. Her desperate bluff worked. Her attacker backed off but Keziah was chilled by his laughter as blood streamed into his eyes.

‘Like it rough? I'm the man for you. I'll give you pain and teach you to
love
it!'

He did not wait to see if Hobson would come to her rescue but ran off, calling over his shoulder, ‘Till we meet again, little witch!'

Keziah stumbled through the bush to Joseph Bloom's cottage and was frustrated when his assigned housekeeper informed her he had gone to Goulburn to celebrate Shabbat.

She was half afraid to confront Gilbert Evans but she abandoned caution and ran across the paddocks to his homestead. There was no sign of the stranger's black horse. She banged on Evans's front door until he opened it.

Silently he took in her dishevelled state. His eyes lingered on her thighs.

‘Who was the dark-bearded man who visited you this afternoon?' she demanded.

He avoided her eyes. ‘I've been alone writing my sermon. No one called here today.'

Keziah's mouth went dry. He was lying and didn't care that she knew it.

‘You seem distressed. May I help you?' he asked smoothly.

‘No. I'll speak to Mr Bloom on his return. I'm sure
he'll
advise me.'

‘Clever man, our Hebrew neighbour.' The words sounded far from complimentary.

Keziah turned to leave but was halted by the innuendo in Evans's voice.

‘May I suggest, Miss Plews, it is unwise to dress indiscreetly.' He gestured to the wet skirt that clung to her thighs. ‘Some men may interpret that as an open invitation.'

Keziah suppressed her rage. ‘I'll tell you this for free, Mr Evans. If that man tries to molest me again, he really
will
get an invitation. To Norfolk Island till his hair turns white!'

She hurried away knowing she had made an enemy who would never show his hand.

• • •

It was full moon. The night seemed full of malevolent shadows as Keziah sat inside her tent, trying to read a copy of the children's primer
by the light of an oil lamp. Through the tent flap she saw wind rustling the trees. Shadows jumped on the calico roof when a branch fell with the noise of a gunshot retort.

Determined to control her fear, Keziah held the lamp as she circled the tent chanting a Romani spell of protection. The words died on her lips as she sensed a presence lurking in the bush. Had imagination given form to her fear?

And then she saw a figure on horseback, the face hidden in the darkness. She heard the soft tinkle of metal. Terrified, she trained the light in the figure's direction, only to find it had vanished.

Was it the stranger who'd tried to rape her? Or a spy for Caleb Morgan? Had Saranna's
mulo
returned to haunt her? Or was Gem risking the sight of her despite the danger?

Keziah examined the ground where she had seen the rider appear. A
mulo
left no footprints. She desperately searched among the fallen leaves and twigs.

No hoof prints.

The ominous clanging of the triangle woke him but Daniel Browne knew that this was no standard summons to work. Today he must witness the flogging of yet another bolter, returned to Gideon Park to save the traps the paperwork of trying him before a magistrate. Nobody wanted the bother over the Christmas season.

Daniel sluiced cold water over his face to wake himself from his recurring nightmare that he was the prisoner being flogged. Although he had so far managed to avoid the reality, these agonising dreams left him exhausted.

Nearly two months had passed since gnawing hunger had forced Daniel to bolt with Will from Gideon Park to join One Eye's gang. He flinched from the memory of his sole performance as a bushranger – a fiasco that marked him as a failure on all levels. That moment when One Eye ordered him to shoot the coach driver still haunted him. Daniel could never forget the expression in the Currency Lad's eyes. Fearless. That was Daniel's moment of truth. He was incapable of killing any man. No matter what future hell he must endure at Gideon Park. So he had parted company with Will and returned alone a few hours later like a whipped dingo to Gideon Park, working with desperate zeal to prevent his overnight absence being detected by the Devil Himself.

Floggings at Gideon Park were now commonplace in the absence of Julian Jonstone in Sydney Town. Daniel had learned not to react as each arc of the lash tore another victim's flesh but today, when he shuffled into a space behind the rows of assigned men, he was overcome by panic when he recognised the prisoner tied to the flogging post. Young Will Martens. Daniel steeled himself against whatever was to
come; the boy was a fool to value freedom above survival. He forced himself to look into Will's face, trying to read the truth. Will always cried like a baby when he was flogged. Would he crack now and denounce Daniel as an absconder?

The scourger was making a show of his strength, flexing his muscles and examining the thongs of the whip. Will's legs were trembling but when he caught sight of Daniel he gave him a broad wink.

The moment Daniel saw the overseer on his coal-black stallion, what little courage he had deserted him. He pushed his way between the men and ran into the bush.