11); 2: Barbara Baynton: An Australian Jocasta Joan Kirkby, Essays On Bruce Dawe, Barbara Baynton and Patrick White ; (p. The work of Barbara Baynton (), a small number of short stories and the novella Human Toll . structure the obviously Gothic first story, “A Dreamer.”. In such works as “The Chosen Vessel,” “A Dreamer,” and “Squeaker’s Mate” Baynton focused on the difficulties faced by women in the outback, and her stories.
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A swirl of wet leaves from the night-hidden trees decorating the little station beat against the closed doors of the carriages. The porter hurried along holding his blear-eyed lantern to the different windows, and calling the name of the township in language peculiar to porters. There was only one ticket to collect. Passengers from far up-country towns have importance from their rarity.
He turned his lantern full on this one, as he took her ticket. She looked at him too, and listened to the sound of his voice, as he spoke to the guard. Once she had known every hand at the station. The porter knew everyone in the district.
This traveller was a stranger to him. If her letter had been received, someone would have been waiting with a buggy. She passed through the station. She saw nothing but an ownerless dog, huddled, wet and shivering, in a corner. More for sound she turned to look up the straggling street of the township. Among the sheoaks, bordering the river she knew so well, the wind made ghostly music, unheeded by the sleeping town.
There was no other sound, and she turned to the dog with a feeling of kinship. But perhaps the porter had a message! She went back to the platform. He was locking the office door, but paused as though expecting her to speak.
Her question resolved itself into a request for the time, though this she already knew. She hastily left him. She drew her cloak tightly round her. The wind made her umbrella useless for shelter. Wind and rain and darkness lay before her on the walk of three bush miles to her mother’s home.
Still it was the home of her girlhood, and she knew every inch of the way.
As she passed along the sleeping street, she saw no barnara of life till near the end. A light burned in a small shop, and the sound of swift tapping came to her. They work late tonight, she thought, and, remembering their gruesome task, hesitated, half-minded to ask these night workers, for whom they laboured.
Was it someone she had known? The long dark walk—she could not—and hastened to lose the sound. The zigzag course of the railway brought the train again near to her, and this wayfarer stood and watched it tunnelling in the teeth of the wind. Freamer saw the rain spitting viciously at its red mouth.
A Dreamer | AustLit: Discover Australian Stories
Its speed, as it passed, made her realize the tedious difficulties of her journey, and she quickened her pace. There was the silent tenseness that precedes a storm. From the branch of a tree overhead she heard a watchful mother-bird’s warning call, and the twitter of the disturbed nestlings.
The tender care of this bird-mother awoke memories of her childhood. What mattered the lonely darkness, when it led to mother. Her forebodings fled, and she faced the old track unheedingly, and ever and ever she smiled, as she foretasted their meeting.
She could feel loving arms around her, and a mother’s sacred kisses. She thrilled, and in her impatience ran, but the wind was angry and took her breath.
Then the child near her heart stirred for the first time. The instincts of motherhood awakened in her. Her elated body quivered, she fell on her dreamet, lifted her hands, and turned her face to God. A vivid flash of lightning flamed above her head. It dulled her rapture. The lightning was very near. She went on, then paused. Was she on the right track. Back, near the bird’s nest, were two roads.
One dreeamer to home, the other was the old bullock-dray road that the railway had almost usurped. When she should have been careful in her choice, she had been absorbed. It was a long way back to the cross-roads, and she dug in her mind for land marks.
Foremost she recalled the “Bendy Tree”, then the “Sisters”, whose entwined arms talked, when the wind was from the south. The apple-trees on the creek—split flat, where the bafbara and calves were always deeamer be found. The wrong track, being nearer the river, had clumps of sheoaks and groups of pines in places. An angled line barbra lightning illuminated everything, but the violence of the thunder distracted her.
She stood in uncertainty, near-sighted, with all the horror of the unknown that this infirmity could bring. Irresolute, she waited for another flash. It served to convince her, she was wrong.
Through the bush she turned.
The sky seemed to crack with the lightning; the thunder’s suddenness shook her. Among some tall pines she stood awed, while the storm raged. Then again that indefinite fear struck at her.
Restlessly she pushed on till she stumbled, and, with hands outstretched, met some object that moved beneath them as she fell. The lightning showed a group of terrified cattle. Tripping and falling, she ran, she knew not where, but keeping her eyes turned towards the cattle. Aimlessly she pushed on, and unconsciously retraced her steps.
She struck the track she was on when her first doubt came. If this were the right way, the wheel-ruts would show. She groped, but the rain had levelled them. There was nothing to guide her. Suddenly she remembered that the little clump of pines, where the cattle were, lay between the two roads. She had gathered mistletoe berries there in the old days. She believed, she hoped, she prayed, that she was right. If so, a little further on, she would come to the “Bendy Tree”. There long ago a runaway horse had crushed its drunken rider against the bent, distorted trunk.
She could recall how in her young years that tree had ever after had a weird fascination for her.
Bush Studies/A Dreamer
She saw its crooked body dreqmer the lightning’s glare. She was on the right track, yet dreaded to go on. Her childhood’s fear came back. In a transient flash she thought she saw a horseman galloping furiously towards her.
She placed both her hands protectingly over her heart, and waited. In the dark interval, above the shriek of the wind, she thought she heard a cry, then crash came the thunder, drowning her call of warning.
In the next flash she saw nothing but the tree. The road dipped to the creek. Louder and louder came the roar of its flooded waters. Even little Dog-trap Gully was proudly foaming itself hoarse. It emptied below where she must cross.
But bzynton were others that swelled it above. The noise of the rushing creek was borne to her by the wind, still fierce, though the rain had lessened.
Perhaps there would be someone to meet her at the bank! Last time she had come, the night had been fine, and though she had been met at the station by a neighbour’s son, mother had come to the creek with a lantern and waited for her. She looked eagerly, but there was no light. The creek was a banker, but the track led to a plank, which, lashed to the willows on either bank, was usually above flood-level.
A churning sound abrbara that the water was over the plank, and she must wade along it. She turned to the sullen sky. There was no gleam of light save in her resolute, white face.
Her mouth grew tender, as she thought of the husband she loved, and of their child. She thought of the grey-haired mother, who was waiting on the other side. This dwarfed every tie that had parted them.