Sketching "The Gift" - Part Two.

It's often the case that inspiration will come at you from out of no where.


As I continue to work on my latest writing project, I remain a "bower bird" - a collector of minutiae. It may be the most esoteric 'thing' - like a lollie wrapper or a flower from a particular place, a shard of an old house brick that has a certain smell. I collect these things because they fire off something in my imagination. Sometimes that "something" is completely unknown to me but I take and I add to my collection basket because I know that it will come in handy at some point. Sometimes, the 'thing' that I am looking for is a lot more obvious to me and it carries much more significance. When I do happen upon it, it opens the flood gates.


A couple of weekends ago, I helped my brother in law move some furniture to his new home just outside of a little town in South Australia's mid north called Orooroo. He's just been employed by a resources board up there working with water management and the environment and was able to rent a farm house on a sprawling thousand acres of grazing country - not quite the true outback of Australia, but pretty damned close to it. 


Anyway, he and I and my other brother in law convoyed it up there, with three cars and two trailers on a fairly balmy Saturday afternoon. The journey took around three and a half hours. Now, once you hit the outskirts of Adelaide's north, you pretty quickly enter into a rural heartland that is as far removed from the city as you can get. The architecture changes too, and at various points along the way, you pass farming country that is dotted with examples of stone construction from a seriously bygone era. Home steads, cottages, stables, sheds - all in various states of disrepair. Some of them are crumbling to the earth, while others standing silent in remarkably good condition. 


As I'm driving along, I'm thinking about the novel that I am writing and in particular, I'm thinking about the portion of the novel that takes place in the rural Australia of the 1950's. This is the farm where my young protagonist, Virginia Crammond is taken after having been forcibly removed from her mother by the Aborigines Protectorate Officers. I'm starting to see comparisons to the image I've built up in my head of the farm that features in the story but as I pass by these random places, nothing is jumping out at me that is particularly inspiring.


Then, after several hours, we arrive at the farm where my brother in law will be living and I am quite literally floored. There is a farm house there that stands derelict but still intact, old stone buildings and sheds that are in various states of disrepair. The surrounding country side is vast, barren and totally isolating but beautiful at the same time. 


This isn't just a farm. It is the farm. It is My farm. 


This is the place I have pictured in my mind's eye for so long and I could not believe that I was actually in this place, a place I have written so vividly about for so many months now. 


Suffice to say, I got my cell phone camera out and began snapping in earnest. 


Now, I know that these images will be a little difficult for you to get your mind around in terms of how they fit into the story. But they speak to a place that - in my story at least - is harsh, unforgiving and, for an 8 year old Aboriginal girl who has been removed from everything she knows and placed here, crushingly isolating. I should add a disclaimer here too and say that the setting for the farm as depicted in the novel is not actually specific to a particular place. The farm's location will remain ambiguous in the novel and be described only as being somewhere in the rural regions of South Australia. 


To give you an idea of the tone and the story of my new work, do check out my work in progress preview pieces here at my site.


It's a visual epiphany that has totally fired my imagination.


DFA.

It is at once a harsh and unforgiving landscape and yet incredibly beautiful.

The summer storm hung around for several hours and put on a magnificent show. 

This farmhouse, long since deserted is in surprisingly good shape and is now the focal point for many of the critical scenes in my new work "Gifts Of The Peramangk"

Close up of the stone construction employed in these beautiful buildings.

The old homestead that has now become "The Penschey Homestead" (Note - there is a beautiful old cast iron wood burning stove in the kitchen that I would give my left kidney for).

An old Bedford truck that I'd like to use in the novel - if I can confirm it's circa 1950's. (My brother in law is seeing if he can pop the hood).

Movement from the past.

A stone building that I have claimed as "Virginia's Outhouse". It's a rather cosy little dwelling inside, which at one time had power to it. (My brother in law Dan stands in the foreground).

"Gifts of the Peramangk" is Copyright © 2011 Dean Mayes & Hambledown Road Imprints. 

Gifts Of The Peramangk - WIP Preview No. 4.

I've entered 2012 with a substantial amount of work under my belt on my new project 'Gifts Of The Peramangk' and, though it is well advanced, it is far from complete. I wish I could give you a more definite time frame as to when it will be finished, but I am doing as best I can given the crazy life I have.

In this, my fourth  work in progress preview, I am introducing - for the first time - the character of Ruby Delfey, who is the modern day protagonist of second novel "Gifts Of The Peramangk" and the grand daughter of Virginia Crammond - who I've featured in my previous WIP previews. 

Ruby is an eight year old Aboriginal girl, who lives in abject poverty in Adelaide's Northern Suburbs with her grandmother, her Aunt and Uncle and their three children Jeremy, Asher and Minty. She lives under the cloud of domestic violence, crushing poverty and ingrained racism. But Ruby's gift - passed on to her from her grandmother Virginia - has just been discovered by an elderly but formidable Professor of music. He is not yet convinced of Ruby's prodigious talent but, in the following piece, he challenges her with a piece of music she has never encountered before. What follows is major turning point in the story that will bring two worlds together - the ramifications of which will either give Ruby the opportunity to shine or crush her gift forever.

This piece came to me almost by accident, when I was trying to come up with a new way of portraying music in a literary sense. It was difficult because, whereas before - in Hambledown - I'd developed a method of visualizing the music of the guitar and translating that onto the page. I have some familiarity with the instrument. The violin on the other hand, is a much different proposition entirely. I wasn't  as familiar with it's sound, the way it is meant to be played. So, I had to take a slightly different approach.

The result is an impassioned visual, which has a particular significance for one of the central characters - which will be borne out as the story progresses.

Again, this is raw, unpolished and probably grammatically incorrect. But this comes from my soul. I would love to get your feedback...

Reading the composition before her, Ruby began to hear their music in her mind. She saw within the notes on the page, a stark emotion underlying them - a darkness that unnerved her and intrigued her simultaneously. Her uncanny ability - that which had been drawn from her by her grandmother - switched on like a light bulb and she closed her eyes. She breathed softly.

Ruby positioned herself as Khalili had shown her just a few minutes before and she raised the violin to her chin.

She drew her bow across the strings as lightly as a feather, eliciting a long and plaintive note with just enough quiver on it to give it a satisfying vibrato. She knew she had attained the note perfectly. A familiar feeling, akin to a buzz, rippled in her temples and slowly she opened her eyes.

In her mind's eye, the darkness and the dank cold of a cramped bunk house coalesced, filled with the sad faces of people. They were huddled together for warmth around a pair of candles that were seated in the middle of the room. They were prisoners in the bunk house. A large and heavy steel door at one end of the building was fastened shut. In the flickering light that played upon their anguished features, Ruby could see them clearly. Their sunken eyes. Their prominent cheek bones. Their lips, chapped and cracked from the cold. Their faces pocked with sores. All of them - Men, women and children - coughed and spluttered under the weight of chronic illness. They wore tattered clothing over emaciated frames. Ruby played their circumstance upon her violin.

Creeping tendrils of fear weaved their way through the group as they sat on the earthen floor, each of them afraid to move, afraid to speak. Outside the brick walls of the bunk house, guttural sounds, inhuman sounds swirled all around, taunting them. The sounds of machinery, of belching smoke and fire melded with anguished human voices - voices that cried out in fear and pain. Ruby's violin traversed the huddle of people, translating these sounds with a chaotic progression of notes on the violin, signifying a chilling representation of dread. That sense of dread germinated in the pit of her stomach as she played which, in turn fed through her fingers onto the strings. The piece returned to those poor souls trapped in the bunk house and Ruby descended into ominous plucking of low notes. Something was happening that changed the dynamic of the piece. Ruby was heralding the arrival of a foreboding presence somewhere nearby - a presence that was coming.

Several in the group began crying, weeping; their tear filled eyes were filled with long suffering fear - as though they had been crying for all of their lives. Ruby played long, lingering high notes, suggestive of their grief, suggestive of their wearied panic before she plunged back down into the lower registers again as the unseen presence outside grew closer and more threatening. It amplified their fear, causing many of them to scramble backwards across the floor to the corner of the room that was farthest from the direction of presence.

The room was suddenly rocked by powerful explosion which seemed to strike just outside the bunk house. Like an earthquake, the explosion caused the entire bunk house to shake. The flickering light from the candle flame threatened to extinguish. The panic that surged through everyone was all consuming. They were paralysed where they sat or stood.

A second explosion, even louder and closer than the first struck with a deafening boom, causing the brick wall at one end of the bunk house to visibly move and shake. Mortar dust collapsed from the spaces between the brick work. The prisoners huddled closer. Ruby translated their terror with rapid, punctuated strokes of her bow across the violin's bridge.

And then, from the centre of the huddle, a lone figure stands. A child, a boy wearing a moth eaten woollen pull over and tattered shorts, steps forth and peers through the darkness towards the precarious brickwork. Men, women and children gasp in horror and desperately try to coax him back to the safety of the group, but he ignores them. Something has piqued his curiosity. He shuffles cautiously across the earthen floor on shoeless feet, that are hardened and calloused.

A third explosion rocks the bunk house with such force that the brick wall and part of the roof crumbles and collapses inward with a cacophony of noise and dust and iron. A gaping hole is revealed through which, the boy gazed up onto a night sky that was ablaze with fire.

A monstrous shadow falls across the gaping maw of the ruined building. It's form is suggestive of a beast like figure with huge hands and a powerful jaw, but there is no physical accompaniment to it. It exists - wraith-like in the darkness. Two great limbs plant their extremities upon the ragged edges of the hole and the presence glares down into the bunk house. The boy stands solitary, returning the glare of the presence with an innocent curiosity. He has no fear, despite the violence that rages all around.

And with that innocence, the boy reaches up with an outstretched hand towards the presence and he smiles warmly.

There is surprise. There is confusion. There is hesitation.

The presence reaches down into the ruined building and takes the boy's hand gently in it's own. All at once, the violence, the chaos and the terror fall away. The screams subside. The machinery throttles down to a low thrum. Ruby's own strokes slow as she holds several high notes with a delicate hand.

His hand still entwined in that of the presence's, the boy gingerly steps forward and over the pile of ruined bricks, lead by the shadow, out and away from the bunk house.

The boy turns back to his companions inside, as the burning sky begins to break overhead. The presence too, has dissipated with the violence and, with a warm glow of dawn playing across the boy's dirty face, he smiles, urging them to follow him.

Through the gap they file. Slowly. Hesitantly. None of them are sure of what to expect. But, as a dawning sun rises to meet them, they step out of the bunk house. Each and every one of the prisoners are touched by a comforting warmth that splashes across their faces. A light that has eluded them for what seems like a life time.

The concentration camp crumbles all around them. Buildings collapse inwards. Other gaunt, emaciated prisoners file out of similar structures.

The boy leads the way towards a brilliant green meadow, beyond a ruined barbed wire fence. Wild flowers bloom into life as the prisoners cross over from the coarse, grey stone of the prison to the soft, lush pasture of the field beyond.

Some fall to their knees in gratitude of the splendour to which they have been delivered. Others just stand, unsure of what to make of their circumstance now. But in time, they look around at each other and, slowly, they greet each other with beatific smiles.

In the centre of the meadow, stands the boy, free of the shackles that has been his bondage. His eyes meet those of an elderly woman who kneels on the ground nearby, unable to support her own frame. In that moment, her eyes are as vibrant and alive as his very own.

In that final moment, Ruby drew the bow away from the violin, allowing the last note to trail away. Then she lowered her instrument and gingerly looked up at Khalili. She was surprised to find him sitting there, his eyes redenned with evidence of tears having stained them.

Ruby shifted uncomfortably in her chair and fidgeted with her violin.

"W...was that okay?" she asked hesitantly.

Khalili nodded slowly and gestured silently to the auditorium behind Ruby.

Slowly, she turned to see a number of people who'd been watching her. They appeared visibly moved. Some of them, like Khalili himself, were wiping away tears.

DFA.

Gifts Of The Peramangk is copyright © 2011 Dean Mayes & Hambledown Road Imprints.

Gifts Of The Peramangk - WIP Preview No, 3.

I'm pleased to present the third in my series of work in progress previews of my new novel "Gifts Of The Peramangk". In keeping with the focus on young Virginia, I've picked out the continuation of her young life in 1951 where we find her struggling to deal with having been removed from her home and taken away. As before, this comes to you raw and unpolished. I'd love your feedback. 

1951.

Her young life became occupied solely by working on the Pastoralist's farm.

Virginia worked and worked and worked. Day after day, week after week, from the chilly pre-dawn until long after dusk, she toiled away with little respite from the mundanity of her servitude. It became the only thing she knew. There was nothing else. Her life before had been wiped from her mind completely. There was no longer anything to think of other than the oppressive nature of her life here. The color and life, warmth and happiness of the Hills was replaced by the ruddy yellows and browns of this unforgiving place. Virginia doubted if this farm, wherever it was, had ever been green. The dust and the heat and the flies were all consuming and it was impossible to escape from.

Worse than these though was another thing that had been taken from her.

Hope.

Virginia remained mute, refusing to speak, despite the best efforts of the older girls to get her to talk. Her only focus was centered around getting through each day without drawing attention to herself. There were a number of people who worked for the Pastoralist on the this vast station and it was clear to her that she was considered the lowest form of worker. She, therefore, took refuge in her work. Her once delicate hands were now calloused and tough. She struggled with constantly itching skin due to the the soaps and detergents she was forced to use in the outhouse toilets. If it wasn't that, the grime and the shit of the stables and yards had 'gifted' her with a number of ailments - including eczema and psoriasis. But she dared not complain.

The consequences of complaining, of speaking up at all were dire.

Virginia had come to know the Pastoralist as a brutal and unforgiving man who accepted nothing less than complete obedience. Punishment for failing him was severe and Virginia learned early on never to question him. To date, she had avoided his wrath and had witnessed it only through the misfortunes of the other girls, Deliah and Marjorie. He routinely meted out punishment to them for seemingly innocuous infractions or just because he felt like it. They were rarely without the physical scars he bestowed upon them to say nothing of the mental scars. Virginia lived in constant fear, knowing that her turn would surely come.

When it did, Virginia was totally unprepared for it.

It followed a particularly awful day on the wood heap in early winter. Long before dawn, Virginia had been summoned from her bed and ordered by one of the Pastoralist's nameless lackeys to chop up an entire truck load of firewood for the homestead. Quite unexpectedly, Virginia was greeted by the first rains of the season and they had arrived with a vengeance. There was a sense of urgency that hung over this task because the homestead was running low on dry wood for the fireplaces and kitchen stove. The Pastoralist's orders were clear - the wood had to be chopped and stacked safely away before the inclement weather rendered it totally useless.

The three girls were forced to worked on a roster based system, rotating through the various chores around the farm. It was Virginia's turn to perform the wood chopping and she dreaded it because, of the three girls, she was the worst at it. Of all the jobs, she struggled with it the most. The axe was heavy in her small hands and she could barely lift it. Thus, it took her twice as long to chop and stack the wood as it did Deliah and Marjorie.

Stepping out into the darkness of the predawn, the rain was already coming in hard. It peppered the skin like needles, it carried with it an interminable chill, a misery of sorts and it soaked everything. The sky above crackled with lightning, forks of electricity licked the pasture all around. How ever unnerved Virginia might have been, she didn't dare protest or abandon her task; the memory of witnessing the Pastoralist taking the broken axe handle to Deliah was still fresh in her mind and it frightened her into action.

Thus, Virginia toiled away in the mud and the wet, wielding the axe that stood almost half her own height. The only respite she could get from the storm was the skeletal remains of a burnt out shed that stood next to the wood pile. Though it's stone and brick walls were largely gone, parts of the iron roof were still intact so she was able to gain some protection from elements. Virginia retrieved some discarded sheets of iron that lay on the ground nearby to erect a makeshift wall on two sides so she could shield herself from the worst of the rain. It worked - but only partially.

With painstaking effort she did begin to master the axe. Her output began to increase accordingly. She loaded pile after pile of soaked firewood blocks into a rusted wheelbarrow then, braving the elements, she transported them along the long path to the shed behind the homestead. Over and over again she did this, becoming soaked through to the bone. By midday, Virginia had made some headway. She was shivering from the damp, but she ignored the discomfort.

At some point, Deliah appeared, almost without warning, with a plastic garbage bag she had spirited to Virginia from inside the house and that did provide Virginia some protection. She had also brought her a chicken sandwich and an apple for her to eat, having sneaked them from the kitchen when no one was looking. Together they stuffed the food item under some more iron inside the the ruined shed where they would stay dry. As much as she wanted to, Deliah didn't stay too long - she couldn't - for her work inside the house went on and the Pastoralist was, reportedly, in a foul mood because of the weather. If he caught Deliah out here, she would surely suffer under his brutal hand. She begged Virginia not to say anything.

By the middle of the afternoon Virginia was numb - both physically and emotionally. She struggled to move about freely in her sodden clothing. It had stuck to her skin, despite the modicum of protection the plastic garbage bag provided. Every so often she paused to gather her strength under the shelter of the iron, making sure that no one was watching. She sat down on a dry patch of ground and took out the sandwich which she had nibbled on gradually since Deliah had disappeared back indoors.

There was someone however...more specifically...something watching her.

The black and white cattle dog had snuck into view from the shelter of the out houses and had been surveying Virginia from afar as he often did. When Virginia disappeared from view, the dog whimpered from his vantage point, trying to see where she had gone. Eventually, his curiosity prompted him to brave the weather and he made a dash for the wood pile where, upon rounding the corner of the shed, he founded the little girl huddled up under the iron.

Virginia looked up upon seeing the dog and regarded him absently. She was shivering too much to acknowledge him. The dog stopped short in the rain, his eyes falling across the morsel of food Virginia held in her hand, waiting hopefully.

"Well?" Virginia croaked, her voice gravelly from months of silence. "D...don't just stand there"

Virginia gestured to the dog who needed no further prompting. He trotted in under the shelter and sat down on his haunches, wagging his tail as Virginia handed him a small corner of bread and chicken. He gobbled it down eagerly and then whimpered expectantly for more.

"I got no more" Virginia held out her empty hands, but the dog wasn't looking at her hands. Rather, they were focused on the apple that sat in her lap.

Virginia glanced down and the shining red fruit and frowned quizzically at the dog.

"Fruit?" she questioned incredulously. "How silly".

Taking the apple in her shaking hands, Virginia bit off a piece of flesh and tossed it to the dog who snapped it up effortlessly in his jaws.

That single action both surprised and actually delighted Virginia who, for the first time in what seemed an eternity, did something that felt completely foreign to her.

She smiled.

Taking another bite of the apple, this time for herself, Virginia reached out for the dog's collar and thumbed a silver disc that hung from it. She read the inscription that was engraved on it's surface.

Again she frowned.

"Simon?" she croaked. "What kind of name is that for a dog?"

The dog, Simon, just sat there, quivering with excitement rather than cold.

Virginia shared another piece of the apple with Simon. And another, until all that was left was the core.

She appraised the drab sky outside.

"Is it always so miserable here Simon?"

The dog barked once and wagged his bushy tail enthusiastically.

Her hunger assuaged somewhat, Virginia got to her feet, brushed down the plastic of her make shift poncho, then took the axe handle from it's resting place beside the entrance.

"You stay here Simon" she ordered as earnestly as she could. "No sense in two of us getting soaked through"

As she was about to return to her work, Virginia stopped when, from across the compound, coming from the parlor room of the homestead, the sound of music drifted through the rain and the storm and into her ears. Virginia whipped her head in the direction of the house and stood perfectly still, listening to the beautiful, plaintive sonnet, captivated.

It captured Virginia's attention - her imagination - and she had unconsciously begun to look forward to it every day when she was working. In fact, she made sure that her other chores were completed and she was out on the verandah, sweeping and dusting - it always began at the same time each day. The music always stopped her dead in her tracks and the more she listened to it the more she was drawn to its beauty.

Virginia knew now what the music was, having listened into conversations amongst the girls and the other workers on the farm. It was the Pastoralist's wife and the instrument she played was called a violin. Virginia had only ever glimpsed this woman from a distance and she had never actually seen her instrument. She was never in a position to see the woman play but Virginia always knew by her music that she was there.

And in that moment, there on the wood heap, in the driving, miserable rain, a thousand miles from anywhere, Virginia closed her eyes and drifted away from the farm on the sounds of the violin music. Time melted and was gone. She felt as light as a feather. There was nothing but peace.

Her reverie was suddenly and violently broken when a sharp, stinging blow crashed into the side of her head - so powerful that it lifted Virginia off her feet and propelled her small body a full six feet across the muddy ground where she crashed into the wood pile.

She was immediately overcome by nausea and she scrambled desperately where she lay, her mind swirling in panic. Struggling to bring her eyes into focus, Virginia blinked furiously and looked up to see the towering figure of the Pastoralist standing over her.

"What are you doing?!" he bellowed satanically.

Virginia tried to stifle the urge to vomit from the stinging pain in her ear and an accompanying, high pitched ringing that had assailed her hearing. Her heart raced, her lungs heaved and spasmed as though she had forgotten to breath. Gaining a precarious hold on her senses, Virginia became aware of a snake like object the Pastoralist gripped in his right hand, which he began to unspool.

It was a bull whip.

"Answer me!!" the Pastoralist roared, reaching down with his free hand and grabbing Virginia by the throat, yanking her to her feet.

"I don't give you shelter here so you can do what you like, when you like...," he paused as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the half eaten apple. "And I won't have thieving in my home!"

Virginia blinked completely dumbfounded as the Pastoralist threw the apple at her as hard as he could, striking her square in her belly and winding her. He grabbed at the plastic that covered her and the fabric of her dress, tearing it from her in one swift motion. Then he stepped back several paces, the bull whip hanging from his hand.

Standing there, completely naked now, Virginia was utterly paralyzed, her disorientation had coalesced into blinding fear. The Pastoralist raised the thick handle of the whip above his head and he parted his legs.

"Turn around!" he screamed maniacally.

Virginia remained frozen on the spot, staring blankly up at him, his stony features shaded by the brim of his hat. She couldn't move.

The Pastoralist spat on her and brought the handle of the whip down with a flick of his wrist. The length of plaited leather whistled through the air, snapped back loudly and Virginia yelped in pain as the whip's end cut a deep crimson gash into her skin. Intense pain blossomed across her chest and she began to shake uncontrollably. The music from inside the house stopped and all Virginia heard now was the crack of whip echoing in her head.

The Pastoralist brought the handle back over his head and cracked the bull whip again, the end striking her almost identical to the first. She bit her lip. Tears streamed down her face and she felt her legs buckle underneath her.

Quite unexpectedly, a single thought passed across her failing consciousness.

Where has the music gone?

As the Pastoralist whirled the bull whip around his head for a third time, Virginia crumpled to the ground and curled over, vomiting into the mud. Her consciousness fading, the Pastoralist's whip struck home across her shoulders. She made no sound as her blood trickled down over her skin and was washed away by the rain. The burning pain overwhelmed her and she succumbed to the darkness.

The Pastoralist glared at the unconscious child on the ground, his anger boiling like a furnace. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his nerves; to slow his breath. Then, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the child on the ground.

Simon, who had been cowering under the shelter of the ruined shed, waited until his master was gone from view then he slunk cautiously over to Virginia's still form.

The darkness seemed to envelop everything...but not quite.

A blanket was draped across her still form, protecting her from the rain. She could sense a pair of delicate, feminine hands on her skin - then more hands underneath her, lifting her. And then she was no longer out of doors. In her darkness, she could hear the echoing whispers of a woman's voice, issuing instructions to someone unseen - 'Bring the disinfectant and towels. I need boiling water, bandages'. She could sense the urgency around her but something prevented her from opening her eyes to see. The blackness prevailed again. There was nothing.

* * *

Virginia awoke, days later to find herself inexplicably assigned to kitchen and cleaning duties inside the homestead.

It was the first time she had ventured out of her quarters in nearly a week and she still moved gingerly, owing to the still painful welts on her chest and back. She had been confined to her bed where she'd battled a rampant fever and excruciating pain. She hadn't been able to keep any food down nor fluids. She didn't so much sleep as she did writhe in the fog of infection for night after night. The girls were sent a fresh supply of bandages and antiseptic twice a day to tend to her horrific wounds. Food was brought from the kitchen by the head house keeper each day - more food than they were ever allowed before. The girls were ordered to keep quiet and make no mention of this in front of the Pastoralist. Clearly, someone else was ensuring the girls had what they needed to care for Virginia.

Eventually, Virginia's fever broke. She slowly began to recover and, after being inspected by the chief house keeper, she had been declared fit for duties once more and summoned to the kitchen - much to the shock of Deliah and Marjorie and herself.

Working inside the house was considered a significant step up for a domestic servant and it only ever came after a significant period of proving oneself in performing the more menial and less desirable chores.

Virginia had encountered the Pastoralist's head house keeper in passing and she had learned to fear this imposing barrel of a woman who always wore a scarf around her head and seemed only to ever bellow orders to the other girls.

It was clear from the moment that Virginia stepped into the kitchen, the house keeper was not at all impressed with her. She examined Virginia with keen eye of a drill sergeant, grabbing her ear lobes roughly and checking behind them. She held Virginia's hands, turning them over, picking at her eczema afflicted skin. Finally the house keeper inspected Virginia's finger nails, noting specks of ingrained dirt in some of them which she tried to loosen with her own claw like nail. Virginia just stood there and quivered like a jittery field mouse, jumping at shadows and the softest of noises.

The house keeper shook her head, disappointed.

"You're too scrappy to be inside here," she appraised her dourly. "But I've been...encouraged...to make use of you"

The house keeper turned to a cupboard on the far wall of the kitchen and fetched a bucket, an apron and some cleaning cloths.

"You'll start in the bathroom. Mop the floors, buff and polish them. Make sure the tiles glimmer and the grout is as clean as the day it was applied. Then you'll attend to the toilets and the laundry. Understand?"

Virginia blinked and nodded obediently as the house keeper deposited the equipment in front of her.

The house keeper pointed towards a doorway that lead through to the inner house.

"Go," she ordered. "I'll be in to check on your work"

Virginoa gingerly gathered up the bucket and mop and made her way through the doorway into. A long hall greeted her and she was immediately struck by the grandness of it. Plush carpets under foot, large paintings hanging from the walls on either side of her, large and imposing items of furniture standing silent, their contents visible through shining glass. She imagined that this was what a castle might be like.

Her work began again but, this time, Virginia felt strangely calm and protected in the confines of the homestead. She mopped and scrubbed the tile work and the floors of the laundry and bathroom just as the house keeper had instructed. She removed every trace of mould and dirt from the grouting in the spaces between each tile. She buffed and polished the brass taps and fittings until she could glimpse her own reflection in them. She took special care with the tile work in the bathroom which had pretty patterns and shapes that Virginia found herself drawn to.

Time blurred once more and Virginia became lost in her tasks.

That was until the door the bath room swung open abruptly and the house keeper appeared just as Virginia was making one final pass of the bath tub.

The house keeper glared at Virginia kneeling before the tub. The child fairly jumped out of her skin and froze where she kneeled.

The house keeper inspected the bath room with a keen eye and opened her mouth as if to point out some flaw in Virginia's work. But she held her tongue. She couldn't say anything. 

The child had done her job well...very well.

"Come with me" she snapped, turning on her heel from the doorway, forcing Virginia to clumsily gather up her things and follow hastily.

She caught up to the house keeper just as she disappeared through into a large dining room, the center piece of which was a long shining mahogany table with seating for 12 people. It was quite possibly the largest table Virginia had ever seen.

The house keeper turned to Virginia and snatched the bucket and mop from her grasp, replacing them with a feather duster, a bottle of furniture polish.

"Every surface in here needs to be dusted and polished" the house keeper instructed. "There will be not one speck of dust on them when I return"

She swept from the room leaving Virginia to marvel at the austere beauty of the formal dining room she stood in. A huge grand father clock stood in the corner immediately to her left and she approached it serenely, gazing at the. shining brass pendulum that swung back and forth inside it.

Adjacent to the clock stood an imposing display cabinet which housed the most beautiful collection of crockery and glassware Virginia had ever seen. Hesitantly, she kneeled before the glass doors of the cabinet and cast her eyes over the wondrous treasures inside.

All at once Virginia felt a gout of panic rise within her and she stood bolt upright, flicking her head in one direction then the other. She couldn't understand why she was here after the brutal punishment she had received from the Pastoralist. Why had she been assigned to such a privileged position in the homestead when surely the older girls - Deliah and Marjorie - were entitled to move upward into a position such as this. It all felt so wrong. Why was she here? In this house?

The need to work, to distract her thoughts from anxiety flooded her and she rushed over to the entrance, picked up her equipment and furiously began dusting the furniture in an effort to calm herself. The grand father clock behind her suddenly came to life, it's internal mechanism clicking and whirring until the chime inside sounded noisily in her ears.

Virginia jumped and yelped audibly, scrambling underneath the table where she cowered until the clock finished chiming, loudly and methodically, eleven times. Then, the quiet tick-tock returned to the dining room.

Virginia hesitated, her heart thumping as she scanned the room, looking for any sign of somebody coming to punish her for making such a loud noise. But, nobody did appear and after several minutes, she cautiously crawled out from underneath the table and resumed her dusting albeit nervously.

From somewhere nearby - another room in the house, Virginia heard the sound of a curious crackling issue suddenly and she stopped her work and cocked her ear to listen. The crackling last mere seconds before it was replaced by the tinny sound of a piano being played and a lovely melody filtered through into the dining room.

It was the music.

Virginia slowly set the feather duster down and carefully tip toed across to the doorway, peeking around the frame of the entrance. The music was coming from directly across the hall, from the room that was the parlor - the very parlor that she knew so well from lingering outside the window on the verandah. Virginia positioned herself clandestinely so that she watch without being seen. A woman was visible through the doorway, sitting on a soft high backed chair, holding a violin in her hands.

It was the same woman whom Virginia had glimpsed through the curtains of the window. The same woman whom she had glimpsed from afar as she rode her horse out across the pastures regularly. The same woman who played her violin in such a way that whenever Virginia heard it, time stood still.

The woman was the Pastoralist's wife.

She was tall and stately, even when sitting down. Her hair was a rich chest-nut auburn, swept up on one side and clipped into place with an ornate hair pin. Her skin was as fine as porcelain - Virginia had never seen skin so soft and her large eyes were a deep jade green. Curiously, Virginia sensed something in those eyes - a hint of sadness - although she couldn't be sure.

The Pastoralist's wife's fingers were long and delicate, yet they held the instrument confidently. She wore mole-skins, leather riding boots and a checked shirt. Evidently, she had just returned from a canter on her horse.

Just in front of the woman, Virginia could see the conical brass shape of a gramophone's horn - the source of the music. As the piano accompaniment lilted towards a pause, the Pastoralist's wife lifted the violin to her neck and began to play, drawing the strange bow across the long end of the instrument and harmonizing beautifully with the piano.

Virginia was mesmerized.

Each stroke of the bow made the violin sing - not only in long, languid notes but also in rapid stanzas as though it were skipping across a pond like a smooth stone, catching the air as it moved ever forwards.

Virginia unconsciously moved further and further into view until her head was visible in the doorway. So engrossed in the music was she, she had failed to notice that the woman had detected Virginia out of the corner of her eye. One corner of her lips turned upwards but she gave no hint that she had seen Virginia.

The sonata continued and though the gramophone record featured both the piano and the violin, the Pastoralist's wife played so expertly that Virginia could hear only her violin as she played it.

It was more beautiful here and now, at such close quarters, than at any other time when Virginia had heard it.

Standing in full view in the door way now, Virginia remained completely unaware that the woman's playing had drawn her out from her hiding spot.

The sonata rose to it's finish and the woman lifted the bow away from the instrument with a theatrical flourish. Then, she looked directly at Virginia. The woman's deep green eyes drilled into Virginia's own and Virginia shivered.

She was paralyzed where she stood.

The Pastoralist's wife rested the violin on her lap and regarded Virginia with a flat expression. 

Then, she tilted her head to one side.

"Come here" she said softly, beckoning with a gesture of her hand.

Virginia couldn't move. She shook her head reflexively.

The woman's expression coalesced into an unexpected smile.

"It's alright. I won't bite. Come and let me see you"

Something in the woman's voice relaxed Virginia and her fear melted away all at once. Slowly, she stepped forward, through the entrance and across the hall into the parlour until she was mere feet from the woman.

Once there, the Pastoralist's wife leaned forward and rested her elbows on her crossed legs, still balancing the violin in her lap.

"I've been watching you" she said. "I know you've been listening to my music"

The woman's voice was familiar but Virginia held her hands behind her back and tried to look everywhere but at the her. She was was fearful. She couldn't be sure whether the Pastoralist's wife was about to be angry or otherwise. Her demeanor didn't suggest anger but Virginia nonetheless remained on her guard. She had learned to fear any adult who focused their attention on her.

"What's your name?" the woman queried with an intrigued lilt to her voice.

Virginia hesitated, trying to quell the noise of her heart beat in her ears. She opened her mouth to speak but she bit her lip at the last moment, as though trying to prevent her voice from escaping.

"V...Virginia" she whispered scratchily.

"Virginia" the Pastoralist's wife echoed softly, smiling warmly. "That is a pretty name. My name is Mrs. Llewellyn"

"Llew..." Virginia began, struggling to pronounce the name. "...wellyn"

"That's right" the woman praised brightly. "You do have a good voice"

Virginia began to fidget nervously where she stood and stifled a wince when she arched one of her shoulders back causing a dagger of pain from her still raw wounds to knife through her.

Through a gap in the neck of her dress, Mrs. Llewellyn could see the top edge of a dressing that covered the wounds on Virginia's chest. A small spot of fresh blood. was visible. Mrs. Llewellyn's expression quickly melted into one of concern and, quite unexpectedly, one of guilt. She reached out towards Virginia and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

"They still hurt you, yes?" she observed quietly.

This time, Virginia nodded. She did not pull away.

Something akin to shame flashed across the Pastoralist's wife's eyes and she looked away from Virginia fleetingly, her bottom lip quivered visibly as she tried to prevent tears from welling in her eyes.

Virginia eyes fell across the instrument in Mrs. Llewellyn's lap and she began studying it closely.

Mrs. Llewellyn's own gaze return to Virginia's face - then to the violin. She sat back in her chair, placed her hands on it and lifted the instrument towards Virginia.

"Come. Would you like to hold it?"

Virginia blinked and hesitated a moment, looking over her shoulder worriedly.

"Oh, don't worry about Merle," Mrs. Llewellyn assured her softly, holding the violin out closer. "Here"

Slowly, Virginia held out both her hands and allowed Mrs. Llewellyn to place the violin gently into them.

Virginia was immediately struck by just how light the instrument felt. It was as if it were hardly there at all. But, more than that, she was transfixed by it's beauty - it's richly grained wood surface, it's intricately scrolled neck.

"What do you think?" Mrs. Llewellyn asked.

Virginia's expression was one of reverence and unbeknownst to her, she bore a fascinated half smile.

"It's...b...beautiful Missus"

Gently, she raised the violin up and turned it over in her hands, nestling it gently into the crook of her neck in an attempt to replicate the way she had observed Mrs. Llewellyn hold it.

Instinctively, she rested her chin onto the rest at the foot of the violin and held it there.

When she looked up at Mrs. Llewellyn, she was met with an approving smile and a nod.

"It feels natural...doesn't it" Mrs. Llewellyn observed.

Virginia nodded.

Mrs. Llewellyn picked up the bow and placed it into Virginia's free hand. Then she gently manipulated Virginia's fingers into position on the fretboard of the violin.

"Now...see if you can produce a note"

Virginia looked up at Mrs. Llewellyn nervously.

"Go on. You can do it"

Slowly, Virginia raised the bow whilst trying to keep the fingers of her other hand in position on the fret board. She adjusted her grip on the bow and then closed her eyes, lowering it towards the center of the violin's strings. As she touched the surface, Virginia instinctively drew the bow across the strings smoothly, eliciting a perfect B flat note that lingered softly until she halted her stroke at the end of the bow's length.

It was then that she realized that she had closed her eyes.

Snapping them open, she glanced across at Mrs. Llewellyn who sat there nodding slowly.

"That was beautiful" she said. "How did it feel?"

Virginia stood there wearing a curious smile and holding the violin in position, the bow in her free hand. She felt a reluctance to let let go of the violin. It felt comfortable there in her grasp, as though she had always known it. Standing there in the parlour of the homestead, Virginia felt something inside of her that she had not felt in many months.

It was hope...

DFA.

Gifts of the Peramangk is Copyright 2011, Hambledown Road Imprints & Dean Mayes.

Gifts Of The Peramangk - WIP Preview No.2

I wasn't quite expecting the response I got from last weeks preview of my current work in progress "Gifts of the Peramangk" - in fact, I was kinda floored. I got some really great feedback both on the blog and elsewhere across the web and it's been hugely encouraging. 

So, this week, I'm going to share another preview with you. And to stick with a little bit of continuity, I'm going to pick up young Virginia's story after she is taken by the authorities from her tranquil life in the Adelaide Hills. This preview actually occurs a little way further in to the manuscript because I'm structuring Virginia's back story as a series of flashbacks which will serve the main story that takes place in contemporary 2011. Again, this is an unpolished piece, probably bristling with grammatical flubs which I make no excuse for at this point. I want to encourage your feedback. Tell me what you think, what you like, what you don't like. Tear me down if you have to!! :)

1951.

A single rattle trap utility bumped along a dusty road, heading towards an, as yet, unseen destination. It kicked up plumes of dust behind it that were caught up and carried away by a languid breeze, disappearing into an overcast sky above a field of yellow pasture. Clouds had gathered on the near horizon behind the truck. Tendrils of rain fell from them but it was unlikely that rain would catch the truck any time soon. The fields around the truck, the sparse population of sheep and cattle that grazed within them had not seen rain for a long time.

A small figure sat huddled in the tray of the truck, holding onto the wooden sides with a vice like grip every time the truck shuddered over a pot hole in the track. Virginia flinched uncomfortably as she bounced on the wooden surface, her tail bone hitting it harshly and causing her pain. She did not dare protest to the driver inside the cabin. It was likely fall on deaf ears anyhow.

Virginia sat downcast, her knees drawn up against her tiny frame, bony arms wrapped around her knees. She appeared emaciated; her hair was stringy and limp. The plain dress she wore was made of a harsh material that had been plied with so much starch that it was stiff and abrasive against her skin.

She felt sick - she always felt sick nowadays. Not since she had been taken from her mother, did she remember feeling anything but sick. The food that she had been served up, day after day at the hospital where she had lived for the past few months was little more than gruel. Eventually, and unbeknownst to the Sisters there, Virginia had stopped eating the food altogether. To her mind, it was patently inedible.

A lifetime had passed - it seemed like a lifetime anyway - since she had seen her mother. The very thought of her mother and not being with weighed down so heavily upon Virginia that it threatened to crush her. Even now, the memory of her mother caused tears to well up and Ginnie could not hold them back. The grief was overwhelming. She couldn't understand why her mother never came to get her and take her home, nor could she understand why her questions about seeing her mother again were dismissed by the people who had taken her. No one had told her anything really; except that she was sick and that her mother could no longer look after her.

She had been separated from Albert not long after they had been brought to the hospital in the city. Though she had seen him once or twice some time after they arrived, Albert was eventually taken away from there and he all but disappeared. They wouldn't even tell her where he had gone.

Initially, Virginia had persisted with her questioning, drawing the ire of the Sisters and Aboriginal Protection Officers. She had been punished many times - severely - for defying their instructions whilst she was in the hospital, for refusing to eat her meals, for trying to escape, for crying for hours on end in the depths of the night. Eventually, Virginia stopped fighting them, defying them. A deep depression set in - a grief. She grieved for her mother and father. She grieved for Albert and the other children. She grieved for home. After a time, Virginia stopped eating or sleeping, interacting or speaking. Her voice vanished and she allowed her captors to do with her, whatever they desired.

Now, inexplicably, she was here. They had bundled her up into this rickety truck without explanation, driven out of the hospital and away from the city on a road that seemed endless, its destination uncertain. She had sat for hours, passing through rain and wind and the blistering sun with nothing but a canvas sheet to protect her. They had told her nothing.

The truck passed by a tall, gnarled, dead tree standing solitary in the field near the road. Virginia glanced up at it, spying two crows sitting side by side on a twisted branch. One of them issued a long, mournful caw as the truck passed by. She stared blankly at them through bloodshot eyes until they were out of sight and the road angled around to the right. The tree shrank to a speck behind her, swallowed up by the vastness of the landscape.

A line of bald hills flanked the road to the north on her left while, to the south, the fields threw stretched away into infinity. There was so much space - yet Virginia felt claustrophobic by its vastness.

Suddenly, Virginia heard the sound of a dog barking and she turned her head slightly to the left. A lean black and white cattle dog galloped along beside the truck at a cracking pace, its tongue flapping along side in the breeze. The dog jumped deftly over the uneven ground beside the road, flanking the vehicle, yapping enthusiastically up at Virginia who just stared dumbfounded at the mutt.

Overcoming a great inertia, Virginia turned herself around and looked through the rear window of the cabin. Out through the windshield, she saw a farm house up ahead, an austere sand stone homestead with a wide verandah that wrapped all the way around it. Several smaller buildings stood off to one side. Several palms bordered the property near a fence that stretched along the front of the grounds.

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, her curiosity was piqued.

The truck slowed as it approached the property allowing the enthusiastic dog to leap across in front of it. It passed through an entrance and over a steel cattle grate, scattering a group of chickens in all directions just beyond, before it turned in a wide arc around a lush circle of lawn in front of the farm house. The driver brought the vehicle to a stop and killed the engine.

Virginia slumped back against the cabin of the truck and drew her legs up even closer, gripping the single bag she held in her hands. She was too tired to feel frightened at this point, though her heart was pumping quickly in her chest.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to the verandah of the house, stood a tall man wearing a flannel shirt, dusty brown pants with suspenders and an aging leather belt and a wide brimmed pastoralist's hat that sat low, concealing his eyes and much of his face in shadow. A long cob pipe jutted from one corner of his mouth, curling wisps of blue smoke drifted up into the air from it. The man stood, his huge arms bent at the elbows, his hands in his pockets, silent.

Waiting.

The driver stepped out of the cabin of the truck and strode around to the rear. Once there, he signaled with a sharp gesture of his hand and a shrill whistle.

"Come on," he snapped.

Virginia didn't respond. She didn't look up. She didn't move.

Hoisting himself up into the tray, the driver snatched the bag out of Virginia's hands and angrily tossed it over the side. Before she knew what was happening, he grabbed her arm roughly and jerked her to her feet, dragging her like a rag doll off the back of the truck. Once off the ground, he leaned close to her.

"Pick up your bag you little grub"

He let her go and immediately stood tall, flashing a broad, cheesy smile as he adjusted his Stetson on his head and walked up to the man at the foot of the verandah.

The dog, who had sat itself down on the ground several feet away, watched the crumpled form of the girl beside the truck. Slowly, she got to her feet and stepped slowly over to her up ended bag. The dog, its tall ears pricked up and forward, whimpered softly, its long tongue lolling.

The driver offered his hand to the silent man who remained statue-like where he stood. He did not return the gesture.

"Good afternoon Sir" the driver greeted drippingly, withdrawing his hand quickly in a pathetic attempt to pretend that he had meant to swat an insect from in front of his face. "I'm...I'm Whitchester, from the Aborigines Protection Office"

The Pastoralist's eyes were focused beyond Whitchester, upon the child who stepped gingerly towards them, her bare feet flinching on the hot, dusty ground. Her dress was dirty, plain and torn in a coupe of places. She looked sick and pasty, despite her dark skin.

Virginia stopped a few feet behind Whitchester and looked up at the Pastoralist. He was a huge man, with a broad pair of shoulders, a stubbly jaw that appeared as hard as granite. She could not see his eyes under the brim of his hat.

Whitchester turned and subtly dragged Virginia by her arm around to stand in front of him. He placed his hands down on her shoulders, causing her to wince.

"This is the colored you asked for" Whitchester said hastily.

The Pastoralist tilted his head slightly, examining the child from head to toe. His expression remained as flat as Virginia's. After a few moments, he opened his mouth.

"She's a bit small. She got the mange or something?"

"No, no - not at all," Whitchester answered hastily. "It's perhaps just the drive up. We passed through some weather on the way. I can assure you, the Office has given the black a clean bill of health. It'll be...productive".

The Pastoralist took a huge, meaty hand out of his pocket and rubbed his chin thoughtfully allowing several more moments of silence to pass between them. On the verandah behind him two figures huddled at the corner of the house, watching the exchange silently.

He cocked his head around to his right and issued a shrill dog whistle that echoed across the compound. The two figures, two young Aboriginal girls several years older than Virginia skittered quickly along the verandah and stopped at the top of the stairs.

Without turning, the Pastoralist spoke.

"Take her to the out house. Clean her up. Get her out of those rags"

One of the young women skipped down the stairs and went across to Virginia.

The barefoot teenaged girl wore a crisp, white linen dress with an apron. Her hair was shiny and combed neatly to one side. When she reached Virginia she flashed her a warm, encouraging smile and took her hand. The girl's skin felt soft and velvety against Virginia's own. Quite inexplicably, Virginia felt a sharp jolt of something that had not experienced in a while.

It was hope.

Virginia had no idea what to expect, where she was being taken to, but she submitted to being lead away without protest.

As the girl stepped up onto the verandah, the dog sitting across the compound tracked them both with its eyes until they disappeared around the side of the house.

The Pastoralist waited until the girls were out of sight then he turned on his heel and ascended the stairs silently, leaving Whitchester to stand there alone, awkwardly.

Eventually, hesitantly, he turned and climbed into the truck. He started the engine and drove away from the farm house, disappearing over the horizon as though he had never existed.

From a window of the farm house, a pair of eyes that were peeking out from behind a curtain, held back by a petite and feminine hand, lingered for a time after everyone had gone. The hand released the curtain and the eyes too were gone. 

*                                    *                                   *

Virginia sat in a large metal tub filled with hot, soapy water as the two girls washed and scrubbed her tiny frame.

It was the first bath she'd had in days and though she didn't say it, Virginia felt indescribably good to be clean once more.

One of the girls, whose name was Deliah, fussed over Virginia's hair, massaging it with the ends of her fingers, ridding it of all the dust and the grime that had accumulated. The second girl, the one who had first greeted Virginia, was perched on her haunches in front of her, armed with a flannelette cloth and was cleaning her face. This girl, Marjorie, chatted away to Virginia as she washed, telling her all about the farm, the chickens in the yard, the wood they used for the fire, the shearing sheds nearby where the sheep were brought to for shearing, the stables where the horses were housed and the farm house with it's beautiful furniture, it's large kitchen with a big old cast iron stove and the ginger cat that flopped around lazily on the table there.

Virginia remained silent the whole time, not daring to utter a word as Marjorie talked and talked and talked. She instead, surveyed her surroundings. They were inside one of the buildings outside the main house. It was a sparse single room with a fireplace at one end, a table and chairs in the middle, a sink and cabinets along one wall behind and a pair of bunks, standing along each side wall at the other end.

Finally, Virginia was extricated from her bath and was dried off with fluffy white towels. They dressed her in a brand new white, cotton dress, similar to the ones they wore and an apron.

Deliah combed her hair, parting it carefully to one side until she was satisfied, then she nodded to herself.

"There you are" she said simply. "Good as new"

Virginia didn't say anything. She just blinked up at Deliah.

"You don't say much do you," Deliah noted. "Can't you talk?"

Virginia remained silent.

"Well, that's no good" Marjorie observed dryly. "Because we love to talk around here. We always talk - especially to the animals. They're the best ones to talk to. All the time! Talk, talk, tal..."

"You love to talk Marjy," Deliah cut in gruffly. "You'd talk the leg off a horse if you were given the chance"

Marjorie appeared hurt for a fraction of a second before she smiled and winked at Virginia.

Deliah appraised Virginia with her hands on her hips.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to...but it would be helpful to know your name"

She cocked her head slightly, waiting for an answer.

Virginia didn't respond.

Unperturbed, Deliah turned and went over to the bag Virginia had brought with her, which lay on the bed.

Deliah opened the flap and rifled through it casually, looking for anything that might be labeled. Sure enough, she lifted one of the hospital dresses out of the bag and inspected its collar.

"V. Crammond" Deliah announced. "V...what is that...Violet?"

Virginia remained still where she stood.

"Hmmm" Deliah mused. "Viole...What about Veronica?"

Still Virginia didn't move, didn't speak.

Deliah frowned then looked down into the bag once more. She reached in and pulled out a rather squashed and wrinkly rag doll - a bear - with patches all over and one missing button eye.

She turned it over in her hands and looked closely at some text written on a tag that jutted out from one hip.

"Virginia" Deliah said. "Is it Virginia?"

Marjorie grinned broadly and clapped her hands together.

"Oooh - that is a lovely name" she gushed.

Deliah carefully returned the items to her bag and closed the flap once more. She stepped towards Virginia again.

"Well, Virginia it is then. We'll look after you here Virginia. This place isn't like the hospital. It's...different"

Virginia noted her pause then, and fleetingly wondered at its significance. But she said nothing.

"We have lots of things to do and we're always bus..."

The door to the out building flung open abruptly and the huge figure of the Pastoralist stepped through the entrance, ducking his head slightly to avoid hitting it on the door frame.

Both Deliah and Marjorie snapped to attention as his rose to his full height once more, while Virginia froze where she stood, blinking up at the Pastoralist, completely dumb founded.

He eyeballed all three girls.

"You got her clean yet!?" his voice boomed in the confines of the room, causing both girls to shudder where they stood, while Virginia remained deathly still.

The Pastoralist inspected Virginia up and down. He reached out and grabbed her hands in his own, seemingly monstrous palms. He turned them over in his, checking to make sure they were clean. He inspected her nails to ensure there was no dirt trapped underneath them.

Virginia watched him, too frightened to move or to protest.

Once he was satisfied, he let them go and stood back.

"Put her to work!" he snapped malevolently. "There are chores to be done!

The Pastoralist scowled at them, before backing out of the room and leaving without shutting the door.

Once he was gone, Deliah and Marjorie looked at each other with barely contained relief.

Marjorie crept cautiously over to the entrance and peeked around the door frame to make sure he was gone.

Deliah put her hand on Virginia's shoulder.

"Come on kiddo" she said flatly. "We'll start you out on the verandah"

And it was on the verandah, where it began - this new life that Virginia had been foisted into. She had no idea what was expected of her, no idea why she was here. Deliah fetched a wide broom that was leaning up against the stone work of the house and placed it into Virginia's hands. She gestured to the dusty wooden boards of the verandah.

"Start" she said simply.

While Deliah assigned herself to an axe handle and Marjorie spirited herself away to the kitchen, Virginia stood on the front porch of the house, armed with the broom that was almost twice as tall as she was. Slowly, steadily, Virginia extended the broom outward in her hands and began sweeping.

With a methodical rhythm, Virginia quietly swept away what were the vestiges of her old life under the bristles of the broom. It began well before dawn, when the night sky still twinkled with a billion stars, with the twice daily routine of sweeping the entire verandah of dust and grit. She was then directed to the chicken coop, down behind the out house where she slept, where she collected the eggs then cleaned out the coop - a constant battle she undertook with birds flying about her head and defecating on her if she was not careful. After that, Virginia was put to work in the horse stables, feeding the Pastoralists four horses hay each morning and night, ensuring they had fresh water and mucking out the stables. Sometimes, she chopped wood in the darkness of the pre-dawn and long after dusk, regardless of the weather, wearing nothing but her linen dress and no shoes on her feet. Chopping the firewood was the one task that frightened her. She struggled with the heavy axe and could barely wield it. She constantly feared that she would break it and she had already witnessed the consequences of breaking one of the Pastoralists tools.

Once, Deliah had done just that whilst attempting to split a particularly knotted piece of timber. Deliah had brought the axe handle down, striking the wood awkwardly. The handle broke clean in two. She stood there, blinking at the broken end of the handle. As if from nowhere, the Pastoralist materialized and stormed up to Deliah like a monstrous wraith, bellowing with fury. He snatched the broken handle from Deliah, grabbed her throat with a huge, meaty hand and smashed the splintered axe handle across her face, over and over, drawing blood through gaping lacerations. His ferocity wasn't assuaged until she lapsed into unconsciousness. Then, calmly, he threw her to the ground and walked away, the bloodied axe handle still in his hand.

Stunned by the horror she had witnessed, Virginia turned away and continued with her own work, too frightened to go to Delilah’s aid. She withdrew even further and refused to even look at the other girls or anyone who came to the farm. 

Virginia made her work her refuge, her protection. Day after day, she would toil without stopping, without protesting until long after the sun went down. All the while, watching from a short distance away was the black and white cattle dog with the pointed ears and mottled socks on its front legs. Virginia knew he was watching her, but she didn't respond to him.

Virginia fell into her bed each night and lay in the darkness, weeping softly until she fell asleep, tormented by her longing for home, for her mother and her father. Above Virginia, recovering from her grievous injuries, Deliah listened to her quiet sobs, whilst holding back her own, but she made no move to comfort Virginia.

Her mundane routine continued on and on and eventually, Virginia lost all concept of time. One day melded into another. She saw the sun rise and set before anyone else. Hours were swept away underneath the bristles of her broom. She made every effort to avoid the attention of the Pastoralist. She quickly grew to fear him...to hate him and she made sure she kept as far away and out of view as possible.

One particular evening, just on dusk, when the shrill song of crickets floated across the fields, Virginia moved along the verandah in one direction, sweeping the wooden boards clean, quietly proud of her work. She was careful to ensure that she had covered each part of the verandah twice, making sure that no area was missed or that a rogue collection of dust had accumulated behind her. The Pastoralist would skin her alive if the boards were not perfect.

The dog sat beside a rocking chair while she worked, watching her. The dog had become a constant companion, even though Virginia continued to ignore his presence. 

As Virginia progressed, her mind filled with images of home - as it often did - memories of sweeping the small verandah of her parents’ cottage. Virginia would look up to see her mother's smiling face as she watched Virginia with gratitude. Other memories infiltrated. Of riding tall on her father's shoulders, laughing and singing as together, walked along a track under the boughs of the eucalypts near the town.

She struggled to prevent herself from being overwhelmed by grief as she stood here alone, on this vast porch that could, for all the world, have swallowed her whole. She broke down silently. Tears spilled from Virginia's eyes and dropped onto the boards under her feet. Panicked, she swept them away with her broom, fearing that the Pastoralist would see her and punish her. She felt herself growing despondent

Why am I here? Why can't I go home?

The questions echoed, reverberating off corners and around bends inside her mind, tormenting her.

She looked across the compound, out through gates of the farm, along the road that disappeared into the vast distance where - for all she knew - there was an all consuming nothingness. Her desolation was complete.

Suddenly, from behind Virginia, a sound issued forth from the closed window. It was a sound that Virginia had never heard before - a long, crisp refrain that seemed to go on forever. It wavered melodically then dissipated into nothingness.

Virginia wiped furiously at her eyes and turned around swiftly as the sound came again, slightly louder this time, crisp and pure as the one before it. She was struck dumb. What on Earth could it be. Carefully scanning the verandah, ensuring there was no one else around, Virginia pushed the memories of home to one side and crept slowly up to the window. She leaned the broom handle against the stone work beside it and carefully placed her hands on the sill. As gently as she could, Virginia leaned in, craning her neck and peered through the glass.

In the parlor beyond, a woman sat in a plush chair her back to the window. A gramophone with a large brass horn stood on a pedestal in front if the woman. She was perched slightly forward and was holding something in her hands, up against her neck. Virginia squinted in the soft light from the parlor, trying to make out what it was. The woman drew a long, thin stick with a string tied to it across the object, eliciting a sound - the sound that Virginia had heard.

Her grief had been completely usurped now, by fascination.

The woman played, stringing several of these long notes together into a coherent stream of sound that sounded all at once somewhat mournful but also very pretty.

Virginia was entranced.

She watched, as the woman played some sort of music with the object in her hands. To Virginia, at first glance, it resembled something akin to a guitar. But she had never seen a guitar quite that small.

Her attention was so focused upon the woman inside, Virginia failed to notice that the broom handle beside her started to slide downward from its position, the head losing its purchase on the wooden boards. Inevitably, it clattered noisily to the floor.

Virginia squeaked in alarm and jumped a full foot into the air. Inside, the woman - startled by the noise - lowered her instrument and wheeled around in her seat, just as Virginia ducked out of view.

Crouching low, below the window sill, Virginia's heart pounded in her chest. Panic coursed through her. She was unsure if the woman inside had spotted her. The dog got to his feet and gingerly stepped forward towards Virginia, whimpering softly with concern.

Several moments passed before Virginia carefully crept on her haunches to the fallen broom and picked it up as quietly as she could. She did not dare look around. Satisfied that it was secure in her grip, Virginia quickly skittered away to the other end of the verandah and furiously began sweeping once more - every so often stealing glances at the window at the far end of the house.

The woman inside the parlor stood at the window, looking out upon the spot where, just a few moments before the child had been. She turned to one side and lingered for a moment, a faint smile tugging at the corners if her lips.

Then she turned away.


DFA.

This preview of "Gifts of the Peramangk" is Copyright © 2011, Hambledown Road Imprints.