Chapter 57
Murrumatta, New South Wales, Australia. 1847
Jack Finch lay on the hard, cracked, parched earth Alice's charm clutched tightly in his fist. His eyes flickered, then opened slightly. Through narrow slits he saw a blurred world which he knew to be hostile to any white man in his predicament. He moved his head a fraction and winced at the pain which hammered against his skull. He tried his arms and legs, one limb at a time. There seemed to be no broken bones but, when crawling was impossible, he knew there was no chance of walking to safety. He opened his mouth and felt sandpaper lips crack as he did so. His tongue was like a shrivelled piece of leather and his throat was as dry as the sand beneath him. Jack felt the relentless sun grilling the exposed skin through the tears in his shirt and trousers. He knew he stood little chance of survival and only the tightly-held charm provided him with any hope.
What had happened? He tried to remember. He'd ridden out to check on his cattle (having expanded into beef farming once the sheep operation had ensured his financial security). Had his horse slipped? Or had it been shot? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that he had taken a tumble and been knocked unconscious. He had no idea how long he had been here. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and each time he came to, he found he was drier, and thirstier, and in greater pain.
He thought back to his life as Andrew Starling and made himself a promise. If I survive this, I will become Andrew Starling again. Jack Finch served me well. He made me a man, a man who can hold his head up in pride. I want to see if Andrew Starling can do likewise. Through fuzzy eyes he stared at the manacle which he had insisted on continuing to wear. It was a badge, a badge of courage which told everyone that he was not afraid to admit that he had once been a convict. Andrew Starling would continue to wear Jack's badge. He tried to grin at the thought that he was the only person in the world who knew why he had named himself after another bird.
A gaolbird.
Free as a bird.
Time will make you free as a bird.
Free to die as a bird in agony with no-one to mourn your passing.
The world grew dark as he fell unconscious once more.
I'm dreaming, he told himself. Please don't let me wake. I want to stay in this dream where someone is trickling cool water on my lips. What a dream! I can feel it seeping through my leather lips. If only it were real. Am I really lying on my back? How did I manage to turn over? Is there someone there? I want to look but if I open my eyes I'll wake up. I can't wake up. Please God if you have any forgiveness, let me die while I dream. I can feel a hand on my arm. Is it a hand? What if it's a dingo? What if the trickling water was a wild dog's saliva? Do dingoes eat people? They must do, if they find a body. I'm not a body! he tried to scream, but no sound emerged. It's not a dingo. Dogs do not have fingers with which to try to pull open your eyelids. Shall I look? Do I wake?
The world which Jack Finch saw when he opened his eyes was just as blurred as before. He was on his back, as he'd thought. Above him he could see rows of fuzzy white spots. They moved. He tried to focus on the vision, to interpret its meaning. Surely spots before your eyes don't look like these? He felt more water dripping onto his face. This time he was able to part his lips and suck the liquid in. Nectar. He felt it disappear before it reached his throat, soaking into the sides of his dry mouth like water into sand. More. Please, more. He almost managed to say the word. And more came. Another trickle. This time it did reach his throat. He swallowed. It was painful to swallow, but it was worth it. What were those spots. Were they attached to a man? Yes. Two legs. Two arms. A head. A head with a long beard. White spots on a black face. An Aborigine. With painted decorations adorning his whole body. His mind closed down again.
When Jack next awoke, he opened his eyes immediately. He had to know if he'd been dreaming. No longer thirsty, he sought an explanation. By all rights he should have died of thirst by now. Had an Aborigine found him and nursed him? There was something on his forehead. He touched it gingerly. It felt like a thin strip of bark. Healing bark? he wondered. He heard a crackling sound. Gently, he turned his head towards the sound and saw a small fire. Beside the fire was his black angel. The angel gave the slightest of smiles more a smile with eyes than mouth perhaps not a smile at all. A black, white-spotted arm held something out. Jack managed to raise an arm high enough to take what was offered. It was meat. He didn't care whether it came from one of his own beasts, or a kangaroo, or a lizard or a rat. It was food. He chewed slowly. Whatever it was, it tasted good. Another drink from something resembling a gourd. His head felt better. He sat up.
The Aborigine sat with Jack for another few minutes. Or was it hours? Time no longer meant anything. No conversation passed between them. Jack wondered if he was being looked after because he had never turned any Aborigines away from his land. Was it really his land? The Aborigines didn't think so. They didn't believe in ownership, but thought that they should be free to roam wherever they wanted, and to take whatever they needed to sustain themselves. Free as a bird. They owned nothing.
A bell rang in Jack's head.
Someone who has nothing yet has everything. Someone who would grant him a future. This Aborigine had nothing but, at the same time, he had everything that he needed. And, by saving Jack's life he had given him a future. But could Alice and her forebears have meant that he was to give the charm to a man on the other side of the world three centuries later? How could he ask such questions when he was living in a time one-hundred years before he was even born. Of course it was possible. Anything was possible.
He opened his fist and looked down.
He saw the familiar smooth stone with the golden sun motif.
He held it out to his friend.
When he awoke, Jack knew that he was alone without even looking. The Aborigine had disappeared but Jack was not concerned as he felt almost fully recovered. His head no longer ached and, although stiff, his limbs moved as commanded. By the fire was a container of water and a package of food wrapped in an animal skin. With luck, it would be enough to keep him alive until he could make his way home. As he sat up, something glinted in the early morning sunlight. The manacle. It was different. Jack lifted his wrist, as if to tell the time, and looked closely at his bracelet. It had never gleamed like this before. Jack rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinked, and looked again. What he saw was as astounding as time travel. The shackle was no longer made of iron.
On Jack's wrist was a golden manacle.
He recognised it immediately. Although lacking an inscription, he could see that it was Josie's. Or would be one day.
I know what Chris would say, he thought to himself. It's a paradox. I am the person who provides Josie with the bracelet so that she can send me back in time to a place where I will find the bracelet. What would have happened if I had turned Zicchi down? Would Josie have never received the bracelet?
I suspect that I had little choice. It was written down in someone's book at the beginning of time that I would play my part in this grand scheme that spans time and space.
I wonder what the Aborigine does now? Is his part over now? Somehow, I doubt it.
All I have to do is work out a way of getting the bracelet to Josie in time for her sixteenth birthday. And, of course, I need to get it inscribed.
Time will make you free as a bird