Now it was April 1868, eight months after James Barry had been sentenced, tried and hanged, a full year and a half since Constable Sullivan and I had captured him at the Alexandra Bridge. I would be fourteen soon, and was already of a grown man’s size. Yet, I was still having childish nightmares.
“I am sorry if I woke you and Pa,” I said to my mother.
She stopped fussing with the blanket and looked at me.
“You did not answer me, Theodore. Tell me about these dreams which haunt you so.”
“I can’t, Ma,” I said, not meeting her eyes. “I can’t.”
Even though I suspected that my parents knew full well of what and whom I dreamed, I would never tell them exactly what terrors made me cry out in my sleep. Perhaps I believed that if I didn’t speak of them, the nightmares would leave and I, and my parents, could rest undisturbed once more.
I was no longer the cowering twelve-year-old who had been terrified by the bearded stranger who had walked into Moses’s barbershop one day and had so changed my life. I wasn’t a child anymore. Childish dreams and night terrors should no longer be a part of my life. The dreams must stop, I thought. They must stop.
“The dreams must stop,” said my father, echoing my thoughts. “I find it hard to tend to my work when I have had my sleep disturbed. Carpentry is a difficult trade, and when I am tired I make mistakes, costly mistakes.”
Ma and Pa hadn’t gone back to bed. Their voices were coming from the kitchen and, since Ma had neglected to close my bedroom door, I could hear their conversation clearly.
“You are too harsh on the lad, Ian,” said my mother. I heard her drop fresh kindling into the cook stove and stir up the coals to start the fire. “He is young, and he has seen and heard some frightening things. Give him time to recover from them.”
“Time?” asked my father. “Night after night, for more than a year, these dreams have torn our sleep to shreds. It has been time enough.”
“A while longer, and it will pass. I feel sure of it. Give him just a bit more time.”
“Aye, Jeannie, and while he dreams and screams, my time is wasted, as I bungle simple tasks for lack of sleep.”
“He is but a child…” began my mother.
“He is no longer a child,” said my father. I heard the heavy iron kettle clang against the stove as he moved it to catch the heat. “He will be fourteen soon, but you treat him as if he were still an infant. Most lads his age have found work in the mines of the goldfields, difficult work. Ted is not a child, Jeannie. You should not treat him so.”
“I treat him with love,” said my mother. “He may be neargrown, but he will always be my child.”
“You coddle him,” said my father. “Just now you soothed him as if he were an…”
“An infant,” said my mother. Her voice was high-pitched now, the way it gets when she is upset or angry.
“I heard you when you first said it. I disagree. I do not treat Theodore as if he were still a baby.”
There was silence for a while. I wondered if I could get out of bed and close my door quietly enough so that my parents wouldn’t hear me. Through a gap in the curtains I could see the pale grey of dawn, and realized that Ma and Pa had decided to make an early start on the day. They would not be returning to sleep.
My parents seldom argued, and I had never heard them speak so sharply to each other. I pulled the blankets over my head, hoping to block out their words.
“There must be some way to help him,” said my father. His voice was softer now, less angry. “It hurts me to see the lad so troubled. He comes with me to the carpentry shop, day after day, and he does nothing but make mistakes. Even the simplest chore seems beyond him. Just yesterday he allowed a pot of glue to boil over on the stove while he stood staring at it. His work is useless.”
“His heart is not in anything,” said my mother. She sighed. “Mr. Malanion, Ted’s music teacher, called on me last week. He says that he sees little sense in Ted continuing with his violin lessons. Although Ted tries to practise—I hear him do so—his fingers no longer do as he bids them. The music is gone from his soul, Mr. Malanion says.”
I heard a chair being pushed back as my father stood up. Ma was crying and Pa had gone to comfort her. “What shall we do?” I heard her ask.
My father didn’t answer for a while and, except for the muffled sounds of my mother’s sobs and the low whistle of the kettle, the house was silent.
“I think it is time we sought help outside our family,” my father said at last. “It is clear that neither of us can ease Ted’s mind and relieve him of the dreams which haunt him. We will ask another for help.”
“Who?” asked Ma.
“I don’t know,” replied Pa. “Let me think on it. But no matter what, those dreams must stop. And soon.”
Lying in bed with the covers tight over my head, I did fall asleep, even though I hadn’t thought I would. When I awoke for the second time, the streak of grey dawn which made its way through the curtains had brightened into full daylight.
“I have overslept,” was my first thought. “Pa will be angry that I am late.” For many months now I had been putting in a full day with my father at his carpentry shop, learning the trade which he knew so well. Once he had said that I had the hands of a craftsman and would become a talented carpenter. But then I remembered that earlier this morning he had told Ma that my work was “useless.”
Pa was right. I knew that neither my mind nor my heart were in these tasks. But I wanted to be with him. I could try harder, try to still my mind and concentrate on the job at hand. If only I weren’t so tired, I thought. If only I could sleep and not dream.
I dressed and went to the kitchen for hot water. Ma was kneading bread, her arms streaked with flour, a frown on her face as she pressed and twisted the dough. She heard me come in, but didn’t look up. “You slept late, son. I hope you feel rested.”
My mother looked anything but rested. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her face had an unhealthy pallor. I went to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
“I am so sorry that I woke you and Pa again,” I said.
“It is not important, Ted.”
“Where is Pa?” I asked, changing the subject.
Ma wearily brushed a hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of white flour. “He has gone to the shop, to work.”
“Without waiting for me?”
My mother sighed. She still did not meet my eyes.
“Your father thinks that perhaps it is best if you stay home for a few days. He feels you are too tired to be of much help to him.”
So that was why Pa hadn’t wakened me. I must have fallen asleep before my parents made this decision. My throat was suddenly tight.
Ma went back to her kneading, and I took the kettle from the stove. I returned to my room and washed, then left the house quietly by the front door, without breakfast, without saying goodbye.
Our house is on the road between Barkerville and Richfield, somewhat removed from the noise and bustle of both towns. In Barkerville there are twelve saloons, ten stores, as well as hotels, breweries, restaurants, shoemakers, blacksmiths, barbers and all the other establishments you might expect to find in a busy and prosperous town.
Word of the rich gold strikes to be found in the area had brought people from all over the world into the goldfields. More than ten thousand inhabitants