The Australian Dream

It was the worst of years which quickly became the best of years. Sixty-six consecutive days where an unforgiving sun beat down on the crops, wilting most of the year’s harvest. An unfortunate time to be a bushel of wheat, and not much more fun being the farmer either. An arid orange air had replaced a clean one, as the bushfires smouldered and burned, at times crescendo-ing to a horrifying peak that would trigger news coverage. Otherwise, they had announced themselves as part of the yearly summer season.

On one of these summer nights, the Book first announced itself to the residents of Ferndale, some 113 miles away from the nearest town. A slimline, black volume of off-white pages. Leather-bound, with neat stitching down its spine. It came by Anna on one of her routine barn rounds, when she went to check on the horses in their stables. At first, Anna was confused. She and her grandparents were the only occupants on the farm. They tended to most of the chores around the farm in the off-season. When things picked up during the harvest season, they would hire backpackers looking to extend their visas or other desperate, hard done by casual workers to help with the season’s work. As such, it was curious that there would be a spare notebook lying around.

Perhaps a hitchhiker stayed the night and forgot it, Anna thought. Sometimes they had unwanted visitors whose hitchhiking efforts had not taken them far enough to the nearest inn. The stable often was the next best option, although if they had known of the hospitality of her Nan and Pop, they would probably not have hesitated to ask for a place to stay the night. Gentle, kind souls they were. Anna picked up the book. Brand new, not a smudge or blot of ink to reveal any clues about its owner. There was only one thing to do. Anna decided to take it back to house.

The Australian outback is rife with tales of the supernatural. Ghost stories abound in those vast stretches of desert land. It wasn’t uncommon to have heard from the rare souls with an appetite for adventure – oft which had taken them past the bounds of comfort of the cities into the more inhospitable terrain of the country – of their encounters with min min lights and little girls in Victorian yoked dresses on empty stretches of road. Empty mining towns which had been abandoned when the copper and gold ran out, the miners moving onto the next siren call of prosperity.

It was an unusual find, Anna would later discover. She had grown up on the farm, and helped her grandparents with the day to day chores and busywork from such a young age that she had never really had much time to become overly acquainted with her thoughts. Farm life was good in that sense. Work hard, tire your body out and your mind will rest peacefully at night. She ventured a few thoughts in her new journal.

Nan and Pop say the farm used to be green. Lush and green, where the Murray River flowed through. Enough to grow cotton and rice, which hasn’t grown around here in years. It’s hard to picture because all I see is the burnt orange land. It’s going to be another bad summer. The water’s taken on the taste of copper, so the pipes are being overheated. Nan ran into Darlene in town the other day. The heat was too much for some of their young lambs. Poor babies died after only a month. It’s been harsh on the barley and wheat as well.

It was around this time that the first shipments started to arrive. Wooden crates with their rustic slats stapled together and “GOVERNMENT PROPERTY” in block letters printed on its side, alongside the coat of arms. Water, fresh vegetables and fruit, and minced meat. A saving grace for the townspeople, who cheered and feasted for the first time in years. Anna watched with her Nan and Pop as they stood along the balustrade of the local mall, watching the reveries outside on the main strip. Confetti was being shot out of a can, courtesy of Mrs Dalton, the two-dollar shop owner whose store was full of knick knacks.

“Finally, the politicians decide to give a damn about this place,” Nan huffed.

“Who did we vote for?” Pop asked.

The rations kept filtering into the town and its surrounding properties for the next thirty-nine days. The summer was protracted, but had to come to an end eventually. The sweaty, sleepy town soon began venturing out at noon again. The townsfolk were well-fed and healthy, and eternally grateful for their mysterious benefactor. Some called it democracy. Others, the more auspicious ones, thanked a God who many had begun to speculate had given up on them.

One autumn night, when the day’s chores were done and the twilight air had cooled down, Nan and Pop suggested sitting outside on the veranda. The scorched earth of various crop patches may not have been able to support life, but the air was filled with a cloud of gnats. Anna felt their tiny wings brush against her skin, at times meeting her eyes or mouth, but otherwise a bearable nuisance. The three of them sat wordlessly for a moment, each sipping on their earl grey tea and gazing into the distance, a comfortable silence shared between them. Nan was the first to speak.

“Anna, have you ever thought about going to university?”

Anna was taken aback. It had never been her priority. Her life had been the farm. Despite the haughty views of city-dwellers, the country was not blind to the fact that an education was the path towards a better future. In the old days, it was commonplace for the more well to-do farmers to send their kids to schools in the metropolis. Priorities shifted when the new climate settled in, and many farmers now thanked Lady Luck for sufficient harvest to feed themselves and then some. The dream had been dying steadily for many years now.

Nan and Pop had grown up in those days. Both had benefitted from a college education and had careers as city-slicking professionals before the farm. The farm had been inherited from Pop’s father, Anna's great-grandfather, and the two had moved out here to take over the family business. But those days were long gone. None of the kids in Anna’s year at school held aspirations for further education. It was a pipe dream. The reality was clear, even to children whose imaginations could conjure up dragons and faeries. You went to school. You learned to read and write and count. You spent your weekends helping with chores on your family’s farm. You learned to cultivate the land. You learned to enjoy the sun on your brow and the ache of a long day’s work. You gave thanks for bread and butter and vegetable stew. Only the privileged could complain about being denied a comfortable existence.

“But what will you and Pop do without help on the farm?”

“Don’t you worry, we’ll manage.”

It was this conversation that plagued her as she went to bed that night. Possibility whirred through her mind. Anticipation of a future with its genesis in a single night. She picked up her pen and reached for the little black notebook. The next moment would come as a shock to her. Though Anna had not said a word to anyone, she considered the book to be her lucky charm, and had an inkling that she had it to thank for the rations which had fed the town. Now her suspicions seemed to consolidate before her eyes. The book had made clear to her the extent of its generosity. Its receipts appeared in the bottom right corner of each page. Slightly indented, as though printed onto the surface. Little numbers to indicate the price of each wish, each request. Did Fortune still favour her? Was the book’s magic still alive?

That was a year ago. The Universe works in strange ways, and the Book was no exception. The orange-red shades of wheat fields at dawn had been traded for the muted pastel of inner city terraces. Min min lights replaced by the tales of ghostly spectres of a colonial city’s past. The native wattle trees replaced by weekend flower markets, and the blues and pinks of hydrangeas. The local town pub replaced by a plethora of bars and restaurants, each vying to live up to their neighbours’ reputation. Anna now sat on a balcony overlooking the uneven skyline where the skyscrapers of the metropolis centre meets the kiln-fired red clay of terrace roofs. She rested her feet up against the iron-wrought balcony balustrade, a remnant of the Victorian style of the day. She took a sip from her mug. The zest of the earl grey reminded her of her grandparents’ farm.

It was the worst of years that had been turned into the best of years. She would be reminded of it every time she flicked through the notebook’s colourful pages. Things and experiences gathered. From the humble and necessary, as feeding the town was, to the more ambitious, as was her life now as politics student slash intern for the local MP. A brief jaunt to South-East Asia with her newfound friends at college. Being able to help with her grandparents’ expenses. Twenty thousand dollars’ worth of things and experiences, to be exact. Anna was grateful. She had never anticipated, nor dared to dream so much. The book’s use had long expired but she held onto it nonetheless as a memento of the incredible year that was.