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Language:
English
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Published:
2024-02-12
Updated:
2024-06-03
Words:
1,277
Chapters:
2/?
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12
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19
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Daydreams with The Drover

Summary:

A series of short vignettes starring Hugh Jackman as the Drover in Faraway Downs. This TV show has such a chokehold on me, and I desperately need to watch Australia.

Starts off pretty PG, but there may be a little spice to come. Especially that scene where he pours water over himself. You know the one.

I also hope I've captured a bit of Baz Luhrmann's film making qualities in the descriptions as well.

Notes:

So it's a hot day in Australia, so obviously it's a great time to write about a hot Australian.

This is the first of a few vignettes about Faraway Downs - just trying to capture a bit of the filming majesty alongside some deeper character exploration.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: The Wet

Chapter Text

They had always called it the sunburnt country, but The Drover had never seen it that way.

Sunburnt seemed the wrong adjective. It reflected the cracked, scorched earth, the way the outback could resemble a tumultuous maze of rivulets. No one ever knew where each path led, except those borne of the country’s First Nations. Those were the days of the dry. The days when all the water in the world seeped down to the hellish core - to the point where that hellish core returned to the surface. When his skin cracked and scorched and formed the same tormented pattern as the dust beneath his boots.

But now, as his stallion’s feet clipped the ground, trotting at an even pace, another version of this country became reality. Beneath the polished ebony of his horse’s hooves, Drover saw dashes of other colours. The barest touch of pure green bursting through untempered ochre ground. At each billabong, newly sprung banksia plants graced the damp shores. Eucalypts showed signs of bursting into those pastel yellow flowers, though they would soon pale in the face of the vibrant, electric-yellow wattle.

The Wet was coming.

The raw scent of the earth would infect every man’s lungs, a rich vellichor that resurrected the memories of countless droves. Drover was no different in that sense, though he denied the calm and ease the changing of the seasons brought him. He never wanted streets paved with gold - not when the setting sun bathed miles of empty desert in silver and blue, not when he could feel the starlight on his skin and hear the late night lowing of the herd.

Everything out here had its music. That music wasn’t ‘sunburnt’ or ‘rugged’ or even ‘exotic’. It was wild and alive and mesmerising. As the rains came, so too would come the thunder, and gentle song turned to a wolf’s howl. Yet, the sound of a storm would not quiet at the sound of the rain - nor could these quiet the sounds of the outback. The constant hum of cicadas never left the air.

Many a night he would simply lie on his swag and listen to the land. The anachronistic archipelago of Faraway Downs lost under undulating seas, the wonders of being inland erasing the panic and energy of Darwin - he could simply relax. Sunshine might follow the thunder. He knew that. But for a precious few months, he was free from all feeling, all responsibility. That was how this land made him feel.

The red rocks would always be there, every time he came back. Nothing changed, nothing faded. Everything simply lasted and nature cycled through its seasons. He loved that about this country.

One thing he knew though, for certain.

Lady Sarah Ashley did not understand this country. She could not hear past her Beethoven and Bach or whatever it was English chits listened to nowadays. Bloody poms. Never could let anything go. Never could relax.

It didn’t matter that this drove was different. It didn’t matter that his dreamless sleep became infected with thoughts of pale skin, of sand-dusted ginger hair. That he wanted to know the touch of her lips on his neck.

Lady Sarah Ashley had to learn how to survive this land first.

The Drover would not touch a woman who couldn’t hear this country’s song.

So he plowed on, into the herd, pushing his stallion to a gallop. The slash of his whip added a new sound to the foray, to the ever growing symphony. It sliced through his brain, separating his thoughts. Severing what was true and what was simply a dream. Like lightning, it forked, and Lady Sarah Ashley became a seperate part of his conscious.

Dampness freckled The Drover’s skin. The cracks of flesh, mirroring those of the land, held a drop of water.

The Wet was coming.

Chapter 2: The Waterfall

Summary:

Yup, it's time for that scene! Hugh Jackman and a bucket of water ;)

Notes:

Sorry for the delay, and thank you for all the wonderful comments! Uni is finally calming down, so here's Part 2. Much aided by my watching of Hugh Jackman in the 1999 production of Oklahoma! - damn that man can sing and play a cowboy (or Drover ;)) well. I have an idea for a couple more chapters, so hopefully they'll be along in the next couple of months.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The sound of cicadas was almost omnipresent out here. He couldn’t remember the last night he’d spent in the outback without their noisy hum, without feeling like between their noise and the bloody mozzies he’d never sleep more than fitfully. Course, Drover almost never did sleep fitfully - too long spent in the saddle not to be able to sleep at night. Still, nights like these he’d rather spend awake, breathing in the warm night air. No point tossing and turning under a blanket when the world was coming alive around you.

That same warm night air traced circles upon his bare back, gentle and comforting like the cicadas’ hum. It was a though when the bush calmed, the light faded and the cool seeped in, his body became alive.

Tonight he felt especially restless. It was like something was crawling under his skin, like someone was gently running a razor blade just below its surface. Tiny pin-pricks of fire demanding he paid them some kind of attention. He hadn’t felt like this since…

Nah, no point thinking ‘bout her. The past was in the past. He just had to keep moving forward, keep pushing past this feeling. Keep pushing it away.

The Drover fingered the bar of soap, rubbing it backward and forward upon his palm. Rivulets of white cream glistened in the grooves of his hand. He could feel the soap soaking in where he didn’t want it to go. Behind his fingernails. Into the dry pores of his skin. Rapidly, he began rubbing it away, lathering his body so that its cleanliness left his hands. Along his arms. Over his back. Despite the lack of any true scent, it seemed sickly sweet. Like he was washing the scent of the bush away, like that crawling, that terrible crawling beneath his skin would disappear along with it.

His hands still damp, the Drover bent to grab the bucket of water they’d fetched earlier from the dam. He knew he should savour it - but one of the men would have to get more in the morning for Mrs Prim and Proper anyhow. And he wanted - no, needed - to get this damned soap off him.

Trembling, he lifted the bucket over his head, letting the water pour down into his eyes. He felt the tiny rivulets carving a path along his skin, dripping off his nose, falling into his mouth. As they coursed across the dry cracked sands of his face, they began to fall upon his soap-caked chest and back. Ice cold streams broke apart snowy slopes. The cold water beat around him - it was all he could hear, a tremendous thundering, a waterfall that filled his ears and his head. A terrible, terrible sound that reverberated through his body, forcing him to shake his head like a dog. Purification of the mind, cleansing of the body, some damned stupid way of stopping thinking ‘bout the bush and its people and those damned cattle.

It was like some infection of the mind. He couldn’t seem to think of anything else, only the bush and the cattle and the cattle and the bush. He’d got outta practice thinking about other things. Not that he’d want to, of course. Out here, you thought about the bush and the cattle to make a few bucks and survive. You got distracted by other things, by foolish men and foolish pleasures… Well, you might not have work the next week.

The Drover turned slowly, flexing his limbs, relieving some of the tension.

Lady Sarah Ashley, with her head stuck out of the tent flap, gaped at him like a dumbstruck fool. Like she’d just seen her best horse win the Grand National, but forgotten to bet on him. Like she’d seen her husband with another woman.

Like she’d never seen a man.

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed! Once again, feedback and comments are greatly appreciated!

Notes:

Anyway, thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed. I'd appreciate any feedback and comments so much!