The Atlantis Stone

by Nick Hawkes

  “Felicity…”

  She liked how he said her name. He said it slowly. Odd. Her friends usually called her Flick.

  “I’ve got a school friend who is a cadet reporter with the local newspaper. He talks too much and is way too inquisitive—but fairly harmless. We’re sharing a fish supper tonight in my workshop. If you want to find out what strongfish and magpie perch taste like, you’re welcome to join us…about six-thirty.”

  “I’d like that,” she said, a little too quickly. Damn! “What can I bring?”

  She was surprised when he said, “A plate and a knife and fork. I’m afraid it’s all pretty basic.”

  “Can I bring dessert?” she said, tossing back her hair—showing it off, just a little.

  Benjamin didn’t answer immediately. It was as if he was debating whether or not to tell her something. Eventually, he said, “That would be nice. It’ll just be the three of us. Archie’s looking after himself.”

  Felicity nodded. “Six-thirty then.” Thinking that she’d said enough, she gave what she hoped was a carefree wave and trudged up the soft sand to the coastal path.

  As she reached the low vegetation, she realized that she had been so dumbstruck that she hadn’t thought of telling him about the Atlantis stone. She looked back over her shoulder to search for him on the beach. Benjamin was sitting on a rock, cleaning the fish. A throng of gulls was screeching and squabbling around him. He, in contrast, looked very much at peace. She wished she could share it. What on earth would she cook? Was there time to wash her hair?

  Why is it always so much harder for a woman?

  Chapter 8

  Felicity hung a bag over one arm, cradled the Pavlova in the other, and climbed the wooden steps. Somewhat hampered by the bag, she tapped on the door.

  Benjamin opened it almost straight away. She noticed that he had showered and taken a bit of care with his grooming. His long hair, still wet, was swept back. He wore jeans—clean, and a cream linen jacket. It was a good look. She felt slightly better about the time she had spent on her own grooming. Felicity held out the Pavlova. “Didn’t have much time, so I bought a Pav base and loaded it up.”

  “It’s good to see you.”

  Such a simple comment—but devastating to her mental composure.

  “Thanks.” He took the Pavlova and ushered her inside.

  The workshop would always be a workshop, she conceded, but Benjamin had made an effort. He had placed a jar of wildflowers on the workbench and hung a kerosene hurricane lamp from a beam above it. Shadows from the eaves played over the ceiling. The kitchen area was a cabinet under a window. An electric fry pan and a plastic washing-up bowl sat on top of it.

  The floor was clean, even under the various machines that sat patiently, waiting for work. Not much else was. Wood dust highlighted the cobwebs hanging from the roof beams. The fine film of wood dust on the walls was patterned with criss-crossed wiggly lines. It took a moment for Felicity to work out why. Millipedes. The wet winter meant that the town was experiencing something of a plague of them. They had obviously crawled through the dust on the walls and left their tracks. Their presence certainly didn’t seem to trouble Benjamin. It troubled her though; their lines weren’t straight!

  “I’ve just planned a simple salad to go with the fish.”

  “Sounds fine. How are you cooking the fish?” She wasn’t hugely interested, but the subject was safe.

  “In flour…with slivers of lemon myrtle. It’ll be garnished with samphire. I collected a bit from the marsh behind the foreshore.”

  Felicity wondered if she should confess to being a hopeless cook. Never bothered to learn, she corrected herself. She decided not to. “Sounds great.” She searched for something else to say, and settled for pointing questioningly to a bowl of bright orange flowers.

  “Nasturtium flowers from outside. Peppery…to add to the salad.”

  “Oh.”

  Felicity was rescued from airing any more of her ignorance by a sharp rap on the door.

  The rising wind outside caused the potbelly stove to puff out some smoke as Benjamin opened the door.

  An untidy figure in a three-quarter length coat came in clutching a bottle of wine and a shopping bag. “What sort of person tells his guests to bring cutlery and plates? Honestly, Ben…” He noticed Felicity. “Oh, hello.”

  “Felicity, allow me to present the usually unpresentable Marcus O’Lauchlan, scourge of the Rostrevor debating team and master of the split infinitive.”

  “Hello,” she said. “I understand you two were at school together.”

  “Hmph. I went to school…he went rarely. His body may have been there, but his mind was usually elsewhere.”

  Marcus thrust the bottle at Benjamin. “A Clare Valley Riesling. Good with fish. Three glasses, my man.”

  “Oh…um.” Benjamin glanced over to the washing-up bowl. “Would you settle for an enamel mug, a coffee cup, and a drinking glass?”

  Marcus rolled his eyes.

  Benjamin grinned. “Sit down. I’ll see to it.”

  Marcus put his hands in his pockets, swished the open coat around him, and folded his angular frame into one of the two beautiful stools beside the workbench. Felicity took the other. She wondered what to say. A drill press stood nearby. Three books sat on its platform, each with library stickers on their spines. She twisted her head in an attempt to read their titles but was forestalled by Marcus asking a question.

  “How do you know Benjamin?” He seemed to muse on his own question. “How does anyone know Benjamin, for that matter?” He smiled and raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh…um…” Felicity went on to explain that they had met whilst diving. She didn’t give the details, and explained that she was hoping to employ Benjamin to help her renovate the old car garage near the river.

  “I’ve seen it. Ugly thing. Glad someone’s renovating it.” He jerked his head up. “You would be Felicity Anderson then, the doctor’s sister?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She searched for something else to say. “And you’re a journalist, I understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmm. I planned to be a journalist at school—even learned shorthand…but history won. Went to uni and worked at Melbourne museum for two years.” She shrugged. “Now I want to write. Crazy, huh?”

  Marcus grinned. “I’m being careful not to say it’s a woman’s prerogative.”

  Benjamin came across with their wine. He handed Felicity the drinking glass. Marcus got the enamel mug. “Food will be ten minutes,” he announced, and returned to his work.

  When he left, Felicity leaned forward and whispered, “I know next to nothing about Benjamin. Can you please fill me in?”

  Marcus looked into his mug and picked out a vinegar fly that had flown into it. Felicity continued to press him. “He’s eloquent but reserved; distant but aware.” She shrugged. “And there’s an Aboriginal connection that I don’t get.”

  Marcus took an experimental sip, seemed to enjoy it, and leaned back. “Relax. He’s a nice guy.” He looked up at her. “Are you two an item?”

  “No!”

  “Hmm.” He regarded her from under his pale eyebrows. “Benjamin is part Aboriginal—not that you’d know it. Our school had an indigenous education program that collected students from remote locations all around Australia. It was a good program. They had some special classes and each student was allocated a mentor. I think Ben even lodged with his during the school holidays. He was a cabinet-maker.”

  “But he sounds so…cultured.”

  “Oh, that.” Marcus smiled. “Blame Beanie for that.”

  “Beanie?”

  “Yeah. He was our English teacher…and he was, in fact, English. He used to read us fabulous stories. Ben, in particular, loved them. They certainly motivated him. He became a voracious reader—Dickens, P.G. Wodehouse, John Buchan, Anthony Trollope—anything English. Over the years, his style of speech changed.” Marcus leaned forward and whispered, “I think he worked
pretty hard on it. Anyway, much as it pains me to admit it, by the time he left school, he had a bigger vocabulary than me, was top in English, and had the cultured Adelaide accent down pat.”

  “Then why didn’t he go to university?”

  “…and make something of himself?” Marcus wagged a finger at her. “You and your bourgeois ideas.”

  “Seriously.”

  Marcus sighed. “Nah. I don’t think he would have coped with the strictures of university. He would have written them ten treaties when they wanted one, and one when they wanted ten. He’s restless…and, I think, a little bit haunted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Benjamin forestalled further conversation by bringing over their dinner. He had presented it well. After explaining what each piece of fish was, he invited them to begin eating.

  “What’s this?” said Marcus, picking suspiciously at the samphire. “It’s not what’s normally on fish.”

  “You pusillanimous pedant. Try it. It’s salty…and perfectly edible.”

  Marcus grinned at Felicity. “See what I mean?”

  “What?” inquired Ben.

  “Nothing,” chorused Marcus and Felicity together.

  By the time the Pavlova was served, conversation was flowing freely. As Felicity pushed a generous slice onto Marcus’s plate, she felt emboldened to ask, “Marcus, how could Andrew Carter, a lawyer with the Khayef Group of companies, learn that I was doing research on the mahogany ship?”

  “Are you?” he said, sitting himself up immediately.

  “I was hoping for an answer.”

  “No idea.”

  “He said he got his information from the offices of the local paper—your paper.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah, indeed.”

  “Well, come to think of it, I might have been responsible.”

  “What!”

  Marcus held up his hands. “It was purely a mistake…a slip of the tongue. Honest.” He sighed. “I’d done a little article on your brother towing in that boat with a busted engine. Remember? He’d been returning from diving. He let slip that he often dived, sometimes with you, and that you were diving to see if you could find any clues to the mahogany ship.” Marcus dropped his head. “Your brother actually asked me not to print that…but when I got this phone call, I sort of…forgot.”

  Felicity looked at him with exasperation. “Well, I don’t know whether to thump you or thank you. As it’s turned out, Khayef might offer me a research grant…and a large bonus if I find anything.”

  She was aware of Benjamin watching her.

  “But something is troubling you. You’re not sure.” Benjamin said it as a statement, not a question.

  Felicity was silent for a while.

  The wood coals rattled as they settled inside the potbelly stove.

  “Oh…um. I’m not…” She tried again. “Something’s niggling. That’s all.” She thought back to her conversation with Mr. Carter. What was it? He had spoken of the grant as if it were a magnanimous gift, a contribution to Australian heritage…yet he had been unusually keen to get information on whether there was a Portuguese connection. She held on to the edge of the bench top to steady her thoughts. That’s what didn’t add up. Carter’s line of questioning wasn’t consistent with a philanthropic act. It belied an agenda—but she didn’t know what it was.

  “What is it?” asked Benjamin.

  “Um, not sure. Too early to say. I need to think about it a bit more.”

  Benjamin nodded.

  “Is there any substance to this mahogany ship business?” asked Marcus. “Were ships buzzing around this part of the world before Captain Cook did his thing?”

  “I believe so—but up to now, there’s been no knockout proof.” I’ve got that proof, she thought to herself, trying not to let her elation show. I’m just not ready to share it yet. Not to a journalist, anyway. But she did want to share it with Benjamin. The Atlantis stone was a massive breakthrough in understanding Australia’s earliest European history. She lowered her head in case her excitement showed. Steering the conversation to a safer subject, she hurried on. “Some believe that Jave la Grande, the Great Island of Java, was a reference to Australia.” She shrugged. “The name appears on the French Dieppe School of Maps. Some sections of these maps are highly speculative, so you have to be careful. But one does show a coastline that could correspond to the southeast coast of Australia.”

  “Arrrr,” parodied Marcus in his best pirate voice. “Beware. There be dragons in those parts.”

  “Seriously,” Felicity protested, “a lot of nations were sending ships out to find gold. The mahogany ship was probably one of a fleet of three sent out by Portugal. Well before that fleet was sent out, ships were looking for Jave la Grande…or the Isle of Gold, as it was known. Over a decade earlier, the Portuguese explorer, Diogo Pacheco, lost a ship in Sumatra while he was looking for it.” She smiled. “And there was plenty to motivate an explorer. A land of gold was spoken of in the Hindu legend of Suvarnadvipa, not to mention The Great Chronicle of Sri Lankan history.”

  “But nothing’s been found to confirm that Portuguese gold fever reached as far as Warrnambool?” asked Benjamin.

  Yes there has. You and I found it together. “No.” She lowered her head again. “At least, not yet. The State Government of Victoria offered a reward of a quarter of a million dollars in 1992 to anyone who could locate the fabled vessel but withdrew the offer a year later.”

  “Curious. I wonder why?”

  Felicity grinned. “It certainly helped fuel the odd conspiracy theory. A Canberra mathematician claimed to have stumbled across an 1849 document in the National Library that said that the British government had paid men to bury the ship in case its existence complicated British sovereignty rights over Australia. The story was even reported in the Age newspaper in 2005.” She sighed. “A Sydney archaeologist investigated the claim but couldn’t find the document and doubts its existence—so, I think it’s all highly unlikely.”

  Benjamin got up and collected the plates.

  Felicity turned in her seat and picked up one of the books sitting on the drill press. She looked at the cover—it was a Bryce Courtenay novel. She looked briefly at the other two books. “I see you use the library.”

  Benjamin spoke over his shoulder. “I like books, so I use libraries.” He paused. “It took me a little while to get comfortable using them. In fact, I still find libraries and government agencies intimidating. All that political correctness gathered in one place can be terrifying.”

  Marcus looked around the workshop. “You don’t have much by way of creature comforts. Where’s your television?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m too easily frustrated by its banality. Books are better.”

  “Have you been into a bookshop recently?” he asked, querulously. “Books can be just as bad. Newspapers too, I’m ashamed to say. Sensationalism has replaced substance, and notoriety has replaced talent. It’s all very depressing.”

  “Books give me more choice.”

  “You’re a luddite.”

  “No, I’m selective.” He pointed to a black case leaning against the end of the workbench. “I have a mobile and a laptop—even a website.”

  “Yeah, like living in a shed surrounded by woodwork machines is normal.” Marcus yawned. “Anyway, I’d better get going—I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” He turned to Felicity. “Promise me you’ll tell me if you find anything interesting. I’ve got little enough to write about around here.”

  Felicity swallowed. “Sure. Of course.”

  Marcus eased himself off the stool and pulled his coat tight around him. “And you,” he said, pointing to Benjamin. “You owe me a story.”

  “As I doubt you’d let me forget,” said Benjamin. “But it’s Sergeant Anderson you should be badgering, not me.”

  Marcus grunted and headed for the door. “Thanks, Ben. Enjoyed it—surprisingly. I’ll c
all you tomorrow.”

  After Marcus left, Felicity asked, “What’s all that about?”

  “Aah, nothing. Um…a little incident that happened here the other night.” He smiled weakly. “No felony on my part, I’m glad to say, but it’s something the police are looking into. They’ve asked me to say nothing until they’ve made their inquiries.”

  “Oh.” Felicity experienced a stab of disappointment. Please trust me, Benjamin. I want to know…Let me in. She drew in a breath and looked up to the ceiling. The two of them were alone…there were shadows…there was soft light from a kerosene lamp…everything was so right. “You weren’t hurt or in any form of danger?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Damn! She wanted to be angry, and she rounded on Benjamin in frustration. But all she saw was his eyes. They seemed tired…and strangely quiet. He was apparently content with his decision to not involve her. She turned her face from him to hide her emotions. “I’d better go too,” she said.

  Benjamin collected the plastic bag that contained her plates and cutlery, and led her down the steps to her car. As he opened the car door, he turned to face her. “Felicity, I had the impression that there was something going on—something that mattered to you—from what you said earlier.” He drew a deep breath. “Would it help you to talk about it?”

  Benjamin, you’ve not let me in. “No…no…at least, not yet. There are a few things I want to check out first.”

  “Fine. Just know that…you can, whenever you want.”

  Felicity nearly cracked. She put a hand on Benjamin’s arm. “I’ve had a great night. Thank you.”

  Benjamin smiled. “Just one small thing.” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Archie and I weren’t happy that you were having to sell your car when your ex had bought one with your money.” He shrugged. “So we went to Melbourne last night and persuaded him to give us his car…and we’ve sold it.” He handed the envelope to her. “Here’s a check made out to you for one hundred and ten thousand dollars.” He smiled. “Can I suggest that you send your ex-husband a check for half the cost of the car first thing tomorrow morning? Then you’ll be safe, legally.”