The Atlantis Stone

by Nick Hawkes

  Together, they made their way through the trees beside the creek. The mood had again changed completely. It was apparent that Jabirrjabirr remembered how much Benjamin had loved bushwalking with the men as a child. He was continuing to teach him as if the twelve years of absence had never happened.

  “What’s ’ee good for?” he asked, pointing to a small tree.

  Benjamin replied immediately, “Crush his leaves and put ’em in a waterhole. Stuns the fish, and they float to the surface.”

  Jabirrjabirr laughed. “Bit like whitefella grog and sit-down money, eh. They put it in our waterhole…and we float on the surface an’ do nothing. Forget that we are fish.”

  It was too appallingly true for Benjamin to laugh.

  Benjamin caught site of a yellow-billed spoonbill swaying its beak back and forth in the shallows. He stopped to look around him. So much of this land lived within his very soul…and yet so much of it remained alien to him. The rock art of the ancient inhabitants was among the oldest in the world—but he hadn’t been taken to the caves to see the special places. He hadn’t seen the engraved images, the hand stencils of his ancestors, the animal motifs or the mysterious gwion, gwion. And yet the land, the country, spoke to him. He could feel it. It was full of life. It carried the song lines and trading paths of his people that stretched from the desert to the coast.

  “What’s ’ee good for?” demanded Jabirrjabirr again.

  Benjamin looked to where he was pointing and laughed. “Don’t start a fire with that one. He’s stinkwood. Easy carving. Good for coolamon.”

  “Have you made a coolamon?”

  “Nah.”

  “You make one. It’s men’s work. Men make the coolamon for the women.”

  Benjamin began to understand what Jabirrjabirr was doing. In his own way, he was inviting Benjamin to engage in tasks that the men in the community did—fully initiated men.

  “Here, I’ll cut you a piece.” Jabirrjabirr set about cutting the tree trunk with deft, economical strokes.

  Twenty minutes later, Benjamin was carrying a log of wood under an arm. Goodness knows what the airline flying him back to Melbourne would think of it.

  Things became even more complicated when Jabirrjabirr stopped by a small tree and tapped it with the back of the machete, listening to the sound that indicated that the heart of the trunk had been hollowed out by termites. “What’s him?”

  “Bloodwood. Good for didgeridoo.”

  “You wanna make one?”

  Benjamin grinned. He was loving the experience of being back in the bush, so strange and yet so familiar. It was magical, and he didn’t want it to end. “Yes,” he said.

  Two hours later, as the heat began to shimmer on the distant horizon, Benjamin and Jabirrjabirr retraced their steps back to the men’s place. When they arrived, the two elders were still seated in exactly the same position…and the fire was continuing to burn quietly.

  As Benjamin placed his long piece of bloodwood and his stumpy log of stinkwood on the ground, Jabirrjabirr stood directly in front of him and challenged him. “You friend with us people now?”

  The directness of the question was startling, but Benjamin answered truthfully. “Yes.”

  “You had a bad spirit.”

  Benjamin said nothing.

  The two old men stood up as Jabirrjabirr picked up a piece of flat rock and went to the fire. He used a stick to scrape some burning coals onto the rock. Smoke drifted from the coals as he returned to stand in front of Benjamin. Then Jabirrjabirr began to chant in a flat nasal tone, making sounds that Benjamin didn’t understand even though he knew their language. The two old men beside him began to stamp their thin legs on the ground in unison. As Jabirrjabirr chanted, he moved forward and waved the smoking coals around all sides of Benjamin. Then, he stopped in front of him…and spat a thin spray of spit into Benjamin’s face.

  Jabirrjabirr was seeking to exorcise the evil spirits afflicting Benjamin…and was declaring him to be a friend.

  Chapter 13

  Felicity woke early to the experimental chirps of the first birds heralding the dawn chorus. She ran her hand through her hair and reached for her dressing gown. Her thoughts immediately turned to Benjamin. He would have spent his first night in the Kimberley. How was he feeling? What was it like returning to his home after so many years? Even more alarmingly: would he want to return to the Kimberley to live?

  She doubted it, but the thought still haunted her. It was curious how bereft she felt, even though he’d only been absent for a day. He was a very long way away.

  Felicity pushed her feet into her slippers and went to her desk, where her brother’s old computer was sitting. He’d kindly given it to her as a replacement for the one that had been stolen.

  She sighed, summoned her resolve and began the tedious business of reconfiguring the computer for her own use. Fortunately, she had uploaded most of her documents to the cloud, so it was simply a question of downloading them. Her personal photographs, however, took more time, as she had stored them on some DVDs. These had been placed in a pile alongside her music CDs, and escaped the burglar’s attention.

  The big question was: how much of her data concerning the Atlantis stone had she remembered to put on the cloud? Had she uploaded the photographs she’d taken of it?

  Three hours later, she was still in her dressing gown and hadn’t yet had breakfast. The yells, bangs, and chatter of her brother’s family had come and gone. She was now alone. With her heart in her mouth, she accessed the folder she’d downloaded from the cloud containing her files on the mahogany ship.

  Oh no! No, no, no.

  None of the pictures that she had taken of the Atlantis stone were there. She’d not uploaded any of them to the cloud.

  A sickening wave of disappointment washed over her. She berated herself savagely. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A once-in-a-lifetime discovery…and now no record of it. All gone. Lost. There was no evidence of the extraordinary discovery she and Benjamin had made. She put her head in her hands in anguish, too heartbroken and sick of heart to cry.

  Eventually, she did cry.

  Half an hour later, she forced herself to get some breakfast. She slopped into the kitchen and put the kettle on. After straightening all the chairs, she pushed the fruit bowl until it was perfectly in the center of the table. Then she cried again.

  She made herself a cup of coffee, returned to her computer, and downloaded her emails. One was from her old colleague at the museum. She rolled her eyes when she saw the subject line: ‘Portuguese kangaroo.’ It seemed there would be no respite from being tormented by riddles left by ancient Portuguese explorers.

  The email recounted the discovery of an old Portuguese prayer book, dated between 1580 and 1620. The book was thought to have once belonged to a nun named Caterina de Carvalho, as her name had been written in it. One paragraph in the book began with a letter D. What made it extraordinary was that it had been decorated with a picture of a creature not unlike a kangaroo. As she continued reading, she was saddened to learn that the prayer book would not be coming to Australia or, indeed, Portugal. It was now in the New York gallery, ‘Les Enluminures.’

  Felicity leaned back in her chair, stretched her legs and looked down at her purple fluffy slippers. Maybe, just maybe, she could find the emotional energy to continue her historical investigations—despite the heartbreak and setbacks she’d suffered. What was far less certain was whether she had the intestinal fortitude to cope with the threat to Benjamin posed by Khayef. Did she have what it took to challenge the plans of a big corporation? She picked up a pencil and banged it on the desk. The lead broke.

  She told herself that she would do whatever it took to keep Benjamin safe. But Sardinia! Could she really pull it off?

  The front door bell rang.

  Felicity went down the hall and looked through the spy hole. It was Archie, and he was holding a small parcel. She breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door.

  Archie looked her up
and down. “Sleep late?”

  Damn. She’d been so preoccupied that she’d forgotten she was still in her slippers and dressing gown. “No. Got up too early. Coffee?”

  “No, I won’t, thanks. I just came to ask if you’ve got my number on speed dial…and to give you something.”

  She pulled out her phone. “What’s your number?”

  Archie told her. He went on to say, “If you’re uncertain of anything, the very slightest thing, call me. Even if you don’t leave a message, I’ll be around here in three minutes. Second thing: Don’t open the door to anyone you don’t know. Call me instead.” He ran his eyes over the front windows of the house, presumably assessing their security. “Got it?”

  Felicity nodded. “Is it really that bad?”

  Archie gave a laconic grin. “Plan for the worst…”

  “…and hope for the best,” Felicity finished. She looked at Archie’s weather-beaten face and grizzled beard. “Are we going to be able to pull this Sardinia thing off?”

  Archie looked at her steadily for a moment. “If the treaty is where you say it is, we’ve got a good chance of getting it.” He trapped the small parcel under his arm as he fished around in his pocket for a matchstick. “I’ve already organized the gear we need. That’s why I’m a bit late coming here this morning.”

  “But what about Benjamin? He’s never been outside of Australia—or anywhere much for that matter.”

  Archie smiled. “Flick, your bloke has just heisted a one hundred and twenty thousand-dollar car from a Melbourne lawyer—and was calm as you like. He reads people and situations well. He’ll be okay.” He pulled the parcel from under his arm. “And he’s asked me to give you this. Sorry it’s taken so long to get it to you.” He handed it to her. “See ya later. Remember, call me if you have even the faintest suspicion of trouble.”

  “Righty ho.”

  Felicity weighed the parcel in her hand as she took it through to the back room. A parcel from Benjamin. She ran a finger over the top of it. It felt good to have something tangible from him—whatever it was. She undid the brown wrapping paper slowly, prolonging the pleasure.

  The object inside was made of a honey-colored wood with dark highlights running through it. She lifted it out. It was a wooden goblet. What made it extraordinary was the fact that two wooden rings encircled the thin stem. The wooden bangles were trapped between the base and the bowl of the cup. It had obviously all been cut from a single piece of wood. She held it up and jiggled the two rings with her finger. It was exquisitely made.

  Within the brown paper, there was a note:

  Dear Felicity,

  I meant to give this to you the other day but events conspired against it. It is a Celtic friendship cup—just a small token of my gratitude for your friendship. Its diagnostic feature is, of course, the two trapped rings.

  Your friend,

  Benjamin

  Felicity sat down, placed the cup beside her computer, and stared at it. Occasionally, she reached out and stroked its curves. After some minutes of this, she shook her head to pull herself out of her reverie and booted up the computer…but the thrall of Benjamin’s gift continued. Idly, she typed ‘Celtic friendship cup’ into her search engine.

  Nothing with that name was shown.

  Google gave its nearest interpretation: ‘Celtic lovers’ cup’…and there was a picture of one with its two trapped rings.

  Doran Khayef glared at the view from his window. Normally, he enjoyed it. He could look across the heart of Sydney toward Circular Quay where the ferries bustled in and out. They serviced the most beautiful harbor in the world. The iconic ‘coat hanger,’ Sydney Harbour Bridge, could be seen to the left. He glowered. Considering the price he had paid to secure two floors of this building, he damn well should enjoy the view. He was on the twenty-first floor. Going higher would have cost more. One day…one day.

  Khayef balled his fist. Andrew Carter would be waiting for him in the reception area outside his office; he would leave him there a while longer, stewing. Khayef was a man who knew how to make apprehension and fear work for him. Carter would be feeling uncomfortable despite sitting in one of the deep-buttoned Chesterfield settees hired to decorate his suite of offices.

  He wanted the office area to look like an elite gentleman’s club. The floors had been covered with carefully renovated hardwood planks. Expensive rugs had been placed between leather armchairs; and discrete spotlights highlighted antique oil paintings on the paneled walls. Glass cases holding old maritime artifacts completed the illusion. By the time a visitor had been whisked up the building in a glass-sided lift and spent time in the large reception area, they were convinced of the respectability of the Khayef Group…and intimidated.

  Personally, Khayef hated the décor. He preferred the modern, minimalist look.

  He glanced to the left of the vista before him…but, as usual, he couldn’t see as far west as he wanted…yet. Someday, his building project on the foreshore to the west would soar into the sky—high enough to rival anything else in Sydney. But he had a cash flow problem. He needed money now, not in two years’ time. He would have to do something very quickly. Damn!

  He turned around and punched the intercom button. “Send Carter in.”

  Khayef had his back to Carter when he entered. “What did you find and what does she know?” Khayef demanded.

  “Ah-hem.” Carter cleared his throat. “Ms. Anderson’s computer only contained further details of what she’d already told me. But I think we were wise to be concerned; she’s been very industrious. The case for the Portuguese being the first to discover South-East Australia is growing…but is, as yet, a long way from being compelling.”

  Khayef turned around and banged his fist on the desk. “It must be compelling. Use her to get anything that will prove it.” He glared at Carter. “What we can’t afford are any complications arising from this fellow, Bidjara.” He thrust his head forward. “Are you sure he’s the only one with the Portuguese genes?”

  Carter shrugged. “As far as we know but nothing is certain. That’s why we need to ensure that his link to the…er, Portuguese connection is never established.”

  Khayef pursed his lips as he reviewed what he’d heard. After a while, he waved at Carter dismissively. “You’re off the case as of now. I’ll organize others to take over the business that needs to be done. Just keep your ear to the ground for any historical complications.”

  “Yes sir.” Carter paused. “There was something we found in Ms. Anderson’s possession that I can’t make sense of.”

  “Why not?” barked Khayef. “It’s what I pay you for.”

  “Aah, because there are no notes explaining its significance.” Carter drew breath. “She’s taken rather a lot of pictures of a stone with engravings on it. It’s not anything I know of or have seen written about. Fortunately, we have the stone. Our man took it with the rest of Ms. Anderson’s things because it looked archaeological.” Carter sniffed. “I think it was as well he did.”

  “So, we’re clear to push ahead with our claim using the treaty?”

  “Yes sir. Whoever did the authentication of the treaty has done an excellent job. And I’ve put together a plausible cover story to explain how the treaty came into our possession.”

  “What is it? I’d better know for when the bastards grill me.”

  “I’ll send through a full briefing. But essentially, the story is that we have the Sardinian copy of the treaty. We bought it from a dealer in Argentina. He had access to it because it was taken there by the Germans who occupied Sardinia during the war.” Carter shrugged. “The English will, of course, suspect it is the stolen document, but they won’t be able to prove it.”

  Khayef nodded. “Right. Get on with it. Tell reception to find Eddie and send him here.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Before Carter had even left the room, Khayef was thinking about his next problem. It was one that would call for Eddie’s particular skills…and those of an
organization he despised, the Saracens. They were a particularly vicious motorbike gang. Khayef had aligned himself with them because their muscle proved invaluable in pushing his projects through. They exerted considerable influence among both building contractors and the unions.

  He pursed his lips. Power. The country didn’t understand power. It didn’t understand the way things were done in the real world—certainly, the rest of the world. Power brought order. It got things done. And, he conceded, it also made you rich.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come.”

  Eddie came in and stood with his hands folded in front of him.

  Khayef scowled. “The bloke you chose screwed up last time. I don’t want any more mistakes. I want Bidjara dead within a fortnight.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  Marjorie lay back in the cane deck chair that someone had pulled into the sun. Doing so made her straw hat tip onto her nose. She laughed, took it off, and placed it on the grass beside a jug of lemonade.

  The garden around her was looking wonderful, if a little unkempt. Spring was knocking diffidently at the door, signaling its arrival with crocuses and daffodils. A profusion of growth was springing up from a warming earth impatient to bring life. She smiled as she watched two shield bugs crawl along one arm of her deck chair. They were co-joined at their rear agreeing to walk together whilst propagating their species. Very sensible.

  Marjorie’s thoughts turned to Benjamin and Felicity. She loved their youthful optimism, their naïveté, and the potential that they embodied. Life’s griefs had wounded them both, but they hadn’t yet been diminished by its excesses or by its cynicism. Much was still possible. She wondered whether they would walk through life together; hopefully they would.

  A squeak from the garden gate returned Marjorie to the present. She turned and saw Benjamin walking over the grass toward her. As usual, he was wearing jeans and his artisan’s canvas top.