The Atlantis Stone

by Nick Hawkes

  She smiled as she picked up a log of wood lying on the bench. It was surprisingly light. Benjamin had shown it to her before he left. “That’s what I’m using to make my next gift for you,” he’d said, almost shyly. “Every blackfella makes a coolamon for his girl.” Felicity picked it up and sniffed it. It smelled quite pleasant, despite Benjamin telling her that no one ever dared burn it in a fire. “It smells really bad when it’s burned,” he’d warned.

  The same books she’d seen during her first evening in the workshop were resting on the drill press. She fingered them sadly. Benjamin hadn’t had much time to read in the last few weeks. She’d so enjoyed listening to him talk about his love of books on that first night. There was one phrase she particularly remembered: “Books have the power to still busy people and point them to better versions of themselves.” It was a beautiful sentiment. Benjamin used words well. She wished she could have read the essays he’d written during his final year at school. It was such a pity he hadn’t continued to use his talent for writing.

  She shivered. Technically, summer had just begun, but there was still a chill in the evening air. Felicity stood by the potbelly stove, seeking its comfort.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  She kept the door on the safety chain as she opened it and peered through the crack. It was Marcus. He was stony-faced.

  “Oh, hi Marcus,” she said, unlatching the door. “What’s the matter?”

  The door was suddenly kicked open. Felicity stepped back, narrowly avoiding being hit in the face. Marcus was pushed through the door by a figure who stepped in behind him.

  “Hello, bitch. Did you miss me?”

  It was Eddie. A vicious backhanded slap sent Felicity sprawling to the floor. Eddie stepped over her and pulled out a silenced pistol from a shoulder holster. He pointed it around the room, then strode over to the door of the shower cubicle and kicked it open.

  Marcus’s face was stricken as he helped Felicity get to her feet. “I’m…I’m so sorry, he stammered. I didn’t…”

  “Where’s your bastard boyfriend?” Eddie grabbed Felicity by the hair and wrenched her to her feet so that her face was centimeters from his own.

  “He’s not here,” she replied, trying not to scream in pain.

  “I can see that, bitch. I asked where he is.” He shook Felicity’s head, making her scream.

  “Hey, hey,” protested Marcus.

  Eddie ignored him and looked around the workshop. He started at the workbench and began to laugh. Felicity knew why. He’d seen the odd assortment of cutlery that she’d laid out on the bench in readiness for their meal. “So, we’re expecting company, are we?” He smiled unpleasantly. “Then we’ll just have to wait for them won’t we?”

  “They’re coming back with quite a lot of company. You can’t kill them all.”

  He rounded on her. “Oh, yes I can, bitch.” He slapped her again. “I can kill anyone I like.”

  Felicity staggered sideways.

  “Hey. Don’t do that. You never said…” Marcus got no further. Eddie pistol-whipped him on the side of the head. He collapsed to the floor.

  “No, no!” cried Felicity. She bent over Marcus’s inert form, sprawled behind the door, and checked his vital signs. His breaching came in shallow rasping breaths. She grabbed him under the arms and dragged him away from the door, over toward the stove. Her mind was working feverishly. Felicity rolled him into the recovery position and said over her shoulder, “We’ve got to keep him warm.” She hooked open the door of the potbelly, reached up to the bench to collect the log lying there, and put it in the fire.

  Please God. Please God.

  She turned to see Eddie aiming the gun at her head.

  She screamed at him, “Shoot me, then, you bastard!”

  He stepped across to her in a few strides, grabbed her hair, and pulled her head back. “Oh, I will, I will. But I want to make your boyfriend watch. Then I’ll kill him too.”

  Felicity started to flail at her tormentor.

  Eddie stepped back and kicked her in the stomach.

  She collapsed onto the floor.

  Searing pain pierced what little was left of her consciousness. He stepped over her and took out a roll of masking tape. Eddie taped around her head and mouth several times, dragged her across the workshop floor, and dumped her beside the door like a rag doll. He squatted down, grabbed her breast, and squeezed it hard. “You’re a hot bitch. Do you know that? I wish I could spend more time with you.” He put his face close to hers. “Now stay quiet, or I’ll use you to keep me warm right now.”

  It felt surreal to be walking through Port Fairy in the cool of the evening. Everything was so quiet and peaceful, totally at odds with the drama and violence of the previous week. Benjamin was tempted to think that recent events had all been a dream. Only Archie’s broken arm gave visual proof of what had transpired. Will I ever really be able to feel the peace of this town again? Benjamin wondered. He very much hoped so. It was a lovely town—although not one he’d engaged with much in the past. He smiled. Since knowing Felicity, all that had changed.

  The warmth from the Chinese takeaway seeped through the carrier bag. He could feel it against his leg. The prospect of eating it with Felicity in his workshop filled him with warm anticipation. It had been a long day.

  The evening was still. Only the occasional car passed as they made their way along Bank Street. It was as they turned left heading down the street to his workshop that he first smelled it. At first, he thought that someone’s septic tank was badly in need of attention, but as he got nearer to the workshop, he was very sure of what it was he was smelling: it was stinkwood.

  How many logs of stinkwood could there be in Port Fairy? Only one.

  Could Felicity have burned it by mistake? Even as Benjamin thought about it, he knew it wasn’t possible. Felicity had been charmed by his idea of making her a coolamon. She’d stroked the log, smelled it, and replaced it on top of the workbench. It was nowhere near the firewood bin.

  Would Felicity have allowed anyone else to burn it? Again, Benjamin shook his head. Never. It was special to her. It could only be burning because something was dreadfully wrong.

  He placed a hand on Archie’s shoulder. Archie stopped and shot him a questioning look. Benjamin nodded toward a large pine tree and steered Archie into its shadows. His mind was working furiously.

  “What’s up, mate?” asked Archie.

  “I think Felicity could be in trouble. She’s burning the stinkwood log I was starting to make her coolamon from.”

  “Is that the shitty pong I can smell?”

  “Yeah. It’s sometimes called shitwood.”

  Archie pulled a face. “Good name for it.”

  “Seriously, Archie. The wood was special—and Felicity knows it. This can’t be a mistake.”

  Archie’s face hardened. “Then, Benji boy, we need to find a way of getting inside and giving whoever is waiting for us a bit of a surprise. What possibilities are open to us?”

  Benjamin’s mind began to race.

  After a moment, he asked, “Do you still have a gun?”

  Archie nodded.

  Felicity could smell the stinkwood even though the potbelly was supposedly a sealed unit.

  She was now bound and gagged with masking tape. Marcus’s hands had been similarly secured. He was lying beside her, still unconscious.

  Waves of desperation overwhelmed her. She turned her head and pressed an ear against the wall, resolving to bang against it with her head and feet as hard as she could as soon as she heard Benjamin and Archie return. Eddie would shoot her, but she might be able to give them enough warning to at least put them on guard.

  The night was still. Somewhere across town, a dog started to bark…then all was quiet. Only the occasional hum of traffic on the A1 could be heard. Felicity waited for death, in whatever form it chose to arrive.

  Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by a splintering smash that made the w
orkshop shudder. Felicity looked with astonishment as the twin flaps of a trapdoor in the floor flew open. She saw the bolt that had secured it spin through the air…and caught sight of a heavy ax being pulled back down below the floor.

  Felicity immediately kicked out at Eddie’s legs.

  He cursed and spun around, aiming his gun at her.

  At that moment, the ostensibly comatose Marcus became animated. He lurched up and threw his body across Felicity.

  Eddie shot him in the back.

  Felicity felt the shock of the bullet’s impact through her own body. Before she could scream, Archie erupted through the trapdoor, holding a gun.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Felicity saw the look of astonishment on Eddie’s face as he saw Archie.

  Archie paused for the tiniest moment—a mere instant. Felicity thought he might not fire. Eddie’s gun was still pointed at Marcus. It was just a split second. Archie’s eyes hardened…and he shot Eddie in the heart—twice.

  The bark of the gun was shocking. The death it brought, brutal.

  All went quiet.

  Benjamin dropped the ax and pushed up past Archie who was keeping his gun trained on Eddie. He leaped across to Felicity and began pulling Marcus off her. “Are you alright, Felicity? Are you alright?” he yelled. He searched her body for any signs of wounding.

  Relief flooded through him as he saw Felicity nod vigorously. But she was kicking and making mewing sounds, trying to say something through her gag. What was she trying to make him understand?

  Marcus.

  Benjamin turned to Marcus and saw the small hole in the back of his coat. Blood was seeping around it. He eased Marcus onto his side and checked his vital signs.

  There was barely a pulse, and his breath came in shallow gasps. Marcus coughed and blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were screwed shut, and his lips were twisted, trying to make a sound.

  “I…I’m sorry.”

  “Lie still, Marcus. We’re getting an ambulance.”

  Benjamin could hear the rattle in Marcus’s chest. It didn’t sound good. He bent down to check Marcus’s pulse.

  Archie climbed out from the trapdoor hole and stood beside Benjamin. “How is he?” He knelt down and felt for Marcus’ carotid artery. “There’s barely a pulse.” Archie rocked back on his heels. “This bloke took the bullet that was intended for Felicity.”

  Benjamin looked at Marcus in astonishment. Then he knelt down and whispered, “Thanks, mate.”

  He was amazed to hear Marcus grunt through tortured gasps. “Told Khayef about you,” he coughed. “Wanted a story.” Marcus fought for breath. The gurgling reached the top of his throat, and he couldn’t cough any more. The sinews in his neck strained bar-tight as he choked, “Sorry.” Then his head lolled sideways.

  Benjamin felt for a pulse.

  There was none.

  For a long while, Benjamin didn’t move. He was appalled. Slowly, he reached out and began stroking Marcus’s forehead. “Tonight,” he whispered, “you became the hero of your own front page.”

  He looked across to Felicity. She was safe. Thank God!

  A tidal wave of emotion broke the dam wall…and he began to weep.

  Chapter 29

  Queen Street in Melbourne’s city center was not a place in which Benjamin felt comfortable. Towering office blocks turned the road into a canyon of cement and glass. He felt hemmed in, despite the street being wide enough to allow cars to park along the center strip rather than along its edge. It looked to him as if someone had turned the road inside out.

  Benjamin found the building he was looking for and took the lift to the solicitor’s office on the eighth floor.

  As he rode up in the lift, he reflected on the previous month. So much had happened. He and Felicity had attended two very different funerals.

  Marjorie’s funeral had taken place at St Hilary’s Church in Kew. The old church had been tastefully modernized with new extensions. It was just as well; the place was packed. State dignitaries, indigenous Australians, and the community of St Hilary’s filled the place. The funeral was very much a thanksgiving service. Whilst there was sadness, the level of hope and thanksgiving was palpable.

  Marcus’s funeral, however, was soul-crushingly sad. The service, held in a funeral parlor, was entirely secular. It offered little other than sentimental clichés.

  The door of the lift opened, and Benjamin was led to the office of Albert Carstairs. When he entered the room, he was surprised to see Phoebe sitting in one of two chairs facing a mahogany desk. The florid man behind the desk rose to his feet and introduced himself. He was overweight, and only just managed to look dignified in his dark suit. After Benjamin shook the man’s hand, he bent down and spoke quietly to Phoebe. “Phoebe, your relationship with Marjorie was very special. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. I’m so sorry.”

  Phoebe’s bosom heaved in what might have been a sob. “Thank you.”

  Carstairs cleared his throat as Benjamin took his seat and began to explain why he’d asked Benjamin and Phoebe to attend his office. “As I said in my email, it concerns the disbursement of Miss Eddington’s estate.” He looked at Phoebe and smiled. “You, Phoebe, are already aware of the substance of Miss Eddington’s will because we both recently signed as witnesses to it.”

  Phoebe nodded.

  “Then you will recall that you will inherit some items of a personal nature, such as paintings and books.” Carstairs looked down at a document in front of him. “Evidently, you insisted that it was all you would accept. Miss Eddington has made a comment to that effect and…” He smiled. “…she upbraids you for your selflessness.”

  Phoebe sniffed. “I have more than enough at my stage of life to live very comfortably, thank you.”

  Carstairs turned to Benjamin. “Miss Eddington has instructed me to give you a letter, Mr. Bidjara, which she has asked you to read before we proceed any further.” He handed an envelope across to Benjamin and rose from his seat. “I’ll leave the two of you alone whilst you read it.” He turned to Phoebe. “Perhaps you could remain on hand to answer any questions Mr. Bidjara might have.”

  “Of course,” said Phoebe.

  Carstairs walked to the door. “Let reception know when you are ready to proceed.”

  Benjamin was not at all sure what was happening. He tapped the envelope on his hand, trying to work out how it could be significant. Nothing came to mind. He drew a deep breath, opened the envelope, and started to read.

  My Dear Benjamin,

  I am so pleased to be able to write this letter. For many years, I thought it might not be possible.

  Let me explain by telling you a story.

  Many years ago, I was engaged to be married to Terrance Stanthorpe. He was a missioner and health worker who worked among the Aboriginal communities of the East Kimberley. One night, he was ferrying an Aboriginal woman in labor to the clinic as she was having difficulty giving birth. It was the wet season, and the creeks were in flood.

  The situation of the Aboriginal woman was desperate, so Terrance tried to drive his truck across a flooded creek. It was a mistake. The truck was swept sideways and rolled over in the water. Terrance was knocked unconscious. The husband of the pregnant woman managed to get his wife out of the truck to the safety of the creek bank. He then went back to get Terrance.

  Sadly, both were drowned.

  The man who tried to save my fiancée was your father, Jimmy Bidjara. You were the baby that was born later that evening.

  For many years, I was beside myself with grief. But by God’s grace, I moved on and have lived a life that I’ve found as surprising as it has been fulfilling. One of the areas that life swept me into was genetic anthropology. I did a PhD that helped uncover European physiological features in Aboriginal communities on the west coast of Western Australia. As a result of this work, almost all the genetic data from Aboriginal communities throughout Australia found its way to my computer in one form or ano
ther.

  Some years ago, I was thinking, as I often did, about the man who had died trying to rescue my fiancée. I typed his surname into the computer and discovered your name. I also discovered your rather unique genetic heritage. You have, as you now know, a gene sequence that could only have come from Portugal.

  This background may help you understand why I have organized my affairs as I have.

  My heart’s desire, Benjamin, is that you really discover who you are. From what I have observed, you are well on the way to doing so.

  You are a remarkable young man. I count it a privilege to have known you, and have my life entwine with yours.

  God bless you.

  Marjorie

  Benjamin looked dumbly at the words that now began to swim in his vision. What an extraordinary story—both sad and heart-warming. He leaned back and blinked back the tears that were threatening. Marjorie had completed the story that Jabirrjabirr had begun to tell him in the Kimberley. He and Marjorie were connected. Remarkable! Benjamin closed his eyes and brought her to mind. She swam into focus and smiled at him.

  He lowered his head, wishing that he had known her for longer.

  “Any questions?” asked Phoebe brusquely.

  Benjamin fought to find his voice. “Um, probably. But none that I can articulate now.”

  Phoebe nodded. “I have something to give you before Mr. Carstairs comes back.” She removed her coat from what Benjamin had assumed was a traveling case.

  It wasn’t. It was the blackwood box he had made for Marjorie.

  Phoebe laid a hand on it, as if not daring to touch it and said, “Marjorie learned that no one had collected your father’s bones from his funeral platform. Willful as ever, she collected them herself, wrapped them in linen, and has kept them safe until she could work out what to do with them. Your box contains your father’s bones.”

  Benjamin sat in silence, shocked…barely comprehending.

  Phoebe continued. “Marjorie suggests that you might like to contact Peter Jarijari. He’s an elder of the Gunditjmara people—your people.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a card. “He might help you decide what to do with them.”