Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  Even in the dim radiance of his light, he could see details that had been hidden during the rush of excavation. Both were deeply carved figures. The one on the right was a winged angel holding a scroll. If he read it correctly, the word MILTAS was carved into it, while the one on the left was its mirror image. The letters on the scroll where damaged but the first three read ORD – at a wild guess that would be ORDO. So we had ORDO MILITAS – the conspiracy nuts would love this, since all that needed to be added was TEMPLARUS and bingo! Great, find the Holy Grail, and he’d have all the mystical tokens to win the game! This was more evidence, but it didn’t make his task any easier. The carved leather covered chest would have served a few functions. One was storing vestments and valuables for Father Joachim. The second was as a travelling altar for the knights and servants of the Order. He’d seen some pieces like this in a German museum. Those pieces were also carved and covered in leather, with the raised figures painted. He was sure that once they got back to a lab, traces of paint would be found still lodged in the recesses. This was another point for the credibility of the father’s journal, though it would cause more howls of outrage and fraud from his historian colleagues.

  Curiosity drove his next effort. The front panels of this style of chest were also frequently illuminated, so he dug down with his hands scooping out the sand after loosening it with a few short jabs from a steel probe. He wasn’t going to reveal the whole section, just the top few inches would do. Once more wielding the brush gave him the top quarter of the embossed carving. It was just enough to give a hint of the image beneath and then…

  He shoved his dirty hand into his mouth to stifle the incipient cry – damn that hurt! It was a crest, a carved crest and you bet he knew what it was, as expected, the infamous seal of the Order of the Templars, beloved of conspiracy and mystical devotees the world over. Only the top third was clear but still it was enough to see the helms and lances of the two knights and the single horse head, the symbol of their pledge of poverty and commitment, two knights sharing the same horse. Well, he could look at it philosophically. He would be famous either way as the renowned discoverer or the most absurd fraud. After all that, the need to find more evidence still drove him on. Reburying his latest discovery and replacing the sand covered tarp, he began the last part of this night’s expedition.

  He could have sworn he saw someone or something move along the crest of the slope. Just for an instant, an indistinct shape was highlighted by the flickering flames of the smouldering campfire. Peter froze, staring intently at the darkest patch of the shore. Nothing showed up. Even Lampie’s ketch was lost to the night. Only the trace lines showing up in the moonlight. He stayed still for several more heartbeats but no movement or sound, except for the low echo of Bluey’s snores, disturbed the night. Maybe it was a bat flitting after an insect near the fire. He gave a shrug and began moving again. He had one more piece of evidence to check. To do that he was going to raid Sid’s tent. Now utilised as the site office and finds collection point, there were several items from the vestments chest, all small, that he’d failed to examine in the rush to open more trenches. He wasn’t putting that off any longer. Instinct still insisted that Sid was hiding something, though his rampant paranoia had calmed down over the faked items possibility. Now it just smouldered in the background, adding the occasional prod of suspicion. He moved slowly and cautiously, making next to no sound. Peter was surprised how much of his territorial training was coming in useful for this site, first speed trench digging, and now infiltration techniques. By his sainted aunt, Sergeant Graeme would be impressed!

  The camp was quiet. There was only the sound of the waves hitting the beach to the west and the soft rustle of the breeze occasionally punctuated by a rippling snore from Bluey’s tent. This was easier than expected. He made it to the tent without any disturbance and slipped inside. Peter pulled out his small torch and switched it on. Keeping the radiance at the lowest level, he had a look around. Except for a brief visit to Lampie the other day, he hadn’t spent any time in here, too busy with the trenches and excavation. He quickly picked that it might have been Sid’s tent, but it was Lampie’s domain. Everything was well organised and laid out. Recalling Canberra, Sid was never that neat with anything. Peter knelt down and quickly sorted through the categorised boxes until he found what he was looking for. As with all the smaller finds, they where placed in heavy duty ziplock plastic bags. Perfect. Pausing for a moment of doubt, he wavered. Peter had never removed anything, not even the smallest pin, from a site before, and this felt like a gross abuse of his duty and position. His more rational self prodded him into action with the reminder that if he did nothing about proving his suspicions, then one Peter Wilks would wear the blame for whatever happened. The packets slipped easily into his pocket. He had only an hour to deal with it, so speed was essential.

  First, before any more sneaking, he needed a bite of something to eat so Peter slipped over to Uncle Bill’s portable kitchen. He was damned hungry and needed a snack. On the first day, the koori cook had told him that if he needed a quick bite, he could always find a few smoked buffalo or kangaroo prosciutto rolls stored in the esky. Now that was a good word, esky. Apparently, the Aussies used it to describe a portable cool box or cooler. It was both inventive and evocative and was probably thought up at the height of their scorching summers. Whatever its common label, Peter cracked open the lid and grabbed a couple of rolls and took a bite. Hmmm yummy, that certainly helped! After this last piece of research, he promised himself that he’d come back and liberate a couple of ales that glistened beckoningly at the bottom of the esky.

  Peter moved towards his tent. It was on the far western side of the camp, away from the racheting sounds of Bluey’s nightly symphony. While the rest of the camp had been set out in a semicircle, nestling into the leeward slope of the ridge, his tent was on the far side of the campsite, at a distance from the campfire. Whether that was by accident or design he couldn’t say, but it gave him a stunning aspect as he staggered out of the tent in the morning, looking out over the estuary where Lampie’s ketch rode at anchor some thirty metres away. It also gave him a semblance of privacy though it could also have been considered an expression of his separation from the rest of the expedition. An anthropologist would have called it a visual and geographic statement reminding Peter Wilks that he was the outsider, excluded from the hearth and tribe. Peter wasn’t an idiot. He could read the social position as well as anyone. Pass the probation and tests of manhood and he’d be accepted into the tribe as a full member. Right now racked with alternate bouts of suspicion and remorse, as well as getting dammed tired, he currently couldn’t have cared less if they blackballed him!

  Oh flipping hell, some idiot left his fly screen unzipped. Bugger, bugger damn! The tent would be full of mosquitoes and those annoying little beetles that crawled through your hair. Well, he’d deal with that later. First he needed his camera. Peter knelt down and flicked the open screen back, releasing a flurry of buzzing insects. Instinct had him recoiling and flapping his hand to keep them away from his face. That simple action saved him from immediate harm. His next probably saved his life. He dropped the snack rolls.

  With a sound like the snapping of a trap, a fetid stench swept out of the tent and Peter toppled over backwards as a dark shadow lunged for the spot where his arm had been and before they hit the ground his midnight snacks vanished into a dark maw. What? What? What!!!

  The object that had made the snapping action now thrashed around in his tent and poked out its snout. Yes, it was the dark of night with only a half moon and a magnificent spray of stars but Peter needed very little to figure out what was shrugging its way out of the doorway of his tent. Flipping hell, it was a flipping crocodile! What was a flipping crocodile doing in his tent?

  Instinct is a wonderful thing to possess and to think that we spend so much time beating it into submission in order to get on with our fellow humans, ignoring the flashy smile of the financial planner, shrugg
ing off the concern of his predatory gleam, – its fine, trust me, it’ll be all right, its those other buggers who’ll get bit, not you! Well instinct doesn’t worry about all those finer aspects of culture or civilised etiquette. It isn’t going to sit around and politely enquire as to why the hungry reptile has invaded the Englishman’s castle or speculate on whether it was a fish eating freshie or the person munching saltie. No, it reaches back to those long dormant primal levers and, despite the fact that there hasn’t been a crocodile running around in England since before the Ice Age, it pulls the serious big toothed predator alarum.

  Peter may have been a bit nonplussed by the snapping teeth and hissing growl, but his arms and feet weren’t. They did the following automatically. His feet retracted and his hands clutched at the sandy soil and dragged him backwards. Instinct had him up and over a log before he was conscious of the act. The crocodile moved much faster than most people would have thought possible for a supposedly lumbering relative of the dinosaurs. It circled to the right, cutting him off from the rest of the camp and gaped its toothy jaws invitingly. Right now he felt a touch of pity for Captain Hook.

  “Hoy! Help! Help!” His calls didn’t appear to have the desired effect – nothing happened. In films, when a person in danger calls out, a veritable flood of people rush to the rescue. Even if most of them just stand and watch, the group herd thing really helps. The Kimberleys must have been operating in another reality because the crocodile just opened its jaws again and gave out a loud hissing, snarling sound as if it was laughing at him. That was flipping disconcerting!

  “Hey what’s all the bloody noise out here? Can’t a bloke get a decent snooze!”

  Thank God, someone was finally awake!

  “Help! Help, I’m being attacked by a crocodile!”

  Peter edged left, closer to the water, then his instinct screamed out a warning as the croc twisted and leapt down the slope towards him. How could something so large move so fast on land – it wasn’t fair! Peter dropped down and leapt sideways, not the easiest move and not quite fast enough. He felt the bulk of the scaly beast thump into his leg, knocking him off balance and tumbling him towards the estuary. Instinct gave him a forceful reminder that crocodiles like seizing their prey in the water, get away from the water!

  A grumbling voice echoed out from the slope above. “Ahh Christ, ya bloody Pom, can’t ya be quiet?”

  “Help, crocodile attack!”

  “Nah, stop pulling m’leg. Salties won’t come up here – too far from the water. Give it rest ya dozy Pom!”

  “What? No wait you stupid Aussie! What do you call this then?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I don’t bloody care so long as ya shut up!”

  Eventually a torch beam swung across the open space where he was being stalked by the hungry reptile. “Well fuck me – the Pom’s tellin’ the truth! Hey Sid, you’ve gotta come out an’ see this! Yer Pommie mates bein’ chased by a little saltie!”

  What was it with these people? This ferocious, Englishman-eating beast was hunting him and instead of helping, the idiot was calling his mate out to watch the show. These Aussies were crazy! Peter ran through all the methods he knew of to dissuade the crocodile from snacking on him. Unfortunately it was a very short list and mainly consisted of items he didn’t have, like a machine gun or grenades or a tank even!

  “Hey Pete! Who’s yer new mate? Is he called Boris?” That question was followed by combined howls of laughter.

  Peter didn’t need the distraction or the hilarity. He saw nothing funny about this predicament at all. “What? Oh flipping heck, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him, Sid!”

  The lashing tail had got caught up in the guy ropes of his tent and momentarily distracted the reptile as it its long tail battered the trailing tent, ripping the nylon into bannerlike ribbons. Peter used this opportunity to edge further away.

  “What the freckk is going on?” A new voice joined the peanut gallery around the campfire.

  “Pete’s playing tag with a saltie!”

  “What? So why aren’t you helping him? Chrissake Sid, you been at the Draino again or just tanked?”

  Peter had time to notice that Sid sniffed and coughed loudly at Lampie’s suggestion, but didn’t offer any further defence of his status as ring side audience member.

  “Pete, stay in front of it. Don’t move to the side – they’re bloody fast!” Lampie had entered the fray.

  Well, that was better advice than he’d received from Sid. Great, more instructions from the side line. The saltie gave a snap towards him, though the instinct part that he was following noted that it was excellent advice, especially since during the last attack, his dodge to the side had been spectacularly unsuccessful, almost leading to a permanent dinner invitation.

  “I already know this little blighter is fast Lampie. Anything more useful?”

  “Yeah Pete. Stare it down. Keep your eyes fixed on its and don’t run!”

  It was flipping dark. He could see the shape and, when the fire gave off a hefty flicker of flame, it glinted off the wicked green facets that watched him so remorselessly. Why Sid or Rob hadn’t done more than give useless sideline commentary and occasional flashes of torchlight was a matter he meant to discuss at some length when this was over.

  “Thanks!” He fixed it with a manly stare. The crocodile moved forward. No he didn’t think that was going to work. Then the reptile tried to feint him to the side again. Peter shifted until he was directly in front. The crocodile paused, as if in thought and watched him jaws half open.

  “Peter! Catch! Lampie threw what looked like a heavy branch at him. It landed in front of him. Catching wasn’t an option unless he wanted to tackle the crocodile for possession. So what was he going to do? Peter was caught between two competing urges – the fight or flee reaction – or in other words ‘are you a man or a mouse’. Meanwhile a third option jumped up and down in the background, claiming it didn’t care so long it didn’t become lunch. So what would you do? So far the croc had proved faster and more agile than anticipated, which was disconcerting, while his reactions seemed to be not as they should be, considering the adrenaline still coursing through his system from the attack. At this point a whole range of problems and complications piled in upon him – the Skaze situation, Sid, the excavation, Sid, the possible fakes, Sid and the fact that his tent and sleeping bag were now ruined. It may have felt like the slow crawl of hours but Peter made his decision in the blink of an eye. He had had quite enough and, like Peter Finch in the movie Network, he was as mad as hell and was not going to take it any more! He planted his feet in the ground and, drawing up a great lungful of air, screamed at the crocodile and pulled out the first item to hand, charged the beast bellowing an ancient warcry and threw the bottle of rum straight into the open mouth of the crocodile.

  “HIIIIIIYAAAHHHH! UT! UT! UT! UUUUUT!!!!!

  With alarming suddenness, its jaws crunched the bottle. Peter added to the crocodile’s discomfort by giving it a solid wack on its snout with Lampie’s log which he’d picked up subconsciously in his passage. The crocodile decided this meal was too noisy and far too much trouble. It flicked its body in a complete circle and scurried back to the water. Peter stood and watched the retreat of his attacker, suddenly drained. At the splash of its departure, he gave himself a shake and walked back up the slope towards the camp.

  His audience stood there, silent witnesses to the oldest combat – man versus predator. Peter walked past them, and then abruptly halted. He spun around in a crisp move and gave Lampie a deep bow. Then with a step to the left he slammed his right fist into Sid’s stomach. As his Aussie friend crumpled he bent down and whispered into his ear. “Tomorrow Sid, I want answers and you’d better have them or you’ll get it worse than that puir timorous beastie!”

  Peter swung by Sid’s tent in passing, grabbed his groaning friend’s sleeping bag and headed up to the site. Tonight could be a good opportunity to sleep under the stars, well away from water.

 
; Field Illustration 9

  Chapter 22 Fenton, Friends, and Fellow Weasels

  Lampie walked slowly up the hill, carefully balancing the plates and two mugs. She thought she was doing pretty well considering she should have made Sid do this on his freaking knees. Last night, bloody freckin’ hell, last night!! What were those two dropkicks thinking? Well, it was pretty freakin’ obvious they weren’t thinking – all the poor little brain cells gone weee burble zzzzzt! Right now getting Sid to grovel his way up the hill wasn’t close to the kind of punishment she was longing to inflict. He’d sworn to her and to Elaine that he’d stopped that kind of thing. In fact, he still claimed it this morning. What piss poor excuse did he have? He claimed that Pete seemed to be having fun and everyone knew the English had a special relationship with animals – who was he to judge? That was an excuse? When she’d got there, Sid and Rob were howling with laughter and pointing down the slope at Peter, who was trying to avoid becoming a snack. Jeez, those two were pathetic. All they had to do was throw a couple of smouldering logs at the saltie and it would have run off. It was only a little one, though Peter didn’t know that. Lampie had to admit that she was impressed when he gave some kind of battle cry and charged. That really brought her out in goose bumps. She almost jumped up and down cheering when the saltie scuttled off, even more so when Pete had walked back up the slope and gave her a bow. Wow, that was just like those olden day knights or those bull fighter guys and, when he gave Sid a well deserved wallop, it took all her restraint not to hug him.