by Morgana Best
I yawned and stretched. “I wish! No, I asked an Elder, and she didn’t know. She was one of the Stolen Generation, so she doesn’t know much about her culture. She referred me to someone else, but he didn’t know anything either.”
“What does Stolen Generation mean?”
I looked at Brandon. “Oh sorry, I thought you were an Aussie.”
Brandon shook his head. “I was born here, but left when I was about eleven. I went back to England with my mother when my parents divorced. That’s why I don’t have a British accent. Anyway, what is it?”
I love nothing better than to recite facts. “The term ‘Stolen Generation’ refers to the official policy of kidnapping indigenous Australian children from their parents by the Australian government between 1909 and 1969, although it happened prior to and after those dates. Many of the victims were put into institutions, while some boys were sent to be farm laborers and some girls to be domestic servants. No official apology was forthcoming from the Australian Government until as late as 2008. Didn’t you hear about it?”
Brandon shook his head and started clearing the table. He appeared to have lost interest again. I got up to help him. As we stacked the dishwasher, he launched into another story about Fred. “I’m sure he’s my soul mate. I’ve never felt like this about anyone else, never. He’s all I can think about.” He stopped talking and peered into my face. “Do you mind me talking about him?”
I didn’t know what to say, so said a half-hearted, “No.”
Brandon’s face lit up. “Great!” He took me by the elbow and led me to the sofa. “It’s so good having someone to talk to.”
I smiled weakly, and laid my head against the back of the sofa. I was having trouble staying awake. As I drifted off to sleep, Brandon was saying, “And then he said to me... and then I said to him...” for the umpteenth time.
I awoke in the middle of the night on the sofa. Brandon had thrown a blanket on me, and Diva was asleep on my feet. I struggled to my bedroom, and went back to sleep with some difficulty.
I was woken by Diva running up and down the bed, her usual behavior when I’d slept in. I staggered out the back and topped up her bowl of dry food with a little more. For some reason, she always expects to get fed, even when she still has food in her bowl.
My first morning duty taken care of, now it was time for coffee. I stumbled out to check out the coffee situation. Sitting on the bench top was quite a fancy, stainless steel, espresso machine. I didn’t have a hope of figuring out how to work it, especially pre-coffee—they should make caffeine patches for this type of situation—so I staggered in a caffeine-deprived state to my bedroom. From the top of my luggage, I took out the Nespresso machine and a box of capsules, and made my way back to the kitchen.
Two Fortissio Lungos later, and I was ready to face the world. I tipped the rest of my suitcase out all over my bed, grabbed some clothes, and then headed for the shower, tripping over Diva on my way.
When I returned to my bedroom, Diva was spread out all over my clothes. They were now covered with cream hair. For a medium-haired cat, she sure can shed fur everywhere. I set up my laptop on the desk by the window, and managed to retrieve a notepad and pen from under an uncooperative Diva.
I made another coffee. I always have two to get me going, and then a third to enjoy. I returned to my desk, and typed in the wireless key that Brandon had given me to connect to the net.
Then I drew a sudden mental blank. Where to start? I googled ‘Hillgrove massacres’ again. Nothing. As I’d heard that the massacres consisted of the murdering of Aboriginal people by whites who threw them over the cliffs in the early 1900s, I googled ‘Aboriginal massacres’. That led me to ten journal articles all of which stated that many massacres of Aboriginal people were covered up and not recorded. Even the Wiki entry entitled, List of massacres of Indigenous Australians, opened with the statement, Massacres on Australia’s frontier were often not recorded and generally tended to fall under a veil of secrecy due to fear of possible legal consequences, especially following the Myall Creek Massacre in 1838. Well, that explained it.
Then I thought of Professor Bill Dolan, who was right here at the University of New England in Armidale. He had helped me only recently. The only problem with him was that he liked to spell out people’s names to his thoroughly bored listeners.
I called the switchboard and was put through to his room. He picked up immediately.
“Hi Professor Dolan, this is Misty Sales, that’s s, a, l, e, s, not s, a, i, l, s.” I suppressed a wicked giggle only with some difficulty. “We met recently when I asked you about voodoo spirits.” I must say I took somewhat malicious delight in getting my own back.
Unfortunately, Professor Dolan, as delighted as he was to hear from me, protested that he had no knowledge of Hillgrove and merely referred me to the local council.
I called the local council and was put through to the Aboriginal Liaison Officer. I left a message there, as well as a message on his cell phone. I then called the council back and was transferred to the office of one of the city’s historians. He too was out, so I left a message there as well. I then emailed an academic who had written widely on massacres and asked if he knew anything at all. I made a note to call the historian I’d met at Bakers Creek.
By then it was late morning, and I was starving. I would have to drive down at some point through the day and stock up on food for my stay. I felt quite stiff after a day’s traveling, so decided to walk to the center of town and buy lunch at a café. It wasn’t far to walk, and I thought I’d enjoy it. As it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter 11
I walked downtown and then through the mall. Cafés were everywhere. I had a vague feeling that I was being followed, but shook it off. I finally settled on a café just up the street from the mall on the basis of a sign boasting that the café roasted its own coffee, and sat in a secluded corner. This was a good place to make notes; there was no view of the street from back here, so I wouldn’t be distracted.
I sat there for about three minutes or so, before I realized that I needed to order from the counter; there was no table service. I ordered scrambled eggs with fetta and chives, served with a hash brown. I couldn’t decide which coffee to have, but finally settled on my usual caramel soy latte.
Just as I sat back down in the comfortable black seat, I had an incoming call on my iPhone. It was the Armidale city historian.
“That’s the first I’ve ever heard of massacres at Hillgrove or Bakers Creek,” he said, after I explained the information I was seeking. “It’s an urban myth,” he continued. “Anywhere you have cliffs, people think indigenous Australians were thrown off them. Bald Rock, Buff Rock, and Boggabri are just three of the contenders. Now there are several people over the years who fell off the cliffs, or even jumped off, but as for massacres, no, that’s just an urban myth.”
I sighed deeply. “What about mining accidents? I haven’t been able to find much on the net about those either.”
“Oh yes, there were lots of those. The old newspapers were full of them. People back then didn’t wear safety equipment, and their mining practices were pretty ordinary.”
I sighed again, thanked him for all his help, and hung up. I opened my laptop and googled ‘mining accidents at Hillgrove’. Again it came up blank, or to be precise, it produced very little. I found a web entry by a man trying to find information on an ancestor who had died in the early 1900s in the Hillgrove mine. He had found out that several other miners had died on the same day, but he’d been unable to track down any information on a mining disaster.
As I was in a nice secluded part of the café, I decided to call the Aboriginal Liaison Officer again. This time I was in luck; he picked up immediately. He too had not heard of any massacres, but said he wouldn’t be at all surprised if it had happened. He did say, however, that he wasn’t aware of any oral history that would support the fact. I jotted down the five referrals he gave me, and said goodby
e.
That was quite a help, but I was not getting any further in my research. Bill and Ben had told me that there were massacres, but no one, not even the locals, had ever heard any such thing. But why would Bill and Ben, or the organization they worked for, invent such a story? It made no sense.
A shadow loomed over me, and I, expecting my food, looked up while automatically saying, “Thank you.”
“Thanks for what?” It was Douglas.
I jumped in fright. “What are you doing here?”
Douglas sat down opposite me. “Couldn’t you at least pretend you’re pleased to see me?”
I scowled at him. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Straight to the point, Misty, gee. I’m your only contact at The Orpheans, so I’d think you should actually be pleased to see me.”
He had a point, but before I could think it through, my meal arrived, along with my coffee. I was surprised when food was also placed in front of Douglas.
“What’s that?”
“It’s called food, Misty.” His tone was sarcastic. “Beef and roast vegetables. This here is called a potato.” He stabbed a potato with a fork and held it up for my inspection.
“Very funny, Douglas. I was here for ages before my order came. Why did yours arrive so soon?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
I scowled at him. It seemed fairly obvious that Douglas had been here for ages. Had he been listening to my phone conversations? I couldn’t see the counter where orders were taken from where I was sitting; I couldn’t see much at all. How close had he been the whole time? But for that matter, surely I hadn’t said anything important. Surely it didn’t matter if he’d overheard. I searched my memory banks.
Douglas was still looking at me and hadn’t yet touched his food. “Why are you so angry anyway? Is it because I’m telling you about The Orpheans and Jamie hasn’t?”
“Why would Jamie tell me about The Orpheans?” I snapped, and then regretted my tone. I added, more evenly, “Jamie doesn’t know anything about them.”
Douglas slowly cut up some roast vegetables and then just as slowly popped some in his mouth. After a bout of leisurely chewing, he put down his knife and fork and said, “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
Douglas held up both hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Jamie knows all about The Orpheans of course. SI7 and The Orpheans have worked closely for, well, decades if not longer.”
“SI7?” My stomach was churning; it was obvious to me that I was on the verge of receiving upsetting news.
Douglas made no attempt to hide his surprise. “You’re kidding me? You don’t know? Jamie didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head, and made a show of sipping coffee.
Douglas continued, “SI7 is a covert, British government department for investigating the paranormal and the occult. Have you heard of MI7?”
I shook my head and said, “I don’t know much about anything, it seems.” Douglas tried to pat my hand but I pulled it away and cut up the hash brown.
“I suppose the simplest way to put it is that MI7 is like MI6, but investigates the paranormal and occult. Of course, the government denies that MI7 does this at all, and says that it was simply set up around a hundred years ago to deal with censorship and propaganda. The government has put out a great deal of misinformation about it to cover their tracks. The organization Jamie works for, SI7, is similar to MI7.”
I was overwhelmed and upset by his disclosure, and it didn’t help that I was so tired. Why hadn’t Jamie told me this? He had always kept the name of his organization from me. It wasn’t even set out on any of the forms I’d had to sign. Why was it that Douglas was the one to tell me this, while Jamie had avoided it? My stomach clenched, and the smell of the food was suddenly making me nauseous.
It took me a moment or so to realize that Douglas was still talking. “And so you need to go out to Bakers Creek Falls,” he concluded.
I didn’t like to admit that I hadn’t heard a single word he’d said, so asked, “Say that again please, but in more detail.”
Douglas finished the last of his meal before answering. “There isn’t much more detail I can give you; it’s quite straightforward. The Orpheans want you to go back out to Bakers Creek Falls where you found the body. I’m here to give you your assignment.”
“But...” I caught myself just in time. I had nearly said, I already have an assignment. “Douglas, did you have anything to do with that murder?”
Douglas looked affronted. He clutched at his chest. His expression was one of complete innocence. “Of course not! How could you say such a thing?”
I shrugged, and motioned for him to continue.
Douglas cast a quick look around the café before speaking. “Your assignment is to find out if there’s a spirit that’s behind that murder, as well as the previous murders, you know, the massacres and all. Then you are to find out the name of that spirit and report the name to me.”
Now that was suspicious. “Lucky I’m already in town researching Hillgrove’s ghosts for my magazine,” I said dryly, carefully studying Douglas’s face for any reaction.
There was none. He sat there as cool as a cucumber. All he said was, “Yes, that’s good.”
We both sat in silence for a moment, and then he asked, “By the way, have you heard from Jamie lately?”
Well, that threw me. “Why do you want to know?” I asked, doing my best not to sound rude.
Douglas shrugged. “Just curious. Anyway, The Orpheans want you to find out that spirit’s name as soon as possible.”
I couldn’t have been more suspicious if I tried. I had never trusted Douglas, and now I trusted him even less.
What was I to do? I figured that I might as well go to Bakers Creek Falls and see if I could pick up the presence of any evil entity. That was my assignment from SI7 anyway, and so far I had made zero progress with internet research. It was time for a bit of field research.
By the time I’d walked back to Brandon’s, fed Diva lunch, and then headed out to Bakers Creek Falls, I felt a fuzzy headache coming on. I parked at the Lookout, downed two headache tablets, swallowed half the bottle of water that I had in the car from yesterday, took a pen and my notepad, and locked the car. There was no other human in sight.
I walked over to the viewing platform again. Although I had been here recently with Melissa, and although the last time I was here I’d found a dead body, I was again in awe at the scenery. I knew from the guide book that it was a two thousand and seven hundred foot perpendicular drop over massive granite cliffs into the bottom of the gorge. The Bakers Creek Mine was at the bottom of the gorge. I took out a photocopy of a newspaper clipping I’d slipped into my folder, and read it again. It was dated Monday September 29, 1890, and was from the Melbourne Argus newspaper. I’d come across it after I had visited the falls with Melissa, and had been taken by the beauty of the description.
The panorama from the head of the gorge is of the most magnificent description. On each side almost perpendicular walls of granite and slate, below the winding stream, on the banks of which are the batteries of the Baker’s Creek Company, the North Bakers Creek Company, the Sunlight Company, and perched up amongst the rocks on the eastern Bide, the crushing mills of the Lady Carrington and the Cosmopolitan companies. On the opposite side stand out prominently the numerous shafts and houses of the Earl of Hopetoun Company.
To the north the massive granite falls, over which the water in winter roars in torrent, and to the south, through the azure haze the rugged peak of Enmore, 30 miles away. As a subject for a picture, it has but few rivals in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales or the canyons of the “Rockies” of America The varying lights and shades mingling with the glow of the setting sun. The roar of the stampers below, and the thunder roll of the exploding shots in the numerous tunnels on the sides of the gulch are features of a scene of awful grandeur.
‘A scene of awful grandeur,’ was a perfect
description of the vista before my eyes. I was waxing lyrical.
I left my position on the viewing platform to sit on a little wooden seat which was away from the edge, but which nevertheless afforded a good view. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. I decided to do a brief grounding meditation. I sat up straight and imagined my feet stretching into the earth, through the earth’s crust, absorbing the earth’s energy. I imagined my feet turning into branches and connecting with the earth itself.
Suddenly, I was jolted from my meditative state. I stood up in alarm and looked around, but no one was to be seen. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. The adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and my heart was racing. I couldn’t see any sign of what had startled me, but I had certainly received some sort of spiritual shock.
I looked around. The sky was still blue. A lizard ran into the undergrowth; a magpie looked at me from a tree. The world for all intents and purposes looked sunny and normal. Yet I knew that I was now not alone. I could sense the presence of a malignant, dark entity, but it remained elusive even as I stretched out my mind to try to categorize it, even in the most basic of ways.
Chapter 12
I went back to the Hillgrove museum to see if it would supply any clues of the evil entity. I figured it was a long shot, but it was as good a place to start as any. This time, there was a car parked down at one end of the museum, so I parked my car at the other end, under a tree, after rolling down the windows as the day had turned hot. The weather in this part of the country was highly unpredictable, but for the moment it was hot, and my car’s air conditioning wasn’t working.
I walked down the pathway to the old, white building, and, once inside the little ante room, made the gold coin donation. A gruff looking man appeared at the doorway leading into the main room of the museum, and I jumped.
“Did you pay?” His voice was accusatory.
“Yes, I just put the money in that box.” I pointed to the honor box on the bench.
