‘Bloody hell, this is a serious issue for me. This is about professional integrity!’
‘Verity, how else are we going to follow this lead? What else have we got to go on? Sarah was killed because of this shit.’
‘Look, Nick,’ shouted Verity, eyes ablaze, ‘my fucking job is on the line here.’ She turned her back on the two men.
There was a long awkward silence while they waited for her decision.
Verity pondered what the other professors at Oxford would do. There was no way they would interfere with the integrity of the map. It was almost a sacred duty not to harm these old manuscripts and rare works on paper. Yes, you could under special circumstances repair damage, but only after numerous committee meetings with full disclosure. So, for her to sanction an action that would create damage was inconceivable.
She could sense Nick and Llewellyn staring at her back. Her eyes wandered around the studio and finally settled on an early map of Scotland, probably a Jansson map from about 1650, and her father came to her mind. His recent stoush with the Scottish Parliament over the landing site of Bonny Prince Charlie made her smile to herself. ‘Research, my girl. That’s what it’s all about.’ She knew what Julius would do.
‘Sorry about that. I’ve calmed down.’
Neither of the men was game to speak.
‘Let’s apply the chemicals and give it a go.’
‘Okay,’ said Llewellyn, as if nothing had happened, ‘we can be a bit more radical and add some acidic solution, to create a small chemical reaction. The rag paper, being naturally alkaline, will reveal anything that has been written or painted onto the map using baking soda or hydrated sodium carbonate, or some natural substance that has these minerals.’
He lifted down a bottle from a shelf. ‘This is basically vinegar. I’ll dilute it with some pH-neutral water.’
While he was mixing the solution, Nick looked at Verity and mouthed ‘sorry’.
Llewellyn then lifted a small feather-ended quill and gently applied the solution to the map.
For a few seconds nothing happened.
Then, as if by magic, writing started to appear on the paper. ‘Jesus Christ!’ gasped Nick.
He could feel the shivers up the back of his neck and his head started to pound. It was as if Heinrich Bunting himself was standing next to him.
‘I can’t believe it!’ said Verity, gasping in wonderment at the figures and writing now clearly discernible on the map.
All of them could see a single line with arrows coming from Europe around the Cape of Good Hope and up the east coast of Africa, continuing eastwards south of India and off the page. However, there was a concentration of writing all the way down the west coast of Australia, with annotations written on the continent itself.
‘I suggest you photograph the page,’ said Llewellyn calmly, ‘before it disappears. I would prefer not to reapply more of this solution.’
Both Nick and Verity grabbed their phones to capture the newly revealed image.
As the writing slowly vanished, Llewellyn turned to his shocked guests. ‘I really didn’t expect that to happen. It has completely thrown me. Who wants a Chivas?’
Two hours later, Llewellyn lay flat on his back, in the same shed-like room. His eyes glazed over as he stared up at the horizontal windows. Billy removed the garrotte from around the Welshman’s neck, rolled it tightly and replaced it in his jacket pocket. No doubt the poof had revealed everything: Lawrance and Merton had discovered the secret, taken photographs and left. The queer had squealed everything but didn’t have a copy to give him, only the answers to the chemicals he had used. The Master would know what to do. Billy wandered slowly around the room, emptying all the jars and bottles of solutions onto the tables and floor, until small acrid-smelling rivulets lapped the now lifeless body. He stepped back towards the exit to the room and lit a Marlboro Red. He took a deep drag and threw it on to the ground. He watched as small flames did a macabre dance around the body. He placed the rest of the pack on a table and left.
44
Bingargy watched the Ancestral Spirit wade ashore. He was still sore from the ceremony. The sand-filled scars on his chest, arms and buttocks were of little concern, but his penis was throbbing. It had been sliced open along the full length of the underside, a red flower placed inside the wound and flattened on a rock. His brothers Yangarra and Jillawar had also suffered in silence. They were Worora people and they had been joined by the Wunumbul, the Wungemi and the Umedi people; to show discomfort would have been shameful for his tribe. The ceremony had lasted many days and nights, filled with dancing and singing and, best of all for Bingargy, the storytelling.
He had learned how Ungut and Wallanganda, the serpents, had given birth to Creation by dreaming all creatures that live on the earth, including the spirit ancestors of the Worora people. The elders told the secret and sacred stories of the Wandjina who brought rain and fertility to the people. It was a Wandjina that cast the first bolt of lightning by splitting open his penis and discharging fire and lightning from it.
Now that Bingargy had completed the initiation, he could make the spearheads and follow the teaching of the Wandjina from the Creation time. The elders had told him that he was to be the helper of the medicine man. This was a great honour, as it was the role of the medicine man to fill the Wandjina with renewed life, to guarantee that rain would fall. The medicine man was the connection between the spirits of the Creation time and the present.
It was no surprise for him to see the Ancestral Spirit, with his white face and strange-shaped head and body, step on to Worora land.
Bunting had insisted on changing into his cassock before setting ashore. ‘Hand me my pastor’s hat, Jakob. I will bury the Holy Words here, in this Godforsaken uninhabited part of the world and give the occasion the solemnity it deserves.’
They had travelled south for a few days, almost always with land in sight. Pobasso and Philip’s carefree manner had lifted everybody’s mood on board. Even Amir seemed to have recovered from his horrific recollections of a few days previous.
‘Master Bunting, do not think our lightness is a character fault,’ said Philip, ‘The weather has been kind to us and we should enjoy our good fortune while we have it.’
Sailing between some barren islands and the steep red-cliff shoreline, Amir sighted a wide sandy bay.
Pobasso waved his arms back and forward as he spoke to Philip.
‘Pobasso says that although it appears calm, there is a large tidal surge which can be dangerous. However, he believes if he gets his timing right, we can reach the shore and as long as we do not spend too much time on the land, we can safely get back out to sea before nightfall.’
Bingargy heard a shift in the earth behind him and turned to see Yangarra and Jillawar. He motioned for them to remain silent and pointed at the Wandjina standing on the sand with his helpers. As they watched, the Wandjina and one helper commenced climbing the rocky cliff, leaving the others at the water’s edge.
Bingargy whispered to his brothers, ‘It is because of our initiation ceremony that the Ancestor Spirit has come to teach us himself. He is looking for us.’
Many years later, near the end of Bingargy’s life, he drew this Wandjina onto the sacred cave wall, as it was now his task to repaint all the Wandjina before every monsoon. There had not been a day in the previous fifty years he had not thought of the meeting. When he had finished painting, he filled his mouth with water and blew it over the images. When his helper, his son from Angiwarra, asked him the reason for this, he explained that this was the way that the Wandjinas had brought rain to the land in the old days and when they wanted the rain to stop, they would turn into rainbows.
Jakob and Bunting clambered up and over the last rocks and stood on a plateau, at the top of the cliff face. As they wiped away the sweat and gathered their breath, they stared in awe at the land stretching infinitely into the east. They waved down to the others, now swimming and frolicking in the shallow clear water.
‘Our quest is over, Heinrich,’ said Jakob, looking at his friend, holding the wooden box carefully in the cerecloth. ‘Where would you like me to bury it?’
Bunting surveyed the immediate vicinity. ‘I think over there Jakob, beside that dwarf tree.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you, for I could not be here doing my sacred duty, if it was not for you.’
Jakob moved towards the tree and suddenly, where there had been nobody, stood three tall, wiry, and naked figures; two holding wooden spears double their height at their side and one with a curved piece of decorated wood. Jakob gasped out loud and stepped back towards his companion. It was as if they had appeared out of thin air. At first Bunting thought they were of grey skin, but soon discerned that their black bodies were covered in a type of ash, with geometric lines in white paint or clay. Each man had different decorations on his body and face. Neither group moved or spoke. As the shock wore off, Bunting could see the terrible scarring across their chests and arms, and he assumed from violent encounters. Still no one moved. Their expression was impassive as they stared at the priest. Jakob noted their protruding foreheads and curly black hair; like him their noses were flat and large.
‘Shall we go,’ Jakob whispered to Bunting in a shaky voice.
At this moment, one of the men started gesticulating, holding his spear in the air with his right hand, while placing his other hand on his penis.
‘What is he doing?’ hissed Jakob, without looking at Bunting.
The other two soon joined their companion, shaking their weapons and grabbing their groins. One of them started shouting, creating a sound that neither of the two Europeans had heard anything like before.
‘What do we do?’ said Jakob, paralysed by the extraordinary confrontation and the intensity of the speakers’ words.
To Jakob’s surprise, Bunting stepped forward towards the group and pronounced in a loud, clear voice.
‘We are visitors in your land. We have come from far away, across the sea on a great quest. We mean you no harm.’
Bingargy turned to his brothers. ‘I asked Wandjina to teach us how to throw lightning. He has agreed to show us the secret.’
Bunting continued, ‘We will return to our vessel and leave you now.’ He then turned slowly to Jakob. ‘Let us go down to the boat now, without turning our backs on them.’ The two men slowly started walking backward, along the plateau to the cliff face.
‘Look,’ said Bingargy, ‘Wandjina says for us to turn around and walk with them.’
The three young initiates then turned around and started walking backwards, in the same direction as Bunting and Jakob.
A Wedge-tailed Eagle flying above might have found it odd to see five humans walking in such a manner and may have shouted out at them as to what they were doing and to explain themselves.
However, there were no such interruptions and all five clambered down the cliff face.
Philip, whose keen eyes spotted the strange procession, urged Amir and Pobasso to prepare the proa for sail. Bunting, on reaching the bottom of the cliff shouted out to his retreating companions, ‘We will walk to you. Do not make any aggressive movements.’
Both scared, Bunting and Jakob turned slowly, faced the ocean and steadily waded out into the shallows leaving the young Worora men a few spear lengths behind.
As Philip and Amir helped Jakob up into the ship, Bunting, waist-high in water turned and addressed the three young men. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. We will take our leave.’
With waves now lapping over their knees, the three Aborigines stared at the Wandjina as he was lifted onto the strange-shaped vessel. They stood silent, watching, as it disappeared slowly into the great sea.
Bingargy turned to his brothers. ‘The Wandjina has left Worora land. Let us tell our people of the great honour that he bestowed on us.’
45
They left Llewellyn’s place elated. He had translated the words on the map and they hardly noticed the walk back to the Hotel.
Five days of fine weather … landed here to bury the Holy Words … prevented by natives … great storm pushed us south for many days … God saved us and led us to shore here … walked 100,000 paces into the rising sun … buried the Holy Words here on the afternoon of the second day … one hundred paces north of the river under the lone tree with the laughing bird.
‘I just couldn’t believe it,’ Verity said for the umpteenth time. ‘When the words started appearing on the map, I almost fainted with shock.’
‘I know,’ said Nick. ‘I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise up. It was everything you read about in adventure books or see in the movies, absolutely amazing!’ Then as an afterthought, ‘When we get back to the hotel let’s research and see if we can find the location.’
However, arriving back in the room and completely heightened by their experience, they fell onto the double bed, grabbing frantically at each other, totally engulfed by the feel and taste of their passion, the recent stresses and tensions temporarily forgotten. A while later, with their clothes strewn everywhere and both panting, Verity, a touch flustered, laughed and whispered in Nick’s ear, ‘Very impressive, Mister Lawrance. It seems you didn’t need your computer to find the location.’
‘Wait to you see my main performance!’ responded Nick, still breathless and smiling back.
Later, showered and with her hair up in a bun, Verity started typing on her laptop. ‘Let’s try and work out a possible location from the information we have. The map is not bad for the sixteenth century, but not really accurate.’
‘Okay,’ said Nick, ‘let’s assume they came ashore at the Swan River for the sake of a starting location in the south-west of Western Australia. The map seems to indicate that area, although we could be 500 miles out either way.’
‘So how far is 100,000 paces in kilometres?’ said Verity, staring at a Google map of the south-west of the continent.
‘Well, if every pace is, say, a metre, then it is about 100 kilometres,’ said Nick, getting out of his seat and pacing up and down the room, ‘although I don’t think you could keep walking at a metre-length pace.’
He studied his own stride. ‘Let’s say about an 80 centimetre stride if you are walking a great distance.’
‘Well that would be about 80 kilometres then,’ said Verity, ‘I’ll see what I can find about 80 kilometres in from Perth. Then, I’ll take a line south and then north.’
‘Okay. We should also be concentrating on straight lines west to east,’ added Nick. ‘Bunting writes about walking into the morning sun … oh, and rivers.’
Verity was already focusing in on the Google map of south-west Australia.
‘Perth to York is about 96 kilometres although that’s from Perth, but the city is inland quite a way. When you think about it, I should be taking our starting point from the coast, from Fremantle probably.’ She stared at her screen.
Nick got his laptop out and also started typing in directions. ‘Yes, that works,’ he said. ‘It adds another 21 kilometres, however, York is on the River Avon. What about Yanchep to Toodyay? That’s about 97 kilometres.’
‘Has Toodyay got a river?’ asked Verity.
Nick shook his head. ‘Bunbury to Collie is about 60 kilometres,’ he said, ‘and the Collie River is there!’
After thirty minutes of bouncing distances, towns and rivers off each other, it was obvious they had nothing. ‘This isn’t going to work this way, Verity. Have we got anything else to work on?’
‘Well, lone trees and laughing birds doesn’t help,’ said Verity, a bit crestfallen. That could be anywhere down the coast, next to a river, about 80 kilometres inland. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
Nick stared at the sleeping Verity, her head angled into the pillow, snug against the window of the plane. What on earth was he doing? he wondered. He wasn’t a policeman or a secret agent and yet here he was chasing shadows across the world. What was driving him? For some reason he had agreed to catch the first a
vailable flight to Perth. Verity had convinced him it was the right thing to do. Well, of course it was the right thing to do, but now in the cold light of day he wasn’t sure if his head had been thinking … or his passion.
‘Your whisky, sir,’ said the steward in that familiar Australian accent, disturbing his thoughts. Bronte would be jealous he was off to ‘Oz’ without her. They had been a great team for years, first meeting at a dinner party of a mutual friend, the friend insisting that the Aussie girl would be perfect for him. He was right. Bronte let him do his thing and she cleared up all the mess. She handled all the accounts, the suppliers, organised the staff and kept the gallery looking smart. It left him free to do what he did best: hunt down the stock, do the deals, schmooze the customers.
He drank slowly, pondering the situation. Could Inspector Kumar take over? No probably not. She had no jurisdiction in Australia. What could she do anyway? She had warned them not to get involved and here he was flying to Australia for God’s sake! This whole thing was just a hunch; a hunch about what? That an obscure German priest had hidden something important in Australia, over four hundred years ago; that it was so important people were willing to murder for it. This whole thing was a fucking joke! He wanted out.
Verity awoke and gave him a smile that washed away some of his negativity. ‘Don’t worry, Nick, the worst thing that can happen is that we have a lovely holiday on the beaches of Perth. Remember, it’s summer in Australia! You’ve got staff in the Gallery and I’ve taken some leave. Let’s enjoy the experience.’
Verity plugged in her ear phones and listened to an interview with the Australian Prime Minister while Nick, after scanning the contents page of Qantas Magazine, turned to an article about a terrible cancer that was decimating the population of the Tasmanian Devil, that angry little marsupial, found only on that island. However, something was preventing him from concentrating and, after reading a couple of paragraphs he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. When he opened his eyes a little while later, something was really bugging him. He picked up the magazine and reread the contents page: “The Tasmanian Devil’s Greatest Fight”, “Don’t ‘Wine’ about This Industry”, “Never Mind the Sharks – It’s the Rips You Have to Worry About”, “How the Black Monks won the West”.
The Bunting Quest Page 23
