The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  Seeing Cassandra’s sudden mood change, Rebecca suggested they take a walk. At first she thought that the dramatic events of the day were finally taking their toll. But the haunted look in Cassandra’s teary eyes told her there had to be more to it.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, linking arms with her new friend. Slowly, as they walked, everything became clear for Cassandra: if she wanted to stay sane and protect her son, she had to break the Wizard’s hold over her.

  And to do that, she needed help.

  For a while they walked in silence until they were well away from the others. Sitting on a smooth rock, they watched the changing light of the late afternoon mellow the harsh landscape. The striking colours, the browns, the reds and the many shades of ochre and yellow – more intense now that the glare had gone – melted into each other, forming a stunning canvas of breathtaking beauty.

  Cassandra reached for Rebecca’s hand and took a deep breath. ‘I’m about to trust you not only with my own life, but,’ she began, speaking softly, ‘with my son’s life as well.’

  The rest of the story was easy. Cassandra held nothing back, telling Rebecca about her encounter with the Wizard that afternoon. Rebecca was a good listener and resisted the urge to interrupt.

  After they left Tunnel Creek, Rebecca waited until they were well on their way before dropping the bombshell.

  ‘Cassandra wants to tell you something,’ she said quietly, reaching across to Cassandra and squeezing her hand.

  ‘Oh? Why so formal all of a sudden?’ asked Jack, turning around. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Back in Will’s house we struck a bargain,’ Cassandra began. ‘I thought then that I could lead you to Anna, and you agreed to help me. I now believe more than ever that I can do just that.’

  Cassandra paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘You heard what Pigeon had to say. It’s all coming together now in a strange kind of way. These are not coincidences. We’re meant to find her. I believe, no I feel, that we’re getting close. Very close.’

  Taking a deep breath, she paused again. ‘I’m trying to keep my side of the bargain, but unfortunately, there’s now a serious complication ...’

  ‘Jesus! What is it?’ asked Jack.

  ‘The Wizard has abducted Tristan,’ Rebecca replied, her voice barely audible.

  ‘What?’ Andrew almost shouted. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me.’

  Cassandra repeated everything she’d told Rebecca earlier. Feeling better with every word, she knew she had made the right decision.

  ‘Do you believe the Wizard’s telling the truth?’ asked Jack, after Cassandra had finished.

  ‘About the abduction, yes. About Tristan coming out of the coma, no.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Will.

  ‘All of this is classic Eugene – the master-manipulator at his best. He knows exactly how to get to people and which buttons to press. I’ve seen him do it countless times. He knows there’s only one way he can get to me, especially after the fiasco in the boxing tent. Harming Tristan while he was in a coma, practically dead, was pointless. However, claiming that he’s suddenly woken up and then taking him away – that’s something quite different. This is the joy and the nightmare all wrapped in one. He knows I’d trade my own life for Tristan’s. Perhaps one day,’ whispered Cassandra, lowering her voice, ‘I may have to do just that ...’

  ‘Tell them what the Wizard’s asked you to do,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘The Wizard is convinced that Anna is alive and that we know where she is. I’m to be his eyes and ears and report everything we’re doing.’

  ‘How?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I have to call one of his lieutenants in the compound.’

  ‘Do you really believe he’s bluffing?’ asked Andrew. ‘Even after speaking to the nurse at Bleak House?’

  ‘Yes I do. She sounded vague and uncomfortable ...’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I think the Wizard orchestrated this.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely! The Wizards own Bleak House and employ the nurse ...’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And besides, I’d know if my boy had really woken up. Tristan and I have a special bond that goes far beyond mother and son ... This isn’t his time – not yet. That’s why I’m telling you all this. The Wizard’s lying. I know it. If he weren’t, I wouldn’t have said a word.’

  ‘Are you saying you would have done his bidding?’ asked Jack.

  ‘To save Tristan, yes.’

  For a while no one spoke. The implications of what Cassandra had just said began to sink in. Looking out the car window, Cassandra watched the tall cliffs fade away, blotted out by the glare of the relentless sun. Hoping that her fears for Tristan’s safety would do the same, she closed her eyes.

  There it is again, she thought, listening to the voice drifting through the open window. Grateful for the diversion, she began to take deep breaths to prepare herself for a brief escape into the spirit world.

  ‘Bin talkin’ lot ’bout my head ... Here I go again ...

  ‘Meeting your ancestors is one of the spiritual highlights a true Bunuba can look forward to when he dies,’ whispered the voice. ‘I was taught this as a boy as part of my initiation into the secrets of my tribe. I often thought about this. Looking up at the stars after the logs in the campfire had turned to embers, I tried to imagine what it would be like when the time came. It was a scary thought for a young lad. When the time finally did come, nothing could have prepared me for what was waiting for me.

  ‘Before a newcomer is allowed to take his rightful place next to his ancestors, his whole life is examined and debated. Great. Nobody had told me about that. Needless to say, my ancestors knew everything about me and questioned me intensely about certain events in my past life. As you can imagine, there’s nowhere to hide in the spirit world. There were many things in my life I wasn’t particularly proud of. Unfortunately, these were the very things held up for scrutiny. It’s all to do with sex and kinship law. You want an example?’

  Yes I do, thought Cassandra.

  ‘But before I can elaborate, I have to tell you a little about myself.’

  Please do.

  ‘I don’t know the exact year, but I was born in the early 1870s. This was a period of great conflict between the white pastoralists pushing relentlessly north in search of new grazing lands and my people, the Bunuba, the traditional owners. My spirit country on my father’s side is called Djumbud. It covers an area rich in tradition and mythology, reaching from Tunnel Creek, where I died, to Windjana Gorge some twenty miles to the north where I fought many a battle defending my country. This is also the place where my ancestors reside and where I was hoping to find peace. However, as I was soon to find out, peace comes at a price; even in the spirit world.

  ‘When I was about eleven, my mother moved to Lennard River station – a million acres of the best Kimberley frontier land – run by a white man, a very ambitious white man called William Lukin. I admired that man when I was a boy. You see, I was quite small compared to other Bunuba lads my age. But what I lacked in stature, I made up in other ways. I was really quick; my speed earned me a nickname – Pigeon – given to me by Lukin himself. This name stayed with me until I died and is now etched in Bunuba lore forever. It ... well, it put fear in my enemies, and my people got strength and pride from it, and it became synonymous with the Bunuba Resistance.

  ‘During my time at Lennard River station, I won many foot-races – no one could outrun me over a hundred yards – and became an accomplished boxer, shearer and stockman. But my greatest achievement was with the gun. I could handle a rifle or a revolver like no other and quickly became quite famous for my marksmanship. I turned into Lukin’s best black stock-boy and was proud of it. But unfortunately, there was a dark side to all this which my spirit-judges were quick to point out: I had allowed myself to be seduced by the ways of the white man and had turned my back on my people. Tru
e. I had offended against tradition and broken Bunuba kinship law. Also true. I had killed many – black and white – and lived a promiscuous life. I couldn’t deny it. Things didn’t look good.’

  There was a moment of silence, then, ‘Do you want to hear more?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ whispered Cassandra.

  ‘When I first came to the spirit world, I had no voice. I was not allowed to speak in my defence. Believe me, that was very frustrating. Instead, the spirit of Ellemarra, a great man, was assigned to me by my ancestors. He would act as my guide, mentor and spokesman. This was good news: I had known Ellemarra in my youth and admired him greatly.

  ‘In fact, he had been my role model. Be that as it may, it soon became obvious that I wouldn’t make a good spirit.

  ‘I was told that the right to speak had to be earned. I would be set a task: to right a great wrong in the world of the living for which I was somehow supposed to be responsible. As it turned out, the wrong hadn’t even been committed yet at the time, and I had to wait almost a hundred years before I would discover what it was and why I was responsible for it. That’s the spirit world for you. When the curtain was finally lifted, it came as a great shock. Why? You will find out – later. I had therefore plenty of time to learn the ways of the spirit world. And besides, I was very fortunate; Ellemarra was a great spirit guide.

  ‘I was lucky in life and thought – rather naively as it turned out – that my luck would continue in the realm of the spirits ...’

  As the voice trailed off, Cassandra opened her eyes. ‘Bad dream?’ asked Rebecca, glancing at her friend.

  ‘No. Something far more interesting,’ said Cassandra, but didn’t elaborate. Instead, she looked out the car window and watched Jandamarra’s spirit country slide past.

  47

  At the edge of Djumbud, 3 March, 2010, 5 p.m.

  Andrew watched Cassandra’s troubled face through the rear view mirror. She’s one hell of a brave woman, he thought. I wonder if the spirit has spoken to her. For almost an hour no one said anything, the brooding silence and the heat becoming more oppressive by the minute.

  ‘Let’s have a break,’ said Andrew, stopping the car next to a huge boab tree, its gnarled and twisted branches reaching out like the arms of a giant guarding the sacred land of his ancestors. Everyone climbed out of the hot car, and stretching tired limbs, settled down in the cool shade under the tree. Sitting apart from the others, Cassandra stared into the distance. She was trying to recall what the spirit had just told her.

  Andrew rolled a cigarette with his nicotine-stained fingers, and walked over to her.

  ‘Come, I want to show you something,’ he said. Cassandra looked at him gratefully, reached for her walking stick, and stood up.

  ‘This is the end of Djumbud, my spirit country,’ continued Andrew.

  Once they were well away from the others, he pointed to a rock ledge covered in paintings.

  Looking up at the strange figures Cassandra could clearly hear the spirit’s last words: ‘Ellemarra turned out to be an excellent guide ... I was lucky in life and thought that my luck would continue in the realm of the spirits. I was mistaken.’

  ‘Who was Ellemarra?’ asked Cassandra, turning to Andrew.

  ‘Jandamarra spoke to you,’ said Andrew, a knowing smile spreading across his craggy face. Cassandra nodded. ‘I thought he might. What did he tell you?’

  ‘He spoke about the day he became a spirit and how his head was cut off as a trophy and displayed for all to see. He also told me how he met his ancestors ...’

  ‘Did he talk about Ellemarra?’ interrupted Andrew.

  ‘Not really. He only said that Ellemarra became his spirit guide.’

  ‘Then let me tell you who Ellemarra really was, and why he’s so revered by the Bunuba.’ Andrew pointed to a shady spot under the rock ledge. ‘Let’s sit down over there. It’s a most fitting place to hear his story.’

  Andrew sat down next to Cassandra, and for a while looked dreamily up at Djanbinmarra, the Rainmaker, staring down at them from above.

  ‘As a tribal elder, Ellemarra was larger than life,’ began Andrew, breaking the silence. ‘Tall and muscular, with ceremonial scars on his chest, he had the bearing of a warrior and the presence of a natural leader. As a youngster, Jandamarra had aspired to become just like him; Ellemarra was his inspiration. He was also his uncle. In the spirit world, however, he became his guide and mentor. He was one of the true Bunuba greats of his time. This is why ...’ Andrew reached for his tobacco pouch, and began to roll another cigarette.

  ‘Ellemarra’s story is linked to two very special places: Lillimooloora Station representing the new, and Windjana Gorge, the old. On the side of the future were the white settlers, occupying new pastures with total disregard for the rights of the traditional owners. On the side of the past were the Bunuba, defending their sacred land and way of life.’ Inhaling deeply, Andrew relaxed.

  ‘William Forrester, one of the early settlers who saw the West Kimberley as an area of tremendous potential, arrived in 1884. His pastoral property of one million acres right next to Lukin’s Lennard Downs Station soon became a Kimberley showpiece. But the site Forrester chose for his homestead was as picturesque as it was ill-fated. Situated at Windjana Gorge, a sacred area of great spiritual importance to the Bunuba and their neighbours, the Unggumi, it occupied land which had served countless generations of Aboriginals as a revered ceremonial ground. So ... this is exactly where white cultural ignorance met black spirituality. The scene was set for a struggle of epic proportions.’ Andrew paused, and looked across the shimmering plain reaching to the horizon. ‘Let me tell you about Windjana Gorge.

  ‘Guarded at the entrance by the Dreamtime hero, Julla – a unique rock formation – Windjana Gorge is a creation of the Lennard River. The river has cut a spectacular passage through the Napier Range. The narrow gorge with its tall cliffs, hidden caves and passages is a sacred place. The remains of thousands of Bunuba, including my own father, were laid to rest in the caves high above the river, wrapped in shrouds of paperbark. To this day, galleries of rock art created thousands of years ago preserve sacred creation stories for generations to come, just like this one right here.’ Andrew pointed to the paintings above them.

  ‘The white pastoralists setting up camp nearby knew nothing of this, nor did they care. A showdown was only a matter of time. It came soon enough, drawing Ellemarra into the tragic conflict which would ultimately crush him and his people.

  ‘At first, Ellemarra became an intermediary between the Bunuba and the curious white strangers living at Lillimooloora homestead with their animals. The Bunuba were confused by the white man’s obsession with livestock, and inquisitive by nature, they were fascinated by the white man’s goods and simply took them whenever they could. Their idea of property and ownership was very different from that of their white neighbours. The settlers took a dim view of this and eventually decided that it was time to teach the ‘black thieves’ the meaning of what is yours and what is mine. In June 1885, Ellemarra was shot by one of Forrester’s men during a raid. He recovered quickly, but this marked the beginning of a bitter conflict with lots of bloodshed and misery on both sides.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Cassandra.

  ‘Ellemarra was the first Bunuba to be arrested by the white colonial authorities for stealing. He was chained and padlocked around the neck, and was taken by force from his land to Derby where the magistrate gave him a six months prison sentence. However, he managed to pull off a daring escape and returned to his people to continue the struggle. A few years later, in 1894, he and Jandamarra were destined to become brothers-in-arms and fought a great battle together – the battle of Windjana Gorge, the greatest battle of the Bunuba Resistance.

  ‘Ellemarra was mortally wounded during the fighting and died in Jandamarra’s arms. Jandamarra had lost a friend, and the Bunuba a great leader.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asked Cassandra.

  ‘Becaus
e you need to understand,’ replied Andrew. ‘And to understand, you need to know.’

  ‘You told us that restless spirits cannot find peace because they have unfinished business in the world of the living,’ Cassandra said.

  ‘Correct. They are souls-in-waiting ...’

  ‘And Jandamarra is one of those?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now Pigeon too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a connection?’

  ‘I’m sure there is.’

  ‘Involving Anna?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Cassandra shook her head. ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘You will; trust me.’

  48

  On the way to Kalumburu, 4 March

  News of the Tunnel Creek murders spread like wildfire through the Kimberley. When Andrew and his party presented themselves at Fitzroy Crossing police station the next morning, they were told that Broome detectives had taken over the investigation and were keen to speak to them. A forensics team was on its way from Perth to examine the crime scene and to interview the Wizard. The bodies would be taken to the morgue in Broome.

  Good luck to them, thought Andrew, remembering the terse exchange with the Wizard. He won’t say a word without his lawyer.

  ‘What should we do?’ asked Jack after they had left the police station. ‘Just wait until the detectives get here?’

  ‘No. We’ll fly up to Kalumburu right now.’ Andrew winked at Jack. ‘Go bush, explain later.’

  ‘Won’t we get into trouble for this?’ asked Rebecca, looking worried.

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’ said Jack, the journalist in him on fire. ‘You don’t come across a story like this too often. And we’re right in the thick of it.’

  ‘Wait until the media get wind of this,’ said Andrew. ‘It’ll be madness up here, just like when the girls disappeared. Outback stories are a big hit in the cities, and they don’t come much bigger than this. I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘Just imagine the publicity, Becky,’ continued Jack. ‘You’re always telling me ...’