“I think so. It’s rather difficult to decipher the script. It was written by hand, and it’s some kind of journal.” The journal section of the answer set off a further round of howls.
“It’s not Xavier. I think this part here says it was a Father Joachim from some indecipherable priory in Flanders. That’s all I can make out.” Peter closed the book, shaking his head. “I’ll have to spend a bit of time on this. The Latin script is very difficult to read. Lampie, could you get me some shots of the pages and be very careful not to use flash.”
Sid and the rest had deflated over the non appearance of a sensational journal.
Peter gave them a wry smile. “Ahh lads, you can probably keep celebrating. The book verifies the find is older than seventeen hundred. Now I’d better get back to work with this excavation. Sid could you give me a hand? Bluey and Rob, I need the next quadrant swept before dark, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Having allocated the afternoon tasks, Peter returned to searching the rest of the trench with the remains of the two combatants. Sid for a change, was in a jubilant mood and chatted away, ignoring the prior fracas. If he noticed that Peter’s hands occasionally trembled, then he would have put it down the tremors of adrenaline rush. If he’d asked, Peter may have even agreed with him but not for the reason Sid thought. Peter’s thoughts were on the book. It seemed strangely familiar. In the meantime, the Kimberleys sun slowly dipped towards sunset over Deception Bay.
Chapter 17 Mainly Fine with the Chance of Snakes
Peter drained the proffered mug of fresh coffee in one long gulp. Even the third shot of Uncle Bill’s restorative java did little to quell the shakes. He trembled and shivered as, too vividly, his imagination recalled the cool smooth slither across his neck. Flipping Hell! He knew he was in the ‘Outback’ as the Aussies called it, as far distant in that vast expanse as you could get. And with all those tales the Commerce faculty at Skaze had gleefully related, of tourists getting munched, bitten or savaged by the unique and lovable denizens of the ‘Outback’, well all that didn’t help prepare for a too close encounter. No doubt when this story circulated, his actions and reactions would be magnified beyond all proportions. Anyway what would you do if you discovered not one, but two venomous companions in your sleeping bag? By venomous, that didn’t mean the unfortunate occurrence of two ex girlfriends the night after a wild party, more in the range of slithery, scaly, fangy, cold blooded and venomous.
It had been a really good night too. Uncle Bill had performed his usual culinary miracle – Chilli Mud Crabs a la Kimberleys. Peter like the others, watched a virtuoso performance as the mud grabs were quartered then thrown into an old wok and cooked until they turned a vivid deep orange. Then those tasty crabs underwent a further transformation. Uncle Bill mixed up a blend of shallots, ginger, garlic and chilli, sautéed in oil before he added tomatoes, thick sweet soy sauce and a generous splash of last night’s Chilli beer. Returning the seafood to the mix, they simmered gently for a few minutes, then were served up with steamed rice. And voila, you had a meal fit for a lord, fresher and tastier than anything from a top London restaurant
After the most scrumptious crabs ever, the crew had celebrated by cracking open another case of interesting regional ales. This one was also from Matso’s in Broome. Peter had been intrigued by the name, ‘Mango Beer’. Now that was a novel idea, putting a sweet luscious tropical fruit into an ale. Automatically the image of the mango conjured up beautiful sarong clad girls, cool verandahs and exotic cocktails. This ale didn’t disappoint. It whispered of the tropical north with the full fruit aroma, and then delivered a satisfying sweet dryness that left one eager to take the next sip. Well Peter did, and many more as he merrily joined in the frequent toasts to success, until much later, with the giggling aid of Lampie, he staggered back to his tent.
His dreams that night were rich and evocative, involving long blonde hair, smooth tanned limbs, tanning oil and long crystal white beaches. Strangely Fi didn’t turn up to kick sand over the steamy affair. Instead the fantasy drifted away from the beach to the jungle, though what he was doing with tanning lotion under the rank greenness of towering trees and vines he couldn’t say. Still, as dreams went, it wasn’t so bad, except for the lack of beach and blondes. So far there were no giant spiders amongst the looping branches or dinosaur sized crocodiles slithering through the swamp. What that lack of subconscious monsters said of his mental state, he wasn’t sure, though his dream-self hoped for an imminent return of bikinis rather than the current outbreak of Jungian symbolism in the unconscious.
That was probably the point. When the Kimberleys reality began to slowly break through, something cool and smooth caressed his arm, nothing concerning. Peter surfaced briefly from the dream, then gave a relaxed sigh and submerged back to the jungle. The whisper of touch continued, sliding up his shoulder. Peter muzzily tried to connect that with the dream, but looking around between the trees, he couldn’t see where the cute pony tailed blonde of the beach had got to. The rasping sensation rippled past his ear and the Kimberleys dawn snapped into immediate view. Peter had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t alone in the tent. What was worse, in the rapid swivel of his eyes, he failed to see any blonde surveyor-sized lumps that could explain the physical presence he’d just experienced. A further thought intruded pushing that one aside. Considering how merry he got last night, just be thankful it wasn’t a Bluey or Rob sized lump. That could be a little difficult to handle and was closer to a nightmare. He banished that back to the dark recesses of the Id and concentrated on the here and now. He’d felt something touch his ear – it wasn’t in the dream. Peter focused on the tent roof. He could see the hazy flutter of winged insects against the morning light. Bloody mosquitoes, must have got through the entrance mesh.
Peter was relaxed, really relaxed. The effect of the Mango beer, good food and in Lampie’s case, good company had reduced him to the consistency of a jellyfish, limp, floating and unconcerned with worldly matters. An observer may even have said he displayed all the characteristics of a blissed out cat, so totally out of it, lying on its back, paws in the air, smile on its face, purring away. Just as well, because it saved his life. A triangular head blotted out the view of the tent’s roof, soon followed by a thick sinuous body. Peter’s eyes snapped open fully, taking in each scale as the snake’s muscles flexed in a continuous ripple and slid, (crawled? No), slithered over his face.
Peter didn’t have any great aversion to the scaly inhabitants of the world. He was quite prepared to have a live and let live policy. Walking in the countryside, he unlike others, didn’t freak out over the odd slither in the grass. It was their habitat too. However that tolerance couldn’t realistically extend to sharing a tent or sleeping bag. Lines had to be drawn in the sand over practical boundaries of coexistence. Not that at this moment in time, he was inclined to point this out to the cold blooded visitor. He concentrated on keeping his breathing slow, shallow and relaxed, not an easy accomplishment considering the circumstances. Peter’s vision tracked the steady movement of the snake. The slow spray of Kimberleys light illuminated every glittering scale in alternate bands of pale yellow and red brown, while its dark eye shone malevolently, set in the side of its coal black head.
Flip, flipper and flipping hell! If any beastie around here looked capable of catapulting him into venom-induced coma, this was it! Peter desperately ratcheted through a decreasing number of wild and improbable plans, most of which involved the manual dexterity and timing of a Shaolin master or the casual manipulation of odds only a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service was used to. That was when he discovered another problem not mentioned in thriller books or adventure films. The sight of the snake had worked more urgent effects on his physiognomy. Apart from being extremely awake, his bladder was sending urgent messages. Unless he wanted a personal warm, wet feeling, the current difficulty required prompt resolution!
This discomfort was pushed back slightly as he noticed the surfacing of one more problem
, i.e. one more snake, which had decided that the best place for its morning sojourn was his chest. Peter found himself increasingly distressed. What was this, a herpetologist convention? In the meantime the first snake gave his face a closer inspection. The small forked tongue flickered towards his nose, then for reasons past understanding, it slipped into the sleeping bag.
Peter may have been an academic by inclination, but that didn’t mean he’d led a sheltered life in the age-weathered, ivy covered, hallowed halls of learning, or in Portlee’s case, new cast concrete and tubular steel walkways. He, like many a young lad, had hit London’s Soho district cruising the pubs and clubs and purely as a matter of sociological study, had entered an establishment advertising a variety of ‘unusual acts’. Well you know how it is. Why not? He was with his friends, and to be honest, they’d put a few under the belt. Once he had entered the ‘club’, the floor show had proved intriguing and as claimed, unusual. The club’s management, as expected, believed firmly in buxom young girls wearing very little, strutting their stuff on the stage. Nothing exceptional in that and of course it had engaged Peter’s attention. Then came the main course, as it were – several girls in sparkly bikini bottoms strode out, and began a series of gyrations that earned prompt and loud applause, then part two of the act and Peter gained a real education. The use of props for ‘entertainment’ was nothing new. A brief perusal of House of the Nymphs frescos at Pompeii would tell you that. However the manager of the Bevior Club had introduced a number of unique innovations that would even have engaged even the jaded interest of Sir Francis Dashwood, noted eighteenth century rake and founder of the infamous Hellfire Club. Snakes on a Plane just wasn’t in the running.
Since that fascinating evening, contact with snakes had acquired a tinted complexion and thus, as the first snake slithered over his bare chest, his first instincts were a purely Pavlovian response, going back to that night in Soho. His second instinct screamed very loudly that the first instinct was going to get them all in serious trouble, flagging quite correctly that snakes tend to go for movement and just where were they going to strap the tourniquet? So Peter was caught in a tussle between survival instinct and learned responses, a psychologist’s wet dream as it were! A very distant part of his subconscious had an overwhelming urge to burst into laugher at the overtly Freudian connotations of his predicament. He refused to surrender to that impulse, despite the teasing tickle of the snake’s passage as it headed south. If there was a moment for the power of prayer, this was it. Peter, like many before him, felt an overwhelming need for divine intercession.
A tap on the tent swivelled his eyes to the entrance and the welcome voice of Lampie. “Hey Peter? Uncle Bill’s got a brew on. Y’ want to join me for cup?
Immediately Peter thought, hurrah a saviour. Then more practical considerations waved for notice. How was he going to gain Lampie’s attention without receiving a fanging? Then, what if he did, how was he going to explain that one snake was nestled by his nearest and dearest?
“Hey Peter, are y’ awake? Are y’ all right in there? Y’ didn’t get a hangover did y’? Uncle Bill’s got a great cure for that!”
Peter took a chance. Lampie sounded puzzled by his lack of response and may have thought him too under the weather to crawl out. He had to do something before she went away. Giving his all, he squeaked out a plea with as little movement as possible. “Ahh Lampie, heeelllpppp?”
“What was that Peter? Did you say something?”
Yes, it worked. He squeezed another plea out of the side of his mouth. “Heeelllppp?”
The tent flap parted and Lampie’s head was framed in the aperture of morning light. Never before had Peter seen anyone who looked so like a ministering angel, her blonde hair shot to burnished gold by the sunlight.
“SSSnakess!”
“What did you say Peter?”
“SSSSnakesss!!”
Lampie frowned at his hissed plea and peered into the shadowy tent. “What? Oh yeah, I can see y’ got a bit of a problem there. Hang on.” Lampie stooped over his recumbent body and reaching in grabbed the snake on his chest behind the head and plucked it off him. Just like that. Amazing!
“Howzat Peter?’
Well, it was much better except for the one curled round his joy department. The thin fabric of shorts was a flimsy protection. How was he going to tell Lampie about his nether most peril? Peter drew in a slow, steady breath and took the plunge as it where.
Eye’s wide he shook his head and tried to discretely signal his dilemma by bobbing his head in a downwards direction. It took a moment or two of eyebrow wiggling and eye swivelling for his meaning to get through.
Lampie’s reaction was not what he expected. She smiled a most wicked grin. “Y’ got a problem? Peter y’ want me to have a look?”
Oh flipping hell, how was he going to answer that? Did he really want Lampie groping around his lower sleeping bag? Well yes, and definitely NO! Such an action would, without a doubt, lead to an embarrassing and dangerous physical response. They didn’t still slash snake bites and suck the poison out did they? That dreadful thought turned him pale.
“Tell y’ what Peter, I’ll’ just have a root around and see what we can find.”
Before he could sort out the implications of that statement, Lampie unzipped the side of the sleeping bag and threw it back. Peter instinctively shut his eyes. If the worst was going to happen, he didn’t want to see it!
“Well, well what do we have here? What a large one, decent set of fangs too. Don’t twitch Pete.”
He was covered in a cold sweat, eyes clamped tight, he didn’t want to know!
“Gotcha! Jeez what a lively little bugger. Y’ can open your eyes now Pete. Tell y’ what, Uncle Bill will be really happy you found his pets for him. He was gettin’ a bit worried when they disappeared like that, poor little darlings.”
Peter eyes shot open as he heard Lampie crooning over the deadly reptiles and he levered himself up. “What? Uncle Bill keeps venomous snakes as pets! That’s crazy – they could have bitten me!”
“What are y’ on about Pete? These are two of the nicest black headed pythons as your every likely to meet. Harmless as kittens. See y’.”
With that parting comment, Lampie sauntered off, snakes in hand and Peter felt distinctly deflated. Harmless! Flipping harmless! He’d almost had a heart attack over that little incident. For the one hundredth and fiftieth time, he wished he was safely home in ‘Old Blighty’ where snakes didn’t cuddle up to your crotch! Giving in to a brief bout of homesickness, nostalgia and loathing of the Australian bush, he struggled into a snakeless pair of trousers, but not until he’d given them a very close inspection.
Chapter 18 Land Rights and Wrongs
Lampie smiled as she sipped her coffee. Jeez, that Pommie academic, Peter, was a funny bloke! Fancy a big fella like him getting all worked up over a couple of harmless snakes? You’d think he’d never seen one before. Oh well, maybe they don’t have pythons in Pommieland. She sneaked a glance at their resident Brit. He was sitting on the far side of the campfire, nursing both a resentfully injured air and a second cup of coffee. She had to smile. That was damned hilarious, this morning, what with the snakes curled up in his sleeping bag when she’d looked in. It had been too much of a temptation not to tell him they where harmless. Where else do you get such an opportunity for a good laugh? And all the time she could tell what he was thinking – it had been so difficult to keep a straight face! And with a bite down there, where would you put the pressure bandage?
She still chuckled at the look on his face. No doubt they’d be dining out on this tale for weeks to come, back at Broome. The sight of a recumbent Peter Wilks, equipped only with a pair of union jack boxer shorts, was also having a different effect on her memory. Hmm, tasty was one suggestion from the closer members of the dress circle, while another made pressure bandage application suggestions. Lampie made an effort to banish those annoying whimsies. They had to get a push on with the excavation
and dreaming about Brad Pitt like shoulders and chest was going to be too distracting.
On the other end of distracting, Sid wandered over cup in hand and took a seat. On first sight her uplifted spirits sank. Her partner had on his ‘do me a favour’ smile. When it included his slightly edgy, friendly grin that usually meant put on a tank top, display the cleavage and simper nicely to the visiting director. Freakin’ hell she hated that crap!
“Heya Lampie. How’s it goin’?”
She held back on the instant reply ‘better before you turned up’. Her painfully instilled politeness factor kicked into overdrive, so all Sid got was a questioning frown.
He fidgeted with his cup for a moment or two then tried for another classic Sid smile. It faded into the background of tanned laugh lines and freckles then perked up into a hopeful grin. “Look Lampie, I need you to manage Pete today. We’ve got a little bit of a problem. Two blokes from the Land Council’ll be here in about an hour. I need you to keep our Pommie mate away from those jokers. Take him for a swim or something, an’ make sure he says nothing and doesn’t open any more trenches.”
She raised a single eyebrow and steamed quietly. She was site surveyor, ketch captain and a valued member of the excavation team. Did Sid ask her to take charge of the dig or explore a new site? No! He wanted her to keep the boys distracted – freakin’ wanker! Sid seemed to take her silence as acceptance and got up, giving her shoulder an appreciative pat. Great, now she was a pet dog! If it wasn’t for the fact that she needed the money from this expedition, she’d give this crap up. A part of her disingenuously suggested that it could be a good idea and that maybe that cute Pommie bloke over there would like a quick cruise up to the Bonaparte Islands. That appealing suggestion was shoved back but only a little way and reluctantly, with a note to examine that option later when the excavation was finished.
Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery) Page 22