‘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 ...’
‘Alright, alright,’ said Rebecca, holding up her hands, ‘I get the picture.’
‘I’m with Jack,’ said Will. ‘This has great potential. How far is it to this Kalumburu Mission?’
‘Fortunately, they’ve got an airstrip up there,’ said Andrew.
‘We should make it in about three hours, if we’re lucky with the weather. It’s always a bit tricky this time of the year.’
‘Okay, guys, let’s get cracking!’ said Will, slapping Jack on the back.
The weather forecast wasn’t good. A cyclone was forming in the Timor Sea and was slowly moving towards the coast. Dark, threatening storm clouds were building in the west, entertaining them with a spectacular lightening display.
‘We have to skirt around this,’ said Andrew, pointing to the storm brewing up ahead.
Unaffected by the excitement gripping the others, Cassandra stared out the window. The dark mood outside mirrored her own. Sheets of rain were slowly moving towards the plane like giant curtains trying to blot out the sun. Down below, nature was bracing itself for the summer storm. The Big Wet, as it’s called in the Kimberley, brought the gift of life to a thirsty land every summer. Had she made the right decision in telling the others? She knew the Wizard would stop at nothing to get his way, and Tristan, the vulnerable pawn, was at his mercy.
Jack put his hand on Cassandra’s shoulder and said, ‘I’ve been thinking ... If we work together as a team, we can turn this to our advantage.’
‘How?’ asked Cassandra.
‘We’ll tell the Wizard what we want him to know.’
‘And this is supposed to help my son?’ she asked bitterly.
‘We’ll make sure it does. But we mustn’t lose our nerve.’
‘What’s on your mind, Jack?’ asked Will.
‘If – when – we find Anna, we’ll have something the Wizard wants – desperately.’
‘So?’
‘We’ll use that to get the boy back. We’ll play the Wizard’s game and Cassandra is our seat at the table. The guy’s so cocky and sure of himself, he won’t suspect she’s not telling him the whole truth.’
‘Isn’t this dangerous?’ asked Rebecca.
‘Sure, but until someone comes up with something better, it’s the best we’ve got.’
‘He’s got a point,’ said Will. ‘What do you think, Cassandra?’
‘I don’t quite know what to think right now,’ she replied, ‘but Jack may have hit on something here ...’
‘Oh? In what way?’ asked Rebecca.
‘I’ll tell you later ...’
‘Okay, guys, that’s Kalumburu down there,’ said Andrew, beginning his descent. A neat cluster of buildings surrounded by palm trees and lush gardens – a pious sanctuary in the middle of a harsh, flat, rocky landscape – came into view.
‘The big stone building next to the church is the monastery. This place became quite famous during the war. The airfield here was taken over by the military because of its strategic position. The Japanese actually bombed Kalumburu in 1943. Here we go. And remember,’ he added, ‘we’re here on a sightseeing trip.’
One of the Benedictine sisters, Sister Josephine, and a young Aboriginal girl met the plane and took them on a tour of the Mission.
‘Abbot Fulgentius Torres arrived in 1905 in a sailing boat and chose a spot called Pago on the Drysdale River – not far from here – as the site of the new Mission,’ said Sister Josephine, opening the door of the little church. ‘That was our first Mission. A church, a monastery, and store houses were built, and market gardens established.’
‘Oh! Isn’t that beautiful,’ said Rebecca, pointing to a large wall painting above the entry. The painting, a unique fusion of striking Aboriginal motifs and Christian themes – all in vivid colours – dominated the simple interior of the church.
‘That’s our Joblin painting,’ replied Sister Josephine. ‘We’re very proud of it. It exemplifies what this Mission stands for and what it hopes to achieve. We’ve had some very talented painters here over the years. They drew their inspiration from the many wonderful rock art sites which abound in this region.’
‘You mean the Bradshaw paintings and the Euruuru? And the striking Wandjina figures in the King Leopolds?’ said Andrew.
Sister Josephine turned around, a little annoyed by the interruption. ‘Yes – the native art treasures around here are truly amazing. You seem to know a lot about this.’
‘Aboriginal heritage is very close to my heart,’ Andrew replied, ‘I own a small gallery in Alice ...’
‘Ah,’ said Sister Josephine, ‘that explains it’. ‘In 1931, the first Benedictine Sisters arrived, but plans to move the Mission from Pago, some thirty kilometres from here, to Kalumburu were already well advanced,’ she continued, slowly walking down the aisle towards the altar. ‘In 1932 the whole Mission was relocated to this far superior site – right next to a wonderful pool in the King Edward River.’
‘I believe Sister Dolores still lives here,’ said Andrew casually.
‘You know her?’ asked Sister Josephine, surprised.
‘No, but I bring greetings from someone who knows her very well,’ Andrew said. ‘And some sad tidings,’ he added quietly. ‘Could we see her?’
‘Of course. I’ll make sure she joins you for morning tea. Our little tour includes refreshments. And you can visit our museum. It’s well worthwhile.’
‘You didn’t tell us anything about this,’ whispered Jack, following the others out of the church. ‘Who’s Sister Dolores?’
‘Sister Dolores is Elvie’s mother.’
‘What?’ Jack exclaimed.
Sister Josephine turned around and gave him a disapproving look. ‘But that would make her Pigeon’s ...’ Jack said, lowering his voice.
‘Grandmother – yes.’
‘How on earth did you find all this out so quickly?’
‘I phoned Auntie this morning and asked her about Kalumburu ... There had to be a connection,’ said Andrew, reaching for his tobacco pouch. ‘Sister Dolores is the connection. Shall we go and have some tea and meet her?’
49
Kalumburu, 4 March, in the morning
Leaning on Sister Josephine’s arm, Sister Dolores – a tiny Aboriginal woman in her seventies – shuffled across the courtyard. Sister Josephine walked her over to Andrew and introduced them. Jack had explained to the others who Sister Dolores was, and they thought it best to let Andrew talk to her alone.
‘Would you like to visit our little museum before we have morning tea?’ asked Sister Josephine, turning to Rebecca.
‘Oh yes, please. We’d love to.’
‘I’ll take you. It’s just over there.’
The museum’s eclectic collection was a colourful testimony to the Mission’s chequered history. There wasn’t a theme as such. Over the years, any object of interest, or with a story to tell, had been added.
However, wartime memorabilia had pride of place. Brass shell casings, a wooden propeller that had once belonged to a biplane, helmets with bullet holes, a massive anchor and chain, Japanese mines that looked like steel hedgehogs and an assortment of naval uniforms, pennants and flags greeted visitors at the entrance. Garish souvenirs from Lourdes and Rome, including a large portrait of Pope Pius XXII, were neatly arranged on top of a Victorian washstand. Wooden crates full of books in German, French, Russian, Portuguese and Spanish proppe
d up a rickety trestle table covered in rusty kitchen utensils, tools, toys, straw hats, parasols and a harmonica with a mother of pearl keyboard. Turning its back on the world, a wooden rocking horse missing one ear faced the corner.
‘We’re in the middle of cataloguing the collection,’ said Sister Josephine. ‘It’s a huge task, as you can imagine. We find a new little treasure in here almost every day.’
She ran her hand playfully along the badly scratched top of a mahogany sideboard covered in seashells. ‘Take this, for instance.’ Opening a glass case, she took out a silver fob watch. ‘This used to belong to the German aviator Kausman. Kausman and Bertram were rescued at Cape Bernier in 1932 by Aboriginals from the Mission. And over here, this piece of twisted metal was once part of the fuselage of the Shady Lady, a Liberator B24 which had crash-landed near Mary Island. Another famous rescue. Look at this, you’ll find this interesting.’ Sister Josephine held up a sepia photograph the size of a postcard. ‘These are some of the survivors of the Koolama. The ship was bombed in 1943. A hundred and thirty civilian survivors were brought to Pago and were cared for by the Mission.’
‘What happened to the ship?’ asked Will.
‘It was badly damaged in the attack, but didn’t go down. It managed to stay afloat and limped on to Wyndham Harbour – nearly 480 kilometres away. Please feel free to move around. Any questions, just ask.’
As soon as Cassandra stepped into the museum she felt uneasy. Stuffed birds and fierce looking glass-eyed reptiles stared at her through dusty display cabinets. Spears, shields and war clubs spoke of tribal feuds, violence and death, the naval memorabilia of battles at sea and watery graves. The past was closing in on her from all sides.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Rebecca placing her hand on Cassandra’s arm.
‘No, it’s just this place ... I can’t quite explain it ...’
‘What do you make of Pigeon’s grandmother living right here at the Mission? Surely that must mean something, don’t you think?’ speculated Rebecca.
‘There’s something in here,’ continued Cassandra, ignoring the question.
‘Relating to Anna, you mean?’
Cassandra nodded.
‘Just look at this shambles. We’ll never find anything in this place,’ said Rebecca.
‘Don’t worry, that’s not how it works.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t find it, it finds you.’
Jack and Will were in their element. They were experts in sifting through bric-a-brac and spotting the items of real interest. However, the sheer volume and variety of the exhibits surprised even them.
‘Can you believe all this stuff?’ asked Jack, turning the pages of an old photo album. ‘Here in this remote place ...’
‘I wonder what’s in there?’ said Will, pointing to a small annex at the back of the room.
‘Pictures,’ replied Sister Josephine, ‘still being sorted. We’re going to set up a small gallery in here.’
‘May we?’ asked Jack.
‘Go right ahead.’
The small room had only one window. The glass was cracked in several places and covered in cobwebs. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling and a musty smell hung in the stale air. The pictures – most of them unframed – had been sorted according to size and were leaning against the wall.
‘Just the place to find a lost Rembrandt, eh?’ Jack said.
‘You never know. Let’s have a quick look.’
Jack sat down on a crate facing the window and began to examine the pictures. ‘This isn’t bad,’ he said, holding up a pencil drawing of an Aboriginal woman carrying a small child on her back. Most of the pictures, however, were amateurish, almost childish, in their simplicity. ‘Well, certainly no Rembrandt in here, I’m afraid,’ he said, standing up. ‘Let’s go.’
As they walked towards the door, Will stubbed his toe against a picture frame resting against the wall. The picture – depicting Christ with a bleeding heart – fell over and hit the floor.
‘Don’t destroy the collection before they’ve had a chance to display it, mate,’ said Jack.
As he crouched down to pick up the painting, something caught his eye. Partially hidden behind a little brown suitcase in the corner was a bark painting. The colours were vivid and eye-catching. Jack pushed the suitcase carefully aside, picked up the rectangular piece of bark and carried it across to the window. For what seemed a very long moment, he stared at it in silence, a stunned look on his face.
‘Found the lost Kalumburu Rembrandt after all?’ teased Will.
‘No. Something much better. Come and have a look.’
50
Kalumburu, 4 March, in the afternoon
‘Who’s found the Kalumburu Rembrandt?’ asked Rebecca, ducking through the narrow doorway. ‘You look like two naughty boys caught in the act.’
‘Here, tell us what you make of this,’ said Jack quietly. He carried the bark painting over to the crate and placed it on top.
The painting was divided into three separate panels like a triptych, but painted on the same piece of bark. Following the irregular shape of the bark, the panels increased in size from left to right, giving the impression of distance in space and time.
‘What do you see?’ asked Jack, pointing to the smallest panel.
Rebecca covered her mouth with her hand and gasped. ‘Oh my God! This looks like ...’
‘Yes?’ prompted Jack.
Cassandra had quietly entered the room and was looking over Rebecca’s shoulder. Rebecca took a deep breath. ‘Countess Kuragin’s chateau in France,’ she whispered, pointing to the painting. ‘This is the moat right here, and over there is the bridge we crossed in the rain that night – remember? And this is the little chapel at the back with the funny onion-shaped Russian belltower ...’
Jack gave Will a meaningful look. ‘That’s exactly what I just told Will before you came in. And this is ...’
‘Here you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ said Andrew, walking into the crowded little room. What’s that?’ he asked, glancing at the bark painting.
‘This is what we came here for,’ replied Cassandra calmly. ‘Jack just found it. Or more accurately, it found him.’
Leaning over the crate, Andrew examined the painting. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I would call it a storyboard,’ replied Jack, pointing to the smallest panel. A little girl stood between two adults, a man and a woman. The girl had long blonde hair with ribbons in it and was wearing a blue polka dot dress and red shoes. All three had their backs turned and were looking at a large building – partially concealed behind tall trees and shrubs – in the distance. The woman held the girl’s hand and the man was pointing to a dog running towards them.
‘This is little Anna and her parents,’ said Jack, ‘and this is the Kuragin family chateau in France. Rebecca and I were there only a couple of weeks ago. It looks exactly like that.’
‘Are you serious?’ asked Andrew, surprised.
‘Absolutely,’ replied Jack.
‘And this weird thing? What’s this?’ asked Rebecca, running her fingers over the centre panel.
‘Ah,’ said Will. ‘This is a spider’s web – see? Constructed entirely of numbers. Interlocking sixes, painted in black.’ Forming a circle, the big sixes on the outside became smaller and smaller, moving towards the centre in concentric circles until they met in the middle. ‘In the centre here where the spider would sit waiting for the fly,’ continued Will, ‘is something sinister – a head. And what does it remind you of? Half grinning skull, half bearded man with a conical hat?’
‘The Wizards of Oz. That’s their emblem’ said Cassandra quietly.
‘Exactly,’ replied Will. ‘Show them the photo, Jack.’
Jack pulled his digital camera out of his pocket, searched the stored photos and handed the camera to Rebecca. The picture on the display panel was a snapshot of the strange wall covered in black numbers – sixes – that J
ack and Will had discovered in the derelict farmhouse abandoned by the Wizards of Oz.
‘You’re right,’ said Rebecca.
‘Yeah. But look at the third panel here,’ said Jack. The third panel, the largest, cleverly used ridges and knots in the bark to form the interior of a large cave. Holding a paintbrush in her right hand, a young woman with short blonde hair was looking up at the low ceiling covered in striking paintings.
‘Rock art,’ said Andrew. ‘Bradshaw paintings, they’re called. Some of the most sophisticated rock paintings in Australia. There are thousands of them. They’re named after Joseph Bradshaw who discovered them in 1891 during a Kimberley expedition not far from here. The paintings are very old, some say 50,000 years or so.’
‘They look like stick figures,’ Rebecca said.
‘That’s the distinctive Bradshaw style. Whoever painted this has done an excellent job of reproducing them right down to the colour. Shades of Mulberry red – see? These paintings are the stuff of legends among my people.’
‘In what way?’ asked Jack.
‘According to the stories still being told around the campfires up here, the pictures were painted by birds. Apparently, the birds kept pecking the rock until their beaks bled and then used their tail feathers and their own blood to create these amazing paintings.’
‘Okay guys, time for a reality check. What does all this mean? A weird bark painting turns up here in the middle of nowhere. Jack, you seem to think it gives us three snapshots of Anna’s life – true?’ said Will.
Jack nodded. ‘First, her childhood in France – a little distant now – then a dark event right here in the middle, and finally her new life as a young adult. The black spider’s web linking the two is clever, don’t you think? She’s caught ... between the past and the future ... We know what happened to her at the farm. It must have been a pretty profound event ... a real watershed ...’
‘Somehow held together by something too terrifying to remember but impossible to forget,’ interjected Cassandra quietly.
‘Yes. Anna must have painted this,’ said Rebecca.
‘Looks like it. I mean, we know she’s an accomplished painter. She was going to study art in Paris when she got back from Australia, right?’
The Disappearance of Anna Popov: A supernatural suspense thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 2) Page 22