Arkana Archaeology Mystery Box Set 2

by N. S. Wikarski

  “Europeans?” Daniel asked incredulously.

  “Far older than that,” Alma countered.

  “There’s been no conclusive evidence of the existence of Atlantis,” Griffin piped up. “However, I’m willing to entertain the notion of a sophisticated culture which erected megaliths on every continent. Many mythologies tell stories of such beings. The feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl of the Mesoamericans is only one example. Perhaps these megalith-builders—Atlantean, Lemurian, or what have you—were wiped out in a global catastrophe but left behind a memory woven into tribal myths all around the world.”

  The conversation ceased abruptly when Alma slowed the car to an idle. “We’re almost there,” she explained. “Just ahead is Cahill’s Crossing. It spans the East Alligator River.”

  “Alligator?” Cassie echoed. “There aren’t any alligators in Australia.”

  “A mistake made by the English bloke who named the bloody thing.” Alma focused her attention on the churning froth ahead of them and nodded approvingly. “It looks as if we hit it at low tide.”

  Her passengers collectively drew in a sharp breath.

  “But there’s no road,” Cassie protested. “You’re going to drive us across the top of a small waterfall.”

  Unconcerned, Alma replied, “You should see it in the rainy season. Of course, by then nobody tries to drive through. The water can reach two meters.”

  “That’s six feet,” Griffin chimed in helpfully.

  “There actually is a road underneath all that current,” the scout insisted. She treated them to a mischievous smile as she eased the truck forward. “Here we go. Keep your hands inside the truck and mind the salties.”

  Chapter 8—Dumb Plan

  Abraham limped through the reception area of the compound dispensary to Brother Andrew’s office at the back. The Nephilim’s resident herbalist stood perched on a stepstool taking inventory of supplies. Oblivious to the arrival of his visitor, he hummed a disjointed tune.

  “Brother Andrew,” the diviner barked.

  The herbalist spun around, nearly toppling off his perch. He grabbed one of the shelves to steady himself. “F... Father. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you arrive.” He scrambled down, adjusting his glasses which had been knocked askew. Peering up at his superior, he asked, “How can I help you today?”

  In wordless reproach, Abraham slammed an empty brown bottle on the herbalist’s desk before lowering himself into a chair. “I need another refill.”

  Brother Andrew took a seat behind the desk and examined the bottle. “So soon, Father? This should have lasted for several more days.”

  “I have been under additional...” Metcalf hesitated. “Additional strain this week. I required more frequent dosing to allow me to sleep.”

  The herbalist cleared his throat nervously. “As I’ve told you before, Father, this medicine is very powerful. Increasing the dosage may create an unwelcome dependency—”

  Metcalf cut him off. “Do you have an additional supply on hand, or not?”

  Sighing, Brother Andrew rose and went to a shelf lined with brown bottles. He selected one and handed it to his leader.

  Pocketing the bottle, the diviner added, “I suspect the last batch you made may have been tainted in some way.”

  “Tainted!” Brother Andrew dropped into his chair in shock. “What would make you think that?”

  Abraham rubbed his forehead wearily. “I’ve been seeing things out of the corner of my eye. Not like the usual visions from the Lord which this elixir imparts. Indistinct human shapes. Grey figures. If I try to look at them directly, they vanish only to reappear as if they were peeping at me from the shadows. It’s maddening.”

  The herbalist gaped at him.

  “And then sometimes I hear the murmur of voices. I can never make out what they’re saying. Just a rumble as if they’re arguing about something in another room, but I never know what.”

  Brother Andrew sighed. “This is very troubling news.”

  “Obviously, you’ve made a mistake in concocting my medicine,” Abraham challenged.

  “Oh no, Father. That isn’t the problem. I believe it’s the amount of the tincture you’re using.” The herbalist hesitated. “In the Fallen World, this remedy has been employed for hundreds of years. Some who have taken high doses of this particular medicine have reported such...” He glanced nervously at Abraham. “Um... have reported such... visual and auditory hallucinations as you describe.”

  “Hallucinations?” The diviner echoed skeptically.

  “I believe so, Father.”

  Abraham quailed at the prospect. The reason he’d started taking the medicine in the first place was to banish certain unpleasant apparitions, especially that of his dead daughter-in-law Annabeth. Now it appeared he was summoning even more demonic shapes to his bedside. Rather than allow the herbalist to see his fear, he quickly changed the subject. “Never mind about that,” That isn’t the reason I came to speak to you today anyway.”

  “Then tell me how I can be of service,” Brother Andrew pressed, apparently relieved to be off the subject of hallucinations.

  Abraham looked up at the ceiling, gathering his thoughts. “My wife Hannah hasn’t spoken a word since we rescued her.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about that.” Brother Andrew nodded. “I’m sure being exposed to the wickedness of the Fallen must have been very frightening to one so young and innocent.”

  “My son Joshua seems to think she’s malingering.”

  “Oh, I hardly think so,” the herbalist objected.

  “Really?” Abraham searched Brother Andrew’s face eagerly for reassurance.

  “During my younger days in the outer world, I heard of many cases like Sister Hannah’s. Apparently, people who have suffered some great shock or trauma at a tender age may spontaneously lose the power of speech even though there is nothing wrong with their vocal cords. It is an affliction of the mind, I fear.”

  The diviner sat forward in his chair. “And what is the cure for such a condition?”

  Brother Andrew shrugged. “Time and a great deal of patience when dealing with the stricken one.”

  “So, you don’t think the medicine you’re giving me might help her?”

  The herbalist’s eyes grew round. “Oh, heavens, no! In such cases, the afflicted has great difficulty connecting with the physical world. The last thing Sister Hannah needs is a medicine that would further distance her from this realm. In fact, administering the tincture to her might make the poor child’s condition worse!”

  “Of course, just as you say.” Metcalf backpedaled and reconsidered the idea. “So, I was right in the first place. Peace and quiet is what she needs. To that end, I have moved her to a section of the compound which is much less busy.”

  “That’s a very good idea,” Brother Andrew agreed enthusiastically. “A calm atmosphere that makes her feel secure will surely assist in her recovery.”

  Abraham stroked his chin. “Perhaps some female companionship from one of her sister-wives would bring her additional comfort.”

  “Also an excellent suggestion.” The herbalist gave his superior an encouraging smile.

  “I have it.” Abraham slapped the arm rest of his chair decisively. “I’ll send Mother Rachel to visit her regularly.”

  “Perhaps someone her own age might be more appropriate,” Brother Andrew countered.

  “Nonsense,” Metcalf objected. “None of my other wives are as young as Hannah. What she needs is a woman of mature understanding and strong faith to guide her back to mental health.”

  “Have you considered that Mother Rachel might be of too strong a temperament?” the herbalist objected meekly.

  The diviner barely heard him, already mentally caught up in his new plan. “What? Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous.” He stood up as decisively as his weakened physical state would allow. “I’m going to arrange matters this instant.”

  “Good day,
Father,” Brother Andrew called to his leader’s retreating back. “I’ll say a prayer for Sister Hannah.”

  Chapter 9—On the Rocks

  Alma Jones slowly eased the SUV over the causeway at Cahill’s Crossing.

  Cassie gulped. She leaned out her window to gauge the height of the water. Even though the tires were only submerged about half a foot, the current was swift. She didn’t want to imagine crossing this land bridge with a flash flood racing under the wheels.

  “You told us to look out for salties,” Daniel said, barely above a whisper. “What’s a saltie?”

  “Good goddess, man!” Griffin’s tone was exasperated. “None of us want to know that!”

  “There’s one.” Alma inclined her head to the right, both hands firmly gripping the steering wheel.

  Her three passengers scanned the water on the driver’s side.

  “Please tell me that’s a tree trunk floating out there,” the pythia implored.

  “No,” Alma demurred. “It’s a saltwater crocodile. Saltie for short though they don’t spend much time in salt water. They prefer watering holes—billagongs as we call them. The males can run six meters in length.”

  “Translation?” Cassie turned toward Griffin.

  “Six meters would be roughly twenty feet.” As an aside to the others, he explained, “She’s taken a firm stand against the metric system.”

  “Freshies or freshwater crocodiles are much smaller, and they eat fish not humans,” Alma added. “The salties are the ones to watch out for. Your American alligators are nearly as big, but they aren’t always looking for a fight. Salties are natural-born brawlers.”

  “Has anybody died at Cahill’s Crossing?” Daniel asked.

  “Yet another fact we don’t want to know,” the scrivener grumbled.

  “Oh yes,” the scout replied. “This is prime saltie territory. They float about waiting to see what comes their way. Once in a while, the tide is high enough, and the current is strong enough to shove a light vehicle off the bridge. Not at this time of year though. The main risk is to the fishermen on the banks.”

  “They become croc bait?” the pythia asked tersely.

  Their guide nodded and then smiled as the SUV dipped upward at the end of the causeway. “See, no worries. We’ve made it to the other side.”

  An audible sigh of relief emerged from the rest of the vehicle’s occupants.

  Once they’d left Cahill’s crocs behind them, the remainder of their journey proceeded smoothly. Within fifteen minutes, they found themselves on a floodplain dominated by a large outcrop of rock.

  “Is that it?” Daniel asked.

  “Injalak Hill,” Alma confirmed.

  Cassie studied the escarpment. From a distance it appeared to be a single mound but, on approach, it proved to be a cluster of wind-sculpted red rock pillars with deep narrow chasms between them. Sparse clumps of green vegetation clung to the sandstone face at wide intervals.

  Alma parked the SUV where the trail ended at the base of the hill.

  Everyone got out and stretched before donning their backpacks. Daniel passed around fresh bottles of water to his companions.

  The pythia squinted upward and took a precautionary sip of water. The sun glowed overhead in a clear blue sky, promising a toasty afternoon temperature.

  “This way.” Alma led them up a narrow track toward the escarpment.

  They skirted the base of the hill on a gentle incline for some time, traversing grasslands with small boulders jutting up here and there.

  Cassie dubiously observed the overgrown track beneath their feet “It looks as if we’re the first people to travel this way.”

  The scout turned and gave a brief smile. “People have been coming this way for the past fifty thousand years. Local guides from the Injalak Arts Center bring tourists up here quite frequently in the dry season.”

  “I don’t see why,” the scion murmured under his breath.

  “You will,” she replied cryptically and moved forward.

  They marched upward for about ten minutes until Alma brought them all to a halt in front of a deeply recessed overhang in the cliff wall. Everyone stepped inside to examine it.

  “This area was used as a shelter,” the scout explained. “A dozen people or more could gather here.” She pointed to a flat rock with several other rocks piled vertically behind it. “This stone would have served for a cooking stove.” She pointed to another stone. “And that one is a firepit to keep people warm at night. Their bedding would have been made of paper bark.”

  Noting the perplexed faces of her listeners, she added, “But this isn’t what we came here to see.” Instead of returning to the path on the outer edge of the hill, Alma moved deeper into the interior of the fissure. She stepped through a vertical crack in the rock and beckoned the rest to follow.

  They walked single file down a path between sheer rock walls. The trail zigged and zagged. Broken boulders underfoot sometimes raised the elevation and sometimes lowered it. In places, the overhead light dimmed where trees growing at the top of the cliffs blocked the sun. In other places where the canyon widened, shafts of light pierced the gloom.

  “I’ve lost all sense of direction,” the pythia murmured. “This escarpment is like a maze.”

  The party trudged onward until their guide stopped suddenly. “Here,” she announced.

  They stepped into a chamber where the overhang had been painted with a variety of fantastic creatures. Some were recognizable – kangaroos, fish, nesting birds, humans. Others were creatures of the imagination—fusions of animal forms or abstract shapes. Cassie recognized a crocodile and a large fish which Alma said was a barramundi—a staple of the aboriginal diet.

  “How old are these paintings?” Daniel asked in wonder.

  “Some are fifteen thousand years old, some much more recent. People keep adding to the story,” their guide explained.

  “What story? Your Dreamtime stories?”

  “The Dreaming isn’t a time” Alma corrected. “It’s outside of time. Going on all around us now.”

  Daniel stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  “I wouldn’t expect a Nephilim to understand.” Her tone was mildly dismissive.

  Cassie contemplated the images in rapt fascination. “Your Dreaming is more like an altered state of consciousness. It’s always in the present, so everything that was, still is. Like what happens to me when I go into a trance.”

  Alma nodded in agreement. “Yes, it’s like that.” She moved forward again. “We should go to the goddess gallery. That’s where your lily might be found.”

  They passed beneath more overhangs completely covered with rock art images in shades of red, black, and white. Some of the shapes took advantage of the natural contours of the rock. A snake coiled around a small protrusion in the stone face, giving the reptile a three-dimensional appearance.

  Eventually, Alma halted and pointed toward a rock painting unlike any the group had encountered before. It was a human stick figure with legs placed vertically parallel and arms bent upward at the elbows. The eyes were large dark hollows, but the rest of the features were obscured. From a headband hung a number of long strings terminating in rectangular shapes.

  “This is Yingana,” Alma explained. “She’s the serpent goddess who created the world. Once she gave birth to the people of this country, she taught each tribe its proper language.”

  “What are these?” Cassie pointed to the strings and rectangles.

  “Dilly bags,” the scout replied. “They’re woven containers mainly used by women to gather plants, seeds, and the like. Sometimes men will carry one while they’re hunting, but this number of dilly bags would indicate a female. The legends say that Yingana filled these with yams which she planted and taught the people how to harvest.”

  “She looks familiar,” Daniel remarked unexpectedly. “The pose. It looks like our latest artifact—the golden labrys with a figurine of a godd
ess as the axe handle. Her arms are extended exactly as in this painting.”

  “The goddess with arms upraised in benediction is a very, very old image,” Griffin offered. “The Minoans employed it frequently in their statuary. Who knows? Perhaps they took their inspiration from rock art like this.”

  Cassie studied the portrait of Yingana. “We’ve seen lots of places where a serpent goddess created the universe. In Africa, Mawu-Lisa. In China, Nu Kwa. In Mesopotamia, Tiamat. Maybe this myth goes all the way back to the python stone.”

  The guide regarded her approvingly. “Yes, I heard you validated that site. Quite a lot of ancient rock art to be found in Botswana. When my ancestors walked across the land bridge from Africa seventy thousand years ago, they brought its earliest art form with them and its earliest mythology as well.”

  “Still it’s hard to tell that the serpent goddess on this rock is female,” the scion said. “She has no obvious physical characteristics to indicate her gender.”

  “Oh, everyone identifies this as a female figure,” Alma countered. “But the myth of the rainbow serpent varies among the tribes. Sometimes she’s an androgynous figure who can switch gender at will. In other places, she’s male. I suspect her gender change was the result of overlord contamination of local culture. It goes back thousands of years.”