Curse of the First Invaders

By Starshipwriter

We may never know where all the ancient voyages of exploration took man. Many are a matter of record; others would have lost contact, be assumed lost and been written off as failures: yet others maybe are best forgotten. One day by chance, or by re-examining the old text we may see that we who claim to be first were following in others footsteps. Then will come the questions on the reasons for the desertion. Then we will need to know if some things abandoned to the rainforest really should be re-discovered

• Language: English
• Publisher: Starshipwriter
• Release date: Feb 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301793655

Starshipwriter

In 1600 Shakespeare wrote As You Like It. In that play his character Jaques said “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” I happen to like that phrase. I also believe that we would all like to play different characters from time to time; stories give us the opportunity to do that. We can be a hero or a villain. We can live wherever we dream and travel through time at will. In this crazy world writing keeps me sane: its also a lot of fun.

Book preview

Curse of the First Invaders

By Starshipwriter

Copyright caelin day pty ltd

Australia is both an ancient and new land. So ancient that its deserts are strewn with dinosaur bones, and in its rain forests plants are still growing that first grew millions of years ago. Its native people have called this land home for over forty thousand years: probably far longer: but it is also a new continent; so new that the first Europeans to venture inland from the coast behind Cairns, did so barely a hundred and fifty years ago.

The Aboriginal people of North Eastern Australia have no written history, and with integration and assimilation much of their oral history is forgotten: so we will never know for certain what sights this coast has seen.

As happens with a void, something fills it; often it is myth and mystery. One of those mysteries was found where the tidal waters lap against the continent: up a creek, off the Mulgrave River. There, between the flanges of a huge tree characters were found that according to a number of witnesses were identical to those seen in the British museums Egyptian section. They were apparently beautifully executed in colours of red, yellow and black. Opposite them on the right hand side of the flange were other characters: more resembling the Chinese alphabet. This sighting was reported in the Cairns Post of the 11th June 1885.

This is not an isolated incident, and in the short time since Cairns founding other artifacts have been discovered from coins to scarabs that have no logical explanation; so to further fill that void with myth…

Damn you Edwin Dunbar. Spat O’Malley in his heavy Irish brogue. I mean to take it all no matter what you say.

Then it’ll be over my dead body Patrick, replied the smaller of the two men.

Aye, and that too, if needs be? O’Malley turned and made to leave, but as he did Dunbar grabbed him from behind. His strong hands clamped together circling the others chest in a bear like grip, pinning O’Malley’s arms to his side. He struggled, trying to throw Edwin off, but Dunbar wouldn’t be. His height; though it was lesser, was compensated by his broad shoulders and strong body. The strength in his muscles, accumulated over years of labour in the goldfields, and mines following that was too great for him to be dislodged easily. O’Malley was forced to drop the Hessian sack he carried, its contents spilling noisily over the stone slab floor.

Despite O’Malley’s best effort Dunbar hung on; squeezing; trying to crush the life out of the man he had once called friend. He couldn’t breathe and could feel his consciousness slipping away. There was barely enough movement left in his wrist to reach to the Bowie knife strapped to his hip, but enough. Slipping out of its sheath unseen by either man, the curved blade glistened, reflecting the yellow flame of the kerosene lantern that lit the chamber.

Then Dunbar saw it in the corner of his eye. He tried to move out of reach, but it was all too late, for in the time it took for the steel tip to move from its rawhide cover, to being thrust deeply into the side of his abdomen, was no more than a passing second.

Edwin screamed in pain, releasing his hold and standing for a moment; both hands clutching the bone handle of the still embedded knife.

O’Malley spun and grabbed hold of the handle, above the others clenched fingers. With a brutal thrust he forced the sharp blade even deeper in.

Dunbar grunted and his knees gave way. He looked up in shock and disbelief at his once friend.

O’Malley stared down with hate that seemed to have no bounds. A cruel smile creased Patrick's face. Such a smile that if Dunbar had thought some fragment of pity remained, it vanquished that last hope. It was a spiteful, bitter smile; the look of one who knew they have won, and yet felt no compassion.

Dunbar was already too weak to stop O’Malley. He still stood, partly supported by the blade that they both held, until O’Malley drew both their hands across the soft flesh of his victim's stomach. Dunbar’s blood pulsed out amongst his entrails, exposed through the dreadful wound

Die Edwin... O’Malley snarled. My world is a better place at your passing.

Dunbar teetered on failing legs, as O’Malley let go the knife and roughly pushed him away. Edwin tumbled back against the wall, standing for an instant, before his legs finally gave under him, and he slid down, back braced against the cold rock.

T’is time we parted company Edwin. O’Malley announced almost casually, kneeling down gathering the dull yellow items from the stone floor. This time... for good. He spoke without the slightest trace of emotion, as finally he picked up the kerosene lantern.

The words bounced around in Dunbar's mind, drawing him to their sound, though now he could barely see Patrick through rapidly clouding eyes. After all this time, and all that they had been through, he was being left to die alone. There was little strength left, but enough in those dying moments to pull the tiny pistol from the holster tucked inside his shirt. It was to have been a gift to the woman he loved, something for protection in the rough townships. It was Derringers latest, the Remington, and at 41 caliber almost useless in a gunfight, but it was deadly at close range. Edwin could barely see. Moisture and darkness filled his eyes. Guided almost by instinct he raised the stubby barrel towards the vague shadow, silhouetted in the receding lantern light.

’Strange,’ he thought, his face taking on a faint smile. How things change? Then violent recoil threw his lifeless body against the wall.

There were several shoe boxes in the bottom of the old wardrobe. The first two held documents and Daniel placed them aside. He would go through these later; one at a time to make sure there was nothing important. It seemed unlikely he thought, as he reached for the third box. All her life his grandmother had been incurable hoarder, and now she had passed away it was down to the family to take care of her things. Daniel was regretting that he hadn’t been quick enough to think of other places he needed to be when he had been asked to choose what was and what was not to keep. Then he hadn’t given much thought about what would be kept and what would be discarded. It had seemed simple; spend a couple of hours and conscience clear he could get on with more important stuff. That was before he realized that to the woman, this scrap and jumble had at some time been precious mementos The truth was though, that even if he felt forced into the unpleasant task of disposing of the woman’s possession, he above all his family did have a fascination with ancestry, and would likely be the one to recognize what should be saved.

He forced his mind to the task; being the self-appointed keeper of the family’s history, it was his task to decide what was relevant, but there was precious little up to now, as the third box confirmed. But knowing a hasty discarding could end up being regretted, this too he placed with the others. He reached for the fourth box thinking how he and gran had slowly grown apart as he grew into adulthood. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and he wished now he had realized that the superficial things that occupy our daily lives, had taken over his, and relegated her. He would make it up to his mother; at least he would try and remember to. He opened the fourth box to more papers and as he did he saw underneath: hidden until he moved the box, a small book. It took only moments to recognize it; and his breath froze as memory engulfed him.

Thank you. Thank you very much, he remembered saying as he looked back over his shoulder at the red haired shopkeeper; now ushering him toward the door. The man sidestepped pushing the handle down and pulling it, causing the bell to ring, bouncing erratically about its coiled spring.

Then he was outside into the noise of late afternoon traffic. The door closed behind him, and he saw the old man slip the bolt across from the timber jamb, locking it shut. The callused fingertips rubbing briefly against the dirty glass, turning the little cardboard sign over, before the man walked away to disappear into the darkness at the rear of the shop.

Daniel stood for a moment; his eye’s transfixed on the little white sign with the black letters ‘Closed’, as it swung in diminishing arcs like a playground swing. He had no idea what had made him go inside the decrepit second hand bookshop. It was nothing but pure luck that he had even seen the place, set back behind the old timber gate; nestled where it was, between a motor panel works: smelling heavily of acetone, and a plumber's warehouse.

Portsmith was not an area he knew well, in fact Daniel had never intended to come anywhere near the industrial area, and wouldn't have done, if it hadn't been for that I’ll timed meeting.

He had been at the school's athletics carnival at Barlow Park, when Dwayne and Frankie had cornered him. Two of the most unsociable people he knew of, or he guessed anyone else knew of. It seemed Dwayne’s main pleasure in life seemed to be in making Daniels miserable. He had no idea why the bully had chosen him to harass, but he took every opportunity to do so.

Dwayne’s latest act of ‘fun’ was to call him after the name of a song the choir had sung two weeks ago at the school concert: it was titled Danny Boy. Dwayne had sneered that, A little Welsh kid should like it. He was referring the fact that Daniel's engineer father had emigrated from Wales. He ignored the fact that Daniel had been born in Cairns, and had lived here for the fifteen years since.

Daniel knew he should face up to Dwayne, but he just never seemed to have the courage when he needed it. And as usual he had run off, intending this time to take the long way round to the bus terminal: that way he could avoid meeting them again. Then he had got lost.

But like it or not, now he had them to