The Great Empty

By Anita Melillo

When a rebellious youth named Donovan leaves his home in Europe for a family trip to Australia, he quickly determines another course when he takes advantage of an opportunity to seek out adventure of his own. While slipping away from the care of his guardian and sister at the airport in Darwin, he decides to take a tour bus to a Crocodile Farm, which inadvertently continues to take him hundreds of miles deeper in the outback and into Kakadu National park. His curiosity continues to get the best of him, when he sets off on foot to explore a trail to a waterfall and plunge pool. One mishap leads to another until he finds himself alone in the dark and unprepared to face the unknown that envelopes his surroundings. Once he discovers that he is lost, he continues to make his way through the bush, but not without its perils. Eventually, he befriends an Aborigine boy named Neji, who is on a journey into manhood. Together they fight against the elements and the mysteries of the dark, with beliefs and rituals as deep as the Dreamtime. All the while, a peculiar stranger continues to shadow them for unknown reasons. Pretty soon, Donovan finds himself on an unexpected course with this deliberate Swagman, with his harsh ways and cruel intentions. Without warning, Donovan is forced to use all that he has learned, in order to survive this downward spiral that seems to be leading him nowhere, with his only hope of making it back to civilization again...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anita Melillo
• Release date: Jul 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301319565

Anita Melillo

Anita Melillo lives in the mountains of Colorado and has always had a passion for adventure and writing. Her novel, "The Great Empty" is an Australian outback adventure novel. It is written in a contemporary fiction style, and a coming-of-age story about an unbridled youth that gets lost in the outback and learns to survive with the help of an Aborigine boy. She has another novel, "Ford At Valverde" which is a historical civil war era adventure. It encompasses one mans need for self-discovery before his life is cut short by the war, as he sets off on his own treasure seeking quest in an attempt to dodge the draft. Much is plotted along his path, including the cruelty of strangers and the harsh demise of the effects of war. An indulgence for Anita in writing involves pushing her characters to the limitations of their human condition, so that their true nature can be revealed in a significant way, whether good or bad. Although she writes across genres, her novels have the element of adventure in common. She is presently writing a psychological thriller and looks forward to having it published within the upcoming months.

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Smashwords ISBN: 9781301319565

The Great Empty

A Novel

by

Anita Melillo

Copyright © 2012 by Anita Melillo

Smashwords ISBN: 9781301319565

All rights reserved.

Copyright

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. The Great Empty is printed in the United States.

This is a work of fiction. Any references of historical events, real

people, or real locales are used fictiously. Other names, characters,

places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and

any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is

entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Anita Melillo

Library of Congress Txu 1-848-292

Smashwords Edition: ISBN: 9781301319565

All rights reserved.

Dedication

For Tyler, Angela, Kristan and AJ

Wherever life takes you.., always know that you are loved.

Prologue

From the rolling uplands, swift flowing streams and wooded valleys, the Cotswolds was pleasing to the senses all throughout the year, but there was something about the onset of spring that surpassed the other seasons.

Perhaps it was the fresh scent of chamomile breezing in the dales, or the unveiling of all that had emerged from beneath the winter snow. It wasn’t anything you could pinpoint exactly, but one thing was certain. It carried a newness with it that couldn’t be stifled by tradition or resistance to change, and it was sure to linger around just long enough to impart new layers upon all that had perished in the bitter cold.

Velvety moss blanketed everything, concealing fragments of rock and slate-covered roof tops for miles. Lofty plateaus even gave way to the appearance of plush green mounds, as the cream colored status symbol eased its way down the goat winding paths of endless meadows.

Tourists continually journeyed the two hour distance from London and over the cobblestone streets, just to somehow taste all the imagery with their senses. There was nowhere else in the west of England that compared to Gloucestershire, and nothing had helped to shape it more than the wool industry and the rich abundance of limestone. It was part of everything and comprised the hillside villages and townships throughout.

Even the walls were stacked high with stone, dividing land and creating barriers from outsiders and holding those within captive to its charm, including the Winthrop’s.

As they approached the ornate gatehouse, it heralded their arrival with a warm brilliance in contrast to the melancholy backdrop of noonday haze. That was because the grounds weren’t built of gray stone like many of the other Jacobean manors throughout the village, but out of yellow guiting stone, which mellowed with age into a rich golden color. It was the exportation of this glorious stone, along with the production of wool that had brought such prosperity to the Winthrop’s estate in the 1700’s.

When most sheep farmers and cloth manufacturers eventually lost out to bigger industry, the Winthrop’s continued to flourish with the quarry. And it had taken several decades for the supply to begin to diminish enough to make the union aroused.

It wasn’t that Allister didn’t want to meet their demands, but the figures just didn’t add up. And to a long-term investor, it meant a possible loss, without an all out structural reorganization of his resources and time.

Plus, with his brother, Yancey, doing so well with mineral deposits in Australia, and Elizabeth constantly pushing for a much needed change, it was time to consider other options before taking on a new venture; if not for his own sake, then at least for his families.

Chapter One

They had entered a tunnel which led to an underground cavern with barely enough head room to stand at full height. With the flames of the fire licking the top of the clay ceiling, it was fast becoming so hot that Donovan was gasping for a fresh breath of air, while digging with the small hand pick into the hard wall.

The bustard was cooked through and the unseasoned juices dripped onto the coals, filling he smoky hole with the smell of burning flesh. As each stroke became more labored than the last, he couldn’t refrain from dropping the pick to hold his stomach.

For a second, the swagman looked concerned, but it passed as soon as he tore off a hind quarter and tossed it at him.

Donovan dodged to keep the unwanted portion from searing his leg.

Eat up, the swagman growled as he took a can of beans from the roll and peeled back the lid.

Donovan kicked it away from him. You eat it, he said defiantly as he scooted further away.

The swagman probed his victim carefully, as though premeditating the best angle to strike. Better watch it, kid. Makes no difference to me whether you’re conscious or not. I’ll get what I came for one way or the other. Something has to make up for this detour.

Hot release rose up Donovan’s spine. His vulnerability was still too great from where he sat.

Look, mister. If it’s money you want, my father has plenty—more than you could ever mine out of this rat hole, he said.

The man stabbed his knife at the red dirt. And what makes you think it’s enough?... What did you ever do to become so valuable?

I know my father. He would give whatever it took, Donovan tried to keep a straight face and hoped that it were true.

For some limp wristed little pomme with an attitude? You Brits beat all, thinkin’ that just because you got a little more than the next guy, it makes you more human. You don’t know nothin’, especially when it comes to us Aussies Take Ned Kelly. Now that was a real man.

I see your point, Donovan continued to dig without expression. You remind me of him.

What do you mean by that? he snapped curiously.

Well, Donovan pondered, hoping that his tutoring in history would come in handy. He may have lived in the 1800’s, but a bushranger all the same. Made out to be some kind of Robin Hood when all he really did was rob people blind, and took whole towns hostage at a time.

He was a hero, the swagman said hastily.

Yep, sighed Donovan. I guess that’s why he was hanged in his twenties And the way I see it, you’re a little past your prime, he gripped the pick tight.

Before the madman even thought to respond, he flung the knife at Donovan’s head, who ducked just in time as it stabbed the wall behind him.

Scrambling away on his hands and knees, he headed for the opening as the swagman leapt over the fire after him. Donovan stabbed the pick into his leg and kept on going. The man screeched in agony as he limped off after him. It was either run or die

It was just a few days earlier that all seemed normal with his family. They had gone through their usual Sunday routine of being bored at church. Donovan always had pretended to care, but his actions always showed otherwise.

Against the backdrop of the stained glass Abbey stood two young sinners of the declaring kind. Other’s tried to ignore the brassy chaps, but no one dared to tell them any different. It was the usual reckoning that began with a twist of her hair or a tug at the back of his pants that ensued the battle, however, others rarely escaped the crossfire. The delicate nature of those occupying the space around them might have nurtured their situation, but it wasn’t their concern.

Snap.., went the flipping of a rubber band against his sister’s elbow as they stood side by side along the pew. She recoiled and grabbed his right thumb and twisted it backwards.

He yelped, Ouch!, but few heard him above the thunderous bass of the pipe organ as it reverberated off the gothic arched ceiling of the seventeenth century Abbey. And the choir, along with the congregation, sang in melodious unison the old hymn, Faith of Our Fathers. That is, everyone except for Donovan Winthrop.

The pained twelve-year-old purposely voiced each word before everyone else and he agonized loudly over the high notes. He even pinched his younger sister Viola so that she would screech right along with him. The only difference being – she really was in pain.

A month earlier he had been dismissed from the boy’s choir for doing as much. The choir director had told him repeatedly to sing like he meant it, while Donovan’s reply remained fixed on a simple, I am. After all, he was only telling the truth. He couldn’t help it if his translation was different than everyone else’s. But of course, trouble always followed.

Preston, the well weathered family chauffeur and occasional guardian, was the only thing that usually stood between him and destiny, other than his father’s unrelenting rebuke.

That’s quite enough now. Please take a seat, the old man reprimanded as the wrinkles twitched tightly around his mouth.

All right, he gave his usual shrug, sending his blonde bangs aloft as he collapsed onto the hard wooden bench.

Glad to see him go down, Viola gave a quick smirk while she continued to sing, before glancing up to her mother, who was gracefully giving apologetic smiles to neighboring parishioners.

However, it didn’t take very long for Donovan to find another outlet for his harnessed frustration at the slow ticking clock. There was a lead pencil in the pew rack in front of him, which had a big eraser, but no paper. So he had to settle for making artful impressions of his teeth around it, until most of the yellow paint had chipped off. When the task of removing the tiny flakes from his tongue had grown old, he began springing the eraser head back and forth, testing its flexibility.

The domino effect of hymnals being dropped into pew racks sent him slanting sideways to look through the weave of fancy hats, which had hedged at eye level, just to see the podium.

Then in a still and solemn manner that exuded wisdom, the Minister rose to stand behind the gold-leafed dais. With a deep voice as shaky, but yet sure, as the solid panes of beveled glass, he meticulously pondered over each drawn-out syllable when he spoke, As we assemble here in the presence of Almighty God.., may we temporarily lose sight of that which holds us bondage.., in remembrance of what made our heritage and our country.. the pillar of society it is today.., the faith of our fathers

Suddenly, the end of the eraser snapped off, sailed through the air and landed in the perfectly teased hair of the distinguished widow, Lady Attwood.

Feeling the slight impact, she gave a jovial spin to see if anything was amiss.

Donovan’s reaction was typical. At once, he slumped into the pew and placed his hands over his mouth to keep from snickering out loud. The only person she noticed staring back was Preston, returning the smile with his face flustered red in embarrassment.

Her expression virtually changed from pleasant concern to a discreet but flirtatious grin, which made Preston so nervous that he bellowed out a series of broken coughs and excused himself from the service in the process.

Viola turned to Donovan and said, I’m going to tell Father how you disgraced Lady Attwood.

He grinned, You do.., and I’ll tell Mother I caught you trying on her knickies.

More frustrated than timid, the strawberry freckles gathered sharply between her eyes, You wouldn’t!

Then a woman, whose disposition was more stale than week old pumpernickel, leaned forward from behind and went, Shhh!...

This time both heads of adolescence disappeared beneath the wooden barrier. But their parents, Allister and Elizabeth, looked on.

After everyone had stood reverently to recite the Lord’s Prayer, the service came to a close. Then as if he had been released on a six day furlough, Donovan made an unshackled dash for the front door and out to the beige Bentley, where Preston shoved the bottle beneath the driver’s seat just in time. As soon as he sprayed his breath with mint freshener, the heavy rear door slammed shut.

I could have gotten that for you, sir, he dutifully, but off-handedly offered. It was an exasperating post he held.

Nah, waved Donovan. Give it a rest, he replied as he got lost in the deep tan leather of the back seat, pushing buttons to the electric windows and door-locks.

Isn’t there anything else you can toy around with? the guardian questioned in aggravation.

Donovan replied, I guess I can listen to music, as he took his red backpack from the floor and pulled out his cellphone with an ear piece. He scanned the screens with his finger until he got to his music selections, and then pressed for some industrial punk. As it started blaring in his eardrum, Preston could hear it from the front seat, as Donovan jerked his shoulders and head to and fro in the backseat."

My battery is almost dead, he yelled forward. Remind me to charge it when we get home!

Preston scoffed, Oh, do be sure to charge it boy, I can’t imagine what you’d do without it. He gave some encouragement, as he anxiously tapped the steering wheel with one hand, while courteously tilting his gray monogrammed cap to