Mahina

By Jack Dey

Mentored by a demon, a young impressionable boy becomes a man with a dark secret. Adventure. Murder. Intrigue. Passion. Desire. How many lives will be entangled in his web? Can he be stopped before he swallows up the beautiful and captivating Elizabeth? What will it take to reveal his secret? Just when you think you have it figured out, a new twist will send you scurrying for more clues.

Set in beautiful tropical Australia’s dangerous era of pearl diving, the tentacles of deceit spread like a black blanket over the delightful and inspiring characters of Mahina. A violent storm is brewing, that will leave human devastation in its path, rippling into the present day. What dangers lie just beyond the forming black clouds? Laugh, cry and get angry, but don’t turn your back on the sky.

Mahina will take you on a journey you won't forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Dey
• Release date: Nov 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311738967

Jack Dey

Jack Dey, born to adventure, lives in the beautiful rainforest of tropical North Queensland, Australia. He has three loves in his life: Jesus; the Editor—his wife of 30 something years; and writing adventure novels. He is the author of MAHiNA; Paradise Warrior; Aunt Tabbie's Wings; The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse; The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq; The Valley of Flowers; La Belle Suisse (co-authored with Dodie La Mirounette); Zero; Naive; and Brindabella's Prophet. He is currently researching and writing his latest book, Apostate. Jack writes only to please Papa God and considers his writing a ministry, demanding nothing from the reader for his e-books. If you like Jack Dey’s books and would like to support his ministry, please consider praying for the team at Jack Dey and telling your friends about his other titles. New books are constantly being written with the intention of being a pencil in Jesus’ hand and bringing joy and encouragement to you, the reader.

Book preview

Chapter 1

FEBRUARY 1855

The sweat trickled down his back. The fading short breeches, long white stockings and cascading ruffled shirt still identified him as a gentleman, although he had not been in proper English society for nearly two decades. Seemingly out of place in the harsh tropical environment, his cloudless, pale European complexion still burnt easily even after nearly twenty years in this abominable stifling Australian sun.

Drifting back in his mind the twenty years or so since his journey began, he recalled his father’s voice and the scolding tirade when he had divulged his plan to become a minister and establish a church among the lawless colonies of the new frontier lands of Australia. Today was one of the many days of reflection and after countless long years of toil and personal agony, he wondered whether his parent had been right and that God was punishing him for his decision to come to Australia, disobeying his patriarchal wishes.

Consumed with rage, his father had carried through his threat to disinherit him once his desire became reality and all the family fortune was settled upon his amiable younger brother, leaving him without social stature and penniless. Bereft of his former privileged life, all that remained was a fare aboard a colony ship bound for Australia, a wardrobe of clothing, and a meagre grant from the English government enticing would-be settlers to try their fortunes and populate the new land down under. The only hitch: it was a one-way ticket without any possibility of returning to England or society, even if he wanted to.

The passage aboard the schooner had been a shock. A gentleman required separate lodgings from the rank and file, but now because of his new situation, he was bundled together with the common people in squalor, sharing their distress and pain in a horrific three-month voyage. The schooner had tossed and dipped on its way to the new colony, encountering endless storms and violent seas. Many times, the creaking wooden ship was hit by formidable waves, mixing fear, seawater and panic with the smell of acrid emotion, carelessly deposited into the voluminous bilge of the nightmarish ship. He had filled his despairing hours caring for the sick and reassuring frightened passengers, and even at one stage, he was called upon to give a eulogy on behalf of a child who had succumbed to the harsh conditions. Dehydrated to the point of death, the child had slipped into the afterlife, leaving numb and destroyed parents grieving in the appalling conditions.

A necessary but unscheduled stopover was announced by the captain, causing much anguish to the traumatised passengers. The ship would make a detour to Thursday Island, a small native community off the northeastern coast of Australia. Sydney town, their intended destination in the main New South Wales colony, was still many weeks away and the thought of any delay extending their journey was not met with enthusiasm. As the schooner sailed into the calm, protected harbour of Thursday Island, the gentle green waters and pristine beaches of the small paradise instilled hope into their desperate minds. The passengers lined the deck railings, watching the unbelievable scene and in contrast, the shores were lined by native people staring and pointing at the unusual sight. Finally, the meagre sail was lowered and the old wooden vessel drifted to a stop at a suitable anchorage some distance from the shore. A large splash signalled the positioning of the anchor overboard while the longboats were lowered and many eager men, women and children made their way to the luxury of unmoving land, guarded by the armed ship’s crew.

The preacher first set foot on T.I., as the scant explorers' maps referred to it, almost twenty years ago to the day. He remembered the first time he saw the colourful native people and if he knew then that their rites and rituals included human sacrifice and cannibalism, his impetuous decision to stay and work among them may not have been made with such reckless abandonment. He was greeted by the shy and reserved native people, and against the crew's instruction not to communicate, fearing an uprising, he reached out and found them to be as curious of him as he was of them. In those first moments of meeting, he felt the pull of God on his heart and fell in love with the them.

A more astute person would have vehemently resisted the thought of making Thursday Island one’s permanent home, but there was no time to reconsider his actions as he had stared, somewhat intimidated, from the white beach sands of the tiny island as the three masted schooner had slipped effortlessly into the open turquoise sea, the sails in full bloom and driven by monsoon northerlies, leaving him behind. When the vessel grew smaller and smaller then finally disappeared from sight, he'd struggled with the wisdom of his choice, but he had made his decision and his continued survival would be reliant upon his faith in God and a desire to succeed in a new foreign environment.

Gradually, his focus cleared and his attention was drawn back to the present day and to the current tasks waiting for him. A tiny smile broke out across his lips as he recalled with fondness the past twenty years. They had been rich in ministry, with the native people eager to hear about this strange white man's God... Jesus; and under His influence many had turned away from their tribal practices and the light came to the Torres Straits. The preacher had been true to his heart and to the God who had called him. After spending many hours personally instructing the new native converts, learning their language and teaching their hungry hearts, the knowledge of Jesus Christ spread and a deep, tangible peace settled over T.I..

Warrammarra was not only a convert, but a close friend who had shared much of his experiences and trials among the people. Being a local born native man, Warrammarra had kept him safe from many of the cultural pitfalls and had devoured the instruction given him voraciously, always talking of his Jesus to whomever would listen.

Warrammarra had also attempted to guide the lonely white man through the cultural minefield associated with his feelings for a beautiful native woman which had grown far beyond admiration, even as the preacher pondered the tribal taboos and was trying to settle the thoughts of marriage in his heart. Waiting for God’s direction, the answer came in the form of a quarrel among the tribal elders, forbidding the union while the woman’s tearful appeals were soon silenced and she was quickly married off to another islander. Bitterly disappointed, but wanting to honour the tribal elder’s decision, a new thought entered the preacher’s head. The New Guinean neighbours to the north of Thursday Island were equally destitute of Jesus Christ and according to Warrammarra, they were vehemently involved in cannibalism and spirit worship. The church, now well established in T.I., would survive without his leadership, and his desire soon turned towards reaching the New Guineans and trying to forget the beautiful native woman who had stolen his heart.

The distance between T.I. and mainland New Guinea, to the north, was only a matter of 170 nautical miles and the sea separating the two cultures was supposedly a calm crossing, with a small sailboat easily making the journey in a matter of three or four days. A desperate need to escape Thursday Island overtook the preacher and he procured the use of a tiny craft to make the sea crossing on his own. When Warrammarra heard of the preacher's plan, knowing the warring history between the two peoples, he tried to convince him the journey was a foolish plight and not to go. When the preacher could not be deterred, Warrammarra decided to accompany his friend, giving him at least a small chance at survival, and doing everything in his power to return him to T.I. to resume his rightful place as leader of their church. Warrammarra’s counsel was invaluable in matters of culture, and his continuing objections disturbed the preacher but just like the stubborn man of God, Warrammarra couldn’t be dissuaded from taking a part in the risky trip. Secretly glad of the company and knowing the New Guinean natives would most likely revile them as unwelcome intruders into their timeless world, it was left in God’s hands whether they survived or not.

*~*~*~*

The humidity was oppressive, stealing their remaining strength from their dehydrated bodies after the tiny, wooden sail boat, stabilised by makeshift wooden outriggers, had only just survived the previous night in the face of an enormous monsoon storm. They had sailed from T.I. three days ago and land should have been sighted by now, but it was hard to determine whether the storm had driven them off course and the preacher was getting worried. In the distance, a formidable and dark cloud barrier drew the small sailboat like an enormous spider engulfing its prey. A blinding flash pained their eyes and then a deep resounding rumble echoed menacingly directly overhead until they were once again centred in a dark, violent maelstrom, fighting for their lives.

The outriggers dipped and pierced each new treacherous wave and drenched the two men struggling to keep their boat afloat while the wind struck the vessel with such tenacity, the gusts tipped the mast till it was almost touching the sea. Rain, blown sideways by the howling wind, quickly filled the struggling craft and struck at their skin, stinging their eyes and threatening to smash the wooden tub into splinters of timber. As mountainous waves curled and then broke, turning the raging sea into a cauldron of fear, Warrammarra frantically bailed seawater from the bilge and desperately tried to hold onto the bucking rudder as another monster broadsided them, slamming into the struggling craft.

Feeling bilious but his praying lips never ceasing, the preacher’s memory threw back twenty years and wrapped itself around another vexing voyage. The months of misery and misadventure aboard the floundering schooner on route from England returned, reliving the smells and sounds of desperate people praying to survive. The only difference, this time the waterline was so much closer and the waves were far more of a menace. In the face of the fierce disturbance, he felt the calming hand of God upon his heart and the fear subsided, much like when Jesus calmed the waves threatening to swamp the apostles as they journeyed across a lake many centuries earlier. The preacher was much in appreciation of Warrammarra’s company and seamanship during this latest ordeal and he was certain he would not have survived out here on his own without Gods protection keeping them safe and Warrammarra’s desperate efforts to keep them both alive.

As quickly as the storm had drawn them in, it was now lifting its deathly curtain and angrily searching for another place to vent its displeasure. The dense cloud gave way to bright sunshine and blue skies while the waves still crashed around them, stirred up by the fading storm. The sun returned with a vengeance, boring down onto them with furious intent as the protection of the cloud diminished. The wind dropped to a whisper and the humidity joined forces with the sun, the oppressive heat draining the dwindling life from their tired bodies.

A hapless and defeated scan of the horizon, not expecting to see anything but water, was suddenly met with hopeful excitement. The preacher animatedly gestured to Warrammarra, pointing with his finger, but he had already seen the focus of his joy. Distant mountains, heavily endowed with rainforest, dipped down into the sea, creating an impenetrable vegetative barrier to the land beyond. White sandy beaches lay for miles in each direction, crashing with green Trojans angrily stirred up by the passing tempest and spending their fury on the white sand of the tropical shore. The tips of the mountains were covered by a dark, foreboding mist and the humidity seemed to intensify as they came closer to the shore.

Lazy, floating cloud momentarily shaded the sun and gave an immediate but temporary reprieve and a significant drop in temperature, then swiftly moved on, allowing the scorching sun access to their wilting features again and spiking the temperature. He wasn’t sure whether his mind was delirious and playing tricks on him, but a sudden pang of nostalgia gripped him and his mind hankered after another time. The memory of his native England had faded over many years... white Christmases, fur-lined riders, a galloping curricle, reddened cheeks from the icy wind, being wrapped up in warm clothes and playing in the snow. Oh, to feel cold again! In his current home, it was either hot... or hotter! A sting of regret and homesickness embedded itself in his mind and in these present circumstances the memories were not helpful. He had to work hard to shake it clear from his thoughts. That was another person, another lifetime.

Finally, they dropped the sail and drifted in on the incoming tide. Beaching the wooden boat proved to be more hazardous than expected, and the crashing waves almost tipped the boat over. Eventually, a large wave took the initiative and pushed the boat up high and dry onto the sandy shore. Their limbs were stiff and unwilling to move at first, making any attempt at disembarking a painful trial. Falling heavily onto the hot sand, it felt strange not to be constantly moving and it took a long time to adjust to the land again after long periods of cramped inactivity aboard the tiny craft.

Scanning their new surrounds, they began looking for a way to breach the thick rainforest barrier, barring them from entering the jungle behind the rim of the seashore and finding the elusive New Guinean natives. The thickly entwined palms, vines, trees and shrubs made it impossible to penetrate the vegetation leading back into the jungle without a machete. Almost at the same time, they located a partially hidden entrance to a trail, well worn and disappearing beyond into the darkest part of the dense vegetation. Thick, humid air grasped at their throats and the exertion of trudging up the beach caused torrents of sweat to run down their backs.

Cautiously, they entered the trail and immediately an intense foreboding clawed at their stomachs. Something was dreadfully wrong! Warrammarra followed the preacher, covering his back and searching the thick jungle around them for any signs of human habitation. Sweat covered their limbs, while fear stalked their minds as each step took them further from the beach and deeper into the unknown. The trail wound its way through thickening jungle while the dense vegetation closed in overhead, as if they were walking through a green tunnel and making Warrammarra feel claustrophobic. In the distance, bird calls of an exotic nature, unrecognisable to their ears, played out like some demented choir. The trail turned up towards the mountains, beginning to climb steadily while each cautious step pushed the tension and exertion to unbearable levels forcing the sweat to flow in torrents.

A sudden movement in the darkening undergrowth made Warrammarra jump, until a pheasant, flapping and squawking with indignation at the two intruders, announced their arrival to the rest of the jungle. The humidity and tension was making the preacher feel faint, torturing his lungs and the sweat poured out from his body in great purging rivers. Swarms of mosquitoes vexed them at every step, biting the exposed parts of their skin with such tenacity and stealth that a well aimed blow would despatch a dozen or more of the creatures in one slap.

WOOSH....WHOMP!

A small, feathered arrow buried itself deep into the preacher’s heart. He stumbled backwards against his friend, gasping in pain, blood and life escaping from the wound deep in his chest. With his dying breaths and holding the shaft of the arrow in pain, he screamed, GO! RUN, WARRAMMARRA! Save yourself... I am as good as dead, and remember the cause of the Gospel, my friend.

WOOSH...THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

Another volley of arrows narrowly missed Warrammarra and embedded into close by trees. Bark splintered, sending white sap showering like spittle through the air. The preacher went limp, his life draining and escaping around the shaft of the deadly arrow.

Warrammarra felt like his mind was shutting down and moving in slow motion, refusing to believe what had just happened. The contents of his stomach lurched into his throat and he fought to regain control, realising he was in the sights of the hunters. He took off at high gait, shock encompassing his body and adrenaline kept him in full flight. His heart hammered and his legs pounded wildly, carrying his body dipping and weaving, dodging any attempt to give the hunters an easy target. Along the dense trail, he desperately ran, searching for a way out of the jungle trap and back to the shoreline, with his lungs screaming in the densely thick, humid air, but he didn’t dare stop or chance a glance back.

He crashed out onto the beach and stumbled into the hot sand, rolling as he landed. The waves seemed to beckon him and urged him to keep going. His head scanned around, disorientated, searching for an escape route, then his eyes settled on the sailboat just down the beach. Stumbling from his position in the sand and breathing heavily, his legs on autopilot carried him toward the sailboat. He grabbed the sides of the little craft and with a great exertion, swung it around and out into the surf.

The waves pounded the boat as he battled to launch it, but sheer determination and fear, fuelled with adrenaline, overcame the barriers to his survival and he hoisted his body up and landed heavily inside the small craft. Warrammarra pulled the sail tether tight and the little boat moved swiftly out into the emerald green sea, the sail taut and in full bloom, assisted by an offshore wind. Warrammarra’s head was giddy and light, so he moved to steady himself against the wooden seat and at the same time pulled hard on the sail tether, opposing the force of the wind and increasing the speed and distance from the dreadful shores of his worst nightmare.

A volley of arrows dropped harmlessly into the sea, a long way short of the little boat. Warrammarra watched in disbelief as a group of New Guinean warriors covered in tribal regalia gathered on the beach, peering out after him. The light coloured paint against their dark skin and bones through their noses gave them the appearance of great evil. Colourful feathers, removed from large birds, decorated their bows and spears and made a fearsome headdress. Warrammarra’s heart pounded violently in his chest, his temples ached, feeling nauseous. The scene around him swam as his mind grasped for clarity before the light of understanding eventually flickered out. The sail tether slipped from his hand, followed by the weight of his body crashing violently to the wooden deck as his world descended into blackness.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 2

PRESENT DAY

The faded blue paintwork of the converted trawler, Annemarie, made him wince, but he couldn’t afford to paint her again. She was a sixty foot, forty year old fishing boat and in her heyday, she was the fastest and tidiest vessel in the northern fleet. Since the government had cracked down on the fishing industry and developed great allotments of marine park in the lucrative fishing grounds of the greater northeastern coast and Torres Strait, Damon and most of the other vessel owners had fallen on hard times.

His misfortunes continued until he'd had to sell his fishing licence just to keep his beloved Annemarie. He peppered his disdain for his demise with large, toxic amounts of alcohol that should have killed any other man, but in the morning, he was clear headed again and at the helm. Damon was known amongst his peers as a tough, no-nonsense skipper who prided himself on his skill and ability to conquer and tame the sea in any of her moods. His crew did what he said without question, otherwise it was a long way to swim, as some of the past rabble had found out. He was a tall, dark haired man built on solid muscle, with a face worn hard by a continuing battle with the sea, though he looked a lot older than his thirty-eight years. He had a knack for sniffing out trouble and on occasion, had to use his fists to clear his nostrils.

Below decks, Annemarie had a good sized galley; sizeable cabins along the port and starboard sides, fitted out with bunk beds; a common toilet and bathroom; and plenty of room undercover. All in all, Annemarie could comfortably accommodate ten people. Her hull was a deep-vee, all steel and she cut through the water like a well sharpened knife, perfectly at home in the roughest of seas.

Damon’s financial misfortunes reduced him to running Annemarie on joyrides into the Torres Strait for rich tourists. It pricked his pride and irked him to have rich people climbing all over his boat and complaining about everything. For now, they held all the cards, paying the bills and so he held his tongue, playing the game of host and mister nice guy, secretly seething and only just restraining himself from throwing them overboard.

Today was a strange charter. A young woman had hired his boat and his crew to take her to Bathurst Bay on some secret mission. Damon’s curiosity was piqued even further when the mysterious woman paid cash up front. There was a tired mythology amongst the fisherman of the Torres Strait. To anchor in Bathurst Bay was considered bad luck. The shaky fable stemmed back to some cyclone that had crept up on the pearling fleet stationed in Bathurst Bay a hundred and fifty years ago and wiped out most of the vessels anchored there. Legend has it, at night, when the southeast gales come, you can hear the souls of the lost, crying out for help in the pitch darkness. Damon shook the thought from his mind and wiped his mouth, immediately accepting the young woman’s cash. He hadn’t seen so much money in fresh bills for a long time.

As a point, the destination would purposely remain concealed from the crew for the moment, stopping any superstitious behaviour that inevitably would spread, causing them to abandon the charter and leave him shorthanded. After all, if he didn’t accept the cream work, someone else would step straight in and take the easy money. The pretty redhead was just a side benefit. The woman appeared at the wharf covered head to toe with a khaki, long-sleeved shirt, long pants, hat and sunglasses. Damon regularly found himself in hot water trying to guess women’s ages, and at his lack of success he usually didn’t try. Today, this unusual young woman intrigued his fascination and Damon could feel the fire of a challenge and took a stab. He guessed she was twenty-five.

Mister...? the young woman’s voice interrupted his imagination.

Damon, he replied, almost too enthusiastically.

Damon... let me put something up front straightaway, so there is no misunderstandings. I am chartering your boat for a specific purpose. I will not tolerate any interference in my business and I expect you to keep to your business. Are we agreed?

Damon’s hackles went up at the stern, unexpected caution, but in a moment of decision, he swallowed them back down. After all, she had paid good money for the charter and there was plenty of time to make a move on this girl. Whatever you say, Miss...?

Elishia... Elishia will do fine.

Damon helped her onboard, then had one of the crew show her to her cabin while the others stowed her gear. It was nearing midmorning when Damon eased Annemarie from her berth on Thursday Island. The tide was nearing its highest point before turning, so there was plenty of water in the southeastern channel, but if he was delayed a couple of hours, the tide would be too low and he would have to take the western channel, adding nearly a hundred nautical miles to his journey. He had taken on fuel, food and water the day before in anticipation of the voyage. The crystal clear, emerald green waters of the Torres Strait still took his breath away, even after twenty years. He was doing what he loved and that was all that mattered.

Horn Island was to starboard. He had been involved in a lot of fights there, usually at the local bar, sitting minding his own business when a drunk local would recognise him and want to settle a score. It was a rough place where the dregs of the earth seemed to inevitably find a home and he didn’t care for the uncivilized rough-necks that hung around looking for trouble. Thursday Island, however, just twenty minutes across the harbour by boat from Horn, was civilized and comfortable, with a family feel to it. A contrast that he didn’t understand. The other islands surrounding Thursday Island were primitive and sparsely inhabited, usually by people looking to escape something or someone. The harbour was a naturally occurring safe haven protected by Hammond Island to the north, Palilug Island to the northwest, Muralug to the south, Gialug and Horn to the southwest.

Several tidal channels allowed shipping to enter and leave the anchorage safely at high water. Annemarie's engine, just above idle, pushed the sixty-foot vessel slowly through the calm, pristine waters of the safe harbour. At the wheel, Damon steered her into the southeast channel and pushed her throttle forward to wide open. Annemarie’s engine growled, forcing her stern to dig in and the bow lifted like a racehorse given its head and unlocked from its stall.

Staring into the expanse of emerald water, Elishia stood against the railing at the bow, her long, rich auburn hair danced crazily behind her in the wind, unwittingly challenging the beautiful scenery for attention. Directly in front of Damon’s view as he skilfully orchestrated the vessel’s controls, he found himself distracted and staring at her form. There was no doubt, she was a stunner and he began to wonder about the mystery surrounding the redheaded beauty and his chances of getting to know her better. Wiping away the sweat from his brow and forcing the heated focus back onto the business of operating the vessel, Damon’s attention turned towards keeping the boat off the rocks and on a safe heading.

Annemarie burst out of the southeast channel and was now in open water, the swell gently rocking the vessel like a mother lulling a child to sleep. Damon pushed the buttons on the chart plotter: 14 degrees 25 minutes south, 144 degrees 23 minutes east, set, enter. The apparatus beeped as it accepted the instruction. Set auto pilot, enter. Another beep. Annemarie was acting on her own now, which left Damon to attend to other things, with the voyage expected to take twelve hours. Damon opened the wheelhouse door that led to the forward deck where Elishia was standing but she didn’t hear his approach over the noise of the engine and he startled her when he spoke, jolting her out of her distant thoughts. She had been a long way away and judging by her facial reaction, he was intruding on some sacred moment.

Beautiful, isn’t it? The sea, I mean.

She nodded, annoyed at his imposition.

I don’t mean to intrude, but you...

Damon! she interrupted, in a low voice that he had to struggle to hear. I thought we had this discussion before we left T.I.

His dark eyes narrowed as he met hers. Fury burned and he turned and stalked away.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 3

BRISBANE 1872

As he approached the tiny cottage, he could hear the sounds of his mother wailing. It must be true! His stride grew longer until his gait decayed into a determined run. The people at the schoolhouse had told him to go home and comfort his mother.

Your father has fallen overboard from the merchant ship he was working on, missing, presumed drowned, they said.

Stunned at the shocking words, he wanted his mother to tell him it was all a mistake and that his father would come through the door as he always did at the end of each voyage. The young boy burst through the cottage door, his heart pounding and chest heaving, gasping for breath. He turned to face the distraught woman, his eyes alight with a thousand questions. His mother began wailing louder at the sight of her son, motioning for him to come to her and pulled him to her chest, spilling rivers of tears over the young teenager. Instead of being comforted, he was expected to be the comforter at the hands of the distraught female adult, a situation that would never again change.

Kenneth Davis was only fourteen years old, the youngest of two boys and older brother to six sisters. Because of their frequent moves in a constant search for a pot of gold, he had completed only two years of schooling, and now the two boys would have to leave any thought of education to support the family. What would they do? His thoughts kept tumbling around and tripping over each