The Mantle of Khronos

By Paul Vernon Young

The appearance of man-made objects embedded in twenty-three million year old rock draws a motley group of colourful characters to the scenic and fascinating Caldera region of Northern New South Wales. The story is narrated by Romy, who visits the area for a week at the invitation of his cousin, Hunter, a local who believes the artefacts are evidence of time-travel. They seek advice from their friend, Jade, and her university professor, who have simultaneously made astonishing discoveries of their own.

Romy remains sceptical, even in the face of an ongoing series of inexplicable events, but finds himself drawn sympathetically into helping the eccentric Ajax, who claims to be marooned from his own far-off time zone. Jade has befriended a group of Aboriginal healers and, when one of them falls ill after coming into contact with a mysterious fluid, they draw the conclusion that it is a foreign substance from the future. Jade’s aunt, a fortune-teller from the Gold Coast who takes the paranormal in her stride, gets reacquainted with a family of Gypsies who have set up camp at the gates of Hunter’s property. Their little daughter is intelligent but prone to strange behaviour after entering trances.

The activities of a cult, whose leaders have turned a nearby farm into an experimental institute, attract the scrutiny of the intelligence agency ASIO and soon the once peaceful community is a hotbed of intrigue as opposing groups go undercover to protect their own interests. When Hunter considers the safety of his friends to be at risk from certain adversaries, he calls on support from a gang of bikers from Byron Bay, who agree to provide security until the threat subsides.

A common thread links the diverse groups: evidence supporting the existence of a living force field permeating the world, known as the Mantle of Khronos. Ajax adds to the concept by revealing what he claims are ancient secrets, but his credibility rests on the fulfilment of an event forecast to occur at the end of the week. In spite of accusations that his cousin is disloyal, Romy acts decisively to protect his companions, including the self-professed time traveller, until the story reaches its unpredictable conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Vernon Young
• Release date: Oct 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370395682

Paul Vernon Young

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Paul Young was born in Melbourne, Australia, on the 17th March 1953. After leaving school he spent a couple of years in the opal fields of Lightning Ridge in New South Wales, before moving his home base to Brisbane, Queensland. His upbringing and education were along traditional Christian lines, yet from an early age he was drawn to mysticism and Eastern religions. Initially this tendency manifested in his choice of reading materials and the poetry he wrote himself; increasingly it has become a focal point in practical life. Paul belongs to the Rosicrucian Fraternity known as AMORC and holds a number of qualifications: •Certified as a level III Reiki practitioner (2002) •Certificate IV in Palliative Care and Conscious Dying (2003) •Diploma of the Writing School Australia (2003) •Certified TEFL English Teacher (2008) •Certified Law of Attraction Practitioner (2014) •Certified NLP Practitioner (2014) Paul's first book, The Sign of The Quatrefoil, was written without any formal training, but at the end of 2003 he obtained his Diploma from The Writing School of Sydney, with the intention of producing further books and magazine articles. In 2004 he self-published a novel titled ‘The Griffin in the Valley.’ A career in international trade and shipping has given him the opportunity to travel to many places in the world, and he has spent some years living and working in Taiwan, Hong Kong, the Philippines and Thailand. These days he is easing into retirement from the corporate world and concentrating on his investigations into the paranormal and esoteric writings, with a particular emphasis on the relationship between humankind and the Sun.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Driving conditions were deteriorating as I turned onto the country road that would complete the final leg of my daylong journey. It had been an hour since I’d left the Pacific Highway to head into the hilly country of northern New South Wales and it began to drizzle rain as daylight faded. My utility truck was sensing every bump as the patched-up bitumen carriageway narrowed and white lines disappeared.

I was headed for my cousin’s house, which sat on one of several communal properties in a rainforest area outside Nimbin. We’d both dropped out of university at the same time three years earlier and, while I had stayed in Sydney, he moved up here in pursuit of the alternative lifestyle. Nimbin revelled in its reputation as the hippie capital of Australia, set in what is known as the Rainbow Region.

Throughout the day I’d been wondering why Hunter had really asked me to drive all this way at short notice. True, he’d broken his arm after slipping from a rock while bushwalking a few days earlier, but was sent home promptly from hospital with a plaster cast and just told to take it easy. I knew him to be an independent spirit and he had a lot of friends in the area. So why had he insisted with such urgency that I come to stay with him for a week? Did he need care, or my ear as his old confidant?

As I rounded a curve I saw a small tray back truck pulled off to the side of the road with its lights on, driver’s side door open and its occupant waving at me to stop. I braked quickly, parked just in front of him and wound down my window. The other driver dashed over to meet me. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in overalls and holding a newspaper above his head to act as an umbrella against the strengthening rain.

Hey mate, he called loudly, you haven’t seen a wooden crate along the roadway in the last few kilometres, have you?

I assured him that I had not and asked him what happened.

Geez, I dunno, he answered, shaking his head. I had a crate, about a metre cubed in size, strapped securely on the truck and it’s just disappeared. I loaded it this morning and it was definitely there when I stopped for petrol in the last town, half an hour ago. Then about a hundred metres back I glanced in the rear-view mirror and poof, it’s gone!

What was in it? I asked curiously.

Oh, just some machinery, he responded, sounding like he didn’t want to go into any detail. Well nothing you can do about it. I guess I’d better retrace my route and check the roadside before it gets any darker. Thanks for stopping anyway.

No problem, I said, as I prepared to resume my journey. As baffling as his dilemma was, there was little help I could offer. But a question mark lingered at the back of my mind about the manner of the man himself. While he was clearly not happy about his loss, he appeared neither flustered nor guilty at the possibility of causing an accident by dropping a large crate on the road. He certainly hadn’t wanted to discuss its contents.

It was time to concentrate on where I was going. Shortly I came to the junction where I must leave the bitumen and follow a series of unsealed roads leading to my destination. It had been a year since my last trip up here and as the roads turned to dirt tracks they became trickier to follow, especially after nightfall. Fortunately many of the locals were thoughtful enough to erect rough, hand-made signposts, painted white, with property names and arrows indicating directions. Wrong turns were a nuisance because it was sometimes necessary to travel a fair distance before being able to execute a u-turn.

It was just after seven p.m. when I arrived at the gate of the communal property known as Arlo’s Farm, the perimeter of which enclosed ten dwellings, spaced around the property at irregular intervals. I recognised the track that led to Hunter’s modest home and was relieved that he had been generous enough with his solar power to leave an outside light on to guide me in. His black Labrador, Midge, knew my vehicle and barked a welcome as I came to a halt right at the front door.

Hey, Romy, what took you so long? Hunter greeted me as he flung open the screen door. We usually embraced heartily after a long absence, but seeing his left arm in plaster I now just gave him the most delicate of hugs. We were both in our mid twenties and he was only a month my junior, but my cousin and I bore no physical resemblance. While Hunter was tall, fair-haired, tanned and athletic, I would have to describe myself as pretty much opposite in all those respects.

I got a little bit lost, I admitted, but I thought I made good time.

Why didn’t you give me a call? I know this area like the back of my hand and I could have talked you through the last stretch.

It was then that I had to confess as to how I’d lost my mobile phone. This is kind of embarrassing, but when I stopped at a service station a couple of hours ago, I rested my phone on the car roof then forgot all about it until after I’d driven off. By the time I realised and drove back there, there was no sign of it.

Hunter roared with laughter. He was always the kind of guy who’d laugh with you rather than at you and, as ever, I ended up chortling right along with him. That instant put our friendship back in perspective and the long day’s drive seemed worthwhile, regardless of the reason I had come here. This was my best mate with whom I’d grown up and spent my school years and it was good to be here tonight, far away from the rat race.

You want a beer? he asked, handing me one without waiting for an answer.

Sure. How about you?

No, I’m still on pain-killers, although I reckon I’ll kick them in a few days. Rather be swilling beer than popping pills, he joked.

Under normal circumstances Hunter would have laid on a great dinner. He was a natural cook and loved Asian food, so it was not uncommon for him to dish up a Thai or Chinese meal. However, restricted as he was by the broken arm, kitchen duties fell on my shoulders. Feeling uninspired at this time of night, I fired up the barbeque on his front veranda and threw on some sausages, tomatoes and onions.

After dinner we sat on the deck outside and chatted about the various family members and events that had occurred since we last met. Of the two of us, I was the one regarded by others to be deep and serious, while he was perceived to be the happy-go-lucky guy, never ready to take on responsibilities or commitments. But he was starting to show a different side to himself this night. I was now sure that it was not simply a broken arm that had prompted my invitation here.

Just as I was about to cut to the chase, our attention was distracted by Midge, who was making a fuss around the rear wheel of my ute, first pawing in front of the rear tyre, then diving his head behind it. Presuming that a lizard or rodent was the cause of attention, Hunter called the dog to come away.

Midge obligingly withdrew from under the vehicle and we saw that he had already grasped the object of prey in his mouth. He trotted straight over to where we sat in our deck chairs and, going right past his master, came to me and dropped a little black thing at my feet. Almost afraid to look, I braced myself and leaned forward. There, to my surprise, lay a mobile phone, remarkably similar to my own. Grabbing a tissue, I picked it up and wiped Midge’s dribble from it. Could it be? I hit the address book button and there were all my personal contacts.

Not knowing what to say, I looked at Hunter, demonstrating my disbelief. There must be some sort of logical explanation, I ventured.

Maybe not, he said slowly. Definitely weird, not necessarily logical. This part of the world is known for strange occurrences.

Now I knew for sure that something had changed with my cousin. Sure, he was still the loveable guy I’d grown up with, but it was like another string had been added to his bow. Without losing any part of his character, he had gained an aspect that made him appear to me more concerned and meaningful, even if he was acting a little spooky.

Okay, I’ve got to ask you: did you really want me here to help you recuperate from your injury, or is there something else going on?

Hunter leant back in his chair and looked at me pensively. His expression was serene, almost smiling, but I knew he was not in one of his joking moods. You’ve guessed correctly. There is something else. I have a theory, but I’m not exactly sure I know what’s going on. Maybe I should start by telling you the facts about my little accident.

Right, that sounds like a good idea, I agreed, as I got up to get myself another beer and pour him a coffee. Let’s start at the beginning.

It was last Wednesday, Hunter began, when I decided that I was going bushwalking in Nightcap National Park. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the area, but if you approach it from the northeast and look up at the ridge above you, there is a formation known as The Sphinx Rock. It has an outline just like the Sphinx in Egypt and is a site dear to local people as well as being a drawcard for tourists. I wasn’t really intending to make it all the way up there to the top, I just wanted to advance as far as I could without climbing aids. Sadly, I didn’t get too far past first base. I was just scaling a small rocky face fifty metres out from my starting point, when I fell and broke my arm.

I know that you’ve always walked and climbed in the bush, I interrupted, so I’m guessing that either it was very slippery, or something distracted you?

Definitely it was a case of something distracting me, Hunter nodded in agreement. Now I want to tell you what I saw, what I believe and why I asked you to come up here. You’ll appreciate, I hope, why you’re the only one in the world I trust enough to talk to about this. We’ve always been upfront with each other, right?

No risk about that, I assured him. Our bond is rock solid.

Hunter smiled. That’s probably an unintended pun. But, honestly, where I am going now is into the realm of conjecture. I want to ask you one question before I spill my own beliefs. Do you accept, at least theoretically, the notion of time travel?

Chapter 2

Hunter disappeared inside for a few minutes, leaving me to ponder his question. Did I believe in the possibility of time travel? I’d given it some thought before, but could never decide. Alongside the science of physics stood a whole row of philosophical queries. Perhaps the more puzzling thing was, why had he even asked me this?

He emerged holding what appeared to be a clump of dark coloured rock, about the size of a grapefruit, with a piece of silvery metal roughly fifteen centimetres long protruding from it. Without speaking, he handed it to me. On closer examination I saw that the metal object was actually a shifting spanner. It was chrome, although dirty with specks of stony debris on the shaft, while the head of the spanner was firmly embedded in the rock. Wiping the shaft lightly with my fingers I could make out the logo of a well-known Australian brand name.

What am I supposed to make of this? I asked him.

Well, I found this on a cliff face in the National Park last Wednesday, he replied. Those cliffs are formed from volcanic rock, mainly basalt and rhyolite. This piece is basalt, I think, which is the softer of the two.

So, some bushwalker or rock climber left it there, I shrugged.

Look closely at the way the spanner is set into the rock, he countered. It hasn’t been inserted there. The basalt has formed around it. I haven’t been able to prise it loose, maybe because I’m restricted to one hand. Why don’t you give it a go?

Obligingly I gave it my best shot, holding the rock to the ground with my feet and wrenching with both arms, using all the force I could muster. No, it was stuck fast all right. Giving up in defeat, I suggested flippantly that there must have been some volcanic activity after the spanner was left there.

That certainly seems to be the case if we can believe our eyes, Hunter agreed. The only problem is, last time this basalt flowed as molten lava was twenty three million years ago. How old do you reckon the spanner is? He fixed a serious gaze on me for a moment to lend impact to his point.

Oh no, come on! I exclaimed as it dawned on me what he was alluding to. You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking?

Well how do you explain it? Hunter demanded. How about, just for a moment, we put our preconceived notions to one side and allow ourselves to believe that time travel can, and does, occur. Now let’s consider the case of a present-day spanner ending up in prehistoric volcanic rock, in this light.

Wait a minute, I said, trying to give myself breathing space to absorb his suggestion. Any discussions I’ve ever heard before about time travel have always centred around moving back and forth among the civilizations of humanity, from the ancient empires to advanced futuristic societies. But you’re talking about twenty three million years ago!

If we’re going to give this theory any credibility at all, let’s not start out by putting limitations on it, objected my cousin. Once the time barrier is broken, it’s broken, right?

All right, agreed! I conceded, but at the same time I felt it was necessary to introduce the standard philosophical argument. Have you heard of the ‘Grandfather Paradox,’ the idea that if you were able to go back in time, you could kill your own grandfather, then you’d cease to exist? Perhaps there is some sort of cosmic law that would prevent this?

I’ve been thinking about that, Hunter replied, clearly relishing the fact that he had succeeded in drawing me into this dialogue. If it were true that such moral principles existed, couldn’t it also be true that we only acquire the means to time-travel once civilization has attained sufficient ethical standards to allow self-regulation?

When would that moment in time arrive? I wondered to myself.

Evidently right now, if the age of that spanner is any guide, said Hunter aloud, answering the question I hadn’t even uttered yet. How did he do that? Maybe it was just too obvious. In any case, I decided not to pursue it.

Have you ever pondered the popular stories of UFO’s and ET’s? he continued. It has never made sense to me that aliens would travel vast distances through space to visit Earth, then just hover about quietly and discreetly observing us, only to depart without talking to us and interacting with us. But if such visitors were actually time travellers, they could be avoiding direct contact in observance of those moral laws, so as not to get caught up in any kind of paradoxes.

Admittedly, I had always harboured similar doubts about postulations that the leading players in the legends of the ancient Egyptians, Hebrew and Greeks were Extra Terrestrials. Why would they come so far to meddle in cultures on this planet that were of no concern to them? But, if it was actually us, setting the stage for the advancement of our own civilization, that seemed somehow more plausible to me.

Still, I was bothered by one important issue and felt compelled to put it to my cousin. Don’t you think we are placing an awful lot of emphasis on one isolated item, which is basically a lump of rock with a bit of metal stuck in it? No matter what conclusions you and I are drawn to, there will be few, if any, academics who would risk their reputation by even acknowledging the existence of your finding.

Ah, yes. But wait, there’s more! came the undaunted reply. Let me fill in the missing pieces of my experience last Wednesday, then the reason I’ve asked you to come here will soon become apparent.

As tired as I was, there was no way I would be getting any rest until I had the full picture. I settled back in my chair and listened, without interrupting, while he unfolded his story.

Hunter had set out that day to see how far he could progress toward the exposed rock pinnacle known as The Sphinx, on foot, without using ropes and pegs. He was not a climber, nor was he content with simple bush walks. He loved the natural surroundings of this region and often set himself little challenges such as this one, just to test his personal limits. His part time evening work at a local café didn’t provide a great income, but it allowed him plenty of free time.

He had barely begun his trek, following a trail sideways around the mountain, when the slope became a cliff face and the pathway fell away to a steep gully below. His first option was to follow the track downwards then clamber up the other side. The second choice, which held more appeal for him, was to walk carefully along a ledge about fifty centimetres wide, which appeared to traverse the full width of the cliff, roughly forty metres. He figured that, even if he fell, the greatest drop was no more than ten metres at any point.

The one obstacle that hadn’t been noticeable was a column of rock, as wide as a refrigerator, jutting out over the ledge at the far end of the cliff. On reaching it, Hunter realized that he would somehow have to hug it, while he swung his legs back around to the ledge on the other side.

As reluctant as he was to use tools, he decided that the sensible move was to make use of a small pick he was carrying in his rucksack, giving him something secure to hold on to. Driving its sharp point into the large surface that was blocking his way, he watched with surprise as a series of cracks ran through the rock and several chunks split away and tumbled into the gully below. One of these was the fragment with the spanner embedded in it and he spotted the flash of the chrome as it shot away.

The damage left a deep, funnel-shaped cavity in the side of the basalt formation and a shining object right at the end of it caught Hunter’s attention. He squinted as he tried to distinguish its shape sparkling in the sunlight. What came into focus was semi-circular and metallic, appearing to be the top half of a CD. As he peered closer, the urge to retrieve it was irresistible.

Calculating that it was within an arm’s reach, Hunter steadied himself by gripping a stony nodule with his left hand, while twisting his body slightly so as to position his right arm into the cavity. Unfortunately he hadn’t noticed that a newly opened crack ran around the edge of the nodule and, as he leant forward to grab at the shiny disc, he put his full weight on his left side and the rock gave way.

Plummeting sideways, he was instantly grateful to feel the dense undergrowth breaking his fall. His left arm took the bulk of the impact as it connected with the solid ground below. He was aware that it was broken but the rush of adrenalin anaesthetised him against the pain. His body sustained several grazes but no deep cuts, leaving him feeling lucky in an odd sort of way. Instinctively he salvaged his mobile phone from the rucksack beside him and dialled the pre-set emergency number.

While waiting for help to arrive, the glint of the chrome spanner caught his eye in the scrub nearby and he picked it up, complete with rock attached, and stuffed it in the rucksack.

The emergency crew were on the scene sooner then he expected, given the remoteness of the location. After putting his arm in a sling, they quickly established that it was preferable for two of them to support him walking out, rather than using a stretcher, getting him to hospital promptly where an orthopaedic surgeon attended to his fractures. At the end of the day, he had to conclude that fate had treated him kindly. But this was not some mere boyish adventure, it was too big and he was too involved to put it to bed.

As Hunter finished telling his tale, it was plain what role I was expected to play in this affair. When do you want to go back there?

Tomorrow morning, if you’re up to it, he suggested pleadingly. I can’t do it by myself using one arm. But together we can solve this mystery. Don’t worry, I’ve thought this through and figured out how we can approach it safely. Trust me?

My logic was screaming out ‘No,’ but somehow my head was nodding ‘Yes.’ Too late, I was committed.

We agreed to call it a night and Hunter showed me to the second bedroom. A