In the Mists of Paluma

By Janet Lind

Rick Galloway is strangely drawn to Paluma, a mist-shrouded Australian mountain village. As he dutifully follows an unusual pull and arrives in the town, everything seems oddly familiar. When his journey leads him to the library to learn more about the history of Paluma, Rick has no idea that he is about to come face-to-face with his destiny.

Sandy Carlyle is a single mother reluctant to trust in love again. Her failed marriage is proof that love can die. But when Rick unexpectedly stumbles into her life, she finds it difficult to keep him out of her heart, mind, and visions. While Rick is determined to protect her, he is plagued by recurring nightmares, a bizarre fear that he has lost Sandy before, and an unusual unwillingness to view the waterfall near her home. As Sandy and Rick fall in love, they make a shocking discovery: they may have known each other before. It seems they are finally destined to live a long and happy life together. But then again, fate delights in playing little games.

In this multi-faceted tale, a man and woman brought together by circumstances beyond their control become intertwined between the past and present as they attempt to learn if they are meant to be together forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Dec 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504304610

Janet Lind

Janet Lind believes that the most amazing thing in life is how love, consciousness, and quantum particles appear to transcend all previously known boundaries of time and space. She lives with her two children in Queensland, Australia, where she is passionate about studying the supernatural, the unknown, and the mysterious. In the Mists of Paluma is her first book.

Book preview

Prologue

(1942)

He was perspiring, despite the coolness of the day. Drops of sweat were dripping from his forehead onto his nose and tickling him. He’d have liked to wipe them away but his hands were busy with the rope. Careful, he reminded himself, you don’t want your hands to become too slippery. One mess up and you could fall to your death. That thought prompted him to look down. I shouldn’t have done that, he moaned. I have never liked heights and yet, here I am hanging from a rope on the side of a very high—much too high—cliff. Forget fighting the Nips in New Guinea or in Papua, I deserve a bravery medal just for this! He chuckled wryly to himself.

The view below lured him into peering down one more time. It was spectacular. The waterfall, just fifteen feet to his right, plunged down—way down—to a frothy pool surrounded by sharp black rocks. They might have looked like the teeth of the devil, except that they were covered in fine, emerald-green moss. The delicate, curly fronds of ferns peeked out from their positions between the rocks under their eternal shower created by the impact of the falling water. A light mist curled its fingers between the foliage and tickled the sides of the cliff. The early morning sun was trying to sneak its way through the greyness and a few sparkling drops of water were caught in its rays.

Gosh, the world is a beautiful place, he thought. I’ll be sure to bring Beth here one day so that she can also enjoy the view. She just won’t be hanging on the end of a rope, though, he smiled.

The rope snapped!

In utter disbelief, Harry looked up and saw the lower part of the rope curling apart from the upper, in an awful parody of the swan’s mating dance, where the loving couple curve their necks towards and then away from one another.

As he fell, his last words tore heartbrokenly through the mist: Beth, I love you … always …

Chapter 1

(2011)

He couldn’t resist. She—Destiny, Fate, Karma, call her what you will—had her hands gripped firmly on his soul and was pulling him onwards: around the next bend in the winding mountain road to the foreign section of tar beyond it; past the next corner to a different stage in his life; through the next twist to a new era of his soul’s existence. He drove on, eager to reach his destination; eager to reach the village in the clouds. A signboard appeared, disturbing his dreamlike state. Little Crystal Creek. Should I stop? Reluctantly, he acknowledged to himself that nature called—and she was becoming harder to ignore. Toilets? Ah, yes, there they were.

Rick parked his Mercedes-Benz all-wheel drive in the lot across from the picnic area. He got out and yawned. He’d only been driving for an hour or so, yet he felt as if it had been much longer. Strange, he couldn’t remember much of the trip either—must have been daydreaming. Grabbing his camera in case he’d need it, he headed across the road to the toilets and relieved himself. Washing his hands, he was surprised at how cold the water was. This’ll wake me up fast, he thought, splashing the icy liquid onto his face. Whew! Yawning a final time, he reached up and stretched his arms over his head. Then, swinging his arms across his chest, he jogged briefly on the spot. Awake? Yup. Time to look around.

The green picnic area was bounded by the road on the left and trees to the right. In front of him, the road also turned to the right, effectively forming yet another boundary for the lawn. He could hear water rushing: somewhat to the front and definitely to the right of him, beyond the trees. Which way to go? Ah, some information! Rick headed to a signpost. Seemingly, there was a bridge nearby, built to cross the Little Crystal Creek gorge. This bridge was built in 1932 to 1933 during the Great Depression and, along with the development of the Mt Spec Tourist Road, provided employment for hundreds of men for up to six weeks at a time, he read aloud to himself. Hmm, may as well see it while I’m here, he thought and headed off along the road. I’m already late so what difference will a few more minutes make?

Rick had wanted to leave Townsville at about ten in the morning, hoping to reach Paluma (which was only eighty-odd kilometres away) before lunchtime. That would give him plenty of time to find the accommodation he had booked the previous night, have lunch, and get a general feel for the town. He’d then spend the next day (or two at most) exploring the area, taking photographs, chatting to the locals about the history and attractions of the place (or perhaps he’d be lucky and they could actually boast of a library or information centre). Then he’d probably get out of there—on to bigger places with things to do, stuff to see and people to meet. Places that would help ease the ache in his heart. Places that would help him forget about Sonya and—most painful of all—their unborn child. But his trusty sister had called early this morning. Problems with the Sheraton account. He’d spent most of the day on the phone or on the internet. Thank God he could rely on her to know what she could handle and what to pass on to him. And thank God for the technology that enabled him to access their server in Sydney from his hotel room in Townsville, Far North Queensland. But his business issues had held him up, so he had only left at about four in the afternoon and had driven—a little too fast and a great deal too irritated—north along the Bruce Highway that would eventually (on another day and another set of travels) take him to Cairns. He’d calmed down once he’d turned off onto the Old Bruce Highway and then onto the narrow, winding Mt Spec Road. But the strange compulsion to see Paluma, which had flared up inside him since he’d come across the village on a map yesterday, remained.

Rick followed the curve of the road to come across a masonry arch bridge spanning huge granite boulders around which crystal-clear water rushed and foamed and then settled into deep pools. Beyond the cascades, the river forged on through lush, green tropical vegetation. Beautiful! he whispered, removing his camera from the bag slung over his shoulder. Inspired, he took numerous photos of the view from the bridge, and then headed down the steps leading under the arch. He took shot after shot of the photogenic bridge and pools, hopping eagerly from one giant boulder to the next to get the best view possible. Balanced precariously on the edge of a waterfall, Rick heard a giggle behind him. Careful, Harry, you’ll fall, warned a sweet, rather English-sounding voice. Yet, by the time he was able to execute a wobbly turnabout, the owner of the voice (and her Harry) had disappeared. Strange, talk about a fast getaway! he thought. Deciding that this scenery was stunning too, Rick took another couple of photos. What a picturesque spot, he thought, and it makes a great swimming hole! Water’s icy but, aah, just imagine the day one could have: picnicking, swimming in the pools, floating down the river on a rubber tube … I wonder if that huge fallen tree is still there around the far bend? We had to be careful not to get caught against it … What the hell am I thinking about; I’ve never been here before; must be nuts! He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Only thirty-five and I’m already getting old: confusing my childhood memories with the present! Yet try as he could, Rick could still not recall the fallen tree from his youth. Weird! Time to be going, I guess; I’ve spent too much time here as it is. But I’ll stop here on the way back to the highway in a couple of days. Bring my swimmers, a cold beer or two. Wonder if I’ll be able to rustle up a rubber tube somewhere?

Getting into the warm vehicle, Rick realised how chilly the late afternoon had become. Thank goodness for that nosy receptionist. If she hadn’t asked where I was headed to, I wouldn’t have known to bring a thick jacket. She reckons the summer temperatures are often eight to ten degrees cooler in Paluma than in Townsville, and it is usually misty. What did she call it again? Oh, yeah, Village in the Clouds. Well, I hope it’s worth my while; still can’t think why I’m so keen on seeing it! He started the car and eased onto the road, eyeing out Little Crystal Creek one more time as he drove over the old bridge.

The mist surrounded him. One minute, he was driving in the weak rays of the late afternoon sunshine; the next he was peering out the windscreen at a grey, foggy cloud that blanketed the road, the trees, the sky—everything. He switched on his fog lights and their pale yellow beams shone eerily through the grey, failing to cast any real visibility on the road ahead. He slowed. Crawling along, squinting his eyes to pick up any objects that may be in his path, Rick felt as if he were being dragged, atom by atom, into a tunnel. Time ticked audibly. Slower than usual. Where was the town? He should have reached it by now. A signboard shone, pushing the mist away so that he could read: Paluma. Faint lights, their edges shimmering, drew him on. When he could finally discern the muted shapes of buildings flanking the road, he pulled off onto the side. He reached into the cubby on the dashboard for the scribbled directions to his accommodation, and was startled when an army truck drove past. Shit, where’d you come from, mate? he thought. Another truck passed him, and another. There were soldiers on the back, sitting on wooden benches under a canvas top. They ignored him, except for one lone figure that deliberately and solemnly snapped him a salute. Despite the thick fog, he seemed to be looking directly into Rick’s eyes. For a moment, they connected and Rick felt a tug at his memory, an urging to remember, but he could not.

For the second time that day, Rick shook his head. That’s what happens when I don’t drink enough coffee! Let’s see, I’m to take the first road to the right at the end of town (after the village green), then it’s the first driveway on the left …

Five minutes later, Rick had reached his destination. Small town! he smiled as he knocked on his landlady’s door. A plump, seventyish woman, dressed in a floral housecoat and fluffy bunny slippers, answered. Mrs Donovan? he asked. I’m sorry that I’m a lot later than I said I’d be. Oh, sorry, I’m Rick Galloway.

Not a problem at all, love, she replied. Smiling at the handsome man, she wished she were forty years younger. Ah, well, at least she still had her eyesight! Your accommodation is right this way; it’s named the ‘Tree Frog Cottage’ for a very good reason so mind you don’t step on any when you go to the toilet at night; and if there’s anything tickling your bum … well … please don’t rush screaming out the front door with your trousers around your ankles as one of my other guests did! Chuckling heartily, she led him to a well-maintained, two bedroomed, wooden house on stilts. It was clean, tidy, carefully decorated in a homely style, and would suit Rick perfectly.

Thanks, Mrs Donovan, this will do nicely, he said, still grinning at the thought of tree frogs hiding under the toilet rim. After he had parked his sports utility vehicle next to the cottage and brought in his suitcase, he confirmed his arrangements with Mrs Donovan, who had insisted on checking the place once more, and fluffing the pillows, and was once again reminding him that, if he needed anything—anything at all—then he should be sure to call at her house.

Two nights are fine, love, although feel free to extend your stay if you wish. It’s been a quiet tourist season this year, so the cottage isn’t booked for the next few weeks. Do take note of the restaurants and eating places listed on the fridge, but please call me if you can’t get a bite to eat somewhere. We take care of our guests!

As she finally left, Rick thought to ask: Some army trucks passed me a while back. What are they doing all the way up here? Is there a base nearby?

Oh, no, love. There’s no army camp. We haven’t seen soldiers here since I was a toddler during the Second World War. The fog must have played tricks on you. See you later, love! And with that, she left him to ponder over the strange sight.

It was only much later that he realised what was really bothering him about the episode: He should have heard the rumbling of the trucks’ engines and felt the ground vibrate—instead it had been deathly still!

Chapter 2

Rick had slept badly. He’d woken with his mind full of the image of the saluting soldier, and his stomach churning with a feeling of dread. He vaguely remembered something about falling …

Then, to his utter disgust, he found that his mobile phone had no reception! He was walking around the gardens, trying to locate a signal, when a sturdy, elderly gentleman approached. You’ll get no signal here, mate, those things don’t work here in Paluma! he volunteered.

Bugger! exclaimed Rick in horror.

The man laughed and stuck out his hand. I’m Philip Donovan; you met the wife yesterday.

Rick grinned as he shook hands. I know what you’re thinking: city types! And you’re quite right too. Unfortunately, for business reasons, I really do need to have a phone handy. Luckily for him, the Donovans were organised. Anticipating this problem for their guests, they’d had standard telephones and ADSL lines (for internet access) installed in each cottage. On top of that, for a small fee, he was presented with a satellite phone he could use, preferably for receiving calls only. (Any outgoing calls would be charged to his credit card at a later stage.) A satisfied Rick spent the next couple of hours relaying his new contact information to everyone. It seemed a lot of effort but, not only did Rick still have a business to look after, the livelihoods of a few hundred employees depended on him; and he took that very seriously.

Finally, Rick got the chance to take a walk through the main street of Paluma. It was certainly not much more than a hamlet, which might have explained why the general layout—with almost all of the buildings hugging the main road—seemed so familiar to him; he imagined there were a hundred small towns throughout Australia with the same set-up.

Leaving his cottage on the west side of town, he ambled eastwards past the village green (complete with picnic tables and a playground); a conservation centre (closed at the moment); a tiny grocery store; a couple of private residences; a café cum takeaway joint; and—thank heavens—a small library. On the opposite side of the road were more residences; a few businesses (such as the ‘Paluma Pottery’ off the back of a private home and the ‘Forestmist Cottage Arts and Crafts’ centre); and a couple of holiday homes, the closed curtains betraying their vacancy. A couple of signs pointed to bed-and-breakfasts, self-catering chalets and two eating places scattered on the outskirts of town.

As small as Paluma was, it was certainly beautiful, being completely surrounded by thick rainforest. Everywhere, Rick could see signs of the lush vegetation threatening to take back the land from its human invaders. Creepers twisted around fence posts and housing stilts alike, choked alien shrubs and fruit trees, covered any abandoned rubble or scrapheap, and spread over the lawns in defiance of any blades the lawnmowers might thrust at them. The trees, bushes and grass with their multiple hues of green leaves and blades provided a vivid contrast to the brilliant reds, crimsons and oranges of their tropical flowers. Rick was in awe of the rich, vibrant beauty that encircled him. For just a brief moment, he remembered once trying to paint such a scene … He tried to hold on to that memory, to expand on it, but—once again—his recollections proved elusive.

Before he realised it, he had reached the end of town—or rather, the beginning of town—and was peering along Mt Spec Road; the route he had used when arriving from Townsville. What now? A sign pointed to McClelland’s Lookout; the car park visible from where he stood. That should be interesting …

But his growling stomach reminded him that it was lunchtime. He debated whether to eat lunch at Eddie’s Restaurant beckoning him just a few metres away but decided he’d try out Eddie’s food the next day. For now, he would be satisfied with a quick coffee and croissant at the café, before heading to the library to see what information he could glean.

As he retraced his steps, he kept himself occupied by considering what name the unimaginative Eddie could have used for his restaurant instead. It should have been something with ‘rainforest’ or ‘mist’ or ‘cloud’ in the name, he thought. What was the original name of the Paluma area? Oh, yeah: Cloudy Clearing. Now that’s more original! Rick stopped in his tracks. How on earth did I know that? Am I right? I’d better check with the librarian. Mate, he said to himself, stop acting so weird—you’re starting to freak me out!

∞

But, Mummy, I had this book first! wailed Mikki. It’s mine!

No, I chose it but I just put it down to look at another book, yelled Lain.

Shhhhh, be quiet! hissed Sandy, looking about worriedly to see if the librarian was bearing down on them. This is a library! Now is this the way you’re supposed to behave in a library?

But she won’t let go of the book!

No, it’s mine. He has to let go!

Mine—saw it first!

Mo-o-o-o-m …

Dammit! Stop fighting and please be quiet, begged Sandy. You can both read it! Now let go—both of you—let go, I said! It was difficult to sound authoritative while whispering. She grabbed the offending book from her much-loved but sometimes-so-damn-annoying children. I’ll look after this; now go find another two books each. No, Lain, you go that way. You really don’t have to be in the same section as your sister. Now, remember, be quiet! She breathed a sigh of relief: one war over! Then she sighed: unfortunately, many more to go! Being a mother was such hard work—and taking her little monsters to the library together was plain insanity! She smiled and thought: Twit! Lesson learned: next time, I’ll leave one with Aunt Barbs while I take the other.

Mummy! called Mikki, much too loudly. Can you tell me what this story is about?

Shhhhhh! she replied as she hurried over to do the motherly thing once more.

∞

The children’s argument had carried to the front of the small library, where Linda, the librarian, sat behind a heavy desk, working on her PC. She had invited Mr Galloway—Rick, he’d said she should call him—to pull up a visitor’s chair beside her while she lectured him on the Paluma area. It was good to meet someone who showed an interest in the history of the area, not simply the attractions. The American Army operated the radar station during 1942, she was saying, until the Australian Army took over near the end of the year. But, somewhere … she paused as her database search continued, ah, here it is … it is mentioned that the Australian troops also trained here—apparently they needed to practise warfare in a tropical jungle-type environment before engaging the Japanese who had invaded what is now called Papua New Guinea. Also … oh, yes, we have information on the logging camp that was set up to provide timber for use in the war effort … A small child’s wail interrupted her, causing her to shake her head with annoyance and push back her chair. Rick smiled as he heard the frustrated mother trying desperately to shush her kids.

Aww, I think the mum’s getting them under control, he said, remembering how difficult it had been to keep his nephews quiet when he’d taken three of them to see the dinosaur display at the museum. He was forced to admit the boys had run totally wild on him and, to his extreme embarrassment, they’d been evicted! So, tell me about some of the earlier history; he urged in an attempt to distract Linda, I believe there is still plenty of evidence of the extensive tin mining that took place?

Twenty minutes later, Rick left feeling pretty satisfied with his visit. He had plenty of reading material, plus he’d been invited on a sightseeing trip—rather, an expedition!—with Linda and her professorial boyfriend, who’d be coming up from Townsville on the weekend. Of course, that meant Rick would have to stay in Paluma for a few extra days but he didn’t mind. He hadn’t yet seen the tourist attractions, nor done the hiking or walking trails. Plus there was plenty to still learn about this place. Rick realised that, for some obscure reason, he was searching for something: perhaps the clue lay in Paluma’s history, or perhaps it lay in the magnificent scenery, or even perhaps in its incredible diversity of plant and animal life. He decided to buy a toasted sandwich (or two) from the takeaway joint as he’d done last night, and head back to his cottage. He had a lot of reading to do!

∞

As Rick emerged from the store, laden with his reading matter, sandwiches, two litres of Coke and an enormous packet of chips, he narrowly missed bumping into a woman hurrying past with her arms full of books. She swerved to avoid the impact, dropping a very thick—and very heavy—hardback on his big toe. Ow! he complained, wishing he could grab the aching digit and hop up and down in pain. Probably just as well he couldn’t—it would have looked really undignified!

I’m so sorry, she said, are you alright?

Yeah, fine, sorry, I should have been looking where I was going. I’ll pick that up for you if you’ll just wait … He searched for a decent spot to offload his baggage.

No, I’ve got it, she said, crouching to retrieve the book while struggling to hold onto the rest with her other hand and chin. I forgot to bring my carry bag … Lain, Mikki, wait up … Satisfied that her children were waiting for her, the woman straightened up, and smiled at him.

He smiled back. And for a second, neither could think of a thing to say.

Um, I’d better go. They’re off again. Kids, wait for me! And how about carrying some of these? I’m not a pack donkey, you know. With that, she hurried off after the two children, who were clearly not making any attempt at helping her carry their library books.

Nice! uttered Rick, talking to no-one in particular, and let out a low whistle. And the view from behind was good too! Ah, well, it was time to head back. Ouch! he muttered grumpily, as he took a step. I think I need an ice pack.

Chapter 3

The restaurant was busy this afternoon, full of demanding tourists and their spoilt brats. If she had to smile pleasantly at one more family, her face would crack. Dad—seemingly deaf as a post—escaping into his beer (typical fucking male!); harassed Mum searching the menu for something—anything—that would satisfy her litter of mongrels; toddler smearing snot on the tablecloth while eating the floral decorations; older kids fighting over the sugar sachets, whining at Mum that ‘he pulled my hair’ and ‘she messed my sugar’ and ‘we’re hungry, where’s our food, we want it now’. Christ! They drove her mad. Shouldn’t be allowed to breed, bloody trash! Not for the first time, Nerina regretted her impulse to follow Eddie to Paluma. He’d assured her the restaurant would make it big and he would then hire a chef to replace his dumpy wife in the kitchen (stupid woman, thinking that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach—no, fat cow, it’s lower down!). He’d said, while kneading Nerina’s breasts with his rough, broad hands with the stocky fingers and dirty nails, that he’d marry her and she’d never have to wait on anyone ever again; they’d be stinking rich; he’d spoil her rotten; and … and … and … Wanker! Once he’d realised the hard work involved in keeping Eddie’s Restaurant on the go, he’d run off with the blonde slut doing both him and his books. Now she was stuck here waitressing while his dumb wife ran the show! To think she’d put up with