Red Dirt Riding Hood: A Corrine Laroche Adventure, #1

By CG Arekion

Can you guess the wolf?

My name is Corrine Laroche, I was going on with my day when I randomly met a man by the name of Coen. After a crazy story, I don't know how I ended up following him, a stranger I hardly knew, on a perilous journey… miles away from my home, alone with my two young children- Miya and Kaleb. We found ourselves right into a complex problem, while reaching out to an extremely remote community in far north Queensland…. Come along as I unravel my story to you.

Red Dirt Riding Hood is a novel of a young Australian migrant woman and her two children, packed with a mind-boggling adventure.

 

A Corrine Laroche Collection. Recommended for fifteen to twenty-five years old. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: CG Arekion
• Release date: Nov 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215049310

CG Arekion

CG Arekion is an Australian author of adventure, psychological and economics novels for young readers. Growing up in the remote island of Mauritius, east coast of Africa, as a child, the author was an avid reader of adventure books. Later, she went on studying Social Sciences in Mauritius and converted her passion and skills at understanding the world by becoming a professional adventurer. She travelled the globe and visited many places as a Flight Attendant. Pushing her boundary even further, CG Arekion studied a master’s in educational leadership and management and worked in the field of education.  She first started at an international university in Newcastle and then worked in different locations across Australia. Following the breeze, travelling, and living in various places across Australia, CG Arekion has always been fascinated how culture, language, and attitude, influence the spirit of entire communities in different geographical locations in Australia. In the state of Queensland where the author currently lives, she got carried away by a few fascinating adventures through people she met on her way.  Over her own itinerary, experiences and observations, the adventures of Corrine Laroche and her two children, Miya and Kaleb, were born, with CG Arekion first book RED DIRT RIDING HOOD.  A fascinating fictional adventure based on a few true events that happened to the author. Come along and let yourself be immersed in this authentic story and discover the spirit of Queenslanders and what makes them adapt to their uniquely challenging environment.

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Copyright © 2021 by Corrine G Arekion

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form on by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author or publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in the review.

This is a creative work of fiction and art, free for interpretation by all readers.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to any characters living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The right of CG Arekion to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted under the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works—and cannot be reproduced in any format that is perceptible either directly or with the aid of a machine or device.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the person holding the copyrights of this book.

Cape Weaver Press publications, Petrie, QLD 4502 Australia

CHAPTER 1

Destiny Takes a Twist

JUNE 2020.  STEPS ECHOED from the polished timber floor of the grand room inside Brisbane Art Gallery.  Inspiring artwork dressed the dimly lit walls with gracious forms and colours, depicting human events across the history of Queensland.  Following a tour guide to the next room, a group of visitors chatted softly, leaving a trail of expensive perfume in the air when I, Corrine Laroche, entered the room.

I tucked my dark hair curl behind my ears as I walk past a mirror. I stopped to straighten up my white shirt that I was wearing with my favourite skinny-leg blue jeans. I felt stylish.  Then I stopped in front of an impressive Aboriginal artwork depicting a group of indigenous men thrusting a long spear at a fellow tribesman’s leg, and slowly, I drifted into my imagination, examining it.  Eyes riveted on the painting, I fancied that since there is only one spear being thrown, the man in the picture could move at a different angle to avoid having his leg pierced, so he could dash away as fast as he could.

The painting, repleted with symbolism, history, and spirituality, deeply inspired me to create artwork just like this.  The work in question was painted by an anonymous aboriginal artist at the start of the last century.

Still absorbed in my creative mind, I envisioned an escape route for the man by extending the detail beyond the frame of this beautiful painting.  I, being an eternal empath, felt the pain coming in his direction. I guessed that I will never know the name of this great artist—If only I could borrow his paintbrush, I would draw some more bushes here, and maybe extend a hill in the background where this man could run away, before the spear reaches his leg.

I am lost in my thoughts. I tucked away my usual wisp of curls behind my ears before turning around, ready to appreciate other grand scale paintings displayed in this palatial gallery.

Surprisingly, I detected the presence of a young man walking towards me.  He just happened to lift his head almost simultaneously, when I lifted mine to look at him—We gazed at each other for a moment and our eyes locked in no reason at all, except curiosity.  By now, we were the only visitors in the spacious room apart from the security guard dressed in a black-and-white uniform and a cap, who was popping in and out of the rooms for her routine checks.

Even though we were two perfect strangers, we kept staring at each other almost involuntarily, searching for familiar features in a sort of unintentional inspection.  In the space of a second, a thousand questions rushed inside my head, and I could not control my thoughts asking about who is this person? Where is he from? What is he doing and why is he staring at me?  And many more questions that were just unarticulated and fluttering randomly inside my head like a bunch of fluttering butterflies.

We were both caught in the moment, doing the same action, and facing each other not really knowing why—was this a stroke of destiny on an empty canvas?

Realising that we were both scrutinising, the stranger and I cracked a genuine and reciprocated smile, as we both felt embarrassed at goggling without knowing each other at all.

How is it going?  asked the man, with a gentle smile on his face.

I blinked and I waited for a moment, as if I was watching an interactive piece of art. 

The stranger spoke again, so?

Oh! I’m fine, thanks, I replied.  How about you?

Good, thanks! the man said rather dryly.

There was a moment of silence.  I was already engaging in my next step, ready to wander around through the gallery, when...to break the ice, the stranger added, I see you’re looking at this ancient painting.  Do you know what it means?

Not really, I replied.  I’m only looking at it because it’s rather entertaining.

"This drawing represents one of our ancient customs.  When a man gets caught messing things up, he must face the pain.  An elder of his tribe would spear him in the leg to straighten him up, sometimes even in both legs.  It’s called maluka."

Maluka? I repeated interested.  Wow! I’m learning something new here.  Did it work?

Don’t know, smiled the man by examining the artwork attentively, but it would have kept him at bay for a while. I guess with a sore leg, he wouldn’t have been able to go very far. The man invited me to have a closer look at the painting, Do you notice how frozen and petrified he looks in this painting? I bet he hasn’t moved on for one hundred years, right about the age of this painting!

I look at him and we both laughed.

Are you aboriginal? I asked him, curious.  You mentioned your ancient customs? What’s your name? mine is Corrine Laroche.

I’m Coen, yes, I am.  Where do you live?

I live in Narangba, in Moreton Bay, and what about you? I asked.

I’m from Bribie Island, in Moreton Bay too! After a pause, Coen said, you sound a bit French, am I right?

Yes, a little, I guess! I migrated some years ago from Mauritius.  It’s an island near east Africa in the Indian Ocean and we speak at least three languages there— Creole, French and a little bit of English too.  Did you grow up in a traditional tribe or a clan? I asked clumsily since I was interested to know more about him and his story.

No, Coen simply replied, and then he paused.  I know little about my clan.  I grew up in Sydney from the age of seven.  I spent most of my years in boarding school, with the Marist brothers.  My father passed away when I was young.  My mum could not really cope with all the grief and fuss around his death.  Anyway...somehow, I ended up with foster parents, and I spent most weekends with them in Wyong, down in New South Wales but during weekdays, I lived in the boarding school.

Then Coen paused again, longer this time, before asking me, I am feeling hungry.  Why don’t we have lunch together if you’re free for a bite? Are you in a rush right now?

Coen was a very good-looking man with an athletic bearing.  He was tall, slim and his lean muscled arms bulged under a designer’s aboriginal sport jersey.  He seemed of mixed origin with matt olive skin, hazelnut-coloured eyes, and light brown hair that he tied high upon his head into a chignon.  There was something friendly about his voice, and he was squarely facing me, waiting for my answer.

I felt the blood rushing up my cheeks, and I struggled to hide the fact that I was feeling terribly shy inside when he asked me to have lunch with him. But I shrugged pretending that I was relax and replied, I can’t see any reasons why not! That would be nice because I am feeling a bit hungry too.

Coen picked up that I was a little nervous talking to him. He simply smiled and suggested we go outdoors to the South Bank Park’s food court, where we could have a choice of food.

We made our way along the steel arbours’ alley, covered with climbing fuchsia-pink bougainvillea, and interlaced with delicately scented white jasmine flowers.  Walking indifferently across the park chatting about this and that, we surprisingly met with a street artist on our way. He was performing magic tricks with his hands while balancing on a unicycle to the delight of a modest group of onlookers.

Running across a well-maintained spongy grass, South Bank Park was buzzing with excited children.  On the right was a big playground comprising of obstacle courses, sky-walking nets, climbing walls and a tall colourful sliding tube, which, by far, was the main attraction for the busy little bodies playing around it.

Dispersed around the park, some people were picnicking on the green grass; some, striding along, while others sat at the multitude of charming cafés - chatting and catching up with friends and family.  At first glance, one could tell the crowd was of diverse origin, with such beautiful faces that seemed to come from every corner of the world. I wondered about their journey and their stories for a moment, before turning my attention back to Coen, who just brought two kebabs and two bottles of water.

Thanks a lot, Coen, you’re really nice! I exclaimed.  How much do I owe you for this?

Nothing. I should have asked you if you’re vegan, but I forgot, replied Coen, trying to please.

This is perfect for me, thanks again, I started going vegan about two times a week on Wednesdays and Fridays, but definitely not today, I answered with a grateful smile.

Coen suggested that we sit under a big shady tree that he pointed at.  He suggested it was a great place to watch the Brisbane River while we eat our inviting kebabs.  The shady spot was a little further away from the buzzing crowd. 

Boats and ferries came and went along the winding murky river, disembarking a flow of wintery dressed commuters, every time one stopped at the ferry terminal, only metres away from us.  In the background, a cheerful band was singing in a nearby restaurant, and the music was loud enough for the crowd around to enjoy a relaxing melody weaving its way through the festive breeze of the riverside.

Coen and I were both appreciating our kebabs bursting with mayonnaise sauce, while talking about everything and nothing and questioning each about our lives and the places we grew up, which happened to be significantly contrasting from each other.

Hmm! This kebab is scrumptious.  Really yum! I exclaimed.

Yeah, it is hey! replied Coen.  So how is it like growing up in Mauritius? It seems like a rock lost in the middle of the sea!

"Yes, but growing up over there, I never noticed that my island is small at all.  It’s full of folklore and fun festivals, but most of all, it’s full of family and friends to chat to. Very often in the afternoon, neighbours would have street chats, sometimes we’d play board games on the streets.  That makes it interesting.  Where there’s Mauritians, there’s fun, you know! We know how to put the Faya! I replied, we always take time to have fun."

Somewhere along the way, our camaraderie grew stronger as we immersed in each other’s company and stories.

Coen lifted his head to look forward. He watched a stunning formally dressed woman walking at a quick pace towards us with a worried look on her face.  She wore a gorgeous navy-blue jacket with a matching A-line skirt assorted with a fine silky white Georgette camisole.  I couldn’t help noticing the thick golden necklace hanging around her neck, with a captivating green chrysoprase stone medallion.  Her blonde hair was neatly into place.  When she moved toward us, I noticed that Coen was staring into her beautiful blue eyes that were looking straight back at him.

CHAPTER 2

The Conflict of Interest

THE WOMAN APPROACHED us tentatively.  At first, I thought that she was part of a religious group distributing pamphlets to the public or a sale person selling raffle tickets to promote a charity cause by selling dreams.

Hi, can I talk to you guys a minute? she simply asked.

Mindful, I cracked a welcoming smile to the woman as she kept coming closer to us.  But I could not help noticing the anxious look on her face.  She seemed a little desperate and on the edge.  I have always been polite—especially since I migrated to Australia.  By no means did I wanted to be rude to someone approaching me, even at random.  So, I immediately took the time to listen to her.  Once the woman spoke, I thought that something odd must have happened to her that she desperately wanted to speak to somebody. She seemed so worried.

Yes, sure, take a seat next to me, I kindly replied as I cleared a place for her to