The Awakening

By Robyn Lawrence

The disappearance and death of Francis, a photographer, in unexplained circumstances has police and medical personnel baffled. 

In the sparse dry sandy deserts of the Kimberley in Western Australia, Phoebe, the last survivor of an Indigenous tribe whose ancestors go far back into the mists of time, feels the psychic power

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Rural Publishing Company
• Release date: Nov 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781923008106

Robyn Lawrence

The creative arts have been integral part of Robyn's life from a very early age. Art, graphic design, calligraphy, poetry and writing have all shaped her path.After spending her early adult years with her husband and three children on the land, Robyn and her artist husband, Neil Lawrence, bought a small graphic design studio in 1991 - turning it into a hugely successful business in Coffs Harbour, NSW. A week-long writer's course, tutored by Bryce Courtenay, changed Robyn's life further, by encouraging her to write. Combined with her years of travel, and great love of the Australian outback - Robyn's thrilling first novel is sure to keep readers on the edge of their seats.

Book preview

The Awakening

Robyn Lawrence

image-placeholder

The Rural Publishing Company

First published by The Rural Publishing Company 2023

Copyright © Robyn Lawrence 2023.

Print (Paperback): 978-1-923008-09-0

eBook: 978-1-923008-10-6

This work is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Robyn Lawrence.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Design: The Rural Publishing Company

Layout and Typesetting: The Rural Publishing Company

image-placeholder

The Rural Publishing Company

Email: [e-mail]

Website: https://theruralpublishingcompany.com.au

Contents

1.Premonition

2.Winan Creek Roadhouse

3.The Kimberley

4.On the Road

5.Nancy

6.St. Xavier’s

7.The Crossing

8.Gumbila Tours

9.The Quarry

10.Breakout at The Crossing

11.Back to Winan Roadhouse

12.Purnululu

13.Stowaways

14.Phoebe

15.The Flood

16.The Search

17.Making Tracks

18.Reports

19.Whispering Sheoaks

20.Broome

21.The Accident

22.Trouble at Winan Creek

23.Returning the Stones

24.Goodbye to the Kimberley

25.More questions than answers

About the Author

Chapter one

Premonition

Saturday 24th June

Iwoke in a cold sweat. The sour taste of sickness rose like a wave as I sensed ghostly bear-like faces, blue fog and the soft moans of someone in extreme agony? The intangible feeling of danger grew with each laboured breath I took. Francis? My brain began to function as I searched for an answer to my nightmare. It was definitely Francis and suddenly I knew he was in serious trouble. Fully awake I felt my heart coursing loudly in my ears, I sat up on the side of the bed. Where was he?

I had always had an insight into the feelings, the innate thoughts and moods of people, sometimes vague, sometimes stark, the intuitive knowledge of things that others were either dimly aware of or ignorant of altogether. In the past I had tried very hard to close my mind to the thoughts and auras of people and finally, except for Francis, the ability had blurred. I sighed heavily and curled back into bed, going over when I’d last been with him, several months ago. Just where the hell was the man now?

My first meeting with Francis several years ago had been a total blast. I saw his blue aura so clearly and knew instinctively what he was thinking, the powerful presence of his mind in mine was amazing. Tall and tan, his body lean and fit, his deep-set eyes penetratingly grey, his tousled curly dark hair that always looked as if he’d just left the bed. I smiled to myself as I remembered his huge king-sized bed. Our love affair had been instant, beautiful, chaotic, a consuming passion that first year; yet living with him had become slowly unworkable. A professional photographer, the Australian Museum was his life; a life that didn’t include a full time partner – or a wife. Once I had railed against the injustice of this arrangement. However, we were linked through some strange chemistry that neither of us, it seemed, could break.

We still had time for one another – a weekend here, a week there; Francis was still very precious to me. He was so intensely passionate and focused on whatever he was doing. I could never fathom his total preoccupation with the vast outback and its motley looking people, his continual search for the ultimate truth. What ultimate truth, I had often asked him. He would shrug and say non committedly there were some answers he just couldn’t resolve, but he was certain he would. He was so close. Each time he went to the Kimberley however it remained tantalisingly out of his reach.

Hours passed as again and again I tried to comprehend the feeling of foreboding; to reach out to him. I glanced uneasily at the clock, 5am. Panic gripped me. I swallowed, unable to stem the feeling of impending disaster, a rapid pulse throbbed oddly in my throat as I remembered the visions of my nightmare. I went over and over my feelings in the early morning light, the foreboding remained. At six o’clock I made a coffee and sat at the breakfast bar. Steam billowed up my face as I held the forgotten mug to my lips and went over what I knew of his whereabouts; his current assignment included a field trip in far north-western Australia with the museum crew. It was nearly a month since I had talked to him from some obscure outback roadhouse. He was excited but wouldn’t elaborate, said he’d be staying on for a week or two longer. Was he still out there alone somewhere in the desert, perhaps hurt or in pain? What did those unbelievable faces of my nightmare have to do with him anyway?

Impulsively I reached over the cluttered kitchen bench for the wall phone. As usual Francis’ answering machine relayed his cool preamble: ‘Hi guys. You know the buzz, leave your number and I’ll get back to you.’ I stared blankly at the wall, trying to remember everything he had said about where he was going, the beeping in my ear penetrated and I hung up. I have always been afraid of and hesitant to use the powers I possessed and remember with trepidation the last time I had taken serious notice of my somewhat strange abilities. I had become embroiled in a police case that still sent shivers down my spine. The case had been solved but I was not in a hurry to repeat the experience.

I spent the day working, pretending the man was fine, after a late dinner I could put it off no longer. I poured another glass of red wine, dropped onto the sofa, took a long sip, closed my eyes and relaxed, seeking him in earnest. I concentrated on reaching him, or at the very least discovering the meaning of those strange unearthly faces. I drifted slowly, Francis’ aura came through softly surrounded by cloying blue mist, the pervading smell now rank and thick; a familiar feeling I couldn’t place? Subsumed by coldness I focused further inwards. I tried to recapture those stark images, the vague disembodied faces. I woke at midnight coughing, the taste of blood like copper in my mouth and a solid blue fog around me. After a sleepless night, I contacted the museum. The call was unproductive. Francis had completed the assignment, but they knew little of his current movements, only that he was still in the Kimberley area. The main field crew had returned, Francis wasn’t expected back for another week or two. However, he left a forwarding address care of the Winan Creek Roadhouse.

I had never been to the Kimberley – nor knew where the hell the Winan Creek Roadhouse was, but now it rang large alarm bells. I felt Francis was in trouble of some sort, it gnawed at me as I worked; Winan Creek? I concentrated on the name Winan Creek, suddenly a shudder passed through me and then the smell of heat and dust washed over me. I fleetingly felt ‘someone’ far away. Not Francis; but definitely someone. Someone young, isolated and yes, vibrantly alive. Colours whirled and thoughts flitted quickly through my mind. Mystified, I tried to engage the young mind without success. My thoughts and fear of mind transference abated as I concentrated on an urgent message to the tenuous link, picturing Francis in extreme danger and unable to reach help by any other means. Now I felt a dog? A thin black one? Throughout the day I transferred my thoughts of Francis and the danger he could be in, to the young mind I had touched.

I was sure there was a faint link between Francis and the young mind. Perhaps they had met on his travels and had left a strong influence on a young – girl … or was it a boy? I could only hazard a guess … a girl ... yes there was definitely a feminine trace, about twelve or thirteen? Then silence, nothing; no response from the girl. I refused to believe she was unaware of me.

It was pointless. I gave up trying.

Several worrying days passed during which nothing happened, no more nightmares, only a sad blueness whenever I thought of Francis. I kept telling myself he was all right and that he would ring me soon. Thursday afternoon, my heart physically hurt like hell and suddenly I knew without any doubt he was in very deep trouble. Pressing my temples firmly, I concentrated intensely on reaching that young mind. It remained frustratingly elusive. Perhaps her mind was receptive, and she was actually blocking my attempts to channel into it? Anxiously I redoubled my efforts in earnest, over and over again without stopping. Francis? Where is he?

Vaguely at first the young person’s aura filtered into my mind and within minutes the bonds were stronger. Aware of the girl’s reluctance, I went carefully. I channelled my mind to think of Francis in danger. I repeated it over and over in a neutral fashion, not to alarm whoever I was communicating with. Waves of heat, the smell of dirt and petrol wafted into my mind. Oh God! Could she be at Winan Creek Roadhouse, Francis’s last known address? Suddenly I knew for sure the young person was alarmingly receptive and in Winan Creek! Then for just a moment a beautiful dark face, framed with long silky black hair, full lips and luminous green eyes came through startlingly clear. Confusing signals of motherhood yet the face was so young?

The oddly beautiful heart shaped face embedded itself in my memory, I wouldn’t forget it easily. I asked myself if it was the same young mind I had been trying to reach? No, this was much stronger, a little older, and more mature. Perhaps the two were close together, or both thinking of Francis at the same time? I knew time was running out, ‘where is Francis’, I screamed silently.

Then they were gone …

Early Friday morning, I tried again and again to reach the dark girl but met with strong resistance. The other young mind was still tenuously there, but there was no response. My heart began to pound in desperation. Frustrated, I concentrated on trying to reach them both, repeating my pleas. In the late afternoon I felt the dark girl in pain and immediately a feeling of deep despair as Francis’s agonised face came briefly into focus and a strong premonition of death as an intense pain struck my heart. I held my breath and closed my eyes. My mind was certain, but my heart refused to believe the tenuous link with Francis was gone. The ghostly bear-like faces appeared as I struggled to understand what they were trying to say. Was he dead?

Sunday, I finished my current assignment. The time dragged on and nothing further occurred. No nightmares, no sense of Francis, no sense of the strangers I had so briefly touched. I had a good mind to go to Winan Creek and find out for myself! I muttered this to myself as I stared blindly at the cold sleeting rain splattering down the kitchen window. It was the obvious thing to do. I hated the cold wintry weather, and I knew from Francis’s many stories of the Kimberley that this time of the year it would be stinking hot. I needed confirmation of Francis’ death before I could believe he was really gone. Work as a freelancer was slow and I told myself I could afford two weeks off. I grabbed the heavy ‘Discover Australia’ book that Francis had bought me to follow his movements in the outback and finally located Winan Creek in the Kimberley area of Western Australia. Yes – I would do it!

Monday morning in a flurry of phone calls, I arranged my plane tickets to Kununurra for Tuesday, organised the hire of a four wheel drive campervan for two weeks to be picked up at Kununurra airport, with an option for longer if necessary. I dragged out the bulky backpack I always travelled with and in half an hour had packed most of the things I thought I’d need. I phoned my best friend Kitty to inform her that with work slow, I was taking a sudden ‘holiday’, omitting the real reason I was off to Western Australia. I suspect Kitty thought I was incapable of coping in a tough situation. But underneath my benign exterior I was quite capable of looking after myself. I never liked making a fuss and I wanted to avoid one now, knowing my friend would want to come along and would turn the whole thing into a glossy ‘reality’ book. I picked up my tickets and itinerary from the travel centre, purchased some relevant maps, withdrew a few hundred dollars and made arrangements with the bank should I need more money.

Early Tuesday morning at the airport I found a seat in the crowded boarding lounge and read through the travel details. A flight to Darwin and then Flight K17 to Kununurra, an hour and forty minutes to wait between planes. Picking up the campervan the next day meant an overnight stay in Kununurra, but I was on my way. My spirits lifted. I was doing something positive at last! I dropped the itinerary into the open top of my backpack, retrieved a small leather diary lightly caressing my name embossed in gold on the cover of the beautifully silk bound book Francis had given me the previous Christmas. It was an expensive gift, I knew the depth of feeling behind it and it was one of my most treasured belongings, filled with my innermost thoughts. On the inside cover Francis had sketched an exquisitely detailed rosebud and underneath had written ‘with much love, my special Rose’ in his well-rounded, confident hand. I re-read the words and fought back the growing panic of not knowing his whereabouts. He was always supremely sure of himself and his place in the world, I so desperately wanted to believe he was still alive. I closed the diary and held it between my hands. Its silky smoothness brought back an almost physical pain, the feeling his touch always brought me to, an almost sexual agony, suddenly my face was hot and clammy. Oh God, he’d better be okay!

I held my breath and closed my eyes remembering vividly how I had made such a fool of myself the first day we met, and my face had betrayed me in the same way. The trip to the museum had been Kitty’s idea. I wasn’t particularly interested in attending the opening of a new exhibition of photos and artefacts of some peculiar desert tribe but had reluctantly agreed to go with her. She was, after all, the Editor of Woomaka Press and if she thought there was a coffee table book in it, I had been the head of their design team at the time and I would be needed to research the background. Wandering around the gallery on my own, casually looking at improbable images of red dust and vast empty skies in a series of photographs along one wall, I had stopped to look around for Kitty. She was as usual, chatting up the director, when someone came up behind me and a deep husky voice whispered, ‘Have you ever been out there? Do you ever wonder how the locals feel about their own country?’

An eerie feeling of past and future colliding hit me as I turned to see a tall sunburnt man dressed in casual khakis, an amazing pair of deep grey eyes reaching into my very soul. The instant recognition from him was just as startling. He wiped his hand over his forehead and recovered first, grinning a great lopsided smile. In that moment my face reddened, and I nearly died of embarrassment. I looked behind him searching for words to cover my confusion and he cleared his throat and said casually how hot it was and the in-house café served the best smoothies in the world, if I’d care to join him.

Afterwards we laughed yet were in awe of the way we had fully connected. An instant knowledge of each other’s souls; there was no other possible way to describe the feelings that passed between us on that first day. I felt as if I had known him all my life. Warmth, feeling very loved and an instant total closeness were all consuming in that first summer of magic. Francis professed the same. Gradually though, I realised his photography came first and sometimes, I felt I was his second life. My long dormant ability to sense auras returned in full bloom and so too my ability to read Francis’ thoughts. I smiled to myself. Most of them were R rated. I saw what he felt, and he felt what I saw, his blue auras were always warm and comforting like a soft halo that caressed his body. Yet there were undercurrents I couldn’t fathom, strange glimpses of something just below the surface, even back then.

I moved into his house almost overnight. It was an awesome way to begin a relationship. Then I slowly began to live half my life as a ‘desert’ widow. Francis spent more and more time out in the field and all the while his career and his international reputation grew. Inevitably, trips overseas and far-flung lecture tours became the norm.

I finally realised he was just too caught up in his own career to settle down and live a normal life. I became set in my own little niche as a freelance graphic designer. I found myself alone more often than not and finally, found somewhere else to live. He wasn’t really aware I had fully left him until almost three months later. I often wondered why an obvious ‘Anglo Saxon’ like Francis was so obsessed with the far-flung outback and its inhabitants. It was definitely more than his job – it was his life. Over that first summer I discovered all sorts of rocks and flints and strange looking objects, which he said had been gifted to him by Aboriginals. They turned up in unexpected places around his rambling terrace in inner Sydney. Well, ‘rambling terrace house’ is really misleading, it was falling down to say the least. I never noticed until he left for the desert, the last time I shared his bed, the abject nature of the inner-city terrace. The shambling rickety stained timber steps to the second floor were in need of more than a few nails and damp had spread in the upstairs bedroom ceilings. The neglected back garden fence was falling apart under a heavy honeysuckle vine. The pangs of separation were deep and painful. I often felt his distant presence and his baffled queries of why I decided to get my own place, which made me feel like a deserter. I knew it was his work, not another woman that kept him consumed but eventually I just drifted. Shutting off my ability to sense his easy presence was almost more than I could bear, but I had a life too.

The urgent feelings I had now were of agony and death. Death. Again, and again the feeling he was dead penetrated deep inside me. If only I had managed to reach him when those feelings first started … Perhaps I could have helped him ... I closed my eyes and consciously tried to force the haunting images of death away without success as I waited in the departure lounge to board the plane.

Chapter two

Winan Creek Roadhouse

Thursday 29th June

The blowsy woman glared at the young girl. Take that damn dog for a walk and give me a break Nan! she snarled as she returned to the shade of the dilapidated caravan.

Taking a swig of beer from a can, Sue Chung watched her defiant daughter unchain the eager dog and run across the driveway. Not for the first time she shook her head in exasperation. Sue had always been a drifter and never contemplated having children. She had been surprised at thirty-five, to discover herself pregnant. She often wondered who Nan’s father might have been. The girl could have taken her looks from her Malaysian grandmother, with those slanting eyes, odd mop of sleek black hair and creamy ivory skin. Or there was the Chinese chef Sue had been friendly with around the time of Nan’s conception … and not forgetting the handsome shearer she’d had quite a crush on? Sue had been drunk most of that year and had only the haziest memory of her pregnancy, but she had tried to be a good mother.

She and Nancy had been with Trevor for over a year now. He was kind to them and if a little dull and retiring, was better than most of the men she had been with. Best of all he had accepted Nan and suggested that she call him Da. After a few months it became the norm for both Sue Chung and Nan to call Trevor simply Da. Sue wondered idly what would happen to her daughter stuck in this isolated community. At twelve Nancy was blissfully unaware of her restricted life. Absently Sue watched the constant flow of tourists in their expensive four wheel drives and caravans pull in and out of the dusty roadhouse. She caught sight of Nan walking with that Aboriginal girl Phoebe and a groan escaped her as Sue thought of Nan having a child at eighteen.

Phoebe … Nan said hesitantly to the tall dark girl beside her trying to contain her wriggling six-month old daughter.

The young mother, kissing the baby’s chubby cheek, continued to walk slowly towards the road to wait for her partner Brad, turned and smiled at the odd-looking girl.

What? She giggled as she struggled to hold onto the active little girl.

Tiny! Tiny! Come here! Nan shouted as the shiny black dog made a dash across the road. It came racing back, its long thin tail wagging in happiness.

Like its owner, her parentage was a mixture, part doberman, part kelpie. Nan encouraged the panting dog to jump onto the old, timber table as they reached the shade of the straggly gums in front of the roadhouse.

You’ll have Big Jack roaring at you Nan. You know he hates your dog! The dark girl nodded in the direction of the roadhouse manager’s office. Standing on his picnic table isn’t going to make things easier for Tiny, he’s got eyes in the back of his head, that one!

Phoebe’s well-spoken voice was at odds with her heritage. Brought up in a convent in Perth, she had had little contact with her people and had never known her parents. She had only vaguely tried to track her real Aboriginal family without success when she first left the convent. She knew no tribal ways, in everything but her looks she was far removed from them.

Perplexed by horrible images that had come over her the last few days, Nan suddenly blurted, Phoebe have you seen Francis this week?

Phoebe sat the baby on the end of the battered table and smiled at the gangly girl.

You shouldn’t pester him, Nan. I know you like him, but he’s got work to do and you never stop asking him stupid questions! I’d avoid you too, if I could!

The laughter in her voice as she gently punched her friend on the arm took the sting out of her remarks. Then seeing Nan was serious replied, No, if you must know, I haven’t seen him all week, but then, I don’t go looking for him either. It had been a source of idle gossip that Nan dogged the photographer from the Australian Museum. When he was at the roadhouse, she was usually in his shadow.

Nan bit her lip, frowning, It’s just … well, I keep getting this feeling he’s in trouble. I can’t explain it. Um … sometimes at school I look up at the board and all of a sudden, I know he’s in danger!

She glanced over at her friend, but Phee wasn’t laughing.

Encouraged, she continued, It happens when I’m eating dinner, going for a walk, in bed … I, I’ve been waiting for him all week ... he hasn’t come back.

Phoebe tried to make a joke of Nan’s worry. You’re just keen to see him, that’s all. You’ve got a crush on him. She reached out impulsively and took her friend’s hand, that’s … her skin crawled and inexplicably frightened she croaked, He. He’ll, um … be back. Phee swallowed nervously. Nan? What the hell are you playing at? Compelled by an unseen force she grabbed Nan’s other hand, her own now wet and clammy. Na Na Nan? she stammered, staring straight into the girl’s anxious face.

Nan lifted her dark luminous eyes to meet Phoebe’s over the wiggling baby and said, What do you mean? I’m not doing anything … I … she faltered as she registered the growing concern on Phoebe’s strained face. Oh! You feel it too! Don’t you? I’m not imagining it am I?

Stunned by the force of the emotional wave that now enveloped them Phoebe recoiled, dropping the girl’s hands as if they were burning and stepped back angrily replying, What? No! You’re just a stupid daydreaming kid. Don’t you have enough to do, schoolwork or something to keep you busy?

Nervously she gathered up the wriggling baby and stormed back towards her caravan, leaving Nan alone and confused beside the dusty picnic table. For a moment they had shared something together, something profound. Nan knew it had something to do with Mr Gilmore, Francis, her best friend.

Tiny leapt up and sat on the end of the table again. Nan sulked and fiddled absently with the dog’s furry black ears as she thought about what Phoebe had said. She was wrong about her relationship with Francis, it wasn’t a crush. One day she was going to be a famous photographer just like him. She had a small box of photos she had taken with the cheap camera Da had given her last birthday. Francis had been impressed when she’d shyly showed them to him one morning. He had taken the time to look at each one, picked out the good points and explained the faults. He had even promised to get her a proper album to keep them in. Photography was going to be her ticket to freedom from this dump.

Just then Da’s noisy Toyota rumbled into the driveway in a cloud of red dust. Brad waved his battered cap wildly at Nancy through the ute’s dirty window as they hurtled past. Tiny leapt off the table and raced alongside the rusty vehicle, barking incessantly. Nan knew she’d be in trouble and hurried to catch her dog before Big Jack complained again. As she tied the panting dog to the rusty broken tow bar of their caravan, the insistent nagging came back. This time however, it wasn’t so scary, she knew Phoebe had felt it too.

As soon as she could after dinner, she went over to Francis Gilmore’s cabin, a square aluminium container like the ones the mining sites used. It was deserted. Dejected, she walked aimlessly back towards the toilet block and waved half-heartedly across at the tall dark girl leaning against the small van she shared with Brad. The girl looked straight through Nan, wiped her eyes with both hands and went quickly back inside. Ignoring Nan’s apologetic wave Phoebe dried her eyes with the back of her hand, tossed her thick hair back over her shoulder and glanced accusingly at her partner as she entered their tiny caravan. The serious young man ignored her and continued to read the paper. She stepped past him and lay down beside their sleeping baby. Without a single word he stormed out.

Overcome by the experience with Nan earlier that day, Phoebe had confronted Brad with all the details the moment he stepped into their caravan. During a stormy meal, he had raged at her, accusing her of calling on her ‘bloody ancestors.’ He reminded her she had promised never to mention her background or race when they knew they were going to have a baby and agreed to live together. So far, the promise had worked very well. Phoebe didn’t know any Aboriginals, much about her native culture, nor anything about her own background. She hadn’t betrayed her promise ... had she? Until now Phee hadn’t given her past, or her race, much thought. Sister Phoebe had been in the mission fields for years and had arrived back at the convent with her, just a month-old, the nuns had named her after sister Phoebe. Apart from this information, the young Phoebe had been unable to find out much more of her origins. It had been a long time since Sister Phoebe passed away and there had been no-one else in her life until Brad.

It wasn’t fair. For a moment she hated him and Nan for bringing this turmoil into her life. She sobbed. She would never speak to Brad about her ‘feelings’ again. The baby stirred and taking comfort in her little girl, she undid her shirt and fed her