45

They left Llewellyn’s place elated. He had translated the words on the map and they hardly noticed the walk back to the Hotel.

Five days of fine weather … landed here to bury the Holy Words … prevented by natives … great storm pushed us south for many days … God saved us and led us to shore here … walked 100,000 paces into the rising sun … buried the Holy Words here on the afternoon of the second day … one hundred paces north of the river under the lone tree with the laughing bird.

‘I just couldn’t believe it,’ Verity said for the umpteenth time. ‘When the words started appearing on the map, I almost fainted with shock.’

‘I know,’ said Nick. ‘I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise up. It was everything you read about in adventure books or see in the movies, absolutely amazing!’ Then as an afterthought, ‘When we get back to the hotel let’s research and see if we can find the location.’

However, arriving back in the room and completely heightened by their experience, they fell onto the double bed, grabbing frantically at each other, totally engulfed by the feel and taste of their passion, the recent stresses and tensions temporarily forgotten. A while later, with their clothes strewn everywhere and both panting, Verity, a touch flustered, laughed and whispered in Nick’s ear, ‘Very impressive, Mister Lawrance. It seems you didn’t need your computer to find the location.’

‘Wait to you see my main performance!’ responded Nick, still breathless and smiling back.

Later, showered and with her hair up in a bun, Verity started typing on her laptop. ‘Let’s try and work out a possible location from the information we have. The map is not bad for the sixteenth century, but not really accurate.’

‘Okay,’ said Nick, ‘let’s assume they came ashore at the Swan River for the sake of a starting location in the south-west of Western Australia. The map seems to indicate that area, although we could be 500 miles out either way.’

‘So how far is 100,000 paces in kilometres?’ said Verity, staring at a Google map of the south-west of the continent.

‘Well, if every pace is, say, a metre, then it is about 100 kilometres,’ said Nick, getting out of his seat and pacing up and down the room, ‘although I don’t think you could keep walking at a metre-length pace.’

He studied his own stride. ‘Let’s say about an 80 centimetre stride if you are walking a great distance.’

‘Well that would be about 80 kilometres then,’ said Verity, ‘I’ll see what I can find about 80 kilometres in from Perth. Then, I’ll take a line south and then north.’

‘Okay. We should also be concentrating on straight lines west to east,’ added Nick. ‘Bunting writes about walking into the morning sun … oh, and rivers.’

Verity was already focusing in on the Google map of south-west Australia.

‘Perth to York is about 96 kilometres although that’s from Perth, but the city is inland quite a way. When you think about it, I should be taking our starting point from the coast, from Fremantle probably.’ She stared at her screen.

Nick got his laptop out and also started typing in directions. ‘Yes, that works,’ he said. ‘It adds another 21 kilometres, however, York is on the River Avon. What about Yanchep to Toodyay? That’s about 97 kilometres.’

‘Has Toodyay got a river?’ asked Verity.

Nick shook his head. ‘Bunbury to Collie is about 60 kilometres,’ he said, ‘and the Collie River is there!’

After thirty minutes of bouncing distances, towns and rivers off each other, it was obvious they had nothing. ‘This isn’t going to work this way, Verity. Have we got anything else to work on?’

‘Well, lone trees and laughing birds doesn’t help,’ said Verity, a bit crestfallen. That could be anywhere down the coast, next to a river, about 80 kilometres inland. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

Nick stared at the sleeping Verity, her head angled into the pillow, snug against the window of the plane. What on earth was he doing? he wondered. He wasn’t a policeman or a secret agent and yet here he was chasing shadows across the world. What was driving him? For some reason he had agreed to catch the first available flight to Perth. Verity had convinced him it was the right thing to do. Well, of course it was the right thing to do, but now in the cold light of day he wasn’t sure if his head had been thinking … or his passion.

‘Your whisky, sir,’ said the steward in that familiar Australian accent, disturbing his thoughts. Bronte would be jealous he was off to ‘Oz’ without her. They had been a great team for years, first meeting at a dinner party of a mutual friend, the friend insisting that the Aussie girl would be perfect for him. He was right. Bronte let him do his thing and she cleared up all the mess. She handled all the accounts, the suppliers, organised the staff and kept the gallery looking smart. It left him free to do what he did best: hunt down the stock, do the deals, schmooze the customers.

He drank slowly, pondering the situation. Could Inspector Kumar take over? No probably not. She had no jurisdiction in Australia. What could she do anyway? She had warned them not to get involved and here he was flying to Australia for God’s sake! This whole thing was just a hunch; a hunch about what? That an obscure German priest had hidden something important in Australia, over four hundred years ago; that it was so important people were willing to murder for it. This whole thing was a fucking joke! He wanted out.

Verity awoke and gave him a smile that washed away some of his negativity. ‘Don’t worry, Nick, the worst thing that can happen is that we have a lovely holiday on the beaches of Perth. Remember, it’s summer in Australia! You’ve got staff in the Gallery and I’ve taken some leave. Let’s enjoy the experience.’

Verity plugged in her ear phones and listened to an interview with the Australian Prime Minister while Nick, after scanning the contents page of Qantas Magazine, turned to an article about a terrible cancer that was decimating the population of the Tasmanian Devil, that angry little marsupial, found only on that island. However, something was preventing him from concentrating and, after reading a couple of paragraphs he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. When he opened his eyes a little while later, something was really bugging him. He picked up the magazine and reread the contents page: “The Tasmanian Devil’s Greatest Fight”, “Don’t ‘Wine’ about This Industry”, “Never Mind the Sharks – It’s the Rips You Have to Worry About”, “How the Black Monks won the West”.

That’s what was bugging him: the reference to Black Monks! He must have seen it before, but hadn’t registered. He quickly turned the pages to get to the article.

New Norcia is the only monastic town in Australia. It was founded on its present site, in March 1847, by Spanish Benedictine Monks, sometimes called ‘Black Monks’ due to the colour of their robes. The town has had many purposes; a mission, a monastery, a provider of education a place of spiritual retreat and now a tourism destination. The first fifty years of New Norcia’s history are dominated by the towering figure of Bishop Rosendo Salvado (1814–1900). Salvado spent 54 years of his life making New Norcia one of the most progressive and successful missions in Australian history. Salvado’s original vision was to create, among the indigenous peoples of the Victoria Plains, a Christian and largely self-sufficient village based on agriculture. It is not only the majestic buildings, some in Spanish Style, set amongst the Australian bush that sets New Norcia apart; its history is also encapsulated in the archival records of New Norcia and in the library and museum collections.

Nick tapped Verity on the shoulder. ‘Do you know anything about New Norcia?’

‘Nope, never heard of it. Where and what is it?’

‘It’s a monastic town about 130 kilometres north of Perth. It was established in 1846 by the Benedictine monks, also known as the Black Monks due to the colour of their robes.’ Verity raised her eyebrows, understanding the significance. ‘And Perth was settled in 1829, so this was only seventeen years later!’ said Nick.

‘Okay, that gives us something to work on when we arrive in Perth, Nick. I don’t know about you but I’m really excited about going to Oz.’

The following day, settled in the hotel bar overlooking the Swan River, they resumed their research.

‘It says here,’ said Verity, looking at a ‘History of the Colony’ website, ‘that Perth itself struggled as a new colony for decades and its population was only about 1500 people by 1850.’ So why on earth did they travel so far out of this small, newly-established town when there were probably thousands of acres within a few kilometres to build a monastery?’

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ agreed Nick. ‘I mean a hundred and thirty kilometres today is neither here nor there, but back then they would have been travelling into an absolute wilderness, and probably for days.’

Nick brought up New Norcia on the map and followed a line directly to the coast. ‘My God,’ he said at last. ‘It is eighty-four kilometres as the crow flies from the small fishing town of Lancelin to New Norcia.’

‘Is there a river?’ said Verity excitedly.

‘Yes there is! The Moore River flows past the monastery!’ Nick gulped down a whisky and gestured to the waiter to bring him another. ‘God! It’s possible that Bunting landed at Lancelin, walked directly east for 100,000 paces and buried the written words of Jesus where that monastery is now!’ He stabbed a finger at the screen.

‘And the Black Monks, in some way,’ said Verity, ‘knowing about “The Words”, built their monastery on the very site… or over the site!’

‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Nick.

‘I know,’ Verity said shakily. ‘Why on earth would the monks have settled there, unless there was a reason? It really could make sense.’