Frank awoke to a nightmare. The thing remained out of sight, its presence forever around the bend. Chanting filled the air, urging that monstrous being on. That thing he could only guess at by the shadows it threw upon the wall, like some unholy parody of Plato’s metaphor of the cave, which was all man could know of reality. Now Frank knew more, more of reality—which was unreality—than he had ever hoped to know, or known enough to fear. He sank back in a faint. Momentarily he sought escape from this unending torture in the past.
That damn radio show was where it had all began, that damn stupid radio show, though maybe it wasn’t so stupid after all…
Hi, and welcome to Purplevoid Studio, internet radio. An island of intelligence in the ocean of stupidity that is our blue planet. Maybe all of this spinning in space is bound to drive us crazy after a while, as we see the joke that was Obamacare unravel, while false flag operations facilitate the move to take away the guns that are our only guarantee of freedom from tyranny, and the masses remain distracted by the Hegelian antipathies of Left and Right and the illusion of choice they provide. Or could it be it’s the fluoridation of the water, calcifying our pineal glands that blinds our ability to see? Or maybe you figure everything is A-okay. We’re not here to tell you what to think, we’re just here to present some ‘alternate’ views to what you’ll get from the bought—sorry—I mean mainstream media. I’m your host, Ernie Oakley, and we’re coming to you from the West Coast of Hawaii.
Today we have a real treat for you. Vernon Strang has an engineering degree from the University of New South Wales in Australia, which he took out after abandoning his studies in archaeology, due to what he describes as the ‘blinkered approach’ of the academic establishment in that field. Nonetheless, he has continued to study strange and anomalous findings in his homeland, aided by his daughter, Stephanie, who has a degree in linguistics. Vernon has just released his first book, Beyond the Blindfold, which summarises over thirty years of study. In it he challenges much of what is believed about the original inhabitants of The Great Southern Land and the earth itself. Things that would amaze the average person but which our listeners here at Purplevoid will, perhaps, be more than ready to contemplate as true.
Welcome, Vernon, let’s start off with a bit of background about you.
Thanks, Arnie. Well, I’ve always felt an incredible connection to the Original Australian people. We used to call them ‘Aboriginals’ but a lot of them aren’t happy with that description so I’ll be referring to them as the ‘Original People’. They believe in reincarnation, like me, and I’m sure I’ve been one of them before, and a number of Elders have told me this is so. I’ve been accepted into the society of a number of different groups and been initiated. I’ve also been a frequent contributor of articles in publications run by them and usually written by them. So I’m about as embedded in their society as a white feller can be.
So what is the key to this acceptance?
Well, basically it’s reversing what is, I’m sad to say, the common attitude to the Original Australians, and probably all indigenous groups that have come under European rule. That attitude is that white people have brought civilization and a better way of life to the ‘natives’. They’ve brought education, knowledge and medicine to them, and their resistance to this enlightenment is where all their current problems stem from. They refuse to give up their superstitions, put on a suit and tie and become wage slaves like good Australian citizens.
But that’s not how you see it.
No. I see a nation of sovereign people who lived an idyllic lifestyle and, basically, had everything worked out. The ‘working day’ of a person living their traditional lifestyle was four hours. They didn’t suffer any existential crisis. There was plenty of time and opportunity to express yourself creatively. There was no war, no disease, no theft and no fear of death.
Woah, woah, woah. No disease?
That’s right! Disease was imported by the Europeans. Original Australians had a diet that was perfectly suited to their metabolism. They had an extensive herbal pharmacopeia but that was usually only for infants and the elderly because the adults’ immune systems functioned perfectly. And if they did get an infection, they had penicillin.
Penicillin!
Yep. Everyone thinks of Fleming as being the discoverer of penicillin, but it was Australian Nobel Laureate Walter Florey who contributed most to its development for use in medicine, and he found out about it from the Original Australians who used a mold that grew on one side of a certain tree to cure infections!
So why don’t more people know about this?
Well, it doesn’t fit in with the perception of Original Australians as being primitives. They have to be portrayed as inferior to justify the destruction of their lifestyle and culture.
So, it’s a conspiracy!
If you like.
Hmmm, interesting. It reminds me of Michael Tsarion’s description of how the British denigrated the Irish and destroyed their ancient monuments and culture as part of their justification for ruling that ‘primitive race’.
Yeah, interesting isn’t it. The British had a long history of this tactic by the time they got to Australia. My family’s background is Irish, actually, and I have this sort of intuition that a lot of the ‘transported felons’ were actually Original Australian souls, reincarnated, being brought back to their homeland. We have to remember that the original inhabitants of Ireland and Scotland were also ‘Aboriginals’ who were displaced by Romans, Anglo Saxons and Normans. We meet these original people in Robert E Howard’s stories of Bran Mac Morn, for instance, and I think, probably, at least some of those people’s ancestors came from Australia, and certainly they had trade links with Ancient Australia.
Right, and this is among some of the more startling claims made in your book, that the Original People were a seafaring people with links to places like Egypt. Can you tell the listeners a little about that?
Well, there’s a lot of archaeological evidence of an Egyptian presence in Australia. There’s the Gympie Pyramid and the Gosford Glyphs. All of which are challenged, of course.
We don’t worry about that at Purplevoid. We’ve had Michael Cremo on talking about forbidden archaeology. There’s dozens of these anomalies out there.
Yeah, and there’s also signs of a connection with Australia in Egypt. They’ve found marsupial bones buried around the Sphinx and eucalyptus resin is used in Egyptian mummies, and mummification is also found in Australia. And then there are the linguistic connections between Egyptian and Original Australian dialects, which my daughter Stephanie can tell you all about.
But none of this is officially recognised?
Well, we’re getting there. The evidence keeps mounting and more and more people are coming on board, even within academia. We haven’t reached the tipping point yet. Not that it bothers us. We’ve been pooh-poohed for twenty years, but what kept us going is that the Elders kept giving us more and more information, the longer we worked with them and showed them our respect and sincerity. They told us all these finds were genuine, so we just had to find a way to prove it.
Of course skeptics say, well if they know all this stuff and they want it known, why haven’t they done more to publicise it? The fact is, too much of what they have said has been met with disrespect. And they don’t give up their sacred secrets and hidden history easily. You have to prove yourself sincere. They give you a bit, and then a bit more as you prove yourself, and it can take a long time.
Anyway, I’ve just been shown something that will blow everything wide open, if I’m allowed to share it. This place is amazing. It shows a kind of construction that has never been seen in Australia before. It’s going to rewrite history. But we have to be careful about revealing its whereabouts. These places are sacred and we don’t want people stomping all over them and turning them into a tourist attraction. The Elders have said that if the wrong people go to this place, something bad is going to happen…to them.
Frank came alert again, jerked out of his memory, or dream, or wherever he had gone to escape his misery and terror. The stench of the sea was in his nostrils, seaweed and brine and the stomach-churning stink of sea creatures in a state of putrefaction. He was on his hands and knees, crawling toward the chanting, the smell and the glow where those sinuous shadows writhed. Aghast, he stopped in his tracks. What could possess him to draw toward such horror? Possess indeed. It was something unholy, or beyond any concept of good and evil, at least.
Though his mind recoiled from the idea of further advance, he had no energy to retreat and for the moment contented himself to simply halt his progress and rest; rest his body, and rest his mind with distraction. The present was too terrifying. He had been thinking of the radio show, that that was where it had all started. But it had really begun with Janine looking at him over the dinner table with that look in her eye.
Frank knew she was getting ready to bait him. His brother’s wife had become easy to read in the five years he’d come to know her. He didn’t entirely mind being baited by her, it was as close to flirting with her as he was comfortable to get, and who wouldn’t want to flirt with Janine? She had the body of a swimsuit model and the face of a film star. She was also smart, if you discounted her penchant for mysticism. His brother Gerome certainly managed to do so, despite the fact that Frank was positively a New Ager in comparison. He guessed opposites attracted, though a guy would overlook a lot for a woman as hot as Janine.
“Did you listen to the podcast I mentioned?” she asked casually.
“Yeah,” Frank grinned back.
“And?”
“It’s bullshit!”
“You think?”
“What’s this?” Gerome butted in.
“Vernon Strang. You know, I told you I listened to it on Purplevoid.”
“What, the guy who thinks homo sapiens evolved in Australia? Not that it matters, as soon as you mention Purplevoid I know it’s bullshit. I don’t know why you waste your time with that rubbish.”
“Well, it gives me something to listen to while I’m potting.”
“Yeah, like you couldn’t listen to the ABC instead of that right-wing idiocy.”
“They’re not right wing, they’re libertarians, I think. It’s not as if they tell you what to think.”
“No, but the fact that they seem to favour right-wing flakes as interviewees is a bit of a tip.”
“Strang is as left-wing as they come.”
“Yeah, but did they get him on to talk about politics?”
“Not exactly…”
Gerome threw up his hands. “Of course not. As long as he’s talking about the flat earth or aliens from the Pleiades giving the Aborigines their knowledge they’ll like him. That’s their bag.”
“He doesn’t propose the earth is flat.”
“No it’s a carrot shape,” Frank smirked. “Long and pointy and flat on top.” The brothers laughed together.
“What’s so funny?” Janine said.
“It’s from the Illuminatus Trilogy,” Gerome said. “I keep telling you, you have to read it. Then you’ll see there’s nothing new about these guys and the nuts they get on. They’re just recycling the same kinda nonsense Shea and Wilson lampooned back in the 70s.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “If you want something to entertain yourself with while you pot, get that on CD.”
“Okay,” Janine said, cheerily. “I’m not a true believer you know, but I think it’s entertaining and I like to keep an open mind.”
“Yeah, well,” Gerome said, “just so long as you don’t keep your mind so open that your brain slips out.”
“Which it would have to have done to believe these guys,” Frank said. He sounded angry.
“Why does it bother you so much?” Janine asked. She looked like an angel in the candlelight. It was hard to feel anything negative looking at her, except for the fact that she could never be his.
“Because there’s too much shit going down in the world and people should be doing something about it rather than being diverted by this sort of nonsense,” Frank said. “People like Strang are just attention seekers. They thrive on the controversy and sucker people in to get them buying their books and going on tours to look at their phony ‘finds’, while honest researchers doing serious work are ignored.”
“You’re not a little jealous, are you?” Janine said, leaning forward, her cleavage rising up on her folded arms.
Frank raised his eyes to the ceiling, trying to focus his thoughts.
“What for? The guy is a laughing stock in intellectual circles.”
“Yeah, but who cares about them, Frank? Who wants to be part of respectable circles? Copernicus wasn’t, or Giordano Bruno, or Galileo. You want to just spout the wisdom of the day and preach to the choir and you’re fine, but heaven help you if you’re a pioneer.”
“Yeah, bro,” Gerome said, his voice dripping irony. “Get on board. Don’t you know the paradigm shift to the flat-earth theory is reaching the tipping point?”
“Carrot-shaped-earth theory,” Frank quipped back, but the light had gone out of his eyes and he avoided looking at Janine, whose silence seemed to mock his pose of insouciance.
The carrot-shaped earth, he wished life made that much sense. At least, then, the earth would have had a shape unlike where he found himself now, within the bowels of the accursed mound. He giggled nervously. The mound projecting from the island was a bit like a carrot top in shape, if you trimmed off the green bits, and, proportionally, as much of the structure projected down into the ground as did a carrot into the earth. Inside such a gigantic structure he was no more than a louse that had found itself inside a wormhole.
It was all a matter of scale, Frank supposed. Once he had felt like most humans, he guessed, a member of the prime predator species on the planet. Of course there were creatures with bigger teeth and even tusked beasts, which dwarfed humans in size, yet with man’s superior brains and their technology all of nature had been tamed. Or so he had thought.
Now it was as if he had been a mite in a wormhole who had finally made his way to the surface and discovered the world of men, and tigers and elephants, and beings so fabulous and gigantic and powerful that his true nature was finally revealed to him. Except the mite was blessed with too small an intelligence to truly appreciate its own insignificance. Perhaps some higher power had blessed his own race with a similar kind of ignorance, which he had been foolish enough to seek to overcome.
Yet he had not been wrong about man ruling all of nature, for the beings that ruled here, beneath the mound, were not truly a part of nature. They were outside of it, above it, beyond it…he had neither the words nor the concepts to articulate what whispered in his heart in tones of dread and awe. He had craved a revelation, and now that one had sought him out, Frank cursed it, and he cursed the man who had led him to it.
Frank hated Vernon Strang. Janine loved him and he didn’t deserve her love or the admiration of all the idiots who fell for his line; all the bleeding hearts who felt sorry for the Abos who were resisting the 21st century, being dragged into it kicking and screaming. If their culture was so damn fantastic, why had it fallen apart so easily? Even if Strang was sincere he was an idiot. Just because some old black folk who claimed to be Elders told him some stuff, he was going to believe them above all of the academic experts and scientists who said otherwise? The Gympie Pyramid and the Gosford Glyphs had been debunked more often than the Shroud of Turin, not that that deterred the shroudies. These types were impervious to proof.
Yeah, he was jealous of Strang. Frank had a brain. He had education. He could spin a convincing lie out of half-truths as well as the next guy, but he wouldn’t do it even if it was what the public wanted, because he had integrity. He understood what that ‘public wanted better than most, because he had been down that whole track of mystical searching about as far as one could go. Gerome had teased him endlessly about his gullibility, about the money wasted on visiting tarot readers and Mind-Body-Spirit festivals, reading Nexus and Silver Chord and everything from Alistair Crowley to Erik von Däniken and back. But too many seers had been proven wrong. He had been promised each time that he would discover something amazing, that he would get his glimpse of another world, but now, at the age of forty he had given up those roads. Strang had not.
And if Strang was not a fraud then he was even more to be envied. What if he really had been inducted by the Elders into some hidden knowledge? What if he had really experienced the amazing things that he claimed; the things Frank had always dreamed of experiencing? And these things were almost on his doorstep, not in Egypt or in the heights of the Andes. Strang had said he was going on another trip and, as usual, a small, select group was going along with him. A trip to explore, more thoroughly, the ‘startling new find’ he claimed the Elders were still holding back from making public. What if he were to call Strang, offer to volunteer, then he could examine the site himself. If it was a hoax he’d expose Strang, and get a bit of airtime for himself. He could picture himself now, masterful, erudite. He could marshal his own facts. Strang’s crackpot ideas were spreading like wildfire, which would automatically create a market for a definitive debunking. Frank had hidden his own light long enough.
If he succeeded in debunking Strang, he would gain his brother’s respect and Janine’s, too, no doubt. And, if Strang had truly discovered something groundbreaking, then getting involved would be almost as good. Either way, he couldn’t lose.
Strang was strangely easy to convince. The guy really wasn’t on the planet, Frank decided. Not that he had promised much other than to meet. He hadn’t asked for anything either. Frank guessed that would come once he’d taken the bait. Then he’d find out what being part of the trip would cost. He didn’t have any time to consider it though. Strang said they were leaving in three days. Frank booked a flight immediately, packed a few things and left.
When he arrived at Strang’s place, nestled in the bush in the hills above Ballina, he knocked on the door. A woman answered. She was tall and handsome, though unadorned by makeup.
“I’m Rose,” she said. Frank felt odd. Rose reminded him uncannily of Janine, though she was a good ten years older and not quite the stunner, she had some of that same allure, a similar, slightly abstracted look, which intrigued and disarmed him at the same time.
“Vernon is around the back,” she said. She walked down the veranda and led him through the lush garden full of tree ferns around the side of the house.
“It’s beautiful here,” Frank said, making conversation. “What do you do, Rose?”
“I make tapestries, and weave,” she replied.
“So, you’re an artist,” he observed. Just like Janine.
“Yes,” she smiled at him. “I like to think so.”
“Maybe one day you’ll be in the Louvre,” Frank said.
“Sightseeing,” Janine laughed. “Vernon’s closer to getting recognition than I am, and he’s worked long enough for that.”
The sound of voices had already alerted Frank to the fact that there was some sort of gathering at the house, and as they reached the back yard he saw that a barbeque was in full swing. A man turned, tongs in hand, as if sensing their presence. He was tall and reminded Frank of some sort of bird, though his hair was more like a lion’s mane, abundant and black, except for a little grey at the temples.
“G’day,” Strang said simply.
Frank introduced himself. He wasn’t sure if Strang heard. His gaze seemed elsewhere.
“No worries,” Strang said. “Snag?” He held out a sausage.
“Put it in some bread for him,” Rose laughed. She went to get a plate and a couple of slices and brought them back.
“Oh, yeah,” Strang said. “So, you’re interested in our work?”
“Absolutely,” Frank assured him. Rose took the sausage and put it in the bread on the plate and handed it to the new guest.
A girl came up to Strang and took the tongs from him, “Let me do that, Dad.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Strang said. “Can’t multitask,” he said to Frank with a shy grin. “Probably bloody burn everything if it was left up to me.”
Frank’s gaze was still on the girl. She was even taller than Strang’s wife and, if anything, even lovelier than Janine, who had become Frank’s standard of beauty, though she had nothing of the dreamy demeanour of either his brother’s wife nor Strang’s.
“That’s Stephanie,” Strang said, “though I guess you know that if you follow our work.”
Frank coloured with embarrassment, realising he was staring.
“Of course, I recognised her,” Frank lied.
“Yeah, she’s my right hand,” Strang said. “Anyway, I can’t promise you anything. There’s a lot of people who want to see the site, but they have to be cleared by the Elders, like I told you on the phone.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Frank agreed. “But I’m really keen to see it. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to qualify. I’ve done pretty well in my business so I’m in a good position to help out.”
He wondered what it would take. Strang had been cagey about the money side of things so far. It would have been easy to believe he really didn’t care about it.
“Ah, that’d be handy,” Strang said. “It costs a lot to do these tours and things, you know. We make nothing out of the books and articles.”
“Really?” Frank tried to hide his doubt. “I would have thought with all the exposure you’d had lately you’d be raking it in.”
“Doesn’t translate into a lot of sales,” Strang said sadly. “With the internet everyone expects everything for free. Makes it hard to do the work. Rose has had to support a lot of what we do.”
“Oh? Well, I’ll be glad to help out,” Frank repeated.
“Thanks,” Strang said. He slapped Frank on the back. “You want a beer?”
“Love one,” Frank said.
“Stephanie, love,” Strang said to his beautiful daughter. “Could you get our guest a beer?”
“Sure,” Stephanie smiled. “I’d love to.”
It was late. Strang and his wife had retired. The other guests had gone. Frank had drunk too much and didn’t want to leave. Stephanie seemed to like him. They had certainly spent enough time talking together. They had much in common. The young woman appeared to be so much more down to earth than her father or Rose, who turned out to be Strang’s second wife. Stephanie’s mother had died of cancer when she was twelve. Strang had met Rose five years later. She was ten years his junior and more like an older sister to Stephanie than her step-mother. It was from her real mother that she had inherited her hard-headedness and, Frank suspected, her intelligence, for he was still disinclined to take his host seriously. He’d kept a lid on that pretty well, but it was late and the booze was taking its toll. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d said but Stephanie showed herself every bit as sharp as he’d suspected, to his regret.
“I’m starting to think you have doubts about our work,” she said.
“Well,” Frank lied, “I’ll be totally honest with you. While I find your research very fascinating and I respect your father’s passion, I think there’s a few leaps of logic there. A bit of a gap in a lot of the data, and let’s face it, it does go against the main thrust of accepted science and history.”
“I know what you mean. I’m more the methodical, analytical type myself, like you. But you have to understand that a man like my father goes about things the opposite way around. He has an insight and then he finds the facts to support it. He’s a visionary. And he knows the truth when he sees it. He respects the Elders. For him, their words are like divine revelation. Even when they amaze him he takes it on board and he goes looking for the evidence to back it up and, you know what? He keeps on finding it. I know it goes against the main thrust of academic thinking, but it’s almost as if his faith is rewarded. The universe sends the truth to him; it directs him toward the evidence.”
For a moment Stephanie looked at Frank. Her eyes were shining. She was stunning in the soft light of the night. Frank leant toward her. She backed away hurriedly, alarm writ large in her eyes. Maybe disgust. God, he was twenty years older than her—what was he thinking! He pulled himself back.
“Lost my balance,” he said, lamely.
Stephanie’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “Well, it’s late and you’ve had a bit.” Was there a hint of censure in that remark? “We should retire. I’ll get you a blanket.”
Frank settled back on the couch, hot with humiliation. The girl had returned swiftly and held a light rug out to him.
“See you in the morning,” she said. Then she was gone and the night was still. Frank lay staring out of the window, thinking of the young woman and how she spoke of her father, her face glowing like a convert’s. She had the fervour of an acolyte. Strang was a visionary, she said. He would not be the first charlatan to hide behind that façade, nor the first to successfully adopt one and cultivate a cult following.
Sleep eluded him, and a koala began to scream out in the bush when finally he drifted toward slumber, as if all the fates conspired to ensure his lack of ease.
A day later, close to dawn they set off. Two dozen people took the trip, piling into three vans and a four-wheel-drive that took them into Queensland. Frank was surprised at how little cash Strang had asked from him. He wanted to think that he at least took a commission for the hire of the vehicles but it hardly seemed enough to pay for the petrol and food they would need. When Frank spoke again of his willingness to ‘help out’ Strang had just smiled vaguely and said, “We’ll talk about that later when we need to.”
They drove all day and the weather was hot though the sky burgeoned with clouds that taunted them with the promise of rain. After an overnight stay in Townsville they drove on past Cairns. Frank chatted desultorily to the other guests who were full of excitement at the prospect of being in on the find. Their enthusiasm irked him and the more he spoke to them the more he became convinced that they were as gullible a bunch as had ever been assembled, connected by nothing so much as their desire to believe. Yet he was careful to hide his dissent.
On the second day of the journey, though, he had fallen asleep in the muggy van and jolted awake in surprise to find that the vehicle had jerked to a halt on a dirt road. The bush was on his left, on his right the sea stretched on forever. The dusty ribbon of the track was the only hint of civilisation in sight. Everyone was disembarking and he hurried to follow.
Strang was standing with a small group of Original Australians, as he insisted they be called. Frank had never seen him seem so alert. So alive. As he spoke to these old dark-skinned people in their simple country attire his face shone with the same sort of fervour Frank had seen upon his daughter’s face. Stephanie held up her hand as the others drew near. Apparently only Strang and his closest cohorts were entitled to approach these august personages without further instruction.
“What’s going on?” Frank asked.
“Interview time,” Stephanie said.
“Will there be any hypotheticals?” Frank joked.
“You’ll see,” Stephanie smiled again.
Frank felt strangely nervous. He was there on false pretences. What if they saw through him? But that was all wrong, he reminded himself. It was as if he had been infected by the aura of reverence he had had to endure from these dupes for the last two days. These old Aunties and Uncles, these Elders or Clever fellers or wirijuns or whatever they were meant to be, wouldn’t have a clue about much of anything from the look of them. He was an educated man. He had a degree. He knew science. What did they know?
He looked out to sea and for a moment an overwhelming sense of his own smallness washed over him. Then Stephanie was calling his name again and he realised it was his time to meet the Elders. The Elders, that’s what they were. All of a sudden his confidence deserted him. They didn’t seem to pay him any attention.
“This is Uncle Billy,” Strang said, in a tone that would have served to introduce the Pope.
Frank put out his hand to offer a handshake. Uncle Billy only glanced at his face for a moment. Slowly he reached up, ignoring Frank’s palm and grasped the inside of his forearm in his warm dry hand. The grip was gentle but firm. He didn’t shake. He didn’t say anything. Frank searched for the old man’s gaze, eager to show him by the steadiness of his eye that he was a man of honour, but the Elder showed no interest in any such fake evidence.
“What’s he doing?” Frank asked, finding his voice with difficulty.
“Feeling your blood,” Strang said matter-of-factly.
Uncle Billy dropped Frank’s hand. He grasped his upper arm for one moment. Oddly it seemed like a small sign of comfort, though it had the opposite effect.
“Just go wait over by the van,” Strang said gently.
Frank went and stood by the vehicle, watching thunderheads gather over the ocean. The rumours of rain the sky had whispered for days seemed ready to be spoken aloud. Everyone was returning to the vans, one by one. Finally Strang joined them.
“Come with me please, Frank,” he said. They walked off a short distance together.
“I’m sorry,” he proceeded, as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “I’m afraid we can’t take you with us.”
“What do you mean?” Frank said, amazed.
“Sorry,” Strang said again, “I told you we’d have to get the Elder’s permission and they feel you shouldn’t come.”
“But why?” Frank protested.
“It’s for your own protection,” Strang insisted. “You have to have a certain mindset to learn some things, and you don’t have it.”
“But, but how do they know?” Frank blurted. “They didn’t ask me anything about myself.”
“Frank, they don’t need to.”
“Bullshit! So what did you tell them then? What did you say about me?”
“Frank, please,” Strang ran his fingers back through his lion’s mane. “Calm down. It’s not up to me.”
Frank forced himself to calm down. He knew what was going on, he realised at last. He was slow sometimes.
“Look, Verne,” Frank said evenly. “I know this is a huge find and it’s a big honour and I don’t just expect you to share it with just anyone for nothing.”
Strang looked at him with what seemed like real surprise. He was good, Frank thought, really good.
“I know you need money to do this work and you haven’t asked me for nearly enough, but let me tell you how much I believe in you and in the work you’re doing here, and let me tell you how much I want this. Just tell me, Verne. How much is it going to take?”
“Sorry, Frank,” Strang shook his head sadly, “money has nothing to do with it. Some things you can’t buy.”
“Fuck you!” Frank cried. “Is this because I made a pass at your daughter? Is this some petty act of revenge?”
“You what?” Frank wasn’t quite sure what the look on Strang’s face meant, but it seemed to be comprised of equal parts disgust and pity. He just turned on his heels shaking his head and walked away.
“They’re never wrong,” Frank heard him mutter.
I must have lost the plot, Frank thought. Strang was a fake, so why was he so desperate to go on the trip? How much would he have been willing to pay to see his phony find? Yet, he wasn’t really sure it was phony, was he, because if he was, why would he feel genuinely rejected? He had never really stopped being a believer, deep down inside. That was why he was in love with his brother’s wife. That was why he looked forward to their debates; why he listened to those idiotic programs like Purplevoid so avidly, even while he kept up a running commentary on what was wrong with them, because he was hoping that they would prove him wrong. Hoping that they would say just one thing that would be his entry into that world he had always known was there but was somehow closed to him. It was the realm the Elders seemed to walk in and yet they would not let him follow, because he was unworthy.
But he had come this far and would not turn back.
Of course there was another explanation. Maybe he hadn’t hidden his doubts as cleverly as he’d thought? Maybe they didn’t want someone finding their fake and debunking it? Maybe he should just stick with plan A? Frank decided he was chronically confused. He didn’t know whether he wanted it to be a fraud more than he wanted it to be real. Presuming there was something to see out there and they weren’t all just heading off to have an orgy or take psychedelics. Either way, Frank had to know. He would follow them at a safe distance.
At least they were sticking to the coast. Frank reasoned that this way he could not get lost. Still, he feared, maybe he was losing the plot. They were in the middle of nowhere. If he turned an ankle or was bitten by a snake there would be no one to help him. Maybe he was ill. It was as if an odd fever was upon him, a kind of insanity. Yet there was no quitting from this path, no matter how unwise it might seem. Frank kept after the group, hanging well back, spying on them through his field glasses. The sweat clung to his body, the thunderheads grew darker, but refused to release their bounty upon the earth. The world stayed hot and dark while lightning played out over the ocean.
His pack was well stocked with rations but he ate sparingly. As night fell he saw the party make camp. There was no orgy. There was quiet laughter and someone sang with a voice of haunting beauty, which carried to him in the emptiness of the night, interrupted only by the occasional sounds of surf and the rumble of distant thunder.
Laughter floated to him across the distance as well and an incredible sadness and longing welled within him. He settled down to sleep as close to the others as he dared. In fitful dreams he heard the singing all night and imagined that he heard other voices. Fears flitted across his mindscape like wallabies bounding through the night. Visions played in his head of strangers stumbling upon him and driving him away at the point of a spear.
The morning was so overcast that the sun did not wake him and when he arose there was no one in sight. The camp was deserted and the campfires cold. Frank rushed on, careless now of being discovered, terrified of being abandoned out in the bush. He reminded himself that he was on the coast and could retrace his way with ease, if need be.
It seemed that he had lost track of time. This was madness. Surely it would be better to go back. Strang had been cagey about how long it would take to reach the site. All Frank knew was that it was on the coast. They were meant to be gone a total of two weeks, but Strang would not say how many days would be spent marching and how many on site. Frank thought about turning back but the sun had been hidden all day and there was no way of knowing if it was one hour to dark or five. He decided to press on up the coast until night fell and then persist until he came upon the party. They would stop to camp and he would find them. He would hear their laughter and singing and see their fires and he would set the alarm on his phone so he did not sleep past dawn again.
The day seemed impossibly long and a state of trance seemed to creep over him by slow degrees so he no longer knew if he walked half asleep or dreamt that he walked. Finally he found himself walking in darkness and did not know how long it had been so. How had he proceeded so far without consciously monitoring his progress? How had his feet carried him safely without the assistance of his mind? Where were they? How could anyone possibly miss them? Surely they were not so much faster that he had not caught them yet? Could he have passed them somehow? Exhausted, he lay down to sleep at last. The clouds that had pressed down on him all day, blocking out the sun, persisted, and hid the stars from his sight. The heat was oppressive. The only thing he could count on was a series of nightmares to disturb his sleep. Enough, he decided, in the morning he would turn back.
Frank’s eyes snapped open on a sky full of stars. He had never seen a sky like it before, and it was easy to imagine he was lying up there among them rather than staring up from the earth, until the aches in his body reminded him of reality. The clouds had finally departed without delivering their promise, unless this was a dream. If so the Pleiades was part of it and he recalled how Strang had spoken of the Elders’ claim that their ancestors had come from there. The seer had also spoken of the UFOs inscribed among the infamous Glyphs at Gosford. It seemed harder to scoff at them now. Faced with the immensity of the universe and its million blinking eyes it was only too easy to conceive of other beings in the Pleiades; to believe that, just as he lay staring up into the heavens, a myriad of strange intelligences, upon a multitude of earths, stared back at him. Yet, with what intent? The thought shocked him and made him shudder, for it felt more like an insight than a fancy.
Frank mocked himself. He was catching Strang’s disease, the pathology of the visionary: to take one’s imagination for inspiration. Was that how it had begun for ol’ Vernon? With nights like these, staring into the immensity of the heavens as he camped out with his ‘Aunties’ and ‘Uncles’?
When Frank awoke it was to see the dawn, bright and ruddy in the sky where a few vagrant clouds had taken up residence. He felt different, as if a fever had indeed gripped him for the last day or so, but now had finally passed. The desire to pursue his mad quest any further had departed. It was time to surrender, go back. After a quick breakfast of energy bars and a few sips from his canteen he began to retrace his steps. His march was not more than a half hour commenced when he came upon the camp. There was a little inlet there and he could not believe he had waded across it the previous night without realisation. How deep had his fever been? The coals of the campfire were still warm. Mangroves grew along the creek and the ground was mud rather than sand. His own tracks were clearly observed going over the creek and back, but there were no others. That meant that the party had not proceeded beyond the creek. Examining the area around the camp he found more subtle traces of tracks leading inland, away from the shore. Strang had said nothing about that. But then again, he had wanted to keep the location of the place secret.
Heart beating faster, Frank gave up all thoughts of return. High dunes rose up beside the inlet and he climbed to the top of one. From there the ground sloped away gently into the distance. The creek from the inlet wound upstream through wetlands, where clumps of mangrove rose from fields of reeds. About three kilometres away an island projected out of the reeds and in its midst sat a mound which seemed as if it could hardly be natural.
Frank slid down the dune and headed back to the path that wound itself alongside the stream. This was a bad idea, he thought. The sky disapproved also. The legion of thunderheads had flocked back as if a fool like him did not deserve to see the light of day. And now they delivered, finally, as if things were not wet enough underfoot. Wetlands were well named from a descriptive point of view, he decided, but from an emotional point of view swamp, bog and quagmire all seemed like better descriptors. He had a tent but nowhere to pitch it. Unless he went back. Yet the elements could not be allowed to conspire to keep him from his goal. He pressed on. He found the creek. He found mangroves. He found a snake and feared that crocodiles might find him, for something large was moving out there. The beach suddenly seemed the best bet, anywhere, in fact, but that damnable bog. Yet it proved as elusive as the island. Exhaustion threatened. At last he found a rise and was relieved to find himself quitting the swamp. On all fours he crawled to the top of the rise. Somehow he managed to get his tent up and crawled inside.
Frank saw Strang and his group on the island in the wetlands. They cavorted drunkenly, chanting and singing, while fires flamed high into the night under the blazing stars. He saw Stephanie naked, prancing like a nymph. Something slithered in the swamp. No, he didn’t see it, he told himself, it was all a dream. Vaguely he was aware of the rain beating against his tent. So he dreamed.
When he awoke there was no more rain. Crawling from his tent he saw the island again. He was on a dune to the south of it. About the same distance as he had been when he left the coast. It should not take long to reach it, however, the same thought had occurred to him the day before. He would not reach the island if it did not want him to. Somehow he knew this now. Frank laughed quietly to himself, “Strang’s disease,” he laughed, “Yes, I’m a visionary, that’s me.”
Still the mound called to him. His yearning had brought him this far and now, chastened, he would be allowed his glimpse of that which he had always hoped for, his final unassailable physical proof of the numinous, fascinans, mysterium and tremendum.
He stumbled down the dune and plunged into the swamp. The clouds held back. The curtain of rain remained drawn aside. He wondered where Strang was. It seemed, once again, he had lost time. But then he was at the island. He hardly believed it as he trudged up the slope out of the boggy reed-clogged water. The mound rose up before him. The size of the structure had not been apparent from a distance, but it was enormous. He staggered toward it, his legs weak, as much with fear as fatigue. He searched for his phone. It would be a sin to return without a picture of it, but the battery had died. How long was it since he had left the van?
The outer wall of the mound was ten feet high and covered with soil and grasses. No opening was apparent. Frank began to walk the circumference. The sun came out. He looked around for a sign that anyone had been there recently. If there had been any evidence the torrential rains of the previous night had washed it away. Vaguely he wondered about the Strangs, the Elders, Uncle Billy, and the people who had been on the bus. Now and then he thought voices were on the wind. Yet if they were on the island they stayed hidden from sight. A maddening vision formed in his mind of the elusive party circling the mound just ahead of him, by design or manipulated by the gods, so they remained just as the numinous had always been: so close but out of sight.
Unless…were they on top of the mound? Frank decided to climb it. Who knew what he might find up there, or what he might see. The sides were only slightly inclined but plenty of handholds offered themselves. Rough stones protruded from the dirt and the tufts of grass were firmly embedded. Frank was fit and strong for someone his age, but the trials of the last few days had taken their toll on him. The climb was difficult but he reached the top. A grim smile crossed his lips as he hauled his weary body over the lip. The feeling of satisfaction was short-lived, however, for the tuft of grass he grasped gave way, and he tumbled backwards out into space, landing with a crash back on the island. There was a blinding flash of pain as his head hit the ground and, for the moment at least, Frank Clarke knew nothing of pain.
When finally he awoke once more, the stars blazed down upon him again. He feared his fall had done some major damage. Nothing felt or looked right, and he had never felt so sick. The stars seemed too bright and close and the heavens seemed rearranged. It felt as if the world was less substantial, as if one might float away, but there was nothing pleasant about the sensation. As he climbed to his feet the feeling of decreased gravity made it hard for him to keep his balance. He thrust a hand out against the mound wall and a section swung in, as if some hidden lever had been activated. This must be a dream, he reassured himself, though a dream had never felt so physically real before.
The light from these strange heavens was so bright that the carvings on the massive stones that lined the doorway were easily discerned. Frank goggled. They could have been Celtic, or Egyptian. They could have been Aboriginal. Original, he corrected himself. For some reason he could not articulate, he had a new respect for Uncle Billy and the others. The markings grooved deeply into the stone were beautiful, but disturbing. What was it about them—the whorls and rings and crosses—that suggested such disparate influences, yet an uncanny commonality? He could not comprehend them. Whatever they were, they were not fakes, and as far as he knew, they were his discovery.
A dizzying sense of excitement swept over Frank. This was sensational. If only his phone’s camera would function. Who would believe him without proof? He had to make this new find, his find, known. His newfound respect for the Elders did not extend to keeping their secrets. This was a discovery of huge significance. It would make him famous. Suddenly Frank’s reverie was disturbed by a new sound. He heard voices, chanting again. Did it emanate from within the mound? As he put his head inside the entrance, the sound grew louder and a faint glow greeted his eyes. Strang? The others? Frank cursed. So that was why he could not find them. This was not his find after all.
What could they be up to? The vision of Stephanie, naked, flashed before his eyes again and it felt like the memory of something seen more than the recollection of a dream. He found himself moving along the passageway, which sloped down toward the interior, his hand feeling the wall, which was covered in the strange runes. The chanting was louder in the passage with its odd acoustics. The passage continued to slope down through an eccentric series of twists and turns and Frank began again to think that he must be dreaming, for it seemed that time stretched and he walked for days, deeper and further, and yet he came no closer to the glow which always seemed around the next bend, no nearer to the sounds which always seemed further ahead.
Finally it occurred to him to look behind and he saw that the same glow that was always ahead, also lay to the rear, behind whatever twist he had just quit. It was madness to continue where he was going. He was trapped in a nightmare and could expect to encounter nothing here. He had been so intent on exploring this amazing new place that he had not bothered to think of why it might have been built, or by whom. A vision of the strange stars in the sky above the mound recurred in his mind. The runes in the doorway and those that his fingers had traced on his journey became superimposed on them, and he had another intuition that this place was a neither temple nor tomb, but a prison of some kind, a trap for a monster, or a god, or something in between.
He turned now, at last, but it seemed the floor sloped down again and that could not be so. How could he know where he was if his senses could no longer tell up from down? A sob broke out in his chest. It was tempting to lie down in the passage and refuse to move, but how long before that became intolerable? He crept on, choosing a direction randomly, no longer pondering whether it was descent or ascent, forward or reverse, fearing that somehow the physics in this place abolished such distinctions. Yet some progress was being made, for a new scent filled the air, like seaweed, ozone and the ocean, and a sound like the crashing of waves or the surge of surf into some vast underground cavern.
Frank about-faced, reluctant to approach that sound, that stench, and hurried away, but the sensations only grew louder and stronger the further he fled until he thought, somehow he had made a mistake and ran back the other way. Again the sensation repeated itself and he stopped in terror and sank down against the wall behind him, which seemed as damp and unpleasant as the interior of a bowel. He sobbed again, and, straining his ears against the dark symphony of the ‘surf’, heard a new sound, like a slithering, a shuffling, as of something huge and unimaginable.
Straining his eyes toward the glow at the right end bend of the passage he saw weird sinuous shadows play against the wall. He rolled to his knees and prepared to scramble to the left, only to see the same sight at the other end as if there was a mirror there. An incoherent prayer escaped his lips, to be replaced by a scream and in the echoing silence that followed the slow progress of the thing from below came inexorably on.
Janine was putting the finishing glaze on a vase in the potting shed. She had had enough of music for the time being. She couldn’t play Joni Mitchell or Van Morrison again. Even Astral Weeks could only stand so many listens. She couldn’t hack the ABC either. Her mind didn’t need any more improving. Time for her guilty pleasure, she thought. Purplevoid radio. She’d already downloaded the podcast and had been saving it for the right moment. This was it. Finding the MP3 in her Purplevoid folder she clicked on it. A new interview with Vernon Strang. She was keen to hear of his progress since the last interview, where he’d mentioned a find which would re-write history.
Vernon, last time you were on, you mentioned a startling new find, something that, once recognised, would require the re-writing of the history books.
Yeah, well, that’s right, Ernie. But, unfortunately, the Elders are saying that it’s not something we can share with the general populace.
Hmmm. That’s going to cause credibility problems, isn’t it?
Ha, mate! If I was worried about my credibility I wouldn’t be appearing on your show.
I feel you, my friend, I truly do.
Strang continued. Let those who have eyes to see, see, and those with ears to listen hear…
Just to play devil’s advocate for a moment, Vernon, did it ever occur to you that, if this find is really so important, that maybe it would be worthwhile sharing anyway? I mean, from one point of view, as much as we might respect the Elders, their viewpoint isn’t scientific.
Well, is that true? I mean, just because it isn’t derived from research in a laboratory…Experimental method is what proves theory, right? So, when for 40,000 years the Elders say, if you do something we tell you you shouldn’t do, something bad will happen, and you do it anyway, and it happens, that’s a pretty large body of evidence.
So you’re saying it would be dangerous to go in the face of their advice.
Mate, it wouldn’t be worth my life.
Janine felt she had done enough for the day. She finished up what she was doing, and went to the trough to wash her hands.
Frank awoke in terror. He had suffered a terrible nightmare. The memory of his ordeal in the passage was etched in his mind and he doubted it could ever be erased. Yet where was he now? If the monstrous shadows and the ghostly lights, the sounds of shuffling and the stench of the sea had all been some fever dream, what was real? The island in the swamp? The mound? All he knew was that he was in some unpleasant, dank, dark place. He risked a glance to the left. The glow was there. His heart started to pound. He glanced in the opposite direction. The glow again, as cheerless and haunting an illumination as could be imagined.
As if in answer to his fear the stink of the sea began to creep back and the chanting recommenced. The slithering began once more and the shadows returned. This was what had happened last time, and he had sat waiting, waiting for whatever approached to come and claim him, for there was nowhere to flee, even if he had not been paralysed with fear; until, eventually, he had passed out in terror. So why had the things not come for him? There were only two possibilities. Something held those creeping terrors from turning the corner, some barrier, or—and the thought was so bizarre he could not imagine why it would occur to him unless it was another of those ‘insights’ that had plagued him of late—the things desired his fear more than his flesh, if they craved the latter at all.
So what was he to do? Though he may be safe from being rent for the moment, he would starve if he remained where he was. If he went forward, however, he might find another branch tunnel, ahead of the section of the maze the creature would not, or could not, pass. It was the most slender of hopes, yet more than he had felt before his faint. Afraid that, if he did not move now, he would never find the courage, Frank forced himself to his feet. He set off toward the right, needing to choose one direction.
He feared he dreamt, after all; that he had merely dreamt a dream of waking within a greater dream, for again he experienced that uncanny sense of time displacement and the glow and the shadows seemed to retreat before him. While it had seemed that there was a corner to turn, he never reached it, as if the walls were morphing as he walked and the corner remained the same distance ahead. Yet the sound of chanting grew stronger and the stench of the sea and even the unholy sounds that accompanied the movement of the writhing shadows, as if he truly was nearing something.
I’m being tortured, Frank thought, I’m being played with like a cat plays with a rodent or a bug. It’s feeding off my terror. For Frank was indeed drowning in horror. He feared, in fact, that he had simply gone mad, for reality was refusing to play by any rules he had ever encountered. Time and space were plastic here, and seemed guided by some unimaginably cruel alien will with the express purpose of frustrating and tormenting him.
He remembered what the Greeks had said about vengeful gods, whom they would destroy they first make mad. An involuntary giggle escaped his lips.
“Show yourselves,” Frank screamed. “Show yourselves, I’m not afraid of you!”
This was no mere bravado. He was no longer afraid, so they must have truly driven him insane, for terror was the only sane response to this nightmare world he found himself trapped in. Yet, if they wanted his fear, if they fed off his misery, then they had no more use for him now. The game of keeping out of sight had reached its end. Yet the Old Ones had not finished with him, nor would they be until he was drained of every ounce of energy he could produce. Frank knew this.
The chanting grew, his heart began to pound once more, the blood beat at his temples and the shadows moved closer. Time stretched and space with it, until it seemed that either he shrank or the passage grew with the increasing effulgence, and the thing that cast the shadows hove into sight. And then Frank learned that there were levels of madness, and levels of terror, and he had been initiated into an entirely new level of hell.