s and Storm
By
Joseph H.J. Liaigh
DEDICATION
To my family: my wife, Mandy, and my sons, Timothy, James and John, who have graciously and generously put up with my writing over a long period of time.
PO box 2123, Parkdale, vic. 3195, Australia.
Email:
[email protected] First published in Australia 2016
Copyright © Leach Publications 2016
Cover design: Leach Publications
ISBN: 9781311230942
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The moral rights of the author are asserted.
Liaigh, Joseph H.J.
Stillness and Storm
Cover layout and design by Leach Publications
Acknowledgments:
This story has taken a long time to reach its present form and it would not have been written without the encouragement and support of my family. I would also like to thank my colleagues at the University of Melbourne for their comments, my grandmother for passing on my Irish heritage, and my mother for her love of the southern Australian coastline.
Prologue, August 1981- The rider pulled into a small roadside lookout overlooking the town and silenced the engine of her bike. The township of Angle River straggled along the banks of the river which gave it its name. It was centred on a bridge which crossed the river just before it widened out to form a small estuary before entering the sea. Over geologic time, the river had eroded along an old fault line and hills rose steeply on either side of it's flood plain. Where these hills met the sea, impressive cliffs rose above rocky shore platforms. Where the river met the sea, however, there was a wide, curving stretch of sand, which was perfectly placed to catch the breaking swell from a nearby point.
A faint smell of wood smoke came from the town below as most people sheltered indoors from the chill air, although, as always, a few hopeful anglers sat motionless on the banks of the river estuary. The rider kicked the bike into life once more and rode down the curving road into town. Tomorrow it would begin.
"Bless me father, it’s been many years since I made my last confession. Look, I’m sorry, this might take a while, but there’s something important that I need to get off my chest. I don’t even know if what I did, or rather what I didn’t do, was a sin or not, but it worries me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just glad that you have brought your problems to God. Take your time and tell me what’s troubling you.”
“Well, I guess I just started worrying about it after the last guest had checked out of the hotel and driven off down the highway and I had time to think. After all the excitement, peace descended on our town - like a blanket. There was nothing strange in that. It was a feeling I had known many times before. At the end of each summer season in fact, when the tourists sought warmer places than a wet and windswept beach on Australia’s southern coast. This time, however, it was different.”
“How so?”
“These guests hadn't been tourists. There were detectives and uniformed police, forensic experts, newspaper reporters, television reporters, camera people, sound people, and even a small group of very quiet men who said only that they worked for the government. Don’t get me wrong. I was glad to see the whole circus out of town. The whole sorry business is over now and the town can slip back into its comfortable groove of summer tourists and empty, winter sleep. I can’t, however. I have this thing that’s bothering me. Not something I did, mind you. Just something I didn’t do.”
“Go on.”
“Well, if I’m right, I guess the whole mess must have begun years ago, building up a complex web of loyalty and revenge. I’m sure there was a whole mix of nobility, duty and betrayal - and circumstances that made it had to tell which was which. That’s always true of these things, I suppose. For me though, it began the day she rode into town on a beaten up motorcycle. I manage the camping ground in the town of Angle River and run a small general store attached to the office –.“
“You don’t need to tell me who you are.”
“I know that, normally, but it’s important you know how I met her.”
“Very well, go on.”
“I manage the camping ground. It's a good job, although the pay’s nothing great. In summer the place is crowded with families and casual surfers who crowd the beach like Antarctic seals and cover it with a slick of suntan oil. In winter the beach is a lonely, windswept place, covered with sea mist and spray and eroded by the fierce storms that roll in from the Southern Ocean. I like the beach best in winter. Sure, it’s cold and lonely but it's also free of encrusting humanity.”
“You don’t like crowds of people?”
“Not much, no. Angle River is a good place for me. It’s like most of the towns along the coast. The permanent population’s only a few hundred, consisting mostly of shop keepers and trades people, all of whom depend on the summer tourists they pretend to despise. The only exceptions are the dedicated surfers. They don't depend on the tourists, or anyone else really, because their search for the perfect wave is normally subsidised by the Department of Social Security. Whatever, winter only intensifies their almost mystic quest and just about every day you can see them down there, battling the storm driven surf, wearing some of the best thermal protection known to man.
“Is this relevant?”
“No, not really, I suppose. It was early autumn when she rode in. A weakened sun still shone from a watery blue sky that held the promise of weather to come. When I heard her bike pull up outside the office, I went out to meet her. I don't get many customers that time of year so each one tends to get special service. She was riding an old Ducati, a big, black, ugly bike, and her leathers and helmet matched her bike. I guess that was the one thing that seemed strange about her, although even this may be with the help of hindsight: she didn't match her gear and people normally do.
When she pulled off her helmet, a wild cascade of red hair fell down about her shoulders. She was slim, with a fresh, open face that gave no clue as to her age. Her manner was quiet and friendly,
"Good morning!" she said, her consonants blurred by a slight Irish accent. "I need a place to camp for a while."
After we’d introduced ourselves and had a brief chat about the tariff, I gave her directions to a campsite down by the river. It was a good spot close to the shower block and with an outlook over the estuary. At that time of year she could’ve had her pick of the park. I told her I'd call around a bit later and check on how she was settling in. She waved and rode off into the park. At that stage, I thought she'd be gone in the morning - just one of the many shadows that pass through Angle River every year and who leave no trace of their passing. I guess, anyone can make a mistake.
Anyway, I went down to see her later that afternoon. It had been cold all day but now it began to get frosty as evening approached. At first I didn't see her. Her camp was laid out in a simple, neat pattern with a basic A-frame tent and a fire set. However, it looked deserted. I called out and looked around. Then I noticed her. She was sitting down by the river. She had her legs folded beneath her and she was sitting so still that some small finches were feeding, unconcerned, about her knees.
You didn't need to be an Indian guru for it to be obvious that she was meditating. I’ve seen a lot of people medit
ate, especially since the Crystal Thought Foundation opened its doors down the road, and I reckon I know more about it than I want to. However, she was different. When most folks meditate, they tend to stand out like a sore thumb. Something in the way they sit or the unusual attitude of their body, instantly draws your attention to them. This one, however, might have been part of the landscape. She seemed to be merged into the background. Unless you were concentrating, you wouldn’t be aware of her presence. As soon as I saw her she turned around and waved, the finches scattering in panic. She got up and started to walk over.
As I said, I had seen more than my fair share of meditating, by gurus and disciples both. "God help us!" I thought. "Another new age crystal freak." As I said, anyone can make a mistake."
The late afternoon light reflected silver blue off the river estuary. A pelican seemed to glide forever in the ground effect, inches above the water. Not a muscle moved until it finally lowered its feet to land and ripple the mirror surface. The finches were busy around her legs and some seagulls were squabbling loudly downstream, towards the beach. The hills to the west already hid the sun. The sky overhead was bright and cold and an evening chill was settling on the valley as the shadows began to deepen. Aware but