|
||
|
|
||
| PAPERBACK BOOKS | ||
Author Biography Jeff Pages was born in He has always enjoyed going
barefoot as much as possible and has been a member of the Society for Barefoot
Living, an Internet-based discussion group, since 1996. His first novel, Barefoot
Times, was published in 2004, followed by Call of the Delphinidae in
2006 and The Mind of the Dolphins in 2008. Cry of the Bunyips is
now the fourth book in the series. Further background information can be found on the series’ website at www.barefoottimes.net Dedication This book is dedicated to the memory of The author also pays tribute to Professor Benoit Mandelbrot (1924-2010) for his pioneering work in chaos theory and fractals, particularly the Mandelbrot set. Its three-dimensional extension, the Mandelbulb, inspired the time nexus at the heart of this story. The snow-capped mountains
glistened under dawn’s first light as the sun, bigger and brighter than
yesterday, crept over the horizon. Roaring streams, fed by melting ice, cascaded
into hidden valleys before disappearing beneath the rainforest canopy of what
had just a few months earlier been a frozen wasteland. To the north, fluffy white
clouds, their bellies painted pink in the early light, foretold of the storms to
come later in the day, bringing short relief from the oppressive heat and
humidity. The nervous young man in a
grey business suit jumped to the ear-piercing cry of a red-tailed hawk as it
answered the call of its mate further up the valley. “Flaming bloody birds!” he
yelled, pulling out a large white handkerchief and mopping his brow. “How much
further do we have to go in this wretched jungle?” “Not far now, no sir, we’re
almost there.” Their guide, a short wiry man who looked as if he’d be just as
much at home in Frizian’s forty year winter as he was in its short steamy
summer, quickened his pace. Grey Suit dabbed at his brow
again, while Clem and Russell followed a discreet distance behind, stooping to
balance the earthenware pots strapped to their backs. Soon the smothering
rainforest canopy blocked off all sight of the mountains and the rising sun. Clem heard the sonorous hum
of the Frizian honey wasps long before they reached the clearing. The tree
before him, a giant amongst giants in this ancient forest, would have been
impressive enough in its own right, but it was the dozens of conical nests
hanging from its branches, the source of the humming he felt more than heard,
that had captured his gaze. Each one, at least a metre across at the top, seemed
to quiver and dance hypnotically in time with the noise, and he felt himself
pulled towards them, drawn up to join the humming denizens in their never-ending
song. “Put this on.” Clem was
vaguely aware of their guide speaking, and forced himself to turn away from the
cones. Grey Suit took the yellow plastic suit and face mask from the guide, who
showed him how to secure all the zips and tabs before pulling his own protective
garment from his pack and sliding into it with practised ease. “What about us?” Clem asked.
Russell gave him a frightened glance. “Did you hear something?”
Grey Suit asked the guide. “Don’t worry,” the guide
said to Clem. “The sting of a honey wasp is a most pleasant death. First there
is beautiful music, then the sweet smell of honey, a golden light, the gentle
caress of a dozen young virgins, and before you know it, you’re dead.” “Porters are expendable,”
Grey Suit said. “Don’t waste your time talking to them.” “As you wish, good sir.” The
guide pulled a canister and rubber hose from his pack. “Would you be so kind as
to hold this for me?” Grey Suit took the canister
from him while the guide pointed the hose towards the nearest cone. “Open the
valve please.” A thick white smoke
enveloped the hive while the droning intensified tenfold. Hundreds of orange
specks flittered through the cloud before dropping to the ground. “Are they dead?” Clem asked
the guide. “No, only stunned. Quickly
now, bring your pot over here, and try not to step on them if you can. They can
still sting even while unconscious.” Clem inched his way forward,
carefully brushing away the tiny wasps with the sides of his feet to clear a
path for himself. “Teach you to wear shoes
next time, won’t it?” Grey Suit said. “Now hold it under the hive, just there.” The guide pulled a long
serrated knife from his belt, using it to cut a small hole in the base of the
hive. Clem adjusted his grip on the pot as a viscous golden syrup oozed into it,
quickly weighing it down until he thought it might slip out of his hands. “Right, you’re done,” the
guide said, plugging the hole with a wad of cloth. “Watch those wasps on your
way out.” Clem moved clear of the hive
as Russell eased his way in to replace him. “Keep a firm hold,” he said as his
friend shuffled forward with his pot. “It gets heavy very quickly.” The guide removed the wad of
cloth and began filling the second pot as soon as it was in position. Russell
shifted his feet slightly to keep its increasing weight balanced, but as he did
so, one of the stunned wasps began to flutter, bouncing along the ground next to
his foot as it tried to become airborne. “Russell, look out!” Clem
yelled. Without thinking, Russell lifted his foot, but the liquid in his now
almost-full pot shifted, throwing him off balance. For a moment he wavered on
one foot in defiance of gravity, but as he began to fall he had no choice but to
plant his other foot back down, right on top of the wasp. Grey Suit, realising what
was happening, grabbed the pot as it started to tip, but its weight was more
than he’d bargained for. As Russell slumped to the ground with a look of puzzled
bliss on his face, Grey Suit staggered backwards, the pot of honey held at arm’s
length as he tried to regain his balance. He may have done so had a tree root
not caught the heel of his shoe, and as he fell the pot dropped onto his chest,
winding him before rolling over and cracking open on a rock, its precious
contents oozing out across the ground. “Do something!” he tried to
yell, but little more than a wheezy whisper came out. Clem, ignoring him, dashed
to Russell’s side, pulling something from his pocket as he knelt and checked his
vital signs. “You’re wasting your time,”
the guide said, also ignoring Grey Suit’s plight, but Clem began resuscitation
nonetheless. “Damn you!” Grey Suit said
to no-one in particular. “Damn you all!” The guide turned towards him
to inspect the damage. “I’m afraid that pot is beyond redemption.” “You’ll be beyond redemption
if you don’t shut it! How am I going to explain coming back with only half our
quota?” “It’s better than having
none at all.” “All right, you can tell the
boss then. Now help me up!” By now the wasps were
beginning to regain consciousness, the smell of spilt honey perhaps arousing
them. “Leave him before you get
stung yourself,” Grey Suit said to Clem as he saw him still working on Russell.
Clem turned towards him, a look of utter contempt on his face. “Do as he says,” the guide
said, stepping over and placing a hand on Clem’s shoulder. “Your friend’s in a
better place now.” Clem placed his fingers on
Russell’s neck, checking vainly for any sign of life, before shaking his head
and standing. “Mind the wasps,” the guide
said as Clem made his way back to his pot and began strapping it onto his back. * * * The town of “You sure took your time,
didn’t you?” the tall no-nonsense woman said as she strode out of the bar to
meet them. “I was about to send out a search party.” Grey Suit glanced at the
guide, who shrugged. “Where’s the other pot?
There were supposed to be two.” “That stupid Cornipean got
himself stung and broke it,” Grey Suit said. “What do you mean,
broke?” “It cracked open and spilt.
There was nothing I could do.” “The porter?” “Dead.” She turned to Clem. “You,
bring your pot over here.” She removed its stopper and
inserted a glass pipette. “It has a good colour. We
can water it down and no-one will notice.” She looked up at Clem. “Would you
like a taste?” Clem shook his head. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly
harmless to humans, but the taste, well, it makes you wonder what bunyips see in
it.” She placed a drop on the tip
of her finger and brushed it across Clem’s lips. Reluctantly, he dabbed at it
with his tongue, but immediately turned his head and spat into the bushes. “Remember that taste. It may
save your life some day.” Clem turned back to her, his
expression as bitter as the honey. “The porter who died, was he
a friend of yours, a close friend perhaps?” Clem nodded. She stepped over to her
vehicle, rummaging around in the back for a moment before pulling out a shovel
and handing it to him. “Go and give him a proper
burial before the carrion birds take him.” Clem glared at her, but took
the shovel. “Go, now!” He turned, pausing for a
moment as if tempted to challenge her, before lowering his head and walking back
in the direction of the forest. “Who is he?” she said to
Grey Suit once Clem was out of earshot. “A former Delphinidae
scholar I believe, now unemployed since the dolphins jumped ship. There are lots
of them here looking for work.” “Well I don’t trust him.
There’s something about his eyes, don’t you think?” “They looked Elvish enough
to me. Do you want me to pay him out?” “Either that or kill him;
it’s your choice.” Grey Suit smiled. “When’s
the big event?” “Tuesday week, but keep it
quiet.” “My lips are sealed.” * * * Russell opened his eyes as
something tickled the side of his face, the bright sunlight causing his headache
to flare. He closed them again as he eased himself up onto his elbow. All around
him droned the humming of the honey wasps, while a couple of metres away a small
furry animal sniffed at a patch of spilt honey. “No, don’t,” he said,
pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Come away from that.” The bunyip looked up at him,
a sad and puzzled expression on its face. “That’s bad poison; you
don’t want to go touching any of it.” The bunyip looked back down
at the honey, sniffing it again before trotting over and climbing onto his lap. “Good boy,” Russell said,
scratching it behind the ears and grimacing a little as the smell of bunyip
pheromones wafted into the air. The bunyip suddenly tensed.
Russell looked around to see a shadowy figure emerging from beneath the forest
canopy. “I guess I won’t be needing
this after all,” Clem said, smiling as he leaned on the shovel he was carrying.
“Who’s your friend?” “I caught him sniffing
around some spilt honey. What happened?” “You were stung.” “Ah, that explains it then.” “It looks like this antidote
really works,” Clem said, pulling the small phial from his pocket and twirling
it between his fingers. “Pip will be pleased. What’s
with the shovel?” “I was supposed to bury you
with it.” “You’d better start digging,
then; make it look like someone really is buried here.” “It’s your grave,” Clem
said, handing him the shovel. “You dig it.” Clem picked up the bunyip as
Russell began attacking the hard-packed ground. “I think you’d better come with
us, little fellow.” “Did you get a date for the
meet?” Russell asked as they ambled back down through the forest. “No, she sent me off with
the shovel before I could hear too much. I don’t think she trusts me.” “I don’t think she trusts
anyone.” “It must be soon, though, as
the honey doesn’t keep too well in storage.” “I can do a bit more
snooping around the bars if you like.” “No, it’s too big a risk now
you’re supposed to be dead. You’d better go back to Huntress, and take your
little friend with you.” The bunyip lifted its head,
giving Clem a questioning look, while Russell scratched it behind the ears
again. They emerged from beneath
the canopy into a clearing alongside a shimmering lake. On the water’s edge
stood two small tents, while further back sat a shuttle craft hiding beneath
camouflage netting. Russell stepped over to it, pulling the netting away before
opening the hatch. “What about you?” “I’ll hang around for a few
more days. It’d look suspicious if I disappeared without getting paid.” “Be careful; they’d just as
soon shoot you as pay you.” “I know.” Clem helped Russell
dismantle his tent while the bunyip looked on in satisfied amusement. * * * “What are you drinking?” the
guide asked as he sat himself down alongside Clem at the bar. “Goldwater Ale.” “Two schooners of
Goldwater!” he called to the bartender after catching his attention. “Look, I’m sorry about your
friend,” he continued to Clem. “If it were up to me I’d make sure you porters
had protective suits as well, but –” “Don’t worry about it.” Clem
raised his glass. “To Russell.” “Yeah, to Russell, may he
rest in eternal bliss.” “Is it, um, is it true what
you said about the wasp sting being a pleasant death?” “I really have no idea, but
that’s the story I was told as a youngster doing the portering. He did look
happy in death though, didn’t he?” “Yeah, he did.” Clem fell
silent. “I was looking for you
’cause the boss wants a bit more honey, only half a pot this time. Would you be
interested in porting again?” “I, um, I really don’t –” “She said she’d pay you
double, on account of what happened.” “You people really are
heartless.” “It’s business, Clem, and
being sentimental never put food in your belly.” “I, I guess so.” “Grey Suit won’t be coming;
it’ll just be you and me, okay?” “Yeah, okay.” “Great!” He stood, slapping
Clem across the shoulders. “Meet me out the front at dawn.”
Click on the cart below to purchase this book:
|
||||||||||||
| All
Prices in Australian Dollars CURRENCY
CONVERTER
(c)2011 Zeus Publications All rights reserved. |
