Fire Eye (7 page)

Blue is the only colour that maintains its own character in all its tones. Whatever its nuances, from darkest to lightest, it is always blue. They leave Darwin behind and climb through four thousand five hundred feet into a vista of sky and ocean resembling a painter’s palette of blues.

The sky begins on the horizon with a baby blue and transforms into a deep sky blue above their aircraft. The ocean on the horizon is an azure tint, shading into a powder blue along the coastline, interspersed with patches of an even lighter electric blue in the shallow water near the coast. It is an aviator’s dream, one of many experiences that make flying such a visually sensual activity.

“Blue is my favourite colour,” Jed confides. “Blue conveys importance and confidence. That’s why uniforms are often blue. It can be strong and steadfast or light and friendly, depending on the shade. It’s a good colour for bedrooms, but too much can dampen the spirit.”

“It’s my favourite colour too.” Alexander offers, “I owe you an apology.”

“Pardon?”

“I owe you an apology. I was wrong last night and a bit of a bitch.”

“Pardon? I didn’t quite catch that!” he says again, looking sideways at her and tapping his headphones.

She glances in his direction and sees the smile lurking behind the microphone in front of his lips. “Bastard! You heard me. I’m not often wrong, but I’ll admit it when I am. There
was
a page missing.”

“Sorry,” he offers in turn as he runs his finger over the terminal chart to check they are leaving controlled airspace. “I probably did sound like a bloody stuffy principal. I didn’t mean to. Soon we’ll descend to one thousand five hundred feet and track along the coast looking for likely locations. I’ll keep the coast on the right so you are the main spotter.”

Using the photographs, Jed has drawn a sketch of the geography they are looking for—a bluff or hill to the south, a level vegetated area where the aircraft lies and a channel or river to the north flanked by broken country, opening to the sea through a sand bar or mud flat. Alexander takes another look at the sketch then tucks it into the folded map in her lap.

Breakfast had been rushed as they both woke later than intended, each for their own reasons. They both wanted to say something to each other but time was pressing, and Jed was eager to get airborne to make use of the better flying conditions in the morning. Once away from the pressure of the control zone, they began to relax. The steady beat of the Lycoming six-cylinder engine and the pulsating throb of the three-blade propeller slicing the air are muted by the headphones into a comforting background throb. Alexander studies him through her sunglasses with a sideways glance.

Although he looks relaxed with the fingers of his left hand gently caressing the control wheel, he is constantly scanning the sky, the instrument panel and the ground below in the same repetitive pattern. There is unspoken agreement to let the previous night rest for a more appropriate time. The coastline below is a random mix of bays, beaches and low rocky bluffs jutting into the ocean. Into the bays flow a complex pattern of rivers and creeks, often crowded by mangrove-covered mudflats meandering back into the hinterland.

“Checking this coast isn’t just a matter of flying in a straight line,” Alexander comments as Jed banks the aircraft from side to side in a curving flight path to inspect the intertwined pattern of waterways. “That B-25 could crash anywhere out here and be mighty hard to find.”

“Sometimes I’ve been looking for a wreck, knowing almost the exact location, and still had trouble finding the site. It’s amazing how nature can cover something like an aircraft, especially when it’s broken up. There was one in Tasmania where I had an aerial photograph of the crash site and it still took four trips to locate. Even then I have to admit it was partly luck Alexander.”

“Alex,” she says. “Call me Alex.”

He glances across at her and although her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, he can see her lips frame the most relaxed smile he has yet seen.

“We’ve been together for a while with a fair way to go. You still work for me, but let’s ditch the formality. Don’t get any ideas though!”

He takes the offer as progress toward something indeterminate as he casts a surreptitious glance down her body. He is tempted but has no idea how to take her. She is a bundle of contradictions, keeping him on his toes. He has no doubt she is trouble. What kind of trouble he can only guess at. Handling a woman makes the jungle and the desert seem like a Sunday afternoon stroll through a park.

He has to admit he is aroused. His mind keeps making the
hmmm
response. He knows the mind is behind much of what goes wrong with sex, but it is also behind everything that goes right! Surprisingly he is getting aroused without the cooperation of his maypole, so something interesting is happening. He shoves his analysis to one side for the moment.

“Agreed Alex! Have you flown an aircraft before? Would you like to have a go?”

“I’d love to! What do I do?”

“Once in the air it’s not that difficult. The control wheel operates the ailerons to roll the aircraft, like this.” He demonstrates as he rolls the aircraft left and right. “The rudder pedals yaw the aircraft left and right and pulling or pushing the yoke changes the angle of the nose, that’s the angle of attack, to change the airspeed. Power controls the altitude. We are trimmed out for straight and level flight, so all you need to do is maintain altitude and direction and turn when I tell you to.”

“You mean do as I’m told when I’m told?” she challenges.

“I know that’ll be difficult so just think of it as suggestions rather than orders,” he says with a smile.

She takes the controls with two hands on the wheel.

“Use your right hand only. Grip gently with your fingers. Keep your left hand free for other things. I’m sitting on the left so I’d fly with my left hand and keep my right hand free,” he explains.

She takes command and soon relaxes, showing good coordination but spending too much time looking at the instruments.

Jed catches it early. “We’re flying by visual flight rules. Look outside and keep the nose in the same place on the horizon. The instruments are just back up and a regular glance is sufficient. Just keep us at fifteen hundred feet and track along the coastline with gentle turns. One of my flying instructors was Italian and offered some simple but true advice. When you fly, caress the aircraft like you would your lover and it will respond.”

“Just like caressing a horse I guess,” she says. “They can sense love, compassion, command or weakness. They will respond to confidence and exploit any sign of hesitation. I guess they bite just like an aircraft.”

“Exactly,” he agrees.

Without letting her know, Jed keeps one finger under the control wheel to sense what she is doing. It’s a precaution, even though it is unnecessary. Within minutes she has everything under control, hands and feet working in harmony to keep the aircraft balanced. While they track down the coast toward the more likely areas, Jed talks her through some basic aircraft handling. She picks it up fast and gives all the indications of being a natural.

“Have you ever sailed, ridden a motor bike or a horse?” he finally asks.

“Horses,” she replies while sweeping her eyes over the ground and instrument panel. “Quarter horses and dressage.”

“Ah, it shows. Your coordination and feel are very good.”

“Flying by the seat of your pants doesn’t just refer to aircraft you know. It’s no different to being able to dance, work with horses or make love—a mix of timing, intuition and technique.”

On hearing that last statement, Jed has a split second to get his brain back into the space between his ears instead of in his pants. “An intuitive summary! Look down there! There’s a bluff, mudflat and river matching my diagram but around the point there are shacks hidden in the trees, so it couldn’t be what we’re looking for.” There may have been words coming out of his mouth, but there is a lingering vision of her naked body preventing him from figuring out whether the words make any sense.

“How long will this search take?”

“As the crow flies it’s about five hundred kilometres to Kununurra. The way we’re flying we’ll have to allow about three hours before we land. We’re cruising at one hundred and forty knots, which is around two hundred and sixty kilometres every hour.”

“That’s a fair time in the air! Are we staying at Kununurra?”

“No, I thought we could go a bit further. I booked a tent in the Kimberley for us.”

“A tent! I’ll need a shower, a toilet, alcohol and some good food!” she fires back. “I’m paying, so since when are we on a budget for hell’s sake!”

He knows he is being a bad boy, but enjoys seeing the fire in her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll probably feel the same. Let’s get down there and see what we think,” he suggests, with a poorly concealed smirk.

They fly down the coast, searching each estuary and river delta, looking for the combination of geographical features that Jed has pieced together from the photographs. Excitement explodes when they find a spot that matches; then deflates like a burst balloon at a child’s party when they see it is cut off from the sea and the channel is but a trickle struggling through the mud flats, strangled by mangroves. Jed senses the first inklings of failure as they cross the coast at the base of the Joseph Bonaparte Gulf toward Kununurra.

“It’s that not easy, is it,” Alex concludes. “There is so much country down there you could hide anything in it.”

They are exhausted after the intensity of the flight and the concentration it has demanded. Even though it isn’t summer, they are dehydrated. Even regular sips from their water bottles have not been enough to compensate.

“No Alex, it’s not easy. We’re not even trying to find a plane, just the likely country it could be in. The end result today is three possibilities; one a close match, but too far in from the sea and two with access to the sea, but not as close geographically. Feel like a walk for a close up look?”

She doesn’t respond, just looks at him through narrowed eyes that plainly say,
Try suggesting it!

Kununurra is inland and Jed spends the flying time fighting depression as he mulls over where he could have gone wrong in planning the search. He eventually drags himself out of his self-criticism and calls up Kununurra to advise incoming traffic they will overfly at two thousand five hundred feet. There is no response from an empty sky. Alex looks down at the town. “It’s a lot bigger than I thought. I can see hotels, motels and what look like resorts. Why can’t we stay here?” she asks in a tone verging on demand.

“Getting cold feet about the tent?” Jed lets the question hang for as long as he dares before reaching into his flight bag and handing her a brochure. “That’s where we’re going! My aircraft,” he announces and takes over the controls for the last part of the flight.

Alex flicks through the brochure and stabs a finger at a picture. “That’s a tent! I’d call that a chalet! And the homestead is fantastic! El Questro? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a Kimberley cattle station bought by an English lord and turned into a tourist experience. It still operates as a cattle station. Extra flight time but I thought it would appeal to you, Alex.” He enjoys the opportunity to use the familiar contraction of her name. He throttles back and sets up a cruise descent to join the circuit for the El Questro airstrip appearing ahead as a gravel graze across the landscape. As they descend for the approach, Alex can pick out the green oasis of the homestead nestling beside the long lagoon of the Chamberlain River. To the northwest, it joins the Pentecost River with its winding slash of fresh water through the red landscape dappled with various shades of green.

Jed gives an all stations call to an unresponsive blue and cloudless sky before joining the circuit to fly a perfect final approach, landing with a gentle kiss onto the Kimberley dirt with a burst of red dust as the wheels touch the ground. Before they have parked, tied the aircraft down and unloaded their gear, a Landcruiser 75 arrives. It is driven by a young Swedish backpacker who welcomes them to El Questro. Malena, young, blonde, shapely and tanned, wearing shorts and sandals, is on a working holiday and ended up in the Kimberley. She is in no hurry to leave.

“I actually did book a tent site but ditched it for a stay at the homestead. You’ll get your shower Alex!”

“And a bottle or two of champagne I hope!” Alex responds with enthusiasm. “This beats anything I was expecting!” She sits in the front seat of the Landcruiser with the window down and elbow on the door, head swivelling with excitement to take in the view. Jed is in the back with the bags. He watches the breeze play with her hair, randomly exposing the line of her neck as they bump their way to the homestead five kilometres away.

Mars is called the red planet because of the reddish colour imparted by abundant iron oxide. Red catches attention. It can be used in a negative way to indicate danger or in a positive way in advertising to gain more sales. In nature it advertises ripeness. Jed and Alex are surrounded by red, from the cerise coloured dust, the rusty-red of the gravel, the complex magenta and maroon tinges of the ranges in the distance and the blazing, diffuse orange-reds of the sunset to the west. Their world of red reflects Jed’s gnawing anger at himself.

They sit on the verandah of the homestead before dinner, each with a bottle of champagne. Droplets of condensation form on the outside of the glass and run down the stem to moisten their fingers as they relax at the end of a long day. The evening sun is tingeing the deep red of the hills with shades of purple that deepen as the sun sinks slowly toward the horizon.

Jed is still upset by his failure to identify a conclusive area to investigate. He is used to success. In the past he operated alone, so the difficulties of the hunt only impacted on him. Although he hides it carefully, self-doubt nibbles away at his confidence and perception of himself as a man. This is what he is good at and he should be celebrating, not seeking excuses for failure.

“I didn’t expect this to be easy,” Alex offers, sensitive to his mood. “Even if we find nothing, I’ve seen sights that will be with me for a lifetime.”

“I’m glad you think so Alex, but I still don’t like it. I can’t see where my assumptions were wrong. It has to be west of Darwin and I can’t believe it would be any further west. It just wouldn’t make sense.”

“We have another chance tomorrow on the way back. At the worst we have to work it through again. We can always make time for another go.” Alex is also disappointed, but recognises Jed’s expertise in this area. After seeing the country of Northern Australia she can appreciate the difficulty of the task even while enjoying the excitement of the hunt. She wouldn’t hesitate to do it again and would even be happy if it went on longer than planned. The whole trip is a pleasant escape from life and men who profess to want her. She has no doubt they desire the image of the successful, confident woman she portrays. There is no way they will even get close.

Jed sees the reflective look in her eyes, but can’t pick what she is thinking. “Let’s change the subject. Can you remember what was on the missing page?” He is intrigued by the letter and the conditions under which it had been written. The letter on its own could be worked into a good article for one of the magazines he writes for on a freelance basis. The Royce mission offers a new angle on the turbulent times at the beginning of the Pacific war that could interest a publisher.

“Honestly, I haven’t read the letter for years. I just copied it without looking closely. All I can remember about the missing page is an image of fire, flickering flames. Deep and vivid reds as in a camp fire.”

“That would make sense in a war zone. He must have been describing something that had an impact on him,” Jed surmises.

‘It can’t be important. You got the gist of what he felt in the rest of the letter.”

“The gist, yes. It would be good to understand it all. Was it cannon fire?”

“No, nothing like that. Too obvious.”

“Machine gun fire, an engine fire?”

“No.”

“A fire bomb? Fireman? Firestorm?”

“No, no and no.” Alex sips her champagne, casting her eyes over the horizon and down the ranges to the dust below the verandah.

Jed sips from his champagne and continues the interrogation. ”Bush fire, firing squad, anti-aircraft fire, buildings on fire?”

“For heaven’s sake, I can’t remember! Let’s just enjoy the view before the sun sets. I may never get back here again!”

Jed feels the near miss heat of a blast of napalm directed at him and offers a sympathetic smile. “Okay, fire eyes, take it easy! Let’s enjoy the champagne and the view.” He pulls the cork on the second bottle.

Alex turns toward him. “That’s it!”

“It certainly is,” Jed says. “A great view, great champagne and great company,” happy the napalm has burnt out.

“No! That’s not what I mean! Fire eyes. Fire Eye! That’s what I mean. Karl was offered something called ‘Fire Eye’. He said no and gave it back.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jed asks, delicately balancing disbelief and excitement.

“Yes, I am! The fire I remember flickered inside the shape of an eye. Red and yellow flames, inside an oval shape. Not a camp fire or anything else. Something he was offered.”

“There’s a library inside. I’d like to check it out,” Jed says. “Like to bring your drink.” It is clearly a statement, not a question.

Alex picks up her drink with a questioning look and follows him into the homestead. Jed heads into the library room with its wooden bookcases lining the walls. Australiana, novels, photography books and miscellanea cram the shelves he scans with a practised eye.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Yes indeed,” Jed responds and keeps scanning, his finger guiding his eyes across each shelf left to right.

Malena comes into the room checking for glasses and sees his focussed attention. “Do you require any assistance?”

“Yes, possibly,” Jed replies. “It’s a long shot. I’m after a particular book.
Ships in the Coral
by Holthouse. Hector Holthouse.”

“That sounds like a rare one,” Malena says. “If there’s a copy, it would be in the private collection. I’ll go and check.”

“You know your books,” Alex comments, intrigued by another facet of Jed.

Jed likes that she has made time to notice something deeply personal about him! He could easily take this woman to bed; a dangerous step—one night stands are not part of his vocabulary. He keeps his thoughts well camouflaged. “I like my books. I’m also blessed with a good memory, but I don’t always use it. Got me through university though.”

Malena is back in minutes carrying a book. “Is this what you’re after?” After passing it carefully to Jed, she puts down a plate of biscuits, cheese and olives as a pre-dinner snack.

“That’s it, thank you.” Jed takes the volume over to a lounge chair and sits down, beckoning Alex to a take a seat next to him. He flicks through the book carefully, stopping at page nine. “Can you manage being read to?”

“I love being read too!” Alex responds with a childlike purr, picking up some snacks and settling into the chair with her champagne. “I’m all ears!”

Jed eyes her reclining figure and enjoys the transformation. So far he has seen the hard-headed business woman, the sensual dancer, the confident woman taking command of a handgun or aircraft and, now, the hint of innocence. Once again he feels arousal stirring. He squashes it quickly out of double guilt. He knows that attraction is not a straight uphill march but a journey of rises and falls. He is intrigued but shoves philosophy to one side and starts reading.

“‘The legend of Fire Eye has more variations than most,’” he reads from the book held in his lap, angled slightly to catch the light. “‘According to one version, a vessel assumed to have been Spanish was caught in a sudden storm and wrecked on a reef at the northeastern end of Stephens Island.’ That’s up the top of Cape York,” he explains before continuing. “‘About twelve white people including the captain and his wife put off in a boat and managed to get through to the beach. As the exhausted castaways staggered up the beach they were rushed by islanders and all of them were killed except the captain’s wife whom the chief took to his hut. She wore elaborate clothing and a great many glittering ornaments and also carried a little black box.’”

Reaching for his glass, he takes a sip of champagne before continuing.

“‘When the islanders managed to open the black box they found inside another ornament with a blood red stone that glittered in the light like fire. The astonished islanders, who had never seen anything like it, called the stone ‘Fire Eye’. That night there was feasting and a great dance of celebration about the Zogo, a sixty centimetre high idol mounted on a cairn of stones. The captain’s wife was brought out into the glare of the blazing fires and thrown onto the ground in front of the idol. The severed heads of the white men were placed on the cairn; the jewellery was taken from the woman and together with Fire Eye, draped over the Zogo.’”

Jed steals a glance at Alex, curled up in a ball holding her glass in both hands, eyes shut and head leaning back against the top of the lounge chair. Her face is relaxed, lips slightly parted and the scar down the side of her nose just visible. Looking carefully, he can also make out another small scar to the right above her top lip. He continues reading.

“‘Next day the islanders paddled out to the wreck looking for further spoil, but during the night the vessel had slipped into deep water and nothing was recovered. That night there was more feasting and dancing and then, in the early hours of the morning, the whole village slept. When the people awoke the white woman was gone. No trace of her could be found and it was assumed she had run into the sea and drowned. Fire Eye and all the jewellery the Spanish woman had saved from the wreck continued to adorn the Zogo for many years. Then stories reached the island of the coming of the missionaries who smashed the old gods, so the Zogo, still draped in the finery, was carried away and buried in a secret place. It has never been found.’”

Closing the book, Jed looks over at Alex curled up in the armchair. She opens her eyes slowly and refocuses on him. “What an incredible story! What does it have to do with us?”

“Maybe nothing, maybe a lot,” Jed suggests. “Let’s consider the facts. Karl left the Philippines with at least one Japanese-American. Pulling them out must have been a high priority for the Yanks. You suggest that one offered him something to take his daughter as well. The daughter seems to be part Aboriginal, therefore it seems that at some point he had a child with an Aboriginal woman. This man saw both sides of the conflict. I’m thinking he was some kind of double agent. Prior to the war, the Japanese had pearling fleets across the north of Australia and it’s well known that for some, their duties involved gathering information.”

“I didn’t know that and I bet lots of others don’t either. It sounds like you’re stretching a very long bow.”

“Perhaps Alex. All I’m doing is listing facts. How does a Japanese-American end up having a child with an Aboriginal woman? I’m going to be bloody blunt. In those days it often happened by rape or kidnapping. This is different—there appears to be love involved.”

“Ah,” she hums thoughtfully. “It depends on what kind of love may have been involved between them. Lust or respect? Did you know the Ancient Greeks had four words for love? Their language distinguished how the word is used.
Storgç
was the natural affection within the family,
philia
was about friendship,
çrôs
was passionate love with sensual desire and longing, while
agápç
described deeper love and cherishment different to
çrôs
. Clever people, the Ancient Greeks, to understand the difference.” She looks at him over the rim of the glass as she sips the champagne, her eyes thoughtful.

“We can discuss concepts of love later,” Jed says with barely concealed impatience. He is on the verge of being a principal again, but is on a roll. “Karl hinted this man had been in the Torres Strait and also said something about no more Kaldon Bays. I doubt there’s anywhere called Kaldon Bay. If there is I’ve never heard of it.”

The principal strikes again, brushing off the intangible to focus on the objective, making Alex seethe in silence.
He sounds so bloody confident. If he hasn’t heard of it, it is unlikely to exist!
She smiles politely, but promises to get that one back sometime.

“There is, however, a Caledon Bay in the Northern Territory,” Jed continues. “In the early thirties it was the scene of a massacre of Japanese fishermen. In 1932, members of a boat crew, whom some accuse of, abducted and raped a group of women in the Caledon Bay area of Northeast. The fishermen then attacked Yolngu men who came to rescue the women. In the resulting fight, five of the boat’s crew were killed. In a similar incident on Wonnan Island, two white men were killed. A policeman investigating the deaths was subsequently killed by Yolngu people.”

Alex listens intently without moving.

“According to witnesses, he handcuffed and raped a Yolngu woman, then fired his revolver at her husband who had responded to her cries for help. There are differing views. One is the massacre was payback for the treatment of Aboriginal women or because previous crews didn’t pay for the services of the women. All Japanese were seen as being from the same tribe so the innocent may have suffered for the guilty. The exact truth is difficult to ascertain. The whole affair had a big impact on relations with the indigenous people.”

Jed takes a breath and lifts his finger to emphasise his next point, but Alex beats him to it.

“Suppose our mystery man had been involved in a similar situation somewhere in the Torres Strait. Suppose he intervened and stopped the incident happening, ending up with the scar across his chest. And suppose he ended up romantically involved with an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander woman with whom he had a daughter. A grateful father could easily have given Fire Eye as a gift, or perhaps he stole it. There are multiple possibilities in the scenario. Even if the Fire Eye legend isn’t true or has nothing to do with the letter, there might be something interesting on that plane.”

Jed smiles in response to her enthusiasm. “I love seeing your mind at work! It works fast, even while drinking and stuffing food into your mouth.” Jed suddenly flinches as her foot catches him on his shin and his eyes water. Those Italian shoes certainly pack a punch! “What was that for?”

“Commenting on my mind was a compliment I appreciate. Adding a comment about stuffing my face and drinking was not a good combination! How on earth do you survive with women?”

Her eyes, he notes, flash with a mixture of fire and humour. He isn’t sure about the proportions.