Cale and the Hidden Stones, page 6
“Cale,” began Rosie tentatively, “how come I saw what you saw?”
Cale shrugged, not altogether pleased to share what had been a private thing, but relieved that he wasn’t going mad.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“When you saw the old man,” continued Rosie, gesturing to the notebook, “Do you remember where you were and what you were doing?”
“I was resting on a warm rock,” he said. As he was telling her this, a thought came to him as it had to Rosie. As always, she was much quicker to see the obvious.
“Do you think we could get another vision by sitting against the rock walls here?” she suggested.
Cale nodded his agreement and they both climbed part way up the rock to sit with their backs to the granite. At first, nothing happened, and they simply stared into the waters running slowly below their perch. Then they both grew drowsy, perhaps due to the morning’s walk, perhaps due to the warm sun.
The young man with the easy smile came into sight, walking towards them from upstream. He walked with a spring in his step that contrasted with the dogged persistence he had displayed before. He stopped and squatted by the running waters, drinking a little and then sitting in the warm sunlight. He was speaking to himself.
“If we’d known how close we were, he could have delayed a little longer,” he said, obviously referring to his friend, “but perhaps it is best that I complete this alone. He needs to make his own journey and he’d already delayed too long on my account.”
He fell silent for a minute.
“Cockatoo colours indeed,” he said with a smile. “Why did I not see that from the very beginning? Finding the guardian was good fortune, perhaps or perhaps not by chance but to be expected. Either way the stone is in safe hands, and now I can go home.” At this he picked up his bundle, clearly lighter than it had been before, and continued downstream.
Cale and Rosie looked at each other as they emerged from their dreamy state.
“We must be very close,” said Cale.
“Let’s go and get the stone,” responded Rosie, decisive as always. She rose to her feet and began leading the way upstream.
Uncle Andrew was nowhere to be seen and Cale hesitated, but Rosie did not wait and so he followed her. He couldn’t believe this was going to be so easy as he hastened to catch up with Rosie.
As Cale emerged from the brief ravine, he saw Rosie standing motionless, and he saw why. The riverbed narrowed briefly and the rocky walls closed in before the river widened again into a shallow pool. The riverbed here was deeper than he’d expected but there was no sign of coloured stone. There were signs of people’s activity everywhere they looked. Iron spikes buried deep into the granite rock, the rotting timbers of a small rail line, and the riverbed deep and featureless. They ventured closer to the water and looked about with the overhead sun streaming down into the pool.
“It’s gone,” cried Rosie, with anguish and fury in her voice.
“Indeed,” said Uncle Andrew, who had come up behind them unheard. “This was the main quarry in the early days, over a hundred years ago. The smaller amount of river stone further downriver was too difficult to get out once this supply was exhausted and then the area became a nature reserve. Once that happened, the river stone was sourced from elsewhere. I hadn’t expected them to be so thorough. There’s not much left here now.”
Rosie sat down with a bump and a huff of frustration. Cale was dumbfounded. Uncle Andrew continued to meander further upstream, oblivious to their distress.
“There’s no black stone back there,” Cale stated flatly, “and there’s no river stone here at all. We’ve come too late.”
They had fallen at the first hurdle, and both felt the emptiness of failure.
Uncle Andrew returned after a long amble around the former quarry site. He seemed to have satisfied his appetite for discovery and suggested they return to the car for a late lunch. The children agreed and the return walk seemed to pass more quickly than the outward one. The insect chattering seemed even louder on their return journey, and Cale thought that he almost heard voices, and they sounded agitated. He could almost make out words, but like a distant radio they were just sounds that refused to make sense.
“Can you hear the noise?” Cale quietly asked Rosie. “The voices?”
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I can’t make out what they are saying.”
“Neither can I,” admitted Cale.
She had also noticed movement, a flickering in the corner of her eye, but when she looked there was nothing. It was disconcerting. As they retraced their steps and the rocky path gave way to the clay riverbank, the chattering and the movement faded.
In time they returned to the picnic area and, taking the lunch basket from the car, sat on a rug by the dry grassy flat before the riverbank, in a patch of shade, avoiding the mounds of large, fearsome ants that were common in the area. They ate in silence, Cale taking the opportunity to write in his notebook. He passed it to Rosie for her to read, which she did. She idly flicked back to Cale’s drawing of the three stones and his recollection of the old man’s instructions. She put down the notebook to think.
Cale had told Rosie that ‘cockatoo colours’ must refer to the black and white cockatoos that was so common. But there was no indication that the river stone had any of those colours. They were missing something obvious.
In the short grass, not far from their picnic, a pair of birds landed. They were parrots with pale grey wings and pink feathers on their chest. Their heads were topped with the same pale pink. One of the birds opened its wings and screeched, showing a powerful stubby beak. The pair of parrots pecked at fallen grass seeds and swivelled their heads, looking around with a bright eye, ignoring the people.
“What are they?” she asked pointing.
“Galahs,” Cale replied quickly. “Pink and grey galahs. You see them everywhere. We had flocks of them up north.” He returned to his book, into which he had characteristically withdrawn.
“Don’t you think the colours look familiar?” she continued, not one to be put off so easily.
Cale put down his book and looked. He was so familiar with the birds that he hadn’t really looked at them. He often saw them on the side of the road, in pairs like these or in larger flocks. Now he sat up and looked. They had the same dominant colours as the river stone. Then he lay down abruptly.
“They are galahs, not cockatoos,” he decreed, squelching Rosie’s line of thinking.
“Galahs are cockatoos,” Uncle Andrew interjected. Once again, they had forgotten that he was there. “I think I mentioned that earlier when we were talking about the white-tailed black cockatoo and the forest cockatoo,” he said. “The pink and grey galah is a very common cockatoo found all over the country, often in pairs like those or in flocks.”
He then continued to lecture them on native bird species in more detail, but their minds were elsewhere. The penny had dropped for them, as it had for the young man so long ago. The connection was obvious. They had found the right place and the right stone.
After a while, Uncle Andrew wandered off downstream to ‘see a man about a dog’.
“Perhaps we should go back up the river and look at the stone that is still there,” suggested Cale once his uncle was out of earshot.
“I don’t think so,” replied Rosie after a moment’s thought. “We saw him coming back from further upstream, where the stone has been quarried. He didn’t have the fragment but seemed to have just completed his task. Somehow he hid the fragment in the river stone. Perhaps we can find out where the river stone went,” she added, putting her thoughts together as she spoke. “The fragment isn’t here. We found where it was, but we know that the river stone was cut out and used in the city. The stone is very distinctive and now we know what it looks like.”
She pointed at the galahs, still pecking at the grass stems.
“We can’t give up yet,” she said firmly. Cale leapt up with a start.
“There can’t be that many places in the city with hundred-year-old river stone,” he said with excitement. “It would have been expensive, and they would show it off. We can find it!” He danced about in a circle while Rosie smiled to herself; he was such an interesting boy.
Uncle Andrew returned and suggested they head back home. They were eager to go and helped pack up the remains of their lunch.
As they returned to the car, a motorbike pulled into the small picnic area. It was large and loud, and the rider was even larger with a long grey and brown beard flowing from his visor-less helmet. His leather vest revealed massive, tattooed arms. As he stopped not far from their car, a stream of other motorbikes pulled in behind him. They all wore leather of various types and had the same club insignia on their backs.
Cale was frightened and Rosie raised her chin in defiance. Uncle Andrew urged them to get quickly into the car but then dropped his car keys into the dusty gravel while trying to unlock the door. The noise and red dust kicked up by the loud motorcycles was intimidating. The bikies looked fearsome and anxiety rose in all of them. They were all alone in this deserted place.
The rider who had stopped first dismounted from his bike, removing his open helmet to reveal a shaved, balding head mostly covered by a red bandana. He said a few words to the riders closest to him, which were greeted with laughter, and began walking towards the car. His enormous arms were matched by his enormous belly, and he strode with a stiff legged gait in his high black boots. He made his way over to them and stopped in front of Uncle Andrew.
Uncle Andrew quailed before the enormous figure that towered over him. The other bikes had all arrived and as their engines stopped the silence was sudden and immense.
“She’s a little beauty,” the giant said into the silence in a thin and raspy voice. He removed his dusty sunglasses and squinted at the old car. “Falcon XR?” he enquired politely but with considerable interest.
Uncle Andrew drew a deep breath as the bearded nightmare transformed into a bloke with an interest in his car. The tension ran out of him and he began to breathe again.
“Yes v8, automatic, ‘66,” he said. “Bought it when I was a lad and had it ever since. Seen no reason to change. I keep it in good nick.” He bent to pick up the car keys from the gravel. “Like a look?” he asked.
The big man’s beard parted to reveal a toothy smile and he nodded.
“Call me Bruce,” he said with a smile. He shook hands with a bone grinding grip.
The two men spent some time peering into the car and under the bonnet. Some others of the bikie convoy wandered over; they expressed their admiration and shared some stories of their own early cars. Cale and Rosie began to realise that the old car was actually in very fine condition and much more valuable than they had suspected. Uncle Andrew was more animated and chattier than they had ever seen him as he discussed the vehicle and how he had sourced spare parts and how he had renewed the paint and chrome.
Eventually they bid farewell to the genial giant and his rough-looking companions and left for the city. After they had driven a little while Rosie dissolved in laughter and Cale followed. Even Uncle Andrew seemed to get the joke and the sense of relief was a fine end to the day. Uncle Andrew drove like a different person, showing that the old car still had plenty of power.
The trip had been without result, but not entirely fruitless.
“We are on the right track,” Rosie said quietly to Cale.
“We are on their trail,” Cale replied. “But now we are on our own. We need to follow the stone and find where it is now. I have an idea how to find out,” he continued. “I know someone who can help.”
He looked meaningfully at his uncle and they both smiled.
“Who would have thought?” said Rosie.
Chapter 8: Stone seeking
At dinner that evening Cale asked his uncle, with an air of indifference, if he knew which buildings in the city would have used the river stone that was quarried over a hundred years ago.
“It would be interesting to see where the river stone went,” Cale said trying to keep his enthusiasm in check.
“Funny you should ask that,” Uncle Andrew replied. “I’ve got a book on the older buildings of the city.” With that he left the table. Cale again wondered at the extent of his uncle’s library, and where in the house he kept these books. He certainly wasn’t getting them from the small library he’d shown Cale.
In time he returned with a small, hardcover volume.
“I found this quite interesting,” Uncle Andrew said, flicking through a few pages. “I don’t recall mention of the river stone, but these buildings are about the right age. They would have used imported materials, but that was very expensive so long ago. A local material like the river stone would have been cheaper by comparison, but still cost a hefty amount. I’d guess some of these could have used it.”
He handed the book to Cale and picked up a letter off the table, waving it into the air.
“Your mother has written,” he said, “asking if you can stay with me for a bit longer. There’s been some delay getting settled. Shall I tell her you are happy to stay for a few more days?” Cale interpreted this as his uncle’s willingness to have him and was delighted.
“Terrific,” Cale replied enthusiastically, “thanks for having me.”
His uncle smiled and put the letter away. He’d not expected to have grown fond of the company. Even that girl had made his life a little more interesting. He thought he would spend the next day working on the car, cleaning and polishing it. The run had been good for the engine, and he felt energised after the rare day out and about.
***
The next morning found Rosie sitting in Uncle Andrew’s kitchen. The weather had turned unseasonably wet and cold. Uncle Andrew had gone into the backyard after Rosie arrived, as was his wont, and was nowhere to be seen. Since the trip, Rosie’s presence didn’t seem to irritate him anymore. However, she was irritating Cale, who was used to having lots of time to himself. If Rosie suspected she was intruding, and she was usually quick on the uptake, then she didn’t allow Cale’s discomfort to deter her. Cale’s enthusiasm for the search had waned in the cold light of day and she was working hard to rekindle his enthusiasm.
Rosie had been looking through the slim volume provided by Uncle Andrew. It was called “Perth City Sketchbook” and contained pencil drawings of older buildings in the inner city, drawn in simple, neat lines. It also gave some background about their history and construction. It was clear to Rosie that three or four buildings would be likely places to look, and she was trying to get Cale to pay attention.
“I can’t see why we don’t just head into town and have a look,” she was saying to Cale while he tried to read his story about four children and a dog. “We’ve seen what the river stone looks like,” she said. “It can’t be that hard to find. It’s too bad that these sketches are in black and white.”
Cale sighed and closed his book.
“I already asked Uncle this morning, and he does not want to go to town. He was very firm about it. ‘I go into town once a year and that is once too often’,” Cale said, echoing the force of his uncle’s feelings on the subject.
In fact, Cale realised that his uncle rarely went further than the local shop and marvelled that they had gotten him to take them into the hills. Since their return the car had gone back to its mysterious garage and Uncle Andrew had retreated into his normal reclusive routine.
“I don’t see how we can get there. Did you ask your mum?” Cale countered.
“She goes to town as often as she can, but she doesn’t want to take me with her. I think I’ve rather burnt my bridges there,” she admitted ruefully, “after the last time. I got a little lost.”
Her face coloured and Cale guessed the episode had been unpleasant; typical Rosie acting first and thinking later. Cale smiled at the thought. Lost indeed.
“Then I guess we are stuck,” Cale concluded, not displeased to have an excuse to withdraw from the search. He started to open his book again.
“We can get a bus into town,” Rosie suggested quickly.
“My uncle will never agree to that,” responded Cale, “and neither will your mum.”
“We don’t have to tell them,” Rosie continued, her plan now becoming clearer to Cale.
“I don’t have any money,” Cale offered, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
“I’ve got plenty of money,” said Rosie, showing him her purse. “Dad gives me regular pocket money,” she said. “Mum says it is guilt money and I shouldn’t take it. Then she matches it dollar for dollar. Parents - hard to figure. Anyway, I’ve lots of cash. Mum thinks I’m here for the day, I told her you’d asked me to stay for lunch. She was happy about that. Your uncle hardly notices whether we are here or not. Come on, this is our chance.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” replied an increasingly uncomfortable and reluctant Cale.
***
Cale sat on the bus next to Rosie.
The day had begun cloudy and overcast and unseasonably cool. The wind, that had been light when they had left home, was picking up and the sky was becoming darker. Cale had forgotten that it rained more often down south. In the north, rain was rare, and when it did rain it was much warmer than this. He wanted to go back to his uncle’s house. He wasn’t sure how he had been talked into this trip to town, and his mood matched the weather.
Rosie however was beside herself with excitement. Cale thought she positively glowed with self-satisfaction and had done so since they got on the bus to town. This also irritated him.
They got off the bus at the main bus station, which was very busy.
Rosie took the lead, and they made their way, with many turns to the left and right, to the busy pedestrian mall in the centre of town. They did this by generally going in the direction of the other pedestrians. Once they were in the flow it was hard to go any other way. Everyone else seemed to know where they were going and were in a hurry to get there. There were young people with backpacks, middle aged men in suits and ties, and old people with maps and cameras. They all seemed at ease and ignored the two children completely, unless they slowed down and got underfoot. Rosie wasn’t sure how to get back to the bus station but wasn’t concerned. Cale was overwhelmed by the noise and the people.
