Arcadia Read online




  About Arcadia

  A breathtaking Tasmanian tale of ancient forests; of art and science; of love and, above all, of friendship.

  In the 1930s, in an isolated and beautiful corner of southern Tasmania, a new young wife arrives at her husband’s secluded property – Arcadia. Stella, an artist, falls in love with Arcadia’s wild, ancient forest. And when an unknown predator strikes, she is saved by an unusual protector . . .

  Two generations later, Stella’s granddaughter, Sally, and her best friend, Jessica, stumble over Stella’s secret life in the forest and find themselves threatened in turn.

  What starts as a girls’ adventurous road trip becomes a hunt for the story of the past, to solve the present, and save their future . . .

  A modern mystery born in a timeless Tasmanian forest, from Australia’s favourite storyteller.

  Contents

  About Arcadia

  Title page

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  A suggested reading list . . .

  About Di Morrissey

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Digital imprint page

  To all environmental warriors, who do their best . . . who stand up, speak up, and do what they can, big and small, to protect the most precious thing in the universe – planet earth.

  Acknowledgements

  For my grandchildren, Sonoma, Everton, Bodhi and Ulani . . . who bring me joy and inspire me to make our world a better place – for them.

  Dearest Boris, loving, loyal and patient. And always there for me.

  My beloved children, Dr Gabrielle Hansen and Dr Nicolas Morrissey.

  To all the Revitt and Janjic families.

  Dear friend Bernadette Foley, thank you for once again doing a brilliant editing job.

  The loyal team at Pan Macmillan Australia – Ross Gibb, Tracey Cheetham, all the publishing, printing, and sales teams.

  Thanks Brianne Collins for your sharp-eyed copy editing and lovely notes, and to Super Editor Georgia Douglas.

  Thank you Ian Robertson AO and Holding Redlich.

  In Tasmania . . . old friends Robert Dessaix, Peter Timms, and the many new friends Boris and I made in our travels. Also . . . Assoc/Prof Alastair Richardson, Honorary Associate, School of Biological Sciences, Discipline of Zoology, University of Tasmania and Academic Director, The Bookend Trust.

  The staff at the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens.

  In the USA – thank you for your help, Dr Reese Halter, passionate environmentalist (DrReese.com).

  And special thanks to Paul Stamets, inspiring mycologist, author and advocate of bioremediation and medicinal fungi.

  In the Manning Valley, thank you Dr John Stockard, DDS OAM.

  Prologue

  South-east Tasmania, 1993

  Looking down from the dark green peaks, the specks of colour on the ledge above the stream could have been two small creatures, one blue, one red, inching their way above the rushing water. With careful, deliberate movements they seemed to be heading towards a gaping hole in the cliff face, a burrow, perhaps a cave?

  As the sub-zero wind swirled down from the mountains, ruffling treetops, the red speck suddenly staggered, before rolling off the ledge, through the last line of trees towards the narrow river that foamed around rocks as it rushed to the sea.

  The blue speck reacted immediately, and, if we were to zoom in on it, we’d find a small girl in a blue raincoat with its hood blowing off her chestnut hair. We’d see her slide down on her bottom, heedless of thorns and branches, and then force her way through the tangle of weeds, roots and long grass along the bank of the wild stream.

  The girl in the red raincoat was now slumped among the reeds, dazed and seemingly lifeless, her legs in the icy frothing water and mud oozing around her hair.

  ‘Sally! Sal . . . I’m here . . . get up!’ cried the other young girl as she splashed towards the white-faced figure. The force of the river flow was pulling her legs and dragging her into deeper water.

  The girl in blue pushed through the murky weeds, stumbling over submerged branches and rocks, shouting, ‘I’m coming, Sal . . .’

  When she reached the motionless red figure that was sliding further into the current, she grabbed an arm in a tug of war against the flow.

  ‘Sally! Wake up . . . help me.’ She tugged and struggled, feeling her feet slip as they sank into the mud. She felt panic loom as she began to sense that she wasn’t big enough, strong enough.

  The limp figure in red suddenly jerked, slipping out of the other girl’s hands, then rolled and gagged as the girl in blue frantically lunged, grabbing at the red raincoat. Coughing, the prone figure lifted her head, and then instinctively began scrabbling and clawing at the reeds.

  ‘Quick, Sally, take my hand.’

  Squelching and slipping, half crawling, the spluttering, sodden girl collapsed on the edge of the bank, spitting out muddy water and heaving for breath.

  ‘Sal . . . are you all right? What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel sick.’ She spat and coughed again. ‘Ugh.’

  ‘You fell off the ledge. You scared me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to fall!’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  Tears rolled down Sally’s frightened face as she nodded. ‘I want to go home, Jess.’

  ‘C’mon.’ Pulling Sally to her feet, all of a sudden Jessica saw not her brave, fearless friend but a small, hurt eight-year-old girl who winced and gasped with pain as she leaned against her.

  ‘Is anything broken?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Sally was at the edge of angry tears once more.

  ‘We have to get home, Sal. Come on. I’ll double you on my bike.’

  ‘Jess, they won’t let us come back to the cave,’ Sally mumbled miserably.

  ‘They don’t know about the cave. We’ll just say we were exploring.’

  Arms linked, one leaning against the other, the two girls slowly picked their way back up the bank from the river.

  Behind them, the winter mist slid down from the brooding hills, quickly obscuring the dank trees and surging water.

  1

  Hobart, 1999

  Sally sat close to Jessica in the crowded airport; both girls were swinging their legs and their eyes were downcast.

  ‘I hate this. It’s not fair. Why has your dad got to move?’ Sally twisted her hair, fiddling with the ends.

  ‘Sal, stop splitting the ends. It’s his job, you know that,’ Jessica said. ‘We’ll always be friends. You’ll come and visit, and Mum says we’ll come back here sometime to see the family. What about me?’ she added angrily. ‘I have to start over! A new school, no friends. It stinks. I’ll never have a best friend there like you. I’m closer to you than anyone. We’re better than sisters.’

  ‘Yeah, well, at least you have a brother, even if he is only seven. I don’t have anyone, except Mum and Dad. We’re teenagers, Jess, everyone says it’s the hardest time for us, in all our lives, and you’re moving away.’ Sally’s tone was accusing.

  ‘I know, but what can I do? It’s horrible. Don’t blame me, Sal.’

  The two girlhood friends glanced over at the group at a nearby table: Jessica’s parents, her brother, Anth
ony, and Sally’s mother, Mollie.

  ‘You promised, remember. To phone me, and write and stuff.’

  ‘Of course. You too.’

  ‘It’s worse for me, ’cause I’m stuck here,’ Sally said. ‘You’ll be having adventures, doing new things, at least.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Like I’ll be having fun in the big smoke! I miss our farm already.’

  ‘Sydney will be more interesting than here . . . oh, here comes your mum,’ Sally said.

  ‘Sorry, girls, it’s time to say au revoir. Not goodbye. We’ll be back at Christmas, I’m sure. And I’ve spoken to your mum about you coming and staying with us next year for the Olympics, Sal. Won’t that be exciting?’ Mrs Foster leaned down to kiss Sally, and then she looked at the two of them. ‘You girls will always be friends. You’ve grown up together, and that creates a special bond. Now come over here, both of you, we want to take a photo.’

  The girls dutifully stood together, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling rigidly at the camera. Then as the two mothers embraced, and Jessica’s father and brother waved goodbye and started to head through the departure gate, the girls hugged each other tightly, tears now spilling down their cheeks. At fourteen, each felt they’d never have such a good friend, ever, ever again. It just wasn’t fair.

  Sally stood beside her mother as they watched the plane begin to taxi away from the gate.

  ‘I’m going to be so lonely,’ Sally said.

  ‘Sal, you have lots of friends,’ said her mother. ‘Jess will have a much harder time; she doesn’t know anyone in Sydney. But no one will be as close as you two. Believe me. C’mon, we have to get home to Dad.’

  *

  Sally’s mother was right. As time passed, the girls remained ‘besties’ even though they followed different paths and only saw each other every couple of years. They knew their friendship would always be there. Rock solid.

  Jessica’s mother had been right too: their shared childhood had created a special bond between them, perhaps partly because of the isolation of the small Tasmanian township in which they’d grown up. At the time they hadn’t considered their home on the south-east coast of the island state to be out of the ordinary, but looking at it through adult eyes they saw they had been raised in a magical adventureland, with horses to ride, bikes to race through woods and lanes, fruit to pick and dogs to chase, creeks and cliffs to explore, rivers to row and fish, bays to sail, and wild deserted beaches and coves to picnic and sometimes swim.

  They’d shared secrets and dangers and dreams. And yet each was as different from the other as could be.

  Sally Adamson was a dreamer, with curly blonde hair and grey–blue eyes. She was seemingly the quiet one, but her droll sense of humour was appreciated by the extroverted Jessica, with her dark brown curls, blue eyes, and ready laugh.

  Their parents thought of them as chalk and cheese and often laughed about how they were the perfect example of opposites attracting. They had come to regard them as a pair who were only separated by sleeping at home during the school week; they had sleepovers on weekends and camped with one family or the other during the holidays.

  So when Jessica’s father was transferred to Sydney to take up an appointment at Sydney University, managing one of the science laboratories, it was a huge wrench. But the girls’ friendship survived. And flourished. They saw each other as often as they could, and both wrote copious outpourings in letters to the other, as phone calls were considered too expensive for idle gossip during their schooldays.

  In their early twenties they went overseas together for a year. And although they’d sworn they’d remain single, free and adventurous for as long as possible, Sally fell head over heels in love and brought home a fiancé – Toby Sandford, a Tasmanian country lad who was backpacking before heading home to help on his parents’ farm.

  They had so much in common. Sally, who’d grown up on her grandfather’s property, Arcadia, in the south-east of the island state, was keen to settle down to a rural lifestyle. They held their wedding in the gardens of Arcadia, which Sally’s mother had inherited, and that was where the couple decided they would live and farm. Jessica was bridesmaid and then returned to Sydney, where she was building her career at the university, following in her father’s footsteps.

  Not long after Sally’s wedding, Jessica was swept off her feet by advertising executive Harden Blake. They moved into a smart apartment in Mosman with glimpses of Sydney Harbour, and eighteen months later they married in a small, trendy ceremony in the garden of an exclusive Bellevue Hill home belonging to a friend of Hardy’s.

  Toby moved off his parents’ farm and he and Sally settled into farm life at Arcadia. They lived for several happy years in a small cottage on the property, but when Sally’s father tragically died of a heart attack, and not long afterwards Sally became pregnant, Mollie insisted the young couple take over the big house, and she moved into the cottage.

  While Sally was pregnant, she and Mollie went to Sydney to visit Jessica, and Sally said to her friend, ‘I’m barefoot, pregnant and happy. We’re shopping for baby stuff for the nursery and I’m being spoiled.’ She grinned. ‘When are you going to have a baby and settle down too?’

  ‘I am settled down!’ exclaimed Jessica. ‘I’m married, we have good jobs and an amazing apartment. What else could I want? We’re not ready for babies yet. Hardy wants the big house, garden, pool and the directorship at the agency first.’

  Sally looked at her oldest and best friend. It seemed their lives had become worlds apart. ‘But what do you want, Jess? I guess you’ve moved on from rural Tassie but, I don’t know, I just thought, well, that we wanted the same things.’

  ‘Of course we do!’ Jessica hugged her. ‘Nothing has really changed. I’m not ready to be a mum, that’s all.’

  Sally hugged her back, but she suspected there was more to the story.

  Their busy lives absorbed them and their visits with each other were sporadic. Toby, the quiet, calm farmer, and Hardy, the slick, ambitious ad executive, couldn’t have been more different, so the girls tended to see each other without their partners. On one trip Sally brought baby Katie to Sydney, and they all had lunch at Jessica’s parents’ home. Sally told them how she and Toby were developing new products, turning Arcadia’s old paddocks and land into a producing farm. Meanwhile Jessica finished her PhD and was stepping up the career ladder, taking on more respon­sibility managing one of the research labs in the university where she’d studied.

  A year or two later, Sally called Jessica via Skype for a catch-up on her birthday and they paused to consider when they’d last seen each other, been together, just the two of them. They were surprised and saddened to discover how long it’d been.

  Well, this is life, this is how it goes, Sally thought. Busy, fulfilled, happy, successful enough, but knowing one could always call upon the other.

  Then one day, the call came.

  ‘Sal, it’s me. I need to see you. I’m coming back home. Just me.’

  A myriad of fears and questions leapt to Sally’s mind, but she simply answered, ‘Of course, Jess. When, where? I’ll meet you.’

  For the moment every tree was still. The sun was sliding behind the mountain peaks, haloed in spun-gold light. But the beauty of the land around her took second place in her mind as Sally put her phone back in her pocket and thought about her friend.

  South-east coast of Tasmania, 1935

  Stella Holland lowered her field glasses, which Stephen had bought on a trip to Sydney, as his wedding present to her. She was thrilled with them. They were so much sharper than the old opera glasses she’d been using for years, and were especially made for the outdoors. They hung on a stiff leather strap around her neck, nestling against her paisley silk blouse. Bringing them to her eyes again, she swivelled to focus as she scanned the canopy of the old eucalypt forest.

  She studied a thick branch whe
re it joined the solid trunk. In the sinking light, she concentrated on a shape that was visible behind a gently moving curtain of leaves.

  She caught her breath. Yes, there it was, the bulky body sheathed in patterned feathers like a padded cape or coat flung movie-star–style over the shoulders, baring its creamy white breast. There was no mistaking the dramatic white-masked face, a kohl-black outline framing the dark eyes and its curved beak as the bird sat motionless, observing the minutiae of the forest floor and the clearing between them.

  Her hands remained steady, but she breathed softly to herself, ‘White masked owl.’ It was the creature she had most wanted to observe. It had taken her a while to identify the screech she’d heard, after trying to mimic it to several other birdwatchers she’d met. It was not the gentle hoo-hoo she’d expected from the secretive night owl. When she’d invited the small birdwatching group to visit their woodland, the more experienced leader had pointed out the strange furry regurgitated pellet and white droppings at the base of a tree where the owl had been feeding. Since then, she’d made sure to watch the big old tree. She knew that although masked owls could be found all over the state, it was unusual to see one in the area around Burridge, the closest town to the Hollands’ property. They were much more common up in the north of the island.

  As if hearing her, the bird lifted its gaze and stared directly at her with an unwavering, fearless, slightly curious expression that caused Stella to pull her face away from the binoculars, half expecting to find the owl directly in front of her.

  Stella glanced through the undergrowth to the grassy clearing that bordered the stands of old eucalyptus trees they called the Far Forest. The massive, ancient swamp gums towered above the thick understorey, their buttress roots covered in rough grey bark while the trunks trailed streamers of bark, revealing a faint blush of pale wood like a peeling sunburn. Between their outstretched branches were hidden hollows.

  Looking back up at the tree she’d been studying, Stella could discern the faint blurry shape of the owl clinging to one of its branches. She knew she was far too obvious, so she shrank back between the trees, gathering her composure as each waited for the other’s next move.