Following a steep winding climb from the Stuart Gorge to the top of the Murray Pass, before the road goes down the other side towards the sea, there is a rest area. One grey, misty day in July, about 3 p.m., I had parked my car in the rest area, taking a short break before resuming my journey down to Milne Bay.
I had only been there five minutes when another car approached from the sea side – a light blue wagon, probably a Toyota, though I’m not sure. The car was driven by a man, possibly a business man, for he appeared smartly dressed; but it was impossible to see his face, or describe his features.
Suddenly the car swerved, the driver lost control, and the next moment it was over the precipice and bouncing down the slope towards the Stuart River. It came to a halt, upside down, several metres below where I rested.
My first thought was to wait for another vehicle to summon help, but I knew few cars used that road and it might be some time before another arrived. In the meantime, the car may have caught fire, or the unfortunate man could have been lying there dying. Being a doctor, I decided to make my way at once down the hillside to try to save the man, or at least pull him free should he be already dead.
It took about ten minutes to climb down the slope. It was very steep in parts and loose rocks and thorn bushes hindered my progress. At last I arrived at the car. I looked inside the upturned vehicle, but it was empty. I concluded that the man must have been thrown out, or that he had miraculously walked from the car when it had come to a stop. But there was no sign of him.
I must have searched for about half an hour in the undergrowth around the stationary vehicle, and also up the slope following the track it had made when it tumbled down the slope; but still I could find no sign of him. I returned eventually to the wrecked vehicle to take another look inside lest my eyes had deceived me the first time, or he had been thrown towards the rear of the car and concealed somewhere beneath the rear seat. As I peered through the passenger-side rear window, I felt a heavy object strike the back of my head, and I fell unconscious to the ground.
Several minutes must have passed before I came to. I looked at my watch and the time was now 4.25 p.m. It would soon be dark. I stood up, felt rather dizzy, so sat down again on the branch of a fallen tree. I sat for some time reflecting on the strange events that had befallen me before I realised that something even more peculiar was amiss. The car had vanished! My first thought was that it must have rolled further down the slope after I had been attacked, but the foliage close by told another story. Not only was it downtrodden by some very heavy object, but oil had leaked from the car’s sump and I saw a black pool of oil only a few metres from where I sat. Furthermore, the foliage lower down remained undisturbed.
I determined to be away from that wretched place as quickly as possible, but before departing I tied a red handkerchief to the branch of the fallen tree to facilitate finding the spot again. I hastened up the slope to my own car, but had to take frequent rests before I finally reached the car shortly after 5 p.m., just before sunset.
I fumbled as I unlocked the door and pushed my way inside before locking all the doors. I sat, breathing heavily, for some minutes. The back of my head throbbed and I could hear the beat of my heart thumping loudly in my inner ear.
After a few minutes I resumed my journey down towards the seaside town of Milne Bay, driving very slowly. I decided not to go to the Police, fearing that they would not believe a word of my unlikely tale. So instead I went to the house of my friend and spiritual guide, Father Martin.
I parked outside and stumbled towards his front door. The bell wasn’t working, so I hammered on the door with my fists. After a few seconds the light went on in the hallway, and shortly afterwards the door opened and Martin stared into my face. It must have seemed as if I’d seen a ghost for Martin was much taken aback by my appearance.
“What is it John, my friend? What’s happened? Come inside quickly.”
We went inside and sat down in the lounge in front of a blazing log fire. Martin gave me a brandy to steady my nerves.
“What’s happened?” he repeated.
Eventually I was able to compose myself to relate my frightening tale to the priest. He listened patiently and without comment. When I had finished he said, “You must go to the Police.”
“No,” I replied. “We must go and search the area ourselves to see if we can unravel this mystery. I’m convinced there’s something sinister at work. The Police would not believe a word of the story. You believe me, don’t you Father?”
“Of course,” he replied. But I wasn’t so sure that he did.
The next morning, at first light, Father Martin and I set off for the rest area at the top of the pass. We parked the car and got out. We stood for a few moments looking down the slope. I indicated to Father Martin the route the car must have taken when it tumbled down the hillside. I could see my red handkerchief, clearly visible several metres below.
“But there is no indication of any damage to the fence,” said Martin, “and I cannot see that the undergrowth has been disturbed.’
I had to agree.
We made our way down the slope to the spot which I had marked with the handkerchief. The descent took us several minutes as my portly friend found the going tough. His plump cheeks flushed red, and sweat poured from his brow.
There was, of course, no sign to show where the vehicle had lain, nor a trace of spilt oil. We sat down on the branch of the tree, silently pondering the mystery. Martin took his own handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead and around his eyes.
Could I have imagined the whole thing? My sore head told me otherwise. Perhaps I had just fallen and hurt my head. If not, then what mysterious forces had been at work? Was it the work of the Devil? Father Martin thought so.
A sound broke the silence. It was a woman’s voice, singing, some distance away close to the river. It was a strange haunting sound. A chill ran down my spine. Martin and I exchanged glances and could see the fear in each other’s eyes. We wanted to run, but some force compelled us to stay adhered to the branch.
The voice grew louder as the woman approached. Then she came into view. She was beautiful – tall, slim, with blonde wavy hair stretching halfway down her back. She was bare-footed and wore a bikini made from foliage. She appeared not to feel the cold. While she drew nearer, she continued singing her haunting melody.
She stopped a few metres away from us and looked directly at me. Her blue eyes seemed to penetrate inside of me as if she knew me. I felt like she had some kind of power over me.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I am Lana, the Queen of the forest. You have returned here to seek the man whose car ran off the road yesterday. Come, I’ll take you to him.”
We followed Lana down the slope, knowing not where we were going, nor the purpose of this visit. But the same strange force compelled us to do as the woman told us. We walked for about fifteen minutes before we arrived at the river, and then followed it upstream for another five minutes. We came to a halt outside a small opening to a cave.
“This is my home,” said Lana, pointing towards the cave entrance.
We followed her inside to discover a very spacious cavern that had been converted into a home with a certain degree of comfort. There was a table and chairs, cupboards and shelves full of household objects, a bed. In one corner, a curtain concealed what appeared to be a bathroom.
A man lay on the bed. He seemed to be sleeping. He was still dressed in the suit, collar and tie, just as I remembered him. I studied his features. He had a black beard, greying at the tips and wore glasses. He must have been in his mid forties, twenty or so years my senior. I was struck by how much he resembled my father, but it was not him. My father had died of cancer two years previously.
“His name is John,” said Lana. I started at the mention of my own name, but it is common enough, so thought no more of it. “John and I want to be married and we want you, Father, to marry us today.”
“This is most irregular,” replied Martin. “How can you want to marry someone you’ve only just met?”
“We first met more than twenty years ago,” said Lana. “We fell in love. But it was not our time. John had to leave, for his business was not done. Now his work has finished, and he has come back to me. We want to be together - forever.”
Father Martin had no choice. Any doubts he had about performing the ceremony were overwhelmed by the power of the woman, a supernatural kind of power.
The man awoke. We stared at each other in mutual recognition.
“Why did you hit me?” I asked.
“I’m sorry about that,” he replied. “But it was necessary. You had to go to fetch the Father. Without the disappearance of myself, and then the car, you would not have come back with him.”
We all rested and shared a meal together. Shortly after noon, Father Martin performed the marriage ceremony. I was the only witness.
“It is time for you to go now,’ said Lana. Father Martin and I prepared to depart.
After we had passed through the entrance to the cave and glanced back, I looked again at the woman who stood at the entrance watching us go. She was beautiful, and I knew that I wanted her for myself. I felt a jealousy in my heart for the man John. I was in love with Lana.
“We will meet again,” she reassured me.
Reluctantly we set off on our journey. When we had walked a few metres, I again looked back, hoping to get one last glimpse of the woman. We could see no sign of her or of the entrance to the cave. A bare wall of rock was in its place. Had it all been a dream?
* * * * *
Over the years I have thought many times about Lana and have desperately hoped that her promise will come true and that I will see her again someday. I have never married, but have dedicated my life to cancer research in memory of my father. My successful results have just been published in ‘The Lancer’, and my work is finished.
It is now twenty one years to the day since those memorable events took place. I am driving up the road from Milne Bay to the top of the Murray Pass. The phone is ringing.
“Father Martin! How are you?”
“John, brace yourself. Be prepared for what must happen.”
He is still speaking as I lose control of my blue Toyota wagon and plunge over the edge of the precipice. But all I can hear is Lana singing in the distance, and I know that our day has come.
