Lillian Pearce

LILLIAN PEARCE

PART TWO OF THE LEDGEND OF MARBUK

I lay flat on the brown pine needles and gum leaf floor of the Urban Forest in the city Brisbane. My raging thoughts drift to a buoyed moment because of good news: news which assured me an entrance to the University, with a Science degree to be my apogee. My world and all of its promise opened up like Venetian Blinds which snapped open to reveal a brand new day. But this was not to be; not a brand new day; only dusk, where shadows lurked with a promise of suspense.

As if on cue, to complicate the burgeoning sense of drama, the visual scenes of horror were stapled together with natures sounds of Wattle Birds with the garrulous cut box- cut box- calls resounding through the trees—almost saying—Hey get here--- there is food.. And my present thought which mingles with the other horror. Juxtapose is the scent of Native Daphne trees penetrating into my space and in this moment I am violently grabbed with huge knuckled fingers which encircle me.

‘Get her, chuck her down’ the male voice is harsh. Heavy breathing breaks the night. Spittle lobs on my face and in my eyes, but I fight back kicking and screaming: nobody comes. I am falling slowly to the ground as if in slow motion and so much dirt bites into my mouth. I am rolled on the ground. In that micro second I see a leering face. A white face, with gleaming white teeth, just like a dingo, which my forebears kept as pets The Dingo man drools saliva and I feel a painful penetration in my lower body. I smell his beery sodden breath and watch his silent lips opening and shutting in tune to the thrusting. His light blue eyes close as he arches his back—he flops on me while the fluid drips all down my stomach. My stare caused it I think. The blow with a bunched fist into my jaw was maybe in his mind that I was the cause of his hate. The Wattle birds were quiet. The heavy breathing abated. I hear zippers being closed and my mind goes blank.

The old, puzzling dream which comes and goes many times. The voice of a man named Marbuk speaks with a gentle tone. I see flashing colours which emanate .from the presence but cannot pick up on a face .I hear his words.

‘Go back Lilian.It is not your time’ I open my eyes into a bright morning and feel a clawing pain in my lower stomach. The walls around the bed which I am on are all white. I smell disinfectant. I look around and know I am in hospital. Mum, Dad and a Doctor stand nearby. The Doctor looks anxious and my parents have torn strained faces. They hold my hand for a moment and kiss me on the forehead. The Doctor shakes his head and it appears that I might die, and these thoughts echo through my coma like state until I finally pull out. I look in the mirror on the cabinet and although I look a mess I am alive. I thank God for that and vow to pray a lot more from then on.

* .

THE DREAM

The dream comes back with a lot more clarity which I always wished for, without success; I am once again on a Hospital Bed. People come and go however they appear in old style clothing and the room is old style, as well. I can’t figure out what period it is. Marbuk--- he again---- whispers to me of lives long past which is gibberish to me. I feel lost: no other humans are nearby and I call out in a weak voice—where am I? - I am in two worlds is the thought I have. I feel my face, its features and the hard muscled arms. I reach down to my groin and know that I am a man. I see a head arise from the foot of the bed and it’s a young woman. I recognize her because she wears rings that I once gave her. She is sobbing and she cries out.

’Oh Marbuk—do not leave me- I am so sorry. ’And I feel her pain in the centre of my body. I sweat profusely with the beads running from my forehead, evenly, while the moisture brushes my hot cheeks. The scene changes and I am standing before ancient looking people in another place: a well lit place with colours of which I have never seen. A booming voice calls out ‘To be reborn.’

I wake with a jolt and sit up in my present bed at home I am drenched in sweat and I see a clock at my bedside which tells me it is 6am.I shower and while I am drying I gaze in the mirror to confirm that I am still Lillian Pearce. Part Aboriginal—a Queensland Cop and now attached to the Crime Scene Investigations Branch: a woman who was raped some time back in a bushland, which is adjacent to the University, where I studied for a science degree. Where I obtained top marks, which has enabled me to reach my apogee.

A fine medium told me about a guide I had, called Marbuk and I had a life in the USA, when I was called Jonnathon and died of wounds at Gettysburg, in 1863. I now put that in the past because I cannot change it—but it is interesting.

However I am dedicated to find to find the perpetrators who assaulted me and left me for dead, and at the age of 18 years as a result of the rapes I found myself pregnant, The medium who gave me much information about past lives tells me I am on the track to find those brutes.

*

THREE YEARS BEFORE

I recalled as much as I could to the investigators and made some statements. The Detective Sergeants who headed the team in their efforts to clear up the crime left no stone unturned and were well aware that I was promised a job in the Police as a C.S.I specialist. One of those Seniors was a charmer named Martin De-Volle who I felt had an eye for me. He was a stoutly built man over six feet with clear blue eyes and a willing smile.

He was, in my guess in his mid thirties But at that time romance was not anywhere near my radar: I had enough of men at that point, except for my Dad who was around fifty % Aboriginal and born in Kalbarri in the North West: he was also a Korean Veteran, a twenty years soldier who had also witnessed stolen children actions. James Pearce set his cap to catching the mongrel who raped me. He was a respected Security Guard, after his Army Service, who could use his fists. Mums parents were Irish immigrants who named their oldest daughter Kate.

Just before my release from Hospital the Doctor called again. I knew something was up. He was fidgety. It had been two months and I watched, as he pulled up a chair, real close to me. He took off his horn rims and wiped them clear as if he was trying to choose the right words.

‘We have carried out tests and can positively state that you are pregnant’. He paused and sat back and just stared at me. Silent..

‘I know Doc’ A surprised look flooded his features. I added.

’And no. I will have the child: abortion is not on—O.K.? ’He just nodded in reply. I pulled my hand away from him while he shook his head and left. I cried for sometime after, with thoughts of- what have I done. The tears went away and the inner person within me whispered words, and filled me with visions of a beloved child to be named Stephen. During that night I had another visitor in my dream. A glowing, dazzling white entity. ‘I am Azna. The protector of women. You were a Gnostic in another life and you worshipped me, sitting at the throne of thgreat creator and when ever you need guidance just pray to me, and I will come ’

I prayed from then on and my folks supported me through my confinement.

Rosemary was born, not a Stephen; she was a pretty baby with a twisted smile, brilliant white teeth and the light blue eyes of her supposed father. I remained a single mum for sometime during her growing period. I had regained my power and altered my aspirations. It was to the Cops and I focussed my energies in that direction.

Only Jethro and I knew why I had altered my life direction. My obsession to find the perpetrators grew with each passing year, and DNA specimens which could match the men involved; if I ever had a chance to match them. Much evidence was collected on the night when Rosemary was conceived. A lot of effort went into gathering what I could--- outside of Police hours. - surfing through specimens.