Jacobs Well – The True Story

JACOBS WELL – THE TRUE STORY

It was early winter 2020, the Coronavirus, or Covid 19 as it widely became known, still had Australia under lockdown. There was political talk about relaxing restrictions – with announcements that cafes may soon be opening again for business. In Queensland, the self-righteous premier, Alexandra Pallethead would descend the stairs each morning with a shit-eating grin of pride on her phiz – as she approached the waiting throng for the daily press conference. Once again, she would utter a few words between each reference to Queensland, Queenslander and Queenslanders – all the while taking personal credit for the way our collective hibernation had stymied the forecast deadly spread of the virus.

With a solemn crew of dull-eyed wowsers standing the required one-point-five metres behind in support, and an irritating, worthless and distracting arm-waving Auslan interpreter by her side – she announced that the re-opening of cafes (under new self-distancing limitations), was imminent!

Now, I don’t drink coffee – it’s not out of any type of healthy life choice, or child-labour protest – I just don’t fancy the taste of it. Never have.

So personally, I couldn’t care less if cafés never opened again – they are simply not on my radar.

Pubs, on the other hand, are a welcome escape for the wellbeing of my sanity.

A few beers (whose taste I do fancy), blow a few hard-earned dollars on gambling – and to sit around and shoot-the-shit with mates who tell tall tales and generally do their very best to take you down (in the finest of good humour!). This, I love.

I’d read online about various city establishments taking to selling ‘Growlers’ full of their hand-made crafty beers. This style of pub is usually found around Newtown or Darlinghurst – and frequented by your hairy-faced, bun-headed, yuppie Hipster or Urban Dandy. They have apparently been selling the various craft beer varieties in personal takeaway bottles. Where I come from, we don’t have Growlers – well, not that sort anyway!

I understand that some odd people find coffee an essential life commodity – and some such people may even suggest that Hotels, Clubs, Taverns and various other drinking venues may not be life-sustaining- enterprises whose very existence gives meaning to the lives of fun-loving people.

But seriously – no one really needs to buy a cardboard cup of coffee to have a fun day.

And, so it was that I came to be at Jacobs Well boat ramp, launching my four-point-eight metre centre-console Sea Rod late one afternoon.

The plan was to head out to Tiger Mullet Channel and fish overnight – I’d brought along two bottles of red – a crisp merlot and a hearty Cab Sav, which I’d stuffed in my backpack without reading the labels.

While I’d prefer cold beer – it creates a lot of rubbish in a small boat and you end up needing to hang the wedding tackle over the side half the night. Wine is far less obtrusive and easily dispensed from the bottle-neck straight down the gullet.

With the sun setting behind me – I gunned her full noise toward my destination, though I quickly became distracted by checking the chart-plotter, navigational beacons and my eagerness to anchor up for the night. Against all marine logic (and common sense) – I could see no reason not to cut the corner and drive inside the beaming port channel marker.

By the time my ample gut hit the steering wheel and my face kissed the windscreen – the motor had let out a roar of protest and flung sand, mud and seaweed into the air!

I was quick to recover and kill the motor – look around and realise I had well and truly lodged myself on a what was soon to become an exposed sandbar, on a dropping tide.

I hopped out and tried to man-handle the boat back from whence she came – but the dropping tide got the better of me and I soon conceded defeat.

I accepted my position – stranded for the next six hours, and tried not to punish myself too much psychologically, for yet another stupid life choice.

I switched on my anchor light, threw out a line – cast into the oh-so-close channel, played some music on my IPhone and commenced to drinking some merlot.

I tend to have a decent sense of humour, and without anyone else to blame – I decided to make the most of my situation. By the time Springsteen got round to singing Thunder Road, I re-lit my disgusting Jose L Piedra Cazadores Cuban cigar for my second go-round.

The Merlot had been an empty vessel, once again jammed back, deep within my backpack for some time – and the Cab Sav was also on a falling tide.

When Garth Brooks paid homage to his ‘Friends in Low Places’, I stubbed out the soggy nub of cigar butt, blew out the final breath of wise-guy smoke and took my penultimate swig of alcohol for the hollow-bottomed bottle.

I had long ago given up trying to catch fish – and by now found my eyelids heavy, my movements with just a little-too much momentum and my balance just a fraction compromised.

It was time to finish the vino, take a mouth-cleansing swig of cold, fresh water and seek some shuteye on the deck for a few hours. I had a pillow and blanket – though I am yet to have any type of rewarding sleep staying in this old tub, despite its upgraded conveniences.

I’m not sure how much later it was – but I heard a distant scraping on the slab sides of the boat, and an unfamiliar voice saying ‘Big Bella. Big Bella – you okay? You okay Big Bella?’

What the fuck!!

I sat up, my head spinning – blinking my un-spectacled eyes (I must have stowed my specs in a safe place?).

There were mangrove leaves around my head and a black face, cutting out the stars above – glaring down at me and hissing – ‘You okay Big Bella?’

“Fuck! Yeah – I’m good mate. What the…hang-on. Where the fuck am I?”

‘Who the fuck are you?!’

‘You on Budju. Eden Island. I watched you wash-up. You okay Brother?’

As my mind struggled to catch up and analyse the recent past – I began to stand up, stumbled a bit but held on.

Okay – my boat, going fishing, running aground, drinking and singing – and oh, that damned cigar, I can still taste it! Okay – okay. Shit! I forgot to throw the anchor out after getting beached!

The tide must have come up while I was asleep – and here I am.

‘Yes mate – I’m good, I’m good. My name is Steve. Who are you?’

‘They call me Strike-a-Light. I live em around here’

‘Pleased to meet ya, Strike-a-Light!’

We manoeuvred the boat into a small, sandy opening in the mangroves, and at my new mate’s insistence – I disembarked and followed him on foot to his camp (after first securing a reliable anchorage!).

Sitting around the firelight, I finally had a chance to get a good look at mine host.

He sported the typical native build – from the thick, calloused foot soles, skinny calves and long, slender legs which he crossed with ease, to the wild mop of unkempt hair proud upon his head. He appeared fit for purpose, with tight and strong, sinewy upper extremities and some old, long faded tribal scars sitting bold across his chest.

He had a wide mouth that smiled easily and beaming smile that set one naturally at ease and glad to share his company.

The eyes were dark and deep, surrounded by red blood-vessels that hinted of weariness and worry.

I could not guess his age – though I would doubt he was a day younger than eighty.

He told me his real name was Ngarra – though his parents gave him a white-man’s name, Strike-a-Light.

We laughed about that – ‘Strike-a-Light’ was an old-time white-fella’s term for surprise, similar to todays ‘Fuck-Me!’

Like if they stumbled upon a gold nugget, one might declare ‘Strike-a-light, will you look at that!?’

My mate’s ancestors had obviously heard the white fellas talking and thought it a pretty-cool name to call their child.

He told me that as a younger man, he also had a mate called Tractor and another named Wheelbarrow. Native kids in a new world, named after inanimate objects by parents trying in vain to fit in.

Funny thing is – I’ve heard plenty of celebrities purposely name their children far worse names than that in the last few years.

My mate offered me a brew – something he’d been boiling up on the coals in an old blackened billy.

He filled two old, chipped enamel mugs and set one down at my feet.

I could see it wasn’t just tea – there was some kind of boiled-up, solid vegetable matter in there.

I asked what it was, and he just said ‘You drink him up – he’s a good fulla’

I found it bitter with a mouldy after taste – it could surely have benefited from a spoonful of sugar.

Ngarra asked me where I came from – I told him originally Sydney, but here via Darwin and now lived locally at Jacobs Well.

He looked deep within the fire – the night got deathly quiet and his face lost all expression.

‘Jacobs Well eh, Big Bella? Hmmm’

‘You know about Jacobs Well? You know the story? You know why they call it Jacobs Well?’

I said ‘Well yeah – when I first moved here, I looked it up. The details were pretty sketchy – but something about an old German bloke, I think. He ran a farm and had a son called Jacob – I think he named the local waterhole after him?’

Ngarra nodded, never taking his eyes off the fire – he said, “If you go to Jenolan Caves – you see caves, eh Brother?”

“If you go to Mount Buller – there’s a mountain”

“If you visit The Great Barrier Reef – there’s a bloody great reef there, eh?”

“What about Jacobs Well?”

‘You like living there, in Jacobs Well? You ever notice strange things?’

I started to feel a little uneasy and asked him what he meant by ‘strange things’?

He murmured, ‘The birds, the animals, the dogs?’

I sat up straight and looked him in the eye – and he asked me ‘You want to know the real story about Jacobs Well?’

I told him I would definitely like to know the true story.

He said ‘Us Blackfullas know – we’ve always known – Jacobs Well is badness-country.

You’re right – that young fulla, Jacob – he knew about the Well, but it’s not just a well – it’s a lair!

Bad business lives down there, down that hole.

The young fella went swimming one day – called in for a drink of water on the way home – it was a very hot day.

He hadn’t made it home by sunset. Next day they all went looking for the lost boy – he knew his way around, so nobody believed he could have got lost. They were right.

The well was not a well like you see in the picture books – it was more of a tunnel in the ground, with an over-hanging cave, or burrow, surrounded by grass – the water was just a little way in, there was a hole in the floor.

They found the boy – with a look of terror fixed on his face.

The long bones taken out of his floppy legs.

The ends gnawed off the bones and the bloody marrow eaten out.

One bone speared through the young fullas head, and his brain sucked through it like a white-man eats sweets.

I stared into fire for what seemed like hours – though I can’t be sure.

I listened to horrific tales as Strike-A-Light looked back to his youth and described local atrocities that he seemed finally pleased to share with this Balanda-Boy, who’d drifted precariously ashore to his sandy patch.

I woke up in the morning – uncomfortable, a little cold, with a foggy buzz occupying my brain-space.

Strike-A-Light was gone – no sign of his presence as I blinked into the embers – what the hell happened last night?

My Chipped camp mug was empty and lying on its side – Man, I could do with a drink!

I rubbed my tired eyes and tried to get my shit together.

Having wandered off for my morning constitutional – I began to place together the pieces of the night before.

What was in that cup?

I’ve read of the American Indians getting high on the natural hallucinogens from the peyote plant – could this have been something similar?

Jacobs Well.

Physically, The Well was not a well as we know it.

The Well was indeed the lair of an ungodly, subterranean creature – who preyed upon the bold and boisterous ways of unsuspecting and fearless young lives!

Strike-A-Light’s people had long known of the evil Juju who had stolen the spirit of their children.

I have no idea what was in my mug that night – and though I found it a warming comfort and a soothing panacea – I retained my unjustified and naturally cynical suspicions.

I had a vague recollection of challenging Strike-A-Light regarding his unlikely tale of some ravenous beast living beneath our thriving community!

As my mind cleared – I recalled the most worrisome tale of all.

Upon my challenge of local native superstition regarding missing kids – Strike-A-Light told me this.

Back when the white-fella Franz Reitweller owned the place, and his son Jacob disappeared – his body was found, no leg-bones and a vacuous skull.

Franz lost the spirit to farm this land and decided to return to Munich, in Germany.

He quickly realized that mention of  the bizarre disappearance of his eldest child would likely limit interest in his land-holdings – so, with the courtesy of the corrupt local council and several invested stake-holders, they quietly agreed to fill in the well, cover up the young man’s sordid demise and white-wash the entire episode.

Heavy equipment was sponsored, the entire Well site was filled in, and money was paid to remove state records.

When I called bullshit to Strike-a-Lights tale of terror – he challenged me – and to this day, his words run terror up my spine!

He told me to use my own observations – he had no motivation to trick me, and really didn’t give a flying-fuck if I believed him at all. (Perhaps my doubt is why he left my company during the night?)

He advised me to take notice of the curlews in town, and the plovers.

He told me they run around without purpose, on long spindly legs – they are the ghosts of the missing children – their long leg-bones removed from their mortal bodies – used now as stilts for their spirits, the brain devoured – as they scream in the night, searching for their long-lost parents.

He told me to look at the local dogs in town. He said the dogs will go crazy – barking and running amok for no apparent reason – but they can smell the beast as it rummages beneath the surface – looking for an opening to once again emerge and lick the flesh of the innocent and unwary local children!

He asked if I’d ever noticed the raucous screaming of the local birds as they settle to roost?

Ominously adding that the boat-ramp vicinity bordered on the epicentre of carnage.

He spoke of how the parrots would all suddenly take flight in unison, despite seeming largely settled in. He told me this happened when the beast beneath began chomping through the tree roots, as he scrimmaged beneath the surface – just waiting for that opening to daylight and fresh marrow!

Strike-A-Light challenged me – he said, ‘Did the council ever promised you town-water, sewerage?’

I said – Yes.

“Has it happened?”

No.

That’s another thing – it goes back to the old council agreement – The council know they must not disturb the surface in Jacobs Well!

Though the current councillors may not be aware as to the reasoning – you will never get town water in Jacobs Well.

They tried this many years ago – thought they were equipped now to deal with the ungodly beast. Stupidly they had brought in excavators with an aim to dig out this evil creature and finally put an end to its fiendish threat.

So under the ruse of a ‘Sand Mining’ enterprise, they commenced their hunt.

This was a major project, and their quarry not without animal instinct – so results were not immediate.

By the time the ultrasonic echo scanning equipment managed to locate the beast within the myriad of rambling burrow tunnels, thousands of tonnes of sand had been removed.

With rising anticipation and excitement throughout the crew, they held a party – for tomorrow, having blocked off the only exit with a steel divider, they would break open the final few feet  of earth and trap their quarry in a blind tunnel.

Their hungover heads were awoken just after dawn, by an ungodly, blood-curdling scream!

Sometime throughout the night, the beast had dug through from his side and attacked a young cane-farmer’s daughter as she rode playfully home on her pushbike, taking in the fresh smell of the sweetly sugarcane as she rode by moonlight.

Her distraught mother had found young Jennifer Knight – her body draped over a pile of sand – her legs de-boned and lying flat against the ground, like a couple of discarded rubbers in a lookout carpark. A bloody femur protruded from her temple like an abandoned cocktail on a luxury cruise.

In the aftermath the beast had managed to dig his way back home after entering a hitherto abandoned tunnel, long discarded of interest by his pursuers.

The ‘Sand Mine’ shortly thereafter announced that it had ‘run out of sand’!

Then commenced the second great cover-up, in two distinct ways. One was figuratively – they did not publish details of the incident, there were once again too many investments at stake. And secondly – they began filling in the holes they had dug in their folly to confront evil.

To this very day, they continue this practice.

The  diabolical consequences of this enterprise are not forgotten by those who were there – and it is they who insist on piling up as much fill and industrial waste as they can manage, in an attempt to bury once and for all, the beast who lurks beneath.

There was an itinerant career criminal who’d been sleeping rough around the town for several weeks. When he realised the workers were all busy drinking to their success that night, this low life opportunist saw an easy score. He waited till dark before breaking into the construction zone with the aim of stealing wallets and any saleable valuables left in the heavy equipment overnight.

While he was rifling through the cabin of an excavator, he heard a ruckus outside – so locked the door and ducked down, fearing he’d been discovered by the crew.

As he peered out of the lower observation window, he witnessed the entire attack!

He described how he saw a creature with large, soulless black eyes, a hardened protrusion like the beak of a crow with an internal jaw full of glistening, sharp and vicious teeth – like the maw of a pike eel.

It had large bulbous shoulders, with muscles rippling in all directions – hirsute on the upper regions with thick wiry bristles – like an Irish wolfhound, yet sparsely covered toward the underbelly and rear of the creature. The hind quarters sloped down to a slender sinewed, canine type lower back and a near hairless tail.

The foremost limbs were also of muscular build culminating in a pair of long hairy claws.

Most frightening of all though, was the extended, bony middle digit – defunct of hair – but a thin, leathery black protrusion which it used with great dexterity to insert into the main bone after the joint nub had been severed – to scratch out the blood-filled marrow.

It took great care to extract the entire bone contents which it licked from the digit with a yellowish, dribbling tongue.

The man thought he was done for when he let out an involuntary squeal, as the beast rammed home the recently hollowed femur, straight through the tender temple region of the young girl’s skull.

After it had eaten its fill of goodness, the beast peered around suspiciously before slinking off on all fours, to dig his way back to the cavernous subterranean sanctuary of its labyrinth tunnel system.

This man – Robert James Long, was found the next day huddled in the foetal position on the floor of the machine, and though he made a full confession and witness statement, he was hushed up permanently when a cellmate mysteriously clubbed him to death with a dumbbell in the early days of his gaol sentence for the stealing offences that night.

As the winter sun rose higher that morning and I struggled to once again board my vessel to return home – a single thought returned to me – through the fog and mist of my mind-numbing hangover:

I recalled, just before I drifted off to slumber, these final ominous, baritone words from the ethereal Ngarra – a grim warning that struck me solid:

The creature will be back.

As soon as he finds an opening in the ground.

And he will feast upon the local children – he will devour the marrow of the log-bones and suck the brain as fixer!