I've lived here all my life, the east coast of Australia that is. Raised in Brisbane, home of my paternal great-great-grandfather, Jonathon Jacobs, Captain of His Majesties Ship Brisbane. At least, that was his title before he and his officers disserted the Royal Navy and began raiding merchant ships bound for London as well as French and English colonies. Around 1820, he and his crew broke off from the British fleet, flagged the ship with the Skull and Crossbones, and set out on their own.
It wasn't too long before they were caught and brought to London for trial. Most of the officers were hung, enlisted men sentenced to banishment in a penal colony. Captain Jacobs conveniently arranged for the sentence of exile since he gave up three of the four locations of stolen treasure buried around the Pacific. King George IV was not aware of a fourth location; a location so inconvenient that no one would think to look there; the penal colony itself.
By 1825, the New South Wales penal colony was established at Moreton Bay. Upon arrival, Captain Jacobs and his men dug up the treasure buried near what is now Coff's Harbour, a small town about 75 miles south of the settlement. He split half the wealth with his crew and kept the bigger half. Soon they changed the name of the town to Brisbane, after their once infamous ship. He then resumed his old ways.
There wasn't much to pirate, stranded on this colony, but he somehow managed to become the leader of the imprisoned. As British ships dropped off more and more unfortunates he and his men set to rule over them, making the laws, controlling the wealth, and taking what they wished; including other prisoners. Eventually Brisbane became the capitol of the new colony of Queensland; with the Jacob's line part of the new nobility. Most of the women arrived when London decided to empty the debtor's prisons. Londoners petitioned Parliament to put them in exile since it no longer made sense to use public funds to support those who could not pay what they currently owe. So "let them take care of themselves," said the London elite. And they too were banished.
II
That would be how he met my great-great-grandmother. She and twelve of her friends were sent to the debtor's prison based on late payment of rent to the Archbishop of Canterbury. The thirteen of them lived in what was once a convent, but was disenfranchised from the Anglican Church due to unorthodox practices which included unproven charges of witchcraft. Since they were no longer part of the church, the Archbishop demanded a considerable amount for rent. After three months of underpayment he was able to have them all thrown into prison. Upon arrival in Brisbane, Caption Jacobs and his men took the thirteen women as personal servants and common-law wives.
Their servitude was extreme. Bordering on slavery, one could argue; sexual slavery. Forced to walk through market centers without clothing, and to please any who demanded it. Those with child by one of the HMS Brisbane were sent further north and allowed to raise families; visited by the father upon occasion and given provisions.
As the population swelled, more moved further south, but due to the warmer temperature and the lack of a large population, the descendents of the Canterbury Thirteen settled further north in the Cape York Peninsula, a very rural area where their practices could go unnoticed.
As a columnist for the Brisbane Sentinel Magazine, I was sent up here to write a feature story on the Canterbury Thirteen in time for the Halloween issue. That was five years ago. Now I live in the Cape, in a small flat, alone with my cat, writing novels and waiting for the Olde Hallowmas once a year to relieve my frustration.
III
When I first arrived, I stayed in a small inn near Weipa, off the Duifken Point; a quaint establishment with a pub in the lobby and a winding staircase leading up to the rooms. Having looked through most of the archives for names and information on the coven I had already written the story, but it wasn't what I wanted. Something was missing. I wasn't sure what. So I decided to just go out on Halloween and see what I could find. There was still time to e-mail the longer version to my editor in Brisbane later that evening, if not; he would just run what I already sent him.
I walked through the village along the brick sidewalk at dusk. The air was thick with moisture and very warm. Persistent motion filling the air as a gentle wind swirled the leaves constantly. White noise filled my ears and the warm zephyr tossed my hair.
Children were out soul-caking. They would go from one Victorian era house to another, asking for spiced cakes that the householders would award as payment for prayers the children promised to say for the family's ancestors. Some of the houses placed lanterns made of turnips on gateposts to protect them from spirits.
Most of the teenagers wore scary costumes to frighten evil spirits; knowing that their own ancestors would recognize them as the souls of the dead came back to visit their family and friends. The evening before the Hallow is the instance when the veil between this world and that of the spirit realm was the thinnest. The best time to travel across; from this plane to the other, or vice versa.
Younger children sat inside circles of yellow and white flowers so they could see the fairies dancing over them. Others cut designs into large beets called "punkies." They carried them through the streets singing Punkie Night songs, knocking on doors and asking for money.
I could see from the street through the picture window families in their homes. Sitting as some did in front of the fire, roasting nuts and eating apples. They told stories and played holiday games; calling this night Snap Apple Night. While others sat in silence at the dinner table to have a "dumb supper." Reserving one empty place setting for a relative that had passed on but not speaking a word through the entire meal; eating in silence to hear a sound from the missing family member, hoping for a visit.
I continued to walk until I saw a large sign over a crowded pub that said "All Hallows Eve Welcome." Invitation enough, I entered and found a seat at the bar. Drinking a local sour mash whiskey I looked around; mostly inebriated locals, shouting and laughing, having good cheer, many in costume. More women than men, but that was not unusual for this part of the country. One woman in particular caught my attention. Dressed very provocatively and costumed as a witch; she drank red wine and stared at me under a pointed hat.
IV
Crossing her legs, she exposed a garter belt holding a sheer black stocking up to her mid-thigh. The slit in her black satin full length dress rode very high, almost to her waist. She wore a cape, black, tied around her neck, while the front of her blouse cut deep into her cleavage; pushed up by a form-fitting corset. She wiggled her shoe as it dangled from her crossed legs; drawing attention to its five inch heel.
Her hair was long, dark, and thin; framing her cheekbones and accenting her eyes; eyes that would not stop watching me. She tipped up her tall pointed hat and smiled. Waiting for a response; sipping her wine.
At this point I knew I had to move it or lose it. I left money on the bar and walked over. Sitting down at her table I asked if anyone else was with her tonight. She replied "no Mr. Jacobs," batting her eyes.
"Have we met?" I asked.
"Not recently. Aren't you the bloke who's been asking all the questions, digging through the death certificates and the lot?"
"Yes, I was doing research for a story. How'd you know?"
"I work in the clerk's office." Smiling as she touched her cape, "usually I'm dressed differently."
I chuckled, admiring her costume, "let me guess...you're a witch?"
"You're so observant! What are you this evening? Let's see...a middle-aged tourist looking for a date on the Samhain?" She said, looking me over some more.
"Oh, I just thought I'd go out tonight and see how the locals celebrated the holiday. Maybe touch up my story a bit. That's about it."
"No date then?"
"That wasn't the intention, but that could change..." I looked at her hair and brushed it back over her shoulder, then placed my hand on hers. She caught me looking down at her bust line; pushed up and together from the black corset tightly laced with red; bolstering the most wonderful pair of creamy white pillows fit for a man to rest his weary head in slumber, or to play and taste to his heart's content.
"As I said, you're so observant," she said with a smile. Leaning forward to encourage my view, she moved our coupled hands to her leg, placing mine on her thigh, pushing it up over the top of her stocking, then back down to the sheer portion just under the lace top.
"Do you like the feel of silk? I do. I love to wear these. Do you approve dear Jonathon?"
"Yes," I answered somewhat nervously. She was so bold. And how did she know my name? I certainly wasn't complaining.
