I’m neglecting my duties today in order to speak with You at length. Apart from this, though, my duties have not suffered because of Jonah.
Perhaps I’d feel more guilt if Jonah were not the man he is? If he were less noble and good. But he’s the best sort of man, Lord. A truly good man, who strives to do good always in and for this community he serves. How am I to feel guilt for admiring such a man? How could I ever feel guilt for bringing pleasure to such a deserving man as this?
Did You want me to be a blessing for him? Was that perhaps Your plan in bringing me here? Is all this not even about me, but about him instead? Did You see how deserving he is and decided to send him someone who would truly admire and appreciate him?
Forgive me. That’s an even worse transgression—thinking myself worthy enough for You to bestow as a gift on others! As if. And anyhow, if You did send me here to appreciate Jonah … well … I appear to have taken my admiration a little far. Too bloody far, really. Haven’t I?
No doubt You’ve heard everything we say to one another. You’ve heard Jonah’s arguments why he thinks we’re not hurting anyone in doing what we do. What do You think of that? Has he a point? The arguments certainly sound reasonable. But then, perhaps I’m merely hearing what I wish to, or am too eager to grasp at whatever seems assuaging and absolving. I desperately want to agree with what he says, so perhaps that blinds me and makes me think the points better than they actually are? Some sign, Lord, would be very welcome. Some indication as to whether You think he speaks the truth.
I’ve tried searching the Bible for elucidation. I think I’ve only managed to confuse myself even further. Pardon my impertinence, Lord, but why did Your Word have to have quite so many different authors? Jonah’s argument concerning the New Covenant and the laws set out in Leviticus 18:22 become sounder the longer I read and contemplate and attempt to make sense of it all. The isolation of that one law among so many the Church has moved on from does seem somewhat egregious.
Then there’s the issue of Christ’s teachings. His Covenant replaced the old. And nowhere does He ever even bring up this subject! How are we to interpret that, Lord?
Do I sound too much like Jonah when I say these things? Have I adopted his thinking at the expense of my own? But then … what exactly was “my own” on this matter? The Church told me I was wrong to feel how I felt. And yet, I confess to You, I never really felt wrong. Unfortunate, perhaps. Unlucky, certainly. But not wrong, not as such. I often wondered why You had done it to me. But I’ve always trusted You knew what You were doing when You made me as You did.
That’s something else I’ve never been able to truly reconcile—the fact that, You having created us all, Lord, You made me like this. I am how I am by Your hand, by Your design.
You wanted me to be as I am.
And then You put me here. In the place where You had already put Jonah Parks.
Matthew re-read the last few pages of his journal, then gathered the pages together and summarily ripped them from the book.
He’d slept through the rest of the morning, roused when Mrs Sutherland dropped by with potato and onion soup, then had washed and dressed and sat by the fire since, thinking out loud to God in his journal pages. Those pages now, he threw into the fire. There was simply too much risk in having such words written down where they might be found and read.
Standing, he put his censored journal away and paced a little around the room. Having spent so much of the day in bed, he now felt restless and wanting to be somewhere else. He walked to the rectory’s front window and, lifting the curtain, peered out at his church. All Souls was an inviting building, and Matthew felt a certain pull towards it and the comfort of its modest atmosphere. Despite talking to God in his journal, however, he didn’t yet feel able to enter His house. The emptiness he’d felt the previous night, the absence within him, wasn’t so devastating in the light of day, but neither was it healed.
Instead, Matthew’s thoughts turned away from All Souls, to the gully that stretched away behind it. He glanced down at his shirt and trousers, considering if he should don a cassock; since arriving in Dinbratten, only the cricket had seen him outside his rectory without one. Finally, in compromise, he attached his collar but eschewed the frock. In deference to the mid-autumn cool, he put on his overcoat.
It had been just two and a half months since the bushfire, yet Jonah’s prediction on the day after was coming true already. The recent rains had sprouted grass where before the earth was scorched. The black trunks of the eucalypts were fuzzy-edged with new growth, conspicuous and vibrant in its delicate newness. Green poked triumphantly out of black. The Australian bush was indeed a resilient beast.
Matthew walked slowly, hands buried in coat pockets. A magpie family eyed him from one burnt tree and a tiny wagtail left off harassing a much larger wattle bird long enough to shout at him from another. Something scurried on the ground, too quick to identify. There were at least four different bird calls he could hear. There was life all around, it seemed.
He contemplated the concept of renewal as he walked, and with it, the process of change. The fire—the catalyst for the seismic shift in his friendship with Jonah—had wrought change in Matthew, just as it had here in the landscape. And life felt rejuvenated in its wake. He was much changed by his months in Dinbratten, the months of knowing Jonah.
This friendship, this association, this … affair had required him to re-evaluate himself. He recalled something Jonah had said when speaking of desiring to put his mouth upon Matthew’s person. Jonah had said that, although he wanted it, he didn’t know what it would mean for him, what sort of man it might make him if he did such a thing. Matthew felt he understood those words better now, and felt an echoing need to ask the same of himself—what sort of man did all this make him? The Church, and the law of the land would have it that he was now bad, a bad man. Jonah, too. But that was so obviously false, it was laughable.
Alone in the reawakening gully, Matthew did laugh. He looked around at life springing forth from devastation and laughed and laughed. A kookaburra with an uncanny sense of timing joined in from a site unseen. Matthew raised his face heavenward and laughed even more.
***
That evening, at dusk, Matthew put on his cassock and took a lighted candle into the church. Inside, he lit several other candles and then knelt at the chancel, head bowed, hands clasped, meditative in prayer.
The absence within him that scared him so the night before was no longer devastating. He had merely experienced change. He was a good man, and the God he knew and loved would recognise that. He hadn’t lost anything but his fear.
Twenty or so minutes into his meditation, there came the sound of boot heels from the narthex and the door being pushed slowly open. He recognised the footfalls and raised up from his kneeling position as they approached.
‘Don’t wanna disturb ya while yer talking to ya boss.’ Jonah’s gaze flicked towards the crucifix on the chancel wall before looking back to Matthew. Everything about him seemed cautious. ‘Is everything alright?’
Matthew ignored Jonah’s question to ask, ‘Did anyone see you come in?’
‘Coulda done. I was just walking down the main drag, Matthew. Saw lights on in here. Nothing suspicious about my coming in.’ The tiniest of smiles pulled at his mouth momentarily. ‘Used the front door and all.’ The smile died. ‘Everyone said you was sick today. That true?’
‘I wasn’t feeling up to performing my duties today.’ Matthew looked down. ‘I’ve spent most of the day in bed.’
‘Did I,’ Jonah began but paused, taking a couple more slow steps towards Matthew. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
Matthew looked up at him sharply. ‘No! No,’ he assured him. ‘Not at all, Jonah. No …’ His voice trailed away.
‘Something happened though. Didn’t it?’ Jonah’s voice was soft, gentle. ‘I upset you somehow?’
‘That’s not—’
‘Whatever I did, I’m sorry, alright? Whatever
fool thing I said or did, I’m sorry.’ Jonah raised a hand towards Matthew as though wanting to comfort, but caught himself in the gesture and aborted it. He began to apologise again and Matthew raced to speak over him before he could.
‘You’ve broken me apart.’
‘I what?’
Matthew held his empty hands before him, palms that had so recently been pressed together in prayer now turned towards the ceiling in a sad gesture of having nothing.
‘Last night,’ he said, voice low. ‘Or longer than that, really. Maybe it’s been happening from the moment we first met, from when I stood right here and saw you silhouetted in the church door. Piece by piece, Jonah. You’ve devastated me. Broken me apart. But at the same time you’ve—’ he put his hands together and interlaced his fingers tightly, ‘—you’ve put me back together. Like one of those wooden puzzles the Chinese children play with.’
Jonah swallowed, everything so quiet around them that Matthew could hear him doing so. ‘I never meant to hurt—’
‘You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.’
‘But you said I broke you.’
Matthew smiled softly. ‘It was the spiritual me that broke. It didn’t so much hurt as,’ he mentally groped for words that would adequately explain himself. ‘Hm, rearranged me a little.’
Jonah quirked an eyebrow at that. Then he fell into the nearest pew, looking up at Matthew with an expression that looked a lot like grief. ‘Why do I feel like I’m about to be told never to darken your doorstep again?’
It took a short moment for the penny to drop and the full meaning of his words to take. But as soon as it did, Matthew sank down onto the pew beside him, heart suddenly in his throat.
‘Never, Jonah! I swear. There is not a thing that could be further from my thoughts!’
‘Then why you talkin’ like you’ve just re-found God and yer calling all over again?’
It was Matthew’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. Perhaps he’d been able to adequately explain himself, after all? ‘Maybe that’s exactly what I’ve done,’ he said after a moment. He looked at his hands briefly, then back up at Jonah’s face, at Jonah’s concerned blue eyes. ‘I’m no longer the same man you first met. I’m certainly not the same priest.’
‘You did bless a Methodist plough,’ Jonah joked dryly.
Matthew chuckled and Jonah joined him, some of the concern lifting from his expression as he saw Matthew’s amusement.
‘So, ah,’ Jonah ventured after a moment. ‘We good?’
‘Jonah.’ Matthew lay a hand on Jonah’s nearest knee. ‘You and I are the best.’
***
They were together three nights in a row, caution thrown to the winds.
***
Friday morning, Matthew picked up his mail from the shop and had the gift of a teacake, fresh from the Campbell sisters’ oven, pressed upon him despite protests.
‘Take it to the cop shop if you don’t want to be eating alone,’ insisted Fiona.
‘The sergeant can never turn down a piece of our treacle cake,’ added Anne.
The Campbells were formidable women.
Both troopers were present when Matthew called at the police station, cake in hand. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I’ve been instructed to find this cake some appreciation.’
Jonah snapped shut the book he was reading. ‘Fi and Anne’s treacle cake?’ he asked eagerly.
‘The same,’ said Matthew.
‘And me on my way out,’ George groused, retrieving his helmet from his desk.
‘Then you must take some with you, George,’ Matthew said. ‘If the sergeant will find me a suitable knife.’
‘Already got one,’ said Jonah, brandishing.
‘You’re eager.’
Jonah gave him a wink. ‘Fi and Anne’s treacle teacake, Father. Eager doesn’t begin.’
A sizeable chunk was hacked off for George and he bid Matthew farewell and was on his way, cake crumbs following him out.
Jonah brewed some coffee, and he and Matthew cosied up to the black stove to enjoy their surprise morning tea. Three slices in, Jonah looked up at the front window as the gate beyond squeaked.
‘Right, then,’ he murmured, tone curious.
Matthew also turned towards the window. A young Chinese couple were approaching from the gate. The young man was attired like a Western gentleman, though his lady companion wore more traditional dress.
When they stepped onto the front porch, the man ushered the lady to a seat on one of the wooden benches, then he alone entered the police station. He seemed momentarily taken aback to see a priest in attendance, but he gathered himself quickly and, removing his hat, turned his attention to Jonah. ‘This is the Dinbratten police house?’
Jonah stood and pulled himself up to his full height. ‘It is. What can I do for ya?’
The man extended his right hand. ‘I am Benedict Ling. How do you do?’
Jonah shook his hand and gave a short nod. ‘Jonah Parks. Sergeant in charge.’ He inclined his head towards Matthew. ‘This is the Reverend Ottenshaw, from the Anglican church.’
Benedict finished his handshake with Jonah and immediately offered another to Matthew. ‘How do you do, Father?’
Matthew shook his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Mister Ling.’
The man’s English was perfect, his manners likewise. It occurred to Matthew that it was entirely possible he was no longer the most educated man in the room.
Jonah moved to a more professional place at the station’s counter and Benedict approached him there, hat held in front of his body with both hands, standing very straight-backed as he began explaining himself. ‘My sister and I have travelled from Bendigo. You will forgive her if she does not join us, gentlemen. She is more shy than myself.’
‘That’s fine,’ Jonah told him. ‘What brings you both to Dinbratten?’
‘Our sister,’ came the reply. ‘Our younger sister.’
Matthew’s mouth dried. He suddenly had a horrible feeling for these two siblings. A glance at Jonah showed the sergeant giving nothing away, however.
‘Our sister is just twenty-one,’ Benedict continued. ‘She has been missing for several weeks now.’
Matthew noticed Benedict started fiddling slightly with the rim of his hat as he held it and spoke.
‘And I have read in a police bulletin in Bendigo that a girl of her description may have died here in Dinbratten. Unidentified.’
Jonah spread his hands upon the counter top as he lightly leaned against it. ‘You read right, Mister Ling. Late March, it was. Dispatches went out to every city and town in the state. No one came forward for her though.’
Benedict hung his head a little. ‘I was travelling on business. Sydney first and then on up to Brisbane. My sister—my elder sister.’ He made a short motion towards the porch. ‘She does not read English, I am afraid. Nor speak it overly well. She feels … very guilty.’
Matthew felt the need to offer some counsel. ‘You must assure her that she is not at fault. That she did nothing wrong.’
Benedict straightened his shoulders and gave Matthew a quick glance. ‘I will try, Father.’
‘You seem very young for an interstate businessman,’ said Jonah.
‘Yes,’ Benedict agreed. ‘My father’s business. He started in a tent on the Bendigo goldfield. Now we trade cloth and yarn over half of the country.’
‘And your parents?’
‘They have both passed. My father to tragedy and my mother to illness. I am head of the family now. My sisters depend on me.’ Again, he fiddled with the hat in his hands. ‘Sergeant,’ he said after a moment’s quiet, ‘what happened to Lan? How did my little sister die?’
‘Well now,’ Jonah said, ‘first things first. We need to make sure that the girl we found actually was your sister, and not somebody else’s. Did she have any identifying marks? Birthmarks or the like?’
Benedict shook his head. ‘Not even a beauty spot. Her complexion was flawless.’
‘What about
work?’ Jonah continued. ‘Did she have a trade? Anything involving dyes or dexterous work?’
Benedict shook his head again. ‘She sometimes did accounts for the business, but she was engaged in no labour that would show itself on her.’ A sudden thought seemed to come to him. ‘I could name you every thread in her dress! Every weave of the cloth!’
Jonah flicked a quick look at Matthew, clearing his throat as he looked back to Benedict. ‘The young lady we found, I’m sorry to say, was without garments.’
Benedict’s face fell, and then fell further again as this piece of news sank in. ‘I could describe for you her jewellery,’ he tried quietly.
‘Any jewellery had been removed too,’ Jonah said equally quietly.
From outside, the faint sound of crying could be heard.
‘There was only one thing,’ Jonah began, walking to his desk as he spoke. ‘It wasn’t on the body when it was found, so we weren’t completely sure it was connected.’ He rifled in a drawer a moment and pulled out a small paper bag, of the sort the Campbell sisters used in the shop when selling a half-penny’s worth of boiled sweets. Jonah brought the bag back to the counter and removed from inside it a slender, golden trinket.
‘This was in the mud on the creek-bank nearby. Obviously lost there without anyone noticing. I’d say it’s a hair clip.’
Jonah held it out on the flat of his palm, offering Benedict a decent look. Benedict’s shoulders slumped as he looked at it. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Yes.’ And he turned for the door.
Matthew and Jonah exchanged a look as Benedict left the room. His motive was quickly revealed though, when he re-entered with his elder sister and stood her before Jonah for inspection. ‘The matching piece,’ he pronounced.
Sure enough, slid into the right side of his sister’s black hair, was a slim golden hair clip that perfectly matched the one laying on Jonah’s palm.
‘The tortoise,’ Benedict said, indicating the tiny creature adorning both pieces. ‘It was our mother’s favourite animal. Very lucky. She had these made for my sisters. I myself possess a matching tie pin, though I neglected to wear it on this journey. There was a ring made for my father, also, though Lan had been wearing that since he died.’ A fresh wave of sadness travelled through his expression before he roused himself to information once again. ‘Here, Sergeant, the maker’s mark should be readable on the reverse.’ He indicated for his sister to remove her hair clip and he handed it over for Jonah to look at.
By the Currawong's Call Page 13