Hill of Grace

by Stephen Orr

  If this place represents all knowledge, he thought, then there’s no way the Bible is right. What would be the chances of that? People as smart as Phil, working for thousands of years, having and sharing ideas, doing it all honestly and without bias and sentiment, testing them, rejecting them, trying again. Or on the other hand, water into wine and feeding the masses with some old bread.

  He stopped randomly, opening a text on Climatic and Biotic Evolution, and although he didn’t understand a word, realised that after so many books even your faith in God couldn’t be a certainty.

  Which led him to Phil, cramming in the medical library, suddenly aware of how much he had to learn before tomorrow. But Phil still wasn’t worried, it always worked out in the end. ‘Exams are a game of chance,’ he’d told Nathan. ‘There’s only so much they can put in and after a while you work out what it will be.’

  Nathan held a text and tested him. ‘Stock solutions – G is equal to …?’

  ‘Shit … yes … MWv over a thousand.’

  ‘Where M equals?’

  ‘Molarity.’

  On and on like this, surprising Nathan at every turn. ‘Enzyme kinetics?’

  ‘No, they won’t put that in.’

  ‘Relative potency?’

  ‘No … maybe … the dose of an unknown drug, U, divided by the dose of a standard drug, S.’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘The log of the relationship?’

  ‘What’s a log?’

  ‘A bit of dead tree.’

  They ignored the five-minute bell but were eventually evicted by a cleaner. On the way home, Phil’s thoughts drifted out of the railcar’s window, leaving molarity and enzymes behind in search of other things. Nathan watched him and, not in a competitive way, felt jealous. To think he had the contents of at least a few dozen of those books in his head, and yet, wasn’t interested in using his knowledge as a tool to influence or control others. Phil was at peace with himself and what he did and didn’t know. Dismissing it all as ‘so much rot you’ll eventually forget anyway’. As if he sensed that the important things were mostly unsaid and unwritten.

  ‘“For without are dogs, and sorcerers …”’ he intoned, quoting the soapbox pastor and turning back to Nathan.

  ‘Yes, there are some like him.’

  ‘Some?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘What about your old man?’

  Nathan turned his head towards the window, smiling, suddenly struck with his own apocalyptic visions on the back of toilet doors (Phil had given him the grand tour, the originals far exceeding the tracings: a nun exposing her breasts, ten times the size of her head, filled with sharks swimming as though in a gold fish bowl).

  ‘What can I say? My old man believes in the end of the world.’

  ‘Really? When?’

  ‘Next year.’

  Phil followed the progress of a conductor. ‘You’re kidding …

  how’s he worked that out?’

  Nathan put on his father’s voice. ‘“The dates are all in the Bible.”’

  ‘And he’s found them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Phil smiled. ‘You know what this means?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t date a Catholic.’ Presenting his ticket and settling back in his seat. ‘It’s alright for you, you’ve had a root.’

  Chapter Ten

  Late on a Tuesday night, after the staff had gone home, the Millerites stood around in the Tanunda Oracle’s hand-press studio. Its editor, a valley newcomer named Juan Pascoe (his beard and hair as wild as Ned Kelly’s, forever in untucked shirts and Levis) had given them a crash course on the iron hand-press, locking them in at ten p.m. and asking for things to be left as they were for the morning shift. He had no idea what William Miller was printing, but his money, a collection taken from the whole group, was as good as anyone’s. ‘A brochure?’ he’d asked, showing them how to ink a form, but William had just replied, ‘Along those lines.’

  William had spent the afternoon in the back of the Oracle’s offices setting out his form, varying letter size and style, inking and checking each paragraph as he went. Eventually he printed a proof, read it and made corrections, cleaning down the galley with mineral spirits before setting it in the press and heading home for tea.

  Sitting in front of Bluma’s potato pie, he had said, ‘In a few days we can start delivering,’ explaining how he would draw up maps and assign streets to the others, spreading the word of God in line with the modern age. When she asked why a press was more acceptable than a vacuum he just mumbled something about the Hoover not being in God’s plan.

  God’s improvised plan, Bluma had thought, the gospel according to St Muller.

  Seymour, Arthur, Joshua and William stood in front of the Washington Imperial No. 1 press, a relic dating from 1839 which was imported from Pennsylvania by one of Kavel’s sons. William said, ‘Alright, who’s doing what?’ and they all looked blank.

  ‘Seymour, haven’t you done some printing?’

  ‘Yes, but that was a star press.’

  William stepped towards the beast with its rib rungs and cheek stops, coupling rods and bar braces, and thought, Now you’re working for me. Running his hand over the paper bench he said, ‘Okay, this is how we’ll do it.’

  And before long they had the rhythm: Seymour as press-man, inking the form for each of the individual leaflets, Arthur as paper-handler, pre-pricking sheets of blank paper to fit the points on the tympan. Seymour pulling on the bar to lower the press.

  Re-charging the roller as Arthur removed the printed sheets and handed them to Joshua for checking. William double-checking every word for broken letters and defects before putting them in the humidor to dry.

  They worked past midnight and into the early hours, barely a word spoken between them as they laboured for the first time as a team. Others would have been doing it for the money, to sell curtains or cars, freak-shows or a cricket match at which Bradman would be present. But they were publishing a warning. That the End was nigh and there were dark forces (even here in Tanunda, people you’d never guess) whose sole mission was to distract them from ‘this present business’.

  The Figuring of the End

  Wilhelm Muller

  I, Wilhelm Muller, have heard the voice of God at Gnadenberg on 24 May in the Year of the Lord 1951. He has told me that the time of his Son is near. Immanuel, Saviour, Lord of Heavens, will appear amongst us (at an unknown time and place) on March 21 next. Truly Good News. Dates derived from the book of Daniel and Revelation …

  Going on to explain his figuring.

  Rejoice! Christ will make a Heaven on Earth! He will walk amongst you and talk as simply as this. The Scriptures suggest he will live in the Holy Land …

  The leaflet unwilling, or unable, to explain how Jesus would get around to visit the Saved. Perhaps in his own version of the royal yacht Britannia, greeted by red carpet and oom-pah bands as he came ashore at Port Adelaide. Or maybe levitating, like a GI Joe doll with a NASA rocket backpack, appearing just as Bruno Hermann started sanding down his corns, ‘Ah, at last, we’ve made pot cakes especially, just let me put on my socks.’

  Those who wish are welcome to worship with me, at my house off Langmeil Road. There is no day or time, just knock on my door. I no longer sit among Congregation as I was told to bury these views. They were not buried. They are in your letterbox. All men have been told and He will know your mind and actions. We will all be judged in the End. Among my present supporters are Hicks, Blessitt and Heinz but I know there will be more.

  It had even crossed William’s mind to put in how he would make up a final list of followers on March twenty next, presenting them to Jesus the next day as a definitive statement of those worthy. But Joshua and Seymour had talked him out of it, explaining how some might see it as arrogance, turning against him when they might otherwise have supported him.

  At two-thirty a.m. Bluma walked down Murray Street, Tanunda, with the valley asleep aroun
d her. Carrying a flask of coffee in one arm and a basket of bread and cheeses in the other, she stumbled, picking herself up and swapping the basket to the other hand. Walking on she called, ‘Coo-ee!’ but it failed to echo off shop fronts, out of gutters or down Murray Street as she’d hoped. Arriving at the Oracle’s office she knocked on the door and Seymour let her in.

  William warned they shouldn’t stop as they had less than three hundred done and only four hours before the staff arrived. Bluma relieved them in turn as they sat down beside a broken Albion press and sipped sweet coffee. ‘I can imagine the surprise on a lot of faces,’ Seymour said, as he stretched out and let the blood return to his feet, attempting, unsuccessfully, to sponge ink from a shirt not twelve months old.

  Like the surprise on Pastor Henry’s face, after he hobbled up his broken driveway in flannelette pyjamas, opening the letterbox, unfolding the pamphlet and reading. Thinking, I warned them about William. Turning to his neighbour and asking if she’d got one. ‘Oh yes, put there by Vicky, the Hicks’ girl, late last night. I thought it was a prowler.’ Asking her what she thought. Promising she’d consult with her Bible and get back to him. ‘Doesn’t seem right, though. There was that lot in America. What came of them? And what do you think, Pastor Henry, all this business about the decree of Artaxerxes?’

  ‘That’s true enough. Still, I could predict this fence’d fall down tomorrow, and even if it did, doesn’t mean I knew it was going to.’

  ‘Let’s hope it don’t.’

  ‘Seems to me that’s how people are going to start thinking about William. Pity, his people were original. ’S like catchin’ the cancer. Random. God acts like that. Bingo. He’s up there callin’ people’s number.’

  ‘Reckon William’s come up.’

  ‘Yes. Might be a touch of shell shock.’

  Like an exploding bottle of William’s red, corked too early.

  Seymour stood up and reclaimed his roller, charging it with ink and returning to William’s cast-iron negative. After they’d all been spelled, Bluma sat down, yawning, waiting for William to excuse her. ‘You can start folding the dry ones,’ he said, taking a pile out of the humidor and placing them beside her. And what could she say? It was God’s work, even if it was after three in the morning.

  William continued checking the bite in random sheets, reminding them to keep a constant pressure on the bar. He was imagining Ron Rohwer at his letterbox, reading the pamphlet and smiling, folding and slipping it into his pocket for the alternative Langmeil Bible study he’d organised. Bringing it out and reading it the following night at Fritschle’s house. ‘And then he says, can you believe this, “He will know your mind and actions …” William believes none of us have got it right. Don’t we bow low enough, or sing high enough? And to think Henry wanted them to stay on.’

  Or maybe it’d just be Ron with a box of matches, burning a pile of leaflets he’d gathered, as everyone emerged from Sunday service to see the ash blow down between the avenue of pencil pines. Smoke in their nostrils. Bruno starting in on the Langmeil bells. William and Bluma at home praying, deserted by Nathan, forming pacts to hasten the unrealised End of Days.

  Just after six the sun started colouring the street. William cracked the whip but they were evicted half an hour later, walking home with nearly six hundred leaflets in Bluma’s basket. The following night they returned and increased the total to a little over eleven hundred.

  Towards five a.m. on the second night, Arthur, arms sore from pulling the bar, said, ‘I think I’ve done enough.’ William looked at him and said, ‘Enough is when everyone in the valley has a copy.’

  ‘That’d take weeks, and my arms are finished.’

  William returned to his work, half ignoring him. ‘Are you planning on going home?’

  Arthur picked up his jacket and put it on. Seymour and Joshua kept working silently. Arthur stood staring into the back of William’s head. ‘I’m tired!’

  And this time William ignored him completely, cleaning built up ink off the tympan with a rag. Arthur sighed, took off his jacket and returned to a half dry roller. After they’d continued working in silence for another fifteen minutes, William said, as he emptied the humidor, ‘We’re all tired … but it’s His work …’

  And there was no reply from anyone, the press clunking away into the night.

  The following afternoon all of William’s friends and their families gathered at his house. Groups were formed, maps distributed, streets assigned and leaflets packed into shopping bags. Mary took her daughter and Bluma and started on the northern end of town, passing beneath the sugar gums of Auricht Street with their flowers dropping pollen and anthers into their hair. Seymour took his grandchildren in his hearse, allowing Joseph to drive as he flitted between letter boxes in a long-lost athletic frenzy, competing with the children to see who could deliver most. Arthur set off on foot towards Bethany and William joined with Joshua to cover the area west of the hospital and south of the park.

  Two nights later it was done and they settled in to wait for the response. If there were rumblings of discontent, William didn’t hear them. Bruno smiled as he told him he’d stuck the sheet on his fridge; a retired butcher from Koblenz Avenue stopped him in the street to tell him he had it all wrong. But apart from that, nothing. William wondered if the various congregations had been warned off, told that making a stir would just encourage him. But he knew it must have got some people thinking and he was willing to wait for them to knock on his door.

  The great silence that followed in the next few weeks was disconcerting. No one. Weren’t these the descendants of Kavel and his followers? He’d stop people in the street and ask if they’d received his leaflet and they’d say, Yes, very interesting, but it’s not something I’d like to discuss. In the end, he guessed, it might be a case of presenting his argument more convincingly.

  The following week he blitzed Nuriootpa with the spares and asked his friends if they’d help him print more for Angaston, Moculta, Lyndoch and beyond. But the consensus was that leaflets were too easy to throw away and forget.

  Something more solid was needed. Ellen, marooned on the Hicks’ front lawn, turned towards the Langmeil Road and crossed her arms. ‘Have you finished?’ Joseph walked around to face her. ‘The only time you’re not miserable is when your mother’s around. Otherwise it’s …’ mimicking the sour expression she always seemed to have lately. ‘You don’t even notice it. Last night I asked you a question and you just kept staring at your mum.’

  Looking high over the ranges which encircled the valley, she remembered the scene. Joseph coming over to her, placing his finger on her chin and turning her head towards him. As if to make up for it she turned her head towards him now. ‘I was thinking.’

  ‘You were waiting for her to answer for you.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  But he went on to quote more examples – the time they were discussing Chas’ piano lessons: Edna couldn’t be trusted, short-tempered, didn’t have the theory, yes, there had to be better. Until Mary entered. ‘Edna, no, she studied at the conservatorium.’

  ‘Well, in that case.’

  Ellen couldn’t remember; she turned away from him again.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Joseph moved around, hot in pursuit. ‘You did. You find it simpler to let her decide.’

  Mary, busy with her crochet, turned down her Golden Voice to hear. Chas came charging out the front door with a wooden B-17 Arthur had given him last birthday. He started playing at their feet. Joseph shook his head and returned to nailing up loose pickets on the Hicks’ fence. Ellen came over to him and almost whispered, Mary straining to hear. ‘They have experience in things. It’s no harm – ’

  ‘It is. I’m a bloody accessory. I have experience!’

  Ellen turned and walked back towards the house. Mary switched off the radio and sat forward. Joseph followed his wife. ‘I’m their bloody father and I’ll decide things.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.
’

  At the top of his voice. ‘I’ll decide – ’

  Tripping on Chas’ toy, falling and grasping his big toe. ‘Jesus, Chas, I told you about leaving things – ’ Trailing off. Chas running up to Ellen and burying his head in her dress.

  Ellen turned to him. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Broken it.’

  ‘You have not.’

  ‘If it was your bloody mother … have an ambulance here by now.’

  Inside, Mary turned up the radio and sat back with her handiwork. Seymour emerged from their bedroom in his best suit and tie. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Fine,’ Mary replied, looking towards the door. ‘If you’re going out …’

  But Ellen came in first, slamming the screen door behind her and taking Chas into her room. ‘Everything alright?’ Mary called, but there was no reply.

  Seymour smiled. ‘Lovers’ tiff,’ making his way down the hall and out the front door. Joseph was still on the grass, a shoe and sock off. Seymour stood on the porch. ‘What y’ done?’

  ‘It’s coming good.’

  ‘Leave that fence.’

  ‘It’s nearly done.’

  Seymour walked down the path, under an arch of rampant bougainvillea and up the road towards William’s place.

  Joseph slipped on his sock and shoe, picked up his hammer and returned to the fence. Chas appeared to apologise and ended up helping him pull the old nails, asking, ‘Dad, what’s a Flying Fortress?’ as Joseph put his face in his son’s hair, breathed deeply and kissed him.

  Ellen, standing hidden from her husband by the window frame, let the curtain fall and walked out to sit with Mary. ‘That the jumper for Arthur?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, seeing how he’s always making toys for the kids.’

  Seymour stopped to gather lemons from a tree in a vacant block off Kalleske Street. He took off his jacket and filled it, tying it up by the arms, making his way to William’s and emptying the lemons onto Bluma’s table. ‘Who planted it I don’t know,’ he smiled, ‘but it’s the best fruiter in Tanunda.’