‘The last days are coming,’ he said. ‘The last days are coming, and are even now upon us, for darkness shall be upon the face of the earth, and there will be a mighty rushing wind, and the Beast of the Apocalypse will stalk the land, and the seventh angel will speak. The last days are upon us, and very soon time shall be no more, but the earth is offering us refuge and wealth. She will shelter us in the last days, but she will shelter only those who are pure in heart and are without a spirit of dissension.’
There was movement again, a slight thing, like small choppy waves before a storm, and there was a low murmur, because we knew that the reference to dissension was meant for us, and we did not like it.
‘A spirit of dissension,’ Oyster said, ‘will divide us, but a spirit of trust will unite.’ He reached into the pockets of his tunic, and then pushed his pocketed arms toward us in a strange way, so that he appeared to offer us hooded hands. ‘He who is for us, saith the Lord, to him will be given the riches of the Kingdom.’ He flicked his wrists free of the pockets and held out his fists towards us and opened them.
His hands were full of opal.
Major Miner held his breath. He could hear the high singing in his ears.
‘Follow me,’ Oyster said, ‘and I will continue to share the abundance of my Reef, and I will lead you safely beyond the end of time. But he that is not for me is against me and will be cut down.’
Can you picture this?
People do not laugh at madmen, they give them a certain kind of respect. They are hushed. There is something about hubris, about genuine hubris, that does inspire genuine awe. It is a true mystery; its pedigree is long and full of terror; it has a history that no one treats lightly, a history that tolls names as a death bell tolls: Attila, Robespierre, Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, Saddam Hussein, Jim Jones . . .
Something else about hubris: those afflicted with it are, at one and the same time, clowns, carnival barkers, dress-up artists, madmen, magicians, monsters; yet always clowns. They are ridiculous; they are alarming. They wave their batons; they lift a curtain; they have the power to divide into two. There will be those who stand back, chilled, silent, with due respect for dark power, to watch the tumbrils roll across the stage; and there will be others who pass through the curtain, who leap up on stage, who enter the play.
On stage, on the other side of that curtain, the laws of nature change. Logic changes. People see with the madman’s eyes. For true madness has this gift, and this potency, that it makes its own complete world. It has its own space. Others can enter it.
‘We are the last of God’s free people in the wilderness,’ Oyster said. ‘We are His chosen ones. The people of Outer Maroo are chosen. They are custodians of the wealth of the Lord God of Hosts.’
And he came down from the pulpit and walked among us and distributed opals. And many, perhaps most, with who knows what mixed emotions, held out their hands, cupped, as for a sacrament, their eyes flashing, their lips slightly parted, their breathing fast. Some kept their hands deep and defiantly and contemptuously in their pockets, but most held them out, and here was the deviant brilliance of Oyster, that connoisseur of purity of heart, because an unseemly shuffling began. There were ripples of anxiety from those who had decided to partake, but who feared they might miss out on a stone. There were sideways glances, there were comparisons of size and cut and play of colour. Little serpents of greed, of rivalry, of discontentment hissed about. There was a competitive desire for the special touch of Oyster’s watery eyes and gemmy hands.
Then Oyster returned to the pulpit and raised his arms and closed his eyes.
‘It is not I who speaks to you,’ he said. ‘I am merely the instrument, the channel. He who speaks through me has words to say. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.’
Major Miner remembers rubbing a hand across his eyes, dazed. He remembers looking about him. For a frightening moment, he thought he saw Singapore mud, shaved heads, hollow eyes, and the prison camp commandant out in front. He shuddered. He felt as though he were swaying in a sleep.
‘For I call upon my righteous servant, Dukke vanKerk,’ Oyster said, ‘a man upright in the sight of God, I call upon him to be my right-hand man, to be my Prophet, yea, he will be my Prophet in the midst of my people, to keep my people faithful unto death, that they may acknowledge me in all their ways. And I shall direct their paths; and my Prophet shall develop those veins of my treasure which are on and under his land . . .
‘And I call upon my servant Andrew Godwin to look to those veins of my treasure which are on and under his land, and to guide my people thereto, and to look to the defence of my people . . . for he shall be my Warrior and my right-hand man . . .
‘But I must warn you, my people, that envy shall arise round about us. And evil powers shall arise, godless powers, the powers of government and of tax inspectors, the powers of the godless who shall gnash their teeth and shall seek to take from you that which is rightfully mine and rightfully yours . . .
‘And you must arm yourselves, my people . . . you must protect yourself from those without . . . For in those days which are coming upon us, this town will be your shield and buckler. And you must separate yourselves from the world, for the world is evil. Yea, those of you who have your children in school in Quilpie or Toowoomba or Brisbane must bring them home as sheep to the fold, where the teachers of the godless shall not corrupt them. And you shall have your own school and your own teachings, as I will direct you, and you shall cause to be brought hither your own teacher who shall teach the precepts of the Lord in your school. The world will be against you, my people, but they that shall endure to the end will be saved, for the great and terrible Day of the Lord is coming, my people, the great and terrible battle is coming, the final battle of Good and Evil, a battle when You, my people, shall be against Them, the forces of darkness. For this is that battle which has been foretold in the Book of Revelation, my people, the last great battle of Armageddon, the last –’
‘Stop!’
There was a shocked and terrifying silence, and for the space of two whole seconds, no one moved. Every living soul heard the thump of heartblood against the wall of the chest.
‘This is demagoguery,’ Pastor Given said angrily. ‘God is not a showman.’ He stood and surveyed them. He walked to the pulpit. ‘Excuse me,’ he said politely to Oyster. ‘The Spirit of the Lord,’ he said, addressing the congregation in the quieter voice of someone mildly embarrassed by a spasm of outrage, ‘is gentle.’
He stood in the pulpit and opened the Bible and read quietly, tried to read quietly, tried to read, from the Old Testament, and from the Book of Kings:
‘And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake:
And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice . . .’
But there were interruptions, there were shouts, it was very difficult to hear, and so Charles Given closed the Bible and raised his head and spoke in such a low voice that the congregation fell silent again and had to lean forward like Mitchell grass in the path of a wind to hear.
‘God is not a showman,’ Charles Given said. ‘God speaks in a still small voice. He speaks in a whisper. No one, no other living soul, can hear what God says to you.’ And there was a shuffling of feet, and a murmuring, and ‘Let us not forget what the Gospel of Matthew warns . . .’ the pastor said, but the shuffling was shoving by then, ‘for there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders,’ and then Mr Prophet rose to his feet, ‘. . . deceive the very elect,’ Charles Given said, and then, and then, ‘wherefore if they shall say unto you,’ he said, and a great tumult arose, ‘behold, he is in the desert . . . believe it not, for the spirit of the Lord is gentle. It is not full of pomp and circumstance and the lust for personal power and gr
eed. It is not –’
‘It is not puffed up,’ Mr Dukke vanKerk shouted, striding forward, jabbing his finger at Pastor Given. ‘It is not full of the vain pride of human learning and of books.’
‘Amen,’ Oyster said, his eyes lifted to the rafters. ‘My Prophet has spoken. Hear, o my people, my Prophet.’
‘My people,’ Pastor Given said, ‘the Spirit of the Lord is full of love. The Spirit of the Lord does not bribe with offers of wealth. Remember, I beg you, that the Bible warns of false prophets who shall come promising –’
Sit down, people shouted, and there were hands that grabbed Pastor Given, there was shuffling and growling and calls of Oyster, Oyster, and opals, and we want to hear, we want to know, let Oyster speak . . .
‘And the sixth angel,’ Oyster roared, reading from the book that was in the pulpit, ‘the sixth angel poured out his vial upon the great river Euphrates, and the water thereof was dried up, that the way of the kings of the east might be prepared . . .
‘God speaks to us here of the drought,’ Oyster said. ‘And after the great drought shall come tribulation and earth tremors and hail . . . And evil spirits shall arise to do battle with the Lord’s Anointed, and the forces of the Lord and the forces of Evil shall do battle . . .
‘Hear the words of the Lord in the Book of Revelation:
And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon. And the seventh angel poured out his vial into the air; and there came a great voice out of the temple of heaven, from the throne, saying, It is done. And there were voices, and thunders, and lightnings, and there was a great earthquake . . .’
Oyster held up his right arm as Moses once did above the waters.
From the Reef, came the distant rumble of blasting. The Living Word shook.
‘Hark,’ Oyster called, ‘to the voice of the seventh angel.’
And the great wind roared from the north, and the windows rattled and were dark with red dust.
‘And there fell upon men a great hail out of heaven,’ Oyster read; ‘every stone about the weight of a talent: and men blasphemed God because of the plague of the hail; for the plague thereof was exceeding great.’
‘Hark!’ Oyster said.
And we all listened, nervous and amazed, as hailstones the size of tennis balls pelted against the iron roof. Children cried, and mothers held them. We thought the world was falling apart around our ears. Major Miner felt panic twist like a dervish in his mind, and felt bombs falling. The clatter went on and on. A window broke. There were flying shards of glass. There was cut flesh, screams, blood.
And then there was a terrible quiet.
‘The seventh angel hath spoken,’ Oyster said, and he beckoned the congregation with both hands, and there were people who entered the space that Oyster and the hail had made. Dukke Prophet leapt to the pulpit and fire flew from him, incendiary words, and then events piled up so fast after that, so fast, it was scarcely even possible to know what was happening . . . the rushing, the shouting, the ransacking of the Pastor’s study, the bonfire, the book burning, the sudden violence, the brawls . . .
A mob is a mob is a mob, Major Miner thought then.
‘I still feel sick,’ he tells me, ‘when I think of that insane day . . . I feel sick that I didn’t do anything to stop that . . . that madness . . . I can’t understand it. I can’t forgive myself. I couldn’t seem to realise what was happening, but I don’t forgive myself for letting it happen. I don’t forgive myself for not doing anything.’
‘You did do something,’ I tell him. ‘You reached into the fire, grabbing books like an idiot. You were beaten unconscious.’
He stares at me. ‘I did?’ Some very faint echo of this, the shadow of a shadow, comes back to him like the edge of a dream.
‘You did,’ I say.
‘Thank God.’
He is so grateful, so overwhelmed, that he turns from me and walks away, fast, jerkily, and loses himself in a fold in the breakaways. He goes into one of the fissures, I know that. He communes with his boulder opal. He remains out of sight for an hour and then comes back.
‘Every time I try to think about Oyster,’ he says, ‘I feel sicker, and I feel more confused.’
But there is Oyster in the pulpit, again and always, offering everyone his private dreams. Ah, but some of those dreams . . . It is a murky thing, Major Miner thinks, to let loose some people’s dreams.
4. Letters Never Sent
To St Paul, Minnesota, USA:
Dear Luce,
Remember how we used to lie on the grass outside the library and make those vows that wherever we ended up after college, no matter what country, no matter if we stayed together or not, we’d still check in with each other every year? At least once every year, we said. We’d send the letters to our parents’ address if we lost track of where the other was. We didn’t believe we ever would lose track, at least I didn’t then, and I don’t think you did either.
We both said we’d travel, but we were going to do it together after graduation. Well, I know it was me who messed things up. She left me before we even got out of London, you’ll be pleased to know. Went off with someone she met in a pub. Not that you’ll care, probably. You’re probably married or something by now. The thing is, Luce, I can’t stop thinking about you lately, and I’m kind of hoping there’s just a chance you’ll come and join me. You always said you wanted to live in some sort of community, a commune in the country somewhere, you wanted to live off the land. Well, I’ve found the perfect one. I hope this isn’t going to sound too corny, but I’ve found God too.
We live out in the desert like shamans used to do, in tunnels and caves and tents. It’s an opal mining community and we’re self-sufficient. It’s incredibly beautiful out here, and we’re like a family, all one in the mystical Body of Christ. There’s no racism either. I mean all the things we believed in in college, they’re here. We live together, black and white, the Australian Aborigines and us (they call themselves Murris), and we work extremely hard, and meditate, and every night there are meetings and singing and discussions and the teachings of Oyster – he’s the leader. Well, you get the picture.
I’m sending this to your mother’s address. If you’re interested in coming out, get yourself to Brisbane, then you have to take a train or a bus to Quilpie, then hitch a ride on to Oyster’s Reef. Anyway, Luce, I keep thinking about you. Please write.
Lots of love,
Simon Peter (formerly Rob)
To Melbourne:
Dear Jimbo,
Well, you may have been right, after all, but you were so high and mighty about it in Brisbane, and I hate to give you the pleasure of saying I told you so, so you can guess how desperate I am to be writing to you, mate. You can be a real pain in the arse sometimes, but you turned out to be right about that guy Gideon, he’s got a ramrod up his whatsit and he’s holier than God Almighty himself, though believe me, he’s nothing compared to the fat cat who’s Lord High Mucky-Muck out here. Yeah, yeah, I remember the jokes you made in Brisbane, anyone who swallows an oyster sucks. Very funny, even though you turned out to be right. Actually, it was all pretty good at first, it really was, and lots of very nifty sheilas around, but they make us live like bloody monks, except for Oyster, who’s a real poker, he likes to keep them all for himself, but just the same, I really had a pretty good time for a while, and I liked the hard work, and I’ve learned plenty about opals. In fact, you and me should head for Coober Pedy after this, mate. Trouble is, here, we don’t keep a brass razoo for ourselves, it all goes to Oyster and Gideon and the commune and crap like that, we’re slave labour, that’s what it is, and the prayer stuff is getting to be just a bit too much. As a matter of fact, it’s getting a bit crazy around here, and much bloody harder to get out than I realised when I came. So what I’m asking (and yeah, yeah, I’ll eat shit, I’ll kiss your arse), is could you send some dosh, a postal order for a few hundred’ll do. Don’t send a cheque, there’s no bank. Send it to me care
of Beresford’s, Outer Maroo, west of Quilpie. And don’t tell Dad, or I’ll crush your nuts when I get back. Once I’m in Melbourne, I’m gonna sleep for a week, we only get about three hours a night, we get preached at till the morning star is in the sky, I’m scribbling this at the rate of knots, hope you can read, it’s not allowed, which’ll give you some idea, and then I’ll cart you off to Coober Pedy, mate, and make us both rich.
Your dumb brother,
Matt
(a.k.a. around here as Habbakuk, I kid you not. No jokes, please.)
To Sydney:
Dear Mum and Dad,
It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. That is hard for you to understand. Here, we keep nothing for ourselves, we give ourselves totally, and so we find ourselves. I am bathed in the peace that passeth understanding, and I think of you with sorrow and with pity, so full of the poison of ambition and rush, getting and spending, laying waste your powers. I pray for you. I am filled with a radiant white light, and when I meditate, when Oyster directs our radiance out into the world, I clothe you with it. The world is rapidly returning to the chaos out of which it was once called forth by God, but I will draw you into the light that will take us beyond time and into the unchanging present of eternity. I pray that you will be saved in spite of yourselves by the force of the love of God. I clothe you in white light.
Love,
your daughter in Christ,
Balm of Gilead (formerly Ginnie)
To Boston:
Dear Sarah,
I have come home. It’s one of those feelings deep down in the bone. I believe now that everything is ordained, every seemingly chance encounter is meant to be. I know Dad has gone. It’s OK. I saw him in a dream. He was standing on the dock, down by the lake, and I walked down, and in the dream he kept watching me the whole way until I reached the dock, and then he turned away and dived into the water and never came up.
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