

Saints and Relics.

### A Novel

## SAINTS AND RELICS

### JOHN KELLY

B **y the same author** :

SATAN'S LITTLE HELPERS

ANDREA'S SECRET

HIROSHIMA SUNSET

" _He told me to write it in my blood according as He dictated it to me; I then signed it on my heart, writing thereon the Sacred Name of Jesus, with a penknife."_

Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque

Published by Aquinine Books

51 Roy Street, Donvale

Victoria, 3111 Australia.

www.members.optusnet.com.au/~xjbkelly

Except for two brief quotations from the Autobiography of Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque, this book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents portrayed are the product of the author's imagination and are not real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons or real organisations similar in name and description, is purely coincidental.

Originally published in 2007 as 'Monterey Creek'

Copyright © 2007 by John B Kelly

Copyright © 2009 by John B Kelly

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Author: Kelly, John Bernard, 1945-  
Title: Saints and Relics / John Kelly.  
ISBN: 9780646512310 (pbk.)  
Dewey Number: A823.4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations contained in critical articles or reviews.

Cover Image 'Wandering' reproduced with the permission of Melbourne Artist, Barbara McManus FVAS. AGRA.

## Saints and Relics

## 1.

Father Andrew James was nearly seventy-seven years of age and in remarkably good health. He put it down to his single-mindedness, the absence of uncertainty in his life, sober habits, and to God's good grace. He was a short fellow with gentle blue eyes, grey hair and a commanding voice that compensated his feeble handshake. When he entered the seminary straight out of secondary college at age eighteen, the Catholic Church was at its zenith in power and influence. The middle of the twentieth century was a time when churches were full, respect for the clergy was at an all time high, and seminaries around the world were full of bright young men eager to dedicate their lives to the greater glory of God.

While there were those in academic circles who felt the Church had become flawed, with too much emphasis on dogma and too little on ministry, Andrew James was not one of them. He was a bullish character with a conservative mind, and after his ordination entered diocesan parish life full of enthusiasm and eagerness. He was ready to tackle the task at hand, to put his training to the test, and guide the hearts and minds of Catholics in the one true faith, whether they liked it or not. He was dedicated to the Church and its canon law and dogmas. He thrust himself into the business of saving souls in a world he perceived as being in moral, political and economic decay. To him, the Catholic Church was the world's only means of salvation.

He was fluent in French, the legacy of his mother who came from Burgundy, and he travelled there frequently over the years to visit and maintain family ties. He loved France; he loved village life, the community, the simplicity and the devotion to the saints demonstrated by street parades and feast days.

Early in his priestly life however, the Church signalled a new direction and the certainty of once permanent ideologies began to crumble. Pope John XX111 opened the windows to encourage new thinking and fresh approaches; the aggiornamento. There were many who disagreed with him. Many clergy felt the Church had taken the wrong path in its reform. This unexpected development in the Church took Father James by surprise and he struggled to adapt. Allowing the uneducated masses the luxury of thinking for themselves was counter to his concept of ecclesiastical superiority. He continued in his role however, but was not always obedient to the wishes of the hierarchy. He never felt comfortable with the more relaxed approach toward the primacy of conscience or the preference for compassion over discipline. At times, he was belligerent even to the point of defiance. Over the years, he maintained a stubborn discipline, holding firmly to the staunch religious attitudes of Pope Pius X and the battle against modernism. Not surprisingly, he joined Opus Dei as an associate, attracted by its rigid discipline, its insistence on obedience to authority, and its mission to promote sanctity in the workforce. He judged the direction he saw the world heading, as a vindication of all that he and Opus Dei stood for and defended, and wasn't about to be seduced by the new liberalism. He clung to his traditional beliefs and values.

The years passed and in due course Father James was appointed a parish priest in the Sydney Archdiocese, although his ultra conservative values and abrasive manner had won him few friends in high places. Finally, he fell out of favour at the Diocesan centre when a complaint was received that he was refusing to allow the third rite of reconciliation. The matter was resolved by having him dispatched to the 'bush' as the parish priest of Saint Francis de Sales in the small town of Monterey Creek, known fairly widely for its annual Festival of the Flowers, but for little else. At Monterey Creek, Father James felt more at home, freed from the chains of conformity. It gave him the opportunity to run his parish in his own way with minimal interference from outside influences. He felt in control among country people, equating them with those villagers in France that he like and admired. In his first year, he was deeply impressed with the community involvement generated by the annual festival. It reminded him of community life in France. A number of the organizers were members of his parish and he encouraged them to expand the activities of the festival to include a street parade, with each group, school, service organization, and church submitting a float to pass down the main street ending at Remembrance Park. There, a carnival of sorts would begin and continue with dancing into the night. The organizers took the suggestion on board, although it took a few years to properly develop the idea. Each year the festival continued to grow and commercial interests from the surrounding locations joined in. More and more floats took part in the street parade and more attractions developed at Remembrance Park. There was the merry-go-round, the food stalls, the art exhibition, the parent and child one mile relay, the firemen's tug of war and the teenage singing contest. As the momentum gathered, the townsfolk never really noticed that the float entered by Saint Francis de Sales had been altered to present less of a community theme in favour of items displaying a more religious motif. Each year a subtle inclusion of religious fervour adorned the float. Each year, Father James would push the envelope that little bit further. He encouraged the organizers to open the carnival with a non-denominational prayer service and one year successfully proposed the prayer be led by the Diocesan Bishop. On that day, he cleverly included the statue of Our Lady of Fatima on the church float, and positioned three young children kneeling at the base. As a result, the festival took on the unintended appearance of a religious and decidedly Catholic affair. It was typical of the way Father James promoted his God in the district. Country parishes moved somewhat slower than the city. At Saint Francis de Sales, nobody thought much about it when Father James actively promoted the nine first Fridays, the five first Saturdays and the Novena to the Sacred Heart, devotions which had largely disappeared from most parishes. He had a passionate commitment to these devotions, but generally ignored many of the changes introduced by the Second Vatican Council. He even said the Latin mass in private, gathering around him a small band of loyal supporters such as Maud Baker and Dorothy Proctor who shared his conservative attitudes and who became cooperators of Opus Dei. When Father James first arrived as the new parish priest, Maud Baker had been pleased to see a strong conservative priest take over. "That's what the town needed," she said more than once.

It was on one of his trips to France, visiting relatives in the town of Janots, in Burgundy, that Father James was urged by his cousin to attend a meeting of a society of like-minded Catholic laymen and clergy. He was introduced to Jean Paul Colombière, a young businessman in the town of Paray-le-Monial. That society meeting had the most profound effect on Father James and at its conclusion, he had consented to be nominated as its eighth member, replacing one who had passed away suddenly. The society he had joined was the SVE, the 'Société de la Vérité Eternelle,' the Society of Eternal Truth, and his succession had been well thought through by the existing members before he was invited by his cousin to attend their bi-annual gathering. With Father James now a part of SVE, their membership was restored and continued to dedicate itself to guard and protect certain relics of Paray-le-Monial.

Passed down by dedicated believers over three hundred years since the death of Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque, the relics the society held and protected were separate from those held by the Convent of the Visitation at Paray-le-Monial. They were kept in secret, and spirited away from the Convent shortly after the death of Saint Margaret Mary in 1690. The chronicle held by the society showed that the relics were hidden by one Sister Péronne Rosalie de Farges who, fearful that those who resented the dead nun would discard them as preposterous, and the fruit of outrageous presumption, said nothing of their existence. She arranged to have them smuggled out of the convent and placed into the hands of trusted family members. From this simple act of faith, a handful of devoted individuals and groups accepted the awesome responsibility of guarding the relics and passing them on down through the generations. The tradition continued to the present day.

On returning to Australia, Father James confided with Maud Baker and Dorothy Proctor on his appointment to the SVE and the nature of the relics held by the society. As a reward for their loyalty, Maud and Dorothy enjoyed special status, referred to as 'Friends of SVE'. Although they were never introduced to the governing body or played any part in its decision making processes, they were encouraged to participate in prayers and novenas to the Sacred Heart and Father James saw to it that they received occasional pieces of information from the management at Paray.

## 2.

But while Father James had friends, his abrasive, bullish manner, and his intolerance for dissident ideas caused some to turn against him. He encouraged the youth of Monterey Creek to sign up and take the pledge, a commitment not to drink alcohol until the age of twenty-five. Understandably, in a country town, there were few takers and plenty of mockery. Much of it came from Maud's husband, Harry Baker, a lapsed Catholic, and his protestant friend Sam Spent, two Vietnam veterans who never suffered from too serious an attitude to anything. Harry was never strong in the faith, a situation reinforced by his Vietnam experiences, but in the early years of his marriage to Maud he maintained the appearance of a practising Catholic. He continued to accompany his wife to Sunday mass, but avoided the confessional. He respected Maud's religious fervour but found reasons not to join her when she attended her special devotions, such as benediction and prayer meetings.

Early into the marriage, Maud fell pregnant and gave birth to a daughter, Allison. Harry was besotted by the child but as Maud became more religious, he felt that they were drifting apart. Allison then became the focal point and principal joy of his life. As the years passed, the pressure continued to build on the marriage. Harry became less interested and found solace with Sam Spent and friends, drinking at the Bush Bar Hotel.

Sam Spent was a rogue of a fellow, stout and rugged, with a wonderful sense of humour, a generous liberal protestant heart, and a weakness for the ladies. His problems began when he returned from Vietnam, and purchased a Saw Mill, taking out a huge mortgage. In all the excitement, he forgot to insure any of it. Just one year later, the mill burnt to the ground. Two days later, his wife left him, taking their two boys and he was given temporary shelter at the local Anglican Church vicarage.

Not long after, his father died and on the day of the funeral he introduced two of his brothers to two elderly pensioners he met through his association with the local church seniors group. When his brothers were found guilty of embezzling the two elderly pensioners out of their life savings and given 10 year sentences, the parson who had given him refuge felt his presence somewhat compromising and he had to leave. He moved onto his brother's farm with one of his sons.

Things started to improve a year later when his wife returned with their other son to help on the farm and they began raising sheep. They actually made some money that year before the bottom fell out of the wool market. That's when Sam's drinking problems began. He found the whiskey settled his nerves but left him with an empty wallet. His wife left him again and moved to Hampton Bells. His two sons however, remained with him on the farm.

Harry's story was different. While Maud raised Allison in the strict Irish Catholic tradition, he balanced the scales with a more laid-back approach to life. Harry encouraged Allison to challenge anything she neither agreed with, nor understood, and he was always at odds with Maud as to the intensity of Catholic teaching at home and in the schools. He claimed that it was too oppressive; too punishment centred, and stifled initiative. Maud thought it was all that stood between salvation and everlasting damnation.

As time passed the young teenager tended to side with her father and proved something of a rebel. There were times when it brought her into conflict with her tutors, the nuns. When she was a senior student in year 12, if she disagreed and found their theology implausible, she said so. 'Codswallop' was more often than not her uncensored response. In her teenage years she developed a mind of her own. The nuns despaired.

"And Lazarus who had been dead four days, came out of the tomb," the nun taught her students. 'Codswallop,' Allison whispered to the girl sitting beside her in class.

On another occasion, the sister claimed, "...and his work done, Our Lord was raised up above and ascended into the clouds..."

"Codswallop," Allison said out loud to the chuckles of some and the murmurs of others.

"Allison Baker, stand up," the sister demanded. Allison obeyed in silence.

"What do you mean by that outburst young lady?"

Allison was far from fazed and grasped the opportunity to have her say. "It's utterly irrational in this day and age to expect anyone to believe that, sister," she replied fearlessly. "It has to be metaphorical. It has to be symbolic." The nuns were horrified. Often notes were sent home to her mother Maud, complaining, or suggesting a firmer approach to the teachings of Holy Mother Church. Maud said she would pray on the matter.

As Allison's unruly, disrespectful attitude developed, it was suggested that a meeting with Father James might be in order. Perhaps he could demonstrate to her the error of her ways. The nuns, fearing that her carefree expression would expose their own shortcomings, decided not to pursue the matter, and it was dropped into the 'too hard' basket.

It was Father James who brought matters to a head when he gave Harry the opportunity to stop practising the faith. Harry had promised to help Sam Spent on the farm one Sunday after mass and arrived at the church dressed in work clothes.

It was Father James' custom to stand outside the church each Sunday to greet the faithful as they arrived. When he noticed Harry in his work clothes he called him aside.

"You're not coming into my church dressed like that," he said to him arrogantly. Harry was stunned.

"As if the Lord cares what people wear to mass, Father," he answered.

"You're not coming in like that," Father James insisted churlishly.

Rather than pursue the matter, Harry took the easy way out.

"Okay then," he replied. "I won't."

With that, he left. The priest had to explain to Maud who was standing at the front steps with Allison, what had transpired. Harry waved to Allison, "I'll see you later, pumpkin," he called out as he jumped into his car and left to join Sam on the farm.

"He's a defiant man, Maud. His heart has turned against God," the priest told her. "You can't be expected to change him now. Leave him to Almighty God who will find another way to reach him." Maud, never one to argue with a man of God, took strength from his words. Later that day, Father James subsequently sought out Harry and Sam privately and told them he had no time for their irreverent attitude. That set them against him, and even though the conflict compromised his close spiritual relationship with Maud, Father James was unyielding. Harry never attended church again.

Conscious that she and Harry were drifting apart, Maud became even more devout. She attended prayer meetings at the presbytery weekly with her close friend Dorothy Proctor and supported home rosaries recited before the statue of Our Lady of Fatima. Harry sought refuge at the hotel with Sam Spent. In Maud's eyes, Sam was a bad influence. Sam and Harry both had a weakness for drink and together, they could solve the problems of the world after a few quick ones on Saturday night at the Bush Bar Hotel. Maud hated drink and hated what it did to Harry. It was a natural extension of her piety and commitment to the Church that she judged Harry's association with Sam as an occasion of sin. With Maud, now more devout, pious and prayerful, and Harry a seemingly drunken, hopeless case, the end of their marriage was inevitable.

Their daughter Allison was oblivious to what was coming. She saw her father as a kind, loving, jovial fellow who always looked after her and made her laugh. When her father left home one day with no explanation, her mother said it was for the best.

Allison was devastated. She was sixteen at the time and never knew if her father left or her mother threw him out. But she knew that the drink was at the heart of it. Harry was never going to be a farmer. He was a labourer at best and travelled south to Melbourne for work. Labouring opportunities were good. He found a place to rent and kept in touch. He sent Allison letters and cards. He never forgot a birthday. But he never came back. Allison was allowed to spend some of her holidays with him and the occasional weekend. They both loved it. They shared a zest for life. Allison respected her mother's religious commitment, her pious ways, but was not drawn to imitate her.

She finished school and entered University at Hampton Bells campus. At age twenty she left home to complete her studies in Melbourne. Reunited and living with her father she was happy. Boyfriends came and went, but one in particular left his mark in more ways than one. Nine months later, Amy was born. The boyfriend disappeared, unable to cope, but Harry was there and it was the making of him. He became the quintessential doting grand-father. He scaled down the grog, worked on city construction sites diligently and reliably, supporting Allison and Amy, giving them added security by taking out a mortgage and buying a house for the three of them. Graduating from University, Allison worked as a journalist at a suburban newspaper. The three of them remained together for the next nine years. All this time, Maud Baker remained at Monterey Creek, as housekeeper to Father James. But she was never denied her role as grand-mother. Allison and Amy visited regularly.

It wasn't until the appointment of Father Michael Ryan as curate at Monterey Creek that the parish was brought up to date with the changes introduced by Vatican 11. He was thirty five, handsome and refreshingly candid. Father Michael introduced the sign of peace, the third rite of reconciliation, preached about a loving, compassionate, forgiving Jesus, and the townsfolk and parish faithful warmed to this young man. Father James made no attempt to reign him in, he knew certain changes had to come, and he appreciated the workload Father Michael assumed. But neither did he change his ways, preferring to let the young curate take care of the liberals while he concentrated on what he thought mattered most. Then, two years after Father Michael arrived, a series of unfortunate events took place within the community of Monterey Creek, events that subsequently extended well beyond its tranquil outskirts. It began when Maud Baker's health failed. It was her heart, and a call for help went out to Allison.

With Harry's blessing and her promise that she and Amy would visit him regularly, Allison decided to give up her job at the newspaper in Melbourne and return with Amy to Monterey Creek to care for her mother. As she eased herself and Amy back into the community, and they adjusted to the idea of a single mother in their midst, her closest friend was Sam Spent. He had not mended his ways much but he had always felt partly responsible for the marriage break-up with his boozing and brawling. If Allison needed help in any way around the house, Sam would do it for her. Sam became a de-facto great-uncle to Amy, much to Maud's horror. Maud drew Amy closer to her for fear of Sam contaminating her immortal soul. Allison did not object. She was distracted by the young curate, Father Michael. She was oblivious to the psychological impact Maud's religious fervour was having on Amy. She even attended Sunday mass herself now and then, but only when she knew that Father Michael would be the celebrant.

The following year, Father James reached the age of seventy-five, and it was time for him to stand aside and allow Father Michael to take over as parish priest. Times had changed and the aggiornamento of the good Pope John had been methodically restrained, and reigned in. The wheels had turned and were heading back the other way. Retirement beckoned for the old man, but a chronic shortage of priests prompted the new Bishop of the Diocese to offer him a post back in Sydney as an incentive to stay on. He wasn't to be a parish priest but a part-time assistant in the larger city parish of Saint Eudes. Father James was tired of running a parish and accepted the opportunity to spread his influence among those he perceived as a more sophisticated gathering of the faithful in the city. The workload would be gentle and leave him free to continue his activities with SVE, and also maintain ties with those at Monterey Creek with whom he had developed a close relationship, his two friends, Maud Baker and Dorothy Proctor.

Allison was wary of Father James and delighted at the news that he was retiring to the city. It was only after he left and Father Michael was appointed parish priest that she began to relax her attitude to the Church.

In Father Michael's first year as parish priest, Allison became an active member of the community and volunteered her services to help organize the Saturday night social for the Festival of the Flowers. She signed up a band to come from Sydney for the night. She promoted the band to the neighbouring towns and over two hundred people responded, enjoying the evening so much they had to be told to go home at twelve-thirty. At one point during the evening, when the music slowed and the over 30's took to the dance floor, she brazenly took Father Michael by the hand, led him onto the floor and they danced the quick-step together. They looked in every way a natural couple as Allison laughed and danced her way around the hall with the young priest. They also set the town tongues wagging.

"This would never have happened if Father James was here," Dorothy Proctor told Alice Eastward, owner of the local pie shop, as the couple twirled past them. "Yes, isn't it wonderful? Perhaps we should have got rid of him sooner," Alice replied. Dorothy was miffed.

It wasn't that simple for Father Michael however. In those early days, he and Allison had found common ground on many issues and became friends. Behind a veneer of propriety he harboured feelings for her that he never allowed anyone to see. Her happy, carefree nature was intoxicating to the young priest, all the more because she was something he could not have, if he were true to his vows. She was available but yet, not available. No matter what manner of spiritual exercises he performed, she was constantly in his thoughts. Recurring images appeared regularly during the day, but it was in the evenings that the temptation was the most challenging. Even as he said his daily office, her image loomed large. And at night in bed, what should have been for him the sleep of the just, was a constant battle of the mind. When her image appeared he quickly dismissed thoughts of her lying there with him only to have them return minutes later. He wondered if she thought of him at all, or was this no more than a foolish fantasy. Each night in bed, he wondered about many such things until the rigours of the day overtook his active mind and he finally drifted off to sleep.

## 3.

It was on the occasion of Father James' most recent trip to France to attend a special gathering of the eight members of the management of SVE that the real troubles began.

Fifty kilometres west of Cluny, in the picturesque town of Paray-le-Monial, it was ten o' clock in the evening. Below street level in the basement of an office building on the Rue de la Visitation, eight men of noble and independent mind had gathered under a veil of doubt and secrecy. The basement was rectangular in shape, the walls adorned with religious pictures set within ornately carved timber frames, each with a small wooden cross at the apex. The pictures featured the Sacred Heart of Jesus on one side of the room, the Sacred Heart of Mary on the other. The aisle was carpeted with a thick red strip that displayed a tapestry of hearts with flames rising from within and a crown of thorns around the centre. There was an archway in the middle of the room, suggesting this was once two rooms at some time in the past. The altar was laid bare but for a white linen cover that bore the inscription SVE. Behind the altar, mounted in a small alcove, stood a white tabernacle with gold plated edging around its door. Above the tabernacle hung a huge framed print of the painting by Louis Caracciolo of the Apparition of the Sacred Heart to Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque. The painting depicts the nun on her knees before the Altar of the Chapel of the Visitation at Paray. Above the Altar standing on a cloud, Jesus, covered in a thick red robe looks down upon her, His Sacred Heart exposed. Behind Him is a monstrance containing the consecrated host. To His left and right cherubs watch on. The painting brings the room to life, dominating all else. As the eight men sat on simple wooden chairs, arranged in an arc facing the altar with the tabernacle open, the mood was sour, the tension at breaking point.

Those present this night represented the entire membership of SVE, the 'Société de la Vérité Eternelle,' and the course of the discussion that prompted the meeting had reached a crisis.

"My brothers, the time has come for us to put the motion to a vote," Monsignor Henri Pascal said. There was a murmur of voices, some in agreement, others not.

"Surely we are not ready to decide on something as momentous as this," François Dante protested.

"We have all had more time than we need," Jean Paul Colombière countered. "It is time to face reality. What have we to fear? Surely Almighty God will guide us."

"It is wrong," said Father James, the representative from Australia. "This will be the end of the society. We must remain true to the wishes and promises stated in the manuscript."

"Those who agree that a vote should now be taken please raise your hands," Henri Pascal said, determined to push ahead.

"You are making a mistake, my brothers," Father James pressed, again making no effort to conceal his annoyance.

Two hands went up immediately, that of Pascal and Colombière. Then, slowly two more; the doctor from Brussels and the solicitor from London. It was four in favour, and four, it seemed, against.

"It is deadlocked," Father James said with excitement and relief. "The motion is defeated." The four members with their hands raised looked around to the others. Was there just one more that would join them? Seconds passed before the deadlock was broken.

"No," said the Jesuit from Lyon. "I think we should proceed as proposed. I think it is better to know than to believe in blind faith. I vote yes." He too, then raised his hand.

Henri Pascal examined their faces, listening to the tone of their voices and heaved a sigh of relief. "Then let us proceed," he said. "This matter has been delayed long enough. All those in favour of the motion to submit the relics to technical examination please raise your hands now," he stated.

Again, he and Jean Paul Colombière raised their hands, followed by the doctor and the solicitor. Their eyes then turned to see if the Jesuit from Lyon would follow through on his earlier statement. A few seconds passed but then slowly, he too raised his hand. Then a surprise, as the antiquities dealer José da Silva from Lisbon lifted his hand also.

"I am sorry François. I too think it is better to know," he said speaking to the retired Bishop of Paris.

"Six in favour," Henri Pascal said. "Two against! The motion is passed. The relics are to be entrusted to our brother from Lisbon at such time as he is able to arrange appropriate examination. José, you will make arrangements and report back to us when you wish to take charge of the relics."

"This is a mistake," Father James stood up, protesting angrily. "We are betraying the wishes of Saint Margaret Mary, not to mention those of Our Divine Saviour."

François moved to console his only other supporter at the gathering.

"It is all right, Andrew. God will guide us. I fear this is the end of us, but let God decide."

Monsignor Henri Pascal understood the disappointment felt by the priest from Australia and, while not willing to compromise the majority decision in any way, he offered his sympathies.

"Gentlemen, we are grateful for your continued attendance and support. We acknowledge the objections of our two loyal and dedicated brothers. As Father James will be departing for his home in Sydney in three days, may I suggest we meet here two nights from now where we will celebrate a farewell mass and wish him bon voyage?"

The gathering agreed but clearly the mood had changed. The animosity between men of high spiritual calling was evident. What was once unswerving trust and loyalty toward each other had gradually disintegrated into confused factional camps and few words passed between them as Father James closed the tabernacle and they filed out the rear door and up the stairs out onto the street.

Before each of them departed, Henri Pascal turned to his fellow members and offered a conciliatory gesture. "In two days time gentlemen," he said, referring to their next gathering. "Perhaps between now and then, Almighty God will intervene to guide and direct us further."

There was a general murmur of agreement in some voices, but his words offered little comfort to Father James, or to Bishop François Dante. Little did Monsignor Pascal realize then the prophetic nature of his statement, or the sequence of events that were to follow in the weeks to come; events that would play out not in France but thousands of kilometres away on the other side of the world.

## 4.

Two days after the crucial vote, the eight members of SVE met as planned and celebrated a farewell Latin mass for Father James. The mood had not changed, nor, it seemed, had anyone discerned Almighty God's intervention with instructions to reconsider their intended course of action. When the mass was over, and the unusually brief social discourse that followed came to a conclusion, they left once more agreeing to return again in six months to learn both the fate of the relics and that of their society. All of them that is, except one.

At one o' clock the next morning, the night was still and the sky was clear. A full moon above gave sufficient light along the narrow cobbled lane which gave access to the rear of the office of Jean Paul Colombière. From out of the shadows of the buildings along the Rue de la Visitation, the ageing Father James emerged and entered the lane keeping close to the side, hidden from the moonlight. Wearing a dark jacket, black trousers and track shoes he moved quietly up the lane until he arrived at the narrow wooden gate twenty metres away from the entrance to the street. Producing a key, he entered into the courtyard that smelt of cat pee and fermenting garbage. Above him, from an open window, he heard what sounded like a man and a woman either strangling each other or making love. With the French it was difficult to tell. He shunned the noises and walked across to the rear of the building. Using the same key, he entered the office through the rear door. Once inside he produced a small torch, moved across the room and opened another door that led downstairs to the basement. Closing the door behind him he stepped cautiously down each step, carefully avoiding any unnecessary creaking of the boards.

At the bottom of the stairs he smelt incense which did not surprise him. He shone the torch around the room, taking a moment to adjust himself to his surroundings before turning on the light and focusing his attention on the small enclave at the rear of the room behind the altar.

Father James made his way past the empty chairs to the tabernacle and taking another small key from his shirt pocket, opened it. Inside lay a chalice, an ancient manuscript kept in a protective cover and a small wooden casket rectangular in shape with a metal flip fastener. He reverently removed the chalice placing it on the altar. He then removed the small wooden casket and the manuscript, placing them on the altar. Taking the chalice he held it up making the sign of the cross before resting it once more on the altar. Genuflecting, he took a consecrated host from the chalice and administered himself communion. He then returned the chalice to its original position, closed the tabernacle and turned his attention to the small wooden casket.

Taking a few moments to collect himself, his thoughts drifted. He wondered why it had come to this. Four hours earlier, he stood in this very position saying a final Latin mass among friends and colleagues before his departure for Australia. Now he was stealing their most valued possession. Why had it come to this? It was not his wish that it should. He was, for years, one of SVE's most ardent and loyal followers and committing himself to this course of action was a last resort. But it had to be done. He knew it. The retired Bishop of Paris and fellow member, François Dante, knew it and together they had hatched the plan.

"We have to remove the relic and the manuscript," Dante said to him, following the meeting of the management committee two days earlier. "We cannot allow them to be exposed to a post-Christian world and see them mocked and ridiculed. We have to honour the promise and the instructions of Saint Margaret Mary, as detailed in the manuscript. I have a key to the building. After your farewell mass, wait till the early hours of the morning, come back and enter from the rear. Take the relic and the manuscript to Australia. Hide them. Keep them safe until we sort this mess out."

Deep down he knew the Bishop was right, and the management were wrong. Exposing the relic and the manuscript would only see them held up to the rigors of carbon dating, twenty-first century technology and scrutiny by non-believers. So-called experts would sample blood stains, water stains, light and heavy scorch marks and background areas for examination. The experts would say the cloth was not genuine, just like the Shroud of Turin. Sacrilegious! The world was not ready for this. The time had not yet come, the two of them believed. The management's decision was flawed. They decided to delay the execution of the verdict and temporarily relocate the relics. With great reverence Father James opened the wooden casket. A relaxed look of satisfaction spread across his face. He gazed in wonder at the contents. A feeling of awe and utter delight enveloped him. He closed the casket, wrapped it in a small blanket and placed it in a black plastic shopping bag. Then retracing his footsteps, he quietly made his way to the back of the room, turned the light out and went upstairs, leaving the building the same way he entered. In no more than ten minutes, Father James had achieved what he set out to do.

Thirty-six hours later, as the pilot advised the passengers that they would be landing at Kingsford Smith Airport, Sydney, in approximately forty-five minutes, Father James heaved a sigh of relief, but not without a shade of regret. He felt remote and separated. In a way, he found it difficult to believe what he had done, and that he had brought home with him the object of his unquestioned devotion for the past twenty-five years. When he left for Paray six weeks earlier, he had no idea that events would conspire in such a way as to have him stealing the Society's most venerated possessions. Yes, there were those who wanted to announce it to the world, believing that its time had come, but they were misguided. They needed to be persuaded to wait and adhere to the instructions in the manuscript. The retired Bishop François Dante, needed time to convince the modernists to change their vote and maintain the status quo. Dante was a gifted negotiator and orator and Father James admired him greatly. Given sufficient time, he could do that. He could coax the few needed to re-think the motion. Father James wanted to give him that time. So he agreed to take the relic, and the manuscript and care for them until the majority could see reason. While completing his landing card, he became concerned that because the casket was made of wood, if seen by customs officers, it might be viewed as a prohibited item, given the possibility of borers and such little nasties burrowed inside. Unlikely as he assessed that possibility to be, given that it was over three hundred years old and still as solid and sturdy as it was when first made, he felt some diversionary tactic would not go amiss. Adjourning to the toilet, he freshened up and, in the process, fastened his dog collar to show that he was a man of the cloth. He wanted to avoid if possible any baggage search, any unnecessary delay and in particular any burdensome explanation of the casket or its contents. He returned to his seat just as the 'fasten seat belts' sign came on and along with three hundred and fifty other passengers on board the Qantas Jumbo, he prepared for landing. As he sat there, riding the minor turbulence calmly, he thought over the various options open to him. He could hide the relics among his personal possessions, but that would always be risky. House-keepers were an energetic lot, always buzzing around cleaning up this and that, re-arranging here and there. He knew that some effort would be made by the Society to have the relics returned to them, but what form that would take he could not predict. He considered other possibilities. Store them away from his parish presbytery perhaps, but where? He could have the relics placed in a safety deposit box at his bank. But that would require ongoing monthly payments and could be noticed and require some explanation. It was then that he considered taking the relics and entrusting them to friends outside of the city, in the country far away. It was then that he considered his close friends Maud Baker and Dorothy Proctor at Monterey Creek.

## 5.

With a population of just nine hundred and fifty, the town came upon the driver suddenly as it appeared over the rise. The town sign just before the old stone bridge was somewhat tired looking, and the additional board attached underneath reminding the visitor that this was the location of the Festival of the Flowers was probably termite ridden, but it was the first indication that there was human life here at Monterey Creek. The road widened marginally on the other side of the bridge with an avenue of pine trees that guided visitors into the town. Further along, another banner advertising the festival in two weeks time stretched across the road between two light poles. Each year, in October, all the green thumbs gathered from the surrounding towns. They came to show off their prize azaleas and their pansies. They came with typical country pride and humility with their forget-me-nots, their marigolds, orchids, fuchsias, poppies, and various hybrids they had planned for months and laboured over during the past year. Each year, the optimistic amateurs came, convinced they would walk to the podium to receive the winner's gold sash and eradicate the disappointment of losing the previous year. But for the festival, there was little to excite or encourage the passing motorist to stop. No one outside the town had ever heard of Alice Eastward's home made pies. They might perhaps be tempted to stop for petrol at Brian Wayne's service station on the way in, but being so close to the larger town of Hampton Bells where the price was probably cheaper, only those desperately low on fuel would bother. Monterey Creek was a small town kept alive by a small farm trade.

Father James was on a mission. He was in a hurry and stopped for nothing. He knew he had but a handful of friends here, but that didn't matter. Those friends he counted were rock solidly committed to the same ideals and values he cherished. Over the years he spent here as parish priest he never once drifted from those values and his passionate belief in the power of prayer to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The two women he was coming to see shared that passion.

At the offices of the Hampton Daily, a regional newspaper at nearby Hampton Bells, Allison Baker was filing her report for the day. It was two weeks before the annual Festival of the Flowers and she was submitting promotional material for publication. At thirty-one, Allison was an attractive, intelligent single woman, well educated, with a sharp mind, and more than willing to think outside the square. She applied herself methodically, never writing a story until she had all the facts. She never took information second hand. Everything she wrote was checked and verified before she submitted it for editorial approval. She was forthright, deliberate and open.

At the Hampton Daily, Allison was finishing early. She was slotted in to a parent-teacher meeting at four o' clock and signed off on her work for the day. She was tidying up her desk when her mother Maud rang.

"Yes mother?" she said wearily.

"Allison," her mother began, "would it be possible for you to pick Amy up from school today. I've just had a call from Father James in Sydney. He's just back from France and is coming by this afternoon. I don't want to be gone when he arrives," she said, with an air of excitement.

"Mother, I told you this morning that I have an appointment with Amy's teacher this afternoon. I am already going to pick Amy up."

"Oh? Oh yes, I forgot. Well that's all right then isn't it. You don't mind then?"

"No mother, I don't mind. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine dear."

"How long will Father James be there?" Allison asked.

"Oh, it's only a brief visit I think. Not long."

"What's he coming up for then?" Allison asked abruptly.

"Oh, I think he's just passing through. I don't know."

"Well, there is a short committee meeting at the school to go over one or two things for the festival after the parent teacher meeting," Allison told her. "I'll stay for that but I hope he won't be hanging around for long. You know I don't like him. He's creepy. He looks at Amy in strange ways. I don't like it."

"Allison," her mother exclaimed. "He thinks the world of Amy. He thinks she is very special, as I do."

"He hardly knows her. I was only back here a few months before he got shafted off to the city, yet every time he looked at her, he judged me. I didn't like it," she said.

"You misunderstand him dear," Maud said in his defence.

"Well, whatever, I hope he's not still there when Amy and I arrive home."

Allison put the phone down. The news of Father James' visit unsettled her. She didn't like him. She always felt, when she returned to Monterey Creek, that he looked down on her as a fallen woman, a woman with a child out of wedlock. She was glad when he left and Father Michael took over as parish priest. She decided that she would extend the parent-teacher appointment for as long as she could in the hope that, by the time she arrived home, Father James would be long gone. It was also in the back of her mind that Father Michael might attend the later meeting and should she find the opportunity to discuss some of the finer points of the coming festival with him, she might be sufficiently delayed anyway.

*

At fifty-eight years of age, Maud Baker looked older, perhaps sixty- eight and had already suffered one heart attack. She was greying, wrinkled, forgetful and living on borrowed time. She lived in the cottage at 25 Terry Street in Monterey Creek with her daughter and her grand-daughter. She had lived here for thirty-five years, and spent most of that time working as part-time housekeeper to a succession of parish priests at Francis de Sales parish presbytery. Her religious zeal manifested itself in unswerving loyalty to the Church and its teaching. Her special devotion was to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and Mary, spurred on by the same passion and commitment she admired so much in Father James. Her house displayed a variety of pious objects, pictures, and religious books, but it didn't stop there. Her devotion to Our Lady of Fatima saw her host the recital of the rosary at her house regularly. Allison found little joy in those evenings, but, loyal to her mother's wishes, she drew breath and remained silent.

All this time, Maud's health remained stable. Fearful that Amy was not receiving a sufficiently dedicated Catholic upbringing, she applied her own standards of spiritual guidance to her regularly after school, when Allison was at work. The catechism was the foundation; the lives of the saints were additional areas of tuition. She took her to confession on Saturday mornings, Sunday mass, benediction, and encouraged her to devote her life to Jesus. She devoted her spare time to her well-kept garden, her African marigolds that she proudly displayed each year at the festival, growing lettuce and tomatoes, raking up leaves, turning the soil and pruning her roses. But Maud was constantly watching her weight, her cholesterol level, always wondering, always fearful of when the next attack would come.

When Maud Baker put the phone down her heart was pumping with excitement. Father James was coming. He had returned from France and had something of immense importance to discuss with her and Dorothy Proctor. She looked about the house. What had to be done? "Oh yes, I must call Dorothy," she said out loud, and picked up the phone again.

When Dorothy Proctor arrived at Maud's house, the two women were abuzz with excitement. It had been months since they had seen Father James. He had kept in touch by phone and letter, and told them of his planned trip to France, but until now there had been no word from him. Now he was back and wanted to see them.

## 6.

Father James bowed his head as he drove past the Church, and continued through the town straight to Terry Street. He had recovered from jet lag, and now felt fresh and alert. On the front seat of the car, he had placed a metal tool box he found in the garage of the presbytery in Sydney. It looked innocent and unassuming enough, the right size to conceal the casket he had brought from France. Pulling his car into the driveway at number twenty five, he felt elated. Yes, this was the best place to deposit the casket. Leave it in Maud's care. She would honour and protect it until it was safe to restore it to its rightful place at Paray-le-Monial. He gave a light toot on the car horn, gathered up the tool box under his arm, and got out of the car just as Maud and Dorothy Proctor came out to greet him. The three embraced as brother and sisters and quickly went inside.

Maud had already prepared afternoon tea and the trio settled quickly. Over the years she had come to anticipate Father James' expectations, knowing exactly what he would want at any particular time. They sat together on the lounge, Father James in the middle with the metal tool box on his lap and the two ladies on either side. He talked to them about his recent trip to France, discussing with them the unfortunate turn of events, the move to reveal the existence of the relics and to submit them to modern examination. He expressed in very passionate terms his concern for the future of the relics. He then revealed to them the wishes of the retired François Dante of Paris. The two ladies were breathless and enthralled as they listened to Father James reveal the subsequent dramatic events played out in the dead of night.

"You could have been attacked," Dorothy exclaimed. Father James waved off the danger with his usual arrogant assurance.

"I felt I was always in the safe care of Our Lord," he replied.

Then, with all the excitement and anticipation of a child, he revealed to the two ladies, the contents of the metal tool box. They gasped as he opened the casket. Maud wondered if the moment would bring on a heart attack such was her feeling of awe and expectation. Dorothy dropped to her knees in adoration. Father James led them in prayer. They knelt together around the casket, holding hands, giving praise and thanks after which he cautioned them both.

"It is very important that no one know of this. We have been called upon by Our Lord Jesus Christ to protect these relics. Please keep them safe. Maud, does your daughter Allison still work for that newspaper?"

"Yes Father, but don't worry. I won't breathe a word."

"Unless she's changed somewhat, I'm not sure that Allison would appreciate the spiritual integrity and value of what you hold. It would be most unfortunate should her paper print anything about this."

"No one will know Father," Maud assured him.

"And Father Michael too?" Dorothy asked.

Father James shook his head vigorously. "Definitely not Father Ryan no," he answered quickly. "He would not understand."

An hour later, their meeting concluded, Father James consigned the casket into the care of both women, delegating Maud to keep it in her house for the time being. As the three of them walked down the front pathway, Father James took an envelope from inside his jacket.

"Oh dear I almost forgot," he said with a grin. "I wrote a note for you in case you forget anything. All the details are in this letter," he said as he handed the envelope to Maud. "Have a read of it both of you, it explains everything I have told you about the manuscript, but I think you should keep this letter with the casket until I come back to collect it. Take good care of it. I will keep the manuscript. It is best we keep the two items separate for the moment. It is the Lord's work we have been called to do. God bless you Maud. God bless you Dorothy."

As he drove off, watching the two ladies waving goodbye, he strayed onto the wrong side of the road and failed to notice Allison coming around the corner into Terry Street. She jammed her hand on the horn, shouted abuse appropriate to the incident and swerved just in time, avoiding a minor collision. Father James, preoccupied with the euphoria of the moment, was oblivious to the near collision.

"Is he drunk?" Allison yelled out as she and Amy climbed out of the car. Maud recoiled at the suggestion.

"Allison," she remonstrated. "How could you be so disrespectful? Father James is truly a man of God."

"Oh codswallop," she replied, "He drives like a drunken maniac, the silly old fool."

Maud and Dorothy looked at each other with expressions of despair, but the temporary shock of the insult quickly evaporated when they set eyes upon Amy. The meeting with Father James had included some discussion about Amy. They now attached greater significance to her. In their minds, Amy and the contents of the metal tool box were inextricably linked.

"I'd better go now," Dorothy said. "I'll see you at mass tomorrow then?"

Maud nodded. "Yes, tomorrow at mass," she replied.

From the moment Father James had revealed the relic in the casket to Maud and Dorothy, and told them of his enlightened vision, the two women enjoyed a heightened expectation of some impending spiritual experience. Something was about to happen, something that involved little Amy Baker. They both treasured her. She was the sunrise beaming through a dark grey sky; an answer to a prayer. Maud considered the circumstances of Amy's conception unfortunate, but something that no longer mattered. After all, was not the Blessed Virgin Mary seen as conceiving the Son of God under similar uncertain circumstances? In her enthusiasm, she convinced herself that it was God's will that Allison and Amy had returned to Monterey Creek, not to nurse her weak heart, but that she might care for the spiritual well-being of Amy, until, 'the appointed time.' Yes, God was placing Amy in her care! She saw Amy as the antithesis of all that was wrong in a world rapidly heading toward hell. Amy, she thought, could be the beacon of light to a world gone mad. She could be the fulfilment of the prophecy in the manuscript, 'a child of the light.' Father James believed it to be so, and in Maud's eyes, Father James was blest by God in the same way John the Baptist was decreed 'a Voice in the Wilderness.' Father James was heralding Amy as the child of the light.

In so believing, Maud continued to nurture Amy's spiritual health in prayer and instruction. Each time she used the example of the saints who suffered greatly but who persevered and prevailed over Satan. She read to her the story of the appearances of Our Lady to the three children at Fatima after school before Allison returned home from work. Amy showed an unusual fascination for the story and asked her questions, mostly about the children, particularly Jacinta Marto. Maud stretched the truth somewhat and told her that she and Jacinta were in many ways, similar.

"Jacinta was just like you," she said. "She lived in a small country town in Portugal, went to school, and was looked after by her grandmother while her mother worked in the fields."

Amy's eyes lit up.

"Why did Our Lady visit her?" Amy asked.

"Because she prayed to her and asked her to help her mother and father and brothers and sisters be happy."

"Will she come to visit me, if I pray too?" Amy asked innocently.

"If you pray to her, she might come to visit you, yes," Maud said.

In the evenings, when Allison tucked Amy into bed and talked with her, Amy asked her to read to her the story of the three children.

"Grandma said if I pray, Our Lady would come to visit me like she came to visit Jacinta."

Allison rolled her eyes partly in desperation, partly resignation. Her mother's religious fervour had not changed in thirty years. Such responses were the product of her faith and there was little anyone could do to arrest it. While she felt uncomfortable about silly ideas being placed in Amy's head, she believed that at this stage in the little girl's life, they were little more than childhood fantasies and would in time evaporate as her daughter's mind developed and matured.

"There's nothing wrong with dreaming about it, darling. But don't be too disappointed if nothing happens," she answered, trusting that to make more an issue of it would be counter-productive. "Grandma thinks you're very special, as I do. She wants you to be good girl and grow up strong and healthy."

Little did Allison realize then that her mother's time was rapidly coming to a close; that her heart was only a short time away from surrendering its tenuous hold on life. In those next few days, Maud became so enveloped and consumed by her religious fervour that she had begun to neglect her medication.

## 7.

Monsignor Henri Pascal lived in Paris, in a run-down apartment on Rue Norvins, in the shadow of the Basilique du Sacré Coeur de Montmartre. It was left to him by his parents, and he lovingly restored it with his own hands, except for his favourite armchair with the small worn and faded fabric on the left side. He set up his study in the only room that gave him a view of the whiter than white domed Romanesque church built on the Butte de Montmartre, the highest point in Paris. He loved the view from this room and often found it to be the very inspiration he needed in his work. He was an Honorary Prelate attached to the Basilica and his workload included the counselling of priests who had lapsed in faith and subsequently wandered off; priests disillusioned with what they thought would be their life's work or who, by various circumstances, fell in with women or liquor or both. He was learned, compassionate, never judgemental but sometimes imprecise. At sixty one, he had seen most of what ails and destroys a priest in crisis; the despair of having nothing, in a world where all prestige is measured by appearances. Often, when a priest realized he had given his whole life in service for no material reward, save an assurance that he would be taken care of in retirement, the cold hard truth emerged that retirement didn't offer much. That was when depression invited itself into the mind of the front-line soldier of Christ. That was when a priest began to question the legitimacy of the Deposit of Faith, the historical accuracy of the Gospel, Church theology and whether or not it had all been worth the sacrifice, the loneliness, and the subordination. That was when Monsignor Henri Pascal was usually asked to step in and act as brother, friend, psychologist, confessor and restorer of the faith.

Despite a rigorous work schedule, he still had the energy to be a member of the Society of Eternal Truth and guard the secret of Paray-le-Monial. The society was a special interest in his life, something that gave impetus to his work. He believed passionately in the power of the secret he and his society protected. It drove him to work harder to save fallen priests. The news that the casket and the manuscript had been stolen angered him as much as it did the others. He would do anything to secure its safe return. Until this morning, he had not been advised of the results of the internal investigation that was undertaken to determine who was responsible. He was at breakfast when the call came from Jean Paul Colombière in Paray.

"Bonjour Monsignor," Jean Paul said. Henri Pascal was anxious to learn the fate of the missing relics and wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Bonjour Jean Paul. What news do you have?"

"We have questioned everyone," he began. "With one exception, we are satisfied that each has been forthright and honest with us, although we cannot be certain. They have all deplored the theft and support any efforts we undertake to secure their safe return. We are convinced that it was Father James who took the relics," Jean Paul said.

"From Sydney? Why?" the Monsignor asked

"We aren't sure. He was an outspoken critic of the plan as you know. He must have had help though. Someone else must have given him a key. Only three others have a key to the office. There is no other explanation. He will never give it up, unless someone goes there and sits down and talks with him. We need someone with good counselling skills, Henri. Will you go Monsignor?"

The Monsignor, removed his glasses, and took a sip of coffee. Father James was well known to him but they were not close friends. They were more like associates in different departments, or players on the same team but positioned at opposite ends of the field, not having a lot to do with each other. "Has anyone spoken with him?" the Monsignor asked.

"We called him and put the proposition to him that he had taken the relics."

"Yes"

"He didn't admit it. He vacillated about the management's decision to test the relics, blaming two or three people for not seeing reason. Then he suddenly cut short the call, pretending he was wanted and hung up. It was typical of the arrogant way he has acted in the recent past when we were discussing the future of the relics. He didn't need to say that he had taken them. It was something we could determine from his attitude."

The Monsignor thought the matter through.

"Well, will you go?" Jean Paul asked. The Monsignor sighed heavily.

"Yes," he said after a few moments. "If you think it's the only way."

"There is no other way that we can think of," Jean Paul replied.

"Then we should not waste any more time. The longer this matter is left up in the air the less are our chances to secure the return of the relics. I will make arrangements and go immediately. I don't want to be away any more than a week if possible," the Monsignor said. "That should be enough time I think." Jean Paul thanked him and promised to fax all relevant information concerning Father James to him within the hour.

The Monsignor hung up the phone and reached for his diary. There were a few engagements pencilled in over the next seven days but nothing so critical that it could not be postponed. He finished his breakfast before making a few phone calls, adjusting his schedule and advising the Archbishop, and then he called his travel agent.

In Paray-le-Monial, Jean Paul hung up the phone. He was angry. He had to control himself to prevent slamming the phone down. This matter had taken too long to resolve. It had been almost two weeks since the theft had been discovered. Only when the tabernacle was opened did they realize, to their horror, the relics had vanished. It was the week after Father James had departed for Australia, and the local 'friends of SVE' had assembled for the Holy Hour and the Adoration of the Blood. Not for a moment did anyone suspect that Father James was the culprit. Not then! Only when some of the members met and meticulously scrutinized every possibility, did they by a painstaking process of elimination, reluctantly draw the obvious conclusion. But Jean Paul realized too, that Father James must have had help from someone else within the Society. How else could he have obtained entry to either the front or rear of the building without forcing the doors? He accepted that Father James would have had a key to the tabernacle. He had said mass earlier that evening. It was plausible that he did not return the key to the office. Jean Paul accepted responsibility for that. The mass that evening was part of a general farewell for the Society member from Australia. With all the associated fuss, the return of the key was something Jean Paul had overlooked. That made him angry with himself. But why did Father James do this? And who else within the Society could have helped him? He drank his coffee and continued eating his breakfast as he looked out the open window to observe the early risers moving along the Rue de la Visitation.

## 8.

It was in the morning, six days before the Festival of the Flowers, that nineteen year-old Joshua Wayne stood at the edge of the forest looking down toward the cemetery. A gentle breeze whistled through the pines, and the cattle grazed peacefully in the adjacent paddock. The elder of two boys, Joshua was the sensitive one, like his father Brian, although he had been closer to his mother. A slim dark youth, handsome and athletic, he was hesitant and shy except when painting. As the early morning sun shone across the rows of graves, reflecting transparent rays off the headstones, it transformed a scene from one of unhappy memories into one offering the budding artist exciting and rewarding challenges. Joshua was pleased with what he saw. This would make a fine subject; the light, the angles, the contrasting colours. He set up his easel and canvas, carefully selecting the oil colours he needed from his storage box. He dusted off his brushes and squared the landscape area he intended to paint.

He was more relaxed about coming here these days, the trauma of the past now a fading memory. It had been two years since his mother died and was laid to rest in this tranquil place. He had now come to terms with the loss and the emptiness her passing had created. It was something he had learned to cope with and adjust to when he came to visit, to sit at the graveside and talk with her, sharing his deepest thoughts, asking advice. The depression was less now, his optimism on the rise. At nineteen he had hopes that one day he would be regarded as a serious artist. Coming to this place, to paint close to her, to hear her voice in his head, her encouragement, to hear her speak to him of what might be, strengthened his self confidence.

Here, he was in charge; the self taught pupil to the master within, relaxed, confident, in his element. When selecting a subject, he always chose a quiet peaceful location away from disturbing and distracting noises, away from anything that disturbed the calm. As a student at school, he avoided conflict, preferring compromise. Slow to anger, there was however deep within him a dormant rage that when sufficiently provoked, could erupt with frightening consequences as it did once when aggravated by a schoolyard bully. Joshua had sketched the face of a pretty young girl in class, Sarah Millstock, only to have the piece of paper ripped from him by the bully and paraded around the room. Embarrassed and outraged, Joshua's anger exploded as he charged at the bully, taking him in a headlock and ramming his skull into the door. The bully was seriously injured. His head was split open and he was taken to hospital. Joshua was suspended for two weeks for the assault, about the same time it took the bully to recover. There was talk of a possible police investigation, but the matter was eventually left in the hands of the school principal.

Joshua had finished school now, and worked part-time at his father's service station, but he was easily intimidated by loud and aggressive people, dominating characters like Father James. As a sixteen year old at Sunday masses, when the old man began his sermon listing reasons why people went to hell, walking the full length of the church to labour the point, Joshua thought he was like a prison warden threatening dire consequences. He quickly sought refuge deep from within. He shut the priestly threats out of his mind and imagined his latest masterpiece in the galleries of Europe, being admired by art collectors and royalty alike. Like many others at Monterey Creek, Joshua was pleased and relieved when Father James was replaced. As he settled himself at the forest edge, about to bring his canvas to life, he had no idea that a few hundred metres away, another life was rapidly coming to a close.

While dressing that morning, ten days after Father James had entrusted to her care the secret of Paray-le-Monial, Maud Baker began to experience uncomfortable pressure and pain in the chest.

The pain was of concern to her and she considered calling Allison at work, but decided against it. She struggled off to morning mass as usual, but found the walk through the town to the church exhausting and stopped several times to rest along the way. Sam Spent drove past and noticed her. He slowed down and offered her a lift but she waved him off brusquely and finally arrived at the church a few minutes after mass began. Here she used her time wisely and rested, spending most of the mass sitting down rather than standing and kneeling. Looking drawn and pale, she walked home again after mass, not bothering to engage in the usual gossip with Dorothy Proctor outside. After breakfast, she felt slightly better. She dismissed the symptoms as little more than indigestion and ventured outside to her garden. Within minutes, the pain spread to her arms, shoulders and neck. Increasingly anxious, she realized that something was wrong, seriously wrong. She tried to get up, struggling and slipping. She knew she needed to get help. She wanted to call Dorothy Proctor, Allison, Anybody! Struggling to breathe, she suddenly felt very cold, and sweat droplets began appearing on her face.

Joshua Wayne, budding artist, sat in the tranquil surroundings of his favourite landscape setting, painting at the edge of the forest, bringing his canvas to life, and pausing occasionally to recall memories of his mother who lay resting in the field below. Just a few hundred metres away Maud Baker forced herself forward, staggering toward the front door. As Joshua dappled vibrant colourful strokes across his canvas, delighting in his own creativity, Maud dropped to the ground unable to breathe. As colour filled Joshua's canvas, the darkness closed in around Maud, and she realized she would never call Dorothy Proctor.

## 9.

Three days later, the giant Air France Airbus touched down at Sydney's Kingsford Smith Airport at 6am. Monsignor Henri Pascal was weary after the twenty-three hour flight from Paris. After clearing customs and immigration and collecting his luggage it was 7am. He took a taxi from the airport to the residence of his close friend, the Most Reverend Alexander MacMerry, a retired Bishop with whom he had discreetly arranged accommodation during his stay. The Bishop was enjoying a short holiday in Perth and had generously offered his residence and the use of his car to his friend from Paris. This was not the first time Henri Pascal had visited Sydney, nor the first time he had stayed with his friend. He saw no reason to advertise this particular trip to Australia, preferring as little attention as possible. Tired and jet-lagged, but keen to achieve a quick resolution to his problem, Henri Pascal settled his things at the Bishop's house and immediately telephoned the parish presbytery of Saint Eudes.

"Is Father James there, please?" he asked.

"One moment," the housekeeper replied.

The Monsignor had a simple plan; to contact Father James and demand the return of the relics.

"Father James is unable to come to the phone at the moment. Can I take a message?"

"Will he be at the presbytery today?" the Monsignor asked.

"Yes, for most of the morning, but he has a funeral in the country this afternoon and will be leaving here around eleven o' clock this morning," the housekeeper replied.

"Thank you. I will call back later," the Monsignor said, and hung up.

Henri Pascal had no intention of calling back. Having determined that Father James was at the presbytery, he decided to act swiftly. He would use the Bishop's car and drive to the parish of Saint Eudes, reason with the old priest and settle the matter as expeditiously as possible. A veteran of the traffic nightmares of Paris, he was unfazed by Sydney's horrendous snarls and skilfully negotiated his way through the early morning peak period. It was ten o'clock by the time he arrived at Saint Eudes and knocked on the presbytery door.

"Good morning," he said to the middle aged lady who answered. "My name is Monsignor Henri Pascal from Paris. I have arrived here in Sydney just this morning and I would like to speak with Father James please. I rang earlier and was informed that he was here."

"Yes Monsignor, he is," the housekeeper Maria replied, somewhat surprised. "Would you like to come in?" she asked. The Monsignor nodded and thanked her.

"Was Father James expecting you?" she asked.

"I think not, but we know each other. My visit here was arranged at short notice."

"I see. Then if you would like to take a seat, I will let Father James know you are here," she said, showing him into the waiting room.

The Monsignor thanked her, entered the small waiting room and took a seat. He waited for several minutes, listening carefully for the sound of any reaction to his arrival. He heard muffled voices talking back and forth, sometimes sharp and abrupt, sometimes soft. He was sure the surprise news of his arrival would unsettle the old priest and he prepared himself for an awkward session. He wished he knew him better and that perhaps as old friends they could have sat down and worked through their problem together in a calm and rational way. But he wasn't an old friend, just an associate, and their previous meetings had been limited to group gatherings, not personal ones. He had judged Father James as awkward in social gatherings, even uncomfortable, and recalled previous conversations with him as brief and strained. The seconds continued to tick away, the voices were silent and Henri heard a door slam. A few moments later the housekeeper Maria came into the waiting room looking uncomfortable. The Monsignor could see that she was embarrassed.

"What is it?" he asked gently, trying not to upset her.

"He won't come," she answered. "He doesn't want to see you."

"Where is he now?" the Monsignor asked.

"He's locked himself in his room," she answered.

Henri Pascal was not fazed.

"Please, what is your name?" he asked.

"Maria," she answered softly.

"Maria, do not be upset or concern yourself. Father James and I have a difficult problem to work through and his reaction at this point is not unexpected. Is the parish priest here?"

She shook her head. "No, he had an early morning meeting with the Cardinal Archbishop at Saint Mary's."

Then please show me to Father James' room and then you can return to whatever you were doing and not concern yourself with us any further. We will not bother you again, I promise."

Maria nodded and turned to walk out of the room. Henri followed as she led him to the door at the top of the stairs. She looked at him and raised her arms apologetically.

"He's in there," she said.

The Monsignor thanked her and gestured for her to leave.

He then tapped lightly on the bedroom door.

"Father James, this is Henri Pascal. Open the door please and let me in. There is no point in acting this way. I will not leave until I speak with you. Please open the door." Henri waited patiently, but nothing happened. He tapped on the door again. "Father, you know why I am here. There is no point in acting this way. I appreciate the way you feel, but believe me this is not the way to resolve our problem. Please open the door and we will talk through this matter like mature adults." He continued to wait with patience, determination and purpose. "And for the greater glory of God," he added and waited still further for a response.

Inside, Father James sat on the edge of his bed looking like a defeated man. He looked up toward the door and down again to the carpet. He knew that such a confrontation as now awaited him would come sooner or later. He was saddened that it came so soon. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of his friend Maud Baker, now deceased. The news of her death had come as a grave shock to him. He had been preparing to travel to Monterey Creek. He had rung and spoken with Father Michael Ryan and asked if he could concelebrate the Requiem mass. Father Michael had agreed, and also offered him the eulogy. He was in mourning but his mind was also focussed on recovering the casket. He was in no mental state to mount a vigorous defence of his actions in stealing the relics. Yet he knew the Monsignor well enough to know that he would not leave without some explanation, some commitment to return them. Slowly he realized he could not ignore the Monsignor. Outside, a few more minutes passed before Henri finally heard footsteps coming toward the door, followed by the sound of the door unlocking. He breathed a sigh of relief and slowly opened the door and entered the room.

Father James sat in an armchair alongside his bed. He barely looked up when Henri entered the room, preferring to keep his eyes fixed on the small picture of the Sacred Heart of Mary sitting on his dressing table. Henri looked around the room. It was spacious, with a single bed, a television set, an adjoining walk-in-robe, en-suite and a window facing north. On another dresser, adjacent to a bookshelf, some coffee making facilities sat neatly arranged. "You seem to be very comfortable here," the Monsignor said, opening the conversation. Father James did not respond. He was surly and angry but also nervous and on edge. The Monsignor standing before him outranked him both in the eyes of the Church and the society. Monsignor Pascal was patient. He had dealt with priests like this before. He knew not to rush the process. With another brief glance around the room, Henri caught sight of a knotted rope lying draped over a chair alongside the dresser. He knew what it was for, but said nothing.

"Notwithstanding the time I've known you," he started afresh, "I have to confess I can't remember ever calling you by your first name." There was a moment's silence. The Monsignor waited patiently. "It's Andrew," Father James conceded. It was a ploy on Henri's part. Of course he knew Father James' first name, but it gave him the opportunity to present himself more intimately. "Andrew. Yes, of course. I'm afraid that sometimes we are too formal and forget that underneath everything we are still simple men. Please excuse me," he said. Father James remained silent.

"Andrew, you know why I'm here. I understand you have very strong feelings about our decision to refer the relics of Saint Margaret Mary to technical analysis. I understand it, but even so, taking them without authorization as you did and bringing them here is hardly the action of a man committed to their protection."

Father James suddenly came to life. "It's the wrong course of action," he said forcefully. "It's a betrayal. It will be the end of us," he added. "Retaining the integrity of the relics insures their survival. The management has made a catastrophic mistake! They must change their minds," he continued. The Monsignor could see his job was not going to be easy. Not only would the recovery of the relics require much delicate diplomacy and sensitivity, but restoring the faith of this valued member of SVE would also need much thought. His first concern however was for the safe return of the relics and it was to this matter that he addressed himself.

"Andrew, nothing of what you wish can come to pass while the relics are here. As long as you hold on to them, you corrupt the integrity of the Society. Nothing can happen either way. The motion to refer them to examination cannot proceed, but then, neither can our protection," the Monsignor said. "And neither can you return to Paray. Is that what you want?"

"I have the relics," he snapped. "I don't need to return to Paray. The prophecy will come true here. I believe the Lord is about to reveal the child of the light. I believe that the appointed time is coming."

Henri hesitated. He knew the substance of the old man's remark but he did not expect the discussion to go in this direction.

"And how could you possibly know that?" the Monsignor asked.

"I feel the presence," he answered.

"What presence?"

"I feel the Lord is about to reveal the child of the light to me."

The Monsignor hesitated. This was an unexpected twist and could not be ignored. But neither could he allow it to act as a deterrent.

"That is rubbish and you know it," the Monsignor said sharply, losing his patience. "You cannot manufacture the prophecy at a time of your own convenience. To do so makes you a charlatan."

"How do you know the mind of God?" Father James fired back.

"I know the mind of a dreamer," Henri answered unable to hide his increasing annoyance. He realized his diplomacy was failing and that the meeting was descending into a tit-for-tat argument. He decided another tack.

"Does your parish priest have any idea of what you have done?"

Father James was silent.

"Does the Archbishop? How do you think he would react if he knew?"

"What are they compared to the relics? Nothing!" the old man replied.

"And how will you feel being publicly disgraced before everyone who knows you?"

"What do you mean?"

"What would happen if I go to the police and ask them to investigate a crime?"

Father James looked at him disbelievingly. "You wouldn't!"

"I would."

"I don't believe you."

"Let us say that I speak with your parish priest and inform him that on your last trip to France you removed some items of a private nature and that I have come to recover them. He will want to know the details. I will be forced to tell him something. He will then have to speak with you. Let us say that you refuse to discuss the matter with him. Then I will say that I want to speak with the Cardinal Archbishop and both he and I will have to do that. I will then give the Cardinal the names of people within our society who will verify what I say. I will refer him to the retired Bishop Dante of Paris for example. I'm sure they know each other. How will that look for you then?" Father James flinched at the mention of his accomplice, a reaction that did not go unnoticed by the Monsignor. "Do you want to be subjected to that kind of scrutiny? Do you want your valued reputation in tatters? Do you want to harm the society in this way?" he continued.

"It is you who will harm the society if you do that," Father James answered. "Not I!"

"You have already harmed the society by your action," the Monsignor said impatiently. "You and whoever helped you!" he added. Father James looked up at him, surprised.

"Oh don't be naïve, Andrew. We know you had help! We know someone else was involved. We will discover who it was and when we do, he will be dealt with. No one person is greater than the society. This is not an organization controlled by the Church. We are free to make our own decisions."

Father James' resolve appeared to weaken. He could see the ramifications should the Monsignor prove true to his word and take the matter to the Cardinal Archbishop. He could see that the Monsignor was determined to recover the relics and would not leave him alone until he had been successful. His mind became muddled. He thought of Maud Baker's funeral at Monterey Creek that afternoon. He needed to leave soon to arrive there on time. He had to go.

"If I return you the relics, what happens to me?" he asked in a conciliatory tone. The question took the Monsignor by surprise. He hurried to encourage the old man to think positively.

"Probably nothing in the long term!" he answered. "There will be questions, of course, about your suitability as a member but I'm sure those who want you disciplined can be convinced of your good intentions. Perhaps we could have you come to Paray and explain your actions in some kind of hearing. You could have your moment to explain to the management, with an assurance that all will be forgiven. Something like that."

Father James was silent. The trauma of the confrontation began to weary him. He needed time to think. It was a three hour drive to Monterey Creek to Maud Baker's funeral. He needed to leave soon. He tried to assemble all the relevant matters in his mind. 'If I go there now and recover the relic, celebrate the requiem and return. No! If I give the relic to someone else, or hide it somewhere. If I get it from Maud. Has she still got it? Where is it? What did she do with it? Her daughter Allison must have it.' His mind became increasingly confused. 'The child, Amy! What about the child? If I don't go, I won't get it back. I have to go. Dorothy! She will get hold of it. What do I say to the Monsignor? I'll tell him I'm going to get it.'

Henri Pascal could see the old man's mind was drifting. "Andrew! Father James," the Monsignor said sternly. "Where are the relics?"

Father James looked up at him with a blank expression, confused and fatigued.  
"I have to go to Monterey Creek," he said without thinking. "Maud has them. The tool box! I must get it," he continued as if speaking to himself. As he spoke he seemed disconnected, his mind had been flooded with too many things to deal with, too many pieces of information, too many possible solutions. He rose up from the arm chair. "I have to go now," he said. "I have to go to a funeral this afternoon. A good friend of mine has died."

The Monsignor detected something erratic in the old priest's behaviour. He took a mental note of the names, 'Monterey Creek' and 'Maud'. He took a notebook and pen from his jacket and wrote them down. "Perhaps you should lie down for a while, Andrew," he said, concerned. "I will ask your housekeeper to bring you some refreshment."

Father James looked bewildered and confused. He nodded at Henri's suggestion and returned to his chair, still looking dazed.

Monsignor Pascal went to the bedroom door and called for the housekeeper. "Maria, are you there?" he called out. There was no response. He went downstairs and tried again. "Maria, are you there? Father James needs some refreshment." As he opened the kitchen door, he heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and a moment later the front door slammed shut. "Maria are you there?" he called out again.

"Yes, who is it? Oh, Monsignor, I'm sorry. Is everything all right?"

"I'm not sure. Father James needs some refreshment, I think!"

Maria looked out the kitchen window to the rear of the presbytery.

"Father James is out the back," she replied. "He's getting in his car."

The Monsignor looked out the window in time to see Father James drive his car out of the garage, down the driveway and out onto the road. "Do you know where he's going, Monsignor?" she asked.

"I don't know. He said he had to go to a funeral."

"Yes, this afternoon at Monterey Creek. A friend of his passed away a few days ago."

"Monterey Creek? Where is this place?" he asked.

"It's about three hours away, down the Hume Highway toward Melbourne," she answered. The Monsignor assessed the situation and realized that, even in the old man's erratic state of mind, the funeral of a friend would be of paramount importance.

"Who is the friend?" he asked Maria.

"I don't know," she answered.

"He mentioned the name Maud to me," Henri said.

"I can look in his diary if you wish?" Maria volunteered.

"Yes, please do," Henri asked. Whoever it was, the Monsignor knew he had to follow Father James.

"Do you have a map?" he asked. "I have to go after him. He is not thinking straight. Our meeting did not go well and I am responsible. I have to follow him to this Monterey place."

"Creek, Monsignor. Yes, I have a map. But it is very confusing trying to get onto the motorway. You will find it very difficult."

"I am no stranger to big city motorways Maria. I can always ask directions."

"Let me get you the map."

Maria left him in the kitchen. The Monsignor felt guilty. Perhaps he had been too harsh. He had to reconcile himself with the old priest. A few moments later Maria returned with the map and gave him some basic directions.

"There is a Maud Baker of Monterey Creek mentioned in his address book. Also a Dorothy Proctor; perhaps she is the one who died. We drive on the other side of the road here, Monsignor," she said concerned for his and everyone else's safety.

"Thank you and don't worry Maria," he said, taking down the details. "I have driven in England many times. And besides, I got here this morning all right, didn't I? When your parish priest arrives please explain the situation to him. I will telephone here some time later and let you know how things are."

"Yes, Monsignor," Maria replied dutifully.

Taking his leave, Monsignor Henri Pascal left the presbytery and set out in the Bishop's car heading south. He successfully negotiated his way through the traffic to the motorway directing him onto the Hume Highway and followed the signs that indicated the way to Melbourne. Somewhere between here and there, he knew he would eventually come to Monterey Creek and he mentally prepared himself for what he knew would be a far more difficult task than he had originally anticipated.

## 10.

On the morning of the funeral, few of the town residents could be seen as one passed through. The farmers spent their day on the land, the retail traders stayed inside, often occupied with domestic matters. The children were in school, and their mothers were at home, or at the store. The odd dog or two roamed innocently from store to store hoping a kind proprietor might take pity and throw them a morsel of something tasty. That morning, Alice Eastward was thinking about the wake later in the afternoon. They would need finger food and Dorothy Proctor did not prepare well for this type of function, despite her best intentions. Dorothy had volunteered her home for the gathering but Alice knew she would find herself short on food. She decided to bake some party pies. She was a very practical woman and baking pies was something she did very well.

Dorothy Proctor, on the other hand, was not quite so practical. Attention to the day to day needs was something she generally stumbled through rather than planned. Her mind was mostly elsewhere. She struggled to cope with Maud's death. It was difficult for her to grasp the reason God had called her friend at this time, especially when it seemed that God's plans were being put in place for something so important. She was confused. She was a spiritual woman, truly devout and very good at praying. She attended ten o' clock mass celebrated by Father Michael everyday, and just because there was a requiem that afternoon, there was no reason to miss her morning mass. Maud would have expected it. Since the appointment of Father Michael as parish priest, she had taken over as leader of the weekly prayer meetings, even though only a handful of parishioners kept coming. Convinced by a charismatic evangelist some years earlier that she had been blessed with the gift of healing, Dorothy's constant efforts to hold healing sessions at the Church met with some resistance. But it did not deter her from having them in her own home, and Maud Baker had been a regular visitor. Opening up her house to a gathering of the friends of the now deceased Maud Baker was a natural extension of her work. However, Alice Eastward knew that when it came to looking after her guests temporal needs, Dorothy was never going to be strong on detail.

Allison Baker and daughter Amy rose just as the sun appeared over the top of the hill. There were matters to be attended to before the afternoon Requiem. At thirty-one years of age, Allison had put her life on hold to care for her mother. She had come home, leaving her father alone in Melbourne. It had not been an easy choice. Living with her father had been a peaceful and productive period for both her and Amy.

Local service station proprietor Brian Wayne was also up early that morning. He had a rebuilt engine to install in Anthony Jackson's Valiant. The ageing vehicle had travelled over half a million kilometres, and the engine had given up the ghost. It was a major job and he needed to start early if he was to finish, get home, make himself look half decent, and attend the funeral. A widower these past two years, Brian was left to raise two sons, Joshua and Timothy after his wife's tragic drowning accident when holidaying in Queensland. He liked Allison and impressed upon his son Joshua, the need to be at the service station to look after his clients while he attended the funeral. Joshua had agreed to work part time with his father this first year since leaving school but his first love was art. He wanted to paint and next year hoped to be accepted into the Victorian College of the Arts. Nevertheless, when his father asked this one special favour, Joshua responded positively and agreed to spend the day at the site, except for later when he had arranged something else, something he had not told his father.

As Allison Baker and her daughter Amy passed by Brian Wayne's service Station on their way to the presbytery that morning, he was there watching her. He was pleased she wasn't wearing a cardigan, her bare arms shining against the early morning sun. There was a longing in his heart to express his feelings for her. He had watched her for weeks as she strode past his service station on her way to the bakery each day; her golden brown, shoulder length hair, swaying in the breeze, her slim elegant body stepping out along the pavement. If she caught him staring, she would smile. But his awkwardness often got the better of him and he drew back sharply only to watch her again after she had passed by. This morning as she and Amy passed by, Allison turned her head and caught him staring.

"Good morning Brian," she said with a smile. Brian, awkward as ever, nodded back as he wiped his oily hands.

"Will you be coming this afternoon?" she asked.

"I'll be there Allison, for sure," he answered.

Suddenly she stopped, and with Amy in hand turned toward him. His heart raced as she walked his way. He wanted to tidy his hair but resisted, knowing it would look silly running an oily, greasy hand across his head.

"Will you also be coming to Mrs. Proctor's afterwards?" she asked him.

"Yes, Allison, I will," he answered.

"Could you possibly do a small favour for me?" she asked.

Brian was elated. He would do anything for Allison.

"I doubt very much whether Mrs. Proctor would be providing anything much stronger than tea, coffee and soft drink this afternoon, and I think I might need something a little stronger before it's all over. I don't think it would be appropriate for me to bring my own with me so I wondered if you might discreetly smuggle in a little of what you fancy for me?" she asked.

"Leave it to me, Allison," he replied. She smiled in appreciation. Brian's head swelled. He would give her anything she wanted, legal or illegal if she asked. Turning to leave, she noticed Brian's son Joshua working on his station wagon in the lube bay.

"Good morning to you Joshua," she called out. Joshua looked up and smiled. "Good morning Miss Baker," he answered. She smiled back. "Call me Allison, Joshua," she said. "Yes, Miss Baker," he replied. She smiled and, with Amy in hand, continued toward the church.

A kilometre out of town at the fuel depot, two men were loading fuel drums onto the back of an eight ton tray truck for delivery to outlying farm customers. It was part of a fixed scheduled delivery service each week. Mark Millstock and Anthony Jackson were partners. They had operated the depot for the past five years. It was a sub-agency for a larger operator at nearby Hampton Bells. As they rolled the drums along the platform, the floor boards creaked under the weight. Their ageing Alsatian watchdog, Dammit, sitting on top of a drum, pricked up his ears, let out a muffled note of irritation and reluctantly moved across the top to another drum.

"How many do we need to load?" Mark asked.

"Twenty of the damn monsters," Anthony replied. "And after we've delivered them we have to go into Hampton Bells, load up and bring another twenty back. We'll be pushing shit uphill to get back in time for the funeral. And I still have to pick up the Valiant at Brian Wayne's."

"Well, we'll still be in time for the wake though?" Mark queried.

"I hope so. I've a feeling Alice Eastward might throw in a few free pies and I'd hate to miss out."

As the two men struggled with the drums, the phone rang in the tiny office adjacent to the platform. Pretty young Sarah Millstock, daughter of Mark, sat by the phone. She was employed as a casual receptionist when things were busy. The business could not afford a full time assistant, but it was busy and with the time required for the loading of the drums, she was needed today.

"Millstock and Jackson Fuel and Farm Supplies," she said in her most professional voice.

"It's Sam Spent here," came the voice at the other end. "Have those two terrors of highway thirty-one left yet?" he asked.

"Good morning Mr. Spent. No, they are still loading. Would you like to know when you can expect them?"

"Who's that?"

"It's Sarah, Mr. Spent."

"What are you doing there, Sarah?"

"I'm looking after the office while Dad and Anthony load up, Mr. Spent."

"Oh for Christ's sake, call me Sam, Sarah!"

"Yes Mr. Spent, er Sam."

"Just tell them if I'm not here, I want them to unload one of the diesel drums alongside the tractor. Bloody mongrel ran out of fuel. I don't have any left. I might have to go into Hampton Bells to tidy up a few things."

"Yes Mr. er, Sam. I'll tell them. Is that all?"

"Yeah that's all, love. Are you going to Maud's funeral?"

"Er, no, I'm not. I'm needed elsewhere I'm afraid."

"Okay. That's all, love. Bye."

Outside on the drum platform the two men wrestled with one of the monsters. "Watch out! It's slipping. I'm losing it," Mark yelled.

"I've got it," Anthony replied. At that moment, an ever alert Dammit, who was less than convinced that either man was in full control, whined mournfully, and moved a further three drums back from the front of the platform. By any professional standard, both men were long on confidence but short on proper training, and it was more by good luck than good management that they were able to blunder through.

"Dad, Anthony," Sarah called out from the office. "That was Sam Spent. He says he might not be there when you arrive. He wants you to drop one diesel drum by the tractor. He's run out of fuel and says he might go into Hampton Bells and do some odd jobs."

Mark and Anthony looked at each other with some amusement at the news. They both knew what 'some odd jobs' meant.

"Did he say where the tractor was, Sarah?"

"Er, no. Should I call him back?"

"Don't worry. We'll find it."

At the local Catholic parish presbytery, Father Michael Ryan was testing out his latest toy, a broadband internet connection. At last he could cast the old, slow, dial-up modem to the rubbish bin. No more sitting at the computer twiddling his thumbs while he waited and waited for websites to come up on the screen. When Allison rang the doorbell he was just finishing up. He had been waiting for them, eager to have her at the presbytery. Maud's death had, although in an unfortunate way, created an opportunity for him to spend time with Allison, as a comforting pastor, a counsellor, sharing her grief. Opening the door, he invited her and Amy inside and offered to put the kettle on.

"It's a bit chilly in here," she said, rubbing her bare arms. Michael was at a loss. She looked lovely and he desperately wanted her to be comfortable.

"I'll put the heater on," he said.

"Okay then, let's say I put the kettle on. You put the heater on. How's that?" she suggested.

Ten minutes later, Allison was relaxed and settled sipping tea, Amy was amusing herself in the kitchen, and the two got down to discussing some of the detail for the funeral.

"Father James will be here later to concelebrate the mass with me," Father Michael said. "I spoke with him on the phone earlier. He's very upset. He and your mother were very close, almost like brother and sister."

"What a thought," Allison joked. "I can't imagine having him as an uncle, Father," she said.

"He said something about lending your mother a small metal tool box when he came up to see her two weeks ago. He asked if he could have it back when he comes up."

"I'm not familiar with it," she replied. "I haven't gone through her things just yet. Did he say what was in it?" Allison asked.

"Just some devotional material to the Sacred Heart," he answered. "You know how they were both into novenas and things."

"I'll look for it. I don't recall any metal box, but it could be among her things somewhere. If I find it, I'll give it to you. I don't want him coming to my house. He irritates me. I don't like the way he looks at Amy. About the funeral, I'd be happy if we kept it as low-key as possible, Father," Allison said. "Just a normal mass and I suppose you would like to say something? You knew mother well enough."

"I'll say a few words, yes. But I'm sure Father James will want to put in a word or two. I offered to let him give the eulogy. He said he would like to do that. God knows she looked after him well enough. Would you like to say something yourself?"

"No, I'll leave that to you." she answered.

"Well then, I think that's about it. I'll see you this afternoon at four."

"Amy darling, we're going now. Come and say goodbye to Father Michael," Allison called out.

The meeting with Allison finished sooner than Michael had hoped. He wanted it to last longer, to enjoy talking with her, to smell the light scent of her perfume. Under different circumstances, Allison would have liked to stay longer too. As much as she found the presbytery stuffy and lacking a homely touch, she enjoyed Father Michael's company.

"I suppose you'll be looking for a new housekeeper?" Allison asked as he showed them to the door.

"I suppose so. I hadn't thought about it, actually."

"I might have put in for the job myself," she said in a half joking way, "but I think that would be too much for the town to handle." The very thought of Allison as housekeeper sent a bolt of adrenalin through Michael's veins and he struggled to keep his reaction hidden. He grinned at her but could not find the words for an appropriate reply. Saying goodbye was awkward for them. There was a clumsy attempt at shaking hands, both wanting to touch the other in some way but self-conscious. As they walked out into the brisk morning air once more, Amy saw a familiar figure standing waiting for them at the front gate of the presbytery.

"Grandad," she squealed as she ran to greet Harry Baker. Allison turned to look and a great joy welled up inside her. "Daddy," she said as she hurried down the pathway behind Amy, "You came!"

Harry bent down, his arms out wide ready to sweep the advancing Amy up into his broad chest. "Mummy, it's Grandad," Amy shouted loudly with delight as she ran toward him. Father Michael waited at the front door to see what was happening as Allison joined them and gave her father a hug. "You came," she said again. "I wasn't sure if you would, but you have."

"Yes, I came," he said. "Drove up this morning!"

Father Michael walked down toward them.

"Father Michael, this is my father, Harry." Allison said, unable to conceal the joy in her voice. The two men shook hands.

"Will you stay with us?" Allison asked.

"Yes," said Amy clapping her hands. "Stay with us." Harry shook his head.

"No pumpkin. I'd rather not if you don't mind. Unhappy memories if you know what I mean. I'll stay with Sam Spent tonight and go back tomorrow.

"How did you know we were here?" Allison asked.

"I stopped for petrol at Brian Wayne's. He told me. He's a nervy fellow but I think he fancies you."

Allison was embarrassed. She glanced at Father Michael.

"Codswallop," she said nervously. Father Michael laughed it off with an embarrassed chuckle and excused himself. "I've got things to do," he said. "I will see you all this afternoon. Pleasure to have met you, Harry."

"Likewise, Father," Harry replied. When Father Michael was out of earshot, Harry spoke quietly with Allison. "Looks like a reasonable man. What's he like?"

"He's been a good friend; nothing like Father James. Will you come home for lunch then?"

"I want to see Sam. I'll probably have lunch with him. I'll come by for you at three-thirty, how's that?"

"Father Michael says Father James is coming up to say the mass. You won't say anything to provoke him, will you?"

"No, of course not," Harry replied. "I'll be on my best behaviour. The silly old fool, he's no challenge anymore."

## 11.

In the early afternoon, Sam Spent had returned from Hampton Bells and by the time Mark Millstock and Anthony Jackson arrived with the fuel, he was in the paddock with Harry Baker near the tractor taking shots at the rabbits with his automatic rifle.

"What were you doing in Hampton Bells as if I didn't know?" Harry asked Sam.

"One or two friends to visit," he replied and added, "And I had to see someone about a letter of final demand they sent me, the miserable arseholes."

"Is there anyone who is not chasing you for money?" Harry asked.

"I told them I found it interesting how their letter says they will cause trouble for me if I don't pay up. Right now, I reckon getting money out of me would be like trying to stuff butter up a porcupine's arse with a red hot poker," he said as he fired at a rabbit. "I told him I only hope a bird dumps a shower of shit on his head," Sam said.

After refilling the tractor Mark and Anthony offloaded the drums at the barn and joined the two other men.

"Now that Maud has passed away, are you coming back to stay Harry?" Anthony asked.

"Haven't decided yet," Harry replied. "It would be nice to be back with Allison and Amy, but I have things going for me in Melbourne.

I'll have to think about it."

"He's got a girl friend," Sam said.

"Well now! Is that so?" Mark responded. "That would make things a bit difficult. Allison might not be ready to cope with that," he added.

"Allison's a smart girl," Sam replied. "She could just about cope with anything."

"I wouldn't live with them anyway," Harry chipped in. "They need their space now, and so do I. We'll just have to wait and see."

"And the girlfriend? What does she do when you're up here visiting your family and old friends?"

"She's an antique dealer," Sam replied, handing the rifle over to Mark.

"Not quite," Harry corrected him. "She's a dealer in antiquities, mostly personal items; china, art, bits of furniture, old stuff, that sort of thing."

"How does someone get into something like that?" Mark asked, taking aim at some obscure movement in the grass.

"Collectors come into her shop and browse around or ask for something unusual. She can email dealers all over the world and see if someone has something her clients are looking for," Harry answered, trying to sound knowledgeable.

"And then what? They buy and wait for it to arrive?"

"I guess so. Seems a bit risky but I think that's the way it works."

"What if it's hot. You know! Stolen?"

"She's in touch with overseas dealers all the time. She's always looking out for items she knows her clients would like. If something goes missing somewhere in the world, if something of importance is stolen, it doesn't take long for dealers to hear about it. It's flashed around the world on the internet in minutes."

As he spoke the rifle cracked as Mark discharged the round.

"You missed," Sam laughed. "There he goes," he said, as the rabbit scurried off into deeper grass.

On the return to the depot, the truck was heavy with a full load of drums from the main depot at Hampton Bells. Mark and Anthony were keen to be back in town in time to clean up and attend the funeral and the wake and travelled at a steady speed. As they came over a small crest, they noticed a car pulled over to the side of the road with an elderly man standing alongside. When the elderly man saw their truck approaching, he waved his hands furiously. Mark slowed the truck down as they came nearer and recognized the old man.

"Isn't that Father James?" Anthony asked.

"I think it is," Mark replied. "He must be here for the funeral. I wonder what's up," he said, as he pulled over.

"Good afternoon my boys," Father James said with a beaming smile. "Fancy bumping into you two rascals."

"Fancy bumping into you, too! What's the problem, Father?" Mark asked.

"I've got a flat tyre," Father James said. "Would you believe, I don't have a jack? I don't know what I've done with it, but it's not in the car. Do you think you could help me?"

"Sure Father, we could do that, no worries." Anthony replied.

The two men jumped out of the truck and inspected the flat tyre.

"You do have a spare, do you Father?" Anthony asked.

"Oh yes, I've got one of those all right."

"Fine then let's get it out and we'll jack 'er up and have this fixed in no time."

Fifteen minutes later, the spare tyre was fitted, Father James was about to be on his way and the two fuel merchants were ready to resume their journey back to the depot.

"Are you here for Maud's funeral?" Anthony asked. Father James hesitated. "Er, yes, Will you both be going then?"

"We will Father, if we can get back to the depot and unload this lot in time."

"Well, I have one or two other things to do, so if you don't see me, don't think anything of it," he said as he got back in the car. The two watched as he drove off.

"Silly old bugger," Mark said. "Coming out here without a bloody jack! I think he's starting to lose the plot."

The requiem was scheduled for four o' clock in the afternoon. As people began arriving, Father Michael was ready waiting in the sacristy and checking his watch nervously. Father James had not yet arrived to concelebrate the mass. Father Michael, liberal as he was about some things, was a stickler for punctuality. Mass would start on time even if he were the only one in attendance. Time and Father Michael waited for no one. He began pacing up and down wondering what to do. He wondered if he should call Father James' presbytery but he knew the old man well, and reckoned he would turn up eventually, so he didn't bother. He was tempted to wait a few more minutes but that went against his natural instinct. Inside the Church, Alice Eastward sat at the organ playing light reflective music, waiting for an indication that mass was about to begin. The assembled mourners sat patiently, talking quietly to each other. Michael looked at his watch once more. It was five past four. This was no good. Things had to get under way. Even if Father James arrived now, it would be another ten minutes before he would be ready.

"Let's get a move on then," he said to his young sacristan Timothy Wayne, younger son of Brian, as people continued filing into the Church. It was the latecomers Father Michael wanted to make an impression upon. The mass was a solemn celebration and should be seen as such. Coming late was a sign of disrespect. He wanted his parishioners to know that he would always start on time and that they should be there ready and waiting. So, without Father James, and as far from the correct time as he was willing to stray, he began the mass. The congregation rose as he and young Timothy entered from the side door. Alice Eastward began playing 'Like a Shepherd' and the Church was suddenly alive with music and voice as the fervent congregation broke out in song.

Young Timothy Wayne loved being an altar boy. It was a serious business playing a leading role in the celebration of the mass, being out there with the priest with everyone watching him. This was a big occasion and he enjoyed responding to the opening prayers. The gathering represented the family and friends of Maud Baker, a stalwart of the parish since anyone could remember. Father Michael decided that the mass would reflect just that. Maud preferred the more traditional devotions as approved by the Church since the time of Pius X. As everyone settled after the opening prayer, Brian Wayne stepped forward to read the first lesson. Brian's nervousness showed but he completed the task satisfactorily. He kept looking up from the lectern towards Allison, as if expecting to receive a sign of her approval. Allison sat in the front seat with Amy and Harry but kept her eyes down. Dorothy Proctor sat behind them and gave Brian an approving nod. The absence of Father James meant some alteration to the original plan. Father Michael had not planned to say too much at the homily. He expected Father James to do most of the talking, so his contribution was therefore brief.

"We have come here today not to mourn the passing of Maud Baker," he said at the beginning of a hastily prepared eulogy. "We have come to celebrate the life of this wonderful lady who gave so much to our community and asked for so little. Indeed, it was in her giving that she derived the greatest pleasure. Dedicated mother, grandmother, housekeeper to three parish priests over thirty years is a fine record of achievement."

As Father Michael spoke, Amy made eye contact with Timothy and smiled. Timothy smiled back. Allison sat quietly, listening to Father Michael's words. Allison thought back over those years. Whatever impressions Father Michael gave of the outstanding qualities of the departed Maud, he never knew the real story. In Allison's mind it was her mother's religious excesses that she remembered most. Little wonder she spent so much time taking care of priests. She should have been a nun. Allison thought about all the petty disputes and strained silence she witnessed between her parents. She wished that she and her mother had been closer, that their relationship had been better. She tried several times to recall some tender moment the two of them shared, but each time it was her mother's intolerance for drink, her obsession for novenas, all fuelled by her passion for the Church and its teachings, that came to mind; a passion that left no room for Harry's temporal weakness.

"So, let us not be sad for Maud," Father Michael continued. "Let us be happy that she has earned her reward, and now enjoys eternal peace in the sight of God."

'Codswallop,' Allison thought.

Harry sat with them in silence.

At communion, Timothy Wayne held the tray while Father Michael administered the host. Timothy liked communion time. He especially liked watching the different ways people would open their mouths when receiving communion. He thought Dorothy Proctor had a mouth like a hippo. It was huge. She could probably fit a size twelve chicken down there, he thought. Alice Eastward had a tongue like a lizard. It shot out with frightening speed, grabbed the host and zipped back in again as quick as a flash. As the gathering filed up to the altar, passing around each side of the coffin, Alice Eastward returned to her seat and continued to play the organ.

Allison and Amy received communion, but Harry stayed back. He wanted no part of it. Allison did it more for show than belief. It never bothered her that she might not be in the state of grace. In her mind she felt that for most of her formative years the Church had done its best to psychologically terrorize her. Having extracted herself from its hold by applying sheer reason and common sense, she felt, that on occasions such as this, she should be the one to decide whether or not she would receive communion. Amy kept her eyes open when Timothy and Father Michael reached her. Timothy was slightly embarrassed and held back a giggle as Amy watched him without blinking.

At the end of the mass, mourners gathered outside the Church to mingle before beginning the procession across the road to the cemetery. There was still no sign of Father James. Harry gave Amy a hug and explained to Allison that he did not want to attend to the burial service.

"Sam and I have a few things to attend to," he said, giving Amy a squeeze.

"Will you be coming to Mrs. Proctor's afterwards," Allison asked.

Harry shook his head. "You know that I would only finish up abusing that stupid woman. Not a good idea, pumpkin. I'll pop in and see you in the morning, before I go back."

## 12.

As Monsignor Henri Pascal crossed over the stone bridge shortly after five that afternoon and slowed the car to 60kph his eyes first caught sight of the Catholic Church standing prominently on the left, and then the cemetery on the right. The Church seemed deserted but for an elderly gentleman sweeping the front steps. There was a small gathering across the road at the cemetery. The Monsignor took note but continued on into the town. He arrived at the service station and drove onto the apron. Joshua Wayne sat in the office at the console, unsure if he should offer assistance or wait to see if the driver would serve himself. As he did so, the very pretty Sarah Millstock appeared from around the corner and walked across the apron and entered the sales lounge. To young Joshua's delight, the Monsignor emerged from his car and began to serve himself. For Joshua, the prospect of serving Sarah Millstock in any capacity was by far the preferred option. Sarah entered the sales lounge and immediately fixed her eyes on Joshua.

"Do you have any milk?" she asked him with a cheeky grin.

"In the fridge," he answered, his heart racing in anticipation.

He watched her collect the milk. She was nineteen and lived in his street. He had known her all her life; they were in the same class at school but up until the last year or so he had never felt any interest in her. All during their school years she was no more than the girl down the street. She used to call him 'smarty pants' when he kicked the football in the street and she walked by with her older sister. He didn't like it and replied 'pigtail piglet' with a frowning expression. That was pretty much the sum of the relationship in their childhood years. But recently, things had changed. Sarah had changed. Her body was different. Her hips curved in a way that pleased him. Her breasts were unmistakeable. Her shoulder length hair, no longer in pigtails, hung over her forehead and swayed gently as she turned her head. Her dress stopped short above the knee and revealed a tantalizing few inches sufficient to arouse him. Yes, she was different now and the 'pigtail piglet' tag was no longer appropriate.

"And bread, Joshua, do you have any bread?" she asked as she leaned into the refrigerator to claim the milk. He watched her as the back of her dress rose up, revealing more of her. Joshua's pulse rate jumped.

"Yes," he said with a quiver. "It's over there."

Milk carton in hand, she collected a loaf of bread and walked toward him, slowly, allowing him whatever pleasure he could conjure up in the moment she took to arrive at the counter.

"Is your father here?" she asked him, her eyes fixed firmly on his.

"He's at the funeral," he answered. "As if you didn't know!"

"So you are here on your own then?" she asked coyly.

"Excuse me," the Monsignor said in a thick French accent, as he stood at the front door, shattering the moment. Joshua was so preoccupied with Sarah, he had not noticed that the Monsignor had now entered the sales lounge. Sarah turned around, controlling her annoyance, and reluctantly stepped aside.

"Er, you haven't replaced the nozzle yet," Joshua said.

"No, I'm not finished," he answered. "I wonder if you could help me?"

"What did you want?" Joshua asked.

"Do you know a Maud Baker who lives in Monterey Creek?" he asked.

"Yes," Joshua answered.

"Could you tell me where she lives?" the Monsignor asked.

There was a muffled giggle from Sarah Millstock.

Joshua hesitated.

"She died," he said. The Monsignor was momentarily stunned.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he answered. The news stalled him, causing him to reconsider his plans.

"Is there someone I can speak to about her, a family member perhaps?"

"There's her daughter, Allison," Joshua replied.

"Allison? And where could I contact her?"

"She's at number twenty-five Terry Street, just down past the town. Second street on the left. Er, but she's not there right now," he replied, as Sarah Millstock observed the conversation with some amusement from behind the greeting card stand.

"Oh?" the Monsignor queried.

"She's at the funeral," Joshua said, pointing him back toward the Church and the cemetery.

"The funeral?"

"Her mother's."

"Maud Baker's funeral is today?"

"Yes, it's on now," Joshua answered. Monsignor Pascal hesitated. He was quick to put the pieces of the puzzle together and realized this was the funeral Father James spoke of, and thought it cunning that he had omitted the small detail of whose funeral it was. He looked at his watch and mentally rearranged his plans.

"Is there a motel nearby?"

"The Monterey, down at the other end of the town."

"Thank you, I'll just finish filling up. Let's make it twenty-five dollars even. I'll pay you now."

Joshua took the money and watched as the Monsignor returned to the car to complete his purchase. Joshua turned to see what Sarah was doing. She was nowhere in sight.

"Where are you?" he called out.

"In here," she replied. "In the storeroom!" Joshua watched and waited for the Monsignor to drive away. He checked that no cars had driven onto the front apron, then, taking a deep breath, his heart pumping furiously, he stepped out of the console office area and walked toward the storeroom, safely obscured from view at the back of the sales lounge. He peered inside. Sarah stood there waiting for him.

"Are we going to do it here?" Sarah asked seductively.

"No, I have a better place," he replied. "I'm going to close the station down early. Dad's at the funeral. He'll never know."

"Where are we going then?" she asked.

"To the forest above the cemetery," he told her. "It's perfect."

"Yeek, what's that?" she asked, pointing behind him.

"Oh that's just my Dad's rifle. He keeps it here just in case."

"In case of what? A robbery?" she asked.

"I guess so."

"Is it loaded?" she asked.

"No! We keep the ammunition separate. Don't worry about it. Let's go to the forest."

"But the funeral? There will be people there."

"That's all right. No one will see us," he assured her.

She studied his face, his eyes, and felt the anticipation building from within him.

"This is important to you, isn't it?" she said to him. He nodded back.

"There's a gallery in Melbourne planning an exhibition for students. The people there are willing to look at some of my work. If this is good enough it might be accepted for exhibition."

She didn't need assurance. She liked him and was willing, excited by his request and eager to take part. She was a risk taker, and always ready for a practical joke. But with Joshua she was also conscious of his sensitive nature. She never forgot the day he drew her picture in class and subsequently crashed the bully's head into the classroom door. She moved closer to him, very close, allowing her scent to drift with her. He was nervous, but captivated and allowed her to take his arms and place them around her waist, drawing him in closer to her.

"I'm not the Virgin Mary, Joshua. You are allowed to touch me if you like," she whispered to him. Joshua's heart was pumping so furiously, he was sure she could hear it.

"You're so lovely," he said.

"Well then?" she said.

A few minutes later, Monsignor Pascal pulled into the Monterey motel at the other end of the town. It was typical of small town motels with a drab row of twelve timber veneer and glass fronted rooms, a small flower box sitting snugly between each door and a hatch opening to slide in the morning breakfast tray without disturbing the occupant. The reception area was pokey, crammed with uncomfortable chairs, a coffee table and an upright stand overflowing with brochures advertising anything from trail rides and horse riding to bus tours and elegant restaurants.

The Monsignor entered the empty office and pressed the little white buzzer on top of the counter. He could hear a television behind the partly closed door and he wondered if the buzzer could be heard above the din. Moments later, Klaus Wendt, an overweight, unshaven middle-aged man appeared.

"Yes, can I help you?" he asked.

"Do you have a room for the night?" the Monsignor asked.

"Single or double?"

"Single, thank you."

"Ninety-five dollars," Klaus said.

"I'll take it."

"Could you fill out the registration form with your car rego and your home address please," the owner asked as he handed him the form.

The Monsignor did as he was asked.

"I'll pay you now if you wish?"

"Yes fine. If you are looking for a meal, the hotel down the street does a good steak. We don't server dinner here."

"Thank you, I probably will. I'm looking for Allison Baker. I'm told she lives at twenty-five Terry Street?"

"Yes, but she's not there right now. She's at the funeral."

"Yes, I know. I'm told her mother died."

"Yes, Maud, dear lady. We all loved her. Is Allison expecting you?"

"Not exactly," the Monsignor answered.

"Well, there'll be a gathering afterwards so I don't know how long she'll be. I could call Dorothy Proctor and leave a message at the wake if you like?"

The Monsignor remembered the name Dorothy Proctor. Maria, at Father James' presbytery had mentioned it earlier in the day. He thought briefly how comfortable people in country towns and villages were, expressing themselves so casually; how everyone knew everyone else and referred to them as if they were family members. It was something people in the city lacked, something warm and inviting.

"No, that won't be necessary. I can wait. I need to have a rest anyway." The Monsignor took the room key and left. Klaus Wendt was an active member of what everyone referred to as the 'bush telegraph' and wasted no time checking the registration of the guest. Even before the Monsignor had driven across to his room, Klaus had picked up the phone and was passing on the news of the stranger's arrival to Dorothy Proctor.

## 13.

In the grounds of the cemetery, the afternoon sun had lengthened the shadows of the small party gathered at the graveside. The weather was fine for the moment but dark clouds threatened from the west as the mourners stood silently, their hands joined, listening as Father Michael spoke. All around them, engraved headstones stood solidly in the ground, proudly displaying details of those laid to rest with their lasting words of solace and remembrance. Ten year-old Amy, stood erect and silent. Holding her mother's hand, she soon tired of the words and prayers spoken by the priest, and allowed her eyes to wander across the open grassland leading up to the edge of the forest. More interested in the goings on away from the gathering, she noticed a rabbit scurry its way across the grass and disappear into the darkness of the forest. Straining her eyes, she searched beyond the first row of Monterey pines, her imagination captivated by the sound of the wind as the upper branches swayed gently to and fro. Her eyes pierced the dark brown interior of the forest, hoping for a fleeting glance of the elusive rabbit.

Inside the forest, beyond the view of those at the graveside, Joshua Wayne prepared the site and position for his subject, the pretty Sarah Millstock. He placed a light brown rug upon the ground in front of a pine tree. He picked up needles and spread them around the edge of the rug while Sarah waited and watched. He opened up a plastic rubbish bag he had brought with him containing fresh spring leaves stripped from the Liquid Amber that grew in the back yard of his home, and sprinkled them in a circle on the rug inside the perimeter of the needles. He then placed a crumpled pair of white sheets, at the base and side of the tree trunk, creating the appearance of snow. When he thought the site ready he turned to Sarah.

"I want you to sit in the middle," he said. She moved across to the rug and sat down facing the setting sun, her back to the tree trunk.

"Like this?" she asked.

"Bend your legs and turn them to the right," he said. She did as he asked, and he stepped back to look at his subject. He stood there looking, his mind filled with questions. 'Is this right? Could she be better placed facing to the left or the right? Should she look up or down, over the shoulder?' He studied the light, and realized the setting Sun gave him limited time to capture the moment.

"Yes," he said tensely. "That looks right. If you're comfortable there, that will do."

"It's all right Joshua, I'm comfortable," Sarah replied, trying to relax him.

Joshua opened up his folding chair and then positioned the battery powered lamp to the left of the tree. He gathered his paper and board and prepared his own position. When set, he looked across at Sarah.

"I'm ready," he said.

"Do you want me to undress now?" she asked. He nodded apprehensively. Slowly Sarah removed her blouse and her bra, throwing them toward him, and adjusting her position marginally as she sat naked to the waist, displaying her beautifully developed breasts in the failing sunlight. Joshua leaned across and switched on the lamp creating a glow that accentuated the beauty of the female form against the rugged background of the Monterey bark.

"Do you want me to take everything off?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Not yet. That's enough for the moment."

He took another long look at his subject. "Fantastic," he whispered and with a deep sense of satisfaction and confidence in what he was about to do, he began to draw.

At the graveside, the mourners stood in silence. Suddenly, no longer wishing to remain with the gathering, Amy let go her mother's hand and moved ever so cautiously a step away. Father Michael continued. Heads were bowed. Nobody noticed as Amy began moving towards the edge of the forest. As she walked, she saw a faint, flickering glow inside the woods. She thrilled at the prospect that it might be Our Lady coming to speak with her, as Grandma had promised, just like she came to the three children at Fatima.

Amy watched the glow as she moved cautiously but determinedly following the path of the rabbit. A large cloud blocked out the sunshine, the forest became darker, and the flickering glow became even brighter. Father Michael continued his reading from the missal, but as Amy approached the forest, his voice became a far-off murmur overtaken by the sound of the pines swaying to and fro. Amy looked up, way up to the top of the pines. They seemed to have necks that bent over in the breeze. The branches seemed to smile down upon her, allaying any sense of foreboding, welcoming her into their realm. Voices filtered up from the crowd gathered at the graveside. They were singing 'Ave Maria'. She looked back, still curious, still determined, but needing the reassurance of being able to see her mother.

When she turned back again, the flickering light had disappeared. Gone! Where was it? She peered around to the left and waited a moment expecting it to re-appear. Nothing! Tentatively, she took a step forward, then another and another until the glow returned from behind a larger tree trunk further along. She was closer now but the light was still some distance away, its form unclear. She thought of Jacinta, Lucia and Francisco and held no fear as she approached. She felt drawn to it, as if it were calling her, beckoning her to come forward.

Several minutes later, at the graveside, the singing stopped, and as the service concluded, Allison looked around for her daughter. Unsure where she was, but distracted by well-wishers, Allison attended to them, and thanked them for their love and support at this sad time. Her eyes, though, flitted from one area to another as she searched for Amy.

Suddenly she became concerned, her eyes darting from one direction to another.

"Where's Amy?" she called out, turning one way then another. Those close to her turned around to look. Nobody spoke.

"Where's my daughter?" Allison cried out, her voice betraying her anxiety.

"I think she went up toward the forest," Anthony Jackson called out.

"Where?" Allison asked, looking toward the pines.

Father Michael walked toward her.

"Amy is missing, Father. She might have gone into the forest. Can you help me?" she asked, anxiously.

"I'll walk up with you," Father Michael said.

They began to walk toward the forest.

"Don't be concerned," he said, trying to calm her. "She's only been gone a few moments. She was just here a minute or so ago. She's probably just exploring or something."

"She's just wandered off and I didn't even realize it," Allison said in dismay.

"Don't punish yourself," he replied. "You're under enough stress as it is."

They arrived at the edge of the forest and searched for some movement within, something that gave them an indication of where Amy might be.

"Amy," she cried out. "Amy darling, where are you?" But for the gentle sound of the breeze sighing through the pines, there was only silence.

One hundred metres inside the forest, Amy heard her mother's call and turned her head. She became confused and sought direction from her visitor.

"It's my mother, what should I do?" she said to the lady.

"Go now," said the woman covered in white. "I will talk to you again. Go now to your mother and have no fear."

"Do you want me to come here again?" Amy asked.

"I will come to you," the lady answered kindly.

Amy looked to the edge of the forest and saw two people approaching. One was her mother, the other Father Michael. She turned and walked toward them, her face aglow, her eyes sparkling. She turned to say goodbye, but the lady had vanished and the light around the large pine tree where she had been, dimmed to the level of the rest of the interior.

Allison eye's locked onto the tiny human frame ahead, and her heart felt a surge of joy and relief.

"It's all right Father," she said. "It's her, she's all right."

"There, I told you so didn't I?" Michael said.

"Amy, Amy, what have you been doing?" Allison called out as the two of them approached. "Why did you wander into here? You frightened us."

Mummy, Our Lady! I saw Our Lady."

"Oh goodness me, did you really?" Allison said, slightly flustered and embarrassed. "Well, that's nice. Did she tell you not to walk off like that? Come along now. Come back to the others and tell me all about it."

Father Michael looked dumbfounded but said nothing. Amy's remark took him by surprise and he took a second glance over his shoulder as the three of them made their way back to the gathering.

An hour later, the mourners had departed the cemetery and were gathering at Dorothy Proctor's house in Pelican Street. Dorothy was bearing up reasonably well and welcomed everyone who came to celebrate her friend's life. Allison stayed back with Amy and Father Michael, wanting to have a quiet moment at the graveside. Priest and child stood back some distance while Allison sat in silence in a fold- away chair provided for her. Bunches of flowers lay scattered at her feet around the mound. Brightly coloured ribbons fluttered in the breeze. For the better part of the day, she had maintained her composure. She had been strong and resisted any urge to break down and cry. She did it mostly for Amy. Not for her the sobbing and the wailing. But as she sat there and meditated, the gentle breeze brushing the back of her hair, the strain of the day began to tell, and the tears welled up, and she let them come. Memories flooded back from her childhood, her teenage years and in every scene she recalled, there was her mother, caring for her, trying hard in her own peculiar way, guiding her in the ways of the Church, a cold, impersonal guidance, full of advice, warnings and direction, but little by way of compassion, affection and understanding. 'Such a difficult woman to understand,' she thought. 'Why couldn't she just have hugged me, held me close sometimes, and told me she loved me?'

From across the field in the adjoining paddock cattle stirred and let out their mournful groans. Once more Amy was distracted and made a move to wander toward them but this time, Father Michael checked her gently.

"No more wandering young lady. We will be leaving soon," he said.

Finally, her reflections nursed and nourished, Allison made a move.

"I'm ready Father. Will you take us to Pelican Street now?"

As Amy skipped her way to the car ahead, Father Michael walked with Allison. "What did she mean when she said she saw Our Lady in the forest?" he asked.

"Oh that! Don't concern yourself, Father," she replied. "Amy thinks she's going to receive a visit from the Virgin Mary. You can blame my mother for that. For some weeks before she died, she had been reading a book to her each night about the three children of Fatima. Amy has been so enthralled and excited about the children's adventure in the book that she's determined to manufacture an apparition for herself."

"Oh, I see."

"She thinks the Virgin Mary could appear at anytime, anywhere. Quite amusing don't you think?"

"Well, er, doesn't it bother you?" he asked.

"No! Why should it? At least it shows she has a healthy imagination. I don't mind if she pretends. Rather that, than no imagination at all."

The priest deliberated. He stroked his chin, and then shook his head.

"But apparitions of the Virgin Mary?" he asked. "Do you think it wise to encourage that? What if she says something at school? You know how easy it is for these things to get out of hand."

"I'm not encouraging it. It's my mother's fault, but I doubt Amy would do that. Pretending is one thing, but broadcasting it to the class is something else. She's quite mature for her age. When you were a child and went to the pictures to see Harrison Ford, didn't you go home afterwards and pretend that you were the dashing hero, saving a beautiful young girl from harm?"

"Well, er, that's true, but.."

"Well, it's exactly the same thing. Don't worry about it," she said touching his arm gently. "She thinks she's either Lucia Santos or Jacinta Marto. I'm not sure who. I haven't told her yet that Jacinta died at a very young age. That might give her cause for thought."

"Well, you know best, but be careful," Father Michael said. "I'm still a little uncomfortable about it."

"What happened to Father James? Did he call and cancel?" Allison asked, cleverly changing the subject.

"I have no idea. It's not like him. When I spoke with him this morning, he said he would leave in plenty of time. I'm at a loss right now to know what's happened."

When they reached the car, Amy sat in the back seat and Allison sat in the front with Father Michael. As the car moved off, Amy looked back toward the forest one final time. She stared intently, hoping for one more sign, anything that would assure her she had not been forgotten. Then came a flash of light from the direction of the forest and she smiled a goodbye smile. All was well! The priest turned onto the highway as a clap of thunder rocked the car.

"The storm is almost with us," he said. "It looks like we finished just in time."

## 14.

By the time they arrived at Pelican Street, the rain was teeming down. Cars were lined up and down on both sides and it was difficult to find a place to park.

"Goodness me," Allison said as they drove to number eight, "Has the whole Church community come to pay their respects or just for a free feed?"

"Everyone loved your mother Allison; she was the rock upon which our community rested. Now that she's gone, we are the poorer. I think everyone feels that way."

"It's humbling," Allison said, quite overwhelmed.

Inside number eight Pelican Street, Mrs. Proctor was busy in the kitchen pouring tea, assisted by her next door neighbour, Alice Eastward, who was carefully arranging the cup cakes on a plate. Cups and saucers were laid out on the table and Mrs. Proctor was counting.

"I think I'm going to be short on food. I didn't expect so many. I thought just a few would turn up," she said to Alice.

"Don't worry," Alice replied. "I have some party pies at home and some fruit cake. If we need them, I can slip home and get them. Meanwhile, I'll make sure nobody makes a pig of themselves. I notice that Brian Wayne has brought his own whiskey, so he won't be eating much."

"He never eats much, that one. He needs someone to take care of him that one. He needs someone to give him a regular meal and a clean shirt. He's let himself go a bit since his wife passed on."

"Yes, he does, and has it crossed your mind that Allison might just be the one for him now that her mother has gone and she has only Amy to care for?"

"Allison might be a bit too head-strong for Brian," Mrs. Proctor replied. "And a bit young too! They look nice together, but he's not so bright as to keep up with her mind, if you know what I mean?"

"Do you think Allison will bring her father back with her?" Alice asked.

"I hope not," Dorothy replied. "I didn't see him at the cemetery. I don't like the man. With any luck, he and Sam Spent will drift off to the hotel."

Just then, one of the guests poked her head into the kitchen holding an empty plate. Mrs. Proctor rolled her eyes and looked to see what she could do. "I'll pop home now and get the pies if you like?" Alice said. "Well don't go yet, not out in this rain. Have Father Ryan and Allison arrived back yet?" Dorothy asked.

Just as Dorothy asked the question, Father Michael entered through the front door behind Allison and Amy. A momentary hush of sympathy and respect surged across the room. Michael Ryan was highly respected among his parish and the broader township. He was a refreshing change from the more traditional and conservative Father James, and his flock liked him for it. As the three of them entered through the front door, glad to be out of the rain, Father Michael helped Allison remove her coat. As he did, one or two of those gathered inside noticed it, and raised their eyebrows at what they perceived to be a degree of attention best avoided by a man of the cloth.

From where he stood by the window of the front lounge room, Brian Wayne was one of those who noticed and quickly returned his whiskey flask to the inside pocket of his coat. His mouth curved slowly as he caught sight of Allison. He watched her every move as she steadied herself following Father Michael's thoughtful attention. Brian paused, waiting for the right moment before making a move toward her.

Allison felt the warmth of the room nourish her. It was humbling to see so many people come to honour her mother and difficult not to smile at the gathering. Suddenly Mrs. Proctor burst through from the kitchen pushing ahead of Brian Wayne and keen to take control.

"Allison, Father Ryan, I was beginning to wonder what happened to you, what with the rain and everything. Hello, Amy dear, are any of you wet? Can I get a towel or something?"

"No, no, that won't be necessary Mrs. Proctor," Father Michael answered. "We're fine. I think a nice cup of tea would be good."

"What about you Allison, tea, coffee?"

"I wouldn't say no to something a little stronger," Allison said.

Mrs. Proctor was taken by surprise.

"Oh, er, well let me see. I'm not sure what I have."

Brian Wayne took this as his cue and he didn't waste the opportunity.

"Perhaps I could take care of Allison, Mrs. Proctor," he said, as he stepped forward producing his flask of whiskey. Mrs. Proctor gave him a disapproving glare.

"Yes, that would be lovely," Allison said. "With some ice and soda if you please," she added looking directly at Brian hoping he would realize that the soda was not necessary.

Brian smiled.

"Just the shot, actually," Father Michael added. "I'll join you if you have enough to spare."

"Certainly Father," Brian replied delighted that his initiative had received ecclesiastical approval. Mrs. Proctor looked miffed but recovered as Brian made for the side board where the glasses were neatly assembled.

"Well, come in and have something to eat," she said trying to regain lost ground. "I suppose under the circumstances a bit of fortification is not unreasonable. And what would you like, young lady?" she said turning her attention to Amy. "A glass of lemonade perhaps?"

Amy nodded as Allison edged away from the front door toward the sideboard acknowledging the sympathetic words of those around the room. Mrs. Proctor ushered Amy toward the kitchen as Alice Eastward appeared with a plate of hot party pies she had retrieved from her house next door. She glanced guiltily toward Mrs. Proctor and quickly moved to offer the plate around the room hoping Mrs. Proctor would not take offence. Mrs. Proctor, now twice miffed, attended to Amy.

"Come with me Amy dear and I'll see what I can get for you."

As Dorothy took Amy by the hand and led her into the kitchen, Amy could not contain herself.

"Aunty Dorothy," she said. "I saw Our Lady in the forest, just like Grandma said I would."

"What's this you say?" Dorothy asked.

The two entered the kitchen, but before Dorothy could question Amy, she heard a tap on the back door.

"Goodness me, who can that be?" she exclaimed.

Passing a glass of lemonade to Amy she pointed to the back room where several children's religious books were neatly stacked on the lower level of a bookshelf.

"Why don't you pop in there and have a look at some of the books on the shelf while I see who is at the back door," she said.

Amy nodded and made her way into the back room. Dorothy went to the back door and opened it to find Father James standing there, cold, wet and shivering. A look of horror splashed across her face.

"Father, what on earth are you doing there? Come in quickly," she said. Father James shook his head.

"I can't Dorothy," he said with a distraught face. "I have to find the casket. They've come for it. I have to find it and guard it. I've been to Maud's house. I looked in her room. It's not there. I couldn't find it. Do you know where it is?"

Dorothy thought for a moment.

"She gave it to Amy, Father. I remember her saying so. She wanted her to experience it, keep it close. Amy is in the back room. Do you want me to ask her?" she whispered.

"Yes, yes, but quickly. I don't want to be seen here. I want to get away as quickly as possible. Hurry!"

Responding as a true and loyal supporter of the cause, Dorothy went to speak with Amy very briefly and returned moments later.

"It's under Amy's bed, Father. The tool box is under Amy's bed!"

Father James shivered in the cold, and nodded.

"Oh, what a bother! I'll have to go back there and try again," he said.

"But you're wet Father," Dorothy exclaimed.

"Never mind that. I'll go back to the presbytery while no one's there and dry myself off. I still have a key. I have to get the casket Dorothy. They've come for it. They've sent someone. I have to go. I'll keep in touch."

"People were asking why you never came to the funeral, Father. What shall I tell them?"

"Don't tell them anything. Play dumb. You never saw me. I'll get in touch with you later. It's the Lord's work Dorothy. Pray for me that I won't fail Him."

"Bless you father. Go in the name of Jesus," she said with all the confidence of one who lived by faith and whose zeal far exceeded her good judgement.

A clap of thunder outside shook the house as Father Ryan accepted a glass of Brian Wayne's private collection. "My God, that was a loud one," he said as he moved off to mingle with the crowd, leaving Allison and Brian standing together in front of a large picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Brian was somewhat ill at ease, awkward in Allison's presence but still longing to be with her. "I liked your mother," he said, searching for words that would ease them into conversation. "Thank you," she said, looking up at him tentatively. "I think she liked you too."

"A little overly religious but a nice lady just the same," he said.

"Overly religious! Now that's an understatement. She should have been a nun. I can't remember a day when she wasn't on her knees saying a novena or a rosary."

"Well I suppose she's enjoying the reward of it all now," Brian continued.

"Or maybe it was all a complete waste of time. I suppose we'll never know will we?" Allison replied.

"Could I get you something to eat?" he asked.

"Not just now. Thank you for bringing this. I just needed something with a kick to it," she answered taking a sip from her glass. "It's been a long day and I'm glad it's nearly over. Amy and I will eat at home later. What about yourself? How have you been coping since Elizabeth passed on?"

"Fine," he lied.

"That's not what I hear," she said.

"And what have you heard?" he asked, straightening up his back as if ready to defend himself from what sounded like a verbal swipe.

"I've heard you spend most of your spare time buying meals in the pub. That you and the boys don't eat very much, that you fall asleep on the job and your clothes need a good wash and iron."

"Is that so?"

"That's what I've heard."

"Have you?"

"Would I say it if it wasn't so?" she queried. "Why don't you let me help you? I've got the time now, and I wouldn't mind, unless of course you thought I was trying to take over where Elizabeth left off." She slowly looked up at him, teasing.

"What would you want to do?" he asked nervously.

"Well you could start by letting me cook you and the boys a decent meal now and then, once or twice a week, something like that. I worry about Joshua and young Timothy. They're still growing. I could do your laundry and keep the house clean, but you'll have to pay me for that."

Brian thought the offer through. Just to have her in his house adding that special woman's touch was tantalizing. But to have her doing the laundry, putting his smalls out on the line, making his bed? That was intimidating, verging on the intimate.

"You're very kind to make the offer, Allison, but what about your work at the paper?"

"That's all right. I can handle that. I'm a woman Brian! I can do more than one thing at a time," she answered, not realizing that Brian felt intimidated.

"It's very kind of you and I promise I'll think about it..."

She stopped him, impatient of his nervous indecision.

"What is it that bothers you Brian? It's not as if you have never had a woman in the house before, keeping things clean, and feeding you."

She paused, waiting for his reaction. Brian was inwardly consumed with erotic thoughts of her in his house.

"Uumm, nothing. It's a kind offer," he stumbled out, his hand shaking enough to spill a drop of whiskey on Mrs. Proctor's carpet. "It's just that, er, well I'm not sure." She stopped him again, gently putting her hand on his shaking arm, moving closer and dropping her voice just as a boisterous outburst of laughter erupted from the direction of the small group enjoying Father Michael's company across the room.

"It's all right Brian, I wouldn't spread any stories about the town. Are you concerned that people might think there's something going on between us?" she joked.

Brian melted at the knees, but was saved by Dorothy Proctor who interrupted the exchange. Dorothy had seen Father James off and had since been speaking with Amy and reflecting on the story she had told her. Dorothy's special knowledge concerning the casket, its contents and the message in the manuscript alerted her to what she believed was the beginning of the prophecy's fulfilment. 'The child of the light,' she thought, 'was about to be revealed.'

"Allison, can I see you in the kitchen? It's about Amy," she said. Allison nodded to Mrs. Proctor.

"Have a think about it," Allison said to Brian before excusing herself.

Brian was left standing alone by the side-board stunned at the fleeting exchange with Allison, an exchange that had surpassed his wildest dreams. 'Something going on between us,' he thought. 'Oh, if only it were true.' Father Michael, holding an empty glass, interrupted his thoughts and beckoned to him.

"Would you have any of this fine whiskey left, Brian?" he asked. Brian barely heard him speak, his mind still consumed with Allison.

"Brian, are you with us?" Father Michael asked, "Or are you back at your service station bleeding your customers dry with the price of petrol today?"

"Er, what's that?" he asked, looking quite vague.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Proctor acting in a clandestine manner as if the fate of the household depended upon her secrecy, ushered Allison toward the door of the back room where Amy sat reading a book. First checking to see that no one had followed behind, Dorothy whispered to Allison that Amy's secret was safe with her.

"What secret?" Allison asked.

"Amy told me that she saw and spoke to Our Lady in the forest this afternoon," Dorothy replied.

Allison was unperturbed and chose to treat the matter light heartedly. "Oh, did she? Well, I wouldn't get too carried away, Mrs. Proctor. It's all right," she said. "Amy is just playing. I wouldn't want you repeating this to anyone, Mrs. Proctor, but my mother's death is causing Amy some difficulty at the moment. She's imagining one or two things happening."

"What sort of things?"

"She only thinks she has been visited by the Virgin Mary. Don't be alarmed. My mother unfortunately put ideas into her head. Father Ryan knows about it and we think we will just let it run its course."

"My goodness, I had no idea. But she explained it to me so vividly."

"Well please don't say anything. You know how these things get out of hand. Probably most of the reported apparitions all over the world are the product of nothing more than vivid imaginations and hallucinations, and look what happened when they went public. Pandemonium!"

"Allison!"

"No, I'm right. Sometimes, overly devout people become a little light in the head and let their religious zeal exceed their good judgement. We don't want that Mrs. Proctor, now do we?" Allison added. Her words clearly shocked her mother's friend.

"Allison," Mrs. Proctor exclaimed. "Surely you believe in Fatima and Lourdes don't you? And La Sallette and Knock and Garabandal and Medjugorje?"

"And how many dozen others, Mrs. Proctor? I'm not sure if I believe in any of them. They all sound a bit too convenient to me. But don't let me influence you in what you believe. My mother had been reading the Fatima story to Amy at bedtime, that's all. She's just letting her enjoyment of it manifest itself this way. It's as simple as that."

"Well, what do we do with Amy now?" Mrs. Proctor asked, with a look of concern at the child.

"Just leave her be. She's not bothering anyone. We'll have to be going soon. I do want to thank you for your kindness. I know you were very fond of my mother and you wouldn't want any unnecessary attention or pressure being placed on her grand-daughter, so I do hope you will not say anything to anyone about this."

"Oh, no! I won't breathe a word of it, I promise," Mrs. Proctor said. "These things get out of hand so easily," Allison added, with a touch of drama. "A careless word here and there, then some over- enthusiastic pious soul blabs something to the papers and then before you know it, there will be a hundred or so people outside our front door all praying the rosary."

"Allison. I would never..." Dorothy said, trying to slow her down. But Allison would have none of it, surprising herself with her own eloquence.

"Then the business people in the town get hold of it and see the mega dollars they can generate with the tourists or should I call them pilgrims, and then all our lives will be turned upside down and for what? Nothing more than an innocent child's vivid imagination."

"I understand," Mrs. Proctor nodded.

"I'll go and take care of Amy now and settle her down. You can leave her to me. Everything will be fine, I promise," Allison said.

"Oh my goodness, I almost forgot," Mrs. Proctor said with a start. "There was a call from Klaus Wendt at the motel. A man was asking after you. A foreigner, Klaus said. His name was Pascal, I think. Yes, Henri Pascal. He's at the motel."

"Oh, I don't recall that name," Allison said. "It's probably one of mother's friends coming to offer condolences."

In the lounge room, Brian Wayne had found his voice and the whiskey had found its rightful place in his bloodstream just as Mrs. Proctor returned to tend to her guests.

"The lady drove up to the pump and sat there. I was at the console and I watched her for a while but she just sat there," Brian said, as his audience listened with interest.

"Can I get anyone anything?" Mrs. Proctor interrupted. There was a general shaking of the heads all around. They were already well satisfied with the delicious taste of Alice Eastward's pies and needed little else. "So I went out to see if there was any problem with her," Brian continued. Moments later, Allison entered the lounge room with Amy in hand.

"Mrs. Proctor," she said, "Amy and I will be leaving now. Thank you once again for all your kindness." As she spoke, Father Ryan gently tapped Brain Wayne on the arm, and everyone looked to Allison as she turned to address them all.

"I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of you for coming today and for your kind words. My mother will be sadly missed. We can all be grateful that she played a part in each of our lives and touched us all for the better. And now she is at rest and in a better place. Amy and I are leaving now but please, all of you feel free to stay and enjoy Mrs. Proctor's kind hospitality."

"Would you like me to drive you home, Allison?" Brian asked.

"Thank you, Brian, but I think Father Ryan might be a better choice right now," she answered taking note of his slightly inebriated state.

"Ask her again when you're sober," Mark Millstock called out, generating muffled laughter. Father Ryan stepped forward as Mrs. Proctor showed them to the door.

"Goodbye, Allison, and God bless both you and Amy. I promise I won't breathe a word about the other business," Mrs. Proctor whispered as they stepped out onto the front porch. Father Ryan overheard the comment but said nothing. The rain had stopped and the three walked to the car parked down the road.

"Not my business to comment about someone else, Allison," he said as they walked, "but you know you can't trust Mrs. Proctor to keep her mouth shut about anything."

"I know," she answered. "That's what bothers me."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Amy told Mrs. Proctor she saw Our Lady in the forest this afternoon. I'm afraid it might be common knowledge before the night is through."

Father Ryan shook his head. "I'd better have a talk with Dorothy before she sets the town talking."

As they arrived at the car, Brian Wayne came running out of the house toward them.

"Allison, can I speak with you a moment?" he asked. Father Ryan continued on with Amy and climbed into the car as Allison waited for Brian.

"Allison, sorry to hold you up, but did you mean what you said earlier?" he asked panting slightly from the run.

"What was that, Brian?" she queried.

"You know, what you said earlier?"

"Oh yes, about cooking you a meal and doing your laundry. Yes, of course I did."

"No! Not that! The other thing you said," Brian eased out nervously.

"What did I say, Brian?"

"You know," he said, quivering. "The other thing about..," he stuttered.

"About what, Brian?"

He came closer to her to whisper.

"About something going on between us," he said. A look of surprise and withdrawal raced across Allison's face.

"Brian! I'm embarrassed. Whatever gave you that idea?"

"But you said..."

"I was only joking Brian. I'm sorry to have....."

"I'm sorry. I must have misunderstood," he interrupted hastily.

Allison paused and took account of the embarrassment she realized he was feeling. Her initial surprise was quickly replaced by a more tender approach.

"Brian, weren't we talking about me cooking for you? I was just having a little joke, a little light relief from the sombre nature of the wake," she said gently, conscious of his vulnerable state of mind.

"Oh, I see, oops," he replied with an awkward, forced laugh. "What a fool. One too many whiskeys! Oh well, no harm in trying," he continued, trying to salvage some element of dignity from the debacle.

"It might be the drink," Allison said in jest, trying to restore his self confidence. "I can't imagine what you would see in me."

"Oh Allison, you have no idea," he answered.

"Well, this is not quite the right time for this sort of thing. You let me know later if you would like me to cook and clean for you," she said, walking toward the car.

"Yes, okay I will then," he replied as he watched her go.

Inside the house, Mrs. Proctor had barely closed the door after Brian's sudden exit before she was broadcasting her news in a way that only she could.

"Praise be!" she shouted ecstatically. "Our Holy Mother Mary has sent her messenger to visit this humble house. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee."

"What on earth are you on about?" Alice Eastward asked.

"It's happened. The Virgin Mary has been here today," she said, her eyes on fire.

"Mrs. Proctor! Dorothy! Have you been socking away at Brian Wayne's whiskey flask?" a voice called out.

"Don't you dare suggest anything so sacrilegious, Anthony Jackson. This house has been honoured today and I will not hear such things." Dorothy Proctor's face displayed all the fire of her enthusiasm. It seemed as if she had suddenly been transformed into a priestess, prophet, and seer all in one, as she lifted up her arms to the ceiling, her eyes sparkling, and her fervour intense as she prayed out loud.

"Thank you, Lord, for sending your heavenly Mother to visit us this day. This time we promise to listen and abide by your wishes. This time we will not ignore you as others have in the past. We promise to protect little Amy as you enliven our hearts. Let us become a beacon to the world as you reveal your message to us." As she spoke, her voice increased in passion and intensity.

Anthony Jackson stood there with the rest of the gathering stunned at the remarkable transformation of a woman he had known for thirty years.

"Jesus! I don't know what she's been drinking but whatever it is, I've got to have some of it," he whispered to Mark Millstock who was standing alongside him, mouth wide open.

"It must be her own private brew," Mark muttered back.

Dorothy lowered her arms and bowed her head in silence. She stood there, spellbound, the entire room focussed on her every move. Finally Alice Eastward stepped forward.

"Dorothy, are you all right? Would you like to lie down?" she asked.

Dorothy slowly came out of her trance-like state and lifted her head looking straight at Alice. "She was here, Alice," she said quietly. "She was here in our town!"

"Who was that, Dorothy?" Alice asked.

"Our Lady, Alice! Our Lady appeared to little Amy in the forest," she answered, her eyes darting from one corner of the room to another.

"When was this, Dorothy?"

"Just one hour ago," she said, her pulse-rate high, her rationality, at best, questionable.

As the gathering in the room tried to make sense of Dorothy Proctor's outburst, Brian Wayne slipped in quietly through the front door. The silence took him by surprise.

"What's happened here?" he asked. "Don't tell me someone else has kicked the bucket?"

The entire room turned their attention toward Brian, relieved that his distracting remarks had helped deflect attention away from what had become an embarrassing moment with Dorothy.

"What was it you left for, Brian?" Anthony Jackson asked.

"Yeah, you missed all the excitement," Mark Millstock added, receiving a sharp kick to the side of the leg from Anthony for his trouble.

"What did I miss?" Brian asked.

"Let's not go into that now," Alice Eastward interrupted. "I think it's time we called and end to the day's activities. Don't you think so, Anthony?" she asked, her eyes searching for support.

Anthony nodded. "Yes, I'd better be going now. I think we all should. It's been a big day. And Dorothy must be tired after all the work she's done setting up this nice little get-together for us. Let's not forget we have a big day tomorrow getting the parish float ready for the festival on Saturday."

"Oh, yeah, the float! What with the funeral and everything I'd forgotten. What is it this year? Not the three children again, I hope," Mark asked.

"No. Father Michael has decided on a more multi-faith presentation," Anthony said, moving toward the door, hoping that if anyone wanted to know more they would follow him outside.

There were general murmurs of agreement and nodding of the heads around the room and the guests slowly emptied their glasses, somewhat disappointed the afternoon had ended so quickly. One by one, like the sheep some of them herded around the paddocks, they said their goodbyes to Dorothy and followed one another out the front door.

## 15.

Father Michael Ryan drove along the main street of Monterey Creek, past the Monterey motel then turned left around the corner and pulled up outside number twenty-five Terry Street. Neither he nor Allison noticed the car parked further down, on the other side of the street.

"Well, here we are," Michael said. "It's been a long day and I'm sure you and Amy must be very tired." Allison nodded in agreement. She wanted to speak but allowed a few moments silence to fill the air; quiet, contented, relaxed silence. The day had finally come to an end. She had buried her mother and the stress and burden of the event itself, together with her own emotional fluctuations, began to fade. Her thoughts turned to the man beside her. He had been her strength today, her rock. She wanted him to know that. When she spoke again, it was soft and tender, and genuinely grateful.

"I want to thank you for all your help today, Father. I'm not sure I would have got through it all without a strong hand to guide me," she said, looking directly at him. She held her eyes on his, hoping he would offer some gesture of what she wasn't sure, but something, anything that she could encourage him to pursue.

"I'm not sure about that," he replied quietly, catching her eyes with his. "I think you handled yourself pretty well." As he spoke, he felt a surge of something through his veins that he struggled to identify. It was a longing to connect with her in some way. He was drawn to touch her on the arm, the hand, anywhere that would signal that he regarded her as special to him. She smiled a relaxed, disarming smile. It helped him feel calm about being with her and he wanted her to know that. He summoned the courage to offer a gesture of intimacy. "And please, if you want to, when we are in private, call me Michael? I've known you long enough and come to regard you as a friend. I would certainly prefer it. Father sounds so distant," he said, with a slight hesitation. Allison was taken by surprise. She was hoping for some reaction but unsure of the form it would take. This, she thought, was somewhat radical but a step in the right direction and she would certainly not want to discourage him. She never liked calling him Father anyway and for precisely the same reason.

"Yes, Michael, I think I can do that," she said tenderly, looking away so as not to appear bold. "But you'd better not let Dorothy Proctor know. The old dear would have heart failure."

"Yes, she would. I'll have to keep an eye on her," he said, relieved his initiative had not been rejected. "If as you say, she knows about Amy's little imaginings, she'll not be able to contain herself for long. Anyway let's not worry about that now. You two go inside, have something to eat and get a good night's rest."

Allison was touched by Michael's tender concern. She felt drawn to him, to express herself in some meaningful way and perhaps send a signal that she had feelings for him, but resisted. Michael too, felt the same but his training kept him at bay. He wanted to break through that barrier, act as any human being would when overtaken by a powerful urge. But as powerful as it was, he knew he would not; not now at least. It was not the right time. Allison gathered herself together and looked to Amy in the back seat.

"Let's go Amy," she said, as her daughter stirred from a half sleep.

"Are we home?" she asked.

"Yes we are. Let's go and have some dinner before you have a bath and then off to bed, young lady."

As the two of them bade farewell to Father Michael, Monsignor Henri Pascal was sitting in the car further down the street, waiting. He waited until the car that brought them home had left before he started his engine and began to cruise forward toward number twenty-five. As Father Michael drove back to the presbytery, his head was in the clouds, his thoughts consumed with Allison. He turned on the radio and his romantic imagination was captured as he listened to Kevin Johnson singing 'Paraguayan Sunset.' As Allison and Amy went inside, Henri Pascal sat and watched the house waiting until the lights went on. Henri didn't have a set plan. He wasn't sure how he would go about explaining himself. He thought only of the relics. If the relics were in the house and could be recovered quickly, without any fuss, then it was at least worth a try. He was not proud of the way he had obtained the information that brought him to Monterey Creek. Blackmail was not his style. But, during the course of his meeting with Father James earlier that day, the old man had acted so erratically that an equally forceful reaction seemed necessary. Father James did not seem to understand that claiming the moral high ground did not mean he was right. The Monsignor regretted that he had to threaten police involvement to recover stolen goods. He regretted his suggestion that the matter might need to be brought to the attention of the Cardinal Archbishop of Sydney. But Monsignor Henri Pascal could see from the hostile reception he had received from Father James, that strong measures were necessary if he were to be successful in his efforts to recover the relics. He waited a further half hour before he walked up the front pathway and knocked on the door.

## 16.

By the time Father Michael arrived back at the presbytery, his thoughts were far removed from his normal ritual. He spent some minutes sitting in his study in a vacant, detached state of mind. It wasn't until he took stock and noticed the message light flashing on his answering machine that he brought himself back to the reality of the moment, and pressed 'play'.

"Father it's Alice Eastward here," the voice said. "I think you should know that after you and Allison left Dorothy's this evening, she had a bit of a turn. She kept insisting that the Virgin Mary had appeared somewhere today. I think she needs your guiding hand right now. Just thought you should know."

'Bloody hell,' Michael muttered under his breath, 'the woman needs counselling.' As he thought about the message he noticed the light was still flashing indicating a second message. He pressed 'play' once again and heard the beeps that signalled an international call. He listened intently as the caller, who spoke with a strong French accent, left his message...

"...This is Jean Paul Colombière from Paray-le-Monial and I have a message for Father James. Please ask him to call me at the usual number. Something has happened and a response is critical. Thank you."

Father Michael was perplexed. It had been over a year since Father James had left Monterey Creek. Who could possibly need to speak to him at the 'usual number' and not know where he was now residing? He immediately played the message back once more.

"...This is Jean Paul Colombière from Paray-le-Monial and I have a message for Father James. Please ask him to call me at the usual number. Something has happened and a response is critical. Thank you."

Father Michael caught the name 'Paray-le-Monial'. It was a name that was vaguely familiar but he couldn't quite place it. He knew, however, from his many years at the seminary, that it was a name associated with a saint. 'So many of them. Which one was it?' Thrilled at the prospect that with his new broadband connection he could locate the answer quicker on the internet than by looking through his library, he turned to his computer. He clicked onto Google and entered the name 'Paray-le-Monial.' The response was immediate. He marvelled at the technology and speed. Several sites were listed on the front page, some in French. While he liked the challenges of speaking and reading foreign languages, French was not his strong suit. Among the English sites there were references to the Catholic Encyclopaedia, as well as several sites advertising accommodation, hotels, tours and the like. Other sites mentioned a Basilica. Then one site listed Paray-le-Monial as second only to Lourdes for pilgrimages. Finally on page four he saw what he was looking for. One site mentioned 'Devotion to the Sacred Heart' and it all came back to him. Paray-le-Monial was the town where, in the seventeenth century, a young Visitation nun, Margaret Mary Alacoque, claimed to experience visions of Jesus. 'Of course. Shame on me,' he thought.

He stared at the screen, looking at more details, and wondering what he should do with the information. Where was Father James? Why had he not come to the funeral as planned? Should he call the parish presbytery in Sydney and pass on the call? How was it that Father James should receive an international call here in his former country parish, so long after he left? He looked at the time. It was only eight o' clock. He decided to make the call and dialled the presbytery at Saint Eudes in Sydney.

"Hello," the housekeeper answered.

"Good evening, Maria, it's Father Michael here from Monterey Creek. Is Father James there please?"

"No, Father. I thought he was with you."

"No, he's not here. He never turned up. Are you saying he hasn't been at the presbytery all day?"

"No, Father. He left here at eleven o' clock this morning. He had a visitor earlier, a Monsignor Pascal from France. They had words. They were shouting at each other. I heard them from the kitchen. Then Father James left. The Monsignor left shortly after that. He was following Father James to Monterey Creek. I've heard nothing of him since. There was also a call from France. Jean Paul someone! It sounded urgent so I told him to ring your number."

Father Michael was confused. He hesitated as he pondered the news.

"Yes, we received a call from Jean Paul on the answering machine. Do you know him? Do you know what he wanted?"

"No, I don't," the housekeeper replied, "but he has called here before. I can't say for sure, but I think that Father James belonged to some devotional society or group that has some sort of affiliation in France, and the Monsignor and this Jean Paul person are fellow members."

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh, just something Father James said once after he had spoken to Jean Paul on another occasion. He said something about having to do some work for the Society of Eternal Truth. Have you ever heard of them, Father?" she asked.

"The Society of Eternal Truth? No! That's a new one on me. This Jean Paul said to call him at the usual number. Do you know what that number is?"

"Not off hand. Just a moment and I'll have a look in Father James' directory."

At the other end of the town, when Allison opened the door, the Monsignor introduced himself as an associate of Father James.

"Good evening. My name is Monsignor Henri Pascal," he said. "I'm sorry to trouble you at this time. I am an associate of Father James, who told me that your mother lived here. I came to see her about an important matter, only to learn when I arrived, that she had passed away. Please forgive my intrusion."

Allison took a few moments to absorb the Monsignor's introduction. She was tired and uncertain how to respond. "This is a little surprising," she replied. "Did you know my mother?"

"No I didn't," he replied.

"Did Father James send you here?" she asked.

"No, but he did give me the details of your mother's address," he replied.

Allison was tired. She had fed and bathed Amy and put her to bed. She was intending to settle down and relax before retiring early herself. But realizing the caller had come a long way, she invited the Monsignor into the house, satisfied that his association with Father James rendered him harmless.

"This is very generous of you," he said, as Allison offered him tea.

"It has been a long day. I have only just put my daughter down to bed. How do you know Father James?" she asked.

"Father James and I have known each other for some years. I live in Paris, and we both belong to a devotional organization that meets regularly at the town of Paray-le-Monial. Have you heard of it?"

"No, I don't think so." Allison answered.

"Again, please allow me to extend my personal sympathies to you. I realize this must be a very difficult time for you."

"Thank you," Allison answered.

"Had I known before I arrived here today of your mother's passing, I would have made other arrangements. I'm afraid Father James didn't mention this matter to me."

"That's quite all right. It's strange though that Father James didn't call Father Michael to tell him he wasn't coming."

"Father Michael?"

"He's our parish priest here. Father James was supposed to come here today to say the Requiem mass. He didn't arrive and Father Michael heard nothing from him."

"That is strange," the Monsignor said, surprised. "I recall him saying this morning that he was coming here. The purpose of my visit, however, is unrelated. If I may be so bold as to ask something of you. I arrived here from France just this morning. I have come to collect something. Father James has told me that he gave to your mother some time ago, a casket containing some devotional material. That casket and its contents belong to our organization in Paray and were, shall we say, on loan to Father James. I wanted to collect them and return with them to France if I could. Might I enquire if you have them?"

"Oh dear! Father Michael mentioned something about that this morning. He said Father James gave my mother a small metal tool box. To tell you the truth, I don't know anything about it. I haven't looked into my mother's things yet."

"Your Father Michael spoke of this?"

"Yes, just this morning. He said that Father James had asked if I could look for it and return it to him today when he came up for the funeral, but he never came."

"Father James did act somewhat strangely this morning. I wondered at the time if he was in full control of all his faculties."

"You said you were staying at the Monterey motel tonight?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well, I'll have a look in the morning and perhaps you could call by around eleven or so."

The Monsignor felt uneasy. He suspected that Father James might not have been completely honest with him.

"Umm, yes, I suppose so. I don't suppose there's any chance I could wait while you have a look tonight?"

"No, I couldn't tonight, I'm sorry. I'm too tired and there's so much to go through."

"Certainly! Yes, of course. Forgive me, that was thoughtless. All right then. I'll give you a call in the morning. I appreciate your help. I must go. I've taken up enough of your time already."

"Thank you Monsignor. I promise I'll have a look for it first thing tomorrow."

"You have been most generous," he said, shaking her hand.

"Goodnight Monsignor," Allison said.

She showed him to the front door and watched him as he walked down the front pathway, and across the road to his car. As he drove away, Allison thought she heard a noise from Amy's room. She walked down the hallway and opened the bedroom door. Amy was asleep in her bed. Allison was about to close the door when she noticed that the window was open slightly. She knew that she had not opened it. Perhaps Amy had, but that was unusual. It was not something Amy did as a rule. She entered the room quietly and walked across to the window. A gentle breeze filtered through. It was a refreshing breeze, one that accentuated the fragrance of the flowers in the garden following the storm, a fragrance that had drifted into the room.

Father Michael sat in front of his computer in his study. He was looking at the screen. Following the call to the housekeeper of Father James, his mind had been swimming around the name Jean Paul Colombière. Again, he had vague recollections of the name. He googled 'Colombière' and was reading down the page. The first reference was all he needed to make the connection. 'Saint Claude de la Colombière.' He clicked onto the website. The website profile listed him as a French Jesuit, of the seventeenth century, called to the religious life at a young age. Educated at Lyon, he taught humanities in Avignon, studied in Paris and preached against Jansenism. Ordained in 1659, he was a strong advocate of devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and was the spiritual director of Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque. 'Again,' Father Michael thought. 'The Alacoque connection.' He was canonized by Pope John Paul 11, in May of 1992 in Rome. At his canonization, the Pope referred to the contrast between the indifference and unbelief of some, with the devotion and humility of Claude de la Colombière, emphasizing his relevance in the world today. Father Michael noted with interest the connection with Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque, and recognized that a connection between this, and the call from Jean Paul, had begun to emerge. He then googled 'Society of Eternal Truth'. Nothing! 'Just as I thought,' he muttered. 'Another exclusive little society with no traceable links.'

Allison left Amy's room and walked back to the lounge room. She felt uneasy. There was something that unsettled her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. It was nine o' clock, still early by her standards. She sat down for a moment and thought about the visitor, Monsignor Henri Pascal, and wondered why he had never mentioned calling on Father Michael. Her thoughts soon drifted to the casket Monsignor Pascal had asked her to hand over to him. Father Michael had also mentioned a small metal tool box. 'Perhaps I'd better have a quick look for it now!' Dragging herself from the lounge, she walked down the hallway once more, past Amy's room, and opened her mother's bedroom door. As soon as she did, a gentle breeze blew across her body together with the fragrance of the flowers outside and in the darkness she realized that the window in this room was also open. She immediately turned on the light and, to her utter dismay, stood staring at a room ransacked and violated. Fear immediately raced through her entire body. Her mother's bedside table was lying upended on top of the bed, her lamp discarded on the floor. All the clothes in her closet were strewn across the floor. All the drawers to her dresser were wide open and the contents lying everywhere. A small chest in the corner had been turned upside down. It contained some of her mother's most treasured possessions. They were scattered everywhere. The window was wide open.

"My God," she gasped, thrusting her hand to her mouth. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," was all she could say. Then the ultimate fear raced through her blood. She turned quickly and ran to Amy's room, thrusting open the door and turning on the light. A surge of relief! Amy was still there asleep. She turned off the light so as not to disturb her, but it was too late. Amy had woken up.

"What is it Mummy?" she asked.

Allison ran back to her mother's room, hardly hearing her daughter. Disbelief continued to invade her mind. "What on earth has happened?" she asked herself. "Who has done this?" she said as Amy appeared at the door.

Father Michael was still sitting at his computer. He wondered if he should call Jean Paul in Paray-le-Monial. It would be little after midday there, but before he had a chance to move, the phone rang.

"Michael, it's Allison here. Something terrible has happened. Could you come down here now, please?"

"Now? What is it?"

"Just come now, will you, please. I need you," she pleaded. Michael had never heard her sound so desperate.

"All right. I'll be right down. Just stay calm," he said. "I'll be there in five minutes."

Michael collected his thoughts. Paray-le-Monial could wait. He was not only a stickler for punctuality, but he was also true to his word. If he said he would be there in five minutes, he meant it. He shut down the computer and left the presbytery. Whatever it was that prompted Allison to call him, he knew it was important. Allison was not some superficial drama queen. She was a steady, sensible and sceptical woman, with a sound, analytical mind. He had known her long enough to know that she was not inclined toward dramatic outbursts without good reason.

As he drove through the main street of the town, he passed the Bush Bar Hotel, and through the large front window saw the rowdy gathering inside. Slowing down, he made out the familiar pair of Mark Millstock and Anthony James inside talking with Sam Spent and Harry Baker. He wondered how many of those who had attended the funeral and the wake had decided to kick on at the pub.

Eight minutes later, he was standing at the door of Maud Baker's bedroom, stunned and shocked.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"I don't know," Allison said. "I had just said goodbye to the Monsignor and I was resting in the lounge room..."

"The Monsignor?"

"He called after you left tonight. He said he was from Paris and knew Father James. He was asking after something. You asked me about it this morning, a small metal box that Father James is supposed to have given mother."

"A metal tool box, yes, I remember. Father James asked me if you had it. You had a call from a Monsignor tonight?"

"Yes," she answered.

"Asking for the tool box?"

"Yes."

I spoke with Father James' housekeeper only a half hour ago. She mentioned a visit from a Monsignor. Father James appears to have gone missing. His housekeeper said he left this morning to come here for the funeral. We know he didn't arrive. His housekeeper says he hasn't returned. Was this Monsignor planning to come and see me, did he say?"

"No! He never mentioned you. I thought that was a little strange afterwards. That was when I came here to mother's room. I thought I'd better have a quick look for the box. I opened the door and this is what I found."

Father Michael stared at the room. He was tempted to look around further but thought better of it.

"We'd better call Charlie Harris. This is a matter for the police. He needs to get down here and take a good look at this. How's Amy? Has she seen this?"

"Yes I'm afraid so. I got such a fright when I saw it that I raced into her room to see that she was all right. She woke up and came in."

"She's okay?"

"Yes, a little frightened, but I've put her back to bed and given her a little something to help her sleep."

"Can I use your phone?"

"Yes of course."

Michael went into the lounge room and called the local police station. It was closed, and the call diverted to Sergeant Charlie Harris' house.

"Charlie, it's Father Ryan here. Sorry to bother you, but I'm at Allison Baker's right now and I'm afraid there's been a burglary here tonight. Could you get over here as soon as you can?"

"What's happened?" Charlie asked.

"It's a bit complicated Charlie. Maud Baker's bedroom has been ransacked. There's stuff strewn everywhere. Better we explain it all to you when you get here."

"Anybody hurt? Are Allison and Amy okay?"

"They're fine."

"Okay, give me a few minutes. I'll get down as soon as I can. Don't touch anything."

"We won't," Michael said, and replaced the receiver.

"Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?" Allison asked. "Coffee would be nice," he replied, as he returned to the bedroom. He looked around the room intently, searching for something that would give him a clue as to what happened. He felt decidedly uneasy. He could not help but believe that there was some sort of connection between the ransacked bedroom of a deceased woman and Father James' mysterious disappearance. The connection was the small metal box, something Father James wanted back, and now something a Monsignor from Paris had enquired about. He drew a long bow and wondered too if the call from France was also part of the mystery. 'What did Jean Paul say? Something has happened and a response is required! What the devil did he mean?'

When Allison returned with a mug of coffee, he thanked her and asked, "You said earlier that you came to your mother's room to look for the metal box. Did you find it?"

"No," she answered. "I never got the chance. When I saw what had happened I went into shock."

"Perhaps while we are waiting for Charlie Harris to get here, we could have a look around. How do you feel about that?" he asked, sensitive to her feelings about anyone wandering around in her mother's bedroom.

"Yes, all right. I suppose Charlie is going to go through the room with a fine tooth comb anyway. I'd rather you than him," she said, feeling safe and warm in his presence.

"Charlie said not to touch anything so let's be very careful."

Michael put down his coffee mug on the hall table and they stepped inside the room. There were clothes scattered everywhere, cosmetics all over the floor, drawers open. Even the eiderdown, blankets and bed sheets were tossed back. Without moving or touching anything, the two searched the room, looking for something that resembled the small metal box that Father James and Monsignor Henri Pascal had sought. They peered into the closet, checked underneath the chest of drawers, looked under the bed, but found nothing.

When Sergeant Charlie Harris arrived, he conducted his own review in a detached and professional manner. He had seen dozens of similar scenes over the years and nothing he saw in Maud Baker's bedroom surprised him. He wandered around the room taking note of the damage and stopped for a moment, showing particular interest in the area near the window.

"Do you have any idea when this happened?" he asked Allison.

"I don't know," she answered. "I thought I heard a noise in Amy's room when Monsignor Pascal left about an hour ago."

"Who?"

Allison explained the earlier visit of the Monsignor. "I checked on Amy after he left and then rested a while. Then I looked in here. It could have happened while the Monsignor was here."

"No," Charlie interrupted. "It was much earlier than that."

"How do you know that?" Michael asked.

"The carpet over here by the window is wet. The burglary took place sometime before, or during, the storm this afternoon. In broad daylight! The intruder left the window open. Is there anything missing?"

"I don't know. I haven't been through my mother's things yet."

"You might be very fortunate this Monsignor was here. If you thought you heard a noise when he was leaving, it's possible the intruder was still in the house."

"My God," Allison said. "Amy!" she gasped, resting her hand on Michael's arm.

"What about Amy?" Charlie asked.

"Her window was open too. The burglar might also have been in her room!"

You'd better let me take a look. Is she asleep?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry Allison, but if I'm going to get to the bottom of this I need to look in her room as well."

Charlie Harris took his time looking around Amy's room while Allison sat on the bed reassuring a dazed and sleepy Amy. Father Michael stood by the door. Charlie signalled to both of them that he was finished. Allison settled Amy down again as the two men moved into the lounge room.

"The carpet under the window in Amy's room is dry," Charlie said to Michael. "It's possible that the intruder was in the house when they came back from the funeral and found himself caught while Allison bathed and fed Amy. Then the visit from this Monsignor Pascal gave him the opportunity to leave. But whether he left via Maud's room or Amy's room is unclear. I won't mention this to Allison just yet. I don't want to give her nightmares."

Michael nodded. "Allison mentioned to me earlier that the Monsignor had been with Father James earlier today in Sydney."

"Yes. So what do you think that means?" Charlie asked.

"Well, I spoke with Father James' housekeeper tonight and she says they both left the presbytery earlier this morning."

"What is it that bothers you?" Charlie asked as Allison joined them. Michael decided to remain silent.

"I think she's settled now. My God what a day! What happens now Charlie?" she asked.

"Allison, I don't want you to touch anything in either room for now. I'm going to have a fingerprint officer come here from Hampton Bells first thing in the morning. I want to see if there's anything we can identify in both rooms. Can you make sure that you don't disturb anything for now?"

Allison nodded. "I also want to have a chat with this Monsignor Pascal," he said, taking a side glance at Michael. "Did he leave a contact address?"

"He said he was staying the night at the Monterey."

"Fine! I'll call Klaus Wendt and check on that. Without touching anything, I want you to have a look around and let me know if anything is missing. Are you okay for now?"

"Yes, thank you, Charlie. Michael will stay for a while," she answered looking at Michael in hope.

It was plea for company and Charlie noticed it but said nothing. It was none of his business what went on between Allison and Father Ryan.

"I'll talk with both of you in the morning. For now, I'm going home to bed."

"Goodnight Charlie and thank you again, Allison said as she closed the door." Michael waited in the lounge room.

"Perhaps I should go to," he said.

"No, please stay a while. I'm a little nervy at the moment. I need a steadying influence right now. Let's sit a moment and try to relax. I think I'll have a brandy. Will you join me?"

Michael considered the offer carefully.

"Yes, okay. Why not? Something to ease the strain."

As Allison poured the brandy, Michael sat down on the lounge. She joined him with two glasses and they sipped in silence. So much had happened this day and they were both tired. It was Allison who spoke first.

"You mentioned something earlier about speaking to Father James' housekeeper this evening. What was that about?"

Michael hesitated, firstly to gather his thoughts, and secondly to recall the strange nature of the message from Paray-le-Monial.

"It's got me all a bit confused," he began. "When I returned this evening to the presbytery, there were two messages on the answering machine."

"Only two," she interrupted. "I would have thought you were more in demand than that." Michael grinned boyishly. "No, only two. One was from Alice Eastward warning me that Dorothy Proctor has blown Amy's cover. She apparently erupted into a bout of spontaneous prayer, as only she can, broadcasting the news to everyone at the wake that The Virgin Mary had appeared somewhere here today."

"Oh my God, no," Allison cried out. "Everyone who believed it will be on my doorstep tomorrow morning."

"Well, I've got more faith in most of them than you, but I suppose some are going to be influenced by it, yes. That, however, is something I can deal with. It was the other message that I am troubled by."

"What was it, Michael?" Allison asked leaning forward, moving closer to him.

"There was a call from a Jean Paul Colombière in France, from the town of Paray-le-Monial. He didn't say much, just asking Father James to call him, saying that something had happened and a response was needed."

"The Monsignor mentioned that name tonight. Paray...whatever. He said the contents of the tool box had been on loan to Father James and that he had come to take them back to Paray. Why would someone at Paray have called you?" Allison asked.

"Well, apparently this Jean Paul called Father James, but of course he wasn't there, so the housekeeper suggested he call me because that's where she thought Father James would be."

"So what's happened to Father James? Hasn't he been in touch with you at all?"

"No, he hasn't. When you rang me, I was sitting down at the computer. When I listened to the message, I decided to google Paray-le-Monial trying to get a briefing on the place. I thought I remembered it from my seminary days. It's the town where Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque claimed to have received visitations from Jesus, back in the seventeenth century. It's what accelerated this whole devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus that we have today. It's not as prolific today as it was pre-Vatican Two, but I'm sure you are familiar with it?"

"What Catholic isn't?" Allison said. "I never believed it. The whole nine first Fridays thing. It was like you could reserve your place in Heaven in advance. Attend mass and communion on the nine first Fridays and you were assured of going to Heaven. It didn't matter what you did after that, you were home and hosed."

"Yes, I don't think that was what they had in mind when it was being promoted, but that's certainly the impression the faithful had."

"I was always sceptical of it. When I read between the lines, it sounded more like another devotion designed to coerce simple minds and lock them in to the Church," she said.

"Church authorities examined the claims made by Saint Margaret Mary very closely at the time and warned the Pope away from it," Michael replied, "but local groundswell support was too strong and it developed its own legs. The nun had a lot of support from a Jesuit named Claude de la Colombière. He was her spiritual advisor and, after listening to her, he declared in his writings that she was genuine. After Colombière died, his writings became pivotal to what later became an accepted devotion in the Church."

"She claimed that Jesus made twelve promises to the world, didn't she?"

"Yes, eleven of them were the usual pious stuff. She claimed Jesus said that he would give devotees the graces to get through the trials and tribulations in life, to bring peace to families, bless homes that exposed and honored the picture of His Sacred Heart. He promised to console them, be their refuge at the hour of death, and strengthen weak hearts. Priests would melt the hardest hearts, and so on. It was the twelfth promise that stuck; the promise of the nine first Fridays."

"Yes, I remember. Go to mass and communion on the first Friday of every month for nine months and Heaven was guaranteed. So we all trooped off and did what they asked," Allison giggled as she spoke. "And when we finished it I remember one girl at school saying that she could now go off and be a sex-crazed nymphomaniac for the rest of her life, go out and have the time of her life because she had done the nine first Fridays was going to heaven regardless."

"Some thought that," Michael replied, slightly aroused by Allison's forthright and open nature.

"So what has that got to do with this call from France and Father James?"

"I don't know, but something his housekeeper said to me has got me concerned."

"What was that?"

"She said that Father James belonged to a society, a fellowship called the Society of Eternal Truth. I looked them up as well, but found nothing."

"I know that name," Allison said. "My mother had mentioned them now and then."

"You're kidding?"

"No! I think she belonged to it, or had some connection with it."

"Do you have anything in writing?" Michael asked, now very curious. Allison thought for a moment. "I don't recall anything in writing, but there's a lot of mother's stuff to sift through. It's anybody's guess what will turn up."

"Well, in the absence of Father James, I have to decide what I'm going to do about this. I'm tempted to call this Jean Paul in France and get something first hand and then try and find Father James."

"Well, why don't you? It's the middle of the day in France now; give him a call from here if you want to. Tell him you are trying to contact Father James and ask if there's anything you can do to help."

Michael thought for a moment.

"You wouldn't mind?"

"No, of course not," Allison replied, pleased that such a call would further delay Michael's departure.

"Well, I have the number. I'll pay you for it. It shouldn't cost too much at this time of night."

"Make the call, Michael," she urged. "I'll just check on Amy. Would you like another brandy?" Michael nodded. "Yes please. Very relaxing, that stuff."

Allison stood up and Michael slid over to where she had been sitting next to the table where the phone rested. He felt the warmth of the cushion and at the same time caught the scent of her perfume. In the late of the evening with the brandy clouding his mind slightly, he was drawn to her in a way that caused him to feel compromised. He watched as she moved away. His thoughts lingered momentarily as he observed her slim attractive body, her shoulders, her hair. Thoughts entered his head that at any other time he would have swiftly rejected and removed. But he allowed them to remain. He delighted in the idea of her calling him Michael instead of the more formal 'Father'. He felt a certain intimacy with her, that quickly translated to a longing. In the space of a few moments he dared to dream and the dream became desire, and desire became a fantasy. 'Stop this! I'm a priest for God's sake,' he warned himself.

He returned to the reality of the moment. He felt in his pocket for the number given him by Father James' housekeeper, picked up the phone and dialled the number.

## 17.

When the phone rang, Jean Paul Colombière was preparing a light lunch in his office on the Rue de la Visitation in Paray-le-Monial. Accustomed to no more than a bread roll with a slice of his favorite cheese and a glass of red wine, he looked out the window and studied the faces of the people walking up and down the street. This generally quiet and unassuming country town, with a population of around eleven thousand, was also a place of pilgrimage. Second only to Lourdes in visitor numbers it established itself around a Benedictine Abbey, founded in 973 CE. The pilgrims who flocked here today however, were attracted by events that took place in the seventeenth century. It was here that in 1673 a Visitation nun, Margaret Mary Alacoque claimed to have visions of a divine origin.

Jean Paul's secretary entered to inform him of a call from Australia, a Father Michael Ryan. He sat up quickly and signalled to her that he would take the call.

"Hello," he said.

"Good evening, is that Jean Paul?"

"Oui, Father," Jean Paul replied.

"This is Father Michael Ryan calling from Monterey Creek in Australia. I'm returning your call earlier. Father James is not here at the moment but I thought I should respond in his absence. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Where is he now, do you know?" Jean Paul asked.

"Er, no, I'm afraid not. Father James was due here earlier today, but has not been seen since he left his parish in Sydney this morning. I am the parish priest here."

"This is not good," Jean Paul replied impatiently. "Father James must contact me urgently. He knows why I am calling. You will speak with him soon, yes?"

"Perhaps if you told me the nature of the problem, I might be able to help in his absence?" Michael suggested.

"I don't think so, unless you are an associate of our society?"

"Associate? umm, associate of what?" Father Michael pressed.

"I thought not," Jean Paul replied. "Please inform Father James that he must contact me within the next few hours. Our representative Monsignor Henri Pascal will be arriving in Sydney shortly, and he will expect Father James to cooperate and do his duty. You can tell him we are prepared to overlook this indiscretion, but the relics must be returned immediately."

"As it happens Jean Paul, Monsignor Pascal has already arrived. He is here in Monterey Creek now, staying at a motel."

Jean Paul was surprised.

"Already?" I must have got the time confused. Très bon! Have you spoken with him?"

"Er, no I haven't. But I expect to in the morning."

"Then I will leave the matter in his hands. You can tell him I rang and would like to hear from him at his convenience. That is all I have to say. Thank you for calling me. Au revoir!"

Jean Paul hung up and continued with his lunch, enjoying the view from his office as he did every day. But since the theft of the relics, an intrusive disturbance had spread its way into his routine. He had become uncharacteristically sloppy in some of his paperwork and had forgotten one or two appointments. As he sat at his desk, he realized what was at the heart of it all. For the two weeks since the theft of the relics had been discovered, the one member of the society he trusted the least, both in the responses received to questions asked, and general attitude displayed in this matter, was the retired Bishop François Dante. Ever since discussions first began concerning submitting the relics to technical analysis, it was Dante who led the opposition. Dante was an elderly man, eighty-five, who lived in Paris. He had been a member of SVE longer than anyone else and once suggested that the relics be relocated to Paris where they could be more secure. His suggestion had been rejected by a majority vote, and from that moment he had behaved in a somewhat detached manner, even missing interim meetings of SVE on occasions. As Jean Paul reflected on Dante, he realized that his distrust of him was affecting his own judgment and it annoyed him. Dante, he thought, was at the heart of this turmoil, and it annoyed him that he did not know how to handle the situation.

Jean Paul was very attached to Paray-le-Monial. It was a town of pilgrimage, but it was also his home, and although a bloodline connection between his family and that of Saint Claude de la Colombière had not been established, he felt a bond nevertheless. For over two hundred years the faithful had flocked here to visit holy shrines. Devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus had been generously sanctioned by the Catholic Church since Pope Pius IX proclaimed the Feast Day in 1856, and the pilgrims had been coming in their thousands to Paray ever since. This was generated by events that began in 1673 when the twenty-three year old nun, Margaret Mary Alacoque, reported to her Mistress at the Convent of the Visitation at Paray, that she had experienced visions she believed were of divine origin. Over a period of eighteen months, the young nun reported to both her Mistress and Superior, that Jesus had appeared to her and displayed his open heart, bleeding and on fire. Margaret Mary wrote that she had been chosen by Jesus as an abyss of unworthiness and ignorance, through whom her Divine Master would accomplish His great design.

Margaret Mary was a delicate woman with a bizarre love of suffering, an overly zealous passion for serving her 'Divine Master', and an unhealthy tendency to punish herself physically. Though she came from a wealthy agricultural family, her early life was severely affected by the death of her father when she was eight. Her father's death radically altered the family's prosperity. At the age of nine, she was separated from her mother and sent away to the nuns at Charolles. It was during this time she admitted to harming herself in acts of mortification.

'In order to give Him some drops of my blood,' she wrote, 'I then bound my fingers tightly and pierced them with needles.'

She wrote further, 'As it was on the shoulders that I scourged myself, I required much time for it. But during the three days of Carnival, I would have wished to tear myself to pieces in reparation for the outrages perpetrated against His Divine Majesty by sinners.'

Shortly after this period, serious illness in the form of rheumatic fever kept her bedridden until she was fifteen. She regarded suffering as a joy, detested the idea of marriage and wanted only to enter the religious life, despite her mother's objections. Her life is an uncensored open book, revealed to the world in her autobiography, written under instruction from her spiritual director, the Jesuit priest Father Claude de la Colombière. At the age of twenty, she entered the Convent of the Visitation at Paray-le-Monial, and there began an extraordinary sequence of events that projected her into international notoriety and ultimately, sainthood. This in turn made Paray-le-Monial, second only to Lourdes as the most popular place of pilgrimage, in Europe.

Today, the most coveted of Paray's shrines is the Chapel of the Visitation, where most of Margaret Mary's 'encounters' with Jesus took place. In the eyes of the visiting pilgrims this is a holy place, a place to be revered with as much passion and faith as the grotto at Lourdes. In all, four specific visions of Jesus were documented, although from her writings, Margaret Mary seems to have felt the 'Divine Presence' in contemplation and meditation, virtually non-stop for most of her life.

Jean Paul was well aware of the bizarre nature of Margaret Mary's excesses. He was even willing to acknowledge an even more extraordinary hint from her writings, suggesting that on the day of her profession she dwelt on a sexual fantasy with her 'Divine Master.'

'But He said to me: Let Me do everything in its time; for I will have thee now to be the sport of My Love, treating thee according to its good pleasure, as children treat their playthings; thou must, therefore, abandon thyself blindly and without resistance, allowing Me to please Myself at thy expense.'

Jean Paul knew a great deal about Margaret Mary Alacoque; far more than that contained in her published writings and letters. The wooden casket kept in the tabernacle underneath his office on the Rue de la Visitation contained something far more shattering than anything that had been released publicly. In its scope, the secrets contained in the wooden casket, went well beyond the published claims of the young Frenchwoman. Not since the legend of the Holy Grail would there be anything more compelling for believers to embrace, or anything more awkward for non-believers to confront. 'PROOF, of the divinity of the Christ,' Jean Paul thought. 'PROOF! No wonder the doubters think she went mad. Having experienced what she did, and then having to deal with the humiliation of her Mistress, a sceptical public, and the physical pain suffered from her own hands, who wouldn't appear as such?' For over three hundred years, her story had been revered by the faithful, dismissed as pious invention by sceptics, but now her final secret, her last letter, never before made public, was about to be released.

Each of the eight members of the society had gathered at Paray, and the vote had been taken. Yes, Father James had been one of the most ardent opponents of the motion, as was the retired Bishop of Paris, François Dante. But this was not a Church matter. This was a society where Church rank was superfluous. The Board of Management of the Society came from a variety of backgrounds, religious, corporate, political and social, but all Catholic. It had been decided. The members of the least known of Europe's Religious Societies, 'Le Société de la Vérité Eternelle', had agreed it was time. The moment had arrived to declare their secret to the world. There was angry dissention within the ranks of its members, but in the end a clear majority had voted 'Oui!'

All had equal standing and it was unthinkable that one or two members could take it upon themselves to disregard a majority decision. Even worse, that they would then conspire to steal the Most Reverent of Holies, and have one of them abscond with it, to some colonial backwater.

"Outrageous!" Jean Paul yelled out. He slammed his fist onto the top of his desk, as he thought over the events of the past month. "Outrageous!"

His anger was subsequently tempered, however, with the knowledge that his friend Monsignor Henri Pascal had arrived in Australia and had made some contact. He was confident the Monsignor would handle the matter expeditiously, that he would be diplomatic. He would persuade Father James with patience and compassion, but would be determined to secure the safe return of the relics. Jean Paul would now be patient and wait for some word from him.

## 18.

When Allison awoke the next morning, she stirred briefly as she remembered the night just passed, and her heart danced. For a brief moment she thought she heard a whimper of sorts coming from Amy's room and listened intently for a minute but heard no further sound. Satisfied that it was just her imagination, she relaxed and lay in bed for several minutes, tenderly recalling the events of the previous evening. Father Michael did not leave until 3am. After he had spoken with Jean Paul in Paray, they had initially sat opposite each other, he on the sofa, she in an armchair, going over the strange conversation between Michael and Jean Paul. Eventually, after another brandy, they found themselves together on the sofa. While he related word for word everything that Jean Paul had said, she found herself more drawn to him, and felt a small spark of longing for him. When she suddenly became aware of her feeling, she quickly dismissed it, and over more brandy they continued discussing the whole matter until it exhausted itself, the absence of Father James putting a score of unanswered questions on hold. For Allison, the earlier shock of finding her mother's bedroom ransacked had passed. The quick response of Father Michael and the police had been reassuring. She began to calm down and the two lingered in conversation, talking through the night. They were both relaxed, and enjoying each other's company. As the clock drifted past midnight she learned more about him than she had ever known before. When she told him of her parent's separation when she was sixteen and the devastation she felt when her father left home, he lifted her spirits by telling her how he had given his mother hell as a child. How once he and the girl next door dressed up as a priest and a nun, and kissed each other in the pantry of her home, only to be discovered by her mother. This made Allison laugh. He liked it when she laughed and wanted to keep her laughing. He told of his escapades as a seminary student, sneaking away on Saturday afternoons to watch a football match when the rest of the students were playing sport or listening to music. Hoping for a close bond to develop between them, she teased him about having to give up girls and any thought of marriage.

"There must have been some who flashed their eyes at you," she said in a low, alluring voice. His geniality and easy going manner made her feel comfortable. "Perhaps I did a bit of flirting myself once," he admitted with a boyish grin.

"I bet you broke a few hearts when they heard you were going to become a priest," she continued. He laughed the comment away. "Perhaps one or two," he answered. "I suppose I'd have been disappointed if no one gave a hoot."

There was a brief silence as both of them took stock. Allison enjoyed the moment and wanted to make some gesture that would reveal to him her feelings but knew that at this point it was premature. "Any regrets?" she asked. He had been dreading that question.

"About what?" he asked, stalling for time.

"You know," she teased again. "About being a priest."

"I have no regrets about being a priest," he answered confidently.

"But?" she persisted, knowing that it was only half an answer. He hesitated a moment.

"I wouldn't be human if I said I had no regrets about giving up the idea of a life partner and raising a family. It lingers there, especially when you see the joy that exists when it's working well. The family is the basic unit of society. I know how happy families can be. I came from one," he laughed. "Regrets? Yes of course, but they have to be measured against all that I have now." He spoke deliberately but realized he was vulnerable and hoped she would leave it at that.

She smiled. It was a good answer. She could have put him on the spot by asking just what it was that he thought he did have now, but decided not to press him any further. At 3am Michael looked at his watch and decided it was time to go. She knew he was right, even though she wished he would stay. She didn't want the evening to end on a companionable, non-physical note. She wanted something a little extra. She wanted to experience some contact of an intimate nature, something they could share in their minds and hearts; something they could own together. Throwing caution to the wind, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you Michael for coming, for calming me,.....for everything," she said. He was taken by surprise. The scent of her perfume momentarily disabled him and he sat there unable to move. For a brief moment he was tempted to respond in kind. A small peck on the cheek as would a brother to a sister, he thought, but something held him back. She looked so attractive, her face, her hair, her eyes staring into his. His heart began to pound and he became aroused. That did it. He knew he couldn't stay any longer. His training had prepared him for that. He cleared his head and stood up.

As Allison lay in bed, she pondered on the wisdom of the kiss and wondered if it might have been inappropriate. She did it half hoping he would respond, but he didn't and instead he left almost straight away. She wondered how he felt about it. She wondered how he felt about her and in the mix of it all, she felt she wanted to be a part of his life. As she lay there entertaining her thoughts, it came again. This time she was sure she heard a whimper coming from Amy's room and jumped out of bed quickly. With a polite knock on Amy's bedroom door, she opened it and immediately her heart sank as she saw the blood on the sheets. Amy was sitting up and looking distressed.

"Mummy, I'm bleeding," Amy cried. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

Allison rushed to her daughter's side.

"What on earth has happened?" she cried.

"I cut myself. It was an accident. I'm sorry Mummy."

"It's all right sweetie, don't cry. Show me where you cut yourself."

"Here," Amy said as she showed Allison her right forearm.

Allison gasped. It was not a deep cut but was all of ten centimetres long.

"How did you do this?" she asked, pressing the sheet down on the arm to stop the bleeding.

"With the penknife," Amy answered.

"Just press down on the sheet there and hold it," Allison said. "I'll be back in a moment with some bandages."

Allison raced to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit. She returned to the bedroom and began tending the wound with antiseptic cream before placing a bandage around the affected area.

"What were you doing with the penknife?" she asked.

"Grandma said it would be all right," Amy answered.

"What do you mean?"

"Grandma said I would have to suffer if I wanted to see Our Lady."

Allison was momentarily confused.

"I don't understand sweetie. What did you say again?"

"Grandma said I was the child of the light and I would see Our Lady if I prayed hard enough and was willing to suffer."

Allison listened to her but took some time to absorb the words. She was shocked by the answer but tried to remain calm. She knew that Amy had spent many hours alone with her mother, and she often suspected that some of their time went beyond reading books about Marian apparitions, but Amy had always been willing to relate everything that went on between the two of them. To the best of her knowledge, she had never mentioned anything about suffering before this.

"What did Grandma say, darling?" she asked in a calm, soothing voice.

"Grandma told me that Saint Margaret Mary saw Jesus and she suffered but Jesus took care of her. Grandma said that I could be like her. She said I was the child of the light and Jesus' Mother would lead me and I should not be afraid to suffer."

"Grandma said that it was all right to suffer?"

"Yes."

"And did she say how you were to suffer?" Allison asked, the anger slowly building up inside her.

"She said Saint Margaret Mary cut herself to show her love for Jesus."

Allison was horrified, but exercised great control in maintaining her silence until the correct words came.

"Well darling, before Grandma died, you know she wasn't very well don't you?" Amy nodded her head. "Well," Allison continued, "Grandma wasn't thinking properly when she said that. It was the sickness inside her that caused her to say that to you. When we were living with Grandad, he never said anything like that to you, did he?" Amy shook her head.

"There, so you see, Grandad isn't sick and he just loves you to bits. He would never say anything like that. I think he would be very upset if he thought you were harming yourself like this. He will come by this morning before he goes back to the city. We won't tell him about this, because we don't want to upset him do we?"

Amy shook her head once more.

"And later today, you and I will sit down together and you can tell me everything Grandma said to you, okay?"

"Yes Mummy."

"There, that's fixed that," Allison said as she completed the bandage. "Let's get some breakfast shall we?"

Allison was livid but tried desperately to conceal it.

'What in Christ's name did mother think she was doing,' she asked herself. 'That stupid bloody woman. My mother! That stupid bloody fool!' As Allison got up, she felt her foot knock against something under the bed, something hard, something metal.

"What's this?" she asked as she bent down retrieving a small metal tool box from under the bed. "Where did this come from?" she asked.

"Grandma gave it to me," Amy replied. "She said it was special and I could keep it in my room for a while."

Allison examined the box carefully. "What's in it?" she asked.

"Grandma said it was a very important box."

"And why was that?"

"She said Jesus was living in it."

"She said Jesus was living in it, did she?" Allison asked, thinking at first that Maud had probably filled it with novenas and prayer books. She was careful not to jump to conclusions and dismiss Amy's answer carelessly. She began to realize that a lot more had been happening between Amy and Maud than she had been aware of, and while that unsettled her, she did not want Amy to experience any additional distress.

"Well, is it all right for me to open it?"

Amy nodded, and Allison carefully lifted the latch and opened the tool box. Inside, was another small wooden box, a casket, hinged on the longer side with a crude carving on the lid depicting what seemed to be a heart surrounded by a crown of thorns, probably etched out from a pencilled drawing. She could see that it was badly chipped.

"Is there something inside this casket?" she asked Amy.

"Grandma said it was Jesus," Amy answered.

Deciding not to press Amy any further, Allison carefully opened the casket. Inside she found an unsealed envelope, sitting on top of what appeared to be a dark reddish-brown piece of linen cloth. The inside of the casket was lined with old paper that had curled up at one end.

"What's in it, Mummy?"

"Well, I can't see Jesus just yet, darling. Let me have a look at this," she said as she pick up the envelope and opened it. It was a letter from Father James to her mother Maud, written two weeks ago. The letter read....

"My Dear Maud,

My worst suspicions were true. They were planning to expose the relics, to go public, to expose the treasure we have held and guarded these three hundred and fifteen years. The original manuscript is in my care and I have been able to translate the French, HER French Maud! It is almost unbelievable that we should be entrusted to care for this priceless gem, this pearl of great price. I want you to 'experience' it and guard over it for a short while. Tell no one! My translation of the manuscript, her last letter, is attached for you. Keep it safe. I will come back for it in a week or so. Tell no one about this. No one!

Andrew J.

Allison turned over to the next page and read the letter Father James had typed on his computer and printed out.....

"This is an accurate translation of the last letter of Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque," it was headed. She wrote....

"Finally, as if this torment which I had suffered was not enough, I felt the Divine Presence and saw Him there. Fearful I am that what passes is of Him and not me, this is what took place as certain as I can be. He said this would be the last time He would impose His Design on me as if such torment was more to His liking than mine. Even should I have thought to hide from this, there was no place but I knew that from such efforts in the past each place to which I fled was like a purgatory of pain and burning inside me. He said I had suffered such humiliations and mortifications and it pleased Him greatly but although I felt great peace and joy in my suffering, I felt more unworthy and as useless as ever. I asked Him why when I tried a second time to inscribe His name on my breast and suffered so much for it, I suffered yet again the annihilation of esteem with creatures. He said my suffering was my greatest gift to Him and not to complain. 'What is this compared to the treasures I have in store for you,' was His stern reply. He then showed me His suffering Heart, 'This Heart that loves so much.' He expressed sadness and disappointment that the sins of men continued without care. 'Terrible things will happen' He said, if sinfulness is not curtailed. He then frightened me when he said that He would ask just one more thing but that this would be the greatest thing He would ever ask before He called me to be with Him evermore. Oh Living God, I said, I don't have the strength but should He find it within me then it was only through Him that I should abandon myself to agree. He said my weakness was His strength, and again purified me from all my faults and said He would do great things through me. He then asked me for a cloth. I was surprised that He would ever ask anything that was of this world but I reached for my night cap and held it to Him. 'Come to me,' He said and I trembled as I stood before Him. 'Come and press the cloth against My suffering Heart', was His command. I did as He asked even though my hand was shaking and the blood from His Heart oozed out and soaked onto the night cap so much that some of it spilled onto my hand. I was shocked and confused. 'Keep this safe,' He said. 'This is the True Blood of the Christ which has been shed before and will again. Keep this safe and I will protect all who care for it until the appointed time when a child of the light will hear my mother's cry. All who listen then will be saved. All who turn their hearts away will perish.' This is what He said. I took the cloth. I asked of Him that since Father Rolin had left no further instructions what Obedience was I to follow of my writing for it was my intention to burn them as before. He said no more, other than to remain obedient to the wishes of Father Rolin, but not to reveal what I had received, not to show anyone the cloth. 'Keep the cloth safe and I will protect those who guard it until the appointed time.' This final letter, then, I will keep with the night cap in my casket and My Divine Master will decide who sees it.

I entrust this letter and the Blood of the Christ to Sister Péronne Rosalie de Farges, who has convinced me that she will guard and protect it.

Margaret Mary Alacoque, 1690.ad

Allison was momentarily stunned. She put the letter down and turned her eyes to the reddish-brown piece of cloth inside the casket. 'I don't believe it,' she thought. 'I don't believe it.'

## 19.

Father Michael read the letter in the lounge room, and examined the cloth inside the casket. It was eight o' clock in the morning. Allison did not consider the time when she made the call. She wanted Michael to be the first to see it, to advise her. She felt out of her depth with whatever it was that Father James and her mother were involved in, and she needed a sound, stable mind to help her through this difficult development. She also wanted Michael back inside her house. She wanted to feel his presence, his charisma, his mental and physical strength, and had this opportunity not presented itself, she would have thought of something else. Her thoughts also turned to the man who called the previous evening, Monsignor Henri Pascal, the friend of Father James. She didn't want to face him alone, to tell him that she had found what he was looking for, or for that matter to hand it over. She wanted someone else in the house when he came. Father Michael responded immediately. He, too, wanted to be with Allison and he felt an uncharacteristic thrill when she asked him to come to her house.

"What do you think, Michael?" she asked. "Do you think it is a genuine relic?" Father Michael had taken his time examining the letter and the dark stained night cap. When he was finished he took a deep breath.

"If you are asking me, do I think this cloth, this night cap contains the blood of Jesus, I have to say no, that is not what I consider a possibility. Did this night cap once belong to Saint Margaret Mary? I can't say. I suppose that is possible. Do I think that this letter from Father James is an accurate translation of previously unpublished writings by Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque, then I would have to say, as far fetched as it seems, it is not impossible. But what on earth is he doing with it? Where did he get it, and what does he mean when he says, 'they were planning to make the find public'? Who are they?"

"Could it belong to the Society, the group that he and my mother belonged to?" Allison asked.

"I suppose it could. His housekeeper said he only returned from France a few weeks ago. Perhaps he brought this back with him and gave it to your mother for safe keeping. The tone of his letter suggests that."

"By the tone of his letter he also sounds a little frightened. Do you think he stole it?"

"That's what it sounds like, but why? The letter says 'they' were going to go public. That suggests that this item has been a secret all these years," Michael said, with a grim, worried expression. She watched him closely.

"What is it Michael? What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm worried for the safety of Father James. He didn't turn up yesterday for your mother's funeral, his housekeeper hasn't heard from him and a stranger turns up at your door asking for this casket. There's something very wrong here, Allison, and I'm worried for Father James."

"Do you think we should tell Charlie Harris?" she asked.

"I don't know. I need to think it through," he answered.

"Have you had breakfast, Michael," she asked.

"Not yet," he replied.

"Then let me get you something. I want you to tell me about this woman, Margaret Mary Alacoque, this Saint. I need to know something about her so I can put all this into perspective. I'm also a little worried. Something happened here this morning with Amy. She hurt herself. I found her in bed bleeding from the arm. She had cut herself and when I asked her how she did it, she said mother encouraged her to suffer. My own mother encouraged her grand-daughter to do that!"

Michael stared at her disbelievingly. Allison continued.

"This Monsignor Henri Pascal who called here last night, he said he would come back and I don't want to be alone with Amy when he comes. Will you wait a while?"

Michael looked at his watch.

"I have to say mass at ten o' clock. I guess I can stay until nine-thirty. Is Amy all right now?"

"Yes, she's okay. But I don't know about her mental state. What could mother have said to her? Come into the kitchen with me and Amy. Amy?" she called out. "Are you dressed? Come and have breakfast now."

As Allison prepared breakfast, Michael sat at the kitchen table with Amy who was still in her dressing gown with the sleeves down and her bandaged arm safely hidden. Michael looked at her closely. 'Such innocence,' he thought. 'What was it Saint Francis said? Give me the mind of a child till the age of ten and that child will be mine forever. How many adults had abused that privilege since?' Unobtrusively, he looked at her arms. There was no indication that anything was amiss. He decided not to pursue the matter of suffering at this point.

The little girl liked the priest. She had no fear of him. To her he was like her grandfather, soft, warm and gentle. She watched him closely as he and her mother spoke.

"We learned about the Sacred Heart at school," Allison began, "but I don't remember much about the woman, just the nine first Fridays. What do we know about her?"

"There's a lot more to know about her than anyone was taught at school," Michael replied. "It really depends on what version you want to hear, the devotional or the secular."

"I think you'd better give me both," Allison replied.

"The devotional account portrays her as a simple, pious, obedient nun, not the smartest person in the world but one who displayed extraordinary religious zeal, prayed constantly, accepted affliction, offered her sufferings up for all sorts of causes, and to whom Jesus appeared and chose to be the one to spread the promises associated with the veneration and adoration of His Sacred Heart."

"That's enough," Allison interrupted. "What's the secular version?"

Michael hesitated for a moment as if to close one file in his mind and open another.

"She was a strange one. She had a lot of psychological problems, a very complex person. If you read her autobiography you can't help feeling very sorry for her."

"She wrote her autobiography?" Allison asked surprised.

"Yes, but she never intended that it be published. She was acting on orders from her spiritual advisor. You need a strong stomach to cope with a lot of it. She came from a once prosperous family in Burgundy, France, born in 1647 during the reign of King Louis XIV. Her father was in business; they also had a farm and were well connected. Then her father died and things changed for the worse. Relatives apparently inherited the wealth and her brothers and sisters became farm labourers. She was only eight when she was sent off to the nuns at Charolles, some distance away. She liked it there but became ill with what is thought to have been rheumatic fever. It was then she first started hurting herself, the details of which are somewhat bizarre. At this time, it seems she developed a strong attachment to the Virgin Mary, unusual for a child that age, but today we would put that down to a longing to be with her mother. So they sent her home. She was sick for about four years or so. The relatives had taken over the running of the farm, her mother was treated badly, things were pretty grim and I suppose this had a profound psychological effect on her. A few years later, when her older brother became of age, he inherited the family's wealth back again and the relatives were kicked out. Then her mother started putting the pressure on Margaret Mary to marry. She seems not to have liked the idea, preferring to become a nun, but she was torn between this very fervent desire and a loyalty to the family. Marriage would have improved things for the family, status-wise, but she seemed to have had a strong resistance to the suggestion. So with all that pressure building up, one can only imagine what was going on in her mind. It was then she started hurting herself again."

"Hurting herself? What did she do?"

"She seemed to like cutting herself a lot, self inflicted wounds with a knife. All this time she seems to have been driven by a passionate faith, and the violence she performed on herself seemed to be motivated by a strong need or desire to suffer. Then she claimed she was having visions of the Virgin Mary."

As he spoke, Allison, suddenly conscious of the presence of Amy, who sat there silently listening and absorbing every word, wanted him to stop.

"No more Michael," she said shifting her eyes toward Amy. "We can talk about this later." Michael read her eyes and stopped.

"Anyway, young lady," he said turning to Amy and quickly changing the subject, "How are you feeling today?"

"I cut myself," Amy answered.

"Did you really? How did that happen?"

Allison allowed Amy to answer in the hope that Michael would offer some careful and considered advice.

"Grandma said if I suffered, Our Lady would come," she answered.

"I see. So you cut yourself did you?" he asked. Amy nodded.

"Did Grandma say why you needed to suffer?" Michael asked.

Amy shook her head.

"Perhaps Grandma wasn't feeling well and made a mistake, do you think?" he suggested to her.

"I saw Our Lady in the forest," Amy answered offering some justification.

"Yes! Tell me about that, Amy. I'd really like to know. What did she look like?"

"She was dressed in white," Amy replied.

"Did Our Lady speak with you?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

Amy thought for a moment as she tried to recall the conversation with the woman in the forest.

"I don't remember," she replied.

Allison watched as Michael spoke with Amy; his soft, gentle manner soothing and kind. She noted how Amy responded to his kindness. His gentle approach was moving as he demonstrated the calming qualities of a father. She wondered if this was the product of his training or perhaps something that came naturally to him. Either way, she was impressed.

"Well that's all right. You have been very sad because Grandma has gone, haven't you?" Michael continued. Amy nodded.

"Grandma was sick wasn't she?" Michael said. Amy nodded again.

"I don't think Grandma meant what she said. Sometimes when grown-ups are sick, they say things they don't mean. Do you understand?" Amy agreed and Michael felt that he was making worthwhile progress with her but the counselling was brought to an abrupt halt by a knock on the door.

Allison became agitated.

"Amy, have you picked up the things off the floor in your room?" she asked. "Oh dear! I think that might be the man who called last night. The Monsignor. He will want to know if I have found the tool box. What should I do?" she asked Michael.

"Do you want me to handle it?" he asked calmly.

"Would you? I don't want to see him if possible."

Michael took a sip of his coffee before he left the kitchen. Allison ushered Amy into her bedroom and helped her dress for the day.

When he opened the door, Father Michael Ryan was not faced with the expected and mysterious Monsignor Henri Pascal, but Dorothy Proctor and a small group of town's people, including Alice Eastward, who had gathered outside. When their parish priest appeared at the door, a look of surprise passed across everybody's face.

"Father Ryan, what a surprise. I didn't expect to see you here so early this morning," Dorothy said, with a look of embarrassment.

"Good morning, Dorothy," Michael said calmly, acknowledging the others standing behind her. "Good morning everyone. What can I do to help you?"

"We came to see Allison, Father," Dorothy said, faltering, her attention to the real purpose of the visit distracted by the unexpected presence of her parish priest in Allison's house so early in the morning.

"Well, she's a little busy right now, looking after Amy. Can I help?" Michael answered.

"Oh? You seem to be very familiar with what's going on inside," Dorothy said, without thinking, and leaning slightly to one side trying to catch a glimpse of any movement inside the house.

"I should," Michael relayed back calmly. "I've been having breakfast with them."

There was a muffled gasp from one or two of the group. Dorothy straightened up and resigned herself to dealing with Father Michael.

"Well, I suppose it would be worthwhile discussing this with you as well," she said. "Father, yesterday at my house, when we were gathered together to celebrate the life of Maud Baker, little Amy confided in me that she had been visited by Our Lady, in the forest during the service at the cemetery. I drew the matter to Allison's attention and discovered from her that Amy did indeed believe she had experienced some supernatural encounter."

"Oh really! And what did Amy say to you, Dorothy?" Michael asked gently, not wanting to appear unsympathetic.

"She said she had seen Our Lady, just like her grandmother had promised," Dorothy replied.

"And what made you think that was what she really saw, Dorothy?" Michael asked.

"Well, Father, it seems you are suggesting that Amy was not telling the truth," Dorothy replied, lowering her voice as if this was secret information being passed from one confidant to another.

"No, Dorothy," Michael said, turning his head and stepping forward as he addressed the entire group. "Amy was telling the truth as she believed it. But what she experienced sounds to me more like something I used to do when I was her age. I was a great fan of the early westerns. I remember that I used to pretend that I was saving the townsfolk from the Indians and I would pretend I was talking to them and telling them how we were going to escape. Did you ever do anything like that, Mrs. Proctor?"

"Well, er, I don't recall Father. I might have imagined one or two things when I was a little girl."

"Oh, come on, Dorothy. You told me once you used to sit there watching the television and imagining that Frank Sinatra was singing just to you," Alice Eastward spoke out.

"There you are," Michael said. "We all do it from time to time. And children do it more than adults. Don't think that because Amy says she is seeing the Virgin Mary that she really is. It's imaginary, Mrs. Proctor. Maud had been reading the story of the three children of Fatima to her. Something of which I'm sure you would approve. Amy's simply manifesting the images Maud had created in her mind onto a larger canvas, so to speak."

Dorothy was taken back. She had intended her visit to see Allison and Amy would go better. She had intended to assume control of a spontaneous prayer meeting of sorts that would promote an expectation of some religious experience. It wasn't happening. Father Michael had thrown a spanner in the works. Still, she was determined to try.

"Well, Father, perhaps if we all pray on the matter, God will give us the gift of discernment, that we all might make a clear and rational judgement about what really happened," she suggested.

"Excellent idea, Dorothy," Michael replied, now realizing he had control of the gathering.

"Would you like me to lead us all in prayer, Father?" she asked, trying to corner him.

"I would, Dorothy, but this is not a convenient moment. I would like to see all of you at mass this morning at ten o' clock sharp. We will celebrate the Eucharist and Dorothy will lead us in a special prayer for the gift of discernment after communion. Tell anyone else you see to come along. But right now, I would like all of you to go home and do whatever you do at this time in the morning."

"Good idea, Father," Alice Eastward replied, tugging at Dorothy's cardigan. "Come on Dorothy, we should go home now and meet again at the church at ten o' clock."

Dorothy knew she had been outfoxed, but was not prepared to give up just yet.

"But Father, there are souls suffering in Purgatory that a prayer right now might alleviate." she persisted.

"That's not for us to judge, Dorothy. It is not our place to tell Almighty God when He should release suffering souls from the fires of Purgatory," Michael replied.

"Come on Dorothy, let's go," Alice persisted.

"Well, I suppose we don't have any choice if that's what our parish priest says. I can't help feeling however, that this is not what Father James would have done," she replied.

Michael looked at her closely. It suddenly dawned on him that at no time in the last twenty-four hours had Dorothy mentioned Father James, and that struck him as odd, given her close relationship with him.

"Has Father James spoken with you recently, Dorothy?" he asked.

"Er, no, not recently," she lied.

Michael watched her. Her answer was unconvincing. He was interested in her body language, her hand movements, her eyes, some little give-a-way sign that told him she was being evasive. He waited.

She began to look nervous.

"I only asked that because I was expecting Father James to celebrate mass with me yesterday at Maud's funeral and, as you know, he never arrived. I wondered if you had heard from him."

"No," she lied a second time. Michael waited another few seconds testing her metal. Dorothy held herself together; her eyes, however, told a different story.

"Okay then, let's leave it at that for the time being," he said at last. "I'll look forward to seeing you all at ten o' clock mass."

"Let's go, Dorothy," Alice said.

As the group began to move off down the pathway, Michael watched them. 'Nothing more troubling that seeing good people badly led,' he thought. 'I'm going to have to be very careful with that one,' he thought, looking directly at Dorothy Proctor. Returning back inside the house, he closed the door slowly. Allison stood there waiting. He turned around and faced her. She had been standing just inside the door listening to the ongoing discussion and made a move toward him. "Thank you, Michael," she said. "I could never have done that. I would have just abused that stupid woman." Michael found himself trapped between her and the front door. There was nowhere to move even if he wanted to, but he didn't want to. "She's a handful, that one," he said nervously, conscious of Allison's close proximity. Silence filled the air as they looked into each other's eyes. Allison moved hesitantly toward him. He waited. She waited. A moment's hesitation passed and she would wait no longer. She took one more step toward him, kissed him on the cheek and placed her arms around him and hugged him, not letting him go. The gesture took Michael by surprise but he made no attempt to separate himself from her. They stood in the hallway, the two gripped together. He smelt her hair and he felt her breasts against him. His senses highly aroused, breathless and unable to speak, he slowly placed his arms around her waist and into the small of her back. If the opportunity had existed for him to draw back, it had passed. For the next few moments they stood there locked together, neither one letting go, neither wanting to let go. No words were spoken. They remained there, the initial 'thank you' gesture from Allison now supplanted by something else, something beyond friendship; something beyond that which his training told him was permissible. She held him, her sensuality aroused as he moved his hands up and down her back. She had wanted this to happen but when it came, it took her breath away. She tucked her head into his neck and smelt his skin. She pressed her lips onto the flesh of his neck and felt him melt. When she moved her head back, he released her and their eyes met once more. Still no words! No sound to interrupt and override the clock ticking on the wall. Slowly she moved her lips toward his. He waited. Their lips met and what both had secretly yearned for came to fulfilment. They allowed it to last, both aware the moment would come to an end soon enough. When it did, they drew back and looked deeply into each other's eyes. He smiled. All thoughts of right or wrong evaporated in the tenderness of the moment. She smiled back, relieved he did not reject her. She would have preferred this special moment to have come at a different time, when duties were put away and cares unimportant. But if this was not that time, then at least it was a time that would remain with her forever, regardless of what came of it.

"Well, Michael Ryan, Catholic priest," she whispered softly, brushing the back of her hand along his cheek. "What just happened here?"

He stared into her eyes and began shaking his head. "I don't know."

"Have I created a problem for you?" she asked tenderly.

"Don't know that either," he pretended. They both laughed quietly.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"Well, I think you have a mass to say, and I have a daughter to take care of, so perhaps if we each took a step back, figuratively and literally, we might restore ourselves to some level of normality."

He nodded but did not release her. She saw the desire in his eyes. Without waiting, once more she moved her lips to his and again they pressed against each other, this time more relaxed, the pleasure of the second kiss greater than the first. For Michael Ryan, priest, this was a moment he would have regardless of the consequences. 'For once,' he thought, 'let me enjoy the moment, for the sake of the moment and nothing else.' It was a moment he would later have to come to terms with, in some form or other, but for now, this was where he wanted to be. He wanted nothing more than for the moment to continue. It was Allison who put the responsibilities of the day ahead of them both and she gently brought the moment to a halt.

"Michael, we had better stop this. You have to say mass," she said as she pressed her cheek against his.

He knew she was right and he released his hold of her slowly.

"Perhaps we need a bit of time to digest what just happened. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable about this," she said. "You are too important to me for this to be a problem between us. Go off and say your mass, and let me get on with my day. We can talk later if you wish, or not at all. You can come to dinner tonight if you like. By that time our minds will be a little clearer," she said. He drew back and took a deep breath and looked at his watch.

"Okay," he whispered, struggling to find his voice. "What are you going to do about the item in the tool box though?" he asked.

"I don't know. Will you take it for the time being? I don't want it here. It's a bit creepy."

"Yes, perhaps I should. Whatever it is, you don't need people bothering you about it."

She moved away and gathered the casket together with the letter and placed them back in the tool box. He watched her, still delirious from the experience of holding her in his arms, kissing her lips, unable to rationalize and not really caring that he couldn't. She brought the tool box to him. He took it from her and turned to go.

"Michael," she said. He turned back to her. He wanted to drop the tool box and take hold of her again but thought better of it.

"I'll talk to you later today," he replied as he turned around and opened the door.

"What about the Monsignor?" he asked.

"Don't worry. I'll tell him you have the tool box. That way he'll have to come and see you," she answered. He lingered for a moment as if thoughts long harboured were bursting to come out.

"I'm not sorry," he said. She knew what he meant and smiled. "Neither am I," she answered.

Dorothy Proctor had wasted no time in marshalling her troops. With the limited time available to her she had called all those whom she felt would respond favourably to the news.

"Father Ryan would be setting aside time after communion this morning to pray for Amy Baker, who, it seems, may be the subject of a spiritual phenomenon," she said with all the excitement of a woman whose spiritual zeal was almost out of control. She called all those who had attended the wake at her house the previous day. Brian Wayne thought she was mad but then he also considered the probability that Allison would be attending so he decided to go. Dorothy even called Mark Millstock and Anthony Jackson, not thinking that they would be on the road delivering fuel. When Sarah Millstock answered the phone, Dorothy thought about asking her along too, but decided against it. Alice Eastward tried to contain her friend's enthusiasm, but it was like trying to stop a speeding train.

When Father Michael returned to the presbytery, his mind was running wild with thoughts of Allison Baker. 'What happened back there? Did I start that or did she?' He tried to compartmentalize the whole incident. It was his way. If he could sort out what happened, if he could label it, tag it, and pigeonhole it, he could work his way through it. But for all his training, the Church was not strong on affairs of the heart and that left him ill prepared for such matters. He concentrated on the tool box, trying to decide what to do with it. He took it upstairs and placed it in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe in his bedroom. At least he could deal with that if not his emotions. He then went downstairs and across to the sacristy to prepare for mass.

Allison too, was in a state of mixed emotions. She had initiated the interlude with Michael and, while not regretting it for a moment, was concerned for the effect that it might be having on him. She realized that for all his outward display of strength, he was a fragile person deep down and as much as she was attracted to that aspect of his character, she also felt it might adversely affect his relationship with her. Still, she clung to the memory of it, reliving it over in her mind as she washed the breakfast dishes. She kept Amy home from school. It was too soon after her mother's funeral. Amy needed to be with her mother just as much as Allison needed to be with Amy. When the phone rang she felt a surge of anticipation inside her. 'Is it him?' she thought. It wasn't.

"Allison, it's Charlie Harris here. I'm down at the station. I've interviewed that Monsignor fellow, Henri Pascal, concerning the burglary at your house last night. I am satisfied with what he's told me. I have no reason to detain him any longer. I think he's on his way to see you again. Just thought I'd let you know."

"Thank you Charlie. Do you have any ideas on who might have been responsible?"

"No, not at the moment! But I would like to locate Father James and confirm one or two things the Monsignor told me. I'll keep you posted. Any problems this morning?"

"No, Charlie, not unless you call a deputation from the parish Church a problem."

"What's that?"

"Nothing Charlie."

"Okay. Well, a fingerprint officer from Hampton Bells will be there this morning. I'm hoping that might turn up something."

"Thanks, Charlie. I'd like to start cleaning up mother's room so the sooner the better if you can fix it."

"He'll be there shortly. Bye."

"Bye Charlie."

## 20.

By ten o' clock, Dorothy Proctor's efforts had produced eye popping results. The attendance at mass was triple the normal number for a Friday. There were some fifteen people waiting for mass to begin. Father Michael peered through the sacristy door, his thoughts not exactly on the job at hand. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Allison Baker. He wondered why there were so many people out there. He dithered while dressing and young Timothy Wayne had to remind him that it was ten o' clock already. When he made the sign of the cross, his mind was on Allison Baker. When he said the opening prayers, read the first and second lesson, consecrated the host, his mind was elsewhere, thinking of Allison Baker. When he finished distributing communion, he turned to the congregation and collected himself. 'Pull yourself together,' he muttered. He looked down upon the faces of his expectant parishioners; he realized the increased attendance was the work of Dorothy Proctor. She sat there, her anticipation brimming, waiting for him to invite her to lead them all in prayer. He decided that he would have none of that. He found himself drawing strength from his encounter with Allison and realized he could apply that strength to the matter now at hand. He decided that, rather than give Dorothy a free ticket, he would try and nip the whole episode in the bud by appealing to their common sense.

"This morning, as some of you would recall," he began, "there was an impromptu gathering at Maud Baker's house. There was a belief among some that little Amy Baker had been the subject of some spiritual experience. The suggestion is that Our Lady had appeared to her in the forest yesterday. I would like us to dwell on that for a little while. Just so that everybody is aware of the facts, you should all know that, shortly before she died, Maud Baker had been reading to her grand-daughter the story of the appearances of Our Lady to the three children at Fatima. Amy had been quite enthralled by the adventurous nature of the story and it captured her imagination. I think all of us have probably been through a similar experience when we were children. Adventurous stories always stimulate the imagination. Even as adults, after hearing such stories we are often drawn into our own private little world to imagine all sorts of wonderful personal experiences in a world of fantasy and escapism. Even me! I don't mind admitting that I do it myself now and then when I feel strongly enough about a particular issue. For example, I find some of our present Government's decisions about how we treat Asylum Seekers appalling. There have been times when in my own private little world, the Walter Mitty in me emerges and I imagine myself standing before a dozen microphones and television cameras criticising the Prime Minister in a very public way. The thing is, while I'm doing this, I suddenly become aware that I'm speaking out loud, and if anyone were about at the time and saw me, I would have been extremely embarrassed. I'm sure that, had I been seen in such a state, I would have been taken off to the nearest facility for the mentally ill."

The gathering suddenly burst out laughing as the analogy hit home. Father Michael had nailed the point.

"So before anyone gets too carried away with what they might interpret in Amy's behaviour, can I signal a warning? We are not looking here at anything out of the ordinary. Nothing unusual is happening here. Don't allow your imagination to run rampant. That will only cause unnecessary strain on both Amy and her mother, strain that, at this time of bereavement, they can well do without. So please think before you jump to any conclusions!"

"But Father," Dorothy Proctor, interrupted from the front row.

"The three children at Fatima didn't imagine anything. They saw the Virgin Mary. They saw and spoke to Our Lady."

Michael looked at her as he formulated his answer.

"Dorothy has raised a good point here and it deserves our consideration. Personally, I wasn't there at Fatima when these events took place so I don't know what happened. All I know is what I have been told, what we have all been told, and that version is a very devotional account. Clearly something happened, but how much of it was of a divine origin and how much was pious invention, I can't say. What I would ask each of you to consider about Marian apparitions, and as we all know there have been plenty of them, is this: What good has come from them? What have they achieved apart from creating tourist bonanzas, disguised as pilgrimages? If these apparitions were genuine attempts by God to set us on a new path, to warn us of impending doom, how successful were they?"

"But Father," Dorothy interrupted again. "The miracle of the sun," she said. "The sun moved in the sky."

Michael was patient and allowed Dorothy to speak her mind freely.

"Dorothy, the sun is 150 million kilometres away. It doesn't move about. Whatever those people thought they saw or imagined on that day, it wasn't a moving sun. It was more likely a collective chimera, activated by mass hysteria.

"A what?" Alice Eastward asked

"A fantasy Alice, a figment of the imagination."

There was a collective gasp from several members of the congregation. Father Michael continued.

"Let's face it. The human mind plays tricks on us. We know that! How often have I been to a football match and screamed blue murder at the umpire for not awarding a free kick to a player when he was tackled without the ball, only to go home that night and see the incident replayed on the television and realize that no infringement took place. I saw what I wanted to see. I wanted the umpire to pay a free kick, so my mind invented an infringement.

"The point is, even if the claims made by the children at Fatima were true, we have to ask ourselves: why was it that such an important revelation was limited to so few? And why did it take another twenty years before these messages were made public? If these apparitions were meant to reveal a message of vital importance to the whole world, why is it only three children would be entrusted to deliver it?"

Dorothy Proctor was mortified. That her parish priest wasn't going to ask her to lead the congregation in prayer was one thing, but to reduce the sanctity of a Marian apparition to the level of a common football match was too much.

"Father Ryan, I have to disagree. As you yourself reminded me this morning," she began, "on the doorstep of Allison Baker's house," she added with a slight turn toward the congregation, "it is not for us to decide how Almighty God reveals himself and his intentions to us. Surely it is for us to place our faith in what the Spirit of God reveals to us. We are people of faith, are we not?"

"We certainly are people of faith, Dorothy," Michael answered confidently and ready for the challenge. "But if we allow ourselves to follow our hearts and not our heads, then our faith is misplaced. We have to be more discerning than that."

"Then how are we to know?" Dorothy asked.

"We don't know, Dorothy. That's the whole sum of it. We don't know and therefore it is necessary that we accept the teaching of our Holy Mother the Church, which is God's instrument on earth and which determines what matters are to be regarded as doctrinal and in which rests the Deposit of Faith."

As Michael spoke he realized that he was on autopilot. He was applying no more than basic text book quotations, to quell a theological disturbance. He was defending the right of the Church to decide what people should and should not believe. That is what he was taught. That is what he was expected to say. Defend the Church and uphold the primacy of the Church. For the first time he could hear himself speak. He could hear his own words. He realized in so doing that these were not his words. They were the words of the Church. He was no more than a mouthpiece for the Church. The whole notion unsettled him. He suddenly felt uncomfortable with his own words. The question flashed across his mind, 'That is fine for the Church, but what do I think?'

At Allison's house, the fingerprint officer had completed his examination and departed. It was only minutes later that Monsignor Henri Pascal knocked on the door. By this stage, Allison had taken the events of the morning in her stride. Relieved that she no longer had the tool box, she was more relaxed and felt better disposed to be of some assistance to the Monsignor, in the hope that she might learn something of the story behind the casket's contents. She invited him inside.

"I understand you had a call from Charlie Harris this morning," she said to open the conversation.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Our Sergeant of Police," she replied.

"Oh! Yes, the police officer. Yes, that was a bit of a surprise I must say. He said you were burgled last night."

"We were indeed. Can't think of what they wanted. But Charlie's looking into it. I had to tell him about your visit."

"But of course. I understand. I wasn't able to help him much. But he was very pleasant and friendly. I told him I was here speaking with you. He seemed satisfied. Did you by any chance find the tool box?"

"Yes. I did, Monsignor. I found it in my daughter's bedroom. What on earth my mother was thinking when she put it there I don't know. But I'm afraid I gave it to our local parish priest, Father Ryan."

The news was not what Monsignor Henri Pascal wanted to hear. He looked at her quizzically.

"Why?" he asked.

"To be honest with you, I found the contents somewhat disturbing so I called Michael, er, Father Ryan, as he was the only one at the time that I thought I could talk with and discuss the matter without drawing any unnecessary attention. He was somewhat mystified as to how it came into Father James' possession but he said that there was a call on his answering machine from a Jean Paul someone in France, wanting to speak with Father James."

"Your Father Ryan has spoken with Jean Paul Colombière?" the Monsignor interrupted. "Yes," Allison replied, "and given the nature of the items in the tool box, Michael, er, Father Ryan made some vague connection between the three. He thought it would be better if I gave it to him and he would endeavour to speak with Father James. Does that matter? It achieves the same result doesn't it?"

"No, I'm afraid not," the Monsignor replied, now somewhat agitated. "Is Father Ryan available for me to see before I return to the city?"

"Yes, in fact he asked me last night if you were likely to contact him. I'm sure he would like to see you. He's saying mass right now. If you want to speak with him you could wait for him at the Church," Allison said.

"Then I will do that now. Once again, I am sorry to have been any inconvenience to you, but I must go now."

Fearful that he may have missed his opportunity to recover the relics, Monsignor Henri Pascal thanked Allison for the information and hurried to his car outside, leaving her no more the wiser. He drove off quickly and headed straight for Saint Francis de Sales church.

## 21.

When he arrived outside the small parish church, Monsignor Henri Pascal was apprehensive. During the long flight from Paris, he had considered several means by which he would try to recover the relics. None, however, involved dealing with people outside the Society. He was reasonably sure that he would be dealing only with Father James. His meetings with Allison Baker were impediments that he did not imagine initially and which he was reluctant to undertake. He would have preferred to avoid such contact, knowing that each meeting required further explanation and greater exposure. He was anxious to maintain as low a profile as possible, get the job done and return home. So far, it had not gone to plan. His apprehension increased when he realized that the man he was about to see was yet another hindrance, another impediment, and while he felt the relics were almost in his possession, more explanations were going to be necessary, this time to a fellow priest who might just prove to be more inquisitive, more curious and less open to accept broad, general, ambiguous responses. In drawing these conclusions, Henri Pascal decided he would become more cautious but less secretive.

The mass was over but a number of people were still gathered outside. Taking directions from a helpful parishioner, he located Father Ryan in the sacristy.

"Come in," Father Michael called out when he saw him at the door.

"Father Ryan?"

"Yes."

"My name is Monsignor Henri Pascal. I am visiting here from Paris where I live." Michael was pleased to see him. It was rare enough to receive visiting dignitaries of the Church even if no further away than Sydney. But this visitor held special interest.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Monsignor. I won't pretend that I was not aware you were here in Monterey Creek. The bush telegraph is alive and well here."

"The bush telegraph?"

"A local saying! Come in and sit down," Michael said, and ushered the Monsignor inside. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you. I am fine," Henri Pascal replied as he took a seat in the sacristy.

"Then what can I do for you?"

"Father, I have come a long way to retrieve something that belongs to a society of which I am a member in France. I have come to retrieve a small casket containing an important relic and a manuscript. I have come now from the house of a lady, Mrs. Allison Baker."

"It's Miss," Michael interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"It's Miss Allison Baker, not Mrs," Michael said.

"My apologies! The lady spoke of her daughter. I just assumed." Pascal replied.

"She's a single mother. You say you spoke with her?" Michael asked.

"Yes, twice. I first saw her last night. I was informed by Father James that her mother was in possession of a small metal box that contained the relics. I visited the house and spoke with Miss Baker last night. She did not know of such a box but promised to look for it. I called back this morning only to be informed that she had found the box and had given it to you."

"Yes, that's right," Michael replied. "I understand you were staying at the local motel last night. You would have been more than welcome to stay here at the presbytery."

"My reasons for being here are personal, that is, they are not matters of Church business. I decided to stay at the motel at short notice. It was very comfortable, but thank you for the offer."

"Have the police been in touch with you this morning?"

"Yes. I spoke with an officer at the police station this morning. I understand there was a burglary at Miss Baker's house last night. I told the officer all I knew about the matter and was discharged. Father, I do not wish to appear abrupt, but I have come for the relics. I wish to return to France as soon as possible and return them to their rightful place at Paray-le-Monial."

Father Ryan studied the Monsignor closely. He appeared agitated but genuine in his request. Michael was inclined to release the relics to him but first wanted to clarify some unanswered questions.

"I am curious, Monsignor. I will be upfront with you. I have the casket. I have seen inside it, and I have read a copy of what Father James says is a manuscript purported to be written by Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque. How did it come to be here?"

"Father James stole it," Henri answered angrily.

"I see. Well, I hope your anger is not directed at me. I have only this morning learnt of the relics' existence."

"I am sorry. I didn't mean to express myself to you in that way. It is a great frustration I feel."

"How did Father James steal the relics?" Michael asked sympathetically, in the hope of calming the Monsignor.

"He was recently at a meeting of our society, of which he is a member. He disagreed with a certain decision of the management committee which decided to submit the relics to a thorough examination to determine their authenticity. It was agreed by a majority of our management committee that if the results of that examination showed the relics to be genuine, they were to be announced to the world and made available to the general public, for the purposes of Adoration of the True Blood of Christ."

"You keep saying relics. The casket contains only one item, what looks to be a piece of cloth of some description. What else is there?"

"The manuscript! The original letter from Saint Margaret Mary!"

"There is a letter but I don't think it is a manuscript. Anyway we can look at that shortly. What will happen if the tests come up negative?"

"Then the society would decide another course of action. Probably, to offer the relics to the Convent at Paray-le-Monial where Saint Margaret Mary is buried and where her original writings are kept. If the relics were not what we have believed them to be, then the bloodstains on the nightcap, if that is what they are, most likely belong to Saint Margaret Mary. She had a history of hurting herself," he said apologetically. "Either way, Father, the relics are still of enormous interest and importance and we must have them returned."

"This Society you belong to, is it the Society of Eternal Truth?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"By a process of deduction I suppose, and a little help from one or two people. But how did the relics come to be in the hands of the society? Surely you haven't had them since 1690?"

"No, we haven't! But we do have a detailed chronicle of their movements from the time they were given to Sister Péronne Rosalie de Farges by Saint Margaret Mary, just before she died. That is how we know the relics are genuine. Each time they were passed on to a new protector, the details were meticulously recorded and authenticated.

"How long has the society been protecting them?"

"We have guarded the relics now for over sixty years, but not all that time in the same building."

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but who gave them to you?"

"No, I don't mind. It's not every day you come into possession of priceless relics, Father. I should expect you to ask questions. We took possession in the nineteen forties. They were passed into the care of two people who began the Society. Their names were Phillippe and Adele Surmaise. They lived in Charolles. Adele was a former Visitation nun who left the order in good grace, following a bout of ill health. She maintained close contact with her spiritual advisor, a Jesuit priest named Father Gaston Pascal. No relation of mine, I might add. Father Pascal was a member of the Apostleship of Prayer, and at the time the protector of the relics. After a few years helping Adele adjust back into the secular world, Father Gaston introduced her to Phillipe Surmaise, a wealthy young lawyer who came from Lyon. His family were well connected. The two youngsters were attracted to one another quite quickly and, after a year or so, married. Adele was devoted to the Sacred Heart and also belonged to the Apostleship of Prayer, in Lyon. Phillipe was also very devout. The chronicles explain that the relics came into the care of the Apostleship's founder, Father Francis Xavier Gautrelet SJ. He received them in 1843. It was holding the relics that motivated him to begin the Apostleship. They were maintained with the Apostleship in Toulouse for the next one hundred years, until they were entrusted to Father Gaston Pascal. When he was at the age of eighty-five, he passed them on to Phillipe and Adele, believing they would continue to guard the secret. They received them as members, but later moved to Charolles. Adele wanted to begin a chapter of the apostleship in Charolles, but Father Pascal suggested that, as she was in a new location, it was a timely opportunity to continue her devotion to the Sacred Heart under a new name. He did not want to leave an easy trail, in case the word should spread and the relics should be sought after by antique hunters. It was Phillipe who suggested they establish themselves as the Society of Eternal Truth, and base their devotion on Ignatian spirituality and Father Pascal agreed. Only those of impeccable spiritual credentials were ever entrusted with the details of the secret."

"That takes us back to 1843. What happened before that?" Michael asked.

"The chronicles show that just before the death of Saint Margaret Mary, the sister who had been caring for her, Sister Péronne Rosalie de Farges, convinced her to release into her care the rest of the writings that Father Rolin had ordered her to write, which was essentially her autobiography. Saint Margaret never wanted to have them published. In fact, she had already destroyed earlier writings that her confessor and supporter, Father Claude de la Colombière, asked her to write. She was greatly disturbed at the prospect of her subsequent writings for Father Rolin being published. She begged Sister Rosalie de Farges to destroy them, but the sister chose to hand them over to the superior at the convent. Sister de Farges, however, kept this one relic and the saint's last letter, describing the final revelation. I guess she was motivated by what happened during that revelation and the power of the words in the letter. At that time, the devotion to the Sacred Heart was in its infancy in the convent. Sister Rosalie had no idea or any way of knowing that it would spread the way it did. She hid the relic and the manuscript in the convent for some time until she found a way of passing it on to a trusted protector."

"Who did she pass it on to?"

"You have to remember that this was in the time of King Louis X1V, which was a time of much anti-protestant sentiment. Louis had been on the throne since the 1640's, before Margaret Mary Alacoque was even born. By the l690's he was running the Catholic Church in France almost as much as he was running the country. Sister Rosalie believed that the only secure place for the relics was in the care of the King. She approached a member of her family, her uncle, whom she knew had a friend in the Royal Court. Her uncle agreed to take the relics but cautioned her against giving them into the care of the Royal Administration. In his letter to her, her uncle refers to the King as a brilliant administrator but a man 'far removed from any sympathies of the devout.' He felt the King would use them as a tool against the Pope, with whom he had many arguments. He was only interested in allying himself with the Church against the protestant movement for what benefit that afforded him. He never considered the Pope his ally as such. Her uncle recommended that the relics be kept with the very pious and devout parish priest of the village of Janots. Sister Rosalie agreed and she handed them over to her uncle when he came to visit her in 1690. The parish priest at Janots, Pierre Dubois, took care of the relics for the next twenty years before passing them on to the parish priest at Lavalla-en-Gier, in the department of Loire for safe keeping. They remained there for over one hundred years, passing between devout members of the local community. In 1817, the newly ordained curate of the parish, Father Marcellin Champagnat assumed responsibility for the relics. He began a devotional teaching group called 'the Society of Mary,' which subsequently became the Marist Brothers. He took care of them until failing health, in early 1840, forced him to relinquish his role as protector. In the three years between that time and the relics being handed over to Father Gautrelet, the relics were placed into the care of the Congregation of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary in Paris, under the protection of the Superior General. He later felt that they should be in the care of the Jesuits, and passed them into the care of Father Gautrelet."

Father Michael listened intently. The detail of the relics' journey was impressive and he could not help but be impressed with the Monsignor's knowledge and the devotion he displayed when explaining the chronicle.

"That makes over three hundred years that the relics have been protected by good and simple people of faith who resisted all the temptations to reveal them to the world," the Monsignor continued. "Can you imagine what dedication that takes? Some of them would surely have realized that the relics would be highly valued by dealers of authenticated antiquities. They could have been sold off to some art collector or a broker, and auctioned off for a small fortune, and yet they were not. Every person who came in contact with them or who knew about them was faithful to Saint Margaret Mary's manuscript, and behaved accordingly."

"Why keep them, though?" Michael asked. "Why were they not given over to the Sisters at the Convent of the Visitation where the other relics and artefacts of the saint are held?"

"That is a good question. I suppose it began back when the casket was given to Sister Rosalie. It was probably a matter of trust. Saint Margaret Mary had her detractors. Clearly there were those she did not trust to look after it in the same manner it was entrusted to her. From that point on, each time it was entrusted to someone else, that same culture persisted. And now, for the first time ever, that trust has been violated. The relics have been taken without authority and, worse still, they have been taken from the country of their origin. On a personal level, I am responsible for this. As Co-ordinator of the Society, I have had at my disposal a far more sophisticated means of protecting them than any of my predecessors and yet I am the one who has failed them. Now do you understand why I am angry?"

Father Michael was satisfied that the precise detail given by the Monsignor could only have come from someone who was closely connected and committed to the care of the relics. He accepted the explanation of the actions of Father James. He knew Father James to be a passionate devotee of the Sacred Heart and that he was a regular traveller to France. He also knew him, in his latter years, to be a less patient person, somewhat erratic in his behaviour and one occasionally inclined to the frustrating outbursts of a bully when he saw something he could not tolerate. In his latter years, Father James' tendency to ignore Diocesan directives had not changed and the likelihood of his taking matters into his own hands when he felt strongly enough, was not unexpected. Father Michael made a decision there and then to release the relics into the Monsignor's care and gracefully withdraw from the matter.

"Monsignor, I have no reason to retain the casket. I am happy to hand it over to you. If you would like to come with me to the presbytery, I will get it for you. I would be happy to invite you to have lunch with me, if you would like, before you depart. When are you planning to return to France?"

The Monsignor heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Father. I am sorry if I sounded abrupt. I am still a little jet-lagged. I will return to Sydney today, stay there overnight and hopefully leave tomorrow or the next day."

"Where will you stay?"

"There is a retired Bishop in Sydney, Alexander MacMerry. He is a personal friend of mine. I stayed at his house on my first night. He is away in Perth at the moment but has offered me accommodation while I am here."

"Tell me, if you will, how did you know to come to Monterey Creek to reclaim the relics?"

"I met with Father James yesterday morning in Sydney. I have to say it was not a pleasant meeting. There was a lot of shouting and angry exchanges. Eventually he told me that he had brought the relics here and left them in the care of a Mrs. Maud Baker. Unfortunately, he did not tell me that she had passed away a few days ago. I only learnt that when I arrived here yesterday. The young man at the petrol station where I stopped yesterday informed me of that and suggested I speak with Maud Baker's daughter Allison. He told me where she lived."

Father Michael nodded. Everything seemed in order. Everything the Monsignor told him was consistent with what he knew to be true.

"Father James was supposed to come here yesterday to conduct the Requiem for Maud. He didn't show up and I haven't been able to contact him since. I don't suppose you know where he is now?" Michael asked.

"I have no idea," the Monsignor answered. "He left the presbytery at Saint Eudes in a hurry yesterday. Now I am worried when you say there is only one item and a letter in the casket."

"There is a typewritten text which Father James has left with the relic. That is all."

Monsignor Pascal looked concerned. If the original manuscript written by Saint Margaret Mary was not with the casket, the recovery would not be complete.

"This does not sound promising," he responded. "Could I inspect what you have please?"

"Certainly, come with me please. While Father James' behaviour is extraordinary, it is not all that unexpected, I have to say," Michael volunteered. "There were occasions when he was parish priest here that he point blank refused to approve some modern interpretation of Church music. For a while, he wouldn't even allow distribution of the Eucharist in both forms. Yet, he would cling tenaciously to some age-old ritual. Anyway, come and have lunch. I will get the casket for you," he said.

"Don't dismiss the old rituals too quickly," the Monsignor responded. "The older priests grew up on them. They find it hard to change, we all did. In many ways, some priests became the forgotten generation after the second Vatican Council."

As the two men walked out of the sacristy, Dorothy Proctor was still outside. She watched intently as they retired to the presbytery. Once the two men disappeared inside, she turned and made her way home.

## 22.

Father Michael took the Monsignor upstairs and showed him into his study, a small room adjacent to his bedroom.

"The casket is in my wardrobe next door. I'll get it for you now," he said. When he entered his bedroom and approached his wardrobe, what he saw alarmed him. The wardrobe had been tampered with. The drawers had been pulled out; the clothes on hangers were lopsided. Shoes normally stored at the base were lying on the floor.

"Someone has been here!" he exclaimed. "What on earth is going on?"

"What's wrong?" Henri called out. Michael's face went pale as he stepped back from the wardrobe.

"It's gone! Someone has taken the tool box."

"Mon Dieu," the Monsignor exclaimed as he walked into the bedroom. "What has the old fool done?"

"It's gone," he answered. "It's not here!"

"Are you sure?" Henri asked, showing signs of distress.

"Father Ryan," he said slowly, trying very hard to contain his frustration. "I have been a guardian of the secret of Paray-le-Monial for nearly thirty years. I have rested my eyes upon it almost every month of my life in that time. I am responsible for its return and.... ", his voice faltered

"I don't know what to say," Father Michael replied. "This is where I put the tool box when I brought it back from Allison, er Miss Baker's house today."

"The old fool," Henri repeated. "What does he hope to gain by doing this?"

Father Michael stepped back and stood on something underneath a towel lying on the floor. He bent down and underneath the towel found the letter Father James had written to Maud Baker.

"It looks like Father James has been here to freshen up. It would seem he has left this behind," he said.

"What is it?"

"It's the letter Father James typed out on his computer. It's a translation of the original manuscript I think," Michael said.

"The manuscript, where is it?"

"This was all that was here with the casket," he said, as he handed the letter to the Monsignor. "I have not seen any manuscript.  
I have not seen anything else apart from the casket and the night cap inside." Henri read the letter in silence, before slumping into a chair.

"Monsignor," Michael said, "I have read the letter that accompanied the casket. I won't pretend to understand all of the circumstances surrounding it, but is what Father James wrote an accurate translation of the manuscript?" he asked.

Henri Pascal sighed heavily.

"Oui, Yes. Father James is fluent in French. He translates it well. It is an accurate translation."

"Then I take it you believe the manuscript to be genuine; to have been written by Saint Margaret Mary?"

"Yes, I do. Would I have come half way around the world to recover a worthless piece of cloth and a fake piece of writing?"

"Then do you believe that what she has written is an accurate description of what happened during this last revelation?" Michael asked. Henri Pascal looked up. He stared into the eyes of Father Michael, as he replied.

"I'm not going to speculate too much on the accuracy of the claims made by Saint Margaret Mary. The Church examined them critically and determined that she herself was certain of what she saw and experienced and her certainty led her to act and speak in the way that she did. That in turn led the good sisters of Paray-le-Monial to begin what we know today as the devotion to the Sacred Heart. Her visions could be false, but that does not diminish the devotion. The relics are what they are," the Monsignor said. "They don't have to be infallible. They simply have to be believed. It is our beliefs that determine our actions. It is what we believe that determines the strength of our faith. Why else would thousands upon thousands of people continue to visit the holy shrines, the grottos and the like each year? The Holy land! Lourdes! Paray-le Monial! Fatima!"

"But surely what we believe Monsignor, is less important than what is real. I can believe or not believe," Michael pressed. "My belief does not change anything. If something IS, then it IS, whether I believe or otherwise."

"No Father, your belief does change things," Henri replied. "It changes the way you behave. The accuracy of your belief may not be what you think it is, but your belief in it will determine the way you act and react to given situations. The great tragedy, unfortunately, is that those beliefs can lead us to commit great evil as well as great good. I agree with you that what is real is more important than what is believed to be real, and that is part of mankind's journey, an ongoing journey that we all have to take. In the past, the Church has been reluctant to explore that area for fear that its fundamental beliefs would be exposed as mythology. But that journey is being undertaken whether the Church likes it or not. The Society of Eternal Truth has also come to this conclusion, and it is better that we undertake this examination of the stained night cap before some external secular source discovers it and would, if it were found to be false, only hold it up to ridicule. If that were to happen, the whole nature of the devotion to the Sacred Heart would be compromised and therefore, devotion to the Person of Jesus. That is what we want to protect. Father James and those who helped him steal the relics did not appreciate this."

The Monsignor turned to look for somewhere to sit. He was exhausted, physically, emotionally. His journey was not yet over. He still had work to do to recover the relics, and the daunting prospect of pursuing a recalcitrant old priest. The old man was proving to be more of a challenge than Henri first thought.

"What are you going to do now?" Father Michael asked.

"I have to think. I have to try and work out what Father James' mental state is, and what is his likely next move." He turned and looked up to the young priest standing by the chair, a priest he had known barely one hour. He felt he could trust him, although he could not be sure. He felt he had to take the risk.

"Will you help me, Father?" he asked. "Can we work on this together, you and I? You are familiar with our surroundings, the places he could be, the people with whom he would seek help. Without help from someone like yourself, I am walking down a blind alley. I cannot bear the thought of returning to France empty-handed. Will you help me?"

## 23.

As the early morning activity at 25 Terry Street settled down, Allison tried to relax both herself and Amy after the events of the past twenty four hours. Through all of it, there had been little time for the two of them to reflect on how they felt. Allison had found the grieving process confusing. She had lost her mother, but their relationship was not one that prompted an emotional outflow. Deep down, Allison felt relief more than grief and welcomed the conclusion to the circumstances in which she had elected to place herself. There existed, too, a feeling of disappointment that her mother's life had been so consumed by her religious beliefs, that she suffered an intolerance and indifference to the secular world that was counter-productive and contradictory to those beliefs. Her mother, she felt, would have better served her God and the world as a contemplative behind a convent wall. On the other hand, she was the woman who bore her and who raised and cared for her and although they rarely saw eye to eye, her mother's love for her was never doubted. She loved her mother too and respected her for what she was, good and otherwise. And then, beyond the confusion of dealing with her mother's death, there was Michael. She found it hard not to think of him and what had passed between them just hours earlier. What was he thinking right now? Would he call her today? Would he come for dinner tonight? In just a few short hours complications had arisen. She had stepped out of her ordinary life and gone beyond the boundaries of who she was. An affair with a priest! How shabby that sounded. But that wasn't what it was....was it?.....yet!

Even with Michael's help in bringing an end to the tool box saga, each time the phone rang, Allison jumped nervously, expecting yet another drama. This time, the call was from her editor at the 'Hampton Daily' and when he explained the reason for his call, she nearly exploded. It was the last thing she was expecting.

"Allison it's George Simpson here, I'm sorry to bother you what with your mother and everything, but we've had somebody phone in and give us a story about Amy seeing visions of the Virgin Mary and we're not sure what we should do with it."

"What?" Allison screamed. "Where on earth did that come from? Oh no, don't tell me. Dorothy Proctor, right?"

"Allison you know we don't reveal our sources. All we want to do is ask you if there's anything in it. Just say it's a load of rubbish and we'll let it drop."

"George as if I needed to tell you that," Allison answered her boss in a controlled calm. "Please just throw it away, ignore it. It's just a silly old woman who can't see the wood for the trees. The whole thing has been blown up from nothing. Amy was just pretending. Don't say anything please. We were burgled last night. That's bad enough without having to deal with religious fanatics as well."

"What's that? You were burgled? Allison that is a story! What's going on?"

"It's in the hands of the police. Somebody broke into the house and ransacked mother's room. Charlie Harris is looking into it. I've had a good look around and I can't find anything missing so I don't know what they were looking for. I suppose they thought mother might have some money stashed away somewhere. Beyond that, I just don't know."

"When did this happen?"

"Charlie thinks it was when we were all at the funeral yesterday."

"Bloody hell, you were at your mother's funeral and some snake breaks into your house to rob her!"

Allison realized her boss had latched onto a story anyway.

"I could do without the publicity, George," Allison said sternly.

"I'll have to call Charlie Harris and get a full report, Allison. I'm sorry but it's better that we do something now than let one of the regional papers pick it up and harass the bejesus out of you."

"George?" Allison cried.

"I'll get back to you before we do anything, I promise. In the meantime I'll quash the Amy story, how's that?"

"George don't?"

It was too late. George had hung up.

With yet another development in an ongoing drama, Allison's thoughts were in a maze. She felt a strong urge to ring Dorothy Proctor and give the stupid woman a solid barrage, but what good would it serve? The zealous faithful were immune from such criticism, preferring to offer insults up for the suffering souls in Purgatory rather than engage in pious self-defence. That the woman had the nerve to drag Amy into the limelight before a media circus was a testament to her insensitivity and Allison knew that nothing she said to Dorothy would dissuade her from following what she thought to be the work of the Lord. She began to feel the weight of all that had come down upon her; the loss of her mother, Amy's imaginings, the break-in, her brief 'moment' with Michael Ryan, and now the call from the 'Hampton Daily'. She longed for Michael's strength, and his quiet determined resolve. He would be able to calm her, to convince her not to allow external events to over-ride common sense. She longed for Michael. When the doorbell rang it sent her into a panic. Her heart raced. Was it him? Did he know about Dorothy blabbing to the newspaper? Had he returned to support her after saying mass? What would happen between them? No, it shouldn't go on. It would only lead to heartache and pain for both of them. She approached the front door wondering if she should have Amy by her side as if making a statement that it was the two of them, he must consider. The events of the morning had taken their toll and at this point anything seemed likely to happen. She was an emotional time-bomb and, as she approached the door, for the first time since her mother's death, she felt unable to cope. As it happened, it wasn't Michael.

"Daddy," she said, delighted to see her father, delighted that he kept his word. "Amy," she called out, her voice cracking under the strain. "Grandad is here." Harry Baker stood there smiling. "Hello pumpkin," he said. "Is everything okay? The word's around the town that you had a break-in last night."

Allison looked at her father and knew instantly that the strength and support she craved right now was really something only he could offer. He was her strength right now, he was her rock. It was as if all the worries, the responsibilities and obligations she was carrying were suddenly and miraculously lifted from her and transferred to her father. She knew he was a man of broad shoulders and sympathetic understanding. She let herself go and broke down in tears. "Oh Daddy," she said, as she wrapped her arms around his neck sobbing uncontrollably. Harry took hold of her and held her tight. He may not have fully understood the stress his daughter was enduring at this point, but in the matter of consoling her, of assuring her he was there to support her, he was up to the task. He had been up to the task for nine years, supporting his daughter and even after she had returned to Monterey Creek to care for Maud, he was still there for her whenever she needed him.

"It's all right pumpkin, let it all out," he said as he held her. "You've been through a lot, and I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier. It's okay now. Things will be different from now on," he said. She hugged him, holding on, letting it all pour out. As the tears flowed, her strength returned. She knew her father's support was all she needed to recover and continue on. She dried her eyes and collected herself.

"Come in. I'm sorry. I guess it all just caught up with me. So much has been happening lately," she answered. "Yes," she continued, taking his hand in hers. "Someone broke in while we were at the funeral. But it's all right. Charlie Harris is looking into it. There's nothing taken as far as I can see. Come in. Can I get you some breakfast?"

"No, I've had breakfast hours ago," he said as Amy came bouncing down the hallway and rushed to his arms. He swept her up as he always did and gave her that special hug that she knew so well. "Grandad," she said, rolling up her arm. "I cut myself."

"My, my, what do we have here?" Harry asked, as Amy revealed her bandaged arm.

"It's nothing Daddy," Allison said. "Just a little accident. She's fine now. Would you like some coffee?"

Harry came inside and looked around as Amy wrapped her arms around his neck. He felt uncomfortable. He had lingering memories of this house that still pained him. It looked different from the last time he was here, over ten years ago. The furniture had changed, the interior had been painted; there were new curtains. These had been Allison's alterations as she went about tastefully refurbishing with Sam Spent's help, but it was still the house where an unhappy marriage ended and unhappy memories persisted.

"I can see some of Sam's work here," Harry said, as he took a close look at the paint-work.

"Yes. He's been very kind over the last year," she said.

Harry was pleased with what she had done to the house.

"Will you able to handle the rent okay now?" he asked, concerned, thinking that with her mother's small but valued income from the parish housekeeping now gone, Allison would feel an unwelcome financial burden.

"I don't pay rent Daddy, I bought this place last year. It's mine!"

"Did you? Well done. You never mentioned anything before. Did you have to borrow much?"

"Enough, but that's okay, I can manage. Mother wasn't contributing anyway. I have a good job and I'm paid well. It's fine."

Harry looked around again as he put Amy down.

"You need a good man with you, Allison," he said.

"Does that mean you are planning to come back here?" she asked, excited at the prospect.

"Well, I might, but not just yet. That's not what I meant anyway. You need a man to look after you. You deserve more than this."

"I don't need a man, Daddy. The right man would be nice but I don't need one!"

"What about Brian Wayne? Now there's a good, solid, reliable fella, and not to mention a ready made family with a couple of brothers for Amy."

Allison frowned at the suggestion as Amy went into the kitchen.

"No," she replied. "Yes, he's a good man but he's not for me and I'm not for him."

"Why not?"

"Because," she faltered. "He's not quite with it; he's a bit, you know, umm, he's a bit slow, if you know what I mean; and he's ten years older than me."

"Are you saying he is not the equal of your intellectually sharp mind, your rapier wit, your uum er..."

"Let's leave Brian Wayne out of it, Daddy. He's just not for me."

"He likes you," Harry persisted.

"And I sort of like him too. I even offered to cook for him and the boys occasionally, do his laundry for him, but only because I think he's going to the pot since his wife died."

"Well, there must be someone around who's able to challenge and excite you," Harry said. Allison thought immediately of Father Michael and bit her lip to stop herself from saying anything. She looked across at her father, hoping he had not noticed. He had.

"There is someone isn't there?" he teased. Allison blushed. "Come on, don't hide it. Tell me, what's going on?" he urged.

The question almost set her into another panic. She did not want to tell. It was too soon, too outrageous, too impossible. She could dream, let her imagination run wild, but speak of such a ridiculous, out of the question wish was counter to all her practicality. Yet, this was her father. If anyone would understand her, and show some compassionate understanding it would be him.

"You met him yesterday," she said recklessly, her heart racing, her mind spinning with anticipation at his reaction.

Harry thought for a moment. His mind raced through the previous day's events, the funeral, and his later social engagement at the hotel with Sam Spent and a few friends.

I don't recall meeting anyone yesterday," he replied.

Just then, Amy, who had returned from the kitchen, entered the lounge with a black book in her hand.

"Mummy, Father Michael left this on the chair." It was his breviary.

Allison blushed even more. Embarrassed and feeling very vunerable, she took the breviary and placed it on the mantel piece.

"Thank you, sweetie. Have you finished cleaning your room?" she asked, desperately trying to look normal. Harry could see her discomfort and suddenly remembering that he had met Father Michael yesterday, made the unlikely connection.

"The only person I recall meeting yesterday was the young priest who said mass. Father Michael!" he said, looking at her with his head cocked sideways as if he were questioning his own memory. He stared at his daughter whose discomfort and embarrassment was all too evident.

"You're kidding?" was all he could say. Allison was silent, but looked up at him the way she did as a child when she had been caught taking biscuits from the pantry without permission.

"Father Michael?" he said. "A priest? You are involved with a priest?"

She drew a deep breath, glad that he had said it. Glad that he had discovered her secret. What would his reaction be? Suddenly the whole viability of her actions, her thoughts, her fantasies was suspended, waiting for his reaction. What would he say next?

"Is this a mutual thing pumpkin, or something you have dreamt up?"

She looked up at him, both nodding and shaking her head at the same time, a condition entirely consistent with her confused state.

"We shared a brief moment here this morning. I don't know how to explain it. I've always liked him. I've always been attracted to him, but nothing has ever happened until this morning. Maybe it was because of all the pressure building up lately, I don't know, but something clicked this morning after he told Dorothy Proctor to buzz off and we shared a brief moment with each other."

"Just what do you mean by a brief moment, pumpkin?" he asked.

Allison was more relaxed now. The truth of it was out, if not all that well explained, at least she had total confidence in her father's discretion.

"We embraced, I kissed him, and he kissed me. We both liked it. That's all," she answered, and fell silent. Harry looked at her closely. "And?" he asked.

"And what?" she replied defensively.

"And that was all there was to it?" he queried. She took a deep breath and exhaled.

"No, it wasn't all," she admitted with some degree of pleasure. "There was something there, I felt it. I'm sure he felt it," she answered calmly and with a degree of certainty she had not experienced before.

"What was all this about Dorothy Proctor?" he asked.

"Oh that stupid fool has spread the word around the town that Amy has had a vision of the Virgin Mary. She came around here this morning with a delegation. Michael told her to go away. I was so grateful. He did it with such diplomacy and skill, I couldn't help but be drawn to him. It was my fault. I made the first move."

"What was he doing here? Did he come with them?"

"No! He came earlier because I called him. I found the tool box the Monsignor was looking for, only I didn't want to give it to him so I called Michael. He stayed for breakfast."

"The tool box? The Monsignor? Allison sweetie, what on earth is happening here?"

She drew breath and realized her father needed to know everything that had happened if he was going to help her, to be her advisor, her counsellor.

"Come into the kitchen, Daddy, I'll put the kettle on, we'll have some coffee and I will tell you the whole story."

"Okay, but I hope it won't go beyond midnight, tonight. I would like to get back to Melbourne, later today."

For the next two hours they sat and talked, with Allison doing most of the talking. She covered everything from Amy's visions, Dorothy Proctor's ravings, Brian Wayne's unfulfilled hopes, the ride home in the car with Michael after the funeral, Father James' non-appearance, the visit from Monsignor Pascal, discovering the break-in, calling Michael, Charlie Harris' investigation, the tool box and its extraordinary contents, Amy's act of self mutilation, and Michael's early morning visit and their moment together. It was a lot for Harry to absorb but he was up to the task, and saw the lighter side of it, as only he could.

"So, if I've got it correctly," he started, "a priest, excuse me, a Monsignor priest, has come halfway around the world chasing a bloodstained relic from three hundred years ago, and stolen by another priest who gave it to your mother, for some obscure reason, who shoved it under Amy's bed, because she wanted her to start slashing herself to pieces so that the Virgin Mary could visit and Dorothy Proctor could proclaim it to the world, and in the process catch you and Father Michael having breakfast together," he chuckled as he spoke. "Is that it?"

Allison grimaced and then laughed as she saw the lighter side of it.

"Something like that." Her father's understanding was enough to calm her.

"Just like you," she said, touching his hand. "You make it all sound so simple and uncomplicated."

"There's one or two things that don't quite add up here," Harry commented.

"What?" she asked

"You're right when you say that Father James never turned up for the funeral, yet Anthony Jackson told me and Sam last night at the pub that he and Mark Millstock helped fix a flat tyre for Father James out on the highway yesterday afternoon."

"So he did come after all! I wonder why he never came to the funeral?" Allison exclaimed.

"Perhaps he was too busy breaking into your house and ransacking your mother's room looking for the bloodstained relic." Harry suggested.

Allison gasped. "You're kidding!"

"I wouldn't be surprised. The old man is wacky enough to try something like that. He should be locked away in a monastery where he can't hurt anybody."

Allison was shocked. The very thought of the old priest in her mother's room opening up drawers and closets, prying into her things, sent a shiver up her spine.

"You don't really think it was him, do you?" she asked.

"I wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised. Desperate people do desperate things, pumpkin. If he was still hiding in the house here, when you were with the Monsignor though, I'm surprised he didn't drop dead from fear, the stupid twit."

"My God, I don't believe it," Allison said. Harry's thoughts turned to the casket. "I wonder what something like that is worth? I have a friend who might be interested. You might have been holding on to something extremely valuable," he suggested. "But let's get back to you and your priest. What do you plan to do about this?"

Allison drew breath and sighed. "I don't know Daddy. I suppose I'll have to wait and see what Michael does. I don't want to ruin him or cause him any discomfort. He likes being a priest. I can't imagine what must be going through his mind right now."

"Well, he's a man after all. And, he wouldn't be the first priest to stray into the arms of a beautiful woman, and who could blame him."

Allison felt a pinch of guilt. "I don't know what he would see in me," she replied.

"Stop kidding yourself," he replied. "You are a catch whether you realize it or not. You only have to spend a few hours in the pub to hear a bit of what men think about you."

Allison was embarrassed. The thought of her being the subject of any discussion in a hotel revolted her. "I don't want to think about what is said in the pub by men who have had a few too many."

"It's where the raw talk thrives. Believe me, I've spent enough time there. But priests! They are another thing altogether. They live in a parish serving family communities, but in doing so, they are constantly being reminded of all the things they have given up. They don't lead a natural life; they must feel lonely from time to time. Plenty of women come to them with personal problems; the opportunities are there. Then they get into their mid-thirties; they still like the work they do, but when they look ahead and see forty looming, they begin to wonder about it all. The problem is sweetie, that there are any numbers of priests out there who will stray and fall in love and have an affair. But there wouldn't be too many who would go all the way and leave the priesthood for married life. That's what you have to bear in mind. As nice as this Father Michael might be, it may be asking too much of him. If he were to leave the priesthood for you and later regret it, he'll finish up hating himself and then hating you in the process."

Allison fell silent. Her father had painted a bleak picture. Were she in her early twenties, she might have been inclined to dismiss his negative advice and throw herself headlong into a doomed relationship regardless. But wisdom born of time and experience told her otherwise.

"I won't be foolish about this, Daddy. But I can't ignore it either. We'll just have to wait and see what eventuates."

"I don't want to see you hurt, pumpkin. Go slowly, go surely," he warned her.

## 24.

Sam Spent was in town. He had called at Alice Eastward's shop for a pie and sauce. Alice's pies were legendary, but he wasn't beyond thinking that Alice herself might be something of a legend if he could only convince her to trust him. Suffering from a mild headache, the consequences of a longer than expected stay at the Bush Bar Hotel the night before, he was still feeling sufficiently frisky to try once more with Alice.

"You're looking lovely this morning Alice. What's your secret?"

It was not the first time Sam had approached Alice. She found his advances flattering but she would not be persuaded by them. Sam's reputation was itself something of a legend and when he came into the shop she was ready for anything he might try.

"My secret will remain just that, Sam Spent, and have you looked in the mirror this morning, or couldn't you see it for the fog in your brain?"

"Alice, I'm shocked," he romanced. "How could you regard me so? I'm a hard working farmer with two strapping young sons to control and no wife to take care of me."

"That's because she left you, Sam. Remember? And those two sons of yours need less control than you. If it wasn't for them, you might not have a farm at all. Be grateful they stayed with you. Given the choice they might just prefer to be with their mother."

"You see, Alice, that's why I'm so attracted to you. You know me so well. There would be no secrets between us."

"That's true Sam. You have no secrets. The whole town knows all about you."

Sam was not surprised or offended by Alice's forthright manner. She spoke the truth. He had two fine sons, now in their early twenties. His wife had left him unable to cope with his brawling and drinking, but encouraged her sons to stay and look after him, and the farm.

"Well then, if you won't humble yourself to be my guest for dinner tonight, might you give me one of your beef and onion pies? No, make that two. I might not have dinner tonight now that I've been rejected. I might sit home alone in my little house dreaming of what might have been."

"Dreaming is right, Sam Spent. Dreaming is as close as you will ever get to me."

"Yes, Alice, but my, what a dream it would be!"

"And as for sitting home alone, that's what your wife used to do before she left you, remember that? You sit home alone? Give me strength. The pub would go broke!"

"Alice, I'm shocked! That you could pierce my heart so savagely, knowing how sensitive I am to any form of unjustified criticism, is beyond me."

"Here are your pies," she said. "Now give me five dollars and get out of here before I call Charlie Harris, and have you arrested for sexual harassment."

"Oh Alice, you'll have to be more convincing than that."

"Get out, you scoundrel!"

As Sam walked out of the shop, he grinned broadly. He was in good spirits. Alice knew him well and he enjoyed the banter between them. Strolling along the footpath, enjoying his pie, he caught sight of Father James coming toward him from across the road and appearing to be in a hurry. Sam was one of the few people in Monterey Creek not intimidated by Father James, and the old priest knew it. As they set eyes on each other, both men mentally prepared themselves for a verbal joust although Father James would have preferred to pass by without a word. There was no point in engaging in conversation with this overbearing, insolent, belligerent ruffian. Sam Spent, on the other hand, couldn't help himself.

"And good morning to you Father," he said. "Have you lost your way, might I ask?"

"You can ask anything you like Mr. Spent. Just don't hold your breath waiting for an answer," Father James replied curtly.

"I don't know what it is Father, but here we are not having set eyes on each other for months, yet it seems like it was only yesterday."

"A blessing for both of us, I'm sure," the old man answered, as he passed Sam by.

"Did you get your flat tyre fixed, Father? You might get caught on the road without a spare if you don't."

Father James said nothing but reminded himself to do something about the flat tyre still in the boot of his car.

"If you are looking for the church Father, it's the other way," Sam said, pointing down the street. "And I'm sorry to tell you but you're late. The funeral was yesterday!"

Father James ignored the last remark and entered Alice Eastward's shop.

Sam continued a slow stroll in the direction of Allison Baker's house, in Terry Street.

## 25.

Father Michael and Monsignor Henri Pascal sat at the dining table at the presbytery eating sandwiches that Michael had prepared. It would be some time, he felt, before he could find another housekeeper and he had resigned himself to preparing his own food for the time being. He had secretly looked forward to having dinner that evening with Allison, but with the Monsignor's plans to return to Sydney now on hold, he felt compelled to offer him accommodation for the night.

"This is most kind of you," Henri said as he helped himself to the plate. "These are very good. I suspect you have done this before on a regular basis."

"It is the product of basic survival skills," Michael answered. "It is something you learn when you are part of a large family. You look after yourself in the kitchen, because sometimes if you don't, you might starve," he joked.

"Was your vocation to the priesthood, born of escapism?"

"It might have been something like that," Michael laughed.

"How long have you been a priest?" the Monsignor asked.

"Nearly eight years," he answered.

"So soon a parish priest? That is impressive."

"I think it is more a case of necessity," Michael replied. "With a shortage of priests such as this country has, more and more parishes will be served by only one priest. A sign of the times, I think."

"Yes, you are right, although I have to say that in Europe right now, while the seminaries do have students, we will have to wait and see what kind of priests we produce."

"What do you mean?" Michael asked.

"I'm speaking of my own personal opinion here but clearly over the last twenty years or so, the Church has made a sharp turn away from the more liberal outlook that began after the second Vatican Council. That liberal view is all but gone now and it makes me wonder about what sort of priests we are producing today. I wonder if they are going to be right for the time, and the mood of the faithful. That's all."

"What work do you do in Paris?" Michael asked.

"I serve at the Archbishop's pleasure. At the moment I am attached to the Basilica of Sacre Coeur at Montmartre. I have a prelature for assisting priests who seek vocational guidance."

"You are an Honorary Prelate?" Michael asked.

"Yes. A noble title but it means little else. I counsel priests in crisis."

"You mean priests who want to leave?"

"Yes."

"I thought that was handled by the Diocesan Bishop."

"Some priests feel somewhat intimidated by their Bishop and are reluctant to approach them on such matters. They need an intermediary, a sort of friendly Church lawyer to represent them. They feel more comfortable with someone who will listen to their story and refrain from being judgemental."

Michael suddenly felt uncomfortable. It was one thing being haunted with thoughts about the strength of his own vocation, but to be in the company of one who counselled on the subject was unexpected and daunting. His reaction was noticed by the Monsignor.

"Have I hit a nerve, Michael? You look ill at ease," Henri said carefully.

Michael looked awkward. His eyes looked down, then up to the ceiling, anywhere but straight ahead. His mind was not clear on how to respond. He didn't feel he was ready to broach the subject. His heart however was clear, and triumphed, allowing his inner feelings to escape to the surface.

"I'm going through a difficult period right now," he conceded.

"Oh? In what way?" the Monsignor asked.

"I'm struggling with my vocation as a priest," he said bluntly. "I like what I do, but I'm not sure that it is enough," he added.

The Monsignor took his words seriously. He had heard them many times before in his role as a counsellor to troubled clergy. In the last forty years, over one hundred thousand priests had left the priesthood to seek more fulfilling lives as ordinary laymen. In recent years he had counselled several, and was acutely aware of the sensitivity needed in handling such cases.

"Is this recent?" he asked.

"It's something that has been sitting there in the back of my mind for a while. I'm beginning to ask myself questions."

"What sort of questions?"

"Multiple subjects, I'm afraid. Not just one issue. Several! My freedom and what that means to me, for one. My commitment was to work for others. I realize I can still do that without regimentation. I'm also becoming very conscious of Christian origins, the claim to authority, the legitimacy of dogma, that sort of thing. I'm afraid I'm suffering from a crisis of faith!"

"Tell me what it is that you are struggling with?" Henri said sympathetically.

"I read a lot, Monsignor," he began.

"Call me Henri, please. There is no room for titles here. We are brothers you and I. What books are you referring to?"

"Books on scholarship, Biblical scholarship."

"So? That is good. You are keeping yourself abreast with the latest findings, interpretations and so on. There are so many, you must be reading a lot."

"Yes, I suppose I am. But it's starting to take its toll."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, notwithstanding the fact that we covered these matters in seminary training, the Dead Sea Scrolls, Nag Hammardi and so on, it was always from a distance so to speak. It was as if we were accepting everything being said, but that it didn't really matter. It was as if, in some way, the findings were historical and cultural but theologically removed from what the church taught about the Christ of Faith."

"They are referring to the Jesus of history, not our Jesus, not the Christ, the Incarnate, the Third Person of the Trinity. They were talking about someone who walked the desert sands of Palestine two thousand years ago. Our service is to the Omnipotent, the Omnipresent, through the Person of Jesus."

"Yes, but we are still talking about the same Son of God are we not?" Michael asked.

"That is true. But the authors of those works have not viewed this matter in the light of the Deposit of Faith."

"No, they haven't, and that's what is troubling me. It was a Church Council that determined that the Church received the Deposit of Faith. It was the Church's own Council that decided Jesus was Divine, three hundred years after he died. It's sort of like giving yourself a free kick, and a fifty metre penalty, in your own favour at the same time. A good move for a Church balanced tenuously between gaining a significant power base or being consigned to historical obscurity, but hardly objective, I'm beginning to think."

"Those Councils were inspired by the Holy Spirit, Michael."

"Yes, the Third Person of the Trinity, the one the Councils proclaimed as the Third Person of the Trinity. Another free kick!" Michael looked him in the eye. "Do you see where I'm coming from Henri?"

"So, this is what bothers you?"

"Yes. What also bothers me is that we never talk about these matters to our congregations, the ordinary people of the Church. We keep it from them. The laity is appallingly ignorant of matters discussed in scholarly circles. Only those who seek out the latest information, and read books on the subject, know what the consensus is, among those who have devoted their lives to this research. Only those who study the latest findings are aware of the disparity between what we teach and what the world of scholarship knows of the Jesus of history. The laity accept the gospel stories as fact, when they are no more than devotional stories, which have been used to convert theory, speculation, and supposition into dogma. More free kicks."

"What else bothers you?" Henri asked, encouraging Michael to speak freely.

"Accepting matters on faith bothers me, Henri."

"How so?"

"One of my parishioners asked me a very difficult question not long ago. He said to me 'If I have faith that Jesus rose from the dead, and it turned out that he didn't, what value, what worth is attached to my faith?' The question took me by surprise. Here was someone I thought was a rock solid believer and it turned out that he was experiencing his own crisis of faith, trying to convince himself that everything the Church taught was true and relevant to his life. I thought about that for some time. I asked him to let me consider the question rather than answer off the top of my head. He welcomed that and a week or so later, we spoke again."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said I could not guarantee that Jesus did rise from the dead, but if I believed that he did, and used that belief as a foundation for the way I lead my life, then my faith was of value."

"And?"

"He seemed to accept the answer, but it caused me to think even more deeply about what I had said. I realized that it was an unsatisfactory answer because non-believers can lay foundations for the way they live their lives just as easily as believers. It doesn't take faith. It takes compassion, love, tolerance, kindness, understanding and so on. These things don't require faith. One does not have to believe in God to be compassionate and tolerant. One does not have to believe in God to love thy neighbour. One does not have to believe in God to be good."

"Is your unrest purely theological or does it cover broader areas?"

"No, it's not just theological. There are other issues."

"Is there anything in particular that has prompted you to feel this way Michael?"

Michael wanted to be honest. To be otherwise would only be counter-productive. He was not good at concealing his true feelings. He hesitated but decided to be completely open.

"There is something. It hasn't prompted me. I suppose you could say it has revived my feelings about these matters. That would be more accurate."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

Michael hesitated.

"There's this woman," he began tentatively. "I suppose you've heard that before."

"Yes, of course. And not the slightest bit surprising, I might add. But each time I find the circumstances quite unique. Perhaps I can make this a little less awkward for you," the Monsignor offered. "May I ask you some questions?"

"Go ahead," Michael replied.

"Are you in a relationship with this woman?"

"No," Michael responded. "We are good friends."

"How long have you known each other?"

"We have been friends for about a year."

"Are you in love with her?"

"Yes, I think so."

"And the lady in question? Does she feel the same way?"

"Yes, I think so."

"But you have not consummated this in any way?"

"No."

By his questions, Monsignor Pascal was trying to determine which of several categories Michael belonged. Was he straying from his priestly vows for some temporary physical reason or did the matter go deeper? Henri's experience with priests in crisis was broad-ranging. There were those who were pressured into the priesthood by overly religious families; and those who were inherently unsuited to the priesthood but who demonstrated high academic prowess. Some candidates showed above average intellectual standards and brilliant analytical ability and as a consequence simply slipped under the radar. Others, just as bright however, were troubled and confused young men, uncertain of their sexuality who sought refuge and comfort in a protected environment, and satisfied the devotional and educational requirements. In Michael's case, Henri was unsure.

"Why did you want to become a priest?" he asked.

"I'm not sure I had a choice. I came from a large family, a very devout family! My Father is a doctor, my mother a teacher. From as far back as I can remember I was the one selected to be a priest. I have brothers and sisters in a cross-section of disciplines. There's a doctor, a nurse, two in corporate management, and a psychologist. I was the one chosen to be a priest. My mother developed and cultivated a close relationship with a Jesuit. He often came to our house for dinner. Mother would always arrange for him to spend a few minutes with me, talking to me about the priesthood as if it were a 'fait accompli.' He used to say, '....when you go to the seminary Michael, you will see this, you will do this, etcetera, etcetera,' as if it had already been arranged. I just grew up believing that this was what would happen. We all did as we were told."

"You said you like what you do. How would you satisfy this enjoyment elsewhere?"

"I like being in charge. I realize now that I have been assuming that the work I do is for the greater good and that a worthwhile purpose is served. The mass, the pastoral work, guiding people, it is all valuable, productive work. I like that. If I were outside, I suppose the equivalent would be in education, teaching or in the corporate world, running a small company, something like that."

"But you said the priesthood wasn't enough. What did you mean?"

"It lacks a heart," Michael, said without thinking. "It lacks that essence vital to one's natural instincts. It can be a cold, detached existence. I realize that every time I see families, people in relationships, people interacting with one another in an intimate way, dependant, relying on and being relied upon. I see people simply touching each other, freely, happily. I see that, and I think I'm missing out. It's a part of being human, a part we, as priests, inadvertently deprive ourselves. We keep our hearts out of reach. It just doesn't seem right. I don't think it is a good thing for us to be like this."

A silent calm descended upon the room. Michael had said much of what had been gnawing away at him for months. All the better, he thought, that he had opened himself up to someone he realized was sympathetic and understanding. It had not been a waste. He began to relax. Henri allowed the younger priest to settle. He knew from experience that Michael needed that. He waited until he thought Michael was ready to continue.

"In my experience," he began, "there are four major reasons why priests want to leave and make no mistake, in all cases it is a traumatic time, so please try to feel as relaxed as you can. This is not an inquisition. We are just two men talking to one another."

Michael nodded but did not speak.

"Firstly, from what you have told me I think it safe to assume you are not gay."

Michael grinned and shook his head. "No, I'm not gay," he replied.

"Then it should not be too much of a surprise for you to learn that the most common reason priests want to leave is that they fall in love. The others include losing their faith in God, losing their faith in the institution, and there are those who entered into the priesthood to please their parents. In other words they became priests for the wrong reasons. It seems to me my young friend, that you have a disproportionate dose of all four."

Michael laughed. It was the emphasis Henri placed on the last four words, as if they represented the weight of the entire world.

"Tell me, do you still believe in God?"

Michael considered the question before he spoke. "I don't know," he answered honestly.

Before the Monsignor had the opportunity to continue, the phone rang. Michael excused himself and answered the call.

"Father, it's Alice Eastward here. I'm sorry to bother you."

"That's okay, Alice, what can I do for you?"

"It's Father James."

"What about Father James?" Michael asked, turning to look at the Monsignor who immediately pricked up his ears.

"He was just here."

"Where?"

"At the shop!"

"What did he want?"

"Er, two pies, Father," Alice answered vaguely.

"No, I didn't mean that Alice. I meant, did he say anything?"

"Oh yes, sorry. He said that he and Dorothy Proctor were preparing for the consecration of Amy Baker and asked me if I would like to join them in the ceremony.

"The consecration of Amy?" Michael said mystified. "What did he mean?"

"I don't know, Father. He was acting oddly, as if he was somewhere else. I asked him what he meant and he said that he would explain that to me before the ceremony. I thought you might know."

As Michael listened to Alice, he did not notice the Monsignor leave the table and come to the phone. Henri looked extremely concerned. He raised one finger to signal to Michael that he wanted to say something. Michael caught sight of him and knew immediately something was wrong.

"Just hold the phone a moment would you Alice?" he said.

"Is this a trusted friend with whom you speak?" Henri asked.

Michael nodded. "Yes, she is," he replied.

"Could you ask if Father James mentioned the child of the light?"

Michael questioned Alice.

"Alice, did Father James say anything to you about the child of the light?"

"Yes Father. He said that Amy was the child of light or something like that. Does that mean anything?"

Michael looked at Henri and nodded.

"Where is he now?" Henri asked.

"Alice, where is Father James now?"

"He left here a few minutes ago Father. He didn't say where he was going. Perhaps he was returning to Dorothy's house with the pies."

"Thank you, Alice. I appreciate you letting me know," Michael answered and hung up.

"What is it, Henri? What's going on?" he asked, concerned.

Henri returned to the table and sat down.

"When I spoke with Father James at his presbytery yesterday morning, he said that he had found the child of the light. He was referring to the manuscript of Saint Margaret Mary." Henri reached over and took up the letter from Father James that was sitting on the table. "In the manuscript," he said, reading from the letter, "she claims Jesus tells her to protect the True Blood of Christ and then says.... 'Keep this safe and I will protect all who care for it until the appointed time when a child of the light will hear my mother's cry.' Father James told me yesterday that he had found the child of the light."

"I remember reading that, in Father James' letter. That description fits Amy," Michael said.

"How so?" Henri asked.

"Amy has been behaving a little strangely of late. She thinks the Virgin Mary has been appearing to her. It's largely as a result of the coaching she had been getting from her grandmother Maud."

"Maud Baker, the one who died?"

"Yes. Maud was excessively religious. She had been reading the Fatima story to Amy and had told her that Our Lady would come if she prayed and suffered for Jesus."

"Suffered?" Henri queried.

"Yes, that's another very strange thing I've yet to come to grips with. Allison, er, Miss Baker, told me this morning that Amy cut herself with a penknife. She told Allison that Grandma told her it would be all right, and that Our Lady would come to her."

The Monsignor looked horrified.

"Mon Dieu! What in the name of our Saviour could these people be thinking?" he asked despairingly.

"Father James, Maud and Dorothy Proctor were something of a dark little sect in our community," Michael said. "I didn't get involved. As long as they did not cause any harm to others I left them alone. I only discovered the impact it was having on Amy at the funeral yesterday. Since then I've learnt a lot more and the more I learn the less comfortable I feel."

The discussion was suddenly interrupted with the ringing of the phone. Michael answered and immediately recognized the tones of an international call.

"This is Jean Paul Colombière. Is it possible that Monsignor Henri Pascal is present please?" Michael immediately signalled to Henri.

"One moment, Jean Paul. He is here now," Michael replied, handing the phone across to the Monsignor.

"It's Jean Paul in France for you," he said.

"Yes, Jean Paul. Henri here. What is it?"

"I hope you are well, Henri. I needed to call you. Something has happened," he began.

"What is it?"

"This morning there was a minor article in the local paper that reported unnamed sources as saying that a relic of great interest had been stolen from Paray-le-Monial. The newspaper people are hounding the sisters of the Convent of the Visitation. The sisters say they know nothing of a stolen relic. They say all the relics they hold including their manuscript of the autobiography of Saint Margaret Mary are secure. We are concluding that the newspaper is on a fishing expedition. Someone within the society is trying to de-stabilize us. I feel we should call a meeting and discuss what has transpired. What do you think?"

"Who could be doing this?" Henri replied. "Is it not enough that we have guarded the secret for so long, that we are now reduced to a side show? Perhaps you and I should talk this through before anything else is done. I was hoping that I would have secured the casket by now, but I'm afraid that Father James is playing a strange game. I cannot come back just yet. Father Michael, the parish priest here, is helping me, but I do not know when it will be over."

"No one has yet approached me or anyone in the society. But if this is an internal leak, I would have to expect something soon," Jean Paul said.

"Say nothing, Jean Paul. Tell them you will make enquiries and get back to them, but say nothing. Do you understand? I will call you later today or tomorrow, and give you some more detail on my progress."

"Oui, Henri. Au revoir."

"Au revoir, Jean Paul."

Henri Pascal hung up the phone. He looked weary.

"It is hard to believe that I arrived here only yesterday," he said to Michael. "I feel as if it has been much longer."

"It's the stress," Michael replied. "You are stressed out. You need to rest. Was that bad news from France?" he asked.

"It seems we are fighting a battle on two fronts. I am trying to win the battle here while someone has launched a rear guard action in Paray."

"What do you mean?"

"Someone has gone to the newspapers with a story about a missing relic. It has started a media frenzy and now involves the Convent of the Visitation, who of course know nothing about our relics."

"What will you do?"

"What we do best I suppose," he sighed. "We will stick our heads under the carpet and pretend we know nothing."

"What is it, that concerns you about Father James and Amy?" Michael asked.

"If he truly believes that this child is the one of whom Saint Margaret Mary spoke, then in his erratic state I fear that he may try to establish her credentials, so to speak, and elevate her in a way that might be seriously harmful to the child."

"What is he likely to do?" Michael asked.

"In all our meetings at Paray, nobody ever anticipated that we would come to the point where we would recognise a fulfilment of the prophecy; that we would actually proclaim anyone in this way. We have always felt that we are no more than custodians, who would play no role beyond the protection of the relics. It is difficult to know what someone who imagines he has been selected to prepare for such a critical pronouncement would do. If Father James is unbalanced, and his behaviour seems to suggest that, I worry that he might be moved to do something bizarre."

The Monsignor's words sent a chill up Michael's back. His immediate thoughts were for the safety of both Amy and Allison.

"If you don't mind Henri, I would like to make a quick call to Amy's mother, just as a precaution."

"By all means," Henri replied.

Michael dialled Allison's number. When she answered she sounded very animated and as if she was laughing.

"You sound very upbeat," he said.

She recognized his voice immediately.

"Hello," she said. "This is a nice surprise."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes I'm fine. Daddy is here and Sam Spent just popped in. It's difficult not to find yourself laughing when those two get together. Sam has just convinced Daddy to stay another night and come to the festival tomorrow."

"Is Amy with you?" Michael asked.

"Yes, of course. I'm just getting her ready to go to the hall for the rehearsal for the float tomorrow. What's wrong, Michael? You sound serious."

With the distraction of the Monsignor's visit, Michael had completely forgotten about the rehearsal that afternoon.

"Umm, nothing. Everything's fine. I'd forgotten about that. Of course! I'm at the presbytery with Monsignor Pascal, the man you met last night?"

"Oh yes, and this morning! I see he found you all right."

"Yes," Michael said, now somewhat at a loss and struggling to find the words without causing unnecessary alarm.

"We've been talking about Father James. He hasn't been down your way has he?"

"No, but Sam mentioned he bumped into him earlier at Alice Eastward's. What's wrong, Michael?"

Michael hesitated. "It's nothing. Just me jumping to conclusions! I'll see you later then. The Monsignor is staying here with me tonight. I'm afraid I'll have to postpone your invitation to dinner."

Allison was disappointed. She was hopeful that Michael would come and realized that her happy state of mind was as much a product of her expectation of seeing him again, as it was having her father and Sam Spent for lunch.

"You could bring him with you if you like. I'm not a bad cook, you know," she said hoping to change his mind. "Daddy and Sam will probably be here, although I suspect they'll head for the pub later." Michael liked the idea. The thought of a family gathering with Allison and whoever else was preferable to a badly cooked dinner at the presbytery with Henri as the only company.

"I'll see what he thinks. I'll see you at the hall this afternoon then?"

"I'm not coming to the hall, Michael. Daddy will take Amy. I'm preparing something nice for dinner. It would be really nice if you came, Michael. Don't leave it too late to let me know. I don't want to find I haven't prepared enough." she added.

"Okay, I'll call you back. Bye."

The sound of Allison's voice flowed through his mind. It was intoxicating and he stood there for a second or two silently, absorbing the soft, tender, moment.

"Is everything all right?" Henri asked.

"Yes fine," Michael replied snapping himself out of it. "Allison has invited us to dinner at her house tonight. The alternative is my cooking us something, or the two of us dining on rations with some of Alice Eastward's meat pies."

"No word on Father James?"

"Er, no, I'm afraid not. I suspect he has gone to Dorothy Proctor's house. I will call her now if you like."

Henri noticed a slight change in Michael's level of attention.

"It is none of my business I know, but I could not help but notice a certain, shall we say, distracted state of mind while you spoke with the lady at the other end of the phone. Would Allison Baker be the woman you spoke of earlier? The one you feel you are in love with?" he asked.

Michael saw no point in hiding it.

"Yes, she is," he said.

"Then if I come to her house for dinner tonight," the Monsignor said slowly, "I will see the two of you in a different light won't I? Are you comfortable with that?"

Michael hesitated while he absorbed the idea. Was he ready to have a church dignitary observe him in this way? Was he ready to allow his fragile grasp of the forbidden to be observed, his clumsy, inexperienced, romantic, vulnerability exposed at such an early stage?

"Yes Henri," he answered with his head held high, but betraying a hint of uncertainty. "I'm comfortable with that."

"Then, my young friend, let us avoid the pies and your cooking and accept this kind lady's invitation."

Michael was elated. "I'll call her back," he said. "And then I'll call Dorothy and see what we can learn from her, although I suspect she'll be guarded. Oh yes, I almost forgot," Michael added with inward excitement, "I have to check on a rehearsal this afternoon. We have a parish float in the festival tomorrow. You can join me if you wish?"

"The festival?"

"The Festival of the Flowers. It's on tomorrow and the parish has a float."

As Michael spoke something struck him. Henri noticed his concern.

"What is it?" he asked. Michael suddenly realized that Father James might be planning on using the Festival of the Flowers as a platform for something more.

"My God," he cried. "Tomorrow! The festival! He may be planning something for tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow?" the Monsignor questioned.

"Our local festival is tomorrow. There's a street parade, floats down the main street. A carnival at Remembrance Park. The judging of the flowers! It's an annual thing. It's on tomorrow."

"Mon Dieu!" the Monsignor gasped as he checked the date on his watch.

"Tomorrow is October 17th! That is the feast day of Saint Margaret Mary. If Father James was planning something, then that would be the perfect day to do so."

"I can't believe that he would try something in full view of the public," Michael said.

"I fear Father James is of unsound mind at the moment. If he feels that forensic examination will reveal the relics to be something else, then he will think he has nothing to lose. That, I think is his despair at the moment, and that despair might drive him to do anything," Henri replied.

## 26.

Father James and Dorothy Proctor were sitting down to lunch at her house. Father James was weary. The stress of the last two days was evident. He had secured the casket and now held both relics in his possession, but the energy spent in bringing himself to this position had been exhausting. On the afternoon of Maud's funeral he took the opportunity to enter her house through the partly open window while everyone was at the church. He searched the bedroom high and low, trying his best not to disturb anything, but to no avail. He carefully examined other areas of the house, the lounge, the kitchen, even the laundry. Nothing! It was then his grumpy determination, short-tempered disposition, his arrogance and disregard for other people's property overtook him. He returned to Maud's room and in a frenzied rage tore the room apart, leaving nothing untouched, convinced that this was the only way he would find the tool box and its contents. Finally, realizing the folly of his actions, he thought to phone Dorothy, but baulked at the idea believing that a traced call could incriminate him. He drove to Dorothy's just as the rain started and parked his car well away from the house. Running through the rain, he arrived at the back door soaked to the skin. When Dorothy informed him that the tool box was most likely under Amy's bed, the thought of having to return to the house was too much. He made his way to the presbytery and, using a key he had kept since he was parish priest, dried himself off and waited until he had regained his strength.

Later, as evening approached, he returned to Maud's house and re-entered through her bedroom window. He made his way into Amy's room. Before he had the opportunity to continue the search, he heard the front door open. Realizing Allison had returned home, he first thought to exit through Amy's bedroom window but struggled to open it fully without attracting attention. He quickly hid in Maud's room and waited for his opportunity to leave. That opportunity came after the Monsignor left the house. The whole process and the realization that it was now dark, and that he had nowhere to stay, distressed him. He returned to Dorothy's house and asked her indulgence. Dorothy agreed, although the prospect unsettled her. A priest staying overnight in her house was, to say the least, most unusual.

Now the two of them sat at the kitchen table enjoying Alice Eastward's home made pies while Dorothy tried to learn from Father James, his next step. The casket sat on the kitchen cabinet while they ate.

Father James had stumbled across the casket when he had paid another visit to the presbytery earlier in the day, to shower and refresh while Father Michael said ten o' clock mass. The prospect of removing his clothes in Dorothy's bathroom, having his ageing, wrinkled, drooping body standing naked in her shower, surrounded by her delicate soaps, her cosmetics, her dainty little ceramic ducklings sitting watch at one end of the bath, was far too much for Father James. He decided that the presbytery was the wiser option. After all his efforts the day before, and his two failed missions to Maud's house, he could not believe his luck. 'Because it wasn't luck! Almighty God led me there; led me to find that which was lost. Rejoice! Rejoice!' he thought to himself. There it was, in the bottom drawer of Father Michael's dresser which Father James had opened looking for some rags to polish his shoes. 'Who can know the mind of the Lord?' he thought, in praise and thanks.

"What do you plan to do?" Dorothy asked tentatively. She had noticed something about Father James that disturbed her. He seemed to be distant, not fully aware of his surroundings. His thoughts seemed incoherent, and expressed clumsily. He had the appearance of an oracle, a psychic, blindly following the promptings emanating from the voices in his head.

"Tomorrow is the Feast of Saint Margaret Mary. That is the day Almighty God must have designated," he answered. "Who can know the mind of the Lord," he said. "This is the day the Lord has chosen and I am his servant, ready to carry out his holy purpose," he said, and raised his hand and made the sign of the cross.

"Yes, you have said that already, Andrew, but what is it that you plan to do?" Dorothy persisted, unsure of his mental state.

"I will wait on the Lord," he answered. "He will tell me what to do. I feel it will be at the festival, Dorothy; the festival that I transformed so many years ago; the festival that the town of Monterey Creek embraced in the name of the Lord. From such humble beginnings, Dorothy, the Lord is now revealing to me its purpose. I feel the Lord is telling me to consecrate Amy to his Sacred Heart; to declare her to the world."

"That would be a little difficult from here, Andrew," Dorothy suggested. "Monterey Creek doesn't get much attention from the rest of the world."

"Neither did Fatima, Dorothy," he answered, suddenly finding renewed vigour. "Neither did Lourdes until Our Heavenly Mother appeared to Saint Bernadette. Our Lady's appearance to Amy will change all that. We, you and I, have to announce it to the world," he proclaimed. "Tomorrow!" he shouted. "But how?" he added, signalling an unexpected note of realism.

## 27.

That evening, Father Michael knocked on Allison's front door and he and Monsignor Henri Pascal waited for an answer. As he stood there, his nervous tension multiplied. 'Is this such a good idea,' he thought. 'Being here with Allison was awkward enough in the presence of her father and Sam Spent, but to bring a church dignitary from another country might be too much.' Moreover, he had already confessed to the Monsignor that he was in love with the lady of the house. What would happen if a careless word or a give-away glance betrayed the two and they were forced to explain themselves to her father?

The presence of Sam Spent was neither a positive nor a negative. Michael knew Sam in a distant sort of way and liked him. Allison had often mentioned him, referring to him as Amy's uncle, and her handyman. Sam rarely saw the inside of a church unless it was for a funeral or a wedding and his protestant upbringing left him tolerant but suspicious of the Catholic clergy. But his close friendship with Allison since her return had helped mould his genial approach towards Father Michael. The two men were quite relaxed with each other, as long as they were not left alone together.

Both Allison and Amy answered the door and ushered the two priests inside. It was a warm and friendly reception with Amy playing joint hostess to the two guests.

"Would you like some dip?" Amy asked Henri, offering a plate.

"Thank you kindly, my child," he replied.

Allison had thought through the chances of an awkward beginning, and placed herself and Amy to the fore to help break the ice. Allison dispensed drinks all round and within no time the men were at ease with one another.

She allowed the finger food she had prepared and the liquor to relax them even further and when the jokes began to ease off, she invited the men to the table. She sat at the head, with easy access to the kitchen and placed the Monsignor on her right, Michael on her left, Amy next to Henri, Harry at the end and Sam alongside Michael. The seating was arranged to allow each man to feel comfortable and be visible to the others. The dinner was one of Allison's specialities; roast pork, apple sauce, carrots, peas and roast potatoes. Its delicious aroma put a stop to conversation. Allison, ever the diplomat, invited the Monsignor to say grace. He did so with consummate brevity.

"For what we are about to receive, we give thanks and praise," he said and left it at that!

The dinner conversation was as light as it was bright, the food delicious, the wine agreeable and it was apparent that the evening was going along splendidly. Several times, Allison and Michael glanced at each other, each thrilled to be near the other. But if the truth be known, both were also relieved that for the time being, the company present protected them from each other, from rash impulsiveness and subsequent regret. Even when the subject turned to religion, wise heads prevailed. It began with Sam asking the Monsignor the reason for his visit to Australia. Henri avoided any mention of the relics. He preferred to generalize about seeing old friends and the like. It was Amy who inadvertently spilled the beans.

"Have you come for Grandma's casket?" she asked innocently. The question came from out of the blue and Henri looked at her with kind and gentle eyes, deciding instantly not to conceal the truth of his visit.

"Yes, my child. I have come for the casket."

Father Michael then leapt to Henri's assistance, diverting the need for any detailed description of the casket's contents.

"Father James brought some relics associated with a 17th century saint back from his last trip to France and lent them to Maud," he told the group. "The Monsignor was coming to Australia anyway and it was convenient for him to take them back with him," Michael explained.

"What are they?" Harry asked.

"Just some apparel and papers," Michael replied.

"I don't believe in any of that stuff," Sam said boisterously but without malice.

"It's not for everyone," Henri agreed.

"Grandma said it was special," Amy said unexpectedly.

Unwilling to have Amy drawn into a theological discussion, Allison made a move to clear the table and prepare for sweets.

"Amy darling, can you help me with the table and then we can bring in our special surprise," she said, her eyes sparkling. Amy's eye's lit up and the two of them withdrew from the discussion and attended to the dishes and plates.

"I'm feeling that belief in the supernatural is on the decline these days," Sam said as he took a sip of wine.

"Belief in God?" Henri asked.

"God, yes, Jesus as the Son of God, that too," Sam replied.

"Belief in God has always been on the defensive," Michael suggested.

"What is it that you believe, Sam?" the Monsignor asked. Michael suddenly became very nervous. He had no idea what Sam would say to Henri, but knew that it would be forthright and probably heretical. Once more, he questioned his own wisdom in bringing the Monsignor to dine with them. He was right on the first two counts, but not on the third.

"Well, Monsignor," Sam began.

"Please," the Monsignor interrupted. "Call me Henri."

"Thank you, Henri. Well, as a general rule when faced with an unprovable hypothesis, I opt for the law of probability and plausibility. Is it likely, I ask myself, that a thirty-year-old male religious teacher in first century Palestine, married, had children and lived a community life, led a revolt against the ruling class and got himself crucified, and caused his family to flee? I think that's easier to believe than that of a thirty-year-old male religious teacher in first century Palestine, who walked on water, raised people up from the dead, claimed he was God and got himself crucified only to rise up again three days later and ascend into heaven. The law of probability says the first hypothesis is the more likely."

"And very well put," Henri said, nodding his head. "And what of the now, well-publicised bloodline theory? What do you think of that?"

Sam stroked his face as he considered the question. "Do I believe that somewhere in the world there is someone walking around who has a direct bloodline back to Jesus? I would have to say, yes. Even if Jesus didn't marry and have children, we know that he had brothers and sisters. Some of them must have had families of their own. I believe that particular bloodline probably exists today! I also believe that somewhere in the Middle East, the skeletal bones of the man known to us as Jesus of Nazareth probably lie in some ossuary, in a cave, somewhere. I think that is probable! The rest of it, I think, is the fruit of creative imagination."

Henri nodded and smiled. "You have thought this through. I can see that. I think your answer is a good one, a practical, no nonsense answer, and the strength of it lies in the fact that I cannot say you are wrong. But that is also the strength of what Christians believe. They cannot be disproved either."

"Is that an honest position to adopt though Henri?" Harry asked.

"It depends on what one does with it," Henri replied. "If a man uses an unprovable theology to lead a life of good works and care for his fellow human beings and the world, then he is using it for good and honest reasons. If he uses his belief in a God to put value into his life then it is honest, because it has a noble purpose. It helps mankind."

"Non-believers can do that too," Harry replied. "They can use their awareness of the value and dignity of human life to lead good and productive lives. We don't need stories from ancient mythologies to construct day to day values."

"That is true, we don't, and non-believers are every bit as capable of leading good and productive lives as believers. But as long as we do not know how we came to be here, as long as it takes us to discover the origins of the big bang, then we are at liberty to speculate, to theorize about our origins. That is legitimate. Where it becomes evil is when we use our theories, our theology, to promote minority interests over the wellbeing of the majority."

"But the church has been doing that for two thousand years," Harry said.

"Sadly, yes it has. And more sadly, I suspect that it will continue to do it, but remember that within its structures there is also work of great goodness. Do we dismantle the entire structure to eradicate any evil that the church is guilty of, thus also dismantling its good works? What does that leave us with but an emptiness that would most likely be filled with something devoid of social conscience? No, the Church must always be there with all its imperfections. Within it, there is still great good, and the potential for greater good."

"Would not people benefit though, if the Church were to do away with its mystical imagery, its dogmas, its claims to be the only means of salvation, its belief in Heaven and Hell, and concentrate more on the pastoral needs of the world's citizens, keeping governments honest and the like?" Harry asked.

"Well, trying to keep governments honest is a huge task, Harry, and clearly we are not very good at it. The church has always struggled to keep pace with social evolution. It is social evolution that threatens it survival, but, I suspect if we were to dismantle our mystical beliefs we would not improve in that area."

"But what value is there in showing devotion to these relics that you have come to collect. How do they help anyone?" Sam asked.

Henri paused a moment to consider his answer.

"You ask me what is the significance of the relics that I have come to take back with me. It is that they give people something to believe, which in turn gives them hope. For where are we without hope?"

"But we have classic examples over the centuries, where believing in something mystical, has caused overly pious people to impose their will on others and cause monumental disaster and tragedy."

"That is because they misinterpreted the object of their beliefs; where their beliefs were designed to lead them. Their minds had become corrupted in the darkness of the mystery. They had lost their way and cried out for guidance. They were like children who wanted something they could not have. They were determined to pursue their faith even into the abyss because they were driven by a false interpretation. Such people exist today and we have to help them. We have to help them reinterpret their beliefs and restore their mental balance and in turn restore their happiness," Henri replied, as Allison and Amy returned with their surprise offering of the evening.

"Happiness is a subjective thing though. What makes me happy isn't necessarily what makes you happy," Sam suggested.

"Happiness," Allison interrupted, "comes from having someone to love," she said, looking at Michael, while giving Sam a gentle clip across the head. For a brief moment, Allison and Michael looked toward each other, barely hiding their secret.

Henri agreed. "Is that not the truth of it, gentlemen? Love is the answer to everything, is it not? That is why John says in his letter, 'God is love.' Is this not what we all want in our world?"

Ever the diplomat, Henri skilfully diverted attention away from Allison and Michael and looked delightedly at the special surprise Amy presented to him.

"And what do we have here, young lady?" he asked, as she placed a bowl of ice cream and strawberries in front of him.

"This is Amy's contribution to the evening. She prepared this herself," Allison said proudly.

"That's my little pumpkin," Harry said, as Amy beamed.

Taking a mouthful of ice cream, Henri showed his approval with a delighted expression. He looked down on Amy's happy face and then across to Allison.

"She is a delightful child, Allison, a credit to you. I'm sure she will do very well on the parish float tomorrow."

"And what are we doing this year, little pumpkin?" Harry asked.

"It's a secret," Amy replied. "Father Michael said we are not to tell."

"That's right," Allison said in support. "You'll all have to wait and see."

After dinner, Michael and Allison found themselves together but not by chance. Amid the ebb and flow of people and conversation that seemed to go on endlessly, she slipped him a note that read, 'the back porch'. Contrary to Allison's expectations, her father and Sam did not retire to the Bush Bar Hotel after dinner. It seemed they were so taken with the Monsignor, they discovered a different kind of intoxication. Michael left them in deep theological discussion about the validity of the decisions of the Council of Nicaea and the heresy of Arius. He found Allison out the back, feeding the cat. She turned around as Michael came out. He hesitated momentarily before coming to her. She put down the plate of milk and he took her in his arms. In the half light of the back porch, he thought she looked beautiful. They clung to each other tightly, neither speaking. In the background, only the muffled voices of the men inside could be heard, as each felt the warmth of the other, each other's heart racing madly, each taking deeper breaths to keep pace. Moments ticked by as they remained locked together, until Michael found words. Nervous and excited, he could find only something very mundane to break the silence.

"If I have to listen to anymore theology tonight, I'll go mad," he said.

She giggled nervously.

"I'm so glad you brought him," she replied, referring to Henri. "He has captivated those two in there. I've never seen Daddy so interested in religion before."

"Your father's a good man," Michael replied. "He's a thinker. There are not many left these days. Sam's a thinker too. No wonder Father James has a problem with them. They won't accept simple answers."

"Well," she said, releasing him and looking at him closely as they relaxed in each others company. "What are we going to do now?"

"I'm not sure if I've done the right thing," he confessed.

"About what?" she asked.

"The Monsignor knows," Michael said.

"He knows what?" Allison asked.

"He knows that I have feelings for you."

"Michael!" she frowned.

"What?"

"You told him that? You haven't even told me that you have feelings for me yet."

Michael was embarrassed. He was not experienced in the ways of love. He had blundered. He didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry. I'm in uncharted waters here. I just assumed."

"Then assume nothing, kind sir," she said, relaxing her frown but asserting herself. "If you have something to say to me," she continued, pressing herself softly against him, "then say it to me now."

Michael felt an exhilaration he never knew existed; the warmth, the arousal, the tenderness, the awareness that it was real; that this was not a moment of fantasy. The woman he thought he loved was here next to him, pressing against him, gently, persuasively. This was all the encouragement he needed.

"I can't get you out of my mind," he began.

"Yes," she answered, looking into his eyes. "Come on, you can do better than that."

"I want to be with you all the time," he said nervously.

"Yes, that's nice," she teased. "What else?"

"It feels like love, but I've never felt this way before, so how am I to know?"

Allison considered his lack of experience.

"Hmm, yes that's true. But you're doing all right. Keep going."

"I don't know what to do?"

She placed her arms around his neck and he held her by the waist.

"Would you like to kiss me?"

"Oh, yes," he almost begged.

"Oh, by the way, I told my father about us," she said. The words jolted him.

"Allison?"

"What?"

"What did you tell him?"

"That I had feelings for you."

"Excuse me!"

"What?"

"You told him that? You haven't told me that you have feelings for me yet."

"Oh shut up, you fool," she said, grinning widely.

With that, she took his face in her hands, drawing him close to her. Their lips met in a soft, tender union. Then she drew back slightly.

"Michael, when you kiss me this time, open your mouth. It works better that way."

He did as she asked and they came together once more. He felt her tongue move inside his mouth. 'Mother of God!' It was the most erotic moment he had ever experienced, and he wanted it to last forever. The forbidden embrace lasted beyond the embrace they shared earlier that day. This time they were not responding to an impulsive urge. This time they were deliberate and passionate and both of them wanted to let the magnificent moment last as long as possible.

Inside, the three men continued their in-depth theological discussion and Amy had settled herself in front of the television set in the forlorn hope that she might find some children's programme on at eleven o' clock at night. Instead, it was the late night news service from Sydney. As Sam was speaking, Henri looked over to the television and was visibly shaken when his eye caught sight of a picture of the casket on the television news service.

"Amy," he said, pointing to the TV. "Could you turn it up please?" he asked.

Amy grabbed the remote control and pressed the volume button, and everyone listened in stunned silence as the news presenter reported....

"The art community worldwide is tonight closely monitoring advice from a French source that a 17th century casket and manuscript have been stolen from an unnamed collector and taken out of the country, possibly to Australia. Police around the world are reportedly watching the internet eagerly; hoping to crack down on what they say is a highly lucrative black-market trading of antiquities worldwide. Officers working on the case will visit museums and collectors, placing a great deal of pressure on those who have a history of purchasing illegal pieces without having verified their origins."

"Mon Dieu," Henri exclaimed as he stood up in shock. "So now it is out in the open?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"It appears there is someone in our organization in France who has decided to go public about the casket." Henri answered.

"You know about these two items?" Harry asked.

"Yes, Harry," he answered resignedly. "These are the two items I have come to recover. Father Michael and I know that Father James has both of them in his possession. He would never consider passing them on into the hands of antiquities dealers, but my colleagues in France are trying to warn the collectors off, just in case, I think."

"But you said Father James borrowed the casket. I take it that wasn't quite true," Sam said. Henri felt embarrassed. "I'm afraid I haven't been completely forthright with you. I didn't want to become bogged down in complicated explanations. Father James stole the casket and the manuscript that accompanies it. He has them and I have come to recover them," he said to them, suddenly showing signs of the strain he was suffering. Harry understood and helped him feel more at ease.

"Henri, we won't embarrass you about this matter any further. But if you run into trouble, I have a friend in Melbourne who deals in antiquities. If she can be of any help to you, should you need any assistance in that area, you only have to ask."

"That is very kind of you Harry, but I don't think it will come to that. Father James has been asked to return the casket and the manuscript to me, and I expect that sooner or later he will see the futility of his actions and comply," he answered. "But I thank you just the same for the offer."

"Well, Henri," Sam offered. "If you want, Harry and I are not beyond waltzing around to where ever Father James is now, and just taking the casket back, if that would be of any help to you."

"No, please. I appreciate the offer Sam, but I think diplomacy is what is required here. Now however, I think Father Michael and I should not extend our visit and Allison's hospitality any further. This has been a most enjoyable evening. I have not been outside the city before. There is an altogether different atmosphere in village life. It is the same in France. I spend too much time in Paris. I should learn to spend more time relaxing in the Ardèche, I think," he added, looking out into the kitchen for Michael and Allison, just as they heard the back door close and Allison's voice.

"Amy, I think it's time you were in bed. Come along sweetie and we'll get you ready." Moments later, Michael entered the room.

"You missed all the excitement," Sam said. "The Monsignor's casket was on television." Michael looked at Henri.

"It's all right Michael. I will talk with you about it on the way back to the presbytery. For now, I would like to retire for the evening."

"Certainly Henri," Michael said.

Despite Michael's initial misgivings, the evening had been a resounding success: an excellent meal, stimulating conversation, a romantic moment on the back porch. Both Henri and Michael thanked Allison, said goodnight to everyone and made their way back to the presbytery. Sam and Harry by-passed the Bush Bar Hotel and made their way back to the farm. Everyone felt good. They had no idea what was to come.

## 28.

Saturday came and a clear sky heralded the beginning of the biggest day on Monterey Creek's limited calendar of major events. The townsfolk stirred at the sound of dogs barking, roosters crowing and the occasional truck driving through the main street heading for Remembrance Park, loaded with a marquee that needed to be erected. As well, stalls needed to be set up, and loud speakers mounted around the perimeter.

Brian Wayne was up preparing an early breakfast before opening the service station. There would be many visitors in town today, some coming from considerable distances. They would need petrol at some stage to complete the return journey. While the kettle boiled, he knocked on Joshua's bedroom door and gently opened it, expecting to find him in bed. The room was empty. The bed sheets were ruffled. The bed had been slept in, but with Joshua, one could never be sure on what day. He never made his bed.

Brian called out, thinking he was either in the bathroom or the toilet. There was no answer. He took a cursory look around the room and his eye caught sight of one of Joshua's paintings stored just inside the open wardrobe. He moved across the room to take a closer look. The image on the canvas was that of a young woman sitting naked on the ground in front of a large Monterey pine. The face in the painting was unmistakeable. Brian was taken back. The quality of the art was noteworthy, yet it was the girl in the painting that troubled him. As he stood there looking, somewhat shocked, he heard the back door open. He waited, holding the painting. Moments later, Joshua entered, to find his father standing there, canvas in hand. The two looked at each other.

"Where have you been?" Brian asked, as he was entitled to but with the good sense to know that his son was of age.

"I stayed overnight with a mate," Joshua answered tentatively.

Brian would deal with his answer in good time. His principal interest for the moment lay with the painting.

"Did you paint this?" he asked.

"Yes," Joshua answered as he moved forward to look at the portrait.

"This is Sarah Millstock," Brian said.

"Yes."

"When did you do this?"

"Last Thursday."

Brian was uncertain how to handle his son's painting. He knew it was an important part of his life, but Sarah Millstock was the daughter of his friend and fellow businessman, Mark Millstock.

"Does Sarah's father know you have painted this?"

"No," Joshua answered. "I was planning on taking this and a few others to a gallery in Melbourne later this afternoon. They are having an exhibition for new artists, starting on Monday, and I have applied to enter. They said I would have to have the paintings there by tomorrow to give them time to set things up. I thought I would go down this afternoon and stay with Uncle Albert."

"Paintings?"

"They want two per artist. One portrait and one landscape! I have this one, the one I did last week above the cemetery, and two others I completed last year. I thought I'd take them all and let them choose."

"Well, keep this one out of sight until you go. I don't think Mark would be overjoyed at this."

"Do you like it?" Joshua asked, hoping for some measure of recognition from his father.

Sensitive to his son's feeling about art, Brian took a moment to consider his opinion.

"As a piece of art it's very attractive. I'm not qualified to say if it's good, son. I like it, if that's any guide for you, but I don't think you can put it on display anywhere near here."

Joshua was pleased.

"No one around here will see it. Painting is what I want to do, Dad. You know that don't you? I'm not cut out for service station work!"

"I know," his father answered. "I just don't know how you will be able to afford it, or make a living from it," he replied sympathetically. "Have you called Uncle Albert and asked him?"

"Yes, he's fine with it."

"I guess I'll have to be at the service station this afternoon then. I was hoping to go to the festival."

"Sorry Dad. You can still go. I wasn't planning to leave until about four."

"You'd better go earlier than that. It's a six to seven hour trip. I don't like the idea of you getting in after dark," Brian said. Joshua nodded, "Okay then."

"You work until you're ready to go. Then close up. I'll come back later and re-open if I think it's worth it. Now, about last night! This mate you spent the night with. Her name wouldn't be Sarah would it?"

Joshua was stumped for words.

"I didn't come down in the last hail storm son. What's going on between you two?"

Joshua shrugged his shoulders. He found it difficult to express his feelings for Sarah to his father.

"You didn't stay at her place did you?"

"No." he answered.

"Where?"

"We sat outside her place in the car and talked for hours. Then we fell asleep. Nothing happened. We just fell asleep. When we woke up, Sarah went inside. That's all. Nobody was awake. It's all right."

"I don't know what your mother would have said about this," Brian said. The mention of his mother caused Joshua to reflect on his work as an artist.

"I paint best at the cemetery; when I know she's close," he said. Both men went silent, unable to find appropriate words to express the void each felt.

"You'd better come and have some breakfast. I'm going to need your help this morning with all the traffic coming into town. You'd better get Timothy up. He's needed on the float."

At 25 Terry Street, Allison Baker lay in bed alone, although she wished it were otherwise. The previous evening was everything she had hoped for, and then some. She had dined with Michael, entertained a visiting dignitary from France, kept her father and his boozy mate from going to the Bush Bar Hotel and found time and space to nestle in the arms of the man she loved. She had expressed herself in a different way from when they had danced a year ago. She recalled that evening with great warmth and wondered why it had taken this long for she and Michael to find each other. Realizing her feelings went back that far, and further, feelings kept to herself all this time, she now felt the thrill of a fresh new spirit let loose. She dared to allow her feelings the freedom to dream the forbidden dream; of she and Michael together as man and wife, a family even, a brother or sister for Amy. Irrational as that dream might have seemed, the thought itself was intoxicating, and even though she realized it was irrational, she didn't care. For the moment, the dream would be sustained.

At the presbytery, Father Michael was in bed but had been awake for hours, his mind spinning from the events of the previous evening. He was experiencing emotional upheaval. All he could think about was Allison. Every moment was overtaken with thoughts of Allison. Time had been temporarily suspended as her image remained a permanent fixture in his mind, blocking out all else. Thoughts of the day, the preparations for the float, saying ten o' clock mass, the festival ahead, broke through occasionally only to be swept aside by her recurring image. With her image came the sound of her voice, supported by the scent of her perfume still embedded deep within the pores of his skin. Fear, too, enveloped him, fear that comes with journeys into the unknown, but with that too, the knowledge that the source of his emotion, his fear, his restlessness, was Allison. The very recognition of that, gave him a rush of adrenalin so strong, that probably for the very first time in his life, he felt he was truly alive. He finally dragged himself out of bed and prepared for the day ahead. His first task after breakfast was to check on the progress of the float. He found the Monsignor already helping himself in the kitchen to fresh fruit followed by some cold meat slices and Swiss cheese on a fresh bread roll he had bought when he had gone for a stroll around the town an hour earlier.

"How you can eat that, at this time of the day I'll never know," Michael said holding his stomach at the sight.

"I considered myself lucky to find this here in the outback. I'm quite impressed." Henri answered.

"Well, this isn't quite what we refer to as the outback, but I take your point. Just the same we usually have that for lunch."

"There seems to be a lot of activity in the street this morning. This festival is very involved, no?"

"Involved, yes," Michael grinned. "I have to check on our parish float and then get back for ten o' clock mass. I'd better get a move on."

"If you wouldn't mind, my friend, today is the Feast of Saint Margaret Mary. I would regard it as a personal favour if you allowed me to say mass at ten this morning," Henri suggested.

Michael was relieved. His mind was in another place and in truth he didn't want to say mass today. He was more than pleased that the Monsignor had made the request.

"Yes, of course. By all means," he answered. His mind grappled with the events of the previous evening. No, he had not committed a mortal sin. He was still in the state of grace. He had certainly given into the temptation of holding and kissing a beautiful woman, and in all probability put himself at risk of serious compromise in respect of his vow of celibacy, but no, he was still in the state of grace. He didn't need to ask the Monsignor to hear his confession. But still, he did not wish to say mass.

"Michael, can I just say to you that I am enormously impressed with your friend Allison and her father," Henri continued. "Even Sam represents a challenge to current theological beliefs. They are good people. I can see all too clearly how you could become attracted to her. I hope somehow this matter can be satisfied to the greater glory of God, whatever He might be calling you to do."

It was an unexpected and generous gesture by his guest and Michael appreciated his comforting words.

"Thank you Henri," Michael replied. "Right now, I needed that."

"If I can help you with any advice, you only have to ask. Beyond that, I will say no more."

"Thank you Henri. I will hold you to that."

"Now," Henri added, "what are our plans after mass?"

It was their joint assessment that Father James had taken the casket from Michael's bedroom and was planning some sort of presentation at the festival that would involve Amy. Henri realized that recovering the casket successfully was in itself likely to trigger another problem, that of how to manage Father James in the aftermath. Together, they discussed each possible contingency and the action they planned to take, given any eventuality.

Further down the road, Dorothy Proctor was up early too, dragging herself from the kettle to the toaster as she prepared breakfast for her guest. For as long as she could remember, she had never entertained a man in her house, let alone allow one to stay overnight. Father James had now spent two nights under her roof. She had now endured two restless nights, kept awake by the relentless sound of his snoring from downstairs. She was also slightly disturbed by the sight of a knotted rope among Father James belongings. She had heard stories about priests with knotted ropes over the years and the prospect that Father James had such an item in his possession bothered her, and contributed to an uncomfortable night.

It was October 17th, the Feast day of Saint Margaret Mary and, earlier, Father James had made up a makeshift altar in Dorothy's lounge room beneath the picture of the Sacred Heart. She had knelt unsteadily trying to stay awake as he said mass. On the table he placed the open casket daring not to touch the contents. He placed the manuscript alongside and at the consecration he genuflected twice, once for the host and then the wine. Hesitating for a moment, he then committed himself to genuflect once more, paying homage to the contents of the casket before continuing.

At breakfast, of cereal and toast with coffee, they discussed their plans for the day. Dorothy would call the television station in Sydney to make sure they were coming. Father James would work on his speech, or was it homily, on what he planned to say at the festival.

"I'll speak from the parish float with the statue of Our Lady of Fatima behind me," he said. Dorothy looked perplexed.

"Andrew, they won't have the Statue float this year," she said

"What do you mean?" he asked confused. "That is the parish float," he insisted.

"Father Michael had a different idea this time," she said tentatively, knowing that her words would upset him.

"What?"

"He has arranged for a non-denominational, multi-cultural type float with representatives of all religions, cultures and faiths from the area," she said, biting her lip. He looked at her in disbelief. He looked down at his planned speech and back up again. It had not occurred to him that anything would have changed. He twitched his mouth. Silence permeated the air, until he recovered.

"How long has this been going on?" he asked.

"Well, we are sort of moving along with the times, Andrew."

"All right then. What else is there?" he asked abruptly.

"Well, there will be a stage where the band will play music during the day. You could use that."

Father James thought Dorothy's idea through.

"Is it elevated? Will they be able to see me, hear me?" he asked.

"Oh yes, you will be very visible," she answered, hoping he would accept the change magnanimously. There was a further silence, while he absorbed the changes to his original plan.

"Well then," he said finally. "If that's all there is, then that will have to do."

Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief. She knew how difficult Father James could be on some issues, how obstinate, how pig-headed, but fortunately on this occasion common sense prevailed and she quickly moved along to discuss other items.

"I will be travelling to Melbourne this afternoon," he said to her. "I am taking the relics to Opus Dei where they will be safe, just in case something happens to me."

"Why Melbourne, Andrew?" Dorothy asked. "Why not return to Sydney and leave them with Opus Dei there?"

"I know the people in Melbourne personally. I will be able to explain things to them more easily, and eliminate any confusion."

"Are you planning to drive then?" she asked.

"Yes, I was, but I'm not sure now. It's a long way. I will arrive late. Perhaps I should think about the train. At least that way I can rest. I'd have to get a lift to Hampton Bells though."

"That's a better idea. I don't think it would be wise to be driving at night at your age. Besides, we don't know how your address today is going to be received. You might be needed to appear on television," she said, full of optimism. "The television people will probably offer to take you across to the station at Hampton Bells as a celebrity."

"Well, I don't know about that. If it all works as we plan, then Our Lady will be the celebrity. But I take your point just the same. You go down to Remembrance Park on your own. I will pack up my things and load them into the car. If I get a lift to Hampton Bells, I can transfer everything across, or I could drive to Hampton Bells Station in my own car, leave it there and pick it up on the way back. It works both ways, so you go to the park on your own and I will follow at the appropriate time."

Dorothy nodded in agreement. By the time they had been through the finer points of his speech and understood what they wanted to achieve, they truly believed that by the end of the day, the world, or at least their part of it, would know that the hour of the Lord was at hand.

Two hours later, the rear car park of the presbytery was a beehive of activity. Mark Millstock had arrived earlier with his tray truck all clean and now undergoing a substantial make-over. The children's creativity, enthused everybody as the truck was slowly transformed into a mobile stage depicting the different religions and cultures represented in the area. It was Father Michael's initial idea but it provided the young people with opportunities to demonstrate their artistic skills and deliver a project with professionalism and pride. Allison brought Amy, Brian Wayne brought young Timothy. Several other children, of Middle-eastern, Indian and Asian background, stood with their parents. Brian looked his usual nervous and dithering self, standing with Allison who was trying to concentrate on Father Michael's instructions instead of just Father Michael.

Around the town, other community and commercial float preparations were taking place, all conscious of assembling at the far end of town where the procession would begin at midday. The local schools participated, the farm machinery agency from Hampton Bells, the fire brigade, the town brass band, the police and a well rehearsed group of marching girls complete with batons and clubs. The shops in the main street were decked with potted spring colour, bunting was erected above the roadway and local organisations displayed themed floral arrangements.

At Remembrance Park, most of the stands were in place from the night before. Carnival rides, food and souvenir stalls began to take shape. The Merry-go-round was installed and working, special farm produce stalls reflected the sheep and cattle district, and an art exhibition catered for the discerning eye. Colourful signs directing the crowds to the various games and contests of skill went up everywhere: the fireman tug of war, the teenage karaoke, the father and son potato-sack race, the wood chopping contest and tractor pulling. There was a frog and turtle race and a puppet show for the children, a hula hoop contest and, for the less tasteful, a pie-eating and bubblegum-blowing competition, organized by Alice Eastward. And everywhere, flowers graced the exhibits and food stalls. Daffodils, camellias, native plants, cut flowers, shrubs, pot plants and small trees together with fruit and vegetables. The committee members of the flower show were setting up in the marquee. Soon eager contestants would file in with their entry to be put on display. All events were free, with only food and souvenirs draining the purse.

Experts in floral preparation were on hand, setting up their information points around the marquee to advise budding green fingers on selection, planting, pest control and care of their favourite flower, inspiring even the most apprehensive gardener with the motivation to reach for the secateurs. For the residents of Monterey Creek, this was their day of the year.

Father James waved goodbye to Dorothy as she drove off in her car, heading for Remembrance Park. She had promised to help Alice Eastward at the pie stall until she was needed elsewhere.

"I won't be far behind you," Father James called out as she moved off. "I'll just pack up a few things and get some petrol, then come down to the park."

He was uncertain whether she heard him or not, but it didn't matter. He had one or two things to tidy up before joining her at the festival, but they had covered every item on their agenda and there was no reason for Dorothy to wait any longer. He went back inside the house and packed some clothes he had purchased the day before into a suitcase loaned to him by Dorothy. When he was ready, he took a few moments to pray. He knelt down alongside the lounge chair, using it for support, joining his hands together, and looking up to the picture of the Sacred Heart, he began to speak to his God.

"Lord give me the strength I need to complete your will today," he said out loud. He then bowed his head and prayed silently for several minutes. Then, still on his knees, he removed his shirt and singlet exposing an upper body covered with several red marks in a patterned formation across his white skinned and bony back. Taking up the knotted rope he had brought with him, he again bowed his head and prayed silently. He then flung the knotted rope over his back several times, each time wincing as the sting of the rope registered, each time a new red mark appearing diagonally across his fragile skin. Between each self-administered lash, he took a deep breath, for although the lash was not powerful and did not draw blood, neither was his frail body able to continually withstand its impact. When finished, he paused once more in meditation, then rose up unsteadily and sat for a few minutes, allowing his delicate frame to settle and absorb the punishment. When satisfied his body had recovered, he stood up. Taking a further moment to adjust his balance he continued with his preparations for the afternoon journey. He placed the casket and the manuscript in a travel bag he kept in his car and loaded up the rest of his belongings. Having decided to take the train to Melbourne that afternoon, he left the house and drove to Brian Wayne's service station, to fill up.

## 29.

The festival had begun and the float procession paraded down the main street with well-wishers, families of participants, visitors and town's people shouting and waving over the deafening oompa-pa of the brass band. The town was full of day-tourists and gardening enthusiasts from as far away as Melbourne. The Hampton Bells television service was set up in the town, covering the procession down the main street. As each float passed by, occupants waving to the crowd, the cameras beamed their smiling faces live to the surrounding community. The local bank float passed through, winning some free publicity, likewise the farm machinery franchise, the fuel companies, and every other commercial enterprise keen to splash their name and products across thousands of square kilometres of viewing exposure. But the community floats gained the greatest accolades. Rotary, Lions and Apex all colourfully decked out and displaying their activities in brightly painted signs, each with the bright smiling faces of girls and boys, who waved from the floats.

The floats followed the trail down the main street until they reached Remembrance Park and each filed past the Anzac Memorial into the park where the main attractions were set up and already catering to the crowds pouring in. Father Michael greeted well-wishers as he and Monsignor Pascal strolled into the grounds. The day had been blessed with warm sunshine.

"Excellent float, Father," one lady said, as she passed by the two men. "As a protestant, it's a welcome change I have to say."

"Thank you," he replied. "When it's all said and done we are all just one community really, aren't we?" he answered. Henri was taken with the spirit of the gathering.

"This is a credit to your village," he said. "I am deeply impressed."

"Actually, we don't call this a village, Henri. It's a town. Too big for a village, too small for a city," he laughed, as the two men wandered through.

"Do you think Father James is here somewhere?" Henri asked.

"I can't say but I think I see Dorothy Proctor over there at the pie stall, so perhaps we should wander over and ask her," he answered.

Joshua Wayne was at his father's service station, on duty inside at the console and watched as Father James drove onto the apron. Father James moved unsteadily from the car to the pump to serve himself. Joshua recognized the old man and even though it had been some time since he had last heard him bellowing out his peculiar brand of dogmatic, punishment oriented, Catholicism, he still remembered the negative effects it prompted and a feeling of discomfort filtered through his bloodstream. He looked at his watch and wished it were time to close up and start the long drive to Melbourne, but it was only one o' clock. He would have to wait another hour to keep faith with his father.

Father James finished filling the car and walked slowly into the sales lounge. He was weary, his eyes wandering aimlessly around the sales area as if searching for something. Joshua tried to assist him.

"Is there something you want, Father?" he asked.

Father James looked up, surprised that he had been recognized.

"Who's that?" he asked vaguely, straining his eyes.

"It's Joshua Wayne, Father."

"Joshua Wayne. Well, my goodness, so it is," Father James replied as he approached the counter. "I would not have recognized you. You have grown up, young man. My goodness!"

Joshua was slightly embarrassed. "Yes, I suppose I have. Is there something else you wanted?" he asked again.

"No, I don't think so. I'm off to Melbourne this afternoon but I'm needed down at the festival. I have an important matter to attend to first."

"Perhaps you were looking for something to nibble while you drive?" Joshua suggested.

"No, I've decided not to drive. It's too far. I'm going to take the train. That way I can have a little sleep along the way."

"I'm driving down to Melbourne today too," Joshua said innocently.

"Is that so! When are you leaving, do you know?"

"This afternoon, Father. I'll be closing up here in about an hour," Joshua replied.

"Well now, do you have friends down there?"

"No Father. I'm an artist. I have some of my work going on show at a gallery on Monday. I have to have it down there by tomorrow."

"Well, congratulations. That's a fine achievement for one so young. So, when exactly were you planning on leaving then," Father James asked, realizing an opportunity to avoid both driving and taking the train was possible.

"In about an hour, Father."

"Well, indeed! Perhaps you could drive me down and save me the trouble of taking the car out to Hampton Bells station. I could leave it here."

Joshua suddenly realized that he had been backed into a corner. As much as the prospect of having Father James for company on his journey did not appeal to him, he felt intimidated and unable to say no.

"Er, well, umm, er, yes I suppose so," he answered, unconvincingly. Father James was delighted.

"Well, that's marvellous. Although I don't want to be a burden to you lad. Are you sure it will be all right?"

"Er, yes, Father. That will be okay," Joshua answered, sounding decidedly reluctant.

"Well then, I'd better pay you for the petrol first. Then maybe I could leave my luggage in your car. I could then go down to the park, do what I have to do and come back in an hour. How does that sound?"

"That sounds all right, Father," Joshua replied now resigning himself to the inevitable.

"I would feel much better if I left my luggage with you. I have some very important items there and I'd hate the thought of someone down at the park coming along to an unattended vehicle like mine and stealing something. You will be here all the time won't you?"

"Yes, Father. I'll be here until I leave for Melbourne."

"Excellent. Then let me get my luggage and we can put it in your car now."

As Father James returned to his car, Joshua kicked the floor underneath him. He was looking forward to a peaceful drive, listening to his favourite music, enjoying a quiet meal along the way. The anticipation of all that, had now evaporated. He would have to host the old man for the next seven hours or so, engaging in conversation that he felt would be dull, lifeless and boring. Father James began to remove his luggage and Joshua reluctantly came out to open up his station-wagon. His paintings were sitting neatly stacked on the back seat and he didn't want to disturb them. He opened the rear of the wagon to accommodate the priest's luggage. Father James placed his two bags in the back.

"I'll just leave my coat on the backseat if that's all right?" he asked Joshua.

"That's fine, Father."

As Father James opened the back door, he noticed the paintings.

"Are these your work?" he asked.

"Yes father."

"Oh, well, I'd love to have a look at them. I have an eye for good art, you know."

Joshua suddenly felt flattered. He was always willing to show his work and take note of any advice he received, particularly if it came from someone whose opinion he valued. He had no idea whether Father James was a qualified art critic or not, but as an artist, Joshua wore his heart on his sleeve and any opinion was better than none. He carefully took out his four paintings to show the old priest. On the top was a landscape of the Monterey Creek cemetery. Father James recognized the scene immediately, but took his time looking at the work.

"Well, now, this is a fine piece of work. Yes, indeed."

Joshua was delighted. Someone other than family was appraising his work and it was positive. Father James continued to examine the landscape.

"Yes, this is very good. You have captured the contrasting colours very well here. You have brought the place alive, if you'll pardon the pun," he joked. Joshua had never heard Father James joke before and warmed to his constructive comments.

"What else have you got?" he asked as he turned up the second painting. Suddenly his mood changed. The next painting was the nude portrait of Sarah Millstock. He stared at the work in silence, then began to twitch uneasily.

"What's this?" he asked stunned. "What have you done here?"

"It's a nude, Father," Joshua answered, sensing a change in the old man's attitude, an attitude that sounded decidedly negative.

"It's an important part of the painting process," he said nervously. "Painting the human body is an art in itself and requires a different approach from that of a landscape," he added proudly.

"This isn't art," Father James interrupted. "This is filth," he said.

"No, no Father, you don't understand. This is true art."

Father James went silent for a moment. He began twitching his face again, shaking his head, all the time becoming more and more agitated.

"This is not art, young man," he persisted. "This is decadent immorality in one of its worse forms."

"No, Father, you don't understand," Joshua tried to explain, as he became increasingly anxious to defend his work.

"Don't tell me I don't understand, lad," Father James snapped. "I understand all too well. This is what's wrong with society today. We are ignoring the teaching of Christ to be pure of heart. We read and write what we like, we paint what we like, oblivious to the temptations that images such as this present to others."

As he spoke, Father James appeared more agitated and irrational. "The body is the temple of the Holy Spirit lad, and you have the audacity to defile this young woman's good name. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I know this girl, don't I? This is the young Millstock girl. She's just a child. What in the name of Jesus have you done, boy?"

A feeling of horror filled Joshua's entire body. In his mind the old man could only see one thing and nothing he could say would change him. Where Joshua saw art, the priest saw moral decadence. Where Joshua saw beauty, Father James saw sinful exposure. As Father James became more and more agitated, he began pacing up and down around the rear of Joshua's car, waving his hands about, shaking and wielding the painting in the air as he continued ranting.

"Did you force this poor girl to be your subject?" Father James snapped.

"No Father, she wanted to do it," he replied.

"So then, she too has fallen to the charms of Satan," he pronounced.

As Joshua tried to answer, a car pulled onto the service station driveway.

"Please Father, would you put the painting back. I have to serve this car. I'll be back in a minute," he said. Father James remained silent. Joshua went inside to activate the self-serve pump from the console. He was anxious now, on the point of becoming distraught. Father James had destroyed the ambience that prevailed earlier. Joshua had been looking forward to his drive to Melbourne. Now he was depressed, dejected and disheartened as he waited for the customer to enter the sales lounge to pay for his purchase. He looked across toward Father James who had walked around to the blind side of Joshua's wagon. The customer finished filling his car and came inside to pay. Moments later, as Joshua attended to him, Father James peered inside the door and called out.

"I'm going down to the park now lad. I'll be back in about forty-five minutes and we'll talk some more. Don't be too disheartened at my reaction. You'll see that I'm right when I return."

Joshua was still in a state of shock, but also relieved that the old man was going. He completed the credit card transaction for the customer and watched Father James drive away.

'Fuck you,' he thought. 'I'm not waiting for you. I'm leaving now!'

As soon as the customer drove off, Joshua, distraught and upset, emptied out the cash till and placed the money in the safe in the back room, just below the shelf where his father's rifle rested. He then quickly shut down the lubrication bay doors and began to bring the exterior point of sale items inside. As he did, he noticed something amiss. Walking slowly toward his wagon, his heart pumping furiously, he saw something hanging from the external radio aerial. As he drew closer, his heart sank. He saw his canvas of Sarah Millstock hanging from the aerial, spiked in the middle, the aerial piercing the left eye of his subject. He stood there speechless, every inch of his body aching with shock and horror. His painting, his beautiful painting destroyed in one senseless, spiteful act of irrational anger.

He stood there, speechless, his anger building to the point where he could contain it no longer.

"You fucking bastard," he screamed out loud, before dropping to his knees and sobbing uncontrollably.

## 30.

It was around twelve-thirty in the afternoon when the television crew from Sydney arrived. They were responding to a call made by Dorothy Proctor the day before and from the information given, they were expecting to film some sort of Pentecostal phenomenon. They pulled up outside Remembrance Park and three men climbed out of the Falcon station wagon. Somewhat staggered at the size of the crowd, they took a few minutes to gather their bearings. Fifteen minutes earlier, Father James had driven into the park, flustered and embarrassed over his exchange with Joshua Wayne. 'Perhaps I was too hard on the boy,' he thought. 'Perhaps I should not have damaged the painting, I will go back and apologise after I speak here,' he thought. Parking his car in the makeshift parking area, he checked that he had his speech with him and made his way briskly toward the stage, where several children including Amy Baker, were being congratulated for their efforts in the float parade. He quickly located Dorothy Proctor who had noticed him arrive and made her way across the park to meet him.

"Father Michael and that Monsignor have been looking for you," she told him.

"Where are they now?" he asked, as he continued walking.

"Somewhere about, I suppose. I told them you would be here later. I had to tell them that you stayed at my house last night."

"That doesn't matter. Don't worry about that. We are here on God's errand, Dorothy. Nothing else matters."

As she led him toward the stage, several people recognized him and said hello but he hardly noticed them.

"Do you want to speak now or wait a while? I've spoken with the Master of Ceremonies. He said you can address the crowd at any time," she said to him as they walked toward the stage.

"I want to do it now," he said abruptly. Dorothy noticed that he was unsettled. "Is everything all right, Andrew?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm all right. I just want to fulfil my role as directed by the Lord. After that, I should retire and leave. I don't want to be the focus here. That is for Amy," he said.

"But Andrew," she replied surprised. "I thought you would want to stay and answer questions afterwards."

"I don't think so!" he said. "The Lord has told me to retreat," he added, as they reached the stage. Dorothy detected an element of disquiet within him, an unsettled, unpredictable mood. She sensed something was not right but felt reluctant to pursue the matter further. She raised her hand to the MC on the stage, indicating Father James was ready. The MC nodded to her and completed his presentation to the children before moving on to announce the next item on the agenda.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Please gather around if you will. We have had a special request from a former resident of Monterey Creek to speak with you this afternoon. You all know him I'm sure and recall the fine contribution he made to the early development of our festival. I would ask that you give a very warm welcome to Father Andrew James, former parish priest of Saint Francis de Sales, who has come down from Sydney this weekend to make a special presentation, I believe."

The announcement took Father Michael and the Monsignor by surprise. On hearing the announcement they quickly made their way to the mobile stage.

"What the devil is he up to?" Michael asked.

"Let us not jump to conclusions yet," the Monsignor replied.

The television crew from Sydney made their way into the park toward the stage where Father James was about to address the crowd. Captured by the euphoria of the moment, the reporter turned to his crew.

"Start filming," Jack Smyth said to his cameraman and sound engineer. "We can edit the junk out later. Get anything you can. I'll try and find the Proctor woman."

As the crew headed toward the crowd, Dorothy Proctor, waiting for their arrival, had doubled back and intercepted Jack Smyth in his tracks.

"Are you Mister Smyth?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied. "Are you Dorothy?"

She nodded. "Father James is ready to speak. Come with me," she said and led him and the television crew toward the front of the stage.

"When ever you're ready," Jack said to his cameraman.

Father James took his time as he climbed up onto the stage to a polite but less than enthusiastic response. Unperturbed, he took the microphone in his hand and began to speak.

"Brothers and sisters, my dear brethren," he began with a shaky voice. "Thank you for your kind welcome. Gather around please. Let me speak to your hearts. Gather around please." Many who had not already gathered in front of the stage, began to make their way over.

"I come before you today with a message of great joy, great hope! The world is suffering from a crisis of meaning," he said. "We are ignoring the teachings of Jesus, our Saviour. Everywhere we are turning away from Him. We engage in all manner of evil, in politics, in commerce and in our day to day lives. We are promiscuous, we abort our unborn, we tolerate same sex couples against God's will, and we choose when we will die. The world has forgotten how to live in the sight of God. There is decadence and immorality everywhere. Everywhere fundamental truths are under attack. The world is on the edge of a cataclysmic disaster, and it is all of our own doing." Some of the crowd became unsettled. They came to have a day of fun and enjoy the community spirit, not listen to a sermon.

"Give us a break Father! This isn't Sunday," one man called out. Father James was momentarily distracted by the comment but quickly recovered.

"Better you hear this now than Sunday, lad," he responded. There was a muffled sssshhh, from the crowd as Father Michael and Monsignor Pascal edged forward to the front, where Allison was standing. Father James continued.

"The Deposit of Faith is under attack by agents of Satan who are corrupting our children. We are called to repent, to turn away from wickedness, from evil, to embrace our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. The heavy hand of God our Father is poised to come down upon us. Now, in these final days," he said lifting up one hand, "His Most Blessed Mother Mary has revealed to us one who will be her shining example to the world. A little over three hundred years ago, Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ appeared to his beloved servant Saint Margaret Mary and gave to her a gift so precious it has been guarded closely all this time, awaiting a sign that its time had come. You, all of you good people here at this wonderful Festival of the Flowers at Monterey Creek, have been selected by Almighty God to stand as witnesses to the proclamation of the consecration of one among us who has been chosen as a beacon to the whole world."

"Andrew, don't do this," Henri spoke out, audible enough for Father James to hear but ignore.

"The Child of the Light has been revealed, as promised," he pressed on. In his distorted mind, the agents of Satan were closing in upon him, trying to stop him. He raised his hand and gestured toward Amy. Allison stood there alongside Michael and Henri, shocked, as the crowd turned their attention to Amy.

"What does the old fool think he's doing?" Allison gasped, as Sarah Millstock made her way forward and stood at the front with her Father, Mark.

"The hour is at hand. People of Monterey Creek," Father James continued, beginning to show signs of weariness. "I implore you, join with me now. Let us consecrate ourselves to His Most Sacred Heart and dedicate ourselves through Amy Baker, the Child of Light, who is the one foretold in the prophecy, and that through the intercession of our sister, the most beloved Saint Margaret Mary, whose feast this day we celebrate, we will be a beacon to the world......"

Before he could continue further, Allison made her move. "Not with my daughter you won't," she cried out and hurried up onto the stage to take Amy away. Father James was momentarily distracted as Allison reached the top of the stairs.

"Get down, Father," a voice called out. "Leave the child be!"

"No, please don't," Father James called out, his voice wavering. "It is God's will that I am called to speak with you today. This day has been prophesied in a letter written by Saint Margaret Mary over three hundred years ago. This is the moment the world has been seeking. This is the day the Lord will shine His light upon us, through His chosen disciple, Amy Baker."

Concerned for Father James' mental state, Henri Pascal stepped up to the stage, followed by Michael.

"Andrew," he said softly. Father James looked at the Henri and tried to ignore him. Henri stood his ground.

"We are at the edge of the abyss," Father James cried out. "The child of light will lead us to a better world," he continued. Henri stood alongside him and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Andrew, you must stop this. You are mistaken. This is not the time."

"Our Heavenly Mother has come to announce the child of light to the world," Father James continued defiantly, his eyes now aflame with zeal. "She came with her message to Amy three days ago in the forest," he continued erratically. "Our Heavenly Mother appeared to Amy three days ago, in the forest, above the cemetery."

Sarah Millstock stood at the base of the stage shocked and astounded at his words. Unable to contain herself, she spoke out.

"That was me," she called out. A hush descended upon the crowd as those close by, then turned to look at Sarah. "What do mean, Sarah?" her father Mark, asked. Before she could answer, Father James heard Sarah's words and was momentarily distracted once more. He looked down upon Sarah and recognized her from Joshua's painting.

"Daughter of Satan," he cried out, pointing toward her and beating his breast. "Satan's forces are here trying to stop me," he called out as if given renewed strength. "People of Monterey Creek, you must listen to me. Great evil will haunt you. There is an evil plot to undermine the authority of the Church. Satan has corrupted this girl. Don't listen to her."

Allison had taken charge of Amy and began to descend the stairs with her. Father James pushed Henri aside and made a move to stop Allison from leading Amy away. Henri tried to restrain him but that only intensified his determination that Amy remain on the stage.

Television journalist Jack Smyth was standing at the foot of the stage and turned to his cameraman. "Are you getting this?" he whispered incredulously.

"Every last word," the cameraman said, as he continued to film. The sound engineer stood alongside holding the microphone up above his head.

Suddenly, the attention of the gathering was shattered. From nowhere, a single rifle shot rang out, piercing the air and sounding like the crack of a tree branch. The majority of the crowd froze, and as they did, Father James slumped to the floor on the stage. Dorothy Proctor screamed. The crowd gasped as they saw Father James lying, blood pouring from his chest. Pandemonium broke out.

"It's a terrorist attack," someone cried out. The cry sent a bolt of fear into the hearts of the crowd, starting a stampede, as each sought the refuge of the pine trees, their cars, a float, anything. Children panicked and ran in all directions until grabbed by terrified parents.

Allison hurried down the stairs with Amy.

Harry Baker came from nowhere and immediately leapt up onto the stage and grabbed Henri, pushing him to the ground and in doing so, crossed into the path of Father James. Another crack pierced the air, and Harry felt the sting of a bullet rip into his lower leg. He groaned as he clutched his leg and fell to the floor beside Father James.

Allison turned around and screamed. "Daddy!"

Harry looked down at his daughter, unable to comprehend what was happening but alert enough to fear for her, and Amy's safety. He grappled for something in his pocket as she ran toward him, still clinging tenaciously to Amy.

"Get in the car and go now," he said to her, as he handed her some keys. He looked at Father Michael who stood at her back protecting both Allison and Amy from any further assault. "Take her to Melbourne, Michael. Take them to my house and stay there. Go now, I'll be all right. Go now, quickly!"

"Daddy I can't leave you!" Allison screamed.

"Go!" he yelled. "Michael, get them out of here for Christ's sake!"

Michael placed his arm around Allison and urged her away. "We have to get away from here," he said to her. "We have to get Amy away now. Whatever is happening, she is not safe."

The two police officers attending the festival were unprepared. It took several moments for them to realize that Father James and Harry Baker had been shot. They had no idea from which direction the shots came. Their first response was to call the station. The on-site ambulance crew reacted more quickly, and, responding to the screams from the direction of the stage, they charged their MICA unit forward.

On the stage, Henri stood up and rushed over to Father James. He knelt down beside him, cradling him in his arms trying to comfort him. Father James looked up at the Monsignor.

"François," he said, gasping and holding his stomach. Henri looked confused.

"Andrew," he said. "Don't speak. Help is coming."

Father James ignored him.

"François," he continued. "It is all right. The relics are safe. I am taking them to Melbourne, to Opus Dei," he gasped. "They will look after them. Have you spoken to the members? Will they agree to change their minds?" he asked.

"Andrew, it is Henri Pascal. Don't speak. You are injured, help is coming," he said, as he felt the paramedic tap him on the shoulder.

"Let us take care of him," the paramedic said.

"You must tell the others, François," Father James continued.

The second ambulance officer tended to Harry.

"It's not bad," he said. "It's just a graze. Christ, you were lucky," he added.

Henri was still cradling Father James.

"You must lie still," he said. "Everything will be all right."

"You should let us take care of him," the paramedic said.

"Andrew, rest! These people will take care of you. I will be close by," Henri said, as he released his hold and moved aside, standing by the old man. The paramedic bent down and attempted to stop the flow of blood.

"How is he?" the second paramedic asked.

"Not good," he replied.

"Let's get him into Hampton Bells straight away. The other one is okay for the moment. Let's get them into the unit and get the Christ out of here before someone starts shooting at us."

In the panic that ensued, Jack Smyth didn't know whether to follow Allison and Amy or continue to cover the action at the stage. As he hesitated, Father Michael hurried the two away from the stage and ushered both of them to his car.

"Get in quickly," he said.

He started the engine and as Allison slammed the door shut he was moving off, in and around cars that had been parked haphazardly in the parking area, kicking up dust and dirt as he manoeuvred his way out of the park. Once he was out onto the roadway he turned right and headed south through the main street.

"Where are we going?" he shouted to Allison, in the back seat cradling Amy.

"To Melbourne, Michael," she answered. Go! Don't stop until we are miles away. That television crew might come after us. Just drive toward Melbourne."

"It's seven hours away," Michael replied.

"I don't care," Allison shouted back. "We have to get away. The press will persecute Amy. They won't let up. We have to hide her. If we go to Melbourne, we can stay at Daddy's house. They won't find us there."

"Okay," he replied, and checked the petrol gauge. "We might just make it on one tank," he said.

The ambulance officers carefully lifted Father James onto a stretcher and carried him down the stairs and into the back of the MICA. Henri Pascal walked alongside.

"I would like to travel with him to the hospital," Henri said to the officer.

"Are you related?" the officer asked.

"We are brothers in Christ," he answered. "I, too, am a priest." The officer nodded his approval, but first ushered Henri aside and spoke quietly to him.

"He has a serious injury. He may not make it to the hospital."

"Then I should be with him now."

The officer agreed and began assisting his partner with Harry Baker. As he did so, Charlie Harris arrived at the ambulance with his two policemen on duty and stopped the officers momentarily.

"For Christ's sake, what happened, Harry?" he asked. Lying on the stretcher, Harry shook his head. "I don't know, Charlie. Father James here was talking to the crowd and a shot rang out and he fell. I got up to help Allison with Amy and I got one too. That's all I can tell you."

Charlie looked into the back of the MICA and recognized the Monsignor from his interview the day before.

"Are you travelling with him, Monsignor?" he asked

"Yes" Henri replied.

"How's Father James?" Charlie asked the officer. "He's lost a lot of blood. We have to get him to Hampton Bells. Can you give us an escort?"

Charlie Harris turned to one of his officers.

"Give them an escort to the Bells Hospital. Give them the full treatment," he added. "Don't stop for anything."

The officer nodded and ran toward his car. Charlie turned to his second officer.

"Rope this area off. I'll call for back-up. We need to find the point at which the shots were fired. Then we look for a weapon. I hope you weren't planning on going to the dance tonight," he said to the constable. "It's going to be a long night."

"Do we shut the festival down?" the young constable asked.

"No! We will take statements where possible, although I suspect they will all be much the same. But don't shut things down yet. There's no point. Let people work their way through the shock. Hopefully someone will come forward with some information. Two people were shot here. Somebody must have noticed something! I suspect a lot will go home anyway, but we need to make an announcement of some sort."

Within a minute, the MICA was loaded and ready. The police were waiting at the front entrance to the park, sirens blaring, and everywhere people stood in shock, unable to grasp the full extent of the tragedy. Mothers and children wept openly. Men stood staring at each other, frustrated at their own helplessness.

As the ambulance sped off toward Hampton Bells behind the police car, Henri sat in the rear between Father James and Harry Baker. The ambulance driver contacted the hospital by mobile phone, advising casualty to prepare the operating theatre for emergency surgery.

"We have one patient with what we believe to be a rifle shot to the stomach," he advised, "Another with a minor wound to the lower leg, presumably from the same weapon."

In the rear, Henri watched as the second officer connected Father James to the drip, and checked his pupillary reflex and other vital signs, ensuring his air passage was clear. He had compressed the entry wound but needed to check on Harry's condition. He turned to Henri.

"Can you hold your hand down on his stomach for the moment," he asked. Henri nodded and took over from the officer.

"If you are a priest, you might think about administering this man the last rites," he said dispassionately. "There's nothing more I can do at the moment and I'm not confident he will pull through."

Henri looked at Father James who was semi-conscious and appeared unable to respond in any coherent way.

"Andrew, can you hear me?" he asked. Father James' eyes opened and closed but there was no recognizable response. Henri reached inside his jacket and removed a purple stole, placing it around his neck.

The paramedic had satisfied himself that Harry was not badly injured and would recover from his leg wound. He then relieved Henri from compressing Father James' stomach and realized that the old man was not breathing. Rather than add to the trauma he suspected Henri was experiencing, he said nothing.

"Andrew, I am going to give you the Last Rites," Henri said to him, not knowing if the old man could hear him. On his behalf, he said an act of contrition before giving him absolution. "If you are capable," Henri recited, "I absolve you from all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit." He then quietly recited the Lord's Prayer before taking a small pyx from his pocket. He removed a consecrated host and broke off a small section.

"No food, Father," the paramedic said. "His stomach is seriously damaged."

"Just a crumb on his tongue please?" Henri pleaded.

"Provided he doesn't swallow anything," the paramedic warned.

Henri agreed and placed a tiny crumb of the host on the old man's tongue.

"This is the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world," he said. "Happy are those who are called to his supper." Father James lay there his eyes closed, his body motionless. On his behalf, Henri said the words of reply, "Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed. The Body of Christ. Amen. May the Lord Jesus protect you and lead you to eternal life."

The officer looked at Henri when he had finished and gave him the news.

"He's gone, sir," he said to him. "I'm afraid your friend has died."

## 31.

As Michael sped down the Hume Highway toward Melbourne, his mind was spinning. He tried to recall what had happened and to make sense of the circumstances that had led to this point. That Father James had been shot he was certain. Harry, too, he knew was wounded and somehow he would have to learn of their condition as soon as possible. Who could have done this and why? Allison sat in the back seat cradling Amy in her arms in fear that at any moment someone would try to take her away. The image of Father James lying in a pool of blood on the stage saturated her mind and she wondered how much of that Amy had seen. Michael checked the rear view mirror more times than he realized, half expecting a convoy of journalists and television crews to be charging up behind him.

"Is there anyone following us?" Allison asked each time she saw him check. Each time he answered, "I don't think so."

By the time they reached Gundagai, they were more settled and less suspicious of each car that came up from behind and overtook them. By the time they crossed the border into Victoria, they needed to stop and refresh. They pulled into a service station restaurant and moved tentatively from car to café still wary of anyone who came too close.

Once inside, the waitress came to take their order.

"What would you like to eat, Amy?" Michael asked.

"Hamburger and chips," she replied, without a moment's consideration. Allison frowned but decided a small treat was called for, and in turn, ordered toasted ham sandwiches for herself.

"And what would your father like," the waitress asked.

"He's not my father," Amy corrected her. "He's a priest."

The innocent remark left the waitress taken aback, Michael embarrassed and Allison amused. At first glance, they did look like a family, something Allison had fantasized about but never thought a realistic possibility. She held herself back from breaking into a laugh, thinking it inappropriate, but the earlier stress and tension felt all the way down the highway to Victoria would not be denied. It had to be released somehow. She looked to Michael, wondering what his thoughts were. Michael caught her glance and they gazed at each other in silence. Moments later, the laughter came and from them both, a hearty, boisterous laughter that gave relief to the pressure, the strain and anxiety they both felt. For the first time since speeding out of Remembrance Park, they felt a surge of something good. It was hard for either to define but something which sat between relief and enjoyment and the desire to continue on to Melbourne.

They arrived in the southern capital late in the night. Amy had long since fallen asleep after the meal stop at Wodonga and lay belted in across the back seat. Allison had joined Michael in the front and as they entered the inner suburbs, she navigated him to her father's house in Fitzroy, a small cottage in a narrow side street off Brunswick Street. As the car pulled up she woke Amy and gathered her things together.

"I'll have to find somewhere to stay," Michael said. "The diocesan centre down the road perhaps," he added as the three floodlit spires of Saint Patrick's Cathedral loomed majestically ahead.

"You'll do no such thing," Allison answered. "You'll stay with us. There are three bedrooms inside. They may be small but there's one for each of us," she added.

"Yes, stay with us," Amy added, standing on the back seat and placing her hands around his neck.

Michael was relieved. He did not want to presume that he would stay with them, but deep down that was what he wanted.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked Allison. She gave him an enquiring look that convinced him. "Sorry," he added. "I didn't want to presume anything."

"You can happily presume that you are not going anywhere else tonight," she reaffirmed as she got out of the car and opened the front door with the key that her father had given her.

"I have to find out about Daddy," she said, turning on the lights. "I'm going to ring Alice Eastward. She'll know what's happened and won't carry on about it."

Michael entered the house behind Amy who ran straight to her old room and turned on the light.

"My teddy is here Mummy. I did leave it here," she said delighted that her missing teddy had been found.

"Of course it is, sweetie, Grandad told you that," Allison replied, picking up the phone. Michael looked around the house. It was small but cosy, tastefully decorated with soft colours. The hallway ran the full length of the house, leading into the kitchen and bathroom at the rear.

"Michael, could you open the front window to let some air circulate," Allison asked as she dialled the number.

"Is that you, Alice?" she asked as Michael struggled with the window latch.

"It's Allison Baker. How is Daddy, can you tell me?"

At the other end of the line, Alice Eastward had been asleep in front of the television.

"Allison, my God! Where are you?"

"Don't worry about that Alice. How's Daddy?"

"He's fine. They let him out of hospital early this evening. I brought him back to your house. You can call him there if you like. Have you heard the rest of the news?"

"No. What's happened?"

"Father James died this afternoon on the way to the hospital."

"Oh my God," Allison gasped.

"Charlie Harris found Sam Spent's rifle lying in the grass where all the cars were parked and he has taken Sam in for questioning. Some detectives from the Homicide Squad are coming down from Sydney. It's awful."

"My God, no! Not Sam," Allison gasped. "That's impossible."

"The television news was all about the shooting and they seem to be trying to connect it with your and Amy's disappearance. You should call Charlie and let him know where you are. He told me to tell you he will make sure no one else knows; no one will bother you, he said."

Allison's reference to Sam brought Michael close to the phone.

"The Monsignor wants to speak with Father Ryan," Alice continued. "He says that he will say mass tomorrow if Father Michael doesn't get back in time. He wants to know whether we should have a service for Father James here or have him taken back to Sydney. It's all a bit awkward without Father Michael here. Is he with you?"

"Yes, Alice, he is. I'll ask him to call the Monsignor at the presbytery," she said, looking at Michael, "but I want to speak with Daddy first. I'm sorry to call you so late."

"Such a dreadful business! Dorothy Proctor had to be sedated at the festival and taken home under supervision."

"Who's looking after her?" Allison asked.

"Mark Millstock's wife, Meg, and daughter, Sarah, took her home. I think Sarah will stay with her. Sarah told us that it was her that Amy thought was Our Lady. Sarah is very sorry and wants to apologise to you. Brian Wayne was asking about you. He seems to want to look after you and Amy. I think he's a bit confused as to why you left," Alice continued.

"We left because I was afraid for Amy," she answered. "I didn't want the media people invading our privacy and hounding her." Alice wanted to continue talking but Allison had heard enough.

"Alice, I have to call Daddy. And Michael, er, Father, will need to call the Monsignor," she said, biting her lip and hoping Alice didn't notice the slip of the tongue.

"When are you coming back?" Alice asked.

"I don't know, Alice. We'll need to think it all through and make a decision tomorrow. You can tell Charlie Harris we are okay. I had better go now. I'll see you soon, bye," she said, and hung up without waiting to hear Alice respond. She looked at Michael, still stunned at the news and broke it to him gently.

"Father James died this afternoon," she said touching his arm. "They found Sam Spent's rifle in the park and are questioning him. I can't believe he was involved." Michael was speechless. He walked into the front room and sat down. Allison joined him. They sat together in silence as they tried to absorb the enormity of the day's events, each trying to rationalize their own part in it, examining their own actions searching for confirmation that there was nothing they did to cause any of it and nothing they could have done to prevent it. Michael rested his hand on the lounge and slowly Allison's hand joined with his. Their hands clasped together, each seeking and offering the other strength. They turned to look at each other, innocent victims of circumstance and in their exhaustion amid the turmoil, they came together and clung to each other tightly, desperately seeking reassurance, affirmation, an avowal, a declaration of emotional support. They clung to each other, neither wanting to let go, until interrupted by Amy who climbed onto the lounge and wanted to sit between them. They separated to allow her room.

"I have to ring Daddy," she said running her hand through Amy's hair. Amy looked up at Michael and asked, "Are you going to sleep in Grandad's room?"

"Michael nodded and said "Yes, I am. Would you like to show me where it is, and then you can show me where you sleep while Mummy makes a phone call?"

Amy nodded and jumped off the lounge. "Come with me," she said, holding out her hand.

"If you would like to shower, Michael, you will find a robe in Daddy's room. Just help yourself. Amy, you get ready for bed darling. It's very late."

Amy took Michael to her grandfather's bedroom and turned on the light. "This is where Grandad sleeps," she said.

"Well, thank you very much," he replied looking around the room. "Perhaps you should go and get ready for bed while I freshen up," he suggested.

"Will you read me a story?" she asked. The question took Michael by surprise. As best he could remember, the last person to ask him that question was his sister, perhaps twenty-five years ago.

"Yes, if you like, afterwards," he answered. "You trot off to your room and get ready for bed now and I'll come by later."

He felt somewhat exposed in the shower. It was not his shower and he felt uncomfortable, unprotected somehow, trapped in a state of mind easy to sense, but difficult to define. Intimidating as it was though, he relished the experience; a consciousness that he had entered a forbidden realm, a realm he might otherwise have interpreted as an occasion of sin, but there would be none of that from now on. That was something he now put aside. No more of that! Ten minutes later, he had finished his shower only to find there was no towel. He opened the door and called out timidly to Allison.

"What's up?" she asked as he hid behind the partly opened door.

"No towel," he answered.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry," she said, and opened the hall closet, picking out a towel and handing it to him. "Thank you," he said. "Everything else all right?" she asked. "Yes," he answered, feeling embarrassed as he closed the door. Allison stood there, allowing the mental images of the scene on the other side of the door to fill her mind. He was there behind the door, naked. So close it was tantalizing, bordering on the erotic. She enjoyed it and lingered a moment longer before returning to Amy's room to tuck her into bed. On the other side, Michael dried himself and felt a strange yearning. By circumstances not planned, he had found himself in a position both alien yet exciting. As he dried himself he caught sight of his image in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. He saw his naked body through the steamy mist in a way not normally noticed. The unusual circumstances prompted unusual awareness. This was not the presbytery bathroom, where ablutions were undertaken separate from any personal thoughts of self; a benign routine carried out every day, while ecclesiastical matters occupied the mind, offering the joys and sufferings of the day to God. He was in another bathroom, in another world, in house miles away, the only occupants a beautiful woman and her daughter. Erotic thoughts began to intrude, thoughts he quickly dismissed. But they returned again and again and each time they returned he found them more difficult to dismiss. He finished drying himself and realized he had no pyjamas, just the robe he had found in Harry's wardrobe. Perhaps he would find pyjamas there as well, when he returned. He wrapped the robe around himself and opened the door. Further down the hall, he could hear Allison reading to Amy and quickly crossed into Harry's room to look for some sleepwear. He found some in the wardrobe and quickly dressed himself for bed.

Minutes later, he heard a tap on his door. He opened it to find Allison standing in the hall.

"Everything all right?" she asked.

"Yes, fine," he answered nervously. "I had to borrow a pair of your father's pyjamas. I hope he doesn't mind."

"Well, he won't be in any need of them tonight will he?" she answered.

"No, I guess not," he chuckled back awkwardly, and added, "How is he, by the way?" trying to camouflage his shyness.

"He's all right. I'll talk to you about it afterwards. Perhaps you should think about ringing the Monsignor. I'm going to have a bath," she said. "I'll be a little while. Amy wants to say goodnight to you. I wouldn't mind a brandy and a biscuit when I come out. You'll find everything you need in the kitchen."

"Okay," he answered timidly, standing there in his robe, challenged by Allison's down-to-earth candour. He was finding the whole situation weirdly exciting, but struggled to recognize his place in it. She stood there for a moment too, looking at him, her eyes showing her delight that he was there. She moved slowly toward him. "Are you sure everything is all right?" she asked. "Yes," he answered. "It's just a little strange for me, being here like this, that's all." She looked into his eyes and smiled, enchanted by his innocence and honesty; strong qualities in her mind. She stood there for a moment and then once more throwing caution to the wind, moved to kiss him on the lips. He waited and allowed her; a solitary kiss lasting a few seconds. They shared the moment, she relaxed, he feeling vulnerable, until she broke the silence.

"See you in a little while then," she half whispered and disappeared.

The thought of her in the bath sent an erotic bolt of adrenalin into his heart, exploding on impact, and spreading its shrapnel through his bloodstream. His mind was consumed with all manner of provocative thoughts that distracted him to the point of helplessness. He looked around to see what else he needed to do before saying goodnight to Amy. He remembered he had not said his daily office and the thought crashed itself upon his mind like a car running into a brick wall. He realized that prayer was a long way from his mind and had been for most of the day. He looked for his breviary and realized he didn't have it. It was back at the presbytery. He was alone, in a house with a beautiful woman who was having a bath, wanting a brandy when she came out and he didn't have his breviary. What on earth was happening?

He came out of his room just as the bathroom door closed. He could hear the water running as he walked down the hall to Amy's room. The light was on, and she was in bed pretending to read, but all the time just waiting for him to appear.

"Will you read to me?" she asked.

"Just a little read then. It's time you went to sleep. It has been a big day," he said as he sat down on the bed. Taking the book from her, he began to read from where Allison had left off. It wasn't long, however, before he realized Amy really wanted to talk to him.

"Is Father James very sick?" she asked.

"I'm afraid so," he answered.

"Will he get better?"

Michael hesitated, wondering how to tell her.

"No," he said, opting for the truth.

"Is he dead, like Grandma?" she asked.

"Yes Amy, I'm afraid so."

"Grandad is all right though, isn't he?"

"Yes. Grandad's fine."

"Are we staying here for long?"

"I don't know. Mummy and I will talk about that and tell you in the morning."

"Do you like mummy?" she asked. The question took him by surprise. Again he opted for the truth. "Yes, I do."

"Are you going to live with us?" she asked, taking the conversation to a whole new level. He rolled his eyes, amazed at her perceptiveness, but the question was one he was not ready to tackle.

"I think that's enough questions for one night, young lady. Time to go to sleep!" She looked up at him and lifted her arms up to hug him. He was deeply touched and bent forward to allow her. She clasped her hands around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. He felt like jelly as he looked at her and a lump developed in his throat. He was unable to answer. He responded by kissing her on the cheek and as he did, she released her grip.

"Goodnight," she said, and tucked herself under the blankets. Michael was taken aback at the spontaneity, the innocence and trust she showed toward him and his mind was overtaken with the joy he realized she could bring into his life. As a priest he was not previously able to gauge such emotion. The thought that he could have children had never entered his head. He would be a priest for life. There would be no room for a personal life, intimate sharing with others, watching children grow, guarding them, guiding, caring, nurturing. This was never to be his roll in life. He had been called to something else, something parallel to the role of father but separate, with a well-defined boundary beyond which he could not pass. The thought bothered him. The notion that this was a prohibited path jabbed at his side; tugged at his heart. As he left her there to sleep he spoke a new prayer to his God. 'Take care of her Lord. She's special,' He took one last look at her and wondered if it were possible that one day, sometime in the future, he might look upon another child like her, and be able to say, 'that's my daughter'. The thought was prohibited but at that moment, he didn't care. He closed the door quietly and returned to the living room to ring the Monsignor.

As Allison lay in the bath with her hair tied up, she ran the soap over her body and rested her head back, closed her eyes and relaxed. There was a seductive flow snaking its way through her veins and a longing to lie alongside Michael, resting in his arms, feeling his physical strength, having him touch her. She could see that he was nervous and realized that any pressure placed upon him now would be unwise. As much as she wanted him, she knew he had to come to her voluntarily, unconditionally, without any coercion from her. She remembered vividly her father's words to her the previous day. "The problem is pumpkin, that there are any numbers of priests that will stray and fall in love and have an affair. But there wouldn't be a lot that would go all the way and leave the priesthood for married life. That's what you have to bear in mind. As nice as this Father Michael might be, it may be asking too much of him. If he were to leave the priesthood for you and later regret it, he'll finish up hating himself and then hating you in the process."

The thought of Michael hating her made her shudder. She would do anything to avoid that! But neither could she let the opportunity pass when he was now so close, without at least letting him know that he was welcome in her bed. But how to do that without throwing herself at him was the quandary. Perhaps she already had! Did the kiss she gave him earlier send a message? Did he receive it? Was he waiting for her now, ready to sweep her up in his arms and carry her into the bedroom? The anticipation of the moment began to excite her. She calmed herself, and rested her eyes as she bathed all over with a lightly perfumed soap. She had not contrived the circumstances in which they now found themselves. This was not her work, it just happened. The tragedy of Father James' death had brought them together in a way neither could have anticipated this morning. 'It just happened', she thought. 'Let the spontaneity of the moment determine the outcome' she decided. She allowed herself the luxury of a few more soaking minutes in the warmth of the water and the silence, before she dried herself, put on her nightgown and robe and let down her hair. What would happen would happen.

When she came out, Michael was in the small living room sitting watching the television news. He had found the brandy and two glasses, and sat waiting with a plate of dry biscuits. He looked up when she came into the room and smiled. She looked so lovely, he didn't know what to say. She settled him. "Is Amy asleep?" she asked. He nodded. "Did you read to her?" she asked, sitting down beside him. "Not much. I was subjected to two hundred questions about this and that."

"Oh dear," Allison said giggling. "What did she ask you?"

"She asked if Father James was going to get well. I said no, and left it at that. It didn't seem to have a huge effect on her. She was more concerned about Harry. I told her he would be fine. Then a few more questions here and there."

"Oh yes, like what?" Allison teased as she poured some brandy into the glasses.

"She asked me if I was going to live with you now."

Michael's words took Allison by surprise. She paused with the brandy. For the first time she felt unable to respond. She looked at him hoping he would keep talking. He paused for a moment as if to gain breath. "I found that, a very humbling moment, and probably looked stunned, but she didn't push me any further. When I said it was time to go to sleep, she kissed me goodnight. I wasn't expecting that either. It was the most wonderful feeling."

"She adores you," Allison said. "The only other men in her life are Daddy and Sam, and you all represent a very strong and positive influence. I suppose that makes me a very lucky woman!"

"She makes me feel very privileged," he answered. Allison took a sip of brandy. "Did you ring the Monsignor?" she asked, knowing that he probably had.

"Yes."

"And?"

"He will say ten o' clock mass for the parishioners tomorrow. I told him I would return by early evening." She had expected he would do that.

"Anything else?"

"I was wondering about you and Amy and thought you would probably stay here a while."

"I think we'll stay a few days, Michael. That's what I told Daddy on the phone earlier. He said he would ring Charlie Harris and explain everything. The television people are camping on the front doorstep at the moment, waiting to see if we return. I couldn't face that yet."

Michael agreed.

"The Monsignor is understandably shocked at the events. He has rung Father James' parish priest in Sydney, but he has also expressed his concern for the casket. Apparently Dorothy Proctor can't be interviewed until the morning and she's the only one who would know where the casket is, right now," he said, taking a sip of brandy.

"Daddy says that Sam is not worried about being questioned. He says he was trying to sweet-talk Alice Eastward at the time. But he could be in trouble for leaving a loaded rifle in an unlocked truck."

"I couldn't imagine Sam shooting anybody."

"Neither could I. He's not without his faults but he would never do anything like this," she said, taking a sip of brandy.

"Oh yes, I forgot to mention," she said, with a resigned sigh. "The mystery of the Virgin Mary has been solved."

"How so?" he asked.

"Sarah Millstock and Joshua Wayne were in the forest at the same time as the burial service for mother. Joshua was painting her against the backdrop of the woods. Apparently it was a nude painting and Amy happened along at the wrong time. Sarah covered up with a sheet Joshua had brought to reflect snow. She covered her head and pretended she was Our Lady. It was a girl prank. She's very sorry about it, but there you are. I don't know whether to feel annoyed or just laugh. If only Father James had not made such an issue of it. He couldn't have been that easily convinced of a paranormal event, surely."

Michael shook his head. "He could if he wanted to be," he answered. "It was on television a few minutes ago."

"What did they say?"

"That a Roman Catholic priest was shot dead today at a country festival at Monterey Creek. Apparently they have actual footage of the moment Father James was shot but they didn't show it, just the pandemonium that broke out afterwards. I'm afraid they got a few seconds of us running to the car."

Allison gasped.

"It's all right; no one would have recognized anyone. It was all too quick," he said, touching her arm to reassure her.

She placed her hand over his and held it there. He allowed it to rest for a moment before drawing it away. "They said that the shooting was first thought to be linked to reports of a child seeing the Virgin Mary but that police had dismissed the suggestion."

"My God, they didn't mention any names, did they?" Allison asked.

"No, nothing like that. The Monsignor told me yesterday that Father James had convinced himself that Amy was the child of the light referred to in the manuscript of Saint Margaret Mary, long before Amy said anything about seeing Our Lady."

"That's so stupid, Michael. Why would he think that?"

Michael hesitated as he searched for the right words.

"You remember yesterday morning at your place, when Amy cut herself and we were explaining to her about her grandmother being sick? About telling Amy she needed to suffer?"

"Yes."

"I think Father James was suffering the same condition. Don't ask me to explain the true nature of their obsession, but it is very powerful and it is not uncommon with people who are overly religious. They begin to imagine things that don't make sense. They rely on their faith to explain anything that would otherwise be described as irrational, and then let their minds run wild."

"How do you cure someone like that?"

"You don't. Nothing will convince them that they are being irrational unless someone, a contemplative, or a mystic they regard as having a deeper faith and insight into the ways of God, talks to them, gives them an alternative direction and convinces them to re-think the way they view things. In Father James' case and, I suspect your mother, and we might as well throw Dorothy Proctor into the mix as well, nothing will change their minds, short of Jesus coming out of the clouds and telling them to take a different direction."

"That's frightening, Michael."

"It's just one of the many dangers of fundamentalism. It makes me shudder to think that your mother was in the early stages of preparing Amy to go down that same path."

"Oh my God," Allison sighed heavily. She was inwardly horrified at her mother's intentions toward Amy and uncertain as to the psychological impact that Amy might still be experiencing. Searching within her own resolve to absorb Michael's suggestion and not finding it, she lowered her head onto his shoulder hoping his inner strength of character, his comfort would transfer to her, and enable her to draw strength from the physical contact. He smelt her hair. Suddenly, his words dissolved and disappeared. Suddenly, having her so close to him changed his mood. In a split second her intimate and unexpected move rendered all else redundant. It was intoxicating and he responded without thinking, placing his arm around her. She tucked her legs up onto the lounge against his thigh and edged yet closer. As she did, her robe fell open, and a seductive, unexpected moment of gratification followed as her thighs, her soft, shapely, lightly tanned legs were revealed. He felt a surge of pleasure ripple through his groin and allowed it to pass through his body before placing his brandy glass on the coffee table. Allison waited, anticipating that this would be the moment he would respond. They were done with talking, she hoped.

"So then," he said nervously, "I'll have to go back in the morning."

"Okay," she said, looking up at him longingly. He sat there staring at the television, not knowing what to do. She sensed his uncertainty; his innocence was charming as it was irresistible. She stretched forward and kissed him on the neck, hoping he would touch her in some way. He looked at her. Seconds passed without a word spoken. She would wait no longer. She placed her hand on his cheek and drew him close.

"Kiss me, Michael," she said.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and did as she asked. She clung to him, uncertain if she should unleash her passion. He melted into her arms. She took his hand and placed it on her breast. She wanted him to feel her heart beating. He groaned as his muscles tensed then relaxed. He hesitated at first, and then responded by fondling her gently. They clung to each other, their mouths open and locked together, both delighting that all the pent up furious passion of two minds and bodies longing for each other was finally being released. She slowly allowed her body to slide down until she lay on her back. He came with her, lifting his legs onto the lounge until he was comfortably on top of her.

Finally, she thought, finally, they were done with talking.

## 32.

At the presbytery of Saint Francis de Sales in Monterey Creek, it was late at night. Monsignor Henri Pascal sat in the lounge room watching yet another news story depicting the tragedy that had played out before his very eyes earlier that day. He had called the Sydney parish of Saint Eudes. The parish priest, Father Williams, was coming down tomorrow morning. Henri had spoken with Father Michael, sympathized with, and understood the position in which he now found himself. He was relieved when Father Michael assured him he would return tomorrow. Henri had also spoken at length with Sergeant Charlie Harris and given him as much information as he was able.

He had spent most of the afternoon at the Hampton Bells hospital, answering questions, filling out and signing forms, authorizing this and that, giving his permission for procedures about which he knew nothing. He was the only one present to represent the interests of Father James and felt responsible. He sat at Harry Baker's bedside in casualty while doctors tended Harry's injured lower leg. Henri's blood-stained clothes were a testament to how close he came to sharing both Harry's and Father James' fate. The shock of it had not registered until he was finally given a lift back to the presbytery at Monterey Creek. As the police car in which he rode passed by Remembrance Park and the remains of the festival could be seen from the road, all was calm. Everyone had gone home. The decorations were still there, merchandising stands, streamers and balloons blowing in the breeze the only reminder of what started out as the town's big day but what had been reduced to a shambles following the shooting. The police were still there. Virtually the whole park had now been roped off and declared a crime scene, with a number of officers still there, searching for evidence. They would be there well into the night.

Henri sat in the lounge room of the presbytery. It was nearly midnight and he had another call to make. He needed to telephone Jean Paul Colombière in Paray-le-Monial and break the news. He sat there drinking a whiskey to settle himself. He had eaten some leftovers in the refrigerator and tried to say his office but found it hard to concentrate. He would return to it later, when all else that needed to be done was completed. He had showered and soaked his blood-stained clothes in the laundry basin. He needed to borrow some of Father Michael's clothes until tomorrow when Father Williams, the parish priest from Saint Eudes, would arrive with his luggage. He answered several calls to the presbytery from locals and also from Sydney and Melbourne. Two Opus Dei houses called after the news was splashed across the country. The Cardinal Archbishop of Sydney rang and they spoke at length. The regional Bishop of the diocese rang, and Henri found himself explaining why Father Ryan was not there; that he had taken a mother and child to Melbourne for their own safety. The Bishop had accepted the explanation but wanted Father Ryan to contact him as soon as practicable. Now Henri was resting, trying to restore his composure. This would be his third night in Australia, yet it seemed as if he had been here much longer.

In Paray, it was two o' clock in the afternoon. Jean Paul Colombière was at his home when the phone rang. It was his business line and immediately he knew the call had been diverted from his office.

"Jean Paul, it is Henri Pascal," Henri said in a low tired voice that bordered on depression.

"Good afternoon Henri. I have been wondering about you," he replied. "Is everything all right?" There was a pause at the other end of the line. "Henri? Are you still there?"

"I'm afraid I have very bad news, Jean Paul."

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" Jean Paul asked, as he sat down.

"Father James died this afternoon from a gunshot wound to the stomach."

"Mon Dieu! What happened?"

As Henri explained the circumstances of the tragedy, Jean Paul listened in stunned silence. Henri detailed the events at the festival, Father James' address to the crowd and his reasons for doing so. He told Jean Paul of Father James' obsession with the little girl Amy and his belief that she was the child of the light.

"He was not a well man, Jean Paul. I think that he had lost touch with reality. I tried to convince him to stop and I must have come within centimetres of the second shot, which struck the little girl's grandfather. Jean Paul, I held him in my arms after he was shot. He looked up at me and thought I was François Dante. He said that he had arranged for the casket and manuscript to be given into the care of Opus Dei. I don't know whether he was delirious or not, but three times he called me François. Our brother in Paris has to be questioned again, Jean Paul. He was Father James' accomplice, of that I have no doubt. This tragic event has overshadowed all else for the moment and I have to say that at this stage I do not know the whereabouts of the casket and manuscript. There was a news item on television late last night. They said Interpol had been alerted to the missing casket and manuscript. They expressed fears that it might fall into the hands of antiquities dealers. If that were to happen we would never recover it. Am I right in thinking that this story came as a consequence of some action you and our brother in Lisbon decided upon?"

"Yes Henri, that story was released by myself in association with José da Silva, in Lisbon. We discussed the ramifications of the first leak that sent a flurry of journalists to the Convent of the Visitation. We wanted to deflect attention away from them. They knew nothing of the casket and it was not in our interests to have the media concentrating on them. We felt that by alerting the antiquities collectors world-wide, it killed two birds with one stone. We take the pressure off the Convent, and at the same time warn any would-be collector not to deal with anyone trying to sell the relics," Jean Paul explained. Henri paused to absorb his friend's explanation.

"I am sorry Jean Paul. You are more alert than I am. I would not have thought of that. Forgive me, but I am tired. This has been a taxing time. I don't know how long I will be. There are people here who are willing to help me, but I am fearful for the safe return of our venerated relics."

There was a long pause as Jean Paul absorbed Henri's words. He was not surprised when Henri had mentioned the retired Bishop of Paris, François Dante.

"I was never convinced of Dante's responses to my enquiries," Jean Paul said. "He was uncharacteristically ambivalent. He insisted he knew nothing of the theft, but also seemed unperturbed. I am sure he was the one who provided Father James with the key to the rear courtyard of my office. What do you think I should do? Should I travel up to Paris and confront him?"

"I am too tired to be able to give you an answer, Jean Paul. Let me think about it. But please convey to all our brothers, François included, the news of Father James. I will speak with you again in a day or so."

33.

As the early morning sun broke through the shades of her bedroom, Allison opened her eyes. Lying there, awake but not yet fully cognisant, it took a moment or two for her to remember everything. Recognizing the room, it immediately brought back memories of a time not that long ago when she and Amy called this place home. Pleasant memories of a happy time came flooding back. The light pink coloured wallpaper, the frieze, the soft floral curtains brought alive by the intrusive sunlight, were exactly as she had left them, all still vivid in her mind, still warm and reassuring. Above her hung the light fitting still cracked from when Harry dropped it attempting to replace the fixture. She remembered the small area around the edge of the window where he had missed with the paint brush. This was once her home, hers and Amy's, where they lived together with her father, safe and happy under his protective wing. This was where Michael had brought her and Amy last night after the long drive, away from the trauma of the festival.

Outside, the traffic noises began to intensify, reminding her that even though it was Sunday, living near a major city hospital ensured the bustle and commotion continued regardless. She rolled over slowly, and felt him lying there beside her, with his soft white skin against hers, his warm body, strong and muscular under the covers. Her heart leapt as she recalled the intimacy they had shared. For her, it was the first time since Amy was born. Never since that time had she given herself to any man, until last night. She lay there, as he slept facing the other way. It was his first time ever. She could tell, and although he was somewhat clumsy, he responded to her guiding hands gently, his touch fulfilling her, satisfying her longing, her expectations reached. She was the only woman he had known and in her heart she wanted to be the only woman he would ever know. She wrapped her arm around him and pressed her breasts against his back, tucking her legs into the contour of his own, and felt her middle nestle around his bare buttocks. She caressed the hairs on his chest and ran her hand down below his stomach, brushing the top of his erect member. He stirred briefly. She waited until he settled again. His masculinity and virility had been proved, his willingness to express his feelings already confirmed but, 'Will you be there for me Michael?' she thought, daring to dream ahead beyond the pleasure of the bedroom to the practicalities of living, raising a family. Would he be willing to provide, care for, and protect as he protected both she and Amy yesterday. 'Will you be there for me Michael or will the church reclaim you?' she pondered. That he loved her she had no doubt, but was it strong enough to withstand what was to come? And what manner of soul-searching would he face? How should she approach expressing her feelings about the future of their relationship?

She thought of Amy in the next room and wondered about the episode in the forest with Sarah Millstock and how the unintended consequences of a harmless prank had been the catalyst for a series of chance encounters that led to the point where she and Michael now shared a bed. Sarah Millstock! How Sarah reminded her of herself at that age; carefree, rebellious, the girl who took a risk now and then. She could not be too harsh with her. Not now! She thought of Father James and the tragic events of the festival. As she lay there, Michael stirred again. He rolled over and opened his eyes. This for Allison was the moment she feared most. What would he do when the full impact of their night together dawned on him? He looked at her, took a few moments to focus his attention and then drew closer and kissed her.

"Good morning," she said, with a cheery smile masking her apprehension. "Sleep well?"

"I slept like a log," he answered, a fact that surprised him. "What time is it?"

"Nearly seven," she said.

He looked around the room as he brought his mind and sight into focus and then turned back to her. He looked at her in the early morning light, lying there beside him, her bare shoulders the only indication that she was naked underneath the sheets. As if words were not necessary, he reached for her and took her in his arms. He ran his hand down her side, felt her soft skin, over her hip, around her buttocks and back again along the spine.

"Any regrets?" she asked, desperate to gauge his reaction to their night together. He shook his head.

"How could I possibly regret this," he said.

She pushed him back gently and slowly climbed on top of him, her hair falling forward as she looked down on him.

"Michael, I hope I haven't suddenly made life very awkward for you," she said. He felt the contour of her body nestle comfortably on his. "No," he answered. "What I have done I have done willingly, but that's not what I'm thinking about right now."

"What are you thinking?" she asked seductively.

"How beautiful you look," he answered. It was what she hoped to hear but feigned surprise and humility.

"Hardly my best at his time of the morning," she answered, sounding slightly embarrassed.

"Well, if this is hardly your best," he countered, "there's a treat in store for me isn't there?"

He looked at her, studied her face. She thought he was trying to read her mind. He was reading his own.

"It's just beginning to dawn on me how much I have wanted to be with you, like this. Now I think I'm going to need you more than ever," he confessed.

"Tell me why."

"Well, you see, being here like this, is all so new to me. I have received no guidance in healthy sexual activity, not when living at home or growing up, certainly not at the seminary. Now that I have experienced it, I wonder how anyone can be a complete and whole individual without it," he said to her.

"I has been a long absence for me too, Michael. Perhaps we can restore each other; our longing for wholeness and connection."

"Just lying here, touching you, listening to you; this is so strange. I don't know what to say without sounding like a little kid."

"You don't have to say anything, Michael. I understand this is a huge step for you."

"I think I'm in love with you," he said. She smiled.

"Well, that's a good start and we'll talk about that some more later, but let's not dwell on the psychology for now. Let's just enjoy what we have and exercise some basic healthy desires," she said as she buried her head in his neck, drew herself up and parted her legs, happy, relieved and prepared to let matters take their natural course. He wrapped his arms around her and rolled her over, eager to go along with anything she suggested.

Once again, at least for the moment, they were done with talking.

Later, at the breakfast table, the presence of Amy prompted a decidedly conservative atmosphere, as she sat beside Michael, eating her toast. Amy looked at him, wondering why no one was speaking. There were genuine smiles and a happy, relaxed spirit in the air, but no one was speaking. Allison sat opposite and drank her coffee, pausing to glance at Michael, then at Amy and smiling again. Amy sat there kicking her feet against the legs of the chair, not quite able to touch the floor, all the time glancing at one, then the other. Finally Allison attempted to restore the balance.

"Father Michael will be leaving this morning, Amy."

"Why?" she asked.

"He has to go back to Monterey Creek to help the Monsignor."

"Will you be coming back?" she asked.

"I'm not sure at this stage, Amy," Michael answered. "Perhaps you will come back in a few days time," he suggested.

"Are we going back Mummy?"

"Yes, darling, in a few days. We want to see that Grandad is all right, don't we?"

Amy nodded, and reverted back to exercising her feet against the legs of the chair, the explanations accepted and the calm resumed.

One hour later, the three of them were on the footpath outside the Fitzroy cottage. At the far end of the street, the triple spires of Saint Patrick's Cathedral rose majestically behind the houses and office buildings. Michael looked up, anticipating a pang of guilt to ripple his conscience. He felt nothing. He gave Amy a hug as he said goodbye. Then with appropriate consideration for the moment and the place, he hesitated with Allison. She too was unsure how to say goodbye and opted to shake his hand. Michael took her hand, squeezed it and gave her a brief peck on the cheek. She held tightly to his hand as they said goodbye before he climbed into the car to begin the long drive back.

At the same time Michael began his journey, Monsignor Henri Pascal found himself in the unusual position of saying Sunday mass at Saint Francis de Sales before a near full house. The shock of the previous day's tragedy had jolted many of those who normally only bothered to attend mass at Christmas and Easter. The murder of a priest in Monterey Creek was unprecedented. The town's Catholics needed some forthright leadership, some counselling and reassurance. Henri Pascal knew this. He was better qualified to manage the psychological aftermath of such an event than Father Michael and even if Michael had been present, Henri would probably have offered to take over anyway. The congregation sat in silence as Henri stood in the pulpit before them. The blank looks on their faces betrayed their need for some reassurance, some advice that would restore their mental balance. These were simple country people, honest and hard-working, shielded from the daily shock and horror of city-style violence by distance and culture. As he stood before them, Henri Pascal looked around, absorbing their collective needs, feeling the anguish of some, and the disbelief of others. Realizing their innocence and vulnerability, and true to his role as counsellor to those in crisis, he rose to the occasion.

"My brothers and sisters in Christ," he began, as he recognized Charlie Harris entering quietly through the rear door. "Yesterday afternoon while celebrating your special day of the year, your community was wounded in a savage and shocking way. Acts of violence, such as we experienced at Remembrance Park yesterday, require some explanation. As a community, we need to hear reasons; we need to have this tragedy put into perspective. I knew Father James as a member of a small society in France to which we both belong. I did not know him all that well. Many of you here today knew him far better than I. Tell me now what you feel. Let your hearts speak freely and express to me and to all here present what pain is buried deep within you. Events such as this impact on the person and the community and can have a profound effect on us in our subsequent behaviour towards each other. We need to talk about it, to help us cope with the questions that swim around endlessly inside our heads. When innocent bystanders have been exposed to acts of violence and trauma as you have been, your own mental health and safety are put at risk. You need to speak openly of your feelings, to each other, each of you needs to tell your story, to help relieve your stress, your worries and in so doing provide emotional support for each other."

As he spoke, the congregation listened intently and warmed to his experienced approach.

"I would like to depart from the conventional style of a Sunday sermon today," he continued, "and suggest that we engage with each other and talk about how we feel. Those in the front row can talk together and with those behind you. We will call this group therapy. Talk to the person alongside you, in front of you, behind you."

As he spoke, Charlie Harris walked up the centre aisle. He raised his hand to speak. Henri acknowledged him. "I think your police inspector would also like to speak with you," he added. "Yes," he said to Charlie, "please go ahead."

Charlie was not used to speaking in public and felt decidedly out of place in church. He looked awkward and fumbled with his hat but recognizing many of those present helped settle his nerves.

"I need your help," he began, with a slight tremor in his voice. He looked to the Monsignor for support. Henri gave him an approving nod of the head.

"We don't have much to go on at the moment. We have a weapon, but no plausible motive."

"Have you arrested Sam?" came one voice.

"No. Sam Spent is not a suspect," Charlie replied quickly, anxious to dispel any wild rumours.

"It was his rifle, wasn't it?" asked another.

"We don't know that yet," replied Charlie, "We are conducting tests. But Sam was elsewhere. The reason I wanted to say something here is that someone took Sam's rifle from his truck which was parked under the pines away from the main activities area. I want you to think back and try and remember if you saw anyone near the truck or anywhere near the car park. Someone must have seen something."

"Father James was talking about little Amy Baker when he was shot," a lady said.

"Yes, we are looking into that, but I don't think there's any connection."

"Is Harry okay?" a male voice called out.

"Yes, Harry was discharged from hospital last night. He's home at Allison's house resting."

"How's Dorothy Proctor?" another lady asked.

"Dorothy Proctor had to be sedated last night. She's being cared for at her home. We will be speaking to her later today. She may be able to help us with information about Father James and what he was on about at the festival yesterday."

"Where are Allison and Amy?" someone asked.

"And where's Father Michael?" The questions started coming quick and fast, and the murmurs intensified.

"Father Michael took Allison and Amy to Melbourne. Allison was afraid for Amy's safety and the publicity as a result of the things Father James was saying to the gathering when he was shot. Again, we don't think there's a direct connection between those matters and the killer. There must be something else, some other reason for this crime. That's why I've come to ask for your help. If you would like to speak with me privately, I'll be at the station all day. Be assured anything said to me will be treated in confidence and will be treated as another piece in the puzzle. But it might just be the piece we are looking for, so please, if you know or saw anything, come and talk to me today," he said nodding his head. Charlie had finished speaking. The congregation remained silent, unaware, waiting for him to continue. "That's all," he said, as an after-thought. "Thank you Monsignor," he said, wearily.

"Did you get any sleep last night, Charlie?" a man called out.

"Not much." Charlie replied, as he walked down the aisle and out the door.

## 34.

As he motored north along the Hume Highway, Michael Ryan, parish priest of Monterey Creek, had much on his mind. Although the matter of accountability for his conduct with Allison Baker tried to intrude and challenge him, nothing of an ecclesiastical or pastoral nature resonated. His thoughts were consumed with Allison and Amy. Leaving them behind was like tearing himself away from everything important in his life. He was barely fifty kilometres out of Melbourne when he began to miss them, long for them, imagine them in the car with him, engaging in phantom conversations while travelling home. The music he listened to, the soft ballads, the violin concertos, operatic sopranos, all found a quiet, peaceful place deep within his consciousness alongside the unforgettable memories of the past twelve hours. They became inextricably linked, cemented together. Allison's image dominated everything. Never before did he imagine that he could be so completely absorbed, so utterly captivated. He recalled being taught during his training days how to answer the question: 'How will I know when I'm in love?' The text book response was: 'Don't worry, when it happens you'll know.' Even then, as he and his fellow seminarians laughed the answer away, he knew it was the default answer, a shallow answer. He accepted, then, the probability that he would never experience the real thing. Now, as he drove along the highway, he could see more clearly his own previous simplistic approach to the whole matter of love, relationships, sex. He realized how narrow-minded, how naïve, how different theory was, from reality. 'What could possibly surpass waking up each morning beside someone you love?' he thought. 'How could I possibly have known that?' As the kilometres fell away, he wondered how superficial his pastoral work might seem to those whose academic education was limited but whose practical experience in the highs and lows of domesticity, towered over his own. 'How could I possibly know what emotions tug away inside a parent! How could I advise on family matters, sexual conduct, raising children and the like? What do I know about these things that these people do not?' It was a profound and sincere examination, and humbling. All the time it was the thought of Allison back in Melbourne, and Amy with whom he now felt a special bond, that carried him to a deeper level of soul searching. All manner of theological study suddenly paled against the University of Life, of love, setting up house, family, of mortgages, budgets, of supermarkets, employment. As he examined every aspect of his present situation, the frightening prospect of applying for a dispensation from the obligation of celibacy loomed large: Laicization! He had only previously considered such a move likely in theoretical terms. Now it loomed as a distinct possibility. He recalled stories of priests submitting themselves to all manner of investigation by the Church authorities handling their application. Contemporary Catholic teaching says that once a priest, always a priest. The process takes forever and even then, more often than not, the application is rejected. He would have to write a letter in the spirit of penitence and humility giving his reasons for wanting to leave the priesthood. An instructor would be appointed to represent him to the Vatican. 'Perhaps Henri Pascal would be willing?' he wondered. 'They would ask all sorts of questions about family, they would want to know whether I was psychologically stable at the time of Ordination. They would talk to my religious superiors, to my parents. God Almighty! My parents! What will they think? What would be my relationship with the Church if I left the priesthood? Would I be welcome? Would I be employable?'

As daunting as thoughts of leaving the priesthood seemed, Michael was not deterred. He was academically well qualified and could find work in education, social counselling, computer technology and even corporate management. His skills would always be in demand, and equally important, he was still young by industry standards, under forty. By the time he crossed the border into New South Wales, he was feeling confident. He stopped at Holbrook to have lunch and call Allison. It was a new experience feeling the way he did, wanting to call Allison just to speak to her, hear her voice, let her know that he was thinking of her.

"I miss you already," he said.

"That's nice. I miss you too," she replied, but cautioned him. "Are we being foolish, Michael? Is all this just too much to hope for?" she asked.

"Let's just take it a day at a time for now," he replied.

"Daddy called," she said. "I told him you were on your way back. He rang to ask if I could do a favour for Brian Wayne."

"What's up?"

"Brian called in at home to see how Daddy was, and mentioned that his son Joshua had driven to Melbourne yesterday and was supposed to stay with his Uncle Albert, Brian's brother."

"Yes."

"Well, Joshua hasn't arrived or didn't go to his Uncle Albert's house. Brian was worried. Joshua is apparently exhibiting some of his paintings at the Victorian Artist's Society on Monday and Daddy asked me if I could look in sometime today. It's only just down the street from here. I told him Amy and I would go for a walk this afternoon and look in. It's opposite Saint Patrick's Cathedral. You'd feel right at home," she joked.

"Right now there's only one place that feels like home," he said.

"And where's that?" she asked.

"Right where you and Amy are now," he answered. She liked his answer.

"What will you do when you get back?" she asked.

"Take control of whatever the situation is, I suppose. I'll speak with Henri and take it from there. We have to decide what to do with Father James, but I suspect we'll have a service for him here and then arrange for him to be taken back to Sydney."

"Will you go and see Daddy?"

"Yes I will. I'll call you again tonight after I see him and I'll probably need to speak with Charlie Harris too."

"Drive carefully."

"I will. Bye."

## 35.

In the early afternoon Allison and Amy went for a stroll, meandering their way through the tiny side streets of Fitzroy, onto Brunswick Street where they began window shopping through the maze of speciality stores and street stalls as they went. It was a warm October day, the sun was shining brightly and people were out and about. Allison kept a tight grip on Amy's hand as they walked along the street, ever aware of the unexpected surprise that might suddenly present itself amid the cosmopolitan culture of the inner city. It was not the bohemian appearance of the youth that bothered her. They were simply expressing themselves in an open, innocent way. It was the uninvited touting of wares, the begging and the invasion of personal space that she found confronting, and this was an area known for that kind of activity.

They reached the intersection of Victoria Parade and waited patiently at the traffic lights, watching the trams and the never-ending stream of traffic continue along the busy thoroughfare.

Overwhelmed with thoughts of Michael, she paid little attention to her surroundings, content to know that Amy was safely by her side. She wondered if he had arrived yet, and if so, what reception awaited him. What explanation would he give for his absence and would the town tongues start rumour-mongering at her and Michael's expense? 'What could they say that wasn't true anyway?' she thought.

For the moment anyway, she was miles away from the gossip and felt sublimely happy, well beyond anything she had felt in a long time. Crossing to the other side of the road, they walked down Morrison Place alongside the Eye and Ear hospital, one of three in the immediate precinct. Ahead of them was the great Neo-Gothic blue stone of Saint Patrick's Cathedral. As they strolled along Morrison Place, heading for the Victorian Artist's Society, it was Amy who first noticed Joshua's car.

"Look, Mummy," she said.

"What is it, darling?"

"That car belongs to Timothy's brother," she said.

Allison took notice and realized her daughter was right. Joshua's station wagon stood parked in Morrison Place, around the corner from the Victorian Artist's Society.

"Joshua must be here then," she said as Amy ran up to the side of the vehicle half expecting to see Timothy inside. Allison caught up to her and peered inside.

"Timothy's not here," Amy said, disappointed.

"I don't think Timothy came with Joshua, darling. He came on his own. He's exhibiting his paintings tomorrow," Allison replied.

"What's that in the back?" Amy asked, looking curiously into the rear of the station wagon.

"Mummy," she said excitedly. "That's Grandma's box."

"What box, sweetie?" Allison asked, as she peered into the back.

Lying on the floor, there was an opened sports bag, and Allison gasped as she recognized the partially covered casket inside the bag.

"What on earth is Joshua doing with that?" she asked herself out loud. "I wonder if he knows what happened yesterday. Let's go inside and see if we can find him," she said. They walked around the corner into Albert Street to the steps at the front entrance. A large van was parked outside and two men were unloading pot plants and delicate shrubs. The double iron gates were open and they walked up the stairs, opened the front door and went inside. A lady sat behind the reception counter and she greeted them.

"Good afternoon. Just visiting?" she asked. "Sorry about all the activity. We have a special students' exhibition tomorrow and they are setting up. Did you just want to walk around and have a look?"

"No, not really," Allison answered. "We came to see one of the students. He's from New South Wales, Joshua Wayne. Is he here?"

"Let me look at my list," the lady answered. "Yes, Joshua Wayne. He's upstairs in the Hammond Gallery. I wouldn't go up there at the moment, it's a bit hectic. I'll call him for you. You can have a look around the Cato room if you wish," she suggested. Allison was happy to avoid the stairs and agreed.

Moments later, as she and Amy wandered around the ground level gallery, Joshua appeared at the door.

"Miss Baker, Amy! What are you doing here?" he asked nervously.

"Hello, Joshua. How are you?" Allison asked. Joshua looked drawn and pale with tiny sweat droplets on his forehead. "I'm all right," he said, scratching his head and looking tense.

"Joshua, your father was worried about you. You were supposed to go to your uncle's house yesterday, but you didn't arrive. He asked if Amy and I would come down here to see if everything was all right."

"Is Timothy here?" Amy asked. Amy's question deflected his attention from Allison momentarily. "Er, no, he isn't," he answered, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

"Is everything all right, Joshua?" Allison asked, conscious of his unsettled manner. "You don't look well."

"Did you hear about yesterday, Joshua?" Amy chipped in.

"Where did you stay last night, Joshua?" Allison asked. The questions were unsettling and troubling. He tried to answer each in turn which only served to increase his nervousness.

"I'm okay, Miss Baker," he began.

"Joshua, you don't need to call me Miss Baker. You know that. Call me Allison," she said in a soothing voice, laying her hand on his arm. She realized he was shaking.

"Timothy calls you Miss Baker all the time," he answered defensively.

"Yes, but you are older Joshua, a young man. Timothy is still very young."

"Can I see your paintings?" Amy asked.

"There're upstairs. I don't think the public are allowed up today," he answered.

"Will you be going to your uncle's house tonight?" Allison asked.

"Er, yes probably. I'm not sure."

"Can we have Grandma's box back?" Amy said innocently. The question shocked Joshua.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his eyes now wide open, betraying his fearful, fragile state.

"It's all right," Allison said, touching his arm once more. "We passed by your car around the corner just before, and Amy thought Timothy might be there. We saw a casket inside a bag in the back. It looked like the one my mother had. Did someone give it to you?"

As Allison spoke, her perceptive, journalistic mind answered the question for her. Her last recollection of the casket was Michael saying he thought Father James had removed it from his bedroom. She observed Joshua's disturbed and anxious manner, and an unsettling feeling opened up in the pit of her stomach. Joshua hesitated, unsure how to answer. Her suspicions now alerted to the oddness of Joshua having it in his possession, she crafted her next question carefully, before Joshua spoke.

"Did Father Michael give you the casket, Joshua?"

"No. It was Father James," Joshua answered quickly, in a self-protective, defensive, frightened tone.

"Father James died," Amy said immediately. Allison wished she hadn't. She wasn't ready to raise that subject, concerned that Joshua was showing signs of distress.

"Did he?" Joshua answered, drawing breath. "What happened?"

"Joshua," Allison said gently, trying to restore his calm. "This is not a good place to be talking about this. Would you like to finish setting up here and come home to our place for something to eat? Our house is just down the road a little. We'll wait for you outside if you like."

Joshua was clearly a frightened young man. Had it been anyone else asking him, he would have run in panic. But it was Allison Baker. He liked her. She reminded him in some obscure way of his mother; kind, considerate, gentle and above all, understanding. If there was one person in the world he longed for at this moment, it was his mother. In his confused, frightened state, Allison appeared as a substitute mother. He felt helpless in her presence, desperately wanting his mother to come and take him away from all that bothered him, all that tormented him. He wanted to say yes, but the lump in his throat prevented the word from coming.

"We'll just wait by your car if you like," Allison said persuasively, raising her hand and touching his cheek. Joshua's body went limp, as tears welled up in his eyes. He covered his face with his hands and began to cry. Allison took him in her arms.

"It's all right, Joshua," she whispered softly in his ear. "Everything's all right. We'll look after you."

Joshua began to relax. To hear Allison offer to look after him brought a measure of relief from his pain.

"Don't cry Joshua, we'll look after you," Amy said tenderly. Joshua wiped his eyes and tried to recover.

"Whatever the trouble is, Joshua, it always helps to have someone to talk with," Allison said. "You can be sure that anything you tell me will be in the strictest confidence, I promise."

Joshua took a deep breath and nodded.

"I was nearly finished upstairs. I won't be long, if you want to wait here," he said.

"We'll wait here then," Allison said reassuringly. Joshua forced a half-smile, straightened his shirt, turned and went upstairs.

While he was gone, a dark cloud descended upon Allison's thoughts. She gazed out the window of the Cato room to the imposing edifice across the street, Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Her journalistic mind began to assemble one or two pertinent implications. Joshua's distraught state, the presence of the casket in his station wagon and his admission that he had received it from Father James, wedged themselves uncomfortably in her head. When seen in the context of the events of the last twenty four hours, she gasped as the frightening possibility of Joshua's involvement in yesterday's events dawned on her. 'My God No, surely not.' She was consumed with grief at the thought of it, and covered her mouth lest she say something out loud that would alert Amy to her anxiety. She wondered if it would be more relaxing for him if they talked inside the church, whether that would be a source of comfort to him. Joshua had always been a sensitive lad, quiet and shy, but there were times, she recalled, brief moments when, if pushed hard enough, he could erupt with all the ferocity of a cornered beast. She had observed his current mental state and cautioned herself not, under any circumstances, to bring him to that point. She had both herself and Amy to consider, but also felt that in the midst of whatever chaos and disorder he now found himself, he needed her. He was his mother's son, and at this moment in time, in the absence of the one person he was closer to than anyone else, she, Allison, was needed in that role.

He came back to where they were waiting, a few minutes later.

"I'm ready," he said, looking fresher, as if a small burden had been lifted. He appeared less depressed than before. Allison knew she had been part of the reason for that transformation.

"Excellent," she said in a cheery voice, the best she could manage. "Let's go for a walk in the gardens before we go home then, or would you like to go across the road to the Cathedral? We could sit quietly in one of the side chapels," she added. He did not respond straight away, but gave the suggestion some thought. As they walked out, he looked across the road to Saint Patrick's. He looked up at the dark bluestone structure, his eyes focusing on the snarling gargoyles protruding from half-way up the main spire. In each he saw an image of Father James and his whole body began to shudder. He recovered quickly, not wanting any further displays of distress, not wanting to be an unwelcome burden on Allison.

"No," he said. "I don't want to go in there. I would like to walk through the gardens though."

Allison nodded in agreement and they turned left. Amy walked ahead, her eyes wide open as she watched the passing traffic and examined the row of terrace houses along Albert Street. Allison spoke softly to Joshua, not wanting to exacerbate his nervousness or for Amy to overhear any of their conversation. She wanted him to relax and thought carefully of the manner in which she would raise the subject of Father James.

"Joshua," she began, "where did you spend last night?"

"In the car," he answered. "I was too tired to look for a motel. I just parked in a truck stop along the Hume Highway and went to sleep."

"What have you had to eat today?" she asked.

"I bought breakfast at a roadside café and I had a sandwich for lunch. I'm all right now, although I could do with a decent meal. I'll go to Uncle Albert's tonight."

They continued walking towards the traffic lights. Allison chose not to say anything further until they were safely in the gardens.

Once there, strolling down the pathway flanked by Moreton Bay figs, poplars and one hundred-year-old English Elms, the mood was peaceful, the atmosphere calm. As Amy ran ahead, Allison wanted to reassure Joshua that she was no threat, that anything he told her would be in confidence, that whatever it was that worried him, she would help him.

"Your mother was a few years older than me, Joshua, but she was always nice to me," she said. "I would not let anything bad happen to you."

"I know you wouldn't, Miss Baker," he replied. She rolled her eyes and gave up the idea of convincing him to call her by her first name. That, it seemed, was something Joshua could not bring himself to do.

"How did you come to have the casket in the car?" she asked, careful not to appear as if she was interrogating him.

"Father James called in to the service station to fill up. He said he was going to Melbourne and stupidly I said I was too, so he invited himself along. He put his things into my car and that's when..." Joshua hesitated.

"That's when what, Joshua?" Allison asked. He hesitated, then started breathing quickly.

"That's when he saw the nude painting I did of Sarah Millstock and he went a bit crazy. He said it was immoral and dirty and things like that. I tried to tell him it was art, but he wouldn't listen."

Allison realized she was close to learning her worst fears were true.

"Then what happened?"

"I had to serve a customer. I left him at the car. Then he came into the sales lounge and said he would be back. I didn't want to take him to Melbourne after that."

"So what did you do then?" Allison asked in a caring, soothing tone. As careful as she was not to agitate him, it was not enough to maintain the calm.

"He smashed my painting, Miss Baker," he blurted out. "It was one of the best things I ever did. He smashed it because he thought it was dirty. He couldn't see that it was art so he smashed it," Joshua sobbed. "I couldn't believe it. He just stuck his head in the door and said 'don't be upset, you'll see that I'm right,' and drove off as if he were giving a penance at confession."

"Why did he drive off?"

"He said he had to go to the festival but he would come back afterwards. Then I saw what he did to the painting."

Allison waited a few moments before she continued, glancing about and behind her to see that no one was within hearing distance.

"What did you do then?"

"I got very angry and went into the store and got Dad's rifle. I closed up the service station and drove down to the festival. Everyone was over by the stage. I saw Father James speaking to the crowd and I just pointed the rifle at him and fired. I didn't think I would hit him. I just thought it would frighten him. When I saw him fall I panicked and the rifle accidentally fired again. I didn't look to see what happened after that. I just drove off and didn't stop until I was nearly out of petrol at Benalla."

Allison controlled herself, desperately trying to conceal the shock she felt as Joshua confessed to the killing. Even though she had braced herself, knowing that it could come to something like this, the enormity of Joshua's words rendered her speechless. As a journalist she had reported on crime before, written her story but always kept herself at arms length from any emotional attachment or involvement with either victim or offender. But none of that had prepared her adequately for the sheer helplessness she felt for Joshua. She searched deep within for the strength to restore herself, grateful that Amy was several metres away, prancing on the lawns, chasing seagulls that had wandered in from the bay. Thankful that Amy was oblivious to all that Joshua had revealed, Allison took him by the hand and led him to a park bench.

"Have you heard what happened after that?" she asked him as they sat down.

"No," he answered looking toward her, fearing something even more demoralizing.

"That second bullet hit my father in the leg," she told him.

Joshua gasped.

"Don't worry," she said quickly. "He's all right; just a graze. But Father James died on the way to hospital."

"I heard about Father James. I haven't been able get it out of my mind. Everywhere I go, I see him. Everyone I look at seems to stare back as if they know something. I thought I was going mad. Only when I arrived at the Artist's Society building and they let me in to set up did I begin to feel stable. Miss Baker, I'm so sorry about your father."

Allison realized she was now in a difficult position. Technically, she should report the information she had to the police. She knew, however, she could never do that. She could not betray the trust Joshua had shown and didn't want to anyway. Deep down, she felt Father James' death was no great loss. Her unsympathetic regard for the old man shocked her, but for that she blamed him. The gross intrusion he had attempted, trying to declare Amy as some kind of 'chosen' reviled her. 'Child of the light,' she thought, 'what utter codswallop!'

"I'm sure when he learns the circumstances, my father will understand Joshua. What shocks me is that Amy and I were on the stage when you fired. You could have hit us."

Joshua could find no words to respond to that. He dropped his head into his hands, his hair falling about his face. His dismay at the very thought caused him to gasp for breath.

"Where is the rifle now, Joshua?" she asked.

"In the back of the station wagon," he replied.

'Christ Jesus,' she thought. She looked down upon him with pity; a young man but still a boy, full of hopes and aspirations, but easily intimidated, and bullied beyond his capacity to cope. He had reacted to a callous act of disregard by someone who should have known better, but whose mind had been corrupted by a false sense of self-righteousness. 'How can I help him? Is there anything I can do?' Her day had been turned on its head. Just hours ago she lay in bed in the arms of the man she loved and then set out with her daughter brimming with happiness and ready to drink up the day. That delightful expectation was now shattered. She found herself immersed in thoughts of obstructing the due process of law, harbouring a fugitive, conspiracy! She wondered if Joshua would consider surrendering himself to the mercy of the law. The thought evaporated quickly. The very best outcome would be a charge of manslaughter and for that Joshua would go to jail for at least five years. She thought of Michael and immediately recoiled from the thought of involving him. 'I can't tell him,' she thought. 'I have to find another way! Who can I trust?'

She placed her arm around Joshua as he fell onto her breast. She nursed him like a son just as Amy returned to where the two of them sat, and tucked herself under Allison's arm on the other side.

"I think it would be better if you came home with us tonight, Joshua. I don't think we should involve your uncle in this," she said, as ideas came and went. "We need to call your father, too. He will help us work out something."

## 36.

Dorothy Proctor sat up in bed as her doctor gave her a brief examination. The sedative he had given her the day before had done its job. She had slept for nearly twelve hours. The shooting and witnessing Father James collapse to the floor of the stage had sent her into shock, but in the early afternoon of the following day she seemed to have recovered. Twenty minutes earlier, Sarah Millstock who had stayed with her overnight, had answered the front door and invited Charlie Harris inside. Charlie was a confused and weary man. Ballistics tests had determined that Sam Spent's rifle was not the murder weapon; information that did nothing to settle Charlie's indigestion. His first question to Sarah on his arrival had nothing to do with his investigation.

"Do you have any antacid handy, Sarah?" he asked.

"I'll get something for you, Mr. Harris," she answered. "You can go upstairs if you like. The doctor is still with her."

"Before I do, Sarah, what's all this about you pretending to be the Virgin Mary?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Harris. It was a silly thing to do but it was just one of those things a girl does. Amy surprised us and I just..."

"Us?"

"Joshua Wayne and I."

"Oh, right! I see. Am I to assume you and Joshua were...?"

"Oh no, Mr. Harris, not that! Joshua was painting me."

"Painting you," Charlie repeated. "So why pretend to be the Virgin Mary?"

"I was naked, Mr. Harris."

"Oh, I see."

"Will I get you that antacid now?"

"Did Amy see you naked?"

"No, thank goodness. I threw a sheet over me and Joshua still had his lamp glowing. I covered myself completely and with the lamp radiating from behind I probably looked like an apparition to Amy," she said, as the doctor came downstairs.

"But why be the Virgin Mary? Why not Cleopatra or Helen of Troy?"

"Amy asked me if I was Our Lady, Mr. Harris."

"Oh, I see."

"When she asked me, I thought, why not? It was a spur of the moment thing."

"Oh, okay. So what happened to the painting?"

"Joshua has it, Mr. Harris. He took it to Melbourne yesterday, to an exhibition."

"You mean I have to go all the way to Melbourne to see it?" Charlie asked, with a wry smile.

"Mr. Harris, don't be naughty," Sarah protested.

"Okay, then perhaps you could get that antacid for me now," he said, before addressing himself to the doctor.

"How's Dorothy, doctor?"

"She's fine. You can talk with her. Just don't push her too hard," he answered. "She's still a bit shaky."

Charlie nodded and went upstairs, tapping gently on the partly opened door. "It's Charlie Harris, Dorothy."

"Come in," Dorothy replied, as she quickly covered her shoulders with a shawl.

"Sorry to trouble you," he said, as he entered the bedroom. "Just like to ask you one or two questions if you feel up to it?"

"Yes, all right," she answered.

"I know you have suffered a great shock Dorothy, so I won't keep you long, I promise. I am told that Father James was staying with you the last couple of nights."

"Yes, he was."

"Why was he here, Dorothy?"

"He came for Maud's funeral and stayed over a few days," Dorothy said defensively, suddenly feeling very nervous and not wanting to go into any extravagant detail about Father James' state of mind.

"I'm just trying to establish what he was here for, and why he got up on the stage yesterday and began giving a sermon," Charlie said. "Could you help me fill in some detail here, Dorothy?"

Dorothy hesitated, looking confused, unsure how to express herself clearly.

"Some of the people we have spoken to have said that he referred to Amy Baker as the child of the light. Do you know what he meant by that?" Charlie asked.

In the cold hard light of day, Dorothy began to see Father James differently. His passion and zeal for all things spiritual, seemed uncomfortably trite against the reality of his shocking, violent death. She began to retreat from any idea of explaining to a police officer Father James' wish to consecrate Amy and declare her the child of the light, as prophesied in the Paray manuscript. Such an explanation, she thought, would sound absurd. The two people with whom she had shared a deep spiritual experience, the expectation of divine wonders about to be revealed, were now dead. She was the only one left. 'The Paray manuscript? The casket? Who would understand now? What had become of them? What is going to happen now?'

"Dorothy," Charlie asked. "Are you all right?"

Dorothy looked vague and befuddled, unable to speak.

"Did Father James give any indication that he was in any danger? Was there anyone he might have mentioned that he thought might want to hurt him?"

"No, I don't think so," she answered, relieved that she was able to say anything coherent at all.

"Do you know if he had an argument with anyone?"

"He argued with everyone," she answered.

"Was he planning to stay here long?"

"No, he was going to Melbourne to see some people there," she answered.

"What people? Where?"

"Opus Dei," she answered.

"Opus what?" he asked, taking the liberty of sitting down on the bed.

Dorothy's mind suddenly went blank. She stared straight ahead as if in a trance.

"Did Father James have any belongings, Dorothy? Is there anything that he has left here in your house?"

Dorothy's mind was not functioning. Charlie's words did not resonate. The mental images that flashed across her consciousness were a mixture of reality and wishful thinking; the festival, the plan to consecrate Amy, Maud Baker.

"Dorothy, there was no luggage in Father James' car. Did he leave anything here when he left?" Charlie asked. Dorothy did not answer and Charlie could see that, at this point anyway, she would be of little help in his investigation. He tapped her lightly on the back of her hand. "It's all right, Dorothy. I won't bother you anymore for the moment. You just rest here and I'll ask Sarah to come up and see if there's anything you want," he said, getting up and moving toward the door. Suddenly, the words came out, from where she was not sure, but come they did.

"The Monsignor wanted the casket," she said, as Charlie was about to go down the stairs. Charlie stopped and turned back into the room. "What did you say?" he asked.

"The Monsignor wanted the casket," she repeated.

"What has all this got to do with the Monsignor?" he asked.

Fifteen minutes later, Charlie Harris left Dorothy in the care of Sarah Millstock and made his way to the presbytery of Saint Francis de Sales.

"Good afternoon, Monsignor," he said, as Henri Pascal opened the door. "I wonder if I might take up some of your time? I need to clear up a few things regarding yesterday's shooting at the festival."

Henri welcomed him inside and introduced him to Father Williams, the parish priest from Saint Eudes in Sydney, who had arrived earlier.

"Father Williams is just leaving. We have been discussing the arrangements necessary when Father James' body is released," Henri told Charlie.

"Perhaps Father Williams could delay his departure a little longer," Charlie asked. It occurred to him that having two priests from whom to gather information was probably better than one, while trying to unravel what seemed to be an increasingly complex set of circumstances, about an increasingly complex character. Father Williams agreed to stay.

Over the course of the next hour, the three men sat and talked together with much of the detail of the Monsignor's visit to Australia explained, and, with the help of Father Williams, much of the sometimes bizarre and erratic behaviour of the dead priest was understood. Charlie was not a religious man and did not understand why it was that intelligent well-educated people could be seduced into believing what he thought to be little more than creative mythology. He did not understand it, but he knew nothing he was going to say would change their minds. At the end of it, Charlie came away a much better informed man, convinced that his job had been made much clearer. He was now able to put one or two things together. He now knew that Father James had in his possession a casket and manuscript. He was reasonably sure that Father James probably burgled Allison's house on the day of Maud's funeral to retrieve the casket. The items themselves were of little interest to him except that he now knew the reasons Father James spoke to the crowd at the festival. Having earlier ascertained from Dorothy Proctor that Father James' luggage was not at her house, in all probability he had placed all his belongings, including the casket and the manuscript into his car. A subsequent search of his car produced no such items, so the next step was clear. Trace his movements from the moment he left Dorothy Proctor's house to the time he arrived at Remembrance Park.

'Find the casket,' he said to himself as he returned to his car, 'and I find the killer. It should be simple!'

## 37.

Later that afternoon, Father Michael Ryan arrived back at the presbytery, tired from the long drive, but still animated and elated in a way he had never experienced before. Thoughts of Allison were uppermost, so that each time he captured her image in his mind his heart leapt. He was still a long way from drawing any conclusions or formulating any long-term plans, but deep from within, he felt the union they had shared filled an emotional vacuum, a longing that his clerical beliefs failed to address. That union became a source of great strength, strength he knew he would need in the coming days, weeks and months, as he sorted out his life and made decisions about the future. As unclear as all that seemed right now, he wanted that future to be inextricably linked to Allison. Whatever obstacles lay ahead could be overcome in the course of time; not without some pain, and some recriminations from hostile sources, but overcome just the same. He refused to allow any sense of guilt to enter his mind. He vowed that above all else. There would be no guilt, no destructive, negative elements intruding upon the joy, the splendour of the act of love. The very thought of it was intolerable. Henri Pascal was waiting for him and over coffee and the cakes that Alice Eastward had baked and brought to the presbytery, the two men discussed the events of the past twenty-four hours. Each man had his story, his experience to relate: the psychological trauma, the fear, the reaction in the face of an act of violence that each, at the time, believed threatened innocent lives. Had their individual responses been the proper ones, they asked each other. Had they each been true to their pastoral and spiritual calling? They shared each others' experiences in some detail, but Michael and Allison's moment of intimacy was not revealed. That belonged to Michael and Allison alone.

It had been agreed between Henri, Father Williams from Sydney and the diocesan Bishop, that Father James should be laid to rest in Monterey Creek, where he had spent much of his life. Dorothy Proctor had asked her doctor to convey to the presbytery, that, if possible, he be laid to rest alongside one of his few friends, Maud Baker. It only remained that Father Michael should agree and, of course, he did. Henri then addressed himself to the matter of the casket, which he now held little hope of finding. In the event it should be found, the police would claim it as evidence and impound it. Henri felt, therefore, that his journey had no further worthwhile purpose and that he should return to France.

"I will, of course, wait until we have given Father James an appropriate farewell, but after that I think that I should return home. There is nothing more I can achieve here."

Father Michael did not want him to go. He felt he needed his counsel concerning Allison, but the manner in which he should approach that, was not yet clear to him.

"But what will you say to the other members of your society?" he asked.

"That will be difficult enough, my friend. But what concerns me more is the likely recriminations that will be directed toward the one person in our organization who has betrayed our trust."

"Who is that?"

"The person I speak of is François Dante, a retired former Bishop of Paris. I am certain it was he who encouraged Father James to steal the casket in the first place. Father James would never have acted independently. He was manipulated by François. When I report what has happened, the others will be reluctant to have him in their midst. His reckless actions have indirectly caused a man to die. Such irresponsibility will not be viewed well. I fear, too, for the future of the society. Without the casket and the manuscript there is no reason for the organization to exist. To think that after three hundred years it has come to this," Henri said sadly.

"Perhaps it is not as bad as you think," Michael suggested, trying to put a positive spin on events. "Perhaps we will recover the casket and the manuscript. I could act on your behalf and assume responsibility for them, should the course of events turn in our favour."

"That is very kind of you, Michael. You are the only one I could ask and indeed trust to assume such a role. But deep down I have to say I do not hold out great hope."

"Well, it's a selfish request, I have to admit," Michael conceded. "I would like to keep in touch with you. I feel I'm going to need some strong support over the coming months," Henri could see that his young friend wanted to talk about other matters.

"Has this something to do with Allison Baker?" he asked, giving Michael the opening he sought.

"Yes Henri," he answered.

Henri was strangely silent for a moment. "I see," he said. He looked deep into Michael's eyes, as if searching for something.

"What is it?" Michael asked.

"How strong are you Michael? How strong is Allison? It will not be easy for you. You are under forty. The Church won't want to let you go at your age. They will string out any application on your part for years. Would you be willing to leave regardless? Are you strong enough to do that?"

"I love her," he answered.

"And I believe you, but will you be strong enough? Love alone will not be enough. Believe me, Michael, I know. I was once where you are now," Henri said sadly.

"You!" Michael said, somewhat shocked.

"Yes. Why does that surprise you? I was young once, like you," Henri said, defensively.

"What happened?"

"I was only thirty or so. She was a parishioner like Allison, a couple of years older than me. She had been engaged once but she broke it off. We worked together on a number of parish committees and met regularly, mostly with others at the presbytery. I was captivated by her, but for most of the time I didn't realize it. I thought she was lovely, and I so looked forward to those meetings. One evening she came to the presbytery for a meeting when there was no meeting. She got the dates confused, or so I thought. We were alone. She stayed for a little while and we went over a few things, nothing very important, but I found myself wanting her to stay. She made us some supper, made herself at home in the kitchen as if it were hers. For some reason I found that irresistibly compelling and thought how wonderful it would be, if it were always like this."

"What? Having her in the kitchen?"

"No, I didn't mean it that way. I meant having her near."

"I know what you meant."

"I walked her home that night. It was one of those balmy autumn evenings. Just as we arrived outside her house a car went by and backfired. She got a huge fright and leapt into my arms. I held her and she made no attempt to break the hold. One thing led to another and we kissed. We stood there together just looking at each other. It was the most exhilarating experience I had ever known, but I concealed my feelings and broke away. I apologised for allowing it to happen. She said it wasn't my fault. We said goodnight and went our separate ways, but I couldn't get her out of my mind."

"And that wasn't the end of it?"

"No. How could it be the end?"

"What did you do?"

"We began to see each other, always on the pretence that it was innocent. We met in public places, walked together, laughed, joked, carefully avoiding any repeat of that first night, for a while. Then one night it was too much and we gave in to each other. It was in a dark alley. Can you imagine that, Michael? A young priest, and a young woman, reducing ourselves to a few moments of passion in a dark alley!"

"It sounds very French," Michael said, light-heartedly.

"Yes, it was that," Henri grinned.

"Did you ever...?"

"Did we make love together? No, we didn't. Some weeks later I had to travel to Rome for some study. I was there for a month and during that time I came to a decision. I put the church, my vocation, ahead of my feelings for the woman. When I returned to Paris we met once more for coffee. I made sure when we did that I was wearing my full clerical suit and collar. That alone, I think, told her what was to come. I told her that I had taken a vow of celibacy and that I wanted to honour that vow and continue the work I believed I was called to do. I think I even said that it was God's will or something like that."

"How did she react?" Michael asked.

"Like the lady she was. She said she admired me as a man of character, or something similar. She wished me well and said I had nothing to fear from her. She said I was not to blame myself in any way and said it was not an innocent mistake that night she came to the presbytery for a meeting. Then she got up and walked away. That was when I realized what a wonderful opportunity I had just passed up."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

"Yes. She married and had three delightful children, one of whom I taught at University for a term. I could never quite get it out of my head that he could have been my son. It was a very arresting feeling for me."

As the impact of Henri's story enveloped Michael, both men sat in silence, each deep in his own thoughts, each reflecting on choices made and yet to be made. It was Henri who broke the silence. "I give you this advice Michael, without attempting in any way to influence any decision you make in respect of your relationship with Allison. I simply say this to you: whatever you do, I will help you, but do not let one side of the argument dominate the other. And most important of all, don't make the same mistake I made and deny your heart its proper place in this equation."

## 38.

Allison and Joshua sat together on the same sofa she and Michael had shared the night before. It was nine o' clock in the evening. They had eaten a proper meal and Amy was now asleep in bed. Earlier that afternoon, after they had left the Fitzroy Gardens, Joshua drove his wagon to her house. Shortly after darkness closed in on the narrow street, Allison removed Father James' bag containing the casket, the manuscript and other personal effects from the car and took them inside her house. She then returned to the car and carefully covered the rifle with a blanket and took that inside as well. Her actions were clear and deliberate. Had she stopped to consider the parlous position in which she had now placed herself, perhaps she might have thought twice about it. Her mind, however, was consumed only with the intention of protecting the boy with whom she felt a bizarre connection. He had taken the life of a priest in anger. She had taken a priest to her bed. While the circumstances of each were vastly different in every conceivable way, she knew that in time to come, each would impact upon their community, their town in a way neither wanted to contemplate. Each of them and, by association, their families, was at risk of being shunned in one form or another.

After removing all items associated with Father James from the car and hiding them in the ceiling, a secure place away from Amy's curious notice, it was time to rest a while, seek relief from the stress and allow the mind and body to recover. They sat together in silence, only the gentle sounds of light classical music from the CD player intruding into the room. As Allison relaxed, allowing the tumultuous events of the past two days to recede, she recalled the cause of Joshua's trouble.

"What happened to the painting you did of Sarah Millstock?" she asked Joshua.

"It's in the car," he answered. "On the back seat with some others I brought with me."

"Can I see it?" she asked.

He went out to the car and moments later returned with the painting, placing it down on the coffee table in front of her; the unframed canvas split apart in the middle. She bent forward to look at it. She was no expert, but the colour contrast, the soft shades of the human form against the harsh background of the forest leapt out, the likeness of Sarah, captured unmistakably.

"This is excellent, Joshua. It is beautiful," she said as she picked it up and turned it over. She studied the damage on the back, running her fingers across the torn canvas.

"Joshua, I think we can fix this," she said. "It won't be perfect, but I think with a little masking tape on the back, we can restore this. Do you have your painting materials with you?"

"Yes," he answered. "In the car."

"If we stretch it across and tape it, you could touch it up where the joins are and I think it would be suitable to show tomorrow."

Joshua studied the split in the canvas, examining where the joins would meet and considered whether he could add a darker shade to conceal it. Allison's enthusiasm for the painting had lifted his own confidence and he revelled in the idea that she would encourage him so.

"It might work," he said. "It's worth a try."

Allison rifled through the kitchen drawers for the masking tape as Joshua brought his painting materials in from the car. She stood by him as he set up on the kitchen table and watched as he transformed himself from frightened boy into committed restorer of his work of art. She watched as he studied the damage to the canvas, and deliberated on where he would start. Then, she left him alone in the kitchen to attend to other matters, but first set up the CD player so that he would have continuous music to inspire him, and she would have privacy. She needed to speak firstly with those who had his best interests at heart, and would help her decide what was to happen next. Then, later, she would wait for Michael's call. She checked on Joshua again before making the calls and saw how the music calmed him, and empowered his artistic concentration.

He laboured diligently, first applying strip upon strip of masking tape to stretch the back of the canvas across from left to right and again from top to bottom, carefully bringing the separated parts together with such precision as to render the join almost undetectable. He then applied a hot iron to flatten the tiny crimping and when he was satisfied the canvas was smooth enough, he set about mixing the paint to achieve the exact match. He applied his skills, selecting the right colour shades for the painted eyes of Sarah Millstock, altering only marginally the direction she was looking. Unhappy with the first attempt, he tried again and again. While he was engrossed in his labour of love, Allison spoke with his father Brian Wayne and then Harry, her father. She told Brian that whatever arrangements he needed to make to ensure his service station was open in the morning and that nothing appeared out of the ordinary, he should make without delay, but to ensure that he was in Melbourne by morning. Joshua needed him. Brian needed no further persuasion. Earlier that day he had opened up the service station to cater for the visitors who had stayed overnight and were now on their way home. He noticed the hastily and sloppy manner in which Joshua had closed up the place the previous day. It was unlike him. As much as Brian knew Joshua held no great ambition to follow in his father's footsteps, his attention to detail in closing was usually exemplary. Brian's concern for Joshua was magnified when he discovered that the rifle he kept in the storeroom was missing. His first reaction was to report the matter to Charlie Harris, but two things held him back. He had no permit for the rifle, and to expose himself amidst the present climate of a murder investigation would be, at best, imprudent. Of greater concern was the discomfort he felt about the possible circumstances surrounding its disappearance. He wanted to question Joshua first, in the hope that he would have an answer.

As Joshua continued with his work, he was blissfully unaware that Allison was arranging a meeting to map out his immediate future. While making the calls, Allison was loath to discuss anything in detail over the phone, but nevertheless convinced her father to trust her good judgement and have Sam Spent drive him and Brian Wayne to Melbourne overnight. When Harry contacted Sam and asked him to call around for a chat about Allison and Joshua, Sam responded willingly. Brian arranged with Anthony Jackson and his wife to take Timothy for the night and to open the service station in the morning. Then, late in the night, the three men gathered at Terry Street, prepared and ready to travel through the night to Melbourne.

Allison sat back in the lounge chair wondering if she had done everything she could. A rush of fear spiralled its way through her body as she realized her actions were a serious breach of the law. A man had been killed, the police were treating it as a homicide, she was concealing incriminating evidence, and she was harbouring the assailant and now preparing to conspire with others to protect him. As she sat there turning matters over in her mind, she could hear the music in the next room and peered through the partly open door. Joshua was busy at work restoring his painting. She watched as he worked diligently, lovingly, and wondered how a shy, sensitive young man like him could suddenly find himself in this position. What sudden madness possessed him? What else could she do? She couldn't do anything else. To report him to the police was unthinkable. Perhaps his father would view the situation differently when he arrived in the morning. If he did, then that would be a matter for them, not her. Perhaps there was another solution, one that would see Joshua avoiding prosecution. Perhaps when the three men arrived in the morning a solution would be found. 'Perhaps.'

It was after Joshua went to bed that Michael called. She was grateful Joshua was not awake. She wanted to avoid any further complications. Michael had waited for Henri to retire before he rang. He did not want to compromise the Monsignor any further and to be speaking to his lover while Henri was up and about, seemed to him an abuse of friendship. Allison found the conversation difficult, knowing that she was concealing something from him. She didn't want Michael involved in any way in the conspiracy that was about to unfold. If he noticed anything different in her mood, the way she spoke, he didn't say so. Just to hear the sound of her voice was enough for him.

"I tried to call your father," he said, "but there was no answer."

"Daddy's on his way down here, Michael. He felt he needed to get away."

"He's not driving on his own is he?"

"No. Sam is with him. They get together down here occasionally."

"Is everything else all right?" he asked.

"Michael, I want to come back as soon as possible. Perhaps Tuesday. I want to be at home, close to you. It's a little lonely down here. I'll call my paper tomorrow morning and tell them I will be back on Wednesday. I'll have to write some sort of story on the whole fiasco, so I'll probably do that tomorrow. My editor will want that."

"Will you take the train?"

"Yes, probably."

"The Monsignor thinks he will leave in a few days and return to France. He's given up any chance of finding the casket and manuscript for the moment anyway."

The news of the Monsignor's intentions jolted Allison. She wanted Henri to have what he had travelled so far to recover, but knew that if she revealed their whereabouts, it would expose her to awkward questions. Once more the deception she was forced to practice sat uneasily with her and she worried that it would threaten her relationship with Michael.

"That means his whole trip has been a waste, doesn't it?"

"In one way, but he has been very helpful to me. He has offered to advise me in any way he can."

"Advise you with what?" she asked, without thinking.

"Making decisions about my future," he answered. "He might well have been put in my path to give me the guidance I need."

Allison listened to Michael's words, allowed them time to sink into her mind. As she considered the prospect of the two of them sharing a future together her heart leapt, but she spoke with caution.

"Michael, what have I done to you?"

"You have made me incredibly happy, is what you have done," he answered. Another silent moment of reflection passed.

"I worry that if you leave the priesthood, you will feel a loss of identity and later regret it, and then blame me and hate me," Allison responded.

"Don't think that way," he said.

"I can't help it."

"I have been unsettled for some time, without knowing why. Then suddenly I find a theology of human love that satisfies everything that was missing. It's not leaving the priesthood that I would regret. It would be if I couldn't continue doing the sort of work I enjoy. Henri has helped me realize I can find that, anywhere: teaching, social work. Moral leadership doesn't require clerical vows, just commitment. I haven't lost my identity. You've helped me discover the next great step in the journey of life."

"Michael, maybe I'm not the person you think I am," she said.

"And perhaps I'm not everything you think I am. We are both taking a huge risk. That's what people in love, do."

Michael's words resonated with Allison, but not the way he intended. Allison was about to take a huge risk with Joshua, a risk that could rebound savagely. It was, however, Michael's reference to moral leadership that kept her steady. She believed in the morality of her actions. She hated not sharing her problem with him but refused to involve him for his own protection. If she were discovered, she would take responsibility for her actions, but refused to drag him into disrepute with her.

"I just want to come back as soon as I can," she said wearily.

"I'll pick you and Amy up from the station at Hampton Bells if you like," Michael offered.

"I'll let you know what I'm doing as soon as I can," she answered. "Please ask the Monsignor to wait until I return. I'd like to say goodbye to him."

At the end of the conversation, Allison was nearing emotional exhaustion. In just twenty-four hours everything had become so confused. She had strayed beyond the boundaries of her ordinary life, of who she was. Every way her mind turned she felt trapped. She longed to go to bed and sleep until her father arrived in the morning. She knew the actions she would undertake tomorrow in conjunction with Brian Wayne, Sam Spent and her father, could come back to haunt her one day, could profoundly affect any decisions she made with Michael, could profoundly affect her daughter Amy's future security. She was committing herself to a huge risk, the enormity of which was all too evident. And yet, Michael's reference to moral leadership convinced her that it was a just cause and that to do otherwise would haunt her all the more. She prepared for bed, the same bed she had shared with Michael the night before. As she rested her head on the pillow, she smelt him still and longed for him. She turned out the light, hoping sleep would come. She tossed and turned, all manner of irrational thoughts invading her mind. Finally, after what seemed hours lying there awake and restless, she fell into a deep sleep.

## 39.

It was 7am when she was awakened by a knock on the front door. The sunlight sparkled and danced through the shades, as she jumped out of bed, furled her hair back and threw on a robe. She came along the hallway just as Joshua appeared at his bedroom door.

"It's all right," she said reassuringly. "It's your father."

Opening the door she was relieved to see Harry, Sam and Brian waiting outside.

She invited them in, and each man entered in silence. There was an unmistakeable air of concern that put paid to any boisterous display of surprise, joy and frivolous chatter. Only when the front door closed did they all relax and allow a smile or two. They were all weary from travelling through the night, with minimal sleep. Brian first noticed his son standing in the hallway and went straight to him. He could see the mixture of fear and relief in the boy's eyes and wrapped his arms around him in silence.

As Joshua began to break down, Brian whispered into his ear, "it's okay, we will work it out together." Joshua clung to him tightly as he had done often with his mother when he sought refuge and support. Allison hugged her father and assisted him into the lounge room and a waiting armchair. She then wrapped her arms around Sam as if he were her knight in shining armour. Of the three of them, Sam, she thought, would be the one who would have the answers, the solution. He would be the calm one, his advice would be without emotional baggage. She then looked to Brian who released Joshua and turned to her, taking her by both hands.

"Thank you for taking care of him," he said and kissed her on the cheek. She was taken aback. This was not the reaction she expected. Brian seemed different, assertive, deliberate, his awkwardness no longer apparent. He had come to take charge of his son and it showed in his face. He had, it seemed, stepped up to the challenge. In fact, the attitude displayed by all three reflected the strength and determination she felt was slipping from her resolve. Their collective strength reinforced her.

"Have you had breakfast?" she asked. They shook their heads.

"Then I will get something for you."

"Let's start with some nice strong coffee," Sam suggested. Allison grinned and left them. Suddenly she felt light again. The burden of the last twenty-four hours had been shared.

When she returned five minutes later with coffee for all of them, herself included, the shock of it all returned. The conversation was well advanced.

"What do I care for that bastard?" Brian said angrily. "He told my wife she'd burn in hell if she continued to flaunt God's holy law by taking the pill. He told me I was committing a mortal sin if I made love to my wife knowing that she was taking the pill. God's holy law," he scoffed. "What the Jesus would he know about what's holy? Do you want to know the truth? I'm glad he's dead and as long as I'm alive no son of mine will go to jail for killing him."

Brian's words jolted Allison. It was as if they had known all along what had happened and were already devising some plan to protect Joshua.

"No court would ever let Joshua off for killing a priest, no matter what mitigating circumstances were pleaded," Harry said. "The broader community would demand some period of incarceration."

"Probably every Catholic in Monterey Creek would have an example of some callous reaction or some unpleasant experience they've had with Father James, but that won't make any difference," Sam said. "I'm not Catholic, yet even I had the occasional run-in with him."

Allison passed the coffee around and sat alongside Joshua.

"What do we do?" she asked, looking to Sam. A year earlier, when she had returned to care for her mother, she always looked to Sam for help when things reached crisis point. Like Brian, Sam had never looked so serious, his usual jovial nature put aside.

"We get him out of the state to start with," Sam began. "If you're willing to go along with it, Brian, I can take him to my brother in Tasmania."

"I thought your brothers were in jail?" Brian said.

"Not all of them," Sam replied. "He's a sheep farmer. He will take care of him for the time being until we sort out something more permanent."

"In the meantime, he can stay here," Allison suggested. "It might be better not to involve his Uncle Albert," she said, looking to Brian. "If anyone asks, we can say he's doing a short study course in painting and staying here for convenience."

"No," Sam interrupted. "We have to get him out now, tonight if possible. I can go with him on the Spirit of Tasmania tonight."

"I'll go too," Brian said.

"No, Brian," Sam countered. "You need to be back at your service station as if nothing happened. We need everything to look as normal as possible. I'll take him, get him settled and be back in a few days. No one will even know I'm gone. In the meantime, we have to dispose of all Father James' belongings. Everything that he placed in the back of Joshua's car has to be destroyed."

"Not the casket and the manuscript too?" Allison pleaded.

"Yes Allison, they have to go," Sam said firmly. "They both have to be destroyed. I'm sorry for the Monsignor, but we cannot afford to have them turn up anywhere, even in France. It's going to be a little chilly tonight. I suggest you light a fire and burn them both. The rest of it you can give to me. I'll take care of them." Grim disappointment took hold of Allison. She sincerely wanted to hand the casket and manuscript back to Henri, saving at least one remnant of the sad affair, and allowing Henri to return to France having successfully completed his mission.

"What about the exhibition at the Gallery today? Can I still attend that?" Joshua asked.

"Yes, Joshua. In fact you must attend and do everything you would have done as if nothing happened," Sam answered. "I'll make all the arrangements for the trip across the Strait tonight. You be ready to leave here no later than five o' clock."

"The important thing right now is to keep Joshua at arm's length from Charlie Harris," Harry said. "Right now, there's no reason for Charlie or anyone else to want to question him. I suspect that Charlie already knows that Father James had the casket and manuscript in his car. He will trace his movements from the beginning of the day. If he discovers that he filled up with petrol at the service station, Brian, you will have to say you served him and everything seemed okay at the time. If he asks about Joshua, you tell him he left for Melbourne before the whole thing happened. If he accepts that, Joshua should be in the clear."

As the occupants of the room went silent, each absorbing the gravity of their actions, Allison's analytical nature floated to the surface. She began to examine what had just taken place and realized a gaping anomaly.

"Have I missed something?" she asked, looking at each of them, and suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

"What do you mean, pumpkin?"

"When I came in the room a few minutes ago, you were already talking about protecting Joshua, yet he hardly had time to explain all the detail you seem to have acquired. What do you know about this that I don't?"

Harry looked at Sam. Sam looked at Brian. Brian looked back at Sam. Allison looked at each of them. Seven years experience as a journalist, researching, questioning, analysing a variety of stories told her there was more to this than had been revealed so far. Suddenly it dawned on her.

"You knew didn't you?" she put to them. "You knew!"

It was Sam who spoke.

"I saw it happen," he said. "I saw Joshua drive into the park, I saw him fire the rifle twice, then drive out again."

"My God! Who else saw it?" she asked.

"No one else has come forward so I'm pretty sure I was the only one. I was with Alice Eastward. She was facing the other way. She didn't see Joshua."

Allison was speechless.

"In all the pandemonium that followed, my first reaction was to protect Joshua," Sam said. "When I realized who had been hit, something told me Joshua had a reason. Maybe it was because I never liked the old man, maybe I thought he deserved it, I don't know. Alice saw Father James fall and went into a panic. I looked back at Joshua and saw him fire a second shot, although it looked more like he forgot to reset the safety clip, and the rifle discharged accidentally. I told her I would alert the ambulance. She wanted to go over and see if she could help. I ran back toward my truck and remembered my rifle was there. It wasn't loaded, so I grabbed it and threw it out onto the grass nearby. I thought it might confuse matters for a little while and give Joshua some breathing space. It was a reflex action. I didn't know at that stage that Harry had been hit."

Allison could not believe what she was hearing.

"You had the presence of mind to do that, when everyone else was in a state of mad panic?" she asked incredulously.

"I was in Vietnam, sweetie. I've seen men get shot before. You react differently when you've experienced that," he answered her with a grim smile.

She stared at him, her mouth open, uncertain whether to sit there in awe or go back to the kitchen and prepare breakfast.

"The police found the rifle and called me in for questioning. I told them I knew nothing about it. I knew they would realize sooner or later my rifle wasn't the one used to shoot Father James."

"I didn't mean to shoot you Mr. Baker, I'm sorry," Joshua said. "I didn't mean to shoot Father James. I just wanted to frighten him," he added.

"I know that, Joshua," Harry replied. "Don't torture yourself. You need to keep your wits about you. Just focus on what we do from here for the time being. When you're in Tasmania, you must be careful what you say and who you become friends with. You tell no one where you're from, and don't do anything to attract attention. You use this address here, as your last home. I live here, and I will be the one you quote as a reference for anything you want to do."

Joshua nodded as he absorbed Harry's advice.

"Well," Sam put to them, "There will be other matters we will have to work through as they become apparent. This is really only a transitional phase, but for what we have discussed so far, are we agreed?"

Nobody said anything. Compliant silence signalled agreement as the four of them realized they had conspired to break the law to protect one of their own and in the process a quiet feeling of relief at the decision floated across the room. Each of them trusted the others implicitly. It was Harry who broke the silence when he remembered breakfast.

"How's about some bacon and eggs, pumpkin? And where's my little pumpkin?" he asked, referring to Amy. Allison rose to check on Amy and prepare breakfast.

Sam turned to Brian. "Ever been fishing out on the bay?" he asked.

"No, I'm afraid not," Brian replied.

"Neither have I," Sam continued. "Always wanted to, though. Looks like a nice day for it," he added, looking out the window.

## 40.

Dorothy Proctor spent a restless night. She twice called out for young Sarah Millstock during the night, seeking comfort. She was experiencing vivid nightmares; delayed shock, as her doctor warned. Recurring images haunted her as she tossed restlessly during the long dark hours of the night. Sarah, sleeping in the next room came to her each time. The first time she woke, Dorothy spoke erratically, confusing contradictory ravings of a traumatized elderly lady whose mind was in turmoil. Sarah could make little sense of her ramblings and cradled her to settle her nerves. Dorothy rambled about caskets and letters, of Saint Margaret Mary and the novena to the Sacred Heart; of the three children at Fatima and Amy, the child of the light about whom Jesus had foretold. Eventually Sarah calmed her sufficiently, gave her another sleeping pill and Dorothy finally drifted back to sleep. Two hours later she woke again screaming. "Andrew, look out, he's going to shoot. Merciful God! Jesus Mary and Joseph! Maud, where are you. Help me!"

Sarah came to her once more and gave her water to drink, and another sleeping pill. Her doctor said every four hours, but would it really matter, she thought; anything to get her back to sleep. The nursing of Dorothy was beginning to wear on Sarah's patience. One overnight stay was no serious inconvenience, even reasonable, but Dorothy was proving to be a challenge now. Sarah had other things she could be doing.

Sarah sat on the edge of the bed waiting for Dorothy to drift off again. Eventually Dorothy did fall asleep, but Sarah's own sleep had also been thrown out of pattern and she found herself succumbing to the temptation of the little green pills to help her rest. She drank one down for herself and sat with Dorothy, intending to return to her room when the pill took effect. It wasn't long, however, before she began to feel drowsy and rather than return to her room drifted off to sleep alongside Dorothy. Neither of them stirred again until ten o' clock in the morning.

Charlie Harris was up bright and early the next morning. He continued his investigation in search of what he thought would lead him to the killer of Father James but it seemed no matter who he spoke to, what doors he knocked on, no credible leads offered him that tiny piece of information he sought; that one observation he was convinced would lead him to the casket and the manuscript. A thorough forensic examination of Father James' car revealed nothing. No one recalled seeing him prior to his arrival at Remembrance Park, or if they did, they were not coming forward. The homicide detectives from Sydney fared no better. Forensic evidence was collected from Father James' car, from Remembrance Park, and from Dorothy Proctor's house. It was the absence of Father James' personal effects, his clothes, his luggage, anything that belonged to him, that stalled the investigation.

## 41.

Allison trusted her father and Sam Spent implicitly. From the moment they had arrived at the Fitzroy cottage early that morning, they had assumed control of the difficult and delicate situation. They had relieved her of a heavy burden of responsibility and taken the matter into their own hands. As she sat in the lounge room, staring at the casket and manuscript she had placed on the coffee table, she had mixed feelings. Both Harry and Sam had told her she must destroy them both, but her heart went out to Monsignor Henri Pascal whom she was sure would, if given the opportunity, take the relics, return immediately to France and say nothing to anyone. She wanted him to have them, yet to ignore the sound advice of her father would not only expose Joshua, but implicate everyone around her, everyone who, like her, had Joshua's best interests at heart. Worse still, by placing herself at risk, she placed Amy's immediate care at risk also. 'Who would look after her, if I were arrested and taken away?' she thought.

She sat there alone staring at the casket. She recalled the words Brian spoke to her before he left with Sam. "I want you to know, if it wasn't already obvious," he began as he held her hand, "that I have had feelings for you for some time."

"Brian," she said embarrassed, but he stopped her from continuing. "I also realize that I'm a little old for you and I suspect that your interest might lie elsewhere, with someone else." Her heart leapt, thinking he knew about Michael and would say something, but she allowed him to continue. "I just want you to know, that what you have done for Joshua will never be forgotten, and I will be there for you, whenever you need me," he said. Leaning forward he kissed her on the cheek. She smiled as he let go her hands and joined Sam in the car. She realized that his feelings for her notwithstanding, he was letting her go. Sam and Brian had taken the rifle and all of Father James personal effects away; where, she did not know. She knew only that they intended to go fishing in the bay. Now she was in the house alone, but for Amy, and at last she felt she could see a light in the tunnel, and end to the anxiety. Only the fate of the casket and manuscript remained.

And what did her father's friend, the antiquities dealer who called around earlier when she and Amy went shopping, say about the casket? What was its true value? Her father didn't say. He said it didn't matter; they both had to be destroyed. She had not looked inside since the day after her mother's funeral when Michael came to advise her. What was it, she thought, that made this insignificant box of such vital interest. Could the cloth inside really contain the dried up Blood of Jesus, gifted to a seventeenth century nun in a vision? Could it really have happened, or was the woman, this revered saint, suffering serious delusion and psychological trauma? Or did she simply invent the whole story? Was Margaret Mary Alacoque nothing more than an out of control attention seeker, starved of attention in her childhood years, and craving to be noticed, to be loved, to be needed? Allison edged forward and opened the casket. She lifted out the night cap to examine it further. The cap was a coarse cotton fabric, covered with sweat stains. She touched the dark reddish brown area. It was hard, starch-like hard, and for a moment she allowed the legend to get the better of her and drew her hand back in momentary fear. She stared at the relics, allowing herself a few moments to absorb the possibility that what she held in her hands had the potential to change the world, if the world were to believe. That was when she stopped. That was when she realized that if the Christian world were to believe the words written in the manuscript, it had as much potential for great harm as it did for good. Medieval wars were fought over issues like this. Relics not only united people, they divided them too. Their value was questionable, prompting both positive and negative reactions. That wasn't the fault of the relics themselves but of the people who guarded them. People like Father James. His passion for the relics led indirectly to his death. 'What was the value in that?' she thought. 'If the relics became public knowledge, how many more would suffer?' Deep down she realized Sam and Harry were right. 'Destroy them before they cause any more harm!'

Resigning herself to the inevitable, she closed the casket for the last time, gathered together some kindling Harry had left in a box beside the fireplace, and prepared the fire.

Later that day, Sam and Brian returned from their 'fishing' trip having consigned all of Father James' belongings and Brian's rifle to the bottom of Port Phillip Bay, and completed arrangements for the Ferry. Joshua returned from his exhibition at the Victorian Artist's Society, thrilled at having sold one of his landscape paintings to a retired couple who thought it reminded them of where they spent their honeymoon forty years ago. After a light meal, the three of them prepared to leave and bade farewell to Allison and Harry, and made their way down to Station Pier in Port Melbourne. Brian and Joshua said their goodbyes in the departure lounge.

"I will come to see you when you get settled," Brian said. "Don't be afraid. It will all be okay, I promise." Joshua nodded in agreement but found words difficult to speak.

"Choose your friends wisely and be careful what you say to anyone," Brian added. With that the two hugged each other before Joshua joined Sam at the gate and the two boarded the Ferry.

Brian chose not to wait for the lumbering giant to ease her way back off the pier. It was difficult enough that his son was going away, but to stand there and prolong the pain was too much. He made his way downstairs to a waiting taxi and headed toward the station and the train that would take him back to Monterey Creek that night.

At 3am the following morning, the train pulled into Hampton Bells and Brian, tired and weary, struggled out of his carriage and into another taxi, slipping into Monterey Creek while the town slept soundly. He slumped into bed for a few more hours sleep before rising once more, and opening the service station for business as if nothing had happened.

Five hours later, the Spirit of Tasmania docked at Devonport, and Sam and Joshua disembarked, and took a bus to Ulverstone. At the same time, back at the cottage in Fitzroy, Allison and Amy prepared to make their way to the station and take the day train back to Hampton Bells, where Michael would meet them at the station and take them home. Harry remained in Fitzroy, awaiting the return of Sam and the news that the boy was settled and everything had gone to plan.

.

## 42.

On the night before Father James' funeral, Dorothy Proctor was still suffering post traumatic stress disorder and woke several times despite Sarah Millstock giving her two sleeping pills. The images in her dreams were sharp, and seemed very real. Sarah was again at her bedside in the dead of night, woken by her cries. Dorothy was wide awake as she began to relate her most recent dream experience.

"I was standing by the stage watching Father James walk to the microphone," she said. "I looked around to see if the people at the festival would come across and listen to him. I noticed a station wagon drive in the main entrance and stop. A man got out of the vehicle, a man with a gun pointing it at Father James. I saw him."

"You were having a nightmare, Miss Proctor. All this talk on the radio and the television has put images into your head," Sarah told her. "Don't let it worry you. The doctor will give you something to help tomorrow. Just try to rest."

"I saw him," Dorothy repeated, her eyes dilated.

"What did you see?" Sarah asked, now curious to know the detail swimming around in Dorothy's head.

"I heard the crack of a rifle firing and turned and saw him fall," she continued. "I turned back and saw the man point again, and then drive away."

"Yes, that's what Sergeant Harris thinks happened. He told you that," Sarah said.

"I turned to Father James and saw him lying on the stage in the arms of the Monsignor. People were screaming and running away," she said, as the fear and delayed shock returned, and she began screaming again.

Sarah was close to her wits' end. For five nights she had endured Dorothy's nightmares, attending to her each time, settling her, returning to her room to sleep again only to be woken later in the night by Dorothy's cries. In the mornings, Sarah was irritable and tried her best to maintain her composure, to get through breakfast until relieved by others without losing her temper. The strain crept up, delicately, in such a way that she never noticed. She was fed up. This, she promised herself, would be the last night she would stay with Dorothy. Someone else could have a turn, putting up with her ranting, her ravings, the broken night's sleep, having to drag herself out of bed each morning for more of the same. Sarah had had enough. She would phone the doctor in the morning and tell him so. He could find someone else to care for her at night.

She offered Dorothy another sleeping pill, and puffed up the pillows.

"We have to up bright and ready for Father James' funeral tomorrow," she said. Dorothy seemed to calm herself down, satisfied she was safe.

"Yes," she said. "I have to be ready for that," she reminded herself. She settled down under the covers and Sarah turned the light out and returned to her room.

It was ten o' clock before Sarah woke up. There was no sound from Dorothy. She must have slept soundly through the rest of the night, Sarah thought. The funeral was scheduled for eleven. She forced herself out of bed, recalling the previous night's interruptions and consoled herself that this was her last night here no matter what! She went to the bathroom and peered into the mirror, feeling no surprise at the puffing clearly visible under the eyes. She splashed some water over her face and took a second look. No improvement. She returned to her room, put on her robe and went to check on Dorothy. When she walked into her room, Dorothy was awake, sitting up in bed staring straight ahead.

"Good morning, Miss Proctor. How are you feeling?" she asked, in a tired voice. There was no answer. Sarah noticed her eyes were transfixed, unblinking, riveted to the front as if hypnotized.

"Are you all right?" she asked, taking a more deliberate look at her. Slowly Dorothy turned her head and looked straight at Sarah. Her eyes were fully dilated, the whites accentuating her shock, inexplicable fright, horror, dismay, repulsion. Sarah realized something was wrong, terribly wrong.

"What is it?" she asked. Dorothy stared at her for several moments. She found difficulty with the words.

"Joshua," she said finally.

"What about Joshua?" Sarah asked.

"I saw him," Dorothy said. "I saw him shoot," she said. "I have to tell Sergeant Harris."

"What are you talking about?" Sarah asked, in disbelief. "What do you mean you saw Joshua shoot? Shoot what?"

"I saw him shoot Father James," Dorothy replied, looking up at Sarah, her voice clear, articulate, certain. Sarah stared at her, barely absorbing the full impact of Dorothy's revelation.

"I have to tell Sergeant Harris right away," Dorothy repeated. "I have to phone him now. Will you help me?" she asked Sarah.

Sarah could not find the words to respond. She was in shock. 'Joshua? My Joshua? What happened? Could the old woman be telling the truth? Did she see something? Has the shock of what she saw only now become vivid in her mind? Was she suffering some sort of mental blockage, amnesia, until now?' As Dorothy made an effort to get out of bed, Sarah's mind was racing frantically. What to do?

"Miss Proctor, you have been much traumatized these last few days. It's possible your sub-conscious has manufactured this and made it appear to be what you saw."

"No! I'm sure. I know what I saw," she insisted. "I have to speak with Mr. Harris. Help me downstairs, will you. We must hurry."

Sarah's mind was suddenly flooded with confusion, and concern for Joshua.

"Yes, er, you must. My goodness, are you sure?"

"It came back to me during the night."

"Are you sure you haven't dreamt it?"

"No!" she answered sharply. "I remember now. I saw him. I turned around to see if everyone was listening to Father James and I saw him."

"These things are very easy to imagine, Miss Proctor. You might say something to Sergeant Harris that could cause an innocent person to suffer," Sarah said to her, hoping to slow her down, cause her to reconsider her intentions. Dorothy suddenly became annoyed.

"You think I'm going crazy don't you?" she said, turning on Sarah harshly. Her terse reaction annoyed Sarah.

'You old bitch! Don't talk to me like that!' she thought.

"No, of course not. It's just that...."

"I know what I saw. It's all coming back to me. You like him don't you. I know. You are trying to protect him."

"I'm doing nothing of the kind, Miss Proctor. I would never do anything like that. Not if it's true. But how can you be sure?"

"I'm sure," Dorothy said. "And even if I'm wrong, Mr. Harris will be discreet. He won't blast it all over the town until he's sure."

Dorothy had found her feet and began stumbling toward the bedroom door and the stairs.

"I can't get down the stairs on my own," she said, turning to Sarah.

"Will you help me please?"

Sarah looked at the determined, frail figure in front of her. She thought of Joshua in Melbourne innocently preparing to exhibit his painting of her. Was it possible that something happened last Saturday before he left? Her mind became confused, but at that precise moment as the adrenalin flowed, her natural inclination was clear and unmistakeable.

"If you want to call Sergeant Harris then that's what we'll do. Come on, I'll help you down the stairs."

## 43.

Three days later, Henri Pascal came off the Metro at Abbesses and walked along Rue Ravignan, reacquainting himself with the sights and smells of his Paris. He strolled along the pavement winding his way through the narrow streets absorbing the sights and sounds of people preparing for their day in cafés, fruit stalls and tiny offices. He stopped briefly to buy bread, croissants and milk along the way, and continued walking until he arrived at the front door of his apartment on Rue Norvins. It was hard to believe only ten days had passed. The events in Australia had fatigued him beyond anything he had experienced before; most of all Father James' funeral, and then saying goodbye to Father Michael, Allison, and little Amy whom he had quickly taken to his heart during his short visit. The memories of his experiences with them lingered vividly as he recalled the tragic events and the mixed feelings he felt on his departure. When saying goodbye to Michael, he promised he would act for him if asked, should he decide to apply for a dispensation of his priestly vows. Michael thanked him, and the two men exchanged email addresses. Before leaving for Sydney, he drove to 25 Terry Street to say goodbye to Allison and Amy. He somehow felt a special bond with them both and invited them to visit Paris one day soon. "You would be mistaken for a movie star in Montmartre," he teased.

"Codswallop," she laughed back.

He bade them farewell and was about to drive off when Allison rushed forward and handed him an envelope.

"I almost forgot! My father asked me to give you this," she said, and added, "he said it was in the strictest confidence." Henri took the envelope but didn't open it until he arrived back in Sydney. When he read the contents he stumbled backwards, such was the emotional impact of the contents and he took some time to absorb the information Harry had confided in him. The following day, while in transit at Changi Airport in Singapore, he took advantage of the free email service to send a reply via Michael. He typed, "To Allison: Please thank Harry for telling me. Received in the strictest confidence. Henri."

Now he was home again and needed to return to his normal life. Inside his apartment, he looked around to reassure himself that everything was in its proper place; that no intruders had violated his home while he was away. Satisfied all was well, he turned on the heating and slumped into his favourite armchair with the worn and faded fabric on the left side. He was tempted to allow himself to drift off to sleep, it felt so comfortable, so heartening to be home. He was home, but all the images foremost in his mind were those of Monterey Creek, of the people he had met who now held a special place in his prayers and his heart. After a short rest, he collected his mail and entered his study.

Flicking through his mail, he noticed one unstamped envelope that had been hand-delivered. The name and address on the back raised his hackles. 'Rev. François Dante.' He opened the envelope and took out the note inside. It read simply, 'Jean Paul Colombière informed me you would be returning today. Can you meet me at 4pm at Sacre Coeur?' He turned around and looked out the window, to view the Basilica behind him. In all of Paris, this was his favourite view. He looked at his watch. It was still only eleven o' clock in the morning. There was plenty of time to relax, have a short sleep, freshen up, and have something to eat.

He woke up at three-thirty that afternoon at first unsure of where he was, and lay there for several minutes reconnecting with his surroundings. He had been dreaming of Australia; of the wide brown open spaces of the countryside. He remembered the note from François Dante, dressed quickly and made coffee and a buttered croissant. It was a short walk to Sacre Coeur, but he was slow and by the time he arrived it was ten minutes past four. He looked around the outside of the Basilica but there was no sign of the retired Bishop. He walked through the front entrance, pausing a few moments to absorb the splendour of the interior. If ever he felt disconnected after such a long journey, being inside this place restored his balance. He wandered randomly allowing all things familiar to re-charge his tired constitution before eventually finding François at the Chapelle de la Sainte Famille, sitting at the front near the altar. As he approached, François turned to acknowledge him. They dispensed with any niceties and chose not to waste time discussing peripheral events.

"Thank you for coming Henri. I was beginning to wonder if I had the right date. It gets chilly in here."

"I overslept. It is such a tiring journey," Henri answered, as he sat beside him.

"Did you recover the casket and the manuscript?" François asked.

"No, I didn't. But it doesn't matter, does it," he answered and added, "And you know why, don't you, François?"

"So you know?" François asked.

"Yes, François, I know. It was a replica."

"How did you find out?"

"A friend in Melbourne arranged to have it examined by an antiquities dealer. The report said it was no more than six to twelve months old. The manuscript was a good copy on parchment available freely today. The cloth, she said, was also worthless; stained colour pigments used by artists."

"So, now you know. I had a replica made some months ago," François began. "When the matter was first raised concerning DNA testing and carbon dating, I was appalled at the idea. The Shroud of Turin was uppermost in my mind, but I could see the possibility that the majority might support the proposal. So I had a replica made, arranged the substitute myself and placed the true relics in a safe place."

"Why François?"

"Because, little by little, Henri, all that we believe is being whittled away. Soon there will be nothing left. The Mystery Henri! That is what keeps the church alive. The Mystery! If we continue to destroy the Mystery nothing will be left. To believe in nothing Henri! Think about it. What hope is there in that? We should be allowed to believe in our God, we should be allowed to follow our hearts and have hope, without every scientist on the planet trying to destroy that which gives us the joyous expectation of life everlasting."

Henri sat quietly, reflecting. He considered his response carefully.

"François," he began. "You and I know the Church is deeply flawed. Much of what we really know we keep to ourselves, within the hierarchy. We stifle the process of spiritual growth, with an indefensible dogma we prop up on a foundation of lies. The constant threat of a revived interest in the origins of Christianity haunts us; we fear the unearthing of old texts because they will eventually betray the alterations and forgeries the early church perpetrated to support its claims of apostolic continuity. Yet, what have we really got to fear? The church is probably more vulnerable now than it has ever been, yet look around you. The faithful still come, governments still fear our influence. The Pope only has to issue an encyclical and the world press can't print it quickly enough. People have been trying to destroy the Mystery for centuries without any success, François. You have nothing to fear. Your Mystery is safe. The faithful want the Mystery, François. They will always want the Mystery. What makes you think that anything has changed?"

"Of course things have changed, Henri. Don't be naïve. Look around you. Europe is changing. The faith is dying as we speak."

"Your faith, François, not mine."

"My faith lies in the depth of the Mystery, Henri. That is why I am protecting the relics. I am protecting the unknown.

A calm silence ensued, as each man reflected upon his individual theology. Henri recalled a recent conversation he had with Father Michael Ryan.

"If I have faith that Jesus rose from the dead, and it turns out that he didn't, François, what value is my faith?" Henri asked.

François hesitated. The question intrigued him.

"At the very least," he answered after a few moments, "its value would be measured in the way you lived your life."

"Even if you were right, François, believing it to be so, would be a false belief. Would you not prefer to know?"

"No, it would be better not to know," François answered. "How can anything unknown, be false?"

"That is a very negative answer. The Mystery François, you spoke of the Mystery. You will always have that, even if the relics turned out to be the product of human imagination, human creativity. We can never know everything."

François was weary and began to tire of the conversation.

"What I have done, I have done," he said in defiance.

"But why did you use Father James that way? Why did you do that?"

"He was more than happy to go along with the idea. I didn't twist his arm. I thought it would give us some time to try and convince the others to change their minds. It didn't work, but we both thought it might help. We were wrong."

"Where have you hidden the casket?" Henri asked. At first, François said nothing. He looked up and around the Basilica and then dropped his head onto his chest.

"Where have you hidden it, François?" Henri asked, again.

François looked up to the ceiling of the Basilica.

"It is here, in this magnificent Basilica, Henri. It is here in its rightful place. The Sacred Blood of Jesus in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart! What could be more appropriate? But you will never find it," he said. "The Lord will reveal it in His own time, as He promised in the manuscript."

"And if He doesn't?"

"Then, sometime in the future, one hundred, two hundred years from now, when humanity is in a worse position than it is today, someone will find it and from that, perhaps, will come a new hope in a godless world."

"And the manuscript, François? What have you done with the manuscript?"

"I considered giving that to the Convent of the Visitation in Paray. That could be tested. I am sure it will be shown to be authentic. But in the end I decided to keep the two together. The society is no more, Henri. It is not needed," he said, standing up to leave.

"And, nor am I, it seems," he added soulfully.

"What do you mean?" Henri asked.

"I have terminal cancer," he said. "I have but a few months to live. Do not judge me, Henri. We do what we have to. We do what we believe is right. True or false, it doesn't matter. We do what we believe is right."

## 44.

Joshua prospered in Tasmania, his gratitude for a second chance fuelling the motivation to succeed. Where he might otherwise have plodded indifferently, he found determination and resolve. He reminded himself daily that the help extended to him by family and friends was not a right and made sure their faith in him would not be in vain. Although there were times when he felt being so far from home was itself a prison sentence, he quickly reminded himself that the alternative was far worse. It was no surprise, however, that he did not take to sheep farming, or working part time at a local service station. Sam Spent's brother David was not surprised, nor was he disappointed. The lad was not trained for the rigors of farm life and it would be unreasonable to expect otherwise. He encouraged Joshua to look about the town and find something he could 'get his teeth into and enjoy.' Joshua tried his hand at the bakery but the early mornings soon found him out. Despite the initial difficulty of finding something he enjoyed, he never allowed self-pity to encroach upon his situation and did his best to fit in and make friends. Then, while searching for a place of his own in the town, he attracted the attention of the local real estate agent who was looking for a fresh-faced junior to train. The agent offered him employment as his assistant following a positive reference from David Spent and Harry Baker. Brian Wayne came to visit with Timothy and stayed for the weekend at the end of each month.

The investigation into the death of Father James had stalled for lack of hard evidence. Charlie Harris interviewed almost the entire town but was no closer to finding the casket, manuscript, or murder weapon. He began to suspect a conspiracy of silence but could find no credible evidence that would give him that crime-solving lead. He realized however that he had not interviewed Joshua Wayne and made a note to correct that at some stage. He began to give credence to the possibility of a senseless, random drive-by shooting; the sort that plagued some Sydney and Melbourne murder investigations. Joshua was somewhat forgotten by the locals, except for his father, Sarah Millstock and Charlie Harris.

In a matter of months Joshua moved off the sheep farm and rented a small bungalow at the back of the shop. His interest in real estate was sufficient to impress his employer but never overtook his love of art and in his spare time he enrolled in short courses and attended seminars in nearby centres on the north coast. His talent flourished as he found new ways to express himself, and no shortage of subjects, landscapes and still life, to further develop his skills. He paid ten dollars to set up a stand once a month at the local farmer's market and put his work on display. His first sale came late in the morning, a rural landscape he sold for fifty dollars. This one simple sale generated such joy in his heart and such confidence, that he was determined to pursue his life long dream to see his paintings in the great galleries of the world. More importantly, at this stage of his life, this one sale became the catalyst by which other works were brought to the attention of a local art critic who referred him to a gallery in Hobart. Joshua gathered together some of his best work, including the repaired nude of Sarah Millstock and travelled down one weekend. The gallery director offered him membership and entry to an upcoming exhibition. Then, one weekend, his father arrived as usual, but this time he brought Sarah Millstock with him. The two youngsters spent the two days walking, talking, rediscovering the first flowering of love so abruptly interrupted and subsequently denied them months earlier. She promised to return and so began a series of Bass Strait crossings fortnightly, then weekly, then a week's holiday. Sarah's face began to be recognized in the small community so that when the two of them found a small cottage for rent, she was offered employment and the move to Ulverstone was complete.

*

He came back five years later, a noted young artist in his adopted state. He was exhibiting a comprehensive collection of his works around Australia following the news that one of his portraits had been short listed for the Archibald Prize. Taking a break from his engagements in Melbourne, he took a train heading north and paid a visit to Monterey Creek to see his father Brian, still the local service station proprietor, and his younger brother Timothy, who was now in his first year at Hampton Bells University. It was the first time he had returned since that tragic day of the Festival of the Flowers. He took the bus from the station until it reached the bridge over the creek. From there he walked a familiar path along the track that took him to the cemetery below the forest and to his mother's grave. On that chilly winter's afternoon he sat and spoke with her as he did in the past, years ago, before circumstances forced him to leave. Engrossed in the memories of past events, he didn't notice the familiar figure wander up behind him.

"Is that you, Joshua?" Michael said. Joshua turned around to see Michael Ryan standing there, smiling.

"Father Ryan!" he said, taken by surprise.

"No, Joshua, not Father anymore; just Michael Ryan these days."

"Yes, I heard. I'll find it hard not to call you Father," Joshua replied, a little embarrassed by his blunder. "So, you're no longer a priest?"

Michael shook his head. "It depends on your point of view," he answered. "The Church still says I am, but I'm sure they'll come round eventually. I found a new way to celebrate the gift of life, Joshua."

"Do you still live here?" he asked.

"Oh yes. I teach at the University in Hampton Bells; Sociology and Information Technology. Young Timothy is in one of my classes. Congratulations on your achievements by the way. You're a celebrity!"

"Not really, just doing what I love. If I win the Archibald, then I'll be a celebrity. But if I don't, it won't matter. It won't change anything," he said, looking at his mother's grave. Michael took note.

"The memories never leave you, do they?" Michael said, as he stared at the headstone of Joshua's mother.

"I'd give anything to have her back for just one day," he replied.

"I wish I had known her better," Michael said. "Perhaps I could be of more comfort to you."

As Joshua moved to one side he caught sight of the gravestone two rows away from his mother. He moved closer to read the inscription, 'Sacred to the Memory: Reverend Father Andrew James, Catholic Priest.'

"I heard what happened to him," Joshua said. "Why did they bury him here? I thought he lived in Sydney."

"Dorothy Proctor asked that it be so," Michael answered. Joseph moved a step further along. The grave lay beside that of Maud Baker. On the other side, stood another gravestone with the inscription 'Here lies Dorothy Proctor.'

"It was the weirdest thing, Joshua," Michael said. "Perhaps you never heard. On the morning of Father James' funeral, Dorothy Proctor was still recovering from the shock. Sarah Millstock was helping her to get down the stairs in her house and she slipped and suffered a sudden fall. She broke her neck and died instantly. Incredible! The three of them so close and they all passed away within a week of each other. Now the three of them lie together. It's just one of those inexplicable things in life, Joshua; things that are never properly explained or understood."

As they spoke, a gentle northerly breeze floated down from the forest and the distant voices of two women laughing together interrupted their conversation. Looking up, Joshua saw three figures appear from the last row of Monterey Pines. One, a toddler, scampered her way down the grassy slope, laughing as she went, with a teenage girl in close pursuit. By the time the three of them found their way down the hill, Joshua recognized two of them.

"Isn't that Miss Baker?" he asked.

"Not Miss Baker any more Joshua. That's Allison, my wife."

"And Amy, is that Amy all grown up?"

"Yes Joshua. She's a beautiful young girl today."

"And the little toddler with them! Who is that?" he asked.

Michael smiled as he straightened his shoulders and lifted up his head with pride.

"That's my daughter, Joshua. That's my daughter, Emily."

Joshua watched them run down the hill towards them.

"Joshua! Is it you?" Amy cried out as she recognized him. Joshua waved to them his face lighting up with a beaming smile.

"Mummy, it's Joshua. He's back," Amy cried out. The toddler Emily stopped short, wary of the stranger in their midst.

Allison smiled and waved from a distance. Joshua watched as she came closer. She was the same Miss Baker to him. She would always be Miss Baker, the one who protected him, understood him, and kept him out of harm's way. Allison opened out her arms to welcome him home. He walked the last few steps to her and they embraced warmly.

"You look well," she said. "Tasmania agrees with you."

"It has been good to me," he answered.

"And how is Sarah? Is she with you?"

"No. She was happy to stay at home. We have bought a house in Ulverstone," he said, excitedly.

"Wonderful! I'm so happy for you," Allison replied.

As Michael and the two girls walked ahead, Allison took Joshua by the arm and the two strolled together out of earshot.

"Is everything really all right, Joshua?" she asked.

"Yes. Don't worry, it has all worked out. Sarah loves it. She has a good job, so do I, and Tasmania provides wonderful inspiration and unique opportunities for expression."

"That's good."

"Does Father Michael know?" he asked her.

"He's just Michael now Joshua, and no, he doesn't. Only the four of us know, and that's the way it will always be."

"Does it bother you that you keep it from him?"

"Michael? No, not really. Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking that...you know...he's your husband. Should you be keeping secrets from him?"

"It's not so much that I'm keeping secrets from him, Joshua, as I am maintaining a confidence with you. There's a difference. After all, he keeps secrets too. All those sins people told him in the confessional when he was a priest? He would never reveal them to anyone. It's the same thing. Besides, it would only compromise him, and that would serve no purpose at all," she answered.

"There is someone else who knows," he said.

"Who?"

"Sarah."

"How did she find out? You didn't tell her, surely?"

No, I didn't. Dorothy Proctor did."

"When?" Allison asked.

"Just a few minutes before she fell down the stairs."

Joshua's answer seemed innocent enough at first, but as they continued walking together the implication of his words hit Allison like an express train. She turned to him, her mouth open. He turned to her, pressing his finger against his mouth.

"Don't ask," he said. "Sometimes it's better not to know."

Allison sighed heavily. "Oh Joshua, what a mess it has all been."

"Well, at least they are all together now," he said.

"Yes, they are together now," Allison agreed.

"I don't know how I can ever repay you for what you did for me," he said to her.

"I do," Allison said. "Just be the very best you can be, at what ever you do in life," she said. "That's all the payment any of us want."

They continued walking back toward the road, where the others waited for them to catch up. Standing patiently at the roadway, a short distance away, a slightly overweight Charlie Harris watched them come toward him. When they came close enough, Charlie called out,

"Hello Joshua," he said. "It's been a long time. Do you mind if I have a word with you about Father James?"

About 'SATAN'S LITTLE HELPERS'

While watching the demolition of his old school Placidus College, Simon Hickey looks back on ten turbulent, life defining years when the first crop of Australia's baby boomers were awakening to their sexuality. Seduced by the power of the pulpit, the Aquinine Brothers and an ever present fear that Satan would snare him in an unguarded moment, Simon's attention is directed toward a religious vocation. At the vocational training college he encounters a serial paedophile with far reaching consequences. A few years later, he becomes one of the 'unlucky ones' balloted into the army for two years National Service in 1965.

These two vastly different experiences are linked by a tender romance that defies Catholic conventions of the day, and reveals how two people, who chose not to be conformist, cope with the social, political and religious nature of their time.

ISBN 0 646 43679 1

Website: www.members.optusnet.com.au/~xjbkelly

About 'ANDREA'S SECRET'

Buried deep in the heart of every family, lies a story no one wants to tell.......

In early 1974, a pregnant Andrea Steedman leaves home to conceal the birth of her daughter Mary Therese. A few months after she has given birth, depressed and confused, she agrees to an adoption under highly irregular circumstances.

Twenty two years later on her deathbed, Andrea reveals the existence of her daughter to her wealthy brother Warwick, who as executor, must find Mary Therese and ensure that she receives her rightful share of the estate. On the same day a near fatal car accident thrusts taxi driver, Julian Knowles into the malaise of the troubled Steedman family, tenuously held together by the matriarch Elsie, who is forced to confront sibling rivalry and jealously.

ISBN 0 646 45260 6

Website: www.members.optusnet.com.au/~xjbkelly

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